The group entered the small mercantile. Willow sent the boy to the back of the store to collect the heavier dry goods she needed. She, Thistle, and Larch stayed at the front, near the door, examining jars of baked beans and slices of smoked meats.
The robust woman with bad teeth behind the long counter was friendly enough at first. She rested plump, brown, sun-wrinkled elbows on the counter. A large mole with three long hairs sprouting from it graced the corner of her mouth.
“Did you hear a disturbance late yesterday afternoon?” she asked. “There was an explosion, and the sky lit up like the demon wars. Some of the men went out to check on it this morning, and one of the sinkholes had caved in.”
“No,” Willow said. “We didn’t hear anything.”
A shadow darted across the open door. A tiny face peered around the framework. Then, as she’d asked him to do, one of her feral children slipped inside. He scurried forward to hide in the folds of her skirt.
By mortal standards he was misshapen and monstrous. He had been born in a partial demon form, and survived for years in the mountains by living like an animal in the wild. His skin was gold, not red, and hard as rock. Two useless humps, where wings should have been stored, twisted his back. His long hands and feet were clawed, and yet his face was breathtakingly beautiful. He trusted no one but Willow, although Larch had been making overtures—no doubt because he was a small child, and she was pregnant. Larch had no idea what form her own baby would take when it was born. It might be no different than this. Willow wanted her to understand it, and be prepared to love it no matter what.
The mole-faced mortal woman, who was not nearly as beautiful as this child, gasped at the sight of him. A hand went to her slack-jawed mouth. “What is that?”
Willow lifted him into her arms. He clung to her like a burdock. “This is a child,” she said. “You’ve no doubt seen them before.”
“Not like that.” The woman’s face lost all friendliness. Her lip curled. One hand dropped out of sight beneath the counter. “I don’t want his kind in here.”
“What is his kind?” Willow asked.
“He’s a spawn.”
“He’s a child,” Willow repeated. She turned to Larch and the boy who had come forward from the back of the store with his arms full of goods. She set the child on the floor. He darted outside and would make his way back to camp on his own. “Take what we need. I’ll be along shortly.”
Larch hesitated, looked as if she had something to say, then nodded. She motioned for the older boy to precede her out the door.
“Stop right there!”
The mortal woman withdrew her hand from beneath the counter. In it, she held a long-barreled pistol. Willow knew that many such weapons had been adapted to fire round balls of lead, which were cheaper than bullets and easier to make by hand. Their cost effectiveness came at the expense of accuracy, but the pistol would not have to shoot at any great distance.
“Thistle,” Willow said.
The girl, who had been standing close to the counter, smiled at the woman.
The woman’s eyes grew round. The pistol in her hand wavered. The weapon swung back and forth at first, as if it couldn’t make up its mind, and then with more dedication until the barrel turned to press tight against its owner’s own temple. Beads of moisture formed at the woman’s hairline. Her whole body trembled. Fear crept into her expression.
“I don’t want any trouble,” she said.
“Then you should be kinder to children.”
Willow turned away. The pistol went off behind her with a loud, percussive report that would soon bring other townspeople to investigate. She heard the thump as the woman’s heavy body slid to the floor.
Larch, who had paused in the doorway, made a small sound in the back of her throat that she quickly stifled. Without a word, she turned and left.
Willow wanted to burn the store to the ground, but her fight with the assassin and her fear of raising the demon left her without the use of her talents. She felt impotent. As if she were a slave in this world once again.
And that made her angry.
It took her a few moments to spark a fire by mortal means, but the building was old, and dry, and caught within seconds. She waited until the flames licked up the walls and entered the rafters.
Then Willow, too, left the store.
As she stepped across the threshold, she bumped into someone deliberately blocking her path. He was covered in dirt, and somewhat worse for wear, but nevertheless familiar.
His face was twisted with hate.
“I want the assassin dead,” Stone said.
…
It had taken an hour after finding Nieve before Creed’s heart stopped pumping blood at adrenaline-fueled speed, leaving him lightheaded and incapable of rational thought.
Even his sister Raven had not instilled worry in him to this level because he had always known she could take care of herself far better than most ordinary women.
But he had been terrified for Nieve who, while far from ordinary in his eyes, was defenseless without him. He had thought Willow had somehow coerced her again.
Then he’d realized she’d run from him. Hurt that she would trust him so little settled in. She’d abandoned him with complete disregard for how he would feel to awaken and find her gone.
A part of him had wished to hurt her in return.
As he lay under the shade of the shelter he’d erected, with her so motionless and silent, and as far from him as she could manage without sitting in the sun, he thought it likely he had accomplished that much.
He deeply regretted the things he’d said. He would not have left her behind. He would never leave her in danger. The need to hurt her had been unworthy of him, and unfair to her. She could no more help her maternal instincts than he could fight his demon ones. And his demon continued to want her.
They were about to spend almost a month in each other’s company, and cross an expanse of land that would soon be more treacherous as the summer months settled in. They could not do so in angry silence.
He had not been the one to begin a physical intimacy between them. She had claimed him, whereas despite his demon’s insistence to the contrary, he had no true claim on her. That was not how it worked. He did not read her as well as he read other people. It frustrated him and made him uncertain, two more emotions he was not used to experiencing. While his profession of love could not be unsaid, or her rebuff of it undone, if she should ever want it again, next time she would have to earn it.
Late in the day, as they were getting ready to move on, Creed happened to glance at the horizon and saw a red glow where the town they had left behind should be. His jaw tightened.
“Is that fire?” Nieve asked, seeing what had caught his attention.
“Yes.”
“Are we going back?”
By the time they did, there would be nothing he could do. It had taken them several hours to travel this far. It would take that long, or longer, to return, especially if darkness caught them.
Or something else did.
“No,” Creed said. He swung the saddle to the hross’s back and began to tighten the straps. “We ride on.”
Chapter Fifteen
Summer had arrived, and still, there was no sign of his mother.
It was just past lunch and Ash was supposed to be down for a nap so that Airie could get some rest, too. Instead he was chasing kittens in the hay loft, burrowing between the fresh bales of new-cut hay and trying not to think about what might be keeping his mother, while Hunter mucked out the stalls below. One of Hunter’s many brothers-in-law came into the barn.
His name was Tremor. He was a big man, and hard, who believed children should be seen and not heard. Whenever he came to visit, Ash usually made sure he was neither. He wedged himself between two of the bales and peered through the cracks in the floorboards. Sparkles of dust and tiny bits of dried grass swirled in the air as the warm, musty scent of hross flesh drifted up to him, along wi
th the men’s voices.
Tremor was not a man to waste words. He got straight to the point.
“We’ve got trouble,” he said.
Hunter leaned on his pitchfork. The inside of the barn was hot, even with the doors open wide, and he’d taken off his shirt. Ash could see the long, ragged scars riddling the sweat-dampened skin of his chest and back. Hunter used to fight demons, Ash knew. He’d seen him do it.
And Hunter always won.
He wiped the sweat off his face with the crook of his elbow. “What kind of trouble?”
“The kind that’s starting to cause panic over the notion of Airie, and how she’s carrying another spawn.”
Hunter went still in a way that Ash knew meant danger, and got a big knot in his stomach. He’d never fully understood how people could be so afraid of Airie, and mean to her, but they were. At the same time, he knew if she was backed into a corner, she’d do whatever she had to in order to protect her family.
So would Hunter, and he wasn’t going to let this go.
“That’s my baby she’s carrying,” he said. “Anyone who says anything different can say it to me.”
“Try and see this from their point of view. There’ve been rumors of spawn in the Godseeker Mountains ever since the demons disappeared. There’s no doubt that Airie’s not mortal. All anyone has to do is spend five minutes with her to know that, so what could she be if not spawn? And people say that boy with you is one of them, too, so they have to believe that those other rumors are true.” Tremor held up a hand. “Don’t get all hostile with me. I’m just the messenger. But this isn’t only a problem for you. It affects the whole family, and your sisters aren’t nearly as used to dealing with danger as you are. They’ve got children to look after, too. There’s a little concern that people may try to come at you through them if they can’t get to Airie.”
“Is it my sisters who are concerned, or their husbands?” Hunter asked.
Tremor was straightforward. “Maybe a bit of both. And maybe their husbands think their brother should be more concerned about them.”
Hunter was angry now, but also frustrated. Ash could tell.
“I looked out for them for years. When I was killing demons, I kept that part of my life away from them. When I was ready to leave it behind, I came home. Don’t tell me I’m not concerned about them.”
“Then prove it,” Tremor said. “What are you going to do about it?”
Hunter threw the pitchfork across the barn with such force that the tines stuck in the wall. The long handle quivered.
“I’m going to make a trip into town and see what the situation is for myself.” He grabbed his shirt off a railing and jammed his arms into the sleeves. “Not one word of this to Airie,” he said. “I don’t want her worried.”
After both men had left, Ash hunkered down between the bales and rested his chin on his crossed hands.
Things were about to get bad.
…
After countless days spent crossing the desert during the worst of the heat, the last dusty, rundown, empty town was now several weeks behind Creed and Nieve.
They were no longer forced to travel at night. The sun shone bright above them, countermanded by a cool breeze whiffling through the grasslands.
The main road into Cottonwood Fall was well established and bustling with travelers. The town itself, although small in comparison to the towns of the Godseeker Mountains, radiated prosperity.
Even though the Borderlands sat at the farthest edges of demon territory, a high wall surrounded Cottonwood Fall. The road Creed and Nieve followed led to its gates, which were thrown wide in a welcome to all.
Creed suspected that the days of those gates being open to everyone would be numbered once the Demon Slayer knew of the threat that was coming.
Willow was only the beginning. More half demons would emerge, not all of them friendly.
Nor evil. That, too, was important to remember.
When they rode through the gates Creed asked for directions to the town stables. From there, once his hross was settled, he asked about a hotel. The town had three, none far from the stables, and he decided to check them all before making a final decision. They still had a few hours before dinner would be served and he wanted to find a place where Nieve would be safe.
They set out on foot to find a room. Creed carried the larger packs on his back. He gave Nieve possession of the smaller, lighter ones, but only because it kept his hands free. They moved, unnoticed, through the streets. He wished to remain as unobtrusive as possible.
Closer to the desert, the towns tended to be coated in a layer of dust that was impossible to prevent and cast everything in the same shades of browns, reds, and grays. Here, shop fronts were clean and well maintained, with signs of fresh paint, as well as numerous trees and flowering shrubbery. They passed a mercantile and a bank, two more signs of wealth. Creed thought an assassin could make a good living in a place such as this. Now that trade routes could expand, more protection would be required—except this time, against mortal bandits and not demons.
And against spawn. The time for denial was long past. These people had no idea what was coming their way. Once Willow was inside their walls, they were lost. He had to find the Demon Slayer and deliver both the Godseekers’ message, and a warning.
“It’s a very pretty place,” Nieve said, looking around.
For the first time since they’d abandoned the search for her son, interest filled her beautiful eyes. Life had begun to return to her face. It both heartened Creed and brought him to despair. He could not expose her to any more violence. He wished for her to be able to return to the type of life she’d been born into, where she was loved and protected, and hoped that someday she would know such happiness again.
But he was half demon. That would always be there, between them. She could not forget it. Neither could he. Denying it would not make it less present or true.
She also believed he had let her down in regards to her missing son. That was true, too.
A commotion erupted at the gates. Creed was too far away to see exactly what the problem was, but he guessed it might have something to do with the sand swift someone was trying to ride into town. What in the world would a sand swift be doing in this part of the world, where hross made for better and more plentiful mounts?
The rider was fair-haired and tall, not heavily muscled like Creed, but not thin either, and to Creed, who picked up on such things, he seemed angry. He drove the sand swift through the small group of protesters, ignoring their complaints, and proceeded into the town. He turned in the opposite direction from where Creed and Nieve stood and was gone from sight within seconds.
Creed had a bad feeling about who the man was and why he was creating a ruckus. He was torn between following him to find out what was up and in getting Nieve settled into a hotel room first.
Curiosity won out.
“Stay close to me,” he said to her.
They walked back the way they had come, with Nieve almost running to keep up with his longer stride, and Creed wished he could carry some of her bags for her, but did not dare. Something was up.
When they turned the street corner, Creed saw the sand swift alone, untethered, outside of what was commonly known as a gentlemen’s club. Its agitation was plain in the shifting colors of its scaly hide from green, to gold, to purple, and the dangerous flick of its long, sandpapery tongue. The sand swift acted as a door keeper for its rider, who had obviously gone inside the club. No one would go in or come out while it stood in the way.
No one but Creed.
Nieve began to fall farther behind him. Creed stopped to see what was wrong, and if she needed help, because she never complained and would not ask for it if she did. He saw her stoop to pick up a rock. Then he remembered she had a healthy wariness of the creatures, and how he had told her to strike it on the nose.
“I won’t let it hurt you,” he said.
She allowed the rock to drop.
&
nbsp; The trust in her eyes never failed to warm him. It had taken a long time for him to earn it from her. The thought of losing it again made him more cautious about safety than he might have been in the past. He eased past the sand swift, positioning his body between it and Nieve. The sand swift cast him one long, considering look as if wondering how he might taste, but other than that, chose to leave him alone. Creed dropped his packs on a long bench beside the front door, then added Nieve’s to the pile. The sand swift’s presence alone would be enough to keep them secure.
He pushed open the door. The interior of the room was well lit by west-facing windows designed to capture the last light of the day. The tables were spaced well apart for private conversations. Several booths at the back had curtains for additional privacy. Two were open and unoccupied. The remaining two booths had their curtains drawn.
The sand swift’s blond-headed owner sat alone at a table in the very center of the room, near the bar, although he held the undivided attention of the other five men present. His clothing was dirt-stained and sweaty. The only person more out of place in the club would be Nieve, except no one had noticed her presence.
The blond man addressed the waiter, who looked as if the pressed and well-starched high collar of his white linen dress shirt were strangling him.
“I don’t suppose you could give me a definition for spawn?” the blond man asked. His question was loud and clearly intended for everyone to overhear.
“No, sir. I’m afraid I can’t.” The waiter, ill at ease, set a small silver teapot and a china cup on the table and tucked the tray he carried under his arm. “Is there anything else I can get for you?”
“Why don’t I give you a definition you can use?” the man persisted. He lifted the teapot and poured a stream of amber-colored liquid into the delicate cup. “A spawn is half demon and half mortal.” He set the teapot down. “I guess we’d have to come up with another definition for anyone who’s any different than that. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Yes, sir.” The waiter brushed his fingers over the pristine red tablecloth as if wiping away crumbs that Creed doubted were there.
The Demon Creed (A Demon Outlaws Novel) (Entangled Edge) Page 21
