Page 27 of Summoning Mr. Wrong
“It’s a relatively recent arrangement,” Deus said smoothly. “About two months now.”
“Two months isn’t that recent,” my father said, shaking Deus’s hand with slightly narrowed eyes. Typical dad, immediately suspicious.
“Time flies when you’re having fun,” Deus replied with just the right amount of charm. “Please, come in. Can I take your coats?”
I watched in amazement as Deus effortlessly transformed into the perfect host, taking their coats, offering drinks, and generally charming my mother within minutes. My father remained somewhat reserved, but even he seemed impressed when Deus mentioned his “research” into ancient Mesopotamian religious practices.
“Fascinating period,” my dad said, accepting a glass of wine that I definitely hadn’t bought. “The development of early writing systems alone…”
“Changed the course of human history,” Deus finished, nodding enthusiastically. “The ability to record knowledge, to pass it between generations without relying on oral tradition—it was revolutionary.”
My father, a history professor at a small liberal arts college, looked pleasantly surprised to find someone who shared his interests. They were soon deep in conversation about cuneiform tablets, while my mother pulled me into the kitchen under the pretense of helping with dinner.
“He seems nice,” she said in the stage whisper that was her version of being discreet. “Very handsome. Those tattoos are… interesting.”
“Art project,” I said automatically. “He’s a grad student in anthropology.”
“Mmm.” She gave me a look I couldn’t quite interpret. “And you’re just roommates?”
I nearly dropped the serving spoon I was holding. “What? Yes! Why would you ask that?”
She raised an eyebrow in a gesture I’d inherited. “No reason. Just the way he looks at you when you’re not watching.”
“Which is how, exactly?” I asked, trying to sound casual but probably failing miserably.
“Like you hung the moon,” she said simply. “But if you say you’re just roommates, I believe you.”
Her tone made it clear she absolutely did not believe me.
Dinner went surprisingly well. Deus had insisted on cooking, producing a meal that was impressive but not suspiciously beyond what a talented home cook might manage. He’d carefully moderated his supernatural tendencies, though I caught him once about to move a dish telekinetically before stopping himself.
“So, Deus,” my father said as we were finishing the main course, “what are your plans after graduate school?”
“I’m keeping my options open,” Deus replied smoothly. “Academia has its appeal, but I’m also interested in museum work, possibly cultural preservation efforts.”
“All that education must be expensive,” my mother observed. “Do you have family support?”
I winced at her directness, but Deus took it in stride.
“I’m fortunate to have a trust fund from my grandparents,” he said, the lie flowing effortlessly. “Nothing extravagant, but enough to cover my education and basic living expenses.”
That explained the mysterious source of his money, at least as far as my parents were concerned. I marveled at how thoroughly he’d constructed his human backstory.
“And how did you two meet?” my father asked, his historian’s eye for detail not missing a thing. “Julian mentioned a mutual friend?”
“Yes, through Kelly,” Deus said, naming one of my actual friends. “At a gallery opening last winter. We got talking about the intersection of art and anthropology, and when I mentioned I was looking for a new place, Julian said he had space. The rest, as they say, is history.”
I tried not to look too impressed at how he’d woven real details from my life into his fiction. Kelly would be confused if my parents ever mentioned meeting my roommate through her, but that was a problem for another day.
“Well, we’re glad Julian has someone looking out for him,” my mother said warmly. “This city can be so isolating. We worry.”
“Mom,” I protested, feeling my face heat up. “I’m twenty-five, not fifteen.”
“Parents never stop worrying,” Deus said with a surprisingly genuine smile. “It’s one of the constants across all human cultures I’ve studied.”
The conversation moved on, but I couldn’t shake my mother’s words. Was Deus “looking out for me”? It certainly felt that way sometimes, with his cooking and cleaning and general support. But why would a demon care about my well-being beyond what was required by the contract?
After dinner, we moved to the living room for coffee and the dessert Deus had prepared—some kind of deconstructed tiramisu that looked like it belonged in a high-end restaurant. My father had warmed up considerably to Deus, andthey were now discussing the historical accuracy of various documentaries.
