Lucy
I must be dead because I am certain there’s nothing left of me.
I’ve been ripped apart, broken and used up.
Damp seeps into my joints and all the crevasses where joy and memories and hope used to nestle. The cold is the only thing filling the void inside me.
I roll onto my side but only get halfway, metal tinkles, digs into my wrists and prevents me from changing position. I peel open my eyes and remember the handcuffs.
I refuse to quit. I am going to study the runes. If they’re as powerful as I think, then I should be able to find a way out of this mess.
Ignatius took a piece of me when I didn't think there was anything left to take. I thought I’d hit my lowest point.
Foolish. I spent my life as a demon, I should know there’s always further a person can fall.
I let my awareness focus on my body. The need to identify what he stole from me overrides everything.
I can still sense the runes, though they are muted.
The cuffs are responsible for that, of that I am certain.
Unluckily for him, I am still connected to them.
The power hasn’t gone away, but I don’t know how to wield it and it’s behind a gate or barrier of some sort.
There. A notch, or perhaps a hole is more accurate. I nearly missed it because it’s… I think the easiest way to describe it is as a scab where he cut a piece of power out of me.
I relent and sag onto the stone floor.
I quit.
What’s the point? I’ve lost. Everything and… a lump forms in my throat… everyone.
Gods, how could I be so naive?
How could I believe that Midnight had really come for me? That our love, the passion and intensity between us, was real?
Images of the clocktower training sessions, my body pressed against Finis Tower window the night of the ball. The damned graveyard. The lecture hall and the depravity of that bone.
But it’s not even the sex.
It was her.
The way she helped me heal wounds. Gave me the strength to be confident. To stand up to Ignatius. The way she spent weeks searching for those celestial runes.
The late nights, warm arms and subtle glances.
All of it lost.
My tenure. Gone.
Demonic magic. Gone.
Midnight. Gone.
My cheeks feel wet. I let the tears flow, expelling the last of who I was. Let the memories leak from my mind and spill onto the damp stone floor.
I curl into myself. My arms clutch my knees to my chest and I scream.
I scream for everything I’ve lost. For every woman trapped by their parents. For all the versions of me I was forced to bear, and all the versions I’ve had stolen.
On and on, I let it pour from me. For the girls told to be something they hate. Groomed for a life they never chose.
My throat stings, raw from expelling ugly truths. But still I continue.
I bang my fists against the damp stone over and over, one hit for every time Ignatius hurt me. Again and again, I slam them down until my skin splits and blood leaks into the grooves.
I cry for the daughter he lost. The father I never had and the woman I’m not going to become.
I have no soul. No demon power. I am not a contract, nor a human, nor an angel. My entire life was engineered for me.
I no longer know what was real or who I am.
Was Midnight real? Or was she manufactured for me too? The horror of that makes my insides crawl. We felt real. Our relationship consumed me in an ineffable way. It had to be true.
I have been stripped, without my consent, of everything that meant anything to me.
There may be nothing left of me, but this is where I draw the line.
Ignatius made a mistake. I might be imprisoned and he may take chunks of my power, but I am keeping score and I will settle the tally.
I sit up, a calmness settling in my gut. Not filling the void exactly, but hardening it. A resolution. A decision.
There is nothing more powerful than a woman in possession of a decision.
So for the first time in my life, I decide to choose what I am.
I take in the cell, looking for anything I can use as leverage. There’s nothing other than the chains bolting me to the floor, the barred windows and the iron bars keeping me prisoner.
I might not have access to the runes, nor my demonic magic, but perhaps I can use other things.
The sound of muffled footsteps trickles into focus. It’s not Ignatius, but the stride is confident.
“Are you ready?” a woman’s voice says. Architecti grips the cell bars and hisses.
“Magically enforced,” I say. “To prevent an escape. Same as these.” I raise my cuffed wrists.
She pouts and takes a seat in front of the bars and makes herself comfortable. “Fine, we do this the hard way, then. Are you ready?”
“Ready?”
“To wield your power.”
I smile, the first genuine one in a long, long time.