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“That’s right.”

Coroners were among the few who knew of the demon world. Their inclusion had been a necessity, when society grew dense and curious, and hunters grew tired of digging graves and stealing demon bodies from morgues before the world discovered the danger and all hell broke loose. Myths had stemmed from bodies discovered before the arrangement. What started as amateur, ignorant demon hunts ended up as witch hunts against demonized decent people.

Not that he’d say anything, even to a coroner, unless it was absolutely necessary. Secrecy was paramount to survival.

Bennett sauntered into the light and held his arms out. “Sun’s finally coming out. Beautiful day.”

As the light hit him, Lexi sucked in a harsh breath. She set her box on the edge of the truck and jumped down before picking it up again. She took a few steps, paused, and turned toward Bennett. “I, uh, guess I’m surprised. I had pegged you as someone who didn’t like the sun.”

“Darkness is soothing, but there is nothing like a sunny day after weeks of rain. Other people… like me… don’t tolerate sunlight. But I’m not like those people… who are like me. My taste is much… sunnier.” He swiped the tip of his tongue over a sharp canine. “If you see someone like me at night… run.”

She glanced toward the door to the house, toward her sister, and scowled a tight-lipped nod. “Good to know. And… your friends? They aren’t like you… right?”

“We’re not,” Vann answered, and walked to grab another box… leaving the coroner a moment to absorb a bizarre and hopefully clearly understood conversation. Last thing he needed was his new, well-informed neighbors thinking he was one of the bad guys.

4

No wonder superhero stories were born in New York. Not much crime in a small town. Speed low, stopping for the occasional pedestrian crossing the street in search of nightlife, Vann wove down the world’s shortest alleys.

After a solid week of recon, he hadn’t found shit. Could the high rate of violent deaths be nothing more than a coincidence?

Not that he was complaining. After San Francisco, the change of pace was good for him. Burnout had been nipping at his heels. But if he wasn’t careful, he was going to die of boredom here.

At the end of Windblown Avenue, adrenaline impatiently waiting to be unleashed, he pulled onto the highway and floored it. Engine purring, the Jag filled the gap. More, as he accelerated hard. He clicked on the radar detector he’d modified, and checked his app. Not a hint of patrols in his way tonight.

Sooner than was legal, he was in Astoria. Not exactly Gotham City, but it was more active than Lost Beach. If Astoria disappointed, he’d have to make the drive to Portland. A little action would sate his own appetite for blood—for his blade, not his stomach.

Before the mouth of the Columbia River became the throat, Astoria draped over the hillside and historic floodplain. The highway offered him Washington, but he stayed on the low road toward downtown.

Nothing out of the ordinary on police channels. Emergency calls he’d tapped into were unremarkable. Well, nothing paranormal, anyway. Full humans could deal with human problems; his job was the inhuman variety.

He’d been on speed dial for a cop in San Francisco. Not that they knew what Vann was, but they knew when to call. Those calls alone had kept his nights busy and bloody. And an ally in the department made it easier to keep investigations the fuck away from him. Coroners could only do so much to fix a crime scene.

Up and down the hillside of the riverside town, he widened his circle. Shops were closed for the night. Restaurants empty until tomorrow’s lunch crowd. No demons looking to feast here—no food or humans to munch on.

He turned uphill into the residential neighborhoods.

A glass-shattering screech. At long fucking last, the sound of demonic, gleeful fury shook the night. A rare sound in this part of the world.

Some banshees were thoughtful in their obsessions. Those were almost benevolent, bonding with families and following them through the centuries. Providing the comfort of knowing a loved one had passed away. Those banshees wept.

And then there were… the other ones. Banshees who screamed, haunted, and killed for sport. Immortal in the same sense as vampires, but pureblood demon, thus, harder to kill. And, fortunately, uncommon.

Vann cranked the steering wheel. Tires squealed, but the car obeyed the abrupt command. Nothing was unkillable.

He followed the source of the sound. Up the steep hill, around dipping and weaving turns framed by historic houses built tall to capitalize on the priceless view. No more screams. He scoped out every detail, relying on his instincts to lead the way.

Amber light glowed from the back windows of a house.

He grabbed his sword and sprinted.

The wooden steps bowed underfoot. He skipped three at a time.

Caught red-handed, her eyes widened into furious saucers.

Beneath her, two human victims.

One sobbed. Screamed when she saw Vann.