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“Because I drove them away.”
I peered around the easel. “You did?”
Ambri’s gaze was on the floor. When he raised his eyes to me, his expression turned sour.
“Don’t look so bloody grateful. I only did it so I could get what I wanted.” He nodded at the portrait. “And you shouldn’t count on me to do it again if they return. You’ll need to fight back.” His gaze bored into me. “If any demon tries to lure you to pain, Cole, fight back.”
I could practically hear the rest of his thought.
Including me.
“That’s the solution?”
“It’s a start. Demons didn’t invent human suffering or violence or evil. As I said, we only stoke that which already exists in you.”
“Evil?” I said. “I don’t know about that.”
“Is that so?” Ambri said snidely. “If humans don’t have their own sort of evil, then explain to me parents who scream like enraged banshees at their children’s sporting events.”
I chuckled. “You got me there. I guess I like to think of people as inherently good.”
“Even murderers?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t condone any crime, of course, but there’s a lot of pain in the world. It’s like someone inflicts trauma on their kid, and the kid grows up and inflicts trauma too, and on and on. Not every time but enough. But if you could go back to the beginning of that thread and break the cycle, there wouldn’t be so much pain at all.”
“You sound quite forgiving.”
“I’m just trying to make sense of it all,” I said. “There’s no justification for murder, and I certainly don’t feel sorry for rapists or child molesters. Those motherfuckers should have their own spot in hell. Hey, maybe you can confirm…”
I peered from around the easel. Ambri had gone white as a sheet. White as he did when he was his demonic self.
“Ambri, hey,” I said, taking an automatic step toward him. “You okay?”
“I’ve had enough for one day.” He tossed the cane aside and morphed out of his eighteenth-century clothing and into a sleek black suit. He changed his demeanor just as fast; the paleness fled, making me wonder if I’d imagined it.
“It’s time to end off anyway,” he said. “Dinner will arrive at any moment.”
“What dinner?” I asked, wiping my hands on a cloth. I carefully pulled a sheet of paper over the portrait, hiding it from Ambri.
“It’s Christmas Eve,” he said. “Is it not tradition to feast on this day?”
“You don’t eat.”
“But you do,” Ambri said. “And Icaneat, it’s just unnecessary. And bland. Food is beginning to lose its flavor for me.” His glance met mine. “I’m becoming less human by the day.”
“Maybe not. Maybe it’s just been too long.” I smiled lamely. “Don’t give up.”
The moment hung heavy, and then he moved to the cocktail table.
“Alcohol still tastes like something, anyway. Not that it does me any bloody good.” He poured himself a shot of brandy and downed it. “Would you like?”
I shook my head. “I’m not much of a drinker.”
A knock came at the door, and two cater waiters entered and got to work setting the table for dinner in the space between the kitchen and living room.
“Ambri, this is too much,” I said, watching them lay out a feast enough for a dozen. “And we said no gifts, remember?”
“We didn’t pinky swear,” he said. “Besides, this isn’t your gift. That is.”
