“Where do I start?” he asks.
“The beginning usually works.”
A short laugh. “The beginning was about three hundred and fifty years ago. We might be here a while.”
I stare at him. “Three hundred and?—”
“I’m a demon, Isadora.” He says it simply, like stating the weather.
“A demon.”
“A demon.”
“Yes.”
“Like... pitchfork? Fire and brimstone? Eternal damnation?”
“More like chaos and mischief and really excellent taste in tailoring.” His smile is weak. “The pitchfork thing is a stereotype. Very outdated.”
I stare at him.
“I know it’s a lot to take in?—”
“A demon.” I repeat it again, testing the word. Waiting for him to laugh, to tell me it’s a joke, to explain that he’s just some guy with an unusual medical condition that makes his eyes flash red.
He doesn’t.
“Approximately three hundred and fifty years old, give or take a decade. I lose track.” He spreads his hands. “Born in what’s now northern Spain, turned during a period of my life I’d rather not discuss, spent the subsequent centuries doing various things I’m not proud of.”
My brain feels like it’s buffering. Like someone has hit pause on reality and it’s taking too long to restart.
“Demons are real.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re one of them.”
“Also yes.”
“And you’ve been—what? Pretending to be human this whole time?”
“I prefer ‘presenting as human for mutual convenience.’ The glamour helps.” He tilts his head. “Would you like to see what I actually look like?”
Every instinct screams no. If I don’t see it, maybe I can convince myself this is all an elaborate prank. Maybe I can go back to the comfortable reality where monsters don’t exist and my dance partner is just an eccentric rich man with unusual eyes.
But I’ve never been good at hiding from uncomfortable truths.
“Yes.”
Mal takes a breath. Then something shifts.
It’s not dramatic—no smoke, no lightning, no special effects. One moment he looks like himself, and the next he looks like... more. Small curling horns emerge from his dark hair, black andgleaming. His eyes flood completely red, crimson from edge to edge. When he opens his mouth slightly, I catch a glimpse of elongated canines.
And behind him, curling lazily, is a tail. Sleek and black and pointed at the tip, like something from a medieval woodcut.
“Oh,” I say faintly.
“I can put it back if?—”
