Page 9 of His Infernal Purr
“Right. Very demonic of you.” He doesn’t look convinced. “Come on, we open in ten minutes.”
The clinic day starts slowly—a few routine check-ups, vaccinations for a litter of puppies (disgustingly adorable creatures that kept trying to lick my hands), and a geriatric cat with kidney issues. I observe Finn’s interactions with his clients, noting how he shifts his approach for each person—more technical with the knowledgeable pet owners, simpler explanations for the nervous first-timers, gentle firmness with the difficult ones.
“You’re good at this,” I observe during a brief lull, restocking the cotton balls in exam room one.
“At what? Veterinary medicine?”
“At… people,” I clarify awkwardly. “Understanding what they need.”
Finn looks surprised by the compliment. “Thanks. I guess I just try to listen more than I talk.”
“A rare quality in humans,” I note. “Most mortal souls I’ve encountered talked incessantly, especially when pleading for mercy.”
“And there’s the demonic perspective I’ve come to expect,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “Remind me not to ask about your previous job.”
Before I can respond, the front door bursts open, and a frantic young woman rushes in carrying something wrapped in a bloodied towel.
“Please help! I found him on the road—someone hit him and didn’t stop!”
Finn immediately shifts into professional mode, taking the bundle and quickly examining the small, bloodied creature inside—a young raccoon, badly injured.
“Josie, prep the surgical suite,” he orders. “Morax, I need an extra set of hands. Now.”
I follow him to the back room, where he gently transfers the unconscious raccoon to an examination table. “He’s got multiple fractures, internal bleeding. We need to move fast.”
For the next hour, I assist as Finn works to save the small creature—holding instruments, passing supplies, keeping the animal stabilized while he repairs the damage. His hands move with practiced precision, his focus absolute. There’s something almost… magical about watching him work, this mortal with no supernatural powers somehow fighting death with nothing but skill and determination.
It’s oddly… impressive.
When the surgery is complete and the raccoon stabilized, Finn finally steps back, pulling off his gloves with a heavy sigh.
“He’ll make it, I think. Thanks for your help.”
“I merely followed instructions,” I reply, uncomfortable with his gratitude.
“You were calm under pressure. Not everyone can handle emergency situations.” He smiles tiredly. “For someone who claims to have no interest in ‘lesser creatures,’ you showed remarkable gentleness.”
I scoff, looking away. “Precision was required. It wasn’t gentleness.”
Finn just gives me that knowing look I’ve come to find both irritating and… something else I can’t quite identify.
After closing the clinic, we retreat upstairs. Finn orders something called “pizza” for dinner—a circular food item covered in melted cheese and various toppings that he insists is “essential human cuisine.”
“So,” he says between bites, “are we going to talk about it?”
I raise an eyebrow. “About what?”
“About the fact that it’s been a week, no sign of your demon enemy, and you haven’t mentioned going back to Hell once.”
I carefully set down my slice of pizza, considering my response. The truth is, I’ve been deliberately avoiding the subject. The thought of returning to Hell, to the endless politics and power struggles, no longer holds the appeal it once did.
Because of him. Because nothing in Hell is as interesting as watching Finn Hughes save a raccoon’s life or laugh at his own terrible jokes or fall asleep on the couch with his veterinary journals.
“I’m being strategic,” I finally say. “Valefar will be watching the typical entry points to Hell. Better to remain here until he believes I’ve given up.”
Finn nods slowly, clearly not buying my explanation. “Uh-huh. And how long does that usually take? This strategic waiting period?”
“Difficult to say. Demons are patient creatures.”
