A Demon Huntress Novel
Gin Crawford, the world's newest demon huntress, just wants to enjoy a football game, but finds herself hunting a serial killer minion instead. When his victims turn out to be the local football star’s female fans, she must determine if the player has joined forces with the minion, but her efforts lead her deeper into danger. When her mentor, Aidan Smythe, is attacked, Gin resolves to go to any lengths to save him, even if it exposes her most tightly held secret. Minions and demons, however, aren't the only terrors she faces. Will she realize the greatest danger lies within—before it's too late?
Smart as in sharp. Not as in smartass.
I shake my head at him before straightening my shoulders. And slapping a hand over my mouth and nose. Yuck. Hours-old death in humid Texas weather makes for a smelly situation. At least I’m not the only one with their hand, or handkerchief, over their mouths.
“What happened?” Smythe meets the gaze of each guard and the hyperventilating janitorial women who clearly found the body.
One of the women points to where the body lies in front of the Dumpster, flat on her back, hands resting in classic death pose on her bloody stabbed chest, a red rose clasped in her fingers. Her open eyes stare into the night, her mouth curled into a grimace of pain and death. Her clothes look like she came from a club: tight, short, and low-cut, with spiky heels. At one time, I would’ve been jealous of her hot-to-trot figure.
Now all I notice is the pain and terror stamped on her face and the unfurling anger deep in my core. Fucking murderers. I might be a fancy-assed demon huntress, but I destroy minions, not human killers. Lucky for me, I can tell which type of kill this scene belongs to with little effort.
Closing my eyes, I start to take a deep calming breath, think better of it, and focus on activating my minion sensors. Tapping into the power of the entity lying along my nerves, I open my eyes to a tactical grid display of reds and oranges, a clear indication of a minion’s presence at the scene.
Looks like I’ll get my wish to annihilate the fucking bastard who killed this poor woman.
Minion, I tell Smythe. Not that he needs the verbal—or should I say telepathic—heads-up. Mages can see minion trails just fine without a Justitian’s help. Which makes me wonder why they need Justitians.
A topic for a different time.
“Brought the trash out and found this—” This hitches in the janitor’s throat, cutting off the rest of her sentence, and she swallows as she waves at the body.
“What time was that?” Smythe asks.
The woman looks at her co-worker before answering. “Ten, fifteen minutes ago?”
“Did you come out earlier?”
Both women shake their heads, but only one answers. “No, señor. Only bring out trash after the game.”
The sirens grow closer, an ear-piercing wail of sorrow. Flashing lights strobe across the walls of the stadium as the cops and an ambulance pull to a stop by the steel doors, the wail cutting off with an electronic blip. Smythe steps out of the headlights’ glare.
Someone behind me draws in a sharp intake of air. Behind me?
I turn, the minion-sensors streaming red and orange minion trails like headlights in time-lapse photography. Donny Football stands a few feet behind me, staring at the dead woman, eyes wide, mouth open. The streams of minion trails coalesce around his head, across his shoulders, a lover’s caress of evil.
Now it’s my turn to gasp and blink in surprise. If he’s a minion, why didn’t my bracelet turn into a sword when we first met at the party? But as soon as I blink, the colors vanish, leaving Donny bathed in hues of blues and reds from the flashing strobe lights of the emergency vehicles.