Page 6 of Prince of Ruin

When I step into the kitchen, my step-dad, Rick, is already up, pulling on his boots, yanking his coat over his shoulders, then grabbing his rifle as he heads for the door. I don’t have to ask where he’s headed.

As long as I’ve known him, Dad has been waking up before dawn to run off the demons who creep onto our land.

According to Dad, our house is, like, built on one of the gateways between our world and hell. Instead of moving to a new location, you know, normal people would do, he’s made it his priority in life to become the guardian of sorts to our world, trapping and torturing or running off any demons who leave their realm to torment the mortals in the human world. He’s never actually killed one, because, I mean, who wants to bury a giant demon in their backyard.

Before college, I never questioned his actions because it’s all I’ve ever known in this small town of ours. Sure, I got made fun of now and then for living in the local haunted house with a demon hunter. Okay, I got bullied a lot in middle school, but once I learned to laugh along with their jokes, the other students didn’t bug me as much. I just became known as Clav the Ghost Kid.

But there’s something about leaving home, learning about the realnormalworld while at a big city college and learning to think for myself, that makes me question Dad in a way I never have in my twenty-three years. As I watch him now, I wonder how far gone, exactly, he truly is. Because I have never seen these demons he’s gone on about. He’s always said he’s protecting me from the nightmares these creatureswould give me, but I’m not so sure these creatures themselves aren’t nightmares of Dad’s own making.

Today’s different, though. Dad is usually finished with his business by sunrise, and it’s midmorning.

“Demons back again?” I try not to sound patronizing. Telling Dad there are no demons roaming our lands would be about as effective as telling him he won the lottery—which he doesn’t even play because he believes gambling to be among one of the many deadly sins.

“They’ve been especially bad this week,” he mutters as he pulls on his boots. “Already ran off two earlier this morning, and now I finally trapped one.” A shadow has crept across his jaw from days of not shaving. He’s usually immaculate about keeping his face clean-shaven. Is this really taking a toll on him? Apprehension creeps into the muscles in my back, and I make a mental note to mention this to Mom.

“What are you going to do with it?” I ask, feeding into his fantasy as not to upset him.

“I have some questions,” is all he mutters before he steps out, slamming the door behind him.

I watch him hurry across the yard to the barn, limping slightly from his bad knee. I wasn’t aware demons could be reasoned with, much lessquestioned. And what kind of questions would Dad have for a demon?

Fuck, he’s really losing it. Or maybe he’s trying to prove something to me. I’ve spent the last few months since I’ve been back from college asking casual questions, trying to get answers out of Dad as to why he thinks there are demons roaming our land, and why our yard would be the one they chose to make the gateway between the living and the damned. That might be why he’s cracking down on them beingespecially badthis week.

Maybe it’s time to find out what Dad is really doing in the shed once and for all. I’ve avoided spying on him. It’s easier to believe his claims than to see him going mad with my own eyes. Normally I’d let him live in his fantasy, but at this point, I’m legit worried for him.

I nearly stumble across the kitchen in my rush to follow him. The barn door closes behind Dad just as I step around the corner of our house. Despite the shining sun, the air is still crisp and cool as it hits my skin. I sidle around to the back side of the barn, careful not to step on dead leaves that could give me away as I duck below the only window. We keep it cracked so our cat can go in and out as she pleases to stay away from predators.

“Why are your kind infiltrating my yard?” I hear Dad ask. I expect him to be speaking to the air, or maybe into his phone.

What I don’t expect is to hear an otherworldly, raspy voice say, “You know exactly for whom I came.”

My hand slams over my mouth, my heart jolting in my chest. Holy shit. There really is someone in there. And dad is holding them captive. Chills flesh out across my skin at the strangled sound, the ancient way the demon—or whatever it is—speaks. And for a brief moment, I almost believe my dad about the demons.

No. I close my eyes and shake the thought away. There’s no such thing. Dad probably got one of the neighbor kids who was four-wheeling on our yard. Not to mention, the Renaissance Faire is opening as we speak. All kinds of folks could come around dressed as demons to prank the neighborhood. Yeah, that would explain why they’reespecially badthis week.

“Your time was wasted,” Dad snaps, and I flinch. Dad was strict when I was younger, a strong believer in the iron fist, and that voice still makes the younger version of me’s stomach drop. “And your wings will be cut off if you don’t tell me exactly who sent you.”

Oh fuck. There’s no way Dad is actually going to harm someone…is there? I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans while I listen closely.

“Abaddon...” the demon hisses before taking a raspy breath, as if it’d been tortured and is slowly dying, “…sent me.”

Abaddon? Fuck me. From what I remember in one of the religious books Dad owns, Abaddon is an angel of the abyss. Surely this kid is messing with him. It’s no secret Dad believes he deals with demons. And our house is infamous in this part of the state for being haunted. Goddamn. Dad is going to hurt the poor cosplayer if the kid isn’t careful. Not that this person doesn’t deserve it for pulling this prank.

“And this Abaddon thinks you’ll be able to carry out his wishes?” Dad asks. “You?”

“I crossed the border, didn’t I?” The eerie hiss sends a shudder down my spine. It’s so realistic.

“And made it halfway across my yard.”

I hear a snap, like a breaking bone, and the creature scream-hisses sharply as if he’s in pain. My heart is pounding in my chest. This has to stop…before the cops get involved and haul Dad away to some insane asylum.

I peek over the window sill. Dad is standing over his large, wooden work table, an iron rod in hand. And strapped onto the table by cords that bite into the beast’s massive, bat-like membranous wing, is a giant creature pinned to the table on its stomach. No. Not a creature. A cosplayer.

My breathing stops, my heart racing at the sight of such a realistic costume. Short, soft black downy fur covers most of the body. Large, ribbed pointed ears flick out. Lips curl over sharp fangs. How does thecostume do that? How was there a mask made that could form expressions?

Talons on the tip of each wing dig into the wooden table while the demon/cosplayer’s body contracts in pain, their inky black eyes widen as they bare their splinter-like fangs in agony. When their gaze catches me standing at the window, their eyes widen and they smile, as if they recognize me.

“There you are, Clavicle,” they hiss in a, well,demonicvoice.

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