Page 23 of The Demon's Little Girl
Avenor stands in the doorway, chest rising and falling like he's been running. His usually immaculate appearance shows signs of haste—hair disheveled, shirt partially untucked, that look in his navy eyes I've learned to associate with news that will shatter whatever fragile peace I've managed to construct.
"You need to come," he says without preamble. "Now."
The tone brooks no argument, carries an urgency that cuts through the fog of exhaustion and dream-confusion. I rise from my chair, automatically reaching for the coat draped over its back, but Avenor shakes his head.
"No time. Just come."
He turns and strides away without waiting for response, leaving me to follow or be left behind. The choice is no choice at all. I trail him through corridors that feel familiar yet strange,as if the architecture itself has shifted during the night. His pace never slows, never allows for questions or explanations.
We reach the main foyer in what feels like heartbeats, though the journey must have taken longer than perception suggests. Sunlight streams through tall windows, illuminating marble floors and the tapestries that line the walls—expensive displays of wealth and power that suddenly feel hollow as stage props.
A man waits near the entrance doors. A stranger, travel-stained and lean in the way that suggests hard living rather than deliberate fitness. His clothes mark him as someone who works in trades I prefer not to think about too deeply—leather worn soft from handling chains, boots that have walked too many auction blocks.
A slaver.
My hands clench into fists before conscious thought engages. Whatever business this creature thinks he has with me?—
"He found someone," Avenor says quietly, reading my expression with the accuracy of long friendship. "Someone bearing your household mark."
The words hit like ice water in my veins. Household mark. The practice I've always despised, the branding forced on human servants by market laws I've fought to change. I never marked any of the people in my employ, but the auction houses didn't care about my preferences. Anyone bought through official channels carried the scar whether I wanted it or not.
Hope rises in my chest like pain, sharp and desperate and terrifying in its intensity. I've learned not to trust hope these past two years—it cuts deeper than despair when it proves false. But this stranger's presence, Avenor's expression, the careful way neither of them will quite meet my eyes...
"Where?" The word scrapes out of my throat like broken glass.
The slaver gestures toward the doors without speaking, and suddenly my legs feel unsteady. Two years of searching, of following false leads and paying informants who delivered nothing but disappointment. Two years of slowly accepting that some questions will never have answers.
What if this time is different?
We step outside into morning air that tastes of possibility and terror in equal measure. The estate grounds stretch before us, familiar and beautiful and somehow irrelevant compared to whatever waits at the end of this moment. Fountain spray catches sunlight, turning water droplets into scattered diamonds, and the sight strikes me as surreal—how can beauty exist when my entire world balances on the edge of shattering or salvation?
The slaver leads us across cobblestones toward a covered wagon that squats near the gate like some predatory beast. Standard transport for his trade, probably lined with chains and locks and all the implements needed to keep human cargo docile during transport.
The thought of anyone spending time in that mobile prison makes my teeth ache, but if it brought her back to me?—
He reaches for the wagon's rear covering with hands that shake slightly. Even slavers, it seems, recognize the weight of moments that change everything. The canvas pulls back with a rustle that sounds deafening in the morning stillness.
And there she is.
Liora.
Dirty, pale as bone, thinner than memory and bearing new scars that make my vision blur crimson around the edges. But alive. Present. Real in ways that dreams can never be.
She looks up at the sound of the canvas moving, and those amber eyes I've seen behind my eyelids every night for sevenhundred and thirty-one days go wide with recognition and shock and something that might be fear.
But that's not what steals my breath.
That's not what makes the world tilt sideways and reformed around a truth I never imagined.
Because Liora's not alone.
She's holding a child.
12
LIORA
The wagon lurches to a stop, and my arms tighten instinctively around Nalla. She's been fussing for the last hour, picking up on my tension the way she always does, those pale gold eyes darting between my face and the canvas walls that have trapped us for days. I've lost count of how many—time blurs when you're fighting panic and trying to keep a toddler calm in a space barely large enough for two people.
