I faced him, confronting my fears, refusing to let his manipulations change me. This battle was on, and I'd be merciless. No one scares me anymore.
"Don't you want to see your family?" the Metanoia sneered. My eyes widened, my grip loosened.
I refocused, sensing a demon. I slashed it aside. He was using my family to distract me. He was still there. I lunged, but only slashed air. How fast was he?
Claiming the sword meant a death sentence. Would you risk your life for it?
I closed my eyes, sensing him. I couldn't let emotions control me. Calm was key; he was using them against me. I needed to be stronger than the Metanoia ever imagined.
"What's she doing?" Neima asked, glancing at me.
"The white aura's back," Marcelene said. Gunfire, kicks, and sword clashes filled the air.
I sensed him near me, behind me. He attacked. I vanished, reappearing beside him, slashing him to dust.
"Sorry, Mr. Red, but you're dangerous," I muttered. He reformed. I tried freezing time, but he was too strong.
This was a trap—enemies everywhere. I spotted my terrified friends hiding in a cabinet.
"Sorry, Darcy, I'm not Mr. Red," he chuckled, his voice a blend of innocence and evil.
I spun my sword, creating light that pushed back the darkness. The Metanoia screamed, then laughed. It didn't affect him.
Unbidden, I commanded the darkness to destroy him.
Everyone stared. Marcelene gasped. "That's not her!" she yelled.
"What?" Neima asked.
Marcelene sighed. "Someone powerful is controlling her. She did it again."
Zylia finished off the last demon. "Marcelene, who's controlling her?" she demanded.
"A spirit, living in the sword for ages. It chooses its wielder—and in the wrong hands, it's incredibly dangerous," Marcelene snapped.
Demetrys said, "So, the sword's spirit is protecting itself?"
"Exactly," Marcelene replied.
The darkness obeyed, consumed him until he screamed, shattered, and turned to dust.
I gestured; they swept the dust away, out of the house. The room brightened, easing their faces.
"Is she unconscious? Did the spirit take over?" Neima asked.
Covyn answered, "Yes. She might not return. Breaking the sword's the only way."
Claudia and Astra exchanged glances, shocked as I collapsed. They rushed to me, finding me lifeless.
They looked at each other, panicked.
"We're powerless," Drake said, "but we can wish her soul back."
Marcelene prayed, "Spirit of the sword, return her soul." They put me to bed.
An hour later, I woke, head throbbing.
"What caused this?" I mumbled.
Covyn grinned, leaning close. "The sword's spirit controls you."
"Wait, what?" I asked.
"Your body can't handle that power," Marcelene said.
"Practice controlling it, or it'll kill you." I stared, realizing the danger.
We need to control the sword's power, especially when its spirit takes over. It's unpredictable—one minute I'm fine, the next, everything flashes before my eyes, and my head pounds.
"You okay?" Claudia asked, hand on mine.
"Yeah," I said.
"The sword's spirit appears and controls me when I'm in danger." They exchanged glances.
"We need to prepare for the worst," Marcelene said, scanning her surroundings.
"What's up?" Zylia asked, all sass.
"I sense something." Then I saw it.
"Look out!" I shoved Marcelene, grabbed the sword, and snapped it in two. It vanished into dust.
My hands let go of the sword. I collapsed, everything going black.
Marcelene and Claudia rushed to me, lifting me onto the bed.
"This is bad. It could happen again," Marcelene warned, checking my forehead.
"This house isn't safe. You can stay with me."
Claudia nodded. Neima cleared her throat. "Are you sure? They're not your responsibility."
Drake snapped, "Stop being selfish, Neima! They're victims. Demons attacked their family."
Neima sighed. "Fine."
I woke up—not in my house, but a wrecked, elegant place. Cracked ceilings, walls crumbling. I was on a sofa.
I followed the noise—my friends, laughing and drinking. Midnight. Were they crazy? Or just oblivious? My body felt frozen in time.
"Awake?" Zylia asked, all sass.
I nodded, forcing a smile.
Covyn was checking me out. His grin, his tongue—creepy.
"Stop staring, pervert!" I snarled.
"Ignore him," Neima said, taking my hand.
Covyn's hand was on Zylia's waist. Seriously? Flirting in front of everyone? Ugh.
"Someone's got a crush!" Zylia laughed, elbowing Covyn.
Ryezev cleared his throat. "Dude..." he muttered, nudging Covyn.
"She's sleeping in my bed," Covyn grinned, looking me up and down.
"Try it, and you'll be sleeping with a black eye," I retorted.
Fears linger; the wolves' howls fuel the town's paranoia. Demons haven't attacked, but their presence is felt, lurking in the shadows. Nowhere is safe. Even home is dangerous.
Covyn keeps glancing at me—the pervert, the womanizer. What's his game? Is he crazy? A sociopath? His stares creep me out.
Claudia and Astra arrive, worried. "What's wrong?" Claudia asks.
I touch her hand. "Nothing."
Marcelene's eyeing Covyn, clearly concerned. After wine, she pulls him aside on the balcony.
"What are you planning?!" Marcelene demands.
Covyn laughs, swaggering. "I want her in my bed. I like that chick," he says, licking his lips.
Pervert!
"She could kill you in seconds!" Marcelene warns, but Covyn shrugs it off.
Does he really have feelings for me? Seriously? What a joke!
"I haven't touched a woman in years—except for her," Covyn says, a jerk using that as an excuse.
"Except for sexting Zylia daily and her nightly moans from your room!" Marcelene hisses, scanning her surroundings. She's sharp.
I couldn't believe what I heard. Zylia's a total bitch for sexting that jerk! Desperate much? What a shame—these drug-using hunters have no self-respect. Doesn't she value her virginity?
Covyn tried to touch Marcelene, but she shoved him away, furious.
"Go sex with Zylia, but stay away from her!" she snarled. "This is your last chance, Covyn."
She stormed to the window. I hid until Covyn was gone. He's got something planned, I bet. I'm keeping my virginity. I'd rather die an old maid than be with a jerk like him.
Leaving, I'm grabbed, pinned against the wall. Covyn.
"I thought you left," I gasp, as his eyes rake over me. My hands are pinned. He's about to touch me.
I kick him, hard, and bolt. Finding cover, I hear him.
"Darcy, I'll make you scream my name," he sneers, lust dripping from his voice.
Was he a rapist before the apocalypse?
My hands glow, my eyes blaze. I'm not in control. It happens only in danger.
"Covyn, ready to die?" The words aren't mine. It's the sword's spirit—but whose soul is it? The sword's rumored owner? Did she die and become one with the blade?