By C. E. Murphy
Seattle police detective Joanne Walker all started the 12 months in general lifeless, and she's finishing it making an attempt to not be ate up by way of evil. Literally.
She's confirmed she will be able to deal with the gods and the strolling useless. yet a cannibalistic serial killer? That's greater than even she bargained for. What's worse, the brutal demon can merely be tracked a method. If Joanne is to prevent its crusade of terror, she'll need to hunt it the place it lives: the decrease international, a shamanistic aircraft of magic and spirits.
Trouble is, Joanne's talents aren't any fit for the risks she's approximately to face—and her on-the-job education may turn out deadly to the folk she's sworn to protect….
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Extra resources for Demon Hunts (The Walker Papers, Book 5)
He is sitting up now, reaching for his turn at the pipe. Some go back to the whites and betray us. You did not betray us. William the Hat looks into his smoke. I am not half. You are half changed by your time with them, says the Indian. We should have stoned you. William pretends to snore, his smoke escaping his nose. After arranging the chips in the fire, the girl stands quickly and then stands too long, waiting for the word Go. The Indian takes her by the arm and feels its strength. My ankles hurt, says the girl.
I will pass through this country the way we used to, coming upon this and that, and then I will see Pa or at least a sister in the furs they surely still trade, and I will walk right up to them without the ado you are always having when you are away and there those bushes of blue will be. I will say that is all I am looking for, not them. The ground keeping up all that blue sky has about as much grass thick on it as the whiskers a young boy could shave. Or so it appears to me. My eyes still water from the thick smoke night after night inside the Indian’s sleeping house—my place was close to the fire, good for the heat, yes, but hard on the eyes.
Both start off close but split in the distance. I don’t try the soldiers’. You don’t night-steal and threaten a girl when the lazy life of a fort is your aim. I choose the old track and stop a few steps on, crane around and pull my skirt forward for a look. There is all this blood on the back. I am not cut or hurt. I find where it flows and wipe it with weed and wipe it again. I mind the blood but what am I to do? No one has shed it but myself. Going along way past the river, a heavy wagon gets involved in the old tracks and though I fear it is one that carries cannonballs the tracks run so deep, I lay my belief in it carrying cream, very heavy cream, and I follow it.