Angel’s ReckoningAngel Walker crouched on the rusted fire escape, the city’s neon pulse flickering below like a heartbeat. At nineteen, she was sharp-edged and lean, her father’s old leather duster hanging loose over her frame, the weight of his silver dagger tucked against her ribs. Chance Walker had been the best demon hunter this side of the Mississippi—until a wraith gutted him in a Chicago alley two years ago. Now, Angel carried his name, his blade, and his grudge.The air stank of sulfur. Down in the shadowed street, a man in a tailored suit moved too smoothly, his eyes glinting red under the streetlights. Demon. Low-tier, probably a greed feeder, charming suckers out of their savings before eating their souls. Angel’s lip curled. She’d tracked this one for three nights, watching it slither through dive bars and pawnshops, leaving husks of people behind.She dropped silently to the pavement, boots barely whispering. The demon didn’t notice, too busy sweet-talking a jittery kid in a hoodie, promising fast cash. Angel’s fingers grazed the dagger’s hilt, its etched runes warm under her touch. Chance had taught her the family trade young—salt circles, banishing sigils, how to spot a possessed human by the way they blinked too slow. He’d also taught her demons lie, always.“Hey, suit,” she called, stepping into the light. The demon’s head snapped up, red eyes narrowing. The kid bolted, forgotten. “You’re slipping. Third vic this week, same MO. Getting lazy.”It grinned, teeth too sharp. “Chance’s girl, huh? Heard you were sniffing around. You’re not half the hunter he was.”Angel’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t bite. Demons loved to talk, loved to dig into your soft spots. She flicked her wrist, tossing a handful of consecrated salt. It hit the demon’s chest, sizzling like grease on a skillet. The thing hissed, glamour flickering—suit melting into gray, leathery skin and claws.“Wanna bet?” she said, lunging.The fight was fast and brutal. The demon was strong, but Angel was faster, ducking its swipes and driving her dagger into its side. Black ichor sprayed, burning where it hit her skin. She twisted the blade, whispering the banishment her father drilled into her: “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus.” The demon screeched, eyes rolling back, then collapsed into ash.Panting, Angel wiped the blade on her jeans. The street was quiet again, just the hum of distant traffic. She pulled out her phone, texting her contact at the cleaners—hunters who scrubbed demon messes before cops got curious. Job done. But the ache in her chest didn’t fade. Every kill felt like chasing her father’s ghost, never quite catching it.Her phone buzzed. A new tip: strange deaths in a warehouse by the docks, bodies drained dry, no blood. Not a greed feeder. Something bigger. Angel’s pulse quickened. Chance had always said the big ones were coming, a tide of hell rising. He’d died hunting a lead on a demon lord, something called Asmodei. Angel hadn’t found it yet, but every job, every kill, brought her closer.She tucked the phone away, glancing at the sky. Dawn was hours off, and the city was crawling with things that didn’t belong. Angel Walker, daughter of Chance, adjusted her father’s duster and headed for the docks. The hunt was all she had left.

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