Our bus lurches forward, empty except for us and the driver, as I dig through my backpack. The last rays of the sun disappeared an hour ago but the harsh bus lights are bright enough to read by so, hoisting the textbook into my lap, I cram my mouth with a few more Pringles and lose myself to the Periodic Table of Elements. I’m this close to having the whole thing memorized.

But academic advancement isn’t the only reason to bury my face. Bowed over the pages, I untuck my hair and hide my shame behind the long, dark curtains. It took me weeks to gather all that information on Stanfill and his victims. Multiple trips to the library to use their printer. Scouring the recesses of the internet for crime scene photos and dossiers. Hiding it all from the two people who would put the kibosh on the whole case if I didn’t present it in the right way. And within the first hour, at only a minor amount of demonic activity, I’m scared and shivering?

It’s disappointing and, frankly, embarrassing. There’s no way I’m letting my sister see what my face is doing a horrendous job of hiding.

"You know, given the circumstances," she drawls, extricating the Pringles can from my absentminded grip. "I’m sure Dad will give you an extension if you’re behind on a paper."

"I’m not behind on anything," I counter, ducking my head further towards the page. "I just wanna get my GED by the time I’m seventeen. I don’t wanna wait till the last second like you."

"At least I got it."

"Barely."

Perrin shakes the can for the cracked chips at the bottom and tips them into her mouth. "I just don’t see the point in all that higher learning," she chews. "I’ve already picked my profession. And it’s not like there’s a state university offering a degree in demon slaying."

"If there was, you’d be gone within the first week." A smile creeps across my face. Teasing her always puts me in a better mood. "You don’t play well with others."

"Objection." Holding up a finger, she punishingly pokes it into my most ticklish spot, right under my armpit. "I play fine with others. Just not violent weirdos. And most of the slayers I’ve met fall somewhere along that spectrum."

"Yourself included?" My hair swings out of my face as I bow away from her merciless finger, batting it to the side.

She clicks her tongue. "I don’t know what you’re implying. I’m a model citizen. A God damn angel."

"Angel of Death, maybe."

Perrin gasps in faux indignation and hooks an arm around my neck, trapping me in a headlock. I tug against her, but its pointless. Even when I bring up my hands to push, I barely budge.

"Really?" she asks, watching me struggle. "This is you trying?"

"Not all of us can have tree trunks for arms," I crack back. But damn, yeah, I can’t get out.

"Tree trunks?! Alright, I’ve had enough of your sass." Clamping me closer, she snatches the book from my lap. "You’re officially banned from all homework. For the next twenty-four hours, you’re not allowed to learn or read a single thing." The book lands in the seat next to her with a muffled thump.

"That’s cruel and unusual punishment," I whine. "It’s unconstitutional."

"You’re out in the field now, baby. We’re all cruel and unusual here." She then hoists my backpack and deposits it on top of the book. "You’ll get these back when you prove your IQ has dropped at least five points."

She allows me to shove her off and I use the momentum to skate an extra seat over. There I pretend to pout, crossing my arms and slouching nearly to the floor. "You never let me do anything fun."

My performance is rewarded with a raspy chuckle as she stretches her arm across the seat between us. "Our definitions of fun are wildly different."

The bus hits a pothole and we lapse into an easy silence, small town life sliding sideways past foggy windows. The embarrassment of earlier has subsided enough to at least keep it off my face but the disappointment still churns. A slaying trip has been my dream for at least the last three years. Watching my family leave without me, worrying for their safety and reheating Perrin’s specially made casseroles for breakfast, lunch and dinner was absolute torture. And now that I’m here, it’s... much different than I pictured.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, I conjure my best poker face. I can turn this around.

Beside me, my sister’s knee jiggles and I can feel her probing for cracks in my admittedly flimsy armor. Subtlety has never exactly been her strong suit. Unapologetically taking up space with her long limbs and enviable height, she’s not the type of person to go unnoticed.

It probably doesn’t help her quest for anonymity that she’s stunning. Perpetually tan with a dusting of freckles across her high cheekbones, almond eyes peer out above bow shaped lips, the bottom one hanging dimpled and heavy over a chin that sharpens into a defined, stubborn point. It’s the kind of easy, natural beauty that makes strangers feel the need to comment, to claim. Even now, after she’s spent her whole life combatting it by dressing to hide her curves, scowling to appear unapproachable and chopping her sunshine waves into what I once lovingly described as a ‘90s Leo DiCaprio cut, it still shines through. Like trying to hide a beacon under a perforated laundry basket.

"Quit staring," I finally snap at her, sucking some lingering salt from my thumb.

"I’m not."

"Using your peripherals constitutes staring. I’m fine." And it’s close enough to the truth that I don’t thinks she hears the uncertain note in it.

"You sure?" she presses, chestnut brows drawing together with genuine concern. "We kinda hit the ground running."

"Then it’s a good thing I’m faster than you," I joke, trying to throw her off my nervous scent.

She scowls as I knew she would at a challenge to her physical prowess. "That’s just blatantly untrue. Maybe if you packed a little more muscle onto those toothpicks you call legs, you could be a contender. But not before."

"Weight training is so boring though," I groan, tipping my head back melodramatically. "Pick this up. Squat this thing. Punch that bag."

"Speaking of which," she continues. Great, I didn’t mean to set her off. "Your hand-to-hand stuff could also use some work. You barely landed a punch yesterday."

"Why does that matter?" I don’t appreciate having my flaws called out. "It’s not like I’m gonna be boxing Low-Levels."

There’s a gloomy pause before she mutters, "The world is full of scarier things than Lows."

The bus rocks again and I let the momentum slide me back into the crook of her arm. She smells like rock salt and feels like home, soothing the anxiety pulsing like a giant cotton ball in my gut. It’s big and puffy and full of doubt, fibers threatening to envelope me in a cocoon every time I think about that old man’s crushed face.

Crime scene photos are nothing compared to the real thing. And I didn’t anticipate how triggering the scent of blood would be. It poked at those memories I can’t seem to access; of the first time I met a demon. The details are lost, redacted by trauma and buried under eleven years of repression but I’ve never forgotten that smell. Metallic and tangy and hot.

Fiddling with the zipper of my navy puffer coat, I dismiss my triggers and proclaim more to myself than anything, "I’m gonna be great at this, you know. At slaying. Just you wait."

"I’ve no doubt in my mind." She gently jostles me. "After all, you learned from the best."

Perrin’s an A+ liar, but I’ve spent a lifetime studying her facial tics, all the distinctive cadences of her voice. And when her tone dips like that, nostrils flaring against her silver nose ring, that means she’s not being entirely truthful. Her head is most likely full of doubts. The knowledge stings but it’s a stirring sort of bite. One that only fuels my desire to prove her wrong.

"I just gotta lose my demonic virginity," I double down, trying to drown her uncertainty with shock. "You were my age when you popped your cherry, right?"

"Oh my God, shut up. You’re homeschooled. You barely know what a cherry is."

"Course I do. It’s when the hymen—"

"And that’s enough of that." She cuts me off with a hand around my mouth. "Who taught you to be this vulgar?"

I lick her palm and she yanks it way with an offended screech so I can declare, "You did! I learned it from listening to you!"

The chuckle morphs into her hoarse, girly squeak of a laugh and a fuzzy warmth destroys the rest of my doubts. There’s nothing so bad in this world that can’t be shooed away by that stupid, familiar sound.

Our stop approaches and I pull on the cord while she gathers up the bags, refusing to let me help. It’s still a block to the motel once we dismount from the bus, and the darkened sidewalk doesn’t do much to keep my nervousness at bay. Like most sane people, I’ve never been a huge fan of the dark. The difference between me and the rest of Team Sanity, is that I know the truth of what might be lurking in it.

Perrin on the other hand, possesses the self-preservation of a chihuahua and trudges ahead undeterred. The shadows bow before her confident gait, every movement loudly broadcasting to even the thickest of enemies, "Fuck around and find out."

But the closer we get to the motel, the stompier her footsteps become. I know she’s pissed that Dad left us but privately, I’m a little relieved. They’re both so strong, spitting in demonic faces with the gilded saliva of heroes. And me? I almost disappear into a fibrous ball of failure at the first sign of blood.

Unlocking the motel door, Perrin kicks it in to reveal Dad perched on the edge of the couch, mid phone call. The sleeves of his white cable knit sweater are rolled up and he jumps when the door bursts open, free hand flying to the pistol on the coffee table.

"Perrin Elizabeth!" he barks. "What have I told you about startling me?"

"That sooner or later, I’m gonna get shot," she quotes and shuffles past him to unload the groceries. "Yeah, yeah, yeah,"

The suite we’ve rented for the weekend is clean but run down, with a small couch, two chairs and a coffee table against one wall, all in various shades of brown and a king-sized bed with a flowery, orange duvet and two chipped nightstands against another. The third wall is taken up by a kitchenette with artificial marble countertops and the last wall houses the door to the adjoining room Perrin and I are sharing, with its small twin beds, scratchy blue comforters and crappy TV.

The motel itself is one of those older ones where the entrances open right onto the street, or in the case of our second-floor rooms, onto an open-air hallway with a metal railing. However, it doesn’t smell too funky so it’ll do for a short stay.

Dad has a map of the town unfolded before him and he gives me a succinct nod as he resumes, "Yeah, they’re both here. Sure, one sec." He puts the phone on speaker and turns it towards us. "Say hi to Uncle Morgan."

"Hi, Morg," I dutifully intone. My sister grunts from where she crouches in front of the fridge.

"Hey girls," chimes the tinny voice of my mom’s younger sibling. "I hope you’re being nice to your dad."

"When are we not?" Perrin shouts back and her combative tone makes me wince. You’d think I’d be used to it after ten years of hostilities on both sides, but it’s still tough to watch the slowly dwindling members of my family take shots at each other. And Perrin and Morgan long ago decided that they can’t stand to be in the same room with each other, much less have a civil conversation.

I’m pretty sure their feud started cuz of what happened to our brother. I’ve hounded them for details but everyone hates talking about it, about him. In fact, most questions surrounding my long-lost sibling are met with stony silences and slammed doors. But I have my theories. Pasted together through years of digging behind their backs.

Dad wraps up the call and I take a seat next to him, quashing those persistent nerves. Time to prove I’m an invaluable member of the team. "So, Hughes is haunting the dealership?"

"It seems so," he confirms. "I didn’t witness anything myself but the new manager was bursting to tell me about all the mysterious shi-er-stuff going on."

"At least you didn’t give us long-lasting abandonment issues for nothing," Perrin gripes.

Dad and I ignore her as he nods at the map, three red dots winking up at us. "I’ve marked their former places of employment on here. Low-Levels are often draw to establishments they frequented or places unassociated with death, as if chasing happy memories."

"If I’m ever brutally murdered, good luck finding my happy place," Perrin whispers, tossing a juice box my way before falling onto the adjacent chair, feet swinging over the armrest.

"The beach in Door County," I whisper back.

"How did you... Well damn, I stand corrected."

I flatten my lips in a smug grin. I know the answer cuz it’s my happy place too. One of the last places our family was somewhat whole.

Dad reaches into the accordion folder at his feet and pulls out the dreaded crime scene photos. "Focus," he chides, arranging them in a semi-circle on the coffee table. My grin turns into a grimace at the sight of them. "Now our next step is banishment. And how do we do that, Aceline?"

But I’m too distracted by the images. Harsh white flashes exposing bright red blood, punctured flesh, missing chunks of bodies that should be working and breathing and living. A hole where there was once an eye, a gap where there was once a jaw.

A gray beanie plops over the images, scattering them and yanking me out of grasping cotton fibers. When I look up gratefully, Perrin is already smoothing back her greasy hair and evading my eyes. She definitely didn’t do it on purpose to shield me from the worst of the violent pictures. And she definitely doesn’t do similar things all the time so as not to draw attention. Preferring to believe in the callous, indifferent character she’s conjured for herself.

"With their murder weapons," I answer my father with renewed confidence. "Stanfill killed Henry Malone with a semi-automatic rifle, an AR-15 I think, and the other two, Hughes and Serrano, were shot point blank with a pistol, a Magnum judging by the size and shape of the bullet holes."

Taking a sip of sugary goodness, I scan the map, eyeballing the distance between the three points. The archetypal lightbulb turns on in my head and I snag Dad’s red marker. "Hang on..."

Kneeling on the carpet, I play connect the dots as I think out loud, "Serrano’s grocery store, Hughes’ dealership and Malone’s motocross park." When I pull back, a perfectly symmetrical triangle links all three. "And look..." I squint to confirm the road signs before placing a dot directly in the center. "Bill Stanfill lived smack dab in the middle. Am I crazy, or is this too perfect to be random?"

Perrin leans forward and frowns. "Well, that’s... spooky."

"Spooky is good, right?" I probe, feeling superior. But their faces are uncharacteristically worried as they share a look. A nonverbal warning in their secret slayer language with no Rosetta Stone for me to translate. "Whoa. What’s up?"

My sister nosily slurps through her straw. "It’s probably nothing. I bet Stanfill was just super into geometry."

She’s lying. And badly.

"Or it’s a naturally occurring pattern that has nothing to do with Stanfill," Dad suggests. "Even demons aren’t above some regularities."

Now he’s lying! And he’s doing a way worse job too. But why? My assuredness shrinks beneath the sense that I only have a fraction of some sort of bigger picture. It’s infuriating.

"Whatever the case," he attempts to bring us back in, "we’ve got three Lows running around wreaking havoc. So, what’s our next move?"

Swallowing the sticky feeling trying to slither up my throat, I tap my lips with the tip of my finger. "Procuring the murder weapons. Stanfill killed himself in prison so the evidence was most likely returned to his family or auctioned off."

"That’s why I called Morgan," Dad corroborates, heading to the kitchenette to start dinner. And by that, I mean he presses some buttons on the oven to cook a frozen pepperoni pizza. "He confirmed that the guns are at the Stanfill house. Bill’s family is having trouble selling it, so it’s currently unoccupied."

Like our father, Uncle Morgan is an expert in the big, bad world of demonology. But his other, arguably more useful credentials include real estate mogul and incredibly powerful psychic. And I don’t mean the tarot card wielding, palm reading kind. I’m talking the seriously gifted, can tell you exactly where your lost dog is or when you’re gonna die, kind.

"Are we breaking and entering then?" Perrin fishes, crushing her empty juice box and tossing it across the room into the wastebasket. "A little smash and steal?"

"You know I don’t condone that," Dad weakly protests, glancing over at me. But when he catches sight of the red triangle on the map, his lips tighten into a thin line. "But yes, we need to steal them."

Still mystified, my eyes lower as well. Why does that simple shape inspire so much dread?

Shaking his large noggin, our father pulls some lettuce out of the fridge in a vain attempt to make us eat our veggies. "Perrin, did you bring your lock picks?"

"Does cat poop make you crazy?" she quips. Dad stares blankly and she backtracks. "The answer is duh, Reed. What do you take me for?"

"Then you and I will break into Stanfill’s tonight. It shouldn’t take us more than an hour or so."

"Ah yes, the secret spice of demon slaying." She happily sighs. "Crime."

He pauses in his salad prep but doesn’t comment. Instead, he calls over his shoulder, "Aceline?"

I perk up, more pumped than I should be at the prospect of a little B&E. This is the part of demonological work that my dad tries to downplay. But I always knew there were instances where they took the law into their own hands. All in the name of the greater good, of course.

"You’re going to stay here and see what else you can find on the other Low-Levels," he commands. "Even the smallest bit of information can be useful."

Biting the inside of my cheek so I don’t challenge his clear ploy to keep me out of the way, I nod like the good little girl I’m supposed to be.

Perrin sees straight through my ruse and as Dad puts the pizza in the oven, she jerks her head for me to follow her into the adjoining room.

"What’s with the face?" she asks, closing the door behind her.

"What face? I just loooove being left behind to do research." And being kept out of the loop.

"Ah." The sympathy in her gray eyes only serves to irritate me more. "It’s not like this is the fun part of the job."

I snort. "What’s the fun part then? Watching innocent people die in front of you?"

An eyebrow raises at my crappy attitude. "Why are you being such a brat right now?"

It takes an upsetting amount of effort to keep from stamping my foot like child. "I’ve literally been counting down the days to this and now you’re benching me in the first half? It’s not fair."

Slipping out of wine-stained jeans, she tosses them into a corner. "Stop acting like you’re being punished. Demons are one thing but breaking and entering? Stealing?" She tugs off the equally stained shirt, revealing a neon pink sports bra. "That’s a bit more morally ambiguous."

Lamplight catches on the silver chain around her neck from which dangles one of those oval medals that Catholic people love. It belonged to our brother and I’ve never seen her without it. My eyes follow the flashing medallion as she unpacks her cleanest black shirt, a baggy vintage number with the ’Bat Out of Hell’ album cover printed on the front. She loves Meat Loaf. No clue why.

"Can I ask you something weird?" The question bursts from my mouth before I can shove it back in. Sparked by thoughts of our brother and the salty scent of blood still clinging to my nostrils. "And you promise you won’t get mad?"

She skewers me with a wicked side-eye before pulling the shirt over her head. "I promise nothing."

Flopping onto my designated twin bed, I scooch just out of reach in case she starts swinging. Common sense says to turn back now but some cat killing curiosity compels me to finish what I started. "When you turn nineteen in a few months, does that, um, officially make you the oldest?"

Perrin freezes while tugging on a pair of dark jeans. The pain that lances across her face makes me regret every word I’ve ever said. I open my mouth to apologize but then something cold and unbothered slams over her features. Like a mask clicking into place.

"I hadn’t thought about that." Her voice has dipped multiple octaves. "But huh, I guess so. Thanks for bringing that cheery little nugget to my attention."

I hug my knees to my chest. "You’re mad."

"Which is why I don’t make promises based on limited information."

She finishes dressing in stormy silence, reversing her bomber jacket from olive-green to black and stowing her lock picks in the pocket. I’m scrambling for something, anything to say, to cut the tension that’s cropped up in the wake of my foot-in-mouth disease.

There’s a knock on the connecting door and when Dad opens it, salad in hand, he’s already changed into his own dark clothes. "You almost ready?" he asks through a mouthful of greens.

"Five more minutes." She pauses in lacing her black Timbs to look him up and down. "Are you wearing a turtleneck?"

Dad peeks at the shirt under his black Carhartt, baffled by the question. "It’s cold outside."

"Nerd," she yells, slamming the door in his face. Then she turns to me and, in a gesture of good faith, holds up a rubber band. "Braid my hair?"

I smile, accepting the truce and tap the bedspread. She can braid just fine but claims that my plaits stay in longer. I think she just likes it when I play with her hair. Sitting with an excited bounce, she tilts her head back and I climb to my knees for a better angle. It’s too short to braid the whole thing so I just do the top half, pulling it back and out of her eyes. She sighs in contentment as I run my fingers through the wavy strands, separating them into sections.

"So, hey," I begin, hoping to catch her off guard in her blissed-out state. "What’s the deal with that weird triangle?"

A muscle in her neck twitches and I steel myself for more evasion. "It’s most likely a fluke. Nothing to get worked up about."

Liar.

"And if it’s not?" I nudge. "Come on, I can handle it."

She waves me away. "I know you can. And when I figure it out, you’ll be the first to know."

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

Disappointment coats my tongue as I tie off the braid and shove her from the bed. "Off you go. Hope you have a criminally good time."

Perrin snickers and shoots some finger guns my way. "Don’t forget to take the pizza outta the oven. Save me a slice."

The motel room is disgustingly quiet when they leave. And I’m just disgusted. Why don’t they trust me? Why won’t my sister share what’s on her mind? If there’s something serious happening, shouldn’t I have all the information so I can make the most informed decision?

The oven beeps and I consider just letting the pizza burn the whole motel down. But my stomach rumbles loudly and I drag my feet over to the kitchenette. As I’m slicing into the steaming cheese and sauce, a phone rings on the countertop. It’s Dad’s. He forgot it.

I don’t recognize the number but I pick it up anyway. "Dr. Reed Slate’s phone. How can I help you?"

"Oh, um, hi," says a hesitant male voice. "This is Terry Han, from the grocery store. Dr. Slate helped me with an accident earlier. Is he there?"

He must be the guy who lifted the shelf. "Not at the moment, but I can take a message," I mumble through a mouthful of pizza. The sauce burns the roof of my mouth but if you ask me, that only adds to the experience.

"Um, ok. I saw on his business card that he’s some sort of paranormal investigator?"

Swallowing quickly, I drop the pizza and lower my voice to sound older. "He’s actually a professor of demonology. A leading expert, in fact. But yes, he – I mean, we have been known to do some paranormal investigating. What can I help you with, Terry?"

I’m very pleased with my professional tone. I don’t know why Perrin hates phone calls so much. This is easy.

"Well, I think there’s something at the grocery store worth investigating." The confession is halting, tinged with a bashful unease. "This is one of his daughters, right? Can you guys come back? I’m here by myself and..." My heart is beating so loud that I almost miss his next words. "I don’t think I’m alone."

"I’ll be right there," I exclaim and hang up before he can specifically request the help of the large man who lifted a metal shelf instead of the small girl who can barely curl a free weight.

I cram the rest of the pizza slice into my mouth and bolt into my room, a litany of excuses and justifications tumbling through my head. Shedding my street clothes in favor of some sneaky black duds, I stand in front of the floor-length mirror to braid my own hair. My outfit doesn’t look as cool as I thought it would, the black sweatshirt a little too big and my black sneakers a little too new. And I look even younger with my hair pulled back, the baby hairs dark little whisps against my pale forehead.

Then I clock Perrin’s long black peacoat hanging in the closet. Maybe something borrowed will pull the outfit together. I shrug into it, pulling my hood over the collar and flipping the tails dramatically behind me. Unfortunately for her, it looks amazing.

Fully decked out, I return to the suite where I heft one of the gun cases out from under the bed and onto the mattress. Thumbing the combination lock, the top flips open to reveal a gleaming, 12-gauge sawed off shotgun, specially loaded with salt and iron filled shells. Demons hate both substances and will shy away from a well-placed shot, buying the slayer time in a pinch. Me and this baby have logged many an hour together. Under supervision, of course.

My hands tingle with a sudden burst of nerves as I stare down at the weapon. Am I actually doing this? Am I really gonna rush headlong into a demon’s den without back up? Just to prove a point?

Then the face of the old man flashes across my vision again and I realize it’s more than that. I can’t just sit here and twiddle my thumbs while there’s a violent entity on the loose. Dad and Perrin are going to have Serrano’s murder weapon soon, so the least I can do is stop her from killing this Terry Han guy in the meantime. Ok, and maybe a little part of me also wants to prove that I can handle myself. That I’m just as good at this as my family.

So yeah. I’m doing this.

I check to make sure the gun is properly loaded and grab a few more of the specially filled shells. My heart is beating out a rhythm more appropriate to a Broadway dance number than keeping a human alive. They’re gonna be so mad when they find out what I’ve done. That I’ve left. But I’m confident I can make them understand. I’ve always been good at talking my way out of their anger. Better to ask forgiveness than permission, anyway.

And with a cock of the shotgun, I stroll into the night. Time to go a slaying.

Next Chapter: Chapter 3: Perrin Slate