Page 147 of The Girl Who Should Be Dead

It’s another horror.

There’s anti-demon, anti-Wight, anti-ghosts and spirits, anti-spells, everything. More protections than Ambra would ever think to tie into one location, and the upkeep must be an insane drain of power on him.

And somewhere, in this narrow house, is Gurlien.

Ambra exhales, pushing the air through her abused lungs, and it’s not calming not quite yet. If the girl wasn’t still in the house, she could expand through the entire space, fill it up, know anything and everything, but as it is, doing so would put them at intense danger. She’d be able to concentrate on one person, not so many.

And the other demon would almost certainly fight back.

Another room, this carpet lush against her toes, and it’s the room he teleported them to before separating, the dusk light streaming in. Her throat catches at the site, at howdifferent it is than the cold light of stasis and the dimness of the previous rooms.

It’s like it’s a different house entirely, momentarily disorienting her. More portraits, full of different families, line the walls.

She steps lightly onto some cold tile, in an unused kitchen. A thin layer of dust covers a kitchen mixer, and the stove has no stains of grease or food, the refrigerator unplugged and silent.

With each pace forward, her dread grows.

With each moment that he doesn’t realize she’s not in the stasis, with each option for him to discover that, the chance of getting caught increases.

But on the other side is another staircase, narrow and bare, with no pictures on the walls leading up.

Ambra palms her multi tool. It’s not a perfect weapon, far from it, but it won’t rely on her powers, which he could take away with a thought.

Not that he couldn’t control her hand, either, but it’s a little cool reassurance.

Her foot on the first step creaks, and she freezes, but there’s no other sound. No sound of another person, no sound of a discussion or a battle.

In the opposite of Nalissa, he had hated extra noise.

He probably even warded it so that no noise would reach him unless he allowed. No distractions, nothing.

So following the blind faith that the demon hadn’t lied, Ambra pushes herself up the stairs, clutching at the textured wallpaper to prevent herself from wobbling over. Her knees are still unsteady, protesting the motion, but still, she climbs.

The staircase narrows, the walls pressing closer to each other, until surely it must be difficult for someone withwider shoulders than her to comfortably pass. The skin on her elbows graze the textured paper, sending shivers across her body.

Still no other sound. Still no other evidence of Gurlien being here, other than the fact that it must be within 45 meters. Any of the doors on this floor could lead to him.

There’s a single hallway, and all the doors are closed.

“Okay,” she whispers, and her words deaden in front of her, completely falling away from her ears.

She didn’t realize she had such strong opinions about child rearing, but something firm inside her rebels at the idea of making a house so you couldn’t hear that your kid is in trouble.

Especially with some sort of demon in the basement.

Careful, she twists one last bit of power into herself to heal her chest a bit more, give her whatever advantage she can, then steps on the hall.

Immediately, wards swirl around her feet, mild ones, barely biting into her bare skin. They wouldn’t hold back a demon, they wouldn’t hold back a moderately competent spell weaver.

They might hold back a child who didn’t understand it.

Lifting her head down the hall, she exhales, pushing her power out of herself, letting the tendrils creep along the floor, whisp along the wards, illuminating the path.

Footsteps glisten towards the last door of the hall, someone strongly powerful dragging another person, the afterimage of the magical trace vivid against her eyes for a split second before fading.

There.

Her heart jumps, her fingertips shaking, but before she can lose her will, she strides there, putting more confidence than she feels into her motions.

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