I wouldn't trade it for anything.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go build a crib that doubles as a summoning circle. The instructions are in Aramaic.
The Horns of a Dilemma
I was a nobody. A bass player in a band that couldn't get a gig at a funeral. But that night, she slid into the booth across from me, her shadow moving a full second after she did, and whispered, "You look like a guy who's never been afraid of the dark."
"Bring me the baby shower registry by Friday," he growled. "And it better not have any of that pastel, woodland-creature nonsense. I want black lace, obsidian rattles, and a onesie that says 'Daddy's Little Apollyon.'"
Two drinks later, the dark wasn't so scary. Four drinks later, her tail—yes, tail —was wrapped around my calf under the table. I figured it was a costume. A very committed goth thing.
You know what? It's not all bad. Her dowry is a small principality in the Seventh Circle, and she makes a mean grilled cheese. Plus, when we tell our kid the story of how they were conceived, it'll beat the hell out of "we met at a grocery store."
Love is blind. Demonic romance is just blind, deaf, and armed with a flamethrower.
