Alister
I cough into the sleeve of my jacket. The attic is a cramped space with a low, sloping ceiling. The walls are lined with old trunks, boxes, and forgotten furniture, all shrouded in a thick layer of dust.
After minutes of finding nothing, I move onto last stack of boxes on top of a trunk. I start with the one closest to me, lifting the lid to reveal a jumbled mess of old clothes. I move on to the next one, which is filled with old books.
As I continue searching, I find a box filled with old photographs and women's clothes. I recognize Alexander and his wife in many of the pictures. They're smiling and embracing each other and radiating happiness.
And there it is.
Beneath the photographs, I notice the intricate hand mirror, almost as if it was hidden. The frame is ornate, with patterns etched into the metal. A small, black-and-white photograph of Alexander's wife is attached to the back.
As I begin to stand up, I notice the huge trunk under the boxes.
"I'm curious about that too." Leora replies, suddenly materializing beside me. "It has things you'll definitely like."
I hesitate, checking the time. We do still have 20 minutes. I quickly move away the box of his wife's mementos and open the trunk. I find a jumbled assortment of items, each one telling a story of its own. A stack of letters from years ago. A collection of photographs that depict Alexander in his military uniform with his comrades. A leather journal rests beneath a folded flag. The entries seem to detail his experiences during the war. Next, I find a series of newspaper clippings, each one reporting on some military honors and achievements. A small, golden medal lies among the clippings.
This feels like opening a treasure chest. All this stuff belongs in a museum or something. I find myself grinning as I look around at the stuff, the history lover inside me spilling out.
At the bottom of the trunk, I discover a set of documents. They appear to be classified military records, detailing his involvement in various operations.
Jackpot.
I unfold one carefully and scan it. My initial excitement and anticipation begin to waver as I start reading. The paper crinkles as my grip tightens on it, double-checking everything.
Torture...of war prisoners?
I go through the witness statements, photographs, and other incriminating evidence that were included, painting a vivid picture of the atrocities that had taken place. A wave of unease washes over me as I realize Alexander's true face.
We should leave...Now!
How did he get away with this much evidence?
I freeze in shock as I stare at the law firm that had represented Alexander.
It was the same one listed as Cirrus.inc's legal counsel. Clara's family company. And the fact that he later worked a minor job at Cirrus.inc for 5 years just confirms my suspicions.
There's a connection.
I quickly shut the file and put it inside my bag. I understand the implications. This is huge.
"I found it!" I call out as I try to put everything back the way it was. Seeing as how dusty this place is, it doesn't seem like he comes up here. Good. He won't notice something's missing or that someone was here.
5 minutes left. Dammit, I shouldn't have gotten distracted.
I push back the ladder, closing the attic door. I rush downstairs looking for Clara but spot her standing. Her face drained of color. Eyes fixed on the shadowed gape of a room. Or a basement, by the looks of it.
"What is it?" I ask, though the words barely graze her. She doesn't respond. Only takes a step forward as though something unseen is pulling her down.
I walk towards her, and the closer I get, the more clearly I start to hear moaning sounds. And upon seeing what she's staring at, a sharp heat of frustration claws at me.
"Well, I've personally become a fan of the guy." Leora comments with a smile as I look down at the desperate women locked in cages.
Clara starts to move down the stairs, and I react instinctively. My hand shoots out, clamping around her arm, dragging her back before she can descend into that pit.
"We should get out of here."
I admit, the look of pure anger and revulsion as she pulls out of my grip and glares at me in disbelief is unsettling. "You can't be serious!?" She snaps.
"I meant..." I begin, trying to make her understand and get a grip on my own thoughts. "I meant we should get out of here first before he comes back. If we call the police then, they'll catch him in the act."
Thank goodness she seems to understand and looks like she's about to follow me when she takes one last look at the woman.
Suddenly, we hear the front door unlock.
I quickly rush towards the staircase while Clara, who was on the basement stairs, is forced to just shut the door and lock herself inside as his footsteps enter the living room.
Why is he coming now? There's still 5 minutes left. Either we started our timer abit late or the information that he strictly adheres to the schedule was false.
Or, the glaringly obvious reason. Lev betrayed us. Again.
I look down at my phone to see where he is, but he seems to be hovering over the house. I send a quick text to Simon, telling him to keep an eye on Lev and incase he flies away from this house, zap him to death.
Once I get out of this, I'm going to kill him.
As I hide upstairs, I try to ignore the pictures of the tortured victims I saw in the file. Each step he takes makes me think about them and the women in the basement.
Can I take him down if the opportunity strikes? It would be a struggle. He's larger than me and looks fit, despite his age. But if I time it right, one strike to the neck could be enough.
Or if Clara can knock him out with her darts, we can easily escape and give an anonymous call to the authorities.
Yet...I want to kill him. I want to hurt him so badly. Make him suffer every bit of pain he inflicted on others. For someone like him, poetic justice is too generous. He deserves something far worse. And I'm itching to give it to him.
I wish we had the earpieces. That way we could communicate. We could still escape from the kitchen window. I just need to find a way to get her out of there.
"Blasted birds." I hear him mutter in a deep husky voice. When I see him, I squint at the bloody claw marks covering his arms and face. He hums some old tune while strolling toward the kitchen. But my heart stutters the second he stops humming.
Silence.
Then, without warning, he storms out of the kitchen with determination. He heads straight for the fireplace and opens a secret panel in the mantle, pulling out a pistol from a small compartment. I hear him slam open a nearby door and step inside with heavy footsteps.
He knows. He knows someone's here.
I retreat further back into the corridor and notice the window at the end. I could escape from there too. The problem is Clara.
You can't call yourself strong if you only target the weak and attack the mighty from the shadows.
The memory of me, standing in a corner, comes to mind as I watched Miranda. Her hands red as she carved into a man tied to a chair. A suit. Polished shoes. Gold ring. I had no idea who he was or what he had done. Why I had to stop practicing throwing knives for this man, but he looked important upon closer inspection when she told me to observe closely.
The sudden sound of harsh tapping on the window snaps me back to reality. A bunch of crows pecking on the glass. They can't get inside since the window is barred and it's attracting attention.
Instead of the expected slamming of doors, I hear the creaking of the wooden floorboards beneath his feet. He's coming upstairs.
I quickly slip into a nearby bedroom, my eyes scanning the space for a suitable hiding place. I make a beeline for a closet.
The basement is probably soundproof. Clara won't know when will be the right time to come out.
I can hear the footsteps in the corridor now.
I take out my phone and send her a text, telling her to get out of there. I wait with bated breath, my eyes fixed on the screen, willing her to respond. But the seconds tick by, and there's only silence. Are there no signals in there? That would complicate things.
He slams open the door to the bedroom. I almost drop my phone as in shock. The man's piercing gaze sweeps the room, scanning every nook and cranny.
I try to focus all my energy on activating my ability.
I hear the bathroom door creak open and him go inside. Before I can breathe a sigh of relief, I hear him walk out and start moving towards the closet. My mind racing, I glance down at my nails, and a wave of reassurance washes over me as I see them glowing silver.
I look out through the gap between the closet doors. To the study table beside the open entrance to the room. I focus on one pen from the pencil holder, willing it to rise. It hovers above the table for a moment before I flick my wrist and propel it out of the room.
It makes a sound as it falls out in the hallway, causing him to spin around and face the door. His face sets in a determined expression, and he runs out of the room.
I hear him stomping down the stairs, and then, he slams open a door and closing it behind him.
I wait for a few seconds, my ears straining to pick up any sound that might indicate Alexander's next move. But there's nothing. No footsteps, no creaking floorboards, no rustling of clothes. The silence is deafening, and I feel like I'm the only person in the house.
As the reality of the situation sets in, I realize, with a growing sense of dread, that Alexander must have gone down to the basement.
"Is she still there? Or did she manage to leave?" I ask Leora.
"She's still there." The witch answers with a smile, like all her wishes are about to come true.
Without hesitation, I burst out of the room, sprinting down the hallway and taking the stairs two at a time. All doors are open except for one. The basement.
I walk towards the door, my knives floating out of my bag and above my head, forming a circle. I twist the knob, and just as I'm about to slam the door open, I hear a faint gunshot noise behind the door.
Clara? That was Clara, right? She must have got to him. Of course. She could handle herself.
I open the door, expecting to see the man lying unconscious on the ground with a dart sticking out of his body...but no.
Alexander stands tall, his eyes snapping back at me as he holds a gun, its barrel still emitting a wisp of smoke. Before I can look around and see who got shot, his gun points at me. He fires, and I slam the door shut, stepping back just in time.
Relax. Think logically.
Clara must have been using her invisibility. And hiding. She wouldn't let herself get caught. She's smart. She's fast. He must have shot one of the women. Yeah...that's right.
But then why didn't she shoot him till now? She's an exceptional marksman and can knock down anyone with one shot. And being there in the dark gave her a good opportunity.
Then why...
An image flashes. Of her sprawled across the floor, with blood pooling around her limp body. Her eyes, once a gallery of endless expressions, reduced to vacant hollows. That voice, sharp and alive, forever silenced. That reckless warmth gone cold in an instant. And the thought alone—the bare possibility of a world without her—suddenly bleeds the color from everything.
I shove the thought away and bolt up the stairs.
Behind me, the basement door bursts open with a crash, and Alexander charges out, rage etched across his face. I don't stop. I twist at the landing and throw two knives behind me, aimed at his thigh.
His pained grunt is satisfying—but fleeting. I hear the metallic clatter of the second knife hitting the floor, and then the unforgiving sound of his footsteps resumes. He's still coming. Wounded, but relentless.
I try to think clearly.
Alexander won't use his gun outside the basement, not wanting to alert the neighbors or attract unwanted attention. I'll lure him upstairs, creating an opportunity for Clara to escape. He even left the door open. She could probably hear that he isn't in the way.
That is...if she's still...
"Think she's dead?" Leora's whisper breaks into my thoughts as she asks, a mischievous grin on her face and my eyes widen. For once, I'm grateful for her presence. If Clara were dead, the curse would have been broken, and the gems would have fallen out. That hasn't happened.
I shoot Leora a thankful glance, much to her confusion, as I continue to run into the hallway.
Suddenly, something hard slams into my legs. I barely register the blur before my knees buckle beneath me, and I hit the wooden floor. A dull thud echoes as the fire poker clatters beside me.
Did he just throw that?
Alexander stands by the staircase, looming like a statue carved from fury. His eyes gleam with a predatory sharpness. Blood seeps from his wounded thighs, soaking into his pants, but he doesn't seem to notice. Or care.
"You really think you can rob me?" he asks in a low, husky voice. The slight wobble in his stride makes me wonder if he's drunk.
As he draws closer, his gaze flicks to my face, and his eyes narrow. "Although, what are you?" he mutters. "Glowing eyes… flying knives…"
I don't answer. I just flick my wrist. The knife flies fast, aimed straight at his neck.
He reflexively jerks his arm up. The blade embeds into his forearm. He flinches but doesn't cry out. Just rips the knife out with one hand and tosses it aside like it's nothing.
I cough up blood, my hand instinctively covering my mouth as I struggle to tolerate the searing pain in my chest. The side effects are clawing at me faster than usual. I'm losing stamina. The price for using too much power is coming quicker now. I can't risk fainting or losing my ability again.
I attempt to rise to my feet. "What?" I rasp. "Never seen a demon before?"
That makes his eyes flare. And then he charges, his arms still covering his neck and face.
I hurl two more knives—one sinks into his side, and the other curves around his shoulder, slicing deep into his back. He falters—but keeps coming. Like pain is background noise.
I dive to the side as his fist crashes past me, slamming into the wall. I spin and draw another knife, slicing it toward his exposed ribs. He blocks with his elbow, then retaliates with a brutal hook to my side. I feel it deep—ribs shifting, breath catching as I stumble back.
He doesn't give me space. He presses forward, fists tight, throwing punches with sharp precision. I duck the first, parry the second, land a glancing slash across his stomach—but he just powers through it. His palm catches my chest and shoves me back hard into the wall. I crash into it with a grunt, back arching from the impact.
He lunges again. I sidestep, grab a floating knife midair, and jab for his throat. But he twists away, and my blade grazes his collarbone. He elbows me in the face before I can recover. My head snaps back, and I stumble down, the taste of iron floods my mouth.
I try to lift myself off the ground, raising a finger, attempting to lift a knife, but the veteran is too quick. His foot comes crashing down, stomping on my hand with bone-crushing force. I wince, my hand throbbing with pain and his grip closes around my neck.
His fingers dig deep into my skin, constricting my airway. I feel my eyes bulging, face turning purple as I struggle to breathe. "I don't care what you are. You've seen too much, kid." He says, coldly.
With my strength waning, I summon every last ounce of energy to lift the knife with my free hand. The blade trembles in the air, aiming at his throat, as I try to focus. My eyes lock onto Alexander's throat.
The moment the knife lodges into his throat, a gunshot rings out. Everything goes still for a second.
His grip slackens and his eyes widen, brows lifting in confusion—like he doesn't understand what just happened. A line of blood trails from his temple, down his face, mixing with the blood pouring from his throat and spattering onto my collarbone.
He sways and crumples.
I heave in ragged breaths, coughing. I wrench his body off me with a grunt, jaw tight as I suck in a painful breath. My lungs burn, but I force the discomfort down. No time to stagger or shake.
My vision is blurry, but I manage to make out Clara's figure standing by the staircase. The gun trembles slightly in her grasp, her eyes locked on the corpse.
Another gunshot echoes out, and a bullet buries into his head.
I drag myself upright and stride towards her. "He's dead." I wheeze out.
As I get closer, her face comes into focus. I'd expected shock. Instead, her pupils are blown wide. Veins bulge at her temple like ropes pulled taut. Her eyes gleam with something raw and sharp. Something I've seen in myself and Stephanie.
Bloodlust. Pure, unfiltered bloodlust.
I almost flinch as she fires another useless shot at Alexander's motionless body.
"Calm down." I say, yanking the gun away from her hand and wrapping my arms around her, pulling her in. "He's already dead."
She didn't need to shoot. I had him. The knife was floating, right at his throat. Couldn't she see it?
She's stiff at first. Like a coiled spring, ready to explode again. But then she hugs back. Tightly clutching the fabric of my shirt in her fists, burying her face in my chest.
I'm not sure why I'm doing this. Whether it's actually to bring her back to her senses or if I'm still rattled from the image of her death and want to make sure she's still warm and breathing. If it's the latter, I'm losing my edge—letting thoughts alone twist me into something vulnerable. I curse myself for it.
I pull away, yet she still clings to me. Refusing to let go as she asks quietly. "Are you okay?"
"Still breathing. So, just great." I reply through my burning throat.
"Liar." she mutters without looking at me.
I let out a dry huff and stare down at her head. "Be honest, were you actually worried? Or just jealous that you weren't the one choking me."
She snorts. "Can't it be both?" Her nails dig crescents into my back as she continues. "Next time, carry a gun."
I gently reach back and peel her arms away. "That's enough. I only let my sister do this. And for just 5 seconds."
She looks up at me with a frown. "That's not very nice."
I raise a brow, letting the shadow of a smirk brush my face. "Well, try not to be surprised, but if you look at that man we just killed over there," I say, gesturing to the corpse. "You'll realize I'm not a very nice person."
She rolls her eyes despite the smile creeping onto her lips. "Shocking. I thought you were just a mildly unpleasant saint." She picks the gun off the floor and checks the chamber like it's routine. I recognize it as the one Alexander was holding. "We should go now."
I walk back toward Alexander's body and kneel to collect my things—my shattered glasses, the satchel flung nearby. I unzip it and breathe a sigh of relief when I find the mirror still intact.
"Yeah… the neighbors must have heard the noise and called the police." I answer as we head downstairs to the kitchen.
Her gaze lingers on the basement door as we pass it.