Why You Should Never Rescue Stray Demons Chapter 28

**KACIA**

Not long after, we’re settled into the library cafe, the only place in the building where you can eat without risking a hex from Clarence. It’s surprisingly cozy. The tables are mismatched wood, the chairs squeak, and there’s a soft magical hum in the air that smells faintly of cinnamon and ink. The cafe counter is manned by a nymph with bright green hair and a bright smile. I kind of love it. Vidar stayed long enough to grab something, something that looked like it could feed a small village, and then dashed off to read with Izzy. I respect that. I wouldn’t want to keep her waiting either. I’m not sure if it’s because I pity her… Or because I’m slightly unnerved by her. If she’s as old as I think she is, then she’s seen a lot. And I mean a lot. That kind of timelessness wrapped in childlike cheer makes me uneasy. I just don’t quite know how to react to her. With Vidar gone, it leaves me sitting across from Oz. And despite the way I still feel stiff, uncoordinated, and vaguely like I’ve been hit by a bus, I also can’t help but notice… This whole setup feels oddly date like. I’m suddenly a little bit self conscious. Are my clothes as dirty and sweaty as I suspect they are? Probably… As if the damn library is listening to my internal monologue, the lights around our little table dim slightly. A candle in the center of the table flares to life with an audible whoosh. I blink at it. Oz raises an eyebrow and gives me a slow, smug smile. 

“I think the library’s trying to tell us something.” He says flirtatiously. He leans in a bit, as if to test how much teasing I can take while my limbs still aren’t fully cooperating. I roll my eyes, and immediately regret the movement. My temples throb like I’ve got drums going off inside my skull.

“I think you’re reading far too much into it.” I mutter, dryly, and take a very careful bite of the ravioli I ordered. Every motion is a slow, deliberate act while I try my best not to embarrass myself. I swear, if I drop food on my shirt after surviving being paralysed by a basilisk or stab myself in the face with a fork or something, I’ll lose all remaining dignity. If that happens, I’m going home and locking myself in my bedroom for at least a month. Just as I’m about to take a second bite, something brushes against my ankle. I pause and narrow my eyes at Oz. He smiles back with the most irritatingly innocent expression I’ve ever seen. It would be more convincing if his tail didn’t flick casually into view a moment later like oh hey look who’s definitely NOT guilty.

“What?” I say suspiciously, lowering my fork. His smile widens. 

“Nothing, just… Stretching.” He says sweetly. His tail brushes my ankle again, this time curling lightly before flicking away. I glare at him. He looks absolutely unrepentant. I shake my head and go back to eating. So does he. Except he’s definitely still smiling. He is definitely messing with me on purpose. And despite everything, basilisks, paralysis, fork coordination struggles, I find myself smiling too. Just a little.

While we eat, we talk about… Normal stuff. As normal as things get for us, anyway. I tell Oz a few stories about the jobs Mikey and I have done, mostly the ridiculous ones. Like the time a cursed trampoline tried to eat a kid’s birthday party. Or the incident with the gremlin infestation in a car dealership, which ended with me swinging from a ceiling light holding a taser while the owner of the dealership was yelling that they were going to void the warranty. Mikey still brings that one up every Christmas. Oz listens, amused. He has this way of smiling when I talk, like I’ve said something especially clever even when I really haven’t. Like he’s really paying attention. I usually try to avoid being the centre of attention, but from him… Well it’s pretty nice. When it’s his turn to talk, he doesn’t tell me much. Not really. He skirts around details, avoids anything that sounds too close to ‘past’ or ‘personal.’ He mentions that he owns a shop, something inherited from his parents, but he never says what kind of shop it is. Or where. Or who’s looking after it while he’s here. The vagueness is so deliberate that it stops me from pressing. And besides… It feels like he’s more interested in listening to me than explaining himself. Every time I ask a question, he answers it with a question of his own. Or a joke. Or a flirtation. I don’t think it’s that he doesn’t want to talk. I think maybe he just doesn’t want to think about it. Still, it’s… Pleasant. Sitting here with him. Talking. Laughing. I find I’m actually having fun, despite everything that happened today. Even if I’m not exactly throwing flirtation back like he is. I mean, I would never do that. I’m not leaning forward to be seductive, I’m just tired, and propping my elbows on the table is easier than holding myself upright. That’s all. Probably. But then I look across the table at him. The candlelight flickers against his features, turning shadows into something soft and warm. His glamour is still in place, perfectly crafted, convincingly human, but it makes him seem a little less real somehow. Like I’m watching someone else wear Ozraed’s face. And I’ve seen what’s underneath it. More than I planned to. All of him, really… Except for his eyes. I still haven’t seen his true eyes. I kind of want to. I know I can’t. I know it would trigger that whole nightmare effect and send me into some hellish spiral of terror, but part of me still wonders what that nightmare effect is concealing. Maybe you can’t really know someone until you’ve looked them in the eyes. Which is probably why I actually like his tail so much. It’s not part of the glamour. It’s the one piece of him that doesn’t lie, doesn’t pretend. It twitches when he’s annoyed, curls when he’s amused, flicks when he’s teasing me. It’s expressive in a way his face isn’t always allowed to be. So yeah. I think I like his tail, and not just because it seems to like me.

I’m midway through explaining how my mother, who, bless her very human heart, had absolutely no clue how to raise a half fae kid, enrolled me in just about every martial art under the sun. Karate, judo, aikido, fencing, even a brief stint in boxing which ended with me getting punched in the face and refusing to go back. She meant well. She didn’t have any magical instincts to pass down or any kind of guidance on what I might need to know to protect myself, so instead, she gave me muscle memory and an encyclopedic knowledge of how to disarm someone with a broomstick. I was just getting to the part where she tried to get me into sword dancing when someone interrupts. 

“I smell blood.” Someone announces dramatically from the doorway. I groan internally before I even look. Only one person announces their entrance like a gothic theatre kid.

“Hi, Tracey.” I say without turning around. Sure enough, Tracey is standing just inside the cafe, his long black coat flaring slightly as if the wind followed him in for dramatic effect. He’s pale and elegant and very proud of the fact that he doesn’t look a day over twenty five, even though I’m pretty sure he’s somewhere in his mid seventies. Not that he’ll admit it. Vampiric age is a sensitive topic. Ask him and he’ll just sigh and say he’s ‘old enough to be irrelevant to mortals, too young to be respected by the ancients, and permanently stuck in the teenage wing of eternity.’ Which I’m pretty sure means he’s old enough to be considered old by mortal standards, but not old enough to be considered old by supernatural standards, so he’s stuck in a sort of age limbo where he doesn’t quite fit in. It’s not even his worst sore spot. That would be his name. Tracey. Do not make a comment about the name. Someone once laughed at it, called it ‘a bit girly’, and Tracey bit them. Literally. Right on the arm. Didn’t even look particularly sorry about it. The guy walked away with a bandage and a story, and Tracey walked away with… His pride intact I suppose? Tracey flicks his eyes toward me and gives me a nod of recognition, but he’s already fixated on something else. His nostrils flare and he stares straight at Oz, pointing a pale finger.

“You, you’re bleeding.” He declares.