The Mammoth Book of Paranormal Romance

Brutish creatures that had been human once, but when faced with death, had chosen to allow demon will to overtake their souls. They were human no longer, serving only their own hungers and a monstrous master.
    There were only two of them. A scouting party. Their hands were bloody which meant they had fed earlier. Daemon suppressed a shudder. Hybrids preferred their prey live, human and bloody.
    The trinity sped to him, black shadows in the night.
    “No,” he said, wanting this fight to be his, needing to know he was the one keeping her safe. Jen. He would keep her safe.
    They came at him, one from each side, claws raking his flesh. He welcomed the pain, welcomed the burn of cold fury that burst from deep inside. With a snarl, he lunged, speed and power. Sweat dripped from him, and blood. His - red, theirs -black.
    In the end, he stood, breathing heavily as their remains bubbled and hissed and disintegrated into sludge.
    At his call, the trinity came to him - sinuous smoke, dark shadow - and for a moment, the night flared bright with cold blue flame.
Three
    The following morning, Jen sat in the kitchen with Sheriff Hale, answering a whole mess of questions. Actually, it was more like he asked and she sat silent and frustrated because she didn’t have a shred of information to help him find that poor woman’s killer. What was she supposed to say? That two weeks ago she’d looked out at the woods and had the ugly sensation that something watched her with inhuman eyes? Yeah, that’d be a good move. Hale would think she’d lost her mind, and it wouldn’t bring him a step closer to the killer.
    “So tell me about this handyman you have working for you,” Hale prodded.
    “His name’s Daemon Alexander.”
    “Where’s he from?”
    Jen opened her mouth, then closed it. She had no idea.
    “I’m from Oregon, originally.”
    She caught the look of surprise on Hale’s face as they both turned. Daemon stood by the side door, leaning one shoulder against it. She hadn’t heard him come in and, from Hale’s sour expression, she gathered that neither had he.
    “What about you, Sheriff Hale?” Daemon asked, his tone lazy and smooth. He shrugged out of his scuffed leather jacket and hung it on a peg behind the door. “Where’re you from?”
    Hale’s face darkened to a dull red. “Right here. Born and bred.”
    “How fortunate for you.” There was a wealth of the unspoken behind those words, an implication that strangers were a convenient scapegoat.
    Jen watched Daemon cross the kitchen to the coffee pot and pour himself a cup. She frowned at the tattoo on his forearm. She could swear that it had been on his biceps last night.
    “Jenny, you mind giving us a few minutes, man to man?” the sheriff asked.
    For some inexplicable reason, she did mind, but had no reason to say so. Instead, she rose and collected her crutches. Daemon met her gaze and offered a tight smile. She realized that he wanted this, wanted to talk with Hale alone. She supposed he wanted to lay any suspicions to rest.
    Seeing no option, she left them alone.
    The sheriff’s voice drifted to her. “So where were you last night, Mr Alexander?”
    “Last night?” Daemon’s tone was laced with perverse humour. “Why, I was right here, Sheriff. With Jen.”
    She froze. He didn’t exactly lie. He had been here with her as night fell. But after that? Where had Daemon been then? And why did he only offer a partial truth?
    “Why do you ask, Sheriff? Was there some problem last night?”
    “Mrs Peteri says she saw someone lurking in the woods. Someone with a flashlight that has a blue bulb. A very powerful flashlight. That wouldn’t have been you, would it, Mr Alexander?”
    Daemon laughed. “Come outside and search my car if you feel compelled, Sheriff Hale.”
    “I just might do that,” the sheriff said. “Might like to look at where you live, too. You rent a room at Maybelle Tewksbury’s, don’t you?”
    “I do. You’re welcome to look there, as well.” Daemon paused. “I don’t own a flashlight. Blue bulb or otherwise.”
    But he did. If not a flashlight, then some other type of light. Jen had seen it leaking through the door of the room Daemon had been working in last night.
    Not bothering with stealth, because her crutches made that hopeless, she headed up the stairs to the room under the eaves. Heart racing, she pushed open the door. The walls that had been covered with her grandmother’s floral paper were now a soft