“Do demons have spouses?” Ramona asked, going very still.
“No,” Zara said.
“Oh,” Ramona said, and she didn’t know why she felt a pang of disappointment. Maybe it was just the intense and stoic loneliness that Zara exuded when talking about the demon realm. “Demons don’t have any romantic connections?”
Zara raised one eyebrow. “Mortal, are you asking me if demons fuck?”
Ramona nearly laughed from surprise at Zara’s bluntness. She shifted her weight and attempted something eloquent. Instead, what came out of her mouth was, “Oh, uh, I mean, that’s none of my business, I’m just curious, I only?—”
“Of course we fuck. Such things don’t require romantic connection, though,” Zara said as formally as if she were explaining Hell’s highway system.
Ramona turned back to the window, pulling the curtain open again and setting her jaw in an attempt not to combust in mortification.
The fox was still there. Still watching.
Ramona cleared her throat, trying to steer the conversation back to safer waters. “Why is this thing screaming my name, then?” she asked.
“As far as I know, that’s how it starts.” Zara moved closer to the window, studying the fox with careful intensity. “A familiar choosing you. You’re being called, Mortal.”
“I don’t want it.” The words came out sharper than intended.
“That’s not really how it works. When you’re chosen, you’re chosen.”
“Well, I’m un-choosing.” Ramona let the curtain fall, cutting off the fox’s unblinking stare. “I’m good. I don’t need a familiar.”
“Every witch needs a familiar.”
“I’m not a?—”
“Youarea witch,” Zara repeated, like Ramona hadn’t heard her.
“I’m really not. I’m a retail worker.” Ramona crossed back to her bed, climbing under the covers with more force than necessary. “I sell fake sage to tourists. I don’t need a magical companion for that. And certainly not a fucking fox. Why can it never be something easy to explain to the non-mages, like a purse Pomeranian?”
Zara was quiet for a long moment. Then she returned to her chair, the springs creaking under her weight. “He’ll keep coming.”
“Can we not talk about this?” Ramona pulled the covers up to her chin. “Please?”
Another pause. Longer this time. “Of course.”
Silence settled over the room again. Ramona closed her eyes, but she could still feel it — that pull. That recognition. The sense that something outside was waiting for her, patient and persistent.
She tried to ignore it. Tried to focus on her breathing, on the exhaustion in her bones, on anything except the image of that fox sitting on the dumpster, calling her name.
Minutes passed. Maybe hours. Time felt strange in the dark, elastic and uncertain.
“Mortal?” Zara’s voice was quiet.
“What?”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For the pillow.” A pause. “And the blanket.”
Ramona opened her eyes, staring at the dark ceiling. “You’re welcome.”
More silence. The building settled around them, groaning and creaking. Outside, the fox had ceased calling. In the quiet, Ramona could feel the different ways her soul was pulled, tethered to Zara in a constant, insistent whisper. The strange tug toward the window, toward the fox.
