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I groan.

“That shit tastes like boiled grass and Demon piss.”

“How would you know what Demon piss tastes like?”

“I’m part Demon. I have my suspicions.”

She snorts.

“I've sent you another package in the mail. The contents are magicked. Combined with the tea, they should help stave off the permanent change a little longer.”

A little longer.

Not stop it. Not cure it. Not save me.

Just delay the inevitable.

My Devil presses beneath my skin.

Not a separate beast. Not another consciousness.

Me.

The darkest, most primal parts of me stripped of reason and restraint. The part that's getting stronger every fucking day.

Grandmother's voice softens.

“Tell me how bad it is now.”

I walk toward the window. For a moment, I consider lying.

Then I catch my reflection in the glass. There isn't much point.

“My tail and wings are always present now.”

She goes quiet.

I flex the enormous leathery appendages behind me. I haven't been able to retract them completely in almost two weeks.

“And your skin?”

I look down at my hand.

Still mostly human.

The edges aren't. Red creeps around my fingertips, disappearing toward my palms. The same color permanently stains the skin along my sides now, spreading farther across my ribs every morning.

“Red around the edges of my body. Fingers. Feet. Ribs.” I swallow. “It's spreading.”

“Oh, Damian.”

My jaw locks. I hate the sadness in her voice.

Grandmother Leeds doesn't do sad. She commands. Manipulates. Predicts.

Interferes.

She certainly doesn't ever sound frightened.