Over the next few days, Greg and Taz moved into their new apartment. Two bedrooms, one-bathroom, combined kitchen and living room, and a balcony with enough room for the both of them to sit and enjoy the pleasantly cool early-morning air while drinking ritualistically conjured coffee.
The living room had a couch, television, and coffee table, none of which even remotely matched the room, nor each other, in style or form. It was as if a blind man had thrown darts at an IKEA catalog and called it a day. Taz had been the one to pick out their furnishing, and Greg found the result oddly charming. While everything clashed, each individual piece had chosen at Taz’s whims. “Because I think it looks cool,” were his exact words.
An eyesore, but one born of unfiltered want, rather than conforming to any expectations or conventions. Unique.
It was still a pain in the ass to assemble. Greg learned several curses in demon-tongue that day. Greg hadn’t asked if they were the magic kind, as he had no need to inflict some kind of toe-stubbing hex on anyone. Maybe one day, he might be particularly annoyed with someone, enough to inflict minor, petty revenge by inconveniencing their day slightly.
The fridge, which had come with the apartment, had been stocked with normal food items. Greg had insisted that they keep reagents separate from the things they intended to eat. “If you need somewhere to store them, get a mini fridge. No raiding my sandwich supplies for your rituals,” he put his foot down.
So, they bought a mini fridge, a bookshelf, and desk, and Taz volunteered to have the workshop in his room. There was just enough space for the bed and room to stretch his legs.
---
With furnishing, food, and other miscellaneous items taken care of, there was finally time to relax.
Or at least, Greg had hoped so. Alas, there was a problem. One that every group of people living together had to deal with eventually. Responsibility.
“Look, I’m not doing the dishes, I did that last night. It’s your turn.” Taz picked at his teeth, idly watching reality-tv.
“That’s not what we agreed to. Chores rotate on a weekly basis. This is your week to do dishes.”
Taz ignored him.
Greg crossed his arms. “Do I need to threaten you to get your ass off that couch and do your job?”
“I dunno, can you?”
“I bet a spray bottle of holy water would work. I mean, you laze around like a cat, why not treat you like one?”
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Taz snorted. “Holy water? Won’t do jack, I’m atheist.” He mockingly crossed his fingers over his heart.
Greg blinked. Then frowned. “That’s not how it works?” it came out more as a question than a statement.
“Who’s the demon here?”
Greg shook his head. “Ugh. We aren’t getting anywhere with this.” Greg paused, thinking. “I don’t suppose you have a supernatural solution to this dilemma?”
“Actually, I do. Probably.”
“Probably?”
“Well, we hire a maid.”
---
“So, you’ll summon a ‘Lutine,’ give it some diet snacks, and it’ll take out the trash and run the dishwasher?” Greg confirmed.
“Yup. Just be nice to her. They’re very shy, but very helpful. In fact, she might not even agree at first, just make sure to leave something out before you go to bed. And again, no salt. They hate the stuff.”
Greg nodded.
This summoning ritual was a strange one, ignoring the fact that they were about to smash common sense over the back of the head with a brick. It involved a door, a one-sided conversation in French, a plate of snacks, and dressing like you set your wardrobe to ‘shuffle.’ Mismatched socks, tee-shirt, and silly tie, nearly as many belts as your average Final Fantasy character, and whatever else might contribute to the overall chaos.
Greg was pretty sure he butchered his pronunciation, except for the opening line, where he said hello in French. Taz assured him it was good enough.
“Why aren’t you doing this?” Greg hissed.
“Because I’m technically not the homeowner. Now shut up and knock on the door, just like I showed you earlier.”
Greg sighed but complied. He rapped his knuckles on the door in a somewhat musical rhythm, said a few more lines, and then left the plate of food just outside of the door before walking away.
Lutin, or as the females were called, Lutines, are French house spirits. Small, reminiscent of imps or sprites, they can either help take care of chores, or inundate you with minor annoyances and inconveniences. Misplaced keys, hiding the ketchup (you know it’s them because it’s not right there and front of you and you just missed it, they hide it. Usually at the back of the fridge), cabinets start squeaking, food spoils quicker. That sort of thing.
That is, if you treat them with kindness, they’ll reciprocate. Treat them like a little shit, and they will fuck you up.
Taz had explained the gist of the script, and the meaning behind the fashion disaster Greg was currently adorned in. “Basically, we’re being overdramatic about how the house is a wreck, and if only someone could help, and how we have too many snacks. That sort of thing. As for the clothes, it’s to help draw in the kind of spirit we want. Playful, yet helpful. What kind of good spirit would want to work for a stick-in-the-mud who can’t even take a joke? That’s the sort of vibe we want to give off.”
Greg nodded.
---
A few fumbled lines later, Greg had the feeling that he was being watched. Taz must have noticed his reaction, because he spoke up. “Don’t look, you’ll scare her away. Remember? Hella shy.”
Greg distracted himself by thinking of the implications of a demon using the slang ‘hella.’ Did it carry some other weight behind it when Taz used it? Wait, was Greg committing a social faux pas by his casual use of the word ‘hell’? Taz hadn’t said anything, so he was probably fine. He’d ask later though.
“Greg?”
“What?” Greg started.
“She’s gone.”
“Oh.”
“You seemed deep in thought. Want to share with the class?”
Greg shook his head. “Naw, it’s nothing.”
“Alright.”
---
The next morning, they had found the plate set in the dishwasher, the pillows arranged on the couch, and a stickynote stuck to the fridge that had a smiley face on it.