Taming Demons for Beginners: The Guild Codex: Demonized / One

by Marie, Annette

  As I sifted flour from one bowl to another, Amalia breezed into the kitchen, her long blond waves fluttering around her. She spotted me and stopped.

  I glanced at her, then returned to sifting. What was the point in saying hello?

  Stomping to the fridge, she pulled it open, rooted around, then carried an armload of food to the breakfast bar across from me. She dumped it on the counter and went back for more. I watched bemusedly as she collected three kinds of cheese, crackers, pickles, smoked meat, an apple, peanut butter, and a croissant before sliding onto the stool.

  Her gray-eyed glower dared me to comment.

  Staying silent, I opened a carton of eggs and cracked the first one, separating the whites from the yolks. As I worked, Amalia opened the cheese and started slicing cubes, popping every third or fourth one into her mouth. We ignored each other, me working diligently while she grazed on her selection of snacks.

  Switching on the mixer, I beat the eggs into a foam, then sprinkled in powdered sugar one tablespoon at a time. When the egg mixture had formed stiff peaks under the beaters, I switched it off. Shooting me irritated looks in between reading on her phone, Amalia tore bites out of her apple.

  “Why do you hate me?” The question popped out of my mouth against my better judgement.

  Her head came up, disbelief on her face as she chewed her mouthful of apple. Flushing, I pretended I hadn’t spoken and added a dollop of flour to the egg mixture.

  She swallowed. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  I winced at her dismissive tone, then stiffened my shoulders. “Not to me.”

  “Give it up, Robin,” she suggested nastily. “I’m not buying your girl-next-door act. We all know why you’re here.”

  Folding more flour into the batter, I breathed through my panicky need to flee her hostility. “What are you talking about?”

  She shoved a block of smoked gouda into a baggie. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you snooping all over our house, but you won’t find anything. We don’t leave our summoning secrets lying around.”

  My mouth dropped open. Summoning secrets?

  She pushed to her feet. “Just take your inheritance and get lost, Robin. Your parents already hoarded the family’s knowledge instead of sharing it with my dad. If the names they gave you weren’t enough, you can put yourself in horrible debt to buy some—like my father did.”

  Her casual mention of my parents punched the air out of me. As emotions ricocheted through my head, I whispered hoarsely, “The … names?”

  “The demon names,” she snapped.

  “My parents didn’t have any demon names.”

  “Seriously? How stupid do you think I am?”

  “They didn’t,” I insisted, blinking rapidly. “They weren’t summoners.”

  She shot me a scathing look. “We’re all summoners.”

  “My parents weren’t.” I resumed stirring the batter with jerky movements. “They didn’t practice magic at all. Neither do I. I’ve never even seen a demon.” That brief glimpse in the library didn’t count.

  I finished folding the batter and shakily poured it into a tube pan. My eyes were stinging—typical Robin, tearing up at the first sign of scary, scary confrontation. As I smoothed the batter into the pan, Amalia stepped back from the counter.

  “Come with me,” she said.

  “Come … where?”

  “You’ll see.”

  I slid the pan into the oven, set a timer on my phone, then followed her across the kitchen. She pulled on a pair of sandals and pushed through the French doors. Her long legs carried her across the sprawling deck and onto the lawn. I stuck my feet into someone’s oversized flipflops and trotted after her on my much shorter legs, shivering in the October air, its chill resisting the afternoon sun’s warmth.

  A large greenhouse was nestled among shrubbery near a high white fence, and Amalia swept into the humid interior. Confused, I peered at the rows of plants as she opened a storage cupboard dominated by a rack of gardening tools.

  Then she swung that open, revealing a hidden staircase leading underground.

  My pulse throbbed in my ears as I cautiously followed her down the dim stairs. She wouldn’t hurt me, would she? Hostile or not, she didn’t seem like the type who’d chop me up and use my decomposing bones to fertilize the greenhouse.

  She halted at the closed door at the bottom and checked I was right behind her. With a cold smirk, she shoved the door open and stepped aside to give me an unobstructed view of what lay beyond.

  Dimly lit by a single bare bulb in the ceiling, the forty-square-foot room was windowless and damp. Water stains streaked the cinderblock walls and unfinished concrete floor, and in the center of the cold, ugly square, a ten-foot-diameter circle shone silver. Lines, arches, intersecting shapes, and hundreds of runes spiraled over the ring, weaving in and out of its interior. I knew exactly what it was.

  A summoning circle. A second one. Unlike the library’s circle, this one held no darkness … but it wasn’t empty.

  A demon crouched inside it. Four long horns rose off its head, a pair protruding from each temple and curving upward. Enormous wings were folded against its broad back, and a thick tail lay on the concrete behind it, ending in a mace-like scale plate. Heavily muscled shoulders supported its large head and those huge horns.

  Even crouched, it was massive. Standing, it would be seven feet tall and built like a linebacker. Dark, reddish-brown skin stretched across bulging muscle.

  Deep-set eyes fixed on me. They glowed like lava, but instead of heat, they radiated primal hatred and zealous bloodlust. Its need to kill, to rip and tear and spill my blood across the floor, hung in the air like a poisonous miasma.

  I didn’t realize I’d moved until my heel caught on something. I fell back into the stairs, slamming my elbows into the concrete.

  Amalia swung the door shut, concealing the circle and beast behind it. She stood over me, a dark shadow under the weak light of the bare bulb overhead.

  “You weren’t lying,” she murmured. “You’ve never seen a demon before.”

  I sat up. My limbs were shaking, my teeth chattering. My stomach twisted, threatening to jump out of my body, and air whistled through my teeth. Fear more intense than I’d ever felt before coursed inside me.

  The definition of evil is an apt description of the demonic psyche. Now I understood. I no longer doubted those words in the slightest. The winged beast in that circle wanted to kill me—me and every other human it could lay its hands on. If not for the invisible barrier holding it in that circle, it would’ve already murdered us.

  “If you aren’t a summoner, why are you here?” Amalia asked.

  “M-m-my p-parents’ will,” I chattered as I wrapped my arms around myself to stop their shaking. “Uncle Jack is the executor.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “I h-haven’t gotten my inheritance yet.” I peered up into her shadowed face. “It’s been six months, but Uncle Jack keeps making excuses. Then he sold my house and kept the money, so I came here to … to try to …” I trailed off hopelessly.

  “Aw shit,” she muttered. She held out her hand.

  I stared, shocked, then reached up. She pulled me to my feet and ascended the stairs.

  “You really aren’t training as a summoner?” she asked over her shoulder. “But your parents were summoners. Why didn’t they teach you?”

  “My parents aren’t—weren’t—” Pain slashed me as I corrected my error in verb tense. “They weren’t summoners.”

  “I thought they were. Dad used to complain about how your mom sabotaged his career and forced him to start summoning from scratch.”

  We exited the greenhouse, but the golden sunlight did little to warm the shivery cold inside me.

  “My parents never mentioned demon summoning,” I said quietly. “Not once. I didn’t know Uncle Jack was a summoner until I got here.”

  Facing me, Amalia brushed her hair off one shoulder. “Summoning is the family business. We’v
e been summoners for generations.”

  “But that … that can’t be. My parents would have …”

  Stay away from magic and it’ll stay away from you. That was the lesson my parents had taught me. Pursue a career in the human world, not the mythic one. Study mythic history if you want, but don’t get involved in magic. And ignore the mysterious, ancient grimoire your mother diligently protects.

  What had my parents been hiding from me?

  * * *

  I sat on the kitchen stool Amalia had vacated, my elbows propped on the counter and chin on my palms. A plate sat in front of me, and on it was a perfect slice of fluffy white cake, frosted with whipped cream and topped with artfully arranged strawberry slices, a sprinkle of plump blueberries, and a drizzle of dark chocolate ganache.

  Angel food cake. The most perfectly ironic bribe for a demon.

  A memory, laced with terror, rose in my mind: the winged, horned monster with dark reddish skin crouched in the underground circle, radiating its desire to kill. I imagined the husky laugh of the library demon coming from its thin lips.

  I’d talked to a monster like that winged creature. I’d given it cookies. I’d told it I loved baking with my family.

  Picking up the fork beside my elbow, I poised it over the whipped-cream-and-ganache topping. I should eat this beautiful piece of cake. Scarf it right down, then head up to my room and plot my next move in the battle against Uncle Jack. I had nothing to gain from interacting with the demon.

  But I was going to the library anyway, because reading The Summoner’s Handbook was no longer a passing curiosity. With one conversation, Amalia had rocked the foundation of my world.

  Summoning is the family business.

  The fork wobbled and I set it down. Chewing my lip fretfully, I opened the breadbox and loaded a napkin with the cookies I’d baked early this morning, then picked up the plate of angel food cake. Lost in new worries that had joined the ever-present ache of my parents’ loss, I headed into the basement.

  The library lights were dimmed, the obsidian dome almost invisible. I nudged the slider up with my elbow and a soft glow pushed the shadows away. Cautiously, I approached the circle and knelt on the floor, then skooched close enough to slide the napkin of cookies over the silver inlay.

  “That’s for answering my question last time,” I said.

  Quiet was the only response, then …

  “Keeping your word, payilas,” the demon whispered, its voice only feet away.

  I couldn’t look at the darkness. Was there a monster concealed inside it—a seven- or eight-foot beast with giant horns, wings, and a tail made for crushing enemies? The crimson eyes I’d glimpsed—did they too burn with murderous hatred and insatiable bloodlust? Uncle Jack and Claude thought this demon could be the most powerful of all; maybe it was even more terrifying, if that was even possible.

  And yet … no matter what version of that winged demon I imagined, it didn’t match the soft, husky voice that slid from the darkness of this circle.

  I peered down at the plate. A strawberry was slowly slipping off the cake. “I made this for you. In exchange for your name. But … but I want to ask for something else instead.”

  The demon waited. A patient hunter.

  “I want to … would you … can I see what you look like?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.” I deflated, but I wasn’t sure if it was from relief or disappointment. “Okay.”

  I set the plate down and slid the cake, resting on a napkin, onto the floor. Wary as always of getting too close to the protective barrier, I prodded a corner of the napkin into the darkness. It was probably better I didn’t see the demon. Did I really want to add more fuel to my nightmares?

  Sitting back on my heels, I squinted toward the coffee table where the Demonica book waited. Demon summoning. My family’s legacy. An ancient grimoire. Secrets. So many secrets. Had my parents been summoners like Uncle Jack or had they eschewed magic as they’d taught me to do? What had they been hiding from me? Could Amalia be wrong?

  If demon summoning did run in the family, and the ancient grimoire had been passed from summoner to summoner for generations, Uncle Jack would never, ever let me have it. I had to get it first.

  “Payilas.”

  I glanced at the dark dome. Both napkins sat untouched on the silver inlay.

  “What do you want?” the demon asked.

  The grimoire. The truth. My parents alive again. “I want to see your face.”

  “Ch. Stubborn payilas.”

  I assumed that was a refusal. I was already turning away when the darkness inside the circle swirled—then disappeared.

  He sat at the edge of the circle, with one arm propped behind him, a knee raised, and his forearm resting on it. At my shocked gasp, he canted his head, the motion cocky and challenging, and his crimson eyes locked on mine. A faint magma glow emanated from his stare.

  He was definitely a demon, but he was so different from the one under the greenhouse that they could’ve been different species. He had no wings, for starters. In fact, he looked … he looked …

  He looked almost human.

  His smooth skin was the color of toffee with a reddish undertone. Black hair, short in the back but longer in the front, was rumpled above his dark eyebrows and wild as though a brush had never touched it. The sharp line of his jaw smoothed to softer cheekbones, and his ears had pointed tips. Like the other demon, four dark horns poked out of his hair, two rising above each temple, but they were minuscule—only a couple of inches long.

  My pulse thundered in my ears. I realized I was leaning forward where I sat, straining to get a closer look without actually moving.

  “Satisfied?” he asked.

  Those husky, swirling tones. Seeing his mouth move and hearing the sounds falling from his lips … how could I have imagined that winged monster speaking in his voice?

  If I’d heard his remark from out of the darkness, I would’ve detected only a flat question, but now, watching his face, the angle of his head, the slight narrowing of his crimson eyes—dry sarcasm, irritation, and perhaps a hint of displeasure at my ogling him.

  “I—I—” I couldn’t speak. I was too stunned. “Try the cake.”

  His gaze dropped to the angel food cake. He sat forward, movements smooth and swift, and pinched the napkin sticking into the circle. He dragged the slice across the inlay, then scooped it onto one palm.

  As he lifted it, his gleaming crimson eyes turned to mine. “Payilas mailēshta. Stop staring.”

  My mouth fell open. I forced it closed. “Sorry.”

  He waited a moment. “Still staring.”

  I forced my gaze to the floor. For about ten seconds, I resisted looking, then like a magnet drawn to steel, my eyes rose again—in time to catch him stuffing the final bite of cake into his mouth.

  “You ate it already?” I gasped.

  He swallowed, then licked a dollop of whipped cream off his thumb. Had he even chewed it?

  I scanned his alien face, trying to read his expression. “Did … did you like it?”

  He ignored my question and slid the cookies—classic chocolate chip—into the circle. He snapped one in half and shoved both pieces into his mouth. Swallowed. Picked up the next cookie.

  “You should chew,” I said faintly. “It’s … better …”

  He shot me an annoyed look, then rammed the next cookie into his mouth like he hadn’t eaten in weeks.

  Which, I realized, he hadn’t. Aside from the few cookies I’d given him, I’d never seen anyone bring food down here. Did he need food? He was obviously capable of eating.

  I unabashedly watched him devour the cookies in record time, my gaze darting from detail to fascinating detail. I hadn’t noticed anything about the other demon’s clothing, but now I studied this one’s garments.

  The most familiar shape was his dark fabric shorts, topped with a thick leather belt. Worn leather straps crisscrossed his right shoulder and side, holding a metal armor
plate over the left side of his chest. Two overlapping plates shielded his left shoulder, and a shining armguard covered his left forearm, strapped over a fitted sleeve that ran up to his bicep. Matching greaves protected his shins atop … leggings? I didn’t know what else to call the tight black fabric that ran from his ankles up over his knees. Strips of fabric wrapped around the arches of his feet, leaving the rest of his soles bare.

  Aside from the shorts, the other fabric he wore seemed only for the purpose of protecting his skin from the metal armor and its leather straps. That left … a lot of bare skin.

  He swallowed his final mouthful, then pinched the napkins between two fingers and his thumb. Red glowed over his fingertips. The paper smoldered, then erupted into flame. I jolted backward, but the fire consumed the flammable napkins in seconds. Ash fluttered to the hardwood, and I gulped.

  His eyes, glowing as brightly as the other demon’s had, turned back to me. His lips curved into a wolfish smile that exposed a hint of white teeth—a smile that mocked me, taunted me. A savage, hungry smile.

  Then darkness swept over the circle and it was an impenetrable black dome once more.

  Chapter Eight

  I flipped the lights on. “All right!”

  A yellow glow swept across the library. Balancing a plate on one hand, I crossed to the dark dome and dropped down to sit crossed-legged.

  Last night, after giving the demon his slice of cake, I’d spent three hours on the sofa reading The Summoner’s Handbook. Determined to gain a proper understanding of Demonica, I’d returned to Chapter Three and slogged through endless pages about summoning rituals. Even with my college-level fluency in Latin and Ancient Greek, the technical instructions were over my head.

  While reading, I’d felt the demon’s gaze on me. He hadn’t spoken again and I hadn’t tried to engage him, but hidden in that darkness, he’d watched me read. It’d been … weird.

  “Are you paying attention?” I asked. “Tonight, I brought you the entire cake—minus the piece you ate yesterday.”