Page 23 of When I Accidentally Summoned a Demon

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.