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That explained how he found me. “This is where you tell me your name.”
“I’m known as Cain.” And with that, the big, burly reaper was gone.
Just in time because I threw up the wine.
5
Cleaning up puke sucks. The only saving grace? White wine doesn’t stain like red. Still, given I didn’t usually vomit, the fact I’d spewed without nausea or warning bothered. I could usually hold my own. Maybe I’d caught a stomach bug.
After the cleanup, I hit the shower. Didn’t want to reek of puke if Cain returned. Not that I hoped he did.
Okay, maybe a little. My love life had been sparse of late, as in non-existent, unless my battery-powered boyfriend counted. You’d think lusting after a stranger who killed demons and claimed to be part of some brotherhood of reapers would be a turn-off.
You’d be wrong.
I won’t deny the bad boy appeal. At least his claim of being some kind of reaper explained the scythe. Had to wonder why he’d gone with reaper instead of demon hunter for a job title, though either one was kind of cool. But what did I do when faced with a sexy dude who might have literally saved my life and who claimed I was special? I told him to fuck off.
Then again, what else could I say? I’d meant it when I said I lacked the bravery gene. I also wasn’t the type to do charitable acts. I took care of myself—and sometimes helped my neighbor—but strangers? Putting myself in harm’s way? Fighting literal demons that crawled out of sewers?
Fuck that.
I went to bed. Once again I barricaded the main exit, booby-trapped the window, and shut the bedroom door. Seeing as how I’d lost my alcoholic buzz, I turned to my vape pen for relaxing relief, but after only one tug, I cursed. The blinking light indicated it needed charging.
Ugh. The timing sucked. I shoved the pen part into an outlet and flopped onto my bed, staring at the ceiling.
Thump.
The noise came from above. Mrs. Fitzgerald must have dropped something.
Scratch. Thud. Thump. Thump.
Maybe Mrs. Fitzgerald was getting some. The idea of the old lady getting frisky was enough to give me the shudders. I knew one day I’d be old, wrinkly, and gray down there, but that didn’t mean I wanted to picture it.
I tossed and turned. Ended up on my back, staring at the ceiling. Not that I saw anything given the darkness in my room. I wondered if my pen had charged enough yet for me to get that relaxing high that helped me sleep.
Before I could roll over to grab it, something wet plopped on my face.
What the fuck? I wiped at the moisture and rolled over, flicking on my nightstand lamp. A glance at my fingers had me gasping as they were smeared in red. A peek overhead showed more red moisture seeping through the light figure over my bed and rolling down the pendant light before dripping onto my bed.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say it looked like blood. It could be red wine, but I wasn’t about to taste it to find out. A tentative sniff didn’t give me any clue either.
I thought of the thumping I’d heard earlier. Had Mrs. Fitzgerald fallen and cracked her head? I should call for a wellness check. I bounced out of bed and went to grab my phone, only to remember it remained in the rice. I ran a quick cloth over my face to clean it and then threw on a robe before I headed for my kitchen. I grabbed my cell from the bowl of rice and blew on it to remove the dust. I pressed the power button several times, even held it down for several seconds. Nothing. It was either dead or needed charging.
Dammit.
I returned to my room to look at the ceiling with its steady drip and the spreading stain on my sheets. What should I do? I couldn’t contact the landlord without a phone, and it seemed kind of late to be bugging a neighbor to call. What if I panicked for nothing? Maybe Mrs. Fitzgerald had dropped some tomato soup or was making blood sausages. Heck, for all I knew she liked to sacrifice animals. Was it really my business? As a city dweller, I tended to follow the head-down, keep-to-yourself rule. At the same time… She’s always been nice to me. What if she needed help? Head wounds could bleed copiously. What if she died while I hemmed and hawed? I’d better go check on the old lady.
At the same time, I didn’t want to. I didn’t like confrontation. Or scary things. Or anything that required a bit of bravery. Heading out of my apartment at night to go to another floor, to knock on a door and be like, Hey is everything okay? Totally had my anxiety in high gear.
It took me several deep calming breaths and another glance at my bloody sheets before I marched to my door and unlocked it. Despite seeing nothing when I poked my head out into the hall, I remained nervous. The scratches on my door didn’t appear any worse, but I’d yet to figure out what left the marks.
Demon?
No way. Just because Cain claimed they existed didn’t mean they were suddenly infesting my apartment building. He most likely told me that because he saw me as a gullible mark.
There is nothing to fear. Demons aren’t real.
As I shut my apartment door and locked it, I noticed a shimmer on my door at about eye level. A squint showed it to be some kind of weird symbol. When had it appeared? Had it always been there and I never noticed?
