Chapter 1

Atlas

I straighten at the sound at the door of the garage. Being sure to avoid the car hood above me, I grab the blue mechanic's rag to wipe my hands and turn to watch two of my four brothers walk into the shop, their steps echoing against the concrete floor. I wait to hear how the hunt went, watching as they unbuckle and remove their leather harnesses, the weapons clanking as the metal of their knives, daggers, and other assorted weapons clash. Rome is silent but Samson hums. They're both clean, not a drop of gore anywhere.

Rome, the oldest of my brothers, hangs his harness in the cabinet, glances at me. "All good?" His intense, dark eyes bore holes into everything, including mine. His dark brows shift slightly, and that's about as much emotion as he'll offer. Fucking dipshit. But it's nearly impossible to deny Rome a thing due to that damn intensity. Fucker doesn't back down.

"Not really."

"Why not? Something happen?" I hear the concern in his voice, which sounds more like he's pissed. He might be emotionally bankrupt, but he isn't without emotions. They display in two ways: anger and angrier.

"All clear here. Chill out," I say and turn back to the car, releasing the hood so it slams back into place. "It's just being stuck here instead of hunting." My grumbling makes it seem like I'm pouting. Perhaps I am. I hate being left behind.

"Didn't miss much," Samson says as he flops onto an old red couch marred with grease stains, his gear strewn over the cushions next to him instead of put away. He leans his head back on the couch and rolls it to look at me. "A lot of nothing actually. Didn't need four of us. Didn't need two of us."

"And you're getting over an injury," Rome snaps again, over my bitterness. "You're too good a fighter. And if what the Grays have said is right, we need you healthy."

Samson makes a noise from his nose that sounds like he's annoyed. My middle brother is itching for a fight, like always.

"How did it go?" I lean against the car that occupied my hands while they are gone. I'd rather have had a bow at the ready. My four brothers might drive me crazy, but I love them. Being left behind isn't only about me, but because I worry when they're out on a job without me.

"Sammy's right. Nothing. Not a demon in sight." Rome crosses his arms over his chest and scowls, making a huffy noise of disbelief. "The question is where they're hiding. With the summer solstice coming, they're around and will show up, surely." He walks across the shop to a counter where I know he'll find something to keep himself busy. He's always busy. "Luka and Tate back?" he asks.

"Not yet," I reply. "Tate wasn't happy you didn't take him with you."

"Is Tate ever happy with any assignment?" Samson asks with a snicker.

"You're always giving Tate the shit jobs?—"

"Being the youngest sucks," Samson quips.

"Checking Grams' property isn't a shit job," Rome snaps, glancing over his shoulder.

Incredulous, I tilt my head and cross my arms over my chest, "Grams could kill a demon with that razor-sharp tongue alone."

Samson laughs. "Isn't that the truth."

Rome looks annoyed—as usual. "But she'd need help if multiples show up." He pulls his phone from his pocket and glances at it. "Bus coming into the Hollow."

Samson and I groan. Buses mean tourists. Obnoxious tourists drag in the demon riff-raff hiding among them, and they aren't usually the organized kind, but rather the fledgling demons or the deserters attached to the taedae, unsighted humans.

"Not it," Samson says.

"How's that injury?" Rome asks me.

"Not an injury," I repeat. "How many times do I have to say it?"

Rome looks me over, eyes narrowed, as if he can see beyond my skin and bones. "Fine," he relents. "You go into town. Wait for the bus to roll in, see if any demons have hitched a ride." He points at me. "But don't engage, not without backup."

I'm already walking over to the cabinet, pulling on my harness, sliding a sharpened dagger into a sheath, along with another into my boot. "Me? Engage?" I glance at my bow but leave it, knowing I probably won't need it. Those off the bus are rarely difficult to dispatch. I glance at Rome with a smile. "Never."

Samson laughs.

I shrug into my black leather jacket and grab my helmet before I'm out the door, headed for the heart of town. After driving past Lowry's Gas and Sundries, where the bus stops, and seeing the hulking, metal can is already empty, I ride down Main. I park my bike, cross to the other side, and duck into The Hole in the Wall, a small bar sandwiched between a diner called The Getaway, and a witchy souvenir shop that sells Carran Hollow guidebooks. One of these three establishments is often the first stop for tourists, and thereby their parasitic demons, when they reach town.

My eyes adjust to the dark. There's an older guy playing guitar near the door. The shiny wooden bar is on the left and runs the length of the room. There are a few people lined up along the counter, atop barstools. Booths—mostly empty—line the right wall, and in between is a stretch of space big enough to walk between the two. I've been here before. I have been in every single shop in Carran Hollow, every single home—though the owners haven't known I was there. The Hollow is my town.

The locals glance at me then look away, giving me a wide berth. They might know me. They might know I'm a Black. If they don't, they feel it—that sensation skittering across their skin telling them danger is near. That's all that's needed.

The bartender, Gus, an older guy with a huge mustache, tops off a beer before handing it to a patron. "What can I get you, Black?"

"A shot of whiskey."

He turns to the wall of bottles behind him, selecting one and a shot glass as the bell rings, indicating someone has walked in. I glance at the newcomer since it's never a good idea to be caught unawares. Walking across the room is a woman—twenties—with a duffle slung over her shoulder. She's dressed mostly in black: black jeans with tears at the knees, and a white shirt hidden under a black V-neck sweater, also sporting holes from wear and tear. Her silver hair is shoulder-length and wavy. She's pretty—gorgeous, actually. She's got one of those heart- shaped faces with giant eyes, a pert nose, and full lips, the bottom just a touch fuller than the top. It's too dark to see the color of her eyes, but I've got a pretty good suspicion they're green, because this girl's got an aura gleaming bright green, as bright as if I were standing in front of a flashing neon sign.

My body tenses as she passes, and power hits me—the raw magnetism of it slams into mine, grips my balls before sliding up to my pelvis then racing white-hot up my spine until it hits the back of my head. I blink and grab hold of the counter to keep on my feet.

What the fuck was that?

I was born a Sentinel, have fought with all manner of creatures, fucked a few more, and I've never experienced that reaction in all my twenty-seven years.

But I have an idea.

My calix has finally arrived.