Page 11 of Eat, Slay, Love

“Of sorts.”

We wind past long tables where cheerful people share a meal—most, if not all of them acknowledging Jonah with a smile or a nod, with a “Jonah, my man,” and “‘Sup,” and “Yo,” with Jonah replying with warm greetings of his own.

Eventually, we reach the back of the room. Jonah pushes through the swinging doors, and I stop dead in my tracks.

The room beyond isn’t dark or cavernous or lined with human skulls and femoral bones. Steel counters in the middle of the room reflect bright overhead lighting. Industrial burners on massive ovens line the walls. Stacks of onions, carrots, and potatoes, waiting to be slid into giant pots emanating steam.

“No,” I say flatly. I might even stamp my foot.

He turns slowly, hands raised in surrender.

“This is some sort of sick joke,” I press.

His ice-blue eyes glimmer in amusement. I’m glad someone is amused.

“You’re a demon who feeds people?!” I ask, incredulous.

“After eighty-odd years, I’ve become a very good cook,” he says evenly. “But I’ve never been particularly good at being a demon.” His eyes search mine before he finds what he’s looking for. “Might be an occupational hazard of only being half.”

6

“Half? Half of what?” My curiosity sparks to life, bright and electric, and before I can stop myself, I’m pacing the length of the kitchen like I’ve unleashed it and now must chase after it. “Half what? Powers? Super strength? Speed? Magic? Immortality? Evil? Soul-sucking? How exactly do you suck half a soul? Do you take the top layer? Is there a measuring cup involved?”

Through my barrage of questions, Jonah doesn’t move. He just tracks me with his eyes, something glinting there. The rest of him is preternaturally, predatorily still.

He is a demon. I can feel it. Fuck, I can see it.

But—

“Let’s start there,” he says at last.

“Where? Evil? Are you half-evil?”

It takes him a moment to answer. “I was. For half my life, I suppose. But I’ve spent the other half trying not to be.”

That shuts me up for approximately three seconds.

Before I can press him, he continues. “How much do you actually know about how demons feed?”

“You just hoover it up like this,” I tell him, then make a rough, strangled sort of inhalation sound, like Batibat coughing up a hairball but in reverse.

Jonah looks offended. “Are you comparing me to a vacuum cleaner or a dying cat?”

“You suck out someone’s entire soul until they collapse,” I say defensively. “At least, that’s been my experience in sixty-seven years of demon slaying.”

He tilts his head. “Is that how old you are? Sixty-seven?”

“Yes.”

He looks intrigued. And annoyingly delighted. “I didn’t realize slayers were immortal.”

“We’re not,” I sniff. “We have a longer lifespan, but we’re not fully immortal. That’s your whole deal.”

“Well,” he says lightly, “I’m only half, so I suppose we’re in the same boat. Prolonged lifespan. Not immortal.”

I narrow my eyes. “How old are you?”

He smirks. “Eighty-four.”