Page 2 of Demon Rider

“I am hungry, let’s get this shit done.” The youngest Reaper of our club Rupert moans.

“You are always fucking hungry you fucker.” Milo punches Rupert in the arm.

We dismount, boots hitting the ground in unison, like a well-practiced team. Hell, we are a fucking team, a brotherhood.

The Reapers’ order MC, rule the topside of the supernatural world here in Santa Monica, we try to keep humans safe from the deranged soul that escape Hell. We send most back, but a few we are still hunting for.

The factory door hangs crooked; the wood splintered. The scent that comes from inside makes my nose wrinkle.

“Fuck,”

Zeke steps forward. “Tyson. You take point.”

I nod, letting my demon rise fully.

My skin heats, my vision sharpens, and the world shifts into the spectrum only Reapers see. The living glow faintly, depending on their innocence, the dead burn like wildfire.

Harlan burns.

I push inside, hit by the smell of a rotting human host. Clearly Harlan took an innocent man’s body, so his death is killing him from the inside out.

“Harlan Pike. You should’ve stayed in the fire.” I call out.

A laugh echoes through the building. The glass vibrates at the tone. A whimper is mixed in with his twisted voice, making me stiffen.

“Tyson… my favorite Reaper. Come to take me home?”

“You’re done; you have hurt enough.”

Harlan’s form flickers into view—twisted, stretched, eyes hollow pits of hunger. “Oh, I’m just getting started.”

“Not tonight.” Teo growl low, making the floor beneath my feet shake.

“Yes, tonight. Do you know how long I have waited to feel the soft skin of a woman? To hear her whimper and scream.” He moans sexually.

“Sicko.” Otto mutters.

“I want to have my fun with her. She has been begging me to make her scream.” the female whimpering intensifies.

“Let her Go, Harlan.” I snarl.

“Never.” He bellows, and I make my move.

Rushing forward, I aim my gun, shooting the human host in the leg. Harlan bellows, dropping the woman he was holding. She crawls away, watching us; me.

I feel the kick to my chest as our gazes connect.

Big bright eyes stare back at me, fear leaking from them. One blue, one green.

What the fuck?

“Tyson.” Pres calls out.

Shaking off the pull in my chest, I snap back to my job, knowing that if we do not meet our quoter, we get fucking punished.

I raise my hand, the Reaper mark blazing across my palm. It flares to life like someone pressed a brand straight into my skin.

The heat punches through me, rippling down my arm and flooding my chest. I grit my teeth against the burn. It hurts, but pain becomes a familiar thing when you’re built for this kind of work.