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The caffeine buzzes through my veins, dulling the worst edges of my fatigue. I bend, joints cracking, and haul the duffel onto the bed. The worn leather stinks of sweat and old blood, lockdowns from hunts past ground deep into every seam. The zipper sticks, metal teeth catching on a frayed corner, but I yank it hard enough to break loose.

Inside lies the physical manifestation of my profession, an arsenal of specialized weapons. Silver-tipped stakes, packets of blessed salt, every type of blade I could need. A revolver loaded with bullets carved with sigils. Three knives with runes etched along blades that burn with blue fire when activated with the right words.

The weapons far outnumber the spare pair of jeans, two black t-shirts, and clean underwear tucked along the side. The essentials of a life spent moving from one hunt to the next.

As I reach in to grab a spare knife, my knuckles bump the latch on an oak box, and it swings open with ease.

Moonlight leaks out. Real moonlight, blue, cold, and quieter than breath. The moonstaria bloom rests inside, petals edged with silver filaments. It’s the same as the night I found it waiting on my pillow.

The Silver Princes flicker in my mind, bringing with them the memory of their hands and lips as they tempted me to give in to our desires. Fast on its heels comes the bitterness of their doubts.

It’s been six months since I clawed my way back to the human plane, and the bloom hasn’t wilted or faded, unlike their supposed interest in me.

They could sneak flowers onto the pillow in my hotel room, but they couldn’t be bothered to approach me in person.

With a huff, I snap the box shut, and the light vanishes.

As if on cue, the moonstone that hangs from a chain around my neck heats, as it always does when I think of the fae. I stole it from Elionn. I never intended to hang on to it, but the first time it flashed cold, warning me of a lurking demon moments before an ambush, I recognized its value.

The stone retains a connection to fae magic and somehow transforms it into a warning system more reliable than any equipment I could buy.

I run my thumb over its smooth surface, and magic pulses beneath. Cold means danger approaches. Warmth means safety, though those moments don’t come around often in my line of work. The stone remains warm to the touch now, but where I’m headed tonight, it won’t stay that way for long.

I shove it under my shirt, where it settles on my collarbone.

As the caffeine hits my system full force, it chases away the worst of the fog from my mind. My hands steady, muscles tense with chemical alertness. Not the same as being well-rested, but it will do for tonight’s hunt.

I sort through my arsenal, selecting what I’ll need for a glasscrawler. Their anatomy resembles a spider crossed with a mantis, if both creatures were made of living mercury and malice. Six limbs ending in blades capable of slicing through bone. A body that can liquefy, enabling it to slide through the thinnest gap between mirror and frame.

That is, when they’re not messing with your mind by taking on the form of your worst nightmare to torment you or loved ones to lower your defenses.

Tucking a secondary knife into my boot, I reach into my duffel bag for a fresh pair of leather gloves. As I tug on the left one, the new tattoo on my palm pulses.

At first, the runes are nothing more than regular black and purple ink, a cluster of sigils overlapping in a lock pattern, but as my pulse thuds, the edges ripple, shimmer, slither apart, and reform. The magic is alive, Elionn’s blood in every line.

I got the tattoo as a failsafe in case the princes tried to kidnap me again, which is the message I took the moonstaria to be. Turns out I misinterpreted the gift, and the flower had been a goodbye.

An ache opens in me at the thought before I shut down the emotion. Good riddance to the fae realm and everyone in it.

I zip the duffel closed with more force than necessary, leaving the wooden box buried within. Whatever decision awaits on the other side of tonight’s hunt, first I need to survive it.

I roll my shoulders, joints popping as tension releases. Mind over matter. Focus over fatigue. The glasscrawler waits, and a thirty-thousand payout hangs in the balance.

One more night. One more hunt. And then I’ll meet up with Trent and his team to decide if I want to become one of them.

2

LAST RIDE OF THE SEASON

AMALIA

Theme parks are for screams, but not the kind that feed demons.

At midnight in November, there’s no laughter. No music. Not even the squeal of wind through rusted rides. Just creepy silence.

Every step strikes the warped boardwalk, the dry wood crackling like bones. The sound echoes through the closed theme park, as if the thing that took up residence here scared away even the rats.

I’ve been chasing this demon for three days straight, across alleyways, security feeds, and two busted leads. It feeds on fear, slithers through reflective surfaces, and leaves behind nothing but nightmares and insanity.