Stephen’s gaze reflexively darts down to glance at the book, to take in the cover and maybe skim a title. But there’s no text written on it, just: that distressingly wrinkled leather cover, the screaming face trapped in the front.

“—Wait. Is that bound with human skin? It looks like human skin. Real Raimi Necronomicon shit here,” he says. This is the pithy sarcasm he levies at anyone, a kneejerk defense mechanism like anything else.

And yet his hand jerks briefly as if to take the book from Vazeiros’ hand, to at least peruse, and find out what it looks like on the inside even if he doesn’t read,

but he can tell at a glance that the vibes are rancid. Not as bad as the Darkhold (another book he technically probably shouldn’t have read). He’s practically itching to take it, just to know more. It’s vibrating and humming with just enough arcane power that he can tell it’s powerfully, intensely magical.

Deep breath. He bites back the curiosity. Smooths his hands down his trousers and shakes them out. (Keeping his fingers free and clear; it means he’s keeping himself ready to do magic if he has to.) And latching onto the drow’s words, Stephen taps into his own anger, that clarifying emotion, hanging onto it to keep himself tethered and not lose sight of the goal, irritated:

“And, FYI, she’s not nothing. She’s worthwhile even when she’s not working, and I can’t believe I have to be the one to point that out to you—”