Dark Fates

DEMON'S FEVER T.F. Walsh

Saving humans is priority. Her dad's words rotated in her mind. His wisdom meant jack. If he hadn't left her six years earlier, just after her eighteenth birthday, she probably wouldn't be in this situation.

Son of a demon's balls.

Cary sprinted past the bubblegum fragrance wafting from inside Glamour Puss. She careened left into a narrow passage between two buildings and followed her nose. If she kicked butt on fast-forward mode, maybe she'd still have time for the interview.

Right. Her boots splashed into puddles of what better be rainwater, and she swung onto an adjacent street. Trucks and cars lined the curbs. Her hand sailed to her back pocket. She took out a pair of disposable gloves. The latex stuck to her fingers, and she pulled them tighter across her hands. They'd soften the pain a smidgen.

A woman's scream from farther ahead sliced through the car hoots behind Cary.

She darted right, between two towering stores that backed onto an alley. The skunk-like reek burned her nostrils.

At the end of the blocked passage stood a bald man with tattoos flowing across his head. He had his back to her. His silvery aura confirmed he was indeed possessed. Gotcha. His body shifted as his hands gripped the metal fence in front of him, trapping the victim.

The perks of being born part-demon, fast healing, identifying demon auras, and speed, didn't come close to counteracting the drawbacks. Demons wanted her dead. Humans would exorcise her if discovered. Yeah, lucky her.

Cary grabbed the fabric gloves, the ones she'd soaked in salted water for a week straight, then studded with iron shavings, from her other pocket. She pulled them on her hands, on top of the disposable ones.

She shuddered from the acid-like sting burning her arms and bit down on her lower lip to ride the pain. But dealing with monsters meant a bit of misery. Okay, more like a shit-load of grueling agony.

One day, she'd find a pair of barrier gloves that completely blocked out the pain. But the latex ones reduced the full intensity. Better than nothing.

Another whimper erupted from the victim.

Cary marched closer. "Hey, prick."

The man, clad in jeans and a hoodie, twisted around. Ink covered every inch of his face, covering his chin and onto his neck. Cary had no problems with tattoos, but this guy's friends should have told him the look didn't work. The same rune patterns and script continued onto his arms, but he wasn't sporting yellow eyes like most victims of possession.

Strange and new. A combination that never blended well in her field, but she'd uncover what he was soon enough.

She caught sight of the girl with golden locks wedged between the monster and the fence. Her eyes screamed for salvation, and she released a helpless chirp.

"Surely, rats are more your style." Cary stepped closer, pushing away his lack of glowing eyes. No time to overthink the situation—that only opened the door to panic and hesitation. Things that could get her killed.

Baldy growled, his nose scrunching. He glanced at a trashcan a few feet away, next thing, it skidded along the pavement and flew across the road. The bin crashed into Cary's leg. She stumbled sideways and ignored the biting sting engulfing her arms.

"Try harder." She marched closer and lunged, her hands latching onto his arm and neck. Six seconds under the strain of her blessed gloves and the scum inside this man would scram back into Hell. Always worked.

"Run." Cary glanced at the trembling girl. "Now's a good time."

The girl bolted out of sight.

Baldy's head twisted to watch the blonde vanish, and then he looked back at Cary. An evil smirk captured his mouth. "Six, five, four," he said.