Tim Marquitz - Resurrection

And they’d be grateful for it.

Many were the nights I’d spent here, voyeuristic in a shadowed corner, beer in hand, watching the black-clad assembly dance to the whims of Delilah and the cruel beats of the Switchblade Symphony. What went on while the doors were open was nothing compared to the depravity and primal carnality of what occurred after hours. Just thinking about it got my blood to flowing.

Save Hell, there was no place like it.

Empty, and with the light of day illuminating every dusty corner, its magic collapsed under the weight of my memories. I couldn’t bear to see it that way. Sighing, I made my way toward the back room, keeping my eyes straight ahead to avoid ruining the last bastion of the twisted and perverse I’m still allowed to visit.

At the closed storeroom, I knocked and entered without waiting. Off to the side, shoved between the narrow shelves of liquor bottles and cleaning supplies, was a small wooden desk. Behind it sat Baalth.

While immaculate in appearance, his hair and goatee salon perfect, he looked haggard about the eyes. That surprised me. Having slain the angel Glorius and inherited his powers, ramped up to extreme levels thanks to Asmoday, I figured Baalth would appear the bastion of confidence. More powerful than any demon had ever been except for Lucifer himself, he shouldn’t have had a care in the world. That didn’t seem to be the case. He looked worn out, exhausted. It didn’t bode well for our conversation. I glanced over at his ever-present flunkies. His muscle bound enforcer, Marcus D’anatello, and the mentalist, Alexander Poe, wore similar expressions on their faces. The only difference between them and their boss was that both of them looked like microwaved shit. Bruised and battered, the pair looked like they’d gone ten rounds in a broom closet with a prime Mike Tyson. I could only imagine where the mop heads ended up.

It brought a smile to my lips.

Marcus snarled at me as I shut the door. His monstrous frame appeared a bit wobbly as he stepped forward, taking his customary place out in front of Baalth, at the edge of the desk. His bald head was covered in seeping cuts, many of which were stitched shut. Unlike his usual vociferous self, Marcus kept his mouth shut. It was like an early Christmas present.

Poe was pretty much the same. His narrow cheeks were bright purple, with shades of yellow and black peeking through, here and there. His eyes were swollen, one almost shut, and his jaw looked a bit misshapen.

Apparently irritated by my amused perusal, he waved me to a seat, also without saying a word.

Curious, and a bit concerned for my own safety, I dropped down into the chair, sitting on the edge of it. “You summoned?” I did my best to ignore the elephant in the room. The fact they hadn’t searched me spoke volumes.

Baalth cleared his throat. He sounded sick, if that were possible. Demons didn’t catch colds or the flu. Outside of the more virulent STD’s-not that I’d know anything about them, honest-demons were immune to mortal illness. It really made me curious as to what kind of company Baalth kept lately.

Oh yeah, my ex-wife. That explained a lot.

“I need someone killed.” Baalth was anything but subtle.

While I’d ended people’s lives before, more times than I’d admit, it had been mostly in self-defense. Not that I’m entirely opposed to killing a person, you should see me on the freeway during rush hour, but I’m not the assassin type. I had to draw the line somewhere, however hazy or indistinct it may be.

“I’m not the guy for that. Besides, murder’s a little much considering the terms of our contract.” I’d sold myself cheap, but not quite that cheap.

Baalth snarled. The room shook, the bottles on the shelves clinking together. “I’m not interested in your pretense of morality. There is a thorn in my side that needs removing and I want you to pluck it out.” I felt the ground tremble beneath me. I’d never seen him so angry. His face looked strained, as though his skull pressed against it, trying to get out.

Though I didn’t dare say it, I wondered why Baalth didn’t do the deed himself if he wanted it done so badly. Rather than piss him off by asking, I took a shot at compromise. “How about, I deal with your problem, but you let me worry about the details?”

He leaned back in his chair, almost gingerly, and steepled his hands on the desk in front of him. He glanced up at Poe and Marcus, then turned back to glare at me. He nodded after a long while.

“Who’s the thorn?”

Baalth grunted and gestured for Poe to explain. Through clenched teeth, the mentalist did so.

“As I’m sure you’re aware, Mister Trigg, there have been several instances of zombies abducting Old Town residents.” Despite his injuries, Poe never let a crack show in his professional facade. His voice was smooth, the delivery flawless. If I weren’t able to see him, I’d never have known he was hurt. “We were able to witness one such encounter, trailing the undead to see where they went. Not surprisingly, they made their way to Rest Land Cemetery.”

I chuckled inside. It was a popular cemetery, staffed by employees of questionable morality, a couple of which just happened to be my friends. I’d hidden a number of bodies there myself over the years. What better place to dispose of a corpse than a graveyard?

Poe continued. “Before we were able to discern what they intended with the victims they carried off, we were attacked. While I can offer no concrete details as to our assailant’s appearance, or even his whereabouts, he is armed with twin swords with which he is quite adept.”

I glanced up at Marcus’s head wishing the swordsman had been a bit more adept. The big ape could have used a closer shave, starting at his throat.

“Had it not been for the arrival of McConnell, neither Marcus nor Alexander would be alive today,” Baalth added with the barest hint of gratitude in his voice. “That bastard needs to be dealt with.”

“We’re still talking about the assailant, right?” Given what the wizard had done, had it been him that Baalth wanted killed, I’d have taken on the job for free. Shit, I’d have paid to do it.

Baalth’s upper lip curled into a snarl. “Speaking of The Gray-” He motioned to Poe, who went and opened a back door in the storeroom.

Henry McConnell stepped inside. His cold blue eyes locked on me, his shaggy, white-bearded face neutral. I could feel my cheeks flushing. There was no love lost between us, or found for that matter.

“I kept him out of the room to avoid any awkward attempts at retaliation.” Baalth raised an eyebrow. “There won’t be any, will there?”

“I’m not promising anything.”

I glared at McConnell. A huge guy by any measure, close to three hundred pounds of solid muscle, The Gray was an imposing figure in snakeskin boots. Backed by magical talent rivaling a good number of upper echelon demons, the cowboy was a serious threat. I knew the man’s heart. He was cruel, hateful, and downright ruthless.

He was also a coward.

He came close to killing me and Rahim Alakha, DRAC’s resident wizard badass, but once on the losing end, he gave up his master faster than Paris Hilton gives up video rights. He ended up in a pretty bad spot, but Baalth saw fit to recruit him after the Asmoday fiasco. I’d have let him fry.

“How’s Mrs. Claus?”

Apparently warned ahead of time to be good, McConnell took the jibe in stride. He stayed quiet, but he never took his eyes off me.

“Let it go, Triggaltheron.” Baalth used my given name knowing it’d annoy me. “McConnell works for me now. You’ll treat him as you would any of my other employees, understanding full well the consequences of harming him.” His dark eyes bored holes in me. I felt the ground rumble again. “Are we clear?”