The summoning booth has a line. I scuff the leather on my loafers and check my phone. I don't really have time, but without a PowerPoint demon to run my presentation, I don't have anything else to do. I hope I won't be late.
The fat idiot inside can't work the latch. I tug from the outside, and he breathes garlicky breath in my face as he flees, sweating. He was calling a succubus. I know the type.
Inside, I sweep the remnants of his salt circle into the disposal. Disgusting pig. Push the button, the new circle falls down neatly from the dispensers. One, two, three go the blood-treated iron coins. I get mine from Soul Survivors. They do diversified holdings, no fewer than a thousand contributors per coin. It's a decent risk, so long as you get out before the law of averages kicks in and you run the risk of tipping over the fifty percent mark on your contribution. I've got good information. I researched the userbase and projected summoning habits thoroughly before I committed.
The demon appears in a flash of sulphur and heat. You never get the same one twice, but I swear it looks familiar. I open my mouth to tell it about the damned PowerPoint, but a rumble from overhead distracts me. I look up and see the lances of light penetrating the overcast. Wings and swords and trumpets, fire and smoke from beneath.
The demon smiles.
"Foreclosed," it says. "All of you."
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