Page 1 of Avidian (The Demon and the Savior #1)

Chapter One

I wander through the gardens, admiring the night-blooming flowers, and find myself pondering the unthinkable—what it takes to kill another person.

Despite having never ended anyone’s life myself, I imagine a long list of people I would like to kill. At the top of that list is Marco, the head of the family that claims ownership of me.

I sit against the trunk of my favorite weeping willow, gazing out as moonlight dances across the pond.

This garden is one of the last sanctuaries here, surprisingly serene for the Western District.

With the constant droughts on this side of the country, we’re lucky if anything grows at all.

My district hasn’t seen rain in so long, and each year the days grow warmer, the air drier.

It’s hard to imagine that the other half of Sunderlands spends most of the year buried under snow and ice.

Marco, along with a few other families, must be paying a pretty penny to keep this place looking so lush.

My heart nearly stops when a man appears, walking past me toward the water’s edge. Considering I can see the dead, it’s a significant reaction. The thought of Marco’s men finding me here sends a chill down my spine. He would probably burn this entire garden to the ground to punish my insolence.

Frozen in fear, I watch silently as the man grabs a handful of rocks and begins skipping them across the pond, cursing under his breath with each throw.

His clothes reek of wealth: an all-black suit and pristine shoes.

“Fuck,” he mutters, throwing the last rock into the water and running a hand through his reddish-brown hair.

He’s probably pissed he was outbid today at the underground meeting where men like him go to bid on people like me—Avids—people with unique abilities who only the most wealthy families can afford to purchase.

Asshole.

He looks up, and our eyes lock. I debate standing and trying to outrun him, but in these heels and this fucking dress Marco made me wear, there’s no way I’d make it.

“Rough night?” I ask, trying to keep my voice casual, like I belong here. Not like the prisoner I really am.

“Is it that obvious?” he says, taking a few steps toward me.

“The rocks didn’t do anything to you, and neither did the water, so cursing at them is a bit of a giveaway,” I say. He moves even closer, standing in front of me.

Play it cool, Kat. Don’t give yourself away. You belong here.

“Do you mind if I sit?” he asks.

I glance at the grass next to me. “I don’t own the park,” I say, and he makes a slight chuckling sound, moving to sit next to me. Not too close though—he keeps a respectable distance, which I silently thank him for.

“Can I ask you a question?” he asks.

I look over at him, seeing him clearer now that he’s on my level.

He doesn’t look much older than me, probably in his late twenties or early thirties if I had to guess.

He has dark-brown eyes, but not the boring kind of brown; they have little flecks of amber and gold in them.

His stubble-dusted face highlights a strong jaw, and his broad shoulders suggest strength.

I wonder what he does for a living, but there’s no way I’m going to ask him that.

“That depends—was that your question, or do you want to try again for something better?”

He laughs. “What’s your name?” He leans back against the gigantic tree trunk we now share. I debate lying, but what do I care? I’m never going to see this man again, so I decide to tell him the truth.

“Katja, but my friends call me Kat.”

He smiles, and I’m not sure why my name makes him happy. “Kat, I like that.”

I smirk at him. “I didn’t say we were friends.” He has a nice smile, this mysterious man—perfect, straight white teeth and nice lips.

Why are you thinking about his lips, Kat?

“Katja then, pleasure to meet you. I’m Malachi.”

“Malachi, why are you having a bad night?” I ask apathetically, not wanting him to know how curious I actually am.

“I’m missing home, I guess. I’ve been living in the Midwest District for the past seven years on business, and it’s not the same,” he says, clearly not one of Marcos's men then. Marco doesn’t have any ties to the Midwest that I’ve ever heard of.

“I’ve never seen the Midwest before, but I imagine anywhere is better than here,” I say, crossing my feet.

“All the districts seem to get worse every year. Nothing grows well anymore, here or there. This garden seems to be the only green place left in this entire district.”

It’s disappointing to hear, but he’s not wrong about this place. It’s why I love this garden, and any chance I get to sneak out, I come here. I love the flowers, the feel of the grass, the smell, and the sound of the pond. This is the only place I can ever find peace.

“I like to come here and imagine this is what the world used to look like—large bodies of water, hills covered in trees, and fields of wildflowers,” I say, plucking a daisy from the grass and twirling it between my fingers.

“Maybe a few hundred years ago,” he says, sitting up straighter and turning to face me. “So, Katja, what are you doing out here alone tonight?”

Do I tell him I’m a woman who’s been trafficked for the last eight years and the family that owns me is the most prolific, murderous one in the entire country?

And the reason I’m so valuable to them is because I can talk to the dead?

No, I probably shouldn’t tell him that, but it would be funny to see his face if I did.

“I was out with some friends and wanted some peace and quiet before I go home. There’s usually no one here this late at night,” I say, only lying about the first half.

“Aren’t you a little young to be out here this late and alone?” he says, and I scoff at him.

“I’m twenty-three years old and can take care of myself.”

“I mean no offense, but I’m surprised you don’t have a husband already, given how beautiful you are,” he says. I bite my bottom lip, a nervous habit I really need to stop.

“And what makes you think I don’t have a husband waiting for me at home?” I ask, bending my knees and turning slightly toward him, leaning my shoulder against the base of the tree.

“If I were your husband, you’d never have to be alone. Not because you need protecting—but because I’d make damn sure you never wanted to be anywhere else.”

I bust out laughing, throwing a hand over my mouth to stifle the embarrassing snorting sound. “Is this your go-to routine? Brooding in parks, skipping rocks, and sweeping women off their feet with possessive husband fantasies?”

With a furtive smile, he shakes his head and glances up at the night’s sky.

“I’d say this is a first—trying to pick up a woman late at night in a park. And clearly it’s not going well. Apparently these lines don’t work. I can’t say I’ve ever been called out quite like this before,” he says, scratching his head.

“If you really want to have any chance at picking up women, be honest—be yourself. Skip the creepy pickup lines about husbands,” I tell him, brushing a few strands of hair from my face. His gaze catches mine, holding it for a moment before I look away.

“And what about you?” he probes.

“What about me?”

“How do I get to see you again?” he asks, and inexplicably my heart skips a beat. I can’t fathom why this stranger has such an effect on me. Perhaps it’s his good looks and awkward sort of charm, or it’s been too long since a man has seen me as more than an object to use for his gain.

“Oh, I’m not available,” I clarify, crossing my arms.

“No husband, so you have a boyfriend?” he presses.

“It’s complicated,” I exhale.

“So he isn’t your husband or your boyfriend, and it’s complicated.” He pauses, amused. “I don’t even know the guy, and he sounds like a dick.”

I can’t help but laugh. If only he knew how right he was.

“Alright, Katja, if honesty is the way to win you over—I’m not only missing home tonight.

I’m in town because my father wants me to start learning how to run the family business, and truthfully I can’t stand him and want nothing to do with it,” he admits, and I find myself both surprised and even more intrigued.

“What’s so bad about the family business? And why don’t you like your father?” I ask.

“Trade has never interested me, and my father... He’s never been the same since my mother died. She passed when I was young, and my two older brothers and I were easy targets for him to vent his frustrations on.” His gaze drops to the grass as he plucks at the blades, lost in thought.

I say, “When I was fifteen, I was learning to drive. I had been practicing all the time and loved it and couldn’t wait to have a car of my own.

One day, I was driving my parents, my best friend, and my dog to the beach.

We got into an accident.” I pause, not knowing why I’m sharing this with him.

I’ve blocked it out for so long, but his vulnerability with me felt like it deserved honesty in return.

“I woke up in the hospital two weeks later to learn I was the only survivor.”

It was also when I learned I could communicate with the dead. My dog was there when I woke up, only she was no longer alive. I keep that detail to myself.

“Damn, I’m so sorry. Loss has a crazy way of shaping our lives, doesn’t it?

I often wonder how different things would be if my mother had lived.

I’m sure you’ve had similar thoughts,” he says, his eyes lifting to meet mine.

I nod, feeling the weight of the conversation and eagerness to change the subject.

“So why not leave? If your father is as difficult as you say, and you have no interest in the trade business, why come here at all?”

His eyebrows furrow in thought.