Death Guard
"Diabolus Vindicatum Vos." There was a muffled popping noise, and a 9 millimeter hole opened in the crack dealer's skull. Quick, clean. I removed the silencer, placed the Glock in my left shoulder holster, straightened my tie, and walked out.
A half-dozen local toughs had gathered outside, their streetlight shadows falling across my silver Jag. I gave them the Look. No magic, just attitude. Don't fuck with me, I work for Lucifer. It's all in the eyes. They fell back, disappearing into the shadows. The Jag pulled away from the curb smoothly.
That left just one more soul to send to Hell to satisfy this week's quota. I always left the easiest one for last. How hard could it be to kill a 93 year-old man who was on his deathbed?
The most impressive homes on Riverside Drive were the ones you couldn't see. Private drives, some with black iron gates blocking the entrance, led up the hill into the trees. There, away from the eyes and ears of the masses, the rich and powerful sat in castles of stone and stucco, amassing wealth that meant less and less to them the more they acquired.
I had visited the Riverside home of former Congressman Bernie Stiles earlier that day as an exterminator. Sometimes being Hispanic has its advantages - I was just background noise in a gray uniform. Former Congressmen don't get Secret Service, so Mr. Stiles had to make do with hired muscle from Clover Security, out of Dublin. No, that's Dublin, Ohio. I'd taken on - or should I say, taken out - a few of their guys in the past. Nice enough fellows, just a little thick in the skull. From the transmitters I installed during my visit, I learned that the old guy only paid for two agents, one from Clover, and an independent - an unknown quantity, but I would just have to improvise.
I parked the Jag across Riverside in a small park. Someone was night fishing off a nearby bridge. He didn't give me a second glance. I crossed the road and stepped over the low fence made out of stacked stones. The deep shadows between the trees covered me in darkness as I made my way up the hill, mechanically avoiding the viewing arcs of the security cameras. A quick jimmy of the kitchen door lock, and I was in.
The first guy was too engrossed in the latest smartphone game to notice my approach. Very unprofessional. I jammed the stun gun into his neck as he sat in the library. He'd wake up with one helluva headache. I patted him down where he fell on the carpet. A long barrel .357, "Dirty Harry" style. Perhaps he was compensating for something?
The bedroom my target was in was on the other side of the sprawling ranch-style mansion. I had to cross the large, open living/entertaining area. It boasted three conversation pits lined with leather sectionals, three fireplaces, and a rather burly gentleman in a black bowler hat. Lucifer as my witness, he had red hair. He looked like he just crawled out of an Irish pub, save for the tailored suit. I was sincerely dreading the sound of his voice, something to make the cliche complete. He didn't disappoint.
"Where ya be going to, laddie?" he said, making a fist with each hand. "I think ya best be headin' back out while you still can."
I reached across my chest to my right side shoulder holster. The Desert Eagle. There was something strange about this one. Didn't feel right. I leveled the gun at him. "Who are you?" I asked.
I know he saw the gun, but his expression didn't change. "Name's Rory Callaghan. Now you tell me yours."
"Damian Valdes. I'm here to see the Congressman." I loaded a round into the chamber. "Stand aside, Mr. Callaghan. I don't want to have to hurt you."
"The Congressman isn't seein' any visitors, lad. And I don't like guns pointed at my face. Not one bit."
Damn... He was fast. My first shot blasted a hole in the wall, crossing empty air where his head used to be. In the amount of time it took the recoil to load another round, he was a foot in front of me. Was it my imagination, or had his arms gotten... larger? The Irishman grabbed my wrist and twisted. It popped like firecrackers going off. The pain would have been debilitating, had I not spent a number of years in the Pit of Hell.
I dropped the pistol, and used my left fist to deliver an uppercut. His chin was like stone. He didn't even flinch. Which went a long way towards confirming my suspicion: this guy was not exactly human. Once he had gained about two feet in height, and several neck sizes, it was obvious. Fae, no doubt about it. A Spriggan-blooded changeling. At least he wasn't a werewolf. I hate werewolves.
Still holding my shattered wrist, the changeling grabbed my belt with his other hand, and sent me sprawling into a glass curio cabinet. OK. Broken glass does hurt, I'll admit it. I somehow bent my left wrist around and was able to get out the Glock in time to squeeze off a round. Rory reeled a bit from the bullet entering his shoulder, but he kept coming. I dropped the pistol on the carpet and yelled, "I yield! Parley!"
Any human thug would have taken that opportunity to kick my face until I stopped moving. But the Fae respected the old ways. The ways of honor, even when dealing with an enemy.
"Very well, lad. Speak your peace." He shrunk a little. It didn't help his torn clothes look any better, but I was relieved.
"So, I take it you are pact-bound to protect this man?" I asked, struggling to sit upright.
"Aye, I am to protect his life. He expected an assassin to show up tonight."
What? I shook my head. Something to look into later. The Congressman was not, as far as I knew, "clued in" to the existence of the supernatural. Where did he get his tip-off? I nodded at Rory. "That would be me. Do you know what Bernie Stiles is guilty of? Why I was sent?"
"No, lad, and it doesn't matter. As per our agreement, he will not die by an assassin's hand. You've wasted your time, and gotten hurt for nothing." Rory folded his arms across his chest, which had finally shrunk to normal human size. The only way I was getting past this guy was with a rocket launcher. From a ways off.
But, it was Sunday evening, and I had run out of time. Then it hit me. "Say, Rory, is it part of your pact to keep the Congressman from dying of natural causes?"
The Fae put his fingers on his chin and thought. "No, I suppose not."
"Good. Let's talk."
"Congressman Stiles. Wake up, Mr. Stiles."
The old man stirred, fumbled with the oxygen tubes in his nose, and squinted. "Who the Hell are you? Rory, why is this man in here? You're supposed to protect me!"
The Irishman stood, head bowed. "Our pact is that I would not let you be killed by an assassin. This man is unarmed, and if he makes any moves to even touch you, I will kill him where he stands. But I think you need to hear what he has to say, Mr. Stiles."
"To answer your question, Bernie, my name is Damian. I was sent here to kill you. But, thanks to the pact you made with this Fae bruiser, I can't do that. So, instead, I offer you a free service. Due to your health, you'll die soon anyway. And since people so often say that their lives flash before their eyes, I figured I could help you out in that regard. I know a lot about you, Bernie. Would you like to review your life?"
"Go to Hell." The Congressman sputtered and coughed.
"Been there," I said. "Bernie J. Stiles, born November 22nd, 1919 into a wealthy family. Became a successful lawyer at the age of 25, then became a United States Congressman at the age of 50. Looking good so far, Bernie. Or is it?
Lured an 11 year old boy into your limo at the Ohio State Fair in 1972. With the curtains drawn, no one even knew what you did to him. And that was just the beginning. Your membership in the House Education Committee had you touring a lot of schools, Bernie. How many boys and girls did you abuse during those years? Did you lose count? Well, someone was counting, Bernie. And one was too many. So, here you are. Got anything to say?"
Stiles' eyes burned with hatred. "Get out. I don't have anything to say to you."
"No, I don't suppose you do. But there's one thing left to do, Bernie. I promised you a retrospective of your life. But I can do better than that. I can show you the future, Bernie. Just look into my eyes." He did.
A Soul Gaze is a wondrous and terrible thing. Those with The Sight, like me, can look into someone's eyes and be swept away in a veritable avalanche of memories, feelings, and thoughts. And once seen, those images and feelings never go away. You carry them for the rest of your life, each one remaining as fresh as the day you experienced it. I had looked into a lot of souls. Dark souls. Darker than mine. And that was saying something.
I saw all their faces. I saw what he did to them. I saw the cover-ups, the men and women who helped Stiles hide his sins. Before me, as before God, they were laid bare. They would be with me always. And whenever I would remember them, I would become nauseous. But a Soul Gaze goes both ways.
Congressman Bernie Stiles screamed. He screamed because of what I had seen, what I had experienced in my life, and after my death. Yes, he saw me kill many men, including some women and children during my life in the drug trade in Miami. He saw my death. And he experienced the Pit. Darkness. Isolation. Pain. Agony beyond imagining. Fire. But the flesh is never consumed. And each millisecond of pain is as fresh and horrific as the previous. Forever. No reprieve. No respite. No, "my friends are gonna be there too." Just suffering. He felt it all. And he knew, really knew, the same waited for him.
The heart monitor let out a steady whine. Flat-line. Bernie Stiles was dead. But his punishment, his pain, had just begun. "Diabolus Vindicatum Vos." I said, and touched Bernie's brow. It was still hot. I turned to leave. My quota for the week had been fulfilled.
"What was that you said, lad? There at the end?" Rory looked at me with a somber expression.
"The Devil Claims You." I said.
"So you're the Devil?" Rory asked.
"No. I just work for him." I smiled, and left.
Driving home, I tried to shake off what I had seen in the eyes of that damned soul. Maybe after some bourbon, and a good night's sleep. But probably not.
.