Milo ...Battler

           By Pattie Lawler

 

            Milo used the wooden pointer to indicate suggestive colors along the ragged edge. It was rare that he had an audience, but as he had one now, he saw no reason not to educate the group of students. Placing the grayish document on an overhead projector, he shone it on the wall and invited them to examine along with him.

            “The original text was an Apocrypha. These tendrils of orange,” he tapped the three obvious examples, “are the tips of flames.”

            “Not petals? You don’t think they’re vegetal?”

            Milo stepped back from the projector and crossed his arms. “There’s always the possibility, but in this case I would say no. If they were part of a decorative border, they would be more uniform, probably more varied in coloration, and more evenly spaced. The fires of Hell, on the other hand, can be as random as they’d like.”

            “And orange,” someone added from the back of the group.

            Milo grinned, nodding. “That is indeed the other indicator. So, without actually reading the text, we now know what about this battler?” He held up a finger. “We know the text, if not the source, of the sample. And judging by the grayness of the vellum, can you guess the animal?”

            “Goat,” someone called.

            “Excellent! Next up; we can date the battler based on what?”

            “Chemical analysis of the paint,” a feminine voice called.

            Milo nodded. “Certain colors weren’t available at all times, and by rendering this pigment, we would be able to determine not only the relative date by compounds, but the origin of said minerals should they turn out to be exotics. Which, in this case,” he squinted at the screen, “I would say they are not. There’s nothing noteworthy in this orange. What else?”

            “That it’s bas-de-page?”

            “Is it?” Milo reached for the document and turned it so the smooth edge paralleled the base of the projector and the ragged edge was upper most. The flame tips were now pointing down and a general murmur of pleasure filled the air. “Can anyone tell me why else this is not the bottom of the page?”

            Silence ensued.

            Milo took the pointer, started at the wide edge and moved along the tear, following the taper to its narrow edge. “Does vellum naturally rip like this?”

            Again came the gasps of surprised pleasure.

            Milo picked up a pad of paper, pulled a page free and held it up. “Let’s say I want a piece of this page. What am I going to do? Am I going to simply rip, or am I going to guide my sacrilege?” He placed the page flat on the table and carefully tore the edge up, about an inch from the top of the page. He then crept along, taking care to remain a uniform distance from the top. The resulting ribbon of paper curled around his hand as he worked. “But our battler isn’t like this, why?”

            “Because the person was stealing and in a hurry,” someone suggested.

            “They were scared,” added another voice.

            Milo nodded, turned the paper around so the undamaged end was up, tore the edge and simply yanked. The page ripped in a similar fashion to the first one. He held them both up. “And why are they so alike?” He surveyed the crowd and then smiled. “Because neither was bound. In both cases, I didn’t have to worry about balancing the weight of the manuscript, nor was I hindered by the binding.

            “Let’s consider the location of our erstwhile Apocrypha. Have I stolen into a church? Am I working in the dead of night with only a candle or worse, by moonlight? I could be the sexton, hired by a local knight and familiar with the priests’ habits, forgive the pun. Or, perhaps this Apocrypha was part of a chain library.” He dropped the two pieces of paper, picked up the pad, held the spine in one hand, fanned the rest of the pages open like the pad was now a book resting on a stand and held it out.

            “Volunteers?”

            A young man stepped forward, his hands out.

            “Clearly this is a two-handed operation,” Milo observed. “What’s you name?”

            “Gregory.”

            “Hello Gregory, I’m Milo, and I want you to imagine that this pad is a valuable assets. Worthy of being listed beside the church’s plate. It’s traveled hundreds of miles and has been the work of skilled hands over countless hours. From the farmer who raised the beasts to the tanner, the scribes, illuminators, binders and finally the rich hedonist anxious to preserve his mortal soul.”

            He smiled at the soft laughter.

            “Still ready to pull this priceless article apart?”

            “You’re saying that the person who did this knew what they were doing?” Gregory said.

            Milo nodded. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. No knight’s squire, no local tenant, farmer, or serf would dare approach something like this.

            “So it’s an inside job.”

            Milo smirked. “Aren’t they always? So, consider further. If I wanted my crime to remain undetected, I would naturally choose a book that was accessed less frequently than say a Bible or a psalter.”

            “Which meant our thief probably knew how to read,” someone offered.

            “Correct.” He looked up as the director of the lab approached.

            “Excuse me, Mr. Scarlet, but you have a visitor.” He turned to the students. “Please thank Mr. Scarlet for his time and reconvene in Gallery 5,” he checked his watch, “in fifteen minutes.”

            Milo and the director waited while the group of student murmured their thanks and moved en mass to the door. As soon as they were some little distance away, Milo’s senses came alive, and he ran his gaze over his companion.

            “A visitor?”

            The director nodded, twisting to face him. “There is a man here claiming to be the anonymous donor.” He pointed to the battler. “He has asked to meet with you.”

            “Is there an office we can use?”

            “Certainly. Please feel free to use mine.” He swept his arm out. Milo snatched up the battler in its protective sleeve and followed.

            Several minutes later a discreet knock on the office door made Milo rise. The director entered but stood aside to allow a massive man, sporting an eye-patch over his right eye and leaning heavily on a cane, into the office. While Milo required no introduction, the director was ignorant of the couple’s involvement and smiled warmly.

            “Mr. Milo Scarlet, please allow me to introduce Uradel Harrison von Maricourt.”

            Milo put his hand out. “Maricourt.”

            Maricourt shifted the cane into his left hand and shook Milo’s hand. “You do not use your titles, Mr. Scarlet?”

            “Not often. I find they make people uncomfortable and unsure how to treat me.”

            Maricourt smiled, nodding, and thanked the director, who backed from the room, drawing the door closed. Milo offered the demon a seat before resuming his.

            “Please tell me the eye-patch and limp aren’t permanent.”

           Maricourt slowly lowered himself into a chair, his right leg straight out before him, and placed the cane off to the side. “Sadly, they are, and we both know the reason.”

            “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but I am so sorry and feel responsible.”

            “I lay an eighth of the blame at your feet, Mr. Scarlet, and divide the rest evenly between myself and that woman.”

            Milo shook his head. “It was irresponsible of me to leave you in that condition.”

            The demon waved away this protestation. “We both had other, more important matters to focus on, which is the reason I wanted to talk to you.”

            “Oh?”

            “I donated the battler knowing you would be the one they turned to.”

            Milo relaxed back, waiting.

            “I understand that my son explained to you the reason for his flight into this realm. I also know he told you that the prior engagement has been dissolved.” Maricourt took a moment to rearrange himself. “And now we come to the point. Alistair has chosen his future bride, and I have given my consent.”

            Milo had drawn Osiris’ Thigh from his belt and driven into the desk before blinding rage allowed him to focus. He hung on the handle, panting, his eyes locked on the demon.

            “There’s more,” Maricourt went on. “You see, this is why I wanted to speak to you, Milo Scarlet. Not as demon to Demon Eater but father to father.”

            “We have nothing to discuss. I told your son, and I’m telling you. Come within two thousand miles of my niece and I will kill you both.”

            “As I said, I have given Alistair my consent, and the reason being that it was easier to capitulate than face another flight. The three years he was missing felt more like three hundred. Not knowing if he was alive consumed every second of every day. I would rather know that he was happy, no matter how miserable I am at the thought, than lose him a second time.

            “Your niece is young, I am told. She will not be of a marrying age for another two years.”

            Milo leapt to his feet, the knife in his hand. “Last warning! Shut up or I’ll kill you here and now!”

            “Killing me will change nothing. I am merely offering you time to grow used to the fact.”

            “She will never marry your son!”

            “She will if that is her desire. Eventually, she will be an adult, able to make her own decisions without influence from you. Are you willing to drive a wedge like that between your hearts? Trust me, Milo! There is no pain like the loss of a child!” He heaved himself forward, his leg scraping to the side. “Don’t risk losing your niece because of your position or your ideals! Think!”

            “I am. And I’m thinking that you had better leave.”

            Maricourt sank back, reaching for his cane. “This interview went exactly as I expected it would, but I understand you better than you think.” He rose, and they stood staring at one another. “When Alistair returned to me, I was prepared to promise him anything to keep him close. What you are feeling now is the Hell I went through not a week ago. I cannot say I’m reconciled, but for him, I am willing to try. I hope you will do—”

            “LEAVE!”

            Maricourt sighed, turned and reached for the doorknob. “It’s not worth it, Milo Scarlet.”

            The door closed and opened almost immediately. Ready to attack, Milo jerked up and met Simon’s eyes.

            Simon gestured to the knife with his chin. “Not getting along, I see.”

            Milo bent and flipped his jacket tail up as he sheathed the knife at the small of his back. “He wanted to give me some advice.”

            “Advice from a demon? Sounds like another first.”

            “Yes, well, you can imagine that I wasn’t receptive.”

            “Anything I can help you with?”

            “Yeah. Building a tower to lock Fanny in.”

            “Ah. Sorry, boss. You’re on your own for that one.”

            Milo looked up, surprised. “Oh?”

            “Kids grow up. There’s no stopping it. The best thing to do is guide them, not leash them.”

            Milo’s hand snapped out. “He’s a demon!”

            “Does that make him a bad person?”

            “No, it makes him a non-person!”

            “You know what I mean.”

            “Yes, but that doesn’t change the fact. Alistair is a demon. He lives with demons, his children will be demons.”

            “And if he were to give all that up for love and live here?”

            “He would be a demon in the human realm. Jerks like Betty wouldn’t give him a second’s rest.”

            “I understand Fanny’s exhibiting—”

            Milo’s eyes closed and he held up a hand. “Stop. Enough. I’m going back to the room, packing, and going home.”

            “And the battler.”

            “It was a ruse by Maricourt to get me here. I’m sure it left when he did.”

           <0>

            As Milo closed his suitcase, his cell phone rang. With a smile, he sat down on the bed and connected. “I love you.”

            “Still?”

            “Lemme check. Yes. Still.”

            “Good because I have a question.”

            “Sounds serious.”

            The line went dead for a few seconds before Albany began again, speaking softly. “I tried calling you last night but was told you were out to dinner.”

            “You...were told...what?”

            “My cell wasn’t working. I guess it can’t make international calls, and I couldn’t remember your cell number, so I called the hotel. You left the info next to the phone in case of emergency, remember? Well, when I got your voicemail, I transferred back to the receptionist who said you had dinner reservations.”

            “I see. We’ll have to do something with your ph—”

            “So, how was dinner?”

            Milo felt his color drain away, his mind racing. “Great. We had sushi in the room.”

            “You and Simon?”

            “Yes.”

            “That hardly sounds worthy of reservations.”

            He took a deep breath. “You suspect Simon and I weren’t alone.”

            “If you tell me you were, I’ll believe you.”

            “Simon and I were alone for dinner, which we ate here in the room.”

            “When will you be home?”

            “Our flight leaves at three.”

            “So you’ll be home late tonight?”

            “Yes.”

            “Good. I miss you. I have to go to the theater for awhile so I’ll see you when you get here.”

            Milo hardly heard her as they disconnected. Simon was suddenly before him.

            “You’re white as a sheet.”

            “I think I’m about as close to being sick as I’ve been in thirty years.”

            “Everything okay?”

            “Albany called last night while I was out with Vivian.”

            Understanding made Simon straighten, his poker face in place.

            Milo dropped the BlackBerry into his pocket and forced a smile. “Some bodyguard you turned out to be.”

            “Oh? Did you forget the part where I asked you about failing the test?”

            “No. But I don’t remember you fighting me on it.”

            “I didn’t want to risk losing my job.”

            “It’s never stopped you before.” Milo chuckled, passing a hand over his face.

            “I thought it would be a good lesson, since Ms. Wendel wasn’t here to slap your arm and say something like, think of the consequences before you accept.”

            “Well, I didn’t have to lie, per se, but it sure felt like it, to damn much like it. That was so not worth this feeling. You were right, and I was being...a pig.”

            “Congratulations. You’re now mature enough to get married. Mazal tov.”

 

 

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