“I was performing a standard soul collection in Milwaukee,” he explained in a hushed tone. “The target was a hardware store manager named Gary Petersen. But something went wrongwith the ritual. Instead of me claiming his soul, a part of his consciousness… attached to mine.”
I stifled a laugh. “So you’ve got a ghost possessing you? Isn’t that like, I don’t know, a mouse catching a cat?”
Malphas’s eyes flared bright red for a moment, and I instinctively leaned away. Then they faded to an almost normal hazel, and he looked down at his hands.
“It’s not possession exactly. More like… contamination. I keep having these… urges.”
“Urges?” I repeated, suddenly very aware of how close we were sitting.
“Yesterday, I found myself at a garden center buying mulch,” he whispered, sounding haunted. “I spent three hours comparing lawn mowers. I organized my toolbox by size and function.” His massive hands clenched. “I bought cargo shorts, Sam.Cargo shorts.”
I couldn’t help it. I laughed—a quick, strangled sound that I tried to cover with a cough. The idea of this terrifying hell beast fretting over lawn care was just too much.
Malphas looked at me with surprising vulnerability in his otherworldly eyes. “It’s not funny. I’m supposed to be harvesting souls and tormenting the damned. Instead, I’m comparison shopping for grill accessories and worrying about proper lawn irrigation.”
“Sorry,” I said, not feeling sorry at all. “So Gary’s making you… domestic?”
“It’s worse than that,” Malphas groaned. “I actuallyenjoyit. The satisfaction of a well-organized garage… the pride in a freshly mowed lawn… the simple pleasure of finding the perfect tool for a repair job.” He looked at me with desperation. “These aren’t demonic thoughts, Sam.”
Before I could respond, Eden called on Malphas to introduce himself to the group. As he stood—unfolding to hisfull, intimidating height—I found myself staring at him with newfound fascination.
Oh no,I thought, watching the play of muscles beneath his crimson skin as he awkwardly introduced himself.Oh no no no. You are NOT attracted to the demon handyman. That is a TERRIBLE idea.
But as Malphas sat back down, his thigh briefly pressing against mine in the cramped circle of chairs, I felt a jolt of heat that had nothing to do with his supernatural temperature.
Well, fuck.
That’s how it started. Me, a donuts-seeking survivor of the occult, sitting next to seven feet of horned, terrifying muscle who smelled like brimstone and somehow also like a responsible homeowner.
I should have run screaming from the community center.
Instead, I found myself asking, “So… those Rice Krispie treats. Are they up for grabs?”
Chapter 2
Two weeks after meeting Malphas, I was standing in my apartment watching water pour from my ceiling like I’d installed a surprise indoor waterfall feature.
“Fucking perfect,” I muttered, positioning my collection of mixing bowls, pots, and a beer cooler to catch the streams. It was 3 AM, because of course plumbing emergencies respect the sanctity of normal human sleeping hours.
I’d already called my landlord’s “emergency maintenance line,” which was apparently connected to a voicemail box in another dimension. My apartment was rapidly transforming into an indoor swimming pool, and I was out of containers.
In desperation, I scrolled through my phone contacts. My finger hovered over a name I’d added after the last support group meeting: “Malphas.” We’d been texting occasionally—mostly him sending me pictures of home improvement projects with captions like “Installed ceiling fan in living room. Is this normal behavior for Prince of Darkness?”
Before I could overthink it, I hit call.
He answered on the first ring. “Sam?” His voice was alert, not sleepy at all. Right. Demons probably don’t sleep.
“Hey, sorry to call so late, but my ceiling is basically a waterfall right now, and I don’t know what to—”
“I’ll be there in five minutes,” he interrupted. “Do you know where your water main shutoff is?”
“My what now?”
I heard a sigh that could have withered plants. “Never mind. Just hang tight.”
Four and a half minutes later (I timed it), there was a heavy knock at my door. I opened it to find Malphas filling my doorframe, wearing black sweatpants and a faded t-shirt that read “Milwaukee Hardware Hoedown 2017” stretched tight across his massive chest. He carried a large toolbox that looked tiny in his grasp.
“Where’s the leak?” he asked, all business.
