Page 32 of Summoning Mr. Wrong
“How do you know so much about bookstore operations?” I asked as he effortlessly reorganized a display table.
“I spent the 1890s working in a bookshop in London,” he said casually. “The owner was a minor sorcerer who summoned me for business advice. Ended up staying for nearly a decade.”
“A decade?” I paused in shelving. “That’s a long time for a favor.”
“Some contracts are more complex than others.” He shrugged, but there was something evasive in his expression. “Depends on the summoner and their needs.”
I wanted to ask more, but my new boss appeared, looking impressed with the display Deus had created.
“Your boyfriend has quite an eye for merchandising,” she commented. “We’re lucky he stopped by to help.”
“He’s full of surprises,” I agreed, watching as Deus charmed an elderly customer into buying three books she hadn’t intended to purchase.
The fact that everyone immediately assumed Deus was my boyfriend rather than just a friend was telling. There was an energy between us that was obvious to observers—a gravitational pull that kept us in each other’s orbit.
But underneath the honeymoon phase of our official relationship, anxiety gnawed at me. The deadline loomed, and we were no closer to certainty about the favor. Deus received increasingly frequent messages on his phone, each one darkening his mood temporarily before he forced a smile back onto his face.
One week before the deadline, I came home from work to find Deus sitting on the couch, staring at nothing, his tattoos swirling agitatedly across his skin.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, setting down my bag and joining him.
“Nothing new,” he said, trying for a casual tone and failing. “Just the usual deadline reminders.”
“Show me,” I said, holding out my hand for his phone.
He hesitated, then passed it over. The screen displayed a message in a language I couldn’t read—angular symbols that seemed to shift and change as I looked at them.
“What does it say?”
Deus sighed. “The short version? ‘Time is running out. Failure to complete the contracted favor will result in immediate recall and standard penalties for both parties.’”
“What are ‘standard penalties’?” I asked, not sure I wanted to know.
“For me, confinement to The Between for a century or so. For you…” He hesitated. “Memory alteration, most likely. You’d forget I was ever here.”
The thought hit me like a physical blow. To forget everything—our first meeting, the evolution of our relationship, the feeling of his tattoos moving against my skin, the sound of his laugh—it was unbearable.
“No,” I said firmly. “That’s not happening. We’ll figure this out.”
Deus looked at me with a mixture of admiration and sadness. “I’ve been thinking about it constantly, Julian. If the favor is what I suspect—helping you accept love, believe in your own worth—then I don’t know how to force that realization. It has to come naturally.”
“Maybe we’re overthinking it,” I suggested, desperate for a solution. “Maybe the favor is something simpler that we’ve already done, and the magic just hasn’t… registered it or something.”
“Maybe,” he agreed, but he didn’t sound convinced. “The contract magic is usually pretty clear, though. When a favor is completed, both parties know immediately.”
I leaned against him, taking comfort in his supernatural warmth. “Then we keep trying. Everything. Anything that might qualify as a favor.”
Which is how we spent the next few days attempting increasingly far-fetched “favors”—Deus using his powers to improve my apartment’s plumbing, magically enhancing my artistic abilities so I could sell a few drawings, even attempting to teach me basic telekinesis (which was a spectacular failure involving a broken lamp and a singed eyebrow).
Nothing worked. The messages continued, growing more frequent and ominous as the deadline approached.
Three days before the deadline, I came home from work to find Deus pacing the apartment, his horns fully extended, tattoos whirling so rapidly they were almost a blur.
“What happened?” I asked, immediately alarmed.
He stopped pacing, his expression a mixture of frustration and fear I’d never seen before. “They’re sending an enforcer.”
“A what?”
