Page 22 of His Infernal Purr
The smile that blooms across his face is worth any vulnerability my admission might create. “That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. And I’m including that time you told me my soul probably wouldn’t qualify for the worst parts of Hell.”
“High praise indeed,” I agree solemnly, though my lips twitch with suppressed amusement.
By the evening of the third day, we’ve done everything possible to prepare. The clinic is closed, patients rescheduled with vague explanations about “facility maintenance.” The apartment is fortified with every protective ward in my considerable knowledge. Finn has been instructed in basic demonic defense (though I have little faith in the efficacy of a spray bottle filled with blessed water and lemon juice, his contribution to our arsenal).
As midnight approaches—the traditional hour for demonic confrontations—we wait in tense silence in the living room. Finnpaces nervously while I remain still, conserving energy, wings fully manifested in preparation for whatever comes.
“Maybe he won’t show,” Finn suggests hopefully, checking his watch for the dozenth time. “Maybe the countdown was a bluff.”
“Valefar does not bluff,” I reply grimly. “He will come.”
As if summoned by my words, the temperature begins to drop, frost forming on the windows despite the summer heat outside. The protective wards flare briefly with blue light, holding but straining against the pressure building in the air.
“He’s here,” I announce unnecessarily, rising to my full height, wings extending to their impressive span.
Finn moves closer to me, shoulders squared despite the fear I can sense radiating from him. “What’s the plan?”
“You stay behind me. I confront him. If things go poorly, you use the escape route we discussed.”
He looks like he wants to argue, but the building pressure in the room suddenly releases with an audible pop as a shimmering distortion appears in the center of the living room.
The portal solidifies, edges burning with green flame, and through it steps Valefar.
Unlike the minions Finn encountered before, Valefar makes no attempt at a human disguise. He stands nearly as tall as I do, his form similar to mine but with key differences—scales instead of smooth obsidian skin, four horns instead of two, wings resembling those of a decayed bat. His eyes glow acid green, fixing immediately on me with ancient hatred.
“Morax,” he hisses, voice like grinding metal. “How domestic you’ve become. Playing house with a mortal. Healing small animals. Have you no dignity left?”
I step forward, placing myself firmly between him and Finn. “Valefar. Still making dramatic entrances, I see. Compensating for something?”
His lipless mouth stretches in a parody of a smile. “Always the wit. I’ve missed our repartee while you’ve been… indisposed.”
“Your curse was inventive,” I concede, keeping my tone casual despite the battle-readiness humming through my form. “Though ultimately ineffective.”
“Was it?” Valefar’s gaze shifts to Finn, who stands his ground despite visibly paling. “It seems to have worked perfectly. Look at you—bound to this fragile creature, diminished, weakened by sentiment.”
“If you’re finished with the villain monologue,” I interrupt, “perhaps we could proceed to the part where you state your actual purpose here?”
Valefar circles slowly, testing the boundaries of the wards, which flare warningly at his proximity. “My purpose is simple. I’ve come to offer you a choice, old friend.”
“We are not friends.”
“Old enemy, then,” he amends with a dismissive gesture. “The choice remains: return to Hell with me now, reclaim your territories and legions which—surprisingly—I’ve kept in trust for you, and resume your rightful place… or stay here with your pet human and forfeit everything.”
I narrow my eyes, suspicious. “You preserved my holdings? Why?”
“Victory is meaningless without proper conquest,” Valefar shrugs, the motion sending ripples through his scaled skin. “Claiming abandoned territories lacks… satisfaction.”
“And if I choose to stay?” I press, already knowing the answer.
His expression hardens. “Then I take what’s yours. Starting with him.” He points a clawed finger directly at Finn.
Finn, to his credit, doesn’t flinch. “I’m not property to be taken,” he states firmly. “And Morax makes his own choices.”
Valefar’s attention shifts fully to Finn, his expression a mixture of amusement and disdain. “The mortal speaks as though its opinion matters. How charming.”
“His opinion matters to me,” I growl, wings flaring threateningly. “And he is under my protection.”
“For now,” Valefar concedes. “But for how long? A decade? Two? Mortals are so disappointingly temporary, Morax. Why attach yourself to something with such a limited existence?”
