Azazel stood still, hand resting on the open Codex. The image was still burned into his mind—a black space, and a hand gripping the suitcase.
Before he could ask, the pages turned themselves again.
"You're not even going to ask?"
"Fine, fine," Johann's voice echoed from the glyphs, almost tired. "You saw the safe, right? It's in Basil's attic."
Azazel narrowed his eyes.
"If you want to get in, the roof's your best bet. It's a suicide for you to try to steal the key from him. Just bust in from above—but don't be stupid. He'll hear it, and if he catches you, you're done. He won't hurt you, but he might lock you up, and that'll be the end of your chances."
Azazel's mind whirled, already assembling the puzzle. The plan was dangerous. Reckless. But he had no choice.
"Listen," his grandfather continued. "Inside that safe isn't just my ashes. I left you my pistols."
The Codex shifted, and an illusion projected before him—two long, elegant wheel-lock pistols with steel barrels etched in gold, wooden grips darkened with age and care. Deadly.
Azazel's heart skipped.
"These," Johann whispered, "were mine. Forged by Winchester himself—a friend and craftsman whose hands knew the weight of demons. I carried them for over twenty years. They are sacred, boy. More than steel, they've taken down some of the worst things hell and heaven ever spat out."
Azazel's fingers flexed unconsciously.
"I didn't bury them with me. Too wasteful. What I did bury were the daggers. Remember them?"
Azazel nodded. They were old, stained dark—not by rust, but demon blood. Image of his dead grandfather holding them in an oak coffin surfaced in his mind.
By the way... Azazel saw himself how the coffin was buried. Does this mean that his body was dug up in order to be burned?
He quickly shifted those thoughts aside, continuing listening to Johann.
"They attract demons now. Become little lighthouses of madness. That's why I knew this house wouldn't stay hidden long. But this is Constantinople—no demon's stupid enough to strike out openly. Yet."
The Codex glowed, and a projection of a suitcase appeared: lined with velvet, holding the two pistols and the urn he saw before. Azazel swallowed hard.
"Before you do anything, meet with Basil. Distract him. Make him think you're backing own. Play dumb."
Azazel raised an eyebrow.
"I know the man. He won't resist bragging—he'll bring up the trip with his student and Margaret's girl. That's your moment. Smile. Nod. Agree to wait."
Johann's tone dropped.
"What day is it?"
Azazel blinked. "It's Tuesday," he muttered aloud. "I meet with Basil every Thursday at Brimstone Barrel."
"Perfect. Thursday night to Friday morning, a merchant ship leaves the Golden Horn for Varna. Captain's an old friend. Say him my name and show the pistols. That's your ticket to Europe. From there, you'll make it to Paris, then Rome and Vatican."
Azazel leaned back.
"Oh and also order Wine of the Negev, that's what Basil likes the most."
Two days. That's all he had.
"Take what you need. Travel light. Don't forget your training. Use the Codex sparingly, and trust no one."
The voice faded.
Azazel exhaled, setting the Codex back in its place.
So it began.
Two days. A break-in. A smuggling escape. And the biggest lie of his life.
He closed the book with a thud and turned toward the stairs, already planning his next moves.
Because now... he wasn't just a student.
He was the thief.