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CONTENTS

ABOUT THIS BOOK

TITLE PAGE

DEDICATION

THE ROAD KEEPS ON CALLIN’

HOME IS WHERE YOU ARE

WHILE YOU SLEEP

HERE’S TO YOU

HIT ME WITH ALL YOU GOT

HOLD ON TIGHT

WHENEVER I CLOSE MY EYES

YOU’RE IN MY BLOOD

IF I COME A-KNOCKIN’

(UP TO BAT) FOR YOUR LOVE

IN IT TOGETHER

I CRIED ALL NIGHT

TELL ME YOUR SECRETS

I SAY YOUR NAME (IN MY SLEEP)

JUST GO

NUMBER ONE FAN

RUN (FOR MY LOVE)

HOT ON YOUR TRAIL

PARTY LIKE IT’S OUR LAST

WANT TO GET CLOSE TO YOU

DON’T MAKE ME FIGHT FOR OUR LOVE

STRIKE BACK

SLIP AWAY

FALLING FOR YOU

FLYING HIGH

A SONG FOR YOU

DON’T LEAVE ME WAITING

HELLO AGAIN

BRING IT

YOU, ALONE

GET YOU BACK

DON’T KEEP ME HANGING

THE SHOW CAN’T GO ON

LIKE A DOMINO

LET’S DANCE

I’M YOURS

KILLER KISS

STAY

BACK TO BUSINESS

COMING SOON

A NOTE FROM KIM

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

LOVE THIS BOOK?

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“Thank you, Illinois!”

With a last strum of guitar and an explosion of lights, the show ended. Thousands of voices called out for more. Girls screamed, sobbing and broken-hearted, wanting the show to go on for ever. Boys cried out too, wanting to hear another of their favourite songs. But the show had to end.

JD scanned the audience one last time. Thousands of faces illuminated by the glowing screens of phones gazed back at him. The face he was looking for wasn’t there. It never was.

He waved, then followed the rest of the boys offstage. The huge Slay logo lit his way, not that he needed it. He’d know his way through the viper’s nest of black cables with his eyes closed.

Gail, the band’s manager, watched from the wings, her hands folded over the silver tip of her cane. “Now that, JD,” she said as he approached, her diamond-encrusted eyepatch flashing as bright as her one dark eye, “is what I meant about making a connection. Could you feel it?” She gripped his shoulder and gave him a small shake.

It was almost annoying how Gail was always right about these things. She’d gone on and on about how he had to open himself up to the audience. Be vulnerable. Be exposed. Something JD didn’t do with people he’d known for years, let alone with thousands of strangers. But tonight, something had happened. He’d let his guard down and the crowd in. Their love had poured into him, filling a hole in his soul he’d never realized was there.

“Yeah,” he said with a half shrug. “It was kinda cool.”

“Kinda cool? You muppet,” Tom said, jumping on JD’s shoulders. Tom was the only one who could insult JD without getting at least a punch on the arm for it. He smiled, his round cheeks, which had whole forum threads dedicated to them, creasing beneath sparkling green eyes. Tom was a few months older than JD, but you wouldn’t know it to look at him. “Cute” and “baby-faced” were used to describe Tom in almost every article about the band, much to his irritation. But it was true. That bundle of strawberry-blond curls with that fresh, freckled face made Tom look angelically youthful. “It was more than ‘kinda cool’, it was amazing!”

“You know what was amazing?” JD said. “That sweet keyboard solo on ‘Bring It Home’. Where did that come from?”

Tom turned his palms up to the sky. “What can I say, I’m a natural talent.”

“A natural something.” JD wrapped his arm around his bandmate’s neck and knuckled his hair, which he knew would annoy their stylist. But he didn’t care. The show was over for tonight. He and Tom jostled each other as they headed down the stairs backstage, laughing and revelling in the post-show high.

Connor jumped around, whooping and drumming his sticks off everything in sight. He was like a living, breathing wind-up toy. JD wondered if the day would come when Connor would run out of energy. He’d known him for two years now and there was no sign of it yet. Connor grabbed a can of cola off a passing roadie and shook it before opening it.

“Watch the threads!” Zek dodged the spray of liquid and checked his clothes for any stains. They were, as ever, impeccable. Everything about the band’s bassist was sharp. Including his tongue. “Which reminds me, Con, a scarecrow called earlier, he wants his trousers back,” Zek said, returning to his phone to put the finishing touches to his post.

Zek was constantly documenting their lives on social media. Well, some of their lives. Slay got up to so many things that the public could never, ever know about.

Connor drained the can in one long gulp, crushed it and threw it at Zek. Zek snatched it out of the air one-handed without even looking up from his phone.

“Show-off,” Connor muttered.

“You know the difference between a drummer and a drum machine?” Zek said. “You only have to punch the information into a drum machine once.”

Niv stretched out his slender hands and slapped both his twin and Connor around the back of the head, knocking Connor’s cap to the floor and making both boys laugh.

Always the peacekeeper, JD thought. Niv didn’t need to say a word to bring an end to Connor and Zek’s frequent squabbles. A look was normally enough. Unlike his twin brother, who never shut up, Niv hadn’t spoken a single word in over eight years, not since their parents had tragically died. His angular face was uniquely expressive though: with the raise of an eyebrow or the twist of his mouth, Niv could speak volumes.

JD looked around the band, the familiar glow of respect and warmth filling him. That had been a show to remember. The five boys had been more in sync than ever before. Zek on bass and Connor on drums laying down tight rhythms that allowed Niv on guitar and Tom on keyboards to play it loose. And all the time, JD sang his heart out.

They were coming to the end of their first world tour after nearly five months on the road. And while JD couldn’t deny the kick he got out of playing to packed stadiums, he loved these smaller gigs the most. They’d played a lot of surprise shows at venues like tonight’s: a run-down baseball field in a middle-of-nowhere town, announced last-minute on social media. It was one of their things. The media thought it was a gimmick, orchestrated to build hype – never knowing where the next Slay gig would be until a day before kept the fans speculating wildly online. The fans themselves loved it. They thought it was all because the boys wanted to give something back, that it was proof of how much Slay cared about them. And they were right. But for the wrong reasons.

“Er, ’scuse me, JD.” One of their roadies waited at the bottom of the stairs, twisting a small leather cap in his huge tattooed hands.

“Hey, Carl,” JD said. The roadie’s bearded face lit up at the lead singer knowing his name. JD didn’t have the heart to tell him he knew it only because the man had Carl loves Betty tattooed across his arm.

“I’m sorry to bother you, only…” The giant man stepped aside, revealing a small blonde girl standing behind him. She wore a miniature version of Carl’s leather jacket and, under it, a Slay T-shirt. “This is my daughter, Daisy, and she really wanted to meet you.”

The girl’s eyes were the size of ping-pong balls and she shook in her mini biker boots. She couldn’t have been much older than eight.

JD kneeled down and stretched out his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Daisy.” The girl held up a tiny hand and JD shook it. “Did you enjoy the show?”

Daisy nodded frantically and said in a wobbling voice, “It was the best…night…of my life.”

“Can I let you in on a secret?” JD said. He looked left and right, then beckoned the little girl forward with a finger and whispered in her ear. “It was one of the best nights of my life too.”

The girl’s smile was so big JD worried it might split her face in half. He straightened up and gave her a gentle half hug. The emotion was too much. Tears started flowing and she buried her face in her father’s leg, bawling.

Carl scooped his daughter up. “I haven’t seen her this happy since before we lost her mum,” he said, casting a meaningful look at JD.

JD knew what losing someone was like. Everyone in Slay did, from the band to the roadies. It was why they had been chosen. “Take care of each other.”

Carl muttered his thanks and carried the girl away.

“What is it with you and making girls cry?” Tom said.

“It’s his face,” Zek said, without looking up from his phone. “It makes everyone cry. Kids. Old ladies. That statue in New Orleans.”

“Ah, now, that was a miracle,” Connor said, tapping his forehead, chest and shoulders with the tip of his drumstick to make the sign of the cross.

“You’re not joking,” Zek said, holding his phone up and snapping a picture of JD. “A face that ugly? Doesn’t happen by accident.”

“Don’t post that!” JD said.

“Too late. Oh and look, twenty views already.”

JD punched Zek playfully on the arm. Some days Zek’s endless attempts to wind him up worked, but not today.

Connor slammed open the dressing-room door with a scissor kick and they all piled in. Gail closed the door behind them, locking the publicists and stylists, journalists and bloggers out on the other side.

JD inhaled deeply, taking in the smell of the room. The chemical tang of hairspray and aftershave still lingered from when they were primped before going onstage. And there was the sweet waft of the warm pizzas cooling in the corner – the only rider the boys asked for.

Gail propped herself up on the dressing table, leaning her silver-tipped cane against the wall, and reached out her arms. Her mass of bracelets jangled. “My boys. My brilliant boys.” A tear glistened in the corner of her heavily-kohled eye, out of character for the usually no-nonsense woman. But then it had been a long week.

The five huddled together, their arms reaching around each other’s shoulders, their heads bowed. They always gave thanks after every show. Connor and the twins to their separate gods, Tom and JD to fate or destiny or whatever had brought them together. JD didn’t know what Gail gave thanks for, but he sure gave thanks for her.

She’d been a lead singer herself, so she knew the pressure and privilege that came with being the frontman. Her band – a British all-girl rock band called The Cyclones – were at the height of their global success when there had been a tragic accident. Gail had been the sole survivor, and she still bore the scars: a shattered leg and a missing eye. And they were only the physical ones.

“A performance like that after what happened in Nebraska,” Gail said. “I’m so proud. However…” She straightened up and broke the circle as the boys groaned. They knew what that However meant. “It’s back to business.” She clapped her hands together.

Connor rolled his eyes. “Sure, can’t we have one night off? There’s this deadly fairground on the other side of town.”

“Wait! You don’t mean where spooky old man Jones lives?” Zek said in a fake eerie voice.

“And I would have gotten away with it too, if it wasn’t for you meddling kids!” Tom added, his creepy-old-man voice somewhat ruined by a mouthful of pizza. “Come to think of it,” he said, swallowing and dropping back into his soft London accent, “we are just like the Scooby-Doo gang!”

“Yes, and Connor is Shaggy,” Zek said, and the rest of the boys hooted in agreement.

“Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up,” Connor said, spinning his snapback cap around on his messy hair. “Anyway, how do you even know about Scooby-Doo?”

Zek gazed dramatically into the far distance. “When Niv and I were small children growing up in the mountains outside of Marrakech an old storyteller would come to our village and re-enact the great tales of the Mystery Gang and their battle against the forces of evil. We didn’t have any dogs so the role of Scooby-Doo was played by a goat.”

Niv wiped away a fake tear.

“Good days,” Zek said, resting his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Happy days.”

Connor stood open-mouthed. “For real?”

Zek and Tom burst out laughing. Connor was sweet and a great drummer, but he was such a sucker.

JD took pity on him. “They have cable TV in Morocco you know, Connor?”

Connor blinked, taking a full minute before he got the joke. He threw his sticks at Zek’s head. “Shove off the lot of ya. Sure, I knew you were having me on. I knew.”

Niv hooked a finger in his mouth, like a fish caught on a line, and dangled his tongue out.

“And you can shut your gob too, Niv,” Connor said, shoving the bassist.

Gail pulled Connor off Niv. “Maybe we can go see who’s haunting the fairground tomorrow. After your radio interview with Jack Caroll.”

JD groaned. He sucked at interviews. He never knew what to say and always managed to put his foot in it. “Do I have to?”

“Yes,” Gail said. “It’s all part of the job, boys. But…” She smiled. “You know what else is part of the job?”

JD grinned in anticipation. They hadn’t come to Illinois just to play a gig. “Sending unwelcome visitors back to hell?”

Gail nodded. “We’ve tracked three black-eyed scumbags to a motel just outside of town. So, tool up.”

The boys cheered. Slay did two things. And they did them well. Play killer music and kick demon butt.

Music done. It was butt-kicking time.

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“Hello,” Milly shouted, closing the door behind her, “I’m home.”

There was no response, as usual. The house was empty and she was alone. Again. She swung her bag off her shoulder and dropped it to the floor, then kicked off her thick-heeled shoes and threw her purple school blazer at the foot of the metal coat stand. Petty victories. Especially as she knew she’d pick them all up before the housekeeper arrived in the morning.

The house was too big. Too quiet. They’d moved to Chicago less than a month ago and into this tumbling-down mansion on the edge of the city. Milly had become accustomed to living in stylish penthouse apartments, all huge glass windows and sharp modern art, but her mother’s new agent had been quite insistent about this house, telling her that it was best she have somewhere quiet and out of the way. Given he was the one who’d got her the deal with the Lyric Opera of Chicago after everything had gone so wrong with the English National Opera, Milly thought she should at least try and be grateful. Not easy, considering she hated the man almost as much as she’d hated leaving London. She’d tried to argue about the move. Lied about how settled she was in her school to avoid the pain of yet more upheaval. But none of that mattered to her mother.

“It will be magnificent, ma chérie. Another adventure!”

Sure, another adventure for you, Milly had thought at the time. But more boredom for me.

She’d spent her entire life being dragged from city to city as her mother’s career as an opera singer rose and then fell. From prima donna at the Opéra de Paris to chorus at the English National Opera, via Berlin and Sydney. And now a role at the Lyric Opera in Chicago. Milly’s only hope had been that she’d finally be able to go to a normal school. The kind she’d seen on US TV shows: all jocks and cheerleaders and shining teeth. But yet again she’d been sent to the most expensive, most uptight, most boring school in the area.

Milly longed for an adventure of her own, one where she got to be the hero of her own life. But for now she was still just a background character in her mother’s epic story.

She slouched into the living room and fired up the TV. Flicking through the channels, she stopped on a pop concert of five boys playing to a crowd of screaming fans. Milly smiled guiltily. She had been expressly instructed not to listen to music like this. “It will rot your brain,” her mother had said, before proceeding to shake the windows with her vocal exercises. Officially she had been forbidden from watching TV too, unless it was to help with her studies. But she was sixteen now – time to start breaking some of her mother’s rules. Especially if her mother wasn’t around to see her breaking them. She turned the sound up.

The music didn’t sound like it could do her brain any damage. It was catchy – she even heard echoes of Rossini’s The Thieving Magpie in the chorus. And the boys were undeniably easy on the eyes. She recognized them from pictures stuck to the insides of lockers and plastered over folders at school. The lead singer had the most intense grey eyes that seemed to look only at her. And the boy on keyboards had a smile that seemed to light up the whole stage. The rest of the band was made up of a pair of twins on guitars, with light brown skin and golden eyes, and a mophaired drummer, who was all muscles and freckles. She was starting to understand why her classmates had been so excited when they’d heard the band were coming to Illinois.

“What if we, like, actually get to meet them?” one of the girls had squealed. “And they invite us backstage? Imagine!”

“What if they ask us to come on tour?” another replied. “Imagine!”

The girls at school liked to imagine a lot of things when it came to boy bands. Yet another way Milly felt like an outsider.

She turned off the TV and slouched into the kitchen. Not even so much as a note from her mother. Between rehearsals and five shows a week, Milly had hardly seen her since they’d arrived. Although it was better than the weeks after her mother had been fired from the ENO and spent all day at home, wailing as only a soprano can. No, Milly was happy her mother had got this new job, but it did mean she’d have to make her own dinner, again. She opened the fridge and considered the contents. Five cabbages and a bag of lemons. Her mother was on a cleansing diet.

“Yummy.”

She slammed the fridge door in disgust and popped two slices of white bread into the silver toaster. They bounced back up exactly three minutes and twenty-six seconds later, as the toaster had been programmed, and she grabbed them out of the air. After slathering them with peanut butter, she shoved one slice into her mouth and carried the other with her into the music room, her favourite room in the house.

While the rest of the house was big and rambling, the music room was small and cosy, and the only one with a view of Lake Michigan.

She licked her fingers clean of peanut butter and wiped her hands on her scratchy, tartan school skirt twice – three times to be sure – before opening the lid of the Steinway piano. She splayed her hands on the off-white keys, stretching out her thumbs and little fingers as far as she could, and pressed down, drinking in the sound of her favourite chord: B flat.

She had Latin homework to do tonight. An advanced physics paper to check after that. But for now, all Milly wanted to do was play.

She sat on the green leather stool, shuffled it closer to the piano till it was in the perfect position, then let her fingers dance. She moved seamlessly from Bach to Rachmaninov, onto a blues piece she’d been trying to master, then onto a song of her own composition – which, she wasn’t going to admit to anyone, she loved even more than the others.

Milly was, she’d overheard her mother saying once, “good at everything”. From some mothers, that would have been meant as a compliment. From Milly’s mother, it was a comment on how her daughter lacked focus. But the truth was Milly did have a focus: music. It was the only thing that came naturally to her. The rest – the maths, physics, languages – she had to work at. And work hard. But not music. If she’d had her way, she would have done nothing but play the piano 24/7. But her mother wouldn’t allow that.

“You do not have la constitution for a life in music, ma trésor. You are too gentle. Too like your dear papa.” And she would cross herself and change the subject.

So Milly focused on her studies, ready to sit her exams and then go to the Sorbonne in Paris, like her mother wanted. She was nothing if not a dutiful daughter.

Her father had been gentle, about that her mother was right. A kind British-Chinese man, with a smile as big as his heart. He and her mother had always looked a little ridiculous standing next to each other. Her curvaceous mother, larger – and louder – than life. Her father small and silent. The fact that he was deaf had been a subject of much amusement to everyone who knew the couple. Some even thought it might have been the secret to their successful marriage. Others, Milly heard via whispers behind her mother’s back, put it down to his extreme wealth.

Her father had bought Milly her first piano and would sit with her while she played, feeling the vibrations through his hands and feet and telling her how well she was doing. He had died of cancer three years ago and she missed him more than her heart could take sometimes. Every time she sat down to play, she would imagine him there, sitting next to her, his hand on the piano, nodding encouragingly.

As she played, the ache in her shoulders lessened and the tension of the day flowed out of her and into the piano. All the worry about exams and the snide comments of her new schoolmates fell away. At times like this, she didn’t know where the piano ended and she began.

She was so lost in the music that she didn’t notice the three people standing in the doorway, watching. As Milly played the last chord, pressing down on the sustain pedal to draw it out, they started to clap.

She jumped at the sound, nearly falling off the stool. “Maman! You almost gave me a heart attack.”

“Bravo,” her mother said, eyes shining.

Her mother seemed to fill every room she was in – even after she’d left them. Or maybe it was just her perfume: a sweet musk that clung to everything and everyone in her wake.

“I didn’t realize your daughter was quite so talented,” the man next to her said. This was her mother’s new American manager who, to Milly’s annoyance, went by his surname only: Mourdant. He wore sharp, silver suits and sunglasses indoors, and Milly hated him with an intense passion she reserved only for politicians and people who were mean to dogs. Milly was almost certain something was going on between the two of them. The way her mother looked at him like he was a god made her skin crawl.

The other person was her mother’s new personal assistant. April? Alice? Milly hadn’t bothered to remember her name because her mother’s PAs never stayed around too long. This one looked just like all the others. Small, dark and birdlike. Although maybe all women looked like that in her mother’s presence.

“Yes, very beautiful, Milly,” Alice/April said.

“Pff! The child’s name is Lyudmila! How many times do I have to tell you, Alice?”

“Yes, sorry, Madam Durand.”

Her mother never called her Milly. Only ever her full name – Lyudmila – after her first starring role.

“We didn’t expect you to be home,” Mourdant said.

Milly closed the lid of the piano, uncomfortable under the man’s intense gaze.

“Um…where did you think I’d be?”

“School or something.” He waved his hand around, showing his complete lack of interest in whatever that something might be.

“School finished, like, five hours ago.”

“The library then?” He said everything through a thick smile of blindingly white teeth and yet there was never any warmth. Every time Milly looked at him, she thought of sharks.

“The librarian kicked me out so she could lock up. So, um, sorry, I’m right here, like always. It’s you I didn’t expect to be around.”

“We’re celebrating.”

“Celebrating what?” Milly asked.

Mourdant reached into his jacket and Milly saw a flash of crimson lining. He pulled out a fold of cream paper. “Your mother is about to sign a new contract!” With a flick of his hand, the paperwork unrolled.

“With the opera house? I thought you were already employed by them,” Milly said. After all, she thought, it’s the reason you dragged me here.

“This is for something new. Something…life-changing.” He folded the contract back up, returned it to his jacket pocket, and looked at Milly’s mother. “Isn’t that right, Isobel?”

Milly’s mother gazed up at Mourdant, her eyes glittering like an infatuated teenager’s. “Yes, life-changing.”

“Congratulations, I guess,” Milly said after a moment, wanting to break the awkward silence.

It seemed to shatter whatever trance her mother was in. “Yes, we must celebrate. But first, come here and give your mother a kiss.”

Milly pushed the stool away and walked stiffly over to her mother. She offered her cheek, ready to receive her mother’s usual cold double kiss – but instead she was scooped up into a hug and pressed against her mother’s substantial bosom so hard she could barely breathe.

“Maman…you’re crushing me.”

“Everything is going to change, ma chérie,” she breathed into Milly’s ear. “We’re going to have everything we ever dreamed of.”

Milly pushed herself free of the embrace. Her shock was quickly replaced by a creeping uneasiness. Her mother was acting so weird. So…loving. She should probably be concerned – but it was actually freaking her out a little.

“I’ve, um, got to…homework,” Milly mumbled and headed for the stairs.

“I am going to cook for us all to celebrate, won’t that be nice?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Then why don’t you join us later for a glass of champagne to toast your mother’s success,” Mourdant said. It wasn’t a question.

“Oh, yes, your first taste of champagne! Won’t that be fun?”

Milly had to grip the banister to stop herself from falling over. She looked back at her mother smiling up at her, Mourdant by her side.

“Sure,” Milly said, a cold shiver creeping up her spine, before racing up the steps two at a time.

Once inside her room, she closed the door, locked it and leaned against it. Her mother never cooked. Not once in her life. She had people do it for her. And “fun”? Her mother never wanted her to have fun.

Milly didn’t know what was happening. But she knew one thing. Something very, very weird was going on.

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“You sure this is the place?” Connor asked as he parked the jeep outside a dilapidated motel.

The welcome sign flickered on and off, on and off, sparking with each flash. Connor pressed his nose against the car window, peering out into the dark. “Demons normally go for somewhere with more, you know, class.”

Niv’s hands danced as he signed something. JD caught snatches of it – something about a camera maybe? He looked to Zek, who translated.

“He says it’s definitely the place. He hacked the CCTV.”

The boys had come to this run-down part of Chicago after DAD had been triggered by key phrases broadcast over the local police radio. People going missing. Increase in violent crime. Reports of people with black eyes. Check. Check. Check.

DAD, short for Demonic Activity Detector, was a highly sophisticated computer program originally built by some of the finest minds at the National Security Agency to monitor terrorist activity. It had been adapted and renamed by Niv to meet the boys’ unique interests. Bots scoured newsfeeds, forums, social networks and even some firewalled intranets that weren’t supposed to be accessed by the public. If anyone posted anything relating to demons, Niv would be notified within a matter of minutes.

Niv held up his phone. The screen showed grainy black-and-white footage from a security camera covering the motel. Niv wound the footage back to fifteen minutes ago. The boys watched as a battered Ford pulled up and three white men dressed in black and a Latino woman wearing a long red skirt stepped out. They looked human, but that meant nothing. Most of the things the boys faced looked human. It wasn’t until you looked into their eyes that you saw what they really were. The boys watched and waited till one of the figures turned their face to the camera. Completely black eyes stared back at them.

“Demons,” Tom said with clear disgust in his voice. Tom was the most forgiving of them all, always looking for the good in everyone he met. But when it came to demons, his heart was ice-cold.

Niv pointed to his eyes and then the phone. Keep watching. A moment later, the demons dragged a teenage girl from the back seat of the Ford. JD flinched at seeing her fear, wanting to somehow jump into the screen and save her. She was dragged, kicking and screaming, across the parking lot and into room eight. The motel employed remote security guards who would only turn up if an alarm was triggered and the manager was nowhere to be seen. If any of the other guests had heard the girl’s cries for help, they’d chosen to ignore them.

Fifteen minutes ago. They might already be too late.

“All right. Let’s move.”

The boys leaped out of the jeep, adjusting the neoprene half-masks and goggles they always wore on duty. Each boy had customized their own mask: JD’s was simple urban camo, Tom’s had a stylized Union Jack flag, Zek’s looked like a grinning skull, Niv’s had red flames creeping up the edges, while Connor’s was white with a large brown moustache and he always topped it with his tatty red snapback.

They raced to the rear of the jeep and Niv threw open the tailgate. He hit a button and a hidden box slid out from under the back seat. An array of silver weapons glinted in the street lights. When going up against a demon guns didn’t work – you needed salt or cold hard metal to send their souls screaming back to the Netherworld. Iron worked just as well, but silver had more style.

Zek and Niv handed them out. The three-pointed sais blades for Connor. A compound bow and quiver of black-tipped arrows for Tom. And JD’s sword. He slid the katana out of its saya and felt the cool grip of the stingray skin that covered its handle under his fingers. That left the pair of engraved scimitars for the twins.

The curtains of the motel room were drawn and shadows moved inside.

Connor spun his twin sais, grinning wildly at the whoosh as they sliced the air. Niv hit a button on his phone and the blinking light on the security camera went dark. Now, the only person watching would be Gail. She’d be back at base, watching the feed from each of the boys’ headcams.

When they first started hunting demons, Gail came with them, using every mission as a chance to train them. Now she came less and less, trusting them to take care of themselves and because, JD knew, she was training him up to take the lead. He didn’t always like calling the shots, but he was good at it.

Slay pelted across the empty parking lot towards room eight, cracked tarmac crunching under foot. Using hand signals to communicate, JD pointed to the twins and directed them round the back. He, Connor and Tom would take the front.

JD crept up the steps to the door, Tom behind him and Connor bringing up the rear. He pressed his back against the wall between the door and the small window. It was half open and tatty orange curtains blew in the slight breeze. The sound of voices drifted out through the window and JD leaned closer. It sounded like low, rhythmic chanting. A ritual. They’d have to move fast.

JD held out a fist with his thumb pointing out. The sign for a flash grenade. They’d blind the demons and pick them off while they were still blinking. Connor pulled the grenade from his belt and threw it through the window. They waited. A deafening explosion smashed all the windows out and filled the motel room with thick, orange smoke.

“I gave the sign for a flash grenade, Con,” JD shouted over the ringing noise. “Not smoke, you idiot.” The smoke in question was sodium chloride – salt – which demons hated. But it was hardly subtle.

“Oops.” Connor grinned – he liked anything that made loud bangs, from his drum kit to his weapons – and jumped through the window.