She was, in a word, ungrateful. Beyond expectations, Hamilton’s sister was completely indifferent and cold. While the five of us descended the deteriorated staircase of the manor, her eerie indifference persisted, just as it did when we first encountered her. But her harshest trait bloomed when we arrived at the front door. 

Tristan and Coffin Maker had to carry Hamilton. The librarian had a skill for finding himself unconscious. If I hadn’t witnessed his reckless behavior and how it put others at risk, I might have thought he had a curse. Despite my weakness, by then, I managed to walk independently. I was the first to notice Evlan had stopped mimicking our strides. Her steps ceased at the door. 

“Tell my brother all of this was unacceptable. It was unnecessary,” she said before shutting the door. 

There were enough cracks in the building to peer through and watch as she walked away. Not once did she hesitate in her movements or begin to glance back. 

Tristan and Coffin Maker hadn’t stopped moving. They had already made it down the long driveway before I noticed myself standing alone. They must have expected the girl to do as she had. But I couldn’t comprehend why Evlan would choose to stay. 

“You knew?”

“That she was happy being lost? No. But I tried to tell you, I had a hunch,” Trisal said.

“How?”

If he had honestly given me a warning, it must have come in the most indirect color. 

“She’ll come home when she’s ready. This is their problem to solve, their struggle to struggle through,” my demon explained while we stood in line at his favorite pizzeria. 

Despite the passing of several hours, my condition remained poor. Trisal determined that the best course of action to facilitate my recovery was to make sure I ate. He completely overlooked my shock, but I must admit, I couldn’t argue against pizza. Decoding the barbarism of human food would take a lifetime, but it was surprisingly delicious. 

“He needs to learn to let things go, or if he’s so hell-bent on rescuing her, it should be his problem to solve,” Trisal went on. 

“What do we say when he wakes up?” I questioned while in curious thought of the establishment's decor. 

The black and white tiled floors were clean to a polish, but cracks of age maintained its unkempt mystique. Walls had been painted in stark shades of red black and white, but there wasn't a coat thick enough to hide all the holes and imperfections I saw. Lights were yellow, the air tasted of onions, and I couldn't overlook the sudden scurry of a rat that had fallen from the ceiling. The nicest part of the pizzeria was a wall of hanging photos. Every image was over or underexposed and had aged enough to brown at the edges. But those photos of the owner eating with his customers kept the establishment from crossing the line between memorial to deceased 

Had I not already tasted what the kitchen regularly put out, I might have questioned why Trisal favored that place. But I understood the food was delectable, so I only wished we had ordered delivery.

Glancing across the room at a square table under a window, Coffin Maker was sitting with the unconscious librarian. Hamilton was sure to wake up soon, but while he was knocked out, passersby continually questioned whether he was alive. His face was drained, and his clothes were a mess. We all appeared to be corpses, with one exception. 

“Tell him the truth. He found his sister, but she doesn’t need to be found,” Trisal added before turning his attention to the cashier in front of us waiting for our order.

Hamilton woke up some time after we brought our pizza to the table. I’m sure Tristan noticed it if I did. But the librarian remained motionless with his head rested on the cold steel surface of the table. He had perhaps been awake the entire time, listening to us argue, but saying nothing. Trisal eventually threw a slice of pizza at his face. 

That was enough to get life back into the librarian only because of jalapenos that assaulted his eyes.

“Stop sulking,” my demon told him. 

Hamilton, after screaming and frantically cleaning his face, suggested, “It doesn’t make sense.” 

Coffin Maker had disengaged from the situation. He chose instead to find a more nonchalant air, like the demon at our table. However, the cowboy was couth enough to avoid pouring salt on an open wound. He sat back, eating slice after slice while Trisal remarked, “Things were hard enough before. Thanks to you, now we all have a problem.” 

He, of course, meant Tolito, one of the city’s criminal titans. After what we’d done, there were sure to be consequences beyond a few ruined clothes and hurt feelings. 

“You haven’t worked on your conduit,” Trisal reminded me while Hamilton slumped back into his seat. 

I said, “I don’t plan to,” but of course, Trisal told me,  "This idiot has us in his shit. You don’t have a choice now."

“I won’t.”

“You will. After we’re done here, we’re going to Tarlac’s Tokens, and you’re not leaving until you can use magic again. I don’t care if you didn’t die this time. Someone could put you through worse than bullet holes.”

“It was worth it,” I argued, though the remaining ache in my bones gave my words a dash of salt.

“I’ll protect the black angel,” Hamilton chimed in, but I told him, “Don’t call me that.”

He spoke over my objection, adding, “I’ll protect you. It’s the least I can do after you helped me.” 

Coffin Maker rolled his eyes, perhaps annoyed at my getting credit in the massacre. As he finished yet another slice, he stood up and fixed his hat.

“This has been fun, but I’ve got other friends to see. Friends who don’t pick fights with career criminals with semi-automatic rifles.”

“You’re leaving?” Hamilton gasped. 

The cowboy, with a sigh, remarked, “Party’s over,” and walked away. 

Me and my roommate stood to take our leave shortly after. “You can have the rest. Try not to choke on it," Trisal remarked, but Hamilton caught my arm. 

“You can’t go yet. I have to protect you,” he said in a panicked sweat. 

Pulling away was a struggle, but watching him recede into himself the further Trisal and I moved was harder. Hamilton was a crack away from insanity. Fixing his glasses and straightening out the wrinkles of his blood-stained garments hardly hid anything, but he held together as best he could. What a solemn sight he was, or could have been. 

Leaving the pizzeria, Trisal told me softly, “Let him deal with his sister. He won’t get better until you do.”