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Will I get him ostracized too?

I can feel myself spiraling as we near the back of the funeral home and reach a shiny metal door that the mortician pushes open. I force myself not to dwell, focusing instead on the door as it squeaks on its hinges, exposing a narrow hallway filled with open archways and morgue-like rooms. Unlike the rest of the building, the lights here are fluorescent and searing. Disinfectant and rust mix with that sickly sweet smell from earlier, causing me to gag.

Being in a family of immortals, I haven’t seen much death. And outside of crime shows, I have very limited knowledge of how the embalming process works. Theoretically, I always knew it smelled bad. But I never realized how bad.

The mortician glares at me again, but Christopher places a soothing hand on my lower back. “It’s alright. The first time’s the worst. Our noses are more sensitive to it than most humans, especially when another witch dies.”

“If she vomits in my cooling room, you’re cleaning it up,” the mortician grumbles. Then he points to the archway across from us. “Martha’s body is through there. I haven’t cut into her yet, but I can tell you now, if you’re looking for evidence that the incubus didn’t do it, you’re not going to find any.”

Christopher only shrugs. “I’ll make sure Martha looks untouched before we leave. Thanks again for the help.”

“Whatever.” He waves Christopher away before stalking down the hallway, returning to the public section of the building. I wonder if it’s to get away from me, or to play look-out. It’s probably both.

“Don’t worry about Sam,” Christopher says, pulling me into the room the mortician—Sam—indicated. “He’s always been a bit of a curmudgeon.”

“Not to you,” I say, crossing my arms. “The coven hates me.”

“The coven hates Daemon,” my mate clarifies, “and they take it out on you. I know you’re friends with him, but the more you summon him into our spaces, the worse things will be for you, even if we can prove his innocence. Light witches and demons don’t mix.”

I know that. I’ve spent my entire life knowing that, and so has Daemon. But being with him is an addiction I just can’t break. It’s like his mom said, we’re codependent.

And it sucks.

I should promise Christopher I’ll stop summoning him—that I’ll at least try—but I don’t. Instead, I keep silent as the room’s chilliness permeates through my clothes. The cooling room is exactly as the name implies. Cold. Frigid air rains down on us from overhead vents that keep Martha’s body from decomposing. She lies in the center of the space, on a metal examination table with a drain at the bottom to remove her blood.

The one time my TV knowledge comes in handy.

“Breathe through your mouth, not your nose,” Christopher warns. “It’ll help with the nausea.”

I nod as we approach and lean over the corpse. Already, she must be in the early stages of decay, because my nostrils burn even without breathing through them. I expect rigor mortis to make her body rigid, but right now, she seems pliable enough. Christopher easily lifts her hand and holds it in his, whispering a spell into her palm.

Besides her red and swollen lips, Martha’s skin is pale. Purple bruising has discolored her flesh, and her eyes, like in the vision, are seared black. Not missing, but scorched and glassy. It feels disrespectful looking at her like this—naked, splayed, vulnerable. I hope when I die they burn me right away.

“She’s not telling me anything,” Christopher says, and I’m not sure if he means literally or metaphorically. Rumor has it there are spells to speak to the dead, but they’re Septem magic—forbidden to us—and only the souls who go to Hell can be reached by them anyway. “The lips and eyes are classic incubus overfeeding,” he adds. “But we already knew that.”

“Could anything else do it?”

He purses his lips in thought. “Not that I’m aware of. Murdering someone like that takes a lot of magic. Even channeling from Gabriel wouldn’t let me imitate a demon. I think it had to be an incubus, Ann.”

“Daemon didn’t—”

Christopher holds up his hands. “I’m not saying Daemon. I’m saying an incubus. Any incubus.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “An incubus who could get past angel glyphs and enter the rotunda? That’s impossible. My bond let Daemon in.”

“I know.”

Neither of us speaks as we stare at Martha’s body, looking for answers to an impossible situation. Daemon makes the most sense; he’s the only one with access. But what would be the motive? Would he even need a motive? If an archdemon ordered it, could Daemon refuse? Could he even tell me about it, or is that part of the stuff he “isn’t supposed to share”?

My stomach churns, but I refuse to consider the possibility that Salios ordered Martha’s death, then tricked me into our bargain. It’s too depressing. And right now, I have to believe there’s a way out of my eternity in Hell with him. “How else could a demon get access?”

Christopher shrugs. “Another witch with a bond like yours. They could have kept it hidden and waited for an opportunity to use it. I can look into that. See if anyone is acting suspicious or if they have any infernal tattoos. That’ll take time though, and it’ll be tricky not getting caught.”

He strokes a thumb over Martha’s wrist, where my tattoo would be, and hums in thought. “If you could do the same… Yes, that just might work. It would let us cover more ground faster.”

But he’s getting ahead of me.

“What might work?” I ask.