Page 103 of Terror at the Gates

Sam studied me and then asked, “You aren’t thinking about going after members of the church, are you?”

“No,” I said.

Not yet anyway.

“You understand that would be a suicide mission no matter whose daughter you are,” he said.

I smiled, eyes narrowing slightly, and teased, “Are you afraid of the church, Sam?”

“Yes.” His tone was matter-of-fact and stole the humor right from my body. “And if you knew what was good for you, you’d be too.”

I thought he might reconsider letting me have the stun gun, but he handed it over, along with two additional cartridges.

“How much?” I asked.

Sam laughed like I had just told him a joke.

“I’ll put it on your tab.”

I flushed, embarrassed because he knew I didn’t have the money. I shoved the cartridges into my backpack, already heavy with the blade. I wished it had never caught my attention. Maybe I’d be dancing on stage tonight, making my own money. Maybe Esther would still be alive.

I shoved those thoughts aside. I had to focus on the here and now, and part of that was hunting down these fucking demons.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Stay out of trouble,” he said.

Suddenly, there was a loud crash, like metal slamming into metal. I turned to look out the office window. One of the chains had come loose from the engine of the truck,causing it to collide with the edge of the vehicle and then the cement floor.

“Motherfucker,” Sam muttered, stepping past me. He left the small office, yelling, “Were you fucking born yesterday!”

I followed him out, taking that as my cue to leave, pausing as I heard one of the mechanics speak.

“It’s not our fucking fault!” he said, flinging something to the ground, a familiar gelatinous substance.

“What the fuck is that?” another asked.

“I don’t know, but it’s oozing out of the engine.”

I inched toward them, noticing the small glob of light pink goo on the ground. It wasn’t moving. I wondered if it had been churned to mush when the engine had started. Was I going to have to run every fucking one of these demons through a wood chipper?

“Where did you pick up the car?” I asked.

“Off Tenth and Tyre. Wouldn’t start. Obviously found the problem.”

I left, slipping out one of the open bays into the back alley. It was lined with dumpsters, overflowing with trash. A rivulet of unknown origin and substance snaked its way down the asphalt road. I followed it until I found myself at Fifth Street, which intersected with Smugglers’ Row into Gomorrah. The mechanic had said Tenth and Tyre, which was a few blocks down from Gabriel and Esther’s apartment. I guessed part of the demon had taken refuge in that truck after fleeing. I wondered if the others were near and if they would be on the move now that it was dark.

It occurred to me that I was being reckless and a little unfair to Zahariev. I’d made him promise not to investigateEsther’s death without me, and here I was hunting demons, but this felt better than sitting at home crying.

As I headed away from Gomorrah, the night was less busy. The area here was more industrial, a mix of residential apartment buildings and factories. Some of them still burned coal, which made the air hazy and heavy. It settled in my lungs like stones. I hated everything about it, hated knowing that the people who lived and worked here were sick from it and would die young all so the elite in Hiram could wear cashmere.

Until I’d come to Nineveh, I’d never known what it took to supply that kind of fabric, but that was a theme in my life.

I followed Fifth to Tyre, then headed south to Tenth. The smell of mildew and floral detergent wafted into the street from an open laundromat door. Customers wandered out and into the nearby liquor store or the deli a little farther down the street. There was a part of me that envied these people completing their everyday tasks while I was on a mission to kill the thing that had stolen one of my dearest friends.

I came to the intersection of Tenth and Tyre. Ahead, there were greater pockets of darkness from broken streetlights. Those that worked flickered. Most of the shops on this street were closed or abandoned, their windows boarded. I blamed the graveyard, which was just another block south. Its eeriness cast a wide net, ensuring the only businesses that survived were a monument and grave marker company, an undertaker, and a celestial shop.

I stopped in front of it. The window was lit with a string of lights, illuminating an astrology map painted in gold. Through the glass, I could see shelves of candles, crystals, and cards, things forbidden by the church—things thatmade me curious. I wondered if people came here seeking something to believe in because religion had hurt them too.