Tears streamed down my face. I slumped back in my seat, the infernus safely tucked under my sweater. The tower and its vampire nest disappeared behind us.

“Thank you,” I whispered, pressing a hand over my eyes. “Thank you for helping me.”

The woman patted my leg. “You’re safe, sweetie. Just tell me where to take you.”

I mumbled my address, then belatedly buckled my seatbelt. As the woman changed lanes to head east, I looked down. Crumpled in my fist was the photo. I stared at my parents’ smiles, and for a moment, just a moment, I allowed myself to pretend that the helpful stranger in the seat beside me was my mom … and we were going home.

Chapter Eighteen

The moment I was through the apartment’s front door, I kicked my shoes off and rushed past the kitchen.

“Robin?” Amalia appeared from her bedroom. “Holy shit!”

I had no idea what I looked like. Every bit of me hurt, especially my back, but I wasn’t worried about my health. I dashed into the bathroom, pulling the infernus out of my sweater with my other hand.

“Zylas,” I said breathlessly. “Come out.”

The silver pendant glowed. Red light spilled down, then expanded into Zylas’s shape. As his body solidified in front of me, his dark eyes gazed into mine—then he crumpled.

I grabbed him, gasping at his weight, and he clutched the towel rack for balance. It tore off the wall. As he staggered, Amalia dove into the bathroom and braced him from behind. Supporting him between us, Amalia and I pulled him over to the tub and tried to ease him down, but he was too heavy. He slipped backward and fell into the tub, his legs hooked over the edge and elbows smacking into the opposite side with hollow thuds.

“Sorry, Zylas,” I panted. “Amalia, get the hot water on.”

She spun the tap and water blasted from the showerhead, spraying across him. His dark eyes went wide.

“Cold!” he gasped, seizing the tub’s edge. With sudden strength, he hauled himself up.

“It’ll get warm in a minute!” I exclaimed. Amalia and I caught his shoulders and held him back. The last thing we needed was for him to collapse on the floor. “Just wait—”

He grabbed the front of my shirt and tried to pull himself out of the water—almost yanking me down on top of him.

“Idiot demon!” Amalia shoved him under the spray. He landed hard, water drenching him. “Would you toughen up for a damn sec—”

Zylas’s head lolled back, half-lidded eyes emptying as though a light had been flicked off. He went limp.

My heart gave one panicked lurch and stopped. “Turn off the water!”

Amalia wrenched on the tap. The water cut off.

“Zylas?” Putting a knee on the tub’s edge, I pressed a hand to his cheek, then patted it gently. No reaction. I held my fingers over his nose and mouth, lightheaded with relief when I felt his breath. “Zylas?”

Amalia leaned over his other side. “I think he’s unconscious.” Her stunned stare turned to me. “We just knocked out a demon with cold water.”

Should we have realized that cold water would have the opposite effect to hot water? “Let’s get him out again.”

Together, we hauled the demon out of the tub, then ran the shower until the rickety pipes produced a steady stream of steaming water. We heaved him back under the flow, straining several muscles each.

I checked his head was safely away from the water, then reluctantly faced the bathroom mirror. No wonder the Good Samaritan who’d driven me home had suggested we go to the hospital. My clothes were singed black, smeared with blood, coated in dirt, and torn in several places.

Wincing with each movement, I tugged two of my three sweaters off, removed the infernus from around my neck, and pulled the notebook page and photo out of my last layer. I handed everything to Amalia.

“Can you please put those in my room, then run a spare blanket and some towels through the dryer on high?”

She nodded, took the objects, and left. With a peek to ensure Zylas was still out cold, I stripped down to my underwear, located a box of bandages and rubbing alcohol wipes, and cleaned the scrapes and scratches all over my body. Between my fall through a ceiling and the demon magic explosion, I was looking decidedly worse for wear.

I checked on Zylas again, then hurried into my bedroom. As I pulled on sweatpants and a soft sweater, Amalia stuck her head in. “You decent? Good. Tell me what happened.”

Grimacing, I outlined our vampire nest infiltration and its depressing results.

“Another demon stole all the documents?” she repeated incredulously, following me back to the bathroom.

“Not just any demon.” Sitting on the tub’s edge, I checked that Zylas was still breathing. “Claude’s demon.”

“Guess he wanted his stuff back. Did you see the supreme asshole himself?”

“No, just the demon. I’m not sure what kind of contract Claude has with it, but that demon has way more autonomy than it should.” Fighting my despair, I wet my hand in the steamy spray and rubbed the blood off Zylas’s neck. “Chances are, Claude and the vampires now have enough information to find Uncle Jack.”

“And we’ve got nothing.” She tugged on her ponytail. “I still don’t understand what vampires have to do with all this.”

“Demon blood.” I splashed water on the punctures in Zylas’s arm. “Those vampires have been drinking demon blood, and it makes them as strong and fast as a demon. They said their ‘lord’ has promised them even more demon blood to feast on.”

“Where are they getting demon blood from? Aside from Zylas.” She gazed at him, nose wrinkled, then sighed. “Gotta say, I actually feel bad for him.”

I felt worse than bad. Guilt dragged at my lungs.

She left me to babysit my demon, and I fretted over his unresponsive state. After my one vampire bite experience, the tranquilizing effect had worn off quickly, but who knew how much worse it affected demons? Either way, his blood loss was my bigger concern; until he recovered enough to heal himself with magic, he would be weak.

My guilt growing, I pushed his wet hair off his face, then combed my fingers through the tangles. I was considering grabbing my hairbrush when he stirred. His eyes cracked open, the faintest hint of scarlet glowing in their depths.

“Hey,” I said softly.

“Sahvē,” he replied, equally quiet, his husky tones rougher than usual.

“I’m sorry about the cold water. I didn’t realize …”

Inhaling sharply, he pushed himself into a sitting position, the water pouring across his legs and lower torso. He angled his head away from the spray—away from me. “I did not tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“If I am very weakened, too much cold will kill me.”

My stomach swooped in dread. How close had we come to accidentally snuffing out his life? “You should have warned me about that.”

“Why would I tell you easy ways to kill me?”

Another swoop in my middle—a different kind. Jaw tightening, I reached down, heedless of the water misting my sleeve, and gripped his chin. I pulled his head toward me and growled, “Zylas Vh’alyir, you are zh’ūltis.”