Plate in hand, I crossed to the door, then looked back at the circle. Had the demon noticed the cookie enter its prison?
Curiosity sparked through me. Impulsively, I picked up a cookie, took aim, and lobbed it. It flew in a beautiful arc and dropped into the black dome.
I listened. No crunch or patter. No sound at all. Weird. I threw a second cookie. It too fell into the unnatural darkness, and again, nothing but silence. Either the interior of the circle was a gravity-free pocket dimension with no solid surfaces, or …
… or the demon had caught the cookies before they hit the floor?
I squinted at the circle, imagining what a demon might look like. Warily, I inched closer. Silence from the circle. I clutched my plate with the last five cookies and an assortment of largish pieces. Did I dare?
Before I could talk myself out of it, I flipped the plate toward the dome.
The cookies soared in a shower of chocolate, pecans, and crumbs that disappeared into the black dome. A distinct patter sounded as they hit the floor. Aha! So the demon had caught the first two cookies. Did that mean—
A soft scraping sound, then something flew out of the circle at warp speed.
The cookie hit me smack between the eyes.
I yelped, staggering and almost dropping the plate. Tears of pain sprang into my eyes. Whirling, I ran for the door, then skidded to a stop and ran back to grab the cookie off the hardwood. Didn’t want Uncle Jack to see that—
Oh crap. What if the demon hoarded the cookies to throw at Uncle Jack next time he came down here?
Cursing my stupidity, I raced up the stairs and stumbled into the dark, empty kitchen. I gingerly prodded my throbbing, burning forehead. A tender welt was forming between my eyes, and crumbs peppered my glasses. Ow.
If not for the pain, I might’ve doubted my memory. A demon had thrown a cookie at my face? Hands down the strangest thing that had ever happened to me.
I looked at the chunk of cookie between my finger and thumb. The demon had touched it. Held it. Taken aim and thrown it. Nose wrinkling, I pitched it into the garbage and scrubbed my hands until my skin was pink and raw.
Chapter Five
With one ear tuned for sounds from the upper floor, I pried the lid off a plastic tote and shone my phone’s flashlight inside.
The storage room, like the rest of the house, was so oversized it practically echoed, with endless boxes and plastic totes neatly stacked on simple wooden shelves. So far, I’d uncovered winter clothing and skiing gear, Christmas and Halloween decorations—weird, because Halloween was only a couple of weeks away, so why not put them out?—dated décor, toys from Amalia’s and Travis’s childhood, and three boxes filled with the same old romance novels I’d found in the library.
I rummaged around in the tote, filled with barely worn women’s shoes, then returned it to the shelf. Sitting back on my heels, I swept my bangs out of my eyes.
Was I snooping around my uncle’s house? Yes, I was.
Seeing as Uncle Jack was an illegal demon summoner, morals clearly didn’t concern him. Even without that mark of character to consider, I had more than enough reasons to distrust him. I wasn’t sure what I was searching for, but there was a chance Uncle Jack had already claimed other parts of my inheritance besides my rightful money.
Jaw tight with determination, I switched off my phone’s flashlight and cracked open the storage room door. The hall was dark and empty. I slipped out and tiptoed across the cold hardwood. When I drew level with the library, I paused.
Two days had passed since my … adventure … in the library, and Uncle Jack hadn’t stormed into my room to demand how his demon had gotten hold of freshly baked projectiles. He also hadn’t offered any updates on my inheritance or heirlooms. Amalia and Travis continued to ignore my every awkward attempt to instigate conversation. Oh, and the estate lawyer had stopped responding to my emails, meaning Uncle Jack had warned him off communicating with me.
I was losing hope that I would ever get my inheritance. Uncle Jack wasn’t playing fair, but what could I do? I had no power and no advantages. I was probably wasting my time. At this rate, I would need to sue him to get anything.
Right, yeah. Hire a bargain-bin lawyer with the pennies in my bank account and take my rich uncle to court. That would go well.
I had most of my treasured keepsakes already, and money was a convenience, not a requirement. Some heirlooms, however, were more precious than a check from the insurance company, and that’s why I was here. And why I wasn’t about to give up.
I wasn’t leaving until I had my mother’s grimoire in my hands.
All grimoires—the handwritten journals of sorcerers that documented their magical experiences—were valuable, but my mother’s was even more special. Passed from mother to daughter for countless generations, it dated back centuries. The grimoire was my mother’s—and my family’s—legacy, and it was mine.
My mother had kept it in special storage to protect the aging paper from degradation. I didn’t know where it was or how to access it, and I was afraid to mention it to Uncle Jack. He might not know it existed—or that I wanted it—and if I tipped him off, the grimoire could disappear forever. He’d auction it off for extra cash or bequeath it to his own daughter instead of me.
The timer on my phone beeped. I hurried away from the library door and trotted up the stairs.
The kitchen lights were already on when I walked in. Kathy stood at the sink, a pink apron tied over her floral-patterned dress as she scrubbed dishes. Her black pumps clacked against the floor with each shift of her feet.
I stopped at the counter, confused. The cooling rack was gone. No, not gone. I spotted it in the draining rack beside the sink of soapy water.
“Aunt Kathy? Did you move my muffins?”
She smiled at me with her overly red lips. “Did you make them?”
Who else would’ve? “Yes, I—”
“Travis is allergic to peanuts. Didn’t I tell you? I threw the muffins out.”
My mouth hung open. “You threw them out? But—”
“Just because Travis has an epi-pen doesn’t mean—”
“They didn’t have peanuts!” I interrupted shrilly.
“There were nuts on top.”
“Pecans!” I exclaimed, my hands curling around the hem of my sweater and squeezing. “Those were pumpkin muffins with cream-cheese filling and cinnamon-pecan streusel topping.”
“Oh.” She shrugged. “I didn’t realize. Can’t be too safe with a peanut allergy.”
“You could’ve asked me!”
Her black-lined eyes squinched. “Don’t take that tone with me, young lady.”
I glared into her foundation-coated face, her pouchy cheeks quivering above her wide shoulders, then my gaze fell to the floor. I walked out of the kitchen.
Earlier this afternoon, I’d bussed to the store to get ingredients. I’d prepared the cream-cheese filling before dinner so it could harden in the freezer, then made the batter and streusel after the kitchen was free again. Just because I was using baking as an alibi while I searched the house didn’t mean I’d committed minimal effort to the task. The muffins had come out of the oven perfect. The pumpkin aroma still lingered in the hall.
Tears stung my eyes. I hated this house and everyone in it.
* * *
I’d searched the storage room in the basement. The garages—both of them. The spare bedrooms. Every closet in the house, except the ones in Uncle Jack’s, Amalia’s, and Travis’s rooms. There was nowhere else to look for evidence of Uncle Jack’s lies or my parents’ belongings.
Well, there was Uncle Jack’s office, but he was always in there and I wasn’t brave enough to risk him catching me. The library, however … If Uncle Jack had somehow gotten his greedy hands on my mother’s grimoire, the library would be an ideal place to store—or hide—a book. Yeah, it was a long shot, but what else could I do?
I squinted at the library door, a foot in front of my nose. I hadn’t been
back since the cookie-throwing incident.
At the reminder, I lifted the paper towel I held. Stacked on it were half a dozen dark brown cookies, their crispy surfaces deliciously cracked to reveal the fluffy, cake-like insides mixed with chocolate chunks. White sea salt sprinkled the tops.
When I was stressed, I overindulged in my two favorite hobbies—reading and baking. I bit into a cookie and almost moaned. Perfect. Melty, chocolaty, sweet and rich, and a touch salty. Absolute perfection.
Fortified by sugar, I cracked the library door open and peered inside. Abandoned. Jack and his partner, Claude, usually visited in the afternoons, and it was almost nine o’clock now. I turned the lights up, then waited, staring at the black dome where the cookie-hurling demon hid. Had it saved any crumbling missiles for my inevitable return?
It seemed not, because nothing happened. I scooted the long way around the room to the sofas, set my snack on the end table—the one farthest from the circle—then surveyed the room. I’d already given the shelves one pass, but I hadn’t been looking for grimoires.
Keeping an eye on the inky dome, I started with the section on magic. I pulled out each book, checked it, then slid it back. Slow work, but I didn’t want to miss anything. The always-ravenous bookworm in me filed away each title, compiling a reading list so long it’d take me all year to finish.
Something scuffed against the floor.
With my hand raised to slide The History of Celtic Druidry onto a shelf, I froze, my senses stretching toward the summoning circle four feet behind me. Another soft scuff—like a body shifting position, limbs brushing the floor.
Silence thrummed in my ears. After a minute, my spine relaxed and I released the breath I was holding.
“Hh’ainun.”
I gasped in air to scream and choked on saliva. I started to lurch backward but realized the circle was right behind me, and as I spasmed in place, Celtic Druidry fell out of my hand and the spine hit me in the forehead. The thick tome tumbled to the floor and landed with a loud thwack.
Gasping and hacking, my eyes watering, I spun around and pressed my back against the bookshelf. The black dome loomed too close. I blinked away tears, my nose throbbing and knees trembling. My glasses hung crookedly off one ear.
“Hh’ainun.” The quiet, growling voice rolled out of the black dome. “Will you answer a question?”
Panic squealed incoherently in my ears. My limbs had gone numb and I couldn’t remember how to run for the door. The demon was talking. Talking. To me. It had … asked me to … “Huh?”
The demon didn’t respond. Maybe it didn’t know what “huh” meant.
Gulping, I sidled along the bookshelf until I was a safe distance from the circle, then took a wobbling step toward the door. I needed to leave. Uncle Jack had been very clear—if the demon ever spoke, fetch him or Claude immediately. Whether I reported the demon’s behavior or not, I should get the hell out of the library.
And yet …
From out of the circle’s inky nothingness, a creature from another world had spoken to me. Call me insane, but I kind of wanted to hear what it had to say. It was contained in the circle. It couldn’t reach me, couldn’t hurt me.
Pulse thundering in my ears, I backed toward the sofa and dropped onto the cool leather, relieved my weak knees hadn’t given out. I straightened my glasses, taking deep breaths. Inhale, exhale. I was okay. I was safe.
“Why should I answer a question?” I whispered cautiously. Then, since I’d already hitched a ride on the crazy train, I added, “You threw a cookie at me.”
“You threw it at me first.”
I stared at the black dome, even though there was nothing to see. That was … true, I supposed. “What’s your question?”
A long pause, as though the creature were second-guessing its words. “What is it you threw into the kaīrtis vīsh before?”
My brow wrinkled. Its English was heavily accented, but part of its query hadn’t been in English at all. “Threw into the … what?”
“The … vīsh … the magic.”
The magic? Threw into the … oh. “You mean the summoning circle? You’re asking what I threw at you?” Mad laughter bubbled in my throat but I swallowed it down. “Cookies. I threw cookies.”
“This is … food?”
“Yes.” I blinked bemusedly. “Did you eat them?”
Silence. Did that mean … yes? I had no idea how to interpret its lack of response. Who knew what long silences meant in demon conversation?
Oh god. I was having a conversation with a demon. I was crazy. I’d lost my mind. Stress-induced insanity. That had to be it.
The door called to me, but I felt tethered in place. It wasn’t fear that held my butt to the leather cushion and my socked feet to the hardwood floor. A new feeling had awoken inside me.
My archnemesis: curiosity.
A painfully familiar voice murmured in my memory.
“Oh, Robin,” my mother had laughed as she’d bandaged my scraped knees. I’d climbed a tree to look in a bird’s nest after reading about how sparrows care for their young, but had fallen on my way back down. “Curious and impulsive—it’s a volatile combination. You need to remember to think through your decisions.”
I thought I’d learned that lesson years ago, but even as I told myself I needed to leave, the demon’s quiet voice fed my thirst for knowledge, its words tinged with an alien accent—vowels sharp and crisp, consonants heavy and deep. A bit of throaty German and lilting Arabic, and a touch of rolling Greek.
A hundred questions crowded into my head. Where and how had the demon learned English? Why had it spoken to me? What was Uncle Jack trying to negotiate and why wasn’t the demon responding?
Or, even better, where had the demon come from? What was it like to be summoned to Earth? What sort of life had it led before this?
Don’t ever speak to the demon. Though Uncle Jack’s warning was easy to dismiss, I wasn’t about to forget my parents’ most important lesson: Stay away from magic. But my curiosity burned, and really, what was the harm?
“Um, demon?” I began tentatively.
Silence.
“Are you listening?”
Nothing.
“Helloooo? Demon?”
Not even a peep.
Disappointed, I slumped into the sofa. The demon had asked its one question and showed no further desire to communicate. Well, if it didn’t want to answer my questions, I’d get the information myself. Bending forward, I slid The Summoner’s Handbook from under the coffee table. As I settled back, I remembered my waiting snack.
Biting into a chocolate morsel, I opened the book to Chapter Three, “Summoning Rituals,” but the introduction was painfully dry. Craving something as intriguing as the demon’s voice, I began flipping the pages.
Chapter Twelve, “Negotiation and the Demonic Psyche.” I read the first page.
“Profoundly immoral and wicked.” The definition of evil is an apt description of the demonic psyche and should be kept at the forefront of a summoner’s mind throughout contract negotiation. A demon does not conceive of morality or integrity—though they can imitate those qualities to manipulate a summoner.
Remember, a demon’s ultimate goal is, always, your death.
The debate of inherent truthfulness has consumed the summoner community for centuries, but it has yet to be proven that demons are incapable of lying. It is safer to expect demons to lie, though they may avoid outright falsehoods. Do not assume a demon’s aversion to verbal fabrications means it is incapable of deception. Assume, instead, that the demon is both more cunning and more manipulative than you.
For these reasons and more, we recommend negotiations be brief and aggressive. The MPD’s recommended approach is outlined in detail in this chapter, and in later sections, we will address the best techniques for handling
The text cut off at the bottom of the page, but I didn’t turn it. My eyes lingered on the introduction. A demon does not conceive of morality or integrity
… A demon’s ultimate goal is, always, your death … Assume, instead, that the demon is both more cunning and more manipulative than you.
“‘It has yet to be proven that demons are incapable of lying,’” I read in a mutter, tracing the line with one finger. “That’s interesting. Why would a demon with no concept of morality not lie?”
Absently nibbling another cookie, I skimmed the next page. More of the same—demons were wicked and bloodthirsty, demons enjoyed violence and death, demons were intelligent and calculating, and all the reasons those qualities needed to be considered during negotiations.
My brow wrinkled. I shouldn’t have skipped ahead. I still didn’t know what the summoners were so keen to negotiate.
I ran my finger down the page to a new paragraph.
A concept that demons and humans both grasp with ease, and upon which our recommended negotiation strategy heavily relies, is that of fair exchange. A demon is more likely to agree to a contract that is presented as the demon’s surrender in exchange for its life. Leveraging the Banishment Clause is a crucial element of this approach.
“That’s a crappy deal,” I mumbled. “Surrender or die? Lame.”
I nudged my glasses up my nose and read on, but my attention drifted disobediently to the summoning circle.
After what I’d read, I should have been terrified of the demon, yet I couldn’t work up more than fluttery anxiety. Maybe it was because the creature was hidden in that darkness and unable to reach me. How scary was a voice, really?
It wasn’t a monster. It was a fascinating curiosity. Another bird’s nest high in a tree.
I snapped the Demonica guide shut and replaced it under the table, then scooped up my remaining cookies and walked across the hardwood floor. I stopped two long steps from the circle. My heart lurched, just as it had in that long-ago tree when I’d realized the branches had gotten dangerously thin.
I held up a cookie.
Taming Demons for Beginners: The Guild Codex: Demonized / One Page 3
