Page 4 of Taming the Wicked Wolf

I hold the book against my chest, slicing my left hand with the pink pocketknife my stepfather got me when I moved out, because of course, the ritual needs blood. My hand throbs as I squeeze it closed over the circle, wringing out a few drops onto the bright blue pastel markings.

As soon as the first drop hits, the floor shimmers like water rippling from the center out towards the first ring of ancient runes. These old witches were sure into theatrics because the runes crackle, a fuse lit and burning fast out towards the barrier of protection runes that I laid out, just in case.

Just imagine it, I summon a demon and it ends up burning down the apartment.

I glance over at the fire alarm hanging in the kitchen, wait for it to wail its displeasure at the magic. My own powers have never triggered it, but this feels like another beast entirely.

With a whoosh, a pillar of red smoke coils from the runes and stretches towards the ceiling, causing me to stumble backwards, catching my injured hand on the back of my dining room chair.

“Dammit.” I hiss out, dropping the book and pressing my hand against my middle.

I bite back the tears, shielding my bloodied palm, and lean over and scoop up the book. My gaze caught on the black boots with gold stitching standing in the middle of the summoning circle.

I straighten, following the dark charcoal slacks to a black long-sleeved henley unbuttoned halfway until I crane my neck up to stare into bright honey-colored eyes. Wait, is that American Eagle?

The demon tilts his head, shoulder length ink-black hair falling against his soft cheekbones. It’s strange, I was expecting him to look more demonic, but he resembles an Abercrombie model. Tanned and tall, up in the 6-something range with the most defined shoulders I have ever seen. When did I become attracted to shoulders?

He’s all lean muscle down to a trim waist, and a positively human body, except for two bright blue markings across his cheekbones and those canine-like pointed ears sitting on top of his head.

The ears alone mark him as a wolf demon, but he’s nothing like the books described. According to the illustrations, he’s supposed to have feathered wings and the tail of a serpent, whatever that means.

“You’re bleeding all over the floor, little witch.” He says, his voice smokey with the hint of an English accent.

“No,” I shake my head, then glance down at the tiny drips of blood pooling at my feet, “This is impossible.”

“It is quite possible and obvious. Are you alright? Did you hit your head?”

I spent six months learning the ins and outs of these runes, not to mention dropping nearly a thousand dollars on all the materials put together to summon a specific demon by name. This is a mistake. This demondoesn’t look like he is a day over 25, 26 tops. I don’t even know he has the authority to bargain for my soul.

“You’re not him.” I say.

The demon furrows his brow.

THREE

Silas

“Just who wereyou trying to summon, exactly?” I ask, my ears twitching as I stare at the runes drawn at my feet.

From the looks of it, she pieced together the ritual in the dining room of her small apartment. If it wasn’t clear that she’s a witch from the light of her soul, I could tell with the subtle evidence of her craft woven throughout her home.

From the tiny bundles of herbs tucked away on shelves alongside more candles and crystals than any normal person would need, each color used for its own purpose. Then there are the leather-bound books on the far end of the apartment next to her couch, with little more than decorative markings on their spines. Witch’s tomes passed down from generation to generation.

She even took her time drawing the runes, going as far to add an extra ring to serve as a protection spell, a failsafe if the ritual itself were to break for whatever reason. That explains the faint tingling sensation in my limbs from standing here. Such a clever little witch.

It doesn’t take me long to find exactly what I have been looking for, my family’s mark, more specifically the mark of my father, Marcellus.

“You were really expecting the Marquis of the Wolf Demons to answer your little summoning spell?”

Hurt flashes across her features, and I regret my tone immediately. I should have been more compassionate, she’s clearly injured and possibly afraid.

Her expression hardens and I feel the warmth of her fire magic flare as she gives me a once-over.

“Yes. I did my research. He’s one of the few wolf demons who takes it upon himself to protect the witches who summon him.” She presses the book against her chest, a shield between us.

“Well, your summons has been answered,” I sigh, “I am Silas, son of Marcellus.” I incline my head in a subtle bow, “At your service.”

“His son? Great.” She scoffs, “How old are you?”

---