Page 57 of Eat, Slay, Love

I laugh through the tears.

Then his expression changes, all the humor draining away. He covers one of my hands with his. “Tasha got your letter.”

My breath catches.

“She hasn’t forgiven you,” he says. “But she listened. She said that she’s tired. Tired of running. Tired of losing loved ones to senseless slaughter. Tired of having debilitating anxiety trying to protect her daughter every time she leaves the house.” His eyes soften. “She said if there’s a chance to stop it, she’ll stand beside you.”

Tribunal.

“Speaking of which, what are you doing tomorrow?” I joke weakly.

He raises his eyebrows. “Before or after hoarding you in my bed?”

“After, definitely after,” I smile. “I need your help. And Tasha’s.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “I’m in,” he says simply.

My magic settles into a deep, steady warmth at the certainty in his voice.

He reaches up and wipes the last of my tears away with his thumb, studying me with an expression that still feels like a miracle.

“You look terrible,” he murmurs.

I let out a weak laugh. “You look worse.”

He grins faintly, and for a moment the world narrows to just this—the alley, the warmth of his hands, the impossible fact of his heartbeat, blood rushing through veins under my palms.

He’s alive. And for the first time in my life, I know exactly what my magic has been trying to tell me all along.

“You’re mine and I love you,” I inform him. “I’m hoarding you forever—like a dragon.”

Jonah wraps me in his arms, hoarding me, possessing me. “You’re mine. And I’ll love you forever,” he says. “Like a demon.”

EPILOGUE

“May I interest you in Époisses or a Comté?” I ask Malik.

He points to a different wheel on my cheese cart. “That one.”

Delighted, I straighten. “Oh, that's a very special one. That's a Vacherin Mont d'Or from the French Jura. Raw cow's milk, aged in a spruce bark⁠—”

“Just give me the damn cheese, Mayari,” he cuts in.

“Certainly, sir.” Grinning, I scoop a goopy wedge and plate it for him. “Enjoy.”

I pause for a moment and survey the floor of the soup kitchen. Our family. My magic hums with content satisfaction, surrounded by a roomful of humans, slayers, and demons alike.

It took a year to convince even some members of the Tribunal of my forte, to even consider the idea of demon intent. It’s a harsh pill to swallow when your worldview has been shaped by centuries and centuries of doctrine, with entire lifestyles and legacies built around such beliefs.

Regardless, Gabriel, Jonah, Tasha, and I pressed forward, together, without hesitation, making space for ourselves at Tribunal as our own delegation at every single meeting. We bring explanations of our magic, research and evidence of all types, testimony, inviting demons and slayers to speak for themselves, gaining some ground with every meeting we have. We travel from city to city, community to community, slowly chipping away at generations of prejudice and mindless violence.

Progress comes one stubborn conversation at a time.

The soup kitchen has become part of that effort. For those who need a meal, it’s a soup kitchen. For those who need somewhere to belong, it’s something more—a refuge, a place where humans, rot-feeding demons, and the slayers who refuse to kill them can find community, where everyone looks after one another, where no one has to earn the right to be treated with dignity.

For now, the demons still keep their identities hidden from humans. The world isn’t ready for that truth yet. But maybe someday.

Until then, when we aren’t traveling for Tribunal work, Jonah and I can be found here. And I’ve brought about some necessary improvements.