She could sense they were there, silent and waiting, but they couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but wait.
She was… alone, even though she wasn’t. It was a pitiful feeling, and she fought back tears again. Wrath was gone.
The images just wouldn’t leave her mind. The glint of the short sword. Even her scream still rang in her ears if she thought too much about it. The wave of crimson as it had arced through the air, and then… nothing. When she’d woken up again, it was to chains around her wrists and a smear of blood trailing across the floor from where they’d dragged his body from the room.
Snapping her eyes open, she looked to the stain and let the fury fuel her. She let it wash away the pain, sorrow, and agony. It burned it all away until it singed the vise around her heart and she could finally take a deep breath.
“Hey, are you even listening to me? I’m telling you what a fucking genius I am,” Doubt complained.
She ignored him as the flames of her anger took the place of her pain, lapping at the insides of her chest. It burned away all of her hurt until it was the only thing that remained—fury.
A pinching pressure on her cheeks made her blink, and Doubt came into focus. He was right in front of her, fingers digging into her cheeks as he blabbered on about something ridiculous.
He must have seen something in her gaze, because he paused and the pressure on her cheeks lessened. She sat well within her chain’s boundaries, her hands limp at her sides, and a shackle wrapped around each wrist, but with the slack from the chain, she easily reached up and jerked the short sword from his other hand.
His guard had been down, and he scrambled back, but not fast enough. Sofia leapt to her feet and followed him. She swiped her foot out, and he stumbled, a grunt of frustration in his throat. Sofia didn’t know what possessed her, didn’t care, not as she swiped the blade out at the same moment gravity worked in her favor. The sharp blade sliced right through his neck, severing the spinal cord. Just like it had Wrath’s.
His head made the oddest noise as it thumped to the ground alongside his body.
Sofia’s gaze jumped from the sword coated in a veil of crimson, to Doubt, and back again. It had been so… easy.
Tightening her grip on the hilt, she turned her back and returned to her original sitting place. A fog snuck in, coating her mind and dousing the flames of her anger until she was numb.
She sat completely still, watching the blood as it formed a puddle, growing bigger and wider, inching closer and closer to her feet the longer the silence fell around her. Maybe later, she’d retch and cry and feel guilty, but at the moment she felt nothing, and it was blissful in the same way it was scary.
But she wasn’t the one who needed to be scared. It was whoever came through that door next.
DARIA
Sun streamed through the windows as the veil of sleep lifted and consciousness drifted in.
At first, all she noticed was how comfortable she was. How warm and soft the bed was beneath her, even the hard muscle of Hope beside her—
Hope.
Daria sat straight up and glanced to her left, smiling at Hope sound asleep.
Or at least that was what it seemed like. But when she gently placed a hand on his shoulder and jostled him, he didn’t flinch. His eyes were slammed closed, and his brows were knotted, as if he was having a bad dream. Then she noticed the sweat beading on his brow. Warning bells went off in her head and she studied him more closely. From first glance, he seemed asleep, peaceful. Once again she pressed at his shoulder, his name falling softly from her lips like a plea.
He didn’t flinch or move in the slightest. Not even when she rested her hand against his chest and felt the edge of the bandage. Pinching it between two fingers, she peeled a corner of it up and gasped.
After seeing her demons wounded time and time again, she’d gotten used to their quick healing abilities. Had grown to depend on it. So when she saw that the red, angry slash of Hope’s wound still marred his flesh, she was shocked speechless.
Letting go of the bandage, she slid from the bed, stumbled to her feet and headed for the door, only turning her head away from an injured Hope at the last second. She threw the bedroom door open and yelled, “Death! Betrayal! Something’s wrong!”
Footsteps pounded through the house long before they came into view, taking the steps two at a time.
“What is it?” Death asked, but his gaze trailed behind her before she could answer. Betrayal followed his direction and they both remained silent.
“He’s not healing,” Daria whispered, unable to muster a response any stronger.
Worry drowned her, and she tried to stay afloat, hoping either of her demons would have an explanation.
But that wish died as Betrayal looked down at him and asked Death, “What’s wrong with him?”
“I… wish I had an answer. He should have healed by now,” he explained.
Daria wished she’d seen more of the fight, wished she’d paid closer attention to everything.
All she recalled was the way the tip of the blade had come out of his back.
“Who was it that attacked him? Did they use a special weapon?” she questioned, panic threading her voice.
Betrayal and Death shared a glance, one that told her nothing but seemed to communicate everything. “We think we recognized him as Doubt.”
“Did he use a special weapon? Maybe they have one charmed against demons like we have one for Pandora,” Daria guessed. She didn’t know anything for certain, only that she needed Hope to be okay.
“He was using a short sword, but it didn’t look… enchanted or anything,” Betrayal explained. “Just a normal weapon.”
“What do we do?” she asked, panic making her voice high and thin.
They were all silent, and Daria found herself looking to Death for the answer. His gaze flickered over Hope’s lax form, and he took a deep breath, but his voice was quiet when he spoke.
“He isn’t bleeding anymore, so that’s a sign he’s getting better. Just much, much slower than normal. The only thing we can do is keep the wound clean and try to wake him up for water and food.”
Daria nodded eagerly. Anything. “He needs food that’s easy to eat. Do we have any soup?”
“If not, I can get some,” Betrayal volunteered. His brow was knotted in concern, and Daria reached over to take his hand. When he glanced down, he seemed surprised to find her hand in his.
“We’ll make sure he gets better,” Daria announced with a bravado she most certainly did not feel.
“We will,” Death agreed, though even he seemed far away, his thoughts leading him somewhere else.
“I’ll stay here and clean his wound,” Daria offered. “We can do this. He’ll be fine.”
“Right,” Betrayal mumbled. “I guess I’ll go to the store.”
She squeezed his hand tight before he left the room, and Daria went to the bathroom. Death was pacing at the foot of the bed, but he stayed out of her way as she wet a rag with hot water and sat beside Hope.
He didn’t move or flinch while she removed the bandage and cleaned the edges of his wound. Inch by inch, she cleaned the red streaks away and tried not to stare too hard at the serrated flesh of the opening. If she looked at it too long, the room tried to spin.