7. Chapter 7
Zavian (Milo)
I’ve been crouched behind this oak tree for three minutes, staring at Hell’s FIRST CONTACT WITH MORTALS pamphlet before I realize it’s upside down.
This pretty much sums up the night, actually.
The police cruiser pulls into the driveway forty feet away, lights strobing red and blue across garden beds. I flip the pamphlet right-side up. The cover shows a cartoon demon shaking hands with a smiling human under the heading MAKE EVERY SUMMONING COUNT!
The illustrated bastard looks confident. He’s not crouched behind a tree in the dark, having what I’m fairly certain is a panic attack.
I scan the first page.
Approach calmly. I materialized in her living room while she was in the bath.
Identify yourself clearly. I said, “I’m here for your soul” while she threatened me with a rolling pin.
Allow the mortal time to adjust to your presence before discussing contractual obligations. She called the police.
There’s no section for You’ve Already Screwed This Up Beyond Recognition.
The summoning itself is a whole separate problem I haven’t had time to process.
Hell’s system requires conscious intent: a recognized sentient mind deliberately engaging in a ritual.
A cat stepping on a novelty Ouija board doesn’t meet that threshold.
Shouldn’t, anyway. Which means Evie must’ve triggered something first without realizing it, and he just finished the job.
I’d confirm it if the assignment hadn’t locked me into the mortal realm the moment I arrived.
So I’m calling it an anomaly and shelving it next to everything else about tonight I can’t explain.
Another oddity: all I received was her name.
Evie. Two syllables pressed into my consciousness mid-transport, the way the system always delivers target identification.
Except that’s usually the beginning. After that comes location context, psychological profile, vulnerability mapping, and leverage points.
The full operational package that turns a stranger into a winnable negotiation.
This time, all I got was her name. Then silence where the rest of the data should’ve been.
I look back toward the cottage as the officers make their way up the path.
The older man has deep creases around his eyes, and a coffee stain on his uniform shirt that he hasn’t bothered to notice.
He stifles a yawn behind his knuckles. The younger one bounces on the balls of his feet, neck craning to see past the garden gate like he’s hoping for blood spatter or, at minimum, a good story to tell during tomorrow’s shift change.
The front door opens and Evie steps onto the porch.
She’s still wearing those silk pajamas. The ones I’d noticed for half a second before she started screaming. Now, my brain has decided to take a detour from the impending crisis and fully appreciate them.
The pajamas are bright orange and doing absolutely nothing to help me concentrate. The high-cut shorts reveal a generous expanse of her legs, which is impressive, considering she’s probably five-two on a good day.
Her honey-brown hair is loose and messy around her face, still damp in places. She looks nothing like the carefully put-together woman whose cottage I landed in earlier. More exposed somehow, even while she’s standing there trying not to show it.
She shifts her weight, and the silk catches against her hips. My eyes follow before I can stop them. Which is very inappropriate, considering she called the police on me less than ten minutes ago.
Demons are supposed to want things. Desire is literally part of the job description.
I’ve spent decades learning to recognize human longing, to sense what people crave, and to use it.
But I never expected it to feel this strong.
Like a hook behind my ribs, pulling me toward a woman who’d threaten to hit me with another kitchen utensil if she knew I was out here.
I shake my head, trying to clear it. This isn’t helping. I need to remember why I’m here, what I’m supposed to do. But all I can think about is how much I don’t want to be the cause of her fear.
The younger officer starts checking the perimeter, his flashlight beam cutting white across the garden beds, turning each leaf into a small shadow puppet against the soil.
Night air carries crushed rosemary from where his boot caught the side of a plant.
Evie probably uses whatever she grows out here for breakfast every morning.
I’d bet everything has a designated jar, shelf, and harvesting schedule.
Her cottage had been like that, too. Her books were arranged in a perfect gradient from crimson to indigo, without a speck of dust between them. Plants on every windowsill, each one healthy and cared for.
A home built piece by piece, with everything chosen for comfort, warmth, and safety. And I appeared in the middle of it without warning.
The flashlight beam swings closer to where I’m hiding.
I could influence him. It would be easy.
A gentle press against his thoughts. A whispered suggestion that there’s nothing out here worth finding.
It’s what any competent demon would do. Most of us learn before we can walk.
You reach into a mortal’s mind and nudge their attention wherever you want it to go.
I won’t, though. I’ve never liked how it feels on my end. Mortal minds resist for a split second before the influence takes hold, and that split second has never stopped bothering me.
Which leaves me with plan B: crawling into the hedgerow along the garden fence and hoping for the best.
Branches press into my back and sides as I flatten myself into the densest section, my knees drawn up to my chest. A thorn has latched onto my sleeve and refuses to let go, while damp soil soaks through the knees of my pants.
A small centipede just walked across my hand.
A twig snaps under my knee, and I freeze.
I’m a demon of Hell crouching in a hedgerow. My father would disown me. He might anyway, but this would accelerate the timeline.
The flashlight beam swings toward me, and a growl erupts near ground level.
“Hey, buddy.”
Through a gap in the branches, I can see the same cat from before. He’s positioned himself directly in the path between me and the approaching officer.
What is he doing? Is he trying to get me caught? Is this some twisted form of feline revenge for invading his owner’s house?
The officer smiles and crouches down, making kissing noises. “Come here, kitty. Aren’t you a handsome boy?”
The cat’s ears flatten, tail puffing to roughly three times its normal size, and the sound that comes out of him is less cat and more demon from the deepest pit of Hell, which I’m qualified to evaluate.
“Okay, okay. Jeez.” The officer stands and takes a step to the side, his voice laced with surprise.
The cat moves with him, hackles raised, still growling, positioning himself between the officer and me.
“What’s your problem?” He backs safely out of range. “Psycho,” he mutters, and continues his patrol in the opposite direction.
The cat watches him go, his growl finally fading into silence. His ears come forward again and his body relaxes as the threat retreats. Then he turns his head toward the hedge.
At me.
His eyes find mine through branches and leaves. He slow-blinks at me, which I’ve read is a sign of trust in cats. Then, he stands, stretches with the casual arrogance of a creature who faced down a man three times his size, and strolls away with his tail held high.
I stay wedged in the hedgerow until I’m sure the officer isn’t coming back.
Hell has been my entire existence. Torture, violence, the worst of what demons can do to each other. None of it’s ever scared me as much as that cat when he’s angry.
I also don’t understand why he saved me. But I’m grateful. Weirdly, embarrassingly grateful.
The older officer eventually leaves, while the younger one returns to his cruiser out front. Evie goes back inside, and every light in the cottage turns on.
She’ll be in there terrified, wondering if she imagined everything or if the crazy man is coming back.
And tomorrow I have to convince her to talk to me again.
I run through the probability of success. The numbers are not encouraging.