Wings, Flings, and Demon Kings || COMPLETE

Chapter 9: Sutures and Secrets

10:54 P.M.

My apartment

Word to the wise: if you are trying to stealthily ambush a demon, charging out of a bedroom screaming at the top of your lungs while frantically whacking bits of centipede out of your hair is not the best way to go.

Thankfully, I had misjudged the situation, and Azerath was not actively dying.

(I am sure you are astonished to hear this).

10:57 P.M.

I was right about one thing, at least.

The newcomer in Azerath's apartment was indeed another demon.

And he was hovering over Azerath like a harbinger of doom when I barged in, shrieking loud enough to wake the dead.

By that point, I had managed to get most of the dead centipede out of my hair. I even had the wherewithal to grab the nearest heavy object off the kitchen counter—a coffee grinder, it just so happened—and lift it threateningly over the newcomer's head.

"Get away from him, you fiend!" I brandished the appliance. Bits of coffee bean rained everywhere.

In response, the newcomer lifted an eyebrow.

His human form was birdlike and elderly, with salt-and-pepper hair, deep black eyes, and thin lips—lips which were currently twisted into a frown as he surveyed the coffee beans dotting his suit.

"Um, Nirael?" said Azerath. "It's okay. Samnu's a friend."

It was then that I realized two things.

First, that Azerath was still almost naked, except for his trousers.

And second, that the newcomer was holding a needle. A needle that was attached to a thread that was coming out of one of the bigger wounds in Azerath's side.

"You must be Nirael."

Sanmu The Friend eyed me disapprovingly. Luckily, I had been raised on a diet of disapproving glances, courtesy of Archangel Ramiel, whose glare could convince hardened serial killers to volunteer for community service. I didn't flinch.

"Hm!" said Sanmu, and then he went back to stitching the wound in Azerath's torso.

"You're healing him," I said stupidly. "But I... I... thought I heard shouting earlier."

"Someone had to scold him for his idiocy. Hold still." For Azerath had just given a particularly violent wince. "I'm going to stab you if you keep wriggling like that."

I craned my head to watch. Sanmu ignored me, his entire attention focused on Azerath's wound. He had already sewed up most of the wounds on Azerath's arm and chest and was finishing the very last cut, near Azerath's abdomen. Carefully, he apposed the two edges of skin, then brought them together with practiced knots.

"Your demon is lucky," he said, without looking up. "Lucky because I happen to be the head of Hell's Body Distribution Unit and am quite experienced with patching up minor mistakes. And lucky because these wounds will heal cleanly. All shallow and easy to stitch."

My mouth opened and closed as I struggled to form a reply.

"Um... just to clarify, he's not my demon," I said at last. "I mean, I am happy he's going to heal! But we're just, um, acquaintances. Who happened to meet by accident. And will probably never see each other again."

"Indeed?"

Sanmu's eyes met mine.

This time, I couldn't keep from flinching. His eyes were old, perhaps even as old as Archangel Ramiel's—the kind of eyes that speared you and weighed you and took the measure of your flaws. Something lurked beneath his gaze—a kind of weariness tinged with bitterness, mixed with a simmering, uninterpretable anger.