Page 3 of My Saintly Demon

DAVE

Dave! Get the fuck over here!”

I rise from the bar stool, buttoning my suit jacket as I walk to the back room my father summoned me to. Because that’s what it is, summoning the demon spawn to be yelled at. I should be used to it by now.

My father, one of Satan’s right-hand men twice removed, swirls his glass of whiskey as he leans forward on the black leather couch. A glance around the room reveals my two older brothers present, and I quickly dampen the flames of a fight in my eyes. If they’re both here, this doesn’t bode well for me.

“Sit down, Dave. We need to talk.”

My father’s voice rumbles and carries the authoritative tone you don’t ignore if you want to remain standing. My brothers both stand at attention in their custom-made suits. Their expressions remain blank as they follow my walk across the room to our father.

Wiping my sweaty hands on my pants, I perch on the edge of the leather sofa across from him. It’s the finest Italian leather you could ever want for a piece of furniture. Rumour has it our father made a tempting bargain with an upscale furniture designer. We never lack in the finer things. Pure decadence, just like the whiskey he has in his glass. Fifty-year-old Glen Livet at twenty-five thousand dollars a bottle. There are some perks to hell.

“Sure, what’s this about?” My back is straight as I drum my fingers on my knee. A nervous habit that my father picks up on.

“You’re nervous Dave. Do you know why?”

“No, sir.”

The ice clicks in his glass as he takes a sip, watching me over the rim with his cold, blue eyes.

“What do you think a demon should be like, Dave? Are there any defining attributes?”

“You’ve always taught us we should revel in the debauchery of all kinds and take no shame in it.”

He nods, a small grin in place. “But what else, son? Surely there’s more to it than that?”

I swallow. Of course there is, and it’s the part I always struggle with.

“Demons shouldn’t show mercy, and we are here to raise hell for mortals.”

The ice clinks in his glass again and my brothers’ gazes burn into me. Flames of anger rise behind my eyes with their silent judgment, but I stamp the heat out immediately. If I show anger towards my father or brothers right now, I’ll be leaving this room in a dustpan.

“Dave, I asked you to pay a visit to the gentleman who was making TikTok videos denouncing Satan and selling vials of anti-demon potion, whatever the fuck that is. Did you do it?”

I swallow. “I did.”

“Hmmm... what was the outcome?”

“He promised he’d stop.”

My brother grunts and I shoot a look in his direction. He shakes his head and a smile plays on his lips.

“Dave, I gave you direct orders, and you didn’t follow them. That makes me look bad.” He drains his whiskey, reaches for a coaster and places his empty glass on it. It’s a teak table. One needs to be careful about water stains. “I don’t like to look bad.”

Reclining, he throws an arm across the back of the sofa. Those icy blue eyes continue to bore into me.

“I’m sorry.”

My other brother barks out a laugh and quickly schools his expression when my father aims a stare in his direction.

“That’s your problem, Dave. Demons are never sorry. You should never apologize.Never. Yet you constantly do. It’s like you’re a misplaced Canadian tourist or something, always saying sorry for the littlest things.”

“Sorry.”

I cringe when the flames flicker behind his cold blue eyes. I can’t help it. I mean, you can be a dick and still apologize after. I’m a demon, not a thoughtless monster.

“Unacceptable, Dave. Why the hell did you not take that guy out as I asked? You have one chance to give me your reason. Make it good.”

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