Page 9 of Demon Daddy’s Hidden Son (Demon Daddies #7)

DOMIEL

T he first day crawls by like a wounded animal.

I force myself through the motions—sketching ward patterns for the Vaelthorne commission, checking measurements against the architectural plans spread across my drafting table.

But every line I draw wavers slightly, my usually steady hand betraying the restless energy that's been building since Kaleen's zarryn disappeared around the bend in the road.

The house feels wrong without her. Too quiet.

Too empty. The spaces she normally occupies—the kitchen where she hums while preparing meals, the garden where she tends her herbs, the reading nook by the southern window—all echo with absence.

Even my workshop, typically a sanctuary of focused creation, feels hollow.

The half-finished ward stones sit accusingly on their pedestals, their incomplete matrices mocking my inability to concentrate.

I miss her laugh. The way she teases me when I get too absorbed in my work. The sound of her voice calling my name from another room. Miss the weight of her beside me in bed, the way she fits against my chest like she was carved specifically for that purpose.

One day. She's been gone one day, and I'm already unraveling.

By evening, I've accomplished nothing of value. The ward sketches are garbage—uneven, poorly calibrated, the kind of amateur work that would get my license revoked if anyone saw them. I crumple the parchment and throw it into the fire, watching months of careful planning curl into ash.

The second day brings my licensing meeting with the city magisters.

I dress in my formal robes—deep blue silk embroidered with silver threading that catches the light like captured starfire.

The kind of garment that announces status and competence to anyone who sees it.

My reflection in the mirror looks appropriately dignified, but my silver-blue eyes betray the sleepless night behind me.

The meeting goes better than expected. Magister Veleth reviews my recent projects with approval—the Thornwick estate's protective matrices, the Silverhall manor's light-weaving chambers, the delicate ward work that keeps the Blackstone family's volatile collection of magical artifacts properly contained.

"Exceptional work, as always," she says, stamping the renewal seal onto my license documents. "The city is fortunate to have someone of your caliber maintaining our most prestigious properties."

I accept the compliments with appropriate humility, but inside I'm burning to tell Kaleen about this victory.

She was the one who calmed my nerves before the meeting, who reminded me that my work speaks for itself.

She should be the first to know that another three years of commissions is secured, that the anxieties we discussed are finally put to rest.

But the house greets me with the same oppressive silence as before. Sure, there are some servants around but I don't crave company. I crave Kaleen.

I pour myself a glass of Amerinth—something I never do in daylight—and sit in Kaleen's favorite chair, trying to imagine her reaction to the news. Her smile. The way she'd kiss me in celebration before insisting we toast with something better than the harsh purple liquor burning down my throat.

The alcohol doesn't help. Nothing helps.

The third day arrives heavy with anticipation. She should return tonight, tired from the road but triumphant with the moonshard lattice that will complete the Vaelthorne project. I spend the morning cleaning the house—a task usually left to the staff, but I need the distraction.

Every surface gets polished to gleaming perfection.

Fresh flowers from the garden fill vases in every room.

I even attempt to cook her favorite meal, though my efforts in the kitchen produce something that barely qualifies as edible.

Which is why I never cook, but I miss her so much that the kitchen feels like she is near.

As afternoon fades to evening, I position myself on the front terrace where I can see the road winding up from the valley.

Every distant sound makes my heart race—the call of a blackpitter bird, the rustle of wind through the aracin blossoms, the distant rumble of supply wagons heading toward the city.

But none of the sounds resolve into the rhythmic hoofbeats I'm desperate to hear.

Sunset paints the sky in shades of copper and gold. The first stars appear. Still no sign of her.

By midnight, worry has settled in my chest like a physical weight.

She's never been late. Not once in all the years I've known her.

Even during her most challenging deliveries for the syndicate, she always returned when promised.

It's part of who she is—reliable, dependable, someone whose word means something.

The fourth day breaks gray and cheerless, matching my mood.

I abandon any pretense of work and spend the hours pacing the halls of my estate like a caged predator.

The Vaelthorne commission deadline looms, but I can't bring myself to care about ward matrices and binding patterns when Kaleen is somewhere in the mountains, possibly hurt, possibly?—

I don't let myself finish that thought.

By week's end, I'm a shell of myself. Unshaven, hollow-eyed, surviving on Amerinth and whatever scraps of food I remember to consume.

The house staff whispers when they think I can't hear, their voices carrying concern and confusion in equal measure.

I've never been the type of employer who shares personal struggles with servants, but my deterioration is impossible to hide.

On the seventh day, I write a letter to Lord Vaelthorne explaining that his commission will be delayed indefinitely due to unforeseen circumstances. Let him rage. Let him threaten my reputation, demand compensation, hire someone else entirely. None of it matters without Kaleen.

I pack traveling supplies with methodical precision—food that won't spoil, changes of clothes, healing potions, enough nodals to hire every courier and tracker in the northern territories if necessary.

My wings ache from days of anxious tension, the muscles between my shoulder blades knotted tight enough to make flight painful. But I'll walk to Kaerion if I have to.

The road she took winds through three separate villages before reaching the quarry site. I start with the closest—Silverbrook, a modest trading post where travelers often stop to rest and resupply. The innkeeper remembers her.

"Pretty human girl with brown hair? Aye, she came through five days past. Bought grain for her zarryn and asked about the mountain roads. Seemed to know where she was headed."

Five days past. That matches her timeline perfectly, which means whatever happened occurred after she left Silverbrook. The knowledge provides a starting point but no comfort.

The next village is Millhaven, smaller than Silverbrook but still large enough to support an inn and trading post. Here the trail goes cold.

No one remembers seeing Kaleen, though that doesn't necessarily mean anything.

A single traveler could easily pass through without drawing much attention, especially if she was focused on making good time.

I light candles in the village temple—small flames that dance before carved images of the nine divine aspects. The offering is supposed to guide lost souls home, though I'm not sure if I'm praying for Kaleen's safe return or begging forgiveness for letting her leave in the first place.

The mountain roads between Millhaven and the final village—Thornrest—are treacherous even in good weather.

Narrow trails carved into cliffsides, unstable scree slopes that can shift without warning, predators that hunt the unwary.

I've traveled these paths before on commission work, but always with armed guards and careful preparation.

The thought of Kaleen facing these dangers alone makes my stomach churn with sick dread.

Thornrest yields nothing. The villagers are helpful but certain—no human woman has passed through their settlement in recent days. If Kaleen reached this far, she would have been noticed. Their isolation makes strangers memorable.

Which means something happened between Silverbrook and Millhaven, in the wild stretches where help could be hours or days away.

I hire a local guide—a grizzled mountain man who knows every trail and hidden path in the region. We spend three days combing the route, searching for any sign of her passage. What we find makes my blood turn to ice.

Zarryn tracks, clear and fresh, following the main trail until they suddenly veer toward the cliff edge. Scuff marks in the earth that speak of struggle. Dark stains on the rocks that could be blood if I let myself think about what that means.

And at the base of a steep ravine, partially hidden by undergrowth—pieces of a zarryn's tack. Torn leather. Broken buckles. The metal fittings bent and scored by what look like claw marks.

No body. Neither human nor zarryn. But the evidence tells a story I don't want to accept.

"Mountain kilmars," the guide says grimly, examining the damaged tack. "Pack hunters. Smart enough to coordinate attacks, strong enough to bring down a zarryn if they catch it in the wrong place."

The words hit me like physical blows. I sink to my knees beside the ravine, staring at the torn leather that represents the last tangible connection to the woman I love. She's gone. The world has taken her from me just as I always feared it might, and I have no one to blame but myself.

I should never have let her go. Should have missed the licensing meeting, hired a dozen couriers, abandoned the Vaelthorne commission entirely rather than risk her safety.

But my pride, my reputation, my damned sense of responsibility to clients who will forget my name within a month—all of it seemed more important than keeping her safe.

The guilt is going to destroy me.

But not as much as losing her will.