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Puck, A Knave
“But don't agents have to be trained?”
Samael grinned, pouring himself more tea. “Smart girl. These-” he said, reaching behind the table and withdrawing three leather-bound tomes, “-are for you to memorize.” He plopped them down in my lap.
They smelled musty and looked ancient. I opened the top one: vellum pages, elaborate hand-inked script, illuminated pictures- it looked like a medieval grimoire. I read their faded spines: “'THE SECRETIVE HISTORIE OFE DAEMONS AND FEY, bye LORD SAMMAEL MALKIRA.' 'An Inquiry Into the Heavenly Spheres; or, the Spiritual Realms: A Treatise by Dr. Mephistopheles.' 'The Idiot's Guide to Hell- by Aym the Disgruntled, upon Threat of Blackmail by Samael the Git.” I looked at him questioningly, holding the first one. “You wrote this? The handwriting's indecipherable,” I observed, examining the spidery script
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