Not even a peep.

Disappointed, I slumped into the sofa. The demon had asked its one question and showed no further desire to communicate. Well, if it didn’t want to answer my questions, I’d get the information myself. Bending forward, I slid The Summoner’s Handbook from under the coffee table. As I settled back, I remembered my waiting snack.

Biting into a chocolate morsel, I opened the book to Chapter Three, “Summoning Rituals,” but the introduction was painfully dry. Craving something as intriguing as the demon’s voice, I began flipping the pages.

Chapter Twelve, “Negotiation and the Demonic Psyche.” I read the first page.

“Profoundly immoral and wicked.” The definition of evil is an apt description of the demonic psyche and should be kept at the forefront of a summoner’s mind throughout contract negotiation. A demon does not conceive of morality or integrity—though they can imitate those qualities to manipulate a summoner.

Remember, a demon’s ultimate goal is, always, your death.

The debate of inherent truthfulness has consumed the summoner community for centuries, but it has yet to be proven that demons are incapable of lying. It is safer to expect demons to lie, though they may avoid outright falsehoods. Do not assume a demon’s aversion to verbal fabrications means it is incapable of deception. Assume, instead, that the demon is both more cunning and more manipulative than you.

For these reasons and more, we recommend negotiations be brief and aggressive. The MPD’s recommended approach is outlined in detail in this chapter, and in later sections, we will address the best techniques for handling

The text cut off at the bottom of the page, but I didn’t turn it. My eyes lingered on the introduction. A demon does not conceive of morality or integrity … A demon’s ultimate goal is, always, your death … Assume, instead, that the demon is both more cunning and more manipulative than you.

“‘It has yet to be proven that demons are incapable of lying,’” I read in a mutter, tracing the line with one finger. “That’s interesting. Why would a demon with no concept of morality not lie?”

Absently nibbling another cookie, I skimmed the next page. More of the same—demons were wicked and bloodthirsty, demons enjoyed violence and death, demons were intelligent and calculating, and all the reasons those qualities needed to be considered during negotiations.

My brow wrinkled. I shouldn’t have skipped ahead. I still didn’t know what the summoners were so keen to negotiate.

I ran my finger down the page to a new paragraph.

A concept that demons and humans both grasp with ease, and upon which our recommended negotiation strategy heavily relies, is that of fair exchange. A demon is more likely to agree to a contract that is presented as the demon’s surrender in exchange for its life. Leveraging the Banishment Clause is a crucial element of this approach.

“That’s a crappy deal,” I mumbled. “Surrender or die? Lame.”

I nudged my glasses up my nose and read on, but my attention drifted disobediently to the summoning circle.

After what I’d read, I should have been terrified of the demon, yet I couldn’t work up more than fluttery anxiety. Maybe it was because the creature was hidden in that darkness and unable to reach me. How scary was a voice, really?

It wasn’t a monster. It was a fascinating curiosity. Another bird’s nest high in a tree.

I snapped the Demonica guide shut and replaced it under the table, then scooped up my remaining cookies and walked across the hardwood floor. I stopped two long steps from the circle. My heart lurched, just as it had in that long-ago tree when I’d realized the branches had gotten dangerously thin.

I held up a cookie.

“This,” I announced, “is a double-chocolate brownie cookie. It’s delicious, and I’ll give it to you if you answer a question for me.”

Silence.

“I answered your question,” I added accusingly.

Quiet lay upon the room—then a soft, husky laugh.

“A question, hh’ainun?” the demon crooned. “What would you ask?”

Doubts trickled through me. This was a bad idea, but I plowed on. “Do demons lie?”

“Ch,” it replied, a sound of cold amusement. “Zh’ūltis question. Ask another.”

I frowned. “What does zhuh-ool … what does that word mean?”

“Stupid. Stupid question.”

My frown deepened into a scowl. I rephrased. “If it’s true that demons don’t lie, why is that?”

A long pause, but it wasn’t the same silence as before. My skin prickled, instinct warning that a predator’s attention was locked on me.

“Tell me truths and lies, hh’ainun.”

“What?” I asked blankly.

The demon said nothing, waiting.

Brow furrowed, I searched for harmless things to say. “I moved here six days ago. I miss my college classes. My favorite class was biology. I enjoy baking for my family.”

“Moved here,” the demon repeated in its swirling accent. “True. Miss your … college,” it enunciated carefully, as though unfamiliar with the word, “true. Biology … lie.”

My eyes widened.

“Your family.” It rolled the last word as though tasting it. “Lie.”

“No,” I said. “That one is true.”

“Lie,” the demon repeated with certainty.

“You’re wrong. I love baking for my family.”

“Zh’ūltis.”

“Did you just call me stupid?” I clenched my jaw, then relaxed. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I did.”

“No, you didn’t.” Glaring, I took a deep breath. “Fine. Whatever. If that’s your idea of answering a question, I won’t bother asking any more.”

I stepped closer to the circle, knelt, and carefully set the paper towel of cookies on the floor. Keeping my body as far away as possible, I nudged a corner of the paper across the silver inlay, then snatched my hand back. This was the closest I’d ever come to the circle.

A soft scuff against the hardwood emanated from the darkness. The paper towel twitched, then slid into the black dome.

Icy blades of fear cut through me. Suddenly, the demon was no longer a voice—it was a physical being. Something alive and solid and real that could pull the cookies into its prison cell. My gaze rose from the floor where the treats had disappeared to the curved black wall.

A spark of red in the darkness.

Flames burst to life and shot upward in a hungry blaze. I flung myself back. As I landed on my butt, the brief flare lit a shape within the black—the dark outline of shoulders, the edge of a jaw, the plane of a cheekbone.

Burning crimson eyes caught the light and glowed.

The fire died as quickly as it had appeared, and the dome was once again filled with impenetrable darkness, the demon hidden within. Gray fluff fluttered out of the circle—ash. Flakes of ash. The demon had burned the paper towel.

I scooted across the floor, then pushed onto trembling legs. Without a word or a backward glance, I ran through the door and pushed it shut behind me, swearing never to return.

An hour later, as I lay in bed, trying to sleep, all I could see was the demon’s dim outline—and those eyes that had glowed like hot coals, like magma erupting from a volcano’s heart. I realized two things.

First, the demon had answered my question, if indirectly. I’d asked why demons wouldn’t lie, and the creature had shown me the reason: it could easily identify the fabrications among my simple statements. If all demons had a similar ability, lying was a useless endeavor.

Second, the demon hadn’t been wrong about my last “truth.” I enjoy baking for my family … It had once been true, but my family was dead. Baking nowadays was comfort and torture wrapped into one, and the satisfaction it brought me was saturated with grief.

Even that, the demon had somehow detected, and I shivered under the blankets for a long time before falling into a fitful slumber.

Chapter Six

I read my carefully scribed notes for the eighteenth time. After reaching the end of the page, I started from the top again. Twenty was a nice round number. I should read it twenty times.

No, I shouldn’t. Sitting in my room reading my notes wouldn’t bring me any closer to my goals—namely, getting my mother’s grimoire and my inheritance, then leaving this awful house forever. Besides, I’d memorized the whole page by my third read-through.

I folded the paper and tucked it in my pocket, ready to reference in case I lost my nerve partway through the conversation. My search of the house had produced zero results, so I was back to my least favorite thing in the entire world: confrontation.