said to Dylan.
Fine with him. He had had enough of humans and talking in the past
two weeks. But there was that gun . . .
“Detective Hall,” Caleb said. “My brother, Dylan.”
Dylan met her gaze and smiled at her slowly, deliberately, watching
in satisfaction as the barrel of the shotgun wavered and dipped. Not quite
enough.
“What’s he doing here?” she asked.
“Assisting in the investigation,” Caleb said.
Dylan could see from the woman’s uniform that she was some kind
of law enforcement officer. Wouldn’t she recognize official bullshit?
Object to it?
He continued to smile, concentrating his power until he saw her
pupils dilate and the square line of her shoulders relax.
94
“Oh,” she said in a soft, faraway voice. “Well, that’s . . . Dylan, did
you say?”
Dylan nodded, still smiling faintly.
“Very nice to meet you, Dylan,” Hall said and giggled.
Caleb shot him a sharp look. “Shit. What did you do to her?” he
muttered.
Dylan shrugged. She was human and female and therefore
susceptible. Perhaps more susceptible than most, nothing at all like— But
thinking of Regina caused a spasm of something like panic in his chest.
“We’re looking for Jericho,” he said.
“Yeah.” Caleb shook his head. “This way.”
The men around the fire watched— curious, predatory, or
indifferent— as Dylan and Caleb picked their way through the littered
camp.
Caleb stopped in front of a lean-to with a rusting metal roof. A sheet
of cardboard blocked the entry. He bent, tugging a flashlight from his
belt. “Stay here.”
The beam of light preceded him through the rough opening. Dylan
waited until both disappeared before he stooped and followed.
The smell assaulted his nostrils. Not demon. Not all demon. Human
vomit, piss, and sweat. Corrupted flesh. Charred meat. Dylan gagged.
Caleb, kneeling over a pile of rags at the back of the lean-to,
appeared immune. Inferior human senses? Or superior self-control?
Dylan set his teeth and took a shallow breath.
The rags moved. Moaned. Dylan distinguished a boot, the shape of a
leg under a thin green army blanket, the corner of a sleeve, a hand. He
frowned, his attention caught by more than smell or sight. Something
about that hand . . .
He took a step forward.
95
“Stay back,” Caleb ordered.
“Who is it?”
“Jones.” The beam from Caleb’s flashlight played over a thin face
gleaming with sweat. “Where’s Regina Barone?”
The man twitched, turning his head away.
“Regina,” Caleb repeated inexorably. “Where is she?”
Jericho stared at him a moment, his mouth working. And then his
eyes rolled back in his head.
“Damn it,” Caleb snapped. “Jones? Jones.”
No answer.
“Drunk,” Caleb said in disgust.
Sweat broke out on Dylan’s forehead. His father’s gray and ruined
face rose in his mind. This was what he came from, he thought in
revulsion, what had sired him, what he could return to if he became
entangled in human affairs: mortal flesh, human corruption.
He forced himself to think logically. To observe dispassionately.
There were differences, after all.
Unlike their father, this man was not drunk.
“No,” Dylan said.
Caleb stiffened; turned. “You think he’s possessed?”
“I—” Dylan allowed the fetid air through his nose. Smells thick as
sewage rushed in on him, clogging, choking . . . He cleared his throat. He
could discern a charred odor, an acrid taint burning his sinuses. Demon,
yes, faint but unmistakable. And . . .
“I think he is burnt.”
“What do you mean, burnt?”
96
Dylan could not explain. He just knew. He surveyed the man lying
under the blanket. Reaching for his bony wrist, he turned over his hand.
Caleb hissed. “Holy Christ.”
* * *
The dark was worse than the cold.
Regina could keep warm— well, warmer— by moving. But nothing
could help her see, and her blindness hobbled and terrified her.
Fine with him. He had had enough of humans and talking in the past
two weeks. But there was that gun . . .
“Detective Hall,” Caleb said. “My brother, Dylan.”
Dylan met her gaze and smiled at her slowly, deliberately, watching
in satisfaction as the barrel of the shotgun wavered and dipped. Not quite
enough.
“What’s he doing here?” she asked.
“Assisting in the investigation,” Caleb said.
Dylan could see from the woman’s uniform that she was some kind
of law enforcement officer. Wouldn’t she recognize official bullshit?
Object to it?
He continued to smile, concentrating his power until he saw her
pupils dilate and the square line of her shoulders relax.
94
“Oh,” she said in a soft, faraway voice. “Well, that’s . . . Dylan, did
you say?”
Dylan nodded, still smiling faintly.
“Very nice to meet you, Dylan,” Hall said and giggled.
Caleb shot him a sharp look. “Shit. What did you do to her?” he
muttered.
Dylan shrugged. She was human and female and therefore
susceptible. Perhaps more susceptible than most, nothing at all like— But
thinking of Regina caused a spasm of something like panic in his chest.
“We’re looking for Jericho,” he said.
“Yeah.” Caleb shook his head. “This way.”
The men around the fire watched— curious, predatory, or
indifferent— as Dylan and Caleb picked their way through the littered
camp.
Caleb stopped in front of a lean-to with a rusting metal roof. A sheet
of cardboard blocked the entry. He bent, tugging a flashlight from his
belt. “Stay here.”
The beam of light preceded him through the rough opening. Dylan
waited until both disappeared before he stooped and followed.
The smell assaulted his nostrils. Not demon. Not all demon. Human
vomit, piss, and sweat. Corrupted flesh. Charred meat. Dylan gagged.
Caleb, kneeling over a pile of rags at the back of the lean-to,
appeared immune. Inferior human senses? Or superior self-control?
Dylan set his teeth and took a shallow breath.
The rags moved. Moaned. Dylan distinguished a boot, the shape of a
leg under a thin green army blanket, the corner of a sleeve, a hand. He
frowned, his attention caught by more than smell or sight. Something
about that hand . . .
He took a step forward.
95
“Stay back,” Caleb ordered.
“Who is it?”
“Jones.” The beam from Caleb’s flashlight played over a thin face
gleaming with sweat. “Where’s Regina Barone?”
The man twitched, turning his head away.
“Regina,” Caleb repeated inexorably. “Where is she?”
Jericho stared at him a moment, his mouth working. And then his
eyes rolled back in his head.
“Damn it,” Caleb snapped. “Jones? Jones.”
No answer.
“Drunk,” Caleb said in disgust.
Sweat broke out on Dylan’s forehead. His father’s gray and ruined
face rose in his mind. This was what he came from, he thought in
revulsion, what had sired him, what he could return to if he became
entangled in human affairs: mortal flesh, human corruption.
He forced himself to think logically. To observe dispassionately.
There were differences, after all.
Unlike their father, this man was not drunk.
“No,” Dylan said.
Caleb stiffened; turned. “You think he’s possessed?”
“I—” Dylan allowed the fetid air through his nose. Smells thick as
sewage rushed in on him, clogging, choking . . . He cleared his throat. He
could discern a charred odor, an acrid taint burning his sinuses. Demon,
yes, faint but unmistakable. And . . .
“I think he is burnt.”
“What do you mean, burnt?”
96
Dylan could not explain. He just knew. He surveyed the man lying
under the blanket. Reaching for his bony wrist, he turned over his hand.
Caleb hissed. “Holy Christ.”
* * *
The dark was worse than the cold.
Regina could keep warm— well, warmer— by moving. But nothing
could help her see, and her blindness hobbled and terrified her.
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