Trying a different thing again. Will be removing and updating and editing at random. No big plans for this.-TC

A Fancy New Trick

Nero was not immune to fatigue. Though the cult-like religion, The Order of the Sword, had been vanquished, it was difficult for what was left of Fortuna to dismiss a heritage rooted deep in hero worship, demonic conspiracy and its involvement in it. For a while, the remaining hellions paid irregular visits to Fortuna to terrorize citizens and those who were not disposed of by the rapidly dismembering Holy Knights, would meet their timely end by Nero's hand, quite literally.

At present, he was running though the alleyways trying to conceal his right arm in a bloodied white sling, although the summoned blue entity hovering over him was overt and intimidating. His spiritual ally mirrored him to some degree, apart from exceptional circumstances when he was getting his ass handed to him, then it seemed to drift about until his adrenaline wore off and then it would retreat into his arm like a genie to a lamp. His shadow barely grazed the rubble at his feet, the city a crumbling catastrophe because of him.

Home was a handsome little dockside loft that The Order had arranged for Credo and he extended his arms to Nero as a brother, as a guardian and largely failed mentor. Since his death Nero and Kyrie existed as reluctant and uneasy lovers, as if the weight of Credo's disapproval smothered them. When he got in, he went straight to Kyrie's room and cracked open the door to peek in at her. He knew she would be asleep, because many a night he'd whispered to her the events of his day until he'd succumb to sleep himself, and rise early enough to make himself scarce least she discover his intrusion. Tonight, he was too exhausted to speak. At the foot of her bed his back met the wall where he slid down to the floor, staring at her soft slumber through half slanted eyes.

His still very present demon seemed to escape his notice and concern and tonight, the very patient and impious presence did not retreat. It had been nearly four months since the hell gates rose and fell, and ever since, Nero felt he was losing control of the demon in his human coffin. Every time Nero summoned it, he dared to venture away from control, but that Devil Bringer would draw it back so suddenly, as if it was a chained dog, bringing sense back into him in the same instant. Now he slept soundly at its feet.

Nero's arm had untangled from the sling; a pattern of scaly dermis, with thick, claw- like fingers hooking like talons peeking from the elbow down from his apparel. The enigmatic appendage was too conspicuous to be hidden away in a sling. Despite that, the most alluring thing in the room was Kyrie, and that necklace lying around her supple young neck.

When the entity returned to its chasm in his arm Nero awoke with a jolt. He knew there was no time to be exhausted. If he paused a moment more he was bridging the gap between them and in his present state only distance was his ally. He pushed off the floor with his good arm and called to Kyrie as he rose.

"Kyrie…" He whispered sharply, rousing her firmly. "Get up."

Her eyes fluttered open to look him in the face knowingly. Although she did not react to him touching her, he slid his arm back and hid it in the sling again, darting his eyes away from her because she had always been overly modest, especially now.

"A-are you okay?" She nursed, shielding herself with her bed sheets although she was masked by darkness. She was speaking to his back.

It was only when she asked did he realized that he was trembling like a leaf, almost uncontrollably. He could only imagine what he looked like—and what she thought of him. He heard her shuffle behind him.

"I did it again," he admitted, the shame in his voice hidden by a whisper.

"Nero!" She somehow managed to sound disciplinary and disappointed in the same expression.

"It bought us some time," he shot out over his shoulder defensively.

There was more frantic scurrying going on behind him, the rustle of sheets, the urgency of footsteps and several drawers being opened and slammed shut.

A few seconds later he spoke again, although it seemed like an eternity since he'd been standing there facing the wall. "They know. We have to go this time."

"Where?" She responded, willing. He knew she was ready when her hand slid into his, an instant comfort. He did not pause to savor the moment.

"Devil May Cry."

________

Two hundred and forty-three miles west steering a black El Camino with one arm before anyone had ever even heard of Devil May Cry. At the five fifty mile marker, Kyrie's bladder was set to burst. She reached over a delicate hand and touched Nero's arm. He seemed to jump from his comatose gaze at the wheel, the violets and purples of the dusk masking the sleep on his face. He was alive again immediately and attentive. She gave a pleading glance at the self -service gas station just off the road up ahead, an oasis of dust and sand in an otherwise lifeless and drab road into town. Reluctantly, he pulled up to pump nearest to the road and began filling up while she scurried off to the Port-O-Potty on the side of the cement building. Under the blue open sign, GAS and XXX flickered in pink and yellow neon lights. Beneath that there was a man sitting on a box crate near the door smoking a cigarette and nursing a beer. Nero adjusted his arm in the sling and called out to the dark stranger.

"Hey," he started, walking toward him. "You know a guy named Dante?"

The man looked up and touched his ear to signal that he hadn't heard.

"Dante," Nero repeated. "Owns this placed called Devil May—"

Before he'd finished the sentence the stranger sprang up from his box and ran off to the right side of the building to a blue pick up truck. His bottle of beer was still rolling to a stop when the truck backed out and was tearing up the road with a trail of dust clouds kicking out from behind his wheels.

Nero was attacked from behind, a surging force driving him forward into the neon lights and pinning him to the wall. An eruption of sparks rained down on him like confetti. He felt the warmth of blood trickling down his leg when he glanced down and touched the javelin stapling him into the building side. Realization hit him hard.

"Kyrie!!! Run!!"

Unarmed, he threw a vicious elbow into the face of the armored deity behind him, backing up the Bianco enough to tear free and start toward the Port-O-Potty. An about face had him staring into the chest of a former Holy Knight Officer who threw up his arms politely in a non- threatening manner, the gold insignia from his white jacket gleaming as though it had its own internal light. He turned his attention to the Bianco, drew his sword and set to work on it quickly with the aid of two more Holy Knights that seemed to be materializing from thin air.

"How the hell are you finding us?" He didn't wait for a reply. He darted past the battling quartet and exposed his potential, squeezing his side as if he thought his intestines would fall out if he let up. Cold sweat dotted his face.

Kryie had heard his instruction and was barely to the car when the Devil Bringer gripped her shoulder from behind and zipped her back toward Nero in a blue flash. It had occurred too quickly for her to make sense of anything. When she looked into his face he seemed to be in a feverish quake, the expression on his face nearly lifeless when he loomed over her. He was hurt.

"I can't stop it now," he rasped, his voice hissing out like a fire suddenly doused with water. She cowered at his feet and mashed her eyes shut. The trio of Holy Knights suddenly became an entourage engulfing them with swords drawn cautiously. Nero untangled his foot from Kyrie's grasp and took a small step forward in a somnambulist trance, sending a wave of energy similar to a small seismic disturbance rippling out from his feet. His footsteps echoed like thunder while white- hot flames danced off his body in an angelic aurora, and when he opened his mouth the same flames burst from his lips and eyes with raging intensity.

"Get away." It was too monotonous to decipher as a warning or a threat. Either way it came much too late. A silent burst of energy exploded from his body and rippled out in a mirage of blinding white light. When the ringing in their ears subsided, every power line and tree in the area was leaning away from him. A second later and a fine mist of blood showered them momentarily. When the last white feathers fell gingerly from the once Alto Bianco, the city lights in the distance flickered off indefinitely.

________

Dante hadn't said a word. He'd sat in his tattered velvet desk chair like a mannequin, his brows furrowed slightly at the middle with a fixed frown on his lips. He had been absorbing the news for several minutes now, his expression unchanging. The only animation in the room came from a desperate moth fluttering about the light from the ceiling fan. Then Trish sighed.

He darted his eyes at her but he quickly retreated into the ghost-like trance he had been in before.

The phone ringing offered some relief but it pierced the silence like a knife and startled Trish with a jolt. Unthinking, she reached for it with a too soon eagerness that finally coerced a reaction from Dante. He sat up and shot his hand over to the phone before she had slithered across the desk. He picked it up off the hook and casually dropped it back onto the receiver. It wasn't time to break the silence. She righted herself atop his desk, perched in the top left corner with her slender legs lapped casually. She was trying too hard to be nonchalant, defeating her own purpose at appearing placated with the state of things. It was obvious that she was attempting to deaden the severity of the news, downplay it with a half- hearted air of sympathy. If she tried to comfort him, her words would fall short, and if she pretended that it was insignificant enough to be dismissed she would insult him. Either way she was at a loss.

Now there was a faint hum vibrating from the confines of his pant pocket. This distraction too, he would ignore. Trish dared to look at him. Dante was not alive inside. Soon after the humming stopped her own cell phone danced across the desk with urgency. She snatched it up despite herself.

"Devil May Cry," She greeted. She was surprised at how meek her voice rang out. It gave away her true feelings.

"Dante." The voice returned flatly.

"Look. He isn't—"

Dante held up his hand to stop her from getting rid of a potential job. Tragedies aside, they needed money.

"I'll take it. Whatever it is," he mumbled. His voice didn't betray him.

Trish nodded. "See you in five."

Finally, with a defeated sigh, Dante rose up, undraped his crimson coat from the back of the chair and flagged out the wrinkles with a snap. In a sort of flair only he could master, he slid into his coat with ease and patted his holster for Ebony and Ivory. He did not meet her eyes.

"Dante…"

"I'm fine." His words snapped off her sentence abruptly.

But he was not fine. His fingers fumbled to zip up his vest. His hands shook when he reached for his motorcycle keys. He gestured for her to get Alastor.

"I'm fine," he repeated, softer, starting for the front. He couldn't even convince himself.

Trish found the letter that poisoned him nestled atop a sea of receipts. When it fell from his fingertips it contented to cover his financial hardships and take precedence as the new bother in his life. She crumpled it in her hand and threw it into the trash. The contents did not matter. Regardless of where it ended up, it would not change the fact that Lady was dead.

A Curious Acquisition sat in darkness as usual, an ominous green glow hailing from the front window where the slumped figure of a man sat busily at work. There was no particular style to the building, no hint of purpose of the business. The sporadic décor ranged from rusted medieval suits of armor, incomplete, a broom instead of a sword betwixt the faded silver hands, flowerpots of dried dirt for helmets guarding either side of the front screen door, to several angelic bird baths and mangled pink flamingos. The porch was littered with books, stacks of books towering like pillars up to the awning, the pages brown and rotted with neglect and staling the air about the entrance. The gutters were not connected, the front steps half collapsed, the visible windows were filmed with moss, and the lone oak tree beside the establishment seemed to grow into the top floor and drape the roof with decaying branches.

When Dante killed the engine under the sloping car porch dankness enveloped them quickly. He hated coming to Lance's and had it not been for Trish he would have never made the acquaintanceship of this very queer man. But she had been insistent that they required help from outside sources. He did not argue when he saw no avail to her practices; Enzo, Trish, a saintly priest, (sans Lady) and Lance still did nothing to aid the popularity of his very grim business. But Trish was Trish, and he had to allow her to exercise her partnership. But he hated Lance.

By the time they'd approached the front door, Dante had fixed his face to the smug confidence his abilities afforded him, and Trish gaped at him in disbelief. He had bottled up his hurt as usual. He jabbed a finger into the doorbell. Not surprisingly, it didn't work.

"Open up," He bellowed.

"What's the password?" A voice growled back at him. Lance always sounded like a growling dog.

Dante balked. "Password?"

"That's right, motherfucker. Every time I call the shop I can barely get a word out before you're asking me for a password. So what's the password?"

Trish bypassed the restriction and pushed open the screen door, inviting herself inside. His green glass lamp shade cast a ghostly glow about the room, faintly illuminating the floor to ceiling mountain of books that closed off the lobby and forced the visitors to stand in front of his desk, shoulder to shoulder.

Lance was a mystery because he lied about everything, including the mundane, solely for entertainment purposes. Lance only entertained himself. When he wasn't lying he was somber and sneering. What he couldn't lie about was obvious; at some point in his past he had suffered violently from pox, scarring his face and hands to the point where his skin resembled cottage cheese. He breathed like he was in an iron lung, a habit he probably adopted from having polio, but he attributed his corkscrew way of walking to rickets.

A savant of sorts, he had no real work to do but busy himself solving astronomically puzzling mathematics, priding himself at discovering alternative solutions. There was no one to tell him if he was ever wrong. Despite his literary and mathematical fetishes, Lance was Dante's cleaner and unemployment agent.

He hated Dante from the first day he asked him how he ended up with a name like Violence Black. "Where in the hell did you get a name like Dante?" He fired back, his lungs deflating like a balloon. "Isn't it obvious that my mother, a victim of a sexual crime was compelled by her overly religious parents to keep the baby growing inside her and bitter with the world, made her distaste evident by naming her son Violence? You uncouth fuck!" When he had deflated a second time, he quieted an infuriated Dante by allowing him to call him simply, Lance. A nickname derived from the mispronunciation on his part of the word 'violence,' emphasis on the latter syllable.

Presently, he grabbed a handful of his raven hair and threw it over his shoulder before glancing up at Dante with a grin.

He pointed an instructive finger to a pile of half opened mail on the sole chair in front of his desk.

"Get your mail, devil." He offered him an envelope between his forefingers without looking up.

Dante stared at him for an uncomfortable moment before taking the already opened letter.

"Job is, as a job does." Lance offered.

Dante gathered up the rest of his mail in one sweep and marched outside without pardoning himself. The screen slammed shut behind him with the hinges squealing.

"What's red's problem?"

Trish scolded him silently with a stern look.

"Don't get mad at me, honey, his mail sits here for weeks. I was out of reading material."

He lit up a cigar and leaned back over his desk, casting a bulky shadow over his paperwork.

Trish slapped her hands on his desk and leaned into him. "Listen, we don't pay you to withhold information."

Lance flared up. "Wrong, you don't pay me at all. Where's my cut from the last job? And before that?" He waved his hands frantically in an attempt to shoo her from atop his desk. "And get that pair out of my face." He sucked in a raspy breath and sat back in his chair.

"Dante doesn't pay you because you open his mail."

He settled down when she moved back from his desk. "It's my address," he mumbled in defense. "Dante doesn't have any fucking money to keep himself or his business afloat, far less pay me to share." He dove back into his work as if Trish wasn't looming over his desk with her arms folded.

"That's it," he dismissed, waving her away when she didn't leave immediately. Screwing around with you devils'll have me deader than—well, you know who."

Aghast, she turned in a huff but a single step from letting herself out when a blinding flash from outside lit up the night sky and sent a tremor through the building. Lance placed a casual paw atop his desk lamp to stop it from rattling when the lights went out with a sizzle. The screen door creaked open and Dante's voice sailed in.

"Let's ride east, Trish. Alastor didn't like that."

By the time Dante exited off the Crux-Faire Bridge that linked the two Islands together, Downtown Crux, where they were from, and the more upscale Faire where he was heading, the lights were on again. At the edge of Faire, the city got rural and dirt roads welcomed you into the sticks.

Trish leaned over Dante's shoulder to speak when they'd stopped at a light. "We don't have to go."

Her statement didn't encourage a response.

Lady practically named his business. And just like that—she was gone. He never realized how dreadfully attached he was to a girl he rarely saw if only to offer him a hand in his work. She was largely a catalyst in his life until now when she was consumed in a devilish medium. No explanation to resolve his resounding questions. Lady was dead. She was dead and it should have been something as simple as an illness. Human life was far too fragile to tamper long in a supernatural world. He felt Trish's hand tighten around his waist. No time for mourning.

"I said, we don't have to go. Furthermore, we need to finish our conversation."

Dante snorted at her desire to bring up their unfinished business of last week. Trish would raise the dead if she could. No time for conversation either. The light had changed and he was on his way outside of town for a surprise.

The gas station was still standing. The storefront windows had been blown out; the two self-service gas pumps were skeletal remains and the large silver bulb gas tank once on the side of the store only held an outline of its memory. Kyrie didn't have a scratch on her, though she was dotted with blood, and Nero was in a seizing fit, writhing in the bloody mud.

She was cradling him in her arms when the headlights from Red Rocket fell upon them like a halo and the pair of benevolent heroes stepped off the red steed and greeted her with surprised expressions.

Kyrie had only seen Dante twice before, neither on especially favorable terms and now she was uncertain of how to respond to him. Trish on the other hand was a virtual stranger. Dante winked at her casually, getting the blush he was looking for and stooped down over Nero. Kyrie shuffled to her feet when Dante seized his collar and sat him up, hugging her arms around her body as if she were exposed. Dante rolled his eyes at her coy behavior.

"Hey, kid! You alive?"

Nero peeled open his eyes. "Dante…H-how did you find –?"

Dante held up a hand to silence him. He placed the same hand on his shoulder to steady him when he tried to get up.

"My spider sense was tingling." He pointed a thumb over his shoulder at Alastor who was humming a faint greeting.

Nero's mouth flopped open but no words came out. Dante put his shoulder into his midsection and stood with him flopped over his back like a sack of sand.

"One question," Dante started, steadying himself under his weight. "Who did this to you?"

Nero managed to gurgle a reply. "I did."

Dante turned to face a dusty little El Camino hugging the shoulder across the street. The roof was smashed in as if it had been flipped over but it was otherwise in decent condition. Dante seemed to appreciate the find.

"Nice! Trish, take the girl and follow me back." He tossed her the motorcycle keys and started toward the car as the sound of wailing police sirens and ambulances neared.

"Just in time…" He grumbled, dropping Nero into the tail bed.

Then it started to rain.