Payback's a Witch (The Witches of Thistle Grove #1)(89)

Shit, even when you play it safe, there’s nothing quite like a demon summoning to make you feel alive.

Of course, there’s always the odd time that even a pro like me fucks it up just a wee bit.

As usual, I’d cast my summoning circle in the warrens of basement beneath The Bitters, in a chilly, cavernous room that had started out as Elena’s third wine cellar—because who gets by with just one these days, certainly not my mother—and now doubled as my demonic lair. No windows, musty air that smelled like centuries-old stone and aged Bordeaux, witchlight sconces flinging trembling shadows on the walls; the perfect ambiance. The summoning spell was already whipping through me like a tempest, my protective amulets glowing hot against my chest. Everything felt like it should, all systems go.

But as soon as Malachus began to coalesce, I felt a twinge of wrongness in my gut, an unsettling, instinctive awareness that something was off.

According to my research, Malachus was supposed to manifest as a brawny reptilian dude, macho and mindless to the max. The type of mostly harmless demon whose bark was way worse than his bite. I hadn’t summoned in a while, so tonight was meant to be just a practice flex, easing myself back into the swing of things after a little break.

But the silhouette gathering in my circle, on her knees and with her back to me, was unmistakably femme-presenting, with the kind of ridiculous waist-to-hip ratio that would’ve put Cardi B to shame. A swoop of hair, black and glossy as moonlit water, curled around an even darker set of wings folded neatly against her back. I could see their outline fill with a faint scrawl like one of my own croquis sketches; a vague suggestion of feathers, before they sprang into a three-dimensional profusion of lush black down. And the scent that engulfed the cellar wasn’t just the usual rank whiff of sulfur and brimstone, but something sweeter, more elegant and piercing. Lily of the valley, with a subtle patchouli twist. The kind of interesting perfume that made you want to follow someone around drooling until they told you what they wore.

When she turned to look over her shoulder at me, with massive eyes the color of molten gold, my mouth went as dry as sand. I couldn’t be positive, having never seen one before—they weren’t exactly a dime a dozen—but for my money, this sure looked like one of the former seraphim.

A fucking fallen angel, landed in my basement.

“Oh, Hecate’s chilly tits,” I whispered to myself, my heart plummeting even as a rising thrill swelled inside my stomach. “This is so very deeply fucked.”

From what I’d read, the fallen were ultra-wily, temperamental, and extremely powerful—exactly the kind of unpredictable daemonfolk I do not fuck with as a general rule.

But here she was, anyway, which meant shit was about to get extremely outside the box.

She whipped around to face me in a single blurring motion, still kneeling, dainty little hands folded primly on her lap. Her fingers were tipped with vicious black talons, knuckles dusted with iridescent scales. She cocked her head, examining me, the tip of a forked pink tongue peeking between her lips. Then she smiled at me, wide and feral, a flash of onyx teeth with fanged canines and incisors.

Let me tell you, there’s something viscerally unnerving about black teeth, especially ones as sharp as hers. I had a mounting suspicion that, unlike the real Malachus—wherever the hell he was—this chick’s demonic bite might be a lot worse than her bark.

A bloom of pure dread uncurled inside my chest, shooting down into my fingertips and toes like a falling star. Alas, the thrill-chasing part of my brain that often took the wheel at times like this downright relished it. So this wasn’t going to be a lesson-learned type moment, then, I noted to myself. No big surprise there; I’d never been much good at those.

“Ill tidings!” the demon said cheerfully, in a cross between a velvety purr and some gigantic gong struck directly between my ears. Gritting my teeth, I narrowly resisted clutching at my head. When it comes to demons, a show of weakness is just about the worst thing you can do. “Whom do you serve?”

The roteness of her greeting defused the tension just a hair. Demons always start with the ill tidings bit; it’s what passes for good manners with them, part of some governing daemonfolk etiquette.

I drew myself up, putting on an imperious expression modeled after my mother, and doing my level best to avoid looking as rattled as I felt. When dealing with entities from the netherworld, throwing up a badass-witch front tends to be at least half the battle.

“I serve my goddess, my ancestors, and above all, myself,” I replied, the traditional response of an Avramov summoner. I don’t know what the Blackmoores, Thorns, or Harlows say—in the highly unlikely event that a witch from one of Thistle Grove’s other magical families has ever bantered with a demon—but I’d bet my ass on some corny noise about serving the ultimate good, light conquering darkness or whatever, cue a stirring orchestral overture. Avramovs don’t buy into any of that oversimplified, good-vs-evil binary crap. Like the pragmatists we are, we’ve always staked our claim firmly in the gray.

The problem was, this was the part where I was meant to bind this entity by her true name. Which was going to be a neat trick, considering I almost definitely didn’t have the real Malachus at hand.

“And you, Malachus Azaranthinael, appear at my will and behest,” I finished, crossing my fingers behind my back. Hey, worth a shot; maybe the lore was just supremely off base on how Malachus was supposed to look. “Which means you must obey . . . and begone at once!”