“Because they smell like a demon.”
“Maybe one has an illegal contract. Like Claude does.” My thoughts turned to the third mage, who hadn’t been at the bar with Tori. I hurriedly typed the rest of the message. “Claude had a printout on Ezra Rowe, but that could be a coincidence.”
“If I get closer, I can smell which hh’ainun has the scent of vīsh.”
“What, you want to sneak down there with all those people? That’s not happening.”
“Then you come,” he suggested quietly. “I will pretend to be enslaved.”
“Forget it. You can’t act like you’re contracted while smelling people. How would I explain why you’re out of the infernus, even?” Shaking my head, I sent the text. “We’ll have to wait for the right time. You’ll get a chance to smell the mages eventually.”
Zylas’s head turned toward the atrium door. He snapped straight, arms at his sides, his face blanking.
The door flew open.
Adrenaline shot through me, and I whipped my phone, already in my hand, up to my ear as I whirled around on my stool.
Tori stood in the threshold, her face hard with suspicion.
Chapter Three
I stared at the bartender in horror. She wasn’t a sorcerer. She shouldn’t have been able to open the atrium door—unless, while rushing and upset over Aaron and Kai’s dismissal, I’d forgotten to lock it.
Crap. I had forgotten. How much had she overheard?
“T-Tori,” I stammered. “Um. Just a moment, please?”
Her hazel eyes darted to the phone squeezed against my ear.
“I’m sorry,” I said to a nonexistent caller, trying to sound natural while terrified she would see right through my lame farce. “Can I call you back? Thank you. Bye.”
I dropped my phone into my lap, hiding the dark screen. Her attention drifted to Zylas, and I heaved a noiseless sigh. She wasn’t laughing at my pathetic acting skills, so she must not have suspected anything.
“You startled me,” I muttered, massaging my sternum.
“Sorry.” She continued to stare at Zylas. “Who were you talking to?”
Another shot of adrenaline almost finished off my racing heart. “Amalia,” I invented.
Barely paying me any attention, she stepped closer to Zylas. Instead of fear or scorn—the most common reactions to my demon—fascination lit her face as she examined him from head to feet. Zylas held perfectly still, maintaining his flawless impersonation of a demon slave. He was a much better actor than me.
“Do you dress him?” she asked unexpectedly. “Or did he come fully accessorized?”
I looked blankly between her and Zylas. Did she think he was a doll? “He—he came that way. Um. Can I help you with anything?”
“Yeah.” She leaned sideways, her stare still fixed on my demon, and pursed her lips. “Damn, girl.”
Bewildered by her marveling tone, I stammered, “P-pardon me?”
She pointed at Zylas’s bare abdomen. “You can see this, right? I know he’s a demon and all, but those abs.”
I inhaled sharply and choked on saliva.
“They might be the most demony thing about him,” she went on. “No man has abs that perfect.”
Burning heat flooded my cheeks. Was she admiring Zylas’s physique? Right here? Now? Or was she pranking me—trying to make me admit that I found my demon’s body attractive? He was beautiful in his own way, and yes, his body was all but flawless, but he—he wasn’t—and I wasn’t—and why was she even bringing this up!
“I can’t put clothing on him,” I blurted shrilly. “Extra clothes can’t go into the infernus with him. But—but it’s fine. He’s a d-demon, not a …”
Not a human. Not a male of my species. It shouldn’t matter one iota that he was half clothed most of the time and barely clothed the rest of the time.
“… not a … man,” I finished, almost choking on the word.
Tori arched an eyebrow, and I clamped my mouth shut, terrified I’d made things worse.
“Why’ve you got him out, anyway?” she asked, hands on her hips.
I gingerly prodded my cheek, suspecting my skin was redder than Zylas’s. “I … I’ve been looking into …” I racked my brain for a lie. Someone else’s grimoire, forgotten in the atrium, sat open on the worktable. “The magical properties of … demon blood.”
Great cover story. Would she think I was conducting unethical experiments? I fought back a cringe, remembering the disgusting grimoire I’d found in a box destined for the MPD’s Illicit Magic Storage.
“Hmm.” With another arch of her eyebrow, Tori shifted to my other side and perched on the table. “So … I want to ask you something.”
“Something else,” I muttered irritably.
“Yep.”
I flinched. I hadn’t meant for her to hear that.
“Do you know anything about demonic artifacts?”
Surprised, I straightened. “You mean objects used for summoning and contracting, like the infernus?”
“I mean an artifact made with demon magic. Made by demons. Is that a thing?”
Tori was a witch, meaning she had no reason to ask those questions … except she was also best friends with three mages who smelled like a demon, had been in that park with Tahēsh and a team of demon hunters, and had fled the scene before MagiPol arrived.
“Why do you ask?” I inquired cautiously.
“Just some research I’m doing for a job.”
“Oh.”
I almost glanced at Zylas, certain he would confirm my suspicions: she was lying.
Demonic artifacts. I knew they existed only because Zylas had revealed that information to me. What would make Tori ask about it? She wasn’t a Demonica mythic, as far as I knew—unless she was the source of the demon scent?
Swiveling toward Zylas, I tapped my knuckles against his chest plate. “This is a demonic artifact. It has magical properties, but I don’t know more than that. Summoned demons might carry artifacts, but once contracted, they can’t use them or create new ones.”
I scrutinized her as she absorbed my words, but her bland expression gave nothing away.
“Any idea who might know something about these sorts of artifacts?” she asked.
“Short of discussing it with a demon”—like I had—“I don’t know how anyone could learn much.”
“Do people do that? Have conversations with a demon?”
“Well, summoners talk to demons before making a contract with them, but …” Trailing off, I organized my thoughts. “Even if someone has studied it, finding Demonica experts is difficult. Summoners aren’t common, and experienced, knowledgeable ones are even more scarce.”
Finally, Tori’s expression changed. Frustration tightened her features, her freckled nose scrunching and lips pressing thin. I held my breath, arrested by the flash in her eyes—hopeless despair, quickly hidden.
Her questions weren’t inane curiosity. She needed answers—though why, I couldn’t imagine.
I straightened my glasses. “I’m also researching more obscure facets of Demonica. Not about that, specifically, but …”