Paris watched the boy kneel over the demonic carcass, one hand to his chin and the other on the pommel of his sword. His fingers tapped an unrecognizable rhythm on the gilded metal, eyes never quite straying from the dark hulk of fur and claws in front of him.

She, on the other hand, sat on an algae-covered slab of rock the boy had told her to settle on as a reward for helping him lug the creature as far as they did. Her gaze fell to the skin on her hands, the fruity ale sloshing inside. The boy had shoved it to her face after flushing down two huge gulps. Now, a soft, pinking haze colored the boy's cheeks. Probably hers, too. She had been tackling this drink for quite some time since the sharp tang of fermented fruit hit her tongue.

It did its job, though. Now, instead of shivering through her soaked and thin dress, sweat beaded on her forehead and dripped down the side of her face, gathering on the tip of her chin before falling to her skirts. Damn. What was this ale made of?

Her muscles still ached from the compounded effect of being knocked over, carted to the Woods, said cart crashing, and the most recent demon attack. Even though she wasn't moving much, just a few rustling here and there, phantom grips of pain still married her limbs and stomach. It didn't help that she was hungry.

The sound of metal shearing skin rang in Paris's ears. She turned to the source to find the boy dragging his blade on the demon's pelt. Her eyes narrowed. Now that she's looking at him closely, it appeared that his fur overcoat resembled the dark strands of hair covering the demon.

Her heart dropped to her feet. Wearing demonic fur? Wouldn't that be...hideous?

"I can see questions giving birth to demonic babies in your head," the boy said, snapping Paris out of her reverie. He gingerly cut a few more inches of the demon's fur, exposing the dark purple skin underneath. The disc-head still gave Paris the creeps. "Go on. Ask 'em. I'll try to answer the best way I can."

Paris pursed her lips before taking another swig from the skin. Not a drop touched her lips. Disappointment twisted her features. She did think the swig she took earlier wasn't the last one she'd ever take in a long while. Bummer.

She blew a breath and brushed the tangled curls away from her forehead. "You seemed familiar with the Woods and whatever that is," she said. "And you said something about me being an appeasement. Do you know what those are? You are far too specific in your choice of words."

The boy bobbed his head, scrambling to the side with his weird squat. He used his legs to step sideward while keeping his rear pointed to the ground. His sword was stained with dark purple. Demon blood. Wasn't it green earlier?

"I've been here for a long time so I know these parts like the back of my hand," the boy said. He finished skinning the carcass' current side. With a grunt, he straightened and walked over to the opposite side, where the inanimate claws and the legs awaited him. Keeping a wide berth from the claws, he began separating the fur from skin down the legs. "You could say these demons are like pests to me more than hideous monsters."

Paris didn't say anything as the boy cleared one leg and moved to another. The claws he disturbed with the motion clinked against each other. She thanked all the gods that didn't exist that the demon was dead.

"As for appeasements, I used that term because it's what my town and the capital city called me when I was summoned," the boy said. A distasteful frown colored his face, either from the sheer difficulty of removing tufts of fur in between the demon's claws or from the memory of his own sacrificial ritual. "As you well know, I've been one."

"Where are you from?" Paris wondered.

The boy flashed her a brief glance. "Wielwick," he said, his voice barely a whisper. He went back to shearing the demon's legs. Now, that side looked more like a malnourished bat more than the proud creature it once was. "You?"

Paris set the skin down, letting it rest on the empty spot on the stone slab beside her. "Stonedenn," she answered, her own distaste creeping into her tone. "Did they do it to you too?"

She didn't need to elaborate. Judging from the cautious look the boy threw at her, he knew what she was talking about. "If you mean being stripped in front of the Council and being put in a poor excuse for clothes like yours, then, yes. They did it to me too."

"I'm sorry," Paris blurted.

The boy smirked. "It wasn't your fault," he said. A distant memory flashed in her mind. A long time ago, she had said the same thing to Vivian. Why did people feel the need to say they're sorry whenever they felt like they couldn't do anything to alleviate another person's suffering?

It was a reasoning Paris wouldn ever grasp. Especially if Vivian, her closest translator of human society, was leagues away, probably still in Stonedenn, managing her parents' flower shop.

"Besides, you're aboard the same ship," the boy jerked his chin at her without removing his focus on the carcass he's skinning. His fingers moved with expert ease as he grasped the carcass' legs and hauled it to the other side. Then, he was skinning the flank once more. "I can still see your breasts, by the way," he said.

Heat flashed in Paris's cheeks as her arms moved to cover her chest. She crossed her legs too, for good measure. A light chuckle rang from the boy.

"Nothing I have never seen before," he said. He would have waved his hand in a dismissive gesture had it not been occupied with dark fur and purple blood.

Paris's face flared further. "Pervert."

The boy had the gall to look offended. "It's not my fault I have to rescue ill-dressed appeasements while they're being chased around by demons," he said. "Besides, it's not a woman's body I'm looking for."

Oh.

"So you save people like me?" Paris asked when the silence reigned between them a greater fraction. Unlike the time when she was alone, the forest sounds and even the howling wind seemed quieter. "You didn't answer one of my questions. How long have you been here?"

The boy rolled his shoulders. "I told you: a long time," he said. "I stopped counting the moment I stopped caring."

"How old are you?" Paris prodded.

The boy had a flat expression on his face. "No idea."

Paris averted her eyes when the boy finished skinning the carcass and moved to tackle the isolated head. The green mane still held painful memories of burning blood and terrifying screams.

"And for the record," the boy's face crumpled in concentration as he yanked the disc off the demon's head. "I didn't rescue you. I just happened to be on patrol and you just happened to be running off with a demon on your tail."

"Still, thank you," Paris said, tucking her hair behind her ear. It would probably pop back a while later but at least it was off her face. It does get tiring, though. "I would probably be dead without you."

The boy snorted. "You'd be dead if I didn't get to kill this fucker," he tapped the tip of his boot on the hulking green mane. "Maybe we'd see each other inside its gullet, julienned into thin strips. How fun was that?"

She swallowed against the growing lump in her throat. It was still parched despite the ale. If she was allowed to say it, the ale made the scratchy feeling on her neck thicker and more painful. "It's not fun," she said.

The boy chuckled again. "Yeah, it's not," he said.

Paris eyed the head which the boy had succeeded in skinning. A huge pile of blood-stained fur lay a few steps away from the headless mass of skin and bones. Then, something clicked. "I thought you said its blood was acidic?" she tilted her to one side. "Also, I thought its blood was green? I clearly saw it as it splattered and burned through my dress."

The boy stuck his bottom lip out as he slotted a hand by the rim of the demon's gullet and placed the other by the lip of the painted disc. Then, with a grunt and a force enough to make his biceps bulge underneath his long sleeves, he pulled. A loud, ripping noise pierced the silence.

Paris sucked in a breath, her body tensing. She whipped around, eyes searching the horizon for a familiar trace of another demon. There might be one nearby. Maybe it wouldn't appreciate them tearing its buddy into chunks.

Contrary to belief, they remained alone. No demon showed itself. No roar or clicking noises rustled behind the line of gray and dark green leaves around the clearing. Even the trees, with their brittle and dried out branches, emitted no sound.

"Hey, relax," the boy's voice did exactly that to Paris's veins. Yeah, how come he could be so chill about chopping up a demon carcass so openly in the Woods? How come he had convinced Paris to take a break, sip once or twice from a skin of ale, and ogle at the wildlife like a loony hag?

"Nothing will come at us here," the boy said, setting the limp disc on the ground. Apart from the clawed creature which threatened to behead her earlier, it looked like a stained palette she'd seen city painters use more than anything. "You see those poles?"

Paris whipped to the direction the boy pointed at. True enough, standing hidden among the curtain of dark thorns and gnarly branches was a staff as tall as Paris. Intricate carvings gilding its length separated it from all the pointed things around it. A single orb shining silver in the meager light sat atop it. What was that?

"Made from demon ivory," the boy said. "Teeth, bones, claws. You name it. They're sure to ward demon presence for at least a mile radius. It's what they use to avoid other demons from killing them in a fierce competition for mates or food. We use the same mechanics in the scope of the forest that we are able to scour. Since we're past the barrier, you're safe now."

"As for the demon's blood," the boy continued as he pulled the gullet inside out like how Paris folded the clothes her mother washed. He twisted to his side and came up with another strange contraption that was a cross between scissors and tongs. Did he carry all these weird tools everywhere he went? "They are all purple by nature but the Xath'drahg boasts a special property in their bodies to turn the blood seeping from their wounds to acid. That's why it's green and why it burned through your skin and dress."

Paris knitted her eyebrows. "A what now?"

The boy cocked an eyebrow. "Xath'drahg," he said, his pronunciation involving guttural sounds Paris would never replicate in her lifetime. Did it sound like "sad drak"? "Sat drag"? He must have seen her confusion in her face because he chuckled. "You'll learn their names in time," he said.

Paris blinked. "You mean there's more than one kind?"

"Yeah," the boy said. He said it with such a straight face Paris couldn't associate it with joking. "There's the snake-like Askh'roth, the sheep-like Shaalim'Nun, the dog-like Zor'karyen—"

"Isn't that the dog one?" Paris pointed to the headless carcass. The disc-head. She did think its body resembled a dog more than any animal.

The boy snorted. "It's closer to a lion," he hefted the disc head still attached to the circle of green fur. "See the mane?"

"Who came up with these names?" Paris said.

"All I know," the boy said with a grin. "Is that it's not me."

Paris laughed. Not the fullest sound but close enough. It felt out of place in this corporation of darkness and deadly demons.

"Also, you said 'we'," she said, having recalled and registered the boy's words. "Are there more people like you?"

"Oh, absolutely," the boy said, grunting as he used the flat lip of his tool to grip one of the teeth lining the inverted gullet. She didn't see wrong when she glimpsed the rows of teeth. They really did go around the wide canal. Already, there was a pile of sharp teeth of different sizes budding by the boy's feet as he yanked another one out.

"How did you survive?" Paris asked. It was the most important question she would ever.

The boy wiped his nose on his sleeve. The pinkish sheen on his cheeks have faded. Was that the ale's effects ebbing? "I was saved by one of the scouts, just like you," he said. "And since then, I have learned from them. They know a lot about the demons' bodies and how to use their kills to their advantage."

"Is that why none of these creatures ever made it to the towns?" she asked. "Because your people would kill them?"

The boy's eyes narrowed at the mention of the word "towns". It must still be a sore subject for him to talk about Lycranse just like how it was with Paris. "In theory, yeah," he said. "Our job was to kill off these demons and survive while doing so. It was the only way we will ensure our safety. The Woods is not a forgiving place."

"Do you ever plan to go back to your town?" Paris said, lowering her voice and tone considerably.

The boy didn't sound offended when he scoffed, "Nah," he said. "I didn't ever fit in with the children there. I don't think I ever will."

"Yeah, I can relate to you with that one," she said. "Do you believe in that crap where they say the only reason we're chosen and sent here was because of our affinity towards evil and because our births fell on the second waning moon of the month?"

The boy snorted. "Who came up with that?" he said. "I was sent here because my parents thought it was better to kill me than to lose the chance for a loan from Maldegrad. They do have impossible standards when it comes to choosing families who can open a borrowing account in that cursed bank."

Paris frowned. "It's not because of your birth?"

"Nah," the boy said. "At least mine told me the reason. Yours didn't?"

Another wave of defeat swirled in Paris's gut when she finally blurted, "No."

The boy didn't have a look of sympathy or any kind of pity to offer her. She preferred it that way too. "Did the Council know that their appeasements survived and have formed a community of demon slayers?" she asked.

" 'Demon slayers'," the boy chuckled. "I quite like the sound of that," he faced Paris after having finished plucking all the teeth from the gullet. Now void of ivory points, the gullet looked like a soggy mass of skin that could be made into a bag or something. "As for your question, yes. The Council is aware of us and was determined to add to our numbers because we're doing them a favor by cleaning the Woods at the expense of our survival. Neat, isn't it?"

"Then why haven't you left?" she said.

A dark cloud passed across the boy's face. "I've got no place to go back to," he said. "None of us do."

Paris bit her lip as the boy launched into a rant he had been holding back for gods-knew how long. "When we were sent here, it was decided," he said. "The world treated us as dead and moved on. There was no one like me in my family's registry. My name was probably blotted out of the records. If I go back, I'll be penniless. If I go back, there is nothing that awaits me but death and poverty. But hey! At least I'm safe. Wrong."

He laughed without much humor. Instead, bitterness curled in his tone. "Knowing what I've seen here, it wouldn't be too long before these demons would overpower the ivory staves we've put. It wouldn't be too long before they barge into Lycranse and slaughter us all."

He leveled his gaze at Paris. "So, no," he said. "I can't leave. Not because I don't want to but because I have no choice. At least with the colony, I get to see my friends and," his lips spread into a wide but manic grin. "I get to take all my anger out into these demons. It's the best deal, right?"

Paris hesitated. Would her family still accept her when she escaped from the Woods and miraculously made it back to Stonedenn? They gave her up without a moment's hesitation. They probably believed her to be dead now. What would happen if she turned up at their doorstep, alive?

The fact that there were no images or scenarios forming in her mind told her enough. The world moved on without her. She wasn't Paris Lerring anymore.

"And that brings us to the question of whether you want to come with me to camp or not," the boy said. He tied off a bag where he stashed the teeth he plucked. Then, he drew a bunch of twine from the back of his belt and began tying off the pile of fur, folding it into neat stacks first.

When he finished, he smiled at her as he straightened and braced his hands on his hips. "Well?"

Paris sighed. It was better than running around being demon food. It was certainly better than working in Lance's farm while enduring a barrage of questions about her hair, her lack of a husband, and her family's financial status.

So, she stood up and met the boy's eyes. "Sure," she decided. "Take me to the colony."

The boy's face brightened. Now that Paris was looking at him from up close, she saw how he didn't look like the eighteen-year olds in Stonedenn. Was he younger than that, then? "Great," he said, distracting Paris from her thoughts. "I'll bring the meat. You bring the teeth and the fur. How does that sound?"

Paris glanced at her leg. Well, the teeth and the fur couldn't be that heavy and the walk couldn't be that far from here, right? "Yeah, whatever," she said. "I'm used to heavy labor anyway."

She hoped her muscles didn't hear that so they wouldn't protest when she was already in the middle of her task. The boy sheathed his sword after cleaning it against the folds of his tunic.

"What's your name?" Paris blurted before she had the chance to hold it in.

The boy looked up from his work of tying up more twine around the carcass' body. "Oh, I used to go by Joyce Morrows," he said.

"And what do you go by now?" She inclined her head to one side.

The boy grinned. "Joyce," he answered. "Not that hard to figure out where it came from, right?"

Paris shook her head. "Of course, I'm a genius," she said. "Where to?"

As an answer, Joyce began dragging the carcass.

Towards whatever new hell destined for Paris.