Chapter 2
I try to stretch innocuously as I stride over. My body hurts. Somewhere between hunching over a desk all day and the werewolf who kicked my ass two nights ago, I think I threw my back out. Is twenty-one too young to throw your back out?
The demon appraises me with thinly veiled irritation.
He’s so thin I assume he does have a drug problem, but by the look of those cloudy eyes and rotting teeth, it’s not the high-quality poppy Astera is known for.
His calloused hands and the black grease on his brow tell me he’s some kind of manual laborer, though his improperly buttoned coveralls and variety of bruises tell me he’s not the star of his field.
Whatever he does, I don’t think he’s a member of the Brood.
Good news. I didn’t have the energy for certain death tonight.
The Brood is like the mafia, but the soul sucking is literal: a savage cabal of demons and the lesser deviants they employ who all serve at the behest of the High Thane—the king of all deviants.
Sycophants offering brute strength to their king in return for belonging, power, and the infliction of pain and the indulgence of pleasure in equal measure.
And, like any exclusive society, the Brood employs only the most clever and violent, so they’re not easy to find and even less easy to kill.
Not for lack of trying, though. Watching a dozen of them murder your father right before your eyes tends to have that effect.
Some might call it vengeance, but I prefer the term pest extermination.
I’m just doing my part to clean up this city I call home.
My mom went from neighborhood councilwoman to DA in his memory.
How is my vendetta any less noble? Sure, mine comes with bloodlust, but she has to wear a pantsuit.
I’ll give her this—my mom has a much easier time prosecuting the criminals she thinks killed my dad than I do fighting the Brood demons that actually did it.
I feel a flash of relief thinking of how little my mother knows of her husband’s death.
Of the sick, menacing creatures she shares the city with.
She, like every other mortal, has no clue that deviants stalk through the streets, feasting on human souls and blood and flesh.
It’s brutal out here, and I’m grateful my mother’s none the wiser.
I eye the greasy demon once more and come to the conclusion that this glassy-eyed creep doesn’t scream elite evil.
They also brand their members when they take the mantle, and though I can’t see the back of this guy’s neck under his hair, I’m confident in my analysis.
All I’m dealing with is your run-of-the-mill low-level demon hankering for a soul.
And I hate that inside me, a little thrill begins to bloom.
That I want to save this mom and her kids—really, I do—but I might’ve missed Penny’s birthday even if he was sitting on this train alone just for the chance to puncture demonic flesh with my silver.
Rage swims inside me at my own nature. I don’t only hunt to save lives like other hunters.
I hunt because if I don’t kill things, I’ll crack.
I’ll get sick. I could kill humans instead.
Just like there are deviants—any and all creatures born from the depths of the underworld—there are also lymantrians.
Beings with souls who have nonhuman abilities or appearances, living right here alongside the mortals.
Hunters are one lymantrian species, but I’m not just a hunter.
I’m an aeon—a type of hunter who has a second sight.
Meaning I get a full-body buzz just being in the presence of a deviant.
And a twisted, nagging craving for the kill.
According to my dad, we aeons don’t really play well with others.
Not that I would know; I haven’t spent much time with other hunters.
We’re a solitary breed. I know there must be more—I’ve seen one or two dagger-wielding silhouettes slip through the shadows—but it’s rare.
For the last nine years, it’s just been me and all the wicked things in Astera.
That’s okay, though. I like to work alone.
As I approach, the demon’s eyes flash red.
That bloody ring around both irises is the only way a regular hunter can tell a demon from a mortal.
Unless they show you their clawed, winged form, but they so rarely do.
It’s part of why they sit at the top of the deviant food chain—demons are the most indistinguishable from mortals.
Perfect example: Burrito Mom here has no idea the guy trying to inch closer to her drinks human souls like Gatorade.
When she looks up at me, her eyes shine with relief. She’s in a sweatshirt that’s been through the wash so many times the logo has all but faded and leggings with enough pilling to look fuzzy. I want to offer her a pillow and a sleep mask while I waste this guy.
“Miss?” I ask in my best customer service voice. “Do you know this man?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Aw, come on, lady,” the demon croons. “I thought we were getting friendly—”
“Let’s leave the woman to finish her dinner in peace, yeah?”
The demon snarls at me. It’s always a little rush knowing deviants can’t distinguish hunters from mortals. I love seeing that menacing swagger disappear when I reveal myself as their own personal grim reaper.
“Come on, sir,” I cajole. “We can go to the next car over.”
His eyes flash an even brighter red. He’s pissed. Lucky me.
I’m already beginning to think of cover-up stories for Burrito Mom when he lunges for me, spitting, “I’m not going anywhere with a bitch like—”
I don’t let him finish.
My daggers lash out whip-fast and almost slice him clean across the throat. Burrito Mom screeches like a banshee. I don’t blame her—I’d probably do the same if some museum assistant in a cocktail dress whipped out two silver daggers and attacked a dude on the subway.
But the demon is quick and dodges before I make contact. He ducks again before I can land a solid blow to his heart or head. We struggle through the car, sliding around metal poles and sticky seats. I try to direct us away from the family. Burrito Mom’s babies wail.
I lunge for his gut, but before I can get there, he’s kicking me out of the way. My head smacks the reinforced glass window, and pain reverberates through my skull. He’s stronger than I expected, and I’m winded and hungry. Not in my best form.
The demon moves for my blades, realizing I have two and he has none—better math than I expect from the guy. I maneuver both to my right hand and deck him hard across the face with my left. Two points to Viv: one for ambidexterity and another for hunter strength.
He howls as he holds his nose, now leaking blood. “You cunt.”
“Watch it,” I snarl, out of breath. “There are kids on board.”
I leap over a row of empty seats. My right fist, carrying both blades, drives toward his chest. But he dodges faster than I can anticipate, nearly tripping over a coat some passenger left behind.
One dagger careens off the metal pole, and I hear every splinter as the ancient blade cracks, a shard snapping clean off.
Fuck. These were my father’s.
Heat pumps through my veins. My fury alone is enough to ensure my next blow lands.
Right as the demon moves for me, eyes rabid, I grab the metal pole and kick the demon with everything I’ve got. He flies, cranium first, into a row of empty seats.
Heart racing, feet starting to ache, blade broken, I stalk over to him.
That hit might’ve killed him had he been mortal.
But any hunter worth their salt knows the only way to kill a demon is with pure silver to the heart or brain.
That or another demon’s claws, but it’s not like I have a pair of those handy.
It’s why I only wear silver jewelry. You never know when all that stands between your life and a demon’s are the earrings your dad got you for your fifth-grade graduation.
The demon shakes his head like he’s a cartoon surrounded by spinning stars. I can tell from his expression that he’s had enough. Good thing too, because I’m running out of steam.
He yanks me toward him and I allow him to take me down. Burrito Mom behind us gasps in shock and horror, and I almost feel bad. She thinks she’s about to witness the wrong ending to this brawl.
The demon’s mouth isn’t too far from mine now. Demons live forever down in the underworld, but up here, on our turf, they need a healthy dose of human souls to keep them alive and kicking. He opens wide to suck mine from my lips. To send me down to hell.
I have no doubt he would’ve found some decent sin in my tattered soul.
Punishing sinners is said to be the reason demons have this ability in the first place, and I’m like one of those seedy watch peddlers with the trench coats full of stolen goods.
Any sin you want, I got ’em. Envy for all those born without my aeon blood.
Pride inherited from my egomaniac mother.
Enough deep-seated wrath over my father’s death to power a small, furious country.
But I don’t give him the chance.
Based on the awed look on his face, he didn’t know that, for a deviant, hunters’ souls, blood, and flesh deliver not just more power, but more ecstasy than a mere mortal’s might.
His surprise at the scent of my soul offers me the upper hand I’d been banking on.
I drive my still-intact dagger into his heart and am hit with my own rush of elation.
Nothing feels as good as delivering that death blow.
Not sex, not drugs. Not anything at all.
Inch by inch, my blade cuts beautifully through primordial sinew and muscle until I feel the demon collapse atop me. I wheeze under his weight and attempt to catch my breath.
Before I move, I shift him so I can get a good look at his neck.
No demonic brand.
Just as I’d thought—not a Brood demon.
I push him off and stand, surveying the frazzled mom.
Her burrito landed on the ground a while ago, and we both watch it slide as the train comes to a stop, leaving a snail trail of beans and egg across the rubber flooring.
She’s clutching her babies to her with such fierce protectiveness it stalls my heart.
Her face isn’t tear streaked. Her jaw isn’t trembling.
She’s a picture of unflinching determination.
Willing to throw herself between us and her children a hundred times over.
She’s looking at me like I’m as much a monster as the creature I just saved her from, and…
she’s right. Like an endless ride I can’t get off, my triumph loops back into shame.
“Nothing to be alarmed by,” I say as calmly as I can, though I’m still catching my breath. “I’m law enforcement. That man was a criminal we’ve been hunting for a while.” I eye the station, the people lining up to jump on. “Please make your way onto the platform.”
The subway doors crank open once more. One stop away from Cobwebs. I’ll have to run.
God, I’m so tired.
The woman makes no move to exit the car. And there’s still a dead demon body inside.
“Come on, ma’am,” I tell her. “It’s going to be okay.”
She recoils from me as I approach her. “Is he dead?”
“No,” I lie. “Just unconscious. Let me walk you out. I’ve already alerted the railway marshal.
” To my knowledge, there is no such thing as a railway marshal.
But the mother is in so much shock, she just nods.
I help her push the double stroller out onto the platform.
“Will you be able to get home all right?”
She nods again, placing her babies in their individual seats. Sisters. Less than a year apart, I’d guess.
“How old are they?”
Finally, her eyes soften a bit on mine. “Eight months and eighteen months.”
Warmth spreads through my chest. Despite everything, I’m glad I was here tonight. This is why my father taught me what he did. “I have a sister too. She’s five years older, though.”
She smiles weakly. I can see the exhaustion creeping in. “Thank you, Officer.”
Burrito Mom rolls her daughters away in a daze, fading into the masses.
I stay by the automatic doors, ushering people to a different railcar until there’s nobody left.
I’m lucky—not many are going deeper downtown from this stop.
Through the glass, I just narrowly catch the demon’s cold body decaying into a puff of ash. There and gone.
I’m about to leg it across the platform when hairs rise on the nape of my neck.
It’s uncanny, the feeling of being watched.
I don’t think it’s a hunter thing or even an aeon thing.
Everybody’s had that bizarre sensation of someone’s eyes on the back of their head.
But perhaps it is my hunter gene that allows me to swivel and instinctually find those eyes in the crowd.
My gaze locks onto a figure one subway car over from the one I was on.
I can’t make out much in the shadows, but I know someone’s been watching me.
I can just feel it. The faintest prickle on my skin. Another deviant?
Before the train leaves the station, I swear the shadow waves.
I brush off the full-body chill as I hightail it for Cobwebs. I tell myself it doesn’t matter what they saw. People get into knife fights South of the Chasm all the time.