Chapter 4
DAEMON
Ifucking hate snow.
Even as a kid I never liked the cold, but after wasting two-thirds of my life freezing my ass off in Dyaspora, I’ve developed a special kind of loathing for it.
Today, though, the snow doesn’t look quite as bad as usual.
The road to the village is picturesque, the snow falling in fat flakes.
Red ribbons flutter from the lampposts, and someone has wound pine garlands around the trunks of the oak trees.
When we reach the high street, the decorations are even more excessive.
Candle flames dance in every window, baubles hang from rafters and a burst of laughter and the chorus of an old drinking song spill from the pub’s open door as a man stumbles out, his cheeks flushed with ale and firelight.
In contrast, my friends and I are silent and stoic as we walk.
They don’t typically like snow either, but I know that’s not the problem. Fox, Jett, and Kastian decided to tag along on my search for Nikolas’s missing grandchildren, and the seriousness of the situation is affecting all of us. Even Jett, who is always smiling, scowls darkly.
He doesn’t say it, but I know what he’s thinking. Nobody wants to be the one to find out the missing kids are actually…well, missing.
Ellender is a dangerous place, and sometimes people disappear. Jett was one of those kids who ended up living on the street with a pack of other orphans and runaways. He’s never told us exactly how he ended up there, but I wonder if this situation hits too close to home.
“Where are we even supposed to start?” Jett asks, cutting into my thoughts. “Do we just go door to door? Or search the woods?”
“Kids don’t just vanish,” Kastian cuts in. “They always have a reason to run, or a place they like to hide. If we find out where that is, we’ll find them.”
“I don’t know where to start,” I admit. “I’m hoping it will help to talk to their teacher. Maybe she knows where they typically go to play.”
Fox reaches up and dusts snow from his blonde hair. “It’s cold,” he says, stating the obvious.
I throw him a sideways look. If it were Jett making such an obvious statement, I’d tell him to shut up and use his brain, but with Fox I’m inclined to take him more seriously.
Fox isn’t much of a talker, but after knowing him for decades I know that his lack of talking isn’t because he has nothing to say.
He’s probably the smartest of all of us, and doesn’t explain himself because he thinks whatever has already occurred to him should be obvious to everyone else.
Like, when I asked why he’d sent Nikolas to talk to me, he just said: “They’re kids,” and left it at that.
“What’s your point?” I ask.
He looks sour, like he always does when he has to explain himself. “They disappeared last night, and it was cold then too. If they’re still alive, then they would have taken shelter somewhere. We should be looking for them in caves or abandoned houses, not in their schoolyard.”
I cock my head. “Fair enough, but I still want to talk to the teacher and maybe some of the other children.”
He shrugs. “As long as it doesn’t take too long. It’ll be dark soon.”
I nod grimly, and put my head down as we all walk a bit faster toward the school.
We find the teacher in the school courtyard, where children in half-finished pine cone crowns and garlands of mistletoe and ivy shuffle through some kind of synchronized dance.
As we draw closer, I notice how dejected the children look. A boy drops his ribbon wand. A girl’s eyes well with tears as she stares at two empty spots in their formation.
The teacher claps her hands twice to get the children’s attention, then freezes mid-motion when she spots us at the gate. Her smile stretches too wide as she smooths her apron and curtsies so quickly she nearly loses her balance. “Your Majesty!”
The children pivot toward us, their faces droopy and sad. I lift my hand in greeting. The teacher’s voice rises an octave. “Everyone rest for a moment,” she calls, then adds with sudden sharpness, “Stay where I can see you.”
“Afternoon,” I greet her, closing the space between us. “Are you Madam Merriweather?”
“Yes!” the woman gushes. “Are you here about the children’s procession? I wouldn’t have expected you to come personally, but I’m sure they would be happy to show you what we’re working on.”
“The children’s procession?” I echo, confused.
“For the wedding,” she clarifies.
It takes me a long moment to understand what the fuck she’s talking about, then I vaguely recall a conversation between Alix and my mother about the local school children from the village helping to carry the train of Alix’s dress. I didn’t realize that would require so much rehearsal.
“No, actually. We’re here about two missing children.”
The teacher’s face falls. “Oh. Of course, I should have realized. Would you all like to step away with me for a moment? The children are traumatized enough as is by the disappearance of their friends. I’m trying to stay upbeat because I don’t want to upset them further.”
As if on cue, a small girl with blonde braids tugs at the teacher’s skirt. Her bottom lip trembles as she whispers, just loud enough for us to hear, “Did the witch take Gwen and Archer?”
The teacher’s face tightens. She crouches down, smoothing the child’s hair with a practiced gentleness. “No, Lily. There’s no witch. Remember what we talked about?” The girl nods, but looks unconvinced, her eyes darting toward the edge of the woods beyond the courtyard.
The teacher jerks her head toward the hallway and we all follow her outside.
“See?” she asks. “They’re all convinced that Archer and Gwen were taken by the Yule witch and nothing I say can convince them otherwise.”
I grimace. I hadn’t given a second of thought to the Yule witch—it’s just a legend meant to discourage kids from wandering off. Even when I was a child myself, I never believed it. But, then again, no one I knew ever disappeared like Archer and Gwen.
“Can you tell us about the children?” I ask.
Madam Merriweather sighs and runs a hand through her hair. “They’re both such wonderful students. Gwen is eight. She’s very bright and enjoys reading. Archer is twelve. He’s been a bit of a handful this year, but overall a good boy.”
“A handful in what way?”
She shrugs. “He’s old enough that his magic is a little unpredictable, but it’s not his fault. He’s never meant to break anything or cause trouble.”
Madam Merriweather points toward a window that I only now notice is broken. “He did that just last week, I haven’t gotten around to fixing it yet. Whenever he gets startled or angry, things break but he’s hardly the first twelve-year-old boy I’ve taught to have that problem, he’ll grow out of it.”
We all nod in general understanding. I vividly remember how at the same age I couldn’t get a handle on my magic either. I once tried to turn on a lamppost and it exploded.
Without thinking, I raise a hand toward the window and the glass immediately knits itself back together. The teacher offers me a genuine smile. “Thank you.”
“So both the kids have magic, then?” Kastian asks. “Do most of the village children practice magic or are they unusual?”
“I wouldn’t say it’s unusual, but they’re certainly in the minority. Of course you know that magic must be trained from a very early age to be of any use, and most village children don’t have access to that sort of tutoring.”
“You don’t teach them?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I don’t use magic either. I never had the opportunity to learn.”
“Then who taught Archer and Gwen?”
“They were both trained from an early age by their parents. Since the parents died, they have fallen behind a bit, but they’re both naturally gifted.”
“Can you think of any reason the children would have run away?” Kastian asks.
The teacher shakes her head. “No.”
“We were told they’re orphans,” Jett supplies.
The teacher nods. “Yes, but they were both relatively well-adjusted to the death of their parents a few years ago. I was happy that they were doing so well living with their grandfather.”
“How did the parents die?” Jett presses, eyes widening slightly.
“During the curse,” Madam Merriweather says sadly. “Lots of people died then, it wasn’t exactly unexpected.”
I nod in understanding. “Do you know if they like living with their grandfather?”
“Yes, as far as I know.”
I frown. The teacher seems to be a nice woman, but she’s not being very helpful. “What do you think happened?” I probe.
She shakes her head. “I don’t know. I’m too old to believe in the witch, but I am afraid they got dragged off by a wolf or something. I’m so worried about them.”
“Maybe they’re lost in the woods,” a small voice pipes up.
We turn and see the same little girl with blonde pigtails leaning out of the door to the classroom. Clearly, she’s been listening.
I bend down to her eye level, then stall. I’ve never spent much time around kids and I don’t know how to talk to them. “Hi. I’m Daemon,” I say, after a second.
Behind me the teacher splutters. “That’s the king, Lily. You call him ‘Your Majesty.’”
“Don’t worry about that,” I tell Lily.
Lily looks between us with wide questioning eyes as the teacher squawks in protest. I run a hand through my hair nervously. I’m probably confusing the poor kid.
I change tactics. “What’s your name?” I ask her, even though I’ve heard the teacher use it several times now.
“Lily,” she answers shyly.
“Were you friends with Gwen?”
She shakes her head. “She’s older than me. She’s friends with my sister.”
I’m tempted to ask to speak to the sister instead, but Lily seems chatty and alert for such a young child. It’s probably worth seeing what else she knows. “Did you see anything happen to Gwen or her brother?”
Again, Lily shakes her head. “I didn’t see anything, but all the older kids like to play in the woods. It’s a game about who’s brave enough to go the furthest away from the others during witch season.”
My stomach sinks. If they’ve been in the woods all night, then the likelihood of them being attacked by an animal or otherwise hurt just went up tenfold. “Were they playing that game yesterday?”
She nods. I smile at her, even as her teacher’s voice rises behind me. “The woods are forbidden. You should all know better.”
I tune out the sounds of Madam Merriweather scolding Lily and get to my feet again. I catch Kastian’s eye and he tilts his head slightly toward the tree line, one eyebrow raised.
“Come on,” I mutter. “The sooner we start combing the woods the better chance we have of finding them.”
I don’t say the part we’re all thinking—we might still find them, but whether they’ll be alive when we do is becoming less and less likely by the minute.