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The first syllable sits low in my chest like a bass note.
The second burns going down, like cheap whiskey.
The third is barely a sound at all, just breath dragged over teeth, and the red veins in the walls pulse brighter when he makes it.
I’ve been singing harmony with Dolly since I was tall enough to stand on Mama’s kitchen chair. I know how to find the notes most humans can’t reach.
So I find it.
And I say his name on the first try.
It’s long, twenty syllables at least, some of them sounds I’ve never made before, but somehow, I do it.
And I don’t go mad or start singing hymns or whatever.
Every crystal vein in the temple goes dark at once.
The floor drops an inch, and I gasp. Somewhere far above us, stone groans and shifts, a whole mountain rolling its shoulders.
He shudders against me, horns to hooves, and the sound that comes out of him is closer to a sob than anything I’ve ever heard him make.
Claim sealed.
Curse ended.
When the veins flicker back to life, he’s still holding me off the ground, staring at me the way I stared at Dolly’s Christmas special when I was six.
“What does it mean?” I whisper. “Your name.”
He swallows. “In the old tongue? Father.”
I stare at him.
“Father,” I repeat. “I’ve been calling you Daddy, and your actual name is Father?”
“Heaven claimed the title first,” he says, a little stiffly. “I am the other one. A darker version.”
“Every Sunday of my childhood, Pastor Dale had us pray ‘Our Father, who art in heaven’—”
“Wrong address.”
I laugh so hard I have to grab his horns to stay upright. “Our Father, who art in hell—”
“Hallowed be my name,” he agrees, dead serious.
“Daddy.”
“Yes. Your Daddy. Forever.”
When I can breathe again, I take his jaw in both hands. My fingers don’t reach halfway around. “You get it once. That’s it. Some names are too big for every day. The rest of the time, you’re Daddy.”
His voice drops to gravel. “Then say it properly. Tell me who takes care of you.”
“Daddy.”
His eyes flare red-hot, and his growl shakes the walls.
And the world finally, feels safe.
