Mestoph flipped his cell phone closed and stuck it in his pocket with a smile. He was riding on a high of success in his cat-burglary and the hope that coming soon would be a true vacation. With both an Omen and a Prophecy, he and Leviticus held real, awesome power in their hands. It was tempting to go crazy with it, but their plans would never work if they got power hungry. It was the simplicity that gave it a chance of actually succeeding. Success was a thought he hadn’t considered up until this point, and it frightened and excited him. They had passed the point of no return. The plan must go forward.
Mestoph was ruminating on various retirement possibilities as he strolled into his apartment, so he was caught completely by surprise when a baseball bat slammed into his back and knocked him forward onto the arm of his vintage couch. He dropped to the floor and had just enough time to roll over and see The Weasel smiling down at him, half a cigarette hanging from his lips, and then the baseball bat hit a glancing blow on his head, just enough to knock him unconscious.
Stephanie was walking down the dream path again, but her Grams was nowhere to be seen. She had never been here before without her grandmother, and it felt much more foreboding and dangerous now. A strong wind seemed to blow straight up the narrow, tree-lined path. It whipped branches at her face as if the forest were fighting her off—or warning her.
Clouds swam across the night sky and engulfed the moon, letting only the dimmest hint of moonlight through to light her way. She thought of turning back, but there wasn’t anything back there, any more than there was anything in front of her. It was a dream, after all. She continued down the path, stumbling here and there over the roots that grew out of the hard-packed dirt.
A full-on storm was now brewing; the winds gusted and lightning arced in the distance. Flailing tree limbs grabbed at Stephanie’s nightgown as the rain began to fall, plastering the fabric against her skin. She felt the tiny hairs on her arm, wet as they were, stand on end and then a jagged bolt of lightning ripped through the sky in front of her and struck a tree only a few feet away. She stopped, afraid to go forward, but also afraid to go back. As if answering her fears, she saw a bright flash and heard the thunder at nearly the same time, coming from behind her. Her dreams had never taken on this intense feeling of danger, and she didn’t know what to do.
And then she felt that cold, prickling fear crawling up her spine, the same sensation she had felt the last time she was here.
She could sense a presence behind her, could hear the flapping of wings and the soft coldness of breath on her neck. She couldn’t move despite her frantic attempts to escape. She was paralyzed to the point that she couldn’t even scream. There was another lightning strike, this one a safe distance away, but it backlit something small on the path in front of her. She could have sworn it was a dog.
“Let her go!” boomed a deep voice.
Stephanie couldn’t see the creature behind her, but she sensed confusion or at least a shift in its attention. At last she was able to move and, hedging her bets on the devil she didn’t know, ran toward the other voice. She began to regret the decision when she saw two small white orbs glowing at the height she imagined the dog’s eyes would be, and then she heard barking. Tiny, yappy dog barking.
“Alright, this is just getting ridiculous,” she shouted above the noise of wind, thunder, barking, and flapping.
It was at that point that the glowing orbs grew in size and then shot out like lightning, zig-zaging toward her. Stephanie froze as the bolts passed on both sides of her, just above her shoulders. She heard the crackle as an arc of electricity passed within inches of her face, and then a brilliant white-blue explosion of light blinded her. All sound was drowned out by the kind of high-pitched whining roar that she had always associated with dinosaurs and lizard monsters in cheesy sci-fi movies. Cheesy or not, as the roar died out so did the cold, creepy feeling. She braved a glance behind her and saw nothing but trail and trees. She turned back around, and right in front of her was a small Scottish terrier.
“Sir Regi?” she asked.
Mestoph came to in a pool of what he hoped was his own drool. It was warm and wet, so it could’ve been blood. He tried to open his eyes, but the second he did his head was filled with intense pain. He let out an uncontrollable moan. Moments later, he was forced to roll over as someone grabbed him by what he realized was a chain linked to a pair of handcuffs. As he landed, his head flopped backwards, hitting something hard despite the fact that he was on something soft, and sending a whole new wave of pain flooding into his head.
His vision slowly came into focus, though the haze seemed to throb with his pulse, and he realized he was still in his house, lying handcuffed on his vintage couch. The Weasel was standing over him, smiling with what looked like the same cigarette hanging precariously out of his mouth. He leaned in and Mestoph flinched, expecting a headbutt, but The Weasel stopped inches from his face and inhaled deeply through his nose. He was taking a large whiff of Mestoph’s scent like a hound dog.
“I thought that was you I smelled down there,” he said with a self-satisfied smile on his face.
The ridiculousness of a human tracking him by smell aside, Mestoph couldn’t imagine how The Weasel would have known his smell to begin with since their paths had never knowingly crossed before. It mattered not since the man had tracked him down regardless. The thought barely had time to sink in before The Weasel gave him a backhanded slap, a hand full of cheap, gaudy rings making nicks and cuts on the Demons cheek and lips. Mestoph leaned over and spit out a mouthful of blood, but wouldn’t give the Weasel the satisfaction of whining.
“Shouldn’t you make your demands before beating me up?” Mestoph asked.
The Weasel gave a quick-take of mock revelation, said “So that’s how you do it,” and then gave Mestoph another backhand. “Oops, there I go…getting it backwards again.”
Mestoph spit out more blood and forced a smile. His lip was cut in several places, and the effort was repaid with intense pain. “If you’re not going to make any demands, what do you want?”
The Weasel made to backhand him again, but stopped with his hand pulled back. He stroked his muttonchops, smiling at Mestoph’s flinching.
“What do I want with a useless, disappointing never-was of a Demon?” he asked in mock contemplation. “Why don’t you start by telling me what you were doing down there in the Hall of Records?”
“I was doing some last minute taxes,” said Mestoph with a smile that was met with a quick openhanded slap from the opposite direction as the others. The Weasel’s unusually long fingers left long, stinging marks around Mestoph’s ear and eye, as well as the rest of the left side of his face. It brought involuntary tears to his eyes, but he tried to shake them off.
“Listen, Mestopholes. We already know your little fairy friend stole a Prophecy. Add an Omen to that and you two would be holding on to some serious power. All I want to know is why. And why a used one? It’s useless.”
Mestoph arched a brow in genuine surprise. He knew Heaven would figure out they were missing a Prophecy pretty quickly, he didn’t realize they would connect him to the crime this fast. Especially since he just stole the Omen. So then who was the “we” that the weasely guy beating the crap out of him referred to?
“Who are you?” asked Mestoph.
“My name is Atreyus.”
“What the Hell is going on?” shouted Stephanie as she looked down at the little Scotty dog.
“What was that thing?” she asked, just as Sir Regi was about to answer her first question.
“What are you doing here?” She continued the tirade of questions as Sir Regi just stood there waiting for her finish.
“Are you done?” he asked once she was silent for more than a second. When she didn’t answer he continued, “That thing was either a Seraphim or a Nephilim. It’s hard to tell in the dark. Regardless, it seems to want you dead, which means you’re special. To someone, at least. I came to warn you,” Sir Regi added, though warning her was the last thing on his mind. “You have unknown friends that can help you.”
Sir Regi spun a series of spontaneous lies about being part of a secret order sent to protect her, how she played an important part in some unknown plot, and how he and his friends could keep her safe. After giving away a few honest details, like the fact that Marcus was involved, she agreed to meet her new friends.
What Sir Regi neglected to say was that whether it was a Seraphim or a Nephilim determined whether she was important to someone in Heaven or Hell, respectively. Neither strayed far from their inner circle unless dictated by God or Satan, or if the balance of Good and Evil were suddenly skewed in one direction or the other. The Seraphim and Nephilim were the highest order of creatures in Heaven or Hell, and they were charged long before the Ancient Agreement to keep the Holy Order in balance. That had largely been marginalized by Freewill International and the Ancient Agreement and they spent most of their time singing the praises of their masters. What interest they could have in an ordinary barista Sir Regi wasn’t sure, but he was sure it wasn’t coincidence that she played a part in Mestoph and Leviticus’s scheme.
The connection clicked in Mestoph’s head: Atreyus was known in certain circles to do freelance work for Agents of Heaven Inc. Specifically St. Peter. It was assumed that Lucifer was aware of Atreyus’ actions and was sanctioning them on some level, if only by not stopping him. This was enough of a connection for Mestoph to assume that St. Peter was on Leviticus' tail, and, as a result, now his. Mestoph had heard what he needed and taken enough of a beating for one day. As Atreyus went on talking about some great plan— Mestoph honestly wasn’t listening—he popped a cufflink out of his sleeve. Having done this more than once—it was one of the reasons he made sure to always wear cufflinks—he quickly and quietly unlocked the cuffs behind his back.
Mestoph started to laugh, wearing a large smile that showed off a mouthful of teeth. This stopped Atreyus’ seemingly rehearsed speech. He looked over at Mestoph, still lying on the couch but now with a ridiculous grin. “And just what the Hell is so damned funny?” he asked.
“You think yourself some great villain, but you hit like a fucking pussy. You hit like my accountant,” said Mestoph, though his accountant had been a champion Nazi boxer, so that wasn’t exactly the insult it seemed.
Atreyus looked at Mestoph for a moment and then sighed, shaking his head as he walked over.
“Some people just have no respect for a good monologue,” Atreyus said, more to himself than to Mestoph. He reared back to give his captive a proper swing, but as he reached the apex of his backswing, Mestoph jumped up and decked Atreyus with a two-fisted hammer swing.
The Weasel’s surprise and off-center balance, combined with the hefty punch, sent Atreyus sprawling to the floor. Mestoph ran over and punched him again, and although it was awkwardly delivered, the Demon not being used to boxing someone lying on the ground, it had the desired effect and knocked Atreyus out cold.
Mestoph quickly removed the other cuff from his wrist and put handcuffed Atreyus to the frame of his sleeper sofa in the corner of the living room. He didn’t want Atreyus destroying his favorite couch, plus the sleeper sofa was considerably sturdier and heavier. Mestoph looked at the floor and saw the baseball bat Atreyus had used to knock him. He realized that he’d been beaten with his own bat. He looked back at Atreyus, who still appeared to be unconscious, and nudged him with the bat. No response. Mestoph went to the fridge and grabbed one of his precious beers, the only cold drink in the place, popped the top, and poured it over Atreyus’ head.
The Weasel jerked awake and sputtered as beer went in his eyes and mouth. Mestoph gave him a few moments to look around and take his bearings, and then swung heartily at his head. Blood sprayed the wall to his left, and Atreyus screamed. His scream faltered for a moment as both Atreyus and Mestoph noticed that his long jaw now hung awkwardly to one side. The pain of his shattered, dislocated jaw hit him, and his scream rang out again with renewed anguish. A second swing took the jaw off, and Atreyus passed out, mid-scream, almost before the jaw hit the ground.
Mestoph took one last swing with all the power that his pure Demon blood granted him. There was a crack that would have sent a stadium to its feet cheering, though the blood and the head flying through the air would have caused the crowd to pause at least momentarily. Atreyus’ head slammed into a bookshelf, knocking Mestoph’s collection of vintage tin rocket ship toys off, and then fell to the ground with a wet thud. Mestoph, his floor, his couch, and his wall were covered in blood, but Atreyus was dead. The weasely man’s soul, headless like his body, floated up. He flipped Mestoph off as he vanished. It would take a while for his soul and body to get recycled—and there was no doubt he’d be returning to Hell—but it would give Mestoph plenty of time to get out and warn Leviticus. This would push their schedule up a bit, but it wasn’t an insurmountable obstacle.
Mestoph wiped his bloody hands on Atreyus’ sweater and then rummaged through his pockets, finding a cell phone, and then dashed out of his apartment. He dropped his own phone down a garbage chute as he tried to walk quickly but nonchalantly down the hallway. There was a good chance they were tracking his phone, so he flipped open Atreyus’ and dialed an all-too-familiar number.
“They’re on to us, Leviticus,” Mestoph said into the cell phone as he left his apartment.