Devil's Plaything

Echoes

Mira couldn't feel her feet as she ran. The only sensation that she registered was the cold weight of the gun in her hand. The only emotion she felt was anger—a pure rage that crawled its way from her core up through her throat. The area around her was empty of people, but that wouldn't have mattered to her regardless. Nothing would stop her from advancing toward the girl like she was prey about to escape Mira's grasp.

She was so close to the girl now that her nose caught a hint of fragrance from her perfume. It was a sickly-sweet scent, and it made her colder than the gun did. Mira lifted her weapon and placed the barrel against the girl's back. Both froze instantly, unnaturally in midstride. Mira could feel a wave of the girl's carnal fear, and it sent a sensation of exhilaration through her.

This girl had hurt Noah. More than that, she had robbed him of his autonomy. From the moment she looked at him, she objectified him and reduced him. She made him a chess piece in a game Mira hadn't realized she was playing.

Mira remembered Noah's fear that he was a plaything, and she despised this girl for treating him as if he were just that.

Mira wanted to hurt her.

This desire to destroy felt both new and familiar. Mira had sensed her ability to harm others before, but never at this magnitude. She felt it settle into her, expand her self-awareness. The gun shook lightly as the girl in front of her trembled, but Mira stood more firmly than ever.

"Drop your weapon," she said. Her voice was detached as if she had said the sentence so frequently that the words were second nature. Mira heard the metal clatter as the girl's gun dropped to the floor instantly. "Who are you?"

"Please," the girl began. Her cockiness was gone, replaced by an instinct to survive. Fear penetrated her voice, and it became clear that they both understood what was at risk in this confrontation. They both understood that Mira would use the gun if she needed to.

"If you don't answer my question," Mira's voice sounded like her instinct to hurt felt: as unfamiliar as it was familiar. "I will shoot. Do you understand?"

The girl's breath shuddered audibly. "Yes. I'm sorry—"

"Who are you?"

There was a slight hesitation before the girl spoke. "I'm an Alena."

Uncertainty stunted Mira's authority. "A what?" She asked, finally sounding more like herself.

"An Alena," the girl said again. "Aiden has a few of us. We attend to him—" her voice broke off. She took a breath to regain control over herself. "We attend to him in the bedroom."

Something like grief took a hold of Mira, and she moved her hand so that the barrel of the gun was no longer pressed against the girl's back. That word—Alena—it resonated in a deeper part of her, the part that had been so willing to shoot this girl just moments before.

"He told you he was an angel, didn't he?" The girl turned slightly, as if she were about to face Mira. Automatically, Mira pressed the barrel against her back again.

"He is an angel," the girl said, freezing in place again. "I've seen his powers. I've seen him come back to life."

Aiden was more of a con artist than Mira had imagined. The way this girl spoke about him, with trepidation and reverence, was the way someone spoke about a dictator. And clearly, she wasn't the only one he had convinced to follow him.

"He's a fraud," Mira told her. "And you're just a cult member."

She shook her head. "He said you would try to misguide us. He told us about your tricks."