The Demon King of Lust

Chapter 8

I park outside my grandma's condo and turn off the engine. With a yawn, I reach over to the passenger seat and grab the black bag of what Grams calls her 'herbal remedies'. Sure, she says it's for her arthritis and glaucoma, but these days her pot consumption is about half medicinal and half recreational.

Grams has never really been the milk-and-cookies type. She was a real rebel in her early years; she partied, did drugs, and fooled around. When she found out she was pregnant with my dad, she had no clue what his father's name was. Oops!

She cut back on the partying in favor of being a single mom, but she's never really lost that wild streak. My dad says she and I are two of a kind in that way.

I knock and after a moment she opens the door with a smile. She has always been slim and fair-skinned, but over the years her frame has grown a bit too lean and her skin a little paler. She's wearing thick-rimmed tortoiseshell glasses and a lavender muumuu dress. Her pure-white hair is covered in a pink floral head wrap that matches her bright pink lipstick. It's a look that most people could never pull off, but it suits her perfectly.

"Oh thank goodness, now there's a beautiful sight!" she exclaims, ushering me inside and grabbing the bag from my hands as the door closes behind me.

"Wow, Grams. Feeling the love," I say with a chuckle.

She shakes her head at me and waves a dismissive hand in my direction.

"Don't be silly honey, of course I love you, but I can't roll you up and smoke you, now can I?"

She unpacks the bag, setting the contents on the kitchen counter and looking them over.

"Thank you for picking these up for me," she says.

I give her a hug and she gives me a loving pat on the back.

"No problem Grams. Sorry it took a while; the guy at the dispensary was convinced my id was fake."

"Well, that's because you have that smooth little baby face. Your father was the same way—couldn't even grow a beard till he was in his 30s. You'll appreciate it when you're 50 and people think you've had work done."

She shuffles over to her favorite armchair and sits down, gesturing for me to take a seat on the couch.

"Do I really want people thinking that, though?"

"Who doesn't want to look young and make everyone jealous without even having to pay for it? I know I wouldn't mind a bit of that youthful glow."

She pulls out a piece of rolling paper and lays it flat on the side table. She fills it with a small amount of marijuana and rolls it into a joint, licking the ends of the paper to seal it.

It's probably not the kind of grandparent-grandchild interaction they write children's books about, but Grams has always been very uniquely herself.

"How are you doing, Samantha?" she asks.

"I'm good, actually."

"Good! How's the necromancy?"

I narrow my eyes for a moment trying to understand her question.

"Narcolepsy?" I ask.

"Yes, yes. Is there a difference?"

"Necromancy means bringing dead people back to life, Grams. I have Narcolepsy."

She takes a deep hit from her joint and slowly breathes out the smoke.

"Well, fuck, dear—you know what I mean."

"It's okay. I'm getting more sleep lately."

There's so much I'm not saying, but I wouldn't even know where to begin. Knowing Grams, if I told her there's a demon protecting my dreams, she wouldn't bat an eyelid. If anything she'd probably just encourage me to use protection or go on a rant about why men can't be trusted—demon or not.