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Opening the door to the chamber, I come face to face with a stout imp with chipped horns dressed in a black servant’s uniform. “Sir Grimwood.” He bows his head in respect and waves his hand, signaling down the corridor. “This way, please. I have prepared breakfast for you.”
My stomach growls excitedly with the promise of food, though I’m curious if I can eat something from the underworld at all without the threat of death or being bound here for eternity.
As we walk through the opulent corridor, the mansion’s grandeur becomes increasingly apparent. The walls are empty except for several large rectangles of black glass, and as we pass, my reflection glances back at me. There are large onyx chandeliers hanging from the ceiling with crystals that catch the light.
Eventually, I’m led to the main hall, where I last remember losing consciousness. The memories of Aamon’s hands so tenderly holding me, without any explanation, change to something sinister, confusing me. “What about Aamon? Will he be dining with me?” I hesitantly ask.
The servant pauses his stride beside me, glancing up at me nervously. “Yes, sir, the master will be dining with you.”
“Over here, Thorne.” Aamon’s voice resonates from a brightly lit room to my right.
As I follow the sound, my heart pounds with a mix of trepidation and determination. I need answers. I want what I was promised, or I don’t want to stay here another moment longer. As I approach the doorway, I’m surprised by Aamon sitting at the head of a large mahogany dining table with at least eight chairs. In front of him is a plate piled with food, and beside him must be my place, with an identical plate in front of an empty chair.
His presence is as imposing as ever, and his golden eyes pierce through me, commanding my attention. “Good morning.” Aamon gives a smile that doesn’t quite travel to his eyes. “Sleep well?”
It’s a taunt, but I take a moment to steady myself, drawing in a deep breath. “I need to know more about the grimoire.” I cut straight to the point, crossing my arms over my chest with determination. “And about our pact and what it means.”
Aamon’s gaze narrows slightly, but he gestures to the empty seat beside him. “Sit,” he commands, his words pulling me taut as if I’m a puppet to be played with. I walk forward mechanically until I’m just in front of the chair.
“Is this part of the pact that you can control my body and mind?” My hands tremble as I pull the chair out and settle in the seat.
“No, it’s just that easy to control you.” Aamon pops a strawberry into his mouth with a devious grin before he chews. “You have very little control over the magic you wield, and because of that, your defenses are weak.”
I know my power is lacking, and it’s partly due to my heritage. My grandmother was not biologically related to me, even though she raised me as if I was her own flesh and blood. “Howcan I create stronger defenses against you without the power you promised me?”
Aamon’s expression turns serious, and he rolls his eyes in frustration before rising from his place at the table, scraping the chair along the marble floor. “You’re going to make this beautiful breakfast go to waste.” He snaps his fingers, and the servant appears hunched in the corner of the room. “Berkley, bring the grimoire to my study, please.”
“Yes, of course, Master,” the imp stammers before disappearing with a resounding pop.
Aamon exhales a deep, exasperated sigh as he grasps the edge of his plate in one hand. “Take your food with you. I can hear your disgusting stomach noise from here.” He turns his back to me, and I see hundreds of scars along the plane of his back between his wings. I hesitate to move, wondering how he might have heard my hunger. I suppose anything is possible for a demon lord.
“You are the most annoying creature. Hurry up.” He snaps his fingers impatiently.
I do as I’m commanded, grabbing my large plate of food and following behind him like an eager puppy. We walk through the mansion, passing rooms with strange artifacts until we reach a large circular room. Inside, the walls are lined with countless books, and in the center stands a massive glass table covered in manuscripts. There’s another large onyx glass pane on the wall, which I stop to stare at. “What are these things?”
“The television?” Aamon replies easily. Still I have no knowledge of what that may be.
As I glance back at him, he sets his plate on the desk, grabbing hold of a small rectangle pointing toward the pane. It blares to life with vivid colors and images of other demons talking about a casino. There’s a gorgeous woman with large red horns and the supplest pouty mouth. She’s dressed in a skintight leather bodice that presses her breasts up toward her neck. The woman carries herself with a regal air, and her very presence reminds me of Aamon’s because it demands attention, even from a passerby on the street behind her.
I’ve never seen something so fascinating. “Is this magic?” When I look back at Aamon, he hides a chuckle behind his hand, though I can see the corners of his lips tilt up.
“It’s not magic; it’s technology. I suppose you would assume that because your realm is so primitive.” He presses the black rectangle in his hand again to shut the television off. “Now, since you ruined my breakfast, let’s get to work explaining your pact with me.” Aamon shoves a piece of bacon into his beak, though he doesn’t chew it right away.
There’s a particular section of the study that he heads toward. His fingers hover over a book before pulling it from the shelf. It’s not the grimoire, but it looks as if it’s as old as time itself. The cover is cracked and worn, and the spine hardly remains bound to the book’s pages. It’s inscribed with the same designs my grandmother’s book has, though these runes swirl with a deep ocean blue.
“This,” he thrusts the book toward me, “is the accurate version of the Ars Goetia, written by Sky Daddy himself.”
The threat of a laugh bubbles in my throat, and I try to swallow it down by clamping my mouth closed. “Aamon, is the Lord your true father?” I pull from long-buried Bible knowledge, thoughit’s murky. My fingers brush against the tome, feeling the surge of energy that crackles against my fingers.
“The Lord is everyone’s father, Thorne.” Aamon heaves an offended sigh before yanking the book back into his grip. “Did you truly summon me with no knowledge of even the basic principles of the Goetia?”
A warm blush of embarrassment rises over my neck and up my cheeks. Yes, I did summon him without knowing a single thing about who the Goetia are. Grandmother spoke very little of the grimoire’s power. All I had ever been told was that the power within it was so immense, even the best witches and warlocks scarcely lived to tell the tale. In my life with her, she had never once opened the grimoire, and even went as far as to hide it from me, claiming she misplaced it. But I knew deep within my soul that she hid it in the house. It became nothing but a tale at bedtime, stories of kings, queens and the princes of hell.
“I had very little time to mull over the grimoire or study it fully before making our pact.” I straighten my shoulders to appear confident. “Summoning you was no simple task. I used nearly all my plants in the greenhouse to gain enough strength.”
Aamon purses his lips, shaking his head, exasperated. “You have so much to learn.” He points toward the chair behind the glass desk. “Sit there and eat while I explain our pact to you, since you’ve no earthly idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.”
“You choked me,” bursts from my lips.
