12. Valefar
Valefar
The alert device sounds.
I have formed a working theory: it is a small mechanism embedded near the front entrance that emits a two-tone chime whenever someone presses the button mounted outside the door.
Its purpose appears to be the announcement of visitors.
I find it considerably more civilized than the methods employed in Hell, where visitors are announced primarily by screaming.
I move toward the hallway.
“Wait.”
Vesper steps in front of me. My pulse stutters with her so close.
She has changed; her purple top and black pants manage to say several things, all of them authoritative.
Her curls are pinned most of the way up with something that is either a very decorative stick or a weapon. I have not yet determined which.
“I’ve been meaning to ask. Do you have any demonic ability to cloak yourself? Like camouflage. So no one can see your horns or your tail.”
“You mean a glamour?”
“Yes!” The word comes out with an energy both of eagerness and relief.
I sharpen my attention, considering the concept.
I am a greater demon of the third house. I have walked the Pit for centuries. My visits to earth have been few and rare. I have only glamoured myself a few times. In Hell, the horns are unremarkable. In Hell, the tail is not notable. In Hell, there is no need to blend.
“It has been many years since I walked the earth to require such glamour,” I tell her. “But all demons are born with a masking ability. I will attempt it for you.”
“Great.” She reaches up, takes my jaw in one hand, presses her lips to my cheek, and is already walking toward the front door before I have finished processing the touch of her supple lips.
I project the glamour.
It is a strange sensation—pulling something inward, folding it down the way one might close a very large piece of architecture into a smaller space.
The horns tuck beneath whatever mortal perception ordinarily makes of me.
The tail, more reluctantly, presses flat and translucent against the air.
It does not vanish entirely. I can still feel it.
But it becomes a peripheral thing, a shape which the eye slides past without registering.
I check my reflection in the small mirror near the coat rack. I look approximately like a very large human man with excellent posture and a mildly unsettling quality which I cannot fully eliminate.
It will do.
* * *
Vesper opens the front door, and the young man on the porch comes through it as though the threshold is simply a formality.
“Bethie Bean!” he exclaims.
He is young—late twenties, perhaps, by mortal reckoning—with a warm brown complexion and dark eyes currently occupied entirely by the highchair and its occupant.
He is wearing a shirt of such pink, it could only be intentional, and it reads in large block lettering: DADDY UNIVERSITY.
I make a note to investigate this institution. It sounds suspicious.
Vesper tips her head back and laughs—unguarded, all breath—and the young man is already past her, past any acknowledgment that either of us exists.
To be fair, I still linger in the shadows of the hallway.
He goes directly to the highchair as if he has done this many times and considers it the highest-priority event in the room.
The little beastie is already reaching for him.
Both arms extended, her whole body leaning forward as if she has been separated from this person for an unacceptable length of time and would like that remedied immediately.
She is wiggling so enthusiastically, the highchair makes a small sound of protest.
“Manny! Manny!”
He scoops her out with practiced ease and swings her in a wide arc.
She wraps her arms around his neck and laughs.
It’s a spectacular, full-body laugh, one of the finest sounds mortal life has produced.
She proceeds to make a wet, blowing sound with her tongue halfway out of her mouth.
This Manny imitates her as though it is a game of mimicry.
“I have a full day planned for us, sweetheart.” He kisses her forehead. “Playdough, pompom sorting, dinosaurs, and dance party—woop woop!” He pivots sharply on one foot and executes a brief but emphatic movement. Bethie finds this wonderful. She pats his cheek in encouragement.
It is at this point that I step into the room.
The young man’s movement stops. He turns his head toward me, slow, purposeful, as if he’s recalibrating and processing quite a fair amount.
“I need you,” he says now to Vesper, “to explain to me why there is a six-foot-something sin standing in your living room before I act irresponsibly.”
The words were for Vesper. But all his attention is trained on me.
I look to Vesper. “My Lady,” I say, because this requires addressing, “this man has not abided by the proper social customs. He walked past you without greeting. He has not introduced himself. And—” I study him with careful concern, “—what does he intend when he says irresponsibly? I require clarification on the nature of the irresponsibility being proposed, so I may assess the threat level.”
Vesper presses her fingers to her mouth. Her shoulders are shaking. “Manny,” she says, composing herself, “this is Vale. Vale, this is Manny. He watches Bethie so I can go to work.”
I arch one brow. “Yes. You have referenced work several times. I still do not know what your position is.”
Vesper lifts her fingers to her lips. The grin spreads slowly, like something she is trying very hard to contain and has already lost the battle with. A small sound escapes her, not quite a giggle but entirely incriminating.
“Oh,” she says pleasantly, “you know multiple positions now, Big Guy.”
Manny’s hand goes to his forehead. His knees appear to soften briefly in a controlled downward movement.
“Girrrl.” He slides half a step to his left in her direction. “You have got to warn a queen before you say something like that while I’m holding a child and wearing my good shirt. Dear sweet baby Jesus.”
Bethie, for her part, is unconcerned. She has found the ties of Manny’s lanyard and is chewing them with philosophical calm.
I consider this. “How is this unusual person a queen? Why does he invoke such a name, Ves?”
Manny’s head rotates toward me. Then toward Vesper. His eyes are wider than the mouth of the Pit on a Samhain equinox. As if he just received information and is deciding what to do with it. “He calls you Ves?!” His long, incredulous inhale fills the room.
Vesper kneads her brow with two fingers. “It’s a long story.” She exhales. “Oh, Manny, if you could please keep Bethie inside today. She had a little cough during the night. It seems to have cleared, but just in case.”
She keeps her voice light, her shoulders steady.
I watch her say it. I watch the careful, controlled neutrality of her face, the particular set of her jaw that I am learning to read as I am performing calm for the benefit of others.
Her own glamour, as it were. After what she saw at the park with the man and the hound, I understand the implication.
Keep her close. Keep her safe.
Manny gives a neat salute with two fingers. “You got it. Like I said. Full day planned.” He bounces Bethie once on his hip and addresses her directly. “Right, Precious?”
The little beastie lifts her chin.
“Pwecious,” she announces melodically.
Manny’s head tilts back. “Well, now. You’ve never said that one before.” He regards her with fond bewilderment. “Where did that come from, Bethie Bean?”
Bethie turns. She looks directly at me. Her small arm extends, one pudgy finger outstretched, pointing…to me.
“Pwecious.” She holds her hand open toward me. Waiting.
Something in my chest does the thing I have not yet named. A warm flutter but a tightening at the same time.
I cross the room and take her hand. Her fingers close around one of mine, the grip so small and complete and entirely without reservation.
“Yes, little beastie,” I tell her. “You may call me this, if you wish.”
I hear Vesper make a sound, one I also can’t name, but it is full of emotion.
Manny inclines his head toward Vesper. “You have some ‘splaining to do, girlfriend.”
“I will when we get back.”
“We?” He looks at me. Then at Vesper.
“He’s coming with me today.” She reaches for her keys from the hook near the door. “Come on, Vale. Before Manny starts humping you or something.”
My jaw nearly drops. “That would be quite the opposite of any appropriate social customs.”
Manny splays one hand across his chest. He makes a sound of affront so theatrical that Bethie turns her head to examine his face.
“Me? Perish the thought!” He takes one step backward but winks at me.
It is unsettling, and yet, the playfulness in his expression and demeanor assures me he is harmless. And with how excited Bethie was to see him, how sweet and amused she is by him, I know I have no cause for alarm.
I follow Vesper toward the door.
I watch her, the way she turns back, the way her hand finds the crown of Bethie’s head and ruffles the little curls. The way she leans in and presses her mouth to her daughter’s cheek, while she seems to have made peace with leaving, though it is not easy.
“Momma loves you so much. Be a good girl for Manny, okay?”
Bethie’s arms extend immediately. The little beastie wraps herself around Vesper’s neck, and Vesper holds her—firmly, briefly, and I observe the full weight of it in the line of her shoulders. In the way her eyes close for exactly one second.
It reminds me of the mother bunny who would not let go.
Bethie releases her and turns back to Manny, tucking her small head against the side of his neck, entirely content with the arrangement.
Vesper straightens and walks through the door without looking back, because she has learned the cost of looking back.
I follow her out into the afternoon.
Behind us, I hear Bethie. Not crying. Not calling after her mother. Just a small, tuneless hum, and Manny’s voice walloping cheerfully about the indoor dance party.
The door closes.
Vesper breathes in the cold afternoon air beside me, shoulders settling, keys in hand.
I walk with her.