Bobby slapped the file onto the kitchen table like it owed him money, rattling the coffee mugs and making Dean spill bacon grease on his sleeve. Again.
"Sioux City," Bobby grunted, thumbing open the manila folder. Inside: glossy crime scene photos that looked like they'd been ripped straight out of a Saw reboot. "Three victims in three days. Ritualistic as hell. Coroner says the hearts were carved out while they were still breathing."
Lena leaned over my shoulder, cringing at the photos. "Demons?"
"Or one seriously pissed-off surgeon," Dean muttered through a mouthful of bacon.
Sam swiped a photo and squinted at the edges. "These incision marks—they're way too precise for human hands. And look." He tapped the bottom of the image. "Sulfur residue on the sheets. That's a demonic signature if I've ever seen one."
"Yeah, yeah. Demons." I waved a hand, flipping through the rest of the file. "Question is, why Sioux City? It's not exactly brimming with Hellmouth potential. No major ley lines, no hellgates, not even a decent haunted bridge."
Bobby slid another photo across the table like he was dealing poker. "That's why."
It was a symbol. Carved right into the victim's chest, blood still glistening around the edges. Enochian script—high-level celestial language. Not something you see every day.
The second my eyes landed on it, my Psychic Echoes kicked in like a mule. I was yanked out of my body for a heartbeat—just long enough to hear screaming, smell burnt hair, and see the flicker of something ancient…
…not just any doorway. A throne room. Massive. Endless. Built from bones and fire. A place not meant for mortal eyes.
I snapped the file shut, my pulse suddenly triple-timing. "Great. Hell's got a construction project."
Dean raised an eyebrow. "You gonna tell us what you just saw, or…?"
I smirked. "Spoilers. Let's just say it's not a treehouse."
Sam frowned. "So what's the plan?"
"Easy peasy," I said, rising from my chair. "We go in, figure out who's trying to play architect, gank 'em, then bounce."
Dean snorted. "Famous last words."
The 350Z purred like a contented panther as we hit I-29, the open highway a blur beneath us. Lena fiddled with the radio, skipping past country, gospel, and some guy screaming about the End Times (again).
I mentally cataloged our gear in the trunk:
Two silver-coated machetes
A sawed-off filled with rock salt
Holy water grenades (Dean called them "ghetto Molotovs" and, well, he wasn't wrong)
And my personal favorite: the bone blades I could grow on demand, courtesy of that flesh-weaver I put down two months back.
Lena landed on classic rock. Kansas. Fitting.
"So, what's the play?" she asked. "Standard salt-and-burn?"
I downshifted to pass a truck. "Demons this coordinated? They've got lookouts, runners, and probably a couple of meat suits with Black Friday-level aggression. We go in quiet, find the ringleader, and…" I mimed squeezing something into dust.
She smirked. "Subtle. That new?"
"Since I got tired of replacing my shirts."
Sioux City came into view, hugging the Missouri River like it was apologizing for existing. But even from miles away, I saw it—the haze. A thin red shimmer hanging over downtown, visible only through Dark Vision. Like the city had caught a fever and didn't know it was dying.
Oh yeah. This was gonna suck.
The "Siouxper 8" motel smelled like mildew and failed ambition. The clerk—some teenager with acne and a nametag that read Dave—barely looked up from his crossword.
"One room, two beds," I said, slapping down cash.
Lena cleared her throat.
I sighed. "One bed."
Dave finally looked up, smirked, and handed over a key.
The room was a disaster: saggy mattress, cracked lampshade, carpet that hadn't seen a vacuum since Reagan was president. A stain on the ceiling looked vaguely like the Virgin Mary flipping us off.
"Home sweet hellhole," Lena muttered, tossing her duffel onto the bed.
I got to work, laying salt lines along the windows and doors, while Lena unpacked the weapons and checked each blade like a surgeon prepping for an apocalypse.
"You think they'll come here?" she asked, loading silver rounds into her Glock.
"Downtown's crawling with low-level demons. We step on the wrong crack, they'll sniff us out. We might already smell like trouble."
As if on cue, the phone rang.
We both froze.
I picked it up. "Yeah?"
"Hunter." The voice was syrupy and thick—spoiled honey over nails. "You're in over your head."
I rolled my eyes. "Cool. Do you offer free clichés with every threat, or is that extra?"
Click.
I checked my watch. "Twenty minutes until the welcome wagon shows up."
Lena stretched. "Time for a shower?"
I grinned. "Make it ten. I hear trench coats are coming back in style."
Steam curled around her as she stepped out of the bathroom, towel drying her hair. That amber glow pulsed faintly in her chest—the lingering result of me rebuilding her heart with Wood Nymph regeneration after she'd flatlined in Pennsylvania.
Not Kharon's sickly red. This was warm, steady. Alive.
"You're staring," she said without turning.
"Just admiring the miracle of modern plumbing," I said. Mostly.
She tossed the towel in my face. "Focus, Casanova. We've got demons to gank."
I was about to retort when—
Thud.
A car door outside. Then another. Then a third.
Lena cocked her head. "They're early."
I peeked through the curtains.
Three figures in trench coats. Pale skin. Black eyes. The flickering neon above them buzzed like it was dying of fear.
I cracked my knuckles. Felt the familiar scrape of bone sliding under skin. "You take left, I'll take right?"
Lena chambered a round. "Try not to burn down the motel."
"No promises."