Holding plates heaped with spaghetti noodles and thick red sauce, they turned around. Amalia’s gray eyes, edged in heavy eyeliner, went flat and the laughter on her face died. She swept her messy blond waves over one shoulder, grabbed a fork, and exited the kitchen without a word.

My innards shriveled like seaweed drying in the sun.

Travis shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Hey Robin. How’s it going?”

“Good,” I muttered. Nothing was good. Everything was crap.

“We made spaghetti,” he said after a moment. “There’s a bit left, if you want it.”

“Sure,” I told the floor.

A painful silence, then he carried his plate out of the kitchen. I looked up in time to see his back disappear, his tight t-shirt showing his muscular arms and broad shoulders.

I stood alone in the kitchen, furious and embarrassed by my inability to act like a socially capable human being, then approached the gas range. A pot and a saucepan held a few dregs of food. Sighing, I scooped the child-sized portion onto a plate. Maybe they thought that was all the food I needed. Short people didn’t require nourishment or something.

Leaning against the counter, I ate my inadequate meal as my thoughts jumped from my failed attempt to confront Uncle Jack, to my missing inheritance, to this stupid house and the demon in the basement. I didn’t want to be here.

I wanted to be home, tucked in my favorite reading chair with an old book, listening to my parents’ voices as they prepared dinner in the kitchen. We would’ve sat together at the table to eat, and Mom would’ve told me about the three-hundred-year-old book she was restoring for a client. Dad would’ve complained about his boss at the bank. I would’ve told them about the paper I was researching for my Roman history class.

Scooping the last noodle into my mouth, I set my plate in the sink and dried my tears on my shirt. Grief weighed on my chest, and I was desperate for something familiar—but what in this cold, sprawling mansion could possibly bring me comfort?

My gaze drifted to the pantry.

Five minutes later, I’d stacked the island with flour, butter, baking powder, baking soda, salt, shortening, white sugar, brown sugar, two eggs, vanilla extract, semi-sweet chocolate chips, and a surprising find—a bulk bag of pecans.

I searched the cupboards for mixing bowls, measuring cups, and utensils, and in no time at all, I was mixing dry ingredients in a bowl. As I worked, my worries faded. The unfamiliar kitchen didn’t matter. With each precise measurement and carefully followed step, I slid backward in time. I was baking in my parents’ kitchen, testing a new iteration of my chocolate-pecan cookie recipe.

The kitchen filled with the mouthwatering aroma of melted chocolate, and I tidied up while the cookies baked. When I pulled them from the oven, their centers fluffed with heat and edges golden brown, I could almost hear my mom exclaiming in delight. Leaving the cookies to cool, I finished cleaning, then stacked them on a plate.

It was a long walk to the bedrooms on the second level. I stopped in front of Amalia’s door, practiced breathing, then knocked. A moment passed.

The door cracked open and a gray eye glared at me. “What do you want?”

I held up the plate. “I made cookies. Would you like—”

“I’m on a diet.”

The door slammed shut.

I blinked rapidly, then exhaled. A dozen paces down the hall, I stopped in front of Travis’s door. Electronic music throbbed through the wood. I knocked. No answer. I knocked louder. The music pounded on. I couldn’t bring myself to shout for his attention. He was probably busy anyway.

Cradling the full plate, I continued down the never-ending hall and stopped in front of a third closed door. I didn’t need to knock on this one. Inside was a bed that wasn’t mine, with a gray-striped comforter I didn’t like. My suitcase sat on the floor in the walk-in closet, filled with socks and underwear, and six shirts hung on hangers above it. Ten of my favorite books lined the dresser, the only ones I’d brought with me. The rest of my belongings were in storage with my parents’ things.

I stared at the cookies, knowing what my evening would involve: sitting alone on the unfamiliar bed, reading old books, and trying not to cry. This time, I could weep into my giant plate of cookies. I’d be sad and sick to my stomach. Extra fun.

I needed a better distraction. When was the last time I’d gone this long without a new book to read? I used to spend half my free time browsing library shelves at my college campus—

Library shelves.

My gaze dropped to the floor as though I could see through it. There was a library right in this house—a big, private library full of fascinating leather-bound books.

Books … and a demon.

Uncle Jack had told me to stay out of the basement—but did I care what he wanted? Reckless daring swept through me. Turning on my heel, I strode toward the stairs.

Chapter Four

Balancing the plate of cookies on my palm, I cracked the library door open and peeked inside. In the sconce lights’ soft glow, shadows swathed the room. The demonic dome sat in the center, bizarre and disturbing.

I hovered in the doorway, remembering the quiet laughter from my first and only visit.

Slipping through the door, I found a sliding switch on the wall and pushed it up. The lights brightened, banishing the dimness to the corners. The dome of unnatural night looked even stranger. I edged along a wall of shelves, clutching my plate as though to hurl it at the first sign of movement.

The circle was black and silent. No sign of life.

Prickles ran over my arms. Concealed inside that darkness was a demon. A creature from … well, not theological Hell. A hellish dimension, though. That was all I knew; I’d only read passing descriptions of demon summoning. Unsurprisingly, it wasn’t an interest of mine.

I contemplated retreating but the lure of books was stronger. The demon was stuck in that circle. The worst it could do was laugh at me. I deposited my cookie plate on the end table beside a leather sofa, selected two cookies, then set out to explore.

Most people couldn’t have ignored a demon sharing the library with them, but most people didn’t love books as much as I did.

Thirty minutes slipped away as I browsed the shelves, finding encyclopedias, histories of every culture and country I could think of, geography and nature studies, copies of ancient classics, some modern classics, travel books, and, oddly, a single shelf in the back corner stacked with outdated romance novels, their paper covers boasting faded men with long hair and open shirts billowing in the wind.

Returning to the cookies, I grabbed a morsel and bit into the chocolaty goodness. I was itching to pick a book and get reading, but one section of the library remained unexplored: the shelves across from the door, right behind the demon circle. Those books differed from the rest—more sizes, more colors, and disorganized like someone had been shifting them around.

I studied the six feet of space between the circle’s silver inlay and the shelves. Six feet was plenty. As long as I didn’t trip and fall over, I’d be fine.

Heart thudding in my chest, I slipped in front of the shelves and scanned the spines. My racing pulse kicked up a notch. Everything I’d seen so far were histories, texts, and novels I could find in most well-stocked libraries, but these—these books were about magic.

Magic textbooks. Magic studies. Magic histories. Arcana, Elementaria, Spiritalis, Psychica, and Demonica—all five classes of magic were represented on the shelves.

Studying magic was my greatest passion. Technically, I was a sorceress—a mythic of the Arcana class—but I’d never begun an apprenticeship. Stay away from magic. That was our family motto, and studying the supernatural phenomena of the world was as close as I was willing to get to real power. I was an academic spectator to the most dangerous game in the world—and perfectly happy to stay out of the arena.

Eyes sweeping across the titles, I excitedly pulled out a book: An Examination of Astral Constructions in Arcana. The next one: The Unique Physiology of Elementaria. Then, Infamous Psychics of the 21st Century and The Witch’s Mission: Balancing Modernity, Nature, and Fae.

I stacked the books in my arms, then crouched to read the titles at the bottom—but the spines were blank. Curious, I chose a thick tome at random and slid it out. The leather cover wasn’t old and peeling as I’d expected, but shiny and stiff. I flipped it open. The title page stuck to the cover, and my eyes fell on the table of contents instead.

1. An Introduction to Demon Summoning

2. MPD Regulations and Requirements

2.1 Legal Practices & Penalties

2.2 Permit Paperwork

2.3 Inspection Timelines

2.4 Contractor Registration

3. Summoning Rituals

3.1 Standard Variations

3.2 Greek vs. Latin Incantations

3.3 Location Requirements

3.4 Constructing the Ritual

3.5 Common Execution Errors

3.6 Containment Failure

4. Contract Basics

4.1 MPD-Approved Templates

4.2 Common Mistakes

4.3 Contract Length: Brevity vs. Diligence

4.4 Language to Avoid

4.5 The Banishment Clause

4.6 Recommended Advance Preparations