Luna Pierce - author
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Christmas Monster Anthology piece, first three chapters!
🕑 Added 2022-08-31 20:32:00 +0000 UTCHEY!!!
Here's the first three chapters (unedited) of the piece I wrote for the Christmas Monster Anthology titled, Monsters & Mistletoe. My individual piece will be titled, A Monster Axe-Mas!
Cover will be revealed here first as soon as I have it!!
DO NOT SHARE THIS CONTENT OUTSIDE OF PATREON!
Chapter One
Stress baking is all fun and games until you realize you're out of butter and flour. Typically, a late-night trip to the grocery wouldn't be a big deal, except for the small detail of it being the day before a major holiday. One that totally slipped past my radar since I don't celebrate it.
Thanksgiving.
I circle the parking lot for the fourth time, cursing under my breath when a large SUV blocks me from snagging a space that comes available. Gripping the steering wheel firmly I contemplate whether getting out of my car and punching the soccer mom in the face would be worth getting arrested. I sigh and stay seated, the thought of being locked behind bars less appealing than spending the holidays alone.
“Fuck it,” I mutter to no one but myself. “Fuck this shit. I’m going home.” I maneuver dangerously close to the overpriced vehicle obstructing my path and turn toward the long line of cars waiting for the light to change and let them out of the crowded area.
Making a beeline straight toward my freedom, I come to a screeching halt when a blacked-out BMW reverses out of its spot and directly into my path. I lay on the horn and stick my middle finger in the air.
The driver shoves his arm out the window and returns the gesture, speeding away a second later and cutting off two more cars.
The holidays really do bring out the best in all of us. Heavy sarcasm, of course.
What anyone enjoys from them I will never understand. They’re full of chaos, stress, and an endless play-pretend of who has the best life they can brag about. Not to mention, being forced to be around family you manage to avoid all year long, only to fake a smile and nod along while they tell you things you couldn't possibly care less about.
Little Cara got fourth place in the first-grade spelling bee.
Jimmy and Maura vacationed in Myrtle Beach in June.
Uncle Tom cheated on Aunt Velma for the sixth time in two years.
Your cousin Ross is starting yet another pyramid scheme he wants to pitch to you after dinner and guilt you into joining.
And the looks of pity that follow every single step…the poor single adult woman with no children, no spouse, only a cat to keep her company.
Do they not realize despite my lack of human companionship, my life is significantly better than that of most of my family members? Failing marriages, domestic disputes, and offspring that hate their guts. How is that any better than simply going through life by yourself?
It wasn’t always this shitty—but being orphaned doesn’t make the sad glances any less frequent. Even ten years later and they haven’t let up. Plus, the icing on the cake of my fiancé, who was there for me when my parents died, cheating on me with my best friend, and him leaving me for her.
It’s been five years and they never fail to bring it up any time I’m around.
So, what’s a girl to do? Stop showing up.
I bite at my bottom lip and stare at the space the arrogant BMW driver created in his leave. Without giving it another thought, I swoop into the opening and shove my car into park. I lean my head against the seat and run my fingers through my long dark hair.
“In and out, Jessa, that’s all you have to do. Get in and out.” I snatch the nearly empty can of sugar-free Redbull and drain the rest of the contents into my mouth, smashing the thing and tossing it into my back seat. A problem that future me will have to deal with another day.
I tug the hood of my sweatshirt over my head and cut the engine, taking a final deep breath before stepping into the chaos of last-minute holiday shopping. If baking weren't my most effective coping mechanism, I'd have followed that asshole in the BMW out of the parking lot, but my anxiety is through the roof, and I need the distraction of meticulously measuring ingredients and stirring just the right about of times to create something I might be proud of. My therapist said it’s the control that soothes me, and it’s not my place to disagree with her professional assessment.
Whatever it is, it’s more effective than Xanax and a lot less addictive.
“Excuse me,” I tell a stranger when they don’t move out from in front of the baskets.
The middle-aged woman barely steps far enough for me to grab one while she continues to make pointless small talk with another woman.
“Rude,” I mutter as I walk away and into the store.
My eyes adjust to the fluorescent lighting filling the packed area, quickly settling on the least crowded path to get me where I need to go. Hugging the empty basket to my body, I navigate around shoppers and find the aisle with baking ingredients. My stomach drops when I skim the bare shelves, my breath growing ragged.
Fuck.
Having a panic attack in the middle of the grocery was not how I anticipated my evening going.
I draw in a long pull of oxygen through my nose and hold it for a few seconds, then release it through my mouth, pursing my lips together like I’m blowing through a straw. I repeat the pathetic attempt to calm myself four more times until it actually distracts me from the fact that not a single bag of flour is left on the shelf. Leaning onto it, I consider my options.
I could drive across town and try another store, braving yet another parking lot full of assholes and hoping they’re better stocked.
I could choose another recipe that doesn’t require flour…but that would mean going out of my comfort zone, and that’s exactly what I’m trying to find here—comfort.
The weather is too finicky for meringues. I'm not in the mood for cheesecake. There's always baklava, or bread and butter pudding, or even an orange and chocolate torte, but nothing seems to scratch that proverbial itch like my go-to vanilla cake with buttercream frosting.
A crackling of a speaker sounds from above. “Attention customers,” a cheery but tired woman announces. “Joy Mart will be closing in ten minutes. As much as we enjoy providing you with your last-minute holiday supplies, our employees would very much enjoy getting home to their families on time. We do appreciate your understanding and hope you'll work with us to get through the check-out lines as efficiently as possible. Thank you, and happy holidays."
The microphone cuts off and I’m left with a decision to make.
Do I choose to forego the entire situation and go home empty-handed? Instead of flour and butter, I return to my apartment with an aching sense of dread and maybe a bottle of wine I pick up on my way out of the store?
It’s then when I catch the sight of a familiar shade of red poking out from behind countless bags of sugar. I stand taller to get a better look, my heart picking up its pace with the hope I cling to. I reach far on the top shelf, but my short arm fails me. Glancing behind at the passing customers paying me no attention, I climb onto the bottom shelf and drag myself further toward my saving grace. The metal digs into my sweatshirt-covered stomach and I grunt as I inch closer. I hook my finger and desperately claw at the box of cake flour almost cloaked by the sugar.
“Jessa? Is that you?” His voice stops me dead in my tracks.
Thank fuck I'm looking at this pathetic box of flour, otherwise, he'd see how damn big my eyes widened. How did he even know it was me? The slight breeze of air on my lower back is a sign that one of my tattoos is showing.
Maybe I'll stay like this, play possum, and eventually, he'll move on, forgetting the strangeness of witnessing his ex-fiancé partially hanging off a shelf in her weak attempt to get her anxiety flour.
But the universe decides to kick me while I’m down, or well, up, and prompt this cheating man to step closer and offer his assistance.
“What are you trying to get, J, let me help you?” Aaron brushes his body against mine and snatches the box I risked it all for without breaking a sweat, leaving me still extended in place and questioning if I could will myself to simply die instead of having to deal with whatever awkward small talk is about to happen. “Here.”
If I had eyes in the back of my head, I would probably see him standing there with the box of flour between us, a peace offering of sorts.
Knowing there’s no way out, and I’m mildly considerate of the employees that want to go the hell home, I jump onto the ground and smooth out my wrinkled top. I take the box from him and toss it into my basket. Now, if I can escape him, I only need butter to end this trip from hell.
"Thanks." Politeness is the single reason the word comes out of my mouth.
Am I still bitter about him cheating on me with my best friend? Absolutely.
Will I let him know it? Nope.
My gaze trails to the basket he holds in his own grasp, noting the few things he has scattered about. I linger on the small bottle of vanilla extract and recall the countless times I had to remind him of the difference between vanilla extract and imitation vanilla. He would always buy the imitation, insisting they were the same and that it was cheaper. One of those lectures must have stuck because here he is, with the extract instead. “What, were they out of imitation?” I don’t catch the words before they spill out of my mouth.
He laughs dryly and picks up the bottle. “A wise woman once told me this was far more superior.” He tosses the thing gently back inside the basket.
The same wise woman you screwed over when you fucked her best friend.
When I don’t say anything, he continues. “I’m surprised to see you out, given you hate the holidays and all.”
He's not wrong, but I add that to the list of things I won't admit to him. "Actually, I'm getting last-minute supplies for a party."
Aaron tilts his head to the side and nods. “Oh. Good for you. Anyone I know?”
I shrug. “No, probably not. Some friends of mine.” To continue the shock factor, I add, “And my boyfriend.” I don’t know why I say it, but now that I have, there’s no turning back.
“Good for you, J.” His jaw tenses slightly. “I was going to—.”
But before he can continue, another familiar face appears. “Aaron, honey, I was looking all over for you, this place is a mad house.” She takes her eyes off him for a second to settle on me, then back at him, but once the realization sets in, she turns completely toward me. “Oh my god, Jessa.” She grabs my shoulders and gives me a weird little shake. “It’s so good to see you. How are you?”
I blink a few times and wonder what I could have possibly done for my life to be this fucking bizarre. It’s one thing to run into your cheating ex, but then another when you come face to face with the best friend you thought you had who was fucking your man behind your back. And here they are, still together, a rock bigger than the one he gave me sitting on her ring finger.
He clears his throat and steps closer to me to avoid customers that walk by. “Jessa was just telling me about her boyfriend.”
“Boyfriend?” Madison squeals. “I love that for you! What’s he like?”
“He’s tall,” is the first thing I can think of, because what man wouldn’t be jealous of something he’s insecure about? "Incredibly intelligent, he works for a hedge fund." Obviously, I would choose a career that Aaron could never wrap his tiny little brain around. “But he volunteers his time at food banks and animal shelters. He’s so sweet.”
Madison brings her hands to her chest. “Aw, that is precious.” She looks from left to right. “Where is he? I want to meet this wonderful mystery man.”
My face reddens and I try my hardest to sink into the hood of my sweatshirt which is still over my head. “He’s not here. I ran out to grab some last-minute things while he finished up some work.”
“So domestic.” Madison clings to Aaron’s arm. “Isn’t that adorable, babe?” Her eyes widen and she drops him to latch onto me. “Oh my god, Jess, you two should come to our gathering tomorrow and we can catch up.”
“I…”
“She already has plans, Maddie,” Aaron interjects.
She nods sadly. “Duh, it’s the day before Thanksgiving, what was I thinking.” But as quick as the sadness came, it’s replaced by another idea that floats into her airhead. “Christmas, we can do Christmas! Oh, Jess, promise me? Same place as always, same time, Christmas Eve. You’ll come, won’t you? And you’ll bring your man?”
This is the part where I should continue to lie—to tell her I already have plans or that I’ll be out of town orsomething to get out of this nightmare I’ve created, but instead, I find myself bobbing my head up and down and agreeing to attend this holiday gathering with two of my least favorite people in the world. Because Madison isn’t the type of person to take no for an answer, probably why she ended up with the guy instead of me.
She continues laying it on thick. “You should bake that famous cake of yours. Pretty please, Jess, everyone would love it.” Madison holds onto Aaron again, this time looking over at him. “Wouldn’t everyone love it?”
Aaron meets my gaze, a bit of something I can’t read lingering in his shit brown eyes.
Part of me wants to punch him in the throat but somehow, I retain my composure and remain firmly planted in place.
He mumbles something of an agreement and nods toward the checkout line at the end of the aisle. “We better get going before they lock us in here.”
A new fear exposes itself at the idea of being stuck in this place with them, unable to escape the lies and the deceit and the anger that is still there even five years after I lost both my partner and my best friend. Maybe one day I’ll get over the betrayal, but that day hasn’t come yet. Especially when I never once got an apology from either of them. It’s like they expect the passing time to do it for them and I should just accept what happened.
I’m not sure it would have made a difference, but either way, I’ll never know.
“Great, so it’s a date. Christmas Eve.” Madison squeezes my arm one last time. “I can’t wait.” She tugs at Aaron’s arm and pulls him down the aisle.
“It was great seeing you, J,” Aaron tells me on his way by.
But unlike that gesture the BMW guy and I exchanged, I don’t share this remark with Aaron. Nothing about seeing him was great, especially since in the few minutes he was in front of me, I agreed to bake a cake and bring my fake boyfriend to Christmas Eve.
The clock ticks, the four weeks between now and then raising my anxiety even higher.
Chapter Two
No amount of stress baking will save me from this nightmare I’ve created.
And yet, I try anyway.
Taking a long swig of the nearly empty bottle of cheap white wine, I study the blank canvas in front of me. I could go the easy route and put a single layer of icing on this naked cake, or I could get creative with the design and make something truly beautiful. I’ve never been one to run from a challenge, and maybe that’s my problem. The reason I’m in this mess in the first place. I could have just not lied about having a boyfriend. I could have insisted I had plans for Christmas Eve. I could have told them to go fuck themselves and send them a bill for the extensive therapy I’ve taken since they screwed me over.
But what did I do? I dug a hole of lies and kept digging until I was fucking buried in it.
I snatch my phone off the counter and swipe over to the app store. My thumb hovers over the dating app icon, not daring to actually push the button. If Aaron or Madison found out I was on there, they would know I was lying, and then the whole ruse would blow up in my face. I can’t afford the backlash of their humiliation if they discover the truth.
“Shit, fuck, damn.” I toss my phone onto the couch and consider the rest of my options.
Backing out isn’t one of them. They’d never let me live it down if I didn’t show, and I wouldn’t at all be surprised if Madison appeared on my doorstep for an explanation. In the third grade, my grandma died the same day as Madison’s birthday party, and she threw a fit and made me show her proof that my grams had died because she didn’t believe me. She accused me of going to Tori’s party instead and wouldn’t sit next to me at lunch for a week. I should have seen the red flags then but apparently red has always been my favorite color.
I could continue the lies and say my wonderful fake boyfriend was called away on some humanitarian mission last minute and couldn’t make it. But at that point, I’m sure she’d want to see photos or something to prove he existed, and our relationship was real. Photoshop is very much an option, but I’m not that good at it. I could hire someone, although the embarrassment of explaining that one to a graphic designer might be too much to handle.
Faking my death is a possibility worth exploring. I could use a change of scenery. Maybe flee the country never to be seen again. I'd settle somewhere in Mexico and live the rest of my days sipping Mai Tais on the beach. I'll keep that one reserved for the worst-case scenario if I can't manage to locate and bribe an attractive, tall man to pretend to be well-read, educated, who also volunteers in his spare time, loves me dearly, and is willing to be my Christmas Eve date.
Who am I kidding? I’m screwed.
After putting a thin layer of white icing all over the top and sides of the cake, I stare at it, my vision blurring from the wine buzz. I down the rest of the bottle in one chug and reach for the other bottle that past-me was gracious enough to purchase.
"Thanks, past-me." I yank the little foil covering off and unscrew the lid, saying another thanks to the person who opted for this instead of the cork top. Drinking far too big of a gulp than really necessary, I continue to contemplate the design of this cake. I knew I wanted to test something festive so past-me also already mixed up a batch of red and green icing.
Despite all the credit I’m giving her, I could really kick her in the ass for agreeing to go to this stupid party. Present me is not thrilled, and future me is seething with anxiety, passing it along in heaps to the version of me standing here right now.
Why can’t I just be a normal person? One without anxiety. Then I wouldn’t have insisted on going to the grocery to get supplies and run into my ex. Here I was, thinking that the BMW pulling out of that spot was a gift from the universe, but instead, it was a gentle nudge in the worst direction ever—one creating more anxiety than I had before.
Thanks, Universe.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” With the wine bottle still firmly in my left hand, I latch onto the green icing in my right. I pipe a few long vertical lines on the sides of the cake, and add horizontal squiggles to complete what my drunkish brain thinks are trees.
Standing back, I examine the relatively decent work.
“That’s not so bad.” I tilt my head back, squeeze some of the icing into my mouth, and then wash it down with another unhealthy swig of the wine. Warmth rushes through me, that all too familiar sensation from drinking too much wine, and still, I don’t plan on stopping anytime soon. Not when the very realness of this fucked up situation is still in the forefront of my mind.
I replace the green with the red and add a border to the very bottom of the cake, then another to the top.
"Christmas is so dumb. The holidays are dumb. This cake is dumb." I grip the tube a little too hard and a giant blob of red splatters onto the cake. "Fuck," I scream at it while aggressively making the entire thing worse. "Where am I going to find a boyfriend in the next few weeks?" I draw a few lines and then connect them when something that resembles a star appears. Then, for shock factor, I circle the thing and add three more of them.
The cake morphs from festive to a zombie cake from Hell in a matter of seconds; the red designs adding a sort of morbid aesthetic I hadn’t originally intended. I roll with it, sipping more of the wine that now goes down like water and adding random symbols that make no sense all over the cake. My anxiety lessens, either thanks to the wine or that of finally finding a groove with this damn design. I’d venture to say it’s a combination of them both.
Still, the problem at hand is very real, and I’ve yet to come up with a viable solution. “I wish I had a boyfriend. He doesn’t even have to be real. He can be fake. But fucking Christ, I need this.” I mumble a few more choice words, slurring my speech and angrily decorating all at the same time.
My chest tightens, which I can only attribute to another panic attack coming on. Just when I think I'm good for the night, my stupid anxiety decides no number of coping mechanisms will be effective. Warmth, unlike that of the wine buzz, flows through me from head to toe, then up again. Am I going to vomit? Is this the final few moments before I pass out from a mixture of exhaustion, stress, and too much alcohol?
A bright flash of light forces me to pinch my eyes shut, the bottle of wine slipping out of my hand and falling to the floor. Instinctually, I reach for it, the sharp shard I latch onto slicing through my palm. “Mother fucker.” I pull my bleeding hand to my chest and squint through the fading light.
There, on the other side of my disaster of a kitchen stands—no, not stands, hovers—a man. Seriously dark eyes that pierce through me, the shade inhuman, as with everything else about him. Not only is he levitating there in place, with a pitch-black stare, but his entire form is somewhat translucent, and weirdly beautiful. Sober me would be freaking out, and more than likely terrified of the exposed fangs he runs his long tongue over, or the horns protruding from his forehead, or maybe the talons lining each of his fingertips.
Yeah, this man is no doubt what nightmares are made from, but clearly, he’s something my imagination conjured up in its drunken and panicked state.
At least, that’s what I tell myself to make sense of what the fuck just happened.
Chapter Three
I open my eyes, what I can only assume is the next morning, to the sun blasting through my window and the vague realization that my kitchen is probably a giant fucking mess. My head pulsates, another reminder of the mistakes I made last night. I sit up, rubbing my temple and groaning something unintelligible. Squinting to shield my line of sight from the bright light, I attempt to locate any source of hydration that isn’t a form of alcohol. I snatch a bottle of water that is questionably old, but drink it anyway, hoping for relief from this gnarly hangover.
Hugging the blanket to my naked body, I allow the memories of the prior night to trickle in.
“Shit,” I spit out when I recall the realness of agreeing to go to that fucking Christmas Eve party at Aaron and Madison's. What was once her parent's place, is now hers, is now theirs. And if that wasn't bad enough, the lie of having a boyfriend to attend said event with me.
I groan again, the sound coming out of my own body adding to the ache in my skull.
Whiskers, my six-year-old black cat, saunters into my bedroom, slithering against the wall and purring up a storm. He hops onto my bed, stops a few inches from my face, and meows a reminder that he’s the one in charge here.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” I reassure him. “Breakfast will be served momentarily, sir.” I latch onto his furry face and press my lips to his forehead, smothering him with more love than he bargained for.
Still in my birthday suit, I rise from the comfort of my mattress and walk over to my desk. I pour a small scoop of food into Whisker’s bowl and crack the window covering so he can look outside while he eats atop his three-story cat tree. The things I do to make sure my fur baby knows he’s loved.
“You didn’t happen to clean up the kitchen while I was sleeping, did you?” I ask him. “Didn’t think so,” I add when he doesn’t respond. And why would he, he’s a cat?
Making my way to the bathroom, something in my reflection stops me and causes me to do a double take. My heart picks up its pace, unsure of what my eyes just saw. Slowly, I step backward and blink a few times to adjust my vision.
All at once, I latch my hand over my mouth as a scream lets loose and spin on my heel to face the thing I saw in the mirror. I stumble and frantically reach for anything to hold onto on the way down. A millisecond before my ass hits the floor, I’m caught by a strong grip.
Only, it belongs to nothing of this world.
Dark, scaly skin, almost what I would assume is dragon-like, attached to a creature standing at least seven feet tall. Horns, a spread bigger than I've seen on any of the bucks mounted on my uncle's walls, extending from this thing's forehead. It blinks, multiple eyelids covering and uncovering it’s onyx eyes. It hovers in place, and only a moment ago, it wasn’t even in my bedroom. How did it move so quickly?
How is that the first question that comes to mind?
My gaze falls from that of our interlocked hands to my still nude body. Cheeks reddening, I release him and snatch the closet piece of clothing near me. I toss the shirt over my head and grip the hem down to cover as much of myself as possible.
He clears his throat. “I scared you.”
“Well, no shit. I’m naked and you’re in my apartment, what the hell, dude?”
“Dude?” He squints his borderline terrifying eyes like he’s questioning the word.
“Dude, man, whatever.” This is probably the part where I run past him, flee my apartment to never return, or locate something I could use as a weapon. Instead, even in my still drunk state, I realize there’s no escaping what he might have in store for me. If he was able to get from the other room to here in the blink of an eye, there’s no telling how fast he’d stop me if I tried to evade him. Screaming for help wouldn’t do me much good either—since I saw the last of my tenants leave yesterday for holiday festivities. And if I’m completely honest, being abducted by aliens sounds better than having to go to that stupid Christmas Eve party I signed up for. It’s not exactly how I expected to die, but beggars can’t be choosers.
I flip my hand toward him, motioning for him to turn around. “A little privacy?”
“Modesty was the least of your concerns last night.”
My mouth falls open slightly. “Last night?” Oh my fucking Christ, did I have sex with this monster creature? How? Wouldn’t I be dead? No doubt his man meat would have ripped me apart. I’m all for experimenting and trying new things out but there is no way our parts would have fit together without my vagina being torn open.
“Yes,” he replies while complying and giving me the space I ask for. “After you summoned me. You were quite…inebriated, and offered yourself to me and my brothers.”
Leave it to me to try to fuck multiple creatures from another world.
I slide on a pair of panties and follow them up with black leggings. “Are you going to kill me?” I stare at the back of his monstrous head and wait to learn my fate.
“Not today.” His voice is thick like tar and somehow smooth like honey. It’s a strange contradiction I can’t quite make sense of.
“Okay, cool,” I let out a breath of air. “You want some coffee?” Because if I’m going to live through this day, I’m going to need to do it with some caffeine in my system. I step around him and a vague memory of the night before floats into my head. Me, stripping my clothes off and attempting to seduce the three monsters. I shake it away and continue to the kitchen, which is, no surprise, still a mess.
“Coffee?” He glides behind me, his shadow nearly cloaking the room.
I flip on the light switch and pretend for a second that he’s not here, going about my morning ritual of drowning my sorrows in endless cups of java. “Listen,” I begin. “I’m sorry about trying to bang you and your brothers. Speaking of…” I glance around. “Where are they?”
“Attending other more pressing matters. They will return in due time.”
“Ohh, mysterious.” I press the start button on my coffee machine and turn toward the massive monster hovering near me. “Okay, so riddle me this.” I lean against the counter and fold my arms over my chest. “You said I summonedyou? What does that even mean? How is that possible? And what are you? Why would I summon you? No offense. And why are you still here? And what do your brothers have to do with it? Did I summon them, too? Am I still dreaming? Is this a nightmare or something? Why haven’t you killed me yet? What do you want? Where are you from?”
He patiently waits for me to finish my laundry list of questions and only when I’ve finally stopped spitting them out, does he open his mouth to respond. "Originally, I am from a realm named Prania, but it is no longer habitable. I reside in a bordering realm called Briar."
“I just asked you like thirty-seven questions and you managed to only answer the last one.”
Whiskers betrays me by jumping onto the counter next to this mystery monster and begins bathing himself.
“What did you do to my cat, he hates everyone?” I glance between them, worried for a split second that he might open his jaw and consume my precious feline in one gulp. But, if he were going to eat Whiskers, he probably already would have done so.
The monster gently pats Whisker’s head. “We had time to get to know one another while you were busy snoring.”
“Snoring?” I laugh. “Was not.”
“Drooling a bit, too.”
The coffee finishes sputtering out into the carafe, a welcome distraction from being made fun of by this strange newcomer. I pour two cups and slide one across the counter to him, and hold the other firmly in my grasp, bringing it to my lips to blow onto it.
“What’s your name?” I ask him, unsure of what I’m supposed to call him. I did summon him after, the least I could do is call him by his name.
“We went over this last night.”
I sigh dramatically. “I’m sure you’re aware of this, but I was super fucking drunk last night. I loosely remember you popping out of that cake.” I point across the room to the disaster I created and continue, “But that’s about all of it.” I leave out the failed attempt at seduction to shield my ego from any further attack. “You’re going to have to refresh my memory.”
“My given name was too difficult for you to pronounce, so you settled on Tobias.”
“Shall we try it again?”
He shakes his head. “I’d rather not experience that torment again; Tobias is just fine.”
“Tobias it is.” I nod toward the steaming cup of coffee. “Drink up, it seems we have a lot to discuss.”
Tobias brings the mug to his face, sniffing the drink like it might be a strange poison. The cup is tiny in his grasp, his one finger taking up the entire space around the handle. He sips it carefully and turns up his nose. “This is disgusting.”
“Thanks, I appreciate that.” I reach for the door to the fridge, pulling it open and peering inside. I snag a carton of oat milk and pour it into his cup without asking, then toss in a pinch of sugar from the bag lying on my counter. Giving it a quick stir, I tell him, “There, try that.”
He takes another drink, this time more cautious than before. His resolve softens slightly and he downs the entire contents in one chug, holding the empty thing out toward me. “More.”
I laugh and bring my hand to my forehead, a bit in disbelief of this entire situation. “A please would suffice.” Yet, I comply, filling his mug once more and repeating the oat milk and sugar. “We’ll work on your manners another time.”
I point to Whiskers and boop him on the nose. “You’re a traitor.”
Tobias savors this cup slower than the last but doesn’t say a single word.
Taking another approach, I ask him only one question at a time, hoping for answers to the countless questions assaulting me.
“Am I dead?”
“No.”
“Am I dreaming?”
“No.”
I plant my hands on the counter and prop myself onto it, scooting back on the cold, hard surface. “What are you?”
“What are you?” A question with a question, that’s not what I had hoped for.
“A human.”
He subtly shakes his head. “No, you’re something else.”
I swallow the mouthful of nearly too hot coffee and consider his words. “Then you tell me what I am if you know so much.”
“The only way for a person to summon a demon of any kind is if they harbor magic.”
“You’re telling me I have magical powers?” I drink more of my coffee and wait for an explanation.
But it doesn’t come. He simply replies, “Yes.”
"Interesting." I mean, who am I to doubt him, he's the one hovering in place in front of me, having appeared out of a cake from hell. "Wait, am I having a psychotic break?"
“No.” Another one-word answer.
“And why did I summon you?”
“You made a wish and needed someone to fulfill it.”
“So, you’re a genie?”
“No.”
“A djinn?”
“No.”
“But you can grant wishes?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, you’re a genie.”
“I’m not a genie.” The mug in his grasp explodes from the pressure of his grip, shattering into a million pieces on the floor.
"Fine, sorry, not a genie." I hop down and step onto a shard of porcelain. "Fuck." I wince and grab at my foot, my blood trickling onto the tile floor.
In a flash, he picks me up, puts me back on the counter, and kneels in front of me. With my leg in his hands and his face dangerously close to my open wound, he breathes in deeply. His long, inhuman tongue slithers out and teases the space between my flesh and his mouth.
A blaring light fills my dining room, and two figures appear from the illumination.
One of the others clears their throat dramatically, “Are we interrupting something?”
Tobias releases me and stands tall, towering over me once again, even from my position on the counter. He glides back and keeps his gaze trained on the mug debris and blood-splattered floor.
The three of them take up a considerable amount of space in my apartment, their horned heads grazing my ceiling and scraping the surface. They’d destroy it completely if they didn’t duck to keep from smashing into it all together.
“Coffee?” I ask them, unsure of how else I should treat these otherworldly houseguests.
The vocal one leans against the island and scratches his chin. "I see you've put your clothes back on. Is the offer no longer on the table?" He raises a brow at me and grins, which comes across as mildly chilling given his demonic appearance.
“Should have taken me up on it when I offered.” I match his vibe to mask the uncertainty of the feelings bubbling to the surface. Terror. Excitement. A dash of desire. The last one confusing me more than the rest. More careful than before, I watch my step as I come off the counter and reach for the broom tucked in the corner. I make quick work of sweeping up the dangerous pieces of the broken mug and pull three more from the cabinet. I ignore the seething stares of the three demons and act like they’re any other person in my apartment. If I don’t make it weird, maybe they won’t either.
If I figure out what it is they want, I can give it to them so they can go on their way and I can return to the shit show I call my life.
“Jessa,” Tobias speaks through the silence, pointing to the most arrogant of the three. “Clover.” And then to the quiet one. “Rosco.”
"Clover." I nod at him, then at the other. "Rosco." I drink more of my coffee and watch as those two drink the black coffee I had given them without cringing the way Tobias had. Maybe they're being polite—but I have a strange feeling that politeness is the least of their concerns.
"I'm hurt." Clover brings his massive hand to his chest. "You forgot my name, and after much discussion, too."
Tobias responds for me. “She doesn’t remember anything about last night.”
"That doesn't change things." Clover's gaze meets mine, something dangerous and taunting in his dark stare. "You already agreed."
“Agreed to what?” I swallow the lump that forms in my throat.
Clover smiles, but there isn’t anything sweet or kind hidden in the curve of his lips—there’s only malice and trickery. “I believe you called it…yes, that’s right, a deal with the devil. Or in your case, three devils.”
“And if I refuse?” I ask the question knowing I’m not going to like the answer.
“You die.”
Fuck.
