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Cut off their heads, cut off their hands, eviscerate them, drown them, it didn’t matter.

A scuffle of footsteps reached my ears. From the other side of my Hummer... no doubt circling back around to ambush me.

Now it was hunting me.

I drew my Glock and flattened myself against the passenger side, panic afire in my lungs. It shouldn’t have healed like that.

The western sky dimmed to teal, the shadowy woods darkened and encroached on my truck.

Night.

In darkness, there was only one smart way to fight a demon—ordemons, if what I suspected was true.

Run.

Run your ass off.

Demons were natural born predators. They had superior night vision, more acute senses, quicker reflexes, better hand-eye coordination.

I had shit.

Shitanda big ass problem. No other demon knew I was still alive. If I let this one escape, I’d have three hundred demons’ dicks trying to crawl up my asshole in about twelve seconds. Which meant I better stay and fight.

The thermal scope. Had that too.

My hand slapped the top of my Hummer, where I’d set my helmet. Scanning the forest, I dragged it over my head and flipped down the scope over my left eye. The world came alive in shades of green and yellow trees, still warm from sunset.

But demons’ blood ran hot—104° Fahrenheit—thing would be glowing like neon.

Explained their vicious hot tempers, too.

Like the fact that this fucker had stuck around to take on Jame Asher when the smart thing to do would be to escape and call in reinforcements.

Still didn’t mean I liked it.

Crouching on all fours, a glowing white figure crept into my periphery, slinking behind the tree line. A tiger creeping in for the kill.

I tensed, my knuckles tightening on the grip, but didn’t let on I’d seen him.

My scope used a fisheye lens, meaning it compressed a hundred and eighty degrees of infrared vision into a nice little bubble. With my truck protecting my backside, the scope let me literally see in all directions at once.

Demons think we have lousy peripheral vision. We do.

But not tonight.

The figure burst from the trees and closed in with lightning speed, appearing as a blurry white streak to my left eye through the scope.

I spun, dropped to a knee, and fired three shots before it reached me. To my left eye, the bullets made white-hot welts in its torso, their entry points glowing even hotter than the demon’s scalding flesh.

But if cutting off the beast’s head and hands—both reattached, to my horror—didn’t kill it, then three bullets stood no chance.

The demon kicked the gun out of my hand, pried off my helmet, and flung it aside, plunging me into sudden blackness. Only the whistle of air alerted me to the kick aimed at my head.

I ducked, but not fast enough. The blow slammed my face into the dirt. My lip cracked, and blood mixed with the chalky taste of silt in my mouth.

I blinked away stars. The next impact, I knew, would pack enough punch to break my neck.

I threw myself to the side, and the kick grazed my ear, leaving my eardrum ringing.