“Are you an angel?”
The little girl couldn’t have been more than five years old, staring wide eyed at the demon in childish delight. Clasping her hands, she jumped up and down.
“You’re an angel!”
“I, uh, look–” the demon stammered.
She cut him off. “Momma said to pray every night and the angels will help me. Daddy isn’t nice to me anymore, and so I did as momma said and look! Here you are!”
The demon stared at the door, sweat beading down his forehead. The little girl couldn’t have been the one to summon him. He could see the sin festering in someone’s skin through the wall.
It hit him.
The girl was an offering.
There were many things the demon traded in, and none of them good. A child was not one of those things. They were a demon with standards.
“I’m not an angel,” the demon admitted, “I’m someone better.”
She tilted her head. “How?”
“I solve problems, and today, I’ll solve yours for free.”
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MissWriteress 