Psyche

Chapter Thirteen

"It kind of goes along with the whole hellhound thing," He said to me. But in the shock of what I was witnessing, I really did not hear it. I forgot about that blanket that had dropped from my feet, and I left the room, puzzled beyond belief.

My suspicions hadn't been solid, but it wasn't until now that I had a chance to reflect on it. So, he was some hellhound mercenary. And I assumed that sketchy guy in a suit was his boss. Something must have happened to him when he was young, something. You don't do this sort of thing without being fucked up in the head. Was it my job to figure out that? I don't know. Did I want to? On the inside? I knew the answer.

I didn't want to go there. It was too private, too painful. Digging at a scar is almost worse than opening a wound.

I would know.

So, I guess I kind of knew what he was, though trying to wrap my head around all of it gave me a pounding headache, but what was I? Oh yeah, I remembered what he had called me a while ago: an empath . . .

Dreams, no, Nightmares! Being an empath was hell, for me at least. Him, he had seen hell. He had made deals with the devil at a time when that was what he had to do. Maybe he'd even talked to Satan. He was powerful. I couldn't bear to think about how powerful. I couldn't begin to imagine the concentrated energy contained within his fragile human form-uncontrollably shifting, ripping from one world to another-what was he like when he was younger?

And then: how old is he really?!

As 'Cool and Spicy,' I shouldn't have given a damn. He should have meant absolutely nothing. I should have been back at home, jamming to some Florence + the Machine, or Breathe Carolina, or Death Cab for Cutie, or some other indie band I was obsessed with. I should have been normal. But he had silently convinced me that-even if destiny is for hippies-that I was supposed to do this. I was supposed to give up the "Cool & Spicy" character and become a different person.

But none of it mattered. Because I knew: if I kept going, went on with how I was, I was going to go slowly insane, die in my own skin. I couldn't live like that. I'd rather be dead.

A sobering revelation.

***

I was way too nervous to take the neatly made bed (Nick seemed like a rumpled sheets guy, so I found this suspicious anyway) and slept in a big old leather armchair I found in a room off of the hall. By the time the sun was up, I was practically glued to the sticky material. Peeling my legs off felt like ripping my skin off, so I decided not moving was a good idea. I fell asleep to the sound of him showering and woke up to the sound of him showering.

Two showers in twelve hours? I thought. New record! Then again, after what he's been through, I guess he has a right to use as much water as he fucking wanted. And I sure wouldn't want any monster goo on me either. . .

By the time I left the dusty room and into the living room/kitchen, he was out cooking some eggs. The soupy goopy egg rested on a plate, and while he held his hand over the plate, right before my eyes, fire danced from his fingers, heating them up. He looked up and saw me gazing at this in awe. "It's much more efficient than the stove. And I'm pretty sure the heat's broken." His voice was dead-sounding, or maybe it was just fatigue. Turning into a big-ass wolf (No, hellhound) must really wear you down. I guess a while of doing this-whatever this was-could really tear up the soul.

Look at me, being all deep. It wasn't even eight in the morning.

Being even this close to him was nerve-racking, and I nervously drew some root beer chap stick from my back pocket, swiping it across my lips. Got to love those moist lips! But as I slid the Chap Stick back into my pocket, I felt my phone. I had it on vibrate, as usual. Why would I need to talk to my parents, after all? It wasn't like I'd seen an ordinary guy turn into a denizen of hell, turn back, bark up most of his bodily fluids (though, none of the good ones) and almost die.