Crowley was upset. No, he was beyond upset. Beyond mere anger, beyond incensed, beyond livid. None of the many, many languages he knew contained a term powerful enough to convey the sheer magnitude of Crowley's rage over what had been done to him. This was the seat of his power, soul contracts; gone up in holy smoke.
All over the world, crossroads demons were scrambling in all directions, looking up old customers and offering a 'ten year extension' if they wanted their deal back. Many were happy (or some approximation of the emotion) to have their power, money, fame, talent or whatever it was that they had bargained away their soul for originally restored. By Crowley's count, too many changed their mind. A lot of people too close to their original due date and feeling their own mortality were no longer desperate enough to deal again.
Losses were running about 50/50. It was a blow, no doubt about it. And while his crossroads demons (plus a few more borrowed from other departments) went forth to woo back old clients, there was no time to pursue new contracts. It would take the King of Hell several years to recuperate losses and build back up to full capacity. As a cherry on top of this nasty surprise of a sundae, no contracts meant a forthcoming labor shortage in his future.
Fuming, Crowley resolved to design an entirely new form of torture for whoever did this. He had a short list and a longer list of anyone and everyone capable of doing this. If he couldn't figure out who was actually responsible, Crowley planned on killing them ALL. Slowly.
In the meantime, Crowley did not exempt himself from the task of revisiting old clients. There were quite a few; he was good at his job. But the former King of the Crossroads remembered every man and woman he dealt with and what they dealt for. (Unlike some of his flunkies who might have to be terminated when he could afford the loss.) Securing old contracts severely undercut his available time to investigate the breech of the Contracts Vault. And its security upgrades.
One by one, Crowley checked off names from his list, starting with his most recent and working his way back. Last on his list, his longest standing contract? Raymond Reddington. Concentrating on his magic inherent to his corrupted nature, the demon verified what his senses told him: Raymond Reddington's contract was still intact.
Whoever had razed a little hell, had taken the time to remove at least one contract. Where there others missing in action but still alive? How in the eternal holy hell would Crowley tell what wasn't destroyed from the ashes?
Well, he knew where to start.
.o0o.
Raymond Reddington couldn't say he loved many things. He did enjoy a multitude of pleasures, however. Today he indulged himself in one of the simpler things in life: a perfectly fitting suit of clothes. Really, really skilled tailors were distressingly hard to find in the United States. That's why Yanof was such a find. The ex-patriot of Slovenia possessed an amazing eye for fabric lines preternaturally talented fingers. Sadly, his client base in this country was growing very slowly due his lack of facility with English. Happily, Red's grasp of Slovene was more than up to the task of expressing his needs.
"I see the next time something eats my tailor I should ask you for a replacement recommendation," a cool British voice mused from behind.
Yanof startled and cried, "Tristo kosmaith medvedov!"
Red muffled his own exclamation as Yanof accidentally jabbed one of the pins into Red's flesh in his surprise.
Crowly chuckled. "I love Slovene expressions. 'Three hundred hairy bears' instead of 'bloody hell.' Always makes me laugh."
Yanof's cry brought Dembe running into the room, gun drawn. Lazily, the demon waved a hand throwing Dembe in one direction and his gun another. The big body guard rolled back to his feet after impact and growled his displeasure, but made no further moves against their surprise visitor. He knew it wouldn't do much good; no matter how much he disliked Crowley.
Gingerly, Red removed the needle from his hip. "Ah, Mister Crowley, it has been forever. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Business, Darling. Not pleasure."
"If you can't mix a little bit of the latter into the former, then what's the point?" Red countered neatly. He handed the tailor the offending pin and shooed him off. If the King of Hell shows up unexpectedly, it wouldn't be for social obligations. Not to mention that a man needed all his faculties focused when dealing with the being. These interactions well and truly kept Red on his toes.
"True, I do enjoy my work," Crowley agreed. "How have your endeavors been going, Raymond? How is our precious little Lizzy these days?"
Red kept his body relaxed even though he hated, passionately, whenever the demon mentioned Elizabeth. "Things with the FBI are progressing more or less as expected. Excepting a road bump or two. But nothing so detrimental that the end goal is out of reach."
Crowley smiled. (Not that the expression did anything to ease Red's mind.) "Yes, all roads to victory. I've never known you to have only one rod in the fire. Quite the impressive juggling act you have going with them."
"One must be flexible," Red shrugged.
"One must also know when one is overreaching." The demon's face never lost its amiable expression. "No matter how well you manage, with your hands that busy something is bound to slip through your fingers. When was the last time you spoke to dear Elizabeth?"
Anger and worry flared up in Red's heart: the Kind of Hell did not go out of his way to mention a human woman twice without some kind of threat underneath his words. Even so, Red picked his response carefully. "It was my understanding that you are contractually obligated to keep Elizabeth healed of her original injuries as well as her safety from mental or bodily harm from demonic activity or possession. From all demons, yourself included."
"Ah yes. That little addendum," Crowley murmured, before turning to face Red square on. "It seems you have a problem."
Red's surprise showed clearly on hid face. "Have I not kept my obligations to you?"
Crowley nodded. "You have. Beautifully, I might add. But you see, you were never obligated to me, personally. The contract clearly stated that you are beholden to whoever holds your contract. I wasn't going to let a soul off the hook if something happened to my handsome self."
Mind cycling through possibilities, Red realized something. "You lost my contract." He couldn't keep the awe and hope from coloring his voice.
"I lost ALL the BLOODY CONTRACTS!" Crowley bellowed. Electricity flickered and several light bulbs shorted out. Sparks and shards of glass flew in all directions.
Dembe started a soft but fervent prayer in his own language in the face of such a uncontrolled display of power. His grip tightened with futility on his gun and cast a questioning glance at Red.
Red knew they were all walking on eggshells here. He had never seen the suave demon in such a state. It really brought home how out of his depth he really was when dealing with the supernatural.
Crowley drew a deep breath and twitched his shoulders back into something approximating relaxed. Voice once again calm, he continued. "Its still active. But whoever has it, is the one that owns you body and soul."
"That's-" Red swallowed the lump in his throat. "That's... disconcerting."
"In the meantime, the former Miss Rostova also know as the current Mrs. Agent Keen, is fair game to anyone and anything who might hold you responsible for losses incurred."
"I assure you, Mister Crowley, I had nothing to do with-"
"Yes, Raymond, you did." Crowley interrupted, voice cold. "You see, whoever this is, they took the time and the effort to single you out. You, Raymond. And if I find out this was in any way, shape, or form your idea, I will take the girl and your guard dog," he gestured at Dembe. "Do I need to finish that threat? Or will your imagination suffice for what I will do to them?"
"Mister Crowley, there is no need. I will look into things on my end and I will let you know what I find," Reddington assured the demon.
"Do that. I'll be in touch. Toodles, Darling." Crowley moved to walk out the doorway, then paused. "Oh, before I go, do you have a business card for Yanof? I haven't found that perfect tailor yet and he looks like he knows his business."
"Do you promise not to kill him if it doesn't work out?" Red returned easily, slipping back into congenial concierge. "Please don't make me find a new tailor as well."
"Very well, but only because you asked nicely." Crowley plucked the card from Red's outstretched fingers then vanished into thin air.
"Brother, tell me you had nothing to do with..." Dembe gestured at the empty space where Crowley previously stood and the theft he represented.
"No." Red answered plainly. "No, nothing at all. It would seem I need to find out who's strings I will be dancing to."
