The manuscript came wrapped in oilcloth and locked in a steel case, which struck Mallory as excessive for something supposedly written by a monk. But she hadn't asked questions. Not really. Not when the collector spoke in vague, urgent tones, nor when he offered to triple her rate for "discretion." And not when he added, in an offhand sort of way, that some people might prefer the book never be seen again.

That wasn't her concern. She was here to do a job, and that's all she was focused on.

The sitting room of the collector's country estate was two degrees too cold, and the fireplace hadn't been lit despite the November wind clawing at the windows. Mallory sat at a long oak table littered with tools: her magnifier, gloves, cotton swabs, and loupe. She stared down at the artifact like it might blink.

The steel case sat between her hands. Its padlock was newer than anything in the room. She snapped it open and the smell hit her first. Not rot or mildew, but something older.

Parchment, ink, time.

Mallory peeled back the layers with reverence. Oilcloth, linen, waxed leather… and then, there it was. A manuscript. Bound in brittle calfskin. Hand-sewn with uneven stitching. And old. So old it made her fingertips tingle and a spark of joy bloom low in her chest.

The lettering on the cover was pressed in flaked gold leaf-Latin, mostly legible. Except, that is, for the symbol beneath it. That part wasn't Latin. Or Greek. Or anything she recognised.

Mallory adjusted her loupe and bent in close, lips pursed in focus, pencil tapping lightly at her lip. She was just raising the lens to her eye when the floor creaked behind her.

"You know," a voice said, dry and amused, "I was sort of hoping the old man hadn't hired someone to examine the manuscript yet."

She looked over her shoulder. It wasn't the collector or anyone she'd met before from the household.

The man who stepped into the room was tall, lean, and dressed like a former punk who'd sold his soul to a Savile Row tailor. Black jeans, a long dark coat, shirt open at the throat. His sunglasses were still on despite the low light. He radiated something unnamable.

Mallory's spine straightened. "I'm sorry, I don't think guests are allowed in here…"

He didn't answer at first. Just surveyed the scene with a faint smirk, like he'd walked in on a magic trick halfway through and was unimpressed with the reveal.

He pointed to the manuscript. "The book. You're already in it. That's… not ideal. Not for you."

"You're very calm for someone breaking and entering," Mallory said, rising. Her hand hovered near her phone.

"You're very calm for someone who might've just awakened a pre-creation fragment of celestial knowledge."

She blinked once. "A what?"

"A word that was never meant to be spoken," he said, like he was talking about traffic. "Encoded into a book, sealed by a monk who definitely lost his mind somewhere between Chapter Three and the appendices. Buried, lost, found, sold, and now - here you are."

She stared at him. "Is this some sort of prank? Did Halberd put you up to this?"

"Right," he muttered, mostly to himself. "Of course he wouldn't tell you. That'd be responsible."

"I'm sorry but I think I should call security."

The man reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small white card. He didn't offer it to her. Just held it between two fingers. It was blank.

Mallory narrowed her eyes. Her voice stayed even. "This is absurd." But a flicker of unease prickled in her stomach. She'd dealt with conspiracy theorists before - this one just had better tailoring.

"You're not denying the Codex is real," he said.

"Because I haven't authenticated it yet."

"You opened the case."

"I was hired to open it."

He stepped closer. "That symbol on the front? Not decorative. Definitely not a printer's mark. If it starts glowing, you need to run."

Mallory crossed her arms. "And you are?"

He smiled, sharp and a little too pleased with himself. "Crowley. No first name. Don't worry - it's not important."

"And who exactly do you work for, Crowley?"

He tilted his head. "That's complicated."

"Try me."

He removed his sunglasses. His eyes were gold. Mallory went still. Not amber, not hazel. Gold. Like something burning behind glass.

Crowley's smile thinned. "I don't work for anyone," he said. "But when very old, very dangerous things start whispering in the dark, Heaven gets anxious. Hell gets noisy, and I get sent to deal with it."

Mallory stared at him for a long, quiet beat. Her thoughts spun fast and cynical. Either he was insane, high, or running a long con with way too much production value.

Then she turned back to the manuscript. "Is it authentic?"

Crowley blinked. "You're asking me?"

"You clearly know more about it than Halberd did."

There was a flicker of something on his face then. Surprise. Amusement. A trace of respect. Maybe even regret. Like she wasn't what he expected.

"Alright," he said slowly, stepping closer. "Let's take a look."