Page 13 of The Demon Kept Me

The truth is I don't have a tidy answer, and I've stopped reaching for one. Somewhere in these weeks of shared work and shared silence and hands that keep brushing over the same tools, the shape of what's between us has changed into something I am afraid to name yet, and neither, I think, does he. So we talk around it instead.

"You've got flour on your horn," I tell him that evening, once the last cart has gone and it's only we, together and the guttering lamp.

"Horns don't get flour on them."

"This one did. Come here, I'm not tall enough to reach it and I refuse to let you walk around dusted like a pastry."

He crouches — actually crouches, this enormous creature folding himself down to my height with a long-suffering sigh — so I can swipe the smudge from the sweeping black curve of his horn. Up close his skin has that faint charcoal shimmer to it, embers banked under ash, and the crimson of his eyes catches the lamplight when he glances sideways at me.

"Satisfied?" he asks, and there's something in his voice, dry and warm at once, that makes my stomach do a slow and unfamiliar turn.

"Getting there." I flick the flour off my fingers. "You're less frightening down here, you know. At eye level. You should let people see you like this."

"Crouched in flour, being groomed like a plow horse." His mouth does the thing that isn't quite a smile. "That'll mend my reputation."

"It might." I grin. "It's mending mine of you."

He goes still at that, the almost-smile fading into something more careful, and for a moment I think he might finally say whatever it is that keeps sitting behind his teeth. Then the moment passes the way they all do with him, folded away for later, and he straightens back up to his full towering height and clears his throat and says we should bank the fire.

I let him. I've learned there's no rushing a creature who has spent a lifetime teaching himself to want nothing.

There's a rhythm to the good days now, and I've grown greedy for it. Father Aldren comes by on a Thursday, thin and balding and gentle-eyed in his brown robes, and he sits a while on the bench with a slice of my bread and tells Malvek plainly, where the whole room can hear, that a man is known by his work and not his face. I watch Malvek pretend the words mean nothing to him.

"You've made this place dangerous," Malvek murmurs to me later, watching old Marta of all people accept a heel of bread from Elsie without so much as a glance toward the wheel. "They forget to be afraid. One of these days someone will forget entirely and I'll have to remind them what I am."

"Or," I say, "one of these days you'll forget to remind them, and you'll find out you'd rather be loved than feared." He doesn't answer that. But he doesn't argue it either, and I'm learning that his silences have grammar, and that particular one means I've struck closer to the truth than he's ready to admit.

The joy doesn't last the night.

It's Bren who finds it, first light the next morning, coming early to help before his own farm's chores. His shout brings us both running to the far storage room — the smaller one, where we'd moved a good third of the season's milled flour under the new plan, sacked and stacked and meant to keep dry through winter.

The smell reaches me before the sight does. Sour, wet, and wrong.

"The window," Malvek says, low and terrible, and I see it — the shutter forced, the latch snapped, and beneath it every sack in the top three rows split open and soaked through with river water hauled up and poured deliberately over the winter's bread. Flour turns to paste and turns to rot. Days of grinding, days of our work, ruined in a single quiet night while we slept a wall away.

"How much?" I ask, though I already know it's bad.

"A quarter of what we've stored." He crouches by the ruined sacks, and I watch his claws close slowly into a fist. "He came in through the window while we watched the doors. He knew we'd split the stores. He knew which room mattered."

The cold settles into me, and this time it isn't the morning air. Someone has been close enough to know our new plan almost before we finished making it. Someone was in the trees the night we thought we were finally getting ahead.

"We're not waiting anymore," I say. "For the next one. We find him first."

Malvek looks up at me from the ruin of the flour, and whatever he sees in my face makes him nod, slow and grim. "Together," he says.

"Together," I agree, and I mean it down to the bone.

11

MALVEK

The first frost comes the night after we find the spoiled flour, silvering the grass in the yard and rimming the wheel with a thin white lace by morning.

Wren doesn't own a proper cloak. I've known it for weeks — watched her make do with that same thin traveling thing she arrived in, the one better suited to a spring shower than a valley winter, watched her tell herself she wasn't cold with her arms wrapped tight and her breath clouding the air. She'd never ask. She's the same as me in that, the pair of us raised in different worlds to the identical foolish creed that need is a thing to be hidden.

So I do what I've learned to do. Quietly, without announcement.

There's a weaver two roads east who owes the mill a season's grinding and no coin to pay it, and we come to an easy arrangement. Good wool, the deep russet color of autumn oak, lined thick and cut long enough to reach her ankles. I leave it folded outside her door the way I once left mended boots and dry clothes, back when leaving things unspoken was the only language I trusted myself to speak.