In hindsight, maybe Nathan should've taken his chances with public transport and the Bookers. It may have been safer and better for his mental health than getting into a car with Jamie Carrera.

He half-expected Jamie to own a ridiculously expensive car. Perhaps an Aston Martin. Instead, she drives a regular old Toyota Corolla. Which she treats as if it is an Aston Martin, specifically one used in a Bond movie's wild chase scene. If Nathan didn't know any better, he'd think she's fleeing from a minimum of five secret agents hot on her tail.

"Are you in a hurry to get to Saint John's?" he asks, face pale, fingers digging into his legs. He's holding on for dear life. "Or do you always drive like this?"

"What do you mean, 'like this'?" Jamie exceeds the speed limit by another five miles and overtakes the umpteenth car without using her blinker. "I'm just driving."

"I'm not sure this is driving. It's more like a game called 'how close can I get to dying in a car accident without actually dying?'"

Jamie turns the radio's volume louder. "I'm sorry, I can't hear your overreaction over the sound of this absolute banger of a song."

"Just please stop tailgating the car in front of us. I'm literally begging you."

Much to his relief, Jamie Bond does him this favour, so Nathan can briefly stop watching his life flash before his eyes. Utterly reckless drivers who think they're the only person on the whole road are the bane of his existence. Jamie's a nightmare behind the wheel. When she stops to get a drink at Starbucks (We had coffee fifteen minutes ago, Jamie, I'm politely declining), Nathan appreciates the welcome break from being on the verge of a heart attack.

When Jamie returns with her drink, he almost wants to run and escape this death trap of a vehicle while he still can, but they're still too far away from Saint John's for him to be able to justify walking the rest of the way. Nathan resigns himself to his fate and hopes the rest of this crazy ride won't end up becoming his last moments on Earth.

He raises his eyebrows when he sees the drink Jamie ordered. "Quad Shot Americano? Are you fucking kidding me?"

They really are going to die.

"Caffeine's good," Jamie comments, and before Nathan can blink, she's behind the wheel and driving again. The radio continues its blaring when she starts the Toyota, but there's no song playing this time. Nathan rarely listens to talk radio, but the subject the host is discussing catches his attention.

"Kill me," he mutters, not sure if he's speaking to Jamie or himself. "They're talking about the damn video."

Jamie, driving with one hand and holding her coffee in the other—Nathan tries not to think about the safety implications of that too much—grins. "Cool, right? Making the radio is a new milestone. Witchcraft Wednesday's a popular channel, but it never got this much attention before. The social media fame is really spilling over into the mainstream media now."

"...I don't know how to feel about that."

"You don't need to worry about it. The Internet's attention is one thing, but as for the mainstream media, I created the video on your book and I'm already a celebrity. So they'll be going after me for comments on everything, and for now, I think they care less about curtain memes and more about ascertaining whether the video's a hoax or not." Jamie snickers. "Funny as the memes may be."

They'll have to agree to disagree in that last regard, but Jamie makes a fair point. Talk show hosts, journalists blinded by sensationalism, Internet stars all needing to say their own piece about Jamie's footage... They know Jamie Carrera, not Nathan Devereaux. As long as that doesn't change, he'll be of secondary importance. Jamie's a popular, eccentric YouTuber with a famous occult-themed channel and a revolutionary video, all trendy and shiny with the blue hair and the pretty face and the blinding smile that looks genuine but may actually be a bit rehearsed.

She's interesting, the stuff of headlines. Nathan is just some guy.

"I hope you're right."

Jamie places her fifty-percent-lethal cup of coffee in her car's cupholder. "I haven't said a word about the video since posting it. I figured I'd watch and see what happens, lay low while I gathered more information. It's better to talk when you actually have something to say, you know? But if we do find out more about the grimoire, I can use that info to shift attention away from you and more towards me and the book itself. I can keep you as anonymous as possible."

All the more reason to find Lockhardt and gather intelligence on the tome. If Jamie can manipulate the media into deeming him wholly boring, Nathan would be immensely grateful. Though he does wonder how she plans on proving her video's authenticity—without the book itself, there's little chance she can pull that off. It's something they'll have to discuss in the future, something that must be sorted out when the time is right.

If such a time comes at all. If Derek gets his greedy little hands on the book, there will be very different problems to solve. But Nathan won't let that happen. Derek can go fuck himself.

"Thank you. That would be great."

"Don't mention it," Jamie replies, and just when Nathan's about to say she isn't as awful as he thought she was, she reacts to a notification alert her phone emits by grabbing the device and moving to answer whatever text she received. All while still driving forty miles per hour at least.

So Nathan swallows his words and snatches the phone from her hands instead.

"I did not consent to being in a suicide pact with you. No texting until we're in church."

Jamie rolls her eyes, exasperated. "Fine. No texting until we're in church."

~~

They do make it to church in one piece, which seems a miracle of Biblical proportions. For all her heinous driving crimes, Jamie reverse parks her Toyota like it's nobody's business. Nathan feels like he can breathe again for the first time since their Starbucks break.

"This," he announces as he unbuckles his seatbelt, "was a traumatic experience."

It earns him another eye roll. "It wasn't that bad. It's not like you died."

"That's the bare minimum of what I expect from a car ride, and you tried very hard to nosedive below my expectations." Nathan leaves the car, appreciating that he's still alive and capable of inhaling fresh air. His eyes fall on Saint John's Church and he concludes it's indeed the church he saw on the scavenging mission that got him his magic book. "Let's go inside, yeah? See if we can ask someone about Veronika Lockhardt."

As they make their way to the main entrance, Nathan briefly feels watched. Fear creeps up his spine. What if he wasn't cautious enough? What if the Bookers pop up and what if this time they'll be prepared, this time they'll be hostile and blow his brains out?

But they don't show up, of course they don't, because why would they search for him here? Nathan and Jamie only encounter a gaggle of teenagers, stopping all star-struck because they recognize Jamie and want to take selfies with her.

(And it's bizarre, Nathan thinks as he lingers uncomfortably in the background, how easy she makes it look, this sudden interaction with strangers who believe they know her. Jamie's all amicable smiles and professional approachability, and she answers every question thrown at her with the kind of finesse that only comes with practice. The teens ask her about a ritual described in something called the Sworn Book of Honorius, and she says yeah, Honorius does claim you should bring seven friends and enough wine for all of them, but maybe don't summon demons at home, m'kay? And when the conversation inevitably shifts to her latest video and Nathan's role in it, she gives the kids just enough information for them to leave satisfied, even though as far as Nathan can tell, she never said anything substantial about it at all.)

"Doesn't that get exhausting?" he asks once the teens are on their merry way again.

Jamie shrugs, never faltering. "Sometimes it does, and sometimes people get a little... creepy. But it's okay. I enjoy what I do."

How nice that must be. Enjoying what you do.

Nathan and Jamie enter Saint John's. It's a pleasant church as far as churches go: sober and simple, well-lit, with only a few people seated on wooden pews. Those are probably religious die-hards and tourists, not the types who'll approach them and demand selfies. Good. But they won't know anything about Veronika Lockhardt, either.

"If we want to ask about Lockhardt," Nathan says, hushed, deeming it disrespectful to speak too loud, "we'll have to ask someone who works here. Do you see a priest anywhere?"

Jamie looks around, frowning. "Not yet, but it's a big building and there has to be someone here. Unless we're out of luck and the guy's grocery shopping during work hours or something."

Given Nathan's track record today, he wouldn't be surprised if that actually turned out to be the case. Life, however, smiles down upon him for once. Within a few minutes, Jamie has spotted a friendly-faced, bespectacled black man sporting a clerical collar. Nathan barely has time to process this before she drags him over to go disturb the poor clergyman's daily routine.

"Hi, uh... Sorry to bother you, sir, but do you happen to be the pastor of this church?" Jamie asks in a different tone than usual—more upbeat, high-pitched, almost sickeningly sweet. A flawless customer service voice, if Nathan ever heard one.

The man, likely the pastor, doesn't seem to mind that tone. In fact, it might even make him put any prejudices he may harbour aside and endear him to the odd pair Nathan and Jamie make together. Jamie, with her unorthodox hair colour and Santa Muerte necklace, looks more like a defiant little heathen than a godfearing Christian, and Nathan himself, always a bit shabby and rough around the edges, doesn't exactly exude boy next door energy, especially not with his busted face.

The pastor nods. "I am. Pastor Bridgeman." He studies Nathan and Jamie, but if he disapproves of how they look, he masks it well. "I don't believe we've met. Is this your first time here?"

Nathan decides he's perfectly content letting Jamie do the talking. All of it. She's constantly dying to speak, anyway.

"We don't usually come here, no," Jamie says. "We're actually... Looking for someone? Someone who might attend this church. We think. Does the name 'Veronika Lockhardt' sound familiar to you?"

Straight to the point. Maybe not the most tactical move, but they'll have to ask one way or another if they want to find Lockhardt. How they package the question and present it to the pastor probably won't matter much. Nathan keeps his gaze locked on the man's face, though, and notices his agreeable expression subtly sours when he hears the name.

So she does come here. And Bridgeman knows her.

"I'm sorry," Bridgeman apologizes. "That... Why do you ask?"

"Oh, nothing serious," Jamie assures him. "We're students at Morales University, you know, where she was getting her PhD? We're writing a paper and wanted to contact her, but she quit a while ago and we can't seem to reach her by phone or email. So we're trying to track her down. We really need her opinion on trade negotiations in medieval Iceland."

As if Nathan looks like someone who writes papers. He can't even place his commas correctly. Jamie tries to sell the lie, she really does, but this explanation is flimsy at best, and Pastor Bridgeman is no Patch Booker, not a man easily fooled. Maybe they should have thought this through better, should have come up with a watertight story before moving in for the kill. They've been too impulsive, too fast, and now they're paying the price.

Bridgeman remains calm, but when he replies, there's a warning in his voice, something sceptical and stern. "I can't help you, young lady. Your story seems... implausible. I don't know how you connected this church to Miss Lockhardt, but if you knew her from Morales University, there must be far less cumbersome ways for you to find her than visiting her church. Forgive me, but if you came all the way here for her contact information, I'm afraid it makes little sense and that it's mildly disturbing."

Oh, it's total crazy stalker behaviour, alright. Annoyingly enough, Bridgeman's right in every way.

"Pastor–"

"No, I really can't help you. Even if your story was believable, I wouldn't hand out a church member's address or personal details, especially not to non-members."

Nathan nods along to those words, and oh, shit, now Jamie's looking at him like he's a traitor. There's rage in her eyes and tension in her posture and she discards her customer service voice as fast as she adopted it. "I understand, Pastor." If looks could kill, Bridgeman would be a corpse on the floor. "Thanks for nothing, I guess."

Plan A, politely inquiring about Veronika Lockhardt's whereabouts, isn't working. They're in need of a plan B. Nathan ponders this, trying to come up with a way to convince Bridgeman to reveal what he knows. A bribe? Could the pastor respond well to a monetary reward or would he feel insulted? Or drugs, what about drugs? Nathan still carries pills he intended to sell later and he knows plenty of people who'd kill to get those for free.

But no, that's ridiculous. You can't just bribe holy men with forbidden substances. Nathan doesn't really feel like getting arrested today.

The weight of the book in his duffle bag presses heavily on his shoulder, causing an uncomfortable ache. And that's when he realises it.

That bag doesn't hold a mere book. It holds potential as well.

"You're right, sir. We're sorry for wasting your time." Nathan joins the conversation, working hard to sound sincere. "We'll leave you alone. I'm just going to light a votive candle before we go, if you don't mind."

That, at least, the pastor doesn't mind. Nathan makes for a candle rack standing in a corner. It displays small votive candles, tiny flames swaying gently in red glass holders. Jamie trails after him, muttering a few choice words about protestants. "I fucked up," she says. "I shouldn't have lied. Should've just told him about the book."

Nathan shakes his head. "It wouldn't have made a difference. You heard him. Even if we had a good story, he wouldn't have given us the information on principle. He doesn't know us, we never come here, and I guess we don't look particularly well-intentioned to him."

"...Hey, come on, I did my best for us in that last regard."

"Sure you did. But Bridgeman also has to safeguard church members' personal information. So is it that weird he's not jumping at the opportunity to send us to Veronika Lockhardt? He's not an NPC conveniently placed to help us on a quest."

Jamie sighs. "You're right, but that still fucking sucks. Bridgeman's literally our only lead, and that's..." She pauses as they halt in front of the votives. "Say, are you really going to light a candle or did you just want to get away from the pastor?"

Why not both?

"I am going to light a candle," Nathan says. "For my mother."

"Huh. I didn't take you for the religious type."

Nathan isn't religious, never could bring himself to believe in any god; problem of evil and all that. But his mother believed when she was still alive, and lighting a candle is the only thing he can still do for her now. He likes to think she'd appreciate the gesture, likes to think that maybe he's wrong and she was right and there really is a Heaven, a place where she can be happier than she was on Earth. It's a soothing thought.

The living get little more than soothing thoughts.

"I don't believe in God, but if I say I'm going to light a candle, I'll light the fucking candle." He takes his duffle bag from his shoulder, zips it open and picks the book up. Glancing at his surroundings to make sure nobody's watching them, he hands it to Jamie. "Here. We can't read it, but there are illustrations. I don't like this, but... Look for a spell. Any spell that might help us."

Jamie's eyes widen in what's either shock, delight or a dangerous mixture of both. "Wait, are you really telling me to...?"

Nathan knows what she's getting at.

"Yeah. We need information from our only lead and he's not going to give it willingly. So we don't have a choice. We'll have to magic it out of him."