Melina

This was my fourth therapist in as many months, and the only thing I’d gotten out of my visits was the ability to tell my life story in less than a shrink’s hour. I still had no idea why they called it an hour when I only got forty-five minutes with the therapist. None of the therapists I’d seen had made it far enough to get to the real reason I was seeing a counselor. By the second time they asked me how I felt, I was ready to lose it. They’d all been too stupid to realize I was pissed, and one had even commented on how good it was that I was getting in touch with my feelings. After threatening to transport two therapists to the demon realm, I’d decided to avoid seeing another witch therapist and try to find one who might be better equipped to handle my temperament. I couldn’t really transport anyone other than myself to the demon realm, but most witches had no idea what I was capable of.

Taking a deep breath, I began my story.

“There are moments that define who we will be as adults. In a messed up turn of events, most of those moments shaping my life happened before I was born. You see, my mom is absolutely perfect, and I don’t mean that in a sarcastic or bitter way. The woman is truly a great mom, and everyone who meets her loves her. She’s also beautiful and elegant. It should come as no surprise that she married the equally beautiful Demetrius Talbot. Everyone knew what type of children they’d have, and they followed through by having six perfectly exquisite daughters. Each one has their father’s golden hair and long elegant fingers. They were also blessed with their mother’s catlike green eyes and delicate features. As if that’s not enough, they’re also sweet-tempered, loving, and patient.”

I looked over to find my therapist listening with rapt attention. I could tell he was focused on what I was saying because his appearance was changing, like he’d forgotten to focus on maintaining the illusion of a frail man with thinning brown hair and glasses. Fading in and out was the image of a demon who stood well over six feet tall with flowing blond hair, chiseled features, and disturbing red eyes that were rimmed with orange.

“When my mom divorced, and nearly castrated Demetrius, it drastically changed the dynamics of life as everyone knew it. Not right away. It’s not like witch divorce is so uncommon that it shocked everyone. Since Demetrius was fucking every woman who’d willingly spread her legs, the divorce had been considered inevitable. Despite the way things ended, my sisters handled the divorce fine, and my mom is actually good friends with Demetrius. From what I hear, they get along better now than they did when they were married. It was a couple of years later when my mom, the lovely and graceful Viviana, fell in love with my father, the unimpressive and crude Ralph. Yes, my father shares a name with vomit. He is a good four inches shorter than my mom, which gives her a perfect view of his bald spot and the flab hanging over his belt.”

“Your father is a higher-level demon?” my therapist asked, even though he likely already knew who my father was.

“Yep,” I confirmed. “My dad is scary and ill-tempered most days. That’s probably where I get my bitchy temperament from. Don’t get me wrong. Ralph is a loving father to me and my sisters. In fact, he can be sweet when he puts some effort into it, which is more than I can say for myself most days. I know people were hoping I’d look and act more like my mom, but that’s not what happened. I guess I should be thankful I didn’t inherit my dad’s bald spot.” My dad didn’t really look like that, but it was the form he chose in the human realm. My father’s demon form was scary as fuck and beautiful at the same time. Luckily, I didn’t have to worry about my demon form, most of the time. “I’m definitely not your typical witch.”

I didn’t need to elaborate on that. If I wore heels, I could boast that I was five feet six inches tall, but I hated heels, so I was stuck with not quite reaching five feet four inches. I had more curves than most would consider fashionable, no matter which diet spells I tried. Since I didn’t want to be model thin enough to try a real diet, this was simply who I was. My hair and eyes were brown—not some lustrous shade of brown people would label honey, chestnut, sable, or whisky, just brown.

“Do you see yourself as undesirable by witch standards?” my shrink asked in that soothing voice therapists worked to perfect. I liked the way he phrased his question because each species had different opinions on what was attractive.

“No, that’s not the problem,” I assured him. “Sure, when I was younger I worried about that kind of stuff, but I’m comfortable with who I am, for the most part. I have six gorgeous older sisters who all tell me I’m beautiful, and not because they want me to feel better. They believe it. In case I didn’t mention it before, my sisters are sickeningly sweet. Seriously, I hate those bitches some days.”

“You hate your sisters?” he asked, looking serious.

“No,” I told him with a sigh. “I love my sisters. I was joking about hating them. In comparison to them, I am a moody bitch, but I’m fine with that.”

“Yet you felt you didn’t fit in with other witches growing up,” he pushed. It wasn’t a question, but he was still waiting for a response.

“Aren’t you a master of stating the obvious,” I muttered.

“I’m steering the conversation in the direction I want it to go,” he explained proudly.

“Fine, we can talk about the little witch who didn’t fit in,” I grumbled. “Like that’s even a shock since I’m half-demon. Witches can be real elitists. Not to sound paranoid, but it’s almost like fate has been conspiring against me in some way since long before my birth, and it keeps working to remind me of my differences.”

“Let’s talk about those moments you think made you an outsider,” he pushed.

Rather than arguing about how I wasn’t an outsider, I decided to continue with my story. “My tenth birthday was another one of those moments that defined who I am. Ten is a very important age because that’s when a witch gets her familiar. A familiar is a lifelong companion, bonded to one witch before that familiar is even born. There’s a spell performed so they can communicate with their witch and other familiars. They are more intelligent than other animals, and I’d been told a witch is never truly lonely if she has her familiar. Now, you can imagine how the chubby half-demon at witch school would crave that bond more than others. I couldn’t wait to meet my kitten.”

“A kitten?” he asked, his brow scrunched in confusion, having seen my familiar in the waiting room.

“Sadly, familiars are not invincible,” I continued. “They may not die of old age, but they can be killed. On my tenth birthday, my parents went to pick up my much awaited Mr. Whiskers. I’d decided on that cutesy name the moment my mom had told me he was going to be weaned soon. I’d even recorded his name with the Council of Witches, so it couldn’t be changed. My dad set Mr. Whiskers down to open the car door, and the supposedly intelligent kitten ran into traffic, was hit by a truck, and carried off by a California condor.”

“You don’t see many condors in this area,” he added.

“See? That’s why I think fate has it in for me. Who the hell has ever seen a condor carry off a dead kitten right after it was hit by a car? Three days later, Mr. Whiskers showed up on the front porch in the form of a California condor. Not just any condor, one who uses a litter box, chases yarn balls, and purrs while devouring the smelliest cat food you can imagine. He’s also the neediest familiar in the history of witches, and I can’t leave him with a sitter most days. He’s in the waiting room now, probably hoping someone will die since I don’t let him hang around corpses very often. Could my life be any more messed up?”

“Yet, that’s not really what you want to talk about, is it?” he asked.

“What makes you think I’m not here to talk about all my childhood issues?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I don’t get the impression you’re all that upset about not fitting in with the other witches. You seem to prefer things that way.”

“You’re good at this,” I praised, and his face lit up like a little boy on Christmas.

He cleared his throat and worked to get his professional mask back in place. “Why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you?”

“I don’t date warlocks, not even casually. That’s a good policy, considering how many warlocks in my acquaintance are total man-whores.”

“So, you have trust issues?” he asked.

“Yes, but that’s not the real problem,” I admitted. “It’s my demon side that’s a major issue for me when it comes to dating warlocks. I don’t know where to begin. None of this seemed like a problem until recently.”

Taking a deep breath, I spent the rest of the session complaining about the most annoying warlock in the world, the one I couldn’t stop thinking about. It felt surprisingly good to tell someone the truth.

“It looks like our time is about up,” my therapist said when I’d finished my long rant. “Before our next appointment, I want you to spend some time thinking about whether your trust issues play a bigger role in your avoidance of warlocks.”

“You heard what I can do,” I argued.

“And I know your father is more dangerous than you, yet he’s managed to bond with your mother,” my therapist pointed out, and I hated him a little for being honest.

“Fine,” I said with a resigned sigh. “I’ll think about what you said before next week. Can I go now?”

“I do have one question before we wrap things up,” my demon shrink replied.

“What’s that?”

“I noticed your condo is in a human complex,” he began. “I’m wondering how you managed to get a permit to keep a California condor there.”

I snorted, not at all surprised that a demon would ask a question about the law. “Even though it’s technically a human community, the HOA is run by witches,” I explained. “Aren’t you guys usually lawyers or IRS agents?”

With eager puppy dog eyes, my therapist nodded. “Oh, yes, we do love the law. After I failed the bar exam for the third time, Uncle Lucifer got me an internet degree in psychology from Oxford, and here I am.” He motioned to his lavish office.

Cautiously, I asked, “Oxford has an internet degree program?”

“The Oxford School of Law and Agriculture has one of the finest online programs in the Midwest.” He smiled proudly as he waved a dismissive hand toward his degree hanging from the wall. “Do you think I’m doing a good job?” Only a demon can give you a look that is fearful of rejection and eager to have an excuse to rip out your heart. I’m sure I’d give people that same look if I gave a fuck about impressing anyone.

This was one of those times I was glad my honest answer was positive, since I’m not known for lying to spare people’s feelings. When you’re answering Lucifer’s nephew, giving an honest answer he won’t like could be a bad idea.

“You’re doing great,” I assured him.

“I want you to keep a feelings journal,” he told me.

“Feelings journal?” I asked, trying to hide my annoyance.

His head bobbed up and down. “Yes. I want you to get in touch with your feelings. Go ahead and make an appointment with my receptionist for next week. I can’t wait to hear what you put in your journal.”

And just like that, he lost me. I was beginning to think therapy wasn’t my thing.