Page 77 of When I Accidentally Summoned a Demon

“Hmm…” I muse, slowly turning the page of the ancient book. “Interesting.”

“What?” he grumbles.

“According to this chapter,” I say, pointing to a passage with my finger, “repeated summons of equal rank create cumulative spiritual resistance.” I look up at him, my smile growing. “That explains why you’re looking more and more exhausted.”

Lucifer bares his teeth, his jaw tight. “You think this minor inconvenience has any power over me?”

“I think it’s costing you energy,” I say knowingly. “And I am highly certain the Devil is not used to experiencing pain, let alone inconvenience.”

I’m enjoying this too much. But if you can’t laugh while holding the Devil hostage in your backyard, then what exactly is all the therapy for?

Lucifer’s shoulders shift. He flexes his hands, his long black claws retracting back into his fingertips. He looks at the lawn chair, the tea kettle, and my ridiculous onesie with the hood framing my face.

“You wish to deal with the Devil, then?” he asks, his voice dropping into a transactional tone.

I shake my head and finish the last of my tea. “No.” I set the empty teacup down on the grass with a soft, final click. “I’m not here to bargain.” My smile grows wide, cold, and entirely hellbent. “I’m here to annoy.”

Lucifer blinks. He opens his mouth, closes it, and then, with a sharp, exhausted pop, vanishes back into thin air. I sigh, picking up the kettle to pour myself another cup. My fingers flip to the next page of the book. I trace the Latin runes, raise my hand, and let the magic sing through the chalked lines. Something a little more powerful this time.

Then, I wait. Three seconds. Six. Ten. The silence stretches so long, I actually start to wonder if I have finally burned out his celestial battery. The autumn wind rustles the leaves on the maple tree, and a lonely owl hoots in the distance.

And then, the yard erupts.

A pillar of black and crimson fire tears through the center of the pentagram, so violent that my lawn chair rattles against the grass. The sheer force of the wind blows my blue tiger hood back off my head, and I reach for the fire extinguisher.

But as the flames part, Lucifer does not emerge alone.

Valefar hits the damp ground hard, the heavy basalt-black chains binding his limbs scraping loudly against the ironward stones at the edge of the circle. He catches himself on one scorched hand, his Jinu robes torn and blackened by infernal soot. He gasps for air, and he instantly orients himself to his surroundings.

I bolt to my feet. Hope lurches in my chest.

He doesn’t look confused. Or frightened. He just looks completely awed. “Vesper?” he rasps.

Lucifer materializes directly behind him, stepping out of the dying embers, suit and hair disheveled, his eyes burning. “There,” Lucifer says, a cruel, mocking smile spreading across his pale face as he spreads his hands wide. “You wanted your demon. Now watch him burn.”

His hand rises, fingers curling in preparation.

Valefar freezes. I brace myself to trigger the paralysis ward again, but my magic catches in my throat when I see his face. The expression that settled over Valefar’s features isn’t fear. It isn’t resistance. It is absolute, tranquil acceptance.

He has already made peace with his death. He believes his purpose was fulfilled because we were safe. And that—more than the devil, more than the hellfire—is what scares me to my absolute core.

“No!” I yell, reaching for the book, but I am too late.

Lucifer’s smile widens into something monstrous. A blinding, violent column of white celestial fire blooms from his raised hand, hurtling directly toward Valefar’s head. Valefar closes his eyes, his shoulders dropping as he prepares to turn to ash.

And then?

Nothing. The white fire doesn’t touch him. Two inches from Valefar’s face, the flames bend at an impossible angle. They turn, swirling in midair, and then collapse completely inward, reversing their direction.

Lucifer jerks violently. His own white flames slam back into his arm, the blast so intense that the sleeve of his coat instantly ignites.

He recoils, stumbling backward into the boundary of the pentagram as a strangled, agonized curse tears out of his throat. “SON OF A BEELZEBUB WHORE⁠—!”

He slaps at his sleeve, extinguishing the fire, but his hand is smoking. Actual black burns char his pale skin. Physical damage.

My shock arrives in two parts: first, because Lucifer is on fire, and second, because how can that happen? My brain short-circuits as I stare at the smoking, burnt hand of the ruler of Hell. Valefar’s head whips toward me, complete shock radiating all over him.

Silence falls over the backyard.