“Infrared is a spectrum of light and a snake is an animal. A reptile—long and skinny with scales and—wait.” I pushed to my feet. “Hold on.”

I hastened toward the encyclopedias I’d examined on my first late-night visit. A set of handsome zoology texts with matching spines sat on a high shelf. I pulled one down and flipped through it.

“Here!” Rushing back to the circle, I dropped to my knees and held the open book up, the right-hand page filled with a glossy full-color photo of a viper. “This is a snake.”

He leaned in for a closer look at the page—and his head jolted. A shimmer distorted the air as the barrier rippled from the contact. Hunching to avoid the invisible force, he studied the encyclopedia page, then looked up.

My heart leaped with something approaching terror. I was kneeling close to the circle’s edge—closer than I’d ever gotten before. I could see the smooth texture of his skin and the dark, narrow pupils almost lost in the unbroken glow of his crimson eyes. I could’ve stretched my arm out and touched him.

“How am I like this animal?” he asked, snapping me out of my daze. “It is nothing like me.”

“Snakes can see heat too.” I pulled the book away and shifted backward, distancing myself from that dangerous line, then scanned the page. “It’s called ‘infrared thermal radiation sensing.’ Humans don’t have that ability.”

His attention had returned to the waiting cake. I slid him the next slice and watched him eat it with renewed curiosity.

“You said you wanted to see me properly. Why?”

“Why not?” he retorted. “Only three hh’ainun come here—you and two males. I see them only with … infrared thermal radiation sensing.” He pulled a face as though the term disgusted him.

I pursed my lips, surprised and a touch uncomfortable. He picked up new words very easily. How much was he learning from our interactions?

“I’ve seen two demons,” I remarked absently, distracted by my worries. “Including you.”

Interest sparked in his face. “Two?”

I recoiled under his gaze, but I saw no harm in revealing the nearby demon. Trapped in his dome-shaped prison cell, Zylas could do nothing with that information. “There’s a second summoning circle here with a demon in it.”

“Who is the other? His name?”

“I don’t know.”

“Describe him.”

“Um … very large. Long horns, big wings, a thick tail with a bony plate on the end.”

Zylas’s eyes gleamed. “Na? Him?” His head tipped backward and he laughed, the husky sound rolling through the room.

I inched away, my stomach dancing with fearful butterflies. Cruel delight lit Zylas’s face.

“To see his arrogance ground under a hh’ainun’s foot …” He sighed wistfully. “I would like to watch that.”

“You … you know that demon?”

He pointed at the last piece of cake. “Ask.”

Disturbed and no longer sure I was enjoying this conversation, I thought of Uncle Jack and Claude, of the other demon “ready” for a contract, and of Zylas’s refusal to negotiate or interact with them.

“Okay,” I said slowly. “My final question … why won’t you talk to the summoners? The other demon—”

His hand whipped out so fast it was a blur. I lurched back as his fist hit the barrier and ripples erupted across its transparent surface.

“Kanish!” The guttural word snarled from his throat, his eyes blazing red and face twisting with fury. “They sent you, didn’t they? A meek payilas to disarm me, na? Make me pliant? Satūsa dilittā hh’ainun eshanā zh’ūltis!”

Gaping, I shoved backward across the floor on trembling limbs.

He slammed his fist against the barrier again. Scarlet light burst over his fingers and snaked up his wrist. “Kanish! Get out of my sight!”

“Th-they didn’t send me,” I whispered, stumbling over the words. “They didn’t—”

“Get out!”

“Please listen to me—”

He bared his teeth—revealing pointed, predatory incisors. My mind blanked with terror. Tears stung my eyes, my hands shook, and my lungs quivered. Confrontation always undid me, even without murderous intent behind it. If Zylas could have reached me, he would’ve torn out my throat.

Actually, I corrected, he’d always wanted to kill me. He was a demon. Killing me would be the highlight of his imprisonment.

Gulping painfully, I forced my eyes up from the floor. Zylas’s burning glower sent my gaze skittering away, but I forced it back and focused on his slightly less petrifying chin.

“They didn’t send me,” I repeated, hating the quaver in my voice. “I’m not supposed to be down here. I—I only came to read the books. Uncle Jack doesn’t know I’ve been talking to you.”

His glowing eyes narrowed to slits. “Then you are too stupid to realize they are using you.”

“They aren’t using me,” I told the floor. When had I looked away? “I barely even talk to them, and when I do, it isn’t about you.”

Painful silence, pulsing with Zylas’s rage, stretched through the room.

“When you speak to them again,” he snarled softly, “tell them my bones will turn to dust in this cage, because I will never submit to a hh’ainun.”

His vehemence drew my stare up, but black night had filled the dome, hiding him. My lips quivered and I pressed them together. With unsteady motions, I nudged the final piece of cake over the silver inlay, then collected the plate.

I looked back with every step across the floor, but Zylas didn’t speak. The cake sat untouched. I slipped out the door and around the corner, then pressed my back to the wall and counted out a full two minutes.

Holding my breath, I peeked through a crack in the door. The slice of cake was gone, and as I watched, flames flashed inside the circle—Zylas burning the napkins to ash.


Chapter Nine


Hovering at the window as though enjoying the view, I listened to Uncle Jack’s and Claude’s voices retreat down the hall. They were heading to the basement for their daily attempt at negotiating with the silent demon. I waited a minute to make sure they wouldn’t return, then tiptoed down the hall to Uncle Jack’s office and slipped inside.

Reconnaissance Mission, step one: complete. I had infiltrated enemy headquarters, just like the sorceress Celestina Peruggia from A Study of Mythic Crime in the 20th Century—some light reading I’d enjoyed a few weeks ago. Was I weird for admiring a notorious thief of mythic artifacts? She was just so tough and competent.

I scanned the large filing cabinets, imagining I was Celestina scoping her next heist. The cabinets would take too long to search; better leave them for now. I circled Uncle Jack’s desk and dropped into his chair. Papers covered the desktop in sloppy piles, and I rapidly shuffled through them.

In the two days since Zylas had banished me from his sight, I hadn’t returned to the library. I should have. I wanted to keep reading The Summoner’s Handbook and I shouldn’t let a temperamental demon that couldn’t leave his circle stop me. But facing him again …

Besides, my priority was my mother’s grimoire.

I sifted through envelopes, forms, printouts, bookkeeping records, receipts, and sticky notes with scribbled reminders. Where would a professional thief look for valuables? My hands fluttered indecisively around the desk, and I berated myself for hesitating. Celestina wouldn’t have wasted time. Only the best of the best could’ve successfully stolen the Carapace of Valdurna from the terrifying dark-arts master known as the Xors Druid.

I opened the desk drawers. Basic office supplies in the top one. The second held envelopes, stamps, and a broken stapler. The final drawer was full of folders. I flipped one open, discovering a form headed with the MPD logo.

Hmm. MagiPol strictly enforced the laws that kept magic hidden and mythics safe, and they didn’t like it when people, oh, you know, forged important paperwork. I skimmed a few forms, then folded them up and jammed them in my pocket.

Now what? I wiggled the computer mouse and the monitor flashed to life, requesting a password. I thought for a moment, then typed “admin” and hit enter. Nope. I typed “admin1” and hit enter again. The screen blinked to the desktop.

That had been easy. Technological dinosaurs like Uncle Jack didn’t strain their brains worrying about password security. I opened his inbox and scanned subject lines and senders. Far down the list, a name jumped out at me—my name. “RE: Robin Page arrival,” sent by Claude Mercier—Uncle Jack’s business partner. I clicked the email.

Jack, I understand your concerns but if it’s that much of an issue, you should have refused to let her stay with you. I doubt she’ll be any help with the translation anyway. If you involve her, things could get messy.

Claude


I scrolled down, but there was no chain of past emails under the message. Returning to the inbox, I searched for “Claude Mercier” and a short list popped up—too short. Uncle Jack was either archiving or deleting Claude’s emails. Aside from the one about me, the others all contained attachments. I clicked the oldest one, a message from four months ago.