The Four Protectors

Forty Five

1st Person POV

It had been three days since Annabelle had talked about the man with the tattoo and they'd still had no luck finding him. It was like finding a needle in a haystack after all. I was sitting on the couch with Maia and Talia while everyone else was out trying to find clues.

"This search is pointless isn't it," Maia said hesitantly.

"Pretty much. But until we get a better idea or another lead, Annabelle isn't going to quit," Talia replied.

She sounded pissed and I didn't exactly blame her.

"With the unrest increasing as well, we need answers soon," Maia said worriedly.

Maia had reminded me of a flower before, delicate and sweet. Now the comparison was even more striking. A few tears had sprung to her eyes as she leaned against her sister for comfort.

Maybe it was time I stopped being so afraid of taking an aggressive approach to this mission. So far, I'd been happy to stand aside, doing research and investigating people because it meant no on was in danger but it also felt like we were doing something. Now I just felt like a coward.

People were dying from random attacks, distrust destabilizing a fragile unity that had held the supernatural world together for so long. I wasn't a shapeshifter anymore but what happened in this world would still affect my new one. Hiding behind foolish plans wasn't going to cut it for long.

But I was scared; more scared than I cared to admit to myself.

"You're thinking about something," Maia said.

That jolted me out of my thoughts.

"It's nothing," I replied lowly.

I was about to get up, knowing she'd only question me further, but Talia reached out a grasped my wrist.

"If you have some kind of plan than say it," Talia said firmly.

"Don't push her," Maia defended.

Her understanding made me feel less like a coward but Talia wasn't backing down despite her sister's reproach.

"I know you've been through a lot but so many more people will suffer just like you did if we don't put an end to this," Talia said.

There wasn't an ounce of sympathy in her voice, or in her gaze as she stood up to match my height. I knew she was saying the right things, articulating my own doubts without any of my fears. But the tone,

She could shove that tone up her ass.

Because after all that shit I was still here, standing, wanting to help and that had to count for something.

"You don't know half of it," I bit back.

"I get it. You're scared," she pointed out.

She didn't say it in an insulting or mocking way but the word still registered that way. I hadn't felt this frustrated in a long time and suddenly all the repressed words were bubbling out.

"No scared doesn't cut it. Scared is what I felt when my parents died and I was left to fend for myself alone in this word. Scared doesn't cut how I felt when my own mind, my own body, my thoughts, my emotions, everything that makes up who I am was suddenly replaced with a thirst for destruction. Scared doesn't cut how I feel now that we're going up against the very people that ruined me the first time," I lashed out.