I set the plate on the floor. Four thick white slices were buried beneath whipped cream, strawberries, blueberries, and chocolate drizzle. Technically, it wasn’t the rest of the cake—I’d eaten a piece too—but I saw no need to mention that.
A quiet snort from within the circle. “Should I be flattered, payilas?”
My cheeks heated with embarrassment. “If you don’t want it, I’ll just take my cake and leave.”
Like smoke caught in a breeze, the darkness in the circle swirled away. The demon cast me a sideways look, his lava-red eyes glowing dimly. He lay on his back in the middle of the circle, one leg bent at the knee, the other ankle propped on it, foot in the air. With an arm tucked behind his head like a pillow, he looked surprisingly comfortable lying on the hard, cold floor.
I drank in the sight, tracing the strange lines of his clothes, the shine of his armor, and his reddish-toffee skin. I should’ve been afraid, but his danger had been stripped, his weapons disarmed. He was a tiger at the zoo, a wild specimen safely behind bars, exotic and mesmerizing.
His gaze slid to the dessert. “What do you want this time?”
“I want your name.”
“Which one?”
I waved my hand. “Not your summoning name. Your personal name.”
A corner of his mouth curled—that mocking smile—and he swung into a sitting position. As he faced me, a flick of motion drew my eyes—something long and thin sweeping across the floor behind him.
My expression froze. “You—you have a tail?”
He looked over his shoulder. The long, whip-like appendage swept across the floor again, and as it stilled, I spotted two curved barbs on the end.
“You do not?” he retorted, facing me again. “How do you balance?”
“I balance just fine.”
“Because hh’ainun are slow.”
I lifted the first piece of cake off the plate and set it beside the silver inlay. I’d prepared each one on a napkin so I could move them easily. “Your name.”
“Ch.”
I leveled him with a stare, shocked by my own boldness. Where had my shy timidity disappeared to? Maybe the key to my confidence issues was conducting all interactions through an impenetrable barrier.
He considered me. “Zylas.”
“That’s your name? Zylas?”
“Not zeeeellahhs.” He mimicked my attempt in an exaggerated tone. “Zuh-yee-las. Try again.”
“Zee-las.”
“Zuh-yee-las. Three sounds, not two.”
“Zyee-las.”
“Close enough,” he muttered.
“I’m trying my best here,” I complained. “My name is much easier to say. Robin.”
“Robin?”
Surprise fluttered through me. In his strange accent, my name sounded almost as exotic as his. Grinning, I pushed the napkin’s corner across the circle. He pulled it in, scooped the cake up, and devoured it in three bites. Still no chewing.
“You never said if you like it,” I prompted.
“Your name?”
“The cake.” But now I was wondering what he thought of my name.
He eyed the remaining pieces. “What else do you want?”
I thought for a moment. “How old are you?”
“Ih?”
“Huh?”
We stared at each other, stymied by the language breakdown. His age was hard to judge. If he’d been human, I would’ve pegged him as early twenties—but who knew how aging and maturity worked for demons?
I tried again. “How many years have you been alive?”
His face scrunched in bewilderment. “You count this?”
“Yes, of course. I’m twenty.”
“Twenty?” He scanned me from the top of my head down to my jeans-clad knees. “I learned your numbers wrong. Twenty is wrong.”
I held up one finger. “One.” I spread my fingers and thumb. “Five.” I added my other hand. “Ten.” I opened and closed my fingers twice. “Twenty.”
“How long is a year?”
“Uh … three hundred and sixty-five days, so …”
He rubbed his hand over his face in a gesture so human I did a double take. “Dilēran. I do not know this. I have no numbers.”
Disappointed, I slid him another slice of cake.
He shoveled it down. “What else?”
“What do you keep calling me? Payilas?”
“Pah-yil-las,” he sounded out bossily. “It means small female.”
So … “girl.” I scrunched my nose.
He flicked his fingers at the cake in a “give me that” gesture, but I scoffed.
“You don’t get a piece for that little answer. Hmm, what else …” I studied his irritated scowl. Black hair tangled across his forehead. If not for the crimson eyes and small horns, his face could’ve belonged to a human. It was disconcerting. “Why did you show yourself to me this time? You didn’t have to.”
“To see you properly. Wasted question, payilas.”
“See me? You mean you can’t see me through the darkness in there?”
“No eyes can see without light,” he replied dismissively. “I can see in a different way but it is … not details.”
I leaned forward curiously. “What sort of different way?”
“I can see … hot and cold. Shapes of heat.”
“No way! You have infrared vision? Like a snake?”
He frowned. “I do not know those words.”
“Infrared is a spectrum of light and a snake is an animal. A reptile—long and skinny with scales and—wait.” I pushed to my feet. “Hold on.”
I hastened toward the encyclopedias I’d examined on my first late-night visit. A set of handsome zoology texts with matching spines sat on a high shelf. I pulled one down and flipped through it.
“Here!” Rushing back to the circle, I dropped to my knees and held the open book up, the right-hand page filled with a glossy full-color photo of a viper. “This is a snake.”
He leaned in for a closer look at the page—and his head jolted. A shimmer distorted the air as the barrier rippled from the contact. Hunching to avoid the invisible force, he studied the encyclopedia page, then looked up.
My heart leaped with something approaching terror. I was kneeling close to the circle’s edge—closer than I’d ever gotten before. I could see the smooth texture of his skin and the dark, narrow pupils almost lost in the unbroken glow of his crimson eyes. I could’ve stretched my arm out and touched him.
“How am I like this animal?” he asked, snapping me out of my daze. “It is nothing like me.”
“Snakes can see heat too.” I pulled the book away and shifted backward, distancing myself from that dangerous line, then scanned the page. “It’s called ‘infrared thermal radiation sensing.’ Humans don’t have that ability.”
His attention had returned to the waiting cake. I slid him the next slice and watched him eat it with renewed curiosity.
“You said you wanted to see me properly. Why?”
“Why not?” he retorted. “Only three hh’ainun come here—you and two males. I see them only with … infrared thermal radiation sensing.” He pulled a face as though the term disgusted him.
I pursed my lips, surprised and a touch uncomfortable. He picked up new words very easily. How much was he learning from our interactions?
“I’ve seen two demons,” I remarked absently, distracted by my worries. “Including you.”
Interest sparked in his face. “Two?”
I recoiled under his gaze, but I saw no harm in revealing the nearby demon. Trapped in his dome-shaped prison cell, Zylas could do nothing with that information. “There’s a second summoning circle here with a demon in it.”
“Who is the other? His name?”
“I don’t know.”
“Describe him.”
“Um … very large. Long horns, big wings, a thick tail with a bony plate on the end.”
Zylas’s eyes gleamed. “Na? Him?” His head tipped ba
ckward and he laughed, the husky sound rolling through the room.
I inched away, my stomach dancing with fearful butterflies. Cruel delight lit Zylas’s face.
“To see his arrogance ground under a hh’ainun’s foot …” He sighed wistfully. “I would like to watch that.”
“You … you know that demon?”
He pointed at the last piece of cake. “Ask.”
Disturbed and no longer sure I was enjoying this conversation, I thought of Uncle Jack and Claude, of the other demon “ready” for a contract, and of Zylas’s refusal to negotiate or interact with them.
“Okay,” I said slowly. “My final question … why won’t you talk to the summoners? The other demon—”
His hand whipped out so fast it was a blur. I lurched back as his fist hit the barrier and ripples erupted across its transparent surface.
“Kanish!” The guttural word snarled from his throat, his eyes blazing red and face twisting with fury. “They sent you, didn’t they? A meek payilas to disarm me, na? Make me pliant? Satūsa dilittā hh’ainun eshanā zh’ūltis!”
Gaping, I shoved backward across the floor on trembling limbs.
He slammed his fist against the barrier again. Scarlet light burst over his fingers and snaked up his wrist. “Kanish! Get out of my sight!”
“Th-they didn’t send me,” I whispered, stumbling over the words. “They didn’t—”
“Get out!”
“Please listen to me—”
He bared his teeth—revealing pointed, predatory incisors. My mind blanked with terror. Tears stung my eyes, my hands shook, and my lungs quivered. Confrontation always undid me, even without murderous intent behind it. If Zylas could have reached me, he would’ve torn out my throat.
Actually, I corrected, he’d always wanted to kill me. He was a demon. Killing me would be the highlight of his imprisonment.
Gulping painfully, I forced my eyes up from the floor. Zylas’s burning glower sent my gaze skittering away, but I forced it back and focused on his slightly less petrifying chin.
“They didn’t send me,” I repeated, hating the quaver in my voice. “I’m not supposed to be down here. I—I only came to read the books. Uncle Jack doesn’t know I’ve been talking to you.”
His glowing eyes narrowed to slits. “Then you are too stupid to realize they are using you.”
“They aren’t using me,” I told the floor. When had I looked away? “I barely even talk to them, and when I do, it isn’t about you.”
Painful silence, pulsing with Zylas’s rage, stretched through the room.
“When you speak to them again,” he snarled softly, “tell them my bones will turn to dust in this cage, because I will never submit to a hh’ainun.”
His vehemence drew my stare up, but black night had filled the dome, hiding him. My lips quivered and I pressed them together. With unsteady motions, I nudged the final piece of cake over the silver inlay, then collected the plate.
I looked back with every step across the floor, but Zylas didn’t speak. The cake sat untouched. I slipped out the door and around the corner, then pressed my back to the wall and counted out a full two minutes.
Holding my breath, I peeked through a crack in the door. The slice of cake was gone, and as I watched, flames flashed inside the circle—Zylas burning the napkins to ash.
Chapter Nine
Hovering at the window as though enjoying the view, I listened to Uncle Jack’s and Claude’s voices retreat down the hall. They were heading to the basement for their daily attempt at negotiating with the silent demon. I waited a minute to make sure they wouldn’t return, then tiptoed down the hall to Uncle Jack’s office and slipped inside.
Reconnaissance Mission, step one: complete. I had infiltrated enemy headquarters, just like the sorceress Celestina Peruggia from A Study of Mythic Crime in the 20th Century—some light reading I’d enjoyed a few weeks ago. Was I weird for admiring a notorious thief of mythic artifacts? She was just so tough and competent.
I scanned the large filing cabinets, imagining I was Celestina scoping her next heist. The cabinets would take too long to search; better leave them for now. I circled Uncle Jack’s desk and dropped into his chair. Papers covered the desktop in sloppy piles, and I rapidly shuffled through them.
In the two days since Zylas had banished me from his sight, I hadn’t returned to the library. I should have. I wanted to keep reading The Summoner’s Handbook and I shouldn’t let a temperamental demon that couldn’t leave his circle stop me. But facing him again …
Besides, my priority was my mother’s grimoire.
I sifted through envelopes, forms, printouts, bookkeeping records, receipts, and sticky notes with scribbled reminders. Where would a professional thief look for valuables? My hands fluttered indecisively around the desk, and I berated myself for hesitating. Celestina wouldn’t have wasted time. Only the best of the best could’ve successfully stolen the Carapace of Valdurna from the terrifying dark-arts master known as the Xors Druid.
I opened the desk drawers. Basic office supplies in the top one. The second held envelopes, stamps, and a broken stapler. The final drawer was full of folders. I flipped one open, discovering a form headed with the MPD logo.
Hmm. MagiPol strictly enforced the laws that kept magic hidden and mythics safe, and they didn’t like it when people, oh, you know, forged important paperwork. I skimmed a few forms, then folded them up and jammed them in my pocket.
Now what? I wiggled the computer mouse and the monitor flashed to life, requesting a password. I thought for a moment, then typed “admin” and hit enter. Nope. I typed “admin1” and hit enter again. The screen blinked to the desktop.
That had been easy. Technological dinosaurs like Uncle Jack didn’t strain their brains worrying about password security. I opened his inbox and scanned subject lines and senders. Far down the list, a name jumped out at me—my name. “RE: Robin Page arrival,” sent by Claude Mercier—Uncle Jack’s business partner. I clicked the email.
Jack, I understand your concerns but if it’s that much of an issue, you should have refused to let her stay with you. I doubt she’ll be any help with the translation anyway. If you involve her, things could get messy.
Claude
I scrolled down, but there was no chain of past emails under the message. Returning to the inbox, I searched for “Claude Mercier” and a short list popped up—too short. Uncle Jack was either archiving or deleting Claude’s emails. Aside from the one about me, the others all contained attachments. I clicked the oldest one, a message from four months ago.
heres the page…i think this is the 12th house?? the sooner you get the name out of it the sooner we can get started. this is our big break.
J.
I cringed over my uncle’s horrible grammar. Claude’s response was right above it.
Jack, why are you sending this by email? Don’t you understand what this page could be worth? Email isn’t secure! No computer is! Delete these emails and the scans. I’ll bring you the translation in person. Be more conscientious of security.
Claude
I scrolled down to the attachment—a JPG file—and double-clicked it. An image opened on the screen: a scan showing a single page of a very old book, the paper yellowed and the ink faded. Handwritten Ancient Greek scrawled across it, but that wasn’t what had me leaning toward the monitor, my eyes wide.
Interspersed in the text were charcoal illustrations. A strange symbol took up the top corner, and a sketch of a person, front and back view, filled the lower half. The illustrated man wore light armor, minimal fabric, and had a long, thin tail that ended in two barbs.
It was a drawing of Zylas. Or, if not him, a similar demon. Was this how Uncle Jack and Claude had summoned a demon that, according to them, had never been summoned before? Had they translated this page and learned a new name—Zylas’s lineage name?
Footsteps thumped in the hall outside. Gasping, I ducked off the chair and into the dark gap under the desk.
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The door opened. Shoes smacked across the hardwood, then a filing cabinet drawer slithered open. Had the person noticed the monitor, or was it turned far enough toward the wall to hide that the screen was awake? Scarcely breathing, I held my hands over my mouth as the unknown visitor rifled through files. I had to keep my cool, like Celestina had when she’d smuggled the Carapace out of the Soviet Union.
I grimaced at the absurdity of the comparison. This was hardly as terrifying as anything Celestina had done.
The cabinet drawer slammed shut, making me jump. Footsteps retreated, and the door banged. When all was silent again, I crept out and grabbed the mouse. A few quick clicks, and the printer hummed to life. A page slid through the machine.
I cleared my search and closed the inbox, then locked the computer. Printout in hand, I escaped the office and returned to the second floor. Only when I was back in my bedroom did I take a full breath.
Mission accomplished. Sort of. At least I’d made it safely out of enemy territory. Celestina had too, but a decade after she’d sold the Carapace to a British guild, the vengeful Xors Druid had tracked her down and murdered her. Maybe I should pick better role models.
I smoothed my stolen printout and stared at Zylas’s likeness. This page had come from an antique book, which Uncle Jack had scanned and sent to Claude four months ago.
My parents had died six months ago.
I closed my eyes, fighting the heavy sickness rising in my stomach. If summoning ran in my family, and if my mother had kept important summoning details from Uncle Jack, chances were the grimoire was related to Demonica. And two months after my parents’ deaths, Uncle Jack suddenly had two new, rare demon names.
It looked like Uncle Jack already had my mom’s grimoire. He’d had it for months.
Fury, despair, and painful betrayal closed my throat. Uncle Jack had been stringing me along since the beginning. He knew what I wanted and he would never let me get it.
Fighting for composure, I glared around the bedroom. My gaze landed on the dresser, where my books were stacked. Shifting Bronze Age History aside, I picked up a worn textbook: The Complete Compilation of Arcane Cantrips. Pages were marked with bright stickers, corners were dog-eared, and a brown ring on the cover forever mocked me for setting a mug of hot chocolate on it.
Taming Demons for Beginners: The Guild Codex: Demonized / One Page 6