then, he was charismatic and exciting. Why would she want me over him? It was stupid to even think about, so I’d lived with the heartache in silence.
And then… Lily died.
It was an accident.
I let the memories flood my mind and rip my heart while we run. Sometimes, it feels good to ache like this, to miss her, the memories becoming fresh again, fueling my impotence for things I can’t control.
It was the result of a tussle gone wrong with some really evil demons, and being in the wrong place at the wrong time. She was supposed to be waiting for us at the church. Instead, she’d followed us to the hunt. She couldn’t see the demons inside their human host like we could. And she had walked into the middle of an ambush.
She died in Jag’s arms, her life blood seeping into the grass beneath her body. I watched the light in her eyes fade, watched her last breath leave her chest, her face fall into stillness, while Jag held her. He’d kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her bloodstained hair, and all the while, I’d watched, wishing it could have been me holding her that last time.
After that, Jag became quiet and cold, deadly and ruthless. He changed, and I guessed I did too. The world seemed dimmer, more evil and dangerous. Our old selves no longer existed. In this world, we became something else. I gave him the nickname Jag, after the big, black, ferocious cat he reminded me of. It fit. It stuck. We never used his given name again.
We come to the outskirts of the DQ and look down the dark, uninhabited street. A light breeze blows, but not enough to lift the dust. The air is heavy, moist, and pregnant, bursting with anticipation. We carry flashlights that cast beams too dim to really penetrate the darkness, and the belly of the beast lies just beyond. After our marathon, I don’t feel capable of handling the DQ. I just want to go home, go to bed, and cry for Lily.
“Doesn’t look like much is going on.” Bret glances at Jag. “Maybe it’s a slow night.”
“Oh, they’re there. Trust me,” he answers.
The rest of us hold back, no one wanting to go in first. Bret slips his magic dagger out of his belt and holds it in his right hand, the runed knife in his left. “Well, let’s check out that building down the street at least, and then go from there.”
“Fine with me,” I answer, as though my opinion matters, which I know it doesn’t.
Owen and Doug grip their runed daggers, but I don’t even bother to get mine out. Instead, I pull out my real weapons. A small pad of paper and a pencil.
Reluctantly, I follow my friends across the street to an abandoned apartment building, rising four levels. Squat, ugly, and rectangle. After entering, a case of stairs rises immediately before us. There’s no elevator. Darkness cloaks the corners at the back and creates imaginary phantoms in my peripheral vision. It’s quiet. Too quiet.
I take a deep breath, knowing I won’t cause any damage to a demon with my eight-inch, number-two, sharpened pencil. The most I can do is poke an eye out. Bret stops with his hand up for us to wait, listening. Nothing.
He takes the stairs first and Jag follows, trailed by Owen, Doug, and then me. We come to the first door at the top of the stairs, Bret and Jag flanking the opening. My heart thumps, the anticipation being the hardest part. My eyes actually tear up… from terror.
Three years ago, I saw a group of demons gang up on a guy, but not to inhabit him—they already had meat suits—but to tear him apart. Each one yanking on an arm or a leg until they dismembered him. I’d watched, hidden, hearing the man’s terrified and agonized screams, knowing I was next. Jag hadn’t been around to save me that night, and the guilt of not even trying to rescue the poor guy plagues me.
This is my nightmare. The dream that wakes me at night. It happened right before my eyes. And happens to people all the time. That, and worse things I don’t want to think about.
The door to the
And then… Lily died.
It was an accident.
I let the memories flood my mind and rip my heart while we run. Sometimes, it feels good to ache like this, to miss her, the memories becoming fresh again, fueling my impotence for things I can’t control.
It was the result of a tussle gone wrong with some really evil demons, and being in the wrong place at the wrong time. She was supposed to be waiting for us at the church. Instead, she’d followed us to the hunt. She couldn’t see the demons inside their human host like we could. And she had walked into the middle of an ambush.
She died in Jag’s arms, her life blood seeping into the grass beneath her body. I watched the light in her eyes fade, watched her last breath leave her chest, her face fall into stillness, while Jag held her. He’d kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her bloodstained hair, and all the while, I’d watched, wishing it could have been me holding her that last time.
After that, Jag became quiet and cold, deadly and ruthless. He changed, and I guessed I did too. The world seemed dimmer, more evil and dangerous. Our old selves no longer existed. In this world, we became something else. I gave him the nickname Jag, after the big, black, ferocious cat he reminded me of. It fit. It stuck. We never used his given name again.
We come to the outskirts of the DQ and look down the dark, uninhabited street. A light breeze blows, but not enough to lift the dust. The air is heavy, moist, and pregnant, bursting with anticipation. We carry flashlights that cast beams too dim to really penetrate the darkness, and the belly of the beast lies just beyond. After our marathon, I don’t feel capable of handling the DQ. I just want to go home, go to bed, and cry for Lily.
“Doesn’t look like much is going on.” Bret glances at Jag. “Maybe it’s a slow night.”
“Oh, they’re there. Trust me,” he answers.
The rest of us hold back, no one wanting to go in first. Bret slips his magic dagger out of his belt and holds it in his right hand, the runed knife in his left. “Well, let’s check out that building down the street at least, and then go from there.”
“Fine with me,” I answer, as though my opinion matters, which I know it doesn’t.
Owen and Doug grip their runed daggers, but I don’t even bother to get mine out. Instead, I pull out my real weapons. A small pad of paper and a pencil.
Reluctantly, I follow my friends across the street to an abandoned apartment building, rising four levels. Squat, ugly, and rectangle. After entering, a case of stairs rises immediately before us. There’s no elevator. Darkness cloaks the corners at the back and creates imaginary phantoms in my peripheral vision. It’s quiet. Too quiet.
I take a deep breath, knowing I won’t cause any damage to a demon with my eight-inch, number-two, sharpened pencil. The most I can do is poke an eye out. Bret stops with his hand up for us to wait, listening. Nothing.
He takes the stairs first and Jag follows, trailed by Owen, Doug, and then me. We come to the first door at the top of the stairs, Bret and Jag flanking the opening. My heart thumps, the anticipation being the hardest part. My eyes actually tear up… from terror.
Three years ago, I saw a group of demons gang up on a guy, but not to inhabit him—they already had meat suits—but to tear him apart. Each one yanking on an arm or a leg until they dismembered him. I’d watched, hidden, hearing the man’s terrified and agonized screams, knowing I was next. Jag hadn’t been around to save me that night, and the guilt of not even trying to rescue the poor guy plagues me.
This is my nightmare. The dream that wakes me at night. It happened right before my eyes. And happens to people all the time. That, and worse things I don’t want to think about.
The door to the
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