Prologue

Europe, 1347 . . .

The demon looked on, marveling at his work. Who knew the fleas on a bunch of rats could help him do all this; the coughing . . . the moaning . . . the smell of death in the streets and in every house. A fellow demon in Asia had started this a while back and had left it to him to keep it spreading.

He hadn't fed this well in ages. Though, most of these people had low-quality souls hardly worth sampling. Hell, he could even taste the sickness in the souls, which tampered with the flavor like urine did with water. It made him never want to eat again.

"'The Black Death' . . ." the demon hummed to himself, "What a very appropriate name."

He observed a bluish, purplish, black is sore that was planted on a man's chest. It oozed the choking scent of sickness, infection, and death. His soul might not be worth the efforts, but things had been boring these past few centuries.

Death must have been closing in on the man, because suddenly his eyes settled on him, filled with terror. Through this man's coughing fits and blurred vision, he managed to scramble backwards about ten feet with fear flickering in the dimming color of his eyes.

"S-stay . . . away . . . from . . . m-me!" he choked out.

The demon raised a brow at him. Whether it was out of curiosity or annoyance, he couldn't tell. Whatever emotions he could feel overlapped with each other. Sad was angry, happy was content, frustrated was confused, and love and joy . . . there was no such thing.

He took a step towards the man, his black heeled boots clicking against the cobblestone surface of the street.

"You don't need to fear me . . ." he stated, "Your time in this world is nearly done, anyways. I am simply marveling in the work I've done here."

As he spoke, he was aware of a shadow leaping over the roofs of the two buildings they were between. He knew what it was. Reapers: they were no more of a pest to his kind than the green eyed beings viewed the demon species to be.

A shadow dropped beside the demon. The human could not see him, but the demon could, and it disgusted him.

"That will be quite enough of that, you vile creature." The reaper said, adjusting his pair of round-lensed spectacles; a symbol of a Reaper-in-training.

The demon snorted in irritation, "It's alright, I was just about to leave, anyways."

"You're leaving with this human's soul intact? Are you sure this illness you've been spreading hasn't infected you, as well?"

The demon shook his head, his long, raven-like hair flipping back over his shoulders, "You should know better, William; demons don't get sick."

"But even you never miss out on an opportunity for a good meal, Michaelis."

"It would seem I've messily sampled every dish there is to be had here; I've no room for that one. He smells like he's spoiled already, anyways. I'm sick and tired of these low quality souls. I'll never eat one again."

"You're just saying that."

"Mark my words, William T. Spears, mark them now: I shall never in my existence consume such rubbish as a low-quality soul again!"

The demon turned his back on the Reaper, "Anyways . . . I'm going to try to spread the plague to the States. Would you like to come and watch?"

The Reaper shook his head, "Sorry, England is my stationed area."

"Huh, you're going to miss out."

"Oh, I'm sure I'll hear about it from dispatch in about a decade or so."

A dark chuckle left the demon's mouth. He enjoyed doing this to humans . . . he enjoyed watching them suffer. Though, they knew nothing of true suffering. Hell had more to offer in terms of pain and suffering than the human realm would ever have. He envied them . . . and was annoyed by them. The slightest pain they felt made them complain . . . no wonder almost every soul of the damned screamed for centuries on end before they grew accustomed to it.

"I hope you find out what this is like, demon!" the dying man on the street yelled to him, "I hope there is a plague, one day, which will wipe out your own kind!"