her soul to take (Harley Laroux)

page 18

“No, no, you can’t compare the two,” he said. “I’m methodical. Concentrated. As for you, well—you fixate. Like a dog with a bone in front of it. I’ve seen the way your obsessions go, Leon. They don’t end well for you.”
Which was why I seldom hadobsessions.
And I wasn’t obsessed.
I was...interested.
And fucking hell, Kent Hadleigh keptcallingme.
He’d been at it long enough now that it was a goddamn annoyance. He had to be furious that I wasn’t coming, so why hadn’t he summoned me? It was his usual method: pull out the grimoire, chalk my mark onto the ground with a few runes, anddemandI come. I couldn’t say no. The use of my mark left me no choice.
The fact that he was going about this sogentlywas odd. So odd it piqued my curiosity enough to obey, if only to see what the hell was going on.
Teleporting was tiring, so I didn’t do it often, but I also didn’t feel like running all the way to Kent. Light and shadow rushed around me as I dispersed my corporeal form, before assuming physical form again in the living room of the Hadleigh home. Perfectly white carpet, white couches, a shining metal chandelier overhead. The room’s main wall was all glass, giving a view of the trees that covered the Hadleigh property’s expanse. Everything was so clean and delicate, it just made me want to smash it.
Kent stood in front of me, hands behind his back, his suit looking a bit more wrinkled than usual. His protective iron amulet, carved into the shape of a sword crossed with a wand, wasn’t hidden beneath his shirt today, as if he’d put it on hurriedly. The humans wouldn’t notice it, but the damn thing made the air smell pungently metallic, so much so that it gave me a headache. His wife, Meredith, was seated on the couch behind him, and she went rigid as I appeared—at least, a little more rigid than her overly Botoxed face already was. Jeremiah was sunk into a chair nearby, his chin resting on his palm as he watched me, looking bored and a little annoyed. At the bar in the kitchen, Everly watched in silence, wringing her hands on her lap.
Something was strange, but I couldn’t put my finger onwhatexactly.
“What took you so long?” Kent’s voice was snappy, anxious. That was unusual for him indeed.
“Just doing my duty.” I shrugged, cracking out the usual tension that resulted in my neck from going in and out of physical form. “Didn’t want to leave the campus unprotected. Figured you could wait.”
“Slaves don’t tell their masters to wait,” Jeremiah sneered. “Watch your mouth.”
“Or what?” I growled, turning from facing his father to focus on him instead. He immediately straightened up, his jaw working nervously as I stepped closer. “What are you going to do, hm? You want to try me?” He shifted in his seat, his eyes darting back to his father. Typical. “That’s better. At least you know when to shut your mouth. You should be scared, boy—”
“Kent,controlhim,” Meredith hissed, and Kent cleared his throat.
“Leon, enough!”
I straightened slowly from leaning over a cringing Jeremiah. No pain. No punishment. Kent loved looking for any opportunity to torture me, and he’d just passed up an opportune moment. I looked him over, once more taking in the rumpled suit, the bags around his eyes, the way his hands—
His hands. Empty hands. No grimoire.
No grimoire?
No...no, that couldn’t be. Kent never let that thing out of his sight.
“I have a job for you, demon. A soul meant for the Deep One has returned to Abelaum. The time has come for the next sacrifice.”
I was distracted, trying to determine why the hell Kent wouldn’t have his grimoire with him. The special thing about a demon’s second name, about their mark, was that it couldn’t be recalled simply from memory, and it could only be permanently recorded in a few specific mediums: if scarred into flesh, or if written by a powerful witch. Without my mark, without the grimoire, Kent couldn’t summon me and he couldn’t contain me.
It seemed too good to be true.
“Do you want me to kidnap someone,” I muttered, “Or do you just want me to babysit Jeremiah while he mangles another sacrifice?”
“Fuck you!” Jeremiah raised his voice, getting a worried glare from his mother. Kent’s nostrils flared with the force of his exhale. He reached into his jacket and withdrew two photographs, holding them out for me to see. I got closer to have a look—and cold, clenching fury washed over me.
“Her name is Raelynn Lawson, but Victoria tells me you already know that, don’t you?” Kent smirked. He was holding an enlarged student ID photo of her, as well as one of her sitting at a bench between Jeremiah and Victoria. “Bring her to us, and ensure no one sees you. Make sure you leave no signs of a struggle. You are to make it appear as if she left her house of her own accord, drove to the coast, and was in a wreck. Bring her to St. Thaddeus tonight, at midnight: alive, unharmed, and blindfolded.”
I didn’t take the photos. I simply stared at him. “No.”
Kent laughed. “Have you lost your mind? Your summoner hascommandedyou—”
“Make me. Go on, Kenny-boy.Make. Me.”
In other circumstances, I knew what would happen. He’d whip open the grimoire, trace over my mark to lend him power over me, and utter some spell from within its pages to cause me pain. Break my bones, crush my lungs, give me the sensation of being burned alive—the punishment spells within that book were wicked, and even I could only endure so much pain. But instead his jaw just tightened, his empty hands clenching.
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