The room turns to look at Dimitri.
Dimitri spreads his hands. “We never got that far. The boy summoned me, I appeared in the circle, and before we couldnegotiate terms, the rift opened, the dogs came through, and he panicked and bound me to a Templar instead.” He pauses. “There is no pact. A contract was opened when he cast the summoning, but no terms were ever agreed upon.”
The incubus goes very still.
His purple eyes move from Dimitri to Annabeth, and the temperature in the room drops again. Sharply.
“You summoned me,” the incubus says, each word precise and deliberate, “to fulfill a pact that was never made?”
Annabeth’s composure cracks. The slight widening of her eyes, the involuntary step backward, the way her hands unclasp and reclench. She can feel the anger crackling in the air. Everyone can. The incubus isn’t hiding it. It radiates off him in waves, cold and electric, the fury of a being who has been pulled across dimensions under false pretenses.
Dimitri understands the anger. He understands it intimately, because the same thing was done to him a week ago in a meat packing plant. But an angry incubus in a room with Knox is not a situation he is willing to tolerate. He pushes Knox backward. One hand on his chest, firm.
Knox grabs his arm. “No—Newt—”
“Wait,” Dimitri says. His eyes don’t leave the incubus. “Just wait.”
The incubus turns to Newt.
His gaze lands on the boy, and Newt shrinks. His shoulders curl, his chin drops, his whole body contracting under the weight of that attention. But he doesn’t run. His feet stay planted on the hardwood and his trembling hands ball into fists at his sides and he looks up at the incubus with eyes that are terrified and resolute in equal measure.
“I wanted a familiar,” Newt says. His voice shakes, but the words are clear. “Something to help me channel my magic. I can’t—my power doesn’t listen to me. It’s too much. It comes outwrong, or too strong, or not at all, and I’ve tried everything the coven can teach me and none of it works.” He swallows. “I found a spell in a book. It said I could summon a bonded companion, a familiar, who could help me focus. Help me control it. I didn’t know it was a demon summoning. I didn’t know the difference.”
The incubus holds up a hand. Annabeth, who has been opening her mouth to interject, stops. Mid-step, mid-sentence, mid-breath. She just stops. The whole room pauses with her. The coven witches go still. The candle flames stop flickering. Even the shadows hold their positions.
Dimitri files this away. The incubus is stronger than he looks.
The incubus turns back to Newt. His expression has shifted, the cold fury receding, replaced by something more nuanced. More considering. He looks at the boy the way Dimitri has seen very old beings look at very young ones, with the particular attention of someone who can see potential the way mortals see color.
“You want a familiar,” the incubus says. “To help you control your magic.”
Newt nods. His throat is locked.
“And you would accept me in that role. Knowing what I am.”
Another nod.
“Even though the original pact was never completed. Even though no terms were set. Even though you owe me nothing, technically, except the debt of the summoning itself.”
Newt’s brow furrows. He opens his mouth, closes it, looks at Knox and Dimitri.
Dimitri’s chest tightens. This is the moment. If Newt refuses, the debt stays on Dimitri’s ledger, and the bond between Dimitri and Knox will never seal, and Knox will die. His hand finds Knox behind him, fingers pressing into the Templar’s hip, holding on.
“Yes,” Newt says.
He straightens. His shoulders come back. His chin rises. His hands are still trembling, but his voice is clear and firm, and his determined green eyes meet the incubus’s purple ones without flinching.
“I consent to the contract,” Newt says. “Complete the pact.”
The incubus studies him for a long moment. Whatever he finds in Newt’s face seems to satisfy something, because the cold edge in his expression softens by a degree. He raises one hand, palm up, and the air above it shimmers. Smoke curls from nowhere, dark and fragrant, laced with something that smells of jasmine and burnt sugar, and coalesces into a document. It hovers in the air, the text written in glowing script that shifts and moves. The terms write themselves as Dimitri watches: a familiar bond, channeling assistance, duration until mastery of magical control, followed by a debt to be named.
The incubus produces a pen from the same smoke. It glows faintly, warm amber, and he holds it out to Newt.
“Sign,” the incubus says. “And I am yours until you control your power. When you do, you will owe me a debt of equal value. Those are the terms.”
Newt reaches for the pen. His hand stops halfway.
He turns and looks at Dimitri and Knox.
