❝You're a demon.❞
❝And you're not entirely human.❞
❴ SEASON 1 - ONGOING ❵
All her life, Iona Hardy has been intrigued by the darkness and what it will do to a person. W...
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6 YEARS EARLIER
"You sure you don't want to come?" Lora had asked before she left this morning.
I dismissed her offer with a forced smile. There was no point in me going. I finished the work and will expect the degree in the mail at some point. Celebrating amongst all the pomp and circumstance felt wrong, even if I just went for myself. My stomach dropped at the thought of looking out into the crowd as I walked up that stage only to find that it wasn't a bad dream. With a final wave, I wished her good luck and watched her head out the door, cap and tassel in hand.
An hour passed. I stared at the clock, thinking about what I could've been doing—what I could have experienced with them. The intrusive thoughts of what everyone had voiced in passing bombarded my mind.
'You could still go.'
'It's your accomplishment.'
'You should celebrate your achievement.'
'I bet they would want you to.'
But I didn't want to. And for some strange reason, no one could accept that. It didn't happen to them. Why would they care? And why do they think I care what they have to say? Nothing would change my mind, even if that little bit of me yearned to be surrounded by people. I just couldn't do it.
My eyes flit up to the clock again. Another hour. I sigh into the pillow, face mashed into the cushy fabric. After surfing through every possible channel, nothing manages to distract me. With a huff, I grab a few things and decide to go outside for once. Maybe a change of scenery is what I need.
I nestle myself onto a bench outside of a small coffee shop. Headphones muffle the bustling noise and allow me to fall head first into my book. I fish a sour gummy out of the small bag and pop it into my mouth. My eye catches the shoulder strap of my laptop bag dip over the edge of the bench, and I promptly tuck it under my leg. I had tried doing some research on hellhounds, which both agents had advised I not do. What was I supposed to do, though—brush off the fact that a mythical creature took my parents down to Hell? But it was too overwhelming to swallow, and I really didn't want to have an incident in public.
My foot taps along to the soft music as I return back to the bound pages in my hand, hoping to sink right back into the fictional world. Groups of people pass by, tempting my attention. I squint my eyes and stare harder at the words, as if it will help. It doesn't.
Subdued voices bounce back and forth—one of them growing particularly closer. The approaching figure stops a few feet away and sits on the other end of the bench. I quirk an eyebrow, mentally taking note of the pepper spray linked with my keys, and slowly lower the book down.
