to hell and back.

Both of my hands are folded tightly around the gun. I am shaking uncontrollably and sweating profusely. My ears are still ringing from the gunshot, and my lower lip is quivering like a frightened child's. There is a new, queasy feeling in my stomach, something I have never felt before. It is like a black hole, starting in my gut and eating me from the inside out, an unstoppable virus that's going to attack my cells until I die. It's so unpleasant and irksome that I briefly consider shooting myself, just to get all of this over with.

A finger must have touched the universal time clock and held the hands into place because time slows down. I become hyper-aware of everything around me. The air rapidly becomes thicker, clogging my windpipe. Angel is standing to my left, shocked and confused, and the vibrations coming from his body swim through the air until they reach me, stopping so I can acknowledge them. My eyes are trained on the office door, which is only half open. If I close it now, the gap between Alastor and I will close, but not for long, I assume.

I shot him. But he isn't dead.

"Why... wh-wh-why?" I stammer.

When the bullet connected with Alastor's head, his body barely moved. He stumbled backward with bewilderment, and his smile momentarily crumpled. My gaze stuck to him, waiting for his muscles to relax in the way that a dead person's do, but they never did. In less than a minute, he regained his domineering posture, allowed his neck to crack back into its former place, and smiled a wicked, hungry, ghastly grin.

"Why aren't you dead?" I whisper, my voice breaking. Breaking like the sanity in my head and the fear in my gut.

Alastor remains mute. So I fire the Glock again.

He still does not fall.

"Oh my God."

I fire again.

Nothing.

"Die! Why the fuck won't you die!"

"That's not how it works around here, sweetheart," he says callously. His words are so cold that it sends chills down my spine like a bucket of ice would.

I don't know what to do, but I don't have much time to act. Alastor could attack me at any minute. His skinny, black cane is in his hand, and he has poised himself in a way that makes it look like he wants to stab me with it.

Angel nudges the side of my arm gently. "On the count of three, you run, okay?" he says. I nod.

Alastor looks at Angel, then back at me. His eyes narrow slightly. "What are you-"

"Three!" Shoving past me, Angel tackles Alastor to the ground in a mound of arms and legs. For a moment, I am frozen still, staring at Alastor's disheveled face, but the hallway is now clear.

This is my chance to escape him.

Holding my Glock tight, I run as fast as my legs will take me. When I approach the end of the corridor, I slow down for a minute, only because I don't know where to go. Then I get an idea.

Telling myself that I can go faster, I run through the hotel and bound through the main doors. Once outside, I swivel to my right and continue on. I have to make it. My heart is pumping hard, fighting to keep up with my pace. The adrenaline is wearing off, leaving me feeling dead and slow. My legs begin to ache, having been overworked, but I don't stop running until I reach my destination.

The club that Vaggie had taken me to before my interview. The place where I told her that she looked nice in her dress. Pastel white. It looked perfect against her grey skin and flowing white hair.

I reach the doors of the club and push them open, gasping for air. I skim through the crowd for anyone that I recognize but see nobody.

I make a split second decision and run for the dressing rooms. To my surprise, nobody is in there. The door does not have a lock, so I push a small chair up against it as a blockade. Once the door looks as guarded as it can be, I lean against the wall next to the door and place my hand on my chest as an effort to sooth my breathing.