The laughter had been a pressure valve, a necessary release that kept her from spiraling into a gibbering mess. Now, sitting on the floor with her back against the sofa, a healthy three feet away from the self-proclaimed Dark Lord, Maya felt a cold, sober clarity settle over her. She watched as Malakor meticulously cleaned one clawed hand with his tongue, his movements fastidious, almost cat-like, in stark contrast to the world-ending power he had just displayed.
"Okay," she began, her voice steadier than she expected. "Start from the beginning. The real beginning. No titles, no grandstanding. Who are you, what are you, and why are you here, in my apartment, shaped like a hairless cat with an attitude problem?"
Malakor stopped his grooming and fixed her with a baleful stare. "This form is a temporary indignity, a consequence of my essence being compressed into this fragile, mortal-plane vessel. In my true form, I am a being of shadow and flame, tall enough to scrape the clouds of the Nether Realm, with wings that blot out the twin suns."
"Right now, you're a being of salmon and couch cushions. Focus."
He let out a huff of air that smelled faintly of ozone and expensive fish. "Very well. The simplified version for a mortal intellect. I am Malakor. For a thousand cycles, I ruled the Nether Realm with an iron fist. My legions were countless. My power, absolute. It was a golden age of... well, of terror and despair, mostly. But it was orderly terror and despair."
He seemed almost nostalgic.
"My second-in-command was Morvana. Ambitious. Cunning. An unparalleled sorceress in her own right. I trusted her." His voice dripped with venom on the last word. "She orchestrated a coup during a ritual to harness the power of a dying star. She inverted the containment fields, channeling the energy not into my sceptre, but against me. My physical form was annihilated. My essence was cast out, sent spiraling across the dimensional gulfs."
He gestured to his small, purple-grey body. "This is what remains. A fraction of my power, housed in the first viable vessel my consciousness could latch onto in this backwater dimension. I washed up in your alley, weak, disoriented, and... discovered by you."
Maya processed this. It was insane. It was the plot of a bad fantasy novel. But she had seen the green rip in reality. She had watched a monster get unmade by a shadow. She had to accept it was all terrifyingly real.
"So, this Morvana... she took your job and your home, and now she's trying to... what? Tie up loose ends?"
"Precisely. She fears my return. She knows that even in this diminished state, my claim to the throne is absolute. The loyalty of the legions still lies with me. She must eradicate me to secure her own illegitimate rule. Those goblins were her scouts. More will come."
A cold knot tightened in Maya's stomach. "More? How many more?"
"Legions, I told you," he said impatiently. "She will send progressively stronger and more intelligent assassins. Hellhounds, Shadow-Stalkers, perhaps even a Dread Knight if she's feeling particularly thorough."
Maya put her head in her hands. "My security deposit is gone. It's completely, utterly gone."
"Your concern for material possessions in the face of an interdimensional crisis is baffling," Malakor sniffed.
"It's called being a renter in a major city! This isn't some crumbling castle you can just wave a hand and rebuild!" She took another deep breath, the one she usually reserved for when Brenda took credit for her work. "Okay. So, we have a problem. A huge, world-ending problem that is currently sitting on my West Elm sofa. What do we do?"
"We?" Malakor raised a hairless brow ridge. "There is no 'we,' mortal. You are a temporary custodian. My plan is to regain my strength, re-open a stable portal, march back to my throne room, and subject Morvana to a torment so exquisite it will become a new standard for suffering across ten thousand dimensions."
"Right. And in the meantime, these 'assassins' are going to keep popping into my living room. So, until you're back to your full, cloud-scraping, sun-blotting glory, there is very much a 'we.' And if we're going to be a 'we,' there are going to be rules."
Malakor stared at her as if she had just declared her intention to tax the concept of evil. "Rules?"
"House rules," Maya said, getting to her feet and standing over him, tapping a finger on her thigh. "Rule One: No disintegrating anyone or anything inside the apartment. The paperwork would be a nightmare, and I don't think 'goblin assassination' is a covered event on my insurance. If you have to disintegrate something, you take it outside. Understood?"
He was speechless, his mouth slightly agape.
"Rule Two: You help around here. I'm not just your maid and your chef. If you want your salmon and your pillow-throne, you contribute. That means if you see a dust bunny, you disintegrate it outside, but you tell me about it. And you are not to use your shadow magic on Mr. Whiskers, no matter how much he hisses at you."
From the top of the bookshelf, Mr. Whiskers let out a low, affirming growl.
"Rule Three," Maya continued, her confidence growing. "You do not attempt to conquer, subjugate, or plunge this world into despair. I have a 401(k) here. I like my local coffee shop. We're keeping this world exactly as it is."
"That is an absurdly limiting—"
"Rule Four," she plowed on, her voice firm. "You help me with my job. If you're so smart and powerful, you can make yourself useful. You got me through that PTA meeting; you can help me deal with Brenda."
A slow, calculating gleam entered Malakor's golden eyes. The concept of corporate warfare seemed to intrigue him. "The... rival chieftain in your hunter-gatherer tribe?"
"Something like that. Do we have a deal?"
Malakor regarded her for a long, silent moment. He looked from her determined face to the comfortable sofa, to the kitchen where the salmon was kept. He was weak. This apartment was, for now, a defensible position. And this mortal, while infuriating, was resourceful. She had not fled or fainted. She was... negotiating. It was a novel experience.
"Very well," he conceded with a sigh of profound resignation. "Your... rules... are acceptable. For now. In return, you will provide continued sanctuary, a steady supply of high-grade protein, and access to the 'news' for strategic analysis."
"Deal," Maya said.
"However," he added, raising a single claw. "I must insist on a renegotiation of my designation. 'Smeagol' is an affront to my dignity. You will address me as Lord Malakor, or simply 'My Lord.'"
Maya considered this. She looked at him, sitting there so seriously, a tiny, hairless creature demanding a title of ultimate power from a stained IKEA sofa.
"How about," she said, a small smile playing on her lips, "I call you Mal? It's less of a mouthful. And you can keep calling me 'mortal' if it makes you feel better."
Malakor—Mal—seemed to weigh this. It was a diminutive, a nickname. Yet, it was a step up from 'Smeagol.' It was a compromise. And Dark Lords, he was learning in his exile, sometimes had to make compromises.
He gave a short, sharp nod. "Mal... is tolerable." He then turned his head imperiously toward the television. "Now, mortal. The news. I believe there was a developing situation regarding 'interest rates' I wish to monitor. The economic instability of your world is... promising."
Shaking her head, Maya picked up the remote. She had just made a pact with a fallen Dark Lord. Her life was officially weirder than any documentary. And as she clicked on the TV, she realized with a jolt that for the first time since she'd found him in the alley, she wasn't afraid of the creature on her sofa.
She was, against all odds, starting to feel like they were a team. A deeply, profoundly strange team, but a team nonetheless.