# Bite of Destiny
## Chapter 6: Underneath the Surface
---
Three days without Aylin felt like three centuries.
Demri had existed for millennia in the celestial realm, had watched empires rise and fall with the detached patience of an immortal, had experienced time as a river that flowed around him rather than through him. But mortal time, he was discovering, operated by entirely different rules. Each hour stretched and contracted according to laws he could not fathom. Moments of activity compressed into nothing; moments of solitude expanded into eternities.
And the hunger was growing.
He felt it constantly now—a persistent ache beneath his consciousness, a gnawing demand that colored every interaction. When Mrs. Petrova from downstairs brought him baklava, he had to physically restrain himself from reaching toward the gentle light that radiated from her soul. When Maria called to check on him, her faith crackling through the phone line like static electricity, he had gripped the receiver so tightly it cracked.
*Feed*, the curse urged. *Just a taste. Just enough to take the edge off.*
"No."
*You cannot resist forever. The longer you wait, the worse it becomes. A single corruption now will satisfy the hunger for weeks. Wait too long, and you will lose control entirely.*
"I said no."
But Demri was beginning to fear the curse was right. The hunger had escalated from whisper to roar, from suggestion to imperative. He found himself cataloguing the pure ones he encountered—assessing their light, measuring their vulnerabilities, calculating how easily they might fall. The thoughts came unbidden, automatic, as natural as breathing.
It was, he had to admit, becoming a problem.
---
The community center offered distraction, if not relief.
Demri had continued his volunteer work in Aylin's absence, partly to keep his promise and partly because idle hours made the hunger worse. Today, he was assigned to the front desk while Maria handled a crisis involving a burst pipe in the counseling wing. The task was simple enough: answer phones, direct visitors, maintain the illusion of competence.
"Hi, I'm looking for the GED prep class?"
The speaker was a young woman, perhaps twenty, with nervous eyes and fingernails bitten to the quick. Her light was modest but genuine—the quiet faith of someone who had not yet been broken by the world but had come close.
*Vulnerable*, the curse noted. *Uncertainty. Self-doubt. A few well-placed words, and she would crumble.*
Demri gripped the edge of the desk until his knuckles whitened. "Second floor, room 203. The elevator is around the corner."
"Thanks." She hesitated, clearly wanting to say more but uncertain how to begin. "Is it... is the class any good? I mean, I dropped out of high school six years ago. I'm probably too old to—"
"You're not too old." The words came out sharper than Demri intended. He forced himself to soften his tone. "Education has no expiration date. The fact that you're here, trying, already demonstrates more courage than most people ever show."
The woman blinked, surprised by his vehemence. "Oh. Um. Thank you?"
"Room 203. Second floor. You'll do fine."
She nodded uncertainly and headed for the elevator, glancing back once with an expression Demri could not quite read. Gratitude, perhaps. Or confusion. Possibly both.
*That was unnecessary*, the curse observed. *Encouragement strengthens the light. You are actively working against your own nature.*
"Good."
*You will not be able to maintain this forever. The hunger—*
"I am aware of the hunger. I am also aware that surrendering to it would make me into something I refuse to become. So kindly shut up."
The curse fell silent, but its presence remained—a cold weight in the center of Demri's chest, waiting for its moment.
---
The next visitor was less straightforward.
He appeared around noon, when the center was at its busiest—a man in his forties, well-dressed, with the carefully maintained appearance of someone who spent considerable effort looking effortlessly put-together. His smile was immediate and practiced, the kind designed to put people at ease while revealing nothing about the person behind it.
"Good afternoon. I'm looking for Maria Rodriguez?"
"She's dealing with an emergency. Can I help you with something?"
"Possibly." The man's eyes swept the lobby with an assessor's precision. "I'm Derek Thornton, from Thornton Development. We've been in discussions with the center about a potential partnership opportunity."
Something in Demri's instincts stirred—not the hunger, but something older. A recognition of threat that had nothing to do with the supernatural. "I'm not aware of any partnership discussions."
"Oh, they're very preliminary. Just exploratory conversations, really." Derek's smile widened, but his eyes remained cold. "I wanted to see the facility in person. Get a sense of the community you serve."
"The community we serve is not a commodity to be assessed."
"Of course not. Poor choice of words." Derek moved past the desk, clearly accustomed to accessing spaces without permission. "I'll just take a quick look around. Five minutes."
"Sir, visitors need to be accompanied by staff—"
But Derek was already walking toward the main hall, his expensive shoes clicking against the worn linoleum with proprietorial confidence. Demri hesitated, caught between his duty to the desk and his instinct that this man should not be allowed to roam freely.
*Interesting*, the curse murmured. *This one has darkness in him already. The corruption would barely take effort.*
Demri ignored it and followed Derek into the main hall.
The space was filled with its usual afternoon activity: children doing homework, teenagers gathered around computer stations, adults engaged in various programs and conversations. Derek surveyed it all with an expression that might have been interest but felt more like calculation.
"Impressive turnout," he said as Demri caught up. "How many people use this facility each day?"
"I don't have exact numbers."
"Roughly?"
"I'm not the appropriate person to answer questions about operations. You'll need to speak with Maria."
"Maria seems to be otherwise occupied." Derek's gaze fixed on a group of elderly residents playing cards in the corner. "Are those the seniors from the Millbrook Housing Project? The one that's been slated for renovation?"
Something in his tone made Demri's skin crawl. "I wouldn't know."
"Of course you wouldn't." Derek turned, facing Demri directly, and for the first time, his smile reached something approaching genuine—though what it revealed was not pleasant. "You're new here, aren't you? The volunteers usually know more about the community they're serving."
"I'm learning."
"I'm sure you are." Derek's eyes narrowed slightly. "You have an interesting energy about you. Something... different."
The observation sent a chill through Demri's spine. Could this man sense what he was? Could mortal perception extend that far into the supernatural realm?
"I'm just a volunteer," Demri said carefully.
"Mmm." Derek did not seem convinced. "Well. Please tell Maria I stopped by. I'll be in touch about scheduling a formal meeting."
He turned and walked toward the exit, moving with the easy confidence of someone who had never been denied anything in his life. At the door, he paused and looked back.
"Lovely facility. It would be a shame if anything happened to it."
Then he was gone, and Demri was left with the unsettling certainty that the community center had just acquired an enemy.
---
Maria returned an hour later, exhausted and damp from dealing with the plumbing crisis. When Demri told her about Derek Thornton's visit, her expression darkened.
"That man," she said, the words carrying decades of frustration, "has been circling this neighborhood like a vulture for years. Every time a building becomes available, every time a business struggles, he's there with his 'partnership opportunities' and his 'community investment initiatives.'"
"What does he actually want?"
"To tear it all down and build luxury condos." Maria's voice was bitter. "The Millbrook Housing Project, the small businesses on Third Street, probably this center eventually. He sees dollar signs where we see homes and history."
"Can he do that?"
"Not legally. But Derek Thornton doesn't play by the rules. He has lawyers, politicians, the ability to make life very difficult for anyone who stands in his way." She looked around the center—at the children doing homework, the elderly playing cards, the teenagers who had nowhere else to go—and her expression hardened. "We've fought him off before. We'll do it again."
*A pure one*, the curse observed, *standing against corruption. How inspiring. How ultimately futile.*
Demri pushed the voice aside, but it left an uncomfortable residue. Derek Thornton was a corruptor too, in his own way. A mortal version of what Demri was supposed to become. The realization was deeply unsettling.
"Is there anything I can do to help?" he asked.
Maria smiled tiredly. "Just keep doing what you're doing. Answer the phones, help the visitors, make people feel welcome. That's how we win—by being what they want to destroy."
---
That evening, Demri walked home through streets that seemed darker than usual.
The sensation was not purely psychological. The shadows between lampposts felt denser, more substantial, as if they were actively resisting the light. Twice he caught movement in his peripheral vision—shapes that dissolved when he turned to look directly at them. The cold weight in his chest pulsed with an awareness that was almost like anticipation.
*They are watching*, the curse confirmed. *They have been watching since you arrived.*
"Who? What are they?"
*Others. Fallen ones, like you. Or perhaps not like you—perhaps worse. The darkness has many servants, and not all of them are subtle.*
"Why are they watching?"
*Perhaps to see what you will become. Perhaps to ensure you fulfill your purpose. Perhaps simply because you are new, and new things attract attention.* The curse's tone was almost amused. *Did you think you were the only supernatural being in this city? This world is full of shadows. You are merely the latest.*
The information should have been reassuring—proof that he was not entirely alone in the supernatural realm—but instead, it deepened Demri's unease. Others were watching. Others might interfere with his attempts to resist the hunger. Others might pose a threat to the mortals he had come to care about.
Others might pose a threat to Aylin.
He quickened his pace, suddenly desperate to reach the apartment. Its walls offered no real protection against supernatural enemies, but they provided the illusion of safety, and sometimes illusion was enough.
---
The phone was ringing when he entered.
He lunged for it, nearly tripping over the coffee table in his haste. "Hello?"
"Demri?" Aylin's voice, distant but clear. "Is everything okay? You sound out of breath."
"I'm fine. Just got in." He forced his heart rate to slow, his voice to steady. "How is your aunt?"
"Better. Much better, actually. She woke up this morning and started complaining about the hospital food, so that's a good sign." Relief colored Aylin's words. "The doctors say she should make a full recovery. It'll take time, but she's going to be okay."
"That's wonderful news."
"I know. I've been so worried, and now—" Her voice caught slightly. "Anyway. I just wanted to check in. See how things are going there."
"Things are..." Demri considered the day's events: the growing hunger, Derek Thornton's veiled threats, the shadows that watched from hidden corners. "Things are manageable."
"That doesn't sound entirely convincing."
"I met someone named Derek Thornton at the community center. Maria seemed concerned."
"Derek Thornton." Aylin's tone shifted, warmth replaced by wariness. "He came to the center? In person?"
"Yes. He mentioned partnership opportunities."
"That's not good. That's really not good." A pause, during which Demri could almost hear her thinking. "Derek's been trying to get a foothold in Millbrook for years. If he's making personal visits, that means he's escalating."
"Maria said the same thing. She seems prepared to fight."
"Maria's been fighting him since before I was born. But every year, he gets stronger, and we get... not weaker, exactly, but stretched thinner." Another pause. "Maybe I should come back early—"
"No." The word came out more forcefully than Demri intended. "Your aunt needs you. The center can survive a few more days without you."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure. Focus on your family. We'll handle things here."
Silence on the line. Then, softly: "Thank you, Demri. For everything. For staying."
"I made a promise."
"I know. But promises are easy to make and hard to keep. The fact that you're keeping this one..." She trailed off. "It means a lot."
After they hung up, Demri sat in the dark living room, staring at the phone in his hands. Outside, the shadows continued their patient vigil. Inside, the hunger continued its relentless pressure. But somewhere between the two, a small flame of determination burned steadily.
He would protect this place. He would protect these people. And he would find a way to resist the darkness, no matter what it cost him.
*Noble sentiments*, the curse observed. *But sentiment is not strength. And when the shadows finally move, sentiment will not save you.*
"We'll see," Demri said. "We'll see."
---
The next morning brought an unexpected development.
Demri was at the community center, working the front desk again, when the doors burst open and a small hurricane of energy exploded into the lobby. It took him a moment to recognize James—the seven-year-old who hated reading—because the boy's usual sullenness had been replaced by excitement so intense it was practically visible.
"Demri! Demri! You gotta see this!"
James skidded to a halt in front of the desk, waving a piece of paper like a victory flag. Behind him, at a more sedate pace, came Marcus and Sofia, both wearing expressions of fond exasperation.
"James, slow down—" Marcus began.
"No, no, he has to see!" James thrust the paper at Demri. "Look! Look what I did!"
The paper was a test. The heading read "Reading Comprehension Assessment," and the score at the top—written in red ink with an encouraging smiley face—was 85%.
"I passed!" James announced, in case there was any ambiguity. "I've never passed a reading test before! The teacher said I did 'remarkably well' and she was 'very impressed'!"
Demri studied the test, feeling something warm spread through his chest that had nothing to do with the hunger. "This is excellent work, James. You should be proud."
"I am proud! I read the whole thing myself! Without help!" James bounced on his heels, unable to contain his energy. "And I did what you said—I pretended the story was about something interesting, like dinosaurs or robots, and then it wasn't so boring!"
"That's... not exactly what I said."
"Close enough!" James grabbed the paper back and studied it reverently. "Wait till my mom sees this. She's gonna flip."
Marcus and Sofia had reached the desk by now. Marcus, ever the responsible one, offered an apologetic smile. "Sorry for the explosion. He's been like this since he got the test back."
"No apology necessary." Demri looked at the three children—so different in temperament, yet bound together by some friendship he did not fully understand—and felt another unfamiliar sensation: pride. Not the cosmic pride of celestial achievement, but something smaller and somehow more satisfying. "You should all be proud. Learning is not easy, but you're persisting."
"That sounds like something from a poster," Sofia observed.
"Perhaps. But it's also true."
*Children*, the curse murmured. *Such vulnerable light. So easy to—*
Demri slammed the mental door on the thought so hard he actually flinched.
"Are you okay?" Marcus asked, frowning. "You look like you just bit a lemon."
"I'm fine. Just... remembered something unpleasant." Demri forced a smile. "Don't you three have classes to get to?"
"It's Saturday," Sofia said. "No school. But we have tutoring in an hour."
"Then you should use that hour productively. Perhaps by practicing your reading, James?"
James made a face but didn't protest—a significant victory, Demri thought. The three children wandered off toward the computer stations, James still clutching his test like a talisman.
*You're becoming attached*, the curse observed. *To children, no less. Creatures whose light is brightest and most easily extinguished. Is that wise?*
"Wisdom," Demri replied silently, "is overrated."
---
The afternoon brought another visitor—but this one was expected.
Jade arrived with a portfolio under one arm and coffee in both hands, her expression suggesting she had just survived an ordeal. "Gallery opening ran late. Then it ran later. Then some investment banker tried to explain art to me—to me!—for forty-five minutes."
"That sounds frustrating."
"Frustrating doesn't begin to cover it." She thrust one of the coffees at Demri. "Here. I brought peace offerings."
"Thank you. But I thought you were supposed to be surveilling me, not bringing me gifts."
"I can do both. I'm a multitasker." She dropped onto the couch beside the desk, stretching her legs out with a groan. "How's life in the trenches?"
"Complicated. Derek Thornton visited yesterday."
Jade's expression sharpened. "That's not good."
"So I've been told." Demri sipped his coffee—still too bitter, but he was learning to appreciate the caffeine. "What can you tell me about him?"
"Derek?" Jade considered the question. "Rich. Ruthless. The kind of man who sees everything as a transaction. He bought his first building when he was twenty-two and has been accumulating properties ever since. Mostly by making life difficult for current owners until they're forced to sell."
"How does he make life difficult?"
"Different ways for different people. Sometimes it's legal pressure—code violations, permit issues, endless inspections. Sometimes it's economic—buying up nearby properties, raising rents until businesses can't survive. Sometimes..." She hesitated. "Sometimes it's more direct."
"Define 'more direct.'"
"Fires that start mysteriously. Break-ins where nothing is stolen but everything is destroyed. Accidents that aren't quite accidents." Jade's voice had gone flat. "Nothing that can be proven, of course. Derek's very good at covering his tracks. But everyone in the neighborhood knows."
*Corruption*, the curse noted. *This Derek operates by familiar principles. Perhaps you have more in common than you thought.*
The comparison made Demri's stomach turn. "Why hasn't anyone stopped him?"
"Because stopping powerful men requires power of your own. And Millbrook doesn't have power—just people trying to survive." Jade finished her coffee and crushed the cup with unnecessary force. "Aylin's been fighting him for years. Her, Maria, a few others. They've managed to keep him at bay, but every year he gets bolder. It's only a matter of time before..."
She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't need to.
"There must be something that can be done," Demri said. "Some vulnerability, some leverage."
"If there were, someone would have found it by now." Jade stood, gathering her portfolio. "Anyway. I should go. I just wanted to check in, make sure you hadn't set the apartment on fire."
"I remain combustion-free."
"Good. Keep it that way." She paused at the door, looking back at him. "You know, when I first met you, I thought you were either a con artist or a lunatic. Now I'm not so sure."
"Which option are you leaning toward?"
"Neither. I'm starting to think you might be something else entirely." Her expression was unreadable. "Something I haven't figured out yet."
Then she was gone, leaving Demri with the unsettling suspicion that Jade was more perceptive than she let on.
---
The evening shift brought a different kind of challenge.
A woman arrived at the center just before closing—middle-aged, well-dressed, with the brittle composure of someone barely holding themselves together. Her light was strong but flickering, like a candle in a windstorm.
"I need help," she said, approaching the desk. "My husband—he left. Three weeks ago. Took everything. The bank accounts, the car, the—" Her voice cracked. "I don't know what to do. I have nowhere to go."
The hunger stirred, recognizing vulnerability. *Here is one who teeters on the edge. A single push, and she would fall into despair. That despair would be delicious.*
Demri gripped the edge of the desk. "What's your name?"
"Patricia. Patricia Mendez."
"Patricia, I'm going to get someone who can help you. Her name is Maria. She's dealt with situations like this before."
"Can you help me?" Patricia's eyes were pleading. "I just need someone to tell me what to do. I can't think straight. Everything is falling apart and I can't—"
*Tell her it's hopeless*, the curse suggested. *Tell her that her husband was right to leave, that she's worthless, that surrender is her only option. The words would come so naturally. The corruption would be almost painless.*
"Patricia." Demri's voice was steady, though the effort cost him dearly. "Listen to me. What happened to you is not your fault. You have value—intrinsic, undeniable value—that no one can take from you. Not your husband, not anyone. The fact that you're here, asking for help, proves that you're stronger than you think."
The words seemed to land. Patricia's desperate expression eased slightly, replaced by something that might have been hope.
"You really think so?"
"I know so." Demri reached for the phone. "Now let me get Maria. She's going to take care of you."
*What are you doing?* the curse demanded. *That was your opportunity! She was ready to fall!*
Demri ignored it, focusing on the phone, on Maria's voice answering, on the practical steps of connecting a suffering human with the resources she needed. The hunger raged inside him, furious at being denied, but he held it at bay through sheer force of will.
When Maria arrived and took Patricia to one of the counseling rooms, Demri allowed himself to sag against the desk. His hands were shaking. His head was pounding. The hunger had never been this strong, never pushed this hard.
*You cannot keep this up*, the curse warned. *Every denial makes the next one harder. Every resistance weakens your resolve. Eventually—*
"Eventually is not today," Demri said aloud.
*But it is coming. Make no mistake. It is coming.*
---
The walk home that night was worse than the previous evening.
The shadows were more active now, less content to merely watch. Demri caught glimpses of shapes that moved against the flow of light, heard whispers that might have been wind or might have been something else entirely. Twice, he felt certain something was following him—and twice, when he turned, there was nothing there.
The apartment offered no comfort. Even with the lights on, the corners seemed too dark, the silence too complete. Demri paced the living room, unable to settle, the hunger churning in his stomach like a living thing.
*You know what would make this stop*, the curse said. *One corruption. Just one. Pick someone you don't care about—a stranger, a criminal, someone already on the path to darkness. The hunger would be satisfied, and you could return to your pathetic attempts at virtue.*
"No."
*Why do you resist? The pure ones will fall eventually—if not to you, then to someone else. To something else. The shadows that watch are not patient. If you do not fulfill your purpose, they will fulfill it for you.*
"What do you mean?"
*I mean that you are not the only agent of corruption in this city. Others exist. Others who are less... conflicted about their nature. If you will not darken the light, they will. And they will not be gentle about it.*
The implication was clear. If Demri did not corrupt the pure ones, something worse would. Someone who would not care about the suffering caused, would not try to minimize the damage, would not see the mortals as anything more than fuel for the darkness.
It was, he realized, a form of blackmail. Corrupt them gently, or watch them be destroyed.
*There is a certain logic to it*, the curse observed. *You could be a merciful corruptor. A corruption that preserves some fragment of what was lost. Is that not better than the alternative?*
"No," Demri said again, but this time, the word carried less conviction.
Because the curse had a point. If the shadows were moving, if other agents of darkness were gathering, then his resistance might not matter. His noble intentions might only clear the way for something far worse.
But even as he considered this, another voice spoke—quieter than the curse, but no less insistent. Aylin's voice, echoing from their conversations late at night.
*I believe that people can change. I believe that the darkness in us doesn't have to define us.*
Could that be true for the shadows as well? Could even agents of corruption choose a different path?
Demri did not know. But as he finally settled onto the couch, exhaustion overwhelming even the hunger, he made himself a promise. He would not give in to the logic of inevitability. He would not become a "merciful corruptor" because the alternative seemed worse.
If the shadows were coming, he would find a way to fight them.
And if he could not fight them alone, he would find allies.
*An interesting strategy*, the curse observed. *And utterly doomed to failure. But by all means, proceed. I enjoy watching futility.*
"Shut up," Demri said, and closed his eyes.
Sleep, when it finally came, was not restful. He dreamed of shadows and light, of falling and rising, of a woman with dark eyes who believed in him for reasons he could not understand.
And beneath it all, patient and relentless, the hunger continued to grow.
----