Page 14 of The Demon's Little Girl
"Talk here." My voice comes out rougher than intended, the careful control I maintain in all business dealings fraying at the edges. "Where. Is. She."
But Avenor shakes his head, already moving toward the kitchen's rear entrance that leads to the estate's private gardens. It's the kind of gesture that speaks to years of working together,understanding when certain conversations require privacy even from household staff who've earned our trust.
Tom and Akira watch us go with expressions that make my chest feel tight with something that might be panic if I were the type of demon who allowed himself such weaknesses.
The morning air hits my face as we step outside, carrying the scent of aracin blossoms and fresh earth that usually brings a measure of calm to even my worst days. Today it does nothing to ease the tension coiling in my shoulders, the growing certainty that whatever Avenor is about to tell me will fundamentally alter something I've been protecting for six years without fully admitting it to myself.
"She wasn't feeling well last night," he begins without preamble, knowing better than to waste time with cushioning language when I'm already balanced on the edge of losing what remains of my patience. "Said she was tired, looked pale. I made sure she got to her room safely."
"And?"
"This morning I went to check on her." He runs one hand through his silver hair, a nervous gesture I've only seen him use a handful of times in all the years he's served as my personal guard. "The door was unlocked, but she was gone. Bed hadn't been slept in."
The words hit like individual hammer blows, each one driving deeper into my chest until breathing becomes a conscious effort rather than an automatic function.
"Gone how?" My voice sounds foreign even to my own ears, stripped of the authority that usually commands immediate answers. "Gone where?"
"I don't know." The admission costs him something—Avenor takes pride in knowing everything that happens on the estate, in being two steps ahead of any potential threat to my interests orsafety. "There's no note, no sign of struggle. Her clothes are still in the wardrobe, but she's just... not there."
I turn away from him, needing a moment to process information that doesn't fit with anything I know about Liora's character or habits. She doesn't leave the estate without permission, doesn't disappear without explanation. In six years, she's built routines around this place that anchor her to it as surely as chains might anchor a ship to its harbor.
The gardens stretch before us, carefully maintained beds of flowers and vegetables that she tends with the same quiet attention she brings to every task. I've watched her work here from my study window more times than I care to count, memorizing the way she moves between the plants with gentle efficiency, coaxing life from earth with hands that somehow remain soft despite years of labor.
"It's not like her," I say finally, the words feeling inadequate to express the magnitude of wrongness that's settling in my bones like poison.
"No," Avenor agrees quietly. "It's not."
And it doesn't sit right with me.
The first day,I tell myself she'll return by evening. Some emergency with other humans in the area, perhaps, or a task that required her to venture beyond the estate boundaries for reasons she'll explain when she gets back. I maintain my usual schedule—meetings with trade contacts, review of shipping manifests, correspondence with suppliers—but find myself listening for her footsteps in every corridor, watching for her familiar silhouette at every corner.
She doesn't return.
The second day brings a restlessness I can't properly contain. I snap at Tom when he fumbles the morning tea service,reduce a grain merchant to stammering apologies over a minor discrepancy in his latest shipment, and spend an hour pacing my study instead of reviewing the contracts that demand my attention.
When Akira brings dinner to my private chambers instead of Liora, the older woman's eyes hold a sympathy that makes my jaw clench with frustrated rage.
"She'll come back," Akira says softly, setting the tray on my desk with practiced care. "Whatever's keeping her away, she'll find her way home."
Home. The word hits strangely, carrying implications I've never allowed myself to examine too closely.
By the third day, my carefully maintained composure begins to crack in places I can't control. Sleep becomes sporadic, broken by dreams where I search empty corridors calling her name into silence that stretches infinitely in all directions. My appetite disappears entirely, though I force myself to eat enough to maintain functionality.
I start asking questions.
The market vendors I frequent for estate supplies shake their heads when I describe her—a young human woman with mahogany curls and amber eyes, last seen three days ago. None of them remember anyone matching that description passing through their stalls, though they promise to send word if she appears.
The contacts who handle my shipping arrangements become uncomfortable when I press them for information about human trafficking routes, their usual easy cooperation replaced by nervous deflection. They know better than to ask why a trade master would suddenly develop an interest in the movements of escaped servants, but their silence speaks volumes about conclusions they're drawing.
By the end of the first week, I've expanded my search beyond legitimate channels.
The slavers' compound on the eastern edge of Bilgonith reeks of desperation and broken dreams, housed in buildings that were once some merchant's warehouse before falling into less savory hands. The demon who runs the operation, a scarred volvath named Thexis, greets my arrival with the kind of enthusiasm reserved for wealthy customers with questionable requests.
"Lord Rovak." His bow carries just enough deference to avoid outright insult while making clear he considers us equals in this particular transaction. "What brings you to my humble establishment?"
"Information." I place a small pouch of nodals on his desk, the metallic clink drawing his yellow eyes like a lodestone draws iron. "I'm looking for a human woman. Young, early twenties, brown skin, mahogany hair."
His scarred features twist into something approximating thought as he mentally catalogs his recent acquisitions. "Human women are always in demand. Can you be more specific about when she might have... become available?"
