Treasures, Demons, and Other Black Magic by Meghan Ciana Doidge Page B

usually —”
    “She’s gotten a taste for it.”
    Edmonds fell silent. Kandy pulled out her phone and started texting. Drake was attempting to sound out words with a German accent.
    “You don’t believe in demons,” I said, figuring out that his resistance wasn’t just the inherent reluctance of a sorcerer to share information with a witch.
    “They’re a construct. A way of justifying the great evil man is capable of.”
    I nodded. I wondered if Edmonds — a sorcerer that Blackwell had identified as powerful enough to draw Sienna’s attention — would be capable of raising a demon, or if his disbelief of this aspect of magic would cause such a spell to misfire. Magic was all about intention.  
    Edmonds rotated the book back toward me and pointed at the second picture in the entry. This was a depiction of the three demons raised that the evening in 1888. Squat, scaled beasts with flat faces and broad shoulders, they were somewhat reminiscent of the guardian lions that were a constant motif in dragon decor, but without the manes. The professor tapped the page. “You’ve seen such as these?”
    “No.”
    “But you’ve seen something you call a demon. Manifested by Blackwell?”
    Now that was a loaded question. I wasn’t sure how the sorcerers governed themselves, or what their version of the witches Convocation was. I also wasn’t sure if Blackwell was a member of this governing body, or if raising demons was a no-no for sorcerers. I imagined it probably was, just like blood magic was for witches.
    Now … did I want to get Blackwell in hot water? Hell, yes. But could I afford to get the asshole in deep shit before I managed to neutralize Sienna? No. And yes, I was now thinking of ‘murdering my sister’ as ‘neutralizing’ in my head.
    I looked at Edmonds, who’d already indicated he wasn’t the London liaison for visiting Adept. I opened my dowser senses and tasted his magic more thoroughly. He shared the base earthy sorcerer quality that Blackwell had, but it was more like wild mushroom risotto with mild sausage than deep cabernet. Blackwell could kick his ass.  
    I smiled, and started to speak, just as something slammed into and took the hinges off the door behind me. The door canted sideways and crashed onto the sofa.
    I swiveled, my knife instantly in my hand, to see a six-foot-four-inch light-blond werewolf blocking the door with his arms askew. Kandy, who’d been thrown forward at his dramatic entrance, held up one hand toward me and one hand toward the werewolf at the door. She had placed herself between the newcomer and Drake, who — miraculously — was just peering around her legs rather than tackling the intruder.
    The male wolf lifted his chin and scented the air. The green of his magic rolled across his eyes.
    “Control yourself,” Kandy snapped.
    Some of the alertness eased from the blond wolf’s stance.
    “May I help you?” Edmonds asked. He’d jumped to his feet, and was now casually twirling his wand between his fingers.
    I slipped my knife back into its invisible sheath and hoped no one had noticed me pull it out. I was really glad I hadn’t accidentally stabbed the werewolf. I was jumpy.
    The newcomer looked startled, as if he hadn’t seen anyone but Kandy in the room. Then he flushed. “Excuse me,” he said. His accent was full of rounded, musical vowels. Nordic, I guessed, which explained the height and the hair color — neither were typically British as far as I’d seen. “I … I  —”
    “It’s me,” Kandy said. She didn’t sound too pleased. “I’m … I must be … ovulating.” She spat out the final word like it was the bane of her existence.
    The Nordic wolf flushed even deeper red and stuffed his hands in his pockets.
    “Oh,” I said, because something had to be said and I had no idea what to say.
    “I’ll … I’ll fix the door,” the blond werewolf stuttered. “Of course. I’m so sorry —”
    “Maintenance will fix the