Between Heaven and Hell (PA #2)

Chapter Thirty-Five

Alexander (Greed)

The human's acting weird. Weirder than fucking usual, at least.

She's been staring at a random spot on the wall for the last five minutes. I don't see what's so damn interesting about concrete blocks slapped together with mortar. Unless she's planning a career in construction for when she inevitably gets brain-wiped and sent to Earth.

That or she'll be dead.

I'm rooting for dead.

I snap my fingers at her like she's a misbehaving pet. "Get it together, mouse. I don't have all fucking day."

She turns her head toward me. "Sorry. I got distracted thinking about things."

There's a beat of silence that I willingly fill. "If this is the part where you expect me to ask what you're thinking about, then prepare to be disappointed. I don't give a shit."

"Not a single one?" she smiles in question.

"No," I say succinctly, not inviting any chance for joking between us. I'm not here to be her friend or talk about her problems.

I could probably guess what her issues are, anyway. Four men who might as well sew themselves into her fucking underwear with how much they ride up her ass every day.

She changes the subject to something I want to talk about even less than her feelings.

"What do you need the pen for?"

A need, not a want.

December 31st, three years ago...

"What does it matter to you?"

"I heard a story about it. The students here call it The Unraveler."

You weren't alone when you entered the house...

I shake off the reminder of past mistakes. It's not like worrying over them will help me now. Guilt and regret are useless emotions that change absolutely fucking nothing about my current situation.

"My business is not your business, mouse. I save my heart-to-hearts for people I actually like."

"So, Gwen, then. She's your only friend and probably the only person you don't want to spontaneously combust."

Spontaneous combustion–death without my direct or indirect involvement. It would solve all of my problems if that were the case.

I snort. "You got that right."

"He has a ward on it," she circles back to the whole point of us meeting at the asscrack of dawn. We gave up the pretense of sparring two weeks ago.

"Fuck."

I should've expected that. I really should've expected that, but I've never felt any magic surrounding the pen other than what comes from the pen itself.

So, how does the human know about it? She's even less attuned to magical traces than I am.

"I overheard a conversation–"

"You spied, mouse," I interrupt.

"I just so happened to be in the right place at the right time when two of the advanced-level magic professors talked about it."

In other words, she spied on them.

I guess I can't be mad at her methods when they produce good results.

Nah, fuck that. I can still be annoyed that she's constantly lurking in the shadows like a creep. Because where's the line with her? Is she out here hiding in my bathroom so that she can watch me jerk off in the shower?