Her eyes glaze, her smile undimmed. “Dr. Sutherland, I could totally hug you.”
She lifts her eyebrows, as if awaiting my consent, and I hold my breath, considering whether to allow it, just this once. But before I can make my decision, before I can grant myself permission to open my arms and allow myself the all-too-brief pleasure of her touch, the feel of her in my arms, the warmth of human intimacy, she steps backward and says, “But I know how you feel about hugs, so please accept myenergetichug instead.” She laughs and waggles her fingers at me, a witch playing at casting a spell.
Little does she know she’s already enchanted me, and she didn’t need an ounce of magic to do it.
eighteen
MERRICK
In light of what she’s now referring to as our conversational breakthrough—a term I reluctantly embraced only after vetoing her initial declaration, the conversational enema—Miss Bonnivarde has radically intensified her efforts, and the results are promising.
We spend the next couple of weeks practicing energy manipulation and portal maintenance, alternating between the basement and the cemetery whilst her sisters are tied up with their various mundane tasks. I’m pleased to report my student has made great strides in connecting with and strengthening the portal. Its energy is responding well to hers, forming a symbiotic relationship that will continue to ease her task going forward.
In the evenings, she slips away for sessions with Helena and Mary Shelley, studying Tarot and the fundamentals of magic. Her progress on that front has been equally spectacular.
The Wielders of the Righteous Flame have yet to make their presence known. Miss Bonnivarde expressed some initial concerns about her mother’s attorney, but a thorough searchof records by Warren turned up nothing out of the ordinary; the man has a confirmed law degree, works for the practice his family has owned for over a hundred years, and is well-respected among his peers.
He’s a twat, yes. But a legitimate twat. Besides, Miss Bonnivarde hasn’t seen him since their first encounter, and her sister claims their ongoing meetings have been both professional and productive.
From the Hellfront, Oliver has reported a growing frustration among the chaos demons. While there were early unconfirmed reports of a handful slipping through the portal in the immediate aftermath of Evelyn’s death, none have been able to accomplish such a breach recently. That only solidifies my assessment that Miss Bonnivarde is doing a bang-up job, even without the guidance of her grimoire.
There is still no sign of it.
“I have a good feeling about today,” Miss Bonnivarde says now, beaming at me from her position at the edge of the portal. In the weeks since we began working together, not only has she harnessed and strengthened her magical abilities, but she’s grown infinitely more confident in herself. It shines from within, illuminating every inch of her, and me as well. As a professor, I can think of nothing as rewarding as witnessing a promising student’s evolution.
As a demon—one who began life as a man and still feels the same longings, despite every attempt to dismiss them—I can think of nothing more distracting. For with her newfound confidence has come an even more radiant beauty, a magnetism that draws me ever closer.
With any luck, the stars of Hell and earth will align, and I will complete this damnable mission before I’m wholly incinerated by her.
“Youshouldfeel good,” I reply, pencil and field journal at the ready. “Today’s the day you summon and bind your first demon.”
She claps and bounces on her toes, cheeks glowing like dew-kissed rose petals.
Bloody hellfire, let that sentimental simile be stricken from the record, lest I fall headlong into the days of my misspent, horrible-poetry-obsessed adolescence!
“You know what card I drew today?” she asks. “The Six of Wands. Victory is at hand, Dr. Sutherland. I can practically taste it!”
I can’t help but grin, so infectious is her enthusiasm. “Then we’d better get to it.”
She walks me through her plan: final safety check, ground and center, tap into the energetic flow, connect with the portal, cast her intention to call forth a low-level demon for a simple spell, and bind with an energetic tie.
“Pop quiz,” I reply. “What if your energetic tie frays before you’re able to fully bind your demon?”
“That’s what the Devil’s trap is for.”
“And what is a Devil’s trap, exactly?”
“Our failsafe.” She walks the perimeter of the portal, double-checking the ancient symbols we recently re-painted, ensuring none are broken or smudged. “If the tie frays, or the demon is more powerful than I anticipated, the trap is designed to contain it until I’m able to re-bind it and direct it to my magical working, or release it back to Hell.”
“Excellent. So why are we conducting the summoning practice here, rather than near the cemetery, where your magic is arguably stronger?”
“My magic may be stronger, but we can’t paint a reliable Devil’s trap outdoors. The conditions are too unpredictable. As a new practitioner, I need to master summoning multiple levels ofdemonic entities with my training wheels still on before I can go off-roading.”
I beam at her. “You’ve done your homework.”
“Trust me, Professor. I’m ready for this.”
“In that case…” I adjust my spectacles. Press the pencil to my page. “Please proceed, Miss Bonnivarde.”
