Damsel[ed]: No Rescue Required

Chapter 32: Beauty and the Beast

Cat.

Rescuing Angelos means more to me than it should.  He doesn't deserve what's happening to him, and besides, he has a nice face and can kiss okay. He's some girl's soulmate, and I can't deprive whoever she is of her future husband.

He stares at his murder weapon, so mad and scared it's painful to watch. A sinking feeling forms in my gut. He'll destroy himself in the name of 'protecting others' unless I stop him. I shouldn't care, but I do. I swirl the rope through the air, taking aim.

CRACK! The loop misses, catching his forearms instead of the sword. Dammit! My heart pounds so fast I'm scared it'll burst. If I fail, Angel dies.

"Jay?" He flexes against his restraints. They snap. Crap. I throw myself at him, snatching a fistful of his hair as we crash to the floor. He yelps, bringing the sword near his neck. I dig my nails into his wrist, the obsidian edge inches from his delicate throat.

"Don't make me use my power," he says. I roll my eyes, digging my thumb into a pressure point.

"Don't tell me what to do," I say. Angel glares. Pressure mounts on my throat, tightening like a noose. I gasp to breath. Angel's hand shakes, black spots blooming in front of my eyes. I think of Darth Vader and it clicks.

This lunatic is force choking me! Oh, heck—freaking—no! The room whirls with each wheeze. The words stab the inside of my throat, but I get them out anyway. "Dude! What's your problem?"

Angel's eyes go huge, his lips quivering. "Oh my God..." His hold drops for a split second. His fingers twitch, falling open like flower petals. I don't give him time to gain his composure. I snatch the sword by the blade and thrust the obsidian under his chin. The weapon glows white, my blood dripping down the blade. It reminds me of crimson snow.

The pressure explodes back on my neck, his aura flaring like a forest fire. I grit my teeth and hold on for bloody life. "Angel..."

His eyes zip back to their original black, his aura flickering once before dying. He stares at me, face pale, wide eyes half uncomprehending. His blood streams red, and he lies there, limp like a pile of fish (I get it, my metaphors suck). 

When he finally speaks, his words come clipped and shattered, so much pain in them my stomach flops. "What did I do to make you hate me so much?"

Heat flushes into my veins and words tumble out before I even think them.  "You're the chosen one," I say, "you're tall, you have the one power everyone's wanted since the beginning of time, and you're good looking.  And what did you have to do to earn that? Nothing! You just have the right parents and a pinch of genetic engineering. You're as incompetent as Chekov!"

"Chekov? Is he, like, the Star Trek equivalent of Jar Jar?"

Not even close. Star Trek—at least the original series—doesn't have Jar Jars. Even the youngest and most naive of the crew is good at what he does. That's probably why I like the show so much. "No."

He touches my face. I wince. His fingers slip down my ripped skin, the tingling sensation so strong I can almost feel my powers draining away.

"I'm so sorry," he says, frowning, "I didn't mean...I...I..." He closes eyes, flopping back against the carpet. "You should've just let me take myself out."

Yeah, right. I don't want his death on my conscious. "No," I say, pushing his hands away. "It's your power. You need to learn to control it."

He groans. I pull the blade away, tucking it into my belt. In my peripherals, Gatsby stuffs his hands in his pockets, watching Angelos with the guiltiest expression.