waiting for it to manifest. She reached up, closing her hand around the moonstone and crucifix she wore. As her mind cleared, she slowed her breathing and willed her heart to calm.
A conjured demon could only take what you yielded to it, whether through fear or bargaining. Tyriel would give nothing.
Something cold twined around her ankle. She held still. “Really? This is boring, creature. Show yourself.”
Her captive sorcerer sneered, his amusement sharp and cutting. But it quickly turned to dismay as the shadows gathered in on themselves and began to take form.
She shot him an annoyed look. “You called this thing from a hell plane and have no idea how to care for it, control it? Such a stupid creature you are. Demons feed on fear. Their power comes from it. Their illusions stem from it—he is not truly invisible, on this plane, or any other. Not since you summoned him here. I don’t fear him—I didn’t call him and he can’t take anything I don’t yield to him—that destroys any power he might have over me.”
The shape forming in front of her was a frightening one, yet…lovely, a gleaming white spear of ivory beauty, carved into a sensual temptation of perfect man flesh. Until she looked into its eyes and saw the very fires of hell gleaming there.
“Leave me to the master, long-ear.” His blood-red eyes slanted toward the sorcerer, still silent, and a cold smile creased the demon’s face. “I will not harm you. Just let me have…him.”
“Not going to happen.”
The demon’s head whipped to her and ice flooded her veins in response. “He’s mine.”
“If he survives long enough for you to claim him in your hell, fine.” She shrugged. “As much as we’d like to wash our hands of him, it’s not going to happen. He deserves the death you would mete him, but then you would not be bound to him or any place or thing. And what creature, mortal or fae, deserves that, other than him and his ilk?”
“It is not your fight, go now.” The gleaming demon turned away.
She studied his horned head, the spiked shoulders, his long, oddly slender form so stretched and out of proportion. Her eyes closed and she remembered. “Mevitecar.”
The demon froze.
“Mevitecar.”
He whirled to face her with a roar and lunged for her. Throwing up her hands, she braced herself just as the ward formed and he struck it.
“The Kin hold the Book of Demons. We learn it, each page, before we ever learn our first spellwork. I know who you are and why you were banished from the Fifth Plane. Shall I send you to an even lower level?”
The strangely beautiful demon shrieked.
Aryn moved to rush forward but Jaren said softly, “No. Just watch.”
Chapter 12
It was hours after dawn and Aryn had still not slept.
Tyriel lay on the bed, so pale and still.
Before disappearing earlier, Jaren had told him she was only drained, her magic bottomed out.
That didn’t sound good to Aryn, but the fae male told him she would be fine.
Fine.
She’d battled a demon—a fucking demon and now she was stretched out and taking a nap?
He needed a drink but couldn’t leave this room until he spoke to her himself and knew she would be well.
Irian, too, was restless.
Tyriel had banished the captive demon, and according to Jaren, sent it to the lowest level of hell just as she’d promised.
All Aryn knew was that the thing had fought hard and long, and when it all over, Tyriel had been on the ground and bleeding.
She’d bear a mark from this night—a mark from the demon—a long silvery slash that had torn across her breast, slicing through her clothing to brand her. There was bruising around it, but the mark itself was silver and felt hot to the touch. Aryn had touched it while cleaning it and it had left a burn on his hand that had blistered and even now pained him.
Her mark crossed from her right shoulder down her breast, just below the nipple and on down her torso, stop in a slight curve around her hip. How much worse must her pain be? He couldn’t imagine and he’d take it all if he could.
“It will heal, but scar.” Jaren stood at the foot of the bed.
“How did you get in here?” Aryn asked wearily. The door bloody well did not open.
Jaren simply shrugged.
“Tyriel is strong. This weakened her, but she will be fit and whole within a few weeks,” Jaren said, his gaze on her face, not