Pride was this particular demon's favorite sin, and it had a nasty habit of underestimating its foes. The monster had heard of Daimon's parlor tricks, of course, but it was no lesser demon itself, and Hellstorm was merely the disgraced son of a Hell Lord that could barely keep control of his own realm. Hellstorm was no real threat. What the demon expected were a few ineffectual rites from Daimon while it tormented him with its torture of the host body. It would destroy her will to live so completely, bring her so near to death, that it could claim that last shard of her soul and depart, triumphant, to its master.
Except, that wasn't how things were going at all. The surprising effect of the holy water was offensive. The blood ritual and Sumerian chants were downright alarming. Satan's son was powerful than the demon could have imagined. The thing hissed at him, its perpetual smirk faltering into a scowl. Now it had to rethink its plan; its exorcism was apparently imminent. Time to get this show on the road.
The monster turned its attention inward, dragging Wanda's consciousness into dark places, through her worst memories, feeding on her fears. Its terrible whispers became howls and jeers, threats and lies, convincing her that she was powerless, worthless. Weakening the vessel to consume its soul was as much a physical task as a mental one, and the demon's influence over Wanda's mind had lessened in the weeks of her heavy anesthesia and its own debilitation. At least, it consoled itself, Wanda's was an easy spirit to break. Free of the impairment of a constant barrage of energy and growing desperate, it shored up its strength to fight back. The plan had changed, it would work fast to devour the soul shard and escape. The demon was running out of time.