Somewhere in a London park… The Witching Hour… or maybe half-past the witching hour.

  Nestled among a crooked gathering of ancient trees, where the London fog curled thick and eerie, a circle of candlelight guttered weakly against the abyssal dark.

  At the center of it all, scrawled onto the damp earth, lay a glyph of unsettling angles and jagged spirals, the kind of thing that made human eyes squint involuntarily, as if the brain itself refused to process its geometry.

  The figures standing around it—cloaked in dark robes. Well. Hoodies, actually. Mostly from Primark.

  One of them—his hood barely concealing a shock of over-gelled hair—slowly tilted his head, peering at the glyph.

  "Do you think it worked, Rupert?" he asked, voice laced with hesitation.

  The young man beside him, who had clearly been waiting all night for this exact moment, hissed back indignantly.

  "Oi! No real names at cult meetings, mate! I'm Lord Blackflame here!"

  A third snapped at them both, sounding distinctly fed up.

  "Shut it, both of you! No arguing in front of the Demonic Mistress of the Black Sabbath!"

  Another hooded figure nodded in solemn agreement.

  "Yeah, otherwise she might not let us sleep with her once we summon her."

  The entire circle of would-be warlocks murmured in reverent agreement. Because that, above all else, was the goal.

  They were warlocks—or, at least, they thought they were—and tonight was the Black Sabbath, the most sacred of nights for actually demonic agents, amateur occultists. weirdos, and hormonal nitwits alike.

  And they were determined to summon a she-demon. To make their dark pacts. To seal their souls in infernal servitude. An —most importantly—To absolutely get laid doing it.

  The leader of the would-be warlock circle—a skinny young man draped in an oversized black hoodie—raised his hand, a gesture meant to command respect, silence, and perhaps a little awe.

  His companions fell quiet, their collective reverence absolute.

  For he was their Dark Master. (Though, his birth certificate still insisted on calling him Oswald.) And in this gathering of inept, hoodie-clad heretics, his word was law.

  Why?

  Because Oswald—ahem, the Dark Master—was the most knowledgeable among them. For unlike the unwashed plebeians who made up his so-called inner circle, he had actually read a few books on witchcraft and demonology. Not cover-to-cover, mind you. But he had skimmed them.

  Thus, by the sheer process of default, this made him an expert in the field of summoning dark, forbidden forces. And more importantly, it guaranteed that when they finally conjured forth their voluptuous infernal patron, he—as the Head Warlock—would be granted first access to her titillating demonic assets.

  Such was his dark privilege as master of the circle.

  Also— He had paid good money for this. (Well. His parents’ money, technically. But they didn’t need to know that.) The ritual, the sigil, and most importantly—the name of the she-demon herself— Had all been purchased from a man who claimed to be a warlock of great renown.

  A man who had sworn upon the unholy tome of ‘100% No Refunds’ that their chosen demoness was:

  Powerful beyond mortal comprehension.

  Eager to make pacts with foolish young men.

  And, most critically, sporting an absolutely legendary pair of knockers.

  The Dark Master smirked in satisfaction. Tonight, his investment would finally pay off. Or so he thought.

  The Dark Master—a.k.a. Oswald, Summoner of Demonic Knockers—raised his hands, striking a dramatic pose. In one, he held a silver hand mirror, its surface gleaming dimly in the flickering candlelight.In the other, he clutched a handful of camel fur— Which, as it turned out, had been much harder to acquire than the damn mirror. (Seriously, where the hell was one supposed to get camel fur in London? He had to bribe a dodgy bloke on eBay for this. It had cost him nearly forty quid. Forty! Plus shipping. Bloody nightmare.)

  Still—he had everything he needed. With all the gravitas his skinny frame could muster, he spoke:

  "Light the red candles and prepare the ancient call!"

  Then, a pause. A tiny flicker of doubt crept in.

  "...You guys did bring the red candles, right?"

  There was a beat of silence. Then, a flurry of nods.

  "Yeah, yeah, of course," muttered several voices at once.

  His disciples—good, loyal, occasionally moronic disciples— fumbled in their hoodie pockets, producing red candles of varying sizes and questionable quality. One of them, who had clearly bought his from Poundland, had a suspicious cinnamon scent. But no matter.

  The candles were lit, their flames casting jagged shadows against the trees. And as the glow settled over the twisting, unsettling glyph, the chanting began. A steady, droning rhythm—the words of the ritual that their Dark Master had so diligently purchased and forced them to practice.

  And as the sound of their muffled, half-memorized Latin filled the night air, Oswald felt the moment was right. He took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and intoned:

  "Duchess Gremory, Gomory, Gemory, Gamori…"

  Each variation of her name was spoken with careful, deliberate precision, his lips forming the syllables as flawlessly as he could manage. Because he had read somewhere—(in a very reputable PDF)—that saying a supernatural being’s name correctly was very important.

  His voice rose in pitch, his will and intent pouring into the night air.

  "Oh, 56th demon of the Ars Goetia, commander of the 26 legions…"

  A swell of drama. A pulse of importance.

  "I bid you to come to my call!"

  Silence. For a brief, agonizing moment— Nothing happened. Exactly as he expected. Because obviously—these things never worked right away. The important thing was to keep the performance going, maintain the illusion of power, keep the disciples hanging on his every word—

  And then the air shifted.

  Like a vacuum had been created. The temperature dropped sharply, the candles flickered, and the very atmosphere itself seemed to tighten around them.

  And then—

  The camel hair in his hand snapped and burned away— With a tiny, unnatural burst of blue flame. Oswald yelped. Like. Actually, full-on yelped. The ritual circle of hooded morons froze in place. The fire’s afterglow left a curling tendril of smoke, spiraling up toward the blackened sky.

  And that’s when the realization settled in. Oh, Oh shit. Something had actually happened.

  For a breathless moment, the only sound in the candlelit clearing was the thunderous beating of hearts.

  Every hooded figure stood frozen, their collective gaze locked onto the shimmering air inside the circle—

  A space where reality itself twisted—where something was forcing its way through the veil.

  Then— A figure began to take shape. Eyes widened. Jaws went slack.

  A few swallowed so loudly, it was practically a ritualistic chant of its own. And in the center of their glowing, eldritch glyph—

  She stood. Duchess Gremory. The very image of sinful perfection.

  She moved with a languid grace, her fire-orange eyes blinking open as she slowly extended her limbs, examining her impossibly smooth, ivory skin. At the ends of her fingers, small claw-like nails gleamed, wicked but elegantly shaped, a contrast to the delicate poise with which she studied herself.

  And then, she turned her gaze upon them. Black hair spilled down her back like a waterfall of midnight sins, shifting smoothly with her every motion. Her lips, full and red as fresh-pressed wine, curled into a knowing, indulgent smile—

  And when she parted them, the gleam of small, sharp canines flashed just behind her ruby lips. And then, she spoke.

  "I bid you greetings, my summoners."

  Her voice was liquid temptation, smooth as black silk gliding across bare skin, curling into their ears like a lover’s whisper in the dark.

  The air itself seemed to hum with warmth— And several of the hooded cultists shuddered as the sheer sultry appeal of her words crawled down their spines. For a moment, they simply drank her in. They had done it. They had summoned a true demoness—a Duchess of Hell— And she was unreal.

  Their hungry eyes traced over her impossible curves, the ample proportions that defied mortal reason, and—most importantly— The utter lack of clothing save for a golden crown adorned with sharply curved horns, resting majestically upon her brow.

  She was exactly as promised. The temptation. The beauty. The unholy, inescapable allure.

  Yes.

  This was going to be the greatest night of their lives. Or so they thought.

  The leader of the circle—Oswald, the Dark Master, the grand warlock of wet dreams and poor decisions— Was blathering.

  Something about Sabbaths.

  Something about pacts.

  Something about snogging and shagging.

  And while he droned on, his hooded brethren nodded eagerly, practically salivating over the gorgeous demoness they had so masterfully conjured forth. Gremory, meanwhile, was not listening in the slightest.

  Her fire-orange eyes were fixed on the circle—on the glyphs etched into the damp earth, the flickering candlelight glinting off their crude, uneven angles. Amateurish at best, she noted to herself. A feeble set of ritualists with barely enough magical power to conjure an imp on a good day.

  The fact that they had managed to call her forth was clearly a fluke. Still—weak-willed mortals had their uses. Their minds, while impure and lacking in strength of will, were still of mild interest. Perhaps even useful, should she choose to play this game.

  Or she could simply break free. Decisions, decisions. Slowly, with an elegant, fluid motion, Gremory knelt— And as she did, she felt their eyes drift lower.

  Every single one of them. Hook, line, and sinker. Pathetic. Utterly pathetic.

  She let her clawed fingers glide over the glyphs, tracing the uneven edges, contemplating her next move. Would she give them what they wanted? A bargain that would cost her nothing?

  Or simply… walk away and let them writhe in disappointment? Oh, the choices. She did so love to toy with fragile things.

  Duchess Gremory slowly rose to her full height, her every movement deliberate, controlled, and dripping with allure.

  The eyes of her summoners remained glued to her—

  Their mouths slightly open, their breathing shallow, their minds already spiraling into fantasies that had nothing to do with power or wisdom and everything to do with the flesh.

  Exactly as she intended.

  She let a slow, knowing smile curl her ruby-red lips, just enough to reveal the hint of her fangs—

  A delicate, tantalizing glimpse of the danger within the temptation. And they shuddered at the sight of her. They were pathetic. Utterly pathetic. And yet—

  They could still be of use.

  Not for their power—which was practically nonexistent—but for their blind devotion. For their weak-willed thirst. For the eagerness with which they would debase themselves in the name of servitude and lust.

  Yes.

  She had always found fools like these to be the most loyal. She turned then, her fire-orange eyes fluttering as she gazed at the so-called ‘Dark Master’ of this little coven of degenerates. The leader of these drooling worshippers, this pitiful mortal who had dared summon her—

  His chest puffed out, his bony fingers twitching, his body practically vibrating with smug, delusional excitement.

  Oh, he thought himself in control. How adorable. She let her lips part, her voice dripping with velvet seduction, preparing to deliver some husky, sultry platitude—

  A beautiful lie that would make them believe they had power over her, even as she plotted their use in years and decades to come. For in their minds, they were about to make a pact.

  In hers— They had already lost.

  The park’s eerie atmosphere—thick with candle smoke, whispered incantations, and the smug self-importance of amateur warlocks—was utterly shattered by the sudden crashing rustle of bushes, accompanied by a distinctly British voice swearing up a storm.

  "Bloody hell! Who plants this many hedges?!"

  Heads whipped around toward the source of the disruption.

  The cultists—momentarily snapped out of their drooling trance—stared in confusion.

  Duchess Gremory, however, turned with interest, the air around her subtly shifting as she sensed something genuinely powerful approaching.

  And then—

  With the grace of a chaotic meteor, a young woman burst through the foliage—

  She emerged like a force of barely-contained entropy, a walking contradiction of ethereal enchantment and absolute chaos gremlin energy.

  Standing just barely over five feet, she exuded an energy that was both mischievous and unpredictably magnetic—as if the universe itself wasn’t entirely sure what to do with her presence.

  Her long, wavy dirty-blonde hair was an untamed masterpiece, a perpetual battlefield of braids, messy buns, and loose waves, with the occasional ribbon, wayward quill, or possibly-sentient feather entangled within. Streaks of mismatched hues—soft blues, whimsical pinks—ran through her locks, the unmistakable result of magical experiments gone delightfully wrong.

  Her large, expressive blue eyes held a dual nature—capable of puppy-dog innocence one second and eldritch unpredictability the next. They gleamed behind a pair of round, oversized glasses that perched precariously on the bridge of her nose, forever on the verge of sliding off as she bounced between wild enthusiasm and wide-eyed curiosity.

  She was petite, delicate-seeming, yet vibrating with barely-contained energy—like a rabbit hopped up on too much caffeine… or perhaps a cosmic gremlin who’d just been let loose in a mystical library unsupervised.

  Her sweater—an overly large, off-the-shoulder woolen thing in soft autumnal hues—swallowed her frame like a cozy, enchanted relic, the kind of garment that screamed "This belongs to someone who has seen the fabric of reality and decided it should be comfier."

  And beneath it?

  Lace-trimmed shorts, barely visible, peeking out like the world’s laziest attempt at modesty.

  A leather satchel thumped against her hip, filled with who-knew-what kind of arcane nonsense—bits of enchanted trinkets, spellbooks, and perhaps an unlabeled potion that would either summon a helpful spirit or turn someone into a ferret.

  With a dramatic flick of her wrist, she adjusted her glasses, planted her hands on her hips, and struck a pose—

  Equal parts self-assured, chaotic, and entirely unbothered by the fact that she had just crashed into an actual demonic summoning.

  "Right then—what absolute bollocks is going on here?"

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  The cultists froze. Duchess Gremory’s amusement deepened.

  The universe itself braced for impact. Because reality had just remembered—

  Wyrd Wendy was here now. And things were about to get delightfully, dementedly and deliciously weird.

  "Alright, I heard Paul the Warlock from Liverpool was selling summoning rituals to proper idiots an—"

  Wendy paused mid-sentence as her wide, blue eyes landed on the tall, dark, and infernally gorgeous presence standing in the summoning circle.

  Her pale cheeks flushed a little as she blurted out,

  "...Holy hell, that demon’s stacked like a brick house."

  There was a beat of stunned silence. The hooded cultists gawked. Duchess Gremory, who had been basking in her own divine allure, arched a delicate brow, clearly amused by the sudden, completely unscripted compliment.

  Wendy, however, had already committed to the moment—so she doubled down.She adjusted her glasses, coughed into her fist, and muttered,

  "I mean, credit where it’s due—look at her. That’s some straight-up divine architecture. If I was in charge of hell, I’d be handing out awards."

  One of the cultists—Rupert (or rather, "Lord Blackflame")—let out a strangled noise, caught somewhere between a choke and a horrified squeak.

  The cult leader, Oswald (or rather, "The Dark Master", as he insisted on being called), turned an alarming shade of purple, his self-importance crumbling beneath the realization that this random little woman had just walked into HIS summoning and immediately started simping over HIS demon.

  "Oi, shut your mouth, peasant!" he snapped, voice cracking slightly. "You are in the presence of a duchess of hell! Show some respect!"

  Wendy tilted her head, unconcerned, and replied,

  "Mate, I literally just called her an architectural marvel. That is respect. That is supreme admiration. You should be taking notes."

  The cultists sputtered. Gremory… smirked. Oh. Oh, this was interesting.

  She had encountered many mortal summoners before—all of them so pathetically predictable, so eager to grovel, to beg, to swear fealty in exchange for petty desires.

  This one?

  This one had waltzed through the hedges, insulted the entire cult, ogled her without shame, and proceeded to roast everyone in the vicinity within a span of thirty seconds. Delightful. She turned her fire-orange gaze fully onto Wendy and purred,

  "And who… might you be, little sorceress?"

  Wendy straightened up, puffed out her sweater-clad chest, and dramatically flourished her hands in over-the-top stage magician fashion.

  "Me? Oh people call me Wyrd Wendy, the Weird Witch of Westminster! Reality bends when I walk, fate glitches when I sneeze, and I once turned an entire bookstore into a romance novel-themed pocket dimension by accident! I am—"

  A gust of wind suddenly picked up, dramatically ruffling her hair, as if the universe itself had decided to join in on her introduction. Then her oversized sweater immediately slid off one shoulder, revealing the strap of her bra.

  "...damn it, I had a whole thing going."

  She adjusted it back into place and cleared her throat.

  "Right. Anyway. I’m here because I heard some absolute numpties were summoning demons for dodgy reasons, and—"

  She pointed at Oswald.

  "—judging by your smug little face, you’re the head dumbass in charge?"

  Oswald fumed. The cultists collectively gasped. And Duchess Gremory laughed.

  A low, sultry, velvety sound, like smoke curling around a secret.

  "Ohhh, I like this one."

  Wendy, without missing a beat, grinned and gave her a playful finger-gun.

  "Oh, babe, flattery will get you everywhere."

  At this, Oswald lost his last shred of patience.

  "THAT’S IT! GET HER!"

  The cultists charged. Wendy sighed.

  "Oh, you poor sods."

  And with a flick of her wrist, reality bent.

  A spell came to her lips and pink plastic lawn flamingos sprang up at random from the earth in the path of the disciples who, while surprised, continued forward undeterred until the magical conjured lawn ornamentations started to move.

  The cultists screamed as the pink plastic lawn flamingos came to life, their beady little eyes gleaming with chaotic purpose. At first, the robed wannabe warlocks simply tried to dodge the conjured decorations, but then—

  SNAP!

  One flamingo bit down on a sleeve, yanking a cultist off balance.

  RIP!

  Another clamped onto a pant leg, dragging its victim in an undignified tumble across the damp grass. A third simply latched onto a belt and started thrashing violently, doing absolutely nothing useful, but the sheer panic it induced was enough to send its target screaming into the trees.

  Wendy adjusted her glasses with the palm of her hand, an absolute power move, and smirked like a manga protagonist who had just triggered their ultimate ability.

  "You bloody idiots could have saved your money, taken a tart out on a date, or even found a working girl to cure your blue balls—but nah. You just had to pay Paul. You just had to summon a demon. And now, instead of getting lucky, you’re getting your souls sucked out in the least fun way possible. Well done, geniuses."

  One of the cultists, currently being savaged by three flamingos at once, let out a wretched, despairing sob.

  "Make it stop! WHY ARE THEY SO STRONG?!"

  Wendy, cackling, did absolutely nothing to stop them.

  And Duchess Gremory? Oh, she was enjoying this.

  She folded her immaculate arms, her fire-orange eyes glimmering with unfiltered amusement, and simply watched. This tiny mortal had real power. Not just raw magic, but the kind of wild, unchecked, reality-bending force that made the universe itself twitch when she walked.

  Fascinating.

  The head warlock, Oswald, was not amused. His face burned red with rage, his ego crumbling under the absolute farce his great demonic summoning had become.

  "ENOUGH!" he bellowed, pointing dramatically at Wendy like a Shakespearean villain having a meltdown.

  "DESTROY THIS INTERLOPER!"

  The circle fell silent. Wendy paused mid-taunt, flicking her gaze to Gremory, a single eyebrow raised.

  And Gremory?

  Oh, Gremory just arched an eyebrow right back, looking at Oswald like he’d just asked her to fetch him a coffee. Then, in a perfectly bored, unimpressed tone, she said:

  "Do it yourself."

  Oswald stared at her, aghast. The remaining cultists stared at her, horrified.

  Wendy?

  Wendy threw her head back and howled with laughter.

  "Ohhhhhh my gods—mate, she just told you to piss off. She’s your demon, and she still won’t take orders from you. That’s EMBARRASSING."

  Oswald’s entire body shook with rage.

  "I SUMMONED YOU!"

  Gremory, utterly unfazed, examined her immaculate claws and drawled,

  "And?"

  The last remnants of Oswald’s dignity disintegrated.

  "I PAID FOR THIS SUMMONING!"

  "Did you?" she mused, eyes glancing over the sloppy, barely functional ritual circle.

  "Because judging by your complete and utter lack of talent, I’d wager this entire endeavor was a fluke."

  Oswald spluttered. Wendy grinned, hands on her hips.

  "Oof. Hate to say it, mate, but if your own demon doesn’t respect you, maybe it’s time to pack it up and go home."

  Oswald whipped around, livid, and shrieked,

  "SHUT UP!"

  Bad move. Because the moment he directed his rage at Wendy, reality hiccuped. And, in true Wyrd Wendy fashion, things got weird.

  The London night had been thick with cheap incense, guttering candlelight, and misplaced arrogance.

  Now, it was filled with flamingo feathers, screaming cultists, and a demoness absolutely losing her shit in delight.

  Oswald had no idea what the hell had just happened. One moment, he had been summoning dark power, invoking the name of some long-forgotten Mesopotamian god of bad decisions.

  Oswald drew a dagger and muttered a dark prayer to some Mesopotamian deity or another—an invocation of magic that promptly glitched out. The spell, or what little he understood of it, was supposed to empower him, granting unholy strength. But Wendy and her wyrd aura had a tendency to reject anything that threatened her, especially supernatural forces.

  His spell imploded like a dial-up connection trying to load a 4K video on a potato. The ley lines twisted violently, warping the natural order of magic as if reality itself had just gotten a fatal error message.

  The result?

  The unmistakable screech of a dial-up modem failing horrifically echoed across the ethereal plane. The otherworldly equivalent of nails on a chalkboard sent shivers through anyone remotely attuned to magic.

  Oswald, blissfully ignorant of how actual sorcery worked, took another bold, rage-fueled step forward— And promptly tripped over his own shoelaces.

  Except—

  They weren’t just shoelaces anymore. They had come to life, writhing like sentient trickster snakes, untying and knotting together in a catastrophic tangle that bound both of his feet.

  SPLAT!

  One moment, he was brandishing his ritual dagger, attempting to invoke dark forces beyond mortal comprehension— The next, he was flailing midair like a puppet with its strings cut— Before landing face-first in a mud puddle.

  His ritual dagger—or whatever knockoff of a ritual dagger he had—flipped end over end before landing in the dirt with a sad, unimpressive little thunk.

  And Gremory? She was Absolutely thriving.

  She rested her chin in her hands, observing the chaos with a wry, deeply entertained smile. This wasn’t just some minor hedge-witch. This girl wielded chaos magic. Oh, how delightful.

  And Wendy? Smug as hell.

  She sauntered over, arms folded, looking down at Oswald like he was a particularly disappointing pizza delivery.

  "isn’t exactly what you wanted, was it?"

  Then, from somewhere within her satchel, she produced something small, round, and gleaming in the candlelight. An antique silver coin—old as sin, well-worn by time and possibly some very bad decisions.

  She flipped it between her fingers with an idle flick of magic.

  "First off, coming at me with a knife when I was trying to save your sorry arse from demon slavery? Rude."

  With a casual toss, she sent the coin spinning high into the air.

  "Heads for me. Tails for you."

  Oswald snarled, finally managing to rip his shoelaces free just in time to glare as the coin descended.

  Tink. Tink. Tink…

  And landed.

  On its edge.

  Silence.

  Wendy stared at it.

  Gremory stared at it.

  The remaining cultists, still recovering from their flamingo-based traumas, stared at it.

  Even the wind seemed to hesitate, as if London itself had just realized it had made a terrible mistake.

  Wendy exhaled sharply.

  "Bollocks."

  Because when the coin landed on its edge, things never went well.

  A deep, unnatural thrumming filled the air. The candles snuffed out in eerie unison. The grass flattened as if the earth itself was holding its breath.

  Then—

  BA DA BOOM!

  A pulse of wild, untamed magic exploded outward, sending both Wendy and Oswald flying like ragdolls in a hurricane.

  Oswald let out a panicked yelp as he smashed into a park bench, flipping over it like a bad stunt double.

  Wendy—who had long since embraced the inevitability of her own bullshit magic turning against her—braced herself, trusting in the ridiculous amount of protective charms sewn into her oversized sweater.

  It helped. Slightly.

  She narrowly missed smashing into a tree, instead crashing headlong into a pile of bushes that were only mostly non-thorny.

  The summoned flamingos? Gone. Exploded into a shimmering pink mist of existential confusion.

  The cultists? Scattered like bowling pins, groaning in various states of misery.

  And Duchess Gremory? Absolutely beside herself.

  She threw back her head and laughed.

  A rich, velvet-smooth laugh, full-bodied and delighted—the kind of laughter that belonged in candle-lit ballrooms and behind veils of silk, not in the middle of some shitty, amateur summoning in a London park.

  She clapped slowly, looking between Wendy and Oswald with amused intrigue.

  "Oh, this is delicious."

  Her fire-orange eyes glittered as she focused on Wendy, her smile curling with a predatory sort of interest.

  "I think I like you, little witch."

  "Thanks, wish normal birds built like you liked me this much," Wendy muttered dryly, brushing leaves out of her hair as she spat out a twig.

  Wendy dusted herself off, still pulling twigs and bits of mostly non-thorny bush out of her sweater as she approached Duchess Gremory.

  The warlocks? Down for the count.

  Her pride? Mostly intact.

  Her patience? Wearing thin, but that was just a Tuesday.

  She stretched, cracking her back with a groan before adjusting her glasses and giving the demoness a thorough once-over.

  "Huh. You’re not a succubus."

  She squinted, circling the demoness with a thoughtful expression, taking in the details.

  "Don’t look like any dangerous fey or fiend I know off the top of my head, either."

  Gremory arched an elegant brow, smirking as she watched Wendy inspect her like some kind of eldritch museum exhibit. There was no fear in the little witch—only curiosity.

  Delightful.

  "Also, I’m pretty sure you could have shattered this circle and killed the lot of them if you wanted to."

  The demoness's smile deepened.

  "Quite astute, little witch."

  She inclined her head, acknowledging the observation with something dangerously close to approval.

  "I am Hell’s Duchess Gremory. Or Gomory. Or Gemory. Or Gamori, if you prefer— Fifty-sixth demon of the Ars Goetia, lady commander of twenty-six spirit legions."

  Wendy paused, taking that in, then slowly nodded.

  "Ah, makes sense. You’re known for being not nearly as malicious as most other Dukes of Hell. Downright helpful sometimes."

  Gremory’s fire-orange eyes gleamed, her interest piqued.

  "Mmm. Go on."

  Wendy knelt down, brushing aside the scorched remnants of the summoning circle, her fingers tracing its sloppy, amateurish lines.

  "Real shame most people these days think everything from the Hell dimensions is all evil, soul-stealing nightmares. The ambiguity and nuance of spirits is bloody lost on the lot of them."

  She sighed dramatically, shaking her head.

  "I mean, sure, some of you lot are absolute bastards, but then you’ve got demons like you— ones that operate on contracts, honesty, even… generosity, if the mood strikes."

  She glanced up at Gremory, eyes sharp behind her glasses.

  "I imagine that’s why you didn’t fry these idiots outright. Because if they were smarter, they could have been useful to you. Instead, they’re just pathetic, desperate, and unworthy of your time."

  Gremory laughed softly, placing a hand over her chest in mock flattery.

  "Oh, little witch, you do know how to flatter a lady."

  Wendy grinned, brushing dirt from her skirt.

  "Flattery? Nah. I just actually know my shit."

  Wendy crouched down, pressing her fingers to the edges of the summoning circle, feeling the remnants of its energy hum beneath her skin.

  With a flicker of will, she tightened its weave, reinforcing its boundaries just a little—just enough to make sure no unexpected surprises would arise while they were having a civil conversation.

  She rose to her feet, dusting her hands off against her oversized sweater, then grinned up at Gremory with all the confidence of someone who had absolutely no business bargaining with a Duchess of Hell—but was doing it anyway.

  "Tell you what, love—how about you give me the details on summoning you, so I can keep you on speed dial, and in return…"

  "I’ll write you up as the main protagonist of my next steamy, smut-filled romance novel!"

  Gremory’s fiery eyes flickered with interest as she felt the subtle shift in the summoning circle—not closed tighter to trap her, but refined. Made proper.

  Something a proper witch would do.

  She respected that.

  Still, the offer was… unexpected.

  "So you would call upon me in the future," she mused, tilting her head slightly, "and what, exactly, do I gain from being the subject of this novel you intend to write?"

  Wendy rolled her shoulders, adjusting the hem of her sweater like this was just a casual deal over tea.

  "Well, for one? I won’t write you up like every modern twit does with denizens of Hell."

  "I’ll give you a proper glow-up—treat you as a spirit with depth, complexity, someone with actual agency."

  "Not just some one-dimensional evil slag with bad fashion sense and a thing for monologuing."

  Gremory paused, intrigued now.

  Mortals had a way of shaping things beyond their comprehension.Their belief, their stories—they pulled at the essence of beings of the Otherworlds, tugging at their natures.

  It was how some spirits had twisted into monsters over centuries. How others had vanished entirely—forgotten, erased.

  To preserve herself, to be glorified in fiction, immortalized not as some corrupting demon but as something greater?

  That was appealing.

  And then there was the matter of the content. Wendy had said steamy.

  As a being intrinsically tied to love, seduction, and lust, that delighted Gremory on an entirely different level.

  "And I shall be the heroine in your story, little witch?"

  Wendy nodded, her enthusiasm utterly unfiltered.

  It was a genuine offer—an idea that had come to her on the fly, sure, but one that felt right. If she could help shape belief, make sure at least one spirit of Hell didn’t get warped by centuries of bad PR? That was a win for the metaphysical balance and all that.

  Also.

  Standing this close to a very attractive, mostly nude demoness was giving Wendy… all kinds of inspiration.

  "Yeah," Wendy said, casually adjusting her glasses.

  "You’ll be the heroine. Tall, dark, and deadly. Mysterious and sensual, but with a heart that no one expects. A forbidden romance—tragic, passionate, maybe a bit of drama and courtly intrigue—"

  She paused, realizing she was rambling, then snapped her fingers with a grin.

  "Oh! And smut, obviously."

  Gremory laughed, delighted. This wasn’t how most mortals tried to bargain with demons.

  And that? That was exactly why she liked this little witch.

  Gremory licked her lips, her fangs glinting just slightly in the flickering candlelight, and her smoky, sultry voice curled around her next words like a slow-burning promise.

  "You have a deal."

  Wendy’s grin stretched ear to ear, equal parts gleeful mischief and satisfaction at securing such an utterly ridiculous but undeniably cool arrangement.

  With a quick stretch, she turned her attention to the pile of groaning, humiliated warlocks strewn about the summoning site.

  "Alright, I’ll get on the new book soon as I—" she clapped her hands together, already strolling toward the nearest idiot with purpose, "—collect some hair from these morons and bind their magic so they don’t do something stupider next time."

  Gremory arched an amused brow, watching as Wendy knelt beside a particularly mud-soaked Oswald, who was only just starting to pull himself out of the absolute mess he had landed in.

  "Oi, stay still, mate."

  Wendy produced a pair of small iron shears from her satchel and snipped a few strands of greasy black hair from his head before he could protest.

  Oswald yowled in confusion, then scowled.

  "What the hell was that for?!"

  "Insurance," Wendy repeated breezily, tossing a few more stolen hairs into her satchel.

  "Making poppets and putting you and your boys in jars of dirt with rusty nails and a few other things. Y’know—standard magical consequences for dumbasses."

  Oswald, still mud-caked and groaning, tried to lift his head, but Wendy smacked him lightly on the forehead with two fingers.

  "Ah-ah-ah, don’t struggle. It’s your own fault for trying to summon a demon for a shag."

  She straightened, dusting her hands off, and turned back toward Gremory, her mood far lighter than when she first arrived.

  And then, to the demoness’ utter delight, Wendy dropped into a proper lady-like curtsy.

  "Now, Lady Duchess Gremory, Fifty-Sixth Demon of the Ars Goetia, Mistress of the Twenty-Six Spirit Legions, I bid thee return to your home dimension until such a time as I call upon your beautiful presence."

  Gremory arched a brow, thoroughly entertained.

  "So it be, little witch."

  She took one step back, and the circle—still charged with Wendy’s corrected magic—flared with energy. But just before she let the spell take her back to her realm, she smirked, tilting her head slightly.

  "But I make one final request—summon me when your book is done. And have a copy for me, would you?"

  Wendy grinned, pushing her glasses up her nose with the palm of her hand.

  "Of course, Duchess. It’ll be my pleasure."

  With that, Gremory vanished in a gentle whisper of fire and shadow, her smile lingering in the air like perfume and promise. Wendy stretched, yawned, then turned on her heel and skipped off through the park—victorious.

  And promptly tripped on a branch.

  She face-planted with zero grace, cursed like a sailor, muttered something about "bloody Newton and his laws", then picked herself up and kept going.

  She had a group of idiots to magically neuter and a brand-new book to write—one starring a very particular Duchess of Hell and oh it was going to be just as hot as the fires of the realm she called home.

  https://www.worldanvil.com/w/the-specials-universe-killerkorax)