Page 11 of Infernal Bindings

I shudder at the thought. Demons aren’t like witches. We channel from a small pool of personal magic, sometimes from the earth or from the angels themselves. Demons are inherently magical, and when they’re not strong enough to cast a specific spell, they can take their power directly from Hell—an infinite and eternal stockpile of magic. They’re stronger than us. Hell, they’re almost as strong as our angels. Allowing them free access to roam and do as they please would be nothing short of catastrophic.

“I see your point. But light witches have freedom and choice too.”

“Do you?” Daemon asks. “If a witch in the Septem refuses their baptism, our archdemons don’t strip their powers away. If they’re asked to perform a magical task and say no, their souls aren’t going to be tortured for eternity. We don’t demand our witches behave a certain way, and we don’t go around forcing a mating bond onto someone to make them more complicit—”

“That’s not what the mating bond is,” I say defensively.

“So, it isn’t some magical bond the angels bestow upon you that you have no control over?”

“We’re not forced to be with them,” I say.

“But have any of you ever said no?”

None. Never in our history has a single witch rejected their mate. Why would we? Yes, it’s a magical bond, but the archangels are careful with whom they bestow it on. Mates are always compatible physically, intellectually, spiritually. There’s no reason someone would ever say no to them.

The silence in the room is deafening.

“That’s what I thought,” Daemon says, and his expression is unreadable, his eyes dark. “It’s getting late. We should turn in for the night.”

Discussion over.

He rises from the couch and offers me his hand. A better witch might refuse him, but I’m also ready to put this conversation—hell, this entire day—behind us. So I take his hand without hesitation and let Daemon guide me through his den of sin toward the mattress. Again, the image of me atop it comes, and again I push it away, my body heating at the prospect. Even though wanting him is involuntary, and even though Christopher and I just met, it still feels like a betrayal.

“You can sleep here tonight,” Daemon says, peeling back a sheer bed curtain and tying it to a post. Guilt twists my insides at the thought of sharing the bed with him. It’s not that we haven’t shared beds before, but it feels different now that we’re adults.

Daemon must sense my discomfort. “Don’t worry, Annie. I’ll take one of the couches.”

“Are you sure? It’s your house. I could sleep there instea—”

“Don’t be silly. Now let’s get you out of that dress and into something more comfortable.” He says it deadpan, but I snort anyway, unable to help myself.

“How many women have you said that to?”

“Does it matter?” Daemon snaps his fingers, and a pile of black silk appears in his outstretched arms. At first, I narrow my gaze at him, suspicious of the contents. But then I pick it up and unfurl it, revealing a long-sleeved pajama shirt and matching pants. His? They look suspiciously masculine, but I’m not complaining.

“What? No lacy thong?” I tease. “You know, for being an incubus—”

He snaps his fingers again, and something light and soft tumbles from the sky and into my hair. Black fabric drapes over my eye, and I pluck it free. A thong would be a generous term for this monstrosity. It’s crotchless and stringy and yes, adorned with lace. I fling it at him like a rubber band, and it smacks him dead in the forehead.

Daemon doesn’t even flinch, though a grin cracks his serious expression. “That feels undeserving. You did ask for it.”

“Pig.” But I can’t bite back my chuckle. God, it feels good to laugh after everything that’s happened—almost normal. Hugging Daemon’s pajamas to my chest, I peer around the smoky-sweet room, searching for a place to change into them.

“The bathroom is over there,” he says, pointing toward the damask wallpaper. At first, I don’t see anything, but when I squint, cracks appear in the ornate patterning, revealing a small door that leads to an equally small bathroom.

The door clicks shut as I slip past it, setting my clothes on a nearby cabinet while Daemon waits on the other side. Flickering candles brighten the space—which is just as red as everything else down here, with a plum and burgundy tiled floor, a glass shower big enough for two, and a ruby sink that shines like it’s made of crystal. Even the mirror has an unnatural red hue to it, which does me no favors. I look like hell—maybe literally, given my scarlet-looking hair and rosy skin. Mascara runs down my face, giving me raccoon eyes, and my updo is a ratty mess.

I pull the pins from my brown curls and comb my fingers through them, hissing when I reach an unreasonable snarl that stings when I try to straighten it. Good enough. It’s not like Daemon cares anyway.

Daemon.

Sighing, I turn on the sink, then splash cool water on my cheeks as I stare into my reflection. I barely recognize the witch who stares back. Never in my wildest dreams would I imagine fleeing my baptism, hiding out in Daemon’s house, abandoning my mother and my mate to sleep in his bed.

“What are you doing here, Annalise?” I whisper. “You shouldn’t be staying the night. Tell him to take you home.”

But there’s nothing I can say to convince myself I want to leave, even if I am in Hell. I don’t want to be alone tonight—not after everything—and I can’t face Christopher yet, let alone Mom. If I’m lucky, they’ll be too distracted by Martha’s death to even consider where I’ve gone. Then again, if they think Daemon killed her and kidnapped me…

I push the thought aside. That’s ridiculous. At the very least, Christopher knows I left willingly. And Daemon’s innocence will be proven soon enough. Surely, the real killer left evidence.