K Stewart - A Devil in the Details

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.

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.