My father and I pull out of the parking lot in his cherry red, ’06 Chevy Silverado and I twist to smack him in the shoulder. Not super hard, but enough to express my frustration. Because I am very frustrated by this turn of events.

"How could you have missed that?" I challenge. "You’re supposed to be good at this."

"Careful how you speak to me, young lady," he scowls. "And you missed it too."

"I thought Ace had been thorough. I didn’t think to double check her work." Rubbing both hands over my face, I peek at him between my fingers. "On a scale of one to eleven, how fucked are we?"

"Language, please," Dad complains. It’s begun to snow, specks of white dancing past my window. The screeching windshield wipers set my teeth on edge as we turn onto a busy street and he sighs, "I think we’re still at a three. It really could just be a coincidence."

"And if it’s not?" I press. "If there’s something else here?"

"Then that would be an eight. Maybe even a nine."

From his guarded tone, I know his brain is pinging with the same information mine is. That triangle is bad. Potentially, super bad.

"Ace knows something’s up," I warn him. "Or at least she suspects."

Dad’s eyes throw accusations at me in the rearview mirror. "That’s because you’re terrible at lying to her."

"Have you seen that face? All cute and wide-eyed? You try lying to that."

"I’ve successfully managed it twice." He holds up two fingers. "Santa and the Easter Bunny."

"Yeah, until she caught you pretending to be both."

"Took me forever to get out of that net," he grumbles.

I play with the radio to avoid voicing my next concern. A terrifying, bone-chilling concern that threatens to break the dam I’ve spent the last ten years building. On Loveline, a woman complains about how she can’t get her cheating boyfriend to stop cheating. On another channel, Delilah’s soothing voice expresses her love for her audience. On a third, a shock jock makes some sort of fake farting noise.

"Do you think..." I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. "Do you think it could be him?"

Dad drums the steering wheel, his expression unreadable. "We shouldn’t immediately assume the worst. Not without further proof. If a High-Level Demon is involved, then the triangular configuration pretty much confirms it. They’re the only ones who follow patterns and respond to rituals."

Just the phrase spoken aloud, casually dropped from my father’s lips, sends a shudder through that internal dam. A High-Level Demon. Here. Near my family. Again.

"Such drama queens," I joke to cover the unease, my sanity a small boat pitching across rippling waves.

"Be grateful they’re predictable," Dad counters, oblivious to my distress. "Otherwise, they’d be that much more dangerous."

"So, what? You’re thinking possession?"

"Unfortunately."

"But why?" I gripe, falling back against my seat. "Why possess a mild-mannered mall janitor? Why kill those people and risk making Lows? I thought High-Levels didn’t play well with others."

"They don’t," Dad grunts, tuning into a classic rock station where Mötley Crüe shouts at the devil. I wish I could join them.

We hit a red light and I peek at him in the crimson glow. Shadows form in the crevices of his wrinkles, bushy white brows furrowed over eyes that Ace and I share: pale gray irises encircled by a darker ring of smoke. He’s so much harder to read than my sister with her open book for a face.

"If we’re right, then I don’t want Ace mixed up in this," he decides. "There’s a reason she’s on a strict information diet when comes to High-Levels. She’s nowhere near ready."

"No arguments here." I tap the door with the side of my fist and sigh. "But Dad, we can’t just bounce. First of all, Ace won’t let us. And second, Serrano’s already killed someone. You’re always saying the reason we do this is to help people."

"Why else would we do it?" he asks. "It’s not like it pays well."

"Or at all," I mutter.

Dad’s eyes dart towards mine and then away just as quickly, but I catch the vulnerability in them. "For the record, every paternal instinct I have is shouting at me to grab you guys and run," is all he says. But it’s easy to read between the lines. Losing any more of our family would literally kill him, a sentiment I share. We Slates are practically an endangered species.

I pat him awkwardly on the arm. Displays of affection are difficult for us both but I want him to know I understand. That I’m also freaking out but doing my best to shove it as far down as possible. Not the healthiest of coping mechanisms, but I am a product of my environment. "If we take retreating off the table... Can we even fight one of them?"

"Salt and iron won’t stop a High-Level for long, and bullets will only hurt it enough to make it mad," Dad lists out, tapping his thumbs again. "We could try to exorcise it, but that would mean intentionally seeking it out and pinning it down for an extended period of time."

"Which is risky," I add, puttering my lips. "Especially now that Bill’s dead, we don’t know who it’s possessing."

Dad pauses as we turn into a large cul-de-sac in a dime a dozen suburban neighborhood. It’s still early enough that all of the houses on the street are illuminated, filled with normal, happy families. All except one. Mr. Bill Stanfill’s.

"Let’s stay focused on the Lows for now," he determines. "Who knows? Maybe the High-Level isn’t even here anymore. It could’ve just popped in to cause a bit of chaos and popped out. They’re cagy bastards. Their motives don’t always make sense."

I puff a cheerless laugh. "That’s exactly what worries me."

We park a little way down the road so as not to attract attention and equip ourselves with our guns, a basic XD .9mm for me and a Colt 1911 for Dad. I wiggle into my shoulder holster and double check that the pistol is loaded with the proper ammo. We’re not expecting any trouble, but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared.

The eerie vibes of the house only strengthen as we approach. A single-story ranch house, it’s not too small, nice but not that nice, expansive lawn, the whole shebang. Normal. Average. But a sense of dread hits me the minute we cross the property line, like there’s a monster lurking just past the front door.

"This feels like the beginning of one of those Halloween movies," I comment, an unintentionally guarded note to my voice.

"Is that the guy with the knife glove?"

"No, Dad. The masked killer who stalks babysitters."

"The hockey mask guy?"

"Ugh, forget it."

We sneak across the well-manicured lawn like the old pros we are. The snowfall has gotten heavier, and the winter wind howls loudly through the neighborhood, whipping small flakes around our heads. My father easily hoists me up and over Stanfill’s wooden fence so I can open it for him then keeps a look out as I pick the lock on the glass backdoor. In seconds, a dull clunk announces my success and we’re in.

If I thought the outside was suspiciously normal, the inside looks like a magazine spread from Better Homes and Gardens. White carpet stretches before us and beige furniture takes up most of the living room. The hearth is lined with picture frames full of dead-eyed people laughing and tribal masks adorn one of the walls. I have to suppress a shiver at their shadowy features. It all looks so perfect and so fake.

"Are we sure Stanfill was possessed?" My tone is hushed even though we’re the only ones in the house. "This room definitely looks like a serial killer decorated it. Too much beige."

"What’s wrong with beige?" Dad protests.

We slink further into the house and I can’t shake the feeling that something’s off. There’s a presence in this place, hovering just out of reach. It’s bleaker than the grocery store, older and more pervasive. I have to keep from glancing over my shoulder every few minutes.

Dad begins his search in the kitchen and I make my way down the darkened hallway, pulling out a small pen light that does little to fight the gloom. The first door I open leads to a nice, clean bathroom. Just the kind I like. I contemplate locking myself inside to hide from the oppressive atmosphere but I resist the temptation. Also, my butthole is too puckered to poop right now.

The next door opens onto an office. It’s small with a desk and black leather swivel chair and the sandy walls are bare except for a floor to ceiling bookshelf to my right. I scan the titles. Law books, a few religious texts, binders and an ungodly amount of Clive Cussler and Dan Brown.

While these first signs of habitation should relax me, they make the hairs on my neck stand up. It’s like an alien googled "How to Make Friends and Act Human". Like someone, or something is trying too hard to appear normal.

There are a few tax forms strewn across the desk along with newspaper clippings in a foreign language, Russian if I had to guess, lunar calendars, pages filled with Latin and what looks like the beginning of a novel written in French. "Putain du merde," I mutter as I sort through it. A cursory search in the rest of the drawers reveals nothing useful or interesting. And there are no guns in here either.

But why would Stanfill have this stuff? Was he more than just a good-natured janitor? Or was there someone else working out of this office?

"Find ’em?" Dad asks and I almost jump out of my skin. I whip the penlight around to shine it in his eye and he flinches, throwing a hand across his face.

"No, but how’s your Russian?" I ask, holding up some forms as I restore my pulse to its resting sixty beats per minute.

"Rusty." He cocks his head for me to follow. "We got one more room to search."

I can practically hear the rumbling kettle drums of doom as we face the door at the end of the hallway. So, this is where the horrific presence has been pulsing from. We stare at it, unmoving, and Dad subtly squares his shoulders to shield me from whatever might be waiting for us.

"What is that?" I whisper.

"Something evil." His voice is equally low and just as rough. "Stay back. I’ll go first."

He steps forward to place his hand on the doorknob and without any warning whatsoever, his body seizes up and a strangled gasp escapes his throat.

"Dad!" I grab his other arm to pull him back but he’s rigid and immovable, solid as one of Medusa’s statues. As the smell of burning flesh fills the air, I link my arms around his waist and a chilling rigidity creeps into my core. If this is 1/5th of what he’s experiencing, then I have to move fast. Throwing my whole body backwards, my weight and momentum succeed in breaking his hold on the knob so that he falls on top of me. My father is a big man and I’m crushed under his bulk, the breath whooshing out of my lungs.

Stabbing him in the side with my finger, I manage to squeak out, "Dad?"

With a grunt he rolls off and we lie side by side on the carpet, breathing heavily.

"Are you ok?" I pant through gulps of precious air. "What happened?"

"Demonic Ward," he sputters. "I should’ve known. A trap set to immobilize anyone who tries to break in."

He sits up with a hiss and shows me his palm. There’s a small pentagram burned into the middle of it, similar to a brand. But as I watch, it slowly fades to white.

"I don’t like this," he says cryptically. "Let’s get out of here."

Climbing to my feet, I help him to his. He’s in peak physical condition for a fifty-two-year-old, but his movements are sluggish after whatever that knob did to him.

"Come on," I poke the bear. "You’re really gonna let one teensy little ward scare you?"

Snagging the penlight off the carpet, I aim it at the door, half expecting it to be carved with demonic symbols and leaking bile from the cracks. But it’s just a door. A plain, wooden door.

The muscle in his eye leaps in annoyance. "Remind me later to have a conversation about your tone." But he steadies under my cynicism, just as I knew he would.

Drawing in a deep breath, he produces a red bandana and a bottle of saltwater from his inner pocket, coats the bandana in the water and wraps it around his now unmarked hand. The base of my spine tingles when he grasps the knob and I crouch in preparation, just in case I need to come to his rescue again. There’s a hissing noise like a hot iron being doused but then the knob turns and slowly, apprehensively, he pushes open the door.

The night sky is elegantly framed in the single, circular window of the large, hexagonal room. In another life, this must have been the main bedroom, but now, it’s clear no human has slept here for some time. It’s empty, the white carpet glowing in the dim light, except for two floor to ceiling wooden shelves filled with every type of weapon you can imagine. Guns, knives, battleaxes, maces, nun chucks, hammers, and swords vie for space and significance, each one tagged with a tiny piece of paper hanging from twine.

"Curiouser and curiouser," I murmur, since speaking any louder seems disrespectful to the powerful vibes oozing from every surface.

Directly beneath the window, in a place of reverence, is a podium. On it sits a polished, mahogany box, the type you would keep a finished manuscript in. Swirling, golden script covers each side, written in a language I’ve never seen and a strange, golden symbol has been hammered into the top. It’s oddly familiar as it gleams seductively in the moonlight, but I can’t place it. It’s... beautiful.

A hand lands on my shoulder. "Are you alright?" Dad asks.

The blood rushes back to my head and dizziness comes crashing behind. I blink and touch my fingers to my face. Am I crying? I haven’t done that in years. My feet have moved on their own, bringing me to stand directly in front of the box. What the hell?

Running a knuckle under one leaking eye, I nod, trying to think of a snarky comeback. But words elude me, a rare occurrence.

Dad shoots me a worried look. Whatever this thing is, it’s not affecting him the same way. He clears his throat and scans the shelves. "What is all this stuff?"

"Some sort of ghoulish personal museum?" I sniff, dragging myself away from the glimmering box to look around. But I feel its presence more intensely now, a spotlight trained on my very soul.

"Start going through it. I bet the guns are somewhere in here." He elbows me. "I’ll buy you a beer if you find them first."

I try to chuckle but it comes out mirthless and my hands tremble as I pick up a pistol to read its dangling tag. Listed on the white square is the name of the person who wielded it, the date it was used, and the names of those it killed. It seems this room is an arsenal of Low-Level murder weapons. Which should send my Spidey-Senses tingling again but I’m too distracted. The writing keeps dancing across my vision, like I’m in a dream, every cell in my body vibrating with a deep, savage curiosity.

Dad makes a triumphant noise and I realize that I’ve been staring at the same gun, unmoving, my back blistering where I can feel the box calling to me.

My father says my name. I don’t respond. I barely hear him.

I’m in front of the box again. A mist consumes my vision until the beautifully polished mahogany is all I can see. The symbol begins to glow, setting off a chain reaction that lights up all the swirling golden script, illuminating my face.

I want to touch it.

I shouldn’t touch it.

I have to touch it.

The survivalist part of my brain screams at me, Danger, Perrin Slate. Danger. It sounds strangely like Ace’s voice.

But I don’t listen.

I lift my hand and plant it directly on the glowing golden symbol. The box is warm to the touch and purrs under my palm. There’s the whirring of an inner mechanism and a lock clicks, lifting the lid.

Before I can see what’s inside, I’m yanked backwards to fall against Dad’s barrel of a chest, panting heavily and blinking back more tears.

He spins me around to face him and as the fog fades from my sight, all I can see are wide, worried eyes. Gently patting my cheeks, his echoing, frightened words bring me back to myself. "Perrin? Perrin! Hey. Snap out of it!"

"Did you find the murder weapons?" My own voice sounds faraway, stifled in my ears.

"Forget them. What’s happening with you?"

"It’s the box," I breathe, and my eyes slide past him to settle on it once more. "I have to see what’s inside."

"Absolutely not. We’re leaving. Now." He tries to tow me from the room but I resist, planting my feet so I become an immovable force. If I don’t figure out what’s in there, I’m afraid I’ll die of this mystifying, aching desire. I also vaguely register that this reaction is very out of character for me. I usually don’t give a shit about anything.

"Do you trust me?" I dreamily ask.

"Not right now," is his honest response.

"But I have to see."

Before he can throw me over his shoulder, I kick out his bad knee and dive for the box. My father curses as my fingers touch the lid, warm and buzzing beneath the tips and eager as a kid in a candy store, I throw it open.

Inside is a stack of paper, brown, ancient and crumbling. Black columns of sinuous script, the penmanship dramatic and full of flourishes, flow across the page. I’m reminded of the time I tea stained some computer paper so Ace could pretend that she was writing letters in the 1800s. She was going through a Brontë Sisters phase at the time.

Now that the box has opened, I feel more myself. As if its sole purpose was for me to see these pages. The dreamlike quality dissolves and I release the lid as if shocked.

"What is it?" My father’s voice slices through my surprise and I turn to see he’s aimed his pistol directly at the box. Like he expects some creature to leap out of it and hug my face.

"It’s just a bunch of dead trees," I reassure him with an unexpected amount of calm. "Stand down, Soldier." But internally, my tiny boat of sanity is pitching wildly back and forth, the whitecaps threatening to overtake it.

His gun doesn’t waver, however, as I reach in and lift the stack for a closer look. They’re achingly delicate, crinkling at my touch, and at the bottom of each are three smaller versions of the box’s seal, arranged in, you guessed it, a triangle.

"Huh," Dad hums, peering over my shoulder. "Not what I was expecting."

I thumb through them. It’s a list of names. Pages and pages of names. Two hundred names. Five hundred. Eight hundred. Every single one with a little reddish brown check mark next to it, the color suspiciously close to dried blood.

"Maybe it’s a list of people who wronged Stanfill?" I guess, failing to grasp their significance even while a creeping suspicion has slithered into my gut. "It looks hella old though."

And then I get to the last page. There are just two names on it, and they’re the only ones unchecked. "What the fuck?" I hiss.

"Language."

"No." I shove the page in his face. "Dad, what the fuck?"

In that flowing, ancient script, the last two names read:

999. Perrin Slate

1000. Aceline Slate

"Balls," my father swears.

"What is this?" I demand, my shaking hand fisting in the fragile paper. "And why does Bill have it?" My eyes dart over our names, seeking an explanation. "Was he some kind of pervert? Has he been stalking us?"

Dad doesn’t answer, turning inward as he calculates to himself. A sharp flash of emotion has him resembling a man on death row, horror dilating his pupils. But then he closes his eyes, shoots air out through his nose and he’s his stoic self again.

"I don’t think anything in this house still belongs to Stanfill," he admits. "I suspect that our mysterious High-Level must have stayed here for some time."

I’m still clinging desperately to the bobbing mast of the SS Sanity but at this revelation, the poor thing has been shoved into the middle of a storm with no land in sight and a cyclone on the horizon. Not because my name is on this creepy list. Because my sister’s is, written in a way I’ve never seen, the ink on the page perhaps older than I am, older than I’ll ever be.

"Maybe the names are a coincidence?" Dad tries, unnerved by my silence. But there’s something in the delivery that feels like a lie. No, not a lie exactly. An evasion? A half-truth? Whatever it is, it stinks.

I bark a mean laugh in his face. "Another coincidence, huh? How many more of those do we have to stumble across before you take this shit seriously?"

"Watch it."

"Please, you and Mom weren’t exactly traditional when it came to picking baby names. This is us!" I scream, the dam cracking and leaking and threatening to burst completely. "Our names on a demon’s list. In a demon’s den. Ace’s name."

"Stop. Breathe." He squeezes my arm to get my attention, bringing me back to myself. "I can’t have you spiraling. Not now. I need you."

Dragging breath after breath through flaring nostrils, I do my best to obey. Cuz he’s right, damn it. I can’t just sink into my grief and take the easy way out. I have to stay focused, clearheaded. If only to keep my head above water. My bottom lip slides between my teeth and I dip my chin to let him know that my grip on reality hasn’t wavered. There will be no drowning today.

Dad grunts and gathers up the AR-15 semi-automatic rifle and the .357 Magnum laying on the floor. Our wayward Low-Level Demons’ murder weapons. I guess I’m not getting that beer, after all.

"I retract my previous assumptions around the High-Level’s whereabouts," he thinks out loud, using me as a sounding board. "It wouldn’t leave something like this lying around unprotected. We need to move. Put those pages away and close that thing. Leave no trace we were here."

I want to fight some more, to rage some more, but I also want to get the hell out of this house before I come face to possessed face with our worst-case scenario. So, careful not to touch the wood again with my bare skin, I gingerly tuck those fragile papers back where they belong and use my elbow to close their demented box with a soft snick.

All except for that last page. When my father’s back is turned, that one I discretely roll and slip into the inside pocket of my jacket. Screw this demon. He doesn’t get to have my sister’s name anywhere near his pervy, horribly decorated home.

I follow Dad through the house and back out into the whipping wind. Luckily the falling snow doesn’t seem to be sticking so we don’t leave any tracks when we sneak across the expansive lawn. Reaching the Chevy, Dad throws the guns into the truck bed and opens the passenger door for me, but I hesitate.

"Um, Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"It’s just that..." There I go, losing my words again. Damn it, I’m tougher than this. Paddle above the water line. Don’t drown. Just say it. "Dad, I think it’s him."

Memories burst through, refusing to be dammed any longer. Irises the color of newly spilt blood. The same bright hue spreading across a white carpet, splattered across gray walls. The wet pop of tearing flesh. Screaming that ripped my throat apart so viciously that I couldn’t speak for weeks afterwards. A proposition with deadly consequences. An answer I couldn’t give.

"He promised he’d be back. And then..." I trail off, fear sealing my throat. Wiping my mouth, I pull down on the corners and let out a strangled sound that may or may not be in the same genus as a sob.

Dad lowers his face to mine and takes me by the shoulders again, leaving me no choice but to look him directly in the eyes. "There are seventy-two, High-Level Demons in the Ars Goetia, alone," he says gently, referencing the famous demonological grimoire that’s a slayer’s bread and butter. "And hundreds, if not thousands more across every culture imaginable. It could be any number of them."

"But what if it isn’t?" I push. Now that I’ve come to terms with the possibility, I can’t help but fixate on it. On him. "What if our luck has run out?"

But my father refuses to let me catastrophize. He’s always been good like that. Stern? Sure. Exasperated? Almost constantly. But always focused. Always quick to soothe. However, the brutal gleam in his eyes scares me when he says, "Then he’s picked his last fight. Because I will burn him alive before I let him lay so much as a finger on you. Or your sister."

Tears gather in my eyes again. But at least this time, they’re mine.

"I know you’re scared. Hell, I am too. And we’re going to get to the bottom of this. Of what that list means. But I can’t lose you to the ’What if’ game," he says, voice firm. "I don’t have all the answers, honey. All I know is that right now, we have a job to do. And I need a partner that’s strong enough to do it. Understood?"

Hysterical laughter tries to bubble past my lips but I swallow it. I’ve seen death, I’ve seen horror, I’ve seen shit that would cripple most men and seriously traumatize most women. And yet I’m still here. Still fighting the good fight. "Understood."

Cuz, I got this. I’m strong. Except when it comes to one particular thing...

"But let’s keep this whole High-Level threat from Ace. At least for now," I coolly propose, my detachment concealing the selfishness. "It’s her first slaying trip. I don’t wanna freak her out."

Because when she hurts, I hurt. When she’s scared, I’m scared. And seeing my fear in her eyes will only make the threat that much more real.

Dad taps his nose. "Mum’s the word."

Soon we’re driving down the near empty streets back to the motel, the windshield wipers lulling me into an almost meditative state. I’m debating just letting my eyes fall closed when my phone buzzes, startling me. It’s Ace.

Promise u wont freak out, the message reads. Never a good start.

What did I say about making me promise things? I text back.

Meet me @ Linda’s store.

I sit up straighter and my fingers fly over the sticky keys. Y? Whats at the store?

I am. And I need u ASAP. Don’t be mad. Pls & thnk u!

Next Chapter: Chapter 4: Ace Slate