Page 20 of Eat, Slay, Love

He’s close now. Close enough that I can see the silver threaded through his irises in the moonlight, pale and luminous against the dark. His hand lifts slightly, hovering near my face like he’s about to cup my cheek.

My magic hums at the proximity, a soft, preening, content buzz that makes the air between us feel charged and alive.

I hold my breath.

He drops his hand before he touches me. “You saved my life,” he murmurs. “At the very least, let me feed you.”

I nod once and swallow the lump that’s appeared in my throat.

“What’s the difference between midnight cheese and regular cheese?” Jonah asks, eyes sparkling in the dimly lit kitchen.

It turns out Jonah and I share a number of highly refined life skills: demonic awareness (that is, awareness of demons), accelerated healing, extended lifespans, and an almost spiritual devotion to finding discounts on imported cheese.

His fridge is packed with wedges of Brillat-Savarin, Morbier, and aged Mimolette; a pungent wheel of Époisses wrapped carefully in paper; some kind of crystalline Alpine cheese that might cost more than the median rent in New York City; and a suspicious number of glass jars filled with cheese submerged in oil.

We’ve been standing here for the better part of two hours, leaning against opposite counters, assembling increasingly unhinged cheese-and-baguette combinations while discussing whether or not octopuses dream or if time-travelers get jet-lagged or how vampires would deal, theoretically, with orthodontics.

“Midnight cheese,” I inform him around a mouthful of Morbier, “is cheese consumed after midnight. Obviously.”

“When does it become morning cheese?”

I recoil. “That sounds gross. I want no part in that.”

He throws his head back and laughs, a rich, gravelly booming sound that my magic likes very much, thank you. It exposes the column of his throat, the soft skin there. “Day cheese?”

“That’s just regular cheese!” I say, pointing my silver dagger at him. The one we’ve been using to slice the manchego. It’s fun to use it near him, because it gets all glowy.

“Don’t overcomplicate this. You’re the one with an unreasonable amount of cheese.” I’m pretty sure there are hearts in my eyes. “And so much food. Actually,” I say, sweeping my hand across the span of his apartment, “you have so much everything.”

It’s as if he’s saved the five most important things from each decade since the early 1900’s. A carved oak writing desk that looks older than the building itself, its surface worn smooth at the edges. The heavy iron clawfoot tub where I showered hours ago, now fitted with a stainless steel basket holding Le Labo products. A delicate 1930s Art Deco lamp in the living room casting low amber light. A mid-century record cabinet stocked with vinyl in careful alphabetical order. On the mantle, a framed 1945 newspaper folded open to a victory headline. A 1970s matchbook from a club long closed and a MetroCard in a crystal dish by the door.

Big history beside small keepsakes, heavy furniture beside fragile paper, everything placed with care, because he’s been building this space for just under a century while quietly amassing a shit-ton of wealth.

“I’ve been around for quite some time, Mayari. I’ve lived through some very important events.”

“So have I, but I don’t have Johannes Gutenberg’s printing press shoved into the corner of my apartment.”

Jonah’s answering smile is warm, almost heady, thrilled. Like he’s truly enjoying this. Us. Me. “I believe that was invented almost five hundred years before either of us were born.”

I wave my hand. “Semantics.”

He’s still looking at me like I’m a lovely surprise. “I like to collect things,” he says simply.

“Hoard them,” I correct. “Like a dragon.”

“Possess them,” he replies with a grin, stepping a little closer. “Like a demon.”

I burst out laughing, and something shifts.

His smile changes, slowing and sharpening.

My magic sparks under my skin, alive, atoms ricocheting off one another inside and across my skin. “Whoa,” I breathe.

Jonah tilts his head slightly, studying me as if he feels it too. “Whoa,” he echoes.

His gaze drifts down my legs, up the bare skin, lingering where his oversized T-shirt hangs. There’s a precise moment where he remembers I’m wearing nothing else.

Heat pools low in my stomach.