Summoning the Night (Arcadia Bell #2)(87)

“Brace yourself!” I called to Jupe as the thread lit like a fuse.

Jupe yelped. Merrin shouted in fear as gravity suddenly weighed him down and he plunged, dropping Jupe.

I tugged on the golden thread as hard as I could. Jupe’s body jerked and sailed toward me like an angel—long arms and legs and a mass of volcanic hair whizzing through the darkness. I held out my arms and braced myself for collision: his elbow knocked my jaw sideways and he crashed into my ribs as he body-slammed me to the ground.

Everything hurt except my heart, which was thundering with surprise and relief.

Jupe let out a dopey groan. His eyes opened. He blinked rapidly. “Cady,” he murmured with a scratchy voice.

“Got you.” I scrambled to shove him off and hauled us both to our feet. The kid might’ve saved his own damn life with that stupid tattoo.

Merrin howled in pain a few feet away, writhing in the grass. I couldn’t tell how badly he’d been injured from the fall, but if he recovered his wits and hijacked Jupe’s knack again, we’d all be in trouble—how far was far enough away to ensure we were outside the knack-stealing sigil’s range? I didn’t have a clue.

Jupe cried out in surprise at something he saw over my shoulder. I spun. Across the yard, Ms. Forsythe’s limp body remained sprawled on the ground. Unmoving. But that wasn’t the cause of Jupe’s anxiety. Chora now floated above her, dressed in his military coat, tail whipping.

And that wasn’t all.

Lon stood in the same place I’d left him, but his green-and-gold halo danced like a crown of gilded flames over his head and spotlighted the two spirling horns that jutted from his hairline.

He looked devastatingly menacing and shockingly demonic—

And Jupe had never seen him transmutated.

“Dad?” he croaked.

“It’s okay,” I assured Jupe, squeezing the back of his neck. “He’s still your dad, it’s—I can’t explain now. I need to help him. Stay behind me.”

I raced my heartbeat across the shadowed lawn with Jupe dogging my heels. When we got closer, Lon, without taking his eyes or the aim of his gun off Chora, yelled, “Stay back!”

We came to a sliding stop.

Chora was staring at Lon, sizing him up. “The mage told me of this magick, this transmutation. He chose vessels for the ritual who were born with this magick inside them. He believes this will help them live long enough for the doors to open between the planes. Their blood is sweeter.”

“Why doesn’t he just summon seven demons from the Æthyr?” Lon asked.

“They must originate on this plane for the doors to open from this side.”

Chora looked weary. I guess if I’d spent thirty years trapped in some crazy gap between the planes, I’d be weary, too.

“The ritual matters little to me,” he said. “I only wish to fulfill my contract with the piggish mage and return home.”

Chora held one palm up, as if he were asking for a handout, and used a finger to trace an invisible mark over his open palm as he mumbled something foreign. The air crackled. A pink glow lit his hand from the inside out. Then his skin turned translucent and I could see veins and bones beneath it. Jupe made a wary noise behind me. I could feel his labored breath against the top of my head. I tugged him closer.

Chora floated down and landed on the grass. “If we were back in my homelands, I would not chose to battle you, Kerub,” Chora said, referring to the class of demon from which Earthbounds are descended. “Nor you, Mother.” He looked at me with the same familiarity that I had glimpsed in the Silent Temple. “But I do not have that choice. I am sorry.”

The demon’s scaly tail flicked as he held out the hand glowing pink with magick. He pushed back the cuff of his colonial coat, exposing his wrist, then sank two fingers into the flesh there. Slick, sucking noises made me grimace as he dug around inside his own skin. He extracted something skinny and straight. Once he was able to get several fingers around it, he tugged with more force.

A thin, whispery blade the length of a small sword glinted in the moonlight. He unsheathed it from the scabbard of his forearm. The grip of the weapon was ivory, and might’ve been constructed from bone, but the dripping blood made it hard to be certain. The blade was metal, though. And he wielded the disgusting weapon with determination as a new noise stole my attention.

Merrin was on his feet. Shoulders dropping, head lowered, he bowled toward us, only slightly impeded by his awkward limp. He was disoriented and pained, and his glasses were gone—lost in the fall. But he squinted into the dark and his eyes caught mine.

Chora raised the bloody blade, murmuring under his breath. It sounded calm and peaceful. Maybe a prayer. Lon racked his shotgun and fired. Chora jerked to the side. The shot hit his free shoulder, he cried out in fury, and dark blood flowed over the gray fabric of his coat. His tail whipped furiously around his legs.

Lon groaned and cracked his jaw. Despite the shot, he wasn’t happy. He’d been aiming for the heart, I realized, and missed his mark, not expecting the demon to move so fast. Worse, that was his fifth shot. Four rounds plus one in the chamber makes five total. He lowered the gun and held it by the barrel as he fished inside his pocket. More shells, I thought, thank God. When he pulled out his phone instead, I wondered if he’d gone loopy. His fingers danced over the screen. He spoke a single word into the phone, then tossed both it and the shotgun on the grass beside him. Maybe he was calling Dare. Or the police. I’d take either at this point.