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Prologue

The muffled crackle of the campfire is the only warm thing in these damp woods. The ocean waves crash in the distance. Orange sparks float up into the inky black sky as if searching for a place to belong.

I scoot closer to the dying flames, pulling my knees up into my hand-me-down jacket and wrapping my arms around them. Surrounding the small fire are Ivan, Teddy, and Camila, three of my fifth-grade classmates, huddled together. Their faces glow orange, shadowed by the flickering firelight. We aren’t supposed to be out this late, but our families are camping near the river’s edge, and the adults are barely even paying attention.

Ivan’s eyes widen for dramatic effect, and his hands wave wildly in front of him, snapping me back to the present. “And when the camper looks in the mirror,” Ivan whispers. “He begins to chant. Bloody—”

Camila groans, throwing a twig at him. “That’s so old, Ivan! Everyone knows the story of Bloody Mary. Tell a better one.”

“You tell one then!” Ivan huffs. He throws a twig into the fire and runs a hand through his blond hair.

My chest tightens. My heart starts doing that nervous, fluttering thing it always does when I want to speak up. I’m ten years old, and I desperately want them to like me. Everyone has always told me I’m too small. Too girly. Too pretty. Although if I’m being honest, I like the way I look. My reflection is the only thing left that reminds me of Mom. Even so, I want them to think I’m cool, not just the quiet kid whose clothes always smell like old beer and stale cigarettes.

I clear my throat, “I, um… I know one,” I say.

Camila turns to me, her eyebrows raised. “Do you, Bellamy?” She offers me a small smile, but I can’t tell if it’s out of pity.

“Yeah.” I swallow the lump in my throat and sit up a little straighter, leaning into the firelight. “It’s about… a crossroads demon. If you go to where the dirt roads meet at midnight and bury a box with an ivory bone, a lock of hair, and a dark feather, a demon with skin as blue as ice comes out of the shadows and makes a deal with you.”

The words rush out of me so fast that I have to peek up at my classmates to see if I made any sense.

Camila blinks. “Can it be any type of bone, or does it—”

“A blue demon?” Teddy snorts, cutting her off. “That sounds stupid. Blue isn’t even scary.”

“It’s real!” I insist, my face burning. “He takes your soul in exchange for—”

“You don’t know a damn thing about the crossroads, boy!”

The sudden, raspy slurring of my father’s voice bellows out, causing me to jump. Oh god, no, no, no. Not here. Not in front of my friends. The low chatter from the adult side of the campsite dies down.

My stomach drops. I turn my head slowly.

My dad stumbles toward us, an amber glass bottle dangling loosely from his hand. His flannel shirt is unbuttoned at the top, stained with sweat and grease, and his eyes are bloodshot and sunken. He doesn’t look at me. His vacant, hooded glare is fixed on something in the flames.

“Dad, please don’t.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve made a mistake. He doesn’t like it when I interrupt him, but he hates begging even more.

“Shut the fuck up, Bellamy,” he mutters, taking a long, sloshing pull from his bottle. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and steps closer to the fire. His shadow looms over us.

I want to curl up in my jacket and hide. To go back five minutes and convince myself that speaking up is a dumb idea.

“You’re talking about cheap bedtime stories. Blue demons and fucking feather boxes… Nonsense.”

Ivan and Camila shrink back, their eyes wide, suddenly looking very small.

“You want a real story?” Dad’s voice drops, turning thick and dark. He sways on his feet. “You talk about the dirt crossroads in these woods… You aren’t summoning some prancing little demon. You’re calling the Devil Dog.”

I swear, a shudder ripples through the air. Even the crashing waves seem to die down in the distance.

“He’s as big as a horse,” Dad rambles, his eyes staring straight through the fire, looking at something none of us can see. His voice still slurs, but his tone is sharp and frightening. “Crimson eyes that glow. Fangs that can snap through bone. He doesn’t want your pathetic little feather boxes. He wants your desperation. He wants your blood.”

Dad takes another unsteady step, his boots crunching into the gravel. He starts murmuring to himself; the words spilling out like a confession he repeats every night in the dark.

“I go out there… three times. Three damn times,” he mutters, shaking his head. His knuckles are white around the neck of his beer bottle. “Stand right in the center of the dirt cross. Kneel in the mud until my jeans soak through. Pour my own blood right into the gravel… beg him.”

A tiny gasp leaves my lips, and my face tingles right over the spot where he hit me last week. I can’t believe my dad just admitted to begging in front of everyone.

“Beg the hound to come take her away… to fix my life… to make me rich… Anything.” He lets out a bitter laugh that makes my skin crawl. “Nothing. Not a growl. Not a shadow. The hound doesn’t answer to trash like me. He only comes for the ones who have a real soul to burn.”