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

by Marie, Annette

“This,” I announced, “is a double-chocolate brownie cookie. It’s delicious, and I’ll give it to you if you answer a question for me.”

  Silence.

  “I answered your question,” I added accusingly.

  Quiet lay upon the room—then a soft, husky laugh.

  “A question, hh’ainun?” the demon crooned. “What would you ask?”

  Doubts trickled through me. This was a bad idea, but I plowed on. “Do demons lie?”

  “Ch,” it replied, a sound of cold amusement. “Zh’ūltis question. Ask another.”

  I frowned. “What does zhuh-ool … what does that word mean?”

  “Stupid. Stupid question.”

  My frown deepened into a scowl. I rephrased. “If it’s true that demons don’t lie, why is that?”

  A long pause, but it wasn’t the same silence as before. My skin prickled, instinct warning that a predator’s attention was locked on me.

  “Tell me truths and lies, hh’ainun.”

  “What?” I asked blankly.

  The demon said nothing, waiting.

  Brow furrowed, I searched for harmless things to say. “I moved here six days ago. I miss my college classes. My favorite class was biology. I enjoy baking for my family.”

  “Moved here,” the demon repeated in its swirling accent. “True. Miss your … college,” it enunciated carefully, as though unfamiliar with the word, “true. Biology … lie.”

  My eyes widened.

  “Your family.” It rolled the last word as though tasting it. “Lie.”

  “No,” I said. “That one is true.”

  “Lie,” the demon repeated with certainty.

  “You’re wrong. I love baking for my family.”

  “Zh’ūltis.”

  “Did you just call me stupid?” I clenched my jaw, then relaxed. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “I did.”

  “No, you didn’t.” Glaring, I took a deep breath. “Fine. Whatever. If that’s your idea of answering a question, I won’t bother asking any more.”

  I stepped closer to the circle, knelt, and carefully set the paper towel of cookies on the floor. Keeping my body as far away as possible, I nudged a corner of the paper across the silver inlay, then snatched my hand back. This was the closest I’d ever come to the circle.

  A soft scuff against the hardwood emanated from the darkness. The paper towel twitched, then slid into the black dome.

  Icy blades of fear cut through me. Suddenly, the demon was no longer a voice—it was a physical being. Something alive and solid and real that could pull the cookies into its prison cell. My gaze rose from the floor where the treats had disappeared to the curved black wall.

  A spark of red in the darkness.

  Flames burst to life and shot upward in a hungry blaze. I flung myself back. As I landed on my butt, the brief flare lit a shape within the black—the dark outline of shoulders, the edge of a jaw, the plane of a cheekbone.

  Burning crimson eyes caught the light and glowed.

  The fire died as quickly as it had appeared, and the dome was once again filled with impenetrable darkness, the demon hidden within. Gray fluff fluttered out of the circle—ash. Flakes of ash. The demon had burned the paper towel.

  I scooted across the floor, then pushed onto trembling legs. Without a word or a backward glance, I ran through the door and pushed it shut behind me, swearing never to return.

  An hour later, as I lay in bed, trying to sleep, all I could see was the demon’s dim outline—and those eyes that had glowed like hot coals, like magma erupting from a volcano’s heart. I realized two things.

  First, the demon had answered my question, if indirectly. I’d asked why demons wouldn’t lie, and the creature had shown me the reason: it could easily identify the fabrications among my simple statements. If all demons had a similar ability, lying was a useless endeavor.

  Second, the demon hadn’t been wrong about my last “truth.” I enjoy baking for my family … It had once been true, but my family was dead. Baking nowadays was comfort and torture wrapped into one, and the satisfaction it brought me was saturated with grief.

  Even that, the demon had somehow detected, and I shivered under the blankets for a long time before falling into a fitful slumber.

  Chapter Six

  I read my carefully scribed notes for the eighteenth time. After reaching the end of the page, I started from the top again. Twenty was a nice round number. I should read it twenty times.

  No, I shouldn’t. Sitting in my room reading my notes wouldn’t bring me any closer to my goals—namely, getting my mother’s grimoire and my inheritance, then leaving this awful house forever. Besides, I’d memorized the whole page by my third read-through.

  I folded the paper and tucked it in my pocket, ready to reference in case I lost my nerve partway through the conversation. My search of the house had produced zero results, so I was back to my least favorite thing in the entire world: confrontation.

  Honestly, I’d rather talk to the red-eyed demon than confront my uncle.

  Why was I so lame? Why couldn’t I be more like the famous mythics from my history readings? If I were cunning like the famous druidess Branwen, who’d saved a fourteenth-century town from a powerful wyldfae, I could easily outwit Uncle Jack. Or if I were an insanely powerful tempemage like Clementine Abram, who’d singlehandedly flooded a British town in 1952—a disaster blamed on military experiments—I could intimidate my uncle into cooperating. Or if I were a genius inventor like the sorceress Aurelia Metellus, the true creator of Archimedes’s infamous death ray, I could … um … actually, a death ray would be overkill in this situation.

  The point was, I couldn’t even work up the nerve to tell a store clerk if they scanned an item twice. How was I supposed to strong-arm my uncle into cooperating? I didn’t know, but I had to try anyway.

  Ducking into the Jack-and-Jill bathroom attached to my bedroom, I checked myself in the mirror. My dark brown hair fell almost to my shoulders in untidy waves, but it looked respectable enough. I adjusted my glasses, straightened my baby blue sweater, and tugged my snug jeans over my socks. Was baby blue too soft a color? Maybe I should change into something red. My current self-help book claimed red was a “power color.” Did I even own a red top?

  Since I only had six shirts to choose from anyway, I discarded the idea of a wardrobe adjustment. Outside the bathroom, I hurried past Travis’s rattling door—did he ever turn his music off?—and down the stairs. The late afternoon sun blazed through the windows as I cut across the formal living room toward my uncle’s office.

  “… get you anything to drink?”

  I slid to a stop as Uncle Jack’s voice reached me.

  “Coffee? Wine? I have an exceptionally fine brandy—”

  “We aren’t here to socialize, Mr. Harper,” a male voice cut in.

  I smiled. Hearing someone else interrupt my uncle was so gratifying. I poked my head around the corner.

  Uncle Jack was ushering three men across the grand front entrance and into the hall that led to his office. Claude, his business partner, walked beside him, but the other two were strangers. One man was tall and bulky like a WWE wrestler, while the other was shorter than Uncle Jack and moved with jerky, bird-like movements.

  “Our patience for delays is dwindling,” the short man continued with distinct hostility. “We’re reconsidering the wisdom of our generous down payment.”

  Uncle Jack muttered a response as they disappeared down the hall. A door clacked shut and the sound of their voices quieted. Heart galloping across my ribs, I crept to the office door and pressed my ear against it.

  “… demon has proved exceptionally willful,” Uncle Jack was saying in a greasy, soothing tone, “but we’re confident we can bring it under control in time for a contract. And, as I mentioned, the other demon is ready. We can complete the ritual as soon as you select a contractor.”

  “Our top contractor is waiting to see the new demon before deciding,” Bir
dman replied, his words fast and clipped. “You’ve told us nothing about it.”

  “The new demon is an unknown entity.” That was Claude’s voice. Instead of cringey persuasiveness, he sounded mild-mannered and confident. “It could be the most powerful demon ever summoned, or it could be the weakest. We’re just as eager to uncover its secrets, but we can’t rush the delicate negotiation process.”

  No one spoke for a long moment.

  “Demon contracts are expensive,” Birdman said. “Demon names are even more valuable. If you’ve discovered an unknown name—well, I’ve already made my offer. All you need to do is prove the name is worth it.”

  “We will,” Uncle Jack assured him. “We’ll have the demon ready for a contract in two weeks or less.”

  “I should hope, or you will begin again—without our funding.”

  “Of—of course,” Uncle Jack stammered. “But would you like to proceed with the other demon?”

  “We’ll determine that in two weeks, Mr. Harper.” An ominous pause, then Birdman continued in a more normal tone. “What of the paperwork? I want this contractor to be fully registered.”

  “We have a secure system in place.” A clatter, like a drawer opening, followed by the rustle of paper. “When you’re ready, you can add your contractor’s registration information to this form and I’ll forward it to my contact at the MPD, who will insert the documents into their database without—”

  High heels clacked against the hardwood, and I jerked back from the door. I got three hasty steps away before Kathy rounded the corner, the skirt of her striped A-line dress fluttering around her calves.

  “What are you doing?” she asked sharply, tucking a strand of perfectly curled, fake-red hair behind her ear.

  Shriveling with apprehension, I counted the knots in the hardwood between my toes. “I want to speak with Uncle Jack, but he has people in his office.”

  “He’s entertaining clients tonight. Don’t bother him.”

  “Okay.”

  “And don’t pester him about your parents’ will. He’s got enough to work on already.”

  “Yes, Aunt Kathy.”

  “Get moving, then.”

  I hurried back into the formal sitting room, then sank onto the nearest chintz armchair. This counted as leaving him alone, didn’t it? I whiled away ten minutes in the sterile room, re-reading my notes—forty-six reads now—until a door creaked open and voices spilled into the hall.

  “Thank you for your patience,” Uncle Jack babbled, trotting behind Birdman and his hulking counterpart. “We’ll keep you updated—”

  “Don’t contact me until the new demon is ready,” Birdman snapped. “Your time is almost up. Don’t waste it. I—and my superiors—do not enjoy disappointment.”

  They hastened past the formal sitting room, and Claude came last, hands in his pockets and his lined face calm. He glanced into the sitting room as he passed, his expression unchanging though he must’ve seen me, then disappeared after the other three. Male voices rumbled terse farewells, then the front door opened and closed.

  “We shouldn’t have lied to Karlson,” Uncle Jack fretted, his voice echoing off the entrance hall’s twelve-foot windows. “If they realize we’re no closer to negotiating with that demon than we were on day one—”

  “Negotiations sometimes fail,” Claude replied evenly. “It’s a fact of summoning. Some demons aren’t willing to subjugate themselves.”

  “Maybe you haven’t troubled yourself with the numbers, Claude, but we have a demon that’s never been summoned before. Karlson has already offered ten million for its name—but unless we can prove the demon has value, it’s worthless.”

  “If this one won’t submit, we’ll summon another.”

  Uncle Jack grunted angrily. Footsteps thudded, then he and Claude passed the sitting room on their way back to the office. A moment later, the door banged shut.

  I listened to see if they’d return, then hurried away. Kathy was in the kitchen, and Amalia and Travis were in their bedrooms, meaning I didn’t have to worry about witnesses. I zipped down the stairs and, throwing the library door open with no caution whatsoever, strode into the sitting area. Pulling the Demonica guide out of its hiding spot, I turned on a Tiffany lamp and checked the table of contents, then flipped to page 212: the section on demon names.

  Before summoning can commence, a demon name is required. These rare appellations are akin to lineages and correspond to demonic archetypes; demons of the same name share distinct size, form, and strength attributes.

  Demon names are typically passed from summoner to apprentice but can also be purchased, though even the most commonly known names sell for prohibitively large sums. The rarest are carefully guarded by unbroken lines of summoners and cannot be purchased. With such a small number of names available—believed to be between nine and eleven—procuring one is among the greatest challenges a new summoner will face.

  Wow. So that’s why Uncle Jack was so frantic over this demon. Karlson—his bird-like client, I was assuming—was offering ten million dollars for a new demon name, but unless Uncle Jack and Claude could prove it was valuable, they’d never see a penny.

  Shadows, wild and alive, drifted around the ebony dome in the library’s center. The creature hidden in that circle was worth a sum of money that people would kill for, but it was refusing to negotiate or show itself. Uncle Jack had no idea what sort of beast they’d called into this world or how valuable this new “lineage” might be.

  I carried the book to the circle and crouched two paces away. Balancing the open cover on my knees, I peered into the darkness for a glimpse of those crimson eyes.

  “How long have you been here?” I asked. “In this circle?”

  Like usual, the creature made me wait before responding. “Ask the other hh’ainun.”

  “I’m asking you.”

  “What did you bring?”

  Nothing. I hadn’t baked today, nor had I thought to bring a treat to exchange for answers.

  “I’ll bring you something tomorrow night,” I offered.

  A long pause. “Ch. I see nothing except this room.”

  Its statement confused me before I realized that was an answer. The library was windowless, meaning the demon had no way to gauge the passage of time. It didn’t know how long it’d been in the circle.

  Did it even matter? Uncle Jack’s business dealings—illegal business dealings—were trouble I wanted no part in, yet a nagging prickle in the back of my head had me running through the men’s various remarks, searching for … something.

  “The room warms and colds,” the demon said abruptly. “The other hh’ainun come in the warm. You come in the cold. Sixty-one cycles since the first.”

  “Warms and cools,” I corrected automatically. The basement was warmer during the day, and the demon had counted the temperature fluctuations. Sixty-one days, which was … “Eight weeks and five days. You’ve been here for eight weeks and five days.”

  Eight weeks in a ten-foot diameter dome in an empty room. An unpleasant twitch in my stomach made me swallow, but I caught myself. Did cruelty toward a demon really disturb me? The creature in that circle was a brutal, evil killer. Given the slightest chance, it would tear me apart. Then again, if someone had locked me in a tiny circle for weeks and weeks, I’d probably feel murderous too.

  According to Uncle Jack, he had two weeks to get this demon to agree to a contract. Why the time limit? Why two weeks? I looked down at The Summoner’s Handbook. Demon names. Lineages. Secrets passed from summoner to summoner.

  My gaze rose to the dark circle. “Do you have a name? Your own name, not a lineage name.”

  “Yes.”

  “What is it?”

  The unseen demon laughed, and its next words were a silky croon. “What will you give me for my name, payilas?”

  Oh, a new nickname. Its huh-aye-none one seemed to mean “human,” but I couldn’t guess this one’s meaning.

  I sat back on my heels. “In
exchange for your name, I’ll bake something for you—specifically for you.”

  “Why would I want this?”

  Embarrassment pulled at my mouth, which only annoyed me. I would not feel embarrassed that a demon didn’t want my baking. “That’s my offer, so take it or leave it.”

  I pushed to my feet, returned the handbook to its hiding spot, and stalked toward the door. As I placed my hand on the knob, a low call stopped me.

  “Payilas.”

  I looked over my shoulder.

  “Bring your something to me,” the demon said, “and I will tell you my name.”

  I regarded the black dome, then slipped through the door and closed it without answering. Curious and impulsive, my mom had called me. A volatile combination.

  Clearly, I still hadn’t learned my lesson.

  Chapter Seven

  I stood in front of the kitchen island, its surface stacked with raw ingredients, and dabbed the tears from my eyes.

  After missing my chance yesterday to confront Uncle Jack about my inheritance, I’d cornered him this afternoon. Cue another round of interruptions, dismissals, and glares that sent my gaze skittering to the floor. I was as angry with myself and my cowardice as I was with his deceit and greed.

  Sniffling, I began sorting the ingredients. Did I have any reason to doubt that Uncle Jack intended to cheat me out of my inheritance? Taking him to court might be my only option, but the thought made my skin tingle with anxiety. Calling lawyers’ offices … finding someone who would work for cheap until I won my case … going to court …

  I took deep breaths.

  Suing him would probably win me my money, but it would forever lose me the grimoire. How could I sue Uncle Jack for a book I couldn’t describe? I’d only seen it a few times. I’d never opened it and had no idea what it contained.

  Pulling myself together, I measured flour into a bowl. Tonight, I would resume combing the library shelves for any sign of my mother’s grimoire or other books from her collection. And while I was down there … why not learn the demon’s name? There was something perversely satisfying in not only defying Uncle Jack, but also in succeeding to communicate with the otherwise silent demon where he’d failed for weeks.