Page 27 of His Infernal Purr
I chuckle despite my injuries, the motion sending a twinge through my cracked ribs. “Sleep, Finn.”
Within minutes, his breathing evens out, exhaustion claiming him. I remain awake, keeping watch, processing the events of the day and the revelations they’ve brought.
Valefar is defeated, at least temporarily. My position in Hell is secure, though my continued absence will undoubtedly cause complications eventually. But most importantly, Finn is safe—officially under my protection by demonic contract, a status that will be recognized even by my enemies.
As for the question of his mortality… that is a conversation for another day. There are options, though each comes with significant consequences. But the mere fact that I’m considering them—that I’m contemplating binding my existence to his in some permanent way—is unprecedented.
I look down at the sleeping human in my arms, so fragile and yet so remarkably strong in all the ways that truly matter. In saving me from Valefar’s curse, he gave me more than freedom. He gave me perspective. Choice. The possibility of something I never knew I was missing.
I love him,I realize with sudden clarity. The emotion I’ve been circling, unable or unwilling to name, is love.
The recognition should terrify me—a Duke of Hell, capable of love? Preposterous. Dangerous. Revolutionary.
Instead, it feels like the most natural thing in the world, as though my entire existence has been leading to this moment of understanding.
“I love you, Finn Hughes,” I whisper into the darkness, testing the words, finding them perfect.
He shifts slightly in his sleep, mumbling something incoherent before settling again.
I’ll tell him tomorrow, when he’s awake to hear it. For now, I’m content to hold him close, my injuries already beginning to heal, the future—our future—stretching before us with possibilities I never imagined.
Let Valefar plot his revenge. Let the legions of Hell wonder at my absence. Let the universe itself question this unlikely pairing.
None of it matters. I have found something in this small apartment, with this extraordinary ordinary human, that all the power of Hell could never provide.
I have found home.
Epilogue
“Morax! The hellhound puppies are escaping again!”
I look up from the appointment ledger I’m reviewing to see three fuzzy black shapes streaking through the clinic reception area, trailing wisps of brimstone smoke and yipping with unholy glee. Behind them, Finn appears in the doorway of exam room two, looking simultaneously exasperated and amused.
“How is it that you commanded thirty legions in Hell, but you can’t keep three puppies contained?” he demands, hands on hips in mock outrage.
“The legions were disciplined warriors who feared my wrath,” I explain patiently, already moving to intercept the escaping pups. “These are chaos incarnate with no sense of self-preservation.”
With a flick of my hand, I create a small containment circle that the puppies immediately run into, trapped by boundaries invisible to human eyes. They yip in protest, tiny ember-eyes glowing with indignation.
“Show-off,” Finn mutters, but he’s smiling as he scoops up the captured pups. “Thanks. Mrs. Weatherby will be here in twenty minutes to see if she wants to adopt one.”
“You’re giving a hellhound to an eighty-year-old human woman?” I ask incredulously.
Finn shrugs, somehow managing to contain all three squirming puppies in his arms. “She’s lonely since her husband died, lives alone, and specifically requested ‘something thatwould scare off burglars.’ Plus, she used to train Rottweilers. She can handle a little hellfire.”
I shake my head, marveling yet again at how easily Finn integrates the supernatural into his ordinary practice. In the six months since my confrontation with Valefar, our lives have settled into an unexpectedly comfortable routine—one that increasingly blends my demonic connections with his veterinary work.
The hellhound puppies are a prime example. Abandoned by their mother near a portal I maintain for occasional business in Hell, they were too young to survive on their own but too dangerous to place with normal humans. Finn’s solution? A special “exotic pet” program for clients he deems capable of handling supernatural companions.
So far, we’ve successfully placed two imps, a shadow cat, and a minor chaos sprite, along with providing discreet care for the existing supernatural companions of several clients who were relieved to finally find a vet who didn’t question why their cat occasionally phases through walls.
“Remind Mrs. Weatherby that hellhound waste is mildly corrosive and should be collected with the special bags we provide,” I call after Finn as he returns to the exam room. “And that they can’t be fed after midnight until they’re at least six months old.”
“That’s gremlins, not hellhounds,” he corrects, pausing in the doorway. “But I’ll remind her about the waste issue.”
The clinic has changed significantly since I officially became Finn’s business partner (both professionally and personally). We’ve expanded into the vacant space next door, added specialized treatment areas for supernatural creatures, and hired a second veterinarian—Dr. Figgins, who took the revelation that demons exist with remarkable equanimity and now specializes in scaled ethereal beings.
Our waiting room rarely has empty seats these days, filled with an eclectic mix of ordinary pets and their oblivious owners alongside more unusual creatures carefully glamoured to appear normal to the casual observer.
