I lift my chin, a spark of my earlier determination coming back alongside a tiny bit of After-Bree under the surface, just enough to fuel a wild card challenge that won’t make me look ignorant and might be just sharp enough to make him reveal himself. “I know Legendborn love to hunt isels like the one that I helped you find tonight.”

The wild card backfires.

“Oh, you want to test me, is that it? Fine.” Nick pushes up from the window seat, eyes flashing in a way that startles me. “First, that wasn’t just any isel. That was a ci uffern, a hellhound. Lowest intelligence of the Lesser demons, no speech capabilities, but the most ferocious next to the foxes. Partial-corp, so it was still invisible to Onceborns, but able to injure living flesh. Another few aether infusions and it would’ve been as solid as you and me. And second…” He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture that’s part disbelief, part frustration.

It’s a welcome pause, because even though I’m lying down, the word “demon” has shifted the world beneath me. Nick’s unfinished sentence has me perched in terrifying hesitation at the top of a roller coaster. His next one tips me over.

“Second, you didn’t help me find it, Bree. You ran straight toward it. You baited a hellhound, unarmed and untrained, and almost lost both arms for your trouble. Whoever ordered this little recon mission sent you here with more ignorance than I’ve witnessed in a Page in years. I’ve changed my mind. If this is a game, I’m not playing anymore. Answers. Now.”

A demon.

Both arms.

Aether.

I swallow around the fresh fear swirling in my throat. “I… I didn’t know they were… demons. I—”

“Christ, you’re either incredibly stubborn and committed to this ruse or you’re so brand-new they rushed you out here right after your damn Oath.” Nick runs a hand over his face and sighs heavily. “Yeah, they’re demons. This is basic information. Kiddie stuff.”

Demons. The word raises a childhood memory: my mother, taking us to church for worship in hot, humid summers, all packed pews and paper fans on tongue depressors. I’d sit beside her, miserable, with sweat dripping down the back of my polyester dress, white tights sticking to my thighs, and flip through the pew Bible to take my mind off the heat. The colorful, whisper-thin pages of art tucked in the middle realized what the text could not: St. Peter at gates made of gold, ribbons of sun shining through white clouds that stretch on forever; holy light blazing around Jesus’s head; invisible impure spirits—demons—tormenting gaping believers with lies and deception.

“Like in the Bible?”