I tightened my grip on the dagger. "No. But we're out of options."
The containment chamber's door loomed ahead, solid steel reinforced with magick that made my skin prickle as we approached. Three security checkpoints stood between us and the operative, each one requiring increasingly specific clearance. Kearan handled the first two with his medical override; the third required Zandia's personal authorization, transmitted through a speaker system that crackled with static.
"Parker only," came Zandia's voice, clipped and commanding. "Everyone else stays at the observation post."
Grayson stiffened behind me, his hand finding the small of my back. "Not happening."
"She'll be safe enough," Zandia replied, the faintest hint of amusement coloring her tone. "The hellhound goes in with her. The imp, too, if he behaves himself. But this requires precision, not an audience."
I glanced back at Grayson, finding his expression tight with concern. "It's okay," I murmured, squeezing his arm gently. "Just keep watching. I'll be right there."
He searched my face, doubt clear in his eyes. "Promise me you'll signal if anything feels wrong."
"I promise."
The door slid open with a pneumatic hiss, revealing the containment chamber beyond. Unlike the sterile, clinical rooms in the main compound, this space had been designed specifically for supernatural threats. The walls were carved with intricate runes that pulsed faintly blue… not just decorative, but actively containing whatever lay inside. The center of the room held a single cell, its walls a perfect hybrid of glass and metal, creating a transparent cage that allowed observation from all angles.
Inside that cage sat the ST5 operative. She'd been cleaned up since yesterday… her clothes changed, her face washed, but nothing could disguise the wrongness that clung to her like a second skin. She sat cross-legged on the floor, her back straight, her head tilted at an angle no human neck should bend. When she saw me, her lips curled into that terrible smile, too wide and too knowing.
"Mistress returns," the demon hissed through her mouth, the sound layered and distorted. "Come to finish what you started? Or to beg for what you lost?"
Cerbie growled as he launched off my body, all three heads focused on the possessed woman with predatory intensity. The hellhound pressed against my leg, a solid, warm presence anchoring me to reality. Mephistral zipped past my head, a blur of motion and obscene gestures.
"Play nice with the mean lady, or I'll steal your spleen and make earrings from it!" the impish demon cackled, zooming in tight circles around the cell.
A speaker mounted in the corner of the room crackled to life. "Focus, Parker," Zandia's voice cut through the chaos. "Your demon power is temporarily depleted. But that doesn't leave you defenseless. Far from it."
I stepped closer to the cell, ignoring the way my stomach twisted at Zandia's disembodied presence. "What am I supposed to do? I've never used witch magic before."
"Not witch magic alone," Zandia corrected. "Witch magic in concert with your demon heritage. The two halves of your nature have been at war since your birth. Chaos versus intention. Force versus precision."
The operative's head snapped toward the speaker, her eyes narrowing. "The old one speaks from hiding. How very like her kind."
Zandia ignored the taunt. "Your mother understood what you're only beginning to grasp, Parker. Demons command through dominance. Witches direct through intention. Separately, they are powerful but limited. Together..." Her voice took on that particular edge that always made my skin crawl. "Together they are something older than either. Something that predates the divisions your modern supernatural community clings to."
The concept hit me with the force of a physical blow. Chaos and intention. Not fighting each other, but working in tandem. My demon power had always felt like fire in my veins… wild, destructive, impossible to control. But what if I'd been thinking about it backward? What if I didn't need to control it at all?
"What do I do?" I asked, my voice small in the echoing chamber.
"Set your intention," Zandia replied. "Be specific. Clear. Then..." A pause, loaded with meaning. "Then let your demon blood find its own path to that goal."
It sounded simple. It wasn't. The emptiness where my power had been throbbed like a missing limb, phantom pain shooting through me as I tried to reach for anything to work with. The dagger in my hand remained stubbornly dormant, just metal and wood and potential.
I stepped closer to the cell, close enough that I could feel the hum of the wards against my skin. "I want it out of her," I said, the words rough with determination. "Completely. No trace left behind."
The operative's smile widened, her head tilting further. "You want many things, half-breed. Power. Control. Respect." She shrugged, the motion unsettlingly fluid. "Wanting changes nothing."
Anger flared, hot and bright. I reached for my demon power automatically, trying to force it to respond… to burn, to command, to dominate. Nothing happened. Just that hollow ache beneath my ribs, growing sharper with each failed attempt.
"Stop," Zandia's voice cut through my frustration. "You're doing it wrong."
The demon laughed, a sound like breaking glass. "She can't help herself. It's in her blood—the need to force, to control. Even now, with nothing to command with, she still tries." She stood in one smooth motion, approaching the glass wall between us. "You really thought that would work? That you could simply wish me away?"
Humiliation burned through me, hot and sick. Kearan's jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. Through the observation window, I could see Grayson watching, his face carefully blank, but his eyes never leaving mine.
Stop trying to command it, his voice slid into my mind, gentle but insistent. Set the intention and let the chaos find its own path.
The words echoed Zandia's instructions, but hearing them from Grayson, feeling the certainty behind them, made something shift inside me. This wasn't about forcing. It was about allowing. About balance.
