Her

Not her!
Don’t let it be her!

The rational part of my mind wonders who I am praying to. After all I’m a demon. Communication with any of the normal targets for prayer is... painful. Praying to Him is equally a bad idea. Since before time, never has a demon, no matter how strong, evil, twisted, or rich, ever survived the ‘aid’ of Him. Even if He is all that we aspire to be.

The rest of my mind is praying, hoping, pleading that the person who just drew the symbol is not Ava. It’s three in the morning for His’ sake. Few dare summon Ahazu at three in the morning and live to tell the tale. It could be drunk cultists, it could be someone who desires discretion for bartering. Heaven! It could even be teenage punks grafatying some public monument or train car that accidentally painted the symbol of Ahazu.

Normaly I love this oportiunitiy, It could start an incredibly valuable deal, or I could torment whichever careless person made the mistake of summoning Ahazu at three in the morning.

But.

If its her...

Please don’t be Ava. If anyone in the world has any sense of honor left, it would not be her. I am a demon. I trade with thousands of souls to push my will and reign. The painless interrogations I have performed, Heaven can’t even begin to comprehend.
But there are some who I don’t touch. Call it a twisted sense of honor. Call it pity. After everything I’ve done to people, the memory of what they did to her nearly makes me vomit. The things I saw when I found her hurt and alone...

I taught her the symbol as a back up plan. I kindly discussed the situation to Ava’s abusers. Those wretched parents. Cursed garbage.

NO! Do not let it be her.

I have to answer the summons. The void twists, drawing me through until I emerge to see curly blond hair.

Ava is five— a year older then when I first met her— but aside from her hair length and age nothing else changed. Ava is no taller then she was. No bigger then she was. For a young child, who is supposed to be growing exponentially, something is seriously wrong. Absolutely nothing about her has changed.

No.

That’s not quite true. There are more scars. More bruises. Instead of old scars getting fainter they are just as prominent as the last time I saw her. Most of her scars aren’t healing—

They are getting worse.

First order of business, I have to clear the symbol. I do not want to attract any unwanted attention. My eyes survey the room the room. There. She has neatly painted it on the wall in the corner with red paint. The back of my mind is impressed. Most cultists are far sloppier. I kneel, and brush my finger over the paint. Two devastating revelations: 1) the paint is still wet, 2) its not paint.

It’s blood.

She suddenly falls. I manage to catch her in time. Unconscious. Deathly pale. Blood loss. She is decopensating—going in to shock. I have no clue how she was able to finish the symbol after losing so much blood, she is five for His sake, but it matters not. Focus on stabilizing. After that...

After that I have some promises to keep. Promises I made during a certain discussion.