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For William Mayol (1989–2017)
Acknowledgments
This book wouldn’t exist without Diana, my editor. I’d also like to thank Erich, for basically feeding me while I wrote this book; Pip, for a receptive ear; Amar, for feedback on transmasculine representation; Eleni for help with the Greek; Heather for letting me steal her name; Marybeth for encouragement and help with outlining; Firestorm Books & Coffee for being my office; and the queers and the punks and the anarchists of Asheville for being such an amazing community. I'd like to thank some of my patrons: Chris Costello, Sam Mikesell, and Hoss, the dog. I’d like to thank everyone who has put their body and their freedom on the line in this era of growing oppression. Finally, I’d like to thank everyone I’ve ever committed a crime with: without you I wouldn’t be the writer I am today.
ONE
The towering bursts of flame that staggered their way across the empty, black horizon weren’t helping my mood. I’d been dozing in the backseat of the car, my head against Brynn’s shoulder, but the staccato, silent bursts were too eerie to sleep through.
“Where the hell are we?” I asked.
Outside, as far as I could see, were featureless plains. No stars in the sky, just blackness. Blackness and fire.
“Hell’s about the word for it,” Brynn said. She was gazing out the window, her face lit a little by the interior lights of the car and a lot by the occasional streaks of fire outside. A single thick black tattoo line cut its way down her face from her short bangs to the bridge of her nose, and her face was severe. Even more severe than usual. Or maybe I was just drowsy.
The rest of the passengers were silent, and we tore down the road through all that darkness.
It was gas flaring. As I woke up more properly, I remembered. Must be in North Dakota somewhere. Excess natural gas production, beyond what they’ve got the infrastructure for, gets burned off. I’d never seen it with my own eyes, those flames that stood in monument to the wastefulness of civilization.
My left shoulder ached where thread—regular sewing thread—held together a crowbar wound. My right hand was sore, still, and mottled with supernatural gray where an undead goat had bitten it.
Behind us, a thousand miles of highway ago, was nothing. Dead bodies and probably some investigators who wanted explanations we couldn’t really give. A demon killed those police officers, sir. It wasn’t us. They probably shouldn’t have pulled guns out around a bloodred, three-antlered deer with obvious supernatural agility, so whose fault was it really.
No one would believe us. A week ago, I wouldn’t have believed us. We couldn’t go back.
Ahead of us, there was also nothing. We had a sort of scattershot map of towns with friends who might shelter us, of places that might have books or witches who could teach us. Doomsday was convinced that if we made it to the Washington coast, we’d eventually find people who’d get us on a boat to the islands off the coast of Canada. Vulture had a Google map populated with disappearances and strange phenomena we might look into. But none of us had anything concrete. No real plans, only chaos.
This is how we’re meant to live.
* * *
Thursday drove for sixteen hours straight, his fists gripping the wheel at ten and two. No music on the stereo, but the ethereal, washed-out voices of AM radio preachers were on sometimes. I think they were telling us we were going to hell. I always assume that voices like those are telling me that.
We left the fields of fire behind just as the sun edged over the horizon behind us. Thursday pulled into a rest area “to watch dawn, maybe eat something,” but once the engine was off he didn’t even make it out of the driver’s seat before he fell asleep.
The rest of us, better rested, leaned against the car in the chilly morning air and watched that sunrise. If you stay up all night, you owe it to yourself to watch sunrise, every time.
Vulture passed around a tiny bottle of orange juice he produced from somewhere, maybe his hoodie pocket because those blue jean short-shorts sure didn’t have serious pockets on them. He would have made a good stage magician. He had the right kind of charm, and all of his motions were fluid, almost hypnotizing. He smiled easily, and even though his smile rarely looked genuine, when he smiled you found yourself smiling too.
“Is this going to work out?” Brynn asked, breaking hours of silence. She was sitting on top of the spray painted–red old Honda Civic hatchback, her steel-toed boots hanging down over the side. She ripped at a pomegranate, casting its pulp onto the pavement. Her arms were bare to the shoulder—I’m not sure she owned any T-shirts that still had their sleeves.
“On a long enough timeline,” Doomsday said, “no. But it’ll work out today.” Even if she was only just now learning to weave words into ritual magic, Doomsday had a way of warping the world around her when she spoke.
“What’s more important?” I asked. “Laying low or our new career?” It was idle curiosity, nothing more. What mattered was our motion, not our purpose.
“Laying low,” Doomsday said.
“Find some demons,” Vulture said, at the same time.
They looked at one another. They’d known one another
