When Sorrow Consumes

Present day

“Sorry Mom, I’ve been pretty busy lately,” Emma confessed, running her finger slowly along the stone, feeling the shape of the letters carved into it; the same way she used to trace her mother’s features when she’d stay in her arms. The stone lacked that warmth.

She pulled her hand. “It’s been pretty cold lately, huh? I know you don’t like it much…” She positioned herself to sit on the ground, legs crossed.  “I, uh, brought a blanket.”  She grabbed her bag and pulled out a knitted blanket, which she carefully wrapped around the stone.

The withered flowers gave off a monotonous, depressing air, which Ophelia would have hated. The garden behind their house was full of flowers ever since Emma could remember. Brightly colored flowers, of an impressive variety. And her mother took care of them every day, without fail. It didn’t matter if she felt sick or was busy. For her, the flowers were alive and needed the same care and love as children. She treated them like people. She talked to them and cried to them. She hated to receive flowers as a gift. Hated to think of them plucked from their home and cut menacingly, only for a few days of pleasure. They were dead, and people looked at them as decorations.

Would it have been an irony that Emma brought her dead flowers? Would she have hated Emma for not trying harder?

“And some new flowers. Sorry about the old ones…They die faster when it’s cold.”

A lie merged with a truth. Emma hadn’t been to her mother’s grave in a long time. Honestly, she had avoided going. Lately, it had become all the more difficult.

She gathered the withered flowers one by one. Reviving them would have been easier, but Emma wanted to bring her mother new flowers every time, not just recycle the same ones.

Their frail bodies fell apart at Emma’s touch, and she couldn’t stop the shiver, suddenly feeling that she held children’s corpses in her hands.

She began to arrange the new flowers in front of the stone, according to color, shape, and according to her mother’s favorites. “How have you been?”

The void of silence was swallowing her little by little. The wind whistled through the crowns.

“Yeah, me too,” she nodded. “Not amazing, I guess?” She shrugged and arranged the blanket better so that Ophelia wouldn’t catch a cold. The cold must have entered her bones already, being out in the wind all the time.

If she could, Emma wouldn’t have left. She would have stayed with her, day and night. In the wind, in the heat wave, drowned under the rain, or buried in the snow. To not leave her alone.

She was afraid to be alone.

“Been busy with… work. Kinda stressful. And Zachriel hasn’t been that helpful, so… it’s on me, again."  She played with the stems, moving them around until she liked the arrangement enough to reach for the next flower.

“But, anyway,” she shook her head, “doesn’t matter.”

“Other than that, I’ve been…good. Today marks 10 years since you died. So…there’s…there’s that. It’s been many years,” she paused, “10 years. I turned 24 last month. It was…lonely.”

“I miss the parties you’d organize,” she smiled, remembering. “And the presents. Especially the presents. Whenever you saw something you liked, you’d always take two, for me and…and for her, so we wouldn’t have to share. But she’d take mine anyway.”

She brought her hand to her face to scratch her eye, and only when she felt a trace of moisture on her fingers did she realize that she’d been crying. Her hand fell into her lap, letting the tears flow.

The trace of a smile threatened her lips at the memories that now revolved in her mind like a distant scene; so far away that it hardly felt real anymore.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t bring her, Mom. I know you would have wanted both of us here. To be honest with you, I have no idea where she is. I tried, Mom-”

Her voice cracked on the last syllable.

“I tried to look for her. I couldn’t find anything. I don’t know anything! I don’t know how she’s doing…or…or if she’s alive. It’s been so long, I…I don’t even know what she looks like anymore,”

“Where do I begin to look? That’s what I’ve been telling myself for the past ten years. I’ve been running in circles. I’m too weak to do anything,”

“There’s a voice in the back of my mind telling me there’s a reason she left, and she doesn’t want to be found. But just a second, to see her for just a second and make sure she’s alright- I’d give anything.”

She clutched the dead flowers in her fists. The petals escaped through her fingers. When she sat alone next to the grave, in the dead of night, talking to her dead mom about her missing sister, Emma deeply wondered who she lived for at that point.

She had no real family left, aside from the relatives from Ophelia’s side. She didn’t keep in contact with them anymore. She had Moon and Roman whom she loved dearly, but she knew that they’d be just fine without her.

The balance of the world was slipping through her fingers, as was her hope of ever ending the war. The darkness grew each day, and Emma was exhausted of fighting. So tired, she found it almost impossible to get out of bed most days. Her body felt heavy, and it weighed her down. Each movement hurt. Breathing hurt—existing hurt.

The thing she wanted most was to go back in time when she was a little kid and to snuggle to her mom as she held her and sang to her. She desperately craved her warmth and wanted to feel her arms around her like nothing else. To have somebody who’d keep her safe.

Emma fought every day. To save others, and to take care of everyone. Every day she fought to live and stay strong through the silence around her. To the lack of her mother’s embrace and her sister’s voice. To the lack of a reason to keep going.

Right now, she couldn’t pretend to be strong anymore. Just for a few moments, she wanted to be weak and cry for her mother.

Her exhausted body lay down over the dirt. The stems of the flowers tickled her cheeks, and Emma almost giggled before remembering she wasn’t in her mother’s garden anymore. But she forced herself to laugh. She laughed through her tears because she so desperately wanted to pretend.

Emma was six, and she was lying in her mother’s garden. Rolling in the dirt, smelling the flowers. She reached to touch one of the petals just before her mother sneakily swooped her up into her arms, kissing her hair. She giggled. Then, she laughed when she felt herself spinning. But never for too long, as she’d get sick easily.

She was six years old, cradled in her mother’s arms.

Though that couldn’t be right, could it? Her mother’s embrace had never been that cold.

***

Lucian sat at his desk; the piles of papers, forever present, were scattered frantically. He seemed to be in a mood- dark circles forming under his eyes and a sulky expression taking over his features. He lifted a hand, groggily picking up a mug filled to the brim with black coffee and lifted it up to his lips to take a small sip. Fey wrinkled her nose. She hated black coffee.

Evil sat down in the chair facing her boss, a chair so kindly offered by Fey, who said she’d rather stand. She leaned over her dad’s desk and gently, affectionately patted his head.

“You work so hard all the time; take a break!” She urged him and moved some of the files before sitting down. Her body still faced Evil, but her head was turned to her father. “The mission was a success!”

“Was it?” he asked, taking another sip of his coffee. “Because Kian looked rather… displeased when I bumped into him in the hallway.”

Fey scoffed, “You know him. He’s always like this.” Forever a perfectionist, wanting things to go his way.

Fey reached down to pick up a box that she then placed in her dad’s lap. A gift box, pink with white stripes and gold details that spelled “Happy Birthday” in the ugliest cursive handwriting Evil had ever seen. The box was topped with a bow a shade darker than the box.

Lucian analyzed it without touching it at first. His expression remained stoic, slightly unimpressed save for his quirked eyebrow.

“Happy early birthday, Daddy!” Fey said with enough sincerity to convince anyone that Lucian’s birthday was approaching.

It wasn’t, but her genuineness and the way she hugged her father and placed a kiss on his forehead could have fooled anyone.

Lucian cracked a small smile and opened the box in a few swift movements. Inside the box lay a hand. Mr. Barnett’s hand, cut so elegantly and cleanly by Evil. His chunky ring with the deep blue lapis lazuli glinted in the light; a contrasting image with the severed limb, covered in blood and emitting a rotten stench.

“What is this?” Lucian demanded in a cool voice. Fey kept her calm, careless demeanor.

“Mr. Barnett’s hand, Daddy! It has that ring you wanted!”

Evil knew his question was rhetorical. Lucian knew all too well what that ring looked like. A question as fake as his initial reaction. He broke into laughter.

“I know I told you to bring me the ring, but I’ll be damned, I didn’t think you’d get creative with it.”

“It was Evil’s idea!” Fey gleamed, pointing her finger at Evil for emphasis.

Evil just shrugged in response, mumbling something about it not being a big deal. She took the liberty to taste Lucian’s coffee while he made a show of thanking his daughter for the wonderful birthday present. It tasted bitter.

“The rest of the body was taken care of,” Evil reassured him, not wanting to get into the details of how messy his murder ended up being, although she thought that in any other circumstance, Lucian would have praised her for it. “We cleaned all the traces leading back to us. His disappearance will most likely be blamed on his nemesis, just like you said. They can solve their problems between themselves.”

“I expected nothing else from you.”

Lucian rarely praised them straightforwardly. All they heard were fleeting comments that you knew to take as compliments after you had spent enough time with the man. The rare instances he did praise them filled the demons with uncharacteristic joy. The type you get after being praised by your parents.

It felt alien to Evil. She didn’t understand how she had come to crave it so much while also being so detached from the joy of hearing it.

“If there’s nothing else of importance to be discussed, I’ll go now,” Evil announced.

“What’s the hurry?” Fey frowned. “Are you not feeling well? You’ve been-“

“I’m fine.” Evil cut her off dryly and got up. “I have something to do.”

Evil’s house had constantly been empty, devoid of any personality or joy. Objectively speaking, it was a nice apartment. Wildly expensive, stylish, white, near the top of a skyscraper. Her windows were huge, replacing the wall that would face the entrance. You could see the whole city, and it was nothing but a breathtaking sight at night. Evil often stared off into the distance, letting the whites, reds, and blues of the city’s skyline blend with one another as her mind drifted far away.

Her apartment was ever so quiet. She didn’t put on any music anymore. Hadn’t in quite a while. Sometimes, she’d leave the TV on when the silence began downing her, and her mind would start toying with her like a predator. The illusions were long gone. No more episodes. No more sleepless nights. No more terrors, or pain. But sometimes…

Sometimes the silence would become too much. The brain gets bored and starts making stuff up. Faces in the dark. Light touches on the arm. Steps, voices, humming, crying. And Evil would start to doubt herself.

A normal person could tell themselves none of it was real.

Evil couldn’t. She could never be too sure it wasn’t coming back.

And while not many things scared her anymore, this one thing terrified her.

She never did open up about it. Not even with her team, who would be the only ones able to believe her words. Nobody truly knew how bad it got aside from her family…and Lucian. When she met him ten years ago, it felt like finally, the universe offered her a helping hand. The relief of hearing her “disease” was curable almost made her burst into tears.

She could finally breathe. Like the biggest boulder had been raised from her chest.

Ever since then, Evil had felt like she owed Lucian her life. For curing her and for giving her shelter.

For caring for her and giving her purpose. In many ways, he was family to her.

She left her shoes next to the door and stumbled in the open space that was her living room and her kitchen. She turned on the TV and went to the guest room.

She carefully knelt next to a coffee table where a few candles sat around a framed picture. She lit the candles and placed them back on the table.

“Sorry, Mom, that’s all I could do on short notice…”, she said, as if she didn’t use this excuse every year. As if every year she didn’t try to build up the courage to finally visit her mother’s grave and gave up last minute, forcing herself to put together a sorry excuse for an offering.

“Truth be told, I don’t think you’d like me there anyway,” she laughed bitterly.

Evil had seen her grave only once, about 5 months after her death. She never approached, just watched from a distance. She saw a few flower arrangements decorating the stone and knew her sister must’ve been taking care of their mother. She had always taken care of everyone.

Back then, she had to swallow the lump in her throat at seeing the grave. She had to bite her lip till it bled and dig her fingernails into her palm to stop herself from screaming and sobbing. From apologizing to her mother again and again, just like she did the night she had died.

The night Ophelia had died was the night a part of Evil had died with her. Her heart died. Her humanity died. Leaving behind only the monstrous demon everyone saw her as.

Just when she had convinced herself that she wouldn’t react at seeing her grave, her body jerked, and a scream got trapped in her throat. Seeing her mother’s name on the gravestone, in a sea of forgotten bodies, made her unspeakably nauseous. She could only think about how cold her mother must be, how lonely, to be trapped in such a place, filled with nothing but sorrow.

A layer of sorrow so thick, it left you breathless.

Evil wanted to perish after seeing the flowers. Because those were her mother’s favourite flowers, and she wouldn’t be able to take care of them anymore, or to see to her garden, or to read her favourite books, or brew her favourite tea, or collect pretty mugs. All because of Evil.

Evil took that away from her.

If Evil dying would have brought Ophelia back to life, she would have done it in a heartbeat. Her mother proved to be a good person by nature. Everyone loved her, and she loved everyone; a person with so much to give and so many things to accomplish and Evil- a monster, a disgusting, unworthy anomaly- dared take that away from her.

It didn’t matter how many times Lucian tried to tell her it wasn’t her fault. It didn’t matter to Evil if the act was unconscious. Her powers got out of hand because she had no control over them and because she had been born to kill. A token of bad luck that her mother so innocently, so ignorantly accepted under her roof, only to be brutally killed in the end.

That’s what offering kindness to demons brings.

Sorrow.

After her heart died that night, Evil changed. Couldn’t cry so easily anymore, couldn’t feel the way she used to.

Part of her mourns her younger self. Every day, without fail.

But not today. Today wasn’t about her.

“I wouldn’t want to bother you. Not anymore. I thought…giving you the grace of not seeing me again would be the least I could do for you.” She cleared her throat, avoiding her gaze from falling on the painted canvas.

Evil didn’t manage to take anything with her the night she ran away. For the first three years, she couldn’t bear to sketch her mother’s features on paper. It wasn’t until the fourth year that she gathered the courage to pick up a paintbrush and give form to the face she saw every night in her dreams and nightmares both—Ophelia’s gentle face, which had been the safest place in the world. Her warm gray eyes, thin lips with an ever-present smile, and long chestnut hair cascading in waves over her shoulders.

“I don’t have much to say.”

She never did.

“It was my birthday last month. Turned twenty-four,” she paused to let that sink in. Twenty-four had sounded like such a grown-up age to her in the past. Little Evil couldn’t wait to grow up, go to college, and live in a little apartment with her sister. Maybe find someone she liked, get married, find a job. A mundane life, away from the scary monsters under the bed. No matter how much her past self would deny wanting an average future, she kept it buried deep in her heart. How heartbroken she would be to find out adult Evil became the monster under the bed.

“A miracle I even survived this long, right?” she laughed, yet it sounded awfully strained. “I’m not in college, living alone, definitely not married and with a very lacking love life, but at least…You could say I have a job and a nice apartment.”

One she hated coming back to. And her job…

“I know you’re not proud of me, Mom.” She looked down at her hands, settled in her lap. “I’m not proud of myself either.”

“I’m well aware you’d cry if you saw me like this. Wondering where everything went wrong, blaming yourself,”

“I want you to know it’s not your fault. My future has been doomed from the moment I was born, and I was foolish to think otherwise. To hope that I’d be different and defy fate. My fate is to bring pain wherever I go. I’ve made my peace with it.”

“Emma…,” The name felt so unfamiliar on her tongue. She hadn’t uttered it in so long. It stung with grief and remorse. “She’d be disgusted with me. I’m sure that she is, and has been for the past ten years. I-“

Evil ignored the shakiness in her voice. “Take care of her, Mom. Someone has to.”

Before blowing out the candles, a pot was placed on the table.

“I almost forgot, I got you a plant. It’s a peace lily.”

“I’ll put it next to the others.”

A knock on the door interrupted her train of thought. She frowned, getting up lazily before taking one last glance at her mother’s portrait. Her steps were heavy and slow, and each knock sent a wave of pain through her head, amplifying her forming migraine.

“Lucian? What are you doing here?”

The man she had seen just an hour ago stood outside her door, dressed in his signature long coat drenched by the rain. Droplets of water slid down his face, and he reached to wipe them, a certain chunky ring adorned with a blue stone sitting smugly on his finger.

“Please excuse my unannounced visit, Evilyn. I wanted to talk to you.”

Wet sounds echoed as he stepped inside.

Evil quickly wiped her face, turning away from him. She let down her hair in hopes it’d hide her distressed expression.

“Something so important it couldn’t have been discussed on the phone?”

Yet her tone betrayed her.

“Something of the sort. Evilyn, I need you to retrieve something for me.”

“What is it?”

“The bloodmoon sceptre.” He sat on the sofa and crossed his legs, thankfully choosing to look outside rather than at her. “From the temple of the wailing priestesses.”

“What for? Is a ceremony coming? They won’t give it otherwise.”

“It is.” He turned to face her. “Your ceremony.”

Evil’s mouth went slack. “My what?”

“I will swear you into the council. That is, if you agree.”

The high council of the demon realm- ten members, with Lucian as their leader.

“That’s against the rules. The high council never had more than eleven members.”

“I’m the head of the council now. I make the rules.”

“But…why me? Why not any of the others?”

“Because,” he smiled, “you’re better than them.”

Evil paused. “What are you talking about?”

“Come on, Evilyn, you’ve known this for a while. You’re stronger than them.”

And yes, Evil knew. Had known ever since that day in the woods when Lucian did the claiming ritual. Had known that with practice and years of fighting, she could take them in a heartbeat. Her powers were both a blessing and a curse. Powerful and all-consuming.

The reason she never prided herself on having them. She would rather have Fey’s siren abilities, Kian’s strength, and pyrokinesis or even Elias’ foresight. Instead, she fought every day to remain sane and keep the ones around her safe from her ugly core.

Lucian rarely praised them straightforwardly. To tell Evil this now…Felt like both a betrayal and a thrill.

“You’re only speaking this way because they’re not around. You shouldn’t disregard them to praise me.”

“I wouldn’t call it “disregard”; I’m simply being truthful, Evilyn.” He reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “Look at me.”

As much as Evil wanted to be stubborn, his voice was too commanding not to. She turned her head to face him.

“You all are my creations, and as your mentor, I’m allowed to speak objectively about your strength.”

It was right. Nothing more than admitting Evil was, objectively speaking, the strongest. It’s just that… his words felt like praise. The kind of praise from parents, who secretly admit that you’re the favourite child. Evil wasn’t the best strategist, nor the most skilled fighter. The roulette gave her the most dangerous power: the mind.

She recognised his hand on her head, patting her. A kind gesture, filled with a sense of familiarity. It also filled her with dread, since that wasn’t the hand she was accustomed to; her mother’s gentle, loving touch. The ghost of her long, pink-painted nails tickled her scalp as her bracelets tinkled in a symphony of nostalgia.

No, this hand was big and too heavy. It wasn’t gentle, nor that loving, but Evil leaned into it anyhow. She closed her eyes and embraced the praise and encouragement from the only authority figure in her life.

“I’ve sent you on countless missions before, and you proved to be more than capable. Be kinder to yourself, Evilyn.”

Oh, and how Evil wishes she could.

***

Emma barely crawled back from the cemetery to her apartment. She struggled not to wake Moon.

Her eyes were red and swollen like the rest of her face. She hardly managed to get the pebbles and blades of grass out of her hair. Dirt fell from her clothes with each step. She was wet to the bone; the dirt that mixed with the rainwater turned into a mud that stuck to her like a second skin.

The bathroom mirror reflected an alien face. She watched a stranger washing her face and combing her hair with such ardor that it was almost torn from her scalp. Tufts landed on the floor as delicately as snowflakes, and yet Emma felt no pain. She couldn’t spare any more.

The next day, she received a heartfelt message from Zachriel, who, like every year, expressed his regret and gave Emma two days off. Emma did not take the second one, unable to digest the thought of staying at home. She couldn’t keep her thoughts in check, and she knew that she would have been eaten alive before she was at least halfway through the day.

She didn’t want to worry Moon or force her to take care of her. Emma was fine. It was fine. She just had to work and occupy her time with something useful.

Even that was difficult. Everywhere she looked, she saw a dead end.

She had had enough of playing by Zachriel’s rules, who for one reason or another acted as if he wanted to retire. He told her a long time ago that she had to take risks to win.

While she was restlessly tossing and turning in bed, she wondered what the solution would be. The solution to finally get some answers. Maybe the solution was not to wait for some answers to fall from the sky. Maybe the solution was to force the answers to come out.

Emma had made a long, arduous journey to the fallen statue of Caeles, nestled among the ruins of the oldest temple in Lux—the very first place in the realm of angels she had ever set foot in. When she was little, Zachriel used to tell her stories about this sacred site, once the most holy-energy-infused place in the entire realm. Though long forgotten and stripped of its former glory, legend had it that if you visited the statue and kissed its forehead, you could make a wish, and Caeles would grant it—no matter where she was.

In the dead of night, with only the croaking of birds and the glow of fireflies for company, she stood before the statue and pressed her lips against the cold stone, wishing for a sign. That same night, she fell asleep easily. She dreamt of herself draped in a wolf pelt, standing amidst a pack that was unaware of her presence.

She held her golden dagger, while opposite her stood a smiling figure she hadn’t seen in a very long time. The figure held a small vial containing a red liquid flecked with strands of fur; it dangled from a long, hideous finger tipped with a long black nail and thick warts.

“Come and get it, Blondie.”

Emma woke up drenched in sweat. Amidst her confusion, the only thing she could see was the face of the being she had to reach. She knew what she had to do.

On the surface, it looked stupid, dangerous, and impossible. And it was stupid and dangerous, but was it impossible?

Emma knew she could die, but the fear of death paled in comparison to the fear of becoming a shadow, forced to see how the world is taken over by evil and being unable to help, all the while you slowly disappear. She would have died anyway. And maybe had she been killed by a demon, it would have been faster than the pain that awaited her.

So, why not spoil their plan from the inside?

Emma made her way to a Feroxian market near the border to the human world. She entered the demon realm through a crack found on the underground level of an abandoned factory. Walls close to crumbling down with one touch, paint smeared and peeling, and layers upon layers of graffiti.

The last step led her to an underground chain of businesses, big enough to be a village. Many lived there; most worked there. Unorthodox work, of course. Drugs, prostitution, human trafficking.

Buildings had been built, big and small. Some quiet, some blasting music. Some adorned with bright, eye-catching signs. She chose to ignore those and go to one of the quieter places; a building hidden behind two flashy ones. It reeked of alcohol and cigarettes and a strong smell of gunpowder, which made her want to sneeze. She knocked three times and entered before hearing a word of approval.

The dim light from a singular bulb flickered across the room. The windows had been clearly broken time and time again and glued back together with tape. Emma watched as a moth flew through a hole and circled the pitiful light in a never-ending cycle.

“Anyone there?” she said after a few minutes of waiting. “Gem?”

A little girl’s head popped from behind the door. With her curls tangled, clothes torn and feet bare, she looked as miserable as it got. She could have passed for a human child, if she hadn’t started giggling and crawling on the ceiling, twisting her neck 180 degrees to look at Emma.

Her hair fell in Emma’s face, and the smell of rot made her gag. She stepped away and looked up.

“What’s with this form? Trying to gain sympathy?”

“Little girls make the most money,” Gem responded. A maniacal laughter bubbled in her throat, coming out hoarse and choked. The corners of her mouth were covered in white foam and spit. Emma swallowed back the vomit in her throat.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Gem bared her fangs in a freakish smile.

“I need a favour. The one you owe me.”

Gem tapped her chin with one bony finger that elongated itself to reach her right eyebrow and scratch it. It elongated even more until it reached Emma’s face and caressed her cheek with interest, the nail getting caught in one of her blonde curls.

Emma shivered with disgust, slapping it away. “Stop playing games.”

Another uncanny giggle bubbled in her throat. It reminded Emma of a hyena.

Gem unstuck herself from the ceiling and let herself fall on the floor with a loud thump. Emma was feeling her patience run low and was already questioning her decision of coming here. The place was swarming with evil and freaky creatures crawling around like cockroaches.

“Do I really owe you a favour, hmm?”

A groan escaped Emma’s lips, and she had to physically stop herself from hitting that thing across the face and making her head do a full spin. She closed her eyes only for a second, and when she opened them again they were fully white and glowing faintly.

A warning had been sent, and thankfully the roach understood, her expression suddenly becoming serious.

“Sheesh, no need to get defensive!”

“How many more times do I have to tell you I have things to do and no time to spare for playing stupid?”

It was already becoming unbearable there. The atmosphere was suffocating, as was the smell. No light was coming through from the outside, and the existing air was stale. Emma swore she would never go back there, never reach out to Gem ever again, but the circumstances left little room for choice. Gem never would have helped anyone without getting something in return, let alone an angel. But, for better or for worse, Gem found herself in debt.

“Alright, alright, stop being prissy. What do you want?”

“I want to be able to change my form.”

Gem let out a puff of air, similar to a disbelieving laugh. “Change your form? Like shapeshift?” She raised her eyebrow mockingly. “Then you chose the wrong creature to be born as, blondie.”

Emma exhaled through her nose.

“That’s why I need your help. I know there has to be a way I could change my form temporarily.”

“It depends what sort of form change we’re talking about,” Gem responded while picking at her claws. Want to stay human? Be an animal? A bird? A larvae? Give me details to work with; I ain’t a mindreader.”

“I need to pass as a demon.”

The creature’s eyes widened so much they almost fell out of their sockets. Gem landed at Emma’s feet with a loud thud, raising the dust around the room. She choked on her own hair and moved to sit on her knees. The loud cough attack gradually turned to laughter- so lively and psychotic it raised goosebumps all over Emma’s arms. She pulled her sleeves down.

“Freakshow,” Emma mumbled. “Are you done?”

Gem wiped tears away. “Oh honey, you should have been a comedian!”

Emma blinked and waited.

“Oh, I haven’t had a good laugh like this in so long,” Gem said and got to her feet. “Now, Blondie, how do you expect to pass as a demon? Even with a different face, they’ll smell you miles away! And I thought you were smart…”

Emma hid her offended expression. Questioning her intelligence hurt her pride.

She was well aware just how stupid it sounded because a fake body couldn’t conceal your true essence- especially angelic power. Demons were like police dogs, trained to feel even the tiniest spark of holy essence.

“In the underworld of demons, everything is possible. I know there’s gotta be something- anything to conceal my smell. And don’t try to hide it from me, Gem. I can tell you’re tempted to lie.”

Gem stuck her tongue out and rolled her eyes dramatically before flipping her hair and jumping to sit on a table. She busied herself picking between her fangs.

“Yeah yeah justice warrior, you caught me! There is something, but guess what- it’s useless for you.”

“Useless for me?”

“You heard me! Sure, I can give you a new face, but for the smell, you’d need demonic essence injected into you. And you know what that’d do to you? Take a wild guess!”

“Kill me?” Emma asked, unimpressed.

“Best-case scenario! Anything from exploding to turning into a brain-eating mutant is possible. Not to mention it would be excruciatingly painful, so you might die from the pain alone. And if that shit gets into your system, you better pray that’ll be your fate.”

Demons and angels were created to oppose each other down to the last factor. The fact had been proven time and time again- and it explained the reason why the touch of pure demonic power could dissipate an angel like it was nothing. It explained why angelic power burns demons and sends excruciating pain throughout their bodies. Emma herself saw how demons would catch on fire at the touch of her dagger.

Demons and angels were like poison to each other.

And yet…

“Give it to me.”

“Are you crazy?” Gem barked. “Do you want to explode? Are you that bored?”

“I won’t explode.”

“I just told you that there’s no universe in which you wouldn’t explode.”

But there was one. This universe. Gem didn’t know one crucial fact: Emma’s mother was a demon. Although she had been born an angel, her demon genes kept her body from reacting to demonic powers, just like Emma could use her healing abilities on Evil without harming her. She’s an anomaly who can dodge the laws of physics.

Emma shurgged in response. “Maybe I’m feeling suicidal. Why does it concern you?”

“Because I don’t want to clean your bits off the floor?” Gem responded matter-of-factly. “And I don’t want your winged friends to trace your death back to me and kick my ass. I have a business to run.”

“We can do this somewhere else. And don’t worry about my friends; they won’t find you. I’ll even write a letter telling them I purposefully did this to myself.”

Gem sighed. “You really wanna die today, Blondie?”

“Don’t pretend to care, Gem. So, we have a deal?” Emma asked as she extended her hand.

The hand clasped her own.