The Seventh Law of Demonism

I don't like to associate myself with people of lesser stature. If ever I were to say such a thing to a stranger, they would scoff at my delusional perspective of myself: a grungy, lanky teenager with no family and a few cheap possessions? Not exactly a person of high stature. In the NYC social hierarchy I'd probably be placed in the bottom ranks with deranged homeless people and impoverished illegal immigrants. But whoever thought that of me clearly didn't really know me.

Incidentally, I was currently associating with people far below my stature. And our friendly gathering wasn't going anywhere nice.

"D'you have an Ipod or some kind of electronic expensive shit?" The first mugger demanded eagerly. A lit cigarette hung loosely from his nearly toothless mouth.

"No," I grumbled indignantly.

They continued to raid the contents of my bag, frowning at such finds as endless lists of handwritten names accompanied by specific addresses and locations, good quality photos of USA cities and towns, and several Swiss army knives.

"You don't even have a phone?" the other mugger asked impatiently.

I shook my head, watching him anxiously.

The first mugger was an empty-headed loser. It was his impatient companion I worried about. He looked like a cowardly man who was feeling and detesting the feeling of a cold gun pressing up against him, concealed by his clothes. I knew he had a gun. It was a kind of intuitive nature I'd adopted after encountering so many criminals.

The first mugger pulled out my ID and strained to read it. "Landon Crane," he announced in a haughty, mock-proper voice. Then he snickered with delight and tossed it into a large trash bin behind him.

I could've easily overcome them—but I knew the second guy had a gun. And since every demon I knew detested me with a burning passion and would never allow me into their home to heal, I couldn't risk sustaining any kind of major wound.

I watched them, feeling more passive and useless and weak than I'd ever felt.

They finally gathered up my few valuables (the knives and a few watches I'd taken from local jewelry stores) and began hurrying down the alleyway.

I sighed and began gathering up my strewn possessions one-by-one, fantasizing about throwing the two crooks into the garbage bin they'd carelessly tossed my ID in and slamming the lid shut with satisfying finality.

They had left behind one pocket knife in their haste. I crouched to examine it, opening the blade and staring vacantly at the blunt tip.

The wail of sirens that was so customary in NYC droned very close. I glanced up and saw that the muggers were running madly towards me; there was a police officer pursuing them, gun firmly in outstretched hands.

The pushed past me, screaming, "thanks for the stuff, kid!" as they did so, laughing maniacally as their swift legs carried them far away from the elderly officer.

The officer shouted, "Stand up and raise your hands or I'll shoot!"

But the muggers were long gone.

He had mistaken me for one of the crooks.

"No, I'm not"—I began as I straightened, but the officer interrupted me with a sharp, "shut up!"

"Put the weapon down!" he ordered.

I realized with a jolt that I was holding a knife.

"No, listen," I began to explain, approaching him swiftly before the situation could worsen.

There was a sickening, ear-splitting noise, and following that a horrible, sharp pain in my chest.

The officer had shot me.

I collapsed to the ground and immediately began fumbling around in my scattered belongings for a list. I was panting heavily, clutching my wound with one hand and pawing around for my lists with the other. I found one and scanned it eagerly…there were bright red Xs through each name: demons I'd pissed off. Demons that wouldn't help me heal.

The police officer was hurrying warily towards me.

In an impulsive decision, I followed my instincts. I had the basic intuition of a demon: I could sense acutely the presence of other demons. I let myself be led to the nearest one, friend or not.

I appeared in a hotel room, evidently close to where I'd been mugged, and landed heavily on the carpets. The jump had been too much for my sensitive wound. But the presence of another demon was already healing me: I had stopped bleeding.

I glanced around cautiously, wondering where my instinct had brought me. I didn't know of any demons that actually liked me and would let me stay with them to heal, and I certainly did know a few who would gladly kill me in my rare moment of vulnerability.

The room was immaculate. I started to doubt that this was a demon I knew, considering most demons were outrageously messy. Then Claire emerged from the bathroom, eyes wide and wild. Of course her instincts had told her a demon was near as soon as I'd appeared in her room—but did they tell her who?

"Landon?" she scoffed, disbelieving. "You're alive?"

I exhaled slowly, in relief. Claire hated me, but she would never kill me. She might even let me heal with her if I sweet-talked her enough.

"Not for long if you don't help me," I muttered, motioning with my head towards my rather conspicuous wound.

"Really? You stole all my money, and you expect me to heal you?" her incredulous expression wasn't helping me relax.

"I just need one touch, and the wound will"—

"Landon," she said calmly, staring icily at me resentment I didn't know she was capable of. "Any other demon would easily kill you in this situation. Luckily for you, I don't kill. But that doesn't mean I'll help." She sighed, and lowered her eyes. "Get out. Before I make you."

"Claire!" I cried. "I'll die!"

"Go, please." She offered an apologetic look.

Reluctantly, I allowed my instincts to guide me once again. I appeared (painfully) in a quaint living room of a tiny-seeming home. My surroundings were unfamiliar, which was a good sign. I'd never robbed this demon's house…

I wandered towards the faint presence of a demon. It seemed strangely distant, though my instincts never brought me more than a few feet away from a demon when I was set on just that.

I peered into a bedroom where a young brunette sat on the edge of her bed, a text book in her lap. This was the source of the demon presence—only she wasn't a demon.

She looked up suddenly and registered a grungy stranger in her home—and screamed.

I appeared in front of her and clamped my hand over her mouth. Her struggling was weak and horribly human-like. She didn't try to jump to another country like many demons would in a situation where they were the lesser demon. She didn't try to break my arm with her hands or shake the entire room using her mind to throw me off her. She just thrashed around with pathetic human-strength and tactics. She wasn't demon. But the presence was unmistakable, and the pain in my chest was beginning to fade.

"Who are you?" I asked, and let go of her so she could speak.

"I'll call the police! I'll scream!" she shouted wildly. She capitalized her rare moment of freedom and made a pathetic attempt at escape.

I appeared lazily in front of her and she screamed reflexively, shielding her face as if her meek, trembling hands would protect her. "Who are you?" she cried. "And what are you doing in my house?"

"I'm just seeking a quick heal," I explained calmly, and I grabbed her arm. The wound began to close. The direct physical contact was finalizing the healing process. Touching her, I knew she wasn't demon. But she wasn't human either. Which led me to think: does she know she's a demon? Does she know anything?

"What are you doing?" she pulled away quickly, staring quizzically and fearfully up at me with bright, amber eyes. "A quick heal?"

"Oh no," I moaned. "Please say you're joking…." I began pacing back and forth nervously. "Are you…are you uninformed?"

"I'm calling the police," she announced and began walking briskly away.

"Don't try," I warned her patiently.

She returned with a portable phone, staring accusingly at me. "The line's dead. Did you"—

"I couldn't let you call them," I explained sheepishly.

"What did you do? Do you have some kind of crazy new-age technology?"

"That lets me teleport and disconnect phone lines on demand?" I countered with a smirk.

She was visibly shaken by this. "So it happened, then."

"We need to talk," I said, uncomfortably. The seventh law of demonism read that no demon should inform the uninformed. The uninformed were offsprings of an impure coupling (a demon and a human) who didn't know of their demon heritage. The offspring was usually an accident: the result of a careless demon looking for a quick romp. The demon usually would never know they'd impregnated some poor human woman until a few decades later some vengeful young half-demon showed up at their door step with a stern expression and a machete. This was why when demons encountered half-demons, they wouldn't tell them what they were or where they came from. The half-demons would become consumed by their heritage, eventually would become bitter, then set out to murder their father: the demon that carelessly impregnated their mother.

Here I was informing the uninformed. Breaking a sacred code so some clueless highschooling half-demon could be less confused.

"You're just going to have to listen to me for the next few hours," I said. "Is your mom coming home anytime soon?"

"My mom's dead," she replied shortly, her bright eyes darkening a nearly indistinguishable shade. "But my step dad will be home at midnight."

A step-father? That was good. Half-demons surely would feel less prone to avenge their mothers if their mother had found substantial love after being impregnated by a demon.

"Okay that's two hours…" I paced back and forth. How could I lay this out nicely? Watch out: if you get mad things will explode! Or: you're actually part of a super secret underground group of people called demons who are supernaturally capable and incredibly dangerous. Or how about: oh hey, you're partially immortal…

It all sounded a little overwhelming.

"I really don't know how to explain," I admitted.

There was a disconcerting noise from the other room, and the presence of three powerful demons overcame me.

"Do you feel that?" the amber-eyed girl whispered.

"We need to leave," I said flatly. "Hold on." I grabbed her arm and we appeared in downtown Tokyo.

The amber-eyed girl gasped and clutched my arm.

"What did you do?" she demanded breathlessly.

"They're after me…" I said distractedly. "Claire must've told them…"

"What are you talking about?" my new friend was nearly hysterical. I pulled her aside and began speaking in a low, grave tone. "there are a lot of people who'd like it if I were dead. And about ten minutes ago I stupidly let someone who knows those people know that I was wounded and vulnerable. I'm healed, but they're still after me. When a demon bleeds, their susceptibility is pretty much broadcasted to any demon within a 400 mile radius. That's why they found me so easily. My blood is all over your house…"

The girl was silent for a moment. Then she said, "What's a demon?"

I pulled her towards the underground. "Not important now. Surviving is important."

"But you're not bleeding anymore…" she pointed out. "They can't find us."

"No, they can." I swallowed uneasily. "Once they have some of my blood they can find me anywhere in the world."

"Can they do what you do…teleport?"

"Jumping? Of course. All demons can. And they will."

I skidded to a halt, holding out my arm to let my companion know to not go any further. There was Derrick: leather-clad and perpetually angry. He was scouring the subway cars.

"He's already here," I whispered.

I grabbed her hand and we appeared in a quiet neighborhood in Toronto.

"Why did you take me with you?" the amber-eyed girl asked. "Why did you drag me into this?"

"They would've killed you."

"Why?" she prompted.

"You have an insatiable curiosity," I commented mildly.

She stopped speed-walking and stomped her foot childishly. "With good reason," she said evenly. "Why would they kill me?"

I sighed. "Because…because you're a half-demon. They hate half-demons."

She stared blankly. "What?"

"Come on," I urged her. "We really need to go."

"Too late!" a familiar voice sang.

Derrick had the innocent amber-eyed girl's neck in her arms before I could register shock on my face.

She struggled feebly and Derrick laughed. "Never saw you as a rule-breaker, Landon."

I scowled at him. "Let her go. She hasn't done anything."

"Well she's with you. That's an offense enough."

"Let me go!" the girl cried. "Or I'll scream!"

"That's likely to work," Derrick said laughingly. He threw her down and smiled at me coldly. "I'll make you an offer. Give me the Halfling and I'll forget our past disputes."

"What do you want with her?" I asked cautiously.

"Is it so hard to believe that I want a friend?" Derrick said, feigning hurt. "I was actually looking for Halflings, they're of a certain preciousness to my boss."

"That's reassuring," I snapped. "You can't have her."

"I don't need your permission, buddy," Derrick said with a sly grin. He grabbed Massie and they disappeared soundlessly.

"No!" I cried.

I had none of Derrick's blood to trace him. And no tracking skills whatsoever.

I'd lost her.