Chapter 15
Megan
When Owen told me Preacher was a Demon, I don’t know what I expected exactly—maybe a guy in a black hoodie with a bad attitude and some vague infernal vibes. Maybe someone with a few tattoos and a cool nickname.
What I didn’t expect?
A full-on actual Demon with skin the color of soot and glowing red eyes, standing in the middle of the Sheriff’s station like he just stepped out of a Hell-themed runway show.
And his wife?
Esmerelda looks like what would happen if Elvira and a Kardashian had a love child. A gorgeous, perfectly contoured, goth-glam bombshell of a woman with winged eyeliner sharp enough to cut glass and hair that clearly made some kind of deal with a supernatural force because damn.
And then—because apparently nothing about Arrhythmia is ever normal—they walk in carrying a tray of cookies.
Homemade. Still warm.
“What is even—” I start to whisper, but I don’t get the chance to finish.
Delilah perks up the second she smells them.
“Are those your Peppermint Schnapps Devil’s Food cookies?” she practically barks and runs toward the couple like a sugar-starved maniac.
Meanwhile, I’m trying to figure out how not to look like someone who just had claiming sex with the town Sheriff and barely managed to comb her hair afterward.
I mean, I did run a brush through it on the walk over, but still.
I’m mid–internal monologue panic spiral when Delilah suddenly stops chewing long enough to blurt out—“Wait—did you two bang? Already?! Wow! Fast work, Sheriff.”
Owen growls.
I die.
Not literally. But emotionally? Spiritually? I combust.
My whole face goes up in flames, and I swear my soul tries to eject from my body like an emergency escape pod.
“Sorry! Did we interrupt?” Preacher asks, blinking his glowing red eyes at us, and somehow—even with charcoal-colored skin—he manages to look bashful.
His cheeks go a little, I don’t know, ruddy, I guess? Do Demons blush?
“I—no. Nope. We’re fine. This is fine,” I say quickly, a little too loudly. “Everything is absolutely fine.”
Owen just grunts beside me.
Still growling.
Probably planning Delilah’s slow, silent execution.
I grab the nearest chair like it’s a lifeline and clear my throat.
Time to focus.
Professional Megan, activate.
“So,” I say, forcing my voice into business-mode. “What can you tell us about the Crypts?”
I dive right in, because if I don’t? I’m either going to burst out laughing, cry, or climb Owen like a tree in front of two supernatural witnesses and a box of boozy cookies.
And that’s definitely not protocol.