Annie grinned, all delight and disbelief. “You’re full of surprises, Samiel. You live in a fortress and collect stray animals.” She scratched Fluoxetine behind the ears, then shot me a look. “Is this your play? Lull me into a false sense of safety with tiny, adorable mammals?”
I leaned against the kitchen island, arms crossed. “Is it working?”
She set the cat down, then prowled over to where I stood, close enough that her knees almost touched mine. “I don’tknow,” she said, voice quiet but not shy. “I think I was already safe.”
She tapped the counter, restless energy vibrating from her fingers. “What do we do now? Just… wait for the mayor to show?”
“We could,” I said, “but I was hoping you’d pick the next move. I want to show you the town. I want you to know every inch of it. No secrets.” I hesitated, afraid of sounding desperate. “Unless you want to just stay in.”
She scanned the room, weighing the merits of a day outside versus one last round of just us. I watched her eyes roam over the books, the paintings, the perimeter of the kitchen, and I could almost see the calculus in her head—the odds of encountering something that might break the spell, or worse, expose her in a way she wasn’t ready for.
She looked at me, then at the cat, then back at me. She squared her shoulders, like someone about to walk into a final exam, and said, “Is it weird if I want to just… skip to the end? Like, call the mayor now and tell him I’m not going anywhere?” She punctuated it with a little half laugh, but I could see she was dead serious.
I blinked, caught off guard. “You don’t want to see the rest of the Valley?”
She traced a fingertip through the condensation on her water glass, drawing little figure-eights as she talked. “I do. I really do, eventually. But right now, it feels like—if I go out there, if I see the bingo parlor or the casino or whatever, it’s going to fuck up the perfect run we’ve had. Like I’ll see something I shouldn’t, or someone will say something, and it’ll just…” She shrugged, unable to finish, but I understood. She wanted this moment sealed, preserved, before anything outside could dilute it.
I felt relief—a big, dumb rush of it—because that was exactly what I wanted too. The kind of permanence that didn’t comefrom a contract or a ritual, but from a shared, secret refusal to let the world fuck things up.
“I can call the mayor,” I said, voice careful. “But you sure? Usually people want the full tour. The games, the shopping, the weird tourist traps. Some go to Lake Purgatory twice in a day just to say they did.”
She smiled, but it was a private kind of smile, built for one person only. “I just want to stay here. With you. And the cat,” she added, as Fluoxetine slithered around her ankles again, insistent as a shadow.
I pulled out my phone, scrolled to Vepar’s number, and hit dial. He answered on the first ring, as if he’d been pacing in his office, waiting for the call.
“Samiel,” he said, voice flat. “You’re early.”
“We’re ready,” I said, unable to keep the grin out of my voice. “Come by whenever you want. She’s made her choice.”
There was a long pause, then a noise that might have been approval—or just a demon clearing his throat through sinus congestion. “I’ll see you in twenty,” he said, and hung up without a goodbye.
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
Annie
Ispent the next nineteen and a half minutes in a state of dumbfounded domesticity, feeding the cat, and washing my face in his bathroom. It was black marble, mirrors cut to angles so you could see every possible version of yourself. Samiel, I realized, lived under a barrage of reflection, undistracted by vanity.
Then I just sat on the velvet couch, legs tucked under me, Fluoxetine purring like a little generator against my calf. Samiel disappeared for a few minutes, then returned in a crisp black T-shirt and jeans, looking every bit the suburban demon dad.
He hovered in the kitchen, refilling a glass of water for me and then, in a show of nervous energy, slicing oranges into perfect, identical segments as if expecting a yacht party rather than a government check-in. I watched him, resisting the urge to go full sitcom wife and wrap my arms around his waist, bury my face in his back, and hum nonsense just to break the tension. Instead, I watched Fluoxetine with a hand on her strong, improbable spine, grounding myself in her animal patience.
I was happy. No—happydidn't even touch it. I was… okay. Not afraid. Not waiting for the next shoe to drop, or the lights to come up and reveal the joke. I was sitting in the one house in the world where I could actually see myself living, with a man who looked at me like loss was not an option, and a cat who didn’t want to kill me in my sleep. It was a feeling so foreign I almost didn’t trust it, but there it was—the shape of a future.
The doorbell buzzed at exactly twenty minutes. Samiel tensed, then exhaled, then swept to the door with a certain ceremonial bravado. I padded over behind him, wearing a pair of his socks that went to my mid-thigh, the T-shirt I’d grabbed from his closet, and absolutely nothing else.
Mayor Vepar stood on the stoop, all business and goat hair, his suit immaculate and his clipboard at the ready. The sight of me—bare-legged, braless, a demon cat in my arms—made him pause, a momentary hitch that was more surprise than judgment.
"Ms. Harris," he said, managing a polite nod. "Samiel. May I enter?"
Samiel stepped aside, the picture of demonic hospitality. “You’re the first to ever ask,” he said. "Respect."
The mayor regarded the interior with a practiced eye, noting the cat, the open books, the oranges, the lived-in feeling that wasn’t here yesterday. He set his briefcase on the kitchen island and opened it, revealing an actual stack of legal papers and a single red pen. He made a show of flipping to the top sheet, then leveled his gaze at me.
"This is the finalization of intent," he said. "You sign here. Samiel signs here. There is a ninety-day review at the end, after which either party may opt out with no legal consequences or supernatural retaliation. Please take a moment to confirm your intentions.” He flipped the page and handed me the pen. It washeavy and a little warm, the kind of pen that made you want to sign in cursive and never look back.
I didn’t ask to read the fine print; I didn’t even hesitate. I signed with a flourish, making the A in Annie so large it looped halfway down the page. I handed the pen to Samiel, who looked at me once. He signed right below, his script a surgeon’s nightmare, sharp lines and impossible angles. The mayor witnessed both, added a stamp in gold foil, and then closed the folder with the finality of a gavel drop.
