Page 45 of Spit

“Tell… Legion…” A voice croaked, cracking and hushed. “Legion… Can’t…”

I searched for the voice, whirling on my heel. Three white padded walls and a sheet of glass covered in fingerprints. A cell.

In front of me, there was a man on his side. His hair was as red as a flame, and his eyes were a strange honey color I had never seen on a human.

He was a demon. I knew it in my bones. Minor signs added up to the whole. No pores on his face, even though his eyes were ringed with dark circles, and he could barely hold his head up. His lips were cracked.

Demons didn’t require food and sleep the way humans did, but something had happened to the demon. Something akin to starvation and sleep deprivation.

He could barely lift his head. I reached forward, pressing my hand against the glass that separated us.

I didn’t know why I spoke. It was a dream. Meaningless. But somehow, it felt right in the moment.

“I’m here,” I whispered. “I’ll tell Legion.”

The demon’s eyes widened as he frantically searched his cell for the source of the sound.

I didn’t know if he could see me. His pupils were wide enough that the caramel iris was a thin ring around an endless pit.

“Who’s there?” He rasped.

I woke up with a start.

I felt I had just dreamt about one of his missing demons.

I didn’t know what possessed me to get out of bed at that very moment.

Perhaps it was because I knew I would forget the little details that came with the dream. The way the padded walls looked or the speakers lined the demon's cell.

I needed to find Legion. I needed to tell him about the dream.

Something deep inside of me knew that it wasn’tjusta dream.

The wardrobe was filled with men’s clothes, but these ones were more my size. Small, with drawstrings. I picked a plain white t-shirt that came to my knees and a pair of running leggings. Better than nothing, especially since the outfit I had borrowed the day before had been covered in blood.

My track record with clothing wasn’t the best. I liked my leather jacket because I spilled food constantly and could wipe it easily. I guessed the same was true for blood, though I didn’t see much of it despite my profession.

Martial arts training, contrary to belief, is all about avoiding violence. I was more likely to get covered in spaghetti sauce as I ate through the ten thousand calories I needed to consume daily.

Gluttony.

You’d think everyone associated with that Sin would be obese—but no, the hunger was endless and unsatisfied.

Even my shadow was pawing the walls, whispering in my ear to go down to the witches' quarters to have another taste of their magic while they slept.

I ignored my shadow, as I usually did.

I strode down the hallway outside my suite once I was dressed and somewhat presentable. I didn’t know which way to go, but my shadow seemed to.

Shadow pointed down the hallway before rubbing his hands together as if to say, ‘don’t I get a reward for helping you?’

“This isn’t a democracy,” I told him.

Shadow put his hands on his hips.

“I can’t just give you other people’s magic. It’s a violation of bodily autonomy.” I warned. “You have no morals.”

Shadow waved their hand with a dismissive air. “Morals? What are those? You can’t eat them!” I muttered to myself in a low, gruff voice as I pretended to be Shadow for a moment. I scoffed and shook my head. “I need more sleep,” I said, still talking to myself.

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