Damsel[ed]: Some Rescue Required (#2 of the Damsel[ed] series)

Sixty-Seven: Empire

Angelos.

My name is Angelos Monsoon Fibbs. I'm sixteen-and-a-half-years old and a psychotic entity is trying to take over my body. I also cook vegetarian dishes on my free time and I like the color white the best because it's easiest to clean. 

This is who I am. The real me, anyway, without Dark Side and Luce and my insane powers. I've wormed free, escaped his prison for me. The pain, excruciating. The strain, crushing. But I've done it. White tears into my vision, feeling back into my limbs. Control, too. Luce pushes at me, but I've forced him back. Nine times nine is eighty-one. Six times seven is forty-two.

I'm stronger than him. Without my aura, he's only a voice. And a teeny one, too. When the sky comes crashing down, I'm in control again. But I'm too numb to punch my fists up and squeal out my happiness. Too shocked.

I drop to my hands and knees, weak like pudding, dragging myself toward Owl.

She's dead. For good dead, I think.

She hasn't moved in minutes. Bled out and died, crumpled on Gats' sword.

I wish I could say more, though the entire time I was gridlocked with Luce and My Aura, which, consequently, could make a passable band name if ever in a pinch. But a hole's burning in my gut, and I don't feel triumphant or even relieved.

Owl was cruel, she hurt me, Heaven, and certainly Gats. If anyone had the right to kill her, it was him. But at the same time, she's my mom. Maybe, digging deep, some part of me hoped to redeem her. Maybe I thought I could pull off her armor like Darth Vader's mask and find a human underneath.

But I never had the chance.

I snake forward, braving carpet burn, my broken chains clanging around my wrists, biting my skin. Heaven has Jaylin, trying to right the break in her leg while Jaylin groans and twists. The pieces are snapping back together, slowly, slowly. I want to help, but don't dare.

Gats stares at my dead mother, unmoving. He still holds the sword at the exact same angle he killed her, even though now she's crumpled on the floor. Heaven pushed her off, but couldn't pry the blade out of his hands. Now he's wide-eyed and pale. Stiff as a wax mannequin.

Though I'm sick to my gut, I move closer. With the barrier down, Luce is weaker, but I don't want to risk it. I have to do what I have to do. Two cloaked figures stumble toward the room, "freeing the prisoners" I hear one woman say over her shoulder. A group of henchmen nods, as if in a trance, others squabble. No one steps up to take her place, no one issues orders. As an immortal, I guess she thought she didn't think she'd need a successor.

A successor.

At this, I sit up. A voice giggles in my head. Oh, this will be fun. But he's losing cut. Luce is something of a playground bully now, and his teases are weak. Thirteen times nineteen is two hundred and forty-seven. I play with the numbers to ease away his presence, like someone whistling in the dark.

I raise my voice, which has gone raspy and weak. "I'm her son and I'm her heir. She's told you that." I'm sure of it.

Cloaked figures whip toward me, eyes searing into my skin through their masks. The hairs stand up on the back of my skin, pins and needles all over my skin. I deepen my voice, push my mask up, lift my chin. I don't look so authoritative, I suppose, talking while I'm on my hands and knees. But I'm trying. "You'll free the hostages immediately and make sure none of them are harmed."

People stare at me, silent. I smile, broad and wicked while a headache rips my scalp into pockets of white, searing pain. "Please? I'd hate to use my telekinesis. It's dangerous." I extend my wings, long and inky, so the cast dark shadows across the floor that swallow the room in darkness. I hate to threaten, but it's for the poor people's sake out in the hall. And I said 'please.' So there.