Devour Vol 2 Ch 14: Picking On The Weak, The Importance If Family!

The wind howled through the splintered wood and open sky as the devourer stood like a goddess risen from myth, her towering form blotting out the sunset. The golden light from the horizon cast long shadows across her bare skin as she peered down, one hand still clutching what remained of the farmhouse roof.

Her naked legs were spread across the wreckage, planted deep into the earth on either side of what used to be Conrad's home. The ground itself creaked beneath her weight, the soil groaning in surrender.

Conrad's dad stumbled backward, his eyes wide, his mouth slack with disbelief. "What... what the hell is this?!"

Conrad, brushing broken drywall off his shoulder, didn't look up. He already knew. He raised a hand to his face, rubbing his forehead in frustration. "That's... my guest," he muttered.

"The hell kind of guest is that?!"

Before Conrad could answer, the devourer moved. Her golden eyes narrowed, and without a word she reached down, her hand blotting out the sky as it closed around Conrad's father. The old man screamed, kicking his legs as she lifted him effortlessly into the air like a toy pulled from a sandbox.

She brought him close to her face, inspecting him like something pitiful and strange.

"You like hurting the weak," she said softly, her lips curving into a grin. Her voice wasn't loud, but it was heavy — each syllable like a weight dropped onto the earth. "We have that in common... but here's the difference."

Her breath, hot and faintly sweet, washed over the stunned man. "In this moment... you are the weak one."

Her mouth began to open. The humid heat spilled out from between her lips as she raised him higher. Her expression was calm — too calm.

"Stop!" Conrad's voice rang out, raw and loud, rising above the chaos.

The devourer froze.

She blinked in surprise and lowered her hand slightly, her eyes drifting downward. Between the shattered beams and what was left of the kitchen walls, Conrad stood in the wreckage. His shirt was torn, one arm scraped and bloody, but his eyes were clear.

Still afraid. Still trembling.

But unflinching.

"Still holding that commanding tone, I see," she said, her voice tinged with amusement.

Conrad didn't reply right away. His chest rose and fell once... twice... then he let out a breath.

"Please," he said. Not a shout, not a demand — a plea. Quiet, but steady.

The devourer looked at him for a long moment. Then her gaze flicked back to the trembling man in her hand. Her expression shifted — not quite disdain, not quite curiosity.

With a sigh, she lowered her arm. "Very well."

She opened her fingers, letting Conrad's father fall. He landed hard in the mud with a grunt, but he was alive. Stunned, wide-eyed, and very quiet.

The devourer's voice returned, now colder. "You will remember this," she said, her voice echoing like thunder through the trees. "You may have raised this boy. But for now, he is under my protection. You will not lay a hand on him. Not without my permission."

The old man looked up, shaking, his mouth opening as if to speak — but nothing came. And then, his knees buckled, and he slumped face-first into the dirt, unconscious.

Conrad stood in silence.

The air was still. A few birds scattered from the nearby woods, startled by the echo of the devourer's words.

Conrad looked down at his father, then up again. "Great," he muttered, rubbing his temples. "Just perfect. What else could go wrong today?"

Above him, the massive devourer leaned forward slightly, tilting her head with something that might've been curiosity... or amusement.

"You humans," she said. "So fragile. So loud. So dramatic."

She reached down slowly, offering him the flat of her palm again. "Come. You'll catch a cold standing in that wreckage."

Conrad looked up at her hand, then back at the house — or what was left of it.

"Yeah," he said, stepping forward and climbing onto her warm skin. "I think it's safe to say... this is the worst Tuesday I've ever had."

The house looked whole again, which was absurd, considering five minutes ago it had no roof and half the living room was mulch. But now the shingles were back in place, the walls stood clean and upright, and the front porch light flickered lazily like nothing had happened. If anything, the place looked a bit too perfect—like a digital replica of a farmhouse someone had copy-pasted into reality.

Conrad muttered a soft "thanks" under his breath to the devourer, who was now looming behind him with her arms crossed and an expression somewhere between boredom and curiosity. She had fixed everything with a snap of her fingers, albeit with the kind of eye roll that said, "You mortals and your sentimental garbage."

Still, it helped.

Conrad grunted as he pulled his unconscious father into the bedroom, the man's body heavy and awkward in his grip. He staggered, adjusted, and finally managed to set him down on the bed, brushing some loose dirt off the man's wrinkled flannel shirt. His dad stirred faintly, mumbling nonsense before turning onto his side and falling silent again.

Conrad stood there, just watching him breathe. The old room smelled the same—aged wood, cheap cologne, a hint of stale whiskey. For a moment, his chest ached in a way he didn't quite understand. He tried to picture a version of his father that laughed more. That didn't raise his voice. That didn't drink.

But the memories were scattered. Few and far between.

"You care about him."

The voice came from behind, smooth and impossibly even. The devourer was leaning against the doorway, arms still folded, her golden hair tied up in a way that looked far too neat for someone who had demolished the house just a bit earlier. She tilted her head as she watched him.

"Why?" she asked.

Conrad didn't turn around. He just adjusted his father's pillow and sat on the edge of the bed. "He's my dad."

The devourer raised an eyebrow. "Is that reason enough?"

"It should be," Conrad said, standing now and finally turning to face her. "He's my family."

"Family," she echoed like the word was foreign. "Are such ties really that important to humans?"

Conrad shrugged, unsure how to explain something that felt so obvious and yet so complicated. "They're what we've got. Most of the time, they're all we've got."

She leaned her head back slightly, staring at the ceiling like she was searching for something beyond it. "We... the devourers... have no parents in the way you mean. We were created by a being we call Mother. But I've never met her." She looked back at him, her face softening just a bit. "None of us have."

Conrad frowned. "So... you and your sisters..."

"Our relationship is all we have. But it is not... close." She said the word like it tasted odd. "Crimson looks down on me. Darkness finds everything amusing. And I... I mostly try not to get eaten."

Conrad blinked. "Wait—you're not at the top of the food chain?"

"Not always," she said with a sly grin. "We're creatures of appetite. That makes alliances... fragile."

He didn't know what to say to that. So he said the first thing that came to mind.

"Your life sounds... sad."

The devourer didn't answer. Her expression flickered for a second, something unreadable moving across her face. Conrad gave his father one last glance, then walked past her into the hallway.

Behind him, the devourer watched him go, then looked back at the man who still lay unconscious in the bed—the one who had struck his own son, who had barked orders and dismissed feelings like they were clutter on the floor.

Her eyes narrowed, but not in anger. Not in judgment. Just... thought.

"I know," she whispered.