“Eve,” he said, striding to meet me. “What do you need?”
“Good to see you, too. Been a few months. How are things?”
He fixed me with a look. He knew I’d come for something and he knew I wouldn’t want to endure twenty minutes of chit-chat to get to it. We’d been partners for six years. I spent about as much time with him as I did with Kristof, and we knew each other as well as most couples. It was good to see him after almost three months apart. I wouldn’t say that, but he knew it.
“Lost book of Moses,” I said.
“Hmmm.” He turned and peered down the hall. “Room twelve, shelf three, right beside-”
“Unless you’re going to tell me the actual book is there, you can save it.”
“If the book was there, it wouldn’t be lost.”
I snorted. “I bet half the lost books of the world are in here somewhere. Just mis-shelved.”
“Probably. So if you start looking for that one now-”
“I’d rather fight through a legion of oni. Tell me about the book.” I paused. “Please.”
He waved me into an alcove with more comfortable chairs. Also, soundproof walls.
“You’re talking about the Sixth and Seventh Books of Moses. Purportedly a lost text following the Five Books of Moses, also known as the Pentateuch-the first five books in the Hebrew bible. As often happens with sacred texts, a rumor started that parts were removed because they contained so-called dangerous knowledge.”
“Like spells.”
He nodded. “The Sixth and Seventh Books are believed to be a grimoire, containing incantations to replicate the miracles in the bible.”
“Seriously?”
He made a face, lounging back. “Depends on your definition of serious. Yes, the book is supposed to exist. Yes, it contains spells that roughly duplicate some of the miracles. Was it actually part of the Books of Moses? Probably not. It just makes a good story, one that has influenced several religious movements. Spiritualism, Hoodooism, Rastafarianism…”
“Influenced by a lost book? How does that work?”
“The original text is lost, but there have been copies for several centuries. Of course, the problem with reproduced grimoires-”
“Is that someone always screws up-a typo, a bad translation-and the spells don’t work.”
“Exactly.”
“Well, I may have found the originals. Through a secret passage in the British Museum, guarded by oni.”
A Huh? passed over his face, then a blink of comprehension, quickly dowsed, as he got comfortable again, saying as casually as he could manage, “And what led you there?”
“A job for Kristof. I was tracking a shaman who is apparently up to no good. Something to do with a Fury and these texts. I have no idea how the two connect, but I’ll figure it out.”
“Sounds like challenge.”
“It is.”
A flicker of a smile. “Good.”
I pulled my legs up, pretending to get comfortable myself as I studied his face. What are you up to, Trsiel?
My angelic partner is not well versed in the art of deception. It might seem that’s just part of the angel package, but I’ve met full-bloods who rival arch-demons for duplicity. Trsiel is just good by nature. That’s why the Fates paired him with me, hoping he’d rub off. Any transfer, much to their chagrin, has gone in the other direction.
Trsiel is genuinely good, not sanctimoniously or self-righteously good. That means that he’s willing to accept the need to get his hands dirty in the pursuit of justice. Under my tutelage, he’s become an adequate liar, but he’ll never be good enough to fool me. Even when he’s merely “up to something,” he shows his hand. Today he was waving it wildly.
“So,” I said. “Should I bother trying to trick these oni into giving me the book? Or should I just tell them the game’s up and Kristof wants it back?”
“W-what?”
“Oh, wait. No. If this is a setup, there is no book.” I sighed. “Damn. It would have been better with a book.” A pause, during which Trsiel couldn’t seem to get a word out. I looked at him. “Or did Kris actually find the book? Because that would be kind of awesome.”
Trsiel’s mouth worked. He leaned forward. “I don’t know what…” One look in my eyes and he slumped. “Shit.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Look, it’s not his fault. It was my idea.”
“Right.”
“No, it was. I went to see him a few days ago. I needed advice on a complex demon contract, and he’s the expert. We were talking about you-his case running into overtime, you getting bored-and I suggested he give you a mission. A mystery to solve.”
I stared at him. “You suggested he send me on a wild goose chase? Lie about a mission?”
“It’s not a wild goose chase. It’s practice. A challenge, like you said. He balked at first, but I said it was like other guys giving their wives a weekend in a spa. You’re just a little different from most wives. But it was my idea, so if you’re angry, blame me.”
Was I angry? I felt as if I should be, but Trsiel was right. I’d had fun. I’d been challenged. For me, this was the equivalent of a weekend at the spa. A break from the everyday to calm my restlessness. A mental puzzle with a physical chase. And it was, admittedly, a good puzzle.
“So there is no book?” I said.
“I don’t know. Being Kristof…” He shrugged. “I suspect there is a prize at the end. He wouldn’t get your hopes up like that. It might be a spell or a magical whatnot. I’m just trying to figure out how he got the oni involved.”
“He helped some of them out of a bad contract last year. They owe him.” I got to my feet. “So, presuming the oni really do have a prize for me, let’s go get it.”
“Me? No, I’m supposed to be doing research-”
“Which you hate almost as much as I do. You just don’t complain. But I’ve gotten myself into a potentially dangerous situation, trying to rescue potentially sacred texts from oni. You’re honor bound to help me. So come on.”
Before we left, Trsiel had to go put away his books. God forbid he should leave a mess. Then I took him back to the museum. It wasn’t hard for him to mingle among mortal shades. He just needs to employ a bit of voice modulation, so he only sounds like a guy who should be doing radio. As for the faint glow, ghosts don’t notice that. Even in the supernatural realms, angels are such mysterious entities that most people expect them to come with halos and harps.
I took Trsiel through the first two dimensional pockets, then I went ahead through the smaller ones. This time, I avoided the fall into the final room, dropping instead. When I hit the ground, I conjured my sword as the oni skittered and whispered all around me.
“I’ve come for the book,” I said.
“No, no. You are not Balaam,” one said.
“Balaam would not come,” another replied. “He is a lord. He would send an underling.”
“Yes, she comes in Balaam’s stead. She bears his words. She-”
“Enough,” I said. “The gig is up, guys, but it’s not your fault. I’ll tell Kristof you did great. Slate wiped clean. Now hand over-”
One of the oni screamed. Another joined in and they began scrabbling about like kernels in a defective hot-air popper.
“Umm, sorry I’m late,” Trsiel said behind me.
I turned. “You really know how to make an entrance, don’t you?”
I whistled, trying to be heard over the shrieking. Forget the popcorn analogy. It was more like a tenth-grade booze-fest when the cops show up.
I whistled again. “Hey! Knock it off! He’s with me!”
“You have tricked us,” one oni hissed as the noise level dropped.
“Yes, tricked us. You brought an angel. A true angel.”
“Yeah, yeah. Did I mention the game’s over? I caught on. Now just give me-”