6.12
The match burns black, the flame licking at Landis’s thumb and forefinger as he tries desperately to light the last candle. He hisses, blows it out, reaches into the matchbook for a fresh one. On the floor, in the central point of the five candles, on top of the summoning sigil carefully drawn over the tiles with washable marker, the pet store rabbit squirms. There’s no one and nothing to visibly keep it in place, but it stays put anyway, Walker’s powers holding it roughly still.
Landis lights the last candle and squints at the summoning sigil. It’s apparently one of the hardest ones to screw up, according to Walker - or, rather, according to his contact at the Department - but that seems almost too good to be true. Don’t demons want to trick people into summoning them wrong? If we messed up the sigil, or missed a step somewhere along the line, we’re probably going to be paying with it with our lives.
“All good,” he says aloud, stepping outside of the ring of salt that encapsules the whole summoning setup. Does salt really even repel demons? I’ve never seen it in practice, and Austin’s never said anything. Guess we’ll find out.
“Cool,” Otter says, perched on top of the displaced kitchen table. “Now we’ve just gotta do the sacrifice, right?”
Walker pores over his pad full of notes. “Demon sigil, salt circle, candles…yeah, I think the only thing left is the bunny. Anyone else want to do the honors?”
Landis and Otter make eye contact with one another, each waiting to see if the other will volunteer, but neither of them end up saying anything at all.
Stupid. You’ve choked people to death with your bare hands, but you don’t want to get back in the circle and stab a rabbit through the heart. Landis grits his teeth and looks away from Otter, focusing on the dancing flames of the mismatched candles on the floor. Not even when it’s to help save Austin. Coward.
“Yeah, didn’t think so.” Walker snorts. “I’ll take care of it.”
Landis looks up to watch him work, morbidly fascinated to see what he’ll do. Walker’s gaze darts towards the knife block on the kitchen counter. It wobbles for a moment, and then a cooking knife with a long, wide blade eases out from it, bobbing up and down in the air like a boat rocking on top of gentle waves. Without Walker so much as lifting a finger, the knife makes its way down from the counter to the summoning circle, and rotates, hovering tip-down just over the quivering rabbit. The knife raises about a foot.
“Maybe don’t look,” Walker says. His voice doesn’t sound strained at all - Landis glances back towards him just as the knife plunges downwards, and finds that he’s barely even broken a sweat.
Just how powerful is he? Landis wonders, but doesn’t have the time to wonder any further, because the kitchen begins to rumble. The floor tiles within the summoning circle are shaking, in ripples that radiate outwards from where the rabbit’s blood is pooling on top of the sigil. The candles pitch violently from side to side. Landis watches them, wondering which one will fall first and potentially set the salt circle alight - is salt even flammable? - but they all stay perfectly upright, for all their unsteadiness.
“You guys feel that, right?” Otter asks. His voice sounds weaker than usual, and Landis turns to him to find him gripping the edges of the table like a drowned man on a life raft, his knuckles as white as paper.
“Yeah,” Landis says hoarsely.
“It’s not me,” Walker says. “Swear to God.”
Well, Landis thinks, as far as deaths go, at least being torn limb from limb by a demon is pretty unique.
The summoning circle begins to fill with smoke, just a few wisps rolling off of the candles at first, building into a solid column that completely obscures the summoning sigil and the rabbit’s body from view. The spire of smoke reaches from floor to ceiling, turning from pale gray to pitch black within a matter of seconds, a poisonous looking tornado swirling calmly within the confines of the kitchen.
“That, uh,” Otter says, “that didn’t happen when the witches - when - you know -”
“Nope,” Landis says.
“Isn’t there a smoke alarm in here?” Walker asks.
There is - Landis knows it for a fact - but no one makes a move to do anything about it. Landis isn’t sure about Otter and Walker, but his feet feel rooted to the floor. He can’t even tear his gaze away from the smoke. The way it flows past looks almost liquid, reminds him of the dark lake water ebbing and flowing, mixing with the mud of the bank. Landis swallows, feels his Adam’s apple bob in his throat, and reminds himself that this isn’t the same.
There’s no way it can be. We killed that demon two years ago. He flexes his fingers by his sides, his hands suddenly cold and slick with sweat. This’ll be a new demon. Maybe even a nicer one, one who doesn’t need a human sacrifice.
The smoke starts to consolidate, condensing itself into a pillar about a head shorter than Walker. Its bottom half splits in two, shaping into legs, and the top half does likewise with a pair of arms. A neck sprouts from between the newly-formed shoulders, an ovular blob on top quickly becoming a head, with thick, dreadlock-like hair that seems to shift around and move of its own accord even once the smoke has settled.
The black smoke turns smooth, shaping itself into lavender skin and white dress robes, moulding itself to the person-shape in the center of the sigil. As it turns a darker shade of purple, Landis notices that the demon’s hair is actually comprised of tentacles, not dreadlocks. They’re pulled back into a high ponytail that undulates and curls around itself. Landis swallows again and wipes his hands on his jeans.
The demon blinks around the room as they finish shifting into existence, golden irises glowing against black sclera. They brush off their clothes, shaking black ash off the white fabric, rolling their sleeves up to their elbows. The rabbit is gone. Landis wonders if that’s where the ash came from.
“Interesting,” the demon says lightly. They train their gaze on Landis, Walker, and Otter, and begin pacing towards them, stopping once they reach the line of salt on the floor and staring down at it. Lifting a hand, they move it forwards, testing the barrier. It stops in midair, palm flat, as though it’s being pressed against a window.
“I’m impressed,” the demon says, raising their eyebrows. “You’ve clearly done your homework.” They take a step back from the circle. “I assume you’ve summoned me here to make a pact?”
“Actually,” Landis says, “we have some questions.”
The demon laughs. Their lips curl up into a smile that exposes no teeth, and they train their strange, dark eyes on Landis in amusement.
“Well,” they say, “ask away, then.”