Clav

It's nearly noon when I pull into our gravel driveway, my stomach growling at me for skipping breakfast. Honestly, I was hoping to grab something at the diner during break before I found out I was getting fired. Fuck that shit. I don't want to eat their rat-infested, weeks-old, freezer-burnt pancakes anyway.

The leaves on the trees have already turned, painting our rural neighborhood in shades of burnt orange and liquid gold in the October sun. Cool air envelops me in an embrace as I step out of the car, the heady scent of rot and decay saturated in morning dew hitting my senses.

I love fall.

When I step into the kitchen, my step-dad, Rick, is already up, pulling on his boots, yanking his coat over his shoulders, then grabbing his rifle as he heads for the door. I don't have to ask where he's headed.

As long as I've known him, Dad has been waking up before dawn to run off the demons who creep onto our land.

According to Dad, our house is, like, built on one of the gateways between our world and hell. Instead of moving to a new location, you know, normal people would do, he's made it his priority in life to become the guardian of sorts to our world, trapping and torturing or running off any demons who leave their realm to torment the mortals in the human world. He's never actually killed one, because, I mean, who wants to bury a giant demon in their backyard.

Before college, I never questioned his actions because it's all I've ever known in this small town of ours. Sure, I got made fun of now and then for living in the local haunted house with a demon hunter. Okay, I got bullied a lot in middle school, but once I learned to laugh along with their jokes, the other students didn't bug me as much. I just became known as the Ghost Kid.

But there's something about leaving home, learning about the real normal world while at a big city college and learning to think for myself, that makes me question Dad in a way I never have in my twenty-three years. As I watch him now, I wonder how far gone, exactly, he truly is. Because I have never seen these demons he's gone on about. He's always said he's protecting me from the nightmares these creatures would give me, but I'm not so sure these creatures themselves aren't nightmares of Dad's own making.

Today's different, though. Dad is usually finished with his business by sunrise, and it's midmorning.

"Demons back again?" I try not to sound patronizing. Telling Dad there are no demons roaming our lands would be about as effective as telling him he won the lottery—which he doesn't even play because he believes gambling to be among one of the many deadly sins.

"They've been especially bad this week," he mutters as he pulls on his boots. "Already ran off two earlier this morning, and now I finally trapped one." A shadow has crept across his jaw from days of not shaving. He's usually immaculate about keeping his face clean-shaven. Is this really taking a toll on him? Apprehension creeps into the muscles in my back, and I make a mental note to mention this to Mom.

"What are you going to do with it?" I ask, feeding into his fantasy as not to upset him.

"I have some questions," is all he mutters before he steps out, slamming the door behind him.

I watch him hurry across the yard to the barn, limping slightly from his bad knee. I wasn't aware demons could be reasoned with, much less questioned. And what kind of questions would Dad have for a demon?

Fuck, he's really losing it. Or maybe he's trying to prove something to me. I've spent the last few months since I've been back from college asking casual questions, trying to get answers out of Dad as to why he thinks there are demons roaming our land, and why our yard would be the one they chose to make the gateway between the living and the damned. That might be why he's cracking down on them being especially bad this week.

Maybe it's time to find out what Dad is really doing in the shed once and for all. I've avoided spying on him. It's easier to believe his claims than to see him going mad with my own eyes. Normally I'd let him live in his fantasy, but at this point, I'm legit worried for him.

I nearly stumble across the kitchen in my rush to follow him. The barn door closes behind Dad just as I step around the corner of our house. Despite the shining sun, the air is still crisp and cool as it hits my skin. I sidle around to the back side of the barn, careful not to step on dead leaves that could give me away as I duck below the only window. We keep it cracked so our cat can go in and out as she pleases to stay away from predators.

"Why are your kind infiltrating my yard?" I hear Dad ask. I expect him to be speaking to the air, or maybe into his phone.

What I don't expect is to hear an otherworldly, raspy voice say, "You know exactly for whom I came."

My hand slams over my mouth, my heart jolting in my chest. Holy shit. There really is someone in there. And dad is holding them captive. Chills flesh out across my skin at the strangled sound, the ancient way the demon—or whatever it is—speaks. And for a brief moment, I almost believe my dad about the demons.

No. I close my eyes and shake the thought away. There's no such thing. Dad probably got one of the neighbor kids who was four-wheeling on our yard. Not to mention, the Renaissance Faire is opening as we speak. All kinds of folks could come around dressed as demons to prank the neighborhood. Yeah, that would explain why they're especially bad this week.

"Your time was wasted," Dad snaps, and I flinch. Dad was strict when I was younger, a strong believer in the iron fist, and that voice still makes the younger version of me's stomach drop. "And your wings will be cut off if you don't tell me exactly who sent you."

Oh fuck. There's no way Dad is actually going to harm someone…is there? I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans while I listen closely.

"Abaddon..." the demon hisses before taking a raspy breath, as if it'd been tortured and is slowly dying, "…sent me."

Abaddon? Fuck me. From what I remember in one of the religious books Dad owns, Abaddon is an angel of the abyss. Surely this kid is messing with him. It's no secret Dad believes he deals with demons. And our house is infamous in this part of the state for being haunted. Goddamn. Dad is going to hurt the poor cosplayer if the kid isn't careful. Not that this person doesn't deserve it for pulling this prank.

"And this Abaddon thinks you'll be able to carry out his wishes?" Dad asks. "You?"

"I crossed the border, didn't I?" The eerie hiss sends a shudder down my spine. It's so realistic.

"And made it halfway across my yard."

I hear a snap, like a breaking bone, and the creature scream-hisses sharply as if he's in pain. My heart is pounding in my chest. This has to stop…before the cops get involved and haul Dad away to some insane asylum.

I peek over the window sill. Dad is standing over his large, wooden work table, an iron rod in hand. And strapped onto the table by cords that bite into the beast's massive, bat-like membranous wing, is a giant creature pinned to the table on its stomach. No. Not a creature. A cosplayer.

My breathing stops, my heart racing at the sight of such a realistic costume. Short, soft black downy fur covers most of the body. Large, ribbed pointed ears flick out. Lips curl over sharp fangs. How does the costume do that? How was there a mask made that could form expressions?

Talons on the tip of each wing dig into the wooden table while the demon/cosplayer's body contracts in pain, their inky black eyes widen as they bare their splinter-like fangs in agony. When their gaze catches me standing at the window, their eyes widen and they smile, as if they recognize me.

"There you are, icle," they hiss in a, well, demonic voice.

My stomach drops, but I can't seem to move. How do they know me?

Their upturned snout scrunches. "It's time to stop hiding, little king." The raspy voice carries a taunting melody that makes chills pop out on my skin. My heart beats faster, tripping over itself like a goddamn track runner who drank too much beer before the race. I can't seem to tear my eyes from the prankster's. "We are waiting for you."

"Who are you talking to?" Dad demands. I duck before he whirls in my direction. I hear another crack, and a sharp hiss. "If you refuse to dole out any more information," Dad seethes, "then you are useless to me."

I look over the sill just in time to find Dad aiming the iron rod toward the person's upper arm/wing, ready to plunge it in.

"Dad—NO!"

Dad pauses, crazed, rabid eyes meeting mine. The distraction is just enough for the cosplayer to tear out of the ropes, grab dad behind the head with their taloned wing, and smash it into the table. Standing up, the prankster is easily eight feet tall. Christ, the costume must have stilts or some shit like that. The massive wings stretch out, one wing shredded where Dad must have torn it. The costume has no arms, save for the ones lining the thin papery wings, and black claws peak out where the feet are.

"Stop with your silent treatment!" they hiss at me, those black eyes flashing at me, fangs bared. "No more lives need to end in vain." And then, faster than any normal human could move, they slip across the room and out the door, flapping their wings as they leap out of the barn. By the time I race around to the other side of the barn, they're gone. A car blares its horn as it flies by, and my muscles tense. My heart is pounding, my head spinning and telling me that what I saw…it couldn't be real.

I race into the barn as Dad lifts his head from the table and rubs the blood off his forehead. "I told you," he mutters through gritted teeth, staring at the blood on his fingers, "never to come out here when I'm taking care of the demons."

My heartbeat thrashes against my ribcage. I hurry to Dad's side and study the wound. It's just a cut. He won't even need stitches, though the blood dripping down his face makes it look far worse.

"That asshole could have seriously injured you." I look down the road as I walk behind Dad back to the house. The car that flew by must have grabbed the pranking cosplayer and drove off.

"If you're looking for the demon," Dad says, looking back at me with a concerned wrinkle forming between his brows. "It flew over to the forest yonder and burrowed back into the portal that leads to hell."

I blink, but nod, not bothering to explain to Dad that it was simply someone who came to Bone Hollow for the Renaissance faire. It had to be. We get weird people from all over the country coming to this fair. This person no-doubt heard about our semi-famous haunted house, did his research, and learned that the man who lived here was known for hunting demons. Must have gotten my name off one of the many articles written about us, too. The asshole decided it was a good idea to play pranks on Dad…and ended up getting his costume ripped.

What a dumb fuck. The icy fear in my blood slowly heats until fire runs through my veins. My hands are trembling with rage now. Seriously, if Dad had killed that kid, thinking he was a real demon, then Dad would have gone to prison. Or the insane asylum. Either way, fuck that asshole for thinking this was even the tiniest bit funny. I hope that the costume that Dad ripped cost a fortune.

"Go on inside," Dad says, a scowl on his face.

"But what about—"

"." His cold blue eyes frost over as he glares at me, and I clamp my mouth shut. I want to tell him about the faire and how this house is famous for being haunted and how the bat was just some dick dressed up to play pranks on us, but it's clear Dad is not in a listening mood right now. So, I stomp ahead of him like a kid having a tantrum, slamming the door behind me after I go inside.

*

I'm so pissed about the prankster that I almost stand Aden up for the faire. I would call to cancel, but we never exchanged numbers. I wouldn't feel bad being a no-show. I mean, I barely know the guy. I'll never see him again after this weekend, so what's the point?

I lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling, my decision to not go final. And I try to think of anything else that will take my mind off Aden's brilliant smile, his shamrock green eyes shadowed by long lashes, those soft pink lips…

No. Nope. Not going to think about him.

Instead, I force myself to think back to the cosplayer in the bat costume this morning. Our house isn't that famous, but there have been several articles written about it, one that really got some traction in the Haunted Houses of America magazine last year. With the most famous Ren Faire in the state so close by, it would make sense for a couple of teenage idiots to have their fun with our house.

Now I'm curious. That bat costume was so realistic, it'd be easy to spot the culprit at the faire. Dad is already losing his mind. The last thing he needs is for our house to be attacked by a bunch of pranksters he believes are demons. This could be a long weekend if they decided to come back. If I find this guy, maybe I could talk to him. Or at the very least, snap a photo and show it to Dad so he'll see that it's not a real demon, just a cosplayer.

Chewing my lip, I get out of bed and cross the room to my closet, looking for something that both screams Ren Faire nerd, but will also be hot enough to make Aden want me.

*

The Ren Faire is already packed. Folks dressed like fairies, high fae, pirates, medieval royalty, and knights crowd the grassy area between the many tents, which are set up selling handmade candles, wooden swords, woodwind instruments, aesthetic crafts made from bones, and apparel fit for royalty.

I didn't have time to find a costume. Honestly, while I love coming every year, I've never dressed up. Yeah, I'm that guy. But I did dress up. I'm wearing a black vest over my favorite light pink button-down, which really brings out my hot pink hair. My sleeves are rolled up to my elbows, showing off my velociraptor skeleton tattoo, and I left the front buttoned down lower than usual, y'know, for eye candy reasons.

On the stage, a magician is performing magic tricks in front of a crowd of dressed-up kids. And in the distance, I can hear the speaker blaring the ongoings of a jousting competition. I usually come with a few of my friends from high school, but they've all successfully graduated from college and are starting up their fancy careers now, far away from their hometown.

And here I am, in the same place I was four years ago when I graduated high school. No degree, no job, and I'm still living with my parents. Holy balls, this is sad. I have never felt as self-conscious about being a loser as I am now, standing in the middle of a Ren Faire alone, in my hometown. Shoving my hands into my pockets, I decide maybe I shouldn't be here and turn to leave, when a hand clamps down on my shoulder.

"I was hoping I'd find you here."

That voice.

That. Voice.

So low, so cold, so…deadly. Almost too big for this world. The familiarity of it is something I can't quite place, but dredges up a far-off fear and…longing?...deep within the marrow of my bones. Slowly, I turn around to face the most beautiful person I have ever seen, who looks like they stepped straight out of fantasy booktok.

Besides being lean and exceptionally tall, like pro-basketball player tall—they have high cheekbones, generous lips, and silver eyes that are made to stand out more than they already do from the thick black eyeliner. Contacts. Those must be contacts, the way the silver glints in the evening sunlight. Their lids are dusted with shadowy silver eyeshadow, and their pale, narrow face is clean-shaven. Silky, straight white hair falls down their shoulders, some locks from their temples braided back into a ponytail. By their violet robes trimmed with gold threads, not to mention their pointed ears and ridiculous polished antlers with gold chains interlinked between them, it's clear they're one of the world-famous Ren Faire's biggest fans.

I openly gape at this cosplayer before me, but they're looking at me with the familiarity of someone they know, as if we used to go to school together and passed each other in the halls every day. As if someone like them would notice the likes of me, much less want to be seen with me. But I would recognize this person anywhere if I knew them, even in costume. Their eyes narrow accusingly, their lips twisting up in a sardonic smile that makes my stomach drop ten stories.

"You didn't expect to find me here, did you, icle?"