“You specifically, yes.”
I wait for the punchline. For the charming deflection and the smooth explanation that makes everything seem perfectly reasonable. It doesn’t come.
“Why,” I ask slowly, “would your imp be investigating me?”
“Because I asked him to.”
I feel my expression shift, my walls rising instinctively. All those weeks of stolen glances and lingering touches, all those moments that felt genuine—were they part of some kind of agenda?
“Before you jump to conclusions,” Mal adds quickly, “it wasn’t anything sinister. I was just... curious.”
“Curious about what?”
“About you. About this place. About why you reacted so strongly when I first walked into your class.”
“I reacted strongly because you were late.”
“You reacted strongly because you felt something.” His eyes meet mine, and for once there’s no humor in them. “The same thing I felt. I wanted to understand it.”
My heart is pounding. “So you sent your imp to spy on me.”
“To observe. Discreetly. Which he was supposed to do without getting caught.” He shoots Nix a pointed look. “Someone got distracted by shiny objects.”
“Shiny,” Nix agrees mournfully, petting a stolen ribbon.
“This is insane.” I press my palms against my desk, grounding myself. “You have an imp. An actual, literal imp. With horns and a tail and—what else? What else are you hiding?”
The question hangs in the air.
Mal’s hand moves almost unconsciously to the leather bracelet on his wrist.
“Everyone hides something,” he says quietly.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer I can give you right now.”
“Convenient.”
“Not particularly.” He runs a hand through his hair, and for a moment he looks tired. Ancient, almost—though that doesn’t make sense for a man who appears to be in his mid-thirties. “There are things about me that would... complicate matters.”
“More complicated than a talking imp?”
“Significantly more complicated than Nix.” He glances at the creature, who has started building a small nest out of ribbons and spare practice skirts. “He’s actually the simple part.”
I should be angrier. I should be demanding explanations, threatening to call the police, and kicking him out of my studio and my life. Instead, I find myself studying the tension around his eyes and the way he’s holding himself like someone bracing for a blow.
He’s scared,I realize.Scared that I’ll send him away.
“Mal.” I wait until he meets my eyes. “What are you?”
The question surprises both of us. I watch him consider and discard a dozen possible responses.
“Does it matter?” he asks finally.
“Of course it matters.”
“Why?”
