bury these ghosts.

A slow breath follows, unnecessary but habitual, like some remnant of being alive he hasn't quite let go of. His gaze lifts again, locking onto Elias with something far steadier now.

"Other people can see you. That's not usually how it works with the ghosts I see." It's uncomfortable to admit this to someone who isn't Eden. I see ghosts isn't exactly something sane people are encouraged to say out loud. Even if the man he's talking to is dead.

Demi knows when not to poke the bear, if only because the rest of their conversation is too entertaining and they don't want to blow it up.

They'll continue to watch this space, though, because that is no minor issue between a demon and a mortal, is it?

"Ah, see? It's good to have family, isn't it. Always someone willing to do a little smiting on your behalf."

A laugh - Felix is trying to get a rise out of them with the label of sweet, but much like himself, there's no shame when it comes to matters of romance. "I'll tell Tisi you said so. She always likes a compliment."

She'll probably be more exasperated that they're fraternising with other demons so freely than anything.

"Besides. I'm allowed to rib you about being a sap, because it's true. I never said that I wasn't, just that you better be loud about it or someone will come scoop that pretty girl out from under your nose."

Potatoes, potatoes.

"Trust me, I'm never going to shut up about it. She's a million miles out of my league and I know it. I'll send myself back to Hell if I do anything to lose her." Even the thought has him grimacing, fear tangling with jealousy at the idea of someone scooping Callisto out from under his nose. His nose wrinkles. "Thanks for that visual, by the way."

Onto better things, like how he's going to be loud about it with this big romantic gesture—which hopefully won't land him in jail again.

"No point in doing anything without the threat of jail time, I say. It just proves how much I love her, right?" Callisto might disagree. Even more reason for this to be a surprise. "Knew you'd understand, Dems." He really didn't.

Anyway, Felix grins wider at their question. "Oh, I know all right. That's the cherry on the top. I've got permission from the artist, and he just happens to be her best mate."

Hanna doesn't know how to deal with this amount of praise. Harry's casual one-liner feels smothering in isolation. Hanna sways from side to side like she's being tossed around by forceful gale winds. The movement is a pleasant distraction.

Still swaying: "What?"

It takes her a few seconds. When Hanna finally makes the connection, she laughs again. It's hoarse and strange.

"Points for creative thinking, but no." Harry shoves the beers into the fridge, zero organisation involved. Everything else is neatly arranged. Whatever. Wesley can be pissed at them for fucking up his system later.

She takes in a breath, irritated, mouth pressing into a thin line as she exhales again. "Anyone so willing to give themselves over deserves to be taken advantage of. It is their own stupidity that brings them to it, and it will not serve them well."

The dream shifts and roils as though somewhere outside a great storm rages, tossing the ship of their shared mindscape upon the waves. It isn't right. And it seems to be getting not-righter.

It's just a dream, she tries to tell herself, but no dream has ever just been a dream for her.

Worse still is the way Zahrosa's words land, carved from such certainty that they strike a shiver down her spine. Eden shakes her head again. It's the only defense she has, a futile way of attempting to block those beliefs from taking root in her.

"I know the world is a cruel place, but that doesn't mean it can't be made better. Nobody deserves to be taken advantage of." Zahrosa's view of the world horrifies her in a way that seeps into her bones. There's a coldness creeping into the dream. An unshakeable dread.

emil, on the other hand...

"I wasn't telling you this to brag," Margot explains, wry because it's so obvious. "You know why I was telling you this. And if there were a catch, I'd tell you that, too." Margot smiles with a deceptive warmness. Saskia seems young and volatile. It's endearing.

"Everything has strings attached. People don't just help."

Not in the world Saskia comes from, which is the world of this apartment building—one of wealth, privilege and mutually beneficial connections. The world she's being evicted from.

And chess players always think several moves ahead, right? As far as Saskia is concerned, Margot Hemingway isn't trustworthy at all.

She extends her hand - yes, she expects a kiss! - and curtseys for Kazimir in return. Emma reverts to the old ways when in the company of something so close to her own. The Dark Childes don't count, really. Not unless they've spent a good deal of time in the home realm.

They have known each other long enough for her to understand it's all performance. He'll extract pain from some poorer creature later.

"Wise choice. I have very little patience for rudeness." It's not a threat. He's not ignorant to the fact that she is different from the rest of the guests moving through the penthouse. He cannot hurt her like he can hurt the others. Instead, it is a reminder. Here, he is king. Emma Germanicus may not be his subject, but he still expects respect.

Yes, Remi, it is your fault! You're not willfully misunderstanding me—you want this to be a beneficial conversation, as always, and you make me want to be a better person! Yay!!!!!!

"That's not what I said. You know that's not what I said."

Oh, she's sinking.

Remi gives her a nasty little smile. There's an element of vindication, as if he's been waiting for Isla to snap the whole time. He's tired of her self-righteous, cool girl act—the one that makes him feel like a failure every time he talks to her. She's his little sister. Not the other way round.

He'll feel better about losing his shit if she loses hers too.

"Someone has to be," Alexandra says lightly, as if the matter is hardly worth remarking on. Fingers turn the stem of the glass in a slow circle, watching the bubbles climb. "My husband would say I worry too much." The flute finally finds its way to her lips, a small sip taken more for appearance than thirst. Across the room, her gaze drifts briefly over the crowd again, as though searching for a familiar shape among the bodies.

"But men do have a tendency to mistake enthusiasm for good judgement." The glass lowers again. Thoughts flicker to a small boy asleep somewhere far away from the noise and merriment of the evening.

"I am certain your husband is indebted to you." The compliment is sweetened somewhat by a smidge of sincerity. She does not envy Alexandra's position, but she can respect the performance it demands. In another life, those words would be coming from her lips. My husband. It has been over a millennium since she last spoke them.

Another sip of her drink silences the thought. The laced wine is rich, blood fresh—she compelled one of the server's to make a donation earlier. "There is sometimes entertainment in collapse, though, is there not? So long as it is not our own empires falling."

Sebastian Vespertine suffering anonymity for her sake, another small sacrifice for her altar. Her pride swells, her paranoia worsens -- are they being watched through a crack in the curtains? She pulls him deeper into her sanctuary until her back meets her bedroom door and laughs at her own alarm.

You're here. You're in my house.

Lips locked with his, she shivers at his touch. The spell of restraint broken, she allows him as close as he's been wanting to get, makes space for him flush against her, turns her face to gasp for air and go cheek to cheek.

"I--" She thinks to say something, but catching her eyes in his once again, all words fail her. Willow kisses him again, fumbles for the door handle behind her and pulls them through to her bedroom. It's dark in here, but they both see perfectly well. She doesn't reach for the lamp; Willow refuses to break contact with him.

Her mind bleeds into his. One combined desire. Affection -- perhaps madness. Nobody has ever willingly let her this close. He has access to her heart, her racing thoughts, her secrets. There for the taking, if he chooses to search her.

None of it matters. Not now, when they have locked out the rest of the world and opened another door, one that activates every dead cell in his body, his mind alight with all the wants he has smothered since he told her, a year ago, I am a patient man.

It was a lie. Of course it was. And yet Willow made it truth. He caged his desire for her. He exercised a greater restraint than he has known in centuries, and allowed her to drive him willingly towards madness. Now there is more than merely his initial hunger; a fervour of feeling has grown within him. It burns as their bodies press together, his hands descending from her face, needing the proximity they have denied themselves for so long.

He kisses her with this torment in mind, the days and weeks and months they have to make up for. The awareness of where they are—Willow's bedroom—flares within him. Again, he kicks the door shut behind them, blocking out everything else, because all that exists is—

Willow, her pounding heart, pumping blood, pouring thoughts through the open doors of their minds. It is an intimacy Sebastian has never known: this melting of minds, erasing the lines between them, her thoughts becoming his, the bleeding of her heart awakening his.

Their Uber driver looks mildly alarmed. Harry proceeds to spend the entire journey complaining to him about Charles Hallows.

Back at their apartment, it takes them several attempts to unlock their door. One of the throuples are at it again. They put their headphones on, take a drunk selfie, half out of focus, and send it to Zachary.

Or maybe she's being uncharitable because her feelings are very, very hurt.

"Your problem is the opposite. Nothing's wrong with you. You don't fight your own battles. You're used to everything going your way." She doesn't know about her new patron unceremoniously ditching Petra.