“Welcome to the shed of cultural appropriation.” Cillian sweeps his arms around with a bleak expression. “At least now my mum’s with ascetic monks, so she won’t bring back souvenirs. We’re already jammers with junk.”
In the middle of the chaos, the only item that is clean and dust free is a framed photo of Cillian’s dad. I’ve never seen him before. I pick it up to take a closer look.
“Twelve years he’s been gone,” Cillian says. “And she’s still trying to find some way to reconnect with him. With magic off-line, she’s desperate for anything else.”
“I can’t blame her. He’s handsome. He looks a little like Orlando Bloom.”
“Dammit, Nina! Orlando Bloom?” Cillian snatches the photo away from me. “I can’t unsee that! My feelings about my dead dad were already complicated; now I have to worry that I’m oedipal, or whatever the guy-crushing-on-his-own-dad equivalent is. I swear to God if you so much as breathe about more handsome men in connection to anyone I’m related to, I will never speak to you again.”
“You’re not messed up! I’m sorry. He looks nothing like Orlando Bloom. Or any other person you’ve ever had a crush on.”
“Just shut it and let me find the handcuffs.”
I turn away from Cillian’s definitely Orlando Bloom–look-alike father and wait, keeping a wary eye on the demon.
“Here they are!” Cillian holds up a pair of handcuffs triumphantly. He’s been rooting through a box labeled with his father’s name. There’s a stack of photos, what I guess is a 3-D metal puzzle made up of interlocking triangles, a heavy ring, and some loose photos. I wonder how many times Cillian has gone through the box that he knew the handcuffs were in there.
Artemis and I don’t have anything of our father’s. That’s part of why I love the library so much. At least I know he studied those same books, looked at those same pages.
I take the handcuffs, tugging lightly on the metal, afraid I might break it if I really try. “Do I want to know why there are handcuffs in here?”
“Stop creepifying my parents!”
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry. It’s been a confusing day.” I pause. “Seriously, though, why do they have handcuffs?”
“My father was a volunteer with the local police. I used to play with those, so I know they’re real.”
“Good.” There’s an exposed section of support beam in the back of the shed. I pull on it experimentally, and it barely budges. So unless the demon is stronger than I am—in which case we are in trouble, regardless—it should be enough.
I drag the demon closer, then cuff its wrist to the beam before tying its ankles together with some rope I find on one of the shelves, figuring it can’t hurt to double up. I pause over its wrists, where lingering bruises and sores indicate I’m not the first person to bind it.
It’s unnerving. I don’t want to cause any more damage. I need Rhys. He’s a freaking encyclopedia of demonic variations. I’ve done my homework—all of it, always—but the Council gives Rhys information I’m not important enough to have. Besides, my focus has always been on human bodies. For all I know, this demon can light things on fire with its mind, and as soon as it wakes up, we’re dead.
I brush the demon’s wrists, and it whimpers in pain. The sound is soft and vulnerable. I feel it on a level I can’t quite explain. I know what it is to be hurt, to need help. In that moment, my mind is made up. I can’t get Rhys because he’d alert the Council, and so soon after the hellhound scare, they’re bound to be in kill-first-ask-questions-later mode. I don’t want anything else dead because of me.
Cillian moves a stack of gilded religious books off a table and sits. I lean as close as I dare to the demon. The wound on its face doesn’t look good. Black ichor oozes onto the cement floor. I glance around for a first aid kit, but the shed is a dumping ground, containing nothing useful. Unless I want to learn the Seven Secrets of Successful Spirit Summoners. Secret one: Live in a world where magic isn’t dead.
“Do you have a medical kit? I don’t know if demons can get infections, but I’d like to clean out this cut and close it. And I’ll try to fix its arm, too. I think it’s out of the joint. If it’s broken, there’s not much I can do here.”
Cillian nods, obviously relieved to have a task. He hurries from the shed. I shouldn’t fix the demon. But it nags at me, seeing something hurt and helpless. Knowing how easily—how willingly—I could have been the one to hurt it. Besides, if the demon dies of shock or infection, I can’t very well get information out of it. I need to know why it’s here. Why the hellhound was here. Who, if anyone, is behind it. And whether there’s another threat to the castle or if it’s all some big, sucky, sticky coincidence. It doesn’t seem likely, but a girl can hope. I might feel compassion for the demon, but I’m not dumb. It’s still a demon.
I examine what’s visible of the rest of the demon’s body—unwilling to undress it, because my sympathy definitely does not extend that far. There are some other cuts, some more bruising, and the dislocated arm.
Before I have time to rethink anything, Cillian’s back with supplies.
“Okay.” I shake out my hands to steady them. “If it wakes up, I need you to be ready to hit it on the head with something heavy.”
“So you’re going to try to fix the damage, and if it works, we’re going to hurt it again?”
“I don’t know!” I pour rubbing alcohol on my hands. “I guess only if it tries to attack. This is all new to me too.”
“Fine.” Cillian picks up a large metal clamp. “Before you assume anything disgusting, this is from my mum’s quilting phase.”
I pour some of the alcohol onto a strip of gauze, then, figuring I might as well get it over with, pour it directly into the wound. The demon flinches—Cillian raises the clamp—but it doesn’t wake up. I carefully pull the wound shut and tape the skin in place.
The demon’s left arm is definitely not the same as the right arm, in a bad way. “Does this look dislocated to you?”
“I don’t know!”