Stone Prison

The demon finishes burning.

I watch it a few seconds longer than necessary. As a precaution. As protocol. Out of habit.

When the last residue dissipates and the air suddenly loses its tension, only then do I allow myself to look away.

Elena is on the ground.

She has small, involuntary spasms—barely noticeable. Nervous tics running through her hands and face. I kneel beside her and press two fingers to her neck. Her skin is ice-cold, but she’s breathing. The pulse is there, but I don’t like the rhythm: irregular, accelerated. As if her body were fighting to reclaim itself.

She doesn’t react to my touch.

I run a quick scan. No burns. No new marks. No visible signs of anchoring or physical alteration. The possession was cut cleanly.

Too clean.

Deep possessions rarely end without scars. Or a host.

I exhale, slightly relieved. I arrived too late to prevent the trauma—but just in time to save her.

I lift her carefully and lean her body against the nearest wall. Her breathing begins to stabilize, but the cold doesn’t leave her.

I go over my options.

I can’t leave her alone in an alley at dusk. Not without unnecessary risks. A hospital would mean too many questions, too many eyes. The campus infirmary could work—but that would mean taking her back to the place where her trauma began.

I run a hand over my face, feeling the strain settle in. As a precaution, I take one of my electrolyte vials. It tastes like fuel, but it will help counter the dehydration caused by energy manipulation.

That leaves only one option.

It’s not the most pleasant—but it is the safest.

I carry her carefully, avoiding the most illuminated streets. We walked to the ice cream shop, but I always make sure to leave my car nearby whenever I operate. Just in case.

And this—despite appearances—is an emergency.

I settle her into the passenger seat and fasten the seatbelt with more care than necessary. Her breath barely fogs the glass. A small sign of life—but a vital one.

“I hope she isn’t home…” I think, starting the engine and heading toward the Kestrel estate.

The Kestrel mansion is my family’s home.

To me, it’s nothing more than a three-hundred-year-old stone prison—but my grandfather insists it has history. All I see are empty hallways and a residence far too large for two people, with no permanent staff.

After a few minutes, I enter through the main gate, disguised with rusted-looking ironwork, and park in the underground garage. I carry Elena carefully up the stairs and into the nearest guest room.

It’s austere. Just enough. The place hasn’t had guests in years, so there’s probably more dust than appropriate.

I lay Elena down on the king size bed with care. Her breathing and pulse are stable now. She appears to be deeply asleep.

Without realizing it, I tuck a strand of her brown hair behind her ear.

My fingers brush her cheek.

I stop.

No reaction. Her breathing remains calm.

I take a seat in a very old chair at the far end of the room and prepare myself mentally. I’m certain she’ll have questions when she wakes. Or complaints.

I doubt I’ll have all the answers.

That’s when I feel her.

Like a shadow forming in the doorway. She appears without warning. I hate when she does that.

“Usually,” she says, “when a man brings a woman to his room, they’re conscious. Awake, at least. Why can’t you ever be normal, imp?”

Imp.
Twenty-one years. She still calls me that.

“I don’t understand what you mean, Mother, but you know I’m not—” I stop when I see her expression, amused, suggestive. “It’s not what you think.”

“Isn’t it?” She places a hand on her cheek. “You disappoint me, son…”

I refuse to dignify that with a response.

She steps closer to look at Elena.

“So,” she says, studying her, “this is the girl who’s been causing you trouble.”

“She just survived an exorcism. She’d already witnessed another one before. I need to erase her memory—urgently.”

My mother looks at me, waiting.

“Shouldn’t you have done that already?” she asks, curious.

I don’t answer. I avoid her gaze.

“Request a memory specialist from the Council,” she continues. “Form 23-A. You can fill it out online. They take a while to arrive, but approvals are usually fast.”

I click my tongue. I know the process. I’ve completed it myself more than once.

She notices.

“I see…” she says slowly.

She turns toward the door.

“Well then, I’ll be downstairs reviewing some documents. Let me know when she wakes up. I’d love to… meet her.”

Before leaving, she stops beside me.

“I’m quite sure she’ll be staying here for a while.”

Then she’s gone.

But I know she’s still watching. She always is.

From where I sit, I can see Elena breathing beneath the white sheets—peaceful, enviably so. I never imagined I’d end up in this situation. I never should have let things reach this point.

I open the room’s minibar and pour myself two fingers of whiskey. I have no idea how long it’s been there. I don’t care.

I think of Elena—now calm. The anger she showed at the ice cream shop. Her refusal to forget all these horrors.

She breaks patterns. Breaks protocol.

Everything.

I sit back down. Alert. Waiting—while the drink does its work.

“Perhaps your wish will come true, Elena…” I think.