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His eyes narrowed. "I mean it."

"So do I."

"You said that last time."

"And I remained within thirty-three yards until I needed you."

"That defeats the purpose of the promise."

"But it worked."

"Poppy."

I reached for the door, then paused. "Azaren?"

"What?"

"We're going to save her."

He studied me for a long moment. Mrs. Wilton. The town. Maybe all of us.

"I will find what is weakening the veil," he promised. It wasn't reassurance. It was a vow. "And when I do..." His eyes glowed brighter. "I will send it back where it belongs."

I believed him. The part that frightened me was that I wasn't sure anything beneath Screaming Woods still had somewhere to return to.

Chapter 8

Azaren

The cottage became unnaturally quiet. Mrs. Wilton retired shortly after sunset despite insisting she wasn't tired. A transparent lie. The journey upstairs left her breathless. So much so after the first three steps, that I couldn't listen to her sounding like a freight train and picked her up. By the time I reached the landing with her tucked securely against my chest, she abandoned the argument entirely and merely muttered that I was entirely too dramatic.

She was wrong. I wasn't dramatic enough. Whatever hid beneath Screaming Woods was draining her faster now. I could see it in the hollows beneath her eyes, in the way her hands trembled whenever she reached for her teacup, in the cough she tried so hard to disguise. We were losing time.

I frowned. Why did I care? She was perfectly capable of making the climb eventually. It would have taken longer, certainly, but time had not been the deciding factor. Convenience, perhaps. Efficiency. Yet I'd crossed the room before she'd even finished protesting. Curious. I had transported injured comrades from battlefields before. Carried mortally wounded soldiers from collapsing fortresses.

Mrs. Wilton had not been any of those things. She was simply... Poppy's friend… I disliked that line of reasoning. It suggested my judgment was becoming... personal. Infernal hunters could not afford personal.

Later back at Poppy's place, I stared at the computer screen for what felt like the hundredth time, reading an article concerning a farmer whose livestock had vanished during the autumn of 1938. Ordinarily, I'd have absorbed every word after a single reading. Tonight, I could not have repeated the first sentence if my existence depended upon it.

Annoying. Infernal hunters possessed exceptional memories. Mine appeared to have chosen this evening to malfunction. I reread the paragraph. Nothing. Again. Nothing. My gaze drifted toward the darkened window. And in my mind's eye, Poppy appeared. Smiling. Humans smiled frequently. Usually without purpose. Poppy smiled more than most. She smiled when she was pleased with herself. She smiled when she was nervous. She smiled when she intended to ignore my instructions.

That particular smile had become remarkably easy to identify. I disliked patterns I couldn't explain. I closed the browser with considerably more force than necessary. The computer made a displeased noise. "I share your frustration."

Reggie, asleep on the windowsill, opened one eye.

"You have no useful opinions."

The cat blinked slowly before returning to his nap.

Typical. I pushed back from the desk. Perhaps movement would improve my concentration. It did not. Instead, I found myself replaying the conversation from Maple Grove. Mrs. Langton's warning. She'll be the first to die. The words settled heavily inside me.

Poppy had hidden her fear well. Not perfectly. She'd smiled less after that. Her laughter had sounded thinner. She'd still teased me, naturally. Apparently impending catastrophe did little to diminish her enthusiasm for irritating demons. But every time she thought I wasn't looking... she'd glanced toward Mrs. Wilton. Checking. Worrying.

Humans fascinated me. They expended tremendous effort pretending they were not afraid.

I reached the downstairs bathroom without consciously deciding to go there. The mirror hung above the sink. I frowned at my reflection. Black hair. Red eyes. Two horns. Entirely unremarkable. I turned my head to the left. Nothing. The right. Still nothing. Poppy had been looking directly at my face. Repeatedly. There had to be a reason.

Perhaps I'd been injured. I examined my jaw. No blood. No bruising. No ash. My horns remained symmetrical. Excellent.