Why You Should Never Rescue Stray Demons Chapter 145

**KACIA**

Cake in hand, I practically skip down the alley toward Ulric’s shop, the white bakery box bumping lightly against my palm. The alley smells like dusty bricks, old coffee, and whatever floral disaster is still clinging to my jacket from the deodorant aisle. I don’t know why I’m in such a good mood. Maybe it’s because I finally have a half-decent plan instead of waiting around. Maybe it’s the jolt of energy that comes from having something I can actually do. Or maybe it’s because I just had the time of my life watching Oz cycle through shock, horror and awe while I shopped for booby-trap supplies. He tried to keep a straight face, he really did. But I saw the micro-flinches. The way his mouth went all polite when the fifth can of hairspray hit the basket. The way his nostrils staged a coup when I swept the deodorant shelf clean. The quiet, resigned inventory he did as the speakers multiplied like rabbits. Watching a demon who has definitely survived wars lose composure at the glitter aisle? Honestly, ten out of ten, would recommend. I could practically hear him thinking as we moved. What is she building? Is there a plan? Is there… A plan? Answer, yes. Mostly. It’s fairly general, an umbrella plan with vibes. Most of the stuff has a specific purpose, but some of it is just… Cool. Interesting. Potentially useful in the right chaos. If an idea poked my brain, it went in the trolley. Then I added it to my list after the fact so I could have the satisfaction of ticking it off again. Do I love the little felt-tip squeak of a box getting crossed out? Absolutely. Bonus, the retroactive list-making makes the whole operation look alarmingly deliberate. Oz now seems convinced my plan is far more detailed than it is, which, between us, works beautifully. He reads my scribbles like they’re blueprints. I hold the pen like I meant that all along. We both get what we need. And hey, fake it til you make it, right?

Oz politely opens the shop door for me and I stride in like I belong here, cake box balanced on my palm. The bell above the frame gives its crooked little jangle, slightly off-key. The place smells like rain-damp stone, old paper, and strong herbs. Ulric’s already at the counter, arms folded, expression carved out of stone. Sleeves rolled, apron dusted in something pale (salt? chalk? weaponised flour?), a black smudge on his thumb where ink has staged a small rebellion. 

“No.” He says, flat as a floorboard.

“I haven’t asked you anything yet!” I protest, shifting the cake so the ribbon bow faces him, purely for presentation, obviously.

“You don’t need to.” He gives me a long, unimpressed blink. 

“Your expression says it all. I want no part of whatever the hell this is. And if that wasn’t enough, you brought cake.” He says sternly. I flutter my lashes. 

“That doesn’t mean I want anything. Maybe I’m just happy to see you.” I say sweetly. 

“That’s crap.” He says, blunt as a hammer. I crack up, because fair. I glance over my shoulder for backup and discover Oz is already occupied. Ace and Ian have materialised from the shop’s labyrinth like tiny, gleeful gremlins. I swear this store has more secret hidey-holes than walls, behind bead curtains, under display plinths, between crates stacked just far enough apart for a small, determined child, and Ulric pretends he’s above it, but he absolutely encourages it. If a sketchy customer ever tried anything in here, those boys would vanish into the woodwork. I doubt even Ulric knows all their routes. At present, Ace has secured Oz’s tail with both hands and the solemnity of a fisherman landing a myth, feet planted, little shoulders squared. Ian is bouncing at Oz’s knee, fingers scrabbling at boot laces, making an enthusiastic attempt to scale him like a climbing wall. Oz drops into a crouch to make the ascent easier, grinning in that rare, warm way he thinks no one notices. He angles his tail just enough to give Ace a ‘moving target,’ flicking it left, then right, a playful tease that earns a breathless giggle.

“Got it!” He declares triumphantly. He hooks a steadying hand under Ian’s ankle, then, in one smooth motion, scoops him up and settles him on his shoulders. Ian shrieks with delight and grabs two fistfuls of dark hair like reins. Oz huffs an exaggerated, friendly growl and does the tiniest, careful bounce that makes the kid crow like he’s riding a dragon.

“Hold on tight!” Oz rumbles, playing along, one palm braced over Ian’s shin to keep him secure while the other hand lets Ace ‘win’ another inch of tail. The silver at the edge of his eyes is pure amusement, soft and bright. He’s careful, always careful, but he’s happy, too, soaking up their laughter like it’s sun. Ace clings harder, eyes huge with triumph. Ian drums his heels against Oz’s chest and declares him ‘the best horse,’ which would offend any demon with pride, except mine, who just laughs under his breath 

“I’m a warhorse, thank you very much!” He answers. 

I turn back. Ulric’s mouth tries very hard not to smile as he watches them, then remembers who I am and scowls on principle.

“Okay, so yeah, it’s crap.” I admit, sliding the cake box onto the counter. 

“I DO want something. But that doesn’t mean you can’t still have cake.” I point out. Ulric narrows his eyes. 

“Does this cake come with some kind of commitment I’m going to regret?” He demands. 

“Absolutely not.” I hold both hands up, palms out. 

“This is a commitment-free cake. Its only purpose is to put you in a good mood so that when I do try to persuade you to help me, you’re more inclined to listen.” I explain. He mutters something in a language that sounds like it was invented just to grumble. 

“And what are you going to do if I say no and refuse your attempt to buy my goodwill?” He asks suspiciously. I grin slyly. 

“Oh, I have a plan for that too…” I trail off. I clear my throat and raise my voice. 

“Hey, Ace, Ian. I have cake!” I announce loudly. A whirlwind event follows. Ian launches off Oz’s shoulders like a joyful cannonball directly at me. I stumble, catch myself on the counter, and find a tiny goblin child hanging from my arm like a decorative bracelet. Ace, not to be outdone, abandons Oz’s tail and scrambles up a precarious stack of boxes like a pirate boarding a rival ship. He climbs onto the counter and goes straight for the box with laser focus. 

“Ah, wait!” Ulric begins. Too slow. Ace gets his little hands into the frosting with the pure, holy determination of a child who knows dessert when he sees it. Perfect chocolate fingerprints stamp the icing like a crime scene. Ian, still attached to me, leans in and licks one clean off the corner with an angelic hum. Ulric looks at me like he is so completely, cosmically done.

“Oh no. My cake…” I say in my best monotone of theatrical tragedy. Then I perk up. 

“Well! I guess your kids accepted the cake on your behalf. And look how happy they are.” I exclaim dramatically. The boys are already giggling, cheeks smudged, hands shiny with sugar. Oz stands very still, as though he’s learned from experience that any sudden movement will attract additional goblin, and meets my eyes over their heads with a long-suffering, affectionate resignation. Ulric pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“Fine. Fine.” He exhales through his teeth. 

“I’ll go get a knife and some plates. You two try to wrangle those little monsters, or there won’t be any cake left intact for the rest of us.” He warns. Then he disappears into the back. I turn to scoop Ian into a better perch on my hip, and he rewards me by patting my cheek with a frosting-handprint. Ace, having secured his initial claim, lifts both chocolate-glazed palms to Oz like a priest bestowing a blessing. Oz accepts it with minimal dignity and a very patient face. Success!