3. Sabine #2
I squeeze my lips together, fighting the urge to scream into one of my carefully arranged throw pillows. "You know what I mean. No swords, no guns, no magical artifacts of destruction. Keep them in your room, out of sight."
"Agreed," he says, and there's that warmth in his eyes again, that unsettling hint of something that looks almost like fondness. "What else?"
I continue down my list, filling the legal pad with increasingly specific regulations.
Rule number four covers food storage and the importance of labeling leftovers with dates.
Rule number five addresses bathroom schedules and the non-negotiable requirement that the toilet seat remain down at all times.
Rule number six establishes a system for dividing utility costs, rule number seven prohibits any physical contact beyond what is strictly necessary for DMI compliance, and rule number eight mandates a weekly check-in meeting to discuss any issues that have arisen during the cohabitation period.
By the time I reach rule number fifteen, which covers the appropriate volume level for television viewing, I've used every color in my marker set and filled three pages of the legal pad.
Jagger has listened to each one with patient attention, nodding occasionally, asking clarifying questions that suggest he's actually taking this seriously rather than humoring me.
It's disconcerting. I expected resistance.
I expected him to dismiss my rules as ridiculous human nonsense, to assert his dominance as the larger and more powerful creature in this arrangement, to make me feel small and foolish for trying to impose order on chaos.
Instead, he's treating my colored system like it's a perfectly reasonable approach to an impossible situation. Like my need for control is something worth respecting rather than mocking.
"Is that everything?" he asks when I finally set down my markers.
"For now. I reserve the right to add additional rules as circumstances require."
"Of course." He shifts on the sofa, which groans in protest, and rises to his feet with a fluid grace that seems impossible for someone his size. "I should bring in the rest of my things. I left them in the hallway."
"The rest of your things?"
He's already moving toward the door, and I follow automatically, curiosity overriding my instinct to maintain distance. When he steps into the hallway, I see what was blocking my view earlier, and my stomach drops.
It's a crate. A large wooden crate, nearly four feet tall and three feet wide, reinforced with iron bands and covered in symbols I don't recognize.
The wood is old, weathered, marked with scratches and gouges that suggest it's been through some serious abuse.
And it's moving. Subtly, almost imperceptibly, but definitely moving, the whole structure rocking slightly from side to side as if something inside is shifting its weight.
"What," I say slowly, "is that?"
Jagger hefts the crate with one hand like it weighs nothing, carrying it through my doorway and setting it down in the corner of my living room with a heavy thud. The rattling from inside intensifies, and I swear I hear something that sounds like a growl, low and rumbling and decidedly not human.
"Just some of my things," he says casually, turning back to grab his duffel bags from the hallway.
"That crate is moving."
"Is it?"
"It's growling."
He glances at the crate, then back at me, his expression unreadable. "I'm sure it's fine."
"Jagger. What is in that crate?"
Before he can answer, the wood explodes outward.
I don't have time to scream. I don't have time to run.
One moment I'm standing in my living room demanding answers, and the next moment there's a creature launching itself through the air toward my face, all writhing tentacles and gnashing teeth and far, far too many eyes.
It's roughly like a large dog, covered in iridescent scales that shimmer between purple and black, and it has seven eyes arranged in a cluster on what might be its head, each one shining with an eerie bioluminescence that makes my skin crawl.
The creature hits me square in the chest, and I go down hard, my back slamming against the carpet as the thing lands on top of me, its many eyes swiveling to focus on my face with an intensity that suggests it's deciding which part of me to eat first.
I open my mouth to scream, but all that comes out is a wheeze, the impact having knocked all the air from my lungs.
The creature leans closer, its tentacles writhing, its teeth—so many teeth, rows and rows of them, spiraling down into what might be a throat—mere inches from my nose.
And then it licks me.
A long, wet, thoroughly disgusting tongue emerges from somewhere in that mess of teeth and drags across my entire face, leaving a trail of something viscous and faintly glowing in its wake.
"Meatball," Jagger says from somewhere above me. "Down."
The creature—Meatball, apparently—makes a sound that I can only describe as a disappointed gurgle and reluctantly climbs off my chest. Its thick tentacles finding purchase on my expensive area rug as it pulls itself toward Jagger with the eager energy of a dog greeting its owner after a long day.
I lie on my floor, covered in alien saliva, staring at my ceiling, and wonder if the supernatural prison might actually be the better option.