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Soon, I promise the beast as we shoot down the dark, fog-covered mountain path toward the flickering lights of Wraith Harbor. Soon we’ll give him a reason to stay.
***
The damp air in this part of Wraith Harbor smells of rotting kelp and stale beer. I melt out of the shadows beneath a rusted fire escape, hovering just outside the local diner where the neon sign flickers with a sickly red hum.
Inside, tucked away in a corner booth, sit Gregory Jones and his remaining loyal lackeys. Jake Davis and Kyle Lackey nurse half-empty mugs of black coffee, looking exhausted and jumpy. Gregory leans over the table, his tailored suit jacket wrinkled, his face twisted into a mask of bitter fury.
“I don’t give a damn about the bear theory,” Gregory spits. “Bears don’t mother fuckin’ rip a man clean in half from collarbone to pelvis. Something else is out there in the woods.”
“Boss, the cops are calling it a rogue mountain lion attack,” Jake murmurs, rubbing his bloodshot eyes. “We saw something, yeah, but the fog was heavy. My head still hurts when I try to picture what grabbed TJ. It’s like my brain refuses to focus on it.”
The natural warding of a high demon and a bound cryptid. Humans can’t fully process the absolute horror of the supernatural. Their minds naturally rewrite the memory, filtering nightmares into manageable pieces. They remember blood and teeth, but the true face of the beast remains locked behind a thick wall of static.
“It was Bellamy,” Gregory snarls, slamming his palm against the table so hard the mugs rattle. “That ungrateful little bitch. He planned this. He played the sweet, helpless victim for months, and the second he saw an opening, he brought some feral freak down on us. He thinks he can hide. I built my political career on crushing things larger than him, and I’m going to peel Bellamy apart piece by piece.”
Kyle sneaks Jake a concerned look, but Jake purses his lips in warning.
“Tell me we have some progress on that godforsaken Gothic estate. I have this feeling he’s hiding there.”
Jake shakes his head. “It’s private property, boss. The warrant still hasn’t been approved.”
Deep inside my chest, the Devil Dog rears back with a violent, deafening howl. Heat spikes through my veins until my blood feels like liquid fire. My fingers lengthen into obsidian claws, scraping against the wall behind me. Every instinct screams to shatter the glass, drag Gregory out onto the asphalt, and rip his head from his shoulders.
Not yet, I tell the beast, locking my jaw until it calms down. A public execution brings too much attention. He dies on my terms, inside my walls. Trust me, little cryptid, we’ll feast on his soul.
Instead of blood, I settle for terror.
I stretch my shadows across the floorboards of the diner, wrapping them around the table legs like freezing serpents. The flickering neon sign above the door snaps off entirely. The overhead fluorescent lights buzz, stutter, and die one by one, plunging the diner into sudden, suffocating blackness.
Gregory freezes mid-sentence. “What the hell?”
The temperature plummets instantly. Frost crawls up the exterior windows from the bottom edge, freezing the condensation into jagged, icy teeth. A low growl echoes straight inside their skulls, rattling their teeth and crushing their lungs.
Jake whimpers, sliding back against his seat. Kyle grips his coffee mug so hard the ceramic shatters in his palm, dark liquid spilling across the table. I step out of the shadows right beside their booth, remaining completely invisible, bending down until my breath brushes the shell of Gregory’s ear.
“You talk too much for a fucking dead man,” I whisper into his ear, my voice sliding over his skin like a razor.
Gregory gasps, his body going completely rigid as a primal, desperate terror paralyzes him. He claws blindly at the empty air beside him, his eyes wide and bloodshot in the dark. Before he can scream, I dissolve back into the shadows, letting the power snap back. The overhead lights flicker back on with a loud pop.
Gregory is hyperventilating, clutching his chest, staring wildly at the empty booth beside him. “Get your damn coats,” he chokes out, his voice shaking with hysteria. “We’re leaving. Now.”
I don’t wait for them to scramble pathetically out the door. I sink into the darkness, slipping away through the shadows until I reach the edge of the town limits.
My phone buzzes against my pocket. I pull it out, glowing light illuminating the screen. A text message from Killian.
Attached are three screenshots from a random social media account. Bellamy’s old profile. In the first photo, Bellamy’s lounging on a white sofa, wearing an oversized pastel knit sweater that slips off one delicate shoulder, looking effortlessly ethereal with his long brown hair framing his collarbones. In the second, he’s wearing a fitted silk blouse with shimmering pearl buttons, laughing at something off-camera with a bright, defiant fire in his pretty green eyes. His sense of style is undeniably soft, chic, and fiercely pretty.
A dark, possessive growl vibrates deep within my throat, rattling my chest.
My thumbs fly across the keypad on my screen.
Where the fuck are you? I type furiously to Killian.
Killian’s reply comes back instantly with a laughing emoji. Just browsing the web, Vesper. Thought you might want to know what your pet likes to wear. Maybe I can buy him some cute little sweaters.
Another text comes in before I can reply. Do you think he’d wear some pretty lingerie if I bought it for him?
My eyes flash crimson in the dark forest. I grip the phone so hard the glass screen cracks under the pressure.
