Taming the Wicked Wolf (A Date with a Demon #2)

Chapter 2

TWO

Emilia

Okay, so maybe I’m procrastinating a bit.

It’s already close to 6 p.m. when I finally make my way into the kitchen, pulling out a TV dinner and tossing it into the microwave to cook. Poppy dances around my legs, nudging against my knees hard enough I have to catch myself against the countertop.

“Hold on there, girly.” I laugh, washing my hands as the microwave beeps behind me.

There isn’t too much room in the tiny galley-style kitchen, so I set my food out to cool while I go to fill Poppy’s bowl, then wash and replace her water dish. We then both sit down to eat in our respective places, the jingling of her food dish nearly overtaking the sound of the tv.

It only takes her five minutes before she’s asking to go out.

I snap her harness in place and grab the matching leash. It looks aggressively pink against her fawn colored fur. One of the reasons I was drawn to her at the shelter was because of the markings on her paws that look like she got into a can of white paint. She’s my little artist.

That and she warmed up to me immediately, though I wasn’t aware until later it’s just who Poppy was.

She’s enthusiastic about every new human to the point where she threatens to become a tiny heat seeking puppy missile. It’s sad that she was overlooked for her age and her breed, she truly is one of the sweetest dogs I’ve ever known.

We walk out into the cool night air. The city is holding onto fall for as long as it can.

The apartment complex is still fairly well lit, though after coming home a few months back with my lock busted thanks to Chase, I’m still highly aware of what might be lurking around the corner.

Each apartment is on a single story, I’m glad that I don’t have upstairs neighbors. What I do have is sweet Mr. Jankowski in the apartment next to me. The tiny buildings resemble mushrooms with two apartments to each pod, from their flat-topped mansard-style roof painted in a faded brown color. There’s only two windows per apartment, one right next to the front door, and one in the bedroom.

“Hey there, pretty girl.” A familiar male voice says from behind me, “I hope you’re staying out of trouble.”

Speaking of the man himself. I turn to see Mr. Jankowski walking up the path from his parking spot with a white box in hand, tied with a bright blue ribbon. He’s only a little taller than me at 5’ 7”, with short brown hair and skin that reflects many joyful summers in the sun.

As much as I would be flattered by the compliment, as far as he’s concerned, there’s only one ‘pretty girl’ here and she’s losing a staring contest with a plastic lawn ornament sitting across the lot.

He’s probably one of the few people in Moonstone Ridge who doesn’t know who I am, or even care. All he knows is that I’m Poppy’s minion. She runs the show.

That’s the vibe of the apartment complex, just a bunch of castaways with nowhere to go. I had hoped that my shelf life would have extended past 35, but here we are. Starting over from square one.

“She’s trying,” I say, tugging on Poppy’s leash to keep my tiny missile of a pit bull by my side. “We haven’t had any other shoe incidents lately. What about you?”

His hazel eyes crinkle as he leans down and pets Poppy on the head, “My fish are as well behaved as they can be.”

I nod to the box in his hand, “What did Katie bake this time?”

“Snickerdoodles,” he looks up at me with a crease in his brow, “I hope you aren’t allergic to cinnamon.”

“No, but one of these days, you need to break it to her that you’re diabetic. I’m sure there’s a few safe baked goods she could bring you.”

“But then, what would I bring home to you?” He smiles, holding out the box, “The way I see it, I am making two people happy.”

I wrap Poppy’s leash around my wrist a few times, then take the cookies. They smell amazing and I have spent too many years feeling guilty about receiving gifts, thanks to Chase. I’m going to enjoy these.

“Thank you, Mr. Jankowski.”

“It’s truly nothing, Emilia. You two have a good night.”

With a smile, I lead Poppy back into the apartment. The snickerdoodles go on the kitchen counter and, despite her protests, Poppy goes in the bedroom. It’s for both of our safety, since we can’t have her smudging the runes.

Now, I am free to begin the arduous task of moving my small dining room set into the living room.

I’m pretty sure the original creator of this ritual intended for it to be completed on some stone altar using white chalk blessed by the moonlight, and not the fake hardwood floor of my small dining nook with some pastels from an old art kit that I got as a white elephant gift. I really hope these don’t stain.

The design is easy enough to recreate, which is usually the case with these older rituals, and thanks to the two semesters of Latin I took in college, I’m able to stumble through the incantation. It’s the couple of changes I made that are really sticking with me.

This summoning ritual is a contract in the purest form. After a few months of research, I learned I could tweak that contract.

Usually, it would put out a call for a demon, as a “first come, first serve” situation. There’s no way of knowing who or what you’ll be summoning in the end, and not every demon is going to play by the same rules. Which is why I’m going to call this one by name, or technically, by rune.

The whole thing could very well blow up in my face, hopefully not literally, but I have to try.

After drawing the circle, I balance the book on my arm and read the incantation aloud, “Cineris et sanguinis,” I pause, trying to translate it in my head, “ignis et carnis, exsurge coram me.”

I hold the book against my chest, slicing my left hand with the pink pocketknife my stepfather got me when I moved out, because of course, the ritual needs blood. My hand throbs as I squeeze it closed over the circle, wringing out a few drops onto the bright blue pastel markings.

As soon as the first drop hits, the floor shimmers like water rippling from the center out towards the first ring of ancient runes. These old witches were sure into theatrics because the runes crackle, a fuse lit and burning fast out towards the barrier of protection runes that I laid out, just in case.

Just imagine it, I summon a demon and it ends up burning down the apartment.

I glance over at the fire alarm hanging in the kitchen, wait for it to wail its displeasure at the magic. My own powers have never triggered it, but this feels like another beast entirely.

With a whoosh, a pillar of red smoke coils from the runes and stretches towards the ceiling, causing me to stumble backwards, catching my injured hand on the back of my dining room chair.

“Dammit.” I hiss out, dropping the book and pressing my hand against my middle.

I bite back the tears, shielding my bloodied palm, and lean over and scoop up the book. My gaze caught on the black boots with gold stitching standing in the middle of the summoning circle.

I straighten, following the dark charcoal slacks to a black long-sleeved henley unbuttoned halfway until I crane my neck up to stare into bright honey-colored eyes. Wait, is that American Eagle?

The demon tilts his head, shoulder length ink-black hair falling against his soft cheekbones. It’s strange, I was expecting him to look more demonic, but he resembles an Abercrombie model. Tanned and tall, up in the 6-something range with the most defined shoulders I have ever seen. When did I become attracted to shoulders?

He’s all lean muscle down to a trim waist, and a positively human body, except for two bright blue markings across his cheekbones and those canine-like pointed ears sitting on top of his head.

The ears alone mark him as a wolf demon, but he’s nothing like the books described. According to the illustrations, he’s supposed to have feathered wings and the tail of a serpent, whatever that means.

“You’re bleeding all over the floor, little witch.” He says, his voice smokey with the hint of an English accent.

“No,” I shake my head, then glance down at the tiny drips of blood pooling at my feet, “This is impossible.”

“It is quite possible and obvious. Are you alright? Did you hit your head?”

I spent six months learning the ins and outs of these runes, not to mention dropping nearly a thousand dollars on all the materials put together to summon a specific demon by name. This is a mistake. This demon doesn’t look like he is a day over 25, 26 tops. I don’t even know he has the authority to bargain for my soul.

“You’re not him.” I say.

The demon furrows his brow.