Slate Gray

Chapter 17.3: Ace Slate

Our intern's face drains of all color and, catching my attention, he wordlessly begs permission to speak up. Wondering if he can stop this.

With a teensy shake of my head, I mentally scream at him not to interfere.

"This isn't necessary," Dad objects as Ethan circles the counter. "We get it, demon. You can compel them somehow."

Naberius just smiles, toying with his food and loving every second.

The boy stops before the coffeemaker to grasp the pot by its orange, plastic handle, raising it into the air with a wobbling hand.

"No! Don't!" I shriek, once again neglecting my own advice. But I can't stand by while more innocent people get hurt because of us. It's a denunciation of everything we stand for. Everything I've been training for.

But I should've saved my breath. Because there ain't no stopping this now.

Face blank but terror shining deep within dark eyes, Ethan upends the smoking contents over his head. Coffee mingles with the scent of burnt flesh as scalding liquid blisters his skin. Tears prick my sockets but I'm unable to look away while he screams and pours, molten red rivulets snaking down his face. Only when the pot is empty, does he drop it with nerveless fingers to shatter on the ground, screams giving way to soft keening as his skin bubbles angrily.

"Ok, whoa! Time out!" Terry yells, slicing his arms through the air as if trying to put this horrible reality on pause. "Ethan?! What the hell was that? Talk to me, man!"

But his friend doesn't react, instead he stands at attention, ready for his next order. And three sets of gray eyes expand in warning, begging Terry to do the same. Or at the very least, to stop waving his hands around like that. To fade into the background where it's safer.

Unfortunately, we're too late. That fourth set has taken notice. And they're glowing with irritation.

Faster than I can track, the High-Level seizes one of Terry's extended wrists and he yelps, pulling against it. Outwardly, he's bigger than the cook, younger, stronger. But compared to a High-Level, he's a kitten thrashing against a panther. And even when he throws himself backwards, tendons protruding, that infernal arm doesn't so much as budge.

"I have to say," Naberius drones, inspecting the struggling teen like an amoeba under a microscope. "I'm not thrilled you brought a Plus One to my party."

"Well, it's not like you sent out formal invites," Perrin counters, righting the overturned cups and mugs, gathering napkins from the dispenser to mop their spilled contents. "And you know how it goes with word of mouth, right? Someone tells someone else and before you know it, you got a bunch of randos in your house."

The observation is pitched flippantly, but Terry in the demon's crosshairs has unglued her. I see it in the knitting of her brows and the unhurried way she tidies the table, rattled to the point of busywork.

"Oh? Is that what this is?" Naberius matches her buoyant tone, but a feral gradient has crept into his borrowed features. "A rando in my house?"

"Exactly." She shrugs and I almost believe her. "He's just some kid we hired to carry our stuff. Figured the least we could do is treat him to a nice meal." Swiping a piece of bacon, she takes a cheeky bite and waves it at him. "Thanks for that, by the way."

But this antediluvian being isn't so easily fooled. Bloodred orbs pin my sister to her seat as he brings Terry's trapped fingers to his nose for an indulgent whiff. "Then why does he smell like you?"

Perrin halts mid-chew as those fiery irises slide back to our mutual crush, still fighting to free himself.

"I don't like other people touching my things," the demon rumbles, voice dropping to subterranean levels.