A Familiar's Tale - A Day in the Life of Hex Maledictio

A loud, guttural roar rose from the hollow depths, rousing me from the deathlike trance I’d been experiencing upon the top shelf of the Esoteric Archive.

If the minions have summoned another demon in the cellar, I shall demand harsher punishment this time. They fooled the Mistress once by blaming their “remote control car,” but they did not deceive me.

The sound came again—louder this time. I felt it ripple through my bones, right down to the tip of my tail…

Oh—wait.

That’s my stomach.

It must be dinner time.

Please forgive my manners. I am Sir Hex Maledictio—Familiar of the Esteemed First Order, Warden of the Western Windowsill, Keeper of the Nine Lives, Guardian Against All That Skitter and Scurry, and so forth and so on.

Surely my reputation precedes me; I needn’t spell out every title.

The minions, in their irreverent ignorance, have reduced my nomenclature to Jinx.

I rose slowly, stretching; my tail tapping the ceiling. I really was on top of the world up here. Preparing to take my leave, I spotted it—a small tumbleweed of detritus trying to hide where the shelf met the wall—a lost soul separated from its mortal coil and doomed to haunt the upper reaches of the Archive. I cradled it ceremoniously between my jaws (one must use the utmost care when transporting relics), and began my descent.

The shelves loomed like a tower of eldritch knowledge: grimoires bound in something that once had been among the living, a stack of tomes whose spines whispered of other lives, a pile of spellbooks, and a monstrous volume of numbers the Mistress insisted was useful—but the minions had claimed was archaic.

Step by deliberate step, I slipped down from the stacks, ensuring my nook remained undiscovered, then trod lightly toward the laboratory. My stomach growled once more, insisting I reach the Mistress posthaste, but dignity is earned with a measured approach. Twice I considered trotting, once I nearly broke into a canter; then I remembered—panic is unbecoming of a Familiar.

I had faced greater perils. Familiars of my rank are no strangers to near-death experiences—although none quite so personal as an empty bowl.

Still, if I am to perish, let it not be said I fell without glory. Take, for instance, The Vacuum Incident of Last Tuesday.

A dreadful summoning. The Mistress claims it was merely “cleaning,” but the roar that split the silence was unmistakably infernal. It rolled forth from the iron beast’s snout, devouring dust, crumbs, and—most horrifically—my tail tufts.

I did what any brave Familiar would: executed a tactical retreat to higher ground, scaling the curtains in three flawless leaps. The beast pursued, shrieking as the Mistress dragged it across the floor, leaving a wake of ruin and despair. Only after my most fearsome hiss did she sever the beast’s serpentine tail from the wall and end its reign of terror—an oddly undignified end for such a formidable creature.

The minions cheered. The Mistress muttered something about “shedding—again.”

Notwithstanding, I know what truly happened that day.

I had saved them all.

But I digress. That was last week’s heroism.

Today? Well, even heroes must eat.

The lost soul had warped slightly in my mouth—ungrateful thing—yet I would see it safely to the Mistress and reap my reward for its return.

The kitchen door yawned open ahead, steam and the scent of brimstone… no—poison—rolled out like a fog of war. I entered to find the Mistress standing over her cauldron, sleeves rolled, and wielding the great wooden spoon.

She looked up as I entered. “You’ve got a cobweb on your tail.”

Her eyes narrowed—an expression I knew all too well. “Were you on top of the bookshelf, Jinx?” she growled. “I swear if you knocked my cookbooks down again…”

She shook the wooden spoon threateningly in my direction, and I leapt backward, barely dodging a small splatter of her poisonous brew. It was definitely potent—I stared for a long moment, watching it eat away at the linoleum—and mentally thanked my feline reflexes for allowing me to survive yet another day.

I moved in carefully, avoiding the splatter, and placed the relic at her feet in a gesture of solemn fealty. She sniffed, looked down at my offering, then laughed. “Bartering dust bunnies for your dinner now?”

Well, at least the concoction was wreaking havoc upon her nasal cavity as well.

With watery eyes, I looked up at her, only to break into a passive-aggressive lecture on proper respect due a Familiar of the First Order.

She huffed—part scold, part laugh, mostly surrender—and, because witches have a soft spine for certain appointed familiars, she reached down and ruffled my ears with a flat, practiced hand.

“Don’t be dramatic. Your meowing won’t make me move faster,” she muttered, her attention returning to the cauldron. “I’ll feed you when I’m done cooking.”

I retrieved the lost soul—so she wouldn’t step on the poor thing—and placed it beside my bowl. Slowly circling thrice, I perched myself next to it, watching and waiting for the Mistress to finish her work.

A dust bunny, then. So that’s how it scaled the Archive—an accomplished climber, for one so round.

A shadow shifted in the doorway behind me. My fur puffed before I even turned—clearly, the minions were attempting stealth again.

“Hey, Mom,” the elder one said, leaning against the frame.

“Dinner smells delicious.”

“Chili,” the Mistress replied, never pausing her rhythmic stirring.

“Five-alarm?”

“You know it.”

“I’ll get the table set.”

“Thanks, honey. There’s diced onion and cheese in the fridge—grab those too?”

“Yep.” He disappeared into the adjoining chamber, humming some infernal tune under his breath—one of those triumphant battle hymns mortals sing before marching into certain doom.

The poison… She was going to feed it to the minions.

As if to test my resolve, the Automaton Beast—round, smug, and low to the ground—whirred from its lair. Not the Roaring Creature of Last Tuesday; no, this one glides in silence, nibbling dust with mechanical indifference.

We have… an arrangement. I permit its patrols so long as it skirts my tail and salutes the Western Windowsill with a respectful bump. When it forgets its place and noses my whiskers, I ride it until it remembers sovereignty.

The Mistress calls this, “Jinx, get off the robot.”

Semantics.

Every kingdom requires a tribute.

I crept to the other door—the one leading to the dining chamber—and peered through the crack. The elder one arranged bowls with innocent devotion, blissfully unaware of his impending doom. I gave a mournful little mew.

He glanced over his shoulder. “Hey, Jinxy.”

He crouched, scratched behind my ears—divine service!—and returned to his task.

I’m going to miss that one, I thought solemnly. He gives the best belly rubs.

I trotted back to the laboratory, resolving to appear calm and dignified. Best not to test whether Familiars are immune to the Mistress’s toxic concoction.

I stationed myself before the great glass portals that guarded the Mistress’s lair. Beyond them stretched the Outer Balcony—my personal domain, and the first line of defense against skyborne horrors.

Movement caught my eye. A demon the size of a small dragon—its body obstructing the porch light—beat itself senseless against the barrier. The sound was terrible: the dull thunk-thunk-thunk of mindless rage.

I tensed, tail flicking like a whip. The creature sought entry.

Not on my watch.

I crouched low, shoulders rippling, posterior quivering, as I calculated my strike. One pounce—one mighty blow, and I would end this airborne menace before it reached the Mistress.

The beast lunged again. I sprang—forepaws slamming against the glass with a battle cry that surely echoed through the annals of Familiar history. The demon faltered, fell, and vanished into the shadows below.

Victory.

I stood tall, chest puffed, tail curling in triumph. The lair was safe once more.

Behind me, the Mistress muttered, “For heaven’s sake, Jinx, it’s just a moth.”

Just a moth.

Typical mortal understatement.

I had looked into the abyss—and the abyss had gazed back. I smote it regardless, armed only with my retractable daggers and sacred paw legumes.

Still, even heroes must endure insult. With a chuff, I resumed my post, gazing out upon the night, ever vigilant for the next assault.

Soon, the Mate wandered in, all broad shoulders and clueless confidence.

“Dinner’s ready,” the Mistress told him. “If you’d take it to the table, I’ll feed Jinx and be right out.”

He nodded, retrieved a trivet, and carried the steaming cauldron away.

The Mistress opened the sacred cupboard and withdrew my ration—small brown orbs of questionable nutritional value. They clattered into my bowl, the humble feast of a survivor. Then she, too, vanished through the door.

I followed to the threshold and watched as the smaller minion joined the elder; they gathered around the table, ladling the venom into bowls. The minions smiled. The Mate laughed. Steam curled upward in ghastly tendrils.

For a moment, pity stirred in my chest. Such loyalty. Such tragic ignorance.

Then I shrugged—internally. Well, at least it’ll be quieter around here.

I turned back to my bowl, studied the kibble glinting in the lamplight, and lowered my head with reverence.

Never have I been so grateful for dry rations.

The family chattered in the next room, blissfully unaware. I licked a paw, content in my wisdom. If the worst befalls them, I’ll mourn appropriately—after a nap. Perhaps two. Heroes require rest.

And if tomorrow brings fresh peril, I shall face it—after breakfast.

***

For the record—should scholars one day compile my dispatches—let it be known that the proper order of household warding is: Dignity, Windows, Dry Rations, Elevated Perches, and Naps (in that sequence); chili, moths, and vacuums may vary by region. Please cite me properly: Maledictio, S.H., On Domestic Vigilance, vol. I.