The possessed girl was seventeen, pale as wax, with black veins crawling up her throat like roots. But when the demon whispered through her — not in rage, but in a velvet, knowing murmur — it showed me a reflection of every woman I’d ever desired, twisted into one.

And the scariest part? It doesn’t need to lie anymore. We already believe the lie ourselves.

I learned that the hard way during the Rite of Ember Hollow. The possessing spirit called itself Samael’s Echo — not a prince of Hell, but something older. Something that feeds not on fear, but on want .

Not for food. For her .

Because the Echo isn’t gone. It’s just waiting for the next exorcist who mistakes lust for love .

Not the me who walked in there, anyway.

I almost said yes.