Why You Should Never Rescue Stray Demons Chapter 153

**KACIA**

“NOW!” I yell. Everything goes insane all at once. The sound hits like a fist to the face, even through the earplugs we’re wearing. I can hear dreadful, perky kids’ jingles sugar-sweet and relentless, bubblegum pop bouncing in a different key, a blast of grinding metal music with some guy screaming loudly in it, there is also the sound of a piercingly high pitched whistle needling the gaps like a dentist drill to my brain while some lunatic opera tenor belts their lungs out. The speakers also throw a low sub-bass that makes the ribs of the building hum, it vibrates through my boots and up my teeth. Outside, every neighbourhood dog loses its mind and starts to bark, a ragged chorus that turns the whole block into an argument. It’s not just loud, it's wrong, every song on a different beat so your brain can’t catch a rhythm. I can feel my own heart beating in my chest which is a weird feeling. Next, light fractures. Smoke rolls low and grey and then thick and black, climbing his legs. The strobe pulses in mean, off-beat flashes, cutting the fog into jerking slices. I can simultaneously see too much and nothing at all. Alternating between being blinded by light and unable to see in the darkness. The glitter bomb goes off like a cold firework and hangs in the air, a million tiny flecks catching the light and clinging to his skin and everything else. I think it might even be sticking to his coat which is impressive considering it has some kind of dirt repelling spell. I guess glitter is on a whole other level that even magic can’t defend against. Then the flour goes with a soft whump and turns the ruins into a whiteout. It’s like being trapped in the worst club in existence. There is haze, migraine lighting, everything moving wrong and a DJ who hates you personally. Shadows jerk and smear my vision, my grandfather’s outline keeps jumping half a step to the left like a bad magic trick. The smell hits hard and keeps hitting. Deodorant and cheap perfume cut through the smoke in sharp, chemically-sweet waves that sting the back of the nose and sit in the soft palate like punishment. It’s strong enough to cut through the smoke and dense enough that breathing it in makes my lungs burn. Even with my mouth clamped shut and plugs in, I can taste pharmacy and bakery disaster. My lungs yank for air and get what tastes like bad cake mix and ash, my eyes water, my head starts that thick, pressurised ache that promises a monster headache later. We’re not dosed on Ulric’s concoction, so we’re still standing, but we’re going to be sneezing flour for a week. And the glitter… Well we’ve basically made a lifetime commitment. It’s in my hair, my collar, my eyelashes… It’s going to outlive us all.

Alhwin reels, blinking hard, one hand up like he can push the air away. His spell-spun clothing stays miraculously pristine, ash slides off the coat like it’s allergic, although weirdly the glitter seems to be sticking. I guess some things even magic can’t defend against. His skin also doesn’t get the memo, flour clings to the panic induced sweat that sweeps across his temple, ash streaks his cheekbones, glitter finds the hollow at his throat and sets up a tiny galaxy. He tries to speak and coughs instead, tries to blink the strobe out of his eyes and only grinds more grit into them. He plants his hand like he means to command the room and hits nothing but fog. I can FEEL as he starts to draw on his magic. Or rather, he tries to. He snaps his fingers for a spell and finds nothing. Tries again, wrist flick, breath catch, and… Nothing. His jaw tightens. He squeezes both hands into fists and sucks in a breath like he means to command the room and only manages to choke on deodorant. He’s furious now, that contained, court-polished rage. He reaches for power again, clearly trying to calm himself, he’s more careful, I see his lips moving like he’s muttering to himself. There is a flash of light and for a moment my heart stammers as I think that he might have succeeded. But then Clarence’s runes hum to life under the ash. I don’t know what to expect, but all of a sudden the temperature snaps and goes haywire. First, there is a blast of dry heat like opening an oven, then a needle-cold draft that slides under cuffs and behind ears. The hot-cold whiplash snatches breath right out of his chest. He sways, lips peeling back from his teeth. Oh, yes. This is definitely working. The floor vibrates under my palms with the bass. Smoke blooms again, the strobe clips another frame out of reality, the dogs outside escalate,  glitter keeps falling like evil snow. Even through the earplugs my skull rings. Even though I was braced for it, my pulse stutters. This is chaos on purpose, and it’s a little too good. But it IS working. He’s pissed. He’s confused. He’s ours. 

None of us can see or hear each other well enough to cue anything. The world is haze and mind numbing sound. But when the heavy net drops from somewhere above and slaps over my grandfather, dragging his balance sideways, I know that’s the moment. I run. The ground skids under my boots, flour makes everything slick. I aim straight for him with the simple, savage plan of ‘hit until he stops being a problem’. I’m not the first to arrive. Tracey ghosts in behind him, snakes his hands under Alhwin’s elbows, and wrenches them up and back, clean, fast, uncaring, pinning him where he stands. The old bastard jerks, tries to twist, and then Oz is there. It happens in a blink. Oz plants, draws back, and puts his whole, patient fury into one punch. No flourish. Just force. Knuckles meet cheekbone with a crack that feels like the air itself flinched. My grandfather’s eyes glaze, the arrogance empties out of his face, and he folds, boneless, graceless, down. Tracey lets him drop without ceremony. Oz goes to one knee, two fingers at the throat, eyes sharp. He looks up until he finds me through the fog and lifts a thumb. He’s out. We’re safe.

“OKAY, TURN THE MUSIC AND LIGHTS OFF!” I shout, though I can barely hear myself. It’s all just pressure and pain in my skull. I have mo idea if Mikey catches it. I stagger through the whiteout, hands in front of me, bump a pillar, catch a cord, and finally find him by the outline of his shoulders. I tap his arm. He snaps the remote, kills the strobe, kills the sound, thumbs the smokes closed. Silence slams down so hard it’s a sound of its own. My ears ring. My teeth buzz. Somewhere nearby, the dogs wind down from furious to confused to soft grumbles. Ash and flour fall in lazy sheets. Glitter hangs like a private galaxy, still drifting through the air, glinting in the moonlight. Mikey clicks on a floodlight, low and warm, and my eyes slowly start to adjust. I can see our people, the box, the nets, the scuffed skid of my run. Alhwin lies on his side, breathing shallow, face streaked with ash and flour, lashes dusted with glitter like a bad joke. He looks… Smaller and a lot less intimidating like this. The glitter is probably helping. It’s hard to be scared of a guy who is coated in glitter. I look up, and lose it for half a second. My friends are disasters. Mikey is frosted like a cursed cupcake, Tracey looks like a statue dragged through a craft store, Vidar’s hair has become a sparkly halo against his will,  Clarence blinks flour out of his lashes and leaves two perfect fingerprints on his cheeks.  Oz, gods help me, is dusted head to toe, bleakly handsome and sparkling like a crime. I have to fight the urge to go leave handprints all over him. As for me, I can feel glitter in my eyebrows, in my socks, in my soul. We’re going to be finding it in crevices until the death of the universe. The lingering stink of deodorant clings to everything. If we live, we’re all getting headaches and lungfuls of flour as souvenirs. We pull our earplugs. The world rushes back in a muffled rush, coughs, shuffling feet, someone sneezing three times in a row. Tarish steps into the light with the expression of a man who just witnessed a natural disaster invent itself.

“That was… Creative.” He says at last, equal parts bemused and impressed. 

“What on earth made you attack him… Like that?” He asks curiously. I snort, and it becomes a cough, and then a laugh. 

“You did.” I say, wiping a line of flour off my lip. 

“You kept telling me magic is about focus. So I made sure he had none.” I explain. Something warm and proud flickers across his face. He pats my shoulder once, gentleman-godfather again. 

“Then let me finish the lesson. You’ve done well. I’ll do my part before he wakes.” He says firmly. We step back. Tarish raises his hands over the glittered, unconscious monster on the floor and begins to work.