“Uh, this isn’t what it looks like,” Wrath says just after midnight when I stumble into the kitchen to find him surrounded by a number of tiny purple and green gremlins who are shimmying to “Gimme More” by Britney Spears as it blares out of… the toaster?

  There’s a moment where the song stutters to a stop, compelled by some supernatural force, and the seventeen of us in the room all stare at one another in utter, complete silence. A perturbing silence, like an entire classroom psychically begging the professor not to call on them. That kind of silence.

  Then one of the gremlins farts, and all of them begin to snicker.

  I bypass… whatever this is, head for the fridge and pull out the nearly empty bottle of apple juice.

  The music starts up again and the horde resume their dance while Wrath remains perfectly still. It’s like he’s posed for a portrait and can’t move until the artist is done. They could call it “midnight in the kitchen of good and evil” or “farts that smell like sugar and sulfur.”

  One of the demonlings grabs the last remaining package of toaster pastries and consumes it, wrapper and all. The creature looks up at me, with a tiny bit of foil sticking out of its mouth while its stomach distends in a particularly rectangular way.

  Wrath still hasn’t moved. I’m not sure if he thinks I can’t see him when he stands still, or if he’s just utterly frozen in either shock or embarrassment. “It’s not a big deal…” he trails off, clearly having expected a continuation to the conversation.

  I grunt, then drink straight from the bottle.

  “That’s unhygienic.”

  I finish the last of it and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “You’re a demon. You’ll get over it.”

  “I’m allowed to have friends,” he says defensively. It’s like we’re having two different conversations.

  The tiny gremlins chitter to one another in some kind of demonic language that sounds suspiciously like more Britney lyrics. Lucky, if I had to guess.

  “You have class in the morning,” Wrath continues, now trying for a blustering tone. But it trails off at the end and loses him the moral high ground.

  I toss the empty bottle into the recycling and shuffle back out of the kitchen.

  “It’s normal to have dance parties,” Wrath calls after me, but I notice the music gets turned down considerably by the time I’m back at the stairs and headed back to my room. And my dreams are haunted by the creeping, hypnotic sounds of pop royalty chasing me like a soundtrack.

  ***

  It’s been a couple of weeks since Nico moved in across the street, and the Doom Clock in our basement woke up and turned out to be a baby in need of attention. Pox and I have settled into a pretty decent morning routine since then, if I do say so myself. He curls up in a box next to my bed at night, and I carry him downstairs and set him on the counter while Wrath makes the coffee.

  The little Doom Clock looks like a grandfather clock covered in cloth, but where the actual grandfather clock should be, there is only an empty space. He uses the cloth as his arms, and the faceplate (or where the faceplate should be) seems to be where his eyes are. Even without a face, he’s incredibly expressive.

  Wrath has been diligently trying to track down a repairman who can handle a Diabolos Kaffe DK-1, which is fancy barista speak for “evil coffee maker from the bowels of Hell that manages to brew a good cup, but might kill people in its off time.”

  “I’ve got a lead on someone who might be able to help,” Wrath says as I settle Pox down on the counter. As usual, he makes a beeline for the downed coffee monstrosity, even though Wrath tries to shoe him away. Pox waits for him to get distracted, and then begins tugging at a loose screw in the back.

  “You could try an exorcist,” I mutter.

  Wrath perks up at that. “How did you know about Father Tomas? I’m still waiting to hear back from him.”

  I picture a grizzled old Vatican Mean Girl throwing holy water into the coffee machine’s reservoir hoping to shock it back to life.

  Wrath busies himself behind the cheap red coffee replacement, which brews something closer to swamp water than actual coffee while I head towards the front of the house. The view across the street is much the same as it was yesterday, and the day before that. Nico’s Jeep is gone, but he’s been coming and going every day.

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  Just not stopping by the neighbor’s anymore.

  “Don’t stress out about it,” Wrath says, wrapping his arms around me. A cup of coffee miraculously appears in one oversized clawed hand, and he passes it over to me. “If one little haunted house is enough to scare him away, he doesn’t deserve you.”

  It’s meant to be encouraging, but all it does is remind me that Morecroft Manor tried to kill us just a few weeks ago. Wrath’s furnace of warmth warms my exterior but does little to warm the void within me.

  “Thanks,” I say quietly, and he squeezes me lightly in acknowledgement.

  I take a breath. “The manor’s nearly killed me a dozen times. It doesn’t mean to. It’s just…playful.” Sentient haunted homes have different rules, that’s all.

  “Of course. And if he doesn’t understand that, he’s an idiot.” No matter what’s going on, Wrath always has my back. I smile.

  It’s not like I am actually interested in Nico. Just because he’s kind of a jerk, condescending, and wears sinfully tight jeans…

  Okay, maybe I’m obsessing a little bit.

  I sip Wrath’s coffee and make a face. “I’m not saying I’m sad the coffee maker is gone, but I do miss how good the coffee was.”

  Wrath’s indignant huff is preceded by him plucking the cup out of my hand and then disappearing back into the kitchen with it. “I can’t believe you’d say something that hurtful in front of me,” he calls back.

  I know he really loves that coffee maker, but I’m more worried about it trying to kill me than I am the Manor. I head back upstairs and take a shower. It takes me a bit to get clean, get dressed, and get my life together, but by the time I come downstairs, there’s another cup of coffee on the island, and Pox is happily playing with the screw he finagled. When he hears me coming, he quickly scoops it up and hides it within the folders of his hands. Even without eyes, he seems to recognize me, and when he does he goes back to playing.

  “You found a new trinket, huh?” I ask, running my hands along his head. He makes a tiny rumbling sound that I take for an affirmative, then darts off to chase after the screw which has started to roll away. He plays a little game with himself where he throws the screw and then chases it. I try to help one time, earning a growl when I pick up the screw, but he relaxes once I toss it away. Only I throw it a little too hard, and it spins towards the edge of the counter. I have to hurriedly block the side so it doesn’t fall off. Pox doesn’t say anything, but he squints up at me once he’s recovered his screw.

  “Okay, okay, I won’t interrupt,” I laugh.

  Wrath takes a seat at the table, and I bring Pox and his screw along with me when I sit down across from him.

  We sit there in companionable silence for a time, each sipping our mediocre coffee while reminiscing about how good the psychotic machine used to make it. Wrath doing so fondly, and me doing so with the nervous apprehension of someone used to dating a serial killer, never sure if today would be the day he would kill you, too. The fear keeps you motivated, I guess.

  It’s possible that some people aren’t traumatized by their coffee makers and can’t relate. Must be nice.

  From the sink drain, there’s a monotone whisper that ebbs and flows. Singing a nursery rhyme, I think. “Down came the rain. Down came the rain.” And that horrible, relentless giggle. Wrath and I meet eyes and pretend not to notice.

  “First day of the new semester,” Wrath says, rolling his eyes at the sink and it’s normal dramatics. “Still planning on bringing me along?”

  Back when I first started at Hollow Hills University, my social anxiety was significantly worse. Three years later, though, and the day to day had become routine enough that I didn’t need the chaperone, but I still brought Wrath along anyway.

  “Don’t pretend like you’re not excited,” I point out. I see the stuffed animal that he is bound to seated at the far end of the table and gesture towards the new bow tie that he is sporting. I’m sure that initially it was meant to be some sort of normal animal like a dog or a tiger or something, but over the last fifteen years or so the plushie has morphed into a physical representation of Wrath’s demonic self. Red-skinned and lanky, people assume he’s a red panther of all things.

  “Yes, why would I be excited about a bunch of human nonsense being explained by gray-faced grumps succumbing to their aging ennui?” Wrath responds dryly.

  “Yeah, but the cafeteria has waffles.”

  “I love waffles!” Wrath admits immediately. “Especially the ones from the cafeteria.”

  “It’s because they make their own whipped cream.”

  He sighs happily. “If you buy me waffles, I promise not to consume the souls of any freshmen.”

  I clear my throat.

  Wrath harrumphs. “Fine, I will not consume any souls.” He gives me a dark look and then adds a muttered, “Spoilsport.”

  I roll my eyes. For a demon, Wrath is entirely a pushover. He would help little old ladies cross the street if it wouldn’t drive them mindless with terror.

  “Don’t forget that new show starts this week on Dreadflix. The one about zombies hunting for the hearts of their true loves,” he adds a little bit later.

  “Nec-Romance. I remember.”

  Wrath gives me a sideways glance. “You could always head across the street and ask Nico if he wants to watch it with you.”

  I shudder at the thought. The idea of having another conversation with Nico at this point feels like its just begging for conflict. I think of all the ways it could go wrong and that list grows longer the longer I think about it.

  “Theo?” Wrath’s voice is suddenly cautious, but worried. Down came the rain…

  “Hmm?” I see him staring out the kitchen windows into the back garden, and cross the room to see what has him so interested.

  A morning rain shower. It’s been a bit dry this summer, but it’s not unusual… then I see why he’s concerned. The rain patters down on the garden leaves, leaving a slight bit of film behind. I close my eyes, feeling the headache coming on.

  The sky is raining blood.