Pressed up against the northern corner of the ceiling, the monster waited, knees bent at awkward, rigid angles, hands splayed out at his sides. Steely bones protruded from graying skin, as if he clung to the walls with all his might. He tried to scramble deeper into the wooden walls as Mireille stared.

How was this the same man who sacrificed everything for her? The same man who gave her an identity? A new chance at life? 

His once pepper-colored hair was now stark-white and, even though he’d had the same crop cut his whole life, his hair now fell to his shoulders in mangled strings. His horns had grown considerably, too. The black, charred bars used to be tiny stubs hidden beneath his hair; now they scraped against the ceiling, the sound like chalk. When he tilted his head to the right, watching her watching him, bits of horn chipped off and fluttered to the ground. 

“Why don’t you come on down, Konrad, and we’ll have a little chat?” she asked sweetly.

She hoped hearing his name would entice him, but he hissed.

All four of his fangs—two on top, two on bottom—caught the mistlight and reflected, momentarily blinding her.

Squinting was her first mistake.

Konrad launched off the ceiling, straight at her.