Page 70 of Demon's Bride

“Tell me about that,” I urge, painfully curious. “When I was chosen for the Tithe, I just started… well, as weird as it sounds, I just started glowing. Eren was already there, on the other side of the Veil.”

“It happened a little sooner for him. About two days before he traveled through the Veil, he was sitting in court and his eyes started glowing. A bit unsettling, to be honest. We have enough record of how the Tithe has worked in the past for him to know what it meant immediately.”

“He seemed so… I don’t know. Cool, confident, completely unfazed by it all.”

“In some ways, I think he was expecting it.”

“What makes you say that?”

Felix shrugs. “With everything happening in the realm, with Emilia’s magick failing, he’s always seen it as his responsibility to fix things. That night, when he called us to his council chambers to tell us his plans, he hardly seemed surprised.”

“Well,” I say, turning those words over in my mind, “I’m glad it was him.”

He smiles at that. “I can confidently say he feels the same way.”

“Oh really? What makes you so sure?”

“Well, for one, I thought I spotted a freak thunderstorm up on the ridge this morning,” Felix says with a grin that makes me go red all the way to my roots. “You and Eren wouldn’t have had anything to do with that, would you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I tell him, eyes fixed firmly on the fire.

“Of course not. And all that racket in Vayla’s workroom yesterday was just, what? Spellwork? Lively debate about those books you were studying?”

“I—you—” I sputter, flushing even deeper. “Don’t you demons have a filter?”

His laugh is rich and hearty. “None at all. Though I can attempt to put one in place if my words offend you.”

I just roll my eyes. “I have a feeling that any filter you come up with would still let through enough to make me blush.”

The conversation veers to less embarrassing topics. He tells me about the different regions of this realm, rattling off names and facts I try to commit to memory. We talk court politics—always boisterous and blustering, though he speaks of his fellow courtiers with respect clear in his voice.

When the sun has set, Felix pulls some wrapped bread, cheese and meats from his bag and we eat in companionable silence in front of the fire.

Hours pass with no sign of my demon. Though the conversation stays light and Felix proves to be an excellent distraction from whatever’s happening back at the mountain keep, it eventually catches back up to me. Worry crashes into fatigue and fear, and settles on me like a truckload of bricks.

“Is there anywhere upstairs I can lie down?”

Seeming to understand my need for some time alone, Felix nods and shows me upstairs to the cabin’s main bedchamber.

It’s as dusty as the rest of the place, but it’s not hard to imagine how undeniably cozy the room would be if it was aired out and polished up. Another big window looks out over the mountain, providing what must be a breathtaking view in the daytime. The bed’s not quiet as big as the one back in our chamber in the mountain, but it’s still bigger than a California king—built for wings, no doubt—and sits opposite the windows.

I pause for a moment with my hand on the bedframe. An image flashes in my mind of tangled limbs and wings, a crackling fire keeping the room warm while snow falls over the mountain outside. The scene comes complete with clean, fluffy bedding piled high and a wicked, wicked demon all too eager to worship me.

Shaking the thought aside, I turn to survey the rest of the room.

There’s another, smaller hearth in the chamber, and I return downstairs briefly to grab an armful of wood. Felix stays below, bidding me good evening as he goes to stand near the wall of windows, looking out into the darkness.

When I’m satisfied with the way I’ve stacked the logs in the stone hearth, I summon a sphere of witchlight. This fire starts as easily as the last, and there’s something primitive and satisfying at being warmed by the flame my own magick created.

Kicking off my shoes, I peel back the covers and look at what I’m working with, wincing just a little. The blanket is dusty, smelling of mothballs and age. The mattress is hardly any better. Running my hand along it, inspiration strikes.

Another minor spell, but it’s worth a shot.

Lifting and moving objects with magick is something every young witch learns how to do. Whether we can move a feather or a tractor-trailer, though? That’s a matter of sheer power.

And me? The best I’ve ever done is lifting a pencil from one side of my desk to the other.

It’s not sheer power I need now, however, but finesse. Like I had with the water in the bath last night, but even more precise.

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