Chapter 7

It can't be.

There's no way.

Ansel's claws prick her bare skin as he struggles out her grasp and leaps from her arms—sprinting behind a stack of boxes in the living room. She takes a step back, then another. The edge of the countertop digs into her lower back. "This can't be real."

"Can't it?" His eyes flick to the blood running down her leg. "I suspect it must, at the very least, feel real." When she doesn't answer, he rolls his eyes. "Come now, you're acting quite ungrateful."

She trembles, the shock of it all settling into her bones like ice. Her sock is becoming warm and sticky, saturated with blood.

"Honestly," he grumbles. Another snap, another blink, and he reappears in her wingback—leaning his pale cheek against the heel of his hand. "I'm not here to hurt you. What would be the fun in that?"

Sara finds her voice, tucked somewhere between her hammering heart and the ball of lead in her stomach. "Why are you here?"

He shrugs, gesturing to the room with an open hand. "This is home sweet home now, is it not?"

A small laugh, as manic as she feels, leaves her. The shock thinning into disbelief. "So, what? You broke into my apartment to congratulate me?"

He holds up a finger. "Ah, no, actually. I invited myself into our apartment. I'm sure you can spot the difference."

Her breath leaves her. "Our?!"

"That's how this works," he hums. His arms spread in a wide, grand gesture. "Your home is my home. I go where you go, more or less." He nods toward her leg. "Now, honestly, will you please take care of that? I don't fancy stains."

"Wait, you can't be serious! I never agreed to this!"

"You did, actually. It's hardly my fault you never requested details."

"But—" A knock sounds on the door, interrupting her.

"Police. Is anyone home?"

The man draped over her armchair hums. "My, isn't that inconvenient? Perhaps you can convince him you spotted a spider? Something big and hairy."

"Hello? We've had some noise complaints from your neighbors. We're just here to make sure you're alright."

Sara slides along the wall, towards the door—mouth opening to call back.

"Ah, I wouldn't." He places a finger in front of his lips. "Tell him something, but say nothing about me. Unless, of course, you'd like your little life to go sideways in a hurry."

Sara licks her lips, heart pounding against her ribs. "I'm coming," she yells, backing towards the door. Her fingers fumble with the deadbolt, hand turning the knob.

The officer looks old enough to be her father; salt and pepper hair buzzed short. He's already glancing over her shoulder. "One of your neighbors called saying they heard screaming. Is everything ok in there?"

The source of her troubles walks up beside her—in full, unapologetic, view. "Why yes, officer. Everything is lovely. Thank you terribly so for asking." His voice, the way he rocks back on his heels, is mocking.

Sara waits for the obvious, but the officer doesn't spare him a glance—gives no indication that he's even heard him. In fact, if anything, the stare he pins her with only grows more suspicious. Sara's stomach sinks.

"Miss?"

She swallows thickly, a sad attempt to control the bubbling anxiety rising in her throat. "I, um, yeah. Yes. I just, I thought I saw someone else in the apartment and got scared."

It takes every ounce of willpower to keep herself from looking when the man—no. Not a man, she reminds herself. He's something else. Something inhuman. "Should have gone the spider excuse," he admonishes. "Honestly, who taught you how to lie? You're abysmal."

The officer's expression hardens. Apparently as unimpressed by her poker face as the devil at her back. "Why don't I come in and take a look for you?"

"Sure." Numbly, Sara opens the door wider. From the other side of the narrow entry, her intruder gives an I-told-you-so smile as the uniformed man walks past them.

Sara waits, pulse erratic, as the officer checks every room. She doesn't dare take her eyes off the grinning face across from her.

"It's good to see you have some sense," he hums, his hands planting in his pockets as he leans against the wall. "There have been a handful of others who proved to be rather lacking in that department."

Sara's thoughts stall.

Others?

"Everything's clear," the officer says, confirming what Sara already knows. His posture is more relaxed now, his hand at his side instead of hovering over his gun. Sara wishes his eyes would focus on the smirking man standing mere feet away from her. Then his gaze snags on the blood staining her leg—drying now that the wound has begun to scab—and he frowns. "What happened there?"

"Oh, um, I broke a mug."

He must have noticed the pieces of ceramic littering her kitchen floor, because he nods without questioning her further. "If anything happens, or if you feel like you need help, don't hesitate to call us back."

She nods, her blood humming with what feels like the beginnings of shock. "Right. I will. Thank you."

He tips his head and gives a practiced "anytime" before walking out the door. Sara closes it behind him, staring at the wood grain and trying to grasp the reality of her situation. She can feel her heart battering rhythmically against her rib cage.

"Well, I thought he would never leave."

Her blood boils. "How do I get rid of you?" she hisses.

"Lovely question," he hums, distractedly. "But I'm afraid past experience leads me to believe that you don't."

Impossible. He said there were others, which means they had to have managed to escape him somehow. "How'd the other ones get rid of you?!"

A brow—infuriatingly well-shaped—arches. "Considering they died, I do believe that makes me rid of them. But, to each their own, I suppose." He waves a hand dismissively. "It's all just semantics, really."

She pales, her anger cooling into fear. "Are—are you saying you killed them?"

"I said they died," he scoffs, mouth twisting into a frown. "Honestly, there is a vast difference."

His answer does little to ease her fears, and he must notice because he rolls his eyes. "I believe I already confirmed there is nothing for me to gain by hurting you. So you can stop looking at me like that. I'm hardly planning your murder."

When she still refuses to let her guard down, he sighs. "So timid. I expected more, to be honest. Particularly after that brave little face you put on at the hospital."

In the narrow hall, he still feels too close, but she's afraid if she moves he will follow. "You—I thought you were human."

He waves a hand. "Details." Head tilting, his stare is piercing in its intensity. "Perhaps some introductions would set you at ease? You may call me Seth."

The bridge of her nose creases skeptically. "Is that actually your name?"

"It actually is. Should I be concerned about your, increasingly apparent, trust issues?"

"I don't have trust issues," she snaps. "I have you issues."

"Oh look, your spine has grown back. Splendid news." His arms cross under his chest, a smile teasing at the corners of his mouth. "This is, however, typically the part where you offer your name in exchange."

Her eyes narrow. "What if I don't?"

"Well, I suppose I will be forced to inform you of how incredibly ill-mannered you are and proceed to find out anyway?"

Somehow, she doesn't doubt that he would. "… Sara." Never has she said her own name with such grudging reluctance.

"Sara," he echoes, a strange sort of half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth. Sara has the distinct feeling that he's laughing at some joke she's not in on. "I suppose it will do. Now then, clean yourself up, Princess. I was rather serious about blood stains. They're right irritating to get out of upholstery."

Sara doesn't ask how he knows—or about the odd nickname, despite the way it makes her bristle. Instead, she takes it as an opportunity to escape; the wall sliding against her back as she moves away from him before bolting to the bathroom and locking it behind her.