Why You Should Never Rescue Stray Demons Chapter 156

**KACIA**

Huh. I didn’t expect him to agree that fast. The word fine still echoes like a dropped coin, and he’s looking past me, back to Oz, with a flicker of fear that I almost miss. Maybe he took more of a hit from Oz’s nightmare than we realised. I remember the dread of it, even KNOWING he wouldn’t hurt me. My grandfather doesn’t get that mercy.

“So… Now what?” I ask, turning to Tarish because there’s no handbook for this. Or if there is, no one has given it to me yet. Is there a magic for beginners book? I should ask Tarish, because if there is, then I WANT IT. 

“It’s the same as when I gave you magic.” He says, then winces. 

“Although… I know I said your next infusion wouldn’t be so… Disorienting. But the quantity he’s holding, prepare to be knocked on your ass for a bit.” He tries for apologetic and gets all the way there. Suddenly there’s a cold pit under my ribs. Do I even WANT what comes with this? Not just the power, the title. Lord. Or Lady. Or whatever archaic headache he’s been wearing for centuries. Am I supposed to march into a realm I barely know and sit in a chair that eats people for breakfast? And I’ll be alone? Okay, so not alone, alone. I’ll have Tarish, I know he’ll help. But still. Do I want the job that breaks people like him and feeds him back to the crown with a smile?

“Maybe…” I rub my thumb over the grit on my palm. 

“Would it be better if he gave it to you? I’m… Really not prepared.” I suggest to Tarish. His mouth softens. 

“Truthfully? No, you aren’t prepared.” He doesn’t make me feel small saying it, it’s just a fact. We both know it. 

“But… You’re a good person, Kacia. You’re supported by those who love you, you know how to seek and take advice, and… You can’t possibly be worse than him.” He finishes as he tips his head at my grandfather. A strangled laugh jerks out of me. My grandfather glares like he could peel Tarish’s skin off with a look. I fill my lungs. Oz steps in close and finds my hand, his fingers are warm and the little squeeze he gives says ‘I’ve got you’, and for a second that’s enough courage to fake the rest.

“Alright, let’s do it.” I say. 

If looks could kill, I’d be cold and six feet underground. He closes his eyes, jaw clenched so hard the muscle jumps, and the air around him tightens. When the light forms, it isn’t the soft, moth wing flicker Tarish gave me. It’s a sun deciding to be born wrong, white-gold and furious, a roiling sphere of heat and bright that makes my eyes pinch. He cracks his eyes open, and with the most murderous expression a face can hold, he hurls it at me. It doesn’t pour. It hits. Not a stream or river, a blast, hot, pressure-thick, shot straight through my sternum. It burns as it sinks, not skin-deep but bone-deep, like a forge has been installed under my ribs. My breath seizes, the room tilts, I’m aware of my knees starting to go but then Oz is already there, scooping me up without hesitation, bracing me against his chest like I weigh exactly nothing and everything at once. The transfer takes minutes that feel like hours. The magic pours into me and it feels like I expand to hold it until I’m full. And then it continues to pour in again, and I am suddenly too small and somehow not breaking. Every nerve sings. I taste metal, ash, lemon, lightning. I hear nothing and everything. Maybe something like thin, high threads of harps, or maybe it’s the deep iron chime of a heavy door slamming shut, the whisper of something old unhooking itself from him and choosing me instead. I clutch Oz’s shirt and feel the powdery flour on his collar, the steady drum of his heart under my palm. He sets his stance wide and bears all of my weight and does not flinch. Tarish hovers at the edge of my vision, hands ready, eyes steady. Someone, Mikey, probably, breathes in counts, a metronome human enough to keep me tethered. The world funnels to heat and light and the sounds of the people who refused to move. Then, as abruptly as it began, the flow stutters and stops, totally done. The last thread slides home behind my sternum and the world snaps into a new focus. I’m not on fire, but I could be. It feels… Kind of like there’s an inferno under my skin that doesn’t hurt, exactly, it just presses, like a storm that wants a sky. If I exhale too hard I might breathe sparks. If I blink wrong I might blink in colours nobody else gets to see. The power sits coiled and listening, ready to leap if I point. And there is just… So much of it. It’s strange, it doesn’t make me feel stronger. It makes me feel weak in comparison. How in the world am I going to learn to keep all this under control? I remember Tarish’s warnings about the dangers of using magic you can’t control and aren’t ready for. Yeah… I’m going to have to be more than careful with this. I sag. Oz tightens his hold for a heartbeat, then eases me upright onto my feet when I nudge him. He supports me as my legs work on trying to remember being legs. The air tastes different, cleaner and larger, somehow, and the ruins feel… Full. I can sense all the magic that was used here. All the spells that used to be, the ones that were destroyed when it burned. The feeling is… Not painful exactly. But this is definitely going to take some getting used to. 

Across from me, my grandfather is grey and shaking in the bindings, eyes blown wide with the hollow power left behind. For the first time since I’ve known him, he looks like a man and not a problem. He looks mortal. I swallow, throat raw. 

“Okay…” I say, mostly to myself, and the word vibrates oddly against the thing burning quiet under my ribs. 

“Okay.” I say again. Not quite sure where to start. Oz eases me onto a flat slab of rubble and drops to one knee beside me. His thumb strokes once along the back of my hand. The motion is grounding, simple. Tarish studies me with cautious pride. That part of me that wants him to be proud forces me to pull myself together. I square my shoulders against the weight under my skin and meet the gaze of the man who tried to make me small. 

“So… We’ll let you go.” I start. 

“And if you want, we can take you back to the fae realm.” I add. He narrows his eyes at me. 

“How generous.” He spits angrily. 

“And I suppose you’ll move yourself straight into my home.” He continues with a sneer.

“I suppose you are itching to spend my hard-earned money.” He adds derisively. When did I turn into someone who was after his money? Dramatic much? There are easier ways to get money than taking on an ancient fae lord. I sigh, the sound catching slightly. 

“If you have things that matter to you, I can help you get them. And once I figure out the money, I’ll make sure you have some. I’m not turning you out empty-handed.” I decide. He stares like I’ve spoken nonsense. 

“Far too kind.” Clarence mutters under his breath.

“I don’t want to be anything like him.” I say, and Clarence’s mouth crooks up, reluctant but real. 

Note to self, find out if ‘mountains of money’ is a literal unit in fae accounting. If he really could have built a dozen libraries, I know exactly where the first brick is going.

“Alright, Tarish, can you let him go? I want to clean up and then sleep for ten years. Or sleep first and clean tomorrow.” I say, the tiredness settling bone-deep now that the adrenaline is fading. Tarish’s smile tilts sympathetically. 

“Sure. I’ll even take him back to the realm and… Set him loose.” The reluctance in his voice is not small.

“Thanks.” I say, meaning it. I’m fairly sure he doesn’t love the mercy I’ve offered to my grandfather, but I’m not an executioner. It’s not my role to be judge and jury. I just wanted to be safe, and I’ve done that. Tarish closes his eyes for a breath, then opens them, and the shimmer over the binding vanishes. My grandfather jerks, like a puppet having its strings cut and tied again.

“It’s easier to stop an active spell than start a new one.” Tarish explains.

“Makes sense.” I murmur. Tarish turns, businesslike. 

“Come on, Alhwin. On your feet. I’ll open a way.” He says, his voice cold and reluctant. My grandfather pushes up. He is slow, shaky, the absolute picture of being spent, which I guess makes sense. He totters a step, but then his knees fold, he hits the floor, hands and palms on grit and glitter. He reaches for a chunk of fallen masonry to lever himself upright, his fingers white at the edges, the old man who’s lost the thing that gave him strength. And then the mask slips. In one fast motion that defies his supposed weakness, he launches. The rock comes up in his hand, brutal and heavy, the arc clean and mean… And aimed straight at my face.