Chapter 34: Meet and Greet

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The beginning of the association between the Templars and the Archive was…complicated, to say the least.

I wasn’t on earth when it happened. I was wandering the Aether, a fact which I am grateful for. I’ve not heard pleasant things about that particular time period. I’ve heard stories, though. Read histories and articles written on the subject. It is unsurprising that a religious order such as theirs would view the Archive with disdain. It didn’t take long for this lovely organization to realize how useful a resource demons were going to be, especially with the rapid spread of biblical teachings. The ripples through the Aether were powerful, potent reservoirs to be drawn from, and not something to be idly overlooked.

So, from the onset, the two groups were at each other’s throats.

There were the usual things. Subterfuge. Political maneuvering. The occasional burning at the stake. It isn’t the Archive’s penchant to go head-to-head with anyone in the bright light of day. That draws far too much attention, and one of the reasons they have survived for so long is by sticking to the shadows.

Ironically, it was a common enemy that eventually lead to a truce. The Inquisition made the Templars look saintly by comparison. Their wanton butchery pulled many of the Archive’s members into their net — mostly because that net was so widely cast. When they turned their attention to the Templars, torturing false confessions out of them and sending them to the chopping block, the Archive deliberated. Allow their former adversaries to be killed off by serendipity, or step in and make a useful ally?

They chose the latter.

What the Templars traded in exchange for the Archive’s assistance is not well known. Knowledge of demonology is suspected — hidden, priceless knowledge. Artifacts as well, boons the Order claimed to have been blessed with by benevolent beings beyond the veil. For all of its tenuous beginnings, the alliance has held for all this time: the Archive has no interest in intervening every time a demonic entity grows strong enough to slither through the veil, and the Order, in turn, has no interest in beasts beyond their scope. They certainly have their hands full without having to worry about every goblin and ghoul that happens to spring free.

All the same, I find the fact that the agreement still stands rather miraculous. The Templars would have been obliterated without the Archive’s help, true, but human memory doesn’t stretch that far back. If one were to ask my opinion, I’d wager mutually assured destruction is the real reason things have remained so…copacetic.

Of course, cooperation does not promise amiability.

The room is cold in a way that has nothing to do with the temperature. The main hall of the mansion was built to make an impression, and the years have only added to the initial intent. Lights dangle down in complex works of crystal from the ceiling, casting scattered illumination below. At the room’s center is a large circular table, its surface carved with complex runes from cultures that have existed, left marks, and died. Even standing near it I can feel the power thrumming from those runes, laid out painstakingly in stone. Were I not one of the Archive’s beasts, I suspect it would kill my host on the spot.

It might even be strong enough to kill me.

Salazar sits in a plush scarlet chair at the table, his features perfectly composed. Beside him perches the Caladrius in the form of a large white bird, her black eyes sharp, her claws just shy of punching into the fabric of the chair. Behind him stand two mortals and their bound creatures. I haven’t had the time to study either, but I suspect one of them is a werecreature of some sort judging by the yellow of his eyes and the habitual baring of his teeth.

His presence makes me tense. Hopefully the mortal has a tight grip on his leash.

“If you would be so kind,” Salazar says, his words smooth and genial, “Please explain the purpose of your attendance in this meeting, Arbiter.”

With that, my attention rivets itself to the other side of the table.

Lydia is sitting there. Her chair isn’t nearly as fanciful or comfortable as Salazar’s, but I doubt she would be comfortable no matter where she was sitting. I keep catching her cast glances my way. I feel concern wafting off of her so thickly it may as well be perfume. Worry for me, worry for herself, worry for her friend who currently stands to her right. Nathan is dressed in a Knight initiate’s uniform: a simple gray shirt and pants, the former stitched with the Order’s symbol of sword and shield.

Hopefully none of Avidia’s reports to the Archive included him. I don’t care about his fate, but I know if something happened to him it would upset her greatly.

“It is within the right of the Order to offer Sanctuary to any who have been accosted by demonic forces,” the Arbiter replies. She is an older woman, though her years have done nothing to soften her. In fact, they’ve had the opposite effect. Her features are deceptively disarming, yes, even motherly, but there’s no mistaking the steel in her voice. Her gray hair is pulled back from her face, and her eyes have the sort of sharpness that can spy a lie from a mile away.

Curious that the Order saw fit to send an Arbiter. Perhaps their rank isn’t quite so high in the Order as it once was.

“Of course,” Salazar says, placating. “But I’m sure you can understand this situation is unique.”

“Is it?” She arches a brow at the man. Beside her, Lydia squirms. Dakota Hunter — standing to the Arbiter’s left — looks like a soldier at attention. Ready to pounce at the snap of a finger. He hasn’t bothered to look at me even once since they arrived. “Miss Grace was forced into a ritual she did not want to participate in. She has been bound to an incubus not because she grasped for power, but because she was desperately trying to save her own life. There is nothing in this scenario that falls outside of the usual scope for Sanctuary other than the detail of your grimoire.” She pauses, giving Salazar a knowing smile. “A grimoire from your own vaults, no less.”

Salazar, to his credit, doesn’t balk at the barb. He mirrors her smile with one of his own. “Rest assured, we will find the one guilty for this infraction and ensure it does not happen again.”

Dakota shifts from one foot to the other. I’m fairly certain it’s the first time he moved since the meeting started.

“Be that as it may,” the Arbiter replies, “It doesn’t change the facts as they stand now. Lydia Grace is a victim in all of this, not a perpetrator. She is not someone who came seeking you out to join your organization. As such, she is a civilian worthy of our protection.”

Salazar spreads his hands, giving the impression of being affronted. “What makes you think she’s in danger? We have no intention of harming her. Indeed, we intended to have a perfectly friendly conversation.”

“Did you now?”

“Of course.” The Overseer dips his head to her, and on the back of the chair, I see the Caladrius skitter down to his armrest. He strokes the top of the bird’s head with a fingertip. “Whatever made you think otherwise?”

Without missing a beat, the Arbiter plucks a piece of paper from a pocket on her uniform. It draws my attention to the symbol stitched over her own heart: the sword and shield, yes, but there’s also a set of balanced scales embroidered over the shield’s surface. The stitching of the scales is faded, making me wonder how long she’s held this position.

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She unfolds the paper and reads aloud: “‘You can come willingly, or we will collect you.’”

Salazar’s smile falters just the smallest bit, the left side of his mouth drooping before he recovers. “Arbiter…”

“And I believe this is your address.” She taps the writing indicatively, turning the paper to face us. I hear a low rumbling growl come from the throat of the were-creature, and I tense even as Dakota does the same. Nathan, for his part, doesn’t react. The man’s playing a role, and I must say, he’s playing it rather well. The straight-backed, stone-faced demeanor is impressive.

“Let me be blunt, Overseer,” the woman says, her voice carrying. “You intended to threaten the girl. You intended to intimidate her. You captured someone she considers to be a friend,” she flicks a dismissive glance toward me, “And while I won’t comment on her judgment in that department, I will not sit here and be insulted by assertions that your intentions were pure as the driven snow.” She releases the piece of paper, letting it flutter down to the table, before leaning forward. “Before our involvement, you could have twisted her arm any which way to get what you wanted. Now you can’t. The only thing that’s changed is that you need to alter your sales pitch.” The woman’s smile turns wry. “I might suggest doing away with threatening overtures.”

Salazar does not immediately reply, but from where I’m standing I can see the way his hand is curled over the armrest, clutching the upholstery tight with rage. None of it translates to the rest of him—those across the table are not privy to this knowledge, but I pass it to Lydia anyway.

‘He’s getting angry.’

‘Good,’ comes her reply. ‘The guy seems like a prick.’

‘Overseers are often arrogant creatures. There are some who rise through the ranks by way of meritocracy, but most are shoehorned into the position through lineage.’

‘Makes sense. That sort of thing tends to lead to raging assholes.’ A pause. ‘He can’t just have us killed, can he? I feel like the yellow-eyed one is thinking about eating us.’

‘He probably is.’ I feel a spike of alarm from her, and instantly try to soothe it. ‘But no. Or at least, he wouldn’t risk the alliance with the Templars over such a thing. Salazar may be prideful to the point of stupidity, but he’s not a lunatic. And his position is not infallible. Even with a familial claim, pushing us into war with the Order would quickly see him unseated. Likely assassinated.’

‘Jesus. You guys are pretty cutthroat, aren’t you?’

I laugh quietly. ‘You’ve no idea.’

“Should Lydia Grace decide that she doesn’t want to be affiliated with us, we’ll simply sever the bond and send her on her way,” Salazar says. “With some adjustments to her memory, of course. Nothing that would harm her. We have creatures and talents in our employ capable of such things.” He looks towards Lydia. “I’m afraid we wouldn’t be able to let you retain your current knowledge. Besides, given what you’ve been through, I doubt you’d care to hold onto those memories anyway, yes?”

Lydia’s lips form a thin line. She glances at me — it’s clear she doesn’t have the kind of poker face required for a meeting like this.

“Yes. He would be included. You’d forget about our dear William here entirely.” He raises a hand and grasps briefly at my forearm. I barely manage to stifle my rage, fighting the urge to wrench myself away. “He belongs to us, and what’s more, he’s incredibly dangerous. He’s not a toy.”

I swear I see Lydia’s eye twitch. “Are you serious right now?” she asks, her voice dangerously quiet.

Salazar gives an innocent tilt of his head. “Of course I am, my dear. Deadly so.” He reaches to his belt and plucks a sheathe from it, placing it on the table. Drawing the weapon inside free, he holds up a blunted athame, its handle made of rough wood that’s been blackened by scorching. “It will not harm you. All we’d need to do is use this to sever your connection to the incubus and his grimoire. He’d go back to the Aether, and your part in this would be finished.”

Lydia’s gaze tracks towards the athame. She stares at it for a moment, silent, before lifting her gaze up to Salazar again.

“No.”

Salazar studies her thoughtfully. “No?” He asks.

Lydia stands abruptly. I feel her fury crack over the bond between us, and I realize she’s lost control of it. I should warn her. I should tell her this isn’t a good idea.

But I suppose a part of me just wants to watch her rip into him.

“You,” she says, pointing at him. “You lost that fucking book. And what if it hadn’t been me those men kidnapped? What if it was someone else? Someone more easily subdued, or godforfuckingbid, someone younger?”

“Miss Grace…” Salazar begins. But she doesn’t allow him to continue.

“You just threw him into the goddamn world, and what? Now you get to take him back?” She grits her teeth, practically baring them at the Overseer like an animal. “Maybe you shouldn’t just hook something like him up to a leash. Maybe you shouldn’t make it so he literally feels pain if he doesn’t do what you say.”

“Miss…”

“He’s not a fucking Pokémon,” she snarls. “He’s a person. He’s my friend. I don’t care what you think of that, and I don’t care how stupid you think I am for saying it.” She whirls on the Arbiter nearby, panting. For her part, the older woman looks surprisingly unruffled. If I had to put a name to her reaction, it would be somewhere between impressed and amused.

She finally falls silent, but she doesn’t sit back down. I can tell that beneath her still simmering ire, she’s scared. Unsure if what she did was the right move. Unsure what the repercussions will be.

Salazar’s face has gone pale, but he’s wise enough not to open his mouth. He’s fuming, of that much I’m certain—someone like him isn’t accustomed to this level of disrespect. While he’s indisposed, one of the men standing behind him—the one presumably bound to the werecreature—steps forward.

“Sir,” he says. “If I may.”

The Overseer turns just enough to give what’s obviously meant to be a gracious incline of his head.

“Tensions are incredibly high, and it’s obvious to me that this young woman has been through hell in a handbasket getting here.” He smiles warmly at Lydia, and I take a closer look at him. He’s of medium height and build, with light brown skin and long, silken black hair tied at the back of his neck. His clothing is a simple black dress shirt tucked into dark pants, and he boasts no jewelry or other embellishments to announce his wealth.

Which means he likely doesn’t have any.

“Her frustration is understandable. What’s more, so is her misunderstanding of what the Archive does. We don’t exactly hand out pamphlets on Main Street detailing what it is we do.”

Salazar fixes his eyes on the young man now. There’s a shrewdness there that interests me. Does he see this boy as a threat, perhaps? Some young upstart in search of power?

I sincerely hope so. I could use the entertainment.

“My point is that perhaps we should simply extend a temporary welcome. Give her some time to understand our purpose, tour the grounds. Well.” His smile widens. “The less restricted areas, that is. We’ll set a date. Have another meeting with the Templars, just to make sure there’s no foul play. To prove that we intend to keep her safe and sound while she’s under our care.”

Lydia is watching the speaker attentively, but I can see an uncertain pucker between her brows.

‘Who is this guy?’ she asks.

‘I’m not certain. He’s young. New, I’m sure.’

‘Trustworthy?’

I suppress the urge to laugh. ‘No one here is trustworthy. But with the Order’s promise of sanctuary, I have every reason to believe this offer is genuine. You should take it.’

Lydia draws in a deep breath, standing a bit taller. She turns to look back at the Arbiter for a moment, as if waiting for her input.

The older woman nods once. “If you’re open to staying, we’ll agree to returning in a week’s time.” She looks towards Salazar, lifting a brow at him. “Assuming that’s amenable to you.”

I give the Overseer credit. I imagine his rage is about to froth over the edge, especially since he’s been upstaged by some upstart who probably doesn’t have any familial connections to the organization. Despite that, he holds his facade together quite well.

They must truly want Lydia to agree to joining the organization. It shows signs of desperation, and it worries me. How far have things fallen in the time I’ve been gone?

“Easton.” Salazar doesn’t turn his head to look towards the younger man as he speaks, a weak effort to put him in his place, I’m sure. “Go ahead and find a suitable room for Miss Grace to stay in during her visit.”

If Easton is offended by being charged with housekeeping duties, he doesn’t show it. In fact, I’d argue his mask is even better than Salazar’s. He looks downright enthusiastic.

“Of course.” He turns towards Lydia. “Miss…”

“Lydia,” she says. She sounds intensely irritated. “You people are putting like twenty years on me by calling me Miss Grace. It’s Lydia.”

He laughs, the sound warm and light. “Come on then. I think I already know one of the boarding rooms that’s open and ready for guests.” He gestures to the werecreature that’s been salivating its way through the meeting. “Jacobsen. Time to go.”

Without a word, Jacobsen turns around and walks out of the room, moving with footsteps so silent even my superior hearing cannot detect them. Lydia gets up from her seat, giving one last look not to the Arbiter, but to Nathan, who stands with the selfsame stoicism as before.

I can tell she communicates something with that look, even if nothing is said. Then she turns and moves around the table, pausing only long enough to say:

“William comes with me.”

It’s not a question. Thankfully, Salazar doesn’t argue. He smiles at Lydia knowingly.

“Of course he does. He belongs to you.”

‘This shithead…’

‘Shhhh,’ I soothe. ‘Come. This went well. We can put down our weapons for now.’

She looks up at me, her lips pursed so hard they’re white. Then she nods agreement and looks to Easton expectantly.

“I imagine you’re both very tired,” he says, including me with a glance. “Let’s get you settled in.”