10. Valefar
Valefar
ONE HOUR EARLIER
Vesper’s dwelling is a bewildering place when she is absent.
Not unpleasant. Simply bewildering.
I have spent the past couple of hours in a state of intense cataloguing. I received her instruction to read as a sacred covenant.
Now, I know a great deal about weather patterns and cloud formations.
I have also matched nearly every object in Goodnight Moon to its counterpart somewhere in Vesper’s dwelling—the great green room is not so different from this one.
The social conduct of manners appeared in the family of large bears whose treehouse I find deeply suspicious, as other texts contradict that a cave is the dwelling place of such creatures.
I sat with the small bird from Are You My Mother?, my nerves nearly fried until the snort returned the feathered offspring to its nest.
And then there was The Runaway Bunny. I have read it four times.
The story is simple: a small rabbit tells its mother that it will run away.
The mother calmly says that she will follow.
Whatever the small rabbit becomes, the mother will become the thing that brings it back.
The rabbit runs through every transformation it can conceive of, and each time, the mother is already there.
At the end, the small rabbit says it might as well stay. The mother offers it a carrot.
I set the book face-up on my knee and regarded the ceiling of Vesper’s dwelling for a few long moments before turning to the television show.
A program about a group of humans who appear to live in an impractically large apartment and spend a great deal of time arguing in a coffee establishment.
I have watched approximately two episodes.
Their difficulties seem solvable. I do not understand why they do not simply communicate more efficiently.
I am still thinking about it—and the bunny—when the door opens.
I am on my feet before the latch has fully turned.
My tail swings quite undignified. Vesper crosses the threshold with Bethie on her hip, the diaper bag over her shoulder, and the cool outdoor air comes in with her—cedar and jasmine and warmth, her warmth.
It settles into my chest like something returning to its correct position, and I take a deep breath.
I did not realize my chest was so tight until this moment.
But something is different.
The line of her jaw is controlled. Her eyes are bright, but not from happiness.
Rather, it’s from holding something she is holding tightly behind them.
She is smiling at Bethie, a true smile, but underneath, something has drawn her shoulders half an inch higher than they were when she left this morning.
She is being careful.
“You will not believe what I have discovered,” I say, because I will not alarm her by telling her I have already noticed.
She blinks. The little beastie blinks. Vesper looks at the books arranged on the cushion, at my tail, and says very mildly, “Hi, Vale.”
I pause. Social ordering. I am still learning.
“Good afternoon, Vesper.” I hold up The Runaway Bunny. “The mother. In this book. She would follow the small rabbit into every form. Every world. She says she will become the wind itself to blow him home.” My voice comes out lower than I intend. “Is transfiguration among the rabbit race possible?”
Something crosses Vesper’s face—quick, like light through water. She sets Bethie on the floor, then turns to me. Eyes sparkling, she stands on her tiptoes, arching her throat.
Picking up on the social cue, I lower my head so she may kiss my cheek. A heat jerks through me, and a muscle in my jaw tugs. My tail swings, naturally curving toward her.
“Not physically possible,” she says, “but it’s a metaphor for how far a mother will go for the child she loves.” She shrugs.
I nod, glancing at Bethie, who has toddled to the shelf.
She grips the corner of the animal book between her gums before I have fully processed her movement. I am across the room in three strides, tail flicking frantically. My hand closes around it gently, but firmly, and her mouth releases it with a small, indignant sound.
“No, no, no, little beastie.” I wag one finger in the manner I have studied Vesper use. Then I turn the book in my hands and smooth my palm deliberately across its cover. “We are gentle with books.” My thumb traces the spine. “This is precious.”
Bethie watches my hand. Her small brow furrows. Then, with grave ceremony, she reaches out one pudgy finger and pats the cover. “Pwecious,” she says.
Something cracks open in my chest. It is not painful, but it is unlike anything I’ve felt. I stare at her—Vesper’s eyes in a smaller face, observing me with complete seriousness—and the corners of my mouth pull wide. “Yes,” I say. “Exactly.” A beat. “Would you like to read?”
She turns and hauls herself onto the couch. I follow and sit beside her. The couch groans. Dismissing it, I open the book across both our laps and begin.
Once I turn the third page of the second book, Bethie stirs, scooting closer.
I lift my brows, surprised as the tiny human nudges herself onto my lap, cuddling against my chest. Another emotion I can’t quite name cracks open inside me.
It is warmer than before—but sharper, too.
A quiet insistence that she belongs here. That she is…mine to guard.
Beyond any doubt, I know if some threat reached for this sweet child with her golden curls, it would have to go through me first.
It is then, on the fifth page, that I feel it. The warmth of being observed. I look up.
Vesper is in the doorway. She has not moved. Her arms are loose, her face soft but not from exhaustion or desire—something quieter. Something that lives beneath the surface. A glassy brightness, which means tears are close, though none have fallen.
I want, very much, to ask what she is feeling.
“Doggy!” Bethie announces, jabbing her finger at the golden retriever.
I turn back at the page. And continue reading.
* * *
Some time later, Vesper installs the highchair beside the couch and turns on the television to the show of colorful equines. She leaves a bowl of dried Cheerios on the tray and disappears toward the kitchen. Cheerios are one of many food-related items I learned of in my studies.
I try to observe the program, but Bethie’s new behavior concerns me. She places a single Cheerio with too-casualness at the tray’s edge. It falls.
I reach down, retrieve it, then replace it. She watches me do this with great curiosity. She drops the second cereal ring. I retrieve it. A third.
While I am hunched over, she drops one directly onto my head. I go very still, my ears pricking up, my tail bristling. Her giggles are spectacular—her whole small body shakes with them.
“Vesper,” I call, maintaining a measured tone, “your offspring is playing an amusing but quite uneventful game.”
Vesper appears from the kitchen doorway and surveys the situation. When Bethie throws another ring on the floor, Vesper approaches the highchair. “Elsbeth.”
Bethie freezes with the immediacy of a creature who understands that undertone.
Vesper taps the tray, shakes her head, and wags her finger. “Be nice to Valefar. This—” she points to the tray, “—clean. Floor—” she points down, “—not clean. No more throwing.”
Bethie holds a single Cheerio over the edge. Watching.
“Don’t,” Vesper warns.
Bethie drops it. Vesper exhales, her expression growing more impatient and irritated.
I look at Bethie. She looks at me. An idea comes to me. Reaching over, I select one Cheerio from the tray and hold it up. “Little beastie. If you throw one more—” I pop one in my mouth, “—I shall eat them all myself.”
Her brows knit together. Her mouth purses. A great internal battle must be occurring in her mind. Then…she grabs an entire fistful and stuffs them into her own mouth.
I grin, an unguarded gesture I didn’t know I possessed, and return my attention to the pink horse. Vesper straightens and sighs.
A satisfied Bethie holds out her chubby hand. This time, she does not drop the Cheerio. She hands it to me. I smile and eat it without comment. She giggles. We have reached an accord.
After a few minutes, I hear Vesper’s voice rise from the kitchen: “What kind of sociopath forgets to put the cheese packet in the box?!”
I rise. I have much experience with sociopaths.
I find her at the stove, glaring into a cardboard box as though it owes her something.
“Would you like me to torture them?” I offer.
She looks up at me. She tips her head back. She laughs. I love her laugh. “No. We don’t torture people over every little inconvenience,” she says, already turning back to the stove. “But I make a mean cheese sauce from scratch, so their mistake is our gain.”
My tail sways. I drift a step closer to the counter. “Can I help?”
She doesn’t hesitate. She points above the refrigerator. “Big container of flour. Very top shelf.”
I reach past her and retrieve it in one motion. She nods toward the black pot hanging near the window. I unhook it before she has to ask.
She glances at me sideways with an expression of approval and pulls a small, brightly illustrated children’s cookbook from the counter beside her elbow. She sets it near me. “This is a good starting place. The highlighted pages are what snacks she likes most.”
I pick it up carefully. It has a cartoon chef on the cover. “Does this mean you wish me to stay long enough to fulfill snack routines?”
She eyes me beneath those sultry lashes. “Maybe.” She says nothing else. I shamefully watch the lovely state of her ass in those jeggings.
After gathering a few cheese assortments, she is whisking now—butter melted, flour worked into a paste, milk poured in a slow, steady stream.
The scent is warm and rich and worlds from anything the Pit ever offered.
I stay close without crowding. I love breathing her in, memorizing the way the midday light from the window traces the line of her jaw, the column of her throat, the place where her pulse moves.
She is still being careful. I can see it in the set of her shoulders even now.
“May I ask you something?” she says, not looking up.
“Anything.” I lean against the fridge.
“Have other demons ever escaped hell? Without a summons. What does Lucifer actually do when one goes missing?”
Her tone is casual, but I can tell it is strained.
Something in me locks into stillness. “It has happened,” I say.
“Rarely.” I watch her profile, noting how she avoids my gaze, her attention fixed on her task.
“Only the most powerful demons can cross the mortal barrier without a rift. Lesser ones cannot breach it at all.”
The whisking slows. “What’s a rift?”
Every muscle in my tail tenses. “A tear in the veil between worlds. The veil has weak points. It thins according to the season. The thinnest point in the calendar is Samhain.”
She stops whisking. “Halloween.” I nod.
The word sits in the kitchen between us like a lit fuse.
Halloween. Samhain. The night the veil pulls itself thin as paper, when every demon in the Pit feels the mortal world close enough to touch.
The night Lucifer would need only the barest expenditure of his considerable power to tear a rift wide open.
If I possess bone marrow, it must be turning to pure ice.
“Why are you asking me this?” My voice comes out more serious than I intend.
She purses her lips, the tension showing in her shoulders. I don’t press. I wait for her to finish making the meal for Bethie. She places a small serving of peas on the tray and brings it to the child, along with a sippy cup of milk.
“There you go, little bug.” Vesper kisses Bethie’s brow, the child fully enthralled by the colorful ponies.
“I’ll tell you,” she says, gesturing toward the bedroom. “But someone’s coming to watch Bethie soon, and I need to get dressed for work. Come with me?”
“Of course.”
A knot of dread coils tight within me. Did she see something of concern on her outdoor voyage? A powerful demon? Could one have tracked my sigil here? Or worse…my ember? The question gnaws on me.
Halloween is five months away. Five months until Lucifer can find me.
And I have no wish to go back.