“Because it’s a nonissue.” I finish my food and get up to take my plate to the sink. “He showed up when I went to my mom’s crypt, insulted me, called me incompetent, and then flipped me off and vanished. I haven’t seen him since.”
Rowan laughs. “Wow. Just another layer of shitty heaped on you.”
I wave the sympathy away. “Nah, I learned long ago that I don’t need people in my life who aren’t pulling for me. I certainly don’t need a mouthy little demon asshole that doesn’t want to be there.”
Wylder closes his notebook looking annoyed. “You’ve got a demon familiar?”
My attention shifts from rinsing my plate to meeting the curious gaze of my tutor. “Yeah, why? Is that weird? My lawyer made it sound like it was business as usual.”
Wylder shrugs. “Yeah, that might be true. Witches can get assigned familiars from any number of magical sources: demons, fairies, mythologicals, elementals, celestials, spirit-kin… It usually comes down to matching personalities with energies and affinities.”
My noodles sink heavily into my belly. “And I got assigned a demon.”
He frowns. “Maybe it’s a spirit affinity thing, or maybe it’s because of your demon mark. I can’t say why, but those whoare granted a familiar gain significant advantages. They amplify power, provide magical insight, and act as anchors during complex spellwork.”
“Well, mine’s useless then,” I say flatly.
“He’s not useless,” Wylder corrects. “He’s being willfully resistant. There’s a difference.”
Rowan reaches back into the hood of her oversized sweatshirt and pulls out a small, leathery creature with folded wings and sleepy eyes. “Meet Nox.”
The bat yawns, showing tiny fangs, then blinks at me lazily before tucking back into Rowan’s hood.
“He mostly sleeps,” she says fondly. “But when I’m out at night and I need him, he’s there.”
I look at Orion. “What about you?”
He shakes his head. “My shifter genes are dominant. Familiars won’t bond with me. They read me as a predator, not a partner.”
My attention shifts to Wylder.
He shakes his head as well. “My family has a guiding patronus instead. It’s a different tradition, but with the same concept. A spiritual ally.”
I slump back against the couch. “And I got stuck with a sarcastic demon who hates me.”
“He doesn’t hate you,” Wylder says. “He’s likely just pissed that he’s bound to a witch, and it has very little to do with you. Still, letting him blow you off isn’t acceptable.”
I shrug. “How do I make him show up?”
Wylder stands, crosses to a shelf and pulls out a small, flat stone etched with runes. He hands it to me. “This is a focus rune. It’ll stabilize a witch’s channeling and make a summons harder to ignore.”
I turn the stone over in my palm. It’s warm, thrumming faintly. “A summons? So, that’s it? I just call him?”
“Pretty much.”
I take a breath, closing my fingers around the rune. “Okay, magic, play nice.”
I let the energy gather, not forcing it, just guiding it. The rune warms first, then hums, vibrating against my palm. Threads of power snake outward, brushing the edge of my awareness. The air thickens, charged with my intention. The rune is listening now, waiting to see what I’ll do with it.
“S’Nark, you’re my familiar, and you need to be here.”
The stone flares bright red in my hand, so hot I almost drop it. Then it cracks in two with a sharpsnap, smoke curling upward in lazy spirals. The smoke thickens, coalescing into a small, horned shape with glowing yellow eyes.
Blue flame licks the edges of the manifestation, and then a small gremlin thing with leathery skin and floppy ears appears in a swirl of sulfur. He bears no resemblance to the glowing blue cat I first met, but the moment it opens its mouth, I know it’s him.
“Ugh. For the love of crotch rot, you’ve got some nerve, witchlette.” His voice is slurred, each word dragging like he’s been sampling the whiskey in the underworld. “You summoned me during happy hour?”
I blink. “Are you drunk?”
