The Demon's Half

Chapter 22

There was white scenery filled with trees and weeds, and far ahead a small cottage. Smoke curling from a chimney like something straight out of an old fairytale. No cemetery. Some stupid, delusional part of me had still hoped.

"Where are we?" I asked.

The air was cold and humid. I was so thankful I wasn't wearing Jade's dress anymore. Even when I was literally wearing fighting gear, to fight who-knew-what, I was still thankful. Oz didn't look at me. "You have your sister's rosary and the dagger?"

I gritted my teeth. "Yes."

Mia's rosary was always around my neck.
The dagger, strapped to my leg.

"Where are we?" I asked AGAIN.

"Turnik."

Far in the north. I didn't even know people could live here.
"Why? How—"

"Alright, love," he said. "As much as I enjoy our little game, where you act surprised by my power and I remind you just how much I have, time is precious. Let's not waste it."

Before I could slap him, he took my hand, tugging me toward the cottage.

"Who lives there?" I whispered.

He pretended not to hear me. "A word of caution. If you can avoid looking at her face, do so."

—the fuck?

"And refrain from speaking unless she prompts you," he added.

"She?" I asked, my hands sweating rivers. The snow crunched with every step. We were almost at the door now. "Or a demon?"

"Both. And a bit more."

A chill slithered down my spine. Instinct took over—I pulled away, desperate for space. But Oz was faster. In a flash, he closed the distance between us. His face hovered inches from mine. But I didn't care, I didn't want to see another demon.

"Just me, hmm?" he purred, a wicked grin tugging at his lips.

"Not even you."

"Liar."

"Why would I even want to—"

His calloused hand clamped over my mouth. "Listen," he whispered, his usual playfulness slipping into something serious. "If we're going to do this, we need to trust each other. As much as you may hate it, if I ask you to stay silent, do it."

Pendejo.
I didn't even bother saying it out loud. I knew he heard it anyway. The moment he pulled his hand away, his voice invaded my mind: "You can call me Alexander, love."

The front door creaked open.
Alexander stepped inside first.

_________________________

The stench hit me first.
As if something had died here a long time ago and no one had bothered to clean it up. I tried to breathe through my mouth, but the rancid air clung to the back of my throat. I took another step inside, Alexander next to me, as my gaze dropped to the floor. I expected wood. Or stone. There was grass. Dry, lifeless grass.

This wasn't a home.
A single rocking chair sat near the fireplace, motionless. On the opposite side of the room, a brown couch. No kitchen. No doors. No hallways. Just this. A couch, a chair, a fireplace— And books everywhere.
Some in bookshelves, some lined the walls in chaotic clusters, stacked high in corners, spilling onto the ground in tilted, unstable towers. The windows let in streams of daylight, casting shadows over the mess.
Most books looked ancient, their cracked leather spines about to break. I sneezed. The stench just got worse. Verga. No one should ever have to smell this.