Nearly 5 years later... Have a partial rough draft.

The Mafaea Boss

By G. Scott Cannon

Draft 1

PART I

1

I took a final drag off my cigarette, put it out on the sole of my shoe and took a good look at the building in front of me as I pocketed the butt. The sparse grass that was recently mowed, the white picket fence that was made from some sort of plastic designed to resemble wood grain. The blue mobile home with white trim that had clearly seen much better days. It all smelled like an easy enough job, what with no car in the driveway, all lights out in a half mile radius and no signs warning me of an impending death at the paws of some 3-inch tall toy chihuahua.

The only thing that felt off was that I wasn’t wearing my favorite jacket. Long, dark, and full of useful pockets to house all of my tools. I was going to have to pull this off with what I had stuffed into my suit pants pockets. Truth be told, it probably wasn’t going to be enough. A few lock pick accessories, a magnet, and a length of string weren’t what I’d call ideal, but they would have to do.

The locks tripped easily enough, and I thanked Kwikset for maintaining their low security standards. A gentle push of the door revealed no unlisted security system to alert anyone to my uninvited presence. All the better for my needs.

I was greeted by a mostly unfurnished living room, with a throw rug in the corner, and a couch haphazardly resting upon it. It smelled of bachelor pad material.

I closed the door silently behind me, and reengaged the locks.

Across the way I spied what I was after. A white door, closed, with what seemed to be a faint light shining through the small gap beneath it. My heart started to do a salsa, and I was worried that my earlier observations had been as bad as my morals. I made a few tentative steps, and was thankful the floor didn't have any objections to my movement.

As I reached for the doorknob, I thought I saw lights dance across the wall, which might've only meant trouble for me. I pulled the door open, and thrust it back into a closed position behind me. Waiting a few moments, I let my eyes adjust to the level of light in the smaller room.

I heard only my short breaths and thundering heartbeats.

I spied what I was after and immediately went to unbutton my pants and drop the fly. Never has a porcelain throne looked so appealing to me. I quickly graced it with my presence, and began to pass legislation.

I stared at the floor in quiet contemplation, looking up and into the adjacent bathtub because something caught my eye. I almost thought that Kesha had exploded inside of it, but when I looked a second time there wasn't even a hint of glitter.

I ran my hand over my face, shook what must've been some cotton in my head from the night's previous helping of cheap beer, and slapped my cheeks a few times. I was feeling damn exhausted, and felt it was plausible that I had nodded off between voting sessions.

I rose to my feet after clearing my conscience, and raised my pants to their rightful place. My head and eyes still felt like I was swimming through a cloud of cotton candy, so after washing my hands I splashed a little bit of water on my face. As I was checking how full the luggage under my eyes was, I gasped and turned around to face... an empty tub.

"What the," I trailed off, leaving the swear on my lips. There was nobody around to talk to, and my voice was nothing more than a rasping whisper.

Glancing to the mirror out of the corner of my eye revealed the same image. What appeared to be the body of a small, frail little child. The blue skin that I barely caught looked too smooth to be fully human. Almost like it was painted onto the mirror. Except, nobody has a sense of humor that operates on those kinds of levels. Death, insofar as my circle of friends was concerned, was not a thing to be laughed at.

Shrugging the hallucinations off, for what else could they have been, I made for the door. As I did so, there was a dull thud coming from the entryway. I stopped in my tracks and instantly felt the sweat start to leak from my body.

I could just make out the sound of footsteps. More than one set. Two, maybe three tops. There were voices. Deep, commanding, and trouble.

"Code... Possible suspect..." I couldn't make out much more. A few standard phrases, but nothing coherent enough to be a full sentence. The guys were also talking a bunch of mumbo jumbo about spells and something called a 'fay' that I couldn't quite follow. They sounded just as drunk as I felt.

Maybe I wasn't the only one that wanted to take a leak in the privacy of someone else's home.

The footfalls stopped short of my door. One of the voices started rapping at my chamber door, and I lost my voice. "We know you're in there," the voice claimed. "Just come out and we won't have to bust another door down!"

Sounded like the rule book was out the window on this one. I halfheartedly glanced at the open window, since we were on the subject, but it was too high and narrow to be of any use. I resigned to waiting in silence for the next move.

I didn't have time to prepare. The door was eviscerated, with bits of wooden shrapnel embedding themselves into my flesh, and clattering against the wall behind me. The mirror shattered from the sheer percussive force the men had used. I myself went flying back several feet, and then it was lights out.

***

The first thing that returned was my sense of awareness. The fact that the room was hot as Hell, my hands being tied behind me, and my legs to the chair I found myself seated on. My throbbing head was next, followed by the tang of copper on my mouth. I hesitated to open my eyes. I wasn't sure how ready I was to see what may or may not have been around me.

"Oh, good. He's awake." I heard the scraping of metal against concrete as the owner of the voice stood up. I slowly opened my eyes, though I could hardly tell the difference as there was hardly more than a lone light to illuminate the room. The owner of the voice approached me, and I saw nothing more than a man who appeared to be in his early 40s, with a dark handlebar mustache in a black suit. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of equally dark glasses, hands hidden behind his back as he stood there and stared at me.

I let out what was supposed to be a laugh, but all that came out was a rasping wheeze. I tried searching for my voice and came up with nothing more than cotton mouth and a swollen tongue.

Handlebar took a step closer and seemed to hesitate. I wasn't sure why, after the grand entrance he and his associates made back at the mobile. This whole situation felt very X-Files or MIB. The fuck was that thing I was seeing in the tub? I was still writing it off as just an hallucination. It didn’t match with anything I had encountered before.

Thank whatever supreme being there is that I chose not to be piss blind drunk that night. After this, it would also be the last time I break in just to use someone's John. Next time, I'll follow my inner bear.

I hated shitting in the woods.

Handlebar folded his arms in front of his chest and peered at me from over the top of his shades. "I'm only going to ask you this once. Who sent you?"

I raised an eyebrow. I cocked my head to one side. "The fuck you mean," I managed to whisper.

He stepped forward again, crouched down so we were about eye level, and pulled off his shades revealing the coldest gray eyes I'd ever seen. "You know damn well what I mean." He lifted one of my hands, pulled what looked like a torch out of his suit jacket, and flicked it on revealing an iridescent glittery mess all over my palm. "You're covered in Faery blood. It's worth a fortune to the right buyer, but I'm sure you already knew that."

He dropped my hand in disgust as he stood to loom over me again. He seemed unimpressed by my I-Don't-Understand-A-Word-You-Just-Said face. "Fae," I swallowed, trying to relube my pipes. "You mean like Grimm's tales? Are you high, mate?" I couldn't do much more than stare at him and act dumbfounded. I’d have to figure out if it was Seelie or Unseelie later. "I just broke in to take the Browns to the Superbowl."

It was his turn to raise an eyebrow at me. "You expect me to believe..."

"That I broke into the shittiest mobile in the park just to take a dump?" I thought about smirking, but that was pushed from my mind as soon as a strange object fell across my face. And again. I could almost hear my jaw start to crack.

As soon as it had started, it had stopped. I barely saw Handlebar reach for something, and then pull off the animal that seemed to be mauling me. "Calm down, Jackson. He won't cooperate if we have to wire his jaw back together, you idiot."

There was a mountain of a little guy standing in the light next to Handlebar now. Jackson, as he had been called, was just as bald as the other guy, and twice as wide. Those fists, though, weren't soft. I could see his teeth bared at me behind a forest of red hair the length of a small house cat.

I tried to wipe at the blood I felt trickling down my face with my shoulder. It must've looked like I was starting to have a grand mal or something, because both guys started looking at me weird. I considered playing along, but having your teeth knocked out tends to expend a lot of energy that could be used for such acts. I just spat in their general direction, and smiled. Not much else I could do.

Not much else, except try and piece together what they were saying and try and figure out why I was being kept here for use as a punching bag.

Handlebar spoke again first. "Jackson, here," I heard a dull thwack and could only assume he had patted the guy on the back. "He don't mince words. The evidence points to you being at a crime scene, with a dead Faery in a bathtub." He came back into the light. "An immortal whose life, it would seem, you had terminated." He punctuated 'you' by jabbing me in the chest with a finger. "So, I ask you again: who sent you?"

I growled in reply. I was being held prisoner, accused of some murder that I hardly even saw the aftermath for, and starting to get hangry. "Listen, buddy. I get the feeling that there's some unaddressed sexual tension in the room, but beating me like your meat isn't going to help." I shifted in the chair a bit, trying to relieve the building pain in my wrists. "Wrong place, wrong time. That's all. I'm a nobody, from nowhere, that did nothing."

Jackson slugged me across the chin again, stood back and rubbed his knuckles. He smirked, obviously enjoying this part. Handlebar just shook his head. "The book is missing, so either you took it and already sold it off for whatever price you were given, or we're wrong." He cracked his neck.

"We're never wrong," Jackson spat as he continued to eye me like a punching bag.

I got the feeling this was going to be a long night, without a smoke break for me.

2

My name is Aogán Conner. 32, male, Irish descent. I typically enjoy long nights held in captivity, and a mystical escape come sunrise. Even if I am the worst bloody fucking magical practitioner in the Pacific Northwest. I am, however, a damn good con. Pun always intended, luv.

I think of myself as a charmer, and the ladies always go for the combination of baby blues and darker hair that does a similar flippy-thing to the Tenth Doctor’s. The men seem to dig it, too.

I’m what you’d call a freelance detective for the preternaturally inclined. I work best alone, but I’ve been around long enough to have a few good informants to call upon. Some for the small time, some for the bigger shit. And you had best believe I have stepped into some shit that I have needed help stepping right the fuck back out of. Especially when it comes to organized groups of the magical persuasion.

There are official organizations that deal with some of these things, but when those channels fall through I’m your man. I’ve been in the business for a long time, and until recently business had been good. The advent of the internet and social media, however, seems to have gouged into my revenue. Why consult a paid professional when your friend with the demonic Ouija equivalent of WebMD can diagnose your problem for free.

At least I get the honor of cleaning up those messes. And then I charge them through the ass for wasting my time and their own.

Usually. This time, however, it seemed to be my own mess that I had to clean up. It turns out that I was being worked over for some book that held the numbers for some deep underground Fae, mafia-esque organization. Between jabs and blood and teeth, I was finding out information bit by bit, and they were realizing my familiarity with the preternatural world. It wasn't until the sun started peeking through the high windows in the warehouse that I was able to finally convince them I wasn't some hired gun, that the only reason I had even broken in was so I wouldn't have to water someone's flowers. Human waste isn't exactly the best fertilizer on the market, otherwise we'd never flush it away.

This put me in a precarious position. I knew too much to just be released to live out my miserable existence, and having been able to withstand Jackson's onslaught without any first aid they thought they could put me to use.

Handlebar introduced himself as Jameson, and I told him that a bottle sounded like a good idea. Apparently he'd never heard of the whiskey and wasn't a fan of the Irish. Good thing I lost my accent a long time ago. Not like he could do much more damage to me after his mate got his mitts all over me.

Jackson stepped behind me, and I felt the ties that were holding me to the chair fall away after being untied. I brought my hands together and immediately began to alternate wrist massages. "Compliments to the boy scout you got to tie those ropes, mates." I glanced between the both of them. "Top notch shit."

Neither responded to me.

"Shut the fuck up and just stand, would ya," Jackson said from behind me. I felt a jab in the ribs from something hard that I assumed was his gun. At the risk of finding out whether or not he was just happy to be getting rid of me, I rose to my feet and continued to rub my sore wrists. A night roped to a shitty folding chair wasn't exactly my idea of a good time. I had more fun contracting syphilis that one time in Beijing. I smiled at that thought, even chuckled a little. Neither of them took much notice. "Alright boys, where do we stand now? Am I free to go, or should I expect a bullet to enter my brain when I turn my back on the both of you?"

Jameson smirked, and simply stood there with his arms folded over his chest. "Oh, you're free to go, friend. But, as you should assume, it's a conditional release. See, we still don't fully believe you." He shrugged his shoulders, then leaned forward and placed his hands on the table. "Either you find that book for us in the next 48 hours, or my Jackson and I find you and your family, and force you to watch us do very unpleasant things to them."

"Yeah, we'll cut your eyelids off and everything, man." Jackson sounded excited at the prospect. Almost hopeful that I'd fail.

"Fuck if I didn't know you'd give me a deadline, but I didn't think you'd turn out to be such cold-hearted pricks." I reached a hand into my jacket and was happy to find my smokes and lighter still residing in their proper place. "Guys mind if I light one?" Before they could confirm their lack of fucks about what I did, I had already flicked my Bic and taken my first drag. All felt right in the world again as I slowly exhaled that mentholated smoke.

I planted my ass on the table as I turned to look at Jackson, and directed my question to Jameson without address. "So say I find this book, what guarantee do I have that you two fucks won't end up just killing me anyway, family or no. You seem the honorable type, but I thought that about this chick I met at the bar last week and ended up with the worst itch you could imagine." I flicked my ashes onto their floor and took a fresh pull. I exhaled through my nose as I turned my head to stare at Jameson. "Then again, maybe you can imagine." I crossed my ankles and then laid back over the table to look up at the ceiling, took another drag then flicked the butt somewhere on the floor.

"Alright, I'll find your book. I've got a few connections of my own to the darkness this shit stems from. I'll see what I can drag up, but before I can even entertain the idea I need a favor from one of you."

Jameson leaned forward and stared into my eyes, his face upside down. "Which is what?"

"Two things really," I said as I held up two fingers. I shot up, slid off the table, and stood leaning against it in a single motion. "I need five bucks and a ride to the Red Line."

***

Jameson all but threw me out of the car at the Moda Center. Barely anyone seemed to look up from their cell phones as I picked myself up and smoothed out my suit. I watched as Jameson took his Tesla and headed across the bridge into Downtown. I shrugged and turned towards the platform for the Red Line headed back out West, and turned my five bucks into a Day Pass. I pocketed my ticket, and magically produced a lit cigarette from my jacket and put it to my lips. I glanced around at the other people on the platform, shrugged, and took a drag.

After boarding the lightrail, and traveling a few stops, I pulled my own cell phone out of my pocket. I swiped through my contacts until I came across the name I was looking for: Michael de Angeles. I clicked on that slick bastard's face; all flowing blond locks, baby blues, and teeth. The phone rang half a tone before he answered, didn't say anything other than his name in that breathless way of his. I filled him in on what little I safely could, and suggested he meet me at the Cascade Station iHop. I figured I'd be there in as close to half an hour as possible.

"Sure, Conner," was all he said before hanging up.

***

He was seated up near the front. The hostess was nowhere to be seen, and the place looked like it was forgotten about. Laughter came from the kitchen, and I could only assume that's where she was as I took my seat opposite Michael.

"The fuck couldn't you tell me over the phone," he spat as soon as my ass was firmly planted in my seat. I adjusted until I was a comfortable distance from the table, enough that I could rest my elbows on the edges and lean forward on them. I quietly stared at him for a few beats.

I removed my arms from the table, crossed them over my chest, and sighed heavily. "I'm in some deep fucking shit, Michael." My leg seemed to bounce of its own volition.

He nodded, regarding me with arms crossed revealing worn elbows in his suit jacket. Waving a hand at me, mockingly brushing the subject off he reached for his menu and glanced at it. "The fuck is the help, man? I've already been here twenty minutes too damn long, and that pile of ice on the floor," he gestured to the table adjacent, "at least twice that long."

Eventually our waitress showed. Michael could have offered to pay for my meal but I had other ideas. I went with a short stack of buttermilk pancakes, a few strips of bacon, and some strawberry crepes. With lots of coffee. Hold the creamer.

The preliminary conversation was kept minimal once the staff started to actually notice we were here, instead of gossiping in the kitchen. It took over half an hour for our food to show up. Another half an hour passed before we even saw our waitress, at another table. I was able to inform him that I had a book that was missing, that it had belonged to some faction of Fae, and that it would be in my best interest if said book were to find its way into my possession. “One could say it was a matter of life and death, Mikey.” He glared at me, and all I could do was smirk. He hated being called anything but Michael.

Pompous bastard.

“Alright, Con,” Michael said as he sat his silverware down and wiped the syrup off his mouth with a napkin. “I’ll get this book for you. We’ll discuss terms later.” He folded his fingers together and rested his head upon the bridge they made.

I nodded, chewing on the last remaining bit of the pancakes I ordered. When I set my fork down, our waitress finally showed up for the first time since bringing us our food an hour ago. She made to set down the check between us, and I stopped her by placing a hand on the little black book. "Your manager around?"

She said nothing and simply nodded in reply, placing the check back in her apron before she turned around and headed back to the kitchen. Which was good for me, because I didn’t have to cash to cover my shit.

Not even two full minutes had passed since she left by the time her superior came to our table. She asked the regular questions, and I gave her a play by play breakdown of how things went. I told her about the 30 minute to an hour waits, even though the place was less than half full. I added in that this had been the absolute worst dining experience either of us had ever had, and said a few other things that made her head visibly spin. Especially the part about the spilled ice.

"Well," she said. "I certainly can't have you pay for your worst dining experience ever. I certainly hope you come back again." I said something noncommittal, thanked her for understanding, and watched as she sauntered away.

I caught Michael taking a peek himself and shook my head. "You're a goddamn dirty old man."

3

The Trimet bus was standing room only. A few scattered teenagers bobbed their heads to what I could only assume to be some bullshit excuse for EDM, probably brostep or whatever piss is circulated on YouTube as the hottest track of the month. I could hear the occasional wobble over the sound of the bus’ own engine. The rest of the crowd was your standard fare of upper lower middle class working poor citizens, and half of them were headed to the same stop as me.

As soon as I saw the looming monstrosity that was the Wood Village Walmart, I reached for the signal and gave it a solid jerk, nearly ripping it free. The driver was a favorite of mine, who was always cheerful in a way that made anyone’s day better. Even, apparently, my own. I thanked him for the ride and headed for the crosswalk with only one goal in mind: a fucking drink.

I made my way towards Yazzi’s.

Seeing as it was barely after noon, I figured the place wouldn’t exactly be hopping. I was right. Aside from myself, there was only a handful of customers in the actual bar itself, and they were at the pool table.

I swung up onto a stool up at the bar and shrugged off my suit jacket. The bartender, Jen, had hardly glanced up at me before she set a rocks glass and a bottle of Jack down in front of me. “You look like shit, Conner.” She leaned over onto the bar, no easy task at her near Amazonian height, and looked directly into my eyes. She narrowed hers, and smirked. “Must be some deep shit if you’re in here this early.”

“And you must be a bloody psychic, luv.” I reached for the bottle, and poured myself a glass, tossing a debit card I lifted off a guy on the bus towards her. I took a sip and casually glanced down at her ample cleavage for a split second. “Normally I love this game of cat and mouse, but I’m expecting a phone call and I’ve had the shittiest night you could imagine.”

She raised up, lifting a well penciled eyebrow at me. “Honey, I can imagine a lot more than I’m sure you realize.” She swept up my card and placed it by the till. “I’m keeping count of how many times you fill that glass, you cheap bastard.” She glanced back at me as she was headed towards the kitchen and added “I expect a goddamn tip this time,” before disappearing into the back.

“You and me both,” I said as I lifted the glass to my lips again.

***

After finishing half a burger, some fries, and a full half of that bottle of Jack, I felt a faint vibration in my pocket. My head was swimming as I reached into my pants and pulled out a little flip phone. MIKEY was the name that showed in my cracked display, and I immediately flicked it open with my thumb.

“Mikey! I assume ye’ve got some information for me,” I said in measured syllables. My accent peeking through years of control.

“Conner, that you?” His voice came through a bit fuzzy, like he was talking through cotton.

“Know anybody else with this number, mate?” I took a bite of my burger and didn’t even try to conceal the fact I was eating.

“The fuck,” he started. “Never mind, Conner we need to talk. At this point, it doesn’t even need to be a secure line at this point. Not with how deep you fell into the shit this time.” He sniffed into the phone, waiting for me to reply.

I swallowed and could feel the buzz I’d worked so hard to maintain start to fail. Ice gripping my stomach. “Let us have it, Mike. Who’d I piss off?”

I could feel him hesitate over the connection. With two words he damn near sobered me right up. “The Fixation.” Those two syllables meant many things to many people. Death and vanishing to humans such as himself, saying he failed to produce.

The phone slipped from my grip, and I nearly dropped it. I fought with my fuzzy feeling fingers and slower than normal reflexes, but I managed. I smacked myself across the face and took a deep breath. “The Fixation? Are you certain?”

He made a noise in the affirmative. “I’ve come across a few leads on where that book is, but I felt your dumb ass needed to know. I bet you’ll just piss outside next time,” he laughed, a genuine laugh, and then hung up.

I simply set the phone down after flipping it closed and got Jen’s attention. I told her to just double the tab and run the amount. Forged a signature that was a reasonable variation on the signature from the back, and tossed the card onto the freeway after leaving Yazzi’s.

***

I placed the fifth of Jack on the wooden box that served as my coffee table, and shifted the small stack of papers I still had on The Fixation. There wasn’t much to go on, but it painted a right gruesome portrait of the group I seem to have crossed. Before last night I thought they, along with the denizens of the Fae realm were just a fiction spun by abusive grandparents that practiced both the dark and light arts of arcane magic, nothing more than a boogeyman to scare little shitstains such as myself into obedience.

Vampires, shifters, demons of the Nether were all things I have faced and survived and believed in. My own parents, bless their souls, were taken from me by a shifter. I’m pretty sure my grandparents were some percentage of demon, as evidenced by the way they raised me.

Bloody bastards got what they deserved, anyway.

I took a heavy pull from the bottle, and lit another smoke. Reaching for the first sheet, I blew out a cloud of smoke that obscured the information for a moment. Not that there was much on that first sheet, really.

The Fixation was well known for making anyone simply vanish that crossed them. They had connections to the deep underworld, and none of the mundane world even had a clue they existed. A veritable shadow agency, every member was a ghost.

The next few pages covered what little history there was. The organization reached as far back as the Witch Trials, and had helped root out more than a fifth of the accused witches that had been burned at the stake. None of this information was especially relevant to my needs, and it left me drawing a blank as to why they wanted that fucking ledger in the first place. Nothing that was speculated even linked them to the Fae community, and they had a fair few tomes dedicated to their doings.

I took another drag, another pull, and contemplated whether or not the book was only a simple ledger, or something far deeper. It made me wonder just who the fuck Michael’s connections were.

I shoved all the papers and books off of the table in front of me, grabbed the bottle, and poured it down my throat. If he couldn’t help me get to the book, and fast, I was more than fucked. Slamming it back down, I tossed my expended cigarette, lit another and leaned back in my tattered recliner as I slowly succumbed to the numbness that my body was becoming.

4

It wasn’t the lightening skies that roused me from my sleep of death, but the wind that was blasting in my face, and the smell of cinnamon and vanilla. My head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, and the harder I tried to remember last night, the blurrier the memories. I couldn't properly tune the rabbit ears if I was wearing a tinfoil hat.

Keeping my eyes closed, I reached up and grabbed my forehead at the same moment I went to ease the seat back into an upright position. As slowly as possible, because I was not up for puking all over the floorboard of whatever fucking car I had the sad luck of being in at the moment. And if I was right about that cinnamon and vanilla, it would be a very bad idea to throw up in this particular car.

I felt a hand, warm and inviting, land on my upper thigh and slowly make its way between my legs, and give the boys a firm squeeze. My eyes shot open, hands batting the foreign one away, and the name Desi escaping my lips. I threw my head back, silently mouthed "fuck" and reached into my inside pocket on my jacket.

"Looking for these, lover," her cool voice asked. The same hand, which I now saw had nails bearing green lacquer, was holding my pack of Marlboro Slates. I grunted in the affirmative, and casually retrieved my smokes, pushing the cigarette lighter in, and waiting a moment with cigarette in mouth.

"Why the fuck am I in your bloody car, Desi," I asked, cigarette flapping while I spoke. The lighter popped out, and I lit up thankful the top was already down on the car.

I saw her pout at the road, and raise her free hand to her chest. "I'm actually offended you forgot, Conner." She stole a glance at me over the rims of her cat's eye shades. "You called me last night, don't you remember?"

I took a drag and considered for a moment what the implications were as I blew out smoke. I placed the stick back on my lips before removing it again. "You're fucking serious," I asked. "Whose blood did I use this time?"

She smirked and laughed, the sound of tinkling bells. "It wasn't blood that you used." She was suddenly squeezing my boys again. "It was another life bringing element, lover."

Oh, great I thought. Only I could summon a fucking demon without blood, and have it interpreted as a paranormal booty call. I took a last drag and pitched the butt out onto the highway, taking in the scenery for a moment, wondering how expansive this farmland was. "There's a lot of bullshit in the air, and it's not just in the fields." I removed her hand again, this time with a bit more resistance.

"You shouldn't trust Michael, Con." She was suddenly smoking her own cigarette, her foot pressing the accelerator to the floor, and the needle quickly passing 100mph.

***

The salt in the air felt good in my lungs. The waves crashing to my left, the sand crunching beneath the soles of my boots. I could feel the life pulse through Desi's hand as I held it, walking along the beach with her. We made Seaside about fifteen minutes ago, and she wanted to slide into the cover of being a couple.

It was all fine by me, demon or not she was a damn fine catch. Pale skin, full ruby lips, and silky hair the color of half hour old blood. It was her curves that did it for me, though. loved a thick chick.

"I heard that," she purred as she leaned in and licked my face. She pulled me closer to her. "Wanna get more than the sand wet?"

I stopped walking and looked her straight in those deep green eyes. I sucked on my teeth, bit my lip and slowly traced her up and down. "We've got business to discuss first, luv. Pleasure can come later." I gestured to a bench at the foot of a hotel.

A gull cried as we trudged through the sand. I had her hand firmly clasped in mine until we reached the bench. I released her, and removed my greatcoat, placing it across the bench for us to sit on. Instead, I sat down, pulled her onto my lap, and wrapped my arms around her not-too-slender waist. I leaned in, resting a cheek against her back, and listened to her breath for a moment as the waves crashed behind us. “What do you know about Michael.”

I could feel her hesitate. Her mood immediately went icy. “He’s a backstabbing bastard, Con.” Her hands fell to my own, and she began to stroke my fingers. “I know you two go back to Angel’s Rest, but he’s been working against you since before then.” She was referring to a nasty exorcism that nearly tore me apart. If it hadn’t been for Michael, I fear I would have been in over my head. “You would have been,” she said as she read my mind.

“Old Mikey just tipped me off on who’s recently hired me to be their asset acquisitions man, Desi.” I lifted my face from her side. “I think I can trust him at least half as far as I can throw him with that information.”

“You mean The Fixation,” she asked. She pushed my hands away from her and twisted on my lap to look me in the eye. “Conner, you fucking idiot. What files exist on The Fixation that just anyone can access?” She gave me a look that showed just where she felt my intelligence was at right now.

“Michael isn’t just anyone, though. Is he, luv.” I smirk up at her and lick her arm.

She sighs and shakes her head. “You’ll find out sooner or later, Conner.” She smirks at me and asks “want to know where you’ll find that ledger?”

I looked deep into her eyes. Licked my lips, then bit the bottom one. I swallowed and spoke slowly. “What exactly will this bit of information cost me, luv. You devil’s don’t exactly make information available for free.”

She smiled and twisted more so she could lean down and kiss me on the forehead. It was a strangely tender and affectionate kiss. “Only about fifteen days of your miserable, cancer-ridden life Aogán Conner.”

I grinned in response. “Where the fuck do I sign,” I asked.

She responded by rubbing her hand between my legs.

***

The crashing of the waves came in through the window of the hotel room. I sat in a chair by the window, watching them roll in, cooling the sweat from my body and smoking. Desi was in the bathroom showering, our bargain complete. We both laughed for a while after the exchange occured, wherein i traded 15 days of my own life for more information on The Fixation and the ledger I was after.

Desi was a Daughter of the Fallen. I wasn’t certain which of the Fallen she was descended from, but I was pretty damn sure she was from one of the first few that fell. I continued to speculate as I took a final drag of my cigarette, pulling it up to the filter and then flicking it out the window with the exhale.

The door to the bathroom opened and closed, and I turned around and took in the beauty in front of me. Desi smirked and gave me a wink. I smiled back and returned my gaze to the ocean.

“You realize the cancer is spreading, don’t you Con?” She didn’t sound concerned, especially knowing where I was ending up when I died.

“That I do, luv. It’s part of why I haven’t bothered to stop.” I lit another smoke and offered her my pack. She declined.

“What do you know of The Fixation,” she asked as she sat herself on the edge of the bed nearest me and began to redress herself. I glanced out of the corner of my eye at her and shrugged.

“Bloody whack jobs that seem to think they can bring about the resurrection of the biggest, baddest motherfucker of them all.” I sniffed and ran a finger under my nose before taking another drag. “The Devil Himself,” I sad through the smoke that rose from my lungs. I finished the exhale once I said the name.

She simply nodded at me. “That’s the gist of it. Rumor has it that one of His most loyal is behind The Fixation. Nobody knows for sure, though.”

“You mean,” I pointed up, abstractly referring to the Pearly Gates most people see once their soul moves on. She nodded in response. “Interesting,” I said as I placed the cigarette on my lips once more. Before I took a drag I pulled it away, watching the smoke coil around my fingers. “You think Michael is the Michael,” I asked. “Is that why you said not to trust him?”

Another nod.

“I haven’t gotten any buzz off of him, and I always tingle when there’s a divine being around. Just like I get a sinking feeling whenever I’m in the presence of an infernal being such as yourself.” I nodded towards her, pitched the butt out the window again, and then shut the window.

“So you think this ledger has something to do with bring Lu back, Desi?” She nodded in a way that said she knew more than she was able to let on.

I returned my gaze to the window and simply mouthed a solitary “fuck” before standing up and suggesting we vacate. I had to get back to Portland, track Michael down, and see what the fuck was actually going on.

Before I was able to communicate this verbally, my phone vibrated. It was a text. And it was from Michael.

“Meet me at Dante’s. I’ve found the ledger,” I read aloud. When I looked up to see what Desi thought about this recent development, I noticed I was alone in the room. I flipped my phone closed.

“Typical bird. Always flight before fight.” I pocketed my phone, and left the room. Something told me I’d have to hitch a ride back home.

5

It didn't take long for me to gather up enough funds to catch the Amtrak back to Portland. I didn't even have to use anything trickier than a few pockets I had picked. A few bumps, a couple apologies, and then suddenly I'm standing at the terminal with a fresh pack of smokes and a nice cup of cheap coffee. A win/win, basically.

Plus, once I got on the train and finished the coffee, I'd be free to pass out so I wouldn't have to deal with making any casual conversation over the course of the next couple of hours. Always keep a small sleeping potion handy for just such an occasion as I need it. Can make it look like I've just fainted if I'm ever in trouble, or sleep off uncomfortably packed train rides such as this. The only side effect was that I'd have to deal with some dreams I'd rather not have.

One can only handle so much Richard Simmons in his life.

***

When I came to I was roused by the familiar scent of piss and homelessness. I sat in my seat, waiting to make sure I was the last one off, just in case someone was waiting for me outside. I’d make the poor bastard wait as long as I felt like, not like I was the one paying him.

I vaguely recalled Desi mentioning Dante’s to me. No time, just a location. Knowing a Nephililim like I knew her, she’d show once the sun went down. A glance at my phone told me I had a few hours to kill, which naturally meant a trip to Powell’s. A spell through some books sounded like just my cup of tea. Even if my tea of choice was an ale. Or a finely aged whiskey.

Once I emerged from the train, the platform proved to be clear save for people who were boarding for their own travels. I shrugged and reached for my smokes as I walked through the station and out onto Broadway. Once I hit shoes to actual pavement, I flicked my Bic and headed south. Powell’s was only about a quarter of an hour away, and here in Downtown I blended in so I needn’t worry about being ambushed.

Once I turned right onto Burnside I decided to walk to the far end of Powell’s and hit up the café, snag a cup of Ethopian, and then settle in to perusing some titles. I snatched up a copy of Lawrence Block’s Lucky at Cards, and picked up where I left off last. I hadn’t gotten very far, I just remembered a bit about some guy’s wife picking up on the other guy’s technique.

It didn’t take long before my reminder buzzed in my pocket telling me that the sun was about to set. I figured I should get to Dante’s before that happened to make sure nobody snared her attention before I got what I was after.

***

The pounding bass and screaming guitars of the band on stage made it hard to order anything to drink once I managed to shove my way to the bar. The masked band was singing about dead girls on dance floors or some shit like that, but the underlying music was pretty fucking good. I made note of their name, handed the bartender a random credit card, and told him to keep a tab open.

As I downed half of my beer, I could feel Desi slide up beside me. Not physically, just that sinking feeling. Though she was Angelic in nature, the Nephililim descended from the Fallen thus making them, in the end, infernal beings. Not quite the eradicated species they were reported to be, just a bit more diluted in blood. She flagged down the bartender and ordered herself a White Russian. With extra Russian.

I sniffed, finished the rest of my beer, and slammed the glass down, signaling for another. “So where is this bloody thing at, Dez.” I felt like I was running out of time and patience.

She lifted her glass to her lips, looked at me with those deep brown eyes, tilted her glass back, and drank it all in one go. Not hard to do when you’re drinking from a glass that small, but I could smell the vodka from where I was sitting so I knew that would have been rough for any normal human. “Fuck off, Conner.” She growled everything but my name.

I raised an eyebrow, and reached for the beer that was sat down in front of me, and took an exploratory sip. “Sorry, luv. Didn’t mean to rankle any of your black feathers.” I didn’t bother to keep out any irritation that may have shown through, just took another sip and looked at her out of the corner of my eye as I rested my head on my hands.

It took her another of her extra Russians before she said anything substantial. “Shanghai Tunnels,” she finally managed.

I blinked at her, not following.

“That ledger you’re after. I told you I found it. That’s where it’s at.” She signaled she was switching to water.

“I’m just lost as to why you don’t have it is all,” I admitted as I took another drink.

She sniffed, gave me a rather dark look, and held out her right wrist to me. There was a fresh burn across it.

“Ah,” I said. “Wards against the infernal. That’s,” I paused, sniffing. “That’s pretty damn interesting. Wonder why they’d want to keep out anything like you.”

“Because of the information in that book, Conner.” She held my gaze for a moment, and when she saw it wasn’t clicking came out and told me. “It’s not a ledger, it’s a one way ticket to bring Him back.”

I dropped my glass as I was about to finish off my beer. “Like fucking hell it is, Desi. Tell me you’re shitting me.”

“Aogán Conner, I would not shit you about something this serious.”

I swore loudly, closed my tab, and then grabbed her wrist. “Where the fuck is the entrance, and where the fuck is the book located, Dez.”

6

Hand in hand, Desi led me a few minutes north of Dante’s to a place called Hobo's Restaurant. Why the hell anyone in their right mind would name a place they expected people to eat after the unclean riffraff that litters the streets I’ll never know. I wasn’t exactly here to find out, either. I stalled in front of the place, staring her hard in her eyes. “This isn’t a fucking set up, is it Dez?” I searched her face for any sign she was about to lie and got nothing.

“Conner, calm the fuck down,” she said as she ripped herself from my grip. “I wouldn’t lead you to a trap, not intentionally. This is where I was told I could find the book.” She placed a hand on my chest, her expression softening. “You have no idea what trouble I went through to get this info for you.” She straightened my tie, and tightened it back up around my neck.

I sighed, and stared at my feet. I shuffled around, feeling restless. “I’m just deep into some shit, Dez. I can’t take anything lightly, and I’m on edge.” I fumbled for a few more words, trying to apologize, and she just placed a finger on my lips in lieu of telling me to shut the fuck up.

She grabbed my hand and lead me to the underground.

***

Naturally, being “after hours” there wasn’t a tour group scheduled to be coming through the area. I guess that was good for us at least. This unfortunately meant that there were no functioning lights.

“We’re looking for a specific opium den, I’m just not completely sure where it is. We may be down here for a while, Con.”

I would’ve normally nodded, but seeing as how we were in the dark down here I simply grunted a response. My torch light feebly bobbed up and down in front of me, whereas Dez was casually strolling along and admiring the brickwork through her infernal night vision.

“I’m basically flying blind,in a sense,” she said, “but the fact that the ledger is coated in Fae blood is a good thing.” She turned her gaze towards me. “It means I can follow the stench. Fae blood cuts through anything.” I sensed she was smiling without looking up, I just shook my head. It wasn’t relevant to me how we found it so much as we did find it. Preferably before anyone else could manage it.

I couldn’t tell how much time had passed, or how many steps we took, or even how many turns we made. We seemed to snake through a nearly endless stream of tunnels and corridors. There were rats running over my feet, and I could sense more than one or two things that would’ve put a fright into anyone not attuned to the supernatural. Probably how these tours had made so much money playing up on the latent psychic abilities in the mundane population. Get a person to think they heard or felt something, and receive shelter and a cut of the earnings in return.

What demonic entities did with human money was outside of my realm of fucks to give.

Desi stopped without warning and made a cry of frustration. I didn’t have to ask why. She was standing in a ring of what appeared to be salt, a glowing sigil within. It was unfamiliar to me, and resembled something akin to a figure bent over trying to touch its toes. She kept struggling to break free of the invisible barrier, and I could do nothing but watch. Helpless.

I approached the circle and attempted to break it, but Desi shouted something towards me, her eyes pained and voice sincere. The magic was too strong, and not of this earth, or some shit. “Fucking hell, Dez, any idea why a Nephililim trap would be down here?”

She shook her head in response, then sighed and shrunk into a seated position. Lifting her arm without looking at me, she pointed into the void. “Your den is over there.” She hugged her legs to herself and seemed to not know what to do.

I took a step around and crouched so I was looking at her face as she stared off into the void. My stomach sank deeper with her growing despair. I lifted up a hand as if to reach for her, then thought better of it. “Dez,” I began.

She only shook her head and jabbed her finger off to the location of the book again.

Standing up, I turned to walk towards the indicated direction when my torch began to flicker. I smacked it against my palm a few times, got it to steady and continued to approach what I could now see as a door. The closer I got, the more I was able to make out a small light seeping from beneath the door. It was out of place enough for me to raise an eyebrow at the situation.

Once I reached out for the handle, I could feel Desi tense before she unleashed a banshee scream that caused me to spin in place to see what was happening to her. In the split second it took, I heard the fading echo of her voice. The glow from the sigil was gone, along with the body that it once emanated from. I stood in the thunderous silence for a few moments before turning back towards the door, my light flickering in and out of existence once more. “Fucking shit thing,” I grunted in exasperation as I smacked it against the door. The light stabilized once more, and I was able to reach out for the doorknob.

I was instantly met with an odd sensation that I could not quite place. Not quite a tingle, but not quite a bottoming out. I felt light headed, and fuzzy, and closed my eyes hoping the feeling would pass before I opened the door and claimed what I came here for. I’d worry about navigating my way back after that.

Then the door opened inwards, and a familiar tan suit with patched elbows greeted me, wearing a smile on the face that belonged to Michael. Michael who, until this very moment, had never seemed more than an unassuming contact that could get me information on any organization I came across in business. Michael who always covered my lunch, and who never once indicated he was interested in the comings and goings of the supernatural.

The very same Michael who was now pointing a gun in my direction, and holding the very book I came down here to find.

Comprehension felt like it was being drawn all over my face, though all I could let out was a firm “fuck me,” before my old friend shot me, and I blacked out.

7

My eyes snapped open about the same time I realized I was screaming at the top of my lungs. My chest was burning, and my eyes were blind. I was hoping that it was just because I was shot where my fucking chest and shoulder met, and that the room was dark. A quick wiggle of the fingers on my left hand told me that was a big fucking mistake when searing pain tore through me and would have blinded me, but the lack of available light was confirmed when my vision didn’t change. It was hot as fuck in here, and I was drenched in sweat.

I felt around for my smokes with my good arm, and came up empty handed. I couldn’t even find my lighter. That bastard Michael must be living it like some fucking Angelic Marlboro man smoking my Blacks. I would hope he got lung cancer from it, but he was apparently a fucking immortal.

I pulled my feet closer to me, and confirmed I was left sitting on the floor, having been apparently propped up in a corner. It felt like a brick wall behind me, and a floor made out of fuck knows what, covered in what felt like decades of dust and rat shit. I growled and shook my head. “I’m gonna fucking kill him,” I spat, unsure how I was going to carry out that promise.

Angels didn’t die, and if they did it wasn’t easy to kill them. If my life were a TV show, I’d just call out to Castiel and have him pick up Sam and Dean on his way to save my sorry ass, and remind him they needed the First Blade. Because that can apparently kill anything.

Cain was such a badass that way.

I fidgeted and began to chew my nails. Goddamn I needed a smoke right now. I double and triple checked all of my pockets and decided that I was in fact smokeless.

“Fuck this is going to be a long, long time.”

***

I was awoken by the sound of approaching footsteps, and the scent of burning kerosene. And a familiar click-clack of heels on the floor. I couldn’t be sure if I was hallucinating or not, so I didn’t get my hopes up.

Muttering something to myself about how fucking nice it would be to have a way out, I heard a door open in the distance. A familiar scent wafted through on a feeble wind.

“Oh, this would be too good to be true,” I muttered to myself. “That bird coming to spring me would be an amazing stroke of luck if ever I needed one.”

The footsteps continued, growing louder.

It seemed like nearly half an hour had passed before I realized that there was no way in Hell it should be taking her this long to get to me.

“Dez,” I cried out. “Dez! You fucking better not be playing with me!” I thudded my head against the wall behind me and winced as the shock went through my whole body. I would’ve sworn again, but there was no point in talking if I was alone.

But I knew that I wasn’t alone anymore. I could feel a presence in the room with me. My stomach was churning, and I felt like I had to suddenly evacuate my bowels. My head felt like I was high. It was like being near Michael again, but stronger. I didn’t know who the hell was in the room with me, but I knew I was no longer alone. Let alone safe.

Bile rose in my throat, and I barely had time to lean over before I hurled all over the darkened floor. The scent of fresh vomit made me feel even worse as I hacked and dry heaved once my gut was empty.

A dry, barking chuckle rang out as a pair of deep crimson spots thinned into two small, fine half-moon shapes. A black slit shown in each spot. “Aogán James Conner,” a deep male voice as smooth as a twelve year old scotch purred, stretching out each syllable.

My mouth salivated at the sudden thought of scotch. My heart skipped a beat, and began to beat erratically. My sweating ceased, and comprehension of how royally fucked I was deepened. “Lu,” I husked in a hoarse whisper. “Fuck me, Lu, is that you?”

“It’s been a very. Long. Time,” he said pausing for unnecessary emphasis and style, as was his way.

I bit my cheek hard enough to taste copper, and spat in the direction of his eyes. “Go back to Hell, Lucifer.” I sniffed again, and sneezed, regretting immediately. My cheek and shoulder both gave me a hearty fuck you.

“Now, Conner, that’s no way to greet an old friend,” he said in mock hurt as he knelt down in front of me, and I felt his warm and heavy palm settle on my shoulder. My heart stopped for a full two beats, and I screamed out in agony as what I assumed was his thumb dug into the bullet hole. “Disrespect me again, and I’ll be harsher with my punishments.” His voice dripped with venom, suddenly turning the idea of scotch into a very bad idea.

Pain rang across my face as a slap rang out and echoed. “I suppose I owe my return to you,” he said as though he were a prince speaking to a peasant. “Instead, your reward shall be rotting within this,” he paused. “Is this an opium den?” He scoffed. “Fitting, isn’t it.” His eyes searched the room seeing things invisible to myself.

“Crux... sacra sit mihi lux,” I began to whisper before another sharp stab of pain rang across my face.

Lucifer laughed, heartily. He was back, beyond my ability to cast aside. “I’m going to enjoy the next hour of your time,” he purred at me.

The lights of his eyes went out, and once again I was seeing white from the agony that my entire being became.

8

My screams rang out through the tunnels, until I was no longer able to utter another sound. I coughed a damningly wet cough, and felt as my blood splattered onto the floor.

The darkness deepened.

PART II

1

The sound of a door closing roused me from my death-like state. I wasn’t quite sleeping, because I hadn’t had dreams of any pretty lasses with too-short shorts, nor did I feel rested. My body was racked with pain, and every little twitching movement seemed to hurt.

Then I remembered the gunshot. Michael was a backstabbing bastard. Now I not only had to find him, but the ledger as well.

I suddenly felt a new weight on my stomach, and struggled to open my eyes. Before they could focus I felt a finger press against my lips, and heard a familiar voice shushing me, telling me not to speak. The scent of cinnamon and vanilla hit my nose, relaxing me to my core.

“Dez,” I said sounding far weaker than I felt. My lips were dry, and my throat felt like a desert. She shushed me again, and after licking my lips I just lay back, closed my eyes, and nodded.

She caressed her fingers down my neck, resting just above the gunshot wound. I heard her make a noise of disgust, and sigh deeply. “Conner, what the fuck did you do to yourself?”

Michael fucking shot me I thought. Then I wondered how the hell she got back from, well, wherever the hell she went. She chuckled. She assured me that she was appeared at Darcelle’s, in the dressing room.

My eyes snapped open, I reached up and grabbed her shoulder with my good arm. “Lucifer...” I gasped. She gave me a puzzled look.

“Lucifer is still safely locked away in Hell, Con.” She touched a hand to my face, in a show of compassion and understanding. “Michael must be fucking with some really good shit to be able to make you hallucinate the Big Boss returning.” She shook her head, adding “There’s a complex spell he has to set up in that book that would cause his return, and it’ll take him about a month or so to even come up with the necessary elements.”

I wasn’t so certain that Mikey was dabbling in anything that dark, but given that he was now in possession of the book and had pointedly severed our working relationship, I couldn’t be so sure of anything. Business transactions were a sticky business.

I went to sit up, but was stopped by the shooting pain from my shoulder. I gritted my teeth, swore, and decided I was better off staying flat on my back. Flopping my good arm across my eyes, I closed them and just lay there.

Then I felt Dez press her lips to mine, as she rocked her hips gently over me.

“I didn’t realize me being near death got you hot, Dez.” I uncovered and opened my eyes. She was giving me a look that any straight man would have a hard time saying no to.

She leaned in and kissed me again, before whispering in my ear “let me fix you, Aogán James Conner.”

I felt a shadow fall over some part of me that was detached from my physical being as she licked my ear, and I began to question my own sanity.

***

I slammed my empty glass down on the bar and signaled the bartender for another. After Dez worked her Nephililim magic on my broken and tattered soul, I needed to get away from the angels and resurrections. So I hit up a bar known as the Black Book.

As the bartender brought me another Guinness, I pulled out my own black book and tried to find someone. I wasn’t certain who at this point. I downed the beer in a few gulps, set down a ten that Dez had given me, and stepped outside for a smoke.

There was a reason I kept Dez around, and it wasn’t just because she kept me in good spirits and was easy on the eyes. Sometimes a man just needed a spiritual healing in the most literal of senses. I just wish it didn’t cost me so much time. This last session took about fifteen days from the end of my life, but I’ll be damned if every second wasn’t worth it.

I pulled my book out again, and sighed. “Fuck it,” I said, cigarette still in my mouth, and worked it back into my pocket. None of those people could help me with this. They were great at digging up the nasty on some thing or other that was causing a stir, or even teaching me a thing or two about different kinds of magic I wasn’t exposed to earlier in life. No. I’d have to do this on my own or ask Desi more of her than was right.

This was my mess to fix, not hers.

I reached into my pocket and withdrew my cell phone. I scrolled through the numbers until I saw Jameson’s name. I nabbed his number from him when he gave me a lift to the Max, and decided now was a great time to call him. The good news and all that. It rang a few times before he grunted into my ear.

“The fuck you want,” was his greeting.

“I’ve run into a bit of a bloody snag,” I said forgetting to cover up my accent. Since my recent return to drinking, it’s been popping into prominence more and more.

“Who the fuck, Conner is this you?” He seemed confused.

“None other,” I said. “Your book is in the hands of a fucking Arch Angel, you lout.” I took a drag to add a dramatic pause. “The fuck you want me to do about getting it back?” Because there was no way in Hell I was going to go unarmed against something that powerful.

I could hear him sigh and mutter something to someone I assumed was Jackson. Were those two ever apart, I wondered.

“Go to Pioneer Square, and give the Umbrella Man a solid handshake. You’ll know what to do after that. We’ll leave an attache case next to him for you.”

I scoffed, cigarette still to lips. “What guarantee do I have that some bum won’t confiscate it before I can get to it,” I asked.

“Don’t worry your pretty potato loving head about it, we’ll handle that ourselves.”

2

It was raining by the time I made it to Pioneer Courthouse Square. Naturally. Keep Portland Wet and all that bullshit, I thought as I turned up the collar on my jacket. I stepped off the Max, lit a smoke, and walked over to Umbrella Man. Looking him over, from his snazzy dress shoes, to his white collar and red tie, to his outstretched hand that, to me anyway, made him look like he was hailing a cab, it seemed like there was no way I would be able to grasp his hand firmly. Looking back at his feet I saw the attache case Jameson had talked about. I didn’t care how they did it, but it was still here.

Reaching down, I picked it up, flipped around and sat square in front of the statue with my legs crossed, and the case spread over my lap. My heart raced as I clicked it open, eager to see what could possibly help me take this bastard on.

I was greeted by nothing more than a flask of what I took for Holy Water, six nine inch nails, a revolver, and a chunk of wood. I slammed the case closed, took a drag and swore a little too loudly. Anywhere else I’d be looked at like a nut, but the people here were used to sudden outbursts. Nobody batted an eye.

“These bloody amateurs” I scoffed. “I’m going to have to MacGyver some shit to trap this bastard myself.” I opened the case again. “Holy water, nails of the crucifixion, and,” touching the block of wood, “I’m pretty sure this is supposed to be the Heart of the Cross.” I picked up the revolver and opened the chamber, nearly dropping it.

It was a modern Smith and Wesson 686, seven shot chamber from what I counted, and loaded with the strangest bullets I had ever seen. They looked like they were made from obsidian. Who knew what kind of crazy magic these guys worked over them, but I was now certain that the rest was just in case I found something a bit more unsavory than a fallen Arch Angel. Something purely Infernal.

I figured once I got into wherever this Umbrella Man was going to take me I could inspect the firearm a bit more closely, but for now I placed it back into the case again, and shut it.

Standing up, I spun on my heels and stared the statue into the eyes. They were dead, and a little exaggerated in whatever their expression was supposed to be. Reaching out with my left hand, I did what I could to grasp his outstretched fingers, and gave a hearty shake. The chaos of the big city around me suddenly halted, and the statue raised a good three feet, revealing a hidden staircase. tightening my grip on the case I began to descend the steps.

***

I found it difficult to believe that a facility of this apparent size could have remained hidden as long as it had, but I assumed it must have had some rather interesting wards cast about it to prevent the mundanes from discovering it. I shrugged as I walked purposefully towards the double doors in front of me.

I felt like I should have brought a shotgun, but just to be ironically cliché.

Instead of kicking the doors down like some macho John Wayne type, I got in touch with my inner Solid Snake and opened the doors as quiet as a church mouse. My heart raced as I inched the one door further open. I wasn’t about to let the lack of a guard by the entrance allow me to lower my defenses.

I slipped through the gap once it was large enough and then froze when I saw a completely narrow hallway in front of me and nowhere to hide but a few recesses meant for drinking fountains and trash cans from what I could see. It was going to have to do. I could only hope there were no security cameras, because I was lacking the charms needed to distort my image from them.

I was honestly lacking a lot of my usual tools. “This is what I get for not stopping at home,” I muttered to myself. I set the attache case down, emptied the contents into my pockets, and gripped the revolver in my right hand. I checked the case for any additional ammo, but turned up nothing. I guess I should just be thankful that the damn thing was loaded.

As I pressed against the area of the wall that was off camera, I held the gun close to my chest, where the bullet wound from where Michael shot me once was. I felt like every bit the damned amateur I was as I peeked around the corner. I wasn’t built for this, not from experience anyway, but I felt like I logged enough hours sneaking through cities tracking lower level demons and vampires. There was a certain level of stealth required for that shit, but nothing on this scale.

The coast looked clear, so I slunk towards the first recess I could see. Nobody shot at me, so I chalked it up as a small victory and kept my awareness levels high. Not that I had superhuman levels of awareness, I just had some damn good intuition that’s kept me alive to this miserable point in my life.

It wasn’t until my fourth recess that shit became complicated.

3

The guard fell with a dissatisfying thud, and I reached down to verify if I had incapacitated him when I heard his radio squawk. He wasn’t alone. I glanced up, and didn’t see anyone round the corner twenty feet ahead. I picked up the radio and looked at it, tempted to respond to the call for a status update. I shook my head and tossed the radio behind me. I didn’t have time for Hollywood bullshit.

Crouching down to search for the guard’s cuffs, I secured him to the drinking fountain’s pipes. I didn’t have time for his bullshit, either, if he came to.

I slowly made my way to the corner, the 686 clasped firmly in both hands. Leaning against the wall, I peeked around the corner and expected to be blasted in the face. Thankfully, the hallway was empty. For now.

***

I knew I wasn’t out of the woods yet. Not by a long shot. At least, I didn’t think I was. After not being blasted in the face for peering around that corner, I decided to be a bit more brash and stroll down the hallway in the open. It seemed rather far fetched that there wouldn’t be more than one guard patrolling the area, but I was also going to be confronting an unkillable being, or so the story goes. It would be just like that bastard to only have one guard in the entire base.

Why the hell he even needed a base on Earth if he was Angelic was beyond me, and I made it a note to ask him before I shot him square in the face with these obsidian bullets. I figured the barrel would scratch some sort of spell into the jacket after I pulled the trigger, and it would either immobilize the prick, or God knows what.

My money was on my ass not getting killed regardless.

After making it more than halfway down the hall, I relaxed my shoulders. Relaxed the 686 in my hand, and placed it in my jacket pocket. I didn’t take my hand off of it, but no longer felt the need to carry so openly.

“This is anti-climactic, Mikey.” I came to another left turn, and saw that it stopped at a door. The only one I had come across since the double doors up front. I had to laugh at the absurdity of it all, the pointless hallways ending in a lone door.

I hoped that his office was on the other side of the door, and reached out to open it. As soon as I gripped the knob, though, I found myself being launched across the hall and landing in a heap, my hand a smoking mess. “What the actual fuck,” I yelled, and instantly regretted not bringing any herbs with me.

I stayed on my ass for a few moments and just stared at the door. There had to be a way in, but it looked like it was warded or hexed or some shit that I didn’t have the time or patience to figure out which. Without thinking, I reached into my pocket, grabbed the flask of Holy Water, and removed the cap before I threw it at the door. If it was hexed, then something should visibly happen. If it was warded, well...

I was currently fucked. There was no pop, or sizzle, or anything remotely visual that would indicate anything had happened to allow me entrance.

I glanced at the 686 next to me, and picked it up. I didn’t want to even consider wasting ammo just to pick a lock. Not only would it waste the bullet, it was announce my presence a bit more than that bullshit that launched me did. Nothing says “Hello, I’m here to kill you” quite like gunshots.

I reflexively reached for my smokes before stopping myself. I balled my hand into a fist, picked up the gun with the other, and stared across the way at the door as though I could bore through it with just my eyes.

“Fuck this actual bullshit.” I shoved myself up into a running start, and lunged at the door shoulder first, throwing all two hundred twenty pounds of mine at it.

I felt the wood shatter under the force.

***

When I picked my ass up off the red carpeted flooring, I could tell I had made a huge mistake. My shoulder was throbbing like I had dislocated it or something. It didn’t feel broken, but it definitely felt battered. Once I was on my feet, a quick glance at the small room told me that it wasn’t even the real office. It was an antechamber of some sort, with what might have once been a secretarial desk. “Jesus, is that a typewriter,” I whispered to myself. I clicked my tongue, and continued to scan the room.

It was rather unremarkable, save for the carpet. Red felt like an odd touch, and one I’d rather not dwell on because nothing mattered more in this room than the door that had to lead to Michael. The only problem with this door was that there was no knob. Rather, there was what looked like a small alter large enough for a mouse to lay across. And an athame tucked away beneath it. It seemed pretty obvious what needed to be done, but I wasn’t sure of my blood would be enough to open it, seeing as I was practically nobody. No, what I needed was angel blood. Blood that I didn’t happen to have on my person, because you can’t exactly go to the corner store for it let alone ask to borrow a cup of it. Angels only bled when they wept, and they had been doing that for so long either their tear ducts were running dry or they’ve just acclimated to the level of depravity humanity has sunk to over the years.

My money was on the latter.

I glanced between the door-alter and the 686 and just shook my head. Then my eyes grew wide, and I turned back to the door I had just reduced to toothpicks. I glanced at the floor, and noticed how small the resultant puddle really was from me tossing that flask. I was in a bind, and right now I honestly could have used a damn miracle. I lifted it up and gave it a good shake as though it were a bell. My ears were met with a small slosh, and I smirked in response.

I turned back to the door-alter, and approached it stooping only once I was arms length away. I closed my eyes. “Glorious Saint Cajetan,” I began. I muttered a few other sentences, and continued “May these graces that I now request, help me to always seek the Kingdom of God and His Righteousness.” I said some other shit, mostly about birds and flowers. I added in a request to enter the chamber ahead, before finishing with “Glorious Saint Cajetan, Saint of Divine Providence, intercede for us so that in our homes, we may have peace, and never lack bread or work.” I mouthed the amen, poured the remaining Holy Water out on the alter, and with a spark of intuition, seized the athame and pierced the tip of my left thumb, producing a few drops of blood. I watched as they mingled in the Holy Water.

I watched longer as nothing happened. The water and blood eventually flowed off of the alter and onto the floor.

I pitched the athame at the wall to my immediate right and was at least pleased by the thunk it made as it sank into the wooden stud. A string of rather colorful expletives poured from my mouth, punctuated by me front kicking the door where the lock should have been.

The door flew open, and without missing a beat I decided to do what the fuck I was here to do. I lifted the 686 to eye level, and charged through the now open doorway, coming across a desk with a chair that was facing the other direction.

Without hesitation I pulled the trigger, thankful for the double action, and then leaped over the desk.

(((To be reworked...)))