Before long, a scale-studded beast crawled out of the swampand into the sticks. I crouched down low on my stomach to take aim. Thedarkness was unbroken and the mist thick, but I could hear the creature moving.Demons can look like anything, but they always stomp over the earth like itbelongs to them. I cocked the gun, resting the barrel on my shoulder, and letmy middle finger ghost over the trigger.
Worst part of cutting down a demon is burying the body, nocontest, but hunting made me anxious when it didn’t go quick. Sometimes I waslucky and hit my prey between the eyes or in the sternum; when I wasn’t, I hadto take aim again. I aimed for the legs, the face, the gut—anything to bringthem down long enough for me to make the killing blow. Digging a hole for thebody by myself was hard work, but at least when I hunted alone I didn’t have towait while Martha yanked out a canine for her collection.
That night, though, I didn’t even get a chance to take ashot. The demon was lumbering closer when a beam of light caught my eye. Ilooked over my shoulder, fumbled to my feet.
A man stood in the ferns, and he looked pleased when Iinhaled a quick, sharp breath at the sight of him. He lowered the lantern and Ifelt exposed, having been found crouching in the reeds like an animal,swamp-muck dripping down my knees.
I frowned at him, said, “Sir, are you lost?”
“I was hoping that you wouldn’t be the lead I was following,”said the purewater man. “There are a lotta demons in Pryor, Esther Grace, butI’ve been suspecting more than half of ‘em live in you.”
I know there must have been recognition on my face when hesaid demons. But I remembered to look confused again when I realizedthat he meant demons like any self-respecting Pryor man means demons:dressed-up words for that second slice of pie or broom closet tryst,insubstantial things which never tore Emmalyn Blanchard, or the town of Pryor,for that matter, in half. I squinted into the lantern. Said, “Am I in anytrouble, sir?”
“You’re in some trouble, I’m afraid.”
We stood still as stones for a second. I had the peculiarconviction that I couldn’t have moved if I wanted to. Then I broke into a run.I couldn’t see him, not even when I looked back over my shoulder, but I couldhear his footsteps coming down on the rotten leaves and the thick drags of hisbreath. My own breath just about stopped up in my throat. I’d never seen apurewater man work before, but I knew what was supposed to happen. He wassupposed to root out corruption.
My daddy’s gun was still tucked underneath my armpit, but Iknew I couldn’t hope to reach it in time. Every victory I’d known in these deepdark woods felt like it happened a hundred years ago in a dream. I could hardlyremember the clacking sound of the demon teeth on Martha Blanchard’s necklace.I hadn’t been prey in a long time, but I was prey now, living no further in thefuture than each footstep that came down hard and unsteady on the fresh mud.
The purewater man wasn’t fast but the woods never trickedhim, and he never got slowed down by anything. He was far behind me, I thought,and then I stumbled and fell to my knees and all at once he was right therereaching out for me, his white hands protruding brightly from the mist. Iheaved a shallow breath and swung the butt of my gun at him. I collided withhis gut on my third try. He flinched back long enough for me to crawl into thearms of the trees, to get up on my feet again, to run so hard I thought I’dburn a hole in my lungs. I was scared but I was also furious. I did what I wassupposed to, I was careful, and still I was going to die like Mama, likeEmmalyn Blanchard, like everyone else ever laid on the Pryor altar.
I moved faster now that I’d already fallen. Not svelte andsoundless like a native to the forest, but ruthless. Too full of rage and fearto stop for anything. When I pushed aside the low-hanging branches of a willowtree and half-tumbled down a hillside, I saw that I’d ended up in White ThroatHoller again. The moon was high and white, spilling light over black-eyed birchtrees and barren ground. There’d been a drought in Pryor since EmmalynBlanchard died; this far from the swamp, nothing was left alive. Three weeksago, when I’d last been here, grass still hid the black line burnt into theground.
I followed the burnt line to the end of my eye line, whereit trailed on and on to divide the trees. I couldn’t see any end. When Emmalyncrossed that line, she disappeared. Then she ended up in the river, coveredwith two days’ worth of muck and a whole lot deader than she was when shevanished.
The purewater man came fast into the glen, then stoppedshort. I watched his throat jerk with exhaustion and slowly I aimed my daddy’sshotgun at his forehead.
“Tell me what this is,” I said, and motioned with one handat the burnt mark while the other hand squeezed the life out of the trigger.
His eyes were wide and wet and almost see-through. “Allright,” he said. “What do you want to know?”
“Why is there a line here? Why did Emmalyn disappear? Howcome now there are demons in our town? I better know everything. All of it.”
“You know your town isn’t like other towns,” he said.
“Why not?”
“It just isn’t.”
I cocked the gun. “Why not?”
He swallowed, wouldn’t look right at me. “It’s an old dealgot made between
