Feeling oddly nervous, like his attention was a blinding spotlight, I reached for the bowl. When my fingertips brushed the glass, I froze in sudden realization.

Zylas’s eyes flicked down to my hands. To my pale skin a foot from his reddish-toffee skin. My hands were on the bowl—and the bowl was inside the circle.

My lungs were paralyzed but my heart careened in wild terror. I’d put my hands across the invisible barrier. I hadn’t felt a thing, hadn’t noticed a ripple of transparent magic. Could I pull my arms out before he grabbed me?

I stared at him, unable to exhale. He studied my hands, so close, within his reach. The end of his tail flicked, like a cat that had spotted a mouse in the grass.

Slowly, I wrapped my fingers around the cold glass. His expression didn’t change, but a muscle jumped in his cheek. Despite his blank face, his jaw was tight.

Keeping my movements smooth and painstakingly sluggish, I drew the bowl across the silver line. My flesh cleared the invisible barrier and I let out an explosive breath, shakily pressing a hand to my chest to calm my petrified heart.

Zylas watched me pant, motionless and impassive.

I gathered my shredded composure and scooted back a foot to avoid making the same mistake twice. As I moved to set the bowl safely aside, I frowned. “It’s cold.”

The glass should’ve been hot from the soup. He’d only just drunk it.

Zylas settled more comfortably on the floor. “I took the heat.”

I placed the bowl beside me and looked around. “Have you been taking the heat from this room, too? Is that why it’s cold?”

“Only the heat in the circle.”

The inner circle had been frigid. That’s what had made me realize something was wrong—that I’d crossed the barrier.

“Demons need food, heat, and light to survive?” I asked.

“Food or heat or light,” he corrected. “Heat and light are better.”

I rubbed my forehead—and my soup-stained sleeve slapped me in the face. Cringing, I pulled my arm out of the sleeve.

“In books,” I said as I peeled my sweater off, “demons are always described as creatures of cold and darkness, but you live off warmth and light?”

I tossed my sweater behind me and straightened my tank top. Zylas’s gaze tracked the motion.

“What is that?”

“Huh?” I followed his stare. A purple bruise in the shape of grasping fingers, tinged with green and yellow where it had begun to heal, marked my upper arm. “It’s a bruise.”

“I do not know that word.”

“A bruise is an injury.” I shrugged self-consciously. “From being hit or squeezed or crushed by something.”

His curiosity waned. “Hh’ainun are fragile.”

“Compared to demons, I guess we are.” I resettled on the floor. “I can’t stay much longer or Uncle Jack will catch me again. Will you be okay now?”

“Eshathē zh’ūltis.” He closed his eyes. “īt eshanā zh’ūltis.”

I waited to see if he would say anything comprehensible. “What does that mean?”

“You are stupid … and I am stupid.”

My gaze dropped to my hands in my lap, and I didn’t ask him to explain. His meaning was obvious. The hot soup would merely prolong the inevitable … and prolong his suffering. He would die anyway. Keeping him alive in his half-dome prison was a cruelty in itself. I was stupid for giving it to him, and he was stupid for accepting it.

“Don’t enter into a contract,” I blurted.

His eyes flashed open.

“Don’t do it,” I repeated, the hoarse intensity of my voice surprising me. “My uncle—the summoners are waiting for you to get weak and desperate. They’ll try to convince you to do it to save your life, but you can’t let them win.”

He stared at me, then a wolfish grin revealed his pointed canines. “Do not fear, payilas. I will laugh at them as I die.”

“Good,” I said fiercely. “They deserve to fail. I’ll laugh at them too.”

He smirked, but the expression swiftly faded. Exhaustion lay over him like a heavy cloud. The soup had helped, but not much.

“I’ll come back tomorrow night,” I whispered, “and remind you that you’ll never submit to one of us high-nuns.”

“Huh-ah-i-nun,” he corrected with a spark of irritation.

A choked giggle escaped me, and I blinked rapidly. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

“Go away, payilas.”

I clambered up, collected the bowl and my sweater, and crossed the room. At the door, I looked back.

“Zylas,” I called softly. “Darken the circle.”

His tail flicked, then the circle faded to black, hiding his prone form. I switched the lights off and crept up the stairs.

Only when I had closed my bedroom door behind me did I allow the burning tears to fall. I stumbled to my bed and fell onto it, an ache burrowing deep into my heart.

I’ll see you tomorrow. If he made it that long. He might not. He was so weak. Fading fast. Soon, he would be gone, and his torture would be over.

I pushed my face into my pillow, muffling my quiet sobs. I cried because this world was so cruel—cruelty inflicted by and upon demons and humans both. I cried because I was a fool to pity a demon, to inflict pain and grief on myself over a heartless monster. I cried because I was alone with no one to turn to, no one to ask what I should do, no one to comfort the aching grief. I would’ve happily died myself if, just for tonight, my mother could hold me one more time.

My tears eventually ran dry, but sleep didn’t come for many hours.


Chapter Eleven


Zylas survived the next day.

I hadn’t snuck down to the library yet, but I didn’t need to see him to know he was still kicking. Standing at the kitchen counter, I suppressed a bitterly satisfied smirk as Uncle Jack’s shouts rang down the hall.

“How?” he bellowed. “How is that thing still defying us? It should be halfway comatose! How is it maintaining the darkness in the circle? We haven’t even seen it!”

Claude’s calm voice answered him too quietly for me to make out any words.

“I know that!” my uncle roared. “It has to break soon! If it dies before we get it into a contract, I’ll—I’ll—” he spluttered, in search of a suitable threat.

“Oh, shut up, Dad,” Travis snapped. “We’re all frustrated.”

“Talk back to me again and I’ll break your jaw,” Uncle Jack snarled. “You’re an apprentice and if you ever want a demon name from me, you’ll start acting like it.”

Terse silence spread.

“We need a break,” Claude decided. “Let’s go out for something to eat.”

Uncle Jack grunted and their voices receded. I strained my ears, and a minute later, the front door opened and closed with a thump.

I looked down at my white mug. Steaming cocoa filled it to the brim, and I’d topped the dark liquid with a dollop of whipped cream. Cradling the warm mug in my hands, I slunk out of the kitchen and down the basement stairs.

I turned the library lights up, crossed to the black dome, and knelt. “Zylas?”

The darkness faded out of the circle. Lying on his side, with his head pillowed on one arm, he looked more comfortable than last time—but his eyes were black again.

“Payilas.”

“How did it go today?”

He gazed at me tiredly. “They are more mailēshta than before.”

“What does that mean?”

His brow scrunched and he closed his eyes as though struggling to translate the word. “Annoying. They are annoying.”

I hesitated, staring at the steaming mug, then held it up. “I … brought this. You don’t have to drink it if you don’t want to, but it’s hot.”

He let out a long breath, then pushed himself into a sitting position, the metal armor on his lower legs scraping the floor. I set the mug on the silver inlay, with the handle sticking into the circle, and he picked it up. His eyes squinched as he prodded the whipped cream with one finger, making it bob in the hot liquid.

Maybe the whipped cream had been overkill.

He tipped the mug back, downed the contents like a shot, then replaced the mug on the inlay. I slid it out of the circle and set it aside.

“What do you want?” he asked, still looking exhausted.

“What do you mean?”

He flicked his hand at the mug. “For that.”

“I don’t need anything.”

A snarl slid into his voice. “Ask.”

“But …”

It was clearly important to him that he not accept charity from me. If it made him feel better … I tried to come up with an easy question. He watched me think, the sconce lights illuminating one cheekbone and the side of his jaw but casting deep shadows over his dark eyes.

“I want to touch you.” I spoke without thinking—and instantly regretted it.

His face twisted. “Touch me?”

My cheeks flushed hot. “Just—just your hand, or—” I cut myself off and took a moment to regain my composure. “In that circle, you’re like a … a vision or a dream. I want to touch you so I can feel that you’re really there.”

He stared at me like I’d sprouted a second head. “Ch. Fine.”

My pulse quickened. Dangerous, dangerous. It was far too risky, yet … I wanted to do this. Touching him would make him real in a way that seeing him and hearing his voice couldn’t.