Page 24

“Oh, my fucking Satan,” I groan, rubbing the bridge of my nose. “It gets better by the minute.”

“There has to be some kind of troubleshooting section,” she mutters to herself, thumb frantically stroking the glass.

“What are you going to do? Leave a one-star review? ‘Demon arrived instead of dead boyfriend, now won’t leave the couch. Very rude. One star.’? Perhaps you can ask for a store credit.”

“Bingo,” she whispers.

“What did you find?” I ask.

“A solution,” she says, her eyes fixed on the glowing pixels. “Look. They sell a kit to help disentangle spirits.”

“I am not a spirit,” I deadpan, resting my chin on my palm to stare at her desperate little profile. “Spirits are translucent bores who rattle chains and weep in attics. I have a pulse, a title, and a tongue—among other appendages—that is far too thick and substantial to be a ghost.”

She ignores the bait, though her throat bobs with a hard swallow.

“It might work though,” she argues. “The site says it neutralizes the ‘energetic residue’ left behind by an improper summoning.” She gestures vaguely between the two of us. “That’s us. We’re… full of residue.”

“Full of residue,” I echo slowly. My mind immediately drags the phrase into the gutter, painting a vivid image of her arched over my lap, skin slick and shimmering with the evidence of exactly how many times I could break her before the sun goes down again. “Baby girl, you aren’t yet—but if you want to be filled with my… residue… all you have to do is ask.”

Her jaw drops, a flush creeping up her neck, staining her cheeks a panicked shade of crimson so fast I’m surprised the tea doesn’t start boiling right there on the table.

“Oh, don’t look so alarmed.” I let out a low, gravelly chuckle and lean back, adjusting the seam of my borrowed shorts. “So go on then. Enlighten me. What divine components are included in this ‘cleansing kit’ that are powerful enough to get rid of me?”

She looks back at the screen, swallowing hard against her flustered state. “It says it contains... a rosemary-infused bath soak. Some concentrated moon-water. And... essential oils of lavender and hyssop.”

I stare at her, waiting for the punchline, for the reveal that she’s actually a brilliant strategist playing a long game, but the air remains stale. This is what the mortal realm has devolved into? Trying to evict entities with the contents of a spa day.

“You intend to banish me with a flower that mortals use to make their laundry smell like a grandmother’s guest room?” Each word drips with pure, unadulterated disdain.

“It’s a cleansing herb,” she snaps defensively. “It’s supposed to be calming. Maybe it’ll calm whatever’s going on.”

I drum my fingers against the cheap table, the sound like falling hail.

“Listen to me very carefully. If you attempt to douse me in lavender, I will dismantle every piece of furniture in this hovel into matchsticks. I will turn the House-Beast against you until it forgets your name,” I say, my voice dropping to a silk-wrapped threat. “But by all means. Purchase your little kit from this ‘Orchard’ of yours. Throw your currency into the void. Just don’t be surprised when the apartment smells like a cheap toilet cleaner and I am still here, very much solid, and very much stretched out across your couch.”

The light in her eyes flickers and dies in an exquisite, slow-motion collapse of mortal hope.

“Seven days,” she whispers. “It’s going to take seven days. I can’t do seven days.”

I suppress a snort. Truth be told, I likely won’t be here in seven days anyway. Once the sickness settles, I’ll be free to walk out the door and leave her to her misery.

But right now? I want it to stop just as much as she does; I have no desire to be a glorified lapdog tethered to a weeping girl. But I know for a fact that a box of flowers and mortal wishful thinking isn’t going to wash away things born from Hell.

I reach out, hooking a finger around a stray, knotted lock of hair to tuck it behind her ear. “You can, and you will,” I murmur, letting the back of my knuckles brush the downy hair at her temple. She shivers, and the movement sends a pleasing ripple down my spine. “Think of it as an intensive study in demonology. By the time that box hits your doorstep, little summoner, you won’t be wondering how to wash me away.” I lean in, grinning as her breath hitches. “You’ll be wondering how you ever lived without me.”

Chapter 8

Eden

Cardboard boxes are spread out between us, lids bent back and sagging, grease already bleeding through the bottom and staining the wood of the coffee table. I don’t even remember ordering it—so I’m going to assume he figured out how to do it himself from the laptop. All I know is that he’s utterly absorbed in his slice of pepperoni, acting as if it’s completely normal to be sitting in my apartment, eating pizza on a Tuesday night.

The reek of processed cheese and salt doesn’t make my mouth water. Nope. It makes my stomach twist in a slow, queasy roll that has nothing to do with hunger. There’s no way I can even touch the food. Everything inside me is still flipping and re-flipping, nerves misfiring like a faulty circuit board. I’m waiting for the punchline, for the horror to resume, but instead, I’m just watching a demon enjoy a stuffed crust.

“Eat.” He licks grease from his thumb, one hand shiny with oil while the other nudges the box closer to me, the cardboard rasping softly against the rug.

My wrist gives a sharp, hot throb under my sleeve, a pulse of pain that travels all the way up to my elbow. I rub at the dressing absently, trying to soothe the heat, but it feels tight. Too tight.

“I can’t,” I mumble, wiping a sheen of cold sweat from my upper lip.