Page 2 of Eat, Slay, Love

“Enough,” I snarl.

The demon tries a different tactic. “What’s your name?”

“Your worst nightmare.”

The corner of a shapely mouth twitches. “I’m Jonah. Could we perhaps talk about this—” He trails off as I step over the salt and into the circle. My dagger hums in my hand, eager in a way that I—that my magic—is not.

He takes a reflexive step back. “You’re making a mistake, Nightmare,” he says quietly.

“Good,” I reply, because I don’t know what else to say, and I lunge.

It’s all muscle memory at this point, because it’s been a decade since I’ve trained. The kris slices through the air with a sharp whistle, Baybayan symbols carved along the blade flaring faintly as they taste demon energy. I aim for his heart—clean and decisive.

He pivots right, impossibly fast, like I forgot how fast demons were fast, and I catch only the outside of his arm. The blade bites, and silver light sparks at the point of contact.

And then⁠—

There’s blood. Red and bright.

“Fuck,” he hisses, hand flying to the wound. “Listen to m⁠—”

“I’m listening,” I say, which is not true, because I’m too busy staring at the blood dripping down his arm. Why is he… bleeding? Demon flesh is supposed to smoke. Burn and blacken under Magdangal blessed steel.

I shake my head of the nonsense. It doesn’t matter. My magic is buzzing, and even if it’s acting strange, demons must be slain.

Right? I’m already raising the kris again. My feet are in the correct position. My shoulders are square. My heart is… elsewhere. Somewhere inconvenient, apparently, because instead of pressing the advantage, I wait, my blade wavering in the air between us like I’ve forgotten the next step in a dance I’ve practiced my whole life.

He notices. “You don’t actually want to do this,” he says, watching me carefully, perfect eyebrows furrowed, body predatorily still. “You’re aiming like someone who hopes I’ll move.”

“I’m aiming fine,” I snap, slashing at him again, too wide this time. He ducks easily, the movement economical and precise.

“I am actively trying not to hurt you,” he says, dodging another half-committed strike. “Which, for the record, is not something most demons bother with, so maybe we could take a moment and unpack that?”

“Stop narrating, Morgan Freeman!” I snap, drawing a line of salt across the ground between us with my free hand. The line flares white, snapping up briefly like an electric fence.

He stops short of it. He doesn’t cross.

I reset my stance, dagger lifted again.

Suddenly, I hear something. A low groan. I glance over, and the human on the ground stirs.

Pivoting, body still angled and dagger still raised towards the demon, I crouch to check the man’s pulse. It’s strong and steady. He’s still alive.

I rise slowly, glaring at Jonah. I must have intervened just in time. I just saved someone.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” Jonah says carefully. “This⁠—”

I attack him again, arcing low, using the height difference, channeling magic through the blade. It pulses brightly, trying to latch.

He’s fast—so fast—and suddenly his hand is around my wrist.

Warm is my immediate, disorienting thought. The hand around my wrist is warm. Demons are supposed to be cold.

He twists my wrist with practiced precision—not enough to break anything, not even enough to truly hurt, just enough to redirect the force of my strike—and the dagger nearly slips from my grip before I manage to tighten my fingers around it. The movement is controlled, almost careful, unsettling me more than brute strength would have.

“Nightmare,” he says, and something about the gentle way he says this makes my pulse falter in a way that has nothing to do with combat. “If I wanted you dead, you would be.”

My magic reacts first, flaring hot in my veins as if insulted by the implication. The surrounding circle brightens, the salt line flashing faintly as the boundary strains in response to my rising pulse. I wrench my wrist free and pivot into a sweeping kick meant to take his legs out from under him, but instead of countering or retaliating, he simply retreats a step, maintaining distance rather than exploiting the opening I’ve just given him.