(Kaito's POV)
I didn't sleep that night.
Loretta was in the back of the van, curled up in her favorite patchwork blanket, breathing soft like she wasn't carrying the weight of my silence in her chest. She always slept lighter when I lied. And I had lied — just not with words.
That wannabe slasher — Gaslight Chainsaw, as I'd started calling him — didn't just ruin the moment. He came right at the edge of something tender. Right when I could've told her what I really am.
Not just a Sonter.
Not just an independent contract enforcer with whistle-magic and extradimensional paperwork.
No.
I'm full-blooded.
Not born. Forged. Whatever makes me — it doesn't have a country or a language, just rules and tone. And yet Loretta made it feel like I could choose stillness. Like demons were allowed to pause. Not for redemption. Just for rest.
I leaned forward, hand tucked between my thighs, not for pleasure but relief. People think demons can't love. That's wrong. What they can't do is lie to themselves forever.
And in that quiet? I thought of the peach.
That stupid, perfect moment when she tried to reach a branch and couldn't. When I sauntered up, half-shirtless and full of cocky attitude, and grabbed a peach just to show off.
It exploded in my hand.
She laughed.
"Real slick, peach boy."
"You love it."
"I tolerate it."
Then she licked the juice off my neck without warning.
Her tongue was cool. Her smile was not.
"I think you owe me a peach," she said.
"Only if you promise not to eat it like that in public."That night, she came to the barn. Said she wanted me. Backdoor only, she whispered, "'Cause if I see your face I might lose my nerve."
I thought I'd combust. She was so honest about her nerves that it made me ache. I moved slow, reverent, like touching silk on a shrine.
In the morning, her daddy kicked open the barn door with a six-shooter and a sermon. I could've taken the bullet. But I didn't move. I let her stand in front of me, jaw squared, hair wild, yelling, "If you shoot him, you better reload."
That was the first time I knew I'd die for her.
I came quietly into my hand. Not shameful — just a man remembering something he never wanted to forget. Cleaned up with a rag. Leaned back.
And that's when the soft huffing started.
A sound like feathers coughing. Or velvet growling.
And then it laughed.
hhHHHHhhrrrkkk…hrrRRK!
A yipping cackle, like a peacock choking on a joke it didn't finish. I didn't even need to turn around. I already knew.
The Cackaleek.
Also called Death's Folly, Gilded Howler, or That Damn Bird-Dog — depending on who you asked. Tall as a greyhound, fur like spilled ink and gold dust. Hind legs like a hyena, front like a ballet dancer wearing vengeance. And those tail feathers — warped, screaming faces instead of peacock eyes.
It padded into the van without invitation, tail fan trembling, glowing teeth bared in a smile it hadn't earned.
Then it did something worse.
It whimpered.
Big glassy eyes looked up at me. Like it hadn't just laughed at my sorrow, but needed me to forgive it for being born broken. It blinked slow, then nudged its beaklike snout against my ankle and gave one short, hiccuping giggle.
"No," I whispered. "Don't pull that puppy act. I know better."
It blinked again. Tail feathers shivered. And I sighed.
"Fine," I muttered. "We can get a new pet. But I swear, if you eat my vinyls or snore louder than Loretta, you're going back to the banshee kennel."
Behind me, Loretta stirred slightly in her sleep. The Cackaleek let out a softer chuckle that sounded almost maternal. It curled around the wind chimes and went still.
I turned the key and let the van roll. Nothing loud. Just enough to get us closer to the next stop.
We crossed the county line before sunrise.
A worn-out welcome sign greeted us: Trekuer.
Small town. Stranger name. Felt like the kind of place that smelled like fried pie and hush money.
Good enough for now.
And maybe, if the chimes didn't rattle too loud in our dreams, good enough to hide a little longer.
Chapter 13 – Between Breath and Blood (Kaito's POV)
I didn't sleep that night.
At some point, I stepped outside the van and looked up.
The sky was a velvet bruise, stars scattered like forgotten teeth. I pulled out a tiny bottle — glass-blown and stoppered with gold wax. A gift from an angel who owed me back taxes in grace. They'd started brewing again. Said sometimes money saved more souls than hymns. So they put it in a drink.
Heavenly Clouds, it was called. Legal in only six dimensions. Tasted like vanilla with a spine of hazelnut and tajín spice. Like tequila if it had manners. I took a shot, felt the warmth run up my chest like sunlight that knew my sins and didn't care.
I stared at the stars and thought, just for a second, maybe they were looking back.
Loretta was in the back of the van, curled up in her favorite patchwork blanket, breathing soft like she wasn't carrying the weight of my silence in her chest. She always slept lighter when I lied. And I had lied — just not with words. Not this time. This was the kind of lie that earned you a lifetime in the version of the doghouse built for gods and outlaws. The kind where the apology isn't flowers or forgiveness — it's surviving the night without catching fire from the heat of your own guilt. It was the kind of silence that curled up beside you like a stray, hopeful it wouldn't be kicked out again.
That wannabe slasher — Gaslight Chainsaw, as I'd started calling him — didn't just ruin the moment. He came right at the edge of something tender. Right when I could've told her what I really am.
Not just a Sonter. Not just an independent contract enforcer with whistle-magic and extradimensional paperwork.
No.
I'm full-blooded.
Not born — summoned, sharpened, set loose. Whatever built me doesn't worship, doesn't bleed, and sure as hell doesn't apologize. It lives in tones, in contracts, in rules older than language. And yet Loretta made it feel like I could choose calm. Like something cursed could sit down and just... exhale. Not to be saved. Just to stop burning for a while.
I leaned forward, hand tucked between my thighs, not for pleasure but relief. People think demons can't love. That's wrong. What they can't do is lie to themselves forever. And what do you expect, really? I'm just a half-feral contract demon with a soft spot for chimes and cheekbones. Of course I'm disappointed some jackass cockblocked me right at the finish line. I should've smote him with a parking ticket to the soul.
And in that quiet, when the guilt had finally gone quiet enough to breathe around — I thought of the peach.
That dumb, perfect, doomed moment. She couldn't reach a branch. I swaggered up like the smartass I am, shirt half-open, grinning like a bad idea with good hair, and yanked the peach down just to show off.
It exploded in my hand. Juice went everywhere — my fingers, my shirt, hell, even my damn eyebrow. I just stood there like an overgrown idiot holding fruit guts like a bouquet.
She laughed.
"Real slick, peach boy."
I wiped my hand on my jeans and tried to look unfazed, but I knew I looked like a cartoon crush come to life. "You love it."
"I tolerate it."
Then she licked the juice off my neck without warning — one long, slow swipe that made every nerve in my spine sit up and salute.
Her tongue was cool. Her smile was not.
"I think you owe me a peach," she said.
I grinned like the geek I absolutely was. "Only if you promise not to eat it like that in public."
That night started simple. I was out behind the barn, sleeves rolled, elbows deep in a half-gutted deer. Her daddy had brought it back that morning—clean shot, no waste. He treated me like a quiet, competent farmhand, and I didn't mind. We got along in that gruff, nodding sort of way. The kind of peace that grows between men who don't ask too many questions.
Then she showed up.
Loretta in daisy dukes and a too-tight flannel tied up under her chest, like temptation had clocked out of Sunday school early. I half-expected her daddy, not her—he usually brought out the cooler and the tub, always giving me a nod like he knew I was a stranger but appreciated my knife work. There'd been an understanding between us. Respectful distance. Me not asking too much. Him pretending not to see too much.
So seeing her? Threw me off.
She was carrying two things: a cooler full of ice for the meat and a carved-out tub glowing faint blue with soft enchantments. Magic bathwater. For cleaning game—or me. Probably both.
"My parents are at the latest hoedown," she said, setting the tub down like it weighed nothing. "They'll be gone a while."
She must've seen the worry in my eyes — not just surprise, but that little hitch behind the ribs that comes from a life lived waiting for something to go sideways. I wasn't used to her showing up instead of her daddy. He always came out calm and practical, the kind of man who knew I wasn't from here and probably didn't belong, but still chose to treat me like a stray worth feeding. We didn't talk much, but there was trust in the silence. An earned rhythm.
So when she stepped into his role, it jarred something loose in me.
She caught the flicker of confusion I couldn't mask. Tossed me a half-smile and a shrug. "Daddy got caught up talkin' fishin' stories and somebody's new baby. I told him I'd take care of it. Figured you wouldn't mind the view while I did." She must've seen the way I tensed, 'cause she added softer, "Don't worry, Peachy… Daddy trusts me enough to be around, and he trusts you the same. He don't say much, but he sees more than folks think."
Then she winked. Like it was no big thing. Like she hadn't just rearranged my whole damn night with a smile and a cooler.
I tried not to stare. Failed. She had dirt on her thighs and moonlight in her grin. My hands were sticky with blood and I still couldn't think of a single reason to move.
"You always bring bathtubs to your boyfriends covered in deer guts?" I asked, trying to play it casual — but I couldn't help it. I'd always wondered if she was really single, or just one of those too-smart girls who kept her stories locked up tight. This felt like my chance to find out.
"Only the ones worth scrubbing down," she said, all sass and soft edges. Then she laughed, low and a little hollow, like she wasn't used to saying much out loud. "Truth is, I never had anyone before. Not really. I mostly keep to myself."
She ran her hand along the cooler, not quite looking at me. "Stayin' in a town this small, you don't get many options. Everyone's related to somebody if you dig far enough—second cousins, step-somethings, old church ties. Makes dating a puzzle you don't always wanna solve."
She let out another little laugh, sharper this time. "Whole county's like a porch light stuck on dim. You see people, but you don't really know 'em. My folks were always busy or gone, and Daddy... well, he trusts me now, but I think he figured I'd end up alone. Safer that way, maybe."
She finally looked up, smile crooked, eyes a little too clear. "So yeah, Peachy. You get the deluxe setup 'cause I'm either makin' a memory or a mistake—and honestly, I'm fine with both."
We cleaned the meat in mostly silence. The wind had started to shift — not harsh, just heavier. My hands moved with muscle memory. Hers didn't wander, but her eyes did.
Then she stopped, leaning slightly against the doorway, chewing her lip like she wanted to say something and couldn't find the right tone.
"So... are you really single, or just real good at keepin' folks guessin'?" she asked, eyes narrowed but hopeful. She tried to pass it off like a joke, but her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her shirt.
I smiled. "Now what kind of question is that to ask a man elbow-deep in venison?"
She blushed. "I'm just sayin'... you got that look. Like you've seen too much to want anyone, but might still want someone."
"That supposed to be flattering?" I asked, striking the most ridiculous mock-defensive pose I could with blood on my hands and a knife still half-buried in venison. Chest puffed, eyes wide, like she'd just insulted my honor in front of the deer. "Because I might need emotional compensation in the form of pie."
"That supposed to be a yes?"
She smirked and picked up the spare knife from the table, holding it like a pistol, finger cocked where the trigger would be. "Don't make me ask again, peach boy," she teased, squinting one eye like she was about to duel me at dawn.
I raised both hands in mock surrender, still in my bloodied apron, trying not to laugh. "Okay, okay, I surrender. No need to get violent with cutlery."
We were interrupted by a sudden hiss from the tin roof above — light at first, then steadier. Rain. But not ordinary rain. Golden droplets shimmered as they hit the dirt, glowing faint as candlelight.
"Beer rain," I muttered, looking up.
Her eyes widened. "Seriously? I thought that was just a story."
I stepped to the side, tugging shut a couple of the windows near the meat racks, but not before setting three mason jars outside on the ledge. "Free booze from the sky? Would be rude not to collect a sample."
She snorted, but I could see the flicker of curiosity in her eyes.
"Folklore says it's from when one of the old gods tried to bribe a thunder spirit with barley wine," I went on, watching the golden drops spatter the jars. "Didn't go well. The storm cursed the clouds to never forget the taste. Now, every so often, they brew it on instinct. Tastes fine. Gets you drunk. But some folks say if you drink too much, you dream in reverse — live your worst regret backward 'til you forget who you are."
"There's a town out east that banned collecting it after a preacher started reliving his sins out loud during a revival. Baptized himself in moonshine and tried to marry a scarecrow."
She flinched. "Yeah, I'm not gettin' into all that."
I arched a brow. "So you stayin' the night, or just here to drop off magical plumbing?"
She laughed, a little too loud. "I'm stayin'. Don't make it weird."
"Me? Never," I said, already wiping my hands and heading toward the tub with the kind of grin that only comes before a very memorable mistake.
I pulled a crystal from my pocket — dull and palm-sized, but with just enough shimmer to activate the cleansing charm. Touched it to the rim of the tub and watched as the glow deepened, scrubbing the inside with gentle pulses of light. Loretta helped with the last cuts of meat, passing them to me wordlessly, like we'd done this a hundred times before.
Once we finished, I set up a makeshift divider using two burlap sacks, an old curtain rod, and whatever else I could rig up. "Modesty wall," I declared, gesturing proudly.
Loretta rolled her eyes and went rummaging through the old trunk we kept by the stall. "Please let there be somethin' that ain't scratchy."
She came up holding a faded floral nightgown with big sleeves and a lace collar. Paused. Then looked at me.
"Seriously?"
"That belonged to a man, you know," I said, trying not to grin. "In the 1800s, sleeping gowns were totally unisex. Fashionably tragic."
She laughed and held it up like it was haunted. "Well, guess I'm sleepin' in history's poor decisions."
We took turns with the tub. I went first. Slid behind the curtain with my towel and tried not to think too hard about the way her silhouette moved on the other side of the divider — pacing, pausing, fidgeting. Like maybe she was considering a peek and hating herself for even thinking it.
"Hey," I called gently. "Toss me the soap?"
She let out a sound that was half sigh, half laughter, and covered her eyes dramatically as she held it out over the top of the curtain. "There. No lawsuits."
"Appreciate the professionalism," I deadpanned, snatching the towel next.
When it was her turn, she slipped behind the curtain with the nightgown draped over her arm like it might vanish if she didn't watch it. She didn't say much, just hummed low to herself while she bathed. But I could hear the splash of water, the rhythm of her breathing, the way she paused just before rinsing her hair like she knew I could still hear everything.
And that curtain? It felt like a holy boundary. Thin, swaying, sacred.
I sat with my back to it, listening. Letting the moment stretch like a prayer neither of us wanted to say out loud.
Then she started to sing.
Not loud. Not showy. Just this soft, made-up thing about dreams and doors and rivers that forget your name. Her voice cracked once — not from weakness, but honesty. Like the song didn't need to be perfect. Just true.
And gods, something in it made me feel whole. Like I'd been scattered across planes and timelines, and her voice stitched the pieces back together without even trying. I didn't understand all the words, but I didn't have to. The feeling was enough.
Later, I made up a fake bed near the fire pit with an extra blanket and my jacket rolled as a pillow. Just in case. I figured she'd want the real bed, not share it with someone still drying demon blood off his boots.
She came out from behind the curtain, towel-wrapped and hair damp, saw my setup and scoffed. "You really think I'm gonna let you sleep on the floor like a cursed scarecrow? Move over."
She marched past me, climbed into the bed like it owed her rent, and patted the empty space beside her. I hesitated.
"Don't make me say it twice, peach boy."
I climbed in slow, careful. Once under the covers, I whispered a word — one of those little magic ones that snuffs out lanterns without a fuss. The lights blinked out.
In the dark, I slid a pillow between us. Just a polite wall, something soft and reasonable.
Didn't matter.
A few minutes later, I felt her shift. Felt her cross the line.
"Can I touch you?" she asked, voice so soft it barely bent the air between us.
"Sure," I breathed.
Her hand found my arm, then my ribs. She traced one of the scars there like she was reading a poem written in pain — slow, reverent, learning me with her fingertips.
"You know," she murmured, voice shaded with nerves, "the first time I saw you, I thought… that one's gonna ruin me. Probably in the good way."
I chuckled low. "Flatterin'."
She exhaled, breath warm against the pillow. Then added, with the same casual nerve that made my heart trip, "Also thought if I ever asked you to do it in my butt, you'd be the only one who wouldn't make it weird."
I blinked, caught off guard — then laughed. "Wow. That escalated."
"Just bein' honest," she said, curling a little closer.
Her fingers kept moving — slower now, trailing patterns across my stomach, my chest. Her knee brushed mine beneath the blankets. The space between us dissolved.
We didn't rush.
It was quiet, and strange, and more sacred than sexy at first. But it bloomed — slow and sweet and scorching all the same. She whispered things in my ear that made me lose language, and I answered with my hands, my mouth, the softest parts of me I didn't know I still had.
And when we finally rested — tangled, bare, and breathless — she reached for my hand under the covers and laced our fingers together like it meant something. Because it did.
That night, I didn't just fall asleep smiling.
I fell asleep thinking maybe we'd started something special.
And I wanted to give her a good time so bad it scared me — because part of me hoped it might lead to something steady, something soft. Not forever. Just something good we could both hold onto, for once.
In the morning, her daddy kicked open the barn door with a six-shooter and the kind of sermon you only preach when someone's daughter smells like someone else's cologne. I probably should've ducked. Or at least put pants on. But I didn't move. Just stood there, half-dressed and completely caught, blinking like I'd time-traveled into a country music video.
Loretta stood in front of me before I could think, jaw squared, hair wild, voice righteous: "Daddy, you are seriously ruining this for me right now!"
He didn't lower the gun. Just tilted his head and muttered, "Girl, it's six in the damn mornin'. What exactly am I interruptin'? Your poor life choices?"
"I'm grown," she snapped back, standing taller. "And this one actually knows how to gut a deer and kiss with intent."
I tried not to smile. Failed a little.
He blinked. I blinked. And then we locked eyes like two raccoons caught over the last piece of pie. A full-blown silent standoff. The kind where you don't speak, but your ancestors lean forward in their graves like it's getting good.
The deer carcass blinked. (Okay, still dramatic — but emotionally, it happened.)
That was the first time I knew I'd die for her.
Right before things could get even more dramatic, the barn door creaked open again. Her mama stepped in like a goddess in a housecoat, holding a cast iron skillet and looking unimpressed.
"Breakfast's ready," she said. Just loud enough to cut through the tension like butter on hot cornbread.
Her daddy grumbled, lowered the gun like it insulted him, and trudged off without another word. Probably muttering about 'damn peach boys' under his breath.
Loretta turned to me with a grin, stepped close, and gave me a kiss that tasted like mischief and morning victory.
"Come on, peach boy," she whispered. "Get dressed. We got grits to eat and awkward silences to survive."
I finished quietly, nothing shameful about it — just a man clutching memory like it might slip away if he didn't hold on hard enough. Wiped up with a rag, leaned back against the seat. Heart a little steadier. Soul a little less knotted. Sometimes grief and longing use the same exit ramp.
And that's when I heard the sound.
Not inside. Underneath.
A soft huffing. A scrape. A sound like feathers coughing or velvet deciding to growl.
I grabbed the flashlight from the glove box, popped the driver's door, and crouched low. Shined the beam under the van.
And there it was.
The cutest, weirdest, most unholy little bastard I'd ever seen.
The Cackaleek.
Also called Death's Folly, Gilded Howler, or That Damn Bird-Dog — depending on who you asked. Tall as a greyhound, fur like spilled ink and gold dust. Hind legs like a hyena, front like a ballet dancer wearing vengeance. And those tail feathers — warped, screaming faces instead of peacock eyes.
It let out a yipping cackle — hhHHHHhhrrrkkk…hrrRRK! — like a peacock choking on a joke it didn't finish. Then it wriggled out from under the chassis and padded toward me, tail fan trembling, glowing teeth bared in a smile it hadn't earned.
Then it did something worse.
It whimpered.
Big glassy eyes looked up at me. Like it hadn't just laughed at my sorrow, but needed me to forgive it for being born broken. Then it spun in a little circle, rolled over, and coughed up a perfect, glowing marble — like a gift. Like a bribe.
Then it sat, tail feathers quivering, and did a little bow.
"Oh, you manipulative little gremlin," I muttered, squinting at it.
It yipped.
I sighed.
"Fine. You win. Come on, Vinyl. That's your name now. If you eat my tapes or piss on my glovebox, I'm shipping you to the nearest folklorist with a cage."
Behind me, Loretta stirred softly in her sleep, her breath syncing with the gentle rhythm of the van's engine. The Cackaleek let out a quiet, almost maternal chuckle, then curled around the wind chimes like it had always belonged there—guarding a lullaby.
I turned the key, and the van rolled forward with a whisper, slow and steady, like we were gliding through a dream no one wanted to wake from.
We crossed the county line just as the sky began to soften—blue peeling back the night with a yawn of gold.
A worn-out sign greeted us: Trekuer.
Small town. Stranger name. The kind of place that smelled like fried pie and porch secrets, and whispered stay awhile even if it never said why.
For now, it felt like peace.
And maybe, if the chimes stayed soft in our sleep, peace was enough.