Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ Demon Hunt ❯ Chapter 1 ( Chapter 1 )

Solace

 

 

The Stooping Pigeon was the kind of café that had nothing to live up to. With such a profoundly unattractive name, it only made sense that the coffee tasted like urine and the pastries came out of the oven sub-par. The other local cafés; High Street House and The Clearwater Café, not only served much more palatable food, but served under poetic names, and that was why The Stooping Pigeon had only two customers on Monday morning.

 

The first customer was a man. He was tall, pale, and very thin, with pale, haunted eyes. He wore a tattered black suit and an awkward and unfashionable hat. He sat at a round table in the corner, reading the daily headlines and fingering a cufflink on his sleeve.

 

The second customer was a woman. She was of medium height, curvaceous; with sleek auburn hair and eyes so dark they looked black. The cream silk of her dress spilled out of her coat lapels, just under the white flesh of her neck. She sat in a window seat and watched the people walking by.

 

The aging waitress approached the woman first.

 

“Can I get you something, dear?” she asked, a carafe of steaming coffee in hand.

The woman looked up. “Just a coffee.” She said quietly. She stared at the man in the corner. The waitress smiles gently and pours her a cup of coffee. She takes it black.

The dark-haired woman continued to watch the man in the corner with a leer in her smoky eyes. She got up silently, bringing her coffee with her. It was foul, and she had no intention of drinking it, but it provided relief for her cold hands.

 

He looked up to reach for the Business section and froze. Sitting across from him was a beautiful and fiendish-looking woman, her legs crossed elegantly. She was holding a cup of coffee in both hands and watching him with the largest, blackest eyes he had ever seen.

 

“Excuse me?” he began self-consciously, Business section forgotten completely.

 

“May I sit with you?” She asked, swirling the coffee in its cheap porcelain cup.

 

She had a voice like dark chocolate. It was menacing.

 

“I believe you already are.” He managed. Her eyes bit into him like vipers.

 

“Yes. Yes, I suppose I am.” She said, pausing. “Do you like art?” She asked.

 

“Don't most people?”

 

“Oh…you'd be surprised,” she replied coyly. “I'm an artist.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Yes. I sculpt.”

 

“What do you sculpt?” he inquired.

 

“People.” She said poisonously.

 

He nodded dumbly. She stared him down with a detached menace that made him want to run. He couldn't feel his legs.

 

“So,” she began silkily, and he felt his nostrils flare as her slender white fingers slid over his fisted hand. Her hand was ice cold. “What do you do?”

 

“Journalist.” He managed. He felt like he was drowning.

 

“And what are you doing today? Right now, maybe?” She flitted her fingers up his arm, dark eyes staring unabashedly through thick lashes. He was drowning in a pool of heady darkness, a thick black haze that was hot and cold at the same time.

 

Before he knew it, he was holding his hat to his head as she rushed him through the street, her hand blistering hot on his. He was so woozy he didn't notice that she knew the way to his apartment without him saying a word.

 

It wasn't for another two hours that the haze dispelled. In what felt like he was regaining consciousness, he propped himself on his elbows. He was alone in his bedroom. There was no sign of her.

But suddenly, a tsunami was crushing his insides, a swirling darkness that shot from the pit of his stomach to the top of his head. He was choking, coughing, and then there was blood all over his sheets, pouring from him like a release. He barely had time to panic before his brain went dead, and his head fell back, haloing him in a sopping pool of crimson. His eyes rolled back and he met the ceiling with a vein-laced white stare.

 

He didn't even get to read the note she left on the nightstand, the note that lay right next to the drink she poisoned.

 

 

She was viciously thrown against the brick, a man gripping each of her arms down to the bone, their gloved fingers like talons.

 

“What do you want?” She hissed, her chin lifted in defiance. The alley they had dragged her down was a dead end, and fittingly deserted.

 

“You know what it is we want.” The first man grinned, his black hat pulled low over his brow. He had black hair that spilled over the collar of his coat.

 

The second man spoke this time. “You don't know what you've gotten yourself into, you stupid bitch.” He whispered mockingly. His black eyes glittered with promise. The first man nudged him with a slightly disapproving look.

 

“Look, you bastards, I haven't done anything wrong.” She said darkly.

 

“I wouldn't say that, Sorbet.” Said the first.

 

Her eyes widened with surprise. “Unhand me.” She narrowed her eyes. “I said, unhand me. If you're from the embassy, they won't be pleased to know that you manhandled someone under your charge.”

 

“Look, you arrogant_” the second man began ferociously, but the first let go of her.

 

“Get off of her, Dalman.” He said gruffly.

 

Dalman growled and dropped back. Massaging her bruised arms, Sorbet eyed the first man curiously.

 

“So? Who the hell are you?” she demanded, flinging her long hair over her shoulders and pulling her coat closed over her throat.

 

“Fahrer. Lieutenant Fahrer, under orders by Satan himself through the Duke of West Hell.” He shot off. “You'll have to forgive our…rash actions. We were told that you were a bit of a, uh, fireball.” He supplied awkwardly.

 

“Well yes, I'd say it's in my nature.” She said venomously. “That doesn't mean I'm doing to defy His jurisdiction.”

 

He didn't speak for a moment. “Well, come along,” said Fahrer with finality, and arranged her to walk in between Dalman and himself. They had barely taken a step when Sorbet moved like gunfire, sliding a revolver out of her spacious coat pocket and leaping back. Fahrer and Dalman spun to intercept her, but too late. She fired twice, and both men grasped their chests in agony as they fell to the ground.

 

She flashed a gruesome smile to the still bodies in the alleyway and pocketed her revolver.

 

“Au revoir,” she waved mockingly, and with a snap of her bony fingers, she disappeared into thin air.

 

 

Sorbet materialized in her apartment some seconds later, quickly stripping off her coat and pulling a Camel from a box in the kitchen. She lit up with a pleasurable sigh and sank into a leather armchair in the main room. It was so good to be home, in her nice, warm apartment. She rose begrudgingly and trotted into the kitchen to put the kettle on for tea, grabbing her mail from the table before returning to the armchair.

The peace was effectively shattered when a loud crack sounded, and in an explosion of thick red smoke, a male demon in a maroon concierge's uniform materialized.

 

“Fuck!” cried Sorbet, nearly dropping her cigar. “What the hell is the matter with you?” she demanded of the stoic figure. “Don't you have any respect for a lady's privacy?”

 

“My apologies, madam.” He said unapologetically. “I bear a message from the Depths.” His eyes were beetle-black, and when he spoke, she could see his elongated canines.

 

“Well give it here,” she said rudely.

 

“As you wish, madam.” With a flourish of his hand, an envelope appeared before him, and with a second little twitch, it dropped from the air and into his open palm. He handed it to her.

 

Sorbet eyed it critically, recognizing the red wax seal immediately. It was from the Duke. She cursed softly, and looked up to dismiss the messenger. He bowed curtly and disappeared, much like she had before in the alley.

 

“This can't be good.” She winced, and opened it quickly, scanning the document inside. Her eyes went wide with horror. “Probation?”

 

 

 

Lieutenant Fahrer came to groggily, immediately aware of a dull pain in his chest. He pulled away his hand to find it sticky with blood. He snarled as he scraped out the bullet embedded in his flesh.

 

“Damn her,” He slurred, whipping the blood-coated slug at the ground. He laid his head back. He could feel his body healing itself already, the bullet hole knitting itself together again.

 

“Dalman!” He shouted huskily. “Dalman!”

 

He heard his companion stir, and with a groan, open his eyes. “That stupid bitch.” Growled Dalman. “Fahrer? You alright?”

 

“I'm fine. Where'd she get you?”

 

“Chest.” Grumbled Dalman. He made a move to get up, and he also clawed a bullet out, pulling at the bloodstained hole in his shirt self-consciously.

 

“Same here. It would appear we have a little sharp-shooter on our hands.” Fahrer rose into a sitting position.

 

“I'd say she's just a bitch.” Disagreed Dalman.

 

“Either way, we need to report back.” He replied, checking the ornate gold watch on his wrist. “We've been out for almost an hour.”

 

Dalman simply nodded. Both demons rose to their feet, brushing off their worn and bloodied clothing.

 

“Oh, before we go back down, I want to grab something from the uh, you know…the food store.” Sputtered Fahrer.

 

“What?”

 

“Humans may be trite, but they sell such interesting snacks.” He explained.

 

“Er…alright, then.” Dalman said, and he flickered and changed his form to that of an older gentleman, the blood-spattered clothes replaced with a checked shirt and corduroys.

 

Fahrer nodded, following suit. He was instantly replaced with the form of an elderly woman in a crisp pinafore.

 

“Honestly?” asked Dalman in disgust. “That pinafore is horrible.”

 

“Like you can talk, wearing those awful pants.” Retorted a grandmotherly Fahrer. “Oh, come on now!” He pulled on Dalman's sleeve, and the two slid out of the alleyway inconspicuously, strolling down the block towards the brightly coloured sign for the grocery store.