Chapter 8
The next three days pass in a flurry of activity.
I place powerful wards around both the apartment and clinic—symbols carved into doorframes, sigils painted (in materials I don’t specify and Finn doesn’t ask about) beneath carpets and behind furniture, protective charms hidden in strategic locations.
Finn watches these preparations with a mixture of fascination and concern, asking questions about demonic hierarchies and Valefar’s specific grudge against me.
“So this all started because you… what? Beat him in a demon promotion contest?” he asks as I carefully inscribe a protection sigil on the underside of his kitchen table.
“A significant oversimplification,” I reply, finishing the complex symbol with a flourish.
“Valefar and I have been rivals for millennia. The specific incident that triggered this vendetta was my successful acquisition of the Obsidian Territories, which he had been maneuvering to claim for himself.”
“And the Obsidian Territories are…?”
“A particularly desirable region of Hell, rich in soul-energy and strategically valuable.”
Finn nods slowly, processing this. “So basically corporate politics, but in Hell.”
I give him a flat look. “If that simplistic analogy helps you understand, then yes.”
“And now he’s targeting me because…?”
“Because you’re important to me,” I say simply. “And because my apparent choice to remain here with you rather than return to Hell is seen as a weakness he can exploit.”
Finn is quiet for a moment, absently scratching the spot behind his ear where I’ve noticed he touches when thinking deeply.
“Is it?” he finally asks, voice soft. “A weakness?”
I set down my tools, giving him my full attention. “In demonic terms? Yes. Attachment to a mortal is considered a vulnerability.”
His face falls slightly, but I continue before he can respond. “In my personal estimation? No. My connection to you has brought me experiences and… emotions I never accessed in thousands of years of existence. That is not weakness. It’s… expansion.”
The smile that blooms across his face is worth any vulnerability my admission might create. “That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. And I’m including that time you told me my soul probably wouldn’t qualify for the worst parts of Hell.”
“High praise indeed,” I agree solemnly, though my lips twitch with suppressed amusement.
By the evening of the third day, we’ve done everything possible to prepare.
The clinic is closed, patients rescheduled with vague explanations about “facility maintenance.” The apartment is fortified with every protective ward in my considerable knowledge.
Finn has been instructed in basic demonic defense (though I have little faith in the efficacy of a spray bottle filled with blessed water and lemon juice, his contribution to our arsenal).
As midnight approaches—the traditional hour for demonic confrontations—we wait in tense silence in the living room. Finn paces nervously while I remain still, conserving energy, wings fully manifested in preparation for whatever comes.
“Maybe he won’t show,” Finn suggests hopefully, checking his watch for the dozenth time. “Maybe the countdown was a bluff.”
“Valefar does not bluff,” I reply grimly. “He will come.”
As if summoned by my words, the temperature begins to drop, frost forming on the windows despite the summer heat outside. The protective wards flare briefly with blue light, holding but straining against the pressure building in the air.
“He’s here,” I announce unnecessarily, rising to my full height, wings extending to their impressive span.
Finn moves closer to me, shoulders squared despite the fear I can sense radiating from him. “What’s the plan?”
“You stay behind me. I confront him. If things go poorly, you use the escape route we discussed.”
He looks like he wants to argue, but the building pressure in the room suddenly releases with an audible pop as a shimmering distortion appears in the center of the living room.
The portal solidifies, edges burning with green flame, and through it steps Valefar.
Unlike the minions Finn encountered before, Valefar makes no attempt at a human disguise.
He stands nearly as tall as I do, his form similar to mine but with key differences—scales instead of smooth obsidian skin, four horns instead of two, wings resembling those of a decayed bat.
His eyes glow acid green, fixing immediately on me with ancient hatred.
“Morax,” he hisses, voice like grinding metal. “How domestic you’ve become. Playing house with a mortal. Healing small animals. Have you no dignity left?”
I step forward, placing myself firmly between him and Finn. “Valefar. Still making dramatic entrances, I see. Compensating for something?”
His lipless mouth stretches in a parody of a smile. “Always the wit. I’ve missed our repartee while you’ve been… indisposed.”
“Your curse was inventive,” I concede, keeping my tone casual despite the battle-readiness humming through my form. “Though ultimately ineffective.”
“Was it?” Valefar’s gaze shifts to Finn, who stands his ground despite visibly paling. “It seems to have worked perfectly. Look at you—bound to this fragile creature, diminished, weakened by sentiment.”
“If you’re finished with the villain monologue,” I interrupt, “perhaps we could proceed to the part where you state your actual purpose here?”
Valefar circles slowly, testing the boundaries of the wards, which flare warningly at his proximity. “My purpose is simple. I’ve come to offer you a choice, old friend.”
“We are not friends.”
“Old enemy, then,” he amends with a dismissive gesture. “The choice remains: return to Hell with me now, reclaim your territories and legions which—surprisingly—I’ve kept in trust for you, and resume your rightful place… or stay here with your pet human and forfeit everything.”
I narrow my eyes, suspicious. “You preserved my holdings? Why?”
“Victory is meaningless without proper conquest,” Valefar shrugs, the motion sending ripples through his scaled skin. “Claiming abandoned territories lacks… satisfaction.”
“And if I choose to stay?” I press, already knowing the answer.
His expression hardens. “Then I take what’s yours. Starting with him.” He points a clawed finger directly at Finn.
Finn, to his credit, doesn’t flinch. “I’m not property to be taken,” he states firmly. “And Morax makes his own choices.”
Valefar’s attention shifts fully to Finn, his expression a mixture of amusement and disdain. “The mortal speaks as though its opinion matters. How charming.”
“His opinion matters to me,” I growl, wings flaring threateningly. “And he is under my protection.”
“For now,” Valefar concedes. “But for how long? A decade? Two? Mortals are so disappointingly temporary, Morax. Why attach yourself to something with such a limited existence?”
The question strikes at a fear I’ve been carefully avoiding—the inevitable brevity of Finn’s lifespan compared to my eternal existence. But I push the thought aside, focusing on the immediate threat.
“My choices are not your concern,” I reply coldly. “State your terms clearly and be done with it.”
Valefar smiles, clearly sensing he’s struck a nerve.
“My terms are simple. Return with me now, and I’ll leave your human untouched for the remainder of his natural life.
Stay, and I will take him—not his life, that would be too merciful, but his mind, his soul, his very essence.
I’ll keep him as a pet in my collection for eternity. ”
I feel rather than see Finn stiffen behind me.
“Or,” Valefar continues, examining his claws casually, “there is a third option. You could fight me for the right to remain here undisturbed. Winner claims all—your territories, your legions, and the fate of your human pet.”
“Stop calling me a pet,” Finn mutters, though only I can hear him.
I consider the options, calculating probabilities. Returning to Hell means abandoning Finn but ensuring his safety. Staying without fighting means eventually losing him to Valefar’s cruelty. Fighting means risking everything on my ability to defeat a rival whose power nearly matches my own.
“I’ll fight,” I decide, the words emerging with certainty. “Here and now.”
“Morax, no,” Finn protests quietly. “You don’t have to—”
“Yes, I do,” I interrupt, not taking my eyes off Valefar. “Name the terms of combat.”
Valefar’s smile widens, revealing rows of needle-like teeth. “Traditional rules. No weapons beyond our natural capabilities. No outside interference.” His gaze flicks meaningfully to Finn. “First to yield or be incapacitated loses.”
“Agreed,” I nod. “But not here. There’s a vacant warehouse three blocks east. We fight there.”
“Concerned for your human’s furnishings?” Valefar mocks. “How domestic you’ve become.”
“Concerned for unnecessary collateral damage,” I correct. “The warehouse or no deal.”
He considers this, then nods. “Very well. The warehouse. Ten minutes.” With a mocking bow, he steps backward into his portal, which collapses in a shower of green sparks.
The moment he’s gone, Finn grabs my arm. “Are you insane? You can’t fight him!”
“I assure you, I’m quite capable,” I reply, already preparing myself mentally for battle. “I’ve defeated Valefar before.”
“When you were at full power in Hell!” Finn argues. “Not after weeks of helping me spay cats and eating Thai takeout on the couch!”
Despite the gravity of the situation, I find myself smiling slightly at his description. “My power is not diminished by proximity to neutered felines or pad thai, Finn.”
“You know what I mean,” he insists, genuine fear in his eyes now. “He set this whole thing up. The curse, finding us—it’s all been leading to this. It’s a trap.”
“Undoubtedly,” I agree, placing my hands on his shoulders. “But it’s a trap I must walk into regardless. The alternatives are unacceptable.”
Finn searches my face, his own expression a complex mixture of fear, frustration, and something deeper I’m still learning to name. “There has to be another way.”
“If there were, I would take it,” I say softly. “I have no desire to risk what we have built here.”
He’s quiet for a moment, then straightens his shoulders with sudden determination. “Take me with you.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Yes,” he insists. “He said no outside interference, but he didn’t say no witnesses. I’m coming with you.”
I open my mouth to refuse again, but the stubborn set of his jaw tells me this is an argument I won’t win. “You will stay completely out of the fight,” I stipulate. “No matter what happens. Promise me.”
“I promise to stay out of the fight unless you’re actually about to die,” he counters. “That’s the best you’re getting.”
I growl in frustration but recognize it’s the most concession I’ll receive. “Fine. But you stay by the door, ready to run if necessary.”