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Screw that.
I grew up with a demanding older sister. We get along now, but I had to share everything I had with Johanna. My whole life, all I owned were hand-me-downs. Even when I got my first job at the mall when I was sixteen, I barely earned enough to get anything that wasn’t from the thrift store.
I don’t own my house. I rent. My car’s a beater I bought online, third-hand by the time I got the title.
Sammael was finally something that’smine. No one else could have him, and as his one true mate, he wouldn’t want any other.
And those demonstookhim from me.
I’ll get him back. No matter what I have to do, I’ll get him back… and, suddenly, I remember the last thing Loki said to me.
You’re not the only one…
Hang on.
Kennedy.
Where have I seen that name before?
With a slap, I close the spellbook, then quickly flip open the inner cover.
That’s right. There arefournames written on the inside of the book: Susanna Benoit, Amy, Shannon Crewes, and Kennedy Barnes.
What if… what if that Kennedy and Loki’s Kennedy are one and the same? If I’m not the only one… did Kennedy use the same book and summon her own Sombra demon mate? And the others? Shannon? Su? Amy’s handwriting looks like it belongs to a little girl, but the rest look like they belong to adults.
And both Kennedy and Shannon’s seem fairly recent.
Phone. Where’s my phone? Unless the women who left their names on this book are from a time before social media, there should besometrace of them online, right?
Humans aren’t allowed to know about Sombra… but if they’re amate? That’s a different story. And maybe… just maybe… if they know about Sombra, they might know how I can get my mate back.
It’s worth a shot.
Upstairs, I remember. My phone is upstairs.
Leaving the book on my janky coffee table, I dash back upstairs. My stomach twists again when I remember that, less than half an hour ago, I was curled up with my demon.
Focus, Hope. Get your phone.
I do.
I can’t stay up here right now. I just… Ican’t. Clutching my phone, I race down the stairs again, plopping down on my couch. As soon as my butt hits the cushion, I’m already opening up my phone and heading straight to google.
“Kennedy… Kennedy… Kennedy Barnes. Okay. There’s… crap. There’s a lot.” Social media profiles. Obituaries. Linkedin listings—
Wait.
“‘Kennedy Barnes’,” I read out loud, tapping the screen with my fingertip, excitement welling up inside of me, “‘is the sole owner and proprietor of Turn the Page, a bookstore in Jericho, New York…’”
Dropping my phone to my lap, I grab the book and quickly turn it over. I stick my fingernail beneath the Westfield Library tag I slapped on the other day, peeling it up gently so that I can get a better look at the name of the store imprinted on the UPC sticker beneath it.
Normally, I pull the old stickers off, but for some reason I didn’t when the grimoire was in the depository. Good thing, too, since, as soon as I ease it off, I see that I’m right.
Because this book once was sold at a bookstore with the very same name as Kennedy Barnes’s: Turn the Page.
What are the freaking odds?
CHAPTER15
