What the Devil Claimed

Page

Femi has spent her whole life learning how to disappear.

So when loving Daemon becomes more terrifying than leaving him, she does what she has always done.

She runs.

Twenty stops away from Ravenside, the little ghost tries to build a life without the man who taught her what it meant not to be lonely. But distance does nothing to silence the thing living beneath Daemon Pallid’s skin.

The Devil remembers her.

Her strawberries.
Her quiet.
Her hands.
The way she looked at every ruined piece of him—and stayed.

And when Femi finally finds her way back into his arms, something between them changes. Desire becomes hunger. Protection becomes possession. The Devil no longer watches her from the darkness.

It wants her.

Then Lily returns. A woman from Femi’s past carrying old secrets, old betrayals, and the kind of trouble that has already learned Femi’s name.

Femi survived the streets.
She survived being forgotten.
She survived learning to love the Devil.

Now she will learn something far more dangerous.

The Devil does not fear losing what it loves.

It kills for what it has claimed.

Dark Romance • Romantic Suspense • Crime Thriller • Mystery

Table of Contents:

Femi left as soon as everyone settled for the night.

Malone called last call at two. The remaining customers complained but finished their drinks. Employees gathered their belongings. The dancers disappeared into the dressing rooms, and the jukebox played its final song.

Femi completed every closing task beside Malone. She counted the register twice. Restocked the bar. Cleaned the kitchen. Checked the back lock. She made Marta laugh by replacing the woman’s blue sheets with the sunflower ones she hated, then revealed the proper linens before Marta could begin threatening people.

For those few minutes, Femi allowed herself to laugh too. Silently. Shoulders shaking. Green eyes bright. Her last gift to Marta.

Daemon watched from his corner.

Something inside him shifted.

Why is she doing that?

Daemon ignored it.

Femi was always doing things for people.

Not like that.

She folded Marta’s proper sheets neatly and placed them in her arms. Marta grumbled something that made Femi smile.

The Devil went quiet.

Watching.

Femi stayed away from Daemon.

She felt him watching from his dark corner. Of course she did.

He called to her once.

“Little ghost.”

Her heart performed that impossible thing he always made it do.

It leaped toward him.

Femi kept walking.

The Devil stirred.

Again.

Daemon frowned.

He called as she reached the hall.

“Little ghost.”

She did not turn.

The Devil recoiled.

Why won’t she look at us?

Daemon lifted his whiskey.

“She’s angry.”

No.

The answer came too quickly.

Too certain.

Daemon’s fingers tightened around the glass.

“What?”

But the Devil had nothing else to give him. Only unease. Only the image of Femi laughing with Marta. Finishing Malone’s closing work. Making certain everything was where it belonged. Leaving nothing unfinished.

Something is wrong.

Daemon looked toward the empty hallway. Femi was already gone from sight. He should have followed her. He would remember that later.

For the rest of his life, he would remember that he should have followed her.

If Femi had looked at him, she would have stayed.

If Daemon had followed her— she might never have left.

By two thirty, Helix had gone quiet.

Malone entered his office for a final count. Marta went upstairs. Daemon remained in his corner with his head lowered over a whiskey.

Go to her.

Daemon ignored it.

Daemon.

“She needs space.”

Go.

“She told me to find someone else.”

The Devil became vicious.

There is no someone else.

Daemon closed his eyes.

“I know.”

Then go to her.

He didn’t.

Femi went to her room. She retrieved the battered canvas bag from beneath her bed. The three envelopes waited inside the open nightstand drawer.

She placed them side by side.

MALONE

MARTA

DAEMON

Femi looked at Daemon’s name for a long time. Then she turned away. She put on her leather jacket, slipped the bag over one shoulder, and left her room. No one saw her descend the rear stairs. No one saw her cross the kitchen. No one heard the back door open. Femi stepped into the Wolfwater night and closed it softly behind her.

Upstairs, Daemon lifted his head.

The Devil had gone completely silent.

Daemon waited.

Nothing.

“What?”

No answer.

He stared toward the hallway.

For one strange second, an emptiness opened inside his chest. Cold. Sudden. Deep enough to hurt. Then it passed. Daemon looked down at his whiskey. He mistook the ache for Femi refusing to look at him. He did not know the Devil had felt the door closing long before either of them understood what it meant.

No one would notice.

That was what Femi told herself.

She had spent most of her life disappearing inside crowded places.

Helix would be no different.

Femi reached the bus station ten minutes later.

The waiting room smelled of old coffee, wet coats, and cleaning solution. Fluorescent lights hummed above rows of empty plastic seats. She bought her ticket with cash. The woman behind the counter barely looked at her.

“Kingsway?”

Femi nodded.

“Gate twelve. Bus leaves in fourteen minutes.”

Femi accepted the ticket. She sat beside the window with her bag held against her chest. Ravenside moved beyond the glass. Cars. Streetlights. People returning home. Femi touched the pocket containing Daemon’s note.

There is no someone else.

Her fingers remained there until the announcement came.

“Kingsway service now boarding at gate twelve.”

Femi stood.

Ten minutes after she reached the station, her bus was called. She walked through the gate. No one stopped her. Four minutes later, the bus pulled away from Ravenside. Femi sat beside the window and watched the city disappear.

No sound accompanied her tears.

There never was.

Daemon noticed first. Or rather— the Devil did. The nightmare woke Daemon shortly before dawn. He showered, dressed, and went downstairs expecting to find light beneath the kitchen door. There was none. Daemon stopped.

The Devil woke fully.

No.

Daemon frowned. He entered. No coffee. No bread rising beneath a towel. No Femi standing barefoot beside the stove because she had awakened too early and decided the rest of Helix should benefit from it.

Daemon looked toward the clock.

Five forty-three.

No.

“She’s sleeping.”

The Devil did not answer. Daemon opened the cabinet. Reached for the coffee. Stopped. The silence inside him had changed. The Devil was not pacing. Not growling. Not whispering violence. It was remembering.

Sunflower sheets.

Femi laughing with Marta.

Her last gift.

Daemon froze.

“What?”

The Devil showed him another memory.

Femi counting Malone’s register twice.

She made certain his money was right.

Daemon’s hand lowered.

Another.

The kitchen. Everything cleaned. Everything restocked.

She left it ready for them.

“Stop.”

Femi passing his corner.

Not looking.

She couldn’t look at us.

Daemon’s heart began beating harder.

“No.”

She knew she would stay.

“No.”

The Devil sounded different then.

Daemon had heard it furious. Amused. Hungry. Possessive. He had heard it whisper promises over blood. He had heard it beg Femi to wake from nightmares. He had never heard it hurt.

She was saying goodbye.

Daemon went completely still.

“No.”

Daemon.

“She is in her room.”

The Devil said nothing.

“She is sleeping.”

Nothing.

Daemon looked toward the Hallway.

Her room was directly down the hall.

“She’s here.”

The Devil’s answer was barely a whisper.

Our little ghost is gone.

Something broke inside him. Daemon moved. He reached the stairs before stopping himself. No. Femi needed sleep. She had barely slept after the attack. He was being ridiculous. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, one hand gripping the railing.

The Devil whispered:

Go look.

Daemon didn’t.

Because if he opened that door and found her sleeping, he would have invaded the space she had so clearly demanded from him. Because he was trying to respect her. Because she had told him to find someone else. Because Daemon still believed there were things he could lose slowly.

At six thirty, he crossed the hall.

Stopped outside her room.

Lifted one hand to knock.

Open it.

Daemon lowered his hand.

“She needs sleep.”

Open the door.

“No.”

Please.

Daemon stopped. The word stunned him. The Devil did not plead with him. Ever. Daemon looked at the door. His hand lifted again. Then fell. He returned to the kitchen.

At seven, no coffee greeted Malone.

The older man entered the clubhouse rubbing his face. He stared at the empty pot.

“Femi sick?”

“No.”

Malone looked at Daemon.

“How do you know?”

“I don’t.”

The Devil whispered:

Gone.

Daemon paced from the bar to the kitchen. Then back. Malone watched him.

“What is wrong with you?”

“No coffee.”

“You know how to make it.”

“That is not the point.”

Tell him.

Daemon ignored it.

Tell him she left us.

“She did not leave.”

Malone frowned.

“What?”

Daemon stopped. He hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud.

“Nothing.”

At eight, Marta entered the clubhouse. She looked toward the kitchen.

“Where is Femi?”

“Sleeping,” Malone said.

Daemon stopped pacing.

Gone.

Marta frowned.

“Since when?”

Neither man answered. They all looked toward the hallway. Still, they waited. Femi had barely slept after the attack.

Perhaps exhaustion had finally claimed her.

You know better.

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

At nine, the regulars began arriving for breakfast.

There was no breakfast.

At ten, Malone made coffee.

Everyone regretted it.

At ten thirty, Daemon stood outside Femi’s room and listened.

Nothing. No movement. No water inside the pipes. No floorboards creaking.

The Devil did not whisper. It did not need to anymore. Daemon knew. He simply could not make himself touch the handle.

At eleven, Marta went down the hall.

The men followed.

She knocked.

“Femi?”

No answer.

Marta knocked again.

“Honey?”

Silence.

Daemon reached for the handle. Marta stopped him. She tried it herself. The door opened. Femi’s bed had been made. The closet stood open. Three dresser drawers hung outward. Several empty hangers remained inside the closet. Her jacket was gone. Daemon did not breathe.

Inside him, the Devil stared at the room with him.

Shocked.

Not because it had been wrong.

Because it had been right.

No.

The word was small.

Daemon entered slowly. The room felt wrong. Not empty. Abandoned.

No.

Marta crossed toward the nightstand. One drawer had been pulled open. Three envelopes waited inside.

She stared at the names.

“No.”

Malone moved beside her. Marta picked up his letter first. His name appeared across it in Femi’s small handwriting. He tore it open. There were only five words.

I am sorry.

Be safe.

Malone read them twice. His hand began trembling.

The Devil whispered:

She gave him goodbye.

Marta opened hers.

The message was the same.

I am sorry.

Be safe.

Her face crumpled.

She gave Marta one too.

Daemon could barely hear it now.

The Devil sounded wounded.

Bewildered.

As though it could understand blood and death and violence but not this. Not Femi carefully leaving pieces of herself behind. Marta looked toward Daemon. The final envelope remained inside the drawer.

He did not reach for it.

The Devil did.

Not with hands.

With something desperate inside him.

Ours.

Marta carried it to him.

“Daemon.”

He stared at his name.

The handwriting made something inside his chest close.

Open it.

Daemon opened the envelope. His letter contained six words.

Be happy.

I know you can.

The room disappeared. Daemon read the message again.

“No.”

The Devil went silent.

Then—

No.

Daemon crushed the edge of the paper inside his fist.

“No.”

No.

Malone looked at him. Daemon could hear something inside himself breaking. The Devil had always wanted Femi. Possessively. Greedily. It wanted her smiles. Her strawberries. Her hands touching Daemon’s scar. Her quiet footsteps in the kitchen. Her sleeping against their chest. It had never understood why she kept trying to give pieces of herself away.

Now it did.

She had been emptying her hands before she left.

She gave everything away.

Daemon shut his eyes.

“Stop.”

The sheets.

“Stop.”

The kitchen.

“Stop.”

Malone’s register.

“Stop.”

She wouldn’t look at us.

Daemon’s breath broke.

The Devil whispered the worst one.

She gave us away too.

Daemon’s eyes opened.

“No.”

Marta flinched.

“What does yours say?”

He handed it to her. Marta read the words. Her eyes closed. Daemon turned toward the open closet.

“She left.”

The Devil snarled suddenly. Not at Femi. Never at Femi. At him.

You let her.

Daemon’s face went blank.

Malone’s grief became anger.

“When?”

“Last night.”

“We don’t know that.”

“Yes.”

“How?”

Daemon looked at the made bed.

“The kitchen was dark before six. No coffee. No bread.”

His voice became colder with every fact.

“She completed the closing work. Waited until everyone went upstairs.”

He remembered calling to her.

Little ghost.

Femi had not turned. The Devil whimpered. It was such an impossible sound that Daemon nearly folded beneath it.

She heard us.

“She was saying goodbye.”

Marta sat heavily on the bed.

“Why?”

Daemon looked at the letter inside her hand. Because he had failed to make Femi believe him. Because she still thought happiness waited for him inside someone else. Because every act of violence committed in her name had become another weight around her throat.

“She thinks we’re safer without her.”

Malone’s expression hardened.

“She thinks wrong.”

“Yes.”

The Devil finally moved again.

Slowly.

Pain becoming something colder.

Find her.

Daemon’s fingers closed around the letter.

Malone asked, “What do we do?”

The Devil answered first.

Find our little ghost.

Daemon folded the letter carefully.

“We find her.”

By noon, every person inside Helix was searching.

Malone locked the clubhouse.

Regulars divided Wolfwater between them.

One group checked the homeless camp beneath the bridge. Another searched the old bookstore where Red originally found Femi. Marta called shelters, clinics, and every hospital in Ravenside. Mary contacted the other waitresses. Harlan went to the train station.

Malone called Red.

“She left.”

Red’s voice became serious.

“When?”

“Last night. Early morning. We don’t know.”

“What did she take?”

“Clothes. Money. Her canvas bag.”

“Photograph?”

“Yes.”

“Phone?”

“Femi doesn’t have one.”

Red cursed.

“Bus station?”

“We’re checking.”

Daemon searched alone. Riverward Market. The park. Every street between Helix and the Wolfwater Bridge.

The Devil searched with him.

She likes that bakery.

Empty.

The bench near the river.

Empty.

The bookseller knows her.

Nothing.

Under the bridge.

Nothing.

Every place without Femi hurt it more.

Where did she go?

“I don’t know.”

You know her.

“I know.”

Then find her.

“I am trying.”

Try harder.

Daemon returned to the bus station twice before anyone found footage. The first employee refused to release the recordings. Malone arrived twenty minutes later. The employee reconsidered.

At six that evening, they saw Femi on camera.

Timestamp:

2:42 a.m.

Ten hours earlier.

She entered alone, carrying her canvas bag.

The Devil surged forward so violently Daemon grabbed the edge of the desk.

There.

Bought a ticket with cash.

Little ghost.

Sat beside the window.

There.

At 2:52, the Kingsway service was called.

At 2:56, Femi boarded.

The bus left Ravenside four minutes later. Daemon watched the recording repeatedly. Femi paused before entering the gate. Her head turned. For one heartbeat, she looked back toward the station doors.

She almost stayed.

The Devil broke.

She waited.

Daemon touched the screen.

She wanted us to come.

His fingertip rested against the grainy shape of her face.

“I didn’t know.”

I knew something was wrong.

The accusation disappeared before it fully formed.

Because the Devil knew the truth too.

It had noticed. It had whispered. It had watched her give things away. And it had not understood in time.

I didn’t know enough.

Daemon closed his eyes.

For once, there was no division between them. No Daemon. No Devil. Only grief.

Then Femi turned on the recording. She boarded.

“Kingsway,” Malone said.

Daemon opened his eyes.

“We go now.”

“It isn’t that simple.”

Daemon looked toward him. Malone held up the route sheet.

“The bus made twenty stops before Kingsway.”

Daemon took the paper. Twenty towns. Twenty stations. Some no larger than a roadside shelter. Others connected to additional routes leading in four different directions. Femi could have stepped off anywhere.

“Passenger records?” Marta asked.

“Cash ticket,” the station manager said. “No scan after boarding. She could have left at any stop.”

Daemon stared at the route.

“Camera footage?”

“Some stations have it. Some don’t.”

“Get all of it.”

“That could take days.”

The Devil rose.

Pain vanished beneath something ancient and vicious.

He does not understand.

Daemon’s gray eyes lifted.

“You have hours.”

The manager swallowed.

Malone placed one hand on Daemon’s shoulder.

“We’ll get it.”

Daemon looked at the first stop on the list. Then the second. Twenty possible places. Femi had no phone. No identification they could trace. No reason to use the name they knew. She had spent years surviving without being found.

Now she wanted to disappear.

The Devil stared at the route.

Let her try.

Two days passed.

Daemon did not sleep.

The Devil did not let him.

Again.

Daemon checked the footage.

Again.

He called another shelter.

Again.

Another station.

Again.

Another town.

He drank coffee because whiskey dulled details, and details were all he had. Red’s people checked every station. Malone called police contacts who owed him favors. Marta sat beside the phone with Femi’s photograph.

At the end of the second day, Red entered Helix carrying a folder.

“Kingsway.”

Daemon stood.

“She reached it?”

“No.”

Red spread the route across Malone’s desk.

“We confirmed she purchased a ticket for Kingsway. Twenty stops between here and there.”

“We know.”

“I found footage from six.”

Daemon leaned over the map.

“Was she on them?”

“First stop, yes. Second, yes. Third station has no cameras. Fourth caught only the rear of the bus.”

The Devil whispered immediately:

Third.

“Then we start at the third.”

“It splits into three roads.”

Daemon took his motorcycle keys from the desk.

Malone stepped into his path.

“You haven’t slept.”

“Neither has she.”

“You don’t know that.”

The Devil snarled.

We know her.

“I know Femi.”

The words ended the argument. Marta looked at the twenty names.

“She could be anywhere.”

Daemon folded Femi’s letter and placed it inside his jacket, directly over his heart.

“No.”

Everyone looked at him.

“She is somewhere on this road.”

His expression became the one that once made armed men confess.

Not rage.

Purpose.

“We start at the first stop without a camera. We search every town, every shelter, every kitchen hiring cash workers, and every room someone will rent without identification.”

Red watched him.

“That could take weeks.”

“Then it takes weeks.”

The Devil pressed close beneath his skin. Still hurt. Still stunned by the impossible fact that Femi had walked away from them. But beneath the hurt was certainty.

Twenty stops.

Daemon closed his hand around his keys.

Twenty thousand.

He walked toward the door.

Twenty years.

Malone moved aside.

We find her.

Daemon opened the office door. Behind him, Helix remained without coffee, bread, or the quiet woman who had made it a home. Ahead waited twenty stops. Femi believed no one would notice she was gone.

She had forgotten one thing. The Devil had noticed before anyone. Not the empty room. Not the missing clothes. Not the untouched kitchen. It had noticed the sunflower sheets. The balanced register. The cleaned kitchen. The laughter she left with Marta.

The way she refused to look at Daemon when he called her little ghost.

It had watched Femi give herself away piece by piece. It simply hadn’t understood why. Now it did. And somewhere beneath Daemon’s ribs, the Devil whispered to the woman already hundreds of miles away.

You gave everyone goodbye, little ghost.

A pause.

Hurt made the next words almost human.

You even gave us away.

Daemon mounted his motorcycle. The engine roared awake.

The Devil’s grief hardened.

No.

Daemon looked toward the road.

Twenty stops.

You don’t get to give us away.

His hand tightened around the throttle.

We are coming.

Femi believed no one would notice she was gone.

She had forgotten one thing.

Once the Devil began looking at her, he never learned how to stop.

Marta took Klenshire.

Malone took Tarpus.

Daemon rode into Estermont alone.

Three towns.

Three possible stops.

Three chances to find Femi before she disappeared deeper into the world.

The Devil hated all three.

Wrong.

Daemon tightened his hands around the handlebars.

“We don’t know that.”

She isn’t there.

“You don’t know that.”

Silence.

Then, quieter:

I knew she was leaving.

Daemon’s jaw locked.

“No. You knew something was wrong.”

I knew before you.

The motorcycle surged beneath him. Daemon refused to answer. Because that was true. The Devil had noticed the gifts. The sheets. The cleaned kitchen. The balanced register.

The way Femi had laughed with Marta as though she wanted to leave something beautiful behind. The way she had refused to look at them. The Devil had noticed. It simply hadn’t understood.

Neither of them had.

And now they were searching twenty stops for a woman who had spent most of her life learning how not to be found.

Klenshire was a farming community built around one main road, a feed store, two churches, and a diner that looked older than everyone inside it.

The bus stopped there for six minutes. Marta stood beneath the faded route sign with Femi’s photograph in her hand. The driver remembered the stop. He did not remember Femi.

“People get off. People get on,” he said. “I watch the road.”

“She is five feet tall,” Marta said. “Long black hair. Green eyes. She carried an old canvas bag.”

The driver shrugged.

“Could’ve been.”

“Was she?”

“Couldn’t say.”

Marta’s fingers tightened around the photograph.

She visited the diner next.

Every conversation stopped when she entered.

Farmers lowered their eyes toward their coffee. A waitress wiped the same stretch of counter while pretending not to watch her.

Marta placed Femi’s photograph beside the register.

“Have you seen this girl?”

The waitress looked.

For half a second, something shifted in her face.

Then it vanished.

“No.”

“You looked as if you recognized her.”

“I don’t.”

“Look again.”

“I already did.”

Marta leaned closer.

“She does not speak. She may have written something down. Asked for work. Food. Somewhere to sleep.”

The waitress picked up the photograph and pushed it back.

“Lots of people come through.”

“Not like her.”

“Wouldn’t know.”

Marta looked around the diner.

Every face turned away.

Klenshire had decided she was an outsider before she crossed its limits. No one would admit to seeing anything. No one wanted trouble from another town walking through their doors.

Marta went to the feed store. Then the church. Then the tiny market beside the fuel station. She showed Femi’s photograph to every person she encountered. A farmer claimed he had been working his southern field. A cashier claimed she had not worked that morning. The church secretary claimed she never watched the bus. The motel owner studied the photograph for less than a second.

“No rooms rented to her.”

“You remember every face?”

“I remember everyone who pays.”

“She might have offered to clean.”

“No.”

“Cook?”

“No.”

“She makes bread.”

The motel owner’s expression did not change.

Marta stepped closer.

“She is twenty years old. She has been alone before, and she thinks that means she can survive being alone again.”

The man looked toward the office door.

“I said I haven’t seen her.”

Marta slapped her palm against the counter. The bell beside the register jumped.

“Someone saw her if she got off that bus.”

The motel owner stared at her.

“Maybe she didn’t.”

The possibility silenced Marta.

She straightened slowly.

“If you see her, you call this number.”

She placed one of Malone’s cards on the counter.

“Tell her Marta is looking for her.”

The man said nothing.

“Tell her she is not in trouble.”

Marta’s voice broke.

“She is family.”

The motel owner finally looked at the card. Marta left before he could see the tears in her eyes.

She spent the rest of the day knocking on farmhouse doors.

Klenshire gave her nothing.

Tarpus was large enough for people to disappear.

Malone knew men who made their living ensuring they did. He called in every favor he possessed. At the bus terminal, an old ticket clerk allowed him into the security office. Malone watched six hours of footage from three cameras. Hundreds of faces moved across the screens. Families. College students. Workers carrying lunch tins. Men traveling with everything they owned inside garbage bags.

No Femi.

He watched the footage again.

“Maybe she changed clothes,” the clerk offered.

“She only packed two shirts.”

The clerk glanced at him.

“You know that?”

“I searched her room.”

Malone’s voice roughened.

“I searched it after she left.”

The clerk returned his attention to the monitor.

“We can check the outside camera.”

They did. The image was worse. Rain blurred the lens. Headlights erased faces. People became shadows rushing beneath the terminal awning. Malone leaned toward the screen until his eyes burned.

Every small woman became Femi. Every dark braid stopped his heart. Every time, the woman turned and became someone else. He left the terminal and went to the shelters.

No one had registered under Femi Vale. No one recognized the photograph. At a soup kitchen, Malone spoke to a woman who had served breakfast there for nineteen years.

“She might not have given you a name,” Malone explained. “She cannot speak.”

The woman studied Femi’s photograph carefully.

“I would remember those eyes.”

Malone swallowed.

“Yes.”

“I haven’t seen her.”

He went to the cheap motels.

The boardinghouses.

The diner near the industrial district where people could wash dishes for cash and leave without giving a surname. He visited a bartender who knew every runaway in Tarpus. A police officer Malone once pulled from a burning car. A bookmaker who kept information on everyone who crossed his streets. A doctor who treated patients without asking questions. Each one examined Femi’s photograph. Each one shook their head.

At sunset, Malone stood in an alley behind a pawnshop while his final contact lit a cigarette.

“You sure she came through here?” the man asked.

“No.”

“That makes this difficult.”

“I did not come for an explanation.”

The man exhaled smoke.

“No one tried to sell the leather jacket. No one matching her description rented a room. No one mute showed up at the shelters or clinics.”

“She may not have told anyone she is mute.”

“People notice when someone doesn’t answer.”

Malone looked toward the mouth of the alley. Femi had walked into Helix without a voice and somehow filled every room. He had noticed when she cleaned. When she cooked. When the windows became clear enough to let sunlight touch the floor. He had noticed her repairing chairs, labeling shelves, remembering the regulars’ orders. He had noticed everything she did for them. He had not noticed that she was preparing them to live without her.

“If she comes through Tarpus, I’ll hear,” the man promised.

Malone gave him another photograph.

“Do not frighten her.”

“I know how to talk to a runaway.”

“She is not a runaway.”

“What is she?”

Malone looked down at Femi’s face.

“My daughter.”

He walked away with no answers.

Daemon reached Estermont before noon.

He had contacts there.

He had contacts beyond there too—men and women scattered across six cities who answered when the Devil called because they feared him, owed him, or remembered what happened to those who ignored him.

Today, the Devil wanted every debt.

All of them.

“I know.”

Anyone who has eyes.

“I know.”

Anyone who saw a bus.

“Devil.”

Anyone who saw our little ghost.

Daemon closed his eyes for half a second.

“Our?”

The Devil went very still.

Daemon almost regretted asking.

Then:

Ours.

There was no menace in it.

No possessive growl.

It hurt.

She gave us away.

Daemon swallowed.

“No.”

Her letter—

“No.”

She told us to be happy.

“I said no.”

The Devil retreated.

But only barely.

Find her.

By twelve thirty, Femi’s photograph had reached every one of his contacts. Daemon began at the bus terminal. A guard recognized him and immediately unlocked the security office.

“When did the bus arrive?”

“Six fourteen.”

“Show me.”

They searched the platform footage.

The camera covered the front doors and half the unloading area. Its view of the rear of the bus was blocked by a delivery truck. Daemon watched every passenger enter the terminal. Femi was not among them.

Again.

Daemon replayed it.

Nothing.

Again.

He replayed it.

Nothing.

Slow it down.

He did.

Nothing.

The Devil became restless.

Where is she?

“Other exits?” Daemon asked.

“One beside the restrooms.”

“Camera?”

“Broken.”

The Devil went silent. Daemon’s gray eyes lifted.

The guard paled.

“It’s been broken for weeks.”

Break him.

“No.”

The guard took a step backward. Daemon hadn’t realized he’d answered aloud.

He lost her.

“He didn’t lose her.”

His camera did.

“Then repair it.”

“Yes.”

“Now.”

The guard reached for the phone. Daemon left. The Devil followed him through Estermont like a second pulse.

Kitchen.

Daemon entered a restaurant.

“Have you seen her?”

No.

Motels.

He searched three.

Nothing.

Hospital.

Nothing.

Clinic.

Nothing.

Shelters.

Nothing.

Laundry.

Nothing.

Bakery.

Nothing.

The Devil grew quieter with every answer. Not calmer. Quieter. Daemon knew that silence. It was the silence that came before violence. Except there was no one to hurt. No enemy to find. No throat to close his hands around. No man hiding Femi behind a locked door.

Only strangers shaking their heads.

No.

At every stop, Daemon placed Femi’s photograph in front of someone.

“Have you seen her?”

Sometimes they answered quickly. Sometimes they stared at the scar on his face and struggled to speak. Daemon repeated the description until it became a prayer.

“Five feet tall. Green eyes. Midnight hair to her waist.”

The Devil corrected him.

Five-three.

Daemon stopped. The woman behind the counter stared at him.

He looked down at Femi’s photograph.

“Five-three.”

She hates when people call her tiny.

Something inside Daemon twisted.

“She is tiny.”

Not to us.

Daemon almost smiled. Almost. Then he forced himself to add the words that hurt most.

“She does not speak.”

The Devil recoiled.

She speaks.

Daemon went still.

The person across from him could not hear the argument happening beneath his skin.

“She is mute.”

She speaks.

“Not to them.”

She speaks to us.

Daemon looked away.

“Have you seen her?”

No.

At a diner near the edge of Estermont, an older cook studied the photograph for a long time. Daemon’s heart began pounding.

The Devil surged awake.

He knows her.

“You recognize her.”

“Maybe.”

Ask him when.

“When?”

The cook looked toward the kitchen.

“A little woman came through last week. Dark hair. Didn’t say much.”

Didn’t say much?

“Didn’t say much or didn’t speak?”

“I don’t know. She pointed at the menu.”

“Green eyes?”

“Could’ve been brown.”

Look at him.

Daemon did.

The cook shifted beneath the stare.

“Canvas bag?”

“I think so.”

Leather jacket.

“Leather jacket?”

The cook shook his head.

“Red coat.”

The Devil froze.

Daemon’s hope died as quickly as it had risen.

No.

“Did she have a scar on her cheek?”

“No.”

Not her.

Daemon took the photograph back.

“Not her.”

“You sure?”

The Devil bristled.

We know our little ghost.

“Yes.”

Daemon knew every mark Candi had left on Femi. He knew the faint scar near her temple. The small burn on her hand. The shape of the bruise that had once darkened her cheek. He knew how she tilted her head when confused and how her fingers touched her lips when she thought about kissing him.

She blushes first.

Daemon looked down at the photograph.

“Yes.”

Right here.

The Devil seemed to touch some remembered place along Femi’s cheek.

Then she looks away.

Daemon closed his eyes.

“Stop.”

The cook stared at him.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Daemon knew Femi. The Devil knew her too. What neither of them knew was where she had gone.

By nightfall, his contacts called one after another.

Nothing in Harlow.

No.

Nothing in Bellmere.

No.

Nothing in Rosemont.

The Devil stopped answering.

Nothing in Blackridge.

Silence.

Nothing in Norcaster.

Silence.

Nothing in Kingsway.

Daemon waited. The Devil said nothing. No shelter had her name. No hospital had treated her. No photograph had appeared on a security feed. No worker matching her description had asked for cash beneath the table. It was as though Femi had stepped off the bus and vanished between one breath and the next.

Daemon stood beside his motorcycle while the final call ended. He took her letter from inside his jacket. The paper had softened along the folds.

Be happy.

I know you can.

The Devil finally spoke.

Why would she write that?

Daemon stared at the words until they blurred.

“No.”

Why does she think we can be happy without her?

“You don’t know that.”

The empty road gave him no answer.

“You don’t know anything about what I can be without you.”

Nothing.

Daemon’s breath caught.

The Devil sounded broken.

We are nothing without her.

Daemon’s hand closed around the note.

“Don’t.”

She took the strawberries.

“Stop.”

She took her books.

“Devil.”

She took her jacket.

“Stop.”

The Devil whispered:

She left us.

Daemon crushed the note inside his fist.

“No.”

Silence.

Then the Devil whispered again. Not angry. Not possessive.

Hurt.

Why didn’t she want us?

Daemon stopped breathing. There it was. The question beneath everything. Not why Femi left. Not where she went. Not how they would find her. Why hadn’t she stayed?

Daemon unfolded the letter carefully, smoothing the wrinkles his hand had made.

“She wanted us.”

Then why?

“She thinks she’s hurting us.”

She isn’t.

“I know.”

She thinks we want another woman.

“I know.”

We don’t.

“I know.”

The Devil’s next whisper nearly disappeared beneath the passing truck.

I only want my little ghost.

Daemon folded the letter carefully and returned it to the pocket over his heart.

“So do I.”

Then he called Malone.

“Nothing,” Malone answered.

The exhaustion in his voice made the single word heavy.

“Estermont is empty,” Daemon said.

Told you.

“Tarpus too.”

“Have you heard from Marta?”

“She is driving back now.”

“Klenshire?”

“No one talked.”

“Someone always talks.”

“Not to outsiders.”

Daemon looked back toward Estermont.

“They did not see her.”

“You believe them?”

“I believe fear.”

Daemon’s hand tightened around the phone.

“What if she did not get off at any of them?”

“Then she continued toward Kingsway.”

“What if she got off and took another bus?”

Malone did not answer.

The Devil did.

She would.

Daemon went still.

“What if she changed her hair?” Daemon continued. “What if she left the jacket behind? What if she is using another name?”

She would.

“We knew those were possibilities.”

“What if she thinks we will use her photograph?”

Silence. Malone’s silence. Daemon’s silence.

And then the Devil:

She knows us.

Daemon closed his eyes.

That was the problem. Femi knew Daemon would search. She knew Malone had contacts. She knew Red could find people. She knew Marta would show her photograph to every person willing to look.

She knew the Devil would come.

She knew we’d come.

“Yes.”

So she prepared for us.

Daemon’s stomach dropped. Femi was quiet. She was not foolish. She had survived two years on the streets because she knew how to disappear. She knew how to sleep where no one looked, work without giving a name, and leave before anyone thought to remember her.

She had spent weeks preparing Helix for her absence. Perhaps she had prepared herself too.

The Devil whispered:

She wasn’t only saying goodbye.

Daemon opened his eyes.

She was planning how not to be found.

Pain ripped through him.

“Come home,” Malone said.

“I have three more places to check.”

“You have not slept.”

“Neither have you.”

“Come back to Helix, Daemon.”

“I cannot sit in that corner without her.”

The Devil whispered:

Her chair is there.

Daemon’s throat tightened.

Her books.

“Stop.”

Her glass.

“Devil.”

Her smell.

Daemon closed his eyes. His body ached from riding. His head pounded. He could still smell strawberries when the wind moved, though he knew it was only memory.

The Devil breathed it in anyway.

Little ghost.

“I’ll be there before morning.”

Marta was already waiting when Daemon entered Helix. A map covered his usual table. Malone stood behind it, marking their searches in red.

Klenshire.

Tarpus.

Estermont.

Three circles.

No answers.

Daemon removed his gloves.

“Anything?”

Marta shook her head.

“Klenshire would not tell me if the sun rose.”

Malone placed both hands on the table.

“My contacts found no trace in Tarpus.”

“Neither did mine.”

Daemon looked at the route. Seventeen stops remained between Ravenside and Kingsway. Seventeen places Femi could have disappeared.

Seventeen.

Marta touched one finger to the line connecting the towns.

“She could have gotten off anywhere.”

“She could have left the route entirely,” Malone said.

“She could be using another name,” Daemon added.

The Devil whispered:

Vale

Daemon’s eyes snapped toward the map.

Malone noticed.

“What?”

Daemon said nothing.

“She hates that name.”

That is why it would work.

Daemon stared at the towns.

Femi knew names could hide people.

She had lived beneath one before.

“Check Vale,” Daemon said.

Malone frowned.

“What?”

“Every shelter. Motel. Clinic. Job. Check the name Vale.”

Marta understood first.

“Yes.”

Her face hardened.

“She would never use that name.”

The Devil answered:

If she wanted us not to find her, she might.

Daemon hated the thought.

“She might.”

They fell silent.

Down the hall, her empty room waited. The kitchen held no warm bread. No coffee waited behind the bar. The linen shelves remained perfectly labeled in Femi’s handwriting. Everything she had left behind seemed designed to prove she had never intended to return.

The Devil looked through Daemon’s eyes. At the labels. At the clean shelves. At the little pieces of Femi everywhere.

She gave us a home before she left it.

Daemon’s jaw trembled once.

He stopped it.

Malone drew a line through the three towns they had searched.

The Devil erupted.

No.

Daemon caught Malone’s wrist.

“No.”

Malone looked at him.

“We found nothing.”

“That does not mean she was never there.”

Do not erase her.

Daemon stared at the red line.

The words struck deeper than they should have.

Don’t cross out places she might have stood.

Malone slowly lowered the marker. Daemon took it from him.

Circled the names again instead.

Klenshire.

Tarpus.

Estermont.

Again.

“We search them a second time if we reach Kingsway without finding her.”

Marta nodded.

“And a third.”

“Yes.”

Again.

Malone looked at the remaining stops.

“Seventeen towns.”

“Then we search seventeen towns,” Daemon said.

Every one.

“And if she is not in any of them?”

Daemon’s gray eyes settled on Femi’s photograph in the center of the map. The Devil looked at her too. Green eyes. Midnight hair. That small, almost uncertain smile. Their little ghost. The woman who had believed she could leave quietly enough that they would eventually learn how to live without her.

The Devil whispered:

She still doesn’t understand.

Daemon touched one finger to her photograph.

“No.”

Malone frowned.

“No what?”

Daemon never looked away from Femi.

“She doesn’t understand.”

“What?”

The Devil answered.

There is no place after her.

Daemon’s voice became quiet.

“Then we search eighteen.”

The Devil stirred beneath his skin.

And nineteen.

Daemon picked up his gloves.

And twenty.

He looked at the map.

And every road after that.

The hurt remained. So did the shock. But something else had begun growing around it. Something patient. Something relentless.

She gave everyone goodbye.

Daemon folded the map.

She gave us away.

He slipped Femi’s photograph into his jacket beside her letter.

The Devil curled around both.

Possessive.

Protective.

Wounded.

But she forgot something.

Daemon walked toward the door.

“What?”

For the first time in two days, the Devil almost sounded like itself.

We never accepted the gift.

Femi stuffed her leather jacket into the bottom of her bag. It was too recognizable. Too new. Too much like Daemon. She covered it with two shirts, a pair of jeans, and the photograph of Iris she kept wrapped inside an old scarf. Daemon’s note went into the smallest pocket, folded so many times the paper had begun to soften.

There is no someone else.

Femi closed the bag before the words could weaken her.

She wore the coat she had owned before Helix.

It was too large through the shoulders and too long in the sleeves. One pocket had been repaired with gray thread. The buttons did not match. When she pulled the hood over her midnight hair and lowered her face, she became another homeless woman trying to keep warm.

People looked through her.

That was what she needed.

She stayed in Vrane City long enough to earn another bus fare.

She washed dishes in a restaurant that paid cash at the end of each shift. She cleaned a tailor’s shop before dawn and swept the floor of a bakery after closing. The baker offered day-old bread instead of proper wages.

Femi accepted it.

She spent almost nothing. She slept wherever the city forgot to look—beneath a stairwell, inside an abandoned building, behind a laundromat that vented warm air into the alley.

She avoided shelters. She avoided clinics. She avoided every place Malone, Marta, or Daemon might think to search. Femi knew how people looked for missing women. They circulated photographs. They called hospitals. They questioned bus station employees. They searched the places where frightened people were supposed to seek help.

Femi went everywhere else.

When she finally had enough money, she returned to the bus terminal before sunrise and purchased her ticket using the name written on an old identification card Dai had once made for her.

Mira Dell.

The clerk barely looked at it.

“Vord City?”

Femi nodded.

“One way?”

Another nod.

The clerk printed the ticket and pushed it beneath the glass. Femi boarded without looking behind her. She took the final row and sat against the window. Her backpack remained in her lap, both arms wrapped around it.

The bus pulled away. Vrane City disappeared beneath a ceiling of dirty clouds.

One more city, Femi thought.

One more place between her and Wolfwater. One more bus Daemon would not know she had taken. Then she would be far enough away. Far enough that Candi would stop looking for her. Far enough that Daemon would stop hurting people because someone had frightened his little ghost. Far enough that he might finally meet a woman who could give him everything Femi could not.

The thought tore through her. Femi pressed her forehead against the cold window. She would not cry. She would not.

The chill from the glass spread through her skin until the ache in her chest became something distant.

Manageable.

She let the cold settle over her.

Femi did not sleep.

Every time her eyes closed, the past opened beneath them.

A raised hand. Blood spreading across a kitchen floor. A bedroom door moving in the darkness. Candi’s laughter. A stranger’s palm striking her face. Daemon’s bloody knuckles beneath her careful fingers.

Then Daemon himself, standing inside Helix with pale hair across his scar, watching her as though she were the only person in the room.

You, Femi.

Just you.

She opened her eyes.

The road stretched endlessly beneath the bus. At each stop, passengers climbed aboard carrying plastic bags, crying children, and exhausted expressions. Others stepped down into towns Femi had never seen. No one paid attention to the woman in the oversized coat at the back. That was the mercy of poverty.

People did not look closely at what they believed had no value.

By the second evening, the bus entered Vord City.

Its towers glittered in the distance, but none of that light reached the streets below. Tent communities filled abandoned lots. People slept beneath bridges, inside doorways, and along the walls of buildings whose upper floors remained empty. Shopping carts carried entire lives. Trash fires burned inside metal drums while children warmed their hands over the flames.

Vord City had millions of residents. Nearly half of them had nowhere permanent to sleep. No one asked who they were. No one asked where they had come from. The forgotten belonged to the streets, and the streets kept no records.

Femi watched the city through the window.

She could disappear here.

She only needed to reach Nygen Heights.

The district sat on the far side of Vord, where poverty had become so ordinary that the city government no longer pretended it intended to fix anything. Entire blocks of brownstones leaned into one another like exhausted bodies. Streetlights worked when they felt like it. Police entered in groups and left quickly. Femi had learned about Nygen Heights during her final foster placement. Dai had lived there ever since she ran away.

If she still lived there.

If she remembered Femi.

If she had meant the promise she made years ago.

If you ever get out, come find me.

Fifty-fifth and High.

Fourth floor. Apartment 162.

I’ll take care of you.

Femi had kept Dai’s address through four foster homes and two years on the streets. She had never intended to use it. Going to Dai meant placing someone else within reach of whatever followed her. But after three days without sleep, she could no longer feel her fingers. Her food was gone. She had little money left after the bus fare.

She needed somewhere to rest.

Only for one night, Femi promised herself.

Perhaps two.

Then she would leave again.

The Nygen Heights terminal smelled of rain, unwashed bodies, and fried food. Femi stepped off the bus with her bag over one shoulder. She moved with the crowd, keeping her head lowered beneath the oversized hood. No one waited for her. That should have made her feel safe. Instead, loneliness opened inside her so suddenly she nearly stopped walking.

For one terrible moment, Femi imagined Daemon standing beside his motorcycle beyond the terminal doors.

Black leather.

Pale hair.

Gray eyes fixed on her.

He would lean against the bike and pretend he had not spent days searching.

He would hold out her helmet.

Ready, little ghost?

Femi gripped her bag strap and walked faster. Daemon was not there. She had made sure he would not be.

Outside, Nygen Heights stretched in every direction.

Traffic lights changed over intersections no one respected. Music poured from open windows. Vendors sold food from carts beneath faded awnings. People argued on fire escapes and laughed on stoops. A man slept across the entrance to a closed pharmacy while pedestrians stepped around him without breaking conversation.

Femi took the paper from her pocket.

The ink had faded, but the address remained readable.

55th Street and High.
Fourth floor.
Apartment 162.
Dai Mercer.

She checked each street sign before continuing. The walk took almost an hour. The brownstone stood between a pawnshop and a market protected by metal bars. Its front steps were cracked. Three buzzers were missing from the entrance panel, and someone had scratched profanity across the mailboxes.

Femi found apartment 162.

The name beside it read D. MERCER.

Her hand hovered over the buzzer. What if Dai had forgotten her? What if someone else answered? What if the foster father had found Dai years ago? What if Femi brought danger to the only person who had once tried to protect her?

She almost walked away. Her legs carried her down two steps before the exhaustion stopped her. Femi returned and pressed the buzzer. Nothing happened. She pressed it again.

A man’s voice came through the damaged speaker.

“Who is it?”

Femi stared at the metal box. She could not answer. The silence stretched.

“Hello?”

She pressed the button twice. The lock buzzed. Femi caught the door before it closed. The lobby smelled of boiled cabbage and old pipes. She stepped around a broken stroller and entered the elevator. It protested all the way to the fourth floor.

Apartment 162 stood at the end of the hall.

Femi knocked softly. No answer. She knocked again. Locks shifted on the other side. The door opened three inches, held by a chain. Sharp blue eyes appeared through the gap.

They widened.

The chain fell loose.

The door opened fully.

“Femi?”

Dai had changed.

The girl Femi remembered had been thin and angry, with uneven black hair she cut herself using kitchen scissors. The woman standing before her was five feet five, dressed in dark slacks and a cream sweater. Her black hair was short and shaped neatly around her face.

Her blue eyes remained the same. Sharp enough to cut through lies. Soft only when they found Femi.

“Oh, God.”

Dai pulled her inside and locked the door.

“Femi, what happened to you?”

Femi stepped back before Dai could embrace her. Dai stopped immediately. She lowered her arms.

“Right. Sorry.”

Femi stared at her. Dai remembered. That nearly broke her.

“Come in,” Dai said quietly. “You don’t have to explain anything.”

The apartment was small but clean.

A green sofa faced a television. Plants crowded the windowsill. Books filled a shelf beside the radiator. A narrow table stood near the kitchen with two chairs that did not match. It was not Helix. There was no music pounding through the floor. No garlic roasting in the kitchen. No Malone complaining about towels. No Marta pretending she could not cook. No Daemon waiting in a dark corner. Femi pulled out her notepad. Her fingers trembled as she wrote.

How are you, Dai?

Dai read the question and laughed once, though her eyes shone.

“You travel across half the country looking like you haven’t slept in a year, and you ask how I am?”

Femi waited.

Dai’s smile softened.

“I’m good. Better than I thought I would be.”

She gestured toward the apartment.

“I work at a hotel. The pay is decent. The manager is a bastard, but he is a predictable bastard. I can survive predictable.”

Femi nodded.

“I never stopped wondering about you.”

Femi looked down.

“I wrote until they started returning the letters.”

Dai sat at the table without moving closer.

“They said you had been transferred. No forwarding address. I tried calling the county, but no one would tell me where they sent you.”

Femi wrote slowly.

Another home.

“Was it safe?”

Femi hesitated. Then she shrugged. Dai’s jaw tightened.

“That means no.”

Femi did not correct her.

“You can stay here,” Dai said. “As long as you need.”

Femi shook her head immediately.

“Yes.”

Another sharp shake.

“Femi.”

Femi wrote.

Only two nights.

“We will argue about that after you eat.”

I can pay.

Dai took the notepad from her.

“No.”

Femi frowned.

“You protected my dinner every night for nine months because the foster mother used food as punishment. You did my homework after I worked late. You cleaned the blood off my face when he caught me trying to leave.”

Dai placed the notepad on the table.

“You owe me nothing.”

Femi stared at her.

“You came.”

Dai’s voice became unsteady.

“You actually came.”

Femi’s eyes burned. She blinked until the tears retreated. Dai saw her doing it and looked away, giving her the privacy of pretending she had not.

“There’s soup,” Dai said. “And bread. Store-bought, unfortunately. I never learned how to make yours.”

Femi removed her coat. Dai’s eyes moved over her frame, the worn clothes, and the bruised exhaustion beneath her eyes. Her expression changed. She did not ask.

Not yet.

She simply opened the refrigerator.

Femi slept for four hours.

It was the longest she had slept since leaving Helix. She awoke on Dai’s sofa with a blanket tucked around her and a chair braced beneath the apartment door. Dai remembered that too. Femi stared at the chair until the room blurred.

She reached into her bag and found Daemon’s note.

There is no someone else.

Her thumb moved over his name.

She imagined him seated in his corner, raising two fingers for a drink she would never carry to him again. Perhaps another waitress had learned not to fear his frown. Perhaps he had taken someone else riding. Perhaps he was already forgetting the smell of strawberries.

Femi pressed the note against her chest.

Then she returned it to the bag.

Dai had the next two days free.

She spent the first letting Femi rest.

On the second, she took her through Nygen Heights.

“Never walk beneath the eastern rail line alone,” Dai warned. “The shops on Mercer are safe until midnight. Avoid the clinic on Sixty-Second unless you are dying. They sell patient information.”

Femi looked sharply at her.

“Yes,” Dai said. “That includes information about people asking questions.”

Femi’s steps slowed.

Dai noticed.

“Is someone looking for you?”

Femi shook her head too quickly.

“Bad lie.”

Femi pulled her hood farther forward.

“Do you need protection?”

Another shake.

“Are you running from a man?”

Femi stopped. Her mind filled with gray eyes. A scar beneath pale hair. A crooked smile. Daemon whispering, a little ghost against her lips.

She wrote:

No.

That, at least, was true. She was not running from Daemon. She was running from the blood loving her might place on his hands. Dai studied the answer before letting it go.

“All right. When you want to tell me, you will.”

They continued walking.

Dai showed her the market, the safer laundromat, and the narrow restaurant that served enormous bowls of soup for very little money. She introduced her to the woman who ran the corner store but used the false name from Femi’s identification.

“This is Mira,” Dai said.

Femi felt the lie settle over her like the old coat.

Heavy.

Uncomfortable.

Necessary.

The Hidden Fantasy Hotel stood six blocks beyond Dai’s apartment.

It did not belong in Nygen Heights.

The building rose twenty stories above the surrounding brownstones, its dark glass reflecting a city far more beautiful than the one beneath it. Gold letters curved over the entrance. Uniformed doormen opened car doors for guests who never looked across the street.

“What kind of hotel is it?” Dai had asked when she first applied.

The manager told her it was the kind where wealthy people paid for the privilege of pretending the world outside did not exist.

Inside, everything glittered.

Dai took Femi along the public walkway beside the building. Through the ballroom windows, chandeliers burned above white tables and polished floors. Employees arranged flowers for an event scheduled that evening. Femi stopped. One of the workers struggled to lift a heavy centerpiece onto a table. Another folded napkins incorrectly and threw them aside.

Femi watched for several moments.

Dai smiled.

“I recognize that look.”

Femi glanced at her.

“You want to fix it.”

Femi shook her head.

“You absolutely want to fix it.”

A silent laugh moved through Femi’s shoulders. Dai’s expression softened.

“There you are.”

Femi looked away. Dai pointed toward the lower level of the hotel.

“I work in housekeeping. They need people in laundry, kitchens, and banquet setup. The work is hard, which means half the staff quits.”

Femi wrote:

They will hire me?

“They hired me.”

I cannot speak.

“The laundry supervisor cannot hear. The executive chef communicates by throwing spoons. You will fit in beautifully.”

Femi smiled.

“I can get you an interview tomorrow.”

Femi looked through the glass again. Employees moved beneath the chandeliers, creating beauty for strangers who would never know their names. Work she understood. Work did not ask why she left. Work did not ask whom she loved.

Femi nodded.

“Yes?”

She nodded again. Dai linked her fingers behind her back, careful not to touch without permission.

“Good. You stay with me until you have enough money for your own place.”

Femi started writing.

“Do not say two nights.”

Femi crossed out the words. Dai looked pleased. They continued past the ballroom windows. Femi glanced at her reflection in the glass. The oversized coat hid her body. The hood covered most of her hair. Exhaustion had hollowed her face until she barely recognized the woman looking back.

No one searching for Malone’s daughter would see her. No one searching for Daemon’s little ghost would find her.

Here, she would be Mira Dell.

A silent woman working in the forgotten district of a city filled with millions of forgotten people. One more city, Femi had promised herself. Nygen Heights would be the last. She would disappear here. She would work. She would survive. And eventually, she would learn how to live without looking for the Devil in every shadow.

Femi followed Dai toward home. Behind them, music began inside the ballroom. Femi did not hear the motorcycle that passed along High Street.

It was black.

Its rider wore a leather jacket and carried Femi’s photograph inside his pocket. He continued through Nygen Heights without turning his head.

For the moment, the city kept her secret.

Her name was no longer Femi Vale.

Femi Vale belonged to Malone.

She carried Jack Daniel’s to a dark corner of Helix and watched gray eyes follow her through the smoke. She baked bread at nine and cooked dinner at ten. She wore a black leather jacket on the back of Daemon’s motorcycle and pressed her face between his shoulder blades when he rode too fast.

Femi Vale was loved. Femi Vale was being searched for. So Femi Vale could not exist here. In Nygen Heights, her name was Mira Dell. Dai helped her practice answering to it.

“Mira.”

Femi looked up.

“Too slow,” Dai said. “Again. Mira.”

This time she responded immediately.

“Good.”

Dai held out the forged identification card.

Femi accepted it.

The woman pictured on the card looked nothing like the girl who had arrived at Helix. Her midnight hair was hidden beneath a hood. Exhaustion had sharpened her face. The old coat made her body disappear inside it.

MIRA DELL.

Twenty-one years old.

No permanent address.

No family.

Dai had prepared everything. She had even written a glowing recommendation on heavy cream paper bearing the name of a small restaurant that had closed two years earlier. Femi read it at the kitchen table.

Miss Dell is an exceptionally skilled and dependable worker. She demonstrates remarkable instincts in the kitchen, maintains an immaculate workstation, and remains calm under pressure.

Femi’s eyebrows rose. Dai continued drinking her coffee.

She is experienced in preparing meals for large groups and can adapt recipes for allergies, dietary restrictions, and available ingredients.

Femi looked over the paper.

Dai avoided her eyes.

Miss Dell communicates primarily through writing and gestures. This has never prevented her from working effectively with others.

Femi tapped the final paragraph.

I would rehire Miss Dell without hesitation. Any kitchen fortunate enough to employ her will quickly discover her value.

Femi looked at Dai.

“What?”

Femi pointed at the page and then at herself.

“Every word is true.”

Femi wrote on her notepad.

You have never seen me work in a kitchen.

“I lived with you for years off and on. I watched you turn three bruised apples and stolen oatmeal into something six hungry girls could eat.”

Femi stared at her.

“You also made that soup when everyone got sick.”

It was terrible.

“It kept us alive.”

That does not make it good.

“No, but I have tasted your cooking now.”

Dai leaned forward.

“You made dinner last night from half an onion, old carrots, and something in my freezer I was afraid to identify. It was the best thing I have eaten all year.”

Femi’s silent laughter shook her shoulders.

“Besides, the recommendation only gets you through the door. The cooking test gets you the job.”

Dai folded the letter and placed it inside a clean envelope.

“And you can cook anything.”

Femi’s smile faded. She looked toward the bag beneath the table. Inside it waited Daemon’s note. At Helix, he had watched her cook through the service window. Sometimes he leaned against the kitchen wall and pretended he had come for coffee. Most times, he said nothing. He simply stayed near her.

Dai snapped her fingers.

“Mira.”

Femi looked up.

“You disappeared.”

Femi shook her head.

“Yes, you did.”

Dai slid the envelope toward her.

“Wherever you went, come back. You have an interview in two hours.”

The Hidden Fantasy Hotel’s service entrance looked nothing like its grand lobby.

There were no chandeliers.

No polished marble.

No doorman waiting beneath a gold awning.

Employees entered through a steel door in an alley crowded with delivery trucks and laundry carts. The hallway beyond smelled of coffee, bleach, and roasting meat.

Dai wore her housekeeping uniform beneath a dark coat. She remained close without touching Femi.

“You’ll be fine.”

Femi adjusted the collar of the plain black shirt Dai had loaned her. Her old coat and canvas bag remained at the apartment. Her leather jacket was still buried at the bottom of the bag. Today, there could be nothing of Femi Vale.

Only Mira Dell.

Dai led her through the lower level of the hotel.

Employees hurried in every direction. Housekeepers pushed linen carts toward the elevators. Porters carried luggage through hidden corridors. A florist argued with a banquet manager over three hundred white roses.

The kitchen occupied most of the eastern wing.

It was enormous.

Rows of steel worktables stood beneath bright lights. Copper pans hung above the central aisle. Ovens lined one wall, while walk-in refrigerators consumed another. Cooks moved between stations with the careful speed of people who had learned that one mistake could ruin an entire evening.

Femi stopped at the threshold.

Her eyes moved over everything.

The knife racks.

The preparation sinks.

The proofing cabinets.

The shelves of spices labeled in three languages.

A place for everything.

Everything in its place.

Her fingers twitched.

Dai noticed.

“You want to clean it.”

Femi pointed toward a stack of bowls that had been placed on the wrong shelf.

“And reorganize it,” Dai amended.

A broad man in a white chef’s coat approached them. He looked at Dai, then at Femi.

“This is your recommendation?”

“Her name is Mira Dell.”

His eyes swept over Femi.

“She looks twelve.”

Femi’s expression flattened.

Dai smiled.

“She is twenty one, Chef.”

“Does she speak?”

“No.”

His attention sharpened.

“How will she communicate during service?”

Femi removed her notepad and wrote:

Clearly.

She turned it toward him.

The chef stared at the word.

Then he laughed.

“All right, Miss Dell. Come with me.”

Dai squeezed Femi’s shoulder once.

“I’ll be upstairs.”

Femi caught her wrist before she could leave. Dai looked at the small hand holding her.

“You do not need me for this.”

Femi’s fingers tightened. Dai lowered her voice.

“But I’m not going anywhere.”

Femi released her. Dai walked backward for several steps.

“Make them regret ever eating food before today.”

The chef frowned after her.

“Is she always like that?”

Femi nodded.

“Unfortunate.”

The interview lasted seven minutes.

The chef glanced through Dai’s recommendation and asked questions while Femi wrote her answers.

Where had she trained?

Restaurants. Private kitchens. Wherever work was available.

Could she follow written recipes?

Yes.

Could she prepare food for hundreds of guests?

If the kitchen is properly organized.

The chef’s eyebrows rose.

“Is mine not properly organized?”

Femi looked toward the misplaced bowls. The chef followed her gaze. He sighed.

“Those belong on the third shelf.”

Femi nodded.

“I have been telling them that for two weeks.”

He closed the folder.

“The cooking test matters more than this.”

He led her through a set of swinging doors into a smaller demonstration kitchen. Two people waited inside. A severe woman in a navy suit sat at the table beside a silver-haired man wearing a beautifully tailored gray coat.

“The hotel president,” the chef explained. “And the owner.”

Femi stopped.

The owner studied her.

“This is the young woman from the recommendation?”

“Yes.”

“She cannot speak?”

“No.”

Femi set her notepad on the worktable.

The president examined her closely.

“Is that going to be a problem?”

The chef looked at Femi.

“That depends upon whether she can cook.”

He gestured toward the ingredients arranged across the counter.

It was Wednesday.

Every Wednesday, the hotel hosted a private afternoon celebration for a long-standing group of patrons. This week, they had requested something resembling the meals they remembered from childhood. Nothing extravagant. Nothing arranged into towers or decorated with edible flowers.

They wanted homestyle cooking.

The chef indicated the meat, root vegetables, flour, yeast, herbs, and stock.

“You have three hours.”

Femi examined the ingredients.

“What will you prepare?” the owner asked.

She wrote:

Bread and stew.

The president looked unimpressed.

“That is rather simple.”

Femi met her eyes.

Then she wrote another sentence.

Simple food exposes every mistake.

The chef smiled.

“Begin.”

Mira Dell disappeared the moment Femi touched the flour. Names no longer mattered. Neither did cities. There was only the dough beneath her hands. She bloomed yeast in warm water and added salt, oil, and flour by touch. The measuring cups remained untouched.

The chef noticed.

“You do not measure?”

Femi shook her head.

“That could become a problem.”

She continued kneading. Her hands remembered. At Helix, she had baked by instinct while Malone complained that she never made enough. Regulars arrived early when they smelled bread. Marta stole the ends while claiming she was checking whether it had baked properly.

Daemon never stole anything. He stood near the oven and waited until Femi placed a warm piece in his hand. Her fingers stopped in the dough.

“Mira?” the chef called.

Femi forced herself to continue. Mira Dell had never cooked for Daemon. She browned the roast meat in batches, refusing to crowd the pan. She built flavor from onions and garlic, then added carrots, potatoes, celery, herbs, and stock.

The stew simmered while the dough rose. Femi cleared each tool as she finished with it. She wiped the counters between tasks and returned every ingredient to its proper place.

The chef stopped questioning her. After the first hour, he began watching. After the second, the president moved closer. The owner stole a piece of roasted meat from the resting tray.

Femi slapped the back of his hand with a wooden spoon.

The room went silent.

The owner stared at her.

Femi stared back.

Slowly, he began to laugh.

“No one has done that to me in twenty years.”

She pointed toward the dining table.

“Yes, Chef,” he said, still laughing.

The president looked at the owner.

“You obeyed her.”

“She had the spoon.”

At the end of three hours, Femi placed the meal before them.

The bread was golden, its crust crisp beneath her knife. Steam rose from the soft interior as she divided the loaf. The stew was rich and dark, crowded with tender roast meat and vegetables that retained their shape. She added no elaborate garnish. Only a little fresh parsley and a dish of butter beside the bread.

The chef tasted the stew first. His expression became unreadable. The president lifted her spoon. The owner tore the bread apart with his hands. No one spoke. Femi stood beside the worktable and waited. The chef took a second bite. Then another. The president used her bread to gather the last of the broth from her bowl. The owner served himself twice. All three cleaned their plates.

The owner leaned back.

“That tasted like my mother’s kitchen.”

The president looked into her empty bowl.

“My grandmother used to make something similar.”

The chef lifted the remaining half loaf.

“You made this without measuring.”

Femi nodded.

“How?”

She considered the question before writing:

The dough tells you what it needs.

The chef read the answer twice.

Then he looked toward the main kitchen.

“Station seven is empty.”

The president turned toward him.

“You are hiring her?”

“I am giving her a trial.”

The owner shook his head.

“You ate three bowls.”

“Two.”

“You scraped the pot.”

The chef ignored him and addressed Femi.

“You begin Wednesday. Seven in the morning. Station seven belongs to you.”

Femi blinked. Her own station.

“You will assist with breads, soups, sauces, and the staff meal until I know what else you can do.”

Femi nodded quickly.

“Keep it clean.”

Her eyebrows rose.

The chef followed her gaze toward the misplaced bowls visible through the doorway.

“I will have someone move them.”

Femi held out her hand.

The chef studied it before shaking.

“Welcome to the Hidden Fantasy, Miss Dell.”

Dai was waiting outside the employee entrance when Femi finished.

“Well?”

Femi attempted to appear disappointed. Dai’s smile disappeared.

“They said no?”

Femi lowered her head.

“That blind bastard. I will go back in there and explain exactly what they have lost.”

Femi held up seven fingers.

Dai stopped.

“Seven?”

Femi pointed toward the hotel and mimed working.

“Seven in the morning?”

Femi nodded.

“You got the job?”

Another nod. Dai screamed. People in the alley turned. Femi’s shoulders shook with silent laughter as Dai danced around her.

“I knew it. I told you.”

Femi showed her seven fingers again and pointed toward herself.

“Station seven?”

She nodded.

“Your own station?”

Femi nodded harder. Dai’s excitement softened into something warmer. She opened her arms but waited. Femi stepped into them. Dai held her carefully at first. When Femi did not stiffen, her embrace tightened.

“We have to celebrate.”

Femi shook her head against Dai’s shoulder.

“Yes, we do. We are buying dessert from that bakery on High.”

Femi pulled out her notepad.

Too expensive.

“I have money.”

I have money too.

“Then you can buy dinner.”

Femi narrowed her eyes.

“Fine. You can cook dinner. I will buy dessert.”

They walked home carrying a small strawberry cake between them. Dai lit a candle because it was the only one she could find. She placed it in the center of the cake and raised her glass of cheap sparkling wine.

“To Mira Dell,” she said.

Femi looked down. The name still felt borrowed. Dai lowered her glass.

“No. That is not enough.”

She reached across the table and held out her hand. Femi placed her fingers inside it.

“To the girl I lost,” Dai said. “And the woman who found her way back.”

Femi’s eyes burned.

“We were sisters once.”

Femi nodded.

“We are sisters again.”

Dai tightened her hand around hers.

“Welcome home, Mira.”

Home.

The word entered quietly. It did not sound like Helix. It did not smell like whiskey, leather, or bread baking at nine. It did not contain a dark corner where the Devil waited for her to approach. But it was warm. It was safe. For the first time since leaving Ravenside, Femi allowed herself to cry. Dai moved beside her and held her without asking for an explanation.

On the table, the candle burned low.

Inside her canvas bag, Daemon’s letter remained hidden beneath the name Femi Vale.

At the Hidden Fantasy Hotel, station seven waited for Mira Dell.

And for now, the difference between those two women was enough to keep her concealed.

Mira Dell worked at the Hidden Fantasy Hotel for one month before the kitchen began changing around her. It started with the bowls. She moved them to the correct shelf on her third morning. No one complained.

Then she reorganized the spices, labeled the flour bins, and created separate spaces for ingredients used in allergy-safe meals. She sharpened the neglected knives and left notes explaining which cutting boards belonged to meat, vegetables, and bread.

By the end of the first month, the kitchen was cleaner.

Quieter.

More organized.

Even the chef admitted service moved faster.

“Do not become arrogant,” he warned when he found her reorganizing the soup station.

Mira looked at him. Then she pointed toward the pot he had left uncovered. The chef replaced the lid.

“You remain irritating.”

Her silent laugh followed him across the kitchen. Station seven became the heart of every banquet. If the hotel hosted a wedding, Mira made the sauces. If a political dinner required five hundred rolls, Mira handled the bread. If a wealthy guest demanded something comforting at two in the morning, the order found its way to her.

The staff found reasons to gather around her workstation whenever she cooked. Porters appeared to ask whether a cabinet needed repairing. Housekeepers stopped by to return dishes that did not belong to them. Security guards discovered urgent reasons to inspect the kitchen precisely when Mira removed bread from the oven.

One evening, she turned away from a tray of roasted potatoes for less than a minute. When she looked back, half of them were missing.

Mira stared across the kitchen.

Six employees suddenly became fascinated by the walls. The chef entered chewing. His gaze moved over the suspiciously innocent group.

“Mira, you should watch your station.”

She pointed toward his mouth. The chef swallowed.

“Unrelated.”

Mira folded her arms.

“You cannot prove anything.”

She lifted the empty serving spoon. The employees scattered. For a few moments, Mira laughed so hard she had to hold the counter. The kitchen became still. Everyone watched the rare, silent joy moving through her.

Then the chef clapped once.

“Return to work. All of you.”

The moment passed.

But Mira carried its warmth home.

Joe appeared during her second month. He worked in hotel maintenance and seemed incapable of entering the kitchen without finding a reason to stop at station seven.

The first time, he came to repair the refrigerator door.

The second time, he inspected a light that was not broken.

The third time, he arrived carrying a wrench and no clear purpose.

Mira looked from the wrench to the ceiling.

Joe followed her gaze.

“Preventive maintenance.”

She raised one eyebrow.

“You cannot wait until something breaks.”

Mira pointed toward the loose handle on the pantry. Joe glanced at it.

“I was getting to that.”

She handed him a screwdriver. Joe smiled. He was a pleasant-looking man with warm brown eyes and dark hair that never remained combed. He spoke gently, kept his distance, and never tried to touch Mira to gain her attention. That alone made him easier to tolerate than most men. He learned quickly that she could read lips when he faced her and that her silence did not mean she could not understand him.

“What are you making?”

Mira pointed toward the soup.

“I see soup. What kind?”

She wrote:

The kind you will not get if you continue distracting me.

Joe read the note.

“So there is a chance I will get some?”

Mira turned back to the stove. Joe considered that encouragement. Dai did not. She encountered him outside the employee entrance one evening while he waited for Mira’s shift to end.

“You are Joe.”

“I am.”

“I have heard about you.”

His smile widened.

“She talks about me?”

“Mira does not talk.”

Joe’s expression fell.

Dai folded her arms.

“She ended a difficult relationship before coming here.”

Joe looked toward the service door.

“She tell you that?”

“She did not need to.”

“Did he hurt her?”

Dai studied him.

“No.”

“Then why did it end?”

“That is not your business.”

Joe nodded.

“Fair.”

“She is not looking for another man.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

Dai waited.

Joe shoved his hands into his pockets.

“I’ll be careful.”

“That was not the conclusion you were supposed to reach.”

“She doesn’t seem afraid of me.”

“She does not seem interested in you either.”

“I have time.”

Dai stepped closer.

“If you make her uncomfortable, your time will become significantly shorter.”

Joe looked down at her.

“You’re scary.”

“Remember that.”

The service door opened. Mira stepped outside and looked between them. Dai smiled sweetly.

“Joe was leaving.”

“I was offering to walk Mira home.”

“No, you were not.”

Mira’s hands moved.

I can walk myself.

Both of them answered at once.

“No.”

Mira stared at them. Joe rubbed the back of his neck. Dai sighed. Mira walked away while they were still arguing.

After that, Joe stopped waiting outside. He did not stop visiting her station. He repaired every loose hinge in the kitchen. He replaced the flickering light above the preparation sink and built a small shelf for Mira’s notepads so they would remain clean and dry.

He flirted.

Badly.

Mira responded with patient amusement. He told her she had beautiful eyes. She handed him a leaking faucet. He asked whether she liked flowers. She gave him a list of broken appliances. Joe accepted the list.

“Eventually, I am going to ask you to dinner.”

Mira wrote:

Eventually, I will give you more work.

Joe grinned.

“That is not a no.”

It was not a yes either.

Mira did not look at Joe the way she had looked at Daemon. Joe’s smile did not make her heart misbehave. His hands did not make her think about scarred knuckles beneath white bandages. When his shadow fell across her station, she did not feel the room disappear around them.

Joe was kind.

Daemon was something else.

Something she had crossed cities to escape and still carried inside her.

Summer arrived during Mira’s fourth month in Nygen Heights.

The heat settled between the buildings and remained after sunset. Fire hydrants sprayed water into the streets. Children ran barefoot through the streams while music poured from open windows.

The hotel entered its busiest season. Mira worked a fourteen-hour banquet shift and arrived home shortly after midnight with flour on her black trousers and exhaustion dragging at every step. The moment she entered the brownstone, she knew something was wrong.

Dai stood inside her apartment with the lights off. She pulled Mira through the door and locked it behind her. Then she replaced the chair beneath the handle. Her blue eyes were wet.

“Someone came looking for you.”

Mira stopped breathing. Dai caught both her hands.

“They had your photograph.”

Mira’s knees weakened.

“Not Mira’s photograph. Yours.”

Daemon. The thought struck first. Then came Candi.

Mira pulled one hand free.

Who?

“A man wearing a leather vest. Big. Beard. He stayed near the stairs while a woman spoke to me.”

Mira’s hands moved urgently.

What woman?

“I think he called her Marta.”

Mira went still.

Dai noticed.

“You know her.”

Mira nodded.

“They showed me your picture and asked whether I had seen you. I said no.”

Dai released her and began pacing.

“I told them I had lived here for years and would remember you. The woman looked at me like she knew I was lying.”

Mira could imagine Marta’s stare. It had stripped lies from men twice Dai’s size.

“She asked whether I knew anyone from the foster home where you lived. I told her most of us scattered.”

Dai reached into her pocket and placed a card on the table. Malone’s name was printed across it. Beneath his number, Marta had written three words. She is family. Mira covered her mouth. Tears blurred the card.

“They are still searching,” Dai whispered. “After four months, they are still looking for you.”

Mira sank into a chair. She had believed they would stop. Malone had a business to run. Marta had her own life. Daemon would hurt for a while, but eventually he would accept what she had done. He would understand that she had left because he deserved peace.

Four months should have been enough. It had not been enough. Dai crouched in front of her.

“Do they want to hurt you?”

Mira shook her head.

“Then who does?”

Mira hesitated.

“Is it the woman you mentioned? Candi?”

Mira’s fingers moved slowly.

Maybe.

“Maybe?”

She has sent people before.

Dai’s expression sharpened.

“To hurt you?”

Mira nodded.

“What did these people want?”

They want me to go back.

“Home?”

The word broke something inside her. Mira nodded. Dai’s fear softened into confusion.

“Why can’t you?”

Mira stared at Malone’s card. Her hands trembled as she answered.

They will be hurt if I return.

“By Candi?”

By anyone who wants to hurt me.

“That is not the same thing.”

Mira shook her head.

People bleed when they protect me.

Tears spilled down her cheeks.

Daemon hurts people. Malone destroys people. Marta fights. It keeps happening because of me.

“Mira—”

Femi.

Dai stopped. Femi touched her own chest. Here, inside this locked apartment, she could admit the name.

Femi.

Dai’s eyes filled.

Femi’s hands moved again.

They were good to me.

Her breathing broke.

Malone gave me a room. Marta called me family. Daemon—

Her hands stopped. She had no sign for what Daemon had become. No motion large enough to contain him. Dai moved closer.

“What about Daemon?”

Femi shook her head. Dai opened her arms. That was all it took. Femi fell into them. Her grief remained silent, but it was not gentle. Her entire body shook. Her fingers clutched Dai’s shirt while months of buried longing tore through her. She cried for Malone and his terrible cooking. For Marta and the floral sheets she hated. For Helix’s music, its smoke, and the regulars gathering at nine because they knew Femi would feed them.

Most of all, she cried for the man in the dark corner.

Dai held her tighter and stroked her hair.

“I’ve got you.”

Femi shook harder.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

Dai repeated the words until Femi had no tears left.

They sat on the floor long after midnight. Dai brought water. Femi drank with both hands around the glass.

“Tell me about Wolfwater.”

Femi looked exhausted.

“Slowly,” Dai said. “You don’t have to tell me everything tonight.”

So Femi told her in pieces. She told Dai about Malone finding her behind Helix. About the room and her first night working in the clubhouse. She told her about Marta’s anger and the way it always made room for love. Then she told her about Daemon. His dark corner. His gray eyes. His motorcycle. The first time he complimented her boots and nearly forgot how to speak. The day he took her to Eastgate and bought her a jacket. The way he waited when she was afraid. The way he asked permission before holding her.

The way he called her his little ghost. The way he had written that there was no one else. Dai listened without interrupting. When Femi finally stopped, Dai asked one question.

“Did you love him?”

Femi shrugged.

The movement fooled neither of them.

I liked him.

Dai remained silent. Femi continued.

He is the most beautiful man I know.

The tears returned.

Dai began crying too.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

Femi wiped angrily at her cheeks.

“That Candi woman is the threat. Not you.”

Femi shook her head.

“What if you are what he loves?”

Another shake.

He deserves better.

“Better than what?”

Someone who can speak.

Dai frowned.

Someone who can make noise. Someone without all these problems.

Femi’s hands became sharper as the familiar cruelty turned inward.

Someone beautiful like he is.

“Stop.”

Femi looked at her.

“Do not speak about my sister that way.”

Femi lowered her hands.

“You think silence makes you less of a woman?”

Femi looked away.

“Did he ever say that?”

No.

“Did he ever call you stupid?”

No.

“Did he ever make you feel ashamed because you couldn’t speak?”

Femi shook her head.

“Then those are not his thoughts. They belong to the people who hurt you.”

Dai took her hands.

“Stop placing their words in his mouth.”

Femi pulled one hand free and reached for her backpack. She removed the photograph she kept beside Iris’s. Malone stood in the center, looking annoyed with the camera. Marta stood beside him with one hand on her hip. Daemon stood behind them. Black leather covered his broad shoulders. Pale hair fell across the scar on his cheek. His expression was severe, but his gray eyes were turned away from the camera. They were watching Femi.

Dai stared at the photograph.

“This is Daemon?”

Femi nodded. Dai brought the picture closer.

“No wonder you don’t even look at Joe.”

Femi blushed.

“You have a very beautiful man.”

He is not mine.

“Sweetheart, according to everything you just told me, he is walking around telling people he belongs to you.”

Femi’s face became crimson. Dai laughed through her remaining tears.

“He wrote there was no one else. He said he was yours as long as you wanted him. He searched across several cities and sent Marta into Nygen Heights carrying your photograph.”

Dai tapped Daemon’s image.

“That man wants to be yours.”

Femi took the photograph and looked down at him. His hair hid part of his face. She remembered pushing it aside. Remembered the way his eyes closed when she touched him. The way his body stilled when she kissed his scar.

Wanting me is not the same as needing me, she signed.

“No,” Dai agreed. “But he already told you what he needs.”

Femi’s eyes lifted.

What?

Dai took Malone’s card from the table and placed it beside Daemon’s photograph.

“You.”

The apartment became painfully quiet. Femi touched Daemon’s face in the picture. Four months had passed. He was still looking.

“He did not replace you,” Dai said gently. “He did not forget.”

Femi closed her eyes. Dai did not tell her to return. She did not reach for the number on Malone’s card. She only sat beside her sister while Femi held the photograph against her heart.

Outside, Nygen Heights remained loud and restless.

Inside apartment 162, Mira Dell began to understand something Femi Vale had been too frightened to believe.

The Devil had not been searching for someone better.

He had been searching for her.

It was the fifth month when Daemon saw Femi.

He had stopped believing every small woman with dark hair was her.

The first month, he followed strangers through bus terminals and crowded markets. He chased a woman across three blocks in Estermont because the movement of her braid reminded him of Femi.

Her.

Daemon ran.

Little ghost.

The woman turned.

Brown eyes.

Wrong face.

The Devil recoiled.

No.

The second month taught him to stop running.

The Devil never learned.

Her.

“No.”

There.

“Too tall.”

That one.

“Wrong hair.”

Look.

“I looked.”

Again.

Every mistake hurt.

By the fourth month, Daemon no longer raised his head for every glimpse of midnight hair.

The Devil did.

Always.

Look.

“No.”

Daemon.

“No.”

Look.

Until even the Devil began to whisper less.

Then Daemon rode into Nygen Heights and saw her walking down Fifty-Seventh Street.

He almost kept riding.

Dark hair.

Small woman.

Another stranger.

Look.

Daemon didn’t.

Daemon.

He slowed.

Look.

Something in the Devil’s voice made him turn his head.

And the world stopped.

Femi.

The Devil vanished into absolute silence.

Daemon forgot how to breathe.

She was beside a woman with short black hair and sharp blue eyes. Both wore uniforms. The woman wore the dark green of the Hidden Fantasy Hotel’s housekeeping staff.

Femi wore green trousers and a white chef’s coat. Her hair was longer. She had braided it down her back, but the end still brushed near her knees. She carried a cloth bag filled with bread and walked with her head tilted toward her companion.

Daemon could not move.

The Devil could not speak.

Five months.

Five months of:

Not her.

Five months of:

Again.

Five months of:

Find her.

Five months of waking with Femi’s letter over his heart.

Five months of the Devil asking the same question when Daemon was too exhausted to stop it.

Why didn’t she want us?

Now she was there. Alive. Walking beneath the morning sun. The woman beside Femi said something. Femi laughed. Silently. Her shoulders shook in the way Daemon remembered.

The Devil broke.

Little ghost.

Daemon’s heart did that terrible thing. That hopeful, painful, impossible thing. It struck his ribs so hard he felt the beat in his throat.

“Femi.”

Her name left him as less than a whisper.

She did not hear him over the traffic.

The Devil surged.

Go.

Daemon remained on the opposite side of the street.

Go to her.

His feet refused to move.

Daemon.

“I see her.”

Go.

“I see her.”

The Devil trembled beneath his skin.

Not rage.

Not hunger.

Relief.

She’s alive.

Daemon swallowed.

“Yes.”

She’s alive.

“Yes.”

Our little ghost is alive.

Daemon’s eyes burned.

“Yes.”

He wanted to cross. He wanted to lift her from the pavement and hold her until every empty day of the last five months disappeared. The Devil wanted worse.

Take her.

“No.”

Bring her home.

“No.”

Now.

“We’ll frighten her.”

The Devil went still.

That stopped it.

Because the Devil remembered the empty room. The envelopes. The bus. Twenty stops. Five months. Femi had disappeared once. Neither of them would survive watching her do it again. Daemon wanted to rage.

To demand why she had left him with four words and an empty room.

Be happy. I know you can.

The Devil flinched at the remembered words.

Don’t.

Daemon followed instead.

He stayed far enough behind that neither woman noticed him. Every few moments Femi glanced over her shoulder, but she was looking for danger closer than the blond man moving through the crowd half a block away.

The Devil noticed.

She’s still afraid.

“Yes.”

Who is she afraid of?

“I don’t know.”

Find out.

Daemon watched the buildings rather than her body. Watched the windows. The alleys. The men who turned their heads as she passed. Five months had changed nothing about the instinct to place himself between Femi and anything that might harm her.

The Devil counted every man who looked too long.

Him.

“No.”

He stared.

“He has eyes.”

Remove them.

Daemon almost laughed.

It was the first thing the Devil had said in months that sounded like itself.

“No.”

The two women stopped near the employee entrance of the Hidden Fantasy Hotel. A man waited beside the steel door. He wore a maintenance uniform and held a metal toolbox. Dark hair fell across his forehead, and his face changed the moment he saw Femi.

He smiled. Femi smiled back. Daemon went very still.

The Devil did not.

Who is he?

“I don’t know.”

Why is he smiling at her?

“People smile.”

Not like that.

Daemon’s fingers curled. The man said something that made the blue-eyed woman roll her eyes. Femi shook her head, laughing again.

The Devil stared.

He makes her laugh.

Daemon said nothing.

The man reached for the cloth bag in her hand. She let him take it.

The Devil rose.

Put it down.

Daemon’s fingers curled.

That is hers.

“He’s helping her.”

We help her.

“We weren’t here.”

The words silenced both of them. The man opened the door for Femi. She walked past him. He followed her into the building. Daemon stared at the closed door.

The Devil whispered:

I don’t like him.

“You don’t know him.”

Neither do you.

“No.”

Find out.

Jealousy moved inside Daemon, sharp and poisonous, but beneath it was something greater. Relief. Femi was alive. She was working. She had someone beside her who made her laugh.

For five months, Daemon had imagined her sleeping beneath bridges again. He had pictured her hungry, injured, or trapped somewhere without a way to ask for help. The Devil had imagined worse.

It had never told him all of it.

Now it whispered:

She’s alive.

Daemon closed his eyes.

“Yes.”

She has bread.

“Yes.”

She has clean clothes.

“Yes.”

She laughed.

Daemon looked at the door.

“Yes.”

The Devil curled beneath his ribs around that truth. Femi was alive. Nothing else mattered. Not yet. Daemon stepped into an alley and pulled out his phone.

Malone answered on the first ring.

“Talk.”

Daemon looked back toward the hotel.

“She’s working, Malone.”

Silence answered him.

The Devil whispered:

Tell him.

Daemon’s throat tightened.

“I found her.”

Malone exhaled. It sounded as though someone had struck him.

“You are sure?”

The Devil bristled.

Idiot.

“I know Femi.”

“Where?”

“Nygen Heights. Some place called the Fantasy Hotel.”

“Hidden Fantasy?”

Daemon looked toward the gold lettering above the main entrance.

“Yes.”

“She is working there?”

“She was wearing a chef’s coat.”

Another silence.

Then Malone’s voice broke.

“She is cooking.”

“Yes.”

The Devil whispered:

Of course she is.

“Is she all right?”

“She looks tired.”

“Is she hurt?”

“Not that I can see.”

Too thin.

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

“She has lost weight.”

The Devil noticed another detail.

Her hair.

“What?”

Longer.

Daemon stared at the door through which she had disappeared. He knew exactly how much longer. Five months of growth. Five months he had missed.

“Does she know you found her?”

“No.”

“Do not approach her.”

The Devil erupted.

No.

Daemon’s jaw clenched.

“Malone.”

“She ran because she was afraid. If you frighten her now, we may lose her again.”

We found her.

“I am not letting her out of my sight.”

Never again.

“I did not tell you to leave,” Malone said. “I told you not to rush her.”

Daemon stared at the staff entrance.

“I have waited five months.”

Five months.

“Wait a few hours more.”

The Devil snarled.

No.

Daemon closed his eyes.

“We wait.”

The Devil turned on him.

Daemon.

“We wait.”

She is right there.

“I know.”

Right there.

“I know.”

Go get her.

“And if she runs?”

Silence.

Daemon opened his eyes.

The Devil retreated.

Hurt.

Terrified.

She might.

“Yes.”

A pause.

Then:

Wait.

“How long before you get here?” Daemon asked.

“I am already driving.”

Malone reached Nygen Heights shortly after eight that evening.

He found Daemon across from the hotel, seated on his motorcycle beneath a broken streetlight.

“You have been here all day?”

“Yes.”

She hasn’t come out.

“Has she come out?”

“No.”

Malone looked up at the hotel.

Guests had begun arriving for a celebration. Luxury cars lined the entrance. Couples dressed in evening clothes passed beneath the gold awning while music drifted from the ballroom.

“What kind of event?”

“A private banquet.”

“You asked?”

“I listened.”

We listened.

Malone leaned against his truck.

“Did she see you?”

“No.”

“Good.”

The Devil disagreed.

I want her to see us.

Daemon ignored it. The shadows beneath Malone’s eyes had deepened during the search. More gray marked his beard. He had lost weight.

“Where is Marta?”

“On her way.”

“She cannot approach Femi.”

“I know.”

“Neither can Red.”

“Daemon.”

“What?”

“I know.”

They waited.

At ten, banquet guests filled the ballroom.

At midnight, the music softened.

At one, employees began leaving through the staff entrance.

Daemon watched every face.

The Devil watched harder.

No.

Another employee.

No.

Another.

No.

Malone returned from a nearby shop carrying coffee.

“You need this.”

“No.”

“You have been awake for three days.”

“Four.”

“That was not reassurance.”

Malone placed the coffee on the motorcycle seat.

“Drink.”

Daemon ignored it.

The staff door opened shortly after two.

The Devil surged so hard Daemon stood before he consciously recognized her.

HER.

Femi emerged first. She had removed her chef’s coat. Beneath it, she wore a white shirt and fitted black trousers. Her braid hung over one shoulder.

The Devil softened instantly.

Little ghost.

The blue-eyed woman followed.

So did the maintenance man.

The softness disappeared.

Him.

He carried Femi’s cloth bag and spoke animatedly, waving his free hand as though telling them some great tale. The blue-eyed woman laughed. Femi looked up at him. The man pointed back toward the hotel, mimed something falling, then caught an imaginary object against his chest.

Femi’s shoulders shook.

Daemon’s expression darkened.

Stop making her laugh.

“He makes her laugh,” Malone observed.

“Do not.”

Tell him to stop.

“I did not say anything else.”

“You were going to.”

“The man appears to know her.”

“I noticed.”

Too well.

Femi held out her hand for the bag. The man shook his head and continued carrying it.

The Devil growled.

Give it back.

Daemon watched.

Femi.

She tried again.

Joe grinned.

Give. It. Back.

Daemon cracked his knuckles.

Malone glanced at his hands.

“Don’t.”

“I haven’t done anything.”

Yet.

They watched until the three reached the corner. The man handed Femi the bag before walking in the opposite direction.

The Devil relaxed slightly.

Good.

Femi and the woman continued together. Malone climbed into his truck. Daemon looked toward his motorcycle.

“No.”

“They will hear your bike from four streets away.”

He has a point.

Daemon stared at Malone.

Malone stared back.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Daemon got into the truck. They followed at a distance. Six blocks from the hotel, the women reached a tired brownstone wedged between a pawnshop and a market. Femi checked the street before entering.

The Devil whispered:

Down.

Daemon lowered himself beneath the dashboard.

Malone glanced at him.

“You look ridiculous.”

Kill him.

“No.”

“She looked this way.”

“You are six feet two inches tall with hair the color of sunlight. Hiding is no longer available to you.”

The Devil muttered:

I liked him better when he was miserable.

Daemon straightened once the brownstone door closed. A light came on in a fourth-floor window. Femi’s shadow passed behind the curtain. Daemon’s lungs eased.

The Devil sighed.

There.

“That is where she lives,” Daemon said.

“Yes.”

“With that woman.”

“Probably.”

“Who is she?”

Marta knows everyone.

“Marta may know.”

Malone pulled out his phone. A few minutes later, Marta arrived and climbed into the truck. Her eyes fixed on the fourth-floor window.

“She is there?”

Daemon nodded. Marta covered her mouth. For several seconds, none of them spoke.

The Devil watched Femi’s shadow.

She is right there.

Then Malone looked at Marta.

“The blue-eyed woman?”

“Dai Mercer.”

“You spoke to her?”

“She lied to my face.”

The Devil’s attention shifted.

She knew.

Marta sounded almost proud.

“She told me she had not seen Femi. I knew something was wrong, but I had no proof.”

“She protected her,” Malone said.

The Devil went still.

Daemon expected anger.

Instead:

Good.

Daemon blinked.

“Yes.”

Malone looked at him.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

The Devil watched Dai’s shadow cross the window behind Femi’s.

She kept her safe.

For that, apparently, Dai Mercer had been granted temporary immunity. Daemon watched Femi’s shadow cross the window again.

“Who was the man?”

“I do not know,” Marta replied.

Joe.

“Maintenance uniform,” Malone said. “He walked out with them.”

“He carried her bag.”

Both of them looked at Daemon.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Marta said.

“You are thinking something.”

“I am thinking that after searching for five months, we should avoid beating the first man we see speaking to her.”

“I did not say I would beat him.”

“You cracked your knuckles.”

The Devil whispered:

We could ask nicely.

Daemon nearly smiled.

“No.”

Marta frowned.

“No what?”

“Nothing.”

Daemon looked back toward the brownstone.

Malone leaned forward between them.

“We need a plan.”

“I go upstairs.”

Yes.

“No,” Malone and Marta said together.

Kill both.

Daemon’s eyes narrowed.

“She left because she believed we would be safer without her,” Marta said. “If the three of us appear at that door, she will feel cornered.”

We aren’t hurting her.

“She may not know that,” Daemon said.

The Devil fell silent.

“We are not letting her disappear again.”

“No,” Malone agreed. “But we are not dragging her home.”

We could.

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

“No.”

The Devil snapped:

I didn’t say hurt her.

“We are not dragging her anywhere.”

“What if she refuses?”

“Then we find out why,” Malone said.

“We know why.”

“No. We know what she wrote. We know what we assumed. We have not heard it from her.”

Daemon became quiet. He thought of every time Femi had stiffened before pulling away. Every kiss she had begun and ended in shame. Every time she had signed that he deserved someone else.

He had believed she did not love him. Now he knew she had crossed cities carrying one of his shirts in her bag.

The Devil suddenly went utterly still.

What?

Daemon looked toward the window.

He had seen the dark fabric beneath her open coat that afternoon.

One of his button-downs.

He recognized the missing second button and the place where Femi had repaired the cuff.

The Devil understood.

She took us.

Daemon swallowed.

“Yes.”

She took our shirt.

“Yes.”

The hurt that had lived inside the Devil for five months shifted.

She didn’t give all of us away.

Daemon closed his eyes.

“No.”

Femi had left him. But she had taken something that smelled like him.

“I will speak to her alone,” Daemon said.

“Not tonight,” Malone replied.

The Devil started to object. Then Femi’s shadow disappeared from the curtain.

She needs sleep.

Daemon did not argue.

He remained across from the brownstone until the fourth-floor light went dark after three.

Even then, he did not leave.

Neither did the Devil.

Sleep, little ghost.

Daemon looked toward the dark window.

We’re here.

For two days, Daemon watched.

He learned that Femi left the apartment only with Dai.

They walked to the hotel together.

They returned together.

The Devil approved.

She watches her.

“Yes.”

The maintenance man—Joe, according to a patch on his uniform—met them near the employee entrance but never accompanied them home.

The Devil remained suspicious.

Joe.

Daemon sighed.

“He has a name.”

I preferred maintenance man.

Daemon learned Joe worked morning shifts and frequently found reasons to enter the hotel kitchen.

Too frequently.

“He works there.”

Not in the kitchen.

Daemon ignored it.

He learned that Femi’s name at the Hidden Fantasy was Mira Dell. Hearing it made something cold move through him.

The Devil reacted differently.

Mira.

Daemon waited.

The Devil hated it.

No.

“She needed another name.”

Femi.

“I know.”

Little ghost.

“I know.”

Mira is not her.

“No.”

Mira Dell had no family. No history. No reason to be found by three people searching for Femi Vale.

The Devil whispered:

She made someone we couldn’t find.

“Yes.”

That frightened Daemon more than he wanted to admit. He learned Femi’s bedroom faced the alley. Its light came on at three each morning. Sometimes it stayed on until dawn. She was not sleeping.

The Devil became restless.

Nightmares.

“Maybe.”

Nightmares.

“We don’t know.”

We know her.

Daemon stared at the illuminated window. He wondered whether she was eating. Whether she woke from nightmares with no one beside her. Whether she still touched her lips when she thought about him.

The Devil whispered:

Who holds her?

Daemon went rigid.

“No one.”

You don’t know that.

The thought was unbearable.

“No one.”

The Devil was quiet for a long time.

Then:

It should be us.

On the third morning, Femi left the brownstone alone.

It was ten o’clock.

She wore fitted black jeans and a dark shirt beneath an open button-down.

Daemon recognized the shirt immediately.

His.

The Devil made a sound Daemon had never heard before. Not a growl. Not a whisper. Something almost wounded.

Ours.

The sight nearly brought Daemon to his knees. Femi had left everything. Changed her name. Changed cities. Built another life. And she was still wearing his shirt.

The Devil whispered:

She missed us.

“We don’t know that.”

She wore us.

Daemon had no answer.

He followed her to the open market. Femi bought vegetables, milk, flour, and a package of writing paper. She moved carefully between the stalls, checking reflections in shop windows as she walked.

The Devil noticed before Daemon did.

She’s watching.

Daemon’s gaze sharpened.

Femi checked another reflection.

Then another.

She’s still hiding.

“Yes.”

From us?

Daemon’s chest tightened.

“I don’t know.”

From us?

“I said I don’t know.”

The Devil retreated. Hurt again. Daemon understood then. She was still hiding. Not only from them. From everyone. He stepped into the open.

The Devil panicked.

Wait.

Daemon stopped.

“You told me to find her for five months.”

She might run.

Daemon’s heart slammed.

Femi turned from the vegetable stall with a paper bag in her arms. Their eyes met across two rows of vendors. The market disappeared. Daemon saw only her. Green eyes widened beneath the morning light.

Her hands tightened around the bag.

The Devil stopped breathing with him.

Little ghost.

She knew him immediately. Mira Dell vanished from her face. For one breath, Femi stood there.

His little ghost.

Ours.

Then she lowered her gaze and paid the vendor. She walked away.

The Devil recoiled.

No.

Daemon moved through the crowd and stopped in her path. Femi halted. Up close, the exhaustion was worse. Shadows darkened the skin beneath her eyes. She had lost weight again. His shirt hung from her shoulders despite the fitted clothing beneath it.

The Devil’s relief twisted into pain.

Too thin.

“You ran away.”

The accusation emerged rougher than he intended.

The Devil snapped:

Wrong.

Daemon knew immediately.

Femi flinched.

You frightened her.

Femi lifted her hands.

You should go back home.

The Devil went still.

Daemon’s chest tightened.

“My home?”

She nodded.

She still thinks it isn’t hers.

“It is your home too.”

Femi stepped around him.

The Devil surged.

Catch her.

Daemon did not touch her.

Daemon.

“No.”

He turned and fell into step beside her.

The Devil fought him.

Take her hand.

“No.”

Touch her.

“No.”

Please.

Daemon almost broke.

“We’ll scare her.”

The Devil quieted.

“It is not a home without you, little ghost.”

Her breath caught.

The Devil felt it.

She remembers.

Femi continued walking.

“We need to talk.”

No answer.

“Malone is here.”

Her shoulders stiffened.

Too much.

Daemon softened his voice.

“So is Marta. We have been looking for you for five months.”

Femi stared straight ahead.

“We thought you were dead.”

She faltered.

The Devil cried out inside him.

Don’t.

Daemon stopped himself from reaching for her.

“We thought someone had taken you. Malone searched every hospital between Ravenside and Kingsway. Marta questioned half the farming communities in the north. Red put your photograph into places even I did not know existed.”

Femi’s eyes filled.

The Devil immediately turned on Daemon.

Stop making her cry.

“She needs to know.”

Not like this.

“I crossed six cities.”

Daemon’s voice dropped.

“I kept finding women who looked like you from behind.”

She pressed the grocery bag against her chest.

“Every time they turned, it was someone else.”

The Devil whispered:

Every time.

Femi signed without facing him.

I am sorry.

The Devil recoiled.

No.

“I do not want an apology.”

Never apologize for being found.

I cannot go back.

The Devil exploded.

WHY?

Daemon barely contained the word.

“Why?”

She quickened her pace.

Daemon stayed beside her but gave her room.

“Is it Candi?”

Femi shook her head.

“The man she sent?”

Another shake.

“Me?”

Femi stopped so suddenly he passed her. Daemon turned. Her face had crumpled. She shook her head fiercely.

The Devil broke open with relief.

Not us.

Daemon breathed.

“Then tell me.”

Her hands moved.

Just go.

No.

“No.”

Her eyes flashed.

You cannot make me return.

The Devil surged.

We can.

“I know.”

The answer startled Femi.

It startled the Devil too.

What?

Daemon stepped back.

“I will not put you on my motorcycle. I will not carry you into Malone’s truck. I will not force you anywhere.”

The Devil snarled.

She belongs with us.

“She isn’t ours to force.”

The Devil went silent.

Femi’s hands trembled around the bag.

“But I need you to look at me and tell me why you believe leaving without a word was better than letting us love you.”

The Devil whispered:

Us.

Daemon felt it.

“Yes.”

You said us.

“Yes.”

The Devil pressed close. No argument. No correction. Because Daemon finally understood.

Whatever else the Devil was— whatever violence lived inside it— it loved Femi too.

Tears rolled down her face. She wiped them away and resumed walking. Daemon followed. They reached the brownstone. Femi climbed the first step.

“I want you to come home,” he said.

She did not turn.

“Malone wants his daughter home.”

Her hand tightened on the railing.

“Marta has not stopped carrying your photograph.”

Femi climbed another step.

“And I—”

Daemon’s voice failed.

The Devil finished for him.

Need you.

Daemon closed his eyes.

Femi stopped.

Tell her.

He stood at the bottom of the stairs, his hands loose at his sides. He wanted to cross the distance. He wanted to take the bags, touch her face, and pull her into the place beneath his heart that had ached for five months.

The Devil wanted it desperately.

Please.

Daemon remained where he was.

“I need you to come home, little ghost.”

Femi looked over her shoulder.

Her green eyes found his.

I cannot.

The Devil whimpered.

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

“Why?”

They will be hurt.

“Who?”

Everyone.

“Because of you?”

She nodded.

The Devil turned vicious.

No.

Daemon’s expression hardened.

“Candi hurt you because Candi made that choice. The man struck you because he accepted money. I broke him because I chose to.”

Femi flinched.

The Devil recoiled.

Careful.

“Yes,” Daemon said quietly. “That frightened you.”

Her eyes fell.

“I should have seen it.”

The Devil whispered:

We should have seen it.

Daemon took one step closer, then stopped when she stiffened.

“I will not lie and tell you I regret protecting you.”

Femi looked at him again.

“But you are not responsible for what I am.”

His voice roughened.

“You do not carry my Devil.”

The Devil went completely still.

Femi stared at him.

And somewhere inside Daemon, something old and wounded whispered:

No, little ghost.

The brownstone door opened behind her.

Dai stood there.

Her sharp blue eyes moved from Femi’s tears to Daemon. She recognized him from the photograph. Daemon recognized her as the woman who had kept Femi hidden. The Devil recognized something else. Protection. Dai positioned herself slightly between them.

The Devil could have hated her for it.

Instead:

Good.

Neither spoke.

Femi entered the building. Dai held Daemon’s stare for another moment.

The Devil whispered:

Keep her safe.

Then Dai stepped aside just far enough to let Femi pass and closed the door. Daemon remained at the foot of the stairs. Through the glass, Femi leaned against the wall with her eyes closed.

The Devil surged toward her.

Go.

Daemon didn’t.

She is crying.

“I know.”

Go to her.

“She asked me to leave.”

She needs us.

“We don’t know that.”

The Devil hurt.

I know her.

Daemon watched Femi through the glass.

“So do I.”

“Why are you hiding from me?” he asked.

Her shoulders stiffened. She did not turn. She walked toward the elevator.

The Devil whispered:

Femi.

She disappeared behind the doors.

Little ghost.

The elevator rose.

Come back.

Daemon stood outside long after the elevator doors closed. He had found her. For five months, he had believed that would be the difficult part.

The Devil had believed it too.

We found her.

“Yes.”

But there was no triumph in Daemon’s answer.

Finding Femi had only ended the search. Bringing his little ghost home would require something much harder than crossing twenty stops and six cities. He would have to convince her that loving her was not another wound he needed to survive.

The Devil settled beneath his ribs. For once, it did not demand. It did not threaten. It did not tell Daemon to break down the door or carry Femi home.

It simply watched the fourth-floor window.

And hurt.

She thinks loving her hurts us.

“Yes.”

A long silence.

Then the Devil whispered:

Then show her it doesn’t.

Daemon looked up.

The curtain shifted.

For half a heartbeat, he thought he saw Femi standing behind it.

“Even if it takes another five months?”

The Devil’s answer came without hesitation.

Five years.

Daemon waited.

Fifty.

The light behind the curtain disappeared.

The Devil curled around the ache Femi had left inside them.

However long our little ghost needs.

Daemon turned toward the street.

Then the Devil added, very softly:

Just don’t lose her again.

The sun had barely cleared the leaning brick cornices of Nygen Heights when Marta walked up the cracked steps of the brownstone. She wore no leather, carried no map, and left Malone and Daemon three blocks away.

She knew better than to bring an army to a woman who had spent months learning how to stay invisible.

Marta found apartment 162 on the fourth floor. She didn’t pound on the wood the way she wanted to. Instead, she knocked twice—measured, steady, and quiet.

Locks turned. The door swung open six inches, held fast by a reinforced brass chain.

Sharp blue eyes met hers through the gap.

Dai Mercer looked exhausted, her dark hair slightly messy, her shoulders squared with defensive instinct. She didn’t pretend not to recognize the woman who had questioned her days earlier.

“You’re the one who lied to my face,” Marta said, her voice entirely flat.

“I protected my sister,” Dai replied, her tone matching Marta’s in cold, unyielding pitch. “Call it whatever you like.”

Marta studied her. She saw the way Dai’s knuckles tightened against the doorframe, the subtle shift of her weight ready to slam the wood shut. In another life, Marta might have liked her.

“She is my family too,” Marta said softly.

“She thinks if she stays here, you’ll all be safe from whatever ghosts followed her out of Wolfwater.”

“Ghosts die if you hit them hard enough,” Marta muttered. “Femi doesn’t understand that. She thinks every time blood spills around her, it’s a tax she has to pay.”

Dai’s gaze wavered for a fraction of a second, proof that Femi had told her more than just the surface details.

“She’s safe here,” Dai said, though the defiance in her voice sounded thinner now. “She works. She sleeps. She has people who don’t ask her to bleed for them.”

“We never asked her to bleed either,” Marta said, her chest tightening. “We just wanted her to stay.”

A heavy silence settled between them in the cramped hallway. From somewhere deeper inside the apartment came the faint sound of water running in a sink. Femi was awake. Femi was listening.

Marta lowered her hands into the pockets of her jacket. It cost her every ounce of pride she possessed, but she forced the words out.

“He saw her yesterday.”

Dai’s eyes narrowed. “The blond one. The one with the scar.”

“Daemon.”

“He frightened her.”

“He frightened himself,” Marta corrected sharply. “Do you have any idea what the last five months looked like for him, Dai? He tore through twenty towns and six cities because he thought some piece of trash had put her in a ditch. He hasn’t slept a full night since she packed that canvas bag.”

“And Femi hasn’t stopped looking over her shoulder since she arrived,” Dai shot back. “Every time a motorcycle echoes down High Street, she freezes. She thinks she’s a curse to him.”

“She isn’t a curse.” Marta took one deliberate step closer to the door. “She’s the only thing keeping that monster of his from tearing this entire city down to the bedrock. And he knows it.”

Dai stared at her, weighing every word, looking for the trap.

“He won’t force her,” Marta said, her voice dropping into a quiet, solemn promise. “Malone would skin him alive if he tried, and I’d help hold the knife. But he wants to talk to her. Without the noise. Without the running.”

“And if she says no?” Dai asked quietly. “If she tells him to get on his bike and never come back?”

Marta looked past the chain, trying to catch a glimpse of the kitchen where Femi’s shadow might be moving.

“Then he’ll leave,” Marta lied, because she wasn’t entirely sure Daemon had that kind of restraint left in him—though she prayed he did. “He’ll leave, and we’ll figure out how to live with it. But she has to tell him to his face. She can’t keep hiding behind a false name and a stolen shirt.”

Dai went very still. “How did you know about the shirt?”

Marta offered a grim, humorless half-smile. “Because he’s missing his second button, and he hasn’t stopped staring at her window for three days.”

The hallway grew quiet again. The water in the kitchen stopped running.

Dai reached down. The metallic clink of the chain sliding free echoed loudly in the narrow space. She pulled the door open the rest of the way, revealing a small, sunlit living room where a single ceramic mug sat on the table.

“She’s in the kitchen,” Dai said, her blue eyes fixed hard on Marta. “If he comes up here, and he raises his voice—if he so much as makes her flinch—I don’t care how big he is or what kind of Devil lives under his skin.”

Marta stepped across the threshold, nodding once.

“If he makes her cry again,” Marta said softly, “I’ll break his collarbone myself.”

Daemon remained on the pavement below.

He had not moved since Femi closed the building door in his face. His pale hair shifted in the wind. His leather jacket hung open, and his hands remained buried in its pockets.

He stared at the fourth-floor window as though he knew exactly which one belonged to her.

He did.

The Devil did too.

There.

Daemon’s gaze remained fixed on the dark glass.

“I know.”

She’s awake.

“You don’t know that.”

Neither is she.

Daemon said nothing.

The light had come on at three again.

It always came on at three.

The Devil whispered:

Nightmares.

Dai let the curtain fall.

“You should speak to that man.”

Femi continued chopping vegetables.

“You do not have to go home with him,” Dai added. “You do not have to forgive him for frightening you. Just hear him out.”

Femi scraped the carrots into a bowl.

Dai watched her reach for the onions.

“You have already chopped enough food to feed the entire building.”

Femi pointed toward the refrigerator.

“I know the hotel sent leftovers home. That is why cooking another meal makes no sense.”

Femi selected a knife. Dai sighed. Femi had always hidden inside work. As a child, she scrubbed floors when she was afraid. She organized cabinets when she was angry. She cooked when something hurt too much to name.

Now she was doing all three. Dai tried again that evening. Femi refused. She tried the next morning. Femi went to work early.

On the second night, Dai found her sitting on the kitchen floor at three in the morning with Daemon’s photograph in her lap.

“He is still outside sometimes,” Dai said.

Femi looked up sharply.

“Not all night. He leaves. He comes back. He keeps his distance.”

Femi lowered her eyes.

“He is waiting for you to choose.”

Her fingers moved.

He should go home.

“He believes home is wherever you are.”

Femi pressed the photograph against her chest.

Dai crouched beside her.

“Talk to him.”

Femi shook her head.

“Then tell him no while looking into his eyes.”

Her hands became still.

“If you truly want him gone, tell him. I will make sure he leaves.”

Dai touched the corner of the photograph.

“But you crossed half the country carrying his shirt and this picture. You cry when someone says his name. You have not looked at another man since you met him.”

Femi looked away.

“Talk to him once.”

Dai stood.

“If you still want him gone afterward, I will help you disappear again.”

Femi’s eyes returned to hers.

“You have my word.”

It took another hour before Femi nodded.

Two days after Daemon found her, Femi was off work. She began cooking before ten. By eleven, the kitchen counters were covered with bread dough, chopped vegetables, and a roast she had no reason to prepare.

Dai watched her move from one task to another.

“You’re nervous.”

Femi pointed toward the bread.

“The bread is not nervous. You are.”

A knock came at the door. Femi froze.

Outside, Daemon heard nothing.

The Devil did.

She stopped.

Daemon stared at the door.

“What?”

She was moving.

He had heard faint sounds through the wood. A cabinet. A knife against a cutting board. Footsteps. Now nothing.

She knows.

Daemon’s heart began pounding.

Dai crossed the apartment before Femi could change her mind. She opened the door. Daemon stood in the hall. He had combed his hair, though the wind had already dragged several pale strands across his scar. He wore black jeans, a button-down shirt, and his leather jacket.

His gray eyes moved past Dai.

Where is she?

“Is she here?”

“Yes.”

The Devil surged.

Little ghost.

“Does she know I am coming?”

“She knows you might.”

Daemon frowned.

“That is not the same thing.”

She might tell us to leave.

Daemon’s stomach tightened.

“It was the best agreement I could get.”

Dai stepped into the hall and pulled the door nearly closed behind her.

“She is my sister.”

“I know.”

“No. You know she lives with me. That is not the same thing.”

Dai moved closer.

“She was my sister before either of us knew what love was. When adults who were supposed to protect us became the things we needed protection from, I stood between them and her.”

Daemon’s expression changed.

The Devil rose behind his eyes.

Who?

Dai saw it.

“That anger is useful,” she said. “Keep it pointed in the correct direction.”

Who hurt her?

Daemon’s jaw flexed.

“I will.”

Ask her.

“Not now.”

Dai’s eyes narrowed slightly, but she continued.

“If you hurt my sister, pretty boy—”

Dai opened her coat enough to reveal the knife strapped against her side.

The Devil stared at it.

Small.

Daemon almost smiled. Dai let the threat remain unfinished. Daemon studied the knife. Then he met her eyes.

“If I hurt her, you will not have to search for me.”

The Devil went silent. It did not disagree. Dai considered him.

“You really are dramatic.”

I like her less again.

“So I have been told.”

“Do not make me use this.”

“I understand.”

Dai stepped aside.

“Malone and Marta are nearby?”

“Yes.”

“Good. You are leaving when Femi asks you to leave.”

The Devil immediately objected.

No.

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

We just found her.

But he nodded.

Daemon.

“She chooses.”

The Devil recoiled from the words.

For five months, Femi had chosen absence. It hated choices now. But after a moment:

She chooses.

Dai opened the door and allowed him inside.

She grabbed her bag from the hook.

“I will be downstairs.”

She looked toward the kitchenette.

“I am leaving the door unlocked, Mira.”

The name made Daemon flinch.

The Devil snarled.

Femi.

Femi did not look up.

Dai closed the door behind her.

The apartment was painfully small.

Daemon could see nearly all of it from the entrance. A green sofa. Two mismatched chairs. Plants on the windowsill. A narrow hall leading toward the bedrooms. Femi’s old coat hung beside the door. The coat she wore when she first came to Helix.

The Devil recognized it immediately.

She kept it.

Daemon’s chest ached.

“Yes.”

She kept everything.

Not everything.

Daemon didn’t say it.

The Devil heard him anyway.

She kept us.

His gaze moved toward the photograph on the coffee table. Daemon moved into the living room and sat on the sofa facing the kitchenette. Femi remained at the counter. Her knife moved through an onion. Too quickly.

The Devil watched her hands.

She’s afraid.

“Yes.”

Of us?

Daemon swallowed.

“I don’t know.”

Don’t frighten her.

“Femi.”

The blade stopped. She turned.Her green eyes found him.

For several seconds, neither moved.

The Devil whispered:

There you are.

Then her hands rose.

You cannot be here.

Pain cut through them both.

“We need to talk.”

She shook her head.

The Devil whispered:

Don’t send us away.

Daemon’s voice softened.

“I miss you.”

The words entered the room quietly. Femi lowered her hands.

The Devil became still.

Again.

Daemon looked at her.

“I miss you.”

Femi’s eyes dropped. Daemon looked toward the coffee table.

The photograph lay there.

Malone.

Marta.

Himself.

The picture had been taken at Helix.

Daemon remembered refusing to face the camera because Femi stood beside the person holding it.

Even then, his eyes had belonged to her. She had carried the photograph across six cities.

Hope moved inside him.

The Devil stared.

She looked at us.

Daemon frowned.

Then he saw it. In the photograph, everyone else looked toward the camera. Daemon didn’t. His gaze was angled away. Toward Femi.

Even then.

“I saw this in your bag once.”

Femi looked down.

“You took it with you.”

She reached for the vegetables.

The Devil whispered:

She took our face with her.

“Little ghost.”

Her shoulders stiffened.

The Devil softened instantly.

There.

“There is no life I want without you.”

The onion rolled from beneath her hand.

The Devil surged.

She heard you.

Daemon stood. He moved slowly, leaving enough space for her to step away.

“You kissed me.”

Femi closed her eyes. The Devil remembered.

Strawberries.

Her hands.

Her mouth.

The way she had chosen them for one impossible moment.

She wanted us.

“You came to me. You touched my face. You put your hands in my hair and kissed me as though you wanted me.”

Her cheeks flushed.

The Devil whispered:

She did.

“Then you left.”

The memory shattered. The empty room returned. The envelopes. The dark kitchen.

Gone.

Daemon stopped several feet from her.

His frown deepened, but his voice remained soft.

“You left four words and disappeared.”

Femi’s hands moved.

You should forget me.

The Devil recoiled as though struck.

No.

“I cannot.”

You can.

No.

“No.”

You will be happier.

The Devil’s hurt became anger.

Stop saying that.

“No.”

She signed more sharply.

You do not know that.

“I do.”

We know.

Daemon took one step closer. Femi retreated until the counter touched her back.

The Devil surged.

Stop.

Daemon stopped immediately.

“I am not going to corner you.”

Move.

Daemon moved to the side, leaving the doorway and every path through the apartment open.

The Devil hated every inch of distance.

But it understood why.

Don’t make her run.

“I only need you to listen.”

Femi folded her arms around herself.

“I am not saying you owed me a kiss. You do not owe me your body, your time, or your love.”

His voice roughened over the final word.

The Devil whispered:

But please.

Daemon’s chest tightened.

“But that kiss mattered to me.”

Femi stared at him.

“You matter to me.”

Everything.

Her fingers moved.

You will get hurt if you stay.

“I am already hurt.”

She shook her head.

“I am hurt because you left me.”

The Devil whispered:

Tell her.

Daemon dropped his gaze.

His pale hair slipped forward, hiding his eyes.

“I am hurt because you told me not to think about you. You told me to be happy without you as though happiness was something I could pick up after you abandoned it.”

Femi’s face crumpled.

The Devil immediately softened.

She’s crying.

Daemon’s voice broke anyway.

“You left me, little ghost.”

The words emerged as a whisper.

“I woke up and you were gone.”

We knew.

Daemon closed his eyes.

Before the room.

He remembered.

Sunflower sheets.

A balanced register.

A clean kitchen.

Femi refusing to look at them.

We watched you say goodbye and didn’t understand.

Femi reached toward him. Her fingers stopped inches from his cheek.

The Devil became perfectly still.

Touch us.

Daemon felt the warmth of her hand without its touch.

Please.

Femi let it fall.

The Devil whimpered.

No.

You will be happier without me.

Daemon’s head lifted.

I know you will.

The Devil snapped.

STOP.

Daemon’s voice came out low.

“Only you make me happy.”

She shook her head.

“Only you.”

Only you.

Femi denied him again.

Daemon took another careful step.

“There is no other woman.”

Never was.

His hand rose. He waited.

The Devil strained toward her.

Please don’t move.

Femi did not retreat. His fingers touched her jaw. The first contact in five months nearly undid him. The Devil disappeared. No whisper. No command. No violence. Nothing. Only Femi. Warm. Real. Here. Daemon traced the soft line slowly, his thumb barely touching her skin. He tucked a strand of midnight hair behind her ear.

Femi shivered.

The Devil returned as a breath.

Again.

“Cold?”

She shook her head.

Daemon’s crooked smile appeared and vanished.

“I missed that too.”

Her eyes questioned him.

“The way you shiver.”

Color warmed her face.

The Devil almost purred.

Ours.

Daemon corrected it softly inside himself.

“Herself.”

The Devil went quiet.

Then:

Yes.

Daemon’s fingers lingered near her cheek.

“I am not a good man, little ghost.”

His eyes fell.

The Devil stirred.

No.

“But I am yours.”

Femi stopped breathing.

The Devil stopped with her.

“I have always been yours.”

His hand dropped.

“Every ruined piece of me.”

The Devil snarled.

Not ruined.

Daemon almost laughed bitterly.

“You would say that.”

She will too.

He could not watch Femi deny him again. Daemon closed his eyes and lowered his head until his hair covered his face. His body shuddered once. Then Femi touched him. Her palm settled against his scar.

The Devil shattered.

Femi.

Daemon became perfectly still. Her fingers moved along his cheek, tracing the mark with such tenderness that something inside him broke open. The Devil remembered every other hand. Hands that hurt. Hands that trained. Hands that demanded. Hands that wanted violence from him. Femi’s hand wanted nothing.

It simply touched.

Little ghost.

She pushed the hair from his face. Daemon lifted his eyes. Tears moved down her cheeks. Her hands formed the words between them.

Not ruined.

Daemon’s breath caught.

The Devil whispered:

She heard me.

Beautiful.

Silence. Absolute silence. Daemon stared at her. The Devil had no words. For once, the thing inside him that always had something vicious to say could only feel her hand against their scar.

Daemon swallowed.

“Only to you.”

The Devil finally answered.

Only one that matters.

Daemon sank to his knees. Femi’s eyes widened as the Devil knelt before her. Not conquered. Not defeated. Choosing. Daemon looked up, every defense stripped from his face.

The Devil looked through his eyes.

Please.

“Please come home.”

She shook her head, but the movement was weak.

The Devil panicked.

No.

“I will make Candi go away.”

Fear entered Femi’s expression.

The Devil rose viciously.

She is afraid.

“She will never touch you again. She will never send anyone near you.”

Never.

Daemon reached for her hands, then stopped before taking them.

“I will protect you.”

Femi signed quickly.

You cannot.

We can.

“I can.”

No one can.

The Devil faltered.

Daemon did too.

“Then let us try.”

Please let us try.

You will all be hurt.

“I swear she will not hurt you again.”

Femi’s tears fell faster.

The Devil whispered:

We don’t care about us.

Daemon’s throat tightened.

“I swear it.”

We care about you.

Daemon’s voice broke.

“Please, little ghost.”

Come home.

Her hands rose. Daemon waited for her refusal.

The Devil begged.

Don’t say no.

Instead, Femi signed:

Candi is not why I left.

Daemon went still.

The Devil went colder.

What?

“Then why?”

Femi looked at the man kneeling before her. The man who had crossed cities. The man who waited outside rather than forcing his way through her door. The man who called every ruined piece of himself hers. She had hidden the truth from him. From Dai. From herself. Now there was nowhere left for it to go.

Her fingers trembled as they moved.

Because I cannot stay.

The Devil recoiled.

No.

Daemon forgot how to breathe.

Femi pressed one hand against her heart.

And if I stay, you will be destroyed.

Silence filled the apartment. Daemon remained on his knees, staring up at her.

The Devil stared too.

Shocked.

Destroyed?

Femi’s tears continued falling. The Devil looked at them. At the trembling hand pressed against her heart. At the woman who had crossed six cities because she believed distance could save him.

And suddenly the Devil understood something Daemon did not.

She didn’t leave because she didn’t love us.

Daemon’s heart slammed.

Femi looked away.

She left because she does.

Daemon stared at her.

For five months, he had believed Femi left because she could not bear to love him. Now he understood only that she had run because being near him had become too dangerous. Because whatever lived between them was strong enough to make her afraid.

And she still would not tell him what it was.

The Devil remained strangely calm. No rage. No demand that Daemon carry her home. No threat against Candi.

Only one quiet certainty beneath his ribs.

She loves us.

Daemon closed his eyes.

“That doesn’t change that she’s afraid.”

No.

The Devil watched Femi.

So find out what she is afraid of.

Daemon opened his eyes. Femi stood before him, trembling.

The Devil whispered to her with a tenderness no one else would ever hear.

Then tell us what you think will destroy us, little ghost.

A pause.

And let us choose whether you are worth it.

Daemon’s gaze lifted to hers.

He already knew his answer.

Femi’s fingers trembled as they touched Daemon’s face.

Slowly.

Softly.

Uncertainly.

He remained on his knees before her, gray eyes fixed on her face. There was something in the way he looked at her that Femi had never understood. That look always landed differently when it came from Daemon. As though she had done something miraculous simply by remaining in the room. As though she was not a burden he endured but something precious he had been trusted to hold.

No one had ever looked at her that way. Femi traced the scar on his cheek. Daemon turned slightly into her palm.

“You believe caring for me will destroy me.”

She nodded.

“Then you do love me?”

Femi’s hand stopped. Her eyes lowered. Daemon waited, but she did not answer.

“I’ll do anything, little ghost.”

His voice was low and ragged.

“Just come home.”

She shook her head.

“Please.”

The Devil remained on his knees. His hands tightened against his thighs as though he feared reaching for her would make her disappear again.

“Please, little ghost.”

Femi looked down at him. He swore he would protect her. He had always protected her. But who protected Daemon? Who stopped the Devil when his rage became greater than the man carrying it? Who held him after the nightmares? Who reminded him that he was more than the blood on his hands?

Her fingers moved.

What about you?

Daemon frowned.

Who protects you?

Understanding softened his face.

“You do.”

Femi shook her head.

“You do, Femi.”

His gaze did not leave hers.

“You put your hand inside mine, and the Devil listens.”

She remembered Sunflower Park. Candi’s raised fist. Murder entering Daemon’s eyes. Femi had slipped her hand into his, and the terrible stillness inside him had receded.

“You touch me like I am something other than what they made.”

His voice roughened.

“You look at me and call me beautiful.”

Daemon closed his eyes.

“You are the only person who has ever made me want to become a man worth protecting.”

Femi’s heart pounded. She wanted to believe him. That was the danger. She wanted him so badly she could almost imagine a future in which staying beside him did not end with his blood on her hands. But her life had never allowed her to keep anything beautiful.

Daemon opened his eyes again.

“There is no one else.”

She looked away.

“I have told you that.”

His breathing became uneven.

“I do not know what else to say.”

Daemon’s shoulders lowered. The fight seemed to leave him all at once. He leaned forward and pressed his face against her stomach. His hands settled carefully at her hips. Femi stiffened. Daemon immediately began to pull away. Then her fingers entered his hair. He stopped. She combed through the pale strands slowly, her fingernails brushing his scalp. Daemon shivered. He did not hide it.

His arms closed around her waist, and he drew her nearer. Not hard enough to trap her. Only enough to let his forehead rest against her. Strawberries surrounded him. Femi still smelled like home. Daemon released a broken sigh.

“I missed you so much it hurts.”

His words warmed the fabric covering her stomach.

“Just come home.”

His arms tightened.

“Please.”

Femi felt the wetness before she understood it. Daemon’s tears soaked through her shirt. Her breath caught. He had bled in front of her. He had allowed her to see him drunk, injured, and haunted by nightmares. She had never seen him cry.

His broad shoulders began to shake.

Daemon made no sound beyond the rough breaths he could not control. He pressed his face more firmly against her, as though ashamed even now to let her see what leaving had done to him. Femi held him. One hand continued moving through his hair. The other settled across his shoulders. She cursed herself. She had left to spare him pain. Instead, she had become its source. She wanted to reassure him, but there was no voice inside her to whisper that he would be all right. She could not tell him she was there while both hands were occupied holding him together.

Not even a sound. Nothing he could hear. The old cruelty returned.

He deserves better.

Someone who could call his name. Someone who could soothe him in the dark. Someone who could give him more than silence while he broke apart in her arms. Then Daemon spoke against her.

“You are here.”

Femi stilled. His fingers flexed at her waist.

“That is enough.”

Tears slipped down her face. She tightened her arms around him. Daemon exhaled. For several minutes, they remained that way. The Devil kneeling. The little ghost holding him.

Neither repaired.

Neither ruined beyond loving.

When Daemon finally raised his head, his eyes were red. He made no attempt to hide them. Femi wiped his cheeks with her thumbs. His crooked smile appeared.

“This does not leave the apartment.”

A silent laugh escaped her.

The sight of it wounded and healed him at once.

“Come home.”

Femi’s smile vanished. Daemon waited. Her hands moved carefully.

Not today.

His expression hardened.

Femi touched his cheek again before he could retreat behind anger.

But I will come.

Daemon stared at her.

“You will return to Helix?”

She nodded.

“When?”

I need time.

“How much?”

Femi considered.

Several weeks.

His jaw tightened.

“That is too long.”

She lifted one eyebrow.

Daemon almost smiled.

“I have already waited five months.”

Her hands moved.

Then you can wait a few weeks.

His eyes narrowed. That silent, stubborn spark was one of the things he had missed most.

“I will stay in Nygen Heights.”

Femi shook her head.

“I am not leaving without you.”

You cannot follow me everywhere.

“I have proven otherwise.”

She gave him a look.

Daemon lowered his head.

“Too soon?”

Femi nodded.

“Fine.”

He stood slowly. His hands remained at her waist until he was certain his legs would hold him. Then he released her.

“I will wait.”

Femi searched his face.

“You will not disappear again.”

It was not a question. She shook her head.

“Promise me.”

Femi hesitated. Daemon’s fear returned immediately. She offered him her hand. He took it.

I promise.

His eyes closed.

He brought her fingers to his forehead.

“Several weeks.”

Femi nodded.

“And then you come home.”

Another nod.

Daemon kissed her knuckles. It was not the kiss he wanted. For now, it was enough.

Dai returned two hours later as Daemon was leaving. She found him in the hall outside the apartment. His eyes were red. She looked from him to the open door.

“If you upset her—”

“She is coming home.”

Dai became still.

“When?”

“A few weeks.”

“And you agreed to that?”

“No.”

The corner of Dai’s mouth moved.

“But you are leaving.”

“She asked me to wait.”

“So you are capable of listening.”

“Occasionally.”

Dai studied his face.

“She saw you cry.”

Daemon’s expression went cold.

“You are very observant.”

“I will treasure this knowledge forever, pretty boy.”

“If you tell Malone—”

“I am going to tell everyone.”

Despite the threat, her voice was gentle. Daemon looked past her.

Femi sat on the green sofa, staring at the floor.

“Take care of her.”

“I have been.”

Daemon accepted the rebuke.

“I know.”

He met Dai’s eyes.

“Thank you.”

Dai had not expected gratitude. Before she could answer, Daemon walked toward the stairs. Dai entered the apartment and closed the door.

“Femi?”

Femi raised her head.

Dai rushed toward her.

“Are you leaving?”

Femi nodded.

The answer visibly hurt Dai.

“Will you come back?”

Femi stood and took both her hands.

Yes.

“To visit?”

She nodded.

“Not because you need somewhere to hide?”

Femi shook her head.

Dai’s tears fell.

“You will always be my sister.”

Femi walked into her open arms. They held each other and cried.

“You did well,” Dai whispered into her hair. “Do you hear me? You survived. You built something here. You found work. You made a name for yourself.”

Mira Dell. The name had protected her when Femi Vale could not bear to exist.

“You never forget that.”

Femi’s shoulders shook. Dai kissed her temple.

“You came back to me once. You can always come back again.”

The following weeks passed slowly. Daemon rented a room in Nygen Heights. He did not follow Femi to work again. He waited outside the brownstone when she invited him and stayed away when she did not. Some evenings she allowed him into the apartment for dinner. On others, she only stood with him on the front steps.

He accepted both.

Malone and Marta returned to Wolfwater to prepare Helix. Neither liked leaving without Femi. Both understood that forcing her onto the road would only teach her she had been right to run.

At the Hidden Fantasy Hotel, Mira Dell gave notice. The chef stared at the paper for a long time.

“No.”

Femi frowned.

“You cannot resign.”

She pointed toward her signature.

“I can read.”

He pushed the paper back.

“Station seven belongs to you.”

Femi wrote:

I am going home.

The chef’s irritation faded.

“Is that what you want?”

Femi looked toward the kitchen she had rebuilt around herself.

Then she nodded.

He returned the resignation.

“If you come back to Vord City, your station will be waiting.”

Femi’s eyes filled.

The chef pretended not to notice.

“Until someone more competent takes it.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“That may take years,” he admitted.

Joe received the news with less grace.

“So the beautiful blond man is real.”

Femi nodded.

“The one you refused to discuss.”

Another nod.

“The dangerous relationship Dai warned me about?”

Femi wrote:

He was never dangerous to me.

Joe read the sentence.

“Do you love him?”

Femi folded the note before he could see her answer.

Joe sighed.

“Lucky bastard.”

She kissed his cheek. It was the first and only kiss she gave him. Joe touched the spot and smiled sadly.

“If he hurts you, I can fix many things.”

Femi looked pointedly at the leaking faucet behind him.

“Yes. I was getting to that.”

Several weeks after Daemon found her, Femi stood outside the brownstone with Dai.

Her belongings fit into two bags. The old coat lay folded inside one. Daemon’s shirt rested on top of it. Femi wore the black leather jacket they had purchased together in Eastgate.

Daemon waited beside his motorcycle. He did not hurry her. Dai held both of Femi’s hands.

“You always have a home with me.”

Femi nodded.

“You do not need permission. You do not need an invitation. If you arrive at three in the morning, you press the buzzer until I wake up.”

Femi’s silent laughter trembled through her tears. Dai opened her arms. Femi stepped into them. Dai held her tightly and kissed the top of her head.

“You tell that man what you survived.”

Femi went still.

“You tell him when you do not understand.”

Dai stroked her hair.

“You tell him when you are frightened.”

Femi clutched the back of her coat.

“And you tell him you love him.”

Her breath caught.

“We do not all leave, Femi.”

Dai’s voice broke.

“Some of us stay.”

Femi closed her eyes.

“I love you, sister.”

Femi pulled back and signed the words.

I love you too.

Dai wiped her face.

“Go before I threaten pretty boy again.”

Daemon approached and took Femi’s bags. Dai pointed at him.

“She returns whenever she wants.”

“Yes.”

“You do not prevent her from calling.”

“No.”

“You do not frighten her.”

Daemon glanced at Femi.

“I will try.”

“That answer needs work.”

“It is the truth.”

Dai studied him before nodding.

“Take her home.”

Daemon secured the bags and held out the second helmet. Femi stared at it. Five months ago, she had believed leaving was the only way to protect everyone she loved. Now the helmet waited in Daemon’s hands like a promise he had carried across every city between them. He placed it over her head and fastened the strap carefully.

“Too tight?”

Femi shook her head. Daemon climbed onto the motorcycle. Femi settled behind him. Her arms slid around his waist. His hand covered hers.

“Hold on tight, little ghost.”

She rested her cheek between his shoulder blades. The motorcycle roared to life. Dai stood on the brownstone steps and waved as they pulled away. Femi looked back until the building disappeared.

Then she faced the road.

Mira Dell remained behind at station seven—a name that proved she could survive alone.

Femi Vale rode toward Wolfwater.

Not because she had stopped being afraid. Not because she believed love would save them from every terrible thing waiting in the dark. She went because Daemon had crossed cities to find her. Because Malone still called her his daughter. Because Marta carried her photograph. Because Dai had taught her something fear never had. Leaving was not the only way to love someone.

Sometimes, love meant returning.

Sometimes, it meant staying.

Daemon and Femi rode until nightfall.

They stopped only for fuel and once at a roadside market where Daemon purchased water, fruit, and more food than two people could reasonably eat.

Femi said nothing about it.

Neither did he.

The Devil did.

More strawberries.

“She has enough.”

One container.

“No.”

Two.

Daemon bought two.

When darkness made the unfamiliar highway dangerous, Daemon pulled into a motel. It was a narrow, two-story building with faded blue doors and a broken vacancy sign. He parked beneath the light outside the office and removed his helmet.

“I can get you your own room.”

The Devil immediately objected.

No.

Daemon ignored it.

Femi looked toward the dark parking lot.

Then she looked at him.

One room.

Daemon’s heart reacted before the rest of him.

The Devil practically purred.

One room.

“With two beds,” he clarified.

She nodded.

The Devil was deeply offended.

Why did you say that?

Daemon hid his disappointment beneath his hair.

“Of course.”

Idiot.

The room smelled faintly of bleach and old cigarettes. Two narrow beds stood on opposite sides of a nightstand. A small television faced them from a wooden cabinet. Daemon gave Femi the bed farthest from the door. He took the one nearest it. Femi noticed. She did not mention it.

The Devil approved.

Anything comes through that door, it reaches us first.

Daemon checked the windows, tested the lock, and walked the perimeter of the motel before settling into bed fully clothed.

Femi fell asleep shortly before midnight.

At three, the nightmare found her.

She was six years old again. Blood soaked her clothing. Her mother lay somewhere beyond the darkness. A door opened. A man’s footsteps entered the room. Femi awoke sitting upright with both hands pressed against her mouth.

Her breathing came too fast. Across the room, Daemon slept on his side facing the door. Pale hair covered most of his face. One hand rested beneath his pillow where she knew he kept a knife. Femi did not wake him. She slipped from bed and crossed the room.

The lock was still secured. She checked it twice. Then she lifted the desk chair and wedged it beneath the door handle. Only after testing it did she return to bed.

Femi lay beneath the blanket until morning.

She did not sleep again.

Daemon noticed the chair as soon as he opened his eyes.

The Devil noticed it too.

Why is that there?

Daemon looked from it to Femi.

She lay facing the wall, pretending to sleep.

The morning light revealed the tension across her shoulders.

She didn’t sleep.

“No.”

Something frightened her.

Daemon said nothing.

He removed the chair, brought coffee and breakfast from the motel office, and waited outside while Femi dressed. Before they left, he checked the doorframe more carefully. There were no scratches near the lock. No sign anyone had tried to enter.

The Devil searched anyway.

Window.

“Locked.”

Bathroom.

“Clear.”

Parking lot.

“I already checked.”

Again.

Daemon checked again.

Still, unease remained with him throughout the day.

The chair meant something.

Ask her.

“Not yet.”

Why?

“She’ll tell us when she’s ready.”

The Devil disliked that answer.

We could ask.

“We could.”

Then ask.

“No.”

Daemon.

“Dai told us to listen.”

The Devil went silent. That, apparently, was an argument it understood now. The chair had not been placed there because of him. Femi had chosen to share the room. She had slept while he was near. But sometime during the night, fear had become stronger than the lock.

Daemon wanted to know why.

So did the Devil.

Who taught her the lock wasn’t enough?

Daemon’s hands tightened on the handlebars.

“I don’t know.”

Find out.

“We will.”

He waited.

Dai had told him to listen.

So he would listen when Femi was ready to speak.

And, reluctantly, so would the Devil.

They stopped at another motel the following night.

Again, Daemon offered Femi a separate room.

Again, she chose to share.

The Devil was smug.

She chose us.

“She chose a shared room.”

With us.

“Two beds.”

Still us.

This room was slightly larger. It had two beds and a faded brown sofa beneath the window. Daemon left to find dinner. When he returned, Femi sat on the sofa wearing one of his button-down shirts over small black shorts.

Daemon stopped in the doorway.

The Devil forgot about dinner.

Ours.

Daemon swallowed.

“She’s herself.”

The shirt.

“I know.”

Our shirt.

“Yes.”

On her.

“Devil.”

Look.

“I am looking.”

Her braid had come loose, allowing midnight strands to frame her face. She looked tired. Beautiful. Real. Home had been empty for five months, but Femi sat before him now. She was coming back. Daemon could not stop looking at her.

Neither could the Devil.

Beautiful.

Femi raised her hands.

You are staring.

“I cannot help it.”

Her eyebrows lifted.

“You are coming home.”

With us.

A tiny smile touched her lips.

The Devil immediately softened.

There.

Daemon fell silent before he frightened it away.

He placed the food on the table.

“I brought roast chicken, potatoes, and something they claimed was soup.”

Femi opened the container and examined its contents.

Her expression became doubtful.

“I had the same reaction.”

She offered him the questionable soup.

“No.”

Her shoulders shook with silent laughter.

The Devil whispered:

Eat it.

“No.”

She offered it.

“It looks poisonous.”

Eat it.

Daemon glared at the container.

Femi laughed harder.

The Devil was delighted.

Worth it.

They ate on opposite ends of the sofa.

For several minutes, the television filled the silence between them. Daemon did not know what was playing. His attention kept returning to Femi. She caught him twice.

On the third time, she simply looked away.

The Devil whispered:

She knows.

“Yes.”

Keep looking.

Daemon remembered the chair beneath the door.

He remembered Dai’s warning.

You tell that man what you survived.

The Devil immediately sobered.

Ask.

“What did Dai mean?”

Femi stopped eating.

“When she told you to tell me what you survived.”

Her eyes lowered.

The Devil pushed.

Ask again.

Daemon refused.

“You do not have to tell me tonight.”

Femi placed her food on the table. Daemon leaned forward.

“But I would like to understand.”

Please.

She folded her hands in her lap.

The fingers of her right hand rubbed the knuckles of her left. Daemon waited.

The Devil watched.

It did not rush her.

Finally, her hands moved.

I met Dai in a state institution for children.

“I know.”

It was my third home after the hospital.

Daemon’s jaw tightened at the word hospital.

The Devil stirred.

Six.

Daemon did not interrupt.

Dai was older. She had been there longer.

Femi paused.

Mrs. Gray used food as punishment.

The Devil lifted its head.

Who?

Daemon frowned.

If we made noise, failed at school, or did not finish our work, she did not let us eat.

The Devil went very still.

Daemon’s voice lowered.

“You could not make noise.”

Femi’s eyes lifted briefly.

She said silence was disrespectful when she asked questions.

Cold anger settled inside Daemon.

The Devil whispered:

Name.

Daemon ignored it.

“So she punished you for being unable to answer.”

Femi nodded.

I learned to hide food.

Her hands slowed.

Dai found me giving it to the younger girls.

The Devil’s rage faltered.

She was hungry and fed them.

Daemon’s throat tightened.

“What did she do?”

She helped.

Of course she had.

Daemon remembered the small woman displaying a knife in the hallway and threatening to use it on him.

His opinion of Dai improved.

The Devil’s did too.

Keep Dai.

Daemon almost smiled.

“Tell me about the chair.”

Femi became motionless.

The Devil immediately regretted the question.

Too fast.

Daemon’s voice softened.

“You placed one beneath the motel door last night.”

Her face lost color.

Stop.

“I am not angry.”

Femi looked toward the door.

Her hands rose.

Mr. Gray visited the younger girls at night.

Daemon did not move. Something inside him did. The Devil rose with terrible calm. Not the Devil from Helix. Not the thing that broke men in parking lots. Something older. Colder.

Gray.

He waited until his wife was asleep.

Femi’s fingers shook.

He came into our rooms.

The Devil whispered:

Where is he?

Daemon’s breathing slowed.

Each breath became controlled.

Measured.

“What did he do?”

Femi looked down.

Daemon immediately regretted the question.

The Devil did too.

No. Don’t make her say it.

“You do not have to tell me.”

Her hands moved before he finished.

He touched them.

Everything inside Daemon stopped. The Devil did not roar. It did not snarl.

It simply spoke one word.

Address.

Daemon saw red. Not the wild crimson of a bar fight. This was darker. Colder. The kind of rage that remembered names. Addresses.

The location of every bone in a man’s body.

Gray.

“Did he touch you?”

Femi’s hands stopped.

The Devil turned on Daemon.

Why did you ask that?

Daemon forced his fists open.

“Oh gods, little ghost, you do not have to answer.”

Don’t answer.

Femi swallowed.

He—

The Devil stood.

Daemon remained seated.

No.

Femi’s hands changed direction.

Dai taught me to put a chair beneath the door handle.

The Devil looked toward the motel door.

The chair.

That’s why.

Daemon’s chest tightened.

We planned to run away together.

“What happened?”

The Devil warned:

Careful.

Mr. Gray came into my room.

The Devil became deathly silent.

Daemon’s fingers curled against his knees.

Dai heard something fall.

“What fell?”

Femi touched her throat.

I tried to make noise.

The words destroyed something inside him.

The Devil broke.

Little ghost.

Daemon stared at her hand against her throat. She had tried. A six-year-old child whose voice had already been stolen by blood and terror had tried to force sound from a throat that would not give it to her.

She tried to scream.

Daemon’s vision blurred.

And no one came.

Then Femi’s hands moved.

Dai came in. She hit him.

The Devil stopped.

Dai came.

Daemon looked away before Femi saw the murder in his eyes.

“She stopped him?”

Femi nodded.

The Devil whispered:

Good girl.

Mrs. Gray called the police.

“On him?”

Femi shook her head.

The Devil already knew.

Its voice became monstrous.

No.

“On Dai.”

Another nod.

Name them both.

Daemon stood.

Femi flinched.

The Devil saw it.

Sit.

Daemon stopped immediately.

“I am not angry with you.”

Sit down.

His voice emerged low and lethal.

“I need you to understand that.”

Femi watched him. Daemon forced himself back onto the sofa.

The Devil fought him.

Gray.

“No.”

He touched children.

“I know.”

He came into her room.

“I know.”

She tried to scream.

Daemon’s eyes burned.

“I know.”

Find him.

“Not now.”

Daemon.

“Look at her.”

The Devil did. Femi sat rigid on the sofa. Watching them. Afraid of what her truth had awakened. The Devil went quiet.

Daemon spoke carefully.

“I am angry because they hurt children and called it care.”

The Devil whispered:

Cowards.

He paced once, then forced himself to sit again.

“What happened to Dai?”

She ran before the police arrived.

“And you?”

They sent me somewhere else.

“Alone.”

Femi nodded.

The Devil recoiled.

They separated them.

Daemon lowered his head.

If he spoke, he would promise violence.

The Devil wanted him to.

Promise her.

“No.”

Promise.

“No.”

Gray deserves—

“She doesn’t need that.”

The Devil fell silent.

Femi had already run because she feared what he did to people who hurt her. She did not need vengeance tonight. She needed him to remain in the room. The realization hurt the Devil in a different way.

Stay.

Daemon lifted his eyes.

“Was Gray the first home you shared?”

Femi shook her head.

After we met, Dai and I went through four homes together.

“You remained together?”

Sometimes.

Her hands moved more steadily now.

They separated us twice. Dai always found me again.

The Devil whispered:

Like us.

Daemon stilled.

“Yes.”

She always found her.

“Yes.”

And we found her.

Daemon understood why Dai called her sister. Blood had not made them family. Survival had.

I cooked. Dai cleaned.

A small smile appeared.

The Devil softened.

Of course she cooked.

She protected me from the children at school and the foster parents at home.

“She got into trouble for that.”

Femi nodded.

Always.

The Devil approved.

Definitely keep Dai.

“What happened in the other homes?”

Her smile vanished.

The Devil warned:

Daemon.

Femi’s hands lowered.

Daemon waited.

When she began again, the movements were smaller.

Mr. Seyo beat me when he was angry.

Daemon went completely still.

The Devil whispered:

Another name.

I could not tell anyone.

“You could have written it.”

Femi shook her head.

He took my paper.

The Devil’s rage deepened.

He knew.

Daemon’s teeth clenched.

He told people I hurt myself.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

Femi touched her arm as though remembering old bruises.

No one asked.

Daemon’s gray eyes moved over her face.

“No one?”

Not until Dai came.

“What did she do?”

She asked.

Silence.

The Devil had nothing to say. The simplicity of the answer hurt more than anything else. Dai had asked. No one before her had bothered.

Finally, the Devil whispered:

That’s all they had to do.

Daemon swallowed.

“Yes.”

Ask.

I told her. She threatened Mr. Seyo.

“She was a child.”

Femi nodded.

She said she would tell everyone.

“What happened?”

He hit me again.

The Devil surged.

SEYO.

Daemon’s hands curled into fists.

Dai attacked him.

A flash of satisfaction moved through Daemon.

The Devil practically purred.

Good.

“Good.”

Femi gave him a warning look.

“He deserved worse.”

Much worse.

She did not disagree.

He sent us back after that.

“Both of you?”

Femi nodded.

He said we were dangerous.

Daemon released a humorless laugh.

The Devil laughed with him.

“Yes. Two hungry girls were the danger in that house.”

Coward.

Femi touched his fist. Everything stopped. The fist opened beneath her hand.

The Devil looked at her fingers.

She did it again.

His anger did not disappear.

It simply moved aside for her.

The Devil whispered:

She protects us.

“They treated you that way because you could not speak.”

Femi’s gaze dropped.

Her fingers moved.

All they saw was a dumb little m—

The Devil erupted.

NO.

“No.”

Femi looked up.

“Do not call yourself that.”

Never.

But—

“No.”

The word rumbled through the room. Femi stiffened.

The Devil immediately recoiled.

Soft.

Daemon softened his voice.

“No, little ghost.”

He covered her hands with one of his, then loosened his hold so she could withdraw whenever she wanted.

The Devil spoke beneath him.

Not their words.

“You do not get to carry the names cruel people gave you.”

Her eyes filled.

“You are not dumb.”

Never.

He brushed his thumb across her knuckles.

“You understand more than most people who never stop talking.”

A tear escaped her eye.

The Devil whispered:

Little ghost.

“They did not hurt you because you could not speak.”

Femi frowned.

“They hurt you because they were cruel. They saw a child they thought could not expose them.”

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

“They were predators. Cowards.”

Prey that thought itself predator.

Femi looked away.

“Your silence did not make them that way.”

Her fingers trembled beneath his.

“It was not your fault.”

She shook her head.

“It was not.”

Daemon waited until her eyes returned to his.

“None of it.”

The Devil echoed him.

None.

Femi pulled one hand free.

I could not protect the other girls.

“You fed six of them.”

Not enough.

“You tried to warn them.”

Not enough.

“You survived.”

Femi’s face tightened.

“That was enough for a child.”

The Devil’s voice softened.

You were six.

Her tears fell.

Six, little ghost.

Daemon wanted to hold her.

Every part of the Devil wanted to gather her into his arms.

Hold her.

Daemon didn’t move.

Daemon.

“She chooses.”

The Devil quieted. He did not reach.

Instead he asked: “What do you need?”

The question surprised Femi.

It surprised the Devil too.

What does she need?

Daemon glanced toward the door.

“The chair?”

Femi followed his gaze.

“If you need it beneath the handle, we put it there.”

The Devil understood.

Not you.

We.

Her fingers moved.

You will think I do not trust you.

The Devil recoiled.

No.

“I think someone taught you a locked door was not enough.”

Femi stopped breathing. The Devil stared at the chair. At the cheap wood. At the worn carpet beneath it. At something that had once been placed beneath a door by frightened little girls because the adults outside it could not be trusted.

Not anymore.

“That is not the same thing.”

Daemon stood slowly.

He took the desk chair.

The Devil whispered:

Do it right.

Daemon wedged it beneath the door handle. Then he tested it. The door did not move.

The Devil was not satisfied.

Again.

Daemon tested it again.

Solid.

Good.

He returned to the sofa.

“I will take the bed nearest the door again.”

Femi looked at the chair.

“If anyone enters, they must move that and then go through me.”

The Devil corrected him.

Us.

Daemon’s gaze softened.

“Us.”

Femi’s eyes snapped toward him. Daemon understood the fear in them.

“I am not going to hunt them tonight.”

Tonight?

Femi’s hands moved immediately.

Tonight?

Daemon frowned.

“That was intended to reassure you.”

The Devil almost sounded amused.

You are bad at this.

“It did not.”

“I will not hunt them.”

The Devil objected.

Daemon.

Femi raised an eyebrow.

Daemon sighed.

“Without speaking to you first.”

The Devil considered that.

Acceptable.

Her expression remained skeptical.

“It is the best agreement I can offer.”

A small smile touched her mouth.

The Devil softened instantly.

There.

Daemon held out his hand. Femi looked at it. Then placed hers inside. The Devil became quiet.

“You do not have to make noise for me.”

Her fingers tightened.

“You do not have to speak in the dark.”

The Devil whispered:

We hear you.

Daemon lifted her hand and rested it over his heart.

“You do not have to become someone untouched by what happened.”

His heartbeat struck against her palm.

“You are enough.”

The Devil pressed close beneath that hand.

More than enough.

Femi’s eyes closed.

Daemon sat beside her without pulling her closer. The Devil waited. One breath. Two. Three. Then Femi leaned against him on her own.

She chose.

Daemon’s arm settled around her shoulders. Femi rested her head against his chest. The Devil curled around her presence. No rage. No names. No addresses. Gray and Seyo could wait.

Tonight belonged to Femi.

For the first time, Daemon understood the chair beneath the door.

For the first time, Femi allowed someone else to help her place it there.

Later, when the motel went quiet, Daemon took the bed closest to the door.

Femi took the other.

The chair remained wedged beneath the handle.

Daemon lay awake for a while, listening to her breathing.

The Devil remained awake with him.

Gray.

Daemon closed his eyes.

“Not tonight.”

Seyo.

“Not tonight.”

Silence.

Then:

She tried to scream.

Daemon’s throat tightened.

“I know.”

No one came.

“Dai came.”

The Devil became quiet. Yes. Dai had come. And now Daemon was here. A few minutes passed. Femi shifted beneath her blankets. The Devil immediately listened. Her breathing remained slow. Steady. Asleep.

Little ghost.

Daemon opened his eyes and looked across the darkness.

“She is safe.”

The Devil looked toward the chair beneath the door. For once, it did not see weakness in the barricade. It did not see fear. It saw a little girl doing the only thing she knew to keep monsters outside. And a woman finally willing to let someone help her secure the door.

We keep the chair.

Daemon’s eyes closed again.

“Yes.”

Every night she needs it.

“Yes.”

We put it there.

“Every time.”

The Devil settled.

And we take the bed by the door.

Daemon almost smiled.

“Always.”

Across the room, Femi slept.

Until dawn.

And neither the man nor the Devil asked her to be less afraid before she was ready.

Daemon was gone when Femi awoke.

His side of the room was empty.

The chair no longer stood beneath the door handle.

The shower was silent.

His jacket, boots, and bag had disappeared.

Panic entered before reason.

Femi sat upright.

The motorcycle was gone from the parking space outside their window. For one terrible moment, she believed Daemon had changed his mind. Perhaps hearing what happened in the foster homes had shown him how damaged she truly was. Perhaps he had imagined a frightened child beneath the woman he wanted and realized Femi could never become what he needed.

She climbed from the bed. The room felt too quiet. Femi began cleaning. She folded the blankets. Stripped the sheets. Gathered the towels. Wiped the sink and reorganized the items beside it.

By the time Daemon returned, she was scrubbing a mark from the small table. He carried two bags of breakfast in one hand and held his phone to his ear with the other.

“I know, Malone.”

Femi looked up. Their eyes met. She stopped scrubbing.

The Devil saw her face before Daemon understood it.

She thought we left.

Daemon’s heart dropped.

“I will call you later.”

He ended the call without waiting for Malone’s response. Femi placed the cloth aside and sat on the edge of the bed. Daemon set the food down.

“You thought I left.”

She did not answer.

She didn’t need to.

The Devil whispered:

Little ghost.

Daemon looked toward the door.

“The chair.”

Femi’s gaze dropped.

“I had to move it to get out.”

Her fingers twisted in her lap.

The Devil understood.

She woke up and the chair was gone.

“Yes.”

And we were gone.

Daemon closed his eyes briefly.

“I should have left a note.”

Yes.

He sat in the chair opposite her, careful not to block the exit.

“I went for breakfast and fuel. Malone wanted to know where we were.”

Femi nodded.

“I am not leaving you in a motel two cities from home.”

She looked at him.

The Devil pressed close.

Tell her.

“I am not leaving you anywhere.”

Anywhere.

Her shoulders relaxed slightly.

The Devil watched the movement.

She believes us.

Daemon pushed one of the bags toward her.

“Eat.”

Femi opened it. Inside were eggs, fried potatoes, toast, fruit, and two pastries. She looked at the amount of food, then at him.

“I did not know what you wanted.”

The Devil defended him.

So we bought everything.

A silent laugh moved through her.

Daemon’s relief was immediate.

The Devil’s was greater.

There she is.

They ate together.

At noon, they checked out and returned to the road.

They were still two cities from Ravenside.

Daemon rode until nearly one in the morning.

By then, the highway had become slick with mist, and fatigue pulled at his shoulders.

The Devil noticed.

Stop.

“I can make another hour.”

No.

“Thirty minutes.”

She is tired.

That ended the argument. A truck stop appeared ahead. Its sign advertised fuel, motel rooms, showers, and food available all night. Daemon parked outside a diner called Ray’s. Music reached them before they entered. Inside, truckers crowded the counter. A jukebox played loudly beside the restrooms. Waitresses moved between tables carrying coffee pots and plates piled with food.

Femi stepped inside.

Daemon followed.

The diner changed.

Conversations did not stop completely, but they lowered. Several people looked toward the tall blond man in black leather standing behind the small woman.

The Devil looked back.

Keep staring.

Daemon ignored them.

He surveyed every door and window before choosing a booth in the far corner. Femi slid into one side. Daemon sat across from her where he could see the entrance. It took the waitress several minutes to approach. She placed menus on the table while staring at the scar on Daemon’s cheek.

The Devil stared back.

Eyes up.

“What can I get you?”

“Coffee.”

She looked at Femi.

Femi pointed toward the tea.

The waitress waited for her to speak. The Devil’s attention sharpened.

Daemon’s voice cooled.

“She wants tea.”

The waitress turned back to him.

“And food?”

Daemon watched Femi examine the menu. She pointed toward the roast chicken dinner.

“The same for me.”

The waitress collected the menus and hurried away.

The Devil muttered:

She stared too long.

“She didn’t know.”

She waited.

“So do most people.”

The diner’s noise returned around them.

Daemon leaned back.

“Have you always lived in foster homes?”

Femi’s hands became still.

The Devil snapped:

Subtle.

Daemon immediately regretted the bluntness of the question.

“You do not have to answer.”

She looked down at the table.

Then her fingers moved.

No.

Daemon waited.

So did the Devil.

After the hospitals, I lived in state facilities for children.

“You were still recovering?”

Femi nodded.

I could not walk.

The Devil went still. Daemon’s gaze lowered to her legs. Even knowing she had survived five stab wounds as a child had not prepared him to imagine Femi confined to a wheelchair.

The Devil saw something else. A tiny child. Green eyes. No voice. Unable to run.

Little ghost.

“How long?”

Almost a year.

“Is that where you met Dai?”

Yes.

A faint smile appeared.

She pushed my wheelchair.

The Devil softened.

Dai.

Daemon could see it.

A sharp-eyed girl taking hold of Femi’s chair without permission and daring anyone to object.

“She talked to you.”

Femi nodded.

Constantly.

“That sounds like Dai.”

Her shoulders shook.

The Devil murmured:

Definitely Dai.

She did not care that I could not answer.

“She spoke enough for both of you.”

Femi nodded again.

She told me which workers were safe. She showed me where the kitchen kept food. She brushed my hair when I could not lift my arms.

Daemon looked away briefly.

The Devil did not.

It pictured every detail.

She brushed her hair.

“Yes.”

When our little ghost couldn’t lift her arms.

Daemon swallowed.

“Yes.”

Keep Dai.

“Yes.”

The waitress returned with their drinks.

She placed Femi’s tea down first and nearly spilled Daemon’s coffee when his eyes found hers.

“Food will be out soon.”

She left. Daemon wrapped one hand around the cup.

“What were the other children like?”

Femi stared into her tea.

Some were kind.

The pause warned him.

The Devil heard it too.

And the others?

“And the others?”

They took the wheelchair.

Daemon’s fingers tightened around the cup.

The Devil went very quiet.

They would push it to the other side of the room and leave me on the floor.

The ceramic creaked beneath Daemon’s hand.

Names.

“Femi.”

They said I looked dead.

The cup nearly broke. The Devil recoiled. Not from rage. From the image. A little girl on a floor. Unable to walk. Unable to call anyone.

Children laughing.

No.

The cup stopped creaking.

Daemon stared at her.

“Is that why you dislike the name?”

She looked up.

I do not dislike it when you say it.

The Devil melted.

Femi.

Something inside Daemon softened.

“Femi.”

Her eyes warmed.

The Devil whispered it again.

Femi.

Not little ghost.

Not ours.

Her name.

Femi continued.

One girl cut my hair while I slept. Some took my food because they knew I could not tell anyone.

The Devil’s softness disappeared.

Names.

“No one noticed?”

The workers said children fought.

“You could barely walk.”

Femi shrugged. Daemon put the cup down before he broke it.

The Devil snarled.

Don’t let her make it small.

“Did Dai know?”

When she found out, she put glue in one girl’s shoes.

Silence.

Daemon stared at her.

The Devil considered this.

Not enough.

A tiny smile appeared on Femi’s lips.

Daemon leaned back.

“I like your sister.”

Very much.

Femi laughed silently.

Their food arrived while she told him about the facility. The waitress placed the plates between them and disappeared before Daemon could look at her. Femi ate. Daemon tried. Every new truth became another weight inside him. He had spent five months searching cities for the woman before him. Now he understood that parts of Femi had been missing much longer.

No one had searched for those.

The Devil whispered:

We will.

Daemon looked at her.

Not for people.

Not for vengeance.

For every piece of Femi that had been taught it was unwanted.

“Yes.”

The motel had only one room remaining.

“One king bed,” the clerk said. “Take it or try the next town.”

The Devil immediately answered.

Take it.

Daemon looked at Femi.

“We will take it.”

The room contained one large bed, a television, and a short sofa beneath the window.

Femi pointed toward the sofa.

“No.”

Her eyebrows rose.

“You cannot sleep on that.”

I am smaller.

“It is still too short.”

She pointed toward him.

“I am not sleeping there either.”

The Devil offered:

Bed.

Daemon ignored it.

“There is room on the bed.”

Exactly.

Femi stared at it.

“I will stay on my side.”

She hesitated before nodding.

The Devil became insufferably pleased.

One bed.

“Behave.”

Daemon took the side nearest the door.

The Devil approved.

Always.

He removed his jacket and shirt but kept his jeans on. Then he stretched across the mattress with one arm resting over his stomach. Femi changed in the bathroom. When she emerged, she wore a large shirt and soft trousers.

The Devil stared.

Beautiful.

Daemon kept his eyes on the ceiling.

Coward.

“Respectful.”

Coward.

After a moment, the mattress shifted as she climbed onto the other side.

Distance remained between them. Enough for another person.

The Devil disliked every inch.

Too far.

“She chose the distance.”

A pause.

Fine.

Daemon accepted it.

“How many foster homes?”

Femi looked toward him.

“How many did they send you to?”

Her hands rose above the blanket.

Twenty.

The Devil went still.

Daemon turned his head.

“Twenty?”

She nodded.

Twenty.

“How long were you in the system?”

From seven until eighteen.

Daemon calculated the number.

“That is nearly two homes every year.”

Some lasted days.

The Devil whispered:

No one kept her.

Daemon’s chest tightened.

“Did they all treat you badly?”

Femi watched her fingers.

No one wanted a child who had nightmares and could not speak.

The Devil’s answer came instantly.

We do.

“I would have.”

Femi looked at him.

“I know I would have been a child too, but the point remains.”

The Devil was completely serious.

We would have kept her.

Her expression softened briefly.

Then she signed:

If they were kind, it came with a price later.

The Devil’s mood changed.

What price?

Daemon sat up.

“What price?”

Femi’s hands lowered.

“Little ghost?”

She looked toward the motel window.

Every time the social worker came, Mrs. Hopewell treated me as though I were made of gold.

The Devil listened.

Hopewell.

Daemon waited.

She brushed my hair. Gave me clean clothes. Let me eat at the table.

“What happened after the social worker left?”

Femi swallowed.

I had to repay her.

The Devil whispered:

Repay what?

Daemon went still.

“What did repayment mean?”

She could not look at him.

I had to let her husband touch me.

Murder entered Daemon’s eyes. The Devil became absolutely silent. Femi was still looking toward the window and did not see it.

The Devil began memorizing the name.

Hopewell.

Not shouted. Not snarled. Filed away. Permanent.

Daemon forced air into his lungs.

“How old were you?”

Nine.

The Devil whispered:

Nine.

Daemon closed his eyes.

The room became too small for the rage inside him.

Hopewell.

“Stay here.”

Hopewell.

“With her.”

Hopewell.

“Not him.”

Femi’s hands moved again.

Mrs. Johnson was nice before visits too.

Another name.

Johnson.

Daemon opened his eyes.

Afterward, she locked me in the basement.

“For how long?”

Two days. Sometimes three.

The Devil rose.

Johnson.

“Food?”

Femi shook her head.

“Water?”

There was a sink.

Daemon swung his feet to the floor. His back faced her. He needed distance from the bed. Not from Femi. From the impulse to stand, find his motorcycle, and begin hunting every name she gave him.

The Devil encouraged it.

Go.

“No.”

We know two.

“No.”

Hopewell. Johnson.

“Femi is here.”

The Devil hesitated.

Miss Valvo was worse, Femi signed.

Daemon turned. The Devil added another name.

Valvo.

She beat me and said no one wanted a stupid mute.

Daemon’s jaw clenched.

The Devil snarled.

We want her.

She said I took space from a real child who needed her.

“You were a real child.”

You are real.

Femi shrugged.

Daemon’s expression hardened.

“Do not do that.”

She looked at him.

“Do not make what they did smaller.”

Never make yourself smaller for them.

Her fingers curled into her palms. Daemon returned to the bed. He sat close enough to see her face but did not touch her.

“Who else?”

The Devil whispered:

Tell us.

Femi hesitated.

Then she continued.

Mrs. Debbie said nice things about me.

Another name.

Debbie.

“What things?”

She told the social worker she loved me.

Femi’s expression emptied.

The Devil knew before she continued.

Liar.

After the social worker left—

“She hurt you.”

Femi nodded.

I cared for her real children. Cooked. Cleaned. Washed their clothes.

“Where did you sleep?”

Beside the washing machine.

Daemon’s gray eyes closed.

The Devil whispered:

She gave them everything.

When her children broke something, I was punished.

“She beat you.”

Another nod.

She told the social worker I fought at school.

“How old were you?”

Ten.

The Devil wanted to hunt.

Hopewell.

Johnson.

Valvo.

Debbie.

Gray.

Seyo.

Every foster parent who had looked at a silent child and mistaken her inability to speak for an inability to feel pain.

We have names.

Daemon opened his hands.

We can find them.

Femi’s green eyes were fixed on him. They kept him inside the motel room. Here. With her. Not chasing ghosts through cities.

The Devil pushed.

They deserve—

“I know.”

Then go.

“No.”

Why?

Daemon looked at Femi.

“Because she is telling us.”

The Devil stopped.

“She finally trusts us enough to tell us.”

Silence.

“And you want me to leave?”

The Devil looked at Femi. At the fear beneath the exhaustion. At the hands that had finally begun giving them pieces of a childhood she had hidden even from herself.

No.

“Then stay.”

The Devil stayed. Daemon held one hand toward her. Femi looked at it. Then placed her fingers inside. The Devil’s rage bent around that touch.

Daemon closed his hand gently.

“You do not owe me anything.”

She frowned.

“For finding you. For taking you home. For food, motel rooms, or protection.”

Her gaze dropped.

“You do not repay me.”

The Devil whispered:

Never.

Her hands moved beneath his.

Everyone wants something.

Daemon’s heart hurt.

The Devil answered before he could.

You.

Daemon almost rejected the thought.

Then understood it. Not her body. Not obedience. Not repayment. Her. Alive. Safe. Choosing.

“I want you safe.”

That is something.

“Yes.”

Daemon accepted the correction.

“But your safety does not purchase access to you.”

Femi became motionless.

The Devil listened.

“You do not owe me your body because I bought dinner.”

Nothing.

His thumb moved across her knuckles.

“You do not owe me a kiss because I crossed cities.”

Nothing.

Her eyes began to shine.

“You do not owe me silence when you are afraid I will become angry.”

Tears escaped her eyes.

“Care is not a debt.”

The Devil whispered:

Care is not a debt.

Femi looked down at their joined hands.

“It is not a bill I intend to collect later.”

The Devil understood something then. Every kindness Femi had known came with teeth hidden behind it. Food. Clean clothes. A place at the table. A bed. Protection. Eventually someone held out a hand and demanded payment.

The Devil looked at their joined hands.

Open it.

Daemon loosened his fingers.

Femi could leave whenever she wanted. She pulled one hand free and wiped her face. Daemon opened both arms. He said nothing.

The Devil did not say come here.

It did not say ours.

It waited.

Femi looked at the space he offered. Then she crossed it.

The Devil broke.

She chose.

She fell against him.

Daemon caught her carefully. Her face pressed into his bare chest, and her hands gathered at his sides. He closed his arms around her.

“My poor little ghost.”

Femi shook her head.

The Devil corrected him gently.

Our brave little ghost.

Daemon’s throat tightened.

“No one will treat you that way again.”

His lips touched her hair.

“I swear.”

The Devil wanted to make the same promise in blood.

Instead:

We will try.

They remained together for several minutes. Daemon felt her heartbeat slow. The Devil counted each one. Alive. Here. Safe.

“When did you find Dai again?”

Femi leaned back enough to sign.

I was eleven.

“Another foster home?”

She nodded.

Mr. Jacobs had broken my arm two days earlier.

Daemon’s arms tightened before he could stop them.

The Devil exploded.

JACOBS.

Femi stiffened.

Daemon loosened his arms immediately.

“Why?”

His daughter said I stole something.

“What?”

Femi shrugged.

I do not remember.

“He broke the arm of an eleven-year-old child over something he could not prove.”

He tried to make me confess.

Femi’s hands became slower.

He called me a dirty little mute hobo.

The Devil whispered:

Jacobs.

Daemon’s expression became deadly.

He said I deserved it.

No.

Femi looked down.

Then, to his surprise, she smiled.

The Devil noticed first.

Why is she smiling?

Daemon frowned.

“What?”

Dai found me six days later.

The Devil perked up.

Dai.

“And?”

She broke his leg with a baseball bat.

Silence. Daemon stared at her.

The Devil was delighted.

Keep Dai forever.

He could not work for two months.

A laugh escaped Daemon.

“That is what he gets for hurting you.”

Should have been both legs.

Femi’s smile widened.

“I would have killed him.”

Her smile disappeared.

The Devil muttered:

There it is.

Daemon sighed.

“That was not reassuring either.”

She shook her head.

“Dai had more restraint.”

The Devil objected.

Unfortunately.

Femi gave him a skeptical look.

“Some.”

She shifted against him. Daemon adjusted her until she sat across his left thigh, safely enclosed within his arms.

The Devil paused.

Careful.

Daemon waited for resistance.

Femi allowed the movement and settled her cheek against his chest.

Good.

They continued speaking.

Femi told him about Dai sneaking into a group home during visiting hours. About the first letter containing her Nygen Heights address. About losing the address twice and finding it again. The Devil listened to every word. No threats. No demands. Just listening. Her hands became slower.

Her eyes began closing between sentences. Eventually, her fingers stopped moving. Femi fell asleep against him.

Daemon held her.

The Devil whispered:

She fell asleep on us.

“Yes.”

While telling us.

“Yes.”

She trusts us.

Daemon looked down at her.

“I hope so.”

Her face softened in sleep. The tension disappeared from her mouth. One hand rested over his heart as though ensuring it continued to beat. The Devil remained awake. It remembered every name. Hopewell. Johnson. Valvo. Debbie. Jacobs. Gray. Seyo.

Hopewell.

Daemon stroked Femi’s back.

“No.”

Johnson.

“Not tonight.”

Valvo.

“No.”

Debbie.

“No.”

Jacobs.

Daemon looked at the woman sleeping against him.

“No.”

Gray.

“No.”

Seyo.

“No.”

The Devil grew frustrated.

You are saying no to all of them.

“Yes.”

They hurt her.

“I know.”

They deserve us.

Daemon’s hand moved slowly along Femi’s back.

“Maybe.”

The Devil went still at the concession.

“But she doesn’t deserve to wake up alone because we left to become the thing she fears.”

Silence.

Femi shifted closer.

The Devil looked down.

Her fingers curled faintly against Daemon’s chest.

Stay.

“Yes.”

The names remained. They could wait. Femi could not.

“No nightmares tonight.”

Daemon stroked her back.

“I have you.”

His voice lowered.

“Nothing will hurt you again. It will have to go through me first.”

The Devil corrected him softly.

Us.

Daemon held her until after two. When his arm began to lose feeling, Daemon lifted Femi and placed her carefully on the bed. She stirred but did not wake.

The Devil immediately warned:

Slow.

“I know.”

He covered her.

Then he moved the chair beneath the door handle.

The Devil watched.

Again.

Daemon tested it once.

Then twice.

Good.

Only after the room was secure did Daemon return to bed. He lay on the side nearest the door.

Always.

Femi turned in her sleep and curled into his warmth. Daemon became hyperaware of every point where their bodies touched. Her forehead beneath his chin. Her hand against his chest. Her knees near his thigh. The Devil became very quiet.

Daemon wrapped one arm around her.

“I love you.”

The confession was barely a whisper.

The Devil answered:

We do.

Daemon kissed her cheek.

Femi sighed and moved closer.

The Devil nearly purred.

Again.

“No.”

Cheek.

Daemon kissed her cheek once more.

Again.

“You are greedy.”

Five months.

Daemon could not argue with that. He settled beside her. Femi’s breathing remained slow. Steady. Safe. Daemon closed his eyes. Neither of them had a nightmare. They slept until eleven.

When they woke, rain hammered against the motel windows. Water flooded the parking lot and turned the highway into a gray blur. Daemon looked outside.

“We are not riding through that.”

The Devil approved immediately.

Dangerous.

Femi sat in the middle of the bed, hair loose around her, wearing his shirt.

The Devil changed its reasoning.

Very dangerous.

Daemon glanced at her.

“Behave.”

Her hands moved.

Another night?

“Yes.”

A tiny smile appeared.

The Devil softened.

She wants another night.

Daemon looked toward the chair beneath the door. Another day. One room. One bed. The Devil remembered every name. But it also remembered what Femi had taught them. Food did not buy her obedience. Protection did not buy her body. Crossing six cities did not buy her love. Kindness purchased nothing. That was what made it kindness.

The Devil looked at Femi sitting in the middle of their bed, wrapped in Daemon’s shirt while rain trapped them safely away from the road.

Nothing owed.

Daemon’s expression softened.

“No.”

Nothing collected.

“No.”

Femi smiled at him.

The Devil settled quietly beneath his ribs.

Only what she chooses to give.

Daemon crossed the room and wedged the chair beneath the door.

Then he looked back at her.

One room.

One bed.

And no price waiting for the kindness between them.

They ran through the rain.

The diner stood across the truck-stop parking lot, no more than a hundred yards from the motel. By the time they reached it, water streamed from Daemon’s hair and Femi’s clothes clung to her skin.

Daemon opened the door and ushered her inside.

Warm air, frying bacon, and coffee surrounded them.

“I need the bathroom.”

Femi nodded.

“I will be right back.”

The Devil glanced around the diner.

Too many people.

“It is a diner.”

Too many men.

“They are eating.”

They have eyes.

Daemon almost sighed.

“Behave.”

He looked at Femi.

“Stay where I can find you.”

Her eyebrow lifted.

The Devil corrected him.

She is not going anywhere.

Daemon softened.

“I’ll be right back.”

She watched him disappear down the short hallway before choosing a booth. The farthest from the entrance. Her back protected by the wall. A clear view of every door, window, and person in the diner. Daemon would have chosen the same one. So would the Devil. Femi removed her wet jacket and folded it beside her. She picked up the menu and waited.

A waitress approached.

Her name tag read SHIRLEY.

“What do you want?”

Femi pointed toward the tea.

Shirley frowned.

“I asked what you want.”

Femi pointed again, then reached for the small notepad she carried.

“You deaf?”

Femi shook her head.

“Then answer me.”

Several men at the counter turned. Femi held up one finger and opened her notepad. Shirley placed both hands on her hips.

“I have been on my feet for twelve hours. I don’t have time for this.”

Femi began writing. Someone at the counter laughed.

“You tell her, Shirley.”

The encouragement transformed the waitress. Shirley smiled. Laughter spread through the diner. She leaned closer to Femi.

“Listen to me, you dirty fucking street whore. I don’t give two fucks about your pimp waiting in the bathroom.”

Femi’s pen stopped. Down the hallway, Daemon stopped too.

The Devil lifted its head.

What did she say?

Daemon became perfectly still.

“You either start talking or get the fuck out.”

Daemon.

The words reached him before he entered the dining room.

Go.

He stepped from the hallway. The laughter died. One person became silent. Then another. A man who had been turned toward Femi suddenly found great interest in his coffee.

Daemon heard only Shirley. She had not noticed him. The humiliation on Femi’s face entertained her too much.The Devil saw that face. Then Shirley spoke again.

“We don’t need dirty fucking mutes taking up space that belongs to real customers.”

Everything stopped.

The Devil remembered.

She said I took space from a real child who needed her.

Valvo. A child. A washing machine. Twenty homes. People who looked at a silent girl and decided silence made her less human.

The Devil whispered one word.

No.

Murder entered Daemon’s face.

Not again.

People nearest the entrance began reaching for their coats.

Shirley pointed toward the door.

“Get out.”

The Devil moved.

She stays.

Femi looked down at her hands.

“I said get the fuck out.”

She stays.

Shirley separated each word, using the slow, exaggerated tone people used when they believed Femi’s silence meant stupidity.

“Get. The. Fuck. Out.”

The Devil went cold.

Break her jaw.

Someone cleared his throat. Shirley glanced over her shoulder. Daemon stood behind her. He towered over the waitress. Rainwater slid from his pale hair and traced the scar on his cheek. His gray eyes held something that emptied the color from her face.

The Devil stared through them.

Say it again.

“What did you call her?”

His voice was quiet. Shirley stepped back. Daemon followed.

“Say it again.”

Please.

His fists closed at his sides.

“I dare you.”

Give us a reason.

A chair scraped across the floor. One of the laughing men stood and left money beside his unfinished meal. Two others followed him toward the door.

The Devil noticed.

Them too.

“No.”

They laughed.

“Not now.”

Shirley looked around for the courage the room had given her.

No one met her eyes.

“I didn’t—”

“Yes, you did.”

Liar.

Daemon took another step.

“You called her a whore.”

Shirley’s mouth opened.

“You called her a mute as though it were something filthy.”

The Devil snarled beneath his ribs.

She speaks.

His voice lowered.

“And you told her she was taking up space.”

Our little ghost has spent her whole life being told she takes too much space.

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

Make her take it back.

Shirley’s back struck the counter. A broad man in a cook’s apron rushed from the kitchen.

“Look, man, Shirley is an idiot. She runs her mouth. Don’t hurt her.”

Daemon turned his head. The cook stopped. Daemon’s murderous gaze settled on him. The man retreated three full steps.

The Devil whispered:

Good.

“What is your name?” Daemon asked.

“Charles.”

Remember it.

“You own this place?”

“My father does.”

“Then you are responsible for what happens inside it.”

Charles swallowed.

“Yes.”

“You stood in that kitchen while your waitress humiliated a customer.”

“I didn’t hear her at first.”

“You heard people laughing.”

Charles looked around the diner. No one spoke. The Devil looked at them too.

Everyone.

Daemon felt the old hunger move beneath his skin. Every person who had laughed. Every person who had watched. Every person who had let Femi sit alone while someone made sport of the thing she could not change.

Make them afraid to laugh again.

“Apologize to the lady, Shirley,” Charles ordered.

Shirley stared at him.

“Now.”

Her eyes returned to Femi.

“Sorry.”

The Devil snarled.

No.

Daemon’s expression did not change.

“That was not an apology.”

Shirley’s lips trembled.

“I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“For what?”

The question emerged like a blade.

Shirley swallowed.

“For speaking to you that way.”

Femi sat motionless.

“And?” Daemon demanded.

“For calling you names.”

“And?”

Shirley looked toward the door.

“For telling you to leave.”

The Devil whispered:

She doesn’t mean it.

“No.”

Make her.

Daemon remained silent.

Charles stepped between them.

“I apologize, ma’am. There is no excuse for what she said. Whatever you order is on the house.”

Something inside Daemon snapped.

The Devil surged.

No.

Daemon caught the front of his apron. He lifted. Charles’s feet left the floor. Gasps moved through the diner. Charles was not a small man. He still hung helplessly from Daemon’s fist, his hands gripping the leather sleeve supporting his weight.

The Devil breathed through Daemon’s teeth.

They think food fixes it.

Daemon brought him closer.

“Listen carefully.”

Kindness with a price.

Daemon’s grip tightened.

Not again.

“If Shirley opens her mouth against Femi one more time, I will remove the lying tongue from her face.”

“Hey, now,” a man near the counter began.

The Devil’s gaze snapped toward him.

You laughed.

Daemon looked at him. The man sank into his chair. Charles nodded frantically.

“Yes. I understand.”

“I will do it in front of everyone who laughed.”

And make them watch.

“Yes.”

Then Femi touched his arm. Barely. Her fingers rested against wet leather. The Devil turned its head.

Little ghost.

Daemon looked toward her.

The fear on Femi’s face was not directed at him.

The Devil recognized that immediately.

She isn’t afraid of us.

No.

She was afraid of what he might become for her. The Devil remembered the motel. Names whispered in darkness. Hopewell. Johnson. Valvo. Debbie. Jacobs. Gray. Seyo.

They deserve us.

Daemon’s grip remained tight.

“Yes.”

Then the Devil looked at Femi.

At the hand on his arm.

At the silent plea in her eyes.

But she doesn’t.

Daemon’s grip loosened. Charles fell to his knees. He gasped and clutched his throat. The Devil watched him fall.

It could have finished it.

Wanted to.

But Femi’s fingers remained against Daemon’s sleeve.

Enough.

Daemon returned to the booth and sat across from Femi. He took her hand.

His voice changed completely.

“Are you all right?”

The Devil searched her face.

Look at us.

Femi nodded.

His thumb moved over her knuckles.

“Order what you want.”

Anything.

She looked toward Shirley.

Daemon followed her gaze.

“You will bring her order.”

Shirley nodded.

“You will not add another word unless she asks you a question.”

Another quick nod.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

Femi pointed toward an item on the menu.

Roast chicken with potatoes and vegetables. Daemon ordered the same. Shirley wrote it down and hurried into the kitchen. Ray’s Diner remained silent. Everyone who had laughed returned to their food. No one looked toward the far booth.

The Devil did.

Cowards.

“Enough.”

They laughed at her.

“I know.”

She sat here alone.

“I know.”

And they laughed.

Daemon looked at Femi.

Her fingers were still inside his.

“But she isn’t alone now.”

The Devil went quiet. Charles brought the plates himself. He placed Femi’s meal before her.

“I apologize, ma’am.”

He looked around the room and raised his voice.

“What Shirley said was wrong. So was everyone who encouraged her.”

Several people lowered their eyes.

The Devil approved.

Good.

“You were a paying customer. More importantly, you were a person sitting here minding your own business.”

Charles looked at Femi.

“You did not deserve any of it.”

Femi nodded once.

“Thank you.”

The Devil watched Charles move away.

He learned.

Daemon glanced toward the kitchen.

“Hopefully.”

Behind the kitchen doors, his restraint vanished.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Charles shouted.

Shirley answered too quietly for the dining room to hear.

“You did it for laughs,” Charles continued. “You spoke to a customer that way because those idiots encouraged you.”

“But, Charles—”

“Do not ‘but Charles’ me. That man picked me up by my collar. My feet left the floor, Shirley.”

The Devil almost sounded pleased.

They did.

Daemon took a drink.

A few people at the counter shifted uncomfortably.

“He could have killed me. He looked like he wanted to kill everyone in this building, and you brought that down on us because you wanted people to laugh.”

Accurate.

“It was a joke.”

The Devil snarled.

No.

Charles answered for it.

“No. It was cruelty.”

The Devil stilled.

Yes.

Charles’s voice hardened.

“You are fired. Get your things and leave.”

A tiny piece of the Devil’s rage settled.

Good.

The kitchen door slammed. A few moments later, Shirley emerged carrying a purse and a wet coat. Her eyes were red. She looked toward Femi. Then she saw Daemon watching her. Whatever she intended to say died.

The Devil smiled beneath his skin.

Try.

She rushed outside into the rain.

Everyone who had laughed watched her go.

Daemon squeezed Femi’s hand.

“She deserved to lose her job.”

Femi looked at him.

“She cannot speak to people any way she chooses.”

His thumb brushed across her fingers.

“Especially you.”

The Devil corrected him.

Anyone.

Daemon looked at Femi.

“Yes. Anyone.”

He kissed her knuckles.

Femi’s other hand moved.

I saw the Devil in your eyes.

Daemon became still.

The Devil did too.

Neither denied it.

You were going to kill them.

“I was.”

The Devil whispered:

Yes.

Femi searched his face.

But you stopped.

Daemon glanced toward the place where Charles had fallen.

“Yes.”

The Devil looked at her hand.

Still inside his.

You touched us.

Why?

Daemon’s fingers tightened around hers.

“I do not want you afraid of me.”

The Devil recoiled from the possibility.

No.

Femi’s expression softened.

“I could not bear it if you were afraid of me.”

Never.

She reached across the table and took his other hand.

Daemon looked down at their joined fingers.

The Devil waited.

Femi signed with the hand he had released.

I could never be afraid of you.

Daemon’s heart stumbled.

The Devil whispered:

Again.

His eyes lifted.

Femi’s hands moved.

You are my safe place.

Everything inside Daemon stopped. The Devil disappeared. Not gone. Overwhelmed. Daemon stared at her. Safe. No one had ever placed that word beside him. Dangerous. Monster. Executioner. Devil. Weapon. Those words belonged to him. Safe did not.

The Devil finally whispered:

Us?

Daemon’s throat tightened.

Femi was still looking at him.

She means us.

Daemon’s heart did that terrible thing again.

Hope moved through it.

Wild.

Painful.

Alive.

The Devil could barely speak.

Her safe place.

Daemon lowered his head and allowed his wet hair to hide his face.

Femi’s silent laughter trembled between them.

The Devil heard it.

Don’t hide.

Daemon remained there.

She called us safe.

“I heard her.”

Look at her.

Daemon raised his head.

Femi smiled.

The Devil broke open.

Little ghost.

Daemon raised her hand to his mouth again. This time, he pressed his lips against the center of her palm.

The Devil whispered against her skin:

We will be.

Daemon closed his eyes.

Not we are.

That was Femi’s gift to give. But we will be was his promise to keep. They ate without speaking. Around them, Ray’s slowly remembered how to breathe. The jukebox resumed playing. Forks touched plates. Coffee poured. No one laughed at the woman in the far booth.

Outside, rain continued hammering the windows.

Inside, Femi kept one hand inside Daemon’s. The Devil looked at their joined fingers. It remembered how easily Daemon could have broken Charles. How easily Shirley’s cruelty could have become blood. How desperately it had wanted to punish everyone in the room. Then it remembered Femi’s fingers touching his sleeve.

Enough.

One touch.

And the Devil had listened. Not because it had become weak. Not because Shirley deserved mercy. Not because Charles deserved protection. Because Femi deserved a man she could touch without wondering whether someone would die.

The Devil whispered:

She stopped us.

Daemon brushed his thumb across her hand.

“Yes.”

And we listened.

“Yes.”

The realization settled somewhere deep. Femi did not need the Devil to destroy every person who hurt her. Sometimes she needed it to stay seated across from her. To hold her hand. To let her eat. To allow cruelty to end without turning the room into another place she would remember for blood.

The Devil had spent its existence believing safety meant becoming the most dangerous thing in the room. Femi had taught it something else. Sometimes safety was the monster choosing not to bite. Sometimes protection was restraint. Sometimes love was stopping when she touched his arm.

The Devil looked at Femi.

Her safe place.

Daemon’s fingers tightened gently around hers.

“Yes.”

The Devil settled beneath his ribs.

Quiet.

Proud.

Terrified by how much those three words meant.

Then, with a softness that belonged only to her:

Our little ghost feels safe with us.

Daemon looked down at their joined hands.

For the first time, the Devil understood that stopping for her did not make him weak.

It made him safe.

It happened five miles outside Tarpus.

They checked into a roadside motel shortly after dark. The place was old but clean, with exterior corridors, humming vending machines, and an ice machine near the rear stairwell.

Daemon had barely set their bags down when Femi kissed him. It was only his cheek. The scarred one. Her lips touched the uneven skin softly before she picked up the plastic ice bucket and escaped the room.

Daemon remained standing for several seconds.

The Devil did not move.

Neither of them seemed capable of it.

Then:

She kissed us.

Daemon touched his cheek.

“Yes.”

There.

The scar.

The place most people stared at and then politely pretended they had not.

Femi had kissed it.

The Devil whispered:

Again.

“She left.”

Go get her.

“She went for ice.”

Then we need ice.

“No.”

Then his knees weakened, and he sat on the edge of the bed. That terrible thing happened inside his chest again. Hope. The Devil had begun to recognize it.

It still didn’t trust it.

Careful.

Femi had been coming closer throughout the journey. She slept beside him. She reached for him. She trusted him with pieces of her past. Now she had kissed his scar. Daemon smiled behind his hair.

The Devil whispered:

Our little ghost kissed us.

“Yes.”

She wanted to.

“Yes.”

No debt.

Daemon’s smile deepened.

“No debt.”

Then he looked at the clock. The smile disappeared. Femi had been gone for twenty minutes. The ice machine was less than a minute away.

The Devil rose instantly.

Too long.

Daemon stood.

He checked the walkway outside their room.

No Femi.

No ice bucket.

“Little ghost?”

Nothing answered.

Find her.

Daemon moved toward the rear of the motel.

The ice machine stood empty beneath a flickering light.

The Devil became very still.

No.

Then Daemon heard voices beyond the corner.

Two men.

“Go ahead,” one of them laughed. “Get you some of that.”

The Devil understood before Daemon rounded the building.

Femi.

Daemon ran. He rounded the building. One man stood near the stairwell, watching. The other had Femi trapped against a vending machine. The world disappeared. Her ice bucket lay on the pavement. The man had one hand beneath her coat. When she fought him, he slapped her arm aside and seized her throat. Femi’s back struck the machine.

The Devil screamed.

NO.

Daemon made a sound. It was not a word. The man near the stairwell looked over his shoulder. Whatever he saw in Daemon’s face erased his laughter.

The Devil saw him.

Him too.

He ran.

RUN.

He abandoned his friend without warning and disappeared across the parking lot. The Devil wanted to follow. Then the man holding Femi turned. Everything narrowed.

That one.

Daemon stepped from the shadows. The man barely had time to react. Daemon caught the attacker by the back of his coat and tore him away from her.

Away from her.

The man struck the pavement.

Daemon lifted him again.

Again.

The first punch broke his nose.

Again.

The second sent blood across the concrete.

Again.

The man raised his arms.

Daemon broke through them.

Again.

Every blow carried something older than the motel parking lot.

Mr. Gray entering a child’s room.

Again.

Hopewell demanding repayment.

Again.

Jacobs breaking a child’s arm.

Again.

Shirley telling Femi that she occupied space meant for real people.

Again.

The man collapsed.

Daemon followed him down. His large hands closed around the attacker’s throat.

The Devil took them.

Mine.

The man kicked weakly. His choking made a small, satisfying sound.

The Devil tightened its grip.

You touched her.

The man’s face darkened.

You put your hand beneath her clothes.

His feet scraped uselessly against the pavement.

You put your hand around her throat.

Daemon’s thumbs pressed harder.

No one touches our little ghost.

The kicking weakened.

No one.

A pulse hammered beneath Daemon’s palm.

Take it.

Tiny arms wrapped around Daemon from behind. Everything stopped. Femi. She pressed herself against his back and buried her face beside his neck. The Devil froze.

Little ghost.

Her breath touched his skin. Her arms tightened across his chest. The Devil looked down at the dying man.

Then at the small hands locked over Daemon’s chest.

She needs us.

Daemon’s hands stopped. The Devil stepped back. Not because the man deserved mercy. He did not. Not because Daemon had forgiven him. He had not.

Because Femi was holding them.

Enough.

Daemon released enough pressure for the man to drag in a wet, desperate breath.

The Devil snarled at him.

You are alive because she touched us.

Daemon looked down at him.

“Crawl.”

The man stared.

“Now.”

Before she lets go.

He rolled onto his stomach.

Blood ran from his nose as he dragged himself toward the parking lot.

Daemon did not watch him leave.

The Devil did.

Remember us.

Then it turned with Daemon.

Femi.

Her green eyes were wide. Tears streaked her face. Red marks already formed around her throat.

The Devil surged again.

His hands.

Daemon’s fists twitched.

Look what he did.

“Are you hurt?”

Femi shook her head.

She is.

Daemon reached toward her. She did not retreat.

He touched her cheek.

“Did he touch you?”

Her gaze lowered.

The Devil went completely still.

No.

Daemon closed his eyes.

No.

When he opened them, the Devil was still there.

Controlled.

Waiting.

Barely.

Femi’s fingers moved.

Not for me.

Daemon stared.

The Devil understood too.

Do not kill for me.

Silence. The man was still somewhere in the parking lot. Still alive.

The Devil could change that.

Not for me.

“Yes.”

The word hurt.

Her eyes lifted.

“I would have killed him.”

The Devil whispered:

Yes.

Femi’s hands fell.

“He would have deserved it.”

Yes.

She shook her head.

Daemon breathed hard through his nose.

“But I stopped.”

The Devil corrected him.

We stopped.

Femi looked toward the blood on the pavement.

“You stopped me.”

Her fingers touched his wrist.

The Devil softened beneath them.

She always does.

Daemon turned his hand and caught them gently.

“Let me take you inside.”

Femi nodded. He picked up the fallen ice bucket with one hand and kept her fingers inside his other.

The Devil glanced at the bucket.

We never got ice.

Daemon nearly laughed despite himself.

“No.”

We should still get ice.

“Later.”

For her back.

Daemon stopped.

Then looked at Femi.

“Yes.”

Femi winced when she sat on the bed.

The Devil noticed before Daemon.

She hurt.

“What hurts?”

She shook her head.

“Femi.”

Nothing.

The Devil objected.

Lie.

“You struck that machine hard enough to shake it.”

His voice softened.

“Let me look, little ghost.”

Please.

Femi hesitated. Then she turned her back to him and lifted the rear of her shirt. Daemon became still. The Devil did too. A dark bruise had begun forming along her lower back where the vending machine caught her.

Ice.

“Yes.”

But it was not the bruise that stopped him. Scars crossed Femi’s back. Long. Deep. Old. The Devil disappeared into silence. Some were narrow. Others spread where the skin had split and healed poorly. They crossed one another from her shoulders to her waist. They looked like whip marks. Daemon’s hands closed into fists.

The Devil did not ask for names.

Not yet.

It could not.

Little ghost.

Femi began lowering the shirt.

“Wait.”

She stopped.

Daemon’s throat tightened.

“May I touch them?”

The Devil whispered:

Please say yes.

After several seconds, she nodded. Daemon traced one scar with the tips of his fingers. He barely touched her. Femi shivered.

The Devil recoiled.

Did we hurt her?

“No.”

“Oh, my little ghost.”

His eyes closed. The Devil looked through the darkness behind them. At every raised line beneath his fingertips.

Who did this?

“My beautiful little ghost.”

The Devil whispered:

Beautiful.

Daemon leaned forward and pressed his lips against one of the old scars.

The Devil went silent.

“No one had the right to do this.”

His mouth remained near her skin.

“No one.”

No one.

Femi’s hands moved near her shoulder where he could see them.

I am sorry.

The Devil snapped:

For what?

“Do not apologize.”

Daemon lowered her shirt carefully.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

Nothing.

He guided her back until she rested against his chest.

“I care about you.”

The words felt too small.

The Devil agreed.

Too small.

“More than anyone.”

Femi became still.

“More than I have ever cared for anyone before.”

Closer.

His arms closed around her.

“I would kill anyone who tried to hurt you.”

The Devil whispered:

Yes.

Femi looked down.

“Anyone who tried to make you feel small.”

Yes.

His voice dropped.

“Anyone who tried to take you from me.”

Yes.

Fear moved through her expression.

The Devil saw it.

Stop.

Daemon saw it too.

He loosened his hold immediately.

“I know.”

Her eyes questioned him.

“I know that is what made you run.”

The Devil recoiled. Five months. Empty room. Sunflower sheets. Letters. Twenty stops. Six cities.

Don’t make her run again.

Femi touched the scars through her shirt.

Daemon covered her hand.

“I am trying, little ghost.”

The Devil whispered:

We are trying.

She leaned into him.

For the moment, it was enough.

Malone called before the silence became too heavy.

Daemon put the phone on speaker.

“Where are you?” Malone demanded.

“Outside Tarpus.”

“You should have reached Tarpus hours ago.”

“We stopped.”

“Why?”

Daemon looked at the bruises around Femi’s throat.

The Devil immediately rose.

His hands.

“We needed to.”

Malone heard something in his voice.

“What happened?”

“We will talk tomorrow.”

“Daemon.”

“We are safe.”

The Devil looked at Femi.

Now.

Femi knocked twice on the table beside the phone.

The sound silenced Malone.

“Is that my baby girl?”

Femi knocked again.

Malone exhaled.

“Hey, baby girl.”

Femi smiled.

The Devil softened.

Malone.

“I missed you.”

Her smile trembled.

“We all miss you. Helix has gone to hell without you.”

Daemon looked toward her.

“I had to hire eight people to do the work you were doing, and none of them gets anything right.”

Femi’s shoulders shook.

“She is laughing at you,” Daemon said.

“Why are you so cruel to me, baby girl?”

Marta shouted something in the background. Malone moved the phone away.

“I heard you!”

Marta’s voice remained loud enough to reach them.

“Then stop talking and go to bed!”

The Devil almost sounded amused.

Marta.

Malone returned to the call.

“Marta is threatening to shoot me if I do not rest.”

“She should,” Daemon said.

“No one asked you.”

Femi laughed again.

Malone sighed.

“That is a good sound, even when I cannot hear it.”

Femi’s smile disappeared.

The Devil noticed.

No.

Daemon reached for her hand.

Her fingers closed around his.

She speaks.

“Yes.”

They hear her.

“We should be home tomorrow,” Daemon said. “Weather permitting.”

“Good.”

Malone’s voice softened.

“I love you, baby girl. Get home safely.”

Femi stared at the phone. The call ended. Her face remained frozen in shock.

The Devil whispered:

He said it.

Daemon smiled.

“Malone has loved you since the first time you threatened him for eating from the pot.”

Femi looked at him.

“He thought you would strike him with the spoon.”

I considered it.

“He knew.”

Her silent laugh returned.

Daemon wanted to tell her.

The Devil felt the words before Daemon formed them.

I love you too.

They reached his throat.

The Devil suddenly panicked.

No.

Daemon froze.

That surprised him.

The Devil had begged him to say it before.

Demanded it.

Mocked him for swallowing it.

Now—

Not like this.

Daemon looked at the red marks around Femi’s throat.

The Devil whispered:

Not while another man’s hands are still on her skin.

Daemon swallowed the words. Not now. Not when her neck still carried another man’s handprints. Not when love might sound like another thing being asked of her after someone had taken without permission.

For the first time, even the Devil was afraid.

Not of rejection.

Of making love feel like a debt.

They shared a bed again.

Femi wore one of Daemon’s black button-down shirts with shorts beneath it. The fabric reached halfway down her thighs.

The Devil stared.

Our shirt.

“Yes.”

Her legs.

“Behave.”

Daemon removed his shirt and boots, keeping only his jeans.

Femi watched.

The Devil noticed immediately.

She’s staring.

Daemon’s mouth curved. Her green eyes moved over the muscles of his chest and shoulders. She followed the black lines of his tattoos and the pale scars crossing his skin. Her eyes widened slightly. Her breath caught.

The Devil became smug.

She likes us.

Daemon smiled.

“Like what you see, little ghost?”

Crimson flooded her face.

The Devil was delighted.

Yes.

She turned away and climbed into bed.

Daemon laughed under his breath.

The Devil whispered:

Definitely yes.

He lay back and stretched one arm above his head.

Femi settled beside him.

At first, only her shoulder touched his.

The Devil focused entirely on that point.

There.

Then she moved closer.

Closer.

Her head came to rest over his heart.

There.

One soft thigh crossed his.

The Devil stopped speaking. Her hand settled lightly against his waist. Soon she was almost lying on top of him. Daemon did not move. Neither did the Devil. For all his six-foot-two frame and two hundred pounds of muscle, he would not risk disturbing her.

The Devil whispered:

Don’t breathe too hard.

Daemon almost smiled. His fingers moved slowly along her back. Careful of the new bruise. Careful of the old scars. His thoughts drifted toward the previous morning. He had entered the motel bathroom without remembering to knock.

Steam covered the mirror and filled the room. Through it, he saw Femi standing beneath the shower. Only for a moment. Her head rested beneath the spray. Her eyes were closed. Her wet hair clung along the length of her body. Daemon stopped breathing.

The Devil had too.

Then:

Oh.

Desire struck before thought.

The Devil smiled.

Beautiful.

Then reason returned.

Daemon stepped backward and closed the door without making a sound.

The Devil protested.

We were leaving.

“Yes.”

I noticed.

“She didn’t invite us.”

The Devil had gone quiet.

That lesson had become familiar now.

She chooses.

“Yes.”

He had not intended to look. He had not remained. But the image stayed with him. Femi beneath warm water. Unaware. Unguarded. Beautiful. The Devil had smiled at the memory. Now, beneath Daemon’s hand, he felt the raised lines across her back.

The smile vanished.

No.

Femi had told him the story after Malone’s call.

She had been fourteen.

The Devil had listened.

Her foster mother beat her whenever she was angry.

Name.

The woman’s two children—one sixteen, the other nineteen—were permitted to do the same.

Names.

If Femi fought back, they restrained her. The Devil had become silent. The older son used a wet extension cord. Daemon’s hand had stopped on her back when she told him.

The Devil had whispered:

Who?

Then Femi explained why the boy hated her. He had attempted to assault her. The Devil had risen. She fought.

Good.

When he climbed over her, Femi bit him hard enough to make him scream.

The Devil had almost purred.

Good girl.

Daemon did not ask where.

He understood.

“What was his name?” Daemon had asked.

Femi refused at first.

The Devil pushed.

Tell us.

Daemon had silenced it.

“She chooses.”

So they waited.

Eventually, she wrote it.

Markus Anthony.

Daemon knew the name.

The Devil did too now.

Markus Anthony.

Markus sold illegal handguns from a street stall in Wolfwater. He surrounded himself with desperate boys and believed that made him important.

Untouchable.

The Devil laughed.

Untouchable.

Daemon continued stroking Femi’s back.

Markus lived in Ravenside now.

Home.

Ravenside would not save him.

No.

Wolfwater would not hide him.

Never.

The Devil knew his name.

Markus Anthony.

The Devil would find him. Femi flinched in her sleep.

Everything vanished.

Femi.

Her fingers tightened against Daemon’s waist.

Her mouth opened around a scream no sound could carry.

The Devil forgot Markus.

Little ghost.

Daemon’s plans vanished.

He looked down. Her face turned toward him. He kissed her forehead.

“I have you.”

Femi’s body remained tense.

The Devil whispered:

Come back.

“I have you, little ghost.”

His palm moved slowly along her back.

“You are safe.”

Here.

Her breathing eased.

That’s it.

The silent scream disappeared from her face. Femi settled against him again.

The Devil exhaled with Daemon.

There.

Daemon closed his arms around her.

For tonight, he stopped thinking about Markus Anthony.

The Devil tried.

Markus—

Femi shifted closer.

The name died. The Devil looked down at her. At the woman curled across Daemon’s body. At the cheek pressed over his heart. At the fingers holding his waist even in sleep.

Tomorrow.

Daemon’s hand moved slowly over her back.

“No.”

The Devil bristled.

He is in Ravenside.

“I know.”

Wolfwater.

“I know.”

We can find him.

Daemon looked at Femi.

“And then?”

The Devil had an answer. Blood. Bones. A man learning what it meant to be helpless beneath someone stronger. But Femi’s breathing remained soft against Daemon’s chest.

Daemon whispered:

She ran because she thought loving her would destroy us.

The Devil went quiet.

“She is coming home because we showed her we could stop.”

Silence.

“If we arrive in Ravenside and immediately hunt every name she trusted us enough to give us, what do you think she learns?”

The Devil had no answer.

Daemon stroked one of the scars through the fabric of her shirt.

“She learns she was right.”

The Devil recoiled.

No.

“Yes.”

No.

“She’ll stop telling us.”

That hurt.

The Devil looked at Femi.

She trusts us.

“Yes.”

She gave us the name.

“She gave us the truth.”

The distinction settled between them.

Slowly.

Painfully.

Not permission.

Daemon closed his eyes.

“No.”

The Devil hated it. Everything in it had been made to answer pain with pain. To find threats. Remove them. Make examples. Protect what belonged to it. But Femi did not belong to it. Femi had chosen it.

And perhaps protecting that choice mattered more than satisfying its rage.

Not tonight.

Daemon’s hand stilled.

“Not tonight.”

The Devil considered.

Then:

Not without her.

Daemon opened his eyes. That was different. Not surrender. Not forgiveness. A boundary. One built around Femi instead of around the Devil’s hunger.

“Yes.”

The Devil settled beneath his ribs.

For tonight, it remained in the motel room and held the woman it loved.

No hunting.

No blood.

No motorcycles disappearing into the dark while Femi woke alone.

Only her.

Warm.

Alive.

Here.

The Devil remembered every name.

Gray.

Seyo.

Hopewell.

Johnson.

Valvo.

Debbie.

Jacobs.

And now—

Markus Anthony.

Daemon’s arm tightened gently around Femi. The Devil whispered the name once more. Not as a promise of murder. Not yet. As something it would never force Femi to repeat.

Markus Anthony.

Femi had carried the name long enough.

Now the Devil could remember it for her.

The morning air outside Wolfwater carried the sharp scent of pine and wet asphalt. The rain had finally broken, leaving behind a gray, mist-veiled highway and a world washed clean.

Daemon parked the motorcycle on a wide gravel turnout overlooking a steep valley of evergreen trees. The wind was cool, rustling the heavy leather of his jacket as he cut the engine.

Femi unbuckled her helmet, letting her hair spill out in loose waves as she shook it free from the straps. She swung her leg over the seat, wincing slightly before steadying herself against the gas tank.

Daemon was off the bike in an instant, his large hands gripping her waist to help her down. He didn’t let go immediately, his thumb brushing over her hip to check for any lingering stiffness from the ride.

Femi offered a small, reassuring nod, then gestured toward the saddlebags.

The Devil murmured approval. Food.

Daemon reached into the bag and pulled out a brown paper parcel wrapped tightly in foil—provisions bought from an old roadside vendor twenty miles back. He spread a thick woolen blanket across the flat hood of a rusted vintage truck abandoned near the tree line, creating an impromptu table overlooking the valley.

Unwrapping the paper, he revealed two heavy, grease-stained breakfast sandwiches—thick-cut bacon, fried eggs, and melted cheese on crusty, toasted rolls—alongside a pair of cardboard cups filled with steaming black coffee.

Femi sat on the edge of the truck’s hood, her boots dangling just above the damp weeds. She took one of the sandwiches, the warmth of the foil seeping through her fingers.

The Devil watched closely. She is eating. “Are you alright?” Daemon asked softly, leaning his hip against the truck beside her.

Femi took a slow bite, the crisp crunch of the toasted bread breaking the morning silence. She swallowed, then reached out, her fingers grazing his leather-clad arm before pointing toward the sweeping view of the valley below.

The mist was slowly lifting, revealing the winding ribbon of the highway that led straight home to Wolfwater.

Daemon followed her gaze, then looked back down at her. A soft, rare smile touched the corners of his mouth.

“Almost home,” he murmured.

Femi’s hand moved from his arm to take his fingers, lacing hers securely through his. She didn’t sign anything, and she didn’t need to. The warmth of the food, the quiet hum of the highway in the distance, and the solid weight of his hand holding hers said everything the silence ever kept.

The Devil watched closely.

She is eating.

Daemon unwrapped his own sandwich. “I can see that.”

Femi glanced at him.

He ignored her questioning look.

Another bite.

She took one.

The Devil settled with ridiculous satisfaction.

Daemon shook his head.

“Are you all right?” he asked softly.

Femi chewed, swallowed, then gave him a small nod.

Ask about her hip.

“Your hip?”

Her eyes narrowed.

Daemon waited.

Femi rotated one boot slightly, testing whatever stiffness remained from the ride, then lifted her hand.

Fine.

“Fine isn’t an answer.”

Her eyebrow rose.

It was literally my answer.

Daemon stared at her.

The Devil laughed.

Little ghost is getting mouthy.

“Apparently.”

Femi’s eyes narrowed further.

Then she smiled.

Daemon lost whatever argument he had intended to make.

She took another bite of her sandwich.

Good.

He leaned his hip against the old truck beside her and drank his coffee.

For several minutes, neither of them spoke.

They didn’t need to.

Mist moved through the valley below them. Evergreen trees emerged slowly from the gray, thousands upon thousands covering the slopes. Far beneath the turnout, the highway curved between them, wet pavement catching what little morning light had managed to break through the clouds.

Somewhere down there was Wolfwater.

Helix.

Malone.

Her little room.

His corner.

Femi reached out and touched his arm.

Daemon looked down.

She pointed toward the valley.

The mist was lifting enough now that they could follow the highway with their eyes.

A winding ribbon leading home.

Daemon looked at it.

Then at her.

A rare smile pulled at his mouth, the scar along his cheek moving with it.

“Almost home.”

Femi’s expression softened.

She put the sandwich beside her and slipped her hand into his.

Her fingers threaded through his.

Secure.

Familiar.

Daemon closed his hand around hers.

The Devil became quiet.

That caught Daemon’s attention more than anything it could have said.

He waited.

Wind moved through the trees.

A truck whispered along the highway somewhere below.

Femi’s thumb moved once across his knuckle.

Finally, the Devil murmured—

Home.

Daemon looked toward Wolfwater.

No.

His gaze returned to Femi.

She sat beside him on the rusted hood, eating breakfast with her hair loose around her shoulders and her boots dangling above the wet grass.

Her.

Daemon said nothing.

There was nothing to say.

He lifted their joined hands and pressed his mouth against her knuckles.

Femi smiled.

Then, with absolutely no respect for the moment, she reached over and stole a piece of bacon from his sandwich.

Daemon stared at her.

Femi ate it.

The Devil considered this betrayal.

She can have it.

“Of course she can.”

Femi’s shoulders shook with silent laughter.

Daemon looked out across the valley again.

The rain was gone.

The road was open. And they were almost home.

Daemon’s motorcycle roared into Wolfwater.

Femi tightened her arms around his waist as he accelerated along the familiar road.

The Devil immediately noticed.

Closer.

Femi pressed closer.

The Devil practically purred.

Home.

Daemon smiled into the wind.

They were home.

Helix appeared beyond the next turn.

For five months, Daemon had imagined this road with Femi behind him. Five months of bus terminals. Motels. Wrong women. Empty cities. Twenty stops. Six cities. And now her arms were around him.

The Devil whispered:

She came back.

Daemon slowed.

A banner hung crookedly across the front of the clubhouse.

WELCOME HOME, FEMI!!

Two exclamation marks leaned in opposite directions.

The Devil stared at it.

Malone.

“Obviously.”

Crooked.

“He tried.”

Poorly.

Daemon parked in the crowded lot and helped Femi remove her helmet. She stared at the banner while he gathered their bags.

Her fingers moved.

Everyone knows?

“Everyone has known for weeks.”

Femi looked horrified.

The Devil almost laughed.

Little ghost.

“You expected Malone to keep quiet?”

The clubhouse door opened. Music spilled into the lot. Marta stood inside with one hand on her hip.

“You plan to keep us waiting all night?”

Femi smiled.

The Devil softened.

Marta.

Marta’s stern expression broke.

“Come inside, child.”

Femi entered Helix. The music stopped. Every conversation died. Femi froze beside Daemon.

The Devil immediately rose.

Too many.

Daemon’s hand moved instinctively toward her.

She doesn’t like them looking.

A gray-bearded biker near the stage rose and lifted his glass.

“To Femi!”

His voice filled the clubhouse.

“Welcome home, girl!”

Everyone stood. Glasses lifted.

“To Femi!”

The shout shook the room. Femi stared at them. Servers. Dancers. Regulars. Bikers who had known Iris. People Femi believed would barely notice her absence. All of them were standing for her. The Devil looked around Helix. For once, it did not see threats. It saw people who had waited.

They missed her.

“Yes.”

All of them.

“Yes.”

Femi stepped backward.

Daemon’s hand hovered near her waist without touching.

The Devil whispered:

Touch her.

“She hasn’t asked.”

Then stay close.

“I am here.”

Femi glanced at him. The crowd began applauding. Her eyes filled.

The Devil panicked.

She’s crying.

“She is all right.”

Are you sure?

Malone pushed through them.

He stopped in front of her, apparently decided against making a scene, then crushed Femi against his chest.

The Devil stiffened.

Then relaxed.

Malone.

“My baby girl.”

Femi closed her eyes. Malone held her until someone cheered. He released her and wiped his face.

“That was rain.”

“We are inside,” Marta said.

“I own the building. It rains where I say.”

The Devil considered this.

Idiot.

Femi laughed silently. The jukebox started again. Music filled Helix, and everyone began talking at once. Femi immediately turned toward the bar.

The Devil knew exactly what she intended.

No.

Malone caught her around the waist and redirected her.

“No.”

The Devil approved.

Good.

Femi pointed toward the crowd.

“I hired eight people.”

She looked at the servers.

“Most of them are useless, but they are working tonight.”

He guided her toward Daemon’s corner.

“You are sitting.”

Femi shook her head.

“Yes.”

Her hands moved.

The tables—

“Have been dirty for five months. Another night will not kill us.”

The Devil whispered:

Sit, little ghost.

Malone pulled out the chair beside Daemon.

“Sit.”

Femi sat.

Daemon settled into his usual chair and gave her a crooked smile. The Devil looked around. The corner. His whiskey. Helix. Femi beside him. Something settled deep inside it.

There.

Daemon understood. This was the picture that had been wrong for five months. Now it was complete. Conversation resumed.

“One drink on the house!” Malone shouted. “My daughter is back!”

The clubhouse erupted again. Marta approached carrying two glasses. She placed Jack Daniel’s on ice before Daemon. Then she gave Femi a tall glass filled with amber liquid.

Femi blinked at it.

“It is a party,” Marta said.

Femi tasted the drink.

Sweet tea.

Citrus.

Something warm beneath both.

Her eyebrows rose.

Marta laughed.

“Long Island iced tea.”

Daemon frowned.

The Devil frowned with him.

“How much alcohol is in that?”

“Enough.”

Marta.

“Marta.”

“She survived five months alone. She can survive a drink.”

Femi took another sip.

She liked it.

The Devil noticed.

Problem.

Daemon glanced at it.

“Yes.”

That became the problem.

By her sixth drink, the edges of the world had softened. Daemon stared at the empty glass.

The Devil stared too.

Six.

“I know.”

Why did we allow six?

“I didn’t pour them.”

We have killed men for less.

“We are not killing Marta.”

I didn’t say kill.

“Maiming is also prohibited.”

The Devil sulked.

Femi had not looked toward the exit in forty minutes. She had not wondered how quickly she could reach her bedroom or whether anyone was watching her. The Devil noticed that too.

Its irritation faded.

She feels safe.

Daemon looked at her.

“Yes.”

She watched Malone laugh behind the bar. Marta threatened a waitress who had placed clean glasses on the wrong shelf. People danced beneath the low lights. Every person in Helix had approached Daemon’s corner to welcome her home. They had braved the Devil’s stare to tell Femi she had been missed. One regular removed his hat and began crying.

“I missed your bread.”

Femi stared at him.

The Devil whispered:

Reasonable.

“No one can make bread like Femi!” someone shouted.

“That loaf they served last week could be used as a weapon!”

Malone pointed across the bar.

“That was Marta’s recipe.”

Marta turned.

“Who said that?”

Half the room scattered. The Devil laughed. Femi laughed until her stomach hurt. Then she looked at Daemon.

The Devil stopped laughing.

Oh.

He had been watching her all night. He had barely touched his whiskey. Her smile softened. Femi reached for him. The Devil became utterly still. Her fingertips traced the scar on his cheek. Slowly. Tenderly.

Daemon’s breath caught.

The Devil whispered:

There.

She signed with one hand.

So beautiful.

Daemon’s heart stopped for one impossible second. The Devil disappeared beneath the words. Beautiful. Again.

She had said it again.

She means it.

Daemon swallowed.

“Yes.”

Was she flirting with him? Femi had called him beautiful before. But this was different. Her eyes lingered on his mouth. Her fingers remained against his face. The alcohol had loosened the fear she carried between every desire and every decision.

Daemon smiled.

She inhaled sharply.

The Devil noticed.

She likes that.

His fingers traced her jaw.

“Are you flirting with the Devil, little ghost?”

The Devil immediately answered:

Yes.

Femi tilted her head.

Her hands cupped his face. Daemon shivered. The Devil lifted its head, interested in no one else.

Femi.

She leaned across the table.

The Devil whispered:

Come here.

Daemon met her halfway. Her lips touched his. Everything disappeared. The clubhouse. Music. Laughter. Wolfwater. There was only Femi.

The Devil made a low sound beneath Daemon’s ribs.

Again.

She kissed him as though searching for something. Daemon let her find it. His hand slid into her hair, angling her head as he deepened the kiss.

The Devil surged closer.

Ours.

Daemon almost corrected it.

Then the Devil did so itself.

No.

A pause.

Hers.

Daemon’s heart stumbled. Femi made that breathless sound in the back of her throat. Heat moved through him.

The Devil nearly lost its mind.

Again.

She pulled away first. Daemon followed her lips for an instant before stopping himself.

The Devil protested.

Why?

“She stopped.”

The Devil went silent.

Then:

Right.

“You cannot keep kissing a man like that.”

He leaned close to her ear. His ragged breathing warmed her skin.

“Not unless you intend to kill him.”

The Devil whispered:

She is succeeding.

Femi looked at him. Lust burned through her bright green eyes. Daemon had imagined that look. He had never expected to see it while surrounded by half of Wolfwater.

The Devil did not care where they were.

Take her upstairs.

Daemon’s desire sharpened.

Then reason answered.

Six drinks.

The Devil quieted.

Six.

“Yes.”

He leaned back. Femi played with the end of her braid. She always did that when deciding something.

The Devil watched.

What is she deciding?

“I don’t know.”

Something dangerous.

Daemon began to worry about what she was deciding.

Malone called last call at two.

The clubhouse emptied slowly. Everyone approached Femi again before leaving. There were handshakes, awkward hugs, and repeated demands for bread by morning. Femi smiled through all of it. When the doors were finally locked, Malone disappeared into his office.

Femi rose from her chair. Daemon expected her to begin cleaning. Instead, she sat across his lap. Daemon’s mind emptied.

The Devil’s did not.

Oh.

“Little ghost.”

Femi smiled.

She touched his face.

You are so beautiful.

The Devil whispered:

Again.

Her hands paused.

Why?

Daemon laughed softly.

“Because you are drunk.”

The Devil objected.

She thinks we’re beautiful when sober too.

“I know.”

Tell her.

“Not the point.”

He kissed her cheek. Femi turned and caught his mouth. The kiss was hard. Claiming.

The Devil answered instantly.

Femi.

She held him as though afraid he might vanish if she loosened her grip.

Her hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer. Daemon’s hand settled against the back of her neck.

The Devil wanted everything she offered.

Everything.

Daemon broke the kiss.

The Devil snarled.

Why?

They remained close, breathing the same air.

“It is time for bed.”

Femi frowned.

“Yes.”

The Devil muttered:

Coward.

“She has had six drinks.”

I know.

“Then behave.”

I am behaving.

“That concerns me.”

He lifted her.

Femi wrapped her arms around his neck while he carried her upstairs.

The Devil settled instantly.

Home.

Inside her room, Femi leaned against the wall. Daemon stood before her. One hand rested on the wall beside her head. The other traced her jaw. He knew he should leave. The Devil knew too.

Neither moved.

Leave.

Daemon stared at her.

“Yes.”

Femi’s fingers curled into his shirt. She pulled him down.

The Devil changed its mind.

Stay.

Her kiss was hungrier than the others. Daemon answered before reason caught him. Her hands slipped inside his open shirt. His body shuddered.

The Devil growled.

Little ghost.

Femi kissed his jaw.

His neck.

His head fell back when her lips touched his collarbone.

“Little ghost.”

Her hands explored the muscles of his chest. Each touch was soft, slow, and uncertain. It drove him mad.

The Devil whispered:

She wants us.

“You are killing me.”

He caught her mouth again. The kiss became everything he could not tell her. Every empty day. Every mile he crossed. Every night he imagined her cold and alone.

The Devil remembered too.

Five months.

Daemon lifted her.

Her legs wrapped around his waist.

Femi.

He pressed her against the wall and fitted his body to hers. Femi made that sound again. The Devil answered with a growl. She buried both hands in his hair. Daemon’s knees weakened when her teeth brushed a sensitive place on his neck.

The Devil had one thought.

Mine.

Then something clearer than desire entered Daemon’s mind.

Six drinks.

The Devil resisted.

No.

Her first night home.

Daemon.

The shame that sometimes followed their kisses.

She came to us.

Femi awakening in the morning and wondering whether she had truly chosen him.

Silence. That reached it.

The Devil froze.

Chosen.

“Yes.”

Daemon tore his mouth from hers. His breathing came in harsh pulls. Femi kissed his neck again.

The Devil groaned.

This is cruelty.

“We cannot.”

She continued.

“Oh God, little ghost.”

Daemon.

He caught her hips and stepped away from the wall.

The Devil fought him.

She wants us.

“She is drunk.”

She kissed us.

“She is drunk.”

She came to us.

“She deserves to know she chose us.”

That silenced it.

Daemon lowered her gently until her feet touched the floor. Femi looked up at him.

Her expression collapsed.

You do not want me?

The Devil panicked.

No. No, no. Fix that.

Daemon nearly broke.

“That is not the question.”

Femi looked away.

The Devil snapped:

Tell her.

Daemon touched her chin and waited until her eyes returned.

“I want you more than I have ever wanted anyone.”

More.

Her lips parted.

“You are drunk.”

She shook her head.

“Yes.”

Femi frowned.

“You might regret this tomorrow.”

I would not.

“You cannot promise that tonight.”

Her eyes filled.

The Devil recoiled.

Don’t cry.

Daemon pressed his forehead against hers.

“I have spent every night since I met you trying not to imagine you in my bed.”

The Devil muttered:

Badly.

Femi’s fingers tightened in his shirt.

“But I will not take you there when you cannot choose me clearly.”

The Devil whispered the word.

Choose.

Daemon kissed her once more.

Softly.

Nothing like the consuming kisses they had shared.

“When you come to me sober, little ghost, I will ask whether you are certain.”

The Devil added:

Twice.

His crooked smile appeared.

“Several times.”

Excessive.

Femi touched his lips.

“And if the answer remains yes, I will show you exactly how much I want you.”

The Devil nearly purred.

Promise.

Her face turned crimson.

Daemon groaned.

“Do not look at me that way.”

The Devil complained:

She is doing it on purpose.

He forced himself toward the door.

“Lock this behind me.”

Femi watched him leave.

Daemon stood in the hall until he heard the lock engage. Then came the scrape of a chair beneath the handle. The Devil stilled. The chair.

Good.

The mattress creaked.

Only when he knew she was safe in bed did he walk away.

The Devil argued with him during every step.

We could have stayed.

“No.”

On the floor.

“No.”

Chair.

“No.”

Other side of the room.

“No.”

She wanted us.

“She was drunk.”

She trusts us.

“Then we protect that trust.”

Silence.

Daemon kept walking.

The Devil hated the answer.

Because it was right.

Tomorrow?

“If she chooses.”

She will.

“You don’t know that.”

A pause.

If she chooses.

“Yes.”

It had been the right decision. It remained the right decision even if his entire body despised him for making it.

The Devil finally muttered:

I despise morality.

Daemon almost laughed. Footsteps approached. Malone stopped at the end of the hall.

“She all right?”

“She is asleep.”

Malone studied him. Daemon’s shirt hung open. His hair was disordered. A red mark darkened the side of his neck.

The Devil became smug.

She did that.

Malone raised an eyebrow.

“She is drunk,” Daemon said.

“I did not ask.”

“You were thinking.”

“I have spent years trying not to.”

The Devil whispered:

Liar.

Daemon cleared his throat.

Then something colder returned.

“We need to find an address.”

The Devil became utterly still.

It knew.

Markus Anthony.

Malone’s amusement disappeared.

“Candi?”

“No.”

“Who?”

Daemon looked toward Femi’s closed door. The chair was beneath the handle.

She was asleep.

Safe.

Markus Anthony.

“Markus Anthony.”

Malone frowned.

“The small-time arms dealer on High?”

“Yes.”

The Devil whispered:

Wolfwater.

“Why?”

Daemon cracked his knuckles.

“I want to know where he lives.”

We already waited.

“What did he do?”

Daemon’s gray eyes became empty.

The Devil remembered the scars beneath Femi’s shirt. Fourteen. Restrained. Wet extension cord. A nineteen-year-old boy climbing over her.

Tell him.

“No, Malone.”

His voice fell into something colder than rage.

“It is what he did.”

Malone looked toward Femi’s door.

“What did he do to my daughter?”

The word struck the Devil.

Daughter.

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

“He beat her with a wet extension cord.”

Malone became still.

The Devil whispered:

Across her back.

“Femi was fourteen.”

Fourteen.

Daemon tried to continue.

“He tried to—”

The words would not leave him.

The Devil finished them inside his head.

Rape her.

Daemon’s hands curled.

She fought.

His breathing slowed.

She bit him.

Malone saw the shape of what Daemon could not say.

Humanity drained from Daemon’s eyes. The Devil stepped forward. Not wild. Not screaming. Not begging for blood. Patient. It had listened. It had waited. It had stayed in motel rooms while Femi slept. It had let men crawl away because Femi wrapped her arms around Daemon. It had sat in diners instead of killing people who laughed. It had remembered every name without hunting them.

Gray.

Seyo.

Hopewell.

Johnson.

Valvo.

Debbie.

Jacobs.

Markus Anthony.

And tonight, Femi was home.

Behind a locked door.

A chair beneath the handle.

Sleeping in the room where she knew Daemon would be nearby when she woke.

The Devil whispered:

She trusted us with his name.

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

“She did.”

Not permission.

Daemon hesitated.

That lesson remained.

“Yes.”

Then why are we going?

Daemon looked toward Femi’s door. He had no answer that made this clean.

Daemon looked back at Malone.

“Give me ten minutes,” Malone said.

Daemon looked at him.

“I will drive.”

“Why?”

Malone’s face hardened.

“Because I want to watch the bastard die.”

The Devil smiled.

Daemon did not.

His gaze returned to Femi’s door.

She asked us not to kill for her.

“Yes.”

She asked us to stop.

“Yes.”

And we promised her care would never become a debt.

Daemon’s expression changed. The Devil had learned too well. Femi had trusted him with Markus Anthony’s name. That trust could not become payment. Not even payment for protection. Not even payment for vengeance.

Daemon remained still.

Malone watched him.

“You coming?”

The Devil whispered:

Find him.

Daemon’s eyes narrowed.

Daemon looked at Malone.

“We find him.”

Malone’s jaw hardened.

It took forty-five minutes to locate Markus Anthony.

The Devil considered that forty-four minutes too long.

There.

Daemon looked through the windshield. They sat inside a borrowed truck across from his house. A narrow building. Two floors. Curtains open. Side entrance. Alley along the right.

The Devil catalogued everything.

Back window.

“I see it.”

Side door.

“Yes.”

No cameras.

“None.”

Good.

Malone glanced toward him.

“You planning to talk to yourself all night?”

Daemon ignored him. Shortly after four, Markus staggered up the street with a woman beneath each arm. The Devil recognized him immediately. Not because it had ever seen him before.

Because Femi had written his name.

Markus Anthony.

The name belonged to this man now.

Him.

Daemon’s hands curled.

The three laughed and passed one bottle of beer between them. Markus looked happy. Careless. Untouched by the memory of a fourteen-year-old girl bleeding beneath a wet extension cord.

The Devil stared.

He forgot her.

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

“Yes.”

She didn’t forget him.

“No.”

That was enough. Malone watched them enter the house. Lights came on. Music followed. Then the music became louder. Through the open curtains, they saw Markus and the women drinking. White powder appeared on a glass table. The women kissed each other while Markus watched.

Malone leaned back.

“To be young again.”

The Devil slowly turned its attention toward him.

Malone.

“Enjoy the show.”

Daemon’s voice was flat.

“He will not be alive much longer.”

“At least I didn’t have to pay for it.”

Daemon looked at him.

The Devil did too.

What?

“What?”

Malone opened the truck door.

“Nothing.”

The Devil whispered:

He is strange.

“He is Malone.”

Same thing.

The music covered their entrance. Malone picked the rear lock, and they slipped inside like shadows. The Devil became quiet. This was familiar. No uncertainty. No desperate search. No frightened woman to calm. No Femi touching Daemon’s wrist and asking him to stop. Just a name. A house. And a debt Markus Anthony had forgotten he owed.

Markus sat on the sofa between the women.

The Devil whispered:

Now.

Daemon caught him by the throat and threw him across the room. Markus struck the wall. The women screamed.

Malone appeared with a gun. He placed one finger against his lips.

“Get dressed and leave.”

They stared at him.

“Now, Sarah. Rebecca.”

Rebecca’s face changed.

“How do you know our names?”

“Because we know everything that matters tonight.”

The Devil approved.

Nice.

Sarah grabbed Rebecca’s clothes and pulled her toward the door.

“We were never here,” she said quickly. “We did not see anything.”

“Good girl.”

Malone closed the door behind them.

The Devil listened until their footsteps disappeared.

Then it looked at Markus.

Alone.

Markus crawled across the carpet.

“What do you want?” he cried. “Money? Drugs? Guns? I can get you anything.”

The Devil almost laughed.

He thinks this is a robbery.

Daemon caught his ankle and dragged him back.

Markus screamed.

Ask him.

“Not yet.”

Daemon struck him once. His jaw broke. The begging became a wet, shapeless noise.

The Devil watched without sympathy.

That mouth called her what?

Daemon remembered.

Dirty little mute hobo.

He broke Markus’s left leg. Markus collapsed. For one hopeful moment, he believed it was over.

The Devil whispered:

No.

Daemon crossed the room. Markus watched him. Confusion became fear. Daemon unplugged a lamp and removed its extension cord. The Devil understood immediately. It became very still.

Yes.

Then Daemon disappeared into the kitchen. Water ran. Markus began shaking.

The Devil watched him from behind Daemon’s eyes.

Now you remember.

When Daemon returned, the cord hung wet from his hand. Markus’s terror deepened.

The Devil smiled.

There.

Malone approached.

“What do you have in mind?”

Malone kicked Markus in the ribs when the man tried to crawl away.

“Markus created a punishment for Femi.”

The Devil whispered:

Fourteen.

Daemon rolled him onto his stomach and tore away his shirt.

“A wet extension cord.”

Markus whimpered through his broken jaw. The Devil remembered Femi lifting her shirt in the motel. Long scars. Deep scars. Old scars. Daemon asking permission before touching them.

Femi shivering beneath his fingertips.

My beautiful little ghost.

“He used it whenever she fought back.”

Whenever she protected herself.

Daemon looked down at him.

“I believe he should experience his own invention before he dies.”

The Devil corrected him.

He should experience hers.

Markus tried to escape. Malone’s boot came down on his broken leg. The scream disappeared beneath the music. Daemon raised the cord.

The Devil whispered:

One.

The first strike opened the skin. Markus convulsed. Daemon struck him again.

Two.

Again.

Three.

Again.

The Devil stopped counting. Each blow answered a scar across Femi’s back. Not erased it. Not healed it. The Devil knew that. Markus screaming would not remove one mark from Femi’s skin. His blood would not return one night of sleep. His fear would not give fourteen-year-old Femi someone who came when she needed help. The Devil did not pretend otherwise. It simply believed some acts deserved an answer. And Markus Anthony was receiving his.

Malone stood nearby and watched. He thought about the thin young woman who had entered Helix with a letter in her hand. How carefully she moved. How she flinched when voices rose. How she worked until exhaustion because she believed kindness always demanded repayment. The cord continued falling. The music drowned the screams. Eventually, Markus could only whimper. Blood marked the floor and wall. Daemon cast the ruined cord aside.

The Devil whispered:

Enough.

Not mercy.

The lesson was complete.

Daemon rolled Markus onto his back and placed one boot against his throat.

“You made her afraid.”

Markus struggled weakly.

The Devil saw Femi beneath him instead.

Fourteen.

Small.

Silent.

Fighting.

She still fought you.

“You hurt my little ghost.”

Daemon broke one arm.

The Devil whispered:

That one held her.

Then the other.

And that one.

“You left scars on her.”

The fight went out of Markus. Daemon crouched. Markus stared up at him. The Devil stared back. There was no frenzy left now. No rage. Only certainty.

“You took something from her.”

His voice was almost gentle.

The Devil disagreed.

He tried.

Daemon paused.

The Devil continued.

He did not take her.

Femi had survived him. She had grown. She had found Dai again. She had found Helix. Malone. Marta. Daemon. She had crossed six cities alone. Built a life as Mira Dell. Come home because she chose to.

Markus Anthony had left scars. But he had not taken Femi. The Devil would not give him that much power. Daemon’s gray eyes emptied.

“No.”

Markus made a broken sound beneath his boot.

“You tried to take something from her.”

The Devil whispered:

And failed.

Daemon leaned closer.

“She survived you.”

Markus stared.

“She became something you could never destroy.”

The Devil thought of green eyes. Strawberries. Bread in Helix’s kitchen. A chair beneath a motel door. A kiss against Daemon’s scar.

Beautiful.

Daemon’s voice lowered.

“Now I am taking your life.”

He snapped Markus’s neck. The music continued playing. Daemon stood. The Devil looked down at what remained. It felt no regret. No contradiction. Femi had asked Daemon to stop for her. He had. Femi had taught them that her body was hers. It was. She had taught them that trust was not permission. It wasn’t. None of those truths made Markus innocent. None required the Devil to forgive him. None transformed mercy into an obligation Femi had placed upon them.

The Devil had not killed Markus because Femi owed it vengeance.

It had killed him because Markus Anthony had made his own choices.

And the Devil believed choices had consequences.

Done.

Daemon turned away.

The drive back to Helix was silent.

Malone kept both hands on the wheel.

“He deserved it.”

The Devil answered before Daemon.

Yes.

Daemon looked through the windshield.

“He was supposed to protect her. Instead, he hurt her, and no one did a damn thing.”

The Devil looked toward the black road.

Someone did.

Daemon knew what it meant.

Dai.

A girl with a baseball bat.

A girl who crawled through windows and found Femi whenever the system separated them.

“Yes.”

Dai did.

A pause.

Now we did.

“Femi cannot know.”

The Devil did not like that.

Why?

“She will not hear it from me.”

Malone was silent for another mile.

Daemon stared through the windshield.

The Devil pushed.

Why can’t she know?

“Because she asked us to stop.”

We did.

“She would not see it that way.”

The Devil considered that.

She was not there.

“No.”

She was asleep.

“Yes.”

Safe.

“Yes.”

The Devil found no contradiction. Femi’s touch could stop them because Femi’s fear mattered. Her boundaries mattered. Her choices mattered. But Markus’s life was not something the Devil believed Femi had to carry on her conscience.

Then don’t put it there.

Daemon glanced toward the window. That answer was disturbingly simple.

Malone spoke.

“Now we deal with Candi.”

The Devil lifted its head.

A different hunger awakened.

Candi.

Daemon turned.

“I do not want her death mistaken for an accident,” Malone said. “I want it loud.”

His hands tightened around the wheel.

“I want people to look at what remains and understand what happens when they come for my daughter.”

The Devil liked the word every time Malone said it.

Daughter.

“Nothing about her death will look accidental.”

Daemon’s gray eyes became steel.

“She wanted the Devil.”

The Devil stepped forward.

Yes.

He clenched his bloodstained fists.

“She will have him.”

All of me.

They entered the Helix parking lot before dawn. Daemon looked toward the building. Somewhere inside it, Femi slept.

The Devil immediately changed.

Quiet.

Daemon showered until Markus’s blood disappeared down the drain. Red circled the drain. Then pink. Then clear. The Devil watched it disappear.

Not hers.

“No.”

That mattered. None of that blood belonged to Femi. She had given enough.

Daemon scrubbed his hands again.

Clean.

He washed beneath his nails.

Again.

He did.

Only when there was no trace of Markus Anthony left on him did Daemon leave the shower. Then he went to his room and collapsed onto the bed. His last thoughts belonged to Femi. Not Markus. Never Markus. Her hands in his hair.

The Devil stirred.

Yes.

Her lips against his neck.

There.

Her body trusting his arms to carry it.

Ours.

Daemon’s eyes opened.

The Devil corrected itself.

No.

A pause.

Hers.

Daemon smiled faintly.

“Learning.”

She chose our arms.

“Yes.”

Better?

“Much.”

Daemon shivered beneath the blanket.

“The things you do to the Devil, little ghost.”

The Devil settled beneath his ribs.

It thought of her sitting across his lap.

So beautiful.

Her hands cupping his face.

You are so beautiful.

Her mouth finding his.

The Devil almost groaned.

She kissed us.

“Several times.”

Not enough.

Daemon closed his eyes.

There were no nightmares.

Across the hall, Femi slept behind a chair-braced door. Safe. Home. Unaware that Markus Anthony had taken his last breath while music played too loudly for anyone outside the house to hear him scream. The Devil did not need her gratitude. It did not need forgiveness. It did not need Femi to call what happened justice. Those things belonged to her.

The Devil required none of them. Markus Anthony had hurt the woman it loved. Markus Anthony was dead. Both truths fit comfortably beside everything Femi had taught it.

She could choose.

She could tell them no.

She could stop Daemon with one touch.

She could refuse vengeance.

She could hate what the Devil had done if she ever learned. And the Devil could still look at Markus Anthony’s death and feel nothing resembling regret. Because loving Femi had taught the Devil restraint.

It had not taught it mercy.

While Femi slept behind a chair-braced door, unaware of what had been done in her name, Daemon dreamed of her smile.

The Devil dreamed of her kisses.

And somewhere beneath those dreams, one name disappeared from the list it had carried across cities.

Markus Anthony.

Done.

Candi was not difficult to find. She had healed and returned to Wolfwater. She had spent the week moving between cheap bars, borrowed apartments, and back rooms, telling anyone who listened the same story. She and the Devil had been together. They had been happy. Then some mute woman Malone dragged from the streets had come between them.

The story changed depending on her audience. Sometimes Daemon had promised to make Candi his old lady.

Sometimes they had lived together.

Once, she claimed they had been planning to leave Wolfwater before Femi manipulated him into staying.

No one believed her. That only made Candi tell the story louder.

On Friday night, she gathered eight people inside a cramped apartment above a liquor store. They were people who once called themselves her friends—dancers, dealers, sex workers, and men who survived by knowing which streets belonged to whom.

Candi stood in the center of the living room. Makeup concealed most of the mark along her face, but not all of it.

“They ruined my life,” she said. “Malone blacklisted me. I can’t work anywhere in Ravenside. Even Red turned people against me.”

A woman named Tessa sat on the arm of the sofa.

“You broke the rules inside Helix.”

“That is not the point.”

“You went after Malone’s daughter.”

“She is not his daughter.”

Candi’s voice sharpened.

“She is some fucking stray he found eating from the trash.”

A woman near the window shook her head.

“Malone helped my mother when my father got sick and couldn’t work.”

“So?”

“So I am not moving against his family.”

“His daughter is different.”

“If Malone says she is his daughter, she is.”

Tessa nodded.

“Moving against Femi is the same as moving against Malone.”

Candi laughed.

“You are afraid of an old man who owns a dying clubhouse.”

Another woman stood.

“That old man got me away from a pimp who was trying to kill me.”

“And?”

“And I am alive because of him.”

A broad man sitting near the kitchen lifted his beer.

“Malone paid six months of my rent when my mother lost her job. Wouldn’t even let me pay him back.”

He drank.

“I’m not doing this, Candi.”

“You owe me.”

“No, I don’t.”

His chair scraped against the floor as he rose.

“And even if I did, I am not touching the Devil’s woman.”

“Why? Because he has a stupid nickname?”

The man stared at her.

“You really believe that is only a nickname?”

Candi rolled her eyes.

“I don’t care what Femi did to you,” he continued. “I’m not getting involved.”

“She took him from me.”

“Daemon was never yours.”

The apartment became silent. Candi’s face changed.

“What did you say?”

The man put on his coat.

“You heard me.”

He left. Another woman followed. Then a second man. Candi watched each departure as though memorizing a betrayal. Tessa remained on the sofa arm. She had known Candi longer than anyone else in the room. They had worked the same streets, shared motel rooms, and protected each other from customers who believed money purchased cruelty.

“Stop this,” Tessa said.

Candi turned.

“You too?”

“Yes. Me too.”

“You are supposed to be my best friend.”

“That is why I am telling you the truth.”

Tessa stood.

“Leave Femi alone.”

Candi laughed bitterly.

“She has all of you fooled.”

“I have never met her.”

“Then how can you defend her?”

“I am not defending her. I am warning you about him.”

Tessa stepped closer.

“You are talking about hurting the Devil’s woman.”

“He is just a man.”

“Maybe. But he is a man who will kill you for thinking too loudly in her direction.”

Candi’s smile hardened.

“He saved me once.”

“He saved many of us.”

“He wanted me.”

“Saving you did not mean he wanted you.”

Candi slapped her. The room fell silent. Tessa slowly turned her face back. She did not retaliate. Whatever friendship remained in her eyes disappeared.

“You are blind.”

“Get out.”

“You are stupid, Candi.”

“I said get out.”

“You keep calling Femi a mute as though silence makes her weak. Meanwhile, everyone in Wolfwater speaks her name like family.”

Tessa picked up her bag.

“You want to know why that frightens you?”

“It does not frighten me.”

“Because Daemon looked at her once and saw something he never found in you.”

Candi’s hand curled.

“Leave her alone before no one can save you.”

Tessa walked to the door.

“I am done.”

The door closed behind her. Five people had left. Three remained. All men. Candi looked at them and smiled.

“Cowards.”

One of the men laughed.

“I’m still here.”

His name was Jory. He had arrived in Ravenside three weeks earlier and knew nothing about Malone beyond the stories Candi told him. He had never seen Daemon fight. To Jory, the Devil was only a large blond man with a reputation exaggerated by frightened people.

The second man was Pike. Daemon had broken two of his ribs during a bar fight three years earlier. Pike remembered every breath he had struggled to take afterward. He had waited a long time for a way to return the pain.

The third was Vann. He sat in the corner without speaking. Daemon had humiliated him once in front of men he wanted to impress. Vann had spent years imagining the Devil on his knees.

At first, he believed hurting Candi would accomplish that. Then she revealed how little Daemon cared about her. Now Vann knew better. Femi was the wound. Candi looked at the three men.

“Safety in numbers.”

Pike smiled.

“That is what I always say.”

“The Devil cannot kill all of us.”

Vann said nothing. He believed Daemon could. That was what made the idea interesting. Candi began pacing.

“We separate them.”

“How?” Jory asked.

“Femi works at Helix. She goes to the market. She cooks. She cleans. She is always doing something for somebody.”

Her disgust increased with every word.

“We wait until she is alone.”

“And then?” Pike asked.

“We beat her.”

Candi smiled.

“Not enough to kill her. Just enough to destroy that pretty little face and send the Devil a message.”

Jory shifted.

“You said she did something to you.”

“She took what belonged to me.”

“That is all?”

Candi turned on him.

“She made Daemon deny me. She had Malone throw me out. She made every club in Ravenside refuse me work.”

“You did some of that yourself,” Pike said.

Candi glared at him. He raised both hands.

“Just saying.”

“That mute bitch returned to Helix, and they threw her a celebration.”

Candi’s expression became ugly.

“She disappears for five months and everyone searches for her. She walks back in, and suddenly she is some fucking princess.”

Vann watched the hatred consume her. He understood it. Hatred could be useful when aimed correctly.

“So we grab her,” Pike said. “Rough her up. Leave her somewhere the Devil will find her.”

“Yes.”

Candi looked around the apartment.

“They marked my face.”

Her fingertips moved over the scar makeup could not entirely hide.

“They blacklisted me.”

Her smile returned.

“I want him to look at her and understand what refusing me cost.”

Vann leaned forward.

“A beating will not bring him to his knees.”

The others looked at him.

“What will?” Candi asked.

Vann smiled.

“Kill her.”

Silence followed.

Jory stopped laughing. Pike studied him. Vann continued.

“You want Daemon hurt. A few bruises will make him angry.”

He looked at Candi.

“But a grave?”

His smile widened.

“That will destroy him.”

Candi imagined it. Femi gone. Daemon broken. No other woman left for him to choose. Perhaps then he would finally understand that Candi had been the woman who belonged beside him. Or perhaps he would suffer forever. At that moment, either outcome pleased her.

“Fuck it,” she said.

Her laughter began softly. Then it filled the apartment.

“Kill her.”

Jory stared. Candi lifted her drink.

“Kill the mute and send the Devil to his knees.”

Pike raised his bottle. Vann raised his last. After a moment, Jory joined them. Candi smiled at the three men who remained.

Her friends.

Her army.

Everyone else had been too afraid of Malone’s loyalty or Daemon’s reputation. They had walked away because they understood exactly what Candi intended to awaken.

Only these three stayed. One because he was ignorant. One because he was angry. And one because he had wanted to murder Femi from the moment he understood what her death would do to Daemon.

The four of them began planning.

They spoke of timing.

Isolation.

The moment Helix would become distracted enough to leave Femi unprotected. Candi believed the plan belonged to her. She believed the men would beat Femi, frighten Daemon, and return the Devil to the woman who had wanted him first.

Vann laughed with the others.

He did not tell Candi that Femi would never leave their hands alive.

The three men laughed at the same table.

Only Candi believed they were laughing at the same future.

The plan began on Monday.

Vann sat inside Helix with a beer in his hand and watched Femi move through the crowd. He had expected someone weak. Candi described her as a frightened little mute who survived because Malone pitied her and Daemon wanted something pretty to protect.

That was not what Vann saw.

People greeted Femi when she passed. A biker touched two fingers to his forehead, and she smiled at him. A waitress stopped to show her something written on an order slip. Malone called across the bar, and Femi answered with one sharp movement of her hand that made him laugh.

She belonged there. That made killing her even better. Vann ordered another beer and continued watching.

Daemon sat in his dark corner.

Femi approached carrying his Jack Daniel’s on ice. She placed the drink before him, then remained beside the table.

Daemon said something too quietly for Vann to hear.

Femi signed her answer.

Vann leaned slightly closer.

“Bookstore first,” Daemon said. “Then the mall.”

Femi nodded.

“Tomorrow?”

Another nod.

Daemon smiled.

The expression changed his face in a way Vann had never seen.

Vann lowered his gaze and took out his phone.

They’re going to Ravenside Mall tomorrow.

He sent the message to Pike and Jory.

The plan was simple.

Follow them.

Wait until Daemon became distracted.

Get Femi behind the mall.

Kill her.

Leave her beside the dumpsters for mall security to find.

Back in the trash where she belonged.

Vann smiled.

Across the room, Daemon looked at him.

Only for a second.

The Devil stirred.

Vann’s smile disappeared.

A chill traveled down his spine.

He looked away and raised two fingers for another beer.

Daemon continued watching him for several seconds.

Then Femi touched his shoulder.

His attention returned to her.

The Devil settled.

For now.

The following morning, Vann, Pike, and Jory followed Daemon’s motorcycle into Ravenside.

They remained two cars behind him, losing sight of the bike twice before catching it at the next light.

At Ravenside Mall, Daemon parked beside a bookstore.

Femi climbed off the motorcycle and removed her helmet. Her midnight hair fell down her back as she followed him inside.

The three men waited in their car.

They watched Femi and Daemon leave the bookstore carrying two bags. Daemon placed the books in one of the motorcycle’s saddlebags before they entered the mall next door.

Jory checked his gun.

“You are not supposed to use that unless we need it,” Pike said.

Jory shrugged.

“We’re killing her either way.”

“Quietly.”

“Dead is quiet.”

Vann looked toward the mall entrance.

“We get her alone first.”

They separated inside.

The mall was crowded enough to hide them. Families gathered near the food court. Teenagers moved between stores. Music played beneath conversations and the constant sound of shoes against tile.

Pike called first.

“I see them.”

“Where?”

“Second floor. Near the west restrooms.”

Vann moved toward the escalator.

“Daemon just went into a store,” Pike continued. “She is going into the ladies’ room.”

“Watch him.”

Vann ended the call.

He and Jory positioned themselves outside the restroom.

Femi emerged several minutes later.

She looked toward the store where Daemon had disappeared.

Jory stepped behind her.

The muzzle of his gun pressed against her back.

“Keep walking.”

Femi froze.

“Do exactly what I say.”

Her right hand slipped into her coat pocket.

Jory believed she was frightened.

She was.

But Femi had survived too many places by learning to move while afraid.

Her fingers found her phone.

There was only one number stored in it.

Daemon.

She opened the message screen by touch and typed one word.

BACK

Femi pressed send.

Jory forced her toward an employees-only corridor.

Vann opened the emergency exit.

The alarm had been disconnected months earlier.

They pushed Femi into the service yard behind the mall.

No one saw them leave.

Daemon was purchasing a repair manual when his phone vibrated.

A message from Femi.

BACK

He read it once.

Then again.

The Devil came awake.

Wrong.

Femi did not send unfinished messages.

She did not leave him without warning anymore.

Find her.

Daemon abandoned the manual and ran.

Jory forced Femi onto her knees at gunpoint.

The service yard was surrounded by concrete walls and loading docks. Dumpsters stood near a locked maintenance gate.

Vann grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled her head back.

“So this is the Devil’s woman.”

He slapped her.

Pain exploded across her cheek.

Femi’s eyes watered.

She refused to let the tears fall.

Vann struck her again.

Pike crouched in front of her.

“She is pretty.”

His hand moved over her body.

Femi slapped it away.

Pike laughed.

Vann hit her harder. All three men joined in the laughter. Femi stopped waiting for rescue. She bit the hand holding her hair. Vann swore and released her. Femi drove the heel of her boot down onto his foot.

He bent forward. She turned and struck him across the face. Vann dropped to one knee. Pike rushed her. Femi kicked his ankle, then drove her knee between his legs. He collapsed with a strangled groan.

Jory raised the gun. Femi moved. He pulled the trigger. The shot struck the wall beside her and sent chips of concrete across the ground. Vann recovered. He seized Femi from behind and slammed her into the stone wall.

“We were going to be nice.”

His forearm pressed across her chest.

“Now I’m going to fuck you and shoot you.”

The service door crashed open.

Daemon stepped through.

The Devil saw Femi. Swollen cheek. Blood at her mouth.

A man’s arm across her body.

Little ghost.

Jory turned.

The Devil did not ask who he was.

The gun was enough.

Him.

Daemon caught him by the throat. There was no warning. No wasted movement. Daemon snapped his neck. Jory and the gun struck the concrete together.

Pike pushed himself upright. He went down again in the next breath. Daemon’s boot caught him in the ribs. Bone broke. Six ribs this time.

Daemon did not look down. His gray eyes remained on Vann. Vann pulled a knife and dragged Femi against him. He held her like a shield.

The Devil stopped.

So did Daemon.

“Stay back.”

The blade touched her throat. Daemon’s gaze moved over Femi. Her swollen cheek. The blood at the corner of her mouth. Her disordered clothes. The hand tangled in her hair.

The Devil was no longer interested in killing anyone.

Not yet.

Get her away from him.

“Stay back or I kill the bitch right now.”

Vann drew the knife lightly across her skin. A thin red line appeared. Something inside Daemon went silent.

The Devil whispered one word.

Femi.

Vann laughed.

“Such a pretty little thing.”

He pulled Femi’s head farther back.

“Don’t do anything stupid, Devil. It would be a shame to ruin her.”

Daemon’s voice emerged low and cold.

“You cut her again, and you die like your friend.”

Vann glanced toward Jory’s body. Fear moved through him. Then pride buried it.

“You’re not doing anything while I have her.”

Femi stopped struggling. Vann mistook the stillness for surrender. Daemon did not. Neither did the Devil. It knew her now. The small changes. The sudden quiet.

The way Femi watched when she was thinking.

She’s going to move.

Her left arm lowered. Daemon saw it. Femi drove her elbow into Vann’s ribs. His grip loosened.

She tore herself away.

Now.

Daemon crossed the distance in one step. His fist struck Vann’s face. Vann hit the ground and did not rise.

The Devil forgot him immediately.

Femi.

Daemon dropped beside her.

“Little ghost.”

She was already reaching for him.

The Devil broke open.

There.

Daemon pulled her into his arms.

“Are you hurt?”

Femi shook her head. He touched the line across her throat. Blood marked his fingertips.

The Devil stared at it.

Her blood.

“Are you sure?”

She nodded.

“I should not have left you.”

The words came before he could stop them. Guilt had already found somewhere to live. Femi caught his hand.

Her green eyes held his.

You came.

Daemon stopped breathing.

The Devil whispered:

Always.

Daemon pressed his forehead against hers.

“I will always come.”

His voice broke.

“Do you hear me, little ghost?”

She nodded.

His hand cradled the back of her head.

“Always.”

The Devil made the same promise beneath the word.

Always.

Malone reached the service yard ten minutes later. Pike had begun crawling toward the maintenance gate. Malone stepped over him.

“Security can have that one.”

He looked toward Jory.

“And the dead one?”

“He fired at her,” Daemon said.

Malone nodded.

“Then he chose poorly.”

Vann regained consciousness while Malone tied his wrists and ankles. Daemon remained with Femi, cleaning the cut across her throat with water from the bookstore café. He asked whether she was all right ten times. She answered yes ten times. He still did not believe her. Neither did the Devil. But it did not demand more. Femi had answered. That had to be enough.

Malone threw Vann into the bed of his truck. They loaded Daemon’s motorcycle beside him. The bike shifted and fell against Vann’s legs. Vann screamed through his gag.

Malone laughed.

“Roads are rough.”

For the first time since reading BACK, the Devil showed interest in something other than Femi.

Again.

Daemon almost smiled.

Malone drove on. Daemon sat in the truck’s passenger seat with Femi tucked beneath his arm. She rested against him throughout the drive to Helix. Neither spoke. Daemon held her hand. His thumb moved over her knuckles again and again, counting every finger as though assuring himself she remained whole.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

The Devil counted with him.

Then again.

Marta took Femi upstairs.

“I will sit with her,” she said.

Daemon watched Femi climb the steps. Her face had swollen. A bandage circled her throat. Her clothing was torn and misaligned from the struggle. Red covered his vision again. The Devil had remained quiet while Femi needed him.

Now she was with Marta.

Safe.

The silence ended.

They beat her.

“They beat her.”

Malone stood beside him.

They put their hands on her.

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

“They tried to rape her. They tried to kill her.”

The Devil turned its attention toward the back doors. Toward Vann. For the first time, it wondered who the man was. Why he had been waiting. How he knew where Femi would be. Why three men had followed them into Ravenside.

Someone sent them.

Daemon’s voice became a snarl.

“I want to know why.”

Malone looked toward the back doors.

“And who sent them?”

The Devil no longer wanted blood.

It already had one body in a service yard. Another man broken enough for security. Vann could die later. First, the Devil wanted something more useful.

Answers.

Daemon’s gray eyes emptied.

“Yes.”

The Devil had learned patience.

Vann was about to learn why that was worse.

Vann awakened beneath the glare of a warehouse light.

His wrists were bound above him. His feet barely touched the cement floor. Cold water streamed down his face and clothing. He opened his mouth. Then he saw Daemon. The Devil stood between two metal pillars. Motionless. He had been staring at Vann for ten minutes. He did not blink. He did not sigh. He simply waited for Vann to understand what had entered the room with him.

The Devil had learned patience. Femi had taught it that. Patience beside a chair-braced door. Patience when she needed time. Patience when she touched Daemon’s wrist and asked him to stop.

This was different.

This patience had teeth.

Let him look.

Daemon did.

Malone set down the empty bucket.

Then he opened a folder.

“Vann Thomas.”

His voice echoed through the warehouse.

“Thirty-two years old. Hired muscle in Wolfwater and anywhere else that pays.”

Vann pulled against the restraints.

“No wife. No children. Your mother died from cancer two years ago. No siblings. It appears Vann was the only child of Meyissa and Hroald Thomas.”

Vann stared.

“You came to Wolfwater looking for work,” Malone continued. “You found some. Then you accepted a job intended to teach the Devil a lesson.”

Daemon remained still. The Devil remembered Femi’s face. Swollen. Blood at the corner of her mouth. A thin cut across her throat.

Ask him.

“You failed.”

Malone turned a page.

“That failure embarrassed you among people you wanted to impress. Today, you attempted to repair your reputation by killing my daughter.”

His expression lost all warmth.

“Tell me why.”

Vann said nothing.

“Tell me who sent you.”

Silence.

The Devil wanted to break him. Not kill him. Not yet. There were questions first.

Answers.

Malone looked toward Daemon.

“Maybe he will allow you to leave with only a few broken ribs.”

The Devil moved. Daemon hit Vann in the stomach. Air left him. The second blow broke something. Then came another. Daemon treated him like a heavy bag. Each strike landed with controlled force. Ribs gave way. Blood filled Vann’s mouth. His body swung from the restraints.

The anger was there. Hot. Violent. Hungry. But the Devil did not lose itself inside it. That was new. Once, rage would have been enough. Now it wanted something more useful. A name. Daemon did not ask questions. Malone did.

“Who sent you?”

Vann coughed.

Daemon struck him again.

“Who?”

Another blow.

Vann screamed.

“It was Candi!”

Daemon’s fist stopped.

So did the Devil.

Candi.

“Candi sent us.”

Vann gasped for air.

“She said to rape the girl and kill her. She said it would bring the Devil back to her on his knees.”

For one terrible second, nothing moved inside Daemon.

Then the Devil understood.

Candi.

The woman who had entered his room. Touched his things. Put her hands on Femi. Sent a man after her. And now this.

She wanted us.

Daemon punched Vann in the side. More ribs broke. Vann cried out.

The Devil’s voice became very quiet.

She used Femi to summon us.

“It was her idea!”

“Where is she?” Malone asked.

Vann hesitated. Daemon raised his hand. The Devil waited. That was the difference. It could wait now.

One second.

Two.

Three.

Because Vann still possessed something they needed.

Where is she?

“Above the liquor store!”

The words tumbled out.

“Broadway and Main. Apartment over the liquor store. That’s where she’s staying.”

The Devil repeated the location once.

Broadway and Main.

Daemon lowered his hand. Malone closed the folder. Vann sagged in his restraints.

“I told you everything.”

Neither man answered.

“You’re letting me go, right?”

Malone placed the folder on the chair.

“That was the deal.”

“No,” Malone said. “I said Daemon might let you leave with broken ribs.”

Vann looked toward the Devil. Daemon’s face contained nothing human.

“You cannot leave me here with him.”

Malone walked toward the warehouse door.

“He’ll kill me.”

“I will be outside.”

Malone opened the door.

“With a shovel.”

The Devil almost laughed.

Malone.

Vann began screaming. Malone stepped outside and closed the door. The warehouse became silent again. Daemon approached. Vann struggled against the restraints. The Devil stopped before him. There were no more questions. That mattered. The Devil had been patient because patience had been useful. It had controlled every strike because Vann possessed answers. Now the answers belonged to Daemon.

Candi.

Broadway and Main.

Apartment above the liquor store.

Nothing else Vann possessed had value.

The Devil looked at him.

It remembered the service yard. Femi on her knees. Femi being slapped. A man’s hands on her body. The gunshot. The knife against her throat.

Her blood on Daemon’s fingers.

You touched our little ghost.

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

“You wanted to send me a message.”

His voice was almost gentle.

Vann shook his head frantically.

“I received it.”

Daemon looked toward the blood darkening the cement. The Devil’s anger finally stepped out from behind its patience. Not wild. Not uncontrolled. Worse. Certain.

He thought hurting her would bring us to our knees.

Daemon lifted his gaze.

Vann whimpered.

The Devil whispered:

Show him what it brought instead.

“Now I will answer.”

Vann lived long enough to make one final phone call. Daemon held the phone against his ear while Malone stood nearby, shovel resting against one shoulder.

“Tell her the job is finished.”

Vann’s swollen eyes moved toward the grave waiting behind him. His breath came in wet, broken pulls.

“She’ll know something is wrong.”

“Then convince her.”

Vann swallowed. Daemon pressed the phone closer.

“Or I will put you into that hole alive.”

The Devil had no preference. Either would do. Vann made the call. Candi answered on the second ring.

“Is it done?”

“Yeah.”

Vann’s voice shook. Daemon’s hand tightened around the back of his neck. Vann closed his eyes.

“It’s done. The mute’s dead.”

A delighted laugh came through the phone. The Devil went still.

“Where’s the body?”

“Buried.”

“Good. What about the Devil?”

“He never saw us.”

“Even better.” Candi laughed again. “I knew you boys could handle one stupid little mute.”

Daemon’s face emptied.

The Devil whispered:

She laughed.

Vann heard the change in his breathing and began to cry.

“Don’t call me again,” Candi said. “I’ll have the rest of your money tomorrow.”

The line went dead. Daemon lowered the phone. For several seconds, no one spoke. The Devil repeated the sound of Candi’s laughter inside Daemon’s mind. Not because it needed help becoming angry. Because it intended to remember it.

Vann looked toward Malone.

“I did what you wanted.”

Malone took the phone and tossed it into the open grave.

“Yes,” he said. “You did.”

Vann did not live long enough to see the first shovelful of dirt fall. Daemon and Malone covered half the grave before Malone stopped.

“That will hold until morning.”

Daemon stared down at the dark earth.

“Animals may find him.”

“They have to eat too.”

The Devil approved.

Malone tossed the shovel into the truck bed.

“Come on. My daughter is waiting.”

That was enough to pull Daemon’s attention away from the grave.

Femi.

They returned to Helix shortly before midnight. Daemon went upstairs, showered, and changed. The water circling the drain turned pink. It was not his blood. He scrubbed until the smell of the warehouse disappeared from his skin.

The Devil understood why.

Not near her.

“No.”

Not smelling like blood. Not carrying Vann into her room. Not bringing what they had done into the place where Femi slept. Daemon scrubbed beneath his nails. Then he dressed in clean black trousers and a dark shirt before crossing the hall to Femi’s room.

Marta was leaving as he approached.

“She’s awake,” Marta said.

“Is she all right?”

“No.”

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

The Devil rose.

Marta placed one hand against his chest.

“But she will be.”

The Devil settled slightly.

Her eyes searched his face.

“You find out who sent them?”

“Yes.”

“Candi?”

Daemon said nothing. He did not need to. Marta’s expression hardened.

“Make sure she understands.”

“She will.”

Marta moved aside.

“Femi needs you first.”

The Devil agreed immediately.

Yes.

Daemon entered the room.

Femi sat against the headboard with the blankets pulled across her legs. A bandage circled her throat. One side of her face had swollen, and a bruise darkened beneath her eye. Daemon stopped inside the doorway. Every mark returned him to the loading dock.

Jory’s gun.

Vann’s knife.

Pike’s hands.

Femi’s blood against her throat.

The Devil rose.

Violent.

Immediate.

Then Femi saw him.

She threw back the blankets, crossed the small room, and wrapped her arms around his waist.

Everything inside him changed. The Devil forgot Candi. Forgot Vann. Forgot the grave.

Little ghost.

Her face pressed against his stomach. Her body began to shake. Daemon’s rage disappeared beneath something far more painful. He went to his knees and gathered her into his arms. Femi cried against his shoulder. Not neatly. Not silently enough to hide it. Her breath broke, and small wounded sounds escaped the back of her throat. The Devil had heard men scream beneath knives.

He had heard begging. Bones breaking. Death rattles.

Nothing hurt like those small sounds.

Hold her.

Daemon held her tighter.

“I was so afraid when I received your message.”

He kissed the top of her head.

“So afraid.”

Her fingers clutched his shirt.

“But you were brave, little ghost. You were so brave.”

Femi pulled back enough to sign.

You came.

Daemon brushed the tears from her swollen cheek.

You really came.

The Devil answered first.

Always.

“I will always come.”

Her green eyes searched his.

Daemon pressed his forehead against hers.

“If you call me, I will come. It does not matter where you are. It does not matter who stands between us.”

His thumb moved beneath her eye.

“I will find you.”

The Devil made the promise with him.

Every time.

A knock came at the open door. Malone entered without waiting.

“Hey, baby girl.”

Femi wiped her face quickly. Malone pretended not to notice.

“I watched the loading-dock footage.”

Her expression became wary. Malone grinned.

“You kicked some serious ass.”

Femi blinked.

“You broke one man’s nose, nearly ruined another man’s future children, and made Vann fall to his knees.”

Daemon looked at her.

“You broke his nose?”

The Devil stirred with unmistakable pride.

Our little ghost bites.

Daemon almost smiled. Femi’s cheeks warmed. Malone folded his arms.

“Where did you learn to fight like that?”

Dai.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Malone smiled. “We are going to have to send that woman something nice.”

Femi gave him a small, uncertain smile.

Then Malone’s expression became serious.

“Baby girl, I need to borrow Daemon for a while.”

Her smile vanished.

“We have business to handle tonight.”

Femi’s gaze shifted toward Daemon. He saw the question in her eyes. He also saw fear. Daemon rose and lifted her carefully onto the bed.

“You are safe here.”

Her fingers closed around his wrist.

Where are you going?

“To end this.”

The answer made her grip tighten.

The Devil noticed.

She knows.

Not what they had done. Not who was waiting for them. But Femi knew enough about Daemon to understand what those words meant.

Daemon covered her hand with his.

“No one will touch you tonight. Marta is downstairs. Harlon and three others are watching the building.”

Femi searched his face. He could not tell her the truth. Not all of it. Not now. The Devil did not object. There would be time for truth. Tonight she needed to know the door was guarded.

That Marta was downstairs.

That Daemon would come home.

He bent and kissed her forehead.

“Do not wait for me. We will return late.”

Femi released him slowly. Daemon tucked the blanket around her.

The Devil hated leaving.

Come back.

“We will.”

Then he and Malone left. Femi remained in bed until she heard the truck pull out of the parking lot. The moment its engine faded, she pushed back the covers.

Marta sat behind the bar with a glass in one hand and a bottle beside her.

She looked up when Femi entered the clubhouse.

“I told you to rest.”

Femi pointed toward the front doors.

“They’ll come back, little girl.”

Femi climbed onto a stool. Marta studied her for several seconds. Then she reached beneath the bar and brought out another glass. Femi’s eyebrows rose.

“Waiting is thirsty work.”

Marta poured several different things into the glass, added fruit juice, then slid it across the bar.

Femi stared at it.

“Well, go ahead. It isn’t going to bite you.”

Femi took a cautious drink. Her eyes widened.

Marta laughed.

“That good?”

Femi nodded and took another.

“Careful. Those lie.”

Femi tilted her head.

“They taste harmless. Then you try to stand and discover your legs have resigned.”

Femi smiled around the rim.

Marta lifted her glass.

“To men who come home.”

Femi touched her glass against Marta’s. They drank. And waited.

Across Ravenside, Daemon sat beside Malone in the truck. Broadway and Main waited ahead. The apartment above the liquor store. Candi.

The Devil remembered her laughter.

The mute’s dead.

Its anger returned. Cold now. Patient. Candi had wanted the Devil back. She had sent men to beat Femi. To rape her. To kill her. Then she had laughed when she believed they succeeded.

The Devil found no contradiction between the promise it had whispered against Femi’s tears and what waited at the end of the drive.

Always.

It would always come when Femi called.

And tonight— it was coming for Candi.

Across town, Malone pulled his truck beside Marlon’s.

Marlon lowered his window.

“She hasn’t left the building. Apartment four. Left side, beside the fire escape.”

“Alone?” Malone asked.

“She has a customer.”

Daemon looked toward the second-floor window. The curtains were open. Music moved faintly through the glass.

“How long has he been inside?”

“Twenty minutes.”

Malone checked the shotgun across his lap.

“He picked a poor night.”

They parked in the alley. Malone climbed the fire escape with the shotgun. Daemon entered through the front of the building. Neither hurried There was no reason to. Candi was not going anywhere. The man leaving apartment three saw Daemon coming and immediately stepped back inside.

Daemon reached apartment four and opened the door without knocking.

Candi screamed. The man standing beside the bed grabbed for his trousers.

“What the hell is this?”

“Leave,” Daemon said.

The man looked ready to protest. Then Daemon stepped fully into the light. Recognition crossed the man’s face. He turned pale. He pulled up his trousers without fastening them, grabbed one shoe, and ran into the hall. His foot caught the top stair. He tumbled halfway down the staircase.

Daemon did not look back. Malone entered through the window and closed it behind him.

Candi stood naked in the middle of the apartment. For a moment, fear crossed her face. Then she remembered Vann’s phone call. Her mouth curved.

“If you wanted to come here and stare, all you had to do was call.”

Malone rested the shotgun against his shoulder. Candi allowed her hands to fall to her sides.

“I knew you would come to your senses.”

Daemon said nothing.

The Devil remembered her laughter.

The mute’s dead.

Nothing else.

“That dumb nobody could never please a man like you.”

Malone laughed.

The sound was deep, cold, and cruel.

Candi glared at him.

“What is so funny?”

“You,” Malone said. “Thinking you know what pleases Daemon.”

Candi looked from Malone to the man standing near her door. Daemon’s steel-gray eyes held nothing. She mistook the emptiness for surrender. She crossed the room and pressed herself against him.

“I know you want me.”

Daemon’s entire body shuddered. Not with desire. Disgust moved through him so violently that his hands curled into fists.

The Devil recoiled with him.

Candi smiled.

“I knew once she was out of the way, you would come back to me.”

Out of the way.

As though Femi were an inconvenience. Something to remove. Something whose life could be traded for Candi’s happiness. The Devil understood then that Candi still did not understand what she had done. Daemon looked toward Malone. Malone chambered a shell. The sound cut through the music. Candi finally stepped away.

“I did what was right,” she said. “She tried to take you from me.”

Daemon remained silent.

The Devil did not.

She never took us.

“She took my job. My home. She ruined my livelihood.”

“Your livelihood,” Daemon repeated.

His gaze moved toward the open door through which her customer had fled.

Candi followed his eyes.

“Oh, that.”

She shrugged.

“That was nothing. He is not you.”

Her gaze moved across Daemon’s body. Then stopped at his neck. A small red mark rested above his collar. Femi’s mark. Candi’s expression changed.

“You slept with her.”

Daemon’s eyes sharpened.

“You let that mute whore touch you.”

Candi lifted her hand. Daemon caught her wrist before it reached his face. His fingers closed. Bones shifted beneath his grip. Candi screamed.

“Let go of me!”

Daemon squeezed harder. She dropped to her knees. Malone watched without expression.

“What is this?” Candi cried. “I did everything for you!”

Daemon released her. Candi crashed backward into the coffee table. Wood split beneath her weight. Malone removed a small recorder from his coat. Candi stared at it.

“What is that?”

Malone pressed play. Static filled the apartment.

Then Pike’s ragged voice emerged.

“She’s nobody, man. Just some dirty whore I kept around because she gives me free beer and does things my wife won’t do.”

Malone’s recorded voice followed.

“What is Candi to you?”

“I told you. Nobody. She thinks I’m her friend because I hang around.”

Pike groaned in pain.

“I stopped looking at her like that after the party turned into an orgy and she let those men pass her around. She thinks that shit is cute. It isn’t.”

“Why did you take the job?” Malone’s voice.

“She offered five thousand dollars.”

Malone stopped the recording. Candi’s face had gone rigid.

“He’s lying.”

“No,” Malone said. “He thought he was dying. Men become surprisingly honest when they believe the next breath may be their last.”

“He loves me.”

Malone changed the recording. This time Vann’s screams came first. Then Daemon’s voice, cold and distant.

“Now I have broken six.”

Vann sobbed. Malone’s recorded voice followed.

“Who is Candi to you?”

“Nobody. Some dumb whore offering money for something I wanted to do anyway.”

“And Femi?”

“Collateral damage.”

Daemon went still.

The Devil did too.

No.

A wet cough interrupted the words.

“Candi said she couldn’t fight. Said the girl was some weak, stupid mute who somehow charmed the Devil. Easy prey.”

The recording ended. Silence returned. Malone placed the device inside his coat.

But the Devil remained on those two words.

Collateral damage.

Femi baking bread before sunrise. Femi remembering everyone’s drinks. Femi sleeping with a chair beneath the door. Femi touching Daemon’s scar as though the ruined skin were beautiful.

Femi signing You came with tears on her swollen face.

Collateral damage.

No.

Candi looked between the two men.

“What do you want?”

Daemon crossed the room.

Candi crawled away until her back struck the broken table.

“You came here because she’s dead,” she said. “You’re angry now, but you’ll understand. She was nothing. She was trash.”

Daemon’s hands trembled. Not with uncertainty. With the effort required to keep from tearing her apart. The Devil’s anger changed. It was no longer interested in making Candi suffer because she had taken something from them.

Femi was alive.

Femi was home.

Nothing Candi had done could change that. This was about something simpler. Candi had looked at a woman who had already survived too much and decided her life meant nothing. She had paid men to prove it. The Devil wanted that wrong answered.

“You were never worthy of standing in the same room with her.”

Candi laughed, but the sound broke in the middle.

“Your precious whore is dead anyway. What happened? You haven’t found the body?”

Malone laughed.

Candi’s one intact certainty began to fracture.

“There is no body to find,” Malone said.

Her smile disappeared.

“What?”

“Femi is alive.”

Candi stared at him.

“No.”

“She is at Helix.”

“No. Vann said—”

“Vann said what Daemon instructed him to say.”

Candi’s face drained of color.

“He lied?”

“He wanted to live.”

Malone’s smile became colder.

“He did not.”

The Devil watched understanding enter Candi’s face. Femi had survived. Again. A tiny girl survived five stab wounds. One gunshot wound. A child survived foster homes. A fourteen-year-old survived Markus Anthony. A young woman survived homelessness. She survived five months alone. And now she had survived Candi.

The Devil felt something almost like pride.

Our little ghost.

Footsteps struck the stairs outside.

Fast.

Furious.

A woman’s voice cut through the hall.

“Where is that bitch?”

Red appeared in the doorway with murder in her eyes. Daemon smiled. Slowly. Coldly.

“In here.”

Candi tried to stand. Daemon caught her face in one hand and forced her to look at him.

“We gave you a warning before.”

Her breath quickened.

“You mistook mercy for weakness.”

Red entered the apartment. Daemon released Candi.

“Red is going to take her time,” he said. “Then I am going to shoot you while Malone watches.”

Candi shook her head.

“You cannot let her do this, Daemon. I did this for us.”

The Devil answered quietly.

There was never an us.

Red slapped her hard enough to turn her completely around.

Candi hit the floor.

“There is no us,” Daemon said.

Red struck her again. Candi tried crawling toward the kitchen. Malone stepped into her path and placed the shotgun against her temple.

“Wrong direction.”

Red caught Candi by the ankle and dragged her into the center of the room. What followed lasted almost an hour. Daemon watched. He did not speak. He did not look away. The Devil did not celebrate. It did not whisper for more. It did not count blows. Candi had tried to destroy Femi because she believed the little ghost was beneath her. Weak. Disposable. Trash. The Devil watched that belief being answered. That was enough. When Red finally stepped back, breathing hard, Candi lay crumpled on the floor. One swollen eye found Daemon. He approached her.

“I did this because of you,” Candi whispered.

“No.”

Daemon removed his handgun.

“You did this because you believed Femi was small enough to destroy.”

The Devil looked down at her.

You were wrong about her.

Daemon attached the suppressor.

Candi’s eye widened.

He aimed.

“You were wrong.”

He shot her twice. Candi struck the floor and did not move again. Daemon lowered the weapon. No one spoke. The Devil felt no triumph. No satisfaction. No need to look at the body. The wrong had been answered. That was all. Red left first. Malone followed. Daemon stepped into the hall without looking back. The Devil went with him.

It was finished thinking about Candi.

Red called while Malone drove toward Helix. He placed the phone on speaker.

“Is your girl all right?” Red asked.

“She is now,” Malone said. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, sugar. That one had it coming.”

Her voice became quieter.

“How is the Devil? I’ve never seen him that empty.”

Malone glanced toward the passenger seat. Daemon stared through the windshield. Streetlights passed over his face without touching his eyes.

“He’ll be fine.”

The Devil was already elsewhere. Not in the apartment. Not with Candi.

Home.

They turned into Helix’s parking lot.

Music thumped faintly through the walls.

Malone frowned.

“I have to go. The jukebox is playing, and no one is supposed to be in the bar.”

He ended the call. Daemon entered first. Malone followed. Both stopped. Marta and Femi were dancing in the middle of the empty clubhouse. Marta held a bottle in one hand and a glass in the other. Femi stood beneath the single light burning over Daemon’s usual table.

Her fitted white top covered her from throat to waist but left her arms bare. Small black shorts revealed her legs. Her midnight hair hung loose, falling nearly to her knees.

Her eyes were closed. She swayed slowly to the music and drank deeply from the glass in her hand.

The Devil became completely still.

There.

Alive.

Safe.

Dancing badly.

Drunk, apparently.

Femi opened her eyes and signed toward Marta.

This is amazing. What is it?

Marta laughed and headed toward the kitchen.

“It’s called a Mai Tai, little girl.”

She stopped when she saw the men.

“Hey—”

Malone pressed one finger against his lips. His head tilted toward Daemon. Marta followed his gaze. Understanding entered her face. She turned around and walked back into the kitchen. Malone followed. Daemon removed his jacket and hung it over a chair. He rolled up his sleeves and walked toward Femi. She opened her eyes slowly.

The world had softened around the edges. For several seconds, she appeared to believe she was dreaming.

The Devil whispered:

Little ghost.

Daemon took the glass from her hand.

Femi smiled. He set the drink aside and drew her against him. She melted into his arms. Something inside Daemon finally loosened. The jukebox shifted to something slow. Daemon rested one hand at the center of her back and held the other around hers. They swayed together. Femi pressed her cheek against his chest.

“Have you been drinking, little ghost?”

She nodded.

“How many?”

Femi considered the question. Then she held up nine fingers.

Daemon stared at them.

The Devil stared too.

Nine?

“Nine?”

She smiled and snuggled deeper into his embrace. Daemon laughed beneath his breath.

“That explains why you have not checked the doors once since I entered.”

The Devil understood what Daemon did not say. She felt safe enough not to look. He guided her to his corner and sat. Femi settled across his lap as though the place had always belonged to her.

“Were you drinking because I was gone?”

His frown returned. Femi smoothed the crease between his eyebrows. Then she shook her head.

Marta said she needed someone to drink with.

Her fingers moved slowly. Halfway through the sentence, she stopped and glared at them as though they had betrayed her.

Daemon chuckled.

“Your hands are drunk too.”

Femi frowned at him. He kissed the tip of her nose. Her entire face brightened. Daemon’s heart stumbled. The Devil softened with it. Femi touched his scarred cheek. Her gaze dropped to his mouth. One finger traced his lower lip. Daemon shivered.

“You are killing me, little ghost.”

Her eyes flew to his. Curiosity lived there. Uncertainty. And something warmer. Something new. Femi touched her own lips. Daemon leaned closer.

“Are you thinking about my kisses?”

She shivered. Then nodded. His crooked smile appeared.

“You are a cruel woman.”

Why?

Before Daemon could answer, Femi turned and straddled his lap. Every thought left his mind.

The Devil managed one.

Oh.

His hands lifted instinctively but did not touch her. Femi’s fingers moved across his collarbone. She caught her lower lip between her teeth.

Touch me.

Daemon’s mouth went dry. Femi took his hands and placed one against each of her hips. He froze. The scent of strawberries surrounded him. Her warmth seeped through his palms. Daemon kept his hands still, holding without pulling her closer. Femi watched his face. Then her expression changed. Something old and uncertain returned to her eyes.

I had a friend once.

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

“And?”

In the end, he told me that when I touched him, it made his skin crawl.

Daemon became very still.

The Devil did too.

He said my touch made him sick.

A name rose immediately.

Who?

Femi’s fingertips crossed Daemon’s collarbone again. The question vanished beneath something far more important. Her. Now.

Do I make you feel that way?

Daemon stared at her.

The Devil recoiled from the possibility that she could believe it.

No.

“Who told you that?”

Femi shook her head.

“Tell me his name.”

She shook it again.

The Devil pushed once.

Name.

Daemon felt Femi’s hands against him. Remembered everything she had already trusted him with. Then the lesson returned. Truth was not permission. And tonight was not for another name.

Later.

Daemon lifted one of her hands from his chest and kissed her fingertips, one at a time.

“When you touch me, little ghost…”

His voice tightened.

“Gods, when you touch me.”

He rested his forehead against hers.

“I do not have words for what happens.”

Femi watched him closely.

“Every word I know feels unworthy of it.”

He kissed her palm.

“You touch me as if I am something precious.”

Her eyes glistened.

“No one has ever done that.”

The Devil whispered:

She does.

Daemon’s breath caught when her fingers entered his hair.

“Gods. Do not look at me like that tonight.”

She tilted her head. Daemon adjusted her carefully, moving her farther down his thighs so the evidence of his desire would not frighten her. Femi only moved closer. Their bodies touched. Daemon’s hands slid to her back. He noticed they were shaking.

“Femi.”

She kissed his right cheek. Then the scarred left one. The Devil went quiet. She drew his head forward and pressed her lips against his forehead. Daemon closed his eyes. Femi kissed his chin. Then the left corner of his mouth. The right. Her fingers threaded through his pale hair.

Daemon opened his eyes.

“How do you feel when I touch you?”

She stilled.

“When I kiss you?”

Femi leaned away far enough to sign.

My stomach trembles.

Daemon stopped breathing.

Her cheeks warmed.

I ache in places deep inside.

A low sound escaped him. Not a word. Something rougher. The Devil agreed completely. Femi jumped from his lap as though she had been burned.

Her hands moved frantically.

Are you all right?

Wrong.

Daemon stared at her.

Did I hurt you? Are you hurt?

Understanding came slowly. Then Daemon smiled. Of course she did not know. He reached for her hands but waited until she placed them in his.

“I am not hurt, my little ghost.”

Her worried expression remained.

“The only way you could hurt me is by leaving.”

Femi looked down. Daemon immediately regretted the shadow that crossed her face. So did the Devil. He touched her jaw.

“You have had a long day.”

His thumb moved gently beneath the bruise on her cheek.

“And nine Mai Tais.”

Femi looked offended.

“At least nine.”

She swayed. Daemon caught her before she could fall.

“Time for bed.”

Color moved across her face. Daemon’s smile deepened.

“To sleep, cruel woman.”

Femi hid her face against his chest. He guided her toward her room, keeping one arm around her waist. By the time he helped her onto the bed, her eyes were already closing. Daemon removed her shoes and pulled the blanket over her.

Femi caught his sleeve.

He looked down.

Her fingers moved weakly.

You came.

Everything else disappeared. Daemon sat beside her.

“I came.”

Her hand relaxed.

He bent and kissed her forehead.

“I always will.”

The Devil whispered the promise with him.

Always.

Femi drifted into sleep.

Daemon crossed the room, locked the door from the inside, then pulled it closed behind him. He waited in the hall until he heard the chair scrape across the floor. Even drunk, Femi placed it beneath the handle.

The Devil listened to the scrape.

Good.

Only then did he go upstairs. Daemon lay across his bed and threw one arm over his eyes. He did not think about the warehouse. He did not think about Candi’s body on the apartment floor. The Devil was finished with her.

There was nothing left to hate. Nothing left to punish. Nothing left to correct. The woman they loved was alive. That was what mattered. Femi. Her uncertain eyes. Her gentle fingers.

The trembling question in her hands.

Do I make you feel that way?

She understood violence better than tenderness. She knew what it meant when a hand became a fist, but not when it began to shake beneath her touch. She recognized cruelty immediately. Desire remained a mystery.

That was the wrong the Devil thought about now.

Not death.

Not blood.

A woman they loved had been taught that her touch was something disgusting. That tenderness came with a price. That affection could become cruelty without warning. The Devil could not kill that lesson. Daemon could not beat it to death. There was no throat to close his hands around. No grave deep enough to bury it. It could only be answered differently. Patiently.

Every time Femi reached for him. Every time she kissed his scar. Every time her hands entered his hair. Every time she touched him and waited for disgust that would never come. They would answer.

Again.

And again.

For however long it took.

Daemon closed his eyes.

“No, my little ghost.”

His voice disappeared into the darkness.

“My desire for you scares even me.”

The Devil settled beneath his ribs. For once, it wanted nothing broken.

It wanted only for Femi to someday touch the man she loved—

and never again wonder whether she should pull her hand away.

The Devil learned Femi had never been to a movie theater because Cutter complained about an explosion.

More specifically, he complained that there had not been enough of them.

“Three,” Cutter said from his usual table at Helix. “Whole damn movie. Three explosions. You can’t call something an action movie if you only blow up three things.”

Malone continued drying a glass behind the bar.

“How many explosions make it an action movie?”

“Five.”

“According to who?”

“Me.”

“Then I’m sure the film industry will be devastated when they hear.”

Cutter ignored him.

Femi crossed behind the bar carrying a basket of clean glasses from the kitchen.

“Daxstalker Six comes out Friday,” Harlon said. “That’ll have explosions.”

“Daxstalker Five had nine.”

“You counted?”

“Damn right.”

Femi placed the basket beside Malone.

Daemon sat in his corner with a Jack on the rocks.

He had been reading.

Or pretending to.

The Devil had been listening to the conversation with increasing interest.

What is Daxstalker?

Daemon turned a page.

A movie.

I know what a movie is.

That was debatable.

What is Daxstalker?

Daemon glanced toward Cutter’s table.

“Guy kills people.”

Why?

Usually somebody deserves it.

The Devil considered this.

I might like Daxstalker.

That was probably true.

At the bar, Harlon was explaining the plot to Femi.

“Same guy as the last five. Dax Rainer. This time somebody kidnaps the woman he’s been chasing around since the second movie.”

Femi stopped arranging glasses.

Cutter pointed toward Harlon.

“She’s not kidnapped. She’s taken by the Black Thorn Syndicate.”

“That is kidnapping.”

“It’s different.”

“How?”

“They want Dax.”

“That still makes it kidnapping.”

Femi’s mouth twitched.

Harlon noticed.

“You’ve seen any of them?”

Femi shook her head.

“First one’s good.”

Another shake.

Harlon frowned.

“You don’t like action movies?”

Femi lifted one shoulder.

Then signed something.

Harlon stared at her hands.

“I still don’t know what that means.”

Malone translated without looking up.

“She said she doesn’t know.”

“Doesn’t know what?”

Femi signed again.

Malone stopped drying the glass.

His eyes lifted to her.

Daemon noticed.

So did the Devil.

“What?” Harlon asked.

Malone put the glass down.

“She said she’s never been to the movies.”

Daemon stopped reading.

The Devil became utterly silent.

Femi apparently recognized that everyone’s attention had shifted toward her because she immediately resumed arranging glasses.

Cutter frowned.

“Never?”

She shook her head.

“As in never went to a theater?”

Another shake.

“When you were a kid?”

No.

“Foster families?”

No.

“Not even one of those cheap matinees?”

Femi’s shoulders had begun to rise.

Malone noticed.

“Leave her alone.”

Cutter immediately leaned back.

“I wasn’t—”

“Enough.”

Conversation moved elsewhere.

Femi carried the empty basket toward the kitchen.

Daemon watched her disappear through the swinging door.

The Devil remained silent.

He waited.

Nothing.

That concerned him more than the usual commentary.

Daemon looked back at his book.

Never?

There it was.

Apparently.

She has never seen a movie?

“She has seen movies.”

Cutter glanced toward him.

Daemon lowered his voice.

“She hasn’t been inside a theater.”

The Devil considered this distinction.

It didn’t help.

Why?

Daemon knew enough of Femi’s childhood to have several possible answers.

None were pleasant.

“No opportunity.”

The Devil went quiet again.

Daemon knew what was coming.

He closed the book.

“No.”

I haven’t said anything.

“You’re going to.”

Take her.

“No.”

Why?

Daemon took a drink.

“Because you don’t just announce that you’re taking a woman somewhere.”

Ask her.

Daemon stared toward the kitchen.

Little ghost should see the movie.

“Why that movie?”

They take his woman.

Daemon waited.

Then he kills them.

Of course that was the selling point.

And explosions.

“You’ve been listening to Cutter too much.”

Nine in the last one.

Daemon looked toward Cutter.

Cutter was drinking beer.

He looked back toward the kitchen.

The Devil whispered—

Ask her to go with us.

Daemon’s fingers tightened around his glass.

Us.

The Devil had started doing that lately.

Not you.

Not take her.

Us.

Daemon wasn’t certain what he thought about it.

The Devil was.

Ask.

Daemon spent the following morning researching Daxstalker.

He hated himself for it.

The Devil was fascinated.

The laptop sat open on the table in his room.

DAXSTALKER VI: BLACK THORN.

The trailer began with a helicopter exploding.

Good.

Daemon continued watching.

A man in a black tactical jacket jumped through a window.

Gunfire.

Car chase.

Another explosion.

Then the woman appeared.

She was tied to a chair.

The villain threatened her.

Dax Rainer stared dramatically into the camera and said something about coming for her.

The Devil scoffed.

He talks too much.

“He’s the hero.”

He should go get her.

“He is.”

After talking.

Daemon paused the trailer.

“You’re criticizing a fictional person.”

He is wasting time.

Daemon resumed it.

Dax shot four men.

The Devil became marginally less judgmental.

By the end, a building exploded.

How many?

“Four.”

Already?

“Yes.”

Buy tickets.

Daemon rubbed his face.

He checked the theater.

There was a seven-thirty showing.

The Devil immediately rejected the available seats near the center.

No.

“What?”

Too many people behind her.

Daemon looked at the seating chart.

The Devil was right.

Femi would spend half the movie checking movement around her.

He selected the back row.

Far corner.

Wall on one side.

Nobody behind them.

The Devil approved.

There.

Daemon bought three seats.

One for himself.

One for Femi.

One empty beside them so no stranger could sit too close.

He stared at the confirmation.

“This is ridiculous.”

Correct.

“That wasn’t agreement.”

I know.

Femi was chopping onions when Daemon asked.

He stood at the service window watching her knife move.

Chop.

Perfect little pieces.

Femi looked up.

Daemon realized he had been standing there silently for too long.

“I want to ask you something.”

Her knife stopped.

The Devil immediately objected.

That sounds ominous.

Daemon ignored it.

“Daxstalker Six comes out tonight.”

Femi blinked.

He continued.

“It’s about a man whose woman gets taken by a criminal organization.”

Her eyebrows rose.

“He goes after her.”

Femi waited.

“Apparently there are explosions.”

One corner of her mouth moved.

Tell her nine in the last one.

“No.”

Femi tilted her head.

Daemon sighed.

“The Devil would like you to know the previous movie had nine explosions.”

Femi’s smile appeared.

The Devil was pleased.

Now ask.

Daemon leaned against the service window.

“Would you like to go see it with me?”

The Devil growled.

Daemon closed his eyes briefly.

“With us.”

Femi went still.

Daemon felt immediately foolish.

“You don’t have to.”

Her hands moved.

You and the Devil are asking me to the movies?

“Yes.”

She looked delighted by this.

Did he choose the movie?

“Mostly.”

Liar.

“He chose the movie.”

Femi looked toward his chest as though the Devil might somehow be standing there.

Then back at Daemon.

Yes.

The Devil purred.

Little ghost is coming with us.

Daemon smiled.

“Seven-thirty.”

Femi nodded.

Then resumed chopping.

Daemon turned away.

Her hand caught his wrist through the service window.

He stopped.

Femi signed with her free hand.

Thank you.

Something shifted beneath his ribs.

The Devil whispered—

Anything.

Daemon looked at her.

“Don’t thank me yet. The movie might be terrible.”

Her silent laughter followed him out.

The theater smelled like butter.

That was Femi’s first observation.

Daemon knew because she stopped approximately four feet inside the lobby and stared toward the concession stand.

The Devil was equally interested.

Popcorn.

“Yes.”

Femi looked at him.

“Nothing.”

She looked toward the concession stand.

Then back at him.

Popcorn?

Daemon stared.

Femi smiled.

“You two are becoming irritating.”

Her smile widened.

The lobby was enormous.

Bright posters covered the walls. Arcade machines flashed along one side. People stood beneath illuminated signs listing showtimes.

Femi took everything in.

Not fearfully.

Not entirely.

She still checked exits.

Daemon watched her locate them.

Main entrance.

Hallway.

Emergency exit.

Restrooms.

Then she looked at the movie posters.

The Devil noticed too.

Let her look.

Daemon did.

They arrived early deliberately.

Femi walked slowly along the posters.

She stopped at Daxstalker VI.

The poster showed Dax standing in front of a burning building with a gun in one hand while the woman he loved appeared behind him.

Femi studied it.

Then looked at Daemon.

Her eyes moved from the fictional hero’s black clothes to Daemon’s black clothes.

Back to the poster.

Daemon frowned.

“Don’t.”

Her eyebrows rose innocently.

What?

“You know what.”

She smiled.

The Devil whispered—

I’m beginning to like this place.

They bought one large popcorn.

Daemon had intended to buy separate ones.

Femi shook her head.

One.

Apparently they were sharing.

The Devil approved enthusiastically.

They bought drinks.

Femi carried the popcorn.

Daemon carried everything else.

When they entered the theater, the previews had not started.

Femi stopped again.

Rows of seats descended toward an enormous dark screen.

Tiny aisle lights glowed along the floor.

She looked up.

Then around.

Daemon watched her face.

“This way.”

He led her to the back.

The Devil had chosen well.

Last row.

Corner.

Wall beside Femi.

Daemon beside her.

Empty purchased seat beside him.

Nobody behind them.

Femi noticed.

Of course she noticed.

She looked at him.

Daemon sat.

“What?”

Her hands moved.

You picked the corner.

“Yes.”

She glanced behind them.

Wall.

Then toward him.

Her expression softened.

Daemon shrugged.

“Better view.”

Femi knew he was lying.

She didn’t challenge him.

The lights dimmed.

Her attention snapped toward the screen.

The Devil whispered—

Look at her.

Daemon already was.

Daxstalker VI began with an explosion.

The Devil was immediately delighted.

One.

Daemon took popcorn.

Femi watched the screen.

Ten minutes later, the villain appeared.

Kill him.

“He can’t hear you.”

Femi glanced over.

Daemon shook his head.

Her attention returned to the screen.

The woman was kidnapped twenty-two minutes into the movie.

The Devil became deeply invested.

Now go.

Dax spent several minutes arguing with his superior.

Why is he still talking?

Daemon ate popcorn.

They have his woman.

“I understand the plot.”

Then why doesn’t he?

Femi reached into the popcorn tub between them.

Daemon watched her.

She found a heavily buttered piece.

Ate it.

Reached for another.

The Devil went quiet.

The movie continued.

Femi ate more popcorn.

She’s eating.

“Yes.”

She likes it.

Probably.

Buy another.

“The bucket is still half full.”

Later.

Daemon tried to watch the movie.

A car exploded.

Two.

Femi’s eyes widened.

Blue-white light from the screen moved across her face.

Daemon stopped watching the explosion.

He watched her.

She leaned slightly forward during the chase.

Her fingers disappeared into the popcorn.

When Dax drove a motorcycle through the doors of a warehouse, Femi’s mouth opened slightly.

The Devil whispered—

We could do that.

“No.”

Femi looked at him.

Daemon pointed toward the screen.

“He thinks we could do that.”

Femi looked at the motorcycle crashing through glass.

Then at Daemon.

She nodded.

Do not encourage him.

Femi smiled.

The Devil laughed.

Another explosion.

Three.

Dax fought six men in an elevator.

The Devil critiqued his technique.

Too slow.

“He’s fighting six people.”

So?

“He’s an actor.”

Excuses.

Daemon found himself smiling.

Then he looked at Femi.

She was completely absorbed.

That did something strange to him.

There was no fear on her face.

No calculation.

No watching hands.

No checking doors every thirty seconds.

She knew where the exits were.

She had mapped the room when they entered.

Then she’d let it go.

Now she was watching something that wasn’t real.

A hero who couldn’t actually die.

A woman who would almost certainly be rescued.

Villains designed to lose.

Danger that ended when the lights came back on.

Femi reached for popcorn without looking.

Her fingers brushed Daemon’s.

She froze.

Daemon didn’t move.

Her eyes shifted toward him.

Then down toward their hands.

The Devil became very still.

Don’t move.

Daemon wasn’t planning to.

Femi slowly took a piece of popcorn.

Her fingers brushed his again deliberately.

Then she looked back at the movie.

The Devil nearly came apart with joy.

She touched us.

“Watch the movie.”

You aren’t.

Daemon realized that was true.

He had missed most of the last twenty minutes.

Because he kept watching Femi.

Her eyes.

Her expressions.

The way she smiled whenever Dax said something unintentionally ridiculous.

The way she ate popcorn one piece at a time until an action scene started, when she apparently forgot manners and grabbed handfuls.

The way she startled at one particularly loud explosion and immediately laughed at herself.

The Devil watched too.

Not the screen.

Her.

Little ghost likes movies.

Daemon thought she might.

She is happy.

Yes.

There was wonder in the Devil’s voice.

Pure.

Uncomplicated.

Almost childlike.

Daemon had heard the Devil pleased by violence.

Satisfied by fear in an enemy’s eyes.

Amused by threats.

Protective.

Possessive.

Furious.

He had never heard it sound like this.

Joy.

The Devil was experiencing joy because Femi was eating overpriced popcorn and watching a mediocre action movie.

Daemon looked at her.

Femi sensed him staring.

She turned.

Her eyebrows rose.

“What?”

She pointed at the screen.

Daemon looked.

Dax was hanging from a helicopter.

Apparently he’d missed something important.

Femi shook her head.

The Devil laughed.

Caught.

Dax rescued the woman.

Naturally.

The villain fell from a building.

The Devil approved.

The building exploded afterward.

Eight.

“You counted?”

Of course.

The final scene showed Dax and the woman standing beside an ambulance.

They kissed.

Femi reached for the last of the popcorn.

Her fingers found nothing.

She looked inside.

Empty.

The Devil sounded devastated.

We failed.

Daemon stared straight ahead.

At what?

She ran out.

“She’s eaten enough popcorn.”

Femi looked at him.

Daemon sighed.

“The Devil is upset that the popcorn is gone.”

Femi covered her mouth.

Her shoulders shook.

Tell her we will buy more next time.

Daemon paused.

Next time.

The Devil had said it without hesitation.

Femi looked at him expectantly.

“He says we’ll buy more next time.”

Her laughter stopped.

Something changed in her expression.

Small.

Hopeful.

Then the credits began.

The lights rose slowly.

People stood.

Daemon waited.

There was no reason to put Femi into the crowd.

They remained in their seats while everyone filed toward the exit.

Femi watched the credits.

Daemon watched her.

Eventually, the theater emptied.

Femi stood.

Stretched.

Then looked at the screen one last time.

Daemon collected the cups.

“Well?”

Her hands moved.

You would have been better.

Daemon frowned.

“At what?”

Femi pointed toward the screen.

In the movie.

The Devil perked up.

Daemon laughed once.

“I doubt that.”

She shook her head.

Then signed again.

You and the Devil.

Daemon stopped.

Femi’s hands continued.

You would have been better than Dax.

The Devil became insufferable.

She knows.

“He’s fictional.”

Femi shrugged.

He talks too much.

Daemon stared at her.

The Devil erupted into laughter.

I told you.

“You two are impossible.”

Femi smiled.

Daemon picked up the empty popcorn tub.

“Did you like it?”

Her answer came immediately.

Yes.

Then, after a moment—

Very much.

Daemon looked at her.

Femi glanced around the empty theater.

Her hands moved more slowly.

I’ve never been inside one before.

“I know.”

She looked at the rows of seats.

The enormous screen.

The dim aisle lights.

Then back at him.

It was different than I thought.

“Better or worse?”

She considered.

Better.

The Devil whispered—

Bring her again.

Daemon didn’t argue.

“What do you want to see next?”

Femi blinked.

Her hands stopped.

Daemon nodded toward the screen.

“We’ll come back.”

She stared at him.

“As many times as you want.”

The Devil corrected him.

As many times as she wants.

That’s what he said.

No. You said—

Daemon ignored it.

Femi stepped closer.

Then took his hand.

Her fingers threaded through his.

The same way they had at the gardens.

The same way they had outside Runes.

Increasingly, as though that was simply where her hand belonged.

The Devil quieted instantly.

They walked toward the aisle.

Halfway down the steps, Femi stopped.

Daemon looked back.

She signed with one hand.

Can we see another action movie?

The Devil answered before Daemon could.

Yes.

Daemon smiled.

“Yes.”

Femi resumed walking.

The Devil whispered—

With more explosions.

Daemon sighed.

“With more explosions, apparently.”

Femi laughed silently.

They walked through the empty lobby hand in hand.

Outside, night had settled over Ravenside.

Cars moved along the wet streets.

Neon reflected in the pavement.

Femi stayed beside him.

The Devil remained unusually content.

Then, as they reached Daemon’s motorcycle—

Next time, two popcorns.

Daemon shook his head.

“Absolutely not.”

Femi looked at him.

He handed her the helmet.

“Don’t ask.”

She did anyway.

Daemon told her.

And her smile followed them all the way home.

Daemon woke and stared at the clock.

The red numbers read 3:39.

No nightmare had awakened him. No warehouse. No restraints cutting into his wrists. No screams trapped behind concrete walls. No desperate need to reach beneath his pillow and wrap his hand around the gun hidden there. Daemon threw one arm across his eyes and lay in the darkness. Then he sighed. Femi filled his mind before he could stop her. Her touch. Her bright green eyes. Her smile. How soft she had felt straddling his lap. Her drunken confession. He had not expected her to answer his question. He thought she would blush and give him one of those quiet smiles that made his thoughts disappear.

Instead, she had looked at him with solemn curiosity.

My stomach trembles.

Daemon’s heart struck harder against his ribs.

I ache in places deep inside.

The Devil stirred.

Again.

Daemon groaned.

“No.”

It had not meant the memory. It meant the woman. Her hands. Her mouth. That small sound. He had not meant to make that sound. He had not intended to move. But Femi signed those words, and the Devil reacted in ways Daemon did not completely understand.

Then she leaped from his lap, terrified she had hurt him. Daemon lowered his arm and stared into the darkness. Of course she had not understood. He wondered whether anyone other than Dai had ever made Femi feel something besides fear and shame. Had anyone ever touched her without wanting to take? Held her without trying to own her? Kissed her without demanding something afterward?

The Devil whispered about the small sound she made whenever they kissed.

That sound.

Daemon smiled despite himself.

He remembered every time he had coaxed it from her. The first startled breath. The quiet hum trapped in the back of her throat. The way her fingers tightened in his hair when she forgot to be afraid. His body reacted before his mind caught up. Within minutes, his breathing became heavy. His heart pounded hard enough to make his ribs ache.

Daemon sat up abruptly. The arm covering his face fell away. His mouth was dry.

He looked at the clock again.

4:00.

“Gods.”

The Devil was entirely unapologetic. Daemon rose and left the bed. He did not bother with a shirt. He did not put on shoes. He simply walked. The Devil followed, whispering about all the things they loved about Femi. The smell of strawberries in her hair. The way she wrinkled her nose when someone put too much sugar in her tea. The way she watched every entrance to every room. The way her hand searched for his when she became frightened. The stubborn lift of her chin. Her silent laughter. The knife hidden inside her boot.

The little crease between her eyebrows when she was confused. Everything they noticed. Everything they remembered. Everything that made their little ghost herself. Daemon reached the stairs and descended into the silent clubhouse. He entered the kitchen and stopped.

The room was dark and cool. Something felt wrong. He sensed another presence. Daemon cursed himself for being distracted and turned sharply from the refrigerator. Femi sat on the windowsill. One knee was drawn against her chest. Her other leg hung motionless above the floor. Rain struck the glass behind her. Daemon had not heard it. Thunder rolled across Wolfwater. Lightning illuminated the kitchen, turning Femi into a pale, motionless figure framed by silver light. She did not react.

She did not look away from the window. Daemon studied her. Femi could hear someone shift upstairs at any given moment. She knew who entered Helix by the weight of their footsteps. She noticed when bottles changed positions behind the bar.

This morning, he had entered the kitchen and she had not moved.

The Devil did not like it.

Wrong.

Daemon cleared his throat but did not approach.

Nothing.

“Little ghost.”

Femi turned her head. She did not jump. For one terrible moment, she looked at him as though she could not see him. As though she did not know him. The Devil recoiled.

Femi.

Then she blinked.

Recognition returned slowly.

Sorry.

Her hands moved without urgency.

Did you need something?

“Did you have a nightmare?”

Femi shook her head. She pointed toward the cabinet. Daemon followed the gesture. Coffee waited inside the pot. Of course it did. Even lost inside whatever darkness had claimed her, Femi had made coffee for everyone else.

Daemon poured himself a cup and carried it toward the window. Femi had already turned back to the storm. He had seen many expressions on her face. Fear. Anger. Amusement. Embarrassment. Pain. He had always believed he could read her. But this expression did not belong there. It was empty.

Worse, it was resigned.

It hurt him.

The Devil hated anything that hurt.

“Are you all right?”

Femi’s eyes flicked toward him. Then returned to the rain.

“You can tell me anything. I swear I will not tell Malone.”

Daemon attempted a faint smile over the rim of his cup.

Nothing.

He set the coffee down.

Femi wore soft black sleeping shorts and a small blue shirt bearing the words:

I’LL PUT YOU IN THE TRUNK AND HELP LOOK FOR YOUR BODY. DON’T PLAY WITH ME.

Daemon chuckled quietly.

“Malone bought you that, didn’t he?”

No reaction.

Her midnight hair hung loose around her shoulders and face.

I am sorry.

“You have nothing to apologize for.”

Daemon pulled a chair toward the window. He turned it backward and straddled it, resting his forearms across the back. He waited. The Devil waited with him. That, too, was something Femi had taught them. Femi continued watching the rain. Very slowly, Daemon reached for her chin. His fingers touched her gently. He turned her face toward him.

“Oh, my little ghost.”

Her eyes were full of something he could not name.

“Please tell me what is wrong.”

He leaned forward and kissed her bruised cheek.

“My poor little ghost. Do you not have the words?”

Daemon knew nothing about comforting people. Comfort had never been part of his work. People screamed when they saw him. They begged. They lied. They offered him money, information, loyalty, and prayers to gods who never came. No one looked to the Devil for tenderness.

But Femi did. And somehow, sitting near her felt right. Keeping his voice quiet. Giving her time. Not demanding. Not taking. Femi lifted her hands. Stopped. Then allowed them to fall into her lap. A full minute passed before she tried again.

I do not understand.

“What don’t you understand?”

Her fingers moved.

You.

“Me?”

Daemon frowned.

“What about me confuses you? I am a very simple man.”

The Devil nearly laughed. The lie failed to earn a smile. His expression became serious.

“Did someone say something to you about me?”

Femi shook her head. No more than usual. She touched her lips. Daemon watched her fingertips trace the place he had kissed only hours earlier. Her lips parted. Then her hand dropped. The emptiness returned to her eyes. Femi faced the storm again. Daemon studied her profile. His mind moved through ten possibilities at once. Every one of them centered on her.

His woman. Or the woman he wanted to be his.

The Devil snarled at the qualification.

Ours.

Daemon closed his eyes.

No.

The answer came more easily now.

Hers.

The Devil went quiet. Daemon opened his eyes. Femi remained motionless. He touched her chin again.

“Look at me.”

She did.

“My name is Daemon Pallid.”

One of her eyebrows rose slightly.

“Yes, I know you know my name. Allow me to finish.”

That earned the smallest flicker in her eyes.

Daemon continued.

“I hurt people for a living. It is not an admirable profession, but it is the one thing I know how to do well.”

Femi watched him.

“I have hurt many people for many reasons. Some deserved it. Some probably did not.”

His thumb moved carefully along her jaw.

“But the one person I could never hurt is you.”

Her eyes dropped.

“Do not ask me how it happened. Do not ask me when. I do not know.”

His voice softened.

“But I care about you, Femi Vale. I cannot change that.”

He paused.

“I do not want to change it.”

The Devil understood that much completely.

Never.

Her throat moved as she swallowed.

“When you disappeared—when you left—I learned what agony was.”

Daemon’s pale hair slipped across his scar.

“I cannot sit here, look at you in pain, and pretend it does not matter.”

Femi stared at him for a long time.

Then her hands rose.

After my parents were killed, I was sent through eight hospitals and two mental institutions.

Daemon’s breath stopped.

The Devil went utterly silent.

Femi frowned as though struggling to force the memories into order.

The children’s institution was the worst.

Her hands faltered.

The other children laughed at me.

She stopped.

Her fingers curled against her palms.

The nurses were worse.

Daemon’s jaw tightened. The Devil memorized nothing. There were no names yet. Only Femi.

Then came the foster homes.

Femi’s movements became fast and heavy.

I was almost grateful when they handed me a canvas bag and showed me the door out of the system.

She gave a small shrug.

As if being abandoned at eighteen with everything she owned inside a canvas bag had been inevitable.

I have spent my entire life alone and afraid.

The signs became sharper.

Everyone wants something.

Daemon started to speak. Femi did not allow him.

I knew that before I lived on the street.

Her hands cut through the darkness.

Life is hard. I learned that before, too.

Rain hammered the window behind her.

Everyone wants something.

The sentence came again.

This time harder.

Nothing is free.

Her eyes met his.

Nothing is truly yours.

The Devil stirred uneasily. Because once, it would have agreed. Everything had a price. Everything was taken. Everything belonged to whoever was strong enough to keep it. Then Femi had taught it differently. Daemon remained silent.

Femi’s hands lowered.

Then rose once more.

I met Julian.

The name settled into the room. The Devil listened.

Daemon memorized it immediately.

“Julian?”

Julian Ross.

Julian Ross.

The Devil stored the name carefully.

I had a small apartment. I received it through my job. I cleaned the building and handled maintenance for the owner.

A distant softness entered her face.

It was not glamorous, but it was mine.

She paused.

I worked ninety hours a week. I was always on call.

“Ninety?”

Femi nodded.

I did not mind.

Daemon did. So did the Devil.

Then Julian came.

The softness disappeared.

He demanded time.

Her fingers moved steadily.

I gave it, even when I was too tired to stand.

He demanded attention.

I gave that too.

Femi stopped.

Her hands fell.

“Why?”

She looked at him. Her hands moved slowly.

Because he was mine.

The answer entered Daemon like a blade. The Devil recognized something ugly inside the words. Not in Femi. In the lesson she had been taught. Love meant giving until there was nothing left. Daemon imagined Femi younger. Exhausted. Terrified of losing the first person she believed belonged to her. She would have given Julian everything she possessed. And the bastard would have recognized that immediately.

Then he demanded money.

Femi shook her head.

I could not give it to him. The apartment came with the job. The salary was not large.

Her expression emptied.

When he learned that, I became his stupid mute stone.

Daemon’s fingers tightened against the chair.

The Devil whispered:

What?

That was what he called me.

The wood creaked beneath Daemon’s grip.

His stupid mute stone.

The Devil repeated the name it had been given.

Julian Ross.

“Femi.”

She continued.

He told his friends I was cold. Empty. A basket case who did not know how to give anyone what they needed.

Her hands trembled.

I heard him tell them my touch made him sick.

Daemon became perfectly still. So did the Devil.

The memory of her sitting across his lap returned.

I had a friend once.

“And?”

In the end, he told me that when I touched him, it made his skin crawl.

Daemon had wanted the man’s name then.

Now he had it.

Julian Ross.

The Devil stored it carefully.

Keep it. He only wanted a warm place to stay.

Femi’s shoulders lifted in another helpless shrug.

When the building owner caught him holding illegal parties in my apartment, I lost my job.

Her face did not change.

Then I lost the apartment.

The rain continued falling.

I returned to the street.

Daemon waited for anger.

Grief. Anything.

Femi only signed:

I was not upset.

He did not believe her. Neither did the Devil.

I knew everything ended.

Another small shrug.

That was another lesson.

Daemon moved before he could think better of it. He pulled Femi from the windowsill and settled her across his lap. His arms closed around her.

“Everything does not end.”

Femi remained stiff against him. Daemon loosened his hold immediately.

“Do you want me to let go?”

She did not answer. His arms opened. Femi could leave if she chose.

The Devil waited.

Choose.

Instead, she shifted closer and placed her head against his shoulder.

The Devil softened.

She chose.

Daemon held her again. Carefully this time. He stared into the darkness beyond the window while the Devil imagined Julian Ross in a shallow grave.

“Did he tell you your touch made him sick before or after he tried to take you to bed?”

Femi’s body tightened.

After.

The single word nearly broke Daemon’s control. The Devil’s grave became deeper.

He said if I were his woman, I would know how to give him what he needed.

Her face pressed more firmly against his shoulder.

He said I failed at being a woman.

The Devil wanted blood. Not because Femi belonged to it. Because Julian had taken a frightened young woman who wanted desperately to be loved and taught her that love was something she had to purchase with herself.

He taught her this.

Femi’s hands moved between them.

He said I was a thing that should be kept out of the way.

She shuddered. Daemon drew her closer. The Devil no longer imagined Julian screaming. It looked instead at Femi. At what remained years later. That was worse.

“Is that what you think of me?”

Femi went still.

“Is that what you think this is?”

Hot tears struck his bare shoulder. The answer was clear. Daemon closed his eyes. For several seconds, he could not speak. He had thought she feared his violence. His reputation. The scars. The Devil. But that was not all she feared. Femi was waiting for the price. Waiting for the morning when Daemon would decide she owed him for every cup of coffee, every gentle touch, every mile he had driven to bring her home.

Waiting for him to tell her she had failed to repay his kindness. Waiting for tenderness to become a debt.

The Devil understood.

And for once, understanding hurt more than anger.

She is waiting for us to collect.

“Oh, little ghost.”

Daemon pressed his lips against her hair.

“What do you believe I want from you?”

Femi wiped her cheek against his shoulder. Her answer came slowly.

I do not know.

“That is why you are afraid.”

She nodded.

Everyone wants something.

“I do.”

Femi stiffened.

Daemon felt it happen and hated himself for the words, but he would not lie to her. The Devil did not want him to lie either. Truth mattered here.

“I want many things.”

Her breathing became shallow.

“I want you to look for me when you enter a room.”

Daemon brushed the hair away from her face.

“I want your bread at nine in the morning.”

Confusion replaced some of her fear.

“I want your hand around mine when the Devil becomes louder than I am.”

Her eyes lifted. The Devil quieted at the mention of itself.

“I want you behind me on my motorcycle.”

His crooked smile appeared.

“I want you to stop giving my drinks to other waitresses because they are all terrified of me.”

A tiny, wounded laugh moved through her shoulders. Daemon’s smile vanished.

“And yes, I want your kisses.”

Color warmed her face despite the tears.

“I want to hear that little sound you make when you forget to be frightened.”

The Devil whispered:

Very much.

Femi lowered her eyes.

“But wanting something does not mean you owe it to me.”

Her gaze returned to his.

“You are allowed to refuse me.”

Femi stared at him.

“You are allowed to be tired.”

His thumb wiped a tear from her cheek.

“You are allowed to say no without losing your room, your work, your food, or me.”

Her face crumpled.

The Devil recoiled from the tears.

Stay.

“You do not have to earn the right to be treated gently.”

Femi shook her head.

Nothing is free.

“This is.”

It cannot be.

“It is.”

For how long?

The question wounded him more deeply than he expected. Daemon could have promised forever.

The Devil demanded that he do exactly that.

Forever.

But Daemon knew better.

Femi had heard promises before. Pretty words would not reach the place Julian and all the others had poisoned. The Devil resisted. Then remembered the chair beneath the door. The months of waiting. The moment she had chosen to come back. Promises were easy. Femi needed proof.

The Devil yielded.

Then prove it.

“For as long as you need to watch me prove it.”

Femi’s breath caught.

“I will not ask you to believe me tonight.”

Thunder rolled beyond the glass.

“You can doubt every word.”

Daemon touched his forehead to hers.

“But watch what I do.”

Her eyes searched his.

“When I want something, I will ask.”

His hand covered hers.

“If you cannot give it, you tell me no.”

And then?

“Then I accept your answer.”

Her disbelief hurt.

You will not be angry?

“I may be angry.”

Femi began to pull away. Daemon let her.

The Devil wanted to catch her.

It didn’t.

Let her move.

“But anger is mine to control. It is not yours to pay for.”

Her movement stopped. The Devil went quiet. There it was. Something even the monster understood. Its anger belonged to itself. Femi did not owe it blood, obedience, touch, forgiveness, or surrender simply because it loved her.

“I will not punish you for disappointing me. I will not humiliate you. I will not turn what I have given freely into a chain around your throat.”

Femi stared at him.

“I will never tell you that you failed at being a woman.”

Daemon’s voice roughened.

“You survived eight hospitals, two institutions, twenty foster homes, the street, and men like Julian Ross.”

The Devil stirred at the name. Only once. His fingers touched her cheek.

“You fought three armed men behind a mall.”

A faint, crooked smile appeared.

“You nearly destroyed one man’s future children.”

Femi blushed.

“There is nothing weak or empty about you.”

Her tears fell faster.

“You are not cold.”

Daemon kissed her brow.

“You are not a stone.”

Another kiss touched her uninjured cheek.

“You are not a thing to be kept out of the way.”

His thumb followed the line of her jaw.

“And your silence does not make you less of a woman.”

Femi’s hands moved.

Then what am I?

Daemon looked into her eyes.

“Femi.”

The Devil answered with him.

Femi.

She frowned.

“Just Femi.”

He tucked a strand of midnight hair behind her ear.

“That is enough.”

Her mouth trembled.

“I do not need another version of you.”

He held her gaze.

“I do not need you untouched by what happened. I do not need you fearless. I do not need a voice you cannot give me.”

Femi stopped breathing.

“I need you to stop deciding that your wounds make you unworthy of being wanted.”

Her palm settled against the scar on his cheek. Daemon became still. The Devil did too. Femi traced it slowly. The same way she had at the bar. With unbearable tenderness.

Does my touch truly not disgust you?

Daemon’s eyes closed. His body shuddered beneath her fingertips.

The Devil’s answer came immediately.

Never.

When Daemon opened his eyes again, his gray eyes had darkened.

“No.”

She watched his face.

“Your touch terrifies me.”

Femi pulled her hand away. Daemon caught it gently.

“Not because I do not want it.”

He returned her palm to his cheek.

“Because I want it more than I have ever wanted anything.”

Her lips parted. The Devil stirred.

Yes.

But Daemon kept his hands still. Femi was sober now. Vulnerable. This was not the time to take anything from her. Not even a kiss. The Devil wanted one.

Then it remembered.

Choose.

It quieted.

“If I ever make you believe you owe me your body because I protected you, leave.”

Femi’s fingers trembled against his scar.

“If I ever use what happened to you to force you into my arms, run.”

Her eyes filled again.

“And if I ever tell you that your touch makes my skin crawl…”

His jaw tightened.

“You may give Dai my address and tell her to bring the baseball bat.”

The Devil considered this.

Unnecessary.

Femi’s silent laugh broke through her tears. The sound moved through Daemon like sunlight entering a grave.

The Devil immediately reconsidered.

Fine. The bat.

“There she is,” he whispered.

Femi pressed her face into his neck. Her arms slid around him. This time, she held him without being asked. Daemon rested his cheek against her hair. The Devil settled beneath his ribs.

She chose.

The rain softened beyond the window. Minutes passed. Perhaps longer. Femi’s breathing gradually steadied. Her weight became heavier in his arms. Daemon looked toward the clock above the stove.

Nearly five. He should carry her back to bed. Instead, he remained on the chair with Femi curled against his chest.

Her fingers moved weakly.

If I cannot give you what you need, will you leave?

Daemon closed his eyes.

“No.”

How do you know?

“Because I already tried living without you.”

Her hand stilled.

The Devil remembered five months. Empty roads. Bus stations. False leads. A shirt missing from Daemon’s room. Twenty stops.

Never again.

“I did not enjoy it.”

Femi pulled back enough to study him. Daemon’s crooked smile appeared.

“I frightened several waitresses.”

Her shoulders shook with quiet laughter.

“Malone became irritating.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“More irritating.”

Femi rested her head against him again. Daemon held her while the darkness outside began to thin. He knew he had not healed what Julian and the others had broken. Words could not do that. Promises certainly could not. Femi had spent her entire life learning that kindness was bait and love was merely another word for debt. Daemon would have to teach her something different. Not tonight. Not with declarations she had heard before. Day by day. Choice by choice.The Devil understood.

Again and again.

Until she stopped waiting for his tenderness to reveal the knife hidden behind it.

Femi shifted in his arms.

Her hands formed one final question.

What do I owe you for this?

Daemon’s heart broke quietly.

The Devil did not hesitate.

For once, the answer came from both of them at exactly the same time.

Nothing.

“Nothing.”

She looked at him as if the word belonged to a language she had never learned.

Daemon kissed her forehead.

“You owe me nothing, little ghost.”

Nothing.

Not kisses.

Not her body.

Not obedience.

Not gratitude.

Not forever.

Her eyes closed.

This time, when she rested against him, some of the tension left her body. Daemon watched dawn creep across the kitchen while the storm moved away from Wolfwater. He did not know whether Femi believed him. That no longer mattered. She could doubt him. She could question him. She could test every promise until only the truth remained.

Daemon would still be there. So would the Devil. Not waiting to collect. Not keeping count. Just there. And perhaps, one day, she would understand. Not everything ended. Not everything had a price.

Some things were simply given.

And some things— the Devil had finally learned— were only worth having when they were given freely.

Daemon waited until Femi became absorbed in her cooking.

She stood at the counter with her back to him, midnight hair twisted into a loose knot. Flour dusted one cheek. Three pans occupied the stove, bread rose beneath a towel, and bacon snapped inside a cast-iron skillet.

Cooking claimed Femi completely.

Her hands moved with certainty. She tasted the sauce, frowned, added garlic, and tasted it again.

Daemon smiled.

The Devil watched through him.

More garlic.

Daemon ignored it.

Then he slipped from the kitchen.

He crossed the empty clubhouse and climbed the stairs. Once he reached the hallway, he removed his phone from his pocket and dialed a number he had not called in more than two years.

The line rang once.

Twice.

A woman answered.

“Fiona’s House. If you are selling religion, we already have several gods on staff.”

The Devil recognized her immediately.

Something almost warm moved through it.

Fiona.

“Hello, Fiona.”

Silence.

Then a low laugh moved through the phone.

“Oh, my.” Her voice softened into a purr. “I must have been a very naughty girl. The Devil himself.”

Daemon leaned against the wall. The Devil remembered that voice. Laughing over whiskey after a job. Giving names without wasting words. Sliding photographs across tables. Explaining exactly who had broken which rule and what she wanted done about it. Fiona understood the usefulness of monsters. More importantly, she never pretended otherwise.

“I thought you had forgotten all about old Fiona,” she continued. “I was beginning to feel neglected.”

“I could never forget you.”

That was true. The Devil agreed. Fiona Black was unforgettable. She had taught Daemon several valuable lessons about life. People lied most convincingly when naked. Powerful men became careless when aroused. And the person pouring the drinks usually knew more than the person occupying the throne. Fiona had seen everything. Everyone. She remembered every face, every preference, every debt, and every paying customer who crossed the threshold of her houses. Her women worked in uptown Ravenside, where politicians and criminals occupied neighboring suites and occasionally shared the same bed.

Businessmen.

Judges.

Senators.

Crime lords.

Men who condemned prostitution in public and paid double for privacy before midnight. Fiona knew all their names. More importantly, she knew the names they used when they did not want anyone to recognize them. Her rules were absolute. No drugs forced upon her workers. No violent customers. No taking a woman beyond the house without her consent. Every worker received medical care, protection, and enough money to leave if she chose.

The Devil liked Fiona’s rules.

They were simple.

Clear.

Break them and there were consequences. No pretending. No excuses. Anyone who broke Fiona’s rules met the Devil. Good work.

Daemon had taken work from her more than once over the years. Usually security. Sometimes debt collection. Once, disposal. The Devil remembered that one particularly fondly.

But work was not why Fiona loved him. Years earlier, someone had taken her daughter. Her only child. Fiona contacted Malone because Malone always helped when the frightened and desperate had nowhere else to turn. Malone had been protecting Iris at the time. So he sent the Devil. The memory came easily. Fiona standing inside the parlor of her house. No teasing. No laughter. No perfume strong enough to hide the fear coming from her skin. Her hands had been shaking.

The Devil remembered that because Fiona Black’s hands never shook.

Daemon arrived shortly after midnight and asked three questions.

“What is your daughter’s name?”

Fiona answered.

“Do you know who took her?”

Another answer.

“How messy do you want this?”

Fiona had looked directly into Daemon’s eyes.

The Devil remembered liking her answer.

Two days. That was all it took. Two days of names. Doors. Blood. A warehouse near the river. The Devil remembered opening the final room.

A girl curled against the wall. Bruised. Drugged. Terrified. Alive.

There.

Daemon had taken off his jacket and wrapped it around her. She flinched when he came near. So he stopped. Waited. Then held out his hand. She had eventually taken it. The Devil remembered that too.

Not the men.

Not really.

Their faces had disappeared with hundreds of others. But it remembered Fiona’s daughter gripping Daemon’s fingers all the way out of the warehouse. It remembered carrying her when her legs stopped working. It remembered Fiona running barefoot into the street when Daemon brought the girl home. The sound Fiona made when she saw her daughter alive. The way she fell to her knees beside the car. The way mother and daughter clung to each other. That remained.

The men responsible did not. Daemon left what remained of them where everyone who mattered would see. The message traveled through Ravenside before sunrise. No one targeted Fiona or her daughter again. The Devil had always considered that good work. Not because men died. Because a daughter came home.

Fiona laughed softly over the phone.

“Careful, Daemon. Sweet words from you can make a woman imagine impossible things.”

“I am not calling for that.”

“No?”

Amusement colored her voice.

“Talk around Wolfwater says the Devil has taken a mate.”

Daemon’s smile vanished.

The Devil’s warmth sharpened.

Femi.

“People talk too much.”

“They talk because they enjoy breathing. Information keeps them alive.”

Fiona paused.

“I hear she is a pretty, dangerous little thing. Green eyes. Black hair. Small enough to overlook until she decides you should regret it.”

“She does not hurt people like I do.”

“Of course not.”

Fiona’s tone made it clear she did not believe him.

“Fiona.”

“I understand. She is sweetness itself.”

The woman laughed again.

“Apple pie with a razor blade tucked inside the crust for her enemies.”

The Devil considered this. It remembered Vann dropping to one knee. Pike discovering the limits of the male anatomy.

Accurate.

Daemon looked toward the stairs.

The scent of bacon had followed him into the hallway.

“She would not appreciate you speaking about her that way.”

“She sounds delightful.”

“She is.”

The word left him too quickly. Fiona became quiet. Daemon frowned.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You are smiling.”

“You cannot see me.”

“I can hear it.”

“After all these years, someone finally taught the Devil how to sound human.”

Daemon’s expression hardened.

The Devil was less offended.

It remembered Femi asleep against Daemon’s chest.

Maybe.

“Do not start.”

“Oh, I would never.”

Fiona’s delight deepened.

“I value my continued existence.”

“This is not about Femi.”

“That is her name?”

Daemon closed his eyes.

The Devil sighed.

You told Fiona.

“I gave Fiona more than I intended.”

Obviously.

“Forget you heard it.”

“Too late. I never forget anything.”

“That is why I called.”

Her humor disappeared. The Devil recognized the change. This was Fiona at work. It liked Fiona at work.

Good.

“Who are you looking for?”

“A man named Julian Ross.”

Silence met the name.

Daemon pushed away from the wall.

“Do you know him?”

“I know too many men, darling. Give me something useful.”

“Late twenties or early thirties. He lived in Wolfwater several years ago. Stayed with a woman who worked as a janitor and maintenance worker in an apartment building.”

“What did he do?”

Daemon looked toward the kitchen below. A cabinet closed. Then another.

“That is not relevant.”

“It is relevant if you want me to know how deeply I should dig.”

Daemon hesitated.

The Devil didn’t.

Tell her.

“He used her.”

Fiona waited.

“He took her home, her money, and everything else she offered. Then he told people her touch made him sick.”

The hallway became colder. The Devil remembered Femi’s hand against Daemon’s scar. The question in her eyes.

Does my touch truly not disgust you?

Its warmth vanished.

“He said she failed at being a woman because she would not give him what he wanted.”

Fiona’s voice lost every trace of amusement.

“This woman has a name?”

Daemon said nothing.

She understood.

“Ah.”

The Devil liked Fiona a little more for not saying Femi’s name aloud.

“I want Julian’s address, his work, the places he visits, and the names of anyone protecting him.”

“Do you want to know whether he has a wife?”

“No.”

“Children?”

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

“Yes.”

Fiona exhaled slowly.

“You are considering mercy.”

“I am determining what may be standing near him when I arrive.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“It is the closest he will receive.”

The Devil agreed. Children were not shields. Neither were wives. But neither would pay Julian’s debt for him. Fiona was silent for several seconds.

“That name sounds familiar.”

Daemon straightened.

The Devil did too.

There.

“How?”

“I cannot place it yet. I have heard it recently.”

“From one of your workers?”

“Perhaps. Or a customer.”

A drawer opened on her end of the line. Daemon heard the faint turn of paper.

“Julian Ross,” Fiona repeated. “Give me two days.”

“One.”

“You called after two years and now believe you can rush me?”

“Yes.”

Fiona laughed.

“You remain charming.”

The Devil had missed this. Not enough to call. But enough to remember why Fiona’s work had always been pleasant. No moral speeches. No pretending Daemon was something else. A problem entered Fiona’s house. She identified it. The Devil removed it. Simple.

“Tomorrow, Fiona.”

“I will see what I can do.”

“Find him.”

“Daemon.”

He stilled.

“If this man did what I think he did, do not rush toward him without learning everything.”

“I know how to do my work.”

“I am not worried about your work.”

Her voice became quiet.

“I am worried about the woman downstairs who may have to live with whatever you do in her name.”

Daemon’s gaze settled on the staircase.

The Devil bristled.

He hurt her.

“She will not know.”

“Women always know when blood is spilled for them.”

“Femi is safe.”

“That was not what I said.”

Daemon’s hand tightened around the phone. The Devil wanted to dismiss the warning. Julian had hurt Femi. Julian had taught her that tenderness had a price. Julian had made her believe her touch was disgusting. There was a wrong. The Devil understood wrongs. It understood how to correct them. But Fiona had once stood barefoot in the street holding a daughter the Devil had brought home. Perhaps that was why her words remained.

Fiona knew the difference between getting someone back— and living with what had been done while they were gone.

The Devil became quiet.

Fiona sighed.

“I will call you tomorrow.”

The connection ended. Daemon remained in the hallway. Below him, Femi moved through the kitchen. He could hear the soft scrape of a spoon against a pan. Only hours earlier, he had told her to watch him.

He had promised that his actions would prove kindness did not hide a knife. Now he was searching for Julian Ross without telling her. The Devil found no contradiction in wanting Julian found. He had left wounds Femi still carried. Wounds that made her question every gentle hand and every freely offered shelter.

The Devil wanted the man located. It wanted his habits. His address. His protection. It wanted to know whether Julian had done the same thing to someone else.

Find him.

But Fiona’s final words remained.

Women always know when blood is spilled for them.

Daemon put the phone into his pocket. He started down the stairs. The smell of bacon strengthened with each step. When he reached the kitchen, Femi was removing bread from the oven.

She placed the pan on the counter and looked at him. Her green eyes traveled over his face. Then toward the phone-shaped outline in his pocket. Daemon stopped.

The Devil noticed too.

She knows.

Femi’s hands rose.

Where did you go?

“I made a call.”

To whom?

“An old acquaintance.”

Her eyes narrowed. Daemon approached the counter. Femi waited. He had no intention of telling her about Fiona. Not yet.

But he had promised not to lie.

“I asked her to find someone.”

Femi became still.

Who?

Daemon looked at her. She already knew. He saw the answer enter her expression before her hands formed the name.

Julian?

“Yes.”

Femi’s face emptied. She turned away and reached for a knife. Daemon caught her wrist before she could begin slicing the bread. Not tightly. Enough to stop her from hiding inside the work.

“Look at me.”

She did not.

“Femi.”

Her eyes rose.

“I need to know where he is.”

Why?

The Devil provided a thousand answers.

Because he hurt you.

Because he taught you to fear kindness.

Because he made you question your own hands.

Because his name is still inside your head.

Daemon chose the only answer that would not frighten her.

“Because he may come near you again.”

He will not.

“You cannot know that.”

Neither can you.

“No.”

Daemon released her wrist.

“That is why I am looking.”

Femi studied him.

What will you do if you find him?

Daemon said nothing. The kitchen clock ticked. Bacon snapped inside the pan. The Devil knew exactly what it wanted. Daemon knew too.

Femi’s hands moved again.

You told me to watch what you do.

The words struck precisely where she intended. The Devil went quiet. Daemon lowered his gaze.

“I did.”

Then let me.

The Devil recoiled.

No.

It wanted Femi nowhere near this.

It wanted her safe inside Helix, flour on her cheek and bread beneath her hands, while Daemon removed every threat from the world beyond its doors.

Keep her here.

But Femi had spent her life being denied choices by people who claimed to know what was best for her. Daemon would not become one of them. Not even to protect her. Especially not to protect her. The Devil resisted. Then it remembered a frightened girl in Fiona’s house years ago.

Not Femi. Fiona’s daughter. Bruised. Drugged. Terrified. Daemon had held out his hand. And waited. He had not dragged her from that room. He had let her decide when she was ready to take it.

The Devil remembered her fingers finally closing around his.

She chose.

The same lesson.

Again.

The Devil hated how often Femi made old memories mean something new.

Daemon lifted his eyes.

“I will tell you when Fiona calls.”

Femi’s eyebrows rose.

“That is her name.”

Who is she?

“A madam.”

Femi blinked. Daemon reached past her and stole a piece of bacon. She slapped his hand. He ate it anyway.

The Devil approved.

“An excellent madam.”

Femi stared at him.

“She knows everyone worth knowing and several people who are not.”

Her hands moved.

How do you know a madam?

Daemon considered the question.

“I have lived an interesting life.”

Femi’s eyes narrowed further.

“It was work.”

She continued staring.

“Mostly.”

Femi picked up a wooden spoon. Daemon retreated one step.

The Devil recognized the weapon.

Careful.

“I rescued her daughter.”

The spoon lowered slightly. The memory warmed the Devil again. A girl wrapped in Daemon’s jacket. Fiona barefoot in the street. Her daughter collapsing into her arms.

Brought her home.

“She has trusted me since.”

And the not-work part?

Daemon’s eyebrows rose. Femi waited. Jealousy looked unexpectedly lovely on her.

The Devil noticed immediately.

Interesting.

His crooked smile appeared.

“Are you asking whether I slept with Fiona?”

Color warmed her face. She turned toward the stove. Daemon moved behind her but left enough distance that she would not feel trapped.

“I did not.”

Femi stirred the eggs with unnecessary force.

“I have never slept with Fiona.”

Her shoulders relaxed.

The Devil became unbearably pleased.

She cares.

Daemon’s smile deepened.

“She did proposition me several times.”

Femi turned, wooden spoon raised.

The Devil reconsidered the wisdom of continuing.

Daemon.

Daemon caught it before it struck his chest.

“There is my dangerous little ghost.”

Her eyes narrowed.

He leaned closer.

“Apple pie with a razor blade hidden in the crust.”

The Devil amended Fiona’s assessment.

Wooden spoon.

Femi pointed toward the door.

Daemon released the spoon.

“You are throwing me out of my own kitchen?”

She pointed again.

“It belongs to Malone.”

Her expression became smug. Daemon walked backward toward the doorway.

“I will tell you when Fiona calls.”

The amusement left Femi’s face.

Promise?

Daemon looked at her.

This promise mattered.

The Devil knew it too.

“I promise.”

Femi nodded.

Then she returned to the stove.

Daemon remained in the doorway, watching her work. Julian Ross had taught Femi that nothing belonged to her. Not her apartment. Not her safety. Not even the affection she believed she had earned. Daemon intended to prove him wrong. But first, Fiona had to find him. Then Femi would decide what happened next.

The Devil hated that part. It wanted Julian. It wanted the simplicity Fiona’s jobs once offered. A name. A rule broken. A consequence. But Femi was not a job. She was not a debt to settle.

She was not a wrong Daemon could repair by leaving a body somewhere Ravenside would understand. The Devil looked at the woman standing over the stove. Flour still dusted her cheek. Her wooden spoon remained within striking distance.

She chooses.

The Devil hated that part.

Then it remembered Fiona’s daughter taking Daemon’s offered hand.

And reluctantly— very reluctantly— it understood.

Fiona called the following afternoon.

Daemon sat alone at his corner table while Helix prepared to open. Malone counted bottles behind the bar. Marta stood on a ladder threatening a ceiling fan that had stopped working sometime during the night.

Femi was in the kitchen.

The scent of roasting garlic drifted through the service window.

Daemon answered on the first ring.

“Fiona.”

The Devil stirred pleasantly.

Work.

“Julian Ross,” she began without greeting. “Thirty years old. Likes his girls young and his money fast.”

The pleasure disappeared. Daemon’s expression hardened.

“He is currently working off a debt to the Venttai family. Your boy is in serious trouble.”

“How much?”

“Enough that sensible men would have left Ravenside.”

“Julian is not sensible.”

“No. He is ambitious without possessing any useful talent. A dangerous combination.”

Paper shifted on Fiona’s end of the call.

“He has been in and out of debt for years. Gambling. Drugs. Failed investments. He keeps trying to purchase the appearance of wealth while borrowing money from people who remove fingers when payments are late.”

The Devil approved of at least one thing about the Venttais.

“Where is he?”

“I sent you the address and his schedule.”

Daemon’s phone vibrated against his ear.

“Where does he work?”

“He runs errands for the Venttais. Carries packages. Arranges parties. Finds young women for older men who prefer not to be seen looking.”

The Devil stirred.

Young?

“Has he hurt any of them?”

“Not in any way they were willing to report.”

“That was not my question.”

“It is the only answer I have.”

Fiona became quiet.

“And I discovered why his name sounded familiar.”

Daemon sat forward.

The Devil listened.

“But you did not know him as Julian Ross.”

“What name did he use?”

“Ian Rossi.”

Everything inside Daemon stopped. The clubhouse disappeared. Malone continued counting bottles. Marta continued insulting the fan. But their voices moved far away. The Devil reached into memory.

Ian.

“Ian Rossi,” Daemon repeated.

“Yes. I’m sending you a picture.”

The phone vibrated again.

Daemon lowered it from his ear.

The image loaded.

A younger man stood outside a nightclub wearing a pale suit, dark shirt, and a smile Daemon remembered wanting to remove from his face.

Ian Rossi.

Him.

Daemon stopped breathing. He had known him. Not well. But enough. Ian had drifted along the edges of the Ravenside underworld, always arriving beside someone wealthier and leaving with someone younger. He laughed too loudly. Touched women as though they were objects placed in the room for his use. Spoke constantly about deals that would make him rich.

The Devil remembered disliking him. Not enough to kill. Not then. Daemon returned the phone to his ear.

“I remember him.”

“I thought you might.”

Fiona’s voice had lost its amusement.

“People said Ian had a wife. Small thing. Quiet. Stayed inside her room whenever he brought parties home.”

Daemon’s fingers tightened around the phone.

The Devil went still.

Small.

“Wife?”

“That was what he called her.”

“Where did they live?”

Fiona hesitated.

“The Peachpit Projects.”

Even the Devil went silent.

Daemon rose so abruptly his chair struck the floor. Malone looked up from the bottles. Marta stopped threatening the fan.

“Did you say the Peachpit Projects?”

“Yes.”

“His wife worked there?”

“A legitimate janitor employed by the property owner. Building maintenance too, apparently. The apartment came with the job.”

Daemon turned away from Malone. His free hand braced against the wall.

“His wife was—”

The word refused to leave him. Fiona finished it.

“Femi Vale.”

The Devil whispered her name.

Femi.

Daemon closed his eyes. A black suede sofa. Silver lamps. Light-blue curtains. The smell of strawberries.

“Holy fuck.”

“What?”

“I was there.”

Silence met the confession. Daemon dragged one hand down his face.

“I was inside that apartment.”

The Devil searched the memory with him. Not for Ian now. For her.

“When?”

“Years ago. Ian held a party there.”

Memory returned in broken images.

Music.

Smoke.

Men with too much money scattered across floor cushions and low black furniture. Young women laughing because wealthy men preferred laughter to honesty. The apartment had looked like a dark Turkish palace. Black rugs patterned with silver thread. Black furniture. Black sheets glimpsed through an open bedroom door. Silver lamps casting blue light against the walls. Pale-blue curtains shifting before an open window. Everything immaculate. Every surface polished. Food had already been prepared when the guests arrived.

Platters covered the counters. Bread remained warm in the oven. Spiced meat filled one pan. Rice steamed inside another. The Devil recognized her now. Not her face.Her hands.

She made this.

Daemon remembered looking around and wondering how a man like Ian could afford such a place. He had assumed the apartment belonged to Ian. Everyone had.

“I remember the sofa,” Daemon said. “Black suede.”

Fiona said nothing.

“The rugs. The silver lamps. Everything was black, blue, and silver.”

His jaw tightened.

“The place was spotless. Food was waiting when the party began.”

“Femi cooked.”

“Yes.”

Daemon could smell it again. Garlic. Warm bread. Cinnamon. And beneath everything, strawberries. The Devil recoiled from the memory.

We ate her food.

Not guilt for eating. Something stranger. They had tasted something made by Femi years before they knew the hands that made it. They had sat inside the life she had built. And never seen her.

“Ian said his wife had been called back to work.”

Daemon’s memory moved toward the bathroom. A pair of work overalls had hung from a hook behind the door. Tiny. Dark blue, almost black. At the time, he had wondered how such a small woman managed maintenance in a building as large as Peachpit.

He had never seen her face.

“I saw her uniform.”

Daemon’s voice turned hollow.

“I was standing in her bathroom, and her work clothes were hanging behind the door.”

The Devil remembered them.

Small.

Neatly hung.

Little ghost.

He had been inside Femi’s home. He had eaten the food she prepared. He had sat on her furniture while strangers drank from her glasses and smoked beneath the curtains she had chosen. All those years ago, the Devil had walked into his little ghost’s sanctuary and never known she existed.

We were there.

“I was there,” he repeated.

A strange irritation had followed him through the entire night. Nothing had been out of place, yet the apartment had felt wrong. Too carefully arranged. Too lovingly maintained for the man claiming it as his own. The place carried a woman’s presence without containing the woman herself. Daemon had left before midnight. He remembered standing outside afterward, breathing the cold air and feeling relieved to escape a home that seemed to know it was being violated.

Now he understood. It had never been Ian’s palace. It had been hers.

“Daemon,” Fiona said carefully.

“What?”

“There is more.”

His eyes opened.

“Ian used his wife as collateral when he owed money.”

Daemon became motionless. The Devil did not understand the sentence at first.

“What does that mean?”

“You know what it means.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

Fiona exhaled.

“When he needed time to pay, he promised men access to the apartment. Parties. Storage. Whatever they required.”

Her voice hardened.

“Sometimes he offered access to the wife.”

The Devil rose. Not loudly. Not wildly.

Something much colder opened its eyes.

He sold what was never his.

“Did anyone touch her?”

“I don’t know.”

“Find out.”

“I will try.”

“Find out, Fiona.”

“I said I would.”

Daemon’s breathing had changed.

Across the clubhouse, Malone slowly set down the bottle in his hand.

Fiona continued.

“Ian told people she belonged to him. Her home, her wages, her body. He treated all three as assets he could offer when he needed another week.”

The Devil understood the wrong perfectly. Femi’s apartment had belonged to Femi. Her wages had belonged to Femi. Her body had belonged to Femi.

Femi belongs to Femi.

Daemon stared toward the kitchen. Femi appeared briefly through the service window. She carried a tray of bread. A white apron covered her clothes. Flour streaked her cheek. Her green eyes found him.

Daemon looked away before she could read his face.

“Where is Julian now?”

“I sent his schedule.”

“Does he have a wife?”

“Not anymore.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Between girlfriends.”

“Children?”

“No. Thank God.”

Fiona paused.

“No one will miss this one.”

The Devil had already memorized every location Fiona sent. The call ended. Daemon lowered the phone. A message waited beneath the photograph. An address. A weekly schedule. Two nightclubs. A betting room. An apartment in North Ravenside. Every place Julian Ross could be found.

The Devil knew them all.

Good work, Fiona.

Malone crossed the clubhouse.

“You know him.”

Daemon stared at the photograph.

“I knew Ian Rossi.”

Marta climbed down from the ladder.

“Who the hell is Ian Rossi?”

“Julian Ross.”

Malone’s expression changed.

“The man who hurt Femi?”

Daemon nodded.

“I was inside her apartment.”

“What?”

“He held a party. I was there.”

Malone looked toward the kitchen.

“Did you know her?”

“No.”

The answer tasted bitter.

“I never saw her.”

Daemon remembered the small work uniform hanging behind the bathroom door.

“She was working.”

Marta folded her arms.

“And that bastard was partying inside her home.”

“With the Venttais and half a dozen businessmen.”

“Did you attend many parties at women’s apartments while they were working?” Marta asked.

Daemon looked at her. The Devil bristled. Then stopped. Because Marta was not wrong. Marta held his gaze.

“Not the time,” Malone warned.

“It is exactly the time. If he wants to go charging after this bastard on Femi’s behalf, he should remember that he was once one of the men occupying her space.”

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

The Devil wanted to argue.

We didn’t know.

But the defense sounded smaller than it wanted.

They had still been there.

Marta did not retreat.

“Then tell her.”

The Devil rejected the suggestion immediately.

No.

It did not want Femi to know.

Not about Julian’s debts. Not about the collateral. Not about Daemon standing inside her home while strangers used everything she had worked to build.

Do not put this inside her.

But Daemon had made a promise. Femi had asked to watch what he did. He looked toward the kitchen. Femi had disappeared from the service window.

“I will.”

The Devil hated promises when they became inconvenient.

It was beginning to understand that those were the promises that mattered.

Femi was slicing vegetables when Daemon entered.

She glanced up.

The knife stopped.

Daemon had not spoken, but she knew.

Her eyes moved over his face.

Then toward the phone in his hand.

Fiona called.

It was not a question.

“Yes.”

Femi placed the knife on the counter.

Daemon approached the small kitchen table.

“Sit with me.”

Her expression tightened.

Tell me.

“Femi.”

You promised.

Daemon pulled out a chair. She remained standing. He understood. Sitting might make her feel trapped. So he remained on his feet too. The Devil noticed the choice.

It said nothing.

“Fiona found Julian.”

Femi’s hands curled.

Daemon unlocked the phone but did not show her the photograph yet.

“He is thirty. He owes money to the Venttai family.”

Recognition crossed her face.

I heard that name at his parties.

“I imagine you did.”

Is he still in Wolfwater?

“Ravenside. He works for the Venttais now.”

Femi absorbed the information without visible emotion.

“Fiona also discovered that Julian Ross used another name.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Ian Rossi.”

Femi stopped breathing.

The Devil watched every trace of warmth leave her face.

She knows.

Her hands rose slowly.

That was the name he gave his friends.

“You knew?”

He said Ross sounded poor.

The bitter simplicity of the answer made Daemon want to break something.

“He told them you were his wife.”

Femi shook her head immediately.

I was never his wife.

“I know.”

The Devil answered too.

Never his.

He asked once.

Her expression hardened.

I said no.

“Why?”

Femi stared at him as if the answer were obvious.

He was already taking everything.

Daemon had no response. Neither did the Devil. Femi looked toward the phone.

Show me.

His thumb remained over the screen.

“Before I do, there is something I have to tell you.”

A flicker of fear entered her eyes. Daemon placed the phone face down on the table.

“I knew Ian Rossi.”

Femi went still.

“Not well.”

Her hands did not move.

“I met him several times through the Venttais. I thought he was an irritating bastard desperate to appear important.”

You knew Julian?

“I knew the man he pretended to be.”

Femi stepped back from the table.

Daemon did not follow.

“I attended one of his parties.”

Her expression became guarded.

“Inside the Peachpit Projects.”

Femi’s eyes widened.

The Devil whispered:

Tell her.

Daemon forced himself to continue.

“Inside your apartment.”

The room became silent. Even the bubbling pot on the stove seemed too loud. Femi looked around the kitchen as if she needed to locate herself in the present. Daemon remained where he was.

“I did not know it was yours.”

Her fingers moved.

When?

“I do not remember the exact date. Perhaps three years ago.”

Femi closed her eyes.

“What?”

She turned toward the stove and shut off every burner.

Then she faced him again.

Was there a black sofa?

“Yes.”

Her throat moved.

Blue curtains?

“Blue and silver.”

Femi looked down.

“The apartment was beautiful.”

Her eyes lifted sharply.

“It looked like a dark Turkish palace.”

Her mouth trembled.

I wanted to travel there.

“Turkey?”

She nodded.

I knew I never would. I made the apartment look like the pictures.

Daemon’s heart twisted.

The Devil looked backward through memory again. Not at Ian. Not at the men. At the room. At her.

“The rugs?”

Secondhand.

“The silver lamps?”

Broken when I found them.

“You repaired them.”

Femi nodded.

Daemon looked down at his phone.

“There was food waiting when the party began.”

I cooked before work.

Her movements slowed.

Julian said friends were visiting.

“He told us you had been called back into work.”

Femi frowned.

I had.

Daemon’s eyes sharpened.

“What time?”

Eleven.

“Your normal shift?”

She shook her head.

The owner called. A pipe had broken on the fourth floor.

“Did you see the pipe?”

Femi became still.

No.

The Devil understood before Daemon asked.

He sent her away.

“Why?”

The owner was not there when I arrived. Julian called and told me to stay because another problem had been reported.

“How long were you gone?”

Until seven the next morning.

Daemon understood.

Julian had arranged the call. Perhaps with someone inside the building office. Perhaps he had made it himself. He removed Femi from her own apartment so his friends could use it undisturbed.

The Devil remembered the music. The smoke. The strangers stretched across Femi’s furniture. Daemon among them.

We were there.

The thought hurt differently now.

“What did you find when you returned?”

Her hands became precise.

Broken glasses.

Burns on the kitchen table.

A stain on the bedroom rug.

Her signs stopped.

“What kind of stain?”

Femi looked away. Daemon did not force her to answer. The Devil did not ask.

Money was missing.

“How much?”

Everything I had saved that month.

The Devil moved behind Daemon’s eyes.

Julian said one of the guests must have taken it.

“He took it.”

Femi nodded. She had probably known then. But knowledge did not matter when she had nowhere else to go.

Daemon ran a hand down his face.

“I remember your work clothes.”

Her eyes returned to him.

“They were hanging behind the bathroom door. Small dark-blue overalls.”

Femi stared.

“I stood less than three feet from them.”

Daemon’s voice roughened.

“You were already there, little ghost.”

Not in body. But everywhere else. In the curtains. The repaired lamps. The warm bread. The polished surfaces. The careful beauty built inside an ugly building. Daemon had noticed her before he ever saw her face. The Devil had too.

It simply had not known what it was noticing.

You were everywhere.

“I did not know.”

Femi’s hands rose.

Would it have mattered?

The question struck harder than an accusation.

The Devil answered immediately.

Yes.

Daemon did not. Because the Devil’s answer came from what it had become. Not necessarily what they had been. Daemon answered honestly.

“I do not know who I was then.”

The Devil went quiet.

Femi looked away.

“But I know who I am now.”

He picked up the phone.

“And I am telling you everything.”

Femi faced him. Daemon opened Fiona’s photograph and held it out. For several seconds, she did not take the phone. Then her fingers closed around it. Julian smiled from the screen. Younger. Handsome in the empty way some men were handsome. Certain the world owed him more than he had earned. Femi’s face did not change. Her hand began to shake. Daemon stepped forward. She raised her free hand, stopping him. He obeyed.

The Devil hated the distance.

It respected it anyway.

Wait.

Femi enlarged the photograph. Her thumb moved across Julian’s face. Not tenderly. As though confirming the shape of something she had once mistaken for love.

That is him.

“Yes.”

Her gaze remained on the screen.

“There is more.”

Femi waited.

“Fiona said Julian used you as collateral.”

Her eyes lifted.

Daemon’s voice became quiet.

“When he owed money, he offered men access to your apartment.”

She showed no surprise.

“He held parties there and allowed people to store things inside your home.”

Femi’s grip tightened around the phone.

“And when the debt became worse…”

Daemon struggled with the words.

“He offered them access to you.”

The phone slipped from her hand. Daemon caught it before it struck the floor. Femi backed into the counter. Her face emptied. The Devil surged forward. Not toward Julian. Toward her.

Little ghost.

“No one is going to touch you.”

She shook her head.

“Femi.”

Her hands moved.

I remember.

Daemon became very still.

The Devil became something colder.

“What do you remember?”

Men coming to the apartment when Julian was gone.

His vision narrowed.

They said he told them I would entertain them.

“Did they hurt you?”

Femi’s fingers stopped.

Daemon’s voice dropped.

“Did they touch you?”

One tried.

The kitchen disappeared beneath a wash of red. The Devil saw only one thing. Not revenge. Not satisfaction. A younger Femi alone in that apartment while strangers arrived believing someone else had sold them the right to her.

He had no right.

“What happened?”

I broke a lamp against his head.

The red receded slightly.

The Devil almost smiled.

Good.

Daemon almost did too.

The other man laughed and pulled him outside.

“Do you know their names?”

She shook her head.

They never returned.

The Devil regretted that. Deeply. But Julian remained. Daemon placed his phone in his pocket.

“I have his schedule.”

Femi straightened.

“I am going to see him tonight.”

We are.

“No.”

The answer came without thought.

The Devil agreed.

No.

Femi’s eyes hardened.

“You are not going anywhere near him.”

You promised.

“I promised to tell you.”

You said I would decide what happened next.

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

“You decided. I listened. You are staying here.”

Femi’s hands cut through the air.

That is not deciding.

“It is surviving.”

I have survived him already.

The Devil heard the words.

Really heard them.

“And I intend to keep you alive.”

He used my home.

“I know.”

My money.

“I know.”

My work.

“I know.”

Her movements became violent.

My silence.

Daemon stopped speaking.

The Devil did too.

He told people my body belonged to him.

Tears filled her eyes, but none fell.

Now you want to use what he did to decide where I am allowed to stand.

The accusation struck cleanly.

The Devil snarled. Then stopped. Because it knew that shape now. Possession dressed as protection.

Keep her here. For her own good. We know better.

The Devil hated the resemblance. Daemon looked away.

Femi stepped closer.

You told me I could say no without losing you.

“You can.”

Then you can hear no too.

Daemon’s eyes returned to hers.

The Devil had no answer.

She pointed toward the phone in his pocket.

No. You will not go without me.

The Devil showed him every danger.

Julian could have guards. The Venttais could be watching. Someone might recognize Femi and use her against him. But beneath those warnings lived an uglier truth.

The Devil wanted Julian alone. It wanted Femi safely hidden while it did whatever violence satisfaction required. That was not protection. Not entirely. Some part of it was possession wearing protection’s face.

The Devil recoiled from itself.

Femi belongs to Femi.

Daemon exhaled slowly.

“What do you intend to do when you see him?”

Speak.

“He does not know sign language.”

He never wanted to learn.

The Devil’s anger sharpened. Of course he had not.

“Then how will you speak to him?”

Femi crossed to the counter and picked up a small notebook.

She wrote one sentence. Then she turned it toward Daemon.

YOU WILL BE MY HANDS NOW.

The Devil became very quiet.

Daemon stared at the words.

Something about them struck deeper than possession ever had.

Not fight for me.

Not kill for me.

Not even protect me.

Be my hands.

The Devil whispered:

Yes.

“He may insult you.”

Femi shrugged.

“He may try to frighten you.”

Another shrug.

“He may beg.”

Her expression hardened.

Good.

The Devil approved.

Too much.

Daemon took one step closer.

“You stay beside me.”

Femi nodded.

“If I tell you to move, you move.”

She shook her head.

“Femi.”

If you explain why.

“There may not be time.”

She considered that. Then nodded once.

“You do not approach him until I know whether he is armed.”

Another nod.

“And you do not stand between us.”

Femi’s eyebrows rose.

“He used you as collateral. He may attempt it again.”

He will not.

“You cannot know that.”

Femi stepped directly in front of him. She placed her palm against his chest. The touch stole part of his argument. Her hands rose.

Because this time, I know the Devil.

The Devil sat up inside him, pleased beyond reason.

She knows us.

“That is not reassuring.”

Femi’s mouth curved.

His heart performed that terrible, impossible movement again.

“There is one more condition.”

She waited.

“You do not stop me if he tries to hurt you.”

Femi’s smile vanished.

You will kill him.

“If he touches you, yes.”

The Devil found nothing to debate.

Yes.

Her hands moved sharply.

No.

“No?”

You will not kill him before I speak to him.

The Devil objected immediately. Then stopped. She had not asked for Julian’s life. She had asked for time. Time to stand in front of the man who once treated her as property. Time to speak. The Devil had learned patience.

Apparently Femi intended to test how well.

Daemon considered the wording.

“I can agree to that.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“You should have been more specific.”

Femi struck his chest. Daemon caught her hand. For one brief moment, amusement softened the room.

The Devil whispered:

After.

Daemon ignored it.

Then Femi looked toward the kitchen door.

When do we leave?

“Tonight.”

What time?

Daemon checked Fiona’s schedule.

“Julian collects money from a betting room at eight. He returns to his apartment around ten.”

Femi untied her apron.

“Where are you going?”

She folded it and placed it on the counter.

To change.

“You are cooking.”

Femi pointed toward the refrigerator.

There are leftovers.

“Malone dislikes leftovers.”

Malone can cook.

From the clubhouse came Malone’s immediate response.

“No, the hell I cannot.”

The Devil almost laughed. Femi walked toward the door. Daemon caught her arm gently. She looked up.

“You do not have to prove anything tonight.”

Her expression softened.

I know.

“Then why go?”

Femi glanced toward the phone in his pocket.

Because he spent years telling everyone I belonged to him.

The Devil went still.

Her eyes returned to Daemon.

I want to be there when he learns I never did.

Something inside the Devil settled. Not anger. Not bloodlust. Understanding. Julian had called Femi his wife when she had refused him. Used her home as his palace. Her wages as his money. Her body as collateral. He had told other men she belonged to him.

Tonight was not about the Devil taking something from Julian. It was not even about Daemon. It was about returning something Julian had tried to steal.

The truth.

You never owned her.

Femi left the kitchen. Daemon remained beside the counter. The scent of garlic surrounded him. On the table, bread cooled beneath a clean white cloth.

Years ago, he had entered a beautiful apartment and wondered why its owner was absent from everything she had created.

Now he knew. The owner had been sent away.

Tonight, Femi would enter Julian’s world. She would not be absent. She would not be hidden in a bedroom. She would not be sent to work while men decided what belonged to them. She would stand where Julian could see her.

Alive.

Loved.

Unbroken.

And entirely her own.

The Devil understood at last why Femi needed to go.

It no longer wanted to hide her behind Helix’s walls.

It wanted Julian to see her too.

Look at her.

Julian Ross believed he owed money to the Venttai family. He did not yet understand his oldest debt had come due.

And this time, the little ghost would collect it herself.

The Devil would merely be her hands.

Julian Ross followed the same schedule every Tuesday.

He left the Venttai betting room at ten fifteen with the night’s money hidden beneath his coat. He walked three blocks south, entered the alley behind Nicolo’s butcher shop, and handed the envelope to two men waiting beside a black sedan.

He had done it for six months. Nothing had ever gone wrong. Tonight, his men were not waiting. The Devil was. Daemon stood beneath the alley’s only working light. His black leather jacket hung open. Pale hair moved across the scar on his cheek as the wind passed between the buildings.

He had positioned himself where Julian would see him immediately. Where there could be no mistake.

The Devil wanted recognition.

Look at us.

Julian stopped.

For one brief moment, instinct told him to run. He resisted it. Everyone in Ravenside knew one thing about the Devil. You did not outrun him. Running only made him enjoy the pursuit. The Devil almost wished Julian would try. Julian glanced toward the mouth of the alley. People moved along the distant sidewalk, unaware of what waited inside the darkness.

He adjusted his coat.

Then smiled.

“Daemon Pallid.”

Daemon said nothing.

Julian’s smile weakened.

“What brings the Devil all the way uptown?”

“We need to talk, Julian.”

Daemon’s voice barely rose above the wind.

Julian looked toward the sedan. No one stood beside it.

“Of course. Anything for the Devil.”

Daemon turned and walked deeper into the alley. Julian followed. He told himself this had to be about the Venttais. Perhaps the family had sent Daemon to frighten him. Perhaps they wanted the money early. Julian reached beneath his coat and touched the envelope.

“I have this week’s payment.”

Daemon continued walking.

“If Venttai wants more, he’ll have to wait. I told his people—”

Daemon turned.

Julian saw the fist one second before it struck him.

Then the alley disappeared.

The Devil whispered:

Found you.

Cold brought him back.

Julian opened his eyes.

Pain arrived next.

His shoulders burned.

His wrists had been bound together and chained above his head. The chain looped over a rusted meat hook suspended from a rail in the ceiling. His feet hung several inches above the floor. White vapor left his mouth with every breath. Metal walls surrounded him. An abandoned industrial freezer. The refrigeration units no longer worked, but winter had settled inside the room and refused to leave. One dim bulb burned above him. Daemon stood beneath it. He had removed his leather jacket and folded it over the back of a chair. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows.

His gray eyes held nothing human. Julian began to struggle. The chain rattled. Pain tore through his shoulders.

“Where am I?”

Daemon watched him.

“What the fuck is this?”

Silence.

“You want the money?”

Julian twisted toward the coat lying on the floor.

“Take it. There’s almost nine thousand in the envelope.”

Daemon did not look at it.

“I can get more.”

The Devil stepped closer.

Still thinks everything has a price.

Julian’s breathing quickened.

“Venttai sent you?”

“No.”

One word.

Quiet.

Final.

“Then who?”

Daemon struck him in the stomach. Air exploded from Julian’s lungs. His body swung backward. Before he could recover, Daemon caught him by the throat and stopped the motion.

“Do you remember the Peachpit Projects?”

Julian’s eyes widened.

Daemon saw recognition. Then calculation.

“No.”

The Devil whispered:

Lie.

The lie cost Julian the first finger. The crack echoed through the freezer. Julian screamed. His body jerked against the chain. Daemon released the ruined finger and waited until the scream became a whimper.

“I will ask again.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Do you remember the Peachpit Projects?”

“Yes!”

Julian’s breath fogged the space between them.

“Yes. I remember.”

“Good.”

Daemon struck him again. This time, something inside Julian broke. His scream pleased the Devil. The sound of bone breaking pleased it more. Daemon had spent the day thinking about Femi’s apartment. Her repaired lamps. Her secondhand sofa. Her blue-and-silver curtains. Food she prepared for a gathering she was not allowed to attend. A home she built while Julian told everyone it belonged to him.

The Devil remembered something else.

Tiny work overalls hanging behind a bathroom door.

We were there.

Daemon hit him again. Julian swung from the hook. Blood ran from his mouth.

“What do you want?” he gasped.

Daemon caught his body and held him still.

“The truth.”

“About what?”

Another blow landed. Julian screamed.

“Everything.”

The word came from Daemon and the Devil at the same time.

A chair scraped across the floor. The sound came from the rear of the freezer. Daemon stopped.

He turned his head.

Someone sat near the back wall, beyond the reach of the overhead light. A long, oversized coat concealed the figure’s body. A hood had been drawn low enough to hide the face. Julian followed Daemon’s gaze. He had not known anyone else was inside the room.

“Who the fuck is that?”

The hooded figure did not respond. Julian looked back at Daemon.

“I work for the Venttai family. Whoever you are, they will kill you for this.”

The figure remained silent. Daemon waited.

Two hands emerged from the coat.

They moved beneath the shadows.

Continue.

The Devil settled immediately.

Yes, little ghost.

Daemon’s gray eyes darkened.

No one translated.

Daemon turned back to Julian.

“Where were we?”

Julian began begging before the next strike landed.

Time disappeared inside the freezer. Julian measured it in pain. The first hour took his arrogance. The second took nearly everything else.

Daemon was patient. Methodical. The Devil had learned patience. Tonight, Femi gave it purpose. Daemon never struck Julian’s face. That mercy frightened Julian more than the violence. Every bruise stopped at his jaw. Every cut remained below his throat. His face was being preserved. For her. He simply did not know it yet. Daemon broke bones one at a time. Each crack echoed through the metal room.

Julian screamed until his throat became raw. When his voice failed, the sounds became hoarse gasps and broken whimpers. The Devil listened to all of them.

But it listened more closely for the movement of Femi’s hands behind them.

“How many men did you invite into her apartment?”

“I don’t know.”

Pain.

“How many?”

“Twenty! Thirty! I don’t fucking remember!”

“Who paid you?”

“No one.”

Another bone broke.

“All right! They paid me. Sometimes.”

“For the apartment?”

“For parties. Storage. Whatever they needed.”

“For her?”

Julian hesitated.

The Devil rose. Daemon hit him hard enough to send him swinging. Julian’s screams bounced from wall to wall. The figure near the back remained motionless. Watching. Always watching.

“Yes!” Julian sobbed. “I offered her. I told them they could have her!”

The Devil went cold. Not because Julian had offered something belonging to Daemon. He had not. Femi had never belonged to Julian. She did not belong to Daemon. Her body had always been hers.

You sold what was never yours.

“Did they?”

“I don’t know!”

Daemon struck him.

“I don’t know! She wouldn’t tell me anything. She never fucking talked!”

The Devil’s fist closed.

She speaks.

“Why did you call her your wife?”

“It sounded better.”

Daemon hit him again. Julian coughed blood onto the concrete. Behind them, the hooded figure raised one hand. Daemon stopped. Instantly.

The Devil stopped with him. The fingers moved.

Ask him why he stayed.

Daemon translated.

“She wants to know why you stayed.”

Julian’s swollen eyes moved toward the shadows.

“She?”

The figure lowered her hand.

“Who the fuck is she?”

Daemon struck him across the ribs. Julian screamed.

“You answer. You do not ask.”

“I stayed because the apartment was free!”

The hooded head tilted.

Not enough.

The Devil agreed.

No.

Daemon smiled without warmth.

“She does not believe you.”

“Who the fuck is she?”

The next blow erased the question.

Two hours after Julian awakened, the hooded figure rose. The chair legs scraped across the floor again. Daemon stopped immediately. Julian hung limply from the hook. One eye had begun to swell, but his face remained recognizable.

The figure stepped into the light. Small hands lifted. The hood fell backward. A long braid of midnight hair emerged first, falling nearly to her knees. Blue-black strands caught beneath the freezer light and shimmered like polished obsidian. Femi removed the oversized coat. She wore a fitted blue-and-silver sleeveless shirt and dark jeans. The material followed curves starvation had once stolen from her. Her hollow cheeks were gone. Her olive skin glowed with health. Her green eyes were clear. Bright. Alive.

The Devil looked at her. Not the woman Julian had abandoned. Not the frightened girl he remembered.

Femi.

Their little ghost.

Look at her.

No frightened girl stood before Julian. No exhausted janitor. No woman he could hide inside a bedroom while he sold pieces of her life. Femi folded the coat over the chair. Then she faced him. Daemon watched Julian’s expression change. Confusion. Recognition. Disbelief. Then fear.

The Devil savored only the last one.

“Do you remember her, Ian?”

The Devil’s voice moved through the freezer.

Julian stared.

His lips parted.

“Femi.”

Daemon backhanded him. Julian’s head snapped to the side. Blood struck the floor.

“You have no right to say her name.”

Not from your mouth.

Julian blinked until his vision cleared.

Then he looked past Daemon. His entire face changed. Relief entered it. A smile formed despite the blood coating his teeth.

“You came back to me.”

The Devil almost laughed.

Femi stared at him.

“I knew you would.”

Julian began to laugh, but the movement caught against his broken ribs and became a sob.

“I knew you couldn’t survive without me.”

Daemon stepped forward.

Femi touched his arm.

The Devil stopped for her.

Only her.

Listen.

Femi’s hands moved. Julian watched them with the same annoyed incomprehension he had shown throughout their relationship. He had lived with her. Slept beside her. Claimed she belonged to him. And never learned enough of her language to understand a single sentence. The Devil found that more damning than it expected.

He never listened.

“What is she saying?” Julian demanded.

Daemon looked at Femi. She continued signing. He let her finish. Then he turned toward Julian.

“She says you told the Venttais she was your wife.”

Julian’s smile faded.

“You told them she belonged to you.”

Daemon’s voice remained low and flat.

“You used her apartment, her wages, and her body as collateral because you owed money.”

Julian’s face hardened.

“Yes.”

Femi went still.

Julian looked directly at her.

“I did.”

He pulled against the chain and groaned.

“I used what I owned any way I chose.”

The Devil rose.

You owned nothing.

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

“She never belonged to you.”

“I paid attention to her, didn’t I?”

Julian spat blood onto the floor.

“I made her useful.”

Femi’s fingers moved.

Daemon translated.

“She wants to know how you made her useful.”

Julian laughed.

“You couldn’t give me money.”

His eyes remained fixed on Femi.

“I couldn’t even get you to suck me off you stupid—”

Daemon broke three ribs before Julian finished the sentence. Julian screamed. His body swung wildly from the hook.

Daemon caught him and drove another fist into his side.

Again.

She touched his arm. That was enough. The Devil stopped. Not because Julian deserved relief. Because Femi had asked. Daemon stepped back. Julian coughed and struggled to breathe.

“What is your problem?” he sobbed at Femi. “You made me sick anyway.”

Her expression did not change.

“I hated touching you.”

Julian’s cruelty strengthened when he saw no tears.

“I hated pretending to comfort you after your little nightmares.”

Daemon’s fists clenched. The Devil remembered Femi waking in terror. Cold sweat. Blind panic. The way she sometimes needed minutes to understand where she was. The way she had once believed even comfort must be paid for.

You used that too.

“You would sit there staring at me with those empty fucking eyes.”

Femi signed.

Daemon forced his hands open.

“She wants to know why.”

Julian looked at him.

“Why what?”

“Why did she disgust you?”

“I told you.”

“No.”

Daemon stepped close enough for Julian to see the Devil clearly.

“You used her home. You ate her food. You spent her money. You placed her beneath you whenever it pleased you.”

Daemon’s voice dropped.

“You wanted everything she gave until she refused to give more.”

Femi’s hands moved.

“Why, Ian?” Daemon translated. “What did you discover about her that made you hate her?”

Julian stared at Femi. Then he smiled. It was an ugly thing.

“You lived on the street.”

Femi did not move. Daemon did. Barely. The Devil recognized the wound Julian was reaching for.

“That was it.”

He laughed, then winced from the pain.

“One of the hookers at a party recognized you. Said she had seen you beneath the Wolfwater Bridge.”

Daemon’s eyes became cold.

“She said you slept in that homeless camp.”

Julian’s mouth twisted.

“Do you know how embarrassing that was?”

Femi blinked once.

“I had been telling people you came from money. That you were shy. Mysterious.”

He sneered.

“But you were trash.”

The Devil whispered:

She survived.

The word struck the walls and returned.

“Street trash who got lucky enough to find an apartment.”

Femi remained still.

Julian’s rage increased because she would not break.

“I should have left you then.”

Her hands moved.

Daemon translated.

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because the apartment was useful.”

Julian stared at her with open hatred.

“And so were you.”

His voice grew louder.

“The boys had seen you leave. They kept asking who the quiet girl was.”

The chain creaked as he shifted.

“They wanted you.”

Femi’s eyes hardened.

“I figured you could earn me some money. That’s what women like you do, isn’t it?”

Daemon stepped forward.

Femi’s hand rose.

Wait.

The Devil obeyed.

This time without resistance. Julian mistook it for fear. He smiled again.

“What are you going to do? Have the Devil kill me?”

Femi lowered her hand.

Julian looked from her to Daemon.

“Then what?”

His laugh became a breathless wheeze.

“You think he is going to keep you?”

Daemon’s face emptied. The Devil went very still.

“The Devil keeps no woman. Everyone knows that.”

Femi glanced toward Daemon. Julian saw the look and attacked the uncertainty he believed he had found.

“He’ll hear about you eventually.”

Daemon tilted his head.

“Hear what?”

“That she is nothing.”

Julian sneered at Femi.

“A mute nobody.”

Daemon’s fingers curled.

“Street trash.”

The Devil moved closer. Not because Julian was insulting something it owned. Because Julian was trying to put the old chains back around her.

No.

Julian kept talking.

“You think getting a job makes you worthy of standing in the same room as everyone else?”

Femi’s face remained calm.

“You think clean clothes change what you are?”

Daemon’s shadow fell across him. Julian finally looked at the Devil. The expression in Daemon’s eyes stole the rest of his words.

“No,” Daemon said softly. “But you are about to learn what she is worth to us.”

The Devil corrected him silently.

What she is worth.

Not to Daemon. Not to Malone. Not to Wolfwater. Femi’s worth had never required anyone else’s measure. But Julian had spent years believing value belonged to whoever could assign it.

Tonight, he could learn differently. What followed was brutal. Daemon did not hurry. He punished Julian for the apartment first. For every cigarette burn pressed into Femi’s table. Every glass broken against her floor. Every stranger invited into the sanctuary she built.

Julian screamed.

The Devil remembered the palace. Black suede. Silver lamps. Blue curtains. Warm bread. Tiny work overalls hanging behind a bathroom door.

Hers.

Daemon punished him for the money. For ninety-hour workweeks transformed into drugs, gambling debts, and lies.

Julian bled.

Daemon punished him for the men sent to her door. For offering her body as though it belonged to him. For teaching Femi that affection was a debt she could never finish repaying.

Julian begged.

The Devil did not think of vengeance. It thought of a woman sitting on a windowsill at four in the morning asking what kindness would cost her.

Wrong.

That was the wrong Julian had left behind. Daemon broke him until his screams became animal sounds. Until his body hung uselessly beneath the chain. Until even the freezer seemed to recoil from what remained. Femi watched everything. She did not turn away. Her face held no fear. No pity.

Julian had spent years telling her she was empty. Now he discovered what her emptiness looked like when it belonged entirely to him. Daemon finally stepped back. Blood covered his hands. His breathing remained steady. He turned toward Femi.

A smile touched her mouth. Cold. Small. Calculating. Nothing like the soft smiles she gave him at Helix. Nothing like the shy curve of her lips after a kiss. This smile had teeth.

The Devil was pleased.

There she is.

Not because violence made Femi more beautiful. Not because it wanted her cruel. Because Julian had once taught her to shrink around him. And she wasn’t shrinking now. Daemon crossed the freezer and stopped beside her. Femi looked up at him.

Her green eyes glittered with something Julian had never been worthy of seeing. Power. Daemon wiped one bloodied knuckle across his shirt.

“My dangerous little ghost.”

Femi’s smile deepened.

Behind them, Julian whimpered.

“Femi.”

Daemon turned.

Julian flinched.

“You were warned about her name.”

“Please.”

The word barely escaped him. Femi faced the man hanging from the hook. Julian’s arrogance had vanished. So had his cruelty. Only the coward remained.

“I’m sorry.”

Femi watched him.

“I didn’t mean any of it.”

Her eyebrows rose.

“I was angry. I was embarrassed.”

He began to cry.

“I treated you badly. I know that now.”

Daemon’s crooked smile appeared.

“You discovered remorse quickly.”

The Devil disagreed.

Fear. Not remorse.

“Shut up,” Julian sobbed. “I’m talking to her.”

Femi’s hands moved. Daemon did not translate. The Devil understood anyway. Not the exact words. Her refusal. Julian stared at her fingers.

“What did she say?”

Daemon remained silent.

“Femi, tell him to let me down.”

Her gaze did not change.

“We can talk.”

Julian’s tears cut through the blood on his face.

“We can work this out. I can repay the money.”

Femi shook her head.

“I’ll tell everyone the truth. I’ll tell them the apartment was yours.”

She continued staring.

“I’ll tell the Venttais you never belonged to me.”

Daemon laughed softly.

“You believe she needs your permission to belong to herself?”

The Devil whispered:

She never did.

Julian’s face crumpled.

“I can change.”

Femi smiled. Julian looked at the blood covering Daemon’s hands. Then he understood. The Devil had not brought Femi to witness an interrogation. That thought was wrong. The Devil had not brought Femi anywhere. Femi had chosen to come. She had demanded it. She had stood in Daemon’s kitchen and said no.

And Daemon had finally listened. The Devil had too.

Julian began struggling against the chain.

It accomplished nothing.

“Femi.”

His voice broke.

“Are you going to let him kill me?”

The Devil became completely still. This was not its answer. Not Daemon’s. Hers.

Femi regarded him for several seconds. The man who had taken her home. Her wages. Her labor. Her trust. The man who had heard her nightmares and called her empty. Who had mistaken silence for weakness and kindness for ownership. Who had taught her that everything came with a price.

The Devil waited.

Choose, little ghost.

Femi smiled.

Then she nodded.

Something dark and quiet settled inside Daemon. Not triumph. Not permission to possess her. Something much simpler. She had been heard. Daemon’s bloody hand settled gently against the small of her back.

His gray eyes found Julian’s. His crooked smile emerged.

The Devil whispered:

Her choice.

“That is a yes.”

Julian begged for his life. He begged until his voice failed. Then he whispered. Promises spilled from him between bloody breaths.

Money.

Names.

Venttai secrets.

Everything he believed might purchase one more hour. Daemon listened without interest. The Devil had already finished with Julian’s information. Only Femi’s judgment remained. She stood beside the chair where her coat rested, studying the ruined man suspended from the meat hook.

The Devil waited with her. Not impatiently. It had learned patience from its little ghost. And this answer belonged to her.

Julian looked at her.

“Femi, please.”

She did not react.

“I’ll leave Ravenside.”

Her green eyes remained cold.

“You’ll never see me again.”

Her hands rose.

The Devil saw every word clearly.

Plant him in the foundation of the new library wing at Ravenside Elementary.

Daemon became still.

So did the Devil.

For one exquisite moment, neither man nor monster had anything to add.

Then—

Oh, little ghost.

Femi continued.

They poured the cement two hours ago. It will cure overnight.

The Devil understood. Not merely kill him. Plant him. Beneath a library. Beneath books. Beneath children who would learn and grow and become whatever they chose to become. Julian had spent years telling Femi she was beneath everyone else. Now she intended to put him beneath them all.

The Devil was enchanted. Her hands lowered. Then lifted once more.

One final word.

Alive.

Pleasure purred down Daemon’s spine.

The Devil approved completely.

Yes.

Daemon closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the answer.

The Devil did too. It had imagined many endings for Julian Ross. Broken neck. Shallow grave. River. Fire. Femi’s was better.

Plant him.

When Daemon opened his eyes, his crooked smile had returned.

“Are you sure you want that?”

Femi nodded.

Her face held no hesitation.

The Devil almost took offense at the question.

She said alive.

Yes.

She had.

Julian looked between them.

“What did she say?”

Neither answered.

“What the fuck did she say?”

His body began shaking. Fear filled the freezer, sharp enough to taste. Julian’s bladder had released the last time Daemon struck him across the kidneys. Now his entire body trembled uncontrollably beneath the chain.

“What are you going to do?”

Daemon approached him.

“She wants you planted in the foundation of Ravenside Elementary’s new library wing.”

Julian stared. The words did not make sense at first.

Then they did.

“No.”

“Planted,” Daemon continued, “as in alive.”

Horror dawned across Julian’s untouched face.

“No.”

The Devil’s satisfaction deepened.

He understands.

Daemon removed the chain from the hook. Julian collapsed onto the concrete. He tried to crawl. His broken body refused to cooperate.

“No. You can’t do that.”

Daemon caught the back of his shirt and dragged him across the freezer. Julian clawed at the floor. His nails scraped uselessly against the concrete.

“She can’t do this!”

Daemon stopped.

The Devil corrected him.

She already did.

Julian twisted enough to see Femi.

“You are nothing like the Devil.”

Femi tilted her head. Julian mistook her curiosity for uncertainty.

The Devil did not.

“He’ll leave you.”

The Devil’s pleasure cooled.

“No man in his right mind would want something like you.”

Femi’s expression changed. Only slightly. But Daemon saw it. The old wound opened behind her eyes. The Devil saw it too. Julian had found a place that still hurt, and like every coward given one final weapon, he used it.

“Look at you.”

His bloodied mouth curved.

“You think standing beside him makes you important?”

Daemon’s hand tightened in Julian’s shirt.

The Devil wanted to answer.

Daemon did first.

“And what is she, Julian?”

The words came out as a growl. Julian ignored the warning.

“Did you know she was locked in mental institutions as a child?”

Daemon’s gaze moved toward Femi.

“Three of them,” Julian spat. “You know what they did to her?”

Femi became motionless.

“Shock treatments.”

Julian laughed, but the sound ended in a groan.

“That dumb cunt is insane.”

The Devil went utterly silent. Not because the words mattered. Because Femi was watching Daemon. Waiting. Perhaps without even realizing she was waiting. For disgust. For fear. For that tiny change in his eyes that would tell her Julian had finally revealed the thing that made her unlovable.

Daemon looked at Femi. Not with disgust. Not with fear. He looked at the woman standing beneath the freezer light in blue and silver. The woman who had survived hospitals, institutions, foster homes, the street, and Julian Ross. The woman who had faced armed men behind a mall. The woman who had watched the Devil work for two hours without turning away. The woman who had just decided to plant her former abuser beneath a library. The Devil adored her a little more for that last part.

Daemon licked his lips slowly.

Femi’s eyes widened.

“Two institutions,” he said.

Julian blinked.

“What?”

“She survived two.”

Daemon’s crooked smile appeared.

“You lived with her and still never knew a damned thing about her.”

The Devil whispered:

We know her.

Not everything. Never everything. Femi was still giving them pieces. They intended to treasure every one.

“She’s insane!”

“No.”

Daemon’s gaze returned to Femi.

“She is perfect.”

Femi stopped breathing.

The Devil purred its agreement.

Perfect.

“You just never saw it.”

His smile deepened. Color warmed her olive cheeks. She tried to hold his gaze. Failed. Then looked away. Even here, surrounded by blood and frozen metal, the Devil could make her blush.

Daemon found that extraordinarily pleasing.

So did the Devil.

Again.

He dragged Julian toward the door.

Julian began screaming again.

The construction site slept beneath temporary lights.

A sign stood beyond the fence.

RAVENSIDE ELEMENTARY SCHOOL

NEW LIBRARY WING—COMING SOON

The building’s steel frame rose against the dark sky. Plastic sheeting shifted in the winter wind. Beyond it lay the new foundation. Gray cement filled the wide form beneath the work lights, still wet from the evening pour. The crews would not return until morning.

The Devil looked at it.

Then at Julian.

Perfect.

Daemon crossed the site with him. Femi walked beside him. She had put her oversized coat on again, but the hood remained down. Her midnight braid moved against her back with every step. Julian’s pleading had become constant.

“Please.”

Daemon dragged him onward.

“I’m sorry.”

Femi did not look at him.

“I’ll give you money.”

She continued walking.

“I know people. I can get you an apartment.”

That made her stop. Daemon stopped with her. Femi slowly turned. Julian saw his mistake.

“Not like before,” he said quickly. “A good apartment. Uptown. It would be yours.”

Femi stared at him.

“You always wanted somewhere that was yours.”

Her eyes hardened. Julian tried to smile.

“I can give you that.”

The Devil almost laughed. After everything, Julian still believed he possessed things to give her. A home. Security. Worth. As though Femi had not already built those things without him. As though he had not been the one who destroyed the first home she made.

Femi’s hands moved. Daemon watched.

Then he translated.

“She says she already has a home.”

The Devil warmed.

Home.

Julian looked at Daemon.

Understanding crossed his face.

“No.”

Daemon’s smile appeared.

“Yes.”

Julian started struggling.

“You think he loves you?”

Femi’s gaze never shifted.

“He doesn’t love anyone. He’s the fucking Devil.”

The Devil almost found that amusing. Once, Julian would have been right. Not anymore.

We love her.

Daemon dragged Julian closer to the foundation.

“He’ll learn what you are,” Julian shouted. “He’ll hear everything.”

Femi walked beside them.

“He’ll find out you lived beneath a bridge.”

Another step.

“That you slept beside rats.”

Another.

“That they locked you away because you were crazy.”

Femi stopped at the edge of the cement. Julian looked up at her. Desperation had stripped the last mask from him.

“You don’t belong beside him.”

Femi’s expression remained calm.

“You don’t belong anywhere.”

The Devil looked at Femi. Helix. Malone. Marta. Dai. His bed when nightmares drove her there. His motorcycle. His arms. The kitchen she filled with bread and garlic before sunrise. Wolfwater itself, which had quietly decided the little ghost was family long before anyone bothered to say it aloud.

Julian still knew nothing.

She belongs wherever she chooses to stand.

Daemon crouched and caught Julian by the throat.

“You still do not understand.”

Julian clawed at his wrist.

Daemon brought his face close.

“The street did not make her trash.”

His grip tightened.

“The institutions did not make her broken.”

Julian wheezed.

“Her silence does not make her empty.”

The Devil whispered:

She speaks.

Daemon looked toward Femi.

His voice softened for her alone.

“She survived everything that should have destroyed her and still knows how to be gentle.”

His gray eyes returned to Julian.

“You survived nothing and became this.”

Julian’s remaining defiance collapsed. He began crying.

“Femi, please.”

She watched him.

“I loved you.”

The Devil recoiled.

No.

Her eyebrows rose.

“I did.”

He sobbed harder.

“I was confused. I was angry. I made mistakes.”

Femi signed.

Daemon translated.

“She says a mistake happens once.”

The Devil watched her hands. Julian shook his head.

“She says you made choices.”

Yes.

“I can make different ones.”

Femi looked toward the wet foundation. Julian followed her gaze. Pure terror entered his face.

“No.”

He tried to pull away. Daemon held him easily.

“No, Femi. Please.”

Her name sounded different now. Not an insult. Not an inconvenience. A prayer. The Devil found no pleasure in that. Julian had been given years in which Femi’s name could have meant something to him. He had chosen otherwise. Now it meant judgment.

“Don’t let him do this.”

Femi’s hands moved. Daemon did not translate immediately. Julian began to scream.

“What did she say?”

Daemon watched Femi finish.

Then he smiled.

“She says you were right about one thing.”

Julian’s breath caught.

“What?”

“Everything ends.”

The Devil’s pleasure returned.

Beautiful.

Daemon lifted him.

Julian thrashed with whatever strength remained.

“No!”

Femi stood at the edge of the foundation. Her green eyes followed him.

“Please! I’m sorry!”

Daemon held Julian above the wet cement.

“Femi!”

She smiled.

Cold.

Satisfied.

Certain.

The Devil loved that smile. Not because it wanted Femi remade in its image. It did not. The little ghost’s gentleness was one of the things it loved most about her. But gentleness was hers to give. Mercy was hers to withhold. Julian had spent years believing her kindness meant she lacked teeth. Tonight, Femi had chosen to show them.

The Devil approved wholeheartedly.

Plant him.

Julian saw there would be no mercy. Not from the Devil. Not from the woman whose mercy he had mistaken for weakness. Daemon released him. Julian struck the cement and disappeared beneath its gray surface.

For one moment, he struggled upward.

A hand broke through. Then part of his face. He dragged in one desperate breath. Daemon stood over him. Femi stepped to his side. Julian’s eyes found hers. The cement pulled him down again. His hand vanished. Then his mouth.

The Devil watched without vengeance. Without rage. Without any desire to drag the moment out. Femi had chosen. Daemon had listened. The wrong had been answered in the manner she wanted. That was enough. The last thing Julian Ross saw before the gray closed over him was Femi’s satisfied smile.

The Devil watched the surface settle. For several seconds, nothing moved.

Then it looked toward the sign.

NEW LIBRARY WING—COMING SOON

Something dark and delighted curled through Daemon. The Devil considered all the endings it had imagined for Julian. A grave would have hidden him. A river would have carried him away. Fire would have reduced him to nothing. Femi had chosen better. Children would walk above him. Books would fill shelves above him. Stories would be read above him.

A thousand young minds would grow in a place Julian Ross could never poison. And the man who had once looked at a homeless girl and called her trash would spend eternity beneath their feet.

The Devil was deeply impressed.

Our little ghost has imagination.

Daemon looked at Femi.

She was still watching the foundation.

“Remind me never to make you angry.”

Her mouth curved.

The Devil corrected him.

Too late.

Femi glanced up.

Her expression softened when she looked at Daemon. That pleased the Devil even more than Julian disappearing beneath the cement.

The cold smile had been for him. This one was theirs. Daemon offered his hand. He did not take hers. He simply held it between them. Femi looked down. Then placed her hand inside it.

Her fingers closed around his.

She chose.

Daemon squeezed gently.

Those choices mattered more to the Devil than the body disappearing beneath the foundation ever could.

A quiet, vicious satisfaction moved beneath Daemon’s ribs.

Plant him.

The little ghost had said.

And they had.

The Devil decided it was one of the best ideas she had ever had.

Daemon watched the last trace of Julian disappear beneath the cement. The foundation became still.

Femi remained beside him, staring at the place where Julian Ross had ceased to exist.

The cold night moved around them.

Her satisfied smile lingered.

The Devil admired it.

Beautiful.

Not Julian’s death. Her certainty. Femi had chosen. She had looked at the man who once decided everything for her and chosen his ending herself. Daemon leaned closer.

“Did that please you, my little ghost?”

His breath moved against her ear. The question was quiet. His voice held something she could not identify. Something dark and pleased that made her stomach tremble in that strange way again.

Femi blushed. Then nodded. Daemon’s crooked smile deepened.

The Devil purred.

Good.

He had seen her watching him in the freezer. Not merely observing. Watching. Her green eyes had followed every movement of his body. She had stared at his hands. His shoulders. His face whenever the Devil came forward. There had been no disgust in her expression. No fear. Something else had lived there.

Something warm.

Hungry.

The Devil had noticed before Daemon allowed himself to.

She likes us.

Daemon had refused to examine that particular observation while Julian still hung from a meat hook. Now it returned.

Femi looked toward the silent foundation. Seeing Julian bloodied and broken had been satisfying. Watching Daemon deliver the punishment had created another feeling entirely. One she could not examine beneath the construction lights. Her thighs pressed together. Her stomach trembled as though something inside it were attempting to escape. Her fingers itched to touch Daemon. To push the pale hair away from his face. To trace his scar. To run her hands across the broad shoulders that had moved with such terrible purpose. Femi shoved her hands into the pockets of her coat.

Daemon noticed.

Of course he noticed.

So did the Devil.

There.

But he said nothing.

He placed one hand against the small of her back and guided her away from the foundation. Behind them, the new library wing waited for morning.

The Devil did not look back.

Julian was finished.

Femi was not.

They returned to Helix in time for dinner service.

Femi went directly to the kitchen.

Daemon cleaned himself upstairs, changed his clothes, and returned to his usual corner.

They agreed not to tell Malone. Femi did not want him to know she had watched Julian’s punishment. Daemon did not want Malone to know they had placed a man inside the foundation of an elementary school. For different reasons, silence suited them both.

Femi threw herself into work. She baked bread. Prepared steaks. Stirred potatoes. Checked the stew three times despite knowing it was perfect the first time. Whenever Daemon entered the kitchen, she found another task requiring her immediate attention.

Whenever he looked through the service window, she disappeared. She did not approach his table. She sent Marta with his whiskey. Daemon stared at the glass.

The Devil was entertained.

Hiding.

Marta set it down.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You are frowning at me.”

“I always frown.”

“Usually while watching Femi.”

Daemon’s gaze moved toward the kitchen. Marta followed it.

“She has been strange since you two returned.”

“She is tired.”

“Femi once cooked dinner with a fever.”

“She is thinking.”

“That is usually dangerous.”

Daemon lifted the whiskey. Marta caught his wrist.

“If you did something to upset her—”

“I did not.”

“Did she do something to upset you?”

“No.”

Marta released him.

“Then why are both of you acting guilty?”

Daemon stared at her.

Marta stared back.

“Leave,” he said.

“Gladly.”

She walked away. Daemon looked toward the service window again.

Femi appeared with a platter. Their eyes met. She nearly dropped it. Then she turned and disappeared into the kitchen. The Devil was delighted.

Definitely hiding.

Daemon was confused. He had taken Femi with him to punish and kill a man. That was not the part bothering him. No. What troubled him was the way she had watched. The way she licked her lips when he rolled up his sleeves. The way her fingers twitched whenever he passed near her. The step she took toward him at the construction site before stopping herself.

He had seen desire before. Women had offered it. Performed it. Used it to manipulate him. But Femi’s desire was different. New. Unpracticed. She did not know how to conceal it because she did not yet understand what it was.

Daemon shivered. The Devil understood. It had understood inside the freezer. Femi wanted them. Not despite what she had seen. Because of it. The Devil settled beneath Daemon’s ribs with immense satisfaction.

She saw everything.

The blood.

The broken bones.

The patience.

The monster.

And afterward, she had looked at Daemon as though she wanted to climb him. The knowledge pleased the Devil enough to make Daemon uneasy.

Dinner service ended shortly after eleven. The last customers departed.

Malone entered his office to finish the accounts.

Marta went upstairs after threatening everyone still inside with bodily harm if they left dirty glasses on the tables. Daemon remained in his corner. Femi emerged from the kitchen carrying a bucket and cleaning cloths. She began with the tables nearest the bar. Then the booths. Then the tables beside the jukebox. Every surface received her attention except his. Daemon watched her clean a table that was already clean.

The Devil whispered:

Little ghost.

“Femi.”

Her hand stopped.

She kept her back to him.

“Come here.”

Femi looked toward Malone’s office.

“He is busy.”

She looked toward the stairs.

“Marta is gone.”

Her eyes finally moved toward Daemon. He held out one hand. Femi stared at it. Daemon waited.

The Devil did too.

Choose.

After several seconds, she approached.

She placed her fingers inside his.

The Devil warmed immediately.

There.

Daemon pulled gently. Femi expected him to guide her into the chair beside him. Instead, he drew her across his lap. Her breath caught. Daemon’s arms settled around her waist. Not trapping. Holding.

“I know you are disgusted or disturbed by what you saw.”

Femi looked at him sharply.

The Devil recoiled.

No.

“But please do not avoid me.”

A frown pulled at his face. The expression was not angry. It was wounded.

Femi’s hands rose.

Who said I was disgusted?

Daemon stared.

The Devil became very still.

I am not.

“Then what is wrong?”

His eyes searched hers.

“You have not looked at me once since we returned.”

Femi glanced away. Daemon touched her chin.

“Little ghost.”

She looked at him.

“Tell me.”

Her hands moved uncertainly.

I think it was the sexiest thing I have ever seen.

The Devil became deathly quiet. Daemon stopped breathing. Femi’s cheeks burned.

The Devil repeated the sentence very slowly.

Sexiest.

Daemon swallowed.

I do not have the right words.

Her fingertips slid along the scar on his cheek.

Satisfying, perhaps.

Daemon watched her.

Femi’s fingers reached his jaw.

Not like your kisses.

His pulse struck hard beneath her touch.

The Devil recovered.

Barely.

She wants us.

But close.

Her gaze fell to his forearm.

Femi traced one of the tattoos exposed beneath his rolled sleeve.

Daemon’s entire body tightened.

The Devil listened.

I do not know what to do with the feeling.

Her fingers stopped.

Daemon caught her hand and pressed it flat against his forearm.

“How did you feel watching me?”

The question emerged rougher than he intended. Femi looked toward the dark clubhouse.

“Honestly,” he said.

She nodded.

Daemon leaned close enough for his lips to brush the curve of her ear.

“Tell me, little ghost.”

Femi shivered.

Her hands rose between them.

My stomach trembled.

Daemon’s grip tightened around her waist.

The Devil remembered.

I ache in places deep inside.

My mouth became dry.

His breathing changed. Femi hesitated. Daemon waited.

That ache returned.

Her face became crimson.

It was worse this time.

The Devil’s satisfaction was almost unbearable.

She looked at him in genuine distress.

Oh, Daemon. What is wrong with me?

Something inside him softened. The Devil’s pleasure vanished immediately.

Nothing.

“Nothing.”

His mouth remained near her ear.

“Nothing is wrong with you.”

Femi searched his face.

“It is perfectly natural to feel that way.”

It is?

“Yes.”

He tucked a strand of midnight hair behind her ear.

“That is desire.”

Femi went still.

“Your body wants something before your mind knows what to call it.”

Her eyes widened.

Daemon’s thumb moved slowly along her waist.

“That trembling.”

He leaned closer.

“The dry mouth.”

His voice dropped.

“The ache.”

Femi shivered again.

“That is how I feel every time I see you.”

Her lips parted.

Daemon closed his eyes. A low, animal sound moved through his chest. The Devil. The last time it had made that sound, Femi had jumped from his lap, terrified she had hurt him. Tonight, she did not move away.

The Devil noticed.

She knows now.

She turned.

One knee settled on either side of his hips.

The Devil surged so violently that Daemon’s fingers tightened reflexively against her waist.

Oh.

No alcohol clouded her eyes this time. No Mai Tais softened the edges of the world. Femi was sober. Present. Choosing.

The Devil understood the difference immediately.

She chose.

Daemon’s hands remained at her waist.

“Little ghost.”

She moved closer. The heat of her body pressed against him. Daemon sucked in a breath. Her palm settled against his scar. The Devil quieted beneath her touch. Daemon turned his face into it. Femi leaned forward. Then stopped. Her lips remained less than an inch from his.

Daemon’s gaze held hers.

“Do you want me to kiss you?”

Femi nodded.

Every part of the Devil screamed yes.

Daemon remained still.

“I need more than a nod.”

The Devil resisted.

Then understood.

Say it.

Her breathing became shallow.

He waited.

Femi’s fingers moved between them.

Yes.

The Devil purred.

Yes.

Daemon kissed her. Cautiously at first. His mouth brushed hers and withdrew, giving her time to change her mind. Femi followed.

The Devil nearly broke its chain.

Again.

Her hands entered his hair. The second kiss consumed the first. Her mouth opened beneath his. Daemon drew her closer. The kiss became a claim neither had words for. Femi kissed him with the same concentration she brought to everything. She explored slowly. Learned quickly. Responded to every movement of his mouth. Daemon kissed her with hunger held on a chain.

The Devil pulled against that chain. Not to break it. Not anymore. It wanted Femi to be the one who decided how much slack it received. Daemon remembered her watching him.

Her eyes fixed on his bloody hands. The satisfaction in her smile when Julian vanished beneath the cement. The way she had just confessed that his violence aroused her. Gods. He wanted her. The Devil wanted her more. Daemon’s hand slid into her midnight hair and cradled the back of her head. Femi’s hands moved beneath his open shirt. Her palms met the warm skin of his chest. His entire body shuddered.

The Devil groaned inside him.

Little ghost.

The kiss deepened.

Femi made that sound.

Small.

Soft.

Trapped in the back of her throat.

The Devil lost every coherent thought it possessed.

Again.

It went directly to Daemon’s head. His heart battered his ribs. He kissed her harder. Femi pressed against him, chasing something she did not yet understand. Daemon understood too well. His hand tightened in her hair. Then he forced himself to pull away.

“We have to stop.”

The Devil objected violently.

No.

The words broke against her lips. Femi nodded.

Then kissed him again.

The Devil reversed its position immediately.

Yes.

Daemon made a rough sound of surrender. This kiss was slower. Deeper. Her mouth remained open beneath his as he tasted her carefully. One of Femi’s hands slid over his shoulder. The other remained against his chest, directly above his pounding heart. She made that noise again. Daemon’s control frayed.

The Devil had almost none left.

More.

Daemon broke the kiss. Femi followed his mouth. For one second, Daemon nearly let her catch him. Then he leaned back against the chair. His breathing came hard.

Femi sat across his lap, equally breathless. Her lips were swollen. Her hair had begun escaping its braid beneath his hand. Daemon smiled up at her. His crooked smile. The one she loved. Femi’s stomach trembled again.

“There it is,” he whispered.

Her eyes questioned him.

“That look.”

Femi immediately looked away.

Daemon chuckled and touched her chin.

“No.”

He turned her face back.

“Do not hide it from me.”

Her cheeks warmed.

“You wanted me.”

Femi swallowed.

“You still do.”

She nodded.

The Devil purred.

Ours.

Daemon felt the word.

And corrected it.

Hers.

The Devil resisted for barely a heartbeat.

Then—

Hers. Choosing us.

Daemon’s eyes darkened.

“Gods, little ghost. You have no idea what that does to me.”

Her fingertips traced his lower lip. Daemon kissed them. One by one. Femi’s hands moved.

Why did we stop?

The Devil became intensely interested in Daemon’s answer.

“Because you are discovering desire.”

His thumb stroked her hip.

“And discovering something is not the same as being ready to give it everything.”

Femi studied him.

You do not want more?

Daemon laughed once. The sound held no humor. The Devil nearly laughed with him.

“I want more than I should tell you.”

Everything.

Her eyes widened.

“I want so much it frightens me.”

Femi’s gaze softened.

“But I will not let my desire become another demand you believe you must satisfy.”

The Devil quieted. Her fingers curled into his shirt.

“You decide how far this goes.”

Daemon rested his forehead against hers.

“And you decide without fear that I will leave if your answer is no.”

Femi remained against him.

Her hands moved carefully.

I do not want to say no.

Daemon closed his eyes.

The Devil surged forward.

Yes.

He kept it behind his teeth.

“What do you want to say?”

Femi hesitated.

Not yet.

Everything inside Daemon stopped. The Devil went silent. Femi watched him. Waiting. For disappointment. Punishment. Withdrawal. The old lesson. Nothing is free. Affection has a price. Want creates obligation.

The Devil looked at her through Daemon’s eyes. At the uncertainty creeping into those green depths. And understood that this mattered more than every kiss that had come before it. She had trusted them with a boundary.

Not yet.

Not never.

But even if it had been— The answer had to remain the same.

The Devil settled.

Then wait.

Daemon opened his eyes.

“Then not yet.”

Her expression crumpled with something close to relief. The Devil hated that relief. Not because it wanted something else. Because Femi had expected refusing them to hurt.

Expected warmth to disappear. Expected desire to become punishment. Daemon kissed her forehead. Femi wrapped her arms around his neck and rested against him. For several quiet breaths, he held her. No demand followed. No price appeared. No affection was withdrawn. The Devil wanted her fiercely. Painfully. Possessively. And did nothing.

Perhaps that was another shape of want. Wanting without taking.

Eventually, her hands moved against his shoulder.

But I want more kisses.

The Devil came alive instantly.

Yes.

Daemon smiled into her hair.

“That can be arranged.”

Femi pulled back. He kissed her before she could ask. Slowly. Gently. Nothing like the violence she had watched earlier. Yet her stomach trembled just as fiercely. Perhaps more. When the kiss ended, Daemon followed her lips for one helpless second.

Then he smiled up at her.

“My dangerous little ghost.”

Femi touched his scar. Her own small smile appeared. Not cold this time. Not calculating. Soft. Hungry. Entirely hers. And offered freely to him. The Devil cherished the distinction. From Malone’s office came the sound of a drawer closing. Femi leaped from Daemon’s lap.

The Devil snarled.

Malone.

She snatched up the forgotten cloth and began wiping his table.

Daemon leaned back in his chair. Malone entered the clubhouse. He looked at Femi. Then at Daemon. Then at Femi’s swollen lips and Daemon’s disordered hair.

Malone sighed.

“I do not want to know.”

Femi cleaned faster.

Daemon’s crooked smile widened.

“That makes three of us.”

Malone frowned.

“That sentence does not make sense.”

“It does to me.”

Malone stared at him. Daemon reached for his whiskey. Across the table, Femi finally looked directly at him. Desire remained in her green eyes.

The Devil purred.

There.

Daemon lifted his glass and smiled. Femi blushed. But this time, she did not look away. Neither did the Devil.

It had spent most of Daemon’s life understanding want as something simple.

See.

Want.

Take.

Femi had ruined that simplicity.

Now the Devil knew another kind.

See.

Want.

Ask.

Wait.

And when their little ghost finally chose— Yes. —there was nothing in the world sweeter.

Daemon woke at four in the morning.

No nightmare had found him. No warehouse waited behind his eyes. No screams followed him from sleep.

Only the deep purr of the Devil, waiting impatiently to see Femi again.

Little ghost.

Daemon stared at the ceiling.

He had dreamed of her.

In the dream, Femi kissed him inside the industrial freezer while Julian’s blood still covered his hands. Her fingers traveled across his heated skin, smearing red along his chest.

She had watched him punish Julian. Wanted him because of it. The cold room disappeared beneath the heat of her body. Femi pulled him closer. The Devil finally surrendered. There had been no fear in her eyes. No uncertainty. She chose him. Every violent piece. Every scar. Every terrible thing he was. The Devil remembered the dream differently.

She touched us.

That had been the part it loved.

Her hands everywhere.

Curious.

Hungry.

Unfrightened.

Her body shook in his arms as pleasure claimed her. Her hands clutched his shoulders. Her head fell back, exposing the vulnerable line of her throat. Then she made that sound. Not the quiet hum he had coaxed from her kisses. Something deeper. A broken purr given only to him.

Daemon closed his eyes. The dream returned with cruel clarity. Femi beneath him. Around him. Her midnight hair spread across the concrete like spilled darkness. His name formed silently on her lips.

The Devil urged him to move.

Find her.

Daemon threw back the covers. He wore only black sleeping trousers. He did not bother finding a shirt or shoes. The Devil approved of that decision. He left his room and descended the stairs. The clubhouse remained dark. He crossed it without turning on the lights. A soft golden glow escaped beneath the kitchen door.

Daemon entered. Femi stood at the counter making coffee. Her hair was loose, falling past her waist in a midnight curtain. She wore soft black shorts and a fitted white shirt.

Her back faced him.

Daemon stopped.

The Devil purred.

There.

Femi glanced over one shoulder. Her green eyes found him. For a moment, neither moved.

Then Daemon spoke.

“Do you ever get lonely, little ghost?”

The question left him before he could decide whether he wanted an answer.

Femi’s shoulders stiffened. She turned toward him. Her hands moved.

I had never been lonely before you came.

Daemon stared. The Devil’s purr stopped. Femi looked away and returned to the coffee. He approached slowly.

“I think I have always been lonely.”

She stopped pouring water.

“Until you came.”

The Devil had no clever answer for that. It simply watched her. Daemon stood behind her. He placed both hands on the counter, one on either side of her. Not touching. Not trapping. Femi could slip beneath either arm if she chose. She turned within the space he had created.

Her face tilted toward his. The Devil became still.

Then it purred like a pampered predator.

Closer.

Daemon lowered his head.

“Do not look at me like that, little ghost.”

His lips hovered near her ear.

“I am weak this early in the morning.”

His voice remained heavy with sleep.

“Especially without your coffee.”

Femi’s hand touched his chest. Daemon stopped breathing.

The Devil did too.

Then—

Oh.

His body responded instantly. The dream rushed back. Her hands against his bloodied skin. Her mouth beneath his. The sound of her pleasure. But this was not the dream. This was Femi. Awake. Sober. Her hand on him because she had put it there.

The Devil’s pleasure deepened.

She touched us.

Daemon closed his eyes.

Femi’s fingertips traced the line between two muscles. They moved slowly. Curiously.

The Devil followed every inch.

Again.

“Do you like touching me?”

She nodded without looking away from his chest.

The Devil practically preened.

“Does it please you?”

Another nod.

Yes.

All her attention remained fixed on him. Femi touched the scar near his ribs. Then the tattoo crossing his left side. Her finger followed its black lines. Daemon’s head fell back. The sound that left him was partly a groan and partly something without a human name.

Low.

Hungry.

The Devil made the sound with him. Femi looked up. She did not retreat.

That pleased it even more.

She likes it.

Daemon’s hands remained planted against the counter. They had begun to tremble. Femi stepped closer. Her palms spread across his chest.

The Devil nearly lost its mind.

Both hands.

Daemon would have laughed if breathing had not become impossible. She explored him with the same careful concentration she brought to kneading bread or repairing a broken hinge. No part of him escaped her attention. Old scars. Tattoos. The shifting muscles beneath his skin. Her hands traveled over his shoulders. Then around him. Femi mapped the muscles of his back as though she wanted to understand the purpose of each one.

Daemon stood frozen. Each breath became a fight. He had endured torture without making a sound. He had remained calm while bullets passed close enough to cut his hair. But Femi’s fingertips moved along his spine, and the Devil nearly came apart.

Little ghost.

“Little ghost.”

His voice had become unrecognizable. She traced another scar. Daemon’s arms shook harder. The fight left him. He dropped to his knees. Femi’s eyes widened. But her hands did not leave him. The Devil cared about nothing else.

Still touching us.

Now they rested on his shoulders. Daemon looked up. Femi touched his neck. Her thumbs traced the tendons there. Her fingers entered his pale hair and pushed it away from his scarred face. The Devil closed its eyes inside him. No fear. No recoil. No hesitation when she uncovered the scar. Just Femi’s hands. Gentle. Curious. Wanted.

More.

She had brought the Devil to his knees.

And appeared not to understand what she had done. Femi leaned forward. Her lips touched his collarbone. Daemon’s eyes closed.

The Devil shuddered with him.

Again.

She kissed the same place again. Then moved higher. Her mouth found the sensitive place along his neck. His entire body shuddered. Her teeth grazed his skin. Not biting. A kiss with the faintest hint of danger. The Devil adored that.

Daemon’s hands closed around her hips. He did not pull. He only held on.

“Kiss me.”

The words broke from him.

“Little ghost, please.”

The Devil begged with him.

Please.

His voice had been destroyed by need.

Femi kissed him. Her mouth met his cautiously. Daemon remained still for the first touch. He allowed her to choose the pressure. The pace. How close she wanted him. Femi’s fingers tightened in his hair. Her lips parted.

The Devil purred.

She chose.

Daemon’s control fractured. He kissed her back. One hand moved along her spine. The other remained at her hip. Femi pressed closer. The kiss deepened. The kitchen disappeared. There was only the taste of her and the soft warmth of her body between his hands. She made that sound. A quiet hum in the back of her throat. Daemon groaned against her lips. The Devil remembered the dream. It wanted the dream. It wanted more. But beneath the wanting lived something it had only recently learned to protect.

Her choice.

Daemon pulled away sharply. His breathing came in ragged bursts. Femi followed his mouth for an inch before stopping.

The Devil noticed immediately.

She followed.

That did absolutely nothing helpful for Daemon’s control.

Her eyes opened. Confusion entered them.

Daemon rested his forehead against her stomach.

“Gods.”

Femi’s fingers remained in his hair.

The Devil was absurdly pleased about that.

Still touching.

He looked up. Her lips were swollen. Her green eyes had darkened.

“Tell me to stop.”

Femi frowned. Her hands moved.

Why?

“Because I dreamed about you.”

Her cheeks warmed.

What happened?

Daemon’s grip shifted against her hips.

“You do not want me to answer that.”

Why?

“Because you will blush.”

Femi’s expression turned stubborn.

Daemon’s crooked smile appeared.

“And I will lose what remains of my control.”

She touched his scar.

The Devil softened instantly beneath her fingertips.

Tell her.

Tell me.

Daemon looked at her.

“In my dream, we were still inside the freezer.”

Femi became still.

“I was covered in Julian’s blood.”

Her attention sharpened.

“You kissed me.”

Color moved across her face.

“You touched me exactly as you are touching me now.”

Femi’s fingers twitched in his hair.

The Devil purred at the movement.

“But you did not stop.”

Her breath caught.

“Neither did I.”

Femi looked toward the counter. Daemon touched her chin and brought her gaze back to him.

“I took everything you offered.”

Her lips parted.

“And you offered me everything.”

Her breathing changed. The Devil listened. But it remembered something important. A dream was not a promise. Dream-Femi could offer everything because she belonged to Daemon’s sleeping mind. This Femi belonged only to herself.

“You made a sound I have never heard before.”

Daemon’s thumb moved along her jaw.

“A purr.”

Femi’s entire face turned crimson. The Devil was delighted.

Daemon smiled.

“I warned you.”

She struck his shoulder. He caught her wrist and kissed the center of her palm. Femi stared at him. The embarrassment remained, but beneath it lived curiosity. And desire.

Her hands moved more slowly.

Did the dream please you?

Daemon laughed softly.

“Too much.”

Did I please you?

His smile vanished.

“You always please me.”

The Devil agreed immediately.

Always.

Femi’s fingers curled.

“Your coffee pleases me.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Your bread pleases me.”

She tried to pull her hand away. Daemon held it gently.

“Your kisses torment me.”

Femi stopped struggling.

“And your touch…”

His voice lowered.

The Devil leaned into the words.

“Your touch makes the Devil beg.”

Yes.

Femi stared at the man kneeling before her. Daemon released her wrist. She could step away. Instead, she touched his cheek.

The Devil nearly purred aloud.

Again.

I want to touch you more.

Daemon’s eyes darkened.

The Devil’s pleasure flooded through him.

Not I will.

Not you may.

I want.

Want.

Her want.

Her choice.

“Then touch me.”

Please.

Femi’s hand slid from his cheek into his hair. Daemon closed his eyes.

The Devil practically melted beneath her fingers.

Our little ghost likes touching us.

“But understand something.”

She waited.

“If you touch me like this, my body will respond.”

Her gaze moved over him.

“That does not mean you must give me anything else.”

The Devil quieted. There it was again. The lesson Femi had forced into both of them. Want did not create debt. Not Daemon’s want. Not even hers. Femi looked into his eyes.

“You can stop whenever you want.”

Her fingers traced his scar.

“I will still be here.”

The Devil answered before she could.

Always here.

Femi nodded. Then she bent and kissed him again. This kiss held less uncertainty. Her hands framed his face. Her mouth moved against his as though she were memorizing him. Daemon remained on his knees. The Devil did not resent the position. It adored it. There were worse places for a monster than kneeling beneath the hands of the woman it loved.

Femi kissed his scar. The Devil went quiet. His cheek. The corner of his mouth. Then his lips again. Every kiss landed somewhere Daemon had learned not to expect tenderness.

The Devil treasured every one.

She touches everything.

No disgust. No fear. No flinch from damaged skin. Femi touched them as though every scar was simply another place worth knowing. Daemon held her waist. She moved closer until his face pressed against her stomach. Her arms circled his head. He breathed her in. Coffee. Strawberries. Femi.

The Devil purred.

Ours.

Daemon felt the word.

The correction came almost automatically now.

Hers.

A pause. Then the Devil amended itself.

Hers. Here with us.

That was better.

“Little ghost.”

She looked down.

“You said you were never lonely before I came.”

Her expression softened.

“What changed?”

Femi’s hands moved against his shoulders.

Before you, loneliness was normal.

Daemon said nothing.

The Devil stopped purring.

Then you made me feel what it was like not to be alone.

Her fingers faltered.

Now I notice when you are gone.

Something inside Daemon broke open. Something inside the Devil did too. It understood monsters. Violence. Blood. Want. It was still learning how to survive tenderness. Daemon rose slowly. Femi tipped her head back as he reached his full height. Daemon touched her cheek.

“I notice every room you are not in.”

Her eyes shone.

“I look for you before I realize I am looking.”

The Devil whispered:

Always.

Femi rested her palm against his heart. The beat pounded beneath it.

The Devil immediately returned to being pleased.

Touching us again.

“Yes,” Daemon whispered. “You do that too.”

She smiled. Small. Soft. The smile emptied his mind. Daemon bent and kissed her forehead. Then he stepped back. Femi frowned.

The Devil objected too.

Why are we leaving?

“The coffee.”

The Devil considered this.

Fine.

She looked toward the pot.

It had finished brewing several minutes ago.

“If Malone wakes before he has coffee, he becomes unbearable.”

Femi’s eyebrows rose.

“More unbearable.”

Her silent laughter moved through her shoulders. Daemon watched her pour two cups. She handed him one. His fingers brushed hers. The Devil purred again. Femi lifted her own cup. Her gaze moved over his bare chest. Slowly. Then returned to his face.

Daemon’s crooked smile appeared.

The Devil noticed that look.

There.

“Like what you see?”

Femi took a deliberate drink of coffee.

Then nodded.

Daemon nearly dropped his cup.

The Devil was insufferably pleased.

She likes us.

Femi smiled behind hers.

The little ghost had discovered desire. Worse, she had discovered teasing. The Devil was hopelessly pleased by both. But most of all— she kept touching them. Not because she was frightened. Not because she owed them. Not because Daemon had protected her. Not because the Devil had killed for her. Because she wanted to. Her fingers had explored scars other people avoided. Her lips had kissed damaged skin.

Her hands had pushed pale hair away from the face Ravenside feared. She had touched the Devil until it begged.

And when given the freedom to stop— she had chosen to touch it again.

The Devil watched Femi over the rim of Daemon’s coffee.

She looked at his bare chest once more.

The purr returned.

Deep.

Warm.

Utterly satisfied.

Again, little ghost.

The Devil wanted the gardens empty.

Daemon had learned not to argue with it when it became unreasonable about Femi.

Unfortunately, it had become unreasonable about Femi often.

She said she’s never been inside.

“I heard her.”

Then fix it.

That conversation had happened two nights earlier at Helix.

Femi had been carrying plates past Daemon’s table when someone mentioned the Northcrest Botanical Gardens. She had stopped long enough to watch two women argue about whether the spring orchid exhibit was worth the admission price.

Daemon had asked whether she’d ever been. Femi shook her head. That should have been the end of it.

Instead, the Devil had gone quiet.

Daemon knew better than to mistake the silence for disinterest.

Never?

Apparently not.

Why?

Daemon had looked at Femi.

She had already moved toward another table.

“Probably never had the chance.”

The Devil considered that.

Then—

Buy it.

Daemon had almost choked on his whiskey.

“The gardens?”

Yes.

“No.”

Why?

Because people generally don’t buy botanical gardens.

Then buy the morning.

Daemon had stared into his glass.

The Devil had been perfectly serious.

Little ghost should not have to look around people. She should look at flowers.

That argument had been considerably harder to dismiss. So Daemon made a telephone call. Then another. Then he paid an amount of money that would have made Malone call him several unpleasant things. And Saturday morning, the Northcrest Botanical Gardens belonged to Femi.

For three hours.

She knew something was wrong the moment they crossed into Northcrest. Daemon knew because Femi had started looking at him. Not suspiciously. Exactly. Accusingly. He kept his eyes on the road.

Her stare continued.

“What?”

Femi signed.

Where are we going?

“You’ll see.”

Her eyes narrowed.

The Devil stirred.

She doesn’t like surprises.

“I noticed.”

Femi’s eyebrows lifted.

Daemon glanced at her.

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

That did nothing to improve her expression.

Then she smiled. Small. Amused. Daemon looked back at the road before she caught what that smile did to him.

The Devil was less disciplined.

Again.

“No.”

Make her do it again.

Daemon tightened his hands around the steering wheel. Femi watched him for another moment before turning toward the passenger window. That gave Daemon the opportunity to look at her. He had already done so several times. Her clothes were simple. Red sleeveless top, fitted closely from her neck to her waist. Black jeans. Black leather boots reaching nearly to her knees. But her hair—

That was different.

Her midnight-black hair had been braided. Not the simple braid she sometimes wore at Helix when she cooked. This one began in several smaller braids near her temples before weaving together along the back of her head, becoming one thick braid that fell nearly to her waist.

Daemon had noticed when she came downstairs. He had said nothing.

The Devil had been complaining about that failure ever since.

Tell her.

Daemon ignored it.

You noticed.

Obviously.

She probably spent time doing it.

Probably.

For us.

“You don’t know that.”

Femi turned.

Daemon realized he’d said that aloud.

Her brows rose.

“Nothing.”

Her eyes narrowed again.

The Devil was insufferably pleased.

Coward.

Daemon drove another block.

“Your hair is different.”

Femi blinked. Then touched the braid. Daemon immediately regretted beginning this conversation because he had no idea what was supposed to come next.

“It looks nice.”

The Devil recoiled.

Nice?

Daemon frowned.

Femi’s mouth curved.

Nice? the Devil repeated with disgust. Her hair is beautiful.

“I meant beautiful.”

Femi’s smile widened.

Daemon glared through the windshield.

“Don’t encourage him.”

She laughed silently. Her shoulders moved with it.

The Devil practically purred.

Better.

Northcrest Botanical Gardens occupied nearly thirty acres at the northern edge of the district.

Glass conservatories rose behind wrought-iron gates. Morning sunlight caught their curved roofs and transformed them into enormous prisms. Beyond them stretched walking paths, fountains, hedges, flowering trees, and gardens divided by climate and region.

Femi stared through the windshield. Then looked at Daemon. Then back at the gardens. Daemon parked.

Femi turned toward him again.

“Yes.”

Her hands moved.

Here?

“Yes.”

Why?

“You said you’d never been.”

She stared at him. Daemon got out before she could ask anything else.

The Devil laughed.

Coward.

“Shut up.”

Femi climbed out. She looked toward the parking lot. Empty. Then toward the entrance. Also empty. Her suspicion returned immediately. Daemon came around the truck.

She signed.

They’re closed.

“No.”

She pointed toward the empty lot.

“They’re open.”

Femi waited.

Daemon shoved his hands into his pockets.

“Just not to anyone else.”

Her hands stopped.

The Devil became very pleased with itself.

Tell her.

“No.”

Femi’s eyes widened.

What did you do?

“I paid for the morning.”

She stared at him.

“Three hours.”

Still staring.

“It wasn’t that expensive.”

That was a lie. Femi knew it. Her expression said so. Daemon started walking.

“Come on.”

She remained exactly where she was. Daemon stopped. Looked back. Femi crossed her arms.

The Devil laughed.

She knows.

“She doesn’t know anything.”

Little ghost knows you’re lying.

Daemon sighed.

“It was somewhat expensive.”

Femi’s eyebrows climbed.

“It’s already paid.”

Her hands moved.

Daemon.

“I wanted you to see the gardens.”

She pointed toward the empty parking lot.

“Yes.”

Her hands moved faster.

Why did you need everyone else gone?

Daemon opened his mouth.

The Devil answered first.

Because she watches people instead of beautiful things.

Daemon’s amusement disappeared. That was precisely why. Femi would spend half the morning moving around strangers. She would watch hands. Doors. Voices. She would step aside when people came too close. She would enjoy the gardens. But never completely. Daemon looked at her.

“Because today you don’t have to watch anyone.”

Femi became still.

“Just the flowers.”

Her expression softened.

The Devil whispered—

And us.

Daemon ignored that part. Femi walked toward him. She stopped close enough that her shoulder nearly touched his arm. Then her hand found his. Daemon looked down. Her fingers slipped between his. The Devil went silent. Completely. For perhaps three seconds.

Then—

She took our hand.

Daemon closed his fingers around hers.

“I noticed.”

Femi looked up.

Daemon shook his head.

“Not you.”

Another silent laugh.

Then they walked through the gates together.

“You have come at a perfect time, my friend.”

Lester emerged from one of the conservatories wearing green work trousers, an old button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and gardening gloves shoved into his back pocket. He was somewhere in his sixties and had the deeply lined face of a man who had spent most of his life outside and considered sunscreen an insult.

Daemon held out his hand. Lester ignored it and hugged him. Daemon tolerated this with the expression of a man enduring a minor medical procedure.

Femi smiled.

The Devil muttered—

Why does everyone touch us?

Because Lester always had. Lester stepped back. Then noticed Femi. His eyebrows rose.

“Well.”

Daemon’s eyes narrowed. Lester smiled innocently.

“You brought company.”

“This is Femi.”

Femi lifted her hand. Lester nodded warmly.

“Lester. I make things grow and complain about people stepping where they shouldn’t.”

Femi smiled.

“I like her already.”

“You’ve known her seven seconds.”

“Long enough.”

Lester gestured toward the gardens.

“The orchids have just been watered, Daemon.”

Then he looked at Femi conspiratorially.

“This guy here used to come early just to see us water the orchids and the bleeding hearts.”

Lester laughed. Daemon stared at him. Femi turned very slowly toward Daemon.

The Devil was delighted.

Caught.

“I came here occasionally.”

“Every Thursday for six months one summer.”

“Lester.”

“And if we watered late, he’d stand around looking offended until somebody got the hose.”

Femi’s smile grew. Daemon considered leaving Lester in one of the compost bins.

The Devil objected.

Not yet. He’s useful.

Lester pointed toward a path disappearing between flowering hedges.

“Go. You’ve got the place until eleven. Gardeners will be around, but they’ve been told to leave you alone.”

His eyes shifted toward their joined hands.

His smile became unbearable.

“Enjoy yourselves.”

Daemon led Femi away before the old man could say anything else. They had made it perhaps twenty feet when her fingers moved against his. He looked down. Femi released his hand only long enough to sign.

You came here to watch flowers get watered?

Daemon looked straight ahead.

“Yes.”

Her eyes danced.

“It was peaceful.”

The dangerous Daemon Pallid likes flowers.

“Don’t start.”

The Devil whispered—

Tell her which ones.

“No.”

Femi tilted her head.

No what?

“Nothing.”

Tell her.

Daemon kept walking.

Bleeding hearts.

He ignored it.

Black orchids.

Still ignored.

Black roses.

Daemon’s jaw tightened. Femi squeezed his hand. He looked at her. She pointed toward the Devil’s apparent salvation. A bed of bleeding hearts. Water still clung to them. Pink and white blossoms hung from arching stems, each shaped like a tiny heart split at the bottom. Droplets collected along their edges. Femi stopped. Everything else seemed to leave her attention. She walked closer. Daemon followed. Femi crouched beside the flowers. A drop of water gathered at the bottom of one heart. Swelled. Then fell. Femi smiled. Not the small smile she gave people at Helix.

Not the shy one Daemon sometimes managed to pull from her. This was open. Easy. Beautiful.

The Devil softened.

There.

Daemon knew.

Femi signed.

I love bleeding hearts after the rain.

She touched one leaf carefully.

They live up to their name after a rain.

“Yes, they do.”

Daemon smiled. The scar pulled at the edge.

The Devil whispered smugly—

I told you.

Femi noticed his expression.

Her hands moved.

Do you like them?

“Yes.”

Then she added something.

You or the Devil?

Daemon stared at her.

Femi waited.

The Devil nearly vibrated with delight.

She asked about me.

“Yes.”

Her eyebrow lifted.

“Both.”

Femi looked pleased.

The Devil became intolerable.

She wanted to know what I like.

“She asked a question.”

About me.

Daemon walked away. Femi hurried after him, smiling.

Her hand found his again.

They took their time. That surprised Daemon. Not because Femi moved slowly. Because he discovered he didn’t mind moving slowly with her. They wandered through the rose gardens. Stopped beside fountains. Crossed a small stone bridge. Entered a conservatory where warm humid air immediately fogged the edges of the glass. Femi inspected everything. Not casually. Completely. She read the plaques. Studied leaves. Bent close enough to flowers to smell them without touching. Watched gardeners trim stems in the distance.

Daemon never rushed her.

Neither did the Devil.

She missed that one.

Daemon looked back.

A small cluster of blue flowers grew beneath a fern.

“Femi.”

She turned.

He pointed.

Her face lit.

The Devil preened.

Good.

They reached the orchid house.

Femi stopped in the doorway.

Rows of orchids filled the conservatory.

White.

Pink.

Purple.

Yellow.

Blue.

And near the back— Black. Femi walked toward them. Slowly. Daemon followed. She stared.

Then signed.

I’ve never seen black orchids before.

The Devil whispered immediately—

She needs one.

Daemon almost laughed.

Of course.

Femi leaned closer.

The petals were not truly black. Deep burgundy lived beneath them, visible only where sunlight passed through their edges.

Her hands moved.

Do you like these?

Daemon nodded.

“Yes.”

She glanced at him.

Then signed deliberately.

Daemon or the Devil?

“Both.”

Really?

“Yes.”

The Devil added—

Especially me.

Daemon translated despite himself.

“He says especially him.”

Femi’s eyes widened. Then she smiled directly at Daemon. Not Daemon. The Devil. Daemon felt the distinction. So did the thing inside him. The Devil became utterly still.

Femi signed.

They’re beautiful.

So are you.

Daemon refused to translate that.

The Devil growled.

Coward.

Daemon looked at the orchids instead. And made himself a promise. Femi would have one. He didn’t know whether black orchids survived well indoors. He didn’t know what they needed. Sunlight. Shade.Water. Humidity. Whatever.

Lester would know. Daemon would ask.

The Devil corrected him.

Two.

Why?

One might die.

Daemon considered that.

Fair.

Two black orchids.

Maybe three.

The blue orchids were Femi’s favorite in the conservatory. Daemon learned that because she returned to them twice. He also learned she liked roses. Specifically blue ones. And black ones. When they reached a section containing both, she stood between them looking indecisive.

Daemon leaned against the railing.

“Which?”

Femi looked between the flowers.

Her hands moved.

Both.

“That isn’t choosing.”

She shrugged.

Black and blue roses.

The Devil approved.

Little ghost has taste.

Daemon nodded.

“I agree.”

Femi looked at him.

You or him?

Daemon considered.

“Both.”

She smiled.

By the end of the morning, that had become a game.

Femi pointed at flowers.

Daemon or Devil?

“Neither.”

Another.

“Devil.”

Another.

“Me.”

Another.

“Both.”

Yellow tulips.

“Neither.”

The Devil protested.

They’re fine.

“You just said they looked cheerful in an irritating way.”

Femi covered her mouth.

Her shoulders shook.

“You heard him.”

She nodded.

He doesn’t like yellow?

“He doesn’t trust it.”

Lies.

“He says that’s a lie.”

Femi signed.

Then what does he like?

Daemon sighed.

“Bleeding hearts. Black orchids. Black roses.”

Femi’s expression became delighted.

And Daemon?

He looked at the flowers surrounding them.

Then at her.

“The same.”

The Devil scoffed.

You like the blue ones now.

Daemon frowned.

No, he didn’t.

You watched her smile at them for five minutes.

That wasn’t the same thing.

Blue orchids.

Daemon looked toward them.

Femi was waiting.

“Blue orchids aren’t bad.”

Her smile returned.

The Devil laughed.

Pathetic.

At eleven, Lester met them near the entrance.

Femi’s hand was still in Daemon’s.

“See everything?”

Femi nodded enthusiastically.

“Good.”

Lester looked at Daemon.

“Black orchids?”

Daemon’s eyes narrowed. How the hell—

Lester smiled.

“You haven’t changed that much.”

Femi looked between them.

Daemon ignored both of them.

“I’ll call you.”

“I’m sure you will.”

The Devil whispered—

Three.

Daemon sighed.

Fine.

Three.

Runes sat in Wolfwater between a laundromat and a narrow bookstore that seemed perpetually closed despite somehow remaining in business. The café had eight tables inside and six outside. None matched. The chairs didn’t either. Someone had painted small black symbols along the window frames years ago, which was apparently how the place had gotten its name.

The sun was bright by the time they arrived. Daemon chose the outside table with the building behind them. Habit. Femi noticed. Of course she did. She sat opposite him. Daemon ordered coffee. Femi ordered coffee too. They both chose sandwiches. Nothing expensive. Nothing elaborate.

For once, nothing was happening. No one needed rescuing. No one was bleeding. No one was hunting anyone. No motorcycles were following them. No messages waited on Daemon’s phone. No one at Helix needed anything.

The Devil seemed suspicious.

Too quiet.

Daemon took a drink of coffee.

Enjoy it.

I am.

Femi looked at him.

Talking to him?

“Yes.”

What did he say?

“He thinks it’s too quiet.”

Femi looked around. A bus passed. Someone walked a terrier down the sidewalk. A woman pushed a stroller across the street. The café door opened and closed.

Femi signed.

Tell him this is what normal sounds like.

Daemon translated internally.

The Devil considered it.

I don’t dislike it.

Daemon smiled slightly.

“What?”

Femi signed.

What did he say?

“He doesn’t dislike it.”

She smiled. Their sandwiches arrived. Femi immediately stole one of Daemon’s fries. He stared at her. She ate it.

The Devil whispered—

She stole our food.

Daemon waited.

Femi reached for another. He moved the plate away.

Her eyes widened.

“No.”

She pointed toward his fries.

“You have your own.”

She looked at her plate.

Then his.

Yours are better.

“They came out of the same fryer.”

She reached again. Daemon blocked her. Femi narrowed her eyes.

The Devil considered the conflict.

Give her the fries.

“No.”

Femi froze.

Then pointed toward herself.

Daemon realized he’d answered aloud.

“Not you.”

She pointed toward his head.

“Yes.”

Her hands moved.

The Devil told you to give me the fries?

Daemon glared.

Femi’s smile became wicked.

I like him.

The Devil went quiet. Daemon stopped moving. Something strange passed through him. Not his. Not entirely.

The Devil whispered, softer now—

She likes me.

Apparently.

Give her everything.

Daemon almost laughed.

Instead, he pushed the plate toward her.

Femi stole three fries.

“Greedy.”

She ate one. Then held another toward him. Daemon looked at it. Then at her.

She waited.

He leaned forward and took it from her fingers. Her cheeks colored slightly.

The Devil became unbearably pleased.

Again.

Absolutely not.

Femi ate the last one herself. They stayed at Runes longer than necessary. They drank coffee. Talked. Sometimes with words. Sometimes with hands. Sometimes with the Devil inserting opinions no one had requested.

Femi told Daemon about a book she’d been reading. Daemon admitted he hadn’t read it. She looked offended. He promised nothing. She informed him through increasingly aggressive signs that his literary education was inadequate.

He told her she was judgmental. She agreed. The Devil sided with Femi. Of course. A breeze moved through Wolfwater.

Femi’s braid shifted over her shoulder. Daemon watched it. She caught him.

Her hand went to her hair.

Still nice?

Daemon shook his head.

Her expression fell slightly.

“Beautiful.”

Her eyes softened.

Daemon looked down at his coffee.

The Devil whispered—

Better.

Femi reached across the table. Her fingers settled over his hand. Daemon looked at them. Small fingers. Warm skin. No hesitation. He turned his hand beneath hers. Their palms met. Neither moved away.

People passed on the sidewalk. Cars moved through Wolfwater. Someone laughed inside Runes. Sunlight warmed the table. Femi drank her coffee with one hand because she refused to release his with the other. Daemon realized something then. He had spent most of his life thinking peace was the absence of violence. It wasn’t. Peace was this.

A mismatched table outside a small café. Coffee going cold. A woman with midnight hair sitting across from him. Her hand in his. Nothing chasing them. Nothing requiring blood. Nothing to do except remain exactly where they were.

The Devil was unusually quiet. Daemon waited.

Eventually, it whispered.

Little ghost is happy.

Daemon looked at Femi.

She was watching a sparrow hop beneath the neighboring table, apparently considering whether it could steal a crumb.

A smile curved her mouth.

Yes.

She was.

We did that.

Daemon’s thumb moved slowly across the back of her hand.

Partly.

The Devil considered this.

Then—

Buy the orchids.

Daemon smiled.

Already planned on it.

Three.

Three.

Femi looked at him suspiciously.

What are you two plotting?

“Nothing.”

Her eyes narrowed. Daemon lifted his coffee. Across the table, Femi continued staring at him.

The Devil whispered—

She knows.

Daemon knew. He didn’t care. Femi squeezed his hand. Daemon squeezed hers back. And for one bright, ordinary afternoon in Wolfwater, the Devil wanted nothing more.

Femi discovered Daemon spoke four languages because Malone was irritated with him.

It happened in the middle of an otherwise ordinary afternoon at Helix.

The lunch crowd had thinned. Two regulars remained near the pool table arguing over a game neither seemed particularly interested in finishing. Cutter occupied his usual stool at the end of the bar with a newspaper spread beneath one elbow. Somewhere in the kitchen, something simmered beneath a lid.

Femi stood behind the bar sorting clean glasses.

Daemon sat in his corner.

His corner had become exactly that without anyone formally giving it to him. The small table near the rain-streaked window belonged to Daemon because people had collectively decided continuing to sit there wasn’t worth the trouble.

A glass of Jack rested near his hand. A book lay open in the other. Malone was on the telephone.

“No,” he said. Pause. “I don’t speak Spanish.”

Another pause. Malone’s expression deteriorated.

“I understand you’re speaking Spanish. That doesn’t magically make me understand it.”

Femi glanced toward him. Malone covered the receiver and looked around the clubhouse. His eyes landed on Daemon.

“You speak Spanish?”

Daemon didn’t look up from his book.

“Yes.”

Malone stared at him.

“You want to tell me why the hell I’m standing here listening to this man yell at me, then?”

“You didn’t ask.”

Malone’s eyes narrowed. Femi’s mouth twitched. Daemon turned a page. Malone pointed the telephone at him.

“Get over here.”

“No.”

“Daemon.”

Daemon sighed, closed his book around one finger, and rose.

The Devil stirred.

He seems irritated.

Astute observation.

Maybe he’ll die from it.

Unlikely.

Daemon took the receiver from Malone.

“Sí.”

The change was immediate. Femi stopped sorting glasses. Daemon listened for several seconds before responding in rapid, effortless Spanish.

Femi stared. His voice sounded different. Not completely. It was still deep. Still measured. Still carrying that quiet authority that made people listen when he had no intention of repeating himself. But the rhythm had changed. The words flowed easily. Naturally. Daemon said something else.

Paused.

Listened.

Then replied with considerably less patience.

The Devil approved.

That sounded threatening.

It wasn’t.

It should have been.

Daemon finished the conversation and handed the phone back.

Malone took it.

“What did he want?”

“He wants to know whether his delivery can come Monday instead of Tuesday.”

Malone stared.

“That took four minutes?”

“He likes talking.”

“And what were you saying at the end?”

“That Monday was fine.”

“That sounded like a threat.”

The Devil became smug.

See?

Daemon returned to his table. Behind him, Malone muttered something impolite. Femi followed Daemon with her eyes. Malone noticed. That was the problem with Malone. He noticed everything.

“You didn’t know?”

Femi looked at him.

Malone nodded toward Daemon.

“He speaks Spanish.”

Femi signed.

I noticed.

Malone snorted.

“And French.”

Her hands stopped.

“And Italian.”

Femi stared. Malone reached for another glass.

“Chinese too.”

Femi looked toward Daemon. Then back at Malone.

Her hands moved.

Four?

“Four that I know about.”

From his corner, Daemon spoke without looking up.

“Four?”

Malone glanced toward him.

“You listening?”

“Yes.”

“Nosy bastard.”

“You’re discussing me.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to listen.”

Daemon resumed reading. Femi continued staring at him.

The Devil noticed.

Little ghost is interested.

Daemon ignored it. A minute passed. Then another. He made it halfway through a page before a shadow fell across his book. Daemon looked up. Femi stood beside the table. Her apron was tied around her waist. Her midnight hair fell over one shoulder, and there was an expression in her green eyes he had learned to distrust.

Curiosity.

“What?”

Her hands moved.

You speak French?

“Yes.”

Really?

Daemon lowered the book.

“Why would Malone lie about that?”

She shrugged.

Then signed.

Say something.

Daemon looked at her.

“In French?”

She nodded.

The Devil answered immediately.

Tell her she’s beautiful.

No.

Why?

Because she asked him to say something in French, not embarrass her.

She is beautiful.

Daemon knew.

Then tell her.

Femi waited. Daemon leaned back in his chair.

The Devil continued.

Elle est belle.

Too simple.

The Devil paused.

So you do want to say something about her.

Daemon frowned.

Femi’s eyebrows lifted.

Are you arguing with him?

“Yes.”

Her mouth curved.

About what to say?

“Yes.”

The Devil was delighted that she understood them this well.

Tell her I’m right.

Absolutely not.

Tell her she is beautiful.

Daemon looked at Femi. She was still waiting. Green eyes on him. Patient. Amused. Trusting him with words she wouldn’t understand. That made the choice unexpectedly important. He could say anything. She wouldn’t know. Something ridiculous. Something harmless. Something about the weather.

The Devil objected immediately.

No.

Daemon agreed.

Not the weather.

Something sweet, then.

Something she couldn’t quite accuse him of using to make her blush because she wouldn’t know what he’d said.

The Devil grew interested.

What are you thinking?

Daemon closed his book.

He crooked one finger.

“Come here.”

Femi’s eyebrows rose.

He gestured again.

She stepped closer. Daemon leaned forward. Femi bent slightly toward him. Her hair slipped over her shoulder. Daemon brought his mouth close to her ear. Close enough to catch the faint scent of strawberries.

The Devil became very still.

Daemon whispered,

“Mon cœur bat pour toi.”

Femi froze. Her breath caught. Daemon leaned back. Color slowly climbed from the base of her throat into her cheeks.

The Devil was ecstatic.

Yes.

Femi stared at him. Her hand rose almost unconsciously toward the ear he’d whispered into. Daemon picked up his book again.

“What?”

Her eyes narrowed.

She signed.

What did you say?

“Something in French.”

Her expression flattened.

The Devil laughed.

Tell her.

No.

Tell her we can talk to her all day in French.

Daemon looked down at his book. The words had become considerably less interesting. Femi was still standing there. Waiting.

Her cheeks remained pink.

Her heart is beating faster.

You cannot hear her heart.

Don’t need to.

Neither did Daemon. Something about the way she looked at him told him the Devil was probably right.

Femi signed again.

What did it mean?

Daemon considered lying.

The Devil objected.

Coward.

“I said my heart beats for you.”

Femi went completely still. The blush deepened. Daemon’s mouth threatened to move. He controlled it. Barely.

The Devil had no such restraint.

Again.

No.

French.

No.

We could talk to her all day in French.

She wouldn’t understand them.

Exactly.

Daemon almost laughed. Femi looked down for a moment. Then back at him. Something shy had entered her expression.

Her hands moved.

Now Italian.

The Devil practically sat up inside him.

Oh, I like this game.

Daemon stared at her.

“You want Italian now?”

She nodded.

Say something.

The Devil immediately supplied several suggestions.

Daemon rejected all of them.

Mine were better.

Your suggestions would get him slapped.

She wouldn’t know.

Eventually she would.

Worth it.

No.

Femi tapped her fingers against the edge of his table. Waiting. Daemon considered his words. Then found the right ones.

“Come here.”

Femi’s eyes widened slightly. She knew the procedure now. Still, she stepped closer. Daemon leaned toward her again.

This time Femi turned her head before he reached her, exposing her ear. The small act sent something hot and quiet through him.

The Devil noticed.

Closer.

Daemon ignored it. Mostly. His mouth hovered beside her ear.

He whispered,

“Sei un’anima bella.”

A shiver moved visibly through Femi. Daemon saw it travel across her shoulders.

So did the Devil.

Again.

Absolutely not.

Femi slowly straightened. Her green eyes met his. Daemon held her gaze. The clubhouse seemed oddly quiet despite Cutter turning a newspaper page and Malone stacking glasses behind the bar.

Femi touched her ear again.

Then signed.

What was that?

“A beautiful soul.”

She stared at him.

“I said you have a beautiful soul.”

Something changed in her face. The teasing disappeared. For a moment, Femi simply looked at him. Daemon wondered if he’d gone too far.

The Devil didn’t.

True.

Yes.

Tell her again.

She heard him.

Italian sounds better.

Femi’s mouth curved. Not the broad smile she’d worn at the botanical gardens. Something smaller. Softer. Private. She stepped backward.

Daemon watched her. She took another step. Then turned and headed toward the bar.

The Devil whispered,

She liked it.

Daemon reopened his book. He had absolutely no idea what line he’d been reading. Femi reached the bar. Picked up her tray. Nearly picked up the wrong one.

Malone saw it. His gaze moved from her pink cheeks to Daemon. Then back to Femi. Malone slowly shook his head.

Daemon looked down at his book.

French again later.

No.

Spanish.

No.

Chinese.

Daemon turned a page he hadn’t read.

The Devil considered its options.

Italian.

“Enough.”

Cutter looked over his newspaper.

“You talking to yourself again?”

Daemon gave him a flat stare.

Cutter immediately returned to his paper.

Across the clubhouse, Femi glanced back. Their eyes met. Her cheeks were still pink. Then she smiled at him. Daemon couldn’t help the smile that stretched across his own face. It pulled at the scar on his cheek. He didn’t care.

The Devil settled beneath his skin, unbearably pleased.

Mon cœur bat pour toi.

Daemon watched Femi disappear into the kitchen.

Yes.

That one, at least, had been exactly right.

The Devil was awed by her.

Not because Femi wanted to hear French.

Not because she had blushed when Daemon whispered into her ear.

Not even because she had asked for Italian immediately afterward.

It was because she wanted to know what the Devil had said.

What it had suggested.

What it liked.

Femi was learning them.

Both of them.

And the Devil did not know what to do with that.

Femi returned to work.

Daemon did not.

Technically, he remained seated at his corner table with his book open in front of him.

He even turned a page.

He had no idea what was written on either one.

Across Helix, Femi collected two empty glasses from Cutter’s table, tucked them onto her tray, and headed toward the bar.

Her cheeks were still pink.

The Devil watched her.

She wanted to know.

Daemon knew exactly what it meant.

“Yes.”

About me.

Daemon glanced down at the book.

“Yes.”

That seemed to matter.

Far more than it should have.

The Devil had existed inside him for years.

People had feared it.

Some had tried to summon it deliberately, as though Daemon were merely the door and the Devil the thing worth meeting on the other side.

Others had treated it as a useful weapon. Sherri had been the worst. She had talked about the Devil as though it belonged to her. She had told people it loved her. That it watched her. That Daemon’s violence was proof of its devotion. She had never once asked what the Devil wanted.

Femi did.

Constantly.

What did he say?

Does the Devil like it?

What does he think?

Was that you or him?

She wanted to know the difference. Worse, she was beginning to recognize it. Femi reached the bar. Malone said something to her. She signed a response. Malone laughed.

The Devil remained strangely quiet.

Then—

She is learning us.

Daemon’s eyes lifted. Femi turned. As though she felt him watching. Their eyes met across the clubhouse. Her mouth curved.

The Devil seemed to stop breathing inside him.

Tell her.

Daemon knew better than to ask.

He did anyway.

Tell her what?

The answer came without hesitation.

That we love her.

Daemon went very still.

No.

The Devil pushed harder.

Tell her.

No.

You love her.

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

I love her.

That was different.

No.

Yes.

No.

Daemon looked away from Femi. His eyes dropped to the book. He hadn’t told her. He wasn’t going to tell her because the Devil became sentimental after she asked it about flowers, movies and Italian.

French.

“What?”

Tell her in French.

Absolutely not.

She won’t understand.

“That makes it worse.”

The Devil considered that.

Then, almost hopefully—

Italian?

Daemon rubbed his forehead.

“No.”

Cutter glanced toward him. Daemon stared. Cutter looked away.

The Devil persisted.

Chinese.

“No.”

Femi glanced toward him again. Daemon stopped speaking aloud.

Spanish.

No.

There are four languages. One should be useful.

Daemon almost smiled.

Almost.

Femi disappeared through the kitchen doors.

The Devil followed the movement as intently as Daemon did.

Why won’t you tell her?

Because she wasn’t ready.

You don’t know that.

Neither do you.

The Devil sulked.

There was no other word for it.

Daemon managed three paragraphs before it spoke again.

What else hasn’t she done?

He stopped reading.

Don’t.

What?

Don’t start.

She had never been inside a movie theater.

Daemon already knew where this was going.

She had never been inside the botanical gardens.

Yes.

Has she seen the ocean?

Daemon didn’t know.

Been on a boat?

Didn’t know.

Zoo?

Probably.

The Devil rejected that answer.

Probably is not yes.

Daemon closed his book.

Aquarium?

Don’t know.

Museum?

Don’t know.

Concert?

Enough.

Amusement park?

Daemon became quiet.

The Devil noticed.

Has little ghost been to an amusement park?

“I don’t know.”

Femi emerged from the kitchen carrying a plate.

The Devil watched her cross the room.

Ask.

No.

Why?

Because they weren’t going to interrogate her about everything she’d never had.

Why not?

Daemon’s patience thinned. Because she had spent two years homeless.

The Devil stopped.

Femi continued toward a table. Daemon watched her set down the plate. Eighteen years old. Out of foster care. Then the street. Two years.

The Devil knew the facts.

Knowing them and understanding what they meant were apparently different things. Daemon forced the Devil to look at them now. No home. No bedroom. No refrigerator filled with food. No safe place to leave clothes. No guarantee that what she owned in the morning would still belong to her by night.

She hadn’t spent those years wondering whether she could afford movie tickets. She had wondered where she would sleep. Whether she could eat. Whether the place she’d found to close her eyes would still be safe after dark. Whether the man offering help expected payment she wasn’t willing to give.

Daemon’s expression hardened.

You keep finding things she’s never done and acting surprised.

The Devil said nothing.

She aged out of foster care.

Silence.

Then she lived on the street for two years.

Still nothing.

Daemon looked at Femi.

She was wiping down a table now. Small, methodical circles. Always cleaning something. Always useful. Always making certain there was a reason to allow her to stay.

She wasn’t going to movies.

The Devil retreated deeper.

She wasn’t walking through botanical gardens.

Nothing.

She was surviving.

The Devil became so quiet that Daemon almost regretted saying it.

Almost.

He felt something from it that he rarely experienced. Not rage. Not bloodlust. Not possessiveness. Sadness. It sat strangely inside him. Heavy.

Uncertain.

Little ghost had nowhere to go.

Daemon looked toward the window.

“No.”

The Devil was quiet for a long time.

Femi moved between tables. A regular handed her an empty glass. She took it. Someone said something that made her smile.

The Devil watched.

Where did she sleep?

Daemon didn’t answer. He knew some of it. Not all. He suspected Femi had deliberately kept it that way.

Outside?

“Sometimes.”

The Devil recoiled.

Daemon felt it.

A cold, violent thing pulling inward as though the idea itself had wounded it.

Alone?

“Probably.”

The Devil’s sadness changed. Something darker moved beneath it. Daemon recognized that immediately.

“No.”

Someone should have—

They’re not here.

Someone should have found her.

Malone did.

That stopped it.

Daemon looked across the clubhouse. Malone was behind the bar. Same place he always seemed to be. He had found Femi near Helix’s trash. Hungry. Homeless. Silent. And instead of asking what she could give him, Malone had given her a room.

The Devil watched the older man.

He kept her.

“He gave her somewhere to stay.”

Same thing.

“No.”

A pause.

Almost.

Daemon let that one go. The Devil became quiet again. For several minutes there was nothing.

Then—

We should take her somewhere.

Daemon closed his eyes. There it was. He had known sadness would eventually become a plan.

“No.”

You don’t even know where.

“It doesn’t matter.”

Lunar Park.

Daemon opened his eyes.

“What?”

Femi looked toward him from across the room.

He ignored her.

Lunar Park.

That’s an amusement park.

Yes.

“No.”

And the museum.

Daemon frowned. Those were two different places.

The Devil apparently didn’t care.

She should see both.

“We don’t know whether she’s already been.”

Ask.

“No.”

Why?

Because I’m not turning her childhood into a checklist.

The Devil fell silent. That landed. Daemon softened slightly.

“We ask her what she wants to do.”

The Devil considered this.

Then take her.

“If she wants.”

She will.

“You don’t know that.”

The Devil seemed utterly certain.

She liked the flowers.

Yes.

She liked the movie.

Yes.

She likes being with us.

Daemon’s gaze found Femi again. That one he didn’t answer. The Devil didn’t need him to. Femi had finished clearing the table. She caught him staring.

Her hands moved.

What?

Daemon shook his head.

“Nothing.”

Her eyes narrowed. She pointed toward him. Then toward his head. Daemon sighed.

“Yes.”

Her expression brightened immediately.

She walked over.

The Devil became fascinated.

See?

Femi stopped beside his table.

Her hands moved.

What is he saying?

There it was again.

Not What is wrong with you?

Not Why are you staring?

What was he saying?

She wanted the Devil included. The realization moved through it like sunlight reaching somewhere that had existed too long underground. Daemon looked at her.

“He wants to take you somewhere.”

Femi’s eyebrows lifted.

Where?

“Apparently everywhere.”

The Devil objected.

Lunar Park first.

“Lunar Park.”

Femi blinked. Then pointed at herself.

“Yes.”

Her hands moved.

Why?

Daemon leaned back.

“Because he found out you’d never been to a movie theater and now he’s obsessed with everything else you may not have done.”

Femi’s expression changed. The amusement faded slightly. Daemon immediately regretted phrasing it that way.

The Devil did too.

Fix it.

Daemon was already doing so.

“He doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with that.”

Femi watched him.

“He just…”

Daemon searched for the words.

The Devil supplied them.

I want her to have them.

Daemon became quiet. Femi waited.

He looked at her.

“He wants you to have the things you missed.”

Femi’s hands lowered. Something moved through her face too quickly for Daemon to name.

The Devil whispered—

Tell her.

Not that.

Please.

Daemon almost laughed at the word. The Devil did not say please. Not to him.

Not to anyone.

Tell her I love her.

No.

The Devil pushed.

Daemon.

No.

Why?

Because when they told Femi that, it would not be hidden behind the Devil. It would not be slipped into another language. It would not be disguised as a joke she couldn’t understand.

She would know exactly what was being said. And Daemon wasn’t ready. Perhaps neither was she.

The Devil grumbled.

Coward.

Probably.

Femi’s hands moved.

Does he want to go to Lunar Park?

The Devil immediately recovered.

Yes.

Daemon smiled.

“Very much.”

Femi considered.

Then signed.

I’ve never been.

The Devil went absolutely still.

Daemon saw the trap closing around him.

Tomorrow.

“No.”

Femi’s eyes widened.

Daemon rubbed his forehead.

“He said tomorrow.”

Her smile appeared.

The Devil surged with triumph.

Tomorrow.

“I have things to do.”

Femi signed.

So do I.

Daemon pointed at her.

“Thank you.”

Then she added—

But Sunday I’m free.

The Devil practically roared.

Sunday.

Daemon stared at her. Femi smiled sweetly. He knew defeat when he saw it.

“Sunday.”

The Devil settled inside him, triumphant.

And the museum.

Daemon sighed.

“One thing at a time.”

Femi tilted her head.

What now?

“He wants to take you to a museum too.”

Her smile widened. Daemon realized this was going to become a problem. The Devil did not. The Devil thought this was wonderful. Femi reached down and briefly squeezed Daemon’s hand.

Then she signed.

Tell him I want to go.

Daemon didn’t need to translate. The Devil understood her hands now. Not all of them. Not yet. But that one it knew. Something inside Daemon went utterly quiet. Awed all over again. Femi was learning them. And somewhere along the way, without either of them noticing when it happened, the Devil had started learning her too.

Femi released Daemon’s hand and returned to work.

The Devil watched her go.

Sunday.

“Yes.”

Lunar Park.

“Yes.”

A satisfied pause.

Then the museum.

“We’ll see.”

Another pause.

Then the ocean.

Daemon picked up his book.

“No.”

She might never have seen it.

“We are not doing this.”

Boat.

“No.”

Aquarium.

“No.”

Concert.

“Stop.”

Black orchids again.

Daemon hesitated.

The Devil pounced.

Ha.

“Shut up.”

Across Helix, Femi glanced over her shoulder. She saw the smile Daemon couldn’t quite hide. Her own appeared in answer.

The Devil softened instantly.

Tell her.

Daemon knew what it meant.

He watched Femi disappear through the kitchen door.

Not yet.

For once, the Devil didn’t argue.

It merely settled beneath his skin and whispered the words it wanted Daemon to give her someday.

We love you, little ghost.

Daemon’s smile slowly faded into something quieter. He looked toward the kitchen.

Someday.

Just not yet.

The afternoon heat had turned Sully’s Garage into an oven.

Both bay doors stood open, but the breeze coming off Wolfwater’s river had apparently decided the garage was someone else’s problem. Heat shimmered above the cracked pavement outside. Somewhere beyond the neighboring buildings, cicadas screamed from the few trees stubborn enough to grow in the district.

Daemon had taken his shirt off twenty minutes ago.

Femi had accomplished almost nothing since.

She sat on the edge of Sully’s worktable with her boots swinging several inches above the concrete floor, supposedly helping.

Supposedly.

A collection of sockets, wrenches, screwdrivers, and things she could not identify had been arranged beside her. Daemon’s motorcycle stood several feet away beneath the fluorescent shop lights.

He was crouched beside it.

Shirtless.

Femi stared.

She knew she should not.

She did anyway.

Daemon had tied his long blond hair back loosely at the nape of his neck. Several damp strands had escaped and stuck to his shoulders. Sweat gleamed along the back of his neck and traveled slowly between his shoulder blades.

His body was a collection of contradictions.

Scars over muscle.

Old damage over carefully controlled strength.

The broken wings, chains, and serpent tattooed across his back shifted whenever he moved.

And the muscles beneath them—

Femi swallowed.

Daemon reached beneath the motorcycle. His shoulder flexed. Femi’s eyes followed it. Then his back tightened. Her attention followed that too. The muscles moved beneath his skin like rolling waves beneath river water. Femi’s legs stopped swinging.

The Devil was having the best afternoon of its existence.

She’s watching.

Daemon already knew.

Still watching.

Yes.

She likes our back.

Daemon tightened a bolt.

Flex again.

No.

Do it.

“I am repairing the motorcycle.”

Femi blinked.

Daemon glanced toward her.

She pointed at herself.

“No.”

Her eyebrows rose.

“The Devil.”

Understanding immediately entered her face.

Then curiosity.

Her hands moved.

What did he say?

The Devil practically preened.

Tell her.

“No.”

Femi narrowed her eyes.

Daemon.

He returned his attention to the motorcycle.

“Hand me the nine-sixteenths.”

Nothing happened.

Daemon held out his hand.

“Femi.”

Still nothing. He looked over his shoulder. She was staring at his back again. Not the tools. Not his hand. Him.

The Devil went into absolute rapture.

Look at her.

Daemon was.

Femi’s green eyes moved slowly over him. She didn’t even seem aware she’d been caught. Her lower lip disappeared briefly beneath her teeth. Then her tongue swept over it.

The Devil nearly lost its mind.

Little ghost.

Daemon stood. Femi’s eyes followed him. Slowly. His mouth twitched. He should have left her alone. He did not.

“Does this please you, watching me work, little ghost?”

Femi froze.

Color immediately warmed her face.

The Devil became insufferable.

Yes.

Daemon folded his arms.

“I’m asking her.”

Femi looked toward the open garage bay as though Wolfwater might provide an escape route. It did not. Daemon waited. Her gaze reluctantly returned to him.

Then she nodded.

Yes.

The Devil practically purred.

Again.

Daemon’s scar pulled as his smile widened.

“Good.”

Femi’s cheeks became hotter. She looked down. Something had knotted low in her stomach. She rubbed absently at it, then immediately stopped when she realized what she was doing. Watching Daemon work was like watching one of those movies he’d recently introduced her to. Except better. Much better. She would never sign that.Ever. But there was something beautiful about watching Daemon do almost anything.

He never wasted movement.

Whether he was repairing an engine, cutting vegetables because Malone had somehow convinced him to help in the kitchen, cleaning a weapon— Or hurting someone. Every movement had purpose. Precision. Control. And when he took off his shirt?

Femi glanced at him again. That was simply unfair.

The Devil caught her looking.

She did it again.

Daemon picked up a rag.

“Leave her alone.”

Femi signed immediately.

What did he say?

Daemon stared at her. The Devil laughed. There was something astonishing about that too. Femi always wanted to know.

What had the Devil said?

What did it think?

Did it like something?

Did it dislike something?

What had it suggested?

She was learning them.

The Devil treasured every question.

“She wants to know what you said,” Daemon muttered.

Tell her she likes our back.

“No.”

Femi’s eyebrows climbed.

Tell me.

Daemon wiped grease from his fingers.

“He thinks you like my back.”

Femi’s eyes widened.

Her hands immediately moved.

I did not say that.

“You didn’t have to.”

The Devil agreed enthusiastically.

She definitely likes it.

Femi grabbed the nearest rag and threw it at him. Daemon caught it. His laugh was low and brief. Femi stared. That might have been worse than his back. She looked away quickly.

Sunday. Think about Sunday. Lunar Park. That helped. Somewhat. She was going to Lunar Park. With Daemon. And apparently the Devil.

She had seen advertisements for the park for years. Roller coasters towering over the highway. Ferris wheel lights visible after dark. Commercials promising entire days of rides, food, games, music. She had never gone. There had never been money. Not in foster care. Certainly not afterward.

Two years on the street had reduced entertainment to things that cost nothing. Libraries. Parks. Window displays. Music leaking through somebody else’s open window.

Lunar Park might as well have been another country. Now Daemon was taking her Sunday. The thought made her smile. Daemon noticed.

Of course he did.

“What?”

Femi shook her head.

“Something.”

Another shake.

Sunday, she finally signed.

The Devil immediately perked up.

Lunar Park.

Daemon smiled.

“You’re excited.”

Femi nodded. Very. Something softened in his face.

“Good.”

We’re taking her.

Yes.

She’ll ride everything.

Daemon doubted that.

Everything.

We’ll see.

Femi watched the silent argument move through his expression. Her smile widened. Then Daemon turned back toward the motorcycle. And Femi’s thoughts disappeared again. His back flexed. Her smile vanished.

Oh.

The Devil noticed instantly.

Sunday is gone.

Daemon nearly laughed. He bent over the motorcycle. Femi watched the long muscles on either side of his spine shift beneath his skin. The tattoos moved with him. Broken wings spreading. Chains bending. The serpent seeming almost alive. She had never seen anything so beautiful. That was ridiculous. He was a man covered in scars, sweat, grease and tattoos in an unbearably hot garage. Beautiful was still the only word her mind supplied.

Daemon reached behind himself.

“Wrench.”

Femi continued staring.

“Femi.”

Nothing.

The Devil whispered with immense satisfaction—

She’s gone.

Daemon looked back.

Femi’s eyes were fixed on his shoulders.

“Little ghost.”

She blinked.

Daemon’s hand remained extended.

“I’ve asked for the wrench twice.”

Her face flamed. She looked down at the tools. Which wrench? There were approximately twelve. Daemon pointed.

“That one.”

She grabbed it.

Wrong one.

“The other one.”

She grabbed another.

Daemon sighed.

The Devil was delighted.

We’ve broken her.

Femi glared at him as though somehow knowing. Daemon took the correct wrench from her.

“Thank you.”

She crossed her arms. He returned to work. Femi lasted perhaps thirty seconds. His shoulders shifted. Her arms uncrossed. His back flexed again. Her fingers curled against the edge of the workbench. She wanted to touch him. The thought arrived suddenly. And refused to leave.

Femi stared at the broad expanse of his back. She knew what his leather jacket felt like. She knew his hands. His face. His scar beneath her fingertips. But his back—

Her hands actually itched. Daemon shifted position. Femi hopped down from the workbench.

The Devil noticed first.

She’s coming.

Daemon continued working.

Toward them.

Yes.

Why?

Daemon didn’t know. Femi approached slowly. Almost cautiously. As though he might bolt if she moved too quickly. That nearly amused him.

Daemon Pallid had been hunted by considerably more frightening things than a five-foot-three woman approaching him across a garage. Yet something about the way she was looking at him made remaining still unexpectedly difficult.

She stopped behind him. Close. Very close. Daemon could feel her. The Devil went silent. Femi lifted one hand. Hesitated. Then touched his back. Daemon stopped breathing. Her fingertips rested between his shoulder blades. Warm. Tentative.

“What are you—”

Her fingers moved. Daemon’s words died. Femi traced the muscle beside his spine. Slowly. Carefully. Not the tattoo. Not initially. Him. Her fingers followed the shape of his back as though she were learning it. Mapping him. The same way she mapped rooms. Except there was no fear in this. Only fascination. Her touch traveled across one shoulder blade. Daemon shivered.

The Devil was ecstatic.

Again.

Femi apparently had the same idea. Her other hand joined the first. Daemon closed his eyes.

Her fingertips traced the hard lines beneath his skin with the careful concentration of a painter making the first sketch on blank canvas.

She explored one shoulder. Then the other. Her fingers moved over a scar. Paused. Continued. No revulsion. No hesitation.

The Devil seemed unable to comprehend its own pleasure.

She likes us.

Daemon swallowed. Femi’s hands moved upward. Into his hair. His eyes opened. Her fingers slipped beneath the loose tie and freed it. Long blond hair fell over his shoulders. Femi ran her fingers through it. Daemon turned his head. He meant to ask what she was doing. He never got the chance.

Femi caught his mouth with hers. The kiss was slow. At first. Almost questioning. Her lips pressed against his and waited. Daemon went completely still. So did the Devil. Then Femi kissed him again. Something broke.

Daemon turned fully toward her. His hand found her waist. The other slid into her hair.

The Devil surged beneath his skin.

Little ghost.

Femi’s hands tightened in his hair. Daemon kissed her back. Heat. Weeks of glances. Her sitting across from him. Her hand finding his. The botanical gardens. The movie theater. French whispered against her ear.

All the things neither of them had said collected inside one kiss. Femi’s back met the workbench. Neither remembered moving. Daemon pulled away barely far enough to breathe. Femi looked at him. Green eyes dark. Lips parted.

Then she grabbed him by the hair and pulled him back. The Devil was gone. Not absent. Overwhelmed. There was nothing clever left for it to say. Nothing possessive. Nothing violent.

Only—

Mine.

Daemon kissed her again.

Somewhere between one breath and the next, they ended up on the garage floor. Daemon had no idea how. One moment they were against the workbench. The next Femi was laughing silently against his mouth as his shoulder struck concrete. Daemon rolled partly onto his back, taking the impact rather than letting her hit the floor.

Femi landed against him. They stared at each other. For one second. Two. Then Femi kissed him again. Daemon’s hand settled at her waist. Her fingers remained tangled in his hair. They kissed like people leaving tomorrow. Like they had weeks to make up for. Perhaps they did.

The Devil finally found words.

She kissed us.

Daemon wasn’t currently capable of answering.

She came to us.

Femi pulled back for air. Daemon followed. She smiled against his mouth.

The Devil sounded almost drunk with happiness.

Again.

Daemon obliged.

Then—

“FEMI?”

Malone’s voice thundered from somewhere outside the garage. Femi went rigid. Daemon froze.

“Femi!”

They separated so quickly it was almost impressive. Femi scrambled upright. Daemon sat up. They stared at each other. Femi’s hair was disheveled. Daemon’s was worse. Her lips were swollen from kissing him. His shirt was somewhere across the garage. They looked exactly like what they were. Two adults caught behaving like teenagers behind the garage.

The Devil whispered—

Don’t move.

Daemon almost laughed. Femi slapped a hand over his mouth. That made it worse. His shoulders started shaking. Her eyes widened.

“Femi?”

Closer now. Femi shot to her feet. Daemon stood after her. She immediately began fixing her hair. Daemon watched.

The Devil was delighted all over again.

She kissed us.

Yes.

First.

Yes.

She touched our back.

Daemon reached for his shirt.

She likes our back.

“We’re never discussing that.”

Femi looked at him. Daemon pointed toward his head. Understanding dawned. Her eyes narrowed. The Devil laughed.

Malone appeared in the open garage bay. He stopped.

Looked at Femi.

Looked at Daemon.

Looked at the blanket of tools scattered near the motorcycle.

Then at Daemon’s shirt in his hand.

Then at Femi’s hair.

Silence. Femi’s face turned crimson. Malone slowly crossed his arms.

“I’ve been calling you.”

Femi signed something very quickly. Malone stared at her.

“Kitchen?”

She nodded.

Another rapid series of signs.

“Right. Sure. Kitchen.”

Femi headed toward him. She made it three steps. Stopped. Turned around. Daemon was still watching her. Their eyes met.

The Devil whispered—

Again.

Femi smiled.

Tiny.

Secret.

Then she hurried past Malone.

Malone watched her leave. Waited until she was gone. Then looked at Daemon. Daemon pulled his shirt over his head. Malone’s expression remained flat.

“Motorcycle giving you trouble?”

“No.”

“Looked complicated.”

Daemon glared. Malone’s mouth twitched. He turned toward Helix.

“Kitchen, Romeo.”

Daemon stared at his back.

The Devil was delighted.

I like him.

“You wouldn’t if I killed him.”

You won’t.

Unfortunately, the Devil was right. Daemon looked toward Helix. Femi had already disappeared inside. His mouth still tasted faintly of her. The smile came before he could stop it.

The Devil settled beneath his skin in absolute rapture.

She likes our back.

Daemon picked up the wrench.

“Shut up.”

She kissed us.

“I was there.”

Sunday.

Daemon glanced toward Helix again.

“What about Sunday?”

The Devil practically purred.

Little ghost is going to Lunar Park with us.

Daemon smiled.

Yes.

She was. And suddenly Sunday seemed very far away.

Sunday came bright, hot, and offensively cheerful.

Daemon distrusted it immediately.

By nine in the morning, sunlight had already burned away the thin clouds hanging over Wolfwater. Heat shimmered above the cracked pavement outside Helix. Somewhere down the block, someone was arguing over an engine. A radio played through an open apartment window. The river smelled faintly of rain, metal, and summer.

Malone’s truck waited at the curb.

Daemon had decided against the motorcycle.

The Devil had agreed.

She’ll have prizes.

“You don’t know that.”

We will win them.

Apparently that had already been decided.

Daemon opened the passenger door and waited.

Femi emerged from Helix thirty seconds later.

She had dressed for the heat in fitted black jeans, boots, and a sleeveless red top that covered her from throat to waist. Her midnight hair had been pulled into a long braid that fell down her back.

She carried a small black bag.

And she was smiling.

Not broadly.

Not yet.

But enough.

The Devil stirred beneath Daemon’s skin.

Little ghost is excited.

Daemon looked at her.

“Yes.”

Femi stopped beside the truck.

Her hands moved.

You’re driving Malone’s truck?

“Unless you’d rather carry everything we’re apparently bringing home.”

Her eyebrows rose.

What are we bringing home?

Daemon glanced away.

“Nothing.”

The Devil immediately betrayed him.

Prizes.

Femi watched his expression.

Then pointed toward his head.

“What?”

Her hands moved.

He said something.

Daemon sighed.

“He thinks we’re bringing home prizes.”

Femi smiled.

Are we?

“Apparently.”

Yes.

Daemon ignored the Devil and gestured toward the truck.

“Get in.”

Femi climbed inside.

Before Daemon could close the door, she caught his wrist.

He looked at her.

She signed one word.

Thank you.

Daemon’s expression changed.

“Don’t.”

Her eyebrows pulled together.

“You haven’t even gotten there yet.”

The Devil whispered—

She can thank us later.

“For what?”

Best day of her life.

Daemon stared at the windshield.

“You’re setting the bar unnecessarily high.”

Femi tapped his arm.

What?

“Nothing.”

Her eyes narrowed. The Devil laughed. Already, Daemon knew it was going to be a very long day.

He had no idea it would become one he remembered for the rest of his life.

Lunar Park announced itself several miles before they reached it.

The Ferris wheel appeared first.

It rose above the trees like an enormous silver circle suspended against the blue sky. Even in daylight, the framework glittered. Beyond it stood the looping black tracks of two roller coasters, the tower ride, and the painted peak of something called Dragon’s Fall.

Femi saw them.

Daemon knew the exact second she did.

She straightened in the passenger seat.

Her hand went to the window.

The Devil went silent.

Femi leaned slightly forward.

Then the tallest roller coaster appeared completely from behind the trees.

Her mouth opened.

Daemon looked at her instead of the road for half a second.

The Devil whispered—

Oh.

There was something almost reverent in the word.

Femi looked at Daemon.

Then pointed.

“Yes. That’s Lunar Park.”

Her hands moved rapidly.

We’re going on that?

Daemon glanced at the roller coaster.

It plunged from a height no reasonable engineer should have approved.

“If you want.”

She nodded immediately.

The Devil was thrilled.

Yes.

Daemon looked at her.

“You haven’t even seen it up close.”

Another emphatic nod.

“All right.”

Femi turned back toward the window.

The Devil watched her.

Faster.

“No.”

Femi looked at him.

“Not you.”

Her shoulders shook.

Daemon drove the speed limit.

Mostly.

The parking lot was enormous. Femi stared at everything from the moment she stepped out of the truck.

Families pulling wagons. Children carrying balloons. Music drifting over the gates. The distant mechanical thunder of roller-coaster cars racing over steel tracks.

Screams.

Laughter.

The smell of fried dough, grilled meat, sugar, popcorn and something aggressively cinnamon.

Femi stopped before the entrance.

Daemon stopped with her.

The enormous sign stretched above them.

LUNAR PARK.

A crescent moon curled around the lettering. People moved around them. Daemon waited. He didn’t rush her. The Devil didn’t either. Femi looked through the gates. Then at him. Her hand slipped into his. Daemon looked down. Her fingers threaded securely through his.

The Devil nearly melted.

She wants our hand.

“Yes.”

Femi glanced at him.

“Nothing.”

Her eyes narrowed.

But she didn’t release him.

They entered together.

The Devil wanted to do everything.

Immediately.

Daemon had to explain several times that Lunar Park would remain standing for the foreseeable future.

Roller coaster.

“We just got here.”

Roller coaster.

“She hasn’t eaten.”

Food. Then roller coaster.

Daemon looked at Femi.

“What do you want first?”

Her answer came immediately. She pointed toward the massive roller coaster. Of course. The Devil became unbearably smug.

Little ghost understands priorities.

The coaster was called Nightfall. Daemon disliked it on sight. Not because he was afraid of it. Because the first drop looked structurally irresponsible. Femi stared upward.

A train climbed slowly toward the summit.

Click.

Then it disappeared over the edge.

Screams erupted.

Femi’s eyes widened.

Daemon looked at her.

“Still want to?”

She nodded.

Absolutely.

Twenty minutes later, they were strapped into the front car. Daemon had suggested the middle. Femi had pointed toward the front. The Devil sided with her.

Traitor.

The restraint came down over Femi’s shoulders. She tested it twice. Daemon checked it a third time. Her hands moved.

It’s locked.

“I know.”

Then why did you check it?

“Because.”

She smiled. The train moved. Femi immediately grabbed his hand. Daemon closed his fingers around hers.

The coaster began climbing.

Click.

Femi looked down. The park spread beneath them. Daemon felt her grip tighten.

“You all right?”

She nodded.

The Devil whispered—

Don’t let go.

Daemon hadn’t intended to.

They reached the summit. For one suspended heartbeat, nothing happened. Femi looked at him. Daemon looked at her. Then the world vanished beneath them. Femi screamed. No sound came from her throat. But Daemon felt it in the violent grip of her hand, saw it in her open mouth and enormous green eyes. The coaster dropped. Femi’s braid flew behind her.

The Devil roared with joy.

AGAIN.

They hadn’t finished the first ride.

The coaster banked hard.

Femi was thrown toward Daemon.

She laughed.

Silent.

Wild.

Beautiful.

Daemon stopped paying attention to the track.

Look at her.

He was. Femi’s entire face had changed. There was no vigilance. No calculation. No old fear waiting behind her eyes. There was only exhilaration. They plunged through a tunnel. Burst into sunlight. Turned upside down.Femi squeezed his hand so hard his knuckles cracked.

The Devil didn’t care.

Again.

The coaster finally screamed into the station. Femi’s hair was a disaster. Daemon suspected his wasn’t much better. The restraints released. Femi looked at him.

Her hands moved rapidly.

Again.

The Devil was triumphant.

I told you.

Daemon sighed.

They rode Nightfall three times.

By noon, Daemon had learned several things. Femi loved roller coasters. She hated the spinning teacups. She discovered this approximately twelve seconds after they began moving.

Daemon had never seen regret appear so quickly on another person’s face.

The Devil laughed for the entire ride.

Little ghost is dying.

“She is not dying.”

Femi glared at him from across the spinning cup. Daemon had made the mistake of laughing. She kicked his boot. The Devil laughed harder.

She refused to ride the teacups again. The swinging pirate ship was acceptable.

The log flume was excellent until Daemon somehow remained nearly dry while Femi emerged soaked from the waist up. She stared at him. Then at herself. Then at him again. Daemon made the critical mistake of smiling. Femi shoved him beneath one of the water sprayers. The Devil approved.

They rode Dragon’s Fall.

Twice.

The underground ghost train.

Once.

Femi signed afterward that the skeletons were insulting.

Daemon agreed.

The Devil wanted to know why none of them actually attacked anyone. Daemon explained that murder tended to negatively affect amusement-park attendance. The Devil remained unconvinced.

Then came food. The Devil approached feeding Femi as though preparing her for winter.

“That’s enough.”

No.

Daemon carried two trays. Femi stared at them. A cheeseburger. Fries. Fried pickles. Corn dogs. Funnel cake. Caramel apple. Lemonade. And something covered in powdered sugar that Daemon had bought because Femi looked at it for three seconds too long.

Her hands moved.

Who is eating all of this?

“You.”

Her eyes widened.

The Devil corrected him.

Us.

“All of us.”

Femi stared at the food.

Then at Daemon.

This is too much.

“Probably.”

Definitely.

“The Devil kept adding things.”

Femi looked delighted.

Her hands moved.

Thank you.

The Devil softened instantly.

Anything.

Daemon sat across from her at the picnic table. Femi picked up a fry. Then another. The Devil watched.

She’s eating.

“Yes.”

Femi looked at him suspiciously. Daemon ate his burger. The Devil remained fixated. She tried the funnel cake.

Her eyes widened.

She likes that.

“I noticed.”

She broke off a piece and held it toward Daemon. He stared at it. Femi moved it closer. Daemon opened his mouth. She fed him. The Devil ceased functioning. For several seconds there was complete silence inside Daemon’s head.

Femi tilted her head.

Then signed.

Does he like it?

Daemon swallowed.

“He’s unavailable.”

Her eyebrows rose.

Why?

“You fed us.”

Femi’s cheeks pinkened.

The Devil finally recovered.

Again.

Daemon shook his head.

“No.”

Femi laughed.

The games came next.

That was where things deteriorated financially. Femi stopped in front of a ring-toss booth. A giant black stuffed wolf hung from the ceiling. She looked at it. Three seconds. That was all. Daemon took out his wallet.

Femi grabbed his wrist.

No.

“You want it.”

She shook her head.

“You looked at it.”

I look at lots of things.

The Devil intervened.

Win her the wolf.

Daemon bought rings.

Twenty minutes later, Femi was carrying the wolf.

Then came a stuffed bat. A small moon-shaped pillow. A ridiculous red dragon. And a black stuffed rabbit Femi insisted she did not want while holding it against her chest.

The Devil was ecstatic. The truck had been the correct decision.

At four in the afternoon, they reached the shooting gallery. Daemon stopped. Rows of metal targets moved across the back wall. Femi looked at him. Daemon looked at the targets.

The Devil stirred.

Oh.

Femi smiled.

“No.”

Her smile widened.

No what?

“Whatever you’re thinking.”

She handed the attendant money. The attendant gave her the air rifle. Femi picked it up. Daemon folded his arms.

The Devil became interested.

Little ghost knows how to hold that.

Apparently.

Femi raised the rifle.

Pop.

First target.

Pop.

Second.

Pop.

Third.

Fourth.

Fifth.

Daemon’s eyebrows rose.

The Devil was delighted.

Again.

Femi cleared the row. The attendant stared at her. Daemon stared at her. Femi calmly put the rifle down. Then looked at the prizes. She didn’t choose the large ones.

Instead, she pointed toward a tiny stuffed bear attached to a key chain. It wore a miniature black leather jacket. The attendant handed it over.

Femi turned. Walked directly to Daemon. And held it out. He stared.

Her hands moved.

For you.

The Devil went silent. Daemon looked at the bear. Black leather jacket. Tiny boots. Permanent scowl stitched onto its face.

He looked at Femi.

“Seriously?”

She nodded.

It looks like you.

The Devil objected.

I’m taller.

Daemon almost choked. Femi pushed the bear into his hand. He took it. Something tightened unexpectedly in his chest. Of all the things he’d bought her that day, the tiny bear cost almost nothing. It immediately became the most valuable object either of them possessed.

Daemon attached it to the truck keys.

Femi smiled.

The Devil whispered—

Keep it.

Daemon ran his thumb over the tiny leather jacket.

He intended to.

Night transformed Lunar Park.

Thousands of lights came alive.

The roller coasters became streaks of color racing through darkness. Music drifted between the rides. Strings of bulbs hung above the walkways. The air cooled enough that Femi eventually slipped into the light jacket Daemon had carried for her all day.

They ate again. Because the Devil insisted. Femi protested. The Devil won.

They rode Nightfall after dark.

Femi held Daemon’s hand again.

This time, when the coaster reached the summit, the entire park glittered beneath them. Femi stared. Then they dropped. Her silent laughter disappeared into the screaming crowd. Daemon laughed with her. Actually laughed.

The Devil went quiet just to listen. They walked afterward. No destination. No urgency. Femi carried the black rabbit beneath one arm.

Daemon carried everything else. Their hands remained joined between them. Nine became ten. Ten became ten-thirty. Families began leaving. Children slept against their parents’ shoulders. Music softened in some sections of the park. Daemon glanced at his watch.

“Almost eleven.”

Femi looked toward the enormous Ferris wheel. They had saved it. The Lunar Wheel. The Devil had insisted.

Last.

Daemon had agreed.

Some things deserved to wait.

At 10:42, they joined the final line.

The Lunar Wheel towered above everything else in the park.

Its lights shifted slowly across the enormous circular frame, silver to white to deep blue. Enclosed gondolas moved steadily upward.

Femi stood beside Daemon.

Her hand found his.

The Devil whispered—

Last ride.

“Yes.”

Femi looked at him.

Daemon squeezed her hand.

“Ready?”

She nodded. They entered the gondola. The door closed. For the first time all day, the noise of Lunar Park became distant. The gondola rose. Slowly. Femi sat beside him. Not across. Beside. Their shoulders touched.

Below them, the park grew smaller. The roller coasters became ribbons of light. People became moving shadows. The music faded. Wolfwater glimmered beyond the park in the distance.Farther still, Ravenside’s towers caught the night.

Femi looked through the glass.

Daemon looked at her.

The Devil did too.

She is happy.

Yes.

There was no triumph in the Devil’s voice now.

Only wonder.

They climbed higher. Femi’s fingers tightened around Daemon’s hand. He looked down. She took his other hand too. Daemon let her. Femi turned toward him. Then moved closer.

Her thigh pressed against his. Their joined hands rested between them. The gondola continued upward.

“Too high?”

She shook her head.

Her gaze moved outside.

Then back to him.

Her hands were occupied, so she released one of his long enough to sign.

Beautiful.

Daemon looked toward the window.

The city stretched for miles.

“I know.”

Femi frowned. Then realized he wasn’t looking at the view. Her cheeks warmed.

The Devil nearly purred.

Tell her.

Daemon knew exactly what it wanted.

Not yet.

The Devil didn’t argue. They reached the top. The wheel stopped. Femi looked down. The entire park glittered beneath them.

Nightfall raced along its tracks. The midway glowed gold. The carousel turned slowly beneath thousands of tiny lights. All those things she’d seen from outside. All those things she had once been unable to afford. Tonight she had ridden them. Eaten too much. Won something. Been soaked. Laughed.

Held his hand whenever she wanted. Femi looked at Daemon. Her eyes glistened. His expression changed immediately.

“What’s wrong?”

She shook her head.

“Femi.”

Another shake.

Then she signed.

Nothing.

Daemon watched her.

She added—

I never thought I would come here.

The Devil went very still.

Femi looked down at their hands.

When I was younger, I used to see the wheel from the highway.

Daemon said nothing.

I wondered what it looked like from up here.

The Devil’s joy fractured into something painfully tender.

Little ghost.

Femi looked through the glass again.

Now I know.

Daemon’s thumb moved across her knuckles.

“You can know again.”

She looked at him.

“We can come back.”

Femi smiled. Then moved closer. No hesitation this time. She tucked herself against his side. Daemon released one of her hands and put his arm around her. Her head settled against his shoulder. The Devil became utterly quiet.

Below them, Lunar Park glittered.

Femi’s fingers traced absent little circles across Daemon’s hand.

He felt her breathing slow. Comfortable. Safe. Happy.

The Devil finally whispered—

We did this.

Daemon looked down at her.

“Yes.”

We made little ghost happy.

The wonder in its voice almost hurt. Daemon corrected it.

“She let us.”

The Devil considered that.

Then softened.

Better.

Femi lifted her head. She looked at Daemon. Then toward his chest. Her hand moved.

Is he happy?

Daemon smiled.

“He’s unbearable.”

Her shoulders shook.

The Devil protested.

Tell her yes.

“He says yes.”

Femi signed again.

Are you?

Daemon’s smile faded into something quieter. He looked at her. At the woman who had spent the entire day holding his hand. At the ridiculous collection of prizes waiting in Malone’s truck. At the woman who had won him a tiny leather-jacketed bear and somehow made the thing feel priceless.

“Yes.”

Femi studied him.

Then she leaned forward. Her forehead touched his. The Devil sighed. Not with frustration. Not impatience. Contentment.

Pure and complete.

Tell her we love her.

Daemon closed his eyes.

Still that.

Always that.

Not yet.

The Devil didn’t become angry.

Instead, it whispered—

Soon.

Daemon didn’t answer. Femi shifted closer. Their noses almost touched. The wheel began moving again. Slowly carrying them downward. Femi’s eyes opened. She smiled. Daemon couldn’t help returning it. The Devil settled warmly beneath his skin.

Then Femi kissed him. Softly. Nothing like Sully’s garage. No desperate collision. No weeks of wanting finally breaking loose.

Just her mouth against his beneath the blue-white glow of the Lunar Wheel. Daemon kissed her back. When she pulled away, she remained close. His forehead returned to hers.

Outside, Lunar Park descended around them. Eleven o’clock approached. The day was ending.

The Devil didn’t want it to.

Can we stay?

Daemon almost smiled.

“No.”

Femi raised an eyebrow.

“The Devil doesn’t want to leave.”

Her expression softened.

She looked outside one last time.

Then signed.

Neither do I.

The Devil immediately seized upon this.

Then we live here.

Daemon laughed.

Femi looked at him.

“He suggested we live here.”

Her silent laughter filled the little gondola. Daemon wrapped his arm tighter around her. The Lunar Wheel carried them slowly toward the ground. And for once, the Devil wasn’t thinking about what Femi had never had.

It was thinking about what they could give her next. Another movie. A museum. The ocean. Black orchids.

A second day at Lunar Park.

A thousand ordinary things.

A thousand firsts.

Femi rested her head against Daemon’s shoulder again.

The tiny leather-jacketed bear hung from the truck keys in his pocket.

Daemon kissed the top of her head.

The Devil whispered softly—

Best day of her life.

Daemon watched the lights reflected in Femi’s green eyes.

Maybe.

But he intended to make damn sure it wasn’t the last one.

Our Spot

The Devil was possessive. The Devil was jealous. It had learned patience. It had learned choice. It had learned that Femi belonged to Femi, that wanting her did not make her theirs, that loving her did not give Daemon the right to decide where she stood or whose hand she touched.

The Devil had learned all of this. It remained jealous anyway.

For several weeks, messages had been arriving on Femi’s old phone.

Early in the morning.

Late at night.

During the quiet hour before Helix opened.

The sender never called.

Only texted.

At first, Femi read the messages, smiled, and returned the phone to her pocket without replying.

The Devil noticed.

Who?

It noticed everything about Femi. The softening around her eyes. The private curve of her lips. The way she sometimes read the same message twice. A few days ago, she started responding. The Devil did not like that.

Not one bit.

Who are you talking to, little ghost?

Someone was reaching into Helix and making Femi smile. Someone Daemon did not know. Someone from her past. Someone who knew the number of the battered phone Femi had carried during her years on the street.

The Devil disliked every part of that. It disliked the messages. It disliked the smiles. It especially disliked that Femi sometimes smiled at the phone while Daemon was sitting ten feet away being perfectly available to receive smiles himself.

The Devil whispered that someone was trying to take her away.

Daemon told it to be silent.

No.

“She is allowed friends.”

We are aware.

“Then stop.”

We dislike this one.

“You do not know who it is.”

Exactly.

Daemon ignored it.

The Devil did not appreciate being ignored either.

On Saturday morning, Daemon entered the kitchen to collect Femi for their shopping trip. She stood inside the walk-in pantry counting flour.

Her old phone rested on the counter. The screen illuminated. Daemon had not intended to look.

Then he saw the name.

LILY

A message appeared beneath it.

Are we going to meet? I haven’t seen you in so long. I miss you. ❤️❤️❤️

The Devil sat up.

Lily.

Another message arrived.

Meet me at our spot in Hamilton Park. Please come.

The Devil went completely still.

Our spot.

Daemon stared at the words.

The Devil disliked them intensely.

No.

Daemon almost sighed.

Absolutely not.

“It is a bench.”

It is their bench.

“You do not know that.”

Our spot.

The words themselves offended it. Femi had places with Daemon. His corner. Her kitchen. The porch. The motorcycle. The chair beside his bed when she needed distance. His arms when she did not. Those were places built from choices. The Devil understood that Lily having a place with Femi did not diminish any of them. It understood perfectly. It remained offended.

We have spots.

Daemon refused to answer that.

Femi emerged from the pantry carrying a bag of flour. She stopped when she saw him looking at the phone. Daemon lifted his eyes.

“A friend?”

Femi set the flour on the counter.

We lived on the street together for about a year.

The Devil’s jealousy shifted.

Not gone.

Listening now.

“A woman?”

One eyebrow rose.

Daemon frowned.

“It is relevant.”

The Devil agreed wholeheartedly.

Very Fucking relevant.

Femi looked toward the phone.

Yes.

The Devil relaxed slightly.

Only slightly.

Daemon noticed its relief and became irritated with himself for sharing it.

“Do you trust her?”

Femi hesitated.

The Devil’s jealousy disappeared beneath something sharper.

There.

That hesitation returned its full attention.

I did.

Did.

Not do.

The Devil remembered the distinction. Daemon looked at the messages again.

“What does she want?”

She said she missed me.

“That is not an answer.”

Femi picked up the phone and read the messages.

Her expression softened.

The Devil bristled.

Stop smiling.

Then uncertainty entered it.

The Devil immediately changed its mind.

No. Smile. Just not for her.

Daemon rubbed his jaw. This was becoming embarrassing.

“Do you want to see her?”

Femi stared at the final message.

Meet me at our spot.

After several seconds, she nodded.

The Devil objected.

No.

Daemon ignored it.

“Do you want me to take you?”

The question came cautiously. The Devil did not want her anywhere near Hamilton Park. But it understood the question mattered.

Not you are not going.

Not I forbid it.

Do you want me with you?

Femi looked at him. Then nodded again.

The Devil became smug.

Yes.

Daemon reached for his jacket.

“Shopping can wait.”

Hamilton Park occupied twenty acres between Wolfwater and central Ravenside. The city had built it during an optimistic decade when officials still pretended the two districts belonged to the same world.

A public swimming pool stood near the western entrance. Walking trails curved between old trees. A playground, abandoned for the winter, sat beyond several picnic shelters.

Daemon stopped his motorcycle near the central path. Femi climbed off. She removed the helmet and handed it to him.

Her green eyes swept across the park. Benches. Paths. Restrooms. Pool house. Exits. Nothing escaped her.

“Where is this spot?”

Femi pointed toward a bench beside a dry fountain. Daemon followed her gaze. The Devil inspected it. An ordinary bench. Nothing special. It disliked it immediately.

That?

Daemon nearly smiled.

“You have your phone?”

She nodded.

“If anything feels wrong, text me.”

Femi’s expression became amused.

“I know you can handle yourself.”

He touched the bruise still fading near her temple.

The Devil’s jealousy vanished for a heartbeat.

Safe.

“But I prefer when you do not have to.”

Her amusement disappeared. Femi touched his hand.

The Devil forgot Lily existed.

There.

Daemon lifted her fingers and kissed them.

The Devil purred.

Again.

“I will circle the block.”

She tilted her head.

“That is not a lie. I will circle the block.”

Femi waited.

“And then I will park.”

Her eyes narrowed. Daemon gave her his crooked smile.

“I did not promise to leave.”

The Devil approved.

Good.

She shook her head and walked toward the fountain. Daemon watched until she sat. Then he rode away. He circled the block exactly once. After parking on a side street, he entered the park through the western gate.

The Devil led him toward Femi. Not because it sensed her supernaturally. Because it had memorized the bench.

The path.

The fountain.

Every exit between Femi and the motorcycle.

He stood beneath the shadow of an old sycamore and watched.

A woman approached the fountain ten minutes later. She was tall and dark-skinned, with shoulder-length black hair. A knee-length black coat hung open over a green satin dress that looked expensive beneath the morning light.

The Devil studied her.

Lily.

Femi rose.

The woman smiled.

“Femi.”

She crossed the final distance quickly and wrapped her arms around her.

The Devil surged forward.

Hands.

Daemon stayed beneath the tree.

“She is hugging her.”

We see that.

“Friends hug.”

Too long.

It had been three seconds. Daemon almost rolled his eyes.

Femi remained stiff for one second. Then returned the embrace.

The Devil went quiet.Not pleased. Never pleased.

But Femi had chosen to hug Lily back.

That mattered.

Fine.

Lily drew back and held Femi by the shoulders.

The Devil immediately reconsidered its generosity.

Why is she still touching her?

“Look at you.” Lily spoke. Her smile widened. “You look good. Really good.”

Femi blushed.

The Devil’s mood deteriorated.

We know.

“No more hollow cheeks.”

Lily touched her own face.

“And your hair. Girl, it’s to your knees.”

Femi smiled.

The expression made something ease inside Daemon. The Devil remained suspicious. It liked Femi’s smiles. It simply preferred being the reason for them.

Lily sat on the bench.

Femi joined her.

“I heard you were working at some biker bar.”

Femi removed a small notebook from her pocket and wrote.

Lily read the message.

“Helix?”

Femi nodded.

“I know that place. Marco said the owner helped people sometimes.”

Femi wrote again.

“Yeah. Malone.”

Lily looked toward Wolfwater.

“He helped us once too.”

Femi’s eyebrows rose.

“Not directly. One of his people gave Marco work unloading trucks.”

Lily smiled.

“We aren’t on the street anymore.”

Femi’s entire face brightened. The Devil’s jealousy eased again. That smile was different. Relief. Happiness for someone who had survived beside her. The Devil understood that.

Lily laughed.

“I knew you would be happy.”

She reached into her coat and produced a photograph. Femi accepted it.

Daemon could not see the image, but he saw her smile deepen.

“A small apartment,” Lily continued. “One bedroom. The kitchen sink leaks and the upstairs neighbors fight every Tuesday like it’s scheduled.”

Femi laughed silently.

“But it’s ours.”

Lily’s voice softened.

“Ours.”

The Devil disliked that word from her mouth.

Then corrected itself.

The apartment.

Not Femi.

The apartment was theirs.

Femi touched the photograph. Daemon watched her. He also watched Lily. The woman smiled, but her right hand would not stop moving. It twisted inside the pocket of her coat.

The Devil noticed.

Wrong.

Femi noticed too.

Her smile remained, but her attention shifted.

She looked over Lily’s left shoulder. Once. Then again. Daemon followed her line of sight. Four men stood near the pool house. They did not belong in the park.

They had no children with them. No running clothes. No reason to remain near a closed public pool on a cold Saturday morning. All four were watching Femi. The Devil became silent. Jealousy disappeared. Only threat remained.

Four.

Lily leaned closer.

“You remember Marco’s older brother?”

Femi looked at her.

“He’s out again.”

The warmth disappeared from Lily’s face.

“He’s asking about you.”

Femi’s fingers tightened around the photograph.

“He’s making our lives miserable. Mine and Marco’s.”

She wrote something in the notebook. Lily read it.

“No. Marco didn’t tell him where you were.”

Femi wrote again.

“I swear he didn’t.”

Lily’s eyes filled.

“But his brother knows we lived together. He knew I had your number.”

The Devil understood. The messages. The smiles.

Our spot.

Not nostalgia.

A lure.

Femi slowly closed the notebook.

“I had to do it.”

The Devil rose.

No.

Lily reached for her.

Femi moved her hand away.

The Devil noticed.

She said no.

“I had to, Femi. He threatened Marco.”

Femi rose.

Lily stood with her.

“Just go with them.”

The Devil went cold.

No.

Femi became perfectly still.

“They won’t hurt you.”

Lily’s voice broke over the lie.

“I made them promise.”

Femi looked toward the four men. They had begun moving. Then she looked at Lily. Not angry. Not yet. Only wounded.

The Devil hated that expression more than it hated the men.

Lily started crying.

“I’m sorry.”

Femi took one step backward. The men walked faster.

“I didn’t have a choice.”

Femi ran.

The Devil did not whisper.

It roared.

The four men broke into a sprint. Daemon left the shadow of the tree.

The first man reached the path before him.

Daemon caught him by the throat and drove him into the trunk of an oak. The man’s head struck bark.

He dropped.

One.

The second pulled a knife.

Daemon broke the wrist holding it. The man screamed. Daemon drove his elbow into the man’s face and felt bone collapse.

The third tried to pass him.

Daemon caught the back of his coat, dragged him off his feet, and slammed him into the ground.

The fourth kept running.

Femi disappeared between the pool house and the changing rooms.

Daemon saw the man follow.

The Devil roared.

Femi.

Daemon dealt with the remaining three quickly.

The first attempted to rise. A kick returned him to the grass.

The second reached for the fallen knife with his unbroken hand. Daemon brought his boot down on it.

The third tried to crawl away. Daemon caught his ankle and broke it.

Their screams followed him as he ran.

“Femi!”

No answer.

Find her.

He reached the pool house.

Empty.

He followed the narrow path beside the locked gate.

“Femi!”

Nothing.

Panic tore through him. He had promised to come whenever she called. She had not called. He had watched the danger approach and still allowed one man to reach her. The Devil had no patience now. No jealousy. No petty resentment over hugs or smiles or shared benches.

Only one thought remained.

Little ghost.

Daemon ran faster.

The changing rooms stood beyond the pool’s rear wall.

He rounded the corner.

Metal struck bone.

A man screamed. Daemon stopped. Femi stood beside the changing-room wall. She held a length of metal pipe in both hands. Blood covered her shirt. Her face. Her hands. The man lay on the ground before her. He lifted one arm. Femi swung again. The pipe struck with a sickening crack. The arm fell. The man screamed. Femi raised the pipe. Struck him again. And again. His screams stopped. She did not.

The Devil stared.

A dark pulse of pride moved through it.

Our little ghost bites.

Then Daemon saw her eyes. Terror. Not rage. Not pleasure. She was still fighting because some part of her did not know the danger had ended.

The Devil’s pride vanished.

“Femi.”

The pipe rose. Daemon remained several feet away.

“Little ghost.”

She swung again. The body on the ground no longer moved.

Daemon could not tell whether the man was alive. Femi stood above him, breathing hard. Her eyes held pure terror.

“Look at me.”

Nothing.

Her hands tightened around the bloody pipe.

“It is over.” Daemon kept his voice soft. “You are safe now.”

Femi raised the weapon again. The Devil wanted to rush to her. Daemon did not.

Wait.

It hated waiting. It did anyway.

“Little ghost.”

Her eyes finally found him.

She did not appear to recognize him. Daemon did not move closer.

“It is me.”

Femi blinked.

“Daemon.”

The Devil whispered with him.

Day-mon.

Her grip remained tight.

“You are safe.”

He repeated the words.

“It is over. You are safe.”

The pipe lowered several inches. Femi blinked again. Recognition returned.

There.

Then she looked down. She saw the man at her feet. The blood. The pipe in her hands. Her knees gave way. Femi slid down the changing-room wall. Daemon approached slowly.

“You are safe.”

He said it with every step.

“No one is going to touch you.”

Another step.

“I am here.”

The Devil stayed behind his teeth. No commands. No possession. Just presence. Her eyes remained fixed on the body. Daemon crouched several feet away.

“May I take the pipe?”

Femi looked at him.

Her fingers did not open. Daemon extended one hand.

“Give it to me, little ghost.”

Her arms began shaking.

“It is all right.”

He waited.

The Devil waited.

Choose.

Femi’s grip loosened. Daemon wrapped his hand around the pipe and drew it carefully from her fingers. He threw it into the grass. Then he lowered himself beside her. Femi stared at her blood-covered hands. Daemon removed his jacket. He wiped her fingers one by one, though the blood only smeared deeper into her skin. The Devil watched those hands. The same hands that made bread. Touched Daemon’s scars. Held his face. Moved through his hair. Signed yes. Signed not yet. Those hands had saved her.

“Look at me.”

She shook her head.

“Femi.”

Her eyes lifted.

“You survived.”

Tears filled them.

“He chased you.”

Daemon cupped her face.

“He cornered you.”

His thumb wiped blood from her cheek.

“You fought back.”

Femi looked toward the motionless man.

“That blood belongs to him.”

Her body began to shake.

“Not you.”

Daemon pulled out his phone and called Malone. Malone answered immediately.

“Where are you?”

Daemon kept his eyes on Femi.

“Hamilton Park. Now.”

He ended the call.

Femi’s face crumpled. She moved into him. Daemon opened his arms.

The Devil surged forward—

not to take.

To receive.

Come here.

Femi melted against his chest. Her hands clutched his shirt. A silent sob tore through her. Daemon held her.

“It is all right.”

He pressed his lips against her hair.

“I have you.”

Her body shook violently.

“I have you, little ghost.”

The Devil wrapped itself around the words.

Here.

Beyond the pool house, one of the injured men groaned.

The Devil’s attention snapped toward the sound.

Alive.

It wanted to return.

Wanted to finish all three. Wanted names. Wanted Marco’s brother. Wanted to know exactly how Lily had been contacted, what she had promised, what the men intended to do with Femi once they had her. The Devil had learned patience.

Unfortunately for them, patience only meant it could kill later.

Daemon remained with Femi.

The Devil snarled but stayed.

Her first.

Footsteps approached across the grass. Lily appeared around the corner. She saw the blood. The body. Femi inside Daemon’s arms. Her hand flew over her mouth.

“Oh, God.”

The Devil rose. This time jealousy returned with the rage. This woman. The secret messages. The private smiles. The hearts.

Our spot.

Femi had given Lily her attention because Lily had once mattered. Had trusted her enough to come. Had smiled because she believed someone from the worst years of her life had survived and wanted to see her again. And Lily had used every piece of that affection to bring Femi here.

The Devil had been jealous of a friendship. Now it understood the greater offense. Lily had been given something precious. Femi’s trust. And she had spent it. Daemon turned his head.

Lily stopped. His gray eyes held death.

“I didn’t know they would chase her.”

The Devil whispered:

Liar.

Daemon said nothing.

“I thought she would go with them. I thought they only wanted to talk.”

Femi stiffened in his arms. The Devil felt it. Its rage sharpened.

Lily began crying again.

“I’m sorry, Femi.”

Daemon’s voice emerged low and empty.

“Leave.”

Lily shook her head.

“I need to explain.”

No.

“Leave.”

“If you would let me—”

Daemon moved.

Only slightly.

The Devil moved farther.

Go.

Lily ran.

The Devil wanted to follow. Badly. Its jealousy had become something uglier now. Lily had occupied a place inside Femi that the Devil could never occupy. A year on the street. Shared hunger. Shared cold. Shared survival. Their spot. The Devil had resented that place because it wasn’t theirs. Now it wanted to tear Lily apart for proving Femi had been wrong to preserve it.

Daemon stayed.

Femi watched Lily disappear beyond the changing rooms.

Her fingers moved weakly against Daemon’s chest.

She was my friend.

The Devil’s rage faltered.

“I know.”

She said they would not hurt me.

“I know.”

Femi pressed her face against him. Daemon held her tighter. He had been jealous of Lily. Jealous of the secret smiles. The late-night messages. The place inside Femi’s history that belonged to someone else. The Devil had wanted Femi’s attention back.

Now it would have given anything to see her smile at that damned phone again if it meant the smile had been safe.

She hurt you.

The whisper was quieter than its anger.

Almost bewildered.

Lily had betrayed Femi because someone she loved was threatened. She had chosen Marco. Julian had chosen himself. The foster homes had chosen convenience. Everyone eventually chose someone over Femi. No wonder his little ghost believed everything ended.

The Devil rejected that thought with immediate possessive fury.

Not us.

Daemon looked down at her. That was the difference. The Devil could be jealous. Petty. Possessive. It could hate every stranger who held Femi’s attention too long. It could resent old friends, shared benches, private jokes, and hearts sent in messages. It could want every smile. Every touch. Every look. But wanting all of Femi’s attention did not mean it was entitled to it.

And when the choice mattered— when someone had to be chosen— there was no hesitation.

Her.

Always her.

A truck engine roared near the western gate. Malone was coming. Femi’s hands clutched Daemon’s shirt harder. The Devil immediately noticed. Some primitive, possessive part of it purred because even now she reached for them.

Daemon kissed her temple.

“I am not leaving.”

She closed her eyes.

“Whatever happens next, I am staying beside you.”

The Devil whispered the promise more fiercely.

Not leaving.

Malone’s footsteps pounded across the path. Daemon continued holding her. The Devil did not mind the blood on Femi’s hands. It purred over what she had done to survive. But when Daemon looked at the terror remaining in her eyes, the purr died.

His little ghost had saved herself. The Devil was proud of her. Fiercely. Possessively. Hopelessly. But she should never have needed to. And somewhere beyond Hamilton Park, Lily was running.

The Devil remembered her name. It remembered Marco. It remembered the brother. It remembered four men. And it remembered something else.

Our spot.

The jealousy returned, dark and unreasonable. But underneath it lived the lesson Femi had taught the Devil again and again. Her attention was hers to give. Her friendship had been hers to give. Her trust had been hers to give. Lily’s sin was not that Femi had given those things to someone other than Daemon. It was that Lily had taken what Femi freely gave— and betrayed it.

The Devil held Femi tighter through Daemon’s arms.

It could wait.

It had become very good at waiting.

Her first.

The others could have what remained of its attention later.

Malone found the first man beneath an oak tree.

The man lay twisted against the roots, his face bloodied and his eyes open to nothing.

The second was near the walking path.

Alive.

Barely.

He cradled a broken wrist against his chest and whimpered whenever he breathed.

A third man lay facedown in the grass with one leg bent in a direction nature had never intended. His fingers moved weakly through the dirt.

Also alive.

Malone followed the blood across the grass.

The trail led behind the changing rooms. He turned the corner. Then stopped. A fourth man lay beside the wall. A discarded metal pipe rested several feet away. Blood covered both. Daemon sat in the grass with Femi inside his arms. Her face pressed against his chest. Her hands clutched the front of his shirt. Blood stained her clothing, her fingers, and the pale strands of Daemon’s hair where she had touched him. Daemon barely noticed the bodies anymore.

Neither did the Devil.

Little ghost.

Daemon’s jacket covered her shoulders.

Malone forgot the bodies.

“Baby girl.”

Femi lifted her head. The terror in her eyes nearly brought him to his knees. Malone crossed half the distance before Daemon raised one hand.

“Slowly.”

The warning stopped him. The Devil remained curled tightly around Femi. Not possessively. Protectively. Everything inside it wanted the world farther away from her.

Femi looked from Daemon to Malone. Recognition moved through her face. Then her expression crumpled again. Malone approached more carefully.

“I’m here.”

He crouched several feet away.

“You’re safe, baby girl.”

Her hands moved weakly.

I hurt him.

Malone looked toward the man beside the wall.

“You survived him.”

The Devil agreed.

Yes.

Femi shook her head.

Her fingers trembled.

I did not stop.

Malone studied the pipe. Then the body.

“You stopped when there was no longer a threat.”

She stared at him.

“If that took one swing or twenty, it does not change what brought you here.”

Femi’s breathing broke. Malone looked toward Daemon.

“What happened?”

“Four men chased her.”

The words came out flat.

“I stopped three. One reached her.”

The Devil hated that sentence.

One reached her.

It had counted the failure repeatedly since finding Femi behind the changing rooms.

Malone’s gaze moved toward the body.

“She handled the fourth.”

Femi closed her eyes. Daemon held her tighter. Malone looked over the blood on her clothing.

“Is any of that yours?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“You don’t believe so?”

“She won’t let me examine her.”

The Devil disliked that too. But Femi had said no. So they had waited. Malone’s eyes returned to Femi.

“Baby girl, we need to know if you’re injured.”

Femi shook her head. Her hands moved.

He grabbed my coat.

“Anywhere else?”

My hair.

Daemon’s face changed.

The Devil became perfectly still.

Her hair.

It had touched that hair hours earlier. Femi had let Daemon bury his fingers inside it while she kissed him. Had wrapped those midnight strands around his hand. Had allowed him to hold her gently. And some stranger had used the same hair to drag her toward a changing room. The Devil had already killed the man in its mind several times.

Femi continued.

He tried to drag me toward the changing room.

Malone looked at the body again.

The last trace of sympathy disappeared.

“And you found the pipe?”

She nodded.

“Good.”

Femi blinked.

Malone leaned closer.

“You did exactly what you had to do.”

Her eyes filled.

“He intended to take you somewhere. You stopped him.”

The Devil purred once.

Dark.

Proud.

Our little ghost bites.

Femi looked down at her bloody hands.

Malone removed a clean handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to her. She did not take it. Daemon accepted it and began wiping her fingers. One by one. The Devil watched those fingers. Hands that made bread. Hands that signed. Hands that traced his scars. Hands that had brought the Devil to its knees before sunrise. Hands that had wrapped around a metal pipe when no one reached her quickly enough.

Good hands.

Malone stood.

“Where is the woman who contacted her?”

“Gone.”

The Devil surfaced slightly.

Lily.

“Who was she?”

“Lily. They lived on the street together.”

Femi’s body stiffened. Daemon’s hand stopped. Malone noticed.

“What did she do?”

Femi signed without lifting her eyes.

She told me Marco’s brother threatened them.

“Marco?”

A friend from the encampment.

Malone waited.

Lily said I should go with the men.

Her movements became smaller.

She promised they would not hurt me.

The Devil’s earlier jealousy felt childish now.

It had resented Lily’s messages.

Her hearts.

Her hugs.

Our spot.

It had wanted Femi’s attention back. Now it wanted something entirely different. Daemon’s jaw tightened.

Malone looked toward the two men still moving on the grass.

“We’ll ask them.”

The Devil agreed.

Yes.

Daemon helped Femi stand. Her knees nearly folded beneath her. He caught her immediately.

“I have you.”

Always.

Femi clung to his arm.

Malone removed his coat and layered it over Daemon’s around her shoulders.

“You look ridiculous,” Daemon said.

“She’s cold.”

“She already has my jacket.”

“She can have both.”

The Devil considered the matter settled.

She can have everything.

Malone guided them toward his truck. Femi stopped when she saw the man beside the path. The injured stranger looked up. His face lost what little color remained.

“That’s her,” he whispered.

The Devil’s attention sharpened.

Her.

Daemon turned. The man tried crawling away. He managed less than a foot. Daemon handed Femi to Malone.

“Stay with her.”

Malone drew Femi against his side. Daemon crossed the grass. The man raised his unbroken hand.

“Wait.”

Daemon placed one boot against his chest and rolled him onto his back. The man cried out.

“What were you going to do with her?”

“I don’t know.”

Daemon pressed down.

The man’s breath escaped in a broken gasp.

“Wrong answer.”

“I swear.”

Daemon increased the pressure.

“We were only paid to grab her.”

The Devil whispered:

Paid.

Another man reducing Femi to something purchased.

“By whom?”

“I don’t know his real name.”

Daemon looked toward the second survivor.

“Perhaps your friend remembers.”

The man with the broken leg had dragged himself onto one elbow. He saw Daemon approaching and collapsed flat again.

“I didn’t touch her,” he said quickly.

“No. You were too busy failing to get past me.”

Daemon crouched beside him.

“Who paid you?”

The man looked toward his injured companion. Daemon caught his broken ankle. The man screamed before he applied any pressure.

“Angelo!”

Femi went still beside Malone. The Devil heard the name.

Angelo.

And kept it.

Daemon’s gaze sharpened.

“Angelo what?”

“I don’t know his last name.”

Daemon’s hand shifted.

“I swear! Everyone calls him Angelo.”

“Marco’s brother?” Malone asked.

The man looked toward him.

“Yeah.”

Femi closed her eyes.

Daemon released the ankle.

“Why does Angelo want Femi?”

“We weren’t told.”

“Then guess.”

“He said he needed to collect her.”

The Devil became very quiet. So quiet Daemon felt it like an empty room inside his skull.

“Collect her,” Daemon repeated.

“That’s the word he used.”

The Devil whispered one word.

No.

“For what?”

“I don’t know.”

Daemon drove his fingers into the man’s broken leg. The scream crossed the empty park. Birds fled the trees.

“I don’t know!” the man sobbed. “I swear to God, I don’t know!”

“God is not here,” Malone said.

The man stared at him. Malone’s expression held no mercy.

“Try another answer.”

“We were supposed to take her to the old church.”

“Which church?”

“The abandoned one on Saint Avenue. Near the rail yard.”

Daemon looked toward Malone. They both knew it. The church had closed after a fire destroyed half the sanctuary. Drug dealers and squatters used the surviving rooms whenever the police stopped paying attention.

“Who is waiting there?” Daemon asked.

“Angelo.”

Good.

“Alone?”

“I don’t know.”

Daemon’s hand returned to the broken ankle.

“Three men. Maybe four.”

The answer came quickly.

“Angelo said he would collect her when we arrived.”

Femi opened her eyes.

Collect.

The word had followed her through too much of her life.

Now Angelo.

Men who believed a woman could become currency if no one powerful objected. The Devil had learned otherwise. Femi belonged to Femi. Julian had learned that beneath cement. Angelo would learn it too. Malone felt her trembling beneath the coats.

He lowered his head.

“You are not something anyone collects.”

Femi looked at him.

“You are my daughter.”

Her face crumpled.

Across the grass, Daemon stood over the injured man.

“What did Angelo tell you about her?”

The man hesitated. Daemon stepped on his broken leg. He screamed.

“What did he tell you?”

“That she was easy!”

Daemon’s eyes became empty.

The Devil did not move.

“He said she was easy prey.”

Femi’s fingers closed around Malone’s sleeve.

The Devil whispered:

Easy.

“What else?”

The man breathed through clenched teeth.

“That she couldn’t scream.”

The Devil surfaced completely. Not roaring. Not raging. Something worse. Quiet.

Daemon removed his boot.

The sudden absence of pressure frightened the man more than the pain.

“What else?”

“He said she was small. That she wouldn’t fight.”

Daemon glanced toward the body beside the changing-room wall.

“He was mistaken.”

The Devil’s satisfaction was brief.

Very.

The man followed his gaze. His face turned gray.

“He told us she didn’t have anybody.”

Malone slowly released Femi. The Devil stopped.

“What?”

The injured man looked at him.

“Angelo said she lived alone.”

Malone crossed the grass.

“He said nobody would come looking,” the man continued desperately.

“Nobody would miss her.”

Silence. The Devil heard nothing else for several seconds. Nobody would miss her. It remembered an empty kitchen. A bus station. Gate Twelve. Twenty stops. Five months of searching. Three towns. Every door Daemon had opened. Every terminal he had searched. Every false glimpse of midnight hair that had made his heart stop. The little ghost had disappeared once. And the Devil had nearly torn Ravenside apart looking for her.

Nobody?

Malone stopped above him. The man looked from Malone to Daemon. For the first time, he seemed to understand the scale of his mistake. Malone crouched.

“That woman is my daughter.”

The man swallowed.

Daemon moved to Malone’s side.

The Devil rose with him.

“And she is mine.”

Femi looked at him. The possessive declaration should have frightened her. It did not. The Devil’s claim felt nothing like Julian’s. Julian had called her his because he wanted ownership. Daemon said it because he had chosen where he belonged.

The Devil understood the difference now.

Mine to love.

Not own.

Not command.

Not keep against her will.

But love?

Yes.

The Devil would remain shamelessly possessive about that.

Our little ghost.

Malone caught the front of the man’s coat.

“You chased my daughter through a public park because some bastard told you no one would miss her?”

“We didn’t know.”

“You did not ask.”

“We needed the money.”

Malone struck him. The man’s head snapped into the grass. Femi flinched. Daemon noticed.

He touched two fingers to his chest.

Here.

The sign was clumsy.

But she understood.

The Devil added silently:

Always.

Malone dragged the man upright by his coat.

“How did you know she would be here?”

The man’s eyes moved toward Femi.

“She set it up.”

The Devil knew before Malone asked.

Lily.

“Who?”

“The woman.”

Femi stopped breathing.

“Lily?” Daemon asked.

The man nodded frantically.

“She contacted Angelo.”

Femi shook her head.

“No,” Malone said. “Lily claimed Angelo threatened Marco.”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

Daemon approached. The man rushed to continue.

“She told Angelo the girl had started answering her messages.”

The Devil remembered every smile. Every time Femi had read a message twice. Every time jealousy had whispered Who? Now the memories curdled. Femi’s face emptied.

“She said Hamilton Park was their old meeting place.”

The injured man pointed weakly toward the dry fountain.

“She picked the bench. Picked the time.”

The Devil stared toward the fountain.

Our spot.

It had hated those words because they represented something belonging to Femi and Lily. Now it hated them for an entirely different reason. Femi stared toward it. Their spot. During their year on the street, Lily and Femi had met at that fountain whenever the encampment became too dangerous. If one disappeared during the day, the other waited there at sunset. It had been a promise. A way to ensure neither vanished without someone noticing.

The Devil’s jealousy died completely. That place had mattered. Not because Lily possessed some piece of Femi. Because once, when Femi had almost no one, another person had promised to notice if she disappeared.

The Devil could respect that. Which made what Lily had done with it unforgivable. Lily had taken the one place built upon that promise and transformed it into a trap.

The man kept talking.

“Lily said the girl trusted her.”

Femi’s eyes closed.

The Devil whispered:

She did.

“She said she could get her alone.”

The Devil went cold. Not because Femi had trusted someone else. Because Lily had known she was trusted. And used it. Malone released the man. He struck the ground and groaned.

Daemon looked at Femi. Her face held no tears now. Only the terrible emptiness he had seen at the kitchen window. The Devil hated that emptiness. It crossed the grass with Daemon. Femi stepped backward.

Daemon stopped immediately. So did the Devil.

Wait.

“Little ghost.”

Her hands moved.

She planned it.

“Yes.”

She did not only give them my number.

“No.”

Femi looked toward the park entrance through which Lily had fled.

She chose our spot.

The Devil felt the wound deepen.

Not jealousy now.

Grief.

Lily had not betrayed Femi in panic at the bench. She had written the messages. Added the hearts. Used memories of the street and the promise that had once kept them alive. Then led Femi toward four men who had been told she could not scream.

The Devil wanted Lily.

Badly.

But Femi stood in front of them.

So it stayed.

Her first.

Daemon held out his hand.

Femi looked at it.

“You have someone.”

Her green eyes lifted.

“Angelo was wrong.”

Femi stared.

“So was Lily.”

Her fingers slowly closed around his. The Devil purred. Not because she had chosen Daemon instead of Lily. This was not a competition anymore. Because when trust broke beneath Femi’s feet, she had reached for him.

Here.

Daemon pulled her near but did not force her into an embrace.

Femi chose the final distance.

She pressed herself against him.

She chose.

Malone turned toward the two injured men.

“Are there more waiting at the church?”

The first survivor nodded.

“How long before Angelo realizes you failed?”

“We were supposed to call when we had her.”

Malone checked his watch.

“Then he is already suspicious.”

Daemon looked toward the church’s direction.

The Devil wanted to move.

Angelo.

Angelo believed Femi was easy prey. He believed she had no one. That no one would notice when she disappeared. That nobody would miss her. The Devil wanted to introduce itself.

Daemon touched Femi’s cheek.

“I need you to go back to Helix with Malone.”

The Devil agreed immediately.

Safe.

Her grip tightened around his hand.

She shook her head.

“Not this time.”

Femi’s expression hardened.

“You are covered in blood.”

She looked down.

The sight seemed to surprise her again.

“You may be injured.”

She shook her head.

“You are going home.”

The Devil wanted to insist.

Yes.

Her hands moved sharply.

And you?

“I am going to church.”

Femi stepped closer.

No.

“Little ghost.”

You said you would not leave.

The Devil quieted.

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

“I am not leaving you.”

She pointed toward the direction of the old church.

You are.

The Devil hated that she was right.

Daemon did too.

Malone watched them.

Femi continued.

Angelo wanted me.

“Yes.”

I want to know why.

“I will ask.”

He will not answer you if you kill him first.

Daemon frowned.

“That happened once.”

The Devil corrected him.

More than once.

Femi stared.

“Twice.”

Malone cleared his throat.

“Argue later.”

He nodded toward the injured men.

“We have two living mistakes, one dead fool beneath a tree, and whatever baby girl did behind the changing rooms.”

Femi looked down.

Malone’s voice softened.

“I need to get you away from here.”

He removed his phone.

“I’ll call Marta. She can meet us at the truck.”

Femi caught his wrist.

I am going to the church.

“No.”

Her expression became stubborn.

The Devil knew that expression.

It had lost several arguments to it already.

Malone recognized it too.

He looked toward Daemon.

“This is your fault.”

“How?”

“She never argued with me before you came.”

“She had poor role models.”

Femi struck Daemon’s arm.

The Devil almost smiled.

Again.

Almost.

Then a distant siren moved through the city.

Malone looked toward the park entrance.

“Decision time.”

Daemon studied Femi.

Blood covered her.

Terror remained beneath her determination. But so did rage. Angelo had used Lily to reach her. If Daemon hid Femi away now, the Devil would be deciding for her again. It knew this lesson.

It simply did not enjoy it when the lesson placed Femi near danger.

Safe.

Daemon looked at her.

Choice.

The two instincts fought.

Possession against love.

Protection against agency.

The Devil wanted to carry her back to Helix.

Lock the doors.

Put Malone, Marta, Red, and half of Wolfwater outside.

Then go to the church alone.

It also remembered Femi standing in the kitchen.

You told me I could say no without losing you. Then you can hear no too.

The Devil growled.

It hated when little ghost used its own lessons against it.

Daemon asked the only question that mattered.

“What do you need?”

The question surprised everyone.

The Devil surrendered reluctantly.

Tell us.

Femi stared at him.

Then signed.

Clean clothes.

Daemon waited.

A weapon.

The Devil immediately approved.

Yes.

Malone muttered something profane.

Femi’s hands moved once more.

And the truth.

The Devil went still.

Clean clothes.

A weapon.

The truth.

No hiding.

No being sent away.

No one deciding what she was allowed to know because they loved her.

Daemon’s crooked smile appeared.

“The old church, then.”

The Devil whispered:

Beside us.

Malone closed his eyes.

“I hate both of you.”

Femi looked toward him.

Malone sighed.

“But Angelo said no one would miss you.”

His gaze moved over his daughter.

“So I suppose all of us should introduce ourselves.”

The Devil liked Malone very much in that momen. Behind them, one of the injured men began crying. Daemon looked toward the two survivors.

“They are coming too.”

The crying intensified.

Malone smiled without humor.

“Good.”

He reached for his phone.

“I’ll call Harlon. He can bring the van and deal with the park.”

Daemon kept Femi’s hand inside his.

The Devil no longer whispered that someone was trying to take her away.

Someone had tried.

Now the Devil knew his name.

Angelo.

Angelo waited inside an abandoned church for four men to deliver a woman he believed was easy prey. A woman who could not scream. A woman who would not fight. A woman who had nobody. The Devil looked at Femi. Blood on her clothes. Daemon’s jacket beneath Malone’s. Her hand wrapped around his. Green eyes no longer empty. Determined.

Angelo had been wrong about everything. Especially the last part. Nobody would miss her.

The Devil almost laughed.

Malone would burn Ravenside down. Marta would help him carry the gasoline. Dai had already proved what she did to people who hurt Femi. Wolfwater had quietly adopted its little ghost years ago. And Daemon? Daemon had once searched three towns, bus terminals, shelters, streets, and twenty stops because Femi had chosen to leave. She had not even been taken. She had left willingly. And still he had searched. The Devil had searched with him.

Nobody would miss her.

No.

Angelo was about to discover what happened when Femi disappeared for only a few minutes.

The Devil squeezed her hand gently through Daemon’s fingers. It had learned patience. It had learned choice. It had learned that Femi belonged to herself. But it had never learned indifference.

It never would.

Our little ghost.

Not owned.

Not collected.

Not kept.

Loved.

Fiercely enough that her absence changed the shape of every room. Angelo waited inside an abandoned church for easy prey.

Instead, Femi intended to walk through the door beside the Devil.

And the Devil— patient, possessive, and very interested in correcting misunderstandings— was coming with her.

Their first stop was Helix.

Daemon took Femi through the rear entrance before the regulars could see the blood.

Malone and Harlon left immediately to speak with Marco. Marta met Femi in the hallway outside her room. Her gaze moved across the blood covering Femi’s clothes.

“Is any of that yours?”

Femi shook her head.

Marta looked toward Daemon.

“You certain?”

“No.” Daemon spoke.

The Devil disliked the answer as much as Marta did.

Check her.

“I am not deaf, Femi.”

Femi signed more sharply.

It is not mine.

Marta’s eyes returned to the dark stains across her shirt.

“Strip.”

Femi stared.

“You can glare after I confirm you do not have a knife wound hiding beneath that blood.”

Daemon turned toward the door.

Marta pointed at him.

“Out.”

“I know.”

“You’re still standing there.”

Daemon left.

The Devil objected.

Stay.

“She said out.”

We should see.

“She said out.”

The Devil growled but followed him into the hallway. It had learned many things because of Femi. Apparently, being ordered out of rooms by women protecting her was one of them. Daemon waited in the hallway while Marta examined Femi. Every sound inside the room sharpened the Devil’s attention. A drawer opened. Water began running. Marta crossed the room several times.

Too long.

“It has been three minutes.”

Too long.

Finally, the door opened.

“She has bruises on one arm and across her scalp where he grabbed her hair,” Marta said. “No cuts. No stab wounds.”

The Devil became very still at scalp.

He pulled her hair.

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

The man behind the changing rooms was fortunate Femi had already handled him.

“She is showering.”

“I will wait.”

“I assumed so.”

Marta walked past him.

“Try not to kill anyone inside the building. I recently cleaned the floors.”

The Devil found this unreasonable.

Femi emerged twenty minutes later. Her wet hair hung loose down her back. She wore dark jeans, a fitted black shirt, and heavy boots. Every trace of blood had been washed from her skin. The terror had not. It remained behind her eyes, hidden beneath determination.

Daemon held out his hand. Femi took it.

The Devil immediately settled.

Here.

He led her downstairs.

Helix had not opened yet, but nearly a dozen people occupied the clubhouse. Harlon’s men moved between the rear entrance and Malone’s office. Marta stood behind the bar filling a tray with coffee. A long table had been pulled into the center of the room. Weapons covered it. Knives. Shotguns. Handguns. A wooden baseball bat with MARTA carved into the handle.

Daemon looked at it.

Marta lifted her coffee.

“I label my property.”

The Devil approved. People moved around the table, selecting what they intended to carry to the old church. No one paid attention to Femi. No one except the Devil. Femi released Daemon’s hand and approached the weapons. She examined them without touching anything at first. Her gaze moved from one handgun to another. The Devil watched with interest. Then she selected a Glock. The pistol looked large inside her small hand. Femi ejected the magazine. Checked it. Examined the weapon. Worked the slide with a familiarity that made Daemon’s blood warm.

The Devil sat up.

Little ghost?

She returned the magazine and tucked the weapon into the back of her jeans.

The Devil purred in pure delight.

Oh.

Daemon stared at her. The Devil stared harder. There had been no fumbling. No uncertainty. No need to ask which end pointed toward the problem. Femi had handled the weapon as casually as she handled a kitchen knife.

The Devil was enchanted. Daemon crossed the room.

“Who taught you about weapons?”

Femi turned.

“Little ghost?”

Her hands moved.

Jerri.

“Who is Jerri?”

A man from the homeless camp.

Her expression softened.

He used to say, “You are a little lady. You need something that makes a lot of noise.”

Daemon smiled.

The Devil decided immediately that Jerri had been an excellent man.

“I like Jerri.”

He complained constantly.

“I still like him.”

He said I attracted trouble.

Daemon glanced around the clubhouse.

“He was observant.”

Femi struck his arm. The Devil was too pleased to mind. It was still thinking about the Glock.

Ask her.

“Did he only teach you how to hold one?”

Her eyebrows rose.

The Devil liked that expression.

“Have you fired a weapon before?”

Yes.

The Devil purred louder.

Daemon moved closer.

The Devil whispered that three feet was too far.

Femi signed.

Men came to the camp one night.

His amusement vanished.

So did the Devil’s.

They were beating people.

“How many?”

Five.

“And where were you?”

Inside an abandoned car with Lily.

The name changed something in her face.

Femi continued.

Jerri told us to stay hidden.

“You did not.”

She shook her head.

The Devil already knew it was going to like the rest of this story.

Two men found him.

Daemon waited.

I shot one in the leg.

A slow smile touched his mouth.

The Devil went still.

Then—

You what?

The other in the shoulder.

The Devil practically glowed.

Two.

It leaned nearer inside Daemon.

“You hit both?”

Femi frowned.

As though the question itself were insulting.

I do not miss.

Silence.

Daemon stared at her. The Devil stared through him. Then pure excitement moved through them both. Raw. Possessive. Entirely unwise.

She does not miss.

Daemon’s crooked smile deepened. The Devil wanted everyone in Helix to stop what they were doing and appreciate this new information properly. Their little ghost could shoot. Not wave a gun. Not fire wildly. Shoot. Apparently well enough that the question of whether she hit her targets offended her.

Again.

Daemon almost laughed.

“We are not asking her to shoot something for your entertainment.”

Why not?

“Because that is insane.”

There is a table full of weapons.

Femi saw the excitement in his eyes.

She shivered.

The Devil noticed.

There.

Daemon wanted to pull her against him. Wanted to tell everyone in the clubhouse that his little ghost could shoot. Wanted to discover whether that trembling meant the same thing it had last night. They were surrounded by people. Now was not the time. The Devil disagreed about the first two. It was entirely prepared to announce Femi’s marksmanship to the room.

Daemon bent toward her ear instead.

“Remind me to thank Jerri.”

Femi looked away before he could see her blush.

The Devil saw it anyway.

“Where is he now?”

Her expression dimmed.

A warehouse on 10th Street.

Daemon looked at the weapon tucked into her jeans.

Jerri remained in the way she checked the chamber. In the steadiness of her hands. In every lesson that had helped her survive after he could no longer protect her. The Devil’s pleasure softened into something quieter. Jerri had seen a small, silent girl living beneath a bridge and decided she deserved another way to protect herself. He had taught her to make noise when her voice could not.

The Devil respected that.

“We will have to thank him one day.”

Femi nodded.

Her hand rested briefly against the gun.

He would be happy I remembered.

“He would be proud.”

Femi looked at him.

Daemon touched her cheek.

“I am.”

The Devil whispered with him.

Very.

The words struck her harder than he expected. She lowered her eyes. The Devil wanted her to look up again. It wanted her to see exactly how pleased they were.

Before Daemon could say more, the rear door opened.

Harlon entered first. His knuckles were bruised. Blood darkened one sleeve.

Malone followed. Both hands were bloody. A tear crossed the shoulder of his coat. His breathing remained heavy, and the violence inside his expression had not settled.

Daemon looked past them.

“Marco?”

“Alive,” Harlon said.

Malone removed his coat.

“Barely.”

Harlon looked toward Femi.

“I had to pull him off.”

“Twice,” Malone said.

“Four times.”

“The last two did not count.”

“They count when I have to use both arms.”

The Devil approved of Malone slightly more. Malone went behind the bar and poured whiskey over his hands. Femi flinched when it touched the split skin. He saw her.

“I’m fine, baby girl.”

What did Marco say?

Malone’s expression changed.

He looked toward Daemon.

“No.”

The Devil’s attention sharpened.

Femi stepped forward.

You said I would receive the truth.

Daemon nodded.

“She did.”

The Devil remembered the promise.

Truth.

Malone glared at him.

“You promised her?”

“Yes.”

“Of course you did.”

Malone reached for a towel and wiped his hands.

“Marco’s older brother is Angelo Casale.”

The name settled over the clubhouse.

The Devil already knew the first name.

Now it had the rest.

Angelo Casale.

Two men near the weapons table exchanged a look.

Daemon noticed.

“You know him?”

One nodded.

“Small-time trafficker before prison. Worked the edges of the Venttai territory.”

Malone continued.

“He collects young women for wealthy men willing to pay for privacy.”

Femi’s face emptied. The Devil went cold.

“He served five years for kidnapping and assault. He was released three months ago.”

“Only five?” Marta asked.

“The witnesses disappeared before trial.”

“Of course they did.”

Malone looked at Femi.

“Angelo called Marco two weeks after his release.”

Why?

“He knew Marco had spent time in the Wolfwater encampment.”

Malone’s mouth hardened.

“He began asking about young women who had lived there.”

Daemon moved closer to Femi.

“Not only her?”

“Not at first.”

Malone’s bloody hands tightened around the towel.

“Then Marco mentioned Femi.”

The Devil’s attention narrowed.

Her expression became wary.

“Angelo started asking specific questions.”

“What questions?” Daemon asked.

“Where she lived. Whether she still slept under the bridge. Whether she had family.”

The Devil listened.

“Whether she could speak.”

Femi folded her arms around herself.

The Devil whispered:

She speaks.

“Marco said he did not know where she was.”

Malone looked toward the floor.

“But Lily did.”

Femi’s chin lifted.

“Angelo offered them five thousand dollars for information.”

Her hands stilled.

“Another five if they brought you to Hamilton Park.”

Marta set down the coffeepot. The sound cracked through the room.

Femi looked at Malone.

They were paid?

“Yes.”

The Devil remembered Julian. Money. Collateral. Usefulness. Men who believed everything could be assigned a price.

Ten thousand. As though Femi could be reduced to a number.

Lily said Angelo threatened Marco.

“Marco claims Angelo did threaten him.”

Malone’s voice turned flat.

“After they accepted the first payment and tried to delay giving him the information.”

Femi looked away.

“He threatened to collect the debt from Lily if they did not finish the arrangement.”

Daemon’s eyes became cold.

“So they sold Femi first.”

“Yes.”

The Devil whispered:

They chose.

Malone’s fists closed.

“Marco said the park was Lily’s idea.”

Femi stopped breathing.

The Devil remembered the bench.

Our spot.

“She told Angelo about your old meeting place. Said you would come if she used the old phone.”

The betrayal entered Femi without visible movement. Daemon saw it anyway. So did the Devil. The park had not merely been Lily’s desperate choice. It had been her plan. The messages. The hearts. The photograph of the apartment. Every word chosen to draw Femi from Helix.

Malone crossed the room.

“Baby girl.”

Femi stepped backward.

He stopped.

“There is something else.”

Daemon saw shame enter Malone’s face.

“What?”

Malone did not answer him.

His attention remained on Femi.

“Marco does not like you.”

Her expression became confused.

“He believes things Lily told him.”

Femi’s fingers moved.

What things?

Malone looked toward Daemon again.

“Tell her,” Daemon said.

“I am trying to decide how.”

“The truth does not become gentler while you hold it.”

The Devil agreed.

Tell her.

Malone’s jaw tightened.

Then he faced Femi.

“Lily told Marco you sold yourself for money while you lived on the street.”

Silence consumed the clubhouse. The Devil rose. Femi stared at him.

“She said you forced her to do the same.”

The room became colder.

Daemon felt the Devil fully now.

Lie.

Femi’s hands moved once.

Stopped.

Then moved again.

No.

“I know.”

I never did that.

“I know, baby girl.”

Her signs became sharp.

Lily sold herself.

Malone remained still.

I begged her to stop.

Femi’s eyes filled.

I cleaned motel rooms for food.

Her movements accelerated.

I repaired heaters. I washed clothes. I stole from stores when there was nothing else.

Daemon moved closer. Femi did not notice.

I watched for cars when Lily went with men.

Her hands began shaking.

I tried to keep her alive.

The Devil’s rage became something colder.

Femi had protected Lily. Watched for cars. Tried to keep her alive. And Lily had rewritten that kindness into cruelty. Daemon caught her wrists gently. She looked at him.

“I believe you.”

The Devil whispered:

Always.

Tears slipped down her cheeks.

“I do not need an explanation.”

Her hands twisted free.

Marco believes her.

“Marco believes what allows him to blame someone.”

The Devil’s answer was less charitable.

Marco is a fool.

Malone approached.

“I told him what I thought of that.”

Harlon flexed his bruised hand.

“At length.”

Femi looked at the blood coating Malone’s fingers.

You hurt him because of me.

“No.”

Malone’s answer came immediately.

“I hurt him because he sold my daughter to a trafficker.”

His voice rose.

“He accepted money because he believed the word of a woman willing to use friendship as bait.”

Femi stared at him.

“I hurt him because he called you a whore while explaining why Angelo Casale believed no one would come looking.”

The Devil became utterly still.

He called her what?

Malone’s face hardened.

“He is lucky Harlon pulled me away.”

“Four times,” Harlon repeated.

The Devil decided Harlon had made a questionable choice. Malone ignored him. Femi wiped her cheeks. Then her hands moved.

Where is Angelo?

“The old church.”

The Devil answered silently.

Waiting.

And Lily?

“Marco does not know.”

Femi’s gaze went toward the rear doors.

Daemon stepped in her path.

“Before we go anywhere, I need to see the gun.”

Her eyebrows rose.

The Devil immediately protested.

She knows what she is doing.

“Humor me.”

Femi removed it and handed it to him.

Daemon examined the weapon. Then he retrieved a holster from the table and secured it against the back of her jeans. He returned the Glock. Femi slid it into place. The Devil purred again.

There.

The sight pleased it immensely.

Small little ghost. Midnight hair. Black shirt. Heavy boots. Glock at her back. And apparently—She does not miss.

The Devil might never recover from that information.

Malone watched.

“No.”

Femi looked at him.

“Absolutely not.”

Her hands moved.

You brought weapons for everyone.

“Everyone else is not my daughter.”

Everyone else was not the target.

“That is why you should remain here.”

Femi stared at him. Malone folded his arms. She folded hers. The Devil recognized the beginning of a battle.

Harlon looked between them.

“I’m going to find coffee.”

“No one asked you,” Malone said.

“I am protecting my peace.”

He retreated toward the kitchen.

Femi signed.

Angelo chose me.

“Yes.”

Lily chose me.

Malone’s expression tightened.

Four men chased me.

“We know.”

Femi touched the Glock at her back.

The Devil’s purr returned.

I am going.

“No.”

The Devil looked at Malone through Daemon’s eyes.

It understood his fear. It shared it. Every instinct wanted Femi behind Helix’s locked doors with Marta, Cutter, and enough armed bikers to start a small war. But Femi had chosen. And she knew how to defend that choice. That changed something. Not the Devil’s fear. Certainly not its possessiveness. But its calculation. She was not helpless beside them.

She had never been helpless. People simply kept mistaking quiet for weak. She looked toward Daemon.

Malone pointed at him.

“Do not.”

Daemon considered Femi. Her wet hair framed her face. Fear remained in her eyes, but it no longer ruled them.

“She knows how to use the weapon.”

The Devil supplied proudly:

She does not miss.

“That is not the point.”

“She has already killed one man today.”

“That is precisely my point.”

Femi’s gaze sharpened.

Malone saw it and immediately regretted the words.

“Baby girl—”

He tried to take me.

“I know.”

Should I have let him?

“No.”

Then do not make what I did sound shameful.

The Devil went quiet. Daemon looked at her. There was the wound beneath the determination. Not fear of what she had done. Fear that the people she loved would look at her differently because she had survived violently.

The Devil understood that fear better than anyone. Malone closed his eyes. When he opened them, his anger had broken.

“I’m sorry.”

Femi watched him.

“You survived. I am grateful.”

He touched the blood on his hands.

“But I found you covered in a dead man’s blood, and some part of me is still standing in that park.”

Femi’s expression softened. She stepped closer and took his hand.

Malone looked down at their joined fingers.

“I cannot lose you.”

Femi signed with her free hand.

Then come with me.

The Devil almost smiled.

Malone laughed once. It held no humor.

“You negotiate like your mother.”

Femi’s head tilted.

“That was not a compliment.”

Her small smile appeared.

Malone sighed.

“Fine.”

Femi squeezed his hand.

“You remain between Daemon and me.”

Her smile vanished.

“You do exactly what we say.”

She stared.

“That is the agreement.”

Femi considered it. Then nodded. Daemon’s crooked smile appeared. The Devil was pleased too. Not because Femi had been given permission. She did not need it. Because she would not walk into that church alone.

Malone looked at him.

“What are you smiling about?”

“Nothing.” Daemon smiled wider.

“The Devil is practically vibrating.”

Daemon turned toward the weapons table.

“My little ghost does not miss.”

The Devil purred shamelessly.

She does not.

Malone stared at Femi.

Her cheeks warmed.

“Of course she doesn’t.”

He reached for a shotgun.

“Why would anything about today be simple?”

Marta pushed a thermos across the bar.

“Coffee.”

Malone caught it.

“Thank you.”

“That is for Femi.”

Malone looked offended. Marta passed a second thermos to Daemon.

“And that is for the Devil.”

The Devil approved of Marta too.

“What about me?”

“You have whiskey.”

Malone muttered beneath his breath. Harlon returned from the kitchen carrying a cup.

“We ready?”

Daemon put on his leather jacket. Femi checked the Glock at her back. The movement was small. Automatic. Competent. The Devil watched it with ridiculous satisfaction.

Again.

Malone lifted the shotgun.

“Yes.”

He looked toward his daughter.

“Angelo Casale paid ten thousand dollars because he thought no one would miss her.”

The men around the weapons table became silent. Daemon opened the rear door. Cold air entered Helix.

“Let us show him how badly he miscalculated.”

Femi walked toward him. Daemon held out his hand. She took it. The Devil purred. Jerri had once given a little woman a weapon because she needed something that made a great deal of noise. He had taught her how to hold it. How to check it. How to fire. How to hit what she intended to hit. And Femi had remembered. The Devil wanted to meet Jerri. Wanted to shake his hand. Perhaps buy him a bottle. Perhaps several. Anyone who had looked at their little ghost when she had almost nothing and decided she deserved the means to defend herself had earned the Devil’s gratitude.

Daemon glanced down at Femi. She walked beside him with a Glock at her back and her hand inside his. Quiet. Small. Determined. The world kept making the same mistake. Mute meant helpless. Gentle meant weak. Small meant easy. Alone meant unwanted. The Devil smiled inside him. Angelo had built his entire plan upon those mistakes.

Tonight, Femi would not need to make any sound at all. She had a weapon. She had Malone. She had Wolfwater. She had Daemon.

And, to the Devil’s profound delight—

Our little ghost does not miss.

This time, the Devil intended to let her speak for herself.

The old church stood at the edge of Wolfwater beneath a sky the color of bruised steel.

Its steeple had lost its cross years ago.

Several stained-glass windows were broken. Plywood covered the others. Weeds pushed through cracks in the stone steps, and the wooden doors had warped until they no longer met properly in the middle.

It looked abandoned.

It was not.

Harlon drove past without slowing.

“Two vehicles behind the church,” he said through the earpiece. “Another in the alley on the east side. Black sedan out front belongs to Angelo.”

Daemon sat beside Femi in the back of Malone’s car.

“Men?”

“Four outside that I can see.”

“More inside,” Malone said from behind the wheel.

Femi looked through the tinted window. The Glock rested against the small of her back. A loose black jacket concealed it. Her hair had been braided tightly and tucked beneath the collar. No jewelry. No bright colors. Nothing anyone could grab. Daemon had checked the weapon himself after watching her do it first. Not because he doubted her. Because touching the same gun she intended to use had quieted the Devil for several seconds.

Not long enough. It paced inside him now. Hungry. Possessive. Excited.

She does not miss.

Daemon ignored it.

They thought she had no one.

The thought scraped through Daemon until his fingers curled against his knees.

Harlon’s voice returned.

“Wolfwater is moving into position.”

Through the windshield, Daemon saw nothing unusual. That was the point. A battered truck stopped at the corner with two men beneath its open hood. A woman pushed an empty stroller along the opposite pavement. Three motorcycles rolled past the intersection and disappeared behind a row of condemned buildings. An old man sat beneath the awning of a closed liquor store reading yesterday’s newspaper. Wolfwater had surrounded the block. Every alley. Every roof. Every road leading away from the church. Angelo Casale did not know it yet, but the neighborhood had closed its teeth around him.

The Devil approved.

No one leaves.

“We have the rear exit,” Harlon continued. “Roof covered. East alley covered. No one moves until you call it.”

Malone turned off the engine.

“What about the bell tower?”

A pause.

Then Harlon cursed softly.

“Working on it.”

Femi touched Malone’s shoulder. He glanced back.

Her fingers moved.

We should go before they become suspicious.

Malone studied her face.

“You stay between us.”

Femi shook her head.

“You stay between us.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“That was not a request.”

Daemon watched the silent argument with a frown.

The Devil agreed with Malone.

Between us.

Femi pointed at the church, then at herself.

He wants to see me. If I hide, he will know.

The Devil reconsidered.

It did not like reconsidering.

Malone’s expression darkened.

“I dislike it when she makes sense.”

“I dislike everything about this,” Daemon said.

Femi looked at him. The Devil pressed forward. Daemon leaned close enough that Malone could not see his face.

“If anyone touches you, little ghost, I will bring down the building.”

The Devil whispered:

Stone by stone.

Her green eyes softened.

She touched two fingers to his wrist.

I know.

That did not comfort him nearly as much as she appeared to think it should.

Malone opened his door.

“Let’s meet Angelo.”

The Devil purred.

Finally,

Their plan depended upon Angelo never having met Malone or Daemon.

Marco had never shown his brother photographs of the men who protected Femi. Angelo had gone to prison before Femi reached Helix, and during his five years inside, no one had thought to explain that the quiet woman from the homeless camp now belonged to Wolfwater.

The two surviving kidnappers had supplied the code used at the church door. They had also described the delivery. Bring Femi through the front entrance. Keep her conscious. Do not damage her face. Wait for payment. Angelo had never asked who would be bringing her. That arrogance was the only invitation Malone needed. Femi walked between him and Daemon. Her wrists were loosely tied before her with a piece of rope she could shed in a second. Her hood covered most of her face. Daemon hated the rope.

The Devil hated it more.

Take it off.

He hated the hood.

Take that off too.

He hated the sight of her being marched toward the church even though every step was part of their plan.

The Devil did not understand pretending.

It wanted Angelo’s blood.

Now.

We know where he is.

“Patience.”

We have been patient.

A camera moved above the entrance. Malone knocked three times, paused, then twice more. A bolt scraped aside. The door opened six inches. A heavyset man looked out. His gaze passed over Malone, stopped briefly on Daemon’s scar, then dropped to Femi.

“You got her?”

The Devil surged.

Do not look at her.

Malone shoved Femi forward just enough to sell the lie.

Daemon nearly broke his own teeth.

The Devil struck against his restraint.

Malone.

“He has to sell it.”

We know.

“What does it look like?” Malone asked.

The man opened the door.

“Phones.”

“Didn’t bring any.”

“Guns.”

Malone stared at him.

“You want us to walk through Wolfwater unarmed while dragging a woman?”

The man considered that. Then he stepped aside.

“Keep your hands where I can see them.”

They entered. The church smelled of dust, damp wood, and old incense. Most of the pews had been removed. The remaining ones had been pushed against the walls, leaving an open stretch of cracked tile between the entrance and the altar. Plastic covered the broken windows. Work lights stood where candles once burned. Angelo’s trap revealed itself immediately.

Daemon saw the rifles first. Two men crouched behind the choir railing above the doors. Another waited behind a pillar near the altar. A fourth stood inside the darkened confessional. All four weapons were aimed toward the center aisle.

Not at Femi. At the men delivering her.

The Devil became interested.

Four inside.

Angelo had never intended to pay the remainder. He intended to kill the kidnappers and erase the only people who could connect him to Femi’s disappearance.

Malone saw it too. His shoulders did not move. Neither did his hands.

Femi’s head tilted slightly beneath her hood. She had found the shooters. All of them.

The Devil purred.

She sees them.

A man stepped from behind the ruined altar.

Angelo Casale wore a charcoal suit beneath a long black coat. Silver threaded his dark hair at the temples, and prison had carved lean hollows beneath his cheekbones.

He looked at Malone. Then Daemon. No recognition entered his face. His attention settled upon Femi. Possession transformed his expression.

“There you are.”

The Devil struck the inside of Daemon’s skin.

No.

Femi became still.

Angelo approached slowly.

“I was beginning to think Lily had lied to me again.”

He stopped several feet away.

“Take off her hood.”

Daemon did not move. Angelo looked at him.

“Did you lose your hearing?”

“I like the hood,” Daemon said.

Malone coughed into his fist to conceal what might have been a laugh.

The Devil did not laugh.

Closer.

Angelo’s eyes narrowed.

Then Femi lifted her bound hands and removed the hood herself. Her green eyes met Angelo’s. His breath changed. Not much. Daemon heard it anyway. The Devil heard it too.

Do not.

“There she is,” Angelo murmured.

The Devil’s hatred became immediate and personal.

Femi stared at him without recognition. That appeared to wound his pride.

The Devil enjoyed that.

Good.

“You don’t remember me.”

She shook her head. Angelo smiled.

“I remember you.”

His gaze moved over her face, her braid, and the body hidden beneath her jacket.

“Every detail.”

Daemon shifted half a step. The Devil wanted three. Angelo looked at him again.

“I paid for the woman. Not your opinion.”

The Devil almost laughed.

Paid.

“You haven’t paid for anything yet,” Malone said.

“You’ll receive what you’re owed.”

The rifles above them adjusted. Malone glanced toward the choir loft.

“Of course we will.”

Angelo returned his attention to Femi.

“I first saw you with my idiot little brother and his cheap whore of a girlfriend.”

Femi’s expression changed. Recognition did not come. A memory did. Angelo saw it.

“Yes. One of my clubs. The Azure Room.”

Femi’s fingers curled around the rope. Daemon remembered the name. The club had burned three years ago after Angelo’s arrest. Investigators called it an electrical fire. No one in Wolfwater believed them.

“I invited Marco to meet me,” Angelo continued. “Told him to bring Lily and their quiet little friend.”

His smile sharpened.

“I sent him money to buy all three of you something appropriate.”

Femi remembered now. Daemon saw it in her eyes.

A white shirt on Marco. Dark trousers.

Lily turning in front of a motel mirror while a green wrap dress moved around her knees.

Then the clothing they had given Femi. Too tight. Too short. Chosen for someone else’s pleasure. Femi had spent the night pulling the hem down and folding her arms across her chest.

The Devil saw the discomfort move through her face.

Enough.

“I remember Marco in that ridiculous white shirt,” Angelo said. “Lily wore green. Cheap fabric, but she knew how to display herself.”

His gaze slid over Femi.

“And they dressed you like something from a street corner.”

Daemon’s hand twitched.

The Devil whispered:

One step.

Femi met Angelo’s stare.

“You were miserable,” he said. “Everyone else saw a shy little thing. I knew better. You were calculating the distance to every exit.”

He stepped closer. The Devil counted the distance.

“Don’t you remember? I offered you my jacket, Femi.”

Something cold crossed her face. She remembered that too. A man placing a black jacket over the back of her chair. A quiet offer. No demand. She had refused it because Marco warned her not to embarrass his brother.

Angelo sighed.

“You wouldn’t take it.”

He sounded almost offended by the memory.

The Devil was pleased.

Good.

“I continued giving them money after that. Did you know?”

Femi shook her head slowly.

“No. You probably didn’t.” His mouth twisted. “They were drugging themselves senseless in a motel room while you slept outside in the cold.”

Malone’s expression emptied. That was always when he became most dangerous.

“When was this?” he asked.

Angelo barely glanced at him.

“Years ago.”

“How old was she?”

“Old enough to be interesting.”

The Devil surged. Malone’s jaw flexed.

Daemon felt violence gather beneath his skin.

Soon.

Angelo continued speaking to Femi.

“Lily tried to give me some bullshit story about how you sold yourself for money. She wanted me to pay her just so I could see you.”

Femi’s face hardened.

“But I knew better,” Angelo said. “I had eyes on you for six months.”

Daemon stopped breathing. The Devil did too. Femi’s gaze sharpened.

“Those eyes told me everything. How you worked from sunup until sundown for scraps. How you cleaned offices, carried boxes, repaired whatever people put in front of you.”

Angelo’s voice softened.

“How you returned to that camp and shared everything you had.”

Femi’s fingers moved despite the rope.

You watched me.

Angelo smiled as though he understood.

“I protected my investment.”

The Devil went deathly quiet. Daemon translated in a voice scraped hollow.

“She said you watched her.”

“Every day I could.”

Six months.

The Devil memorized it.

“Lily and Marco ran with my money,” Angelo said. “Ten thousand dollars. I gave it to them to find you a room. Clothes. Food. Whatever it took to get you off the street.”

His expression became bitter.

“They took the money and disappeared. Left you behind like you were nothing.”

Femi looked toward the floor. For one moment, she was not standing in an abandoned church with a gun against her spine. She was nineteen again. Cold. Hungry. Waiting for two people who promised they would return with food. They never had. Angelo mistook the pain in her face for gratitude.

The Devil did not.

Look at us, little ghost.

“I never forgot you.”

He moved another step closer. Daemon allowed it only because two rifles remained trained on Malone and one tracked him from the choir loft. The Devil did not share his patience.

“You were never meant for one of my clients,” Angelo said.

Malone’s gaze flicked toward Daemon. Angelo smiled at Femi.

“I told those idiots you were being collected. That was true.”

His eyes darkened.

“But no one paid for you.”

The church became silent.

“I want you for myself.”

The Devil surged so violently that Daemon’s vision narrowed.

No.

Femi lifted her eyes. There was no fear in them now. Only contempt. The Devil saw it.

And delighted in it.

There she is.

Angelo saw that and smiled wider.

“You’ll learn.”

Femi signed.

Daemon watched her fingers.

He thinks ten thousand dollars bought me.

Daemon’s crooked smile appeared. Angelo frowned.

“What did she say?”

“She wants to know how much you think your life is worth.”

Malone looked at him.

“That isn’t what she signed.”

“It was the spirit of it.”

The Devil agreed. Femi’s silent laugh moved through her shoulders. The small soundless reaction caught Angelo off guard. His gaze shifted between them. For the first time, uncertainty touched his face.

“You two know her.”

Malone smiled.

“Better than you.”

A man near the confessional leaned forward, trying to see Daemon beneath the strands of pale hair that had fallen across his scar.

His face changed.

“Angelo.”

Angelo did not look away from Femi.

“What?”

The man’s weapon trembled.

“That’s Pallid.”

The Devil smiled. Nothing happened for one suspended second. Then the man swallowed.

“The blond one. That’s the Devil.”

Hello.

Recognition struck Angelo too late. Daemon drew. The Devil came forward laughing. His first bullet entered the choir loft.

The gunman above the doors folded over the railing before his finger could tighten on the trigger.

One.

Daemon’s second shot caught the man beside the confessional.

Two.

Malone seized Femi by the back of her jacket and dragged her behind a stone pillar as the church erupted. Gunfire tore through the old sanctuary. Wood exploded from the pews. One of the work lights burst, throwing half the church into darkness. Angelo dove behind the altar.

“Kill them!”

The Devil thrilled.

Finally.

“Excellent plan,” Malone muttered.

He fired twice around the pillar. A man near the side aisle dropped. Daemon moved through the smoke before anyone could fix his position. He was fast. Too fast. One moment he stood near the center aisle.

The next he was behind an overturned pew, firing toward the choir loft while bullets shattered tile where he had been. The Devil was no longer merely whispering. This was its language. Gunfire. Movement. Threat. Blood. The violent percussion of bullets tearing through old wood. The sharp scent of powder filling the church. It loved every second.

Again.

Daemon fired.

A rifleman ducked.

Move.

Daemon moved.

A bullet tore through the pew where his shoulder had been.

The Devil laughed inside him.

Too slow.

A gunman rushed from the vestry. Femi saw him before Malone did. The Devil saw her move. She tore the loose rope from her wrists. Her hand disappeared beneath her jacket. The Glock came out level. Smooth. Fast. Certain. The Devil almost forgot the gunman shooting at Daemon.

Little ghost.

One shot.

The man’s head snapped back.

He struck the floor without firing.

The Devil purred.

One.

Malone stared at her. Femi had already turned. No celebration. No hesitation. A second man emerged from behind the damaged altar with his weapon aimed at Daemon’s back. Femi saw him. Raised the Glock. Fired. The bullet caught him above the eye. He collapsed across the altar steps. Daemon turned at the sound. His gray eyes found Femi through the smoke. She stood beside Malone with both hands around the Glock. Steady. Focused. Beautiful.

The Devil went wild with delight.

Two.

She had not missed.

Of course she had not missed.

Our little ghost does not miss.

“Eyes forward,” Malone shouted.

Daemon ducked as another shot crossed the space where his head had been.

“I was admiring her.”

The Devil agreed shamelessly.

Look at her.

“Do it later.”

The Devil disagreed. Femi saw movement above Malone. The second gunman in the choir loft had crawled behind the railing. Blood covered one side of his face, but his rifle remained in his hands. He aimed downward. At Malone. Femi raised the Glock.

The Devil noticed the distance. Longer. The target smaller. The angle worse. Its excitement sharpened.

Show us.

Femi did not hesitate. Her third shot entered his forehead. His rifle slid through the railing and struck the church floor. The Devil purred so deeply Daemon felt it in his chest.

Three.

Silence followed. Not complete silence. Someone groaned behind a pew. A spent casing rolled across the tile. Dust drifted through the beams of the remaining work light. But the gunfire had stopped. The Devil almost regretted that. Almost. Then it looked at Femi. Malone looked from the dead man in the choir loft to Femi. Then to the two bodies closer to the altar.

“Three,” he said.

The Devil corrected him with immense satisfaction.

Three shots.

Femi lowered the Glock without taking her finger from the frame.

The Devil noticed that too. Control. Discipline. Jerri had taught her well. Daemon emerged through the haze. Blood marked his cheek, but it was not his. His attention fixed upon Femi. She had killed three men. Three clean shots. Three shots to the head. She had not missed. Just as she promised. Something bright and dangerous entered Daemon’s eyes.

The Devil was practically incandescent.

She told us.

Femi saw it.

A shiver passed through her.

The Devil noticed that too.

Its purr deepened.

She knows we like it.

Malone noticed both reactions.

“No,” he said.

Neither looked at him.

“I don’t know what the two of you are doing with your faces, but stop it.”

A crooked smile moved across Daemon’s mouth.

The Devil was utterly unrepentant.

Femi blushed.

“Now,” Malone added.

The Devil ignored him.

Three.

Harlon’s voice sounded through their earpieces.

“Front secured. Rear secured. We have four alive outside. Do you need us?”

Malone looked toward the shattered altar.

“Angelo is still breathing.”

The Devil remembered Angelo. For several glorious seconds, Femi’s shooting had made it forget him. Behind the stone structure, someone moved. Daemon raised his pistol.

“Then yes,” Malone said. “We need you.”

Wolfwater entered the church from every door. Angelo rose slowly from behind the altar with both hands raised. Blood ran from a cut near his temple. His expensive coat had torn at one shoulder. His face no longer held confidence. He looked at Malone. Then at the armed men filling the church. Then at Daemon. Finally, he looked at Femi. She stood with the Glock at her side and three bodies between them.

The Devil adored the picture.

Angelo had watched Femi for six months and still understood nothing about her. He had called her an investment. Easy prey. A woman without anyone. Someone to be collected. Now his men were dead, Wolfwater filled his church, the Devil stood between him and the door— and the quiet woman he had come to claim held the weapon that had dropped three men without wasting a single bullet.

Look at her.

“No one was supposed to miss you,” Angelo whispered.

The Devil nearly laughed.

Malone crossed the sanctuary. He struck Angelo hard enough to send him to his knees.

“You were wrong.”

Daemon came to Femi’s side. He did not take the weapon from her. He did not ask if she was all right when she clearly was not. He simply placed himself close enough that their arms touched. Femi looked at him. His gray eyes moved over her face. The Devil looked too. No disgust. No fear of what she had done. Only fierce, delighted pride.

“You didn’t miss.”

She shook her head.

I told you.

“Yes, little ghost.”

The Devil’s pleasure warmed his voice.

“You did.”

The Devil purred.

Three shots.

Femi’s eyes narrowed slightly, as though she knew exactly what it was thinking.

Daemon’s crooked smile widened.

The Devil was enjoying itself far too much to pretend otherwise.

Three men.

Femi’s cheeks began to warm.

No misses.

Her blush deepened.

And despite the blood, the smoke, the shattered pews, the bodies, and Angelo Casale kneeling before Wolfwater— the Devil had one ridiculously pleased thought.

Jerri would be proud.

A pause.

Then, with shameless delight:

Do it again.

She Did Not Miss

They moved Angelo into the church vestry.

The room had once been used to store vestments and communion wine. Now it contained a scarred wooden table, three mismatched chairs, and several crates filled with ammunition.

Harlon cleared the weapons.

Malone took the chair opposite Angelo.

Angelo sat with his wrists secured behind him, blood drying along his temple. The expensive charcoal suit had been ruined at the shoulder, and dust coated one side of his face from where Malone had knocked him to the floor.

Daemon remained near the door.

Femi stood beside him.

She still held the Glock.

The Devil noticed.

Her arm rested at her side, but her grip remained certain.

Three.

Daemon ignored it.

Three shots.

“Enough.”

No misses.

Daemon felt the purr moving beneath his ribs. Apparently, the Devil intended to enjoy this discovery for some time.

Malone placed both hands on the table.

“Where is Lily?”

Angelo said nothing.

“Where is Marco?”

Nothing.

“Who else knows about Femi?”

Angelo’s attention never left her. Not once.

The Devil noticed that too.

Its pleasure disappeared.

Stop looking at her.

Angelo looked at Femi as if Malone did not exist. As if the dead men in the sanctuary did not matter. As if Daemon were merely an inconvenient shadow standing beside something Angelo had waited years to possess. Longing lived in his stare. Not the tender kind. The rotting kind. The kind that had spent years alone in the dark, feeding upon itself until it mistook obsession for devotion.

The Devil understood obsession. It understood possessiveness. It understood the primitive desire to bare teeth whenever someone else held Femi’s attention too long.

But Femi had taught it something Angelo had never learned. Wanting did not create ownership.

Femi met Angelo’s stare with cold, empty eyes.

Angelo smiled.

“I knew proper care would make you magnificent.”

The Devil moved beneath Daemon’s skin.

We know.

Angelo leaned forward as far as his restraints allowed.

“Look at you, Femi.”

His gaze moved over her clean clothes, her healthy skin, and the thick braid falling down her back.

“Lily kept you hungry. She kept you in rags. But I was the only one who saw you and knew.”

Daemon’s fingers flexed.

We see her.

Femi did not react.

“Did you know Marco started with an interest in you?”

Angelo laughed. The sound was soft and ugly.

“He did. The fool could barely look away from you when he first joined you.”

The Devil disliked that information immediately.

Marco.

Daemon almost sighed.

Of everything Angelo had said, apparently that was what offended it.

Malone’s expression darkened.

“What happened?”

“Lily happened.”

Angelo frowned, his attention still fixed on Femi.

“She began spreading lies, and Marco—idiot that he is—believed every word.”

“What did Lily say about Femi?” Malone asked.

Angelo looked toward him as if he had only just noticed another person occupied the room. Then he sat back in the chair.

“Well, according to Lily, Femi made her go off with men.”

He laughed again. This time Malone heard the mockery in it.

“What’s funny?”

“Anyone who spent five minutes around Femi knew that story was bullshit.”

Angelo turned back to her.

“Lily said Femi sold herself all the time. She claimed Femi took men behind buildings, into cars, wherever they would pay.”

His expression twisted with contempt.

“My eyes told me differently.”

Daemon became very still. So did the Devil.

“Your eyes,” he repeated.

“I had people watching her.”

“I remember.”

Six months.

Angelo ignored the warning in Daemon’s voice.

“They told me Femi worked.”

His tone softened again.

“I mean real work. Cleaning offices. Carrying supplies. Washing clothes in sinks. Repairing heaters and broken radios for people who paid her in food because they knew she was desperate.”

His gaze searched Femi’s face for acknowledgment.

“Didn’t you?”

Femi offered him nothing.

The Devil was pleased.

Nothing for you.

“You took care of whoever wandered into your orbit,” Angelo continued. “And you never complained once.”

Femi’s eyes moved at last. Not toward Angelo. Toward Daemon. The Devil quieted the moment her gaze found him. Then purred. Angelo noticed. Something jealous flickered across his face.

The Devil noticed that too. And became insufferably pleased.

She looked at us.

Daemon’s mouth nearly twitched.

“If it hadn’t been for you, Lily would have died on those streets,” Angelo said more sharply. “You worked so she could eat. Sometimes backbreaking work.”

His voice lowered.

“You gave her your money. Your time. And, dare I say, your love.”

Femi continued looking at Daemon. The Devil’s possessive satisfaction deepened. Angelo wanted her attention. Femi gave it to Daemon. Choice. The Devil had learned to respect choice.

It had never promised not to gloat when the choice favored them.

Ours.

Daemon corrected it automatically.

Hers.

The Devil considered.

Hers. Looking at us.

Fair enough.

“Yet you never offered Femi help directly,” Daemon said.

Angelo’s mouth curved.

“She would never have taken it directly. Would you, Femi?”

She did not look at him.

“I offered food once. She divided it among twenty people before she took a bite.”

Angelo spoke as though the memory belonged to him.

“As soon as she realized it came from me, she stopped accepting anything delivered to the camp.”

“Then you should have left her alone,” Daemon said.

“I couldn’t.”

“That sounds like your failure.”

The Devil approved. Angelo’s smile disappeared.

“I was trying to save her.”

“You paid other people to control her.”

“I paid them to get her off the street.”

“You had her watched for six months,” Malone said. “You gave money to two addicts, never checked what they did with it, and now you want credit because you imagined yourself generous.”

Angelo stared at him.

“I was in business. I could not spend every hour chasing a homeless girl across Wolfwater.”

“No,” Malone agreed. “You merely paid others to do it.”

The barb landed. Angelo’s jaw tightened. Malone leaned across the table.

“Where is Lily?”

Angelo shrugged. Femi’s gaze returned to him. The Devil disliked losing her attention.

Then reminded itself why she was looking at Angelo.

Answers.

“Last I knew, she was trying to leave Ravenside.”

“When?”

Another shrug. Malone’s fist struck the table. The wood jumped.

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know.”

Femi studied Angelo. Her expression remained empty. Not frightened. Not angry.Empty. The kind of emptiness that came after anger had burned through everything soft and left only decision behind.

The Devil recognized that look now. It had seen it before Julian disappeared beneath wet cement. Its purr returned. Angelo saw it and mistook it for attention.

“I can find her for you,” he offered. “I can correct this.”

Femi’s fingers did not move.

“You don’t need these men,” Angelo whispered. “You don’t belong in a place like Wolfwater. I have houses. Clubs. People who will attend to anything you need.”

The Devil rose.

She has a home.

Daemon’s head tilted.

Angelo continued, too consumed by Femi to recognize the danger.

“I can give you everything they cannot.”

Femi raised the Glock. No warning. No hesitation. The Devil went utterly still.

Oh.

The gunshot filled the small room. Angelo screamed. The bullet entered the front of his shoulder and tore through the back of his suit before lodging in the wall behind him.

The chair nearly overturned. Harlon caught it with one boot and shoved it upright. Smoke curled from the barrel of Femi’s weapon. No one moved. Daemon looked at Angelo. Then at Femi. Then back at the neat hole in the wall. The Devil vibrated with pleasure. Pure. Exquisite. Possessive delight moved down Daemon’s spine until he had to clench his jaw against the sound gathering in his chest.

She shot him.

Daemon’s pulse jumped.

Little ghost.

“Baby girl,” Malone began carefully.

Femi lowered the gun several inches. Angelo sagged in the chair, gasping.

Blood spread through his suit.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he cried.

Femi fired again. The Devil nearly laughed. The second bullet struck Angelo in the thigh. His scream became raw and animal. The chair toppled. Angelo hit the floor hard, his bound hands trapped beneath him. His leg jerked uselessly as blood darkened his trousers.

The Devil purred.

Two.

Femi stepped forward. Malone rose. Daemon did not. He watched her approach Angelo with terrifying calm. The Devil watched with him. Entranced. She stopped over Angelo. The Glock pointed at his head. Angelo stared into the barrel. All the reverence left his face. All the imagined tenderness. All the confidence of a man who had spent years believing his attention elevated the woman receiving it. There was only fear now.

The Devil loved the transformation.

There.

“She’s going to kill me.”

No one answered. The Devil would have been perfectly content if she did. Angelo looked toward Malone.

“Stop her.”

Malone glanced at the hole in Angelo’s shoulder and then at his bleeding leg.

“I don’t think she wants my advice.”

“She’s insane!”

Daemon’s expression changed. The Devil looked through his eyes. All its amusement disappeared.

“Choose your next words carefully.”

Angelo’s mouth closed. Femi’s aim did not waver. Harlon studied the distance between the muzzle and Angelo’s forehead.

“I don’t think she’ll miss from that range.”

The Devil almost scoffed.

She would not miss from farther.

“I don’t think she missed at all,” Malone said.

The Devil went quiet. Then purred. Malone understood. Silence settled over the room. Angelo understood next. His eyes moved toward the wound in his shoulder. Then his thigh. Neither bullet had killed him. Both had struck exactly where Femi intended. She had not lost control. She had made a choice. The Devil’s pleasure changed. Deeper now. Not simply delight in the gunfire. Not simply excitement because Femi had shot the man who wanted to own her. Precision. Choice. She had wanted Angelo hurt. Not dead.

So she had put one bullet exactly where she wanted it.

Then another.

She did not miss.

Daemon stepped forward.

He crouched beside Angelo and caught him by the back of his ruined jacket.

“Up.”

Angelo cried out as Daemon lifted him from the floor. Daemon placed him back in the chair as easily as setting a bottle upon a shelf. Harlon righted the chair beneath him while Malone tightened the restraints. Angelo trembled violently. Daemon turned to Femi. He held out his hand.

The Devil immediately objected.

No.

It did not want her disarmed.

It wanted to watch her empty the magazine into Angelo and stand smiling in the smoke.

Let her keep it.

Daemon wanted something else.

He wanted her to choose. The Devil grumbled. But it understood. Femi looked at his open palm. Then at his face.

The Devil waited.

Choose, little ghost.

She placed the Glock in his hand.

Daemon closed his fingers around it. Her fingertips remained against his skin for one brief second. The Devil purred. Not because she had surrendered the weapon.

Because she had chosen to give it to him.

Us.

Then Femi took one final look at Angelo.

There was no triumph in her expression. No satisfaction. Only dismissal. The Devil almost admired that more than the shooting. Angelo had spent years watching her. Wanting her. Imagining himself important to her story.

And now— nothing. Femi stepped back. Away from Angelo. Closer to Daemon.

The Devil’s possessiveness flared with immediate, shameless pleasure.

Closer.

She chose the space beside them. The Devil could respect choice and still enjoy the hell out of being chosen. Angelo stared at her as though she had wounded him more deeply by surrendering the gun than by firing it.

“You came here for me,” he whispered.

Femi’s face did not change.

“You wanted to know what happened to Lily.”

Her hands remained still.

Angelo’s breathing grew ragged.

“I can still help you.”

Nothing.

“I know people. I have money.”

Nothing.

“I watched over you.”

Femi turned her back on him.

The Devil purred.

Nothing for you.

Angelo flinched.

Daemon slid the Glock into the waistband beneath his jacket. Then he stepped between Femi and Angelo, removing even the sight of her. The Devil enjoyed that too.

“You watched her suffer,” Daemon said. “You had the means to help, but help would not have made her dependent upon you.”

Angelo’s face hardened.

“You know nothing about what I felt for her.”

The Devil almost laughed. It knew exactly what Angelo felt. That was the problem.

“I know you arranged her kidnapping.”

“I was bringing her somewhere safe.”

“You sent armed men after her.”

“She would have run.”

“Yes.”

Daemon’s crooked smile appeared.

“That was your answer.”

The Devil understood the distinction better than Angelo ever would.

If she ran— you let her run.

If she said no— you stopped.

If she stepped away— you did not follow unless she asked you to.

If she placed a weapon in your hand— you took it.

If she chose to stand beside you— you cherished every second.

Wanting her did not make the choices disappear. Malone circled the table and resumed his seat. He opened a blood-spattered notebook taken from one of Angelo’s dead men.

“Now that we understand each other, let’s begin again.”

Angelo looked toward the doorway through which Femi had disappeared with Harlon.

The Devil noticed.

Do not look for her.

Malone snapped his fingers once.

Angelo’s eyes shifted toward him.

“Lily,” Malone said. “Where is she?”

Angelo remained silent. Daemon moved behind his chair. One large hand settled upon Angelo’s wounded shoulder. The exact shoulder Femi had chosen. The Devil purred.

This one.

Angelo stopped breathing. Daemon leaned close. The Devil entered his voice.

“My little ghost has already asked twice.”

His fingers tightened. Angelo screamed. Daemon’s crooked smile deepened. The Devil enjoyed the sound.

But beneath it lived something even more satisfying.

Femi’s bullet.

Her decision.

Her precision.

The neat hole she had placed through Angelo’s shoulder because that was exactly where she wanted it.

She does not miss.

“You should not make her ask a third time.”

The radio on Harlon’s shoulder crackled.

“Police inbound. Multiple units. Four minutes.”

Malone lifted his head.

The word passed through the old church without being repeated.

Wolfwater moved.

Men emerged from the vestry and disappeared through side doors. Weapons vanished beneath coats. The wounded were lifted. The living members of Angelo’s crew were taken through the rear of the church while the dead remained where they had fallen.

Within seconds, the sanctuary emptied. No shouted instructions. No confusion. One moment, Wolfwater occupied the church. The next, there were only shadows. Malone stood over Angelo. Blood ran from Angelo’s shoulder and soaked the trouser leg beneath Femi’s second bullet.

The Devil noticed both wounds.

It remained extraordinarily pleased with them.

She did not miss.

Daemon ignored it.

He had been trying to ignore that particular observation for the last twenty minutes.

The Devil refused to move on.

Angelo had talked after Femi walked away.

He had talked because every time he hesitated, Daemon placed one hand upon his wounded shoulder.

Femi’s bullet wound.

The Devil especially enjoyed that detail.

He had talked because Malone promised Femi would return if his answers displeased them. That had been a lie. Femi waited outside with Harlon. She had no desire to look at Angelo again. Angelo did not know that. The possibility had loosened his tongue. Now Malone closed the blood-spattered notebook.

“If Lily isn’t where you said she is, we’ll come back.”

Angelo’s skin had turned gray.

“You’re leaving me here?”

Daemon stood in the doorway, pale hair hanging across his scar.

“You wanted attention.”

Sirens sounded somewhere beyond the church walls. Daemon’s crooked smile appeared.

“You are about to receive a great deal of it.”

The Devil approved.

Angelo struggled against his restraints.

“You can’t leave me for the police.”

Malone glanced toward the bodies in the sanctuary.

“Why not? You arranged the meeting. These are your men. That is your ammunition.”

“They’ll bury me.”

“I find myself unmoved.”

Malone walked toward the door. Angelo looked past him to Daemon.

“Femi needs to know the truth about Lily.”

The Devil turned before Daemon did.

What truth?

“She knows enough.”

“No, she doesn’t.”

Daemon stopped. The Devil became still. Angelo saw the hesitation and leaned forward despite the pain.

“That night at the Azure Room wasn’t the first time Lily tried to sell her.”

Silence.

The Devil turned completely.

All its amusement over Femi’s shooting vanished.

Say that again.

Angelo swallowed.

“She had done it before. Not successfully—not with Femi. But she tried.”

Daemon returned to the chair. His face showed nothing. The Devil had become equally expressionless. That was worse.

“What did she do?”

“Lily found men willing to pay. Then she tried to convince Femi to go with them.”

“How many?”

“I don’t know.”

Daemon placed one hand upon Angelo’s injured shoulder. Exactly where Femi had put the bullet. Angelo screamed.

“How many?”

“At least four,” he gasped. “Four that my people saw. Maybe more.”

The Devil memorized the number.

Four.

“Did any touch her?”

“No. Femi always left. Sometimes Lily followed her, shouting. Sometimes Marco did.”

Angelo’s breath shook.

“They told her she was selfish. Said they needed money. Said all she had to do was spend an hour with someone.”

The Devil became quiet.

It remembered Femi saying:

Nothing is free.

Remembered Julian. Remembered the lessons carved into her long before Daemon ever found her. Affection had a price. Food had a price. Shelter had a price. Being wanted had a price. And apparently friendship had tried to collect from her too.

Little ghost.

The sirens grew louder. Daemon did not move.

“What happened the night you met her?”

Angelo closed his eyes.

For the first time since the interrogation began, shame entered his expression.

“Lily put something in Femi’s drink.”

The Devil disappeared.

Not retreated.

Not calmed.

Disappeared into a silence so complete Daemon felt it waiting beneath his skin.

His fingers tightened.

“Tell me.”

The Azure Room had been full that night.

Angelo remembered blue light moving across the dance floor and music heavy enough to tremble inside his ribs.

He remembered Marco arriving in a white shirt that cost more than everything the boy owned.

Lily wore green.

She had spent Angelo’s money on a wrap dress that displayed nearly every inch she thought worth selling.

Then Femi entered behind them.

She wore a tight silver dress.

The neckline plunged too low.

The hem ended too high.

It did not fit her.

Not because the size was wrong.

Because the dress belonged to a kind of woman Femi had not chosen to be.

She tugged at the hem twice before they reached the table.

Then she crossed her arms over her chest.

“Marco said she refused to leave the motel dressed that way,” Angelo explained. “Lily told her they would abandon her if she changed.”

Daemon’s eyes went cold.

The Devil whispered:

They knew.

“She was frightened?”

“Uncomfortable. Angry.”

Angelo gave a faint smile at the memory.

“She watched every door. Every bartender. Every man who came near the table.”

Of course she had.

Daemon knew that Femi.

The one who counted exits. The one who watched hands. The one who knew when footsteps followed too long.

The Devil knew her too.

Always watching.

Angelo had offered her his jacket. Femi had looked at it, then at him. Before she could accept, Marco leaned close and said something into her ear. Femi shook her head. She left the jacket where it was.

“I ordered champagne,” Angelo said. “Femi didn’t want any. Lily kept pushing the glass toward her.”

Angelo had looked away. Not for long. Long enough.

“When I looked back, Lily’s hand was above Femi’s drink.”

Daemon leaned closer.

“You saw her put something into it?”

“I saw her hand. I didn’t see what she dropped.”

“And you allowed Femi to drink it.”

“I didn’t understand what Lily was doing.”

You watched her for six months.

The words sounded weak even to Angelo. Femi had taken three reluctant sips. Perhaps four. Lily kept smiling. Kept touching Femi’s arm. Kept pointing toward Angelo.

“You should go home with him,” Lily had said.

Femi frowned.

Lily leaned nearer.

“He likes you. Don’t be rude.”

Femi shook her head.

Marco laughed and told her to stop acting like a child.

Angelo remembered the confusion entering Femi’s eyes.

The way her hand missed the glass when she tried to push it away.

The Devil whispered:

No.

She stood.

The room shifted beneath her.

Femi caught the edge of the table.

Lily caught her other arm and tried to guide her toward Angelo.

“She’s shy,” Lily had said. “Give her a minute.”

The Devil’s voice became colder.

She said no.

Femi tore herself free.

She made it three steps.

Then she became sick beside the table.

“She could barely stand,” Angelo confessed. “Her skin was burning, but she kept shivering. She couldn’t focus her eyes.”

“Did you touch her?”

“No.”

Daemon’s stare sharpened.

The Devil whispered:

Good answer.

“I had my car brought around. I took her to a private doctor.”

“Why not a hospital?”

“I owned clubs. She was underage. I didn’t want questions.”

“There it is,” Daemon said softly. “Your concern always ends where inconvenience begins.”

The Devil agreed. Angelo looked away.

The doctor had worked from a quiet office above a closed pharmacy.

Femi had fought everyone who approached.

She could not speak, but terror made itself understood through her hands, her eyes, and the desperate way she pressed herself into the corner.

The Devil surfaced again.

She speaks.

Even frightened.

Even drugged.

Even when no one had bothered to learn her language.

She had spoken.

No.

“I made Lily come with us because Femi knew her,” Angelo said.

Daemon’s expression promised pain.

The Devil promised worse.

“It was a mistake. I know that now.”

Lily had knelt beside Femi.

She stroked her hair.

She told her everything was fine.

She swore Angelo had not touched her.

Femi watched Lily’s mouth with unfocused eyes.

Then she vomited again.

The Devil’s voice was barely audible.

She trusted her.

“The doctor said whatever she had taken caused a bad reaction. Her pulse was too fast. She was dehydrated. Feverish.”

“How long?”

“She was sick and dizzy for two days.”

“Where was she?”

“At the doctor’s apartment upstairs.”

“With Lily?”

“Lily came and went.”

Angelo remembered returning the next morning.

Femi lay curled beneath two blankets.

A basin sat beside the bed.

Her eyes opened when he entered, and fear sharpened them despite the fever.

She had tried to stand.

She had nearly collapsed.

Daemon could see it too clearly.

His little ghost.

Nineteen.

Sick.

Surrounded by strangers.

Still looking for the door.

“I paid for the doctor,” Angelo said. “Food. Clothes. Everything.”

“And then?”

“Femi disappeared as soon as she could walk.”

The Devil stirred.

Angelo’s grim admiration entered his voice.

“She waited until the doctor went downstairs. Climbed out a bathroom window and took the fire escape.”

Daemon almost smiled.

The Devil did.

There she is.

Sick.

Dizzy.

Terrified.

Still finding the exit no one else considered.

Our clever little ghost.

“Lily came to me afterward,” Angelo continued. “She wanted money.”

The smile disappeared.

“For what?”

“For bringing Femi to the club.”

The Devil pressed forward.

What?

“She expected you to pay her for drugging Femi?”

“She said Femi ruined the night. Said she deserved something for the trouble.”

The Devil became silent again. Not because it had nothing to say. Because anything it said would be too small.

“What did you do?”

“I threw her out.”

“You continued giving her money.”

Angelo’s silence answered.

“For years,” Daemon said.

“I needed access to Femi.”

The Devil finally whispered:

There.

The truth.

“You rewarded the woman who drugged her.”

“I paid Lily to take care of her.”

“You paid Lily to keep Femi close enough for you to watch.”

Angelo’s face hardened.

“I did more for Femi than anyone else.”

The Devil almost laughed.

Daemon did not.

“You watched her freeze beneath a bridge.”

“I tried—”

“You tried to own her without getting your hands dirty.”

The sirens were close now. Blue light passed across the plastic-covered windows. Harlon’s voice came through the radio again.

“Time.”

Daemon released Angelo. Angelo sagged against the chair.

“Pier Ten,” he gasped. “Lily knows people near Pier Ten. She used to sleep inside the empty shipping containers when Marco threw her out.”

The Devil immediately focused.

Pier Ten.

Daemon paused at the door.

“Which container?”

“I don’t know.”

Daemon looked back at him.

Angelo’s terror appeared genuine.

“If I knew, I would tell you.”

“You should hope we find her.”

The Devil whispered:

We will.

Daemon stepped into the sanctuary.

Angelo called after him.

“What happens to me?”

Daemon continued walking.

Behind him, Angelo shouted louder.

“What happens when the police find me?”

Malone waited beside a broken side door. He looked once toward the bloodied man bound inside the vestry.

“Whatever happens,” Malone said, “will be less than you earned.”

Then he and Daemon disappeared into the night.

The police entered the church ninety seconds later. They found Angelo Casale tied to a chair. One bullet wound in his shoulder. Another in his leg.

The Devil remained pleased with both. Seven dead men in the sanctuary. Enough weapons to begin a private war. They did not find Wolfwater.

By then, Malone’s people had scattered across Ravenside.

They were looking for Lily.

So was the Devil.

The search lasted two days.

Lily’s apartment had been abandoned.

Clothes lay across the bed. Half the closet had been emptied. A plate of food sat untouched on the kitchen counter, the sauce dried into a dark crust.

No Marco. No Lily. Malone checked the bus stations. Harlon checked the motels. Men from Helix walked the waterfront and showed Lily’s photograph to bartenders, dockworkers, street vendors, and women who rented rooms by the hour. Red called people who did not officially exist. Daemon searched alone when the others slept.

The Devil never slept.

Again.

“We searched there.”

Again.

“She isn’t there.”

Then somewhere else.

Every dead end made it quieter. Every hour made it meaner. Not because Lily had stolen Femi’s attention. That jealousy seemed embarrassingly small now. Lily had taken something Femi had given freely. Trust. Then weaponized it. The Devil wanted an answer for that.Femi did not sleep much at all. She remained at Helix, seated at Daemon’s usual table with a city map open before her. Every place Lily had once mentioned was circled.

Old shelters. Abandoned buildings. Cheap motels. A laundromat where they had once hidden from the cold. Daemon returned shortly before dawn on the second day. Femi looked up the moment the door opened.

The Devil felt the hope in her face. Daemon shook his head.

Her gaze lowered.

No.

The Devil hated that more than another failed search. Daemon crossed the empty clubhouse and sat beside her. Not across from her. Beside. Her finger rested upon the waterfront. Pier Ten.

Daemon followed the line of her hand.

“Angelo said she slept there when Marco threw her out.”

Femi nodded.

“We searched it.”

She pointed at the map again.

Then she signed.

Did you search inside everything?

Daemon frowned.

“Warehouses. Vehicles. Most of the containers.”

Femi tapped the words PIER TEN.

Most?

The Devil stirred.

Daemon stared at the map.

The Devil whispered:

Little ghost found the hole.

Daemon reached for his phone.

Pier Ten had been abandoned after a fire damaged the eastern loading cranes. Hundreds of shipping containers remained stacked across the yard in long rusting corridors. Some were locked.Some stood open and empty. Others had become temporary homes for anyone desperate enough to sleep beside the river.

Rain began before sunrise. It turned the concrete black and drummed against the metal containers hard enough to conceal footsteps. Wolfwater searched in pairs. Malone took the western rows. Harlon searched beside the river. Daemon remained with Femi.

The Devil preferred that arrangement.

Here.

She wore a black raincoat with the hood raised.

Her braid rested beneath it, and the Glock had been returned to its holster against her back.

The Devil noticed immediately.

It purred.

She has her gun.

Daemon did not question the weapon this time.

There was nothing left to question.

Femi had demonstrated quite clearly that she knew how to use it.

The Devil remained absurdly pleased by that fact.

She does not miss.

“Yes. We remember.”

Three.

Daemon ignored it.

They moved between two rows of containers.

Femi stopped.

Daemon stopped with her.

“What?”

She lifted one hand.

Wait.

The Devil stopped too.

Rain struck the metal around them. Water ran along the gutters. Somewhere beyond the containers, a ship horn sounded. Femi turned her head. Listened. Daemon heard nothing unusual. The Devil did not either. So it waited. Femi had heard something. That was enough.

Then a faint metallic knock came from the container to their left. Not machinery. Movement.

The Devil came awake.

There.

Femi approached.

A heavy chain hung through the handles, but the lock had not been closed. It had merely been placed through the links to make the doors appear secured. Daemon drew his pistol. He signaled once. Malone and Harlon appeared at opposite ends of the row. Femi removed the chain.

Daemon caught the handle.

“Behind me.”

Her eyes narrowed. The Devil almost sighed.

It knew that look too.

“Femi.”

She stepped half a pace behind him.

It was the greatest concession he was going to receive.

The Devil accepted it grudgingly.

Close enough.

Daemon pulled the door open.

The smell reached them first. Sweat. Damp clothing. Old food. Something shifted in the darkness. Daemon raised his pistol. The Devil surged. A woman lay upon a nest of filthy blankets near the back wall. Her black coat had been folded beneath her head. The green satin she wore was wrinkled and stained. Shoulder-length black hair covered one side of her face. An empty bottle rested near her hand. So did a burner phone. Lily opened her eyes. For several confused seconds, she stared at Daemon.

The Devil smiled.

Found you.

Then she saw Malone.

Harlon.

Finally— Femi.

All the color left her face.

The Devil enjoyed that.

“No.”

Femi entered the container.

The Devil moved with her through Daemon.

Careful.

Lily pushed herself backward until her shoulders struck the metal wall.

“No, Femi. Please.”

Femi stopped several feet away. Rain whispered against the roof. Lily’s frightened breaths filled the container.

“I didn’t have a choice,” she said. “Angelo would have killed Marco.”

The Devil remembered the money.

Lie.

Femi watched her.

“I was trying to protect him.”

The Devil’s voice sharpened.

By giving him her.

No response.

“Femi, you know me.”

Femi’s expression became still. Cold. Empty. The Devil recognized it. Decision.

Lily began to cry.

“You know I would never hurt you.”

The Devil laughed. One cold sound inside Daemon. It remembered four men. Hamilton Park.

Our spot. The man pulling Femi’s hair. The blood on her hands. The pipe.

Then Angelo’s confession. Four attempts before that. The silver dress. The champagne. Lily’s hand above Femi’s glass. Femi drugged. Feverish. Vomiting. Trying to escape people she could not trust. Climbing through a bathroom window while sick because staying felt more dangerous than a fire escape.

Never hurt her?

Daemon entered behind Femi. The Devil smiled through his eyes. Lily saw him. Her tears stopped.

Good.

Femi’s hands rose.

She signed one sentence. Daemon watched her fingers. The Devil watched too.

Then he looked at Lily.

“She says she knows exactly who you are.”

The Devil whispered beneath the words.

So do we.

The shipping-container door slammed shut behind them.

TBC … The Devil Was Never Yours

Chapter 1:Twenty Stops+

Chapter 2: No Trace+

Chapter 3:A Place Made for Disappearing+

Chapter 4: Her Name was Mira Dell+

Chapter 5: Four Months as Mira+

Chapter 6: I Found Her+

Chapter 7: Guarded Thresholds +

Chapter 8: Because I Care About You+

Chapter 9: We Do Not All Leave+

Chapter 10: The Chair Beneath the Door+

Chapter 11: The Price of Kindness+

Chapter 12: My Safe Place+

Chapter 13: The Name the Devil Kept+

Chapter 14: What the Devil Did While She Slept+

Chapter 15: Three Stayed +

Chapter 16: I Will Always Come+

Chapter 17: There Was No Body to Find+

Chapter 18: Better Than the Hero+

Chapter 19: Nothing Is Free+

Chapter 20: Apple Pie and Razor Blade Crust+

Chapter 21: A Palace That Was Never His+

Chapter 22: That Is a Yes+

Chapter 23: The Foundation +

Chapter 24: The Shape of Want+

Chapter 25: Weak Before Coffee+

Chapter 26: One Beautiful Afternoon+

Chapter 27: Four Languages+

Chapter 28: Things She Had Never Done+

Chapter 29: Caught+

Chapter 30: Lunar Park+

Chapter 31: Our Spot+

Our Spot

Chapter 32: Nobody Would Miss Her+

Chapter 33: Something That Makes Noise+

Chapter 34: Angelo Casale+

Chapter 35: She Did Not Miss+

She Did Not Miss

Chapter 36: Pier Ten+