Chapter One
Danica
A place to sleep. A place to sleep, and maybe some nosh. That was what Danica needed, and nothing more. She wasn't looking for a place to stay. She wasn't looking for a warm meal or a job or a family or a future when she knocked on Bobby Singer's door- the last door out of twelve she had knocked on since it started raining in the town of Sioux Falls an hour ago. This old house, in the middle of a junkyard, in the middle of nowhere, was her last ditch effort to get out of the wet and the cold.
She didn't have high hopes. Sioux Falls had not been the friendly down-home bonfire she'd been expecting. Small town, you'd think people would be less rude. It's not like she was some hairy, grope-y vagabond with intent to steal heirlooms, spare change and virtue. Granted everyone looks like a creepy axe murderer in the rain, but if they'd just let her in they'd see that she was decent enough.
A few moments after she'd knocked on the door of the Singer residence, Danica was ready to give up. She'd had enough scraping her shoes on unwelcoming welcome mats while these rural chuckleheads judged her though their peep holes. She turned and examined the abandoned cars rather morosely. She could go without a meal, sure, but shelter is shelter and there are worse places to sleep than in a crappy old ford.
But just as she'd turned away from the house and toward the nearest vehicle a gruff, tired voice came through the door.
"What do you want?"
Trying not to get too excited, Danica turned back to the door, trying to find the peep hole in it so she could smile some sort of innocent-girl-in-need-of-help smile right into the guy's susceptible eyeball, and said, "I'm looking for a place to sleep. I'm not crazy. And I'm not homeless. I'm drifting and it's raining and I'm kind of without transport at the moment, so if you have a spare room or a lone mattress or an especially comfortable rug you don't mind letting me borrow for the night, I'd appreciate it greatly."
There was silence for a second, leading Danica to think about all the things going through her potential savior's head, like 'Who prefaces a request with 'I'm not crazy' except for crazy people?' and 'Is there even a difference between being homeless and drifting?'
So, stupidly, she blurted "I'm really, really not crazy. And really, really not homeless. I'm also a quiet sleeper and I can make a gourmet meal out of anything."
She imagined she could hear disbelief from the other side of the door.
"Anything. Spaghetti-o's and meatloaf can make superb lasagna if you know how to cook them."
The door opened and Danica jumped before she took a long look at the forlorn man standing before her.
Tall in stature, rotund in form, and shaggy of face was he. Somewhere in his mid thirties but not well kempt. His grooming left a lot to be desired, but he seemed approachable enough. Like chops-his-own-wood-and-eats-what-he-kills kind of approachable. Clearly lacking in manners, starting with wearing a trucker cap indoors. And his grief was oozing from his pores so heavily she could practically see the edges of it, like hot asphalt in the summer.
"You can make a meal outta what I got, you got yourself dinner and a place to sleep." He mumbled in a steep Midwestern accent.
That seemed like the closest thing to a welcome she was like to get, so she crossed the threshold and pulled down the hood of her jacket, extending a hand. "Danica."
"Robert Singer." His handshake was quick and sharp. "Kitchen's this way."
She followed him into his kitchen and was hard pressed not to gape in shock at the mess. It looked like Sasquatch and Bigfoot had taken up domestic activities in this man's poor, unfortunate home, and decided just to not clean up after themselves. Danica tried to be as subtle as she could looking around the kitchen for cans of food, or jars, or boxes or something edible, but her host saw her face.
"It's a helluva mess, but there's something to eat in here somewhere." He said. "I've never been much for keepin' organized."
Danica shrugged, "As long as you don't mind me poking through the refuge, I don't mind doing the poking."
She was rewarded with a sound of approval, and the big man went to the fridge. He took a beer from one shelf, a bottle of water from another, and handed the bottle to her. She thanked him, and he went to sit at the surprisingly clear kitchen table.
She twisted the top from the bottle and took a long drink. It gave a slight burn in the back of her throat, like orange juice when you have a cold, and for a second she worried there was something in it. But when she looked at Robert he was staring off into space, almost as though he'd already forgotten she was there.
So Danica foraged, managing to find more than she'd hoped to when initially issued the challenge- there were few enough canned and boxed goods, but there was also a seemingly untouched shelf of herbs and spices in one corner of the kitchen. She gathered her supplies and water in hand and awkwardly made her way to the kitchen counter, clearing a space for her work. She checked the stove (it worked, thank goodness) and looked for the pots and pans.
"You have a very nice, um, junkyard, out there." She said, trying to make pleasant conversation. "Very… full of cars."
Behind her, Robert snorted again. "Yeah. It's a right old beautiful stretch of metal-covered dirt."
"Hey, if cars are what you like, and cars are what you do, you're one of the lucky few who doesn't have to be miserable about work, right?" she shrugged, pouring the strange mix of canned pasta, soup, and herbs into a pot and setting it over the stovetop. "Gas or electric?"
He looked at her like she was insane, and she looked down at the stove.
"Oh. Right. Obviously." She said nervously, turning the dial. "Sometimes, this old brain gets away from me."
"'This old brain'?" he took a swig from his beer and gave her another condescending look. "Younger than mine by decades, I'll bet."
"Naaah, not unless you're much, much older than you look. Goodness knows I am." She rolled her eyes and poked her head into the fridge. "Ah, yes. Good. Butter."
"You be easy with that, it's my last stick and I don't like shoppin'."
"Really? I couldn't tell." She said.
If there was anything to be said for the bitingly sarcastic, it's that they fall into easy familiarity with each other. Feelings rarely get hurt, everything is fair game, and nothing says "I appreciate you graciously letting me into your home," quite like rapping your host's hand with a wooden spoon when he reaches to try the tomato soup before it's been served.
Minutes later, they sat across from each other at the table, each with a large bowl of soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. She served herself only one, and served him two, since he was the host and he was so much larger than she was.
"Do you say prayers or anything before you eat?" she asked tactfully, placing her napkin in her lap.
"What'd be the point?"
"Fair enough."
They ate wordlessly for a while; Danica had learned long ago that you can tell when a man is really enjoying a meal, because he doesn't stop to tell you how good it is. So she took his silence as a compliment and finished her food long before he did.
"So," she asked, when his mouth was full of sandwich and not of soup to avoid any unfortunate spitting. "What's with the bottle of holy water?"
Robert choked a little on his bite, and she sprung up in case he needed her help. He was big, but she was fairly sure she could get her arms around him for a Heimlich. He didn't seem to have rescue in mind, though, and had her pinned up against the nearest wall with silver knife to her throat,in no time flat. She let him trap her, knowing full well that if she needed to, she could easily get herself out of his grasp and out the door before he had a chance to say "hob-noggin".
"Who are you and how did you know-" Robert hissed.
"About the holy water? It has a distinct taste. Like prayer beads and Latin." The knife pressed harder against her throat she found herself speaking faster, just as a result of the knife at her neck. "That was a joke. You can't taste Latin. It was your books in the entry way, and your very poorly concealed weapons collection in the foyer, and the fact that you made sure to touch my skin with the silver ring on your left hand before you handed me the bottle. Little things Hunters do that you pick up on over the years. I'm guessing you're pretty new, though? You would have walked me through a Devil's Trap if you had more experience. Also can you take the knife away from my neck a little, nothing makes you ramble like a sharp objet pressed to your major arteries."
Robert lowered the knife a fraction.
"Thanks. You can cut me with it, if you like. Just, somewhere I don't need, like my upper arm or something. Not the fingers. NO! Not the thumb, I hitchhike with that thumb, thank you. Ouch. Pleased?"
Robert Singer seemed far from pleased, but he released her and took a step back while Danica examined the shallow cut on the back of her hand.
"So what are you then?" He asked.
"Something supernatural, far beyond your capacity to comprehend. I'm not evil, though. I don't eat or possess people. So I think that puts me in the realm of things you morally are not obligated to kill, if you could. I mean, I've never encountered anything that could kill me, but I'm sure if you thought about it you could figure something out. I'm a guest in your house, Mister Singer. I won't harm you any more than you harm me." Faster than Robert's eyes could follow, the knife was in her hand and there was a stinging red line on his arm. "Fair is fair. We're even now, and if you'd like for me to go without any more fuss, I will. But that place to sleep would still be mightily appreciated."
He looked in disbelief at his arm, then at the knife. "How did you do that?"
"Years and years of martial arts training."
"And that thing that you said, about the demon trap…"
"Theres a book, the Key of Solomon, it has the design for the Devils Trap in it. I've only seen it in use, but boy does it work."
"D'you know where it is?"
"No, but you could probably find out if you looked hard enough. There are probably wards and things in there to. A pretty useful book, on the whole, if you're looking to expand your collection. Though," Danica looked at the stack of books in the foyer that was so clearly about to fall over, "You might want to organize what you have, first."
They were both silent for a moment, during which Danica looked at Robert, and Robert looked at the knife in her hand.
"How do I know you're tellin' the truth about not killin' me in my sleep?" he asked.
"You don't," she said, and handed him the knife, hilt first.
More silence. Then, "I have a proposal for you."
Danica looked at the broken man before her with new intensity. Charity is all well and good, but a proposal meant terms. Long terms. Danica was famously not a fan of long terms.
"Fer every good book you can get me, or any day you can help me get this place tidied up, or every martial arts move you help me master, you have a night under my roof. There's a spare bedroom upstairs, and," he coughed, looking nervous. "When yer ready to go or I get sick of yeh, you can take any one of the workin' junkers out there and ride off into the sunset. Deal?"
She thought about it for a moment. The situation was a sticky one. She had been invited into this man's house, she had been held at knifepoint, implied to be a monster, and yet now he was asking her if she wanted to stay and be his maid-slash-kung-fu master-slash-librarian?
"I can't have a clear conscience lettin' a young thing like you wander around all homeless in this town. People 'round here can be mean, and there's some scary things down in them woods."
She knew about scary things that hide in the dark very well. They were the things out there searching for her, and while they seemed to find easily enough when she was on her own , when she was staying with a hunter they were fewer and farer between. She might see Robert Singer as green, but they might not. This could be her safe haven… for a while, anyway. And the promise of a car? No more busses or hitchhiking? That would be the true light at the end of the tunnel.
"You, Mister Robert Singer, have a deal."
"Call me Bobby."
They shook on it.