❝You're a demon.❞
❝And you're not entirely human.❞
❴ SEASON 1 - ONGOING ❵
All her life, Iona Hardy has been intrigued by the darkness and what it will do to a person. W...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
My strained eyes stare down at the pages, intensely scanning the curves and slashes of the ancient language. There's a difference between them, no doubt, but it's not as easy as I thought it would be. Sure, I studied ancient cultures, but linguistics is part of another branch. I just know the bare minimum, so how is trying to learn something a bad thing?
I guess that's what I keep telling myself as I sit here, pouring over these hieroglyphics in an attempt to decipher which are real and which have been slightly altered as decoys. Because nothing says 'you're not doing anything wrong' like being in Crowley's living room after claiming that you didn't want anything to do with him. Yeah, I'm definitely in the clear.
He resides in a leather-clad armchair, adjacent to the matching couch from which I sit. A small glass of scotch rests in his hand as he stares absent-mindedly across the room, listening to the bellowing opera record softly playing throughout the house. Truth be told, the high-pitched range initially irritated me, but after sinking down into studying the printed pages of script, it all faded into the background.
"Fake." I set aside one of the pages, starting a pile off to the side on the coffee table. Once I realize the evidential component of the one, they all begin to link together, increasing my confidence in separating the rest. "Fake...fake...and fake."
Crowley quirks an eyebrow as I slide the pile over to him. He picks them up, still holding his glass, and thumbs through them. "This is the true binding spell," I say, holding up the remaining page.
After mentally checking off the successfully selected incorrect passages, he hands them off to a maid, nervously awaiting his gesture for her to take the stack. I eye her suspiciously, believing her 'scared and timid' behavior to be a rouse. But Crowley, on the other hand, doesn't seem worried in the slightest.
"Which...?" he asks, glancing over at the fireplace, its crackling flames heating my already clammy skin. For some reason, the temperature of the room feels like it's increased since I've sat down. Maybe I am in Hell.
"Which, if done correctly, can subdue the powers of a witch, rendering him or her incapable of protecting himself or herself. But if the sigils are placed incorrectly, the witch can break free, only after summoning a great deal of power. That may come as an issue, though, having just been hindered under the control of --"
"Yes, yes, all right," he hushes me, rising from his chair to refresh his drink, "I didn't need an essay."
"You wanted to teach me," I explain, looking around for the pages that have somehow disappeared right before my eyes. "This is how I learn."
As Crowley pops the fragile lid off of the clear container, pouring the expensive scotch into his glass, the handmaid from before presents him with a few contracts to sign off on. He briefly scans them, remembering that he had read each of them earlier. At the flick of his fingers, a pen appears in his hand. "Must be so convenient for you to decide at any point that you wish to use me for my vast knowledge and alluring intellect," he condescendingly states as he swishes the last 'y' in his name and waves the demon maid away.
