The world shuddered around Gunn. Not like this, dear God! He charged across the kitchen toward the corner where the demon had taken Cyra and kicked aside a stool. Nothing there. With his lighter out of his pocket, he lit up the area, his breaths racing. The clock next to the cabinet had stopped working and hung frozen at 3:16 p.m.

No sign of Cyra, the demon, or a portal.

He spun on the spot, his head pounding. One minute, he’d battled for his life in the attic, the next the fiend had vanished, and he’d bolted downstairs to the sounds of Cyra’s cries.

He’d never seen a demon swallow a person, and that terrified him. “Cyra!” Worry punched through his gut, and all he could do was pace in a circle. Was she in Hell or God-knows-where?

His breath hitched and dread numbed his brain, leaving him in a frozen state. He couldn’t have lost Cyra. No way would he accept that because not a molecule in his body could deal with such a loss again. He’d rather die, yet panic melted through him, and he trembled.

“Destroy Morgana” had been her last words. He clenched his hands into fists and punched the air. How could he be so stupid? He stepped toward the hall when he spotted the damn box on the counter near a large knife.

A scraping sound erupted from the hall, and Gunn lifted the lasso. His muscles flexed.

Henry appeared from the living room, then Nora. “We heard screams,” she said.

Gunn picked up Morgana and waved it in the air. “When did you get this?”

Henry entered the room. “Cyra asked the same question. My son got it for us from a garage sale. Installed it a few weeks back.”

A strange sensation curled in Gunn’s gut. How could he have not put two and two together? “Why didn’t you mention this when I asked about anything new you brought into the house?”

Henry’s cheeks blushed. “I didn’t want the gadget, and we weren’t using it anyway, so it didn’t cross my mind. Real sorry, son. Is that how the spirit has been traveling through our home?”

Sure, rage pumped through his veins, but how could he blame the old man who didn’t know any better? For the first time, he felt like they might have a possible solution to take down the fiend. Except for the issue of Cyra being taken. Just the thought had his legs wobbling under him, and the desperate urge to tear down the place pummeled through him.

He stared down at the box in his hand, well aware of what he had to do. “Okay, you two return to the living room and don’t go anywhere else.” Without another word, they retreated, their feet tapping the floorboards and their hushed whispers faded.

He snatched the knife from the counter, noting a strange carving of a rune on the hilt. Had Cyra created the pattern? He prayed it carried extra magic mojo to intensify his exorcism of the box, which he knew he could do. He’d done this hundreds of times on other inanimate objects. He dumped Morgana into the sink and jammed the blade into the center, piercing through the plastic cover. He wrapped the loop of his lasso around the box and broke into The Lord’s Prayer.

A white spark sizzled up the hilt, electricity arching outward like lightning… then nothing. Had it worked? He plucked the knife out and to be certain, he cut the cord and set the box alight with his lighter. When a blaze took hold, he stepped back in case it popped or exploded. The golden flame snapped and sparked.

He checked the corner where Cyra had vanished, but there was still no sign of her. He had zero idea where she’d appear if he exorcised the demon, but he bet his left leg it would be the attic. Destroying the box would annihilate the beast, but his cleansing had been too easy. There’d been no attacks on him, which made him think it might not have worked. But why the hell not? Burning a possessed item meant the speck got thrown back into the underworld. But everything in this house worked against the standard rules, so he had zero clue if the demon had vanished. And on top of everything, why did the demon wear a necklace? He’d never seen one before with jewelry, but was it a clue to what sort of creature it was?

The tension in air didn’t change. It remained the same. That heavy oppressive sensation still clung to his chest. The lights hadn’t switched on either.

He huffed, surveying the dark kitchen filled with shadows from the candles by the window. “Where are you hiding, fuckhead?”

Panic crawled up his spine as he pictured Cyra in Hell. Why hadn’t his attack on the device worked? All the clues pointed to a speck demon. The majority of calls Argos received were for specks trapped in objects purchased at flea markets or garage sales, just like the Morgana box.

He ran a hand down his face.

A coldness sunk its fangs into his flesh, and sickening bile rose through his stomach. This was his fault. Why hadn’t he listened to Cyra, allowed her to join him upstairs? Would the situation have turned out differently or somehow worse? Though that seemed an impossibility.

A hiss came from behind him.

He twisted toward the fridge and reached for the weapon at his belt. That ominous feeling resurfaced, the one that said he’d missed a clue, and now it would kick him right in the balls.

There was only darkness. Yet the menacing growl continued. Every nerve strangled Gunn. The asswipe was teasing him, taunting him.

Demons didn’t just suck on souls. They got their thrills from torturing innocents, tenderizing them for the devouring. And not falling prey to their tricks was rule number one when dealing with the leeches.

Gunn darted into the hallway and up the stairs. On his way, he stole a quick glimpse into the living room with the old couple crouching behind the sofa. Hiding might be the one element that saved them, coupled with making sure the demon’s attention remained diverted on him.

Upstairs, he swung along the corridor, his footfalls ritual drumbeats, a calling for a final showdown. For the last two years, he’d tackled each job with precision, taking control and accepting no shit. No distractions. Keep innocents safe. But he’d fucked up here. The moment he had caught a whiff of sulfur, he should have demanded everyone left. Instead, he’d shacked up with Cyra. No doubt in the world, the mistake was his. It always would be and he should have known better. His fist strangled the hilt of the lasso and he gritted his teeth. How could I be so stupid?

He palmed open the already ajar attic door and sprinted up, his pulse racing, and he gasped for each breath as he scanned the room. Pitch black shrouded the location, and he took out the lighter from his pocket. With a flick, a golden flame breached the darkness.

Earlier, the bastard had had him pinned to the wall and choked him, but Gunn had remembered Cyra’s crystal. With no reason other than instincts kicking in, he had jammed the stone into the speck’s eye. It had recoiled, then the demon had vanished through an outlet.

Had the crystal connected it to Cyra, giving the demon the power to capture her, or had it scared him away?

Silence smothered him. He quickened his steps and searched every corner in the attic. “Where the hell are you? Come out.”

Standing where he’d found the portal last time, he extended his lasso throughout the air. No tingling.

Panic was a noose around his neck as he ran from one room to the next back downstairs. “Cyra! Where are you?” Even in the room where he and Cyra had hooked up, he examined the hole the goose had created. Clear.

“Cyra!” he bellowed, his throat parched.

Not a single sound, and the quiet clawed at his insides.

The demon had tossed Cyra into Hell. No other explanation. Now, he felt lost, unsure where to turn next. Without a portal, how was he supposed to retrieve her? His thoughts kept swinging to where she’d vanished. Maybe he’d missed a sign? As a child, he’d always misplaced socks, toys, his foster dad’s keys… But his foster dad had made him take slow breaths and remember where he’d seen the item last. Nine times out of ten, he’d found the lost object. So he rushed back downstairs to the kitchen, and patted the walls, desperation demanding he never stop. What had he missed? He swallowed the lump forming in his throat.

Pacing wasn’t helping. “Think, think.” Yet his mind cascaded into oblivion and reminded him of his constant mistakes. They burned on his mind, memories jumping from how Cyra made him want to change his life for the better to how he’d caused Cherri-Anne’s death. The two battled inside him, tearing him to shreds, hurting so bad, he wanted to yell and punch his way out of this prison. Anything to make the grief stop. To stop the voice in his head screaming that he’d now killed Cyra.

His muscles tensed and every inch of him trembled from the anger rocking him. He darted to the counter and prodded amongst the spell contents Cyra had used, but he had zero magic ability or knowledge of how to use them.

A solution sailed across his thoughts like a tornado, reminding him it was the only answer. Bait the demon, negotiate Cyra’s rescue, and send the beast to where it belonged. Sounded easy, yet it left him taut and ready to snap because it came with a massive risk. Him getting tossed into the underworld.

Anguish cut through him as it had two years ago. If he failed, he might deliver himself straight to the monster, and everyone he knew in the demon hunter industry would die, including Cyra. Still, faced with a dead-end with no other resolution, he couldn’t sit back and do nothing.

Nerves jolted beneath his skin. This had to work.

He called out the few words he’d learned at Argos to attract a demon. To call forward a spirit involved herbs and enchantment. He had none of those, but luckily for him, the fiend was already in the house.

“I summon you, demon, to this room,” he called out and clasped the knife in one hand, his lasso in the other. “I openly offer myself in exchange for Cyra.” He huffed, ready to rip its head off.

No response, but the prickly air chilled a few degrees. “One-time sale, asshole.”

Rapid breaths tightened his lungs, and his fingers slid along the hilt of his weapon. He drove the table and chairs into the back corner, their scraping punctuating the silence.

At the exact moment he turned, the area between him and the window danced with what looked like heat waves. “Let’s do this.”

He waited for the slightest movement.

In the blink of an eye, a gray funnel formed, the hole widening by the second. Sheer blackness faced him. Just like the time he’d saved Cyra.

Fuck, yeah. His skin crawled with anticipation. Where are you?

A fog stretched out from behind the portal, blocking the doorway, rising above him.

Tricks. Demons had the fattest egos in the universe and making themselves look bigger was about intimidation.

Gunn stepped closer, his weapons tight in his grip. “Show me Cyra.”

It belched a guttural growl, the walls quivering around Gunn, but he remained solid. “I summoned you, and you must complete your part of the bargain.”

The edges of the funnel quivered, and in a flash, a large object flew out, crashing into the fridge. A body slumped to the ground, and his gaze fixed on Cyra! God, thank you. The joy in his chest was short-lived, though, because they weren’t free yet.

“Get up,” Gunn yelled. “Leave, now!”

She moaned with obvious pain and pulled herself to her knees. Blood and cuts coated her.

A thunderous hiss belched from the portal, and he turned to the demon stepping out. He loathed the monster that treated humans like toys and didn’t give a shit about who it harmed. But this was show time, and he wouldn’t back down. He threw himself toward the demon, weapons ready.

He tossed the lasso out, catching it on an arm, and yanked hard, because for once, the fiend held solid form. That meant it had tapped into Cyra’s magic—how else would it be holding shape? He lifted his blade above his shoulder.

One second.

With a swift turn, the demon swung outward and a tentacle whacked Gunn in the face. He stumbled sideways as a sting lanced across his cheek and jawline.

Three seconds.

A metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. Bastard. Tripping over his own feet, he slammed into the wall. But he spun, heaving the lasso still latched to the monster’s arm.

Four seconds. All he needed was six.

The chairs behind Gunn scraped across the tiles of their own accord, smacking into his thighs. He stumbled forward but dug his heels into the floor and used every ounce of strength to keep away from the beast’s tentacles.

Six seconds! Why wasn’t it vanishing?

Every muscle trembled. He charged and jumped upward at the last minute, slamming the knife into the bastard’s heart, if it had one. Both of them tumbled toward the portal. Gunn’s breath caught in his lungs. Why is she still here?

Cyra’s scream echoed in the background. She had to leave.

He shoved his fists into the monster’s torso, pivoting himself backward. And yet it stood there, unaffected, chuckling with the lasso dangling from an arm and the knife sticking out of its chest. What the hell was going on?

Something latched on to his ankle and knocked his legs out from under him. Thrown backward, he landed hard on his back, his head smashing against the floor. Stars smeared his vision.

A tentacle wriggled up his leg. He booted it and sliced with his blade while his head still danced.

But more tentacles slithered toward him, capturing him like starved piranhas. One latched on to his waist, inching up his body. His heart banged so hard that if there was ever a time he’d have a stroke, it was right then.

Cyra stumbled away from the fridge and to his side, clearly not listening to him about leaving. She kicked a tentacle, stomping on it, but it didn’t help. Nothing did.

Lifted off the floor, Gunn faced the monster at eye level; its laughter lifted the hairs on his arms. He writhed against his shackles until he spotted his blade in the demon’s chest and within reach. With a sharp inhale, he reached for the knife and wrenched it free. Without waiting, he plunged the blade into its throat, sliding right through its ridiculous necklace with tiny balls attached to it.

The demon flinched backward, its grip loosening.

Gunn sprawled to the floor, and with a hand, pushed Cyra away. “Leave!” He staggered upward, gritting this teeth. Keep going. This ends now. He dashed around the portal and hopped up onto the counter before catapulting himself onto the monster.

But when it whirled to face him with a gaping mouth of razor-sharp teeth, he panicked.

“Shit!”

Fingers made of daggers snapped forward and pierced his arms, catching him mid-fall. He grunted as needles cut into him.

In a sudden move, the beast tossed him across the room. He crashed into several chairs. They snapped and broke beneath him. A rush of intense wind collided into him, snaking around his legs like invisible hands.

Dragged away, he reached out for anything to grab, his fingers digging against the wooden floor. His thoughts flew to Cyra, who ran after him, grasping his hand.

“Gunn, fight.” Her teary words ripped his heart in half. He had to save her.

He bucked against the restraints and threw his body sideways, breaking his grasp on Cyra. He grabbed hold of a foot from the table leg. A strong tug on his ankles had him and the table flying across the floor, racing toward the opening.

An involuntary scream escaped his throat.

A depraved chuckle echoed around it. But everything happened too fast for him to make sense of an escape. Death was taking him, and on his next breath, half his body dipped into its gaping mouth. Heat burned against him, and he slid deeper. But he jerked to a stop as the table jammed in the opening. A light trickle of candlelight glowed through a few small gaps at the portal’s entrance. Dangling in a black hole, he held on for dear life, grasping the table’s leg. Sweat drenched him.

Yet it was his life choices that haunted him. They’d prevented him from enjoying life and had made him push Cyra away. He’d believed he deserved to die, but now that he faced his end, regret convulsed through him. For the past two years, he hadn’t been living, but waiting for death, when he should have enjoyed what time he’d had left. But he’d wasted every moment, and then there was Cyra, whom he’d left at the mercy of the demon.

“Son of a bitch.” He wasn’t giving up. His life sucked, and the universe owed him a second chance.

He tightened his hold and climbed higher, one hand over the other. This wasn’t the end of him. Not now or ever. He had too much to live for, too many years he’d wasted, and now he had time to claw back.

With his new drive and the image of Cyra’s petrified look in his mind, he had to find and protect her. “If I get out of this alive, I’m never wasting another minute hiding from life.”

The edge of the portal was in sight, and his newfound energy had him reaching for it. But in a sudden downward jerk of the table, his grip loosened, and he slipped.

His heart hit his throat, but he grabbed on. Kicking his legs for leverage, he climbed up again.

Except the table shifted once more, this time giving way through the portal. It fell and shoved him into Hell.

He kicked, hands grasping for anything. But his vision darkened, and the world silenced.