A Devil in the Details

by K. A. Stewart

  The hound actually licked its chops in anticipation. “Your name is known to us.” Wonderful. My reputation preceded me. “Accepted. Name your next term.”

  My right hand burned suddenly, starting between my first two knuckles. The smell of seared flesh filled the clearing. In the headlights, I could see a small black curlicue, no bigger than a snail’s shell, on the back of my hand. One down; who knew how many to go.

  “Physical fight only. No magic powers or hocuspocus.” I couldn’t compete against something that could pop in and out of existence nearly at will.

  It rumbled deep in its chest as it paced, a sound I took to indicate it was thinking. “You will forfeit your mystical protection then, as well. The female’s spells.”

  I expected it—tit for tat. Calling for no magic was a fair deal, and Mira’s protection wasn’t going to stop a direct blow, anyway. My agreement to forego them would negate their power, with no effort on Mira’s part. No knowledge on her part, either. I wasn’t lying to her, precisely. And yes, I felt like a shit every time I did it. “Accepted. Next?”

  I took a deep breath and let it out slowly as another portion of the tattoo scorched itself into my skin. Never let them know it hurts.

  And so it went, back and forth. Negotiating challenge terms with a demon is rather like two attorneys picking a jury—an offer, a counteroffer, a veto. I had to be careful with my vetoes, though, because every one I used was one he could use, too.

  And for every term, the contract was burned into my flesh. It covered the back of my hand and would probably reach my elbow before we were done.

  I usually negotiated weapons first. As in, I wanted one. I’d never stand up against the fangs and claws bare-handed, no matter what my training. Preferably, I wanted something sharp or flaming; both, if I could get it. I’d roasted only one demon, but it had been a rather satisfying experience. I ended up with a “melee weapon of my choice.” (’Cause if I specified my katana, they’d find a way to break it, and then I’d be screwed. Always gotta be thinking two steps ahead.)

  We addressed location, time, witnesses. I wanted secluded (less collateral damage); we settled on deserted. And while it may sound like the same thing, it most definitely is not. Semantics is everything with Hellspawn.

  The demon agreed I could have a second—someone had to drive me home afterward since I’m seldom in any condition to do it myself—and waived that right for itself. Apparently, demons do not play well with others. I stipulated what was to be done with my sword, if I lost. It would be delivered to Ivan, not Mira. It was bad enough that Axel visited the house. I didn’t want any of these other creatures anywhere near my family.

  The demon never stopped its pacing, but its mood could be told by the lift of its tail, the tilt of its ears. It conceded to some things it didn’t really like and was inordinately cheerful when I agreed to a challenge date “under the full moon.” A happy demon worried me, but I couldn’t think of any good reason to veto it. Nighttime was the right time, after all, with fewer witnesses and fewer chances for accidental casualties. And the two weeks until the moon came around again would give me time to truly prepare.

  I wasn’t sure if it was early or late by the time we’d set all the terms we could think of. My right hand and forearm were covered in elaborate demonic art, evidence of the bargain I’d so carefully crafted. The smell had long since faded out of my awareness, and the burns had passed into a dull throbbing ache. By morning, they’d be set, and I’d feel no more pain.

  Kidd watched the entire proceeding in a kind of dumb silence, finally electing to have a seat near the truck’s front tire. Maybe he even dozed a bit.

  The demon vanished like the Cheshire cat, its toothy white smile remaining long after the rest of it had rejoined the night. “Under the full moon . . . I will be seeing you, champion. . . .” The insidious voice drew a shudder from me, despite my resolve not to let it rattle me.

  Kidd startled when I nudged him with one knee. “C’mon. You missed curfew.”

  The old ballplayer blinked up at me with bleary eyes. “What happens now?”

  “Now you go play your ball games, Mr. Kidd.” I hauled him to his feet with one hand. “Go live your life for the next two weeks. Hug your wife, call your daughter, and tell her you love her. Then, come back.”

  Either that answer satisfied him or he wasn’t fully awake for most of the trip back to the hotel. He didn’t say a lot until we pulled into the parking lot.

  “I’m not the only one, right?” “Hm?” The lights in the lot cast blue- gray shadows over everything, giving Kidd a cadaverous appearance, deep shadows hollowing out his cheeks, ringing his eyes. I’m sure I looked just as bad. It wasn’t flattering lighting.

  He stared at his hands in his lap. “I mean, that . . . thing . . . It has other souls, right? Other people?”

  “Probably.”

  “So . . . what happens to them, once you beat it?”

  Not many people ask. They usually didn’t see beyond their own fate. It made me think better of him. “Well . . . nothing. Unless they find a champion and ask for help, they’ll just go on with that thing owning their soul. If they do decide to get out of it, the next champion that comes along will have an easier time of it, with the demon being weakened.”

  That was, of course, a theoretical assumption. Since we’d started keeping track, none of us had fought the same demon twice. None of us had even fought a demon that someone else had encountered. It seemed their population was legion. That was a little depressing, if you stopped to think about it.

  “I wish we could help them, too,” Kidd murmured, echoing my own thoughts.

  I’d often wished for a way to get a roster of all the souls a demon held. Ivan insisted that, if a person was interested in saving himself, he’d find a way. But I’d always wondered—what if people just didn’t know they still had a choice? Maybe, if we could contact those people after a demon’s defeat, they’d be more willing to seek redemption, knowing the fight would be easier. Maybe they wouldn’t care at all. I was continually surprised by the foibles of human nature.

  “Get some rest, Mr. Kidd. It’s late.” Or early, maybe. The clock in my truck said two thirty. I’d quit resetting it for daylight saving time years ago, so it was either right or an hour off. Either way, it was past time for good little boys and girls to be in bed. “Call me again in about ten days so we can make arrangements.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Dawson.” He slid out of the truck and disappeared into the hotel. Wandering sleepily toward home, I was very pleased not to see any blue Ford Escorts in my taillights.

  11

  Wednesday morning dawned, not with my wife in my arms and my daughter catapulting into my bed, but with the shrill clamor of the alarm clock.

  “Buh? Muh . . .” I beat on it several times before I realized I was abusing the phone by mistake and corrected myself. I blinked at the offending luminescent digits for some time before they finally obeyed and became 7:00 a.m.

  Why was the alarm going off so early? Where was Mira?

  It finally occurred to me that it was Wednesday—truck day at the store. Mira had gone in early and no doubt taken Hurricane Annabelle with her. So why was I getting up at seven? After how late I was out last night, why was I getting up at all? On about four hours sleep, I was not even human. Someone should know this.

  Zombie-me wandered to the bathroom to do all the usual morning things, and found a note taped to the mirror. Doc appointment, 10:30 a.m. Don’t forget! Work at 3 p.m.

  Groaning, I knocked my head against the wall next to the sink. Of course I’d forgotten. I had intended to forget. Face it, no man wants to go to the doctor. It just isn’t bred into our DNA.

  I’d only just gotten up, and already my day was jam-packed with fun and frivolity. It wasn’t like the night before involving mundane things such as demon challenges, snippy agents, and soulless baseball players. No, today I faced true terror—a doctor’s appointment and an afternoon shift at It. I suppo
se it says something about me that I find the banality of real life more taxing than the really freaky stuff. I often wonder whether I could function without having an adrenaline high for more than a week or two.

  I actually do my doctor an injustice. She’s a really good doctor. She patches me up; she puts up with my crap. Most of the time, when I don’t have to be hospitalized, she takes what I can pay her and doesn’t fuss too much if I have to carry the bill over for a month or two. Most important, she doesn’t ask too many questions. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t buy the security consultant line, but she doesn’t know about the demons. Maybe she thinks I’m a spy or something. That’d be cool.

  Hospitals, of course, are beyond her control, and those cost an arm and a leg. You can imagine that insurance companies really don’t want to take me on. Two had dropped me already, and the most recent one was charging a small fortune to insure me as a “security consultant” (I doubt they had a category for “demon slayer”). It was only a matter of time before they dumped me, too.

  For the pittance they paid out on my last hospital adventure, I should have just let the docs cut the damn leg off.

  Since getting up at the butt-crack of dawn meant I had some time to spare, I fumbled into my sweats and grabbed my katana. It was time for us to become reacquainted after our long separation.

  As I passed the patio table, I saw that Axel had made another move, countering my knight. I paused long enough to put a rook in harm’s way, then stepped into the grass.

  My usual katas, performed unarmed, I did for exercise and to keep my skills sharp. My sword katas, I did for love. There was just something so right about feeling that weight in my hand, moving with the balance point just below the guard, feeling my own reach extend to the tip of the sharp blade.

  The logical part of my mind ticked off the forms as I passed through them. Upper form was to block an overhand attack or bring the blade down with force on an opponent. Lower form was to flow into an uppercut or to block across the body. Step here, step there, move, shift, turn. But my mind’s eye saw the hellhound, and each strike countered an imaginary attack or took advantage of a potential weakness.

  The demon-hound outweighed me and out- massed me. I had to keep it at sword’s reach and move fast—slicing wounds, not stabbing. There was too much risk of being disarmed that way. Many small wounds would bleed as much as one big one, and that was what I needed. I had to drain away the blight, the physical embodiment of the creature’s will. Only its will kept it here. The thing had to bleed.

  I fought my imaginary opponent for an hour and a half, trampling patterns in the dew-soaked grass through my phantom battle. But in the end, I felt confident that I knew how to defeat it—not certain, never certain, but confident.

  And you’re probably thinking I should just take a gun and shoot the damn thing. It’s a good idea, in theory, until you realize that when you’re shooting something that doesn’t have a kill point, a vital organ to hit and incapacitate or kill it, your only recourse is to cause massive amounts of damage. Most firearms don’t cause enough damage, and you’ll run out of bullets before you poke enough holes in it. The guns that do cause enough damage—the large calibers, the huge automatics—well, you can never be sure where those bullets are going to stop, after they pass through your target. And I’m not a big fan of collateral damage, so blades are best in most cases. Though, there was the flame-thrower incident. That was a hoot.

  At the appointed hour, showered and clean-shaven in honor of spring, I appeared at the office of one Dr. Bridget Smith, who happened to be sitting at her receptionist’s desk when I walked in. It was a small family practice, cozy and comfortable. The chairs, in soothing pastel colors, matched the artistic watercolor prints on the walls, which in turn complemented the delicate paisley pattern in the carpet. I had no idea why I knew what paisley was, and it vaguely disturbed me.

  It was apparently my lucky day. I was the only patient there. Oh joy, glee and rapture, even. Even in my head, I have to be sarcastic.

  “Hey, Jesse.” Dr. Bridget is one of those women who makes “heavy” look damn good. I didn’t know enough about fashion to figure out why the plum-colored blouse and tailored gray skirt looked so great on her. Whatever it was, her clothes accented all the right curves. She was . . . What was the word? Voluptuous. Yeah, that’s it. And if I ever said it out loud, she and Mira would both thump me right between the eyes for it. Did I mention that she’s Mira’s best friend from college? Yeah. Awkward much? Hell yeah. Especially when you consider that I dated Bridget first.

  Realistically, I should have picked a different doctor. But as I said, Dr. Bridget cuts me lots of slack in important areas. I doubt another doc would have.

  A lock of dark hair had come free from her neat bun, and she brushed it out of her eyes with a frazzled grin. Her white lab coat was tossed over an empty chair, and there were about fifteen files scattered about, presumably in some order unfathomable to the layman. “Nice shirt.”

  The T-shirt slogan of the day, IN TOUCH WITH MY INNER PIRATE, was emblazoned across a rustic skull and crossbones.

  “Rough day already?” I found a clean, and therefore safe, place to perch and observe the chaos.

  “Kim’s out sick today, so I’m a little behind already.” She glanced around, looking for something, then threw up her hands in exasperation when it failed to leap to her attention. “Where did I put that file? I just had it. . . .”

  Yes! “We can cancel. I can come back another time.” I edged toward the door, tasting freedom.

  “No, no, you’re a quick one. Just head on back to the grape room and get the pants off. I’ll catch up in a second.”

  Dammit. So near, and yet so far. And for the record, there is something very wrong about your wife’s best friend ordering you to get your pants off, doctor or no. “The grape room?”

  She gave me a smirk. “I treat kids, too. It’s to make them feel comfortable.”

  “I’m not saying a word.” Like a good little boy, I headed back to the examination room with the very purple door and shed my boots and jeans. That left me in an icy cold office in my SpongeBob boxer shorts (a Father’s Day present from Anna). Somewhere, there was a sheet thing she’d want me to wrap around myself for modesty. Now where was it?

  “So, how’s Annabelle doing?” I could hear her shuffle papers out front as she called back to me.

  “Oh fine. Y’know—too smart for her own good.”

  “She excited about school this fall?”

  “Oh yeah, driving us nuts about it.” Sheet, sheet . . . Where would I be, if I were a sheet? Aha! There was a cabinet under the exam table.

  Of course, as I bent over to explore the cabinet, Dr. Bridget walked in behind me. “Nice boxers.”

  I yelped—a manly yelp, I swear—and snatched up a sheet to hold protectively in front of me. She smirked.

  “I’ve seen you naked, Jess.”

  “Unconscious and bleeding does not count as naked.”

  The new tattoo on my right arm caught her attention, and she turned my wrist this way and that, examining it. “New tattoo?”

  “Temporary. Just trying it out to see if I like it or not before I commit.”

  She rolled her eyes at me with that expression of supreme female amusement. “Hop up on the table, and let me see the calf first.”

  I scooted my scrawny butt up on the crispy paper as instructed and arranged the sheet so she could get a good look at my right leg. The scars were almost perfect circles of shiny pink skin on either side of my calf, hairless and smooth. It looked like I’d tangled with a really big hole punch.

  Bridget poked and prodded at me with cold fingers, making those “hmm” noises that doctors do. “Any tenderness?”

  “Nope.”

  “Any muscle weakness or spasm?”

  “Nope.” Aside from what my workouts brought on, but she didn’t need to know that.

  “It doesn’t look like the poison left any lingering tissue damage.” She
shook her head thoughtfully. “I still don’t know how you managed to clear that out of your system so fast, when we couldn’t even figure out what it was.”

  I knew how. The doctors in Bethesda ran every test they could think of to identify the toxin in my system, with no luck. In fact, more than half the samples were misplaced or destroyed. At first, the hospital staff joked that I was the unluckiest patient ever. When I kept getting worse, with no antidote in sight, it wasn’t so funny anymore.

  Enter Mira, her herbs, and her magic. They flew her out, quietly telling her she may need to say her good-byes to me. For three days in the ICU, she snuck me her own brand of medicine and prayed to her goddess while my right calf turned dark and sent ominous red streaks up my thigh. I don’t know how high they had the morphine drip set, but I was pretty much a vegetable for the really fun parts. All I could remember of the intense fever was being so very thirsty. And just when the doctors started mumbling about amputation, the infection receded, my skin pinked up, and I started to heal. The doctors congratulated themselves for a job well done, all the while wondering what the hell they did that finally worked.

  The secret of it always made me smile. It wasn’t a modern medical miracle. It was an ancient one. I always wondered what the doctors would think of that if they knew.

  “You still doing the exercises?” Bridget, oblivious to my wandering thoughts, continued groping my leg.

  “Yep.” She gave me a look that said she didn’t believe me. “I am, I swear! Ask Mira.”

  “Okay, slide down. Let me see the hip.”

  This was the tricky part. In order for her to see the hip to her satisfaction, the boxers had to go. It was an interesting dance to accomplish that without losing the sheet, and of course she wouldn’t make it easier by leaving the room. She did turn her back, though. Hurray for professionalism amongst friends.

  She made me do a few runway walks across the room, and a couple deep squats, just to prove I could. “You want me to balance on one leg and juggle torches next?”