I Accidentally Summoned a Demon and Named Him Fred

Vultures in Black

It's only been a week since my mother died.

But somehow, everything already feels... claimed.

Relatives I barely recognize fill the house like they own it—draped in black, voices soft, eyes wet.

Vultures dressed as mourners.

They hug me too tightly. They tell me how sorry they are.

Then they whisper.

And then they don't bother whispering anymore.

"Where's the money?"

"Who's taking her?"

"She's almost eighteen years old—someone has to sign for her."

"Why would our sister leave her with a stranger?"

"Where is the money?"

Over and over. Louder each time. Like if they say it enough, she'll come back and hand it to them.

Until my aunt finally snaps.

"Who the fuck is Haime?"

They all look at me then, as if I should know. As if I didn't just lose the only person who ever actually looked at me like I was more than an obligation.

That was what the lawyers said, too, in that stuffy office that smelled like paper and lemon cleaner. We sat around the table with an empty chair that was supposed to be my guardian's seat.

Everyone was shouting. No more soft, sad voices. Just anger and greed and something uglier underneath.

I learned something about my mother that day.

My mother was a kaleidoscope of secrets.

I used to think I knew all of them. That I was one of them.

That illusion didn't last long.

Because apparently... she had a best friend.

A secret one.

Once everyone left, he called me. His voice was bright—too bright. Like this was some kind of casual introduction instead of... my entire life being handed over to a stranger.

He talked a lot.

About himself. About his life. About his cat—Frank.

He was gay. He lived out of state. He'd known my mom for years.

I stopped listening halfway through.

Because he never once asked about me.

He didn't ask if I was okay. If I'd eaten. If I could sleep.

He didn't explain why he hadn't been at her funeral.

He didn't explain why my mother never once said his name.

Who the hell is Haime?

"I should be there about a las diez y media," he said, loud music booming behind him, breaking the silence in my bedroom like a gunshot.

"Okay," was all I could say.

Anger swelled inside me—at my mother, at him, at everyone—and then guilt crashed over it like a second wave.

My mother left me in his care?

A stranger?

What did she know about him that I didn't?

What didn't she trust about the people downstairs who shared her blood? Okay, I know that was a stupid question.

But why him and not say anything...