Chapter 20 #2
The operative collapsed, her body no longer under either entity's control as the demon fought desperately to maintain its hold.
Her back arched at an impossible angle, her limbs thrashing wildly.
A howl tore from her throat… not human, not even close, a sound that scraped against my eardrums like physical pain.
And then, with a final, desperate shriek, the demon exploded outward in a burst of black smoke and acrid stench.
It hit the ceiling of the cell, then the walls, searching frantically for any crack, any weakness in the wards that might let it escape.
Finding none, it gathered itself into a dense, writhing mass and shot through the tiny ventilation duct in the corner—badly wounded but alive, fleeing with its metaphorical tail between its legs.
The operative lay still on the floor of the cell, her chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. No black smoke leaked from her pores. No unnatural angles bent her limbs. Just a human woman, traumatized but free.
"She's clear," Kearan said, already moving toward the cell door from the observation deck with his medical kit. "The demon's gone. Completely."
I stood frozen, the dagger still glowing in my hand, power humming through my veins in a completely new configuration. Not demon, not witch, but something that used both as fuel. Something balanced. Something that felt, for the first time in my life, like it belonged entirely to me.
"Well done, Parker," Zandia's voice came through the speaker, satisfaction evident in every syllable. "Your mother would be proud."
The glow from the dagger faded slowly, the metal warming against my palm. I slipped it into the pocket of my sweats, suddenly aware of how exposed I felt, how raw. This new power, this balance, left me vulnerable in ways I hadn't anticipated. Open in a way that made my skin crawl.
Kearan worked quickly, checking the operative's vital signs with practiced efficiency. She was conscious but dazed, her eyes clearing slowly as awareness returned.
"What happened?" she asked, voice rough. "Where am I?"
"You're safe," Kearan assured her, his tone gentle. "You've been... unwell. But you're going to be okay now."
She looked past him to where I stood, confusion giving way to recognition and then to fear. "You," she whispered. "You were there. In my head."
I took a step back, suddenly unable to bear the accusation in her eyes. "I'm sorry," I said, the words inadequate. "I didn't know—"
"It wasn't your fault," Grayson interrupted, appearing at my side with that uncanny ability to be exactly where I needed him. "The demon had been riding her for months. You freed her."
The operative's face crumpled, tears spilling down her cheeks. "Months?" she choked out. "I've been... for months?"
No one answered. There was nothing to say that wouldn't make it worse.
Grayson led me from the room, his hand warm at the small of my back. Cerbie followed, all three heads alert, scanning for threats. Mephistral hovered near my shoulder, uncharacteristically quiet.
"We should get you back to your quarters," Grayson murmured. "You look exhausted."
He was right. Now that the adrenaline was fading, the aftermath of using so much power, even this new, balanced version, hit me like a truck. My legs trembled with each step, vision blurring at the edges.
We'd almost reached the door when a voice called out behind us.
"Wait."
I turned to find one of the ST5 members standing in the corridor… the man with the scar across his jaw who'd tried to protect the possessed operative. Richard, I remembered from the files. Former military. Fifteen years with the Division. No supernatural heritage, just training and determination.
"I want to request a transfer," he said without preamble, his stance military-straight. "To your unit. ST3."
Surprise caught me off guard. "Why?"
Something flashed in his eyes, too quick to name. "Let's just say I'm tired of being treated like cannon fodder." His gaze moved past me to where the operative lay recovering. "I want to work with people who actually give a damn when things go sideways."
Grayson stepped forward slightly, positioning himself between us. "That's not our decision to make. Transfers go through Zandia."
Richard nodded once, sharp. "I'll put in the paperwork.
But I wanted you to hear it from me first." He hesitated, then added, "What you did in there…
I've never seen anything like it. Demons don't leave voluntarily.
They have to be forced out. Usually with.
.." He trailed off, but the implication hung in the air between us. Usually, with the death of the host.
"We'll see what Zandia says," I replied carefully, not committing to anything.
He nodded again and stepped back, giving us space to continue down the corridor. But as we walked away, I felt his eyes on my back, watching. Waiting. For what, I couldn't begin to guess.
"What do you think he really wants?" I asked Grayson quietly.
His hand found mine, fingers intertwining with practiced ease. "Hard to say. But nothing good comes from Division spies, Parker. Remember that."
The thought settled in my stomach like a stone. One more complication. One more threat. But for now, at least, we'd won. The demon was gone. The operative was free. And I'd found a new way to channel my power… one that didn't leave me drained and vulnerable.
One battle down. Countless more to come.