Behind These Refuge Walls

"Did you read the book Vallin gave you?"

Black leather made no noise under my burning glare.

"What else am I supposed to do?"

Scientifically, werewolf and vampire canines have been proved to be extremely useful. Not only do they not hold the usual amount of calcium other teeth do, but they are made of an unknown material, strong, yet pliant when needed, allowing the creature to retract them at any time.

"Make sure no one finds it, Charlie. There's stuff in there it's better not to be found out."

Hell's creatures know no boundaries.

My eyes would have zoomed in, had they have had such powers. Demons. It held few pages of information and, unlike the rest of the chapters, it mostly presented an hierarchy, sketches and some things written in a language that could have been Latin, had it not been for the strange words that made no connection between each other and the strange signs within the phrases.

When the Fallen Star created his sons, he named them 'demons'. Their sole purpose is to spread Satan's seeds of destruction in the world.

His first creations failed him. Some were capable of too many emotions, other couldn't feel anything at all. Some were capable of destruction, other were not. He divided his sons into ranks, circles of children surrounding one flame. The closer the circle to the fire, the stronger Hell's child.

There are seven ranks of demons, each rank holding a specific feature. The seventh circle is formed of the majority of demons, of a variety of specializations (water demons, earth demons, air demons, spirit demons, fire demons). These minions have little connections to hell, as their powers are limited and the darkness in them is but a droplet, easy to be overcome. In such, they are found easily among humans and society, as they can live together with little harm. Most often, these are the demons born from the union of a demon with a human being.

Sixth rankers are the children who serve under witches under the shapes of animals. Though capable of bewitching people with the help of their masters of mistresses, their shape often proves a weakness.

The fifth rank is formed of the succubi or the incubi - demons who feed off lust and gluttony.

Within the fourth rank there are demons who were raised from the flames of lie, envy, greed, temptation and mischief.

Third rank occupiers are the drudes. Drudes typically take the form of an ugly, old, withered woman, who is, at the same time, very heavy. This old woman creeps into homes at night through the smallest of cracks and openings. Once in the room, the drude sits on the person's chest and possesses them. Drudes are also shape shifters and can appear as feathers, clouds of smoke, bumblebees, snakes or toads. They symbolize Lucifer's power to possess.

The demons who form the second rank are those who taint and bend fate and those who cause calamities. They are powerful and the most deceiving. These demons are those who wield spirit or fire and they take great pleasure in pain. They are irrevocably tied to Hell and, as the fifth, fourth and third ranks, dependent of evil.

The first rank is the smallest and there are few, if any, known demons to be a part of it. These demons are Lucifer's perfect creations, the last to be made; children beyond power imaginable to men. It is said that the Morning Star himself fed these demons with his blood. Unlike most of the other demons, these creatures have the emotion range almost as large as angels. They do not control elements, but evil.

The seventh creation of Lucifer benefits of freedom other demons may never have, yet their missions are far more terrible and their service for Hell are more painful.

"Charlie."

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

"James," I sighed, "I'm with you on this one. There's nothing to thank me for. I'm just...trying to get my head around things."

"Yeah, but you don't understand." While he kept saying that to me every time I phoned him, I knew how wrong he was. "You should have seen everyone's faces. It helped. You put some light on some things and even if it may not have been enough, Vallin was starting to seem optimistic."

Because ever since I phoned James that night with the events replaying in my head like a bad action movie that you still can't help but like, Vallin's team and head were set into gear. Not knowing the source of the information, they proceeded cautiously and I don't know what they did, but it seemed like Trix was connected to some people they had around in their database. I desperately wanted to get my hands on that, though convinced that I didn't show up in any documents.

Then I went to the warehouse the second time that week. Another fight. Another step closer to Abdul. And from a red haired Scott I learned that no one was allowed to speak of the trafficking. The secret name of it was The Wicked Market. If you knew that name, you were granted information. And that triggered another flooding of movement on Vallin's side of the camp.

I think that's where everything started.

"I'll see you tomorrow, alright?"

"Yeah. Jan says hi."

I believe in God. Or at least, I told myself, even as a child, that there was someone innocent in the sky who watched over us all. Still a child, I developed an image of how the world really was. Us, small toys, women and men, cars and bicycles, building and bridges, spread out on a patterned carpet. And handling us, moving us around and smiling dearly, is a child, a baby sitting on the floor with tiny legs in a Turkish position. Maybe the world catastrophes were the results of his tiny fingers overturning some of the playground's frail building or characters the size of ants - by accident, or out of innocent sadness, that perhaps one of the characters on his map decided to take the wrong path.

But I learned to have faith, because in the end, it's the one that no one but yourself can take away from you.

Pious I never was in the true meaning of the word, given that I did and said many things that came of the unholy and perhaps I was but ungrateful and deceivingly expectant when it came to God.

Because after every fight, after every arrogantly crooked grin or bleeding wound, I still hoped for Him to miraculously heal me. And damned I'd be, I told myself every morning when I faced my wounds. I had rarely had any fractures worth attending and my body seemed to swallow every hit and mold it into thin air. I was playing with fate every time I walked in a fight and yet, after and during every fight, someone up there was still looking out for me.

"You're lucky that you didn't lose sight."

Luck, I felt like reminding Nathan, was an ironically funny thing.

I limped, winced and blessed all that was holy...

The doorbell rang.

...because pain gives us the best and biggest excuse to curse and be angry at everyone but ourselves.

"Miss Sanders?"

The air around me went still. From the kitchen, I could have sworn I heard Nathan inhale sharply and freeze.

"Hey, John, nice to see you!" was my alter ego's falsetto voiced greeting.

"What happened, miss?" my dad's favorite driver questioned.

I went from cold to practically horrified in front of the middle aged man, who had respectfully taken off his hat. He fidgeted with it and regarded my face with a polite, concerned 'you-are-so-busted' look. I was. Busted, that is.

Because of all the fights I had been through, the one with Donovan had been one of the worst. If not the worst. The pain persisted and when I intensified with a second fight, I was sure that I had died and gone to Hell. And of all the things I would have wanted my parents to know, this was definitely not on the list.

John had been in my father's company for a good twenty years and I'd gotten to know his mannered, 'don't ask unless told to' character. Apparently he broke that one rule this time.

"Martial arts practice, John, I thought you knew better." Another way of saying 'If you say anything to my parents, I'll murder you'. Of course that threat doesn't work when coming from an eighteen year old, headed for a fifty year old.

"I brought your car," he amended, avoiding contact with my swollen eyes.

I forgave him when I caught glimpse of shiny keys and heard the unmistakable sound of jingling. There was none other on that planet but those keys and I...

"Mr. Sanders knows about the injuries, right?"

...and perhaps an annoying driver.

What dad and I talked was between us, I wanted to snap at him, but couldn't, out of hypocrite kindness of the heart and ethics.

"John, I'll talk to him myself. Can we please let go of the subject? Where's my car?"

"Outside, but--"

"Finally!" With the appraising voice came the teenager as well, walking the same proud walk his sister always had without knowing. "Hey, John..." Nathan gave me a short look, knowing of the mess we had to get out of. "You got your car back, Charlie?"

"Yes, sir. Do you want to come in, John?"

And usually, when someone tells you that, they're not very comfortable around you. And if you have the slightest decency in you, you leave, because you don't want to interfere with your affairs. John was barfing decency.

"I'll be on my way, Miss." He bowed slightly, like protocol required - I found it useless, because I was no Paris Hilton and dad was no billionaire. "And Mr. Richard would like to hear your voice every once in a while, miss, not just your brother's."

Yes, Nathan answered our parents' calls frequently and talked to them. I was still undergoing the rebellious teen phase. In some sort of unspoken promise, I waved at John as he drove off and instead focused on the shiny pitchfork on the radiator of a nearby car.

Home was a silver Maserati GranTurismo with cream-colored leather seats and.

My ankle did not like me driving. My ankle disapproved entirely of me driving. My ankle expressed its disappointment thoroughly by zapping me with whips of cold pain every time I ever so lightly touched the pedal. My left arm hardly showed any signs of sportsmanship, too. I did, however, argue with it and force it to hold the wheel every once in a while.

My teeth could easily turn into dust after five minutes of driving, but I remained positive after every appreciative or curious glance I got from other drivers or people on the street.

Because a car gives you a new perspective. Owning something gives you a new perspective and renewed confidence. And I enjoyed every second of being back behind the wheel, being able to take over the highway with a numbness-inducing speed.

When my ankle was on the verge of starting a revolution, Massey was already in front of me. Like a proud kitten savoring the light, I covered my eyes with a pair of the darkest Ray Bans I could find (perhaps a kitten does not have dark colored eyelids - color that hasn't been caused by makeup) and began to strut a limp - pained, but dignified.

The hallways were empty, making it a perfect room for me to imagine myself roller skating throughout the perfect old place. Granted, that couldn't be done with a leg and arm that refused to cooperate. Five seconds into my search through the main building, I began growing paranoic within my Sherlock Holmes state. I almost - if not surely - expected a beheaded horseman to come from behind the next corner.

It didn't happen.

Instead, I walked outside and looked straight at the football field, where a great population of ants had taken over. No, not ants, but Massey's students. There wasn't the great commotion as it was during the game, but there was some nervous rustling and uneven murmuring. Vallin was in the middle of the field, gesturing and speaking through a microphone. Students were lined up in the bleachers, while the first row, I noticed, was strictly for staff and teachers.

Most were listening intently to what Vallin was saying; some (I assumed those with the most sharpened senses) turned their heads in my direction. I stopped by some students who were left with no places in the bleachers, so they stood obediently by their classmates.

Out of the mass of keen students, I stood by the one who looked the most passive. He had brown hair, dark eyes and looked ready to fall asleep. I later learned that he could turn into a gargoyle whenever he wanted.

Shamefully, I took over a hunched position and put most of my weight on my good leg. Also shamefully, I couldn't seem to focus on anything around me - especially not on the heated conversations going on between Vallin and the students. It was as if my left side was egotistically spreading its numbness throughout the rest of my body. That, added to the lack of sleep (at 1 a.m., I came to the conclusion that my rest had met its end under painful circumstances).

"...I understand that you feel like this is an attack on you personally..." Vallin was saying.

"Isn't it?!" someone from the crowd retorted.

I yawned.

"They've made a point of humiliating us constantly. Everywhere we go, people know that Massey's a school for the retarded, thanks to Stratford!"

I suppose it wasn't just the mentioning of Stratford - a familiar name that regardless stroke a chord inside me - that made me shift in my position.

"Nice sweater, sweet cheeks. Did your granny leave that to you?...Just some Massey girl..."

Hearing the other end of the abuse felt more different than it should have. Maybe it was because of the victims' mythical nature when compared to plain Stratford students.

I found a supporting point in one of the bleachers' benches. Some students sitting looked down at me with typical, fleeting interest. Leaning against it with my right arm like an old man with a history of heart failures, I did my best to blend in and yet keep my ears trained.

"It's stupid! They're treating us like garbage all the time?" a dehydrated blonde tried to express her annoyance.

And aren't you supposed to be stronger than us, idiot humans?

I saw Vallin lightly shake his head with disapproval that desired hiding.

In the front row, teachers moved around to silence the students. A tall, tower-like form stood up from the lonely far end. Blood went cold in my veins. Stone showed no sign of seeing anyone around him (not that his area of the bleachers was populated to begin with) and stalked off towards the main building. As he turned, though, I could have sworn that he had seen me, for he stopped mid step and I finally saw his eyes.

Though I later blamed it on the lack of sleep, what happened then was most definitely something that I couldn't understand. A flash of dark green eyes. My body convulsed - a short, unwavering movement. And then I couldn't hear a thing but thumping. Loud thumping - hearts beating, bones cracking. And then there was nothing, not even air - especially not air.

"...and I hope that you will all take over that advice..."

I inhaled sharply, eying the distant form of the devil heading for the main building in a strong, fast pace.

"This isn't fair for us!"

Bullshit!, I felt like yelling. If they expected respect, they had to prove themselves worthy of it. Stratford stepped on them because they allowed them to. Cruel as the truth is, the bullying they kept complaining about would not happen if Massey would show some signs of being above us spiritually speaking.

Eighteen is no age to mature and I learned that with every new teenager I met. Because sometimes I feel too old around them, around classmates pushing each other and girls gossiping because otherwise, they wouldn't be able to communicate. And I know that this was as much Massey's fault as it was Stratford's, for they showed no signs that they weren't worthy of name calling and petty insults.

I pitied my classmates because despite the luxury that we had in common, their only reality was the one in front of the TV, chewing on drama and wearing Prada slippers. But the students of Massey Academy were supposed to be better - to know just how much more there is to this world.

Maybe they didn't see the irony, but it bit me like a cobra. People like Paige stepped on Massey and yet they were the ones going to a private school, benefiting of admirative funds, exploring and being offered a possibility to a mannered life - which, for me, valued more than a mansion decorated by stylists and your parents' money to shower in.

"...which is why I want you all to think this through. Now everyone off to classes."

Vallin had lost his patience. If there was one thing with people like him, I figured, it was that they refused to let anger or anything of the sort come through.

The field was quick to be left behind by mumbling students - annoyed faces leaving the area. They threw the responsibility to Vallin easily, but very few (if any) were those who saw the entirety of the coin.

"Charlotte."

"Hi, Vallin. I was just looking for James. Do you, by any chance, know where I can find him?"

He gave me a short answer, then smiled kindly and we parted ways. He may not have known at the time, but I had seen the hesitant, yet knowing spark in his eyes when he tried to see through my many layers of manners.

When I entered the gym, Ivan was in the middle of a flight across the room.

I froze in my spot, carefully standing still by the door, away from everyone's curious gazes. In the middle of the room stood a green haired guy, eyes radiating with colors that may or may not have been purple for the human eye. His hands were up in the air, as if holding something precious and on his skin I saw little veins, purple blood running through them.

Ivan laid still on the ground, under pieces of what used to be a wall designed for climbing. When he stood up, his arm glistened with red in the light.

On top of my throbbing ankle was thrown slight sickness.

"That was good," he acknowledged. The boy's hair turned brown, eyes lost the sparkle and skin returned to normal. He examined his teacher blankly, then grinned widely at Ivan's thumbs up. "Alright, I say we call it a wrap."

That got everyone moving, Ivan flexing his arm with a pleased, yet unnoticeable smile. He waved at someone near the students, yelling something about going to clean his arm.

Gillian, everyone's favorite bitch, was looking at the scene with sleepy eyes, bored with the imbecility surrounding her majestic self.

I felt like stabbing her.

As if feeling my resentment, she looked towards the entrance and scowled at me.

"What do you want?"

I slowly approached her and failed in whatever meek attempts I had to hide my limping leg and unmoving left arm. If this was any good news to her, she didn't show it, just yawned and glared at the students getting their bags.

"James invited me over."

Before she could retort, her gaze landed on the last few students (the slowest ones to leave).

"Hey, I know you!" I turned my head lightly in the direction of a spiky haired boy and gave him a questioning stare - incomprehensible through my aviators. In exchange, he gave a short laugh, filled with an 'I-can't-believe-this' shock as he grabbed his nearest friend, a sweaty boy no different than him. "Hey, Dan." He shook him. "Dan, isn't this that chick...erm..." He pointed his finger at me, trying to remember my name. "Yeah, yeah, I know you! You're from The Underground! Illegal martial artist!"

Many weeks after the incident, I would still replay that scene in my head and still I wouldn't be able to understand how I had been capable of such sudden stillness, awareness and cold.

While my own hostility was worthy of shock, nothing could beat Gillian. She'd gone red - and not the red that might have been a blush, an apology, an admiration; but the red that came with anger, borderline fury.

Brown molded with yellow in her eyes as she turned to look at me. Making it worse, I kept eye contact.

"Underground fighter." I think it was her voice that scared me most - awkwardly calm, expectant. "You little bitch, I knew you were playing us!"

"Gill-"

The last sounds of her name were absorbed by the floor. My cheek burned from the hit. She lunged (I had no time to see her; I didn't hear her). For the first time in my life, I was confused in a fight; it felt like I was in fight, but then I wasn't participating, because I saw no one around me.

I think I hit her (later, I grew certain that I had hit her when I saw her bleeding lip) because I heard a loud crack, the growl of a giant dog and then utter pain seizing my arm. I avoided her, I did, because most of the time I jumped and let her crash with her rage in anything around us.

And then she caught my neck.

I felt the thin air shortly before my spine absorbed the impact. Steel met bone in a horrible silence, then wood broke into pieces; came crashing down like a meteorite storm.

Why did you do that?!

I don't know.

She doesn't know.

Get up!

Can I get up?

I can't get up.

She can't get up.

Of course she can get up!

A string of long, incoherent curses flooded my mind. What was meant to be a thinking function turned into a cloud of smothering smoke. I lost feeling in several parts of my body. Shards appeared and disappeared underneath me.

I felt water falling onto me; liquid being poured on my head like lava. There was something pressing on my body, squeezing me like an angry child deflating their toys. I heard Gillian yell something above me.

Another roar echoed around the room.

"Gillian!"

A scream.

"That's enough!"

"Let her go! Oh my God, let her go!"

The pressure applied on my back disappeared. I was left with a bitter taste in the back of my mouth and lonely pieces of wood and something that was an awful like cement falling around me.

There was a continuous wheezing around me. I wondered if I was alive. Then, when the heat, the burning sensation came crashing down, I yelled and focused.

"That tramp's on their side! She's one of them!" Gillian was screaming incessantly.

It echoed deeply in my ears.

The gym looked like after the Civil War. The wall behind me was smashed - indeed, there was the biggest of holes in the cement, and we had successfully destroyed a good part of the bleachers as well.

Vallin was there. James was there. Two other students I didn't know were there (maybe they alerted someone of the sudden renovation of the gym?). Ivan and Liam were holding back a raging Gillian. All three were engaged in a constant movement, battling each other, while all the other people in the room were watching.

All but one.

I saw my hatred in those eyes. I saw my anger, my frustration, my disappointment (why were they blaming me?!). And then pain, but I didn't think it was mine, because I didn't feel any.

Stone's message was clear: get up. And when I did, pushing wood aside and leaning on a steel bar, I felt the heat again, eating at my insides and making me hate. He knew of the fire and did nothing as I glared at him, hoping for him to feel it, too.

"You scheming bitch!"

"Enough!" Vallin in all his disappointed glory.

"Don't you dare...don't you dare judge me! You don't know anything...anything about me!" I was sweating. My whole outfit was soaked. "I'm not the enemy...I helped..."

Some point during that speech, they told me, I had fainted. Which probably explained why I woke up to see the infirmary's ceiling and silence - the kind of silence you normally expect to find in an infirmary; as if you're watching the world, unmoving.

"There we go, honey." A sweet, familiar voice. "Hey, Charlotte. It's me."

Ooh, right. Me! How did I not recognize you!

"Just do it." I stiffened, the muscle in my arm flexing involuntarily. That voice I didn't know. Or, no, wait, maybe I had heard it, but I couldn't place it to any face.

A long phrase flowed around me - a song in a strange language.

The ringing in my ears - the ringing that I didn't even realize I had - disappeared. I felt my body relax, muscle loosing tension that had been forced into them.

"Can you sit up, honey?"

Could I?

I did and felt sick as the room began spinning.

"Okay, Charlie, I'll apply some quick spells. The pain will be all gone, I promise."

I didn't even hear the words clearly before I lost sight. There were lights around me, words tightening with my muscles. Pain dissipated into smoke. I could breathe, I could move.

It was as if Gillian's rage had never touched me.

The first thing I focused on was a pair of glasses and a pair of frowning eyes behind them.

"Never doubt my magic again, Cain!" she bit out. "You young people have no respect for those with a certain age."

The second and most important thing I saw was the intimidating form of a young man, standing a few ways from us with arms crossed over his chest. The air battled his skin, battled the heat radiating off him, but there was no escape: you couldn't breathe around him.

"Charlie!" I snapped. My head did a sudden rotation and I watched Sylvia with wide eyes. She inhaled sharply, then spoke with a calm voice, professional even. "Stone, get out, please."

I don't know what I expected that god to do, but when he did as told without hesitation, I was shocked. When a small click announced the closing of the door, the room was invaded with air.

"Breathe in. Now drink this."

I did. And then Sylvia watched me move my left arm (I could rotate it without feeling pain!). Then I moved my legs (I had no sprained ankle!). Under the same shock, I listened to her disapproval of my not attending the cut above my eyebrow. And then she said some other things, but I was taken by the way she acted - skeptical, canny, afraid could even describe it.

"You'd be surprised of the age of the magic that I used on you," she suddenly told me, calmly, sharing a story with an old friend. She paused. "He gets weird reactions from everyone, you know." Sylvia didn't say his name, as if she too was afraid of speaking of the devil when not allowed to. Already my heart was beating faster. Was that fear? Could he hear us? "Are you alright?"

"Hmm..." Help me.

Her eyes grew dark. Sylvia disappeared under a mask of worry, concern. She leaned closer.

"You'll know what he is. You may already know. But don't be afraid. No, never be afraid!" She paused, then in a bubbly tone, she said, "So how 'bout we take you to Vallin, huh?"

The door opened. The air around me disappeared. I fell into the void that had suddenly formed around me.