Why You Should Never Rescue Stray Demons Chapter 128

**KACIA**

It takes me a few heartbeats for Oz’s words to really land. He’s here… Oh shit. He means my grandfather. Lord Alhwin. The man who has tried more than once to get me out of the way, who summoned Oz and left him weak and desperate enough that he was kidnapped and nearly killed. My mouth goes dry. Oz is practically crushing me into the wood of the table. He only loosens his grip when I tug at his hand and force him to, but even then he keeps one arm around my shoulders like a living barricade. When I push back and try to look around, what I see makes my throat sting. My friends… They’ve formed a ring. Arms, shoulders, bodies in a rough circle that says we will die first before they let anything happen to me. Tracey’s leaning a little too casually on a stack of books, his posture a lie. You can see the way his jaw is tight. Vidar stands like a statue ready to move. His glamour already completely gone revealing his true gargoyle form. Clarence is muttering, cane resting lightly in front of him while he clutches it tightly. Izzy…. Well she’s still hovering nearby, watching and taking everything in. It’s ridiculous and beautiful and terrifying all at once. Protecting me, when we both know what a fae lord can do if he chooses. Lord Alhwin could snap every one of them like twigs and not notice his hands got sticky. I have never felt this much love and this much dread layered on top of each other before. Okay, except maybe the first time Oz’s nightmare eyes hit me, at least that fear came from magic. This one is all me. It sits in my gut like a stone and won’t be moved. I hate that it wakes me up to how fragile this little cluster of people is. I hate that I love them enough to be afraid for them. But most of all I hate that my grandfather’s shadow stretches so far it can make my friends line up like soldiers.

I press my forehead into Oz’s shoulder for one long second, stealing comfort where I can, because fear makes you greedy for it, and then I straighten. My lungs burn, but I force them steady.

“We know you’re here, where are you?” I call, forcing my voice to stay even. The air shifts first. The library’s magic stirs like it’s been waiting, the enchanted lights overhead dimming and bending until the glow sharpens into cool tones that frame the far corner. The shadows there deepen, stretching too long, until they peel apart to reveal him. My grandfather. Lord Alhwin steps forward as though the room itself has bowed to make way for him. Average in height, but commanding all the same, his long stride measured, deliberate, each motion laced with the kind of assurance that comes from centuries of knowing the world belongs to you. He looks young, thirty-five, maybe, but it’s a youth that feels deliberate, preserved. There’s no mistaking the weight of years behind it. His hair falls straight and gleaming, purple like mine, but darker, reaching all the way down his back. His eyes, violet like mine too, catch the light. Though his are colder, sharper, calculating. The resemblance between the two of us is undeniable, the same pale skin, the same angle of jaw, the same faint tilt at the corners of our eyes. Looking at him feels like staring into a disturbing mirror. His robes are a cascade of black and violet, trimmed with intricate gold embroidery that shifts faintly with its own enchantments. Gold rings glint on his fingers, a heavy chain lies across his chest, every detail polished, every thread intentional. And his expression… Not anger. Not even disdain. He just looks bored. Utterly unimpressed. As if dealing with us is nothing more than an unimportant errand he’d rather get over with. The effect of his presence is instant. All the other magical people lingering around in the library… They scatter. The shelves whisper with closing books, parchment vanishes, chairs scrape, and the shuffle of footsteps rushes toward the exits. They know who he is. They know better than to remain in the presence of one of the twelve fae lords or ladies. And those who don’t? They sense enough to follow the crowd, fleeing with their heads ducked. Only my friends remain. Clarence with his cane planted like he’d take on a god if pressed. Tracey, fangs flashing in a grin that looks like trouble. Vidar, rooted to the ground, fists clenched but eyes flicking uneasily toward the door. And Oz… Outwardly steady, but I can feel it, his nerves fraying in thin, jagged waves that brush against my skin. He hides it well, but I know him. He’s rattled. He’s scared. And why wouldn’t he be? The fae lord who shattered his life just walked into the room. But what stings more, what confuses me even as my stomach knots with dread, is that my grandfather doesn’t even LOOK at me. His gaze slides past as if I’m nothing more than scenery, settling instead on Oz.

“Demon.” His voice is smooth, refined, and dripping with contempt. 

“You have been a complete disappointment.” He says coldly. The words hang in the air. And I. ignored, dismissed, am left caught between fear, confusion, and the sharp bite of offense.

What the hell? This asshole has spent the last few weeks trying to get me killed, and now he steps into my face and doesn’t even spare me a look? I curl my hands into fists before I snap something I’ll regret. Instead, heat floods through me and I find my voice sharp as a thrown blade. 

“What the hell do you want?” I demand. Anger rails through the fear, apparently all I needed to steady myself was to get mad. If only Oz’s nightmare magic were that simple. My grandfather barely flicks his eyes my way, then turns his attention back to Oz as if I’m wallpaper. He speaks to the demon like he’s commenting on a stubborn piece of furniture. 

“Demon. You were supposed to kill the half-breed, not let her turn you into some kind of pet. Or did you forget your bindings? You will not be free until she is dead.” His tone is idle, derisive, an executioner reading off a list. Oz narrows his eyes until they’re slits. 

“Or until you’re dead.” He mutters, the words are a low thing, sharp and sudden. My grandfather laughs, soft and satisfied, like applause. 

“You actually believe you are a threat to me? Or perhaps you think the half-breed, with her child’s magic, poses a danger? It does not matter that you parley with the other lords and gather allies. It won’t help. When it comes down to it, you are both powerless before me. In fact…” He inclines his head slowly, all calm malice, 

“...You all are.” He says stubbornly. Cold slides down my spine. Is he grandstanding? Throwing out threats for spectacle? Or does he know something I don’t? The possibility that this is more than bluster settles into my gut like ice. Oz makes a low, dangerous sound in his throat. I can see him losing the neat control he usually holds like armor: his skin is dimming to that demon-grey at the edges, a hard, stony texture etching at his jaw. The faint ridges of horn nick the skin of his temples, enough that I can glimpse them if I let my gaze wander, and I don’t. I clamp my eyes shut against the urge. 

“Growling like some feral animal. Pathetic.” My grandfather says, contempt curling his words like smoke.

“Hey!” I step forward before I can chew the next thought into something careful. The world narrows until all I see is his face,smug, cold, and the want to hit him is a bright, stupid ache. Oz moves faster than I expect, sliding between us without a sound, putting himself in front of me like everything I’ve ever needed him to be.

“You think you can protect her?” Lord Alhwin asks, voice soft as linen and twice as lethal. 

“When I decide she must die, she will be dead before you can move.” He says casually. He flicks his wrist then, careless, elegant, like brushing dust from a sleeve. A flare of light, impossibly quick and clean, snaps across the space between us. Oz’s body takes it full on. He goes flying, hard, back through the stools and overturned books, a dark arc against the library’s hush. Air leaves my lungs in a soundless scream.