Deamon Copperhead's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Deamon Copperhead had walked since dawn to cross Liverwort Bayou before dark, and now the dark was winning. Fog rolled off the black water and swallowed the trees. He was a small elf, barely four feet, with auburn hair plastered to his neck and mud to his knees. His dragon-scale pack still held food and a map. The map showed a mountain far north, where the last of his kin gathered in secret. He meant to reach them. But first he had to survive the night. The water crept over the trail. Deamon stopped where the ground vanished. Something moved beneath the surface, long and slow, pushing a ripple toward his boots. He backed away. He needed high ground before that thing found his ankles. He pushed into the reeds and nearly tripped over a strange bush. Pale blue stalks held yellow flowers, each with a black center like a staring eye. The flowers gave off a soft glow. Deamon snapped one free and held it up. The light barely reached his own hands, but it was light. He tucked two more into his belt and followed the glow deeper. A shape rose ahead through the fog. A live oak, huge and old, an old rickety ladder made of mossy sticks climbed the massive trunk. High above sat a treehouse with a tin roof furred green with moss. A raised floor, well above the water. Exactly what he needed. Deamon climbed. The sticks bent under his weight, and one cracked, but he reached the platform and hauled himself onto the boards. Inside stood a narrow bed and empty shelves, all coated in dust. No one had lived here in years. He set his glowing flower on the floor and breathed. Then he heard breathing that was not his own. Under the bed, two purple eyes shone. A black puppy crept out, small wings folded against its back. It bared tiny teeth and coughed a thread of orange flame at him. The fire singed the air a hand's width from his face. Deamon froze, then laughed. "Easy," he said. "I'm not your supper." He dug a strip of dried meat from his pack and held it out flat. The pup sniffed, crept closer, and snatched it. Its tail began to wag. It climbed into his lap, warm as a coal, and pressed its wings against his chest. Outside, the fog thickened and the hunting things stirred in the water. But Deamon was dry and off the ground, with light beside him and a small warm body in his arms. He pulled the door shut and lay back on the dusty bed. The pup would not leave his side. When morning came and Deamon shouldered his pack for the mountain, the little creature trotted after him to the ladder and whined to follow. He had come into the bayou alone. He would not leave it that way.