[An image of the interior of a cinema screening room. The scene is dim and soft, capturing a popcorn tub in a cup holder. Beside it, resting lightly on the armrest, is a woman's hand. The rest of her body is hidden in the dark but she appears to be resting. The only light comes from the giant screen, painting her skin in shifting blues and golds. The background is a blur of animated stars.]
@malachai.shaw
She fell asleep during Treasure Planet. I won.
***
The glow of my phone screen is harsh against the dark as I trudge towards the subway, my heels clicking a tired rhythm on the pavement. Chloe's voice is a shrill buzz in my ear.
"…and Jessica said she saw the perfect shoes for us, but they only had four pairs left in our size, and you couldn't make it so imagine the tragedy when—"
"Chloe, I told you I had dinner with Malachai's family and I wouldn't be able to make it."
"Yeah, dinner. Last I checked, Juju, dinner time is different from brunch time!"
"Check again?"
"Very funny," she's pouting. I can tell. "Okay, skipping the brunch was fine. But my engagement party. If you miss that, I won't forgive you."
Like I've forgiven her for sleeping with my fiancé.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Why is your engagement party even so close to the actual wedding? Isn't it a bit too late?"
"It's not late, it's at a perfectly appropriate time! And I want everything to be perfect," she huffs. "You won't miss the actual party, right? Promise me."
"I'm not a big fan of tying myself to obligations that—"
She cuts me off. "Promise me."
"Fine, I promise, Chloe. Cross my heart." I do the motion despite the fact that she can't see me.
Before I can fabricate an excuse to hang up when a second call beeps through. Sloane. My salvation.
"Chloe, Sloane's calling. It's probably important. I have to go."
I switch over before she can protest. "Slo! My saviour. What's up?"
"Oh, nothing much," Sloane's tone is dry as dust, "Just watching my best friend become a one half of those disgustingly cute social media couples."
I blink, slowing my pace. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Haven't you seen what your boy-toy posted?"
"Malachai isn't my boy-toy, he's my boyfriend," my ethically dubious and immorally gained boyfriend. But, nonetheless my boyfriend. "Besides, you know I stopped using those apps after… the incident."
"You mean when you stalked Liam's accounts, drank a whole bottle of Pinot, and texted him a paragraph of emojis that vaguely resembled a threat?"
"Please," I say somberly, stepping off the main thoroughfare onto a quieter, tree-lined street that serves as a shortcut. "Those were dark times."
"Well, he posted you. Mr. Private, No-Social-Media-Presence Malachai Shaw. Posted. You."
A strange, warm flutter stirs in my chest. I force it to settle. "Well, that's not surprising. Considering we're in a relationship."
"I did a deep dive. He didn't post Kaida Lovelace. He didn't post Hayley Augusta or any of his other exes. I think you're the first."
The flutter resurrects and becomes a full-winged beat. I force it down once more. "How do you even know these things?"
"You're not the only one with stalking skills, babe."
"For a lawyer, you sure do love committing crimes."
"I studied law to know exactly how much I can get away with," she replies, smug. "The real crime is the level of unadulterated cheese in that caption. 'I won.' Ugh. I'm lactose intolerant now."
I'm about to retort when a prickle runs down my spine. I glance over my shoulder. The street is poorly lit. A dark sedan idles at the far corner I just passed. It's been two blocks now. Coincidence?
"Juniper? You there?"
"Yeah, sorry," I say, picking up my pace, my heart beginning a slow, heavy thud. "Just… amazed that you, of all people, are complaining about romance. You like this sort of stuff."
"I do," she agrees without protest. "I'm a lover girl at heart. And that's how I know men who post corny shit are sus," a pause. "Hopefully, Malachai is the exception to that rule because, for real, I'm happy for you."
Another glance. The sedan's headlights flick on. It begins to roll forward, slowly, keeping pace.
Don't panic. It's a coincidence. You're being paranoid.
"Sloane, I have to go," I say, my voice tight.
"What? Why?"
"I'll call you back." I hang up quickly.
My fingers are trembling as I pull up Malachai's contact.
"Pick up. Pick up. Pick up," I whisper desperately as the phone rings.
He answers on the fifth ring.
"Ms. Monroe," his voice is a warm, teasing rumble. "Isn't it a bit late for a work call? I don't have an early meeting, do I?" A pause, a smile in his tone. "Unless this is about my little PR post. Did you see it?"
"No, this isn't about—" The sedan accelerates, closing the distance. "Malachai, I think I'm being followed."
All warmth vanishes from his voice. It's replaced by a steel so cold it freezes my blood. "Juniper. Where are you?"
I gasp out my location, my words tumbling over each other as I break into a half-run, my heels skidding on the damp pavement.
"Listen to me. Don't go home. Get back to the office, now. Stay on main streets, under traffic cameras. If you can't, get into a store, a cafe, anywhere with people. Try not to get cornered. Do you understand?"
"I think I do," my heart is beating so fast, it's threatening to burst out of my chest. "Bear with me. I've never been kidnapped before."
"You are not getting kidnapped," I can hear frantic movement on his end—keys, a door slamming, an engine roaring to life. "I'm here. Don't hang up. I'm coming. Just keep talking to me. Are you hurt?"
"No, I'm just…"
Afraid. Terrified. Scared shitless. There are many synonyms.
"I'm just—"
The world explodes in a burst of noise and action.
A second car, a van, screeches to a halt inches from me, blocking the sidewalk. Doors fly open. Large, gloved hands grab me. My phone is slapped from my grip, shattering on the concrete. A rough cloth is shoved into my mouth, another tied over my eyes. I'm lifted, thrown into the van like a sack. The door slams. Tires scream.
I'm on the floor, my arms wrenched behind my back and bound. A hard, cylindrical pressure digs into my ribs. A gun.
"Easy now, sweetheart," a gruff voice sneers. "It's only a courtesy call. Boss wants a word."
Terror is a white-noise scream in my skull. I thrash, earning a backhand across the face that makes my vision starry even through the blindfold. The van swerves, accelerates.
I've never been kidnapped before. But I don't need anyone to tell me this won't end well.
Malachai. He's coming. He said he was coming.
But what if he doesn't? What if these men take what they want from me and toss me in a ditch somewhere? I should've listened to Malachai. I should've accepted his offer of a bodyguard.
You should've listened to Liam.
He's dangerous.
Dangerous.
Dangerous.
A sound like the world tearing in half rips through my ears.
The horrific, grinding CRUNCH of metal on metal as something collides with the van with the force of a meteor hitting the earth. For a second, I feel my body lift off the ground. Then I'm crashing down, thrown against the wall, my shoulder screaming in protest, my screams muffled by the gag.
Men shout, curse.
"What the fuck was that?!"
"It's him! It's fucking Shaw!"
"Intel said he was in Bellevue!"
"The intel was WRONG!"
There's gunfire. Short, sharp pops that are deafening in the metal shell. Then, faster than the gunshots are the sounds of impact. Wet, crunching thuds. A guttural scream that is cut off with a sickening snap. People are dying quicker than my kidnappers can keep up with. I can hear the surprise and fear in their voices.
God, please. I know I haven't been your biggest fan for a while but fucking please—
A harsh, metallic ripping sound crawls above the noise of death. The night air hits me in all it's cold, vicious glory.
I scramble in its direction, wiggling my bound hands, kicking with my legs. I find purchase and half-fall, half-crawl out of the overturned wreckage onto cold, gritty asphalt. I think my head is bleeding. I can hear fighting all around me—grunts, cries, the whistle of something moving too fast to be human.
I stagger to my feet and run. My ankle gives a hot spike of pain, but I don't stop. Run. Just run.
A body drops heavily in front of me, making me stumble. A hand closes around my bicep, yanking me backward. "Where the fuck do you think you're going!?"
I scream against the gag, twisting in the grasp.
I hear the wet, choking gurgle directly in my ear. The grip loosens, then falls away as the man collapses.
Another hand grabs me, this one shoving me violently to the side. I slam into a brick wall, the impact knocking the air from my lungs. My blindfold slips, just a fraction, just enough.
The alley is dark, lit only by a single, flickering streetlight and the burning wreck of the van. Shadows dance like demons.
And in the center of it all stands one.
It's Malachai.
I think.
I mean, he's wearing Armani.
But his form is wreathed in shifting, oily darkness that seems to drink the weak light. His eyes are pools of absolute black, no whites, no iris, just fathomless voids that radiate a cold fury. His hand is outstretched, clamped over the face of one of my attackers. The man is kicking helplessly like an animal caught in a trap, his screams muffled in Malachai's hand.
He's… dissolving. Where Malachai's skin meets his, a dark, viscous fire erupts. The man's head isn't 'unmakes' in the fire, the skin peeling to bone and turning to ash in a heartbeat.
Malachai—the thing wearing Malachai's shape—drops the now headless body. He turns those abyssal eyes toward me.
Our gazes lock.
In that endless, terrifying black, I see the same entity that held my face and whispered, lips inches away from mine, that I do not know him.
There's only so much pain and the shock the human body can take before it shuts itself down.
Turns out my threshold is right after escaping a kidnapping, surviving a massacre and finding out my fake boyfriend might be an eldritch entity.
The world tilts, the darkness in his eyes bleeding into my own vision.
The last thing I know is the scent of blood and burning flesh before everything goes black.