Page 28 of Eat, Slay, Love

Everyone looks at him.

“Changes how?”

“I don’t know.” His brow furrows. “Almost like the current skitters for a second. It’s subtle. I always assumed it was interference. Or just me.”

My mother does not like that answer. Neither, apparently, does my heart, because it’s beating considerably faster than it was thirty seconds ago.

“Okay,” I say slowly. Interesting. I note that for later, but now it’s time to switch it up. “What about demons?”

Six pairs of shoulders tense, and the temperature in the room drops ten degrees, as if a demon has just appeared in the kitchen asking for more suka.

“What about them?” Rafael asks carefully.

“Are there variations among them?” I continue. “Not in strength or age but in…” I try to choose my words carefully, “…in nature.”

Silence.

“Demons feed on humans,” my mother says. “That is their nature.”

“Yes,” I agree. “But feed how?”

My father’s eyes narrow.

“Souls and lives,” Leo answers bluntly.

“That’s what we’re taught,” I say. “But what if—hypothetically—there are differences?”

“Differences?” my mother repeats, the word flat.

“Levels,” I clarify. “Like with intent, or perhaps with method. If mine—and maybe Gabriel’s—” I glance over, and he’s shifting uncomfortably, “—magic feels different around certain ones, could that mean demons have differences?”

My mother steps forward. “You are overcomplicating something simple,” she declares. “Corruption is corruption.”

“But what if it isn’t?” I push. “What if some demons don’t consume the entire soul? What if⁠—”

“That is demon propaganda,” Rafael cuts in sharply.

“It’s a serious question,” I snap.

My father’s voice is softer, more dangerous. “Why are you asking?”

Because a half-demon fed on rot and not essence. Because my slaying of a full demon ten years ago didn’t feel right or clean.

Because something inside me settles with a terrible, undeniable certainty that we are not nearly as discerning as we have always believed—and Jonah is living proof of it. And beneath that realization, smaller but far more personal, comes the understanding that my magic has never been broken at all. It has been precise. It has been specific. It has been trying to tell me the truth for the last ten years—and I am finally beginning to understand that it has a name.

“Because my magic felt different,” I say instead. “With the blond, it was clean. Loud and clear and certain. With the other⁠—”

“The other?”

I pause. “With another demon,” I decide to say lightly. “It started buzzing. Alerting me, almost.”

“That is hesitation,” he fires back.

“No,” I say, holding his gaze. “It wasn’t.”

The silence that follows is dismissive.

I drag a hand down my face. I can feel myself losing ground, and worse, I can feel them closing ranks. I am not going to win a philosophical argument about the ethical dilemmas that demons may face in this kitchen. And I have several more questions, but it’s not like I’ll ever ask my brothers if any of them have ever fucked a demon.