The demon's bullshit faded into the background, all but the one important note that it had inadvertently let slip. Someone did have her soul, but apparently needed it in its entirety. But why hers? His gaze, which had gone out of focus as he thought, flitted back to Wanda, the demon's voice coming back a shrill to his ears. It was right, Daimon knew that. If he removed the parasite, that could very well be it for her. The possibility that he could lose Wanda put a dull ache in his chest and he cursed himself. After this, he planned to walk out of her life and not look back. What they had was history, a small chapter in each other's lives that he wouldn't revisit, and fuck that abominable sack of filth for bringing it up. At least if he never saw her again, he would've walked away knowing she was alive. That he'd done his job and that was it. And now, watching her die was a strong possibility. This wasn't supposed to be personal. He wasn't supposed to care this much. No. The glow of his eyes flared up, his blood boiled in his veins. Wanda wasn't broken yet.
"Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos, Domine..." Denial overcame his internal turmoil, each word hissed with great conviction. Daimon called salt and Holy Water to his hands, splashed it on the monster's face. His spell gave birth to ritualistic symbols, much different from the traditional Christian lore, and levitated, forming a crescent around the host's body. The Son of Satan was going to win this war, this heinous miscreation be damned.