Page 23 of Dancing With Demons

That night, Dora snoozed away in my bed—blissfully frolicking through dreamland, while I curled up on the armchair, doing the exact opposite.

Me: I don’t know what he did to her! She’s a complete space case! She spent all day writing in the notebook, but when I finally read it, all she wrote was a single paragraph on her “life” and then fifty pages on stuff that just happened throughout the day. Ten whole pages were dedicated to how nice I was, but she got my name wrong every single time! I went from Barley to Jehoshaphat to Kelvin to Ed!

Me: What spell is this? How do I reverse it?

Tristan: Wow. I know this is Satan we’re talking about, but this fucker really goes too far sometimes.

That was putting it lightly.

Tristan: But I’m sorry, I don’t know what spell this is or how to reverse it. This has to be angelic magic, and angels are forbidden from revealing the secrets of their magic. Lucifer’s broken a lot of rules. Nearly all of them. But he’s never broken that one.

My heart sank, depression settling in deep.

Another text lit the screen.

Tristan: You’ll need help from another fallen angel who is NOT loyal to Lucifer.

Me: Any referrals?

A bunch of sad emojis came at me. But I didn’t blame him. Werewolves lived in complete isolation to protect themselves from vampires. Of course Tristan didn’t pop out of hiding to get buddy-buddy with the only angels in hell who hated Lucifer as much as I did.

My screen lit up again.

Tristan: I know it sucks that he took her memory, but do you really have to do his bidding to get it back? You should get out of here, Charlie. Take your sister and run so far from hell, you reach heaven. Anything she needs to know about her life, you can tell her. But relying on Lucifer...?

Tristan: The king of pride never reneges on a deal. But he also never makes a wager he isn’t sure to win. The minute you sign the contract, you’ve already lost.

I sighed, casting a look at a sleeping Dora. Slowly, I typed my reply.

Me: I can’t take Dora and leave. It’s like you said. Lucifer doesn’t make a wager unless he’s already won, and he’s won this one too.

Me: The bastard has completely hollowed my sister out. The reason she keeps changing my name is because she can’t remember it. It’s like he gave her Fifty First Dates disease. Who I am, where we are, what we’re doing here. None of it sticks in her head for longer than an hour.

Me: How am I supposed to take her back home like this? What kind of life am I returning her to? Dora’s dream is to become a doctor. She fought her way back to life and worked her butt off for four years to make it happen, but who’s going to hire a surgeon who stops in the middle of surgery and goes, “who dis?”

Me: But that’s only if the world has evolved enough since we’ve been away to hire a demon surgeon, and I can make a wager that I’m sure to win too: it hasn’t.

Me: My sister’s the only one who’ll end up on a surgeon’s table—having every part of her undead body dissected.

Me: I just can’t do it, Tristan. Lucifer’s giving me a chance to give Dora her life back. Literally, academically, occupationally, emotionally, and all the other allys. I’ll never be able to look her in the eye again if I only save her body, and leave everything else behind.

Speech bubbles appeared on the screen, heralding Tristan’s reply.

Knock. Knock.

I stilled, my phone nearly slipping through frozen fingers. Who is that? It’s the middle of the night, why would someone be outside my room—?

The knob turned and the door swung open.

Heart leaping into my throat, I snatched up the side table lamp and—

“Argh!”

Ronin stepped inside and raised an eyebrow at my lamp-over-head charge.

I skidded to a stop, nearly colliding into his chest. “What is the matter with you?” I whisper-screamed, shoving away. “Why in the hell are you breaking into my room? Again!”

“What do you mean why?” Ronin was, as always, sinfully gorgeous in a tight blue knit sweater and loose, ripped black jeans. His long hair was wet and curling from a shower. A shower so recent, there were still water droplets clinging to his horns.