HOW NOT TO SUMMON A DEMON by Selene Kallan.
“A cookbook!” I cry excitedly.
I stop on the page that has the title: the cure for colds.
That’s what grandma called chicken soup.
Maybe with grandma’s instructions, I can cook a semi-decent dinner without lighting the kitchen on fire.
I repeat the words, barely understanding myself. I must be drunker than I thought, and it doesn’t really sound like soup ingredients.
A flash of purple light coming from my left blinds me for a second.
“Ahh! What the Hell!” I shriek.
I blink, fighting to see again, and then immediately regret it.
There is a giant man with wings in my kitchen. Black, towering wings full of shiny onyx feathers.
Not a man, I realize. A demon.
A shiver blasts down my spine.
Grandma had told me long ago about demons, and I would’ve believed she was completely nuts if I wasn’t able to set things on fire and move things with my mind at times. Or if I had not seen her do magic.
“You are not my chicken soup, are you?” I ask.
His pale face is oddly emotionless, but his eyes flash with anger. “Do I look like a chicken to you?” he asks, voice arctic.
“Uh, well, in my defense, you are kinda feathery,” I mutter, gesturing to his wings, unable to quench the drunken humor despite knowing he can fry me, quite literally.
Damn it, I should not have gotten wasted. But why the Hell would grandma leave a grimoire in the kitchen?
Even weirder, how could I read the spell?
I can see the gibberish clearly now, but it had seemed like English before.
The demon’s purple eyes narrow with suspicion. His towering black wings graze the ceiling. The faint scent of smoke and ash makes my nose itch, and I have to tilt my neck to look up at him. He’s about six-foot-eight, and the leathers enhance his powerful and elegant frame. I usually feel tall and awkward, but right now I feel tiny. My eyes roam his body and my gut clenches painfully. No hooves, no tail, and no stench.
I’ve not just summoned a demon—I’ve summoned a high-ranking demon. Only the most powerful demons look like him, almost completely human, grandma had explained. There’s a black crystal sword strapped to his hip, and daggers to his thighs. Not to mention, somehow I can sense his unearthly contained power, like a massive chasm with no bottom, ancient and unending. I gulp.
Oh, gods. I’m so dead.
“And just why were you using magic to make chicken soup?” he asks, his tone mocking and disdainful.
“I wasn’t. I was trying to read a recipe for chicken soup.”
He cocks a brow and examines me as if to see if I’m lying, then he snorts. “Summoned by an inept half-human, shameful.”
“Hey!” I snap. “Watch your mouth!”
His face grows stony as he leans to my eye level. I keep my arms crossed in defiance even as my knees feel weak.
I’ve just shouted at a high-ranking demon.
That goes high on the stupid-shit-I’ve-done list.
He blinks and pulls back in surprise. “I’ve seen you before.”
“Uh, no you haven’t. I’m sure I’d remember.”
His wings vanish in a blink of purple light along with his leathers, a black suit and a matching shirt replace them. It really doesn’t do much to dampen his intimidating aura.
His eyes focus on a spot above my head, and I follow his gaze to find my grandma’s photo resting on a tall shelf. She is sitting on the porch with me on her lap, a book opened in front of us.
“Magdalena,” the demon mutters, surprise and recognition in his deep voice.
I freeze. “You know my grandma?”
A flicker of something akin to sadness flashes in his face so fast I’m not certain if I imagined it.
“When she was about your age, she summoned me as well,” he says, zeroing his gaze on me again. “Only she did it intentionally, and it had nothing to do with cooking.”
I blink. My grandma knew a demon. The same grandma who had warned me never to peek into her magic books and grimoires, to be a good little witch even if I felt like setting my bullies’ asses on fire.
Then something much more important finally hits me through the numbness of the rum.
“You called me half-human.”
“Did I?” he asks with calculating purple eyes. That unnervingly knowing gaze narrows on my left cheek. “What happened?” he demands, jerking his chin to point at the growing, throbbing bruise.
“I fell,” I lie.
He cocks a brow. “On what? A male’s fist? You summoned me using my real name, which means I am bound to do a deed for you. Give me the name of the idiot so I can deal with him and go back to my business.”
I blink, feeling my stomach cramp with uneasiness.
“There’s no need for you to intervene. He is worse off than I am, believe me,” I say, trying to keep my voice leveled. “And unless you want to make me my chicken soup, I have no use for demon favors.”
“For now,” he says, his tone giving me chills.
I recoil as he leans to take the old notebook from the counter. The heat of his body makes me shiver. I’ve not turned on the heating.
“Where is Magdalena?” the demon asks. “I’d like to give her a little talk about hiding such material better.”
I blink several times as the old notebook magically turns into a leather-bound book. The pages are yellow and full of symbols and what I think now is some bizarre form of Latin.
“How did you—”
“It was glamoured,” he says, eyes hard on my face. “Where is Magdalena?”
Icy pain cuts through my chest. “The funeral is tomorrow.”
He goes preternaturally still. “How did she die?” he demands.
I try to swallow the knot in my throat. “Heart attack.”
His brow knits as a horrific thought crosses my mind.
“She’s not… I mean, she knew how to summon demons.” Oh gods, I think I will vomit. “She’s not in Hell, is she? Please tell me she’s not.”
He snorts. “Foolish girl, a mortal must exchange their soul for wealth or power in order to end up in Hell, or have done wicked deeds. Her soul was among the purest I’ve ever encountered.”
I breathe again as the room spins. The rum, lack of sleep, and hunger are taking a toll.
To my surprise, the demon catches me and sets me down on a chair, his hands warm against my arms, face a few inches away. Just then, I notice how extraordinarily handsome he is—sharp features and pale skin that makes a beautiful contrast with inky black hair. His purple eyes lose some hostility as he examines me back. Amethyst, I realize. His irises look like they’re made of perfectly cut and polished amethysts.
His head snaps toward the door, brow furrowing.
“What—” I begin to ask as the door is pounded on several times.
I flinch. The noise does not help with my throbbing headache.
“Dinah! I know you’re there! Open the door, you little bitch!” Daniel screams.
My eyes widen. How did that psycho find me so fast?
Fear rears its ugly head and I can’t help but shake. I’m in no shape for round two. The bruises still hurt and I feel too weak.
The demon growls, startling me, and moves toward the door with long strides. He opens the door and Daniel’s blue eyes widen in terror. His forehead has a big purple bump from where I hit him with the skillet.
The demon looks down at Daniel as if he’s a particularly annoying vermin, then he takes the six-foot-two football player by the collar and hauls him off his feet as if he’s weightless.
“I see you weren’t lying about fighting back,” the demon says to me as he takes in Daniel’s wound, voice as cold as ice, amethyst eyes bright with an eerie glow. “Nevertheless, I say he’s earned a little punishment, don’t you think?”
Before I can answer, the demon sends an invisible coil of chilly power around Daniel, who lets out an unearthly wail and flails madly for a second before the demon drops him to the ground.
Thanks to the heavens, there are no neighbors around for at least a couple of miles.
Daniel picks himself up, still wailing like a banshee, and runs to his car, rushing inside and revving it up. Mud is lifted off the damp ground as he maneuvers out of the property in a matter of seconds.
“There, he will not be back, I can assure you that,” the demon says, eyes normal again, his expression slightly less murderous.
I stare at him, stunned. He didn’t get a request out of me, but still helped me. I can’t deny a dark part of me enjoyed the sheer terror he put into Daniel, but I don’t want to owe him. “Dammit, I would’ve preferred you making me that chicken soup.”
He sighs. “We will see each other soon.”
“Huh? Why? I thought the deal was off—”
He disappears, just like that, in a flash of amethyst light.
I take a deep breath and close the door, staring into the empty living room.
“Thank you,” I mutter.
Even though it is quite insane to thank a demon for scaring off your obsessive ex-boyfriend.
Meh, I’ve done crazier shit.
©Demon Warden, Selene Kallan, 2018.
