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Three weeks after baiting his computer with a folder full of sexy pixxxs—out of respect for the dynamics of family game night, containing only pinup shots of Gene Tierney and a couple of lovestruck Corvette photos—Copia deletes it with a sigh of frustration.
No one noticed. He’s fielded not a single tsk from his mother, his aunt, or whatever passes for HR in the Devil’s own megachurch.
It’s official. No one is paying attention to a goddamn thing he does.
“I’ll check over here! Am I supposed to ask for—” The door to his office swings open, and Judith pulls up short as Copia scrambles to remove his reading glasses. “Oh, Frater! Sorry, I didn’t realize you were in here.”
“Why wouldn’t I be in my own office?” he barks, now convinced he’s no-clipped out of reality.
“It’s just…” A voice calls from behind the harried young woman, and she darts a glance over her shoulder. “No, it’s not.”
“It, it,” Copia echoes, before reverting to the far more effective vocabulary of hand gestures. “What is this it we’re talking about?”
Judith clearly wishes the floor would open up and swallow her whole. “We’ve been informed there’s, um… some sort of lesser demon on the loose? It slipped its bonds, it’s refusing to return to the sigil.”
Copia drops his head atop his hands, wondering for the third time since breakfast what he did to piss Lucifer off. “What kind?”
“I don’t know, they just said it can manifest things?” A scuffling noise erupts from the front office, and when Copia looks up, Judith is craning her head out the door. “Apparently the wardrobe department summoned it to help with the next leg of the tour.”
“The Ministry has a strict anti-AI policy,” Copia grinds out, now understanding why his mother occasionally entertained the urge to arm herself with a hammer.
“This isn’t AI,” Judith argues, features crumpling in confusion. “Is it? It’s a demon—”
“Artificial… infernal…” Climbing to his feet, Copia counters, “You ask it to manifest something, it manifests, yeah? Where was it last seen?”
And that’s how His Dark Eminence, Frater Imperator ends up creeping through the sacristy like some kind of meddling teenage detective, a smoking thurible in one hand and a Dust Buster in the other, muttering the words, “Oh, how I wish I had some more peacock blue sequins. How very, ah… convenient that would be.”
This time, the rogue spirit—mischievous, malevolent, he couldn’t care less—responds with silence, leaving Copia to abandon another dead end. The damn thing is fast, a wolf-sized nightmare crafted of smoke and ash; so far Copia’s only managed to corner it twice, each time compelling an explosion of glitter and paste in order to divine its location. But even after equipping himself with ritual incense and the means of hoovering up the remnants of its energy signature, it refuses to have anything to do with him. In metaphysical terms, he’s practically begging for the demon’s attention, only to find himself roundly ignored.
He tries not to view this as a snub.
Nose out for the bitter tang of brimstone, Copia retreats into the sanctuary, plotting his next steps. He needs to find a way to rout the demon back to the wardrobe department and bind it before it turns its attention to the world outside the Ministry gates. He needs to issue a memo shaming the use of cut-corner magic like he’s some kind of occult union boss. He obviously needs to start poking his head in at doors the way Mom used to do, scaring the piss out of everyone but reminding them that he exists, that he’s the head honcho and all requests for demonic summoning need to come through him.
Not that he particularly relishes this turn of events. Not that he wouldn’t spike the hand-vac like a football if his twin chose that exact moment to burst through the cathedral doors and tender his resignation.
Before he can wade too deeply into this little fantasy, footsteps draw his attention to the nave. A pair of masked ghouls hasten their approach, turning their palms up as if to say we’re fresh out of ideas. Groaning, Copia nods toward the soaring stained-glass windows, indicating the campus outside. “We need eyes on the perimeter.”
“The pack is on it,” Storm rumbles, stopping a few yards away. “Papa’s in the basement, he and Aurora were following a trail of Toblerone bars.”
“Well, tell him to stay down there.” Copia shakes his hand-vac, causing the glitter inside to swirl like a snow globe. “He’s the reason we’re in this mess.”
“He suggested coming up with some kind of trap.” Tempest eyes the raised central altar. “Might be a good idea, at this point.”
Copia gestures toward the door, unwilling to give Perpetua the satisfaction. “Let’s try one more sweep before we bring out the big guns. Shout if you see anything.”
A few minutes later, he’s alone again. Moving carefully through the cathedral aisles, he investigates every pew—on the lookout for any visual disturbances, any response to his repeated prompts. He prays for glitter, for sequins, for sprays of organza ribbon, manifestations that he can survive should they end up walloping him in the head. Demons of this caliber are tricky, neither sentient nor expressly sinister, unnamed and unknowable. It’s a rare occurrence when one slithers up from the Pit, and a wise practitioner knows to shoo them off like raccoons circling a trash bin.
Unless one is looking to get out of sewing duties. How many cassocks does one Papa need?
Just as he’s unhooking the thurible chains from a hymnal rack so he can stumble back to the main aisle, the cathedral doors do swing open. Judith and another administrative employee wander inside, both equipped with flashlights and repurposed shopping bags for whatever treasures the demon might choose to bestow upon them. Judith is jabbering away like usual, wondering whether she can get the demon to manifest a flat white, but she hushes when Copia draws near.
“I’ve already covered the sacristy and main cathedral,” he informs them. “Let’s, ah… let’s try the cloisters."
“Oh, but Mrs. Psaltarian told us to come here.” Judith elbows her coworker in the ribs, but the man merely blinks at her in mild annoyance before continuing. “I mean, she told us to search the cathedral.”
“Sì,” Copia agrees, no longer able to feel his arm where he holds the smoking thurible at a distance. “And I’m telling you that it’s done, and you can come with me. Great job everybody, off we go.”
“But…” The man grips his flashlight like a talisman. “Mrs. Psaltarian…”
And that’s the moment Copia makes an incredibly stupid series of decisions.
He thrusts the thurible into Judith’s hand, leaving her to wrangle it despite her protests. He lets the Dust Buster drop, and doesn’t even flinch when its plastic cover shatters atop the flame-colored marble. He stalks out of the cathedral, uncertain where he’s headed—because he still has to remind himself of every turn that leads to his new apartment, because if he goes back to the office and delegates a task someone will simply come behind him and re-delegate it. Because it seems everyone is entitled to more respect than him, even his brother opining about rituals while treating the manifestor like a vending machine, even his overbearing aunt.
He’s always been a rodent sniffing after scraps. Of attention, of time, of love.
The last words he mutters as a human are every bit as weak as they are resentful. “If people are so eager to forget I exist, just let it happen already.”
He’s got one of his jewels unpinned when the fetid stench of sulfur poisons his lungs. His knees are stinging atop the flagstones before he realizes he can’t move, he can’t speak, that all he’s breathing is fire, that a voice that isn’t his has taken residence in his head. Something is wrong, something is horribly wrong, and his left eye tries to flare, the pulse bright enough to paint an aurora across the ruby windows before pain contorts his features, twisting his mouth into a silent scream and transforming his hands into rictus claws.
On the edge of his fading vision, a shape paces. One that would’ve terrified the first of God’s poor creations, a lion that cannot be tamed and a serpent that should not speak.
Then it will be as you wish, the demon purrs, as peremptory and emotionless as the smart microwave in the employee lounge, until another soul is willing to take your place in these chains of despair.
You’re chaining your bike to the rack, shoulders hunched against the knife-sharp winter wind, when you hear footsteps squelching across the muddy parking lot.
None of your fellow employees would hurry inside so quick—your new boss isn’t a stickler for punctuality the way Mrs. Webber was, though maybe she ought to be. So when you lift your head, you’re not surprised to find a stranger transitioning onto the freshly salted sidewalk… though you are taken aback by the habit and wimple.
“Hey, sorry.” It’s a nun. And not a Catholic nun; the electric green hair and facial piercings make that quite clear. She’s young, pretty, ruddy-cheeked from the cold… and quick to unzip her silver lamé puffer jacket and dig out a duct-taped shoebox, which she thrusts into your hands before you can even think to refuse it. “The door is locked, I just saw you come up…”
“Oh!” She’s a member of The Church. The Satanic Ministry out in the woods, the cult that proselytizes through metal merch booths. Of course you’ve encountered its adherents while running errands in town, but this is the first time you’ve seen one show up at the animal shelter. “Oh, if you need to surrender a pet, you’ll have to make an intake appointment…”
“I’m really sorry, but I don’t have time.” The nun is already zipping up her jacket and hopping off the curb. “Things are insane at the sanctuary. I’ve got to get back.”
You wonder what qualifies as insane in the Devil’s parish, and decide you’d rather not know. “But what—”
“It’s a rat!” the young Sister calls back, as she unlocks her red Camry. “I found it in the garage last night. It’s too fancy to be one of the forest rats, and Mrs. Psaltarian said that if we brought any more strays to the front office, she’d start personally blaming us for her lack of grandchildren.”
“What do rats have to do with grandchildren?” you hear yourself asking, as the creature inside the shoebox issues a full-hearted squeak. Noticing the air holes punched into the lid, you unwind your scarf so you can drape it over the top.
“There is no way I can download at you without sounding like a lunatic,” the nun declares, pausing with her car door propped open. “All I know is that woman has such a mom aura that the idea of disappointing her makes me want to cry.”
And with that, Satan’s earthly representative drives away, leaving you to race inside before the poor rodent’s paws can freeze off.
You’ve never processed a surrender before—but the veterinarians are already scrubbed in for Wednesday’s reduced-cost neuter clinic, volunteers are busy cleaning out the dog kennels, and most of the paid staff seem to have made their way out to the barn, probably to break the ice in the livestock troughs and distribute hay. The Dee County Humane Society takes all comers, so you print off an intake form and settle down in the back office, where you usually spend the day typing and answering emails. The shoebox rocks back and forth as you set it on your desk, and you pause with a pair of scissors at the ready, prepared to slice through the tape.
“Hello in there,” you murmur, not half as awkward around animals as you are people. “I know I’m a stranger, but I promise I don’t mean you any harm. I just need to ask you a few questions, okay?”
The rodent goes still. A few moments later, a chirp you can only describe as exhausted serves as your response.
“You and me both.” After cutting the tape, you tent your scarf over the box to block the harsh office lights and create a convenient method of bagging the animal should it try to escape. Lifting the lid, you prepare yourself for a misidentified mouse, or a darker than normal brown rat. Worst case scenario, you’ll just end up walking the poor thing to the edge of the property.
Instead, you come nose-to-nose with one of the sweetest little creatures you’ve ever seen.
The rat is small and sleek, black as night and twice as silent. Its ears and nose are pink; the only breaks in its otherwise faultless coat consist of a little white mustache and a thin ring of white around its left eye. The rat edges back as the light intrudes, blinking up at you in confusion, but it doesn’t bolt.
It just… waits. Eyes searching yours, somehow, as if it’s trying to work out how both of you got there.
“Well, you are a fancy rat.” Laughing, you prop the lid across the box. “Tame, too.”
The rat twitches its whiskers with such emphatic outrage, you almost stammer out an apology. After what looks like a moment’s consideration, it rises on two feet, curling its paws around the edge of the box.
“How’d you end up in a garage out at the Ministry? Are you sure you don’t belong to someone up there?” As you speak, you shift the intake form closer. “I know they’re Satanists, they must have… familiars. Right?”
The rat chitters in annoyance, but watches with keen interest as you grab a pen from the nearby cup.
“Maybe I can find a number to call.” Dashing off your personal information, you let your pen hover over the pet details box. “Um… name?”
To your amusement, the rat scurries out of the box and tries to commandeer the pen with its teeth.
“Hey! It’s okay, I’ll write it for you.” You gently shake the pen free, swallowing your laughter when inertia plants the rat on its side. “You look like a… hrm. Some of the names we dole out are pretty silly, but they do seem to get you guys adopted.”
The rat rights itself with a tiny growl… before seeming to process the word adopted. For the first time it surveys the desk in earnest, sniffing at the keyboard and the piles of paperwork and the Rescue Horse of the Month calendar displayed beside the phone.
“How about…” You write the name even as you suggest it. “Gorgonzola.”
Whipping its head around, the rat shrieks in open indignation.
“No, trust me! That’s a good one.” Sitting up straight, you dash off identifying information in the provided spaces—fancy rat, black and white, age unknown. “Um… gender?”
The rat drops to all fours and immediately backs away, as if to say don’t you even think about it.
“Right, I’ll leave that between you and the vets.” Clearing your throat, you write down a few more details before turning toward the computer. “Anyway, let’s get you settled in your hotel room. And don’t worry, we screen everyone really well, no one is going to adopt you for snake food…”
The rat makes it all the way across the office and atop a supply cabinet before you manage to slam the shoebox over its body. Leaving it to squeal in the dark, you grab a box of files awaiting digitization and use it to boost yourself up, mindful of the creature’s tail as you scoop it into the makeshift carrier.
“I was being serious!” Uncertain whether to attribute your frantic pulse to sympathy or the rat’s spooky behavior, you cradle the box against your chest. Gorgonzola peers upward, bug-eyed and hyperventilating. “It’s okay. You’re safe here, I promise…”
But the rat has officially run out of fucks to give. It tries to leap from the box to the floor, squeaking in protest when you snatch its wriggling body out of the air and plunk it right back inside. To its credit, it makes no attempt to bite you—but when you cover the box with your arm and hurry to the small animal room, when you tip the box into the first open cage you come across, and when you then start shoveling clean wood chips through the open slot on top, the noise Gorgonzola makes could be mistaken for an infernal invocation.
“I know,” you fret, wishing your voice would stop cracking every time you acknowledge it. “Trust me, I know how you feel.”
But the rat is currently preoccupied by its own trauma. Leaving it to race around the perimeter of its new cage, you unhook the empty water bottle and wander to the sink to fill it.
Just before quitting time, you’ll tiptoe into the small animal room in your wellies and coat, only to find the newly christened Gorgonzola sulking under a miniature log. The label on the cage now identifies him as a buck, and it doesn’t look like he’s touched the food or water you gave him. So you’ll worry, as you bike through the biting cold because you haven’t saved up enough money to buy a car yet, because chapped cheeks are a small price to pay for freedom. You’ll worry as your mother hassles you over dinner preparations until you don’t remember what you seasoned the chicken with, and have to wash the raw cutlets so you can start again. You’ll worry as you field invasive questions about your coworkers that you don’t know how to answer without answering, knowing all the while that it’s your brain she wants to crack like a walnut.
You’ll worry as you lie in your room alone, staring at the teddy bear lamp that still dangles over your princess bed. You live in a time capsule. A cage of your own.
“Worry is a form of hope,” you remind yourself, as you turn your back on the clown nightlight and try to fall asleep.
Copia has spent his entire life ricocheting between yes-ma’am and fuck-it-I’m-a-rockstar, and as a result, he’s spent far too many nights seeing assassins in every shadow.
But the last thirty-six hours mark his first brush with PLEASE DON’T KILL ME BY ACCIDENT, and he now understands the difference between anxiety and animal fear.
His pulse feels like it’s racing out of control, and every time he reminds himself that a rat heart can beat up to 400 times per minute, it does nothing to assuage the terror drilled into him by his recent brushes with mortality. With eldritch magic. One minute he was throwing a temper tantrum in the hallway, the next he was climbing out of his own suit—overwhelmed by the smell of his cologne, by the rushing footsteps of the manifestor as it loped toward administration. Voice reduced to furious squeaks, nearsighted and nauseous, it took him all of thirty seconds to clock his furry new form and wonder what kind of screwball comedy he’d found himself thrust into.
But awareness didn’t solve the problem. And no one else seemed anxious to help him solve it, either.
Judith was the one who stumbled upon his crumpled uniform and raised the alarm. Judith also, apparently, went to university on a football scholarship. The scream she unleashed when Copia tried to scale her trouser leg is still on infinite loop in his head, and it’s only in the last few hours that he’s even begun to feel the bruise taking form where he landed on the stone floor. The hallway transformed into a tumult of Where did Frater go?! and Is that one of his rats? and when he heard the first Do you think it’s rabid? he turned tail and ran, he ran until his lungs were on fire and he couldn’t run anymore.
There, beside the altar, he found himself blinking at his hazy reflection in the polished granite.
Sinners below—what had he done?
The next hour was spent in experimentation. Yes, his inner voice was unchanged. Yes, he could explain what he’d feel like if he hadn’t eaten breakfast and he could still remember skinning his knees after tripping over his own robes at confirmation. His mind was untouched, but his body was now lean and low and… small.
So incredibly small.
That’s why it took him until nightfall to make his way out to the garage. That’s why Sister Chloe found him clinging to the door handle of his LeSabre, desperately trying to bounce his own weight to disengage the latch. He’d left his wallet behind with his clothes, and his plan had been to open the glove box, dig out his vehicle registration, climb Marika’s desk, and spit it out on her keyboard before launching into a squeaky rendition of Carry On My Wayward Son until he saw the light of understanding dawn in her eyes.
But he didn’t get the chance.
Sister Chloe obviously saw something wrong with a rat attempting to claw its way into Frater Imperator’s Buick. Sister Chloe chased him around the garage with a broom, all the while shouting, “I’m not going to hurt you!” She stuck him inside her coat because the heating in her car was broken, she drove him all the way to the nearby village of Correy, and she left him at the animal shelter.
At least she left him with someone who seems to care.
Later on, he’ll look back upon this misadventure and realize he fell in love with you sight unseen. The first moment he heard your voice, shy and soft through the thin cardboard box, addressing him with respect before you even knew what—or who—he was. But as the volunteers kill the lights, as the shelter sinks into the dog-howl, litter-rustle, HVAC-hum silence of just another night, the only thing on his mind is escape. The bars are unyielding, the door latches positioned infuriatingly out of reach. Copia canvases every inch of his cage like a tiny burglar, looking for weaknesses, and only gives up once he realizes that the rodents in the nearby cages have stopped their evening foraging to watch him.
Sympathy from a pretty young woman he can tolerate. Pity from the small animals he once counted as his only friends?
…That’s enough to drive him back under the log.
Morning finds him hungry and thirsty and even more miserable than before. Without ritual tools and proper research materials, he has little hope of undoing the demon’s curse. Without a pen or a proper voice, he can’t make his predicament known. And maybe it’s the lack of sleep, or the instinctive animal paranoia that’s got his whiskers humming like telegraph wires, but there’s a part of him that’s begun to wonder if the manifestor wasn’t the cause of all this, but a symptom. Since learning of his twin’s existence, not a day’s gone by where Copia hasn’t wished the man would spontaneously disappear.
It will be as you wish, until another soul is willing to take your place in these chains of despair.
Did Perpetua set this trap, knowing Copia’s own bitterness would drive him into it? Is this his way of toppling Copia from the throne, of installing his own Imperator? It’s a bizarre theory, but one he has to talk himself out of believing.
Stranger things have happened in the Ministry’s long and bloody history.
Focusing on the stabbing pain in his empty belly, Copia curls up and tries to shut his eyes and ears and imagination against a world that seems designed to overwhelm him. The volunteers who arrive to refresh his food and water take note of his listlessness, and when they affix a card to his cage meant to alert the vet, he realizes that it might just be his ticket to freedom. Relenting to biological necessity, he emerges from his nest and figures out how to work the water bottle, if only because he might have the chance to dart away while being handled, and he needs his wits about him.
Still, he refuses to touch the nutri-pellets heaped in the bowl. As a rat owner, he knows they form the basis of a healthy diet. As a rat, he would sooner eat the pine shavings lining his prison cell.
Luckily, there’s soon no need for grousing pride.
“Good morning.” It’s your voice again—little more than a whisper, cool as the violet perfume that clings to your hands and hair. A quiet squeak alerts him to the door opening, and when he pokes his head out of his nest, it’s to see you peeking in at him. You smile, and his heart gives a leap despite its reduced size.
When you reach inside to shift the pellet bowl away, to replace it with a small dish of fresh grapes and strawberries, he knows he’s looking at the face of Satanism’s newest Unholy Mother. He’ll canonize you himself, if it’s the last thing he fucking does.
“I figured you might need a pick-me-up after your first night.” Though you shut the door to prevent him from rushing it, you sink onto your knees beside the cage. “So I brought extra in my lunch.”
Copia would try to chitter out the rat equivalent of rapturous thanks, but he’s currently elbow-deep in fruit salad. It tastes like ambrosia, and he’s not sure whether to attribute this blissful sensory overload to his hunger, his transformed tongue, or your skill at the grocery store.
“What’s this?” Removing the card from his cage, you scan the volunteer report. “Oh, honey. Aren’t you feeling well?”
When I get out of this mess, Copia pledges to himself, muzzle still buried in the guts of a grape, I’m coming back here to offer you a job as my official rat nanny. I miei ragazzi will adore you.
“I couldn’t sleep last night, so I did some poking around online.” Replacing the card, you fold your hands beneath your chin, resting your head on the shelf beside the cage. As his stomach calms, Copia becomes conscious of the fact that you’re watching him, and he transitions into grooming without even thinking about it. Lucifer forfend that a lady catch him with strawberry juice in his whiskers. “I found a number for the Ministry and left a message. Just to let them know that if anyone’s missing a pet rat, he’s down here.”
Even as relief causes his ears to flush hot, dread sends an icy chill zipping down his spine. No one at the scene thought to connect his appearance to his discarded clothes. Will anyone pounce on the idea of a displaced rat as they search for him?
Everyone at the Ministry has to be searching for him. Right?
“I’m not very good on the phone.” Apparently reassured by his behavior, you edge one fingertip inside the cage, waggling it at him in play. “You owe me, mister.”
Before Copia can even think of a proper way to respond—offering his paw in return, perhaps? Chirping in curiosity?—a woman with short-cropped gray hair appears in the doorway. And that’s how he learns your name, when the newcomer snaps, “What’s the holdup? Admin meeting started five minutes ago.”
“Oh, gosh!” All at once, your easy manner disappears. Copia watches as you jerk to your feet, as you adjust the skirt of your old-fashioned wrap dress and scrub the toe of one white sneaker against your calf. “S-sorry, Lane, I just… wanted to check on a new intake.”
“Well, the rest of us are waiting for you.” Lane glances at the cage, but from this distance, Copia can’t read her facial expressions. “Make sure you wash your hands.”
“R-right.” Turning aside, you flash him another smile. “See you later, Gorgy.”
In just under forty-eight hours, he’s found himself demoted from Frater Imperator to Gorgy. And yet, as you fly toward the door on your tiptoes, Copia finds he no longer has the capacity to be angry about it. A rational person would never suspect that he’s anything other than what he appears to be—a rather grumpy member of Rattus norvegicus. Pet to some, but pest to most.
And yet, you’re still treating him like…
…if he’s being honest, though he doesn’t know if you’re religious, he’s already mentally categorized you as one of the Tyrant’s outliers. The kind of woman who would never give someone like him the time of day—nor should she, for a multitude of reasons. Unlike many of his brethren, he’s never relished the idea of corrupting innocent hearts. You’re the springtime to his autumn, the lamb to his goat, the apple blossom to his bleeding pomegranate. Just by existing, you prove that even the serpent can be tempted.
Fuck. Two days without food really do have him spiraling. Maybe he should eat the damn pellets.
Returning to the plate of fruit, Copia tucks in. As he finishes his sweet lunch, his thoughts become clearer, and swallowing becomes harder. Even if he manages to outsmart the vet, there’s no way he’ll make it all the way back to the Ministry on foot in the middle of winter. If he makes it to a phone, he won’t be able to talk. And what if the manifestation can’t be reversed, what if…
…what if he ends up living as a rat permanently? Kept in a cage behind his brother’s desk?
That thought reminds him that rats have no vomit reflex. If they did, he’d be in trouble.
You visit him again near the end of the working day. Hair kissed by the wan sunlight filtering through the high windows, transparent galoshes buckled over your sneakers, coat folded over your arms. This time, he lurches over to meet you—still groggy from the sedation the vet subjected him to after his previous visit left an impression, bloated from IV fluids and incredibly unhappy about it. Your frown speaks for him, and when you rest your hand on the outside of the cage, he has to fight the urge to lean against it.
“Poor baby.” Peering over your shoulder, you angle yourself in front of the cage, using your coat to disguise your movements as you open the door and sneak a handful of shelled peanuts and raisins into his dish. “I’m leaving early, but I stole these from the avian supply cupboard. Be good and eat, or they’ll keep checking on you.”
Copia knows you’re right. And he also knows, though this is the crowning humiliation of his life… right now, the shelter is the best option he has. Once spring comes, he can escape. Make it to the Ministry, hole up in the library, and figure out a way to restore his humanity that doesn’t involve begging the Clergy for assistance or risking a fate worse than death.
Turns out, Purgatory is real. And it looks like a rat cage with a view of snow-dusted pines.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to drive you?”
Still arranging orange slices and melon inside a plastic container—trying to work out how much fruit you can carry without bruising it—you lift your eyes to the window above the kitchen sink. Snow is falling thick and fast, the clouds so dense that sun might as well still be in bed.
“I’ll be fine,” you inform your mother, snapping the container shut so you can pack it in your lunch sack. “I’ve ridden through worse.”
“Is there really no one you can carpool with?” As usual, Mom’s concern comes laced with condescension. Drumming her manicured nails against the side of her coffee cup, she notes, “Getting along with your coworkers is a basic life skill, dear. If you’re struggling at that job, you don’t need to keep—”
“I get along with everyone.” Uncapping the stoneware jar beside the sink, you help yourself to an oatmeal cookie, wrapping it in a napkin before your mother can comment. “I’ll be fine.”
You can’t tell her that you’d call in sick before giving Lane Anderson the pleasure of seeing Mommy drive you to work. You can’t tell her that every minute she spends hovering in the mornings has to be made up on the road, physical distance translating into emotional clarity. That someday soon, you’ll be able to afford a rundown car and a rented room of your own, and she’ll have no choice but to keep those pink claws to herself.
That this time, you’re going to make it.
Of course, righteous indignation only feels like it kindles a flame in your belly. By the time you chain your bike up at the shelter, your limbs are stiff with cold and the hem of your woolen coat is heavy with water churned up by passing cars. Still, you race to the small animal room, determined to check on Gorgonzola before the place really starts buzzing.
The peanuts and raisins are gone. And when you call his name, Gorgonzola’s elegant little head pops out of a mass of cotton bedding, eyes lazy from sleep.
“Glad to see you’re feeling better.” Peeling off your mittens, you kneel down before the cage. The rat responds with surprising alacrity, shaking himself free of the cotton and smoothing his whiskers back before approaching the door. You open it carefully, one hand held up to intercept him if he bolts.
But it seems the creature’s learned his lesson. Rather than make a break for it, he stretches forward to sniff at your fingers, grinding his teeth in a way that strikes you as both pleased and polite.
“See? I knew you were tame.” Gorgonzola snorts. “Gesundheit. Anyway, I can’t keep doing this, but…”
Withdrawing your hand, keeping one eye on the open door, you unzip your backpack and dig into your lunch. Just the scent of the cookie is enough to inspire visible excitement; when you break off a piece and pass it to him, Gorgonzola seizes hold with both tiny hands.
“You’re going to get spoiled,” you laugh, as he immediately helps himself to a nibble. His tail lashes behind him, and you fall prey to temptation, reaching in to stroke a finger between his ears. His fur is like velvet, his brow delicate and warm beneath your hand.
At your touch, the rat goes completely still. Cheeks bulging with half-chewed oatmeal cookie, black eyes somehow wide with wonder.
“If I come back and see you’ve eaten your pellets,” you inform him, closing the cage, “I’ll give you a piece of cantaloupe. Consider them vitamin pills.”
Though he shouldn’t be able to, the rat manages to look dubious. Still, when you return at lunchtime, you can see the bottom of the ceramic food dish in a few spots. After rousing in response to your voice, Gorgonzola plunks himself down on his haunches in front of the door and extends his paws as if to say pay up.
You do so gladly, laughing at the way he arches his neck, carrying his piece of cantaloupe off like a hard-won trophy.
You shouldn’t be singling one of the residents out for special attention. You shouldn’t be plying an animal that doesn’t rightly belong to you with treats. You shouldn’t even be opening the cages, that’s not in your job description—but there’s something so charming about Gorgonzola that you find yourself thinking of him even when you’re trying to focus on other things. Despite the many wildlife rescues you undertook as a child, you were never allowed to have a pet. Your mother always told you that you were incapable of caring for one.
Maybe that’s why, when the new shelter administrator—Sylvia LaCroix, Boston transplant and one of your only sources of serotonin—singles you out for praise and entrusts you with a set of facility keys, your first thought is that you can come in early and spend time with Gorgonzola. So you do. Eight a.m. mornings become seven a.m. mornings, and you hardly mind, because it means you can shower and dress and pack your lunch before your mother even wakes up. You can ride to work before what passes for rush hour in the village, so there’s no fear of getting creamed by a rogue delivery truck. You can put yourself to rights, and then slip into the small animal room, where a sleek black rat now knows to expect you.
Gorgonzola is always waiting for you. Groomed and gleaming, already stretched up on his hind legs. And it isn’t long before you let him venture out, prepared to regret this decision… only to find that he sticks closer than a dog. Now that he trusts you, he’s perfectly content to ride on your palm, to perch on your knee while you slip him treats, even to doze on your shoulder while you sit at your desk to get an early start on work.
He doesn’t seem interested in balls or chew toys. You try to set up a little obstacle course for him, using office supplies and toilet paper tubes, and he bumbles through it before giving you a rather chagrined look. But he loves attention, and that might be the most charming thing about him. Careful head-pats transition into full-body strokes, and the first time you catch him boggling—his eyes percolating like an old coffee pot—you ride the high of his approval until bedtime.
One day, you come to work with a mild cold and far too much medicine in your system. Spreading a blanket on the floor outside his cage, you invite Gorgonzola to find a comfy spot as you cue up an old movie on your phone—but the second he hears the jazzy music accompanying the credits, something in the rat’s placid demeanor shifts. Digging his claws into your blouse, he drops into your lap and lies down with his nose practically pressed against the screen. Afraid his touch will affect the controls, you try to reposition it.
Gorgonzola follows with a squeak of annoyance, miming a toothless bite against the ball of your thumb before settling down again. It occurs to you that rats have poor eyesight, and you almost apologize… before recognizing what you’d be apologizing for.
“Do you want to watch… The Thin Man?” you wonder, as if he could possibly answer.
The way Gorgonzola starts bruxing leaves no room for doubt. Yes, he wants to watch William Powell and Myrna Loy trade barbs and kisses and try to drink each other under the table. And he doesn’t tear his eyes from the screen until the clock on the wall forces you to shut it off, when he blinks up at you and chitters in clear disappointment.
“We’ll finish it tomorrow,” you promise, the hair on your arms prickling upward when he seems to accept this.
You finish The Thin Man. You watch Bachelor Mother and My Man Godfrey and campy Vincent Price blood-fests, and Gorgonzola sits at rapt attention through it all, barely touching the apple slices you give him. But the real scare comes when you click on Dark Victory, not knowing what it’s about, and find that you’ve wandered onto a melodramatic minefield. When you reach up to brush tears out of your eyes, the rat notices.
Within seconds, he’s scaling your sweater. Gorgonzola nuzzles himself bodily beneath your chin, he starts singing to you with soft little growls, and even as you lift your hands to cradle him there, you hear yourself whispering, “Sometimes, I swear it’s like you can understand me.”
For a moment, the animal goes still. But then he churrs on, uncaring when tears roll down your cheeks and soak into his fur, his long tail curling around the side of your neck. And you tell yourself you have no basis for comparison, that maybe all pets are like this.
But Gorgonzola doesn’t feel like a pet. He feels like the first real friend you’ve ever had.
So when you pass by the small animal room one afternoon, arms full of files for LaCroix to review, and see one of the volunteers wrestling Gorgonzola’s cage off the shelf, your heart drops into your stomach. Tossing the pile of paperwork on a nearby bench, you race inside, unsurprised to hear your normally soft voice thundering back at you from the cinderblock walls. “What on Earth are you doing?”
“There! She can tell you!” A second voice joins the fray, and you whirl around to find a waifish, hoodie-clad woman lurking in the corner.
A woman with electric green hair and silver hoops piercing her nose and lips.
“He’s not in any of these cages.” Despite her alternative styling and the incomprehensible band logo emblazoned on her sweatshirt, Sister Chloe gnaws on one of her thumbnails as she steps closer. “You remember me, right? A few weeks ago, I came here with a rat?”
You can lie, or keep your job. “I remember—"
“I fucked up bad.” Chloe’s eyes are bright with unshed tears. “Please, I need to get him back.”
“You surrendered him.” Mind racing, you glance toward the volunteer worker—Gabe, a young man with dark braids and horn-rimmed glasses. “Unless LaCroix says otherwise, she can’t adopt him again.”
“He's not my rat!” Accepting this as proof that the rat she wants is located in the last cage, Chloe gestures frantically at Gabe. “Get him out, I need to make sure—”
“He won’t come out. That’s the problem!” Sure enough, Gorgonzola must be cowering under his half-log. “Here, let me go grab the leather gloves…”
“N-no!” Fuck, the words are already threatening to stop up your throat. Holding your breath to keep from hyperventilating, you shut your eyes and compose your thoughts. Sketching them across your imagination in golden light, so you can read instead of speaking off-the-cuff. “You surrendered him without an intake appointment. That disqualifies you from adoption until you meet with the shelter administrator.”
“Lady, I need you to put on your listening ears, okay?” Shocked by the sheer venom of her delivery, you let your eyes snap open. From the way Chloe is glaring at you, you can’t tell if she’s furious or terrified. “I’m not here to adopt him. He’s not my rat. He’s a very… important part of the Ministry, and I need to get him back there before Papa loses his mind!”
“Ministry?” Upon hearing this, Gabe stands up straight. “Are you one of those freaks out at the cult compound?”
And that’s when everything, predictably enough, goes to Hell.
Chloe looks like she’d be no match for a stiff wind—but she worships the Great Deceiver, and the same cage that Gabe struggled to lower from the shelf she plucks from the ground like a suitcase before racing toward the door. Before you can scream for help, Gabe tackles the woman, catching her around the knees and forcing her to the ground. She kicks and writhes and swears, and he releases her to grab the bottom portion of the cage, seeking to regain control.
The cage bottom immediately disconnects, unleashing a flurry of wood chips, food pellets, and cotton bedding.
With a roar of frustration, Chloe staggers to her feet, carrying the upper portion with her. Gasping, you drop to your knees, already on the hunt for Gorgonzola. It isn’t until you hear his frantic squeaks that you look up and see that he’s still clinging to the bars of his cage. Your eyes meet, and once again, you’re struck by the fact that no rat should be this emotive.
Because he stretches one little hand toward you. As if his true fear isn’t being hurt, but being separated.
You used to discount the idea of seeing red as poetic license. As Gabe regains his footing and rushes to pull the fire alarm, the warning lights seem to erupt in shades of crimson instead of white. Chloe turns toward the door again, and you lunge from the floor, curling your fingers through the bars of the actual cage. The metal bites at your hands as the dark nun tries to shake you off; within the cage, Gorgonzola shrieks as the motion bashes his skull against the wire.
“You’re not taking him anywhere!” you bellow. “Let go!”
“No, you let go!” Chloe snarls. “Trust me, this is powers-beyond-your-comprehension territory!”
You’re trying to wrestle one of your hands free so you can reach inside for Gorgonzola when Chloe decides she’s done playing nice. With her formidable strength, she slams the cage against the doorjamb, crushing your hand between. Crying out, you release the cage without meaning to, and she’s gone. She flees down the hallway leading to the parking lot; Gabe gives chase, but it’s clear he’s no match for her speed.
Tears scalding your throat, flashes of icy pain cramping your arm, you try to get your feet under you. You fail, just like you’ve always failed, and when you land on your knees you fear you’re never getting up again, that the war you spend your days waging has been lost on every front. The alarm is blaring so loud you can feel it in your teeth and the lights are blinding and you can’t speak and he’s gone and your mother was right, you can’t even take care of a rat, you—
No. No, you can’t let it end like this.
Somehow, you manage to limp to your feet. The hallways are full of rushing bodies, full of shouts you can’t hear, but you thread your way through the crowd until you reach the main doors overlooking the parking lot. Gabe is there trying to catch his breath, and you stand next to him as Chloe’s red Camry roars down the snowy lane leading to the highway, taking your only friend with her.
The cage top now sits in a slushy puddle. Bent out of shape, as if the nun hurled it to the ground.
“What the fuck just happened?” Gabe pants. “She’s not gonna sacrifice that rat on some kind of altar, is she?”
“I don’t know,” you admit, daring to flex your bruised fingers as you look up at the security cameras. Surely, they can see how hard you’re shaking. “Don’t think about that, just… we have to get him back.”
At this point, Copia has to assume he’s immortal.
He survived being transformed into a rat. He survived a real-life cage match. He survived watching your beautiful face contort in fear and pain when he could do nothing to prevent it, when adrenaline-fueled panic drowned out critical thought. And when Sister Chloe popped open the trunk of her car and tried to fish him out of the cage—all the while babbling, “I’m sorry, Frater, I’m so sorry. Judith kept wailing about being assaulted by a rat, and then someone left a message with the head office, and Papa V got looped in and now he’s convinced we’re all idiots. At Black Mass he said whoever brought you here has twelve hours to bring you back or they’re on mask-polishing duty for a year and oh fuck, please don’t be mad at me…”
Copia sank his teeth into the webbing of her thumb, and survived his first taste of human blood.
“Baphomet’s tits!” the young woman screamed, thrashing her hand through the air to dislodge him—all too late, realizing where he’d end up. “Oh no, oh fuck, no no no—!”
Copia survived the tumble to the ground and the blinding burn of rock salt water splashing into his eyes. He survived multiple attempts to slam the cage on top of him, evading Chloe’s aim through sheer luck alone. By that point, shelter employees were evacuating the kennels through a side entrance, and only a tired old hound took notice as he skidded along the icy sidewalk and leapt through the open door.
Though his first instinct was to seek you out, he knew he could only count on the distraction of the fire alarm for so long. Relying on his inner compass and his keen nose, he raced to the administration wing, to the back office where he’s spent so many hours napping in the heavenly cloud of your hair. The place smells of warm copy paper and dry-erase pens and your violet hand cream; he could figure out the way in his sleep.
Once there, he dove inside your purse and pulled the zipper half-closed.
Of course, the instant the fire alarm stops shrieking, he starts questioning his own sanity. He should’ve gone with Chloe. Why the fuck didn’t he go with Chloe?! He could’ve escaped from her car once she returned to the Ministry, lain low until he could piece together why Perpetua seems so anxious to get him back. Or he could’ve gone with his original plan, and found some way to communicate with Marika. He just had the equivalent of a private chauffeur roll up to the shelter doors, and instead of hopping inside and snapping his tiny fingers, he drew blood to get away.
It’s not like he wants to remain a rat. He has duties to perform, pets of his own to tend to, jackets he needs to wear.
But the longer he waits for you to appear, the clearer the answer becomes.
The sky outside is dark by the time you return to the office. Another woman enters with you, nondescript at this distance save for her copper hair. Poking his nose out of your purse, Copia resists the urge to fly across the room, to beg his way into your arms and rumble reassurance until his lungs give out.
“Are you sure you don’t need urgent care?” The other woman has the steady voice of a born mother. “I’ll drive you.”
“The EMTs wrapped it up and told me to ice it.” You flex your right hand, and Copia huffs out a breath of relief. Nothing broken. “If it gives me trouble, I’ll go to the doctor tomorrow.”
“Call off if you need to.” You begin to protest, and the woman shakes her head. “I mean it. That was a brave thing you and Gabe did. Encounters with troubled people like that always leave you… shaken.”
“I’m okay, Ms. LaCroix.” If Copia were a betting rat, he’d lay grapes on you being the opposite of okay. “But are you sure the police will follow up on it?”
“They got the license plate number off CTV, and the officer took your statement.” LaCroix, the woman Copia remembers as your boss, reaches out to squeeze your shoulder. “Short of driving up there ourselves, which I don’t think is wise… all we can do is wait.”
“I’m sorry I shut down, I just…” You breathe in through your nose, and Copia hears the tears you’re fighting to contain. “I know I made the police wait a long time.”
“Officer DePalma was very understanding.” LaCroix points toward your desk. “Get your things. Are you sure you don’t want a ride home?”
“I’ve got a lamp on my bike.” You breathe out through your mouth. “Thank you.”
“Go home and get some rest. I’ll lock up.” With that, LaCroix sees herself out.
Copia might fit inside one of your skirt pockets, but he’s never seen you look so small. You shrink into yourself as soon as your boss is gone, shoulders hunching as you release a heartrending sob. And he knows that if he reveals himself here, he runs the risk of being stuck right back in a cage.
But you’re the only person who’s ever fought for him. His mother maneuvered him, sure, she weaponized her charm and her wits to ensure his ascension, but she never stood up for him. Paranoia and pride and survival aside, the simple truth is…
…he couldn’t leave without knowing you were safe.
Squeezing through the gap in the zipper, Copia drops to the floor and scampers across the tiles. He knows you’re particular about keeping your shoes clean—you explained it to him once when he got careless with some cracker crumbs—so he doesn’t touch them now. Instead, he rises onto his hind legs, bracing his paws against your stockinged ankle.
You jolt at the ticklish sensation and draw back. You blink down at him through your tears. And then he really is flying, you’re crushing him against your chest, and he’s boggling like some kind of possessed doll as you gasp, “Gorgy! Oh my God, you’re alive! Gorgy, Gorgy…”
Burrowing himself under your chin, Copia basks in a warmth he knows he doesn’t deserve. If you knew he was really a man—a stammering, gray-haired Son of Perdition, to boot—you wouldn’t hug him like this, or sit and watch movies with him, or feed him fruit with your own hands. But a little love is better than nothing at all, and he finds himself increasingly unable to speak reason to his hungry heart.
“We have to…” Glancing through the window set into the door, you hiccup through the last of your tears. “Listen to me. Maybe this sounds insane, but I don’t care. If that woman comes back, she can’t find you.”
Copia is in full agreement—if only because he doesn’t trust Sister Chloe not to traumatize the townsfolk again. While her loyalty to the Ministry is admirable, her methods are enough to put the PR team on tranquilizers. What if she brings a ghoul next time?
What if she brings Perpetua?
“I don’t do things like this, especially…” Moving to your desk, you set him down so you can have both hands to dry your eyes. “Ms. LaCroix has been so kind to me. But I’m taking you home tonight, and no one can know. Okay?”
Copia has no idea where you live. He could be putting even more distance between himself and the Ministry. But if you continue to offer him a certain amount of freedom, then he might be able to scrounge some tools together. A little chalk, a little salt, and he could start working on a solution.
He chirps, and he knows you hear it as a yes.
For the second time in his life, Copia finds himself secreted inside a woman’s coat. After bundling him in your scarf, you tuck him into your purse, ensuring he has access to air. Buttoning your coat overtop, you then hurry through the darkened shelter. There’s no one to stop you, and soon he’s daring to peek out from your neckline, eyes watering in the frigid winter air. You bike like you’re training for the Olympics, and half an hour later, you’re pulling into the driveway of a neat brick Victorian. The neighborhood seems quaint and well-lit, and he heartens as he realizes you live right in the village of Correy.
He tempers his expectations a moment later, when you kneel down to unlatch the garage door and use it as an opportunity to tell him, “Until we get to my room, you have to stay absolutely silent. And do not let her see you.”
Copia flashes back to the rare occasions he worked up enough courage to sneak one of the kitchen rats through Marika’s pristine parlor and up to his bedroom—but he was considerably younger then. You have to be closer to thirty than twenty.
Isn’t this your house?
After locking your bike in the garage, you pull out your keys and let yourself in through the side door. Reduced to playing spy, Copia wills his sore body to go limp, listening as you tiptoe in your galoshes across a floor that thumps and a floor that squeaks. There, he picks up on the distant chatter of a television set.
Just as you begin to climb a staircase, the television dies. Instead of going limp, you go stiff.
“Well, it’s nice to see my daughter is alive!” New footsteps click across the floor. Through three layers of fabric, the cloying scent of cheap aldehyde perfume invades Copia’s nose. “Why didn’t you return my calls? That scene at the shelter was all over the news!”
“I had to talk to the police.” Your voice usually breaks through the clouds in his heart like sunshine. Now, it’s nothing but a shadow. “I h-had to work…"
“My God, sometimes I’m still blown away by how thoughtless you are!” Copia decides then and there that he hates your mother. “I didn’t know whether you were alive or dead—”
“Mom, I’m sorry—”
“—the fire department wouldn’t tell me anything! Imagine ignoring your own mother, it’s like you’re hardwired not to feel empathy!”
Your daughter’s likeness is going to be worked in marble in the middle of my cathedral, Copia wants to scream. How dare you talk to her this way?
“Please.” Copia feels your hand settle atop the purse, then fall away. “I’m exhausted. I’ll tell you everything when I come down to make dinner, I just need to take a shower first…”
“You might as well tell me tomorrow, because you’re going to quit that stupid job!” You start up the stairs, and Copia hears the wooden banister groaning as your mother follows. “My heart can’t take this, worrying about you every day…”
“I’m fine,” you mumble, as you reach the second floor. “Be out soon, Mom.”
A door slams, and a lock clicks. Your mother releases an impotent noise of rage, then storms off down the hall. You lean against the door, breathing deep, and Copia squirms out of your purse, dropping to the wooden floor beside your feet. Noticing him there, you reach for the light switch.
The ensuing kaleidoscope of color leaves him reeling, and it takes him a few moments to work out what he’s looking at.
This isn’t a young woman’s bedroom. This is a room meant for a child. The farther he wanders from your side, the more bewildered he becomes. There are shelves piled high with plush animals and plastic figurines, a brass bed and vanity draped in frilly pink silk, a cartoon village printed on the rug, and a toddler-sized slate easel propped against the wall. But you’ve never struck him as being immature, quite the opposite….
“She won’t let me give any of it away.” After performing the inverted cross with his paw in response to a truly hideous clown-shaped nightlight, Copia watches as you settle onto the vanity seat and start unbuckling your wellies. “Sorry. I know it’s kind of a… weird room.”
The fact that you can intuit what he’s thinking puts the lie to everything your mother just said. Returning to your side, Copia waits until your boots are off before taking hold of one of your shoelaces with his teeth, tugging it loose so you can remove your sneakers.
“You…” Copia freezes, realizing he may have gone too far. For a moment, you stare at him—and he doesn’t need perfect vision to see the questions swimming in your eyes.
But then, logic wins out. Glancing toward the other side of the room, you mutter, “You need a bath. God knows what you might’ve already licked off your fur.”
The far corner contains a wicker toy chest. Kneeling beside it, still favoring your right hand, you hunt inside until you find what you’re looking for—a plastic hot tub designed for a doll. Carrying it to the adjoining bathroom, you fill it with warm water from the pedestal sink. Copia hops onto the toilet lid to watch you, his heart swelling when you run a quick search on your phone to make sure your castile bar soap is safe enough for a rat to use.
“There,” you tell him, setting the tub on the pink tile floor when the water is frothy and you’re convinced it won’t burn him. “Can you figure that out?”
Perhaps he should do more to hide his intelligence—but rats value cleanliness, so surely the way he dives in and begins scrubbing his face won’t raise too many red flags. His enthusiasm even coaxes a tired laugh out of you, and for that reason alone, he relents to the urge to scrub and splash and preen.
He’s so distracted by the first non-spit-based bath he’s had in weeks that he doesn’t realize you’re disrobing until your wool skirt threatens to take him out.
“Sorry!” Laughing again, you reach down to grab the fumbled garment. Copia catches a glimpse of bare leg, the shimmer of a satin camisole, the swish of…
…do you wear tap pants?
“I’m trusting you in there,” you note, as you hang your skirt and sweater on the door handle and stretch your left arm across your body so you can undo the buttons on your lacy shorts. “Give me five minutes.”
Copia plants his paws over his eyes before he can see more than you’d likely be comfortable showing him. He doesn’t move until he hears curtain rings jangling into position and the shower turning on. Then he shoves one of his fists into his mouth, because he needs to be human again. Sweet fucking Lucifer, he should’ve gone with Chloe. He needs to be human again, he needs to come back to Correy and turn your mother into a rat, and then he needs to convince the girl he never got to go to prom with to give him a chance—just one little chance, please, he’ll never nibble on your shoelaces again.
Would he be willing to trade his chains for that?
…Maybe. If the universe broke with tradition, and decided to offer him a season of peace.
This thought sobers him, and he forgets to be careful as he leaps up into the sink and wrenches on the faucet to rinse the soap from his fur. Leaving the water to run, he shakes himself dry and wanders back into your bedroom, anxious to get the lay of the land. There’s no desk where he can pilfer writing supplies, but there’s chalk lined up on the easel rail and plenty of storybooks with blank pages he could tear out. The vanity has a few tubes of lipstick and a pot of loose powder sitting atop it, but nothing of further interest. He’s trying to tug one of the drawers open with his tail when he sees your shadow in the mirror, and turns to find you dressed in a pink puff-sleeved nightgown, your hair wet down your back and your cheeks flushed from the heat of the shower.
“Did you turn the sink on?” you demand, no longer willing to play pretend.
Copia issues the dullest squeak he can muster.
“That’s…” Lowering your eyes to the glass jar of cotton balls on the vanity, you limit your response to, “…really smart.”
Fuck, he should just figure out a way to tell you. You’re observant and empathetic; you’re going to puzzle out all his secrets at this rate. He could spill face powder on the vanity top, spell out words with his tail. But if he does something like that, you might panic. Your mother might burst in, she might find you throwing a fit over a rat, and if you let it slip that he can talk…
…she won’t just make you quit your job. From the way that woman spoke, from the way she’s turned your childhood bedroom into a shrine, it’s clear she’s determined to keep you dependent on her.
Copia would rather freeze on his way to the Ministry than put you in danger.
Approaching the vanity, you pick up the jar of cotton balls. Your mouth works for a moment before you come to a decision. “I’ll get wood chips tomorrow. Let me…”
This time, you go to the closet instead of the toy chest. Retrieving a shoebox off the top shelf, you remove a pair of brand-new sneakers and pour the cotton balls inside, shredding them with your fingertips. Copia trots after your bare feet as you set the shoebox just inside the bathroom door.
“Litterbox,” you inform him. And from your tone, he knows you expect him to understand.
Then you snap on a floor lamp that Copia didn’t notice before, illuminating the funny little nook that holds the bay window. And there, half-tucked behind an overstuffed reading chair but standing tall as the Ministry itself, is an old-fashioned, honest-to-Satan, wood-and-paper dollhouse. Easing it out, turning it around to expose the open back, you sit cross-legged on the carpet and begin collecting the porcelain dolls.
“You can stay here.” Moving the dolls to the attic, you turn down the quilt on the little canopy bed. “Everything works, the bed has a real mattress…”
Overwhelmed, Copia creeps inside. The house is the ideal size for him, and after the cage at the shelter… it feels like coming home. There’s real carpet beneath his feet on the stairs, real paint on the walls. When he finds the bedroom, you touch the electric switch beside the door. The dome light on the ceiling flickers to life, and a tin fan on the bedside table actually starts to whirl.
“I don’t care if you’re some Satanist’s familiar, or some kind of… of demon-rat…” Though your voice trembles, you lean down to face him. “No one deserves to live in fear.”
Even if he could speak, Copia would find himself at a loss for words. For all you know, you’re courting the wrath of a church full of Chloes by sheltering him. He knew hearts like yours existed, he knew sacrifice like this existed—for pity’s sake, Lucifer damned Himself out of love for mankind.
But he’s never witnessed it in the flesh. He almost wishes he hadn’t.
You offer him your fingertips, and Copia has no choice but to crawl forward. To close his eyes and press his head into the warmth of your touch, to purr at you in thanks, knowing that he owes you so much more.
“I have to go down and make dinner. Explain this.” You show him your right hand, purple fingers poking out of a water-splattered compression brace. “I’ll bring you food, okay? Just stay here and keep quiet.”
Lifting his head, Copia looks at you. Against his better judgment—he nods.
Cheeks pale, you nod back at him.
Gorgonzola understands English.
This is the sole thought that carries you through dinner. That gives you the strength to survive your mother’s interrogation, to ignore her repeated claims that you’re ill-equipped for a job where you have to think on your feet. You make spaghetti and salad, and you listen while she tries to persuade you that you’re socially gullible and mentally weak.
Gorgonzola understands English.
And someone up at the Ministry wants him. For whatever purpose, you shudder to think.
When she doesn’t get the response she wants, Mom ferries her after-dinner coffee to the living room with a huff. You wash the dishes in record time and load up a saucer with salad fixings and a plain meatball, hiding it behind your back on your way upstairs. Pausing before your bedroom door, you relive the last eight hours and swallow the bile that wants to rise in your throat.
Gorgonzola understands English.
After letting yourself inside, you lock the door. The rat hears you, and immediately races down the stairs of his new house. Feeling only a trifle hysterical, you make your way over and turn on the lights in the miniature dining room, setting the saucer on the polished wooden table. “Dinner is served.”
Gorgonzola finds his way through the kitchen to the dining room. Before he even looks at the plate, he catches hold of your right hand and presses his muzzle against your fingertips. The injury looks worse than it is, and the swelling is almost gone.
Still, there’s no mistaking his intent. He’s trying to kiss it better.
While he eats, you pull your phone out of your pocket and start researching. All you know of the Ministry comes from their website, which looks ordinary enough for a church—well, except for the glittery rock videos. There are service times, a directory, and a statement of faith.
Nothing about summoning demon-rats, though. You suppose they wouldn’t lead with that.
While Gorgonzola busies himself with the last carrot coin, you rise and return to your vanity. Unable to explain why your chest has gone numb, you open the middle drawer and pull out a pocket notebook and pencil. Returning to the dollhouse, you sit down and wait for the rat to finish cleaning his face before presenting him with both.
The heavy way he looks at the pencil mirrors your own growing apprehension.
“You tried to steal my pen before,” you whisper. “Can you actually… write?”
Gorgonzola’s tail curls into a fretful question mark, but he joins you on the printed activity rug. And Christ Almighty—he reaches out to take the pencil from your fingers. Grabbing hold with his mouth and then with his paws, he wrestles with the equivalent of a vault pole as he tries to figure out how to position it. His irritated growl inspires you to take the pencil back, to snap it in half.
“Crap,” you curse, when the back half shatters in your hand. “Sorry, I’m such a klutz…”
But it seems you’ve unwittingly hit upon the solution. Instead of grabbing the shorter front end, Gorgonzola seizes a length of broken, naked lead. This he can hold in one paw, and that’s how you get to witness a rat scrawling out sentences in beautiful copperplate script.
I heard your mother yelling through the air vent. There’s not a single thing wrong with you. You are the closest thing to an angel mankind has seen in two thousand years.
Gorgonzola underlines single and angel a few more times, before using the lead to point at the paper for emphasis. But you’re not capable of reading it anymore. He doesn’t just understand English. He can speak it. He understands everything that’s been going on, he understands emotions and the passage of time, he’s already taken your side against your mother…
…he thinks you’re an angel.
This time, your dinner refuses to stay down. You manage to make it to the toilet in time, and Gorgonzola races right alongside you, squeaking in dismay. By the time your stomach is empty, he’s climbed the back of your robe and done his best to gather your hair away from your face.
He really is the best friend you’ve ever had.
“How?” you warble, as soon as you’re well enough to stagger to the sink and grab your toothbrush. The rat is still clinging to your hair, tail coiled around the mass of your makeshift ponytail. “What did they do to you?”
Gorgonzola waits until you’ve scoured your mouth three times before climbing onto your shoulder and jerking his head toward the bedroom. Following his lead, you return to the notebook and set him down.
Now it’s your turn to wait.
The rat gives the task ahead of him a good long think, stroking the end of the pencil lead along his mustache like a scholar contemplating a difficult text. Then, he begins to write. His handwriting is miniscule, which makes reading along difficult.
I’ve had a spell put on me.
“That much is obvious!” you hiss, cutting your eyes toward the door. No matter what happens, you have to keep quiet. “What kind of spell?”
It’s hard to explain. The less you know, the better.
“You’re a rat.” You have to keep reminding yourself of that fact. “Did someone… trap a damned soul inside you, or something?”
Gorgonzola’s whiskers twitch as he responds. You’re far more imaginative than I am.
“So you don’t know what happened?” Chloe was right. This is powers-beyond-your-comprehension territory. “How you ended up this way?”
Gorgonzola turns his muzzle toward the window for a moment. The next time he writes, you give him time to work. Answers are at the Ministry. I don’t think I can undo the spell without some kind of sacrifice. But I’m also not sure who I can trust.
“Sacrifice?” The word alone is enough to send a shiver up your spine. Spells are real. Rats imbued with human souls are real. “Like… blood?”
I don’t know, Gorgonzola writes. I think I need to summon a demon.
“What?” Jumping to your feet, you begin to pace. “You’re not summoning a demon in my bedroom!”
It’s the only way, the rat reports with grim confidence. I can send the ghoul back to the Ministry. Let it dig up answers for me.
“Oh my God, we’re going to get in so much trouble!” Even though you mean the words, you wish you could take them back. You’ve spent years trying to get out from under your mother’s thumb, and now you’re paralyzed by the idea of her finding out what you’ve done. A lapse in judgment does not begin to encompass taking in a stray rat who wants to perform feats of dark magic in your dollhouse.
I don’t have to do it tonight! Gorgonzola pauses again, before writing at length. I’ll clean up any messes that I make. If you let me source a few plague fleas for your mother’s sock drawer, I won’t have to bother, eh?
And that’s when you break. Sinking onto the edge of your bed, you hold in your laughter until it transforms into heaving sobs, all the while trying to remain silent. The taste of salt poisons your mouth, but before you can cough it out and wipe away your tears, Gorgonzola pulls himself onto the pink counterpane and nudges his head against your hands.
He has a tissue clamped between his teeth. Stolen from the box on the table beside the reading chair.
As you nestle his warm body against your pounding heart, you know you’re going to let him do whatever he wants. Because he thinks you’re an angel. Because even though you’d never want him to hurt your mother, just the idea that another creature has arrived to help shoulder the burden of your anger and doubt and hopelessness…
…it’s an unexpected gift. Even if you have to say goodbye eventually, you’d be foolish to throw such compassion away.
“What’s your real name?” you ask, as you brush your chin over the back of his head. “Do you have one?”
The rat hesitates for a beat before wriggling out of your arms. Dabbing at your eyes with the tissue, you follow him back to the notebook, where he’s finishing up his reply.
Every time I get used to a name, someone changes it. Gorgy is fine.
The dollhouse bed even has box springs, and Copia finds himself reluctant to abandon it the next morning. The only reason he stirs at all is because he hears your voice.
“Yes, um… Ms. LaCroix?” It seems you do trip over your tongue on the phone, even when talking to people you know well. “S-sorry, but if it’s okay, I think I will take the day off…”
Yawning wide, Copia crawls out of the tiny four-poster and squints down the length of the room. You’re just a (delightful) shape, a blot of (delightful) pink seated on the edge of your bed. Your head bobs as you nod along with whatever your boss is saying, and the sunlight streaming through the picture window is far kinder to you than the harsh fluorescents of the shelter.
Now that you at least know he’s sapient, it feels uncouth to stare. To climb onto your rumpled bed while you’re still occupying it. But when he makes his way over, you notice him and pat the mattress beside you, telling LaCroix, “Of course, ma’am. See you tomorrow.”
By the time you hang up, Copia is seated in your lap. Sleep seems to have worked its magic, because there’s a sparkle of determination in your eyes that puts him to shame.
“I’m staying home today,” you confirm. “Mom will want to pester me, so while I handle her… you have a mission.”
Electricity tingles over Copia’s skin as his pelt puffs up. Is this what it feels like to have a partner in crime?
“She’s old-school. She keeps her date calendar on the phone desk in the parlor.” Lowering your voice, you lean close. “Find a date where she’ll be out of the house… hair appointment, Women’s Club, something. And then we’ll… figure out what we need to do.”
You’re a genius, dolcezza, Copia thinks to himself, letting his tail talk for him. Give me ten minutes, I’ll be on my way to having knees again so I can fall at your feet.
The plan goes off without a hitch. Your mother’s recharged her lecture batteries, and Copia has plenty of time to explore. As in many traditional homes, the parlor is a room kept under glass—a tomb full of plastic-covered furniture, tacky figurines, and embroidered pillows. Sniffing his way through a haze of lemon polish and stale potpourri, he locates the desk with its landline phone, mountaineers his way atop it, and flicks through the calendar he finds there until an appointment jumps out at him.
Three days from now. Dinner with the Andersons – 7:00.
Objective secured, Copia returns the diary page to the current day. But as he prepares to shimmy down the phone cord, his attention turns to the curio shelves high overhead.
He really doesn’t like your mother.
The first victim is a wind-swept porcelain maiden, who shatters in spectacular fashion when she lands on the hardwood floor below. Next up is a rose worked in crystal, and he’s quite enjoying the merry ting-ting-ting as its constituent parts hurtle across the room when a distant shout tells him he’s running out of time. He topples a whole family of Wedgwood angels by using his tail as a shepherd’s crook, running along the edge of the shelf until he reaches the outside. Then he’s on the desk, on the floor, streaking along the wall, and on his way up the grand staircase by the time your mother bursts through the half-open door, with you hot on her heels.
Helpless in her fury, your mother shrieks and gesticulates and makes demands.
Copia doesn’t get to enjoy your smile until later, when you sneak into the room with your pockets full of cookies and apples. Sweeping him into your arms, you tickle his belly and laugh. “What was that about cleaning up your messes, huh?”
Stolen cookies never tasted so sweet.
Though it appears petting is still on the table, that evening you flush and apologize and shut him out of the bathroom when you need to bathe, and he blesses your good judgment. You invite him to sit beside you on the bed, though. For a while, you ask him questions: How do you summon a demon? Was somebody there using you like a magical lab rat? Is Satan real?
Copia answers what he can. He refuses to spin some elaborate yarn, but he still needs to shield you from the truth. In a practical sense, the theological and ecclesiastical issues at play here aren’t the kind you discuss with normies, and even if they were…
…fuck, fine, damn it. He’s a pervert and a liar and a creep, because he doesn’t want to ruin the friendly intimacy of this relationship by dropping a massive bombshell in the middle of it. Yes, you’re currently stroking the head of a fifty-six-year-old Satanist with a schoolboy crush. You’ve been cutting up fruit for a big bad boogieman who gets mailers from the AARP.
This is the most affection he’s ever received from another person. Not just the petting, not just your unwavering loyalty, but your kindness.
Three days or three weeks… if this is all he ever gets to know of love, be it platonic or romantic, he’ll take it.
When his replies turn vague, you apologize for tiring him out and grab your tablet. Queuing up an old movie, you lie back and balance it atop your chest, and Copia makes his way to the pillow beside your head. Singling out his left ear for attention, you capture the thin membrane and rub it carefully between your forefinger and thumb.
“Later, you’ll have to tell me what it feels like when you do that boggling thing,” you comment, your voice amused and soft.
Like getting drunk on champagne, he wants to tell you, as his teeth start to grind together in sheer animal bliss. Like running out underneath the stars, triggering the sprinklers on the lawn, laughing with someone beautiful and the entire world is full of sequins and glitter, and you wonder how anything could ever hurt you again.
Not that he’s ever had the chance to do something like that.
Not that he ever will.
That night, you stare into the shadows of your room and let yourself meditate on the only questions you care about. The ones you haven’t yet found the courage to ask.
When the spell is undone, will you go back to being an ordinary rat?
Will you forget who I am?
The idea is enough to put a pit in your stomach. It’s still there in the morning, when you wake up and realize you can’t leave Gorgonzola unsupervised. You could never live with yourself if Mom came in to snoop and found him. So after getting ready for work, you rifle through your toy chest again, stopping once you find the tiny plastic helmet that came with your doll bike.
“We have to stick together,” you tell your best friend, as you put the awl from your sewing kit to good use. “You’ll stay in my pocket all day.”
The rat gives a solemn nod, as if his thoughts are on the same wavelength.
Before setting out, you slip the notebook under the armchair cushion and bag up the garbage in your room. After tossing it into the trash can behind the garage, you bike to work, content to let Gorgonzola poke his head out of your coat this time. The air is slightly warmer, and the helmet is now buckled under his chin, his ears left to ripple in the breeze.
The day passes uneventfully. LaCroix announces new security protocols for buzzing in potential adopters and locking up at night; you have mountains of paperwork to catch up on. The swelling in your hand is gone, leaving only bruises and anxiety, but Gorgonzola’s weight in your pocket helps to keep you grounded. He sleeps through most of the day, though at lunch you take him on a walk through the barn out back, eating your sandwich as he sniffs curiously at the sheep and horses.
And it’s nice not to be alone. To have a friend with you, even if you can’t speak aloud.
That night, you open another drawer in your vanity and ask Gorgonzola to pick out a nail polish color for you. He takes this job very seriously, hunting through your bottles until he finds a bright metallic teal. You give yourself a manicure while he’s in the doll tub, and afterward you lie on your stomach on the floor as he wrestles his notebook free.
“Will you be an ordinary rat again?” you blurt out. “After… everything goes back to normal?”
It takes Gorgonzola a few moments to turn to a fresh page and start writing. I’ll be what I was before.
“A rat?” you prompt. “Just… an animal? Not that animals aren’t smart, but…”
Gorgonzola stares at the graphite in his hand. With a sudden burst of speed, he asks a question of his own. Why does your mother treat you the way she does?
“She was a really good mom when I was little.” You nod toward the dollhouse. “You see how she spoiled me. Then my dad left, and… she decided no one else was leaving, after that.”
Don’t you have friends? Other family?
“I had friends in high school.” You feel your hands trying to clench, and relax them so the nail polish won’t get nicked. “But after I graduated, it’s like they forgot I was ever there. I mean, I understand… I’m nothing special. A little weird…”
You’re not weird, Gorgonzola writes, movements concise and serious. Trust me, I know weird.
“You must, living up at the Ministry.” Laughter gives way to curiosity, and you ask, “Why do the people up there worship Satan?”
His answer is blunt. Because the prisoner who stops testing the bars of his cell no longer believes he deserves to be free.
This philosophy hits a little too close to home.
You never had the chance to whisper secrets at a sleepover. Mom wouldn’t let you go the few times someone in your class took pity on you and issued an invitation. Maybe that’s why you forget to be careful about your nails—why you go to the golden powder jar on your vanity and open it, pulling out the wad of bills hidden inside.
“I’m halfway there,” you tell Gorgonzola, returning to show him the cash. “I have enough money for a beater car. Once I have a few months of rent saved up, I’m moving out. And this time I won’t come back if it gets hard, I’ll…” You officially make your wish. “If you want, you can come with me. Even if you go back to being… what you were.”
The arm holding the pencil lead goes slack against his side. For a long moment, the rat seems to contemplate your offer.
When he writes again, his handwriting is a little less fluid.
Your mother is wrong. Gorgonzola gazes into your eyes for a moment before continuing. You’re the bravest, most selfless person I’ve ever met, and you deserve every pleasure this world has to offer.
Though no one speaks them aloud, those words ring in your head all the next day. While you sit at work with a rat snoring in your pocket, while you suffer your mother’s verbal slings and arrows, while you dry your hair and watch Gorgonzola flick through album listings online in search of something good. Amused, you dig your Walkman out from under the bed, letting him browse in wonder through the cassettes you’ve collected until he settles on Meat Loaf. Flopping on his back beside you, headphones bracketing his body, he conducts his paws through the air, fingers flexing as if he knows the lead sheets for Heaven Can Wait.
These are the only pleasures you want. You can’t imagine anything better.
But he doesn’t give you an answer as to whether he’ll come with you. And at this point, you know he doesn’t belong in a cage.
You remind yourself of this fact the following evening, when your mother slams the front door shut at 6:45. Edging around your bedroom doorway, Gorgonzola in your pocket, you listen for the grind of the garage door, the rumble of the car engine, the crunch of wheels across fresh-fallen snow.
Headlights sweep across the stained-glass window at the end of the upstairs hallway.
“She’s gone.” The rat drops to the floor, and you turn to follow him back into the room. “Okay… show me what to do.”
Gorgonzola unearths his notepad from under the chair cushion, flipping through the pages until he finds the one he wants. As you read the speech he’s prepared, he clambers onto the chalk rail mounted beneath the easel.
We need to draw a sigil large enough for the ghoul to come through. If you sketch out two concentric circles, I can fill in the glyphs.
He’s drawn an example. It looks like something out of an illuminated manuscript.
After the sigil is completed, nothing needs to be said. A doorway will open, but nothing can pass through unless I allow it. That is… if the ghoul can understand me. If I can’t communicate with it, you’ll have to do the talking. Just ask it to give up its name. One of us will end up in control, there’s no danger of it harming you.
“Do all the rats at the Ministry know how to summon demons?” you mumble, heart already thumping against your ribs.
Now equipped with a stub of blue chalk, Gorgonzola writes his reply on the easel. After I get back, no one’s summoning shit for the next six months.
With that, he offers you the chalk. Taking it, you indulge your last sane thought of the evening. You’re about to add a demon to your strange menagerie. You’re about to perform some kind of dark ritual, all to help an escaped inmate from the Satanic asylum out in the woods.
You might be damning yourself tonight. But you’d do worse things for a friend.
Rolling up the activity rug, you reveal a bare spot on the wooden floor. Doing your best to keep the circles smooth, you draw them out as illustrated in the notepad. Gorgonzola scampers over, and you pass him the chalk, watching as he finishes the sigil. The careless elegance of his script, the confidence with which he works tickles at the back of your mind, and your throat runs dry as you re-read the words scrawled on the chalkboard.
Before you can articulate your sense of growing dread, a flash of blue light leaves you blind and gasping.
The pressure in the room shifts, to the point where the first thing you see when you regain some semblance of vision is the lamp swaying overhead. Stumbling toward the window, you throw it open, and ice-cold air rushes in to stir the curtains and the workers' comp forms stacked on your vanity. Gorgonzola maintains his position at the southern point of the sigil, one paw stretched out, his gimlet eyes reflecting the surge of electric energy that consumes the chalk lines.
The center of the sigil transforms, polished wood crumbling away to reveal a glassine portal. Or maybe it’s more like a veil drawn taut. When shadows materialize on the other side, when taloned hands pound against it, the surface ripples without tearing.
Only the fact that the window is open and the neighbors like to gossip keeps you from screaming.
Gorgonzola begins chanting. At least, that’s what it sounds like, but the effect may be caused by the way he needs to manipulate his throat for sustained speech. The sigil pulses and the shadows scatter, until only one remains.
The portal cracks open. And you expect to see a blood-red arm stretch forth, followed by membranous wings, a crown of jagged horns, but instead…
…all that emerges is a coil of smoke. No more than if you’d blown out a candle, or let a matchstick burn down to nothing.
The sigil turns to ash. The smoke billows toward Gorgonzola, sweeping around him before reconstituting itself a few inches away. It turns to hoarfrost, it splinters and shifts and breathes life into itself until it assumes physical form.
It’s a cricket. It gives a very cricket-like screech of greeting.
Gorgonzola slaps his paws over his face, and you don’t need any form of translation to know he’s swearing a blue streak.
The name the ghoul entrusted into Copia’s keeping spoke of petals set adrift by a summer breeze. Moon-glossed grasses stirred by wheeling moths, the earth sighing under the weight of its own bounty.
Copia isn’t feeling half as poetic when he gets his anger under control long enough to mutter, “Okay, Jiminy. Here’s what I need you to do.”
It’s a relief to speak aloud and have someone else process it. The ghoul glances around your room, antennae wibbling to attention. “Is this an earthly cathedral?”
“Ah… no.” Pinching the bridge of his nose, Copia tries to comfort himself with the knowledge that this misadventure is going to result in one Hell of a theological treatise. “We’re outside the Ministry. I need you to go back there and do a little… ricognizione. You know? Have a look around.”
“What are you telling it?” Recovering from your scare, you approach the spent circle, your sneakers crunching over the glittering ash. “What’s it saying?”
Copia doesn’t have time to write that treatise now. Focusing on the ghoul, he unloads his situation—the unbound demon, the wording of the curse, the fact that he’s probably overthinking things but will not, under any circumstances, let himself be humiliated by Perpetua. Grabbing the chalk, he sketches a rough map of the area on the now solid floorboards, noting the location of the Ministry with an inverted cross.
“Find out if my brother had anything to do with this,” Copia summarizes. “And I need to know if they got the manifestor under control. If it’s still bound to this plane.”
“Bug on the wall,” the ghoul says, saluting with one serrated limb. “Got it.”
With that, the creature bumbles off. It doesn’t have its land legs yet, and several sproings turn into splats on its way toward the open window. Reverting to its smoky form, it drifts off into the night.
“That’s it?” you wonder, as you watch the curtains dance in the breeze. “That was the ghoul?”
Copia resolves to summon a more formidable one someday, so you aren’t left thinking that’s the best he can do… before remembering that soon, you’ll just be the woman he dreams about. Adrenaline and reality crashing in on him, he surveys the damage he’s caused. The floor is gritty with dust, the jute backing of the activity rug scorched where it didn’t get pushed far enough out of the way.
Returning to the dollhouse, Copia opens the cupboard in the kitchen and retrieves a doll-sized broom and dustpan.
“Gorgy?” After shutting the window, you kneel on the floor beside him. “What’s wrong? Why won’t you talk to me?”
Because I’ve made a mess I can’t clean up, he broods, as he starts sweeping. Because as soon as that ghoul comes back, whatever decision I end up making… you’re going to hate me for it.
Taking a breath, you glance at the chalkboard easel. The next time you speak, there’s a hollowed-out quality to your voice that cuts through his melancholy like a knife. “If you’re a rat, why will people listen to what you have to say?”
Baffled, Copia lifts his head. He can’t see your face well, but he can tell where you’re looking—and when he recalls what he wrote, he feels the blood drain from his ears.
After I get back, no one’s summoning shit for the next six months.
“How can a rat stop a bunch of Satanists from summoning whatever they want?” Taking advantage of his shock, you catch him under the arms. The tools fall from his limp hands as you lift him up to face you. “Tell me the truth. What are you?”
A fool, he wants to admit. A clown, a coward, a loser.
Even now, he can’t admit he’s a man. Some illusions are too precious to shatter.
When he remains mute, tears bead in your beautiful eyes. Before he can wriggle out of your grasp and scale your arm, you set him down, stuttering, “Did you… did you use me? To summon a demon? Did you come home with me because I was n-nice to you, did you think I wouldn’t ask questions…”
No. No, he can’t let you think like that. Scrambling across the floor toward his notebook and rat-sized pencil, he flips to a fresh page and starts unburdening his heart.
Carina, please listen to me. It was never my intention to take advantage of your kindness. I am cursed. That was a demon. None of that was a lie—
“Then what are you really?” He can smell the salt of your tears as they fall. “Are you a demon?”
It’s better you don’t know. Rats can’t cry, but Copia feels his eyes burning as he underlines the sentence. For your own safety.
“Because I need to be sheltered and protected.” Your words hit him like a one-two punch. “Is that it?”
You are dear to me, he writes, his paw shaking hard enough to turn his cursive into chicken scratch. You are too dear to me to lose should something happen. And if I don’t make it out of this, I’d rather you remember me this way—
But you’re not interested in reading any further. Rising to your feet, you head out the door and pad down the stairs.
By the time your mother’s return chases you back into your room, Copia’s swept the floor and rolled the rug into position. He’s shut off the lights in the dollhouse and dragged the plastic tub and other care items back into your toy chest. His food plates are carefully stacked in the bathroom sink, and the notepad is on your pillow, his final sentence punctuated with a simple, I’m sorry.
And Copia, after dropping into the air vent beneath the reading chair and forcing himself to explore, has found himself in the basement. There, he crawls into one of the ground-level windows and rests his forehead against the snow-frosted glass.
He fucked up. He always fucks up.
But he can’t leave the house. The ghoul knows to find him here. Until escape is guaranteed, until he has more options…
…he has no choice but to leave you be.
The next morning at work, you’re so strung out from crying and lack of sleep that you can feel the hum of the fluorescent lights in your blood.
You just wanted answers. You didn’t want Gorgonzola to run away. He can’t be in the house—you looked everywhere, sneaking around with a flashlight only after your mother went to bed. Surely he would’ve come if he’d heard you call, if he heard your tearful apologies.
You’re haunted by the thought that he might’ve perished in the snow. You’re haunted by the idea that you’ve been interacting with some kind of supernatural entity. Worst of all, you’re haunted by the fact that your mother is right. You’re too trusting, too willing to throw your lot in with anyone who shows you the least bit of kindness. Even if they’re a talking rat, even if they’re an agent of Satan.
Even now, you’re not angry. You’re heartbroken and afraid for him, and in a way… you’re devastated that your little fairy tale had to come to such an abrupt and tragic end. You’ll never smell brimstone and ozone as magic flares to life at your feet again. You’ll never fall asleep knowing that you’re not alone again.
All that waits for you is a lifetime of deferred dreams and pointless struggle.
That evening, when you drag yourself through the side door, you almost trip over your mother. She’s setting a glue trap under the kitchen sink, and you ignore her tirade as she trails you to the base of the stairs. “Something’s been destroying the art in the house, I keep finding food missing—last night, I swear I heard something skittering through the walls. Didn’t you hear it?”
“No,” you tell her, wishing you had.
At midnight, you set out with the flashlight again, collecting the glue traps so you can dump them all into the trash.
When LaCroix finds you at your desk one afternoon, gazing out the window as you listen to Heaven Can Wait on your Walkman, she tugs gently on the cord to get your attention. Tearing off your headphones, you hurry to apologize—but she interrupts you with a soft, “You don’t have to tell me anything. Go home.”
“I’m fine,” you try to argue, clicking the cassette player off. “I’ve just been having… bad dreams, I haven’t been sleeping, I’m s-sorry…”
“Go home.” LaCroix’s smile conceals her obvious worry. “At least start biking in that direction. The fresh air will do you good.”
In the end, you have no reason to disobey her. Later on, when you realize that you didn’t even register the black sedan that began following you after you traded the lazy county highway for the surface streets that lead into Correy, you’ll blame it on fatigue and melodramatic rock music.
The car continues down Willow Street when you turn into the driveway, and you think nothing of it. You lock up your bike, you unlock the kitchen door, and you breathe a sigh of relief when you hear the TV in the distance. Mom’s not expecting you back so early, and if you’re careful, you might be able to sneak upstairs without her noticing.
Just as your foot lands on the bottom stair, a quiet knock echoes through the front room. Cringing, you turn around, praying that someone just tucked a political flier through the door handle and left—but there’s a lanky shadow looming on the other side of the frosted glass window.
They didn’t ring the bell. You might still be able to salvage this.
Holding your breath, you unlock the front door and open it a crack. Any words you meant to say turn to dust in your mouth.
“Good afternoon.” The man outside is dressed all in black. The man outside is wearing a mask, and when he sees your eyes go round, he adds, “I assure you, this isn’t a home invasion.”
You try to think on your feet—but his are faster. Before you can close the door, a sleek black brogue plants itself in the gap. “I’ll make this quick. I’m Papa V Perpetua of the Satanic Ministry, and you have something that…” He grimaces. “He doesn’t belong to me, per se…”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” There’s too much to take in. The slash of lipstick on his upper lip and the mismatched eyes surrounded by pools of black paint. The enviable curls and the faint European accent. The fact that someone from the Ministry found you, that he’s five toes deep inside your house. “P-please leave…”
Perpetua lifts his gloved hand, displaying a clear plastic carrying case. Behind his mask, one brow appears to arch. “Not without the rat.”
If you tell him anything about Gorgonzola, he’ll just use that information to continue the hunt. “If you’re talking about the rat from the shelter, I don’t know what happened—”
“I do.” Though the man’s stare is intense, nothing in it strikes you as malevolent. “Because when new ghouls show up on campus, the pack responds.”
Caught dead to rights, you just stare at him. The TV switches off, and you don’t even have it in you to panic.
“And when those ghouls are brought to me, they talk. Because I’m Papa.” Perpetua spits the title out of his mouth. “I know he’s here. I want to help him. I even bought this stupid cage at the pet store so I can buckle him into the car…”
Gorgonzola told you he didn’t know who he could trust. “He’s not here. He ran away.”
Perpetua’s arm drops. “What?”
“What on Earth…” Your mother chooses that moment to appear under the arch that leads to the main hallway. “Why are you home… who…”
Perpetua peers over your head. “She looks like a screamer.”
“She is,” you breathe, pretty sure your soul is about to leave your body.
You’re not sure what happens first—whether your heel smashes down on top of Perpetua’s toes, or he bursts through the door. Cursing, hopping on one foot, he slams the door shut behind him. “This is not a home invasion,” he bellows again, even as your mother starts grabbing pillows from the hall settee and hurling them at his head. “I just want the damn rat!”
“You’re from that Devil church!” Mom howls, aiming a bolster straight at his nose. “I rebuke you, you evil son of a bitch!”
“He’s not here!” you shout, amazed you can hear yourself above your thundering heart. “Please get out, he’s not here!”
“Who's not here?” Mom demands. “You mean there really was a rat loose in my house?!”
And that’s the last word she manages to get in. Perpetua turns on you, advancing until you’re forced to retreat up the stairs. “Listen to me. It might sound crazy, but that rat is my brother—”
“That’s a lie!” you counter without thinking. “He never told me he had a brother!”
Cold understanding clicks between the two of you. Stomach twisting, you watch as Perpetua edges close enough to rest his hand on the banister. “He is the head of the whole goddamn operation, and I need to take him back. Do you know how hard it is to keep a manifestation demon chained up instead of sending it back to the Pit?”
“If he’s the head… of the whole Ministry…” You’re panting like you’ve run a marathon. “Then why was he scared to go back?”
This news shocks Perpetua into silence. Pressing your advantage, fighting through your fear as you let your thoughts unspool in molten gold, you descend a step. “He doesn’t trust you. I don’t trust you. He’s not here, but even if I knew where he was, I wouldn’t tell you!”
“Woman, I didn’t come here to hurt…” Trailing off with a growl of frustration, Perpetua lifts one preternaturally long finger, poking it so close to your nose that you’re forced to blink. “I don’t care what he told you. This is a matter that doesn’t concern you, so just tell me what you do know and I’ll let you go back to your life of ignorance and ugly pillows!”
And that’s when Gorgonzola launches himself off the brass chandelier with a war cry, and dive-bombs onto Perpetua’s upturned face.
A six-foot drop is enough to knock the wind out of Copia’s lungs.
It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need to breathe to bite.
Perpetua roars something in Swedish. Copia doesn’t speak Swedish, which suits him fine, because he doesn’t give a good goddamn what his brother has to say. What follows is the rat-vs.-man equivalent of don’t you fucking touch my girl, as Copia locks his jaw around the edge of Perpetua’s mask strap and starts windmilling his claws at the exposed part of his cheek. Perpetua tries to shake him off, your mother screams and runs for the phone, and when Copia feels a large hand wrap around his body—
“Son of a bitch!” Perpetua gasps, as something cracks across his arm. Copia goes flying, only to land on one of the pillows now littering the floor. Rolling over, he sees you brandishing one of the umbrellas that normally hangs on the hall tree like a broadsword, holding it in front of your abdomen with both arms.
“Mom’s calling the cops!” Though your voice shakes, you meet Perpetua’s glare dagger-for-dagger. “Get out!”
“Not without—” Perpetua’s mask flashes as he looks toward the pillow. Fur bristling, Copia hisses and stalks forward, ready to latch right back on. If the stronzo insists on overstaying his welcome, Copia will just have to remind him how easily he could be an only child again.
“Gorgy!” Once more, your voice cuts through the fog of Copia’s rage. Perpetua lunges for the pillow, and you fly after him, umbrella at the ready. “The door! Go!”
Catching on, Copia leaps from the pillow just as Perpetua grabs hold of the fringe and tears it out from under him. Claws skittering as he lands on the floor, he races toward the vertical shaft of light that represents the open doorway, hoping that his brother will give chase. Anything to get him out of your house. And it works, it works too well, because…
…Copia’s outside. In the cold, in the salt and the snow. And Perpetua is right on his tail.
It’s a massive gamble, but the only thing Copia can think to do is dive into the snow like a shrew. Burrowing his way forward, paws blurring as he seeks to tunnel deep so as not to be visible on the surface, he disappears into the lawn. Perpetua’s footsteps seem to shake the earth, and Copia prays he won’t find himself flattened. He can’t see, he’s working blind, forced to rely on vibration and scent to survive.
“Copia, what are you doing?” Perpetua barks. “I just want to take you home!”
The sad thing is, Copia knows that now. He forced himself to ignore your tearful midnight pleas, convinced that in the end, a clean break would be better—but he couldn’t ignore your screams. He heard the argument from his hiding spot in the vents beneath your feet, and emerged from the air return beside the chandelier chain just in time to learn that Perpetua still has the manifestor on a leash.
But he’s no longer worried about himself alone. Bracing both arms against the icy tunnel walls, trying to catch his breath, Copia listens for further signs of movement.
Instead, he hears sirens. Far-off, but getting closer.
Perpetua hears them, too. Releasing a string of expletives, he backs off toward the sidewalk. After two frantic, aborted attempts to pace, he curses and walks away. An engine revs to life, and the car peels away from the curb.
Poking his head out of the snow, Copia scans the area as best he can. For now, it appears he’s alone. Aware that he doesn’t have much time, that he’s lacking the undercoat of a wild rat, he bolts toward the side of the house. As he pushes through the snow-laden rhododendron branches that currently encroach on the front pathway, you appear in the doorway, unarmed and trembling.
He squeaks. You sob.
Five minutes later, he’s safe in your room. He still can’t breathe, you’ve never hugged him this hard, but he doesn’t care. This time he faces you fully, he curls his paws into the buttonholes on your blouse and presses his muzzle under your chin, praying that you can sense how tightly he’s clutching you in return, how desperate he is to make sure you’re all right.
“Never leave me again,” you beg through your tears, all the while raining clumsy kisses over his head. “At least not without saying goodbye. I was h-hurt, but I never would’ve made you go…”
No, Copia pledges, even if you can’t hear it. His bare skin is half-frozen, but your kisses are lighting fires under his fur. No, dolcezza, I could never leave you after this. Even if you want nothing to do with me, I’ll wait for you until the day the False God sends me home….
“We don’t have a lot of time.” Setting him on your bed, you crouch down to toss up the bed skirt and pull out a slim Samsonite suitcase. “The police will be here any minute.”
Indeed, the wailing sirens are now too close for comfort. Still, when you deposit the suitcase beside him and race to your vanity to open the powder jar, he squawks in confusion.
“We’ll get a motel room for tonight.” Shoving the cash into your purse, you strap it across your body before heading for the closet. “I’ll go to the car dealership tomorrow.”
He can’t let you do this. Before he can leap off the bed, he notices his notebook sitting on the table beside your cat-shaped alarm clock, the little piece of lead positioned atop it. Collecting both tools, he writes until his paw cramps, holding the page up as you return with an armful of clothes.
I’ll leave. I’m the one who caused this. I can’t let you throw away your dreams for me.
“Gor—oh, whatever your name is…” Dumping the clothes into the suitcase and dropping to your knees, you face him. “I was just down there screaming about a talking rat with a masked Satanist. I’ve just confirmed all of my mother’s worst fears.”
What about your apartment? Copia taps the words before continuing. Where will you live?
“In my car, if I have to.” Your lips tremble as you tell him, “I don’t care what you are. You’re my friend. We’ll figure it out, we’ll make it right…”
Copia tries to shake his head. He can’t be responsible for unhousing you, for leaving you in very real danger. Reaching out for him, you use your thumbs to frame his cheeks, to make him look at you.
“It’s okay if I have to be unhappy a little while longer,” you whisper. “Just as long as you aren’t.”
The sirens fade into irrelevance. Deep within his consciousness, Copia hears a sound like frozen metal shattering beneath a hammer’s blow.
The places you kissed flare hotter than any sigil. The pain engulfs him so quickly, he doesn’t even have time to cry out. The transformation is no less harrowing for the fact that he now understands it, and as his senses of smell and hearing attenuate he finds himself mentally clawing after them, as if some part of him wants to hold on to his new life, as if he’s afraid of losing consciousness. But he isn’t, his bones are expanding and locking themselves into new configurations and his skin feels raw and his vision is so clear he has to squeeze his eyes shut against it, against a world that’s suddenly too sharp and vivid and…
…small.
The first breath he takes as a new man is so ragged that it bruises his throat. Jerking to full awareness, he opens his eyes. He’s on the floor beside the bed, upright but still curled into a semi-fetal position, the edge of the table digging into his temple and his knees mercifully curled against his chest, because he’s naked. Terrified, he pushes away from the table and looks for you.
You’re only a few feet away. Seated on your hip, eyes wide and mouth agape, your own chest working like a bellows as you try to process what you just witnessed. For the first time, he sees your face in full, from a human perspective—and even as he struggles to remember how to speak, he recognizes that you truly are the most beautiful thing to come out of Eden. That you’re smaller than him, that….
“Dolcezza,” he tries, shivering at the sound of his own voice. “It’s me.”
Your throat convulses, but you manage to squeak, “You’re… you’re Italian?”
“Sì,” he croaks. “But for the record… I hate gorgonzola.”
In spite of everything, a broken laugh bubbles out of your throat. The sound seems to startle you, and you rake your eyes over his body before realizing what you’re doing. Your cheeks flare cherry red, you cup your hand over your mouth, and Copia drags the pink satin quilt off the bed, suddenly aware how pathetic and old and confused he must look.
When he glances up again, your eyes are trained on his. “That m-man told the truth. You… you’re his brother.”
Something in your voice has shifted. You’re shy and awkward with him now, like you are with other humans, and his heart plummets into his stomach. “If he still claims me after this. Sinners below, I need to get back to the Ministry…”
“I don’t—” Before you can complete this thought, a loud whoop announces the arrival of the police. More sirens race in and stop dead, and you climb to your feet, tripping over the suitcase Copia dislodged from the bed as you hurry to the window.
“There’s three of them,” you relay, sweet alto gone tense with panic. “Get in the closet.”
As if on cue, Copia hears footsteps thundering up the stairs. With no other recourse available to him, he darts into your closet, shutting the door after him. Crushing himself into the back, shoving your clothes forward to cover his face, he bundles himself in the quilt and rests his ear against the wall to listen.
Your mother knocks only once before storming in. She immediately clocks the state of your room, her shrill voice rising as she spits out, “Good God, what is happening?”
“I’m leaving,” you announce. “I’ll talk to the police if I need to, and then… I’m leaving.”
“You’re doing no such thing.” Something punches a gasp out of your lungs, and Copia has to fight the urge to thrash his way free and confront the bitch who bore you. “You are clearly not mentally capable of living on your own. Now come down and explain to the police how you know that monster…”
Your mother must’ve grabbed your wrist, because two sets of footsteps exit the room. Heart pounding in his ears, Copia crawls out of the closet and makes his way to the window, peering out from behind the curtain.
There are cops massed on the sidewalk, but none of them look anxious to enter the house. Your mother is putting on a show, practically reenacting Perpetua’s intrusion, with you standing mute beside her. Still, he can see the anxious way you want to rock onto your toes.
Still, he can see the glance you cast up at your own window.
Retreating into the shadows, Copia surveys the damage left behind in your room. True to his word, he sets to work. Luckily, you like your sweatpants and your bathrobe baggy, because the garments he hunts down barely fit him. He unpacks your suitcase, he makes the bed, he slips the incriminating notepad back into the top drawer of your vanity.
By the time the police take down their report and clear out, he’s back inside the closet. Feeling more himself than he has in ages, amused to feel his mustache twitch the moment your mother marches you back upstairs, only to find your room pristine.
If he hadn’t destroyed half her glass collection already, he might be worried for its integrity given the way she screams.
And you—his angel with a tarnishing halo, his garter snake among the doves, the one true mistress of his heart—catch on instantly. He can practically hear your lashes fluttering as you tell Mom, “You’ve stumbled into powers-beyond-your-comprehension territory. I have friends now.”
Your mother turns tail. You lock the door behind her. And then you open the closet door, you find him half-crouched between your party dresses, and while your grin falters slightly as you confront the reality of his presence… you still reach out your hand.
He doesn’t have his gloves. Your skin is softer than his fur used to be.
“If you let me use your phone, I can call Perpetua.” Copia’s already sketched out a plan—one that loses its luster the instant he lets himself stand tall, and sees that your head just comes up to his chin. “You know, so he can… pick me up…”
“Mom’s going to court to get a restraining order against him.” Realizing that you’re still holding his hand, you clear your throat and drop your arms to your sides. “I’m s-sorry, I had to… kind of play up how scary he was…”
“Eh, he deserves it.” Even though he knows it’s the worst idea he’s ever had, Copia reaches out to tilt your chin up. If this is the last day he sees your face, he wants to memorize every freckle. “He wouldn’t have hurt you, but… ah, I couldn’t just let him…”
“That was the bravest thing anyone’s ever done for me.” He releases your chin just in time to see you swallow. Your eyes drop to his chest for a moment before seeking his again. “What s-should I call you?”
“Copia Emeritus,” he says, and he means Yours. “Copia, that is, we… I think we’re on a first-name basis, non è vero?”
“That makes sense,” you whisper, matching him stutter for stutter. “Seeing as you kind of…”
You pat your shoulder, indicating the place where he used to nap. And Copia gets a taste of just how much this is going to hurt.
“I have an idea.” Your purse is still slung around your body, and you finger the strap. “I have a driver’s license.”
“You don’t have a car,” he reminds you.
“Mom does.” Your smile flickers back to life as you glance around your room. “Something tells me she won’t report it missing if we just… borrow it for a little while.”
The main gate of the Ministry complex is a work of art. Marble the color of soot-slashed snow, topped with copper statues of fallen angels.
And you’re never going to see it again.
Sitting at your desk in the shelter’s back office, staring right through your computer screen, you remember what it was like to drive up the snowy lane leading to it. To put the car in park, only to feel your hands still vibrating atop the steering wheel. How you found the strength to look at the man seated beside you—the handsome man with eyes like the two sides of a mirror, with his proud nose and silvering hair and warm, strangely vulnerable manner of speaking.
On the drive, he told you all about his run-in with the manifestation demon. How self-pity turned into a curse, and how his family’s history translated into suspicion. And you only understood half of it, but what you did know—what you know now—is that you didn’t want him to stop talking. Because the longer you sat beside him, the more you realized how little had changed.
Copia was still your friend.
But then the gates yawned open, as if compelled by some supernatural force, and you got scared.
“It’s okay,” he assured you, sensing your anxiety. “It’s, ah… not everyone is comfortable walking our path. It’s understandable.”
“I can’t.” Tears threatened, and you lowered your hands to your lap. “I’m s-sorry, it’s too much—”
“Hey.” And you felt his fingers on your chin again. You fell into those uncanny eyes again. And you watched his lips grow tense and uncertain beneath his pencil mustache, the way they seemed reluctant to part when he added, “If you ever do decide to poke your head inside, carina, just know… we have a band, yeah? After what you’ve done, I owe you a ticker-tape parade…”
He could still make you laugh. He was wearing your pale blue joggers and your fluffy white robe and your mother’s plastic shower shoes and he was beautiful and you hated yourself for not being able to follow when he exited the car, when he turned to look at the gate and released a gusty breath.
“I need to… go apologize. To my brother. And a couple of demons.” Glancing at you through the open door, he verified, “You sure you can find the way back?”
“Positive,” you answered, wishing that he wasn’t still looking out for you. That you didn’t like it quite so much.
“Then…” Taking another breath, he bowed his head. “Grazie, dal profondo del mio cuore. Thank you, from… from the least deserving man on the planet. If you ever need anything—”
“I’m fine,” you lied, when there were a hundred things you wanted to ask for. “I mean, there’s nothing I need.”
“Well, if you change your mind…” His smile was slight and sad. “I serve you as well as my Lord.”
Before you could respond, he shut the door. You watched him walk toward the Ministry’s eclectic collection of buildings, watched as the gates swung shut behind him. And you knew then that you’d just made an enormous mistake, because you’d put him back in a cage after all, and left yourself no choice but to return to your own.
But you’d just learned about the existence of Satan and demons and magic and men who could turn your insides to jelly just by looking at you, and it was too much.
It’s still too much.
Now, whenever you return home, your mother keeps her distance. It’s a fragile peace, one she could ruin at any moment, but you no longer have the strength to do anything more than wait. You return the dolls to their positions in the dollhouse, and try to forget that Copia ever occupied it. You carve a new path across the room, avoiding the discolored spot on the carpet where his spellwork burned the other side. And you tell yourself it’s weird to be so hung up on someone you met as a rat. You didn’t even know anything about him, really, except…
…except that he was willing to risk his small life to defend you.
…except that he likes old movies and rock music and oatmeal cookies.
…except that he hugged you whenever you cried.
Spring arrives, and LaCroix organizes a weekend luncheon at her house for the Humane Society’s biggest donors. You sit down at your vanity to do your makeup, and when you open the center drawer, you find Copia’s notebook. At first, you’re almost afraid to touch it. It feels like some kind of holy artifact, unfit for human hands.
Turning to the first page, you read his words. You are the closest thing to an angel mankind has seen in two thousand years.
It wasn’t a rat saying that to you.
You’ve already bought a used Volkswagen. Tossing your suitcase into the passenger seat, you drive out of town, out to the woods surrounding Correy. This time, when you drive up to the intercom and press the button mounted beside it, the brass gates open for you. The cobblestone lanes are slick from morning rain, the trees budding out into every shade of tender green. The buildings are well-labeled, and it doesn’t take you long to find the one marked Central Administration.
You don’t know what kind of hours the Ministry keeps. When you find the door unlocked, the marble office within occupied by black-clad employees, you’re pleasantly surprised. A young woman with a high, curly ponytail stands up when you enter, her smile full of questions.
“How can I help you?” she asks, eyeing your decidedly un-Satanic sundress and raincoat with what looks like envy.
“I’m looking for…” Shifting your suitcase to your other hand, you screw up your courage. “Um, Mr. Copia Emeritus?”
The woman blinks a bit, before her eyes sharpen with understanding. “Oh, you mean Frater Imperator?”
“I guess so?” You’re officially out of your depth. “I’m from… the Humane Society.”
“His office isn’t here anymore.” Pointing you back the way you came, she says, “Right down the street. Lilydale Hall.”
Nodding, you thank her and turn around. The sun seems brighter when you step out into it, and by the time you make it to the tall, domed building, sweat is dewing your brow. You use Copia’s title when you introduce yourself to the next administrator, and soon you’re being led down a parquet hallway, past marble busts of great philosophers.
The employee knocks on a door of polished blond wood.
“Entra,” Copia says, and you can’t taste your next breath.
The employee indicates that you can go in. The latch gives easily beneath your hand. You step into an office of crimson and velvet, you behold a man clad in jewels and satin, and little considerations like time and space officially cease to matter.
Copia remains seated behind his desk. Frozen in place, his hands still wrapped around a stack of paperwork. Like the first time you met him, when you removed the lid from the shoebox, he just… waits.
Eyes desperately searching yours, as if he’s trying to work out how both of you got there.
“Well, you are a fancy rat.” Letting the door fall shut behind you, you offer him a shaky smile. “Tame, too.”
Dropping the papers, Copia rockets to his feet. He takes two clumsy steps forward before recalling that his glasses are still on; to your disappointment, he tears them off and tosses them on the blotter. He rounds the desk before losing momentum, fisting his gloved hands before his chest as if he wants to reach for you, but fears that time in his life is long past. “Perdonami, I wasn’t expecting—”
“I’m sorry to come by unannounced. I wanted to…” Aware that your hands have gone numb, you lift the suitcase using both. “…I wanted to bring you some of your things.”
Equally overwhelmed, Copia stammers, “My things? What things?”
“Yes, all the…” Moving past him to the desk, you set the suitcase down and unlatch it, letting the lid swing open. Inside, among other trinkets, are his bike helmet, his dollhouse bed, and his notebook. “All the things you used, I thought you might like them as… as mementos.”
Stepping back, you return your attention to his face. His eyes are locked on the contents of the suitcase, the green one so deep with emotion that it almost hurts to look at. He joins you, and his body is larger now, it has a gravity you have to fight to keep from leaning into.
“You… oh, dolcezza.” Picking up the notebook, Copia brushes his thumb across the little piece of lead you taped to the cover. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“The Meat Loaf tape is in there somewhere. I can’t listen to it anymore without crying…” You didn’t mean to say this much. But oh, he’s right there, and now he’s looking at you—the man who thinks you’re brave and selfless, who thinks you deserve pleasure instead of pain, the man who holds your memory dear. “I can’t watch William Powell movies anymore, because of his mustache…”
“I can’t, either,” he confesses with a watery chuckle. “I’ve, ah… I’ve developed a late appreciation for Attack of the 50-Foot Woman, though.”
You’d almost forgotten what it felt like to laugh. And when your laughter melts into tears, he’s there, his hands on your cheeks, his thumbs serving in place of a tissue. “This is weird, Copia. Mom was right, I’m weird…”
“Shh, cuore mio.” His brow brushes yours, and your heart threatens to leap out of your chest. “Let me be the weird one. I’m used to it.”
“I don’t worship Satan,” you argue, even as your fingers tangle in the odd chains pinned across his chest. “I don’t know magic…”
“Yes you do,” Copia rumbles, tipping your chin up again. “You work the rarest kind in the world. The kind that even the False God knows He was a hypocrite to condemn.”
“What kind is that?” You can’t bring yourself to open your eyes. You can’t endanger this moment, you can’t let yourself wake up from this dream. He’s so warm, he smells of bitter oranges and incense and God, you shouldn’t feel safe in his arms, but you do. “I still don’t understand how I freed you.”
“By seeing the soul inside the creature made of clay.” Letting your eyelids float open, you lose yourself in the flecks of iridescent blue dotting his pale iris. “By fighting for the least of us the same way you would fight for the greatest.”
He’s not stammering now. He’s as devout as he is devoted, and maybe that fact should give you pause. But when he nuzzles his nose against yours, when his voice cracks around the words, “Let me be your poor creature, cara, and I swear you won’t regret it…”
You find what you believe in.
He’s the first man you’ve ever kissed, but his touch is so gentle that it coaxes you out of your head. He kisses you like he’s just finished singing a lullaby, like he’s just tossed the towel over his shoulder after washing dishes in the sink, like he’s sweaty and covered in ashes and lampblack from working a ritual. It’s like he already knows you, like this is the thousandth sleepy Saturday you’ve spent together, like his hands already know the shape of you and his tongue knows the taste of you and yet he still can’t get enough, he’ll never get enough.
It’s perfect. He’s perfect, and you would fight and lie and cheat and steal all over again to keep him.
Midway through the kiss, his strong hands migrate to support your neck and back—and you’re grateful, because you’re actually woozy once he lets you up for air. He notices, he sits you on the edge of his desk, and suddenly you can’t stop your own hands from wandering everywhere. There are tears clumping his long lashes together and a nasal little laugh in his voice, but he submits himself to your examination, his smile goofy and tender and radiant.
Your thumb traces his smudged lipstick. “Why do you make yourself up like this?”
“Tradition,” he chuckles. “Ritual.”
“And your eye?” Your hand migrates toward his cheekbone. “Sorry. I know it’s rude to stare, but sometimes I swear it’s glowing—”
“Tradition.” He chases after your wrist, assaulting it with little nipping kisses. “Ritual.”
“How much of you is made up of tradition and ritual?” you wonder, eyes dropping to the jewels draped across his chest.
“Too much,” he groans. “Everything that isn’t you.”
“How do we fix that?” you blurt out, your stomach fluttering when you see the raw adoration in his eyes consumed by fiery interest.
But before Copia can claim your lips again, the door bursts open. Perpetua steps in, equipped with his own pile of paperwork—and nearly drops it all when he sees his twin standing between your splayed knees. You can’t even close them, because Copia uses his grip on your waist to yank you toward the edge of the desk, releasing a low noise of warning.
“I’ve had multiple doors in my time here, fratello,” he snaps. “All very sturdy, all very knockable.”
“Sorry, sometimes it’s like people can’t hear me…” Perpetua blinks at you from behind his mask. “Thank Lucifer, you finally made up your mind. The way this man has been moping, like that’s not what got him into trouble in the first place.”
“I have not been moping,” Copia grumbles, before glancing down at you and admitting, “…in public.”
“Well, it’s your turn in the pulpit today, so finish your private moping and get a move on.” Perpetua dumps his paperwork on the console table located beside the door. “No hard feelings about the umbrella, by the way. Welcome to the circus.”
The man sees himself out, doing a very poor job of concealing the smile that wants to split his face. Copia releases you, taking a step toward the door—but he gives up the hunt the instant you catch hold of his chains and twist onto your hip, leaning forward to kiss him. His grimace disappears, replaced by a smile of his own as he drags you close.
“You don’t have to come to Black Mass,” he whispers against your panting mouth, after you’ve run out of air and thoroughly crushed the lapels of his fancy jacket. “But… you could stay. And a-afterward, we could…”
“I’ll come listen.” Kissing the cleft in his chin, you make an admission of your own. “I like your voice.”
“Va bene,” Copia sighs, urging you to nestle your head under his chin for once. “Because I have a lot of silence to make up for.”
His boys do indeed adore you.
“Which one is… oh, gosh!” One of the Rex twins disappears into your hair, and Copia tries not to be jealous as he extricates the nosy little fellow. Once the rat is free, you cradle his brother against your chest, reaching out to tickle the escapee with a laugh. “Okay, this is Cheese, right?”
“Sì,” Copia says, aware that he hasn’t smiled this much in years. “He has the, ah… the freckle and the one black whisker.”
“He’s got spots.” Your eyes sparkle with mischief as you hit on a memory device. “Like gorgonzola.”
Copia has knees, now. He should be on them, but he doesn’t have a ring yet. Clearing his throat, his voice still hoarse from delivering the homily, he limits himself to, “Here, let me… let me show you the others.”
Before the day of his fuzzy-robed march of shame, his new apartments held such little interest for him that he only visited to shower and care for his brood. Thankfully, once his disappearance was established as a cold and inescapable fact, Marika remembered to check on the closest thing she has to grandchildren. But as you tour the vast cage setup, greeting his rats with breathless delight, he wonders if that might change.
No. He hopes it will.
Your curiosity isn’t limited to his pets. You explore his space the way he once explored yours, admiring the apocalyptic paintings hung above the marble fireplace, the idols of gold and obsidian donated to the Church by well-heeled adherents. None of these things are his, and his skin crawls as he realizes you might lose sight of him. For that reason alone, he takes you by the hands and guides you to the bedroom, where he at least plugged in his lava lamp and boombox and tacked up the cat poster.
“My faith belongs to Lucifer,” he tries to tell you. “But I’m not—”
“No,” you assure him, stepping close. “No, you’re the last thing I’m afraid of.”
Copia could live off your guileless kisses until the world erupts into flames—but sunset is glowing on the other side of the windows, and it’s his turn to feed you. He’s not the most proficient cook, but he’s had the usual repertoire of pasta recipes drilled into him by heritage and necessity, and there’s plenty of wine in the fridge. And it’s as he strips off his gloves and jacket in the kitchen that hope turns into certainty, when he turns around and finds you’ve left your glass on the counter, that you’re out in the living room again, standing on bare tiptoes as you slide your sneakers onto the top shelf of his coat closet.
The next time he dares to brush his fingertips over your ankle, while you sit curled up with him on the sofa after supper, you shiver—but you don’t edge away.
“Dolcezza, I’m sorry I lied to you.” Now there’s anticipation shining in your eyes, and he discovers that his sole purpose on this forsaken Earth is to satisfy it. “Never again, I swear it.”
“Then tell me the truth.” Your hair falls over your bare, freckled shoulders as you lean closer. Your breath smells like wine; your lips are the color of the dying sun. “What does a man who preaches about hellfire and brimstone want… with someone like me?”
That answer is easy. “The truth is, I want to invite your mother to our wedding in person, just to watch the blood vessels in her eyes burst.”
Your laughter is shocked and snotty and fearless. “Oh God, Copia…”
“But I also want, ah, more modest things.” Your waist is warm as he sweeps you into his lap, your fingers comb into his hair and he almost chokes on his words, because he thought he’d never get to feel you petting him again. “I want to fall asleep with my head on the same pillow as yours, hm? I want to lie on the floor and talk about everything and nothing.”
“I want that too,” you whisper, and your kisses taste like fire. “I want you.”
This time, when he carries you into the bedroom, he kicks the door shut behind him. What happens in here isn’t meant for little rat eyes and ears. Your hands turn busy again; you pluck out his dog collar and manage to get one suspender brace unbuttoned while he’s still holding you bridal style. When he lays you back on the bed, it occurs to him that there are no earrings dangling from your ears, no pendant around your neck or rings on your fingers.
He knows you have sensory issues, and that probably explains it. But in the moment, he chooses to find a deeper meaning there. The only thing you’ve brought to him is yourself.
His chains and finery are meaningless.
“You’re stronger than you look,” you laugh, as he flattens his hands on the blue jacquard coverlet and leans over you. Caging you within his arms, prey animal now turned predator.
“Are you calling me old?” he growls, lowering his head to nip at your collarbone as your blush bleeds across it.
“No!” you gasp—half in play, half in electric pleasure. When he draws back to continue the game, you interrupt him, taking his face in your hands. “You’re distinguished, you’re so handsome…”
From the way you’re looking at him, he believes it could be true. Returning your hands to the bed, you shift yourself back so you can sit up. Your hands wander to his suspenders, to his black dress shirt, and he lets you unbutton it to his waist, swallowing his misgivings the moment your fingers comb through the thick salt-and-pepper hair on his chest.
He’s far from a virgin. Your innocent touch shouldn’t have the power to make his nipples pebble, to make his vision blur as all the blood in his head vacates to make room for desires he never thought he’d have the chance to act on.
“You still have fur.” Your blush extends all the way to the tops of your breasts as you tease him. “You’re still cuddly, I… I like that, too.”
He remembers the way you had to tear your eyes from his chest back in your room, and shudders so fitfully that he hears you draw in a breath. Fisting his hands in the skirt of your sundress, he husks, “Can you be good and lift your arms for me, cara?”
Taking your hands back with shy hesitation, you obey. Your blue sundress slips easily overhead, taking your hair with it, leaving it to return to your shoulders in a cascade of silken motion. That’s when he learns you’re not wearing a bra, that your nipples are little pink peaks, that they taste like violets when he sucks one between his teeth. Your sharp, pleading whine isn’t half as loud as the love songs he’s composing in his head, and he lets go of your hips only so you can wrestle his shirt down his arms, only so he can grab hold of the waistband of your white satin tap pants.
“This is what I like,” he groans, when he finally tears his lips away, having laved both nipples to rosy prominence. “These cute little things…”
“My u-underwear?” Your pupils are blasted, your chest heaving. “I just like… I know they’re old-fashioned, but they’re more comfortable…”
“They’re perfect.” Urging you to lie back, he begins popping the buttons installed along the sides. “Pretty and soft and perfect, proprio come te…”
That description continues to hold true once your underthings are a puddle on the floor. Finally kneeling between your thighs, he kisses a path from your breasts down to your belly, half-drunk on your delirious noises, the way you twist your fingers in his hair. You’re salt and heat and sunlight beneath his tongue, and when his chin brushes your curls, he breaks down and asks the question that’s been haunting him since you first submitted to his searching lips. “Have you done this before?”
“Not with… another person.” He glances up just in time to see you draw your bottom lip between your teeth, the spark of naughty humor that kindles in your eyes.
He promised you total honesty. You will not keep secrets from him—especially when he’s so hard his zipper is cutting into his cock. “Cosa intendi?”
“I mean…” You try to look away, and he corrects this impulse with a sharp love bite on your hip bone. Gasping, you relent, your hips arching as you seek his touch. “I mean there are drawers in my room I’m really glad you were too small to open…”
And that’s when the playing field levels. In all the fantasies he’s entertained since getting his opposable thumbs back, he never once imagined you pleasuring yourself. Even now, something about the idea strikes him as sacrilegious, scandalous, and this only fans the flames of his arousal higher—because you’re not one of the Tyrant’s outliers, it turns out you’re a natural-born sinner just like him….
You squeal in giddy surprise when he hooks your arms and pushes you up the bed. Rolling onto his back, he sits up against the tufted headboard and takes you into his lap again, arranging you between his legs with your back against his chest. The sweet curve of your ass settles into the cradle of his hips, the way you instinctively grind back when you feel his erection fills his head with static, and his voice drops a full octave as he bands his left arm around your waist and nips at your earlobe. “What would I have found, dolcezza?”
“Oh f-fuck…” Your skin jumps beneath his hand as he caresses the soft swell of your low belly. “Just… you know, toys…”
“Your room was full of toys,” he purrs, lowering his head to your neck, following your frenzied pulse with his lips. “I’m interested in the fun ones.”
“A vibrator,” you confess, when he catches hold of your thatch of curls and gives a light tug. “A little one, and… oh God, a dildo.”
He rewards you instantly, palming your mound with a dark sound of possession—and fuck, you’re so slick that for a moment, he loses momentum. You’re pretty and soft and perfect; your head transforms into a satin weight atop his shoulder, and when he parts your folds and brushes his thumb over your swollen clit, the way you hide your face against his neck and mewl his name almost makes him ruin his slacks.
“And have you taken all of it?” he asks, trying not to let his imagination linger on specifics for that very reason. Your entire body jerks in his arms, and he gets his answer. “Ah, so this sweet cunt was so hungry that you had to fill it, capisco…”
Digging your nails into his left forearm, you try to twist to face him, but he holds you tight. Cheeks apple-red, eyes squeezed shut, you sob, “Yes…”
“My angel couldn’t wait for her old goat forever, hm?” Setting up a firm rhythm, one not meant to tease, he nuzzles his cheek against your forehead. “She was so needy she had to deflower herself?”
“P-please… oh fuck…” He can already feel your clit pulsing, your thighs quivering as you fight the urge to fold them shut around his hand. “Copia, I’m s-sorry…”
“What are you apologizing for?” Clucking his tongue, Copia draws back to kiss your forehead, whispering against your feverish skin as he explores your rippling entrance with one fingertip. “I told you, I want you to have every pleasure this world affords… how big is your dildo, now? Like this?”
“Bigger!” you admit, your voice strung tight and your muscles tighter. “Oh God, it’s bigger…”
“Like this?” Copia joins his middle and index fingers together, probing gently at your welcoming heat as he continues to rub your clit in patient circles.
“A-almost,” you whine, your breath hot as a furnace against his neck. “Please…”
No longer able to contain his own sigh of pleasure, Copia sinks three fingers deep. And he can, you’re so wet and so open that the resistance he feels must be due to your body’s natural shape, or the fact that you haven’t indulged recently. He doesn’t have long to savor the breathtaking way you arch your back, the greedy velvet grasp of your cunt, because you’re already so close that all it takes to push you over the edge is a targeted roll of his middle finger against your front wall, coupled with the unyielding pressure of his palm atop your clit.
The noise you make when you come apart is pure, surrendered overwhelm.
“That’s it,” he groans, releasing his hold on your waist as you shudder and weep and buck in his arms. You clamp your legs shut, you turn enough to get your arms around his neck, and he buries his left hand in your hair as he continues to stroke and scissor and soothe you through your climax. “There’s my brave one, mio prezioso angelo…”
When you finally sag against his chest, breathing unsteady but slow, Copia slips his hand free. He’s got two fingers licked clean by the time you rouse yourself from the pillow of his chest hair, and he gets the satisfaction of watching your pupils dilate all over again once you see what he’s doing.
“Next time you come to me, that suitcase better have your clothes in it, eh?” He’s rather proud of himself for maintaining a façade of control, even with violets in his nose and your saline sweetness on his tongue. “And my predecessor.”
He’s filthy.
He’s gorgeous.
He’s yours.
He’s yours, because he tastes like you the next time you curl your tongue into his mouth. Because you can hear your moan reverberate in his chest when you rise onto shaky knees, when you reach for his pants zipper and find the fabric soaked with your own come. You can smell yourself on him; your arousal is musky and heady and you don’t fight it when he eases your hands away, when he puts you on your back and shucks the rest of his clothes off.
There’s hair absolutely everywhere you can reach. Hair and freckles and little secrets, scars and tattoos you haven’t learned the origins of yet—but you will.
You will, because he’s yours.
“The whole night,” Copia mumbles against your pulse point, taking his turn to shelter his face for a moment. His hands are on your knees, he’s drawing them up to frame his ribcage, his cock is heavy against your thigh and he hisses when you roll your hips upward, when you whimper in wordless longing. “We have the whole night, can do whatever we want, I have to be inside you…”
“Lucifer, yes,” you breathe against his lips when he seeks them out again. And he picks up on the change; his elegant brows arch with humor, his lips trailing down to the tip of your chin.
“Are we praying to the Dark Lord, carina?” he asks, his voice full of unbearable fondness and unbearable hunger.
“I’m praying to whoever shaped you.” His quiet laughter rumbles against your belly, sparkles in your head like the wine he served with dinner. But before you can lift your hips to remind him of his standing invitation, his thumb caresses the inside of your left arm.
“Is this, ah… current?” he asks, indicating the shallow ridge created by your contraceptive implant.
“It’s good.” Blushing, you remind him, “I tried to leave home a few times. I thought, just in case…”
“Because you’re as brilliant as you are beautiful.” Copia’s hand skims down your arm, scattering goosebumps across your skin. He captures your fingers and gently guides them across the flat of your stomach, but he doesn’t have to encourage you to take hold of him.
You do it all at once, scared you’ll lose your nerve if you don’t.
“Fuck, there you go.” His forehead finds yours as he releases a shuddering breath, his left hand rucking into the quilt by your shoulder. He uses his right arm to lever himself up, to impose enough distance for you to glance down the length of your body and see his cock, flushed and dripping, impossibly large when compared with your hand. But when you experiment with drawing his foreskin back, it occurs to you that he’s not much bigger than your toy.
Determined to please him, you sweep your thumb over his weeping slit—shocked by the heat of it, shocked by the slick glide. Copia bites off a gasp, but that’s nothing compared to the noise that rattles in his throat when you lift your hand and dart your tongue out to taste him, when his salt soaks into your tongue and you whisper, “Okay, I see why you did that—”
“Angelo birichino, perfetto e sfrontato,” Copia snarls, his pale eye flaring like gunpowder set alight. And then the time for exploration is over, he pins your roving hand to the mattress and kisses you until the room reels, until you need air so badly that it howls on its way inside—
—and he times his thrust perfectly. The head of his cock breaches your cunt while you’re not paying attention enough to stiffen, while the lack of oxygen can heighten the sensation.
There’s nothing to claw at except him. But you have to claw at something, so your nails bite into his shoulder blades, your heels dig into sinful swell of his ass, your teeth pinch at his shoulder and you can hear yourself wailing, but the sound is so soft—it’s a plea, it’s a love song. The stretch burns, but the feeling of fullness washes the pain away and replaces it with the heart-stopping knowledge that he’s inside, that your body is molding to him, that he was always meant to be there.
You’re not losing anything. Not your heart, and not your body. How could he take something that was always his?
“Carina,” he groans—and he’s in. There’s nowhere left to go. His pubic bone grinds against your clit, stars become indistinguishable from the tears in your eyes, and it’s so good that you’re going to hurt him, you know you must be hurting him. So you force your hands to relax, you rake them down his back in search of safer places to hang on.
His belly is soft against yours. His sides are shaped by plush little rolls of fat, the natural result of age. When you grip at them, when you bite his bottom lip and rock your hips up, the sound he releases is feral.
No one has breath left to talk after that. He could savage you, but it’s clear that’s not what he wants tonight. Even when half-mad with desire, even with the way you’re clinging to him, his first instinct is to take care of you. His hips stutter occasionally as his thrusts drive him into the deepest parts of your body; each withdrawal drags his cock against your front wall, and his moans are even more broken than yours when your cunt clenches around him, desperate to keep him rooted. Soon his left hand is cradling the back of your neck, his right seeking out the place where his cock splits you wide enough to expose your clit, his thrusts growing rough and frantic.
“Be good, cara,” he babbles, his lips hot against your temple, his thumb a clumsy blur between your legs. “Be good for me, show me how hard you can come, fuck c-can’t last much longer…”
The raw urgency in his voice throws gasoline on the fire raging through your blood, and you finally let yourself take what you want. Your rhythm is imperfect, but you start meeting his thrusts with more speed, whimpering against the sweat-damp skin of his neck, “Fill me, fill me, please, I need to feel it…”
“Fuck!” Copia shouts. And then you’re in the air, he’s on his back, gravity assisting his pistoning hips as he rails up into you like a man possessed. It’s easier to move on top, you can finally grind your hips back to take all of him at once—and it’s the sensation of his crown edging deeper, that little hint of undiscovered stretch, that causes your vision to white out.
You’re not sure who you starting pray to, in that moment.
Copia’s cock throbs, his gleaming eyes replaced by wells of black paint as his expression contorts. You hear your own cry echo off the ceiling, half-strangled and entirely devastated. Even as your body trembles like a leaf, you manage to bat his hand away from your oversensitized clit so he knows he can clutch you—and he does, he pulls you flat against his chest so you can feel the way his heart is pounding as his come floods your depths in scalding pulses, so he can bury his face in your hair and sob your name. Folded forward on your knees, you have no choice but to lie there and take it as he continues to rut his hips up, milking himself into your willing body.
You wouldn’t want it any other way. This is all you want.
You’ve never come so hard that your senses need time to come back online. First is touch—the weight of Copia’s hands as they stroke slow circles on your back, the silky crush of his chest hair beneath your cheek. Next is hearing, as you realize why your mouth is curled up at the corners, that he’s humming something that’s probably nonsensical even in his native Italian. There’s the smell of bitter oranges mingled with sweat and clean sheets, his salt still sharp on your tongue, and when you open your eyes….
“You know,” he says, his voice like gravel and his smile bright as stained glass, “maybe there, ah… some good reasons to be forgotten.”
“Like…” His knuckles caress the side of your face, and you lean into his touch like a weary kitten. “Being left alone in here?”
“Sì,” he chuckles, leaning up to kiss your nose. “The first person who knocks on our door… they can go help the costume department.”
The day Copia’s dreaded for twenty years arrives one chilly October morning, when he sits down at his desk and discovers that his CRT monitor has given up the ghost.
By noon, the IT department has replaced it with one of those abominable flatscreens. The damn thing is far too bright, but when he goes to adjust the settings, he somehow ends up plunging the screen into an eternal darkness from whence there is no return. His frustration must be clear over the phone, but by lunchtime, no one has appeared to resurrect it.
Just as he’s climbing to his feet, preparing to leave, Sister Chloe knocks on the door and pokes her head inside. “Hey, Frater! Still need a hand?”
Chloe’s enthusiasm has finally found an outlet in the tech department, where she can chase rats—er, bugs—all day long. “Ah, yes, grazie. It’s the screen. The computer’s still on, it just…”
“Yeah, they told me the screen went black? The new ones we got in are kind of weird.” Sitting down in his chair, Chloe brushes her veil over her shoulders and begins fiddling with the dials along the bottom edge of the frame. “Some of these function like buttons… there!”
The screen flickers back to life, and Copia claps his hands together. “Meravigliosa! Now, how do I make it less like staring into the heart of the Pit?”
“The brightness?” Chloe scrubs the central dial back and forth, showing him how it works.
“No, no, stop…” Copia holds out his hand, tapping a finger in the air when your hair is precisely the right color. “There.”
Catching on, Chloe lifts her hands from the monitor like a cooking show contestant who just ran down the clock. On the screen, everything is back the way it should be—his files, his folder of happy pics, and his new favorite background. A photograph of you, seated on the beach in a blue wrap and oversized hat, laughing and trying to shield your face as your twin daughters destroy a sandcastle with bright purple shovels.
“The girls are really cute in that one,” Sister Chloe coos, as if she can read his thoughts.
“We were vacuuming sand out of the LeSabre for weeks.” Copia clears his throat. “At any rate, thank you for—”
“Daddy!” And suddenly, the girls are upon him—not quite as cute fresh out of morning preschool, covered in apple juice stains and with remnants of what looks like paper-mâché stuck in their braids, but every bit as spirited. They burst through the door, caring little for protocol, a tumult of freckles and newly earned cartoon bandages.
Forgetting the stern attitude he’s been completely failing to impress upon others at work, Copia drops to his knees, hiding his smile as he affects confusion instead. “Oh no, now I need to figure out who’s who…”
“I’m Dora,” Pandora sighs, pointing at her cheek. “I have the mole!”
“Ah, but Bea has…” Copia reaches out, plucking a bit of clay off Beatrix’s face as she giggles. “Heh, that’s not a mole.”
“‘Course not, it’s blue!” Bea exclaims, pointing at the fleck of dried modeling clay now besmirching his glove. “Daddy, I made Asphodel in clay today, as a cricket…”
“I made a spider!” Dora announces gleefully. “With toothpick legs! I’m gonna sneak it into Grandma Marika’s desk!”
But his attention has gravitated to the doorway, where you’re standing—belly only just beginning to swell with number three, your expression tired but happy. The girls don’t bat an eye when he temporarily abandons them in favor of you, when he rests his hands on your stomach and greets you with a series of soft, lingering little kisses.
“How is my fifty-foot woman?” he murmurs, only distantly aware that the twins are asking Chloe if there are any games on the computer.
“Feeling closer to forty feet today, but I’ll be fine.” You make no move to pull away, instead rising up on your toes, content to meet him in the sacred space between his breath and yours. Your hands are occupied by the girls’ stuffed rats, their whiskers likewise matted with clay.
There are strict rules in the Emeritus household. All toys must be loved until they are unrecognizable, and no one is ever forgotten on a shelf.
“Is the new pup tiring you out?” he asks, biting his inner cheek when the expected huff comes.
“I’ve told you not to call them that.” Still, your eyes smile into his. “Are you ready to eat lunch? I need to get back to the shelter.”
“Sì, sì, let’s…” Bea comes barreling around the desk, and Copia steps back just in time to snag her by the bat-wing hoodie Uncle Perpetua bought for Yule. “What did I say about running, bambina?”
“Don’t do it unless we’re on the grass,” she mumbles, before brightening. “Daddy, can I get my nose pierced like Sister Chloe?”
“I did not tell her to ask that,” Chloe stammers, darting her eyes toward you. “I swear.”
As usual, you laugh and assure the young nun, “It’s been years. You don’t have to be so nervous around me.”
“Well, I did kind of…” Chloe mimes smacking a cage against the wall. “And at least Frater got to bite me as revenge.”
Shaking your head in amusement, you usher the girls into the hall and distribute their plushies. Once your hands are free, you reach for him, your cool fingertips tracing the shell of his ear as he falls into step beside you.
Unable to repress a shiver, Copia wonders, “W-what are you doing?”
“You know me.” Paying him back for the pup comment, you wrinkle your nose and tease, “I like that your ears are still pink.”
Sending up thanks to a demon he’ll never see again, Copia slings his arm around your waist and savors the way you melt against his side. “I like that you’re still willing to pet them.”