It went on like that for thirty-two chapters and countless more subheadings, covering everything from selecting contractors to negotiation techniques to demon names. I thumbed through a few more pages, then unstuck the title page.

Legal Demonica: The Summoner’s Handbook

Presented by the Magicae Politiae Denuntiatores

Magicae Politiae Denuntiatores—a semi-secret international organization commonly known as the MPD or MagiPol. Not only did the MPD conceal the existence of magic from the public, but they also policed anything and everything that used or abused preternatural power. If this summoning guide was their literal rulebook, why not learn exactly how Uncle Jack was breaking the law? I was betting Chapter 3.3, “Location Requirements,” didn’t include residential basements as a legal option.

I carried my book selections to the leather sofa and curled up beside my plate of cookies. As I flipped The Summoner’s Handbook to the first page of text—“Foreword by Arnaldo Banderas, MPD Special Agent”—and lifted a cookie to my mouth, I remembered I wasn’t alone in the library.

My gaze shot to the inky dome. How had I forgotten about the demon? I briefly considered sneaking the books up to my room, but stealth wasn’t a strength of mine. Besides, all was quiet—no creepy laughter, no sounds of movement.

I took a big bite of my cookie and began reading. The minutes slipped past as I breezed through the book’s foreword and introduction. It wasn’t until the end of the second chapter that I noticed my eyes were tired.

Closing the cover, I mused about what I’d learned. Uncle Jack was definitely breaking laws, and if the MPD caught him, he’d face jail time or even the death penalty. The MPD didn’t mess around when it came to illegal summoners. My impression so far was that they’d rather people didn’t summon demons at all.

My gaze drifted to the dark circle again. The creature hidden inside was a killing machine; its primary function was murder, and if it ever escaped, it would slaughter every person it encountered until someone killed it.

I decided I didn’t want to be in this room any longer.

With numb fingers—why was it so cold in here?—I set my chosen books on the floor and, one by one, slid them under the coffee table. Unless someone decided to rearrange the furniture, they’d never know the books were there.

Satisfied, I got to my feet and took two steps, then remembered my half-eaten plate of cookies. I grabbed the plate, accidentally jarring it in my haste. The stack of cookies slid across the sleek ceramic surface and tumbled off. They hit the floor in a spray of crumbs, bouncing everywhere. One, rolling like a perfect little wheel, trundled across the hardwood floor.

It rolled, wobbled, curved—and disappeared across the silver line.

I gawked at the spot where the cookie had vanished into the black dome. Panic screeched in my head, and I jerked backward, expecting the cookie to come flying out, hurled like a doughy bullet into my eye socket. Could a demon throw a cookie hard enough to kill?

At that last thought, my panic waned. A cookie would hurt, should it be whipped with inhuman force into my soft flesh, but I doubted it could do serious damage. Maybe the demon realized that too.

Unmoving, I waited a full minute, but no sound came from the circle. The cookie did not reappear.

Breathing out, I cautiously scooped the fallen cookies off the floor and restacked them on the plate. I pondered the crumb-strewn hardwood, then used my socked foot to sweep the crumbs under the side table. Did I care that I was befouling Uncle Jack’s mansion? Not one bit. If I was contributing to a vermin problem, all the better.

Plate in hand, I crossed to the door, then looked back at the circle. Had the demon noticed the cookie enter its prison?

Curiosity sparked through me. Impulsively, I picked up a cookie, took aim, and lobbed it. It flew in a beautiful arc and dropped into the black dome.

I listened. No crunch or patter. No sound at all. Weird. I threw a second cookie. It too fell into the unnatural darkness, and again, nothing but silence. Either the interior of the circle was a gravity-free pocket dimension with no solid surfaces, or …

… or the demon had caught the cookies before they hit the floor?

I squinted at the circle, imagining what a demon might look like. Warily, I inched closer. Silence from the circle. I clutched my plate with the last five cookies and an assortment of largish pieces. Did I dare?

Before I could talk myself out of it, I flipped the plate toward the dome.

The cookies soared in a shower of chocolate, pecans, and crumbs that disappeared into the black dome. A distinct patter sounded as they hit the floor. Aha! So the demon had caught the first two cookies. Did that mean—

A soft scraping sound, then something flew out of the circle at warp speed.

The cookie hit me smack between the eyes.

I yelped, staggering and almost dropping the plate. Tears of pain sprang into my eyes. Whirling, I ran for the door, then skidded to a stop and ran back to grab the cookie off the hardwood. Didn’t want Uncle Jack to see that—

Oh crap. What if the demon hoarded the cookies to throw at Uncle Jack next time he came down here?

Cursing my stupidity, I raced up the stairs and stumbled into the dark, empty kitchen. I gingerly prodded my throbbing, burning forehead. A tender welt was forming between my eyes, and crumbs peppered my glasses. Ow.

If not for the pain, I might’ve doubted my memory. A demon had thrown a cookie at my face? Hands down the strangest thing that had ever happened to me.

I looked at the chunk of cookie between my finger and thumb. The demon had touched it. Held it. Taken aim and thrown it. Nose wrinkling, I pitched it into the garbage and scrubbed my hands until my skin was pink and raw.

Chapter Five

With one ear tuned for sounds from the upper floor, I pried the lid off a plastic tote and shone my phone’s flashlight inside.

The storage room, like the rest of the house, was so oversized it practically echoed, with endless boxes and plastic totes neatly stacked on simple wooden shelves. So far, I’d uncovered winter clothing and skiing gear, Christmas and Halloween decorations—weird, because Halloween was only a couple of weeks away, so why not put them out?—dated décor, toys from Amalia’s and Travis’s childhood, and three boxes filled with the same old romance novels I’d found in the library.

I rummaged around in the tote, filled with barely worn women’s shoes, then returned it to the shelf. Sitting back on my heels, I swept my bangs out of my eyes.

Was I snooping around my uncle’s house? Yes, I was.

Seeing as Uncle Jack was an illegal demon summoner, morals clearly didn’t concern him. Even without that mark of character to consider, I had more than enough reasons to distrust him. I wasn’t sure what I was searching for, but there was a chance Uncle Jack had already claimed other parts of my inheritance besides my rightful money.

Jaw tight with determination, I switched off my phone’s flashlight and cracked open the storage room door. The hall was dark and empty. I slipped out and tiptoed across the cold hardwood. When I drew level with the library, I paused.

Two days had passed since my … adventure … in the library, and Uncle Jack hadn’t stormed into my room to demand how his demon had gotten hold of freshly baked projectiles. He also hadn’t offered any updates on my inheritance or heirlooms. Amalia and Travis continued to ignore my every awkward attempt to instigate conversation. Oh, and the estate lawyer had stopped responding to my emails, meaning Uncle Jack had warned him off communicating with me.

I was losing hope that I would ever get my inheritance. Uncle Jack wasn’t playing fair, but what could I do? I had no power and no advantages. I was probably wasting my time. At this rate, I would need to sue him to get anything.

Right, yeah. Hire a bargain-bin lawyer with the pennies in my bank account and take my rich uncle to court. That would go well.

I had most of my treasured keepsakes already, and money was a convenience, not a requirement. Some heirlooms, however, were more precious than a check from the insurance company, and that’s why I was here. And why I wasn’t about to give up.

I wasn’t leaving until I had my mother’s grimoire in my hands.

All grimoires—the handwritten journals of sorcerers that documented their magical experiences—were valuable, but my mother’s was even more special. Passed from mother to daughter for countless generations, it dated back centuries. The grimoire was my mother’s—and my family’s—legacy, and it was mine.