The Lost (Celestial Blues, Book 2) - By Vicki Pettersson Page 0,32
in Grif’s mind like hard marbles. It’s going to circle back for her . . .
“Yes. You changed it once they were both dead,” it said now, eyes twinkling darkly. “The name they gave you hurt your ears in the wake of their deaths, so you reinvented yourself.”
“And what’s your name?” Kit asked, without missing a beat, though Grif knew her well enough to see she was rattled. Worry always caused a dent above the bridge of her nose.
“Nice of someone to finally ask,” it answered, flipping Brunk’s lanky hair. “I am reigning statesman of the Third, formerly of the Cherubim tribe, keepers of knowledge, guardians of the Celestial Records, and the once-Pure, now charged with maintaining the chronicles of the Fallen.” Brunk’s strange smile returned. “But you can call me Scratch.”
“As in Old Scratch,” Grif said, finally gaining its attention.
“Very good,” Scratch muttered, though it didn’t look happy or impressed by the interruption. Leaning back in the chair, it folded Brunk’s arms. “You know your Germanic myths.”
“I’ve been doing my research, too.” Grif kept his eyes on the animated body, but addressed Kit in a low voice. “Old Scratch is a popular nickname for the devil, also interchangeable with ‘devils.’ ”
“Yes, we are One and also many,” it said, and showed rows of teeth.
Grif ignored it. “Scrat or waldscrat means ‘wood spirit’ in Old Germanic. It ties in with the forest.”
“It ties in,” Scratch corrected, “with the Garden.”
“The Garden?” Kit asked.
“Maybe once,” Grif said shortly. “But now both are well out of God’s presence.”
“Yes. Shame, that.” Feigning a large yawn, Scratch stretched and turned toward the bar. “Where is that drink? Hey, nurse!”
“I thought your kind feared liquids,” Grif said, when it turned back around.
Surprise flashed in the cunning gaze, before it went suspiciously blank. “ ‘Fear’ is such a strong word. It’s more of an aversion, really. Mostly to water.”
“Especially holy water,” Grif told Kit.
“Ah, but fortunately there’s not a lot of that floating about in these fine establishments.” Scratch plunked its elbows atop the table again. “However, firewater is right up my alley.”
“You have no right to feed that poor man’s addictions,” Kit said angrily.
“I have no right?” Scratch frowned, mimicking her outrage, before slumping again. “I have every right. He handed it to me when he shot the very first load of trash into his body. Trey Brunk hasn’t been clean, or pure, in nine years. He doesn’t need any help feeding his addictions. He’ll never stop.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Of course I do. I’m in him, silly girl. He let me in,” he added, before she could protest. “And now I know what he knows.”
“That’s awful.”
“No, it’s quite fun actually. The tweekers are the best sport. Paranoid little bastards.” It winked at Kit. “Gives new meaning to being chased by their demons, don’t it?”
“Seems like a pretty full existence, Scratch,” Grif interrupted. “Torturing moral criminals in the Eternal Forest, and possessing the sick and addicted here on the Surface.”
“You’re talking about Jeap Yang, yes? About five-eight. Terrible hair-stylist. In love with the vein in his left forearm?”
Grif just stared.
Flaring its eyes, Scratch stared back. “What? He was standing on the corner of life and death with his thumb sticking out. I just offered him a lift.”
“That’s a crock.” Straightening, Grif shoved his hands into his pockets. “You’ve been targeting the Lost and confused.”
Scratch smirked. “Gonna go tell Daddy?”
“I don’t understand,” Kit interrupted, shaking her head. “Why would you hurt an innocent soul? One that’s not even destined for the Eternal Forest?”
“Why would I—?” Baffled, Scratch tilted its head at Grif, and pointed as if to say, Get a load of her. But without waiting for a response, it turned back to Kit. “Because I can. Because I like it. Because I’m bored with blighted souls, unfit for Paradise, and each with a narcissistic psychosis that makes them think their predilections are the most original and devious and evil.”
It rolled Brunk’s eyes, first the left, then the right. “And I’m tired of torturing the terrible souls who deserve every heinous thing they have coming to them. I want something new and fresh and novel. I want those who are tottering right on the edge of moral depravity, and who will tip my way given just one little poke. I want the Lost. Better yet, I want something pure that I can make Lost.”
It stared at Grif in bald challenge, but Grif just