The air conditioner was definitely broken.

Gracey cursed inwardly and made a mental note to call the service company first thing Monday morning. The godforsaken air conditioner broke ever year at the height of summer, no matter how religiously she maintained the unit. She supposed it might be time to replace it altogether, but  installing new appliances was a hassle. She didn’t love the idea of having strangers out to her home.

After all, she never knew when the Prime of Darkness was going to show up, and he was always more than a little difficult to explain.

Changing out of a damp t-shirt into a tank top, Gracey poured herself a glass of iced tea and made for the front porch. It wasn’t any cooler outside, of course, but she reasoned that if she were going to sit around sweating she might as well do so while getting a bit of fresh air. Besides, she enjoyed putting the ceiling fan to good use.

It was warmer outside than she’d hoped. Sighing, Gracey flipped on the overhead fan, plopped down on the porch swing, one leg tucked underneath her while she gave herself a little push with the other. The chains creaked and floorboards groaned. Gracey wondered if it might be time to try another diet. Maybe South Beach this time.

“Morning, sugar!”

Gracey leaned forward, smiled to see her friend Bibi Armstrong walking up her driveway, rivulets of sweat running down the sides of her face. “Don’t tell me you walked over here,” Gracey scolded. “It’s too hot for that!”

Bibi waved the concern away. “I’m too old to worry about what’s gonna kill me,” she said with her usual wry disregard for conventional wisdom. “Something’s gonna do me in one day. Besides, it’d be a sin to drive over here. It ain’t like you’re miles away.”

That was true enough. With the entire country gone crazy about “going green”, Gracey could certainly see her friend’s point, even if she herself wasn’t so sure she’d trade a brisk, air conditioned drive for a healthful walk in the 100+ degree heat. Though maybe if she did, she wouldn’t need South Beach after all.

Gracey frowned. It was a lose-lose situation.

Bibi came up the porch steps, and Gracey scooted over to make room for her friend on the swing. She winked at Gracey and lowered her voice. “I think I saw Marco skulking around your bushes,” she said, waving her hand toward the front of the porch Gracey couldn’t see from her perch.

Gracey cocked her eyebrows, called out. “Marco?”

A brown, scruffy head popped up over the porch railing, a timid smile revealing handsome, crooked teeth. “Hi, Gracey,” he said, cheeks rosy with sun and bashfulness.

“What are you doing down there?”

“Waitin’ for you.”

“Waiting for me to do what?”

“Come outside. So I could get my pie. You said. And Mama said I couldn’t ring your doorbell to ask for it.”

Gracey chuckled and beckoned for Marco to come up on the porch. He scrambled up, still smiling. “Well, in that case, I’m sorry I kept you waiting. Tell you what. Go on inside and get yourself some pie. I’ve got apple and cherry. Get whatever you want and a glass of milk and bring it out here and sit with me and Bibi. Can you do that?”

Marco’s eyes brightened as he bobbed his head up and down. He held up a finger. “I’ll be right back,” he said, darting into the house.

When Marco was out of earshot, Bibi squeezed Gracey’s arm. “You should have kids,” she said.

Here we go, Gracey thought, biting her tongue to keep from saying something she’d regret.  After all, Bibi was her friend, not her mother, and her intentions and motivations were completely different than Annette’s. Gracey knew that at thirty, she was expected to have children, especially in a family town like Love & War. She also knew that Bibi, who loved her a great deal, couldn’t have children of her own and was only projecting her own desires onto Gracey. She knew that these words, though portending a guilt trip when uttered by one’s maternal unit, were meant only as inspiration coming from Bibi.

Still, they stung. The lack of children in the Daylittle home was a sore circumstance, though Gracey had never discussed that situation with anyone. Not even Bibi.

Gracey shrugged. “Well, I think I’d like to. Just haven’t had the opportunity. Never could hang on to a guy for long enough.”

For a fleeting moment she thought of Gabe, snatched away from her before they’d even begun their lives together. After all these years, the memory was still a dull pain.  And then, without warning, Gracey found herself thinking of the magician, Simon St. Laine. Did he want to have kids? Would he make a good father?

Gracey’s breath caught in her throat as she realized what she was thinking. They hadn’t been dating long. Marriage wasn’t anywhere on the table, or even underneath the table as far as she could tell. Still, it wasn’t her fault if she secretly hoped it was the direction they could be heading. She wasn’t getting any younger, and Simon was handsome and caring. She imagined he would make a very good partner.

She blushed, forced herself to stop thinking about Simon before Bibi noticed and intruded on her thoughts. She wasn’t ready to discuss this particular train of thought with anyone just yet.

At that moment, Marco came outside, letting the screen door slam behind him. His mouth made an o shape in surprise as he carried his plate of pie—he’d helped himself to a slice of each—and a tall, plastic cup of milk to the swing. He squeezed in between Bibi and Gracey.

As Marco began shoveling pie in his mouth, Bibi reached over and mussed he boy’s hair. “I heard they found the Fairgood girl.”

Gracey’s head snapped up, her heart seeming to freeze in her chest. “Dead?”

Bibi made a face, motioning at Marco over the boy’s head where he couldn’t see. “Good Lord, Gracey, no! Why on Earth would you say that?”

A wave of relief washed over her even as a healthy dose of guilt hit her for saying something so macabre in front of Marco. Something deep inside her broke as she choked back a sob, hand covering her mouth. Ever since she’d realized the connection between all the recent deaths, she hadn’t believed that anyone would ever see Audra Fairgood alive again.  She was incredibly glad to be wrong. “My god,” she said, blinking back nascent tears. “When? Is she all right? What happened?”

Bibi shrugged, nodded. “She got home late last night. Apparently she’d gone up to Midland to stay with her daddy. He didn’t know that Shira was out of the loop.”

Gracey’s expression clouded with confusion. “Her daddy? I thought Aleister…?”

Bibi chuckled, shaking her head. “Aww, sugar, I love that you ain’t never been much on gossip. Otherwise you’da heard long ago that Aleister wasn’t the girl’s daddy. Folks don’t talk too much about it anymore, but it was a big to-do when it happened, since Shira and Aleister were married at the time. You have to respect a man who’d take care of another man’s child and wouldn’t let loose a cheating wife. He was a good man. A good man,” Bibi said, melancholy and nostalgia rich in her voice.

Gracey said nothing as she mulled over the news. If Audra Fairgood wasn’t Aleister’s natural daughter and wasn’t a natural-born Fairgood, that fact might have saved her from whatever curse had befallen the founding families. Was that possible, or was the whole thing just a coincidence? Was the terror over, or was it still waiting out there, ready to claim more lives at a moment’s notice?

“You okay, sugar? You look a little pale.”

Gracey feigned a small smile, shooing away her friend’s worry. “Oh, I’m fine, I’m just glad to hear Audra’s home safe. I thought…”

“You thought Minerva Katherine Auckland got her?”

Marco had been so quiet during the whole exchange that the women had assumed he wasn’t paying them any attention, so his interruption surprised them both. Gracey looked down at him, smiling. “Who’s that, honey? That a super villain in one of your comics?

Marco’s forehead creased as he swallowed his pie, shaking his head. “Not from my comics,” he said. “Minerva Katherine Auckland. You thought she got Audra Fairgood, didn’t you?”

Gracey didn’t know what Marco was talking about, of course, but something about the conversation sent chills down her spine all the same. Minerva Katherine Auckland. It wasn’t anyone she knew, no one who lived in town, and yet the name was familiar for some reason. A character in a children’s book, perhaps? A movie character? She searched the pages of her memory, flipping through them for an image or a lyric she could hold onto, something that might pin a face to the name, but nothing came to her. She would have to google the name later.

“Well, thank God Shira got her daughter back,” Gracey said, “though I can’t imagine what she went through having to tell her daughter about Aleister.”

Bibi whistled, giving a slow shake of her head. “Fate I wouldn’t wish on nobody,” she agreed.

Comfortable silence settled between them as Marco finished his pie, Gracey and Bibi keeping the porch swing in motion with a gentle push of their toes. Although the fan whirred busily overhead, it offered little relief from the sweltering heat, and under other circumstances, three bodies on a porch swing might have been too much. But at that moment, closeness was a commodity. It made them feel safe.

“I guess I best get going,” Bibi said after a while, pushing herself up out of the swing with a gentle groan. “I got a bunch of vegetables from my garden I gotta take down to the Badlands. Plus I gotta put some more pink dye in that Japanese girl’s hair today,” she said.

Gracey smiled. “You’re a good head, Beatriz.”

Bibi waved away the compliment with a frown. “I’m a sucker with no business sense,” she said. But Gracey knew she didn’t mean it. She was well aware how much Bibi loved lending a helping hand.

“Okay, I’m done. I’m going home, too,” Marco said, hopping off the swing. He pushed his plate and cup into Gracey’s hands. “Thank you for the pie, Gracey. Can I come back tomorrow and have some more?”

Gracey chuckled, nodding. “As long as it’s okay with your mama,” she said. “You can have as much pie as I can make.”

She watched him scamper off, the heels of his sneakers kicking up dust as he made his way down the drive and across the street. When he was safely inside, Gracey stood, stretched, walking languidly back into her house, content now with the knowledge of Audra Fairgood’s safety, even though small doubts and fears still nibbled at her like a hesitant mouse.

She deposited Marco’s dishes in the sink, absently wiping down the counter where he’d spilled a few drops of milk and left a trail of crumbs. What was that name he’d mentioned earlier that seemed so strange? Minerva Something? She rinsed off the rag, wringing it out as she frowned, deep in thought, wracking her brain for the tickle she felt when the name filtered through her mind. She did know it from somewhere. From somewhere strange. From somewhere she wouldn’t expect and eight-year-old boy to reference. But where?

She blinked, shook her head, shaking herself out of her thoughts. She couldn’t remember. She knew if she stopped thinking about it for a while, it would come to her on its own later.

Sunlight streamed through the kitchen window, and Gracey planted herself in its beam, ambivalent to its warmth, but smiling as she looked out across the street. Marco, who was not one to be easily contained (she supposed that was an indigenous quality of most eight-year-old boys), had come back outside, was playing in the yellow-and-brown grass that constituted the Esquivel lawn. He was normally animated, but now he was speaking loudly and gesturing to someone who was not there, and Gracey’s smile widened, remembering the entourage of invisible friends she’d amassed in her own childhood.

“What are you doing?”

Yelping in surprise, Gracey spun on her heel to find the Prime of Darkness standing in the doorway, filling it up, his head cocked lazily to one side, a puzzled expression on his face. Gracey shut her eyes, opened them, taking in a breath. “I’ve asked you a million times not to sneak up on me like that,” she said, her voice unsteady. “You scared the shit outta me.”

“Sorry,” he said. “It wasn’t my intention. I was just curious about whatever it was you were looking at.”

Gracey stepped to one side, a wordless invitation for the demon to sidle up beside her. She pointed to the window, indicating the scene across the street. “It’s nothing, really. I’m just watching Marco play with his imaginary friend. Brings back memories.”

The Prime of Darkness said nothing, his mouth settling into a perfect line as he joined Gracey in watching the boy across the street. Then, “Why do you call his friend imaginary?”

It was Gracey’s turn to look confused. “Because it isn’t real. Kids do that, sometimes. They invent a friend when there’s no one to play with. That’s why it’s called imaginary.”

The demon gave her a disdainful look. “I know what imaginary means,” he said.

She blushed. “Right. Sorry.”

The Prime of Darkness returned his gaze to the boy across the street. “Are both of the children playing with the imaginary friend?”

“Both what children? I’m just talking about Marco. He’s over there playing by himself.”

The Prime of Darkness furrowed his brow. “No, he isn’t. There’s a little girl playing with him.”

Gracey turned slowly, her eyes taking in the demon’s facial expression. As far as she knew, he wasn’t able to joke, or lie, or exaggerate. But there was no one else on the Esquivel lawn. Marco was alone. “Darkness…you see Marco with another child?”

The demon nodded. “Yes. A little girl. Short, brown hair. Pink shirt. Looks the same age as he is. You don’t see her?”

Gracey looked again, but there was absolutely no one with Marco. Either the demon was lying, seeing things, or… “That’s impossible,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t see anyone. I don’t see anyone at all!”

The demon shrugged. “There’s probably a great deal in your world that you cannot see that I can,” he said. “What’s interesting isn’t that you can’t see her, but that that little boy can.”

She was about to ask the demon what he meant by that, but when she turned to him, he had gone, leaving only a chill in the air and an impression of undulating shadows in her peripheral vision to indicate that he had ever been there at all.

She drew in a deep, steadying breath, and looked back out the window. She saw the Esquivel’s front door swinging shut. Marco had gone back inside.

It was already full dark when the Prime of Darkness stepped into the living room, finding Gracey at the couch with a book and her knitting. He wondered fleetingly how she managed to do both at the same time.

Hearing him approach, Gracey set her needles in her lap and smiled. Darkness thought she looked tired—her skin looked ashen and she had the beginnings of her circles under her eyes. He could see faint lines in her forehead. Worry lines, she’d called them. He wondered how much of her worry was for the murdered man and his wife and how much was something else altogether.

He hated to worry her further. And what he had to tell her would certainly worry her further. He had never before wished nor cared for the ability to lie. He felt this wish burn deep in him now.

There was nothing to be done about it.

“Gracey,” he said. His voice was even, steady. He looked her in the eye, held her gaze for several beats before saying, “I have to go out for the night.”

Frowning, Gracey glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s late,” she said, her voice tinged with an unfamiliar weariness. “Where you off to?”

The demon clenched his fists. “Gracey. I have to breathe.”

She was confused only a moment before realization clouded her face and her mouth opened slightly as she began shaking her head. She closed her eyes. “How long?”

The Prime of Darkness shrugged, never taking his eyes off her. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ll be back before morning. It’s not safe for me out in the day. You know that.”

He didn’t wait for a response. He didn’t want to put that kind of pressure on her. There was nothing she could say that would make him stay, of course. What he did was done not for wont or desire but for the basic fact of his existence. “Breathing” was thus as apt a term as any. Still, she was human, and her field of vision was different from his. He couldn’t expect her to understand or give even tacit consent. What he was about to do, even though he had no choice, she would consider evil. And perhaps, from a certain point of view, it was evil.

There was nothing to be done about it. One cannot help but breathe. Even if one doesn’t want to.

Night envelops him like a glove. He slips into it easily, weaving strands of shadow and darkness around his figure like a weaver at a loom. The spiked pauldrons, which would have gleamed under even the softest starlight, are safely tucked into shadow where curious eyes will pass right over them, finding nothing of note upon which to linger. The motorcycle is harder to conceal for the terrible rumble it makes as it vibrates beneath him, but with small effort he extends his obfuscation to include the fantastic hunk of metal he has come to love so well, cloaking it both in darkness and silence.  Hidden in his twisted, tenebrous veil, the Prime of Darkness is not strictly invisible, but unless one knows precisely what to look for, he will remain unnoticed.

There are those who know what to look for, however. Angels with holy agendas, demons from enemy lordships, wanton spirits and unhappy ghosts seeking chaos, adventure, challenge. Groundless violence is as prevalent amongst the traditionally bodiless as amongst the corporeal, and the Prime of Darkness, though he has existed since time out of mind, is not ready to transcend existence and lose his individual identity. He is even more vulnerable in this ridiculous body, with its lumbering limbs and clumsy movements, its slow reaction time and tendency toward injury. To keep himself safe from those who would see him destroyed, he fashions for himself a blade forged in shadow and tempered in calamity; a blade so black it seems a hole in the world. Into that blade he pours despair and destruction. One cut would be all it took. He could kill a mortal in a fraction of a second; they’d never even see him coming. But the blade isn’t for mortals. The blade is for adversaries unknown. A soldier must always be prepared.

Forging the blade has used much of his reserves. He’s running on empty. He hasn’t time to waste.

He revs the bike and looks toward the horizon. The thrill of the night’s promise ripples through him, sends waves of electricity through his being. He can ride for a few hours if he must. Take his breathing to a place as far from Love & War—as far from Gracey— as he can.

He avoids bars. They buzz with an energy he doesn’t understand and can’t tolerate.  The overt sexuality clings to his skin like oil, makes it difficult to concentrate. He often wonders if that was what intoxication felt like, and why anyone would seek it out.

Humans are beneath his understanding.

He drives past bars, past liquor stores, past alleyways and all night diners; he rumbles past movie theaters, gas stations and empty parking lots. The city at night is a glorious thing; neon lights flash gaudily against the dim gray of night, the natural blackness of the sky sucked into the city’s ambient light. What the city’s night lacks in starlight it makes up for in street lamps, the burning ends of cigarettes, the eerie glow of a cell phone screen. He hums in near silence through the city’s slick streets, past hookers and drug dealers, past groping couples, past homeless men, none of whom turn a head in his direction, none of whom sense his presence. For them it is just another night. He glides past them, right through their night, ensconced in near-invulnerability, looking for a place to breathe.

Desmond Street turns into Munroe, winding away from downtown toward the river. He follows the yellow lines, obeys the traffic signals, sniffs the air for a sense of direction. Looking for a place to breathe. When he rounds Munroe’s soft bend, unsuspecting, finding black grass backing up to a small amphitheater, he knows he’s found sanctuary.

He parks the bike, saunters into the amphitheater. It is set into the side of a hill, crude concrete benches arranged around a small, moodily lit stage. He surveys the crowd, finds it is mostly women. The performer is an indie rock singer with a twelve string and a twang in her classically trained voice. It makes for a dazzling combination. Her voice, not big by any standard, carries surprisingly well. It is a sparse audience, but for his purposes more than adequate. The Prime of Darkness only needs one soul to consume.

Two women sit at the back of the theater, one collapsed happily against the other, their fingers entwined. The woman leaning against the other, a freckled, strawberry blonde wearing an oversized red sweater, is humming along with the singer, a hazy smile on her face. The other woman sits upright, expression mostly impassive, stroking her lover’s hair unconsciously, pumping a crossed leg to the song’s beat.

It takes less than a second for the Prime of Darkness to strike. Nestled deep in his armor of shadow, the demon’s consciousness reaches out to the redhead, piercing her heart and soul with a cold blackness he reserves specially for these occasions. He penetrates her quickly, finding the core of her warm and welcoming, the perfect feeding ground for this mission. As soon as he is inside, the black spear of his consciousness blooms into a thousand inky tendrils seeking out every crevasse of her being.

Possession.

Invaded, the woman sits up, pulls away from the woman caressing her. The smile slips from her face and she reaches up to her chest, clenching at her heart. Her consort leans forward, places a steadying hand on her back. “Shannon? You okay?”

Tears spring unbidden to Shannon’s eyes as overwhelming sadness descends upon her. She doesn’t understand where it is coming from. “God, this song,” she says, her voice low and uncertain. “I just…Jesus it just really gets to me.”

The tendrils grow into blossoms, thousand-petaled flowers of icy blackness in the center of Shannon’s being. The flowers swell, finding each other, winding their way like parasitic vines around each other’s stems. The darkness seeks out Shannon’s memories, eating them like acid, leaving holes and emptiness where deposits of her human existence had been. As memories of joy, childhood, happiness and expectation crumble into nonexistence, the flowers grow thorns, puncture her lungs, letting the warm breath of her life seep slowly out.

Corruption.

She opens her mouth to breathe, the tears falling freely from her eyes. Her girlfriend sits forward, grabbing Shannon’s arm. “Shannon! Honey, what’s wrong?”

Shannon leans her head back, shaking, ignoring the tears as they fall hot and salty on her skin. “Please don’t touch me,” she says. Her voice is flat, devoid of emotion. Her girlfriend pulls her hands slowly, confusedly, into her lap.

The flowers and their thorns crystallize into ice, spreading waves of frozen despair through Shannon’s veins, into her heart, into the deepest recesses of her thoughts and emotions. Her eyes glaze over and the tears dry up. The ambient sounds of the evening drain away until all she hears is the low surf of her blood going out with the tide. She doesn’t feel the press of her lover’s thigh against her own, or the bite of the cool night air on the skin of her cheeks. The shadows of the amphitheater meld together, forming a bleak gauze that fade her surroundings into a mere impression of space. The numbness begins at her heart, growing outward until everything is encased in gray. Her eyes move over her lover’s face. They hold not a mote of recognition.

There is no music. No sky. No concrete bench, no girlfriend, no nimble fingers, no breeze of breath, no glory, no joy. No sadness, no anger, no memory, no sound, no itch, no desire, no echo. No red sweater, no freesia perfume. No nothing. The black ice of the demon taking her soul fills her up, pushes everything out until all that makes her Shannon is gone, and only a shell of meat and bone remains.

Depletion.

As Shannon drains away, leaving a well of emptiness, the Prime of Darkness’s energy meters slowly begin to tick toward full. He surges toward wholeness, every atom of his being replenishing. Her siphoned energy fills him like a balloon, and he expands, invigorated, taking her in, drinking down all that she is, leaving nothing to waste. As he gorges on her golden energy, the sky becomes brighter, colors richer, the sweet voice drifting from the stage more silken, dripping with honey. Warm life roils inside him, sending him spinning, a vortex, a universe of a billion exploding stars all his own. He prickles to life, once again replete, robust, his ultimate, shining self.

He throws his head back and roars, a soundless rumble that charges the night air around him. He laughs, bewildered at the glorious gift of existence. All this for so little! It took only the spark of one girl. A small, mostly insignificant sacrifice.

The Prime of Darkness smiles, relaxes in a way he hasn’t in a long time. Having breathed in, he is ready to spend the next several months breathing back out.

Trinity Church, situated at the corner of Church and Martinez in the heart of Love & War, gained its notoriety for having burned down not once, but twice: once over a hundred years ago, and twice less than a year before. Both times it had gone up in flames before its construction was completed. Neither fire had been satisfactorily explained, but for the most part people were willing to accept both misfortunes as freak acts of God, especially since, in this case, the upshot of the accident was a block party sublimated to a holy festival by way of brightly colored party decorations, promise of prayer, and copious amounts of free food.

The townsfolk felt this was as good a way to consecrate the church grounds for its imminent rebuilding as any.

On this particular afternoon, the church had been transformed from the charred ruins of an old building with a statue out front to a small carnival. Street vendors offered peanuts, pretzels, popcorn, and candied apples. Brightly colored helium balloons were tied to anything that stood still. Folding chairs littered the lawn, and long banquet tables were set with fruit punch, potato salad, cold cuts, fried chicken, several plates of pot-luck dishes, and an assortment of desserts.

The Prime of Darkness shuffled behind Gracey, trying his best not to make eye contact with anyone. Obtrusive as he was in his shining pauldrons and billowing silk cape, the townsfolk did a commendable job of giving him a wide berth and offering pleasant smiles when eye contact was inevitable. If they tittered or gossiped when his back was turned, they did so with dignified, hushed voices behind cupped palms and only in the spirit of better understanding the blue-skinned newcomer whose presence had so disrupted their town.

It seemed everyone had turned out for the dedication ceremony. Mothers with small children chased their wards around the courtyard while men who had grown up together exchanged stories of family life, the economy, how tough things were at work. Teenagers stood sulkily apart, disdain and boredom oozing from their pores. The conversations he overheard as he passed between groups were oddly similar; the Prime of Darkness wondered if the humans were aware how common and trite their lives truly were.

He followed Gracey through the crowd as she mingled with the folks who patronized her bakery. She was a natural extrovert, the smile that played over her mouth wide and genuine. She blushed prettily at compliments about her dress or her hair; she offered her own praises and flatteries with the practiced art of a true southern belle. The Palmers received commendations on their home’s new paint job; the Garcias were lauded for their son’s winning the spelling bee. She mingled with the townsfolk easily, doling out pleasantries with a natural grace. The Prime of Darkness couldn’t help but be impressed at the spectacle Gracey was in her natural element.

“You’re having a good time?” The demon made it a question as his eyes scanned the crowd. He was looking for someone in particular. “You seem like you’re enjoying yourself.”

Gracey blushed. “I hardly ever get a chance to do anything like this,” she explained. “Always cooped up in the bakery or at the house, and Lord knows Tiny doesn’t like to socialize with us lowly commoners.” She grinned, shrugging. “It feels good to put on makeup, wear a pretty dress, have people admire you. It’s nice to have face time with the people you live with, ” she said. “You should know your neighbors.”

But the Prime of Darkness was hardly paying attention, as at that moment he found what he was been searching for. On the far end of the courtyard, furthest from the road, Lilac and Lakmei were moving in their direction, winding their lithe figures through the crowd as they welcomed their guests, pretty, warm smiles and genteel laughter at the ready. They wore identical kelly green blouses and identical gray slacks. They flitted from couple to couple, group to group, their buoyant smiles lighting their faces until their eyes found Darkness and their smiles flickered; dark surprise dimmed their angelic brightness.

The pair found their way to Gracey and Darkness, their smiles having returned full force. Lilac took Gracey’s hand, squeezed it. “Gracey Daylittle,” she cooed. “I’m so glad to see you could make it.” She leaned in, gave Gracey a light kiss on the cheek. She flicked her eyes to the Prime of Darkness, and her smile tightened. “And you brought someone with you,” she said, her voice strained. “Now that, I didn’t expect.” She faced the Prime of Darkness directly, her smile having taken on a menacing edge. “I’m surprised you had the audacity to show your face here after what you did,” she said.

The Prime of Darkness stiffened as he looked from Lilac to Lakmei, then back again. “I haven’t come for a reprise if that’s what you’re worried about,” he said. “I was obeying orders. The mission failed, or I wouldn’t still be here. I have no personal interest in you or this church,” he said calmly.

Lakmei reached for the demon, and took his hand in both of hers, the way Lilac had done with Gracey. The gesture surprised the entire party. “It’s so good to hear you say that, Prime of Darkness,” she said, her voice soft as silk and sweet as honey. She tilted her head to the side as her thumbs caressed the back of Darkness’s hand. “We don’t have to be enemies,” she said. “I know that millennia of grievances stand between your kind and ours, but there doesn’t need to be any animosity here, between you and us. We just want to bring our message of love and salvation to Love & War. It would be good of you not to stand in our way. We don’t want trouble.”

Angelic tenderness toward the demon was a display Gracey had never witnessed, and it surprised her. She’d never seen Lilac or Lakmei direct anything but hostility in Darkness’s direction. She stole a glance at Lilac and saw on her smooth, white face an expression that mirrored her own confusion. Whatever Lakmei was trying to convey to Darkness, Lilac neither shared in it nor fully understood it. This realization was more worrisome to Gracey than the fact that she was standing between two natural enemies—a sworn solider of darkness and two messengers of light. It wasn’t exactly an enviable position to be in.

The Prime of Darkness held Lakmei’s stare and struggled to find the right words to reply, but they weren’t forthcoming. Eventually he removed his hand from hers and turned to Gracey. “I think I’ll have some fried chicken,” he said. She watched him make his way to the food tables where he soon disappeared behind a wall of townsfolk and balloons.

“Anyway,” Lilac said, returning her attention to Gracey, “it’s good to see you. Is your sister not with you today?”

Gracey shook her head. “She couldn’t make it. Though I was instructed to bring back a slice of Hannah Davey’s chocolate cake if there was any left.” She put extra effort into her smile. She hoped it made her seem nonthreatening. She’d already earned the angels’ mistrust for harboring the demon.

“Oh, well. Tell her we missed her.” Lilac took a little breath and looked around, slipping back into hostess mode. “I expect we’ll be getting started soon. We’ll talk later.” Her saccharine-sweet smile was pasted back into place, and the two angels gave Gracey little finger waves as they drifted back into the crowd.

Aware as she was of how uncomfortable Darkness felt amongst people he didn’t know—which was nearly everyone—Gracey set off to find the demon. But though she found the fried chicken and several Jell-O molds, she didn’t happen to find the Prime of Darkness. As she craned her neck to look over the heads of the crowd, she maneuvered through the throng without watching where she was going and collided with another body. A gasp, a swear, a slice of German chocolate cake tumbling to the ground, and Gracey brought her hands to her mouth as she apologized for her clumsiness. “I’m so sorry,” she breathed, kneeling to help clean up the mess. “I didn’t see you there.”

The woman on the receiving end of Gracey’s apologies chuckled graciously, waving the apology away. “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “I’m used to it.” She was referring, ostensibly, to her height, which was slight. Even crouched, Gracey could tell she was not much more than five feet tall. She offered Gracey a forgiving smile, and Gracey felt the band of embarrassment that had caught her in its grasp loosen as they stood.

It took Gracey half a moment to realize she’d seen this woman before, but she couldn’t recall where. They didn’t get many newcomers to Love & War, and fresh faces tended to stand out; why she was drawing a blank on where she’d seen this woman before, Gracey didn’t know. It wasn’t until she glanced over the woman’s shoulder and saw her escort, a thin, nervous gentleman in a top hat and violet colored spectacles that she was able to place her. Gracey pointed a finger in recognition. “Are you…you’re the lovely woman I saw onstage at the Simon St. Laine show recently, aren’t you? You’re his assistant, right?” Gracey motioned to the magician. “I thought I recognized you.”

Simon St. Laine moved to the woman’s side in one quick, graceful movement as the small woman laughed—it was a high, tinkling laugh, the sound of silver bells on a clear morning. She shook her head. “I’m afraid not,” she said. “I don’t know a thing about magic.” She looked up at the magician, eyes bright. “But Simon does put on a wonderful show. Wasn’t it just marvelous?”

Gracey looked to the magician, saw a nervous smile try to appear, resulting only in an upward twitch of the corner of his mouth. She gave a little nod and extended her hand. “I don’t believe I’ve ever had the pleasure,” Gracey said. “I’m Gracey Daylittle. I own the pie shop just down the road, Want Some Pie? Do you know the one?”

The magician nodded his head, a stiff, up once, down once movement. He accepted Gracey’s proffered hand awkwardly, like the action pained him. He pumped her hand once and released it. “I know the one,” he said. “I’m afraid I don’t partake of pastry, so I’ve never had the opportunity to patronize your establishment,” he explained. His words were more clipped and formal than they had been the several times she’d seen him onstage. Gracey wondered if perhaps he were the shy sort. “I’m Simon St. Laine,” he said. “I’m quite pleased to make your acquaintance, Ms. Daylittle.”

Gracey waved away the formality, smiling. “Gracey, please,” she said. “I’m so pleased to finally meet you. I’ve seen many of your performances over the years.” She paused, noticed the way a flush crept up his neck. She wondered if he were aware of what people said about his work. “The Placerita show was brilliant,” Gracey said. “I’d never seen anything like it; it was even better than I expected.”

Simon gave her another curt nod. “I’m delighted to hear that it exceeded your expectations.”

Gracey looked back at the small woman standing beside them and shook her head slowly. “I thought for sure you were the woman on the stage. There’s such a similarity.”

Simon cleared his throat, clasped his hands behind his back. “May I introduce my cousin,” he said, “visiting from out of town.”

The woman smiled even more brightly, showing even, white teeth. She extended her hand. “Kit,” she said, her handshake limp and dainty. “Kit St. Laine. It’s such a pleasure to meet you.”

Having grown up in Catholic schools, Gracey was relatively certain there was no Saint Laine, so she was relatively sure St. Laine was a stage name, so she was relatively confident the woman whose hand she was shaking was lying about her name. That struck her as odd, but she labeled the curious thought “None of my business” and pushed it out of her mind.

“So you own a bakery,” Kit was saying, eyes wide. “I just love pie.” She had the kind of voice that caressed her words, the kind of voice made for radio or untoward telephone operations. “My favorite is strawberry rhubarb. Do you sell that?” She leaned forward, hopeful. Gracey thought she looked like she was about to tip over.

“Sometimes, when strawberries are in season, but not right now,” she said. “But I do have a dozen flavors most days. Why don’t you stop by and try a slice on the house? Maybe even take a pie back home with you to…I’m sorry, where did you say you were from?”

“Vermont,” Kit said, shooting her cousin a mischievous look. She bit her bottom lip in anticipation. “I would love that,” she breathed. “Tell me, Gracey, which flavor would you recommend?”

Of all the questions in all the world, of all the inquiries, queries, petitions, and solicitations that had been offered up to Gracey in the past, “Which pie?” or some variation thereof, was Gracey’s absolute favorite. That moment where she was granted implicit permission to reach out with her heart and soul and touch the inner workings of another shining being to ferret out the perfect combination of confections that would elicit the greatest surge of joy was the single most brilliant point in Gracey’s day. It set her spirit on fire like nothing else. Brimming with anticipation, Gracey opened her heart to the woman standing in front of her, reaching out with her own tendrils of emotion to touch whatever emotions and pie ingredients lurked inside Kit St. Laine’s heart of hearts. She searched for one moment, two. But instead of finding contentment sprinkled with cardamom, or boredom laced with orange liqueur, amusement spiked with chocolate fudge sauce, or longing smoothed over with marshmallow topping, she found, to her profound dismay…nothing.

Nothing at all.

Kit was waiting for a response, her upturned face expectant and curious. Gracey blinked and offered a flustered smile. “Ah, well, apple crumb is my most popular,” she said, the words tripping out of her. “But right now Chocolate for Breakfast is selling like hotcakes. It’s a chocolate and espresso cream with a chocolate graham cracker crust. They’re single-serving pies,” she added, as though this made a difference. “You’re sure to get just enough.”

Delighted, Kit clapped her hands together, turning her bright, smiling face to her cousin, who offered merely an uninterested grin. “Well, I can’t wait to try it,” Kit said, eyes glittering. “It’s been such a pleasure talking to you. I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other before I leave. You take care, now.”

The magician offered Gracey an affected, tight-lipped smile as his cousin pulled him away from the befuddled pie baker. When they were perhaps twenty paces away, the Prime of Darkness sidled up beside her, a fried drumstick in one hand and a plastic cup filled with potato salad in the other. “We ready to go?” he asked.

Gracey looked around and spread her hands out before her. “The dedication ceremony hasn’t even gotten started yet!”

Darkness wiggled his shoulders in an ambiguous little shrug, took a bite of his chicken. “I didn’t think we were really staying for that. I’m sort of allergic to these kinds of things,” he said.

Gracey made a disgusted noise, the wind knocked out of her sails. “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” she said. Shoulders slumped, she turned on her heel and started for her car, motioning for the demon to follow. “All right, let’s go. I think I’ve had enough camaraderie for one afternoon anyway.”

Gracey and Darkness hoofed it to the car they’d parked a few blocks away, Darkness munching his fried chicken, Gracey wondering why her pie empathy had failed her for the first time in her life.

Watching from the far side of a banquet table, only one of the angels was glad to see them go.

Mornings begin early at most bakeries, and Want Some Pie? was no different. At a quarter past four, Gracey found herself up to her elbows in flour as she guided a tray of single-serving Chocolate For Breakfast pies into the oven.

Mitsuo sauntered through the back door, disheveled as usual, but with confidence in his step and his chin lifted so that you could actually see his eyes. Gracey tried not to smile as he pulled his apron on over his black hoodie. He was practically a different kid from when she’d found him camped out in her barn.

“What’s the special today, Gracey?” The teenager tossed a stray lock of hair from eyes that just missed making contact with Gracey’s.

Hooking her thumbs into the belt loops of her jeans, the pie baker leaned back slightly, closed her eyes and breathed deeply. A litany of ingredients ran through her mind as though to an internal beat, a private form of meditation she’d practiced as long as he could remember. Rocking back on the heels of her boots, Gracey opened herself to the energy of the morning, let the subtle vibrations and gentle workings of the town fill her from her toes to the crown of her head. Breathing in, she could almost smell the sleeping residents of Love & War, could almost infiltrate their dreams, see what they were seeing, feel what they were feeling. They smelled of spice, of flours, of myriad different ingredients that shifted subtly each morning. Her meditation was an essential part of her magic, though she would never have described it that way. To her, it was simply part of her process, part of how she decided what pies to make that day. It was as much a routine as brushing her hair and teeth.

“Something unusual today, I think,” she said, her eyes still closed. “Apple, cranberry, rosemary. We’ll call it Fourth Thursday Pie. We’ll add a bit of cornmeal to crust.” Opening her eyes, she smiled at her assistant. “You okay to go down to the market? I’ll make you a list.”

“Sure,” Mitsuo said, pulling off the apron he’d just tied on. “And, Miss Gracey, if I haven’t said anything, I really appreciate you giving me this job.”

Gracey waved away the gratitude, ignoring the “Miss” she’d asked him a million times to drop. “I gave you chance; you earned being allowed to stay. It’s not like I could have you squatting in my barn forever,” she said, throwing him a teasing look. “How close are you two to being able to move out of the Badlands?”

Mitsuo shrugged, withdrawing into himself just a little. “I’m sorry you found us out there,” he said. “We weren’t trying to take advantage.” When Gracey didn’t say anything, he continued. “We don’t have enough for rent just yet; you need money for deposits and stuff. The Badlands is fine for now. I was raised in a trailer,” he said, trying to sound lighthearted. “But thanks,” he said.

Gracey was about to interject that there was a difference between living in a trailer and squatting in an abandoned one when the bell over the entrance jingled. Gracey always came in through the front door in the mornings and rarely locked it behind her even though the bakery didn’t open until six. She knew the townsfolk and they knew her; locking the door just seemed an unnecessary bother. So she was surprised to see the Prime of Darkness striding into the bakery, his pink salon smock tied awkwardly around his pauldrons. Gracey had to stifle a smile.

“Darkness! What on earth are you doing up so early?”

The Prime of Darkness sank into a seat near the door, his expression troubled. “I couldn’t sleep,” he said, popping a handful of Smarties into his mouth.“You got any day old pie? Blackberry, maybe?”

“‘Course I do,” she said, “but that’s not what you want today.” Reaching into the refrigerated case, Gracey pulled out two plates of caramel pecan pie and set them before him with a napkin and a fork. She watched him take a healthy bite before asking, “Was I right?”

The Prime of Darkness set his fork on the edge of his plate and looked up from his plate in wonder, eyes wide with disbelief. He couldn’t hide his smile as he nodded slowly, still chewing. “It’s brilliant,” he breathed. “It makes me feel …” He cast about for a moment, making groping motions with his hands before settling on, “Happy.”

Gracey nodded.  “I thought it might,” she said, without even a hint of self-doubt. “Anything on your mind you wanna talk about? I got some coffee brewing in the back; Mitsuo ain’t gonna drink any.”

The demon gave her a hard, evaluating look before shaking his head, heavy locks of black hair falling into his face. “No. Just couldn’t sleep.” He cast a sidelong glance at Mitsuo, who watched them discreetly from behind the counter. When he noticed the Prime of Darkness noticing him, he quickly looked away.

The Prime of Darkness motioned for Gracey to come closer, which she did without hesitation. He lowered his voice, looked her in the eye. “You knew about the pie, didn’t you? That it would make me feel good? How did you know that?”

Gracey shrugged. “I always know,” she said simply.

Moving away, she pulled a rag out of her hip pocket and began wiping down tables. “If you don’t have anything to do for the next few hours, you could go down to the turtle pond and look for Old Leviathan.”

The demon looked up from the pie, confused. “Old Leviathan?”

“Bigass turtle,” she said, without looking up. She was scrubbing furiously at a smudge only she could see. “Old Leviathan is the gigantic turtle that lives in the old pond at Bigsbee Park. Way I hear it,  he only comes out at night. And though it’s technically morning, it’s still dark. He’s probably still out.”

The Prime of Darkness took another bite of pie, his expression dreamy as he finished off the first slice. “How big is it?”

Gracey shrugged. “Real big. I haven’t seen him in years. But if I remember correctly, he’s got to be, what, twenty, thirty pounds? We’re talking huge.” She held her hands far apart to demonstrate size, and gave Darkness a bright smile, her dark eyes alive with laughter.

The Prime of Darkness polished off his second slice and pushed himself away from the table. “Okay. I got nothing better to do.” Remembering his manners, the Prime of Darkness nodded in Mitsuo’s direction. “How’s it going?”

Mitsuo lifted his chin in return. “What’s up.”

“Do you need a flashlight?” Gracey asked, her voice respectably level.

The Prime of Darkness gave Gracey a quizzical look. “You know I can see perfectly well in the dark. Thank you for the pie, Gracey. It was really great. Are you cooking dinner tonight?”

Gracey shook her head. “Sorry, cowboy. It’s Tiny’s night.”

The Prime of Darkness made a face. “Tiny can’t cook,” he said. It was almost a whine.

“Well, I’m sure you can still take Irma Flores up on her offer to have you over for dinner,” she said. “Irma cooks the best Mexican food this side of Juárez.”

The demon seemed to think a moment, then nodded his head. “Maybe. See you,” he said. He gave Mitsuo a lame wave, which the teenager ignored, and ducked out the front door. Gracey waited until she heard the rumble of his motorcycle starting before breaking into laughter.

Mitsuo nodded towards the doorway. “That guy really likes to eat, huh?”

Gracey shook her head, her hand to her temple. “Oh, you have no idea.”

“That was cold,” Mitsuo said, not disapprovingly. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for someone to pull the Old Leviathan on anyone,” he said.

“Even I like a good joke,” Gracey said.

Mitsuo grinned. “You pull it on your sister?”

Gracey shook her head. “Naw, Tiny’s heard my snipe hunting story too many times to fall for that.”

Mitsuo raised an eyebrow, smirking. “You went snipe hunting?”

Laughing again, Gracey gave Mitsuo a kiss on the forehead, much to his mild horror, and slapped him on the back. “Go get my ingredients,” she said. “Sun’ll be up before we know it.”

Gracey and Tiny were curled up on the couch together, sharing a bowl of popcorn. Gracey pointed the remote at the television, absently scrolling through the disappointing options on the TV Guide channel. “I should just cancel the cable,” Gracey complained for the hundredth time. “There’s never anything good on.”

“Oooh, no no wait, go back,” Tiny said, waving frantically at the television. Gracey scrolled up and Tiny squealed. “Oh my God, you guys! Harold and Maude is coming on in fifteen minutes. I love that movie!”

Gracey made a face, hit the “select” button. “I’m surprised you even know this movie,” she said, shoving a handful of popcorn in her mouth. “This is way before your time.”

“I watched it with Mama once,” Tiny explained. “You know how she is about Cat Stevens.” Tiny shook her head, acquired false poise, fluttered her lashes and sang in a forced soprano with too much vibrato, “If you want to sing out, sing ooooooooout, and if you want to be free, be freeeeeee. There’s a million things to beeeeeeeeee, you know that there are.”

Tiny and Gracey collapsed into each other in a fit of giggles. “But you know what we need,” Gracey said, “is a six pack and Funyuns.”

Tiny’s mouth made a perfect O. “I haven’t had Funyuns in ages,” she breathed. “Is there anywhere to get them around here?”

“Oh sure. They have them at the BRB.” Leaning forward so she could see around Tiny, Gracey put on her prettiest smile and said, “Hey, Darkness, would you mind going out to the BRB and picking up some beer and Funyuns for me and Tiny? Please?”

The Prime of Darkness looked up from his book, annoyed. Settled deep into the reclining chair with a throw pillow in his lap and a blanket tossed across his knees, the Prime of Darkness looked like the king of the living room. He wrinkled his brow. “I want to find out what happens,” he said. He was reading Smilla’s Sense of Snow.

“The ending’s no good anyway; it’s everything leading up to the end that’s the good stuff,” Gracey explained. The Prime of Darkness only frowned. Switching tactics, Gracey smiled pleadingly at the demon, folding her hands prettily beneath her chin. “Pretty please, Darkness? I don’t want to risk missing the beginning of the movie.”

“Don’t you have beer in the refrigerator?” he asked.

“Drank it,” Tiny answered.

The Prime of Darkness sighed. “I don’t even have my bike,” he said. “It’s in the shop, remember? Brake’s been acting weird. I asked Tucker to have a look at it.”

“That’s okay,” Gracey said, her smile brightening. She was radiating at least two thousand lumens. “You can take my car,” she said. “I’ll even let you adjust the seat. The keys are on the table.”

“Oh, no,” the Prime of Darkness said, shaking his head and holding up his hand in objection. “No way. I’m not driving the Matrix; I look ridiculous in that car. What if someone recognizes me?”

Tiny and Gracey exchanged looks, and both women did a respectable job containing their laughter. “It’s just a car,” Gracey said, rolling her eyes, mock exasperation drawing out her words. “Anyway, what’s wrong with my car? It’s a great little car,” she said, pretending to be offended.

“I like my motorcycle.”

“We know,” Tiny put in. “And your cape looks so adorable trailing behind you when you ride.”

The Prime of Darkness gave Tiny a cold stare. His exasperation was quite real.

Gracey gave Tiny a look that meant maybe they’d pushed him too far; he was a demon, after all, and his sense of humor was wanting. She sighed, waved off the previous conversation. “Ah, well, it’s dark anyway.” Gracey cocked her head to the side, gave the demon a sincere smile. “And I’d really, really appreciate it.”

Sighing, the demon dog-eared the page he was on and set the book aside. He stood up, gave Tiny and Gracey a defeated look and said, “What kind of beer do you want?”

“Shiner,” the said at once. They turned to each other and giggled like little girls. The Prime of Darkness rolled his eyes.

Rising from her seat, Gracey shuffled over to the Prime of Darkenss and wrapped her arms around his neck, careful to avoid the spikes on his pauldrons. Against her chest, she felt the demon go rigid with uncertainty and discomfort, and Gracey was reminded fondly of her first slow dance with a boy. This awkward embrace was not unlike that adolescent rite of passage. When the demon didn’t pull away, Gracey leaned in and planted a noisy, squishy kiss in the crook of his neck. She was surprised by the warmth of his skin. She looked up at him and saw that he was blushing. She’d never kissed him before.

When he’d recovered from the shock of Gracey’s unexpected display of affection, the Prime of Darkness grunted, made a good show of retrieving the keys form the table by the front door. “Where’s your wallet?”

“Oh.” Gracey ambled into the kitchen, retrieved her purse, and fished her wallet out form its depths. She handed it to the demon, who grimaced and shook his head.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” he said. “How old are you?”

Gracey made a face. “Old enough to not take things so seriously,”she said. “Loosen up, Darkness.”

The Prime of Darkness looked down at the wallet. It was plastic, pink, and sported the annoying visage of Hello Kitty all over it. It was a wallet intended for an eight-year-old girl, not a thirty-something woman. He snapped it open. “You don’t even have any money in here,” he said. Incredulity practically dribbled down his chin.

“Use the debit card,” Gracey called, plopping down next to her sister. “Oh, and bring back some antacid, too, please. Funyuns upset my stomach sometimes.”

**

The BRB was mostly deserted, save a couple of teenaged girls pumping gas and nursing cherry Slurpees; still, the Prime of Darkness parked in the shadows. The chime dinged as he walked through the BRB’s glass doors, and the Prime of Darkness cringed. He preferred, as much as possible, to meander around Love & War undetected. Of course, being the only person he knew who habitually wore black leather, spiked pauldrons, and a cape, it wasn’t exactly the easiest thing to do, but he’d mostly managed to get by.

He stood in the chip aisle, carefully reading the different titles in order to identify the brand Gracey had requested. He didn’t understand why humans needed so many different forms of junk food. He’d tried some of these fried monstrosities only once when he’d happened upon them in Gracey’s pantry. Artificial color and flavoring, he discovered, were poor substitutes for actual food. He much preferred barbecue or a slice of Gracey’s coconut cream pie to anything you could buy prepackaged from the BRB. Even the Ding Dongs made his stomach churn.

When he found the right bag, he grabbed it and popped it under his arm. He retrieved the Shiner Bock from the refrigerated case and laid his bounty on the counter. The girl at the cash register, snapping gum, sniffling, and probably high on something, hardly looked up as she rang him up. “$12.97,” she said.

The Prime of Darkness opened up the horrendous wallet and retrieved the debit card. He handed it to the girl who sighed and asked, not without annoyance, “Credit or debit?”

She looked up as she asked. Recognition washed over her face, and her cheeks flushed a charming crimson. The Prime of  Darkness steeled himself. She cocked her head to the side, tapping the credit card against the palm of her hand. “Say,” she drawled, a coy smile playing over Bonne Belle coated lips, “ain’t you that Prime of Darkness?”

He cleared his throat. “Credit, if you don’t mind,” he answered. He tried a smile. It didn’t feel natural.

“You are though, right? Wow, this is better’n the time I saw Angelina Jolie at the Walmart.” She slid the card through the reader.  “She was with that little boy of hers, that Oriental one? What’s his name? She’s super tiny in real life.”

He shifted uneasily, not knowing how to respond to her prattle, or even if he was supposed to. How many times would people ask him the same ridiculous question? Of course he was the bloody Prime of Darkness, who else would he be? The town didn’t have that many blue-skinned, diabolical, cape-wearing bikers.

She handed the card and the receipt back to him, still smiling. He signed the receipt, and snapped open the wallet to replace the card. He was about to wish the girl good night when she made an awful sound, something between a laugh, a bark, and a scream, and pointed a finger at the plastic abomination in his hand. “Oh my stars, is that a Hello Kitty wallet? My little sister has the exact same one!”

“It’s a terrible trick for God to allow it to rain on Halloween.”

Tiny was frowning as she poured a handful of candy corn into her mouth. “I mean, I get it. Most years the weather is awesome, right, so I guess that’s the treat. But when we get the trick…”

Tiny, Gracey, and the Prime of Darkness sat huddled together on the porch swing, listening to the rain fall in heavy sheets, waiting for the neighborhood kids to come beg for candy. Gracey was dressed as Rainbow Brite; Tiny, dressed as a belly dancer, had succumbed to the cold and damp and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. The demon wore what he always wore—a molded chest plate of indeterminate material, black leather pants, motorcycle boots, spiked metal pauldrons, and a red cape. He had a plastic cauldron filled with candy balanced on his lap. The flames from the line of jack-o-lanterns perched jauntily on the porch rail threw dancing shadows on the walls of the old house until an ill wind swept through and extinguished half the candles.

It was a miserable Halloween.

“Oh, it’s not so bad,” Gracey said, chewing a Tootsie Roll. “Don’t you remember going trick or treating in the rain, running through the puddles and laughing when your makeup melted into streaks down your face? I remember,” Gracey smiled. “I remember … I wasn’t quite sixteen so you must have been about six. You were a fairy princess. It was raining that year, and Mom and Dad wouldn’t let you wear the ballet slippers that went with your outfit. They made you wear boots, and you threw a fit because you said fairies don’t wear boots.”

“Well, they don’t,” Tiny interrupted. “I mean, I was just a kid but I was going for verisimilitude.”

“Actually,” Darkness said, his face drawn, “I don’t think fairies exist at all.”

The sisters exchanged exasperated looks.

“Anyway, you were mad about the boots, and then when we got outside you were mad about the rain. It smudged your makeup. So you started crying and carrying on until I told you to just tell people you were a Rambo fairy.”

“Oh my God,” Tiny breathed, eyes wide. “I do remember that! You said I looked like Rambo, but I didn’t know who that was. But I did what you said, and everyone laughed and said I looked awesome. Like I planned it.” She grinned, dug into the cauldron on Prime of Darkness’s lap. “Ooh, Butterfinger,” she purred, ripping off the wrapper.

A small group of kids bounded up the gravel drive, making their way to the porch. They were squealing with laughter, their costumes invisible beneath their rain slickers. They produced their candy bags and sang out a chorus of “Trick or treat!”, their smiling, ruined faces upturned and glowing.

The Prime of Darkness reached into the cauldron and grabbed a large handful of candy, dropping pieces into the children’s bags. One of the little boys in front, who might have been dressed as a cowboy, looked Darkness up and down with appreciation. “What are you?”

The demon smiled. “I am a Prime of Darkness.”

The boy cocked his head to the side in confusion. “What’s a prime of darkness?”

The Prime of Darkness faltered. It was a question he wasn’t sure how to answer, not to a child to whom he couldn’t possibly reveal the whole truth. On the other hand, he was incapable of lying. It posed a small dilemma. “Well, it’s a kind of soldier,” he said, after the uncertain pause. “A top soldier, above an ace or a deuce. But, just a soldier. That’s all.”

The boy didn’t look satisfied, but more explanation would have meant less time to acquire as much candy as possible, and his friends were already growing antsy. “Cool costume,” the boy said. “Thank you!” A disingenuous chorus of obligatory thank-yous followed, and the children took off toward the next house.

The wind picked up, and Tiny pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders. Gracey noticed, took a motherly interest. “Tiny, you should go in the house and put on a sweater or something. You’re shivering,” she said.

“I’m all right.” The redhead shrugged beneath the blanket. “It’s mood weather. We gonna watch a movie tonight?”

“What do we have?” The Prime of Darkness unwrapped a roll of Smarties and began popping them into his mouth.

Tiny counted the movies on her fingers. “Army of Darkness—I got that for you, Darkness, you’ll love it—Serpent and the Rainbow and, my personal favorite, Shaun of the Dead. And I even made caramel popcorn,” Tiny said, smiling.

“I made the popcorn,” Gracey corrected. “You sat on the counter and stuck your fingers in the caramel.”

“I kept you company,” Tiny said.

Another group of children approached, these wearing masks. When they arrived on the porch, they thrust their bags out before them and shouted, “Trick or treat!” It was more a demand than a pleasantry.

The Prime of Darkness handed out the candies, and two of the three kids muttered “Thank you” as they ran away. But the third stayed behind and removed his mask. It was Marco.

“Hey, Marco,” Gracey said, smiling. “Your costume is great; what are you?”

“A demonic overlord,” he said. The mask in his hand was a metallic orange with a pointy chin and horns. He wore a simple black tunic and glow-in-the-dark skeleton gloves.

The Prime of Darkness made a face. “You know, there isn’t exactly—”

But Gracey placed a hand on his arm, squeezing lightly. The demon took this as a cue to discontinue that thought. “Well, you look great,” Darkness finished.

If Marco noticed the exchange, he didn’t let on. He was looking at the Prime of Darkness with concern. “You’re not wearing a costume,” he said finally.

“Oh!” The Prime of Darkness leaned back into the porch swing, clearly taken aback. “Ah. Well, this is a costume,” he said. Even in the dim light, his pauldrons gleamed.

But Marco shook his head. “You wear that every day. On Halloween, you’re supposed to be something else.”

The Prime of Darkness crossed his arms over his chest. “Why?”

“It’s fun.”

The demon and the boy stood in silence, examining each other in earnest. After a moment, Marco took a sheepish step forward. “Well, here,” he said, handing the mask to the demon. “You can have that. You have to wear something,” he said.

Tentatively, with a strange feeling in his chest, the demon accepted the proffered mask and carefully fixed it over his face. It was a little snug, but the eye holes were big enough. “Thank you,” he said. His voice came out muffled.

“My name’s Marco,” the boy said, holding out a hand.

The strange feeling in the demon’s chest grew until it pressed against his lungs. Something caught in his throat. The Prime of Darkness accepted Marco’s gesture, and the two demons, one makeshift and the other not so much, shook hands. “I’m a Prime of Darkness,” he said for the second time that evening. “Ah, you can just call me Darkness.”

Marco smiled, his eyes flicking briefly to Gracey. He saw that she was grinning.

Without another word, he took off. He had some catching up to do.

When Marco was gone, Gracey turned to Darkness and admired his mask. “Pretty,” she said. “Looks like you made a friend.” She was still grinning.

The demon nodded. “Guess I did,” he said, his voice curiously soft.

The strange feeling in his chest was still there. After a moment, he realized the feeling was tenderness.

He didn’t take the mask off all night.

Gracey came home with an armload of groceries and dropped them on the kitchen table. Hearing her sister arrive, Tiny popped in the from the living room and began digging through the bags as though searching for buried treasure.

“What are you looking for?” Gracey asked, only slightly annoyed. Tiny had always been this way. Impatient.

“Don’t pretend like you don’t know, Gracey. Please tell me you got Snickers. Or Reese’s Cups! I’d settle for–Oh, God, Skittles?” Tiny slammed the enormous bag of Skittles on the counter and gave Gracey a dark stare. “Are you kidding me?”

Gracey raised an eyebrow as she began methodically sifting through the groceries, putting everything in its proper place. “What, who doesn’t like Skittles? Taste the rainbow,” Gracey said, stifling a grin.

“Where’s the chocolate, Gracey? It’s not Halloween without chocolate!”

Gracey chuckled as she wedged a 5 pound bag of sugar onto the pantry shelf. “Cool your jets, sunshine, there’s chocolate in there. I got a bag of Twix and a bag of Reese’s Cups. I don’t think I got Snickers, though. There’s also a bag of Smarties in there, but don’t give me crap about that; those are for Darkness. He asked for them specifically.”

Tiny wrinkled her nose as she pulled the bag of small, chalk-like candies out of the grocery bag and tossed them disdainfully on the counter. “You know, sometimes you can almost forget he’s a demon, and then he asks for Smarties, and you remember he’s from Hell.”

Gracey nodded. “Yep. Smarties are proof of Satan’s dominion on Earth,” she said simply. Glancing around, she asked, “Where is he anyway?”

Tiny waved her hand toward the back of the house. “In the barn. I sent him to go see if you had any Halloween decorations.”

“Finish putting these away,” Gracey said, motioning to the groceries. “And don’t eat up all this candy, Tiny, I mean it. I don’t want to have to go buy more for the kids,” she said. She gave Tiny a Very Stern Look, which Tiny returned with wide eyes and all but an angel’s halo circling the crown of her head. She smiled as she ripped open the bag of Reese’s Cups, and giggled as they spilled onto the floor.

Gracey found the Prime of Darkness in the garage, rummaging through piles of junk. He was muttering something under his breath as he flung cardboard boxes around impatiently.

“Heya, Darkness,” Gracey said.

The demon jumped, startled, and then gave Gracey a small smile. “Heya, Gracey. I’m sorry I’m making a mess back here. I’m just… looking for something.”

Gracey waded through the dislodged junk and picked out a cardboard box with the word “HALLOWEEN” written across the front in black marker. “This what you’re looking for?” she asked.

Darkness took one look at the box and shook his head, returning to the piles of stuff at his feet. “Actually, no,” he said. “I found that immediately. I’m looking for…do you have any rope? Or an old tire? Or some wood you don’t need…like a two by four?”

Gracey propped the box on her hip and looked around. The barn was normally in disarray, but now it was an utter mess. “I’m not sure, Darkness. Maybe. Probably. What do you need it for?”

Darkness opened his mouth to answer, and then promptly shut it again. He thought for a minute, then said, “I think that kid across the street’s been spying on me,” he said.

“Which kid? Marco or Alejandro?”

The Prime of Darkness shrugged. “I don’t know, aren’t they twins?”

“Yup.”

“Then I don’t know,” he said again. “Is he a nice kid?”

Gracey, surprised by the question, shifted her weight and shrugged. “Well, I don’t know which one you mean. I mean, they’re both nice boys. Alejandro’s a bit of a handful, but I think they’re supposed to be at that age. Marco’s real quiet; awful sweet. Withdrawn, though. Kind of a loner; I hardly ever see him playing with anybody.”

The Prime of Darkness nodded. “I thought so,” he said simply.

Gracey waited for the demon to speak again, but he didn’t, retuning to his hunt for wood and rope. She watched him a moment, bewildered. She was always surprised, and more than a little put off, by the ease with which he could dismiss her even while she was still standing with him. It was just another way in which he was...different.

“Anyway,” she said finally, “I just came out here to see what you wanted for dinner. I got stuff to make fish tacos or ratatouille, your choice.”

Darkness seemed to think a moment. “Ratatouille’s the stuff with the vegetables, right?”

“Yup.”

“Fish tacos,” Darkness said, returning to his hunt. As Gracey turned to leave, Darkness remembered something, and hopped up one last time. “Hey,” he said, “did you get the Smarties?”

Gracey smiled sweetly, cocking her head to the side. “My favorite supernatural creature,” she purred. “I got your back.”

She dropped him a wink and carried the box of Halloween decorations out to the front porch.

Sitting on the porch swing eating orange popsicles, Tiny Daylittle and the Prime of Darkness were being watched.

Although officially over, summer still hadn’t quite given up the ghost. Nestled in the heart of west Texas desert, Love & War was as hot as a pizza oven. Or Hell, Tiny thought, casting a sideways glance at the Prime of Darkness. She made a mental note to ask him about this one day. Sweaty and irritable, Tiny pushed the swing with her foot to stir the still air. Breezes were obstinate and refused to blow. As she bit off the end of her popsicle, Tiny squinted at the house across the street.

“They’re looking at you,” Tiny said after a while. “That’s gotta be so weird, to have people staring at you all the time.”

The Prime of Darkness shrugged, licking around his popsicle so it wouldn’t drip. “It’s probably a lot like being famous,” he said. “Like being a celebrity.”

Tiny snorted. “Not that this town’s ever seen anything remotely as interesting as a celebrity. Hell, I guess you’re the closest thing to excitement they get out here.”

Darkness followed Tiny’s gaze and saw that the family across the street was indeed watching them, though they made a good show of pretending they weren’t. “How do you know they’re not looking at you?”

Tiny cocked her head to the side, thoughtful. “They might be,” she admitted. “Should I give them something to look at?” Smiling, Tiny swiveled on her butt, leaned back, and stretched one leg out in front of her, pressing the ball of her foot against Darkness’s chest. She made sure the lookyloos across the street got an eyeful of a long swathe of alabaster skin from her ankle to her hip. With a devilish grin, she turned her head, stuck out her tongue, and wriggled her fingers coquettishly at the folks across the way.

The family across the street turned their backs, and Tiny could swear she heard the woman gasp.

Darkness shook his head and knocked Tiny’s foot from his chest. He wasn’t sure what game Tiny was playing, but he was pretty sure she was up to no good.

“I’m bored,” she complained, turning back around and crossing her legs Indian-style underneath her. “There’s nothing to do in this town. There’s not even– oh, hey,” she breathed, a sudden light flickering behind her eyes. “We should go see that Simon St. Laine show over in Placerita tomorrow tonight, you want to?”

“Who’s that?”

Tiny shrugged. “I saw a flyer last time I was at the BRB. ‘Simon St. Laine–implausible magician’ or something. Gracey said he’s not very good. Corny. But it might be fun. You want to?”

The Prime of Darkness thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t know, Tiny. It might be…awkward.”

She was about to ask why when understanding struck and she dropped her shoulders, deflated. “Oh. Because of the whole.…armor-wearing demon thing.” She indicated his outfit with a noncommittal wave of her hand.

The Prime of Darkness nodded.

“Well, listen,” Tiny said, her voice carefully light and nonchalant. “Can’t you just do that thing you do with the shadows? Where you sort of…bring them to you? And hide?”

The Prime of Darkness nodded slowly. “I can if it’s dark enough. But what about inside the theater? House lights can be bright enough that I can’t hide that well.” He shrugged his large shoulders, peered off into the distance. “I’ll just stay here. People here have gotten used to me. Or they’re too polite to say anything. You and Gracey should go, though. I can look after myself.”

Tiny thought about this a moment. It was true that the people in this backwoods town were surprisingly kind to the Prime of Darkness. Of course, that was probably because they didn’t know what he was. No one knew but she and Gracey. Most people seemed to think he was a circus performer, or mentally handicapped, or a participant in a reality TV show. (How they explained the lack of camera crews Tiny had no idea.) But ever since they had brought him home after finding him passed out on the side of the road, folks had just accepted him, like a blue-skinned man in a superhero costume wasn’t the strangest thing they’d ever seen in all their lives.

Actually, their willingness to accept him was kind of weird.

Tiny shrugged. “Well, whatever. Let’s at least go for a walk or something. I’m sick to death of this house.”

The Prime of Darkness nodded, got to his feet. “Yes. Sure,” he said. “You want to go now?”

Tiny stood, stretched, and tossed her popsicle into the trash. “I got to put on some sunscreen first. I’m so white I burn if you look at me wrong. But I guess you don’t have to worry about that?”

Darkness looked down at his bare arms, his blue skin almost purply-black in the shade. “I don’t think I burn,” he said. “But I don’t usually go out in the sun if I can help it.  Maybe I should put some sunscreen on, too. Just in case.”

Tiny was about to point out that if he didn’t burn in Hell, he probably wouldn’t burn in Texas, but figured he would miss her joke and retort something about not having a physical body when he was in Hell. So instead she just smirked and said nothing as she followed Darkness into the house. If nothing else, the smell of Banana Boat sunscreen wafting off the Prime of Darkness’s blue-gray skin was something she didn’t want to miss.