Chapter 1
I stared into the demon’s obsidian eyes.
Wet blood cooled on my skin, but I felt no pain. Not yet. I was sure I would feel it before I died. Sprawled on my stomach, one arm pinned under me, I craned my neck to keep my gaze on the demon.
He crouched at the edge of the gleaming silver line set into the floor. That line had separated us since I’d first laid eyes on the summoning circle. It bound him to this realm—and protected the humans who had called him here.
The ethereal barrier rippled as he shifted closer, his black stare fixed on me.
Somewhere near my feet, the men who’d done this to me laughed. They laughed. If they’d been able to see the demon, bestial bloodlust rolling off him, they wouldn’t have dared utter a sound. But swirling darkness filled the dome, and only I could see him.
A monster before me. Monsters of a different sort behind me. I had seconds to choose my executioner. One would probably kill me.
The other would definitely kill me.
My arm trembled as I slid my palm across the blood-splattered floor toward the silver line. The barrier shuddered more violently as the demon pressed against it. The jeering men fell silent.
My fingertips brushed the silver inlay.
Voices burst out in protest and footsteps thudded—the men scrambling toward me. Their hands grabbed my legs to tear me away.
I thrust my fingers through the barrier. The air shimmered but offered no resistance; it was an impenetrable wall only to the creature trapped within. My human flesh passed right through it, entering his space, his prison.
His gaze on mine didn’t shift, didn’t falter. His hand closed around my wrist, his skin cool and his grip like unforgiving steel.
The demon wrenched me into the circle.
--
Chapter 2
Seventeen Days Earlier
Let’s get one thing straight: Magic is real. Cool, right?
Wrong.
Magic is trouble, turmoil, and life-threatening peril. Even when it’s none of those things, it’s still more hassle than it’s worth. Using magic, I should say. All those fantastical sparks and glows and puffs of smoke come with never-ending inconveniences, but studying magic—that’s different.
Magic has a way of attracting equal or greater mayhem, and my parents made it their lifelong mission to avoid all that nonsense. Stay away from magic, and it’ll stay away from you. From early childhood straight through to my first year of college, I’ve strictly followed that policy. Until now.
Gripping the doorframe, I peered through a narrow gap into the room beyond. Sconce lights cast a soft yellow glow over the built-in bookshelves of the library, while the room’s open center was split into three distinct areas.
On the right side, a dozen chairs hugged a long table stacked with leather-bound books and unmarred by a single speck of dust. On the room’s left side, two leather sofas faced each other across a low coffee table, so polished its dark surface reflected the coffered ceiling and crystal chandelier above, while matching end tables supported Tiffany lamps. In the middle of the room, between the sofas and the table …
My fingers tightened on the jamb until my knuckles turned white.
Two men with their backs to me stood at a podium, an open book spilling over its edges. The shorter man slowly turned pages, his bald head gleaming in the dim light and his dress shirt stretching tight across a wide back pinched by the waist of his black slacks. The men murmured to each other, then the shorter one heaved the book shut. Turning, they started toward the door behind which I stood.
I froze like a mouse caught in the cat’s shadow, panicking over which way to run.
“Time is money, Claude. How long do you expect us to wait?”
“As long as necessary. The creature will capitulate eventually, and if it doesn’t, we’ll try again.”
Their voices were drawing closer. I broke out of my terrified trance and backpedaled down the hall on silent socked feet.
“We should try again now. The other one is ready. Let’s clear that circle and—”
“Patience, Jack. Once we know what we have, this name could be worth—”
The library door swung open and Claude broke off, eyebrows rising at the sight of me. Pretending I’d just descended the stairs, I paused as though surprised to see them.
“Oh,” I said breathily. My heart jammed itself between two of my ribs. “Uncle Jack, I didn’t know you—”
“What are you doing?” His wide jaw tightened, his short, bristling white beard contrasting with his tanned bald head. “You aren’t allowed down here.”
I shrank back, my gaze fixed on the hardwood floor. How was I supposed to know that? It would’ve been nice if someone had mentioned it. By the way, Robin, please stay out of the basement. We’d hate to implicate you in any crimes.
After a second’s thought, I revised my mental script. No one in this house would say “please” to me.
Uncle Jack murmured something to Claude, who chuckled dryly and replied, “I’ll leave you to it, then.”
As he walked past me toward the stairs, he offered a surprisingly kind smile. A thin white scar ran up his chin to his mouth, creating an odd pucker in his lower lip. With his tall, broad-shouldered frame and penchant for plaid-patterned tweed jackets, he blended the scholarly air of a college professor with the weathered fitness of a retired athlete.
“Robin.” Uncle Jack’s voice cracked like a riding crop. “Come here.”
I slunk to his side and resumed my inspection of the floor, my glasses sliding down my nose. I pushed them back into place. Uncle Jack wasn’t a tall man, but I was the opposite of a tall woman and his cold attention beat down on my shoulders, which were half the width of his.
He cleared his throat. “How are you settling in?”
My brow wrinkled at the odd high note in his voice and I snuck a quick appraisal of his face. His lips were turned up in a grimacing smile. It looked painful.
“You’ve been here … a day now, haven’t you?”
“Two days,” I mumbled. Forty-five hours and twenty minutes, if I were counting. Which I wasn’t. Not constantly, at least.
Okay, it was constantly.
“And how are you doing?” he asked with forced friendliness.
“I’m fine.”
“Has Kathy shown you the ropes?”
“Yes.” Minus the Stay Out of the Basement So You Don’t Discover Our Illegal Activities rule.
He brushed his hands together like I was trash he was preparing to haul to the curb. “Well, it’s time to give you your final introduction. I’d planned to wait, but since you’re already down here …”
I wilted. “Kathy had mentioned a library and I just wanted to …”
“Ah, yes, you like books, don’t you?”
Had he phrased that so patronizingly on purpose? “I don’t need to see—”
Deaf to my quiet protest, he waved at me to follow him into the library. I minced in his shadow, boring holes into the floor. I didn’t want to know what was going on in this room. I didn’t want to know about the magic.
Stay away from magic and it’ll stay away from you.
Uncle Jack stopped in front of the podium. “Do you know what this is?”
Reluctantly, I lifted my eyes to the glaringly out-of-place feature in the elegant library.
A flawless circle, ten feet across, had been carved into the beautiful hardwood floor and filled with silver inlay. Straight lines, sharp angles, and perfect curves intersected along the circle’s outer edge, but runes, sigils, and disturbing marks that twisted into unpleasant shapes interrupted the precise geometry.
Inside the circle, darkness formed a perfect dome that seamlessly matched its circumference. The half-orb sat on the library floor like a black igloo from hell, sucking light into its inky depths.
“Do you know what this is?” he repeated with an impatient bite.
I worked my tongue, wetting it enough to speak. “A summoning circle.”
“Have you seen one before?”
“No,” I whispered.
He gave me an odd look, as though surprised I’d recognized a summoning circle with no prior exposure. But what else could it be? The circle on its own I might not have identified, but that dome of nothingness was not of this world.
Gooseflesh prickled on my bare arms and I wished for a sweater. The library was uncomfortably cool, the leather-scented air chilling my nose, and shadows lurked in the room’s farthest corners.
“Why is it so black?” I asked before I could stop myself.
“The demon is hiding itself,” Uncle Jack answered irritably. “Thus far, it hasn’t been interested in negotiation.”
Demon.
The word thudded into my skull. Each syllable, each sound, struck like a mallet against a gong. A demon in the circle. In the library. In the basement of the house I was now living in.
I never should’ve come here.
“Your parents weren’t interested in the family business,” Uncle Jack went on, “but summoning is lucrative. It’s also … sensitive. A delicate process. We don’t need distractions.”
I counted the floorboards between my sock-clad toes. Distractions like … an MPD investigation into their illegal activities?
“I expect your full support, Robin.”
He didn’t need to say, “Or else.”
“Yes, Uncle Jack.”
“For obvious reasons, this room is off-limits, but you should know the rules either way.”
He grasped my elbow and pulled me toward the circle. My socks slid across the polished hardwood as I tried to stop. I didn’t want to go any closer.
“The circle is a barrier. It’s impenetrable to the demon, but only to the demon.” He gestured at the black dome. “You can pass through it just fine. You wouldn’t even feel it. One slip …”
His hand tightened on my arm, then he shoved me toward the flimsy silver line. A terrified gasp seized my lungs and I flailed backward, even though I was several steps away.
He laughed. “So don’t get close. One toe over that line and the demon will haul you in and rip you apart. Don’t drop anything in there either. Even a coin can be deadly in a demon’s hands. It can’t get its magic through the barrier, so make sure you don’t hand it weapons.”
I automatically checked my jeans pockets for change. I never carried change.
“If it tries to get your attention or calls you over, don’t listen. And don’t ever speak to the demon. If it shows itself, get me or Claude immediately.” He glowered at the impenetrable darkness. “Not that I expect it to. The most obstinate demon I’ve ever encountered. If it doesn’t respond soon …” He abruptly refocused on me. “You’re to stay out of this room, understood? I don’t want you in here alone.”
“All right.”
“Good.” Then, contradicting his words, he swept right past me and out of the library.
Rooted to the spot, I mentally floundered. The open doorway beckoned, safety only steps away, but the inky dome drew my gaze. Shivers rippled down my spine. It was so cold in here.
A soft sound whispered on the edge of my senses and I sucked in a breath. In the silence, I could almost hear something. Something like …
A low, husky laugh crawled out of the darkness inside the circle.
My blood turned to ice and I bolted out of the library.
--
Chapter 3
Facing the closed door, I took slow, controlled breaths. This wasn’t the library door in the basement and no demons waited on the other side, but I was almost as nervous.
Deep, deliberate breaths. I summoned a mental image of the book I was reading: Chapter Six, “Confidence in Confrontation.” I visualized the coming conversation and how I wanted it to go, then pushed my shoulders back and straightened my spine, giving myself a precious inch of additional height. I rapped on the door.
“Who is it?” Uncle Jack barked from within.
“Robin.” My voice didn’t tremble. A good start.
“Get in here, then.”
I opened the door and stepped into his office. The room had started as a den, and a cushy sofa in the corner invited visitors to sit down, maybe have a snooze. Ugly filing cabinets ruined the elegance of the solid wood desk, its top blanketed with papers. Two leather chairs sat in front of it, waiting for Uncle Jack’s next “clients.”
As he hammered furiously on his keyboard, I inched into the room, then remembered I needed to project confidence. I took three long steps to a chair and perched on the edge. The dusty odor of printer toner mixed with his spicy cologne.
He continued typing, his stubby fingers stabbing the keys. I waited, counting in my head. When I got to thirty, I cleared my throat.
He kept typing.
“Uncle Jack?”
“What do you want, Robin?”
I fought the urge to shrink. Chapter Six, Part Three. “Visualize your results. Remember your goal.”
“I’d like to discuss my parents’ will.”
Saying the words stirred my grief into a fresh spiral, and my hands twitched against my thighs.
His gaze snapped to me, then back to his monitor. His typing didn’t stutter. “I don’t like repeating myself, Robin. These things take time. There are lawyers and paperwork, and the insurance company requires ten forms for every little thing.”
“It’s been six months.” Plus three days, but I wasn’t counting. “It shouldn’t take this long to—”
“Not every estate is easy to settle.” His hands stilled and he swiveled to face me, his bald head shining grossly. “I’m sure you’re anxious to get your inheritance, and I’m doing everything I can to make that happen. Is it that painful to live here for a few weeks? I’m not charging you rent, am I?”
My gaze dipped toward the nice, safe floor, which neither glared at me nor casually dismissed my parents’ early demise, but I caught myself and forced my eyes back up. Living here hadn’t been my first choice. I’d have preferred to stay in my parents’ home, where I’d lived my whole life, but as the executor of their estate, Uncle Jack had sold it. Against my wishes. I’d handed the keys over to its new owners last week.
“I understand if there are delays with the life insurance,” I said, “but what about their belongings? They left me several heirlooms, which I would like to get from—”
“Your parents left you their house and everything in it,” he interrupted. “Everything you inherited was in the house. Didn’t you put it all in storage?”
Every time he interrupted me, my thoughts scattered. I pulled them back together. I’d had to put all of my and my parents’ belongings in storage because he’d sold our house. And no, I hadn’t gotten anything from the sale, even though the money was mine. The fees for storing an entire house’s worth of furniture and belongings was bleeding my savings dry.
“I’m talking about the heirlooms they placed in a special facility,” I clarified. “I spoke to the estate lawyer and he said—”
“You spoke to the lawyer? I’m the executor. Why didn’t you ask me?”
Because he ignored me, dismissed me, and interrupted me, that’s why. “The lawyer said accessing items in storage should be simple, and—”
“It’s not simple, whatever that fool of a lawyer told you. I’m working on it, but I don’t have access yet.” He tapped a stack of papers on the desk to straighten them. “I have work to do, Robin. I’ll let you know when I have an update.”
Dismissed, again. Mumbling a farewell, I speed-walked into the hallway. Out of petty revenge, I left the door open a crack. He’d have to get up and close it himself.
Oh yeah, I was so bad. Look at me, the rebel niece.
Disgusted with my latest failure to get anywhere with my uncle, I stumped along a hall lined with oil paintings and ten-foot-tall windows with heavy drapes, then passed a parlor, a formal living room, and a dining … hall. Not room. “Room” was too plebian, too small and contained. The dining hall cradled a table long enough to seat eighteen.
Uncle Jack hadn’t been kidding about demon summoning being “lucrative.” This house had so many rooms that I was still getting lost on my third day.
Stopping at a window, I glared at the sprawling lawn, bathed in an orange sunset. Despite my uncle’s assumptions, I hadn’t moved in here because I needed somewhere to live—though I did. I was here because he hadn’t given me anything I was supposed to inherit from my parents. Money, even though I desperately needed it, wasn’t my main concern.
I wanted the heirlooms too precious to keep at home—specifically one keepsake that meant more to me than anything—and I was staying right here in this house until I got it.
I squinted at my reflection in the glass—my blue eyes narrowed ferociously behind black-rimmed glasses, my shoulder-length hair wild and dark around my pale face, my small mouth pressed into an angry line. Why couldn’t I give Uncle Jack a look like that? Instead, I crept around him like a scared mouse, staring at my feet and flinching every time he interrupted me.
Shoulders slumping, I headed toward the kitchen. Voices trickled out, followed by a cheerful laugh. The scent of tomato sauce and melted cheese reached my nose.
The chef’s kitchen dominated the house’s back corner: a high breakfast bar with beautiful marble counters contrasted with a monster-sized, stainless steel island with a double gas range, two ovens, and a massive range hood that descended from the ceiling.
Uncle Jack’s daughter, Amalia, and stepson, Travis, were bent over something on the stovetop that steamed in the way only delicious food could steam. Amalia was twenty like me, while Travis was a couple of years older. Unaware of my arrival, they dished food onto plates while Travis joked about something and Amalia laughed.
I hovered awkwardly, debating what to do. Telling my social-interaction jitters to take a hike, I got up the nerve to speak. “Hey guys.”
They didn’t react.
Too quiet. I tried again. “Hey guys. What are you making?”
Holding plates heaped with spaghetti noodles and thick red sauce, they turned around. Amalia’s gray eyes, edged in heavy eyeliner, went flat and the laughter on her face died. She swept her messy blond waves over one shoulder, grabbed a fork, and exited the kitchen without a word.
My innards shriveled like seaweed drying in the sun.
Travis shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Hey Robin. How’s it going?”
“Good,” I muttered. Nothing was good. Everything was crap.
“We made spaghetti,” he said after a moment. “There’s a bit left, if you want it.”
“Sure,” I told the floor.
A painful silence, then he carried his plate out of the kitchen. I looked up in time to see his back disappear, his tight t-shirt showing his muscular arms and broad shoulders.
I stood alone in the kitchen, furious and embarrassed by my inability to act like a socially capable human being, then approached the gas range. A pot and a saucepan held a few dregs of food. Sighing, I scooped the child-sized portion onto a plate. Maybe they thought that was all the food I needed. Short people didn’t require nourishment or something.
Leaning against the counter, I ate my inadequate meal as my thoughts jumped from my failed attempt to confront Uncle Jack, to my missing inheritance, to this stupid house and the demon in the basement. I didn’t want to be here.
I wanted to be home, tucked in my favorite reading chair with an old book, listening to my parents’ voices as they prepared dinner in the kitchen. We would’ve sat together at the table to eat, and Mom would’ve told me about the three-hundred-year-old book she was restoring for a client. Dad would’ve complained about his boss at the bank. I would’ve told them about the paper I was researching for my Roman history class.
Scooping the last noodle into my mouth, I set my plate in the sink and dried my tears on my shirt. Grief weighed on my chest, and I was desperate for something familiar—but what in this cold, sprawling mansion could possibly bring me comfort?
My gaze drifted to the pantry.
Five minutes later, I’d stacked the island with flour, butter, baking powder, baking soda, salt, shortening, white sugar, brown sugar, two eggs, vanilla extract, semi-sweet chocolate chips, and a surprising find—a bulk bag of pecans.
I searched the cupboards for mixing bowls, measuring cups, and utensils, and in no time at all, I was mixing dry ingredients in a bowl. As I worked, my worries faded. The unfamiliar kitchen didn’t matter. With each precise measurement and carefully followed step, I slid backward in time. I was baking in my parents’ kitchen, testing a new iteration of my chocolate-pecan cookie recipe.
The kitchen filled with the mouthwatering aroma of melted chocolate, and I tidied up while the cookies baked. When I pulled them from the oven, their centers fluffed with heat and edges golden brown, I could almost hear my mom exclaiming in delight. Leaving the cookies to cool, I finished cleaning, then stacked them on a plate.
It was a long walk to the bedrooms on the second level. I stopped in front of Amalia’s door, practiced breathing, then knocked. A moment passed.
The door cracked open and a gray eye glared at me. “What do you want?”
I held up the plate. “I made cookies. Would you like—”
“I’m on a diet.”
The door slammed shut.
I blinked rapidly, then exhaled. A dozen paces down the hall, I stopped in front of Travis’s door. Electronic music throbbed through the wood. I knocked. No answer. I knocked louder. The music pounded on. I couldn’t bring myself to shout for his attention. He was probably busy anyway.
Cradling the full plate, I continued down the never-ending hall and stopped in front of a third closed door. I didn’t need to knock on this one. Inside was a bed that wasn’t mine, with a gray-striped comforter I didn’t like. My suitcase sat on the floor in the walk-in closet, filled with socks and underwear, and six shirts hung on hangers above it. Ten of my favorite books lined the dresser, the only ones I’d brought with me. The rest of my belongings were in storage with my parents’ things.
I stared at the cookies, knowing what my evening would involve: sitting alone on the unfamiliar bed, reading old books, and trying not to cry. This time, I could weep into my giant plate of cookies. I’d be sad and sick to my stomach. Extra fun.
I needed a better distraction. When was the last time I’d gone this long without a new book to read? I used to spend half my free time browsing library shelves at my college campus—
Library shelves.
My gaze dropped to the floor as though I could see through it. There was a library right in this house—a big, private library full of fascinating leather-bound books.
Books … and a demon.
Uncle Jack had told me to stay out of the basement—but did I care what he wanted? Reckless daring swept through me. Turning on my heel, I strode toward the stairs.
--
Taming Demons for Beginners
The Guild Codex: Demonized / Book One
Copyright © 2019 by Annette Marie
www.annettemarie.ca
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations for review purposes.
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