Demon’s Test (Demon Mates #4)

Chapter Two

Of course, Quirion knew what Milo thought he was doing, namely answering the pompous letter from pompous Beverly Nyx and her pompous Society for the Betterment of the World . His young employee looked up at him with his gorgeous hazel eyes, clearly not understanding the problem.

“Uhm, I’m trying to answer the nice lady who is offering me tons of money and research resources?” His voice went up at the end of the sentence, proof that he at least understood there was a problem.

Baby steps , Quirion reminded himself. His Milo might be a brilliant scientist, but when it came to the intricacies of dealing with people like Beverly, he was like a baby seal in shark-infested waters. Good for him that he had an orca to protect him. That metaphor might have run a bit afoul .

“Yes, you’re going to answer the nice lady.” Quirion shuddered a bit applying the term nice to Beverly, who had once eviscerated a man for getting mud on a book. It had been a rare book and the man had been an asshole and a thief, but still. In the end, she had given the book to Quirion because getting the blood splatter and bits of innards off had clearly been a job for a pro. “But you want to impress her right from the start, don’t you?”

Milo stared at the letter, then at Quirion. Quirion could see the cogs turning. His Milo was bright, he would figure it out. And I should stop thinking of him as my Milo. He’s too young for me .

“I don’t have any fancy paper or ink. Not to mention a wax seal.”

Such a bright, bright young man . “But you work for somebody who has all those things and who knows how to phrase such important correspondence.”

The relief washing over Milo’s face tugged at Quirion’s heartstrings. He was sure the young man was working too hard, still, for fear of waking up one day and finding out it was all gone. It was a fear Quirion couldn’t relate to, but one he had researched diligently to better be able to help Milo. And give his help he would.

“Come with me. Let’s find suitable stationery to impress Beverly Nyx.” He held out his hand and Milo took it, placing his much smaller, more delicate fingers on Quirion’s scales. The absolute trust Milo was showing him was humbling and heady, all at once.

Milo sighed. “You’re always so warm.”

Quirion looked at their linked hands. Milo was subtly rubbing his thumb over Quirion’s thenar. Just to deepen the smile on the young man’s face, Quirion directed more heat into the place. A delighted whimper was the perfect payment.

“It’s not winter. Why are you cold?”

Milo looked up at him. “I seem to be always cold.” He moved the rest of his hand to the heated spot. “I never get warm.”

Quirion furrowed his brow. He knew stress could cause problems with a human’s circulatory system, making them more susceptible to illnesses. One of the indicators for it was feeling cold. Bringing that up now would probably result in even more stress for Milo, which made Quirion refrain from mentioning it. Instead, he simply heated his entire body up and pulled Milo closer. For the journey to his library he needed him close anyway, and once they were at their destination, Quirion would make sure Milo got the rest he needed. He got one of his claws out to create a rift in space and time—strictly speaking, it was a lot more complicated than that, but rift in space and time was already a mouthful without adding the specifics of this kind of specialized travel—then carried Milo through because he clearly was due some much needed relaxation.

Milo never complained when Quirion manhandled him, be it to reach a high shelf in the library or when they were hopping around dimensions to get rare books.

Neither Quirion nor Milo ever mentioned their little trips to Sammy and Dre because then Sammy would get into worry-mode, as Milo liked to call it, and in the end, Dre would be coming with them as additional guard and if there was one thing Quirion didn’t need, it was his younger brother sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. Knowing his luck, Dre wouldn’t stop at being a pain in his ass, no, he would probably get Barion on board as well and their cozy little adventures would turn into a family affair, robbing Quirion of his alone time with Milo.

Plus, how was he supposed to impress Milo with his book-hunting skills when his brothers ran interference? No, they kept this strictly private, as it was meant to be. No need for anybody to know about the incident with the crocodile in Egypt or that one time where the gargoyle had tried to prevent Quirion from getting the stone with the inscriptions of hellhound lore. Milo had been a great help distracting the crocodile and bribing the gargoyle with aged bricks from the Colosseum.

They arrived in Quirion’s main study with a stunning view of the endless ocean on one side and a clear view to the toad in the moat on the other. He put Milo down without letting go of him. The human was snuggling against him, soaking in his warmth.

“How is Mildred doing today?” Milo lifted his head enough to take a peek through the window facing the moat.

“I’m still not sure if she’s a Mildred, but look for yourself. She’s been deepening the moat on this side, moving the silt with her hindlegs.”

Among the first things Milo had done almost five years ago when he started working for Quirion was naming the toad Mildred. To Quirion she looked more like a Milicent, if he thought about it, but that was beside the point. The toad had always been a silent companion, not bothering him while he didn’t bother her. Milo had started bringing her gifts from Earth. As they had discovered, Mildred wasn’t overly fond of worms and snails, toad diet on Earth, but she absolutely loved broccoli baked with cheese. And yes, Milo had experimented with everything he could think of. For her, the casseroles he brought her once a week were hardly more than an appetizer, her huge mouth swallowing the entire portion in one go, but she always came out of her moat for the treat, so it seemed to do something for her. Not that Quirion had ever seen her eat anything else. She was either super-sneaky when it came to feeding or she didn’t need it. Quirion was leaning toward the latter, having seen it in other creatures and dimensions before. It was likely that she sustained herself with the energy the ever-churning waves of the ocean battering against the stones of this island generated.

Milo didn’t care. He brought her the broccoli and claimed to have a bond with her. Mildred seemed to think the same.

“Hmm.” Milo didn’t leave Quirion’s embrace but craned his neck to see better. “If she’s making more room, does that mean there will be babies? Or is she growing?”

Quirion shrugged. They would see once it was time. Waiting was, in his opinion, half the fun. “She’s going to show us when she’s ready,” he said in a calm tone, knowing it would rile Milo up.

“Quirion!” Milo wailed.

Good. Now your blood pressure should go up, making you a bit warmer. “Yes, Milo?”

“Do you know something?”

“No. I can assure you, I don’t. I’ve never come across a species of giant toads before, neither during my travels nor in my books. Mildred is as much a mystery to me as she is to you. I would never withhold information that important from you, wouldn’t I?”

“You totally would, and we both know it.” Milo snuggled closer to him, contradicting his outraged tone. “I hope there will be babies. Little tadpoles swimming around.”

Quirion contemplated the idea for a moment. Tadpoles were fine and good, but how many would there be and where would they go? Milo wouldn’t take it well if the babies went out into the gigantic ocean, all alone, to be eaten by unknown predators. The circle of life hid its beauty well behind blood and gore.

“I think we have a letter to write.” He decided to shelve the topic of Mildred and the possible infestation of hundreds of tadpoles for later, hoping the toad was just hitting a growth spurt and needing more space.

“Yes, the letter.” Milo straightened. The loss of contact made them both sigh. “At your desk?”

“At my desk.” Quirion followed Milo to his gorgeous wooden desk, a little memento from one of the cloisters he had helped with their books during the early Middle Ages. Since the monks had stubbornly refused to pay him with their sincere gratitude, Quirion had decided that the sturdy and beautifully carved table where the congregation had had their meals on was an acceptable substitute. He was a big demon—he needed the space more pressingly than those ungrateful and unwashed monks. Never once had he regretted taking the furniture in and, once Milo had started working for him, Quirion had been doubly pleased because the table was easily large enough to let Milo sit close to him.

They both took their seats—Quirion’s was a throne taken from some arrogant king who hadn’t known how to respectfully treat a scholar who just wanted to help, while Milo’s was a modern and ergonomic office chair with an extra high foot because the table was raised to accommodate Quirion’s height—and Quirion put the letter in front of them. It was time for a lesson.

“The history of written correspondence is long and interesting, as you well know, and unfortunately we don’t have the time to delve deeper into all the beautiful variations of calligraphy invented over the times.”

Milo’s shoulders sagged a little. The young man was clearly devastated and Quirion made a mental note to make it up to him. Perhaps they could do a little excursion to Japan and meet with a master calligrapher there. Quirion knew just the woman.

“What the SBW has sent you is not just an invitation to partake in their little competition, it’s also a first test.”

Milo straightened in his seat. “To see how I respond. Would they dismiss me if I sent them something on generic paper, written with a ballpen? Or something printed?”

“No, not immediately, but it would be the first strike against you. You see, they’re not just looking for the best and the brightest, they’re looking for people well-rounded and knowledgeable of the ways of the world.”

Milo’s sigh came from the depths of his soul. “In other words, they’re basically like every other donator. They don’t do if for the science, they want to see themselves reflected in there.”

“Your wisdom is already great, Milo. Giving away money usually means the person giving it out has a lot of it. To have a lot of money, a person very often is a certain way. And that certain way prevents them from not asking for some kind of recognition for their gift. Plus, it’s a way of demonstrating power. They have something you want, and they can make you jump through hoops to get it.” Quirion eyed his assistant from the side. “You do know that Barion, Dre, and I would love to fund your research, Milo. Not to mention Dad and his mates, as well as Emilia.”

“I know. And I’m sorely tempted.” Milo looked at him with his deep, deep, soulful eyes. “But it feels wrong. Taking money from friends. Not after everything you’ve all done for me.”

It reflected highly on Milo that he valued the immaterial help he had received in the form of long conversations, hugs, and them just being there during his mother’s illness and the stressful times following it, more than all the money they would have thrown his way if he’d only let them. Quirion knew better than to press Milo.

“Then we have to brave the writing of the letter.”

That got him a chuckle from Milo and the mood instantly lightened. “How do I go about answering the letter in the right way? I assume showing them that I understand the importance of polite correspondence entails using the right equipment?”

“You really are super smart.” Quirion beamed at him. “First, the right parchment.” He rummaged in the drawer in one of his huge rolling cabinets. With a triumphant huff he pulled three different sheets out and placed them on the surface of the table. “Which one would you choose, Milo?”

Milo eyed the paper then the letter. He pointed to the sheet on the left. “Not that one. I know you use this for your correspondence with Sammy and it looks more expensive than the one from the letter.”

Quirion nodded proudly. Only the best for me and Sammy . “Very good. While the paper they’re using is quite acceptable, it’s not the highest standard. Answering on the most expensive parchment would show them up, which they won’t appreciate.” Beverly would start frothing, no doubt. For a tiny moment, Quirion was tempted to provoke a tantrum from the vampire. He reined in the urge. This was about Milo, not some petty barbs he wanted to get in Beverly’s flesh. He nodded at Milo, who pointed at the middle paper.

“Not this one either. It looks and feels a bit cheaper than the letter. While it would show them that I understand what they’re expecting, it would also send the message that I can’t meet those standards fully and I don’t want that.”

“Well thought out, Milo. You could go this route, make them see how good you could be if you had the funds, but you’re right. We want them to see you on the same level as they are. You’re not some beggar hoping for scraps. You’re a brilliant scientist and they should be grateful for the chance to fund your research.”

“I think all this scheming is giving me a headache.”

“We’ve only just started.” Quirion patted Milo’s hand. “If it’d make you feel better, we could get some hot chocolate from that café in Sweden you like so much.”

Milo immediately perked up. “Can we?”

“It’s only a rip in time and space away.” Quirion grinned and before either of them could have second thoughts, he got one of his claws out and ripped reality.

“ Hej, ” the nice owner of the café in Uppsala greeted them. Alma was human, but Quirion knew that she knew that he was very much not of the same species. After Sammy had become his mate, Dre had introduced Quirion to her special brand of hot chocolate—which Quirion was sure had a magical component, though he had yet to prove it—and already during that first meeting Quirion had sensed that she saw more than the glamour should technically allow her. Even now she was looking at him with an adventurous gleam in her eyes that belied the grayness of her hair.

“ Hej, ” he and Milo greeted her back.

“The usual?” Alma asked.

Milo nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, please, your famous varm choklad . I need it.” He rolled his eyes.

Alma chuckled and started making the drinks with sure, steady gestures. It was obvious that it was muscle memory for her. Quirion followed her movements with hungry eyes.

“And two pieces of Semla , please. They look especially tasty today.”

Alma giggled, which made her a good thirty years younger. “You say that every time, Quirinus.” She was using the name Quirion usually gave humans when he had to interact with them, and it felt a little more off every time she said it. Somehow, he felt Alma deserved to know his true name. Quirion cleared his throat to finally remedy this particular problem when Alma put two travel mugs with steaming varm choklad in front of them, quickly adding four pieces of Semla in a box. “ Varsagod . I take it from your account, as usual.”

“ Tack .” Quirion took one travel mug and the box while Milo grabbed the other mug. “It has been freshly filled.” Since Sweden had gotten rid of cash payment in large parts, Quirion’s coins were of little use, but he and Alma had come to an agreement. He had an account set up where he put a certain amount of money every few months. Alma deducted the money for every purchase he made. It allowed for spontaneous trips to Uppsala without Quirion having to worry about getting a credit card. He wasn’t overly fond of this new-fangled way of payment, preferring the solidity of gold instead. Then again, there wasn’t that much gold going around, what with dragons hoarding large quantities of it and Quirion’s own, rather impressive collection deep under his library. He didn’t put as much value in the shiny metal as he did with books, though didn’t see why he should be letting it lie around either. It not only tempted humans but also some supernatural creatures to do stupid things which tended to end in tears. Not his, of course, but tears nonetheless. He was doing the world a favor by putting it out of circulation. Well, mostly out of circulation. Varm choklad didn’t count.

When he and Milo were back in the library, Quirion put the box with the Semla on another desk specifically for food and beverages. Before Milo had started working for him, the mere idea of having something potentially damaging to the books in their vicinity had been absurd. After a lengthy lecture from Dre about the needs of humans—who would have thought they needed to drink at least one and half liters of liquid every day to keep functioning—and having witnessed what a lack of food and drink would do to a young human body, he had gotten this table. It was bespelled to not let anything dangerous like fluids or fatty smears one could get on their hands when eating, say, a delicious Semla , to get away from it. It was the work of a genius, even if he said so himself. After one had eaten, simply pulling one’s hands back from the table cleaned them because all the bad stuff was swallowed by the spell.

Milo followed him to place his mug next to the box. For a few minutes, they enjoyed the beverage and pastries in peaceful silence. Almost absent-mindedly, Milo gave Quirion half of his second Semla , something he did automatically every time they shared a meal. Just like Quirion always chose the best pieces for him and made sure he ate at all. His human tended to forget to take care of himself.

“Ah. Alma’s chocolate is almost better than Sammy’s.” Milo winked at Quirion. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

“Never. Otherwise, he’d be back here to research more recipes on the making of hot chocolate just to prove you wrong. I’m just glad it was Barion who had to go to the Mayan temple with him.” Quirion shuddered at the memory of Sammy tearing through his section of books on food—no ordinary cookbooks, those had their own place farther down the aisle, but the books on historic ways of cooking, ancient tomes about the power of certain foods—in search of the oldest recipe for hot chocolate he could find. The outcome was admittedly amazing, Sammy’s skills with chocolate were not of this world, but Quirion would have preferred if he and his books hadn’t been part of the journey to get to this level.

“Yeah. He can get tunnel vision sometimes.” Milo downed the rest of his varm choclat and stepped back from the table, slowly dragging his hands through the spell barrier to get them cleaned. Quirion followed suit and they both returned to the task of writing a suitably impressive yet not too snotty response to the SBW’s letter.

Milo took a normal piece of paper and the ballpen he still had in the pocket of his jeans and started chewing on the end. “What’s the best way to start? Dear Sir or Madam seems a bit generic, don’t you think?”

Quirion nodded. “It is. Plus, you do know that you’re writing to a Madam .” Again, Quirion had far better words to describe Beverly Nyx, Madam being not even in the top hundred of that list. Harpy was one of the first to come to mind, though it wasn’t entirely fair to real Harpies, who were actually kind of nice if you got past the razor-sharp talons and their tendency to kill first, ask questions never. Beverly Nyx, on the other hand, couldn’t be called nice even if the positive meaning of the word were stretched so thin it met evil on the other side.

“Then I start with Dear Madam ?” Milo interrupted Quirion’s musings about the abhorrent nature of Beverly Nyx.

“Well… How about Esteemed Lady ? She’s going to gobble that right up.”

Milo scribbled the words down and eyed them with a thoughtful expression. “I’m not sure. Don’t you think they have researched me? She would know that’s not how I usually talk—or write.”

“She would indeed. But she would see the effort you’re making to match her letter.”

“Or she would think I’m trying to either make fun of her or be condescending.”

Quirion rubbed his hands gleefully. Milo was getting into the swing of things. There were few things Quirion loved better than navigating the deep waters and high cliffs of written correspondence in all its backhanded and dagger-wielding glory. The fun one could have with a few politely placed words, turning them into a deadly insult! It was a game of wits and knowledge with the added pleasure of using high-quality paper and wax seals.

“Quirion?”

“Ah, sorry, Milo, I was lost in thought.”

Milo stared at him from narrowed eyes. “You were plotting a written war, weren’t you?”

Quirion opened his mouth to deny it, but Milo interrupted him. “You were. I know the signs. You had the same look you get when you think of a particularly viciously polite phrase to send to Sammy. It’s actually the same look he gets when he finds a response he knows will weigh you down with its sheer kindness. That’s not what we’re trying to do here. I need that money, Quirion.” Despite his stern tone, a smile was playing around Milo’s lips.

“I know. I know. You’re taking the fun out of this.” Quirion couldn’t help but grumble.

“I’m so sorry.” Milo was trying to hide his laughter, Quirion could hear it in his voice. “Just see this as some kind of basic training, perhaps? Something to remind you of the roots?”

“I outgrew basic training centuries ago, young man, thank you very much,” Quirion replied haughtily. “And I don’t need to be reminded of roots of any sort.” He huffed. “But I do see the necessity of foregoing any double layers in this particular letter. It has the sole purpose of getting you on the road into the pockets of SBW to benefit from their endless depths.”

Milo arched an eyebrow. “That would be nice, yes,” he said dryly. “And how do I go about this?”

Quirion read the letter again. It was devoid of double layers because Beverly clearly knew there was no reason hoping to find a worthy opponent in somebody so young. He was soooo tempted to show her up, but what if she found out it was him helping Milo? Would she then kick Milo out simply for knowing Quirion? He and the other members of SBW hadn’t parted on the best of terms, though not in open hostility either. The overall mood had been volatile politeness, drenched in animosity with a side of suppressed anger. If Beverly held on to grudges only half as happily as he did, there was no telling how she would react. Better to keep the ball close to the net and play the long game.

“I think Dear Madame Nyx is perfect. You create a certain nearness without making undue advances and, at the same time, you show your attention to detail such as reading the letter to the end.”

Milo nodded. With a look of concentration, he started scribbling on the paper he had before him. Which brought Quirion’s attention to another, way more pressing matter than Beverly Nyx’s potentially bad mood when she found out Milo was acquainted to Quirion. Only how to phrase this particular concern without hurting Milo’s feelings?

“Uhm, Milo, you know how much I appreciate all your help? And how dear you have become to me?”

Milo looked up from his writing. “Quirion, just spit it out. I know you’re trying to be polite, but we talked about this. Building up to something isn’t your strong side and you never do it. Don’t start now to spare my feelings. What am I doing wrong?”

Quirion hesitated. In all honesty, he wasn’t just fond of Milo, or thought him dear to his heart. Those feelings had become too small to describe what he felt for the young man long ago. He’d only started to allow himself to recognize them after Milo had left twenty behind, to not feel like an old creep, which he still essentially was, him having a few centuries on him. But the same was true for Dre and Sammy, Barion and Jon and even more so for his father and the two werewolves. Strictly speaking, his father was the worst cradle-robber, if one looked purely at the numbers. Milo loved numbers. No, he couldn’t lie to the object of his secret desires. But he also couldn’t hit him with the naked truth. That would be cruel.

“Uhm, I was just thinking… How about we ask Sammy to write the letter we’re composing? He has the experience, while you…” He couldn’t come up with something non-offensive to say. Flattery was completely out of the question at this point.

Milo looked from the few words he had written to Quirion then back to the words. His brows did that little wiggling thing indicating he was thinking hard. “Is this your way of telling me my handwriting sucks? Because you don’t have to try and be polite about it. I know this.”

Inwardly, Quirion sighed in relief. Out loud, he said, “It doesn’t suck. It’s just very…modern. Not what Beverly, the old bat, is used to. I think she stopped changing her ways of thinking sometime around 1400.”

“Oh.” Milo scrunched his nose up. “I knew she had to be old, but somehow, I still pictured her as some middle-aged woman. Now all I can see is a grandmother.”

Quirion chuckled. “We won’t write that in the letter. She would be so appalled, she’d probably combust spontaneously. And to give credit where credit is due, through no accomplishment of her own, she is a truly stunning woman. Good genetics really are a blessing.”

“Great. Now my head is conjuring up images of a cross between Marilyn Monroe and Angelina Jolie.”

“Who were and are very fine women. As for Beverly, think more along the lines of Lillian Gish. If her favorite color were blood.”

The blankness in Milo’s eyes had Quirion sighing. “Lillian Gish was a famous silent movie actress. Look her up. She was also beautiful, in that eerie way of most women in movies at that time.”

“Understood. Beverly is some kind of super silent movie film star look-alike with a penchant for red. Doesn’t help my nerves about this whole letter.”

“You don’t have to be nervous. You’ve got me to formulate the letter and Sammy to write it. What could go wrong?”

“Not the question I want to hear when my career could be the collateral,” Milo murmured.

Quirion realized it might have been better not to jinx the whole thing. Not that he believed in superstition. No real scientist did. But after meeting Sammy, and through him the bunch of paranormals he called friends—a banshee was nobody’s friend, not ever, they were doom, but somehow, Amber did everything in her power to make Sammy smile, weird as it sounded; not to mention the old vampire, Emilia, who seemed to delight in bringing Sammy new food to taste, mostly from Japan instead of ripping his throat out and drinking all his blood and those were just two of them—Quirion had learned that probabilities seemed to veer into an undesirable direction whenever that particular question or a variation thereof was formulated.

“Your career is going great and will go even stronger, min Liechtbrunn .”

That Milo didn’t react to this endearment as usual—with an eyeroll and a petulant ‘am not’ —told Quirion how stressed he was about the whole thing. And as much as it galled him to admit it, he thought maybe he was going to need help here. Sammy’s help, to be specific. He sighed and steeled himself for what he had to do next. “It might be prudent to ask Sammy’s advice in this. I realize I’m too close to the SBW and you are too innocent.”

Milo snorted. “Which is why you want Sammy in on this?”

“While my brother-in-law has a sometimes warped view of things, he’s also annoyingly quick on the uptake and could really help us out. Plus, we need him anyway to write the letter because giving you a quill and ink is tantamount to sacrilege.” Quirion wanted to bite his tongue as soon as the last word left his mouth. He had tried to spare Milo’s feelings earlier only to ruin it all in a moment of heedlessness.

Milo grumbled. “Yes, Qui, tell me how you really feel.” He held his dark expression for a moment longer then started to giggle. “You’re right, though. Just imagine me trying to hold a quill, not to mention actually writing with it. Would I need to dip it into an old well of ink? I have no clue!” Milo was giggling harder and Quirion joined him. Another thing about the young man he loved was his willingness to admit his own shortcomings, few as there were, in Quirion’s opinion.

“Are you going to invite Sammy here?”

Quirion stopped laughing abruptly. “Don’t even joke about it. The less time he spends here, the better. I’m still not convinced he won’t be stealing Mildred from us! Last time he was here, he was eyeing her funnily.”

“I don’t think Mildred can be stolen. She’s way too big.”

“You know Sammy. He somehow learns how to speak toad and before we know it, our pet is gone.” Quirion wasn’t even exaggerating. Somebody who could distract a starved zombie with apple pie, of all things, then calmly run off to the butcher to buy some brain, was capable of everything.

“Then let’s go to him.” Milo emptied his own cup and started gathering the letter, the envelope, and his draft.

Quirion put one arm around Milo’s waist, opened space and time with the other and off they were.