Demon's Daughter (Demon Outlaws) (13 page)

“It’s too late for that today,” he said. He did not meet her eyes. “Distance can be deceptive. Freetown’s a lot farther off than you think. You’ll stay here for now. Help me with the packs.”

He’d left them in a pile on the ground where he’d unsaddled Sally before turning her loose. He caught up Airie’s small, makeshift bag and headed for the cabin, the loose back flaps of his leather duster rippling around his ankles as he strode across the flat sandy floor of the canyon.

Airie started after him.

“Why is it too late to go into the city today?” she asked, touching his arm to get him to face her. His steps slowed but did not halt.

“Because I need to make certain it’s safe,” he replied. “Because the gates of the city will be closing soon. And because I may have a…contact…for you, who can get you started on a new life.”

Airie examined his words. Something was wrong. Hunter had been surly all morning—even more so than usual—and now acted as if he did not want to see her go.

He had never apologized for the names he had called her, or admitted to being wrong, so why would he choose to help her?

She wanted to say she had no need of his contact and could make her own arrangements, but the sight of Scratch playing in the sand stopped her from doing so. She did need Hunter’s help, and that contact of his, for Scratch’s sake if not her own.

“Thank you,” she said.

He stopped at that, his back stiff, and whirled to face her. “You have nothing to thank me for.”

He left her standing in the middle of the canyon’s mouth, uncertain of what to do next and feeling utterly alone and abandoned. He did not want her thanks. She was not welcome in his home, but neither was she free to leave.

So what was she?

She played with Scratch for what remained of the afternoon, keeping him out of Hunter’s way while he worked, until the wind picked up and darkness settled.

Hunter came to the door of the cabin. “Come inside.”

Airie brushed at Scratch’s clothes, removing as much sand from them as she could. Hunter watched her, his expression unsettling, so she turned her back to him.

“Here,” he said in her ear, and Airie started. He moved very quietly. She was unused to anyone getting so close without her being aware of their approach. He nudged her aside. “You need to peel off his outer things and shake them.”

The child lifted his arms obediently over his head so Hunter could remove his shirt. As he did, Hunter got a strange expression on his face.

Hunter held up a small, bright yellow box that had no openings in it that Airie could see. She did not recognize the material it was constructed from. The little boy always had an assortment of rocks and other treasures he came across hidden in his clothing, and she would set them aside for him to reclaim later in case he remembered.

“Where did he get this?” Hunter asked.

“I have no idea.”

Airie held out her hand to take it from him so she could have a better look, but he pulled it out of her reach. He carried it fifty feet into the canyon to a more open space, and set it on the ground, his movements careful. He picked up a large rock, hefted it for weight, and walked back to Airie and Scratch.

“Cover your faces,” he said.

He threw the rock at the yellow box. The box exploded with a loud bang, sending clumps of dirt and fragments of rock into the air to shower around them. Airie drew Scratch against her to shield his face, while Hunter wrapped his arms around them both to shelter them with his body.

When the dust settled, the box was gone. A hole, almost a foot deep and three wide, had replaced it.

Airie’s heart thumped hard in her chest as she thought of what that might have done to a small child if it had gone off in his pocket. And to Hunter and her too, for that matter. “What was that?”

“It’s a bomb,” Hunter said, “from three or four hundred years ago. I’ve found similar things planted around the old cities. The wind sometimes unburies them.” He frowned, but as if puzzled, not angry. “I didn’t think we passed close enough to the ruins to find anything, let alone something like this.” He shrugged. “No harm was done. I have soap and water inside the cabin. You can give him a bath before we eat.”

Airie wished she could dismiss it as easily. She could not remember seeing him pick up the box, but promised herself she would be more vigilant in the future as she led him off for his bath.

The inside of the cabin was as neat and tidy as the yard, only very small. There was a counter and cupboard for food and cooking, a potbellied stove, a rough wooden slab table with a single low bench, and a narrow bunk along one wall. A wicker rocker took up an entire corner, and a few clothes hung from hooks on another wall.

“I’m mostly on the move,” Hunter said, a faint edge in his tone.

“Don’t you worry that you may come back some day and find someone else living here?” Airie asked.

He hauled a small tin bucket of water off the stove and handed it to her. The water was clean and looked fresh.

“There’s an underground river that flows beneath this canyon and feeds into Freetown,” he said, seeing her surprise at the water. “My well is hidden.” He passed her soap and a cloth from a cupboard under the counter. The cloth, too, was clean. “And no, I don’t worry about finding someone else living here,” he said in answer to her question. “No one in their right mind would try. Demons would find them out here.”

“You live here.”

He didn’t answer that.

She bathed Scratch in a basin on the table. When she poured a pitcher of water over his head he crumpled his face and scrunched his shoulders, making her laugh until she noticed Hunter watching her again. The moment grew awkward, and he turned away.

She dried Scratch thoroughly and wrapped him in one of Hunter’s old undershirts. The worn cotton fabric felt soft and smooth to the touch, and smelled of fresh air.

“If you want to wash up, I have a shower outside.” Hunter’s gaze slid away from her face. “It’s not very private, but the water will be warm. I filled the tank earlier.”

Airie had been raised by her mother to believe her body belonged to the goddesses, and it was her duty to care for it, but it was what was inside that made it special. Modesty and vanity had never been important to her. She did, however, wish to feel clean again.

Hunter kept the covered tank, and a large basin that sat beneath it, behind the cabin. The basin had holes in it for drainage.

“You stand in the basin,” he said, showing her, “and release water over you by pulling this cord.” He passed her another of his undershirts and a pair of trousers before he left. “These will have to do for now. Tomorrow, you can wash your clothes.”

Airie, who was used to cold mountain lakes, found the spray of water glorious, but her hair created a problem. She dragged her fingers through it to remove the worst of the tangles, and left it loose for the desert air to dry.

The undershirt Hunter gave her fit well enough, but the trousers were too large at the waist. She fastened the buttons, then rolled the waistband down so that the trousers sat comfortably low on her hips, and turned the cuffs up several inches so they would not drag in the dirt.

When she was done, Hunter took his turn bathing.

He reentered the cabin with his shirttail hanging free and his blond hair, dark and wet, loose so that the tips dampened the fabric draping his shoulders. The amulet he never removed dangled from a gold chain around his neck. He’d shaved earlier, and it surprised her how different it made him look. How much more approachable he seemed.

The goddesses had been kind when they crafted him. It was too easy for her to forget he was the Demon Slayer, and that his reputation was both deserved and widespread. Even on the mountain Airie had heard of him, and how demons trembled at the mention of his name.

Perhaps that was why she trembled at the sight of him now.

She fed Scratch his supper while Hunter sat at the table and watched. When she finished, he held up a long-toothed comb and a leather hair lace, his expression unreadable.

“Come here,” he said, patting the bench between his thighs.

After a brief hesitation, Airie did as he said. He ran the comb through the heavy length of her hair, untangling it as best he could, and then to her surprise, he twisted the strands into a complex braid.

The caress of his knuckles against the nape of her neck did little to relax her. Tension coiled in her stomach and made it difficult to draw regular breaths. She felt foolish to be so affected by a simple, everyday act her mother had done for her many times.

Yet this was not the same.

When he was done they sat side by side on the bench at the table, and ate by lamplight. Shadows in the corners made the room seem smaller than it was, and the meal more intimate.

Hunter was not inclined to talk. His thoughts appeared to be miles away. While they were traveling, Airie had not worried about making conversation. They had little in common. This, however, was his home, and despite the fact that he had insisted she stay here, she felt an obligation to be polite.

“If you give me the name of your contact in Freetown, Scratch and I will be on our way in the morning,” she said. “I’d like to get started before the worst of the heat.” The heat did not bother her, but she could not make a small child walk in it.

Scratch had fallen asleep on the floor behind her, and she bent to stroke his baby-fine hair.

“Not tomorrow,” Hunter said. He stared at his plate of half-eaten corncakes. A damp swath of hair shielded his expression from her. “I have things to do here first, but as soon as I find the time I’ll go to Freetown and speak with them for you. After I’ve done that, I’ll take you into the city.”

“That means you’ll have to make two trips,” she protested.

He jabbed his corncakes with his fork. “Then that’s what I’ll do.”

Everything about the stiff way he held his body, and how he did not look at her when he spoke, made her uneasy.

“What aren’t you telling me?” she asked.

“I told you before. Freetown is not a welcoming place, especially for women.”

“You told me nothing of the kind. You said the women don’t have altercations with men.”
Or light themselves on fire
, but she thought it best not to mention something she would prefer he forgot.

“They don’t argue either.” The corner of his mouth curled upward as he spoke, and he tipped his head sideways to look at her.

He was trying to distract her by making light of it.

Airie placed her fork on the table beside her plate and dropped her hands to her lap. She examined her fingers, her thoughts spinning further and deeper in unpleasant directions that led to only one possible conclusion.

“Am I a prisoner?” she asked.

Her quiet question crouched like a hungry wolven between them, and he hesitated a breath too long before answering. When he did, his response sounded forced and overly emphatic, and did nothing to ease her disquiet.

“Of course not.”

Her supper flipped over in her stomach at his blatant lie. She turned on the bench, jerking her knees sideways from beneath the table so she could stand. Hunter seized her wrist.

“Why would you ask me that question?” he demanded. “Did I do something to make you think you are?”

She had given the possibility no thought before now. She felt stupid for not having done so. “You think I’m a…demon.”

“You’re only half demon. That makes you spawn.”

She could not say the word herself. It was impolite, a derogatory term, and he used it so casually it could not help but hurt.

“Are they such different things to you?” she asked. “Demons and the other?”

“No,” he admitted. “They’re not.”

She drew a shaky breath. What gave him the right to insult her this way? What had happened to him to make him so rigid in his prejudices?

She was not perfect. But neither was she the monster he professed her to be.

“My mother was mortal, and a priestess. I was raised to respect life and the teachings of the goddesses. I think for myself, and I make my own choices. What I am and what you believe me to be are very different things.”

“Are they?” he said. “In Freetown, women have no right to protection other than what men or the priestesses offer them. If you reveal yourself there, you won’t survive. Can you swear to me that you can control the demon in you? Even if you feel threatened? Because I’ve seen proof to the contrary.”

“Of course I can control it.” She knew she could. What she could not always do was hide it. Her anxiety increased. She would have to learn to do so, for Scratch’s sake if not her own. “It was different with you.”

“Really?” His eyebrows went up. “In what way?”

“You’re the Demon Slayer. I felt threatened.”

“You didn’t know I was the Demon Slayer at the time.”

“I sensed it,” she lied.

He laughed softly. The pad of his thumb scuffed against the delicate flesh of her wrist, which he had not released, and her anxiety shifted to an awareness of him as a male. She had never been touched like this before, in a way that stole her breath and made her feel awkward. She did not know how to interpret his mood or his actions.