It took Seraphina a hot minute to stop treating our resident hellspawn like he had supernatural cooties. Once she figured out that Satan's Hemroid was basically Emily's oversized puppy with separation anxiety—thanks to whatever witchy leash she's got on him—my angel cake finally unclenched enough to stay in the same room without going full "smite first, ask questions later."
However, I can still feel her anxiety buzzing through our bond like a caffeinated hummingbird whenever Braxo's creepy fire eyes drift her way. I can't blame her—the guy looks like he crawled straight out of the Devil's fashion catalog. I tug her into my lap, wrapping around her like the world's most possessive octopus, and bury my face in her neck. Her scent hits me like a shot of pure heaven—all sunshine and cotton candy with just a hint of sass. Take that, demon boy—my girl smells way better than your sulfur-scented ass.
"Well said, Cupcake. However, if Sabrina the Teenage Bitch over here hadn't turned our kitchen into Hogwarts' red-headed stepchild, maybe I'd be able to relax without worrying about tall, dark, and demonic putting his creepy-crawlies all over my shit."
Emily flips me off without even looking up from her book, muttering something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like a curse. Knowing her, she's probably hexing my dick to fall off or something.
"Look! I believe I've found something," Sable announces, her delicate finger tracing ancient text that probably predates electricity. "This particular incantation appears to grant the recipient comprehensive linguistic abilities. Maybe we could use this to help Braxos communicate in a more... conventional manner?"
"Well, it beats playing charades with the Lord of Darkness over here," Emily drawls, eyeing our resident demon like he's a science experiment gone wrong. "Though I gotta say, his confused puppy face every time Lucian opens his mouth is pretty entertaining."
These magical mavens have been buried in that ancient tome for a full day, trying to decode spells that look like someone sneezed alphabet soup onto parchment. I mean, I'm about as magical as a rubber duck, but even I can tell that finding the right spell in that biblical behemoth is like trying to find a specific needle in a stack of identical needles. While blindfolded and drunk.
"Oh, this is quite fascinating," Sable continues, her eyes lighting up. "The spell has roots in ancient Babylonian practices, with elements of early Mediterranean magical theory..."
"Sable," Seraphina cuts in, her angelic voice carrying just enough sass to make me proud, "as absolutely riveting as the magical history lesson is, maybe we should focus on making our houseguest slightly more chatty? Before Lucian has an aneurysm about his comic collection?"
"Hey!" I grumble, squeezing her against me. "For your information, those comics are investments. Unlike some people, I'm planning for my retirement!"
Emily rolls her eyes. "Yes, because clearly, the apocalypse cares about your 401k of superhero memorabilia. Now shut up and let us work, or I'll let Braxos use your precious comics as coloring books."
The demon in question sits there, his eyes bouncing between us like he's watching the world's most confusing tennis match. Poor bastard probably thinks we're all insane. Welcome to the club, buddy.
"Oh, leave him alone," Seraphina giggles, her voice tinkling like bells. "You know how protective Lucian gets over his comic shrine."
"Shrine?" Emily snorts. "More like an altar to his arrested development. Though I gotta say, big guy," she turns to Braxos with a wicked grin, "you've got excellent taste. That limited edition Batman he caught you eyeing? Totally overrated."
"Ex-fucking-scuse you!" I screech, clutching my whiskey bottle like a security blanket. "Don't you dare poison his mind against the Dark Knight! And for your information, that's a first printing, signed by Frank Miller himself!"
"Sparky," Seraphina soothes, trying and failing to hide her amusement, "maybe we should focus on the whole 'saving the world' thing instead of your comic collection?"
"Fine," I grumble, taking a long pull from the bottle. "But if this asshole over there so much as breathes wrong on my mint condition X-Men #1, I'm installing holy water sprinklers."
Braxos blinks at me, probably plotting ways to reorganize my carefully curated comic filing system just to spite me. Demons, man. Can't live with 'em, can't exorcise 'em without Emily throwing a magical hissy fit.
"Damn, maybe I should slap that linguistic mojo on myself," Emily muses, tapping her chin like an evil genius plotting world domination. "Instant Latin fluency, baby! I'd ace my college course so hard. The professor would weep tears of joy."
"Emily." Sable admonishes, her voice carrying that signature blend of sweetness and wisdom that makes me want to puke rainbows. "You know, using magic for personal gain violates the fundamental laws of—"
"Balance, harmony, yadda yadda, I know," Emily grumbles, waving her hand dismissively. "Buzzkill. Fine, let's test drive this bad boy on Mr. Darkness over here. See if we can get him to use his words like a big boy."
Right on cue, Baby Vamp decides to emerge from his basement brooding session like some angsty teenager finally leaving their room. The kid is still deep in his "woe is me, I'm a creature of the night" phase, which, honestly? Been there, done that, got the t-shirt.
But before I can make a crack about his perfect vampire hair—
"What in the actual fuck is THAT?!" Damon shrieks.
Braxos rises to his full nightmare-inducing height and stalks toward Damon like he's spotted his next meal ticket. Oh, hell no, we arenotadding "demon vs. vampire throwdown" to today's agenda.
"Emily!" I snap, already moving to intercept this clusterfuck. "Call off your hellhound before we end up with demon-vampire fusion cuisine!"
Emily's head whips around faster than a possessed Linda Blair. "Desiste, Braxos!" she barks out, her voice carrying that 'don't you dare fuck with me' tone that could probably make Satan himself sit and stay.
Fantastic. Because what this situation needed was another supernatural throwdown with Dani's baby bro. Yeah, no thanks—I've already got enough reasons for my feisty firecracker to want to roast my ass. I am not adding "Let Demon Maul Brother" to that list.
Braxos, ever the obedient little hellhound, slinks back to his seat like a scolded child, leaving Damon standing there looking like he just walked in on a demonic orgy.
"Damon, meet Braxos, Emily's butler," I announce, gesturing to the sulking mass of brimstone and a lousy attitude. "Don't worry, she's got his balls in a vice grip. Metaphorically speaking."
