Where Monsters Rest Their Heads

Darcy was, by all accounts, nothing more than an ordinary human-no angelic grace, no demonic pact, no hunter's pedigree-but he carried a habit so bizarre it was almost supernatural in itself: he slept best sprawled across the hulking backs of werewolves, curled into the wings of fallen angels, or tangled in the coils of things that nightmares called kin. A hopelessly cute fool with a grin that could get him out of trouble as often as it got him into it, Darcy stumbled through life with a mix of shy glances, sly victories in petty arguments, and shameless flirtations that he'd abandon the moment a boy's cheeks turned pink. He talked to ghosts as if they were old drinking buddies, debated philosophy with demons over coffee, and sought out the quiet company of angels as though their presence was sunlight. His love was a wide-open sky-limitless and equal for every soul who had the courage to meet him honestly. But for all his warmth, Darcy was steel when it came to protecting the innocent, and liars or those who dealt in cruelty found no welcome in his orbit. In a world where trust was a gamble and survival was a coin toss, he navigated chaos with humor, tenderness, and an unwavering loyalty to the strange family he'd gathered-men of all kinds who, in one way or another, had once been monsters themselves.