Slaying Monsters for the Feeble - Annette Marie Page 0,83
beyond those windows. The mountainside dropped away, revealing a sea of snow-dusted green that swept down toward the distant city.
“You’re disgusting.” Amalia’s furious rant broke into my awed staring. “Look at you. Look at this place. Ugh. What have you been doing these last five weeks? Lying around like a fat slob?”
Uncle Jack, still holding the rifle, flinched under his daughter’s admonishment. Unshaven and greasy, he looked like the most likely source of the old sweat smell hanging in the air. A stained t-shirt hung off him, and despite Amalia’s “fat slob” remark, he seemed to have lost weight. His infernus hung around his neck, an unfamiliar emblem etched in its center. All summoners were also contractors; as I’d learned during my research, summoning a demon required a demon.
“Amalia,” he began cautiously, “I’m—”
“Your next words better be a damn good explanation for why you haven’t contacted me in weeks. I didn’t even know if you were alive!”
Another flinch, which surprised me as much as his slovenly appearance. The Uncle Jack I remembered had been domineering and superior, even with his kids.
“I didn’t contact you for your safety, Amalia,” he muttered. “I … I made a terrible mistake.”
I slid my hand into my coat pocket. Withdrawing my mother’s two letters, I unfolded the one she’d written to Uncle Jack, strode up to him, and stuck the letter under his nose.
“Does your ‘terrible mistake’ have anything to do with this?” I demanded coldly.
He took the letter, surprise crossing his features before they crumpled with unmistakable grief. “We … we should sit down.”
Amalia opened her mouth, took another look at her father’s expression, and stomped to the sofa. She unzipped her coat, threw it over the armrest, and dropped onto a cushion, legs crossed and arms folded. She glowered expectantly.
I removed my top layer and sat beside her. As we faced him, our solidarity was enforced by our matching turtlenecks, the hex-patterned fabric running from just below our chins to mid-thighs.
Leaning the gun against the armchair across from us, Uncle Jack lowered himself into the cushions. His stare was fixed on my chest, where my infernus lay atop my shirt, gleaming silver.
“You …” he whispered. “You stole the Twelfth House demon?”
“I didn’t steal it.” I rubbed my thumb across the pendant. The Vh’alyir emblem was emblazoned across it, and since Uncle Jack had seen the grimoire page, he must have recognized the symbol. “I made a contract with the demon after your Red Rum clients tried to use me as a bargaining chip.”
“A bargaining chip?”
“I’d been talking to the demon almost since the day I arrived,” I revealed baldly. “But let’s not get off track. You’re going to explain that letter. Right now.”
Uncle Jack frowned at me—taken aback by my assertiveness, maybe?—then looked down at the letter.
“Did you even care?” The furious accusation burst from me. “Or did you sit back and wait for her to die so you could have the grimoire? She begged you for help!”
“I called her the moment I finished reading this letter,” he whispered. “I thought she was wrong. How could anyone have found her? But she was asking for help and …” His shoulders bowed forward. “I thought, if we started talking again, then maybe this time I could convince her to show me the grimoire.”
My fists squeezed so tightly my fingernails cut into my palms.
“But I wanted to help too!” he added quickly. “If she was right, then we were all in danger. We talked for over an hour that night, and we agreed to meet the next evening. I was there, right at seven like we’d planned, and I waited at the restaurant all … all night, Robin. I waited …”
The same icy pain as that horrible night washed over me. “But they never arrived.”
He blinked, his eyes shining wetly. “It was almost midnight when I got the call from the police … about the accident …”
“And you finally got what you wanted.” Venom coated my voice. “You had the grimoire all to yourself. And you didn’t waste any time summoning the demon names from it, did you?”
He didn’t even deny it, merely nodded.
Amalia slumped back in the sofa, one hand pressed over her mouth. “My god, Dad.”
I unfolded the second letter and held it out. He heaved himself out of his chair and took it, already reading as he sank back down. He turned the page, glancing over the back, showing no surprise.
“You’ve seen that before,” I said quietly. “It was in your safe