Nick takes in my expression. When he sighs, the severity falls from his frame one fraction at a time, like a dropped cloak. He steps forward and reaches for me, then stops when I flinch. “Not gonna go through the trouble to heal you and then turn around and hurt you again,” he says, and waits for my response. After a moment of hesitation, I nod, and he gingerly takes my right hand in his to unravel the gauze in slow loops. He shakes his head. “Half-educated Page it is… I can’t believe the jerk who put you up to this without even teaching you the fundamentals. Honestly, you should tell me who they are—they need to be reported for this kind of negligence.” When I just stare at him, he scratches the back of his head. “I can’t let you leave here without knowing the basics, or else you’ll end up in a bwbach pit or strangled by a sarff uffern, or worse.

“The Shadowborn—what we call demonkind—come to our plane through Gates they open between our world and theirs.”

Shadowborn. The strange word lingers and loops through my mind, but I’m too frightened to stop him for an explanation.

“No one knows where a Gate will appear, but they cluster in some places more than others, almost always at night. Most of the Shadowborn that cross are invisible and incorporeal. They come to our side to feed on and amplify negative human energy—chaos, fear, anger. Those emotions sustain them. If they get strong enough to use aether, they’ll use it to go corp—corporeal—and they can attack us physically then, too. We don’t hunt the demons just to hunt them. We don’t do it because we like it, no matter what other chapters say. We do it to protect humanity.” His fingertips leave warm trails behind on my skin. As the material falls away in his hands, it releases the bright, tangy smell of citrus trees and damp soil.

When I glance down, my skin looks like it was splashed with acid—not tonight, but maybe weeks or months ago. Streams of shiny, pink tissue run in a drizzle from palm to elbow. The new skin is sensitive; when he wraps his palm around one arm, carefully turning it so he can examine me, I feel the callouses from where he’s spent long hours practicing with a weapon.

“Hellhound saliva is corrosive enough to melt steel,” he explains. “I’ve seen a few drops burn a hole through a foot of concrete. You’re lucky William was home.” He places the last bit of gauze and the other loose roll on the nightstand. “The rest will be healed by morning.”

“How is that possible?”

“We’re really doing this?”

“Yes,” I whisper. “Please.”