Page 15 of Demon Daddy's Hidden Son
Zarryn tracks, clear and fresh, following the main trail until they suddenly veer toward the cliff edge. Scuff marks in the earth that speak of struggle. Dark stains on the rocks that could be blood if I let myself think about what that means.
And at the base of a steep ravine, partially hidden by undergrowth—pieces of a zarryn's tack. Torn leather. Broken buckles. The metal fittings bent and scored by what look like claw marks.
No body. Neither human nor zarryn. But the evidence tells a story I don't want to accept.
"Mountain kilmars," the guide says grimly, examining the damaged tack. "Pack hunters. Smart enough to coordinate attacks, strong enough to bring down a zarryn if they catch it in the wrong place."
The words hit me like physical blows. I sink to my knees beside the ravine, staring at the torn leather that represents the last tangible connection to the woman I love. She's gone. The world has taken her from me just as I always feared it might, and I have no one to blame but myself.
I should never have let her go. Should have missed the licensing meeting, hired a dozen couriers, abandoned the Vaelthorne commission entirely rather than risk her safety. But my pride, my reputation, my damned sense of responsibility to clients who will forget my name within a month—all of it seemed more important than keeping her safe.
The guilt is going to destroy me.
But not as much as losing her will.
8
KALEEN
The first contraction hits me like a lightning strike just before dawn, doubling me over as I tend to the small fire in my cottage. For weeks, my belly has been tight and heavy, making even simple tasks feel monumental. But this—this is different. Sharp. Insistent. A force I can't negotiate with or push aside.
I ache for someone's presence as it does. Who? I'm not sure. They are just a shadow in my dreams, a phantom with silver-blue eyes who feels real but can't be. I can't even remember much more than that. The midwife says pregnancy can make memories strange, that my mind might be creating comfort where none exists.
Another wave of pain crashes through me, and I grip the wooden chair until my knuckles turn white. The fire pops and hisses, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls of the cottage Callen built for me when my condition became obvious. A refuge. A place where the village's questions can't follow quite so eagerly.
I manage three stumbling steps toward the door before the next contraction drops me to my knees. This baby wants out, and it wants out now.
"Help." The word comes out strangled, barely audible over my ragged breathing. But Veylowe is a small village where sound carries, especially in the pre-dawn quiet. Within moments, I hear footsteps on the path outside.
Derri bursts through my door without ceremony, her dark curls escaping from a hastily-tied braid and her healer's bag already in hand. She takes one look at me crouched on the floor and immediately shifts into the calm efficiency that makes her Veylowe's most trusted midwife.
"There we are," she murmurs, helping me to my feet with gentle but firm hands. "Let's get you to bed, love. This little one's decided today's the day."
The next hour passes in a blur of mounting pain and quiet preparation. Derri sends someone—probably young Pez—to fetch the other women. Soon my cottage fills with familiar faces: Marnai with her iron-gray braids and steady presence, Brisa carrying an armload of clean linens and herbal remedies, even stern Tolle hovering near the doorway with his bag of emergency supplies.
They move around me like a well-rehearsed dance, these women who have delivered half the children in Veylowe. Brisa boils water and prepares herbal teas. Marnai positions herself at my head, offering sips of meadowmint tea between contractions and murmuring encouraging words. Derri examines me with practiced hands, her expression focused but reassuring.
"Everything looks good," she announces. "Baby's positioned well. You're strong, Kaleen. Your body knows what to do."
I want to believe her. But as the labor intensifies, primal fear claws at me. Not just the normal terror of childbirth, but something deeper. The persistent feeling that I don't belonghere, that I'm playing a role in someone else's life. That this baby growing inside me is connected to mysteries I can't unravel.
The pain builds in waves, each one stronger than the last. I lose track of time, of everything except the relentless pressure and the encouraging voices around me. Somewhere in the haze, I hear Derri telling me to push, her hands steady and sure as she guides my baby into the world.
And then—suddenly, miraculously—relief. The absence of pressure so complete it leaves me gasping. A thin, angry wail fills the cottage, and my heart simultaneously breaks and heals at the sound.
"A son," Derri announces, her voice warm with satisfaction. "A beautiful, perfect son."
She places him on my chest, this tiny creature who's been sharing my body for months. He's slippery and red-faced, his dark hair plastered to his skull, his tiny fists already waving in indignation at this cold, bright world. But his eyes?—
His eyes are the most startling silver-blue I've ever seen, flecked with gold like captured starlight. They're ancient eyes in an infant face, wise and familiar in a way that makes my breath catch.
"He's perfect," I whisper, tears in my eyes. And he is. But that ache grows stronger as I look at him. Those silver-blue eyes…
The women exchange glances over my head. I catch the look—sharp, knowing, carefully neutral. Brisa's bangles jingle softly as she leans forward to get a better view of my son, and I see her expression shift from wonder to something more complicated.
Derri's hands are gentle as she cleans the baby, but I notice how she pauses at his back, her fingertips tracing small bumps along his shoulder blades that I can barely see. Tiny protrusions, no bigger than pearl buttons, but distinctly there.
Wing buds.
