City of Dust

Chapter Fifteen

"So ... do you mind telling me where we're going?"

"No."

Striker Glaris sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "Look, I get that you're a tough, independent woman—I respect that—but shouldn't I know what the destination is in case something happens?"

I cut narrowed eyes to the demon-hunter. His open, earnest demeanor reminds me of Keaton, but unlike my unfortunate colleague, this man has some backbone. At least he knows how to properly sit on a horse, something which Keaton is laughably bad at doing.

Perhaps I need to rein in my paranoia. I've given the man no indication of why Kayleigh and I are traveling together, so telling him about the City of Dust shouldn't raise any flags with him.

"Only if you tell me why you were stalking us."

"Because I can't resist a beautiful woman—hey!" he exclaims as I scowl, knife in hand. "Okay, that was sexist and inappropriate. I apologize. You can put that away now."

I return the knife to its hidden sheath and tug at the scarves covering my hair, drawing them further down my forehead.

"Geez, you've got a hair-trigger on you, don't you?"

Behind him, Kayleigh chuckles quietly. "You have no idea."

I snort and focus my attention on the road.

"Look, I've got business up north ... and I was concerned for your safety," he adds in a rush as I fix him with a raised eyebrow.

I roll my eyes. "Do you gallantly escort all unaccompanied women who cross your path?" I ask sarcastically.

Glaris laughs. "No." Then he sobers as I glare at him. "But I've been up this way many times before. It's suicide for an inexperienced traveler."

I want to be dismissive, but this is uncharted territory for me so I bite my tongue.

The demon-hunter shifts in the saddle, leather creaking slightly. "So. I've answered your questions. Now, how about mine?"

Well, he's got me there. "I've been contracted to take her to her mother in the City of Dust." I jerk a gloved thumb in the kid's direction.

Glaris's yellow eyes widen slightly. "The City of Dust?" He frowns and stares between his stallion's ears at the road for a moment.

"Worried that Ehtab's got a hit out on you?" I ask dryly, leaning forward in the saddle. I've never paid attention to how demon lords react to Strikers taking out their minions. It's not like they give press conferences.

He chuckles humorlessly. "No. It's not a nice place."

"Gee, there are people out there who think a city named 'Dust' is a fancy tourist destination?"

"Ha!" He points at me. "The Hunter has a sense of humor."

"Don't be delusional," I retort, tugging at one sleeve. "It doesn't suit you."

"I wouldn't dream of it. So, kid, what's your name?" He twists in the saddle to look at the girl over his shoulder.

"First name only," I cut in as she opens her mouth to answer. I don't know if he's up on his politics, but I'm not taking any chances.

The kid stares at me, her face still peppered with blood and stained with the remnants of her tears. "Kayleigh," she finally tells the Striker softly.

"Finn," he replies, flashing a warm smile. Ugh, save me from charming men. "Nice to meet you, Kayleigh." He reaches back and offers his hand. The kid eyes it dubiously but shakes it after a moment of consideration. "You seem like a nice kid. How's it traveling with this fierce monster hunter?"

"She's ... she's quiet," Kayleigh answers after a considerable pause. "And mean, sometimes, but I think that's because she's in a lot of pain."

My hands tighten on the reins, causing Winston to prance and toss his head. "Easy," I murmur, dodging those sharp, steel-capped tines.

Striker Glaris raises a black eyebrow. "Is that so?"

"That is none of your business," I snap, causing the kid to wince. My pain, darkness, and depression are no one's business but mine. "Understood?"

Wisely, he nods. "Fine. But do I at least get your name?"

"Raine Barlow, Keres Guild."

"Nice to meet you, Raine."

"No, it's not."

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An armored convoy of fuel trucks rumbles up behind us and we pull slightly off the dirt road to let them pass. They don't slow and they don't stop, which tells me that whoever is driving has no problem running people and animals over. While I understand the need to get from point A to point B as quickly as possible so as to avoid any lurking monsters, even I think that's a little much.

There's a little lake cut into the forest floor, surrounded by the massive trunks of redwoods. They punch into the sky like giants' pillars and it's not hard to imagine someone or something extremely huge living up there where we can't see.

The Striker watches the road while I scan the forest, hands casually folded over Winston's saddle horn. A rustle of movement on the far end of the lake has me pulling the Winchester out of its holster. Glaris doesn't notice the sound, as the fuel trucks and their convoy are creating such a racket.

Winston turns his head, casually chewing on the thick ferns that grow at the edge of the road. Seated on the ground by the kid's foot, Egon's black-tipped ears swivel.

A mottled red-brown creature emerges from between the giant tree trunks, its fur the perfect shade to blend in with its surroundings. My eyes narrow, then widen, my finger pressing against the side of the Winchester's trigger as realization dawns.

The upright posture; the powerful, primal body; the heavy brows, and gorilla-like features. Of all the creatures to emerge into the light, the one that delighted most people to learn was real was Bigfoot. There was a solid week where people celebrated its discovery—until the demons came.

The ape-man pauses at the edge of the lake and turns its head towards me. Dark, almost black eyes, gleam with intelligence beneath those shelf-like brow ridges. Large nostrils flare and the Bigfoot's upper lip curls back slightly to reveal an impressive array of teeth, complete with fangs that would make any vampire jealous. Slowly, I raise the Winchester, peering down the length of the barrel.

Across the lake, the Bigfoot slowly shakes its head and stoops close to the water. My finger on the Winchester remains steady as it scoops water into its hand and brings it to its mouth.

For a tense two minutes, I watch the creature drink. Occasionally, it glances up; marking that I've still got the gun trained on it, it goes back to drinking.

Winston's short tail swishes back and forth and the bull lowers his head to take another mouthful of ferns. Even Egon gives up watching it, instead focusing on the rumbling tanks with their menacing gun barrels. How many are there, anyway?

As the minutes tick on, the Bigfoot slowly rises. Out from behind the trees, two more creatures appear, called forward by a gesture I could not see or a sound I did not hear. These two are smaller—much smaller. Babies, really.

They dart towards the water and have to be held back by the adult from plunging head-first into its depths. Some sort of emotion I can't name plucks an irreverent string inside the black cavern of my heart. Carefully, I return the Winchester to its holster and lean back in the saddle, arms crossed.

The adult creature does not acknowledge me, but it reaches down to tap the youths on their backs. Unlike human children, the Bigfoots don't protest; slowly, the trio turns and melts into the inky shadows.