“Why would a demon ever agree to that?” I whispered.

“Because of the slim chance they’ll outlive their contractor and make it back home.”

“How do they—”

“Amalia!” Kathy’s buzzard call echoed up the stairs. “Travis! Dinner is ready.”

Amalia plucked the infernus out of my hands and chucked it onto her desk. “Let’s go eat.”

I followed her out of the room, feeling numb. Zylas’s vicious snarl replayed in my head. Tell them my bones will turn to dust in this cage, because I will never submit.

No wonder he refused to so much as speak to his summoners. I was surprised he’d spoken to me; I was a human, just like the ones who’d torn him from his home and were forcing him to choose between enslavement and death.

Standing on my tiptoes, I watched the car’s taillights retreat up the long drive to the front gate. Uncle Jack, Claude, and Travis had loaded into the car before it set out. They probably wouldn’t be gone long—Uncle Jack wouldn’t want to miss Zylas’s “breaking point”—but it would be long enough. I hoped.

I backed away from the window, scooted across the luxurious bathroom, and peeked out the door. On the main level, a TV talk show echoed from the family room. Kathy commented on something, and Amalia’s softer voice replied. Good.

I snuck the long way around—sometimes the sheer size of this house was a blessing—and trotted down the basement stairs. Turning the lights up enough to see, I entered the library.

The usual pitch darkness filled Zylas’s circle, and the room hadn’t changed in the five days since my last visit. I zipped around the silent dome and was already crouching in front of the bookshelf when I realized what I was seeing.

The lowest shelves, where all the Demonica books had been stacked, were empty. Frantically, I pawed through the other titles. Arcana, Spiritalis, Psychica, Elementaria. That was it. Not a single book related to Demonica remained.

My hands tightened into fists. Damn it! Uncle Jack must have moved them! What was I supposed to do now?

I growled under my breath. All this time wasted planning and waiting for a chance to sneak down here, and my uncle was way ahead of me. I should’ve realized he wouldn’t leave the books lying around. He’d beat me to this just as he’d beaten me to the grimoire.

Dropping onto my butt, I reluctantly scooted one-hundred-and-eighty degrees to face the black circle. “Zylas?”

As usual, he ignored me. In his mind, I was an enemy now.

“I have a question,” I said, tugging the sleeves of my sweater over my hands. It was always so cold in here. “If you answer, I’ll bring you something tomorrow night.”

Silence.

“Did you see who moved the books from this shelf and where they took them?”

I was hoping Uncle Jack had hidden the books somewhere else in the library. He was lazy enough to half-ass it like that, and if he had, Zylas would’ve witnessed it.

The demon continued to give me the silent treatment. He must really hate me now that he suspected I was in cahoots with Uncle Jack.

“I know you don’t trust me,” I tried, feeling like I was talking to a wall. “I just need this one answer. I won’t ask for anything else.”

Again, nothing. I heaved a frustrated sigh, but beneath my irritation, concern sparked. Demons got weaker the longer they were in the circle, and Zylas had just hit ten weeks. Five days ago, when I’d last seen him, he’d seemed tired and his eyes had been dull. Had he reached his breaking point?

“Are you still there?” I inched closer to the silver inlay, my heart picking up speed. “I’m not leaving until you acknowledge me,” I threatened. He didn’t know I had to get back upstairs before Uncle Jack returned. “I’ll sit here all night and annoy you.”

Folding my arms, I counted to thirty, then opened my mouth to berate him again.

“Go away.”

My breath caught. His voice was a dry whisper. I couldn’t even hear his usual irritation.

“Zylas? Are you okay?”

He ignored me again.

“Let me see you.” I scooted closer, my knees inches from the circle’s edge. “Come on. If you do, I’ll bring you something extra good next time I can sneak down here.” I counted to thirty again. “If you don’t reveal yourself, I’ll throw a bucket of cold water on you.”

To my surprise, the darkness in the circle swirled away, and my heart lurched again. Zylas lay on his side, arms wrapped around his middle, legs pulled up. He made no attempt to straighten as the last of the shadows faded. He didn’t even open his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” I gasped. “Are you …”

I couldn’t finish the question, since the answer seemed obvious. The demon in the circle grew weaker and weaker, then …

His eyes cracked open. No longer crimson and glowing, they were dark, empty pits. “Come to watch me die, payilas?”

“No. No, I …” Demon or not, I didn’t want to watch him die. I didn’t want to see anyone die.

He hadn’t asked for this. Human magic had dragged him out of his world and chained him to this room to perish slowly. He was dying … because Uncle Jack had gotten his filthy hands on my mother’s grimoire. Without it, he could never have summoned Zylas.

“I will not submit,” he whispered.

“I know.” I swallowed. “Zylas, is there anything I can do?”

His eyelids flickered and those black, exhausted eyes slid to mine. “Do?”

“To help you. To—to—” I didn’t know what I was saying.

“To keep me alive until I submit?”

“No. I know you won’t become a contractor’s puppet. I just …” I pressed my lips together. “It isn’t fair that you’re dying because they summoned you.”

He closed his eyes again and curled into a tight ball on the floor as though he were freezing. His tail twitched half-heartedly. This didn’t feel real. He’d seemed so invincible—a powerful, untouchable demon full of fierce arrogance despite his imprisonment. Now he was on the floor, unmoving, weak. Dying. He’d faded so much since I’d last seen him.

“Tell me how to help you.”

A deep crease formed between his eyebrows, and his lips turned down as he fought an internal battle.

“Food,” he finally muttered. “Heat. Light. Not fake light.”

“Heat and light?” I looked around the cold, windowless basement. “And food? Those will help you?”

His head moved in the slightest nod.

“I’ll be right back,” I told him, shoving to my feet. “Hold on.”

I rushed for the stairs. I couldn’t get natural light to him—even if the sun had been up, the library had no windows. I hadn’t seen a space heater anywhere in the house, and I couldn’t light a fire indoors.

But I could bring him food. If food would help, then I would feed him.

As I raced into the kitchen, sudden understanding brought me up short. Uncle Jack and Claude didn’t understand why Zylas hadn’t hit his breaking point yet … but I had been feeding him. If food kept the demon alive, then I’d been prolonging his life with those insubstantial treats. Now I understood why he had played along with my questions … and why his strength had faded so quickly once I’d stopped visiting him.

I flung open the pantry doors and searched for something to feed a starving demon. My gaze whipped across boxed snacks and crackers, cereal and hard pasta, then landed on a pair of soup cans.

Hot soup. Food and heat.

I dumped both cans of vegetable soup into a large bowl and shoved it in the microwave. As the appliance whirred, I listened nervously to the sound of the TV from the family room and hit stop before the microwave could chime. The soup was still bubbling when I lifted it out, my sleeves pulled over my hands to protect them from the hot glass. Steam dampened my face as I carried the bowl downstairs.

My worry kicked up a notch when I saw Zylas hadn’t darkened the circle. As I hurried across the library and knelt, broth splashed onto my arm, burning my skin.

Zylas’s eyes slitted open, then widened at the sight of the steaming bowl.

“This is soup,” I said. “It’s hot and you can eat it, but you have to promise to give the bowl back and not break it or try to hurt me with it.”

Motions slow and stiff, he uncoiled from his ball and pushed himself up. “I agree.”

I pushed the bowl halfway across the line, and he reached for it.

“It’s scalding hot,” I warned as he wrapped his hands around the glass and drew it into the circle. “Be careful not to burn your—”

He lifted the bowl to his mouth and poured the soup down his throat. Steam swirled around his head as he drained the contents in seconds. If it burned him, he didn’t show it.

His tongue swiped across his lips, catching a few escaped droplets, and I watched in amazement as his eyes lightened from midnight black to deep scarlet. He stared at the bowl, then set it down and sank back onto the floor. Curling up on his side, he watched me, his gaze intense and probing.