Page 41 of Infernal Bindings

“Then speculate.”

He picks up a sandwich and bites into it, then speaks between chews. “Septem witches don’t have to channel to cast spells. When we’re baptized, an archdemon plants a piece of their magic directly inside us. Some of that magic passes on to our children, and it can’t be taken away. Every generation of baptized witches gets stronger because that piece of magic gets bigger. My lineage was the longest unbroken chain of baptized witches. It’s why you had the power to summon Daemon, and why you don’t have to channel every time you cast a spell.”

The magic thrumming in my veins, it isn’t felt by light witches. It doesn’t exist in light witches and it can’t be taken away, whether I refuse my baptism or not. No one ever told me that, or if they did, I didn’t listen. “The angels gave you a bond because they wanted your powers to serve them,” I say, even though it sounds heretical.

“You said it, not me.” But Dad doesn’t disagree. And I wonder if he’s even allowed to have this conversation with me—if Raphael, his angel, would allow it. “Magic doesn’t distribute evenly to our offspring. When mine passed along, you got most of it. It’s in the angels’ best interest to keep you in the coven.”

Christopher.

Dad lets the implication hang in the air.

They gave me Christopher so I wouldn’t leave.

“I—” There are so many things I want to ask him—which archdemon he served, how he and Daemon’s mom know each other, what happened during the last faction war—but then Daemon peeks through the archway, and my father’s expression becomes caged.

“Sorry, I forgot my coffee,” he says.

“It’s fine.” Dad rises from his chair. “We’re finished, anyway. I’m going to help Minerva set everything up.” Before he leaves, though, he glances between Daemon and me, his expression every bit the stern parent. “I hope both of you know what you’re doing here.”

Clearly, we don’t.

20

THE SUSPECTS

Computer monitors buzz around me—a near-constant sound for the past two days. Eyelids droopy, I take a sip of sweet coffee as I scan the screens in front of me. There are dozens. The whole room is wall-to-wall video footage, and each of us has taken a side. Christopher, Dad, and Daemon share the cramped space with me while Minerva sleeps. Soon, she’ll replace me, and then I’ll relieve one of the guys.

God, I’m so ready for my shift to end.

Steam rises from my mug, and I lean a little closer toward one of the screens, where a man with leather gloves enters the rotunda, then disappears. Cameras aren’t allowed in that sacred space. Even if they were, the angel glyphs prevent them from working.

On the desk in front of me is a notebook, a mechanical pencil, and a mouse. Clicking on the screen, I pause the video, then look at the timestamp. I jot it and the location down, then use my rolly chair to spin toward Christopher.

“Do you recognize him?” I ask, pointing at my frozen monitor.

He pauses his search long enough to glance up. “David Moreno. But he wasn’t wearing gloves in the parking lot. You can scratch him off the list.”

Bummer.

… Or maybe not?

The fewer suspects we have, the easier it will be to narrow down the culprit. I scratch my notes out and click the screen again, following a new feed, a new angle, a new man. It feels endless. Somewhere in the room, a dull but constant tapping drowns out the sounds of clicking mice and thrumming electricity. It grates on my nerves.

Swiveling my chair around, I find Daemon stamping his foot impatiently, his leg shaking as he scans monitors and rakes his fingers through his dark hair.

“Can you stop that?” I ask. “It’s really distracting.”

He narrows his eyes at me, but the tapping stops.

“This is a waste of time,” Daemon grumbles. “How much longer are we going to do this before we accept that it isn’t working?”

Christopher interjects before I can answer. “It’s working fine. We only have a few more hours to go.”

“That’s what you said five hours ago,” Daemon hisses. “Have you forgotten that my soul is on the line too? I want to be out there doing something productive, not pissing my time away on a half-baked plan. The stone works. We know it does.”

My dad sighs. “We’ve already discussed this, Daemon. I’m not interested in rehashing why the stone is even less effective. Just shut up and do your job.”

Daemon flips Dad off when he isn’t looking, but returns to his post, pausing on a screen to write a location, name, and timestamp down. When it’s time to flip the page in his notebook, he does so a touch too aggressively, and the paper tears. Swallowing, I return to my post as well, though I feel every bit as tense and anxious as Daemon. This has taken much longer than I thought it would. In three days, both our souls are forfeit, and rolling around in office chairs doesn’t feel nearly as productive as the undercover work did.