Ro got the story out of me, bit by bit, between bouts of heavy, bone-shaking sobs. I'd never cried like that before, and by the time I finally caught my breath, I could barely stand when Ro helped me to my feet.

"I have to call the police," I sniffed, scrubbing my charmingly tear and snot streaked face with my sleeve. "I have to—"

"Present yourself as suspect number one?" Ro interjected, arching a thin, dark brow at me. His yellow eyes gleamed bright, but the rest of him—his dusky skin and shadowed hair, and his trim form clothed in black—blended with the pervading gloom of my father's abandoned house.

"But, Jamie..."

"Jamie is dead. Calling the police won't change that. It will, however, alert whoever killed him that they got the wrong man."

"What?"

He gave me a look that said, you're cute, but dense.

"That was a hit, Ellie, meant for you. Let them think they got you, at least for a day or so." He frowned. "Honestly, I didn't expect trouble to find you so fast; I'd have never left you alone, otherwise. But, on the plus side, it seems you've a got a bit of magic in you, after all. The spectre wouldn't have sensed you, otherwise."

I sniffed again and blinked at him. "The what?"

Ro patted my shoulder, and I got the sense he pitied me—as one might pity a child, who obviously isn't very bright, and will probably have a hard time in life because of it.

Absently, I wondered if all daemons were so judgy, or only the cat ones.

"Come along," he said, guiding me down the hallway to the bathroom. "Let's get you cleaned up. You smell like the back alley of a daemon club at 4 am."

"But the water's off," I argued weakly. "And the bathroom's full of..."

I trailed off as we reached the door and Ro opened it. Beyond, the bathroom—which before had been a disaster of stains, grime, watermarks, and piles of varied junk—was now spotlessly clean. Fluffy towels waited on the rack, and fresh toiletries lined the shelves.

"All taken care of," Ro said, and turned the tap. Water—clear and steaming hot, gushed out. "Go on now, and take care of yourself.Then we can talk about the rest."

Handing me a set of clean, neatly folded clothes from who-knows-where, he left me alone.

Operating on autopilot, I stripped, showered, dried off, and dressed myself in the soft, comfortable loungewear Ro had given me. I felt better afterwards, as if I'd washed away some unseen stain from the scene of Jamie's death along with the dirt of what had been, arguably, the worst day of my life. So far.

I found Ro in the kitchen, along with another surprise: this room, too, had undergone a dramatic makeover.

The counters were clean, and the copper pans hanging from the rack above the stove gleamed with a showroom shine. The stale, rotten odor from before had vanished, replaced by the aroma of exotic spices and fresh herbs, and the hardwood floor looked recently scrubbed.

Ro stood at the stove, stirring something in a pot. He looked over his shoulder at me, a satisfied smirk lifting one side of his mouth.

"Looks like I guessed right," he said.

"About what?" I asked, steadying myself against the side of the arched entryway. I still felt weak from earlier, and I realized I hadn't eaten anything since breakfast.

"Your size," Ro said. "Same as your father. You're a bit thinner, though."

I frowned, not liking to be compared to my father even in this minor regard.

Turning back to the stove, Ro lifted the pot and transferred the contents to a colander in the sink. It looked like macaroni. This, he layered into a baking dish, along with shredded cheese and a milky sauce, before topping it with breadcrumbs and popping it in the waiting oven.

The oven, which ran on gas; which, like the water, I'd been sure was off.

"I knew you'd be back," he said, with the casual smugness of someone accustomed to being right. "So I took the liberty of putting a few things back in order. Though, honestly, I didn't expect you quite so soon. I thought I'd have the mac and cheese done before you returned, at least. Anyway, what happened? I got the gist of it before, but the details were a bit hard to catch with all the... you know... blubbering."

He waved his stirring spoon at me.

"My boyfriend was brutally murdered," I said.

"Yes, I got that part. Easy come, easy go, as we daemons say. You can always get another one, right?" He frowned at whatever expression he saw on my face. "Sorry. Daemon humor. We're basically immortal, you know. Time is relative? Anyway. Tell me about the thing you saw, and the magic you used."

I gaped at him, taken aback. He'd seemed almost sweet before, letting me cry myself dry and taking care of me afterwards. Now it seemed like he'd switched into full-on asshole mode, and I didn't know what had prompted the change.

"You said something about a hyena," he reminded me, as if I might have forgotten already, "and some kind of 'airbender move.' I'm not familiar with that school of magic."

"It's not a... It's an anime. Or a manga, first, I guess."

"Not familiar with that either. Though I am a familiar. An unfamiliar familiar."

He grinned. My head spun a little, and I leaned on the back of a chair.

"Sorry." He frowned, but not, I thought, with real sympathy. "Just start at the beginning, and take your time. It really is important."

Giving in, I pulled out the chair and sat down. Then I told it all over again, with much less crying, this time.

When I finished, Ro retrieved the baked mac-and-cheese from the oven and set it aside to cool before rejoining me.

"So... you are a witch." he stated. "And an aeromancer, at that. It just took quite a lot of trauma to wring it out of you."

He regarded me thoughtfully.

"A what?" I asked, feeling hopelessly stupid.

"An... 'air-mage,' you could say. Different witches have different strengths—a natural affinity for one of the four elements: earth, water, fire, and air. They can learn the magic of any, but usually only the strongest talent manifests naturally."

"All those weird tests... Is that what my dad was looking for?"

Ro nods. "Typically, the first sign is the result of an accident—failing to be burned by fire, drowning and then breathing water instead, lifting a heavy stone with a look, or breaking a fall on a cushion of air. Many witch parents try to replicate such accidents in the hopes of discovering a child's talent early on."

Suddenly, all the weird things that had happened to me around my dad started to make sense—including the two times I'd nearly drowned, and the one time he'd baked me cookies, and told me to grab the sheet from the oven. Being a stupid kid, I'd grabbed it with my bare hands. I still had burn-scars on my palms because of it.

While I was lost in unpleasant reverie, Ro served me a large helping of cheesy noodles topped with crispy breadcrumbs. It smelled delicious.

As I looked at it, mouth watering, I supposed I ought to be suspicious; then again, Ro seemed like the sort who didn't like to make extra work for himself. If he meant to kill me, he wouldn't have gone to the trouble of feeding me in the process, and he'd have done so before he cleaned up.

I took a bite, and was instantly transported to heaven.

Figuratively speaking.

"Mmm..." I moaned around my fork, not caring if it made me even more of a weirdo than I already was. "This is really good."

"Grandmother's recipe," Ro said.

I glanced up and he laughed.

"Kidding. Grandmother was a sort of squid-spider-thing from a lower hell. I think. I learned this from a human."

Unsure how to respond, I continued my meal. Even after one bite I could tell the food did me good, and my mind grew a little calmer as my autonomic systems stabilized.

In between bites, I studied Ro. He leaned forward on his elbows, his sleeves rolled up to expose smooth, lithe forearms. He was catlike even in human form, watching every little move I made with absolute attention. It should have made me uncomfortable, but somehow, it didn't.

"Feeling better?" he asked, when I had cleaned my plate twice.

"Yes. Thank you. That was... delicious."

Without answering, he took my plate and rose, carrying it to the sink.

"I'll clean up," I offered, rising as well. "I don't know how you managed all this so fast, but it's the least I can do. I—"

"I don't need your thanks," he snapped, still with his back turned, "or your help."

I stopped, surprised once more. "But... you cooked, so the dishes..."

He rounded on me, yellow eyes blazing and pupils narrowed to slits. "Your father really taught you nothing, did he?" he asked.

I shook my head, feeling my eyes go wide with renewed surprise.

"Well, then, let me 'spell' it out for you, Ellie. Daemons serve witches. We're slaves, in a way. Some of us are lucky, of course—but that's the fairy tale: the witch who treats her daemon as an equal, who bonds with him, and..." He cuts himself off sharply. "Anyway. Reality is a little different. More often than not, we end up with witches like your father, who treat us as tools to be used, bound until total obedience and our witch's death sets us free."

"Misery, till death do us part," I murmured. "Sounds like old school marriage."

He laughed bitterly. "Indeed. And now..."

"Now, what?"

He leaned towards me across the table, his sharp teeth showing at the corners of his mouth in a snarl.

"I was supposed to be free," he hissed. "Binding myself to your father was the worst mistake I'd made in seven centuries. And time is, truly, 'relative,' you know. In the daemon realm, seven centuries is like seven decades, here. So, in essence, I've spent most of my existence serving a man I despised. Then, he died and passed me on to you, and I figured, 'Fine, I'll protect the brat until the danger's passed, and then I'll be done.' But now..."

"Now what!?" I demanded, patience expended at last.

His expression hardened and the light in his yellow eyes went cold.

"Bad news, baby: I'm your daemon. I was joking, when I said it before, but now it's the truth: you've inherited me," he said. "It makes sense: why I was drawn here, and why I felt compelled to care for you—as if I cared." He sneered. "You're my witch, Ellie. Until you set me free, or until you die."

I stared at him, aghast. "I don't... I don't want a daemon. I don't even want to be a witch."

He laughed. "Tough luck, kid. You got one. And you are."

I swallowed. "How do I free you, then? I mean, I'll do it now. Is it like releasing a pet into the wild? Do I just say, 'go on, be free?' and then cry a bit?"

He stared at me, and then he burst into peals of laughter, which made me wonder if there was a forum on the internet somewhere, for witches with hand-me-down daemons and the accompanying concerns.

"You really are not like your father, are you?" he asked, wiping his eyes with the pad of a long-nailed thumb.

"I hope not," I answered, frowning.

He met my eyes, and smiled. "You know what, Ellie? I think I like you, after all," he said. "You're fun. Tell you what—let's make a deal."

He extended a slim, strong hand across the table.

"I'll keep you alive, and help you solve your daddy's murder—as per my existing contract. I'll also serve you in whatever capacity you desire, as your daemon. In return, you agree that—as soon as you're seated on the Ivy Throne and your dad's killers are identified, you will let me go. Free, forever, never to be bound to another witch again. Agreed?"

I stared at his hand.

"Will you help me find out who killed Jamie?" I asked.

"As they are likely the same person or persons who killed your father, yes."

"And you'll help me understand... all this shit?" I waved vaguely, indicating everything in my dad's house.

Ro nodded. "Obviously."

"And..." I sniffed. "Will you teach me how to make that mac-and-cheese?"

He grinned. "Deal."

I offered my hand, and he took it in a firm, cool grasp. A Cheshire cat grin lit his face, all sharp teeth and fiercely yellow eyes.

"Excellent," he said. "And now, Ellie, your education begins."