Page 87 of When I Accidentally Summoned a Demon

“I love you to the Evening Star and back.”

“Smooth, Big Guy.”

Nearly two months have passed since the night the veil thinned.

The backyard is blanketed in a pristine layer of fresh December snow. I wear a soft, highly comfortable cashmere sweater Manny personally selected for me during our last excursion to the city.

Near the porch, Bethie is diligently patting a heap of snow, attempting to construct what she defines as a snowman. After kissing my beautiful mate, I approach Bethie and crouch beside her in the drifts, using my gloved hands to help her roll the base into a stable sphere, while my bright Vesper stands near, capturing the moment with her phone camera.

It has been a season of quiet reconciliations. Vesper’s mother finally made peace with us, offering a tearful, long-overdue apology, given my new state of being. And especially after Rick returned to a destructive cycle of gambling and alcoholism. The court has completely revoked his visitation privileges, and his deadbeat disappearance is of little concern to Vesper now. He is merely a ghost of a past she has outgrown.

Vesper’s Vessels is also thriving during this holiday season, and I have assumed the role of managing the inventory and shipping logistics, a task I find highly satisfying. My physical height of six feet and five inches is still a source of mild consternation for local doorways, but the mortal community of St. Johns has acclimated to my presence with surprising ease.

Vesper still wrinkles her nose whenever customers flirt with me. And I hope her possessive instinct to rush in, claim my hand, and drag me away will never fade.

After building a snow friend with Bethie and engaging in a snowball battle, we return to the warm house and change our clothes.

Now, I am analyzing the complex, highly strategic art of decorating our first Christmas tree. The evergreen stands in the corner of our living room, draped in glowing warm twinkle lights and handmade ornaments. The scent of pine and cinnamon fills the air. The absolute thrill of belonging here—in this kitchen, in this life—settles deep in my marrow as I scoop Bethie up and lift her onto my shoulders. She stretches her small arms upward, carefully placing a glittering silver star onto the very top branch.

I find the star to be very agreeable indeed. A perfect symbol for our new life.

Vesper then announces she and Bethie must depart to execute some last-minute holiday shopping, leaving me behind in the sanctuary of the house to finish the supper I planned earlier.

An hour later, I stand at the stove, carefully monitoring a steaming pot of holiday beef stew. The rich, savory scent of root vegetables and rosemary fills the kitchen, bringing a great comfort to my chest.

A second later, the front door flies open as they stamp the snow off their boots, and Bethie hurtles into the kitchen. She is carrying a half-eaten sugar cookie, her blonde curls bouncing. I catch her in my arms and lift her effortlessly. She giggles, pressing her sticky, cookie-covered hands against my cheeks.

“You have acquired a significant amount of frosting,” I inform her.

“Da Da!” She offers me a chunk of the cookie, and I smile and thank her but tell her she is welcome to finish it, which she heartily agrees to.

Vesper walks into the kitchen, carrying a box with an evergreen wreath. A beautiful, brilliant smile lights up her face. The tiny, permanent glint of gold in her eyes catches the holiday lights filtering through the window.

“How’s the stew, Big Guy?” she asks, setting the box on the counter.

“It is reaching optimal temperature,” I tell her.

Instead of returning to her work, she reaches into her coat pocket and presents me with a small, neatly wrapped package. “An early holiday present,” she says.

I carefully unwrap the green tissue paper to find a perfectly insulated green leather sheath, custom-tailored for the arrow-tip of my tail.

I stare at it, deeply touched by her thoughtfulness. “I am ever so grateful, Vesper. But I had believed the tradition of gift-giving does not commence until Christmas.”

She shrugs playfully. “I can’t have your tail catching frostbite through the holiday season, Vale.” She stands on her tiptoes, kissing my cheek.

I slide the sheath over the spade-tip of my tail, the fit incredibly precise. I look down at my mate, then at our daughter, who is watching us.

“May I offer a present then to both of you?” I ask.

Bethie instantly perks up, radiating with pure excitement. “Pwesent, pwesent!”

I smile down at her, raising a single finger to indicate I will return shortly. I step into the study, retrieve two packages I have carefully hidden, and return to the kitchen.

I hand the first to Bethie. She eagerly tears into the pony-covered paper, paper shreds flying across the floor, and immediately jumps up and down. She clutches a large, incredibly soft green stuffed rabbit tightly to her chest. “Bunny wabbit!” she squeals in triumph. “Read?” She points to the family room, indicating the Runaway Bunny story.

“After dinner,” I assure her, tousling her curls, my chest swelling with emotion I never knew existed. I then turn to Vesper, offering her the smaller, square package.

She knits her brows in immediate suspicion, though a soft curiosity lights her eyes. “What is this, Vale?”