"Brushes of darkness won't help

you create your destiny of self." – Lady Gaga, ARTPOP

said good morning earlier, I began to doubt any of his kind actions to me. Especially when he pulled out the invisible thread around my throat, and I was grateful for that, but in the back of my head, a voice keeps whispering to me that the demon has planned something I will not like. Perhaps he will make me force to eat something, or this day could be the end of my life, since he started the day being kind to me.

It's an abnormal trait for a demon, if you ask me.

Kindness is never their thing; they are a cruel, blood-thirsty, life-destroyer, purity-cleanser freaks. It never is. So if this demon – Slate – is being kind to me today, he must be planning something that will either scar me for life or get me killed. Whichever, and whatever, his plan is, it's not going to be fun for me.

But since the thread has been taken off around my throat, I can freely get away. It's just that I need to plan this very careful. The demon, unlike what I've been told by other angels, is not dumb. In fact he seems very knowledgeable. If he were a mere human, he would be tagged as 'very bright, young man who has a good future awaiting for him'. And if I were a mere human – and I am!, I would be... well, nothing.

"Faster," the demon groans on the other side of the room, in the living room. I'm inside my bedroom, wearing one of the clothes he has bought for me (and I'm grateful for it). I don't know whether I'd wear something fancy or not, since I really don't know if this will be my last day on Earth as a mortal before I reach Heaven for getting killed. "Seriously, what's taking you so long, human?"

"Just wait patiently," I grumble under my breath, shaking my head and checking myself out in the mirror.

I'm wearing a pair of grey t-shirt, the short-sleeves rolled up an inch. A pair of white shorts, and sandals. My hair is brushed to the side, and my brown eyes are dull and tired. My shoulders are sagged down, as if I'm carrying the world and all the problems every mortal human has on Earth.

My problem is as big as all combined problems of humans.

"Patience is not my virtue, human." Slate says, irritated. I roll my eyes, check myself in the mirror once again, turn around, and walk out of the room and find the demon just in front of the door, arms crossed and an arched brow. "Finally." He says exasperatedly, throwing his hands up in the air. He motions for me to follow him and I follow him suit like cat. We head out of the apartment, the demon locking it with just a flick of his middle finger, and I hear a click from the door. Slate grins at me. "Looking good and feeling fine, huh. That attire suits you. Simplicity."

I wish I could have my power back. Without my power, I'm under the command of this demon in front of me. If I have my power, this demon would have already vanished. That or I'm just underestimating him. We head into the elevator, him punching the G button, and the elevator jerks a bit, making me stumble. I grab the metal rail of the elevator, and there's something warm pressing on my hip, and when my eyes trail from my hand clutching the rail to the hand resting on my hip, I feel myself flush. I push the demon away, and he gives me a sly smirk, which I try to ignore. As best as I can. My heart races.

I just want to get away from him as far as possible.

But looking at him, it seems impossible to get away from him. His eyes are always on me, trained on me, like his eyes were made just to watch me. And that's annoying me. I wish I could have the power to make him freeze, but that would be impossible. Only Wizards and Enchanters can do that. And I haven't met a Wizard or an Enchanter before.

The elevator dings, and the metal door slides open and we head out, me still following him like a lost kitten or something. His back is straight, and as he walks the muscles on his back flex, giving me an impression of how good and sculpted his body is. Perhaps he works out a lot, or it could be because he uses magic to keep himself looking young, as if a God has molded him with special care with his bright and golden hands.

We squeeze into the sea of people milling across the street. The demon's hand finds mine, and I flush. I try to wiggle the grip of his hand out from mine, but his hand won't budge. In fact it tightens instead. People are now staring at us, then to our connected hands and I become flustered even more. Even though I'm a mortal now, I can see they're judging us. Most of the people on Earth think having a same-sex partner is a great sin when in fact it isn't. It's normal. But the love in people has been influenced by the evil.

And my point is: I'm not interested in this demon, or in any guy for that matter.

He turns right, and tugs me forward. I nearly stumble. I glare at him. He smirks, looking at me over his shoulder and I roll my eyes childishly. That's what I can all do as of the moment. I don't have the power to fight him and if I vex him even only a bit, he would have no hesitation to kill me. Even though we're in public. Or perhaps he would bring me to an isolated area and that's when he'd kill me mercilessly. Because demons don't believe in mercy.

"A-hole," I mutter under my breath. I've heard that to a mortal before. At first I didn't know the word, but then Léandre had told me that it's a shortcut for the word asshole. According to Léandre, it's because people sometimes don't want to offend other people more, and when he told me that, he wasn't sure. But ever since Léandre had told me that, I began to use the word instead of using asshole. Plus it makes me think that the word itself is made or constructed, or whatever, by a devil. "Where are we going anyway?"

In the back of my head, a voice says: to your death bed, and I shiver.

"Don't ask," he simply says.

All the walking, squeezing into a mass of people outside, is tiring me. Slate could have just used his power to transport us somewhere, or throw red orbs to open up a portal but no, he had to lead me through this. He had to do the mortal way.

A car has pulled up on the side of the street and Slate skids to a stop, and my face hits his back and I groan. I turn around and the window of the car rolls down, revealing a man who has a blonde hair, undercut style, and looking like between twenties to thirties. The man has a pointy nose, chiseled jaw, and plump lips. He looks like what Léandre had told me about students on Earth: the jocks. Slate looks like a jock as well, but he's more a bully.

The man, whose name I have yet to know, grins at the demon beside me and Slate grins in return. Slate opens up the backseat door, motions for me to climb in, which I do immediately. I don't have a choice. Well, I do, technically. It's either I get myself killed or obey.

So I always choose the latter.

I can see my plan fading, the plan to escape. As soon as Slate climbs into the backseat, just beside me, I know that I will not have a chance to escape. Hopefully just for today. The guy, whose name is Fabian, has driven up to somewhere I don't know. We arrive to the destination. Fabian pulls up in front of a massive house with a massive gate. Everything about the house is beautiful, even the gate, which is coated in gold, and there are swirling patterns and in the middle of the gate, the swirling forms a heart.

The gate opens, and Fabian drives further until he parks the car in the garage. We climb out (the demon pushes me). There's a fountain, and in the center of the fountain is a statue of an angel, holding out a bow. Anteros. God of Requited Love in Greek Mythology.

I stare deeply into Fabian.

Then I gasp. I whirl around to face Slate and Fabian's presence fades, meaning he has already left us. In a distance I hear his voice calling out to us, asking us to follow him to his house.

"He's a mortal!" I half-yell half-whisper, looking at Slate dead in the eye. Slate looks bored, shrugging. "What's your plan? Are you planning to kill him? You made him a slave of yours and in then end you're going to kill him. What's wrong with you?"

He gasps, feigning hurt and I roll my eyes. That's what I can only do as of the moment. "How dare you. Fabian is my friend. My human friend. And... the thought of killing him actually hasn't crossed my mind since the first time I've met him, but thanks for reminding me. I was supposed to kill him."

I gasp, then give him an icy glare. "No, that's unethical!" I scold him, as if Slate is a kid that needs to be lectured about the good and bad deeds. Is this really happening? I'm scolding a demon for his unethical actions and thoughts. I shut up when I see the demon staring at me with a blank expression. "I'll shut up." I say meekly.

Slate turns around and walks away. I follow him.

We head inside the house, which is even more magnificent to gaze up. There's a chandelier made of gold, and they seem to be pure gold, and the jewels are glinting like stars. The chandelier is massive, and everyone who walks into the house would think that this is the main attraction. But then you'd be complete shocked, like I am, because of the things I find and see across the living room.

Fabian walks in. I notice that he's also wearing shorts, a white tank tap that shows his taut muscles in the arms, and the veins that run across his arms. He's a good-looking guy, I just realize. I shake the thought out of my head.

"So... what made you decide to hangout here at my place?" Fabian asks Slate, who just shrugs as if he doesn't know the answer to the question, which makes Fabian shrug as well. "Okay. I'll go ahead and make food. The last time you were here, you burnt hotdogs."

"You burnt the hotdogs?" I ask wide-eye, and the demon flushes, then it fades away, replaced with a scowl. A soft laugh escapes my lips, which earns me a glare from the demon. I stop laughing abruptly. Fabian snickers and then stops himself. Slate walks away to the kitchen. "He burnt the hotdogs." I state, and both Fabian and I laugh out loud. Slate pops his head out of the kitchen through the large doorway, narrowing his eyes at us. We stop laughing.

But I've seen him cook before. He made us breakfast. As if Fabian knows what I'm thinking, he speaks, "I taught him how to cook. He burnt the hotdogs because the fire of the stove was set to high, and he didn't know how to do it properly. He said he was hungry. And then I taught him. Slate learned fast."

"I'M FRYING HOTDOGS." Slate announces from the kitchen. "STOP TALKING ABOUT THE BURNT HOTDOGS." I laugh.

"Don't burn the hotdogs again," Fabian and I shout simultaneously.