Her Last Bad Boy (1)

She didn’t expect the demon to stay the weekend.

A Friday night, too much absinthe, a careless inscription in blood and candlewax circling the bathtub drain, an incantation she wasn’t even sure she got right around the mouthful of leftover banana bread and all the giggling. It shouldn’t have worked.

But there he is, shaggy loins straddling her couch, the cat already in his belly, hooves dirtying the bamboo flooring, CNN on the TV blaring at full volume and still his bellow, that searing cackle, rising above it all and making Emma wonder when the neighbors are going to call the cops.

What would she tell them?

Sorry, authorities, I summoned a fourth-rank Rutting Hornlord for a laugh. He did me and my best friend at the same time, and even though I’m sure Hanna was high enough to be convinced, in retrospect, it was just some very well-endowed and creatively attired friend of mine from Soho, I can’t say I’ll soon forget the way this creature of the night, er…possessed me.

View this story's 2 comments.