Everyone gathered in the Rileys’ dining room except the art history guy and the botany girl. DeSean had placed them on night watch, leaving them out on the porch with the dining room window open. They could hear what was being said inside and warn everyone of trouble if they spotted something outside.

They both placed stats in Endurance and Focus, too, DeSean thought. He’d learned of the university students’ stats while searching for candidates for the first watch. He needed to comb through Thomas and Glenda’s family for their stats, as well as the Rileys.

Regardless of how new DeSean was to this gamified magic business, these were all tactical assets that could be weaponized. Everyone else other than Quinton, and maybe Mariah, wasn’t fully engaged with the implications behind stats and becoming superhuman. The Rileys seemed stuck in a silo especially.

The aforementioned family consisting of Jebediah Riley Sr., his son, and his wife, sat at the dining table across from DeSean, Quinton, and Allison. There was the wife’s brother, too. He was in the kitchen working up a batch of herbal tea.

Quinton did most of the debriefing while having his mom backing him up since Jebediah Sr. knew Allison. DeSean sat back, his weapon slung on his shoulder. His eyes were mainly on the chandelier hanging over the table.

Desean never liked chandeliers. They always seemed dangerous to him. If he ever bought a big house, there would be no chandeliers.

“Things sound really intense here,” said the wife’s brother⁠—Isiah⁠—while entering the dining room.

He brought around a handful of mugs containing a dark, honey-scented brew. There was a bandage around his hand with some blood staining it.

When he came around, DeSean pointed at the injury. “How’d you got that?”

“One of the cows nipped me. They can get a little feisty,” Isaiah replied stiffly.

“Did it happen just recently?” DeSean asked nonchalantly. “Looks fresh. I didn’t think anyone would handle cows at night.”

“She contracted an illness, so we like to check up on her more than usual,” the wife said smoothly, taking a mug from her brother. “But that’s our business. Right now, let’s relax a bit and have some tea. You all look like you’ve been through the wringer, especially you, Mister….”

“It’s DeSean or Marine Veteran Sergeant Solomon,” he answered, letting the topic surrounding Isaiah’s injured hand drop. For now. “And it’s worse than how Quinton and Allison are framing it, but we don’t need to get into the full grisly details.”

Quinton and his mom shared a look as if they were hoping DeSean would keep a lid on things.

Come on, now, I got more control than that, DeSean thought.

“Well, what Quinton and Allison are saying is some terrible news already,” the husband said, his fingers tapping over the rim of the mug.

Old Jebediah Sr. glared silently into his mug.

DeSean waited until the wife sipped her mug before he took a sip. Mm, it was good stuff. His heightened Focus tasted herbal citrus and honey extracts more than usual. Quinton’s evident enjoyment of the tea told DeSean more Focus would further enhance the senses.

He took another sip just to confirm it.

It wasn’t alcohol or coffee, but it was damn good.

“Um, c-c-can I get mine with more honey?” stammered the social media girl. “I didn’t have time to eat. I’m the type of diabetic that needs food or sugar or something. Anything really, especially now. I really can’t calm down, either, because I’m seeing some disturbing stuff on my phone and⁠—I really need something.”

“I’ll fix you up something,” the wife said.

“I got it,” Isaiah claimed.

“But⁠—”

“I got it, sis, I got it.”

Isaiah fled into the kitchen.

He doesn’t take pressure very well. DeSean turned his attention to the shaking social media girl. Hailey, the mechanical engineer, and an undecided grad were trying to comfort her. Glenda looked concerned⁠—her nurse instincts flaring⁠—but she had three sleepy boys and a timid husband all over her.

“You have two choices, Social Media,” DeSean said.

“Um, my name is⁠—”

“You take a break from the news feed for your own sanity, or you stick with it and be our information analyst,” DeSean explained. “One choice would probably give you some ease of mind. Even when facing what could be the end of our world. The other choice will make you an important asset. Maybe the most important depending on the occasion.”

“R-r-really?” Social Media’s eyes grew wide. The other university students looked just as surprised.”

“D’s got a point,” Quinton added, “we can use as much information you can gather. Or keep us aware of whatever propaganda is being put out there. If you’re careful enough, you can even get your followers to keep us abreast of situations all around us.”

“If you decide to stay on top of the buzz, first dibs on the charger is yours,” DeSean finished.

The social media girl bit the edge of her lip. She gulped down tea. Then she returned to chewing on her lip again.

Hailey passed Social Media her mug to drink more. The tea helped, and Social Media stopped shaking.

“I’m addicted to this thing,” she said, flipping her phone around. “And my parents made me feel stupid because of that. So… it’ll be nice to know I’m useful during all this craziness.”

DeSean felt a twang in his chest. He’d been in Social Media’s shoes but in a different form. Carefully, he said, “Having a feed of information on what’s happening around us is a life and death matter now. You’re more important than what your parents took you for. If something big comes up, I want you to tell Quinton or me immediately.”

“Uh, yes, sir,” Social Media nodded, looking down into her lap. She was timid, but maybe if they worked more with each other in the hopefully long future, he could break her out of that.

DeSean sighed. Feels like I’m categorizing everyone to see where they’ll fit in my unit. Again, he was a squad leader with enough training to hold the platoon sergeant position.

When Isaiah delivered more tea to everyone who needed it⁠—with extra honey for Social Media⁠—DeSean shifted forward and rapped his knuckles on the table. “It’s late. There doesn’t seem to be any trouble heading our way yet. We’re no good if we spend time fretting into the early morning.”

DeSean paused there, letting Quinton and Allison take over. Jebediah Sr had a mean look in his eyes whenever DeSean talked. It was better for the overall peace and safety if the others spoke.

This was why he needed Quinton⁠—disarm others with friendliness and decently innocent looks. Allison was getting into her golden years, but she still had the grace, frame, and air of beauty. That carried a long way with everyone when she and her son spoke.

I knew guys who would fall head-over-heels for Quinton’s mom, DeSean thought humorously, sitting back.

“Let this be a reminder that I am welcoming you all to my home and that you will follow my rules here,” Jebediah Sr. prattled. “Especially you, Sergeant. I didn’t think the Marines would take just about anyone, let alone a hoodlum.”

“Dad!” shouted his son, erring to apologize quickly before ushering his father up to the second floor. Everyone looked at DeSean with bated breath, waiting for him to blow, go off the handle, or cause a ruckus.

DeSean reclined into his seat, fingers interlocked behind his head. “What? I’ve been called worse.” He stretched back a little more, further than he should’ve, and was made to wince from a flare of pain along his side and back.

“You’ve been injured, haven’t you?” Glenda, the nurse asked. “I have an emergency health kit in the back of our sedan.”

“I’m sure he’s fine, Glenda,” Thomas said quietly. “He was in the Marines. They train those boys to be tough.”

“If you can help, do it. You owe as much since we let you tag along with us,” Mariah snapped.

The university students gawked at her. Quinton and Allison raised their brow at DeSean. There were a lot of looks being thrown all around.

“Mariah made DeSean our bodyguard, so he’s gotta stay in tip-top shape to do his job,” Roberto said quietly from the corner, his eyelids drooping.

“Look, if you’re busy with your family⁠—” DeSean started before getting cut off.

“She’s not busy,” Mariah said adamantly. “If DeSean goes down, we’re screwed. I don’t think anyone else can do it like a Marine, can they?”

She glared at Thomas. The account shrank back.

Dammit, Mariah, you’re a feisty fire-cracker. DeSean wondered if he would be looked at as a bad influence. Of course, I’ll get the blame.

“My husband, Thomas, can handle the kids. We are in your debt, and I would like to pay that. Is there a restroom near?” Glenda said firmly.

Before Thomas could voice his concern again, Glenda passed the children to her husband. Isaiah returned with leftover roast beef for Social Media and anyone else who could use a bite. Then Isaiah led Glenda and DeSean to a restroom in the hallway, leaving Quinton to handle things.

“This will work. I’ll need some towels if you can spare them,” she told Isiah. “I can also look at your hand there afterward.”

“I appreciate you asking, but I’m fine, I assure you,” Isiah replied. “Let’s make sure Mister Marine is taken care of.”

Isaiah walked away to tend to anyone else in need. Glenda walked out to get her kit out of the car, leaving DeSean to strip. She wanted him down to only his boxers.

That was fine with him. He’d been through multiple examinations where he’d had to expose most of his body.

When Glenda returned, DeSean found it fascinating how unphased she acted. She assessed his old scars, glanced over his demonic tattoos, and concentrated on his freshest injuries, taking it all well in stride.

Yeah, this is one tough lady, DeSean thought. It made him wonder if she’d chosen her husband because she wanted someone she could control.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

There was no denying she was in control once Isaiah brought the towels and she started patching DeSean up. She cleaned and bandaged the wounds that didn’t need stitching first. Then she attended to his side where Mariah’s bullet had cut him deep enough to require sutures.

“Have you been drinking water?” she asked.

“I should be doing that more.”

She nodded, sewing up the wound with a seamstress’s touch. DeSean controlled his breathing and let the pain come and go in waves.

“Were you special forces?” she hedged.

“Nah. I was just a grunt.”

“You must’ve been a really interesting grunt.”

“Yeah, I keep telling people the Marine Corps, and I had met in the middle. I got to be as weird as I wanted as long as I was the most effective Marine they could train. It got to the point that I was on a first-name basis with a few officers.”

“Wow, did that earn you medals?”

“I nearly earned a Bronze Star.”

Glenda paused, her hands held utterly still. “What happened?”

DeSean thought back to the screams, gunfire, and the faces of the men he shot in their homes. He thought back to the scrambling goats and chickens, crying women and children, and his dying buddies tripping and falling in muddy alleys and yards filled with animal shit and smoke from burning tires. He thought back to the wrong orders given and continued incompetence and the white flash of rage that ripped him away from his own good senses when he returned to the wire.

“I made the most out of a shit situation,” he said. “But I couldn’t… keep from giving some harsh criticism to the one who put us there.”

Glenda went back to stitching him up. “You should’ve got something for what you’ve done. Maybe a Purple Heart?”

“I came out uninjured that time.” He shrugged lightly, making sure to not interrupt the nurse. “Besides, I don’t really care for medals or recognition. Not enough to seek them out religiously.”

Many people were searching for recognition, for meaning, for a shot to their ego. In a sense, the Marines gave that as long as you performed excellently as a well-trained dog. Some people gravitated to it as an identity that meant more to them than anything else⁠—and DeSean had no problems with that. But he joined the Marines for something different.

“Because the medals seemed a little silly sometimes,” DeSean said honestly. “I was a glorified killer. I was trained to take over another person’s home for corporate interests and westernized world domination. The benefits I received were good. I needed them. But being a glorified killer isn’t my jam.”

“Do you feel bad about having to be trained to kill others?” Glenda asked, maintaining the conversation and the suturing.

“Nah. Putting bullets through people aiming to put you six feet under is as exhilarating as it comes.”

Glenda paused again, looking up with an arched brow. He met her gaze with a grin. “I think being a glorified killer is silly. But I don’t have trouble with killing others. Maybe children, but that’s case by case. Beyond that, there are plenty of people in the world who are destined to die violently. The reaper will come for us all whether or not it’s my finger behind the trigger.”

I don’t need to be glorified to enjoy my part in a fight to the death.

“DeSean,” she said, returning to the task at hand with a little more firmness, “please stay away from my children. If you have something you need from any of us⁠—like Victor’s skills, for example⁠—you will speak to me first.”

“Not even your husband?”

“You will speak to me first,” Glenda repeated herself. “I’ll prefer you avoid my husband, as well. I appreciate your efforts, but I’ve come across men like you in the E.R. You’re a detriment to impressionable minds.”

Ah, because I’m a violent, mad-dog weirdo, DeSean thought. “Do I still get your nurturing hand if I get hurt again?”

Glenda finished, placed a bandage over the stitches, and cleaned up the mess. She stood and gave DeSean a tight smile. “I should tell you to avoid conflicts that put you in harm’s way, but that’ll be a waste of words with you.”

She walked out like his presence was a bad funk that would poison her if she stayed too long. DeSean would like to think that was no big deal… but it kind of hurt a little. Maybe he shouldn’t talk so openly. Or perhaps he should’ve grown more used to this treatment by now.

It was becoming a long night, though. He’d gone through a multitude of life-threatening situations he hadn’t seen since he left the Marines two years ago. He wasn’t showing it, but he was just as emotionally affected as everyone else⁠—just in his own way. Getting pumped up with adrenaline, attacked by multiple people, and faced with a world-ending threat that put a time limit on everyone to survive⁠—it brought out the killer in him⁠—the demon.

But that demon wanted to be accepted like everyone else.

Speaking of demons, I should update Lylothia, DeSean thought tiredly.

He slipped on his leather jacket without a shirt and walked out of the restroom stiffly. Quinton was waiting for him in the hallway.

“I settled the night rotation with everyone,” Quinton said. “Don’t worry about covering any night shifts for a while. You did enough fighting to earn as much rest you can get.”

DeSean nodded, waiting for Quinto to say more. The big blue-eyed blond was wrinkling his forehead while deep in thought. They stood in silence for a while.

“Go get some sleep, D. And don’t worry about the gear and supplies. I’ve already transferred it inside and got it covered.”

“Good to go,” DeSean said, exiting out the front. He stopped on the porch and saw the botany girl and art history guy sharing a cigarette.

“I’m not going to tell you to get rid of it,” DeSean said, “but keep in mind that snipers will have an accurate bead on your head when you smoke a cigarette.”

“Snipers?” Art History croaked.

“Yeah. Then your head will burst into pink mist.” DeSean pantomimed his cranium exploding. “It’ll be a mess to clean up, and this is a nice porch.”

The botany girl threw the cigarette down and stomped it out.

DeSean smiled. “Light up during the day. It’s better at that time.”

Leaving them to focus on the rest of their watch, DeSean moved over to the side of Quinton’s beast of a truck. He scrambled into the cab carefully and laid on his back, letting out a long and tired sigh. Above him, the cloud cover blocked out the eyes, stars, and the moonlight. It was dark all around him. An enemy could strike from anywhere.

DeSean felt comfortable here anyway.

He let his mind fade for a bit, his weariness settling in. He had other things he wanted to do before he fell asleep, but he might not be able to resist the sandman. He’d been through a hell of a night, and it was only the start.

DeSean blinked, seeing a dark cloudy sky one moment and a shadowy face the next. He raised his gun at the same time he heard, “It’s me, Mariah.”

DeSean lowered his weapon. “Can you be any creepier?”

“Uh, that doesn’t matter. We need to check out the barn, remember?” Mariah shifted around and crouched beside him. “Get up, get up. You’re the super-soldier guy. Come and help me.”

DeSean sighed, remembering all the moments he was forced awake in the Marines as part of his duty. He might’ve missed a couple of things from being in that branch of service⁠—but this he could go without.

Sitting up, he shifted his back against the cab’s side. “Hold on, let me have a chat with Lylothia.”

“I was wondering about… that.”

“Wondering what?”

“If I added to Attunement, do I summon my own demon? Like a little demon prince?”

DeSean was thankful it was dark. It hid the slight smirk on the corner of his mouth. “It’ll take a while to get from one to seventeen Od in the magic stat.”

“I have two Od in Attunement, though.”

DeSean blinked. “Really?”

“Roberto, too,” Mariah said with a small voice. “Mi Abuela… grandma… she believed in the magic. Magic before this magic stat stuff. Sometimes it seems believable to us, too. She speaks to the family that moved on a lot and got into full conversations with them.”

Does she talk to your parents via old magic, or are they somewhere else? DeSean wondered.

“I can’t say what is or what isn’t from pre-magic stats,” DeSean explained. “Right now, I can talk to Lylothia or receive her aid. She gave me +15 extra Od to some of my stats. But I’ll have to break that to talk to her.”

“What? Why?”

“Not enough mana depth. She’s an expensive demon princess, most likely.” It felt like he could barely recover his magic depth while receiving her aid now. His aura was super tight over his skin. The hum was silent. He was close to being a prune, which haggard his mind considerably.

Mariah tilted her head. “Then why her as your, uh, first summoning?” Before he could answer, she answered for him. “Maybe it’s because you’re a weirdo that demons like.”

“Could be.” DeSean nodded. “She’s been listening through the ears in the ground. Maybe other demons are doing the same.”

“The ears?”

“Yeah, maybe you’ll see them too when you get your magic up.”

Mariah frowned. “Anyway… make her show up so she can help us.”

What happened to magic being evil? DeSean wondered.

Maybe Mariah was projecting someone else who’d said that, or she felt insecure about her own connections to magic. Oh, well, at least she was coming around a little, even if she was bossy about it.

DeSean focused on the added stats and mindfully willed them away. Immediately, he felt the loss. His brain felt foggier. His body ached more and suffered more weariness. His limbs felt more lethargic. It took a lot of grit to not pass out and fall asleep.

“Ugh,” DeSean groaned.

“What happened?” Mariah asked, clutching her rifle close.

“Just trading out power for communication,” DeSean groaned, feeling a pinprick behind his ear.

“My dear mortal, it’s good to hear from you so soon,” said Lylothia. “I was having a Gangerot drink and a side of wild imps with nobles of my court, and I couldn’t help but be distracted while wondering of your condition.”

“I thought you didn’t care,” DeSean said.

“I care enough to concern myself with your condition, but that’s because you are now a part of me as I am a part of you. As small and weak as you are, of course. Now, give me your tidings, and let’s see what can be discussed.”

“We’re settled into a farming site, but I don’t know if it’s safe from within. I have suspicions that our hosts are hiding something. I don’t want to disturb the peace, yet, since everyone needs to rest. But I need means to check without getting caught.”

“What is she saying?” Mariah asked urgently.

DeSean pressed his finger to his lips, silently hushing her.

The teen huffed.

“Hm, I believe I understand,” Lylothia said. “I’m not satisfied with such tidings. It appears that every time we get to converse, you need something from me. We haven’t even laid the ground rules of our relationship.”

But we’ve only talked twice so far.

“I assure you we will talk about it in great length soon,” DeSean said. “But your help would be very appreciated.”

“You don’t even know the debt you’re racking with my one-sided aid,” Lylothia moaned.

DeSean was going to challenge her on that but thought otherwise. Knowing a demon’s price, their wants and desires, was commonly an issue the summoner solved first and foremost. At least to his understanding from being a practitioner of dark arts when it was only hocus pocus and part of his teenage rebellion phase. The case seemed similar with Lylothia, but he couldn’t be one hundred percent sure.

“What do I owe you, Ma’am?” he asked.

“Two favors that I will ask of you when the time arrives,” she replied.

“What sort of favors?” he hedged carefully.

“Favors that will be aligned with your strengths and not be abusive toward you, my dear. If you are worried that I will make you commit senseless evil, don’t. I have a lot more decorum than wanting simple mischief for mischief’s sake.”

“Hm. Can I back out of a favor and request for the favor to be conducted differently if I find something disagreeable?” DeSean asked.

“I will allow you to speak on the disagreeableness of the favor and sway my mind. I will not tell you how it must be done, either, for I hope you have some creativity and critical thought. But my command will be fulfilled when I wish it,” Lylothia replied.

“Do I gain further rewards even while fulfilling your favors?” DeSean asked.

“Yes. While the favor is a request that I won’t allow overturned if I need your strengths, I will not have you run amok as a common slave. You are not my slave. You are my little summoner, and I am your contracted patron.”

“At least until I get things figured out, then I can back out of our relationship, yes?”

“You can, but the favors will remain as your debt until repaid. You just won’t have access to my power.”

“Are there other means to pay you for help?” DeSean dug further.

“Hm, yes. Tribute an enemy that you’ve bloodied before you kill them. Or tribute a strong prey that you’re going to slay in a forest. Or leave me precious materials of warfare and survivalism in an altar, the more precious, the better.”

DeSean repeated her payment requirements in his head before he moved on. It looked like she wasn’t going to take from his soul or add years to his eventual torment in Hell. This version of demonic enterprise seemed a lot more reasonable.

“Alright, that’ll work with me,” he said. “We can make further adjustments later. For now, here’s a little something in your honor, Princess Lylothia.”

DeSean pulled out the knives he took from Sally’s Gun Store. He leaned them together into a bladed teepee stand. Next went his jacket, but not as a tribute. He placed it down carefully with the sleeves encircling the knife teepee. The jacket had some sentimental value, and he imagined that emotional weight would help complete the altar. An altar was a symbol of sincerity toward a higher power. It was an invitation for his patron to take from the offer.

“Oh my, this is too much. These are fine weapons, my dear. Only one shall do for now,” Lylothia said in alarm.

Ah, she’s not the type to rob someone blind. How honorable.

DeSean subtracted from the offer, leaving one knife. “A tribute to you, my patron. Let this be the first of many that’ll come, bolstering this contract between Sergeant DeSean Dante Solomon and Princess Lylothia of Forty-First Disc of the Seventy-Two Hells.”

Lylothia moaned merrily, the volume of her pleasure rattling DeSean’s head. The air grew heavier. An immense and powerful presence loomed over the truck.

In a flash of red, the knife crumbled into ruined flakes and grit. A gust blew by and scattered it across the night air.

The looming presence departed.

“Uh, what?” Mariah blinked.

“This is a very acceptable tribute at this stage of development,” Lylothia said, chuckling. “I find myself awaiting for more with delicate enthusiasm. I will repay you greatly in return.”

“Sounds like a good time,” he replied. “Thanks for bringing this to my attention. You’ve been very fair about this.”

“I find your amicable and responsive agreement per my payments refreshing.”

“Is that so, Ma’am?”

“When I first contracted mortals, I met some who didn’t care about the details and brushed it aside for immediate power,” she said, sounding amused. “While it is easy to take from them quickly, it is a poor and less stable earning. Perhaps weaker mortals are more concerned with these matters.”

“Nah, we’re just a bunch of fuck ups like anyone else. I’m just a little more prepared than others about this business.”

“Is that so!” Lylothia roared with laughter. It was a deep, hearty, and sonorous sound. Once she calmed, she spoke in a low and huskily, “Now, I must test your boast and see how prepared you are, my dear little mortal! Shall we start you off with summoning a simple number of lowly minions?”

“Minion with an ‘s’?” DeSean hedged.

Without her having to say a thing, he could almost imagine his demon princess patron grinning. He couldn’t help but smile, too.

Mariah looked concerned, losing her magic-could-be-cool vibe.