Chapter 9 – The One Where the Landlord Knocks
Rowan woke up because someone was licking his face.
He cracked one eye open.
Wolf-Mila's big silver head filled his entire field of vision, tongue mid-lick, tail wagging so hard it was drumming on the floorboards.
"Morning to you too," he croaked. "Personal space is a thing, dude."
Wolf-Mila made a happy whuff and flopped her head across his chest like a 200-pound weighted blanket.
The living room looked like a sleepover hosted by mythical creatures who had never learned the concept of "inside voice."
Seraphina was draped over the back of the couch like a vampire bat blanket, wings half-spread, snoring softly in a way that sounded suspiciously like Latin.
Kagerou had illusioned herself a giant fox nest out of every pillow in the apartment and was curled into a silver ball, nine tails twitching in her sleep.
Isolde sat cross-legged on the coffee table (literally on it), meditating while tiny white flowers bloomed and died around her in slow motion.
Nyx was still orbiting his head at ankle height, glowing a gentle dawn-pink like she'd decided to become his personal sunrise.
Human-Mila was in the kitchen making coffee. The smell was strong enough to raise the dead.
Rowan tried to sit up. Wolf-Mila whined and refused to budge.
"Coffee first," he declared to the room. "Then we figure out who's paying rent."
That got a reaction.
Every single one of them snapped awake at the word "rent."
Seraphina sat up so fast her wings knocked over a lamp.
Kagerou's tails exploded outward like a startled cat.
Isolde opened one eye and the flowers froze mid-bloom.
Nyx's orbit wobbled.
Human-Mila poked her head out of the kitchen, holding a spatula like a weapon.
"We are paying rent," she said, very seriously.
Rowan blinked. "Cool. Rent's six-fifty a month plus utilities. There's six of you. That's… uh… math."
Before he could finish, six wallets/pouches/bags of holding appeared out of nowhere.
Seraphina produced a black credit card that looked like it was made of obsidian and nightmares.
Kagerou offered a gold coin the size of a dinner plate.
Isolde grew a perfect ruby on the spot.
Nyx just dimmed slightly and a meteorite the size of a softball landed on the coffee table with a gentle thunk.
Both Milas looked at each other, shrugged, and started digging through Rowan's laundry basket for loose change because apparently that was their plan.
Rowan stared at the pile of apocalypse currency now sitting on his table.
"Guys, the landlord takes Venmo."
The front door chose that exact moment to be knocked on. Three sharp, terrified raps.
Rowan stood up (Wolf-Mila slid off him with a sad whine) and padded to the door.
He opened it.
Mr. Popescu, his landlord (short, bald, perpetually nervous, owner of three different cardigans), stood there clutching a rent envelope like a shield.
"Morning, Mr. P. Perfect timing—"
Mr. Popescu took one look past Rowan into the living room and went the color of skim milk.
Behind Rowan: six glowing, winged, tailed, floating women all staring at him with the intensity of starving wolves who had just discovered steak.
Mr. Popescu's knees buckled. He dropped the envelope.
Rowan caught it before it hit the floor.
"You okay, man?"
Mr. Popescu whispered, voice cracking, "Rent… rent is free. Forever. Please don't eat me."
He turned and bolted down the hallway so fast one slipper came off.
Rowan looked at the envelope (already stuffed with cash, way more than six-fifty), then back at the girls.
"Uh. I think we just got free rent?"
The room erupted into soft, victorious cheering.
Rowan closed the door, leaned against it, and rubbed his temples.
"Okay, new rule," he said. "No scaring the landlord. He's like sixty and has a heart condition."
Six heads nodded solemnly.
Nyx floated over and gently bumped her forehead against his like an affectionate cat.
Coffee finished brewing. Human-Mila brought him a mug that said WORLD'S OKAYEST NAPPER.
Rowan took a sip.
Perfect. Exactly how he liked it.
He looked at the chaos that was now his living room and sighed the sigh of a man who had given up on normalcy sometime around the third cosmic girlfriend.
"Alright," he said. "Who wants pancakes?"
Six hands/tails/wings shot up.
Rowan yawned and headed for the kitchen.
He still had no idea he was the reason rent was free, the reason the building's plumbing now worked, or the reason every smoke detector in a five-block radius had quietly turned itself off out of sheer self-preservation.
He just wanted breakfast.
And maybe one day off.
Just one.
The universe laughed so hard a new galaxy formed somewhere near Orion.
It named the galaxy "Good Luck, Buddy."