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“My goodness,” she murmurs, checking the label. “These are a lot of lovely things, dear. Are you sure you want to part with all of this?”

It’s overflowing with the expensive, superficial armor of a man who loved his reflection more than he ever loved me.

“Yep,” I say, the word popping with a surprising amount of relief. “All yours. Please, give them to someone who actually needs them.”

The least he can do is contribute to a good cause for once in his existence.

“Have a lovely day,” she calls out, but the wind snatches her voice away as the door swings shut behind me and I step out into the deluge.

It’s lashing down in thick, aggressive sheets of grey water that drown the sidewalk and turn the gutters into rushing rivers. Most people are sprinting for cover, huddled under flimsy umbrellas that are turning inside out, their shoulders hunched against the assault.

But I wrap my scarf tighter around the fading bite marks on my throat, pull my hood up, jam my earbuds in, and turn the volume up until the bass thumps against my skull, drowning out the roar of the traffic.

A month ago, this was just a city. It was just a collection of concrete, glass, and strangers rushing to jobs they hated. But Malachi ruined that for me. He peeled back the film of normalcy and showed me the wiring underneath.

I scan the crowd as I move through the crush of bodies at the crosswalk.

There’s a businessman in a trench coat ranting into his phone over the street. To anyone else, he’s just a stressed executive. But I catch the way his shadow stretches a little too long, the way his movements are just a fraction too fluid, too predatory for a human spine.

Demon.

Up ahead, a teenager in a hoodie is leaning against a brick wall, unblinking, perfectly still despite the freezing rain.

Demon.

I catch the eye of a woman waiting for the bus, her irises a shade of violet that doesn't exist in nature. And for a split second, I swear I see the shimmer of a shell beneath her foundation. She looks away quickly, pulling her scarf tighter, like she senses the scrutiny.

A ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of my mouth as my hand curls into a fist at my side, nails digging crescents into my palm until the skin stings. Once, I wouldn't have noticed. I would have just seen a pretty girl in a coat. Now, I see the teeth behind the smile.

I know exactly what you are. And I know how to kill you too.

I shoulder my way into the apartment block, shaking the rain from my hair, trudge up the stairs, unlock the door, and step into the silence. My saturated coat soaks into the carpet as I shuck it off alongside my boots, and sink onto the couch. My phone buzzes from my pocket, several texts from Piper popping up.

Did you get home safe?

Call me if you need anything.

Proud of you. Love you.

Home safe. Today went well. Going to sleep, love you too.

It’s been exactly three hundred and thirty-six hours since the universe chewed me up and spat me back out onto my living room rug.

Mercifully, when I was sucked out of the Archives, it didn't drop me in a volcano. It dropped me right back on my own shitty couch, gasping for air like a fish on a dock. But I didn't come back to a quiet apartment. I walked straight into a crime scene of panic.

When Piper woke up in her car with a migraine and a missing hour of memory, she didn't just go home. She came upstairs, busted down my door, and found an empty apartment.

And then she went scorched earth.

By the time I reappeared, she had filed a missing person’s report, called my parents in a hysterical sobbing fit, and blasted my face all over social media. There were literal search parties organizing in the park. My Mom and Dad were in panic mode. The police were pulling CCTV from the street.

And the reunion was a full-blown trauma response.

I found Piper curled up on my bed, clutching one of my sweaters, eyes swollen shut from crying. When I touched her shoulder, she screamed. Then she tackled me, sobbing so hard she threw up, checking my limbs to make sure I was solid, shaking me, yelling at me, and then hugging me until my ribs creaked.

And after searching her eyes to make sure she wasn’t a Warden in disguise, I had to look her in them and sell the performance of a lifetime.

I told her that seconds after she’d called that night, I’d opened the door to take out a trash bag. I told her Vesper—who’d been acting ‘weird’ and aggressive all day—took her chance and bolted into the hallway.