Page 63 of When I Accidentally Summoned a Demon

She practically jumps off his lap, toddling to the bathroom where she can use the step stool and the plastic cups.

“Thank you,” he says low and serious.

“Are you okay?” I take his hands, urging him to his feet.

He nods. “I believe so. Are you⁠—”

“She didn’t hurt anything important,” I tell him. “You are more important, Valefar.”

He keeps my hand. His tail briefly brushing my arm.

Outside, the light slants in wide, golden streams across the floor. For now, we just hold one another, until Bethie arrives, spilling more water onto the rug than remains in the cup. Valefar, steady and certain now, kneels before her, accepts the cup, and nudges his pinky out. “Why, thank you, Princess Bethie. This is the finest tea I have ever tasted.”

The recognition dawns on her. Oh, she realizes what he’s doing. Tea party—one of her favorite games, especially with him. “Tea pawty, tea pawty!” she squeals, dancing around before clutching his arm.

I go into the kitchen and make dinner while a demon sits on the floor with his enormous legs folded, a plastic tiara on his head and a pink bedazzled tea set spread before him. My daughter serves him tea. All I can hope is she remembers these moments. Not what came before.

And just as I announce dinner is ready, Valefar snaps his head up. “Oh, dear me! The grout!”

I laugh softly and wave him toward me. “Dinner first, Big Guy.”

Bethie takes his hand, walking with him toward the kitchen. As he passes, I touch his arm and stand on my tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Love you.”

“And I, you,” he echoes.

“Wuv you!”

At first, I think Bethie is talking to me. Then Valefar and I both realize she’s still holding his hand, tugging insistently on his jeans. “Wuv you!”

Valefar goes utterly still.

Then the near-stunned, seven-foot Duke of Hell scoops my daughter into his arms, presses his nose to hers, and whispers, “I love you too, Bethie.”

My heart melts a thousand times over.

22

Valefar

LATE OCTOBER

Ihave faced seventeen centuries of infernal existence.

I have stood before Lucifer in the height of his wrath. I have navigated the political architecture of the Pit and survived. I have fought shadow demons in a kitchen with a cast-iron pan. I have wrestled a stone hellhound to the floor of a Catholic crypt and held its jaws apart through sheer force of will.

None of this prepared me for a thirty pound human hurling herself directly at my face from a height of approximately four feet.

I catch her because I am fast and she is adorably predictable, seizing both sides of my head with her small hands and announcing, with great authority: “Again!”

The leaf pile is destroyed. Three minutes ago, it was a respectable mound—one I constructed myself, thanks to Vesper’s efforts of raking the leaves from the Maple, which has gone the color of banked coals in this final week of October. Now, the mound has distributed itself across an enthusiastic fifteen-foot radius.

Bethie finds this perfect. “Again,” she repeats, waving her hand around.

I glance at the devastated yard, then at Vesper, who is leaning against the back porch railing with her coffee mug, her warm expression conveying such an unguarded air, it is possibly the most serene I have beheld her.

I swing Bethie up, high and wide, and bring her down into my chest, and I let myself drop backward into the scattered leaves so they go flying in every direction.

She shrieks with laughter, such uncomplicated joy, and it does something inside of my chest, which I can only conclude falls into one of the millions of categories belonging to the word “love.”