The Demon’s Due (Sinister Season #3)

Chapter 1

"Come on, Síofra," urged Camilla Beaumont, adjusting the delicate spider-web lace of her mask in the full-length mirror,"You're not staying in tonight. We've been planning this for weeks. You, my pretty, need to get out of your head."

Her voice was cut glass, imbued with the effortless confidence only one of Bartholomew's golden girls would have.

She folded her arms across her chest, nose twitching as the stale scent of last night's hoodie and woollen socks hit her when she came too close.

"Honestly, Síofra-get up," she said, her accent was not unkind but rapidly losing patience.

With a gentle shove, she herded her roommate down the narrow hallway and into the bathroom.

"No coming out until those pearly whites are. .. Well, pearlier."

Water splashed as Síofra scrubbed at her teeth, the bland mint paste doing little to mask the sour tang of anxiety.

She stared at her reflection. Dark circles under wide, pinkened eyes and damp hair plastered to her neck.

When she finally emerged, a damp towel wrapped around her body, Camilla stood waiting with the Cinderella dress draped over her arm.

The familiar powder-blue satin looked rumpled.

The underskirt had been dusted with ashes from the fireplace set.

Camilla held it out with a flourish. "Put this on," she said, her tone brooked no refusal.

Síofra's gaze flicked to the dress, then back to Camilla's expectant face.

She'd bought it a month ago with plans of carefully coordinating with Morgan's "Zombie Prince Charming" get-up-She had imagined the two of them stepping into the hall like dark royalty.

Now the gown felt like a joke...and the joke was on her.

The satin reminded her of every whispered comment about her body, every screenshot, every snide remark.

Her throat tightened. "I don't know, Cam," she managed, voice hollow.

Camilla rolled her eyes but offered a small, encouraging smile and nudged her without a word.

But she wasn't giving an inch and for good reason.

Cam was the keybearer to a banshee tribe located in another realm which had its doorway in a yet undisclosed corner of Ireland.

Once, when Síofra had suspiciously asked her why she hung out with her, Camilla had mentioned something vague about Síofra not knowing her true worth.

Síofra took a deep breath, steeling herself.

As she slipped into the familiar dress-its bodice still too tight around her ribs-she realized that tonight, she wasn't dressing for him at all.

She ran a hand over the corset of her "naughty Cinderella" gown; delicate lace over midnight-blue silk.Then she pinned a silver boutonnière at her throat.

She was dressing for herself, for Rand and the others who were waiting outside.

They had refused to go without her. Drawing a shaky breath, she fastened the laces at the back, the satin whispering against her skin like a dare.

"Ready?" Camilla asked, handing her the matching mask.

Síofra lifted it to her face, meeting her own eyes in the mirror .She was proud to see determination, wariness, and strangely enough,empowerment.

"Ready."

Camilla swept toward the door, where a small cluster of third year students waited on the landing-laughter and breath puffing in the chill October air.

There was Rand, his cheeks flushed from the cold, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, and three others from his linguistics cohort who still counted Síofra among their circle despite all the rumours.

"We're not going without you," Rand said quietly, his eyes lingering a moment too long.

He'd nursed a crush on her since Freshers' Week, when she'd corrected his pronunciation of "bon jour".

She could count her close friends with the fingers of one hand, but they had remained true through this entire nightmare-shielding her and having her back as much as they could.

She knew Cam had done her best to silence rumours while Rand had gone online to remove and report everything he could find.

It was so different from the all-girls boarding school where her father had dumped her soon after he learnt of her existence.

It was an institution as cold and inhospitable as its stone walls.

Bullies mocked her small-town accent and ill-fitting uniforms. The phrase "hick" still echoed in her nightmares.

She'd excelled in learning new languages, trading cruelty for the quiet of the deserted but well stocked library.

But botany was her true love and major. Cam once said she could grow a garden in the middle of the dessert with her green thumb.

Now at university, she'd hoped for a fresh start but Morgan Dane's betrayal had put paid to that.

Camilla took her hand.

"No more hiding," she whispered softly. "Morgan Dane is scum.

He'll be forgotten by morning. Tonight, you fuck the first half decent jock who eyes you and show him what he is missing.

Choose a true shifter, they can go for days and they won't cling as they are always on the lookout for their fated,”she suggested seriously.

Síofra nodded, drawing a slow breath. Goosebumps rose over her exposed arms and shoulders as she hugged the cape that went with the costume tighter.

They passed the towering turrets and battlements of the University.

High above them stone sculptures of gargoyles seemed to look down on them with avid curiosity and maybe a touch of malice .

It might have been a trick of light but she thought she noticed the gleam of animal eyes looking down on them.

With the blink of an eye, it was gone,replaced by unmoving monstrosities made from stone.

As they walked, they passed close to the maze guarded by the gamekeeper’s cottage.There was talk of the maze being enchanted-about how it could consume any being stupid enough to venture inside.

Being a human in a university full of creatures of myth sucked.Why her very human father chose to enroll her here was anyone’s guess.

She had hoped she would have that in common with Morgan, but that was just one of her many delusions.

Morgan never told her what he truly was.

Behind Cam, Rand offered a shy, hopeful smile which Síofra returned.

Together, they stepped out into the night, toward the Grand Hall's carved oak doors and whatever darkness awaited inside.

As they walked the path to the venue, her mind drifted back to the first time Morgan Dane had shown his true vile face.

He had played the long game. It hadn't been at a party or in a public hallway that he managed to pull the rug out from under her feet.

It was in the quiet aftermath of what she had thought was a campaign to win her.

Her heart squeezed painfully. She was in love with him in spite of what he had done.

***flashback***

Síofra sat cross-legged on the worn leather sofa, the deck of cards fanned between her slender fingers.

Her copper-red hair was messy from the late-summer heat, strands sticking to the back of her neck.

The faded band T-shirt she’d thrown on clung just enough to show the outline of her curves above the frayed hem of her shorts.

Across from her, Morgan lounged in a low chair, one long leg stretched out, the other bent, wrist resting lazily on his knee.

He wore a dark T-shirt and shorts, his hair damp as if he’d just come from a shower.

People drifted in and out of the room-friends dropping by to say hi, a couple of them clapping him on the back, murmuring jokes-but he barely glanced up.

His focus stayed locked on her like a spotlight.

Síofra grinned, laying her last card down. “Full house. Read ’em and weep.”

Morgan’s brows arched, the hint of a smile playing at his mouth. “Full house, huh?” His voice was like the brush of velvet on her skin-rough, teasing.

“That’s right.” She pushed the pot toward herself, gathering chips with a triumphant flick of her fingers. “Guess skill does beat luck.”

He chuckled, low and warm, like he had a secret. “Maybe it does.”

Her heart kicked in her chest and drummed in her ears. He’d been watching her like that all night-his blue-grey eyes half-hooded, mouth twitching at every move she made. She couldn’t stop herself from leaning closer. “You’re not even a little annoyed?”

She couldn't believe she was flirting.She never flirted!

Morgan tilted his head, studying her face as if memorising it. “I like watching you win.”

Síofra’s pulse stuttered. “So you’re saying you let me?”

He didn’t answer right away. He picked up a stray chip, rolled it between his fingers. “I’m saying,” he murmured, “sometimes the game isn’t just the cards.”

Heat rose up the back of her neck.The dreaded curse of redheads-the blush that betrayed every thought.

“You’re just saying that because you lost.”

“And yet…” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees now, eyes locked on her pouting lips. “You’re still here.”

The room seemed to shrink to include just the two of them. Someone passed behind him, offered a casual “hey, man,” and left again. He didn’t even look up. His attention was a weight, pressing and thrilling all at once.

***end of flashback***

Later, she’d find out the truth-that the first win hadn’t been skill at all, that his “generosity” had been part of the game. But in that moment, flushed with victory and the way he was looking at her, she felt invincible.

Morgan had moved to sit next to her with his bare thigh pressed against his.

His voice dropped to a murmur meant only for her.

“You are the only one for me,” he had whispered, his breath hot against the shell of her ear.

His large hand had slid up, teasing a sensitive breast through the thin cotton of her T-shirt as he pulled her close to crush her lips.

Síofra had shivered as she kissed him back, the poker chips forgotten, and wondered who exactly was winning now.

Afterwards, they'd exchanged texts night after night: flirtatious banter, whispered promises, the heady thrill of feeling like the only woman on the planet.

He looked at her like he was constantly trying to hold himself back.I see noone but you ,he had whispered into her ear as he had pulled her onto his lap and kissed her breathless .

It all culminated in a late-night visit to his dorm room, where the candles he'd lit cast dancing shadows on the walls.

Their laughter had grown urgent, and soon they were entangled on his bed, clothes shed in a frenzy of hot and heavy petting.

He'd coaxed her confidence by asking 'shyly' if he could take a picture of her.

‘Just your beautiful breasts,” he'd said, flattering her into stupidity.

She'd trusted him, believing him when he said her fuller figure had captivated him.

She had believed the way his blue eyes had focused on her like she was the only one with him in a room-full of people.That he couldn't get enough of her.

She had been surprised when he called a halt to their lovemaking even as she was ready to do the deed.

Lies. ALL LIES!

Now, every extra pound felt like a shackle.

Those same images were everywhere: whispered in lecture halls, posted to group chats.

She'd endured cruel commentary on her love-handles-"jiggly donut," someone had sneered-and even the size of her nipples became a topic of public discussion.

Each snide remark was a fresh betrayal, a reminder that to Morgan Dane, she had never been anything more than a bet to be played and discarded at his pleasure.He was the better poker player after all.

Her only saving grace was it had never gone beyond petting, only because he said he wanted their joining to be truly special.

In retrospect, it was probably just his way of saying he had tolerated her to the max.

Candlelight danced across the mahogany shelves of the Old Library, sketching skeletons in the flickering glow.

Síofra curled her fingers around her mother's silver ring, its surface cool against her palm.

In her pocket, her smartphone lay dormant, but she knew the next ping would come soon enough.

When it did, she knew without checking that it would be a new notification- probably Morgan Dane in a smug selfie beside a blurred screenshot.

Síofra closed her eyes, tasting bile. The image had been unmistakable when she first saw it.

Her own face framed by shadows, her collarbones and the curve of her shoulders bared, stolen from a trust she'd barely known how to refuse.

She had been sick for hours, refusing to come out of the bathroom.

Curled against the cool tile, her body finally gave way, and darkness swept her under.

And then something happened that might lead to her being carted off to the loony bin just like her mom.

When her eyes opened again, she was no longer on the bathroom floor.

Two blinding suns scorched her skin, the heat like fire in her veins.

Burning red sands stretched in every direction, endless and empty.

She had stood abruptly but there was nothing but red sand in all directions.She picked a path and started walking,each step sinking her deeper into exhaustion.

There was no water, no shade, no sign of life-only the oppressive weight of a desert that seemed intent on swallowing her whole.

Her throat burned as she tried to call out, but her voice condensed into a croak in the shimmering air.

She staggered forward on blistered feet, desperate, though she had no idea what she sought.

Just before her knees buckled, she thought she saw movement at the horizon-dark shapes rippling through the haze before everything had collapsed back into black.

And when she came to, Cam was looking down at her with worried violet eyes.

She had to call security when Síofra did not open the door.

Strangely her feet and palms were raw, as if she had been walking on hot coals.And there was a coating of red sand all over her that she couldn't explain. Cam just shook her head and said there were many secrets in this university that she wasn't privy to.

Síofra straightened her spine, shaking off her depression. She had feverishly scrolled her phone for days, devastated by the comments. Tonight, though, she told herself she would pretend to be someone else.This was not the worst thing that had happened to her. She would endure.