Chapter Text
There's a house in Nebraska burning to the ground.
The air in the front yard twists and becomes abruptly less empty. A man—boy, really, in spite of everything, wearing a ratty sweatshirt and smelling of deserts—falls into the flickering orange light. The journey has pained him, brief though it was. But the sight that greets him hurts more.
He knows that the people who lived in this house are dead. He'd know it even if he couldn't hear the silence under the fire's roar, even if he didn't intimately recognize the smell of burning flesh in the dark smoke. He knew they were dead before he came here.
Wind blows his hair away from his face, and smoke stings his eyes. Part of him wants to go inside, one last time, just to see. Just to make sure.
The vision plays clear in his mind—his parents' faces, the spurts of blood, throats slit long before the flame caught. The glowing yellow eyes and shadowed smile speaking from a mirror, backlit by fire: time to come home.
He doesn't move.
This isn't the first time he's been hunted, and it won't be the first time someone learned how fatal a mistake it is to think him prey. When he finds the thing that did this, he's going to tear it into so many pieces it might as well have never existed.
The sound of sirens in the distance makes him turn. Dawn already threatens the sky behind the smoke, and this street won't stay deserted for long. He clenches his fists and turns away from the house. He'll be back.
By the time Jesse Turner disappears into the shadows, the fires have all gone dark.
C A M B I O N
2349 Lakefield Dr
Bill & Beth Turner
Jesse brings his fingers up to the mailbox, dull white under the overcast evening sky. He remembers painting lopsided race cars with his father on the wooden box that had been here before. This one is storebought, cheap plastic; appropriate for a childless couple.
It was all he could do to stay away from the wreck until nightfall. Being around people again after so long makes him antsy, doubly so seeing the half-familiar faces that populated his childhood. None of them recognized him, of course. He barely remembers the town of Alliance; Alliance does not remember him at all. Except, perhaps, for this charred outline of a house.
Half an oak tree stands in front of the wreckage, its branches now thick blackened stubs. He remembers flowers on the front porch—his mother always let him help water them, even though the watering can was too big for his hands and more water wound up on his shirt than in the pots. But the flowers are gone, the only trace empty pots seared black with heat and ash. The front windows lie in scattered pieces on the ground.
Police tape strings across the open space where the front door used to be, as if that could stop anything that wanted to get in. Jesse ducks under it and goes in the house, sweeping his newly-acquired light across crumbling walls.
Inside, ashes still hang thick in the air, and Jesse coughs with every new puff his footsteps kick up. The furniture in the living room is charred; the furniture in the kitchen beyond is all but gone. But when the light's beam falls across the refrigerator, Jesse catches sight of a singed shopping list still tacked to the front in his mother's neat cursive. He swallows hard.
The Turners died with no idea they'd once had a son. Jesse didn't take anything with him, and he made damn sure not to leave anything behind, not even memories. His parents were supposed to live together until they were very old, and die peacefully in their sleep. He'd left to protect them. Now there aren't even bodies.
He drags a hand over his eyes, heading past the stairs —
—and something stops him. Heart dropping like a stone, Jesse looks up.
Spread across what's left of the ceiling are the thick blood-brown lines of a devil's trap.
The breath in his lungs seems to freeze. He pushes at the empty air, that strange textureless resistance, praying that this will be the time a trap sees a half-demon and rounds down. But no such luck. He can feel his heart beating harder, hear his too-short breaths as he fights the growing wave of panic.
He'll be fine. He'll be fine. The house was engulfed in flames early this morning; really it's amazing the ceiling hasn't caved already. A stiff breeze would take it down. And it does look like it might storm soon. Jesse just has to wait for one of those floorboards to snap, that's all, and if there's one thing he's good at by now it's waiting. The other option—the shooting heat he can feel boiling up under his skin, closer and closer to the surface, begging to be let out—this could all be over in an instant, and no one would ever know—
No. Not after last time. Breathe.
But he can't. The air reeks of sulfur, always the last warning sign before his powers burst out whether he wants them to or not. Breathe, he tells himself again, and he forces himself to count the seconds as he draws air in.
After a long moment, his head clears just enough for him to lower himself to the floor, knees weak. "God damn it," he gasps. The irony does not escape him. He runs a hand back through his hair to unstick it from his face, and leans forward, hugging his knees. He's got to think straight to get out of this trap, and he's got to get out of this trap before whoever drew it comes back. Hunters have never cared much for things like him.
There's a creak from the ceiling and Jesse draws in a quick breath, shutting off his light. His stomach tightens. God, are they still in the house?
"The one last time didn't set any fires. Are you sure this is the same thing?" The voice—young and male—comes from somewhere above him.
A second voice—female, it sounds like—is further away, but moving closer in slow, measured steps. "The omens are. But these people lived here last time; why would it have waited?" She sounds like she's right above him now. Jesse's heart hammers against his ribs; he's almost surprised they can't hear it. What are they talking about? There's another creak from the ceiling as the voice says, "I just feel like there's something we're missing. What if—"
There's a loud crash and a shriek of "Claire!" and then Jesse's laid flat, covered in broken boards, with a hunter on top of him.
Jesse hasn't even untangled himself before he feels the cold edge of a blade against his pulse.
"Who are you?" The girl—Claire—turns him over roughly, and Jesse winces at the light shining down from the ragged hole above, a halo on blonde hair that throws her features into darkness. Her thighs bracket his waist, pinning him to the floor, and the hand snagged in his hair jerks his head back, leaving his neck bared against the razor-sharp edge of her knife.
"Jesse," he chokes. "Jesse Turner."
"Turner?" The grip on his hair doesn't loosen, and she doesn't take the knife away. Her weight's pressing him hard against the floor, and he can feel her breath against his face. "You knew these people?"
He should have given a fake name. He doesn't want to talk about this. "My parents." Jesse's still struggling to draw in air. He squeezes his eyes shut against the light. "They're my parents."
There's a long moment where he's sure she's going to stick that knife through his neck, and part of him doesn't even care. But to his surprise, she backs off and gets to her feet. "I'm sorry." She offers him a hand up.
Jesse takes it, letting out a soft groan as he stands. Having another person and part of the second story land on him cracked a few ribs, and they ache as they heal up. Something must have scraped his leg, because that's stinging too, the familiar feeling of his skin knitting itself back together. His jeans are probably wet with blood. "Thanks," he mutters.
Claire tips her head up to look at her friend. "Ben? You okay?"
"I'm fine, are you?" Jesse can't see Ben's face behind the light he's pointing down at them, but he sounds younger now.
"Yeah. Get down here." Claire stands, already brushing herself off like the fall was nothing, though Jesse can see she's cut up too—and dirty, her blonde hair in a messy braid over one shoulder. Her white tank top is torn near the hem, bloodied in a few places. She twists around, looking at the back of her shoulder, then reaches over and pulls out a splinter the size of a pencil with barely a grimace. Jesse looks away.
There's another devil's trap on the ceiling a few yards away.
Jesse's pulse jumps. Pure luck got him out of the last trap, and he won't be as lucky twice. What are these traps doing in his parents' house? Whatever's trying to draw him out, it knows too much about him.
"Why are you here, Jesse?" Claire asks, drawing his attention back to her. "It's not safe to go walking around in places like this."
"You're the one who just fell through the floor." He glances up at what he can see of the hole. He can hardly tell the trap was there. Telling the truth is a split-second decision; he hopes he won't regret it later. "I want to find whatever burned this house down and kill it."
Ben, a white boy about Jesse's age, appears at the kitchen doorway shining his light directly in Jesse's eyes. Again. "Hell of a fire," he says. "But don't worry, man, I'm sure they'll catch whoever started it."
"You can't honestly think people did this," Jesse says, and the light drops away from his face. He didn't get a clear look at the thing that spoke to him from the mirror, but he of all people should recognize the difference between human and not.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Ben's light is directed toward Claire now, and she gives him a look Jesse can't interpret.
"I mean humans would have left the bodies," Jesse snaps. "I'm no expert, but any hunter would know that."
Ben's shoulders loosen at that. "You're a hunter?"
"I know some tricks." In point of fact, the idea of calling himself a hunter makes Jesse want to take a long shower, but he can't raise suspicion around these two. He kicks at a chunk of burnt ceiling that Claire brought down with her. "Never heard of something that does this, but. You two got any leads?"
"Demon," Claire says. He can't see her knife anymore, but the way she stares without blinking unnerves him. "We followed some omens into town, just before this place burnt down. Notice how this place smells like sulfur?"
Jesse only just manages not to wince.
"Fucking demons," Ben mutters, and then he ducks his head toward Jesse. "Sorry about your parents, man."
Jesse shrugs, looking away, and his eyes fall on another trap lying under a half-burnt rug. He's got to get out of here.
"So, hey," he says. It takes a couple tries. "Uh, how about we grab some dinner, swap stories?" Just the thought of spending a second more than he has to with them has Jesse's skin crawling, but they have information he needs and anywhere would be better than here. "I know a place not too far from here. Best burgers in Nebraska."
Ben and Claire exchange another look.
Jesse tries to smile at Claire, and isn't sure what comes out. "It's on me."
Claire raises one eyebrow. "Well, Ben never turns down a burger," she says. "We'll follow you?"
"Actually, I don't have a car," Jesse says, leading them out of the house. Hopefully they'll think his jumpy gaze is just checking for more structural damage. "So if I could catch a ride..."
"...chew with your mouth closed, Ben, that's disgusting."
"Sorry," Ben says, around a mouthful of burger. He doesn't look very sorry, and Claire huffs.
"So you came here following omens?" says Jesse, ignoring the pickle seed on Ben's upper lip.
"Oh, yeah!" Ben gets out an iPad out, tapping it a few times. "We're pretty sure they have something to do with your house burning down," he says, still chewing. "There have been omens like this here before."
Jesse knocks his drink back with ease of practice, wishing this place had something stronger than beer. Maybe after this he'll find a bar. It's his twenty-first birthday, after all, and so what if he's been legally drinking in Australia for years and the alcohol barely affects him anyway? He deserves some hard liquor. Both his parents died today. "Well, what kind of omen?"
Claire pops a fry in her mouth and glances over at Ben. "You had the weather reports."
Ben frowns down at his iPad. "Gimme a sec."
Claire and Jesse sit in silence for several seconds as Ben types something else in. From the way Claire finally sighs, this isn't unusual. "I know how you feel about people being wrong on the internet, Ben, but if we could return to fighting evil?"
Ben looks up, something wary taking root behind his eyes when he looks at Jesse. Jesse fights down the urge to bolt. "I—" He pauses. "...yeah."
Claire gives him a long look, then rests her chin in one hand. "Electrical storms, temperature drops, cattle mutilations..."
Jesse files the information away. By design, he doesn't tangle with demons, and he's not sure how well he could track omens like that. He wonders if his own powers leave a trail. "And is it still here? The omens, have they stopped?"
"It might very well be," Claire says. "But three years ago, when a demon came to this town last time, the omens kept popping up for almost a month before they faded. Sticking around or just a really powerful demon, we can't know for sure."
"Last time." Jesse's burger feels too thick in his mouth, tastes like cardboard. He clears his throat. "You got a date?"
"Three years ago to the day," Ben says. "Why? That mean something to you?"
Jesse takes another drink—a longer one. His eighteenth birthday is not one he likes to remember. "S'when I moved out. Thereabouts. Don't really remember." He can feel the familiar panic clawing at his chest, threatening to escape, and he does his best to keep his face blank. "Aren't you a little young to be hunting that long?"
"I've known about this stuff since I was a kid," Ben says, and Jesse doesn't miss the note of pride in his voice.
Jesse looks at Claire. She raises her eyebrows.
"That's when you moved to...Australia?" she guesses. At Jesse's cautious nod, she adds, "Your accent's pretty strong for only having lived there three years."
Ben scowls. "He's not Crocodile Dundee, Claire."
Jesse spent months practicing his pronunciation and swapping out vocabulary until he could blend into any town in Australia; now it's so familiar to him that he hadn't realized he was still speaking that way until she pointed it out. "I was going to uni in Melbourne. Kind of picked it up." He neglects to tell Ben that he has, in fact, killed a crocodile. Wasn't a very good meal anyway.
Claire taps her pinky against her mouth. "So when did you get back?"
He sees his parents in quick flashes, shock to anger to terror to the bloody streaks across their throats like smiles. He can smell the smoke, feel the flames licking at him, and then that face in the mirror—
He wakes to the dry summer air of the southern Outback, surrounded by nothing and no one for miles. But he can be halfway around the world with a thought.
He goes.
"Not soon enough," Jesse mutters, and then, louder, "I came as soon as I knew." He thinks about eating the rest of his fries, but he's not hungry anymore. "You two about done?"
"I'll get a box for mine," Ben says, still watching him.
Jesse takes his wallet out of his back pocket and makes a show of opening it to look inside. It's empty, save for a small picture he's careful not to let them see. "Damn," he says. "Don't have any American money." He gives them both the most charming grin he can muster. "Think I saw an ATM outside, though."
"We'll wait," Ben tells him, getting his iPad back out.
Jesse ducks out the front door and strolls straight past the ATM. Claire seems smart enough, but Ben's probably gonna play with his iPad for at least ten minutes before he realizes Jesse's stuck them with the bill, and that's more than enough time to get away.
Dinner with hunters. He never expected that to happen again. Jesse quickens his step, his mind already back on his old house and the demon that burned it down.
He's almost out of the parking lot when he passes a woman smoking under a streetlight. Cold prickles underneath his skin as he passes her, and he almost mistakes it for the weather—after all, he was quite young the last time he met a demon. But there’s nothing else quite like that feeling. Jesse slows to a stop, heart pounding.
"I was wondering if you'd feel it," the demon says quietly. She puts out her cigarette and looks up, her eyes glowing sulfur-yellow. "Jesse Turner. You have no idea how long I've waited to meet you."
He takes two unsteady steps back. If she knows his name—this must be the demon he saw in the mirror, the one who killed his parents. His powers rear up in vengeance but he pushes them aside, reaches instead for the knife tucked under his sweater.
Her hand catches his wrist, squeezing so hard Jesse feels the bones crunch together. He cries out and tries to jerk away, but she's stronger than he is, willing to call on powers he won't. He won't.
"Easy," the demon says. "We need to talk, Jess. There's a thing or two you should know."
"Like what?" Jesse gasps. It hurts; his jagged bones poke through his skin, blood dripping down onto the sidewalk. Jesse's dizzy, half ready to pass out, and his heartbeat stutters under her hand. What is she doing to him?
The bell above the diner's front door rings. Jesse and the demon both look up.
"I told you we couldn't trust him, I can't believe that fucker stuck us with the bill—"
"It's not like that's your credit card."
"It's the principle of the thing!"
The last thing he needs is for hunters to want to beat money out of him now. But it's too late; they've turned the corner and seen him. "Hi," Jesse tries.
Claire's eyes go from his face to the blood on the sidewalk beneath him, then back up to the gleaming yellow eyes of the woman holding his wrist. "I see you found the demon," she says.
The demon squeezes Jesse's wrist even harder, and the world spins around him. "It's a gift," he manages.
The demon's not smiling anymore. "This isn't your fight," she says to the hunters. "Keep walking."
Ben reaches in his own coat and comes out with a pistol. "These are salt rounds," he warns.
Jesse groans. "Please just leave."
"You're as annoying as your dad," the demon snarls at Ben. The leash in her other hand catches fire and burns away. Jesse takes his eyes off of her long enough to glance at what's stepping out of the shadows, what was at the other end, and freezes.
It almost looks like a dog, a big one, but it's more like the idea of a dog, hastily assembled out of parts that don't quite fit together: slimy oil-black skin that twists over extra joints, fangs longer than Jesse's forearm, a forked tongue lolling almost to the ground and too many eyes rolling madly in its broad head. The smell of corpses rolls toward Jesse with every eager breath the thing pants as the ground scorches under its clawed feet.
The hellhound lets out a howl that makes Ben and Claire jump. "What—"
"Look out!" Jesse says, but it's too late: the dog jumps on Ben and he screams. More of them are skulking out of the shadows. Panicked, Jesse manages to free his knife and lashes out at the demon's arm, scoring a hit deep enough that she lets him go. Wrist throbbing, he backs out of reach, the knife held between them. "What the hell do you want with me?"
"I told you, we need to talk," says the demon. "Since your friend here decided to interrupt, I'll settle for his intestines on a stick."
"He is not my—"
Ben screams again as the hellhound's claws dig into his skin. He's fighting the dog like a wild animal himself, thrashing around and just barely holding off those awful teeth. Just run, Jesse tells himself, let him go, let him die, it's no skin off your back—
"Get your car!" he shouts at Claire, and moves toward the hellhound, drawing his knife out with his uninjured hand. His slice goes deep but doesn't cause any visible damage; the dog howls in rage, backing off of Ben and snapping at him instead. Jesse kicks its slavering jaw shut, which stuns it enough that he can drag Ben away from it. "C'mon," Jesse says, hauling Ben to his feet and both scrambling to get to the truck parked three spaces away, Ben's chest dripping blood. Claire's already behind the wheel and revving the engine.
Another hellhound slinks forward, blocking the passenger door. Ben keeps going, almost straight into the thing, until Jesse grabs him and pulls him back. The hellhound snarls, and Ben flinches, eyes shifting wildly. "The back, come on," he says.
Jesse doesn't need telling twice. "Drive!" he shouts at Claire, using the back tire to jump into the truck bed and tugging Ben up after him. Ben grunts in pain as the motion sends blood pulsing from the gashes the hellhound left on his shoulders. Claire whips the truck around, narrowly missing the demon herself, and Jesse lands flat on his ass. By the time he gets his bearings enough to sit up, they're doing at least sixty.
But there's no mistaking the baying of the hounds, the stink of sulfur as they give chase. They're practically flying, skittering and undulating in ways physics was never meant to accommodate. The road starts to crack behind them where the dogs' paws pound against the asphalt. Can they even be stopped? Will he have to make them?
"Shit!" Ben opens a toolbox in the back of the truck; it's full of weapons. He gets out a rifle and loads it. "You know how to use this?"
Grateful, Jesse grabs the rifle and aims it at the nearest hellhound. "I'll figure it out!" He fires just as Claire takes a sharp right turn, and between that and the kickback, he's nearly thrown off the truck.
"Careful!" Ben doesn't spare him a second look as he fires his own gun. The recoil doesn't faze him at all, but he can't aim for shit. The hound is so close; how could he possibly miss it?
Jesse grits his teeth and raises his rifle, aims right at the dog's face, squeezes the trigger. The recoil's still a hard punch against his shoulder, but he keeps his balance this time. The dog screams and stumbles, falling behind its companions and out of sight. Jesse slumps with relief. Weapons work.
"Nice shot," Ben says.
"There are more." Jesse takes aim again and fires, disabling another dog, and another. The hounds are close enough that his bad aim doesn't matter, and thankfully the ones he shoots don't come back. He counts nine of them before the smell of sulfur fades and the roiling bodies vanish back into the twilight. Ben hasn't hit a single one.
It's a long time before Ben finally knocks on the back window of the truck, motions for Claire to pull over. She brakes hard and opens the door, jumping out and coming over to the back of the truck. "Ben? How bad is it?"
"Flesh wound," Ben says, but when he slides out of the truck bed he sways dangerously. His entire shirt has gone sodden and dark from the clawmarks on both shoulders.
"Liar," Claire says. "Those need stitches. Take your shirt off."
"Yes ma'am," Ben jokes, but it's easy to see he's exhausted. Claire just rolls her eyes and grabs the first aid kit. The cloth sticks to Ben's skin as he eases it over his head, his bare shoulders gruesomely bloody, and Jesse dangles his feet off the back of the truck, morbidly fascinated.
"Augh," Ben says as Claire swabs disinfectant over the cuts. "Fucking hellhounds. Are they still coming?"
Claire looks down the road behind them, takes a deep, slow breath. She's quiet for a long moment before she finally says: "I don't think so. Can't hear them if they are." She pulls out a needle and what looks like fishing line. "Light this for me," she adds to Jesse, shoving a box into his hands, and Jesse has a horrible moment of how did she know before realizing that they're matchsticks.
Oh. He pulls one out. Striking it alight on the box takes him a few tries, but it's not that hard. Guiltily he thinks of all the times he let himself start some kindling with his fingertips just because it was easier. The more he uses his powers, the closer he gets to that...thing in the parking lot. He won't let Oliver be right. To Claire, he holds out the tiny flame.
"Thanks." Claire runs the needle through the fire several times and deftly threads it, then sets to work. Ben curses a lot and mostly watches his skin being pulled back together, so he misses how much tension lets out of Claire's shoulders when she's finished. Looks like exasperation isn't the only emotion she can feel for him after all.
Ugh. Jesse is tired, he's sore, and he's on the run from a demon. He does not care about these hunters and their romantic problems. Jesse climbs out of the back of the truck, dropping the gun behind him. "Thanks for the lift."
"Where are you going?" Ben asks him, and Jesse doesn't miss that Ben's still holding a rifle. "You don't even know where we are."
"I'll manage," says Jesse, walking further down the road. It's not like he hasn't slept on the ground before.
"You're walking."
"Have been since I was a kid," Jesse says. "It's quite easy once you get the hang of it." His wrist is as healed as it's going to get—crooked, naturally, but he's not gonna rebreak it in front of a couple hunters who'd want to know how it healed so fast in the first place. He's just glad the sleeves of his sweatshirt are long and baggy.
"They're hellhounds," Claire says, firmly enough that he slows. "I don't know what sort of monsters you've seen, but once one of them gets your scent, it will never stop coming for you."
"I've seen plenty of monsters," Jesse snaps, and he isn't talking about hellhounds.
"You don't have any weapons," Ben points out. "How are you going to fight something you can't see?"
Jesse turns around. "What d'you—" But he catches himself and stops. So humans can't see them? No wonder Ben was such a terrible shot. He's lucky he hasn't given himself away already. "I can muddle through," he says. I don't need weapons isn't going to do him any favors.
"I know a place we can hole up," Ben says, bracing himself on the side of the truck. "Safest place in the world."
He gives the least apologetic smile he can muster. "I'm fine alone, thanks." After three years in the desert Jesse knows this to be true.
"That's too bad," says Claire. "We could probably help you track down that demon."
Jesse's smile drops. "You told me everything you know."
"Not everything," says Claire.
That's a damn dirty trick. But he hasn't seen a demon in ten years, and he has no idea how to track one. Even with his powers—but he's not going to use his powers. And without them, these two might be the best shot he has at finding this thing.
Still. They're hunters. He knows what happens when hunters find out what he is. He'd trusted Oliver, too, at first.
"Look," Ben says, with a sidelong glance at Claire. "Just come with us to someplace safe for the night. We can talk more in the morning."
On the other hand, if Ben or Claire gets tired enough, they might let something slip about the demon. They know what it did last time. He can't believe it's coincidence that a demon came calling for him exactly three years ago, as he was spending his eighteenth birthday—
"One night," Jesse says. Claire and Ben exchange a look, and Claire gives a tiny nod.
"We're still in Nebraska," she announces, turning back to the truck and opening the door. "Just outside of Crookston, I think."
"Not too far, then." Ben gets in the driver's seat and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Keys?"
"I'll drive." Claire shoves him lightly. "You get some sleep."
"Thanks." Ben slides across to the passenger's side and slumps against the door. When Jesse hesitates, Claire gives a sarcastic flourish to the open door.
"I think I'll just stay in the back," Jesse says, trying to sound nonchalant. Bad enough that he has to share one bench seat with two hunters; now he's gonna get stuck between the two?
"Don't be ridiculous," Claire says, beginning to look irritated. "There's plenty of room, and you'd freeze out there. Just get in and let's go."
He still isn't happy, but without the panicked adrenaline of a hellhound chase, Jesse is noticing just how much colder it is here—while Australia's summer will hold for another several weeks at least, America's spring has only barely begun. He tugs his sweatshirt a little tighter and climbs into the truck. He shouldn't give them another reason to be suspicious, anyway.
Claire hops up next to him and shuts the door, turning the engine back on. Jesse takes a deep breath and shakes off the instinctive claustrophobia. "Where are we going?" he asks, but it's not Claire that answers, it's Ben.
"South Dakota," he murmurs, eyes already closed. "Sioux Falls."
The sun's rising by the time Claire pulls the truck off the highway, but with the dull rainclouds hanging overhead, the morning offers little light or warmth. At first Jesse feigned sleep to put off Claire's attention, but somewhere along the way he fell into an uneasy doze, images of fire and black eyes haunting the edges of his mind.
He swims back to consciousness but doesn't open his eyes. Ben and Claire seem not to have noticed, Ben directing Claire from Jesse's other side. It's quiet save for the rain pelting against the windshield and the wipers flicking the water off. Then: "He wasn't lying about all of it," Ben says softly. "Wherever he came from, those were his parents."
"That doesn't mean he's not dangerous," Claire whispers, and Jesse tenses. "Seeing your parents die brings that out in people."
"Yeah, okay, I didn't say I trusted the guy," Ben says. "But I'm not letting him get eaten by hellhounds, either."
What the hell is that supposed to mean? The only reason to protect someone you don't trust is because you want something from them, but so far Jesse has no idea why Ben, or Claire, have insisted on keeping him around. Just thinking about it makes him restless enough that he pretends to wake up lest he be caught faking. The others blink innocently back at him. "We there yet?" Jesse finally says, scrubbing his hair back into order.
"Little farther," Ben says. They keep going, past the neatly mowed lawns and well-lit shops of the town, onto a narrow back road. Claire has to turn the brights on, and when she does Jesse spots a rusted chain-link fence in the gloom. Their tires splash through the ankle-deep puddles on the long unpaved road, kicking up mud and dirt onto the side of the truck.
They finally pass under some kind of rusted archway, and Jesse squints up at the words Singer's Auto Salvage. "The safest place in the world is a junkyard?"
"Yup," Ben says with quiet confidence. "No demon's even gonna make it past that gate."
Jesse twists around to look at the gate, already several feet behind them. He doesn't like what that says for their chances.
The truck pulls up in front of a ramshackle old house, and Claire cuts the engine. Ben opens his door, letting in a rush of cool air, and jumps out into a puddle. "When I said I wanted a shower, this was not what I meant," he says, shielding his eyes with his hand and glancing up at the sky. Jesse looks up too, wondering if his own trepidation has anything to do with the gathering clouds. At least the rain isn't his fault; with so much fire whirling inside him he's never been able to wish down a single drop.
"The back door's probably easier to break in, but watch your step," Ben says, grabbing a duffel bag from the back of the truck and handing a backpack over to Claire. "Holy-water sprinklers are one thing but I don't wanna set off any of the booby traps involving silver bullets."
The only reason Jesse doesn't bolt right then is because Claire and Ben are suddenly both holding guns. "Who the fuck lives here?" he hisses.
"Lived," says Ben, but he doesn't elaborate.
They trek through the mud around to the side of the house. Rusted-out shells of cars lean against one another everywhere, piled five or six high in some places. Perfect for hiding in, if it weren't for the hunter's traps that are probably rigged to blow if a demon so much as touches one. Jesse keeps his gaze firmly on the ground ahead of him, hyperaware of Claire's eyes on his back, and steps only where Ben's feet have already gone.
"Here," Ben says when they get to the back door, dropping his duffel on the rotting wood of the back stoop. The door doesn't open when Ben tries it—not that Jesse expected it to, if whoever lived here is as paranoid as Ben says—but Ben doesn't seem fazed. Instead he pulls out a bundle of thin metal objects, and within minutes his lockpicks yield the distinctive click of an opened door.
"Awesome," Ben says, going through the door. "Now we should—"
A bucket of water upends itself onto Ben's head.
"Son of a bitch," Ben splutters. It covers Jesse's flinch—that's gotta be holy water, though luckily his sweater is baggy enough that none of the splashes soaked through to his skin. He's frozen just outside the doorway, watching it drip off Ben's nose. Then Claire laughs, full and clear, and Ben stops cursing and swiping at his hair to watch, smiling at her like he just can't help himself.
So that's how this is, Jesse thinks. Useful to know someday, maybe, but right now he's more concerned with getting out of this death trap and away from these hunters he's stuck following into it. Even though his panic, though, he has to admit that Claire's laugh is...nice. He hadn't ever expected to hear it.
"Yeah, yeah, next one's going on you," says Ben, but the look on his face is so dopily fond that Jesse's a little embarrassed for him. It's easy to let Claire cross the threshold ahead of him when she's still snorting at Ben's soggy everything. For a second he thinks about just making a break for it, risking the booby traps in the yard and praying one of those junkers has been salvaged enough to work, but then Ben shares his smile with Jesse and says "Come on, man, I'm pretty sure there was just the one," and further hesitation would be far too suspicious. Jesse takes a breath and walks across the puddle, thankful that the Simms brothers had at least given him boots with thick soles.
It's the kitchen, looks like, with faded green wallpaper and a cheap folding table against the other wall. There's no light fixture, and the light coming through the windows is dim, but Jesse can see phones lined up along the wall with label taped on the backs: Federal Marshall. FBI. "Health Department?"
"Hunters don't exactly stay on the right side of the law," Ben says. "Used to be, send the cops calling to Bobby and you'd save yourself a lot of paperwork." He thumps the counter affectionately. "I used to spend every summer here, learning the ropes."
From the state of the cobwebs, no one's lived here for months, maybe years. "What happened to him?"
"Something with claws." Ben stays still for a moment, then lifts a hand to the deep gouges on his shoulder. Jesse shudders at the memory of the hellhound that made them.
"We should get that bandaged up properly," Claire says after a moment. Ben shakes himself and turns around.
"Right. Okay." He crosses to the light switch on the wall and gives it a few flips, but the lights stay off. Ben sighs. "Guess three years of not paying the electricity bills will do that. Jesse—"
"What?" Jesse pretends he hasn't been checking the room over for other traps.
Ben raises his eyebrows. "There's some lanterns in the basement. Can you go grab them?"
Walking into a hunter's basement in the dark while a storm blows outside. If monsters made horror movies, this is how all of them would start. "I can't," Jesse says. "I lost my—" He almost says torch, but remembers Claire's comment about his accent and switches at the last second to "—flashlight."
"You can use mine," Claire says, pulling it out of her backpack. Ben is rifling through the kitchen cupboards, which contain more salt than Jesse has ever seen in one place. Ben stretches a little too far and winces; Claire's mouth tightens. "I'll go get the first aid kit."
She leaves, walking right across the holy water like she doesn't even notice it. Jesse stands against the wall and watches Ben pull down canisters of salt until Ben notices that he's still there. "Do you want me to go with you?" Ben asks.
"No," Jesse says, because the only thing worse than wandering a hunter's house alone is wandering one with a hunter right behind you to see your skin steaming. "I just, uh, where exactly is the basement?"
"Oh! Duh. It's right down the hall there, the door next to the stairs." Ben points. "I think the lanterns are towards the back. Just don't touch any weapons or boxes with symbols on them. Assume it's all loaded."
"Right," Jesse manages, and keeps his back to the wall until he's in the front hallway.
There's another door here, and past the porch he can see that it's started to rain. Not his kind of storm after all. If he goes now, Ben and Claire might not notice he's missing for long minutes, maybe even hours. Much as he wants to kill that demon, he's no closer to finding it now than he was when he got in that truck, and it's rapidly becoming too dangerous for him to stick around in hope of some possible future help.
He nearly steps onto the doormat before he notices the edge of a chalked circle peeking out from underneath it.
Shit. He should have expected that; he should be glad there was only holy water at the back door. Are there other ways out of this house? The wind throws rain up against the windows, whistles through the cracks in the walls, and Jesse hugs himself, wet and cold. He belongs in the desert, where humanity is scarce and hunters even scarcer, where the sun-baked sand would just now be getting cool enough to lie on as the Southern Cross shone out clear overhead—
He stumbles, and the walls re-solidify around him, heat fading under his skin. Jumping usually takes so much effort that he almost didn't recognize it starting, and doesn't like to consider where he might have dropped himself without paying attention. Using his powers unconsciously now? What is wrong with him? He hasn't been this out of control since the Simmses' shack, and he doesn't want to think about the similarities this house has to that place because this could so easily end the same way. Jesse grits his teeth and edges around the trap. He's going to find the basement and get more light and he's going to be fine. The rain drums down above him, coldly reassuring.
The basement smells like mildew. Jesse has to brush away cobwebs as he reaches the base of the stairs. He shines Claire's light around, noting a barred window near the ceiling and several desks covered in the sorts of books you need three dead languages to read. Further down are some of the boxes Ben warned him about, some so strong that Jesse can actually feel them buzzing. He gives them wide berth as he picks his way deeper into the basement, looking for lanterns.
There are weapons, and weapons, and more weapons, packed in around jars of mysterious substances and the kind of hunting library Elias would've killed for. It's wasted on Jesse, who has changed his mind and would rather be with the hunters in a room he can see clearly than down here flinching at every menacing shape at the edge of the flashlight's beam. If he can't find the lanterns, though, upstairs will soon be no better; the dim light outside is already fading.
Finally he spots something: an open metal door, oval like the escape hatch of a submarine, and beyond that a table with two camping lanterns on it. Perfect. Jesse hurries over to the door and through it. The floor feels gritty under his feet, and the air in here is colder, more humid. He puts his light down on the table, presses the switch on the lantern, and the whole room lights up.
Unease skitters up the back of Jesse's neck. Someone's pasted a pin-up over walls that seem to be pure metal, and the stacks of bottled water and canned food are reasonable enough, but the cot in the corner comes with handcuffs. The rain sounds louder in here. Jesse peers up at the hole in the ceiling and sees a fan slowly rotating behind a grate shaped like—
He throws himself back against the wall, which means it missed him this time; thank God it's so small. He's got to get out of here. He grabs the lantern off the table and flat-out runs for the door—
—and slams into the empty air, sending himself reeling back. The lantern swings wildly in his hand, shadows jumping all around him. Slowly, Jesse looks down at the floor.
Devil's trap.