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Cathy scrubbed scorch marks off the linoleum floor at two in the morning, her hands still glowing faintly gold from stress. The apartment was a disaster. Burnt protection charms littered the counters, and the acrid smell of fried magic clung to everything.
Six days left.
She had exactly six days to summon a demon, fake an engagement, and reclaim her inheritance before Aunt Drusilla's wards burned her out of her home for good.
Turnip watched from the top of the refrigerator, his fat body wedged between a bag of stale bread and a wilted head of lettuce. "You know this is insane, right?"
"Noted." Cathy cleared the small kitchen table and opened her mother's grimoire to the summoning page. The spell stared back at her, faded but legible.
For the Conjuring of Minor Infernal Assistants.
She read through the ingredient list and winced. Sulphur binding. Demon-tongue root. Consecrated salt blessed under a new moon. She had none of it.
What she did have was a half-empty container of Morton's table salt, a jar of paprika from the back of the spice cabinet, and black pepper that might have been older than she was.
Kitchen magic was just alchemy by another name. Her mother had taught her that. Every ingredient had power if you knew how to use it.
Cathy drew the summoning circle directly on the table with a piece of charcoal. She used paprika for the fire line, table salt for the binding ring, and pepper for the outer barrier. Rosemary substituted for demon-tongue root. Garlic cloves replaced the sulphur binding, because garlic warded off everything, right?
It looked wrong. The proportions were off, and the paprika kept smudging under her fingers.
"If we die, I'm haunting you," Turnip said.
Cathy ignored him and pulled out the honey-glazed apple tart she'd baked earlier. Her mother's recipe, the one she'd perfected over years of practice. The spell required an offering of what you value most, and Cathy valued her cooking. It was the only magic she was good at.
She changed into her nicest outfit, a thrift store blazer over a faded band t-shirt and jeans. Then she lit the candles. They were birthday candles, the cheap kind that came in a box of twenty-four, because real ritual candles cost money she didn't have.
The flames sputtered weakly.
"Are you really sure about this?" Turnip asked, his voice quieter now.
Cathy looked at him, then at the grimoire, then at the pathetic summoning circle drawn in grocery store spices. "No. But I'm out of options."
She began reading the incantation, stumbling over the Latin she barely understood. The words felt clumsy in her mouth, but she pushed through, adding her own improvised plea at the end.
"I ask for a demon who is manageable, agreeable, and housebroken. Someone who can pass as human for seven days and won't eat my furniture."
The circle began to glow.
Relief flooded through her for exactly three seconds.
Then something went very, very wrong.
The air pressure in the apartment changed so fast that her ears popped. The lights didn't flicker. They strobed, violent and seizure-inducing, casting jagged shadows across the walls. The temperature dropped so fast that Cathy could see her breath misting in front of her face.
The paprika line ignited.
Real flames, red and hungry, raced around the summoning circle. The salt binding ring turned black as pitch. The birthday candles exploded in bursts of wax and fire.
"That's not supposed to happen," Cathy whispered.
Her magic surged out of control. The golden glow in her hands flared so bright it was almost white, pouring into the circle faster than she could stop it. The spell was pulling power directly from her core, draining her like a siphon.
"Stop it!" Turnip shrieked. He scrambled off the fridge and dove under the couch. "That's not a minor demon! THAT'S NOT A MINOR DEMON!"
Cathy tried to speak, to cut off the incantation, but the words wouldn't come. Her throat closed around them, locked tight by the magic she'd unleashed. The summoning circle spun faster, a vortex of black and gold and fire.
The ceiling cracked.
It started as a hairline fracture above the table, then split open with a sound like thunder. Sulphur and smoke poured through the gap, thick and choking. The apartment filled with the stench of brimstone and something older, something that made Cathy's instincts scream run.
A voice rolled through the smoke, deep and amused and far too close.
"Who dares summon me with paprika and birthday candles?"
The kitchen table exploded.
Wood splintered in every direction, and Cathy threw her arms up to shield her face. The flour bag on the counter tipped over, and a massive cloud of white powder filled the air. Something heavy crashed through the smoke and flour, landing in the centre of the ruined summoning circle with enough force to shake the floor.
The apartment went silent except for Cathy's ragged breathing.
Through the settling flour, she saw a silhouette.
Tall. Impossibly tall. Shoulders too broad to be human.
The figure straightened slowly, brushing white powder off what looked like a suit jacket. Then it turned toward her, and two points of pure darkness opened in the flour cloud where its eyes should be.
A hand shot out and grabbed her by the throat.