Pet Shop Of Horrors Fan Fiction ❯ Divine ❯ Divine ( Chapter 1 )
[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]
By: Ketsurui 
A lonely man buys a pet of heavenly nature from Count D. Some disturbing content.
Anime/Manga: Pet Shop Of Horrors Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Supernatural | Type: One Shot | Uploaded On: 04.04.2006 | Pages: 4 | Words: 5.1K | Visits: 1.1K | Status: Completed
A lonely man buys a pet of heavenly nature from Count D. Some disturbing content.
Anime/Manga: Pet Shop Of Horrors Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Supernatural | Type: One Shot | Uploaded On: 04.04.2006 | Pages: 4 | Words: 5.1K | Visits: 1.1K | Status: Completed
The smell of incense hung heavily in the air, blue-grey smoke creating a dreamlike haze. In dark corners, eyes were glowing with demonic light, taking in all that transpired in the pet shop.
"How may I help you?" The voice belonged to a slender, elegant your Chinese man. His mismatched eyes, one of gold and the other amethyst, gazed intently from his startlingly pale face.
Bruce Devereaux, a man in his late thirties, peered at the speaker through blurry eyes. "I was told," he slurred, "that you can get anything you want here." He reached an unsteady hand out, grasping a handful of the other man's robe-like garment. "I-I really need a companion right mow. I'm so alone!" Bruce said, before dissolving into a sobbing mess.
Wrinkling his nose at the putrid smell of liquor on the man's breath, Count D carefully pried the hand off his clothing. There was a mixture of contempt and pity in his eyes.
Bruce Devereaux was the current mayor of Oakland, but he was losing the election to a younger opponent. Shortly before the reelection began, his wife if fifteen years had, without even a good-bye, left him. Ever since, he'd sunk into a lifestyle of depression and severe alcoholism, paying no attention to the race that was slipping through his fingers.
"Please, Mr. Mayor, get a hold of yourself," Count do ordered in his gentlest voice. He handed the man a tissue and waited until he was calm before saying "I believe we have just what you need." Smiling mysteriously, the pet shop owner lead Bruce to a set of large double doors.
"What's back here?" The mayor inquired as the walked down a long hallway.
"You shall see."
At the end of the hall, Count D opened another, smaller door. Devereaux cried out, throwing an arm over his eyes. The room was flooded in blinding light, heat hanging thick and moist in the air. "I can't see," he whined.
"Is that better?" Count D asked after turning a knob to dim the lights.
Cautiously opening his eyes, Bruce looked around the room, finally settling his gaze on a large chair in the back. Seated on it, looking as regal as queen, was a beautiful woman.
She had long, copper-colored hair that was partially wound up on the top of her head, the rest trailing down her back. The entirety of it was wrapped in a fine string of pearls. She was wearing a floor-length white gown, gold trim adorning the bodice. The woman's arms were hidden by the cape that wrapped around her shoulders, and her eyes were closed.
As though in a trance, Bruce walked forward, his eyes fixed on the beauty. "You-you run a prostitution business?" He asked in a whisper, afraid of offending the lady. He batted away a curl of incense smoke, dropping to his knees beside the chair.
"No. She is not a woman, exactly." As he spoke, Count D slipped behind the chair.
"What do you mean?" came the baffled question.
The count grasped the cape that covered the woman's shoulders, drawing it back. Now unfettered, a pair of white-feathered wings snapped open, brushing against Bruce's face. "She is an angel."
Bruce had always considered himself to be a realist, and the words were met with heavy skepticism, even as drunk as he was. "You really expect me to believe that!"
Count D took the mayor's hand, placing it on the angel's back. The gown she wore was backless, and Devereaux could easily fell how cold her flesh was, despite the light's glaring heat. "Feel her wings. You will see that they are, indeed, a part of her."
With trembling fingers, Bruce touched her skin, feeling where the wings sprouted from flesh, a look of childish wonder on his face. He traced the fragile bones and silky feathers, then said "She-she really is and angel. What's her name?"
"I do not know. When I asked, she was unable to tell me; she must be mute. In any case, I have been calling her Seraphim, and she doesn't seem to mind."
At the mention of her name, Seraphim opened her eyes, eyes that where hued the purest cerulean. She shifted her gaze to the mayor and smiled guilelessly.
Wavering visibly, Devereaux looked to the count. "I'll take her."
A smile curved Count D's lips. "Now, if you'll just sign this contract, our business will be completed."
Devereaux awoke the next morning to find himself on the kitchen floor of his own apartment. Groaning, he rubbed his head, shifting among the empty whiskey bottles until he was sitting up, back against the wall.
It must have been a dream. An angel? What a joke! Shaking his head in disbelief, Bruce pulled himself to his feet, gripping the edge of the counter to steady himself. His hangover caught up with him, his head throbbing so painfully he thought it would explode. Groaning, Devereaux dug a teabag out of a small tin that sat on the edge of the sink, filling a teacup with hot water. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he plunked the bag into the water, and sagged into a chair.
At least I'm not vomiting, he thought, smiling wryly at the pathetic attempt to cheer himself up. He sipped the tea, wincing as the hot liquid flowed over his painfully dried and cracked lips. He sighed in relief when his headache lifted slightly, climbing unsteadily out of the chair, trying not to spill his drink in the process. Yawning, Bruce he walked towards his bedroom, clumsily unbuttoning his shirt at the same time.
Before he could enter the room, he stopped dead, the teacup slipping from his hand and shattering on the hardwood floor.
On his bed lay the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. Sunlight streamed in through a window, making her coppery hair seem to glow. She appeared to be sleeping, her large white wings drawn close to her back. Lifting her head, she opened her sky-blue eyes and smile pure innocence at Devereaux.
Numbly, not noticing the hot tea that was rapidly seeping through his socks, Devereaux stepped towards her. "My angel," he murmured, and shut the door behind him.
Leon walked down the streets of Chinatown, one hand shoved in his jeans pocket, the other clutching a small white paper bag. He paused at a corner, and sighed.
Dealing with Count D always made the detective feel like a mouse caught by a particularly clever cat. He knew the pet shop owner never lied to him, but the truth was always so bizarre that he never believed it until it was forced into his face.
Steeling himself, Leon rounded the corner. As he reached the pet shop, the door opened in his face, connecting solidly with his nose. Cursing, he stepped back, blood dripping onto his T-shirt.
"Sorry!" The man who had opened the door called while he rushed to his car.
"Asshole," Leon muttered balefully, pinching his nostrils. I think I've seen him before, he thought, staring in the direction the car had sped off in. He turned when the door opened again, this time stepping back.
"Oh, detective, hello. Did you hurt your nose?" Count D smiled at the angry glare he received in reply. "Well, come in, and I will see what I can do for you."
About ten minutes later, Leon was lounging on Count D's sofa, holding a small bag of ice against his face.
"Has the bleeding stopped?" Count D asked politely, seating himself in a plush chair near the detective. "I don't think it's broken, but you should have x-rays done, just in case."
"Yeah, thanks," Leon muttered.
"How were you injured?"
"Bastard hit me with the door," Leon replied, muttering again. He removed the ice for a moment to ask "who was the guy who just came out of here?"
"Bruce Devereaux. He is the mayor of Oakland, I believe. It looks like he will lose the election, though."
"Yeah, I heard he spends most of his time in a bottle. What did he want here?" The blond detective pinched his nostrils as they began to bleed again, then replaced the ice. Cold's giving me a headache.
"He came to the shop last night, and bought a pet. He's been very lonely since his wife left him. Unfortunately, he was quite inebriated, so he couldn't remember the contracted that he'd signed, so he'd wanted to review it. He seemed so happy..." Count D trailed off, and sipped his tea.
"Oh yeah? What'd he buy?" Leon asked, reluctantly drinking the tea in front of him.
The count set his cup down and replied "an angel."
Leon spit his drink out in a violent explosion. "What?" he choked.
"I know you heard what I said, detective. He bought an angel."
"OK, Count! You've fed me some pretty weird lines before, but this takes the cake!" Leon shouted, slamming his fist on the coffee table.
"Speaking of cake, would you like some?" Count D cut a slice of the dessert sitting before him, sliding onto a plate and offering it to his guest.
"I'm serious!" Leon was nearly screaming now.
"Calm down, please. You know I never tell you anything but the truth."
"Yeah, but I gotta feeling it's never the whole truth." He shoved the cake in his mouth before asking "So, how long 'till this guy gets killed?"
"If he abides by the contract, then nothing shall happen to him." The Chinese man's facial expression didn't change, but his mismatched eyes were flashing with anger. 'You know our motto is 'love and dreams'".
"Whatever," Leon replied, flopping back onto the sofa. "Oh yeah, that's for you," he said, gesturing to the bag he'd brought with him that now sat on the table.
"You're so thoughtful, detective." Smiling, Count D opened the bag, deeply inhaling the rich, chocolate aroma that greeted his nose. "You're always bringing be gifts. I feel as though I should do something to repay you." He reached out to the arm that Leon had flung over the back of the couch, stroking the back of his wrist with a long-nailed thumb.
Immediately, the blond man yanked his arm away. "I-I don't think so." Shudders ran through him from the count's touch.
"Whatever you say, detective." Count D replied demurely, but a smile played on the corners of his mouth. "Now, how can I help you? I know you didn't just come to give me chocolate..."
"Mr. Devereaux, you seem to have changed lifestyles very quickly in the past few months. Not just once, but twice! How do you respond?"
Bruce Devereaux regarded the reporter with a cool look. "The regression was due to elongated bout of self-pity after my beloved wife left me. However, I have made a complete turnaround, as you can see, and I feel stronger and more confident than ever before."
"Any chance you and she will reconcile?"
"Doubtful, but whatever happens between us, I wish her the best of happiness."
"Mr. Devereaux, at this point Jonathan Drake seems to have the election firmly in his grasp. Do you plan on running against him still?"
"Yes, I do. I want to take a chance on winning, because I love this city." Inwardly, Bruce smiled. That'll make the front page.
"What about your alcoholism?"
Devereaux withdrew a bottle of Jack Daniel's from his briefcase. "From this day fourth, I swear on the name of this great city that I will never drink again." So saying, he unscrewed the cap on the bottle and pour the amber-colored liquid down a street drain. "Ever," he added as cameras flashed in his face, and shattered the bottle against the asphalt.
"You went to see him again, didn't you?" Jill accused.
Leon, who was busily eating French fries, looked up at the woman in puzzlement. "Huh? Saw who?" he asked, muffled by a huge mouthful of food.
"The Count! The owner of the pet shop! You're going to be in big trouble if you keep trying to investigate him! You're pissing the Captain off!" She pulled away and assumed a superior look. "Besides, I told you that the Count had nothing to do with that man being killed by a rabid dog. The dog was rabid, it attacked him, end of story. He didn't even own the dog! He just ran into it in an alley!"
"Yeah, well, I had to check it out," Leon half-replied, stuffing the last of the fries into his mouth.
Jill gave him a predatorily smile. "I know what it is. You like him, don't you? You have a crush on the Count, admit it!" She laughed, then looked alarmed when she realized Leon was choking. "Breath!" She commanded, pounding his back with a fist.
"A crush? Me?" He wheezed, then spay his half-chewed food into the trash. Snatching the bottle of Coke off his desk, he took a generous gulp before saying "Jill, I told you! Something weird is going on there, and I'm going to find out what!"
"Is that so? Then why are you always buying him candy, even though he tells you everything anyway?" The woman challenged, crossing her arms over he chest.
Leon faltered, then shouted "I don't have to take this crap!" He grabbed his jacket, and stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind him so hard that the glass window shattered.
The Captain seemed to appear at Jill's side, eyeing the glass that was now scattered all over the office. "He's off to the pet shop again, isn't he?"
"Probably."
Near midnight that night, Devereaux heard a knock at his apartment door. Groggily, he looked at Seraphim, who was curled up under a sunlamp. "Wait here, I'll be right back," he said, slipping a bathrobe on.
Seraphim nodded in reply, then looked wistfully out the window at the sunless sky.
"Who is it?" Bruce asked, hand resting on the doorknob.
"It's Jennifer," the woman outside answered.
He frowned; Jennifer was his ex-wife. What does she want? "Hold on." Bruce unlocked the door, and let her in.
She walked in, wearing a severely tailored red suit with matching pumps, looking every bit the shrewd real estate agent that she was. Jennifer put down her purse, tugged at the skirt of her suit, then said "I saw your speech on TV."
Bruce crossed his arms over his chest. "Yes, and?" he asked shortly. Seeing her again was like having salt rubbed in an open wound.
"I just wanted to say, I'm so proud of you for quitting drinking. Also," here she took a step forward "do you think...there might be a chance for us?" She looked up into his face.
Devereaux blew out a sigh, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. His ex-wife wasn't beautiful, like Seraphim, but she had a proud, handsome face that made heads turn when she walked into a room. "Jen-jen," he said finally, using the petname he'd called her when they dated in high school "it won't work. You hurt me too much when you left me. I love you, but..."
"Is it another woman?" She asked sharply.
She always was the jealous type. "No, it's not that-"
"Why is there such a bright light in your room? I'll bet she's in there now!" Jennifer pushed past him.
Bruce's mind froze, remembering the contract terms that the Count had dictated to him:
"Number one: The customer must keep her under constant light and heat, and only give her water.
Number two: The customer must never show her to anyone.
Number three: The customer must never expose her to anything that could jeopardize her purity, mentally or physically.
Should the customer breech any of these sales terms, we cannot be held responsible for the results."
Not show her to anyone? Oh, God! Quickly, Bruce wedged himself between the irate woman and the bedroom door. "Jenny, you're being irrational! I told you there is no chance, so just leave!"
Jennifer peered over his shoulder, and looked into the roomed through the ajar door. All she saw was a dove, perched on a pillow under a sunlamp. How odd. "Fine," she snapped "but you're making a huge mistake!" She swept out of the apartment, slamming the door as she left.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Bruce locked the door, then went back to his bedroom. "You love me, don't you?" He asked Seraphim softly, stroking her coppery hair. "You're my good luck charm. You helped me reenter this election, and you're going to help me win it, aren't you?"
Seraphim simply smiled, but it was all Bruce needed.
The election was over. Reporters were crowded around John Drake, asking him a hundred questions all at once. He answered them all with confidence, cameras flashing.
"It seems the last-ditch effort by Bruce Devereaux wasn't enough to win him this election," A woman reported to the television audience.
With a growl, Bruce heaved a lamp at the TV screen, slumping back in his chair as sparking glass rained down on the carpet. His left arm dangled down, grasping the nearly empty bottle of Jack Daniel's, bringing it to his lips. He swallowed unsteadily, a small stream of the liquid dribbling down his chin. Letting the bottle fall to the floor, he turned his head to look at Seraphim. "Y-you were 'sposed to make me win!" He shouted at the sleeping angel.
Seraphim looked at him, woken by his yelling, and smiled before going back to sleep.
"I don't wanna live anymore," Bruce sobbed, wiping his nose on the arm of the chair. "This is all your f-fault," he accused Seraphim, rising to his feet. "You were 'sposed to be my good luck charm!" Staggering over to her, he grabbed Seraphim's arm, pulling the frightened angel to her feet. He slapped her when she tried to pull away, and shoved her into the bed.
Seraphim struggled against him, screaming silently and pounding at his face with her fists.
Bruce finally grabbed a handful of her hair, jerking her head back. "Hold still, you bitch, or I'll break your pretty wings." As he spoke, he began to unfasten his pants.
Seraphim closed her eyes, tears slipping from beneath the lids. She felt him tear away her dress, and she clawed at the bedsheets frantically.
God damn me for what I'm about to do, the still-sober part of his mind thought before he forced himself into her.
When it was over, Bruce sat on the edge of the bed with his face in his hands. "Oh, God, I'm sorry, so sorry!" He reached out and touched Seraphim's arm, but her skin was cold.
The angel was dead. Devereaux didn't know what happened, but when the rape was finished, Seraphim wasn't moving, He'd felt her neck, but couldn't find a pulse, and her natural radiance had faded away. I killed her. I don't know how, but I killed her.
Shaking, he laid the body on the floor, vowing to bury it tomorrow, then fell into a deep, troubled sleep.
Seraphim's body lay under the window here Devereaux had placed her. Not light would touch her; not from the moon that spilled into the room, nor from the now-useless sunlamp. It was as if a shield of darkness had formed around her, and when no light could touch her body, no life would touch her soul.
A shadow seemed to rise up from the still form of the angel. It hovered in midair, slowly taking shape. Large, black-feathered wings formed, moonlight reflecting off of them to form a silver silhouette. Slowly, it took on a more human shape, features sharpening in definition. In the end, the shadow had morphed into a dark angel. The hair was black, skin bone-white, and eyes the color of the ocean at midnight. Her--yes, it was a her--face was a shaded mirror of Seraphim's. The desecration of her purity had caused her death, and her fall from grace.
The dark angel slowly floated to the foot of the bed, where the former mayor was sleeping deeply. Face expressionless, she extended an open hand. On her palm, a sword appeared of black flame appeared. Gripping the hilt, she drove the weapon into his chest; he was dead before his mind could even register the pain.
Wiping blood off her face, the fallen Seraphim drew away, the fire sword disappearing. She lay on the floor next to the corpse of her light counterpart, tears spilling from her emotionless eyes as night faded into day.
"Homicide department," Jill said into the phone, busily typing an overdue report. "What's that?" she inquired, cradling the receiver on her shoulder. "Yes, sir. I'll send someone out right away." She hung up, then scribbled a note. "Leon," she called the blond detective, who had just snuck in late.
Leon froze. Busted. "Yeah?"
"That was a reporter from the 'Oakland Times'. He said that he went to Bruce Devereaux's apartment for an interview and found him dead on the bed, covered in blood."
"So let Oakland police take care of it," he muttered around his cigarette, slipping an arm out of his jacket.
"He lives our city, Leon." She assumed a sly look and remarked "wasn't he a customer of the pet shop?"
For the second time that morning, Leon froze, gripping the collar of his jacket. In the blink of an eye, he had the coat back on and was heading out the door. "Tell the captain I'm on it!"
"Of course," Jill replied to the empty air, crossing her arms over her chest and smirking.
"I'd appreciate it if you didn't smoke in here." The medical examiner frowned at Leon, looking over the body of Bruce Devereaux's body as it lay on the bloodstained bed.
"Sorry," Leon muttered, crushing the cigarette out, then asked "what do you think killed him?"
"I'd have to get my tools to be sure, but the wound is so large, I'd say it was made by some sort of sword. There's only one injury that I have found, but there's something odd about it."
"What do you mean?"
The examiner touched the edge of the wound with a gloved finger. To Leon's surprise, the flesh crumbled under the gentle pressure. "The only thing I can think of that makes skin so fragile is burning it. It's like this guy was stabbed with a heated blade."
Leon frowned. Heated blade. What the hell...?
"Now, you take good care of her," Count D said gently.
His customer, a six-year-old girl with chubby cheeks, nodded so hard her pigtails hit her face. "I will!" She promised, hugging a tiny kitten against her chest.
The little girl ran up the stairs, her father following a few steps behind. She threw the door open energetically, frowning in confusion when it struck something and flew shut. She opened the door again, this time without hindrance, and skipped past the blond man rubbing his forehead. "Sorry!" she called cheerfully, unhooking the kitten's claws from her dress.
"Yeah, sure," Leon half-replied, wondering if his forehead was bruised.
"You seem to be having bad luck with my door, detective," Count D commented, sounding slightly amused.
"You should put up a sign or something," Leon answered indignantly. "Someone could really get hurt."
"I shall take that into consideration," the Chinese man said softly, bowing his head to hide the tiny smile that formed on his lips. "I assume you wan to speak with me about something?"
"Yeah," Leon replied, walking down the stairs at the Count's side. "We got a call from Oakland police today. A reporter called to tell them that he'd found Bruce Devereaux laying dead in his own blood."
"Yes, they called me this morning as well. The pet I had sold Mr. Devereaux was harassing the officers, and they wanted me to come get it." Count D seated himself next to Leon on the sofa. "Let me look at your forehead."
Reluctantly, Leon held his bangs back. "There's something weird about the body that I wanted to ask you about."
"You want my advice, detective? How unusual." After gently probing the blond's forehead with his elegant fingers, Count D said "It's not serious, but you'll probably wake up with a bruise tomorrow." A smug smile appeared on his face. "Would you like me to kiss it and make it better?"
"Whatever," Leon responded, rolling his eyes.
Wordlessly, the pet shop owner pressed his lips against the red mark on the blond's forehead. "There you are, detective."
Stunned, Leon sputtered, trying to come up with the words to tell the count off with. After a few more moments of flailing, he gave up; it was already done and over with. "Thanks," he choked out finally.
"You're welcome," Count D replied sweetly. "Now, what did you want to ask me about?"
Regaining his composure, Leon described the seared sword wound on Bruce Devereaux's body. "What do you think it was caused by?" He asked, knowing it has something to do with the "angel" the former mayor had been sold.
"Bruce Devereaux was the kind of man who couldn't handle not getting what he wanted. First his wife left him, then he lost the election. The events led him down a spiraling path of self-hatred. In the end, he wished not only for the destruction of his own life, but of the angel's as well."
"What about that wound! He sure as hell didn't make it himself!"
Count D sighed and folded his hands in his lap. "An angel is a creature of purity and light," he began. "I do not know what happened between she and Mr. Devereaux last night, but I would he assume he violated her in the most primitive way a man can violate a woman."
"Rape," Leon guessed, leaning back into the couch.
"Exactly so," the Chinese man agreed. "Without her purity, Seraphim's soul would have fallen to darkness. In her evil state, she must have exacted revenge on the man who had caused her death with a weapon of hell; a sword of flame." Nodding slightly, Count D got to his feet, leaving the room.
"So, I should tell my boss that Bruce Devereaux was killed with a flaming sword of justice!" Leon demanded, incredulous.
"What you tell him, is up to you, detective," Count D replied calmly, reentering the room with a tray in his hands. "Can I offer you some tea? Or perhaps you'd like some of the chocolate you brought for me the other day."
A large birdcage stood in the back room of the pet shop. Inside, a raven sat on her perch, holding a white, bloodstained feather in her beak. She looked down at the dead dove lying on the bottom of her cage, and emitted a silent, mournful cry.
"How may I help you?" The voice belonged to a slender, elegant your Chinese man. His mismatched eyes, one of gold and the other amethyst, gazed intently from his startlingly pale face.
Bruce Devereaux, a man in his late thirties, peered at the speaker through blurry eyes. "I was told," he slurred, "that you can get anything you want here." He reached an unsteady hand out, grasping a handful of the other man's robe-like garment. "I-I really need a companion right mow. I'm so alone!" Bruce said, before dissolving into a sobbing mess.
Wrinkling his nose at the putrid smell of liquor on the man's breath, Count D carefully pried the hand off his clothing. There was a mixture of contempt and pity in his eyes.
Bruce Devereaux was the current mayor of Oakland, but he was losing the election to a younger opponent. Shortly before the reelection began, his wife if fifteen years had, without even a good-bye, left him. Ever since, he'd sunk into a lifestyle of depression and severe alcoholism, paying no attention to the race that was slipping through his fingers.
"Please, Mr. Mayor, get a hold of yourself," Count do ordered in his gentlest voice. He handed the man a tissue and waited until he was calm before saying "I believe we have just what you need." Smiling mysteriously, the pet shop owner lead Bruce to a set of large double doors.
"What's back here?" The mayor inquired as the walked down a long hallway.
"You shall see."
At the end of the hall, Count D opened another, smaller door. Devereaux cried out, throwing an arm over his eyes. The room was flooded in blinding light, heat hanging thick and moist in the air. "I can't see," he whined.
"Is that better?" Count D asked after turning a knob to dim the lights.
Cautiously opening his eyes, Bruce looked around the room, finally settling his gaze on a large chair in the back. Seated on it, looking as regal as queen, was a beautiful woman.
She had long, copper-colored hair that was partially wound up on the top of her head, the rest trailing down her back. The entirety of it was wrapped in a fine string of pearls. She was wearing a floor-length white gown, gold trim adorning the bodice. The woman's arms were hidden by the cape that wrapped around her shoulders, and her eyes were closed.
As though in a trance, Bruce walked forward, his eyes fixed on the beauty. "You-you run a prostitution business?" He asked in a whisper, afraid of offending the lady. He batted away a curl of incense smoke, dropping to his knees beside the chair.
"No. She is not a woman, exactly." As he spoke, Count D slipped behind the chair.
"What do you mean?" came the baffled question.
The count grasped the cape that covered the woman's shoulders, drawing it back. Now unfettered, a pair of white-feathered wings snapped open, brushing against Bruce's face. "She is an angel."
Bruce had always considered himself to be a realist, and the words were met with heavy skepticism, even as drunk as he was. "You really expect me to believe that!"
Count D took the mayor's hand, placing it on the angel's back. The gown she wore was backless, and Devereaux could easily fell how cold her flesh was, despite the light's glaring heat. "Feel her wings. You will see that they are, indeed, a part of her."
With trembling fingers, Bruce touched her skin, feeling where the wings sprouted from flesh, a look of childish wonder on his face. He traced the fragile bones and silky feathers, then said "She-she really is and angel. What's her name?"
"I do not know. When I asked, she was unable to tell me; she must be mute. In any case, I have been calling her Seraphim, and she doesn't seem to mind."
At the mention of her name, Seraphim opened her eyes, eyes that where hued the purest cerulean. She shifted her gaze to the mayor and smiled guilelessly.
Wavering visibly, Devereaux looked to the count. "I'll take her."
A smile curved Count D's lips. "Now, if you'll just sign this contract, our business will be completed."
Devereaux awoke the next morning to find himself on the kitchen floor of his own apartment. Groaning, he rubbed his head, shifting among the empty whiskey bottles until he was sitting up, back against the wall.
It must have been a dream. An angel? What a joke! Shaking his head in disbelief, Bruce pulled himself to his feet, gripping the edge of the counter to steady himself. His hangover caught up with him, his head throbbing so painfully he thought it would explode. Groaning, Devereaux dug a teabag out of a small tin that sat on the edge of the sink, filling a teacup with hot water. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he plunked the bag into the water, and sagged into a chair.
At least I'm not vomiting, he thought, smiling wryly at the pathetic attempt to cheer himself up. He sipped the tea, wincing as the hot liquid flowed over his painfully dried and cracked lips. He sighed in relief when his headache lifted slightly, climbing unsteadily out of the chair, trying not to spill his drink in the process. Yawning, Bruce he walked towards his bedroom, clumsily unbuttoning his shirt at the same time.
Before he could enter the room, he stopped dead, the teacup slipping from his hand and shattering on the hardwood floor.
On his bed lay the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. Sunlight streamed in through a window, making her coppery hair seem to glow. She appeared to be sleeping, her large white wings drawn close to her back. Lifting her head, she opened her sky-blue eyes and smile pure innocence at Devereaux.
Numbly, not noticing the hot tea that was rapidly seeping through his socks, Devereaux stepped towards her. "My angel," he murmured, and shut the door behind him.
Leon walked down the streets of Chinatown, one hand shoved in his jeans pocket, the other clutching a small white paper bag. He paused at a corner, and sighed.
Dealing with Count D always made the detective feel like a mouse caught by a particularly clever cat. He knew the pet shop owner never lied to him, but the truth was always so bizarre that he never believed it until it was forced into his face.
Steeling himself, Leon rounded the corner. As he reached the pet shop, the door opened in his face, connecting solidly with his nose. Cursing, he stepped back, blood dripping onto his T-shirt.
"Sorry!" The man who had opened the door called while he rushed to his car.
"Asshole," Leon muttered balefully, pinching his nostrils. I think I've seen him before, he thought, staring in the direction the car had sped off in. He turned when the door opened again, this time stepping back.
"Oh, detective, hello. Did you hurt your nose?" Count D smiled at the angry glare he received in reply. "Well, come in, and I will see what I can do for you."
About ten minutes later, Leon was lounging on Count D's sofa, holding a small bag of ice against his face.
"Has the bleeding stopped?" Count D asked politely, seating himself in a plush chair near the detective. "I don't think it's broken, but you should have x-rays done, just in case."
"Yeah, thanks," Leon muttered.
"How were you injured?"
"Bastard hit me with the door," Leon replied, muttering again. He removed the ice for a moment to ask "who was the guy who just came out of here?"
"Bruce Devereaux. He is the mayor of Oakland, I believe. It looks like he will lose the election, though."
"Yeah, I heard he spends most of his time in a bottle. What did he want here?" The blond detective pinched his nostrils as they began to bleed again, then replaced the ice. Cold's giving me a headache.
"He came to the shop last night, and bought a pet. He's been very lonely since his wife left him. Unfortunately, he was quite inebriated, so he couldn't remember the contracted that he'd signed, so he'd wanted to review it. He seemed so happy..." Count D trailed off, and sipped his tea.
"Oh yeah? What'd he buy?" Leon asked, reluctantly drinking the tea in front of him.
The count set his cup down and replied "an angel."
Leon spit his drink out in a violent explosion. "What?" he choked.
"I know you heard what I said, detective. He bought an angel."
"OK, Count! You've fed me some pretty weird lines before, but this takes the cake!" Leon shouted, slamming his fist on the coffee table.
"Speaking of cake, would you like some?" Count D cut a slice of the dessert sitting before him, sliding onto a plate and offering it to his guest.
"I'm serious!" Leon was nearly screaming now.
"Calm down, please. You know I never tell you anything but the truth."
"Yeah, but I gotta feeling it's never the whole truth." He shoved the cake in his mouth before asking "So, how long 'till this guy gets killed?"
"If he abides by the contract, then nothing shall happen to him." The Chinese man's facial expression didn't change, but his mismatched eyes were flashing with anger. 'You know our motto is 'love and dreams'".
"Whatever," Leon replied, flopping back onto the sofa. "Oh yeah, that's for you," he said, gesturing to the bag he'd brought with him that now sat on the table.
"You're so thoughtful, detective." Smiling, Count D opened the bag, deeply inhaling the rich, chocolate aroma that greeted his nose. "You're always bringing be gifts. I feel as though I should do something to repay you." He reached out to the arm that Leon had flung over the back of the couch, stroking the back of his wrist with a long-nailed thumb.
Immediately, the blond man yanked his arm away. "I-I don't think so." Shudders ran through him from the count's touch.
"Whatever you say, detective." Count D replied demurely, but a smile played on the corners of his mouth. "Now, how can I help you? I know you didn't just come to give me chocolate..."
"Mr. Devereaux, you seem to have changed lifestyles very quickly in the past few months. Not just once, but twice! How do you respond?"
Bruce Devereaux regarded the reporter with a cool look. "The regression was due to elongated bout of self-pity after my beloved wife left me. However, I have made a complete turnaround, as you can see, and I feel stronger and more confident than ever before."
"Any chance you and she will reconcile?"
"Doubtful, but whatever happens between us, I wish her the best of happiness."
"Mr. Devereaux, at this point Jonathan Drake seems to have the election firmly in his grasp. Do you plan on running against him still?"
"Yes, I do. I want to take a chance on winning, because I love this city." Inwardly, Bruce smiled. That'll make the front page.
"What about your alcoholism?"
Devereaux withdrew a bottle of Jack Daniel's from his briefcase. "From this day fourth, I swear on the name of this great city that I will never drink again." So saying, he unscrewed the cap on the bottle and pour the amber-colored liquid down a street drain. "Ever," he added as cameras flashed in his face, and shattered the bottle against the asphalt.
"You went to see him again, didn't you?" Jill accused.
Leon, who was busily eating French fries, looked up at the woman in puzzlement. "Huh? Saw who?" he asked, muffled by a huge mouthful of food.
"The Count! The owner of the pet shop! You're going to be in big trouble if you keep trying to investigate him! You're pissing the Captain off!" She pulled away and assumed a superior look. "Besides, I told you that the Count had nothing to do with that man being killed by a rabid dog. The dog was rabid, it attacked him, end of story. He didn't even own the dog! He just ran into it in an alley!"
"Yeah, well, I had to check it out," Leon half-replied, stuffing the last of the fries into his mouth.
Jill gave him a predatorily smile. "I know what it is. You like him, don't you? You have a crush on the Count, admit it!" She laughed, then looked alarmed when she realized Leon was choking. "Breath!" She commanded, pounding his back with a fist.
"A crush? Me?" He wheezed, then spay his half-chewed food into the trash. Snatching the bottle of Coke off his desk, he took a generous gulp before saying "Jill, I told you! Something weird is going on there, and I'm going to find out what!"
"Is that so? Then why are you always buying him candy, even though he tells you everything anyway?" The woman challenged, crossing her arms over he chest.
Leon faltered, then shouted "I don't have to take this crap!" He grabbed his jacket, and stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind him so hard that the glass window shattered.
The Captain seemed to appear at Jill's side, eyeing the glass that was now scattered all over the office. "He's off to the pet shop again, isn't he?"
"Probably."
Near midnight that night, Devereaux heard a knock at his apartment door. Groggily, he looked at Seraphim, who was curled up under a sunlamp. "Wait here, I'll be right back," he said, slipping a bathrobe on.
Seraphim nodded in reply, then looked wistfully out the window at the sunless sky.
"Who is it?" Bruce asked, hand resting on the doorknob.
"It's Jennifer," the woman outside answered.
He frowned; Jennifer was his ex-wife. What does she want? "Hold on." Bruce unlocked the door, and let her in.
She walked in, wearing a severely tailored red suit with matching pumps, looking every bit the shrewd real estate agent that she was. Jennifer put down her purse, tugged at the skirt of her suit, then said "I saw your speech on TV."
Bruce crossed his arms over his chest. "Yes, and?" he asked shortly. Seeing her again was like having salt rubbed in an open wound.
"I just wanted to say, I'm so proud of you for quitting drinking. Also," here she took a step forward "do you think...there might be a chance for us?" She looked up into his face.
Devereaux blew out a sigh, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. His ex-wife wasn't beautiful, like Seraphim, but she had a proud, handsome face that made heads turn when she walked into a room. "Jen-jen," he said finally, using the petname he'd called her when they dated in high school "it won't work. You hurt me too much when you left me. I love you, but..."
"Is it another woman?" She asked sharply.
She always was the jealous type. "No, it's not that-"
"Why is there such a bright light in your room? I'll bet she's in there now!" Jennifer pushed past him.
Bruce's mind froze, remembering the contract terms that the Count had dictated to him:
"Number one: The customer must keep her under constant light and heat, and only give her water.
Number two: The customer must never show her to anyone.
Number three: The customer must never expose her to anything that could jeopardize her purity, mentally or physically.
Should the customer breech any of these sales terms, we cannot be held responsible for the results."
Not show her to anyone? Oh, God! Quickly, Bruce wedged himself between the irate woman and the bedroom door. "Jenny, you're being irrational! I told you there is no chance, so just leave!"
Jennifer peered over his shoulder, and looked into the roomed through the ajar door. All she saw was a dove, perched on a pillow under a sunlamp. How odd. "Fine," she snapped "but you're making a huge mistake!" She swept out of the apartment, slamming the door as she left.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Bruce locked the door, then went back to his bedroom. "You love me, don't you?" He asked Seraphim softly, stroking her coppery hair. "You're my good luck charm. You helped me reenter this election, and you're going to help me win it, aren't you?"
Seraphim simply smiled, but it was all Bruce needed.
The election was over. Reporters were crowded around John Drake, asking him a hundred questions all at once. He answered them all with confidence, cameras flashing.
"It seems the last-ditch effort by Bruce Devereaux wasn't enough to win him this election," A woman reported to the television audience.
With a growl, Bruce heaved a lamp at the TV screen, slumping back in his chair as sparking glass rained down on the carpet. His left arm dangled down, grasping the nearly empty bottle of Jack Daniel's, bringing it to his lips. He swallowed unsteadily, a small stream of the liquid dribbling down his chin. Letting the bottle fall to the floor, he turned his head to look at Seraphim. "Y-you were 'sposed to make me win!" He shouted at the sleeping angel.
Seraphim looked at him, woken by his yelling, and smiled before going back to sleep.
"I don't wanna live anymore," Bruce sobbed, wiping his nose on the arm of the chair. "This is all your f-fault," he accused Seraphim, rising to his feet. "You were 'sposed to be my good luck charm!" Staggering over to her, he grabbed Seraphim's arm, pulling the frightened angel to her feet. He slapped her when she tried to pull away, and shoved her into the bed.
Seraphim struggled against him, screaming silently and pounding at his face with her fists.
Bruce finally grabbed a handful of her hair, jerking her head back. "Hold still, you bitch, or I'll break your pretty wings." As he spoke, he began to unfasten his pants.
Seraphim closed her eyes, tears slipping from beneath the lids. She felt him tear away her dress, and she clawed at the bedsheets frantically.
God damn me for what I'm about to do, the still-sober part of his mind thought before he forced himself into her.
When it was over, Bruce sat on the edge of the bed with his face in his hands. "Oh, God, I'm sorry, so sorry!" He reached out and touched Seraphim's arm, but her skin was cold.
The angel was dead. Devereaux didn't know what happened, but when the rape was finished, Seraphim wasn't moving, He'd felt her neck, but couldn't find a pulse, and her natural radiance had faded away. I killed her. I don't know how, but I killed her.
Shaking, he laid the body on the floor, vowing to bury it tomorrow, then fell into a deep, troubled sleep.
Seraphim's body lay under the window here Devereaux had placed her. Not light would touch her; not from the moon that spilled into the room, nor from the now-useless sunlamp. It was as if a shield of darkness had formed around her, and when no light could touch her body, no life would touch her soul.
A shadow seemed to rise up from the still form of the angel. It hovered in midair, slowly taking shape. Large, black-feathered wings formed, moonlight reflecting off of them to form a silver silhouette. Slowly, it took on a more human shape, features sharpening in definition. In the end, the shadow had morphed into a dark angel. The hair was black, skin bone-white, and eyes the color of the ocean at midnight. Her--yes, it was a her--face was a shaded mirror of Seraphim's. The desecration of her purity had caused her death, and her fall from grace.
The dark angel slowly floated to the foot of the bed, where the former mayor was sleeping deeply. Face expressionless, she extended an open hand. On her palm, a sword appeared of black flame appeared. Gripping the hilt, she drove the weapon into his chest; he was dead before his mind could even register the pain.
Wiping blood off her face, the fallen Seraphim drew away, the fire sword disappearing. She lay on the floor next to the corpse of her light counterpart, tears spilling from her emotionless eyes as night faded into day.
"Homicide department," Jill said into the phone, busily typing an overdue report. "What's that?" she inquired, cradling the receiver on her shoulder. "Yes, sir. I'll send someone out right away." She hung up, then scribbled a note. "Leon," she called the blond detective, who had just snuck in late.
Leon froze. Busted. "Yeah?"
"That was a reporter from the 'Oakland Times'. He said that he went to Bruce Devereaux's apartment for an interview and found him dead on the bed, covered in blood."
"So let Oakland police take care of it," he muttered around his cigarette, slipping an arm out of his jacket.
"He lives our city, Leon." She assumed a sly look and remarked "wasn't he a customer of the pet shop?"
For the second time that morning, Leon froze, gripping the collar of his jacket. In the blink of an eye, he had the coat back on and was heading out the door. "Tell the captain I'm on it!"
"Of course," Jill replied to the empty air, crossing her arms over her chest and smirking.
"I'd appreciate it if you didn't smoke in here." The medical examiner frowned at Leon, looking over the body of Bruce Devereaux's body as it lay on the bloodstained bed.
"Sorry," Leon muttered, crushing the cigarette out, then asked "what do you think killed him?"
"I'd have to get my tools to be sure, but the wound is so large, I'd say it was made by some sort of sword. There's only one injury that I have found, but there's something odd about it."
"What do you mean?"
The examiner touched the edge of the wound with a gloved finger. To Leon's surprise, the flesh crumbled under the gentle pressure. "The only thing I can think of that makes skin so fragile is burning it. It's like this guy was stabbed with a heated blade."
Leon frowned. Heated blade. What the hell...?
"Now, you take good care of her," Count D said gently.
His customer, a six-year-old girl with chubby cheeks, nodded so hard her pigtails hit her face. "I will!" She promised, hugging a tiny kitten against her chest.
The little girl ran up the stairs, her father following a few steps behind. She threw the door open energetically, frowning in confusion when it struck something and flew shut. She opened the door again, this time without hindrance, and skipped past the blond man rubbing his forehead. "Sorry!" she called cheerfully, unhooking the kitten's claws from her dress.
"Yeah, sure," Leon half-replied, wondering if his forehead was bruised.
"You seem to be having bad luck with my door, detective," Count D commented, sounding slightly amused.
"You should put up a sign or something," Leon answered indignantly. "Someone could really get hurt."
"I shall take that into consideration," the Chinese man said softly, bowing his head to hide the tiny smile that formed on his lips. "I assume you wan to speak with me about something?"
"Yeah," Leon replied, walking down the stairs at the Count's side. "We got a call from Oakland police today. A reporter called to tell them that he'd found Bruce Devereaux laying dead in his own blood."
"Yes, they called me this morning as well. The pet I had sold Mr. Devereaux was harassing the officers, and they wanted me to come get it." Count D seated himself next to Leon on the sofa. "Let me look at your forehead."
Reluctantly, Leon held his bangs back. "There's something weird about the body that I wanted to ask you about."
"You want my advice, detective? How unusual." After gently probing the blond's forehead with his elegant fingers, Count D said "It's not serious, but you'll probably wake up with a bruise tomorrow." A smug smile appeared on his face. "Would you like me to kiss it and make it better?"
"Whatever," Leon responded, rolling his eyes.
Wordlessly, the pet shop owner pressed his lips against the red mark on the blond's forehead. "There you are, detective."
Stunned, Leon sputtered, trying to come up with the words to tell the count off with. After a few more moments of flailing, he gave up; it was already done and over with. "Thanks," he choked out finally.
"You're welcome," Count D replied sweetly. "Now, what did you want to ask me about?"
Regaining his composure, Leon described the seared sword wound on Bruce Devereaux's body. "What do you think it was caused by?" He asked, knowing it has something to do with the "angel" the former mayor had been sold.
"Bruce Devereaux was the kind of man who couldn't handle not getting what he wanted. First his wife left him, then he lost the election. The events led him down a spiraling path of self-hatred. In the end, he wished not only for the destruction of his own life, but of the angel's as well."
"What about that wound! He sure as hell didn't make it himself!"
Count D sighed and folded his hands in his lap. "An angel is a creature of purity and light," he began. "I do not know what happened between she and Mr. Devereaux last night, but I would he assume he violated her in the most primitive way a man can violate a woman."
"Rape," Leon guessed, leaning back into the couch.
"Exactly so," the Chinese man agreed. "Without her purity, Seraphim's soul would have fallen to darkness. In her evil state, she must have exacted revenge on the man who had caused her death with a weapon of hell; a sword of flame." Nodding slightly, Count D got to his feet, leaving the room.
"So, I should tell my boss that Bruce Devereaux was killed with a flaming sword of justice!" Leon demanded, incredulous.
"What you tell him, is up to you, detective," Count D replied calmly, reentering the room with a tray in his hands. "Can I offer you some tea? Or perhaps you'd like some of the chocolate you brought for me the other day."
A large birdcage stood in the back room of the pet shop. Inside, a raven sat on her perch, holding a white, bloodstained feather in her beak. She looked down at the dead dove lying on the bottom of her cage, and emitted a silent, mournful cry.