Page 26 of Summoning Mr. Wrong
“Art project turned lifestyle choice,” he said promptly. “I’ll wear long sleeves for most of it anyway, just to be safe.”
“And your eyes?”
He blinked, and suddenly his glowing amber irises were a more normal hazel color. “Contact lenses,” he said with a wink that looked strangely ordinary without the supernatural glow. “Metaphysically speaking.”
“Impressive,” I said, genuinely impressed. Without the glowing eyes and with the horns concealed, he looked… well, still extraordinarily attractive, but plausibly human. “I think this might actually work.”
“Of course it will,” he said confidently. “I’ve been observing humans for millennia. I can certainly pretend to be one for a weekend.”
I wasn’t entirely convinced, but it was better than trying to explain his absence or, worse, telling my parents the truth.
* * *
The next two days were a flurry of cleaning and preparation. Deus insisted on helping me make the apartment presentable, which involved a surprising amount of actual cleaning (as opposed to his usual supernatural tidying) to avoid raising questions about how two young men maintained such an immaculate living space.
“Remember, we’re going for ‘reasonably neat’ not ‘suspiciously perfect,’” he reminded me as he deliberately left a few dishes in the sink. “Human males in their twenties don’t typically keep show-home standards.”
“You’ve really thought this through,” I said, watching him artfully arrange some clutter on the coffee table.
“I take my roles seriously,” he said with a grin. “It’s a point of professional pride.”
By the time Saturday arrived, the apartment looked appropriately lived-in but not slovenly, and Deus had assembled an outfit that screamed “graduate student”—dark jeans, abutton-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to show just enough tattoos to be interesting but not alarming, and actual shoes.
“How do I look?” he asked, spreading his arms for inspection. “Convincingly human?”
Without the glowing eyes and subtle horns, with his tattoos partially covered and behaving themselves, he did look human. Extraordinarily attractive, but human. It was strange how the absence of those supernatural markers changed him—like watching a tiger pretend to be a housecat.
“Very convincing,” I assured him. “Just remember—no telekinesis, no spontaneous manifestation of objects, and please, for the love of everything, don’t let your tattoos start moving too obviously.”
“I’ll be on my best behavior,” he promised, placing a hand over his heart. “Scout’s honor.”
“Were you ever actually a scout?” I asked suspiciously.
His grin was answer enough.
Chapter 17
My parents arrived precisely at 4 PM, buzzing from the street entrance with the punctuality that had defined my childhood. I buzzed them up, my stomach a knot of nerves.
“Relax,” Deus said, squeezing my shoulder. “They’re just people. I’ve faced down archangels. Parents are nothing.”
“You’ve never met MY parents,” I muttered, but his confidence was somewhat reassuring.
The knock came, and I opened the door to find my mother’s smiling face and my father standing just behind her, looking as uncomfortable in the hallway of my apartment building as he always did in urban settings.
“Julian!” My mother pulled me into a hug that smelled of the same perfume she’d worn my entire life. “Look at you! Have you lost weight? Are you eating enough?”
“I’m fine, Mom,” I assured her, returning the hug before turning to my father. “Hey, Dad.”
He gave me one of his brief but firm hugs. “Son. Place looks… better than last time.”
Which was his way of saying he approved of the improvements Deus had made to my formerly depressing apartment.
“Thanks. Oh, um—” I stepped back, gesturing to Deus who was standing a respectable distance away, looking perfectly normal and human. “This is my roommate, Deus Davis. Deus, these are my parents, Linda and Michael Moore.”
Deus stepped forward, hand extended, the very picture of politeness. “Mr. and Mrs. Moore, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Julian’s told me so much about you both.”
My mother took his hand, her eyes widening slightly at his appearance. I couldn’t blame her—even toned down, Deus was striking. “Oh! Julian didn’t mention he had a roommate.”
