---Jason---

  I lead Grace back to the bathroom, trying to ignore the way my T-shirt clings to her frame without the makeshift binding. My face still burns with the knowledge that my mother saw her on our video call. Mom will definitely have questions when she returns from Mexico.

  "So this is a hair dryer," I explain, pulling the appliance from the drawer beneath the sink. "It blows hot air to speed up the drying process."

  Grace takes it from my hands, examining it carefully. Her fingers trace the various buttons and vents with the same methodical precision she seems to apply to everything.

  "The air becomes heated through resistance coils," I continue, plugging it into the wall socket. "High setting is pretty hot, so maybe start with low."

  I demonstrate by flicking the switch to the first position. The dryer roars to life, and Grace doesn't flinch—not even a blink—at the sudden noise. She simply takes it from my hand and holds it at arm's length, studying the stream of warm air with intense focus.

  "Efficient," she observes, turning the nozzle toward her damp hair. The black strands flutter in the artificial wind. "This would prevent death from exposure in winter conditions."

  "That's... one way to look at it," I say, watching as she awkwardly points the dryer at different sections of her head. "Most people just use it because wet hair is uncomfortable or takes too long to dry naturally."

  "Death by discomfort is still death," Grace says matter-of-factly, and I can't tell if she's making a joke or being serious.

  "Here, it works better if you use your fingers to lift sections while you dry," I demonstrate the motion without touching her, keeping a careful distance, I've fucked up enough on that front already, thankyou very much. "Like this."

  Grace mimics my movement with surprising accuracy, her fingers combing through her short hair as she directs the airflow. Water droplets scatter against the bathroom mirror.

  "I should give you some privacy," I say, backing toward the door. "Just turn it off when you're done by flicking the switch back down. I'll be in the living room."

  She nods once, already absorbed in her task, and I slip out, closing the door behind me. The muffled drone of the hair dryer following me down the hallway.

  Back in the living room, I collapse onto the couch and cover my face with my hands. What am I doing? How did my life go from normal Canadian guy with a boring desk job to harboring an interdimensional warrior woman who casually discusses throat-ripping and gutting people? Who, I might add, I'm still attracted to, deathoath that's putting a stop to me doing anything at all about that, or not?

  And worse, why am I so intrigued by her?

  Mom's going to lose her mind when she gets home. Dad will probably just raise one eyebrow in that way he does when he's trying to figure out a particularly complex structural problem.

  Dawson raises his head from his bed in the corner, letting out a soft whine.

  "Yeah, buddy, I know," I mutter. "Life's gotten weird."

  He thumps his tail twice against the cushion before settling back down with a contented sigh. At least someone's taking all this in stride. Then again, Grace for him just means more head scritches and tummy rubs, so can't really blaim the guy.

  The hair dryer cuts off, and I straighten up, trying to look casual rather than like I'm having an existential crisis. A few minutes later, Grace emerges from the bathroom. Her hair is dry now, the short black strands falling in soft layers around her face. More importantly, the makeshift binding is back in place beneath my shirt, returning her silhouette to a more modest profile.

  "Is this more appropriate for social interactions?" she asks, gesturing to her chest.

  "Yes," I say, relieved. "Thank you for, um, doing that."

  She nods once, accepting my gratitude without comment, and takes a seat in the armchair across from me. Her posture remains perfectly straight, knees together, hands resting on her thighs. It's like watching someone who learned human behavior from a textbook—all the correct movements without any of the usual ease or casual slumping.

  "I should tell you something," she says, her green eyes fixed on mine with unsettling intensity. "About myself. About what I am."

  Something in her tone makes me sit up straighter. "Okay..." I say cautiously, not entirely sure I want to hear what comes next.

  She reaches up to remove the towel from her head, carefully squeezing remaining moisture from her hair. Every movement seems calculated, deliberate, like she's buying time to organize her thoughts.

  "I am what my world calls a psychopath," she states, folding the towel with mechanical precision. "My condition is formally recognized in my status window, though you cannot see it."

  "Status window?" I ask, then quickly shake my head. One bombshell at a time. "Never mind. You were saying... psychopath?"

  "Yes. I experience emotions differently than others. Fear, joy, sadness, desire—these feelings exist for me only as faint echoes, barely perceptible sensations rather than driving forces." She folds her hands in her lap, movements deliberate and controlled. "The druid explained it as a disconnection between my emotional processing centers and the rest of my cognitive functions."

  I study her face as she speaks, looking for any sign that this is some kind of joke. But her expression remains perfectly serious, those green eyes holding mine without wavering.

  "I feel emotions," she continues, "but at severely reduced intensity. They do not influence my decision-making as they do for others. I observe emotions rather than experience them fully."

  She takes a seat across from me, maintaining precise distance—close enough for conversation, far enough to react if necessary. The calculation behind even this simple action suddenly takes on new meaning.

  "My condition was identified early in my development. In my world, untreated psychopathy often leads to destructive behaviors. The clan gave me a structured code to follow, clear parameters for interaction. Without these guidelines, I would likely have become dangerous—to myself and others."

  I lean forward slightly, heartrate increased. This explains so much about her matter-of-fact descriptions of violence, her clinical approach to everything. Yet somehow, I'm not afraid. Fascinated, concerned, but not afraid. Probably says something about me that I'm not, but regardless.

  "Moral frameworks are intellectual constructs for me, not emotional imperatives. I adhere to my code because I recognize its utility, not because I feel compelled by empathy or compassion." She maintains steady eye contact as she continues. "The death oath I swore is part of this structure. It provides clear parameters for our interaction."

  She leans forward now, eyes searching my face. "Does this change your assessment of me? Knowing what I am?"

  I sit in silence, trying to process everything she's just told me. The living room feels too quiet, too normal for this conversation. Outside, a car drives by, its headlights briefly illuminating the wall behind Grace. Somewhere in the kitchen, the refrigerator hums to life.

  "Can you care about people at all?" I finally ask. "Or is it all just calculation?"

  "Care is a complex concept," she responds, slowly. "I can value others. I can recognize their importance to objectives I consider worthwhile. The druid, for example—I valued his guidance, his knowledge. When my arrow struck him instead of the necromancer, I experienced something approximately like regret."

  "And Dawson?" I ask, glancing toward my sleeping dog, unable to hide my concern.

  "Dogs are straightforward," she explains. "They function on clear parameters—loyalty given for protection received. This simplicity is... not displeasing to me."

  "And me?" I ask quietly, almost afraid to hear the answer. "Where do I fit in your calculations?"

  "You present an interesting puzzle," she admits. "Your behavior follows no pattern I recognize. You shelter a stranger, feed her, teach her, trust her with your loyal companion—all without demanding compensation or establishing dominance." She pauses, then adds, "This brings me to my question for you."

  "Which is?" I prompt when she doesn't immediately continue.

  "Why?" The single word hangs between us, Grace's genuine confusion evident in that single question. "If our positions were reversed, I would have acted differently."

  "How so?" I ask, though part of me suspects, given what Grace has told me about various things previously, I have a decent idea of what she'd do.

  "I would have, at worst, simply stepped over you, while ensuring you would not become a threat. Or perhaps killed you to end your suffering." Her voice remains even, as if discussing a mundane choice between tea or coffee. "I would not have brought you into my dwelling, not fed you, certainly not left you within my dwelling with someone I clearly care for. Not when I could use Dawson as leverage."

  My stomach tightens. "You'd use my dog as leverage?"

  "I am explaining that I would have recognized the tactical advantage, not that I would pursue it now," she clarifies. "There are easier methods of control. I merely note the strategic oversight in your behavior." Before, softer now. "also, no. Dogs are. Not to be used in that manner. Those who do such are the enemy. The enemy exists only to be destroyed."

  I rub my temples, trying to process the casual way she discusses potentially killing me or threatening my dog. "So why heal my eyes then? Was that just... tactical?"

  "Partly, yes. You are my guide in this strange world. I know little of it, and you provide valuable information." Her eyes flick away from mine for a moment—the first time I've seen her break eye contact. "Had I not been able to heal your eyes, there would have been alternatives."

  "Alternatives?" I repeat, slowly.

  "I would have taken you outside, explained what I was going to do, then opened your carotid arteries and left you to bleed out," she says with clinical detachment. "I am glad that was unnecessary, as I would not wish to deal with Dawson's grief-driven attack on me for killing you." A small crease appears between her eyebrows. "Especially as I have, strangely, grown attached to the dog over the course of the day."

  The casual way she discusses my potential murder should make me feel, more than I do. Still, the fact she has become attached to Dawson is what I focus on, the fact he will have someone if everything goes sideways. The fact that there was the very real risk of Grace murdering me if the healing didn't work, well. Don't really value my life particularly highly at the best of times, and today hasn't been the best of times, though no-one at Northern Edge knew. No-one knew, which is how I like it, thankyou very much. They have enough to deal with, and this is my problem, not theirs. Especially as they wouldn't be able to do much, and it would just hurt them regardless.

  I swallow before searching for words. "So you're telling me all this because...?"

  "You deserve to know what manner of being you have welcomed into your home," Grace says simply. "The death oath ensures I cannot harm you, but honesty is more efficient than deception in this case. You have shown me consideration. I am returning it in the only way I know how—with truth."

  I let out a long breath, processing everything she's told me. "Well, at least that's a nice surprise," I say with half a smile.

  "Nice surprise?" she echoes, her head tilting slightly.

  "Yeah, you being honest instead of, you know, waiting until I've outlived my usefulness." I run a hand through my hair. "Most of my surprises tend to be more like finding out I didn't wipe down something properly because I couldn't see it, and people telling me about it. Not the people telling me part—that's fine—but the constant failures. Intellectually, I know everyone messes up, but I never actually see other people's mistakes."

  I catch myself, realizing I'm about to launch into a self-pitying rant. "Sorry, that's not relevant. Let's get back to this death oath thing. Can you explain exactly how it works? I'm asking, not ordering you to tell me," I add hastily.

  Grace studies me for a moment, then nods. "The death oath is a formal bond, created through blood and vigger. It compels me to protect you, to serve your interests. You could command me, and I would be bound to obey."

  "This compulsion is absolute," she elaborates, voice maintaining its even tone. "If you ordered me to kill, I would kill. If you ordered me to steal, I would steal." She pauses deliberately, then adds: "If you ordered me to perform sexual acts, I would be compelled to comply, regardless of my personal preference."

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  I freeze, disgust churning in my stomach. The very thought of forcing someone—anyone—to do something against their will makes me physically ill. I fight to keep my expression neutral, but I can feel the rage building behind my eyes. I force it down, though the disgust remains.

  "You have had multiple opportunities to exploit this advantage and have not done so," she observes. "This behavior pattern is... unusual in my experience. Most with power use it."

  She watches me with calculated intensity. "The oath would compel me to comply with any demand you made—regardless of my personal preference or consent."

  ---Grace---

  I observe the change that comes over Jason as I explain the death oath's implications. His scent alters dramatically—disgust flares first, sharp and visceral, followed by a wave of controlled rage that burns like ice rather than fire. His body language shifts subtly toward predatory stillness—the same poised readiness I've observed in apex hunters before they strike.

  "Has someone attempted to force you to do anything like that before, Grace?" he asks, voice unnaturally calm and controlled. "Have you been in a death oath where someone ordered you to commit sexual acts?"

  His question is precise, his tone measured, but the scent of his rage intensifies, reminding me of a winter wolf stalking prey through snow—patient, methodical, lethal.

  "Yes," I answer simply, maintaining eye contact. "The woman who did this manipulated circumstances to place me under oath. She was found guilty of this deception." I pause, recalling the incident with perfect clarity. "She was flayed alive by a hooded man who called himself 'Function.' He removed her skin in methodical strips while explaining precisely why each cut was deserved, while wielding paired blades that appeared to be alive in some manner."

  Jason stands smoothly before takeing a step toward me, then another. I shift backward instinctively, maintaining tactical distance.

  "Why are you moving away?" he asks, still in that unnervingly calm voice, though the sent of confusion is mingled amongst the cold rage.

  I take another step back, recalibrating. His movements lack the typical indicators of aggression, yet his scent and posture suggest dangerous potential. A contradiction to analyze at a later time.

  "Would a hug help you right now?" he asks, stopping half-way through another advance, his voice warming by increments, though still carrying echoes of that frozen depth. "Or should I just go sit back down?" He hesitates, then adds with a touch of his usual self-consciousness: "Also, why did you keep moving away? I just wanted to ask you a question at normal volume and range, and, well, sitting across from each other in the liveing room kind of doesn't do that very well.

  Before I can inform him that physical comfort would serve no tactical purpose, a sharp knock sounds at the front door. Three precise impacts in rapid succession.

  Jason's head turns toward the sound, the movement so swift it would be imperceptible to most humans. For 1.8 seconds, he remains perfectly motionless, even his breathing suspended. Then, like ice thawing under sudden sunlight, the predatory stillness melts away.

  He steps back, creating appropriate distance between us. His scent shifts again—adrenaline fading, replaced by the familiar warm notes I've cataloged as uniquely his.

  "That's probably Mrs. Henderson with her casserole," he says, voice now entirely his own again. "I should get that."

  As he moves toward the door, I remain precisely where I am, recalibrating my assessment of Jason Stone. The transformation I witnessed would terrify anyone capable of fear. The cold calculation, the controlled aggression, the absolute command of spatial relationships—these are traits I recognize from the most dangerous predators of my world.

  Yet all this emerged not for his benefit, but apparently at the thought that someone had violated my autonomy. A response on behalf of another rather than self-interest.

  An anomaly to add to the growing list of puzzles this man presents. Perhaps most puzzling is that despite witnessing this capacity for controlled violence, I find my tactical assessment of him unchanged.

  Jason Stone remains the one human in this or any world I would entrust with my sleeping defense.

  ---Jason---

  I take a deep breath, mentally preparing myself as three sharp knocks rap against the front door again. Dawson immediately barks, scrambling from his bed with nails clicking frantically against the hardwood.

  "That'll be Martha," I grunt while moving toward the entryway. "Brace yourself for suburban interrogation, Grace." Before: "you can go hide in the bathroom if it gets too much."

  Grace shifts position slightly, angling herself to maintain clear sightlines to both the front door and rear exit. The subtle movement reminds me of a documentary I once heard about predators establishing territorial vantage points. Only now, I can actually see it happening.

  I open the door to find Martha Henderson standing on my porch, her silver-streaked bob haircut perfectly shaped around a face fixed in perpetual pleasant curiosity. She clutches an enormous glass casserole dish in both hands, the contents an unsettling grayish-brown beneath a layer of crushed potato chips, all outlined through the saran-rap she stretched over said glass dish.

  "Jason!" she exclaims with the enthusiasm of someone discovering a long-lost relative. "I brought you dinner! Your mother told me you might need some looking after while they're in Mexico."

  "That's really kind of you, Mrs. Henderson," I say, accepting the heavy dish. The smell hits me immediately—fishy and vaguely chemical. Tuna surprise. The surprise being that anyone would willingly eat it, though I won't tell her that. "You shouldn't have gone to all this trouble."

  "No trouble at all!" she insists, her eyes already sliding past me to scan the interior of my house. "Your mother mentioned you had a friend staying over?"

  Her tone makes it clear this isn't actually a question but an opening for explanation. Martha Henderson has been the neighborhood's unofficial intelligence officer since before I was born. Nothing happens on Oakmont Drive without her knowledge—from illicit teenage parties to questionable lawn ornaments, and she's already met Grace earlier, and knows she's staying here.

  "Yes, this is Grace," I say, stepping aside slightly. "She's staying for a few days."

  Martha's eyes widen with barely contained delight at this information. "Oh my! Well, isn't that nice. I believe we met today at the dog park, didn't we, dear?" Her gaze fixes somewhere behind me, and I realize Grace has approached without making a sound.

  "Yes," Grace's voice comes from just over my shoulder, making me jump slightly. "We encountered each other while exercising Dawson."

  Martha's attention shifts between us with the precision of a tennis referee. "You know, Jason, your mother was quite concerned when she called me. She mentioned something rather... unusual she saw during your video call."

  My stomach drops through the floor. Of course Mom would call Martha. Of course. So much for her calling Ant hellen being the worst case scenario.

  "Martha," I begin, scrambling for an explanation that won't fuel neighborhood gossip for the next decade. "That was just—"

  "My breast binding was wet from showering," Grace interjects, her tone as matter-of-fact as if she were discussing the weather. "As I was unfamiliar with the appropriate social protocols in this dwelling, I removed it. I have since rectified this oversight."

  The absolute silence that follows is possibly the most excruciating five seconds of my life. Martha's mouth opens slightly, then closes, then opens again like a fish suddenly finding itself on dry land.

  "I... see," she finally manages, her eyes darting between us with renewed interest.

  Dawson chooses this moment to bound forward, inserting himself between us with enthusiastic tail-wagging. Grace immediately drops a hand to scratch behind his ears, her fingers finding exactly the spot that makes his back leg thump against the floor in doggy bliss.

  "Well," Martha says, her composure returning as she watches Grace with my dog. "I should be getting back. Harold will be wanting his dinner soon." She takes a small step backward. "It was... illuminating to see you both."

  "Thanks again for the casserole," I call as she begins her retreat down the front steps. "Really thoughtful of you."

  Martha nods, already halfway to her car, her sensible shoes clipping against the concrete with military precision. I can practically see the mental notes she's taking, the phone calls she's planning to make the minute she gets home.

  Only when her Subaru pulls away from the curb do I finally close the door, the tuna surprise casserole balanced precariously in my free hand.

  "That went... surprisingly well," I say, turning to find Grace still standing directly behind me. Her proximity makes me jump slightly, the casserole tilting dangerously before I steady it. "Jesus, Grace. You move like a ghost."

  "Moving silently is essential in hostile territory," she replies, her eyes tracking the casserole with what might be curiosity. "Is that sustenance?"

  I lift the glass dish, examining the gray-brown contents with poorly concealed disgust. "Technically? Yes. Practically? I wouldn't feed this to my worst enemy."

  Grace tilts her head, studying the concoction through the glass. "The ingredients appear to be fish protein, starch, and dairy elements. All are nutritionally viable."

  "Trust me on this one," I say, carrying the dish to the kitchen. "Mrs. Henderson's tuna surprise is legendary in this neighborhood, and not in a good way. Whatever you do, don't eat this."

  "You believe it contains toxins?" Grace follows me, maintaining precise distance.

  "No, no, nothing that dramatic. It's just... horrifically bad." I slide the casserole into the refrigerator, tucking it behind some leftovers where I won't have to look at it. "The surprise is how anyone survives eating it."

  As I close the refrigerator door, the reality of our earlier conversation crashes back over me. Grace has just revealed she's what her world calls a psychopath, that she experiences emotions differently—more distantly—than others. She's admitted she would have killed me had healing my eyes not been an option, and explained that the death oath binding us could compel her to do literally anything I command, regardless of her personal wishes.

  And then I nearly lost it when she mentioned someone had tried to force her to perform sexual acts. Something dark and cold had risen in me—something I normally keep buried deep beneath layers of self-deprecation and good-natured awkwardness alongside a healthy dollip of self-loathing and, well. That's enough of that.

  What bothers me isn't just the oath itself, though that's disturbing enough. It's my own reaction to it. That flash of controlled rage, the way Grace backed away from me—the first time I've seen her retreat from anything. Was she actually afraid of me? No, she said she doesn't feel fear, but she was definitely... concerned.

  Why did she react that way? And why did I get so angry on her behalf?

  I turn to face her, leaning against the counter for support. "About the death oath..." I begin, unsure how to phrase what I need to know. "I want to understand exactly how it works."

  Grace stands perfectly still in the kitchen doorway, her posture balanced and neutral. "You are concerned about commanding me," she states. Not a question, but an observation.

  "Yes," I admit. "Part of it is..." I hesitate, feeling my face warm slightly. "I'm attracted to you. I already told you that. But I'm also self-aware enough to know there might be situations where I'd be tempted to use the oath. And I want to make absolutely sure that never happens."

  She considers this for several seconds, her expression unreadable. "Your concern is logical. Power creates temptation."

  "So I need to know exactly how it works," I continue. "Are there specific phrases I need to avoid? How formal does a command need to be? What are the rules?"

  Grace shifts her weight slightly—a barely perceptible movement that nevertheless suggests she's giving this careful thought.

  "The oath requires specific conditions," she begins, her voice precise and measured. "First, there must be clear intent to command. Casual statements or hypothetical scenarios do not trigger the compulsion."

  "Intent," I repeat, nodding. "That's good."

  "Second, I must hear and understand the order. If you were to speak in a language unknown to me, or if your words were unclear, the oath would not activate."

  "Also good."

  "Traditionally, eye contact is expected during the issuance of a death oath command," Grace continues. "Though this is not strictly required. The rituals of my world place significance on visual connection during oath invocation, but the magical binding itself relies more on intent and comprehension than physical positioning."

  I digest this information, relieved to discover the oath isn't as easily triggered as I'd feared. "So if I accidentally phrase something as a command, but don't actually intend it as one, you wouldn't be compelled?"

  "Correct," she confirms. "The oath responds to genuine intention as most magics do, not linguistic technicalities."

  "That's... a relief," I say, exhaling slowly. "I was worried I might accidentally order you to do something without meaning to."

  Grace studies me with that intense gaze that seems to dissect everything it touches. "Your concern for my autonomy is unusual," she observes. "Most would view the oath as an advantage, not a burden to be managed."

  "Most people are assholes, then," I mutter, running a hand through my hair.

  Something shifts in her expression—a microscopic change I wouldn't have caught if I wasn't looking directly at her. "Earlier, when I mentioned previous misuse of the oath, your demeanor changed significantly," she says. "Your scent shifted toward cold rage, and your posture indicated predatory readiness. Why?"

  The question catches me off guard. "My scent? You can smell my emotions?"

  "Yes. Each emotional state produces distinctive chemical signatures. I was trained to identify these markers for tactical purposes."

  "That's..." I search for the right word. "Invasive. But also kind of fascinating." I pause, considering her original question. "I got angry because the idea of someone forcing you—or anyone—to do something against their will makes me sick. Especially something sexual."

  "Yet you did not appear disgusted by the oath itself, only its potential misuse," she points out.

  I frown, considering this. "I guess I'm not disgusted by the oath because it seems like... I don't know, like part of your culture? Like a formal agreement between us. What disgusts me is the idea of using it to take advantage of you."

  "Interesting," Grace says, tilting her head slightly. "You view the oath as a contract rather than a power dynamic."

  "I suppose I do," I agree, surprised by her insight. "Contracts are about mutual understanding and consent, not exploitation."

  "Consent," she repeats, as if testing the word. "You value this concept highly."

  "Of course I do. Doesn't everyone?"

  Grace's expression remains neutral, but something in her eyes shifts. "No. Many view power as justification for its own use. The strong command, the weak obey." She pauses, then adds: "This was considered natural law in my world."

  I push away from the counter, suddenly needing to move. "Well, it's not natural law here. Or at least, it shouldn't be."

  "You are an anomaly, Jason Stone," Grace says, her voice carrying an unusual note I can't quite identify. "Your behavior defies expected patterns."

  "I'll take that as a compliment," I say with a half-smile.

  "It was an observation, not an evaluation," she clarifies. "Though not a negative one."

  I laugh despite myself, a short exhale that feels like releasing pressure. "High praise from you, I guess."

  Grace watches me with those calculating green eyes, and for a moment I wonder what she sees—what details she's cataloging, what tactical assessments she's making. Does she notice how my left hand twitches slightly when I'm uncomfortable? Or how I tend to use humor to defuse tension? How much of me can she read like an open book?

  "There is another aspect of the death oath you should understand," she says, breaking the momentary silence. "The compulsion can be fulfilled with one significant action. Once you have claimed your due—ordered me to perform some task of suitable magnitude—the oath will be considered satisfied."

  "And then what happens?" I ask, suddenly afraid of the answer.

  "I would be released from my obligation," she states simply. "Free to leave or stay as I choose."

  "I see." I process this information, imagining Grace disappearing as suddenly as she appeared. The thought creates an unexpected hollow feeling in my chest. "And what constitutes a 'task of suitable magnitude'?"

  "Traditionally, a life for a life," she explains. "Something that requires significant effort or risk. Small tasks or trivial commands would not fulfill the requirement."

  "So asking you to do my laundry wouldn't cut it," I say, trying to lighten the mood.

  "No," Grace agrees, missing the humor entirely. "Unless you owned an extraordinary amount of garments requiring years of continuous cleaning effort."

  I can't help but smile at her literal interpretation. "That's probably for the best. I'd feel pretty bad using a life-debt for my dirty socks."

  My phone chimes from the living room, breaking the moment. "That's probably my mom," I sigh. "Calling to demand answers about the mysterious half-naked woman in my house."

  Grace follows me into the living room, where I retrieve my phone from the coffee table. Sure enough, Mom's smiling face lights up the caller ID, or it would if I can see it, I just knowing it does because she helped me set it up.

  "Want to bet how many questions she has?" I ask Grace with a rueful smile.

  "I do not gamble without sufficient data to calculate probability," Grace replies.

  I laugh—a genuine, unexpected sound that seems to surprise both of us. "Of course you don't," I say, shaking my head. "Of course you don't."

  As I prepare to answer my mother's call, I glance at Grace. She stands there in my borrowed clothes, her posture perfect, her face a study in controlled neutrality. A dangerous being from another world, bound to me by an oath I never asked for, carrying knives that drink blood and memories I can barely comprehend.

  And somehow, inexplicably, I'm glad she's here. Strange new sight and ancient magical oaths aside, having Grace in my house feels right in a way I don't fully understand yet.

  I take a deep breath and press the answer button. "Hi, Mom. Yes, I have a lot to explain..."