16. Valefar #2
Not children’s books. They are rather…seductive—vivid, detailed, and extraordinarily useful as reference material for the continued worship of my Mistress. Sexy or spicy in her words. I have read two of them. I am now beginning the third.
Judging by the contents of her closet, Vesper appears quite receptive to the concept of bondage. And judging by our previous experimentation, I believe more impact play is warranted and would likely be welcomed.
But as I rise to stretch my legs, with the book in my hand, the temperature in Vesper’s house drops four degrees. I close the book, setting it down.
I know this drop. I recognize the insignia. And I smell the source. Something is here. Something from the Pit is circling her house, testing entryways.
Fuck. These are no ordinary Pit messengers. These are shadow demons.
Ever since September 1st, she’s been applying salt to the doorways. I took it another step and applied the repellent to the window ledges. Salt will slow them. Not stop them. Shadow demons are older than most mortal protective craft, and they know where the seams are.
Every muscle along my back and shoulders pulls taut, my tail rising to full extension, bristling but not fear, nor instinct. No, this is the raw, unfiltered state of a predator recognizing another predator on its ground. Her ground. Our ground.
I move to the kitchen.
I select the largest cast-iron pan from the hanging rack. I fetch the knife displayed in the small, open curio cabinet on the wall—broad, heavy, vintage iron; shadow demons are susceptible to cold iron that the Pit has never fully explained.
And I am a skilled warrior.
The first one comes through the kitchen window without breaking the glass. It seeps through the frame, forming a shape which is not quite a shape, dimensions that suggest a body. To a mortal being, it would resemble the shifting state between a silhouette and a ribbon.
The second comes under the back door, rippling through the salt line with a sound like something tearing. The larger one steps through the wall. I know him.
Skarix.
He has served Lucifer’s enforcement division for longer than most mortal civilizations have existed. He is tall—not as tall as I—and he carries himself with the smugness of a creature who knows he is terrifying.
To me, he is “objectively” terrifying.
He is also standing in Vesper’s kitchen at four in the morning, and she is sleeping precisely twenty-five feet away, and her daughter is one room over. And I have a cast-iron pan and blade.
“Get out,” I command.
Skarix tilts what serves as his head. His voice sounds as if something is scraping against stone. “You cannot run from Lucifer, Valefar. The end of your time is writ. He wants your soul.”
“My soul,” I say with no equivocation, “belongs to another now.” I roll my shoulders back. “Perhaps Lucifer should do his own dirty work instead of sending underlings.” I don’t mention how I don’t want Lucifer within a stone’s throw from Vesper, though I would love to see her throw a stone at him.
Skarix laughs, but it sounds like rot. “Bold words from a corpse on a delay. Your execution was not canceled, Valefar. It was merely interrupted.” His form solidifies slightly, edging toward the counter. “Come quietly, and perhaps the witch keeps her life.”
I bare my teeth. “I am going to give you one last warning, Skarix.” My voice drops to a predatory tone. “I am not the scariest thing in this house. And if you wake the little beastie, nothing will save you from the wrath of my Mistress.”
He lunges. Utter, dark chaos erupts.
The smaller shadow demon hits me from the left with both claws, and the sensation tears through me like fire and ice, excruciating. I swing the pan into the side of its head with a force that rattles my teeth and sends the creature against the main counter, disturbing the fruit bowl. It topples.
I catch the ceramic bowl with my tail before it hits the ground.
The third demon lunges from the right. I bring the knife up in a diagonal arc and open the figure from collarbone to hip. It makes a sound, but I manage to muffle it, given the hour. It staggers back into the pantry door.
The fruit bowl is still in my tail. I set it on the counter.
Skarix circles.
“A great rule exists in this dwelling. An almighty commandment.” I warn him in a harsh whisper. “Thou shalt not wake the offspring.”
Skarix makes his move from behind. His teeth find my left shoulder—a hypersensitive location all shadow demons have been trained to locate. The cold-fire of it flares shock-white and immediate down my arm.
But I do not fall. I stagger back. My shoulder hits the refrigerator. The refrigerator shudders. And on top of it, Vesper’s grandmother’s casserole dish, which I know to be irreplaceable, tilts, tips, and begins its journey toward the floor.
With Skarix’s teeth still in my shoulder, I get my foot under it.
The impact rattles my knee. I grit my teeth. I slide the dish across the kitchen floor and under the protective table.
Then I slam my elbow back into Skarix’s face. He releases. I turn. I hit him with the pan.
Blood drips down my back. More pools on the kitchen floor, which will be hell to clean up. Especially shadow blood.
Two more have come through the wall.
I assess: two fresh shadow demons, Skarix recovering, the knife in my right hand, the pan in my left, the casserole dish safe under the table, all pots accounted for, Bethie still asleep—I can hear her breathing from the house’s own baseline I monitor without deciding to.
I am managing this.
And then, ice-white terror courses through my blood. Vesper stands in the kitchen doorway. In her oversized white shirt, her curls chaotic, her feet bare, and her sharp eyes moving across the kitchen.
I signal her, stabbing my chin to the door. “Go. Take Bethie. Run!”
She turns tail. Good. I return to the two new arrivals, swinging the pan into the first one’s head with enough force, it goes sideways into the cabinets and does not get back up. Then, I drive the knife into the second’s midsection.
Skarix is almost upright again. I turn toward him.
And then, from directly behind me, Vesper’s voice. “Valefar. Get back!”
I do not hesitate. My Mistress has spoken. I lunge sideways toward her, clearing the kitchen, and I land beside her, turning.
My jaw drops. She is holding a large, aggressively yellow plastic gun—the kind she has used during outside sprinkler play. Mostly targeted at me.
With both hands primed and controlled, she points it at Skarix with the focused calm of a woman who knows exactly what she’s doing.
Skarix looks at the water gun. Then at her, his silhouette flaring out.
I gaze at Vesper with a measure of pride, awe, and curiosity. She pulls the trigger.
And Skarix…unleashes an unholy screech.