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With chalk in one hand and a crystal in the other, Luke slammed open the book of arcana and began copying the symbols on the wooden floor.
“It’s not going to work,” the fury said, standing in the center of his chalk drawings, her arms folded, feigning a little yawn.
“Cute,” he snarled. “If this doesn’t get rid of you, I’ll keep trying until I find something that does, because that was the last fucking straw!”
“Oh, come on,” she said, calmly stepping over the chalk lines that should have imprisoned her. “The last straw is an aborted booty call?”
So, symbols weren’t going to trap her.
“Time for Plan B,” Luke said, dusting chalk from his hands. He rifled through his supplies and found a canister of salt. But as he poured a white grainy line in front of her, she contemptuously ground the salt into the floor with the heel of her boot.
“Someone has been watching too much television,” she said.
There’d never been time for television. Granddad had always told him that the so-called boob tube would rot his brain. So he spent all his time working, studying or training for battle. He just hadn’t expected to be at war with a supernatural creature.
Plan C involved a vial of holy water and an incantation. As Luke began to recite it, the fury rolled her eyes. “Your Latin is a little rusty.”
“Yeah?” Luke sneered. “Go to hell.”
“Hades is where I’d go. If I could die. Which I can’t.”
Of course not. That’d be too easy. Luke pulled the cork on the vial with his teeth, then splashed her with it. The holy water hit her right in the face, stopping her in her tracks and, to Luke’s immense satisfaction, wiping that smug smile right off her mouth. Blinking droplets out of her eyes, she cried out and her hands went to her cheeks.
“It burns!” she screamed. “It burns! Get it off!”
The horrible sounds she made stabbed him with guilt. Damn it, he didn’t want her to suffer. He just wanted her gone. Before he thought better of it, Luke was reaching to get her a towel, but not before she fell to the floor, convulsing with laughter.
“Oh, I’m melting!” she howled at his expense.
“You’re a bitch,” he said, gritting his teeth.
“I’m a fury. Not a bitch, not a witch. And my kind came into existence long before angels or demons. But you are a sinner.” Luke had always associated the idea of sin with the god he’d been raised to worship, and she saw his surprise. “Oh yes, the ancient Greeks understood sin. We called it by many different things, such as hubris or hamartia, but given the way you butcher Latin, let’s stick with English. You’re a sinner, Luke. And there’s only two ways this can end between us. Either you atone or I drive you to madness.”
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