Devil May Cry and all related material is owned by Capcom. Not me.

"I'm sorry?"

The man drew back, his eyes suddenly glinting with doubt- and the tiniest spark of fear. "I- I thought..."

Marlow laced his fingers together, resting them on the glass counter-top. This was bound to be intriguing.

"I mean, I was told... you were a..." The man threw a glance around the (woefully) empty store, looked over his shoulder at the door, and then leaned forward. "A... a Devil Ea-"

"Sir," Marlow began carefully as possible- not too stern, but stern enough- "I am an owner of an antique store. Nothing more. I am not a fortune teller, or a tarot card reader, or a palm-" He stopped, as the man was rummaging through his jacket pockets. A stack of wrinkled photographs were slapped onto the table, plus a bundle of faded hundreds. From the worn look of the guy, this was just about all he had to his name, no doubt.

"Please," he whispered hoarsely, leaning forward over the counter. "Whatever it takes. I'll do anything. Name it. Please, just-"

He reeked of desperation and hollowness and something else- something... Marlow took a step back, subconsciously covering my mouth. "Okay," he mumbled from behind calloused hand. "Okay. I'll... look. I'll try." He slid his money across the counter. "Don't pay me. Not now- yet, anyway," Marlow added, casting an eye around the store and remembering rent was due- again- as were his loans. Shit. "Is there anything you can tell m-"

The man shook his head, pointing to the photographs. "Wrote it all down," he said. And with those four words, all of his resolve seems to melt away, and just as quickly he murmured a 'thank you' and melted through the door into the overcast afternoon.

Marlow hadn't even caught his name.

But as he sat down heavily in his favorite desk's armchair, greeted by the familiar creak of well-oiled leather, he realized that he didn't need to know his client at all. Technically, the 'client' was the boy in the photographs.

The boy's body, anyway.

With a small shiver, Marlow reached for a desk drawer containing a box of cigars and a bottle of brandy- both unopened, both gifts. He did not smoke nor drink; both, he had quickly realized, did not calm or focus him, but simply made the cases he took so much more terrifying, so much more unreal. But his fingers rested on the brass handle, tapping out a nervous rhythm to match his heartbeat. Am I really going to do this?

The first photograph was of a smiling family. Husband, wife, two sons. Completely picturesque. Looking at the back, Marlow found nothing.

Second photograph was of a suburban house, somewhere; certainly not Chicago. Grass didn't come in that shade of green around here. Short driveway, two-car garage, basketball hoop, nicely manicured lawn, trimmed hedges, doghouse, a frisbee left carelessly on the roof. Flipping it over, he found a scrawled note in thick pen:

Maple St.
Belleville, Illinois

Lived in for whole life.

Marlow frowned, but continued. The photos became more and more mundane- a birthday party, specifically, the youngest son's eleventh- his name, Zach, emblazoned on a pirate ship-shaped cake. A flag football game, the mother and father cheering as their son charged yard after yard. A first day of school, a bell tower rising behind the nervous-yet-exciting boy. Zach again, hugging the family dog and grinning along with the mutt.

Then... the pictures became more intriguing. One of Zach, at a community pool, looking thoughtful- but oddly so. In the past photographs, he had always had a sort of childish nonchalance in his eyes. But this one- Marlow squinted until he could see the individual inkdots of color- this was different. Like the boy had... seen, or heard something that was entirely new, yet completely sensible.

When the next few photographs where of a mental hospital, a courthouse, and two graves placed very close to one another, it all made sense. Another of a bedroom, comfortable and pristine, labelled on the reverse side:

Scene of accident.

Marlow leaned back, setting the photographs on his coffee table. He had more than enough information to deal with this case. But but he had less courage than he would've liked.

The first call he made was to the house itself- the client had provided the address, and that just meant a short skim through the phonebook.

Of course, given that two of the occupants were murdered, one was detained in a mental hospital or detention center, and another was wandering the streets of Chicago like a maniac, no one was going to pick up. Marlow scratched at his hair in irritation- he really shouldn't have let the guy go like that. Just that the damned smell-taste of sin... hung around him like flies to a corpse. And to imagine that the poor guy- Steve, was his name- had picked it up only from a stronger source...

He got to the voicemail.

"Hello! We're sorry, but we're not home right no-" Marlow hung up quickly. He didn't like hearing the dead speak. Wasn't right.

The second call was made to an... 'associate' in Springfield. He made the numbers spin, and waited patiently. He counted the burnt-out bulbs of the crystal chandelier hanging above his head, wondering if all that sharp, heavy glass was enough to kill him, when-

"'Ello?"

"Cecil?"

"Marlow? Fuck's sake. You forget to wind your fuckin' clocks?"

Marlow glanced up at the grandfather leaning patiently against the wall, and then to the pitch-black window. He was strung out and paranoid, and that was better fuel than any coffee. "Something along those lines. Listen, I, uh... have a house I need to check out in Belleview."

A yawn on the other line, followed by the voice made raspy by sleep. "That's great. It also has nothing to do with me." If it were a normal job, it wouldn't. Marlow often visited the houses of aging collectors and extraordinaires to value their antiques. Not exactly an exciting job, but you met quite a few interesting people.

"Ac-tually, it does. I need you to help me check it out."

A long pause. "Marlow... no, I'm not-"

"I'm sorry, Cec. I really am, I fuckin' swear on the... on... my life. But this guy- more like a kid- he came to me, like he was dying-"

"Jesus Christ, Marlow. How long was it since the last one? A few months?"

Marlow's voice dropped to a flustered mumble. "No, year and a half-"

"And you can't say Bible, still."

The word made Marlow squirm and sink deeper into his chair, as if he could hide in it. The hair on his arms was standing on end- he smoothed them out nervously. "That's not the point. I have to help-"

"Why? These things happen, you aren't a priest. Let it go." Click.

Marlow sighed and rubbed his eyes as he set the old phone back on the hook. He then reached into the second drawer in his desk- one that held a fierce, wickedly saw-toothed hunting knife. He turned it over in his hands thoughtfully, feeling the worn leather grip, the point, the edge- sharper than any needle, any razor.

Seemed like all he was doing these days was serving in Hell.