Page 53 of When I Accidentally Summoned a Demon

I’d sent him a voice note at seven-fifteen. He’d responded with a thumbs up and a note that he could come in. The shop was handled. The shop was fine.

We spent the early morning at Bethie’s favorite restaurant with its play place, then went to Manny’s for a drop-off. Manny was only too happy for a day out at the museum with her. She’d pressed her face into Valefar’s side at the front doorstep and made a sound like a disgruntled kitten, and he’d said, very gravely, the museum awaits, little beastie, and she’d perked up immediately.

Valefar told me, quietly, while she was putting on her shoes, that Lucifer’s demons follow him. Not her. Not Manny. Bethie is safe.

The cemetery, however, came from Harold. Or rather, the leather-bound book he left me. After we cleaned the last of the shadow sludge out of my kitchen this morning, I went through it, hunting for anything stronger than salt and found a section on celestial wards buried between two pages of protection work. In Harold’s cramped handwriting beside one entry: Elias Doran. St. Brendan’s. Tillamook. Truth-bound threshold stone.

Because of course Harold couldn’t just write In case Hell invades your kitchen, go here.

So, Valefar and I agreed to send Bethie away with Manny while he and I would take a drive to the coast. I know he’s right. It doesn’t make it easier.

Valefar lifts his tail from my arm to skim through the curls at the nape of my neck, coiling slowly, and more warmth spreads through me like heat moving through water.

The trembling stops.

“Would you like to tell me what you are feeling, Ves?”

I breathe in deep, then let it out slowly. “It’s just surreal,” I say. “Everything that’s happened over the past few months. All of it.” I watch the road. “It’s been amazing, Valefar. Honestly—some of the best days of my life. Maybe the best.” My voice stays even because I’ve had practice when I mean something to this degree. “And that’s what scares me so much. Because if this doesn’t work⁠—”

His hand finds my thigh, light but certain.

“It will work,” he says. “I know this stone. When you showed me the picture and the composition of the minerals, it is a powerful agent, one of the oldest celestial wards I have encountered.”

“I know,” I say. “But what if it holds against you? What if we get it back and it protects us from you, too?”

His hand stills. He draws a slow breath. “I won’t pretend your concerns don’t matter, Mistress.” He says it simply. No performance. “But I must believe our bond will shield me from any ill effects. The claim. Your summons.” His thumb traces a small circle on my thigh.

“And what if we’re wrong?”

His thumb stills against my leg. “Then we do not bring it home.” I glance over. He gives me a steady look. “We test it there first, Ves. If it considers me a threat, we find another solution.”

“Just like that?” I swallow the knot in my throat.

“I have no interest in acquiring protection for your home which prevents me from entering it.” He squeezes my knee. “We have cause to be cautious. We do not yet have cause to assume the worst. And, as they say in the movies—” A pause, genuine. “—we shall cross that bridge when we come to it?”

I feel the smile pull at my mouth. “Funny you should say that,” I tell him. “We actually have to cross a bridge to get there.”

He turns to me. I glance over.

We both hold it for a second—that shared absurdity—and then we’re both grinning at the windshield, and the moment is lighter than it was thirty seconds ago, which I think was his exact intention.

“Ugh! Dammit!” I curse, slamming on my brakes when another car cuts me off. “Jerk,” I mutter.

Valefar bristles and tries the handle, but the doors are locked. “Such grievous sin of social customs and a potentiality for danger. Please, Vesper, I must torture him on your behalf.” He narrows his blazing eyes.

I can’t help but laugh. “Let’s listen to some music instead,” I say, tapping my phone on the dashboard and handing it to him. “Tap Shuffle.”

He studies the screen with the focused consideration of someone presented with a small, powerful artifact. “Ahh, yes, the musical sorcery. I have been reading much about such a significant feature in your culture.” He locates the button and taps it.

The opening chords come through the speakers, and I look over at him with a sneaky expression. He turns to me, slowly, with the most enormous, unguarded, delighted smile I have ever seen on his face. Every tooth is showing.

“I’ll be there for you⁠—”

The laugh starts in my chest and takes over completely. It comes out embarrassingly loud in the small car, and his shoulders shake with it too, his tail whipping in pure undignified joy, and for a moment, we are two idiots driving west on Highway 6, losing our minds over a nineties sitcom theme song.

Less of a sitcom and more of a psychological case study to him. I consider the one time he paused an episode to rant about “catastrophic communication failures,” while genuinely believing the entire series could have been avoided if any of them had simply been honest for five consecutive minutes.

When he caught me dancing in the kitchen sometime in June to David Bowie while I was doing dishes, Valefar insisted on learning more. He said David Bowie must have been a fallen angel. I introduced him to more—Ozzy Osbourne, whom he insists was “almost certainly a god of metal,” and the Beatles.