Striker Glaris jumps down from his stallion and stoops down by my side. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, just freakin' peachy," I mutter, pushing myself into a sitting position. Pressing two fingers to the middle of my forehead, I twist around to glare at him. "And what are you doing here, huh? Stalking me? How noble." My lips twist in a sneer, but the expression slips into one of agony as the headache reasserts itself.

"Do you have a concussion?" my not-so-white-knight asks.

"No, my head's ripping apart because I used magic."

"Hold on." He gets to his feet and goes to one of his saddlebags.

God, men. Groaning, I grit my teeth and shove myself to my feet. A wave of vertigo hits just then and I list to the right, stumbling slightly.

Two dozen feet away, Winston turns slowly. Seeing me, the big bull elk extends his head, a low, mournful sound setting his throat bobbing.

"Hey, buddy," I whisper and walk stiffly over to him. Rust-red blood coats his antlers like a bucket of paint; it's splattered over his head, the saddle, and some of his armor. Bits of scale and flesh cling to the steel tips. My eyes flicker over his body, doing a quick assessment and checking for any serious wounds. Luckily, the worst seems to be a few thin lines on his cheeks. And the bleeding has already stopped.

Winston butts me gently with his muzzle, nibbling at my sleeve. Resting a hand on his nose, I look around the road. Where's the kid?

"Here," Glaris says, holding out a white tablet and a canteen. "Aspirin and water."

I want to glare at him, but that hurts my head. Instead, I take the aspirin and toss it into my mouth, chasing it with a large gulp of water. Then two—then three—more gulps.

"Where's the kid?" I gasp around the water.

"Over there," he replies, pointing.

I follow the line of his finger. Kayleigh sits by the edge of the road, her back to us. Egon sits by her side and she has her arms wrapped around his cream-colored body.

The back of her shirt is slashed open; even the body armor beneath it is torn, showing light brown skin. But there's something else on her body.

Shoving the canteen back into the Striker's hands, I bobble my way over to her. Egon flicks an ear as I approach, but doesn't move. Neither does she as I lean down and pull at the fabric.

What the hell is this?

Through the rents in her clothes, I see the white outline of what looks like a tattoo near the base of her neck. It can't be a brand, because the edges aren't raised—but it doesn't look like any tattoo that I've seen before. The marking appears to be a part of her, like a strange sort of birthmark: a capital "I" with a capital "X" laid atop it. Two smaller tattoos, feathers, bookend it.

"What ...?" I breathe in disbelief.

"What is it?" the Striker asks.

Something tells me that this marking shouldn't be seen. Closing the gaps in her clothes together with one hand, I unwind a scarf and drape it strategically over her back. "Nothing a grown man should see."

Kayleigh bows her head, hand clenching Egon's fur.

Striker Glaris attempts to peer over my shoulder. "I'm trained in healing. Perhaps I should take a look—"

I pivot and grab the Striker by the collar of his shirt, just above his armor. He jerks as if shocked and stumbles backward as I march him away from the kid. "No."

Glaris yellow eyes widen and he shakes off my grip with a grimace of pain. I cock my head slightly at his reaction; I didn't even grab skin. Whatever.

"Hey—hey! Truce?" he asks, holding up both hands.

I stand back, hands on hips. "You want to be useful?" I jerk my head in the direction the Arabian mare bolted. "Head down there and see if you can retrieve anything from the kid's horse. Hopefully, they didn't eat it all."

"The lindworms ate her horse?"

"Did I stutter?" I snap testily. "Go."

Striker Glaris frowns, dark black brows knitting together. He opens his mouth and then closes it with a click of his teeth. Turning on his heel, he walks over to his horse and climbs into the saddle. "I'll be back," he says tightly, reining the stallion around.

I watch until he disappears down the road, and then turn back to Kayleigh. "Winston."

The battle-elk walks over to us. I reach into one bag and pull out an extra shirt. I don't carry much by way of clothes, so I'm out of luck if this one gets torn up. "Here, kid, put this on."

Trembling, Kayleigh looks up at me with tears in her eyes. "I want my mom."

I sigh. This is uncharted territory for me. "We'll get there, kid."

"Are they dead?" she whispers, running the tough material of my shirt between her fingers.

"Yeah. You did that."

"I did?"

I nod. "Blasted them away just like the cockatrices." Now, if we could only channel that ability into something she could control, then the rest of the journey would be a piece of cake.

The girl stills.

"Put on the shirt before he gets back," I urge.

Mechanically, the kid obeys. As she shrugs into the larger garment, I take her old blue tunic and rip a long strip off it. "Stand up."

Kayleigh does so, pushing off of Egon and keeping her hand there to steady her shaking legs. "How long have you had that tattoo?" I ask conversationally as I tie the blue strip around her waist as a belt.

She goes rigid. "Y-you ... saw that?"

So, there is something more to it. "Yeah," I reply in what I hope is a casual tone. "I know times are different now, but I think it's still frowned upon for kids to get tattoos."

Her warm brown eyes shift. "I, uh, was born with it."

I blink. The kid is twelve; the Turning happened ten years ago. How could she have been born with something like that two years before the world went to hell?

"What do your parents have to say about it?"

She looks at me out of the corner of her eye, gauging whether or not to trust me with the information. "They don't know what it is," she admits slowly.

I peer at her, looking for the lie. But as far as I can tell, the kid is telling the truth. "But they don't want it seen."

Kayleigh shakes her head. "My mom said that people could get the wrong idea. Especially now."

Well, they're not wrong there. These days, any sort of odd marking is suspect. And out here on the west coast, people are starting to abandon hope that the U.S. government is ever going to win against the demons. Power grabs are starting to occur with regularity up and down the seaboard. It's only a matter of time before charismatic men and women start calling themselves warlords and everything dissolves into utter chaos.

But, it's hard to shake the feeling that there's a correlation between her tattoo and whatever strange magic she is able to shoot out of her body. Strangely, I'm filled with a deep sort of curiosity, which has never happened before. Being curious today will get your head bitten off by a monster. So, I bite down on that strange feeling and drop the subject. I'll just keep an eye on her instead; God knows that I hate being pressed for answers.

Got that, Keaton?

------------

By the time Striker Glaris returns with Kayleigh's gear, we're both feeling better after a round of Gatorade. Sadly, my supply is quickly running low. I highly doubt I'll be able to buy more in a demon's den.

"I guess this is yours?" the demon-hunter inquires, holding up my crossbow.

I take it from his hands and hook it on Winston's saddle, attaching the bag of bolts next to it. If we're going to have a Striker insert himself into our group, I don't need the kid to have weapons anymore. Especially if she's a living one.

"I wasn't able to save the saddle," Glaris continues. "But I somehow doubt that will fit on that ... whatever it is." He gestures at Egon. The beast cocks his vulpine head at the demon-hunter, one ear twitching.

"Enfield," I supply, brushing dried flecks of blood off of Winston's neck.

"Enfield," Glaris repeats dubiously. "Yeah. So, how do you feel about the kid riding with me?"

My lips press into a thin line. I don't like it, because there's always the chance the Striker could ride off with Kayleigh; but Winston isn't built to carry two people and my gear.

"Fine," I grumble. "Kid?"

"I guess I have to," she replies glumly, drawing the toe of one boot through the dirt.

As she walks towards the black stallion, I reach out and draw her back. "If he does anything funny, punch him in the kidney," I whisper in her ear.

Her eyebrows lift. "But he's wearing armor."

"Just do it. Trust me, he'll notice." Armor prevents you from being grievously harmed, but a beating is still a beating. At the end of the day, you are just a soft bag of flesh inside a shell being knocked around.

Slowly, Kayleigh nods.

Striker Glaris leans down from the saddle and held out one hand. "Put your foot in the stirrup," he instructs, kicking his boot out.

The kid does as he says and the demon-hunter pulls her up behind him. "Hang onto my belt," I hear him tell her as I swing into Winston's saddle. The battle-elk snorts softly and paws at the dirt road.

"Yeah, you can impale him if he does anything shifty," I whisper in Winston's back-turned ear. The bull blinks in acknowledgment.

Setting my heels to his side, I urge Winston to walk. We're off again.