"He is suppose to hunt her not love her"
Reviewed by Annetta Sweetko
Posted June 30, 2013
Paranormal Romance | Romance Paranormal
Airie has no idea the circumstances of her birth, doesn't
know that she is a Goddess and DEMON'S DAUGHTER. Demon's
now are running loose in this nearly destroyed world, where
human's hide when the sun starts to fall and the demons
come out to run wild. The priestess Desire who raised Airie
knows that one day soon she must tell her "daughter" the
truth, but the thought breaks her heart.
Hunter is exactly as his name says he is a demon slayer. He
has been hired by a priestess Mamna to capture and bring to
her a demon spawn. Hunter is unsure about this because most
spawns he has heard of were male... this is a female. When
he
finally meets Airie he is torn. He hates demons for what
was done to his family and so many others but he finds a
sweetness and gentleness in Airie that he doesn't expect.
He doesn't trust Mamna at all but now he finds he cannot
just turn over Airie to her and the Demon Lord who just
might be her father.
DEMON'S DAUGHTER will hold the reader glued to the pages as
this magnificent, frightening world unfolds. The setting
seems to be a combination of utopia turned apocalyptic,
with goddesses in hiding and demons running free. The
additional characters are amazing with the inclusion of
Hunter's friend Blade, the priestess Desire who mothered
Airie, Scratch and the priestess Mamna, who has an agenda
of her own. They are developed so well that you either love
or hate them, depending on whether they are friend or foe,
as the story goes along. The romance in this fantasy is not
over the top but it is there and you watch it develop
slowly and despite themselves, especially Hunter, who takes
awhile to overcome his hatred of demons. Author Paula
Altenburg has the start of a fantastic series, Demon
Outlaws and I can't wait to read more.
SUMMARY
Hunter is the only man capable of killing the demons that
left the
world in ruins. But when he’s hired by a notorious priestess
to bring
a thief to justice, the Demon Slayer gets more than he
bargains for.
Airie was raised in an abandoned temple as a priestess’s
daughter,
having no idea of her true origins. In a time when any
half-breed
spawn of a demon is despised by mortal and immortal alike,
not knowing
the truth is the only thing keeping her safe.
Forced to flee her home in the wake of disaster and
discovery of who
she is, Airie must place her trust in a man who believes she
should
never have been born. And when a demon uprising threatens
lives he has
sworn to protect, Hunter has to make a choice: abandon Airie
to an
uncertain fate, or overcome his own personal demons and love
her for
who she truly is.
ExcerptChapter One
Year 352 PD
Inside Demon Territory
Hunter slapped the length of his toe–grazing
leather duster, sending a shower of fine red silt into the
air around him. It was a habit learned from his mother a
long time ago in another life, and one he had never seen the
need to break—removing the desert dirt before entering
an establishment.
Even an establishment in a place like Freetown, where
niceties weren't the rule of the day.
Dusk was settling in, and the saloon would soon prepare
to close. No honest man stayed out after dark. If they
weren't afraid of thieves, they were terrified of demons.
Hunter wanted this meeting over with so he, too, could be on
his way.
With his hat dangling by its straps between his shoulder
blades, Hunter pushed open the swinging door. The dim
interior of the saloon meant anyone framed in the doorway
was backlit by the setting sun and virtually blinded.
Sidestepping to the right, he brushed back his duster,
keeping his hand close to the six–shooter at his hip.
The short sword strapped to his back came in handy for those
times when a gunshot might attract too much unwanted
attention, but in a saloon, loud weapons made the better
deterrents. And faster, cleaner kills.
A sword, however, worked best against demons if a man was
willing to fight them up close. And Hunter wasn't known as
the Demon Slayer for nothing.
The smells of ale–soaked pine, smoked meats, and
stale tobacco thickened the air. He remained with his back
to the raw wooden wall while his eyes adjusted to the change
in the light. When they did, he nodded to Blade, the tall,
stone–faced man behind the bar.
Blade, polishing the glass in his hand with a pristine
white cloth, acknowledged Hunter with the slightest drop of
his chin. Hunter let his gaze drift around the
near–empty room, searching for the one he'd been
summoned to meet.
A man with a long, ugly red scar down the side of an even
uglier face slouched on a stool at the bar. Hunter noted and
dismissed him. The women who worked in the saloon had
already retired to the second floor. A few stragglers sat at
well–spaced tables, showing signs of imminent
departure. Once the front door was locked, it was locked for
the night. Blade did not encourage overnight business, and
anyone who wanted it paid a significant price.
A lone woman sat in the single booth in one shadowed
corner of the room. Twisted and misshapen, dressed in a
man's greatcoat and coarse woolen trousers, she hunched in
her seat, unbothered by the other patrons. It wasn't her
appearance that kept her from harassment. Being a priestess
protected her far better than simple ugliness ever could,
for priestesses served as the only law this side of the
Godseekers' mountains. They were all that stood between the
people and the demons, and in their own way, they were far
more ruthless than the basest of cutthroats.
This one was the worst of the lot, and the client Hunter
had come here to meet. Mamna was her name, and he didn't
like her. He didn't like that she had made a deal with the
Demon Lord, one that put her in her current position of
power. He didn't like that laws were being written by a
woman who had no use for other women.
And he did not like being summoned.
The nails in his boot heels echoed on the whitewashed
floor as he walked to the priestess's table. He didn't miss
the sneer of disgust twisting Scarface's lips as Hunter
passed him. Men knew better than to show open contempt for
the priestess, but anyone who dealt with her was another matter.
Hunter committed Scarface to memory. It was good to have
an idea of who might try to plant a knife in his back. Or
die trying.
He slid onto the bench across the battered table from the
priestess. The amulet around his neck grew warm, but Hunter
ignored it. It indicated the priestess had been in recent
contact with a demon, a fact that did not surprise him as
much as it left him with a bad taste in his mouth.
Hunter knew why Mamna wanted to meet with him in a public
place. She wanted everyone in Freetown to know that she was
conducting business with the Demon Slayer, and that there
were certain laws in the land even the Slayer could be made
to respect.
That was why Hunter had kept this meeting to a time when
as few people as possible were likely to see them. He
respected the law, such as it was. But he hated demons and
all who associated with them, and Mamna knew it.
With watery, pale–blue eyes lodged in an aging face
withered and burned from a hard life in a harsh desert, the
priestess examined Scarface at the bar before acknowledging
Hunter.
"If he takes offense at your speaking with a priestess,
try not to kill him," she said. "But go ahead and hurt him a
little."
Hunter allowed his own eyes to turn to ice. "I never kill
unless I have to." It was a less–than–subtle
reminder that, while Hunter might be persuaded to take a
contract from the priestess, he would do so on his own
terms. He rested one palm on the table, keeping his other
hand out of her line of vision. "Why have you summoned me here?"
Scarface continued to watch him, but Blade, Hunter knew,
would be watching Scarface on his behalf.
It paid to have good friends.
"There is a thief at large on the goddesses' mountain,"
Mamna said.
Hunter shrugged. "There are thieves everywhere. It was
bound to happen sooner or later. Besides, the goddesses are
long gone and their temple is abandoned. What difference
will one thief make to anyone?"
Another subtle jab on Hunter's part. The
priestesses—Mamna in particular—didn't like to
be reminded of the goddesses' departure. It represented
betrayal.
"The mountain is forbidden," Mamna said. She rubbed a
gnarled hand over her shaven head.
"Then this thief does your work for you. If he's
successful at his chosen profession, people will learn to
leave the mountain alone, and he will have to move on."
"The thief is a woman."
Hunter laughed out loud. "More power to her." At the bar,
Scarface tightened his grip on his drink and Hunter lowered
his voice. "If she thieves on the mountain, she is more than
likely one of your own."
"She is not a priestess."
Mamna sounded definite about that, and Hunter had to
admit he was growing intrigued. A woman on the mountain who
stole from trespassers? What kind of woman would she be?
A hideous one, no doubt. Probably bitter as the
priestesses about it, too. Women judged themselves far
harder than men, although from what he'd seen, beauty didn't
get them much in this world.
Mamna pulled a small pouch from a pocket in her greatcoat
and slid it to Hunter. He lifted the pouch. It was heavier
than it looked, meaning it contained mostly, if not all,
gold coins.
Which also meant he was being overpaid.
"There's more to this story," Hunter said flatly.
Mamna had the nerve to feign righteousness. "She is
ambushing innocents, most likely supplicants to the temple.
All you have to do is capture her and bring her here to face
justice."
That did not explain the coins. Hunter disliked that
Mamna might think his reluctance to accept this task sprang
from not wanting to bring a woman to so–called
justice. It would give her a weakness to use against him in
future negotiations. He tossed the pouch in the palm of his
hand. The coins clinked dully.
Gold. Definitely gold.
"This is a great deal of money for bringing in one
woman." Hunter waited for an answer he believed, or at least
one he was willing to accept.
At the bar Blade made a production of putting glasses
away. "Closing time," he said to Scarface.
Scarface grunted. "There are two others still here."
"Those two have no need to fear demons." The shutters on
the windows rattled to emphasize Blade's point. Everyone
knew that when the wind blew from the west, demons rode with
it, calling a challenge to mortals very few could resist. "I
require a great deal of cash up front if you want to spend
the entire night here. A great deal. So my next question is,
how much do you need to fear them?"
Scarface tossed a few coins on the bar, hitched up the
back of his dust–crusted trousers, and left through
the swinging doors.
Mamna cleared her throat, drawing Hunter's attention back
to her. For the first time, she appeared uneasy. "This is no
ordinary woman."
Hunter regarded her for a long moment. "Rule number
one—no surprises."
"There will not be any," she reassured him, which didn't
reassure him at all.
He dropped the pouch on the table. It landed with a heavy
thud. He pushed it toward the priestess with his fingertips.
"Rule number two—don't lie to me."
Mamna ignored the pouch. She met his eyes. "It is claimed
she has demon blood. If that's true, she must be turned over
to the Demon Lord, as per my agreement with him."
Only a great deal of discipline kept Hunter from allowing
the revulsion that shivered up his spine to show on his
face. Men hated demons, and demons hated men, but spawn, who
carried the blood of both, were hated by all. They belonged
to no world. Even Hunter had no problem with the Demon Lord
claiming one because a demon would not allow it to live either.
But the claim that the thief was spawn had to be true,
and Hunter did not believe it was.
"Impossible," he said. "She's a woman."
Mamna's wrinkled face smoothed as her eyebrows lifted.
"Is it impossible?" she asked. "Can you know this for certain?"
All Hunter knew for certain was that Mamna hated women
more than anyone hated spawn, and for whatever reason, she
wanted this woman dead. He did not believe her, and he
should not take this job.
But if he didn't, someone else would. And to think of an
innocent woman being handed over to demons was more than his
stomach could handle.
Was Mamna testing him somehow? Could he afford for her to
suspect a weakness about him that she would, in all
likelihood, use against him in the future?
He scanned his memory for anything he might have given
away in the past. He had left behind everything he'd ever
valued years ago so that he would have no such weaknesses to
betray. Only Blade could be considered a true friend, and
Hunter had no concerns for him or his safety.
He also had no concerns over Blade's loyalty. Hunter had
found him in the desert some years ago, fighting a losing
battle with a demon driven wild by the taste of his blood.
Hunter had killed the demon and saved Blade's life, although
not before the demon had bitten a large chunk of flesh from
Blade's right leg. While no longer as agile as he'd once
been, Blade was still quite capable of taking care of
himself, and a close ally.
No, Mamna had no hold on Hunter. He intended to keep it
that way.
He reclaimed the money pouch and slipped it into an
inside pocket. He rose to his feet, wanting this meeting to
be over and done with so he could think.
"How much time do I have?" he asked her.
"As long as necessary." She shrugged. "No longer."
Which meant not much time beyond what she thought it
would take him to travel, two or three weeks at most, but
Hunter wasn't concerned about that. He'd take whatever time
he deemed necessary, then a little more. It never paid to
seem too cooperative.
Mamna hopped from her seat without a word of
good–bye and shuffled from the saloon, the hem of her
ill–fitting greatcoat dragging on the floor.
Blade closed the heavier exterior doors behind her. He
then dropped an iron bar into place, barricading them in.
"Thirsty?" he asked Hunter.
"Please."
The wind picked up, and Hunter hoped the townspeople had
gotten themselves locked up in time. On nights like this
demons sought pleasure in their demon forms, and pleasure,
to them, meant killing men and violating women.
While Blade slung a kettle on a hook inside the large
fireplace to heat water, Hunter went around the room and
latched all the shutters in place.
"Do the women have their windows closed?" he asked Blade.
Three whores called the saloon home. They worked when they
wanted, and with whom they pleased. Blade offered them
protection and a roof, and in return, they helped with the
cooking and cleaning.
"Of course."
The kettle hissed and soon began to steam.
"One of these days," Blade said, "that ugly little
priestess will pay someone to plant a knife in your back."
Hunter grabbed a broom from behind the bar to sweep the
floor. "Dying of old age is overrated."
"Perhaps. But you seem to have forgotten that living to
an old age is not." Blade dropped a metal ball filled with
fragrant loose tea into the hot water, then lifted the
kettle from the fire with a long hook. He carried it to the
bar. "What did the evil little troll want from you?"
Hunter told him, and he frowned.
"She's made it no secret that she no longer serves the
goddesses. She has no reason to do demon work either.
Neither do you. She's lying to you for some purpose of her
own. You know how she feels about women. You shouldn't take
her work."
Hunter had learned long ago to trust Blade's instincts.
He'd also learned to work around them. He leaned on the
broom and faced his friend. "If I don't take it someone else
will, and they might not care whether or not this woman
truly is spawn. What would you have me do—abandon
those who are still innocent in this goddessforsaken world?"
Blade produced two sturdy mugs and set them on the bar.
"I wouldn't have you abandon anyone. But how do you
determine who is worth saving and who is not? That kind of
choice does something to your soul." Blade took a cloth and
wiped the varnished surface. "Sometimes I wonder if you've
also forgotten what true justice really is."
Hunter often wondered the same thing himself. He had
grown hard over the years, to the point where he did not
always recognize the man who looked back at him from the
shaving mirror.
Speaking of shaving...
He scratched at the scruff on his jaw.
"People are asking questions about you," Blade continued,
interrupting Hunter's thoughts.
"That's nothing new." He was the Demon Slayer. That
inspired questions. There was always someone trying to take
his place.
Some days, he'd gladly let them.
"These questions are new. They have to do with your family."
Hunter went still. He tried to think if he had ever let
anything slip, and could not come up with a single instance.
He had never visited his sisters, nor spoken of them. Not in
all the years since he had fled from the Borderlands. Not
even to Blade.
He tried to dismiss his unease. "Forget about it.
Everyone comes from somewhere. People wonder if I have
anyone I might want to protect. If I have a weakness. They
won't find any."
When he finished sweeping the saloon floor, he took a
seat near his friend at the bar.
Blade passed him a steaming mug of fragrant tea brewed
from desert lavender. Hunter blew on it, watching the
ripples crease its mud–brown surface, then took a slow
sip to savor the taste. Neither he nor Blade touched
alcohol. In their businesses, men who drank did not live long.
"I have something for you," Hunter said.
He reached in his pocket and withdrew a thick chunk of
plastic, an artifact that predated the demons to a time when
the world was filled with large cities and millions of
people. While the wind had buried most of the ruins, it
often turned up little things such as this, and these items
were worth money to the right traders. Whenever Hunter found
any in the desert, he brought them to Blade, who in turn
sold the artifacts and split the profits among Hunter,
himself, and the women.
Blade took the artifact from him, rolled it around in his
long fingers, then dropped it into a box hidden behind the
counter. He continued to stand, taking a sip from his own
mug of tea, his dark eyes brooding as he returned to the
original topic of conversation. "I'll try and get to the
bottom of whoever's asking questions about you."
Hunter felt himself relax. If there were anything for him
to worry about, Blade would find out.
"Anything new since the last time I was in town?" he
asked, wanting to change the subject.
"A few murders. Some changes in wealth. More migrants
from the border regions, seeking their fortunes on this side
of the mountains. Overall, no."
Weariness crept over Hunter. Not much ever changed in
Freetown in that respect. The rich got richer, and the poor
served the rich. Migrants came to Freetown seeking quick
fortunes and often found servitude instead, assuming they
survived the trek across the desert. One would have thought
the priestesses, who'd once served the goddesses, would have
a greater sense of philanthropy, or even basic kindness. Yet
any gold they parted with came at a rate of exchange even
desperate people should shudder to pay.
The coins weighed heavily in his pocket and on his
conscience. That Mamna could so easily turn any woman over
to the demons bothered him. How awful would this thief have
to be in order for Hunter to look the other way?
She would have to be spawn. In which case, let the demons
take care of a problem they had created.
He finished his tea. "I should go."
Blade cocked his head, listening to the howling wind.
Driven sand rang like raindrops against the exterior walls
and shutters.
"It's going to be a rough night," he said. "You're
welcome to stay." He frowned, and Hunter knew he was still
thinking of those questions about his past, and who might be
behind them. "In fact, I recommend you do. The women won't
mind. You might even be able to talk them into letting you
use their bath."
"They would waste water on me?" Hunter's amazement was
only partly feigned. Even in Freetown, built on an oasis,
water usage was tightly controlled. By Mamna.
Blade's eyebrow shot up. "It has a lot to do with your
smell. They prefer their men clean."
Hunter spent most of his days in the desert alone so he
was used to his own smell, but a bath would be welcome. It
was hard to turn one down. But he was more uneasy about
those questions regarding his past than he cared to admit,
and while Blade could look out for himself, Hunter didn't
like the idea of bringing any danger to the women. He was
already too fond of them.
That last thought alone was enough to make him refuse to
stay. "Thanks, but I'd better go."
Blade unbarred the door and Hunter slipped like a shadow
into the dark and deserted street beyond.
Mamna and her priestesses founded Freetown not far from
the ruins of a buried city rumored to have contained close
to two million inhabitants in the time before demons. The
ruins stretched across several miles of desert, and although
they undoubtedly contained many treasures, no one entered
them to find out—the shifting sands had left them
unstable and riddled with deadly sinkholes.
But that was when demons numbered in the tens of
thousands. Whoever the inhabitants of that lost city were,
they had done their part against the invaders before falling.
Sand stung Hunter's cheeks, and he pulled a heavy cotton
kerchief over his mouth and nose. He settled his hat back on
his head, tugging the wide brim low to shield his eyes.
Even in the dark of a storm, the streets of Freetown
weren't difficult for Hunter to navigate. He knew them well.
A market served as the town center. Radiating from there,
like the spokes of a wagon's wheel, spread the other main
areas—the wealthy, the not–so–wealthy, the
poor, and the various trade shops that serviced them all.
Blade's saloon sat at the outer tip of one spoke, near the
high wall surrounding the city. The wall was not meant to
keep demons out. That was impossible. Rather, it allowed
Mamna to be selective in the people who came and went.
Most people. Not Hunter. He had set up a shelter of sorts
in a natural, rock–faced corral not too far out in the
desert. He came and went as he pleased.
He headed for a hidden tunnel that burrowed beneath the
outer city wall, more distracted than was probably wise, but
the storm should have kept even the bravest of lowlifes
indoors. He felt safe in letting his thoughts wander.
His mind kept going back to those questions Blade had
spoken of. Hunter had not thought of his sisters in a long
time. It was pointless to do so. When he'd left he had
gotten as far away from them as he could, covering his
tracks, and he'd never looked back. Only they knew why he
had killed that first demon. No one else cared as long as he
continued to kill them. Few men were brave enough to try.
Fewer still survived a first attempt.
He caught a slight movement from the corner of his eye,
an unnatural shift of shadow off to his left. Someone was
following him.
He stopped, not bothering to pretend he wasn't aware. He
unholstered his six–shooter, wondering if his stalker
was alone, then pressed himself against the false front of a
nearby shanty in an attempt to keep the wind–whipped
sand from blinding him completely. He disliked using a gun,
but tonight, the storm would drown out any sounds of a gunfight.
The attack, although expected, nevertheless took him by
surprise, more because of its professionalism and choice of
weapon than its ferocity. He sucked in his stomach as the
knife in his assailant's hand slashed a six–inch gap
in his shirt. He brought his gun up and fired, and was
rewarded with the hiss of an indrawn breath. He drew his
short sword from the sheath on his back with his left hand.
He did not want to kill his assailant just yet. Dead men
didn't talk.
Lightning–quick, the man came at Hunter again, but
Hunter was better prepared this time. He slid to the side to
avoid the thrust of the knife, and from behind his back he
shot his sword's blade through the other man's extended arm.
Rather than pull away, the assailant fell forward. A
heavy knife handle protruded from between his shoulder blades.
Hunter holstered his gun, reached down to jerk the blade
free, and wiped it clean on the assailant's ruined shirt.
"Thank you," he said. He handed the knife
hilt–first to its owner.
"You're welcome." The knife disappeared into the sheath
Blade always wore strapped to his mangled leg.
"Not that I wasn't managing just fine on my own," Hunter
added.
"You were doing okay." Blade rolled the dead man onto his
back with the toe of his boot. Enough light remained for
them to identify him as Scarface. "But increasing the odds
in your favor never hurts." Blade's eyes met Hunter's. "Why
would anyone risk angering Mamna by killing someone she's
just hired?"
"That's what I was hoping to ask him."
Blade riffled through the man's pockets and came up
empty–handed. "Nothing. The man's a professional."
"Maybe he's poor," Hunter guessed, without any real hope.
"Even poor people keep things in their pockets." Blade
patted down the man's arms and legs and came up with an
assortment of weapons. He held them out. "See anything here
you want?"
Hunter waved him off. "You killed him. It's all yours."
The weapons disappeared into Blade's clothing.
"How did you know he'd follow me?" Hunter asked.
Blade shielded his face from the stinging sand with the
crook of an elbow. "His hands were too clean."
That made sense, and was something Blade would notice
right away. An assassin's hands were his greatest asset, and
Blade took pride in his own despite the fact that he no
longer worked for hire.
"Why didn't you warn me?"
"Because I didn't want to be wrong about what he was. And
it was something you should have noticed yourself." Demon
howls carried on the wind now, still far off in the
distance, and Blade checked nervously over his shoulder.
"Fresh blood is going to draw them here. Sure you don't want
to come back to my place for the night?"
"I'm sure." Hunter grinned at him. "Scared?"
"Stiff," Blade admitted without shame. "While I don't
mind getting killed, the being eaten alive part continues to
bother me. I'm heading for home. I'd search this guy for
markings if I were you, but I doubt you'll find anything.
He's your problem now."
Blade left, and Hunter took a few extra minutes to search
for any tattoos or markings that might give some indication
of where the would–be assassin was from. He found
nothing, but that could have been because of the poor light
and blowing sand. Or it could have been because Blade was
right. The man had no markings on him because he was a
professional.
Then, because Hunter didn't feel like confronting
blood–frenzied demons either, he headed for shelter.
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