Nevermore. Maureen Child

flashed as he scanned the motley crowd near the downtown bus station, searching for that soft pulse of colored energy that would lead him to his prey.

      Finally, he spotted a pale wash of red stretched across the base of trees lining a postage-stamp-sized piece of green in the middle of downtown. It wasn’t really a park. There wasn’t enough of it for that. It was more an open spot not yet swallowed by the decaying buildings crouched alongside it.

      For those who lived here, the empty lot with straggly bushes and a few spindly trees wouldn’t mean much. But the demon was obviously trying to lose himself there.

      Stepping out of the alley, Santos rushed into the street, never slowing for traffic. Instead, he simply leaped over the hoods of moving cars, their drivers completely unaware of him.

      His blood quickened, and his heartbeat raced in anticipation of the coming fight. This was what made eternity worth living. Pitting his own strength against the demon world, one at a time. This was why he continued in an existence most men would have given up as empty centuries ago.

      As his friend had.

      To Santos, there was no other world but that of the warrior. He’d lived and died fighting and he would continue on doing so throughout time.

      He moved through small swatches of pale yellow thrown from the street lights. He slipped into the tree line, no more than a barren square. This was what passed for countryside in the city. This tiny plot of ground where trees tried to survive and grass was parched and brown. Where straggly bushes bent in an icy wind. Santos sneered and once again allowed himself a brief memory of home.

      The brown hills, the craggy mountains scraping the sky. The winding paths a man could wander and taste freedom. The sun spilling out of a brassy sky. The wide open expanse of land surrounding his mountaintop home. And the crash of the waves against the rocks below. Room enough for a man to breathe. He missed it with a soul-deep ache.

      A rustle of sound caught his attention and Santos stopped. Lifting his head, he tasted the wind and smiled. Turning right, he crouched, moving along the gnarled bushes until he came to the final hibiscus. Gaudy pink flowers bloomed among the dusty green leaves, but he wasn’t interested in the plant, only in what lay beneath it.

      “You try my patience, small one.”

      “I’m not going back, Guardian.” The bush rattled again as though the demon were trying to scramble even deeper into its cover of leaves. As if that would protect it. “I’ve done nothing to make you hunt me down this way.”

      Santos shrugged. He’d heard desperate pleas from his prey before and hadn’t been moved to mercy. This time would be no different. “You are here, demon. Where you do not belong. That is enough.”

      The hibiscus swayed with a violent motion and suddenly the small, dark demon was standing in front of him. Like humans, every demon was different. There were those who were the stuff of nightmares—and there were those like this one. Annoying yes, but hardly evil.

      “Your master has already been returned to its hell.” That was a fight to remember, he thought, his blood stirring at the memory. The demon had fought with teeth and claws and a raw desperation. This creature would not provide such diversion. “You must follow.”

      “Forget you saw me,” it whispered frantically “and I’ll disappear. I’ll get out of your territory.”

      Santos laughed and damn, it felt good. It wasn’t often he ended a hunt with humor. “Demon, this world is my territory,” he said, though that wasn’t exactly the strictest truth. “And you are not a part of it.”

      “I’ll fight.”

      “Good,” Santos said, reaching for the sword in the scabbard at his side. “I had thought when you ran from me this morning that you had no honor. I am glad to see I was mistaken.”

      The demon was a foot shorter than Santos and its long black hair hung nearly to the ground. Its legs were short and bowed and its arms thick with muscle. Its dark red eyes locked on Santos as it mused, “I could shimmer again. You wouldn’t be able to find me. Why not just let me go, save us both the trouble?”

      Santos sighed. “You tire me. I thought you would fight like a—” he broke off and let that sentence fade.

      “Like a man?” Clearly furious, the demon backed up, one slow step at a time. “You insult me.”

      “And you waste my time.” Santos swung his sword out in a wide arc and the little demon tried to shimmer away again. This time though, Santos was ready for it. Attaching a net of finely spun silver webbing to the edge of his sword, he’d dropped it over the demon before it could move. Once caught in a Guardian’s net, a demon was helpless and powerless to escape.

      “You should have fought me,” Santos said as he slid his sword back into its scabbard and reached down to tighten the net around his catch. “It would have been the honorable thing to do.”

      The demon squirmed and kicked and snarled, but was unable to do anything beyond hurl insults and threats at the man who had caught it.

      “I’ll only escape again,” it promised, its voice scraping the night air like broken glass. “And when I do, I’ll find you and kill you.”

      “That has been tried before.” Santos swung the demon over his shoulder and walked out of the city’s pitiful excuse for a park. Moving through the shadows, Santos headed for his car. It wouldn’t take long to drive to the closest demon dimension portal.

      There were many—each leading to any number of hells. But the energy trace surrounding every demon was a signature of sorts—preventing demons from moving from one hellish world to another. Once returned to a portal, the demon had no choice but to return to the world from which it had come.

      “If only the gods had chosen to seal the portals into this world,” Santos mused aloud, then reconsidered. If they had done that, what would a warrior have to do?

      “I will kill you, Guardian. This I swear. I will find you and tear out your liver. I will wear your eyeballs on my hat. I will—”

      “Cease, demon!” Santos bellowed. “Your threats mean nothing. But should you ever manage to escape again—when you come looking for me,” he said, “come to Spain. There we will have a fight for the ages, small one.”

      He was close.

      Erin could feel him.

      She’d spent the last hour driving up and down the streets of San Diego, letting the ivory-handled knife lead her. There’d been no more visions, but the deeply carved handle was still warm to the touch and still filled her with an urgency she was in no position to argue with.

      It was also sort of like radar. Every time she turned the wrong way, she felt a sense of loss. But if she was going in the right direction, a sense of rightness welled up inside her. As if the knife were leading her to its original owner.

      Her eyes felt gritty and every bone in her body wept with fatigue. She’d been on the move since leaving Maine the day before for New York City. She’d taken a red eye out of La Guardia, landed at LAX and rented a car. Two hours later she’d arrived in San Diego.

      The day was gorgeous. Full clouds sailing across an achingly blue sky. Erin watched late-season tourists headed for the zoo or for Sea World with more than a little envy. She wished she were on a mission of fun. She wished she could have her life back. Heck. She just wished she could lay down somewhere and fall asleep for a day or two. This staying awake for twenty-four hours was nuts.

      But she couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t relax her guard. Not until she had some answers. Not until she knew no one was going to attack her in her sleep.

      With the knife on her lap, she steered her rental car down a street that led off the Coast Highway. Heat from the knife burned her thighs right through the fabric of her jeans. She was going the right way.

      Huge old trees leaned across the street toward each other in a leafy arch that even