Chapter 7
Hazelton Birchsmire wanted to scream with fury. The bastard was back? Marcus Tinsley— that insufferable prick—was supposed to be long gone!
He paced furiously along the green park, his anger radiating outward like a palpable force.
With every step, the emerald grass beneath his boots blackened and smoldered, wisps of acrid smoke rising into the air.
The short pathway he’d been pacing was now a charred line of ash and dust, and the overhead leaves browned and curled, disintegrating into brittle fragments.
He didn’t give a damn about the park, the ruined grass, or the dying trees. Some nosy passerby might think it was the result of careless teenagers, but if anyone were stupid enough to approach him right now, he’d crush them with the sheer force of his power.
No, his focus wasn’t on what humans might think. His rage was singular, all-consuming. The bitch was no longer alone. Hazelton could feel it—her energy, her emotions—and it infuriated him.
With Marcus nearby, Sorcia was… buoyant. Ugh. He could practically taste her obnoxious joy, her annoying undercurrent of relief. Even her confusion wasn’t sharp enough to satisfy him. And then there was that emotion. The one that made his skin crawl, made him want to rip the world apart.
Love.
Hazelton hissed through his teeth, his claws flexing at his sides. He hated people in love. Their pathetic hope, their revolting tenderness—it was like a poison to him, eating away at his focus. He couldn’t absorb her power when she was shielded by that intoxicating, infuriating emotion.
“You’re pacing again,” Hortense commented lazily, not even bothering to look at him.
She blew lightly on her freshly filed nails, the fine dust scattering into the air.
Tilting her hand, she inspected her work with critical precision, as though her manicure mattered more than his wrath.
“Why are you so angry? I thought you were making progress on that bitch’s territory. ”
Hazelton froze mid-step, his fists clenching.
The grass beneath his boots ignited, flames licking at the soles before sputtering out.
Slowly, he turned to her, his eyes glowing with barely contained fury.
“As a demon,” he snarled, his voice low and venomous, “I can absorb a witch’s power only if she is close to me! ”
Hortense finally looked up, her expression completely indifferent.
She gave a slow, unconcerned shrug, as though his outburst were nothing more than background noise.
“And? As an elf, I wouldn’t know anything about that,” she replied, her tone as dry as the ashes beneath his feet.
“My powers come from the forest, after all. Maybe you’ve forgotten, since we’re stuck in this godforsaken city where every scrap of vegetation is mowed down, trimmed up or cemented over. ”
Her nonchalance was like gasoline on Hazelton’s raging fire.
His lips curled into a snarl, his claws flexing again as he took a threatening step closer.
“Pointing out your weakness,” he growled, his voice thick with disdain, “doesn’t help me understand why you’re so utterly useless in this alliance. ”
Hortense lifted her chin, unfazed by the towering demon whose fury was practically choking the air around them.
“And pointing out my weakness doesn’t explain why you’re throwing a tantrum,” she said, flicking her nails dismissively before reaching into her bag for a small vial of polish.
“Weren’t you the one bragging about being in control?
Mr. ‘All-Powerful Demon Extraordinaire’?
Or was that just a warm-up speech for your tantrum? ”
The air around Hazelton shimmered with heat, his magic crackling with the force of his anger. “This isn’t a tantrum,” he spat, his voice thunderous. His voice lowered to a raspy growl. “This is a strategic setback. That bastard Marcus wasn’t supposed to return! He’s ruining everything!”
“Hmm,” Hortense murmured, her focus still on the polish she was carefully applying to her nails. “Sounds like you weren’t as prepared as you thought. Maybe you should’ve had a Plan B.”
The dismissiveness in her voice was like a slap, and Hazelton took another step toward her, his towering frame casting a shadow over her seated form. “Don’t test me, elf,” he hissed, his eyes blazing.
Hortense finally looked up, her gaze meeting his without a shred of fear.
She raised an eyebrow and smiled faintly, a knowing, infuriating expression.
“Relax, Hazelton,” she said smoothly, capping the vial of polish with a decisive click.
“I don’t have to test you. It’s obvious you’re already failing. ”
Hazelton let out a roar, his magic flaring as the nearby trees trembled under the force of his fury. But Hortense simply leaned back, crossing her legs and watching him with an almost amused detachment, as though his anger were a performance put on for her entertainment.
And that, more than anything else, made his blood boil.
Hazelton’s anger tripled, his fists curling at his sides. “I don’t understand elves. Don’t you ever get angry about anything?”
Hortense sighed dramatically, tilting her head as if the question itself was exhausting.
She flicked the emery board across another nail with practiced precision.
“Of course we get angry. Every time those stupid humans cut down our trees, we lose energy and power.” She lifted her neon-green eyes to him, the glow intensifying as her voice sharpened.
“We get angry when portions of our population die because of toxic fumes that kill the trees. When seeds from our forests and bushes stop being viable because of pesticides and chemicals polluting the water.”
Her gaze hardened, her tone shifting from blasé to pointed.
“That’s why I need you.” She shifted her legs and gestured toward him with the nail file.
“You’re going to give me the money to purchase more trees and bushes so I can regrow my forest for my people.
In return, I’ll keep your witch in my forest cell, and you can visit her whenever you need to absorb more of her powers. ”
Hazelton glared at her, his fury barely contained. “You don’t seem angry.” His voice dripped with venom, his hatred of her calm composure burning through every word. As a demon, he despised anyone who could control their emotions—especially when his own were barely restrained.
Hortense’s glowing eyes sparkled dangerously, the nail file hovering mid-air for a pregnant, tension-filled moment.
Her lips quirked into a razor-thin smile.
“You really don’t want to see an elf get angry, Hazelton,” she said, her voice as light as a breeze yet carrying a veiled threat sharp enough to cut.
Then, with a casual flick, she returned to her nails, filing one into a point that looked more like a claw. “You do realize this is your last chance, right?”
Hazelton froze mid-step, turning to her with a scowl that could have withered most beings. “What the hell do you mean?”
She didn’t even glance up. Instead, she toed off her boots and twisted her body, reaching down to begin filing her toenails with the same maddening precision. Her flexibility would have been impressive if it weren’t so grotesque.
“You failed to get rid of the wolf shifters,” she said, her tone bordering on boredom. “Janice, the one you recruited to weaken them, hired that pathetic excuse of a leader. What was his name? Wilton? He gave up far too easily. She wasn’t a strong enough leader either.”
Her glowing eyes flicked up briefly, and Hazelton instinctively stepped back as the eerie light intensified.
“And then there was that guy you recruited for the vampires. Cerberus, wasn’t it?
Too brutal. Turned humans into vampires without a plan.
It was easy for Viktor to convert those newly transitioned vampires to his side.
They’re loyal to him now and Cerberus is a pile of ash that floated off into the wind. ”
She turned back to her task, utterly indifferent to his seething rage. Hazelton watched in morbid fascination as she filed her toenails with the same care one might use on an ancient artifact.
“All we want,” she continued nonchalantly, “is for our forests to thrive again. All you want is power. And so far, you’ve failed.”
She paused for effect, her words landing like a hammer blow before she added, almost as an afterthought, “Twice.”
Hazelton gritted his teeth, his entire body trembling with the effort to hold himself back.
He wanted nothing more than to crush the infuriating elf for her insolence, but he knew better.
If he laid a finger on her, she wouldn’t lift another glowing, perfectly filed claw to help him after he’d secured Sorcia.
“The shifters, vampires, and witches aren’t supposed to be friends!” he roared, pacing again, his boots grinding the scorched earth beneath him. “They should have turned on each other! No other region has this kind of cooperation. This—this abomination! It defies every law of nature!”
“And yet,” Hortense replied coolly, blowing on her nails and inspecting her handiwork, “it still appears that you’ve failed.”
Hazelton clenched his fists so tightly his claws pierced his palms. He squeezed his eyes shut, his efforts to calm himself as futile as they were laughable.
Demons weren’t known for control. They thrived on rage, chaos, and destruction.
It was why so many of his kind owned slaughterhouses and butcher shops—they needed knives and dead things on which to unleash their anger.
“I won’t fail this time,” he snarled, the words more a vow than a declaration. Without waiting for her to respond, he stormed away.
The bright sunshine outside only infuriated him further.
Hazelton glared up at the glaring ball of fire, loathing every moment of its warmth.
He preferred the shadows, the oppressive gloom of cloudy days.
Days that put humans in bad moods and gave him energy.
Today, the world was all smiles and sunshine.
He hated it. He hated everything.
But most of all, he hated the thought of failing again.