Page 40 of When I Accidentally Summoned a Demon

The air shivers. It’s such a small sound, like a match being struck underwater, and then he’s just a very tall man in a borrowed Henley.

In those few moments, Bethie has returned to the paint, several construction paper masterpieces on the coffee table, completely dry. She snatches up more paper, reaching for the paint pots.

I scoop Bethie up. She informs me, loudly, that she is working.

“I know, bug, I know, you can keep playing in here, “I drop her in the highchair, slap the tray down, and dump the paint pots and a sheet of construction paper in front of her. “There. Art. Beautiful art. On the paper. Please.”

She looks at the paper, then at me. She dips her index finger in the purple and wags it, so proud of the gesture. I clap a couple of times.

But the knock comes again.

Approaching the door, I take a deep breath and open it. “Mom. Hi.”

My mother is in a pale blue cardigan, her purse hooked over her forearm, and her attention strays past me to my living room.

“I was out this way,” she says, “and I thought I’d see my granddaughter.”

She is not out this way. Nothing is out this way. Not with how my house sits at the very isolated edge of the neighborhood, bordering the woods.

“Sure,” I say, and step back.

She makes it about four seconds inside before she notices him. Valefar is standing by the couch with his hands clasped behind his back, deciding to remain still and as casual as he can.

“Good morning,” he says politely.

My mother’s mouth thins. “Hello.”

Bethie shrieks with joy, pointing to him. “Pwecious!”

I’m grinning from ear to ear when she strains toward him. Valefar’s entire face softens. My mother’s does not.

“Pwecious,” my mother repeats.

“It’s a nickname,” I clarify, moving toward them.

She sets her purse down on my end table, and I watch her observe his boots by the door. Then the folded stack of his laundry on the arm of the chair because I ran a load yesterday and did not think about what my house would look like to somebody standing in it with an agenda.

“He’s here,” she says.

“Hello to you too, Mom.”

She sticks her nose up. “I thought he was helping at the shop.”

“He was.”

“That was a week ago, Vesper.” She sniffs.

I tap the side of my nose, playing it cool. “Excellent memory.”

Her jaw works. Then, lower, with a glance at Bethie: “Can I talk to you?”

“You are.” I shrug.

“Alone.”

I sigh and follow her into the kitchen. She doesn’t even wait for the doorway to clear. “I don’t think that man should be living here. With her.” She sneers.

I cross my arms over my chest, defensive. “And I don’t remember asking.”