Heading to her room, a persistent headache pounded in Sara’s head. Her brain throbbed in her skull, as if it were contracting with an ache that caused dizziness, and black flooded her vision. Rubbing her temple, she unhooked her cloak, threw it over a chair, and flopped on her soft bed. Wiped out from the busy day, she curled into a ball in hopes of letting sleep take over so the headache would disparate.

When she left her father alone with Lucifer, she became restless, wondering if Michael would be safe. Her mind trailed over what happened throughout the day. Half of her emotions boiled with excitement at completing the mission; however, the other half shook with mild terror at how the simple task turned into a successful disaster.

What amazed her the most was that the Heaven and Hell bank strove to be equally unbiased with Galas. Behind the company’s meaning, it inspired her to wish that maybe one day the Harmonies and Infernals could live in harmony together.

And then, perchance, the supernatural race and mankind might be able to sync peacefully with one another. The endless battle between good and evil could be forever vanquished.

“Of course, humans as the most stupid species would try to suck out the blood from your veins to take your powers because they are dumb-asses enough to not understand that it’s impracticable to take Galas’ magic for its part of who they are, interconnected in their souls—impossible to take out in their DNA genetics and be put in someone’s genes.” Sal clarified.

The young assassin grumbled, “You aren’t real.” She rolled over and covered her ears with a pillow, her headache subsiding. She wished with all of her heart that there was tranquility between everyone. If she was being honest with herself, she lived in misery, locked up in the Realm with nothing to do.

Daggers poked at her sides. Sara had forgotten that she was still in her combat uniform, soaked in blood. With a groan at her dumbly forgetting and relinquishing the comfort of her warm bed—well, a bit damp and stained with blood.

After grabbing her pajamas, she hopped in the shower. The warm water washed away her worries and seemed to clear away her headache.

However, a new concern was brought forward. Who was this man pretending to be Thomas Pitch? Sara had her doubts about him. Sara had difficulty remembering what occurred those three days when the High-warlock was in prison.

The headache pinched at her brain. Wondering if the stress of today was getting to her, she squeezed her eyes and turned off the shower. Once she dressed in her favorite unicorn pajamas, her heartfelt vacant. When she dumped the wanted man in the cell, her heroic side didn’t blossom, being a good person and locking up a villain, but rather timid and feeling she wasn’t doing the right thing.

Her mind kept swirling as if she had forgotten something, like thinking they left a schoolbook at their college or misplaced their phone somewhere.

Trudging into her bedroom, her bed had new sheets and neatly folded blankets on the edge of it. She stared at the person stuck in her head suspiciously, narrowing her brows as if he were the one who freed Pitch.

“You’re welcome,” Sal mused. “You don’t have to sleep in your enemy's blood, although I did bathe in blood before. I didn’t like the way it was sticky on me, and the smell of iron does not suit me.” Titling his head to one side, his horns angled the same, he mumbled, “I prefer a fresh cologne scent.”

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Crumbling on her blankets and groaning at his obnoxious talking, the girl kept repeating those words in her head: He’s not real. She thought of him smashing the plate on her father and worried if she would ever be sane again.

“You only see a person that no one else can, perfectly normal,” Sal said with a quirky smile.

After a good glare at Sal that told him how much she hated his guts, Sara fixed her many pillows on her bed. Tiredness swept in, as did a tinge of guilt. Regret rang inside to capture the warlock because her father would eventually kill him.

Why did this death feel different than all the other monsters she had killed before?

Unlike the Infernals, who had a sinister aura to them, Pitch had strands of evil lurking around him, but Sara sensed he was a Gala who wanted to live his life. She chewed on her fingernails, wondering if he had harmed her.

Besides taking some pride in my father, he hadn’t done anything horribly—well, many Galas died at the bank today because of him.

However, was she no better than him? Sara had killed his warlocks without mercy. Was she also a villain in disguise without fully knowing it? Those people she murdered cold-blooded had families and friends. Not thinking once about what their lives were, she slayed them with no thought for those others' lives being destroyed.

When did she become the Angel of Death and take lives when perhaps it wasn’t their time? Even as the assassin her father wished her to be and a Prowler protecting humans, did she have an excuse to kill without a single thought?

No.

She could’ve used her powers to freeze the warlocks in their spot, but she was afraid to lose control of herself. Her father had always stated that whoever she assassinated deserved it. He trusted her instincts, but Sara found them at fault. Clawing her face, she sighed heavily with those deep thoughts poking at her.

Trying not to think she led the High-warlock to his death, something else gnawed at her. What else was she forgetting? She flickered her eyes at the clock, now reading exactly midnight.

Sal watched her perplexed stare at the pearl ceiling. He smiled, reading her stifling thoughts. A box magically appeared in his hands. “I have a present for you.”

“Um, why?” asked Sara, knitting her brows together in confusion. She sat up, and her hair spilled over her shoulders. With hate brewing at him, she tried to surpass her giddiness of a gift. She shook it, heard a rattle, and took the rainbow bow from the box, placing it on her head.

Lifting the lid, she wondered if it could be a bomb.

“It’s not a bomb, geez,” muttered Sal.

The girl’s face lit up. There was a pair of black combat boots with silver buckles on them. She shrieked out her delight and then clammed her mouth shut. “How did you know I’ve been wanting these?”

“That’s a stupid question; I know what you want,” replied Sal, but a smirk tugged on the corners of his mouth as she fitted on the shoes.

Wanting to ask where he got the boots, her excitement bubbled over. They fit perfectly, and she said in a murmur, feeling rude not to express her gratitude, “Thanks.” Blinking a few times and keying up on getting the assignment done of getting Pitch captivated, she had forgotten what tomorrow was—or today since the clock had struck midnight.

Gloominess coursed through her like warm acid, burning hurtfully into her veins and striking at her aching heart. Sara batted the emotions away, grateful for someone...even if that person seemed to come from nowhere, he recalled the importance of the day.

Sal read her mind, and he clarified, his red eyes blazing back her sorrowful gaze, “Happy Birthday, Sara.”