the smuggler’s bible

Candi

Candi opens the door and sees two eyes glowing blood red in the darkness across the room. She sighs, takes one step backward and locks the door again.

“Ah, wait,” a voice says, muffled by ash wood and tight hinges. “I’m doing a prank.”

“Sure.” Candi has her phone out, looking up consecration ceremonies on some Catholic wiki. “How’d you even get in?”

“Uhm.”

“Was it mist form?”

“It was mist form. But, like, romantic. Not scary.”

“You don’t get to decide that, Conor,” Candi says. “Now leave, or—swear to god—I will literally blast you with holy water.”