Page 52 of Eat, Slay, Love

I stare at her. “Jonah.”

Her face remains smooth, untroubled. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

The void inside my magic widens. My hands curl into the sheets. “The half-demon. He was fighting Belvedere. He was with me.”

Understanding flickers across her expression, faint and clinical. “The demon,” she says. Not Jonah. Just demon. “I have no idea. But I want to commend you,” my mother continues, tossing Jonah aside and commenting as if we are discussing a successful academic presentation. “Your decision to engage Belvedere showed courage and fortitude. And preparation. Your notes were thorough. Your brothers gathered the tribunal’s younger generation exactly as you instructed.”

“What happened,” I cut in, “after I passed out?”

“Belvedere was defeated.” The words do nothing to soothe me. “We used much of your preparation,” she continues. “Your containment geometries along with your layered binding symbols. Your father recognized your notations immediately. We went to prepare reinforcements.”

Images flash behind my eyes—chalk lines on my apartment floor, maps taped to hardwood, hours spent refining escape routes and civilian corridors while Jonah worked alongside me.

“My brothers?” I ask.

“They and the others held him as long as they could,” my mother replies. “Barely. Belvedere’s age made him exceptionally difficult to destabilize. But when the heads of the five families arrived, we ended it.” Ended. Finished. Solved. A mere inconvenient problem. “I also want to thank you,” she adds, the words sounding foreign coming from her mouth.

I look at her sharply. “For what?”

“For your willingness to sacrifice yourself,” she says simply. “Your actions ensured Belvedere could be contained.” She pauses, as if choosing the least uncomfortable way to display true empathy. “For almost dying,” she says finally, then the word seems to catch in her throat and she corrects, stiffly, “for us.”

“No,” I say, immediate and absolute. “It wasn’t for you.”

Her brow creases slightly.

“I did it for my demon.”

She recoils. “Your demon?”

“And his name is Jonah. It’s a name you should be thanking, too.”

“He was a demon,” she spits.

“He is—” My magic spasms.

My mother’s jaw ticks once. “What is happening,” she says, voice low, “and why do you keep speaking about this demon as if⁠—”

“Because he is,” I snap. “And because you’re not listening.” My chest heaves and I have to force a breath. “He asked me a question that I didn’t know how to answer. He asked me what my magic does.”

Her eyes narrow, impatient.

“And I realized,” I continue, “that no one has ever asked me that before. Not really. They’ve only ever told me what it should do.” I push the blankets aside and stand. My legs tremble, but they hold.

She watches me with growing disapproval. “You should be resting.”

“I have a forte,” I say instead.

Her posture stills.

I meet her eyes. “It surfaced.”

Silence stretches between us.

“When?” she asks.

I swallow. “Ten years ago.”

Her expression shifts, subtle but unmistakable. “And you’re only telling me this now?” she asks.