Chapter 4

Underneath, having switched off his ability to hear such things after the pleading grew repetitive, has left the pit under Dolohov's care for the time being. To Underneath's left, one of the lesser demons is describing, in great gory detail, the continual beheading of one of their torture subjects.

Nodding disinterestedly in the pauses between mouth movements, Underneath suppresses an urge to banish Amycus into a different circle of hell, just so the one-sided conversation will end. All that stays his hand is the fact that to retrieve the demon later on would be a hassle.

Amycus talks for a while longer, and then stops, looking expectantly in Underneath's direction.

Oops.

Underneath restores the audio of the general area, trying to think of a vague response that isn't discouraging, but also isn't too encouraging. He has standards for his underlings, after all.

"My Lord?" repeats Amycus, nervous.

It is sorely tempting to let the demon sit longer, stewing in fear of disapproval. But the report has gone on long enough, and Underneath is no longer interested in this particular act of sadism.

"Report received," says Underneath. "Dismissed."

Let Amycus think of what that means and twist it however he likes.

Amycus blinks pale eyelids over inky black eyes. "My Lord?"

Underneath raises a brow, exuding tendrils of darkness to indicate his displeasure at being questioned, and watches as Amycus shrinks back in response. If it becomes necessary, then he will simply pluck the information from the demon's mind—

A soft echo sounds in Underneath's head, drawing his attention away from the grovelling demon at his feet.

The call—soft and tentative—must be from the boy.

Underneath frowns. How many days has it been since he'd last seen the child? The time has stretched on down here, slow and syrupy without the daylight to guide him. He had made a mental note some time ago to check on the youngling if no call was received.

Checking on one's humans is not a priority here. If one lets torture go on for a few extra days, or weeks, or months, the difference is minimal. But for a child as young as Henry , the difference may be quite substantial. Proportionally speaking, even a single day will feel much longer for Henry  than it will for him.

Underneath uncrosses his legs and rises from his throne. Amycus scrambles back further, nearly tripping over his own feet in haste.

"I shall return shortly. Inform the others that I do not wish to be disturbed or followed, and failure to adhere to this instruction will result in severe punishments."

"Yes, m'lord."

Travel into the realm of the living is not quite instantaneous—hence the usual need for a blood sacrifice. In this case, however, Underneath is powerful enough to endure any number of trips with no adverse effects to his person.

Therefore, to reach the boy, all he must do is trace the call to its source.

Underneath summons his magic and transforms his appearance. The matter is simply a retraction of his most obvious extremities: the horns, the wings, the claws, and the tail. Then a minor reduction in height, followed by a subtle reshaping of the limbs. Humans are slimmer, their bodies more graceful in appearance, their muscles typically less defined.

Once the new form is in place, Underneath vanishes from the seventh circle of hell, passing through realms, materializing on the planet earth, where young Henry Donovan awaits.

Sunlight fades into focus. Blue skies, humid weather. A rolling grass field serves as the backdrop. Despite an indeterminate time spent below ground, none of this holds Underneath's attention.

Instead, he lays eyes on the child. On the boy, Henry .

Henry 's face is alight with recognition and excitement. Underneath's ring is plainly visible on the thumb of his right hand, cradled carefully with his left hand wrapped around it. It pleases Underneath to know the child takes good care of its possessions.

"Hello," he greets the boy, stepping forward so he can examine his human more closely.

Henry  shuffles in place, nervous, and so Underneath adjusts his pace, slowing his movements. He draws near, then drops to one knee to appear less threatening.

"Hello," Henry  responds. "I'm sorry I didn't call you sooner—"

Underneath raises a hand to stall the child's unnecessary apology. His eyes narrow at the sight of the boy's exposed skin. The arms and legs are a medley of reds, pinks, and purples. Scraped skin and emerging bruises.

Previously, Underneath had assumed that the injuries were a result of normal play—a child fallen on the concrete, injuries that would be seen to and treated by the caretakers. Now, however, he sees that there are new injuries layered over the old ones.

"I am not upset with you," he says, and waits for Henry  to nod in acknowledgement before he continues. "How long has it been," he asks, voice tight, "since you have last seen me?"

Not long, judging by the pinkness of the partially-healed wounds, but he wants Henry 's verbal confirmation.

"A week," says Henry . Then the child nibbles on his lower lip, dropping his ring so it dangles loose from its ribbon, freeing his hands to twist anxiously at the hem of his shirt.

Underneath stares in consternation at the youngling's skinny legs and bony knees. The pattern of the injuries are clear: these are not accidental, and they are certainly not self-inflicted.

Though Henry 's call had contained neither haste nor panic, the bruises imply otherwise. Henry  must have summoned him for help.

Rising to his full height, Underneath turns to regard the area around them, the illusion of humanity shattering as he extends his senses outwards, searching—

"I'm okay," Henry  insists, stepping over, leg limping, and this is absolutely unacceptable.

Underneath pivots to look down at his young charge. "Who did this to you?"

Henry 's mouth snaps shut instantly.

This will take some coaxing. Underneath discards his intention to sweep the area and instead refocuses on the boy. A wave of magic shimmers over them both, hiding them from view.

Henry  gazes up, eyes wide, at the warped, transparent film that now encases them. "What is that?"

"You are avoiding my question, small one."

Henry  frowns, brows pulling together in an expression of stubbornness.

There will be no extricating the information with bluntness, Underneath thinks with exasperation. This requires a gentler hand, as did our previous interactions.

If he must manipulate the youngling in this case, then he will do so.

"Henry ," he says, smoothing his voice into the kind tone that has convinced many a human into signing away their soul, "are you not my friend? And have we not agreed that friends do not lie to each other?"

"I'm not lying," Henry  says, after a pause.

Clever boy. But Underneath is not yet finished with his line of questioning.

"As I am your friend, I care about you. If you are harmed, then this upsets me. If you do not share the cause of your injuries, then how am I to know that it will not happen again?" Underneath sinks back to the pavement, places one clawed hand on the boy's small shoulder.

"I would be worried all the time, concerned that you were being harmed without my knowledge. It might distract me from my important work. You would not want this for me, would you? By far the simplest solution is for you to inform me who has harmed you, and then I can ensure you are safe and protected in the future."

Henry  fidgets, twitching under Underneath's hand. But the logic is ironclad, and even clever little Henry  will have difficulty arguing away his desire to remain silent.

"It—" Henry  starts, then sniffles. "It's not a big deal, okay? I'm okay, I promise."

"Henry ," begins Underneath, a warning.

"It was my cousin Dennis," Henry  mumbles out in a rush. "And his friends."

Dennis. The name rings familiar, and Underneath recalls the very first question Henry  had asked of him:

Hello, sir. Are you the monster that lives under Dennis's bed?

"Your cousin," Underneath says flatly.

"He's the same age as me," Henry  offers.

Underneath releases Henry 's shoulder. It won't do for Henry  to think himself the recipient of the rage Underneath feels building in his chest, festering there like a disease.

"I will find him and bring him here. I will bring them all here, and they will regret ever having harmed you," he says, decisive.

"No!" Henry  exclaims, hysteria suddenly swelling in the air between them as Henry  leaps forward and clutches onto Underneath's leg. "No, you can't do that! You can't!"

Underneath gauges the boy's seriousness, bewildered. An urge so strong, a fear so violent, that Henry  has discarded his aversion to reaching out.

Tiny fingers grip tight against the rough texture of Underneath's bare leg, his non-human leg. Henry 's anxiety has nothing to do with Underneath's monstrous appearance. Henry  is concerned for the well-being of his tormentors.

Why? Why does Henry  not wish to seek vengeance on those who have wronged him?

"You mistake this for a situation where you are allowed input," Underneath says, not unkind. "As your friend, I wish to keep you safe."

"You can't," Henry  repeats, voice high and pitched, his shoulders trembling like saplings during a strong wind. "You can't! Please, Mr. Tom, you can't do that, please—"

The tone increases in volume, the scent of panic reeking, and Underneath realizes, belatedly, that if he continues to insist, the boy will begin to cry.

Relenting, Underneath shifts to his human appearance once more, retracting the aura of darkness that had begun to gather in his righteous anger on behalf of the small human by his side.

"Very well," he says, "I will do nothing for the moment."

Henry  continues to shake, so Underneath places both hands—human now—around the boy's face. Not the forearms, given that the previous attempt had resulted in tears, but this way he can ensure the boy's attention remains fixed on him, and not on whatever upsetting thoughts are racing through the boy's mind.

"I will not do anything right now," he repeats. "I will stay here with you."

After a minute of repeating variations of this statement, Henry  calms down. Then, of course, Henry  seems to be embarrassed by his outburst, but his attempt to duck his head down is halted by the palms pressed lightly to either side of this face.

"Okay," Henry  whispers. "Okay."

Now that the atmosphere has settled, Underneath decides to change the subject. "Why don't we turn our attention to something else? What activity would you like us to do?"