Why You Should Never Rescue Stray Demons Chapter 41

**KACIA**

Well. I’m not sure I actually learned anything useful from those prophecies, at least not in the immediate, ‘solve your current mystery’ kind of way. Finneas was right, they’re all vague metaphors and poetic doom and cryptic emotional symbolism. Very dramatic. Very unhelpful. That said… I can’t stop thinking about Clarence and Vidar now. Their parts felt different. Heavier. Especially Vidar’s. Something about the way Finneas looked at him, like he already knew how much it was going to hurt. Also, I’m now fairly convinced that there are at least two people after me. There’s this ‘Witness’ person, which, okay, mysterious capitalisation, clearly a title, and apparently a she. She sounds powerful. And unsettling. But maybe not malicious? Maybe? But then there’s someone else too. Someone with blades and bindings and intentions. Definitely not the same person. Which is deeply, deeply annoying, because one life threatening stalker was already too many. And all that stuff about monsters and lullabies and weapons in hearts… What was that about? And this ‘him’ who’s trapped, or bound, or breaking? Is that literal? Is it metaphorical? Is it someone I know? I feel like I should be piecing this together but it’s like trying to finish a jigsaw puzzle when half the pieces are still upside down. Also, why can’t people in prophecies just be referred to by name? Would that be so hard? ‘Kacia will be followed by a mystery woman and also someone with an agenda and also she should probably get a magical panic button’ would have been incredibly helpful, thanks… Ugh. Okay. Rant over. On the bright side, I did learn one incredibly useful thing today. Possibly the MOST useful thing. I figured out how to avoid getting flustered by Oz’s flirting. The secret? Just throw it right back at him. He’s so confident, until I flirt back. Then he gets all wide eyed and a little flustered and suddenly I’m the one in control. It’s genuinely delightful. The key is to never let him have the upper hand. If he smirks, I smirk harder. If he leans in, I lean closer. If he gives me that stupid, smug demon grin, I give him one of my own and pretend like I’m not secretly thinking about what his mouth would feel like on mine. From now on, I am not letting him get me flustered again. I swear it. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen? He could actually take me up on one of these half flirt, half dare invitations and kiss me like he SHOULD have done the first time? Honestly, at this point, I wouldn’t even be mad, I’d just be relieved that someone finally did something around here. I keep thinking about asking him why he didn’t. Just flat out asking. But even with all this new confidence I’ve been pretending to have, I can’t quite bring myself to say it. No one likes being rejected, and if that’s what he’s going to do… I don’t want to hear it. Not yet. Not today. So instead, I’ll keep telling myself maybe he did want to. Maybe he almost did. And I’ll let myself live in that illusion just a little bit longer. Just until I’m brave enough, or stupid enough, to risk hearing the truth.

The next two days are… Slow. But kind of nice? Mikey’s busy chasing down Jerry, so we don’t really hear from him much, and no one at the library seems to know anything helpful about the blood drainers case. We check in with a few other usual sources, a herbalist, a witch, and even a guy who SWEARS his raccoon familiar can sniff out blood, but it’s all a series of unhelpful hunches and dead ends. So, somehow, almost accidentally, we end up spending most of our time at home. And I keep feeling guilty about it. Like, irrationally guilty. I just feel like I should be working harder, pushing the case forward, making a plan. But every time I so much as think about heading out again, Oz casually suggests that maybe we could stay in, just for a bit longer. Eat lunch here. Try that new tea he found. Watch whatever show he’s now inexplicably obsessed with. He claims it's research on human behavior. I think he just likes dramatic slow burn romances and cooking competitions. He even puts up with the fact that the signal for the streaming services stops working every time one of us gets too close to the damn TV. I didn’t peg him for a homebody, not at first. But apparently he is. Or maybe he’s just really, really good at adapting. Because it didn’t take him long to clock the fact that I like things neat and orderly, everything in its place, everything just so, and instead of complaining or cluttering up the space, he just… Started helping. Correction, he took over. He’s now officially in charge of the cooking and yes, it is insufferably good, which is rude, the dishes, the vacuuming, and he’s somehow reorganised the spice rack by both colour and flavour intensity, which I didn’t even know I wanted until he did it. He even tried the laundry. Once. That… Didn’t go great. Look, I don’t know what kind of soap-like substances they use in the demon realm, but whatever Oz did to those towels should be classified as a hate crime. They came out of the machine crunchy. Not stiff. CRUNCHY. I still don’t know how he did that. He looked personally betrayed by the spin cycle. So laundry is now officially my domain again. Which, honestly, I’m fine with. Because that leaves Oz free to do what he’s weirdly good at, making this place feel like home. And I hate how much I love it. We spend two days in this slow, cozy rhythm. Bantering in the kitchen. Bickering over the last muffin. Swapping stories. Mocking each other’s TV choices. Flirting, so much flirting, but always with that same invisible line between us, the one neither of us seems willing to cross. It’s like we’re circling something. And I swear, if he keeps brushing my arm every time he passes behind me at the sink, I’m going to explode. Or melt. Or both. I keep TELLING myself not to fall for it. For him. But it’s hard when every night ends with him claiming the couch while joking that he’d love to join me in the bed, and every morning starts with the smell of cinnamon and fresh coffee and his voice humming some demon lullaby under his breath. It sounds ominous, like it was meant to terrify someone, but somehow it’s weirdly soothing. Go figure. So yeah. The last couple days have been slow. But they’ve also been the most relaxing days I’ve had in a very long time. And I don’t know what that means. Or what I’m supposed to do with it. It’s been… Really nice. Too nice. Actually, I’ve loved every moment of it. But there are three problems. One, Oz STILL hasn’t tried to kiss me again. Which might be connected to problem two, every now and then, when he thinks I’m not paying attention, he gets sad. Really, deeply sad. Like something’s weighing on him that he won’t let me see. And right after that sadness, there’s always a flicker of anger. His eyes darken, his whole energy shifts. And then he snaps himself out of it, like he’s trying to bury it beneath jokes and charm. And then there’s problem number three… I still feel like I’m being watched. It’s nothing obvious. Just… Sometimes when I pass a mirror or a window, I get this flicker of motion, this shadow in the reflection that vanishes when I look directly at it. It’s subtle enough that I almost think I’m imagining it. But I’m not. I know I’m not. And the worst part is, I don’t know what I’m supposed to DO about it. Neither Oz nor I can find any evidence that we’re being tracked or magically followed. But I can feel it. Someone’s watching me. Whatever it is… It's getting closer, and these peaceful days can't last. Neither Oz or I can find any signs that I’m being followed other than the weird sights and feelings, but unless I’m losing my mind, there has to be someone. I guess it just feels like we’re waiting for something, and I don’t think I ever want it to come.