Demon Hunting with a Dixie Deb Read online

  Sassy had toddled across the Persian rug in the too-big heels. “Mama, who’s this man?”

  Mama plucked the snapshot from Sassy’s fat little fingers. “Where did you get this, Sarah Elizabeth?”

  Sarah Elizabeth? Sassy quailed. She was Mama’s Sassy Bug. Mama never called her Sarah Elizabeth unless she was in trouble. She regarded her mother anxiously. Were those tears in Mama’s eyes? She was a bad girl to make her mama cry.

  “Upstairs in the closet.” Sassy swallowed the lump in her throat. “W-who is he?”

  “Your father.”

  Mama’s voice was cool and distant, and her face looked stiff and funny. Her expression frightened Sassy.

  Opening a little compartment in the desk, Mama placed the photograph inside and shut the drawer with a snap.

  “Play somewhere else.” Mama returned her attention to her invitations. “Mother is busy.”

  Sassy did not ask her mother about The Man again. Talking about The Man made Mama sad. Sassy hated when Mama was sad.

  Still, Sassy had learned a few things about her father through the years. His name was William Blake Peterson Jr., and he was a concert pianist.

  Or, rather, he had been; Junior Peterson was dead. He’d died before Sassy was born.

  Which meant Sassy was talking to a ghost.

  Chapter Two

  Grim materialized in the shelter of the woods and looked back. His fingers sought and found the chain he wore around his neck; all that remained of his brother Gryff. Absently, he traced the smooth edges of the medallion, his gaze on the female on the bridge. She was wet and bedraggled, a delicious little package wrapped in damp green silk. A curious longing swept over him, and he had the sudden urge to retrace his steps and peel the clinging dress from her body. Unwrap her like some long-awaited, much anticipated treat.

  The impulse unsettled him. She unsettled him, had done so from the instant he’d plucked her from the water. The compulsion had grown with each passing moment in her presence, culminating in his unwise and precipitous departure.

  She had seen him disappear. He was seldom careless. Her memory would have to be adjusted.

  Eyes wide, hair streaming across her shoulders and breasts in a sleek, wet curtain, she stared over the edge of the bridge in confusion. An uneasy sensation bloomed in Grim’s chest, an aberrant response he found puzzling.

  By the gods, what was it about the chit that affected him? She was pretty enough, he supposed, though not a true beauty. Her face was more heart shaped than oval, her jaw too square; mouth a trifle too wide. She was disheveled, her pale cheeks smeared with the substance she’d used to darken her lashes. Any number of thralls in the House of Perpetual Bliss boasted greater charms. Yet there was something about her, a lightness that seeped into the cold, dark corners of his soul, warming him.

  He had been cold for a very long time.

  The thought startled him. What strange humor was this? How long had it been since his last session with a thrall?

  Too long, judging by his maudlin descent into sentiment.

  The woman on the bridge made a sound of dismay. The sound pulled Grim closer, as though he were tethered. He halted with an effort. By the sword, the minx was a winsome snare. She tempted him from his appointed task. He should have left her at the bottom of the stream with her metal carriage.

  He turned his back on her and drew his sword. Slipping deeper into the thick stand of trees, he searched for signs of his quarry. He would capture or destroy the demon he had trailed from another world to this. He would return for the female and deliver her to safety.

  Then he would leave and seek the enemy elsewhere.

  The woods were quiet. Damp gouges marred the leaves of the forest floor. Broken branches and claw marks on tree trunks marked the beast’s passage. The demon deer had moved swiftly, leaving terror and the stench of decay in its wake.

  A trickle of unease drew his mind back to the human female. What if she left the road in his absence and was lost?

  He shook the troublesome thought away. He had tracked the djegrali through flood and fire, over mountains and valleys, through deserts and across boiling seas. If the foolish woman wandered, he would find her.

  The demon’s tracks ended in a shallow, leaf-choked vale. Grim knelt to inspect the prints. His senses quickened. He was close; the thing’s presence hung in a suffocating pall over the woods. The demon had gone to ground or was hiding in the trees. Opening his senses, Grim located a small, furry mammal beneath a shrub. The creature resembled a Parquinian marsh devil, without the barbed stingers and acid glands. The animal seemed harmless, but best to make sure.

  Out of long habit and caution, he accessed his information source. Opossum, the Provider intoned in Grim’s head, a nocturnal earth scavenger. The size of a small cat, the opossum, or “possum,” as it is informally known, is recognizable by its distinctive pink pointed nose, black ears, and long, almost hairless tail. The tail is most often used for grasping. Gentle and placid, the creature is known to carry its young in a pouch, much like the scaled jumping mouse of Althion.

  Grim stifled a twinge of annoyance. Each world contained disparate flora and fauna, and its own dangers. The Provider was an invaluable tool, particularly to Grim, who hunted alone, eschewing the comforts of the Great Hall and the companionship and camaraderie of his brother warriors. For many years, the Provider had been his sole companion. Grim had long since grown accustomed to the Provider’s prosaic droning. Today, though, Grim found the Provider irritating.

  It is because of the human female, the Provider said, reading his thoughts. You desire her. You are anxious to return to her side.

  “You are mistaken,” Grim said. “The Dal do not couple with mortal species, particularly humans.”

  So I thought as well. Of late, however, there have been a number of peculiar lapses among the Dalvahni. I have monitored the situation with interest. But I digress. The opossum has the interesting ability to—

  Growing impatient, Grim merged with the possum without waiting for the Provider to finish. The opossum’s vision was poor, its sense of smell keen. Moss and lichen, the musty scent of rotting leaves and wood, damp soil and the clean, fresh smell of pine needles and new growth; these things and more Grim knew the instant he became one with the little animal.

  The possum’s heart stuttered in alarm. The fiend was close. Too close, Grim realized belatedly.

  —enter an involuntary, comatose-like state of shock when threatened and unable to flee, a state humans sometimes refer to as “playing possum,” the Provider concluded as the possum keeled over in fright.

  The world went dark. Pain snapped Grim’s link with the Provider and the inert animal. Blood filled his mouth. He was drowning in it. He was on his back pinned beneath the weight of the demon deer. The fiend ripped at him with fangs and claws. Grim fumbled for the knife at his thigh and found it. He closed his hand around the leather hilt and drove the blade into the monster’s belly. The demon deer shrieked and dissolved in a smelly puddle. The gummy pool turned to powder and blew away.

  Grim dropped the knife and let his eyes drift shut. He was coated in demon stench and his throat and chest were torn and bleeding.

  It is no more than you deserve, he chided himself. Remember the pain, and let it be a reminder to you. This is what comes of distraction. A Dalvahni warrior does not lose focus. A Dalvahni warrior is patient and methodical. A Dalvahni warrior is relentless as the tide, as cold and remorseless as a distant star. A Dalvahni warrior does not act on whim or in haste, like a foolish human.

  The throbbing of his wounds was fading. Soon he would be as before, save for the ruination of his garments and the residual stink of demon. A bath and a change of clothes would remedy both. The bruise to his pride, however, would linger. His preoccupation with the female had made him careless. The knowledge stung more sharply than the pull of his rapidly healing flesh. Such a thing had not happened to him before.

  Thank Kehv no one had witnessed his fol
ly.

  “A curious ploy, brother, albeit effective,” a deep voice said, “but surely there is a more efficient . . . and less painful way to trap the djegrali than offering oneself as a meal?”

  Grim opened his eyes. A Dalvahni warrior gazed down at him without expression.

  So much for his dignity.

  He got to his feet.

  “Well met, Duncan.” Grim retrieved his sword from the ground and slid it back in the scabbard. “What brings you here?”

  “I came in search of cramp bark and valerian to treat an ailing mare. I sensed the fiend’s presence and sought to dispatch it.” Amusement twinkled in Duncan’s light brown eyes. “But you had done the deed with aplomb.”

  Grim shifted in discomfort. He found Duncan’s propensity for mirth irksome. The Dal were known for many things, but humor was not among them.

  “I have been trailing the creature for some time,” he said. “The hunt led me here.”

  Duncan’s expression sharpened. “You followed it through a portal?”

  “How else?”

  “Where?”

  “Not far from here. There is a yellow covered wagon, large with many windows. It lies abandoned and rusting in a field overgrown. Know you it?”

  “I cannot be certain, but the wagon you describe could be a school bus, a conveyance the locals use to carry their children to and from a place of learning. Abandoned, you say?”

  Grim nodded. “Yes, and other artifacts besides. The field seems to be a repository for discarded items.”

  “It sounds like a junkyard.” Duncan appeared troubled. “Conall will wish to hear your account at once. He thought he had closed the portal to Hannah.”

  “Hannah is the name of this place?”

  “Yes. The Provider should have told you as much.”

  Grim shrugged. “In truth, I did not ask. One place is much as another.”

  “Hannah, you will find, is unique.”

  “As you say,” Grim said without interest. He had long since stopped keeping track of the places duty took him. He seldom tarried in one place. His purpose was to hunt and kill the djegrali.

  He surveyed the other warrior, taking note of his fitted tunic and sturdy trousers. “You have assimilated. The hunting in this realm is good?”

  He wears something called a tee shirt, a woven tube of fabric without side seams, boasting either short or long sleeves, the Provider said without being asked. His breeches are called jeans, fashioned from a tough material known as cotton twill, also called denim. Like tee shirts, jeans are favored by males and females alike in this clime. Interestingly enough—

  Grim gritted his teeth and clamped down on the unsolicited flow of internal chatter. By the gods, his sustained solitude had allowed the Provider too much license.

  “The hunting here is excellent,” Duncan said. “And you? The last I heard, you were in the mountains of Zinarr. Your absence was noted at the wedding.”

  “What wedding?”

  “Conall’s. He married this past moon.”

  Grim stared at him, thunderstruck. “Some trick of the djegrali has disordered your mind. The Dal do not marry.”

  “That is no longer the case.”

  Grim made a sound of disgust and turned his back on the other warrior. Faster than thought, Duncan darted in front of him.

  “There is a sign at the outskirts of this town.” Duncan’s expression was strangely intent. “A metal placard that reads ‘Hannah, Ala.’ Han-nah-a-lah. Think on it, Grimford.”

  “The end of all things?” Grim shouldered past him. “I have no time for your jests.”

  “It is no jest,” Duncan called after him. “Report to Conall, brother. Perhaps he can convince you.”

  Grim stalked into the woods. “Dalvahni warriors conjugating? Duncan is unhinged. He should be removed from duty. That I will report to Conall, rest assured.”

  Duncan’s account is accurate, the Provider said in his placid way. Brand was the first of your brothers to marry, followed by Rafe and Ansgar. Conall is the most recent Dalvahni warrior to take a bride.

  Grim paused beneath a towering hickory. “To what end? If this is some deep scheme to outwit the djegrali, I do not fathom it.”

  Demons have naught to do with it. Your brothers are in love.

  “Love is a human emotion. The Dalvahni are impervious.”

  Not long ago I would have agreed, but this “love” is a peculiar affliction. It strikes without warning and knows no barriers.

  “Ridiculous,” Grim said. “Stop speaking in riddles and enlighten me. I would know more of this place.”

  Magic runs deep in Hannah. Some strange and terrible property here attracts the supernatural, including the djegrali and the Dalvahni.

  Grim growled. “Tread lightly, old friend. One does not speak of the Dal and the enemy in the same breath.”

  This same quality has made it possible for the djegrali to propagate. The Provider ignored Grim’s censure and continued. A new species has arisen here, the offspring of demon-possessed mortals. They are called demonoids.

  Shock coursed through Grim, sweeping aside his irritation. “Half human and half demon? Abomination. They must be eradicated at once. I will offer my sword arm to the task.”

  Conall will not allow it.

  “He wishes to destroy them himself?”

  He considered it, but thought better of it. Conall, you see, has taken a demonoid to wife.

  Grim’s mind reeled. Conall, the leader of the Dalvahni, married to a child of the enemy?

  “You are misinformed,” he said. “Such a thing cannot be.”

  They have signed their names in the Great Book. Kehvahn himself approved the match.

  Kehvahn, the god who created the Dalvahni to track down rogue demons, had given his blessing to a match between demon hunter and demon spawn?

  “Madness.” Grim shook his head in disbelief. “What of the Directive?”

  Nothing in the Directive prohibits the Dalvahni from marrying. None of you have been so inclined before. The Provider’s voice grew sly. Perhaps you will be the next to succumb. You are curiously affected by a certain female.

  “Nonsense. I have been too long absent from the House of Pleasure. That is all.”

  As you say.

  The Provider’s smug tone irked Grim. He opened his mouth to retort and was interrupted by a chilling howl.

  Duncan materialized under the tree, his eyes aglow with a martial light. “You heard?”

  “Aye,” Grim said. “What manner of demon is it?”

  “Not a demon,” Duncan said. “The cry you heard was the Hag. She preys on children, but her blood lust knows no bounds.” His eyes glowed hotter. “Long have I sought her. Will you join me in the hunt, brother?”

  A second undulating howl startled a fox from the underbrush. Grim lifted his head, listening. The Hag was on the move. From the sound of it, the creature was traveling swiftly in the direction of the bridge.

  A winsome face rose before him, a pair of merry eyes and a laughing, curving mouth.

  Grim drew his sword. “I must away. The female is alone and in danger.”

  He reached for the bridge, and the world slid out of focus. He reappeared on the road and spun on his heels, sword in hand. The female was nowhere to be found. Rage and frustration seized him in a chokehold. Had the Hag taken her?

  Duncan materialized at his side. “What female?”

  “Sassy.” Saying her name was a relief. It slipped through Grim’s lips like a caress. “Her name is Sassy.”

  Duncan’s brows rose. “I take it she is fetching, this Sassy?”

  “Aye, and vexatious in the extreme. The chit has no notion of practicality.”

  “I am intrigued.” Duncan looked around. “Produce me this remarkable female.”

  “I cannot.” Lashing out with his blade, Grim sheared a metal strut in two. The pole creaked and buckled in two. “She is gone.”

  Chapter Three

  Spots danced in fr
ont of Sassy’s eyes. This was beyond silly. There were no such things as ghosts, or carnivorous deer, or skeletal, fanged ghouls. She was hallucinating. She’d hit her head when she wrecked the car. She had a concussion. She was in the hospital right now, hooked up to an IV.

  The whole thing was a bad, trauma-induced dream.

  She closed her eyes and counted to three before opening them again. The ghost was still there, looking remarkably solid.

  Ok-a-a-y. She could freak out or go with the flow. Going with the flow seemed the more sensible option. Besides, she wasn’t the hysterical type. She was cheerful.

  Sassy got to her feet and gave him a friendly smile. “Hi, I’m Sassy. And you’re Junior Peterson, my biological father.”

  Junior wrinkled his nose. “Biological father? You weren’t conceived in a petri dish.”

  “Why did you leave me on the bridge with that thing?”

  “You’re a big girl. I came to warn you, not hold your hand.”

  “Wow, thanks,” Sassy said, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in her voice.

  “You seem out of sorts. Bad day?”

  “It’s been unadulterated poo. I wrecked my stepfather’s car. Daddy Joel loves that car.”

  “The chicken tender tycoon?” Junior chuckled. “He’ll be upset about the car, but he’ll get over it.”

  “You’re right. I’m being a Debbie Downer. That is so not like me.” She pursed her lips and considered the ghost. “I’ve got it.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The silver lining—there’s always a silver lining if you look for it.” Sassy beamed. “Wanna know what it is?”

  “Can’t wait.”

  “It’s you.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’re my first ghost and you’re awesome,” Sassy said. “Do I have a great imagination, or what?”

  “Hmm,” Junior said. “Are you always this terminally perky?”