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Chapter One
North America, 2051
Not all humans are good. Not all demons are evil.
Jade Deville had heard those words uttered by her mother on more than one occasion. Never publicly, of course, for that would incite much controversy.
Yet she would whisper the sentiment when Jade, as a young girl, had asked her to talk about the demons so that she might better understand the creatures that ruled their world. Many of whom made residence within and outside the castle walls of the Demon King Darien. His kingdom sprawled along the ridge that overlooked the small human village of Ryleigh, in northeastern Maine, not far from the New Brunswick border.
Jade had never been able to take solace in her mother’s compassionate opinion. History books and the sparse remainder of humans across the continents following the ten-year demon wars that started in 2016 provided sufficient proof the demonic community was more dangerous and much deadlier than the threat of bio-weaponry and nuclear bombs had ever been—could ever be, were they still in existence.
The terrorization humans once inflicted upon each other in their quest for supremacy was long obsolete—and child’s play in comparison to the demon warfare tactically employed, which nearly decimated the human race. The mortals had had little opportunity to fight back.
The only thing that could kill a demon was another demon, an experienced slayer or a potent vanquishing spell. The last two were extremely rare and the former only happened during uprisings, which weren’t commonplace because of various pacts and alliances that banded most of the fiendish creatures together. Though renegades existed and sometimes they wreaked as much havoc on the human populace as they did the demonic one.
Now twenty-six years old, Jade still had a difficult time understanding her mother’s utterances about not all demons being evil. It made no sense to her. After all, it had been werewolves who’d viciously attacked and killed her parents fifteen years ago.
As she left her cottage on the banks of the narrow river that snaked its way along the outskirts of town, she zipped up her black leather jacket against the chill of the crisp, autumn evening. Fat snowflakes glistened in the darkness surrounding her, catching the occasional ray of moonlight when it penetrated the dense forest of skyscraping pine trees and the spindle-fingered cloud cover overhead.
Jade wove her way along the worn path that led to the heart of the village. The ground was hard beneath her feet, frozen, and with a light dusting of white that would likely turn into a foot or two of fresh powder by the time she returned home. If she returned home. One could never be too sure in this day and age, and Jade in particular.
Someone watched her. She sensed his presence. Felt his gaze on her. It wasn’t the first time. Nor was the one who followed her human. There were no snapping of twigs beneath his feet, as with her own. No scent wafting on a stiff breeze. And she didn’t hear the slightest hint of his breathing or see a puff of frosty air, as was the case with her, a human.
She suspected what tracked her was a wraith from the king’s army. They were the most difficult to spot with their black cloaks blending into the dark night as they floated weightlessly over the land, making nary a sound. Yet they left an ominous chill in the air, if one paid close enough attention. Jade always did.
Despite not being able to see her pursuer, she had the right to demand he show himself and to confront him. The Demon King—who’d come into power thirty-five years ago when the immortals first took on the mortal world—had issued several royal decrees following the wars. One of which declared no demon within his allegiance could stalk, hunt or harm a human, unless said human was a slayer who’d made the initial predatory move. But there were fewer of those in existence these days.
Ryleigh was fortunate to have two of their own slayers, who served as magistrates. Most villages shared a slayer amongst a hundred or so other villages. Not great odds against those rogue demons who defied the law and certainly not a comfort or assurance of safety, Jade suspected.
Her small community was well protected for a reason. Regardless of the laws governing demon interactions with humans that might suggest it wasn’t necessary to have two slayers in such a remote, lightly human-populated area, the village sat in the shadow of the king’s vast legion of allies.
King Darien was the most revered of demon warlords. Given he had the largest following, he possessed the power to command the three other warlords on the continent. They were located in the west and central regions, and in a defined territory from Mexico to Panama. As part of his law that kept demons from hunting humans, the king had also proclaimed no more than two demons at a time may roam close to or enter a village, the perimeter of which—in Ryleigh’s case—the slayers patrolled.
That latter pact might not have been broken this evening, but the “no hunting” restriction had clearly been violated by whoever tailed Jade.
A dark shiver chased down her spine and it wasn’t from the frigid gust whistling through the trees. It was from the wraith himself. Agitating her further was the fact she couldn’t discern in which direction the threat came or how to counteract it. Although she possessed above-average fighting skills, thanks to her father, she’d be no match for a ghost—the very reason she didn’t call him out.
Quickening her steps, she reached the small village, dimly lit by crudely fashioned lampposts topped with low-blazing torches in glass orbs. There was little activity on the cracked and brittle sidewalks or the pothole-invested streets, which had accumulated so much dirt over the years from lack of use, it was difficult to believe asphalt lay beneath the dark soil.
The snow built on the ground as Jade made her way to the tavern at the end of the block. She took one more look around her, pausing just outside the lively establishment, listening intently for any sign of the stranger who stalked her. Not a peep, save for the hint of noise that penetrated the thick tavern walls and the chiming of the bell in its tower in the village square, signaling she was right on time for work at seven o’clock.
Shoving open the door, she crossed the scuffed hardwood floor as she peeled off her jacket, shaking the coat to dislodge the snowflakes and wet drops many had melted into.
