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MY DEAL WITH THE DEMON MARQUIS
LEONA WILDE
Hawthorne
“Where is it?”I mutter, my hands frantically pulling at old tomes covered in thick layers of dust. The particles waft into my face, coating it in a grimy sheen. “It has to be here. I know she kept it.”
It’s been three days since Grandmother passed away. Two nights, I swore I could hear her voice in my mind chiding me to come wash up because the dirt caked under my nails was unsightly for her guests. I can still hear her cane rhythmicallytapping and the creaking stairs as I lie in bed, desperately seeking sleep.
She’s gone.
Her love is no longer in this home. The scent of her patchouli and cardamom perfume is confined to a stoppered bottle. It’s no longer lingering in the halls, on her dress or even my skin from a long, warm embrace.
Standing on my tiptoes on an old wooden kitchen chair, I reach for another book as the chair wobbles.The Lesser Key of Solomonhas to be somewhere. It’s a grimoire detailing the seventy-two demons of King Solomon, their summoning rituals, names, ranks, and infernal hierarchy. When the book I pull down turns out to be another cookbook, rage bubbles up in my throat. My hand slams through the row of books, sending them crashing to the floor.
“Damn it all!” The chair teeters, and my body sways unsteadily. My heart leaps—a sensation I thought I could no longer feel after her death. Instinctively, I grab the sides of the shelf to steady myself. The chair rights itself, but not before the second and third rows of books shift, and a candlestick falls, clattering to the floor. Ivory wax drips onto my bare hand, and instead of jerking away, I grit my teeth through the pain, savoring it. I feel deserving of it after?—
Closing my eyes, I inhale deeply. “Please, Grandmother, if your spirit is still here, let me find the grimoire.”
I don’t expect that anything magical will happen the moment I speak. Still, as I stand here, I hold my breath, hoping for some sign—a flicker of the candles, a chilling breath on my neck—anything that might confirm my grandmother’s presence to guide me to the book I desperately hope I find.
Finally, I release the breath I’ve been holding and slowly open my eyes. Then, I see it. The book hangs precariously off the edge of the highest shelf as if placed there just for me to find. Its cover is made of thick blackened leather, crackled and weathered by centuries of age. Even its spine is imposing, adorned with pulsing runes of protection that emit an eerie glow. As I touch it, the book’s dark magic resonates under my palm, thrumming with a life force of its own.
Intricate arcane symbols decorate its edges, and at its center is an ornate sigil that glows in the dim candlelight. It’s a swirling pattern, the meaning of which I can’t decipher. When I trace the raised symbol with my fingers, the sigil responds, shimmering and shifting as if it’s alive.
A surge of excitement buzzes through me, and I leap down from the chair. Opening it here in the tiny, confined space of my grandmother’s study feels too dangerous. I need to tread carefully. I need to ground myself. The greenhouse is the only place I know that feels safe. The magic of the earth will surround me with protection, just like it always has.
I dash through the house, out the back door, and into the garden. The moon casts a silvery glow over the bluebells and butterfly bushes I planted, creating a path to guide me. As I reach the door, the word “safety” echoes in my mind. The sound of the old, rusted door’s rattling glass panes signals my arrival. The scent of soil and herbs, and the sound of serenading crickets wrap around me like a comforting embrace.
I allow myself only a moment to light the rusted oil lamp on the table before turning my attention back to the grimoire inmy hands. Carefully, I open the cover, revealing pages of aged parchment that rustle softly with every turn. Each page holds a meticulously handwritten blood-red script, begging for me to read aloud.
The air fills with the scent of ancient parchment, and something darker, more sinister bubbles beneath it. As I turn each page, I notice the margins filled with hastily scribbled annotations in my grandmother’s shaky handwriting. She’s added descriptions of each demon’s powers, their rankings in the infernal hierarchy, and their preferred title, as if she’s summoned them herself before. She never mentioned it to me if she had.
I thumb quickly through the pages, searching for anything to give me the sign I need, until I feel that instinctual thrum of inner knowing. I know precisely which demon I want to summon: Aamon, the marquis of necromancy and witchcraft. He can help me bring my grandmother’s soul back. With his knowledge, I can expand my own powers and finally protect those I love. Nobody will die again.
In the heart of the grimoire, I find the chapter I need on binding rituals. The incantations are written in a long-forgotten language, but the word’s meaning resonates in my head with a low, haunting hum even before I read them aloud.
Holding this doorway to the underworld in my hands, I question if I should even try. It holds more power than I’ve ever known. Until now, I’ve been confined to crafting herbal remedies, fragrances, and tinctures, while my grandmother’s power held the ability to summon demons. She was a witch to be reckoned with, and somehow she still met with an untimely end at the hands of people who refused to understand her.
I spend the next few minutes gathering the necessary materials, arranging dozens of candles in a precise pattern. Their flames flicker like will-o’-the-wisps, casting shadows against the flowers and glass of the greenhouse, making them dance. I sprinkle herbs and salt to form a protective circle around me and position my best interpretation of the casting seal in front of me on the floor.
In my left hand, I hold my grandmother’s athame, its weight familiar to me. My right hand trembles as I press the blade against my pale skin, slicing through it deliberately. Rivulets of blood dribble down my wrist, and I carefully extend my arm beyond the protective ring of salt, letting the blood drip into the sigil.
With a steadying breath, I chant the incantation. I draw power from the well of magic within me, pulling more energy from the earth beneath my bare feet as a source. The air thickens, and energy crackles through the greenhouse.
The shadows lengthen into a swirling vortex within the circle, pulling them inward. From the void, an imposing and otherworldly figure appears. As the shadows recede, I see him—Aamon, the seventh demon of the Ars Goetia.
Standing seven feet tall, Aamon is more avian than man. His feet are covered in fur as black as the night sky, and constellations seem to shimmer and shift across his skin. He is completely unclothed, his body a display of rippling muscle. His arms end in long talons, and from his broad shoulders sprout four massive white wings, like those of a seraph.
“Who summons me?” His beak-like mouth twists into a scowl as he takes me in, his expression full of disbelief or, more likely, disdain.
I draw more energy from the earth, feeling it hum through me. I urge that grounding force to anchor me against the overwhelming power radiating from him. My heart races as I meet his gaze.
“I did. My name is Hawthorne, but you may call me Thorne.” My voice is steadier than I expect despite the gnawing fear in my gut. “I seek to bargain for my grandmother’s soul to be returned to her body and for the power and knowledge you can share with me.”
Aamon’s golden eyes blaze with curiosity and amusement. “Very well, boy. I accept your offer, but know this…” He pauses, his long, reptilian tongue flicking out of his beak-like mouth, tasting the air. “The price of this power is steep. Few mortals can pay without their body, soul, and mind turning to madness.”
With those words, he extends his hand toward mine. I hesitate as the thought of breaking the protection seal flashes through my mind. But I need this deal.
