The Devil’s Spawn
Chapter Thirty-Two
The Devil’s Spawn
Kahill
The rush of sweet hellfire does not simply live in my veins—it is him. The essence of the thing that stalks me from within. Disturbing me night and day. Never dormant. Never resting. Merely waiting… for the slightest opportunity to seize control.
With one slip, I’m wrenched backward, dragged into the recesses of my own mind, and stuffed into a metaphorical box as he surges forward.
It’s a little like having your insides rearranged and then ripped from you while your body’s still intact.
The neck cracking. It’s always the first thing I hear when he claws his way free.
Then a low, resonant chuckle bleeds through the dark.
No—no, no.
Lazreth takes a deep, indulgent inhale. Yeesss, now move the fuck over and let me stretch. It’s been far too long since you let me out to play. His voice thunders through my skull, thick with satisfaction. He tests his grip on my blade and swings it.
I push forward to the surface as much as I can, enough to see what he sees, but my vision through his sight is hazy. I feel what he feels, but it’s also like staring through an extended lens into a world I’m not a part of.
“Fuck… it feels good to be free.”
“Kahill?”
It’s Pollock’s voice, and the reaction is immediate—heat unfurling low, a pleasant shiver, which puts the fear of God in me.
Don’t.
I’ll do as I damn well please.
Turning to face him, Lazreth's amusement rises. “Well… hello, old friend.”
Pollock has become a statue. His eyes shift, but his posture stays locked in place. His fear palpable.
“Polly, Polly, Polly…” Lazreth singsongs. “It’s been too long.”
I try to push back, to influence him—anything to deter him from what he’s currently doing, which is invading Pollock’s personal space—but it’s like shouting into a void.
Useless.
“Tell me,” Lazreth murmurs, head canting, gaze raking over Pollock with a slow, invasive perusal, “did you miss me?”
Pollock remains silent. There’s a tight set to his jaw, a minute shift of his weight.
Lazreth reads his emotions and feeds on his fear.
His hand snaps out, fingers clamping around Pollock’s neck before yanking him in closer.
Then he’s dragging his nose along the line of Pollock’s cheek and inhaling deeply.
The crisp, clean scent of frostbitten pine and fallen snow invades my senses. The kind that bites at the lungs and settles at home in your chest.
Oh fuck.
Lazreth drinks it in like it’s something rare. Something he intends to get his fill of before snuffing out completely.
And just like that, Pollock is on his back in the dirt, lifted clear off his feet and driven beneath us like he weighs nothing.
Lazreth pins him and grinds a knee against his balls, threatening to crush them.
Pollock’s blade is still in his hand, gripped tight enough to whiten his knuckles—but he hesitates to use it. Through gritted teeth, he snarls, “Get the fuck off me!”
“I’m still awaiting your answer.” Lazreth’s grip tightens, thumb biting into the pulse at Pollock’s throat. “You want freedom, Polly. It’s best you work to get on my good side.”
I hope he thrust that sword into your fucking gullet.
“Shush, you,” he growls. “I’ll deal with you later.”
Which means I’ll be punished for making him endure the years he’s spent caged away in the back of my mind.
This is most likely the beginning of it.
Because just as I know his thoughts and deepest desires, he knows mine.
He knows who I care for, what my weaknesses are, and what will piss me the fuck off.
“Now…” He swivels his neck eerily. “Where was I?” His gaze drifts, lazy, assessing, over Pollock’s face. Bringing our blade closer, he rests the tip under Pollock’s eye.
“Don’t you fucking dare!” Pollock bucks once, hard, until the pressure increases, and his blood begins to spill.
Lazreth chuckles. “Oh, I dare, princeling.”
Don’t—
“I said shut it,” Lazreth snaps, voice dropping to something colder, meaner. “Or I do much worse to him.”
Pollock’s face is already darkening, breath strangled off. He shakes his head—barely—fighting for space, for air. Letting go of his sword, he attempts to pry Lazreth’s fingers away.
“One… of… these days…” he grinds out, each word scraped raw.
“You’ll what?” Lazreth’s grin spreads, ugly and pleased. “Kill me?” He laughs—low and vicious. “I don’t think so.”
“Kahill… will find a way to be… rid of you.” Hate and fury lace each word.
Lazreth grins as he leans closer. “If I die, so does your sweetheart.”
Pollock's free hand shoots up, delivering a jab straight to Lazreth's throat. Bones fucking break on impact. Pollock's features distort with pain. He jerks his hand back with a hiss, curses spilling from his lips.
“Oh… did that hurt?” Lazreth coos. “You poor, poor thing. Let me see.”
Pollock tries to pull away—too late.
Lazreth snatches his hand, and I shout obscenities at him while every fucking bone in Pollock's hand grinds to dust.
Pollock can breathe now, but his unholy screams undo me.
Just you fuckin’ wait. I’m going to make your endless existence miserable.
“You already have,” Lazreth snarls. “This, this is how I make you realize there are consequences to denying me what I want.” He pulls the blade back, spins it once in his palm, then drives the hilt into Pollock’s side. The hit sends Pollock curling over, his kidney destroyed by the blow.
Hell spawn—
“Yes, and don’t you fuckin’ forget it.”
When I get free—
“How about you sit back, shut the fuck up for once, and let me have my fun.”
I will fucking end you. Whatever it fucking takes.
As if he no longer hears me, he shoves Pollock’s shoulder back to the dirt and resets the blade beneath his eye—close enough to promise he means it.
Lazreth!
If you keep threatening me, I’ll burn him from the inside out.
The sincerity with which he speaks binds me as nothing else can.
His tone softens as he speaks with a reverence that hints at the vileness to come. “Such pretty irises. The marking of one of His acclaimed reborns, yes? A filthy, disgusting human turned angel. You wouldn’t mind if I kept one, would you?”
Pollock renews his struggle once his hand has fully mended. His actions are a nuisance to Lazreth, nothing more.
“You see, I’d like to start my own collection. Maybe find your blood-bonded next—your twin, is it? Pestilence?” He sneers at his title. “Then I’ll have a pair I can string together to wear around my neck.”
With all heart, Pollock roars, “Stay the fuck away from him!”
“Well, now that you said so…” Lazreth gives a low, pleased chuckle. “I’ll be sure to track him down as soon as I’m done with you.”
Pollock lunges up, nearly dislodging him. The blade slips from Lazreth’s grip and hits the ground.
Lazreth answers with violence. Three punches slam into Pollock’s face, snapping his head side to side, nearly stealing his consciousness. An agonized groan spills from him as his head lolls.
Lazreth pats Pollock’s chest, then settles over him, straddling his stomach like he owns the space. A slow smirk pulls at his mouth as he takes in his work. Then his head rolls back on his shoulders, and he stares sightlessly at the stars for a long, indulgent beat.
“What do you think your God will do? Your oh-so-righteous redeemer? Will He come to your aid? Or just look down from His lofty paradise above and frown when He sees how pitiful His Chosen are?”
He lightly slaps Pollock’s face, then grabs his jaw. “Huh? You think He gives a fuck?”
With his free hand, he picks up my sword, resets it, and begins to dig the tip beneath Pollock’s eye.
Stop!
Lazreth, stop!
In return, he snarls, I warned you—you’d pay if you kept me locked up. This is me keeping that oath.
A twist—and Pollock gnashes his teeth as he fights. The scream he unleashes damn near tears my soul apart.
Lazreth makes crude cuts, grunting with the effort until most of the eye is free. Then, dropping the blade once more, he rips Pollock’s eye from its socket, tendons and all, and plops it into his hand.
You sick fuck!
His satisfaction and glee run rampant through me. It’s not my own, but it bloody feels like it, and I hate myself more at this moment than ever.
Grinning wickedly, he tosses it up and down. “Yes, in this case… a spade’s a damn spade. I don’t deny it.”
To Pollock, he says, “Consider yourself lucky I don’t take the other as well.”
He reaches forward and pets Pollock’s tresses. A faint, ugly smile. I do think he looks much prettier this way, if that’s any consolation.
Don’t you fucking touch him again—
More patronizing petting. “There, there, now. It’s already growing back. So, no harm done.”
Pollock slaps Lazreth’s hand away while bucking ineffectually.
“Come now, it’s only an eye.”
Pollock growls and puts everything he can into a punch. It lands with enough force to momentarily dislocate Lazreth’s jaw.
“Oh, the fight in you! I love it. Turns me the fuck on.”
My gut twists in on itself, fighting the gratification that’s not mine with the nausea that is.
You’ve had your fun. Get off him.
“Not just yet.”
He pets the eyeball. “So damn pretty.” He turns it and holds it up to his eye. “What do you think? My color, or does it not go with the armor?”
Pollock jerks to the side, snatches up his blade, and drives it toward Lazreth’s neck in one fluid motion.
Lazreth slips back just enough to evade the deadly blow. The edge skims his upper chest, biting through flesh.
He doesn’t recoil or retaliate. Instead, his head dips, and his eyes track the line of the wound as blood seeps through. A slow grin spreads across his face—then a low, breathless laugh follows, as if he feels it and enjoys the pain the wound brings.
“Yes, princeling,” he murmurs, voice rough with pleasure. “Let me see that hate you guard so well.”
Pollock surges forward with a roar, driving the blade deep into Lazreth’s chest. He rips it free and slams it in again, harder this time, shoulder and core behind the strike.
Lazreth’s hand closes over his, locking around the hilt.
I don’t understand what he’s doing at first—not until Pollock hollers in pain.