Page 70 of Infernal Bindings

“What list?” he asks, sighing in exasperation.

In truth, it doesn’t matter if I can or even should trust Sylrin. Right now, he’s the only ally I have.

Slowly, I reach into my cloak pocket and procure the rolled-up parchment. Taking extra care not to bend or crinkle it, I pass the list to Sylrin and explain the situation to him—Martha’s murder, my bargain, our failed investigation, and Daemon’s recall. Like Daemon, he keeps his expression neutral as he stares at the bloody names—several more crossed off since my arrival, with several still left.

Sylrin strokes his pointed jaw, thinking. “He should have given me the stone and the list to start with. I’m popular here. It would have been easy for me to finish it.”

“Maybe he didn’t think you’d help.”

The look he gives me has me scooting backward on the bed, trying to put as much distance between us as possible. Though his eyes are pitch black, shadow-like flames still leap from them.

“More like he was too proud to ask,” Sylrin growls. “Minerva’s done a fantastic job turning him against me. You’ll wait here. I’ll finish this asinine task.”

The demon reaches for my neck, and I scramble further back, the bed creaking with the movement. Sylrin all but climbs on top of me, his black, razor-sharp claws slashing forward. I try to protect the choker, but he yanks my hands away. Those claws slice through the leather like it’s paper instead. Ripping the necklace from me, that asshole pockets the grounding stone, and damn, I can see why Daemon doesn’t like him.

“Wait here,” he repeats, climbing off the bed. “I’m not rescuing you again. I have a reputation to uphold. No one likes an incubus who’s a cock-block.” Before I can say anything else, he disappears into the floor of infinite hallways.

The bedroom door slams shut behind him.

And then there’s a click.

Heart hammering, I bolt from the bed and twist the door handle. Locked. He took my list, and my grounding stone, and trapped me in here like I’m a petulant child. The fucking nerve of this guy.

I dig sharp fingernails into my palms as I wait for him to return.

And wait.

I don’t know how much time passes in this timeless room. It feels like hours.

Back and forth, I pace between the bed and doorway, my bare feet sinking into plush carpet. Buzzing electricity from the dim lamplight is my only company.

Sighing, I return to the bed for the hundredth time—possibly thousandth—and sink onto the soft, downy comforter. Bored and with nothing better to do, I dig through the dresser drawers. Several gum boxes lay inside them, followed by what looks to be a leather-bound journal. Inside is messy handwriting that would put the term “chicken scratch” to shame.

September 2, 1976

Thursday

At night, the demons come for me. I don’t know how to make it stop. Worse, sometimes I don’t want them to stop. I tried to talk to my pastor about it after Bible study last week, but he didn’t believe me. No one ever does.

I flip through the passages to find more or less the same. At the front of the journal is a name: Julia Cross.

A shiver rolls through me that has nothing to do with the temperature of the bedroom. Julia is real—or at least she was real—and this room is some fucked-up echo of her life. And then I remember all the other curtains, and all the other rooms. Is that what this place is? Memories made dreams?

The door unlatches, and I slam the journal shut a moment before Sylrin appears, rolled-up parchment in hand. “Whoever murdered your Regent wasn’t an incubus.”

He tosses the scroll at me, and I catch it on instinct, the parchment compressing between my hands. I cringe as I imagine Daemon getting compressed too—wherever he is—but Sylrin doesn’t seem to care.

“I dispelled it,” he says. “Daemon is fine… Or at least not getting hurt by you.”

My relief is short-lived. As quickly as I’m able, I unfurl the scroll and study the crossed-off names. Sylrin was very thorough. He didn’t miss anybody. “But that doesn’t make sense,” I whisper. “The grounding stone vibrates when I look at Daemon. Whoever killed her used infernal magic.”

Sylrin looks at me and sighs. “Your witch was killed by an incubus overfeeding,” he states dryly. “Salios can force any incubus to do whatever he wants, but beyond that, Daemon has his own motives. He’s also the only one the grounding stone registers for. Logic suggests—”

God, he’s just like my father.

“If Daemon did it, he would have never made this list,” I say, waving it in the air. “He wouldn’t have risked himself, or me, trying to find the killer.”

Sylrin doesn’t argue with my logic—thank God for small blessings. Instead, he sits beside me on the squeaky bed and takes my hand in his. It’s off-putting, the sheer size of it.