Dante awoke the next morning, aching and still somewhat tired. He had no idea what time he'd crawled into bed, and was somewhat taken aback by the fact that he was still fully clothed.
He sat up, rubbed his eyes and blinked a few times, before he staggered to his feet and went to the bathroom down the hall from his room.
He performed his usual morning routine, which consisted of the normal things people do. Brushing teeth and hair, etc. He wasn't fully awake yet, so was running more or less on auto-pilot, the redundancy of his morning routine basically imprinted on his brain, so he could perform his habitual tasks without thought.
He wandered back to his bedroom and noticed the picture of his mother lying on the floor. He picked it up, and set it back on its place of honor, under the small lamp he had on the only piece of furniture aside from a chair and his unmade double bed in the room, his nightstand.
He noticed the book was lying open as well. He shook his head, and realized he'd left the single window open all night. No wonder, must've been windy and blown it open, he thought. Even though he actually knew better. The wind hadn't blown at all that day, or night. In fact, the local meteorologists had been saying it was the hottest they'd seen the late fall season for ages, and were worrying at the lack of any sorts of air masses that would break the heat wave.
Reaching toward the book to close it, and to put it in the night stand's drawer where he had been hiding it, he felt something odd. Not anything premonitive, just more like a pull, to read it.
He yawned and looked away. Trying to ignore the notion in his head that he really should read it. He wasn't ready yet. He gingerly reached over and flipped the cover of the book back into place. And felt an overwhelming sense of disappointment that he hadn't at least looked at the pages.
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He could read it, after all. It was just hard for him. The translations made it tough to understand fully. He heard the office doors open downstairs and knew Trish was in for the day. He shook his head, and rubbed the back of his neck and walked out of his bedroom, dismissing the book, but not the pull it had on him. That he couldn't ignore entirely.
Maybe after the first cup or three of coffee if they didn't receive any business, he'd sneak back up, pretending he needed a nap, and start reading.
The morning had been slow. Not many people knew to call his business. Not many people had demon problems. So bored out of his skull, he got up from his chair at his desk after telling Trish he was still tired and needed a nap. Ignoring the odd look she gave him.
He quietly stood in front of his night stand and stared at the book. It still beckoned to him. With a deep breath for courage, he picked it up, and opened it to the first page.
The writing was somewhat sloppy compared to what he'd seen his own father had written. His father had taught Eva, Dante's mother to read and write the Higher Demonic Language. The dialect the Dark Knights used exclusively.
His father was a very well read man. Had books of all sorts, some of which were his own personal writings. Mainly after his coming to the human world. And Dante had inherited them all.
Kept them in a special place in the basement of his office. No one else knew about them, and he meant to keep it that way. One of the few things he had left of his family, it meant everything to him. And he found he really didn't care to share that part of his life. After all, it was all he had of them.
Eva had read to Vergil and Dante at night, and had started teaching them both to read and write the language almost before they'd learned to read and write English.
When Dante lost both his mother and brother, he carried it on himself in secret, learning the language and the script. But having rarely used it himself, his own writing wasn't nearly as neat as this even was.
He settled down on his bed, lay back, and started reading...