8. Chapter 8
Zavian (Milo)
The main street opens up ahead, gabled roofs standing darker than the navy sky while paint peels in deliberate curls from the porch railings. Somewhere three houses down, a swing chain creaks once.
I walk slowly, taking everything in. A storefront with MERCER’S GENERAL STORE painted above a wooden porch. In the window display sits a ceramic cat with whiskers and stripes, staring blankly at nothing, guarding nothing, serving no function at all.
Humans do this constantly. Surround themselves with objects that serve no function except to be pleasing. Back home, every object has a purpose. Chains hold. Hooks tear. Tables support implements of torment.
The ceramic cat and I regard each other through the glass, my reflection floating between us. For once, I don’t immediately dislike what I see. This is the version of me that makes sense.
The same curls Krell calls a disgrace and every demon in my department sneers at because they know what they’re concealing.
Here, the horns are gone entirely, and I have messy, overgrown locks that are nobody’s business but mine.
The glasses that I pretend are an accessory choice sit comfortably on my nose, and not a single person would find it suspicious that a guy needs them.
My skin has lost that feverish pink undertone that never matched anyone around me and has settled into a warm and unremarkable complexion.
The violet tinge in my eyes has muted to a shade a stranger might notice, then shrug off as a trick of the light.
I press my fingertips to the glass without thinking.
The person looking back could walk into any shop on this street and be welcomed.
He could order coffee and make small talk, and nobody would check for horns or mock him.
I pull my hand away. The fingerprints stay on the surface, five faint smudges that prove I was here.
Orange and red decorations line every doorway. Fabric pumpkins with stitched-on smiles. Wreaths made of leaves that rustle in the breeze. A banner stretched between two buildings announces brINDLEWOOD HARVEST FESTIVAL in hand-painted letters.
I stop beneath it and stare up.
According to my research, humans commemorate fall by decorating with symbols of harvest and death, then gathering to consume seasonal foods and participate in group activities.
The combination of mortality imagery and festive pastries seems contradictory, but I’ve learned not to question human traditions too deeply.
They also celebrate romantic love by exchanging heart-shaped boxes of chocolate, which makes even less anatomical sense.
My stomach growls loudly enough to echo down the quiet street.
It’s a reminder of this physical form and all the mortal needs I have to deal with. Hunger is something demons can ignore for extended periods, but in this body, it becomes increasingly insistent. And apparently, vocal.
Fifteen years ago, my father brought me to the mortal realm and I asked if we could try the food while we were here. He said no. Told me eating was distracting. We were there to work, not to experience mortality.
I remember watching humans through restaurant windows on that trip. They ate in bright little clusters, laughing, leaning close, sharing plates of things I couldn’t name. I wanted to know what it tasted like. I never found out.
But I’m alone now, and I can’t go back. At least, not until I secure a bargain with Evie.
She offered me her soul tonight. Said, take it, like she genuinely believed she had nothing worth protecting.
Any other demon would have accepted immediately. Manifested the contract, gotten her signature while she was off balance, and been back in Hell before sunrise with a successful acquisition.
My father would have done it in under three minutes. Would have upsold her on additional terms. Added a clause about firstborn children or eternal servitude, just to pad his quarterly numbers.
This is the pattern I can’t break. Someone’s vulnerable, the setup is perfect, and I choke. Every single time. Because taking advantage of fear and desperation makes me feel like shit, and apparently I’m the only demon in existence with that particular design flaw.
I’ve got thirty days to negotiate a bargain and return with her soul, or the system flags my case as failed and someone comes to drag me back by force.
And then: the Soul Furnace.
Next time I won’t hesitate. I’ll accept the bargain, manifest the contract, and become the demon I was trained to be.
Except I’m already dreading it, and I don’t know how to make that stop.
The street slopes downward and more businesses appear. Most of them are dark, but one brick building glows warm with music drifting through the propped open door. A flickering neon sign reads THE RUSTY NAIL.
Humans go to bars to consume alcohol, socialize, and process difficult emotions. I could use at least two of those things right now.
I head inside before second thoughts can catch up with me.
Booths with patched-up seats line the left wall, each table scarred with rings from wet glasses and names scratched into the varnish.
The walls above them are a collage of things added one at a time and never taken down.
Yellowed newspaper clippings about local football games.
A mounted fish gathering dust on its upper lip.
Concert posters layered over old gig flyers, until the bottom edges are only fragments of color peeking through.
And at least four neon beer signs in various stages of functionality.
The brightest says BUD, the rest of the letters long dead.
Two guys play pool in the back, one leaning on his cue while the other takes forever lining up a shot. A jukebox glows in the corner, crackling out a country song that nobody seems to be listening to.
A woman behind the bar pours something amber for a customer three seats down, laughing at whatever he’s saying.
She hasn’t glanced at the bottle once. Her hand found it mid-sentence on the shelf without turning, and I’m already fascinated because the spatial awareness required for that maneuver is something I’d love to see diagrammed.
Mismatched silver rings on her fingers clink against the rim as she sets it down.
Her voice has a rough scrape that carries over the jukebox, and she’s using it to dismantle this man so thoroughly he groans into his hands while his shoulders shake.
She grins, sweeping away his empty glass in one fluid motion.
I’ve never seen anyone so effortlessly in command of a room without raising their voice or threatening anyone’s eternal soul. It’s remarkable. I want to take notes.
Then she catches me watching, her smile turning calculated and curious. “Be right with you.”
I nod, feeling oddly out of place as I claim a seat at the bar’s edge.
She rinses the glass, water sluicing over her fingers before she slots it into a metal rack, then heads toward me.
A bar towel hangs from the back pocket of her ripped jeans, swaying with each step.
Her shirt is faded, with a skull tangled in thorns, and the words GUNS N’ ROSES printed across the front.
I have so many questions about that name. Are guns and roses related? Is it a warning? A metaphor? Some sort of human weapons-and-floristry collective? It has to be a band. Humans put bands on everything. I’m tempted to ask, but I suspect the question would disqualify me from normal conversation.
I’m still squinting at the cracked lettering when I realize it’s printed directly across her chest. And that I’ve been frowning at it long enough to cross a social boundary.
“My eyes are up here, buddy.”
I jerk back so hard my elbow knocks my barstool into the one next to it with a clatter that turns two heads at the pool table. My gaze shoots to the wall.
“They are up. They are so far up.” I rush through the words so fast I’m not sure she can understand me. “I was reading your shirt.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s very faded. The font is difficult.”
“It really isn’t.”
My face is on fire. Actual hellfire would be less painful than this moment. I briefly consider dissolving into the floorboards and reforming somewhere in a different country.
She stares at me. I stare at the mounted fish on the wall behind her. The fish stares at nothing. The three of us exist in this terrible triangle of silence.
“Relax. I’m messing with you.”
I may never be relaxed again.
Two humans in one night have now reduced me to a stammering disaster.
Evie screamed at me to get out of her house.
The bartender made me contemplate fleeing over a t-shirt.
I’m starting to build a theory that mortal women are significantly more dangerous than anything Hell ever produced, and nobody thought to include that in the field training materials.
I should approach all future interactions with extreme caution. And possibly a shield.
“New in town?” She leans against the bar with one hip cocked.
I finally glance her way. “Yes. Just arrived.”
“Figured.” Her mouth quirks. “I know everyone who drinks here. Which means I know everyone.” She extends a hand. “Maddie.”
“Milo.”
My chosen mortal name comes easily, while the one I was born with stays buried where it belongs. A demon’s true name can become a means of control in the wrong hands. We learn young that names are currency, and giving one away is like handing someone the key to a cage you’re already standing in.
I found Milo in a storybook years ago. A boy who stumbled into adventure. Who was gentle and curious and brave, even when everything went sideways. I liked the name enough to keep it. Maybe part of me hoped wearing it in the mortal realm would let me be someone other than what I was.
“What can I get you?” Maddie’s already reaching for a glass.
I’ve prepared for this moment. Years of research into human culture and etiquette have taught me that drink orders are tiny social declarations. They communicate refinement, taste, and personality.