Why You Should Never Rescue Stray Demons Chapter 18

**OZ**

There are times when being large, intimidating, and possessed of a generally threatening aura is a tactical advantage. This is not one of those times. I’m used to people backing off when I walk into a room, used to the glances, the wariness, the sense that I’m not someone to approach lightly. And sure, that keeps me out of a lot of unnecessary fights. But it also means that when someone needs comforting, I’m about as helpful as a brick wall. Take the brownie, for example. He’s CLEARLY overwhelmed, jittery, exhausted and one broken glass away from unraveling completely. If I crouched down and told him to stop worrying or asked him to take a break, he’d probably assume I was threatening him. Hell, if I just looked at him too long, he might have a full blown panic attack. So I do the only thing I can do. I back off entirely. I stand just off to the side, arms crossed, posture casual but watchful, and start quietly glaring at the bartender and every other grimy, patron who looks like they might consider interrupting while Kacia comforts the brownie. They don’t. Because I’m watching. And I don’t blink. Meanwhile, Kacia kneels gracefully in front of the brownie like this is the most natural thing in the world. No fear. No pity. Just calm, clear, eyed gentleness.

“Hello there, my name’s Kaci. What’s your name?” She says softly. The brownie furrows his brow, confused. Like he can’t remember the last time someone asked. Or maybe he’s never been asked at all. I narrow my eyes at the bartender. No reaction. Figures.

“Angelo.” The brownie mutters after a long pause. His voice is wary. His eyes dart nervously across the room, like he’s waiting for someone to punish him for speaking. Just in case, I turn up the intensity of my glower a few notches and aim it at the bartender again. I’ve noticed him glancing our way. If he takes so much as a step in our direction I might snap.

“It’s nice to meet you, Angelo.” Kacia says, smiling gently. 

“You look… Stressed. Maybe you should sit down for a bit? Catch your breath?” She suggests. Angelo shakes his head instantly, panicked. 

“Can’t. I have to work. This place is a mess!” He insists. I glance around. It is not a mess. Sure, it’s run down and ugly, but it’s cleaner than most hospitals. But from the way he says it, with genuine, frantic conviction, I don’t think we’ll be convincing him otherwise anytime soon. Kacia doesn’t argue. She just nods slowly, switching tactics without pause.

“Okay. That’s fair. But we actually have a few questions we were hoping to ask you. If it’s alright with you... Maybe you could show us where the messes are? We could help clean. Talk a little while we do?” She says casually. Angelo freezes. His mouth opens. Closes, then opens again.

“You want to… Help me?” He asks, like the idea is so foreign it physically hurts to say out loud. Kacia doesn’t miss a beat. She smiles warmly and starts rolling up her sleeves like she’s about to tackle spring cleaning.

“Sure. Just show me where to start.” She says cheerfully. 

At first, Angelo is very hesitant. He shifts from foot to foot, glancing nervously toward the bartender like he's waiting for permission, or punishment. That tells me enough. When he still doesn’t move, I clear my throat. Loudly. It’s not a growl, not quite. But it’s got weight behind it. 

The bartender glances up, meets my eyes for half a second, and then, as if he suddenly remembered he left a fire burning on the other side of the building, casually drifts to the far end of the bar and starts ‘cleaning.’ He picks up a glass, wipes it with a rag, then puts it right back down in the same spot. Thorough. Angelo watches this for a beat, then seems to decide it’s safe. He nods once, quick and shallow, then turns and leads us through a narrow hallway to the back room. And the second we step inside, two things hit me at once. First, this room is a disaster. Cramped, cluttered, half decaying. It’s packed wall to wall with mismatched boxes, broken crates, half-empty bottles, crumpled rags, and an entire spectrum of unidentified bar trash. There’s barely space to turn around, let alone clean. I don’t think it’s even POSSIBLE to get this room clean. Not without some kind of massive clear out and possibly a flame thrower. And second, this isn’t just a storeroom. This is where Angelo sleeps. In the far corner, tucked with clinical precision between two crates, is a tiny nest of threadbare blankets. Folded and neat. Pressed into a tight, square stack like he’s decided if he can’t have comfort, he could at least have order. Beside them lies a pillow that should have been mercy killed a decade ago. It looks like it’s been through a war and came out the loser. I think a rock would probably be more comfortable. My tail twitches. Hard. Then it slips free from around my waist and starts lashing of its own accord, betraying the spike of rage crawling up my spine. This is why glamours don’t work well on it, because I don’t work well on it. My body reacts before I can pretend not to be upset. Kacia notices the blankets too. I can see it in the way she stills. The way her shoulders tighten. She doesn’t speak right away. But her expression? It’s furious. Not loud. Not explosive. Not even verbal. Just cold and sharp, like a knife sliding into its sheath very slowly. Then she breathes. One long inhale through the nose. Controlled and deliberate. She’s clearly trying not to scare Angelo. But she’s seething, and honestly? Same. Because no one should be sleeping on a concrete floor beside a stack of moldy bar towels and pretending it’s fine. Least of all someone who’s literally compelled to serve. My tail continues to twitch in the dim light, and I don’t bother trying to stop it. I’ve been under a spell that limits my actions for only a few days and I already hate it. Angelo’s life must be miserable. We need to help him somehow, and for now, I guess that means cleaning. 

We clean while Kacia works her magic, gentle questions slipped between dustings and quiet encouragement. She starts light, asking if he ever takes breaks, what his favourite thing to clean is. Casual. And he answers. Hesitantly at first. But his hands stay busy, polishing an already clean bottle, folding a cloth he just used, and the more he works, the more his words loosen. Eventually, she asks outright how long he’s been here.

“Ten years.” He says. I freeze mid wipe.

“Ten years?” Kacia echoes gently. He nods, not even looking up. 

“The owner won me in a bet. Off a fae. He said I wasn’t much good for anything else, so I came here.” He explains it flatly, like it’s just the way it is and he’s accepted that. Won. Like a prize. Like property. There’s a thick pause. Angelo shrugs again like he’s telling us the weather. 

“There’s a spell. Keeps me from leaving the building. And, well... I like things clean. Can’t stand mess. So... I clean.” He finishes with a glance in Kacia’s direction. She has schooled her features to be calm. 

“They don’t pay you?” Kacia asks, her voice tightening just slightly.

“No. But I get to stay here…” He says. 

“And I get leftovers sometimes. From the kitchen. It’s not so bad. Though...” He trails off, glancing at the sad little pile of rags tucked into the corner, like he’s suddenly remembering how bleak his own sentence is.

“They don’t even leave you out milk.” I guess flatly, the words sliding out before I can stop them. “Typical.” I spit out the word. Angelo flinches at my tone but I can’t help it. EVERYONE knows that you are meant to leave out milk for brownies in exchange for their work. Even the fae follow that rule. I don’t understand WHY exactly, but I do know that it’s important to brownies. And if the fae stick to it, that says something. Kacia catches Angelo’s flinch and immediately turns toward him. 

“He’s not mad at you, Angelo, I promise. Oz is just... Very bad at hiding it when he’s angry on someone else’s behalf.” She says gently. That’s putting it kindly. I wouldn’t lay a finger on this man. It would be like kicking an orphaned puppy. Unthinkable. Unforgivable. I let out a long breath and go back to wiping down some shelf that is never going to be properly clean, my tail still twitching behind me. Kacia doesn’t push the conversation. Not exactly. She just keeps talking to Angelo as they work, telling him little things about herself, asking for his cleaning tips, complimenting his ability to organise a stack of bar mats so precisely it looks like a spell circle. Eventually, she steers the conversation toward the patrons.

“You must see a lot, people coming and going. Arguments. Regulars.” She says casually, sweeping a pile of dusty bottle caps into a bin. Angelo brightens a little, like she’s finally speaking his language. 

“Oh, so much. People don’t realise how much you notice when you’re cleaning around their feet.” He clarifies, and just like that, he’s off. Turns out Angelo’s a goldmine of gossip. And once he starts talking, he doesn’t stop. He seems eager to share. I guess he hasn’t really had anyone to tell before now. So we get everything. Not just who cheated on who and which werewolf drinks too much on full moons, but actual useful intel too. Like the confirmation that, yes, the guys who grabbed me do come here. Regularly.