Chapter 3
The next morning, I’m up well before the sun, fueled by indignation and a very strong desire not to be embarrassed again. If I can’t be naturally competent, I can at least be aggressively prepared.
I dig the catsuit out from the pile of clothes exiled to the back of my closet and step into it.
The black leather is soft with age, worn in all the right places, molded to me like it’s resigned to this life in the same way I am.
Pockets, straps, fasteners—strategically placed along my hips, thighs, and arms. Functional and intimidating and only slightly theatrical.
I pack the salt-and-ash mixture into the pocket at my left thigh, my chalk at my left hip, and slide my silver dagger into its holster at my right.
I lace up my boots, tucking spare blades into their hidden compartments.
It’s all possibly overkill, but today I am a slayer who has learned from her mistakes.
I turn toward the mirror and adjust my stance. Fluff my hair, lift my chin, set my jaw.
Damn.
Maybe I do slay.
Meow.
The hair on the back of my neck gives its telltale prickle. Batibat is perched on the dresser, looking down at my reflection with open disdain.
“Enough out of you,” I tell her, grabbing my phone and sliding it into the chest pocket I had to sew in myself sometime in the early 2000s, when slayer fashion failed to anticipate smartphones.
I toss kibble into her bowl on my way out, then backtrack.
I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone, so I heap several bowls full of food and water.
“I expect you to guard the apartment,” I add.
She immediately sits down and throws a leg over her head to lick her ass.
“Message received.”
I’m feeling So Prepared when I get to the soup kitchen, my parents’ you need a kill echoing through my mind.
I scout out all the entrances and exits first. There’s three of them from what I can tell from the sidewalk—front door, service door, and side alley.
I walk the perimeter twice, casually scattering thin, almost invisible arcs of salt-and-ash near each threshold.
Not full circles, just enough that all I’ll need to do is close a few inches once he steps inside. Containment first.
I position myself across the street with a clear line of sight, settle onto the bench, and cross one leg over the other. And then I sit and wait for my next, much-needed kill.
I feel him before I see him.
My magic hops and skips and buzzes in that strange, abnormal way. A way I’ve only felt happen once before. Ridding myself of the thought, shaking it out of my head, I watch the service door, pulse beating heavily in my throat.
And there he is.
Jonah.
He looks…
…Anticlimactic.
He looks like a normal man.
I take him in while I sneak towards the edge of my circle—really trying to get a good look at him in the warm autumn light, since the darkness last night shrouded everything but a nice suit and a carved face.
Jonah doesn’t have that gliding, floating gait demons tend to have.
He ambles up to the service entrance as if he’s walking up to a bar to order his next drink—a human swagger with a touch of supernatural grace.
He’s dressed in well-worn jeans and sneakers and a faded black hoodie with fraying sleeves draped over his hulking form.
His hair, while slicked back last night to match the formality of his suit, is now a riot of dark curls spilling over his forehead.
Jonah looks like an abnormally handsome, normal man.
I sprinkle the salt to close the circle and feel the pop in my ears.
His eyes find mine immediately, and I take a step back as if I’ve been hit in the chest. Jesus. His eyes are a shocking ice-blue, framed by the darkest of eyelashes, even further highlighted by the paleness of his skin.
“Nightmare,” he murmurs, with a gentle, surprised smile.
I gawk at the dimple that’s appeared on his right cheek. “Jonah,” I manage.
We stare at one another.
“Well, give it to me,” he finally says.
“Give you…?”
“Another awful one-liner,” he says with a chuckle. His voice is deep and seductive like that of all demons, except there’s a gravel-rough edge around the words that leave his throat. A throat that works when he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing—
“Nightmare,” he prods, reminding me that I am, in fact, here to kill him, and not stare at the flawless expanse of skin on his neck while wondering when the last time I had sex was. Has it already been a week?
“It’s Mayari,” I blurt out. Is this some sort of new demon magic? Is this a thrall? Have I been captured in a thrall? Am I being thralled?
He looks surprised, then pleased. “Mayari.”
My name in his mouth snaps me out of it. We start to circle one another. I slide my silver dagger out of its holster, and it immediately starts to glow.
He frowns at the sight of it. “Really? This again? You really fucked up my arm last night, Mayari.”
“No hard feelings,” I assure him. “It’s my job. All in a day’s work.”
The fluorescent blue of Jonah’s eyes brazenly drag up and down the length of my body, and I ignore the way it blooms under his scrutiny. “And is this the required uniform?”
I scowl. “I slay in this uniform.”
“Well,” he says, “obviously.”
I suddenly remember that this demon is probably centuries-old and unacquainted with Gen Z (or is it Y? What letter are we at now?) internet slang. “I look incredible in this uniform,” I explain begrudgingly, sounding significantly less cool.
“Well, obviously,” he reiterates, nodding slowly, eyes fixed somewhere around the curve of my waist. “I’ve never been more grateful for mandatory leather.”
“Enough,” I growl, lifting my dagger.
His eyes snap up and bore into mine. “I am not your enemy.”
I scoff. “I literally saw you feeding on someone’s soul last night.”
“Are you sure that’s what you saw?”
“Yes!” This is getting ridiculous. “My magic felt it, too!”
A thick, dark eyebrow raises. “And what’s your magic telling you now?”
I don’t even have to look inward, because my magic is buzzing up and down my skin and down to my fingertips, crackling and distracting and confusing and vibrating. I ignore the question. “And you’re here, at a soup kitchen, ready to feed on all these souls who just need a fucking break!”
“I’m begging you to let me expla—” but he doesn’t finish. His eyes flick to something to my left.
“Yo! What is this? Salt? Is it supposed to snow?”
I turn just in time to see an elderly woman kick at my circle, breaking the seal with a pop.
Fuck.
I whirl back towards Jonah.
He grins, and it’s a beautiful sort of smile, deadly and wicked in the way that a blade catching the light can be.
I take one step back, assuming a defensive stance.
“A little early for Halloween, don’t you think, Catwoman?
” the lady asks me, walking directly between us towards the door, entirely unbothered in the way only New Yorkers can be during a stand off between the most gorgeous demon alive and a woman in a catsuit holding a glowing silver dagger.
She pulls out a set of keys and unlocks the door.
“Coming, Jonah?” she calls back before going inside.
She’s… inviting him in?
We lock eyes again, my brown meeting his ice-blue. I brace myself for the attack as he moves towards me, but my own feet won’t move, my heart pounding in my ears.
His arm brushes mine as he walks—nay, ambles—right past me and through the door.
Warm. He’s so, so warm.