I pulled out my cell phone, turned on the flashlight function, and aimed it over her shoulder. She fiddled with the safe wall—and a side panel popped out and toppled into her head with a thunk.

“Ow!” She scooted backward, rubbing her forehead.

I slid a brown folder out of the hidden compartment in the safe’s wall. It was blackened from heat but intact. I carefully opened it. A charred envelope lay on top, half hiding what looked like a legal document.

Zylas jumped off the safe. Landing silently on the burnt debris, he drifted away, maybe to search for more signs of the demon that had broken into the safe. Or maybe he was bored.

I barely noticed him go, my gaze frozen on the envelope.

“What’s that?” Amalia read the blue pen looping across the envelope. “It’s addressed to Dad but I don’t recognize the sender’s address.”

My heart clenched painfully. It took me two tries to speak. “That’s my address.”

Her head snapped up.

“That’s …” My throat tried to close as my eyes traced the loopy script, the little curl on the number three. “That’s my mom’s handwriting.”

“Your mom sent my dad a letter?”

When I just sat there, unmoving, she pulled the folder from my lap to hers. Lifting the envelope, she held it out to me.

“Read it, Robin.”

I took the thin paper with trembling hands. The top had been neatly slit; Uncle Jack had looked at it before locking it in the secret compartment in his safe. Scarcely breathing, I slid the single page out and unfolded it.

Friday, April 6

 

Dear Jack,

I dearly hope you will read this letter. It’s been a long time since you’ve answered a call from me but, please, these are words you must read.

First, and this is something I have been wanting to tell you for years now: I’m sorry. From the bottom of my heart, I am so sorry for everything. I can’t say that you were right about all of it, but I know now that I was wrong about many things. I’m only just beginning to realize how wrong.

I want to say more, to apologize properly, but there is something more pressing I need to share.

For twenty years, I’ve kept the grimoire hidden. I know you walked away from that duty. I know I refused to share either its boons or burdens with you, but I was so sure I knew how best to conceal it.

Jack, I think someone knows. I won’t fill this letter with my every suspicion, but in the past few weeks, the signs have become clear. Someone is hunting us. Someone is close. I’m afraid for my family—and for yours. If they found me, they can find you too. You know what’s coming for us, what will happen if they find us.

I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to protect my family. I need your help. My family and I need you.

I’ll be waiting by my phone. Please help me, Jack.

 

Sarah

My vision blurred with tears. I gasped silently, my heart ripping itself to pieces. Amalia gently extracted the letter from my shaking grip. As she read it, I fought for composure, but it wouldn’t come. I was breaking apart, the wound of my parents’ deaths torn wide open.

“Someone was after the grimoire?” Amalia whispered. “And your mom knew she was in danger?”

Pain shuddered through me. I took the letter back so I could stare at my mom’s name in her familiar writing.

“Robin, how did your parents die?”

“Car accident.” My voice was a dry rasp. “At night in the rain. Lost control and went off an overpass. They died before paramedics arrived.”

Amalia pressed her lips together, sympathy softening her face.

“April sixth,” I mumbled. “She wrote this a week before she died.”

I abruptly pushed to my feet. Letter clutched in one hand, I stumbled across the debris. Amalia kindly stayed put, turning her attention to the folder’s other contents.

I staggered out of the wreckage and onto the driveway. The overcast sky hung low and a sharp breeze nipped at my tear-streaked face.

My mother had feared for her life—and her family’s lives. A week before her death, she’d begged Uncle Jack to help her. Had he called her, or had he ignored her urgent plea? Had he left her to face whatever danger was coming, knowing her death would give him a chance to claim the grimoire for himself?

Either way, he’d gotten the grimoire—and the first thing he’d done was summon demons with its secret names and sell them to a rogue guild. My mother had spent her life hiding the grimoire, and he’d betrayed her efforts mere months after her death.

I cradled the precious letter in one hand, my other hand curled into a fist, fingernails digging into my palm.

“Payilas?”

I started with a frightened squeak. Zylas stood a few feet away, watching me.

“What?” I asked, rubbing the tears from my cheeks.

“Are you wounded?”

“No.”

He peered at me suspiciously. Since he was asking if I was injured, he must associate crying with being hurt. He wasn’t wrong, but I didn’t see any point in explaining emotional wounds to a demon.

His tail snapped side to side. “I smell pain.”

I jerked back a step. “You can smell that? How?”

His nostrils flared. “I do not smell your blood. Where are you hurt?”

“I’m not injured.” Sighing, I waved the letter. “My mother wrote this. She died seven months ago. It hurts to be reminded that she’s gone.”

He canted his head. “That is what hurts you?”

“Yes.”

A long pause. “Zh’ūltis.”

I didn’t even flinch at him calling me stupid for grieving my mother’s death. He was a demon. Sorrow, and the love that fueled it, was beyond his comprehension. “It’s a human thing. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Hnn.” He scanned the property. “If you were strong, it would not hurt.”

I rolled my eyes and wiped away a final tear. Another dig at how weak I was. Instead of retorting, I turned toward the garage to find Amalia.

“You were not ready to lose the one who protected you.”

Almost missing his quiet words, I spun back to face him. “What did you say?”

He gazed at me. “I found the scent of fresh blood in the house.”

“What?”

“Ch. Are you deaf and stupid, payilas?”

“How fresh is the scent?”

He twitched his shoulders. “I don’t know. It is faint. The trail leads”—he pointed toward the backyard—“that way.”

“Then let’s check it out.” I’d taken a few steps before realizing he wasn’t following. I frowned over my shoulder. “Are you coming?”

“I am going,” he corrected. “You stay here.”

“What? But … didn’t you come get me so we could go together?”

“No,” he scoffed. “I came to tell you first so you do not make noise.”

“Make noise?”

“Zylas, Zylas, where are you? Come back!” His accent vanished as he imitated my voice. “I cannot hunt if you are making noise.”

I pressed two fingers to my temple and massaged gently, hoping to stave off the headache building behind my eyes. “I’m coming with you.”