Why You Should Never Rescue Stray Demons Chapter 154

**KACIA**

We all go dead silent. Tarish steps into the ring of floodlight and the rest of us basically become furniture. Still, useless, trying not to breathe too loud. We just watched how hard it is for fae to work through noise and mess, even for a lord, and we have no idea how long my grandfather will stay down. Every second of quiet is vital. I watch closely. Not because I think I’ll copy any of it, I can barely make an illusion of a hairclip. I have a long way to go. No, I watch because seeing how this kind of magic sits in the world is… Educational. Tarish doesn’t chant, not at first. He kneels and smooths a patch of ash out of the way, then presses two fingers to my grandfather’s sternum, just at the edge of the glitter constellation. The air tightens, like a room before a storm. He draws his hand back and it’s like the air remembers the touch, a fine, precise hollow in the shape of his fingertips. He makes three more marks, at the throat, at the left wrist, at the right ankle. Points of a pattern I can’t see yet. I wonder if the others can see these marks. They’re clearly part of the magic. It might be that non-fae can’t see them. I glance around and no one else seems as focussed on those spots as I am. Interesting. When Tarish finally speaks, it’s soft, old unfamiliar words that feel like polished stone. His breath is measured and even. Then I see it, not light, exactly, but a sheen, like the blur of heatwaves in the distance stretching in thin threads from mark to mark. He pins them with a gesture and they settle through my grandfather instead of on top of him, sinking until they meet bone. A delicate lattice. No theatrics. No flare. He keeps his touches economical, a line traced in ash with a knuckle, a shape drawn and then wiped away, a breath caught and folded into the next word. When he lifts his palm, a faint ring crisps into the floor, a binding circle no bigger than a dinner plate that rests right in front of where Tarish is kneeling. I stand there, itching with questions my mouth won’t risk. How long will it hold? Will it hurt? How close can I get without snapping it? All the practicals crowd behind the larger dread. Soon I have to talk to my grandfather. I don’t even want to think about it. And suddenly that’s all my brain wants to do, veer into anything else. I focus on the magic itself. It looks complicated. I wonder how much of the movement, words and symbols are required and how much of it is just to help Tarish focus? It actually makes sense that fae magic takes forever to learn. They basically HAVE forever after all. Now that I think about it, how old is Tarish? How old was my father when he met my mother? Actually, maybe I’m better off not knowing… It’s just a weird thought. I know that MOST of the long lived races don’t worry about age so much. They tend to focus on a person being fully grown, mentally capable and consenting. Wolf shifters like Dave aren’t considered proper adults until after their hellhound phase, Dave grumbled about that for an hour. So where do fae draw the line? Thirty? Fifty? A century? Is that why they keep calling me little heir? Because by their measure I’m a toddler with knives? And does being only half fae change the math? Because I’m going to bet the answer is not eighteen like it is in most places for humans. Humans are considered to be adults a LOT faster than most races. I passed human puberty, my brain feels finished, I can sign a lease and file my taxes. What does ‘adult’ even mean if half of me doesn’t care about the number? Spiral, spiral, spiral, because my next task is worse. Actually forcing a man like my grandfather to do anything. Do I threaten him? Promise to kill him if he doesn’t yield his magic? He might laugh. He might call the bluff. And it would be a bluff. I don’t think I could actually go through with it… Could I? My mouth goes dry. The truth is ugly and simple, I don’t know what will work. I don’t know what to say. He’s a creature of pride and rules, he hoards power and worships position. Glitter itches in my hairline. My nose tickles with flour, I swallow a sneeze back because I will NOT be the idiot who breaks Tarish’s spell with a sneeze. Mikey massages the bridge of his nose and pretends not to be dying. Clarence breathes carefully through his mouth. Tracey’s frozen, statue-still. I’m fairly sure he isn’t actually breathing at all. Vidar watches curiously. Oz stands beside me. He seems more focussed on watching me than anything else. 

Tarish’s cadence tightens, then smooths. His words start coming quicker and more certain. His shoulders loosen by a fraction. I guess he’s almost done? And then, without warning, my grandfather’s eyes fly open. Red-rimmed, wet, glitter-dusted and just plain wrong. It’s a jump scare cut into real life. He lunges forward towards Tarish. The hair on my arms lifts. I feel him grab for his magic like a hand closing around a throat. Tarish’s sentence stumbles and stops. He goes very still. The haze over the binding flickers, once, twice. He’s losing focus. And we’re all too far away. We won’t make it there before he attacks. We all stepped back to give Tarish room, polite… But stupid. Now there’s a strip of open floor between us and a man who can turn the open floor into teeth. Half a second yawns like a cliff. I can’t get there in time. None of us can. We are doomed, my brain says, very helpfully. Shit. I brace for the kind of fight you dread. One where you are completely outmatched and unprepared. My weight moves forward and I tense up, every muscle begging for orders. When all of a sudden, the air ripples and Raylah steps out of nowhere like a stage cue. She’s in a long gold gown that drinks the floodlight and shimmers like liquid metal. It has thin straps and slit knifing high up one thigh. I only register the slit because it gives her the freedom to move her leg, pivot, and swing. Her dainty heel, murderously elegant, whips forward and cracks my grandfather across the temple with a loud, brutal crack. He drops limp to the floor. 

“Asshole…” She mutters, breathless and entirely sincere.

We all just stare for a beat, Mikey mid-blink, Clarence open-mouthed, Tracey halfway out of his perch, Vidar’s eyebrows attempting to escape his face, Oz frozen in shock. Raylah smooths her skirt, straightens the slit with two brisk flicks, then forces her shoulders square like she’s remembering a lesson on posture. She notices our stares.

“What?” She says, perfectly bland. 

“You’re welcome.” She adds. Then, she pivots toward Tarish. And that’s where her composure cracks. Her chin lifts, but her throat works around a swallow. She laces her fingers together, seemingly to stop them fidgeting, then unlaces them again.

“I… Suggest you finish what you were doing before he wakes up again.” She says. The sentence lands steady but the start of it wobbles, just a fraction too high. She keeps her gaze level, then can’t help the quick flick to his mouth, watching his expression closely, measuring if he’s about to cut her in half with a word. Her posture and expression tell me that the woman behind it is very much hoping for a passing grade. Tarish narrows his eyes, takes her measure, and says nothing. He simply resumes, voice dropping into that polished, steady cadence, hands precise. The magic pulls tight again, back on track as if he’d only paused for a moment to breathe. Raylah leaves him the widest possible berth and inches around the circle to me, posture tall, hands careful at her sides so the gown doesn’t catch on anything. Up close, she’s flushed, her pupils a touch too wide. I can hear the tiny catch in her breath when Tarish’s voice dips, the way a student flinches at a teacher’s red pen.

“What are you doing here?” I whisper. She shrugs, small and awkward. 

“I knew something was going down since you asked me to pass that rumour around. Then I heard Tarish was coming.” Her next words tumble out faster, betraying her nerves. 

“I came to… See if I could make myself useful somehow. While he’s watching.” The last three words are barely above a breath, as if speaking them too loud might jinx the fragile truce she’s courting. They are also brutally honest. Honestly, I appreciate it. It’s braver than pretending. Sure, fae can’t lie. But there are plenty of ways to avoid the truth, or tell only part of it. I let my mouth tilt into a soft smile. 

“Mission accomplished then, huh? And, thank you, for earlier.” I add. She beams at me, and for the first time it looks like a smile she didn’t practice in a mirror. 

“Thank you for giving me that chance to help.” She says, equally soft. Her eyes slide, unbidden, back to Tarish, hungry for approval, braced for censure. A clean flash folds through the air, no heat, just the sensation of something heavy. Tarish steps back, palms open.

“Done.” He says, calm and pleased. Great. Now we wait for him to wake up.