FAKE DATING THE HALF DEMON

The buzzer sounded, and Sabrina Pendleton was already moving.

Not fast—she'd never been the fastest player on the court. But she was already there, right where the rebound came off the rim, because she'd read the shooter's elbow angle three seconds before the ball left her fingertips. The basketball dropped into her hands like it was coming home.

"Transition!" she shouted, already pivoting, already scanning.

The Silverlake Prep gymnasium roared around her. December afternoon light slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows, catching the dust motes floating above the polished hardwood. The bleachers were packed—not with the usual sparse crowd of parents and bored classmates, but with men in tailored athletic wear holding tablets, women with corporate lanyards dangling over designer coats. The scouts. The streamers. The million-dollar eyes.

Sabrina's team flowed around her like water around a stone. Kit Marlowe, her point guard, was already sprinting up the right wing. Lila Chen, their shooting guard, was cutting baseline. Sabrina saw all of it—the geometries of twelve moving bodies, the vectors and probabilities unfolding like a living algorithm in her mind—and she fired a chest pass that threaded between two defenders and hit Kit in stride.

Kit laid it in. Whistles blew. The scrimmage ended.

"Nice read, Captain." Coach Alvarez clapped twice as Sabrina jogged past. "Your spatial analytics are getting scary."

That's the idea, Sabrina thought, but she just nodded and grabbed her water bottle.

She didn't need magic. She had data. She had discipline. She had ten thousand hours of film study and a mind that could calculate an opponent's shooting percentage from any spot on the floor before they even caught the ball.

None of which mattered to her family.

Her phone buzzed in her gym bag. She glanced at the screen and felt her stomach clench.

UNCLE MARCUS: Council meeting tonight. Your presence is mandatory. Do not be late.

Not please. Not how was practice. Just a summons, like she was a servant being called to table.

Sabrina deleted the message without responding.

"Heard from the warlock?" Kit appeared at her elbow, still breathing hard from the scrimmage. Up close, Kit Marlowe was a collection of contradictions—a five-foot-three point guard with caffeine-dark eyes, a hedge-witch who brewed potions in her dorm room while also running a 4.0 in computer science. She wore her silver-streaked black hair in a messy bun that always seemed to be actively escaping its hair tie.

"He wants me at the council meeting tonight."

Kit's expression flickered. "The solstice is three weeks away."

"I know."

"Bree—"

"I know." Sabrina pulled her warm-up jacket over her shoulders, suddenly cold despite the gym's heating. "But I've got a plan."

"What kind of plan?"

"The kind I can't tell you yet." Sabrina grabbed her bag. "Cover for me at dinner?"

Kit didn't look convinced, but she nodded. That was why Sabrina trusted her. Kit understood the value of secrets, having grown up in a coven that would have burned her for her "untraditional" approach to witchcraft. Silicon and sage. Code and cauldrons. The old families hated it. Kit didn't care.

Outside the gym, the December wind cut through the covered walkways of Silverlake Prep. The campus was a monument to tech money—glass buildings connected by heated skybridges, drone delivery stations humming at every intersection, digital screens embedded in every wall showing student achievements, sports scores, and the scrolling stock tickers of the companies whose executives sent their children here.

Sabrina walked past the main courtyard, where a massive holographic billboard cycled through the faces of Silverlake's most famous students. Most were tech prodigies or esports champions. But the largest image, the one that dominated the display for a full fifteen seconds before rotating, was a photograph of a boy mid-dunk.

Jace Harrington.

His smile was perfect. His jaw was perfect. His eyes—impossibly blue, like a summer sky that had been photoshopped into reality—crunched with just the right amount of competitive intensity. The caption beneath read: JACE HARRINGTON: 5-STAR RECRUIT. PROJECTED #1 NIL VALUATION IN THE NATION.

Sabrina stared at the image for a moment longer than necessary.

She knew what he was. She'd known for two years, ever since she'd seen him in the parking lot after a game, his eyes flickering black for just a moment when a rival player had bumped his shoulder. The other boy had walked away with a sudden, inexplicable nosebleed.

Cambion. Half-demon. The Harrington family wasn't just wealthy—they were the shadow-hand behind half the city's underground economy, and Jace was their crown prince, being groomed for something far darker than a basketball career.

But what that something was, Sabrina didn't know. And she didn't care.

At least, she didn't care yet.

---

The Pendleton estate sat on the north edge of Silverlake, a sprawling Victorian manor that had stood for a century before the tech money arrived. Unlike the glass-and-steel mansions that surrounded it now, the estate was all dark wood, wrought iron, and leaded windows that caught the moonlight in strange, refractive patterns. The gardens were immaculate but wrong—flowers blooming in December, hedges that seemed to rearrange themselves when you weren't looking directly at them.

Inside, the council chamber smelled of old incense and ozone. Seven figures sat in high-backed chairs arranged in a semicircle. Candles floated in the air above them, their flames burning in colors that had no names.

Sabrina stood in the center, alone.

"Sabrina Pendleton." Her uncle Marcus's voice echoed in the chamber, though he hadn't raised it above a murmur. He was tall, silver-haired, handsome in the way a well-maintained weapon is handsome. The High Warlock's robes shimmered with threads of actual starlight. "You have been summoned to hear the coven's decree."

"I gathered that." Sabrina kept her voice flat.

Marcus's eyes—the same shade of grey as her own—narrowed slightly. "Your tone is noted."

"My tone is always noted."

A ripple of whispers passed through the council. Sabrina recognized most of them—Elder Zhao, who controlled the city's weather patterns. Elder Voss, who could see three days into the future. Elder Carroway, whose potions could cure any disease known to man, for a price. The most powerful witches in the Pacific Northwest, and every single one of them looked at Sabrina like she was a disappointing investment.

"The winter solstice approaches," Marcus continued. "A time of renewal. Of binding. Of power consolidated." He paused, letting the words settle like snow. "The coven has decided that you will be bound to Warlock Aldric Cross of the Seattle coven. The ceremony will take place on solstice night."

Sabrina felt the words hit her chest like a physical blow.

Aldric Cross. Fifty-seven years old. Three previous wives, all of whom had mysteriously lost their magical abilities after their binding ceremonies. He was a collector, a leech, and her uncle was selling her to him like livestock.

"For what purpose?" Sabrina's voice was steady, but her hands were shaking at her sides. "I have no magic to transfer. I'm a Null. What does Aldric get out of this?"

Marcus smiled. It was a cold, thin expression that didn't reach his eyes. "Your bloodline carries potential, even if you do not. The Cross coven seeks... legitimacy. An alliance with our lineage, even through an un-magical vessel, strengthens both our positions."

Un-magical vessel. That was what she was to them. A container. A bargaining chip.

"And if I refuse?"

The floating candles flickered. The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.

"You cannot refuse a council decree," Elder Voss said, her voice carrying the weight of futures seen and dismissed. "The binding is not optional."

"But," Marcus added, his tone shifting to something almost paternal, almost kind, which made it infinitely worse, "you will be well cared for. Aldric is generous to those who cooperate. And you will finally serve a purpose within the coven, rather than... this athletic diversion you've been pursuing."

Athletic diversion. Four years of waking up at 4:30 AM. Four years of film study and conditioning and playing through a stress fracture in her shooting hand. Four years of dragging a mediocre team to the state semifinals through sheer force of will. A diversion.

Sabrina said nothing. She'd learned long ago that arguing with the council was like arguing with a thunderstorm. You didn't win. You just survived.

But she was already calculating. Already looking for angles. Three weeks until the solstice. Three weeks to find a way out.

"The decree is given," Marcus said. "The decree will be obeyed. You are dismissed."

The candles extinguished. The council members began to rise, their attention already shifting away from her, her fate already a settled matter in their minds.

Sabrina walked out of the chamber with her spine straight and her jaw clenched.

She needed a miracle. Or a weapon.

She didn't know yet that she was about to find both.

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