I didn’t know a thing about her previous guild, but my last one—not counting the Grand Grimoire—had been a sleeper guild, meaning all its members were non-practicing mythics. My obligations had ended with paying the membership fee and attending a yearly check-in. The Crow and Hammer, on the other hand, required a monthly meeting and regular reviews by the guild officer assigned to supervise us.
Tugging my coat tighter against the icy wind, I extended my stride as much as my short legs would allow.
“It’s weird being back,” Amalia murmured, hitching her purse up her shoulder. “I feel like I’m going home, but …”
She trailed off as we stopped in front of a pair of wrought-iron gates, the decorative balusters crisscrossed with yellow police tape. The driveway stretched up an easy slope to what remained of the house. Where a two-story mansion had once sprawled was now a hollow, blackened skeleton. Charred studs supported the partially collapsed roof.
“Well …” Amalia said heavily. “This looks hopeless.”
“We don’t have any better leads,” I mumbled.
Together, we approached the gates. Amalia rolled one open, tearing a few strips of police tape, and squeezed into the narrow gap. I ducked through the opening after her and we followed the paved drive to the house.
Planting her hands on her hips, Amalia surveyed the ruins of her home. The garage had crumbled to the ground, the debris heaped on scorched metal that had once been luxury cars.
“All right. Our best bet is Dad’s office. After that, his bedroom.”
I eyed the blackened studs framing the front door, which lay face down in the foyer. “Is it safe to go in there?”
She shrugged. “It hasn’t caved in yet.”
She marched up the steps and ripped the tape off the doorway. Inside, a thick layer of ash and black debris coated the floor and crunched under our shoes. Studs were all that remained of some walls, while blackened drywall clung to others, the paint peeling and streaked with burn marks and water lines from the endless December rain. The stench of smoke and wet charcoal clogged my nose.
Amalia picked her way across the foyer and into the hall, passing the formal living room where I’d once eavesdropped on Uncle Jack and his business partner Claude. The furniture had burnt to heaps of sooty fragments.
Uncle Jack’s office hadn’t escaped the fire. His desk was scorched black, his papers no more than crumbling cinders. His monitor, which had fallen onto the floor, had disintegrated. I could see where his computer had sat—a puddle of melted plastic was fused to the floor—but the case was gone. The MPD must have removed it, but considering the state of everything else, I doubted they’d succeeded in recovering any data.
The filing cabinet drawers hung open, their contents seemingly untouched, and I wondered why the MPD investigators had left them alone—until Amalia tried to lift out a folder. It crumbled under her fingers, a flurry of ash dusting the floor.
“Damn it,” she muttered.
My heart sank. “Is it all like that?”
We checked every drawer, but Uncle Jack’s records were burnt beyond salvation. Abandoning the office, we dared to creep up the crumbling staircase to the second level. Huge sections of the floor were missing, preventing us from reaching the master suite.
“What a bust,” Amalia sighed as we returned to the foyer. “I knew it was a long shot, but still.”
“Do you have any other ideas?” I wiped my sooty hands on my jeans. “Uncle Jack hasn’t contacted you in six weeks, so chances are he doesn’t plan to. We need some clue where to look for him.”
On the afternoon the house had burned down, Uncle Jack had fled. Amalia was certain he’d reached a safe house and was in hiding, but for reasons neither of us understood, he hadn’t contacted his daughter.
Personally, I couldn’t care less if I ever saw my uncle again, but my mother’s grimoire was most likely in his possession. The ancient journal had belonged to my ancestors, the Athanas, for countless generations, passed from mother to daughter in an unbroken line—until Uncle Jack had gotten his greedy hands on it.
So far, I’d learned only two things about the grimoire and my family roots: one, the Athanas name was world-famous in the summoning community—so famous my great-grandmother had abandoned it when she’d emigrated from Albania—and two, the grimoire contained at least one demon name worth a heart-stopping ten million dollars.
I didn’t care much about its dollar value. Not only was it my last connection to my mother, but I needed it for other reasons too—reasons that had everything to do with the infernus tucked between my jacket and sweater.
“Is there anywhere else in the house he stored important documents?” I asked.
“Just his office and—oh!” She thumped the heel of her hand against her forehead. “The safe. Duh. It’s in the garage.”
She hurried out the front door, down the steps, and across the driveway to the remains of the garage. It had suffered the worst damage, the structure reduced to shards of wood and the twisted skeletons of the cars. Amalia bravely waded in.
Grateful for my sturdy winter boots as I clambered over a fallen beam, I joined her in the back corner.
She pointed at a collapsed wall—an eight-foot-wide section of drywall and studs. “The safe is under there.”
We grabbed the wall and heaved. It shifted maybe an inch.
“No way we can move this,” she declared, dusting off her hands.
Unfortunately, I had to agree. I tapped the front of my jacket, my finger striking the infernus underneath. Zylas?
Crimson magic blazed. In a whoosh of glowing power, the demon materialized beside me, squinting against the late afternoon light.
He wrinkled his nose. “It stinks.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” Amalia muttered, sidestepping away from the demon. Even after six weeks, she was still wary of him. Not that I could blame her.
His glowing eyes tracked her retreat.
“Zylas, we need to search under there.” I pointed at the obstacle. “Can you move that wall?”
“It is heavy?” He gripped the edge with one hand and pulled. The thick muscles in his arm bunched and the sheet of studs and drywall rose easily. “This is not heavy.”
“It is for us,” I said faintly. Yes, I knew he was strong, but the demonstration was still a shock. “Can you drag it over there, please?”
Still holding the wall with one hand, he considered my request—no doubt debating how rebellious he was feeling. Lucky for us, he also wanted to find the grimoire so we could strike his House’s name from its pages, making it impossible for “hh’ainun” to ever summon demons of his line again.
Taking hold of the toppled wall with his other hand, he hauled it out of the corner. As I assessed the burnt mess beneath, my lips turned down. The fallen wall had barely been scorched, but everything under it was blackened.
With the way clear, Amalia and I tossed aside scattered debris, unearthing the two-foot-tall steel safe attached to the concrete floor. She knelt in front of it and grasped the wheel combination lock.
The safe door swung open a few inches.
Amalia’s startled gaze shot up to mine, then she pulled the door all the way open. The shelves inside were empty.
“No way,” she moaned. “Dad must’ve come back to get everything.”
I crouched beside her, cold with disappointment. “Or MagiPol opened it when they searched the house last month.”
Zylas reached over my shoulder and ran his fingertips across the door’s inner edge. Bringing his hand to his face, he inhaled through his nose. “Smells like vīsh.”
Vīsh—his word for magic.
I scrutinized the safe’s locking pins. “Amalia, do these look severed?”
She examined them too. “You’re right.”
Zylas leaned closer, nostrils flaring. “I can’t scent the demon, only his vīsh. Too many other smells.”
Amalia shook her head, muttering something about a bloodhound. I rubbed my foreh
ead before remembering the soot on my hands. I’d probably just smudged up my face.
“Someone broke into the safe using demon magic?” I muttered. “That rules out your dad and the MPD, then.”
Zylas hopped on top of the safe, startling me and Amalia. He leaned over the opening, peering into it upside down. He rapped his claws against the left side, the metal clanging, then drummed against the opposite wall. It rang dully.
“This,” he said. “It is thicker?”
“It is? How can you tell?”
“It looks different.”
The sides looked identical to me, but Zylas had two kinds of vision. The regular kind, plus infrared thermal vision. Could he see the difference in the heat signature of the safe walls?
I looked questioningly at Amalia. “Is that normal for safes?”
“How would I know?” With a wary look at the demon crouched above us, she poked and prodded inside the safe. “Could you shine a light in here?”
I pulled out my cell phone, turned on the flashlight function, and aimed it over her shoulder. She fiddled with the safe wall—and a side panel popped out and toppled into her head with a thunk.
“Ow!” She scooted backward, rubbing her forehead.
I slid a brown folder out of the hidden compartment in the safe’s wall. It was blackened from heat but intact. I carefully opened it. A charred envelope lay on top, half hiding what looked like a legal document.
Zylas jumped off the safe. Landing silently on the burnt debris, he drifted away, maybe to search for more signs of the demon that had broken into the safe. Or maybe he was bored.
I barely noticed him go, my gaze frozen on the envelope.
“What’s that?” Amalia read the blue pen looping across the envelope. “It’s addressed to Dad but I don’t recognize the sender’s address.”
My heart clenched painfully. It took me two tries to speak. “That’s my address.”
Her head snapped up.
“That’s …” My throat tried to close as my eyes traced the loopy script, the little curl on the number three. “That’s my mom’s handwriting.”
“Your mom sent my dad a letter?”
When I just sat there, unmoving, she pulled the folder from my lap to hers. Lifting the envelope, she held it out to me.
“Read it, Robin.”
I took the thin paper with trembling hands. The top had been neatly slit; Uncle Jack had looked at it before locking it in the secret compartment in his safe. Scarcely breathing, I slid the single page out and unfolded it.
Friday, April 6
Dear Jack,
I dearly hope you will read this letter. It’s been a long time since you’ve answered a call from me but, please, these are words you must read.
First, and this is something I have been wanting to tell you for years now: I’m sorry. From the bottom of my heart, I am so sorry for everything. I can’t say that you were right about all of it, but I know now that I was wrong about many things. I’m only just beginning to realize how wrong.
I want to say more, to apologize properly, but there is something more pressing I need to share.
For twenty years, I’ve kept the grimoire hidden. I know you walked away from that duty. I know I refused to share either its boons or burdens with you, but I was so sure I knew how best to conceal it.
Jack, I think someone knows. I won’t fill this letter with my every suspicion, but in the past few weeks, the signs have become clear. Someone is hunting us. Someone is close. I’m afraid for my family—and for yours. If they found me, they can find you too. You know what’s coming for us, what will happen if they find us.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to protect my family. I need your help. My family and I need you.
I’ll be waiting by my phone. Please help me, Jack.
Sarah
My vision blurred with tears. I gasped silently, my heart ripping itself to pieces. Amalia gently extracted the letter from my shaking grip. As she read it, I fought for composure, but it wouldn’t come. I was breaking apart, the wound of my parents’ deaths torn wide open.
“Someone was after the grimoire?” Amalia whispered. “And your mom knew she was in danger?”
Pain shuddered through me. I took the letter back so I could stare at my mom’s name in her familiar writing.
“Robin, how did your parents die?”
“Car accident.” My voice was a dry rasp. “At night in the rain. Lost control and went off an overpass. They died before paramedics arrived.”
Amalia pressed her lips together, sympathy softening her face.
“April sixth,” I mumbled. “She wrote this a week before she died.”
I abruptly pushed to my feet. Letter clutched in one hand, I stumbled across the debris. Amalia kindly stayed put, turning her attention to the folder’s other contents.
I staggered out of the wreckage and onto the driveway. The overcast sky hung low and a sharp breeze nipped at my tear-streaked face.
My mother had feared for her life—and her family’s lives. A week before her death, she’d begged Uncle Jack to help her. Had he called her, or had he ignored her urgent plea? Had he left her to face whatever danger was coming, knowing her death would give him a chance to claim the grimoire for himself?
Either way, he’d gotten the grimoire—and the first thing he’d done was summon demons with its secret names and sell them to a rogue guild. My mother had spent her life hiding the grimoire, and he’d betrayed her efforts mere months after her death.
I cradled the precious letter in one hand, my other hand curled into a fist, fingernails digging into my palm.
“Payilas?”
I started with a frightened squeak. Zylas stood a few feet away, watching me.
“What?” I asked, rubbing the tears from my cheeks.
“Are you wounded?”
“No.”
He peered at me suspiciously. Since he was asking if I was injured, he must associate crying with being hurt. He wasn’t wrong, but I didn’t see any point in explaining emotional wounds to a demon.
His tail snapped side to side. “I smell pain.”
I jerked back a step. “You can smell that? How?”
His nostrils flared. “I do not smell your blood. Where are you hurt?”
“I’m not injured.” Sighing, I waved the letter. “My mother wrote this. She died seven months ago. It hurts to be reminded that she’s gone.”
He canted his head. “That is what hurts you?”
“Yes.”
A long pause. “Zh’ūltis.”
I didn’t even flinch at him calling me stupid for grieving my mother’s death. He was a demon. Sorrow, and the love that fueled it, was beyond his comprehension. “It’s a human thing. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Hnn.” He scanned the property. “If you were strong, it would not hurt.”
I rolled my eyes and wiped away a final tear. Another dig at how weak I was. Instead of retorting, I turned toward the garage to find Amalia.
“You were not ready to lose the one who protected you.”
Almost missing his quiet words, I spun back to face him. “What did you say?”
He gazed at me. “I found the scent of fresh blood in the house.”
“What?”
“Ch. Are you deaf and stupid, payilas?”
“How fresh is the scent?”
He twitched his shoulders. “I don’t know. It is faint. The trail leads”—he pointed toward the backyard—“that way.”
“Then let’s check it out.” I’d taken a few steps before realizing he wasn’t following. I frowned over my shoulder. “Are you coming?”
“I am going,” he corrected. “You stay here.”
“What? But … didn’t you come get me so we could go together?”
“No,” he scoffed. “I came to tell you first so you do not make noise.”
“Make noise?”
“Zylas, Zylas, where are you? Come back!” His accent vanished as
he imitated my voice. “I cannot hunt if you are making noise.”
I pressed two fingers to my temple and massaged gently, hoping to stave off the headache building behind my eyes. “I’m coming with you.”
“You cannot hunt.”
“I’ll be quiet and follow you.”
“No.”
I glared at him. “What will you do? Tie me up so I can’t follow?”
His eyes squinched as though he were considering whether he could pull that off. Chuffing irritably, he stalked away. No chance the impatient, contrary demon would wait while I told Amalia where we were headed.
With a frantic glance at the garage, I rushed after him, ignoring the little voice in my head warning me that, really, there was no way this wasn’t a bad idea.
Chapter Five
Zylas circled the house’s ruins, then paused to inhale. His steps flowing with a slow, eerie grace, he prowled toward the trees at the property’s far end. Shadows closed over us, and even from a few paces away, he blended into the dimness. He circled a towering spruce with boughs drooping under the weight of their dark green needles.
“Payilas,” he growled softly, “you are too loud.”
“I’m not saying anything,” I hissed.
“You walk with too much noise.”
I looked down at my winter boots. I’d been stepping carefully, and the ground was so wet from the nonstop December rain that the leaf litter had turned to mush. Mush was quiet.
He slid forward again, somehow moving among the trees without even a whisper, and I tiptoed after him, aware of every tiny squelch my boots produced.
The property ended in an eight-foot privacy fence. Zylas grabbed the top edge and pulled himself up enough to peek over it. The way must’ve been clear, because he dropped back down, only to spring upward. He landed on top of the fence in a crouch, perfectly balanced with his tail sweeping side to side.
“The scent is stronger,” he murmured—then hopped off the fence and landed silently on the other side.
“Zylas!” I hissed, rushing forward. “Zylas, get back here!”
Slaying Monsters for the Feeble: The Guild Codex: Demonized / Two Page 4
