"Save me, O God," the huntress whispers, boot-laden feet dragging along damp pavement. She has little energy left; it has been spent in war. Slashes and bruises adorn her body to show for it — it is not long before it finds where she is. "... for the waters have come up to my neck."
Clara grips a set of rosary beads in her hands. It is her last set; the others have been dropped into the large vats of water above her. Blessed — holy — the water will be the beginning to their end. And perhaps to hers too.
"I have come into deep waters, and the flood sweeps over me."
Suddenly, she feels it. An unmistakable presence. She is not alone. And she is counting on it.
'Are you praying, you pitiful girl?' A mocking voice coos from behind her.
Clara turns around, her lips turning upwards into a soft smile.
"Why yes, I am." She answers the query calmly, and her eyes meet with the pitch-black stare of the monstrosity behind her.
'It's no use. No one's coming to save you.' Trying to get under her skin; a tried-and-true tactic... but it is in vain. And the sin of vanity is one nearly all demons commit.
Clara tucks the beads into her pocket, her calm expression never wavering.
"You were born lost." Where her beads went into her pocket, her gun now comes out.
The demon laughs. 'That little thing won't work on me.' He steps closer, holding his arms out — enticing her to shoot him. 'Go ahead. Try.'
Wordlessly, Clara points the gun at the demon, who lets out an even louder laugh. She aims... and shoots — directly at the vat above his head.
Holy water rains down, and the demon's body begins to sizzle as he screams and curses at her.
From memory, she begins. "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas..."
The demon wails... and then... begins to laugh through the pain. 'Stupid girl,' he hisses, revealing a burnt seal on his arm, 'Nice try.'
Suddenly, the huntress is grabbed from behind. Reinforcements. She gasps, but the demon's arm is around her neck. She cannot utter a word. Clara claws at the demon, and somehow — perhaps by God's will — she manages to free her throat enough to speak one single word. A word she thinks of often but hardly dares to utter aloud. A powerful word — one that she now prays, pleads to: