The night is ending. After a thousand years of roaming the earth, I can feel it in my bones—that slight prickle as daylight begins its emergence into the world. I haven’t fed. Casting a look around the room, all I can see are drunkards, junkies, or other supernaturals. The demon, Baracus, tilts his head in my direction, and out of habit, I bare my fangs at him. The long-dead feud is not forgotten by either of us. We both lost many during the wars. Slowly, neck exposed, he approaches me.
“What?” I ask in a bored tone.
“You look good, Janardan, but I fear you’ve left your run too late. The humans who are here are neither evil-doers nor worthy of you.”
“You presume to know who’s worthy of me?”
“I meant no offense, only stating a fact.”
Baracus is right. For the better part of four hundred years, I’ve only fed off the underbelly of society—those whose blood is tainted. It’s what’s kept me alive. If I’d allowed myself the innocents, they would have ended me centuries ago. I am the oldest of my kind. I could feed on Baracus, but demon blood tastes awful, and although I could survive on it, I’d prefer not to.
“Why are you here?”
“The Council has demanded an audience of all the races. Isn’t that why you’re here in New York City?”
I shake my head slightly, and the demon lets his mask slip for a moment, and I see the thing underneath. Baracus’ flesh hangs off in places, and his tusks nearly reach his cheekbones. Picture a wild boar, only worse.
“You’re showing your true face to me, why?”
“We both lost many in the war. I have no desire to revisit old wounds. The Council should have invited you since you’re the oldest.”
“The oldest but not in charge, that goes to Levi. I have no desire to usher in the newest generation. They make so many mistakes.”
“Times are changing. The witches believe she’s among us. The one who can unite all the races and bring peace.”
I huff at him and shake my head. Every few decades, the witches believe the great one is among us. And every few decades, they are wrong. It makes sense I wasn’t invited. The last time I was summoned was one hundred years ago. I killed the head of the witches’ coven and had to go into hiding. They cursed me by way of a ring that as I look at it, it begins to glow.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
“The witches?”
I sigh and scowl. “Yes, the witches.”
“I know where the meeting is. I could take you?”
The ring begins to burn my skin, and I don’t feel well. “Take me to them. Lead the way.”
Baracus nods, but I know having a predator at your back isn’t a comfortable feeling. Every so often, he glances over his shoulder at me, and time and again, he rubs the back of his neck.
Baracus leads me through the seedy side of New York City, many of his kind hide here. As we pass the fifth demon, I match Baracus’ pace and walk beside him.
“If you try to kill me or one of your kind does, I promise to take you with me,” I state as I stare straight ahead.
“Not tonight, Liberator. I have no desire for a witches’ ring. Those things are certain death.”
Liberator, an old name that I haven’t heard in a long time. I twist the ring around my finger, the burning sensation increases as does the sickness. It overwhelms me, and I lean up against the brick wall of the alley we are in. “How much further?”
“You don’t look good.”
