Chapter 7
Ithought I'd be done with my demon by now.
Summoning once was bad, even if I was desperate.
Summoning him a second time might be worse.
But a third time? I'm not counting the instances of accidental summoning.
Those weren't intentional. Tonight, though?
Tonight I'm playing with fire. Except I've been trying to put this desk together for the better part of the day.
With the sun setting, I doubt I'll be able to finish it before midnight, if at all.
All my friends are out of town. They extended the vacation I wasn't invited to. Or maybe this one’s new. They’ve pretty much abandoned the group chat. I don't blame them since it’s a couple's trip, but it still stings.
Watching everyone else in my life move on to the next phase while I'm still here hurts.
While I'm content with my life, sometimes I wish I had what they have.
It was fine when we were all single. We shared our lives, our struggles, our triumphs with each other.
They all have significant others to share with now, and I'm left with no one.
No one but my demon. Except he's not mine.
A demon who doesn't even want to stick around to talk.
We're not friends and I'd do well to remember that.
I'm pretty sure I'm not supposed to be consorting with demons anyway.
Although Mom never said outright we shouldn't.
It was more of an implied thing within the community.
Mom just told me to be careful and think everything through.
It was good advice, though I don't think I'm doing well at adhering to it.
Maybe I’m not content with my life after all.
I huff, throwing down the booklet. They're supposed to be easy directions to follow, but the print is too small and there's a hundred and seventeen steps and thirty-three bags of screws.
Not to mention twenty-three individual pieces of wood.
I'll never figure out how to put this desk together.
I should have paid for the assembly. I couldn't justify paying an extra three hundred dollars when I'd already spent four hundred on the actual furniture.
“This is bullshit,” I mutter, shoving the screwdriver away from me.
I wander into the kitchen and go through the motions of making dinner. It's way later than I wanted, which isn't going to stop me from making spaghetti. I'm still nursing the jar Omen opened for me.
As the scent fills the air, I'm transported to my childhood home. Closing my eyes, I breathe deeply as memories swirl through the air, weaving with the sharp tang of tomatoes and earthy scent of spices. It's just another sign of time passing.
My mother used to spend days with me at her feet while she canned the sauce. My father would waltz in with a basket overflowing with vegetables, a grin plastered on his face. She never got around to teaching me how to do it and every time I’ve tried, something explodes.
When my dinner is ready, I post up at the island and pull the spell book closer to me.
I've been taking my time to read through the whole thing again.
I was obsessed when I was a teenager. Several pages are familiar, but I don't remember even half of it.
Some of the spells are dark and twisted.
I'd never use them regardless of how desperate I was.
Nothing good can come from binding spells or severing emotions.
On the other hand, I might use the protection spell for books.
Regular protection ones are great for my house, but one specifically for books? Yeah, I might use that one.
I scrape the bottom of the bowl for the remnants of the sauce.
The book has a mind of its own and flips back to the demon summoning spell.
The last thing I'm going to do is get Omen back here to put together a desk.
I've already used him more than I planned.
Eventually, I'll end up hailing someone other than him and it'll be… bad.
My mind wanders back to when Omen changed the batteries in the smoke detector.
I tried to keep my eyes off his very naked body.
I did not succeed. Who could blame me, though?
I don't know if all demons are built like he is, but I'm not about to find out.
I could search out another sigil, try my luck with someone else.
Omen's wasn't even one I was searching for.
It just sort of came out when I was doing the chalking. I still haven't washed the floor.
Resting my cheek in my hand, I twirl my fork.
Omen's skin seemed to absorb the light, which only highlighted the silver rods caging his impressive cock.
I'd like to say I didn't wonder what he looked like under the suit after the first time.
I wonder if my thoughts became reality because of magic.
Snorting, I drop my silverware into the bowl.
As if I'm talented enough to influence the clothing choices of a demon.
“I bet you did it on purpose. Didn't you, Omen?” I laugh lightly to myself.
I focus on the book again and flip to the next page. Scanning the text, I wrinkle my nose. “Why would anyone want to brainwash someone?”
“Perhaps to control them, little witch.”
I squeal, jumping up and knocking over my stool. Somehow the bowl ends up flying through the air and clatters across the island, coming to a stop right at the edge. Omen's hand snaps out and catches the fork before the tines sink into his face.
“Jumpy little thing, aren't you?” He smirks as I gape at him.
“What the hell are you doing here? I didn't summon you.” I grab the book, though I don't know what the hell I'm looking for.
He snatches the tome from me and drops it on the island. “You used my name.”
“But…but I…I only said your name. I didn't—” I wave my hands around as if that'll convey anything. “It's not like I actually summoned you.”
He glances away, then back, his black eyes shining in the low light. “Do I really need to teach you everything? I assumed you were adequate at witchy things.”
My blood boils and my stomach flips. Apparently, my face conveys just how much he fucked up.
I'm so fucking sick of everyone telling me I'm not good enough merely because I don't flaunt my skills.
It's why I moved away from my hometown. It was cliquey and toxic and tiny and witchy.
Everyone there is a witch. And everyone competes with one another.
They pushed me out long before I actually left.
I didn't fit in with their way of life. They wanted to use their magic to make their lives better than everyone else’s.
They looked down on anyone who wasn't a witch.
I don't even know why my parents decided to live there.
Especially after it was clear I was a different type of witch than the others—quiet, easy-going, compassionate.
“I am a perfectly competent witch, thank you very much. Just because I don't know all the ins and outs of demons”—I spit the word out like a curse—”doesn't mean I'm not good enough.”
Omen raises an eyebrow before resting his hand on his stomach and bowing slightly. “Apologies, Clara.”
I didn't know what people meant when they said they were speechless, yet here I am. It's as if the words float just out of reach, tantalizing me with their succinct execution.
He smirks, raising a single eyebrow. “Did I break you?”
A shiver rolls down my spine, and I haul my mind out of the gutter before I blurt out something about his cock. “I didn't think demons…you know what? Never mind. Is there something you needed?”
“You didn't think we apologized? Of course we do. Though not often.”
“Why not?” I avoid his eyes as I gather the bowl from the floor and search for my silverware.
“Because we rarely have anything to apologize for.”
The fork appears in front of me, and I snatch it out of the air before scrambling to my feet. “How'd you do that?”
He shrugs, smirking at me. “Magic, little witch. Now why were you summoning me?”
I scowl as I round the island and wash out my dish. “Again, I didn't. So you can go back to wherever you were and do whatever it is demons do.”
“Someone's in a bad mood,” he murmurs in my ear.
Bastard seems to have done a one-eighty. He was curt and dismissive before. Even when he ran Brandon off, he acted like he didn’t want to help me. The whole encounter was awkward and slightly humiliating.
I left for my date with such high hopes.
Was I teasing Omen a little? Sure. He kept giving me mixed signals, though.
He was snapping at me one minute and lusting after me the next.
I'm not entirely great at reading people, especially demons, though.
Just because I thought he wanted me, doesn't mean he actually does.
“I'm fine. Do you need me to send you back then? Or is there something you needed?” I turn around and lean against the counter. I expect him to be right behind me, but he's sitting on my vacated stool. How the hell did he get there? Doesn't matter.
“You realize time works differently in Hell, right? So, you summoning me after a week here was only a few hours in Hell.”
“Well, it's been two weeks now, so how long has it been for you?” I cross my arms and my foot taps in time with my heartbeat.
I'm not in a bad mood per se. I'm just annoyed at the desk.
And at him randomly showing up. I'm embarrassed more than anything.
I threw a damn fork at his head, for fuck's sake.
“About a week.” His finger runs along the spine of the spell book and I swear it shudders.
“The math ain't mathing.”
He smirks. “Of course not. It's Hell.”
He glances over his shoulder and I scramble upright. I'd rather he not see the mess of parts sitting in the living room. I'm perfectly capable of putting together a desk by myself. There are directions and everything. Once I figure out which parts go with each picture, it should be a breeze.
“What do you do in Hell? Torture people?” I blurt out in a bid to pull his attention back to me. He swings around, his brows pulled low.
“What do witches do up here? Burn?”
My nostrils flare as I rein in the rage swirling between us. “You know damn well witches weren't burned. Women were burned. A witch wouldn't be caught in the first place. And I don't appreciate you making light of those events.”
“Perhaps you'd do best not to make light of calling me a torturer, then.”
Part of me wants to roll my eyes. The other is smart and likes my limbs attached to my body. We stare at each other, neither willing to fully back down. We're at an impasse, though I suppose he'll win no matter what. He is a demon, after all.
“I wasn't calling you a torturer. All I know about Hell is it's where bad people go,” I murmur.
“What are you, six?” He shakes his head and mutters, “Bad people.”
“Well, I forgot the word evil. Sue me.”
His face scrunches up, and I swear he looks more human. “What does that mean?”
“Evil? How the hell do you not know the word evil? I'm pretty sure—”
“Sue. Is that a euphemism for fucking?”
I burst out laughing, tension sloughing off of me in waves. Which is exactly what I needed, apparently. I'd love to say I felt shitty because of the desk, but it's more than that. It's life dragging me down. I was content until I summoned a demon. Which seems ridiculous.
I like my life and my house and my job. I don't have any family, but I have friends.
Used to have friends. Until this moment, I didn't realize how much their absence impacted my mood.
And how much I've been obsessing over it.
The push and pull between wanting to be understanding and the loneliness at their absence has me all out of whack.
Omen isn't the solution to my woes, though.
“It's…no. It's not fucking. It's…I don't even know how to describe it. Suing someone is taking them to court and getting money. It's just a phrase.”
He scowls, his jaw clenching. “You humans and your clichés. Most of them don't make sense, anyway.”
“They're clichés for a reason. Mostly because they're true.”
I didn't think I'd be having a philosophical discussion about language tonight, but here we are.
Then again, I never thought I'd have a conversation with a demon.
At least he's clothed this time. This night would have gone a very different way if he wasn’t.
Not that a pair of pants and a t-shirt would stop me.
I shake my head, dispelling the memories and the thoughts.
Lusting after a demon is probably one of those cautions my mother was talking about.
“One in the hand is worth two in the bush? Doesn't make any damn sense and you can't convince me otherwise,” he grumbles.
“That's a proverb. Not a cliché. Not that it matters. I'm sure you have sayings as well.”
His fingers drum against the counter, his eyes taking on a distant look.
After a minute, he snaps his fingers and grins.
The smile transforms his entire face. He really needs to stop it or I'm going to end up lusting after him.
Again. More than I already am. A little crush doesn't need to be acknowledged.
It'll go away if he doesn't keep popping up.
If I could just stop thinking about him and apparently saying his name, it might help.
“Every level has a fiery lining,” he declares.
I tilt my head as my lips twitch. “Is that a joke?”
“Are you laughing?”
“No.” I narrow my eyes.
“Don't you think you'd be laughing if it was a joke?”
I suck in my cheeks, wondering if I should tell him. “Pretty sure your little saying came from humans. Every cloud has a silver lining.”
He's shaking his head before I've finished speaking. “You humans stole it from us. I'm confident.”
We've veered wildly off-topic. He still hasn't said why he's hanging around.
I may have accidentally summoned him, but he didn't need to stay.
He could have poofed back to Hell as soon as he realized I didn't need him.
Heat flashes in my stomach and cascades through my body to settle between my legs. Nope. Don't need him for that either.
“Are you avoiding something? Is that why you're sticking around?”
He glances away, refusing to meet my eyes. “Why would you think that?”
I smirk. Gotcha.