Slaying Monsters for the Feeble - Annette Marie Page 0,42
to do. I don’t know how to protect my family.
In every memory I had of her, my mother was a woman of light, laughter, and confidence. I could scarcely imagine her as uncertain or fearful. She’d always known what to do, no matter what had happened or what trouble I’d gotten myself into.
Please help me, Jack.
My parents had died in a car accident, I reminded myself. A regular accident. Thousands of people died in collisions every year. It had been raining and dark. The road had been slippery.
Was it too much of a coincidence that they’d died a week after my mother had realized she and her family were being hunted?
The Athanas Grimoire was worth ten million dollars just for the demon names it could reveal, but was it only those names my mother had dedicated her life to concealing? What else did the grimoire’s ancient pages contain?
Zora dropped me off at my apartment building and promised to keep me posted on any leads the vampire’s cell phone might produce. I let myself in and trudged up the stairs to the third floor. Though I tried to be quiet, Amalia’s bedroom door opened as I was toeing off my wet shoes.
She leaned against the jamb, wearing a fuzzy housecoat. “How did it go?”
“We found vampires,” I answered evasively. “I’ll tell you all about it in the morning.”
“Sure.” Her nose wrinkled. “By the way, you stink.”
I was sure I did. “The shower is my next stop.”
Not waiting for her reply, I hurried into my bedroom, but I wasn’t ready to shower and collapse into bed yet. My plain desk was stacked with books about Demonica, and I shifted the piles to uncover a title that predated my obsession with the darkest magic of the mythic world.
The Complete Compilation of Arcane Cantrips, the book that had sparked my fascination with magic. I searched through the pages, and when I couldn’t find what I wanted, I shook it by the spine. The pages flapped and a single white sheet, folded in half, fell out.
Grabbing the paper, I dropped into my chair and unfolded it. The grainy photocopy displayed a single page of the Athanas grimoire, the paper dark with age, the handwritten ink faded. Greek letters scrawled across most of it, but in the bottom corner was an illustration.
It was a drawing of Zylas, or a demon that looked very similar to him.
I ran my finger across the Ancient Greek writing, then pulled out a scrap of paper and a pencil. Lower lip caught between my teeth, I studied the first line of the page—a title. I scribbled across my scrap page before firing up my laptop to check a suffix.
The final word stumped me until I realized it wasn’t a word. It was a name.
The Twelfth House – Vh’alyir
I gulped against the cold shiver creeping up my spine. My attention shifted to the short paragraph below the title. I copied the lines onto my scrap paper, identifying the clauses, cases, pronouns, conjunctions, root words, and anything else I could pick out. My pencil scribbled urgently, then my fingers zipped across my keyboard, looking up the words I didn’t know. I scrawled a new line, honing the translation.
A few minutes later, I sat back in my chair and lowered my pencil. I couldn’t tear my eyes off my careful printing, staring at the result, wondering if I’d messed up the translation.
But I’d made no mistake.
Never summon from the Twelfth House. For the trespass of this sacred covenant, the sons of Vh’alyir will destroy you.
Chapter Fourteen
Was I blushing again? I pressed my inner wrist to my warm cheek. Yep, I was blushing again.
What was wrong with me?
Grimacing, I sank my hands into the soapy water and resumed scrubbing a mixing bowl. The counter was piled with dirty dishes—bowls, measuring cups, spoons, baking sheets—and the heavenly smell of apple cinnamon pie hung in the air like a delicious cloud.
My gaze trailed to my left and I commanded myself not to look. I looked anyway.
Zylas was sprawled across the living room sofa. On the plate beside him, what had been a stack of a dozen mini apple pies, their tops sprinkled with a cinnamon and sugar crumble, was almost gone—only two left. He’d shed his armor, which he only did when he was feeling particularly relaxed, and the overcast light streaking through the windows bathed the reddish-toffee skin of his bare torso. His head was reclined on the armrest, face pointed toward the light, eyes closed.