Why You Should Never Rescue Stray Demons Chapter 81

**KACIA**

When we finally make it back home, I do the responsible thing and attempt to text Mikey the new address. Emphasis on ‘attempt.’ Because my phone, as always, is clinging to life with the same stubbornness as a dying goldfish. I plug it in (which, to be fair, feels more like resuscitating it than charging it), type out the message, hit send, and then, because I have no faith in technology or my cursed bloodline’s compatibility with electronics, I toss the phone onto the couch like it might bite me and walk away. Out of sight, out of mind. That’s the theory, anyway. It lasts twelve minutes. Twelve. Miserable. Minutes. Then I’m pacing. Because sitting still feels like a personal attack, and waiting is just... Cruel. I have to wait until after sundown to go skulking around in the dark like a nosy supernatural raccoon, peeking through windows and probably breaking at least a few laws in the process. That’s fine. I’m good at lurking. It’s kind of my thing. But the waiting? The waiting is torture. I glance at the clock. Six hours until sunset. Six! I groan like I’ve been mortally wounded and flop onto the couch beside my useless, judgmental phone. It’s probably mocking me. Or still failing to send the message because it hates me personally. I glare at it for a second. No response. Rude. I try to sit still. Try being the operative word. My leg bounces. I drum my fingers against my thigh. I stare at the ceiling. Is this what normal people do? Just… Sit around? Mikey can scroll through his phone for hours, even while complaining that everything he’s looking at is dumb. He’ll say, ‘this is all garbage,’ and then scroll for another three hours. What is he looking at? What is so endlessly fascinating that he can keep doing it? I have no idea. I make it to minute thirteen, then I snap. I shoot upright and yell toward the hallway. 

“Oz! We’re going out!” I say, a little too loudly. There’s a beat of silence, followed by the faintest clatter, probably the sound of a demon scrambling to hide the snacks he’s stealing from my cupboard.

“Should I be concerned or just impressed that your boredom threshold is officially shorter than a goldfish’s memory?” He calls back.

“I’m climbing the walls! And it’s not like I can clean the house or something because Angelo ALREADY DID IT! I never thought it would annoy me to have a super tidy housemate, but here we are.” I snap back. Oz appears a moment later, hoodie slung lazily over one shoulder, tail tucked neatly (for once), looking like trouble wrapped in charm. He eyes me warily, like he’s not sure if I’m about to drag him to a crime scene or a bakery. Honestly, I haven’t decided.

“I need a distraction.” I announce. 

“Something to do. If I am not entertained I am likely to do something stupid and completely irresponsible that would end up getting myself injured. So we’re going out.” I say firmly. Oz raises an eyebrow, entirely too entertained. 

“Well… When you put it that way, how could I possibly say no?” He asks. 

I decide, once again, that we’re going to the library. It’s daylight, which means the magical crowd will be minimal. The only ones likely to be around are the usual suspects. Vidar lurking behind the history stacks, Izzy probably hovering around spying on me… Or asking Vidar to read her a story, and Taryn out the front reading every book that Vidar sends her like it’s some kind of gospel. But that’s not why we’re going. Not really. The library has one thing I need right now, information. Not a map, not a weapon, not a magical artefact forged in dragonfire. Just books. Quiet, unassuming, possibly dusty books. It sounds silly, maybe even pathetic, but I’ve never actually TRIED to learn about the fae. Not really. Everything I know is second hand. Stories. Whispers. Warnings. Nothing I could verify. Nothing I could trust. I spent my whole life hiding, avoiding even the faintest trail that might lead someone to guess what I was. That meant never asking questions. Never looking too closely. Never checking out books on fae history in case someone noticed and started wondering about the girl with the suspicious cheekbones and unnatural eye colour. And then… I was found out. And yeah, there’s drama. Threats. Assassins. A fae lord with a god complex who apparently wants me very, very dead. But also? The world didn’t end. Turns out life doesn’t explode just because someone figures out your worst kept secret. Life just… Keeps going. You still wake up. Still get dressed. Still brush your teeth. Still find yourself dragging a demon pain in the ass to the library because you’re finally, finally tired of being afraid of the truth. When we get to the library, I plant myself in front of Oz and jab a finger toward the entrance.

“Okay, we have two goals today. One, learn everything we possibly can about the fae, and two, find out what’s up with your anxiety inducing eyes.” I announce. Oz frowns. Not just confused, but doubtful. He crosses his arms and gives me a look that’s probably meant to be gentle, but comes out more like ‘why are you like this?’.

“Darling…” He begins, voice smooth and patient in that ‘I’m about to say something you’re not going to like’ way. 

“I really don’t think there’s a point in researching my nightmare effect. If there was a way around it, someone would have figured it out by now. Demons have been around for centuries. If a fix existed, we’d know.” He points out. I roll my eyes so hard I think I sprain something.

“That is the most defeatist thing I’ve ever heard you say.” I shoot back. 

“Everything is impossible until someone pulls it off for the first time. So no excuses.” I say firmly. He sighs. The long, theatrical kind that’s usually followed by reluctant compliance or dramatic pouting. Or both. I lift my chin.

“If you’re seriously going to consider leaving because of something you might not even be stuck with permanently, then I at least expect you to put in SOME effort first. You can go back to being a noble martyr with tragic eyeballs afterwards. But you don’t get to quit without trying!” I insist. Oz’s gaze softens for a moment, like he wants to argue, but something in my voice, or maybe my expression, makes him stop. He exhales and rubs a hand across the back of his neck.

“Alright, I’ll look. Just… Don’t get your hopes up.” He says finally. I smile, just a little. Not because I think we’ll find some miraculous cure in the dusty back corners of the supernatural reference section. But because he agreed, which is just more proof that he WANTS to try. 

“Too late.” I mutter, brushing past him into the library. I’m already hoping.

It doesn’t take me long to find the fae section, Clarence has a system, after all. Like everything else in the library, it’s deceptively simple on the surface and means nothing to the non-magical people. But if you know what you’re looking at? It’s brilliant. Books with genuine magical information are marked with little blue stickers. Fiction books, the ones full of dragons, glittering wings, and conveniently hot vampire love interests, have red stickers. Then there are the weird ones, half red, half blue. The ‘maybe this is nonsense, maybe it’s an ancient truth disguised as nonsense’ section. If a book doesn’t have any sticker at all, that means even Clarence hasn’t figured out if it’s real or not. There aren’t many of those. I stick with the blue stickers today. It’s hard not to feel like I’m being watched as I pull a handful of fae books off the shelves. The covers are gorgeous, spiraling gold script, embossed titles, hand-painted illustrations of courts and crowns and creatures with eyes like dying stars. I carry them carefully to one of the quieter reading nooks and settle into a chair that somehow manages to be both cozy and suspiciously warm, like it’s trying to lull me into a nap. Across the aisle, Oz has taken up residence at a slightly too small table with a stack of demonology texts and books about fear-based magic. I watch him for a second, his head bent, fingers trailing down the edge of a page, reading like his life depends on it. For someone who claimed this would be a waste of time, he’s alarmingly focused. I open the first book in my pile. And I fall in.

Five hours later, I have a headache. A real one. The ‘you forgot to blink’ kind. My eyes are blurry, my shoulders ache from hunching, and I’m ninety-nine percent sure the left side of my face has gone numb because I leaned on it too long without moving. But I also have… Something else. Something I didn’t expect to find when I sat down. Answers. Not all of them. Not the big ones. Not yet. But some. And the most shocking thing I learned? Fae aren’t born with magic. Not exactly. They’re born with the POTENTIAL for magic. A spark. A kindling. But the actual power? That’s passed down. A gift. An inheritance. Magic, apparently, is more heirloom than instinct. It’s something given, not guaranteed. Sometimes it happens at death, a final act, a legacy. But it CAN be given earlier. A fae just has to decide to pass their power on. And they don’t even have to be related! Bloodline doesn’t matter. What matters is the choice. Even more surprising? It turns out, half fae aren’t just broken versions of the real thing. We’re not less. We’re just… Empty vessels. Waiting. Capable of holding magic. Just as capable as any other fae. Sure, we can lie unlike full fae, but we can also hold power. We’re just rarely given it. Which means the reason I don’t have magic? It’s NOT because I’m a half-blood. It’s because no one ever gave me anything. Not my father. Not my grandparents. No one. According to one of the books, it’s tradition, common, even, for fae parents and grandparents to pass on at least a portion of their magic to their children at birth. A little spark. A welcome gift. A starter flame. Obviously, I didn’t get one. There are several possible reasons for that. One, my father didn’t have any magic left to give. Two, he CHOSE not to. Or three… He wanted to, but something stopped him. Like death. Although, according to everything I’ve read, if a fae dies without explicitly giving away their magic, it automatically passes to their next of kin. Usually a child. Which means if my father died… And I didn’t get his magic… He might have given it to someone else. Or he’s not dead. The thought hits me so hard I forget to breathe. He might not be dead. I shake it off almost immediately. No. Don’t go there. Don’t get stupid. My mother was sure. She knew. She wouldn’t have lied. I can't afford to hope for something that fragile. I can’t afford to want it. Theorising won’t change anything. Not yet. But now, at least, I understand why technology hates me. Even without magic, I still carry potential. The bloodline. The possibility. And that’s enough to make phones glitch and GPS signals die in the middle of nowhere. I was born part of a system I never got access to. Like being handed a key to a door no one will show me. But now I know, it’s not impossible. It’s not hopeless. If I can find someone willing to give me magic, I might not have to stay like this forever. It’s a small chance, but maybe, one day, I’ll have magic of my own.