Sorry this took so long. School Camp.
Phoebe opened her mouth to speak, but no sound managed to slip through her suddenly tight throat. The woman sat back, hands over her face.
"No, you can't be…"
"Wha…" Phoebe was unnerved. Who was this woman?
The terrified slave looked up, and through the fear, scars and espair, Phoebe saw it.
"Paige?"
The woman - Paige – shifted back, shaking her head wordlessly. Phoebe grabbed her sister by the shoulders, staring at her in disbelief. Paige looked back at her, trembling.
"You're dead." She whispered.
The confusing torrent of thoughts surging through Phoebes mind abruptly stopped.
"What?"
Paige was silent, unable to speak.
Gently, like she was talking to a frightened animal, Phoebe spoke.
"I'm not dead. I'm here." She said softly, trying to make her understand. The emotion in Paige's eyes slipped out, washing the dirt off her bloodless cheeks.
"You can't be." Paige had learned by now that hope was a painful thing to have.
Phoebe leant down and revealed a bright maroon sock. It seemed comic in this place.
"Do you recognise this?" the hope in her voice sounded almost painful.
Paige gazed blankly at the bright fabric. Then, there was a flicker across her gaunt face.
A small, shadowy smile twitched on her lips, a whisper of what it had once been.
"I remember."
The tears would not stop after that.
It was dark now. Most of the daytime demons had disappeared, leaving the arena eerily silent. The night would bring crueller, vicious demons. The sisters had retreated deep into the tunnel till only a sliver of the outside could be seen.
Paige was dozing fitfully, eyelids flickering. She had wept herself to sleep, face buried in the comfort of Phoebe's shoulder. The heavy cloak covered her now, leaving Phoebe bare to the night chills.
Shivering slightly, Phoebe glanced out at the arena. The huddled shapes of enslaved men and woman gleamed in the burning moonlight. Phoebe watched them sadly. How could she free these innocents when it was just her and Paige? A soft night wind drifted across her cheek, strangely comforting. With a sigh she looked away.
A man was standing next to her.
She jerked upright, heart thudding in her ears. How did he get so close?
The man was in his mid-fifties, and was decidedly demon. Black skin rippled over muscles as he stepped forward, seeming to absorb the watery moonlight. Glowing orange burned from his deep set eyes.
He inclined his head slightly, eyes never leaving her face.
"Hello, Phoebe. I'm glad you have got here unharmed."
"What the…" Phoebe stared at him, feeling like her head was about to explode. This was just too much.
A small smile twitched on his lips.
"Forgive me. I did not introduce myself." He bowed, properly this time. "I am Minas."
"What do you want?" asked Phoebe suspiciously, eyes narrowed. The smile widened, and a chill dropped down her spine. He raised a hand, silver light flickering in his palm.
"You will see."
The light flared, and she was swallowed by billowing flame.
The blond woman was shivering in fear, though she did well to hide it. Not many demons got to meet the Source of all Evil face-to-face, and fewer still survived the encounter. He had a nasty temper by all accounts.
The Source peered at her over steepled fingers, eyes grim. Even for a demon he was repulsive. Huge lumps of warty flesh hung limply from his face, almost obscuring his other features. Fortunately, the rest of him was covered by a long dark cloak despite the almost unbearable heat.
The roof was low, hung with great gold chandeliers that would have felt at home in any French palace. The finest rugs covered the icy stone floor, bright colours glowing in the flickering light. The fireplace to the left was filled with intense blue flame. Her blond her trembled slightly as the Source spoke, voice hard.
"So you say this woman mentioned the charmed ones…." There was a faint flicker in his eyes, almost what you could call fear. The woman gulped.
"Witch. She was a witch." There flicker sparked into definite fear, burning in those icy eyes. He nodded thoughtfully.
"Interesting." His voice was calm, but there was a nervous tic twitching under his right eye. He reached into his pocket, pulling out something that shone like fire. The omwans eyes lit with barely contained greed.
Sols were great honours, given to demons who had pleased the source.. You could by a small island in the Caribbean with the fortune held in the Sources clawed hand.
He tossed it, almost carelessly, watching in amusement as she grabbed at it with clumsy fingers. Bowing quickly, she backed out of the room.
The source rested his head in his hands as a slave slunk silently out of the shadows. Here eyes were dark, strangely blank in the dim light.
"Two reports, sir." Her voice echoed harshly in the chamber. "Is that evidence enough for you?"
The Source shook his head. He refused to accept it. If the witch was here….It wasn't possible. He had gotten rid of that problem long ago.
The woman persisted, voice flat.
"You must act. This who world could unravel if-"
"I know that!" he snapped, glaring at her. If she didn't practically run his empire, he would've ripped her spine out. Taking a deep breath, he crammed his rage into a small corner of his mind.
His outburst had rolled off the slave like water, her dead eyes barely flickering. He thought for a moment, then slumped, flapping his hand at her.
"Go. Do what you wish."
She turned and left without a bow to her master, a wicked smile on her lips. It didn't seem to reach her eyes.
Sorry. Short chapter shrug. Next ones longer. Flashbacks! Wooohooo!
