Page 32 of Fixing the Grumpy Pumpkin King
“Banish it. Now.”
Jack stood slowly. “What happened?”
“It attacked Rowan.”
Jack’s carved expression shifted to confusion. “That’s impossible. He would never mean you harm.”
“He PUSHED me. We were PLAYING. And your demon tried to KILL him!”
“Oh no,” Pip whispered, hovering near the ceiling.
“I can teach him...”
“NO. You’re going to banish it. Right now.”
Russet hovered closer, carefully. “Perhaps the young warlock is right, my lord. The demon may be too aggressive.”
“It almost hurt my best friend because we were MESSING AROUND. How is that protecting me?!”
Jack’s voice rose, frustrated and hurt. “I was trying to keep you safe!”
“By making me a danger to everyone around me?!”
The carved features crumpled. Not physically, but Locke could see it in the way Jack’s shoulders curved inward, the way his voice dropped. “That wasn’t my intention.”
And Locke could see it all now. The hurt. The failure. The desperation behind every gesture. Jack had been trying to protect him and instead created something dangerous.
“I know. I know you were trying to help. But Jack... you can’t just...” Locke took a breath, steadying himself. “Banish it. Please.”
Jack stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, his carved expression shifted to resignation. He raised his hand, and the demon dissolved into smoke, the binding ropes falling away as the summoning was unmade.
Silence settled over the apartment. The only sound was the tick of the old clock on the mantle, the distant hum of traffic outside.
“Boss tried really hard,” Bramble said softly from the windowsill.
“I know he did.” Locke’s voice was tired. Fond. Sad.
The familiars dispersed, giving them space. Jack stood there, those carved features unreadable, looking defeated in a way that made Locke’s chest ache. Then Jack turned and disappeared into the bedroom without another word.
Locke sank onto the couch, running his hands through his hair.
The demon had been too much. Way too much. Rowan could have been seriously hurt. But underneath the anger and fear, something else twisted inside him.
Jack had summoned a demon to protect him.
The memory surfaced before Locke could stop it. Portland, two years ago. He and Corbin walking back from dinner, laughing about something stupid, their hands loosely linked. October evening, much like this one. Cool air, the smell of someone’s firepit, the kind of perfect autumn night that made you feel alive.
Then: gunfire.
Close. Too close. The sharp crack of it echoing off buildings, people screaming, everyone scattering in different directions.
Locke had frozen for half a second, trying to process, trying to figure out which direction to run. His brain couldn’t compute the sound, couldn’t match it to reality. This was supposed to be safe. They were just walking home from dinner.
Then Corbin’s hand was on his chest.
Not pulling him close. Not pulling him to safety. Not grabbing his hand to run together.
Pushing.
