Chapter 23

"Robin," Amalia hollered, "would you hurry up?"

I hastily pulled the turtleneck sweater over my head, almost dislodging the small ponytail I'd forced my hair into—aided by half a pound of bobby pins. My hair was barely long enough to tie back.

My new black sweater was soft but the fabric didn't stretch and I had to wiggle my arms into the long sleeves. It fell to the tops of my thighs, the sleeves brushing my knuckles. I did up a row of buttons that ran over the shoulder and up the neck. Buttoned, the fabric hugged my throat.

Dropping the chain of my infernus and new artifact over my head, I hurried out of the room. Amalia stood near the door, her winter coat in one hand and car keys jingling impatiently in the other. She wore a turtleneck identical to mine—black with a dizzying pattern embroidered over every inch in matching thread. The effect was subtle but quite striking.

"Finally," she exclaimed. "How does it fit?"

I straightened the sweater's hem in annoyance. Considering how many times I'd waited for her, she could be more patient. "It's fine."

She nodded. "I prefer to use a knit fabric or even a cotton poplin stretch for shirts, but those wouldn't work with the embroidery."

I ran a fingertip over my sleeve, tracing a familiar shape hidden in the pattern. "A shielding cantrip?"

"Yep." She slapped her flat stomach. "The hexes cover the entire shirt. I've tested them with knives, though I doubt they'd stop a bullet. Still, every little bit helps, right? The effect lasts about half a minute."

I reexamined our sweaters. She'd finished both last night and insisted we wear them today—more because she was proud of her work than because we needed them. Uncle Jack, assuming we found him, wasn't likely to stab us.

Still, a shirt that could protect you from piercing attacks for thirty seconds was pretty amazing. The shield cantrip wasn't one I'd have thought to use. It was mostly useless because you had to draw a ridiculously huge rune to protect anything larger than a post-it note; the smaller the cantrip, the less magic it absorbed and released.

But covering an entire shirt in small cantrips was ingenious; they'd all trigger together with a single incantation. And the craziest part was that a sewn cantrip worked at all. Cantrips were normally drawn by hand because the process of creating them imbued the symbol with power. A regular human could draw runes all day long and not one would contain a smidge of magic. Only Arcana mythics could create them.

Amalia was watching me with a raised eyebrow—waiting for my approval.

"It's nice," I reiterated. Hadn't I already said it was good?

"Uh-huh. Let's get going, then."

I grabbed an extra sweater and followed her down to the parking lot where our rental car—which Amalia had picked up this morning—waited. I opened the dull gray door and climbed into the equally dull and gray interior. Amalia dropped into the driver's seat, started the engine, and we were off.

Time to find my uncle and get the Athanas Grimoire back. It was finally happening.

We made it out of downtown with little trouble and drove through the disreputable Eastside for twenty minutes. Crossing the harbor, we entered the significantly greener and more spacious neighborhoods of North Vancouver.

"So," Amalia began, "what's your problem this morning?"

I stared through the windshield at the mountain silhouettes filling the horizon. "No problem."

"Yeah, sure. How come I haven't seen your demon pal all morning, even though we should have run our plan past him before getting in this crappy rental car and driving to the middle of nowhere?"

"I told him the plan. In my head. He can hear me. Also, he's not my pal."

"What is he, then?"

"He's a demon."

She cast me a questioning look, then returned her attention to the road. An irascible frown settled onto her lips as she exited the freeway and merged onto a smaller thoroughfare.

Maybe… maybe I was a bit moody today. She wasn't the reason for my bad temperament.

"Thank you for the hex sweater," I said, properly sincere this time. "I can't believe you made something so beautiful and comfortable that's also stab-proof. It's really amazing."

Her frown eased. "Glad you like it. You're the first person besides me to wear one of my projects."

My smile softened into a more natural expression. "Thank you for sharing it with me. Do you have plans to sell your work? I bet guilds would love them."

"Maybe. I need to do more testing first. Fabrics and magic don't mix all that well and I'm not sure how quickly the hexes will deteriorate."

Falling silent, she concentrated on navigating a section of road construction that had closed one lane. The houses grew sparser.

"Oh, shit!" Amalia flipped on her signal light and zipped into the left lane. "This is our turn."

We made the corner on the yellow light, and the last signs of residential neighborhood disappeared. The road, hemmed in by green spruce and hemlock, slanted upward. Though the dense forest blocked our view, I knew we were ascending the sprawling slopes of Mount Seymour. Scattered vehicles drove with us, heading toward the ski resort near the peak.

"Where exactly are we going?" I asked. "Not to the resort, right?"

"Ha, no. The property isn't that high up the mountain. It's on the west side."

"And it belongs to the old guy from the photo—Kevin, you called him?"

"Kevin and Dad were hunting buddies, and my family used to come out here every summer. I always hated it. So boring. Kathy thought so too, and she kicked up such a fuss about it that Dad quit going. He hasn't been in almost ten years."

I wrinkled my nose. "That sucks for your dad."

"If he wanted to enjoy life, he shouldn't have married Kathy." Amalia leaned forward as though encouraging the car onward up the incline. "Ugh, why didn't we get an SUV instead of this shit-mobile?"

"What makes you so sure your dad is out here?"

"First, Claude ruled out every possible option besides this one. And second, it's perfect. Kevin doesn't own this property. He borrows it from his cousin. And as far as I—or anyone else—knows, Dad and Kevin haven't talked in years, and there's no paper trail to tie either of them to this location. It's private, isolated, and totally safe."

Sounded plausible. "I hope Uncle Jack has answers."

"Yes," Amalia agreed fiercely. "First, I want to know why he couldn't get a message to me. Second, I want to know what the hell is up with Claude. And third, all this weirdness with vampires."

I pressed my lips together. "What I want is the grimoire."

"We won't learn anything if your demon goes berserk and kills my dad. Zylas won't have any warm, fuzzy feelings for his summoner. You sure you've got him under control?"

"He won't lay a hand on your dad," I confirmed grimly. "I already warned him."

"Yeah, but since when is he obedient?"

"He'll behave. If he doesn't, I won't send him home."

She steered the car around a tight bend. A few snowflakes swirled past the windows. "But you want to send him home so you can be rid of his demonic ass."

"I do, but if he kills people…" I folded my arms across my chest. "I'm not helping him with anything if he kills people."

"He's a demon. Killing is what they do." She paused. "Didn't you promise you'd send him home?"

"I did, but—"

"And you told him you'll rescind that promise if he doesn't do what you want?"

"Yes, but—"

"Oh hell." She shot me a disbelieving look. "No wonder he's in a snit."

A guilty, anxious squirm awoke in my belly. "What do you mean?"

"You have to ask? Come on. You two made a deal, and you can't just add new terms or conditions to it on a whim."

"How else am I supposed to stop him from murdering people?"

"I don't know, but Robin…" She shook her head, her blond ponytail swinging. "That horned asshole is going to be complete misery to deal with now. Your promise to send him home was the only thing keeping him in check."

"But I will send him home as long as he—"

"Yeah, but he won't trust you anymore." At my confused look, she sighed. "It's a power thing, Robin. If you have the power to change the deal and he doesn't, that makes the deal worthless. Changing your promise is the same as breaking it."

Your promises mean nothing. Zylas's furious accusation.

Deep, icy cold settled in my gut, making itself right at home like it intended to stay awhile.

"Ah, here's the turn off!" She slowed the car as the highway doubled back on itself in order to continue up the side of the mountain. On our left, a short gravel offshoot split in a Y-shape, with one track heading uphill and one descending the mountainside.

She waited a minute with her signal on, craning her neck to watch the oncoming cars. When a gap in the traffic opened, she gunned it across the highway and angled toward the downhill road where a gate, bolted with a chain and boldly marked with a Private Property sign, blocked our passage.

She shifted into park, hopped out, and jogged up to the gate, leaving the car door hanging open. A moment of fumbling with the chain, then she shoved the gates open.

"Wasn't even locked," she announced as she dropped back into her seat and shut her door. "Great security. At least it isn't snowed in up here."

The car bumped along the gravel, the vibrations rattling my teeth. My nerves grew, my stomach twisting unhappily and that pit of ice unchanged. Once we were done here, I would make Zylas understand that I hadn't betrayed my promise. I'd only wanted to…

… to control him by leveraging the one thing he really wanted.

Oh crap. That's what I'd done, wasn't it? No wonder he was furious.

The gravel road went on and on, the car's constant bouncing shaking me down to my bones. Towering conifers stretched toward the gray sky, the forest dotted with bare-branched deciduous trees awaiting spring, and snow-dusted grass bordered the road.

Amalia slowed, then turned onto an even narrower, bumpier track. Tree branches smacked the car's sides as we rolled deeper into the wilderness.

The track ended abruptly. An old pickup truck with a Yukon license plate was parked in front of a log cabin with a steeply peaked roof. The blinds were drawn across the small front windows and a pile of rusting junk was stacked against a sagging shed. Once, the cabin's log walls had been stained dark but weathered patches spotted the wood like a disease.

Amalia pulled up beside the truck and cut the engine. I pushed my door open and climbed out. The mixture of dirt and stunted grass masquerading as a lawn was frosted white, and a blast of icy wind blew snow into my face.

Tugging my sweater over my hands, I shut my door with my elbow and faced the cabin. My heart hammered, fear competing with anticipation.

Amalia joined me, and together we marched up four rotted steps to the crumbling front porch.