Slaying Monsters for the Feeble - Annette Marie Page 0,96

since neither of us had available family members to celebrate with, we would skip all the traditional Christmas activities. Instead, we’d gone for a double feature at the cinema, then ordered enough Chinese food to last us a week.

Since then, I’d been spending hours every day on the grimoire despite the disappointing lack of revelations. What I’d translated so far wasn’t even Demonica but other Arcana that Anthea Athanas had recorded thousands of years ago. I might have to skip ahead.

My wandering gaze fell on the book on my bedside table: The Complete Compilation of Arcane Cantrips. The vivid memory of the fire cantrip in Zylas’s crimson magic rushed through my head—followed by the equally vivid memory of his power flowing over my hand and up my arm.

Pushing to my feet, I returned to the living room. At my approach, Socks uncurled from her ball and stood on Zylas’s stomach, back arching in a luxurious stretch. Hopping onto the floor, she wound around my ankles and meowed demandingly.

I wasn’t worthy of cuddles, but when dinnertime came around, she expected me to provide.

Hands on my hips, I peered down at Zylas, again trying to pry open his head and see his thoughts underneath. I wanted another glimpse of the mind behind those crimson eyes. Of the keen, cutting intelligence, the brutal determination to survive, the dizzying expanse of experiences I couldn’t begin to imagine.

He gazed up at me, impassive.

“How do I hear your thoughts the way you can hear mine?” I demanded.

“Why would I tell you?”

“Because it’s more fair that way.” I pointed at him accusingly. “You were hiding it all this time, that we could speak to each other in our heads. Don’t you think that might’ve been useful before now?”

“Ch,” he scoffed, closing his eyes lazily.

“How did we combine our magic?” I’d asked him this question half a dozen times, and his answer was always the same. At my feet, Socks meowed loudly, then stalked off with her tail held high.

Zylas stretched his spine, then relaxed into the sofa. “I don’t know.”

“Guess, then.”

“Kūathē gish.”

“Huh?”

“Go away. You are noisy.”

I squinted one eye, then turned around. Instead of walking away, I dropped onto the sofa. He might be super strong and halfway to invincible, but even a demon couldn’t ignore a hundred pounds landing on his diaphragm.

His breath whooshed out. Eyes snapping open, he glowered at me. I flopped against the back cushion, sitting on his stomach where Socks had been, my feet dangling above the floor.

“As you can see, I’m not going away,” I declared. “So let’s talk about the whole ‘magic sharing’ thing.”

His nose scrunched in annoyance, then he resettled his head on the cushion, grabbed a chocolate-and-butterscotch grape, and ate it.

I waited a minute, my chagrin growing, then growled, “Zylas.”

“Drādah.”

“You can’t just ignore me sitting on you.”

He pointedly closed his eyes again.

“Tell me about the magic. You must have some idea.”

“I do not know.” He reached blindly for another grape. “I did not think. I just did.”

During the fight, I hadn’t stopped to think about it either. It had felt … natural. Instinctive. As simple and easy as raising my arm and spreading my fingers.

I gazed at my hand, held before my face with my fingers stretched wide. I remembered his presence inside my head, dark and ferocious.

Sitting forward, I aligned myself to face him. Jaw tight with focus, I pressed my palms against his cheeks, my fingers resting on his pointed ears and tangled hair.

Staring intently into his eyes, I strained to hear his thoughts. To find his alien presence. To reform that bizarre, breathtaking connection. I wanted to hear him again. I would make it happen. Catching my lower lip in my teeth, I brought our faces—our minds—closer. Where are you, Zylas?

He stared up at me, then took my face in his hands, fingers catching in my hair. His crimson eyes searched mine, his lips parting.

“Na, drādah,” he whispered.

My breath caught in my lungs. “Yes?”

“This”—his hands tightened on my cheeks and a laughing grin flashed over his face—“will not work either.”

I growled furiously. “You—”

With a clatter, the apartment door swung open. Amalia breezed in, her cell phone against her ear and a bag from her favorite fabric store hanging off her arm.

“Yeah, hold on, Dad,” she said, her gaze sweeping across the room to find me. “I’ll ask her—ah!”

Her shriek rang out and she flung both arms up like she was being assaulted by an invisible burglar. Her phone flew out of her hand, her face