Chapter 456: The Missing Demon 2

The rain beat down in relentless, icy sheets, turning the forest floor into a churning channel of black mud and floating pine needles. High above, the ancient cedar trees groaned against the gale, their thick branches whipping violently against a bruised, ink-black sky.

Grayson’s grip on Mailah’s waist was absolute. Every time her boot slid on a slick root or buried stone, his arm tightened instantly, absorbing her weight before her knees could even bend. He moved through the storm with a terrifying, fluid grace that seemed to defy the slippery terrain, his boots biting into the mud with effortless stability. His body radiated a deep, steady heat that created a small, warm haven against the freezing mountain wind.

“Grayson, over there!” Mailah called out, her voice nearly swallowed by the roar of the wind. She pointed her flashlight beam toward the small wooden feeding station near the ridge line where the ranger post’s stray animals often sheltered. “The shelter!”

Grayson swung his flashlight over the wooden structure. The small cedar hut was empty, its roof partially crushed by a heavy fallen limb.

“She is not here,” Grayson said. His voice was calm, but Mailah felt the subtle, rigid tension in the muscles of his back where her arm rested.

“Maybe she turned back?” Mailah suggested, her light scanning the thick underbrush. “Maybe she saw the limb fall and went back toward the boathouse by the lower path?”

“No.” Grayson stopped in his tracks, his tall frame cutting through the curtain of rain like a dark, immovable pillar. He closed his eyes for a single second, his nostrils flaring slightly as he drew in the cold, wet air. When he opened his eyes, the deep blue had darkened into the pitch of a starless night. “Chloe’s scent is not on the lower trail. Nor is it at the ridge.”

Mailah’s stomach dropped. “What do you mean? You said her tracks led up here.”

“They did,” Grayson muttered, his tone dropping an octave into a low, raspy rumble. “Until thirty yards ago. Then they simply stop.”

Without a word, Grayson shifted Mailah slightly more in front of him, unzipping his heavy waterproof oilskin just enough to tuck her shoulder flush against his chest, shielding her face from the biting alpine wind. He didn’t use flashy magic or dramatic shadows; he simply used his broad frame to block the gale, his broad hands wrapping firmly over her shoulders.

“Do not let go of my belt, Mailah,” Grayson commanded, his voice dipping into that dangerous, commanding register that usually made her heart flutter, though now it was laced with a sharp, lethal edge. “If the mud gives way, I need you attached to me.”

“I won’t let go,” she promised, her fingers digging firmly into the leather at his waist.

They pressed forward toward the perimeter line of the upper woods—an old, rusted chain-link boundary that separated the private cabin grounds from the abandoned state forestry property.

Mailah kept her light focused on the ground, searching desperately for any sign of yellow—Chloe’s bright rain jacket.

When they reached the boundary fence, Grayson froze.

The heavy rusted iron gate, which Grayson himself had locked with an industrial padlock three years ago to keep out lost hikers, was standing wide open. The thick steel link chain had been snapped clean through—not melted by supernatural flame, but cut with heavy, mechanical bolt cutters. Fresh metal shavings glistened in the mud beneath the latch.

Mailah felt a cold spike of panic shoot through her chest. “Grayson… the lock.”

Grayson didn’t answer immediately. He stepped forward, his tall frame blocking the wind as he shone his brass flashlight onto the muddy ground right beneath the broken gate.

Imprinted deep in the shifting clay were fresh tire tracks—wide, heavy, deep-treaded tires from a commercial truck or heavy utility vehicle. And right beside the tire mark lay a single, bright yellow object half-buried in the mud.

Mailah gasped, dropping to her knees despite the rain. “Chloe!”

“Do not touch it yet,” Grayson said sharply, catching her elbow to keep her off the wet ground.

He knelt beside her, his broad form completely covering her from the downpour. With steady, precise fingers, Grayson lifted the object from the mud.

It was Chloe’s yellow raincoat. Not the whole jacket—just a large, jagged piece of the lower hem that had been violently torn away. Trapped inside the torn pocket was Chloe’s small canvas tote bag, the one she had taken to carry the board games from the shed.

Grayson opened the wet canvas bag. The board games were gone. In their place sat a single, heavy object wrapped in a plastic ziplock bag to protect it from the rain.

Grayson unsealed the bag with deadpan, terrifying speed.

Inside was Chloe’s smartphone. The screen was cracked, but the battery was still alive, glowing brightly in the dark forest. On the screen was a draft text message, typed in frantic haste just twenty minutes ago, addressed to Grayson:

Gray, there’s a black truck at the shed. Two men in raincoats loading the old iron estate chests from the storage floor. They saw me. I dropped my—

The message ended mid-sentence.

Beside the phone inside the bag was a second item—a small, heavy brass coin stamped with an intricate crest depicting a coiled serpent and an oak leaf.

Mailah stared at the coin, her heart pounding against her ribs. “Grayson… what is that? Who took those chests? Who took Chloe?!”

Grayson stood up slowly. He didn’t yell. He didn’t scream or make the trees shake. He simply stood there in the pouring rain, holding the brass coin in his broad palm.

But in the pale, swinging beam of the flashlight, Mailah saw a side of him that terrified her far more than any monster in the dark.

Grayson’s jaw was locked so tight the muscle twitched visibly beneath his pale skin. His dark blue eyes were entirely stripped of their usual arrogant, dry calm, replaced by a cold, murderous focus so intense it made the air around him feel heavy. His hands, usually so smooth and controlled, were clenched into white-knuckled fists at his sides.

Beneath his thick wool shirt, Mailah could feel his heart hammering against his ribs—a fast, frantic rhythm that completely betrayed his stoic exterior.

He didn’t just find Chloe annoying. He didn’t just tolerate her loud voice, her messy shoes, and her bad cooking every single day. She was his family. The last living link to his centuries of existence, the girl he had watched grow up, the noisy cousin who insisted on making him eat bad rice and playing card games in front of the fire.

And someone had taken her.

“Grayson…” Mailah whispered, her heart breaking at the sight of his silent, terrifying panic. She reached up, taking his cold, wet cheek in her hand. “Hey. Look at me.”

Grayson’s eyes snapped to hers, wild and dark.

“They took her,” Grayson said, his voice lower and rougher than she had ever heard it, like grinding stones. “Human thieves. Estate scavengers. They came for the antique iron trunks in the shed—the ones from the old family manor in Boston. Chloe interrupted them.”

“They don’t know who she is,” Mailah said quickly, trying to anchor him as the wind whipped her hair across her face. “They think she’s just a girl at a cabin. They won’t hurt her if they think she’s valuable or if they’re just trying to get away!”

Grayson closed his eyes, taking a slow, sharp breath through his nose. His large hand came up to cover hers against his cheek, his warm fingers squeezing hers with a tight, desperate pressure that nearly made her gasp.

“If they harm a single hair on her head,” Grayson whispered against her palm, his voice dripping with ancient, quiet lethal intent, “I will burn their entire bloodline into ash. I will hunt them across three continents.”

“I know,” Mailah said softly, leaning her forehead against his wet chest. “I know you will. But right now, we need to find where that truck went.”

Grayson opened his eyes. The wild panic was gone, replaced by the terrifying, clinical precision of a former shadow lord who had commanded armies long before modern roads were built.

He looked down at the brass coin in his hand. “This crest belongs to the Vance family. Local antique smugglers who operate out of the abandoned lumber mill on the south side of the lake. They have been eyeing the estate properties in this valley for two decades.”

He looked at the tire tracks in the mud, evaluating the depth and direction with quick, practiced eyes. “The truck turned south toward the old service road. The mud is deep. A heavy utility vehicle carrying two hundred pounds of iron chests cannot travel faster than fifteen miles per hour on the mountain grade.”

He grabbed Mailah’s hand, locking his fingers firmly through hers. “We are going back to the cabin. I am taking the Land Rover.”

“I’m coming with you,” Mailah said immediately.

Grayson stopped, turning his sharp face down toward her. The storm roared around them, but his dark eyes held hers with fierce, overwhelming tenderness. He reached out, his broad thumbs softly wiping the rainwater from her lips and cheeks.