MY FAMILIAR IS THE DEMON LORD

I shouldn't have been doing magic on an empty stomach.

That’s rule number one at the Academy. Rule two is don't cast spells when you're pissed off, and rule three is don't do it when you're both. I was breaking all three at six in the morning, standing in my kitchen with flour up to my elbows and a terrible mood, all because Mrs. Abernathy's orange cat broke into my garden again and ate every last bit of my warding rosemary.

"Fine," I muttered, scraping the chalk across the floorboards way harder than I needed to. "Fine. We'll use sage. It's basically the same thing."

It wasn't. I knew that. But I was exhausted, broke, and running on three cups of coffee and zero food.

The protective spells on my shop had been dying all week. Yesterday a raccoon strolled right through the front door and stole a jar of enchanted honey. I had to fix the wards today, or Old Man Faron would tell the whole village my charms were useless, nobody would buy anything from me, and I’d starve to death in a cottage full of unsold tea.

So. Sage instead of rosemary. Extra moonwater because I was too lazy to measure it. And I rushed the words because my hands were shaking from all the caffeine.

The chalk line didn't glow. It let out this awful, high-pitched screech like ripping metal, and the room flashed blindingly white. I actually thought, great, I just killed myself with a tea spell, right before the light collapsed and a guy materialized in the middle of my kitchen floor.

A guy who definitely didn't belong there.

He was massive...so tall his broad shoulders blocked out half the room. He wore a dark, heavy coat, and the temperature in the kitchen spiked instantly, like standing next to an open oven. His eyes were this intense, molten gold, locked right on me.

"Kneel," he growled. His voice was deep enough to make the floorboards vibrate under my feet.

I didn't kneel. Mostly because I was holding a bowl of sage and didn't want to drop it, but also because I was still trying to process the sheer size of him.

"Excuse me?" I said.

"Kneel," he repeated, taking a step forward. He completely shadowed me. "You summoned the Demon Lord. Kneel, mortal, name your price, and beg for forgiveness for dragging me here."

I just stared at him. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling, looking like he expected me to drop to the floor sobbing.

When I didn't move, his expression cracked a little.

"I was just trying to fix my wards," I said.

"You..." He paused, his eyebrows pulling together. "You were what?"

"My shop wards." I pointed at the chalk circle with my wooden spoon. "I ran out of rosemary. A cat ate it."

"A cat."

"Mrs. Abernathy's cat. He’s a nightmare, honestly..."

"I am the Demon Lord," he interrupted, stepping closer. The air between us was thick with the smell of ozone and crushed herbs. "I am Malachar."

"Right. Well, Malakor..."

"Malachar" he growled, his voice dropping low.

"Right. Look, I’ve got about four minutes before my bread burns, so if you could just..." I waved a hand at the circle. "Head back home. Thanks for stopping by."

I said the dismissal spell. The basic one I've used a hundred times for minor kitchen imps. The spell that was supposed to send six-and-a-half feet of trouble straight back to wherever he came from.

Nothing happened.

I cleared my throat and said it again, slower this time.

Still nothing. He didn't move an inch. Instead, he stepped closer, towering over me until I had to tilt my head back to look at him. Up close, his golden eyes were terrifying, his mouth set in a hard, annoyed line.

"That's not going to work," he said, his voice rough.

He raised a large hand and pressed his palm against the air right above the chalk line. His fingers hit something invisible, stopping hard, like a sheet of glass. A few red sparks snapped where his skin touched the air, lighting up his jaw and the dark, curved horns pushing out of his hairline.

"What do you mean it won't work?" My stomach dropped.

"I mean," he said, looking down at me, his eyes flicking to my lips for a fast second before snapping back to my eyes, "I'm stuck."

My mouth went completely dry. "That's not possible."

He pressed both hands flat against the invisible wall, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle flexed in his cheek. He looked furious, but underneath it, his golden eyes went wide with pure panic.

"Send me back," he demanded, no longer sounding like a king, but like someone who just realized he was locked in a cage. "Do it again."

I swallowed hard and stepped right up to the edge of the circle. Being this close to him felt dizzying. I could feel the heat coming off his skin, smell that dark, spicy scent on him.

I said the spell a third time. Perfect, clear, precise.

The circle didn't budge.

Instead, a sharp, warm pulse flared in the air between us. A spark shot from his skin and zapped my collarbone, sending a sudden shock down to my toes. I gasped, clutching my neck, while Malachar let out a low growl and flinched back like he'd been burned.

We stood there staring at each other, breathing hard in the quiet kitchen.

Behind me, the smell of burnt bread started filling the air. Neither of us moved.