We talk of it amongst ourselves but so far have said nothing to outsiders. This is our home, for many of us the only good one we’ve known. If we do not find a way to stop the transformation, we will be forced to leave.

Soon.

We are not yet ready to admit defeat.

If we are driven forth, who will watch the abbey? Will we sit idly beyond its walls, praying the prisoner never breaks free?

I cradle my belly with one hand protectively. I’ve not yet begun to show. I devote most of my energy to shielding it. I must secure our future.

When I reach the bottom of the glass stairs in the glass house that the concrete demon Ryodan calls home, he is waiting for me.

But of course.

“Why did you lie about Sean?” I ask him.

“I didn’t lie. You sewed my words into a cloth of your choosing. If you’ll recall, I urged you to talk to him that night. Had you heeded my advice, you would have known, soul mates and all, confiding everything.”

“Don’t mock me.”

“Don’t make it so easy.”

“You said you were collecting my debt from him.”

“I said I was willing to accept the replacement of a missing server as full payment, and let you off the hook.”

“And put me on another.”

“You chose to become the worm. A little conversation goes a long way, Katarina. You’ve still not told Sean that Cruce fucks you in your dreams.”

I say nothing and he laughs.

“Yet here you are. Seeking me again. Come for more answers to which you won’t listen. I only waste my breath once. Leave.” I remain where I am.

He sweeps me with that cool silver gaze and arches a brow. “Be very certain you know what you’re doing, Katarina,” he warns softly. “If you ask something of me, I will not stop until I feel the request has been satisfied. As I deem fit.”

I fix on two words he uttered. “You do not feel.”

“It’s you, my ever-serene cat, that fails to feel, denying at your own peril the hunger of your heart.”

“Nor do you know anything of the heart, mine or any others.”

“State your cause. I have pressing matters to attend.”

I stare up into the face of the man that does not exist, that according to my empathic senses is not even standing there, and choose my words with care. I can proceed with nothing less than one hundred percent commitment to my course, and am fully aware this path will make or break me. I wish I could predict which one it will be, but I’m untested, unproven.

I resist the urge to cradle my abdomen. I must not telegraph in front of this man. I must become something else. He has a bold hand and a sharp chisel. The clay has chosen the sculptor. This male, whatever he is, possesses power beyond my humble skills. He and his men know what I do not: how to protect what is theirs. They are ruthless and hard. And successful.

If I think to care for my charges, for my child, I must learn to be similarly successful.

“I’ve come to acknowledge the turd.”

He smiles. “It’s about time, Katarina.”

I suffered my father’s disappointment mere days after I was born, although at the time I didn’t know it for what it was, only that I was rejected and alone. As the years passed, his anger and disgust at the useless daughter he couldn’t barter away to further cement his position grew so oppressive, I learned to avoid him whenever possible. My mother’s greed and impatience, shallowness and fear, were my childhood companions.

Then there was Sean, with whom I grew, who loved me, uncomplicated from the first, even as I wept. Still, it’s often difficult to bear the nuances of his every emotion. Filet mignon or rib eye, we’re all imperfect cuts, marbled by fears and insecurities, even the best of men.

As we move deeper into Chester’s, the barrage of chaotic emotions begins to subside, affording me a rare and blessed respite: the volume of the world’s endless sensations has been reduced from a ten to a four. We navigate one glass corridor after the next, and I wonder that he leads me so deep into his club where others are not permitted. After a time, he glides his palm over a smooth glass wall and an elevator appears.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask as the elevator door closes, sealing me in a much too small compartment with a much too large man. I feel like Dante, descending into the inferno, but I have no Roman poet as my guide.

“From this moment on, any questions are mine. Assuming you wish to be concrete, without the price.”

I stare up at him. How can he possibly know that? “You can read minds.”