I Raised the Demon Queen (Now She Won't Leave Me Alone)

There were two types of people in this world: those who calmly handled crises with thoughtful planning... and those who sat on their porch with a half-packed backpack, arguing with a tiny demon child over whether we needed to bring three frying pans.

I, regrettably, was both.

"I just think," Rhea said, balancing one of said pans on her head like a crown, "that a proper royal exile should include the means to fry eggs and intimidate squirrels."

"That's not a squirrel intimidation tool," I said, stuffing clothes into my worn-out duffel. "That's my last non-charred skillet."

She looked me in the eye.

"It now belongs to the monarchy."

"You're not even wearing shoes."

"I don't need shoes. I have authority."

I sighed, massaging my temples as I scanned the haphazard mess of our "escape supplies" strewn across the porch. A mostly-empty peanut butter jar. Two mismatched socks (both mine). A half-eaten cinnamon roll. And Rhea's enchanted plushie, Sir Swim-a-Lot, who was currently sitting in the herb pot like he was planning our route.

To be fair, he might've been more qualified than me.

Ever since our "incident" with Cleric Damaris, the neighborhood had gone quiet. Too quiet. Even the mailman started tossing letters from a distance.