The Devil’s Spawn
Kahill
The rush of sweet hellfire does not simply live in my veins—it is him. The essence of the thing that stalks me from within. Disturbing me night and day. Never dormant. Never resting. Merely waiting… for the slightest opportunity to seize control.
With one slip, I’m wrenched backward, dragged into the recesses of my own mind, and stuffed into a metaphorical box as he surges forward.
It’s a little like having your insides rearranged and then ripped from you while your body’s still intact.
The neck cracking. It’s always the first thing I hear when he claws his way free.
Then a low, resonant chuckle bleeds through the dark.
No—no, no.
Lazreth takes a deep, indulgent inhale. Yeesss, now move the fuck over and let me stretch. It’s been far too long since you let me out to play. His voice thunders through my skull, thick with satisfaction. He tests his grip on my blade and swings it.
I push forward to the surface as much as I can, enough to see what he sees, but my vision through his sight is hazy. I feel what he feels, but it’s also like staring through an extended lens into a world I’m not a part of.
“Fuck… it feels good to be free.”
“Kahill?”
It’s Pollock’s voice, and the reaction is immediate—heat unfurling low, a pleasant shiver, which puts the fear of God in me.
Don’t.
I’ll do as I damn well please.
Turning to face him, Lazreth's amusement rises. “Well… hello, old friend.”
Pollock has become a statue. His eyes shift, but his posture stays locked in place. His fear palpable.
“Polly, Polly, Polly…” Lazreth singsongs. “It’s been too long.”
I try to push back, to influence him—anything to deter him from what he’s currently doing, which is invading Pollock’s personal space—but it’s like shouting into a void.
Useless.
“Tell me,” Lazreth murmurs, head canting, gaze raking over Pollock with a slow, invasive perusal, “did you miss me?”
Pollock remains silent. There’s a tight set to his jaw, a minute shift of his weight. Lazreth reads his emotions and feeds on his fear. His hand snaps out, fingers clamping around Pollock’s neck before yanking him in closer. Then he’s dragging his nose along the line of Pollock’s cheek and inhaling deeply.
The crisp, clean scent of frostbitten pine and fallen snow invades my senses. The kind that bites at the lungs and settles at home in your chest.
Oh fuck.
Lazreth drinks it in like it’s something rare. Something he intends to get his fill of before snuffing out completely.
And just like that, Pollock is on his back in the dirt, lifted clear off his feet and driven beneath us like he weighs nothing.
Lazreth pins him and grinds a knee against his balls, threatening to crush them.
Pollock’s blade is still in his hand, gripped tight enough to whiten his knuckles—but he hesitates to use it. Through gritted teeth, he snarls, “Get the fuck off me!”
“I’m still awaiting your answer.” Lazreth’s grip tightens, thumb biting into the pulse at Pollock’s throat. “You want freedom, Polly. It’s best you work to get on my good side.”
I hope he thrust that sword into your fucking gullet.
