Chapter 5
Daisy
Ididn’t sleep.
Not because I was scared. Okay, maybe a little scared. But mostly because I was absolutely, completely, cosmically baffled. I mean, there was a demon in my living room last night. A demon. Horns, wings, and a voice like molten sin. That’s not normal. That’s not how my Tuesdays go.
Now the card sits on my nightstand, silent and smug and all too mocking for my liking. Matte black with golden edges and silver foil lettering, like it’s some VIP invite to Hell’s Met Gala.
Your soul now belongs to me.
- Korithax
The writing looks too elegant for the threat it carries.
Like something written on wedding invitations.
Except this one’s promising eternal damnation instead of cake and bad dancing.
How rude. I keep hearing his voice. That dark, silky tone that held such power behind it that my skin instantly broke out in goosebumps when it caressed my ears.
The way his shadow filled my apartment, and how the air itself shifted around him, as if the laws of physics personally stepped aside to make room.
And every time I blink, I see him standing there.
Boots planted, arms folded, not a care in the freaking world.
Honestly? Kind of iconic… if you forget the part where he owns my soul.
I try to go about my morning like I haven’t just been told I’m literally soul-deep in demonic debt.
Because really, what could I do? Make a complaint to demonic customer services?
I brush my teeth and change into leggings and a bright yellow hoodie, the weather turning a little too cold for my usual bright and floral summer dresses, and twist my hair into a messy bun.
Padding bare foot across my cramped little flat, the cold floor cold against my toes, I make a smoothie with the last little bit of milk in my fridge and the banana that could’ve been thrown out a few days ago, as well as some frozen berries.
My place is tiny. Like, cupboard-under-the-stairs-but-with-bills tiny.
But I love it. Fairy lights drape over my little bookshelf, which is jammed with every fantasy paperback I could afford second-hand.
My bed is a nest of mismatched pillows and blankets, the walls are plastered in sticky notes, and I have precisely one working lamp.
Even though I know I need to nourish my body, I throw the smoothie away after just one sip.
Everything tastes wrong now, with my stomach constantly churning like a never-ending storm.
I can physically feel the anxiety and dread eating away at me; it feels like my body is in fight or flight.
Except, there is no flight. And I highly doubt I could fight against a demon and win.
So what? Instead of fight or flight, it’s… bow down and surrender? Yikes.
Still, despite everything, I go to campus anyway because after a morning of staring at my web browser, I had run out of things to Google.
Not like I really knew what to look for in the first place.
‘How to reverse a soul bargain made by your alcoholic father with an ancient demon?’ Safe to say, there wasn’t a Reddit thread for that, no matter how hard I tried to will one into existence.
By the time I get there, I’ve convinced myself this is fine.
Totally fine. Everything is sooooo fine.
Except it’s not. Because apparently, demons are real.
Demons. I’ve read almost every fantasy series I could get my hands on, and not once did I ever expect to be starring in one.
Where’s my sword? Where’s my prophecy? Why is my magical inheritance an ancient blood pact forged by a drunk dad with a devil man who looks like a cursed Calvin Klein model?
I flop onto a bench near the arts building and try to study—which is going really well if the goal is to draw increasingly chaotic doodles of little flame emojis around the word HELP.
“You look like you wrestled a demon in your sleep and lost,” Ezra says, flopping down beside me.
I almost laugh, a choking sound leaving me instead. The irony of his words wasn’t lost on me.
“Do you mind? Some of us are busy suffering in silence.”
He sits swinging his legs off the side of the bench, his purple eyeshadow extra glittery today. “Hmm. Suffering loudly is much more therapeutic. Trust me.”
“You would say that. You’re literally the loudest person I know.” I scoff.
“And you love me for it.” He beams.
“Undeniably.” I smile. Because it’s impossible not to when Ezra’s around. He smells like sweet marshmallows and has a constant chaotic aura surrounding him.
“You okay, Daze?” He adds, softer now.
“Fine,” I chirp. “Just discovering that Hell is real and I have a personal demon. You?”
Ezra blinks. “Is this one of your books that you’re reading or…?”
I wave it off. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything is fine.” My voice cracks on the last word, and I fake a cough to cover it.
He stares at me, any hint of amusement gone from his face. “Daisy…”
“Seriously. Let’s talk about you! Did you finally steal that glitter gel pen from Talia?”
Ezra gasps dramatically. “That freaking pen was mine first! She borrowed it two years ago, and I’ve been manifesting its return ever since.”
A snort escapes me. He was just as manic about his gel pens as I was. He links his arm through mine and rests his head on my shoulder. My giant human-weighted blanket.
Psychology 210 is brutal. It’s not the material—it’s me.
Professor Doyle is lecturing us about trauma responses.
Fight, flight, freeze. The human brain under duress.
Maybe we should add a new one: ‘freak the hell out but pretend you’re fine and spiral internally.
’ My pen is in my hand, but for once, I’m not scribbling down every word with intensity.
He says something about dissociation, and my stomach twists.
When the mind can’t handle what’s happening to the body. It splits. Creates distance.
Dissociation. Yep. That’s what I’m feeling right now.
Like I’m floating six inches outside of myself, watching from behind glass that I can’t seem to break through.
I don’t realise I’m digging my nails into my thigh until I feel the sting of skin breaking.
Someone behind me laughs, the sound sharp and jarring.
I flinch, my breath coming in too fast, as I try to calm myself down. You’re safe, Daze. It’s okay.
The girl next to me leans over, whispering, “Hey, you okay?”
I nod, offering her a warm smile, despite the fact I feel like I’m dying inside.
After class, I aimlessly walk. Past the library, past the quad, and through one of the little gardens some of the students had planted a few years back.
I keep walking until the noise in my head gets quieter, and I end up under my favourite tree.
It’s half-dead and split from a storm three years ago, but it keeps growing anyway.
I like that about it, that despite the odds stacked against it, it continued to grow and flourish.
My kind of girl. Maybe I could do that, maybe I could still have a long, happy life, and ignore the impending doom that’s awaiting me on the other side.
I press my back against the bark, the sharp wood digging into my flesh as I pull my knees to my chest. I reach into my bag and pull out the card again, idly flipping it between my fingers. Your soul now belongs to me. I could burn it. Tear it. Deny it. Instead, I opt for texting Talia.
Me: If I die, delete my browser history.
Talia: Oh, gods, what did you Google?
Me: “What to do when a demon claims your soul.”
Talia: … so no coffee today?
I snort. She knows me too well. I look back at my phone and stare at the contact I need to speak to next. Dad. My finger hovers over it for a second too long, then I tap call. It rings. Once. Twice. Four times. Then his voice picks up.
“I had a visitor last night,” I say. “Tall. Horns. Looked like he models for Hell’s annual calendar.” Silence. “Do you know anything about that?” More silence. “Dad?”
“Shit,” he mutters.
“That’s your response?! You sell my soul, and all you can say is shit?”
He tries to explain, but I hang up before he can finish. Because I’m not interested in whatever excuses he’s got. I’m interested in surviving this, and doing it in the most aggressively cheery way possible.
I close my eyes, resting my head against the tree, letting the wind brush against my face.
My dad had been a perpetual ass since my mom had died when I was seven.
Breast cancer, the kind that moves fast. The kind that steals everything before you even understand what’s happening.
They said breast cancer was one of the better cancers to get, that it was the most easily manageable.
But they were wrong, because it had spread long before they found it.
She was bright and kind, she smelled like vanilla and flowers, wore sunflower earrings, and used to sing off-key in the car like she didn’t give a damn who was listening.
Mom told me I could survive anything, and that I was the sun.
But then she was gone, and I soon learned that, in fact, she was the sun.
Because the world became so much duller without her shining in it.
But for her, I tried so very hard to be the sun, and would continue to do so, no matter what.
My dad started drinking not long after she died, and I learned what it meant to become strong just to keep someone else from falling apart.
But no matter how strong I was for both of us, he still crumbled away, into a shell I no longer recognised as the loving, doting father he once was.
I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand to clear the tears and sit up straight.
I am so angry. Angry at my dad, angry at this demon who walked into my life like I’m just another line in some infernal ledger.
But I’m also scared. So, so scared. Still, I won’t break.
I’ll hold my head high and continue to be the sun in everybody else’s lives.
I will continue to sing in the shower, offer my help to strangers, and brighten up everybody else, whilst ignoring the fact that life has thrown another curveball at me.
“Be the sun,” I whisper, taking a long, deep breath.