Page 19 of When I Accidentally Summoned a Demon

And when I rise, when I lift her into my arms and push my head at her entrance, she only tightens the grip of her thighs around my waist.

So, I press her harder against the wet tile, my mouth finding hers. The taste of her is an intoxicating drug, sweeter than sin itself. Her hands tangle in my wet hair, pulling me closer as I sink inside her until I can go no further, burying every inch inside, filling her.

Her head falls back. She gives me her throat, urging me to bite and give her my venom. Her sweet whimpers, our ragged breaths, and the wet slap of skin make a symphony.

I take her hard. With every thrust, she cries my name, shattering around me as I pour my essence into her.

Afterward, as the steam clears and my mind slowly reassembles itself, we step out. Vesper changes into a becoming outfit. Too becoming: distressed jeggings, as she calls them. They fit snugly, accentuating every curve. And her shirt is white and hangs loose, one shoulder bared. Her skin is luminous. Her whole body screams confidence, allure, and joy. A joy she seems to wear more after our coital relations.

Rummaging through her closet, Vesper seeks something to cover my nakedness. She tosses me a pair of oversized, worn gray garments.

“These are some old sweats from my ex, and a big hoodie,” she says, looking me up and down. “They’ll work until we find you something more permanent.”

I pull the fabric over my head, inhaling. It smells faintly of something old and stale, quickly overpowered by Vesper’s lingering, divine scent. “What is the meaning of this term… ‘ex’?” I inquire, testing the strange human word on my tongue.

She pauses, a brief shadow crossing her features. “I’ll explain later. Or you’ll find out on your own.”

It is a cryptic answer, but I do not press. Not when she is already moving on to her next task. She examines a stack of folded white papers on her dresser and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Goddamn bill collectors.”

I understand the implication of the word. We have something similar in hell.

My mouth curves into a grin as I approach her from the side. “Do you wish me to torture them for you, Vesper?”

She flashes me a faint smile, her shoulders lifting. “Tempting, but I’ll be fine. Resilience is my middle name.”

I part my lips, but I don’t know what to say to the words. I wish she didn’t need to wear such resilience.

“I’m going to take Bethie for a little walk to the park before work,” she announces. “But I’ll have you stay here. This will be a good test to see how far apart we can be. And you need to do some much-needed reading so you understand my world more.”

I bristle slightly at the thought of being separated from her, but my duty is to obey. In the family room, she scatters an assembly of colorful books at me. They are small and short but hard, betraying the imprint of tiny teeth marks.

“I assume you can read?” she seeks to verify.

I nod. “We must know the Laws of Hell.”

I eye a few books, intrigued by the titles of “Are You My Mother?”, “All About the Weather”, “Goodnight Moon”, and “The Berenstain Bears Forget Their Manners”. How unusual.

She also places a stack of something called “magazines” before me.

Vesper then grabs a small black wand and points it at the television screen. The cartoon equines vanish, replaced by a group of humans sitting in a strangely decorated tavern, laughing at each other’s misfortunes.

“You can watch some pop culture while you’re at it,” she says. “This is FRIENDS.”

She leaves with Bethie shortly after, the front door clicking shut.

I stand in the silence of the rambler, staring at the humans on the screen before turning my gaze to the stacks of knowledge waiting for me in her home. I have much to learn.

9

Vesper

The moment I step off the porch with Bethie on my hip and the diaper bag over my shoulder, I pause at the gate and listen.

No shrill demonic screaming from inside the house. No soul-flaying howl of agony. Just the morning birds and someone’s lawn sprinkler two lots over.

I put Bethie in the stroller and keep walking. It’s about a half-mile to the playground.

One hand on the chain-link gate, one block, then two. Still nothing. No thunder of clawed feet on my porch. No reverb of distress bleeding through whatever invisible thread connects us.