Page 109 of Demon’s Snack

“I am not asking for rescue,” I say.

I heard you.”

“I am telling you the plan.”

“I heard that too.”

“And?”

His smile is dangerous and tender at once. “And I’m ready when you call the move.”

15

CORIN

Isolde’s message reaches me folded inside a strip of laundry paper, sealed with plain wax and smelling faintly of soap, smoke, and the damp stone of the west arcade.

I am standing at the wash basin when Sable hands it to me. The kitchen is quiet around us, too quiet for the hour, with rain ticking against the shutters and the stove breathing low red heat into the room. I know before I break the seal that the paper is bad news. The bond has already tightened beneath my ribs, pulling hard toward the estate district with the sickening urgency of a hooked line drawn through flesh.

I read the first line.

Wardship clause threatened.

The world narrows around the words.

Permanent binding possible by dawn if grounds manufactured.

The paper crumples slightly beneath my fingers before I force my grip to loosen. Heat tears up my arms, fast and violent, and the glamour over my horns buckles so sharply pain lances behind my eyes. The room flashes gold. The wash basin gleams too brightly. Sable’s face sharpens into every worried line she is trying to hide, and the hunger under my skin surges toward the estate like it has been given a direction at last.

“Corin,” Sable says.

I do not answer.

I read the rest because if I stop with only that much in my head, I will be halfway through Vaerith’s front gate before sanity catches its boots.

Shell ledgers copied. Ritual expenses tied to siphoning. I am preparing movement routes. Do not storm the estate. Meet west arcade after moonrise if unwatched. I am not asking permission.

A laugh rips out of me, ugly and too hot. “Of course she wrote that.”

Sable reaches for the paper. “Let me see.”

I hand it to her because my hands are no longer trustworthy. The heat in them is rising too fast, turning my skin tight and bright over the bones. I slam both palms into the wash basin hard enough to crack the rim. Cold water splashes over my wrists, spills across the counter, and hits the floor in a sheet. Steam blooms around my fingers.

“Damn it,” I grind out.

Sable reads quickly. Her face changes at the word wardship. By the time she reaches permanent binding, the faint glow beneath her skin has brightened and her mouth has gone flat with fury.

“She should have left,” Sable says.

“She said she’s preparing movement routes.”

“She should have left.”

“She knows what she’s doing.”

“That does not mean the house will let her finish doing it.”

I tear my hands out of the basin and turn toward the door.