Page 83 of Infernal Bindings

My mouth drops. “You stole that from your—”

“I hate Daemon,” my mother says. “But I thought about what Christopher said that night at the baptism, and he was right. That boy doesn’t deserve to suffer for a crime he didn’t commit. I’m sorry I didn’t investigate the murder sooner, and I’m sorry you thought so little of me to assume I’d frame your boyfriend. I guess I deserve that, given how I’ve always treated you.”

She places the necklace in my hands and clasps my palms around it. And for a moment all I can do is stare at the damned thing, unable to fully process that Mom’s here, apologizing. She never apologizes. “I still don’t understand,” I admit. “Why would the angels kill one of their Regents?”

“She didn’t want to baptize you,” Mom says. “She argued with them over it. And it was a convenient way to get rid of Daemon permanently.”

“This was all a stupid ploy for my soul?” I clench my hands into tight fists. Angry tears burn my eyes. “Daemon is being tortured in Hell for eternity because they wanted my magic on their team?”

God, I fucking hate them.

I hate all of them. The angels. The demons. The light witches and the Septem witches who serve them. It’s all a bunch of bullshit. And I hate myself too, for ever letting myself believe anything they said. For seventeen months, I accepted Daemon’s guilt as truth, and even though I never stopped fighting to bring him home, I gave in to their narrative just like everybody else.

“I’m sorry, Annalise,” Mom says again. “And I know it’s too little, too late to give you that locket. If I could turn back time and have helped you when it mattered…”

In my periphery, the glowing blood flickers. Already, the spell is fading.

“I can’t stay,” she says, “and I can’t meet with you again. The angels won’t allow it.”

“Screw them.”

But Mom walks toward the door anyway, her high heels digging into the plush white carpet. It’s what I expect from her—because they own her soul much like Salios owns mine. The door creaks open as she slips outside it, and the glyph flickers again before fizzling out.

“I hope you have a long and happy life, Annalise,” she whispers. “I left something else for you at the bottom of that box. Consider it a very late housewarming gift.”

She shuts the door with a quiet click, and then she’s gone—out of my life forever. Both of my parents are, and it makes my chest ache. Still holding onto the locket, I approach the cardboard box. In it is a dark book with crinkling yellow pages. I’d recognize it anywhere.

My aunt’s spellbook.

39

WHERE IT STARTED

Spellbook in hand, I ascend the creaky steps leading up to my parents’ attic—the one I summoned Daemon in all those years ago. The house is mine for the night, courtesy of the rental agency that let me book it.

Thank God for the off-season.

A red ribbon pokes from my aunt’s ancient book—the spot marked by my mother, not me. I smile as I rub the silk edges, the feeling bittersweet. As it turns out, Mom’s parting gift wasn’t just the spellbook, but a note folded inside it. Crumpled and frayed, the parchment nearly disintegrated in my fingertips when I first touched it. I have no idea where she found the thing, but she did. I guess that’s why she’s a Regent.

Pushing open the trap door, I climb into the familiar, musty attic for what I hope is the last time. Cobwebs and dust greet me, tangling in my hair and burning my nose. Batting at the air in front of me, I fumble through darkness until I find a metal pull-tab dangling from the ceiling. I grab it and yank. Above me, a yellow lightbulb flickers to life, electricity buzzing as I set the book on the white folding table that had once been my aunt’s makeshift altar. The bowls and crystals are gone now, as are the bones and table skirt, but I don’t need any of them.

As it turns out, I never did.

Sagging wooden floorboards groan beneath me as I set the book on the table and flip it open to the tabbed page. On it is the spell I used to summon Daemon—now with modifications written in Mom’s handwriting. Carefully, I remove the folded parchment sitting on top of it and unfold it, smoothing it over the table’s hard plastic surface. Both spells are fueled by blood magic—Septem magic and archdemon magic—both of which I oddly possess.

On the razor-thin parchment are unholy symbols, written in that strange combination of Angelic and Infernal. My stomach twists as I reach for my belt and remove the dagger sheathed there.

There’s no going back after this.

Deep breaths, Annie.

In through my nose, out through my mouth, I breathe, counting to ten before sliding the blade across my palm, deep enough it gushes. I hiss in pain, warm blood seeping from my skin onto the floor. Working quickly, I find the original seven-sided star my aunt drew more than a decade ago. It’s faded from time and bleach but—much to my mom’s and the house cleaner’s dismay—still there. I let my blood pour over every inch of it, then, on hands and knees, I spread it in with my fingers. When I’m finished with that, I begin drawing the unholy glyphs.

My aunt’s summoning spell had a separate object at each of the seven corners. My mom’s has a different symbol—not only to summon, but to bind and control. My hand stops bleeding halfway through drawing them, so I slice open the other one too, sweating and sore by the time it’s finished.

Dry blood sticks to my palms as I rub them together and admire my handiwork.

Outside, past the partially boarded-up window, silver moonlight glimmers across the entire estate. Fruit trees and rose bushes rustle by the covered pool as a powerful wind whistles past them. I stare out into the yard for a long time, swallowing when I remember learning to swim with Dad. But this isn’t about him, or Mom, or anyone else in my coven. This is about Daemon and me.