The Mammoth Book of Paranormal Romance (Trisha Telep) (Kitty Norville 0.50)

“But you hired a stranger! You don’t know anything about him,” Gail exclaimed.

“He had references,” Jen replied softly. For what that was worth. They dated back two weeks, which was about how long Daemon Alexander had been working for her, the same amount of time that the Sheriff was guessing the dead body had been in the woods. What was she supposed to make of that?

The two women pegged her with identical “Are you crazy?” looks. But Jen knew she wasn’t. She’d had this built-in radar detector for trouble all her life. It would uncoil and flare hard and bright if ever she was in danger. It had never failed her, and she was counting on that now, because the only vibe she got off Daemon Alexander was a sizzle of hotter-than-hell chemistry.

And that was a whole other kind of dangerous.

Daemon moved through the dense woods, silent, quick. A little moonlight filtered through the heavy canopy of branches and leaves. That was fine. He didn’t need light.

He stopped beside the rotting trunk of a fallen oak. Breathing deeply, he closed his eyes and set the trinity free, sent the shadows out into the darkness. The three misty shapes rose from his skin, snaked around his limbs and through them, blending, adapting, taking form then dissipating.

“Hunt,” he said, sending them to their task. They darted away into the night, unseen, unheard. But there. A silent menace.

His resources no longer twined with theirs, he summoned his stores of magic, a surge of bright power. He could see in the dark. He could run for miles. He could hear the breath of the smallest creatures in their burrows.

And he could sense dark magic. It made the continuum writhe and twist at the insult.

Something other than him laid claim to these woods. And it had killed. Recently. He could smell human blood and brimstone, feel the surge of demon power in the air.

Following instinct, he ran, skirting trees and vaulting logs, his blood pumping through him, the wind clean and cold in his face.

He hunted. And he found them.

Hybrids. Brutish creatures that had been human once, but when faced with death, had chosen to allow demon will to overtake their souls. They were human no longer, serving only their own hungers and a monstrous master.

There were only two of them. A scouting party. Their hands were bloody which meant they had fed earlier. Daemon suppressed a shudder. Hybrids preferred their prey live, human and bloody.

The trinity sped to him, black shadows in the night.

“No,” he said, wanting this fight to be his, needing to know he was the one keeping her safe. Jen. He would keep her safe.

They came at him, one from each side, claws raking his flesh. He welcomed the pain, welcomed the burn of cold fury that burst from deep inside. With a snarl, he lunged, speed and power. Sweat dripped from him, and blood. His - red, theirs -black.

In the end, he stood, breathing heavily as their remains bubbled and hissed and disintegrated into sludge.

At his call, the trinity came to him - sinuous smoke, dark shadow - and for a moment, the night flared bright with cold blue flame.

Three

The following morning, Jen sat in the kitchen with Sheriff Hale, answering a whole mess of questions. Actually, it was more like he asked and she sat silent and frustrated because she didn’t have a shred of information to help him find that poor woman’s killer. What was she supposed to say? That two weeks ago she’d looked out at the woods and had the ugly sensation that something watched her with inhuman eyes? Yeah, that’d be a good move. Hale would think she’d lost her mind, and it wouldn’t bring him a step closer to the killer.

“So tell me about this handyman you have working for you,” Hale prodded.

“His name’s Daemon Alexander.”

“Where’s he from?”

Jen opened her mouth, then closed it. She had no idea.

“I’m from Oregon, originally.”

She caught the look of surprise on Hale’s face as they both turned. Daemon stood by the side door, leaning one shoulder against it. She hadn’t heard him come in and, from Hale’s sour expression, she gathered that neither had he.

“What about you, Sheriff Hale?” Daemon asked, his tone lazy and smooth. He shrugged out of his scuffed leather jacket and hung it on a peg behind the door. “Where’re you from?”

Hale’s face darkened to a dull red. “Right here. Born and bred.”

“How fortunate for you.” There was a wealth of the unspoken behind those words, an implication that strangers were a convenient scapegoat.