Page 2 of Demon Next Door

As a bonus, he’d probably fix the whole unlovable-and-alone-and-broke thing, I figured, because he’d want to live an enjoyable life in my body.

And even though the guy at the legal aid clinic had totally struck out on doing anything about the glowing orange logos, surely a demon would be able to get rid of those, too.

One of the few readable pages in the book had a spell I thought would work for me.

According to the crabbed text, it’d summon a demon who would “enter in and take complete possession of the body to use as he doth will it and force the will to bend to his own.” It also promised he’d “fill the body with his vitality,” which had to encompass curing headaches, right?

I sat down at my kitchen table with my cup of tea, took a bracing sip, and laid out the spell and its components, which I’d put together a few weeks ago in a fit of nostalgia and longing.

First, a selection of herbs and spices: basil, cardamom, cinnamon, ginger, and cayenne pepper that I’d scraped out of the bottoms of a few different jars in my cabinets.

They’d have to do, whatever. I didn’t have the cash for better.

The spice aisle at the store might as well be called the bankruptcy aisle.

And it wasn’t like using high-quality spell components had done much for me in the past.

Then the spell had called for, of all things, the intestines of a sheep.

I mean…ewww, and that was a terrible pun, so—yuck.

Not happening. I’d done the best I could, given the limitations of my squeamishness and the discount grocery outlet two blocks down from my apartment, and grabbed a can of menudo soup.

Maybe extra hot and spicy would be a plus for summoning a demon.

Olive oil was next, but I’d opted not to buy any of that, either. I had a can of spray-on avocado oil I used for when I heated up takeout leftovers in a frying pan, and that had to do.

“The raw, wet, pulsating flesh of a luscious oyster” was next on the list. By this point, I’d started side-eyeing the writer of this spell pretty hard, but I was determined to get at least some version of everything, even if I wasn’t going to spend much money.

Luckily, I’d found a small flat can of smoked oysters on a dusty shelf near the menudo.

Last of all, the spell demanded “the supplicant’s sweet salt.” That one had really confused me. None of the spells I’d used before had included that.

In the end, I’d decided to put some of the fancy Himalayan pink salt my sister had given me last Yule into a bowl with a glob of honey on top. Honey seemed more magic-appropriate than cane sugar from a bag. Even if it came out of a plastic bear.

With all of it arranged in the spell’s mandated concentric circles, I stepped back from the table, slugged the rest of my tea, and fumbled around in the junk drawer.

There were a few battered tea lights in there, plus a box of birthday candles, and I managed to get the four cardinal points plus two extras representing me and “the flame of my desire.” At the last moment, I switched two of them so that my “desire” would be one of the tea lights instead of a pink striped birthday candle with remnants of chocolate frosting on the bottom. That just felt too pathetic.

Although I’d have murdered a chocolate cake right then.

Focus, David .

I lit the candles, tilted the spell toward their light and squinted—with a spike of pain, and oh, this was not doing my hopefully fading headache any favors—and read the spell aloud in as strong and sonorous a voice as I could project.

“…te oinomead muc muut elibuc itsiusop memilbus,” I finished, and immediately coughed, choked, and cleared my throat awkwardly.

Silence fell. Nothing happened, except for the familiar, dragging sensation of extreme disappointment.

If it had worked, even at all, I’d have expected…a clap of thunder, maybe. Possibly the oyster flesh pulsating lusciously? Although I couldn’t see it inside the can, to be fair. Vitality filling my body, or something?

My phone gave a loud chime, and I jumped so high I nearly whacked into the ceiling, letting out a strangled, high-pitched sound I was intensely grateful no one was there to hear.

Occasionally there was something to be said for being alone and unloved.

I subsided, panting, every nerve in my body quivering as adrenaline ebbed and flowed.

My phone flashed, and I grabbed it and checked the notification.

At least I’d summoned something with my menudo and stale cinnamon sticks.

“Congratulations!” it said. “Your car’s extended warranty has been activated!”

I blinked at it in utter disbelief. Did this shitty book I’d pulled out of the trash have a spell for banishing telemarketers, too, maybe? Because that would actually be useful.

And then I yelped again, spinning and flailing and flinging my phone behind me with a crash, as a deep, gravelly voice said, “Are you all right? In my experience, it’s a bad sign when humans make noises like that.”