Inner Demons

Chapter 4. Hold your breath

Whoever hates his brother is a murderer,

and you know that no murderer has eternal life abiding in him.

1 John 3:15

The Kroger store wasn't too far from school, so I was a frequent visitor there, often buying myself a Coke, chips, and other essentials. Today, I was driven here by my usual craving for something sweet, so I quickly headed to the right aisle, grabbing a basket along the way. After a moment's thought, I decided it was better to stock up for the week and take a taxi home. I suspect that more than half of what I buy will be eagerly claimed by His Majesty at the first opportunity.

But regardless, the day was going well and everything was unfolding according to my and the demons' agreement: Belial had vanished somewhere, and Stanislavsky, who oddly enough hadn't changed his habits even after the king's return, was still sitting in the library, nose deep in the latest book. It's surprising they let me roam wherever I please, considering I am the Dark Lord's weak spot. On the other hand, little things like personal space and privacy are now entirely nonexistent. I could try to make a scene, but it would be better if they sorted out their problems soon and left my life. Preferably forever. So, I was trying to stay optimistic and see all of this as a temporary inconvenience that could easily be remedied with a bag of peanuts.

But my solitary joy didn't last long: I noticed someone was following me in the store. It was a short guy with black, spiky hair, wearing sunglasses. A hideous scar ran across his left cheek. His outfit was equally attention-grabbing: torn gray jeans, a black-and-white striped tank top with paint splatters, a leather wristband, and loosely laced combat boots. Something long and cylindrical, like a knife sheath hunters use, hung from his waist, and all of this made him hard to miss, yet no one around seemed to notice him—as if he didn't exist.

I deliberately walked through the household goods section to test my suspicion, and I was right. Fortunately, despite my concerns, he kept his distance: he didn't take his eyes off me, but didn't get too close either. Lazily sipping from a beer bottle he'd grabbed from the fridge, he flipped through a "Hustler" magazine with half-naked women on the cover. I tried to look his way as little as possible, not wanting to let him know I'd noticed him. Since no one warned me about him, he was likely neither a friend to me nor to Belial. I needed to figure out how to inform my watchers about him.

The Fallen might have seemed aggressive, but no more so than a teenager trying to stand out if it weren't for the scar on his face, which screamed to stay as far away from him as possible. I had never seen scars on Fallen before—all their wounds healed almost instantly. So, this creature was either different from the ones I knew, or it deliberately flaunted its dangerous nature. Trying not to panic, I moved deeper into the store, hurriedly trying to find Stanislavsky's number on my phone, but my fingers fumbled, hitting all the wrong icons and opening the wrong apps. I'd never needed ten digits and a familiar, slightly confused voice on the line more than now.

For now, I figured I should keep pretending I hadn't noticed him. But after three aisles of paper towels, detergents, and dishwasher tablets, the Fallen slipped out of sight. It seemed like he wanted me to see him. Sure, I could assume that if he was following me, he wasn't doing it very skillfully, but that sounded like a silly excuse for a supernatural and very ancient being.

An annoyed store employee passed by, pushing an overloaded cart toward the storage area, muttering something about bugs under his breath. A strange buzzing noise came from the neatly packaged deli meats. I didn't get a chance to locate the source of the sound because the man moved too quickly, apparently to avoid attracting customer attention.