I may not always know what's right, but I know I want you here tonight.

Mallos couldn’t remember the last time he had an empanada. If he had a meal at a societally designated meal time, it was usually as part of a social commitment: a work-related dinner, usually, or a lunch date. His independent life wasn’t quite so restricted or routine. If he was drawing, composing or playing around with mechanics and he got hungry, he ate if he wanted to and regulated the hunger with divinity if he didn’t. There was definitely no slipping out into the street to grab a locally-made pastry.

There was something about hand-made food which struck a different cord to the divinely-produced stuff. The fold of the pastry was imperfect, the vegetables and scallops diced to varying sizes. It was charming.

Croe moved out from under the pink awning, her dark eyes focused on el baile flamenco, performed by a couple of women in the traditional red dresses. The dance was impure, a nuevo performed for tourists’ entertainment, but the dancers were good. A crowd was already beginning to amass, captivated; Mallos moved a little so that he was stood behind and to the right of Croe, where they were less likely to get separated. She turned and smiled at him. In that moment, if Mallos could have frozen time, he would have.

The moment passed. Her eyes shifted over his shoulder and focused in on something behind him. Before he had a chance to turn, an unfamiliar voice gave an unfamiliar name, and Croe internally swore loud enough that Mallos heard her on the edge of his psyche, mirroring his feelings.

Who the hell was this guy?

He certainly looked like a shit. Mallos caught a glimpse of dull green eyes and a mop of curly dark hair before the guy swept Croe up off her feet in an greeting. Mallos inhaled slowly, fighting back the sudden urge to pick the guy up and throw him at the flamenco dancers. The sensation of a fire burning in the pit of his stomach was so abrupt and so powerful that he wondered, for a moment, if it was Sperantia’s rage he was feeling. She must have reconnected with his mind coincidentally in that moment, because there was certainly nothing about this… shit, which could possibly throw Mallos off.

Oh, and he was Italian too. Because all the best people were.

He missed Croe’s look, too busy studying Alessandro with a look of his own; one which tried not to be too calculating. Precisely what Mallos was calculating kept changing. At first he was taking in clothes, language, posture, gauging lifestyle and profession. Then, a heartbeat later, he was calculating how hard he’d have to punch a guy of that approximate height and weight to get him to fall over backwards. Then what a lovely chair he’d make.

Apparently it was Sandro now. The internal fire burned hotter when Croe used the nickname, but was dampened down by an overwhelming feeling of satisfaction when she took hold of Mallos’ arm. He wasn’t sure why that was so satisfying, but it was, and all the more so when Shitdro shifted his gaze to him. He had the kind of smile which Mallos recognised from the mirror and fully understood, possibly for the first time, why so many people found it so punchable.

It was even more punchable when Sandro started speaking Spanish to him, as though he couldn’t understand Italian. Rude. Mallos quirked an eyebrow slightly and glanced at Croe as if to say this guy? Really?

Oh, you went to school with Nepenthe, did you? So cute. Mallos went to bed with her. Every night, actually.

“Do I live in Granada?” He scoffed in answer to the question, speaking out loud for the first time since whats-his-face showed up. What kind of question was that? Did Mallos look like a low-life tourist?

What a waste of a life this entire conversation was. Mallos slipped his hand into Croe’s and teleported them both the heck out of there. They landed outside his Madrilene house, a hundred metres or so from the door.

Although it was known as his Madrid residence, the house wasn’t actually in Madrid, but rather about twenty miles south of the capital in the middle of nowhere. It also wasn’t actually what most people would call a ‘house’. The sprawling mansion arched lazily in each direction, four stories tall but distinctly squat-looking given its width. The house boasted over two hundred bedrooms, most of which were occupied with members of the divine court; a swimming pool to the rear; a modern, underground garage which served as Mallos’ car ‘play area’; and many acres of grounds, including gardens, reserves and orchards. A widely-cast spell shielded the property from prying mortal eyes; as Mallos and Croe arrived, the air shimmered slightly around them, recognising the spell-caster and shifting to allow them through. They were standing on a gravel driveway beside a huge, grand fountain, facing the veritable palace.

Now that they were away from that guy, the internal fire had died out, but Mallos still felt… off. The fire had kick-started a burst of energy which made the fingers of one hand run through his hair of their own accord. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and clicked the back on and off a couple of times in quick succession.

“Need to pick up my papers.” He said by way of explanation for the sudden teleportation and started walking towards the house, pushing his hands into his pockets to stop them from fidgeting. He replayed the conversation in his head and picked up on something which he’d missed the first time round. He spun around, a step ahead of her, walking backwards. The start of a grin was playing at the corners of your mouth. “I’m your what?” He asked mischievously, like a naughty child who had caught an adult out. “Your jail-breaker? Your partner-in-crime? Your dick?”

“Señor.” Said a voice behind them. They’d reached the door. Mallos spun around again to see his butler, Alvarez, standing on the top step. Alvarez gave Croe a long-suffering look, like he was used to over-hearing these kind of conversations from his employer. “Señora. Can I get you anything?”

Mallos
I've learned enough to know I'm never letting go