(This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the writer's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to somebody else's work and/or actual events, organizations, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.)
(I do not own Devil May Cry or any other related title. All rights belong to Capcom)
Please, do not forget to review, favorite, and follow.
I am SOOOOOOO sorry for the late update. I've been doing a lot of stuff that prevented me from posting this new chapter, such as playing and enjoying the new Devil May Cry 5, writing another story, and suffering from the most hated enemies that a writer like me has to battle on a daily bases; I am of course talking about Writer's Block. But now, I have finally mustered up the strength, prevailed over it, and this new, but short, chapter came out as a result, which I am very happy for.
And now, with that out of the way, please, ladies and gentlemen, demons and devils alike, enjoy this brand new chapter of A Fistful of Devils. ;)
- Chapter Two -
Old Friends
Just about every single human being all over the entireness of the saloon fixed themselves completely upon hearing the correct name of the white-haired stranger and they all goggled at him openmouthed and virtually fear-stricken. Even the poker players stopped their game and gaped at him, waves of trepidation and anxiety washing over them like ocean waves, the cards in each of their own shuddering hands dropping to the wooden floor or back onto the stilted table in heaps. Nevan and Elena maneuvered away from Dante and immediately beelined for the backdoor behind the bar. One person whispered, his voice trembling with distress,
"That's Dante? As in the Man in Red?"
"That's the man who killed them Cerberus Brothers," said another.
"As I live and breathe," murmured a third, fear captivating his very being. "The Devil of Red Grave himself." Dante sighed annoyedly under his breath. Great. Just what he always wanted. More attention brought upon himself. He drew his light-gray hat from the bar and positioned it back onto his white-haired head, doing his utmost best to give his suddenly altered situation no mind at all of any kind, like nothing had ever happened, even though he recognized that it obviously had. He flashed the sheriff another smile.
"Been about fifteen years since we last met, Morrison," he said. "Where does the time go?" Morrison simply smiled. He then trailed his eyes down at Dante's gun holsters that were strapped to both of his legs.
"I see ya got yourself a new pair of irons," the sheriff commented. "What happened to Luce and Ombra?" Dante sighed through his somewhat large nose.
"Let's just say that they… outlived their usefulness," he stated grimly. But then, he snorted with a chuckle. "Just kiddin'. I loaned them to a good friend o' mine. Rest assured, they're being well taken care of." Morrison formed an interested expression.
"Then who are the new blood?" the sheriff asked. The cock-eyed smile of the red-clad bounty hunter grew bigger. Prudently, after downing another mouthful of his beer mug, the bounty hunter sauntered on over towards Morrison until he was less than ten feet away and drew out both of his duel revolvers. On instinct, everyone, but Morrison, hurriedly scampered off to the far end of the public house, undoubtedly fearful of what they had all supposed what was about to transpire. Dante quirked a single eyebrow at this, but then rolled his eyes in annoyance. He turned his gaze back to the sheriff, once again paying them no mind. He then held out both of his irons as if he were about to give them away.
"Notice anything about them?" he asked.
Morrison rubbed his chin in thought as he stared intently at the two six-irons. Both were 1858 Remington New Model Army revolvers, just like Dante's last pair of pistols. Although, these ones were very much different in appearance, despite looking the same in terms of model; the one in Dante's left hand was a polished black, while the one in his right was stainless silver. Each pistol was covered in detailed ornamental engravings, all around from the cylinders and frames all the way to the barrels. And lastly, both hammers and triggers were a gold color, and the grips were of a specific type of brown wood.
"I gotta say," Morrison said, "Some mighty fine work of craftsmanship, I'll give ya that. They percussion or conversion?"
"Conversion," Dante responded.
"They got names too or what?" Morrison asked. Dante responded by first indicating to the polished black Remington in his left hand.
"Ebony… " he said, and then he gestured to the stainless silver firearm in his right, "and Ivory." Sheriff Morrison muttered a simple, "Hmmm…" with an impressed expression plastered on his moustached face and then muttered about how quite appropriate those names seem to be.
"One other thing that's got me a tad curious," he said. "What kind of benefit to you gain against your enemies with those fancy-looking engravings?"
"They don't give me none," the bounty hunter specified ingenuously. The sheriff raised his left eyebrow confusingly.
"Then why do it?" Morrison asked, as he watched Dante place Ebony and Ivory back into each of their own respective holsters.
"To let other folks know that they are truly mine," Dante explicated, "and nobody else's," He then crossed his arms against his chest, and stood there silently for a moment or two, as if he was waiting for the sheriff to speak next. In conclusion, Morrison understood, and he spoke again.
"I take it you're not here just to catch up on old times, right?" he asked. Dante nodded as he said that the sheriff assumed appropriately as he raised up his left hand and dug deep into his crimson-red duster, until he eventually drew a small piece of writing paper that was folded into a tiny bundle and the bounty hunter offered it out to the sheriff.
"Got your letter and came here as I could," Dante said. "Somethin' about an important meeting?"
With that, Morrison gestured for the red-clad bounty hunter to follow along with him outside of the saloon, with no further questions asked from Dante, since he knew that once he was out, the people inside would calm down, but in truth, he doubted so, now that word of his presents in the city will eventually spread like wildfire. Walking passed through the swinging doors and back outside, Dante continued to follow the sheriff down the sheltered sidewalk of the buildings that connected with one another, staying clear away from the pouring rain that continued to drench the streets from all around in the process. Once after they finally reached the other end of town, the pair came to their left upon the wooden front door of a single two-floor building.
There were three windows, two above and one on the left side of the door. The exterior was made up of fresh mahogany wood. Noticing a large tin sign that hung near the door, Dante read the words that were painted on the flattened side; "Capulet Jailhouse and Sheriff's Office." Once after Morrison twisted the steel brass knob and then opened the door, he gestured for Dante to walk inside first. The red-clad bounty hunter did so and gazed around at his new environment. The ceiling reached up to be nearly ten feet in height and the room itself seem to expand about twenty feet across. To his left was a simple wooden desk with a small oil lamp resting on the side as well as an assortment of papers lying closely next to it, and on the right were jailcells that were lined up in a single row, going across from Dante's location to the other end of the jailhouse.
"Hey, deputy!" Morrison shouted to the ceiling, slamming the iron bars of a nearby cell, which echoed across the room. "Wake up! We got a visitor!"
"Alright, be right with ya, sheriff!" a voice called out from above, a voice which caused Dante to pucker his brow in curiosity. That was strange. If he did not know any better, he swore that it sounded very familiar. Like something that which he had not heard in a very long time. The red-clad bounty hunter got his answer when a lone figure, no doubt the deputy, emerged from a short flight of stairs located at the far-left side of the jailhouse. Once after the deputy came before the two, Dante leaned to the side to try and get a much better look at the man's face, but when he did so, recognition instantly swallowed his brain cells and an essence of fury and bitterness grew within the whitehaired bounty hunter. The deputy, upon recognizing Dante, frowned and then began to sweat with fear.
There was no hiding it now.
"Uh, Dante," he said with a nervous smile. "Well, ain't this a surprise." Dante's eyes narrowed into a low scowl.
"Enzo Ferino," he grumbled murderously "As I live and breathe."