Demon Trackers: The Anointed

by Clover Autrey

  He clawed his way upward, inch by burning inch. Jarlaith was many things, but he wasn't a quitter. The Hell-hole was slim. Tight. Barely room to expand fiery lungs against compacting earth. The hellhound he followed was small and young and many times throughout this journey Jarlaith feared the pup would give up and turn back to fall once again to Hell, but the little mutt's instinctual drive to follow the lurid scent of fresh prey up top equaled his own.

  This time Jarlaith played it smart. Instead of following one of the larger hounds to the surface like the others, certain to meet Anointed ice daggers when they emerged, Jarlaith trailed a pup, hoping to pop out of the earth's surface like a daisy in a field of weeds. Unnoticed and unhindered.

  He pulled through the muck, the nub ending at his wrist painfully stabbing into the dirt. Noxious fumes wafted down in the wake of the dog ahead of him. Climbing was grueling, but a rite of sorts for only the strong and most cunning demons survived long upstairs. Too fast, too greedy, too destructive in one place too long and the Anointed would be on his six, their kremloc blades hacking him into so many pieces it'd take a thousand years to regenerate. That little failure earlier with Celalundria's bastards fueled his determination to get out.

  Cold air poured over him as he pulled up into a clear night sky. He was in a desert of some sort, a large sequoia towering over him. He sucked in several gasps of sweet topside air, letting the exotic crispness sizzle and snap through his scorching lungs like a drug, an intoxicating and forbidden rush.

  Bracing his arms on the ground, Jarlaith shimmied from the tight hole like a woman sheds a skirt.

  "Only one little demon?" a voice gated behind him, snapping Jarlaith's spine to attention. "I had hoped for more."

  Jarlaith twisted around and swore. One of the cursed Anointeds sat casually on the body of the young hellhound, the tip of his opal blade drawing patterns in the desert sand. Jarlaith glanced around. The Anointed was young and alone. The flicker of his Anointed energy haloed his body in rippling light, though the energy of this one was dull, not anywhere near the vibrancy of the energy of the two brothers. Odd. Since as half-breeds, theirs should have been far more subdued. Jarlaith cocked his head. Whatever the energy level, he'd be more cautious this time, not taunting the Anointed to heightened emotion like he'd made the mistake of doing with the young halflings.

  The stocky Anointed stood, stepping away from the hellhound before it melted beneath him. He was shorter than the demon had assumed. Moonlight glinted off the dagger as the young tracker lifted it.

  Jarlaith stepped back.

  "Oh." The young man lifted the dagger in front of his face. Light eyes glowed in the blade's white reflection. "This? I won't use it. Would you believe if I told you I didn't track this Hell-hole to kill whatever came out." He looked down. "With exception of the hound of course. Can't exactly negotiate with an animal, can I?"

  "A demon slayer negotiate?" Jarlaith edged sideways, looking for an advantage. He could pin the young one against the sequoia, rip his spine out before he could scream. He'd taste his blood. He was so very hungry. "What could you possibly have that would interest me?" Besides the cool ambrosia liquid running through your veins, the sweet snap of your cartilage, the savory texture of your meat. Jarlaith's empty stomach rumbled.

  "Unopposed entrance into Karavel."

  Jarlaith froze.

  "You would betray your people?" He smiled at the boy's ruse.

  "I would save my people!" the Anointed shouted with too much passion to be a lie. Jarlaith blinked, a chill in the air passing deliciously over the heat of his naked body.

  The demon twisted his lips. "Explain."

  The child-boy's eyes blazed. "The old ways are over. We spill our blood daily to protect mortals who aren't fit to lap the spittle that falls on our shoes. The real threat is not demons or monsters, but our own passivity when we should be leaders, masters over mankind, not servants to them."

  Jarlaith's mouth watered. The young one's meat must be so tender. "You want to rile your brethren to action, get them enraged, send my brothers through the gates to wake up the Anointed to their potential. Perhaps kill the leadership who do not share your same views?"

  The boy glared, but didn't refute the accusations.

  Testing the kid's commitment, Jarlaith stepped closer. "And what if I gathered a demon army, entered the pass-through you left opened for us? What if we didn't stop with the leadership, but overpowered all of Karavel, took it for our own, slaughtered every last man, woman, and child?" Who would be the protectors of mankind then?

  The Anointed didn't blink an eye. "You could try. Once the pass-through is opened and the Administrators targeted are gone, our bargain ends. What's left of the Anointed, under my leadership of course, will then drive you out."

  "A contest then."

  The child was arrogant and grossly naïveté. Jarlaith could prey on that, lead the youngling down the path he would have him go. After all, that was the power of demonhood: seduction and manipulation. To some of Jarlaith's brethren, corrupting a stainless soul was more intoxicating than the blood that pulsed through them. Jarlaith much preferred the indulgence of a quick meal above the slow corruption, yet the idea of leading one of the Anointed to damnation while the misguided fool opened the portals of Karavel to a horde of demonkind…Jarlaith was damn near slobbering with anticipation.

  He dug the sharp nail of his pinky across the palm of the same hand, since he only had the one hand. Hot crimson bubbled up from the slice. He extended his arm out to the kid. "Seal it with blood."

  The boy swallowed, but drew his opal blade across his own hand and slapped his bleeding palm to Jarlaith's, an indomitable resolution stamped hard into the swarthy wind-beaten features.

  Still clasping hands, Jarlaith impulsively made another demand. "I want the pot sweetened."

  "With what?"

  "Two brothers. Halflings of your kind. Celalundria's get."

  Jarlaith expected the warrior to bulk at such an intimate betrayal, yet a cruel smile stretched his lips. "Done. Anything else?"

  "No." This would be an intoxicating challenge, pitting deception against a certain level of trust, and when it was over, and the young Anointed's reckless soul in bondage to Hell, Jarlaith could still eat him.