Parasite Angel

Chapter 1

I caught myself mentally touching my thread again. The strand of magic, as near-insubstantial as spiderweb, stretched from the center of my chest tighter than it had the last time we'd made camp, almost tugging now. I didn't dare tug back, didn't dare risk alerting whatever was waiting on the other end. Even as a child, I'd known better.

It was just a lot fucking harder to ignore now. The caravan seemed headed right for whatever demon I was bonded to. We might even pass it today... If we got moving anytime soon.

I squinted out from beneath the threadbare blanket draped over my and my sister, Naomi's, heads. She'd kept pace beside me, as uncomplaining as anyone would expect from one of Lyon's hunters—even at eight months pregnant. The worst of the day's heat was a few hours behind us, and the sun still lit the sky a rich blue. And yet, the trucks and travellers ahead weren't moving.

Naomi and I glanced back at Arden. My sister's husband still had the frame of someone stretched too tall, all bones and lean muscle, but he'd cultivated a wild look---long beard, tousled hair, piercing blue-gray stare---that kept people wary and respectful.

He caught our eyes the second we turned and that was all the communication needed: the three of us moved toward the front of the caravan. We wove past the few dozen frightened men, women, and children who made up the caravan and the handful of small trucks able to weather the dips and rises of the plains. Refugees. A day and a half wasn't nearly long enough for the term to sink in, especially when nearly half the caravan was made up of other people from Thisten.

Most of them held back when they saw us heading to the front of the line, content to let the demon hunters deal with it. Others joined in, knowing that even now, they wouldn't talk to people like us. Best not to risk the taint.

At the head of the caravan, I caught the broad grizzled outline of Willie Greer and his even broader right hand men, Lox and Reggie, and tried to ignore the rising goosebumps along my neck and arms. I hadn't heard much from them, but I'd heard mentions of it peppered throughout the caravan: veteran witch hunters.

Part of me—hell, most of me—itched to break off from this caravan and travel like we always did: a little pack, as half feral and self-sustaining as the man who'd found us orphaned and coiled with rare gifts worth honing. But even three demon hunters wouldn't fare well against hundreds of miles of scorching days and bitter nights and bandits. Not with the eastern rift gone. Demons had probably already infested every settlement from Thisten to Novatten, tearing past flimsy homes to feast on human flesh. 

Better to risk the witch hunters, at least until we found another caravan.

We didn't need to approach Greer personally. A little crowd had gathered around him, asking the same question: why had we stopped? Greer looked out at us, his heavy silver-streaked beard adding to the weight of his frown.

"We've spotted demons."

Scattered cries erupted from the group. More than a few eyes jerked in our direction.

"Are they mara?" A woman asked the question, and it hushed the crowd. Naomi shrank half an inch closer to me, and I resisted the urge to grip her hand. Again, all eyes pinned to Greer.

"No," he said with some force. "No, we haven't sighted any of those abominations, thank the Highest. And they don't have any business flying this far west—not so soon."

What he didn't say lay bleeding between the lines: the mara were too busy rounding up people in the unprotected towns to the east. Why fly all the way out here when most humans had remained huddled in their homes, praying that the rifts would come back like a fucking power flicker?