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Chapter Five
Lilah was right—astorm had been coming. And now Devon was caught in the middle of it.
A vortex of snow swirled round him, and the wind howled as he drove onward, trudging through the snow.
There was a time when he’d spent his life hidden in the shadows out of doors, preying on the creatures of the night who, themselves, preyed on the innocent. Hidden in obscurity, his face concealed from those who would scream at the sight of him. He’d found solace in the dark—solace and respite.
But not salvation. That had only come when she had entered his life and healed his soul.
His wife—his beloved Attie. The woman who deserved so much more.
How could she bear it? Being shackled to him—weathering the pitying stares of others—when she could have married anyone.
Why couldn’t he merely be grateful for what he had?
Because in order to acknowledge his gratitude, he had to believe that he deserved her. And, with such a belief came complacency. The devil which lingered deep inside his soul—which whispered to him in the darkness, alone at night—told him that the moment he grasped onto the bounty of happiness, Fate would snatch it from him.
He couldn’t trust the world not to take it all away from him. He’d grown complacent in his youth, relishing his good fortune, and the world had taught him a harsh lesson that fateful day when his face had been ruined. He couldn’t take such a risk again—it would destroy him.
He must always remain vigilant—watch over his shoulder for the devil who followed in his footsteps, waiting for him to slip.
Perhaps that was why he’d been drawn to the mountain—the dark, jagged edges which pierced the sky, thrusting upward into the forbidding clouds laden with snow and ice. It was because he wanted to face the devil alone.
A scream tore through the air, and icy fingers caressed the back of his neck. Had the devil answered his call?
He looked round but saw nothing other than the snow swirling through the air.
Then the scream came again.
That was no devil. It was a cry for help.
“Da! Help me!”
The plaintive tone pierced his heart. It was the voice of a child. Lost and alone.
Devon picked up the pace and pushed his way through the snow. The path, which clung to the side of the mountain, was almost completely obscured by the snowfall, punctuated by the occasional shard of rock. The white blanket covering the ground grew darker to his right, and his instinct told him that the mountain fell away into a sheer drop to the valley below.
“Hello there!” he bellowed into the air, his voice muffled by the snowstorm. The cry came again—ahead and to the right, and his heart tightened in his chest.
Someone had fallen over the edge.
“Can you hear me?” he cried. “I’m coming!”
He approached the edge, then dropped to a crawl, reaching out with his hands, until he felt the ground fall away. He blinked the snowflakes from his eyes, and the slope came into focus—a gentle incline, which fell more steeply further on until it disappeared completely.
Halfway down the slope, he could discern a man clinging to a rock that jutted out from the snow. He caught a glimpse of a pale hand, and the man began to move toward him. But he was struggling to gain a purchase on the slope, and with each forward movement, he slipped back.
Slowly Devon crawled down the slope, then he reached out.
“Here!” he cried through the howling wind. “Take my hand.”
The man lifted his head and stared at him—no, not a man, but a boy, with large dark eyes, almost black against his pale face, surrounded by white-blonde hair.
The eyes widened, and the boy let out a scream.
“Go away, Beastie! You shall not take me!”
Devon recoiled at the fear in the boy’s voice and withdrew his hand. Yet another who screamed at the sight of his face. Damn them all!
