Page 26 of The Alpha's Betrayed Mate

Belmont hesitated before he dismissed the wolves, sending them to help search the thick trees at the northernmost part of the island, where the rest of the pack was most worried Rylan had ended up. But Venna’s words kept circling through his head, and before he could stop himself he was on the way to the beach, staying human-shaped to climb among the rocks. He remembered a joke Venna had made once during one of the rare meals the three of them had shared. Something about the other islands in the archipelago, about how she was going to claim a whole one to live on by herself—and Rylan had come over grave and serious, warning her with an odd specificity not to visit the island closest to Kurivon. And then he remembered the notebook his son was always scribbling in. He remembered glancing over his shoulder once to see a reasonably detailed sketch of a boat.

A horrible certainty settled in his stomach. The search party hadn’t been able to find his son among the rocks because he wasn’t there… and they hadn’t found the sticks and wood, either, because that was what had taken him. Rylan had built himself a boat and set sail. And Belmont knew exactly where he was headed.

There was a dock at the other end of the beach. It had been one of the things they’d repaired early on, and despite the relatively rare need for the Kurivon wolves to visit other islands in the archipelago, there were usually at least a few small boats moored there. But the fear and adrenaline that ran through Belmont as he realized where his son had gone refused to entertain the prospect of wasting valuable time messing about with rope or oars or outboard motors. He was scrambling over the rocks as fast as he could, heart pounding as he made for the water’s edge where the rocks gave way to the ocean. As he leapt, he let the shift rip through his body, and by the time he hit the water he could feel his wolf’s powerful muscles flexing beneath his thick, russet coat.

The cold water was bracing, but it didn’t dull the fire in his belly, or ease the burn in his muscles as he pushed himself to swim at a punishing speed across the choppy water. The closest island was a dark shape cut out against the starry sky ahead, and he felt a brief rush of relief that it was at least the smallest one in the archipelago. Not that that would help, a worried voice whispered. Not if there was a demon waiting there. That would just mean Rylan had nowhere to hide.

He splashed ashore a few minutes later, breathing hard, shaking himself furiously to flick water from his sodden coat. Just as he’d remembered from the brief surveys they’d made of the archipelago, there wasn’t much to see here—just a few trees around the edges of the island, quickly giving way to broken, uneven ground. Because its center was dominated by a sinkhole, the largest they’d ever seen, which ran deep into the earth. From up here, he couldn’t see more than a short distance into the sinkhole—but he knew in his bones that that was where his son would be.

Belmont resisted the urge to run. The ground in the sinkhole was rocky and uneven, and in the almost supernatural darkness out here, it would be far too easy to slip and fall. He’d be no good to his son with a broken leg or a fractured skull. So, drawing on all the patience he’d ever taught himself, he began to pick his careful way down the side of the sinkhole, where a spiraling path was just detectable among the vegetation that grew thickly along its sides. Was the path natural, he wondered? Or had it been formed by the monster that dwelled here? He breathed the air carefully, trying to taste it for demonic taint, but it had been so thick in the air for so long that he couldn’t gauge whether it was actually stronger here, or just his imagination. The darkness, though—there was something unnatural about the darkness. He could barely see a few feet ahead of him, and he relied on the sinkhole wall to guide him, one hand brushing against the rocky soil. Here and there he saw broken branches, trampled vegetation—signs of recent passage? By his son? Or something much larger?

And then, abruptly, he reached the bottom of the sinkhole, and a dozen of his questions were answered all at once.

The first thing he saw was a fire, ringed with rocks for all the world as though someone was camping down here. The curious domesticity of the scene was undermined, however, when he looked into the flames. They burned brightly, but they burned black. How that was possible he didn’t know, but thinking about it made him sick to his stomach, and he blinked hard before diverting his eyes from the black flame. There was no end to the inventiveness of demons when it came to poisoning their surroundings.

And speaking of demons… there, cut out against the sinkhole’s back wall, was the hulking shape he’d seen looming over his son on the beach. He was surprised by how humanoid the beast was. Whatever grim process it was that formed the bodies of demons, it usually took no interest in even, regular shapes—most demons had dozens of limbs, flesh and bone distributed almost randomly, with no regard for the placement or protection of internal organs. Perhaps demons didn’t have any. But this creature was shaped almost like he was, which meant that to see it sitting by the fire sent a horrible thrill of almost-human resonance through him. Its legs were folded over each other in a crude parody of someone sitting cross-legged, and its arms were resting on its knees. Its head, too, surprised him. Most demons he’d killed had eyes, yes, but they tended to be distributed randomly across their bodies, and would often number in the dozens. This creature’s mottled black skin gave way to just two wetly gleaming red eyes, right in the center of its face. Bizarre, that the beast’s passing resemblance to a recognizable shape only served to emphasize how monstrous it truly was.

But he only had a split second to look at the demon. Because sitting opposite the beast, for all the world like the two of them were having a conversation over the campfire, was Rylan. Belmont refused to entertain the relief that rushed through him to see the boy sitting upright, eyes open, alive and awake. He was in more danger than he’d ever encountered in his short life. In his lap was a familiar shard of something that glowed oddly in the impossible light of the dark fire, and Belmont realized he was holding the weapon that the demon had left behind on the beach. He distantly remembered the object being brought to the community center for Venna’s trial, realized the boy must have stolen it when he’d slipped away from his minders.

It was brave, he thought faintly. It would likely mean both of their deaths, but what his son had done was undeniably brave.

Could Rylan even see him through all this darkness, he wondered? There was something eerie and nauseating about the strange light the fire was emitting, and though he could see that his son’s silver eyes were open, there was something slack and distant about his face as he gazed blankly ahead that made Belmont worry the boy wasn’t in his right mind. He didn’t look hurt, though—that, at least, was something. But he didn’t like the calm way he was sitting there with that weapon in his lap. The demon wouldn’t have let him this close if it wasn’t in control of him somehow. Belmont remembered the strange, slow way that Venna had moved on the beach, when he and the pack had found her and the demon standing over Rylan’s unconscious body, and a horrible chill ran down his spine. Had they assumed the worst without due enquiry? Was it possible that this demon executed some kind of soporific effect on its victims, that Venna had been doing her best to fight it off when they’d come upon her and assumed that she was helping the demon, not falling victim to its tricks?

All of this thinking passed by in a blur, adrenaline sharpening his mind and speeding his thoughts. He was already in motion, heading for Rylan, determined to get himself positioned between the demon and his son, to form a physical barrier that might protect him a little. He saw Rylan’s face flicker a little as he got closer, felt a rush of hope that the boy wasn’t as far gone as he’d expected—but then he heard a deep, awful rumbling sound and spun instinctively to see the demon’s eyes on him, one awful clawed hand reaching out toward him. Belmont tensed, his hand flying to the sword at his hip, ready to dodge the blow the creature was about to deliver. But no blow came—the beast’s limb simply remained there, extended over the flame. It was almost as though it was gesturing to him, a crude parody of an invitation to join them at their cosy little campsite. That low, ominous rumble continued, and Belmont narrowed his eyes at the creature. There was an odd shifting taking place on its head, and as he watched a split opened up below its eyes, revealing a strange, round orifice that might have passed for a mouth. The rumbling sound grew louder, and he could see the creature’s flesh flexing and warping, modifying the sound. It was almost like it was trying to speak.

And then, with another jolt of horror and fascination, Belmont realized that he could, in fact, make out words amidst the low, rumbling growls. They were warped and distorted, but it was unmistakable—the demon, with no small effort, was speaking to him. That only deepened his dread. The vast majority of demons communicated with one another through animalistic shrieks and grunts—if that could be called communication at all. Very occasionally, he’d heard stories of demons who’d managed to master a little of the art of communication, usually using it for little more than threats and taunts. But they were few and far between, rare and especially powerful examples of their kind. It was no wonder the lorekeepers had been so concerned about the levels of demonic presence they’d been detecting. If this demon was capable of speech, then it was almost certainly capable of even more terrible and destructive things.

But even as those thoughts raced through his mind, he was stilled by another bolt of shock—this time in response to what the beast was saying to him.

“Welcome. And—thank you.” Belmont’s grip on the hilt of his sword didn’t waver. The demon’s red, blinking eyes didn’t leave his face. Unsettling… but he reminded himself that there was no way of knowing if the creature was actually seeing him through those eyes, or whether they were eyes at all. It might be performing a crude imitation of a person, but that didn’t mean it was one. And he wasn’t going to give it the respect of a verbal response.

“You are the one—who took away—my foe.” There were rasping, hissing interludes that broke up the beast’s sentences, but he could still parse them, still understand what the creature was clearly laboring to convey to him without any of the usual anatomy of speech. “You—allowed—my work—to continue. Thank you,” it said again, and its body swayed back and forth a little as if to emphasize its point. “Thank you—thank you—thank you—Belmont.”

He gritted his teeth. Speech was one thing, but hearing it spit out his name was enough to make him forget his resolution not to speak to it. “I don’t want your thanks,” he spat. “I’ve killed thousands of your kind, and I’ll kill thousands more before my life is done.”

“Killed,” it echoed, before adding a strange, ululating hissing sound. “Killed killed killed. You understand—so little.” Belmont wrinkled his nose in revulsion as it uttered the sound again. Was the creature trying to imitate laughter? It reached out with one limb to where a small tree was growing out of the sinkhole’s wall, tightening its warped hand around the trunk and wrenched it effortlessly out of the soil by the roots. Belmont tensed, moving a little to put himself more firmly in front of Rylan in case the demon struck out at them with the tree, but it only shook it a little before laying it casually down across the dark flames of the strange fire. The tree’s twigs and branches curled and shriveled as though in a great heat, though even standing inches away from its flames Belmont couldn’t feel even a trace of warmth coming from it. “Killed killed killed,” the demon kept hissing. “Leaves on a tree. Thousands, thousands. The root untouched.”

He was dimly aware that just about every lorekeeper alive would kill to hear what he was hearing—but he was finding it hard to focus on that with his son sitting like a lifeless husk in the thrall of this monstrous thing. “So you’re the root of the tree, then?” he demanded, lifting his gaze from the not-burning tree to what passed for the demon’s face. “Or are you the trunk? The branches?”

The demon didn’t respond, only uttered another high, hissing not-laugh. He felt his revulsion turn to anger, hot and fine. And in almost the same heartbeat, he saw the demon’s posture change. It leaned forward, cocked its head to the side, for all the world as though he’d said or done something interesting. Was it possible that the beast had—seen his anger, somehow? Felt it? Detected it, with some sensory organ unique to demons? Horrified realization was dawning on him, slowly but surely. The beast relaxed a little.

“Rylan,” he said quietly, hoping his son could hear him. “We’re getting out of here, okay?”

“No, no, no,” the demon said, its face jerking back and forth on a strange diagonal —its best attempt at shaking its head, he wondered? “No leaving. Eating. Eat him, grow grow grow.” The beast prodded at the remnants of the tree, demonstrating its point. “No more enemy to stop the feast.”

“You don’t eat,” Belmont said, narrowing his eyes at the creature. It was one of the first things a young wolf learned about demons—whatever dark energy sustained them, it didn’t rely on digesting food the way wolves did. Sure, they’d use their teeth and mouths to kill or maim a wolf, or to destroy a building, but a demon didn’t need to eat or drink—or even breathe, as the recent wave’s emergence from the ocean had demonstrated. So why was it talking about eating his son?

“Eat his heart,” the demon insisted. “Eat the glow in his heart. As before. Other world, other child, same enemy. Same you.” The way the beast kept angling those gleaming eyes towards him was slowly convincing him that it was indeed looking at him. “Enemy stands in the way, every time. Can’t kill, too sharp, her claws, her blades. But you keep her away.”

The realization hit him like a thunderbolt. “Are you talking about Venna?”

The demon didn’t seem to respond to the name, but Rylan did. He felt the boy stir behind him, as if waking from a sleep. “Enemy,” the demon repeated. “Hunts me. Hurt me. Always in the way, until—until you. Thank you thank you thank you.” The demon shifted forwards, and he winced at the way it moved, anatomically impossible for a bipedal creature that actually had a skeleton beneath its surface. “Move now. Time I eat at last. Long years.”

“Like hell,” Belmont growled, lifting his sword and planting his feet. Another low rumble cut through with that bizarre, shrieking laugh-like ululation. To Belmont’s ears at least, it sounded painful. Did it belong to an actual mind, he wondered? Was there something in the demon that processed the world in a way that would allow it to find something funny? Or was the laugh-sound purely for his benefit?

“Eat you too then,” the demon rumbled. “Eat you both—no difference. Eat—”

But Belmont had wasted enough time listening politely to the beast that wanted to eat his son. Before it could finish its final loathsome sentence, he sprang. The creature was a parody of a person, and he knew there was no way of knowing whether the protuberance that looked like a head contained anything like a brain. But he did know that those wetly glinting red orbs were as vulnerable as eyes.

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