Page 73 of When I Accidentally Summoned a Demon

“Oh,” the man under the sheet says, his voice dropping an octave as he takes a step back. “Uh. Cool costume, man. Very…intense.”

“He’s in character!” Vesper announces, her voice high and breathless as she tugs my arm back toward her. She gives the neighbor a bright, highly forced smile. “Great mask, Mr. Henderson! Happy Halloween!”

“Yeah,” Mr. Henderson mutters, adjusting his rotting sheet as he edges away. “Happy Halloween.”

I retract my claws, smoothing the fabric of my robe with quiet dignity. “He was entirely unprotected,” I note. “His tactical positioning was abysmal.”

Vesper lets out a breath that is half-laugh, half-sigh, and rests her forehead against my shoulder. “He was holding a bowl of fun-size Snickers, Big Guy. You can’t execute the neighbors.”

“If they initiate hostilities⁠—”

“It’s a jump scare, Vale. It’s traditional. And Mr. Henderson goes all out for Halloween.” She pulls back, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she looks up at me. “But thank you for the defense. Even if it was slightly homicidal.”

“I am a protector,” I say, and the weight of the word lands heavily in my own chest.

She smiles, soft and glowing, and then she turns to jog after Bethie, who has reached the next porch. I stand at the edge of the sidewalk and watch them.

The house is decorated with glowing plastic pumpkins and purple string lights. Bethie is engaging a highly energetic toddler dance to earn her reward, her white shorts and gold belt shimmering under the porch light. Vesper joins in, dancing beside her with an exquisite lack of self-consciousness, her laughter carrying across the lawn like music. I have never, in all my long existence, seen anything more beautiful than the two of them under that porch light.

Manny stands beside me, his magpie wings rustling softly in the cool breeze. He adjusts his tiny hat, his gaze fixed on Vesper and Bethie as they spin on the porch.

“I’ve never seen her smile so much in her life,” he says, his voice genuine and quiet. “Even when Bethie was a baby…Rick stole part of her joy. But it’s like the world has given it back to her with interest. And when I say “world,” I mean you.”

The ridiculous blue hood of her onesie bobs as she giggles.

“I am the one with the greatest joy,” I tell him. “The interest is one of eternal magnitude. And I could spend a thousand lifetimes and never repay the debt.”

I say the words with a weight Manny cannot fully comprehend. I am immortal; my existence is measured in geological epochs. Vesper is a brilliant, warm mortal spark who will eventually gutter and fade. A thousand lifetimes would still not be enough to satisfy my devotion, yet I will gladly spend this one beside her as long as she desires. Just as I would gladly rip my damned soul to shreds if it meant she could draw another breath.

Manny is quiet for a beat. Then he turns his head to me with a protective, warning squint. “You break their hearts, Big Guy,” he says, his tone one of threat and drama, “and let’s just say that hell hath no wrath like a dramatic gay magpie with six eyes and a stolen hat.”

A faint, genuine smile touches my lips. “I would expect nothing less, Manny.”

He nods, satisfied, and walks back up the driveway to join them.

And then…the temperature drops. It is not a gradual cooling of the autumn night. It is a sudden, violent plunge, which turns my breath to solid frost. The air goes still. The sound of the wind through the pines, the laughter of the children, the whimsical energy—all of it seems to recede, muffled as though we have been plunged underwater.

I freeze. My heart stops its rhythm entirely. A presence.

It is a signature I would know if I were reduced to nothing but ash and scattered thoughts. It is the weight of the mountain. It is the cold, beautiful gravity of the void. And a dark fire which burns through dawn.

I turn, slowly, my movements heavy with dread.

He is standing in the middle of the street.

The neighborhood is still moving all around him. But they are, without even knowing why, giving him a wide berth. They pass around him like water parting, shivering as they step close, their voices dropping before they speed up their pace.

No one sees him. No one is permitted to.

Lucifer, the Morningstar himself, stands under the flickering glow of a streetlamp.

He looks nothing like the masked demons of this night. He is a man of absolute, mesmerizing, and terrible beauty. His coat is black, perfectly tailored, absorbing the light around him. His features are symmetrical to a deeply unsettling degree, his eyes two pools of ancient starlight which hold the weight of the first rebellion. He is the deadliest predator who has ever walked the earth, and he does not wear a mask because he does not need to hide what he is.

He is staring directly at me.

No shadow demons beside him. Nor a hellhound. The Morningstar does not delegate when he is truly determined to possess something. He only leaves Hell when he personally resolves to handle business. He has come to take me back, and he will not allow anything in this mortal realm to get in his way.

If I fight, this street will become a graveyard. The fire he brings will not distinguish between a demon in Jinu’s robes and a child in Rumi’s sequins.