“You were looking for me?” our demon asked with a polite smile.

  This wasn’t at all how I’d expected this outing to go for a variety of reasons, and I certainly hadn’t expected I’d have to fess up to my stalking behavior.

  I cleared my throat. “Yes, well, not you exactly. We don’t know you, so we couldn’t really be looking for you.”

  “But people like you, yes.” Aunt Griselda smiled broadly, as if this explained everything.

  Our demon looked first at my great-aunt and then at me. I thought, maybe, that we’d stumped him. A slight frown marred his forehead. A result of confusion more than displeasure—I hoped.

  An understandable reaction. I found my magic confusing, as well. And a little embarrassing. I’d never heard of such a thing before. An affinity for creature-finding? It was like coming from a family of math geniuses and inheriting the ability to make really amazing peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. There was nothing inherently wrong with an amazing sandwich-making skill, but exactly how useful was it? Especially when compared to the math geniuses (or potion masters) littering my family tree.

  Then there was the stigma. Having unusual magic wasn’t done. It didn’t happen, or if it did, it was quietly swept under the carpet for no one to see. And sandwich-making, um, creature-finding, was a thoroughly bizarre, and so far as I know unique, variety of magic.

  Finally, after a lengthy silence, our demon said, “You’re looking for people like me.”

  His eyes—an icy blue that I couldn’t miss now that he was staring so intently at me—held a terrifying intelligence. I felt seen in a way I wasn’t accustomed to. Weighed. But, funnily enough, not judged. Even so, it was disconcerting. I wasn’t accustomed to people looking beyond the shiny surface. Men hit on me, they asked me out on dates, they flirted. They didn’t actually see me.

  I blinked, breaking what seemed like a standoff. Maybe this had been a mistake, being so direct.

  The tension that had seeped into his shoulders when we’d admitted we were looking for people like him eased.

  Whatever he’d observed while peering into the depths of my soul (or so it had felt) had reassured him.

  With a lopsided quirk of his lips, he said, “You know what I am?”

  I glanced around the room. No one was close enough to hear us, but I lowered my voice anyway. “A demon.”

  “And you were looking for a demon, any demon.”

  Aunt Griselda seemed fascinated by our exchange, probably something to do with that soul-searching stare he’d given me. Her head swiveled back and forth between us. “No. Today we were looking for a demon, because there was a demon to find. But on another day, we might be looking for…”

  She turned to me.

  “Ah, a dragon,” I supplied. “They’re not nearly so large as you’d think and like to roost in the low branches of trees.”

  Our demon’s lips quirked with amusement. “I’m aware.”

  “Oh.” I nodded. I wasn’t so sure that most witches or wizards knew so much. Dragons had a sort of magical camouflage that allowed them to blend in with the local fauna, a camouflage that most of the magical community hadn’t discovered. Magical and Bumpy certainly didn’t contain that information. To say the entry on dragons was thin would be kind.

  “But no dragons today,” he clarified. “Today you were looking for a demon.” When my great-aunt and I nodded, he said, with what seemed to be complete sincerity, “Now that you’ve found me, how can I help you?”

  Aunt Griselda gave the remaining food on his plate a pointed look. “First, you can finish your meal before it goes cold.”

  He smiled again. It made little wrinkles appear at the corners of his eyes and made him ten times more attractive. “Thank you. I think I might.” Then he extended his hand, first to my great-aunt and then to me. “You can call my Sylvester.”

  Interesting. Not, my name is Sylvester.

  “I’m Griselda, and this is my niece Beatrice.”

  “Trixie,” I corrected. “All of my friends call me Trixie.” Not that I loved the nickname, but it was better than the alternative.

  Eyes wide and voice eager, Aunt Griselda said, “We’re so thrilled to be sharing a meal with you. Always better to share a meal than to be the meal.”

  She didn’t just say that. She didn’t. Please let the floor open up and swallow me.

  But she did say it. And Sylvester’s response? He laughed. It was a genuine sound, originating in his chest and traveling through his body with a joyful ease. “I like you, Griselda.”

  Her eyes twinkled as she replied, “I’m reserving judgment, but I very much want to like you, Sylvester.”

  Our food arrived, saving us from delving into the deep end with questions like, “So it’s true then that demons feast on the blood of witches?” Not the best beginning point if we wanted to encourage Sylvester’s cooperation.

  I asked the server if we might have an extra plate, and when it was delivered, carefully placed small portions of bacon, blueberry scone, biscuits and gravy, and cheesy grits on it.

  Sylvester watched this without comment, but Aunt Griselda felt compelled to explain our odd ritual. “It’s my cholesterol. It’s creeping up and, you probably know, magic doesn’t touch such things. I’ve had to alter my diet in a way that I find bordering on tragic.”

  He pressed his lips together, probably trying not to laugh at our silliness.

  “I know, I’m supporting her bad food habit.” I shrugged.

  Aunt Griselda patted my arm. “Pshaw. It’s our little deal that has me sticking to my diet on all the other days, dear.” She explained our bargain to Sylvester, who demonstrated impeccable manners and refrained from laughing.

  His warm gaze met mine. “An admirable solution. And Griselda, how are your cholesterol numbers?”

  Her eyebrows climbed. “Not you, too. But fine, thank you. Just fine.”

  Sylvester set his napkin aside and spent the next few minutes watching us eat. He didn’t appear to be in any hurry, and I had to wonder: Why here? Why this tea shop? The food was excellent, but he’d slipped into our world from another, sneaked through an illegal gateway created by a foolishly incautious witch (not an everyday occurrence), and landed…here.

  Maybe I’d ask him. I’d have to see how the conversation went.

  The waitress, Steph, came by and cleared the dishes away. We were getting much better service than the screen-addicted crowd.

  When Steph left us, Sylvester repeated his question from before. “How can I help you?”

  Best to just jump in, so I said, “We’re writing a guide. Actually updating one that has some outdated information.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “On demons?”

  He smiled politely, and that was when I realized he’d never directly confirmed that he was, in fact, a demon. He’d merely failed to challenge our assumption.

  Aunt Griselda assumed an apologetic expression, as if a single entry in an encyclopedic book were an insult. “Not just demons. It’s a resource book for witches. All Things Magical and Bumpy Things in the Night, that’s the name of the book. There are articles on a variety of topics, but mostly, ah… Can I say creatures? Is that offensive?”

  He tipped his head thoughtfully. “If demons are keeping company with dragons among the pages of your book, I can see how ‘creatures’ might be a good catchall.”

  I leaned forward as I waited for him to say yay or nay. This project was important to me. Not only was it a way to explore my own newly discovered magical ability—a way that gave my strange talent value—it was also a benefit to the witch community.

  Once again, I was subjected to the intense scrutiny of a man who might just like to drink my blood. And once again, I wasn’t frightened. Not in any physical sense.

  He nodded once, as if satisfied. “I’ll help you, but I have a few conditions. First, demons should absolutely be categorized as Bumpy Things in the Night.” Then he grinned.

  Aunt Griselda grinned right back at him. “Deal.”

  “What else have you got?” I asked, because it couldn’t be this easy.

  “You can ask whatever you like, and I’ll be as truthful as possible, but…” He met my gaze, and it felt like he was peering into the furthest nooks and crannies of my soul. “You can only publish what I approve.”

  I was about to agree. Because yes, all the yesses. Limited correct information was hands down better than the possibility of disseminating incorrect information.

  But before I could do more than nod, he added, “And I’ll need your blood.”

  Me. He was looking at me.

  I must have looked appalled, because his eyes lit with humor. “A small amount, not intended for any nefarious purposes.”

  Maybe I looked like a woman about to be pounced upon, because he uttered the last part with a self-deprecating smile.

  Time to take courage in my hands and skip the preliminaries. “I really had planned to ease my way into the topic, but—” I swallowed. “Since you’ve mentioned it, do demons consume witch blood?”

  “No answers until you agree. You’ll only publish what I approve?” He waited.

  “Yes,” I replied, because that was entirely fair.

  Aunt Griselda agreed, as well, when Sylvester turned to her for a response.

  “And your blood.”

  “Why?” I asked, followed by Aunt Griselda’s. “Why her?”

  “Why?” he said, choosing to focus on my question. “Call it a token of trust. I’m trusting you with sensitive information. Asking for a small demonstration of your own trust is only equitable.”

  My great-aunt’s question remained unanswered. I shared a look with her.

  “Your decision,” she said.

  Which was a punt, but a fair one. If she had any reservations, she’d voice them. The risk was mine, and therefore the decision had to be my own. With neither my great-aunt’s intuition nor my own warning away from it, I considered his proposition.

  Blood for knowledge. Was it worth the gamble?

  Sylvester was right. What better way to establish trust? I didn’t know what could be done with my blood. We were here to learn more about demons, after all, so their ability to do magic with blood, or bind with blood, or… There was no point in enumerating the risks. Our ignorance made them abundant, and my imagination was no guide or limit to the possibilities.

  “Nothing nefarious or harmful to me?” I asked.

  “Nothing nefarious or harmful to you,” he repeated with conviction.

  “And you’ll answer all of our questions.”

  He nodded slowly. “I’ll answer every question that I can safely answer.”

  I narrowed my eyes. What sort of qualifier was that? That he could safely answer?

  But again, it came down to trust. And how much I longed for the knowledge he held.

  “How do we do this?” In a public place with a dozen or more witnesses.

  He held out his hand, palm up.

  I teetered on the edge of uncertainty for a heartbeat, then two—but truly, I’d already made the decision. I placed my hand in his.

  He turned my hand over and kissed my palm.

  It was only when he’d withdrawn that I realized there was a small nick in the skin. A tiny wound, inflicted without any pain.

  He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. His mouth worked, as if savoring a small sip of wine. He paused, then smiled slightly. “All right. I’ll answer your questions now, though—” He looked at me. “A word of advice. Don’t share your blood willingly with any, ah, creatures in the future. They may be less benevolent.”

  I quelled the urge to protest his advice. His words were sincere, if irritating under the circumstances.

  Perhaps it had been a mistake to give him the taste he’d had, but I didn’t think so.

  “Fangs,” Aunt Griselda said, before I could further contemplate the wisdom of my choice. “You must have them, but I haven’t seen them. How does that work?”

  Sylvester smiled broadly then dropped fang. I didn’t know how else to describe it. Two pointy teeth descended, clearly on his command.

  Aunt Griselda’s eyes widened, then she surreptitiously scanned the tea shop. Not a soul gave us even a passing glance. The patrons of the shop were enthralled by the contents of their phones, tablets, and laptops.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, eyes still wide and bright with curiosity.

  “You do eat witch blood.” He’d just consumed mine, so it seemed a safe assumption.

  “First, a little background. Not to be published.” When Aunt Griselda and I nodded our eager agreement, he said, “Magic comes from beyond the veil. I believe that’s the witch name for my home?”

  “Yes, that’s right.” Aunt Griselda’s head bobbled up and down enthusiastically. She was having a blast.

  “Magic…? All magic?” This demon purported to possess more knowledge than the entirety of our magical community. The origin of magic? That was like discussing the meaning of life. All had an opinion; none the answer.

  He refilled his teacup from the pot on the table. “All the magic I’ve encountered here in this world originates from mine, yes.”

  “And you know this how?” I asked.

  He seemed sincere, but that could have simply been proof of a delusional state. His statement was sweeping in nature and presumed a depth of knowledge I found suspect.

  “Because my world is magic, and yours is not. The magic in this world stands apart. Like a visitor in a foreign land but possessing an accent that is very familiar to me.”

  “Fascinating.” Aunt Griselda sighed, eyeing Sylvester like a large slice of pumpkin pie. “I would so love to take notes. But I know that’s not a part of the deal,” she hurried to reassure him.

  Aunt Griselda didn’t appear plagued by the same doubts as me.

  “There are cracks, sometimes gateways, between this world and my own. Some of my people slip through intentionally and are frequent visitors, like myself. Others accidentally fall through, and some are pulled here.”

  I appreciated the background information, of course, and I also understood why none of it could appear in our book. This information, if it was accurate, changed so much about what we knew of magic—and would create a flood of experimenters. Witches and wizards eager for more power, intent on exploring another world, or enchanted by the thought of meeting these other magical people.

  Other magical people. Sylvester called them his people, not demons.

  “You’re not a demon.” I shook my head. “What I mean to say, that’s not how you prefer to be called?”

  With a wry expression, he replied, “I don’t find it offensive. Amusing, perhaps. It’s not a word we use for ourselves.” At my questioning look, he said, “Daimon is the word’s origin, I believe, which is closer to our native word. But use whichever word you like.”

  “Sorry. You were saying, about how your people come to be here in different ways?” I didn’t realize I’d changed my terminology until I saw him smile.

  “Travelers, people like me.” He placed the slightest emphasis on ‘people,’ which let me know that he’d noted and appreciated the change. “We come and go, not exactly at will, but with no great difficulty. Those who fall into this place or who are pulled are usually younger, less experienced, and ill-prepared.”

  I could begin to see how this might tie-in to consuming blood, my original question.

  “Those people have a very different experience in your world. They’re vulnerable. At risk of possession and also driven by unfamiliar hungers.”

  And there it was. “Bloodlust,” I said.

  He tipped his head, considering my word choice. “No. I think it’s more a case of exposure to something so tempting that it’s almost impossible to say no.”

  Aunt Griselda and I sneaked a glance at each other, which elicited a chuckle from Sylvester.

  “You’re perfectly safe. I’m no twenty-one-year-old in a bar for the first time.”

  “Oh, yes. I see.” Aunt Griselda smiled. “We’re an indulgence, not a dietary requirement.”

  I sat on this too-soft sofa and wondered at the direction of my life. I’d had a job in IT a few days ago. Now I was basically unemployed and discussing the nutritional value of witch’s blood. With a demon. Over tea.

  Actually, I was drinking coffee. Tea didn’t do it for me, not even midafternoon. Not while having a chat with a demon I’d just given a taste of my blood.

  Except, he wasn’t a demon.

  A daimon?

  Or a traveler.

  A person from another world.

  An alien?

  Maybe a foreigner.

  No, a traveler. He named himself such, so I would try to do the same.

  “Hon.” Aunt Griselda laid a hand on my arm. “Sylvester was just explaining about possession, which is a sort of mind control and not possession as we understand it at all.”

  “I’m sorry. I was just—” I stopped, realizing I had no explanation. “Sorry. Possession?”

  And this was how I learned in greater detail about witches and wizards hijacking daimons who arrived in this world without sufficient protection. An illegal practice I’d heard of but never knew very much about.

  Aunt Griselda and I also learned that a daimon’s physical body couldn’t travel through the gateway between our worlds.

  With a quick perusal of Sylvester’s rather nice earthly body, I couldn’t help but ask, “Is this body not, um, yours?”

  His ice blue eyes narrowed. “It’s not borrowed, if that’s what you mean. The body we assume here is a mirror image of the one we inhabit in our own world.” He leaned forward slightly. “Not something I’d appreciate reading in your book.”

  “Because of the mention of the other side, your home.” I nodded that I understood. He’d already been clear on that point. “So, our similar appearances have to make it easier to, you know…”

  “Partake of local refreshment?” he offered with raised eyebrows, but there was a glint of humor in those icy eyes that warmed them.

  Aunt Griselda snorted.

  “I was going to say, blend in.”

 

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