Chapter 26
I’ve been watching the news with Ambrose some evenings just to see if anything—or anyone—catches my eye.
I need another target, though I’m pretty sure I’ve found my next.
After seeing controversy about him on the news, I’ve been doing research on Edward Abbott, a senator from one state over.
His name is one I’ve heard with increasing frequency, and every instance seems to be worse than the last. The corruption runs deep—bribery, assault allegations quietly settled out of court, systematic abuse of power, and platforms based on hate-filled prejudices. Slowly, I’ve been concocting a plan.
As much as I wish I could keep my distance from Ambrose, and as much as the angels’ warnings and promises flicker through my head, I’ve kept up appearances of friendliness easily.
Sometimes, I almost forget how terrible he is until I remember the look in his eyes after he killed Richard and his refusal to explain, or the dread that flooded me the first time I realized he had tricked and trapped me.
But over the course of the weeks, we’ve fallen into a routine that’s almost laughable with how domestic it feels.
I frequently have to remind myself how dangerous it would be to get too comfortable here, but I have to admit, it’s relieving to not have to worry about tiptoeing around someone to avoid random bursts of anger.
The nights are getting colder now that the blazing heat of August has passed and melted into September, now making way to the first chills of autumn.
In the mornings, frost spiderwebs across the windows against the orange hues of the sunrise, and the trees surrounding the house have begun their transformations from green to gold.
Some nights, when I stare out in the impenetrable darkness of the woods through the window, I’m certain I’m being watched, but I always brush it off as paranoia. If nothing else, this house is safe, though I can say no such thing for the woods beyond it.
Ambrose has been harvesting more vegetables from his garden over the past few weeks, making soups and elaborate dishes for dinners from his growing stash.
I’ve started baking bread using a cookbook I found in one of the cabinets just to pass the time.
There’s something meditative about following the recipes without pressure or time constraints.
Back home, I was expected to cook to someone else’s preferences, which made it more of a burden than anything.
Here, I’ve been able to experiment and do as much or as little as I please.
I’ve also come to realize how fulfilling it is to sit down to a home-cooked meal made from scratch with no fear of whether it will be deemed “good enough.”
It’s ironic that living with a demon—or Liminal—has allowed me more freedom and peace than living with Joel ever did.
Sometimes I wonder what he’s doing, if he even cares that I’m gone. I wonder if people are looking for me, though my name never shows in any online searches, and I still wake up in a cold sweat from dreams where he manages to track me down and drag me away from here.
The timer in the kitchen dings, pulling me back to the present. Pushing aside thoughts of Joel, I punch down my bread dough, dump it from the bowl it’s been rising in, and shape it into two loaves before covering it for one more rise.
This is my life now: playing house with an immortal, baking bread, and plotting murders. Somehow, it makes more sense than anything that came before.
With an hour to kill, I make my way into the living room with intentions to watch a movie just as Ambrose treads through the back door.
Despite the cool weather, his forehead is covered in a thin sheen of sweat.
He’s dressed in dark jeans and thick boots, and his black long-sleeve henley clings to his chest and arms like it was molded for his body.
He’s breathing heavy from whatever caused him so much exertion, and my eyes cling to every detail of his form as he leans against the door frame.
There’s something so captivating about the way he’s standing there in the hallway so casually while his chest rises and falls with heavy breaths. When he notices me staring, he quirks an eyebrow, barely holding back a smile. Something pleasant stirs in my core.
“Enjoying the view?”
I roll my eyes, hoping my annoyance seems convincing. “I was just wondering what you were doing out there.”
“Chopping wood for the fireplace. It’ll only be getting colder for the next few months.”
“Ah. I see.” I avert my gaze and twist the hem of my sweater between my fingers. “Well, I’m waiting on my bread to rise. Might watch a movie or something.”
“Sounds good. I’m going to take a shower, then maybe I’ll join you,” he says before disappearing into his bedroom.
Well, that was awkward. What’s wrong with me?
Sure, maybe he’s good-looking—very good-looking…
inhumanly good-looking, even—but I can’t allow myself to be attracted to him like that.
I can only have an objective appreciation, like I’d appreciate a nice piece of art or a stranger in the store.
Letting myself have any sort of… thoughts about him would be crossing a line.
I flip through the stack of DVDs below his TV, but nothing catches my interest. Once I hear the shower running, curiosity gets the better of me. His bedroom is the one room of this house I haven’t seen yet, after all.
I don’t know what I’m expecting—maybe a bunch of demonic symbols painted in dripping blood on the walls—but I’m almost disappointed to find that his room is completely normal.
A bed with navy blue sheets and a plain comforter sits against the wall in the middle of the room, a dresser stands in the corner, and paintings are arranged artfully on the walls.
I only recognize one—a surrealist painting called “Departure of the Winged Ship” depicting a ship leaving the shoreline, but its sails have been replaced with butterfly wings.
I had loved it when I’d first seen it online a few years ago.
Not what I would have expected from Ambrose. Somehow, he continues to surprise me.
I make my way deeper into the room, noticing small, intricate wooden carvings of various animals lining a set of shelves.
My attention catches on a framed photograph positioned at the center of one of the shelves.
I lean in, examining the black-and-white photograph.
In it, Ambrose stands next to an elderly woman, both of them smiling at the camera.
His mother? His grandmother? He doesn’t age, so it could likely be either, depending on when the photo was taken.
How strange it must feel to be stuck in time, unchanged, while everyone around you grows older.
Once my curiosity has been satisfied, I creep back out into the living room, then decide to peruse the bookshelves in his study instead. I’ve been in here quite a few times, but I still haven’t taken the time to explore the thousands of titles covering the walls.
I run my finger along the spines as I pick a spot at random and begin reading the titles, occasionally pulling some out to read the back covers. They seem to be organized by genre rather than alphabetically, which makes sense. Classics, mysteries, nonfiction, even romance.
However, when I make it to one shelf in the middle of the back wall, I scan the titles trying to determine the connection between them. For as meticulously as everything else is organized, I doubt this is a mistake.
Religious texts take up most of one shelf—the Bible, The Quran, The Upanishads, and many more.
Every religion I can think of is represented on the shelves.
Beside those and continuing on the following shelves are a mixture of philosophical writings and mythology of various cultures.
But what confuses me is the seemingly random inclusion of various other books, including Dante’s Inferno, Frankenstein, The Picture of Dorian Gray, and Doctor Faustus.
It takes me a moment to understand what connects them—they're all attempts to understand the supernatural, to make sense of immortality, morality, and the existence of a higher power.
My heart constricts as I imagine him sitting here, poring over these texts trying to make sense of his existence, analyzing every line to find similarities to what he’s been through—what he’s going through right now.
I’d do the same thing if I were him. How maddening must it be to know you're part of something divine but to not understand why or how?
To know there's a God but not remember anything else about your creation or purpose?
The questions have been eating at me since I learned about it all, and I'm only a bystander.
It must be worse for him considering he’s not exactly on the side of righteousness. But then again, neither am I now.
“Find anything interesting?”
I jump at Ambrose’s voice, whirling around to find him watching me. His hair is still damp, dark strands falling across his forehead in a way that makes my stomach flip. He looks softer somehow, more human, and that makes him more dangerous than ever.
I shrug as I step away from the shelf. “I was just curious if you had anything good.”
“And do I?”
I cross my arms, ignoring the way the air between us seems charged with electricity as he takes a step forward. “You’re bound to have a few decent ones with this collection.”
He picks up his book from the small table beside his armchair with that knowing half-smile playing at his lips again. “Whatever you say.”
I shake my head in annoyance and leave the room. Being alone with him is complicated now, after my getting hurt by the incident with the pastor and the way we got so close. Too close. The almost of that moment was arguably the most dangerous thing I’ve done since I’ve been here.
I need to focus on fulfilling the bargain and getting out of here as quickly as possible.
He’s getting in my head, and I don’t know if I have the strength to stop him.
The reasonable part of me wants to fight this budding affection with every ounce of strength I have, but the tiny voice in my mind argues, “Maybe it would be better to surrender.”