carefully maintained. The elderly man inside the historic Craftsman was happiest in a home with few rooms and big windows to let in the sun. The navigable home kept him from being confused as he moved from room to room with poor eyesight, failing legs and a cane in a stoop-shouldered shuffle. And the big windows kept the shadows at bay. He didnât like shadows. He didnât remember why. At first John Severne had tried to correct his fatherâs failing memory. Heâd consulted the best doctors. Heâd experimented with homeopathy and modern medicines. But then heâd seen the grace in Levi Severneâs forgetfulness. The relief. His grandfather had been killed by one of the daemons heâd been charged to hunt. Heâd died a doomed man. Heâd known hell had come for him. Though only a young teen, John had seen him consumed by Brimstoneâs fire until nothing was left but dust. His father had seen it, too. Heâd taken Johnâs hand, helpless to prevent for them both the same fate unless they were successful in their task. Down to the last name on hellâs most-wanted list. John Severne had visited with the father who hadnât known him for decades. Every time he came, they met for the first time. A nearly immortal man with Alzheimerâs was a pitiful sight. But it was also a respite. They spoke of other things. The hydrangeas were blooming. Levi Severne liked blue. The big clusters of blooms made him smile. Severne had left his father on a chair in the backyard, where the flowers swayed in the breeze. The nurse would collect him in time for an afternoon siesta. No more killing. No more strife. He had no memory of the damnation that had once plagued him with nightmares. âWeâll beat it, John. Weâll beat it. I promised your mother before she died I would see you saved. I promised her my fatherâs terrible contract wouldnât damn you.â How many times had his father repeated that pledge to him? How many times had he stood watching the frail old man he loved and quietly vowing the same pledge back to him? âIâll beat it. Iâll save you. You have my word,â Severne said. The burn in his throat wasnât Brimstone. The evil old man who had been his grandfather had deserved the agony that had devoured him. Heâd brought it on himself. His father had been an innocent child when Thomas Severne made his deal with the devil. John had been sacrificed to the Council when heâd been barely old enough to survive the burn of Brimstone that had claimed his blood. * * * He had been playing with jacks when his grandfather came for him. It had been his favorite game, to bounce the ball and swipe up as many metal crosses as he could before the ball came down. Heâd wiled away many a lonely afternoon in solitary play, too grand of parentage to be approached by servantsâ children or the children of performers. He was often alone while his father was away on hunting trips. Heâd been too young to imagine that his father hunted monsters. But heâd often wondered why his father hunted when their cook visited the butcher for all the meat that went into his oven and pots. He bounced his ball, and Grandfather caught it before it came down. Only then did he notice the shiny boots that had crushed the tiny jacks heâd not scooped up in time. His grandfather hauled him up roughly with his other hand, and the jacks John had managed to scoop fell from his fingers, prizes he would never come back to retrieve. His time of childhood play was over. He was five years old. His grandfather had taken him down several flights of stairs too quickly for him to follow safely. Heâd fallen several times. Skinned both his knees. His arm had felt almost ripped from its socket each time his grandfather had pulled him to his feet. âItâs past time. The Council grows impatient. Your father should have done this well before