Page 28 of When I Accidentally Summoned a Demon

I decide it can stay.

12

Valefar

The alert device sounds.

I have formed a working theory: it is a small mechanism embedded near the front entrance that emits a two-tone chime whenever someone presses the button mounted outside the door. Its purpose appears to be the announcement of visitors. I find it considerably more civilized than the methods employed in Hell, where visitors are announced primarily by screaming.

I move toward the hallway.

“Wait.”

Vesper steps in front of me. My pulse stutters with her so close. She has changed; her purple top and black pants manage to say several things, all of them authoritative. Her curls are pinned most of the way up with something that is either a very decorative stick or a weapon. I have not yet determined which.

“I’ve been meaning to ask. Do you have any demonic ability to cloak yourself? Like camouflage. So no one can see your horns or your tail.”

“You mean a glamour?”

“Yes!” The word comes out with an energy both of eagerness and relief.

I sharpen my attention, considering the concept.

I am a greater demon of the third house. I have walked the Pit for centuries. My visits to earth have been few and rare. I have only glamoured myself a few times. In Hell, the horns are unremarkable. In Hell, the tail is not notable. In Hell, there is no need to blend.

“It has been many years since I walked the earth to require such glamour,” I tell her. “But all demons are born with a masking ability. I will attempt it for you.”

“Great.” She reaches up, takes my jaw in one hand, presses her lips to my cheek, and is already walking toward the front door before I have finished processing the touch of her supple lips.

I project the glamour.

It is a strange sensation—pulling something inward, folding it down the way one might close a very large piece of architecture into a smaller space. The horns tuck beneath whatever mortal perception ordinarily makes of me. The tail, more reluctantly, presses flat and translucent against the air. It does not vanish entirely. I can still feel it. But it becomes a peripheral thing, a shape which the eye slides past without registering.

I check my reflection in the small mirror near the coat rack. I look approximately like a very large human man with excellent posture and a mildly unsettling quality which I cannot fully eliminate.

It will do.

* * *

Vesper opens the front door, and the young man on the porch comes through it as though the threshold is simply a formality.

“Bethie Bean!” he exclaims.

He is young—late twenties, perhaps, by mortal reckoning—with a warm brown complexion and dark eyes currently occupied entirely by the highchair and its occupant. He is wearing a shirt of such pink, it could only be intentional, and it reads in large block lettering: DADDY UNIVERSITY. I make a note to investigate this institution. It sounds suspicious.

Vesper tips her head back and laughs—unguarded, all breath—and the young man is already past her, past any acknowledgment that either of us exists. To be fair, I still linger in the shadows of the hallway. He goes directly to the highchair as if he has done this many times and considers it the highest-priority event in the room.

The little beastie is already reaching for him. Both arms extended, her whole body leaning forward as if she has been separated from this person for an unacceptable length of time and would like that remedied immediately. She is wiggling so enthusiastically, the highchair makes a small sound of protest.

“Manny! Manny!”

He scoops her out with practiced ease and swings her in a wide arc. She wraps her arms around his neck and laughs. It’s a spectacular, full-body laugh, one of the finest sounds mortal life has produced. She proceeds to make a wet, blowing sound with her tongue halfway out of her mouth. This Manny imitates her as though it is a game of mimicry.

“I have a full day planned for us, sweetheart.” He kisses her forehead. “Playdough, pompom sorting, dinosaurs, and dance party—woop woop!” He pivots sharply on one foot and executes a brief but emphatic movement. Bethie finds this wonderful. She pats his cheek in encouragement.

It is at this point that I step into the room. The young man’s movement stops. He turns his head toward me, slow, purposeful, as if he’s recalibrating and processing quite a fair amount. “I need you,” he says now to Vesper, “to explain to me why there is a six-foot-something sin standing in your living room before I act irresponsibly.”

The words were for Vesper. But all his attention is trained on me.