*****
Chapter One
The telephone was ringing.
Anthony J. Crowley, the Serpent and Flash Bastard, reached for the receiver next to his bed and glanced at the caller ID. It was Aziraphale, his angelic counterpart. (1)
The demon pushed the 'talk' button. "'Lo?"
"Crowley?"
"No, just some bloke who answers this number. Yes 's me, who'd ya expect?" the demon groused, yawning.
Aziraphale continued with the determination of one that has woken Crowley up many times in the past millennia and knows very well it won't get easier. "I hope this isn't an inconvenient time—"
"Bloody well is, I'm asleep."
"You're not sleeping now," Aziraphale pointed out. "And since you're awake, I-"
"It's your fault I'm awake."
A patient sigh. "I'm terribly sorry I woke you, dear boy, but I think something bad is going to happen."
"Something bad is always happening, angel. We're on Earth."
"I mean, something bad is going to happen nearby," the angel clarified.
"Bad things happen everywhere," Crowley snapped, wishing he was still asleep. "Even in London. Especially in London."
"Dash it all, Crowley," Aziraphale said. "I mean something unnatural, something occult, something we should pay attention to."
"Some kid's probably trying to summon a hellhound or something. I'm going back to sleep. 'Nite."
"It's only dusk and Do Not Hang Up on Me, Anthony Crowley." (2)
The demon grumbled, but he didn't disconnect the call.
"I just know things are going to go…wrong. I'm going to try and pinpoint the source."
"And why'd you call me, again?"
There was Silence. (3)
Crowley stifled a groan. He'd probably hurt the Principality's feelings. Not that he cared if he had; it was just that a hurt angel was an annoying angel, with the sulking, the reproachful glares, the large, injured eyes, etc, etc. "I mean, what's your plan?"
"As I said, I'm going to search for the source. I called—in lieu of the Arrangement," he said this deliberately, as if to remind Crowley of it in case he'd forgotten. "To let you know what I'm up to."
"You don't have to call and tell me every move you make or every premonition you get, y'know."
"Yes, well, I have a feeling this will involve some of your people, so I figured you should be duly warned." He'd also thought that perhaps Crowley would like to come along, but that had been, the angel could tell, a foolish notion.
"Happy hunting."
"You'll be staying in, then?" Aziraphale asked casually.
"Yeah," Crowley replied. He knew Aziraphale wouldn't have minded—and might have actually wanted—company, but the Serpent didn't want to get involved. In a situation where he'd be forced to pick between Hell and the Arrangement with Aziraphale, he'd have to pick Hell (especially after the Apocalypse-that-wasn't) if he didn't want to be tortured for eternity. Hence why he didn't want to get drawn in. "I'm going back to sleep."
"I'll see you another time," Aziraphale said, his tone slightly injured.
"Ciao."
"Sweet dre— " the angel started to say, despite the fact he knew demons (and angels) generally didn't dream, but Crowley hung up. Just as well, the angel thought. Crowley wouldn't have welcomed the well-wish, anyway.
1. Really, looking at the ID was a habit—Crowley didn't actually need to look. It was always Aziraphale. No telemarketers dared call him.
2. He said this the same way that certain mothers say, 'Do Not Use That Tone with Me, Young Man.'
3. Yes, silence with a capital 'S'—no one can do an injured pause quite like an angel.
*****
A teenager stumbled into his aunt's vacant warehouse (a relic of her dead husband's failed business) and froze. His older brother was lying on the floor in front of several summoning circles, a protective triangle, runes, and lots of complicated looking things drawn in blood. Beyond him, standing in the midst of the innermost circle, was what could only be a demon.
The demon was lithe and thin and, though in human form, still gave off the vibe of 'ambush-predator.'
"Oh god," the boy said.
"Not quite." The Opener of all Locks, Surgat, replied. "And you are…?"
"Ryan," he replied automatically. In a daze, he continued, "You took Matt's soul, didn't you?"
And then he shook himself and ran over to his brother only to realize that he had broken one of the barriers in the process. The blue chalk-line disappeared.
Surgat, rather than letting out a triumphant cackle, pinched the bridge of his nose. Personally, he preferred a straight business transaction, but now the circle was broken and he would be expected to run around and wreak havoc. The One Who Needs No Keys was the sneaky type: he could unlock anything, he was the real King of Thieves, and running around wreaking havoc wasn't his style. A surreptitious poisoning? If necessary. A back-stabbing? Yeah, okay. But open havoc? It was not him.
Besides, he kind of liked the kid Matt (1), who was clever and sneaky, for a human. Well, so much for the original reason he was there—he could honor the bargain later. Surgat's green eyes focused on Ryan.
Ryan's brown eyes focused on the holy water.
1. Well, he didn't want to disembowel him while laughing at his mortal remains, which, coming from a demon, is rather like liking someone.
*****
Crowley replaced the phone on its hook and rolled over. He knew what Aziraphale was feeling—he could sense it, too. A sense of foreboding. What he didn't mention was that he could feel the faint trace of another demonic Presence in the area. This was more troubling than a load of presentiments, but the Presence didn't approach his apartment or a certain bookstore, so Crowley didn't worry over much. (1) He went back to pursuing Sloth in the comfort of his own bed. (2)
A short while later, the demon woke up abruptly. (3) Growling at the knowledge that he was awake again and likely to remain so, Crowley sat up.
What had woken him this time?
Then he felt a certain Principality's Presence—which was, to Crowley, a sense of holy light and tea, feeding the ducks, moldy books, chocolate cocoa, dust, skipping through the grass like an idiot, and other fluffy angelic things. The angelic aura was heading in the same direction as the demonic Presence.
Aziraphale was going after the other demon. (4) Blessed angel. Didn't he know that any demon (excluding Crowley himself) would automatically attack the Principality on sight? Crowley sighed. Of course Aziraphale knew that, but he was going to investigate anyway, the daft bugger.
Growling under his breath and pulling off the rubber gloves, the Serpent miracled the Holy water back into storage behind the Mona Lisa sketch. (5) Then he hurried out of his apartment, making sure to give his plants a look that promised painful-leafy-deaths-to-come on the way out. Crowley told himself he was just going to see the demon that was muscling in on his territory. (6) He certainly wasn't going in order to give the angel some back up.
1. Meaning that he didn't panic, at any rate.
2. With some of the Holy Water Aziraphale had made for him in a spray bottle on his nightstand. He also conjured heavy rubber gloves and put them on before going back to sleep. 'Be Prepared' is the Cub Scout motto, but it is also the motto of demons in general and Crowley in particular, since he was now in Hell's Really-Really-Really-Awful books, also known as the Oh-Shit-This-Is-Worse-Than-Bad books. (Hell might not have any other kind of books than bad ones, but it does have varying degrees of them. Even if Hell had not officially punished Crowley for helping to avert the Apocalypse, that didn't mean they were anywhere close to happy with him.)
3. By which, the author means that the demon jerked awake as one does in the movies, his feet tangled in his covers, and promptly fell out of bed with a thump (and a curse). This was not an unusual way for Crowley to wake up.
4. The angel would be none too pleased with the new Presence—demons were expressively Not Welcome in Aziraphale's opinion—excluding Crowley, of course, who the angel considered less like a demon and more like a friend, really.
5. He wasn't going to carry it with him for Something's sake, even if he was heading toward another demon. What if it spilled?
6. Demons are very territorial, after all. The hellhounds especially. One should feel sorry for the janitors of Hell, who have to cope with all the territory marking. Hellhound urine is extremely hard to clean up and it causes set in stains like anything.
*****
Principality Aziraphale was following the faint trace of magic and demon like a hound dog on a scent. (1) Bystanders, had they paid any attention to him (which they didn't, because he didn't want them to), would have labeled him merely as an absent-minded wanderer, instead of a man-shaped being on a mission. Winding through London, he concentrated as hard as he could on the thin thread of demonic aura. And then his job got easier; the demonic Presence intensified.
"Oh dear," the angel muttered. Checking to see that no one was around, he spread out his wings and flew (literally) toward the source.
The demon was in a warehouse. Bother, Aziraphale thought. Nothing good ever happened in warehouses—it was practically a Law of Nature.
As if to prove the point, a shriek of anger and pain came from inside the building and shattered all the windows.
Aziraphale hovered in place a moment to avoid being hit by the shards of glass. He could feel a human nearby as well as the demon. Squaring himself, the angel flew inside, prepared to defend the human and subdue the demon, sans flaming sword and all.
"Just what is going on in here?" Aziraphale asked loudly as he entered through one of the broken windows (2). As soon as he was inside, he saw a broken summoning circle, a young man limp on the floor, and a spilled glass of holy water. He also sensed that another human had just run away, but Aziraphale had no time to observe anything further because he was suddenly thrown from the air.
After landing painfully, the Principality strengthened his Presence, which made his attacker fall back. Meanwhile, Aziraphale rose to his feet and eyed the tall, skinny, and enraged being. The demon's left arm was melted away and his torso was covered in burns. He winced in sympathy, thinking of his counterpart Crowley. The injuries had no doubt been the cause of the scream, but they did not deter the demon from lashing out again.
Quickly, Aziraphale caught the demon's right arm and threw him into the wall. Holding up his hand, the angel used some of his Power to hold the demon in place. "What happened?" he asked again.
"Kid broke…c-circle…didn't know…who he wasss," the demon hissed, not a Serpentine hiss like Crowley's, but a hiss of pain. He spoke more like he was talking to himself than Aziraphale and his glowing green eyes were unfocused. "C-Couldn't touch…family."
The demon writhed in Aziraphale's imposed grasp, in even more agony from the angelic Presence, and he used what was left of his own to break free. Instantly he lunged forward and, after feinting, twisted unnaturally to latch on to the angel's wings.
Surgat, in terrible agony from the small splash of holy water he'd caught on the arm, was basically beyond coherent thought. (3)
1. Though really, if the angel was going to be a working dog, he probably would've been a therapy dog or a seeing-eye dog.
2. As a battle cry, it admittedly needed some work.
3. If he had any thoughts at all, they were reminiscent of Arnold Schwarzenegger's robotic character in the first Terminator movie. Target: Angel. Mission: Terminate.
*****
A. J. Crowley followed his counterpart in a manner that was slightly faster than walking but was certainly no where near hurried. All the same, when he came to the broken-windowed warehouse, he instantly burst open the doors, making an impressive, looming figure with his claws at the ready. It was a dramatic, flashy entrance (1), but no one noticed.
Aziraphale, his wings out, was kneeling over an unconscious human, pouring healing power into him. Nearby was a stain on the floor. It was still bubbling.
That would be the demon, then. Crowley swallowed as he passed the puddle, moving next to the angel who, on closer inspection, was a bit scratched up.
"What happened?" Crowley asked.
The angel took his hands off the young man with a deep sigh.
"What?" And then the demon took another look at the boy: he was breathing, but his skin was abnormally pale and he felt…unnatural.
"I can't heal him."
"What's wrong with him?"
"It isn't an injury. His soul…seems to be gone."
"Gone?" Crowley crossed his arms. "Demons don't actually devour souls, y'know," he said wryly.
"I know. I think this young man is trapped outside of his body." Aziraphale stood, his wings slightly slumped. "I can't help him."
"What happened with—" Crowley gestured at the stain.
"When I arrived, the demon was already injured, his arm and side burnt. I believe he was discorporating, but slowly. The boy was already on the floor. There was another human here—the one that injured the demon, I'd wager—but whomever it was ran away. He," Aziraphale gestured toward the puddle of melted demon, "attacked me, but I think it was out of agony rather than actual rancor. I tried to talk to him, but he was beyond that, so finally I—I made things a little quicker for him.".
Crowley shook his head—only an angel like Aziraphale would grant a demon mercy. "You hurt?" He pointed toward a white wing speckled with blood.
The Principality shook his head. "He wasn't strong enough to do much damage. They'll heal soon enough on their own." Aziraphale glanced at Crowley. "You didn't happen to recognize the Presence?"
"No."
Sirens wailed in the distance.
"C'mon, angel." Crowley grabbed his arm and pulled him. "We've got to go."
Both rattled, neither angel nor demon noticed the feathers on the floor.
1. He wasn't called the Flash Bastard for nothing. Crowley figured if you're going to make an entrance at a place where you might be put in an uncomfortable situation (such as choosing between an Arrangement and a devilish coworker), you might as well enter impressively.
*****
The air inside of the warehouse shimmered and suddenly, where there had been nothing but dust mites, there was the blurry figure of a young man.
"Surgat, I'm back…" Matt trailed off.
The warehouse was empty.
Completely empty, not counting his body (still lying where he left it) the circles, a nasty stain on the floor, the spilled holy water, and a couple of feathers.
Sirens were shrieking nearby.
"Oh," Matt said.
The circle had been broken and Surgat had been freed. Worse still—the cup that had the holy water in it was overturned. What had happened? How was he supposed to get back into his body without the demon's help? And what was that nasty stain on the floor?
On second thought, he really, really didn't want to know, in case it was what he thought it was.
"Surgat?" Matt called.
Nothing.
And then a faint scuffle of shoes. The spirit turned to see his younger brother, looking terrified, with either holy water or urine staining the front of his jeans.
"Ryan?" Matt asked.
Not answering and, in fact, not hearing him, Ryan ran over to the grimoire and scooped it up. Then he did something peculiar: he knelt and picked up all the feathers off the ground before he crouched near Matt's body.
"I called an ambulance," Ryan whispered. "I-I have to go, but I'll fix this, I promise."
Matt wasn't sure that spirits could actually shout, but he tried to do so at the top of his nonexistent spirit lungs. "Whatever you're thinking, don't do it, you idiot! You don't know what you're getting into!"
Ryan turned and ran out of the warehouse, book and feathers clutched close to his chest.
Matt was once again alone with a body, except that this time it was his own.
And then the paramedics came.
"He has a weak pulse. Is he breathing?"
"Barely. His pupils aren't responding… What the hell went on in here?" The male paramedic gestured to the circles and blood and mess.
The woman shook her head. "Some stupid kid tried to raise the dead or something. Probably scared himself into having a heart attack."
"I summoned a demon, actually." Matt said, not expecting them to hear him.
They didn't.
Matt glumly watched the pair load his body onto a stretcher and cart it away. It was unnerving, seeing himself slung around like a lump of meat. He tried to follow his body, but found that he was rooted to the warehouse. With no where else to go, he drifted back inside.
"This isn't fair!" He tried to kick the overturned cup like a poltergeist, but his foot went through it, not improving his mood. "Surgat, we had a deal, damn it! And it wasn't that I became Casper the fucking ghost!" He paused. "Can't anyone hear me?"
I CAN.
"Geez, you scared me."
I GET THAT A LOT. Death replied, his voice echoing like the inside of an open tomb.
"I'm going to die now?"
NO.
Matt's spirit flickered, uncertain. "Then what?"
Death gave the impression of shrugging a shoulder although he didn't actually move. YOU WAIT.
"Wait for what?"
Another almost-shrug.
"You're the Grim Reaper, right? You've got to have jurisdiction over souls. Can't you put me back?"
MY…'JURISDICTION' IS OVER THE DEAD
"I'm not attached to my body right now," Matt replied impatiently.
NO. YOU ARE HAVING AN OUT OF BODY EXPERIENCE.
If he didn't know better, Matt would have thought Death was attempting to make a joke. Of course, it could have been the constant grin. "So since my body's not dead yet, you can't help me?"
THAT'S RIGHT.
"And I just wait around and hope something happens?"
BASICALLY.
"Why are you here, anyway?"
I AM EVERYWHERE. A pause. AND YOUR SCREAMING WAS GETTING IRRITATING. I CAN HEAR SOULS, YOU KNOW.
"If you're everywhere, does that mean you can stay here and still be, well, reaping souls at the same time?"
YES.
"And can you materialize objects like Surgat could?"
…YES.
"Okay. Well. Wanna play cards?"
THERE IS NOTHING AT STAKE. THERE WOULD NOT BE A POINT.
"Just for fun."
The blue-lights in the sockets that passed for Death's eyes stared at him.
"It'll stop me from screaming," Matt said.
…VERY WELL.
"What game d'you want to play? Poker? Rummy? Hearts?"
I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN FOND OF 'GO FISH.'