Chapter 3
Omen's been on my mind more than he should be since he changed the batteries in my smoke detector.
It's like he's infiltrated my thoughts and even my dreams. I blame it on the fact he popped in naked as a jaybird.
Getting his physique and the extra metal he's sporting out of my brain hasn't been easy. It's annoying as shit.
Which is why it's his fault I'm halfway stuck behind my washing machine.
I'm not actually stuck, but it still sucks.
I was distracted when I took off my ring while doing laundry.
If I didn't have Omen on my mind, I would have caught it before it rolled behind the washer.
I didn't want to pull the machine out. Not that it would have helped since it's shoved against the wall in a small room.
I stretch, trying to gain an extra inch. My fingers brush against the metal and a screech leaves me. When I can't get it, I slam my fist into the washer with a yell.
“Fuck you. Dammit all to hell. Just give me a fucking break, please?”
I let out a choked sob as my chest heaves. I reach for it again, my muscles straining with the effort to reach my ring. An exasperated huff leaves me as the blood rushes to my head. I'm getting dizzy, but I refused to give up.
“Damn you, Omen,” I whisper.
The edge of the machine digs into my stomach and I wiggle my body. If I go too far, I'll end up dying back here.
“Troubles, little witch?”
I jolt, smacking the back of my head against the wall. At least I didn't squeal like I usually do. I'm starting to think he enjoys jump-scaring me. I don't understand how he's here.
I wiggle again, trying to get out. The last thing I need is to have my ass in the air while a demon stands behind me.
He's probably laughing at me. Or he's already left.
Can he leave? I have no idea how any of this works.
I really didn't think any of this through and I'm starting to wonder if I lost everything my mother taught me.
Magic has a price. Use the book with caution.
Demons aren't friends. Witches stick together.
Other than not making Omen my friend, I'm doing a bang-up job.
If Omen keeps materializing without warning, I might be breaking that rule, too.
Then again, he doesn't seem to want anything more than to do whatever I've summoned him for.
“While I'd love to sit here and watch you twerk your way out of this mess, I'm just going to…”
His hands wrap around my waist and his thumbs press into my ass.
I let out a squeal, all my dignity coming out with it.
I shouldn't care, but I do. For some reason, I want him to respect me.
This is definitely not going to earn me a lick of admiration.
I scoff as my palms slip against the washing machine.
What I wouldn't give for one damn handhold.
Actually, if I'm wishing for things, I wouldn't be in this position in the first place.
Omen picks me up and my head scrapes against the wall.
An oof leaves me as my back hits his chest. At least he's clothed this time.
His arms wrap around me and he swings around.
Before I have a chance to protest, much less savor the pseudo hug, he drops me on my feet.
I stumble and catch myself before I faceplant.
By the time I turn, he's already leaning over the washing machine.
“This what you're looking for?” he asks, holding up my ring.
I snatch it out of his hand and scowl at it. “Thank you.”
He grips my chin and forces my eyes to his. “It's customary to look someone in the eye when you thank them. And possibly not look like you're going to bite their head off.”
A shiver rolls through me, though I attempt to suppress it. His nostrils flare and he steps back, releasing me. I swallow hard, unable to pull my gaze from his. His eyes flash red and he glances away, breaking our connection.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
He clears his throat. “Why the fuck are you—never mind. What the hell is this thing?” He points at the washing machine.
“Uh, it's a washing machine. It cleans my clothes,” I say, and he raises an eyebrow. “Wait. How do you know what twerking is, but not a washer?”
“Is a washer and a washing machine the same thing?”
I throw my hands up and spin around. I don't really know where I'm going or how to get rid of him.
After he changed the batteries, he just sort of poofed out of existence.
I assumed he could leave whenever he wanted.
Throwing him out seems rude, but I'm in a pissy mood. I shouldn't take it out on him.
His footsteps follow me, and it takes everything in me not to confront him or even glance over my shoulder.
I make my way to the living room and swallow a groan.
I hurry forward and gather the clean laundry scattered on my couch.
I spin around, my arms full of shirts, pants, and my unmentionables.
His gaze dips down and I swear his nose twitches along with his lip.
If he laughs at me, I'm going to lose it.
I don't know what that looks like yet. Either I'll yell at him or burst into tears.
“Sorry. Uh, why are you here?”
“Because you were stuck behind a rinser machine.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Washing machine or just washer. How do you know about twerking?”
“Dimi—another demon told me. He's not great at it, though he took great pleasure in showing me.”
I nod, not entirely sure what to say. An image of Omen bouncing his ass to a song with a heavy beat flashes through my head. There's no way he'd do something like that. He's much too grumpy for that.
“Did you try to do it?” The question slips out before I can stop myself.
He slowly shakes his head. “You're imagining me twerking, aren't you?”
“What? No.” I spin around and drop my clothes on the couch. “Well, you saved me from a humiliating death. Thanks. Anything else?”
“Actually, yes.”
I face him and plant my fists on my hips. “Let's hear it then.”
He tilts his head. Fuck, I hate being mean.
Even to a demon. Being confrontational isn't my style either.
I'm more of a “bow out and pretend we grew apart” kind of person.
Which doesn't even make sense since I'm rarely the one who leaves.
Lately, my friends have been pulling away and I'm realizing I might be the throwaway friend.
“Well?” I prompt, then press my lips together.
He narrows his eyes. “Potato.” He says it so seriously, I don't know how to react.
“Are you asking what potatoes are? Or do you want a potato? You're going to need to give me a little more.”
“Dimi—someone said to bring back cooked potatoes since he knew I was coming topside.”
“There a reason you—you know what? Never mind. Doesn't matter. What kind of potatoes?”
If he doesn't want to tell me about his life or his friends, that's perfectly fine. It's not like I'm going to share all my deep, dark secrets with him, either. It's annoying he won't even tell me his friend's name, which is clearly Dimitri.
He winces and moves his shoulders like he's shying away from pain. When he notices me watching him, his face goes blank.
“Potatoes are potatoes, aren't they?” he finally asks.
I pull in a deep breath, then blow it out slowly. “There are over four thousand different varieties of potatoes. Not to mention hundreds of different ways to cook all of the edible ones. So, technically potatoes are potatoes, but you're going to have to be more specific.”
His mouth drops open, then snaps shut. It's such a human expression I almost laugh.
“Just name some things off and I'll tell you if it's right.”
He glares at me as if I've done something wrong.
I'm about to refuse when I remember I summoned him to open a jar of sauce for me.
It's such a ridiculous request and he could have made things a lot harder than he did.
Demons are known for fucking with those who summon them.
At least that's what I've been told. Who knows if I was being fucked with or not when I summoned him? Certainly not me. Maybe that’s why he just randomly showed up.
“This is ridiculous,” I mumble, then sigh. “French fries, mashed potatoes, smashed potatoes, perogies, colcannon…”
He snaps his fingers and shadows swirl around his hand. “Fries. That's what he wanted. Do you have one?”
“Not on me. I might have some in the freezer.” If he wasn't a demon and I wasn't a witch, this would probably be the weirdest conversation I've ever had.
I skirt around him and make my way through the dining room and to the kitchen. It's not until I'm rummaging around the freezer I realize he followed me. Once I find the bag, I straighten and begin prepping them for the oven. I avoid his eyes, though I can feel them tracking me around the kitchen.
“Did you know until recently it was illegal to carry more than fifty kilograms of potatoes in your car in Australia?” I peek at him from the corner of my eye and catch him shuddering. “Something wrong with the metric system?”
“Very funny, little witch. I'm not a fan of Australia.”
“Why not?”
His face turns stony and I duck my head, focusing on spreading the fries out.
The silence stretches on forever. I shouldn't have asked and I definitely should resist the urge to ramble, which is exactly what I did with the random fact about Australia.
I've never even been there. He doesn't want to chitchat or be friends.
He doesn't want to share witty anecdotes or gossip over tea.
He's a demon. I'm a witch. This is merely business… over fries and spaghetti sauce.
The oven beeps and I slide the tray inside, my mind still arguing with itself over whether or not to fill the silence between us with inconsequential words.
“Spiders,” he spits out.
I jolt at his outburst. I barely get my arm out of the way before the oven door slams shut. Tingles run up my hands and I heave out a heavy breath.
“Spiders?”
“They're not my favorite.”
“Pretty sure every continent has spiders. Wait, does Hell not have spiders?”
I lean against the counter and finally look at him—really look at him. Past the horns and his silver hair. Beyond the red skin with the black tattoos. Are they tattoos? My body sways toward him, my fingers itching to trace them.
I shake my head and snap out of it. Why was I staring at him? Oh, yeah. It's because of the look in his dark eyes. The ones that occasionally flash reddish orange for no apparent reason. I can't quite place what emotion swims in their depths, but it's important. I can feel it in my bones.
His lips twitch. “First of all, spiders have too many legs. Second, we do not have spiders in Hell. The animals down there are…different.”
I cross my arms. “Oh, I've seen the drawings.”
“Witch drawings.” He wrinkles his nose.
“I mean, there's some in the book.” I point at the heavy soul-sucking tome back on the shelf next to my mom's recipe book.
The timer goes off and I set about dealing with the fries. Once I have them in a container, I set it in front of him. I don't know how he'll transport them or if they'll still be hot once they get there. His jaw twitches as he stares at the fries.
“Do you want dip?” I whisper.
“I don't know what dip is. I don't need it.” He shoves to his feet and the stool wobbles. “Do you need anything else?”
I shake my head. I didn't summon him in the first place so I don't know what else I could possibly need.
My new desk is being delivered soon, but I'm determined to put it together myself.
I swore I would stop calling on Omen for things.
Relying on him, a demon, will only end in disaster.
He'll just end up leaving, too, and I'll be left to pick up the pieces of my shattered life alone.
He vanishes in a swirl of smoke, leaving only a whiff of sulfur and cinnamon behind.