by M. J. Scott
"My grandparents lived in Berkeley," I offered when the silence seemed to stretch. One day I might live there again. If I could find out what the hell was going on so I could finish this damn job. Damon’s fee would be enough to get me a long way toward rebuilding the house.
"We can do small talk later. Sit down." She shooed me toward the sofa. "Would you like some tea?"
"Do you have syncaf," I needed more caffeine than tea could give me. I didn't know what drugs they'd pumped me full of at the hospital, but whatever they were, I still had the edges of a headache and a healthy dose of I-need-a-nap.
"Tea," she said firmly. "You'll like it. I blend it myself. Sit." She disappeared through the archway. The sound of water running and cabinets opening ensued, leaving me with nothing to do but follow her instructions. Maybe I should have snooped a little, but my mother had taught me that snooping around magic wasn't smart.
The sofa faced the mantelpiece, so I studied the photos. There were several of Cassandra at various ages looking happy with a man I could only assume was Mr. Witch, and more of two boys—dark-haired twins—doing everything from Cub Scouts to graduating college.
Cassandra reappeared with a tray that held two steaming mugs decorated with the store's logo, a plate of chocolate chip cookies, and a battered red silk pouch. She handed me a mug, put the other one down on the table with the cookie plate, picked up the pouch, and sank into one of the chairs with a faint pleased sigh.
"Thank you," I said, sniffing cautiously. My nose filled with spearmint and chamomile, nothing alarming. But I reserved judgment. I’d shared an apartment with Nat too long not to know that things that were supposedly good for you didn’t always taste like they smelled.
"Drink it before it gets cold."
I glanced up guiltily. Cassandra had a look just like my Gran's favorite “I'm older than you so don't argue” face. I drank automatically. It wasn't too bad if you liked mint-flavored hot water, but it wasn't exactly the caffeine boost I needed.
"Good," she said when I put the mug down after several more sips. She drew a deck of well-used cards out of the pouch, shuffling them idly.
Each hissing snick of the cards as they slid over and between each other wound my nerves tighter. Time to get down to business.
"Meredith said I'd been bound," I said. "Is she right?"
"That's what we're here to find out." Cassandra put down the cards and studied my face. "You're sure you know nothing about this?"
I had no trouble meeting her gaze. "Nothing at all, I swear."
She held out a wrinkled hand, palm up. "Then give me your hand and we'll start solving the mystery."
"You don't want to ask me some questions, first?" In her place, I'd want to know something about me.
"I prefer to start with this. Hand, please."
I sighed and rested my hand on hers.
Her skin was warm and soft, her grip surprisingly strong. She closed her eyes, and then there was no sound in the room but the steady rhythm of her breath in and out and the pounding of my pulse in my ears.
I had to keep reminding myself to breathe as well.
After five minutes or so, Cassandra opened her eyes. "Well." She reached for her tea and drank deeply. "Meredith was right and wrong."
A chill swept through me. I picked up my tea, clinging to the warmth. "What does that mean?"
"You were bound. But not by a witch."
Suddenly not even the tea was enough to warm me. "What then?"
"A demon. You were bound to a demon."
A demon? I almost dropped the tea. Demons were very nasty magic. The kind that got you locked away for life if you were caught. Nothing I wanted anything to do with.
A thousand denials rose as my skin crawled, but only one made it into words. "How is that possible? I don't know anything about demons. I've certainly never seen one. How could one bind me?" The knowledge part wasn't entirely true, but the seeing part was. I was pretty sure meeting a demon was the kind of thing that would stick in your mind.
Cassandra's expression was stern. "You're telling the truth about this? Because such things generally require consent. And this binding—what's left of it—feels old. You never did anything foolish in high school?"
I shook my head. Sara had died not long after I'd started junior high. I'd been sent to my grandparents after that, and I'd done my best to forget I'd ever known anything about witches. Dabbling held no appeal for me. After all, I already knew I had no power. Sara had told me so. Repeatedly.
"You said what's left of it. It's not there anymore?" The thought made it a little easier to breathe, but the crawling sensation didn’t ease. I desperately wanted a bath or a shower or a bucket of bleach. Anything to wash even the mere thought of a demon away.
Even Sara hadn't messed with demons. I wouldn't have put it past her to try an imp or a small elemental, but not a demon. From the small amount I did remember her telling me, binding a demon was risky. And nine times out of ten, the demon won and the person doing the binding became slave, not master. Or dead.
"No. There are traces but they’re fading. Something has broken the binding." The creases in her forehead deepened. "Usually that only happens when the demon dies or the bound one does. And demons don't die very often."
That didn't make me feel any better. My grip on the ratty velvet cushion tightened. To deal with this, I had to stay calm. Stay detached. Deal with the facts. With logic. I could work with logic. Stick with that and I could freak out later. "Explain this to me. How does a binding work?"
"It's a contract of sorts. Or a deception. The demon feeds off the energy of whoever it's bound to. In return, the bound one gets something."
"Like what?"
"Power, usually, if the contract is with a witch. Otherwise more material things. Money. Or maybe influence or charisma."
I wanted to believe that people weren't that dumb, but there was ample evidence to the contrary. "I'm not sure having a demon feeding on me is a price I'd be willing to pay to have people like me."
"Not everyone is like you," she said. "Some people think a few years of life is worth—"
"Years of life?" I choked.
"The demon feeding shortens your life span."
White noise roared in my ears for a second. "Are you saying I'm going to die young because of this?"
She shrugged. "Hard to say in your case. If you didn't consent to the binding—"
"Damn straight I didn't."
Cassandra shook her head. "If that's true, then I'm not sure there's any way of telling what the effect might be. But the demon's ability to use you must’ve been limited. After all, you're still sane."
I wasn’t sure she was right about that. After all, I was sitting drinking tea with a witch and discussing whether a demon had been nibbling on my life force for years. Icebergs were either floating down the Styx or my life had taken a severe left turn into crazy town. "Should I be crazy?"
"It's not an uncommon side effect of being around demons."
"It's not like I have one hiding in my closet at home," I said.
"I would hope not," Cassandra said. "A demon strong enough to come through to this world is not a good thing. You'd probably be dead."
The noise in my ears came roaring back, accompanied by dancing sparkles of light whirling in front of my eyes. I bent over the couch and concentrated on remembering how to breathe for a few minutes.
When the urge to barf finally receded, I straightened and glared at Cassandra. "You know, your bedside manner leaves a bit to be desired."
"I believe in the truth," she said with another shrug. "Keeping people in the dark never helps them. You'd rather be a person than a mushroom, wouldn't you?"
Mushroom? It took my brain a few seconds to catch up. Mushroom. Right. Kept in the dark and fed shit. Not my style.
I gritted my teeth and straightened my spine. "So let me get this straight. I've been bound to a demon that may or may not have been feeding off me. That's how demons get power? Feed
ing off people?"
Cassandra nodded. "They use our energy, yes. Feeding is as good an analogy as any."
My head was spinning. "I think we need to go back to the beginning. Demon 101."
"How much do you know?"
"I know they exist. And now I know they feed off people. Assume that's it."
Cassandra picked up her cards again, cradling them between her hands. "Demons live on another plane. From the little we know, they're creatures largely of energy in their world."
"Go on."
"Like I said, we don't know a lot. No one has ever been to their world, and not many, thank the powers, come through to ours, but demons seem to focus on gaining energy. Whether they use it for politics or breeding or something else entirely is anyone's guess."
"So humans are an energy source?" I pressed my fingers to my temples, trying to concentrate.
"A very attractive one, we think. Almost as though they can do more with human energy than their own sources."
"Like we're a better grade of fuel? High octane or something?"
Cassandra nodded. "I guess. But also one that burns faster. The demons use up the bound ones and they die. Usually."
"So this bond may or may not have sucked years off my life?"
Another nod.
I looked at the ceiling for a moment. "Well, at least I don't have to worry about another Social Security collapse." As jokes went, it was pretty lame, but I cut myself some slack. I wasn't exactly on top of my game right now.
Cassandra gave me a small smile. "Don't invite trouble. Like I said, a lot depends on the nature of the binding. And we can get Meredith and the healers to examine you eventually. They can tell if any damage was done. But that brings us back to the question of how exactly you were bound."
It was my turn to shrug. "Like I said, I have no idea."
That earned me a look. She clearly still hadn't decided if she believed me or not.
"Then we need to go back to the beginning. Let's start with your mother. You're Sara Lachlan's daughter, yes?"
I flinched automatically. Crap, crap, crap. "You knew my mother?"
"My dear, I know—or know of—most of the true witches in the country. Especially those like your mother."
I didn't think there was much point playing innocent. "The bad ones, you mean." I couldn't keep the bitterness from my voice.
"The ones who operate from, shall we say, self-interest."
That sounded like Sara all right. "It's okay. You can say bad. I figured out pretty young that my mother wasn't Glinda the Good."
Cassandra nodded. "All right. Bad, then. Though believe me, there are those who are much worse than your mother. Some we cannot control. Some who escape us."
"Us?"
She waved dismissively. "Don't worry about that. We were discussing your mother."
Curiosity burned. Did the witches have some sort of ruling body? Or a police force, tracking down witches who did the wrong thing? I tried to imagine Cassandra as some sort of witchy detective. It didn't gel. And the more I thought about it, the more my initial curiosity was burned away by a torrent of anger.
If such a group did exist, why hadn't they ever come to stop my mother? I'd spent too many of my teenage years trying to imagine what I might’ve been like if I'd grown up solely with my grandparents rather than Sara not to hate the thought that somewhere out there was a group of people who could’ve made that dream a reality. Who could’ve rescued me. But didn't.
"You probably know more about her than I do," I said, the words sharp, not hiding the sudden bitterness in my heart.
Cassandra shook her head. "No. Your mother was clever. She stayed under the radar most of the time. And she never quite crossed the line that would mean we would have to act to stop her if we could."
There was that “we” again. And if “they” had a line my mother hadn't crossed, then that line was much further out than I'd draw it. As far as I knew, she'd never killed anyone, but some of the requests those who came looking for her had whispered were nasty enough. But maybe she worked things both ways—promised to do what they asked, took the money, and then worked a spell that didn't deliver.
That would explain the frequent midnight creeping out of town.
"Then again," Cassandra said, "perhaps she did."
I froze halfway in my stretch to put my now-cold mug of tea down. "What do you mean?"
"How old were you when your mother died?"
"Thirteen. And a few months."
"And you've never done anything magical since?"
"I don't have power. Sara told me that."
Cassandra pursed her lips. "In which case, the binding must’ve happened when you were a child. But why on earth would a child be of interest to a demon? And why don't you remember? Maybe . . . ." She leaned forward and put a hand against my forehead, closing her eyes again.
I stayed still, caught in my awkward pose, hoping like hell that Cassandra couldn't read my racing thoughts.
"Damn." Her eyes opened. "Nothing."
"Nothing of what?" I had no idea what was going on.
"I thought maybe you'd been made to forget. But there's no trace of such a thing."
"You think Sara did this to me? Bound me to a demon? My own mother?" I heard my voice go high and thin. Sure, I'd never thought that Sara was mother of the year, but I'd always thought she cared about me—as much as she was capable of, anyway. Most of the time. Or at least before she informed me that I was powerless and seemed to lose interest in me altogether. But then she'd died, so I never knew how that change might’ve played out.
Probably just as well. I couldn't hide the shiver that ran down my spine at the thought, throat burning with the complicated mix of regret and shame and anger and loss that always accompanied my memories of her.
Cassandra bit into a cookie and chewed thoughtfully. "It seems most likely. I'm just not sure how."
"Why? Why would she do that?" It hurt to talk, and I grabbed for my tea. It was cold but it was wet, chasing away some of the pain gripping my throat.
Surely Cassandra was wrong. My mother wouldn't sell me to a demon. Nobody's mother would do that.
Another head shake. "I can't tell you that. I can only think that she'd gotten into some sort of trouble."
"What sort of trouble warrants binding your child to a demon?" My hand shook a little as I sipped.
"The worst kind." She leaned across and put a hand on my knee. "I'm sorry, Maggie. I know this must be a shock. But the important thing right now is to work out how the binding was broken."
"Why does it matter?" I looked down at my lap, determined not to cry. My mother hadn't bound me to a demon. I wouldn't believe it.
"It matters if you don't want the demon to suddenly try to reform the bond. Now that you're older and aware, they may be able to use you differently. Take more. This binding must’ve been limited somehow, or I'd feel stronger traces on you. Demons leave their mark." She narrowed her eyes. "I take it you've never had the urge to kill chickens at midnight or anything like that?"
I tried to smile. "Not unless you count a fondness for Korean fried chicken."
She laughed, a warm soothing sound that made me feel—just for a moment—like everything might be okay. Until the sound died down and reality flooded back.
“Junk food isn't quite a demonic act," she said. "But really? Nothing strange at all?"
"Nothing. I—" I started to speak, then paused.
"What?"
"I have nightmares. Bad ones."
"For how long?" Cassandra's eyes were intent.
"Since my mother died," I admitted, trying to ignore the feeling she could somehow see inside me. "No one's ever been able to help much with them." I bit my lip, the pain a familiar sting as I pressed too hard. "Do you think they might be because of the bond? Could a demon affect me that way?"
"It's possible. If it were trying to influence you and couldn't, perhaps. Or it could just be coincidence. Have the nightmares been different late
ly? Better or worse?"
I tried to think. The past few days were a blur of exhaustion and headaches and work. "Maybe a little better. I'm not sure."
"Then we'll have to wait and see. And in the meantime, you'll want to take care of this." She put down the cards and poured herself more tea.
I didn't need convincing. If I needed to protect myself from a demon, then it was a no-brainer that I would. "What do I need to do?" I reached for a cookie, in dire need of something simple and comforting like sugar and fat.
"We need to get your aura back into good shape. I can give you some cleansing and grounding rituals. You need to replenish your energy levels. Sex would be good too."
I almost choked on a mouthful of cookie. "Sex is good for your aura?"
"Sexual energy is one of the most potent forms we have, dear. Do you have a partner?"
I shook my head, swallowing cautiously.
"A vibrator?"
This time I did choke.
Cassandra smirked at me. "I'm surprised that Sara's daughter is shocked at the idea of a sex toy. You did say you grew up in Berkeley, didn't you?"
I doubted my mother had owned a vibrator. She preferred her pleasures to come attached to a real live male. And I didn't need to add talking about my sexual habits with someone who could be my grandmother and who I'd just met to the disaster zone my life seemed to have become in the last twenty-four hours.
"Can we change the subject, please? You said something about a cleansing ritual?"
"I need to understand what broke the binding first." She picked up her cards again, shuffling them with a familiarity that spoke of long practice. I got the feeling that they were almost her equivalent of worry beads. "What have you been doing, Maggie? I've never heard of anyone breaking a binding involuntarily." She looked fascinated.
"Nothing. I've been working for Riley Arts for the last week or so."
"There must be something that's changed." Her eyes swept over me, paused at my wrist with its neat surgical shield. "Meredith said you'd been in surgery. She didn't say what for."
I didn't want to talk about the chip. "They took out my interface chip. Said it was giving me convulsions."
The cards stilled. "How long have you had the chip?"
