Epilogue
“May I interest you in époisses or a Comté?” I ask Malik.
He points to a different wheel on my cheese cart. “That one.”
Delighted, I straighten. “Oh, that's a very special one. That's a Vacherin Mont d'Or from the French Jura. Raw cow's milk, aged in a spruce bark—”
“Just give me the damn cheese, Mayari,” he cuts in.
“Certainly, sir.” Grinning, I scoop a goopy wedge and plate it for him. “Enjoy.”
I pause for a moment and survey the floor of the soup kitchen. Our family. My magic hums with content satisfaction, surrounded by a roomful of humans, slayers, and demons alike.
It took a year to convince even some members of the Tribunal of my forte, to even consider the idea of demon intent. It’s a harsh pill to swallow when your worldview has been shaped by centuries and centuries of doctrine, with entire lifestyles and legacies built around such beliefs.
Regardless, Gabriel, Jonah, Tasha, and I pressed forward, together, without hesitation, making space for ourselves at Tribunal as our own delegation at every single meeting.
We bring explanations of our magic, research and evidence of all types, testimony, inviting demons and slayers to speak for themselves, gaining some ground with every meeting we have.
We travel from city to city, community to community, slowly chipping away at generations of prejudice and mindless violence.
Progress comes one stubborn conversation at a time.
The soup kitchen has become part of that effort.
For those who need a meal, it’s a soup kitchen.
For those who need somewhere to belong, it’s something more—a refuge, a place where humans, rot-feeding demons, and the slayers who refuse to kill them can find community, where everyone looks after one another, where no one has to earn the right to be treated with dignity.
For now, the demons still keep their identities hidden from humans. The world isn’t ready for that truth yet. But maybe someday.
Until then, when we aren’t traveling for Tribunal work, Jonah and I can be found here. And I’ve brought about some necessary improvements.
Namely, my cheese cart.
Betty eyes it. “You always doin’ the most,” she mutters.
“I’m not doing enough!” I squawk.
She sucks her teeth. “You’ve done more than enough,” she says eventually, quietly.
Something in her tone makes me glance over. She's plating chicken onto a waiting tray, moving with practiced efficiency, but there's a knowing look in her eyes.
I wait for a lull in the line. “And why exactly might you say I’ve done more than enough?” I ask lightly, with all the grace and subtlety of a wrecking ball.
“What I really meant to say,” she replies, “is thank you.”
I only stare at her.
“Belvedere was a monster. Not sure I could have taken him on my own.”
My mouth drops open.
“What?” she scoffs. “Jonah’s always thought he’s the one who watches over this joint,” she says. “I let him think it. Males always need that sort of validation.” She chuckles. “But Jonah’s terrible at being a demon.”
After she says this, a smile spreads across her face. And for a quick moment, just one, as if she’s allowing me to see it, I catch a glimpse of three rows of razor-sharp teeth.
My breath catches. Suddenly, I’m back in the alley. A streak of silver, a creature no bigger than a bird slamming into Belvedere’s chest with enough force to crack bone. A wide, impossible grin full of teeth.
A noise leaves my gaping mouth.
Betty’s grin widens.
“You—”
“Mm-hmm.”
“You were there.”
“Mmm.”
“But you’re—”
“Beautiful?” Betty offers.
“Uh—”
“Adorable?” she tries.
“Terrifying,” I breathe. “You caved in his rib cage.”
“Adorable, then,” she nods.
I scan her head to toe, at the burnished ochre of her skin, the deep lattice of wrinkles that fan from her eyes and mouth, as intricate as riverbeds carved by time. The soft folds of age at her neck and hands, the silver-white hair pinned neatly back from her face.
“This is a skin of a killer, Mayari,” she deadpans under my scrutiny.
I blink, then laugh despite myself.
She chuckles. “I was here with Jonah's late wife, back in the day.” Her voice softens. “Been watching over this place for a long time.”
The line starts moving again. She spoons potatoes onto a tray and hands it off. Then she glances at me. “I've always had a soft spot for female creatures foolish enough to spend themselves saving everybody else.”
For a moment, I don't know what to say.
But Betty does. “Enough with the Taleggio and go refill the napkins.”
In a daze, I do. When an ancient, powerful something tells you to do something, you do it.
My magic laps at me, alerting me to Jonah’s presence. He wraps his arms around me and kisses the crown of my hair. “How’s the époisses doing? What’s the consensus on it?”
I sense Betty staring at me. She shakes her head with a minuscule no. “Great,” I squeak. “So good. So safe.”
Betty flashes her teeth while Jonah eyes me. “O-kay.”
Clearing my throat, I turn in Jonah’s arms. My fingers reach for the skin just under his shirt, itching to feel the warmth of the skin of my terrible demon who feeds people. “Malik preferred the Vacherin Mont d'Or.”
“A man of taste,” Jonah replies. “Where did you get that batch, anyway? Isn’t it unpasteurized? It couldn’t have been imported into the country.”
I shrug. “Black market.”
He frowns. “There’s a black market for cheese?”
“There’s a black market for everything.”
He shakes his head, bemused, as if he still can’t believe I am real. “Maybe we should call Tribunal in Paris next.”
“So that I can smuggle unpasteurized cheese back into the country myself? Is that any better than shopping on the black market?”
“You might avoid some of those notorious black market fees.” He smiles softly at me, then hugs me again.
I melt against him, my magic soothed. I could do this for one hundred years, and it will never get old.
“Look at our family, Mayari,” Jonah says finally, staring out at the room. “Look at what we’ve built.”
I refrain from telling him that a violent yet benevolent and adorable sprite-thing is probably largely responsible, but I know what he means. We’ve built this home, this community together.
“And it’s only going to keep growing,” I reply. “Family reunions are going to be hell. A nightmare.”
“Nightmares aren’t necessarily bad,” he smirks.
“I believe that by definition, they are.”
He huffs. “Well,” he muses, “you’re the Nightmare of my dreams.”
I roll my eyes, but inside I’m tickled and warm. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Neither do your shady cheese deals. What do you do, meet up in parking lots in Brighton Beach? Does a guy open the trunk of an old Chevy to display his cheese-wares?”
“Careful, ancient one. You’re aging yourself. The dark web exists now.”
We stand for a moment, just holding one another, surrounded by the warmth of our magic and the bond of community.
“We still have a lot of work to do,” I whisper.
“We’ll do it together, forever,” he says simply.
I raise an eyebrow. “Just how long is a half-demon’s lifespan, anyway?”
He shrugs. “No idea. But I met one who was two-hundred and twelve once. How about you?”
“My Lola lived until three-hundred and something. Everyone lost count. Including her. Maybe we can find a vampire, and have them turn us immortal.”
He scoffs. “Despite what the fandom may have everyone believe, the only paranormal creatures that exist in this universe are demons.”
I glance over at Betty, who is currently using the selfie camera on her phone to pick at her teeth with a particularly long, claw-like nail.
“Hmm,” I say.
“We’ll take it decade by decade,” Jonah says. “But we’ll do it together.”
“Together,” I affirm. “Let’s raise some hell.”