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“A charismologist?” he asks. “You don’t look like any lecturer.”

“I’m in the field.” Bridget sips her drink.

“A demon hunter?” He’s rubbing her arm; his hand is warm and callused. An honest hand. “My, my. Any tricks you want to share?”

“Sure.” Bridget pulls a vial from her purse. “For instance. A little consecrated balsam–” She dips her finger. “–in a fleur-de-lis… on someone’s chest…” She traces the sign onto him; he’s grinning. “Will expel a minor quasit.”

“That so?” he says, then smashes his head into the bar, falls and vomits fire.

“Kinda messy, though,” sighs Bridget.