Chapter 8
“A what now?” I stared at Malphas across the kitchen island, certain I’d misheard him.
“A barbecue,” he repeated, looking entirely serious as he flipped through a glossy cookbook titled ‘Grilling for Every Season.’ “For the neighbors. This Sunday.”
I set down my coffee mug slowly. “You… a demon prince… want to host a neighborhood barbecue?”
Malphas looked up from his cookbook, his expression somewhere between defensive and embarrassed. “It’s customary in this neighborhood. Everyone takes turns hosting summer get-togethers.”
“And you’re… on the rotation?” I was still struggling to wrap my head around this.
“Of course. I’ve lived here for three years.” He returned to his cookbook, marking a page with a Post-it note. “The Hendersons hosted last month. It’s my turn.”
I tried to picture Malphas—seven feet of horned, red-skinned demonic muscle—flipping burgers for suburban families. The mental image was so incongruous I nearly choked on my coffee.
“And the neighbors are… okay with you being, you know…” I gestured vaguely at his entire demonic self.
Malphas looked genuinely confused. “Being what?”
“A literal demon from hell?”
Understanding dawned on his face, followed by amusement. “Ah. I forget you can see my true form.” He set down thecookbook. “Most humans perceive me differently. Something about their minds protecting them from the reality of the supernatural. They see a very tall, somewhat intimidating but otherwise normal man.”
“Wait,” I said, processing this new information. “So when we went to Home Depot…”
“The cashiers saw a large human man with an unusual presence,” he confirmed. “Not…” He gestured to his horns.
“But I see you as you really are,” I mused. “Because of my possession?”
Malphas nodded. “Your encounter with Veximus opened your perception. It’s rare, but it happens to some who’ve had direct supernatural contact.”
I considered this for a moment. “So all your neighbors think you’re just a really tall, buff dude who’s really into lawn care?”
“Essentially,” he agreed, looking slightly amused. “Though Mrs. Deleon from across the street has hinted that she suspects I might be ‘different.’ She’s quite into New Age spirituality.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “This is bizarre. You’re hosting a cookout for people who don’t even know what you are.”
He shrugged those massive shoulders. “I’ve found it’s easier to blend in. And Gary’s influence makes me… enjoy these social interactions.” He looked slightly embarrassed by this admission. “Besides, Dave Henderson makes an excellent potato salad.”
Just when I thought my life couldn’t get any stranger.
“So,” Malphas continued, returning to his cookbook, “will you help me? I usually handle these events alone, but having assistance would be… nice.”
There was something in his tone—a hint of vulnerability beneath the casual request—that tugged at my heart. I realized with a start that Malphas might be lonely. For all his demonic power, he existed between worlds, not fully belonging to either.
“Of course I’ll help,” I said, moving around the island to peer at the cookbook over his shoulder. “Though I should warn you, my culinary skills are limited to not burning toast.”
He smiled, the expression transforming his fearsome features into something almost boyish. “I’ll handle the cooking. You can help with setup and be my social buffer.”
“Social buffer?” I raised an eyebrow.
“Sometimes I… miss social cues,” he admitted. “Gary’s influence helps, but occasionally I say things that humans find unsettling.”
“Like what?”
“Last summer I complimented Roger Miller on his daughter’s soul. I meant it had a beautiful luminosity, but he thought I was being creepy.” Malphas frowned. “It was awkward.”
I bit my lip to keep from laughing. “Yeah, maybe don’t mention souls this time.”
