Chapter 27

I peered over the top of the thick textbook with concentration so fierce my head ached.

On the other side of the coffee table, Zylas was sprawled across the sofa, ankles propped on one end and his head cushioned on the opposite armrest. As I peered intently at him, he reached over his head for the small bowl on the side table, filled with chocolate-dipped grapes rolled in crushed almonds, flaky caramel, and butterscotch chips.

He plucked a grape and held it above his mouth. One eye opened and his dark pupil, nearly invisible in the glowing crimson, turned to me.

I narrowed my eyes to slits, straining my brain as hard as I could.

"That is not how to hear inside my head, drādah."

Damn it.

His husky laugh rolled through the room—as usual, he had no problem hearing my thoughts—and he dropped the grape in his mouth. His jaw moved as he chewed through the chocolate layer before swallowing.

Sighing, I returned my attention to the textbook. The coffee table was spread with old leather tomes, textbooks, and scattered papers. In the center was the grimoire, open to page sixteen. That was as far as I'd gotten in the last week.

In a neat stack beside the grimoire were half a dozen pages of my mother's translations, the paper crinkled and the ink smudged. Zylas and I had searched the mountainside for half an hour to find them, but not knowing which grimoire pages they went with, I hadn't yet made much sense of them.

I peered at the textbook again—an exhausting, brain-destroying breakdown of the Arcane jargon used in Ancient Greek—then gave up. As I stacked my reference books, my attention returned to the demon hogging my sofa. Or, actually, the demon and the kitten.

Now that she'd recovered from her injuries and the shock of a new home, Socks was friendly enough with me and Amalia, but she did not deign to cuddle with us, probably because we were intolerably inferior to her favorite sleeping spot.

That spot being anywhere on or beside Zylas.

At the moment, she was curled into a furry donut right in the middle of his stomach, blissfully dreaming cat dreams. When his magic was fully charged, he ran a couple degrees hotter than a human, so it didn't surprise me that she'd want to sleep on him. What surprised me was Zylas's tolerance of it.

I hid my smile and continued packing up my work. Looking back on it now, I wasn't sure Zylas had ever intended to torment the injured kitten, even when he'd perched on top of her crate. A cruel demon terrifying her for his own twisted satisfaction?

Or a curious demon who had no idea how to interact with a small, easily frightened creature of another species?

In some ways, that applied to me as much as it did to Socks. Small, easily frightened… and he had no idea how to handle either of us. He was figuring it out as he went along, just as I was figuring out how to interact with him.

As I scooped up a stack of books, the grimoire resting on top, he opened his eyes again.

"Where are you taking my grimoire?" he asked with a sly gleam in his gaze.

"To its usual spot." I rolled my eyes. "You don't need to ask me every time I move it."

An amused flash of pointed canines. I rolled my eyes again to make sure he'd noticed, then stalked into my room. At every possible opportunity, he pointed out that the grimoire was his. I had given it to him and he got to decide when and where and how I got to use it. He'd even tried to convince me that I had to ask his permission to take it out of its box, but I'd put my foot down on that one. He'd settled for constant reminders.

Annoying demon.

"Drādah mailēshta," he called from the living room.

"Get out of my head!" I yelled back. The grimoire's case lay open on my bed—the metal box that only an Athanas sorcerer could open. I wrapped the book in brown paper, settled it in place with my mother's translations resting on top, and closed the lid. White runes flickered across it as magic sealed the box shut.

I slid it under my bed, then sat on the mattress and heaved a long sigh. In the week since we'd killed Vasilii and reclaimed the grimoire—or rather, most of the grimoire—we'd found no sign of Claude. Not that we'd really searched. Christmas had been on Tuesday, and it was hard to worry about a dangerous summoner and his demon with all the holiday cheer going on.

Amalia and I had decided that, since neither of us had available family members to celebrate with, we would skip all the traditional Christmas activities. Instead, we'd gone for a double feature at the cinema, then ordered enough Chinese food to last us a week.

Since then, I'd been spending hours every day on the grimoire despite the disappointing lack of revelations. What I'd translated so far wasn't even Demonica but other Arcana that Anthea Athanas had recorded thousands of years ago. I might have to skip ahead.

My wandering gaze fell on the book on my bedside table: The Complete Compilation of Arcane Cantrips. The vivid memory of the fire cantrip in Zylas's crimson magic rushed through my head—followed by the equally vivid memory of his power flowing over my hand and up my arm.

Pushing to my feet, I returned to the living room. At my approach, Socks uncurled from her ball and stood on Zylas's stomach, back arching in a luxurious stretch. Hopping onto the floor, she wound around my ankles and meowed demandingly.

I wasn't worthy of cuddles, but when dinnertime came around, she expected me to provide.

Hands on my hips, I peered down at Zylas, again trying to pry open his head and see his thoughts underneath. I wanted another glimpse of the mind behind those crimson eyes. Of the keen, cutting intelligence, the brutal determination to survive, the dizzying expanse of experiences I couldn't begin to imagine.

He gazed up at me, impassive.

"How do I hear your thoughts the way you can hear mine?" I demanded.

"Why would I tell you?"

"Because it's more fair that way." I pointed at him accusingly. "You were hiding it all this time, that we could speak to each other in our heads. Don't you think that might've been useful before now?"

"Ch," he scoffed, closing his eyes lazily.

"How did we combine our magic?" I'd asked him this question half a dozen times, and his answer was always the same. At my feet, Socks meowed loudly, then stalked off with her tail held high.

Zylas stretched his spine, then relaxed into the sofa. "I don't know."

"Guess, then."

"Kūathē gish."

"Huh?"

"Go away. You are noisy."

I squinted one eye, then turned around. Instead of walking away, I dropped onto the sofa. He might be super strong and halfway to invincible, but even a demon couldn't ignore a hundred pounds landing on his diaphragm.

His breath whooshed out. Eyes snapping open, he glowered at me. I flopped against the back cushion, sitting on his stomach where Socks had been, my feet dangling above the floor.

"As you can see, I'm not going away," I declared. "So let's talk about the whole ‘magic sharing' thing."

His nose scrunched in annoyance, then he resettled his head on the cushion, grabbed a chocolate-and-butterscotch grape, and ate it.

I waited a minute, my chagrin growing, then growled, "Zylas."

"Drādah."

"You can't just ignore me sitting on you."

He pointedly closed his eyes again.

"Tell me about the magic. You must have some idea."

"I do not know." He reached blindly for another grape. "I did not think. I just did."

During the fight, I hadn't stopped to think about it either. It had felt… natural. Instinctive. As simple and easy as raising my arm and spreading my fingers.

I gazed at my hand, held before my face with my fingers stretched wide. I remembered his presence inside my head, dark and ferocious.

Sitting forward, I aligned myself to face him. Jaw tight with focus, I pressed my palms against his cheeks, my fingers resting on his pointed ears and tangled hair.

Staring intently into his eyes, I strained to hear his thoughts. To find his alien presence. To reform that bizarre, breathtaking connection. I wanted to hear him again. I would make it happen. Catching my lower lip in my teeth, I brought our faces—our minds—closer. Where are you, Zylas?

He stared up at me, then took my face in his hands, fingers catching in my hair. His crimson eyes searched mine, his lips parting.

"Na, drādah," he whispered.

My breath caught in my lungs. "Yes?"

"This"—his hands tightened on my cheeks and a laughing grin flashed over his face—"will not work either."

I growled furiously. "You—"

With a clatter, the apartment door swung open. Amalia breezed in, her cell phone against her ear and a bag from her favorite fabric store hanging off her arm.

"Yeah, hold on, Dad," she said, her gaze sweeping across the room to find me. "I'll ask her—ah!"

Her shriek rang out and she flung both arms up like she was being assaulted by an invisible burglar. Her phone flew out of her hand, her face stamped with horror.

She pointed at me and yelled, "What are you doing?"

I blinked. Looked down. Realized what I was doing.

"Ah!" I shrieked. I released Zylas's head and threw myself off his chest—which I'd been straddling. Stumbling wildly, I bolted away from him. Amalia stared at me like I'd sprouted my own horns and tail.

"It wasn't—I didn't mean to—I was just—" I babbled, my face flaming.

She took in my embarrassment, then barked a laugh. "Let me guess. It was for science."

My blush deepened and I peeked at Zylas. He was nonchalantly eating grapes and ignoring the human dramatics a few yards away. Socks poked her whiskers out from under the coffee table.

Shaking her head, Amalia searched around the floor and found her phone.

"It's okay—somehow. Didn't even crack." She raised it to her ear. "Sorry, Dad. Robin was being a weirdo again. Repeat that… right." She refocused on me. "Dad asked if the missing pages from the grimoire are all from the back?"

I nodded.

Another pause as she listened, then she asked me, "Are there any drawings of sorcery arrays in the back?"

Frowning, I recalled my examination of the book. "I don't think so."

"She doesn't think so." Amalia listened for a moment. "Hold on, switching to speakerphone. Okay, say that again."

"Robin." Uncle Jack's tinny voice sounded from the phone. "If the arrays from the final pages were still there, you'd know it. The spells…" He cleared his throat. "I told Claude about those pages. I'd been planning to scan a few to see if he could decipher them, but I never got around to it."

My worried gaze met Amalia's. "I think Claude might already have an idea what those arrays are," I said. "Otherwise, he wouldn't have had his demon steal them."

"I think so too," Uncle Jack agreed grimly. "And I think we need to know what those arrays are, and what magic Claude now has. Get translating that grimoire, Robin."

"Already working on it. Are you all settled in?"

"Yes. This safe house is much more comfortable than the last one. I don't think Claude has any more use for me, but just in case…" Another awkward cough. "You girls stay safe now."

Amalia gave her phone an exasperated look. "We'll be fine, Dad. You're the one who almost died."

"Yes, well…" A third cough. "Let me know if you need anything."

"Yep. Talk to you later." She disconnected the call, her attention swinging onto Zylas, reclined on the sofa. I saw the question in her eyes—a question I'd been dwelling on too.

Uncle Jack had almost died… and he was only alive because Zylas had healed his mortal wounds. The demon had barely glanced at the man afterward. He didn't seem to care. Hadn't acknowledged his summoner in any way since.

Whyhad he healed Uncle Jack?

Amalia and I both gazed at the demon, then looked at each other. Her tiny, hopeful smile reflected mine. Maybe our hope was silly. Maybe we were being ridiculous, na?ve humans, but we both suspected the same thing: Zylas had acted not because he cared about Uncle Jack living or dying, but because Amalia and I cared.

She dropped her shopping bag on the counter. "Have you changed your mind about our evening plans?"

I ignored the swoop of nerves in my gut. "Nope."

"Then I'd better get changed." She shrugged off her coat. "I'm not dressed properly for Grand Theft Library."

* * *

"Coast is clear," Amalia whispered.

Leaving her to stand guard, I slipped down the short hall to a door marked Guild Members Only. Two weeks ago, Zylas had broken through it while tracking the scent of old demon blood, but the librarian had caught us before he could find the source.

We were here to fix that.

The Arcana Historia's library closed to the mythic "public" in twenty minutes, so we didn't have much time. Okay, Zylas.

Crimson light bloomed and the demon took shape beside me. He glanced up and down the hall, then used his burglary spell to sever the locking mechanism—a far quieter option than smashing through the door. I followed him into the room.

As before, the worktable was stacked with the achingly familiar tools of book restoration, the scents of leather, paper, and harsh glue permeating the dusty air. The same cabinets lined the wall, one bolted with a rune-engraved padlock.

Zylas glanced at me, nothing but trouble in his eyes. "I am allowed to break it this time, na?"

"Yes." I urged him on with a wave. "Hurry up and do it."

Crimson magic swirled over his hand, tiny runes mixed into the glow. He grasped the padlock and its defensive spell lit up, but he clenched his hand. Power flared and the padlock deformed as though he were squeezing putty instead of steel.

He pulled it off the cabinet doors and dropped it. I cringed at the clatter.

Pushing in beside him, I opened the doors. Plain cardboard boxes were stacked on the shelves inside, each labeled neatly… in Latin. My Latin wasn't good enough to decipher more than a few.

Zylas inhaled through his nose. Leaning down, he sniffed again and pointed to a box on the bottom shelf. I crouched and squinted at the label. Magia Illicita. Even I could figure out what that one meant.

I tugged the box out. Inside were book-shaped packages wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. Zylas squatted beside me and lifted the first one. He sniffed at the paper, then handed it to me. Picking up the next, he checked it for the scent of blood.

My nerves wound tighter as he smelled each bundle. This was taking too long.

Zylas picked up the sixth package and sniffed. "This one."

I set the others back in the box. With a worried glance at the door, I pulled the paper apart, revealing a grimy grimoire, maybe fifty years old, with a cheap leather cover and a revolting brown stain darkening the pages. A piece of crisp white paper was tucked inside the cover and I slid it out.

Someone's neat handwriting, in English, laid out the basics of the book—that it had belonged to a Demonica summoner named David Whitmore, who'd died in 1989, as well as where the book had been found and in what condition. The final paragraph described its contents, and I pushed my glasses up my nose as I read.

David Whitmore engaged in methodical experimentation involving demon blood. He initially tested various theories that combined demon blood with sorcery arrays and alchemic transmutations. Later, he began conducting dangerous and unethical experiments on unwitting subjects, in and out of the mythic community. Despite the continual sickening and/or deaths of his subjects, Whitmore persisted with these trials. Whitmore resisted arrest and was killed by MPD agents.

The Analyst notes that this grimoire is among the most disturbing he has ever evaluated.

The Analyst further notes that, by his own assertion, Whitmore's experiments were largely failures. However, he references the work of sorcerers for whom we have no records, whose details have now been logged in the MPD database.

Recommendation: Grimoire to be transferred to MPD Illicit Magic Storage.

I looked again at the Magia Illicita box. All its contents must be destined for internment in MagiPol's strictly guarded storage facilities for dangerous or illegal magic and magical knowledge.

"This book smells of blood and death," Zylas muttered.

Even I could smell it—a musty, moldy tang that coated my nose like oil. I wanted to wash my hands. I wanted to throw this grimoire into a fire and watch it burn.

Nose wrinkled, I rewrapped the book and set it in the box. Zylas watched me slide the box back onto its shelf.

"You are not taking it?"

"No." I stood up and closed the cabinet. "We don't need it, and it's better that it be sent to the MPD for safekeeping."

"Hnn." He canted his head. "I hear footsteps."

I jolted away from the cabinet and opened my mouth to order Zylas back into the infernus, but he was already dissolving into crimson light. I burst into the hallway as Amalia rushed to meet me. I swung the door shut, then we both dashed into the washroom at the end of the hall and locked ourselves in.

"The librarian was coming this way," Amalia whispered. "Not sure if she'll come over here, though."

"Let's hope not," I muttered, leaning against the sink.

Amalia scanned me. "Weren't you stealing a book?"

I described what I had found and how I'd decided I didn't want to take it. "We don't need to know the details of that guy's messed-up experiments."

"No…" Amalia agreed, her gaze distant.

I figured she was thinking the same thing as me. "Claude must've gotten the idea to feed demon blood to vampires from somewhere, right?"

"Yeah, from sickos like that Whitmore quack and his idols. Who knows what other ideas Claude has gotten from their experiments?"

Silence settled over us, broken by the slow drip of water from the faucet.

"There's something really weird about Claude," Amalia murmured, her words slow and thoughtful. "Something really…"

"Insidious?" I suggested.

"Yeah. He—"

The loud bing of my phone interrupted her. I dug my cell out of my pocket and tapped the screen. At the sight of the new message, my face went cold.

When I stared at my phone, saying nothing, Amalia huffed. "What is it?"

"It's… it's from Zora."

Over a week had passed since Zora had discovered I was an illegal contractor. I'd tried to explain myself, but she'd only responded once to my messages. Her reply: Do the right thing and turn yourself in.

That had been six days ago, and I'd heard nothing since. With no other options, I'd avoided the guild at all costs and hoped against hope Zora would wash her hands of it—maybe even pretend she hadn't seen anything and didn't know my secret.

But now her number glowed on my screen with a new message: Meet me in the Arcana Atrium at the guild. Right now.

Losing patience, Amalia pulled my phone closer to read it. "Oh, shit."

"She wants to see me," I whispered. "Do you think she wants to talk?"

"Or she's luring you in for the MagiPol agents." Amalia tugged nervously at her sleeves. "I don't know, Robin."

Exhaling, I pushed my phone back into my pocket. "I guess we should go."

"But—"

"If she hasn't reported me, then not showing up might be the last straw for her. And if she has reported me—" I gulped back a surge of panic. "Then it's already too late. I can't survive as a wanted rogue, Amalia."

She rubbed her forehead. "Yeah, you're right. You wouldn't last a day. It seems weird she'd wait so long to report you. She must've been waiting for something else. I guess we should find out what."

I managed a smile at her "we," glad I wasn't going into this alone.

The downtown streets were dark and icy cold, the blustery wind blowing fitful rain in our faces. We bundled up tight and braved the trek on foot. The sidewalks were busy, Vancouver's citizens too accustomed to the winter rain to let it hamper their Saturday night plans.

The Crow and Hammer's windows glowed invitingly as we trudged the final block, our heads down and hands tucked in our coats. Zylas had warned me that his world's temperatures dropped below anything he'd experienced here—every night—and I was extremely glad I didn't live in his realm.

When Amalia shoved the guild door open, a notch of painful tension in my spine eased. The pub was busy, half the tables full and voices swelling with cheerful conversation. No MPD agents. No bounty hunter ambush.

Amalia and I shared nervous looks, then she headed for an empty table in the corner to wait. Delaying the moment I had to face Zora, I walked to the bar, passing three different discussions about New Year's Eve plans on my way. The atmosphere couldn't have been more different from my inner apprehension.

Despite the hubbub, only one customer stood at the bar: a woman with silvery hair in a shoulder-length bob, her glare mean enough to melt steel beams.

"I did not short your whiskey, Sylvia," a familiar voice growled, "and if you whine about it again, I'll mix your next Manhattan with our shittiest beer. Now get lost!"

The silver-haired woman snatched up her drink and whirled away from the bar, almost mowing me down as she stormed back to her table. Behind the counter, the red-haired bartender smacked a washrag down on the bar top.

"What do you want?" Tori snapped at me.

I flinched, my eyes wide and mouth too dry to respond.

She straightened from her aggressive posture and blew out a long breath, several long curls fluttering around her face. Between her holiday trip and my avoidance of the guild, I hadn't seen her since the monthly meeting.

"Sorry." She slid a bottle of vermouth off the counter and returned it to her well. "Having a bad day."

"Is… is everything all right?" I asked hesitantly, afraid to trigger her temper again. "How was your trip?"

Her hazel eyes clouded. "It was… okay. I'm just stressed out, that's all. I'll figure it out. I just… unless you could…"

"Unless I could what?" I asked, my brow furrowing.

She stared at me strangely, then gave her head a single sharp shake. "Never mind. Want anything to drink?"

"Um, actually, I was just wondering… do you know if Zora is upstairs?"

Tori glanced around. "I think I saw her, but I'm not sure where she is."

"Oh. Okay. I—um—I'll just…"

When I trailed off, she arched an eyebrow. "You're paler than me, and that's saying something. What's wrong?"

"N-nothing."

"Nothing, eh? In that case, how about…" She reached under the counter, produced two shot glasses, and smacked them down. Next thing I knew, she held a silver bottle and was splashing clear liquor into the glasses.

I stepped back. "Oh, no. I don't—"

"This is the good vodka and it's on the house," she said with a grin that didn't quite reach her worried eyes. "I think we could both use a dose of ‘calm the hell down.'" She picked up a glass. "You with me?"

With a mental shrug, I picked it up. We clinked our glasses together in a wordless toast, then tossed the shots back. The liquor burned down my throat.

"That was… good," I wheezed.

"Damn right." She gave me a friendly wave of dismissal. "Now go find Zora. I need to get back to work."

Worrying my lower lip between my teeth, I crossed to the stairs and started up them. Zora hadn't reported me. I chanted the reassuring words with each step. She hadn't reported me and she wanted to talk. This was a good thing. This was what I'd wanted all along—a chance to explain myself. A chance to make her understand that I was an illegal contractor by necessity, not choice.

Despite my inner pep talk and Tori's dose of liquid courage, nerves fluttered in my stomach as I reached the third floor. I turned down the side hall and paused at the atrium door, its sign turned to its blank back. Zora was giving me a chance. I would find a way to convince her.

As I gingerly knocked on the door, I dredged up the memory of the unlocking rune, but the door swung silently open. The atrium's interior was black and almost no light leaked in from the hall. I took a step inside, hesitating. Was I early? Or late? Where was—

Light bloomed. Firelight.

The orange glow swept across Zora, who stood in the middle of the white circle on the floor. She was dressed in full combat gear, and her hands rested on the pommel of her huge sword, its point resting between her feet.

She wasn't alone.

On her left was a man with dark hair, dark eyes, and two katana sheathed at his hip, his fingers hooked on the hilt of the longer one. On her right stood a man with coppery red hair, bright blue eyes, and a broadsword even larger than hers, already unsheathed. His palm was raised, flames dancing above it.

Aaron and Kai. Pyromage and electramage. They had been at the park on Halloween when Zylas had killed Tahēsh, and they'd fled with Tori and Ezra afterward.

They also represented two-thirds of the Elementaria trio that Zora had called the guild's strongest combat team outside of leadership.

"Close the door," Zora said quietly.

I didn't know what else to do. Fear sizzling in my blood, I pushed the door closed.

"This room is reinforced with the best magical protections possible." Her voice, like her face, was grim. "No amount of force or magic can break the walls. Nothing that happens in this room can harm anyone outside it."

A deeper cold chilled my limbs.

"Aaron and Kai," she continued, "have volunteered to support me. I figure that makes the odds about even, so if you plan to kill us, you can go ahead and call your demon out."

My head spun. I slid one foot sideways, widening my stance so I wouldn't sway where I stood. The two mages, towering head and shoulders above the petite sorceress, watched me without expression. Well, now I knew why Zora had delayed confronting me; she'd been waiting for Kai and Aaron to return from their trip.

Slowly, her words sunk in. If I planned to…

"Kill you?" I whispered. My disbelief cracked, a flicker of anger lighting in my chest. "I'm not going to kill you! Don't you think that's pretty obvious?"

Zora raised her eyebrows. "True. You had a much better opportunity back in that apartment. You could've blamed my death on the vampires."

I clenched my jaw, waiting to see what she would say next.

"I haven't told anyone what happened that afternoon. Not even these two." She indicated the mages. "They're here purely on faith."

They didn't react, their silence bordering on threatening. No sign of Kai's charming smile or Aaron's boisterous laughter, which I'd seen and heard often during the last guild meeting, touched their impassable faces.

"Here's the deal, Robin," Zora said flatly. "From now on, you don't do anything or go anywhere without telling me. I will be your shadow. If you sneak around behind my back or break one more MPD law…" An ominous pause. "You know what will happen."

I tensed.

"Should any sort of ‘accident' befall me," she went on, "you'll answer to these two. You can imagine how that will go."

Frigid anxiety fluttered through me.

"If you're the person I think you are, this shouldn't be a problem. If you're not, well…" Zora stared hard into my face. "So, you have three options: you can accept my terms, you can surrender, or we can fight it out right now."

My gaze shifted from the sorceress's unforgiving stare to Kai's glacial eyes to Aaron's stony expression, his face lit by the flickering fire in his hand. I had no intention of breaking any laws beyond the ones my illegal contract had already trampled over. I was a good person. I wanted to be a good person.

But it wasn't my morality that had my stomach twisting into knots.

It was my not-so-good, not-so-law-abiding, and all-too-disobedient demon that made me think this would probably end very, very badly.