Chapter Twenty-Five
Shoving the slip of paper into my robe pocket for the hundredth time, I sigh. Seven simple words promise to turn my entire life upside down. He has to be teasing me—it has to be a joke. Whatever it is between Ryc and I, it’s growing rapidly out of control.
And the worst part of it all is I’m tempted to let it.
With another sigh, I lift a handful of clean carrots to the counter on my right, setting them into a linen-lined basket. Emptying the sink of carrots, I take the basket on the left filled to the brim with more ready to be cleaned and dump them into the cool water.
Using a soft bristled brush, I scrub each carrot, one at a time before dropping it into the next sink to be rinsed. I agreed to help Cora with her tasks today, and this week she’s on kitchen rotation.
Appearing beside me, she grabs the basket of washed carrots with a smile on her face. She hoists the basket against her hip, and I offer her a quick, small smile in return.
“You sure you don’t mind?” she asks, watching as I scrub.
“I can’t sit idle while you work,” I answer honestly. “It doesn’t feel right, and I need the distraction.”
“I’m not sure I’d call washing carrots a distraction, but as long as you don’t mind,” Cora says with a bright laugh.
Granted, it’s not an ideal distraction, but it is keeping me busy.
She remains beside me, leaning back against the edge of the sink. “You’ve been quiet today. More so than usual.” She turns her face to look at the others in the kitchen busying themselves as they prepare the day’s lunch.
“I’ve a fair bit on my mind.” Again, I give her the truth along with a soft smile. “Forgive me.”
Cora’s brows shoot high. “No need to apologize, Ves,” she says, meeting my gaze. “I just don’t want you to feel obligated to help.”
Tossing a couple more carrots into the rinsing sink, I laugh. “I don’t feel obligated to help.” I pause, smirking, “But I do feel obligated to remind you the carrots aren’t going to peel themselves before lunch.”
Laughing, Cora hauls herself over to the center island counter, setting the basket down. Reaching into her pockets, she rummages around, searching for something. She pulls the sleeves back on her robes to glance at her wrists before huffing a tired sigh.
“You don’t happen to have an extra hair ribbon, do you?” she asks.
“I might,” I answer, pulling my hands out of the water and dropping the scrub brush.
Drying them quickly on the nearby dish towel, I reach into the pocket devoid of Ryc’s note and withdraw a thin, black silk ribbon.
One I’ve used several times to pull my hair out of my face.
Handing it to her, she deftly gathers her chestnut brown hair into a messy bun and secures it with the ribbon.
Smiling, she resumes peeling.
“Thank you,” she says with genuine gratitude. “My hair was going to be the death of me. This is the third time I’ve misplaced my ribbon today. I’ll give this back once I’m done peeling.”
Giving her a shrug and shaking my head, I say, “How about you return it to me when you find yours.”
She lights up. “I can do that.” She nods once.
Returning my hands to the cold water, I suppress a shiver—and I’m reminded of the cooler breeze last night standing with Ryc on the rooftops. The way he’d thrown his cloak over me, such a small gesture of kindness that’s burned itself into my mind.
“Do you realize I can feel when you think of me,” Ryc’s voice rings as clearly as if he were standing next to me.
The cleaning brush in my hands clatters into the basin as my hands fly to the ledge of the sink. Bracing myself, my entire body tenses, joints and muscles locking. The force in my grip causes my knuckles to turn white.
“It feels like you’re trailing a finger down the back of my neck, little demon. It’s quite distracting.” His voice curls around my neck and up the back of my skull like fog.
Remembering to breathe, I suck in a deep breath.
No. No.
This is not good.
No, this is bad.
“Ves?” Cora’s voice forces me to glance at her over my shoulder. “Are you alright?”
Swallowing against the tightness in my chest and throat, I straighten myself and reach into the sink, crushing the brush in my grip. The wood handle begins to fracture and splinter with the force.
Gods honest truth? If what I’m hearing is what I think it is, I’ve never been in more danger in my life.
Meeting Cora’s worry-filled eyes, I scoff a laugh. “I’m alright. Just clumsy.”
The single biggest lie of my existence.
She gives me a look that tells me she doesn’t quite believe me, but to my surprise, she doesn’t press further. With a small nod, she returns to peeling.
“How in the hells did you open a channel?” I shoot the thought at him heatedly, scrubbing at the carrots harder than I likely should.
“I’ve done nothing. I’ve been able to feel you since waking this morning. I’m flattered you think about me as often as you do.” His voice turns teasing, and it doesn’t take much for me to visualize his scarred brow arching.
Since this morning?
Light strike me where I stand.
Embarrassment sets my face on fire.
A channel between us should not exist.
I didn’t open one. I couldn’t have. Worse yet, the only way to close it is by fulfilling the contract or releasing him from it. My breath turns ragged as I toss another carrot ready for rinsing.
Perhaps this is why Netharis never allowed his children to offer contracts—a compulsory channel being opened would be a window into his House—a structural weakness a well plotting demon could manipulate. It would be a means for demons to slip in and use his children against him.
Everything I know about demonic channels has been gleaned from books. I don’t have firsthand experience, and I never asked Kassil or Druka for further explanation. I didn’t need to, opening a demonic channel wasn’t something I ever intended to do.
Now, I wish I would have asked more questions.
Being able to hear Ryc at any given time will be an annoyance at most, something easily avoided with the use of a mental ward. But for Ryc… his experience of this isn’t going to be as easily ignored.
Even if he establishes a mental ward, he’ll know. He’ll feel anytime I think of him, which ashamedly, is rather often, even before all of this. He’ll feel my emotions—fear, joy, anger, lust…
Oh, fucking light take me.
The thought of Ryc feeling my lust causes my jaw to tighten and my cheeks to burn. Offering him a contract had been one thing, but an open channel is a direct line to me regardless of the distance between us.
I’m not sure how existing in the same realm will affect this. Typically, a demon and their bonded never physically cross paths. Demons cannot exist here and mortals cannot exist in the hells. And in normal situations, an open channel will call for the mortal to seek closeness to their demon.
A design meant to draw yet another soul to the hells.
This is a gods damned catastrophe.
How in the nine hells am I going to navigate this?
“I can’t have this between us.”
“I don’t think we get much of a choice,” he counters, and I can hear the smirk on his lips, feel sparks of his amusement.
The brush clatters into the sink once again as I pitch myself over the third empty sink, gasping for air.
I should not feel his emotions.
Nothing about this is anything like the demonic channels I’ve read about.
If my life is a barely controlled wildfire, it’s just hit miles of drought-riddled forest. Weaving together what little resolve I have left, I sense for the channel, looking for that golden rope I’d seen last night. In the back of my mind, I find the darkened end of the hallway that had appeared.
But the window won’t close, and the rope is cemented in place.
Bending my innate to my will, a billow of shadows amasses over the open window, encasing the rope. The light is dampened, hidden by the shadows, leaving the hallway engulfed in blackness.
Heaving a sigh, I set the brush on the counter beside the sink and dry my hands. I didn’t expect to have to maintain a mental ward either, but I have no choice. I cannot let Ryc become more of a distraction than he already is. Not right now.
“I’ll be back, Cora,” I say, throwing the towel down.
“Everything okay?” she asks, watching me head toward the door.
“Yeah,” I call over my shoulder. “I have a few questions for Eve.”
A lie. I don’t have questions for Eve.
I have questions for Druka. But Cora doesn’t need to know that.
“She should be up in the library,” she offers, and I catch a quick glimpse of Cora’s smile before the kitchen door swings shut behind me.
Setting a brisk pace, I make my way through the temple, finding the spiraling stairs in the eastern wing. I could ferry—I should ferry, but I need time to think.
Heaving a sigh, I begin my climb.
And two rotations up, I lose my patience, letting my shadows take me the rest of the way. As the darkness vanishes, I’m left standing before Eve and Sybille—the head librarian—at the desk near the library entry doors. Their eyes grow wide, especially Sybille’s.
“Ves?” Eve’s face pinches with confusion.
Sybille, sitting behind the desk with Eve standing beside her, quickly sets the pen in her hand to the paper lying between them. In seconds, she pushes the paper toward me, spinning it around so I can read.
There’s a whole conversation between Eve and Sybille that’s been crossed out, a single line through each hastily scribbled sentence.
As my eyes scan over the page, it becomes clear they were talking about the upcoming eclipse.
The last line on the page, the one Sybille wrote for me, are the only words missing a bold strike.
I love seeing your shadows.
Meeting her stare, her face is alight with a smile as her eyes gleam.
With my frequent visits to the library, I’ve met Sybille a few times but haven’t spoken to her much—mostly because I don’t know the gestural language she uses. I’ve learned a couple words, pleasantries really. But despite the language barrier, she’s always greeted me with a smile on her face.