It was a wicked downpour. The one small umbrella I owned barely shielded Dala and me from the storm. I opened it halfway inside the cab so we wouldn’t fumble when we stepped back into the weather. Our clothes were already damp, our shoes holding shallow puddles that squished with every step.
It had been a hell of a day. All I wanted was the warm, stale air of our fourth-floor apartment. Small. Under-furnished. Ours.
We hadn’t spoken much since morning. We didn’t need to. There are certain days when language feels intrusive—when words only make something permanent.
The cab rolled half a block past our building. I told him to stop. He ignored me and idled forward until a car boxed us in from behind.
I didn’t want to wait. I wanted to be home.
“Take the umbrella,” I told Dala. “I’ll be fine.”
I paid the fare, stepped into the rain, and tried shielding my head with my coat. It was useless. The cold soaked through instantly.
We ran for the entrance. I fumbled with the keypad longer than I should have, my fingers stiff. When the lobby doors finally shut behind us, heat blasted from the vents and hit our faces. Immediate relief.
The cab driver hadn’t turned on the heat. Said he overheated easily. We’d sat in the back shivering.
No tip.
We rode the elevator up. Dala trembled beside me, so I wrapped an arm around her. Her body felt small, fragile. Too fragile for the weight of today.
Inside the apartment, the cats wound around our legs as we peeled off wet clothes at the door. Stripping down to dry skin felt like shedding something heavier than rain.
Now came the harder part.
Distracting ourselves.
We changed into pajamas and robes. Still shivering, I made us each an espresso. It was only 5:15 p.m.—too early for bed, though sleep would have been the cleanest escape.
After the espresso, I poured two generous glasses of Merlot.
“Do you want to eat?” I asked. “I can make something quick.”
“I’m not hungry,” she said, finishing half her glass in one swallow. “But I should eat.”
Her voice was flat. Dala loved food. Even at her strictest, she loved it. Hearing her speak about eating like it was a chore unsettled me more than the silence had.
“I can do mac and cheese,” I offered. “Or that veal we never used. Sandwiches. The salad you like.”
“Something light,” she said. “Bread. Cheese. Whatever’s easy.”
Easy.
I built a tray: salami, andouille, pâté, prosciutto. Burrata, mozzarella, ricotta salata. Warmed focaccia with extra roasted garlic the way she liked it. Crostini, olives, almonds, tomatoes.
We ate in silence while a rerun of Crime Watch Daily flickered on the television. Probably the worst thing we could have chosen tonight, but she turned it on, and I didn’t argue.
The house already felt emptier.
We had spent yesterday packing up what reminded us of him. Not throwing it away—just moving it out of sight. Dala insisted on that. If it were up to me, everything would have been gone.
Tonight would be the first night in five years I would sleep without listening.
Without waiting.
Joao was three months old when Dala nearly died bringing him into this world. Five years ago. Five long years.
He was never like other children. That much was clear from the beginning.
He did not cry for comfort. He cried for reaction.
He watched us in ways children shouldn’t watch their parents. Calculating. Curious.
There were incidents. Enough that Dala stopped telling her friends about motherhood. Enough that we stopped inviting people over.
He found entertainment in fear.
Dala called it “phases.” Developmental quirks. Strong-willed. Gifted.
She never saw what I saw.
She never knew what I was.
Two hundred and forty-seven years ago, I left my Realm. I chose Earth. Chose flesh. Chose limitation. Demons are not misunderstood creatures. We are not tragic. We are efficient. Eternal. Detached.
I wanted none of it.
Humans are selfish, yes. Arrogant. Short-sighted. But they feel. They attach. They break and still continue.
I wanted that.
And then I met Dala.
For a few years, I forgot what I had been.
When she told me she was pregnant, I allowed myself to believe something impossible—that whatever I was would dilute itself. That love would override blood.
I was wrong.
Joao inherited more than my eyes.
I tried speaking to him once. Carefully. Testing the waters. Explaining restraint. Control.
He understood immediately.
And he enjoyed it.
Things escalated after that.
Today, we drove to South Carolina.
There are others like me who never fully assimilated. They have businesses. Networks. Interests. I don’t ask questions about the details. I know enough.
They agreed to take him.
Dala believes they’re old friends helping us through a difficult season. I let her believe that. She needed something clean to hold onto.
When we left him there, he didn’t cry.
He smiled.
That was the worst part.
I don’t know what they plan to do with him. Train him. Use him. Contain him.
It doesn’t matter.
He will survive.
Of that, I am certain.
“The kid was a devil,” I muttered once in frustration years ago.
I wasn’t wrong.
Tonight, Dala leans against me on the couch, her wine nearly gone. She’s quieter than I’ve ever seen her.
“If he stayed,” I told myself over and over these past months, “she wouldn’t have much longer.”
That part is true.
Joao was growing stronger.
And I had begun to fear that one day I might have to choose more violently.
This was mercy.
For all of us.
I will never tell her the full truth. There is no reason to stain what little peace she has left.
I’ll let her grieve the idea of him.
I’ll let her believe we did what was best.
We finish the wine. Build small sandwiches from the tray. Chew without tasting.
Tonight will be the first night in years that I don’t lie awake listening for movement in the hallway.
The first night I won’t wonder if the bedroom door will open on its own.
The first night I will feel safe.
That should comfort me.
Instead, as Dala rests her head against my shoulder, I find myself wondering whether we delivered our son to containment—
or to his kingdom.
