Demonic Delicacies & Dangerous Delectables

After parting ways with the demonologist, I drifted to a nearby phone booth, hesitating at the door. The stench of cigarettes and stale sweat lingered like ghosts, curling through the air, sharp and sour. It hit me like the taste of regret—familiar, unwelcome, impossible to ignore. I stepped inside. The walls were covered in graffiti, deep grooves and scratches etched into the metal like scars. I dug into my pocket, feeling for spare change as I approached the ancient payphone. The clink of rusted coins dropping into the slot echoed through the small space as I dialed a number burned into my memory.

On the other end, the phone barely finished its second ring before a gravelly voice picked up.

“Hello?”

“Bart, it’s Jack,” I said, though the words tasted rusty.

There was a beat of silence, then a low, crackling reply. “Jack? Hell’s Horny Harlots! Thought you’d gone under.”

“Not yet,” I cut in. “Well actually, long story. Listen, Bart, I need a favor.” My voice dropped, almost swallowed by the booth’s stale air.

“What kind of trouble this time?” Bart’s suspicion seeped through. I rolled my eyes and sighed deeply. I laid out the situation in brief, half-truths, keeping details sparse. The only specific I dropped was a name—McGuffey—and asked him to dig up anything he could find on it.

“And meet me at the diner on 5th. Dinner tonight, eight o’clock. Can you do that?”

A long, grudging silence filled the line before a resigned sigh slipped through.

“Fine,” Bart grumbled. “But listen, Jack... you don’t need an excuse to call, you know. It’s been…”

“Too long,” I finished, my voice softer than I meant.

There was another pause. “Yeah.”

“Thanks, Bart. I’ll see you tonight.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, and then the line clicked, leaving me with nothing but the low, empty hum of the payphone.

The phone clanged loudly as I hung up, the sound reverberating in the cramped booth. My fingers hovered over the buttons before I pressed them again, dialing another number. My grip tightened around the receiver as I steadied myself.

“Murphy’s,” came a weary voice on the other end.

“Murph, it’s Jack,” I said, pushing past the guilt and anxiety churning in my stomach.

There was a moment of silence, then an explosion of anger. “Jack! Do you have any idea what you’ve done to my place? It’s a goddamn war zone here!”

“I know, Murph. I’ll make it right,” I replied, my heart sinking at the thought of the damage I’d caused. “I need Aylin’s number. She left it with you.”

Murphy let out a string of curses, but finally relented. “Hold on.” A moment later, he read out the number, grudgingly.

“Thanks, Murph,” I said before ending the call with a heavy sigh.

With that done, I dialed Aylin’s number and waited anxiously as it rang. When she finally answered, her voice was soft, hesitant.

“Aylin, it’s Jack,” I said, forcing myself to remain calm despite the weight of my words. The line was silent for a moment before her voice flooded through the phone, brimming with gratitude and hope. “I’ll take the case,” I declared, steeling myself for the challenges ahead.

“Thank you, Jack,” Aylin responded, her tone filled with relief and trust.

I took a deep breath and continued, “Give the next installment directly to Murphy. Tell him this should help cover the costs.” I could almost hear her nodding on the other end as I hung up, knowing I’d just taken on a responsibility that would require every ounce of my strength and bravery.

“I will,” she promised, her voice soft and sincere. There was a sense of urgency lingering in her tone, something that only added to the heavy knot of worry in my chest. I nodded to myself, the weight of it all settling deeper as I hung up the phone and stepped out into the cool night air. The city pulsed around me, bright lights blazing, a chaotic symphony that echoed off the concrete and steel.

As I walked away from the phone booth, I couldn’t shake off the feeling of being caught in a tangled web of uncertainty. What was the next step in this complicated mess?

As my chaotic life spiraled out of control, I knew I needed grounding—something familiar to latch onto, a touchstone in this turbulent sea. I decided to head to the only place I knew I could get it.

Mildred.

Mildred was the kind of person you went to when you were out of options, when the ordinary solutions didn’t cut it, and you needed something a bit more… arcane. She’d been around longer than most cared to remember, and there wasn’t a soul who knew the rifts’ mysteries better than her. If I was going to tackle this thing head-on, I’d need her expertise. And no one knew how to work with Nightstone better than her.

I didn’t relish the idea of asking for her help. Last time we spoke, she made it clear that I owed her, and favors with Mildred didn’t come cheap. But desperate times, and all that.

I stayed there a moment, letting the static fade, knowing I was about to wade back into a world I’d tried hard to bury.

As I made my way through the city streets, heading toward her old haunt, I couldn’t help but feel a tightening in my gut. The city grew darker as I left its bustling center behind; the buildings leaning closer together, the shadows lengthening. By the time I reached Mildred’s place, a rundown relic of an old brownstone that seemed to teeter on the edge of the rift itself, the streets were nearly deserted. I paused for a moment, staring up at the cracked windows and peeling paint. The air here was thick with the scent of ozone and something else, something older and far more dangerous.

Steeling myself, I stepped up to the door and gave it a firm knock. The sound echoed down the empty street, swallowed quickly by the oppressive silence.

No one answered.

“Mildred,” I murmured to the shadows, “I need your help.”

The door creaked open with a low, aching groan, revealing a dimly lit interior thick with shadows, like a place that hadn’t seen daylight in years. Stepping inside felt like slipping into another world, one where the walls seemed to breathe and watch.

***

Mildred’s house was a sentient beast, a living, breathing thing composed of secrets from decades past. Magic coursing through its veins, memories clinging like a soul stitched into its stone limbs. It called to me with that old, familiar comfort, yet a strange tension hung between us. Something had shifted, a scar in its soul, ineffable and indelible. Whatever had changed between us was beyond words, woven into the bones of the house itself.

Or was it me? Had I become something different, something unrecognizable to these walls? Maybe it was nothing. I shook off the thought, craving the bitter edge of coffee and something to quiet the gnawing hunger slowly twisting in my gut.

The façade was a battleground of life and decay, where lush green ivy fought against the encroaching monochromatic Rift Soot. The vines, vibrant and pulsating with life, were a defiant contrast to the world’s creeping dullness.

A young woman awaited me in the foyer, her garb as eclectic as the house itself. “Hello, Jack. Mildred is waiting.”

She exuded an ethereal, otherworldly charm, reminiscent of a forest nymph. Her honey-blonde hair flowed in soft waves, adorned with small flowers and feathers woven into the strands. Her eyes, a mesmerizing shade of turquoise, sparkled with an almost mystical curiosity, as if she could see beyond the ordinary.

Dressed in a flowing, bohemian-style dress of deep purples and blues, she moved with a dreamy, almost floating grace. Around her neck hung an assortment of eclectic charms and crystals, each one glinting softly in the light. Bangles of various metals jingled lightly on her wrists, their gentle music accompanying her every motion.

Her demeanor was serene and welcoming, with a hint of whimsical unpredictability. As she spoke, there was a lilt to her voice, and her words seemed to carry deeper meanings, inviting those around her to see the world through a lens of wonder and possibility.

She led me through the grand entrance, our footsteps echoing softly against the marble floors. The hallways were a labyrinth of elegant arches and intricate carvings, each turn more enchanting than the last.

Mildred Marshal, the blind seer and guardian of this sanctuary, greeted me with a smile that reached into my soul. Her pure white eyes, veiled by delicate lace, seemed to pierce through my very essence. “Thank you, Molly,” she said.

The young woman bowed slightly and vanished into another corridor.

“Hello, Jack.” Her voice carried a mix of warmth and quiet authority, like a velvet glove hiding iron. “My door is always open for you, you know that.” She paused, then let a little of the iron slip through. “The rules remain the same.”

I gave a somber nod. “Understood.”

Mildred’s home was a haven for all: Normies, Hexborn, and the Devil Kissed alike. It welcomed members of the Midnight Council, the Guild, and outsiders, offering refuge in a world that had succumbed to darkness. Inside this charming relic of a bygone era, vibrant plants thrived, their natural defenses warding off the pervasive Rift Soot that plagued the outside world. Stepping inside felt like entering an enchanted oasis compared to the desolate surroundings beyond its walls, like stepping into an acrylic painting.

The grand foyer opened into a spacious living area, where the walls were adorned with rich tapestries depicting mythical creatures and shelves overflowed with books and trinkets from around the world. The air was sweet and inviting, carrying the subtle scent of blooming flowers and herbal concoctions that seemed to infuse the space with an atmosphere of serene enchantment.

“It’s so good to see you,” Mildred said, her voice exuding genuine warmth as she greeted me with a hug. “I’ve been seeing quite a lot of you lately, so I was wondering when you’d finally stop by.”

I managed a tired smile. “I need your help.”

“I know,” she replied, her tone steady, almost parental. “You’ve wandered deep into shadows and need a lighthouse to guide you out. But remember, there are things lurking in the dark—more than you can imagine. Be careful of the questions you ask. The wrong ones lead to answers you don’t want... but the right ones.” She paused, a wry smile flickering. “Well...”

I daresay, you’re even more batty than I remembered, Frank muttered, his voice slipping through my thoughts with a dry edge.

Mildred chuckled knowingly. “Hello, Frank.” She inclined her head toward an antique mirror on the wall, where faint but brilliant amber eyes watched us both with a curious indifference. “Jack, be a dear and step a little closer to the Looking Glass, would you? My eyes grow wearier with each passing year.”

I obliged, moving closer, my eyes tracing the intricate gold filigree around the mirror—a network of twisting vines and leaves, almost too delicate, as if they might crumble under a breath. Mirrors were sly things, weren’t they? They whispered back whatever you wanted, but the truth always hovered somewhere else, just beyond the frame. They held onto shadows too greedily, drank light too eagerly.

The world distorted there. Not quite lies, but truths mangled, contorted to fit neatly in a gilded frame. Linger just a moment too long, though, and you might see it shift, a subtle wrongness settling into the eyes that shouldn’t be yours. Because what stares back isn’t always you—sometimes something is waiting, watching, aching for the one foolish enough to look too close.

The reflection rippled, bending as though the glass were liquid rather than solid, and there Frank was—woven into the shadows of my leather jacket, his presence clinging like smoke. His face ghosted beneath the collar, eyes hollow and gleaming, peering out from the creases and folds like something restless and deeply unwell. He seemed to hover there, not quite inside the mirror, not fully outside it either, drifting in the periphery like a dark aura that might vanish if I dared to blink—but I didn’t dare.

I stared at the demon with its angular cheekbones, rough ruddy skin, and piercing eyes that flickered with a subtle glow. His hair was slicked back, lending him a debonair yet dangerous look. His fingers, tipped with faintly clawed nails, drummed against the jacket, as though he were plotting something just out of reach.

Ah, that’s better, he purred, his thoughts brushing through my mind like the stroke of cold steel.

From somewhere deep in my mind, Frank grumbled a greeting. His voice carried its usual air of confidence and indifference, but there was an unmistakable flicker of respect threaded through it. He nodded. Mildred.

As Frank spoke into my mind, his mouth moved in the mirror, a strange synchrony that sent shivers through me.

It felt surreal for the demon to address someone other than myself. I was accustomed to being the mediator. Mildred and Frank shared something rare, a tether curled between this world and the next. For Mildred, the veil had always been thin, the boundaries porous, as though her soul had been poured only halfway into her body, caught between breaths, and the spirits seemed to sense it. They clung to her presence like moths to flame, drawn to that peculiar imbalance.

With Frank, her connection ran even deeper, a resonance that hummed along invisible threads. Their bond wasn’t one of words or gestures; it was a quiet understanding between two souls neither here nor there, a pact of silence in the spaces between, where ghosts and shadows lingered.

The air around them crackled with the energy of otherworldly forces. Mildred’s sightless milky white eyes seemed to soften as Frank spoke. The gruff exterior of the demon, usually as hard as iron, melted, just a bit. I watched the exchange between them through the mirror.

Still playing hostess to wayward souls, I see, Frank said.

Mildred’s smile widened, her eyes sparkling. “And you, Frank, still haunting poor Jack. You haven’t driven him completely mad yet, have you?”

Not for lack of trying. Jack’s stubborn as a mule.

“Takes one to know one, I suppose.”

Touché, Frank replied, his voice curling with a wry smirk.

***

Mildred led me through her house, and I was hit with a sense of awe in every room. It was like walking through a dream where nature and knowledge blended into one. The living room felt alive, with deep armchairs huddled around a crackling fireplace, inviting anyone to sink in and stay awhile. Sunlight filtered through tall windows, painting everything in a golden glow. Potted plants spilled over every surface, their leaves and blooms a living tapestry that wrapped the room in a sweet, heady scent. It was comforting, almost too perfect.

As we moved from one hallway to the next, it became clear that this house didn’t play by normal rules. There were more rooms than should fit inside. It was as if the place was bigger on the inside, a labyrinth of hidden spaces.

The conservatory was the most magical. Glass walls stretched out into the garden, merging the indoors with the lush greenery beyond. Mildred tended to her prized plants here, each one with its own mysterious properties. The air was thick with the scent of blossoms, and the gentle trickle of water from a small fountain added to the serenity. Bees and butterflies fluttered around, adding to the sense of calm that almost made me forget why I was here. Almost.

“You’re smelling a little worse for wear, Jack,” Mildred’s voice sliced through the tranquility, snapping me back to reality. “Is that undead with... let me see, a bit of imp in the mix?”

How did she always know? I wondered, trying not to let it show.

“We’ve had a bit of bad luck,” I admitted, keeping it vague.

“Is that so?” Her foggy white eyes gave me a once-over, like she was sizing up more than just my appearance.

We walked until we reached the kitchen, a place that felt as warm and lived-in as the rest of the house. Wooden beams stretched overhead, copper pots dangled from hooks, and the shelves were lined with jars of dried herbs and spices, all adding bursts of color and fragrance. The centerpiece was a large wooden table cluttered with fresh produce and flowers. An old-fashioned stove radiated heat, the kettle always ready for tea.

“What are we doing here?” I asked, more curious than concerned.

“Aren’t you going to ask me to help distill that Nightstone in your pocket?”

I stiffened. It felt like she was looking right through my clothes.

“Milly, I know I owe you already, more than I can pay right now. What’s this gonna cost me?”

“Oh, Jack, you know I’d do anything for an old friend. But I can’t give away my services for free, or my other customers would riot. Considering your situation, and including the second favor you’ve yet to ask...” She glanced at the pocket where the silver key sat, hidden but not forgotten. “I’ll be taking a favor in return. I’ll need you to make an introduction for me sometime in the future.”

“To who?”

“That’s my concern, not yours. But you can’t refuse when the time comes, no matter the consequences. Do you understand?”

I mulled it over. Who could she want an introduction to that she couldn’t handle herself? The thought of who it might be crept into my mind, and I quickly pushed it aside.

“That’s the deal, Jack. Take it or leave it.”

“Fine,” I said, extending my hand. She took it, and before I could react, she slashed a knife across my palm. Dark, grayish blood oozed out, mixing with a cut on her hand. There was a flash of light, and a searing pain as the wound sealed, leaving a scar that I knew wouldn’t fade until the debt was paid.

“Good. Let’s get to work.”

With a deft flick of her wrist, a long, thin silver knitting needle materialized in her hand. Before I could react, she jabbed it into my palm.

“Hey! What the hell?” I yanked my hand back, cradling it. “What’s the big idea?”

Mildred didn’t answer. Instead, she examined the tip of the needle, a single drop of my blood gleaming like a ruby under the dim light. Slowly, deliberately, she brought it to her lips and tasted it.

Her eyes widened, a glint of something—excitement? Fear?—sparking in them.

“Interesting,” she said to herself.

“What’s interesting?” I pressed.

She ignored me and pulled out a pot, taking the Nightstone from my pocket and mixing it with a concoction of strange ingredients. She narrated the process, explaining how it needed to be adjusted for me. “Raw, this could kill you, but I see you’re not your average undead. You’ve metabolized the imp, and your system is using it to sustain you. Interesting. I wonder where your limits lie.”

She finished brewing and handed me ten vials of the potion. “Half a vial a day. No more, no less. These will last you until the end of the month. Come back for more then.”

“I’d rather hold onto all of them,” I countered.

“Not a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“I know a lot of things you don’t, Jack. Trust me on this.”

I heard Frank’s voice in my head, agreeing with her. Reluctantly, I agreed. “Fine. But no more cost for holding them, right?”

“They’re yours. I won’t charge you. Just bring more Nightstone when you need it.”

“Fine.”

“But, Jack,” she added, “this won’t be enough to keep you going. Think of it like water—essential, but without food, you’ll still starve.”

“And by food, you mean...?”

“Living flesh. But not what you’re thinking.”

She handed me a vial, and I drank half, feeling the bitter warmth spread through my body. Then she pulled out a jar filled with writhing green things that looked like snakes without eyes or mouths, just tendrils that belonged in a horror story.

She concentrated, and the writhing slowed. She pulled one out, sluggish and docile, and handed it to me. As soon as it touched my skin, it sprang to life, biting and digging in with tiny thorns.

“Ouch, Satan’s ass, what are you trying to do to me?”

“Eat up, Jack. I want to see if my suspicions are correct.”

I stared, jaw clenched, watching it gnaw its way up my hand, each bite a test of how long I could keep from flinching.

Frank chimed in, You heard the woman, it’s kill or be killed. Establish yourself on the food chain, Jack. Eat it.

Frank was getting far too much pleasure out of this.