Page 73 of The Girl Who Inherits the Dead

Maybe it’s the week she’s had, maybe it’s the growing awareness that she can feel his heartbeat with merely a thought, maybe it’s the fact that she brought him back from the actual dead, but the part of her that should be angry with him wanes.

But one bit wriggles under that shield.

“I talked to the Wight again,” she starts, and Maison jolts upright, all traces of softness and fondness gone from his face. His eyes glint red for just a brief second, before returning to normal.

“When?” He asks, sharp. “When and what did she say?”

“Cool it, you’re not on bodyguard duty right now,” Delina says. “She couldn’t get through the circle trap.”

“I’m always on bodyguard duty,” Maison replies automatically, then wrinkles his nose at her. “Of course not, Chloe does nothing subtly. What did she say?”

“One or two demons checked my flare in the parking lot. She said you would deter a weak one.”

Maison absorbs that information like he would anything else, like she just informed him of dinner plans or a cancellation of a night out. “That’s charitable of her.”

“And,” Delina pushes on, despite some instincts telling her she should cool it, she should back off, “said that because we were bonded, it would scare people away. What,” she flicks her eyes to his, as if she could tell his honesty just by that, “did she mean by that?”

For a few long moments he remains still, before he pushes himself up. “Do you want another round?”

“You’re avoiding the question,” Delina says, crossing her arms. “Get me one of the first glass.”

He nods, then whirls away, taking their empty flights back to the bar, leaning against it as the beer tender pours the glasses, before he turns towards her, still leaning against the bar but watching her.

His chin dips down, his gaze somewhere between terrified and emboldened, and she hasn’t seen that expression in years, so she sits back, her heart pounding.

He looks like he’d consume her if she let him, and it scares him just as much as it should scare her.

It only lasts for a heartbeat or two, before the bartender passes him their beers, and he’s back on his way as if nothing happened. As if the expression never occurred to him, as if they were a normal couple.

“First thing to know is I didn’t know this would happen,” he responds, handing her the glass, and she would bet anything that he spent the entire time mentally rehearsing.

“That’s an auspicious start,” Delina says, taking a sip. “I feel like my barrier for accepting information is far, far lower now. You could tell me any number of things and I don’t know if I’d have a reaction besides ‘sure.’”

She gets a flash of a dimple.

“Sometimes demons form bonds with people they have connections with,” he says, which is about what she surmised. “Human research doesn’t know if it’s intentional or not. My…parent…told me it isn’t.” He takes a large drink from his beer and, besides herself, she notices that his hand is trembling. “I think I did that to you.”

“You think?” Delina prods, and he gives her an honest-to-god dirty look, his fingers tight against his glass. “So what’s the ramifications?”

There had to be ramifications. He wouldn’t be this nervous without ramifications.

He runs a hand through his soft brown hair, sending it sticking in all directions. “To you, none.”

“Again, auspicious,” she says, and gets another almost smile. “Good to know, what are they?”

“You’re not going to like this,” he warns her.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” she says sharply. “In the last week or so I found out my mom was a magician, insane, and possibly a war criminal. I can raise people from the dead, someone tried to kill me, and my entire life was a lie. Spit it out.”

“I can always find where you are,” he starts, slower than she would like, but any answer is better than none. “It might take me a few days to pinpoint, but I can always tell what direction you’re in.”

“Good if I get kidnapped,” Delina says.

“Yes, that’s a plus, that’s how I found the cabin, that’s what I thought happened until I got there,” Maison says, almost dismissive. “If I concentrate and I’m close, I can tell your general emotions. Happy, sad, pain, angry, that sort of thing. Like a minor feedback loop. Apparently, that’s stronger in actual demons.” Here he trails off, staring down at the raw concrete floor. “For actual demons, it’s a…claim. Raising a flag in the sand. Warning of others to back off. So no other demon would get close.”

Delina’s heard enough about magic and about demons and about all the unfair rules of the world than to know better than toask if it’s breakable. Nothing in her world would be that simple, for him or for her.

The despair and embarrassment in his eyes tells that for her.

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