He turned away and left her feeling cold. Her throat choked up. Dammit, if he was being brave, then she could suck it up.
But instead, she stumbled against the counter, the flicker from the candles casting a puppet show on the walls. Her thoughts drowned in the unknown. Sitting back had never been her style, and neither was waiting like some helpless damsel, but this wasn’t something she was equipped to deal with… unless she worked out a way to give Gunn extra ammunition.
The next half hour passed in a blur, and all she’d done was carve a rune she’d learned from Argos into the handle of a knife. She cast a protection circle around herself, hoping to use one on Gunn. But being unable to test the spell, she returned to square one.
Rejoining Henry and Nora in the living room, she slouched on the armchair, her knees pulled up against her chest.
“What do you think is happening in the attic?” Henry asked.
“Demon butt kicking.” Yet with no sounds coming from upstairs, she itched to go check on Gunn. Could he be lying broken on the floor, taking his last breath? Or had he been thrown into the portal? She shifted in her seat, unable to get comfortable, convinced she’d vomit the bile churning in her gut.
“Despite his initial appearance and standoffish attitude,” Henry said, “Gunn is a good man, isn’t he?”
Cyra faced Henry, tucking her legs under her. Henry was one hundred percent correct. Gunn wore spikes for personality, but on the inside, he was a loving, caring guy who wanted to help people and keep them safe.
“He really is,” she replied. Now if only he could open his eyes and accept how others saw him. Then he might be easier on himself.
With a huff, she chewed on a hangnail. Her mind filled with images of her with Gunn, the passion he’d incited in her, the rage as he’d pushed her away. And now she understood why he’d kept his distance all this time.
“At first, I wasn’t so sure,” Henry continued, but she zoned out, unable to make small talk about Gunn when her skin pinpricked.
“Did you want to see our list, dear?” Nora said, drawing her attention. Cyra had no clue what she was talking about, but she accepted the piece of paper with a handwritten inventory of objects, then realized it was the things they had brought into the house, written down as per Gunn’s instructions. But it was short with only four items.
Refrigerator.
Clippers for the shrubs.
Bread container.
Morgana box.
She kept staring at the last item and remembered seeing it in the hallway next to the vase of flowers. The gadget answered any questions someone had with a simple voice command. It also switched on certain appliances. That thing was hooked up to the internet, television, and surround sound system.
Realization rocked her at the core: the demon rushing into the power socket, the eerie music that had played on its own, the flickering of the television, according to Nora. A jolt shook her. “Where did you get the Morgana box from?”
Nora was shaking her head. “Oh, we didn’t buy it. Our son did, saying it was the latest gadget, and he installed it over a month ago.”
“About the time when the activity started,” Cyra said, her knees bouncing.
“We haven’t used it,” Henry joined in. “Don’t know how to use it. I think it’s broken, anyway. My boy bought it at a garage sale, insisting it was new.”
Cyra gasped. “Why didn’t you tell us this before? Forget that. Where’s your modem?”
Both exchanged looks, but she bet her life she knew where that was. The darn attic. Holy shit!
“Stay here,” she said to the couple and darted out of the room, careening toward the kitchen. The knife she’d blessed would come in handy. She had to tell Gunn. If they destroyed the box, it should vanquish the demon. The modem must be what tethered the demon to the attic, but the beast was connected to the Morgana device. Destroy that and the house would be clean.
She grabbed the Morgana box, ripped it out of the wall outlet and darted to the kitchen. She dumped it on the counter and picked up the knife.
A scraping sound echoed behind her.
Coldness spread through her like ice. She turned, the blade tight in her grip. Hell. Can’t get two seconds of peace in this house.
A haze rose around her in a semicircle. Lofting over her, the mass collected into an inky mass, with snake-like tentacles flailing outward.
“God, no!” She stumbled backward. It felt as if she’d swallowed barbed wire, and it gouged her insides raw.
Sweat dripped down her back, and her legs numbed, along with all thoughts aside from running. But where would she hide?
Instead, she screamed.
Thudding footfalls resonated in the hall, but she couldn’t lift her attention off the seven-foot monster gliding toward her, its serpent arms lengthening, stretching for her. Her fingernails bit into the fleshy part of her palm, grounding her, reminding her she had to fight, not let terror own her.
Move! Fucking move!
The thing unleashed an inhuman sound.
Don’t show fear. Her stomach squeezed so tight, she’d probably pulled every muscle in her body.
She swung the blade, catching a tentacle. Her knife sliced right through it as easy as butter. It flinched away, but the cut appendage rejoined right in front of her eyes.
Clenching her fist, she hesitantly slid sideways toward the hall.
But the speck charged.
A cry escaped her throat. Her heart banged so hard beneath her breastbone, it threatened to explode. Her injured leg screamed with pain, begging her to stop. But she couldn’t.
Blackness consumed her, suffocated her. Claws pierced her, hauling her into its body.
She kicked, pushed, and stabbed the brute, but her hands and feet were sucked into its quicksand-like form. Panic squeezed her heart as death played in her mind’s eye and she thrashed for freedom. A putrid stink of
