Because looking at these children, seeing their disappointment, their fear, their desperate hope that somehow things will still be okay... I realize I have a choice.
I can let this defeat me. Let Azrael win. Let all the small acts of sabotage add up until there’s nothing left but surrender.
Or I can fight.
“The recital is not canceled.” I hear myself say it like it’s coming from someone else—someone braver, stronger, more certain than I feel. “We’re going to clean this up, and we’re going to practice, and tomorrow you’re going to dance just like we planned. Okay?”
“But everything’s wet,” Sophie whispers.
“Then we’ll dance in puddles.” I grab the mop that’s somehow still standing in the corner. “Who wants to help?”
The children exchange uncertain glances.
Then Emma steps forward.
“I’ll help.”
Sophie follows. Then Charles. Then the twins. One by one, every child in that doorway moves into the flooded studio, grabbing towels and rags and anything they can find to start mopping up.
Bianca appears beside me, mascara running down her cheeks but fire in her eyes. “I called Marco. He’s bringing industrial fans. And Helena says we can use her studio space tomorrow if this one isn’t dry.”
“It’ll be dry.” I don’t know if that’s true. I don’t know if anything will be okay. But I say it anyway, because right now, belief is the only weapon I have.
Mal finds me three hours later, still mopping.
The sprinklers have been shut off. The fans are running. The floor is no longer flooded, though it’s far from dry. The children have been sent home with promises that yes, the recital is still happening, yes, they should practice their routines, yes, everything is going to be fine.
I don’t believe that last part yet.
But I’m working on it.
“The wards are set.” Mal steps carefully across the damp floor, looking around at the disaster zone. “No more infernal interference will work inside these walls. Whatever Azrael had planned, he’s lost that avenue of attack.”
“Great.” I wring out the mop for what feels like the thousandth time. “Too bad he already destroyed half my costumes, flooded my studio, and traumatized my students.”
“Izzie—”
“I know.” I hold up a hand. “I know this isn’t your fault. I know Azrael is the one responsible. I’m not angry at you.”
“You’re angry at something.”
“I’m angry at everything.” The words burst out before I can stop them. “I’m angry that three days before the most important performance of my career, I’m mopping water instead of rehearsing. I’m angry that innocent children got caught up in some demon’s power play. I’m angry that no matter how hard I work, how carefully I plan, there’s always something I can’t control that threatens to destroy everything.”
My voice cracks.
Mal is there in an instant, pulling me into his arms despite the mop between us, despite the fact that I’m soaking wet and probably smell like industrial cleaner.
“You’re not alone in this.” His voice rumbles against my hair. “Whatever happens, you’re not alone.”
“I know.” I press my face against his chest, letting myself have one moment of weakness. Just one. “But it’s hard to remember that when the universe keeps throwing obstacles in my path.”
“The universe isn’t throwing obstacles. Azrael is. And Azrael has limitations. He’s powerful, but he’s not all-powerful. These small acts of sabotage—they’re signs of desperation, not strength. If he could stop us directly, he would. Instead, he’s playing games. Trying to wear us down.”
I pull back slightly, looking up at him. “So what do we do?”
“We don’t let him.” Mal’s eyes are red now, fully demonic, and there’s a fierceness in them I’ve never seen before. “We secure the studio. We rehearse the dance. We show up to the showcase and give the performance of our lives. And when I’m finally free of that contract, I’m going to personally introduce Azrael to the concept of consequences.”
Despite everything—the destruction, the stress, the bone-deep exhaustion—I feel a smile tugging at my lips.
