13. Chapter 13
Milo
The literature is mercifully thin on summoning bonds: three paragraphs in Verath’s Compendium, a footnote in Harken’s Index of Mortal Entanglements, and one unhelpful doodle in a training manual that I’m sixty percent sure was sketched by a bored demon with zero field experience.
Want to know what they say about a bond that lasts too long? Nothing. Blank pages. Because no contract demon in recorded history has maintained it past the initial negotiation. You materialize, you seal the deal, the ethereal thread severs, and you return to the fiery depths of Hell.
Nobody accounted for the possibility that the demon might be bad at negotiating and the summoner might refuse to engage entirely.
Nobody accounted for me.
Evie hits the sidewalk ahead of me, walking at a speed that’s technically not jogging but communicates the same message.
Her sneakers flash white against the concrete, disappearing and reappearing between bodies, every step timed to the cracks and curbs before her.
I dodge around an older man carrying a potted fern and almost collide with a stroller.
I wonder if she thinks ignoring me hard enough will make me wink out of existence. It won’t, but I grudgingly admire the effort. I lengthen my stride to keep up with her.
Brindlewood unfolds around us in an offensive display of charm.
Storefronts blur past in stripes of pastel paint and weathered brick, their awnings casting bands of shadow across a lopsided chalk hopscotch grid.
Near the corner, a woman fusses over flowers that seem determined to be as colorful as possible.
A teenager glides by on a skateboard while an empty coffee cup tumbles along the gutter, jerking forward with each crack in the sidewalk.
Evie reaches the crosswalk and halts. The thread between us settles as the distance closes, which is another new behavior. It seems to have developed preferences about proximity now. Wonderful.
I clear my throat. “You walk incredibly fast for someone with a nine-inch stride.”
Her gaze sears the crossing signal as if she could will it to go green by sheer annoyance.
“Evie.”
Her shoulders cinch tight. “What?”
The coil in my gut twists, dragging last night’s disaster back to the surface.
“I want to apologize again. I know I already said it, but I really am sorry.”
She cuts me a sideways glance. “You’re truly committed to this guilt spiral.”
The signal flips to green and she steps off the curb, her sneakers hitting the asphalt in that quick, purposeful rhythm I’m already learning to recognize. The breeze shifts, carrying another drift of vanilla and brown sugar my way, and I inhale without conscious thought.
“So,” I say, falling into step beside her, matching two of my strides to her three. “On a scale of one to restraining order, where are we currently sitting? Just so I can calibrate my anxiety accordingly.”
She shoots me another glance, taking in my too-long curls and glasses, which I’m suddenly, painfully aware are sitting crooked.
“Provisional parole. Don’t push it.”
A grin splits my face before I can rein it in. “Noted. I’m an excellent parolee. You won’t even know I’m here.”
“You’re six-two,” she says flatly. “I’ll absolutely know you’re here.”
We turn onto a busy street, and I realize that walking next to Evie in this town is a spectator sport.
An elderly man in a fleece vest stops tending to a window box to squint at us.
“Morning, Evie.”
“Morning, Bill.”
His watering can tilts, water dribbling onto his shoes while he stares at me.
“New friend?”
“No,” says Evie.
“Hi, I’m Milo.”
Bill nods and goes back to drowning his petunias, his gaze tracking us until he remembers the flowers.
“You just told that man we’re not friends,” I say.
“We’re not.”
“What are we, then?”
She doesn’t answer. A strand of honey-brown hair has slipped from her ponytail and curls against her neck, right above the collar of her cardigan. I drag my attention away because the urge to tuck it back is strong enough that I nearly reach for it.
In the space of two blocks, nine separate people greet Evie by name. Every one performs the same choreography: a bright smile for her, a slow pan to me, raised brows, and a look that screams I will be discussing this at length over my next cup of coffee. Evie navigates it all without stopping.
A kid on a scooter zips past, nearly clipping my ankle, and shouts, “Sorry!” over his shoulder without looking back. His mother, three paces behind with a coffee in each hand, mouths an apology at me, does a visible double-take at the sight of me next to Evie, and almost walks into a lamppost.
“Does everyone around here monitor your movements?”
“No.” She steps past a golden retriever tied to a bike rack. “Just the ones who are awake.”
In Hell, recognition means you’ve either succeeded spectacularly or failed publicly.
There’s no middle ground where people simply know you and are glad you exist. Evie has that.
Has it so thoroughly she’s bored by it. She moves through it with the minimum viable engagement required, rationing her warmth out in efficient nods, unaware that what she treats as routine obligation is something entire species go without.
The smell of beeswax and old paper drifts from the antique shop, mingling with fresh-cut cedar from the lumber display outside the hardware store.
A hand-painted mural on the brick wall depicts the river in fall, leaves scattering into the water in strokes of burnt orange and gold so vivid I swear I can hear the current.
Everything’s saturated with detail and cared for. I want to stop at every window and press my face to the glass.
Evie’s eyes narrow at me as I crane my neck to peer into the bakery, where a woman with flour-dusted forearms arranges pastries on tiered stands.
“You’re gawking,” Evie says, tugging her cardigan tighter around her waist.
“I’m appreciating,” I counter, inhaling the scent of butter and sugar that wafts through the cracked door.
“You look like a tourist.”
“I am a tourist.”
The market sits off the main stretch of shops, a barn-conversion with rough-cut timber framing and wide, double doors thrown open.
Crates of produce crowd the entrance: squash, late tomatoes, bundles of greens with roots still attached.
Hand-lettered chalkboard signs list the farms that supplied this week’s stock.
A woman with soil under her fingernails rearranges apples into a careful pyramid near the entrance, glancing up with mild curiosity when we approach.
Evie grabs a wire basket from the stack by the door and shoves it into my hands without breaking stride. Her fingers brush against mine, and the constant pull in my chest eases. The tether has been a fist around my sternum since I materialized, and now it unclenches.
“You carry. I pick.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t call me ma’am.”
“Yes, Evie.”
She studies me like a stain she’s decided isn’t worth scrubbing right now, but the corner of her mouth twitches.
I’m fine with it. I can be a cart, a dolly, a pack animal, whatever she needs. I’m going to be so aggressively helpful she can’t tell me to get lost without looking unreasonable.
The interior opens into honeyed wood and natural light pouring through tall clerestory windows, catching dust motes in lazy spirals.
Bins of produce fill the center of the space, arranged by type, all of it labeled in the same careful chalk lettering.
Shelves of preserves line one wall, their glass jars glinting.
Refrigerated cases along the back hold dairy and meat.
Bread loaves line a wooden rack, their crusts rough and uneven, clearly shaped by hand and still breathing out a faint yeasty sweetness.
“Milo.” Evie’s voice cuts through. She’s already by the tomatoes, three in her hand, evaluating the fourth with a critical squeeze. “The basket is supposed to follow me. That’s the whole point of you being here.”
“Sorry.” I catch up. She deposits the fruit without glancing at me, then a bundle of carrots with their feathery tops still intact, then two zucchini. Each one gets tested, turned, and assessed. The rejects go straight back on the pile, no hesitation.
She turns away and starts sorting potatoes. I hold the basket at what I hope is a convenient angle.
I shouldn’t find grocery shopping riveting.
But the sureness of her hands gets me. Evie moves through the aisle with such confidence that I start questioning whether I’ve ever been truly good at anything in my life.
She’s so absorbed in the task that she’s forgotten to maintain the wall between us, and the version of her on the other side is someone I could watch sort produce for a genuinely unreasonable amount of time.
An older woman restocking a display of leafy greens nearby leans forward on her elbows. She’s been watching us since we walked in. Or rather, watching me trail Evie through the aisles.
“Evie, sweetheart! I was starting to think you’d switched to the big box store in Millfield.” Her gaze slides to me and parks there with interest. “Who’s your friend?”
“Never,” Evie inspects a bunch of kale, lifting it up to the light. “And he’s not anyone. He’s just holding things.”
“Voluntarily?”
“Debatably,” Evie mutters.
“Enthusiastically,” I correct.
The woman laughs and turns to me. “Well, aren’t you helpful? I’m Mindy.” She plants her hands on her hips, her chin jutting upwards to account for the height difference.
“Milo.” I shift the basket to one arm and extend my hand. “This market is really something.”
“Oh, you sweet thing.” The crow’s feet fanning from the corners of her brown eyes deepen with her smile. “First time in a small town?”
“First time in a lot of places.”
“Well, you need to try Ruth’s honey before you leave this store. She keeps bees north of town. Best stuff in the county.” She ducks behind the display and resurfaces with a jar of golden liquid and a small wooden tasting spoon. “This is the clover. Go ahead.”