“I’ll bring you something tomorrow night,” I offered.

A long pause. “Ch. I see nothing except this room.”

Its statement confused me before I realized that was an answer. The library was windowless, meaning the demon had no way to gauge the passage of time. It didn’t know how long it’d been in the circle.

Did it even matter? Uncle Jack’s business dealings—illegal business dealings—were trouble I wanted no part in, yet a nagging prickle in the back of my head had me running through the men’s various remarks, searching for … something.

“The room warms and colds,” the demon said abruptly. “The other hh’ainun come in the warm. You come in the cold. Sixty-one cycles since the first.”

“Warms and cools,” I corrected automatically. The basement was warmer during the day, and the demon had counted the temperature fluctuations. Sixty-one days, which was … “Eight weeks and five days. You’ve been here for eight weeks and five days.”

Eight weeks in a ten-foot diameter dome in an empty room. An unpleasant twitch in my stomach made me swallow, but I caught myself. Did cruelty toward a demon really disturb me? The creature in that circle was a brutal, evil killer. Given the slightest chance, it would tear me apart. Then again, if someone had locked me in a tiny circle for weeks and weeks, I’d probably feel murderous too.

According to Uncle Jack, he had two weeks to get this demon to agree to a contract. Why the time limit? Why two weeks? I looked down at The Summoner’s Handbook. Demon names. Lineages. Secrets passed from summoner to summoner.

My gaze rose to the dark circle. “Do you have a name? Your own name, not a lineage name.”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

The unseen demon laughed, and its next words were a silky croon. “What will you give me for my name, payilas?”

Oh, a new nickname. Its huh-aye-none one seemed to mean “human,” but I couldn’t guess this one’s meaning.

I sat back on my heels. “In exchange for your name, I’ll bake something for you—specifically for you.”

“Why would I want this?”

Embarrassment pulled at my mouth, which only annoyed me. I would not feel embarrassed that a demon didn’t want my baking. “That’s my offer, so take it or leave it.”

I pushed to my feet, returned the handbook to its hiding spot, and stalked toward the door. As I placed my hand on the knob, a low call stopped me.

“Payilas.”

I looked over my shoulder.

“Bring your something to me,” the demon said, “and I will tell you my name.”

I regarded the black dome, then slipped through the door and closed it without answering. Curious and impulsive, my mom had called me. A volatile combination.

Clearly, I still hadn’t learned my lesson.


Chapter Seven


I stood in front of the kitchen island, its surface stacked with raw ingredients, and dabbed the tears from my eyes.

After missing my chance yesterday to confront Uncle Jack about my inheritance, I’d cornered him this afternoon. Cue another round of interruptions, dismissals, and glares that sent my gaze skittering to the floor. I was as angry with myself and my cowardice as I was with his deceit and greed.

Sniffling, I began sorting the ingredients. Did I have any reason to doubt that Uncle Jack intended to cheat me out of my inheritance? Taking him to court might be my only option, but the thought made my skin tingle with anxiety. Calling lawyers’ offices … finding someone who would work for cheap until I won my case … going to court …

I took deep breaths.

Suing him would probably win me my money, but it would forever lose me the grimoire. How could I sue Uncle Jack for a book I couldn’t describe? I’d only seen it a few times. I’d never opened it and had no idea what it contained.

Pulling myself together, I measured flour into a bowl. Tonight, I would resume combing the library shelves for any sign of my mother’s grimoire or other books from her collection. And while I was down there … why not learn the demon’s name? There was something perversely satisfying in not only defying Uncle Jack, but also in succeeding to communicate with the otherwise silent demon where he’d failed for weeks.

As I sifted flour from one bowl to another, Amalia breezed into the kitchen, her long blond waves fluttering around her. She spotted me and stopped.

I glanced at her, then returned to sifting. What was the point in saying hello?

Stomping to the fridge, she pulled it open, rooted around, then carried an armload of food to the breakfast bar across from me. She dumped it on the counter and went back for more. I watched bemusedly as she collected three kinds of cheese, crackers, pickles, smoked meat, an apple, peanut butter, and a croissant before sliding onto the stool.

Her gray-eyed glower dared me to comment.

Staying silent, I opened a carton of eggs and cracked the first one, separating the whites from the yolks. As I worked, Amalia opened the cheese and started slicing cubes, popping every third or fourth one into her mouth. We ignored each other, me working diligently while she grazed on her selection of snacks.

Switching on the mixer, I beat the eggs into a foam, then sprinkled in powdered sugar one tablespoon at a time. When the egg mixture had formed stiff peaks under the beaters, I switched it off. Shooting me irritated looks in between reading on her phone, Amalia tore bites out of her apple.

“Why do you hate me?” The question popped out of my mouth against my better judgement.

Her head came up, disbelief on her face as she chewed her mouthful of apple. Flushing, I pretended I hadn’t spoken and added a dollop of flour to the egg mixture.

She swallowed. “Isn’t it obvious?”

I winced at her dismissive tone, then stiffened my shoulders. “Not to me.”

“Give it up, Robin,” she suggested nastily. “I’m not buying your girl-next-door act. We all know why you’re here.”

Folding more flour into the batter, I breathed through my panicky need to flee her hostility. “What are you talking about?”

She shoved a block of smoked gouda into a baggie. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you snooping all over our house, but you won’t find anything. We don’t leave our summoning secrets lying around.”

My mouth dropped open. Summoning secrets?

She pushed to her feet. “Just take your inheritance and get lost, Robin. Your parents already hoarded the family’s knowledge instead of sharing it with my dad. If the names they gave you weren’t enough, you can put yourself in horrible debt to buy some—like my father did.”

Her casual mention of my parents punched the air out of me. As emotions ricocheted through my head, I whispered hoarsely, “The … names?”

“The demon names,” she snapped.

“My parents didn’t have any demon names.”

“Seriously? How stupid do you think I am?”

“They didn’t,” I insisted, blinking rapidly. “They weren’t summoners.”

She shot me a scathing look. “We’re all summoners.”

“My parents weren’t.” I resumed stirring the batter with jerky movements. “They didn’t practice magic at all. Neither do I. I’ve never even seen a demon.” That brief glimpse in the library didn’t count.

I finished folding the batter and shakily poured it into a tube pan. My eyes were stinging—typical Robin, tearing up at the first sign of scary, scary confrontation. As I smoothed the batter into the pan, Amalia stepped back from the counter.

“Come with me,” she said.

“Come … where?”

“You’ll see.”

I slid the pan into the oven, set a timer on my phone, then followed her across the kitchen. She pulled on a pair of sandals and pushed through the French doors. Her long legs carried her across the sprawling deck and onto the lawn. I stuck my feet into someone’s oversized flipflops and trotted after her on my much shorter legs, shivering in the October air, its chill resisting the afternoon sun’s warmth.

A large greenhouse was nestled among shrubbery near a high white fence, and Amalia swept into the humid interior. Confused, I peered at the rows of plants as she opened a storage cupboard dominated by a rack of gardening tools.

Then she swung that open, revealing a hidden staircase leading underground.

My pulse throbbed in my ears as I cautiously followed her down the dim stairs. She wouldn’t hurt me, would she? Hostile or not, she didn’t seem like the type who’d chop me up and use my decomposing bones to fertilize the greenhouse.

She halted at the closed door at the bottom and checked I was right behind her. With a cold smirk, she shoved the door open and stepped aside to give me an unobstructed view of what lay beyond.

Dimly lit by a single bare bulb in the ceiling, the forty-square-foot room was windowless and damp. Water stains streaked the cinderblock walls and unfinished concrete floor, and in the center of the cold, ugly square, a ten-foot-diameter circle shone silver. Lines, arches, intersecting shapes, and hundreds of runes spiraled over the ring, weaving in and out of its interior. I knew exactly what it was.