Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ Demon Hunt ❯ Chapter 2 ( Chapter 2 )

This was ridiculous. “Probation? Is this a joke to him?” Sorbet asked her apartment incredulously. She paced for a minute, weaving in and out of a swirling cloud of cigar smoke. “How humiliating!” Sorbet howled, hurling her still-burning cigar into the sink with rage. She stared at the soggy, smoking remains, and her lips twisted to form a jagged smile. Her eyes flashed.

 

“Well. I'll just have to pay Him a visit, now won't I?” She grinned.

 

It wasn't until the next morning that she made the call. She rolled out of bed at 5:00 A.M. and, still wearing the short, flimsy negligee that she fell asleep in, pulled on her tall leather boots and slunk down the stairs to use the apartment building's payphone. With eyes barely open, she ripped the phone off the hook and jammed a few coins into the slot. Sorbet hated making these calls. She dialed the number she knew too well, and waited.

 

“Please enter your DI number.” Said a familiar, syrupy voice.

 

Sorbet clawed at the number buttons with sleepy impatience, punching in the necessary digits.

 

“You entered: RBS1099867…is this correct? If so, press 1. If not, press—”

 

“Yes!” she shouted unnecessarily, stabbing the “1” button with ferocity.

 

“Please enter the Circle you wish to reach using the corresponding number buttons.”

 

After a moments' pause, she pressed 8.

 

“You entered: Circle number: 8…is this correct? If so—”

 

“Yes, it's fucking correct, you pretentious bitch!” Shrieked Sorbet, slamming down on the keypad in a fit of rage.

 

“I'm sorry; I do not understand what you entered. You entered: Circle number—”

 

She pressed the “1” button down hard, the plastic crackling dangerously.

 

“Please hold while the Circle 8 Administrative Office is contacted.”

 

Eyes wide, she thrust the phone from her ear, holding it out before her in terror. Hell's waiting music was unparalleled, not by anything on Earth. Her sharp ears could still pick up a few wafting notes, and she stifled them with a hand. The barely audible monstrosity stopped suddenly, and she brought the phone to her ear once more.

 

“Thank you for your patience.” Said the snooty bitch. “A Gateway will be opened for you at this location in: 2 hours. A visitor card will be available for you when you arrive.”

 

Hurriedly, she hung up. “Only two hours? Is that how they run the place these days?” she asked incredulously, her boots clicking on the tile as she dashed to the stairwell. She made it upstairs in record time, and threw open the unlocked door to her apartment. She flung her boots off in opposite directions and made a beeline for the coffee pot. Never one to waste time, she forwent using a cup and simply took a dreg from the pot, the still-brewing coffee machine gurgling amiably as its contents hit the hot plate below with a hiss. She quickly spooned through two strawberry yogurts and downed an English muffin before leaping into her bedroom to get ready.

 

Her mirror instantly revealed that she would need every second of her remaining hour-and-a-half. Her hair was a mess of tangles, her eyes were ringed with sleeplessness, and four days of straight working had taken their toll. Somewhat defeated, she stepped out of the white negligee and into the shower, scrubbing herself down and slowly detangling her matted hair.

 

She stepped out with an hour left to go, shaking her hair out like a mongrel and toweling her legs. She slid into an elegant wine-coloured dress with a tight bodice and a floor-length skirt. Her damp hair was quickly tamed; scooped up into a twist at the nape of her neck. She slicked on her characteristic dark lipstick and gave the mirror a sidelong glance.

 

“Not bad,” she congratulated herself, and she stepped into the main room to don her leather trench and boots. She descended quickly and trotted into the 1st floor lobby, squaring herself before the payphone. She turned to scan the room once more. The place was dead. Satisfied, she snapped her fingers and vanished.

 

Some milliseconds later, Sorbet reappeared in a cold white room. It was a standard waiting room, with rows of chairs and a sliding glass window that revealed the administrative office, which was parallel to the door. The window was dark, and she couldn't help but be reminded of a deserted pick-up window of a human “fast-food” restaurant. Below the window was a narrow counter with a service bell, and above a plastic nameplate that read “Circle Eight Administrative”.

 

She peered around. Silence. She tapped the service bell and it jangled merrily. Nothing. Tentatively, she rang it again. A muffled crash erupted from inside the office, and the window slid open with a dry crack. An irritable-looking lesser demon with a sharp nose and mousy hair appeared, her heavy-lidded eyes china blue and piercing.

 

“How may I help you?” she growled. Her plastic secretary-etiquette was deeply unconvincing.

 

“I'm here for a visit. I called in for a Gateway opening, and my visitor card should be here.” Returned Sorbet crisply.

 

“DI Number?” sighed the secretary.

 

“RBS1099867,” Sorbet recited dutifully.

 

“R…B…S…” the secretary, whose name card read `Karen', mumbled under her breath as she filed through a stack of visitor cards. She plucked one from the pile and looked up at Sorbet.

 

“And what business do you have?” Karen asked.

 

“I'm here to visit Him.” Replied Sorbet.

 

There was a long pause. “Him?” repeated Karen.

 

“Yes. May I have my visitor card?”

 

“Him? You're kidding, yes? You think you can just strut in here because you're a Rank B, and just get an audience with Him?” Karen snorted at her own good humor.

 

“Would you just be a dear and give me my visitor card?” Sorbet replied acidly.

 

“I'm going to need to make some calls.” Retorted Karen.

 

Sorbet just sighed. “Every time…” she muttered. She turned to plop down in one of the waiting room chairs. She felt like a child. Karen was dialing furiously, and she slid the window shut when she saw Sorbet's eyes on her.

 

Sorbet waited, listening to the hushed sounds of conversation going on inside the office. She heard Karen's voice get higher and louder with agitation, and then go silent. The office window slid open once more, very gently this time, and Karen's reddened face appeared.

 

“I have your visitor card here.” She said bashfully.

 

Sorbet strutted purposefully to the window and snatched the card. Karen didn't look at her.

 

“Thank you,” said Sorbet icily.

 

“I apologize for any inconvenience,” Karen tried.

 

“Think nothing of it,” Sorbet said breezily, and marched out the waiting room door and into the heart of Circle 8.

 

 

 

Lieutenant Fahrer and Sergeant Dalman were both back in their native form as they stood at attention before the Duke. He was a tall and elegant man, thickset and scruffy in a way that still seemed polished. He had serpentine eyes and long black horns, and he wore a black military style jacket over a set of queer looking flannel pajamas. He looked cracked a yawn to reveal elongated canines, and he stared down at the two with baneful eyes.

 

“I hope this was important.” He rumbled sleepily.

 

“Very important, sir,” responded Fahrer crisply. “You see…well…er…”

 

“Well, spit it out!” demanded the Duke. He shoved a hand into his flannel pajama pocket.

 

“Well…we may have, er…well…Ms. Sorbet escaped us.” He finished quickly, looking up at the Duke with wide eyes.

 

The Duke immediately bristled at the mention of Sorbet, and, ripping through his pajama pocket with fury; he flexed his talons menacingly.

 

“What?” he snapped. “What do you mean, she escaped you?”

 

Fahrer stumbled to find an answer. “She…um…we went to take her, and she, um, fled from our grasp and shot us.” He said lamely.

 

“She shot you.” Repeated the Duke. “She shot you? That's the best you could come up with? You're demons! What do you care if she shot you, you idiots!” he roared.

 

“It was a high caliber,” Dalman whined. “We tried to—“

 

The Duke cut him off. “I don't care what you tried!” he thundered, pacing back and forth behind his desk. “I want her, here, and quickly. Just find her, get her, and transport through the Gateway.”

 

“Yes sir,” they murmured in unison.

 

“Now get out of my sight!” he growled, and with a pout, “I'm going back to bed.”

 

“Yes sir.” They repeated, and filed out of the room.

 

The Duke fell into his desk chair with a groan. “Idiots…” he grumbled, running a hand through his fair hair. Gritting his teeth, he unsheathed his claws into the already-tattered arms of the chair.

 

“I will have her.” He snarled.

 

 

 

Outside the office, Fahrer and Dalman had their heads pressed against the door. After a silence, they straightened and tip-toed down the stone hallway to Circle 8's demon rec room.

 

Throwing open black saloon-style doors, they weaved their way through a throng of lesser demons that were crowded around the bar and the pool table, elbowing aside a few bickering imps to reach their favourite conference spot: the foosball table. They slid the score discs to zero and arranged themselves habitually, Fahrer taking control of the black players, and Dalman of the red.

 

“What are we going to do?” Dalman asked, tossing the rubber ball into play and jerking his row of players towards it.

 

“We have to find her first. I mean, it can't be too hard, we know she frequents that dingy hole of a café.” Reasoned Fahrer, spinning the handle of his row of players.

 

“Right. She must pick up a lot of work there.” Said Dalman. “So we could lurk around. Maybe we could follow her again and find out where she lives.”

 

“Yes, because the last time, following her was a grand old plan.” Fahrer shot back sarcastically, making a face. He spun his handle to make a goal on Dalman, and the rubber ball shot into the hole with a resounding bang.

 

Dalman turned a striking shade of vermilion. “Yeah…I guess…you're right.” He said, thinking back to what she had done to the human from the café. “That went bad in a hurry.” He added hoarsely.

 

Fahrer slid a score disc down the line to mark his victory. “But if she's alone, where else would she go?”

 

“Mm,” agreed Dalman. “So we'll stalk her for a bit, find her apartment, and jump her.”

 

“You make it sound so sinister.” Fahrer frowned, defending his goal with the row of black plastic goalies.

 

“Well it's not like we're inviting the bitch to tea!” Dalman argued, slamming a win on Fahrer. He slid one of his own score discs to the other side.

 

“Alright, alright, we'll get a start on it tomorrow.” Sighed Fahrer.

 

Little did either of them know, she was closer than they could have ever imagined.

 

 

 

Immediately, Sorbet was enveloped in a thick, oily heat. She was in the last level of Circle 8, the home of falsifiers and counterfeiters. The whole place was constructed of stone that glowed orange with intense heat, and iron doors were dispersed every few feet in both directions, all around the circle to the other side. She looked up; eyes watering, and she could see higher levels of Circle 8 and beyond, and hear the sounds of suffering.

 

She quickly spotted the elevator, a towering cast iron specimen that resembled an oversized birdcage housed in a monstrous glass tube that traveled upwards as far as her eyes could see. Sorbet trotted over to the elevator with urgency, wheezing from the choking warmth around her, and pulled the “Down” lever before hopping into the cage.

 

The gears below her screamed as the elevator grinded into action, the rusty shrieks echoing off the steaming stone walls. It moved slowly, and upon descending, the atmosphere on the other side of the iron and glass changed significantly. Red-hot granite made way to cliffs deep gray shale in a shaft so dark, human eyes would be rendered useless. Towering beasts loomed in the black over the cliff-tops; yellow eyes leering like cats in the night. This was the giant's well, and at the base of the cliffs was Cocytus, the frozen black lake where should would find Him.

 

Finally, after what seemed like miles of gray, the elevator screeched to a stop, and she stepped out onto a small platform. All around her was ice. Ice too thick to be melted by any amount of flame, yet so clear, she was afraid of falling through. The water underneath was dark and murky, and monstrous black shapes swam beneath her feet. She traipsed across the frosty surface, keeping a straight path from the platform with the elevator.

 

She walked for quarter of a mile before she found what she was looking for. A large, dark shape crested the horizon, and was followed by a second, smaller shape. She smiled with promise, patting the probation notice in her pocket, and continued on briskly until the two objects came into focus.

 

They were thrones. Both were made of enormous slabs of polished onyx, carved with intricate demonic patterns. The left throne was small, and a pale woman was arranged regally in the seat, as if carved out of ice. The right throne was the larger of the two, and seated in it was Him.

 

The Devil, King of Demons, The Ruler of Hell, Beelzebub, Lucifer, Satan. He had many names, and was synonymous with his kingdom: Hell, and all of its creatures and sufferers. The mention of Him struck terror like no other in the hearts of anyone; demon or mortal alike. Anyone; except Sorbet.

 

“Hello, Daddy.” She smiled.