Epilogue
The bell above the door jingles as I walk into the seedy Miami dive bar.
I bypass the scattered tables and slide onto a barstool with cracked turquoise leather.
The place is empty aside from a group of motorcyclists crowded around a table in the far corner and the bartender.
The sparse crowd would be unusual given it’s a balmy Friday night, but the weather alerts threatening a torrential downpour have likely scared off the bar’s regulars.
“Order?” the bartender asks. A sun-faded baseball cap is pulled low on his head, hiding his eyes.
“Fries and a marg would be great. Salt rim, please.”
He nods gruffly, shouting to the line cook through the swinging kitchen door to put some fries on.
As he whips up my beverage, I let my eyes rove over to the other patrons.
The motorcycle club is composed of two men and two women clad in matching black leather vests with snakes embroidered on the back.
They all sport sunglasses despite the neon signs and scattered hanging lights not being particularly bright.
“What’s in that?” One of the men catches my wandering gaze and nods at the poster carrier slung over my back. He has a handlebar mustache and tattooed sleeves up both arms, one of which is resting across the back of a woman with bleached blond hair.
“I’m an art student at U Miami,” I say, patting the plastic cylinder. “It’s a project.”
“Fries are comin’.” The bartender sets my drink in front of me.
“Thanks.” I take a sip and grimace. “Sorry, I asked for a salt rim, not sugar.”
He ignores me and grabs my fries, which have appeared in the order window, unceremoniously dropping the red-and-white container in front of me. Steam rises off the glistening grease. I pinch one between my fingers and take a bite, burning my tongue.
“Got any salt and pepper?” I ask the bartender, raising my voice so he can’t avoid me this time.
“Table.” He jerks his head toward one of the empty tables. I grab the salt- and pepper shakers from it, generously dousing my fries before setting them next to my drink.
“Slow night, huh?” I say around a mouthful of greasy, potato-ey goodness.
“Storm’s coming,” is all he says. A sound from the kitchen makes us both jump, like something falling to the floor. “Hey, what’s goin’ on back—”
His reprimand breaks into a startled bark as I reach for my marg but knock over the saltshaker. It spills onto the counter, crystals scattering across the bar. He jumps back, colliding with the shelves lined with liquor bottles behind him. They teeter precariously.
“Shit, sorry,” I apologize, taking a pinch and tossing it over my shoulder. “I’m so clumsy.”
“Watch where you’re throwing that stuff!” the other man hollers at me.
“Sorry, sorry,” I say, meeting his Ray-Ban–covered gaze. The thing is, I didn’t throw it nearly far enough to reach their table. But he’s not at the table anymore. None of them are. Instead, they’ve formed a loose half circle around me. “Couldn’t risk the bad luck.”
The woman beside him tugs her white shirt over her nose. “What is that smell?”
I pull a tube out of my jean jacket pocket. “Probably my lotion. It’s white tea and sage.”
She recoils and the bartender gags. I turn to him. “Not a fan of white tea?”
“Not a fan of sage,” he grunts, wiping down the bar.
“How about obsidian?”
His head snaps up, finally giving me a view of his eyes. The whites are nearly nonexistent, and his irises are as black as tar.
“Who are you?” he asks.
Your worst nightmare, I want to tell him. Though I’m proud he isn’t mine. I rarely have nightmares these days.
Instead, I grab another fry. “You shouldn’t be worried about me,” I tell him, popping it into my mouth. “You should be worried about him.”
Right on cue, all hell breaks loose.
Luke barrels through the kitchen door, swiping his dagger in a vicious arc. Curling dark smoke follows him, a sure sign he took care of the line cook while I was testing everyone in the bar. It was exactly what we suspected—taken over by demons.
Except, not demons like Debra’s, who possess their victims. These are stronger, smarter, shapeshifting to blend in, like Beliar did in my apartment when he mirrored Luke.
They discovered working in groups, like motorcycle clubs, gives them a built-in element of protection.
Even demons can appreciate the power of friendship, apparently.
“Behind you!” Luke warns me, slapping my bow onto the bar. The bartender dodges his next swing, slamming into the liquor wall. Bottles rain down, smashing as they hit the ground.
I snatch my bow and spin as the woman in the white shirt tears her sunglasses off. Her eyes are as fathomless as the bartender’s.
“Want to see my art project?” I ask her, popping off the cap of the poster carrier.
She seethes. “No, I don’t want to see your stupid—”
“Too bad,” I tell her, whipping an arrow out of the makeshift quiver. I let it loose and it plunges into her chest. She explodes into smoke with a furious screech.
Handlebar watches me warily as I notch another arrow. “What is that?” he asks.
“Obsidian arrowheads,” I tell him honestly. “You can get them on Etsy.”
I let the arrow fly. He dodges it with inhuman speed and it thuds into the dartboard behind him.
The three remaining motorcycle-club demons cage me in. I climb onto the bar top, behind which Luke still battles the bartender for dominance.
It’s a bit of an unfair split, but I can hold my own. My next arrow hits the demon wearing Ray-Bans. While his cronies are distracted by his demise, I punt the saltshaker off the bar. It smacks the bleached blond in the face. My fourth arrow sails into her eye as she’s spitting out salt crystals.
My aim is getting good.
“Did you see that?” I ask Luke, maybe a bit too giddy for the occasion.
“I’m kind of busy,” he grunts, pointing the soda gun at the bartender and dousing him in Pepsi.
A fist circles my foot, tugging hard enough to send me slamming into the bar as my bow clatters to the ground. Handlebar is on me in an instant, pinning me to the wood.
“You’re the hunters,” he snarls.
“Sure as shit are,” I tell him, always filled with weird pride when our targets know about us. “Your time in the overworld is up.”
“You’ve been sending us back,” he spits, wrapping his hands around my throat. “We don’t want to go back.”
“Of course you don’t,” I wheeze. “The overworld is like an all-you-can-eat-buffet for you.”
He licks his lips. “And you’re the main—”
His meaty fingers leave my throat as Luke hauls the bartender into him, sending them both crashing into a table. I roll off the bar, grabbing an arrow as Handlebar rebounds. He lunges for me and I drive it into his jugular.
“Nice work,” Luke commends me, hopping over the bar so we’re side by side facing the bartender, who’s still wiping Pepsi from his eyes.
“Are there more of you in Miami?” I ask the demon, picking up my bow from where it fell.
“Lots more,” he hisses. “The bars are full of spring breakers. Lots of young, fresh meat.”
He’s practically drooling at the thought. Gross.
Thunder rumbles outside as he raises his hands. “But if you let me go, I swear I won’t resist. Put your weapons down, and I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”
This is the thing about demons I’ve learned since Luke and I have been on the road hunting them: the smart ones are actually quite reasonable when they want to be. But it’s always a trick.
Good thing we have tricks, too.
Luke lets his dagger clatter to the floor. I set my bow on the table.
The demon sneers, lunging for Luke. If only he knew about the second obsidian dagger. Mine.
I pull it out of my boot and drive the blade through his back. He sputters, staring down in shock at the sharp tip that protrudes from his chest as smoke pulls him back to his world for good.
Another crack of thunder sounds as I glance around the wrecked bar. “We made a mess.”
Luke collects my arrows, holding out a hand for me to grab. “Let’s try to beat the rain home.”
Home.
The skies open as Luke pulls into the driveway of my childhood house, where we’ve been staying. We race to the door, but we’re drenched before we hit the front steps.
“Should we wait out the rain and then hit the beach bars to hunt more demons?” I ask Luke, kicking off my boots and shrugging out of my jacket.
“There will always be more demons to hunt. It can wait for tomorrow.” Luke’s warm hands settle on my waist. Heat spikes my blood, the adrenaline rush from our bar fight lingering. “And by the way, I did see the eyeball shot. Very impressive.”
I turn in his arms, grinning as he kisses me. “Almost as impressive as you using Pepsi as a weapon. That was very creative for a spreadsheet guy.”
“You’re rubbing off on me,” he murmurs, trailing kisses down my jaw. He peels off my wet shirt and his fingers ghost over the four scars on my left side, making me shiver.
“I love you,” he tells me. The words from him aren’t new, but they never fail to send a thrill through me.
“I love you, too.” Love is so inherently human. Every second of every day, I’m grateful to feel it. “To hell and back.”
He laughs, kissing me deeply like life is a movie. “To hell and back.”