The stranger studies me for a long moment. “There is not one thing you’ve said that I have been able to comprehend.”
We stare at each other in silence.
Raising an eyebrow and waving my hand at the room at large, I say, “Okay. If you’re a demon, prove it.”
The stranger hesitates for a minute. “Very well.” He looks around and snaps his fingers. The red candle on the floor bursts into angry violet flame, the fire consuming everything—wax and wick—until there’s nothing left. The inferno blazes bright for ten seconds and then dies down as quickly as it started, leaving the candle intact.
My entire body ripples with gooseflesh. How in the hell...
The stranger turns to me. “Does that help?”
My eyes are riveted to the candle. “That’s not possible,” I whisper. “I bought that from the store last week. There’s no way Michaela could’ve tampered with it. She’s been away at college.” I turn to the stranger slowly. “You’re... really a demon?”
Apparently feeling that I require more proof, he snaps his fingers again. The petals catch fire and then douse themselves without leaving a mark on the floor. “Yes.”
I gasp. It takes me a few moments to collect a single thought from my muddled brain. “You’re... a demon. But I— The spell was supposed to bind my perfect match to me. Not awaken a demon.”
“Ah.” The stranger nods knowingly. “Well, that’s not uncommon for neophyte spellcasters. Presumably you mumbled a vowel or failed to follow instructions thoroughly enough.”
“Shit.” I sink back down onto my bed. “How the hell do these things always happen to me?”
“You’ve summoned creatures of night by accident before?” the demon in my room asks, cocking his head quizzically.
Looking up at him, I snort. “Not exactly, no. But I have terrible luck when it comes to love.” It’s so weird. If he hadn’t gone around setting spontaneous fire to my room, I would never have believed what he was. To be honest, he looks like someone who ran away from Hollywood, not hell.
He’s well over six feet, with thick bands of muscle in his arms. His skin tone’s a lot like mine—a light golden brown—but his eyes are a deep indigo purple. His hair is thick and lustrous, the color somewhere between brown and gold. He looks utterly human, if only a Photoshopped, Facetuned, filtered-to-death version. He’s even wearing clothes that don’t look totally out of place: a pair of tan lineny pants and a cream-colored long-sleeved tunic.
“ ‘Love.’ ” He appears to be pondering my words very carefully, as if weighing how they apply to him and this very weird situation.
I sigh, then explain myself: the binding spell, Lilian’s blood moon soiree tomorrow night, my lack of an appropriate romantic partner. “But don’t worry,” I rush to add. “Obviously, I botched the spell. You don’t have to go with me to a humanparty or anything.” I laugh to show him how ridiculous the idea sounds, even to me.
“I would be honored—and am, in fact, duty bound—to accompany you to the gathering,” the demon explains. “It is the way the magic in the spell works.” He pauses. “I am the demon Jaxallath,” he says meaningfully.
“Yeah, you told me.” I cross my legs and stare at him. It’s impossible not to stare, actually. He’s just so... vividly handsome.
He looks puzzled. “Perhaps... you could share your name with me, human?”
I get it now. I’ve committed some intergalactic faux pas (is hell in another galaxy or dimension or what?). “Oh, my bad. I’m Nia Porter.”
“Miss Porter...”
“Nia,” I say quickly. “Just call me Nia.” I can’t see him following me around for twenty-four hours calling me Miss Porter. I’ll go crazy. Although... I look him up and down. With some trendier clothes, he would make a very promising date. Just as long as he doesn’t talk too much. “You’ll really go to the soiree with me?”
“I am indebted to you for freeing me for twenty-four earthly hours and therefore I will, yes.” He reaches into the pocket of his tunic and pulls out what looks like a polished rock of jasper. He hands it to me. It’s warmer than room temperature, and as I look down at it, it glows dimly. “A gift for you,” the demon explains. “You can use that stone to see any moment in the past.”
I want to laugh, but I manage to resist. Like I’d ever want to see any moment of my pathetic past. Slipping the stone into my jeans pocket, I say, “Thanks, Jaxacrack. That’s really nice of you.”
He’s frowning. “Jaxallath,” he says slowly.
“Jaxalot?”
He shakes his head. “Jaxallath.”
I sigh. “Can I just call you Jax?”
He nods solemnly. “Of course, Nia.”
“Now,” I say, settling back against the headboard of my bed, “we have a lot of catching up to do if we want to appear credible as a couple tomorrow night.” I pat the side of the bed. “Have a seat. Let’s get started.”
