Chapter 10
Piper
My apartment smells like pine, cinnamon, and exhaustion. Mostly exhaustion. Because it’s been days—maybe a week? Time has lost meaning—since Slade wedged himself into every waking moment of my life—and I’m hanging on by a thread thinner than tinsel.
I’m so tired I could cry over a candy cane.
Slade, of course, is thriving. He doesn’t sleep, doesn’t tire. Slade doesn’t even pretend to understand personal space. He just… exists. Constantly. Loudly. Hotly. And the worst part?
I’m not hating it as much as I should.
My resolve—the thing I held so tightly it practically left marks—is slipping. Little by little. Hour by hour. Touch by accidental, infuriating, devastating touch. I hate him. I want him.
Both statements can coexist, unfortunately.
It’s the second week of December, and the whole town is drowning in garland and fake snow. The festive season is swelling like a tidal wave, threatening to pull me down with it, curse and all. So naturally, I decide that the best way to distract myself is… decorating.
Or pretending to.
I haul open my apartment closet—more like battle it—because the door sticks, the hinges squeak, and the top shelf is exactly where things go to die.
“Looking for something?” Slade asks from the kitchen, voice warm and amused like he knows I’m losing my grip.
“No.” Yes. “I’m looking for my Christmas wreath.”
A pause. He leans around the corner. “Your what?”
“My wreath.”
He stares at me like I just said I collect the fingernails of ex-boyfriends. “Is this… important?”
“Yes,” I snap, staring at him incredulously while reaching for the top shelf. “It goes on the front door.”
Slade folds his arms, leaning against the doorframe like a sin carved into oak. “And this helps you… how?”
For the love of all things divine… “It’s December,” I say through gritted teeth. “I want normal. I want something festive. I want a life that isn’t being taken over by a demon who—”
“Who what?” he cuts in, voice low. “Who cares what happens to you?”
I freeze. The worst part is that he’s right. And that it hurts to admit it. “Go bother someone else,” I mutter, turning back to the shelf.
He doesn’t move.
I grab the box labeled XMAS STORAGE—a disaster waiting to topple—and yank it down. It slides too fast, knocking loose a few things that were shoved beside it.
One smaller box tumbles out and hits the floor with a soft thud, and I frown. It’s unfamiliar. Wrapped in old linen, tied with a fraying red ribbon. No label. Definitely not mine.
“What’s that?” Slade asks immediately, all humor gone.
“I… don’t know.”
I lift it slowly, turning it over in my hands.
It’s heavier than it looks. Warm, almost. When I pull the ribbon, the fabric unfurls like it hasn’t been touched in centuries.
Inside is—a small brass bell. Plain. Tarnished.
Worn smooth with age. Nothing special. Nothing obviously magical. Something I’ve never seen before.
But the moment I touch it—the air shifts. Not violently. Not like the curse’s usual theatrical displays. Just a soft tightening. A pull—as if the room inhales around me.
Slade takes a step nearer, face sharpening with recognition. “Piper,” he says quietly. “Don’t ring it.”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” I snap, then softer. “What is it?”
Rhea would kill to be here. She’d dig through ancestral records and pull out fifteen theories before Slade even finished one sentence. He doesn’t answer right away. That alone terrifies me. “What?” I demand.
“It’s not the bell itself,” he says slowly. “It’s… who it belonged to.”
I look down at the small, innocuous thing in my palm.
“Slade.” My voice trembles. “Whose was it?”
He meets my eyes—green burning, jaw tight. “Veda Bellamy’s.”
The world seems to tilt. “No,” I whisper.
“Yes,” he murmurs. “I didn’t think any of her objects survived. She destroyed everything that could incriminate her. This… shouldn’t exist.”
My fingers tighten around the bell. A faint warmth pulses under my skin. Not a spark. Not a glow. Just a soft, steady heartbeat.
Like something sleeping—wailing.
For fucks sake it’s like I’m Piper Bellamy, sleeping cursebreaker extraordinaire—great. Just. Fucking. Great.
Exactly what I needed.
I swallow hard. “So what does this mean?”
Slade steps closer, brushing his fingers beneath mine as if assessing the object’s magic without touching it himself.
“It means,” he says softly, “Veda left something behind. And it went to you for a reason.”
My heart races, palms sweating as I grip the bell.
“Piper,” he adds, voice dropping, “this is the first clue she ever left.”
And maybe—just maybe—the truth hidden for five hundred years finally wants to be found.
***
Slade watches me for a long moment—too long—while I clutch the tiny brass bell like it’s a live grenade with excellent manners.
I carry it to the kitchen table, setting it down gently. The metal catches the soft glow of the Christmas lights, shining dully like it hasn’t seen daylight since before indoor plumbing.
I inhale. Exhale. Ignore Slade hovering over my shoulder like an overly attractive gargoyle. “Rhea is better at this,” I murmur.
Slade hums—dark, displeased. “She’s impulsive.”
“She’s also a Bellamy, and so am I.”
He snorts. “She doesn’t have what you have.”
“And what is that exactly?”
Slade’s gaze lowers to my mouth, slowly. Too intentionally. “Me,” he says.
“Oh my god, Slade—stop.”
He smirks. I pick up my phone and send Rhea one of our code messages: REINDEER EMERGENCY. COFFEE? NO DEMONS.
Her reply is immediate: BE THERE IN TEN. IF SLED—SLADE—TRIES TO FOLLOW, I’LL HEX HIS HORNS OFF.
I hide a smile and turn to the demon in question. “I need an hour,” I tell him.
Slade tilts his head. “For what?”
“To meet my cousin. Alone.”
Slade looks… offended. “I don’t want to leave you alone when the curse is stirring.”
“Well, you are today,” I snap, completely flabbergasted.
His jaw clenches. “No.”
“Yes,” I argue.
The air crackles like it’s considering becoming a lightning storm. Slade steps closer, shadows curling at his ankles. “Piper, if something happens—”
“Nothing will happen at the coffee shop.”
He rolls his eyes. My jaw hits the floor. This man—demon—just rolled his eyes at me. “That’s what every horror story begins with.”
“It has gingerbread lattes and elderly couples doing crossword puzzles.”
“Exactly.”
I blink. “Are you… scared of crossword puzzles?”
“No,” he growls, narrowing his eyes at me. “I’m scared of you being out of my sight when you’re unraveling a five-hundred-year curse connected to my bloodline.”
My stomach flips—but I stand firm. “Slade. I need this. I need space. And I need your word you’ll stay with Newt.”
Slade glances toward Newt—who is sitting on the counter, tail neatly tucked, staring at him like he’s evaluating his worthiness to exist.
Slade scowls, Newt blinks. “I’m not staying with a house cat,” Slade mutters.
Newt meows back, fully aware he’s won.
I fold my arms. “Slade. Promise.”
He watches me—hungry, frustrated, possessive—but not refusing. And that’s how I know his walls are crumbling too. “What will you give me in return?” he asks, stepping forward. “You never take without offering something back.”
My body warms unpleasantly. “What do you want?”
Slade lowers his voice until it slides over my skin. “A deal.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head.
“You haven’t even heard what I’m asking for.”
“It’s a deal with a demon.”
“It’s a deal with your demon,” he corrects.
I almost choke on my own tongue. “Slade—”
“One condition,” he says. “If Rhea can’t give you the answers you’re looking for, you agree to follow me to the Ninth Realm.”
My stomach drops. “Ninth—no. Absolutely not. Hell is off the table.”
“It’s not hell,” Slade says. “It’s the Ninth Realm.”
“That is literally hell.”
His lips twitch. “Not the way you imagine it.”
“I don’t care what brand of hell it is, I’m not going.”
“It’s not torture,” he says calmly. “It’s a holiday ball.”
I blink, utterly confused. “I’m sorry?”
“Yes,” he says. “Lucifer celebrates.”
I stare at him. Slade stares back. “Lucifer. As in the Lucifer,” I say slowly.
“Yes.”
“Has a holiday ball?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“With what? Infernal garland and brimstone eggnog?”
A beat of silence. Then—“…Actually, yes.”
I grip the back of the chair. “Slade. Why would I ever go to that?”
“Because the Ninth Realm has the oldest untouched archives in existence,” he says. “Some predating witchcraft. Some predating humanity.”
My breath catches.
“And those records,” he continues, “may hold the truth Veda erased.”
A shiver curls down my spine. I hate that he’s right. I hate that he knows he’s right. And I especially hate that part of me wants to say yes.
“So?” he asks softly. “Deal?”
I look at the bell. Then at him. Then at Newt, who is licking his paw like this is all beneath him. I blow out a breath, conceding defeat. “Fine.”
Slade goes perfectly still.
“So long as Rhea fails to give me the answers,” I say, lifting a finger, “only then do I agree. And only if you stay here with Newt for the next hour.”
Slade’s jaw flexes. He hates this. Truly hates it. But he nods. “Deal.”
A demon’s deal is binding. I feel it settle over my skin like a warm ribbon tightening around my ribs. Slade steps back, eyes burning. “Be careful.”
“I’m going to get coffee.”
“Exactly.”
I grab my coat, the bell wrapped in linen, and my keys. Slade’s voice follows me out the door—low, dark, entirely too intimate. “Don’t make me come find you, Piper.”
I slam the door shut before he can see the way that line turns my bones into molten sugar.
Newt hisses at him from the counter. Slade stares at the cat.
“Well,” he mutters, “this will be hell.”
I snicker all the way down the hall, not bothering to hide my choked laughter. It’ll be a miracle if my apartment survives this. I grin, decidedly choosing to let the catastrophe unfold. Slade is Newt’s problem now…