Page 72 of When I Accidentally Summoned a Demon

“Twick tweet!” Bethie announces from the door.

“That’s our cue,” I say, and pull the tiger hood up over my head.

I take Valefar’s hand and stare out at the October night, ready.

24

Valefar

The air of Samhain is a complex tapestry.

To human senses, it is the smell of bonfire woodsmoke, mixed with the cool, crisp pines and dry leaves. To mine, it is a vibrating membrane, stretched so thin, the friction between worlds produces a low hum in my back teeth.

Under normal circumstances, a demon walking abroad on the night of the thinned veil would be a beacon, a bright flare of dark energy drawing every hunter and tracker from the Pit. Tonight, however, the mortal realm has inadvertently provided the most efficient countermeasure imaginable.

The streets are teeming with life. The density of human bodies, the chaotic swell of childlike energy, and the strangely uninhibited playfulness of the adults all create a massive wave of white noise. Every third child is draped in plastic horns or cheap rubber masks, projecting mock-terror. It is a great and beautiful scrambler. To the tracking mechanisms of Hell, this neighborhood is a blinding canvas of static.

Hiding in plain sight, as my Mistress so correctly assessed.

In the deep pockets of my Jinu robe, my fingers brush the small, hard geometries of the protective crystals Vesper insisted I carry, alongside a tightly wrapped bundle of dried sage. I find these mortal defenses charming, though their efficacy against a true prince of the Pit is negligible. Still, I carry them because she asked me to.

At first, we considered me remaining inside the house, relying on the protective threshold stone. However, on the night of Samhain, when the veil is at its thinnest, the sheer pressure from the other side compromises the stone’s energy. Its defensive radius is severely weakened, unable to guarantee sanctuary. It would make us a stationary target, relying on a faltering ward that could fail under any real pressure.

Vesper and I agreed: our best opportunity for protection lies in movement and numbers. The chaotic, vibrating energy of the crowded streets, the thousands of costumed bodies scrambling demonic senses, offers a far superior shield.

“Twick tweet!” Bethie shrieks, marching down the sidewalk like a small conqueror. The Rumi wig bounces against the sequins of her jacket, and she swings her orange bucket with wild enthusiasm.

Manny walks beside her, his glossy magpie wings rustling with every step, his small top hat catching the glow of the porch lights. Vesper is a step behind them, engulfed in her blue tiger onesie. The hood is pushed back for the moment, her face flushed pink by the October wind, her green eyes bright with a quiet, fierce happiness which I have spent the last five months cataloguing as my favorite thing in this world. Only equalled by her expression when I drive her to a wild climax.

“A formidable display,” I observe, keeping pace beside her. “Though I note the distribution of sugar appears to be highly disproportionate to the effort expended.”

“That’s the whole point,” Vesper says, her elbow lightly nudging mine through the heavy fabric of my robe. “Maximum candy, minimum effort. Except for the costumes, of course. Do you realize how hard I worked on that wig?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Good boy.”

I turn a sharp eye on her. She gets that mischievous glint in her eye. It takes all of two seconds to recognize the suggestiveness in her expression.

So, I lower my head and growl low along her ear, “I will see to an appropriate punishment later tonight, Ves.” I revel in how she freezes.

“Looking forward to it, Sir.”

I have come to love the term leaving her lips. It is a permit. Her way of granting me an enormous amount of power I will never seek to abuse. And an equal share of responsibility for caring for her following our lovemaking. And every other moment for which I am blessed to share her life.

The bushes beside the driveway we are passing rustle violently. A figure lunges into our path. It is a tall mortal, draped in a rotting gray sheet, wearing a rubber mask shaped into a screaming, blood-spattered demonic face. He throws his arms wide, releasing a guttural, wet howl. “MWAHAHAHA! GIVE ME YOUR SOULS!”

My reaction is instantaneous.

I step in front of Vesper, my shoulder dropping, my weight shifting to my heels as my hand shoots forward. My claws extend beneath the wide sleeves of the Jinu robe, ready to crush the intruder’s larynx and pin him to the concrete before he can threaten my Mistress and the little Beastie.

“Vale! No! Stop!”

Vesper’s hands seize my forearm. Her grip is tight, frantic, but the sudden, clean warmth of her touch halts the strike.

I freeze, my hand hovering two inches from the screaming mask.

The mortal under the sheet blinks, his wet howl dying in his throat as he looks at my hand, then up at my face. The makeup Vesper etched onto my skin does not entirely conceal the unnatural gold of my eyes, nor the lethal poise of my body.