How?How? He’d been so careful. No one from his old life knew his latest address. Not even his mother. He slipped out of bed, beginning to pace, one hand pressed to his chest like it’d slow the rapid pace of his heartbeat.
And it’d beenthreeyears! He’d thought—he’d actually started tohope—
His eyes burned. He clenched them shut. He wouldn’t cry. Never again,never again. But what was he going to do? He couldn’t move again. Hecouldn’t. All his savings—if he moved, he’d have to start from scratch. Again. He was so tired of starting over. He just wanted to settle down andlive. Even if his life might not be worth all that, according tothem.
For a moment, Saint was filled with a violent rage. The hand pressed against his chest shook slightly. Why the fuck wouldn’t they just leave him alone?
Memories fluttered through his head that made his rage worse, dreams of finding one ofthemalone and unprotected, and stabbing them in the face about a million times so the rest of them got the fucking point.
“Fuck.” He wasn’t going to do that—obviously he wasn’t, but the way he’d relished the thought of the violence scared him.
He collapsed onto his bed, staring desolately out into his flat. He would have to move. There was no other choice.
It would be easier, he knew, if he just went back. His parents would probably welcome him with open arms. The last time, his mother had cried and begged, and when that hadn’t worked, had cursed and spat, and whenthathadn’t worked—
Saint clenched his eyes shut, shoving the memories away.
Maybe hecouldgo back. And he could pretend again. He could—
Fuck. No. He couldn’t. He couldn’t go back. Hewouldn’t. But he couldn’t stay here. And he couldn’t move. But he had to move.
He buried his face into his palms to muffle his scream. He thought briefly about his best friend. He knew, even though they’d never physically met, that Teresa would open her doors to him the moment he asked, no conditions applied. But how could he burden her with this? And it would put her in danger, too. As a semi-closeted trans woman, she was already more vulnerable than he was; he wasn’t about to add any more stress to that.
If only he had some kind of protection. If only he were invincible. Or if he could train his—thedog to somehow become a superhero, dramatically fighting off every bad guy until they got the point; his knight in shining armour.
Saint stilled.
His pulse skittered.
That was—no.
He straightened, his heart back to beating so hard he could barely hear anything else.
Could he—?
No. Obviously not.
Would it even—?
But he had no choice.
And this was ademon. What better protection would he have than from a supernatural being? If no one could touch him—if they couldn’t threaten him anymore, he could just live his life ignoring them until they finally went away.
The thought of it—of some well-deserved freedom, sometrue, well-deservedrest—was too much for him to resist.
He left his bed. He had to have some chalk somewhere. Chairman Ebube’s son was always trying to sneak a pack of it home. The poor thing probably had some kind of deficiency. After one too many beatings, with Sunday being as stubborn as a he-goat, Saint had taken to confiscating the chalk from him before he went home.
There. Bottom drawer on his bedside table.
He moved to the space at the foot of his bed and dropped to his knees.
As he put the chalk to the floor, he hesitated. Was he really about to do this? What if the demonwasn’treal and his dreams were just convincingly vivid?
But what if hewas?
Saint didn’t know what would be scarier. If he wasn’t real, then ... then Saint was stuck with running and hiding possibly for the rest of his life becausethey’dprobably never give up. But then again, if the demonwasreal ...
Saint remembered one night, not too long ago, after one of their sessions, the demon had drawn onto his chest with the tip of a clawed, slightly trembling finger. It had felt like a summoning circle—Saint had had his eyes closed—though not the same one the demon had taught Saint to use for their games.
