The tattoos are gone.
Shepard holds out his arms, and I run my fingertips up the inside of one forearm. They’re gone.
“Penelope . . .” he says. “You did it.”
I did it. Shepard isn’t going to hell . . . At least not that version of it.
“Penelope!” Shepard sounds a little delirious. He picks me up and spins me around. “You did it!”
“I mean”—I hold on to his shoulders—“you didhelp.”
“You’re an absolute madwoman! You summoned ademonin yourliving room.You’re an entire crazy train!”
I frown down at him. “I wouldn’t saycrazy. . . I had a plan.”
“A crazy plan.” He sets me down, still holding me. “What if it hadn’t worked?”
“I was pretty sure it was going to work.”
“Yeah, but it might not have . . .”
I shake his shoulders. “Stop second-guessing me, Shepard! The proof is in the pudding.”
“You’re the most dangerous thing I’ve ever seen,” he says, kissing me. “You’re an F5, easily. Maybe an F6.”
I let him kiss me. I like it when he kisses me. “We broke the curse . . .” I murmur.
“You broke the contract,” he says.
“It was never valid.”
He pulls away, grinning down at me. “Should I be hurt that you got me out of this by convincing that demon that I was more trouble than I’m worth?”
“I merely presented the facts.”
He kisses me soundly, then starts laughing, purely from joy, I think. “I’ll never be able to thank you enough for this.”
“Don’t thank me yet, Shepard.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m probably going to slay your friend Ken.”
Once we’ve cleaned up the doorway and moved the sofa back, it’s imperative that I talk to Simon.
I try to text him, but his phone is dead. (It only holds a charge for a few hours—he needs a new one.) “Come on, Shepard,” I say.
Shepard’s standing in the middle of the living room, looking down at his arms. “Where are we going?”
“To talk to Simon.”
“I thought you didn’t know where he was.”
“Pfft. It’s almost impossible to hide from someone you love.”
Shepard pulls on his black-and-white shoes without unlacing them. He reaches for his denim jacket, but I catch his hand. He looks at the jacket, then laughs. I may never get over how good it feels to know I’m largely responsible for this.
There’s a picture of me and Simon on the refrigerator. I hold my fist over it, cast“Winter, spring, summer or fall!”—and my gem starts tugging me out of the kitchen before I’ve even said his name.
