The Demon Road Trilogy: The Complete Collection: Demon Road; Desolation; American Monsters

“You’re abandoning me?”

“I’m going to the restroom.”

“Oh. Uh. Carry on.”

Sighing, she walked away from the table. She found the restroom, which turned out to be delightfully clean, and on her return trip she passed the dance floor. She saw Abigail, flanked by two burly members of staff, pointing to a woman doing her best to avoid eye contact. The staff members walked up either side of the woman, said a few words. The woman shook her head stiffly. The people she’d been talking to, her friends, took their drinks and moved away. She watched them go, pleading with her eyes.

The staff members took a firm grip of her elbows, led her to a room in the back. They nudged her gently through the open door and she immediately turned, tried to leave, tried to talk, but she was crying too much to get the words out.

Abigail was joined by the other children. The way they smiled sent actual shivers down Amber’s spine. Six of them, six beautiful little children, walking for the room now. The staff members moved away. The woman stepped back, hands up to keep the children at a distance. Her knees buckled. She was in hysterics now. The little boys took thin knives from their pockets and the little girls took thin knives from their purses, and they went into that room and the woman started screaming and the door closed.

Amber hurried back to their table. “The kids are killers,” she said, interrupting whatever Glen was saying to Milo. “The kids,” she said again. “The children. Abigail. I just saw them go after a woman with knives in their hands.”

Glen frowned. “Seriously?”

“Yes, Glen. Seriously.”

“They’re actual killers, like? Actual murderers?” The moment he said it, panic set in. “We have to get out of here. We have to leave. Don’t we? Who goes first? We can’t make it obvious that we’re leaving.”

“We’re not going anywhere,” said Milo.

“Did you not hear what she said?”

“We’re waiting for Abigail’s instructions. What she does here in the privacy of her own bar is her own business. It’s got nothing to do with us.”

“You don’t seem surprised,” Amber said to Milo. “About the killer kids.”

“Of course not,” he replied. “I recognised her the moment I saw her.”

“You know her?”

“I’ve read about her. She’s Abigail Gateling. Killed her entire family when she was eight years old. She was shipped off to an insane asylum while the authorities were figuring out what to do with her. She escaped the asylum and knocked on the first door she came to. She was found the next morning, drenched in blood.”

Glen gaped. “And she’s loose?”

“She’s dead,” said Milo. “This all happened in 1932.”

Amber stared at him. Glen started crying. It kind of ruined the moment.

(#ulink_5c455a87-1b06-5caa-8d89-4f45a2e46e2a)

THE CHARGER WAS WAITING for them when they emerged from the bar. Night had fallen.

Milo took one of the maps from the glove compartment, planning their route from the directions Abigail had given them. When he was satisfied, he folded the map and passed it to Amber, and they started driving.

Glen sat in the back and didn’t say much. If everything went according to plan, he would be free of the Deathmark by the end of the night. If everything went according to plan, he would be responsible for somebody’s death.

The further they moved from the city, the wider the spaces became. Houses had room to breathe, and they drew in big, deep breaths. Thirsty lawns became crabgrass and scrub bush. The landscape exploded outwards, rearing up into mountains that loomed dark against the night sky. The roads became wide trails of dust.

They drove for another half an hour, until they had left all trace of civilisation behind, and Milo pulled over. Leaving the engine running, he opened up a map.

“Are we lost?” Glen asked.

“No, we are not,” said Milo. “Just figuring out where to go. They should be around here somewhere, I just can’t—”

Headlights lit them up from behind and something rammed into them. Glen screamed and so did Amber, and Milo thrust the map at her and while the creased paper filled her vision the Charger was already leaping forward, roaring. The light from behind was blinding and all Amber could hear was the growl of engines, and Milo twisted the wheel and the car spun, and something thundered by, clipping the driver’s side mirror.

The Charger spun full circle and came to a stop, trembling with suppressed violence. Amber shoved the map down to her feet and only then did she become aware of Glen’s curses. On the dusty road ahead of them, a dark-coloured pickup truck circled round, catching them with all of its many spotlights. Amber squinted.

“Seat belts on,” Milo said in a quiet voice.

Amber knew hers was already fastened, but she checked anyway.

“There are no seat belts back here,” Glen said, panicking. “Why are there no seat belts?”

“Lie on the floor,” Milo said.

Glen whimpered, and slithered out of sight. He pulled the bags down on top of him.

The pickup shot forward and Milo kicked the Charger into reverse. Amber held on. The pickup’s lights filled the windshield. Milo drove with one hand on the wheel, the other on Amber’s seat, looking over his shoulder.

He braked suddenly, yanked the wheel, and the Charger spun again, throwing Amber against the door, but the pickup clipped them and the whole car jolted sideways. Milo’s hand worked the gears and his boot stomped on the gas, and the Charger spat up dirt and dust and it was back under control and back on the road, the pickup right behind it.

“Who the hell is that?” Glen screeched from beneath all the bags.

Amber braced one hand against the dash and pressed herself back into her seat. To look behind was to be blinded, so she kept her eyes on the road ahead, the dirt trail almost indistinguishable at this speed from the land through which it cut. The pickup hit them and the Charger jumped and Milo fought to keep it under control. They were hit again and Milo hissed under his breath and the rear of the car started to slide sideways. The pickup slammed into Amber’s side. She screamed, the scream barely audible over the roar of the engines and the shriek of twisting metal.

The Charger spun to a rocking stop. The engine cut out.

In the relative silence, Amber could hear Dacre Shanks, shouting from the trunk. His shouts were slowly muted.

The pickup looped round. For some reason, that loop seemed so casual, so playful, that it made Amber’s anger rise in her throat.

Milo turned the key. The Charger spluttered.

“Oh God,” Glen said.

The pickup came back at them, picking up speed.

The Charger spluttered again.

Amber pulled at the door handle, but the lock came down, sealing her inside.

She whipped her head round to Milo as he turned the key a third time. The Charger roared, its headlights burning a devilish, hellish red.

It lunged out of the pickup’s path a moment before impact, turned with a spray of pebbles and sand, and now they were speeding behind the pickup, closing in to slam into its tail lights. The pickup wobbled, almost hit a lonely tree, and Milo put his foot down. The Charger came up on the truck’s right side. The pickup swerved into it. Milo responded in kind. The two vehicles battered at each other for a quarter of a mile or more, and then the pickup pulled away in front as the trail narrowed between two hills.

Milo commanded the Charger like he was a part of it. It was hard to see in the darkness and the quick bursts of light, but he seemed to be almost smiling. He looked darker, like the colour of the steering wheel was soaking into his hands and spreading through his skin. His jaw seemed more angular. The pickup’s tail lights somehow reflected in his eyes, making them glow red. And were those horns beginning to protrude through his hair?