Page 3 of Demon Daddy's Hidden Daughter
The courtyard door stands slightly ajar when I reach it. Cool night air wafts through the gap, carrying scents I'd forgotten existed—growing things, earth, freedom.
I slip outside and immediately feel exposed under the star-filled sky. The estate grounds stretch in all directions, manicured gardens and ornamental trees that provide little cover. But beyond the main gate lies the road to town, and beyond that?—
A shout erupts from the building behind me. Then another. Someone has found him.
I run.
Gravel tears at my bare feet as I sprint down the winding drive. Behind me, lights flare to life throughout the estate. Voices rise in alarm, confusion rapidly shifting to anger as they discover their master's fate.
The main road stretches ahead, empty in both directions. I choose north without thinking—away from the harbor where he caught me, away from the heart of demon territory. My lungs burn and my legs wobble, but I force myself to keep moving.
A mile from his estate, I stumble across a trading caravan that met an unfortunate end. Bandits, most likely, given how the bodies were scattered and their goods ransacked. Among the corpse-littered campsite, I find what I need.
A traveling cloak lies tangled around its former owner's shoulders. The wool is stained with blood and road dust, but it's thick and dark enough to hide my torn clothing. I struggle to pull it free from the stiffening body, trying not to look at the man's face.
The cloak hangs loose on my diminished frame, but it covers me from neck to ankles. I pull the hood low over my face and return to the road, just another traveler seeking passage in the deep hours of night. Soon, I lose myself in the throngs of bodies in the center of the city.
A smuggler's barge waits at the next river crossing, taking on cargo by lamplight. The captain asks no questions when I offer him the few coins I pickpocketed in the crowd—payment for passage to wherever his route leads.
"Don't care where you're running from, girl," he says, eyeing my bloodstained hands. "Long as your coin is real."
I say nothing. Words feel dangerous now, as if speaking might shatter this fragile bubble of freedom I've carved for myself.
The barge carries me north for weeks, following waterways that wind through territories I've never seen. We stop at trading posts and river towns where I slip ashore to purchase supplies with the last of my stolen coin. Food, clean clothing, soft shoes for my healing feet.
But I never stop watching the faces around me. Never stop expecting to see familiar features, to hear someone call my name. To discover that his household has tracked me down.
Because I've done the unthinkable. I've killed a demon.
And demons, I know, never forget their debts.
The barge captain finally announces our last stop—a trading settlement north of Soimur, where golden-winged xaphan patrol the skies and demon ships dare not venture. Even traders like this one, it is rare for them to go both to the demon cities and the xaphan ones. It's farther than I'd ever dreamed of traveling, farther than I'd imagined the world extended.
But it's not far enough. It will never be far enough.
As I disembark with my few possessions tied in a bundle, scanning the crowd for threats that might not exist, I know this running has only just begun.
1
LENNY
Five years. Five years of running, hiding, never staying anywhere long enough to call it home. Five years of watching over my shoulder and jumping at shadows that might be nothing more than my own fractured nerves.
The northern market of New Solas buzzes with afternoon commerce, merchants hawking their wares beneath colorful canopies that flutter in the mountain breeze. The golden spires of the xaphan city gleam in the distance, close enough to promise safety from demon pursuit, far enough to avoid too much scrutiny from celestial authorities.
"Mama, look at the pretty stones!" Ava's voice cuts through the crowd chatter, bright and curious as always. She tugs on my hand, pointing toward a jewelry vendor's stall where polished gems catch the light.
"Quietly, little bird." I squeeze her fingers gently, pulling my hood lower over my face. "Remember what we talked about."
She nods solemnly, but her violet eyes still dance with excitement. At four years old, Ava sees wonder everywhere we go. Markets like this fascinate her—the colors, the sounds, the endless parade of different faces. She doesn't understand whywe can never linger, why we always move on just when she starts to feel comfortable somewhere.
Sometimes I envy her innocence.
We weave through the crowd, keeping close to the merchant stalls that line the market's edge. I've learned to read the flow of people, to spot the gaps where we can move without drawing attention. My daughter's small hand stays locked in mine, her trust absolute even when she doesn't understand our constant vigilance.
The coin purse hidden beneath my cloak holds barely enough for tonight's lodging and tomorrow's travel. We need supplies—bread, dried meat, clean water for the road ahead. But every purchase requires interaction, conversation, the risk of someone remembering our faces.
"Fresh brimbark! Sweet zynthra just in from the southern farms!" A farmer's wife calls out her wares, her weathered hands gesturing toward baskets of vegetables. The prices painted on wooden signs seem reasonable enough.
