Unsurprising. The archives were seldom traveled, so no one had really seen a need to update the lighting. It was enough to see by at least, especially when Foster was blessed with far better senses than any mortal. Unfortunately, that included his sense of smell, and his nose twitched violently in revulsion at the lingering scent of mildew. There must have been a leak during the last big storm.
He wound his way through the room, slowly navigating the rows of books packed onto ancient wooden shelves, trying to determine which shelf was the right one. Sliding his finger gently along the spines, he deciphered titles in Aramaic, Hebrew,Yiddish, Greek, and even Enochian. Nothing.Nothing?How could there be nothing? He turned back the way he came, looking again through every shelf. It had to be here. Heneededit to be here.
But it wasn’t. With a growl of frustration, Foster lashed out with his boot, kicking one of the shelves so hard it shuddered and threatened to topple. The damned old man was hiding it from him because of his stupid ‘moral reservations’—he must be.
Foster stormed out of the archive so recklessly that he nearly upended several shelves. He dashed back down the hall and up the stairs, pushing out through the side exit door at inhuman speed. He forcibly slowed his pace as he walked the path from the church to the parish housing, just in case any humans were around, then banged mercilessly on the ornate wooden door.
“Praeceptor! It’s Foster. I need a word,” he shouted, caring much less about those wandering human eye now. When no answer came, he slammed his fists harder into the door. He barely felt the wood give under his assault, even with splintering shards digging into his flesh.
“I’m coming,” he heard the old man’s tired voice as lights turned on inside. “I’m coming, dear boy.”
“’Dear boy’?” Foster echoed in a mocking tone with a scoff. “Don’t gimme that bullshit!”
The door swung inward, revealing Praeceptor Sceros clad in a robe as usual, but in this case it was a fluffy green housecoat and matching slippers. His brown eyes were weary, blurred with sleep, and his silver hair was tousled where it usually laid slick back against his scalp. For a half second, Foster felt guilty. Why was he here, disrupting the old man’s sleep, making a scene and?—
“Is something the matter?” his soft, concerned tone made the younger man’s agitation flare in response.
“Yeah, something is the matter,” Foster snapped. “The Gospel of Lazarus isn’t in the archives.”
The old man tensed, then softened. “Foster, we spoke about this. I cannot?—”
“Stop, just stop.” He raked his hands through his hair, then balled them into fists to steady them. “I brought you those diary pages in exchange.”
“Foster, I told you, the Gospel is forbidden. Your donation was very generous, but?—”
“It wasn’t a donation!” His fist shot out and pounded into the doorframe as he loomed over the older man. “I was bringing those stupid diary pages for two reasons. To get another reminder of my damned father out of my house, and to help grease your greedy palms into slipping me the Gospel.”
“I take objection to your tone, young man.” The praeceptor straightened, gathering up some of his usual confidence to give the angry demigod a glower. “And to your insinuations that I am anything less than upstanding.”
“Yeah, well,” Foster scoffed, but deflated slightly. “You still reneged on the deal. What do you call that?”
“An unfortunate necessity.”
“Explain.”
The older man sighed. “You should come inside, son.”
Foster stared down into the ceramic mug the holy man had pressed into his twitching palms, grateful for something to occupy his hands but tempted to smash the mug anyway. His hands clenched in tandem with his jaw.
“I’d appreciate it if you simply drank the tea and didn’t break one of my favorite mugs.”
Foster arched a brow, lifting the hideous orange mug in one hand. It was lumpy and covered in poorly painted flowers in all colors of the rainbow. “This mug is ugly as sin.”
The old man glared. “My granddaughter made that for me.”
“Still ugly.” Foster sniffed, but he brought it to his lips for a sip. The zip of mint danced over his tongue, chased by a floral taste. Lavender? Chamomile? It wasn’t bad, so he took a longer swallow. “Why are you keeping the book from me?”
“For your own good,” the elder insisted roughly, but sighed again when Foster gave him a dirty look. “Listen, Foster. As much as I personally disagree with that book, I couldn’t give it to you even if I wanted to.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
He cleared his throat, fidgeting a bit in his wingback armchair. “That is to say…the Gospel has been...misplaced."
“Misplaced,” Foster echoed, his tone droll with disbelief.
“Ah… yes.” The old man at least had the decency to look sheepish. “When you first requested access to the book I…well Ididtry to locate it for you and—” He cleared his throat again, deliberately avoiding eye contact with the young demigod.
“Praeceptor,” Foster nearly growled, quickly losing the battle with his own patience.
