A part of him rebelled at the thought of this particular woman at the mercy of Agares, because he did not expect Agares to bring her to him untouched. Why that should matter to him was something he did not care to explore. If she were spawn, she was as good as dead. If she were not, then she was nothing to him.
The Demon Lord shrugged. “The Slayer has to lose a fight sometime. The odds say so.”
The odds, however, were not in Agares’ favor, and they both knew it.
Agares scowled up at the sun. “I hate traveling the desert in daylight.”
“I will send someone else.”
“No.” Agares did not intend to pass up on this opportunity to hunt. “I will set out immediately, before the sun gets too hot.”
Even in mortal form, a demon could cover considerably more ground than an ordinary man. Agares would be beyond Freetown well before noon.
…
Airie’s decision to go to Freetown made things easier for Hunter. He did not have to force her but could travel with her as a companion.
Over the next few days, as they crossed from goddess territory into the desert, there were no signs that any of the fleeing refugees had begun to return. Hunter had not expected it. Not yet. But they would, soon enough.
He preferred to travel at night so that no one they did happen upon could get a good look at Airie. Beautiful women were a valuable commodity, and while she could, indeed, do the work any other woman did in Freetown, he doubted she knew what that work would entail. She would not be paid directly for it either. Even Blade’s ladies were not. Blade gave them back the money they earned, not because any law required it of him, but because it was his choice to do so. Women had no rights. Not in Freetown, nor anywhere else.
Despite what she was, Hunter could not avoid feeling a certain amount of pity for her. She knew little of the world beyond the mountain. It was not the same one her priestess mother, sheltered in the temple for many years, had once known and taught her of. That made Airie, despite her unfortunate heritage, very much an innocent.
His grandmother had once told him that good and evil were mortal measurements that could not be solely assigned to either goddesses or demons, because the immortals were as flawed as anyone. He could picture her still, puffing on a pipe and rocking in her twig chair on the front verandah of the old log farmhouse his grandfather had built for her in their youth.
Goddess or demon, call them what you want, this world wasn’t made for the immortals, she had said. Neither belongs here. But they have yet to find a place of their own in the universe, and until they do this world will have to suffer their presence.
Hunter was done suffering. The world was not made for immortals, and it was not made for their spawn either.
But Airie cried for her mother in her sleep, a fact that continued to disturb him. She had also healed Sally. So far, other than her eyes and an ability to boil water with them, she had not done anything that could be considered threatening or dangerous.
What if the priestess was right? What would Hunter do then?
They made their way out of the foothills in near pitch blackness with Airie sitting on Sally behind him. The press of her thighs against his and the occasional warmth of her hands low on his abdomen when she needed to stabilize herself in the saddle did not permit him to maintain a distance from her, either physically or mentally. He was aware of every movement she made and breath she took.
The moon had not yet risen, but the sand swift was sure-footed. It was used to traveling the many arroyos and canyons of the desert.
“Stop!” Airie cried. She slid from the saddle before he or the sand swift had time to react. She ran as soon as her feet hit the ground, dashing toward what looked to Hunter in the negligible light to be a pile of discarded rags on the side of the road.
They were not rags, Hunter saw when he dismounted and followed her. A tiny hand emerged from the pile to clutch at Airie’s sleeve, and his heart sank. This was not an unusual sight for him, although in the past he had always made the discovery after they were dead and there was nothing left for him to do but bury them—unwanted children, too small or sickly to sell into slavery, often abandoned to die.
This one was both small and dying. It was a boy, and a very young one, although it was possible he was so malnourished he had simply failed to thrive.
Hunter tightened the barrier he had built around his heart. Death was a far better fate for the child than the alternative.
“Leave him,” Hunter ordered, deliberately harsh. “He’s too close to death.”
Airie stooped, scooping the frail child into her arms. The smell of him made Hunter lift his neckerchief over his nose and take a step backward, even though he’d thought he was long immune to the aroma of the unwashed. Desert travel did not lend itself to good personal hygiene practices. The child was undoubtedly ill. He reeked of it.
“I can save him,” she protested, smoothing thin, dull-blond hair that appeared gray in the darkness of the night.
Hunter understood how she felt. Once upon a time, a very long time ago, he too had believed that life was meant to be preserved at all cost. Experience, however, had taught him that sometimes there was little kindness in doing so.
The child’s head lolled against Airie’s breast. His cheeks were hollow, speaking of slow starvation. Hunter rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger because his own head had begun to ache.
“Think about what kind of life you’re saving him for,” he said, trying to sound compassionate even though he knew his words were not. “He’s already been starved to the point of death once. If you save him, it will happen again.” Or, if someone else did find him and take him in, he would end up sold into prostitution because he was too small for labor, Hunter could have added. Better the child meet death here and now, rather than damaged and disease-riddled later. Hunter took another cautious sniff of the air. If he wasn’t diseased already. What if he carried contagion?
“He won’t starve. I’ll take care of him,” Airie said.
She laid her palm against the child’s cheek, and even in the night Hunter saw a warm flush begin to blossom. A sense of inevitability assailed him, but he tried to reason with her anyway. “You have yourself to worry about. How can you look after him, too?”
Her eyes, dark and determined, met his over the child’s stirring form. “By doing whatever I have to,” she replied with quiet resolve.
She had no idea what she was saying, or what it was she might have to do. Hunter tried again to make her see reason. “It’s not up to you to decide who lives or dies.”
“It’s not for you to decide either,” came her quick retort. “But if someone possesses the means to save a life, then there’s really no decision to be made, is there?”
Being raised by a priestess had left her far too naive, and that naïveté now created all sorts of unwanted dilemmas for Hunter. If he allowed Airie to save this poor, unwanted child, what, then, would be his future after he turned Airie over to Mamna? How would the child’s ultimate fate weigh on Hunter’s already overburdened conscience?
His preference to walk away from an unpleasant situation rather than confront it introduced questions about himself, and what he had become, that he was reluctant to examine. Blade was right—deciding who was worth saving had done something to him.
The child coughed once, opened his eyes, and looked up at him with such innocent trust that Hunter knew he would now be saddled with two troublesome traveling companions, not one.
Airie waited in tense, pleading silence. If he said no he would have to force her to continue on without him, and that was another fight he wished to avoid.
Deep down, he did not believe he could walk away either.
It was easiest to blame her for that. “Keep him, then,” Hunter said sourly. “But he’s your responsibility, not mine. And the first chance you get, you’re giving him a bath. He makes me scratch just looking at him.”
The sand swift had been standing patiently
nearby. Its tongue remained firmly in its mouth, probably because the child smelled too awful to taste.
“Thank you,” Airie said with a relieved whisper. Those two simple words shamed him, which in turn stoked an already ill temper.
He was not the demon here. He did not enjoy feeling like one.
She positioned herself cross-legged on the ground, the child in her lap, and stroked his cheek while crooning soft words under her breath. Listening to her, Hunter realized she was praying.
She looked up at him. “Can I have a little water and a piece of dried bread?”
Hunter got them for her. She broke the bread into small fragments and dipped one in the tin cup, then held it to the child’s lips. She was patient, repeating the steps several times until the child had swallowed enough to satisfy her. She gave him a sip of water, cradling the back of his head in her hand as she held the cup to his lips.
He was two, perhaps three, years of age, Hunter could now see, and his stomach twisted into a sickening knot. Even if he didn’t turn Airie over to Mamna, the child was a burden she could ill afford and decreased her own chances of survival. He was not doing a kindness by permitting this.
He could not bring himself to do otherwise. The child’s circumstances were no fault of his own.
“We need to go,” he said, taking the cup from her hand and putting it back in a saddlebag.
When he turned, she was beside him. Her lips curved in a tentative smile, the first he had received from her, bright in the clear light of the rising moon. Impulsively, she kissed him. It was a light touch of her lips to his cheek, and over in an instant, but it shot an unanticipated lick of heat straight to his groin and stole any more protests he might have made.
“Thank you,” she said again, her words infused with a breathless warmth that left a knot in his gut.
Before he could recover, her attention was once more on the child still in her arms, and he was forgotten.
He helped Airie remount, in front of him this time. He settled into the saddle and slipped a free arm around her waist to steady her and the child. Her skirt had slid up to bare her long legs, warm between his and impossible for him to ignore.
He jerked at the reins, even more unsettled by an unwelcome and surprising truth.
It was not thanks he wanted from her.
Chapter Seven
Blade limped around the end of the bar, wiping the counter and half listening to the conversations going on around him. The youngest of the whores took her turn waiting on tables. The gown she wore, a bold, shiny blue, was too tight at the hips and chest and exposed one long leg when she moved.
He would have to talk to Ruby about the way the girl dressed when in the saloon. He preferred to avoid trouble.
Noon was a busy time for business, more so these past few days because people were edgy about the fall of the mountain. Everyone wanted to drink. Some chose to eat. In fact, the spicy smell of Ruby’s stew reminded Blade to grab a bowl before it was gone. No one wanted to discuss what the collapse of the mountain meant. Conflict between the immortals was never good.
Blade tossed the cloth beneath the counter and watched Ruby disappear upstairs with a client.
They had been friends a long time. He really should marry her and give her security. He owed her that much.
While most people remained cautious of saying anything too loud that might draw unwanted attention, a few could always be relied on for indiscretion. Blade had discovered a long time ago that being a cripple made him invisible. At one time the limp had embarrassed and humiliated him. Now it worked to his advantage, and he was not above exaggerating it. People assumed he was simple because he was disabled, so they were often indiscreet.
“Mamna isn’t getting any younger,” he heard someone declare. “What if the next time she raises a demon it escapes her control? What will happen to us when she’s gone?”
He limped closer, careful not to appear unduly interested in the conversation.
“The Demon Slayer was seen meeting with Mamna,” a second man said. “I heard he can fight ten demons at once. Maybe he plans to take her place.”
Blade hoped Mamna had not heard that kind of speculation. She would not care for it, and neither would Hunter. But he, too, could not help but wonder what would happen to Freetown if Mamna were gone.
Perhaps it was time he planned for a different future than saloon keeping.
The first man spoke again. “I heard the Slayer is really a demon. That he hates them because he once challenged the Demon Lord and lost.”
“If he’d lost to the Demon Lord, he’d be dead, wouldn’t he?”
That was another rumor Hunter would not care for, Blade thought. Although neither of them was inclined to share any details of their past, of one thing he felt quite certain. Hunter was not a demon.
A different conversation by the fire caught Blade’s attention. Three travelers, one of them heavyset with bad skin and a loud mouth, had pulled their chairs close to the hearth as if they owned the place. Blade made a mental note to keep an even closer eye on his till. They had the look of tax collectors, technically illegal here in the city but sanctioned in the outer territories, and tax collectors were good at putting their fingers in places they did not belong. Particularly when no one would dare protest.
“I hope the mountain fell on her,” said the loudest of the three. He gave an exaggerated shudder. “Monsters like that shouldn’t be allowed to live.”
“What monsters are you talking about?” a stranger at another table, a northerner, judging by his clothing, interrupted him to ask.
Blade had noticed an increased number of men from the north in Freetown of late. He wondered what it meant.
“There’s a demon on the mountain,” the loud one replied. “At least there was. She’s buried under a ton of dirt and stone by now.” He said the last with an air of satisfaction.
“You’ve made a mistake, my friend.” The inquisitor turned back to the men at his own table, no longer interested in what had to be a fabrication. “Demons aren’t female.”
The loud one laughed, and the two men sitting with him looked uncomfortable at the turn the conversation was taking. No one liked to be called a liar, or worse, stupid. He did not think the loud one was either of those. Blade moved closer so as not to miss anything but stayed within a few steps of the shotgun he kept behind the bar.
“This demon was female,” Loudmouth said. “We saw her up close.” The two other men nodded, and a few more people around them shifted their chairs to pay more attention. One of the trio had a long, fading bruise down the side of his face. Another had a split lip and moved carefully, as if his back and shoulders hurt. Blade recognized damage caused by some sort of bludgeon. Demons did not use bludgeons. They had no need for them. So why would these men make up such a lie?
“How could you tell it was female?” someone asked.
“It started off in mortal form. Then its eyes glowed red and it turned into a demon. Big one. Hideous. We were lucky to make it out with our lives.”
Blade noted the two companions did not nod in agreement over the description of the so-called demon. They kept their eyes down. Their loudmouthed leader was lying about at least part of his story.
Blade made a living out of reading people, and he believed they had indeed been attacked by a woman. She would need to be a strong one to inflict the damage he saw. She’d also have to have considerable fighting skills.
But why was Loudmouth making up stories about her being a demon?
“You should tell Mamna,” a wide-eyed believer advised him.
Loudmouth looked smug. “Mamna already sent the Demon Slayer to finish it off. If the mountain didn’t kill it, the Slayer will.”
Blade did not like what he heard, or the conclusions that could be drawn from it. Hunter had gone up on that mountain well before its lid blew off. A Godseeker had tried to ambush him. And Mamna was about as trustworthy as a sunstroked goldthief snake.
The roo
m went silent. Bringing Hunter into the conversation changed several opinions. “It must be a demon then, if the Slayer went after it. He wouldn’t do any other kind of work for the priestesses. I heard he once turned down an offer of twenty gold pieces to go after a wagonload of Mamna’s stained glass stolen by outlaws near the Borderlands. He said he wouldn’t risk his life for anything so useless.”
“Whatever he’s after on the goddesses’ mountain,” someone declared, “it can’t be a demon, male or female. No demon’d dare go near it.”
A few people agreed, but even more looked uncertain.
One older man, with a wrinkled face resembling sunbaked dirt, shot a wad of chewed tobacco into a nearby spittoon. He wiped his mouth on a dust-crusted sleeve. “Something had to blow the top off that mountain.”
One of the whores waiting tables swatted away a groping hand, gathered some empty plates off a table, and with a sway of her hips and swish of her skirts, carried them to the back of the saloon to the kitchen.
Blade watched her go, lost in thought.
Whatever had happened on that mountain, he did not like that Hunter had been sent into the middle of it.
…
The desert was far from the oceans of endless sand Airie had expected to see. There was sand—plenty of it—but also pillars of granite and basalt, and patches of shrubbery.
And in vast stretches, underneath the earth, odd ridges and patterns could be discerned that were too symmetrical to have happened by chance. They never rode too close to them, though, but skirted around.
“They’re remains of settlements from another time,” Hunter said when she asked what they were. “Before the demons came. Those are old rooftops you see.”
“Can we look closer?” she asked. They had passed ruins in the foothills too, but these appeared enormous by comparison.
“No. They aren’t safe. The ruins have caused sinkholes to form under the sand, sometimes thirty or more feet deep. If you fall in one you’ll never come out.”
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