Chapter 7: How to Bake a Demon

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The hours stretch by, and I’m pretty sure my pacing is wearing a hole in my rug.

Where is he? Lucas’s absence is making me anxious — maybe even more than his presence, which is saying something. For whatever reason, I feel a compulsion to go and find him. To make sure he’s okay. That he — the telekinetic demon with supernatural seduction powers — is okay.

Right, Lydia. Because that makes sense.

It’s half past six when my eyes snag on the book in my room. At some point it’d been moved back to my desk again, sitting there with perfect innocuousness. I tell myself I shouldn’t go through it. That I should just leave well enough alone.

That lasts for about fifteen minutes. Listen, my willpower is only so strong.

The book is closed, and for a moment I just sit in my chair and stare at it. Like I’m waiting for it to bite me. Which sounds ridiculous, but I’ve had a rough few days. For all I know it is going to bite me. Infect me with book rabies or something.

Drawing in a breath, I stretch out a hand, touch my fingertips to the cover, and then slowly pull it open.

There’s a title page, written in a gloriously gaudy hand that would make a calligraphy enthusiast orgasm. It takes me a moment to work out the words, but I glean the book’s name: A Study of Demonology: Their Powers, Rituals, and Uses. Weirdly enough, the title is written in English, and there’s no mention of an author.

I frown as I turn a page, the paper thin and terribly delicate against my fingers. I notice that the ink is strangely fresh-looking compared to the rest of the book. Not just-added-to-the-page fresh, of course, but if I had to take a guess, it’s been traced much more recently than whenever this thing was first written. Like it’s been refreshed, maybe more than once.

Strange, that.

I flip through it carefully. I’ve never exactly been interested in demons, so I admit I’m out of my depth here. The closest I’ve gotten have been a few scary movies and the occasional novel. Beyond the title page, the words have swapped back to Latin. I find an entry about a demon that, when summoned, twists and contorts the ‘vessel’ in order to become a Belphegor, a creature of endless and voracious hunger. Evidently it has a habit of consuming anything in sight.

I briefly send a prayer of thanks to the universe that that’s NOT what Lucas was trying to summon.

I flip a page and pause, confused. The words in front of me abruptly switch again, from Latin to something else — a script I can’t understand. There’s a beautifully rendered image of a man wreathed in flames, staring out at the viewer with carefully detailed, gleaming red eyes. I stare at the image for a moment, awestruck, before shaking my head and moving on. I’ll put a pin in that, figure it out later.

On the next page, the language switches again, and this time I recognize it: Hebrew. The word Dybbuk pops out at me, and I swiftly turn the page once more, heart hammering. Nope, nope, nope. Like I mentioned, I’ve seen a few horror movies. Hard pass on that one.

“Strange,” I murmur. I trace the pages where they meet the binding, realizing this book has been piece-mealed over time. People have added to it — maybe even taken away from it — though I have no idea why. Doing that to such an old book feels sacrilegious somehow.

It takes me a while to get to the pages Lucas showed me the night after he brought me back to the apartment. I take my sweet time, moseying — partly because the stuff in the book is interesting as hell. Partly because of the pretty pictures. Mostly because I know I’m scared to read more about the thing currently inside of Lucas’s body. What if I find out something terrible? What if it tells me he’s going to drag me kicking and screaming to hell?

Better to see it coming, I think. And then: …Whatever he is, he’s an improvement from the original personality.

I smirk to myself, and finally turn the final page to reveal the entry about the incubus, my fingers smoothing over the paper — thick now, like vellum.

The ink on this page is surprisingly crisp compared to the rest. I run my index over the lines, furrowing my brow. The passage isn’t nearly as opaque as I figured it would be — none of the mumbo jumbo I would have expected. In fact, beyond the words used in the summoning ritual, everything is matter-of-fact. As if someone were describing a recipe for a cake.

‘Myths of creatures like the incubus and succubus suffuse many cultures. While those names are the most commonly known in Western society, one need only look to find tales of the scheming Japanese kitsune, the Romanian vampire, or the Irish gancanagh. While there are variations in all of these manifestations, one thread binds them: the power of seduction. And through that thread, one can create a potent yet malleable manifestation to control.’

I blink, leaning back in my seat. Something about the wording throws me off. It feels anachronistic. I continue reading.

‘As with all manifestations, one must find a proper spirit to pull from the Aether and bind to your will. Thankfully for you, that task has already been done. By the time I’m finished with this binding, even a fool will be able to call forth the entity bound to this passage.’

“Explains a lot,” I mutter, finger still following the line of text.

‘For this manifestation, you will be presented with a creature possessed of irresistible glamour, incredible strength, and limited powers of the mind.’

I make a note of the word ‘limited’ with more than a little relief.

‘To ensure total control, you need only supply a proper vessel, find a place of sacrifice, and utter the incantation word for word. At that point, he will be yours to do with as you will.’

I frown at that. He? Also, why the hell would anyone do that? Why would they wrap a demon up like a Christmas present for any old idiot to find? That’s just astronomical levels of stupid. There was no telling who would get hurt.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Well, Lydia, I think, sardonically, I’m pretty sure someone writing up a demon book isn’t a pinnacle of morality. I continue reading.

‘As with any manifestation, the proper handler will be infused with its power. Your wounds can be healed at the cost of the creature’s life force. You can claim its strength as your own if you so choose, but be warned: such control comes at a cost. The more you imbibe this power, the more attuned you become to the Aether. The more…’

My cellphone rings so loud and shrill that I actually yelp, jumping up so fast I slam my knee on the underside of my desk. Cursing under my breath, I swivel around, gritting my teeth together as I move towards where my cellphone is chirruping away, blaring like it’s alerting me to a break-in.

“Hello?!” I say, breathless as I answer.

“Yeah, hi.” Nathan’s voice is immediately recognizable. We’ve been attached at the hip for the past four years of college. “Are you dead? Just figured I’d call to check. You still owe me pizza money.”

I laugh, a sudden weight lifting off my chest. This is the first dose of normal I’ve had in what feels like forever, and I’m suddenly regretful that I didn’t try calling him sooner. “Sorry, Nate. I kind of left you hanging there.”

He chuckles. “Listen, it’s your life, Lyds. Honestly I was just worried. Nancy reached out to me, said she hadn’t been able to get hold of you. I would have been blowing up your phone long before now if you hadn’t texted me. By the way, who is that guy?”

I clear my throat, flicking my eyes down to the open book. For just a moment, I swear I see the words on the surface shiver — like I’m looking at some sort of holography. I blink once, hard, and stare again. Nothing, just plain black letters.

Jesus. I need a nap.

“He’s uh. Well. He’s a friend.”

Nathan raises his usually gravelly voice to a ridiculous pitch. “’He’s just a friend.’ Right, yeah, sure. Lying is a sin, Lydia. People go to hell for it and everything.”

I laugh again, unable to help it. My voice quivers for a moment, and I draw in a deep breath, weighing my options. I really shouldn’t drag Nate into this. He’s a good guy — a really good guy. As in, drives into the city just to volunteer at the animal shelter kind of good. He doesn’t need this shit. I should just leave well enough alone.

I’m also pretty sure I’ll lose my mind if I don’t talk to someone about this, I admit to myself.

Then another thought occurs to me, one that cinches the deal.

“…Hey Nate?”

“Yep, that’s me. What’s up, hon?”

“Mind if I come over there? I’ve got some things to get off my chest. It’s been. It’s been a day.”

His voice softens. “Of course you can. Head on over. I’ll get some tea brewing.”

The relief that washes over me at that lets me know I’ve made the right choice. By the time I hang up, I’m already biting at the bit to get out of my apartment and into the crisp night air.

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To his credit, Nathan lets me finish speaking before he suggests we get my head examined.

Nathan’s place is actually a house. He comes from rich parents, but the kind who accumulated their wealth by being whip-smart. Lawyer father, doctor mother. Both brilliant, but I’ve met them. Extremely big hearts, and they passed that on to their son. When they heard their son was moving ten hours away to live in a nowhere town for four years, they decided to help him keep his sanity by securing nice digs.

I can’t even be jealous. Mostly because Nate gives me an express open door policy.

The air smells like chamomile. I’m sitting on his couch, sinking into the plush upholstery, and he’s looking between me and the book like he’s trying to decide which is closer to falling apart.

“Listen, Lydia,” he says, gently. “I’m not saying you’re lying, but…”

Without a word, I stand up, turn around, and lift up the back of my shirt.

With any other guy, I wouldn’t be doing this. But not only is Nathan the sweetest man in Iowa (fight me,) he also swings for the other team. So no harm there.

There’s a silence as he takes in the still-raw looking scar on my back, the one left behind by the ritual dagger. I can hear him draw in a breath — and then I can hear the utter seethe in his voice as he speaks.

“Jesus, Lyds,” he says. “That rat-bastard. Where is he?”

I can tell by that last question exactly what Nathan is planning to do. The thing about Nate is that he’s just over six feet — and built like a damn boulder. Nate’s the kind of muscle you give a wide berth to — not because he’s a mean guy, of course, but as a precaution. A sort of automatic just in case. He’s blond haired, green-eyed and summer-sun tanned at the moment, in spite of the weather.

Basically I’m saying whoever snatches him up is being paid back for a LOT of good karma.

I let my shirt fall and turn back towards him, shaking my head. “Everything I told you was true, Nathan. All of it. Trust me, I know it sounds insane — I wasn’t sure I was sane myself until I sent you that picture.” I point at his phone. “That guy? The one I showed you? He made that book float through the air. I saw it with my own eyes. Somehow he managed to heal me, too — I should be dead right now. I know I should be, but I’m still here, living and breathing.”

“Right,” he says, crinkling his brows. “But he also stabbed you.”

I squint. “Technically?”

“Or he’s a demon from the pits of hell, which isn’t much better.”

I screw up my face. “Evidently it’s not that simple either.”

He throws up his hands. “No offense, Lydia, but I can’t decide if I should have you committed or call a priest. And it’s not like I’ve got either number on speed dial, so you know it’s serious.”

I raise my hands to mirror his, mine more a motion of surrender than exasperation. “I don’t expect you to believe me — yet, anyway. But you’ve known me long enough to know I’m not likely to go off the rails all of a sudden.”

“…Maybe you took something.”

I just arch a brow at him.

“…Yeah okay, fair. You’re way too boring for that.”

“Hey!”

“What? I’m not wrong!”

I pick up one of the pillows from his couch and lob it at him. He catches it effortlessly, laughing. “Alright, alright. Fine. Let’s say I believe you — temporarily. In this land of make-believe. What then?”

I look at the book on his coffee table. “You remember that lady you know in town? The one with all the old, rare books?”

He smiles. “Ms. Peterson? Sure! She’s a sweetheart. Always cuts me a good deal on the classics.”

“Right.” I side-eye his bookshelf from my peripheral. It’s already near-to-overflowing again. “I was wondering if maybe she could...appraise this. Assess it. Let me know how old it is. Maybe do some translating for me.”

Nathan shrugs. “I could see if she’s got some time tomorrow, I guess. It’ll be Saturday. I don’t know if she’ll be available but it’s worth a shot.”

I nod, the motion too eager — but I can’t help it. Anything for answers, even small ones. Anything would feel like progress.

“Perfect. Let me know what she says.” I turn away from him, moving to start gathering up my stuff. I hear him laugh behind me — really laugh, the belly-shaking kind, before he abruptly cuts off and says, “Uh, no, no ma’am.”

I stop, turning to peer at him. His expression of incredulity is downright comical.

“Lydia. You got kidnapped.”

“…Yeah?”

“You got stabbed.”

“…Right.” I wince at the memory.

“So your happy little ass is staying here tonight.” I open my mouth to protest, but he cuts me off with a sharp downwards gesture of his hand. “No! This isn’t up for debate. God almighty, woman, what are you, nuts?”

I laugh, easing back down onto the couch. He snaps his fingers and points towards the bedroom. “Uh uh. I’m on the couch, you’re on the bed.”

“But…”

“So if anyone comes through that door I get to cave some skulls in,” he adds, expression sober enough he almost looks menacing. Almost. I know him too well for that, though.

I stand, moving towards him and wrapping him in a hug. He returns it, his strong arms warm and reassuring.

“Thank you,” I murmur, and I can hear the tears in my voice.

“Hey,” he responds, rubbing my back softly. “You’re going to be okay.”

I nod at him, roughly swiping the back of my hand across my face. With a flash of a smile, I walk past him and into his bedroom.

I’m out before I get the chance to wish him a goodnight.