Page 4 of Bad Demon

I’d estimated my success rate at about seventy to eighty-five percent. No matter how you looked at it, those were some pretty spectacular odds.

Far-off calls and cries echoed through the trees, and I shivered, but as long as whatever nasty breed of demon making those noises stayed where they were, everything would be okay. Grimacing, I got down on the tarp and rubbed up against the unconscious bastard so his scent mingled with mine. If any demon did come across me on my own, I’d smell as if I’d been taken by someone they wouldn’t want to mess with.

“Let’s go, fuckstick.” Grabbing the edge of the tarp, I trudged on down the path, heaving my comatose buddy with me.

As I walked, the sounds of branches cracking, of rustling, had me stopping to listen over my huffing and puffing. Yes, they were definitely closer, but my unconscious bud was obviously doing his job and stinking up the place because if he wasn’t, the others would already be here.

It was hard to see the landmarks I needed to find in the dark, but there was an overgrown track, and I was pretty sure I’d managed to stay on it.

Magnolia Thornheart—the witch I’d gotten the information from—was a regular at my store. She dabbled in dark magic, yes, but she’d seemed trustworthy enough, I guessed, and even warned me about several traps that I should look out for. Good thing too—there was a snare up ahead, one I could have easily missed if I hadn’t known to look. She’d definitely be getting a discount the next time she came by the store.

Gritting my teeth, I heaved the heavy demon off the track and around the snare, his head bouncing off rocks and fallen branches as we went. The scent of wood smoke finally reached me, and I searched the forest ahead. There was a glow in the distance. Almost there.

My fingers were cramping, and my thigh muscles and biceps were trembling by the time I stopped at the end of the path that led to a compact, storybook cottage—but not the cute kind, the kind the evil-child-eating witch lived in. The place had been all but swallowed by the forest. Trees butted up against its walls, and one seemed to have gone right through it, its branches forming a canopy over one side of the roof. Light shone from its windows, and where I stood, at the end of the path, was bracketed by two tall trees.

They were decorated with a variety of offerings that had been tied to their branches with twine. Bones with rotting flesh still hanging from them; demon skulls; jars filled with unknown, floating organs; one with pieces of fabric; another with fingernails and a larger one with a wad of matted hair in various shades.

There was only one way to get the witch’s attention and hopefully be granted admittance—blood. It told the crone who you truly were, and revealing who I was would either be a help or a hindrance. I had no idea what reception I’d get. I hoped the witch would listen and agree to help me, but she could just as easily send me away—or worse, I’d end up in her pot. From what I’d learned about the female, all three options had an equal percentage of probability.

A sixty-six percent chance of survival was not the best, but it wasn’t completely terrible either—at least compared to the alternative.

Turning on my phone’s flashlight, I rounded one of the trees at the top of the path and searched for the marking Magnolia had told me about. I spotted a knot midway up it, the color deeper in the center and worn smooth. Slipping my knife from my pocket, I pricked the tip of my finger right over the tiny scar I’d gotten when I was seven. Something in my chest tightened as I watched the blood bubble to the surface, then sent ice shooting down my spine. I shook off the feeling—along with the memory I tried to avoid whenever it surfaced—and pressed the tip of my finger against the knot.

Stepping back, I waited while nerves went manic in my belly. I didn’t know what I’d do if she turned me away. I snorted.Maybe you should be more worried about ending up in her pot.

The cottage door swung open, and I straightened. Not sure what to expect, I braced for anything. A very short female stepped out, stooped low, with wiry gray hair and wrinkled skin. She started down the steps, and a raven cawed, flying from the house, swooping around her several times before settling on her shoulder. As she drew closer, I felt her power. Her blue eyes traveled over me from head to foot and back again, her mouth clamped shut.

Finally, she was standing in front of me, the ward she’d surrounded her cottage with the only thing between us.

“Agatheena?”

Her eyes flashed red, and I let mine do the same. She snorted exactly like I had a short time ago.

“Go on then, child.” She held me trapped in that piercing gaze. “Say it.”

My mouth was dry, and my heart slammed in my chest, but I straightened my spine. “I go by Fern Honeycutt, but my birth name was Estelle Gannon. My father is Gerald Gannon, and my mother was Eleanor Burnside.” My birth name felt, gods, foreign on my tongue. I wasn’t her anymore, and I never wanted to be her again. Ever. “And I believe you are my great-grandmother.”

The raven let out another caw and bobbed up and down on her shoulder.

“Oh, yes, I’d know that tainted blood anywhere, but why are you darkening my door now?”

I bristled.Tainted blood.I huffed a laugh, even as stupid fucking hurt filled me. “Am I not even good enough for you, Agatheena? Will you send me away as well?”

“I send beings away due to character, not blood, and I say yours is tainted because it’s the same blood that runs through my veins. Some see it as bad or undesirable, but I’ve learned to see my mixed blood as an enhancement, a gift.” She looked at the prone demon behind me. “Is that for me then?”

I blinked down at her, stunned by her words. No one had ever called my contaminated DNA a gift.

“Speak, child,” Agatheena snapped.

“Yes, he’s an offering.”

She waved her hand, and I felt the hum of power drop between us. “Bring him in.”

Gathering up the ends of the tarp, I dragged him down the path, following her around the side of the cottage and into a small ramshackle shed. She held out her hand, and the demon lifted from the ground as if by invisible hands. He was spun upside down, and then a rope lashed out of nowhere and coiled around his ankles, yanking him higher and over a thick metal hook, suspending him from the low rafters.

The demon’s eyes snapped open, and he snarled and thrashed. Agatheena slashed her hand through the air again, and his mouth slammed shut. Then she kicked a bucket under him, grabbed a massive dirty knife from the scarred wooden bench beside her, and sliced his throat.

The demon jerked, his cries muffled behind his tightly pressed-together lips as blood gushed from his throat, over his face, through his hair, and into the bucket.

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