Chapter 3
Three
Pythor
This morning, I'd called Eshim as soon as it was an acceptable time, and Jerry had advised me not to mention the nightmare, assuring me it would do nothing but embarrass my neighbor, and maybe even make him suspicious about how I'd heard him.
Taking his advice to heart, I'd merely told the human to continue listening to his music, and after some thought, added a small gift as an apology for causing his nightmare.
I'd felt him standing on the other side of the door when I went to deliver the note, and I'd wondered if he was watching me.
It was why I'd only magicked up the brushes when I was leaning down and out of the peephole's line of sight.
The last thing I needed was for him to clue in on my inhuman nature.
That would surely terrify him more than any nightmare of his.
My work at the community center kept me distracted the rest of the day. I had multiple self-defense classes, one for women, one for teenagers, and one even for children, which just made me sad. What kind of world did the humans live in, where even children needed to know how to protect themselves?
As a demon, I'd seen the worst of humankind back when my job was to torture dark souls, and even that hadn't prepared me for the real human world.
While most humans weren't half-bad, they had a tendency to look the other way when someone truly evil did something bad, and that, I thought, was what made this world the dumpster fire it currently was.
I wished I could just blame it all on the escaped dark souls and believe that the world would improve exponentially as soon as they were captured, but I wasn't naive or dumb enough.
Sighing, I leaned back on the couch, then picked up my phone. I'd gotten a talking-to from one of my teenage 'students' about not using my 'socials' properly, so I clicked on the app they'd installed on my phone a while ago, and my brows shot up at the amount of notifications waiting.
Most of them were pictures I'd been 'tagged' in, whatever that meant, but there were also a few messages, and some comments.
I went to the messages first, finding the names of some of my friendlier students.
I replied to those who had questions, and ignored the one woman who'd asked me if I was free to grab a coffee.
I'd decline in person when I next saw her.
The last message was from someone named Artist216, and I squinted at the name. The profile picture was a riot of blacks and reds, and it reminded me of my demon form.
Curious, I opened the message.
Hello!
I'm Codie, your next-door neighbor. I got your name from Vanessa. You met the other day. She told me you teach self-defense, and I wanted to know if you could teach me? At my place, I mean. I'll pay whatever you'd like to charge.
Please let me know. And thank you for the paintbrushes. They're very nice.
Codie.
I blinked, then glanced at the window as if I'd catch a glimpse of my elusive neighbor from here. He wanted me to teach him how to protect himself?
I stared at the message for far too long, but I didn't have to think too hard to know what I was going to tell him.
It didn't take a genius to figure out that my neighbor was very afraid of something. He stayed cooped up in his house not because he wanted to, but because he was scared to leave.
If I could do something to make him feel less frightened, I wanted to do it.
Quickly, I typed a reply.
Hey Codie,
Thank you for contacting me. I would be happy to teach you one-on-one. Just let me know what time you'd prefer, and we can figure something out.
I don't charge for my classes, so money is not an issue.
Pythor
I sent the message, then mulled over whether I should've said something more, or phrased anything differently.
I didn't usually second-guess myself, so it was a strange feeling to worry about getting things wrong.
He'd sent his message earlier today, and I hoped he'd see my reply, even though it was hours later.
My phone stayed silent, and when there was no reply after a while, I sighed and turned my attention back to the TV. He'd reply when he saw the message, and if he didn't, I'd take the hint.
After I'd finished dinner, I cleaned up and then went to bed, sliding under the sheets. They felt cool against my bare skin, and I sighed in contentment.
Nothing was better than a comfortable bed.
Just as I was drifting off, my phone buzzed, and I grabbed for it, quickly unlocking it.
A faint flutter in my belly made my brows furrow, and I wondered why I was so excited about a reply from my neighbor. We were talking about self-defense classes, for fuck's sake. What was thrilling about that?
Artist216: How about 11 a.m. next Saturday? And I don't mind paying. It would make me feel better.
I frowned. I didn't need money. I had no use for it. But I also understood his wish to not owe me, so I thought about it for a moment before replying.
Me: If you really insist on paying, how about you make a donation to the community center instead? They're always in need of funds, and they'll have more use for it than me. And the timing works for me. See you this weekend!
This time, he replied almost instantly, telling me he had his phone in his hands.
Artist216: I can do that. And yes, see you on Saturday.
I returned my phone to the nightstand, then closed my eyes and turned on my belly, wrapping my arms around my pillow and smiling as the faint sound of Codie's music reached my ear.
For some reason, I didn't find it as irritating as I had just days ago.
Codie
I spent the rest of the week in an anxious haze. Nessa and I chatted every day, but I somehow managed to keep her from sensing my growing unease.
Now that I'd invited Pythor into my home, into the only place I felt safe, I was starting to regret it.
What if he wasn't as nice and helpful as his online persona implied? What if he was dangerous, and I just welcomed him past all my defenses?
The only thing that kept me from having a full-on breakdown was the fact that Nessa would be there with me. Nessa was strong, and brave, and I knew that if something went wrong, she could hold her own, even against someone like Pythor.
She'd offered to train me herself, and while she had taught me the basics, I worried that I would freeze up when faced with a man. Working with her was easy because I trusted her, but you didn't need to be able to defend yourselves against people you trusted.
I painted in a frenzy the whole week, barely catching a few hours of sleep before I was at it again. It was the only way I could calm my mind, and while I'd worried I would never be able to create again when I was still healing, I'd been wrong.
I'd never painted more than in the last few months, which made me wonder if there was some truth to the whole "tortured artist" thing. Or maybe I was just creating because it was the only time I didn't feel anxious or afraid or like I was seconds away from falling apart.
I eyed the painting I'd been working on for the past two weeks. I didn't have a name for it yet, but it was like every dark thought and memory and image from my mind had spilled onto the canvas, and I didn't know if I wanted to put it up on a wall or burn it to ash.
My gaze flicked over the canvas, taking in the red and black that dominated it. I sucked in a breath when I saw the eyes, and quickly covered them with a streak of bright red. I had no idea when I'd painted them, but they'd seemed to peer right into my shattered soul.
I shivered, then put the palette away, taking a few steps back. Maybe I needed to take a break. Yeah, a break would be good.
Abandoning the canvas, I made my way to the kitchen, washing my hands and then searching through the fridge for something to eat.
I grabbed an orange, peeling it as I peered out the kitchen window. It faced the front of Pythor's house, and I wondered if he was home. Did he go to the shelter every day? What about a job? He must have one, right?
I stuck a slice into my mouth, then retreated to my couch, grabbing the book I'd been reading.
A rustle outside made me jump, and I eyed the window as my heart rate climbed up. When there was no other sound, I returned my gaze to the book, but I couldn't focus anymore.
Swearing under my breath, I put the book away, then grabbed my coat off the back of the couch and slid into it.
I'd pulled it off to paint, but the moment it was back on, I felt marginally better, like there was a shield between me and the world.
It was silly, but it worked, and I could use every coping mechanism I had if it meant not losing my hold on myself, tenuous as it was.
I got up to dump the orange peel, then jumped as my phone beeped, swearing under my breath.
Maybe Nessa had been onto something with her suggestion of getting a guard dog. I had no idea how I'd find one I got along with without leaving the house, but I certainly wouldn't mind having one. A warm furbaby to cuddle at night would just be an added bonus.
Sighing, I checked my phone, swiped away the spam email that'd startled me, then returned to my studio, shrugging out of my coat and hanging it on the hook on the door.
I moved to a different easel and picked out a new canvas because I wasn't ready to face that one again, not yet.
Eyeing my palette, my gaze was drawn to the rich brown, and I slid my brush through it before beginning, an image taking form in my mind.
Some red and black snuck in, like I couldn't make a painting work without those colors. Was I really so lost in the darkness that even my art wasn't spared?
All because I'd had the gall to say no to someone I shouldn't have. Not for the first time, I wondered what would've happened if I hadn't. If I'd said yes. What would my life be like right now?
Would I be back in the gallery for another opening, another display of my paintings? Would I be happy?
Or would I be trapped in a different kind of hell?
Sighing, I forced myself to think only of the work in front of me, to follow each stroke of the paintbrush.
It didn't take me long to find my center, to forget everything except the colors that slowly covered the white of the canvas, telling my story in the only way I knew how to share it.
I didn't know if the person who ended up buying it would ever realize what it said, or if it would remain a secret displayed on their wall for all to see but none to understand, but I didn't care.
Every time I painted, I felt just a little lighter. I didn't think it would ever be enough to free me of the darkness dragging me down, but as long as I had my colors and my canvas, I was sure I could keep my head above the water and stop myself from submerging completely.