I raised an eyebrow. “Contracted?”
Sterling sighed, exasperated. “Dustin. Come on. You’re a mage. Ever heard of a familiar? Witches and wizards tend to have them. So this is the place to look.”
Ah. Right. It did make me wonder, though. I’d never considered getting myself a familiar – I mean, I suppose Vanitas counted as one – but I was at least aware that they came in a variety of forms. Some mages preferred cats, others liked owls, or snakes. But imps? Huh. You learn something every day. Between you and me though, if I had a choice? Corgi. One hundred percent.
“This one,” Sterling said, walking me into a stall almost indistinguishable from the others. Well, indistinguishable apart from the overpowering smell of pot.
A man who more or less fit the description of a wizard sat at the far end of the stall, which was filled with an assortment of wizardy knick-knacks: dried or pickled bits of animals, jars of unidentifiable goop, and one or two magical-looking scrolls.
The man had long, white hair in a messy braid, a matching white beard, and was dressed in colorful robes that teetered on the precarious line between “gaudy wizard” and “time-traveling hippie.” I suspected that his round spectacles were really only there to hide the bleariness of his red-rimmed eyes. The smell, predictably, came from his wooden pipe.
The old wizard blinked at us, then grinned. “Sterling? Is that you?”
Sterling smiled with a mouth full of sharp teeth. “Nicodemus. Buddy. Old pal.”
“Old is right.” Nicodemus laughed, giving Sterling a firm hug and slapping him on the back. “You haven’t aged a day, but that’s a given.”
Sterling shrugged. “Comes with the territory. This is my colleague,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder. “Needs a favor.”
“Dustin,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”
“I’m Nick,” the wizard said. “Old Nick. No relation to the saint. Or the devil.”
He waggled his eyebrows, then raised his pipe. “Take a hit?”
“I’m okay,” I said, hoping my smile was polite enough. The wizard shrugged and took another puff. “We’re here about some potential work.”
Nick exhaled a wisp of smoke that curled into the shape of a question mark. “Oh. Are you now?”
“You still got that familiar of yours, Nick?” Sterling rapped his knuckles on the side of his head. “Hmm. Can’t remember his name just now.”
“Scrimshaw?” Nick said. “That little bum?”
“Hey,” said a voice from somewhere beneath Nick’s desk. “If it wasn’t for my freelance work you’d be in the poor house, and you know it.”
Nick sighed and pulled something out from under his desk. It looked like a little wooden trolley, with its own tiny staircase built into the side. On top of the trolley was an old-fashioned typewriter, a few pilot bottles of cheap whiskey – and a tiny, tiny man with skin that shone like copper.
“Scrimshaw gets a big head just because he sells stories to some news sites.” Nick rolled his eyes. “He thinks he’s somebody now.”
I leaned into Sterling and whispered. “How does he get his stuff on the internet with that typewriter?”
Sterling shrugged and whispered back. “Dunno. Demon magic?”
The little man, with his hooked nose, slight pot belly, bat-like ears, and yes, a pair of gnarled, yellowing horns, pushed his fists into his hips and glared at Nicodemus.
“Listen. You said I was free to do whatever I wanted in the time that we don’t work magic together, and if that means pursuing a career writing online, then – ”
“Let’s not start with this again,” Nick groaned. “Diva,” he added under his breath.
“Pothead,” Scrimshaw mumbled, sifting through the bottles of whiskey for one that still had dregs in it. He grappled with the bottle, unscrewed the top with some difficulty, then set to work lapping at the rim, glaring between Sterling and myself with a strange mix of curiosity and defiance.
“Like an old married couple,” Sterling said, shaking his head. “Still, very modern of you to let Scrimshaw do his own thing.” He bent closer to the trolley, placing his hands on his knees. “We’re actually here with a job for you, Scrimshaw,” Sterling said, in a way that I found just a little suspiciously friendly. “We need you to find a book.”
The demon’s eyes, rounded and yellow like polished pieces of amber, gleamed with greed, but he said nothing.
Nick made a noise from inside his throat that could have meant interest, but also indifference. Maybe it was the pot.
“We need you to find the Tome of Annihilation,” I said, leaning in to whisper, in case anyone outside the stall might hear.