"One of the most important traits a warlock should possess is ruthlessness."
The Scrote pounded his fist into his other palm for emphasis. He was getting wound up this lecture, building up steam like a firebrand demagogue seeking to win over a crowd.
"Put aside any notions of good and evil. You are a warlock, a summoner of daemons, and daemons represent the basest of desires given flesh. To the outside world we are evil and this will never change. Ignore their simple-minded morality. There is no good and evil, only power. And power only exists if it is enforced. Don't be afraid to enforce power, but also learn to acquiesce in the face of greater power.
"A warlock must be merciless. When challenged it is not enough to defeat an opponent, they must be crushed and removed permanently. A defeated opponent will grow stronger and return to challenge again. A destroyed opponent cannot come back. Remember this.
"As you advance your careers as warlocks you will need to be aware of the various hierarchies governing the world around you. If you wish to climb within them will need to become adept at gauging strength and knowing when to challenge and when to stand down. In the world of daemons second place does not exist. Make your move only when you can be sure of success."
"Is this man suitable to be teaching novice warlocks?" Verdé whispered up on the back row. "He seems very aggressive."
"There is some truth in what he says," Nÿte said.
"Hmm, I suppose. He does seem very adept at contracting with daemons from the Dominion of Lust," Verdé said, referring to the pair of black-clad succubi standing next to the bottom entrance.
"Bedmistresses of The Palace of Infernal and Iniquitous Pleasures," Nÿte sniffed.
"They are devoted to the arts of pleasure," Verdé said. "They're continually discovering new and more exotic techniques."
"Feh, one-dimensional thinking. Limited. Pleasure alone is just a single axis of sensation. If they ever thought to incorporate pain..."
Nÿte reached down between Phil's legs and squeezed his balls so hard he felt sure the crack must be audible to the whole hall. He doubled up as an atom bomb of pain went off between his legs.
"...they'd see the benefits of context."
She turned Phil's head and pressed her soft lips against his in a gentle kiss. The vice grip on his balls was replaced with a blossoming sense of relief. Nÿte's hand rose up on that wave as she lightly stroked an erection that surged, swelled and finally spat its contents into her hand. The succubus finished the kiss and continued speaking as if nothing had happened.
"Light shone in darkness shines brighter to the eye than light shone in light," Nÿte said. She brought her hand to her mouth and licked Phil's semen off the palm.
"True," Verdé said. "It's not for everyone though."
Phil's body couldn't decide whether it wanted to throw up or give out a relaxed sigh of bliss. He slumped down to the floor instead.
"He's got good discipline," Verdé said. "Not even a single yelp."
"It is one of his better qualities," Nÿte said.
* * * *
Phil was slightly bow-legged as he walked out of the lecture theatre. He was expecting his balls to hurt; instead they felt a little weird. Not bad—weird. He was still gingerly trying to return to a normal walking posture when Darvill called out to him.
"Where's Gary?"
Darvill was casually leaning against one of the walls of a little-used side corridor. Outwardly he looked as cool and collected as he normally did. His many-eyed daemon was perched on his shoulder.
"Dever?" Phil queried.
That was Gary, right? The one that dressed a little like Darvill and was always following him around. Walked with a slight stoop. Had that creepy green-eyed daemon that always wore a mask.
"I don't know," Phil said. "I haven't seen him."
"I'm not talking to you," Darvill said abruptly to Phil. "I'm talking to her." He stared directly at a rather bemused Verdé.
That was when Phil noticed Darvill was far from his normal cool and collected self. There was a strange kind of tension thrumming through him that put Phil in mind of a snake about to strike, or a previously friendly dog about to bite. Phil recognised it from the times he'd frequented town centre pubs. It was a cue to leave before trouble kicked off.
Darvill stared at Verdé.
"Where's Gary?" he asked again.
Verdé looked nonplussed. She looked to Nÿte. The other succubus shrugged.
"He went off with you yesterday," Darvill said. "No one's seen him since." It sounded easygoing enough, as if he was talking about a friend picking up a round from the bar, not someone who'd gone missing and might never return.
"He did?" Verdé's puzzlement increased.
Phil suddenly understood, and it was followed by a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Nurse Honey. Darvill thought Verdé was Nurse Honey. Oh fuck, she hadn't, had she?
If Darvill saw Phil's expression change, he didn't show it. He was still staring at Verdé in that odd laid back way that predators tried to affect as they manoeuvred into striking distance.
Verdé showed her teeth in her sweetest, most innocent smile. "I'm sorry. I think you're mistaken. I had nothing to do with your friend's disappearance."
Darvill stared intently at Verdé. His brow furrowed and he gave his chin a thoughtful rub.
"You know, I don't think you did," he said.
And just like that, the ugly atmosphere, thickening around them like storm clouds piling up in a summer evening sky, dissipated. Darvill relaxed and his loaded smile was replaced by his usual carefree one.
"No sense jumping to hasty conclusions," Darvill said. "Gary's a big boy. He's no mug with magic. I'm sure he'll turn up later. After all, you did," he said to Phil.
"I hope so," Phil said.
"I don't think he will," Nÿte said, quiet enough to only be audible by the three of them as they walked away.
Phil didn't think so either. It felt like a heavy slab of concrete had settled in his guts.
"No, I don't think so either," Verdé said. "I take it he was mistaking me for Nurse Honey, or rather her for me."
"That was my understanding. With Mamǝḵā Bēyˁṯān involved I don't think we'll be seeing that young man again," Nÿte said.
"Very foolish to play with her, especially when so callow a warlock."
"Foolishness is in plentiful supply here."
Phil glanced over his shoulder. Darvill was watching them with a thoughtful expression on his face. He must know.
"I think he realised I wasn't her," Verdé said, following Phil's glance.
"That one is sharper than his fellows," Nÿte said. "Worth keeping an eye on."
Maybe, but it was all moot as far as Phil was concerned. He'd already made up his mind. First opportunity he had, he'd go to Stine, or maybe Dahl, and confess. Maybe they'd know how to break this contract. He wasn't a warlock. He couldn't control his succubi, would never be able to. They'd already killed four students, five if you counted Jake. Going back to the McRestaurant would suck, but at least there would be no more deaths.
He'd go see Dahl. The Praetor Quivocat would know how to stop this.
"You're not responsible, you know," Nÿte said. "There's no need to blame yourself."
