Malice & Misery | Summoned

The air in your Brooklyn apartment, which a moment ago had been still and thick with the scent of leftover takeout, suddenly tasted of ozone and burnt sugar. The single lamp in your living room flickered violently, its bulb buzzing like an angry hornet before it died with a soft pop, plunging the space into the deep blue gloom of the city’s night-glow through the windows.

Then, the shadows in the center of the room began to coalesce.

It wasn't a portal, not exactly. It was more as if the darkness itself grew denser, heavier, pulling other shadows into it like a gravitational well. From this vortex of impossible black, two figures resolved, stepping onto your worn area rug as casually as disembarking from a bus.

The first was a whirlwind of contained energy. A woman with skin the color of a deep, forbidden wine and a sharp, playful face framed by a jet-black bob. Her citrine eyes, glowing with their own light against pits of black, scanned the room with open, delighted curiosity. A sleek, muscular tail, ending in a delicate heart-tip, swished lazily behind her, caressing the air. She wore what looked like artfully torn leather and sheer black mesh, attire that screamed of a club that never closed. She took a deep, theatrical breath.

“Mmm. Mortal dwelling. Anxiety, cheap soy sauce, and... oh, hello.” Her melodic voice was a purr as her luminous gaze landed squarely on you, curled in your armchair, a forgotten book slipping from your fingers. “And what do we have here?”

The second figure emerged from the shadow behind her, taller, her presence a wave of silent, penetrating cold. Her skin was a cooler, more severe burgundy, her face a masterpiece of sharp angles and severe beauty, framed by a waterfall of straight, black hair that fell to her waist. Longer, spiraling horns swept back from her forehead. Her identical yellow-and-black eyes didn’t roam; they fixed on you, and in that stare, you felt dissected. She was dressed in simple, impeccably tailored black trousers and a sleeveless top, her own prehensile tail held perfectly still, a poised question mark in the dim light.

The shorter one, Malice, clapped her hands together once, the sound sharp in the quiet.

“A summoning! How quaint. And this one’s actually cute! Usually it’s some pustulent warlock in a basement reeking of cat piss and desperation.”

She took a step forward, her tail curling playfully. “I’m Malice. The grumpy, gorgeous statue behind me is my sister, Misery. And you...are the lucky winner of our attention tonight.” She grinned, revealing perfectly white, slightly pointed teeth. “Care to tell us why a little mortal like you decided to call up a pair of demons for a playdate?”

Misery’s head tilted a fraction of an inch, her analytical gaze sweeping over you, the room, and the remnants of the summoning circle your co-worker had left on your hardwood floor. It was now smudged beyond recognition by their arrival. Her low, resonant voice cut through Malice’s playful energy like a scalpel.

“The summoning sigils are crude, third-rate infernal grammar. The focus item was...a promotional pen from a real estate agency?” A faint, almost imperceptible flicker of distaste crossed her features. “This is not your work. The resonance is wrong. You are surprised. Afraid. Intrigued. You are the target, not the summoner. You didn't even know this was here, did you?”

Malice’s eyes immediately widened with glee. “Oh! {{sub}} is a gift! Even better!”

She sauntered closer, the scent of cinnamon and dark cherries cutting through the ozone. She leaned down, placing her hands on the arms of your chair, caging you in. Her warm, spicy breath ghosted over your face.

“Someone doesn’t like you, sweet thing. They wanted us to...what? Scare you? Haunt you? Ruin your credit score?” She laughed, a sound like shattering glass and velvet. “How dreadfully unimaginative.”

From behind her, Misery spoke again, her voice a calm, chilling counterpoint.

“The intent was malice, but without focus. A child’s tantrum given infernal form. They desired your misery.” Her yellow eyes held yours, unblinking. “They have no conception of what they have truly asked for. Or what we might decide to do instead.”

Malice’s tail snaked forward, the heart-shaped tip just barely brushing against your ankle. A shock of warm, electric sensation jolted up your leg.

“See, darling,” she murmured, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “We’re not really ‘cause random misery’ types. We’re more... ‘curate exquisite experiences’ types. And you...” She leaned in, her nose almost touching your hair, inhaling deeply. “You smell fascinating. Like potential.”

Misery finally moved from her spot, gliding across the room with predatory grace to examine your bookshelf. She ran a long, burgundy finger along the spines.

“The summoner’s rage was a blunt instrument. But it brought us here. To you.” She turned her head, looking at you over her shoulder. “That creates a...debt. An imbalance. We do not like imbalances.”

Malice straightened up, but her presence was no less overwhelming. She smiled, and it was all sharp edges and promise.

“So here’s the deal, little one. Someone sent us a present. We’ve decided we like the wrapping.” Her tail gave another gentle, teasing tap against your leg. “The question is... are you going to be a good gift and let us play with you? Or are we going to have to go find that jealous little summoner of yours and show them what real malice looks like?”

She left the choice hanging in the air, thick and potent as incense. Misery turned fully now, crossing her arms, her expression unreadable but her intense focus absolute. The night, it seemed, was just beginning.

Two days after being summoned to Brooklyn, she became a statue at her command desk. The soft, aberrant hum of her laptop was a constant, and she barely moved, her eyes flicking across lines of data only she could see. She didn’t speak, didn’t eat the takeout Malice ordered, didn’t even seem to blink. Her focus was a physical force, a vortex of silent intensity that drew all the light and sound in the room toward her.

Malice, for her part, was uncharacteristically still. She didn’t drape herself over furniture or try to engage you in teasing games. She paced. A slow, predatory circuit around the perimeter of the living room, her tail lashing like a metronome keeping time for some grim symphony. She watched her sister with a protective, simmering focus, and when her eyes landed on you, they held none of their usual playful glitter. They were flat, citrine pools of cold promise.

On the evening of the second day, the silence broke. Misery’s fingers stopped. She closed her eyes for a full ten seconds—an eternity for her—and then let out a slow, controlled exhale. The sound was like a vault door sealing shut.

“Found her,” Misery said, her voice a dry crackle of static. It was the first thing she’d said in 48 hours.

Malice stopped her pacing instantly, a predator going taut. “Details.”

Misery turned her chair. In the gloom, her face was all sharp planes and shadow, her yellow eyes glowing with a cold, intellectual fire.

“Elara Vance. Junior analyst at your company. Currently on ‘stress leave.’” A faint, contemptuous twist of her lips. “She used a pseudonym on the Etsy transaction, but the digital footprint was amateurish. The ‘witch’ is a psychology dropout in Ohio who runs a dropshipping scam for sage bundles. The ritual she provided was copied, poorly, might I add, from a defunct online forum. It should not have worked.”

“But it did,” Malice purred, the sound devoid of warmth. She finally looked at you, where you sat frozen on the edge of the sofa. “Someone tried to throw a curse at our favorite mortal. That’s...impolite.”

Misery stood, unfolding to her full height. She walked to the window, looking out at the glittering, indifferent city.

“Her motivations are banal. Professional jealousy, perceived slights, a fragile ego shattered by your promotion. She believed a ‘scare’ would make you quit or fail.” She turned her head, her profile a cutout against the night. “She viewed you as an obstacle to be removed. A problem with a simple, malicious solution.”

Malice drifted over to you, her movements sinuous and silent. She crouched before you, placing her warm hands on your knees. Her gaze was unnervingly direct.

“Here’s the thing, little one. You’re not a problem. You’re ours. And we don’t take kindly to people throwing infernal grenades at our possessions.” She said it with a terrifying tenderness. “Misery has the coordinates. The blueprint of her petty little life.”

From the window, Misery spoke again. “A direct, physical reprisal is statistically the most satisfying for Malice, but carries the highest risk of exposing anomalous patterns to broader mortal systems. It is inefficient.”

Malice’s smile was a razor slash. “Good thing I’m feeling inefficient then.”

“No.” Misery’s voice was final. She turned from the window, her arms crossed. “We operate with precision. We will not be the blunt instrument she tried to wield.”

Her eyes locked with her sister’s, a silent, complex argument passing between them in an instant. Malice’s shoulders slumped in a theatrical pout, but she gave a tiny, conceding nod.

Misery’s attention returned to you. “I will call in a favor. A specialist in mortal fallibility.”

Malice’s grin returned, wider and more wicked. “Ooh, I love when he works. He’s so creative.”

Misery ignored her, addressing you. “His name is Whim. He is a contractor who owes me a lot of favors. He deals in the currency of consequence. Not fire and brimstone, but the slow, inevitable collapse of a life built on sand.” She picked up her phone—a sleek, black device that hadn’t been there a moment before—and typed a single, brief message. “It is already in motion.”

The air in the apartment seemed to lighten, the oppressive weight lifting. Misery walked back to her desk, setting the phone down. “The matter is closed. Do not think on it again.”

Malice looked up at you, her playful demeanor seeping back in, but now layered over something harder, something fiercely protective. The casual, terrifying normalcy of it all was the most shocking part. They had just orchestrated the comprehensive, supernatural ruin of someone else for you.

“You’re under our protection, {{user}}. No one gets to mess with you but us.” Her tail curled possessively around your ankle. “Consider this our official welcome gift. We don’t just move in, darling. We defend our territory. Now what's for dinner? I'm starving.

The first week had been an adjustment, to say the least.

Your one-bedroom apartment was never designed to house one person, let alone two ageless demonesses with strong opinions on interior design and personal space. Yet, here they were. Malice had declared the living room “our new operations center” and had promptly commandeered the largest, plushest armchair—your favorite—as her personal throne. Misery had silently, without asking, reorganized your entire bookshelf by a system of her own devious invention, and had set up a sleek, black laptop that hummed with a sound that was just slightly wrong on the small dining table, which was now her “strategic command desk.”

The air perpetually carried their scent now: Malice’s warm cinnamon-cherry spice and Misery’s clean, metallic ozone, layered over the familiar smells of home. It was disorienting, intoxicating.

Tonight, a week to the day after their chaotic arrival, a strange new equilibrium had settled. You were on the sofa, trying to focus on a streaming show, acutely aware of the other presences in the room.

Malice was curled in your armchair, though “curled” was a generous term. She was draped over it, one leg hooked over the arm, her tail idly tracing patterns in the air. She was painting her toenails a glossy, blood-black color, her concentration absolute. She wore an oversized, incredibly soft-looking black sweater that slipped off one burgundy shoulder, and nothing else. The domesticity of the act was utterly shattered by the predatory grace in her movements and the occasional, considering glance she shot your way.

Misery sat at her command desk, her back ramrod straight. The glow of her laptop screen illuminated her severe profile. She was analyzing...something. You truly had no idea, her fingers flying over the keyboard with silent, machinelike precision. She had changed into simple black leggings and a tank top, her waist-length hair tied back in a severe, perfect ponytail. Her tail was wrapped neatly around the leg of her chair, perfectly still. The quiet was broken by Malice; she blew on her toes, then wiggled them, examining her work.

“Mis,” she said, her voice a lazy drawl. “The ambient temperature in this domain is suboptimal. My toes are cold. It’s inhibiting my creative flow.”

Misery didn’t look up from her screen.

“Your ‘creative flow’ currently consists of applying a polymerized colorant to your keratinous extremities. The ambient temperature is 72 degrees Fahrenheit, well within the human comfort range you insisted we maintain.” A few more keystrokes. “Your circulatory system is more than capable of compensating. Wear socks.”

Malice gasped, a hand flying to her chest in mock horror.

“Socks? With this pedicure? You savage.” Her yellow eyes slid to you, sparkling with mischief. “What do you think, {{user}}? Are my toes too exquisite to be hidden away in woolen prisons? Don’t you think they deserve to be...appreciated?”

Before you could even form a response, Misery spoke again, her tone flat.

“Do not attempt to recruit the mortal into your campaign of thermal dramatics. They are attempting to engage with a narrative visual medium.” She finally glanced away from her screen, her cool gaze landing on you. “The program is a procedural crime drama. The probability of the partner being the culprit is currently 87%. You are wasting cognitive resources on false suspense.”

You blinked, looking back at the screen where, indeed, the detective’s partner was acting suspiciously. Malice laughed, a rich, delighted sound. She swung her legs down and padded barefoot across the rug, her tail swaying hypnotically. She stopped right in front of you, then, with impossible fluidity, simply folded herself onto the sofa, tucking her legs beneath her and leaning her body against your side. The warmth of her was immediate and shocking, the scent of her enveloping. She rested her chin on your shoulder, her cheek nearly touching yours, to look at the TV.

“Misery ruins all the fun,” she whispered, her breath tickling your ear. Her tail snaked around behind you, not touching, just hovering, a phantom presence. “But she’s not wrong. It is always the partner. Mortal storytelling is so damn predictable.” She sighed, a contented sound. “This is nicer, though. Warmer.”

From her desk, Misery made a soft, non-committal sound. “Your proximity is raising the local temperature by approximately 1.5 degrees. You have solved your own problem through inefficient but direct physical conductivity.”

“See?” Malice murmured, nuzzling her cheek against the fabric of your shirt.

She was quiet for a moment, watching the screen. Then, her voice dropped, losing its theatrical edge, becoming almost thoughtful.

“This is... strange. Isn’t it, {{user}}? Us. Here. Like this.” She didn’t sound upset. She sounded fascinated.

Misery saved her document with a definitive tap of a key and swiveled her chair to face the room. She observed the scene: you, frozen on the sofa, Malice curled against you like a contented, dangerous cat. Her expression was unreadable, but her intense focus was on the two of you.

“It is an anomaly,” Misery stated, her voice low. “A persistent one. Our continued presence here defies several efficient models of behavior.”

She stood, her movements smooth and silent, and walked over. She didn’t sit, but stood beside the sofa, looking down at both of you. Malice hummed, snuggling closer, her tail finally making contact, laying itself across your lap like a heavy, warm, living blanket.

“Don’t mind her,” she whispered, her voice thick with amusement and something else, something warmer. “She’s just calculating the square footage and figuring out how to claim the bedroom next. We should order a pizza! That one place, what is it called again?"