59
SHEPARD
There’s a doorway to hell on Penelope’s floor. She pushed the couch aside to make room.
I rub my eyes. “I thought you said I was stupid to do this in my own house.”
“This is a rental,” she says. “Get started.”
I told Penelope I wouldn’t read the ritual out loud. And then she said,“Fine, I’ll read it.”And then I said,“I’m not letting you propose to a demon!”And she said,“Then I guessyou’rereading it.”So here I am, standing above a doorway drawn with my own blood, holding the instructions Ken gave me two years ago.
“This is a very bad idea,” I say.
“Your favorite kind.”
“Penelope . . .”
She steps up to stand beside me, at the foot of the bloody door.
“You promised you’d stay in the kitchen,” I say.
“No, youaskedme to stay in the kitchen. Shepard, do you trust me?”
I look down at her. She redid her ponytail and cleaned her glasses to prepare for the ritual, and put on, I swear to you, a gray cape. Her brown eyes are set deep and pinched fierce, and her lips are still puffy from kissing me. She’s got her purple gem in her fist.
“I do,” I say.
She stands on tiptoe to kiss me again. “Summon the demon,” she says, “and then stay out of my way.”
It’s different, speaking the ritual out loud now that I know it’s a proposal. (It’s embarrassing.) Maybe the demon won’t come this time—maybe there’s a different ritual for summoning your demon fiancée. I read the summons all the way to the end, then look down at the door . . .
And just like before, it opens.
The demon walks through like it’s climbing up stairs. It looks the same as it did last time. Sometimes like a woman. Sometimes like a bear. Sometimes like a hole.
It steps into Penelope’s living room, and there’s a feeling in my head like a heavy bass note playing on cheap speakers. I try to shake it off.
“Shepard,” the demon says warmly, and my head buzzes again, “my betrothed. Did you need to speak to me?” It looks very much like a woman at the moment. Smiling. Sincere. Its arms outstretched. It’s wearing very expensive-looking stilettos and a silk pantsuit. (Is it really wearing that? Or am I projecting it somehow? When I try to focus on its face, my head throbs.)
“Hi,” I say, “how are you?”
Penelope is already stepping between us. “Shepard doesn’t need to speak to you today. I do.”
The demon stops short and frowns at her. “And who are you?”
“I’m his advocate.”
It looks back at me. “You need an advocate, Shepard?”
“This is concerning the contract,” Penelope says crisply. She sounds very officious.
“The contract . . .” The demon’s eyes glow. (The woman’s eyes, the bear’s eyes; there’s a pair of eyes burning red in a black hole.) My tattoos start to swirl and itch.
Penelope looks unfazed. “It’s invalid, I’m afraid.”
“You should be afraid!” The demon turns to me. “Who is this mortal, Shepard? Who dares question our engagement?”
“I—”
