One of the possessions let go of its squirming victim and stepped forward, stumbling towards the witch. Its limbs moved with jerks, like a puppet guided by a novice puppeteer, and the candle flames flickered with fear as it passed. The malignant apparition rose behind Vincent, tendrils of black filling the vaulted ceiling above him with darkness, and the air was cold and smelling of burning spice again. He raised his hands up in front of him, palms towards the floor.

“Hold on just a minute, I don’t think we’ve discussed this all the way.”

“Talking done.” Mathilda declared, and handed the mirror shard to the possession’s outstretched hand. “Your body serves my Lord.”

The possession stumbled towards him, its eyes dead and milky. It would have been a woman, when it was alive. Remnants of a long summer dress twisted around its legs as it walked.

Did this woman also lock Mathilda up in darkness, where only Anathael would hear her cries?

“Mathilda, this isn’t going to work — stop for a second, and just let me — let me help you.”

The damned possession now stood in Vincent’s way, if he wanted — or needed to — take the shortest route to cave in Mathilda’s nose. Its dress also blocked his direct line of sight to her eyes — and hers to him, so he took the opportunity to scoot forward as much as he dared.

One step and he could throw himself at the witch — but the possession posed too big of a question mark for him to risk it. It stumbled towards him some more — then jerked its hand up like a rusty automaton, thrusting the shard towards Vincent. A droplet of Mathilda’s blood skittered down one jagged edge.

“The hell do I need this for?”

Mathilda giggled.

“Cut.” She said, and ran her finger across the outer part of her forearm. The possession thrust the shard towards him.

“Uh, I’m not quite this desperate yet — thanks for the way out, though.” Curse him and his dumb fucking mouth. “How about—”

She screeched like an angry cat.

“Cut!” She repeated, then sliced her finger across her forearm again. “Cut your — your mark.”

Fuck. The soulbind. She knew about it.

And its unfortunate weakness.

“I’d really rather not do this, Mathilda,” Vincent warned.

The possession in front of him thrust the mirror shard at him again. He probably could use it as a weapon to stab her — and deal with the demon-in-a-witch-outfit immediately after, before Anathael gained full control.

One of the kids still in one of the other possession’s grasp started to wheeze, mouth dropping open. Vincent leaned to his left, to catch Mathilda's eyes through the tattered flaps of the possession's sleeve.

“Okay, okay,” he took the shard from the possession, taking care to avoid touching the slimy flesh. “That — that kid, Mathilda, he needs to breathe. Release him, yeah? And I’ll do what you ask.” He wiggled the shard in his hand.

The portly possession with a handlebar mustache that was choking out the kid went slack, dropping the small frame to the ground. He hit the ground like a sack of potatoes, eyes still wide between grimy mousy-brown bangs, but the shaking and rapid rise and fall of his chest indicated that he was still… around.

The other possessions quivered, like they were being reset. Their fingers re-adjusted their grip on the remaining five scrawny necks.

“Cut.” Mathilda repeated. Vincent bit his lip and started to slowly undo the buttons on his left sleeve. The fabric stuck to his skin — probably with sweat. Pulling on the fabric felt like trying to peel a burn.

Could he handle a Nomen-class demon inside his skin without the soulbind?

The prospect didn’t seem that enticing — but the kid that was almost chocked out was still shaking on the ground, staring at Vincent with two gigantic green eyes.

Best case scenario, bud. He could contain Anathael inside his body long enough to get through the Third Chant and send the slithering fuck back down to where he came from. That would also render Mathilda’s magic inoperable until she could re-establish her soul’s connection with him (which would take time, patience, and a multitude of burned offerings), which meant the possessions would no longer respond to her command.

Which meant this whole situation would get wrapped up in one giant fucking bow.

Worst case scenario?

Well, technically there were several. And considering how Vincent almost lost the earlier encounter with the demon, they were all much less… elegant.

Mathilda scowled at him, and he smiled back, raising his arm towards her to demonstrate just how close that mirror shard was to the ink of his soulbind. Moving simultaneously like molasses and also at break-neck speed, the first sharp edge of the broken glass pricked the oddly-pink skin directly above the outer edge of the tattoo.

He sucked in a breath, swallowed.

Here goes nothing.

He leaned the shard into his skin, watched it deform under the edge, not quite breaking…

And then the room lit up in a brilliant white.