Why You Should Never Rescue Stray Demons Chapter 127

**OZ**

It’s nearly five a.m., and I’m feeling significantly less optimistic than I was when we first arrived. Then again, part of that might be because I’ve pulled an all nighter and have absolutely nothing to show for it except aching eyes and a headache gnawing at the edges of my skull. I glance around at the tables, which, at some point, have been shoved together into one sprawling workstation, a chaotic battlefield of ink, paper, and ancient tomes. Everyone is still here, still working. Vidar and Tracey both look irritatingly bright and focused, which is probably because neither of them actually requires sleep. Must be nice. Vidar has settled into a rhythm, neat piles of notes stacking around him like he’s building a fortress of information. Tracey, by contrast, has books open in every direction, lounging in his chair with the casual posture of someone who doesn’t need rest and knows it. Clarence theoretically SHOULD need sleep, but the old man looks exactly the same as he always does. I’d be willing to bet he stays alert through sheer force of will alone. Exhaustion wouldn’t dare touch him. He’ll grow tired when he decides he’s ready, and not a moment sooner. Izzy, on the other hand, is… Unsettling. She’s hovering claustrophobically close to Kacia, almost pressed against her shoulder, as though terrified she’ll miss something if she so much as blinks. Her pale curls bob whenever she leans to peer at Kacia’s notes, and the air around her hums faintly with that cold, static edge. Honestly, I think Vidar might be getting jealous. He’s used to being her favourite person in the room. I’ve caught him trying more than once to draw her attention, pointing out fascinating illustrations in the margins of books, sharing odd little facts he’s discovered while researching. Izzy smiles at him, as always, but she doesn’t budge from Kacia’s side. And Kacia… Well, she looks as tired as I feel. Shadows smudge beneath her eyes, her hair is mussed from her constantly running her hands through it, but she refuses to slow down. She has a tower of books at her elbow and a notebook already filled with cramped scribbles, her hand moving steadily as she jots down anything that has even the faintest chance of being useful. Her determination is sharp enough to cut, but the frustration etched between her brows is plain. Maybe it’s the fruitless research. Or maybe it’s the little ghost child practically breathing her air all night. Or, she would be breathing her air, if Izzy actually breathed. I frown, studying them, wondering what has gotten into Izzy tonight. She’s always been unpredictable, but this… It’s like she’s glued to Kacia. Like a moth drawn to a flame she can’t look away from. And then it clicks. I remember her prophecy as the Witness, one line in particular. ‘She claims no side, but walks beside whoever bleeds the most.’  Izzy told us once that she is drawn to whoever is hurting the most, or whoever is on the cusp of hurting the most. My stomach turns to stone. So that begs the question… Is Kacia suffering right now, and hiding it behind grit and stubbornness? Or is there something waiting just ahead, something that could make her bleed in ways I can’t even begin to stop? The thought makes the candlelit quiet of the library feel suddenly colder.

At around five-thirty, Tracey suddenly springs to his feet. He stretches with a long, theatrical groan, arms flung wide, back cracking loudly enough to make Clarence mutter something pointed under his breath. Tracey looks perfectly fine, bright-eyed, fangs glinting, but he’s milking the moment like he’s just survived some kind of mortal trial.

“Well…” He drawls. 

“I should head home before sunrise. I’d hang out here and pull an all-dayer, but Jerry gets crabby if I leave him in the basement too long. No idea why.” His smirk softens into a frown. 

“He’s been particularly angsty since discovering that, as a newly magical being, technology no longer wants to cooperate with him. Something about three hundred hours on some game that’s now going to waste. I offered him a carefully curated selection of literature, but the brat doesn’t appreciate the finer things.” Tracey scowls like he’s personally offended, and everyone at the table nods politely, though not a soul has the faintest idea what he’s talking about. I’ve heard of video games. Vaguely. In the same way I’ve heard of rocket ships and particle accelerators. They’re something people insist exist but I’ve never touched myself. I can barely work Kacia’s television without sitting six feet back and pressing the same button on the remote fifty times. The thought of playing on one of those machines sounds beyond frustrating. But I suppose if you’ve lived your whole life steeped in technology, losing it overnight must be its own kind of curse. Dhampires are human until they taste blood for the first time, so Jerry probably never had an issue until the incident with Amy. The table erupts in suggestions, everyone trying to come up with ways to keep Jerry entertained. Puzzles, workouts, books, board games. Someone even suggests baking, which earns a very sharp look from Clarence. I find it deeply amusing that they’re brainstorming enrichment activities for him as if Jerry were some small, furry creature in need of stimulation. I open my mouth to add something, probably sarcastic, when everything inside me seizes. My mind goes blank. My body screams. Every instinct is shrieking danger, alarms firing off in every nerve. My pulse slams, adrenaline ignites, and my glamour shudders so violently I’m a hair’s breadth from losing it completely. What the hell is wrong with me?!

The edges of my vision pulse. The air tastes wrong. Too sweet. Too heavy. I drag in a breath to warn Kacia, but the scent hits me like poison. Sickly. Honeyed. Thick enough to choke. My stomach drops. No. Not here. Not now. Before I can think, I move. Panic takes the reins. I launch myself across the table, scattering books and parchment, reaching for Kacia with nothing but instinct and terror driving me. I don’t register the mess. I register only Kacia, her hair, the slope of her shoulder, the small, distracted frown as she scribbles, and the awful electric hiss in the back of my skull that says protect her now. My hands find her before she can look up. I yank her down behind the work surface, heart hammering so hard it hurts to breathe. My fingers are in her hair, strands slipping through my hold as I pull her face into the crook of my neck and hold her tight. I didn’t expect to have such a strong reaction. But it feels almost instinctive. Kacia tries to pull away to look at my face. 

“Don’t! Don’t look at me.” I hiss into the hollow of her throat, every syllable a plea. My voice is sharp, too loud in my own ears. I can feel my glamour fraying, thin threads snapping like old rope. If she sees even a flash… Damn it. I can’t let that happen. Not again. It’s not until she gives a shaky nod that I loosen my grip. Once I’m sure that she won’t try and look straight in my eyes. 

“Good girl…” I rasp, keeping my voice low, trying to steady the tremor. Eventually I force the words out.  

“It’s him. Your…” I can’t say his name like it won’t change things, so I don’t. 

“He’s here.” I tell her. I press my forehead against the top of Kacia’s head and breathe, tasting that honeyed air and mapping where it comes from. I hold Kacia tighter. I don’t know how long I can keep this together. I only know that right now, right here, my whole body belongs to one purpose. Keep Kacia safe. From her grandfather… And from me.