“I know.” Drae turns away from the orchard and looks me in the eyes. “You’re right. Both of you. I’m sorry I was so…” He runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair and scratches behind one of his horns. “I didn’t just help her because she asked. I did it because something inside me told me I… I simplyhadto.”
“I don’t know what we’re supposed to do about the Forsythes or the Codex,” I concede. “But we’ll figure it out, Drae. That’s what we always do—figure it out.”
He nods and wraps a hand around the back of my neck, giving me another affectionate squeeze.
“The only question is… What the fuck do we do with her now?” Auggie rises from the sofa and heads to the bar in search of a refill. Most of the bottles are already spent, though.
“You can start by staying the fuck away from her,” I say. “Both of you. I’m going to look after her for the foreseeable future.”
“Aww.” Auggie throws back the last swig of whiskey from one of the bottles, then grins. “You aresuperadorable when you get all soft and mushy over a mortal.”
“Aww!” I return his stupid-arse smile. “Andyou’resuper adorable when you have no idea I’ve been jerking off into your bottle of fancy hair gel.”
The poor bastard turns white.
I laugh. “Gives a whole new meaning to that freshly fucked look you’re always striving for.”
“Jude.” Drae sighs. “As much as we all enjoy hearing about your colorful pranks—which is to say not at all—wedoneed to figure out what to do with the witch. We can’t very well keep her locked in the bedroom.”
“Uh, guys?” Rook’s back, his amber eyes lit up, strands of hair popping loose from his ponytail and frizzing around his head like a halo. It’s a look we all recognize.
It means the mad scientist actually found something.
He removes his glasses and fogs his breath over the lenses. “You want the bad news first, or the terrible news?”
“We want the news that’s least likely to have Jude tearing up the floorboards in a psychotic rage,” Auggie says.
“Turns out our little witch isn’t just a witch,” Rook says, methodically polishing each lens with a cloth. “She’s got dark fae blood in her.”
Drae drops into the chair and shakes his head. “Please tell me that was the terrible news and our night isn’t about to get a whole lot worse.”
“No can do.” Rook slides his glasses back into place, his wings sagging. “Zorakkov’s a demon, all right. An original prince of Hell.”
Chapter Fifteen
ROOK
“Please bear in mind that this is just myverynascent opinion based on theverylimited data I’ve been able to find in myverypreliminary search,” I say. It’s the standard disclaimer I’ve been using with them ever since the invention of the internet and the collective shortening of their attention spans. “I haven’t even scratched the surface yet.”
“A dark fae witch and a demon prince?” Jude lights up another smoke. “Sounds like a pretty deep gash to me, Rook.”
“How did you determine she’s dark fae?” Drae asks. “Are you certain?”
“Let’s reserve the D- and C-words for when we have more concrete evidence, shall we? But for now, here’s what I can tell you.” I pull up a literary analysis of fae lore on my tablet and hand it over, the relevant text already highlighted. “Westlyn’s visceral reaction to coming into contact with demon blood is allegedly consistent with that of a dark fae.”
Drae skims through the text. “Do non-fae witches experience it differently, then?”
“Yes,” I confirm, “and we knowthatfor certain because there’s significantly more information about it—primary source material that describes everything from ceremonial blood binding to injection, ingestion, and blood play during ritual sex magic. Witches and demons have been commingling for eons.”
This was the case even before we were cursed as gargoyles. Witches are always seeking more power, and demons are always looking for a way to hitch a ride topside. It’s a win-win….
Until it isn’t.
The lose-lose part comes into play when most witches realize—belatedly, of course—that they can’t contain demonic power and can’t control the demons who possess whatever poor human or spellcaster the witch offered up.
“Do you think it’s her father?” Drae asked. “The dark fae line, I mean.”
“No, he’s definitely a mage.” I lean in beside him to scroll to another file on the tablet. “Brian Michael Avery, born and raised in Manhattan. Married his high school sweetheart—a notable witch named Madison Strauss.”
