Double-Barreled Devilry

by D Michael Bartsch

  Poor bastard. Glyph hadn't been half bad as warlocks go.

  “What is it that you want me to do? Find the guy that killed him?”

  “Yes and no,” He said. “No doubt you are aware that Mr. Kessler was one of the Unforgiven?”

  Unforgiven. People who'd sold their soul to a demon, traded their humanity for power. The name stung when he said it. I hadn't known for sure that Glyph was Unforgiven, but I could have guessed. It wasn't something that people liked to talk about. If you'd made the deal, it came with a real bitch of a catch. Trust me.

  “I had a feeling.”

  Prufrock nodded. He seemed to understand that it wasn't the kind of question that you just asked someone.

  “He made the deal with Mephisto some years ago.”

  “Well, what's he care?” I asked. “Dead men don't need their soul anymore. Sounds like everything came up Mephisto on this one.”

  “Normally you would be right. However, Mr. Kessler's soul is not in Hell.”

  That wasn't good. When you made the deal, you had to give the Demon a piece of your soul as a down payment. They locked that portion of it away in an object of your choosing. The Demon would then give a piece of their essence to you. That piece granted you power.

  The deal was that the remaining portion of your soul and the Demon's power would return to the Demon upon death. The Demon couldn't kill you or arrange to have you killed. They could sit back and watch you get slaughtered, but they couldn't do anything to actively try and kill you. They didn't need to. Eternal life wasn't something that they could grant, and they wouldn't even if they could. All they had to do was wait, and they'd have you, sooner or later.

  The fact that Glyph's soul wasn't in Hell was bad. It should have gone there right after he died, drawn to the portion of his soul locked away down there.

  “Let me guess. Mephisto wants the soul.”

  Prufrock nodded. “It is his now. Kessler made the trade.”

  It was a shit deal, and everyone knew it. Then again, no one could force you into it.

  “I don't work for Demons,” I said. “They can do their own dirty work.”

  “Would that they could. However, I think you are forgetting that I told you that this was not something that was being asked of you. You will find out what happened to Mr. Kessler and see the soul returned to its rightful owner.”

  I slid my hand closer to my gun.

  “And if I don't?”

  He reached into his jacket again. This time, he slid a photo of me across the bar. I recognized Ms. Echeveria's home behind me.

  “If you don't do the job, I'll send this photo to every Venatori Sanctuary within a thousand miles.”

  I felt everything inside me freeze.

  “Tell me, Mr. Cain, what do you think they'll do when they find out you found your way out of the Void? They locked you away a hundred and seventy-five years ago. What do you think they will do when they are confronted with their greatest shame?”

  Kill him. Kill them all. Kill. Run. Kill. Run.

  He kept talking. “How long do you think it will take for every hunter on Earth to come looking for you? How long before they bring you in and send you back to the Void? Surely you remember your time there, remember what it was like to be locked away in that place. What will you do if you end back in that place for all eternity.”

  I slammed my fist on the bar. The cut on my hand opened in a pulse of blood that stained the bandage. I didn't care. I couldn't focus on the pain. The only thing I could think of was the Void.

  The Void. Purgatory, the thing connecting Earth to Heaven and Hell. It's not really a place, beyond light or darkness, beyond existence. There is only the awareness of being lost inside of it. It was the opposite of everything involved with actual existence. The Venatori used it as a prison. Anyone that they couldn't execute was sent off to the Void.

  I was there for a hundred and sixty years. There's no time inside of the Void, not really. It was the reason I was still alive. The time passed for my mind, but my body didn't truly exist there. There's nothing but awareness and the sound of trapped souls screaming. No words. Only screams.

  I still hear those screams in my sleep. I dream of the Void every time I don't drink myself stupid and blackout. I would not go back. I would burn the world to the ground, slit my wrists, and eat my gun before I went back.

  “Mr. Cain,” He said. “Did you hear me?”

  I blinked. He'd continued talking, and I couldn't remember. The animal part of my brain wanted to lash out. The rest of it was too scared to move. I couldn't go back. I couldn't let him send me back. Never.

  Never.

  I gripped the glass with my bleeding hand and poured the whiskey in my mouth, gulping down the amber liquid.

  “No,” I said.

  I leaned over the bar and grabbed a towel. I wrapped my hand as he spoke.

  “We need you to find that soul, and figure out what kept it from going below. Mephisto is hesitant to make further deals if there is a possibility that he may not be able to collect.”

  “How do I know that you won't send the photo to them anyway, once I've done his dirty work?”

  Prufrock smiled again. Before I die, I will smash those damn teeth out of his mouth, so he never smiles again.

  “Because, if you end up in the Void, you are of no use to anyone. I'm proposing a continual working relationship. I will compensate you, monetarily, and if you refuse, you'll spend the rest of your eternity rotting in that place.”

  I squeezed my fist, feeling the warm blood oozing out of my hand. I didn't care that it hurt. The pain kept me focused enough to avoid making a very bad decision. Killing him then would have been a mistake. That would need to wait. Him and anyone else who knew. Then I'd disappear. I'd flown under the radar this long. I could stay out of their way. I think.

  “How much?” I said. Might as well know how much money I could get out of the shit show.

  “Two hundred thousand.”

  “Seriously?” I asked.

  Prufrock nodded. “Of course. What is money to him? There's so much of it in the world, and no one seems to understand that it has absolutely no value in eternity.”

  Yea, but it also kept you from getting to the eternity a lot sooner than if you didn't have it.

  “How long?”

  “Naturally, he would prefer this to be resolved as quickly as possible. Powerful, yes, but he is not patient. Not when it comes to his souls. There is not, however, a set timeline for the recovery.”

  “I'll need fifty up front,” I said. “Expenses.”

  That brought a bark of laughter from Prufrock. It was rich and deep, from the gut.

  “You get paid when the job is finished, or you can spend the rest of eternity trapped in the Void.”

  Prufrock laid a business card on the bar.

  “Call me when it's done.”

  With that, he stood and walked out. His dogs followed him, leaving me alone in the dimness again.

  I unwrapped my hand and looked at the cut. It would be a damn inconvenience until it healed.

  I pulled my Glock out and set it on the bar top, blood leaking all over the grip. I could have ended it all right then. Muzzle in mouth, I could have pulled the trigger and been free. Course, I knew where I was going when I did. There were a lot of people who wanted to hurt me on Earth. There's even more Downtown.

  I left the gun on the bar, picking up the glass. I downed the rest and threw it against the wall, watching it explode into a hundred shards as it hit. I grabbed the bottle, drinking straight from it. Even if I'd had another glass, I would have drunk the rest of the bottle anyway. Might as well cut out the middleman.

  The door opened again, and Jesse walked in. He moved behind the bar on the opposite side of the room and walked over to me. He looked down at the gun and broken glass. If he had an opinion, he didn't share it. He picked up the card and turned it over. It had a phone number and the letter “P” printed on it.

  “This from t
he guy in the suit that just walked out?”

  I took a draw on the bottle and nodded.

  He nodded at my hand. “You need the first aid kit?”

  I nodded again. “I'll pay for the glass too,” I said.

  “Don't worry about it. We'll call it a wash. You being a loyal customer and all.”

  I smiled as he walked away.

  “Interesting rewards system you got here. Earn enough points and you can break glasses for free.”

  He pulled out the first aid kit and walked back with it. Setting it on the bar top, he opened it, gesturing for me to give him my hand.

  He filled a cup with water and poured it over the cut. He twisted my hand, looking at it from a few different angles.

  “You got lucky,” He said. “Didn't do any real damage. Just going to be a bitch while it heals.”

  I nodded.

  He tore open a packet with clotting powder and poured it over the cut. He quickly wrapped it with gauze, tight enough to help keep the pressure on.

  “Done this before?”

  He nodded.

  “Joined the army right out of high school. Did three tours. Couldn't always count on a medic. If you didn't want your friends bleeding to death, you had to learn how to make do.”

  I never knew. I'd been drinking for there for years, and that was the first time Jesse ever shared anything about himself. We didn't talk much normally. He just poured the drinks, and I paid the man.

  “Know the feeling.”

  “Oh, yea?” He asked. “Army? Marines?”

  “Something like that,” I said.

  He didn't push me. He just closed the first aid kit and walked away. That was fine with me, cause I didn't feel like coming up with a half decent lie, and somehow I didn't think telling him that I'd once been a member of a secret society of demon hunters would have gone over well. Talking like that gets you cut off at bars.

  I've said it before, and I'll say it again. Jesse is good people. Damn good people.

  5

  I wanted to drive home. Jesse insisted on calling a cab. By the time I stumbled out of the Taft House, I was barely able to keep my eyes open. I managed it, not wanting to face what would come for me once I finally fell asleep.

  Pulling up to the front of the apartment, I paid the cabbie and got out as he yelled in a thick accent about me being a cheap bastard for not tipping him. I didn't think that driving my drunk ass home was worth all that much.

  I flipped him the bird and stumbled up the walkway. I had to squint as I did; the sun was blooming off the windows of the house and was stabbing me in the brain. The pain was unimaginable.

  I made it halfway to the house before I slipped, pitching forward into the grass. I let out a slew of curse words that would have made a sailor look twice as I rolled over in the grass, staring up into the open air above me. It was so damn bright. I covered my face with my arm and gave up on moving. Sometimes, it's just not worth the trouble.

  “Deckland?”

  I peeked out from behind my arm. Carl was standing over me, blessedly shading my face from the sun. He was wearing a Nets basketball jersey and matching shorts. The Jordan's definitely didn't look standard clergy issue.

  “Hey, Father,” I said.

  “Are you okay? What are you doing out here?” He asked.

  I laughed a little to myself. I wasn't sure what was funny about his concern. Maybe it was cause no one had been concerned about me in a long time. It was one of those so sad it's funny situations.

  “I think there may have been an earthquake. Felt the ground shaking so I dove for cover.”

  “In the middle of the yard?”

  “Yea, don't you know anything about earthquakes, Father? You want to be out in the open. Otherwise, stuff falls and crushes you. You really gotta learn this stuff if you are going to be in the city. We take earthquake safety very seriously here. “

  “You're drunk.”

  “Correct.”

  I closed my eyes and waited for it. After a minute of nothing, I opened my eyes again, moving my arm so I could see Carl's face. He didn't look upset. If anything, he looked sad.

  “I'll help you get inside,” He said. “Do you have your keys with you?”

  “Pocket,” I mumbled.

  “Sounds good. Let's get you downstairs then.”

  Carl took a knee and grabbed me by the arm. He pulled me to a sitting position and repositioned himself under my arm, helping me stand up. He stayed under my arm and walked with me to the stairs.

  “What did you do to your hand?” He asked.

  “Animal attack.”

  I saw him noticing my vest and the knives sticking out of the bottom of my jacket.

  “Why are you dressed like that?” I asked.

  “Huh? Oh,” he looked down at his outfit. “I was on my way to a pickup game in the park. I like to go there on Saturdays and play with some of the local guys in the neighborhood. Helps me get to know the community that I'm in. Plus, I love basketball.”

  “You're a strange priest, Father.”

  “Still not Catholic,” He said.

  “You sure?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  We walked down the steps slowly; Carl made sure to keep a decent amount of my weight on his shoulder. We made it to the bottom, and he fished my keys out of my pocket for me. He opened up the door and helped me inside.

  I saw him fumbling, looking for something on the wall. It took a moment to realize he was looking for a light switch. Normal people have those by the front door of their house. I don't though. Since it was originally a basement that had been converted, the switch was over on the far wall, by where the door to the stairs had been once upon a time.

  “No lights over here, Father. Lamp over by the couch. Straight ahead.”

  Carl left the door open for light and walked me over to the couch. I flopped down and sank into the cushions. They weren't that comfortable in real life, but when you are drunk enough, they get pretty damn comfy.

  I heard Carl trip over something on the floor as he walked over to the lamp. It sounded like an empty bottle from the way the glass sounded on the concrete as it went tumbling.

  He made it to the lamp and turned on the light. He looked around at my apartment. I looked at him, searching his face to see what he thought as he took it all in.

  I saw his eyes move along the barren cinderblock walls, painted the same navy blue as the concrete floor. He looked at the mismatched orgy of rugs on the ground, forming a pathway to all the major parts of the apartment.

  He saw the piles of empty beer bottles littering the floor. He lingered on the coffee table. I looked to see what he was seeing and saw that along with several empty and one partially empty beer, there was three boxes of shotgun shells, a box of .45 hollow points, the STI 1911, and an empty bottle of Jameson right there on top of it for all to see.

  “Sometimes, I have to work in some not so nice parts of town. Have to make sure that I can protect myself.”

  I don't know why I felt like I needed to explain myself. It was probably cause I didn't want to have to worry about him calling the cops. I didn't have permits for any of the stuff in my apartment.

  “Are you gonna be okay if I leave you?” He asked.

  “Oh yeah, I'll be good. Just gonna take a quick nap and I'll be right as rain.”

  He moved back over to the couch and squatted down.

  “You have a cellphone?”

  “Of course I have a cellphone,” I said. “Who doesn't have a cellphone?”

  “Where is it?” He asked.

  I fished it out of my jacket, holding it up. He took it out of my hand.

  “Hey.”

  “I'm putting my number in here for you. If you need anything, I want you to call me. Doesn't matter what time of day. Just call, I'll answer it.”

  He finished entering it in and handed the phone back to me. After that, he stood up and walked to the door.

  I tried to look behind me without turning my
head.

  “That's it? No lecture? No talk about sin?”

  I heard him stop walking.

  “Would it do any good?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Call me if you need anything.”

  He closed the door, and I heard his footsteps on the stairs.

  I looked down at my phone and laughed out loud, unable to stop myself from smiling despite the god-awful day I'd had. Carl had entered his number in my phone, and it was still on my screen. He saved it under “Father Carl.” Maybe he wasn't so bad after all.

  I napped for a few hours before waking up with a headache. My whole body hurt, my hand in particular. I decided I was too out of shape if the tussle with the ghouls had taken so much out of me. Somewhere out there, the ghost of my former self was probably hanging his head in shame. Screw him.

  I had enough energy to get some water and turn on the TV. After that, I was done. I sat back down on the couch, watching a marathon of some show about a doctor with questionable credentials, traveling through time. It wasn't great, but I didn't care enough to change the channel.

  I watched for a few hours before summoning enough self-respect to pull myself up and change. I smelled like dried death, and my clothes were still covered in filth from the warehouse. After a shower and a clean pair of pants, I almost felt alive again. I wasn't going to be running a marathon anytime soon, but I wasn't dead either.

  I used a towel to wipe down the mirror in the bathroom and looked at myself. My eyes were the worst. They were surrounded by dark circles and looked gaunt. The rest of me just looked a little flabby around the edges. It wasn't a good look. I believe the kids would describe it as skinny fat.

  I left the bathroom and sat back down on the couch. The TV was tuned to some reality show garbage, but it was the perfect white noise for a good gun cleaning session. Lord knows the Glock needed it.

  I fished the pistol out of my jacket and began taking it apart. I'd broken down and cleaned enough guns that my hands moved almost independently. With the noise of the TV and something to occupy my hands, that left me alone with my thoughts.