Chapter 1 The Demon in the Doorway
Chapter one
The Demon in the Doorway
Magnur
The last place I expected to find myself on a Tuesday evening was outside a fate-weaving shop, contemplating the merits of supernatural matchmaking.
Yet there I was hovering on the sidewalk like an awkward shadow as dusk bled purple across the sky.
The Golden Spindle. Even the name made me want to roll my eyes, but desperation has a funny way of making even the most ridiculous options seem reasonable.
I'd walked halfway across the city to get here, passing through districts that grew progressively more magical with each block.
Now the air smelled of incense and possibility, the storefronts glowing with enchanted signs and windows displaying wares that occasionally moved of their own accord.
Every few minutes, I caught someone staring, a quick glance, then the hasty aversion of eyes when I turned my head.
I was used to it. Demons weren't exactly rare in this city, but one my size tended to draw attention.
"Asking Fate for a mate," I muttered under my breath, adjusting my tie. "Absolutely absurd."
Dating hadn't gotten any easier the older I got.
People either wanted the demon experience, the danger, the thrill, the ability to tell their friends they'd fucked a creature from the infernal planes, or they feared what I was capable of.
Neither was particularly conducive to building anything real.
The Golden Spindle sat nestled between an herb shop and a bookstore specializing in grimoires, its storefront understated compared to its neighbors.
No flashing enchanted signs, no displays of bottled emotions or luck charms. Just a simple wooden door painted deep blue and a small golden sign.
Most passersby would walk right by without a second glance.
My fingers twitched as I studied the protective wards etched into the doorframe, I stepped back, clearing my throat. The longer I stood here overthinking, the more likely I was to talk myself out of this entirely.
The memory of binding circles rose unbidden in my mind, phantom pain tracing along the scars that covered my body beneath my clothing.
For decades, I'd been property, not a person.
A tool to be used, a weapon to be wielded, my will subsumed under the commands of the warlocks who'd trapped me.
The scars they'd left weren't just physical—they were a map of ownership etched into my skin, a constant reminder of what it meant to be bound to another's will.
And here I was, voluntarily seeking to be bound again. Not in the same way, of course, but still the irony wasn't lost on me.
A young couple walked past, their shoulders brushing, hands linked. Something in my chest tightened at their easy intimacy. That's what I wanted, someone who chose me, knew me, saw all of me without flinching.
Was that too much to ask? Probably.
My phone buzzed in my pocket—a client with a last-minute order, no doubt. I should answer it, use it as an excuse to walk away from this ridiculous errand. I had a successful business, a comfortable home, clients who respected my work. I wasn't some lovesick teenager pining for a soulmate.
And yet I didn't reach for the phone. Instead, I found myself taking a step closer to the door, then another.
"Ten minutes," I told myself firmly. "I'll give them ten minutes, hear what they have to say, and then I'll go back to being a functional adult who doesn't believe in fate-threads or destiny or whatever nonsense they're selling."
Before I could overthink it further, I reached for the handle.
Monster, how dare you even look at me!
Then I closed my eyes to the onslaught of memories, took a breath that filled my lungs, and pushed the door open.
The soft chime of a bell announced my entrance as I stepped over the threshold, leaving the rational world behind.
The scent hit me first, sage and amber resin.
It filled my lungs as the door swung shut behind me, momentarily overwhelming my senses.
The Golden Spindle's interior was nothing like the understated exterior had suggested.
Every available surface seemed to house some manner of magical curiosity, from shelves lined with glass vials containing liquids in odd colors to bundles of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling in constellations.
"Well, well, if it isn't the most eligible demon in the city."
The voice came from behind a curved counter that dominated the far wall.
I turned to find a woman watching me with unabashed interest, her lips curved in a smile that was equal parts welcoming and mischievous.
Her hair was a glorious riot of curls with thin strands of gold thread woven through them, catching light when she moved.
She leaned forward, elbows on the counter, chin propped on her hands as though settling in for a show she'd been eagerly anticipating.
"Magnur himself," she continued, "master tailor, gracing my humble shop." Her eyes, bright and warm brown with flecks of gold, danced over me with the kind of open appreciation that most people tried to hide. "I was beginning to think you'd never come in, the way you were pacing outside."
Great. She'd been watching me have an existential crisis on her doorstep.
"I wasn't pacing," I said, a hint of defensiveness creeping into my voice despite my best efforts. “Nice shop you have here.”
She laughed. "I'll tell Atty you approve. She'll be absolutely thrilled." Her tone suggested the opposite was true. "I'm Cleo, by the way. One-third of the terror trio that runs this place."
I extended my hand, a gesture that often made humans nervous.
Cleo didn't hesitate to take it. "You're the reason my spools have been humming all day." She winked. "They do that sometimes when something interesting is about to happen."
I raised an eyebrow slightly. "And am I interesting?"
"Honey, you're the most interesting thing that's walked through that door all year." She released my hand and straightened, bouncing slightly on her toes. "And I had a literal phoenix in here on Monday."
Despite myself, I felt the corner of my mouth twitch upward. Her energy was infectious, there was no artifice to her, no hidden agenda I could detect. Just enthusiasm and... was that anticipation?
"So," she continued, circling around the counter, "you're here about a thread, yes? A connection? A..." She waggled her eyebrows dramatically, "romantic entanglement of the fated variety?"
I maintained my neutral expression through sheer force of will. "I'm here for a consultation."
"Mmhmm." She grinned like I'd confirmed her wildest suspicions. "Well, you'll want to talk to Lacey, then. She's the one who does the measuring."
She gestured for me to follow her toward the back of the shop. When she reached a curtain made of strung beads and thin threads that separated the main shop from whatever lay beyond, she turned back to me, mischief dancing in her eyes.
"Fair warning," she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially, "Lacey's going to want to see your threads. The ones on your skin, I mean." She nodded toward my covered wrists. "Can't measure new connections without accounting for the old ones."
I stiffened slightly, my jaw tightening. The scars were private—not something I displayed casually, and certainly not something I discussed with strangers. But I supposed these weren't ordinary circumstances.
"That won't be a problem," I lied.
Cleo's expression softened, just slightly.
For a moment, the hyperactive energy dimmed, and I glimpsed something like sympathy in her eyes.
"She won't judge. None of us will." Then, quick as it had appeared, the seriousness vanished, replaced by her bubbly demeanor.
"Now come on! Let's find you your perfect match before you change your mind and run for the hills. "
With a wink, she swept aside the beaded curtain and led me into the back room, the strands tinkling musically as we passed through them.
The consultation room was a study in amber and shadow.
Glass lamps cast pools of honeyed light across dark wooden surfaces, their glow catching on thousands of threads lining the walls in neat rows.
At the center of the room sat a polished wooden table, its surface so reflective I could see the distorted reflection of my own face in it, three chairs surrounded it.
"Cozy," I murmured, my voice sounding strangely muted, as if the room itself absorbed excess sound.
Cleo gestured to one of the chairs. "Make yourself comfortable. Lacey will be with you in a—"
The door on the far wall opened without a sound, cutting Cleo's sentence short. A tall woman stepped into the room, long locs fell past her shoulders, delicate golden threads woven through them catching the amber light. Her eyes, dark and thoughtful, settled on me immediately.
"—moment," Cleo finished with a grin. "And there she is. Perfect timing, as always."
"Clotho," the newcomer acknowledged with a nod, her voice smooth and measured. "Thank you for bringing our guest back." Her gaze never left me.
"Of course!" Cleo bounced on her toes once before backing toward the beaded curtain. "I'll leave you two to the boring part."
The beads clinked softly as she disappeared through them, leaving me alone with the woman I assumed was Lacey. The air in the room seemed to settle with Cleo's departure.
"I am Lachesis," she confirmed, approaching the table with unhurried grace. "You may call me Lacey, if you prefer." She gestured to the chair Cleo had indicated. "Please, sit."
I lowered myself into the chair as Lacey took the seat across from me.
"Your hands, please," she said softly. It wasn't a command, but there was something in her tone that made it clear she expected compliance.
I hesitated. My hands were currently hidden beneath the table. The scars that covered them were just a small sample of the extensive network that marked nearly every inch of my skin. They weren't something I displayed.