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Malon wraps his hand around my bicep and then slowly moves his hand down toward mine, our fingers weaving together.
His fingers are calloused, but he’s soft and warm and he’s holding my hand.
I want to ask him what the fuck he’s doing but I probably shouldn’t, considering we’re in church. I wonder if he did that on purpose.
He leans down so he’s close to my ear. “Pay attention to the people I’m looking at when I squeeze your hand,” he says. “You’ll want to remember them when we leave.”
I open my mouth to ask him more questions, but he pulls away from me. I guess I can ask later. We walk toward the counter, as if we were just a normal couple, and Malon smiles at the barista.
“What do you want?” he asks me.
“Hm, I don’t know,” I say. “A latte?”
“Okay,” he replies. “A latte for her, a double espresso for me. Thank you.”
“Of course,” the girl replies. A person walks in from behind her; a woman, in her forties, wearing an apron and a friendly smile. Mal squeezes my hand when he sees her.
After we finish up our order, we sit at one of the high tops near the window, overlooking the entirety of the coffee shop. Almost every time someone comes in, Malon squeezes my hand softly. He never seems to hesitate. By the time I finish my coffee, I realize that it would have been easier to keep track of the people he didn’t point out than the ones he did.
I don’t know why we’re here, but I don’t think we’re going to have much privacy to talk about it until we go back to the car. That’s exactly what I intend to do when I put my styrofoam cup in the trash, but when I look back and catch Mal’s gaze, he shakes his head and his eyes dart toward a door at the back of the cafe.
He stands up and walks over to me, his hand on my shoulder again as he tilts his head toward mine. When he speaks, his breath is hot and tickly against the shell of my ear. “Meet me back there in five minutes,” he says softly. “We’re not done here.”
I’m about to tell him I didn’t sign up for this when I notice that he’s quickly walking away. Of course.
Because he’s trying his best to get on my nerves. It’s absolutely working.
I wait for a few seconds, twirling a strand of hair between my fingers and taking a deep breath before I do. I’m not sure what Malon is getting me into, but this doesn’t feel comfortable and I have the feeling I’m in over my head.
I kind of wish the exorcists were here. Then again, if I’d told them about this, they probably would’ve done their best to talk me out of this. Whatever the fuck this is.
The room itself is surprisingly sanitized and cold. All the decor is white and black, with some brick detailing. A large, minimalist cross hangs over the wall-to-wall windows. I walk past the double doors. The corridor is surprisingly long, completely sterile, the walls practically glossy with white paint. It’s so new I can practically smell it. I find Mal leaning against a nondescript door next to a water fountain. His gaze flits around the room before he takes a step toward me. He’s so close to me he could easily pull me into a hug, but he doesn’t.
There’s a part of me that aches for him to. I want to feel his hands on me, his breath on the shell of my ear again. My body is so drawn to him, it makes me feel a little uneasy.
I guess dreaming about a person for a long time can get you a little confused about them. Now that he’s standing in front of me, I don’t know how I can resist him.
I don’t want to, but I’m letting him lead.
Everything is already fucking weird in my life. I don’t want to make things worse.
“So every time I squeezed your hand,” he says softly. “That was either someone who was possessed…”
“Wait, really?”
He nods. “Yeah, or a demon,” he says. “I couldn’t exactly point out who was who at the time, but I promise you they were all terrible people.”
“But we’re in a church.”
He laughs under his breath. “This isn’t consecrated ground,” he says. “These places, they’re perfect for demons.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re used for exploitation.”
I stare at him.
“Excuse me,” he says, shaking his head. He can obviously see the confusion on my face. “Because they’reonlyused for exploitation. The teachings here are often about the exact opposite of what most faith tries to teach, and in case you haven’t noticed, they treat their pastors like celebrities. Prosperity gospels are the work of the devil.”
