Chapter 5
The room relaxes, while I do the opposite. Every tendon, muscle, and nerve in my body tightens at the sensation of being half-embraced by a demon. My magic goes wild under my skin, trembling and snapping like live wire. I inch my hand toward the dagger at my thigh.
With a quiet, almost amused grunt, he firmly adjusts his grip, and suddenly I’m completely immobilized by supernatural strength. My arm is pinned gently but decisively against my side.
Jonah clears his throat and looks pointedly at Malik.
“Hey, Jonah,” Malik mutters. “And sorry, Lara Croft—”
“Her name is Mayari,” Jonah corrects smugly, beaming with pride, as if learning my name was on par with discovering Tutankhamun’s tomb.
“Mayari,” Malik fixes. “Sorry. We’re a tight family here.”
“We watch out for our own,” someone else says.
“And we just had some asshole in here looking for these two,” someone nods towards the mother and the little boy. “Needless to say, they are not trying to be found.”
I feel it immediately—the shift in him. His chest, warm against my shoulder, goes rigid. “You don’t have to worry about him ever again,” he says, voice low.
The mother blinks up at him, wide-eyed. I do too.
“What?” we both say.
He leans slightly toward her, lowering his voice so her son won’t hear. “I took care of him last night.”
What?!
“Thank you,” she whispers, hand pressed to her mouth.
I crane my head up to glare at him. “What is going on?” I hiss.
He shrugs with the shoulder not currently restraining me. “I’ll ask you again, Mayari. Will you let me explain?”
You need a kill. My mother’s voice, sharp and relentless.
But curiosity wins. It wins hard. There are too many questions—about him, about my magic misfiring around him, about why the man in the alley was still alive, why this poor mother and her son don’t have to worry about him anymore. About why my last kill felt wrong in ways I still refuse to address.
I hesitate for a short second.
Then I nod.
Jonah releases just enough of his hold to steer me toward the back of the room.
“Are you taking me to your demon lair?” I mutter.
“Of sorts.”
We wind past long tables where cheerful people share a meal—most, if not all of them acknowledging Jonah with a smile or a nod, with a “Jonah, my man,” and “‘Sup,” and “Yo,” with Jonah replying with warm greetings of his own.
Eventually, we reach the back of the room. Jonah pushes through the swinging doors, and I stop dead in my tracks.
The room beyond isn’t dark or cavernous or lined with human skulls and femoral bones.
Steel counters in the middle of the room reflect bright overhead lighting.
Industrial burners on massive ovens line the walls.
Stacks of onions, carrots, and potatoes, waiting to be slid into giant pots emanating steam.
“No,” I say flatly. I might even stamp my foot.
He turns slowly, hands raised in surrender.
“This is some sort of sick joke,” I press.
His ice-blue eyes glimmer in amusement. I’m glad someone is amused.
“You’re a demon who feeds people?!” I ask, incredulous.
“After eighty-odd years, I’ve become a very good cook,” he says evenly. “But I’ve never been particularly good at being a demon.” His eyes search mine before he finds what he’s looking for. “Might be an occupational hazard of only being half.”