Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 1

his father's gaze, refusing to back down. "You are hardly one to criticize the amount of my fucking! You have lain with every hole in Dis— and then some!"
    "Yes, I have! Yet I have never claimed that as an achievement! It is simply entertainment." Nox moved to the council table and picked up a stack of vellum sheets, allowing each of them to drift onto the slab as he enumerated their contents to Ashtariel. "There are a great many events in the works— disasters, discord, even an assassination or two!" He held one sheet up and gestured with it. "The British colonies alone are sixty years over-due for a revolution! If that fool Revere had not fallen and broken his neck, they would be on schedule!" He added the sheet to its fellows. "Each and every one ready to be led by someone with drive and ambition— someone like my offspring!"
    "Offspring!" Ashtariel crossed his arms and leaned arrogantly against the window frame. "Not your son?"
    "You know what I mean— do not mince words with me! It is time you take your place within the hierarchy. I have pampered you too much already, allowing you to frolic about like some imp." The general strode away from Ashe, pacing about the war room. "If I cannot control my household, how can I be trusted to control my legions?" He turned to face Ashe. "Should this farce continue, I shall be the laughingstock of the nine planes!"
    "Again, this has not an iota to do with me," Ashtariel fired back, pushing away from the sill, "but everything to do with you!" The young daemon strode toward the entry. "I am tired of listening to your plans for me !"
    "Ash—"
    "When you want to hear about my plans for me —" Ashtariel pulled open the great oaken doors "—come and find me—" he slammed the door "—yourself!" The corridor resounded with the satisfying crash as he strode out of the palace.
    ****
    Melizander studied the square casket, brushed free of its coat of grime. Heavily carved and dark with age, the wooden box had been nestled among dust and cobwebs in its space above the ceiling. Melizander's hands shook as he reached to open the container. The lid squealed, echoing sharply in the subterranean darkness.
    Inside rested not only a large book but also a velvet bag. Lifting the bag, Melizander heard metallic clinks. Curious, he opened the bag and poured out a shiny pile of silver— what looked to be variously sized and shaped beads. Further investigation and untangling showed they were strung together; three strands of silver beads— some round, some tubular, some circular, some with strange spikes— all arranged to form a sort of…? What ? The jewelry— if that is what it was— appeared too small to be a belt and too large and bulky for a bracelet. So necklace it was.
    The artificer examined the necklace. At each end the strands were attached to two points where there were hooks, forming three increasingly larger parabolas. The piece was odd, yet striking, and affected Melizander on a visceral level. There was power here. He could feel it like a hum along his nerves, a scratching at his inner ear.
    Somewhat unnerved, Melizander returned the piece to the bag and stowed it again in the box, turning his attention to the book. Leather bound and strapped with iron clasps, the tome dimly reflected the green light of his lantern. Gilt lettering spelled out the title he had so dearly sought: Codica daemonica mechanica . Written in 1433 by Antoine DeFourier, a defrocked priest, the codex was the first grimoire to posit the use of daemonic essence; moreover, it was rumored to be a veritably incontrovertible manual for daemon hunting. Melizander stroked the edges of the cover, unable to believe how fortunate he was, how close he was to achieving his dream. Granted there was still significant work to be accomplished, but now the dream lay within reach, had become real, concrete.
    Having replaced the box's lid, Melizander locked the room and retraced his steps through the dusty cellar. Doctor Pogue's lamp flickered, fitfully lighting Melizander's retreat, as the artificer hurried to leave the crypt with its crawling denizens behind.
    ****
    Ashtariel returned not to the Phoenix but to his townhouse. The house was elegant and well-appointed, as suited one of "Lord deLancey's" station, furnished in the latest style. The occasional spasm of objectivity forced him to admit a certain curiosity in a demon maintaining a household, particularly one in posh Chelsea. But it suited Ashe. He liked being