Reaching over to my nightstand, I checked that the bronze-bladed dagger I’d hidden behind my alarm clock was close by. A similar dagger was tucked under my pillow. I needed to be ready to send the Eidolon back into the ether as soon as I’d finished questioning it. Guilt is tough to get rid of once you’ve stirred it up. Whenever I exterminate a guilt-demon for a client, I always recommend follow-up sessions with a therapist. Unless you deal with the root causes of the infestation, the demon will regenerate.

I was playing with fire, and I knew it. But I needed answers. I closed my eyes and searched my feelings for twinges of regret.

I didn’t have to look far. Immediately, Maria sprang to mind. The poor kid had been so scared by waking up to experience a false face—and there was no reason for her to suffer that fear. I’d thought we’d have more time before she moved into that phase of her development, but that was no excuse. Maria deserved to understand what was happening to her. I should have laid everything out for her as soon as it became clear that she had the shapeshifter gene. But I’d held back, mostly because I was trying to stay out of Gwen’s way. Yet in doing so, I let my sister down, too. Gwen had turned to me for help in guiding Maria through the transition to shapeshifting; she knew she couldn’t handle it alone. And I’d agreed to help. So how come I was doing such a lousy job? Without trying, I’d somehow managed to wedge myself between my sister and her daughter. I wasn’t doing either of them any good.

Explanations, justifications, plans to handle things better—they all arose in my mind. I pushed them down. I did want to solve this problem, but now wasn’t the time. Now, my focus was on stirring up guilt. To judge by the uncomfortable feeling in my gut, like I’d swallowed a baseball-sized lump of lead, I was off to a good start.

I moved on to Mom. She was right; I didn’t call often enough. I pictured her in her condo in Florida—or tried to. As I reminded myself harshly, I’d never visited her there. Still, I imagined her in the evening, sitting at a generic kitchen table and paging through an old photo album, looking at childhood pictures of Gwen and me. She gazes fondly at Gwen. Gwen is the good daughter, the one who turned out right. She has a delightful family. She gave Mom the grandbabies she longed for. She calls often, and visits when she can. Of course, she always brings the whole family.

In my imagination, Mom turns to a photo of me, a chubby-cheeked toddler of two or three, sitting on Dad’s shoulders, grabbing his hair in both fists. The picture makes Mom smile, but it’s a sad smile. Her second daughter was never much for snuggling or hugs. And I’d been Daddy’s girl from the moment I was born. Even as a baby, Mom had once told me, I’d always smile when Dad walked into the room. My first word was Dada. I’d howl when he left for work in the morning, and drop whatever I was doing to run to him when he came home. Although Mom never said so, my obvious preference for my father must have hurt her.

She probably thought that was why I was so bad about calling. I meant to call—really, I did—but the weird hours I kept made it hard to stay in touch. No—no excuses. In my mind, I focused on the image of my mother with her photo album, remembering the girls she once had. Sitting by the phone in hopes one of us would call, knowing it wouldn’t be me.

The lead ball in my gut grew warmer, heavier. It spiked outward, expanding into multiple sharp aches. A sensation like nausea but deeper—and with knives—roiled through my abdomen. I didn’t feel like I was going to vomit, but I almost wished I did. It would be a relief to eject the feeling from my body.

Instead, I went deeper. A surge of dread swept through me, knowing what was coming, but I ignored it. To conjure an Eidolon, I had no choice; I had to reach down into my deepest, most heart-wrenching guilt. So I did. I turned my thoughts to my father.

It was my fault he’d died. The moment I allowed that thought into my consciousness, the pain cut through me like a laser. But it was true. I grabbed the thought and held on to it, examined it, made myself see all the ways in which I’d let my father down—leading to his death.

It was nothing more than stubbornness. At eighteen, I thought I knew it all. I thought the rules didn’t apply to me. Back when I started my apprenticeship at age eleven, Dad said, “Listen to Aunt Mab. She may seem tough, but she loves you and she knows what she’s doing. She’ll never steer you wrong.”

Why didn’t I listen?

Seven years after my father spoke those words, I broke my aunt’s one unbreakable rule: I opened that damn book, the one she’d told me not to touch.

Even as I lifted the book down from its shelf, I knew I shouldn’t do it. I knew it would cause trouble. But I wanted trouble. I thought I could handle it. I thought my father would see my amazing prowess as a demon fighter, and he would be proud.

Instead of proud, he ended up dead.

The pain in my gut surged. I rolled onto my side and curled into the fetal position. But instead of pushing away the memories, I probed them further.

I writhed on my bed, remembering the horrible moment the Destroyer appeared in Mab’s library. The huge demon hunched over, cramped, too tall for the high-ceilinged room. Its warty blue skin dripped with slime. Flames shot from its eyes and mouth, flames that burn to utter annihilation. Flames that headed toward me.

Helpless. I’d been helpless against it. Unable to run, even to move, I watched in horror as the Destroyer advanced. Its flames crept closer, closer. They touched my arm. The pain, searing, was indescribable. I screamed and screamed. I was dying—I knew it.

My father saved me. He appeared in the doorway and challenged the Destroyer, turned the Hellion’s wrath away from me. Dad was no fighter. He was a teacher, a scholar who lived in a world of books. Yet this gentle man stood his ground, glasses glinting in the flames, against the worst demon ever to pass through the fiery gates of Hell.

He should have won. If life were fair, he would have won. He would have saved his younger daughter, and I’d have thrown my arms around his neck, weeping with gratitude. But life isn’t fair. Because my father fell.

My heart pounded erratically, and my mind struggled to shove away the memory of that night. But I couldn’t. I forced myself to remember, to experience again what I’d seen and felt on the worst night of my life.

My father on the floor, twisting and screaming as hellflames consumed his body. The Destroyer, pinning him in place with twin jets of flame. My utter inability to move. Staring at my father in his torment, knowing there was nothing I could do.

Dad’s eyes were clenched against the pain. As the flames diminished, his body stilled. A greenish flicker played over him. He shuddered, and his eyes flew open. They locked onto mine. I saw love there, and regret, but not an iota of blame.

A new emotion appeared in those eyes, pushing out everything else. Terror. Terror claimed my father. Not just fear—what I saw there was an unholy combination of horror and panic and utter despair. It consumed the man I knew and loved, and I saw my father fall away from me, the spark of his soul fading like a lit candle falling into the blackness of a deep well.

My father died in pain and hopelessness. He died in terror.

So what if he didn’t blame me? I blamed myself.

Pain seized my gut with the gnawing of hundreds of needle-sharp teeth. I rolled from side to side, clutching my stomach, doubled up with agony. I couldn’t bear it. My father’s terror-filled eyes wouldn’t leave me. Dad, no—don’t die. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I waved a hand in front of my face, fruitlessly trying to wave the vision away.

In my mind’s eye, my father’s expression changed. The despair and terror left his face, replaced by an urging. There was something he wanted me to do. It was the way he looked at me when he was cheering me on in some difficult task. You can do this, Vic. I know you can. Dad was the only person in the world who got away with calling me “Vic.”

His expression was the reminder I needed to return to the present. The Eidolon was here. There was no question about that. Guilt, remorse, regret—they all chewed on my guts with a steady, unstoppable gnawing. Now, I had to stare that guilt in the eye and question the Eidolon.

I took a deep breath. “Materialize!” I commanded.

The gnawing slowed.

“You heard me, demon,” I said. “Materialize so I can see you.”

“Nooooo.” The word drifted through the room like a feather on a breeze.

“I conjured you.” I made my voice stern. “Do as I say. Now.”

“No,” came another whisper. “No, don’t. I’ll go.”

I said nothing. I bent my whole will toward forcing the demon to take shape.

The gnawing ceased, and I felt a presence rise up through me. It passed through my skin as a misty, yellowish cloud, stinking of sulfur and offal. The cloud spread across my torso, gaining density as the Eidolon took on its physical form. Within a minute a fat, quivering maggot the size of a German shepherd squatted on my chest and stomach. The maggot body had a demon’s head, with a hooked nose, too many teeth, and a forked tongue. It flicked its tongue at me, spraying slime.

Gross. But this demon could tell me what I needed to know.

“Why did you summon me?” the Eidolon sniveled in a surprisingly high-pitched voice, like a mosquito whining in my ear. “Don’t you know you’re putting me in danger?”

Seeing how I planned to pop this maggot like an overinflated balloon when I was finished with it, I wasn’t too concerned about its welfare.

“There I was,” it continued, “minding my own business, and you pull me out of the demon plane and make me manifest here. What did I ever do to you?”

“Shredded my guts with agony, for starters. Now, I—”

“That’s because you summoned me!” The whine turned indignant. “What was I supposed to do once all that delicious-smelling guilt started floating my way? Demons gotta eat, too, you know.”

“Shut up, and I’ll tell you why I conjured you.” I needed to stay in control here. Of all demons, Eidolons are the most treacherous and manipulative. “It wasn’t to give you a meal. I need you to answer some questions.”