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Esther Freeling had decided, very calmly, very rationally, and absolutely without anyone else’s input, that she needed a familiar.
This decision came at exactly 2:13 a.m., which was historically the hour during which Esther made all of her best and worst decisions.
The Undervale was quiet in the way it never actually was. The pipes rattled with something that sounded suspiciously like whispering. The floorboards groaned under invisible footsteps. Somewhere down the hall, a ghost was crying dramatically for attention, and something in the walls hissed like it had a personal vendetta against drywall.
Esther ignored all of it.
Her bedroom floor had disappeared under a hostile takeover of books.
They were stacked in uneven towers and half-collapsed piles of leather-bound grimoires that smelled like dust and regret, paperback “Beginner’s Guides to Dark Magic” with aggressively cheerful fonts, handwritten notebooks stolen from the hotel’s definitely cursed library, and one extremely suspicious pamphlet titled “So You’ve Accidentally Become a Witch.”
She had highlighted that one.
The self proclaimed Witch lay on her stomach in the center of it all, legs kicking idly behind her, chin propped on her fists as she squinted at a page written in ink that kept rearranging itself when she wasn’t looking.
“Okay,” she muttered to herself. “Familiars.”
The word felt good. Important. Witchy.
Familiars were a big deal. Everyone knew that. Even people who didn’t know anything about magic knew that witches had familiars. Cats, ravens, demons, little gremlin creatures that lived in teacups. Best friends. Partners. Anchors. A familiar was someone who chose you—or was bound to you in a way that felt almost the same.
Esther liked that idea.
She liked it more than she was willing to admit.
The hotel was full of things that tolerated her. Things that respected her. Things that occasionally tried to eat her soul but backed off once she threatened to hex them.
But a familiar was different.
A familiar was… permanent.
She flipped the page.
>> A familiar is the witch’s closest companion, bound by magic and mutual understanding. Often demonic or fae in origin, familiars assist with spellwork, provide guidance in their domain, and act as an extension of the witch’s will. <<
Esther’s eyes narrowed.
“Closest companion,” she read aloud, tapping the page. “Mutual understanding. Extension of my will.”
That all checked out. She was already basically a witch. She practiced dark magic regularly and responsibly (mostly) to keep the supernatural population of the Undervale from eating guests, opening portals, or starting cults (again). She had erased one sibling from existence (accidentally).
If that didn’t qualify her for a familiar, nothing did.
And yet.
She glanced sideways at the empty space beside her bed.
“…Huh.”
It wasn’t that she didn’t have anyone. That wasn’t true. Abaddon was always around, lurking in doorways, sitting on the roof like a gargoyle with a juice box, offering deeply inappropriate commentary during spells.
They were friends. Obviously. He’d taught her more about demons, hell dimensions, and ritual circles than any book ever could. He also stole her snacks and laughed when she got possessed, but that felt… balanced.
Still.
The books hadn’t mentioned already having a demon.
They made it sound like a whole process. Summoning circles. Components. Intent.
Esther frowned, chewing on the end of her pencil.
“What if,” she said slowly, “I’m doing magic wrong.”
That was a horrifying thought.
She sat up abruptly, sending a small avalanche of books sliding off her bed.
“Nope. No. That’s stupid. I’m great at magic.” She paused, then amended, “Okay, I’m good at magic. Mostly. But still.”
She grabbed another book at random and flipped it open.
>> On the Summoning of Familiars: A Practical Guide.<<
Yes. This one had diagrams.
Esther’s smile crept back.
The ritual took three hours to prepare.
This was not because Esther didn’t know what she was doing (she absolutely did!) but because she was thorough.
By the time she was done, her room looked like the set of a very serious horror movie being filmed by someone with a limited budget and too much enthusiasm.
She had cleared the floor and drawn a summoning circle in chalk, salt and ash.
A perfect ring, inscribed with sigils for summoning, binding, protection, and consent - because Esther was not an idiot, and also because she meant it. Whatever answered this call would not be enslaved. It would be invited.
Candles ringed the circle, their flames flickering unnaturally despite the lack of wind.
In the center lay the components, arranged with ritual precision.
Esther stood at the edge of the circle, hands on her hips, surveying her work.
“Okay,” she said to herself. “This is good. This is very good.”
She checked the list one more time.
“Skull of a hunter,” she read aloud, nudging the small animal skull into place. “Feather of a scavenger.” She adjusted the crow feather delicately. “And hair of the witch.”
She reached up and tugged a strand of copper hair free, wincing as it came loose.
She placed it carefully in the center.
The air felt heavier now. Charged. Like the moment right before a thunderstorm.
The soon-to-be-official-witch took a deep breath.
This was it.
She stepped into the circle.
The chalk glowed brighter under her bare feet. The symbols hummed softly, responding to her presence, her intent.
She raised her hands.
“Okay…” she said, voice steady despite the way her heart was trying to escape her chest. “Time to summon my familiar.”
The candles flared.
The temperature dropped.
Shadows stretched along the walls, bending inward.
Esther closed her eyes and began the incantation, words rolling off her tongue in a language older than English, older than the hotel, older than the bones buried beneath it. She felt the magic respond, spiraling outward, reaching.
She imagined it clearly: a presence answering the call. Something ancient, powerful, clever. Something that would choose her.
Something that would stay.
The circle pulsed.
The symbols flared blinding white.
The air tore open-
-and something crashed through her bedroom wall. Plaster exploded. Bricks flew. A section of wall ceased to exist.
Esther yelped and ducked her head away from flying rubble.
The dust cleared just enough for her to see him.
Abaddon laid upside down amid the wreckage, dust coated his hair and jacket. A piece of drywall slid off his shoulder, his expression infuriatingly casual. “You called?”
Silence fell.
Esther stood frozen, mouth open, hands still raised.
“…Abaddon?!” she croaked.
Her brain caught up all at once.
“YOU’RE MY—” She gestured wildly at the circle. “YOU’RE MY FAMILIAR?!”
Abaddon tilted his head, considering this.
“Yes,” he said after a moment. “I thought this was established?”
Something in Esther’s soul made a noise like a dial-up modem disconnecting.
“…No,” she said faintly. “No, it was not established.”
He frowned slightly. “Really? Huh.” Slowly he stood, dusted off his coat and glanced around the room, taking in the circle, the candles, the symbols, the offerings.
“Oh. Oh, this is adorable.”
He stepped over the edge of the summoning circle without hesitation. The magic rippled, then settled around him like it had always expected him there.
Abaddon dusted off the last of the debris and glanced at the destroyed wall. “You should probably fix that. Katherine hates drafts.”
Silence.
Something inside Esther snapped.
She made a strangled noise and sank to her knees.
Abaddon tilted his head, studying her like she was a mildly interesting puzzle. “You didn’t know?”
“No,” Esther hissed. “I did not know that my—” She waved at him again. “—YOU were my familiar.”
He shrugged. “Huh.”
“Huh?!”
“Well,” he said thoughtfully, “that explains the circle.”
She buried her face in her hands.
All that work.
All that chalk.
All that research.
Useless.
Abaddon crouched, peering at the circle. “Nice craftsmanship, though. Very clean lines. You remembered the consent glyph. Most witches forget that.”
She glared up at him through her fingers. “You let me do this.”
“You asked for a familiar.”
“I DID NOT ASK FOR YOU TO COME THROUGH THE WALL.”
“You didn’t specify an entrance.”
He leaned down until his face was level with hers, eyes gleaming.
“Who exactly did you think was going to answer?”
Esther’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
“I-” she tried. “I thought it would be… like… a demon. Or a fairy. Or something new.”
“I am a demon.”
“Yes, but you’re-” She flailed again. “You’re you.”
Abaddon frowned, scandalized. “Flattering.”
She stared at him, gears grinding.
“…Wait,” she said slowly. “Are you saying… this whole time…”
“That I’ve been bound to you?” he finished. “Yes.”
Her stomach dropped.
“You didn’t think it was weird,” he continued, counting on his fingers, “that you can draw demonic sigils without backlash, that hell-creatures listen to you, that spells respond to your emotional state, or that I keep showing up every time you’re in trouble?”
“I thought you were just… around!”
“Well. Yes. That's the point?”
Esther’s knees gave out.
She sat down hard on the floor, right in the middle of the summoning circle.
“I spent three weeks on this,” she whispered.
Abaddon snorted. “That tracks.”
“I read seven books.”
“Tragic.”
“I stole grave dirt from three different cemeteries.”
“Impressive.”
“I plucked my own hair!”
“Very witchy.”
She looked up at him, eyes wild.
“You could have TOLD ME.”
He shrugged. “You never asked.”
She let out a sound that might have been a laugh or a sob.
“All this time,” she groaned, flopping backward onto the floor, staring at the ceiling. “All this TIME. I could have been doing literally anything else.”
Abaddon crouched beside her, propping his chin on his hands.
“In your defense,” he said, “the ritual was very well done.”
“You're terrible.”
“Aww, thank you.”
She groaned louder, covering her face with her hands.
“This is so embarrassing.”
He laughed delighted, “If it makes you feel better, most witches don’t realize their familiar until much later. You’re ahead of schedule.”
She peeked at him through her fingers, looked around at the ruined wall, the glowing circle slowly fading.
“…I’m never living this down, am I?”
“Absolutely not.”