5. Chapter 5
Evie
The bath is perfect until my fingers turn into prunes somewhere around refill number three.
My hair hangs in wet, dark ropes down my back, and I work leave-in conditioner through it on autopilot, the lavender scent filling the small space.
Daisy gave me this bottle last Christmas with a lecture about self-care.
My sister genuinely believes wellness comes in packages with minimalist labels and costs forty dollars.
I pull on the orange silk pajama set she also forced on me during one of her intervention shopping trips. The shorts are too short and the color too bright, but they’re comfortable, and no one’s here to see me anyway.
The cottage feels smaller at night. Shadows pool between my mismatched furniture: the mustard yellow armchair I rescued from a yard sale, the teal bookshelf sagging under paperback weight, the constellation of framed pressed flowers covering my eastern wall.
The hardwood floors cool my bare feet as I pad into the living room, my toes catching on the uneven board that always creaks beyond the hallway threshold.
Marmalade has claimed his spot in front of the cat Ouija board, batting the planchette around with intense focus.
“Still playing with your demonic party game?” I crouch beside him, my silk shorts riding up uncomfortably.
He rolls onto his back, exposing his belly. It’s obviously a trap, but I fall for it anyway. His teeth close around my wrist the second I touch fur.
“You’re the worst,” I tell him, not pulling away. He purrs in agreement, his body vibrating against my fingertips as he maintains his gentle grip.
My stomach growls, and Marmalade’s ears twitch. The clock on my wall says it’s nine, which explains the complaint.
The kitchen still smells of lemon bars when I walk in. I fill the kettle, grab my favorite mug, and wait for the water to boil.
Something thumps in the living room.
“Marmalade, if you’re destroying my plants again, we’re having words.”
The kettle starts to whistle. I pour hot water over a tea bag, add honey, and stir.
More sounds from the other room. “If you’re stuck again, you’re on your own.”
I grab my mug and head back with a lecture ready, but every word disappears when I round the corner.
There’s a man in my house.
Crouched on my living room floor.
Petting my cat.
Rather than freaking out, running for my life, or doing anything remotely sensible, my wine-sluggish brain fixates on his hands. Long, graceful fingers giving my cat what appears to be a professional-grade ear scratch.
I let my eyes drift upward and instantly regret it. He’s attractive. Messy-curls-and-good-jawline hot. The kind I’d look twice at under literally any other circumstances. Wire-framed glasses sit crooked on his nose.
Then he opens his mouth.
“You’re really good at this.” His voice is low and a little uncertain, and he’s still scratching Marmalade’s ears. “Though I’m not sure Hell will take a bargain with a cat.”
Great. The hot stranger is also crazy.
He looks up and our eyes meet. The mug crashes to the floor, and I scream.
The stranger jerks backward so fast his legs tangle and he goes down hard. He’s six-two at least, sprawled across my floor looking startled.
Marmalade scrambles away, claws clicking, then sits down to wash his paw as if none of this concerns him.
The man stares at me with eyes that are violet-tinged in the lamplight. The rest of him looks normal. Nothing that screams deranged intruder.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” One hand goes to the back of his neck, an awkwardly human gesture for someone currently starring in my home-invasion nightmare. “But technically, you summoned me, so I thought you’d be expecting someone.”
He winces and looks away.
“No. Let me start over.” He runs his hand through his hair, making it stick up in soft dark waves. “I’m supposed to introduce myself first. I always skip that part.”
“Get out.” My voice is thin and hoarse, adrenaline prickling across my skin. “Get the fuck out of my house right now.”
“I know how this looks. But the summoning created a binding tether, which technically means I’m here by invitation.” He pauses, those strange violet eyes searching my face. “That’s not making this better, is it?”
This is the opening segment of one of those true-crime shows Daisy listens to while she does her skincare routine. The ones where the host’s voice drops to a whisper right before describing what the killer did next.
“I don’t have an agreement with you!” The words rise to a shriek and I back toward the kitchen. “I don’t know who you are or how you got in here, but if you don’t leave right now, I’m calling the police.”
He blinks, genuinely confused. “The police can’t undo a summoning. That’s not how this works.”
I fumble behind me until my fingers close around something solid on the counter. I swing it up between us.
“Stay back. I have a weapon.”
The statement would be more effective if I wasn’t holding something I use to make pie crust.
“A rolling pin.” His gaze shifts from it to me, eyes widening. “Are you going to hit me with that?”
It trembles in my grip and I squeeze harder, trying to steady it. I couldn’t actually hit someone. The thought alone makes my stomach turn. The closest I’ve come to violence is smashing spiders, and I feel guilty about that for days, apologizing to their tiny corpses as I flush them.
But he doesn’t need to know that.
His shoulders loosen, and I hate the suspicion that he’s figured out I’m bluffing.
“You need to leave. Now.” This time, my voice holds steady.
“I can’t leave. Believe me, I would if I could. But the summoning binds me to the mortal realm until we make a deal. Hell tracks this stuff. It’s not optional.”
“You’re insane.”
I lunge for my phone on the side table, fingers closing around it as he moves toward me. The screen lights up my palm.
“Wait—” He freezes when I flinch back, my spine hitting the wall. “I’m not going to hurt you. I just need to explain.” He retreats instead, hands raised in surrender. “Sorry. I’ll stay over here.”
“Get out before I hit you with this!” The rolling pin is ridiculous in my hand, but I raise it higher.
“Please don’t.” He backs up fast and trips over his own feet, catching himself on my couch with an awkward scramble. “You could hurt yourself, and that would be my fault.”
I advance on him anyway, every instinct screaming at me to look bigger, more threatening.
“This all makes sense, if you let me explain.” He’s still backing toward the door. “Hell’s HR updated the guidelines last year. Added a whole section on positive first impressions, which I’m clearly failing at.”
“Stop saying Hell is real!”
“But it is real, and extensively documented. The organizational structure spans multiple departments, with distinct hierarchies.”
His gaze drops, then snaps back to my face. Red floods his face, spreading across his cheekbones and down his neck.
“Are you serious right now?” Oh God. He’s noticed what I’m wearing. Or, more accurately, how little of me it covers. My bare legs are fully on display, and the silk camisole has ridden up to show a strip of stomach.
“No!” He whips around so fast I hear his neck crack and his glasses go sideways on his face. His hand shoots up to correct them. “Sorry. I wasn’t . . . I didn’t mean to . . . I’m going to look at your bookshelf.”
Marmalade saunters between us, tail high. He winds around the stranger’s legs, purring so loudly I can hear it from where I stand.
“See?” He gestures down. “Your cat knows I’m safe. They can sense danger. He wouldn’t be this comfortable if I were going to hurt you.”
“My cat is an idiot who would cuddle a serial killer for chin scratches.”
“That’s harsh.” His mouth falls open a little. “He’s the one who summoned me. He knew exactly what he was doing.”
“Marmalade summoned you?” The rolling pin lowers another inch.
“Yes!” He turns to me, careful to keep his eyes on my face. “The Ouija board activated Hell’s summoning network and initiated my transfer.”
I stare at Marmalade.
“Cats can’t summon demons.”
“Yours did,” he shrugs.
“Demons aren’t real!”
“Then explain how I got here.”
“You broke in! Normal home invasion!”
“How?” He sounds puzzled. “I’m not trying to argue. I’m asking what you think happened.”
I search for a rational explanation. There should’ve been breaking glass, splintering wood, something.
“Window,” I say, but my conviction is fading. “You climbed through a window.”
“They’re all latched from the inside. I could check them with you, but I don’t imagine you want me walking around your house right now.”
“What do you want?”
“To complete a contract and go back to Hell,” he says it like it’s obvious. “But I want the deal to help you, too. Not just take something from you for my benefit.”
“I want you to leave.”
“That works. I can grant that desire. In return, your soul—”
“My what?”
“Your soul.” He enunciates each syllable. “That’s what demon contracts are. I grant your desire, you sign an agreement. After that, it becomes Hell’s property.”
Right. Because he thinks he’s an actual demon. Or he’s playing some elaborate game before he murders me.
“Perfect. Yes. Take it.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “You’re agreeing?”
“Absolutely. My soul. It’s yours. Sold.” I’m running on pure exhaustion now, the adrenaline crash making my limbs heavy. “Write up your demon paperwork and I’ll sign it. Blood signature, normal signature, whatever you need. Just leave after.”
“You need to understand what you’re agreeing to.”
“I understand that you think you’re a demon, you think souls are real and, honestly? I don’t care anymore. If signing your fake contract makes you leave, I’ll sign it. My soul for your departure. Deal.”
“But—”
“DEAL. Done. Agreed. Contracted. Whatever word you need to hear.”
His hopeful expression falls. “You think this is fake.”
“Of course I think it’s fake!”
“Then I can’t accept it.” He shakes his head, curls bouncing with the movement. “You’re only saying yes because you think I’m dangerous. I won’t take your soul like this. It would be wrong.”
A demon with ethics. Perfect.
“Get out.” The anger is gone now, leaving only bone-deep weariness. “Please, just leave.”
“Can we talk about this tomorrow? When you’ve had time to think—”
“No.”
“But—”
“No more talking! Leave my house. I’m calling the police.” I wave my phone.
“Okay.” For once, he stops arguing. “I’ll go. But the summoning still stands. I can’t undo it because you want me to.”
“Don’t come back.”
“I’m not sure I have a choice in that.”
“Out.”
He backs toward the door, and Marmalade follows at his heels, purring and rubbing against his legs until the retreat becomes absurdly awkward.
“I’m sorry,” he says, reaching for the doorknob.
“Goodbye.”
“Right. Leaving.” He opens the door, then pauses. The night air rushes in, raising goosebumps along my arms. “Your place is really nice. The alphabetized spice rack is very impressive.”
I slam the door in his face.
The lock catches with a solid click. I lean against the door and press my forehead to the cool wood. The rolling pin slips from my fingers and hits the floor with a hollow thud.
Marmalade sits by the door and meows, looking up at me with accusation in his green eyes. I dial the police.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“I need to report a break-in.” My voice cracks on the last word and I hate it.
I sink onto the sofa, pulling Marmalade into my lap.
He presses against my collarbone and purrs, and I cling to that sound, because it’s the only thing in this room that makes sense right now.
“A man was in my house. He left, but . . . can you send someone?”
She confirms my address and that I’m safe, then moves into the details. I answer while staring at the spot on my floor where the stranger had sat cross-legged, petting my cat.
“Is there any sign of forced entry?”
“Of course,” I say, sharp and automatic. Then the certainty falters. “Let me check.”
I go from room to room. Kitchen window. Locked. Bathroom. Locked. Bedroom. Locked. Back door with the chain still drawn across it, the way I left it. I stand in my small hallway with all the locks accounted for and no answer for how this man appeared in the middle of my living room.
“I can’t find anything,” I tell the dispatcher. “Everything’s locked.”
“That’s alright. Officers are on their way, okay? Stay on the line. I have a couple more questions.”
I sit back on the couch and pull my knees up as Marmalade rearranges himself against my shins.
He was a man. That’s all. A tall, unhinged man, with bad boundaries .
. . and a conviction that my cat summoned him from Hell.
People believe stranger things. Alien abductions.
Government chips planted in their fillings.
Mercury retrograde crashing their car. He was one of those people. Harmless and delusional.
Years from now, this will be funny. I’ll turn it into a story with a punchline and good timing. Everyone will lose it at the rolling pin part.
The dispatcher asks me to walk her through everything again, and by the time I finish, I can’t tell which one of us thinks I’ve lost my mind more.