WRATH: @Lyrielle went on a rampage and didn't invite us. Rude.
MADNESS: I thought we had an agreement. You kill something interesting, you send pictures. That was the deal, @Lyrielle.
TIME: Some of us are stuck in meetings for literal eons. @Lyrielle, the least you could do is share the entertainment.
These idiots.
As I scroll through their complaints, a new message pops up.
WRATH: !!! HOLD UP EVERYONE.
WRATH: @Lyrielle's reading us!
MADNESS: LYRI DARLING. Tell us EVERYTHING. Was there blood? How much blood? Did you make that little witch cry before you ended her?
TIME: I told you she'd check eventually. You owe me a tropical island now, Wrath.
WRATH: No fair. You probably peeked ahead.
I jab the exit button with my index finger, closing the app before they can draw me into their nonsense. Whose brilliantidea was it to create a fucking app for Divinities? Life was so much better when you could only communicate through prayer.
The elevator dings, and I shove my phone into my pocket.
Of course, it buzzes again. And again. And again.
If I didn't need it, I'd throw the damn thing into the nearest incinerator. Unfortunately, the app can't be uninstalled.
And no matter what phone I buy, it'll be on there. Even if I borrow someone else's. It's like the worst virus of all time.
When the doors finally open on Grace's floor, I stride out with purpose. The nurses' station is ahead, and three nurses are huddled behind it, gossiping about whatever and who cares.
"Where is she?" I demand.
The oldest nurse, her hair pulled back in a tight gray bun, glances at me. "I'm sorry, ma'am. May I ask who you're looking for?"
"Grace Harper. Room 3629."
The nurse with the gray bun blinks at me like I've asked her to explain quantum physics in interpretive dance. Or maybe she thinks I’m here to tag the walls and summon Satan in the cafeteria. I keep forgetting I dyed my hair in various shades of vibrant on a whim last week.
"Room 3629?" She turns to her computer, tapping away with frustrating slowness. I know she's old, but can't she at least learn to type like everyone else?
"Oh, wait, is that Danielle's room? The one with the girl who went to imaging, but then her record couldn't be accessed anymore?" one of the younger ones asks, looking over the old woman's shoulder.
"No, she was discharged. The record was just glitched for a few minutes." The other younger one.
"Ah, yes. It says here she was discharged," the old one says, after her snail-pace typing yields results.
"Thanks, ladies." Snail nurse was no help, but the little gossips were. Such darlings. Rumors have always made the world go round... not always for the better, but hey, sometimes they're actually useful.
Another buzz of my phone. Probably the stupid Divinities, but I check anyway, just in case.
Thankfully, I'm wrong.
CAINE:
Thom can't track her.
LYRE:
