Chapter 30
CHAD
“First, we need to get you centered,” Behemoth says, his massive form settling onto the forest floor in a cross-legged position that looks absurdly human for his demonic appearance. “Sit.”
I stare at him. This was… not what I expected.
“What are you waiting for?” he growls.
I hesitate a moment longer, then mimic his posture, the twigs beneath me cracking as my body settles. Apparently the guy favors a holistic approach over an incubus quick-fix.
My skin still feels wrong, stretched too tight over something that wasn't meant to be contained.
“Close your eyes,” he commands. “Breathe.”
“Breathing isn't exactly my problem,” I mutter, but I comply anyway.
“Silence,” he rumbles. “Your human half thinks this is about calming down. It's not. It's about control. Power without control is merely chaos.”
The night air fills my lungs as I inhale deeply. It carries the scents of the forest—decaying leaves, distant water, the lingering iron tang of the boar's blood.
“Focus on your dual nature,” Behemoth continues, his voice dropping to an oddly hypnotic cadence. “You are neither fully human nor fully demon, but something unique. The transformation isn't about becoming something else. It's about revealing what already exists within you.”
“That sounds weirdly zen,” I say. “And that’s not exactly comforting.”
“Comfort is rarely a demon’s priority,” he replies. “Now, try this. Think of something that anchors you. Something that reminds you of your humanity while also acknowledging your darker nature.”
Before I can stop it—stupidly, predictably—Brynn's face rises in my mind, her sharp, analytical gray eyes behind those glasses, the slight furrow between her brows when she's concentrating, the rare smile that transforms her face.
The memory of her scent fills me with both hunger but…
also something slightly softer. I try to keep that focus.
“Now,” Behemoth instructs, “visualize your human form. Feel the weight of it, the limitations and the strengths. Then, focus on the transformation, but not as something that happens to you. As something you command.”
I exhale slowly, picturing myself as I used to be.
The sensation is strange, sort of like trying to remember a dream while still dreaming.
But as I concentrate on the dual image—the human I was and the demon I've become—I swear I feel something start to shift within me.
Like a stubborn door slightly responding to my touch.
“Hold your focus,” Behemoth says. “The change flows both ways. Command it.”
Suddenly the transformation ripples through me, bones contracting, skin smoothing, the pressure in my skull receding as the horns sink back into my forehead. It hurts like hell, but differently than before—more like a controlled pain than a chaotic one.
When I open my eyes, I'm human again. My hands—normal, man-sized hands—shake slightly as I hold them up before my face.
“Holy shit,” I whisper.
“Never holy,” Behemoth growls, something like dark satisfaction glinting in his eyes. “Now prove it wasn’t luck. Change back.”
I stare at him. “What? I just got control—”
“Control isn't mastery,” he cuts me off. “True mastery means being able to move between forms at will. Try again.”
Reluctantly, I close my eyes, focusing once more. Guess this is my karma for being a hard task master with Brynn.
This time, something gives me the idea to picture Brynn in danger—threatened by some enemy. The protective rage rises instantly, and with it the transformation. My body expands, skin darkens, hardens. Horns push from my skull. Claws extend from my fingertips.
When I open my eyes, I'm demon again.
“Good,” Behemoth nods. “Now back.”
It’s a struggle not to constantly scowl, as, for the next hour, he orders me to practice shifting between forms. Each change is still brutal—exhausting and more than a little traumatizing—but I start to notice something.
The transitions get smoother. The pain stops feeling like my bones are being ripped apart and starts feeling like more controlled misery. Somewhat manageable.
It seems the trick to transforming isn’t fighting the demon or clinging to the human. It’s accepting both. Go figure.
“How do you even know how to train me like this?” I ask him. “You’re not a half demon.”
He shrugs. “You’re not the first half demon ever to exist. There is knowledge in the demon world about this… process.”
Right. I choose not to press further at this time.
By dawn, I can change at will, quickly, the transformation almost flowing over me. As the first light breaks through the trees, the urge to return to Darkbirch settles in my chest—in my human form. To see what state the place is in… and maybe check on a certain someone.
From a distance.
I’m not entirely confident I can face her directly yet.
I watch Behemoth rise to his feet, his massive frame unfolding with unsettling grace, and it hits me that this has been, without question, the strangest night of my life.
“Uh, Beh—” I start.
“Call me Abba’eth,” he says.
I blink at him. “What?”
“Means father in the Old Infernal.”
I swallow. “Right... Abba—”
“Abba’eth,” he corrects my pronunciation.
I drag a hand down my face, way too exhausted for this. “I’m just gonna go with Abba, if that’s alright.”
He gives a low, noncommittal grunt that I choose to interpret as approval.
I stare at him for another moment. Cool. My demon father is named after a Swedish pop group. This night keeps getting weirder.
“Anyway, I have somewhere I want to—”
“Not yet,” he cuts me off.
I tense. “What do you mean, not yet? I've got some control now—”
“Control, yes. But not stability,” he interrupts. “Your transformation is still too new, too fragile. One strong emotion could shatter your restraint. Before you do anything, you need to learn how to feed your demon half properly.”
“Feed?” The word sends a slight chill through me.
“Not literally,” he says with a dismissive wave. “Though the boar was a start. I'm talking about the deeper hunger, the one that all demons share. The hunger for chaos, for violence.”
I step back. “Meaning what?” I say. “Because in every demonology text I’ve read, that phrase usually comes right before something very shit happens to someone innocent.”
Behemoth's laugh is like stones grinding together. “Who said anything about innocent? Come. There's something you need to see.”
I follow Abba to a clearing deeper in the woods, where the trees thin further and the early sunlight spills across trampled undergrowth. He stops in the center, his massive form turning toward me.
“Watch carefully,” he says.
He raises one clawed hand, palm facing outward, and begins to trace what looks like a pattern in the air.
His movements are precise, creating invisible lines that suddenly begin to glow with a sickly red-orange light.
It’s unlike any portal I've seen darkbloods or clearbloods create.
This looks like something else entirely.
The air splits open with a sound like tearing flesh. Heat blasts from the opening like I'm standing before an industrial furnace. The scent that pours through makes my sensitive nose twitch—sulfur and copper and something else, something older that makes my demon half stir with recognition.
“This is a demon path,” Behemoth explains. “It’s not like your mortal portals, doesn't travel through the same dimensions. It cuts directly through the spaces between worlds.”
I stare at the pulsing gateway. “That looks... unstable.”
“It is,” he says simply. “Now step through.”
“You're kidding, right?”
Behemoth's eyes narrow. “Did I sound like I was making a joke?”
I take a deep breath, steeling myself. “Will this hurt?”
“Yes,” he answers honestly. “But it will hurt far less for you than it would for a full human. Demon blood has its privileges.”
Great. With one last glance at the forest around me, I step toward the bleeding portal. The heat intensifies until sweat breaks out across my forehead. The edges of the gateway seem to reach for me, hungry, sentient.
“Don't hesitate,” Behemoth warns. “Hesitation in a demon path can leave parts of you behind.”
That's all the motivation I need. I lunge forward, plunging into the portal.
Pain erupts across every inch of my skin.
It feels like being turned inside out, like my nerves are being individually plucked and set on fire.
I try to scream, but there's no air, just crushing pressure and that horrible, searing heat. For an instant that feels like eternity, I exist nowhere and everywhere, like I’m stretched across dimensions I was never meant to touch.
Then I'm falling, tumbling onto hard, cold earth. My lungs heave as I gulp in air that tastes sweet after the suffocating journey. I roll onto my back, staring up at an unfamiliar, overcast sky.
Behemoth steps through behind me, the portal sealing shut with a strange sucking sound. He looks completely unaffected by the transit.
“You'll get used to it,” he says, offering me a hand to help me up. “The first transit is always the worst, but demon paths aren’t nearly as depleting as mortal ones.”
I grab his massive clawed hand and let him pull me to my feet, still dizzy from the journey. As my vision clears, I take in our surroundings.
We're standing on a dirt road right in front of what appears to be a derelict settlement.
The structures are a mix of stone buildings with crumbling walls and wooden cottages.
A river gushes somewhere nearby. But there's something else—a faint shimmer in the air that tells me we’re not in non-magical territory.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“The Blackyew Coven,” Behemoth says, his voice surprisingly quiet. “Or what's left of it.”
A sudden crash echoes from somewhere deeper in the settlement. I whip my head toward the sound, nostrils flaring as I catch the scents of sweat, fear, and blood.
“Come,” Behemoth says, and I realize he’s grinning, his teeth gleaming in the dim light.