Page 1 of Demonic Division (The Sundering Duet #1)

1

Dagny

Bad things always happen on Tuesdays.

The thought barrels to the forefront of my mind as I gaze around the fenced area, a pit of despair hardening in my gut. This is it. I’m going to get fired. I’m going to lose everything—and all on my birthday, to boot.

“This can’t be happening,” I whisper, my fingers twisting around the puke-green polyester of my shirt. “This cannot be happening.”

My eyes scour the fenced area like Bella will somehow materialize, that she’ll come running up to me, rest her paws on my shoulders, and cover my face in slobbery kisses. Instead, my despair turns to panic as I catch sight of the door to the pen, swinging lightly in the autumn breeze. It appears Bella figured out the latch and took to the hills as fast as her drugged-up body would let her.

I fight the panic rising in my throat, focusing instead on taking deep, even breaths through my nose. I can’t lose this job. Not again. Not when I’ve finally found something I’m good at. Not when my entire livelihood depends on it.

Yet no matter how hard I stare at that open gate, willing Bella to materialize, she doesn’t. In a desperate haze, I drop my spray bottle to the ground and sprint out of the gate, following the muddy footprints into the forest behind the clinic. In my desperation, I convince myself there’s no need to go back and tell someone where I’m going or even grab my phone. Surely, I'll be able to find the dog quickly and without incident.

That was my first mistake.

Anxiety pricks the back of my neck as I sprint past the tree line. I’ve heard the whispers all my life—fabled tales about the demonic soldiers of The Far Place that lurk in the forest after sunset, waiting for children’s souls to devour. Now that I’m older, I realize those stories weren’t real. There is no such thing as The Far Place, just as no Heaven exists. And if those cease to exist, so do the monsters that supposedly dwell there.

Yet…

My steps slow to a stop as goose bumps rise along the bare skin of my arms. The forest has gone eerily silent, and a stillness hangs heavy in the air, suffocating the abundant sounds of wildlife from just moments ago.

If you can fear, you can also be brave.

My mother's words pierce the thick fog of my memory, forcing them to the front of my mind. A rustic cabin set in the snowy mountainside. A red-and-purple patchwork quilt. A scarred hand on my shoulder. A cup of hot chocolate placed into my palms. A story by the fireplace, and the terror that followed me to my bedroom—fear even my night-light couldn’t stave away. And those words. That simple phrase gave me so much peace, so much comfort.

I shake my head resolutely.

“They’re stories. Nothing more,” I speak into the air, unsure if I’m talking about the words or the monsters in the woods. Deciding it doesn’t matter, I ignore that little warning blaring in the back of my mind and head deeper into the woods.

That was my second mistake.

My chest heaves with effort as I pump my arms, barely sensing the branches and brambles digging into my skin as I crash through the brush. I follow the footprints until I enter a large clearing, then let out a curse. The ground is harder here—untouched by the rain thanks to the dense canopy above—and doesn’t allow Great Dane paw prints to leave a mark.

“Shit.” I place my hands on my knees, sucking in lungfuls of crisp autumn air as I search the shadows for a sign of her. Once my heart rate returns to normalcy, I straighten, cupping my hands around my mouth to project my voice.

“Bella!” I yell. “Bella! Come here, girl!”

Stopping, I listen for sounds of her crashing through the brush or the snap of a twig—anything. But there’s nothing.

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I step into the center of the clearing, only to stop dead as a shadowy form appears just past the tree line. I can’t make out its face, but it's distinctly human-shaped—the only caveat being two large hornlike projections growing out the top of its head. And its eyes—oh gods, those eyes.

Twin shimmering yellow orbs beam through the dark, the hunger in them causing a shiver to run the length of my spine. I take a step back, and a humming sound fills the clearing. Against my wishes, my muscles freeze, locking me in place—a deer in the face of a bloodthirsty predator.

It can’t be…

Yet the longer I look at that thing, the more I’m convinced it’s real. That it’s one of the horrible creatures from those bedtime stories .

A demon.

“S-stay away!” I command, willing my legs to move me away from this thing. “I’m armed!” It’s a bold lie, but hopefully, it's a strong enough reason for the creature to leave me alone—assuming it speaks my language.

The being tilts its head, studying me. The orbs flash bright yellow as it takes a deep breath. Meanwhile, it feels like I’ve had the wind kicked out of me. It’s a terrifying sight—a scene from my nightmares—and it elicits such a strong physical response that I’m worried my heart will explode from the force of it slamming against its cage.

And so, I do what any irrational person would do in that instance.

I bend down and chuck a rock at it.

The demon barely acknowledges the pebble, though it does part its lips to showcase each one of its razor-sharp fangs and lets out a low, murderous growl. My body reacts, each muscle clenching in preparation for a counterattack, my eyes closing against my will like a child hiding from the monster beneath their bed.

When nothing happens, I crack my lids open a millimeter, expecting to find a set of salivating fangs about to close around my throat. But I couldn’t be farther from the truth.

The demon—or what my panic-stricken mind thought was a demon—has been replaced by Bella’s familiar silver form. I’m about to let out a sigh of relief when I notice she’s holding something in her mouth. The shadows lengthen as the sun finally dips past the tree canopy, and I have to squint to make out the pale yellow fur of a bunny rabbit. It’s matted, spattered with mud and a familiar red-wine color, the sight of which causes bile to rise in my throat.

“Bella!!” My voice is strangled, all thoughts of the creature from earlier dashed as I race toward the dog. “Bad girl! Very bad girl!”

Bella blinks, her stubbed tail taking off as she lowers her front paws in a play stance. Just before I reach her, she takes off, running in a circle around the clearing as the bunny flops limply in her jaws.

A shred of sense returns, and I stop. I point a finger to the ground next to my feet, pulling my shoulders back as I shout, “Bella, come!”

At my command, she ceases her bounding, her ears sticking straight up as she tilts her head. I repeat the order, and Bella strides happily to my side, plopping her rear in the dirt with that poor bunny still clenched tight between her teeth.

I hook a lead around Bella’s neck as crimson liquid drips down to the soil, mingling with the dirt and creating a gut-churning purple sludge. I hold my hand over my mouth as I reach forward with the other, attempting to carefully remove the poor bunny from Bella’s jaws. Instead of fighting me, she releases it, letting the limp body fall into my palm. It’s breathing—but just barely—and judging by the size and depth of its puncture wounds, it won’t last long if left out here alone.

Thunder rumbles overhead, and I glance up just as a light sprinkle of rain trickles through the canopy. It splashes into my eyes, onto the bunny’s fur, cold and wet and unrelenting.

And then, I make my third and final mistake.

I tuck the bunny into the crook of my arm and race out of the woods back to the animal clinic. And all the way, a pair of yellow eyes follow.

“Thanks for the ride, Dr. Marjorie.” I give my boss a warm smile as rain pelts the passenger window, reminding me of the hell I could have been experiencing if she hadn’t offered me a lift. The rabbit’s little yellow foot twitches gently as I run my index finger over the crown of his head, and despite everything that happened today, the sight has a smile tipping my lips. Regardless of how it first appeared, the rabbit was found to have only a few minor cuts and scrapes. With just a bath and some fluids, he looks like a brand-new animal.

“Oh, please. I should be thanking you for offering to take the little guy home with you tonight,” she says, gesturing to the cardboard box situated between my thighs and the tiny rabbit cowered within. “As much as my wife would have loved to cuddle with him, I’m not sure how the dogs would react to a wild animal in their domain...”

Dr. Marjorie's Southern drawl washes over me as I think of her household—the screaming toddler and the six goldendoodles her wife talked her into—and I’m even more relieved I volunteered to take the rabbit home to monitor overnight.

“It’s no problem. It’ll be good for me to have some company,” I say, regretting my words as soon as they come out. Luckily, Dr. Marjorie doesn’t comment on it.

“Well, you two should have an easy night. Just watch for bleeding, and make sure he’s eating and drinking every couple of hours. We’ll take him to the wildlife sanctuary first thing tomorrow when they open.”

“Sounds good.” I run a finger over the crest of the rabbit’s ears. “You ready to go home, buddy?”

The rabbit twitches—whether in agreement or ominous warning, I cannot tell. Shrugging, I turn toward the door, about to pull open the handle, when Dr. Marjorie taps me on the shoulder. I whip my head, surprise creasing my brow at the sight of a portable black umbrella sitting in the palm of her outstretched hand.

“Here. Take this.”

“Oh… thank you so much.”

“No need to thank me, dear. I can’t believe you were going to walk home in this rain without one!” She shakes her head, causing the ends of her sleek bob to brush her shoulders. “I can’t believe you were going to walk at all. You’re miles from the clinic.”

“Oh yeah… I don’t usually, but my car is in the shop,” I murmur, turning my head to the side so she doesn’t notice my cheeks heating with shame. It’s a bold lie—my car was repoed last month, and I’ve been walking the five miles to and from work ever since—but there’s no way I can tell Marjorie that. “I was hoping the rain would lighten.”

“Well, I’m glad I saw you before you headed out. You both would catch your death in this weather!” she admonishes, reaching over and placing a motherly hand on my shoulder. “If you need a ride in the future, you just let me know. And don’t worry about returning the umbrella, okay?”

“Okay.” I clench the box on my lap tightly as I give her a thin-lipped smile. “I really, really appreciate it.”

She nods, her mud-brown eyes scrutinizing me a little too closely. There’s too much sympathy in the set of her mouth, the slight crinkle at the corners of her eyes—even the way she squeezes my shoulder—like she’s trying to tell me with everything but her words that she understands. That she feels sorry for me.

And the worst part is that I’m starting to feel that way, too.

“Drive home safe, Dr. M.” I give her a strained smile before pushing open the passenger door, all but scrambling onto the pavement. She opens her mouth to say something more, but the slamming of the door cuts her off. Her fingers wave goodbye as she continues down the road, and I stand there holding the cardboard box, watching until her taillights disappear over the hill.

“Well, looks like it’s just you and me now, Mr. Bun,” I murmur, sneaking a glance into the contents of the box. The yellow rabbit is wide awake now, his big black eyes staring aimlessly into the sky as his stomach shrinks and distends with each rapid breath. Clutching the box with one arm, I reach inside and run my index finger over the soft tufts of fur protruding from his sides. Instead of shying away, the rabbit appears to lean into my touch, closing his eyes and letting his ears flop back against his head. A picture of contentment.

But when I pull away, all of that changes.

As soon as my finger leaves his side, the rabbit's eyes pop open, wide and searching as if in distress. His cute little cheeks pull back, revealing two sets of long, blunt, yellowed teeth.

And then he screams.

I’ve never heard a rabbit make this sound, and I don’t ever want to again. It’s haunting and high-pitched—more childlike than animal—and I’m so alarmed that I nearly drop the box.

“Gods, are you okay?” I reach back into the box, intending to pull the rabbit out to check on him, but as soon as I touch him, the wailing ceases, and he nuzzles up to my hand just as he had done before. My brows pull together the longer I stare at the strange sight until I eventually decide not to think about it and go inside.

Keeping one hand on the bunny, I walk past the graying Out of Order sign taped to the elevator and head straight for the stairs, making sure I skip the broken thirteenth step on the second flight to avoid another tumble. On the third floor, the fluorescent lights flicker with each step down the long hallway, illuminating the cobwebs and grime that have settled in the crevices. Shadows lengthen the farther I walk until the feel of clawed hands reaching out becomes too much to bear, and I end up sprinting the rest of the way to my door.

My hand trembles as I insert the key into the lock, but when I throw open the door, and bright light spills out into the hallway, I breathe a sigh of relief. I turn the lock, triple-check it, then make my way into the bedroom to set up a spot for the rabbit.

I place the box next to my bed with a little trough of water and some lettuce for him to munch on. I even add one of my ratty T-shirts inside to give him something to cuddle up in. Once he’s set, I check my phone for any messages, only for my chest to sink at the sight of my blank screen.

Usually, it wouldn’t affect me this way, but it’s my birthday, and some small part of me mourns the fact I’m alone. But that same piece also realizes it’s due to my own making, and that there’s no point in wallowing in it. Sighing, I throw my phone onto the mattress and head into the bathroom, hoping a nice hot shower will wash away some of the sadness weighing on my shoulders.

As I step under the steaming stream of water, I can’t help but think of all the previous birthdays I’ve lived through. Out of my twenty-one years, only half of them contain memories of love and happiness. The rest—the ones following the day my mother took her own life—have been filled with nothing but hardship and misery.

I close my eyes as images of that day swarm my mind. My mother hanging limp from the branch of an oak tree in the forest behind our house. Her bloated face and swollen lips cracked and oozing blood. The horrible blue-black veins spreading across her cold gray skin. My scream rattling the inside of my skull. The heat spreading from my chest and pooling at the tips of my fingers and toes. The power that transferred from my palms to the ground, splitting a cavernous pit into the ice that branches in each direction for hundreds of feet.

Or at least, that's the way it happens in my nightmares.

The water turns cold, startling me out of my dark thoughts, and I reach to turn the faucet off as I blink away the last of my haze.

But when I return to the bedroom in my pajamas, the bunny isn’t in his box.

I’m about to freak out for the second time today when my eyes catch a tiny yellow puff ball snuggled in the center of one of my pillows. It takes everything in me not to squeal at the cuteness, but I hold it in, not wanting to wake him when he seems so peaceful.

I debate sharing the bed with the cute little guy but quickly decide against it. I can already see how that story ends; I roll on top of him or smack him during one of my night terrors, and boom. Dead rabbit.

My heart clenches as I reach toward the creature, carefully scooping him into my palms so as not to wake him and walking him back to his box. I place him neatly in his T-shirt blanket, breathing a sigh of relief when he refuses to stir. And then I let go.

Immediately, the rabbit's eyes pop open, and he starts screaming . But it’s not even like it was before—it’s louder, more insistent, and full of anguish. Truly, it sounds like he’s dying. I place my hands back into the box, and the screeching stops. But instead of nuzzling against my hand like I expect, the rabbit turns his beady black eyes on me, seeming to stare through me to my very soul. And then he pulls back his lips and bites me.

“Ow!” I yank my hand back, acutely aware of the sharp, stinging pain in my fingertip. But just as quickly as that pain begins, so does the burning at the base of my stomach. Like someone stuck a branding iron against my skin, the pain is just as strong. I hold back a cry as it intensifies, burning its way down to my bone.

Out of my mind with the sensation, I run to the mirror in the bathroom, sure I’ll find some kind of wound on my abdomen. But there’s nothing. My fingers prod the space beneath my belly button as I stare wide-eyed into the mirror, trying to discover the source of the burning. And then, just as quickly as it started, it stops.

I run my finger pad over the skin, alarmed by the lack of sensation. But I don’t have time to think about it because the bunny starts shrieking again. I run back into the bedroom to find the bunny back on my bed, his front feet raised high into the air as he screeches for me. Instinctively, I move toward him, placing my hand on top of its head, like something inside me knows that's what he needs.

He ceases that awful noise as soon as I make contact, letting his paws fall to the mattress as he leans into my touch. For one split second, the area below my belly button heats, but then it’s gone. Like it never happened in the first place.

“What the fuck is happening?” I whisper, staring wide-eyed at the little yellow creature. No answer comes.

With my free hand, I reach for the hem of my shirt but stop, shaking my head and forcing my arm back to my side while the other continues stroking the bunny. I probably just imagined it. I’m so stressed about this rabbit and my job and everything… I’m sure it wasn’t real. Pushing my fears to the back of my mind, I scoop the bunny off the bed and attempt to put him back into his box. I’m not sure why, but this time, he lets me, snuggling deep into my ratty T-shirt and closes his eyes in contentment. He doesn’t so much as twitch when I walk into the bathroom and shut the door.

Maybe I’m being paranoid, but something about that rabbit is starting to freak me out. And after that… encounter in the woods, there’s no way I’ll be able to sleep with it by my bed. Maybe that makes me a horrible person, but when I crawl under the covers, knowing there’s a wall between me and it, I’m a little less afraid.

For the next hour, I drift in and out of sleep, waking to the faint sounds of knocking on my bathroom door. Each time, I pretend they don’t exist, and each time, they grow more insistent. But just before midnight, something happens that I can’t ignore. A pressure dips the end of my mattress. Like someone—or some thing— has taken a seat.

I keep my lids shut tight, trying and failing to convince myself this isn’t happening. That it’s just my imagination. That no one is there. That this isn’t real. But when I finally open my eyes and look, I realize how wrong I was.

Because sitting at the foot of my bed is the thing from my nightmares.

The horror from the forest.

The yellow-eyed demon.