Chapter 1: The Thorn-Wreathed Stag
The Sorbonne was stifling. Barnaby paused his lecture on the etymology of ancient Sumerian curses, loosening the high collar of his coat. Sweat beaded on his forehead, a discomfort he usually attributed to the Parisian summer but knew, in truth, stemmed from the incessant buzzing in his skull. Azrael was growing impatient.
"Professor Grimshaw?" A student, a pale young man with ink-stained fingers, raised his hand. "Is it true the ancient Sumerians believed demons dwelled in the very words they spoke?"
Barnaby offered a wry smile, one he’d perfected over centuries. "Indeed. They believed language held power, a concept not entirely dissimilar from our own understanding of rhetoric. Though, I assure you, the words I speak today are unlikely to summon anything more sinister than boredom."
A few nervous chuckles rippled through the room. Barnaby scanned the faces of his students: a sea of bored expressions, a few feigning interest, and one or two actually engaged. He envied their ignorance, their naive belief that monsters existed only in dusty tomes and fantastical tales. If only they knew.
"That will be all for today," Barnaby announced, gathering his notes. "Read chapters four through six for next week. And try to find something to enliven your summer. Paris offers more than just textbooks, you know."
The students shuffled out, a wave of youthful energy that left Barnaby feeling ancient. As the last straggler disappeared, the buzzing in his head intensified. *Patience, Azrael*, he thought, the words a silent command. *Your payment is coming*.
His office, a sanctuary of leather-bound books and forgotten languages, offered a small respite from the oppressive city. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. Barnaby sank into his worn leather chair, the familiar scent of aged paper and beeswax a comfort. He closed his eyes, willing Azrael’s presence to recede.
*Soon*, the demon hissed, its voice a rasping whisper in his mind. *The blood is owed*.
Barnaby ignored him, focusing instead on the stack of papers on his desk. Exam essays, mostly dreadful. He picked up the first one, a rambling discourse on Roman legal theory, and sighed. He longed for the thrill of the hunt, the adrenaline, the satisfaction of a monster vanquished. But those days, he feared, were long behind him. He was growing weary. Three hundred and forty-two years was a long time to carry the weight of the world on one’s shoulders. Especially when the weight included a demonic pact.
A glint of crimson on his desk caught his eye. A letter, sealed with a crest he hadn't seen in decades: a stylized stag, rampant, wreathed in thorns. The Valois d’Ozeran family. His breath hitched. Why now? What could they possibly want after all this time?
He hesitated, his fingers trembling slightly as he reached for the letter. The past was a dangerous place, filled with shadows and regrets he preferred to keep buried. But the seal…the Valois d’Ozeran family only used it in matters of grave urgency. With a sigh, Barnaby broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. The elegant script was instantly familiar. Theron.
The words swam before his eyes: *The Monster has returned. Cévennes. I beg you, Barnaby, come.*