Midnight Rider Series

Always read the fine print. Especially when you’re making a deal with the devil. Because demons are sneaky bastards. That’s how they got me. Well, and the rest of my hometown. A few hours of what I asked for and then we were all dragged to Hell. Luckily, those jokes about lawyers and Hell are pretty accurate. After a lengthy court case downstairs, I’ve been released on Hell’s very first work-release program with a time limit and a quota. All I have to do is hunt down and kill the things that go bump in the night.

After St. Louis, I knew it was time to seat the cannibal tribe in the "past tense" section of living. I mean, you just don't kidnap someone's demon accountant. That's just frickin' rude. Of course, now we're doing the chasing, like a couple of shotgun-toting girls hunting down our dates to the Sadie Hawkins' dance.

When there are half-masticated bodies popping up on the radar, any hunter worth their salt will sit up and take notice. So, when they started showing up in Oklahoma, Noah and I beat cheeks back down there to try to recover what we lost. But Fate isn’t exactly a grandma holding out a piece of hard candy. More often, it’s a playground bully dangling loogies over your face. So, after a little flamingo-necktie-assisted arson, a near-luxury car full of demons, some car trouble, and a game of human whack-a-mole, we were once again out of leads.

To say I sometimes run hot under the collar is a gross understatement. After what happened in Triton, I was a pissed off 500-pound gorilla with a pink fanny pack, a sawed-off, and a “can do or screw you” attitude. Now, I’m just looking for a visual aide to demonstrate my rage on and the demon that keeps standing me up is my top choice. On my way to get to him, of course, I stumbled over a demon cult that was in the process of signing people up for Hell. 

Messina, Noah, and I headed off to Chicago for a little TLC involving "stumping" some vampires. While in the Windy City, the cannibals blew back into our path, and everything started going downhill from there. A rest-stop massacre, Stacks' penchant for getting his ass in a sling, a drunk witch armed with a tube of cookie dough, firebombing explosions, Tom Waits, a hunter dive bar, demonic kid hitchhikers, throwing bodies in dumpsters, and run-ins with two of my exes. 

When demons gather in their masses, it's time to put them on their asses. At least, that's what Noah and I decided after we finished up a whiskey-assisted hunt in Kentucky for one of the most ridiculous supers I've ever seen. And that's saying something considering I've hunted more than one Bonnacon. 

Still reeling from everything that had happened in Pennsylvania, Noah and I headed back to Rosetta’s for a regrouping session...well, and some fried chicken. Unfortunately, part of this regrouping happened to be with Gabe. But, he said he had a line on Old Dukey himself and besides what killing him would probably do for my total on the Price of Souls is Right, I was really looking forward to a demon-flavored game of Operation and making his nose light up when I removed vital parts of his anatomy.

Alright. I’m done dicking around. If I learned one thing in that warehouse in Ohio, it’s that time is short. Even shorter now, considering all the time I’d lost. With an occluded front promising a swarm of something on the horizon and armed with Rosetta’s leftovers, Noah and I were just about ready for anything. Well, almost. I hadn’t been expecting the swarm to be in Tiff’s hometown or for the buttlickers to crash an eight-year-old’s birthday party.

After everything that went down in Nevada, to say that we were reeling was an understatement. Now, I’ve got an additional little liability riding around with me, an Archeri on the loose, some cryptic clues from a dead god, a supernatural CPA to find, Death, Disneyland, kidnappers in polo shirts, angels, and a new conspiracy theory from Stacks and Luke that might just be true. Trust me when I say the working man has nothing on an armed and sleep-deprived working woman.

On a scale from zero to dumpster fire, I tend to hang out at the far, trash-burning end. But lately, things have been going eerily well. So when Festus showed up with a birthday cake and less blood on his suit than usual, I was a little more than skeptical. Add to that a scythe-wielding accountant that is wearing the carpet thin, a demonic soiree in Missouri, a murderous gang of Red Caps in cheese country, a lie-detecting seven-year-old, and a snooty corporate cult, and I can smell the gas fumes on the trash heap at 40 paces.