Chapter 1 - Pilot

Noah’s POV

Beep… beep…

Beeeeeeeeeeep.

“For the love of all that’s holy, Jamie, shut that thing up before they sedate me instead of you.”

I muttered low, sharp, and tired. Jamie burst into wheezy, uncontrollable laughter, shaking the bed, while every single patient and nurse in the ward turned their heads to look at us.

One woman looked three seconds away from calling security. Fantastic. I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me whole.

Jamie only laughed harder at my mortified face, the fucker.

“Cut it out, Jamie, or I’ll never be able to show my face here again.”

“Good,” he said, still chuckling. “Then you’ll finally stay home and sleep like a normal human being.”

I sighed. “We’ve talked about this. I’m fine. You’re the one actually hooked to machines, not me. I’m supposed to take care of you.”

He smiled, soft and infuriatingly calm. “Yeah, but if you blackout from exhaustion, how are you supposed to take care of me? Counterproductive isn’t it?”

I rubbed my face and gave him a dry look. “Why do you have to make sense sometimes?”

“Sometimes?!” Jamie gasped like I’d just slapped him. “Excuse me, sir! My wisdom is eternal. Now leave before I summon my royal guards.”

He fanned himself dramatically with his free hand, regal as hell despite the hospital gown.

I laughed despite myself, standing to go. These little moments were the only oxygen I had. They kept me from drowning in the thought that hovered constantly at the edge of my mind: my brother was dying. Slowly, but inevitably.

The hallway smelled like antiseptic and sorrow. By the time I pushed open the doors to the outside world, the laughter was gone from my chest. My smile slipped, leaving only the weight pressing harder: my little brother, Jamie, could die at any moment.

And then I’d truly be alone.

Our foster mom had brought five year old Jamie home when I was eleven, and from that day, he became my shadow. I fought off the racist assholes who came for him, and he-God bless his scrawny arms-tried to fight off the homophobic ones who came for me. When both came at once, we fought back together. That was just… life. Until foster mom dropped the bombshell: Jamie had sickle cell.

Back then, the symptoms were mild. Still, I doubled down, shielding him, swallowing my own problems, always braced for the worst. When our foster mom died, leaving us to face the world alone, my fear turned into a constant knot in my chest. His illness worsened, and the knot only pulled tighter.

I pushed open the door to the antique shop, home sweet home, if “sweet” meant dust, varnish, and floorboards that creaked like old bones. Kathleen, the owner, peeked around a shelf, her face lighting up when she saw me.

“Oh! You’re back.” She beamed. “How’s Jamie?”

“He’s okay right now.” My voice cracked on the last word. “Don’t ask me about tomorrow.”

Kathleen’s smile faltered. She ducked behind the counter and came up with a bottle of whiskey and two stools. She plunked them down with a look that brooked no argument.

I shook my head. “No. What if the hospital calls? What if-”

“Noah.” Her voice was sharp enough to slice my excuses in half. “Sit. One glass. You need to breathe before you collapse.”

Her words echoed Jamie’s from earlier. Reluctantly, I sat down. “Fine. One glass. Just one.”

She smiled and poured. The whiskey burned going down, smoky and harsh. I hated how good it felt.

I wish I’d never touched it.

Later, in the back of a taxi, my phone buzzed uselessly in my hand, screen full of missed calls. My throat was raw from breathing too fast. By the time I burst into Jamie’s ward, his bed was empty.

Panic clawed at my throat. I grabbed the nearest nurse, begging, demanding, almost screaming. They rushed me to the ICU.

Another episode. Machines hummed. Jamie lay pale and shaking, barely holding on. The doctor’s voice blurred into static, and all I could do was stare.

By the time I stumbled home, I was half-dead myself. I’d failed him. I drank again. And again. Each glass only sharpened the guilt until it carved me hollow.

I reached for another bottle, and in my clumsy grief I knocked over a book. It fell open with a heavy thud.

I froze.

The pages described how to summon a wish granting entity.

In my drunken haze, the thought felt obvious. Of course I’d sell my soul for Jamie. Who wouldn’t?

I drew the circle with shaking hands, hope filing my chest, my every word filled with desperation as I slurred through the chants scrawled on the battered pages.

Nothing at first, I sat there on the floor panting, my eyes slowly filling up with tears, unable to accept the outcome.

I tried again.

Again and again.

Nothing.

Anger ripped through me.

I hurled the empty bottle into the circle, collapsed into the mess, and sobbed until my chest ached.

Hours bled by before I forced myself to stand, picking up shards of glass. One sliced deep, blood spilling into the circle

And then, darkness.

Kael’s POV

Fresh air.

Actual fresh air.

I breathed it in like it was fine wine, tilting my head back, savoring it.

Then my foot caught on something and I faceplanted.

So much for my grand demonic entrance.

I groaned, scrambled up, and slapped on my best “I’m terrifying and in control” expression, because appearances matter. I whipped around, ready to stare down my summoner…

The room was empty.

“…Seriously?”

I scanned the place. Just me, a busted-up circle on the floor, and

“Oh, wait.”

A drunk human.

Out cold.

Summoner found.

“Wow. Five hundred years trapped in hell, and this is what I get? Not a dark sorcerer, not a twisted warlord, nope. A lightweight who can’t hold his liquor.”

I sighed, dusting myself off. “Great. Just great.”

I nudged the guy with my boot.

No reaction.

He reeked of cheap alcohol and desperation.

Fantastic.

This was my ticket out of hell?

A sloppy human who probably thought N*****x counted as ritual research

I crouched down, peering at his unconscious face.

“Hey, champ. You realize you just summoned a demon, right? Step one is usually staying awake.”

Still nothing.

I flopped back on the floor with a dramatic groan. “Unbelievable. I survive centuries of torture, brimstone, and eternal screaming only to end up babysitting a blackout.”

I tilted my head, smirk tugging at my lips. “Well… at least he’s cute.”