Melkor runs right in there and empties the meager, bilious contents of his mortal stomach in some receptacle or other.

Then he shuts the door behind him and rubs the silver denarian in his hand three times. He mumble-mutters: “Come on out, tiny temptress thing, I know you’re innnn therrrrre.”

Meciel appears immediately, but since the hall bath is tiny, she chooses to manifest her illusion in the mirror over the sink.

”Melkor, I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you before - I don’t actually have a body, this form” she gestures to herself “only exists in your mind. No one else can see it.” She pauses.

“Yeah nah that’s cool this happened to me on the DTs once with a sexy catgirl who only spoke in riddles.”

“You should also know that Michael is one of three Knights of the Cross, an order specifically dedicated to eliminating the Fallen - that’s me - and helping free those who have come under their influence - that’s you. Well, at least he will see it that way, I’m not sure it would really be fair to say I’m influencing you. In practice, they often stab first and ask questions later.”

“You’re the Fallen? Sheeeeit, where I come from I’m the Fallen! So sick.”

Melkor fogs up the mirror with his breath and starts doodling elves dangling from trees.

”Also, just three dudes? That’s anemic for, like, a book club. The crew that took me down had that many goddesses whose name started with the letter ‘V’”

Meciel offers him a high five through the mirror. “Twinsies!”

He slaps the mirror so hard it spider cracks. “Hells to the yes.”

“Also, you really should rinse out the trash can before you go back out there.”

He does so, using the high spout jutting from the wall.

”And just so you know Messy Pants: as soon as I finish getting me my crab tacos, I’m melting this house into goo and brain-slaving everybody inside.”

“Not the kids, Melkor. I don’t do kids.” She vanishes.

“Hahaha these Chicago fools brought kids into this world? Whaaaaaat? Who’s the real monster here.”

He makes his way out, training his nostrils on the sweet meaty scent of oceanic arthropod.

It’s me. I’m the real monster.

Michael finds him in the hallway, now dressed in jeans and a worn tshirt. “Had to change out of my, ah, LARPing gear,” he says sheepishly. “But good news, I think dinner is just about ready.” He gestures for Melkor to precede him into the dining room.

The dining room is full of cheerful chaos. Charity is directing three older children in setting the table and carrying in food, while a teenage boy supervises some littles as they wash up. A young woman with pink and blue hair sits at the table, talking seriously with a small older man in priest’s robes. And on the table sits an enormous bowl of steaming crab meat, surrounded by all the fixin’s for the dankest tacos you ever heard tell of.

Melkor’s stomach rumbles cartoonishly, he licks his lips, he rubs his hands together in anticipation, the whole shebang.

He plops himself down in an open chair and assembles three tacos: 

1. kimchi sriracha pepperjack 

2. grilled onion red bell pepper jalapeño black currant 

3. butter guac sour cream

All filled to bursting with succulent mother effing crab meat.

By this time everyone is more or less seated, but no one else has gotten food. There is actually a rising silence. Charity is annoyed with him but covering by shooting looks at Michael, and Michael is actually kind of amused but also sending apology in Charity’s general direction.

But it is the girl with pink and blue hair who intervenes. She leans over and puts a hand on his as he reaches out to take a taco in hand for his first bite. “Gotta slow your roll one sec, dude,” she whispers with a smile. “We say a pretty serious Grace in this house.”

“Ohhhhhhh riiiiight,” he says, and pulls his hand back. “The sky thing.”

It is as if everyone was secretly waiting to find out if Melkor would respect the Ritual. Total silence falls. Michael nods at the small priest. “Father, would you care to say grace?”

The priest rises. “Of course.” He bows his head and closes his eyes, and everyone else around the table does the same. Cotton-candy-hair gently nudges him with her elbow.

Through heavily lidded eyes, Melkor surreptitiously stares down at his fingers.

The Father allows a moment of silence, then speaks. “Bless us, oh Lord, and these your gifts which we are about to receive from your bounty. We offer thanks for the culinary gifts of our host, Charity, and for the generosity of Jamie in offering us the centerpiece of this meal. We are grateful for the opportunity to make new friends and break bread together. Through Christ our Lord we pray, Amen.”

A round of quiet “amen” choruses around the table.

“Amen!”

And Melkor slaps the silver denarian onto the table next to his plate.

And he picks up Taco #1 with both hands and takes a big ol’ bite.

The taco is rapturous. Kimchi, sriracha, and pepperjack fold into each other, tease, interweave. The cross-cultural notes of tang and spice, rotting fermentation and fiery pain, play contretemps over the starchy pre-sweetness of the tortilla and the rich, tender crab.

Rarely had wine so intoxicated, or fattened calves so sated; rarely had sensory excitement rung with such clarity, unstained by preoccupation; rarely had consuming been so all-consuming.

Fuck I love crab tacos.

A whisper of fond resignation blows through the back of his mind. “Oh, here we go.”

The reaction around the table is sudden and very disparate.

Michael jumps to his feet, hand flying to an empty spot at the back of his shoulder.

Charity, halfway through cutting a tortilla into cute triangles for the toddler, goes white with shock and immediately reverses her grip on the knife into a stab-ready hold.

The priest freezes and his eyes flicker back and forth rapidly.

The teenage boy half stands, clenching his fists, but bangs  his hip into the table and is bounced back into his seat.

The younger children seem largely confused, looking at their parents with growing anxiety.

He looks over to see what bubblegum hair thinks of all this. But she is gone.

So is the coin.

So is his napkin.

He’s flummoxed as hell for a microbeat. Then:

Nobody out-bullshit-speed-chesses High Melkor!

”If you ever wanna see bubblegum princess again, everybody put your hands behind your head and chill your friggin’ balls, alright?!”

Michael and Charity share a look and Michael nods. Charity slowly puts down the knife. They sit.

“With the coin gone, I see no reason why we cannot sit and discuss this calmly,” Michael says.

High Melkor takes a breath through his nose, and hardcore remembers about tacos #2 and #3.

”I can be down with that, Sky-LARPer. I do expect the coin on my plate by the time I finish these truly excellent tacos.” 

He stuffs the rest of taco #1 in his mouth.

In the kitchen, a chunk of the ceiling melts into a globule of lukewarm black tar and splorches down onto the counter. Another splorch can be heard from upstairs. Then another.