They do not have to look for the bar.
It reveals itself with a weary confidence. A door appears between two buildings that have learned to lean away from one another. Light inside the glass already ambered, already social.
The kind of place where habits go when they want to feel justified.
POIMANDRÉSH slows as they approach.
“Maybe not,” he says, without conviction.
THE DEVIL is already reaching for the handle.
“Oh, it’s fine,” he says. “We won’t stay.”
The door opens before contact. The hinge exhales. Inside, the air smells of copper, citrus peel, and things that once meant to stop.
They step in.
A stool slides back. Two glasses appear, sweating, their contents dark and attentive. The bar hums at a pitch below hearing, like a congregation waiting for its cue.
POIMANDRÉSH does not sit at first.
“This place -” he begins.
“Knows me,” THE DEVIL finishes, seating himself. “Yes. Presumptuous of it.”
POIMANDRÉSH sits. The wood beneath him warms, pleased. His sternum tightens with that now-familiar hinge sensation. He hates that the feeling is almost like relief.
Around them, the bar proceeds in its major and minor cycles.
An angel, her halo put aside for the night, laughs too hard. A DAEMON with too many elbows deals cards to a male DYBBUK who has removed his face for the evening. Somewhere behind the shelves, a bell rings and immediately regrets doing so.
POIMANDRÉSH lifts his glass. The liquid inside rearranges itself out of courtesy.
“I don’t think we should be here,” he says.
THE DEVIL takes a sip, grimaces.
“No,” he agrees. “But here we are.”
The food arrives without ceremony. Not summoned. Not ordered. Only acknowledged.
Two plates slide between them, heavy with intent. Plates of patacón de asado negro. The plantains above and below pressed flat and fried to a deep, blistered golden brown. The meat rests between the plantains, dark and glossy, lacquered in its own sugar and patience. Slivers of sweet plantain curl along the edge like commas that refuse to end a sentence.
The dish is alive enough to be nervous. Steam rises and hesitates, unsure of itself. The asado exhales a low, satisfied sound. Like something that has finished remembering where it came from.
Tiny grease-spirits crawl along the rim of the plate. They argue over whether they originate in fat, sweetness, or memory.
POIMANDRÉSH stares.“This is… generous,” he says.
THE DEVIL peers at it with suspicion.
“It’s trying to comfort you,” he says. “Patronizing.”
POIMANDRÉSH cuts a piece of plantain and takes a hesitant bite. Inside, the softness sighs.
The sweetness does not bloom so much as confess. The meat releases an incredible aroma.
Caramelized onion, burnt sugar, long simmer. And something like childhood memory misfiled as destiny.
He takes another bite.
The patacón reacts.
A handful of plantain-spirits leap from the plate in delight. They immediately reincarnate as oil stains on the table. The asado tightens, pleased at the approval of its patrons. A thin ribbon of sauce snakes toward POIMANDRÉSH’s fingers and curls there, possessive.
His chest warms.
Not the dangerous hinge-warmth. Something older. Something terrestrial.
“Oh,” he murmurs. “That’s… grounding.”
THE DEVIL snorts and takes a bite himself.
The meat stiffens. For a fraction of a second, it resists. Then it yields completely, as if remembering who it’s dealing with.
The flavor hits in a different way for him. The sweetness collapses into bitterness. The bitterness clarifies into iron. The iron resolves into history. He chews, slow, methodical, meditative, eyes unfocused.
“This animal died with presence,” he says. “It took its time. Savored the experience.”
POIMANDRÉSH watches him.
“That’s not how most things die around you.”
“No,” THE DEVIL agrees. “Which is why I appreciate the effort.”
The sweet plantains shift, arranging themselves into a more flattering geometry. A small pool of grease trembles, considering a previous life as a saint.
Around them, the bar continues its low hum. Someone laughs. Cards slap wood. The bell behind the shelves rings again, this time smug in its manner.
POIMANDRÉSH eats another bite. He feels it settle. Not in his stomach, but along his ribs, weighting him downward. The architecture in his chest pauses. Confused by the intrusion of something so… edible.
“This is dangerous,” he says.
THE DEVIL glances at him.
“Food usually is,” he replies. “It convinces you that you can stay.”
POIMANDRÉSH swallows.
“That’s not what I meant.”
THE DEVIL knows.
He takes another bite anyway.
A voice from the far end of the bar speaks. Not loud. Not hostile.
But terrifying all the same.
“Well well,” slithers the voice. “There you are.”
POIMANDRÉSH turns.
The DAEMON is lithe, tall, well-fed on attention. Its face drawn tight around a smile too big for its face. Long razor teeth in a serpentine jaw. Its eyes are two smoke holes of yellow light, centered like a brutish snout above its terrible maw. It has no nose to speak of. It is a scintillant shadow of a thing. Long limbed, with what might be bat ears or horns on either side of its head, and a long snaking tail. A torn grey sari hangs from its waist.
“You’ve been leaving parts of yourself,” the DAEMON continues in a conversational tone. “All over the neighborhood. Growth where there should be metaphor. Architecture without permit.”
POIMANDRÉSH feels the words land in his body.
THE DEVIL does not turn around.
“That’s an unpleasant tone,” he says in a mild tone. “If you’re about to name him, I’d reconsider.”
The DAEMON smiles.
“Oh, I wouldn’t,” it says. “But others might. People are starting to ask what he’s becoming.”
The bar’s attention sharpens. Not alarm. Interest.
POIMANDRÉSH’s chest tightens. A small internal structure tries to form and thinks better of it.
THE DEVIL turns on his stool.
“You’re mistaking proximity for permission,” he says.
The DAEMON’s smile thins.
“Outside,” it says.
A challenge. An invitation already approved.
The bar exhales.
THE DEVIL stands.
“Very well,” he says. “Leave the drinks.”
Outside, the street is wider than it was moments ago. Buildings lean back, curious but cautious. The air tastes like witness.
The DAEMON steps into the open air.
And keeps stepping.
It grows without effort. Without strain. It stretches itself to magnificent heights. Becoming something civic and enormous and terrible, floating in the ochre sky. It eclipses the sun, not for drama, but for administration. Shadows lengthen. Windows darken.
POIMANDRÉSH tilts his head back until his neck creaks.
“Oh,” he says. “Compensating.”
THE DEVIL, in contrast, has elected to remain exactly the same size he had been moments ago.
He lights something. Smoke coils around his horns like a crown that knows better than to shine.
“You don’t own him,” the DAEMON says, its voice bending the air.
“No,” THE DEVIL replies with a bored calm. “I tolerate him.”
The DAEMON leans down and forward. Pavement cracks. Streetlights burst.
“He’s becoming a problem,” it says. “Unresolved things attract attention.”
THE DEVIL taps his cane once against the ground.
Not hard.
The echo travels inward.
“This is the moment,” THE DEVIL says in a pleasant tone, “Where you decide whether you want to remain impressive.”
The DAEMON hesitates.
POIMANDRÉSH feels it. The instant something vast realizes it may have misjudged its cosmic weight class.
“You could leave,” THE DEVIL offers. “Now. Still intact. Still talked about.”
Silence.
Then the DAEMON straightens.
The sun returns, relieved. The street resumes breathing. The DAEMON sheds height as it retreats, shrinking not in defeat but in discretion. It turns to smoke and disappears down an alley that refuses to remember its name.
POIMANDRÉSH exhales.
“I thought we were going to die,” he says.
THE DEVIL snorts.
“Oh no,” he says. “We were going to be defined.”
They walk.
The city pretends to be ordinary for their sake. A cat reassembles from three incompatible ideas of cat and watches them go.
POIMANDRÉSH clears his throat.
“That thing said I was becoming a problem.”
“Everything says that eventually,” THE DEVIL replies.
They pass a bus stop that advertises nothing. The timetable promises SOON, PROBABLY.
“There might be somewhere else we can go,” POIMANDRÉSH says with care. “For a bit.
Outside the city.”
THE DEVIL stops.
His turn is a slow one.
“Oh no,” he says. “Absolutely not.”
“Just -” POIMANDRÉSH rushes on. “Quieter. A house. Trees. Some air. Something.”THE DEVIL looks at him as though he has suggested medicinal cannibalism.
“You want to visit family,” he says.
POIMANDRÉSH blinks. Or rather, his empty eye sockets perform a pantomime of blinking.
“You have family?”
THE DEVIL laughs once, sharp.
“I have relations,” he says. “Which is much worse.”
He resumes walking.
“Out past the city,” he continues, “In the HINTERLANDS, there are places that look like rest.
Lawns. Countryside. Gravel drives. Etiquette.”
POIMANDRÉSH feels the hinge sensation again. The warmth. The pull.
“They offer hospitality,” THE DEVIL says.“Concern. A version of yourself that fits into a nice sentence.”
He glances sideways.
“And they are insatiable.”
POIMANDRÉSH shivers.
“…Regardless, the timing is uncanny. They’ve been asking after me,” THE DEVIL mutters.
POIMANDRÉSH freezes.
“Who?”
THE DEVIL waves a hand to dismiss the question.
“An uncle. An aunt. A host.” A pause. “It depends what they’re wearing.”
POIMANDRÉSH does not laugh, but something in him recognizes a joke.
“That’s not happening,” THE DEVIL snaps. Then, quieter, annoyed at himself: “Not yet.”
They walk on.
Behind them, far beyond the city limits, a table is set for three, in a house that does not yet exist.