Elle scrubbed her arms with the bristle brush, a rapid back and forth, praying each rough stroke would rip the magic from her thinning skin.
Undante seethed beside her. “Can’t change your blood, little demon girl. You should be grateful. You should be on your knees, praising the Dark Mother.”
“I’m not my father,” Elle said, her voice breaking.
“No? Look at this bloody mess.” Undante barked a laugh. “You’re eligible for the Dark Hall now. You’ve made your first kill.”
“No.” Elle scrubbed harder, tears dripping down her cheeks. “I’m not my father.”
It sounded hollow, just like her.
(Written for The Prediction. Challenge words: bristle, eligible, seethe)