Why You Should Never Rescue Stray Demons Chapter 147

**KACIA**

Ulric reappears only after we’ve restored the shop to something resembling its pre-cake condition. He eyes the sleeping twins, checks the shelves with a practised glance, adjusts a few items that we apparently didn’t put back in his set but very incomprehensible organisation system, then exhales through his nose like he’s admitting we didn’t ruin his life.

“Fine.” He says, too casually. 

“If you’re quite done weaponising baked goods, then I suppose it’s time for us to talk.” He grumbles as he flips the sign on the front door to ‘closed’, throws the deadbolt, and, because it’s Ulric, touches two brass studs hidden under the counter. The air hums, a ward settling like a second, quieter lock. He peers through the street window a beat longer than necessary. I would say that he’s paranoid, but he DOES have the kind of merchandise and customers that could require this kind of security, particularly since he has kids here. 

“I have no idea how no one came in for the last hour, but it was lucky.” He mutters. Oh damn, I totally forgot about the customers. It IS lucky that no one showed up during the twin’s chaotic rampage of energy. Ulric lifts his chin at us. 

“Alright. Talk.” He orders. We gather at the counter. Me, Oz (still smiling and cheerful despite himself), and Ulric with his arms folded like he’s listening under protest.

“Well, it’s a long story. But basically, we need a way to keep a fae lord, my grandfather actually, distracted and totally overwhelmed. The theory is that if he can’t think or focus he can’t blast us with fireballs or whatever else it is that he does.” I say. 

“So, we’re planning and looking for booby traps and anything you can suggest to help us along. I was thinking, remember that tea you made me once, the one that temporarily sharpened my hearing so I could track those garden imps that had broken into that old guy’s garage? I’m thinking… Something like that maybe? But stronger if that’s possible. I’m planning a kind of… Sensory overwhelm trap for him, but I need to make sure it all works at it’s best. Actually, if we can ‘enhance’ the other senses too, sight, scent, taste, touch, so they stack and trip him up? Well that would be perfect.” I explain. There is a moment of silence, then Ulric grimaces. 

“Most of my stock that affects senses is designed to improve perception, safely. Not…” He circles a finger near my temple. 

“Whatever you’re imagining.” He says, his nose crinkled distastefully. 

“We’re not trying to cause him harm or anything, just overload his focus long enough that he can’t cast so that we can trap him.” I explain. Ulric’s mouth is a hard line. 

“I don’t sell things meant to hurt people. Or rather, I try not to. I can’t knowingly sell you those kinds of things knowing that you’re planning to use it to hurt someone.” He argues. I sigh and Oz frowns, clearly frustrated. I clear my throat. 

“Ulric… The basilisk who attacked me... Outside your door.” My voice drops. 

“You remember how I looked. I nearly died…” I trail off. His eyes flash, pain first, then guilt. I know he feels bad that he didn’t help more that day. But I don’t blame him. He needed to keep his kids safe, and I had Oz to look after me anyway. 

“I remember.” He responds quietly.

“It was my grandfather who sent her to kill me. ” I say. Silence thuds. The muscles in Ulric’s jaw jump, one hand grips the counter until his knuckles blanch.

“He-” Ulric’s voice breaks and he has to start again. 

“He sent that thing after you? Your own family?” He asks, clearly upset. 

“He killed her father too.” Oz points out, clearly seeing that this line of reasoning is getting to him. I nod once. 

“And I assume you heard about the library…” I trail off and he nods.

“Everyone has heard about that. You’re not saying… Shit.” He swears under his breath. Oz sighs. 

“Yeah, that was her grandfather too.” He confirms. Ulric inhales sharply, his expression swapping from sad to furious in the same breath. 

“Well… Why didn’t you say that in the first place?” He demands angrily.

“Of course we’re doing something. Wait here. I’ll see what I can find.” He announces. 

Ulric spins on his heel and vanishes into the back. I can hear drawers slide, boxes thump, glass clinking. When he returns he’s carrying a shallow tray loaded with items. Stoppered vials, cloth pouches, a velvet roll of thin chimes, two tiny glass bottles sealed with cork and a lacquered tin.

“Alright, ground rules. While I want you to make the asshole suffer, I won’t stoop to his level. So I won’t give you anything permanent or anything designed to cause lasting harm. You follow the dosing instructions I give you EXACTLY, you carry the counteragents, and you keep this away from children under all circumstances.” He says firmly. 

“Agreed.” Oz and I say together. Ulric nods, sets the tray down, and starts laying things out with the air of a grumpy priest at a very practical altar, lays things out one by one. He taps a small grey bottle.

“Thunderleaf, for the ears. It sharpens hearing until a whisper feels close.” He starts, then he nudges a corked vial with a silk label. 

“Witchwire, for the skin. Turns the skin so sensitive that every brush registers. In small doses it’s often used for… Intimate purposes.” He says with a smirk. Next he points at a tiny jar filled with pale, suspended grains. 

“Sunsalt, for the eyes. It is meant to help a person see in the dark or to aid failing vision. I don’t know what it will do for someone who already has good vision, but I doubt that it’s comfortable.” He reasons. Next he taps an amber bottle. 

“Bitterwort, for the tongue. Heightens taste and mouth-feel. I sometimes sell this to gourmet chefs and such who want to perfect meals, or just enjoy something special.” He tells us. Finally, he points at a narrow dark bottle. He hesitates and grimaces a little. “It’s best if you don’t ask exactly what’s in this one. But I call the concoction gravecap, for the nose. It sharpens scent significantly. Sometimes used by hunters and trackers.” He finishes. I nod, then frown. 

“And… How do we actually use them?” I ask. 

“Normally? I brew them as teas or syrups to be sipped. It’s cleaner, steadier. But you need to dose someone unwilling… Hmm… I can probably convert them to sprays. It would likely be less efficient than tea, but I’ll raise the dose and they’ll still bite.” He says thoughtfully, then he rolls his shoulders back, more confident. 

“Get it in through an orifice, nose, mouth, even the ear, and you’re done.” He says. 

“Combined with the traps, do you think that’s enough to snap his focus?” I ask.

“Temporarily. Most of it wears off inside ten minutes even without the fixes, but for that ten minutes, that man will be so oversensitive the brush of a hand will feel like torture.” He explains, then he adds a tin of beeswax earplugs and a folded paper packet labeled, in neat script, ‘Cleansing Fennel- for after.’ He softens, just a fraction as he explains. 

“That one is for you. If anything lingers or you dose yourselves, make it into a tea after.” He clarifies.

“Thank you.” I manage. I didn’t expect him to help as much as he is. 

“What do I owe you?” I add, because of course there’s a cost. Ulric shrugs, the corner of his mouth lifting. 

“You can owe me a favour.” He flicks a glance at Oz, letting a rare smile show. 

“Maybe some babysitting.” He says slyly. I laugh and thank him again.