Why You Should Never Rescue Stray Demons Chapter 157

**OZ**

The rock arcs straight for Kacia’s temple. We all see it, but she’s still swimming in new power and her body answers a breath too slow. Mine doesn’t. I’m moving before the thought finishes. My hand up between the rock and her face. The impact is a hard, bone-deep thud. Pain blooms bright through my fingers and the stone skitters off into the dark with a mean little clatter. Warmth that is probably blood runs down my palm and over my wrist. I barely notice. It’s fine. Better me than her. A hit like that would have cracked her skull open. Rage arrives clean as a blade. My glamour drops without asking permission. My eyes go straight for his. Alhwin’s face drains to chalk as the nightmare magic hooks into him. He reacts the way people always do when making eye contact with my natural form. He tries to square his shoulders into a threat and can’t quite remember how. His breath stutters and his pupils blow wide. I can smell the panic sharpen, like bile in the honey-sugar stink. And, I can see the exact moment his mind tips over and gives up. He takes one blind step backward, then another, and never takes his eyes off me. The nightmare does what it’s made to do, hands him every fear he’s ever kept shut and opens them all at once. Then gives them a face, mine. You can see it working, the flinch at a voice only he hears, the swallow that won’t finish, the way his fingers twitch like they’re trying to scrape something off that isn’t on his skin. He breaks and runs. He manages two strides. Tracey is simply there, moving neat and efficiently as a metronome, wrenching Alhwin’s arms up and back, folding him in on himself. The old bastard barely notices the hold, the fear’s doing all the work. His mouth moves, searching for words like a drowning man searches for air.

“Let me go! I- I will never attack her again. Never show my face here again!” It rips out of him, the way only terror can make a truth come out clean. He means it, but only for now. Eventually the fear will fade and he will change his mind. I exhale hard through my nose, force my shoulders to come down an inch. Then I look away and break the eye contact he has been holding this whole time. The shaking eases in him, not enough to do him any favours, just enough to keep him conscious. I think if I held his gaze much longer he would likely just pass out. Kacia is on her feet again, power flickering under her skin like heat lightning, eyes on my bleeding hand first, him second. Tarish’s mouth is a flat line, his hand flexes like he’s weighing the law against the satisfaction of letting me finish what I started. I look from Alhwin’s pleading to Kacia’s face and feel frustration bite. A promise wrung out by terror isn’t truth, at least not one I’d trust anyway. When the shaking stops, the old calculation will come back. Then what?

“Now what are we supposed to do?” I ask, quieter than I feel, and keep my body between him and her while we decide.

First things first. I need to mask up. For everyone else’s sanity. It’s too easy to catch an eye by accident when you’re talking, and polite people look, they reach for your gaze without meaning to. I force three slow breaths, then pull the glamour back over my edges. People slowly start to relax. The good news, dropping the mask, even for a heartbeat, kick-started the healing. My palm still screams, but the bleeding’s slowed to a slow seep. Now that she can safely look at me, Kacia immediately reels me in and turns my hand over, inspecting it carefully.

“Are you okay? How bad is it? Bandages? Anyone? No? Why do we not have a first aid kit? That’s insane. Surely-oh! Claaaaarence.” She says in a singsong voice. She flutters her lashes at him, weaponising them.

“Got a fancy healing potion in that magpie stash?” She asks sweetly. I choke on a laugh. Clarence folds his arms, he manages to look grumpy, even under a kilo of glitter. 

“You are a magical powerhouse, heal him yourself.” He says, aggrieved.

“I’m a magical powerhouse with zero experience.” She fires back.

“Odds are fifty-fifty I explode him. Don’t be stingy.” She complains. Clarence gives a long, suffering sigh, then he produces a vial from who knows where, like a stage magician who hates his audience. The stuff is absurd for a bruised hand, entirely too powerful. Heat and clean numbness flood in, skin knits, the ache drops to a tiny amount, then vanishes entirely. Given our company of late, I understand why he carries only overkill. Still, it is a little excessive. Tarish’s shoulders loosen when Kacia pointedly does not try a spell. He would likely survive an accidental blast, the rest of us would be decorative memories. Kacia’s attention slides back to Alhwin. Tracey still has him cinched, the old monster trembles in place, eyes rabbit-wide. Something in Kacia folds. I see it happen.

“Sweetheart? What are you thinking?” I say, my voice low. She exhales like the air cut her. 

“He really is a bad person, isn’t he?” She answers softly. I nod once.

“I know we knew that already.” She says, voice small and careful. 

“But part of me wanted to believe there was something… Not so bad? That without all that power he’d be different.” She explains. Tarish answers before I can. 

“Power doesn’t make a different man.” He says firmly. 

“It makes the same man louder. A good man with power will do more good. An evil one will do more evil.” He reasons. Kacia’s mouth tightens.

 “But people can change.” She points out. 

“They can. But change is a series of choices. He could choose it. He does not appear inclined.” Tarish says, gentler this time. I agree with him, and I hate that I do. She’s not a killer, even the idea of a lifetime in prison would gnaw her in her sleep. How long is enough punishment for a creature that won’t die of old age? I open my mouth-

**CRACK!**

The sound echoes through the ruins of the library. We all whip toward it. It takes me a moment to process what I’m seeing. Tracey stands over Alhwin with his hands loose at his sides and his face smoothed to nothing. At his feet, the fae lies at the wrong angle, neck broken, eyes open and finally, perfectly, useless.

Silence pours in. It’s thick and no one quite knows what to say. Mikey’s jaw sets, years of cop reflex probably begging him to intervene somehow. But he knows that he could ask a dozen questions and get no answers. This isn’t something for him to deal with. Clarence doesn’t move, he just brushes glitter off of his robes. Raylah stares, one hand flat to her chest in shock, the other fisted in silk. Tarish’s expression doesn’t change for a long breath, then it does, minutely, I can see something old and tired passing through it and leaving. Kacia makes a sound I’ve never heard from her, a tiny, crushed exhale that tries to be a word and gives up. I step in without thinking and put my hand on the back of her neck, warm pressure, present tense. She leans into it. Tracey looks up, finally, and meets no one’s eyes. 

“He was going to try again, sooner or later.” He says, voice level, unapologetic. No one contradicts him. No one really can. Kacia looks hollowed out. 

“You… You just…” She trails off. The rest won’t come. I pull her in, one arm over her shoulders, the other bracing the back of her head. She folds against my chest like the strength went out of her bones all at once and clings, small and shaking, breath jerking at my shirt. I tuck my chin to her hair and let the room figure itself out around us. Silence hangs until Tarish breaks it. 

“Interesting, I’d assumed the prophecy implied his half-blood heir, Kacia, would be the one to kill him.” He comments. I cut him a look sharp enough to shave with. Read the room! Vidar clears his throat, steady as granite. 

“It SAID he would fall to the one that is half his blood.” He corrects mildly. 

“I would say Kacia caused his downfall.” He concludes. His gaze slides over the ruined hall, the nets, the chalk, the box, all the glitter. Then it moves back to her. He has a point. Sure we all helped. But none of us would be here if not for her. And to be honest, I can’t imagine anyone else coming up with a plan like this. Tracey steps over the body, casually shakes flour from his hands, then shrugs. 

“Screw prophecies.” He says, conversationally. As if he’s talking about the weather. 

“He deserved to die. She doesn’t deserve to carry that choice. So I did.”He explains. He looks at no one in particular. 

“She would have suffered. Me? I won’t lose much sleep. Been around much longer. Done worse.” He adds. I can’t decide if that’s meant to comfort or chill. Probably both. There is a lot of history behind Tracey’s eyes that none of us have mapped, and I’m not sure I want that tour. Kacia’s fingers fist tighter in my shirt. I keep my palm firm at the nape of her neck and breathe for both of us, slow in, slower out, until her shaking evens out.