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

The rain started gently.

That kind of soft drizzle that smelled like wet bark and nostalgia. The kind that made children press their faces to windows and adults say things like "Well, looks like the garden needed it."

But by the time I realized Rhea was missing again, it had turned into a full-fledged sky tantrum.

I checked the kitchen first. No child. Just a mess of spoon-shaped scorch marks and one lonely slice of toast that had clearly been burned out of emotional spite.

Then I looked under the table. Behind the couch. In the laundry basket. The pantry. Even the stupid shed where she once tried to "summon breakfast spirits" using chicken bones and a rotting pear.

Still nothing.

"Rhea?" I called out into the storm, throwing on my cloak. "This isn't funny! You didn't even leave a note this time!"

Actually, no—there was a note.

Scrawled in wobbly charcoal on the wall near the door:

"Rain = washing for soul. Do not worry. Not planning to destroy city. Probably."

That was the sort of thing that made a father figure's heart stop cold.