“Your parents weren’t interested in the family business,” Uncle Jack went on, “but summoning is lucrative. It’s also … sensitive. A delicate process. We don’t need distractions.”

I counted the floorboards between my sock-clad toes. Distractions like … an MPD investigation into their illegal activities?

“I expect your full support, Robin.”

He didn’t need to say, “Or else.”

“Yes, Uncle Jack.”

“For obvious reasons, this room is off-limits, but you should know the rules either way.”

He grasped my elbow and pulled me toward the circle. My socks slid across the polished hardwood as I tried to stop. I didn’t want to go any closer.

“The circle is a barrier. It’s impenetrable to the demon, but only to the demon.” He gestured at the black dome. “You can pass through it just fine. You wouldn’t even feel it. One slip …”

His hand tightened on my arm, then he shoved me toward the flimsy silver line. A terrified gasp seized my lungs and I flailed backward, even though I was several steps away.

He laughed. “So don’t get close. One toe over that line and the demon will haul you in and rip you apart. Don’t drop anything in there either. Even a coin can be deadly in a demon’s hands. It can’t get its magic through the barrier, so make sure you don’t hand it weapons.”

I automatically checked my jeans pockets for change. I never carried change.

“If it tries to get your attention or calls you over, don’t listen. And don’t ever speak to the demon. If it shows itself, get me or Claude immediately.” He glowered at the impenetrable darkness. “Not that I expect it to. The most obstinate demon I’ve ever encountered. If it doesn’t respond soon …” He abruptly refocused on me. “You’re to stay out of this room, understood? I don’t want you in here alone.”

“All right.”

“Good.” Then, contradicting his words, he swept right past me and out of the library.

Rooted to the spot, I mentally floundered. The open doorway beckoned, safety only steps away, but the inky dome drew my gaze. Shivers rippled down my spine. It was so cold in here.

A soft sound whispered on the edge of my senses and I sucked in a breath. In the silence, I could almost hear something. Something like …

A low, husky laugh crawled out of the darkness inside the circle.

My blood turned to ice and I bolted out of the library.

Chapter Three

Facing the closed door, I took slow, controlled breaths. This wasn’t the library door in the basement and no demons waited on the other side, but I was almost as nervous.

Deep, deliberate breaths. I summoned a mental image of the book I was reading: Chapter Six, “Confidence in Confrontation.” I visualized the coming conversation and how I wanted it to go, then pushed my shoulders back and straightened my spine, giving myself a precious inch of additional height. I rapped on the door.

“Who is it?” Uncle Jack barked from within.

“Robin.” My voice didn’t tremble. A good start.

“Get in here, then.”

I opened the door and stepped into his office. The room had started as a den, and a cushy sofa in the corner invited visitors to sit down, maybe have a snooze. Ugly filing cabinets ruined the elegance of the solid wood desk, its top blanketed with papers. Two leather chairs sat in front of it, waiting for Uncle Jack’s next “clients.”

As he hammered furiously on his keyboard, I inched into the room, then remembered I needed to project confidence. I took three long steps to a chair and perched on the edge. The dusty odor of printer toner mixed with his spicy cologne.

He continued typing, his stubby fingers stabbing the keys. I waited, counting in my head. When I got to thirty, I cleared my throat.

He kept typing.

“Uncle Jack?”

“What do you want, Robin?”

I fought the urge to shrink. Chapter Six, Part Three. “Visualize your results. Remember your goal.”

“I’d like to discuss my parents’ will.”

Saying the words stirred my grief into a fresh spiral, and my hands twitched against my thighs.

His gaze snapped to me, then back to his monitor. His typing didn’t stutter. “I don’t like repeating myself, Robin. These things take time. There are lawyers and paperwork, and the insurance company requires ten forms for every little thing.”

“It’s been six months.” Plus three days, but I wasn’t counting. “It shouldn’t take this long to—”

“Not every estate is easy to settle.” His hands stilled and he swiveled to face me, his bald head shining grossly. “I’m sure you’re anxious to get your inheritance, and I’m doing everything I can to make that happen. Is it that painful to live here for a few weeks? I’m not charging you rent, am I?”

My gaze dipped toward the nice, safe floor, which neither glared at me nor casually dismissed my parents’ early demise, but I caught myself and forced my eyes back up. Living here hadn’t been my first choice. I’d have preferred to stay in my parents’ home, where I’d lived my whole life, but as the executor of their estate, Uncle Jack had sold it. Against my wishes. I’d handed the keys over to its new owners last week.

“I understand if there are delays with the life insurance,” I said, “but what about their belongings? They left me several heirlooms, which I would like to get from—”

“Your parents left you their house and everything in it,” he interrupted. “Everything you inherited was in the house. Didn’t you put it all in storage?”

Every time he interrupted me, my thoughts scattered. I pulled them back together. I’d had to put all of my and my parents’ belongings in storage because he’d sold our house. And no, I hadn’t gotten anything from the sale, even though the money was mine. The fees for storing an entire house’s worth of furniture and belongings was bleeding my savings dry.

“I’m talking about the heirlooms they placed in a special facility,” I clarified. “I spoke to the estate lawyer and he said—”

“You spoke to the lawyer? I’m the executor. Why didn’t you ask me?”

Because he ignored me, dismissed me, and interrupted me, that’s why. “The lawyer said accessing items in storage should be simple, and—”

“It’s not simple, whatever that fool of a lawyer told you. I’m working on it, but I don’t have access yet.” He tapped a stack of papers on the desk to straighten them. “I have work to do, Robin. I’ll let you know when I have an update.”

Dismissed, again. Mumbling a farewell, I speed-walked into the hallway. Out of petty revenge, I left the door open a crack. He’d have to get up and close it himself.

Oh yeah, I was so bad. Look at me, the rebel niece.

Disgusted with my latest failure to get anywhere with my uncle, I stumped along a hall lined with oil paintings and ten-foot-tall windows with heavy drapes, then passed a parlor, a formal living room, and a dining … hall. Not room. “Room” was too plebian, too small and contained. The dining hall cradled a table long enough to seat eighteen.

Uncle Jack hadn’t been kidding about demon summoning being “lucrative.” This house had so many rooms that I was still getting lost on my third day.

Stopping at a window, I glared at the sprawling lawn, bathed in an orange sunset. Despite my uncle’s assumptions, I hadn’t moved in here because I needed somewhere to live—though I did. I was here because he hadn’t given me anything I was supposed to inherit from my parents. Money, even though I desperately needed it, wasn’t my main concern.

I wanted the heirlooms too precious to keep at home—specifically one keepsake that meant more to me than anything—and I was staying right here in this house until I got it.

I squinted at my reflection in the glass—my blue eyes narrowed ferociously behind black-rimmed glasses, my shoulder-length hair wild and dark around my pale face, my small mouth pressed into an angry line. Why couldn’t I give Uncle Jack a look like that? Instead, I crept around him like a scared mouse, staring at my feet and flinching every time he interrupted me.

Shoulders slumping, I headed toward the kitchen. Voices trickled out, followed by a cheerful laugh. The scent of tomato sauce and melted cheese reached my nose.

The chef’s kitchen dominated the house’s back corner: a high breakfast bar with beautiful marble counters contrasted with a monster-sized, stainless steel island with a double gas range, two ovens, and a massive range hood that descended from the ceiling.

Uncle Jack’s daughter, Amalia, and stepson, Travis, were bent over something on the stovetop that steamed in the way only delicious food could steam. Amalia was twenty like me, while Travis was a couple of years older. Unaware of my arrival, they dished food onto plates while Travis joked about something and Amalia laughed.

I hovered awkwardly, debating what to do. Telling my social-interaction jitters to take a hike, I got up the nerve to speak. “Hey guys.”

They didn’t react.

Too quiet. I tried again. “Hey guys. What are you making?”