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

by Marie, Annette

  “Uncle Jack?”

  “What do you want, Robin?”

  I fought the urge to shrink. Chapter Six, Part Three. “Visualize your results. Remember your goal.”

  “I’d like to discuss my parents’ will.”

  Saying the words stirred my grief into a fresh spiral, and my hands twitched against my thighs.

  His gaze snapped to me, then back to his monitor. His typing didn’t stutter. “I don’t like repeating myself, Robin. These things take time. There are lawyers and paperwork, and the insurance company requires ten forms for every little thing.”

  “It’s been six months.” Plus three days, but I wasn’t counting. “It shouldn’t take this long to—”

  “Not every estate is easy to settle.” His hands stilled and he swiveled to face me, his bald head shining grossly. “I’m sure you’re anxious to get your inheritance, and I’m doing everything I can to make that happen. Is it that painful to live here for a few weeks? I’m not charging you rent, am I?”

  My gaze dipped toward the nice, safe floor, which neither glared at me nor casually dismissed my parents’ early demise, but I caught myself and forced my eyes back up. Living here hadn’t been my first choice. I’d have preferred to stay in my parents’ home, where I’d lived my whole life, but as the executor of their estate, Uncle Jack had sold it. Against my wishes. I’d handed the keys over to its new owners last week.

  “I understand if there are delays with the life insurance,” I said, “but what about their belongings? They left me several heirlooms, which I would like to get from—”

  “Your parents left you their house and everything in it,” he interrupted. “Everything you inherited was in the house. Didn’t you put it all in storage?”

  Every time he interrupted me, my thoughts scattered. I pulled them back together. I’d had to put all of my and my parents’ belongings in storage because he’d sold our house. And no, I hadn’t gotten anything from the sale, even though the money was mine. The fees for storing an entire house’s worth of furniture and belongings was bleeding my savings dry.

  “I’m talking about the heirlooms they placed in a special facility,” I clarified. “I spoke to the estate lawyer and he said—”

  “You spoke to the lawyer? I’m the executor. Why didn’t you ask me?”

  Because he ignored me, dismissed me, and interrupted me, that’s why. “The lawyer said accessing items in storage should be simple, and—”

  “It’s not simple, whatever that fool of a lawyer told you. I’m working on it, but I don’t have access yet.” He tapped a stack of papers on the desk to straighten them. “I have work to do, Robin. I’ll let you know when I have an update.”

  Dismissed, again. Mumbling a farewell, I speed-walked into the hallway. Out of petty revenge, I left the door open a crack. He’d have to get up and close it himself.

  Oh yeah, I was so bad. Look at me, the rebel niece.

  Disgusted with my latest failure to get anywhere with my uncle, I stumped along a hall lined with oil paintings and ten-foot-tall windows with heavy drapes, then passed a parlor, a formal living room, and a dining … hall. Not room. “Room” was too plebian, too small and contained. The dining hall cradled a table long enough to seat eighteen.

  Uncle Jack hadn’t been kidding about demon summoning being “lucrative.” This house had so many rooms that I was still getting lost on my third day.

  Stopping at a window, I glared at the sprawling lawn, bathed in an orange sunset. Despite my uncle’s assumptions, I hadn’t moved in here because I needed somewhere to live—though I did. I was here because he hadn’t given me anything I was supposed to inherit from my parents. Money, even though I desperately needed it, wasn’t my main concern.

  I wanted the heirlooms too precious to keep at home—specifically one keepsake that meant more to me than anything—and I was staying right here in this house until I got it.

  I squinted at my reflection in the glass—my blue eyes narrowed ferociously behind black-rimmed glasses, my shoulder-length hair wild and dark around my pale face, my small mouth pressed into an angry line. Why couldn’t I give Uncle Jack a look like that? Instead, I crept around him like a scared mouse, staring at my feet and flinching every time he interrupted me.

  Shoulders slumping, I headed toward the kitchen. Voices trickled out, followed by a cheerful laugh. The scent of tomato sauce and melted cheese reached my nose.

  The chef’s kitchen dominated the house’s back corner: a high breakfast bar with beautiful marble counters contrasted with a monster-sized, stainless steel island with a double gas range, two ovens, and a massive range hood that descended from the ceiling.

  Uncle Jack’s daughter, Amalia, and stepson, Travis, were bent over something on the stovetop that steamed in the way only delicious food could steam. Amalia was twenty like me, while Travis was a couple of years older. Unaware of my arrival, they dished food onto plates while Travis joked about something and Amalia laughed.

  I hovered awkwardly, debating what to do. Telling my social-interaction jitters to take a hike, I got up the nerve to speak. “Hey guys.”

  They didn’t react.

  Too quiet. I tried again. “Hey guys. What are you making?”

  Holding plates heaped with spaghetti noodles and thick red sauce, they turned around. Amalia’s gray eyes, edged in heavy eyeliner, went flat and the laughter on her face died. She swept her messy blond waves over one shoulder, grabbed a fork, and exited the kitchen without a word.

  My innards shriveled like seaweed drying in the sun.

  Travis shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Hey Robin. How’s it going?”

  “Good,” I muttered. Nothing was good. Everything was crap.

  “We made spaghetti,” he said after a moment. “There’s a bit left, if you want it.”

  “Sure,” I told the floor.

  A painful silence, then he carried his plate out of the kitchen. I looked up in time to see his back disappear, his tight t-shirt showing his muscular arms and broad shoulders.

  I stood alone in the kitchen, furious and embarrassed by my inability to act like a socially capable human being, then approached the gas range. A pot and a saucepan held a few dregs of food. Sighing, I scooped the child-sized portion onto a plate. Maybe they thought that was all the food I needed. Short people didn’t require nourishment or something.

  Leaning against the counter, I ate my inadequate meal as my thoughts jumped from my failed attempt to confront Uncle Jack, to my missing inheritance, to this stupid house and the demon in the basement. I didn’t want to be here.

  I wanted to be home, tucked in my favorite reading chair with an old book, listening to my parents’ voices as they prepared dinner in the kitchen. We would’ve sat together at the table to eat, and Mom would’ve told me about the three-hundred-year-old book she was restoring for a client. Dad would’ve complained about his boss at the bank. I would’ve told them about the paper I was researching for my Roman history class.

  Scooping the last noodle into my mouth, I set my plate in the sink and dried my tears on my shirt. Grief weighed on my chest, and I was desperate for something familiar—but what in this cold, sprawling mansion could possibly bring me comfort?

  My gaze drifted to the pantry.

  Five minutes later, I’d stacked the island with flour, butter, baking powder, baking soda, salt, shortening, white sugar, brown sugar, two eggs, vanilla extract, semi-sweet chocolate chips, and a surprising find—a bulk bag of pecans.

  I searched the cupboards for mixing bowls, measuring cups, and utensils, and in no time at all, I was mixing dry ingredients in a bowl. As I worked, my worries faded. The unfamiliar kitchen didn’t matter. With each precise measurement and carefully followed step, I slid backward in time. I was baking in my parents’ kitchen, testing a new iteration of my chocolate-pecan cookie recipe.

  The kitchen filled with the mouthwatering aroma of melted chocolate, and I tidied up while the cookies baked. When I pulled them f
rom the oven, their centers fluffed with heat and edges golden brown, I could almost hear my mom exclaiming in delight. Leaving the cookies to cool, I finished cleaning, then stacked them on a plate.

  It was a long walk to the bedrooms on the second level. I stopped in front of Amalia’s door, practiced breathing, then knocked. A moment passed.

  The door cracked open and a gray eye glared at me. “What do you want?”

  I held up the plate. “I made cookies. Would you like—”

  “I’m on a diet.”

  The door slammed shut.

  I blinked rapidly, then exhaled. A dozen paces down the hall, I stopped in front of Travis’s door. Electronic music throbbed through the wood. I knocked. No answer. I knocked louder. The music pounded on. I couldn’t bring myself to shout for his attention. He was probably busy anyway.

  Cradling the full plate, I continued down the never-ending hall and stopped in front of a third closed door. I didn’t need to knock on this one. Inside was a bed that wasn’t mine, with a gray-striped comforter I didn’t like. My suitcase sat on the floor in the walk-in closet, filled with socks and underwear, and six shirts hung on hangers above it. Ten of my favorite books lined the dresser, the only ones I’d brought with me. The rest of my belongings were in storage with my parents’ things.

  I stared at the cookies, knowing what my evening would involve: sitting alone on the unfamiliar bed, reading old books, and trying not to cry. This time, I could weep into my giant plate of cookies. I’d be sad and sick to my stomach. Extra fun.

  I needed a better distraction. When was the last time I’d gone this long without a new book to read? I used to spend half my free time browsing library shelves at my college campus—

  Library shelves.

  My gaze dropped to the floor as though I could see through it. There was a library right in this house—a big, private library full of fascinating leather-bound books.

  Books … and a demon.

  Uncle Jack had told me to stay out of the basement—but did I care what he wanted? Reckless daring swept through me. Turning on my heel, I strode toward the stairs.

  Chapter Four

  Balancing the plate of cookies on my palm, I cracked the library door open and peeked inside. In the sconce lights’ soft glow, shadows swathed the room. The demonic dome sat in the center, bizarre and disturbing.

  I hovered in the doorway, remembering the quiet laughter from my first and only visit.

  Slipping through the door, I found a sliding switch on the wall and pushed it up. The lights brightened, banishing the dimness to the corners. The dome of unnatural night looked even stranger. I edged along a wall of shelves, clutching my plate as though to hurl it at the first sign of movement.

  The circle was black and silent. No sign of life.

  Prickles ran over my arms. Concealed inside that darkness was a demon. A creature from … well, not theological Hell. A hellish dimension, though. That was all I knew; I’d only read passing descriptions of demon summoning. Unsurprisingly, it wasn’t an interest of mine.

  I contemplated retreating but the lure of books was stronger. The demon was stuck in that circle. The worst it could do was laugh at me. I deposited my cookie plate on the end table beside a leather sofa, selected two cookies, then set out to explore.

  Most people couldn’t have ignored a demon sharing the library with them, but most people didn’t love books as much as I did.

  Thirty minutes slipped away as I browsed the shelves, finding encyclopedias, histories of every culture and country I could think of, geography and nature studies, copies of ancient classics, some modern classics, travel books, and, oddly, a single shelf in the back corner stacked with outdated romance novels, their paper covers boasting faded men with long hair and open shirts billowing in the wind.

  Returning to the cookies, I grabbed a morsel and bit into the chocolaty goodness. I was itching to pick a book and get reading, but one section of the library remained unexplored: the shelves across from the door, right behind the demon circle. Those books differed from the rest—more sizes, more colors, and disorganized like someone had been shifting them around.

  I studied the six feet of space between the circle’s silver inlay and the shelves. Six feet was plenty. As long as I didn’t trip and fall over, I’d be fine.

  Heart thudding in my chest, I slipped in front of the shelves and scanned the spines. My racing pulse kicked up a notch. Everything I’d seen so far were histories, texts, and novels I could find in most well-stocked libraries, but these—these books were about magic.

  Magic textbooks. Magic studies. Magic histories. Arcana, Elementaria, Spiritalis, Psychica, and Demonica—all five classes of magic were represented on the shelves.

  Studying magic was my greatest passion. Technically, I was a sorceress—a mythic of the Arcana class—but I’d never begun an apprenticeship. Stay away from magic. That was our family motto, and studying the supernatural phenomena of the world was as close as I was willing to get to real power. I was an academic spectator to the most dangerous game in the world—and perfectly happy to stay out of the arena.

  Eyes sweeping across the titles, I excitedly pulled out a book: An Examination of Astral Constructions in Arcana. The next one: The Unique Physiology of Elementaria. Then, Infamous Psychics of the 21st Century and The Witch’s Mission: Balancing Modernity, Nature, and Fae.

  I stacked the books in my arms, then crouched to read the titles at the bottom—but the spines were blank. Curious, I chose a thick tome at random and slid it out. The leather cover wasn’t old and peeling as I’d expected, but shiny and stiff. I flipped it open. The title page stuck to the cover, and my eyes fell on the table of contents instead.

  1. An Introduction to Demon Summoning

  2. MPD Regulations and Requirements

  2.1 Legal Practices & Penalties

  2.2 Permit Paperwork

  2.3 Inspection Timelines

  2.4 Contractor Registration

  3. Summoning Rituals

  3.1 Standard Variations

  3.2 Greek vs. Latin Incantations

  3.3 Location Requirements

  3.4 Constructing the Ritual

  3.5 Common Execution Errors

  3.6 Containment Failure

  4. Contract Basics

  4.1 MPD-Approved Templates

  4.2 Common Mistakes

  4.3 Contract Length: Brevity vs. Diligence

  4.4 Language to Avoid

  4.5 The Banishment Clause

  4.6 Recommended Advance Preparations

  It went on like that for thirty-two chapters and countless more subheadings, covering everything from selecting contractors to negotiation techniques to demon names. I thumbed through a few more pages, then unstuck the title page.

  Legal Demonica: The Summoner’s Handbook

  Presented by the Magicae Politiae Denuntiatores

  Magicae Politiae Denuntiatores—a semi-secret international organization commonly known as the MPD or MagiPol. Not only did the MPD conceal the existence of magic from the public, but they also policed anything and everything that used or abused preternatural power. If this summoning guide was their literal rulebook, why not learn exactly how Uncle Jack was breaking the law? I was betting Chapter 3.3, “Location Requirements,” didn’t include residential basements as a legal option.

  I carried my book selections to the leather sofa and curled up beside my plate of cookies. As I flipped The Summoner’s Handbook to the first page of text—“Foreword by Arnaldo Banderas, MPD Special Agent”—and lifted a cookie to my mouth, I remembered I wasn’t alone in the library.

  My gaze shot to the inky dome. How had I forgotten about the demon? I briefly considered sneaking the books up to my room, but stealth wasn’t a strength of mine. Besides, all was quiet—no creepy laughter, no sounds of movement.

  I took a big bite of my cookie and began reading. The minutes slipped past as I breezed through the book’s foreword and introduction. It wasn’t until the end of the sec
ond chapter that I noticed my eyes were tired.

  Closing the cover, I mused about what I’d learned. Uncle Jack was definitely breaking laws, and if the MPD caught him, he’d face jail time or even the death penalty. The MPD didn’t mess around when it came to illegal summoners. My impression so far was that they’d rather people didn’t summon demons at all.

  My gaze drifted to the dark circle again. The creature hidden inside was a killing machine; its primary function was murder, and if it ever escaped, it would slaughter every person it encountered until someone killed it.

  I decided I didn’t want to be in this room any longer.

  With numb fingers—why was it so cold in here?—I set my chosen books on the floor and, one by one, slid them under the coffee table. Unless someone decided to rearrange the furniture, they’d never know the books were there.

  Satisfied, I got to my feet and took two steps, then remembered my half-eaten plate of cookies. I grabbed the plate, accidentally jarring it in my haste. The stack of cookies slid across the sleek ceramic surface and tumbled off. They hit the floor in a spray of crumbs, bouncing everywhere. One, rolling like a perfect little wheel, trundled across the hardwood floor.

  It rolled, wobbled, curved—and disappeared across the silver line.

  I gawked at the spot where the cookie had vanished into the black dome. Panic screeched in my head, and I jerked backward, expecting the cookie to come flying out, hurled like a doughy bullet into my eye socket. Could a demon throw a cookie hard enough to kill?

  At that last thought, my panic waned. A cookie would hurt, should it be whipped with inhuman force into my soft flesh, but I doubted it could do serious damage. Maybe the demon realized that too.

  Unmoving, I waited a full minute, but no sound came from the circle. The cookie did not reappear.

  Breathing out, I cautiously scooped the fallen cookies off the floor and restacked them on the plate. I pondered the crumb-strewn hardwood, then used my socked foot to sweep the crumbs under the side table. Did I care that I was befouling Uncle Jack’s mansion? Not one bit. If I was contributing to a vermin problem, all the better.