I reached forward to brush Hugo's dirty blonde hair away from his closed eyes. The blackened veins were gone. His skin was no longer pale.
He would live, thanks for my blood and Remi's witchy magic.
I thought about our hidden truths and shared secrets. Admitted in a dream that neither of us thought the other would remember.
I placed my hand over his heart.
Ready to say my own personal goodbye.
My one and only moment of closeness that I would allow myself to have with the jaw-dropping Hugo Sinclair.
His skin grew hot under my palm; I jerked my hand away. Eyes wide, I watched as lines burnt into his pectoral muscle. Like a snake eating its own tail. A circle within a circle, a harsh slash through the middle.
I knew that rune.
The scar faded to silver as if it had been there years instead of seconds.
It was the mark of a Soulbond.
Hugo Sinclair was my soulmate.
No.
No. No. No.
I pushed open the door, head down, as I wove through the hallway. Determined to get back to the safety of my locked room. My warm bed.
Not mine. Frankie’s.
I hissed as if I had been struck in the gut. I was a parasite. I lived inside of a body that wasn't my own. I had marked someone I could never have. A Hunter of all things.
Even if Hugo wasn’t a Hunter, he was descended from royalty, from the Court of the Seventh Circle. I was a Drude, the only one of my kind left.
“Whoa there!” Someone grabbed my biceps and held me still before I slammed against their hard chest. Remington Weber. He did not wear his signature smile. Instead, he studied my face.
“What's wrong?” He demanded. His featured were shadowed, his skin a dark contrast against his straight white teeth. He glanced over my shoulder. “Did something happen to Sinclair?”
I couldn’t speak around the lump in my throat. I shook my head frantically.
“Are you okay?” Remi's deep espresso eyes studied mine.
I tried to summon a smile, but it wavered.
“I...” My mouth was dry. “I think I know what killed Team C. What attacked Hugo.”
Remi's gaze grew even more intense. He squeezed my shoulder and maneuvered himself behind me. His hand was on the small of my back as he started to stride with purpose. I almost tripped over my feet.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
His answer was simply, “Davenport.”
A minute later, up the stairwell and into the officer’s quarters, Remi hammered on a nondescript door at the end of the corridor. Davenport greeted us. His hair stood around his head like a mussed-up crown of raven feathers. His scruff was denser. He looked alert, but wan.
“Talk to me,” Davenport demanded. He stepped aside to let us both through and then closed the door behind him. He glanced at my bare legs. “What are you wearing?”
I crossed my arms over my chest and tapped my foot.
Remi gestured to me with a brief wave. “She knows what killed Team C.”
Davenport's eyes zeroed in on mine, like a predator scenting his prey.
I glanced from the commander to the bald-headed hacker. Gauging how much I could say without revealing the truth of my identity.
“Hugo... Projected... While he was unconscious.” I murmured, hoping they wouldn’t pick up on my hesitation as I chose the right words. “I recognized the summoning circle.”
Davenport crossed his arms over his chest. Remi cleared his throat. “What is it?”
“And how do we find it and kill it?” Davenport added unnecessarily.
I breathed a sigh. Finding the truth incredibly tricky.
“You are looking for a Wish Demon. A spirit called an Ifrit.”
“Wishes?” Remi glanced at the commander. “Like a genie?”
“Not quite.” I winced. “Wishes can be both ‘good’ or ‘evil.’ There are celestial beings known as Djinns. They are coincidence. They reward good people by manipulating certain events. They do not have a body. For example, say, a single mom can't afford a present for her kid's birthday—and then she wins a scratch card for fifty bucks? Dijinn love setting that shit up.”
“And Ifrits?” Davenport sounded like he was quickly losing patience.
“Ifrits are the other side of the coin. They are primarily death spirits. They are karma for murderers and such.”
“Isn’t karma a good thing?”
I shrugged. “Whatever harm you wish on someone comes back thrice. Ifrits are big on paying back dark wishes. Wishes that people don’t even realize they are making.”
Davenport pinched the bridge of his nose. “You saw the summoning circle in Sinclair's mind?”
I nodded. I hadn’t wanted it to be a Demon. I wanted it to be some other beastie. A Fae or even a human. Something inside of me wanted to protect my kin. It drew a line in the sand between them and me. I was a creature of Hell. They were Hunters. They killed my kind.
Ifrit were beings of flame and dust. They were dark wishes given form. Revenge Demons who feasted on murderers, rapists, and the most dismal of Human Kind.
“Could someone have wished for Team C to die?” I asked. “Or do you think that they were just in the wrong place at the wrong time?”
Remi shook his head to imply that he didn’t know. I thought about the offensive lines of the summoning spell. A shackle around the neck of a Demon. A blood scented rag to lure a dark wish to a victim.
My heart ached for the Ifrit, but I knew I was the only one that cared.
“The circle was surrounded in Cyclian runes, but they had been mixed with ancient Arabic, Sanskrit, and Enochian. The combination made it almost impossible to decipher.” I explained.
“But it's an Ifrit summoning circle?” Davenport asked.
I nodded and shifted from foot to foot. I didn’t want to explain that the Ifrit was under someone’s control. Admitting that a Demon could be summoned and then leashed like a dog felt like a betrayal of the secrets of my kind. Still, for some bizarre reason, I wanted to help the Hunters.
Was I suicidal?
Davenport narrowed his eyes, his expression grew shrewd. “Remington, I need to speak with Corporal Gardiner alone.”
It was a subtly worded command. Remi opened his mouth to argue, but something in Davenport's gaze told him that wasn’t a good idea. Remi shot a look at me, one that told me he would be listening behind the door if I needed help. I blew a raspberry and rolled my eyes to try and alleviate his worry.
Davenport stepped into my personal space the second the door clicked shut. I had thought his eyes were black. They weren’t. They were the darkest blue. Ink. His pupils dilated. He smelt like cinnamon gum.
“How does a Mimic Sidhe come to know about summoning circles?” He asked delicately.
“You said yourself that I would have knowledge that you do not.” I cocked my hip.
“But to be familiar enough with a circle, to recognize it under several layers of foreign graffiti and bastardized spell extensions? That’s more than a glancing knowledge.” Davenport licked his bottom lip.
“What are you getting at?” I asked heatedly. I almost wanted him to say. To admit that he knew deep down that I was Hellspawn and that he wanted to kill me.
It would be a damn sight better than the intense look in his eyes, torn between throwing me on a table to either subdue me or fuck me.
My chest heaved; my nipples tightened against my cotton t-shirt. I wanted to squirm, but I squared my shoulders and met his gaze head-on.
Davenport exhaled slowly, and the wound-up tension drifted from his shoulders. “A Hunter becomes a Hunter only after they are 'called.' They could be an average person on the street. Human. Fae. Part Demon. Part Angel. It doesn’t matter. If they have a glancing blow with real evil, and that evil marks them, the balance will 'call' them to be a Hunter.”