I stood in the living room of Shinra House, waiting for the lecture on how terrible my form was or how my control needed work. The phantom's energy still churned inside me like I'd swallowed a mouthful of TV static. Not painful exactly, just wrong, like my body was a phone trying to charge with the wrong adapter.
At least the man we'd saved would live. That counted for something.
I heard the click of heels on hardwood and braced myself for Amelia's critique. But when she rounded the corner, my brain short-circuited.
Gone was the tactical suit and ponytail. Instead, Amelia wore a flowing pink sundress that matched her hair. Her long pink hair cascaded over her shoulders, catching the morning light streaming through the windows.
She dangled a set of car keys from one finger, her lotus eyes watching my reaction with obvious amusement.
"You did well," she said, and I detected something rare in her voice—genuine approval. A smile touched her lips, transforming her face from intimidating to breathtaking. "A promise is a promise. We're going shopping. You look like a charity case."
I glanced down at my clothes—the same ones I'd been wearing since we returned from the exorcism. "What's wrong with how I dress?"
"Nothing, if you're aiming for 'broke college student with no fashion sense,'" she replied, striding toward the door. "But you're part of my covenant now. That means appearances matter."
"Your covenant?" I trailed after her. "What exactly does that mean?"
She glanced back, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "It means I'm investing in you, Isaiah Angelo. And I protect my investments."
Amelia slid into the driver's seat and I followed, trying to act like riding in luxury cars was an everyday occurrence.
"So this is my reward?" I asked as she pulled away from Shinra House. "Being told my fashion sense sucks?"
"No," she laughed. "Your reward is that I'm personally taking you shopping instead of sending you with Brittany, who would dress you like an accountant."
The wind whipped through her pink hair as she accelerated, sending it streaming behind her like a banner. The dress hugged her curves in a way that made it difficult not to stare. The abrupt shift from deadly shaman warrior to playful shopping companion left me off-balance.
"Eyes on the road, Isaiah," she said without looking at me, a smirk playing on her lips.
"I was looking at the road," I lied.
"Mmhmm." She took a sharp turn, and I grabbed the door handle. "Your eyes flare blue when you lie, by the way. Something to work on."
Great. Even my eyes were snitching on me now.
We pulled into the parking structure of New Pacifica Mall, the largest shopping center in the city. Saturday afternoon meant it would be packed.
"Wait," I said as she started to get out. "Is this really a good idea? With my... condition?"
She paused, studying me. "Your 'condition' is part of who you are now, Isaiah. You can't hide in Shinra House forever."
"But what if I—" I couldn't finish the sentence.
Her eyes softened slightly. "You won't."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because I'll be with you." She stated it as simple fact. "Besides, you just drained a phantom while under extreme pressure. This is just a mall."
Just a mall. Right.
The moment we stepped inside, I realized how wrong she was. Thousands of people, each radiating life force that called to the hunger inside me. Their emotions swirled through the air: excitement, frustration, boredom, desire.
Amelia watched my reaction with those calculating eyes. "Interesting," she murmured.
"What is?" I managed through gritted teeth.
"Your response to the crowd. It's different from how I expected."
"And how should I be reacting?"
"You should be finding the most attractive woman with a lot of life force to give." She tilted her head. "Instead, you're overwhelmed by all of it. You're feeling the collective energy, not individual sources."
I closed my eyes, trying to steady myself. "That's supposed to be comforting?"
Her hand slipped into mine.
"Try to relax," she said, her voice lower. "It's just a little shopping."
I opened my eyes to find her watching me with genuine curiosity. Our hands remained connected for a heartbeat longer than necessary before she released me.
"Come on," she said, striding forward. "First stop: getting you out of those rags."
She led me to a high-end men's boutique where even the hangers looked expensive. A saleswoman approached, took one look at Amelia, and practically bowed.
"Ms. Beleth, always a pleasure. How can we assist you today?"
Amelia gestured toward me. "My friend needs a complete wardrobe refresh. Price is no object."
The woman's eyes lit up like she'd just won the lottery. "Of course. I'll pull some options immediately."
I grabbed Amelia's arm, pulling her aside. "I can't afford any of this," I hissed.
"Did I ask you to?" she countered, raising one perfect eyebrow.
"I'm not a charity case."
"No, you're an investment, remember?" Her smile turned sharp. "Besides, what's the point of being me if I can't spoil my newest recruit?"
Before I could argue further, the saleswoman returned with an armful of clothes. Sleek suits, dress shirts, ties—all in muted, conservative colors.
Amelia frowned. "No, this isn't right at all." She turned to me. "What would you pick?"
I scanned the store, ignoring the stuffy formal section and heading toward the contemporary area. I selected a few items: dark jeans, fitted t-shirts, a leather jacket, and a navy blazer that could dress up or down.
"This is more my style," I said, holding them up.
Amelia studied my selections. "Better than I expected. You're not completely hopeless."
She joined in, adding pieces that were definitely more her taste—designer button-ups, cashmere sweaters, tailored slacks. I vetoed the worst offenders.
"I'm not wearing that," I said, pointing to a silk shirt with an absurd pattern. "I'd look like I'm auditioning for a boy band."
"And this?" She held up a blazer that probably cost more than my monthly rent.
"Are you trying to turn me into a host?"
She laughed, genuinely amused. "Just seeing if you have a backbone."
She countered by holding up a deliberately ripped designer shirt. "What about this?"
"That look like I'm still living in a dorm," I shot back. "Besides, if I want ripped clothes, I'll just fight some phantoms."
"Fair point."
We settled into a rhythm, compromising on pieces that blended her refined taste with my more casual style. By the time we finished, I had a wardrobe that looked like me but elevated—clothes that fit perfectly and made me look like I belonged at her side.
"That wasn't so bad, was it?" she asked as we left the store, shopping bags in hand.
"Ask me again when I see the credit card statement."
"Don't worry about that." She waved dismissively. "Consider it a business expense."
We stopped for coffee, and I used the brief respite to ask about the phantom from this morning. "What happens to the guy we saved?"
"Medical team will take him to a facility where they'll treat his physical symptoms and perform a memory adjustment." She stirred her latte absently. "He'll remember seeking shelter in the abandoned apartment and getting sick from exposure, but nothing about the phantom."
"You erase people's memories?"
"We protect them from truths they aren't equipped to handle." Her eyes met mine. "Most humans can't process what exists beyond the Veil without breaking."
"And the ones who can?"
"Become shamans." She set her cup down. "Or go insane."
I considered this. "What made you think I could handle it?"
"The fact that you're half-demon helped," she replied dryly. "But mostly, it was the way you reacted when you first saw me. Not with fear, but curiosity."
"You were interrogating me."
"I was testing you." She stood, smoothing her dress. "And you continue to pass my tests."
Her eyes gleamed with something like pride, and I felt a strange warmth spread through my chest. Then her expression shifted to something playful and dangerous.
"My turn," she announced.
"Your turn for what?"
"Shopping." She flashed a smile. "You've proven your taste isn't completely terrible. Let's see how well you can apply it."
She led me to a store with a minimalist façade and tasteful displays. It wasn't until we were inside that I realized what kind of shop it was.
Lingerie. And swimwear.
Very expensive, very revealing lingerie and swimwear.
I froze just inside the entrance, but Amelia continued forward, greeting the saleswoman with familiar ease. The store was clearly high-end, with soft lighting and plush seating areas. Everything about it screamed intimate and exclusive.
When Amelia returned to my side, her eyes danced with amusement at my discomfort.
"Pick three swimsuits for me. I want to see how well you've been paying attention."
I stared at her. "You're joking."
"Do I look like I'm joking?" Her smile was pure challenge.
This was a test. Everything with Amelia was a test. The question was, what was she testing? My composure? My taste? Or something else entirely?
I took a deep breath and stepped further into the store, forcing myself to look at the merchandise with an analytical eye rather than an appreciative one. Which was difficult, considering my brain kept helpfully supplying images of Amelia wearing the items on display.
Focus, Isaiah. This isn't about attraction. It's about understanding who she is.
I selected the first piece: a sleek, black one-piece with strategic cutouts that highlighted her figure without revealing too much. It was powerful, authoritative—the swimwear equivalent of her tactical suit.
The second was bolder: a deep crimson bikini with gold accents. It was confident, unapologetic—like the way she commanded a room.
For the third, I hesitated, fingers lingering over the options. Then I saw it—a soft lavender two-piece with delicate straps and a wrapped design. Elegant but vulnerable. The color reminded me of the lotus in her eyes.
I returned to where Amelia waited, presenting my choices without comment. She examined each one, her expression revealing nothing. Then she looked up at me, something like surprise flickering across her features.
"Interesting selections," she said finally.
"Good interesting or bad interesting?"
"Just interesting." She gathered the swimsuits. "The fitting room is this way." It wasn't a question but a command. "I'll need a second opinion."
She turned and walked toward the back of the store, clearly expecting me to follow. I stood rooted to the spot for a moment, trying to process what was happening. Was this another test? A reward? A power play?
All of the above, probably.