Why You Should Never Rescue Stray Demons Chapter 25

**KACIA**

So, here’s the thing about being paralysed, your body might be frozen, but your brain is not. I’ve got front row seats to my own personal horror show while my limbs are all taking a collective nap. I watched in horror and frustration as Oz fought that basilisk like some kind of nightmare fuel action hero, and all I could do was lie there like a traumatised potato. And yes, I knew about his nightmare effect. The whole ‘eye contact equals terror’ thing? Is basically his demon party trick. But knowing about it and seeing it are two very different things. She screamed like he'd shown her the meaning of the universe and it was taxes. Honestly? It looked horrifying… Which is weird. Because I can’t imagine ever being scared of Oz. I mean, yeah, he’s a demon and yes, sometimes his eyes go all smouldering shadow abyss, but come on. He’s just so… Domestic. This is the same guy who cleaned my car and brought me bacon and eggs in bed. That’s not terror material. That’s practically a boyfriend audition tape. Fast forward ten minutes and I’m being carried down the street bridal style like some tragic damsel in distress. It is so embarrassing. People are staring. Oz is glaring at them. And I, the half fae bounty hunter who once took down a rampaging wendigo with a garden rake, can’t even wiggle a finger. UGH. Apparently my half fae blood does absolutely nothing against basilisk paralysis. Useless. Zero stars. Would not recommend. Also? Nobody talks about how uncomfortable it is to be absolutely jacked on adrenaline while your body’s locked in sleep mode. My heart is sprinting a marathon, I’m mentally vibrating like a stressed out hummingbird, and yet here I am, dead weight in demon arms. It’s the worst mix of being hyped and helpless. And what the hell was that woman’s deal, anyway? She just popped out of nowhere and decided to go full venomous death noodle on me. I mean… Why? What did I ever do to her? I swear, if she turns out to be someone’s cousin or a revenge happy ex or a disgruntled customer with a grudge about a broken ward stone, I’m going to scream. I’ll have to talk to Mikey, maybe she’s a friend or relative of someone that I’ve pissed off or something… Or maybe she was just feeling a little… Bitey. I try not to judge. I don’t want to assume anyone is a killer. Hormones are wild. Sometimes, when I have my period, I feel like I’m pretty damn close to it myself. Who knows, maybe she had a good excuse. Still. She paralysed me. So if I ever see her again? I’m biting back.

We reach the library and, of course, Oz is immediately intercepted by someone I know. Taryn. 

Technically, she’s an acquaintance. We’ve chatted a few times, mostly about plant care and magical pest control, and once about enchanted compost. I wouldn’t have called us close. But seeing her face when she spots me in Oz’s arms? That changes things. There’s real worry in her expression, more than I expected. I might have to upgrade her status from ‘friendly local dryad’ to actual friend. Huh. That’s… Kind of nice, actually. Apparently it just takes a full body paralysis to find out who your real friends are. Naturally, she immediately sends Oz off to find Vidar. Because of course she does. It’s honestly impressive how transparent she is. I don’t even know if she’s ever spoken to Vidar, but she’s more than a little besotted with him. And by ‘more than a little,’ I mean she probably knows exactly what kind of shoe polish he uses and has written his name in the dirt with flower petals. They can’t even be in the same building. He’s magically bound to the library, she’s magically bound out of it. And yet here she is, casually name dropping him like it’s nothing. Yeah, no surprises there. To be fair, she’s not wrong, Vidar is a good choice. He’s one of the safest people in this building to trust with supernatural problems. It’s just mildly hilarious that Taryn used me being paralysed as an excuse to make her crush relevant. Next comes the part that’s actually painful. Watching Oz bumble around the library trying to find Vidar is like watching someone try to assemble IKEA furniture while drunk without instructions or opposable thumbs. I KNOW exactly where he should go. I’ve been in this place a hundred times. I could point. I could tell him. I could wave. If I had any control over my stupid body. But no. I’m stuck here like a particularly elegant sack of potatoes, just silently seething and trying not to groan too much, because every time I make a noise, Oz looks like he’s about to have a full blown panic attack. Also? My eyes hurt. No one ever warns you that being paralysed means not blinking. Turns out blinking is not overrated. My eyes are dry, itchy, and I can feel the exact moment they start to go blurry, but I can’t do anything about it. I can’t even roll them properly, just sort of… Wobble them in a vague direction. Poor Oz. He’s trying so hard and getting absolutely nowhere. It’s weirdly sweet, in a chaotic disaster sort of way. He’s asking the most awkward people imaginable for help, like he’s casting a sitcom about supernatural weirdos. To be fair, it’s a decent strategy. Most magical types wear their glamours and disguises like a fashion statement. And then, finally, he finds the little girl. Or rather, she finds him. I’ve seen her before, I think. Never spoken to her. But I always assumed she was supernatural. I mean… That hairstyle? No modern child wears hair in perfect ringlets unless there’s something very old brushing the edges of that aesthetic. She might be young, but whoever’s dressing her is probably counting their age in centuries. Honestly, if she doesn’t turn out to be some kind of magical creature, I’ll eat my boot. Still, I’m just relieved someone is going to help him.

The little girl skips ahead of us like she’s leading some kind of cheerful rescue mission. Her curls bounce with each step, and she hums a tune that sounds like it belongs in an enchanted forest, or maybe a cursed one, it’s hard to tell with kids. She leads us confidently through the maze of bookshelves until we stop in front of one of the meeting rooms. Yep. Just as I thought. These little private rooms can be booked out for quiet time or research, and Vidar always claims one when he’s off duty and reading. Which is, like, half the time. Guy loves his books. She marches in with zero hesitation. 

“Mr Vidar! I brought some people to come see you!” She announces loudly. Inside, Vidar glances up from the book in his lap. Even glamoured, he’s not exactly subtle. His hair is that strange, stony grey that’s technically a side effect of his true form, but on him, it just looks like a weird early case of salt and pepper. His human glamour puts him in his twenties, but I know he’s probably clocked over a century. He’s about Oz’s height, maybe a little shorter, but built like someone sculpted a granite statue and then taught it to bench press. Broad shoulders. Thick arms. The kind of neck that looks like it could win a wrestling match by itself. The only thing breaking the ‘bodybuilder’ vibe is the soft cardigan slung over his shoulder and the very serious pair of reading glasses perched on his nose. He looks like someone who could hurl you through a wall and recommend a great poetry anthology while doing it. His eyes widen when he sees me in Oz’s arms.

“Is that…? That’s Kacia.” He says sharply, sitting up straighter. His eyes snap to Oz. 

“Who the hell are you?” He demands. Huh, maybe he’s my friend too. Good to know. Oz opens his mouth, probably to give a calm and reasonable explanation, but Vidar steamrolls right past him.

“Doesn’t matter. Come in. Put her down, what happened?” Vidar’s voice is low and deep, but it’s soft, too. Gentle in a way that settles in your bones and makes you feel like maybe things are going to be okay. He glances at the little girl.

“Thanks, Izzy. Would you mind keeping an eye on the hallway while we talk? If anyone comes down this way, knock. I’ll read you an extra chapter of The Whispering Woods tonight if you do.” He offers. So her name is Izzy. She beams like she’s just been knighted.

“Yes, Mr Vidar!” She chirps, then darts off to stand guard, leaving the door hanging open behind her. Vidar goes to close it. Oz carefully lowers me to the floor, moving like I might shatter if he shifts too fast. Vidar pulls off his jacket without hesitation and hands it over. Oz folds it up and gently tucks it under my head like a makeshift pillow. It’s a kind gesture. One I wish I could properly acknowledge. But right now, I still feel like I’ve been hit by a truck, and my body is about as useful as a decorative mannequin. I can’t blink. I can’t speak. I can’t even roll my eyes at them for fussing over me like I’m dying. Vidar crouches beside me, concern written all over his stone carved features. I wish I could tell him I’m okay. Or at least okay adjacent. But all I can do is lie there, staring up at the ceiling, wondering how long it’s going to take before I can blink again.