Demon's Daughter (Demon Outlaws) (2 page)

Chapter One

Year 352 PD

Inside Demon Territory

Hunter slapped the length of his toe-grazing leather duster, sending a shower of fine red silt into the air around him. It was a habit learned from his mother a long time ago in another life, and one he had never seen the need to break—removing the desert dirt before entering an establishment.

Even an establishment in a place like Freetown, where niceties weren’t the rule of the day.

Dusk was settling in, and the saloon would soon prepare to close. No honest man stayed out after dark. If they weren’t afraid of thieves, they were terrified of demons. Hunter wanted this meeting over with so he, too, could be on his way.

With his hat dangling by its straps between his shoulder blades, Hunter pushed open the swinging door. The dim interior of the saloon meant anyone framed in the doorway was backlit by the setting sun and virtually blinded. Sidestepping to the right, he brushed back his duster, keeping his hand close to the six-shooter at his hip. The short sword strapped to his back came in handy for those times when a gunshot might attract too much unwanted attention, but in a saloon, loud weapons made the better deterrents. And faster, cleaner kills.

A sword, however, worked best against demons if a man was willing to fight them up close. And Hunter wasn’t known as the Demon Slayer for nothing.

The smells of ale-soaked pine, smoked meats, and stale tobacco thickened the air. He remained with his back to the raw wooden wall while his eyes adjusted to the change in the light. When they did, he nodded to Blade, the tall, stone-faced man behind the bar.

Blade, polishing the glass in his hand with a pristine white cloth, acknowledged Hunter with the slightest drop of his chin. Hunter let his gaze drift around the near-empty room, searching for the one he’d been summoned to meet.

A man with a long, ugly red scar down the side of an even uglier face slouched on a stool at the bar. Hunter noted and dismissed him. The women who worked in the saloon had already retired to the second floor. A few stragglers sat at well-spaced tables, showing signs of imminent departure. Once the front door was locked, it was locked for the night. Blade did not encourage overnight business, and anyone who wanted it paid a significant price.

A lone woman sat in the single booth in one shadowed corner of the room. Twisted and misshapen, dressed in a man’s greatcoat and coarse woolen trousers, she hunched in her seat, unbothered by the other patrons. It wasn’t her appearance that kept her from harassment. Being a priestess protected her far better than simple ugliness ever could, for priestesses served as the only law this side of the Godseekers’ mountains. They were all that stood between the people and the demons, and in their own way, they were far more ruthless than the basest of cutthroats.

This one was the worst of the lot, and the client Hunter had come here to meet. Mamna was her name, and he didn’t like her. He didn’t like that she had made a deal with the Demon Lord, one that put her in her current position of power. He didn’t like that laws were being written by a woman who had no use for other women.

And he did not like being summoned.

The nails in his boot heels echoed on the whitewashed floor as he walked to the priestess’s table. He didn’t miss the sneer of disgust twisting Scarface’s lips as Hunter passed him. Men knew better than to show open contempt for the priestess, but anyone who dealt with her was another matter.

Hunter committed Scarface to memory. It was good to have an idea of who might try to plant a knife in his back. Or die trying.

He slid onto the bench across the battered table from the priestess. The amulet around his neck grew warm, but Hunter ignored it. It indicated the priestess had been in recent contact with a demon, a fact that did not surprise him as much as it left him with a bad taste in his mouth.

Hunter knew why Mamna wanted to meet with him in a public place. She wanted everyone in Freetown to know that she was conducting business with the Demon Slayer, and that there were certain laws in the land even the Slayer could be made to respect.

That was why Hunter had kept this meeting to a time when as few people as possible were likely to see them. He respected the law, such as it was. But he hated demons and all who associated with them, and Mamna knew it.

With watery, pale-blue eyes lodged in an aging face withered and burned from a hard life in a harsh desert, the priestess examined Scarface at the bar before acknowledging Hunter.

“If he takes offense at your speaking with a priestess, try not to kill him,” she said. “But go ahead and hurt him a little.”

Hunter allowed his own eyes to turn to ice. “I never kill unless I have to.” It was a less-than-subtle reminder that, while Hunter might be persuaded to take a contract from the priestess, he would do so on his own terms. He rested one palm on the table, keeping his other hand out of her line of vision. “Why have you summoned me here?”

Scarface continued to watch him, but Blade, Hunter knew, would be watching Scarface on his behalf.

It paid to have good friends.

“There is a thief at large on the goddesses’ mountain,” Mamna said.

Hunter shrugged. “There are thieves everywhere. It was bound to happen sooner or later. Besides, the goddesses are long gone and their temple is abandoned. What difference will one thief make to anyone?”

Another subtle jab on Hunter’s part. The priestesses—Mamna in particular—didn’t like to be reminded of the goddesses’ departure. It represented betrayal.

“The mountain is forbidden,” Mamna said. She rubbed a gnarled hand over her shaven head.

“Then this thief does your work for you. If he’s successful at his chosen profession, people will learn to leave the mountain alone, and he will have to move on.”

“The thief is a woman.”

Hunter laughed out loud. “More power to her.” At the bar, Scarface tightened his grip on his drink and Hunter lowered his voice. “If she thieves on the mountain, she is more than likely one of your own.”

“She is not a priestess.”

Mamna sounded definite about that, and Hunter had to admit he was growing intrigued. A woman on the mountain who stole from trespassers? What kind of woman would she be?

A hideous one, no doubt. Probably bitter as the priestesses about it, too. Women judged themselves far harder than men, although from what he’d seen, beauty didn’t get them much in this world.

Mamna pulled a small pouch from a pocket in her greatcoat and slid it to Hunter. He lifted the pouch. It was heavier than it looked, meaning it contained mostly, if not all, gold coins.

Which also meant he was being overpaid.

“There’s more to this story,” Hunter said flatly.

Mamna had the nerve to feign righteousness. “She is ambushing innocents, most likely supplicants to the temple. All you have to do is capture her and bring her here to face justice.”

That did not explain the coins. Hunter disliked that Mamna might think his reluctance to accept this task sprang from not wanting to bring a woman to so-called justice. It would give her a weakness to use against him in future negotiations. He tossed the pouch in the palm of his hand. The coins clinked dully.

Gold
. Definitely gold.

“This is a great deal of money for bringing in one woman.” Hunter waited for an answer he believed, or at least one he was willing to accept.

At the bar Blade made a production of putting glasses away. “Closing time,” he said to Scarface.

Scarface grunted. “There are two others still here.”

“Those two have no need to fear demons.” The shutters on the windows rattled to emphasize Blade’s point. Everyone knew that when the wind blew from the west, demons rode with it, calling a challenge to mortals very few could resist. “I require a great deal of cash up front if you want to spend the entire night here. A great deal. So my next question is, how much do
you
need to fear them?”

Scarface tossed a few coins on the bar, hitched up the back of his dust-crusted trousers, and left through the swinging doors.

Mamna cleared her throat, drawing Hunter’s attention back to her. For the first time, she appeared uneasy. “This is no ordinary woman.”

Hunter regarded her for a long moment. “Rule number one—no surprises.”

“There will not be any,” she reassured him, which didn’t reassure him at all.

He dropped the pouch on the table. It landed with a heavy thud. He pushed it toward the priestess with his fingertips. “Rule number two—don’t lie to me.”

Mamna ignored the pouch. She met his eyes. “It is claimed she has demon blood. If that’s true, she must be turned over to the Demon Lord, as per my agreement with him.”

Only a great deal of discipline kept Hunter from allowing the revulsion that shivered up his spine to show on his face. Men hated demons, and demons hated men, but spawn, who carried the blood of both, were hated by all. They belonged to no world. Even Hunter had no problem with the Demon Lord claiming one because a demon would not allow it to live either.

But the claim that the thief was spawn had to be true, and Hunter did not believe it was.

“Impossible,” he said. “She’s a woman.”

Mamna’s wrinkled face smoothed as her eyebrows lifted. “Is it impossible?” she asked. “Can you know this for certain?”

All Hunter knew for certain was that Mamna hated women more than anyone hated spawn, and for whatever reason, she wanted this woman dead. He did not believe her, and he should not take this job.

But if he didn’t, someone else would. And to think of an innocent woman being handed over to demons was more than his stomach could handle.

Was Mamna testing him somehow? Could he afford for her to suspect a weakness about him that she would, in all likelihood, use against him in the future?

He scanned his memory for anything he might have given away in the past. He had left behind everything he’d ever valued years ago so that he would have no such weaknesses to betray. Only Blade could be considered a true friend, and Hunter had no concerns for him or his safety.

He also had no concerns over Blade’s loyalty. Hunter had found him in the desert some years ago, fighting a losing battle with a demon driven wild by the taste of his blood. Hunter had killed the demon and saved Blade’s life, although not before the demon had bitten a large chunk of flesh from Blade’s right leg. While no longer as agile as he’d once been, Blade was still quite capable of taking care of himself, and a close ally.

No, Mamna had no hold on Hunter. He intended to keep it that way.

He reclaimed the money pouch and slipped it into an inside pocket. He rose to his feet, wanting this meeting to be over and done with so he could think.

“How much time do I have?” he asked her.

“As long as necessary.” She shrugged. “No longer.”

Which meant not much time beyond what she thought it would take him to travel, two or three weeks at most, but Hunter wasn’t concerned about that. He’d take whatever time he deemed necessary, then a little more. It never paid to seem too cooperative.

Mamna hopped from her seat without a word of good-bye and shuffled from the saloon, the hem of her ill-fitting greatcoat dragging on the floor.

Blade closed the heavier exterior doors behind her. He then dropped an iron bar into place, barricading them in.

“Thirsty?” he asked Hunter.

“Please.”

The wind picked up, and Hunter hoped the townspeople had gotten themselves locked up in time. On nights like this demons sought pleasure in their demon forms, and pleasure, to them, meant killing men and violating women.

While Blade slung a kettle on a hook inside the large fireplace to heat water, Hunter went around the room and latched all the shutters in place.

“Do the women have their windows closed?” he asked Blade. Three whores called the saloon home. They worked when they wanted, and with whom they pleased. Blade offered them protection and a roof, and in return, they helped with the cooking and cleaning.

“Of course.”

The kettle hissed and soon began to steam.

“One of these days,” Blade said, “that ugly little priestess will pay someone to plant a knife in your back.”

Hunter grabbed a broom from behind the bar to sweep the floor. “Dying of old age is overrated.”

“Perhaps. But you seem to have forgotten that living to an old age is not.” Blade dropped a metal ball filled with fragrant loose tea into the hot water, then lifted the kettle from the fire with a long hook. He carried it to the bar. “What did the evil little troll want from you?”

Hunter told him, and he frowned.

“She’s made it no secret that she no longer serves the goddesses. She has no reason to do demon work either. Neither do you. She’s lying to you for some purpose of her own. You know how she feels about women. You shouldn’t take her work.”

Hunter had learned long ago to trust Blade’s instincts. He’d also learned to work around them. He leaned on the broom and faced his friend. “If I don’t take it someone else will, and they might not care whether or not this woman truly is spawn. What would you have me do—abandon those who are still innocent in this goddessforsaken world?”