He draped his arm over the back cushion and leaned closer, ignoring my question. “Why do you want to find the albino demon?”

“Please don’t ask me. I really can’t tell you. You wouldn’t understand anyway.”

“You’d be surprised. Try me,” he coaxed, his face softening. “Besides, I won’t help unless you’re honest. What other choice do you have?”

Not once in seven long years had I ever once told anyone the truth about my family. I’d never even been tempted to open the vault and spill my guts. Not even to Kar Yee, and she was the longest-running friend I’d had since this whole mess started. Sometimes I came close to telling Father Carrow. He was easy to open up to, and understood what it was like to be an outsider who didn’t fit human or demon expectations. But no matter how convinced I was that he’d be somewhat understanding and keep my secrets, I just never allowed myself that luxury.

So why was I considering it now? I didn’t even know this man.

I don’t know if it was the stress of what was going on with my parents, or the physical exhaustion from staying up worried the night before, but suddenly I wanted to tell him everything. Not just because he was forcing my hand, and not just because I was desperate for him to help me—which I was. I think I just wanted to confess.

“Can you offer me absolution if I tell you?” I asked with a weak smile.

“No, I’m sorry. I’m the last person in the world to offer that.” His voice was soft and sympathetic, and when I met his gaze, the fortifying wall I’d carefully built around my stronghold crumbled. My heart hammered as an unexpected spike of exhilaration ran through me.

“My parents are Enola and Alexander Duval.” The words raced out of my mouth, eager to be free after years of captivity.

His face drew up as if he was confused, or trying to place the names. Then his eyes widened. In shock? Terror? Certainly not pity.

“They didn’t do it—the killings. They were f-framed,” I stammered.

“You’re … the teenage daughter?”

“Not anymore. It’s been seven years.”

“How—” he started, then hesitated. “Your parents are alive, too … on the news.”

“Yes, they’re back in hiding again, I guess, who knows where? They won’t tell me,” I admitted. “We separated after they were accused.”

“And you’ve stayed hidden all these years? Alone?”

“Assumed identities. Changed my look. Protected myself with magick.”

He blinked several times, then leaned forward, seeking a place to extinguish his cigarette.

“Here.” I wiggled out a ceramic plate from beneath a potted plant on the coffee table.

After he stubbed his out, I did the same, then waited nervously for him to say something. The ramifications of what I’d just done hit me like a slap in the face. What was wrong with me? I was smarter than this. And why him? It’s not like he was giving me warm and trusting vibes. There was a damn good possibility that I’d just made the biggest mistake of my life.

“Huh,” he finally said, as my anxiety and regret rose to heart-attack levels. “I knew Arcadia Bell couldn’t have been your real name.”

I looked up to find him grinning ear to ear. Oh, thank God. My head lolled against the sofa as relief fell like a cool, cleansing rain.

“My order lifted the Arcadia identity from a homeless woman in Seattle,” I explained.

“So you do belong to an organization? Your parents’ order—Ekklesia Eleusia, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I get them confused with that Luxe group.”

“Our main rivals. A common mistake.”

“Your parents were well respected before the killings,” he noted.

When they were first accused of the murders, none of the orders believed it, even if the media and the police did. My parents were minor celebrities who wrote and published several occult philosophy books and were vocal advocates of a united magical community.

Before I was born, they famously campaigned for an umbrella committee to be created that would consist of leaders from each order. This was like herding cats. Esoteric orders are historically secretive and uninterested in sharing their secrets or banding together for a greater cause. However, my parents often acted as interorder liaisons with some degree of success.

“Wasn’t it the Luxe group who blew the whistle on them?” Lon asked.

“Yep. After their leader was attacked, Luxe accused them. That’s when they were brought in for questioning and the whole media circus started. A couple days later, the leader of the Luxe Order led the police to the murder weapon used in the Black Lodge slayings—I’m sure you’ve heard about that in the news as well.”

He nodded, creasing his eyes as he studied me with greater intensity.

“When my parents’ fingerprints were found on it, the warrant for their arrest was issued. At that point, they were facing serious charges from the law and even bigger threats from Luxe. There was no way out—they had to run.”

“You too.”

“Me too,” I agreed, remembering the panic and fear, the sudden loss of my family. “I don’t know how Luxe got their fingerprints, but it was rigged evidence. It was a demon, not a knife, that did the dirty work.”

“The albino demon?”

I nodded.

“But they didn’t summon it?”