Chapter 30 #2
I follow him through a narrow street, past charred stone walls and empty doorways. The sounds grow louder—shouts, crashes, the unmistakable crackle of magic being unleashed. When we round a corner into what must have been the town square, I freeze at the sight before us.
Clearbloods in dark tactical gear are systematically attacking a smaller group of darkbloods. It doesn’t look like a fair fight. There must be fifty clearbloods against maybe thirty darkbloods, all of whom look exhausted and desperate.
“Blackyew is small and remote,” Behemoth murmurs. “Weak defenses compared to most covens.”
Apparently remote enough to not have been helped by the larger covens’ mojo yet.
I try to recall what I know about Blackyew. It was one of the oldest darkblood covens, dating back to around the Great Schism. Renowned for their blood rituals. I’d thought they were wiped out during one of the early clearblood purges.
“I thought this place was destroyed centuries ago,” I say.
“It was attacked,” Behemoth corrects me. “But not entirely destroyed.”
I frown. “You seem to know a lot about mage history.”
His jaw clenches, eyes fixed on the warzone. “That’s thanks to your mother. She stirred an… interest in me. In her kind.”
Before I can process that, a young darkblood woman screams, crumpling to the ground under a streak of searing blue light.
My hands curl into fists.
She’s not getting up from that.
The clearbloods are using that warped dragon-magic on them.
Behemoth places one massive hand on my shoulder, gripping tight. “This is your first lesson in feeding, Baal-liah. Violence is sustenance for our kind. Not just participating in it—though that certainly provides the richest meal—but even simply being near it.”
“Baal—” I mutter.
“Son.”
“Right.”
I feel it then: something like a strange, electric current running through my veins. The air around the battle seems charged, almost vibrating with potential energy, and my demon half responds to it like a plant turning toward sunlight.
“You feel it, don't you?” Behemoth asks, his voice dropping lower. “The chaos. The pain. The fear. It's like a feast laid out before you.”
He's right. Something in me is drinking it in, feeling more energized with each scream, each burst of magic, each drop of blood that hits the ground.
“Focus on that sensation,” he instructs. “Draw it into yourself. Let it feed your demon nature.”
It's intoxicating—dark and rich, like the most potent alcohol I've ever tasted. And suddenly, I need to get closer, even as the human side of me screams to help them.
Another pained cry draws my focus. A clearblood soldier has cornered an elderly darkblood man, forcing him to his knees. The old man's hands are bound with glowing restraints, and the clearblood is raising some kind of device to the back of his neck.
“They're harvesting,” Behemoth observes. “Not just killing. The clearbloods know that darkblood blood has properties when properly processed. Darkblood essence can help fuel their weapons, their experiments.”
Something cold and furious rises in my chest then. I think of my mother—a darkblood murdered simply for existing. I think of Brynn and her family who have spent their lives fighting for survival against people who see them as nothing but resources to be exploited or vermin to be exterminated.
“Why don't we join the fun?” Behemoth suggests, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. “Nothing feeds the demon better than direct participation. And these clearbloods... they deserve a taste of their own medicine, don't they?”
I can feel my skin beginning to transform, my claws extending in anticipation. The demon in me howls for blood, for revenge, for that delicious taste of power.
I don't even make a conscious decision. One moment I'm standing beside my father, the next I'm surging forward, my body transforming mid-leap. The change ripples through me like liquid fire, muscles swelling with demonic strength.
The first clearblood doesn't even see me coming.
I tear through his tactical gear like it's tissue paper, my claws finding the soft flesh beneath.
His scream cuts off as my teeth find his throat.
The taste of blood explodes across my tongue, and it's like nothing I've ever experienced—electric, intoxicating, alive.
The dark energy floods my system, a rush more potent than any drug.
I whirl to the next target, my movements impossibly fast. The clearbloods scatter in panic, their formation breaking.
“Demon!” one of them yells, just as two more fall beneath my claws.
Three. Four. Their blood sings through my veins, each death feeding something primal and hungry inside me.
I feel unstoppable, drunk on power and violence.
The darkbloods shrink back, watching in horror and fascination as I tear through their enemies.
A clearblood captain rallies his troops, directing a concentrated beam of dragon-infused magic at me.
I dodge it too quickly, the attempt only feeding my rage.
I roar and charge them, my claws ripping through chests, through kevlar and bone.
The captain’s eyes widen in shock as I lift him off the ground, impaled on my arm.
“Please,” he gasps, blood bubbling from his lips.
I watch the terror spread across his face and feel satiated in a way no words can describe.
So this is what power feels like.
This is what I was made for.
I can feel Behemoth watching from the sidelines, his satisfaction radiating like heat.
I drop the captain's body and turn, seeking more prey. The remaining clearbloods are retreating, but I'm not finished. Not yet. The hunger inside me is still raging, demanding more blood, more chaos, more death.
As I stalk toward a fallen clearblood soldier who's crawling toward his weapon, something catches my eye—a photograph that's fallen from his pocket. A small child with his eyes, a woman with her arms around them both. A family.
I freeze, my claws inches from his throat.
For a heartbeat, I see my mother's face, her eyes wide with fear as she pushed me behind her, trying to protect me from the darkblood who'd come to kill her.
Is this who I am? Is this what I want to be?
The bloodlust turns sour in my mouth. The power is still there, the intoxicating rush of violence, but something else rises to meet it.
Something human. Something that remembers what it's like to be afraid, to lose someone, to wish for mercy. Something that remembers my name. Chad Valgrave, the half-breed who’s spent his life caught between worlds, never fully belonging to either.
The spy who was always trying for balance.
The soldier beneath me is trembling, eyes squeezed shut, waiting for the end.
I step back, breathing hard. “Take your wounded and go,” I growl, my voice rough with effort. “This coven is under protection.”
He stares at me in disbelief, then scrambles backward, not taking his eyes off me until he's reached his comrades.
I can't deny my demon heritage anymore, but maybe I don't have to surrender to its worst impulses either. If I can control it.
The clearbloods gather their wounded and flee, abandoning equipment in their haste to escape the demon they never expected to show up.
The message is clear: leave or face worse.
Within minutes, the square is quiet again, save for the labored breathing of the surviving darkbloods and the crackle of a few fires ignited during the battle.
Behemoth approaches, his eyes flickering over the scene: the fleeing clearbloods, the wounded darkbloods, and me, standing in the middle of it all with blood still dripping from my claws.
“Interesting,” he says, his voice betraying something like surprise. “You pulled back.”
I wipe the blood from my mouth with the back of my hand. “Yeah. I did.”
“Most newly awakened demons don't manage that level of restraint,” he continues, studying me. “Especially not during their first proper feeding. The intoxication is usually overwhelming.” He circles me slowly. “I thought you might not be able to resist.”
“I'm not just a demon,” I remind him, my voice still rough from the transformation. “And I've spent my whole life practicing restraint.”
The darkbloods watch us with a mixture of fear and cautious hope. An older woman steps forward, her silver-streaked hair framing a face lined with years of hardship.
“Thank you,” she says simply.
Before I can respond, the air suddenly grows colder.
Behemoth tenses beside me, his head tilting as he senses the disturbance.
The sky darkens as if clouds have rolled in, but there are no clouds, just a shadow that seems to fall across everything at once.
Then they appear: black wisps, like smoke, streaming down from above. They move with purpose, with hunger.
“Ides,” I breathe, more to myself than to my father. “Darkbirch actually did it.”
I wasn’t in Darkbirch long enough to see whether Esme’s ritual was successful, but I can’t think what else these could be. She must have been successful, and now the Ides are making their way through the entire darkblood world, apparently.
Behemoth and I leap backward as the first of the spectral entities descends. The darkbloods have no time to react. The Ides swoop down, engulfing and… entering their bodies. The woman who thanked me moments ago arches her back, her mouth opening in silent shock as darkness flashes in her eyes.
One by one, the survivors of the clearblood attack are claimed. Their bodies convulse, then still, before rising with new purpose. When they look up, their eyes are different, looking somehow older, deeper, with shadows moving beneath the surface.
“Fascinating,” Behemoth murmurs beside me. “These ancient spirits are claiming vessels. I have never personally witnessed this, not even before the Blood Wars.”