“Who is Claude?” she demanded. “His demon is in an illegal contract.”

“His demon is Second House,” I added darkly. “He has all the demon names now, because of you.”

“Not all of them,” he corrected. “A demon name is made up of three parts: the name written in the demonic language, the House’s sigil, and the proper pronunciation. Claude only has two of the three for the Twelfth House. I never let him see how the name is written.”

Claude had told me he had all the names, but maybe he’d been stretching the truth. If he couldn’t summon the Twelfth House himself, that explained his offer from weeks ago—the invitation to join with him. He’d wanted access to Zylas.

“I don’t know who he is,” Uncle Jack admitted. “I can’t investigate from here, but I’ve confirmed ‘Claude Mercier’ is a fake identity. He appeared about six years ago. That’s all I know.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, drowning in a torrent of emotions. Claude had murdered my parents. That knowledge shifted the axis of my world. Suddenly, my grief wasn’t alone. It had been joined by an equally powerful, scorching need for justice. For revenge.

“What about the Twelfth House?” I asked him hoarsely.

“What about it?”

“Why is it special? Claude told me his goal is to get his hands on a Vh’alyir demon.”

Uncle Jack tensed. “How do you know that name?”

“I found the scanned page on your computer before the house burned down.”

“Oh.” He drummed his fingers on his knee. “There are rumors—or legends, I should say, about the Twelfth House. Some say Vh’alyir is the most powerful, while others say it’s a uselessly weak House. One legend says the House is cursed.”

I tensed. “Cursed?”

“I don’t know what it means. The answers are probably in the grimoire.”

My spine stiffened even more. I braced myself. “Where is the grimoire?”

He gazed at me, and I didn’t look away. Didn’t blink. Didn’t cower.

“Here,” he replied quietly. “I have it here. Are you sure, Robin?”

I had to unlock my jaw to speak. “Sure about what?”

“That you’re ready for it.”

“It’s mine.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “But are you ready to protect it? I read your mother’s letter—the whole letter she wrote for you. Do you understand what she meant when she said she left you unprepared?”

I pressed my palms against my thighs. “I haven’t learned much magic.”

“That was the mistake she regretted most. She told me in our phone call … she’d realized abandoning all magic had been the wrong choice. Obscurity could only protect them until it failed, and once it did, she—and you—had no skills to protect yourselves. That’s why she needed my help.”

Was I ready to take on this burden? Was I ready to hold the history, the origin, of Demonica in my hands and protect it with my life? Was I ready to sacrifice my future and my dreams to safeguard a book?

“Bring me the grimoire.”

Uncle Jack pushed to his feet. He disappeared down a short hall. A door opened and his footsteps thumped down a flight of stairs. A long minute passed, then he reappeared, a flat metal box in his hands.

I’d seen that box before. Seen it in my mother’s office on the rare occasions she would bring the grimoire home to work on the translation for a few precious days.

He set the box on my lap. “The spell on it will only respond to sorcerers of our bloodline. The incantation is ‘Egeirai, angizontos tou Athanou, lytheti.’”

I pressed my hand to the box and repeated the Ancient Greek command. “Egeirai, angizontos tou Athanou, lytheti.”

White runes blazed across every inch of the steel. Swallowing against my racing pulse, I lifted the lid. Brown paper covered the precious package within, and I unwrapped it with gentle care, my hands surprisingly steady. The crinkling sheath opened and I gazed down upon the Athanas Grimoire. My mother’s treasure.

The leather was dark and worn, the stitching neat but the threads stained. In places, it had been carefully repaired with bright, sturdy stitches. A brass buckle on the front cover held an encircling strap in place, binding the covers shut. Crisp, modern paper poked out the top, the edge of my mother’s handwriting visible on the topmost page.

“I don’t know where she kept her translation work,” Uncle Jack murmured. “There are only a few pages in there.”

I touched the buttery smooth cover, the ancient leather webbed with tiny cracks. The Athanas Grimoire. It was mine … almost mine. Setting the box aside, I rose to my feet with the grimoire cradled in my hands. My mind turned inward.

Zylas? Please come out?

Uncle Jack gasped when the infernus on my chest lit up. Crimson light spilled from it and pooled upward. The demon took form, glowing eyes staring down at me, cold and unforgiving.

Shoving out of his chair, Uncle Jack gawked with a mixture of amazement and terror. Neither Zylas nor I looked away from each other, ignoring my uncle’s reaction. My fingers tightened on the grimoire and I drew in a deep breath. Exhale. Inhale again. Steady.

I lifted the grimoire. Extended it. Held it in the space between me and the demon.

Zylas. His name formed in my mind, clear and strong. This is the grimoire. It is the thing I want most. It’s the most important thing to me in the entire world.

He listened to my silent words, unmoving, expressionless.

I was wrong to hold the thing you want most against you. I promised to send you home. With this, I think I can do that. Without it, I’ll still find a way. No matter what, no matter what you do or don’t do, I will. I promise.

“What is she doing?” Uncle Jack whispered.

Zylas held my stare, waiting.

Doubt shivered through me, but I clamped it down. I’d broken the fragile trust between us, but more than that, I wasn’t sure if I’d ever really trusted him. How much faith had I put in the uncertain contract that bound him to protect me, and how much had I put in him?

He had admitted his fears to me—his secret worry that I might want him dead—but in what ways had I shown him my trust?

“I want to give this to you,” I whispered. “Until I send you home, it belongs to you. That way, we each have power over the other’s most precious desire. When I send you home, you can give it back to me.”

His tail slid slowly across the floor as he considered my words. He reached up, but his hand passed over the grimoire and instead settled on top of my head. His fingers curled into my hair, his gaze breaking from mine to sweep across the room.

He pulled me into his chest, squashing the ancient grimoire between us. As I squeaked in dismay, his husky voice whispered above my head, almost too quiet to hear.

“Drādah, I smell fresh blood.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Cold fear shot through my gut—then Zylas threw me backward.

I sailed through the air and crashed into Amalia, knocking her to the floor. Zylas was already whirling as the windows behind him exploded into shimmering shards. Three men in dark clothes leaped into the cabin, their fingers extending into long claws and mouths gaping hungrily.