Chapter 22
If someone had told me a year ago I’d be snuggled up to a demon in my bed while staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars Lark stuck on the ceiling, I would have laughed.
Then the guilt crashes down on me. While I was off meeting dragons and having a salacious time with Dimitri, my sister’s still missing. She could be in trouble, kidnapped, hurt, or worse. I’d know if she was dead, but that’s a small consolation when I think about it. Which I try not to.
As soon as Dimitri showed up, I sloughed off all my responsibilities.
I let him distract me with his erratic magic and curse and body.
If I was a good sister, I would have been laser-focused on finding her.
It wouldn’t matter if I was at a dead end.
In fact, I should have been using Dimitri to find answers.
The thought leaves an icky taste in my mouth.
I don’t want to use him, per se. But when fate drops a demon in your lap, you probably shouldn’t ignore their usefulness.
Still, it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to wake him up to demand he help me.
His proposal all those moons ago isn’t looking too bad right now. I should have taken him up on it then.
Too stubborn.
“Fuck you,” I breathe, and Dimitri stirs underneath my hand.
I’m half-draped over his body and acutely aware how naked we both are.
Which I shouldn’t be. This shouldn’t be awkward at all.
We had sex in the middle of a dragon dimension and then again on my bedroom floor when we couldn’t quite make it to the bed.
My knees still hurt, yet I can’t bring myself to regret it. Doesn’t erase the guilt, though.
“Morning, spitfire,” he murmurs, sleep lining his voice.
“Evening,” I whisper, then clear my throat. “I’m going to go shower.” Better to lie than tell him I have to pee.
He squeezes my hip, then unwinds his arm from my waist. I roll straight off the mattress, and my foot slips on an abandoned piece of clothing—underwear. His fingers brush my bare ass, and I hurry to right myself before he can “save” me. The last thing I need is a concussion.
I spend an exorbitant amount of time in the bathroom.
Part of me wishes I had used the other one.
I would have had to go into Lark’s bedroom, and I’m not ready to face all that again.
I’ll have to before long to search for clues.
I’m still trying to figure out if I should do that before or after asking Dimitri about the summoning circle when the door pops open.
Dimitri fills the doorframe, his cock out in full glory and a scowl on his face. No, not a scowl—he’s pissed. Very fucking pissed. I thought I’d seen him angry when Providence popped in. This is way beyond that.
“Want to explain why you lied?” he growls, his voice duplicating—layering on top of one another until the sound echoes throughout the small space. My chest tightens and my head spins at the intensity.
Slowly, I inch open the shower door and reach for my towel. He snatches it away, and it bursts into flames. Within seconds, ashes rain to the floor, and I swallow hard. He crooks his finger, and I step gingerly onto the thick black mat.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He jabs his finger in the general direction of the rest of the house. “You’ve got a whole fucking room dedicated to sorcery and necromancy. Tell me, when did you learn how to slip into Hell? Was that before or after you cursed me?”
“What? I didn’t curse you. I can barely brew a healing potion, much less curse someone.”
He narrows his eyes, and his form flickers. “Don’t fuck with me, Mari. Is that even your actual name? Or did you lie about that, too?”
My nostrils flare and rage slowly builds within me.
I try to keep my temper under control, to explain things logically.
He’s not making it easy. I hate when someone accuses me of shit I didn’t do.
Everyone in my life seems to blame me for things outside my control.
I’m sick and tired of being everyone else’s scapegoat.
“For your information, Mari is a nickname. Is Dimitri your actual name?” I plant my fists on my hips, no longer caring how dripping wet I am.
A sardonic grin takes over his face. “No, as a matter of fact, it’s not.”
I inhale sharply, trying to hide the hurt. I understand why he’s upset, but I didn’t think he’d lie to me. And then throw it in my face after…everything? I definitely didn’t see that coming.
This right here is why I keep to myself. It hurts too much to let people in. They never live up to the expectations I build for them in my mind. I bite the inside of my cheek, focusing on the physical one rather than the emotional one.
“Well, fine then. I didn’t lie to you, though I doubt that matters much to you. And no, I didn’t curse you. Choose to believe it or not, I don’t really care.” I grab another towel and wrap it around my cold body. “You can go now.”
His face transforms, going through a range of emotions before settling on contemplation.
I don’t really care. He can figure his shit out somewhere else.
I have more important things to do. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.
It’s easier than feeling the pain. Maybe I am the liar he claims me to be.
“It’s Dimitrius,” he mumbles, running a hand through his hair.
“Good for you. Was there something else you needed? Or are you keeping me hostage?”
He steps to the side and allows me to pass.
His fingers brush my elbow, yet I breeze by without acknowledging him.
His inability to talk things through calmly isn’t my problem.
It’s not my flaw to fix. The dark side of me, the one I keep locked away in the corner of my mind, hopes he suffers—that the guilt will eat away at him, eroding his confidence and feeling the sting of loss every time he remembers me.
There’s a reason I keep that side hidden from even myself.
“Mari, I didn’t—”
“It’s Marigold, by the way. Not that you deserve to know. Yes, my parents named me after a flower. Yes, it means not so great things. No, you can’t call me it. Satisfied?”
He shakes his head, regret and shame swimming in his eyes.
Mercy doesn’t cost you anything.
I mentally flip Lark off, then stop. Her advice is usually on par, even when it’s in my head. I want to argue with her, but he’s still looking at me. Fighting with a voice inside my head isn’t exactly typical for witches.
“Fine,” I snap, though whether to him or the voice, I’m not entirely sure. Maybe both.
“None of this is fine,” he sighs.
“No, I mean, fine, give me your proof.” As much as mercy wouldn’t cost me anything, it doesn’t erase my annoyance. Or the hurt.
He swallows hard and thunder rumbles overhead. If he makes it rain in this house again, I might just lose it.
“The room,” he mutters. “The one behind the kitchen.”
My spine snaps straight. “What about it?”
“The witchy demon things. You told me you didn’t know anything about curses. You said you’d never been anywhere.” His eyes lift to meet mine, but the rage is gone, replaced with something like guilt. “Why did you lie?”
I glance at the ceiling, and those damn stars stare back at me—mocking me.
“This isn’t my house. I’ve lived here for the past several months, but I don’t…
this isn’t my place. I lived in the city like three hours from here in a tiny-ass apartment with no elevator.
This is my sister’s house. She’s the one who set that whole room up.
I don’t understand half the things in it—including the summoning circle. ”
His mouth parts and realization washes over him. I want to call him an asshole, tell him he should have asked questions, then waited for the answers instead of making accusations. Except the fight’s drained out of me. All that’s left is the sting of his words and the pain of his own omissions.
“That’s…Mari, that’s not a summoning circle.”
“Of course it is. I saw one just like it in my parent’s basement. And my other aunt’s house before she vanished or died or whatever. Sure, part of it’s washed away, but I figured that was normal and Lark just—”
He holds up his hand and I fall silent, realizing I’m rambling. “Lark?”
“My sister…”
“So, you’re named after a flower and she’s named after a bird?” He raises an eyebrow and looks at me expectantly, as if this is the most important question.
“No, we’re both named after flowers. Our aunts were named after birds. My father was named after one of the moon phases, but that’s neither here nor there.”
“Lark isn’t a flower.”
“Her full name is Larkspur. Obviously, we both go by nicknames.”
“Obviously,” he murmurs. “Except that’s not a summoning circle. That’s a—”
“A what?” I ask, annoyed at the dramatic pause. When I glance down, though, he’s gone. No storm clouds, no lightning, no gloriously naked demon. Just an empty bedroom and silence. Deep, bone-chilling silence.
I shiver, then rush around the room, grabbing whatever clothes I can find.
There’s not much I can do about his poofing back to Hell other than slam things around.
Maybe curse at the floor. Nothing will change it.
I try to remember what exactly he said when he was accusing me of all the bullshit.
Something about Hell, but summoning circles are connected too.
Once in the living room, I dig through my sister’s books. All the titles are the same as they were the last time I checked. The necromancy book lies innocently on the table, and I shake my head.
“You’re no fucking help. Why don’t you do something worthwhile, huh?”
I stalk away to the secret room that’s not so secret. I’m surprised he didn’t find it sooner. Then again, he spent most of his time here either in my bed or collapsing in the living room. What I should be wondering is why he was snooping in the first place. Except I really don’t give a fuck.
“He told you,” I breathe. “He told you all about how demons act when they think they’re betrayed. It’s not really all that surprising.”
Except you like him.
I scoff as I shove open the door, then step back.
The room doesn’t look a damn thing like it did before.
There were plants and candles and some herbs and such, but this?
This screams occult and dark magic. Black walls along with blackened windows seem to suck in the light from behind me.
The circle, which apparently is not a summoning circle, glows a bright gold, almost flickering like a candle. Except there aren’t any.
“What the fuck, Lark.”
There’s more than meets the eye. Even a witch’s.
If I wasn’t so freaked out, I’d roll my eyes.
She was always spouting that, though I never truly understood it.
I figured she read it in a book and thought it made her sound mysterious.
Maybe that’s why my brain is parroting her words—because this is a pretty creepy situation.
I shuffle forward bit by bit until my toes reach the black floorboards.
“No fucking way am I going in there.” I clear my throat. “Uh, begone?” I clear my throat again. “Begone, demon.”
Nothing happens, because of course it doesn’t.
I’m not a competent enough witch to make shit happen.
Hell, Dimitri probably left the first time by chance.
I’ve been playing at being a witch for so long, I think I lost some of my actual magic along the way.
Can one of the gods or Mother Earth take it away if you’re being naughty?
I snort as Dimitri’s voice echoes in my mind. “Remember, he accused you of lying, Marigold. You can’t just forgive him because he called you a naughty girl. Have some fucking self-respect.”
Spinning on my heel, I let out a nervous laugh. My body sways, and I slam my hand into the wall to steady myself. I press my fist to my chest, willing my heart to stop racing. I drop my chin and focus on my breathing.
Mrow.
I freeze, staring at the scratched hardwood floors. If I pretend I didn’t hear what I think I heard, then it didn’t happen, right? That’s how it works in human houses. At least, I think it does. Of course, shit has to be difficult in witchy households.
When another meow rings out, followed by a crash of glass, I spin back around. Squinting into the darkness, I search for any movement. The circle isn’t glowing anymore. I don’t know if that’s good or bad. Both. I’m going with both.
Lark doesn’t have a cat. No familiar or anything. Maybe a mountain lion broke in and is wreaking havoc on her spell room. Knowing my luck, it’ll be a panther.
“A panther from Hell,” I whisper, my voice wavering.
I shuffle forward until my toes line up with the threshold once more. I reach around the door frame and fumble for the light switch. Either it’s disappeared along with all my confidence, or my nerves made me forget where the fuck it is.
“Just close the door and walk away. Nothing good can come from walking into a pitch-black room that’s making noises.”
I lean as far as I can without moving my feet, attempting to reach the knob. My foot slips and I tumble in slow motion toward the floor. I barely get my hands underneath me and save myself from a bloody nose. A groan leaves me as my knee starts to sting, and I rest my forehead on the cold floor.
Mrow?
“Fuck me,” I breathe.
I pick my head up and come face to face with what’s possibly the world’s ugliest cat.