Page 5

“You got three seconds to tell me what the hell you are,” Sterling said, voice steady, finger resting alongside the trigger guard with practiced discipline.

I held my hands up, showing empty palms, throat suddenly dry. “It's me.” The words emerged rougher than intended, my voice still unfamiliar to my own ears.

Sterling's eyes flicked over me, assessing. Professional. Detached. Decades of hunting experience distilled into a singleevaluating gaze that stripped away pretense and sought the truth beneath. His lips curled into a grimace of disbelief.

“Bullshit,” he replied, no heat in the word, just flat rejection of an impossibility. He moved smoothly to the side, maintaining aim while reaching for a flask on the nearby table. In one fluid motion, he flicked it open and flung its contents directly into my face.

I flinched automatically, blinking as the liquid struck me. Water, cool against my skin. Nothing more. No burning, no pain. Just ordinary water, running down my face and dampening my collar.

Sterling's expression shifted minutely, confusion overlapping suspicion. He'd expected a reaction: the sizzle of holy water against demon flesh, the revealing flash of a shapeshifter's true form, something to confirm what his instincts told him must be true. That this couldn't be Cade Cross. Not really.

“Not a demon, then,” Sterling muttered, shotgun remaining steady. “Silver next?” He reached slowly for something in his pocket, maintaining eye contact.

I extended my arm, palm up. “Go ahead.”

Sterling pressed a silver blade against my forearm, applying enough pressure to break skin slightly. A bead of blood welled up, ordinary red against pale skin. No reaction, no burning flesh.

Sterling's expression changed again, suspicion giving way to confused disbelief. “You can't be...” He lowered the shotgun slightly, not enough to render himself defenseless, but enough to signal a shift from imminent threat to cautious assessment.

“I am,” I said simply.

“You went into that demon gate. We saw it take you. There was nothing left, not even...” Sterling trailed off, clearly struggling with the cognitive dissonance of seeing a man he'dbelieved impossible to recover. “Sean tried everything. For months.”

Sean. Six months of unknown variables. What had happened to him? What changes had occurred in my absence?

Sterling studied me for another long moment, then shook his head, decision made. “Get inside. Now.” He stepped back, creating space for me to enter while maintaining distance.

I crossed the threshold, feeling the subtle resistance of additional wards layered within the home itself.

The door closed behind me with a finality that felt significant. The first test was complete. Sterling hadn't shot me. It was a start.

Sterling's living room was both exactly as I remembered and subtly different. The same worn leather couch, the same bookshelves overflowing with obscure texts and reference materials. The same wall of weapons, meticulously maintained and organized.

But changes had accumulated in my absence. New books, their spines still uncreased. Additional weapons, some that I didn't recognize. A small bulletin board with recent clippings and notes. Six months of Sterling searching for answers, for any sign of how to bring me back.

I took it all in, cataloging the additions, the changes, the information they revealed about Sterling's activities during my absence. It seemed that he had been busy, driven, obsessive.

Sterling moved past me, placing the shotgun within easy reach but no longer aimed directly at me. He positioned himself across the room, maintaining distance, his hand resting casually near a silver letter opener on the side table, another weapon if needed.

“So,” Sterling said, breaking the tense silence. “You gonna explain how you're standing in my living room? Or should I start guessing?”

I chose my words carefully, revealing as much truth as I myself understood. “I woke up in Central Park. In a crater. I don't know how I got there.”

Sterling's eyes narrowed. “Just... woke up. After six months. After going into a demon gate that should have torn you apart atom by atom.”

“Yes.”

“And you don't remember anything in between? Hell? Purgatory? Whatever's on the other side of that gate?”

My hand moved unconsciously to my chest, where the mark pulsed gently beneath my shirt. Flashes threatened,chains, fire, screaming, but I pushed them back, maintaining the wall in my mind that separated now from then, here from there.

“No,” I admitted.

Sterling studied me, decades of hunter's instinct reading between the sparse words. “But something. Something happened to you in there.”

It wasn't a question, so I didn't answer. The silence stretched between us, heavy with implication.

Sterling moved to a cabinet, pulled out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. He poured generous measures, sliding one across the coffee table toward me without approaching.