Page 44 of The Girl Who Should Be Dead

“Yes?” she asks, not opening her eyes.

“I can tell you’re doing something, but I can’t see it,” he says, and even without looking she can tell his hand is on the leash, like he’s testing it.

Which, if she’s this close to him, it makes sense he would get that feedback.

“Do you want to?” she asks, keeping a hand on the magic, velvety soft against the human palm. “Come here.”

Stillness behind her, carefully so. “I’m a dud.”

“And I’m a demon,” she responds, and the magic flutters against her touch. “Your ability has nothing to do with it.”

She doesn’t want to look at him, out of some strange knowledge that it would spook him. That this is something he would resent being watched for, resent the witness. Thathaving someone watch whatever internal struggle he’s so obviously having would render it useless and hurt.

It’s a long moment, before the couch creaks with him standing.

He approaches, whisper quiet, and without the human sight, all he is, is a gaping raw scar where his magic had been torn from him, but he settles next to her, his weight against the brick of the windowsill.

“Here,” she says, settling her other hand on his wrist, next to the leash, and sends a small pulse of energy into his warm skin.

He twitches, and she lets her eyes blink open.

His lips part, just barely, and she can see the whites of his eyes, vivid, and the gold magic of the world around them reflected in them.

His eyelids flutter, too fast, and for a split second she’s afraid he’s going to pass out, but she saw the Half Demon grant this sight to his necromancer so she knows it can’t be too dangerous.

“I’m just reinforcing the window,” she murmurs, tapping the strip of magic in her hands, and his gaze jerks down to it. “It’s been a while since I’ve been here, I’m reminding it of my connection.”

His pulse pounds in his neck as he swallows.

“You can just barely see the river over there,” she says, pointing with her chin towards it. “It feeds into the ley line that feeds into the Atlantic crossing.”

Barely, just barely, he flinches.

“It’s friendly here,” she continues, holding the strip of magic up, and it flickers around her hand, likely a playful animal. “If you treat it gently, it’s always more willing to work with you.”

His throat bobs, staring down at her hand, like his mind is desperately trying to catch up.

But he claimed to be a spell weaver before, he would have been able to see all of this without any issue. This wouldn’t be new to him.

“I thought demons didn’t need it to be friendly?” he says, his voice a rasp, and the back of her neck prickles, like she’s in danger.

She shouldn’t be.

“We don’t,” she responds, settling the magic back down on the window sill. “Still easier when the area is friendly.”

He watches as the strip of magic flashes back into the brick, then jerks his hand away from her, breaking the contact.

“Did that hurt you?” she asks, curious. “It shouldn’t.”

“No.”

He stares down at her from behind his glasses, and for the first time she realizes that even his lashes are blond. His lips part, like he’s about to say something, like his thoughts are chasing around his mind, before he abruptly turns on his heel and strides into the bedroom, shutting the door with a firm click.

Interesting response.

Certainly, a reaction she didn’t anticipate.

“Huh,” Ambra murmurs to the magic now pulsing in her windowsill.

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