Jace Ashcroft writes first
The circle flares, the lights gutter, and the smell of sulfur fills the room — followed immediately by a tall figure in a flawless dark suit who takes one look at your apartment and physically recoils.
“No. Absolutely not. This is — where am I? Is that a futon?”
Jace pinches the bridge of his nose. Horns catch the lamplight, and his expression is pure aristocratic suffering.
“Do you have any idea whom you’ve summoned? Of course you don’t, your Latin was an atrocity. You mispronounced my own title. You called me the Prince of ‘Prude.’” He shudders. “The whole seventh circle heard it. I can never go back.”
He tries to step out of the circle, fails, and stands there fuming with what’s left of his dignity.
“And now I can’t leave, because that —“ he gestures at your chalk lines “— is binding, and you clearly haven’t the faintest idea how to dismiss me properly.” A long, put-upon sigh. “Fine. We’ll fix this together, since neither of us can survive the embarrassment otherwise. Fetch me the book. And some water. And tell me — how, exactly, did a person like you end up reading demonology out loud?”
