FINAL GATE (#3 GHOST PORTAL series)

TWO

Her eyelashes were stuck together as she forced her eyelids apart.

Thump, thump.

Her vision was blurry, eyes painful and watery.

Thump, thump.

The ache in her chest was real, its thumps so harsh they made her sweat. Droplets fell into her eyes and she blinked, worsening her already foggy eyesight.

She slapped a hand to her torso, pressing down, as if to assure herself her heart was beating, that air was filtering through her lungs. And she realized she was, when the putrid, foul-smelling air made a nest inside her nostrils. It was there, breaching into her body, slowly slipping out. Raw, but real.

She was breathing. She was groggy, confused, and achy—but she was breathing.

"I'm," she choked, her throat scratchy, "alive?"

"I'm not positive I'd say alive, but okay," responded a husky, dark-tinted voice from above her.

She still couldn't see well, and her pupils were itchy and agonizing, as if she had sand or dirt in them. She rubbed them, frowning at the pain but also feeling relieved as some of the granules seemed to evaporate.

Her head pounded, pounded; a hammer colliding with her skull in the same rhythm as her heart beat. Both thuds were excruciating, but if they signified she was alive, was she entitled to complain?

She lay there, contemplating, letting that deep voice run through her mind on repeat. The more her vision adjusted, the thirstier she was, the weaker she was. Her arm felt as if it dangled, yet she still had her hand pushing hard against the space between her breasts, checking that her heart still pumped. Her flesh seemed to be peeling, falling off her; but as she glanced at her wrist, she noticed her flesh hadn't moved. It was more pallid than usual, an eerie gray tone to it, but she wasn't flaking, shedding her own skin.

The pounding continued, yet she didn't hate it. It reminded her of something else she'd felt before. Another sound that had warranted violent migraines and caused her to be nauseous at long intervals, without having any control over her stomach—

"Oh," the realization crashed into her, prompting her to close her eyes again, "the voices. They used to make me sick, didn't they? Strange. But they're gone?" She gasped. "The demons are gone? They're out of me?"

All the insane energy she'd experienced, the ups and downs, the intense shooting of power from one extremity to the next; the howling of orders in ominous tongues, the lapping of blood, the enjoyment of blood. It was all gone, erased from her being. Every negative emotion, every trace of anger, violence, and bloodlust—vanished.

She was her. Jessamine Spencer, the book-loving barista, was rid of demons, devoid of a soul—most likely—and somehow alive.

When she re-opened her eyes, a blob of red hovered over her. She startled, hurrying to sit up and skid backwards, out of reach. She'd eliminated the demons from within her; no way would she give them another opportunity at possessing her.

The being didn't move, didn't start at her recoiling from it. Its enlarged black slits that served as eyes widened. "Oh, I can't do anything to you down here," it said, eerily resembling the most prominent voice she'd listened to in her mind for what felt like years. The one who'd introduced himself as the leader of demons; the one who'd often coerced her into getting her hands dirty and enjoying it. And definitely the one who'd urged her to keep drinking blood when she thought she'd had her fill.

"You?" She gulped. "Me? Down here?" Her palms were pressed to the ground, which appeared to be a chunky but soft dirt. Her nails dug in, stabilizing her before she fell further backwards in shock. "What do you mean?"