A Demon’s Book Of Shadows (Witches & Demons #1)

Prologue

I had been called against my will into the dank, underworld-equivalent layer of existence known as the Summoning. A demon far more powerful than I lived between the world of the living and the dead, where familiars had tunneled through the ground in an effort to form a barrier between witches and demons with their earth magic.

The tangy scent of decomposition burned my nose as my boots scuffed against damp soil. Water trickled through stones lining the tunnel I had no choice of running from. Any entrance or exit to this place led into a dense forest full of ebony-barked trees planted by familiars long ago. The very roots of those trees, hollowed out by eons of wind, water, and an occasional wildfire, had eroded into what today was known as the shadow archives.

My foot caught in a root cluster, forcing me to slow. Finger bones gripped the gritty threads that wove themselves over my boot. As the fingers retreated, so did the earth. Down I went, further into the pockets of clay, sand, and soil. Hollow ground always seemed to argue with itself.

Voices filled the tunnel. The demon council had already called to order.

Shit . I hoped Dad wasn’t here. If he was, I’d have some explaining to do as to why I hadn’t yet. . .

“Amon.”

A voice rumbled like a great terrible thunder as I entered the hearing chamber. As I descended, the voices went quiet. Only my muffled footsteps echoed off the walls, which dripped with something far too sticky and green to be water.

An ancient demon sat atop a gnarled wooden stump of a spirit tree. Long, bony arms covered in dark gray skin stretched like a sickly animal to his sides. His arms were made for digging. His mouth, devouring.

The Bone Threader was a wendigo with an insatiable hunger for magic abused, unused, or otherwise, suppressed by demons and witches alike. Just the sight of him made my shadows quiver in fear. The black bands on my arms retreated, where I felt them huddle against my ribs.

The demons present in the chamber had all but retreated against the walls. Their disheveled expressions flexed and morphed with looks of horror. Striations of their auras offset the magical tomb where dreams went to die, and spirits never rested.

“Amon, firstborn son of Eugene Ravenblood. How nice of you to answer my call,” the Bone Threader said with a gnash of his teeth. His face was covered by a bone-white mask without eye holes. He was hiding his identity from me today. A wendigo could take on the form of the magic abandoned by spirits he devoured.

Over the past few centuries, he’d grown stronger. As my father and brothers shifted from town to town, I thought we had escaped him forever.

“What is it that you want?” I asked, not taking my eyes off his wriggling hands.

He grinned nastily. “To discuss a grimoire.”

I dug my heels into soggy earth. It was always back to the shadow archives. He’d wanted to devour the magic there ever since I was a boy. Back when mom was alive, I spent my days down by the river with her, learning about the magical shadow symbols that lived inside the grimoires.

The tang of rot stung my nose as the earth cracked and folded. His horrid breath caused my shadows to wither.

The Bone Threader dragged his massive claws across the ground. “Rumor has it that you are missing a piece of yourself.”

My shadows gripped my ribs so tightly, I struggled to breathe. “I’m not admitting to anything,” I barked, the sinew of my shadows aching to rip out of me. They wouldn’t tolerate threats, especially from a demon who would gladly rip them to pieces.

A low, rumbling laugh filled the chamber, dislodging clumps of dirt from the ceiling. “Three hundred years ago, a witch died at the entrance to the shadow archives. When she harassed you, confused at the cause of her death, your father locked her spirit into a grimoire.” He flexed his greedy fingers. “I have learned that this grimoire, along with one of your shadows, has also gone missing.”

I shivered. My father had lost the grimoire shortly after he’d trapped Melrose’s vengeful spirit.

The Bone Threader ground his jaw, creating a horrible cracking sound. “Your father has not done his job, nor has his sons. You must find me the grimoire, or I will devour what shadow magic remains of the Ravenblood family bloodline within the shadow archives.”

“You can’t punish my family like this,” I bit out, exhaling every ounce of rage I had toward him.

His sinister laugh followed. “Oh, but I can. Since your mother died, your demon bloodline has fallen into my hands.” He flexed his fingers, making his bones twist and crack. “Your fate is bound to the grimoire, Hidden One. You know what happens to a demon when he’s missing one of his shadows.”

The tattoos on my forearms burned. I knew my shadows heard what he said. The Bone Threader was right. For over three hundred years, I had not been whole.

The Summoning faded as the Bone Threader released me to the small Midwestern town of Midhaven. Cool crisp air enveloped my senses as the asphalt in the streets shimmered with dew. A small creature scurried across the street, too scared of the demon who had no place to run.

A flickering lamp illuminated a sign on a brick building:

Midhaven Public Library