43. Chad
CHAD
The groundskeeper’s shack is a rot-scented dump, but it served its purpose.
We spent a few minutes there in a tense, multi-species council.
The dragons—Rogon, Nyssa, and that insufferable prick Byzu—don’t trust the incubi, and nobody trusts Behemoth.
My father, for his part, clearly doesn’t give a shit.
We reached a consensus of sorts: we can’t do anything abrupt.
Not against a coven of Ides. Even two demons would need more backup to take on this amount of spiritual mojo.
We need intel. So, we’ve split up. The dragons are staying in the shack for now since, thanks to their energy signatures, they can’t move around as stealthily as the incubi and my father and me.
The incubi are starting west of the coven’s main buildings, and Behemoth and I are starting east.
“You’re distracted,” Behemoth murmurs as we move, surveying the place. He doesn’t look at me; his gaze is fixed on the shimmering dome of the Darkbirch barrier, but he seems to detect everything.
“I’m adjusting,” I mutter back, my voice sounding more like a growl than I intend.
It’s the bond. The ‘bridge of essence’ he forced between me and Brynn.
It’s not like a radio frequency I can just tune into with the flick of a switch; I have to focus.
But when I do, it almost feels like a… phantom limb.
For at least an hour, it was a dull, heavy silence—the psychic equivalent of a void. But then, it flared.
A jolt of adrenaline that wasn’t mine spiked through my chest. A sudden, sharp clarity. She woke up. The sensation was dizzying. I could feel a low, simmering hum of terror that made my demon nature want to claw its way out of my skin and flatten the entire academy.
It switched to shock, confusion, frustration, and then I lost the thread. I’m trying to focus to get it back. It takes a lot of mental discipline.
I haven’t yet figured out how to use the bond to find her location, but our demon senses should do that well enough—despite the way this whole coven is buzzing with a myriad of magical frequencies. For some reason, I’m currently feeling a draw toward the graveyard.
I stumble over a protruding root, my balance off because my brain is currently trying to process at least two sets of sensory inputs.
“Master it, Baal-liah,” Behemoth says, turning his crimson eyes toward me. “The bond is a tool. If you let it master you, you are weak. If you master it, you are omnipresent. Focus on the boundary of your own mind. Compartmentalize.”
“Compartmentalize,” I repeat. “Right.”
Easier said than done when my brain feels like it’s splitting between my own thoughts, the bond, and a swarm of supernatural static.
Behemoth sighs, a sound like a slow-motion landslide. “You are walking like a drunk imp, Baal-liah. If this is how you handle one human tether, I fear for your performance when you finally attempt to claim a legion.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve no intention to claim a legion,” I mutter.
He chuckles. “No intention? Spoken like a true cub. You think legions are something you choose?”
Before I can answer that, I notice that we’ve reached the patch of woods just in front of the eastern gates. They’re manned by four darkbloods I don’t recognize—maybe recent refugees from other covens who’ve stayed on.
I crouch lower in the underbrush, peering through the gaps in the foliage at those four guards. Their eyes flicker with that telltale shadow swirl, same as the others we’ve seen—Ides riding shotgun in their skulls, apparently.
This appears to be a section of the coven where the spiritual shield has been temporarily disabled. The only defense appears to be the gates. I wonder why that would be. Some kind of exercise? Maintenance?
Then I spot something else. Figures approaching on the other side of the gate. Dozens, maybe more, emerging from the treeline beyond.
It takes me less than a second to recognize the insignias on their black tactical gear. It wasn’t long ago that I was almost one of them.
Clearbloods. Rapidly approaching the coven’s entrance.
Shit.
I’m barely breathing, staring in confusion and shock when they boldly march right up to the gates, weapons holstered but ready. What the hell?
The darkblood guards don’t even twitch. No alarms, no shouts, no bursts of magic to cut them down. No reactivation of the spirit shield. One of the darkbloods—a wiry guy with a scar across his cheek—actually steps aside, swinging the gate open.
The clearbloods start pouring through, silent and organized, their boots crunching softly over the gravel. It becomes a flood in seconds, swallowing the eastern approach, and the Ides-ridden guards just… let them.
No resistance. No hesitation.
Completely and utterly wrong.
I signal Behemoth with a quick tilt of my head, and we rush deeper into the shadows, circling north to flank the incoming clearbloods. Whatever this is, it stinks to high heaven.
And whatever’s about to let loose, I won’t have Brynn at the center of it.