Page 30 of Demon Touched

I hesitate before nocking my arrow. “And so what if there are? I can handle myself.”

I’m not an idiot. When it comes to the trials, I know I’m out of my depth, but I can’t accept Syrus’s help as things stand between us.

…can I?

No, of course I can’t. There’s no way to work with him and stay detached, not when he literally has strings attached to me—magical ones that can make me do whatever he wants if he just tugs on them.

“Of course,” he says, sounding casual at first, “why would you have any problems passing a notoriously intense ephilium test when you don’t even have WINGS?” The last word is said with such exasperation I have to bite my lip to stop myself from laughing.

“I thought you didn’t know anything about the fledgling trials?” I say, pressing my palm against the end of the arrow so that my magic courses through it, imbuing the wood and sharp metal with lightning.

“I’ve been reading up on them,” he admits. “Or rather, Viz has.”

I pause again, the magic-laced arrow fizzing in my fingers, waiting to be released.

“Viz? How is he? And what about Aster? Is her arm better yet?”

“I’m surprised you care enough to ask,” he says, so bitterly I nearly drop the arrow. Instead, I correct my hold and take aim again, letting my anger spike, wanting him to feel it.

“Fuck you,” I spit at him. “That’s not fair.” Then I release the arrow. It whips through the air and strikes right at the heart of the target, my pent-up magic releasing a spray of sparks.

“That’s a neat trick,” Syrus says, his voice softer this time, but more dangerous for it. “Will it save you from the others when they find out you’re harboring a demon lord in your head?”

“They’re not going to find out,” I growl back at him. “Because you’re not going to expose me, and eventually I’ll…I’ll prove myself enough to be accepted here.” I stop short of explaining my goal of getting powerful enough to resist the possession bond entirely. No need to broadcast my every move to my opponent.

“Why are you so intent on staying here with people who keep trying to kill you off?” he asks, genuinely frustrated. The heat of his anger prickles across my skin, and it’s a heady, distracting sensation.

Goddess, even when he’s pissed with me, the bond likes it. I’m starting to realize the spell prefers any amount of anger over silence between us. Rage and sadness and hurt don’t matter to it as long as we’re experiencing it together. Doing it to each other.

I try to pull myself away from the direction of those thoughts to focus on Syrus’s question.

“If not here, where?” I ask pointedly.

At first, I say it just to get a jab in, to reference the fact that Infernum isn’t an option for me anymore—not since he tried to make it a cage. But once I speak the words into my head, the question behind them strikes me with surprising force.

Where do I belong, if not in Aradis? Where would I be safe?

Not in Infernum, with Syrus’s lies and control, and with the new suspicions I’d face once it was known that I have ephilium blood. I think a part of me was holding on to the idea of going back to Strata—but my magic will only be slightly less problematic there. I’m growing more supernatural by the day, and that doesn’t align well with living among humans—if it’s even legal for me to. Maybe it would be easy to hide my power and strength and fast healing from the Stratans, but what about the fact I won’t age like them anymore?

I didn’t want to think about it too much when Hasteed first mentioned it to me, but it’s been squatting at the back of my mind like an ugly parasite ever since, gnawing at me.

It isn’t enough to just consider the grief of being left behind by everyone I know in Pax—by my human friends, and most of all by Evie—facing many long centuries without her. But if I stop aging like a human, how could I build a life in Strata?

So there’s no option left but Aradis. I may not feel at home here yet, but it’s only been a matter of weeks. Maybe with time, that could change.

Syrus never answered my question, but when he starts to speak again now, there’s a gentle note to his voice—a hint of the way he used to talk to me when we were lying in bed together, my face cradled in his hand. It spawns an ache deep inside my chest.

“Viz and Aster are both fine,” he says. “I should’ve said that before. But you know them. Viz is busy drawing up a new recordkeeping system for the Morphos with Yealey. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so excited about a project. And Aster’s back at the dance halls again—her arm is good as new.” He shifts in my head, and I get the feeling his presence is drawing into itself, the mental equivalent of wrapping his arms around his body.

“They miss you,” he says, so quietly I almost don’t hear the words. “I miss you.”

Goddess, it’s painful. And what’s worse is I don’t think he means these words to hurt. Maybe I should read every line he spins as some kind of manipulation, but I can’t think of him like that.

“Syrus,” I begin, not sure what I’m going to say, but wanting to give him something honest in return. “I wish⁠—”

“Leah!”

I turn to see a young man jogging toward me, a fellow fledgling called Efram who’d helped me out in lessons these last few days. I hold up my hand in greeting.