Well, this update is late. Partially because of AP testing, partially because I wrote half a novel of original fiction, and also because the subplots kind of exploded on me, like they usually do. This chapter is twice as long as it was supposed to be. Thus, I moved an arc into the next chapter because I didn't want to make this one a hundred pages long, ahahahah.

Thank you for all the reviews/faves/whatevers/ on the last chapter! It really means a lot to me.

Music:

I Will Possess Your Heart - Death Cab for Cutie

Help! I'm Alive - Metric

A Prescription for Mankind - Spinnerette

Part 2 of 3

Gregory's sitting on the front step of our apartment building, smoking. His eyes are red and shadowed. He looks up when the snow crunches under Damien's feet.

"'E'll probably overreact," I mutter. "Don't 'urt 'im."

Damien snickers and shifts his grip on me. The fatigue has only just begun to fade, and combined with the energy expenditure that comes from fighting for my life, I haven't been able to walk. Since he doesn't have a car, he insisted on carrying me. I have to admit that his arms stave off the cold.

Gregory stomps towards us, aiming his gun between Damien's eyes. "What did you do to him?"

"Relax." Damien sets me on my feet. I stagger and fall into him. My knees give out. His arm goes around my shoulders, holding me up.

"Christophe? Christophe, are you okay?"

"Don't shoot." I stretch out my hand and he grabs it, yanking me away from Damien. I collapse against his shoulder and have to cling to him to stay on my feet.

"What did you do to him?" He steps back, pulling us further away.

"He's fine," Damien says, sticking his hands into his pockets. "He'll need to sleep for a while. And he might need therapy." He smiles at me. "See you tomorrow night?"

"Just go away now," I snap at him.

He snickers and turns his back on us, striding down the street back towards his house.

"Christophe? Christophe? Where did he hurt you? What happened to your legs?"

He tosses his gun to the ground to help lead me into the apartment building, up the elevator, and to our flat. I take tiny steps like an old man, trembling all over.

"I'm okay. I just need to sleep." A level of brokenness seeps into my voice against my will. "Just let me sleep."

"I'll kill him," he says as he settles me onto the couch in the living room. "I'm going to kill that bastard." His tone is inflectionless. "Is there anything you need?"

"I - I'm okay - "

He hugs me suddenly, face buried into my chest. He might be crying. I pat the back of his head awkwardly.

"I made a deal wiz 'im," I say.

He looks up at me. Yeah, definitely crying.

"Did you manage to keep him from hurting you?"

I shake my head, teeth gritted. "Don't do anything rash zat you'll regret. Please. I'll explain more later. I just need to sleep now."

It all comes back in the dreams.

Drowning - cold - water everywhere - warmth - touching - let me go - pain - ohgod the pain and I'm sorry and-

Remember:

Damien always gets what he wants.

I wake curled on my side, shaking. I breathe in the scent of home and stare at the side of the couch for a few minutes. Then I roll over.

Gregory is sitting in a chair opposite me, smoking what, from the butts littering the floor, appears to be his second pack of cigarettes. He stares at the foot of the couch and doesn't look up at me.

"What time is it?"

My voice is raspy from all the screaming I did last night.

"About four in the afternoon."

He stubs his cigarette out on the tray that usually only I use.

"I'm hungry," I say.

He shrugs apologetically. "We don't have any food in the flat."

I swing my legs off the couch. "I'll go get some."

"Shouldn't you be resting?"

"Damien said it would wear off after a couple of 'ours. I feel fine."

"What would wear off?"

I explain almost everything to him, leaving out a few things, like the fear, and how close he was to breaking me.

He sits back in his chair and breathes out heavily.

"You're playing with a forest fire," he says. "Do you think you have any control over him?"

"No. 'E's pretending zat I 'ave some for ze moment - but I'm not stupid. 'E's a liar. 'E'll strike back when I least expect it."

"You're stuck, aren't you?"

I nod, because it's true. Damien owns me now. I have a leash on him but the chain is around my neck.

"You're trapped."

He hides his face in his hands.

"On ze plus side," I say, "I zink 'e might know more about ze demon blood distribution."

"Are you joking?" He stands and flings out his arms. "I don't give a damn about that anymore!"

We just stare at each other for a few seconds. Then my stomach rumbles.

He pulls a couple twenty dollar bills from his pocket. "I can go get it-"

"I'm ze only decent cook around 'ere." I take the money from him. "And I want to do somezing normal for once."

"I'll be here when you get back." He settles down in his chair and opens another pack of cigarettes. I steal one from him before heading out the door.

My luck is just fantastic. As I'm waiting for my turn at the cash register, Kyle and Kenny jump into line behind me.

"Oh, hey, dude," Kyle says.

I glance at him, nod tersely, and start to unload the contents of my basket. The basics: milk, eggs, bread. Then I set down ace bandaging, disinfectant, and a sewing kit. Kyle nods, no doubt thinking it's for my mercenary job. Kenny knows better. He pushes his hood down.

(Can't always trust Damien to heal me up after, I have cuts on my neck that he left to remind me-)

"Woah, dude," Kyle says as I set a tube of - ick - lubrication on the conveyor belt. (Because I know the bastard will make it painful if he can). "Did you finally get a girlfriend?"

I glare at him.

"Kyle," Kenny says.

"Or, uh," Kyle glances from side to side. "You and Gregory?"

I make a gagging noise. Kyle and I laugh together. Kenny doesn't.

The cashier rings up my purchase. I accept my shopping bags and start for the door. Kyle and Kenny catch up with me before I head out into the snow.

"Hey," Kyle says. "How much have you and Gregory gotten on the demon thing since the last time we talked?"

"I told you," Kenny says, licking his lips. "Ms. Steven's death hasn't yielded anything-"

"Goddamn it!" Kyle runs his fingers through his hair. "How much am I paying you two, anyway?"

"Not enough," I mutter, knowing full well that as an interning medical student commuting twenty miles every day, he can't afford to pay our full rate. "And we do 'ave somezing new. A lead zat might play out. You'll 'ave to be patient. But I think we've made a real breakthrough."

His eyes widen. "Seriously?"

"Seriously." We enter the cold. Wind whips through my hair. I wrap my scarf tighter around my neck. "I'll let you know when we 'ave anyzing definite."

"God, Mole. You don't know how important this is. My brother- " He swallows hard.

"Oui, I know." I reach out and pat his shoulder in a gesture that is intended to be comforting but probably fails. "It will be all right."

"Hey, Ky," Kenny says. "Mole and I need to talk about mercenary things. Since I'm helping them out. It'll only be a second."

Kyle shrugs. "Okay. I'll go pull the car around."

We stand in front of the grocery story, shivering.

"I think Bebe's taking the demon blood," Kenny says.

I blink. "What?" I thought he wanted to talk about . . . something else.

"She came back for her mother's funeral the other day. She was acting loopy and daydreamy, so I searched through her bags and found empty vials with a couple of blue streaks in it."

"Oh. Sheet." I think about it. "But-"

"Yeah, I know. She goes to Colorado School of Mines in Colorado Springs. In South Park a lot of the younger population is under the influence of the demon blood, but in outside of our community it's mostly the middle-aged who are conned into taking it, because of the drug's slow-acting effects. It's definitely not a party drug, so teenagers aren't attracted to it."

"At ze meeting Gregory and I spied on ze ozzer night, ze demons were talking about spreading zeir influence to ze younger generation." I loop my scarf around my neck a second time. "We didn't zink anyzing of it. Damn it, why did we not notice zat -"

"They're spreading their gap. Trying to increase to army to the younger and generation. Not the people with power like we were first thinking. The better fighters."

I nod grimly in agreement.

"But Bebe-"

"I don't know why her mother would let her become an addict. I'll have to look into that. I'll ask my boss for the weekend off, tail her back at school."

"Seriously? You would?"

He hesitates. "Bebe and I had a . . . thing, once. I owe her this much. She might not be in her right mind if she's taking the demon blood, but I can't let her become one of those zombies."

Case in point, Tweek Tweak shuffles past us on the sidewalk opposite us, muttering to himself.

"Tweek's not ze best example."

"Yeah, but you know what I mean. I'll investigate while you two continue to track their meeting places all over town. And follow up on your new lead, I guess."

"Yeah," I say, my stomach twisting. "I guess."

We're silent for a moment, thinking through our own dark horrors. "How are you holding up?"

"Okay." I shrug. The deal is too complicated to explain, and I know it won't matter in the end.

He touches my arm. "It gets easier. And no matter what, don't let him win."

Translation: Stay alive.

"Oranges help the exhaustion."

"Ze kind you get from after -"

"Yeah, that kind. I don't know why, but eating an orange always cut my recovery time in half." He shrugs. "The tiredness will get better. In about a month it'll be down to about an hour with the oranges, which won't go away no matter how long you're with him."

"Zirty days?"

I want to say that I'll have figured out some way to free myself by then, that a whole month isn't possible, but then I look at Kenny and I see that it is.

Kyle pulls up in a green subaru. "Keep me posted!" he calls as Kenny jumps in.

"I will. Kenny?"

"I'll call you with the results of my infiltration," he says, rolling down the window to talk to me. "And Christophe?"

"Yeah?"

"Be as strong as you have to be, but let him have what he wants. You'll hurt for it if you don't."

Kyle peers at him, but Kenny just shrugs. "Good luck!" Kyle calls after me, waving as he drives away.

"Zanks," I mutter to myself. I'm going to need it.

The next day passes with relative quiet. Gregory is still sulking when I get home, and all through dinner. I receive an email from a potential client in Boulder about a stalker, and make plans to drive north when the weekend rolls around. Gregory leaves, stops back at the flat at about twelve, saying he was at the shooting range, and goes to bed.

I haven't been able to fall asleep before two since I was in elementary school. Damien has only made me more paranoid. I double-check the motion alarm by the door and in the windows to make sure no one can get in. Gregory has had the glass replaced, and even though I know it won't help against a spiritual being, it still comforts me. The run-in with Noah taught me that not only do I have to contend with Damien, I have to fight off his enemies.

I go through my training regime of push-ups and sit-ups. I fire off an email to a shaman in Norway to see what she knows about killing demons. I play fucking farmville.

I pass out at maybe four and wake after noon. Gregory is reading a stack of heavy files by the time I stumble into the kitchen.

"I thought you'd died in there this time," he says.

"We can't all wake up at six," I mumble, although part of me is glad he can joke. I start myself a pot of coffee and start to shuffle through the fridge. "We 'ave sheet to talk about."

He closes his file. "We do."

"Not /zat./ Well, almost. Ze ozzer night I snuck over to Damien's after ze surveillance to pry information out of 'im."

"I remember."

I stick my leftover pizza in the microwave. "Well, I don't zink I told you zis, but I got somezing."

He purses his lips and waits.

"Damien told me zat ze only kind of demon blood capable of controlling 'umans to the point of brainwashing is royal blood. Zat means Satan is involved in zis. Satan. I zink ze ruler of 'ell is trying to raise an army to take over Earth."

"Are you sure it isn't Damien?"

"No. But if it is Damien be'ind all zis, zen nozing makes sense and 'e is a damn good liar. I don't trust ze ass'ole very far. But I don't zink it is 'im."

He chews his lips for a second, thinking, then nods with a sigh. "Well, it wouldn't be the first time Satan's tried to do this, and we've stopped him before."

"I died the last time."

He scoffs. "Not permanently. If the demon blood distribution really does lead to something this serious, then we'll have to take definitive action against it." He taps his fingers against the table. "Shall we revive La Resistance?"

In the past decade or so, we've called upon the children to help us with propaganda, spying, and guerilla warfare whenever our current mission requires more manpower. To Gregory, they're just another one of his contacts.

. . . except for Stan. He hates Stan.

"I don't know what 'elp zey could be right now," I say.

"I was thinking they could help us round up the demon-blood addicts in the town. So we could question the addicts without fear of the brainwashed chasing us down again."

"Zey 'ave brainwashed demon-blood addicts all over ze country now, it's no use. But keep zat idea, it might work in ze future." I pull my pizza from the microwave, pour myself a mug of coffee, and sit down across from him. "I was zinking of Damien."

He tenses. "What about him?"

"'E would be able to get us down to 'ell. Stop ze distribution at its source."

"That sounds incredibly dangerous-"

It's my turn to scoff. Despite himself, he laughs.

"And why would he help us in the first place? He's the antichrist. No doubt he supports whatever his father is doing."

"Actually, 'e seemed fairly ambivalent when explaining to me," I say. "I don't zink 'e likes 'is fazzer very much. But he likes me."

He sighs. "Christophe, while I respect your natural abilities as a fighter and your loyalness as a partner, you are not skilled in the field of manipulation. I personally believe I would have more luck in that regard, except for that-"

"'It's me 'e wants to fuck," I mutter, with no small amount of bitterness.

Awkward silence for a second.

"You barely have any footing on him right now," Gregory says. "If you start lying, make him start doubting his trust in you-"

"I know," I snap. "I know. I know I'm desperate as it is, but I can't just lie back and wait for 'im to drown me. I'm going to ask 'im if 'e would be willing to 'elp us out. 'E says ze price for 'is 'elp is forty-zree virgins. I'm 'oping my charm will suffice."

I down the last of my coffee and stand.

"You're leaving right now?"

"'E wants to see me every day." I shrug. "Don't wait up."

We've been a team for almost two decades. He knows me well enough to see that behind the calm shell, I want to run for my life. I know him well enough to know that inside, he's screaming for me to flee.

I knock on the door to the house on 659 Hemingway Street and wait in the abject silence. The noise of traffic in the distance has faded to a dull blur. South Park always seems so empty.

After a minute, I turn and start for the street again. Then I hear the door open.

Damien has scratch marks running over his cheek. Blood drips down his face. "Oh, hi, Christophe," he says cheerfully.

"Is zis a bad time?"

"We're not finished with our conversation yet!" a female voice cries from inside the house.

"No, it's perfectly fine, come on in," he says, and I have no choice but to follow him.

A woman a few years older than us sits at the kitchen table, her legs crossed under the frills of her ballroom dress. Her red hair is impossibly curly, and her teeth impossibly sharp. I stare at her. She stares back at me with glowing red eyes.

"Friend of yours?" I ask him.

He snickers. Then he says, "Yes. Call her Lily."

"I know you're disgusted by us demon nobility," Lily says, folding her arms under her breasts, "but that's still no reason to be rude."

"And that's still no reason to threaten me if I refuse to come back."

"I'm worried about you," she says. "You know what Noah is capable of-"

"I'm the fucking antichrist," he snarls. "I don't have to be afraid of anyone!"

The lights darken.

"I'm going to go home." I turn for the door.

He grabs my wrist, fingernails digging into my flesh. "Stay," he says, eyes narrowed and voice deep.

"Let me go, Damien."

"I said stay."

We glare at each other. His grip starts to hurt.

"Domestic dispute?" Lily says. "I'm afraid you haven't introduced me to your new toy."

"I'm not a fucking toy," I snarl.

Her lower lip curls. "Unlike Damien, you are not the son of Satan and have no excuse for addressing me improperly. Apologize."

I tell her to go do something too rude to put into text. I receive immense satisfaction from the widening of her eyes, but the satisfaction dies when Damien drags me from the kitchen.

"We're having a rather important conversation," he snaps, "and I don't want our fight to get physical. She will kill you if you piss her off. If you don't shut up I'm afraid it will. Go up to the bedroom and be quiet."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I wrench my arm from his grasp. "I don't 'ave to put up wiz zis bullsheet."

His expression is cold. "Except you do."

I step forward, fists clenched. His eyes glint, like he's daring me to even try.

"Cocksucking little beetch," I mumble as I stomp up the very stairs he dragged me up two nights ago. I sit at the top of the stairs with my back to railing, light a cigarette, and listen to them yell at each other.

"-I won't go back, not if it means putting up with your type-"

"-I'm the only friend you have down there. You're going to be the ruler of our world if you don't get killed first, you need better PR!"

"I've got hundreds of years until my father dies, I-"

"Demon memory is long. Sooner or later you're going to have to suck it up and face them."

"I'm not afraid of Noah."

"You should be. He's teamed up with Eve and Mary."

" . . . why would they help him?"

"To get to you! I'm telling you, Damien, it's dangerous when you don't have any friends on your side! Get down to demon court and start making friends!"

"I hate all of you!"

"Goddamn it!"

The door slams. I hear Damien punch something and yell in frustration. I run into his bedroom and sit there smoking like I haven't been listening in on their conversation.

He walks into the bedroom a few minutes later, arms crossed, still seething.

"So, ah, what was zat about?"

"I'm not stupid, Christophe. I know you were listening. I also know it was none of your business." He sits down next to me and pulls out his own pack of cigarettes. "Open the window, would you?"

"Except it is my business," I say, standing up to obey him. "Zis Noah character seems to 'ave some sort of problem wiz you. I 'ave a problem wiz 'im, since 'e seems to be intimately connected wiz ze demon blood trafficking." I blow smoke out the window, shivering a little from the cold. "Ze number of Drinkers is increasing. We 'ave to do somezing about it, or we won't get paid."

He snorts. "Well, I was already going to help you, anyway."

I blink. "What?" No way it's that fucking easy.

He shrugs. "Yeah. Like you said, they're connected. I'm going to have to confront Noah eventually if he won't stay out of my way."

"So you'll 'elp us cut off zeir distribution?"

He frowns and releases a puff of smoke. "I don't know. I don't want Noah to know I'm going after him. I want him to think I'm as blase as possible. But if he and the girls are working together - "

"Eve and Mary? Who are zey?"

"I knew you were listening, you bastard. And it's still none of your business." He smiles a little. "But just know I'll help you out a bit in return for a little something something."

"Did you seriously just say zat? Don't say sheet like zat. It doesn't fit your image - what are you doing?"

He stands up and moves towards me, pupils dilating as he focuses.

"Why do you think I called you over?" he murmurs. "The joy of your company?"

" . . .yes?"

"Well, that, too. But the real goal here is to acclimatize you to me." He snickers at the word choice and stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray on the desk.

Somehow I'm backed up against the wall. His right hand cups my cheek as he starts to move our faces closer-

"No."

He stops with his lips inches from mine. "No?"

"Not after you spoke to me like zat. I don't like you ordering me around."

He stares at me incredulously. It takes him a few seconds to speak.

"I'm the fucking antichrist. I've broken your arm and your kneecap. I could rape your ass right this very moment and you wouldn't be able to do anything to stop me. And your biggest issue is me yelling at you?"

"Don't do it any more," I say coldly.

"Can't promise you that, babe. But I need an explanation."

"No pet names. 'Babe' is just pathetic.'"

"What about concubine? Toy? Pet? No?"

"You're too close - move."

He reluctantly steps back a foot. "I still want an explanation."

"Ordering is not ze basis of a healthy relationship. I've 'ad enough shitty girlfriends and boyfriends-"

"You're into guys?" His eyes brighten. "Thank God. Kenny wasn't at all and the sex was horrible-"

"-to know zat zere has to be equal footing for it to work. Obviously, I am bullshitting myself if I zink zat anyzing about zis is equal. But I 'ave to fucking pretend. So move back."

He moves to sit on the bed again. "No one else has ever given me this much trouble." He snickers to himself. "You better give good head."

"Take a cold fucking shower," I say in disgust. "But since you were good just zen and let me go, I'll make you dinner."

I start down the stairs.

"Wait - seriously?" he calls after me.

He really does take a shower, and I really do make him dinner. He's gone shopping since the last time I raided his fridge, and I'm able to put together something resembling a meal.

"Oh, god," he mumbles through the food in his mouth. "How did you get so good at this?"

I shrug. "I 'aven't lived wiz my mozzer since I was ten. I 'ad to learn 'ow to fend for myself very quickly, and it wasn't like Gregory was going to cook, ze lazy ass'ole. Since we moved in togezzer we worked out a deal: I cook, 'e cleans."

He leans against me. We're sitting on the couch with the TV volume on mute since he says all the death on the news amuses him. I tense when I feel his weight, but force myself to relax. He's right. The point of this is to acclimatize myself.

"Why'd you leave home?"

"None of your business."

"Actually," he says, smirking, "it is my business. Tell me about yourself." The last words come out mockingly.

I snort. "Fine, zen. She was an over-controlling zealot and at ze tender age of ten I decided I knew enough about ze world to survive on my own. Also, I was a whiny little beetch and 'ated 'aving to say prayers before dinner."

"You hate God, too? What a surprise, we have so much in common!"

This actually makes me laugh. He sets his dishes on the coffee table and leans further into me, almost crushing me under his weight.

"You're 'eavy."

"You're warm.This is nice." He snuggles his nose into my shoulder.

We sit there in what would have been a comfortable silence if he were anyone else. I break it after a few seconds, with:

"Why did you leave 'ome?"

"Didn't you hear? I don't like them."

"Zat's it?"

"Wasn't it good enough for you?"

Some part of me knows he's lying.

He continues to shift position, sneakily maneuvering himself so I'm on my back with him on top of me. My heart rate increases as my flight-or-fight response kicks in. I stare up at him, trying to keep the emotions out of my eyes.

"Hey, Christophe," he murmurs. "Can I kiss you?"

. . . at least he's asking. He least he's waiting for fucking permission.

. . . and I know if I don't give it to him he'll take it sooner or later.

I'm sorry I'm sorry just don't hurt me.

". . . oui."

Sometime later, we're both shirtless and breathless and I'm exhausted from being next to him for so long. He holds me around the waist with one arm and strokes through my hair with the other, pushing my face into his chest.

"Do you have any oranges?" I ask, my voice cracking mid-sentence.

"No," he murmurs. "I can get some for you next time, if you want. Kenny always used to eat them after. He said they helped the exhaustion. I'm assuming he told you?"

Next time. My heart thumps loudly. I swallow. "Zank you."

He shifts, pressing me closer against him.

"So this is a relationship?"

"What?"

"Earlier when you were pissed at me for yelling at you. You said shit about, like, healthy relationships."

"Everyzing is some sort of relationship."

"You know what I mean."

I wriggle free from his grasp and lean back against the couch. He watches me, propped up on his elbow wih half-lidded eyes.

"I don't know," I say. "I guess if zere were more . . . definition. To whatever zis is. Call it somezing ozzer zan a deal if you want."

"Hmm." He reaches out and tangles his fingers in mine. "You have to see me every day. That's a very boyfriend thing to do. You also made me dinner. And I've decided not to kill you for being such a disobedient slave. You should be honored."

"Don't you dare call me zat," I snap, wrenching my fingers from his. He reaches out to grab them again. I glare at him for a few seconds, then, when he's just about to snatch them up in a clench, I relinquish my fingers to his grip. Surprised, he tangles our fingers together loosely enough to keep it from hurting.

"Okay," he says. "I won't call you that. It's not nice. So, what else. What if I flirted with someone else? What would you think?"

I shrug. Is this leading where I think it's leading?

"What if I slept with someone else? Wouldn't you be the least little bit angry?"

I snort. So that's what he wants out of this. Trying to see if he can make me jealous. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

He sits up next to me. "No."

"You must 'ave misinterpreted ze events of ze last few days. To clarify. You nearly drowned me, tortured me, and attempted to rape me. I am 'ere to save my own skin, not because I want to be."

His eyes are darkening.

"I am more scared of you zan I 'ave ever been of anyone else in my entire life. Murderers and terrorists do not compare to you. Does zat make you 'appy? Was zat your goal?"

"No," he says quietly.

"Well, I am. I would be relieved if you slept wiz someone else, because it would mean zen maybe you would leave me alone."

I try to stand up, but the exhaustion swamps me and I fall down next to him again. His eyes are focused on my neck. It occurs to me that I am entirely at his mercy.

"It was stupid of me to ask," he says.

"Yeah, it was."

"It's just, I like you."

"Fucking show it, zen. Stop scaring me!" I try to stand again. He catches me before I fall.

"Stay the night," he says. "I - I won't try anything. Just sleep next to me."

I'm tempted to say no, but I see the expression on his face and again, I see how desperately lonely he is inside.

Use whatever you have.

"Don't try anything," I warn.

"I won't," he promises, and I have no choice but to believe him.

Damien sleeps with me clutched against him like a teddy bear.

I stare at the sliver of moonlight on his bedroom floor. He managed to coerce more kisses out of me before he fell asleep, and the exhaustion is so deep I'm in danger of passing out before midnight.

It feels warm in his arms, warm with his muscles constricting around me, with his ash-flavored breath on the back of my neck.

I try to worm my way free to sleep more comfortably, but he only clutches harder. I settle against his chest, resign myself to a night spent like this, and wonder how I could have ever imagined I have any control over him.

(and somehow, time still passes)

"Okay," Kenny says. "She's here. Pretend like you don't know anything."

"We'll have to confront her," Gregory says. "You want us to help her, don't you? Helping people addicted the demon blood is usually not a pleasant experience."

"I don't want to scare her off!"

Bebe peers around the corner into the kitchen. "Uh . . . hi?" she says. Gregory and Kenny continue to glare at each other.

"You're addicted to ze demon blood," I say, ending the argument. Gregory smirks triumphantly at Kenny.

Her eyes widen and she stares open-mouthed for a second. Then she turns on Kenny, hands raised in fists.

"You told them? That what something personal and terrifying to admit, and you told them?"

"Sweetheart, they're going to help you," he mumbles, pushing the hood down.

"I don't need to be helped-"

"Why don't we have a rational discussion about this. We can exchange accusations later," Gregory suggests, leading her over to the couch in the living. He glances at me and I nod.

"I'm going out for a smoke," I announce.

Although Kenny says he's almost positive it's in the car, he hasn't managed to find Bebe's stash in the month since he told me about her addiction. Clearly, he isn't the Mole, because I find it after five minutes of prying through the battered Ford Explorer. A hole has been torn out of the driver's seat, some padding ripped out, and the box stuffed inside and hidden with stitching. I sit on the sidewalk to search through it.

The box is no bigger than my palm, but somehow she managed to cram a dozen vials of the red liquid inside of it. I open a vial, sniff it, and wince. It doesn't smell like blood, more like rotten cigarettes. I close it back up and catch sight of the notes buried in the bottom. They're all folded-up notebook paper and written in sparkly purple pen. Every single note has 'HIS HIS HIS' written over it in all caps. I gingerly put the notes down.

"Hey!" someone yells. I stand up and look back to see Gregory and Kenny carrying a struggling, tied-up Bebe out of the flat. "That's my stuff! He's looking through my stuff! Don't take it it's mine don't take it!

Gregory stuffs a rag into her mouth and helps Kenny get her into the Ford. She continues to wail muffled screams even as Kenny drives away.

"I trust it went well?" I say.

"Perfectly." He squats down next to me. "I challenged, she denied, we decided to keep her tied up until the effects of the blood wore off. We're also going to leave her with Kenny, because last time we kidnapped one of their Drinkers the demons threatened to kill us."

"Sounds good." I hand him the box. "What do you zink of zis sheet?"

"Demon blood," he says in satisfaction, though his eyebrows shoot up when he sees the notes. "Dementia?"

"I don't know."

"I'll have to run some tests on the blood." His eyes glimmer with excitement.

I stretch, swing my shovel around my body in an arc to warm my muscles, and slide it back into the strap over my back. "It's almost five. I 'ave to go."

He narrows his eyes. "Can't you take a day off? I want to go over this with you."

"I'm no good at zis chemical bullsheet and you know it. 'E'll be pissed if I'm not zere."

"But-" he starts to whine.

"I can't 'elp it," I snap.

"I know," he says. "I'm sorry. Just -" He shakes his head. "Hurry home."

I nod and leave him to his experimentations. No one on the street has even noticed that we essentially kidnapped Bebe. South Park is interesting, sometimes.

"'Ey!" I yell, ramming my knuckles against the door. "Open up, you jackass, it's fucking cold out 'ere! 'Urry up and let me-"

The door yanks open and Damien drags me inside. I only have time to say, "finally!" before he slams the door and throws me up against it, crashing his lips down on mine. I am unalarmed, since he's been greeting me like this for weeks. I wrap my legs around his hips and kiss him back fully. He makes a sound of appreciation and kisses for a few more seconds before pulling back to let me breathe.

"Thank God you're here. I've had a horrible day."

"I'm supposed to make it better?"

"You're better than nothing," he says, snickering, and starts to kiss me again.

"Zank you?" I snicker at his reply and let him push me up against the door. After a few minutes he shifts me so he's carrying me in a bridal style and bounds up the stairs.

"Jesus Christ! Careful!" I yelp as he tosses me down on the bed and straddles me. Sometimes his strength startles me.

"Sorry," he mumbles, pressing his lips to my temple in an apology.

My hands go around his shoulders. "Was it really zat bad? What 'appened?"

"Humans giving me shit for being so young. If only I could just kill them! But I can't, it sucks, I need them because they're good at their job."

I pat his head. "You're ze youngest CEO your company's ever 'ad - you 'ave to deal with ze bullshit zat comes along wiz it."

He says he works as a way to better understand humans. He commutes every day to the headquarters of American Lifetime Insurance in Denver. When he told me his job, I laughed for about two hours. It was just so perfect. What other job would be better for the antichrist?

"Why can't all humans be like you?" he mumbles into my neck.

"Seriously? Do you zink zat would be a good idea?"

"No - I mean, I could do without the bitchy stubbornness-"

"'Excuse me-"

"But, like, you're to the point. I like that part about you."

"Are you trying to be romantic? It's not working."

"Shut up, Christophe."

He's in a good mood today, despite his claims about a sucky day at work. On bad mood days, I have to watch out for biting words, for slaps and punches and subtle threats that he could break the deal any second and just force me already. On good mood days it's easy and almost pleasant to be around him. I relax a bit.

We're conditioning ourselves to the other's moods.

After a month of this, I've grown used to him.

(Although the nightmares of my broken kneecap and the screaming and sobbing and him just ignoring me - those never go away).

He pushes our lips back together. His hands trap my wrists above my head. I mutter something about 'psychotic sadist antichrist cocksucker', and he smiles against my mouth. I smile back. For some reason, shared smiles make kissing him that much more tolerable. He's heavier than me by a considerable amount, and his weight upon my stomach makes me feel trapped. I swallow down the feeling and keep my eyes closed.

Gradually, he coaxes me into opening my mouth. It occurs to me that I'm exchanging spit with who could very well be my worst enemy.

It depends on how you describe an enemy. He scares me more than anyone else ever has; does that count?

"Ummm," he mutters. "Why do you smell like demon blood?" He sniffs. "Royal demon blood-"

He grabs my shoulders, eyes wide. "You didn't drink any, did you?" he demands.

"No! Do you zink I'm an idiot?" I stay relaxed against the pillows even though every instinct is screaming for a fight. "We might 'ave made a slight breakzrough in ze whole demon-blood-trafficking case zing, ze one zat you 'ave been very un'elpful in despite all your claims about being 'elpful."

"It's not that easy, it's about politics and you know it," he says. "What happened?"

"Kenny's sort-of-girlfriend is one of ze Drinkers. 'E 'elped us find 'er stash. Gregory's going to analyze, zen we'll try to see what we can do wiz it."

"Kenny has a girlfriend?" He frowns. "That's surprising."

"Why?" I demand, a slight hitch in my voice, because I know the answer.

"You didn't see him after I was done with him." He smiles to himself. "You should have seen his eyes, all bloodshot and yellow with major-ass bags. He even stopped crying after a few years. He was all robotic. I thought he would never recover. I guess he has, a little bit."

"Can we not talk about zis?" I start to push him off me. He grabs my wrists and forces them back again.

"Why - oh, you think you're gonna end up like him. Don't worry about that."

"Why not?" I demand.

He stares at me for a second, then lightly kisses my jaw.

"Because I care about you."

"I don't believe you," I say, but I don't want to talk about this anymore because it's reminding that I'm just putting off the inevitable. I cup his chin and drag his lips back to mine. He makes a shocked noise when I roll over on top of him, then smiles against me again. As much as he likes dominating me, he likes it more when I take the lead, maybe as some sort of affirmation that I don't completely hate him.

I'll give him this: when he wants to be, he is a very good kisser.

Within a few minutes we're both panting, sweaty messes. He bumps his hips an inch.

"Hey, Christophe," he mutters.

"What?" I roll over so I'm lying next to him, noses almost touching.

"I think you should get me off."

I snicker. "Under what circumstances do you zink I would agree to zat?"

"I would really enjoy it," he pleads.

I sigh. "Okay."

"Wait, what? Yes?"

"Yes. Take off your pants."

"Wait. I'm confused now. I was just shooting that out there. I didn't think you'd actually - " His expression is so disoriented that I laugh.

I pull off the glove on my right hand. He watches me with half-lowered eyelids, keeps watching even as I slide my hand up his shirt and feel his abdominals.

"I don't understand," he mutters.

I shrug. "Well, zis is a deliberately sexual act. But you've been good enough in ze past few weeks zat I semi-trust you not to take advantage of zat fact."

"So you're not afraid of me anymore?" he says hopefully.

My fingers trail under the waistband of his jeans. His pupils dilates and he grins.

And it's less terrifying than I thought it would be, perhaps because with just my hand I can act like it's a fairly impersonal sex act. Sure, I get to see plenty of him. How his eyes scrunch closed. How he makes whimpering, "please oh god please faster" noises. How his entire body shudders.

But in this sort of situation, I am the one in control and he is at my mercy. This I can stomach. He doesn't see any of me when we do this; perhaps that's why, when he's finished and we've cleaned ourselves off, and he suggests he do the same to me, I react almost violently.

"Are you fucking crazy?"

He rolls over so we're lying side-by-side, facing each other, breath in each others' faces. I try to glare at him, but I've been too close to him for too long and can't work up the energy.

"C'mon, Christophe," he says, smiling lazily. He reaches out with one hand and lets his palm trail over my groin. "That got you hard."

"Fuck you." I roll over, press my face into the mattress, and will for it to go away.

"I'm trying to pay you back here," he says, and he honestly sounds like he means it.

"Unnmpph," I mumble.

He grabs my shoulder, rolls me back over to face him, and kisses me breathless. My heart rate accelerates to double. Against my will, I make a positive 'uhhnn' sound, which he must take as some sort of confirmation, because he places his palm over my groin again and gives a deliberate push.

My hips buck. He pushes again. Everything is a rush. All of a sudden I'm consumed with an aching need for more, more of Damien, more pressure-

I tear myself away from him and crash off the bed. My legs are still too weak to walk, so I crawl into the bathroom and lock the door before Damien figures out my intention.

"What the fuck?" he yells.

"I told you not to touch me!"

"You liked it!"

"It was a simple physical reaction. It doesn't mean I wanted it."

He lets loose a frustrated growl. From the sound of his voice, he's standing on the other side of the door.

"What is your problem, Christophe? You never give me anything. That was the first time I've ever gotten a reaction out of you, when you've seen me breathless and begging for more a dozen times and you've never given it. I was trying to do something for you and you just freaked. What is wrong with-"

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I yell through the door. "Do you 'ave any idea how teriffied I am to even be in the same room as you? You 'eld me under the water until I passed out! You broke my kneecap! It 'urt worse than anything else 'as ever 'urt in my entire life! I've died before and what you did to me still hurt more. And the only way I can keep it from happening again is agreeing to romantically and sexually engage myself with ze man who tried to rape me twice. I am fully aware of ze power you 'ave over me. You could break me so easily. You say I never give you anyzing? Bullshit! I am putting myself zrough zis even zough I know eventually you'll own me, even zough all I want to do is run!"

I wait in the agonizing silence.

His words are icy. "So what are you going to do, jerk off in there?"

"I'm going to take a cold fucking shower, and if you respect me at all as a 'uman being then you will let me 'ave it in peace."

I guess he does, because he leaves me alone while I'm in the shower, and by the time I stumble downstairs he has attempted to make dinner.

"I peeled oranges for you." He points to the bowl without looking at me.

"Zank you." The water brought back some of my strength, but I still feel shaky and jttiery all over. I sit at the kitchen table and eat my oranges while he tries to cook.

"You're supposed to let it boil first."

"I know!"

"And put salt in."

"I know that, too!" He glowers at me before returning to the pot.

I can only resist the urge to critique for about thirty seconds. "You don't need to stir it until ze water starts to boil-"

"Christophe, shut the fuck up."

I shut the fuck up. About twenty minutes later, he has something resembling food on the table in front of me. I poke at it with my fork.

"It's not that bad. Just eat," he snaps.

I shrug and dig in. He's right, it's really not that bad, it only looks mutated. His gaze follows me while I eat.

"Will you stop zat? It makes me feel uncomfortable."

"I want to make sure you like it! You're not saying anything!"

"You told me to 'shut ze fuck up'." I mimick his voice with narrowed eyes and a harsh edge to my words. "Don't you want me to do what you say?"

"Goddamn it, Chris." He throws his fork down. "You know I didn't mean it like that."

"Except you did."

He keeps watching me eat. About halfway through the plate, I place my fork on the table next to me and lean back in my chair.

"It . . ." I sigh. "It was passable. Good job."

"Thank you." He keeps on scowling.

"Look, what do you want from me?" I demand. "I am trying 'ere, you know I am."

"I know you are! It's just, arghh!" He throws up his hands. "I don't know. I don't know why I even bother with this stupid game when I am so much stronger than you! You're just a human and I don't even have to try but I do, and I don't know why. You are the most frustrating person I've ever known!"

He grabs our plates and stomps into the kitchen. "Probably because I've never cared about anyone the way I care about you," he adds under his breath.

I tense a little, because he's been saying things like this recently, and I still haven't figured out whether it's a good thing or a bad thing or just a lie.

He turns on the sink. I follow him into the kitchen and hug him around the waist from behind. He sighs and leans into me.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I shouldn't 'ave said 'alf zat sheet to you."

"Except it was true."

"I'm sorry," I say again, sorry because it is true, sorry because spending this much time with Damien has made me see that there's this horribly human part of him that has made me care little bit about him in return.

"I'll do ze dishes since you made dinner," I say.

"Do you need more oranges?"

"No, I feel okay. It doesn't take as long to recover anymore."

"I'm going to watch the news." He slouches off into the living room.

Even though I turned down his offer of oranges, I still feel weak and trembly, maybe more from our argument than anything else. We argue constantly, sometimes about little things, sometimes full-blown shouting matches. It all leads back to the same thing, though. He wants but I won't give, I'm scared but he won't budge.

When I'm done with the dishes, I join him in the living room and curl up against him. I'm glad to be off my feet, even though I know the exhaustion will only get worse if I stay this close.

"Stay the night?" he asks, twisting his fingers with mine.

"Okay. If you're good." I bury my head into his shoulder.

The volume is on low. I look up to see him watching the TV with glazed-over eyes.

"You should move in," he suggests without looking at me.

"No."

"You sleep over half the time anyway, and I know you hate having to go home when you're so tired after being with me. Plus, I need you to make breakfast for me because I hate eating cereal every morning and you told me you make really good French toast."

"Your reasoning is flawless. But you know I can't."

"Because of Gregory?"

"We're partners, we've lived together for nine years, no - since we were fifteen. Ten years. We're working on a case together. And when it's finished, we might need to leave South Park."

"You are never leaving me," he growls suddenly. His fingernails dig into my palm. I yelp and sit up.

"You're 'urting me- let go!"

He releases my hand, but his eyes stay narrowed and dark red.

"I never said I was leaving you, and stop being such a possessive asshole, it's really not as endearing as you zink it is. We'd probably only move back to Denver because zat's where we were living before zis case started and one of Gregory's oldest contacts has offices zere, all right? Calm down."

"Sorry," he mumbles, turning his head away. "I don't know what happened-"

"You're a fucking demon, zat's what 'appened." I keep staring at him. "Don't get so fucking attached to me, you've known me for a monz."

"But I like you," he whines, and tries for a bit of a smile as an apology. I sigh and accept it by intertwining our fingers again.

"Okay, okay. But I won't move in." We both kow the unspoken second reason, that I'm afraid of being too close to him for too long.

Out of nowhere, he asks, "Are you two fucking?"

"What?"

"You and Gregory?"

"What? Gross, no! Zat would just be weird since I've known him for so long. 'E's straight and not my type regardless!"

"Yeah," he says, "You like the tall, dark and handsome type." He raises his eyebrows.

"Actually," I say, smirking, "all ze men I've dated in ze past 'ave all been razzer submissive. I'm afraid I'm used to being on top, mon ange."

He stares at me for a few seconds. "I don't think I can do that."

"Yeah, zis probably isn't going to work out." I start to pull away.

"No!" He tackles me and pushes me back into the couch. We wrestle for a few minutes, each trying to pin the other and kiss them, and by the end of it I'm breathless and laughing hard enough to forget that this is all pretend.

He wins and flops down on top of me. "So you're not sleeping with Gregory?"

"For ze last time, no. 'E 'as a girlfriend."

"You're not sleeping with anyone?"

"No!" I start to snap out something about trusting relationships, then realize what that would mean; that I consider whatever I have with Damien to be a real thing.

I let him kiss his way up my jaw.

"Good," he murmurs into my skin. "Because if you were, I'd kill them."

Later that night when he's asleep and my perpetual insomnia has kicked in, I start to realize the full gravity of my situation.

Such as, Damien is not going to let me go anytime soon, not if he keeps up with his 'I like you' and 'I care about you,' which I am becoming more and more sure is at least partially true.

It could be years before he tires of me, and during this time period I won't be able to engage with anyone else romantically. Whenever I like someone, I tend to follow after them in a helpless puppy-dog fashion, heroically offering to be their bodyguard or their knight in shining armor or something. I make a mental note to keep a grip on my emotions.

It could be years before he tires of me.

It's only been one month and I already feel like he's stolen part of me, that he's wearing away at me, corroding my willpower. I don't think it's that much longer until I give into him. Maybe another month until I move in with him, sleep with him, maybe tell him I like him back if that's what he wants.

(Because in the end, Damien always gets what he wants).

When I stumble back into the apartment the next morning, I am immediately confronted by familiar faces.

"'Good morning," I say warily, and pour myself a cup of coffee. I perch on the counter and drink under the gaze of three mercenaries.

The first is Gregory's, of course. The dark shadows under his eyes have become permanent over the course of the last month. I know he worries. I just didn't realized he worried this much.

Daiyu and Hai are about as opposite as it can get, which I guess is why they work so well as a team. They have storybook fantasies that other mercenaries have only told in gossip; that they were raised in America but called back to their home country to slay a monster, that they're the son and daughter of a crime lord and they defeated him in order to restore balance in their hometown; that they are half-shadows and learned the secrets of worldtwisting from other shadows. From what I've gathered, I think their true life is a combination of these stories. I am a damn good mercenary, but I am not fit to lick their boots. Daiyu never laughs, and Hai always smiles. Gregory and I worked with them and a band of mercenaries when we were sixteen to stop a totalitarian leader from plunging the world into a dictatorship. They are also five years younger than me, which is a constant source of annoyance on my part.

None of this justifies them being in our living room, Daiyu picking chunks off a Hershey's chocolate bar and Hai humming.

"What ze fuck is going on?" I ask Gregory once I've drunk half my cup. Just because I am not fit to lick their boots doesn't mean I'm afraid to challenge them.

"I called them for help a few weeks ago. I told them it wasn't world-changingly urgent but we might have more issues with Satan trying to take over the world."

"We handled zat on our own last time," I say. "When we were eight."

"Apparently this is about more than that." Hai shrugs and smiles. He wears archer's gloves but carries no visible weapons. "Apparently the demons are taking control of people's minds."

"Demons are always doing zat," I scoff, and slurp down the rest of my coffee. "Gregory also had some concerns about the antichrist raping you," Daiyu says.

I put down my cup and fold my arms in my lap. I don't have words or emotions for a few seconds. Am I angry? Ashamed? Nothing my churning inside me.

"I would razzer focus on ze demons taking over ze world, please."

"We're a special kind of mercenary." Daiyu's scowl deepens. "Our kind - we don't have a name for us. There isn't a secret society or brotherhood or any of that comic book nonsense. Our world doesn't have superheroes but it does have people who are good at things. You and your shovel, for instance. Me and my brother doing what we do best." They don't like to talk about their ability to kick everything's ass. "Then there are some of us who are just /born/ to fight until they've gotten their way." I smirk at Gregory. "There aren't superheroes. But there is us. We don't necessarily stand for justice and we don't always do good things, but we will fight until the world is set right. Our kind - we travel in pairs and we look out of each other. And no one hurts on our own."

Gregory and I stare at her. She shrugs and tears off another chunk of chocolate to stuff in her mouth.

"She rehearsed that," Hai says.

"Shut up." She falls silent again.

"The point is," Hai says. "We'll fight against this antichrist for you."

"No." I look at the ground.

"Goddamn it, Christophe," Gregory mutters. "Let someone help you for once."

"It's not about zat." Only it is about that, because asking for help would be admitting that I'm in way over my head, that I'm powerless, that I'm scared. "Damien is strong. You two are, well, you two. But you 'aven't fought against Damien."

"We've turned armies of Jiang-Shi from monsters to men," Hai says. "I'm sure we'd be fine."

"You might beat 'im." I doubt it. "But he would kill me before he would let you take me from him, because Damien will never let me go wizzout a fight."

I take a deep breath and turn on Gregory.

"But the real issue here is why you called on Daiyu and Hai and you didn't tell me."

Gregory flinches. "Christophe, I-"

"I'm not stupid," I snarl. "You didn't trust me, did you?"

"Damien might be working with his father and lying to you about it," Daiyu says.

"I wouldn't tell 'im anything! I 'ate 'im!" I clench my fists. They all look at me with pity in their eyes.

"You zink I like zis, don't you? You zink I like 'im testing me and scaring me and making me so paranoid I can't even sleep anymore! You zink I'll side wiz 'im-"

"I don't think you like this," Gregory snaps. "I'm not nearly that callous, and I know you better than that. But I do think that the control he has over you might lead you to giving him information."

"'E doesn't control me!"

Except he does.

"Fuck zis sheet." I pull my pack of cigarettes from my pocket and hop off the kitchen counter. "Stay and plan your little games. I'm going out."

"Where?" Gregory demands as I push past him.

"What are you, my mozzer? I'm twenty-five, I don't need a babysitter. I don't know and it doesn't matter."

Except I do know.

The sidewalk here is cracked with dead grass bursting from the breaks in concrete, twisting free of the slush. The house is part of a complex, the roof rotting in. Tweek is sitting on the front porch in a pair of boxers and nothing else, drinking coffee and thumbing through a newspaper.

"Oh," he says. "It's you."

"Oui." I push the fence open. The gate is surprisingly well-oiled. He appraises me as I draw closer.

"I've heard rumors about you," he says.

"Like what?" I stand above him. He sets the newspaper aside. He shakes in the cold exhale of wind. I resist the urge to suggest clothes.

"Like you and that British guy work for them."

"Zem? Who's zem?"

"Dunno." He shivered. "People who want to take my stuff from me." He glares at me under thin eyebrows. "You can't take my blood, man, it's not happening."

"Why don't you let me in?"

Tweek is a hoarder. Boxes fill the hallway. Magazines spill onto the floor. It reeks of bittersweet candy. The kitchen is the only relatively clean part of the house.

"Do you 'ear ze rumors from ozzer people or from inside your head?"

He sits down at the kitchen table. "Dunno. Does it make a difference?"

I sit next to him without answering. We both glance around the wreck that is his house. I wonder when he last had human contact outside the distribution meetings. I wonder if he has a job. I wonder if he eats anymore.

The demon blood is crushing his already fragile mind. For a second, I pity him.

"What do you want, Christophe?"

"I want information."

"I knew it." He gives a violent twitch. "You are working for them."

"I'm working for myself."

"They'll - they'll kill me if I tell you anything. They warned me about you, I think."

"Zey won't know."

"They know everything. They killed Ms. Stevens." His eyes blink rapidly.

"Zat's because she was obvious about it. If you give me what I want, I won't bozzer you again."

He twitches, and I move on to a different tactic.

"You sell ze blood to people, don't you? How is telling me about it any different zan zat?"

"But you're not going to drink it," he says. "You're not addicted. You'll try to stop it."

"I'll-"

"I'll tell you," he says suddenly. "I'll tell you everything I can. If you drink some. One serving."

I stare at him.

"Don't try to get around this." He stands and rummages under the counter. "I need to, I, I, I need to know I have something on you before I give you anything, okay? Just in case."

At least I can understand that.

He brings out a box and opens it to reveal dozens of blue vials. I consider throwing him to the ground and ordering him to tell me everything. But I know people like Tweek. He's been broken so many times he doesn't even care.

"Well?" he demands. "Are you going to do it?"

I take vial, roll it between my fingers. He takes a vial of his own, opens it, and tosses it back. He licks his lips of the blue residue and smiles the first genuine smile I've ever seen on him.

Don't do this.

It's not a voice screaming inside me. It's just logic.

I know why I'm here. Ostensibly, it's for information, but I want to show Gregory and Daiyu and Hai that Damien hasn't managed to submerge me yet.

Tweek keeps on twitching, watching, waiting.

I drink. It tastes bitter.

"You'll have about fifteen, twenty minutes, maybe less." His fingers drum the table. "Ask away."

First I pull out my cell phone and send Gregory a text. Mission in California. Be back in a couple days. Then I send the same text to Damien.

He fires back a reply almost instantaneously. What? NO!

Sorry. Unavoidable.

"That's really what you're going to do? Text?" Tweek snickers, then eyes me nervously when I pocket the phone.

I lean forward. "Don't lie to me."

"I'm not a liar."

I believe him. "Tell me what you know about ze distributors."

"They're low-ranking demons," he says. "They send us the information about meetings through texts and emails from anonymous sources. They don't like to talk much. From what I've heard of them they're scared of their superiors."

That makes sense if he's the king of Hell. I ignore the thought that Damien could still be in charge of all this. My phone vibrates in my pocket, but I ignore it.

"Is it Satan? Is 'e the one be'ind all this?"

"I don't know."

"What else can you tell me?" I clench my fists. "Tell me about who you're distributing to."

"We're building an army," he says. "Even I know that much. Mostly college-aged kids. You don't even know the control they have over us. Once you drink it, then." He snaps his fingers. "I guess you'll find out."

"Tell me everything you know."

"The demons have another group of humans distributing weapons. They're demon-made items, with an insignia of a cross. Most of them are knives and swords. I would guess they're produced by whoever in charge of organizing the human army."

"So you zink Satan's gearing up for a war."

"Yeah, man." He shudders. "There's gonna be a war and we're going to be on the winning side."

"We?"

He cracks another smile.

My head is starting to feel fuzzy. "A cross?"

He nods. "Deep indents on the blade. I don't get a good look at them since I'm not in charge, but there's a lot. It's going to be bloody. It's going to be beautiful." He starts to laugh, until tears roll down his cheeks, until the colors of his eyes burst from the sockets and blend with the ghosts in the air.

I wave my own hand in front of my face, and it starts to fly in front me.

I laugh. He's right, this is beautiful.

I don't remember things in words. Only visuals and emotions so hot it hurt to breath. Colors floating and cascading. Everything humming.

I find myself on his front porch a few hours later, drenched wet from snow. He's still in his boxers, slouched against the fence, smiling at me through half-lidded eyes.

I stand. Stumble. Catch myself.

He watches me climb over the fence.

"You'll need more, you know."

He looks almost sick as he says it.

"Come back to me," he says. 'I'll give it to you cheap."

I hide out in the woods by Stark's Pond to think and plan. At first I think that the blood isn't addictive the first time.

Then at about sunset I start to shiver. To think about the colors. To run the humming through my mind over and over again.

God, it was beautiful.

I know what I have to do.

First, I sneak back into town, break into an empty house, steal a ladder, drink my fill from someone's faucet, and fill up a water bottle. Then I head back to the woods again. I'm jittering now, shaking as I daydream of those precious few hours.

My shovel feels too heavy in my arms. It takes me too long to dig the hole, even in the hard-packed soil.

I'm weak and desperate by the time it's deep enough, and I keep thinking of Tweek's offer.

Once the hole's deep enough, the sides packed smooth enough, I pull the ladder out and toss it on the side. I throw my shovel next to it. I keep my cigarettes. I'm going to need them.

Then I jump.

The hole I dug is about eleven feet deep, and the impact makes my legs throb. I sit in the corner, huddle under my one blanket, smoke a cigarette, and prepare myself.

With the night comes the cold, freezing the sides of the wall and making them impossible to climb. With the night comes the throbbing, the aching, the dryness in my mouth and the need.

I sleep and dream in color.

I awake with my fingers tearing at the icy dirt against my will. I sit down again, resisting the urge to claw my way free. My fingers are numb. I stick them under my armpits, hunch over, and try not to shiver to death.

I get another text from Damien at around nine in the morning, the tenth he's sent me from yesterday. This one I actually bother to look at.

I'm pissed off. You're going to regret this, Christophe. Take too long and I'll come looking for you.

I break the phone. No matter what, I can't let him find out I drank his father's blood. He might decide to remedy it by making me drink his blood.

Controlling me.

The nausea hits at almost noon. I sprawl out on the floor of the hole, moaning. My water bottle is empty. There is nothing to counter the feverish feel to my skin; the icy air does nothing to dampen it. I start to shake. To mutter to myself.

By evening, I'm in hysterics. Sobbing I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry. Begging someone, anyone to just give me something. I don't even know what I want, except out of this hole.

I try to claw my way up, but my arms are too weak. I scrape at the dirt, pound at it, still sobbing.

"His. His. His."

The word repeats through my head in rhythm.

His. His. His.

"Please!" I scream. Kick and fight my way free of the hole. Drag myself over the edge. Start to stand - to go beg more blood off Tweek - and my legs betray me.

I crumple to the ground. Try to get up again. Can't.

I sob against the injustice of it all. I try to stand again. Fail. Keep on fighting.

At sometime in the night I make it a few feet. The next morning I manage to crawl almost half a mile. By evening the next night I'm too weak with hunger and cold that I have no energy to do anything except sleep.

I wake up with the word his on my tongue and the thirstiest I've ever been in my entire life. Stark's pond is less than twenty feet away. I crawl over to it and drink, not caring about pollution. I can't feel my fingers and I'm afraid to look at them.

Then I roll on my back and think about the wreck I've crashed myself into. Think about the consequences of my actions, of my stupid need to prove something.

The need is still there in the back of my head, and I think it always will be.

But - at least they're not right.

At least I'm still fighting.

I raise my fist triumphantly in the air, then let it drop when holding it there takes too much effort.

It takes me hours to get back into town, and I wouldn't have made it without my shovel to use as a walking stick.

"How was the mission?" Gregory calls from his bedroom when I open the door to the apartment.

"Fine!" I call back, teeth chattering. I stumble to the bathroom and fall into the shower. I manage to make myself look at my hands.

They're black in some spots at the tip. My stomach rolls. I sit on the floor of the shower and try to massage them, to little success. They don't hurt anymore, which I take as a bad sign.

At least the scalding water dethaws the center of me, which has been frozen since the first night in the hole. I pull on new gloves that cover my fingertips, a change of clothes that doesn't smell like sweat and dirt and fear, and eat everything in our fridge.

Gregory leaves his room just as I'm downing the last of the milk. His shoulders are slumped enough to make me think he was trying to figure out how to talk to me.

"Where are Daiyu and 'ai?" I wipe my mouth on my sleeve.

"Investigating. Look around spots where we know the demons made the transactions, trying to figure how they get to and from Hell."

"So zey really are 'elping us."

"Yes."

I set the carton on the counter for someone else to clean up. My hands are still shaking. He must notice the bags under my eyes, because he says, "Mole, about earlier-"

"Save it." I sit by the door and wrestle to pull my boots on again. "I 'ave more information."

He blanches. "What?"

"Ze demon we're after 'as a certain insignia - a cross. Zey're also distributing weapons for an army. Knives, mostly."

He narrows his eyes. "Did Damien-"

"Non!" I snap. "I found zis out on my own." I yank on my laces, hard. My frostbitten fingers make the act of tying my shoes twice as lengthy.

"How?"

"I don't want to tell you."

"Mole-"

"Some zings need to be secrets." I'll tell him if the his, his, his comes back, but not until then.

He clenches his teeth and exhales. "Okay. The insignia. Your information is solid."

"I'm positive."

"Then we should be able to track down the demon in charge of distribution. If only we could get down to hell."

"Working on it." I do up the last knot and stand. My fingers are still numb, all the way up to the second joint.

"Wait. Where are you going?" His eyes are still narrowed. At me? For having secrets of my own, considering all the things he's kept from me?

"Damien's."

"Mole-"

"I have to go." I slam the door shut as I go, the motion making my hand hurt, the quiet lies between Gregory and me still throbbing.

Damien is standing on the front porch when I arrive. I hang a few feet back, rolling my shoulders to fill the comforting bump of my shovel against my back. He crosses his arms and glares at me.

"Where were you?"

"I told you. Mission."

He steps off the porch and stalks up to me. I flinch when he grabs my shoulder.

"I thought you were leaving me. I told you not to leave me!"

"I said I won't, and I came back."

He breathes through his teeth. "You disobeyed me."

"Like I said," I say, and wrench my shoulder free of his grasp, "I'm not your slave."

"Come inside." He reaches for my hand.

"No. Not wiz you zis angry."

"Why?" he says mockingly. "Scared of me?"

We glare at each other.

"Yes."

He smirks. "You should be."

He grabs my hand. I let out a cry as his fist tightens over my frostbitten hands. The pain is probably a good sign.

He furrows his brow and wrenches off my gloves before I can stop him.

"What the fuck did you do to yourself? You said you went to California!"

"It was zat kind of mission, okay?" I snap. I already have the whole story straight in my head. "So zere was zis-"

"You're lying to me."

He drags me into the house and shuts the door behind us. He leans against it, blocking the exit.

"Let me out."

"You're trying to leave me! You hate me and you're trying to get away!"

His eyes glow.

"I came over 'ere to try to keep our relationship-"

"Our relationship?" He throws out his hands. "You want away from me. That's our relationship."

"I don't want to fight wiz you, but I swear to god if you don't let me out-"

"You'll what? What, Christophe? You're a pathetic human. What could you possibly do to me-"

I bash my shovel into his ribcage. He stumbles against the door, then recovers and lunges for me, tackling me back into the floor. He tears my shovel out of my hands and throws it across the room. I shove at him, but I'm too weak to budge him. He traps my hands above my head.

I scream bloody murder as he breaks off the blackened tips.

"That's your punishment for trying to leave me, Chris. Don't do it again."

"Let me go!" My words come out stuttering.

He flattens me against the ground and kisses me. His breathing is erratic when he pulls back.

"I'll heal you up if you beg."

"Go fuck yourself."

He kisses my neck.

"I'm so much stronger than you. Why do I even bother to jump through your hoops and play this stupid game of ours when I could just /have/ you? Nothing about this relationship is genuine, why should I even care about it?"

I turn my face away and press my cheek against the floor. He works at the zipper of my jeans, his eyes bright and furious at the same time.

"Beg me to heal you. Beg me to stop hurting you."

I say nothing.

He stops tearing at my jeans and rests his hands on either side of my face.

"Chris, are you okay?"

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I mumble. "You're right, why would you even care?"

He grabs my chin and makes me look at him. Most of the anger drains from his eyes.

"I thought you would fight me more if it came down to this."

I laugh hoarsely. "I'm too tired. I'm sick of zis game, too. You've won. Do whatever you want."

He stares down at me. I turn my face away again.

His hands grasp my ruined ones. Honey warmth spreads up my wrists. I cry out as my fingers grow anew. Then the pain fades.

He kisses my lips softly, then bumps our foreheads together. I still don't give him a reaction.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that-"

"Get off me."

He gets off.

I stay. I'm too tired to walk home, and I know we have to heal something between us or I'll never stop fearing him.

I think he knows it, too, which is why he orders pizza and stays mostly out of my way until it arrives. I eat on the floor of the living room and he joins me after my second slice. We don't speak until the pizza's gone.

"Apologies won't work," I say when he opens his mouth.

He sighs. "I want to make this better. What can I do to make this better?"

"I don't know." I curl my legs against my chest. "I thought you were improving. But zat was like before, when you almost drowned me. I don't zink you'll ever get better."

"Chris."

He begs me to look at him with just my name. I don't.

More silence. I stare up at the lighting.

"What do you want, Chris?" he says. "Tell me. I'll give you anything."

I want to stop the demon blood suppliers. I want to keep Satan from taking over Earth.

I want to go to sleep and never have to see his face again.

He puts an arm around me. I close my eyes, lean into him, and imagine he is anyone else.

Damien carries me back to our apartment. Gregory opens the door after the first knock and glares at him.

"Mole, you okay?"

"Nmmph," I mutter. Damien sets me on my feet and I fall into Gregory. "Need sleep."

"Looks like you guys are making progress," Damien says, peering into the dark apartment. I follow his gaze and see Bebe sitting on the counter with Kenny at her side, her arms shaking and her eyes bloodshot. Kenny freezes when he sees Damien. Damien smiles. Hai and Daiyu are giving him their best death glares. He waves his fingers in acknowledgement and saunters from the apartment complex.

"I'm ready to talk," Bebe says.

I sigh and push past Gregory into the apartment. It's going to be a long night.

She sips tea as the rest of us crowd around her and wait.

"I started taking the blood about a month and a half ago," she says. "Maybe a week before my mother's death." She shudders. "I think that was why she was murdered."

"I don't make the connection," Gregory says.

"I started buying it independently. She came and visited me at school, found out I was frizzing out on freaking blood, so she tried to stop me. I was hooked by then, refused to let her take my stuff. She threatened to make sure no suppliers ever sold to me again. I think . . . I think it got her killed." She looks miserable under our scrutiny, her shoulders hunched, her curly blond hair flattened and strawlike, her eyes shadowed and her wrist bones poking through the skin. "I didn't get it at first why she cared. I mean, she was doing it. I should have realized."

She leans into Kenny. He pulls her into his chest and kisses the top of her head.

"Why can you tell us about the demon blood distributors?" Daiyu demands.

"They're selling it for cheap. Really cheap. Cheaper than weed. Anyone can afford it. They sell it in daytime, they sell it to teachers, they sell it to anyone they can find. I go to one of the best engineering schools in the entire country and half the students there are druggies because of it. It's spreading fast." She shakes her head. "You guys have to stop it. I don't know what you can do, but if you don't act soon it's going to tear everyone apart."

I hear something whisper his in the back of my head, just once before it fades.

"We'll do our best." Gregory turns to Kenny. "Make sure she gets some sleep."

Kenny nods and the two of them leave our apartment. The four of us mercenaries sit at the dining room table.

"We need to act," Daiyu says.

"Did you tell them-" I ask Gregory.

"About the cross insignias? Yes." He purses his lips. "I think we have only one possible course of action right now."

"You think-" Hai begins.

Gregory nods. "We need to get down to Hell."

Something cold spreads through my stomach.

"I don't know how we're going to do this." Hai rubs his forehead. "I've only been to Hell a few times, and it's never been easy. We need to find some sort of necromancer - or a powerful demon-"

"Just stop it," I snap. The three of them turn to me.

"He's right," says Daiyu.

"We all know Damien can get us to 'ell. You zree are just tiptoeing around it."

"Apologies," Daiyu says. "So. Do you think he'd be willing to take us?"

I prop my chin in my hands to think.

"Ze four of us," I say, "definitely no. Me alone - maybe. We've been 'aving . . . issues recently."

I shudder involuntarily. The other three look at me with such pity that I want to kill someone.

"Um," Gregory says, "can you give Chris and I some privacy?"

They glance at each other, nod, and slip off to the guest bedroom. Gregory sets his forearms on the table.

"Talk," he says quietly.

I shake my head. "It's nozing-"

"It's not nothing or you wouldn't have even mentioned it. Goddamn it, Christophe, don't be afraid to ask for help every once in awhile. You don't have to do everything on your own, that's why we're partners, remember?"

I don't say anything.

He waits.

"I know," I say. "But-"

"Talk."

And I think, okay, okay, I can do this, and I open my mouth and close it and open it again and make myself say parts of the truth. I tell him about aspects of our relationship I'm sure he didn't want to hear. The details. The intimacy.

That-

That he was so angry when I came back, I thought he would kill me-

That he's always like this, underneath the snarky facade and cheer-

That I'm afraid there isn't anything human about him-

That I'm afraid there is, that he's terribly lonely and self-conscious and needy and he's terrified that I'll leave him and I want to leave him-

That I'm afraid I'm going to drown under his constant threats, the tension, the way he pushes me, how I know eventually he'll drag me under the surface to suffocate with him.

When I'm done, Gregory doesn't talk for the longest time. He asks a couple questions. Some funny questions. "Does he really have a teddy bear?" "Oui, 'er name is Mrs. 'oney and 'e's 'ad 'er since 'e was eight." Some painful ones. "He hasn't raped you?" "It's pretty fucking close," and "Do you really think you're going to give in soon?" "Maybe zen 'e'll stop zinking I'm going to leave 'im."

I still don't tell him I drank the demon blood. But I tell him everything else.

"You're going to have to start lying now," Gregory says.

I nod. I expected as much.

"I hate, I hate to tell this to you, but you need to -" He takes a deep breath. "You need to make him trust you. I'm not saying sleep with him, he wouldn't believe that. But let him see parts of you only I've seen. It'll trap him the way he's trapped you."

"Not nearly," I say.

"Not nearly," he agrees, "but enough that you'll have something over him. Because I hate this, and I still want to say fuck this mission and let's run, but we can't, it wouldn't work anyway and it's too important now, Christophe, more important than me or you or anyone, I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry."

He combs his hair out of his eyes with his fingers.

"Make him think you've started to warm up to him."

"Even after ze sheet zat 'appened zis afternoon?" I laugh hoarsely.

"Take some time but let his charm work on you. Let-" He hesitates, shakily. "He's got everything on you - your fear, your freedom - so take something back. Trick him. Lie. We need to get down to Hell and Damien is our best shot at making that happen."

I don't go over to Damien's the next day, or the one after that. Recuperating in my own special way. Daiyu prints out an article for me on why rape is never the victim's fault. Hai berates her for being so fucking insensitive, but I read it anyways.

On the third day, I accept the fact that I can't hide forever, so I head over to his house at about eight at night.

It takes every inch of willpower I have to leave my shovel back at the apartment, but I know he'll appreciate the sign of surrender.

He opens the door after I ring the doorbell twice and blinks at me, just staring. I watch him note the lack of shovel.

"Hi," he says.

I shrug in greeting.

He smiles hesitantly.

"Let me in," I intone, "it's fucking cold out 'ere."

He grins for real and lets me into the house, which smells like burnt ramen. I wrinkle my nose and make him real dinner like usual. I've been doing most of his shopping recently, and there's still enough in the refrigerator to make hamburgers out of ground beef patties. He makes the appropriate "oh god how are you such a good cook" noises while he devours them, which earns him a flick on the head for exaggeration.

We go up to his bedroom and just sit on the blanket, not doing anything, not even touching. He lies down and watches me.

"Are you still angry?" he asks.

"I wasn't angry," I say. "I was scared out of my fucking mind."

"I'm sorry."

I sigh. "I know."

More awkward silence. I reach out and drag my fingers through his hair. He closes his eyes. I keep some level of mechanics in my voice, so he won't suspect anything, so he'll think I'm giving him ground so he won't take it.

"Well, you can kiss me, if you want to."

He keeps them chaste, on my jaw and nose and forehead and lightly on my lips. After a few minutes he rests his chin on my shoulder.

"Want to watch a movie?"

" . . . as long as it's not anozzer 'orror flick." I used to like horror movies until I started watching them with Damien. Not only does he pick out films made in Hell itself, but he laughs sadistically at all the worse scenes, with the humans raping each other with their lower intestines and shit like that.

He chooses a generic romantic comedy from the Netflix queue, which makes me suspect it was simply an excuse to cuddle. About halfway through the movie he makes a not-so-subtle offer to blow me.

"Non."

"Come on, Chris, everyone says I give really good head."

'Everyone'? Gross. "No fucking way."

Onscreen, the main couple has broken up over the heroine's lies. I try to focus on the angsty drama.

"Why not?"

"Are we really going to go zrough zis again?"

He shuts up and resumes spooning with me, his chin still tucked over my shoulder.

As the credits roll I feel him sigh against me.

"Sometimes I just wish I'd never done any of that. That I'd never attacked you in the first place."

"But zat's how you are," I murmur into his wrist.

"But maybe if I hadn't, maybe then someday you would trust me and this would be for real."

He sounds so genuinely human that I freeze up a little, thinking dear god this can't be real and what if it is? I roll over to face him.

"Give me time," I say, "and someday it will be."

I kiss him. We meld into each other, press close enough to feel each other's hearts beating frantically, and with his arms around me for some reason I feel safe enough to want it to be real.

He doesn't pressure me for anything further sexually, other than a little grinding of our hips as he climbs on top of me and presses me back into the couch. He mutters bizarre things into my ear, like "thank god you're you". I tease him once by saying, "you fucking sexy demon" after I run my hands over his torso and feel his muscles, which I know will give him airs for weeks.

After I'm too tired to kiss him or move, we lay there in the darkness with his lips pressed to my neck, and I think that maybe some part of what happened to other day has been forgiven, that maybe even if the gentle Damien lying next to me right now is a lie, maybe that's still good enough.

A/N:

I don't usually do author's notes at the bottom of the chapter anymore, but this was so long that I just have to say thank you for reading all the way through it!

Also, no sex scene is this chapter, hahahahah. I deliberately wrote this fic to get over my fear of writing sex. (Usually I don't even like to write kissing; it weirds me out.) So there's definitely more touchiness that I'm used to in this. I hope I'm doing it right. Teaser: yes, there is a real sex scene in the next chapter. This fic has to earn its M rating somehow. (Although the extent, and the level of consent, are my secret).

So, again, thanks for reading, and please review!