That damned enfield follows the girl like a puppy, trotting at her mare's side as if he'd been trained to the task. If this is the way the rest of the trip is going to unfold, I'm putting my foot down. There is no way I'm going to be responsible for a menagerie. As it stands, Kayleigh's already fed the enfield three strips of jerky. I shouted at her as she was passing the beast a fourth piece, which she wisely put away.

We rest for lunch and bathroom breaks on the side of the highway, then travel until an hour before sunset. There is no time frame for getting the girl to the City of Dust, so I'm taking us there at an easy pace. Also, I want to see if she has any more abilities that might be of use to a demon lord. And if that's the case, I'm turning around and pulling out of there.

I'll kill crocattas all day long to make up the lost money.

An exit looms ahead. The abandoned husks of mid-priced homes rise next to the highway, indicating that there's a town nearby. Pulling out the mayor's list, I scan the document for the correct direction.

"We're turning off for the night," I call back to Kayleigh. Just then, the winds pick up, sweeping up the dust from the highway and taking it down the coastline. I jerk up my veils, securing them around my mouth and nose. Glancing over my shoulder, I see the girl do the same. At least that's something I don't have to remind her about.

In the distance, I hear metal groan and watch as dozens of lights begin to flicker on. Illuminated in the glow are six massive windmills, each turning in Ehtab's dust storm. As they continue to turn, more lights come on, zipping up and down the naked streets of the town.

But I'm not interested in how the town makes its power. All I'm looking at is the old truck stop just off the exit. Lights glow in every window and the shadows of travelers dance back and forth between them.

Clucking to Winston, I turn his head in the off-ramp's direction. The battle-elk obliges and swings off the main highway, whuffing eagerly at what all the lights promise: rest, a clean bed of straw, and food.

"What's that?" Kayleigh asks, urging her mare next to me.

"A waystation."

"Is that like a hotel or something?"

"Or something," I agree blandly.

The massive hulk of a gas truck is parked next to one of the pumps, surrounded by four armored vehicles. Not only do the constant dust storms muck up conventional engines, but it's nearly impossible to get gas out here. Hence, the security.

I hear the click of more than one gun as we pass by. Kayleigh reaches out and tugs urgently at my billowing sleeve. "Don't look at them," I hiss. "We're not a threat."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a black-clad man wave his companions down. The guns retreat and I breathe a sigh of relief.

The truck stop is broken into three parts: a restaurant, motel, and stables. Both the restaurant and motel's former chain names have been painted over to reflect the new ownership. A man in his thirties lounges in the doorway of the restaurant, a sawed-off shotgun in his lap. He looks up and cocks his cowboy hat back as I ease Winston to a halt.

"Hunter Raine Barlow, Keres Guild," I say, flashing the man my guild ID.

The man studies the ID, then nods. As he moves, I catch the edge of a military tattoo on his forearm. "Just warning you, Hunter, we have six Strikers in-house tonight."

Good to know. "How much are a room and two stalls running?"

"Two hundred. An extra hundred for security and wards on the elk, horse, and ... what the hell is that?" The Black Ops guy sits up straight and points at the enfield sitting as placidly as a dog by the Arabian's right foreleg.

I jerk my chin in Kayleigh's direction. "Her emotional support monster. He's harmless." It is an outright lie, of course. As far as I know, Egon will eat our faces come tonight.

Goddammit, I just referred to the enfield by name. I sigh and tell the guy we'll take the whole package.

The Black Ops guy shrugs and settles back into his chair. "Your word, not mine." He reaches back and pushes a button set into the wall. "One room, two stalls, full treatment."

As I swing down from Winston's saddle, a woman emerges from the restaurant. What looks like a key dangles loosely from her left hand. She's dressed in jeans and a red flannel shirt; a yellow scarf is wound haphazardly around her head.

"This way, please."

I gesture for Kayleigh to dismount. Leading Winston and the mare, we follow her to the stables where two boys are eager to see the giant battle-elk and Arabian. After removing our gear, the woman takes us to motels and stops in front of Room 6.

"Restaurant is open 24/7," she tells me, handing over the room key. It's a heavy iron beast, which could possibly double as a weapon. A ward tag dangles from the end. "Bar closes at 2 am—no kids allowed," she pointedly adds, looking at Kayleigh. "Payment is half up front, the other half at checkout."

She would have to tell me that while my arms are full of saddlebags. Setting everything on the ground, I reach into my shirt and pull out some money. The bills are faded, but still legal tender.

The woman fixes Egon with a bland look. "If your dog pisses on the carpet or shits on the bed, it's a two hundred dollar fine." She takes the money, quickly counts, then swiftly pockets it. "Enjoy your stay."

I don't watch her go. Stepping over my gear, I stick the key into the old-fashioned lock and watch as the ward tag glows red, and then fades to white. The lock clicks and I swing the door open, quickly flicking on the light.

There's not much to the room: two beds, nightstands, a long dresser, and a TV. A small table sits in a corner by the window with two chairs; the door to the bathroom lies open in the very back. At least it smells fresh and looks clean. Egon ambles inside as if he does this all the time, sniffing around with interest.

"If you have to pee or take a dump, you tell me," I warn the enfield. I'm not paying that fine if I can avoid it.

The beast lifts his head and cocks it, vestigial wings rattling softly.

"You heard me." I turn to the girl. "We'll leave our stuff here and get something to eat."

Kayleigh dumps her gear onto the first bed. "What do you think they have?"

I shrug and carefully arrange my possessions on the other bed. I debate taking either the crossbow or Winchester into the restaurant; it's not like the woman said there was a no-weapon policy in place. Then I look up and see that exact rule written on a poster on the wall. Well, shit.

I remove all knives and leave them under the covers. But I keep the three vials of flash-bang powder in the hidden pouch next to my heart. If a fight breaks out, I have those and my magic to protect us.

"I gotta pee," Kayleigh says when I'm ready.

I wave at her and she rushes to the bathroom to do her business. She's back within a minute and we leave the room, Egon in tow; the ward reactivates as I lock the door behind us.

There's moderate activity in the restaurant when we arrive. The truck driver and two of his security detail are seated at a table near the windows—all the better to watch his precious cargo. In the roped-off bar, four nondescript travelers sit and drink beer. But at the very back are the Strikers.

"Two?" the hostess asks, holding menus in the crook of one arm. She's around my age, healthy-looking, and dressed in the same blue jeans and red flannel as the other woman. The only indication of the stresses of this ugly world is the threads of grey in her dark red hair. "Or ... three?" she asks with mild interest, noticing the enfield by Kayleigh's side. People must bring monsters in here all the time, for all she appears worried.

I nod and she leads us to an empty table in the middle of the dining room, equidistant from both Strikers and the men from the convoy.

We give our drink orders to the woman—water for me and Egon, ginger ale for the kid—and she leaves us to the menus. Kayleigh immediately unwinds the blue scarf from her head, scrunches it up into a ball, and leaves it in the booth next to her. I loosen the veils from around my face but keep my head covered. Blue hair draws too much attention.

"Can I have the hamburger?" Kayleigh asks, pointing at the price on the menu.

There's not much available, but that's to be expected. I haven't eaten a lot of red meat lately, so to save us all the pains of my future bowel trouble, I focus on the fish—tilapia, to be exact.

"Sure. Whatever you want. Your father set aside enough money for food."

"And the onion rings?"

"Yeah."

"Cool."

A waitress returns with our drinks and a bowl for Egon. The enfield laps at the water with an eager tongue; as I watch, the hollows in his sides subtly begin to fill out. Huh. I file that bit of information away.

"What does your ... friend eat?" she asks hesitantly.

"I've no idea," I tell her as Kayleigh scratches the enfield between his shoulder blades.

"We've got some beef bones in the back. Do you think he'd want those?"

As if on cue, Egon's black-tipped ears prick up.

"I'll take that as a 'yes'," the waitress says, scribbling something on her pad. We give her our orders and she retreats, taking the menus with her.

I fold my arms on the table and lean forward, looking around the room. As my eyes roll over the Strikers, one of them is walking towards us.

Great, I mutter, leaning back in the booth. Egon turns, wings rattling in some sort of warning display. What is the penalty for a not-so-tame enfield ripping another patron's face off?

The Striker stops halfway to our booth. "Hey, Hunter," he calls out, yellow eyes locked onto the enfield, "aren't you guys supposed to kill monsters, not keep them as pets?"

At least I came on my abilities organically, and not through arcane rituals and eating demon hearts, I think, ignoring the man.

"It looks diseased," the man continues. "Maybe you should put it down and buy some new clothes with the money."

Kayleigh twists around to stare at the man, but I tap her on the hand. "Don't pay any attention to him," I tell her. "He's just trying to get a reaction out of us."

The girl's shoulders hunch, but she keeps her eyes focused on me.

"Yeah, that's right," the man says in a mocking tone. "Ignore the bully. I'm rubber, you're glue—"

"That's enough, Jake."

I look up from my glass to see a second Striker join his comrade. Kayleigh glances at me, then pivots in her seat.

"What?" Jake exclaims, spreading his hands. "I'm just having some fun."

"There's a little girl present, man. Leave off."

Jake grumbles something under his breath; he pushes off his buddy and heads back to their table.

The other Striker shakes his head and then walks toward us. Egon lifts his head, water dripping from his slim jaws. "Easy," the Striker breaths, holding up both hands. "I just want to apologize for my friend back there."

I stare at him, saying nothing. The Striker is a tall, broad-shouldered man a few years older than me. His short-cropped black hair lays plastered to his head and it sticks up in small spikes as he runs a hand through it. He's handsome enough, I suppose, even with three thin white lines cutting through both eyebrows and down his cheeks. I've more scars than that on my body.

"Look," he continues, watching as Egon sniffs around his black boots, "I'd like to make it up to you by paying for your meal tonight."

Kayleigh looks at me expectantly.

"Sure," I reply. I'm not accepting the offer as an apology but as a means to put this money towards other things on our journey.

The Striker looks relieved. "Excellent. I'll tell the hostess." He turns on one heel, then pauses. "I'm Finn Glaris, by the way."

I cock my head slightly.

Striker Glaris blinks, then runs his hand through his hair awkwardly. "Uh, yeah, okay ... I'll see to that bill, then. Enjoy," he tells Kayleigh in a rush, who beams.

Once he's gone, she leans forward across the table. "He's cute, huh?"

I sip my water.

"Oh," the girl says, drawing the word out as she has an epiphany. "I get it—you like girls. That's cool."

"I don't like girls," I tell her. A lock of blue hair slips from my veils and I reach up to tuck it back where it belongs.

Kayleigh tips her head, confusion written across her youthful features. "Uh, okay. So you don't like boys either?"

"They have their uses," I allow, idly rubbing the folds of my robes between two fingers.

Her eyes widen and she leans forward conspiratorially. "Like ... sex?" She whispers the word as if it's a powerful magical incantation.

I'm saved from having that conversation by the arrival of the waitress and our meals. She spreads a thick mat down and passes Egon a large cow femur, which the enfield promptly takes to the floor and cracks open.

A large plate of onion rings is placed in the center of the table. "Courtesy of Striker Glaris," the waitress tells us before setting down my tilapia and Kayleigh's hamburger.

I stare at the onion rings. I'll eat them, of course. He just better not start trailing after me like Keaton or I'll have to punch him in the face.

We eat in silence, the only sounds coming from our chewing and Egon cracking bone between his powerful jaws. Kayleigh leans down every now and then to slip the enfield an onion ring. I don't chastise her for it because I simply don't care. It's not my money going to waste.

The waitress returns and inquires if we want dessert. I let the kid have a slice of carrot cake, but decline anything for myself. I'm not much of a sweets eater these days. Instead, I ask for a cup of tea and sip it while Kayleigh finishes her treat.

Egon's black-tipped ears and crest peek over the edge of the worn table. I glance down at the beast; my eyebrows knit together. Is it my imagination or can I not see the enfield's ribs anymore?

I can't see the bone, either. The monster ate the entire thing.

He's like a damn hyena—a walking garbage disposal on four legs.

"What?" I ask the enfield as he cocks his head and whines softly.

"He wants you to pet him," Kayleigh says, licking icing off her fork.

I cut my eyes to the girl, then back down to the enfield. Egon's orange eyes widen and he wriggles his butt on the floor of the restaurant. "Fine," I tell the beast, "but if you bite me, I'm putting this knife through your eye."

Carefully, I rest my hand on the enfield's head. His fur and feathers are stiff with dust, but his ears are surprisingly soft. A low, cat-like purr vibrates the enfield's throat and he pushes against my hand.

When I look up, Kayleigh is grinning at me. "That's enough," I tell the enfield, pulling away. I've nothing left in my heart to give—and certainly nothing to a monster.

... Or, do I?

Ugh.