I realize with horror that I might not be able to hold him back if I stay here. I drop a twenty on the bar and lurch out of my seat.
“No more fires. No more stealing. No killing.”
The mantra is supposed to help me resist demonic impulses, and I hope the familiar pattern of reciting it will help in this situation, too. At this point, it’s a habit more than anything. I repeat the words under my breath as I duck out of the club, hoping fresh air will snap me out of it. Instead, the distance only riles the demon urges even more.
“Okay,” I say to myself. “Harm reduction, that’s what my therapist said we’re working on. A safe way to let my urges out in small amounts. What can…”
I look around, spotting a metal trashcan in the alley along the side of the building. I stalk over and immediately throw a line of fire at it. It flashes in a blaze of heat when I set fire to the contents, and I don’t stop. My arm is outstretched, palm wide open, sending more and more fire into it, allowing myself to release some of the pent up frustration the demon is pumping into me.
My emotions ebb and flow as heat and tension release with the flames. The fire burns hot and bright, flaring into the sky. I let it roar for a few more seconds before smothering it down to a steady smolder.
The last thing I need is someone calling the cops on me.
I shake out my hands, crack my neck, and roll my shoulders. I glare at the glowing coals, take a breath, then clench my fists todouse the remains of the fire. My emotions aren’t as close to the surface now, but they’re still there, a low roil under my skin.
“Better,” I mutter. “Okay, for real this time. No more fires. No more stealing. No killing.”
I pace back and forth, up and down the alley a few times as I take deep breaths and repeat the mantra to myself. I yank the stolen jigger from my pocket and squeeze it, the curved metal edges denting my palm. I’m feeling slightly more in control, a little bit more settled, when I freeze, my eyes going wide.
I realize… Nothing in the rules from my therapist says I can’t follow her. ‘No stalking’ isn’t on the list. The demon immediately calms, quietly perking up at this idea.
Of course, some deep down part of me knows just because it isn’t on the list, doesn’t mean it’s okay. Obviously, I know stalking is wrong, but the logical side isn’t in charge right now.
I decide following her for now—from a safe distance, with no intent to harm—isn’t bad. It’s simply a coping mechanism, one that allows me to control my urges without putting anyone in danger. Harm reduction, right?
And… yeah, okay. I’ll definitely be telling my therapist about it as soon as possible.
With that decided, I lean against the brick wall and wait, flicking a tiny flame back and forth over my knuckles and between my fingers with the demon purring happily in my chest. The chill seeps into my back, but the fire of my demon keeps me plenty warm while I wait.
When she finally steps outside, alone, I frown. I fully expected her to hook up with the other woman, but then again, maybe they already did.
She pauses in the doorway, and the neon lights above and behind frame her in a colorful halo. My eyes track up and down her body, taking in an outfit remarkably similar to the one fromthe night before. Tight black clothing, boots that could easily kick my ass, curves that would fit perfectly in my palms.
Lust burns low in my belly, but then I tilt my head, picking up other details now that she’s alone and standing still. She’s tense, rigid almost, with a defensive, ready for fight-or-flight posture. Not relaxed at all, as she should be if she’d had a successful night out. I study the walls she’s built around herself, wondering if they have any cracks.
My frown deepens when her breasts heave with a sigh and her shoulders slump forward. Her eyes are dark wells, unfathomable from this distance, yet they tug at my heart. I want to comfort her, another urge that’s new to me.
She steps away from the light and shoves her hands in her pockets as she walks down the sidewalk. I follow, but only because I want to make sure she gets to her next location safely. Obviously.
Although that thought is an excuse, it also rings true, and the demon seems to agree. He’s urging me to follow, but the impulse totake, to do anything more, is no longer there. Never before has the demon inside me given me such whiplash, but I’ll accept any small win I can right now.
I step quietly, doing my best to be stealthy as I follow half a block behind her. She keeps glancing back, like she senses someone following, but it’s dark enough that I can slip into a doorway or alcove and remain undetected.
When she turns into the entrance for an apartment building, I look away from her to check where we’re at.
Aaaand that’s a problem.
She lives only blocks from me, on the same street. This woman with sad eyes and shimmering hair that reflects the moon.
The demon is practically preening at how close I can be to her, how often and easily I can follow her now that I know whereshe lives. I try to force myself to turn away, to not watch the windows to see which lights flick on, but it’s impossible. That demon inside me won’t be swayed, but after a few minutes of observation, there are no lights.
Maybe she lives on the other side of the building.
Then curtains drift as a window is pushed open, a lithe shadow with silver hair moves behind sheer fabric, and I know without a doubt.
It’s her.
That’s where she lives. Eats. Sleeps.
