An Elf With No Name E-Book

Mortimer Langford

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

The time of the War Mages - humans with magic flowing through their blood - has long passed. While they once determined the outcome of conflicts between rival kingdoms, the industrial revolution has rendered the use of magic on the battlefield unnecessary. And so, they fade away into the background...

Damian Spires is a slacker of sorts, content with sliding through life on the odd job of fortifying homes or ridding trees of pesky imps. But when he stumbles upon an unconscious elf in an alley on his walk home from weekly poker night, he faces a variety of questions:  Who is this woman? Where did she come from? Is someone looking for her?

Focusing on helping the strange woman to adapt to the terrifying new world she finds herself in, Damian decides to protect her from those who seek to do her harm. As they learn more about each other, they discover some truths about themselves as well.

What they don't know is that there is another power at play, stalking in the shadows. Someone is responsible for the elven woman entering their world, and they are more ready to expend whatever resources are required to regain their bounty.

Leseprobe

AN ELF WITH NO NAME

THE SPIRES SAGA

BOOK ONE

MORTIMER LANGFORD

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Prologue

1. The Morning (Afternoon) After

2. Disrespect Your Elders

3. Play The Cards That Have Been Dealt

4. Talking Shop

5. Watching The Situation Unfold

6. Unwelcome Home

7. Blue Collar Mage

8. Oh Danny Boy (You Are So Weird)

9. Making Progress

10. Things That Go Boop In The Night

11. Setting Boundaries

12. Putting The Fun In Funding

13. She’s So Radiant

14. Going Up To Bat

15. Elderly Amuse

16. Meet The Family

17. Ashes To Ashes

18. Exit Stage Right

19. She’s So Dreamy

20. Fashion Montage!

21. Making Moves

22. Gerard’s Not So Fun House Of Nightmares

23. Should’ve Left A Fruit Basket

24. A Hell Knight’s Tale

25. Tripping Down Memory Lane

26. Descend Unto Chaos

27. The Morning After

Epilogue

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2022 Mortimer Langford

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Graham (Fading Street Services)

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Dedicated to the two most important women in my life:

My mother, Julie Cochran.

My wife, Jori Cochran.

Thank you for being my anchors, my lifetime, my soul.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

As easy and fun as it would be to say, “I would like to thank myself for writing such an amazing tale”, that would be both inaccurate and arrogant. The former because, as those close to me will tell you, I’m not exactly skilled at cutting myself some slack. The latter because, well, to use a cliche phrase, “it takes a village”. You need people to step in and go “Hey, cut that bit”, like that piece of ridiculousness about a village in the previous sentence.

There was no need for that joke.

It looks foolish and unprofessional.

Anyways, I do have people I want to thank for getting me where I am. You certainly won’t, even though you’re the one who gets to own the book and enjoy the story that follows. I don’t hold that against you, of course, I recognize that you don’t exactly know who I’m talking about. Unless this isn’t your first time reading this novel. In which case, hey, thanks for enjoying this story enough to give it another shot, but also, why haven’t you reached out and thanked the other people yet? What the hell is wrong with you?

All right, that’s enough. Here’s a few people that I’m thankful for. As well as why I’m thankful (or, at least, what I’m willing to divulge to you, random reader of this novel).

I would like to thank Sir Terry Pratchett (RIP), Satoshi Kon, Jason Pargins, Xiran Jay Zhao, and all the other storytellers who have ever filled me with wonder, inspiration, or envy of their creativity.

A shout out to my writing group, the La Crosse Area Writer’s Guild (LAWG), who’ve given me the encouragement I need to see my ideas through fruition. Thanks for the laughs and the feels. I’m sorry for all the swearing. Kinda.

To C.J, who’s been far too supportive over the years of all of my endeavors, good or bad. You do know that, as my friend, you are supposed to know when to tell me to stop, right?

To Rich, for being my inside man. Thanks for letting me use you for your networking connections. Hopefully, you’re not going to regret it.

To Holly, for inspiring me to attempt novels in the first place. I know we haven’t talked in at least 16 years, and I wouldn’t blame you if you forgot all about me. But I’ve never forgotten your iron will in refusing to pay attention in class, and instead draw manga and write two full-length fantasy novels (dear Christ, what was your GPA like?). Hope you and your kid are doing well, wherever you are.

To my loving wife, Jori. I’m not sure where you’ve found all the love and support you’ve managed to pour into me, encouraging me even when you clearly should not. I know this whole “marriage” thing is new to both of us, but I am confident that we’ll figure it out along the way with minimal damage. Whatever happens, I’m sure I’ll enjoy it. I never imagined that I would find a partner as accepting and generous as you. I’d tell you to knock it off, but I’m a selfish man, so… Don’t stop. Gimme.

And finally, to my mother Julie, who discovered that I could read when she walked in on me with her copy of Green Mile at the age of 5. Relax folks, she soon replaced that book with Dr. Seuss. Personally, I think you had a good idea of the effect such a story would have on a young mind and just thought it would be fun to watch the corruption take hold, but that’s fine.

That’s what therapy’s for.

Thank you for sparking and kindling my yearning to seek out new and enthralling stories, and, eventually, to tell them. From one creative to another, please know that you have given me the greatest gift that one could truly enjoy: the ability to daydream. I only hope that you won’t come to regret it in the pages to come.

PROLOGUE

AN EXCERPT FROM “CONCERNING WAR MAGES AND THEIR LIABILITIES” BY ANJALI PANDEY (PHD)

Imagine, if you will, a squirrel. Squirrels have many needs, including collecting nuts for nourishment. It is vital for this squirrel to find enough nuts for its family. Eventually, the squirrel discovers that there are not enough nuts in the tree, and so it must venture forth to another tree.

In that tree is another squirrel. That squirrel, like the first, has needs, including nuts. And so, with limited resources, the squirrels fight. Whichever squirrel wins gets the nuts. Such is the way of nature.

Now, imagine, if you will, a third squirrel. This squirrel has a rocket attached to its back. It is a very fast squirrel, capable of zooming around the tree, snatching all of the nuts within reach. The first squirrel, a weaker creature, recognizes that he surely cannot obtain an ample number of nuts on his own.

So he hires Rocket Squirrel. Ten percent of all nuts collected belong to Rocket Squirrel. This creates untold amounts of stress on the second squirrel.

This is when the second squirrel hires Gun Squirrel, who is able to put an end to Rocket Squirrel’s nonsense and raid all the trees he desires.

This is the issue that War Mages have faced since the beginning. Back in the tribal days, it made sense. It was a matter of survival. War Mages were hired to create protective wards, advanced offensive spells, and so on. But as technology advanced, and science gained on magic, the War Mage became less relevant, leading to less work. When a squirrel requires nuts but finds that there are no nuts to be acquired, they become more desperate, aggressive.

Teleportation. Werewolves. Vampires. Tearing literal Hell holes to summon demons and devastation. It is an arms race that leads to Armageddon as the finish line. Thankfully, War Mages possess more intellect than squirrels and were therefore able to recognize the problem, as well as the solution:

Order.

The foundation of the Council of Elders was supposed to be a check to ensure that War Mages did not run out of control. That’s why Hell Knights, damned souls that could be offered a second chance at salvation, were created and summoned. That’s why the Chaser Spell was concocted, to tag and destroy any War Mage that tries to go too far.

But is it enough?

Is it too much?

These are solutions for beings that are unable to contain their urges. Does this still pertain to us as a magical society? The world has forgotten that magic exists for almost two hundred years, thanks to a carefully weaved tapestry of lies and advanced spellcraft. Who would want to upset the careful balance we have created?

There are some who believe the Chaser Spell should be abolished. There are others who believe it should be stronger. However, for the Chaser Spell to be removed, we must agree as a society that we shall each do everything on an individual basis to ensure that normies never discover the truth that magic does indeed exist.

Is this feasible? Is this something that we are capable of?

Or are we simply too fixated on our nuts?

1

THE MORNING (AFTERNOON) AFTER

ST. CROIX, WIS.

Damian groaned weakly as he dragged himself off the couch, frustrated with the current state of his hangover. Head pounding, he stumbled into the kitchen, making his way to the refrigerator. Gripping the handle of the door, Damian slowly pulled the door open and immediately wrenched his free arm up to shield himself from the intense, bright light flooding out from within.

"Gah! Fuck!"

Scrunching his eyes as tight as possible, Damian carefully reached in, and felt for his desired treasure. His fingers flexed and wrapped around the precious bottle of Superade. Damian pulled back, retrieving the beverage before closing the door. Slumping against the fridge, he unscrewed the top and knocked his head back, taking in the liquid, as well as a few capsules of aspirin. He sat there, eyes closed, willing the throbbing to leave him in peace once more. After all, it was 1 p.m., and he had a lot to do today.

With the pills and drink starting to settle in, Damian forced himself to his feet and staggered to the bathroom to judge the damage. He brushed his dirty blond hair out of his bloodshot eyes and scowled at the bags that had formed under said eyes. He stuck his tongue out and immediately winced; despite the Superade, his throat was dry and desperate for lubrication. He gave a hard swallow and addressed himself directly, pointing at the mirror.

“Alright, Damian Spires, now you listen to me,” he commanded. “Last night was fun. I’m not about to deny that. But between you and me? You fucked up. Get your shit together.” He played with his hair, then splashed water in his face, before leaning in and taking a long, desperate, thirsty gulp of sink water, straight from the source. He then stood back and turned, so that he could observe the side view. He was only of average build, but Damian was more than happy with that. For someone who was fifty-nine, he didn’t appear a day over twenty-six.

Such was the blessing and the curse of being a War Mage. He only ceased to be asked for his ID upon entering bars when he reached his early forties.

Still got it, he thought to himself, before grabbing his toothbrush. Damian did not want to be arrested for attempted assault on behalf of his breath. When he was done, he made sure to change out of his dirty black shirt, replacing it with a clean black shirt. He took off his jeans and tossed them into the hamper, put on clean underwear, and searched his closet for a clean pair of jeans. He then pulled his dirty jeans back out of his hamper and put them on, remembering that he had yet again failed to do laundry.

Damian pulled out his phone to add “laundry” to his to-do list. It was already there. “Cool,” he said. “Real cool, Damian. Just… batting a thousand today, aren’t you, bud?” He slipped his phone into his pocket, pulled his black leather trench coat on, and grabbed his messenger bag.

He scanned inside to make sure he had everything he needed: Money. A knife (sometimes poker night with demons could get rowdy). A first-aid kit (real rowdy). He closed the bag and grabbed his hat, which appeared to be some kind of halfway point between a fedora and a cowboy hat, only covered in dirt and scratches. He bought it because he thought it would make him look cool. He had been dismayed when he got home and found that it, in fact, did not.

Damian opened the door, but stood there, running through his mental checklist. Was there anything that he was possibly missing? If so, what? He was dressed, functional (mostly), and had everything he needed for poker night. What else was there?

Oh. Duh. Of course.

“Artemis!” Damian called out, reopening his messenger bag. “Let’s go! We’re leaving!”

There was a rustle and a flutter as a pile of pillows in the corner of the living room shifted and fell aside, revealing Damian’s spellbook, flapping its pages as it soared through the air towards its master, before tumbling into his bag. Damian pulled it out and looked it over briefly. It was blue, and quite old; the covers and spine were cracked in places, with upturned, scrunched corners. But it was the most important thing that Damian owned. He could forget everything else. In fact, he had forgotten everything else at one point. But he could not forget this.

Despite the fact that he had just very nearly done so.

Damian carefully peered out of his apartment. If he timed it right, he could get out of the building without running into his neighbors. He quickly stepped out of the door, closed it, locked it, and gave the handle a quick tug. It was pointless, seeing as the door in the thirty-four years that he had lived here had yet to budge, but it was habit at this point. And habits are hard to break. Damian let out a breath, quickly walking away.

“Are you heading out, Damian?” a voice asked in a sultry tone that never ceased to make his skin crawl.

Damian scowled, inwardly cursing, and slowly turned around.

Standing outside the door of the next apartment over was a devilish monster of a woman, standing only 5’6”. She had short, thick, black hair that nearly concealed brilliant blue eyes. Her face was oddly symmetrical and perfect, which Damian found the most unsettling about her. Her body was slender, but not frail; while her waist was slim, her breasts and rear were anything but, threatening to burst out of the black, lacy undergarments that she was currently wearing. They were the only articles of clothing that adorned her currently, revealing to the rest of the world her enticing red skin. This fashion choice also ensured that Damian could easily spy her black, forked tail, which whipped slowly and lazily from side to side, like a cat, enjoying a moment of playing with its prey. It was almost as unsettling a sight for Damian to behold as her horns. He never understood why, but the horns were the part of demons that troubled him most, even if they were short and smooth, like hers.

“Yeah, uh…” Damian trailed off, slightly nervous, before catching himself and strengthening his resolve. “I was… was going to visit Pop Pop, before heading to poker night.”

“After the performance you put on last night,” she purred, “I would think you’d be eager to avoid such frivolous activities. But then again, you’ve always been known for your… stamina.”

Damian tried to look away from the succubus.

“Come on, Lilith,” Damian warned. “You’re going to get a ticket for public indecency if you keep walking around like that.”

“What?” Lilith gasped in mock shock. “Are you trying to slut shame me, Damian Spires? I would’ve thought better of you!”

“Not slut shaming,” Damian replied meekly. “I’m just saying. It’s happened before.”

“I will not be ashamed of my body,” Lilith explained smoothly. “I am perfectly covered.”

Damian swallowed. Hard.

“You know,” she added, slyly slipping a hand behind her back. “If this was Germany, I wouldn’t even need this bra. America is such a prudish, restrained country.”

As she started fussing with her bra, undoing the backing, Damian blushed and looked down, refusing to watch. He ran several possible scenarios through his head, trying to figure out which would be the least painful. A voice shot out from inside Lilith’s apartment.

“Lilith!” his ex’s voice shouted. “Leave him alone! I’m sick and tired of the neighbors complaining about seeing your tits!”

Lilith froze, cloth barely clinging to her chest, a look of absolute terror frozen on her face. She quickly fastened the bra once more. “Just having some fun,” she offered with a wink to Damian. “I can’t help it that he’s so easy to tease.”

A woman appeared in the doorway. She wore a brown pantsuit with a similarly brown tie. Her lengthy hair was done up in a bun to keep it out of her brown eyes, which peered out from a pair of simple, round black glasses. She glanced at Damian momentarily, before turning her indignation towards Lilith, glaring at her with the full extent of her scorn.

“Hey, Marcie…” Damian croaked.

“How are you, Damian?” his ex asked, with a tone suggesting that politeness was the only factor in asking this question.

“I’m fine.”

“Hey, if you’re not going to be cordial with your ex-boyfriend,” Lilith offered, “I can be cordial enough for both of us.”

“Alright, back inside. Now,” Marcie demanded, gripping Lilith’s ear by the pointed end. She gave a firm tug, forcing the demoness to follow. “Have a good day, Damian.”

“Bye, Marcie,” Damian started to respond, but was cut off by the door slamming shut.

He turned and used the reprieve as a chance to escape. Damian’s complaint with his neighbors wasn’t due to his relationship with Marcie. He had moved on months ago. It would have been amicable, even, if only Marcie understood the meaning of the word. No, Damian’s issue with the pair was twofold: First, that the walls of the apartment were almost paper thin, which meant that, save for nights like the previous in which he blacked out halfway through the journey to his bed, he would have to listen to their… nocturnal interactions. Second, that he would have the experience freshly engraved in his mind the next morning, when the more vocal, open, and flirtatious of the two heavily tried to seduce him and, failing that, desired to go over the juicy details in full because “we’ve both been there, right?”

No, Damian would mentally reply. No, we have not. I would remember anything causing those types of noises. They would be neatly written down in my medical records as the cause of my night terrors that I would be heavily medicated for thereafter.

As Damian hopped onto the elevator, he fished out his phone and checked the time. It was 1:56 p.m. He was doing surprisingly well. Damian was severely lacking in the time management department, so he was pleased to see that his conversation with Lilith was shorter than usual. It was certainly not the best interaction he had ever had with her, but it was also far from the worst. If he kept this up, he would perhaps even have time to grab a coffee before hitting up Saul's.

Stepping out into the sunlight, it was soon apparent to Damian that he had forgotten his sunglasses. The throbbing in his head threatened to return as he raised his arm to shield his eyes, immediately walking into a light post. He staggered back, murmuring angrily at the accursed sun.

"Rough night, Damy?" a voice called out.

Damian turned to see Rosie, the demon who lived a floor below him. Her skin was the color of old, worn leather, with cracks here and there, scars acquired from the days when she was feral. Currently, she wore a black tank top and gray sweatpants, her standard attire. Also standard attire were her bare feet. Damian's continual warnings as to the various dangers that awaited her on the sidewalk, from broken glass to thorny plants to even wild imps, did little to sway the demoness into wearing something practical.

Such was the way of Rosie.

Damian glanced down and saw that she was cradling a small imp, which was cooing harmlessly in her arms. Damian gingerly reached out to touch the imp with his finger. The imp snarled and snapped at him. Damian pulled back.

"How's fostering, Rosie?" he asked. Rosie swept her long black hair out of her face before answering.

"Goin' pretty good, Damy," she replied. "Got a few more rehabilitated and let loose in the woods, so if you get more imps, you send them my way, you hear? I don't want to hear about Grognar eatin' any imps 'cuz you couldn't be bothered to find me."

"No problem, Rosie," Damian said with a smile. "Anything that annoys Grognar is good in my book."

"Oh, and one other thing," Rosie added, shifting the imp to her shoulder. The imp babbled and reared back, before sinking its teeth into her shoulder. Rosie didn't react. "I wanted to ask you about my eye. It's been actin' up real bad." Rosie leaned in so Damian could get a better look at her eye. It was twitching slightly, her pupil darting to the right. Damian frowned and stepped back.

"You're right," he concluded, "You should probably see a doctor about it." Damian considered his audience. "Or a vet," he added.

"Actually, I was hoping you could do somethin' about it." Rosie pouted. "What with you and all the magic and stuff."

"Rosie, I've told you before," Damian argued, "I can't use those kinds of spells. It goes against the order of the council." Damian heard a rumble as the bus pulled up, slowing to a stop behind him, waiting.

"Well, it was worth a shot," Rosie said. "Say, I'm surprised you take the bus everywhere. Would be more convenient to use a car."

"I like the bus," Damian explained, stepping back towards the vehicle. "Any chance at interacting with other people should be welcomed."

"Hey Mac, you getting on the bus or what?" the driver of the bus barked. "Ain't got all day, you know."

"I'll get on when I'm fucking ready!" Damian shouted back. "Prick."

"Bye, Damy," Rosie waved.

"Always fun to ride," Damian concluded, walking up the steps of the bus backwards, waving to Rosie.

2

DISRESPECT YOUR ELDERS

He wasn’t sure if it was the torn, beat-up seat he was sitting on. Perhaps it was the potholes in the road that the bus was forced to navigate. It was possible that it was the crazed degenerate who was currently leaning against him so that he could down a bottle of Shipwright Samuel while screaming about vampires trying to steal his hair. Whatever the reason, Damian was certain that the bus was never fun to ride and was therefore quite excited when the bus slowed at his stop, so that he could quickly hop off before he could hear what it was that the vampires intended to do with said hair.

Damian looked up at the apartment complex, letting out a heavy breath. He never enjoyed coming here, but he made sure to do it once a week. While not actually his father, Pop Pop had taught Damian everything he knew, and had been there when he needed him. He rolled his shoulder and made his way to the entrance of the building.

It was a rather run-down complex, but Damian knew better than to bring that up with Pop Pop. The old man didn't want any kind of special, fancy accommodations like a retirement home. He had considered living in a motel, with even worse accommodations, but realized that this was cheaper. So, Pop Pop spent his days in his favorite chair in Ramshead Apartments. Complete with a broken elevator, same as last week, and the week before, and every week prior for the last five months.

"Oh, Goddammit," Damian cursed as he entered the stairwell to start the long trek up twelve flights of stairs.

By flight three, Damian started breathing heavily.

By flight six, he debated turning back.

By flight nine, Damian considered how many people would actually miss Pop Pop, and by the final flight, he had decided that he didn't actually care, he was going to murder Pop Pop regardless. Probably by shoving the old man down the stairs.

Damian gripped the tarnished door handle and slid it up to set it in place. For whatever reason, the complex's superintendent had yet to see fit to tighten it. Damian let out a sigh. He would fix it himself. "Artemis." He lifted his messenger bag open and waited for his book to stir and flutter out. It spun in the air before hovering about a foot away from his face, obediently awaiting his command. “Mending,” Damian spoke. He waited as the pages of the book whirred, spinning away in search of his desired spell.

After a few seconds, it stopped on the section he was looking for. Damian studied the contents of the pages.

“Mending wood… No,” Damian said. A page flipped. “Mending plastic. Nope. Mending iron… Hmm…” Damian considered the doorknob in his hand. Many handles were made of iron, it was true, but if there was one thing he knew about Pop Pop, it was that he was a perfectionist. Close was not close enough. “No.”

Page flip. Steel.

“Nuh-uh.”

Flip. Bronze. Perfect.

“Right there,” Damian said. The book floated closer so he could study the hand signals.

Damian brought his hands together and pushed outward, cracking his knuckles. He stared at the book again as he fished out a piece of chalk from his back pocket. He then raised it above the handle and drew the necessary sigil: Two vertical jagged lines, representing the break, followed by several horizontal lines over the jagged parts, representing the fix of what was broken. Next, he drew an arrow between the two lines, pointing at the handle, which was the item in question. Finally, he pocketed the chalk and lowered his hands, flexing his fingers around the handle, arcing fingers this way and that in odd angles. He brought his hands together, slowly straightening his fingers around the handle. Gripping the handle, Damian gave it a tug. It clicked.

“Cool.” Damian turned the doorknob and it opened, repaired at last. If only I had a spell for that damned elevator, Damian thought. He entered Pop Pop’s apartment.

His mentor’s home could easily be mistaken for a museum for diehard B-movie horror enthusiasts if you didn’t warn them about the ample opportunities for becoming accidentally cursed. While it certainly wasn’t the only type of client Pop Pop served, he did specialize in demons. Unlike most other War Mages, Pop Pop seemed to rarely struggle with finances. No one knew exactly why, only that it was true. As such, he was afforded the luxury of accepting… well… Trinkets wasn’t exactly the correct term, but it was the most fitting term Damian could come up with, in truth. However, unless you were as foolish and brazen as Pop Pop, you wouldn’t exactly want to display these artifacts on a simple shelf or behind an unlocked glass and wood cabinet. That was just asking for trouble.

“Pop Pop?” Damian called out. “You here, old man?”

“In here, my boy,” a raspy voice called out from the study. Damian followed the voice.

The study was surprisingly warm; Damian decided that the War Mage had to have cranked the furnace up. In a rare display of charity, the superintendent had invested in providing the complex with central heating. “Blasted newfangled fancy machine bullshit,” Pop Pop had once remarked about it. Damian smirked. Demons, Pop Pop could handle.

Digital alarm clocks? Absolutely not.

Currently, Pop Pop was huddled in his favorite old, worn, rough-looking, rocking chair. The light gleamed off of his bald head, making him look almost radiant. His eyes were cast downward, peering in ardent concentration at the Rubik’s cube in his hands he was fiddling with. It seemed almost as if beads of sweat were forming on his wrinkled brow, threatening to drip onto his long, flowing beard, a mass of white that tumbled down into a messy pile of blankets and hair in his lap. His thin, wiry fingers flickered around, sliding the sides of the cube this way and that, shifting various colors back and forth, seemingly making little to no progress, despite his efforts.

“Damned, blasted cube…” he muttered. “How in the Hell… solve you?!?”

“Uh, hey, Pop Pop,” Damian spoke. “How’re you doing?”

“How am I doing?” Pop Pop huffed. He looked up at Damian, indignant. “I’m old as shit!”

“Now Pop Pop,” Damian argued, “you’re only a hundred fifty-three years old! You’ve still got plenty of life in you!”

“Don’t you try to contradict an old man when he’s complainin’, boy,” Pop Pop shot back. “I’m older than the potholes on Mabel Avenue!”

“Pop Pop…” Damian said weakly, knowing he was defeated in this argument.

“I’m old enough to actually remember the Alamo.”

“The Battle for the Alamo was in 1836, Old Man,” Damian shot back. “I didn’t come here to listen to your blatant fuckery.”

Pop Pop stared at Damian. Then he leaned back and cackled gleefully. “That’s what I like about you, Damian,” he chuckled. “You’re always more than willing to call me on my bullshit.”

Damian let out a subtle sigh of relief. Pop Pop was in a good mood today. This would be one of those “pleasant” conversations.

“Been keeping busy, my boy?” Pop Pop asked. “Or are you still banking on gambling to pay your bills?”

“I’m getting by,” Damian replied. “Been a lot more imp infestations lately, not sure why. Between that, and helping drunken demons get into their homes when they’re locked out, I’ve been managing to scrape enough together to take care of myself.”

“Good, good,” Pop Pop nodded. “Yeah, it’s October, so it’s just the right season for those little bastards to start poppin’ up everywhere. Worse than damned mayflies if you ask me.”

“I think everyone’s of that opinion.”

“Ha! Fair enough.”

“Oh, I managed to bring you something.” Damian reached into his messenger bag, pulling out a small, smooth rock of obsidian and a book of cracked black leather, bound with several thin strands of resin-covered sinew.

“What are these?” Pop Pop asked.

“The book, I’m not so sure on,” Damian explained. “I don’t recognize the words in it. I asked Bartholomew and he okayed me passing it on, so the contents can’t be too ghastly.”

“I see,” Pop Pop placed the obsidian between his teeth and bit down. He then held it up and carefully examined it. “And this?”

“Uh,” Damian started, slightly nervous. He rubbed his arm. “According to Grognar… It’s… Um… A demon kidney stone.”

At this, Pop Pop let out an uproarious laugh. “Grognar! That beast. How is he these days?”

“Fatter,” Damian answered. “And grumpier. I tried to slip an extra ace into my hand last week at poker night. He tried to slip an ax through my wrist in response.”

“Heh, sounds like your problem,” Pop Pop scoffed. “You mess with demons, you’re gonna get chopped.”

“Hey, I can’t help it.” Damian folded his arms. “You taught me all about grifting!”

“Yes,” Pop Pop conceded, “and what was rule number one?”

Damian rolled his eyes. “Don’t get caught.”

The two men stared at each other for a long moment. Then, they laughed together.

“You’re an asshole, Pop Pop,” Damian said.

“Where do you think you learned it, huh?” Pop Pop said, “But you’re not a pup anymore, boy. I expect you to be able to take it.”

The two sat in silence, enjoying the moment. Suddenly, Pop Pop straightened, his face taking a more serious tone. He placed the stone, the book, and the Rubik’s cube on a nearby table, before clasping his hands together, steepling his fingers.

“Now, I want you to know,” he began, his tone more resolute. “I am appreciative of your visit today, Damian. I have something important I need to talk to you about.”

“What is it, Pop Pop?” Damian asked, his voice turning sterner.

“Well,” Pop Pop began, “I wanted to discuss the future. After all, I won’t be here for too long yet.”

“For the last time, Pop Pop,” Damian interrupted. “You’re only one hundred fifty-three—”

“I’m not done, boy,” Pop Pop cut in. “Now are you going to shut up and listen? Or should I go back to figuring out this blasted Hell puzzle?”

He gestured towards the Rubik’s cube. Damian nodded, keeping his mouth shut.

“That’s better,” Pop Pop said. “As I was saying, I’m not long for this world. And it ain’t nothing to do with how many rings are in my trunk. Someday, and that day will be soon, I will have to pass on. When that happens, I want to lay down some ground rules.”

“Pop Pop…” Damian started to say, before remembering himself. He grabbed a nearby chair and sat down, staying silent.

“Now, as you see, I am a collector in… whatever the hell this garbage is,” Pop Pop explained. “I know it will be tempting to take it to the Pawn Shop, make a bit of scratch. But you and I both know how terribly stupid that would be.”

Damian nodded. He couldn’t even imagine what would become of whatever poor shopkeeper who foolishly agreed to take in artifacts of this nature. He didn’t want to.

“Burn it,” Pop Pop demanded. “All of it. Burn this shit. In the yard, in the sewers, under the overpass, I don’t care where the hell you burn it, just make sure to return-to-sender and burn it all.”

“We don’t even have an overpass, Pop Pop.”

“Then build one first… then burn the shit. I don’t care. I’ll be dead!”

“How do you know you’re going to die?” Damian asked. Pop Pop raised his hand.

“Shut up,” he said. “I’m not done yet. That’s only the first thing. Second, get Rosie in this apartment. From my understanding of your stories, she could use it.”

Damian nodded knowingly. It was true. Rosie’s current home was already bursting at the seams, and she felt horrible every time she had to turn away an imp. Pop Pop’s location, while not exactly the most desirable choice, would afford her some extra space for fostering the wretched creatures.

“Now, third—and this is the most important one, so listen up.” Pop Pop advised. “Follow the rules of the Council. Respect their regulations. Don’t let no Hell Knight find out that you’re doing illegal magic.”

“Pop Pop?” Damian replied, confused. “What do you mean?”

“Can it,” Pop Pop warned. “I haven’t been keeping tabs on you; I know you’re old enough to figure things out on your own. But just in case, I’m telling you: Do not defy the laws set down by the Council. Don’t let that Chaser Spell nail your ass.”

Damian winced inwardly.

“What’s going on, Pop Pop?” he asked.