“Look, you gotta understand. If I tell you this, I could lose my job.” The man’s posture is hunched, his words furtive and his entire demeanor clearly communicating an air of nervousness. “So if I see you again, I’m gonna pretend I said nothing. If you ask me about this later, I don’t know anything. And if I hear anything, even just a rumor, about us meeting then I go straight to the cops and tell them you threatened me. You agree to that and I’ll tell you the whole story, everything we uncovered and all the research we gathered. But you gotta decide right now, or I walk.” The man pauses, glancing around in the alley and drawing closer to his unflappable companion before hissing impatiently, “So? Deal or no deal?”

His companion does not answer. Instead, her head, obscured by a drawn cowl, simply nods.

Shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, the man curses lightly and then fumblingly pulls out a lighter and cigarette. Taking a long drag he whips the lit cigarette away from his mouth and says in an irate voice, “These usually calm my nerves. This is your fault, you know?” he adds with a gesture of his smoking hand to the other individual. “I owe you, for sure, but this? This is top-secret stuff. Not even the cap is in the know.” As if trying to brace himself, he takes another puff of the cigarette, inhaling the swirling cloud of smoke deep into his lungs and holding it there for a few long seconds before exhaling in a rush.

“Fine,” he snaps out, “screw it. Let’s get this over with already. So look, here’s how it went down…”

“You’re in luck,” replies the professor. “Some student asked me about these books a few weeks ago and it got me thinking. I reached out to a colleague in Europe who directed me to a set of old prophecies of Atlantis, where I found some clear references to the books.”

The goons trade looks, then the leader asks, “A student huh, you catch a name?”

“No,” replies the professor in an irascible tone, “because it’s not my job to keep track of every undergrad who barges in here thinking I should be their walking, talking, reference list. Coincidentally,” he adds in a pointed tone, “it’s why I have no interest in checking your names against the guest list either.”

Deciding to change the subject, the lead goon quickly nods and says, “Right, err, good policy.”

“Quite,” answers the professor in an arch tone. Then he settles into his chair and pulls up some references on his computer screen. Clearing his throat, he beings to speak. “The cycle of books come from an ancient coven, one that predates the written word. Some of the stories even claim they were the first witches, and that the books were the source of their powers. Five books for the original five witches, all of whom bound their power and wisdom into the pages of the texts.”

“Yeah but get to the point!” interrupts the thug, “what do they do?”

Blinking owlishly the professor replies, “Grant power, obviously. By tapping into the books, the prospective witch gains a fraction of these ancient witches’ powers commensurate with the sacrifice rendered.”

“Sacrifice?”

Nodding, the professor clarifies, “Typically blood, according to most books. But the older legends use a different word that more generally means life or vitality. So who knows,” he leans back and spreads his hands wide saying, “it’s really just a matter of interpretation.” Then he sits up and says in a more serious voice, “The stories do make it clear, however, that only a woman can use the books. But that can’t be right because they talk about some wizard getting his hands on the book of Death too, so really it’s just another example of self-contradictory legends popping up from a variety of authors. Tracing the scholarly origins of these kinds of things is quite interesting. As a matter of fact-”

“Prof,” interrupts the leading goon, “we ain’t here for a lecture. We’re here for information.”

Sighing, the professor says with a bemused shake of his head, “That’s the same thing, you know. But I digress. The point is that the books demand a sacrifice of blood on the part of the prospective witch. Once given, the secrets of the text lay bare before the witch in question, and she gains dominion over the spells within. Ironically, the documentation on those spells is extensive. You can google them if you like. But they only work after the sacrifice is made before the appropriate book.”

“And then what?”

“Then what?”

“Then what do you do!” cries out the goon, throwing his hands in the air.

“Well,” says the professor, as if talking to a particularly dense child, “then you would have the ability to cast all the spells, so I presume you would go ahead and use them for whatever you wanted.”

“Groovy,” grunts the second goon from the corner. Both the professor and his leader turn to him and stare until they awkwardly turn back to their own conversation.

“Well,” begins the professor, “the older legends aren’t the interesting part. The interesting stuff comes after the fall of Atlantis. The stories claim that a dark sorcerer tried to pervert the power of the books and in the process caused the destruction of the island. But should he return to life he will finish claiming the powers of the books and bring about an unspeakable horror to the world.”

“And how does he return to the land of the living?” asks the quiet goon in the corner, his pearly white teeth flashing against his dark skin.

Turning to him, the professor says, “It’s unclear. Something about blood is all. But logic does suggest the books would have something to do with it.”

“If you had to guess?” asks the second goon with a quick smile.

“Well,” the professor shifts uncomfortably, unnerved by the sudden shift in the dynamic of the room, “I suppose I would assume that once all the books receive a blood sacrifice the wizard returns. But it’s all just speculation and rumor, nothing reliable.” Then he clears his throat and asks in a nervous tone, “Listen, I’m starting to think I should get those names after all, what did you say yours was?”

His eyes glittering and his teeth flashing, the goon replies, “Carver, but a brother can call me Mr. King if he likes…”

“And that’s how it went down. I swear I had no idea who the other guy was until he appeared in the basement looking for me and the book. I just wanted to pass it along to the cops and avoid this entire mess.” The man finishes his story with a hoarse cough as he takes a final drag on his now burnt out cigarette before tossing it on the pavement and grinding it to dust with his heel. “Now is that everything? Can I go?”

His counterpart gives an introspective nod, her thoughts turned away from the wayward informant. As he turns to go, she adds, “Thank you, Rabbit.”

Cracking a wan smile, he replies, “Well I owe you. You saved my life Eldritch.” Then, without waiting for a reply, he ducks down the alley and back into the streets of Liberty City.

Watching him go, Eldritch remains pensive, a thoughtful look on her face underneath the cowl. After a long pause, she says, “Alright Bel, it’s time we talked.” Then she unsheathes a dagger and tosses it toward the ground where it transforms into the dainty figure of a woman who lands delicately on her metal feet.

Her demeanor is somber as she says in a quiet voice, “That demon… it killed my cousin.”

“Yeah,” says Eldritch in a soft voice, “sorry about that.”

Belinda glances down at the ground, then up and away before running her fingers through her hair in frustration. “Well,” she intones helplessly, “we weren’t all that close. Melinda never believed we could save our mutual ancestor from her prison and she went her own way instead of following me in my quest. I haven’t seen her in years…” she trails off, realizing that she will never see her cousin again. Then she steels her expression and says in a firm voice, “But there’s nothing to be done now. She’s gone and I can’t do anything but move forward. It’s what she would have wanted.”

“I thought you said she didn’t agree with your methods?”

A wry grin appears on Bel’s face before she replies, “Oh we had our disagreements all right. She always thought I got a free pass because I was more adept at magic and more invested in our family’s quest to free our ancestor. But she would have given anything to stop Thorm Athow from returning to life, on that we firmly agree. If he truly is rising, then we must do everything in our power to stop him. For now, it appears that would mean banishing this demon back to the underworld.”

“Could we trap him,” asks Eldritch.

Belinda shakes her head. “No, there’s something off about him. He mentioned a deal he made with Athow earlier, apparently one that would prevent him from killing anyone but me. With Athow’s magic in play, I don’t think we can risk trying to bind him.”

“Could he really block us though?” inquires Eldritch, pressing the point, “Athow isn’t omniscient.”

“Yes,” answers Belinda with a nod, “but he is responsible for most of the magic related to the binding of demons. He was the court demonologist in Atlantis before everything. If anyone would know how to anticipate our bindings and prevent them, it would be him.”

“Court demonologist?”

“Yes child, a court demonologist,” Belinda clarifies. “He served the king of Atlantis directly, preventing rogue wizards from setting loose demons on the populace and divining their secrets through arcane rituals. Before Jesus arrived and bound them tighter to Hell, they were much easier to raise and much more common. A nation without a demonologist would not be a nation for long.”

Letting out a low whistle, Eldritch says, “Jeez, how come we never learn about this kind of thing in history class? I would pay a lot more attention if we talked about demons getting loose and stuff.”

Sniffing disdainfully, Belinda answers in a haughty tone, “The patriarchal account of history has little room for marginalized groups I’m afraid. Anything that threatens the male-dominated view of history is simply discarded or dismissed as fiction. I suggest you cultivate a more feminist scholarly outlook if you wish to avoid such bias in the future, the inherently toxic masculine hegemony of the school board would prevent the school from presenting anything other than a patriarchy-approved version of the curriculum.”

“Riiiiight,” answers Eldritch skeptically.

“The history of all hitherto existing society is the history of gender struggles,” intones Belinda in a sage voice.

Rolling her eyes, Eldritch crosses her arms over her chest and says, “Okay Kalinda Marx, whatever you say.” Then, abruptly changing the subject before Belinda can get in a response, she says, “So, um, what’s the game plan for banishing Soneillon? Now that we know he’s the demon of hate we can come up with a strategy for exposing him to his counterpart like we did with the last demon.” Eldritch pauses for a few seconds, and then asks, “Speaking of, what is the opposite of hate?”

In a forlorn voice, Belinda answers, “Love, child, true love. It is the only opposite of hate, and unfortunately it is something we are in short supply of at the moment…” Belinda trails off with a worried expression on her face.

Laughing, Eldritch replies, “That’s not a problem! In fact, that’s actually really good news. I can just go on a date with Theo and this whole mess will be over like that!”

“No,” says Belinda, “not childish infatuation or affection. Those aren’t strong enough. True love, deep, patient, and unconditional, is the only thing that will counter hate. Your high school boyfriend of a few months will not suffice.”

Who then, dear reader, will? A question that will doubtlessly haunt our heroine next week when Soneillon makes his first move in… “Take me to Church!”