it’s anna koldings’ grimoire —- held together by a sliver of rotten deerskin, a few braids of hempen twine, and a primitive horse-shoe latch so rusted that it nearly turns to dust at his touch. it had been found a few leagues under the sea in a locked box off the coast of norway, obviously cast to the dreary depths by the men who had seen to the witch’s execution. despite its poor outward condition, many of the pages within are completely preserved by, what meric assumes, is a very potent, very old charm. so, amidst the soured pages ( no doubt personal entries forever lost to the salt of the sea ) and mottled scrawl of no consequence, are bouts of pristine calligraphy as clear and concise as the first hour they were written. spells, incantations, ingredients, curses, unfinished notes on alchemy, poisons.
“in the wrong hands, that little book can do a lot of damage, boss,” says artillius hencher through a mouthful of sugary biscuit.
“that’s all very well, but i don’t care whose hands it falls into. i care more about how much they’re willing to pay for it.”
the werewolf lifts a brow as his swarthy companion shoves an inappropriate amount of treacle toffee into his mouth. “we’re done.” the finality in his voice is indisputable.
as hencher leaves ( his ratty pockets lined with mulciber’s galleons ), meric takes a moment to flip through the soiled pages. his hands, wrapped in black leather, seem impervious to the swell of dark magic lapping at the edges of coiled parchment. it’s rare he keeps an uncovered treasure to himself, but it is the devil’s mother’s manifesto. the collector in him staunchly drowns out the needling voice of the greedy vendor.
