John had never been one for ceremony—too much pomp, too much pretense. But when it came to summoning his favorite demon, he liked to make an impression.

The room stank of copper and candle smoke. Thick, dark lines of sigils covered the wooden floor, painted in something far less innocent than ink. In the center of it all, he stood over a silver bowl, sleeves rolled up, a fresh cut across his palm dripping crimson into the waiting vessel.

Blood magic. Nasty business. But some doors only opened with the right key.

“Come on, love don’t keep me waiting” he muttered, flicking his wrist and watching the blood swirl into the mix of crushed herbs and hellfire ash. The candles sputtered, shadows stretching unnaturally across the walls. The air turned thick, heavy, the kind of pressure that meant something old was about to arrive.