Chapter 22

Zora's gaze darted between me and my demon, and her hands tightened on the hilt of her sword.

Zylas shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet, his fingers curling and claws glinting.

Daimon, hesychaze!

His head snapped toward me, disbelief and fury briefly touching his face before his body melted into glowing power. Crimson light leaped into the infernus and I closed my hand around the pendant.

Just stay there,I told him urgently. Let me handle this.

The silver buzzed under my hand, then went quiet. I exhaled shakily.

Zora slowly raised her sword. "So… does this mean you don't plan to kill me now that I know you're an illegal contractor?"

"Of course I won't k-kill you." I wished my voice wasn't shaking. "Let me explain."

"Illegal contracts are illegal," she snapped. "Most of them come with a death sentence for the contractor. And yours isn't just a loose contract—your demon was using magic. How?"

She again shifted her grip on her sword, the long blade wavering, and I noticed the blood dripping from her elbow. The vampire had raked her upper arms with his claws.

I twisted my hands together. "Zora, please—"

"How did you fool Darius?" Her eyes blazed. "MagiPol is just waiting for an excuse to disband the Crow and Hammer. How dare you put our guild at risk?"

"I—I didn't—"

"A contracted demon with magic," she spat. "Now I know how you took down the unbound demon on Halloween. There's no way you can control your demon. There's no way you aren't a danger to everyone with that—"

The patio door banged open. Taye rushed in, Amalia right behind him.

"Zora," he said sharply. "You all right? The police are on the way. I put in a call to the MPD and they're sending agents and a cleanup crew, but we should leave the crime scene."

Her furious stare jerked back to me. "Are you waiting for the MPD?"

So they could arrest me on the spot? No thanks. "I—I should go."

"You can go for now," she said darkly, "but we aren't finished, Robin Page."

Taye's brow furrowed, whereas Amalia's expression flashed from confusion to alarm as she guessed what had happened.

Zora grabbed her sword case off the floor and crunched across the room to the patio. Amalia stepped back as the sorceress strode out the doors, Taye hurrying after her. As their footsteps retreated, the wail of police sirens drifted into the unit, growing louder by the second.

"Shit," Amalia muttered. "What does she know?"

"She saw Zylas use magic," I said heavily, fighting the nausea building in my stomach. "She knows my contract isn't legal, but not the full extent of it."

"Shit," she said again. "We need to get out of here."

Nodding grimly, I climbed over the fridge door—when had it fallen off?—and grabbed both the case of demon blood and the case of syringes from Claude's desk. Amalia scooped the papers and photos off the floor. Carrying our loot, we ducked out the doors.

The patio backed onto a courtyard shared by several apartment towers. We cut across it and joined the busy sidewalk. Three police cruisers with their lights flashing were parked on the curb, two officers directing pedestrians away while four more headed toward the condos. They were about to get a nasty surprise. The MPD agents would have fun smoothing over that bloodbath.

All in all, though, that didn't even rank on my list of worries.

I clutched the metal cases to my chest, breathing hard. Zora knew my secret. What would she do? Report me to the MPD? Report me to Darius? Both courses of action would have the same result. Darius had warned me that if anyone from the Crow and Hammer discovered the truth, he would turn me in to protect his guildeds.

No matter how I looked at it, I was doomed.

"Maybe she won't report you," Amalia said, her mind on the same worries as mine. "It's not like you're hurting anyone. Maybe…"

Faint hope sparked, but I didn't let it grow. Considering how furious and betrayed she'd appeared, I didn't think she'd ignore her discovery.

"I'll call her," I mumbled. "If I can explain the situation like I did with Darius, she might look the other way."

"Yeah… yeah, she probably will."

Silence fell between us. We both knew we were fooling ourselves.

"I grabbed all this stuff"—she hefted her armload of papers—"so the MPD wouldn't have a reason to look at my dad, but why'd you take those cases?"

"These are proof."

"Of what?"

"One holds bottled demon blood. The other… it has vials of vampire saliva. Last time we saw him, Claude used a syringe of it to bring down Zylas."

I couldn't believe I hadn't put the clues together before. The tranquilizing effect of a vampire bite was identical to Zylas's collapse after he'd been injected with the mysterious syringe. Vamp saliva was the perfect demon neutralizer, especially since it had an even stronger effect on demons than humans.

"You think Claude has been trading his demon's blood to the vampires in exchange for their saliva?" Amalia squinted. "But why did they trash his townhouse? And why did his demon steal back his documents from the vampires?"

"That part I don't get, but I suspect it has something to do with that Vasilii guy the other vampires are following. Maybe Vasilii isn't happy with their arrangement anymore."

We stopped at a crosswalk and waited for the light to change. The lunch rush had dispersed, leaving the streets much quieter.

"Hmm, well." Amalia cast me a sharp smile. "We might not know what's going on with Claude and the vampires, but we do have this."

She held up the snapshot of Uncle Jack and the bearded stranger standing over a dead moose.

"What's special about that?"

"This," she declared, waving the photo, "is where we're going to find my dad."

* * *

Not even a hot shower could calm the nerves churning through my gut. I rubbed a towel over my hair, watching my reflection in the foggy bathroom mirror. A thin white scar stood out against the smooth skin of my neck; the sight of it always chilled me. My blue eyes were tired and a seemingly permanent wrinkle of worry had formed between my eyebrows.

In less than twelve hours, I might finally reclaim my mother's grimoire.

According to Amalia, that photo was the clue she'd needed to figure out her dad's location. She'd booked a rental car so we could drive out to the property in the photo, owned by the bearded man whose identity Claude hadn't been able to uncover.

If she was right, my uncle would be there, and almost eight months after my parents' deaths, I would have in my hands their most treasured possession—a possession they might have died protecting. The two letters my mother had written, one to her brother and one to her daughter, sat on my bedside table. I would bring them with me tomorrow, and when I saw Uncle Jack, I would demand not only the grimoire, but answers. And, unlike our past confrontations, I wouldn't take "no" for an answer.

The girl he'd bullied and dismissed seemed like a stranger to me now. The new and improved Robin was a contractor. She regularly pitted her will against an ornery demon. She had faced an escaped demon from the powerful First House, a rogue guild, and unnaturally powerful vampires. She wouldn't be intimidated by her portly, middle-aged, cowardly uncle.

Or so I hoped.

I scrunched the water from my hair, considered blow-drying it, then decided I was too tired. Throwing my towel over the edge of the tub—the towel rack lay on the floor, ripped off the wall by Zylas—I pulled on a tank top and cotton PJ shorts.

Cool air rushed into the steamy bathroom when I opened the door. Across the living room, a pair of green eyes reflected the dim light. Socks was curled up on the sofa, watching me, and I crossed the room to scratch her furry ears. The whir of Amalia's sewing machine accompanied the pattering of the rain against the window. I wasn't the only one having trouble sleeping tonight.

MPD agents hadn't knocked down our apartment door, so I assumed Zora hadn't reported my illegal contract yet. I'd tried calling her—six times—but my calls had all gone straight to voicemail. I didn't dare go to the guild to see if she was there.

All I could do was wait and see what happened. Would Zora pretend she hadn't seen anything illegal, or would the MPD be waiting for us when we returned from our outing tomorrow?

With a final pat for Socks, I wandered into my room. Only after I'd shut the door did I notice the dark shadow by my window.

Zylas sat on the floor, one shoulder leaning against the wall, his arm resting on the sill. His chin was propped on his forearm, crimson eyes gazing through the rain-streaked glass. Still and silent, he was a statue draped in shadow, the faint light from beyond the window tracing one edge of his jaw. His breath fogged on the glass, a white mist.

A memory slipped into my mind: Rose's crystal ball. The pale fog, the shadow of Zylas within it. Sitting still and silent, staring into nothing.

Uncertainty rooted my bare feet to the carpet, but I pushed myself forward. His gaze swept up to my face as I approached, his expression indecipherable.

"Are you going out tonight?" I asked softly.

"No." He returned his attention to the window. "Tonight I will stay."

He, too, was worried about what the morning might bring.

Another hesitation locked my muscles. Pushing away my inexplicable unease, I sank to the carpet beside him, pulling my knees up to my chest and wrapping my arms around them. I was dressed for bed and the air was cool on my exposed skin.

"Tomorrow, we might get the grimoire back," I murmured. "I don't know how long it will take me to translate it, but… it could have answers on how to send you home."

He said nothing.

"What's your home like?" The curious question slipped out thoughtlessly. I expected him to ignore it, but his head tilted slightly, gaze on the city street below.

"It is very different from here." His low, husky voice blended with the night and shivered across my skin. "There are many places we do not go where it is too hot or too cold. Where we live… the land is made of rock and sand. It is red, almost like me. The plants are darker, some red, some green."

My eyelids slid partway closed as I imagined it. A desert landscape of burnt maroon, the sand drifting among wind-carved rock. Dark foliage sprouted in nooks and crannies, clinging to life beneath a harsh, blazing sun.

"Some places, water runs deep and wide, and trees grow tall. Other places, there is no water for endless distances and we catch the rain at night to drink." His gaze drifted toward me. "The sun is hot in the day, but the land grows cold at night. Colder than here. You would not survive a night in my world."

"Does the cold bother you?" I whispered. I didn't know why I was whispering, only that I could almost see his words. I could imagine my head angled back, mouth open to the pouring rain, the liquid cool on my parched tongue.

"Only if we are weakened. During the day, we rest and recover our vīsh. At night, we hunt… or we are hunted. It is cold and very dark. The clouds come at night, and the rain. Great storms."

Roiling clouds lit by streaking white lightning. Earth-shaking thunder and torrential rain carving rivers of mud into the sand and rock. The powerful wind sweeping against me.

"We must conserve vīsh until the sun," he murmured. "It is a game and a hunt and a battle. Who is smartest? Who is strongest? They survive."

Glowing eyes in the darkness. A dim but distinct outline of heat and magic, curved wings spreading wide. A slash of fear in my chest.

I gave my head a sharp shake and absently rubbed my sternum as my heart rate kicked up. "You're hunted more because you're a demon king, aren't you?"

"I have always been hunted."

"Why?"

"Because I am Vh'alyir. I am Twelfth House. We are weak." His eyes glowed fiercely. "I have taught them to fear Vh'alyir."

Another zing of apprehension hit me, this one triggered by the savagery sliding across his features. "How?"

"They do not fear my strength, but the strike from the darkness." His tail lashed sideways, a quiet rustle across the carpet. "They call me nailēris, but they do not laugh at my House any longer."

Gooseflesh prickled up my arms, compounded by the chill air. The other demons called him cowardly… but he had taught them to fear him anyway. For the first time, I saw a shadow of regal power in him, of unyielding command and ruthless authority.

"You're talkative tonight," I said weakly. "What were you thinking about before I came in?"

He let his head fall back, resting it against the window's edge. I saw no sign of his wolfish smirk, his contrary antagonism, or even his dangerous but semi-playful badgering.

"Maybe I will return soon to my world." His voice dropped, deeper and rougher, his accent thickening. "I will return not as Dīnen but as Ivaknen … the Summoned."

The Summoned. I shivered again and rubbed my upper arms. His gaze followed the movement and he leaned forward with sudden interest. Warm hand closing over my wrist, he drew my arm up to peer at my skin.

"What is wrong with you?" he asked.

I rolled my eyes. "Nothing is wrong. It's how human skin reacts to cold."

"It is not cold."

"It is for me. The weather has to be much warmer than this for humans to walk around in as little clothing as you do."

He turned my hand over and his fingertips slid across my inner wrist. "This has not changed. Is this part of you not cold?"

I opened my mouth—but couldn't remember how to speak. He stroked the top of my forearm, exploring the texture of my skin as full-on gooseflesh made every fine hair stand on end.

He lifted my arm to his face and rubbed the lower edge of his cheek across my inner wrist. "This is smooth."

I didn't move, didn't utter a sound. Only my heart reacted, pounding erratically in my chest.

He ran his hand down my forearm to my elbow, his palm hot as it passed over the scars from the first time he'd healed me. His fingers found the inner crease of my elbow, then traced up to my shoulder. My held breath rushed out between my parted lips.

His crimson eyes skimmed across me and found my bare legs—then his hand wrapped around my knee. He ran his fingers up the side of my thigh, his thumb rubbing across the slight bumps, his touch sliding higher.

Paralysis breaking, I scooted away from him. "Yes, my skin is different from yours. That's enough of—"

He stuck his hand under the hem of my tank top. His hot fingers brushed across my waist. "You are smooth here."

"Zylas," I snapped. "Stop—"

He pushed away from the wall, gaze fixed on my middle, intent on the mystery of gooseflesh. I pushed backward, feet slipping on the carpet. He followed, a graceful shadow with glowing eyes. His hand slid up my side, triggering a rippling shiver along my spine and causing a fresh wave of gooseflesh to rise in the wake of his touch.

I shoved away and my head bumped against my mattress. Nowhere left to retreat. His hands were on my waist, pushing up my shirt, and undiluted panic shot through me.

I grabbed his wrists. "Zylas!"

He stilled as my nails dug into his skin. The only sound was my quick, harsh breathing.

His mouth shifted into a frown—then he released my shirt, hands pulling free from my grasp. He sat back on his heels, his frown deepening into a scowl. "I did not hurt you."

The words were a question, a complaint, and an accusation all wrapped into one.

"No." I gulped down air. "But that doesn't mean you can do whatever you want."

"Ch."

I shoved forward, glowering at him before I even realized how angry I was. "You aren't the only one who wants their autonomy respected, Zylas!"

He recoiled from my vehemence.

"You don't want me to use the infernus command unless absolutely necessary, and I'm respecting that. You need to respect me when I tell you to stop doing something I don't like."

His head tilted in a puzzled way. "You do not like it when I touch you?"

My stomach gave an odd, panicky flop. "I—I'm not…" My head spun. "Don't touch me under my clothes."

His nose scrunched like that was a bewildering stipulation. Heart beating uncomfortably fast, I pushed myself to my feet and tugged my shirt straight.

"I need to sleep." I flipped my blankets back. "We have a lot to do tomorrow. Uncle Jack, the grimoire… and we have to figure out what's happening with Zora."

"Figure out what?" he muttered. "It is easy to fix."

I glanced over my shoulder, eyebrows raised. "Oh really?"

"I will kill her."

"We're not killing her," I scoffed, climbing into bed. "We've discussed this before and—"

"Drādah."

I hadn't heard him stand, but he was on his feet, his crimson stare fixed on me but not with the keen curiosity of a minute ago.

"She knows I am not enslaved," he growled quietly. "She will tell others, and they will come to kill you. I must kill her first to protect you."

Alarm buzzed across my nerves and I pushed my shoulders back, hands gripping my blanket. "Do not hurt her, Zylas."

"She knows—"

"We'll find another way to deal with it. If you kill her, Darius will know it was you and he'll report us to the MPD anyway."

"I will make her disappear."

"No!" Panic rose through me again. "She's a guild member, she helped us, she—she's my friend, Zylas."

He curled his upper lip in disdain. "You will die so she can live?"

My mouth trembled and I clenched my jaw. "I won't kill her to save myself."

"Nailis," he sneered.

"Cruel!" I retorted, pointing at him as tears stung my eyes. "Heartless! Barbaric! How can you even think about killing an innocent woman to save yourself?"

"To save you," he snarled. "I bound myself to protect you."

"We'll find a different way."

"What way? This is most safe. It is most easy."

"You want to kill her because it's easy?" My throat tightened with fear. I couldn't stop him from doing whatever he wanted. Even if I forced him back into the infernus, he would escape as soon as I fell asleep. "If you hurt her, Zylas, if you so much as lay a finger on her, I—I won't send you home."

His eyes widened. "You promised!"

He could tell if I was lying—and he knew my threat was deadly serious.

"I did, but if you go behind my back and hurt her, I won't do anything to help you."

He stared at me as though he'd never seen me before. Rage twisted his face, lips pulling back from his pointed canines. His hands clenched and glowing veins streaked up his wrists.

"Your promises mean nothing. Your words mean nothing."

As his furious snarl rumbled through the room, crimson power blazed across him. His body dissolved and the band of light leaped into the infernus on my bedside table. The pendant vibrated, then went still.

I flung myself onto my bed, face buried in my pillow to hide the tears streaking down my face. Zora had helped us, fought beside us, supported me—and he was perfectly fine with killing her. Perfectly willing. Perfectly remorseless.

No matter what he did, what he said… no matter how fiercely he protected me or how carefully he touched me… under the surface, he had no heart. He didn't care, didn't feel, didn't love. He could kill anyone and feel nothing. He could kill me and feel nothing.

Why had I ever thought he might be anything other than a monster?