Savage Saints (Monsters of Saint Mark's)

“To find a spell to tame this bag.”

“Do you need help?” I yell.

But he’s gone through the gate, and I’m relieved.

My day is going swimmingly. I have purchased myself a truck—a flatbed, no less—found a girlfriend, and mastered the art of driving.

And it’s not even noon.

I feel like celebrating. So I go inside the cottage, pour myself a drink from one of the many liquor bottles Pie keeps stocked in her kitchen, and kick my feet up on the table.

I think I’m going to like my new life as a human-dragon chimera.

I see nothing but bright, shiny things in my cursed future.

Brand-new, bright, shiny, good things.

CHAPTER TEN – PELL

I ignore all the monsters inside my sanctuary. I don’t like them. I don’t want them here. And while I do understand the irony that this place is called a sanctuary and for thousands of years it has been a place for monsters, they were dead monsters. Not living, breathing, eating, annoying monsters with opinions.

The only opinion around here that matters is mine.

The apothecary door is open and even from the top of the stairs, I can see half a dozen monsters inside. It’s a mess. We’re in the middle of restocking and labeling everything in the jars. Not a job I want—not a job Pie is even capable of doing—so the monsters in there are very necessary.

But that doesn’t mean I want them there. As soon as I cross the threshold, I growl at them. “Get out.”

There are seven. All ancient-looking satyr chimeras. They look like they came from a time before me. They wear clothes, which is unusual from my perspective. And those clothes are not Roman. They are something else. Obviously, I’m not a world traveler, so where these clothes come from, I have no idea. But I don’t have the desire, or the time, to be worrying about where this group comes from.

All seven of them smile at me, then bow low—this is another thing they do which I don’t really understand—and they put down all their jars and meekly make their exit.

I do, however, enjoy their obedience.

I slam the door behind them with a flick of my finger, then turn to the shelves, looking up and along the walls. All the books are still here after the big Reckoning, but there are a lot of them and even if I had an index of each title—which, if I do, I’m not aware of it—I doubt it would be useful, because they don’t appear to be in any kind of order.

So there is only one option. I must pull each book out and see what it is.

I decide to start at the top and work my way across and down. So I climb the sketchy ladder all the way up to the third level, and begin.

I’m barely one third of the way across the top set of shelves when I find one that might do. The book is called The Magic and Mischief of Bags.

I never thought about the bag being the problem. I just assumed it was the rings. So I take the book with me as I descend the ladder, then fall into the soft couch in the corner and open it up.

There is a forward by an alchemist called Pressia. There is even a sketch of her likeness. She is a market nymph, which is a cross between a city nymph and a traveling nymph. They are wandering spirits, never staying in one place for very long. They are known for stealing—and selling things, of course. She’s quite cute, even though she is not a chimera, so she has no horns, or hooves, or fur for me to appreciate.

Her hair is light and long, but not thick and lustrous, the way Pie’s is. She’s wearing a beaded headband and a peasant dress that probably has nothing to do with her status in life. She looks young in the image. Maybe a teenager.

But in my experience, looks are always deceiving.

Books don’t get written by teenage peasant nymphs. Books get written by educated people. People who can afford paper, and ink, and binding supplies. I flip through the thick, handmade pages and find that they have been illustrated in the same style as the author’s picture. They are even in color—and some of them are illuminated with gold leaf.

Very unusual.

Pressia. I search my memory for this name, but if I ever knew about her, I don’t remember.

This book is old. The leather cover, which was probably a very high quality when it was made, is cracked and worn. And it’s all handwritten.

“All right, Pressia,” I mutter. “Let’s see what you know about magic bags.”