Taming Demons for Beginners (The Guild Codex Demonized #1) - Annette Marie Page 0,29

the hall.

“How?” he bellowed. “How is that thing still defying us? It should be halfway comatose! How is it maintaining the darkness in the circle? We haven’t even seen it!”

Claude’s calm voice answered him too quietly for me to make out any words.

“I know that!” my uncle roared. “It has to break soon! If it dies before we get it into a contract, I’ll—I’ll—” he spluttered, in search of a suitable threat.

“Oh, shut up, Dad,” Travis snapped. “We’re all frustrated.”

“Talk back to me again and I’ll break your jaw,” Uncle Jack snarled. “You’re an apprentice and if you ever want a demon name from me, you’ll start acting like it.”

Terse silence spread.

“We need a break,” Claude decided. “Let’s go out for something to eat.”

Uncle Jack grunted and their voices receded. I strained my ears, and a minute later, the front door opened and closed with a thump.

I looked down at my white mug. Steaming cocoa filled it to the brim, and I’d topped the dark liquid with a dollop of whipped cream. Cradling the warm mug in my hands, I slunk out of the kitchen and down the basement stairs.

I turned the library lights up, crossed to the black dome, and knelt. “Zylas?”

The darkness faded out of the circle. Lying on his side, with his head pillowed on one arm, he looked more comfortable than last time—but his eyes were black again.

“Payilas.”

“How did it go today?”

He gazed at me tiredly. “They are more mailēshta than before.”

“What does that mean?”

His brow scrunched and he closed his eyes as though struggling to translate the word. “Annoying. They are annoying.”

I hesitated, staring at the steaming mug, then held it up. “I … brought this. You don’t have to drink it if you don’t want to, but it’s hot.”

He let out a long breath, then pushed himself into a sitting position, the metal armor on his lower legs scraping the floor. I set the mug on the silver inlay, with the handle sticking into the circle, and he picked it up. His eyes squinched as he prodded the whipped cream with one finger, making it bob in the hot liquid.

Maybe the whipped cream had been overkill.

He tipped the mug back, downed the contents like a shot, then replaced the mug on the inlay. I slid it out of the circle and set it aside.

“What do you want?” he asked, still looking exhausted.

“What do you mean?”

He flicked his hand at the mug. “For that.”

“I don’t need anything.”

A snarl slid into his voice. “Ask.”

“But …”

It was clearly important to him that he not accept charity from me. If it made him feel better … I tried to come up with an easy question. He watched me think, the sconce lights illuminating one cheekbone and the side of his jaw but casting deep shadows over his dark eyes.

“I want to touch you.” I spoke without thinking—and instantly regretted it.

His face twisted. “Touch me?”

My cheeks flushed hot. “Just—just your hand, or—” I cut myself off and took a moment to regain my composure. “In that circle, you’re like a … a vision or a dream. I want to touch you so I can feel that you’re really there.”

He stared at me like I’d sprouted a second head. “Ch. Fine.”

My pulse quickened. Dangerous, dangerous. It was far too risky, yet … I wanted to do this. Touching him would make him real in a way that seeing him and hearing his voice couldn’t.

I skooched closer until my knees were six inches from the inlay. “Put your hand against the barrier.”

He pressed his right palm flat against the invisible dome and shimmers spread outward like ripples on a pond. My heart climbed into my throat, where it continued its frantic beating. I swallowed it down and lifted my hand. My arm quivered. I hesitated, my body so tense it hurt.

I touched two fingertips to the heel of his hand.

His skin was disconcertingly cool. Cautiously, I slid my fingertips up to the center of his palm and pressed, feeling the give of living flesh. As I traced his index finger to the top, wonder ballooned inside me, pushing my fear aside.

I followed the line of his thumb, then warily curled my finger around to feel the bony knuckle below his first finger. The back of his hand was firm and taut, his skin different from anything I’d felt before—tougher, with less give and stretch than a human’s, yet soft and smooth.

Tipping each finger was a dark nail, its curved point resting