Have you ever been truly happy? It never lasts, does it. A pessimist says, well, if it doesn't last it is not worth trying for. An optimist says, it will come again, so I may as well enjoy the moment now. I am totally in favor of optimists. They may not always be right, but they certainly have more fun.
Watching the team playing in the main pool, ducking each other, splashing, laughing, and generally carrying on, is healing. For all of us. Sure, today there will be nightmares for most, sleeplessness for a few. But now, pure animal high spirits rule, aided by copious amounts of beer and a really good buffet put on by the spa staff. That was not arranged in advance, they always do it for a strike team. They know the healing value of food and play better than anyone.
We went into hell. And lived. All of us. That deserves a blow out in anyone's book. Couples are forming, disappearing into the secluded grottos and groves around the pool, then reappearing a while later. The survival instinct always kicks the sex response into high gear after a crisis. Technically, it may be against the rules, but if anyone dares complain today, they'll be missing a throat before they manage to speak the third word. Besides, strike team parties nearly always wind up as gentle orgies. It is our way of showing that we are alive.
Word has, as always, got out that there is a party here. See a lot of the Demon Central base staff appearing, including some I am certain should be on duty. Even Reg, playing with a Two about a third his age. I thought the old bugger never left Dispatch. Maphane is here, in her capacity as doctor, not coroner. Laughing and chatting with two of the support team, checking their injuries while they giggle and splash in the shallows of pool. Her husband Tom, gives me a wave from the high board before executing a perfect dive, to a round of applause. Vasquez slips out of the pool and heads for a grotto, hand in hand with Wickham. Good. Wickham needs someone, and Vasquez, for all his faults, is a gentle lover. Curl my arm around Seraphina. Tempted to get out and find a grotto of our own, but the hot water is just too soothing.
A figure slips into the Jacuzzi beside me.
“Turn the bubbles back on, mate” I say lazily. “You are closest to the control.”
“Rough run, eh?” Sergei's voice is flat.
“Very.”Close my eyes and sink deeper into the hot water. Demon blood is Himdamned cold, amongst its other disgusting properties. “Yours?”
“It was successful. I have the room, as you know. And the implant ID's of our mystery man.” Pry one eye open. This is news indeed.
“Who.”
“Councillor Shakihwa. Head of recruitment and training. Confirmed by visual sighting. Nordstrom from Records was with him. Explains the inhibitions from the training tapes.” Need to think. It doesn't take long.
“No action against him until the next run. We need to know if he has others working with him.” A grunt of agreement. “How much?”
“This one is free. Count it as payment for Mexico City.”
“Deal. I'll need to find you someone who can shut down a portal to accompany you, Now, I see Tilpa heading here with interest in more than hot water in her eye, and, alas, I am married.” Give Seraphina a caress. He smiles, transforming his face from stern to inviting.
“I believe I can assist the young lady ...” Ah, true friendship. What would anyone do without it.
* * *
Come awake, sitting bolt upright in bed, scream firmly locked behind my teeth to prevent it escaping. Seraphina grumbles and slides over slightly, turning her face into the pillow. Flash, curled at the foot of the bed, his warm weight slowly crushing my legs and feet into pulp.
I – no, we - need a bigger damned bed. Focus on rational things. Let the nightmare recede into oblivion.
“Shift your arse, you useless pile of mange. I want to get out of bed.” Flash moves sinuously, luxuriously, wiggling off my feet, and farts. Well, it is motivation to get up, anyway. The stench would clear a large room of everyone, assuming they could actually remain conscious. Carnivore farts never smell all that nice at the best of times, and after swallowing demon blood, it gets truly vile.
Quickly grab a robe and pad quietly to the kitchen. No need for lights, low light vision works fine, and I know where everything is. Kettle on. A cup of tea will settle me down. Message light flashing on the phone. Tea first. Water in the pot. Glance at the kitchen clock. It is 1 pm. Revolting time to be awake. My time is the night. Have only been asleep for two hours. Still shaking, that nightmare was a little too realistic. Just too much at once. The demon fights, the clearing of the blockage caused by the tapes, the marriage. Simply too much for a guy to deal with in a short space of time.
Whistling past the graveyard, my Mam called it. I am scared, plain and simple. Scared green. Why? Didn't realise I'd said it out loud.
“You have been lied to. Not sure what or who to trust any more.” Sergei moves into the kitchen as silently as Flash when she wants to steal something from your plate. His voice is soft, accentless. “Many years ago, I had the same problem.”
“You find an answer?”
“No. Not fully, anyway.”
“That won't help me sleep.”
“Look at it this way. How many people are alive today because of you?”
I have to think a minute. “I don't know. Thousands, probably. Maybe tens of thousands.”
“Let them be your shield. It helps you sleep, though not without the dreams. But it makes them bearable.” He pours out two cups of tea. Looks at the top of the table thoughtfully. “Once, I saved at least a billion people by being paid to hunt and kill one insane man. For me, that pays for the occasional bad dream the job brings.”
We sit in companionable silence in the dark and drink our tea. Rise, start for my bedroom, then stop.
“Sergei, do you ever regret your job? Being an assassin?”
“No. I am what I was made to be. As you are. My job suits me well. Now go back to sleep, my friend. I am going back to wake and continue entertaining Tilpa.” Thank Him my quarters have good soundproofing!
You know, I really think I can sleep now.
* * *
Another dream. Just a dream this time. No nightmare. More of a memory, really, but played out with the perfect clarity of a dream.
One of those nights in Mexico that they put in the tourist brochures and then get accused of false advertising. Not the smog filled hazy nights that are roughly six nights a week. Sky crystal clear, every star a steady flame, as if etched onto the sky. Got no business looking at the stars. Got a demon to kill.
Some people are complete and utter morons. Faced with the physical fact that demons do actually exist, instead of putting their trust in Him, they worship and sacrifice to the demons themselves. Try to keep them, feed them and gain favor. It never works. You can't control a demon, and they certainly don't grant favors. Cases like that are given a top priority for killing rather than banishing. He is still a very jealous god, in some respects.
It had taken tracking nearly a week to find it, held in the cellar of a hacienda just outside Mexico City. Very covert op in this case, politics being involved. In, kill, out. No fuss, no mess. Except whatever mess it leaves on the floor.
Wish they'd sort out the anti-gravity problem. The AG belt only works for a few seconds at a time. Feel like a bloody kangaroo, leaping with the AG field before it pops and has to reform. Time it wrong, and you land with a bone jarring, or bone breaking, thump. Which hurts. So try to time it right. Hate the thing, but it is handy for getting over large walls.
Land silently. Full Hunter mode engaged, sweep the area. One guard, seated near the French windows. Not moving. Faint smell of death in the air.
Check him. Killed by a single stab to the heart with a spiked blade, angled downwards at about ten degrees, so the blood drains into the chest cavity instead of spilling on the ground. Neatly done. French doors open. Slip through silently and follow my nose to the cellars. To the combined unholy chapel and prison.
Peek around the open door. Six people present, including the owner of the hacienda. Some bigwig politician or other, don't really pay attention to these things. One man with a drawn weapon, covering the other five. Not my problem, the people get what they deserve. The Demon, a War Lych, chained to the altar. With silver. Not even a demon deserves torturing like that. Banish them or kill them clean, but torturing them is not only sick, it is useless. Draw my sword and step into the room. Then stop, as a second gun magically appears in the man's hand, pointing directly at me.
“Who are you?” he asks disinterestedly.
“Cat. Demon Hunter. I have no interest at all in your quarrel. My job is the demon. Nothing else. Stay out of my way and I'll not have to remove your head.”
The politician speaks. “Save me from this assassin! I am an important and wealthy man …”
“Jodete, demon lover. I'd kill you myself for five cents. People like you make me sick.”
The gunman considers, then grunts. “Sergei. Stay out of my way, we'll be fine.” Gestures me past him, gun tracking me as I move. Move to the War Lych. It looks at me, eyes clouded with the agony of the silver.
“I smell you, Hunter.” Unlike lower demons, they can speak, though it is rare enough to engage them in conversation. They are usually too busy trying to separate you into as many pieces as possible.
“I came to release you from your pain, demon.” It bows its shaggy head.
“Strike fast and well.” It looks at the leader of the five, wilting and sweating under the gun. “Had I the chance, your life would be eternal torment, mortal.”
Sometimes the right thing to do is not what most would consider the moral thing to do. Glance at the man with the gun. He understands, nods agreement, almost infinitesimally. Go into full hunter overdrive, spin, grab the politician and throw him into the claws of the War Lych. Leap out of the way as the gunman's weapon coughs softly, four times. Four thumps as the bodyguards hit the floor, a neat hole between each pair of eyes.
Sergei turns to the altar and speaks. “I need his head more or less intact, demon. The rest is all yours.”
“You have ten minutes.” I add.
We stand, side by side, as the War Lych rips out its tormentors life. Very, very slowly. Then I kill it, one quick and painless stroke. Pay back can be a real bitch sometimes. And Mexico needs a new Minister of Finance.
Even in sleep, I can feel myself smile in satisfaction.
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