Chapter 10: Vici

Chapter Text

I looked down from the white rooftop quite a ways away; invisible to everything in the cold darkness of the night, melded as one within its hungry stomach. I peered in through that broken, jagged window from whence I came; staring into that blinding piss-yellow light. Innumerable shadows were dancing along the walls; police officers, paramedics, and of course the blonde she-devil.

Down below law enforcement vehicles were parked haphazardly in front of the little inn; their red and blue lights flashing and twirling against the building, the snow. A lone ambulance was present as well.

Everything was silent.

Human police officers and health care workers. No doubt alerted by whatever frightened proletariat worked down on the ground floor of the inn. Perhaps they were young, dozing away at the front desk with their chin resting on their knuckle; only to be startled awake by the sound of gunfire and thunderous lightning which had forced their hand to scramble for the phone.

I massaged my aching jaw in irritation, scratching and picking at the outbreak of blisters that ate away at my chin and both corners of my mouth. My wounds weeping, pus trailing down my chin like a thin sap; disturbing my concentration.

Out of an instinctual need, I tried to inhale to get any hint of their scents, but alas the only thing I could smell clearly was my own blood. Its odour was burning and acidic; stinging to my nostrils and throat. Soiled to the point of unfamiliarity by the holy water.

I grimaced, still feeling the crack of the vial shattering against my face. My skin lying in chunks amongst the broken glass at my feet. Through my aching skull my thoughts fumbled, cutting themselves on the fragments as they crawled slowly towards the human lady with her delicate, crushable bones.

I wondered, would she survive the night? Or would her fire die out into nothing and leave her mate stranded in the darkness?

I imagined her lying wilted on the floor; still gasping and choking, helpless. Her mismatched eyes alive with the purest kind of pain; deliciously lustrous and rheumy with tears that she could not stop. The tails of her torn ebony coat splayed about like the curled petals of a withering black iris. The victim of a demon (not my first and not my last) who was at the mercy of those around her.

Was the she-devil crying? Not eye water (that means nothing) but actual tears? Were they streaming down her face, ruining whatever cosmetics she was wearing? Was her hand pressed hard against her mouth to suppress her sobs, her maquillage staining her palm as red as a pomegranate that had been trampled open underfoot?

I could almost see the she-devil whispering to her mate that everything was going to be alright, her voice as broken as her heart. Nauseous with worry and hating herself for her own weakness as she would brush her mates hair out of her face or smooth it down. Fretting, fretting, fretting like a lioness steeling herself for yet another oncoming attack.

For many demons, the well-being of their mates often takes precedence over all else; not only their own health, but also the need for food, shelter, or rest. I've seen many a demon wither away to nothing when their mates were fatally wounded. Frosts and Blades would maim themselves, slicing open their own flesh, feeding their dying mates their own skin and blood in a useless attempt to get them to live for just a little longer.

(Some would even sacrifice their own cubs.)

I knew then that she would not pursue me. Both Nero and I were the farthest things from her mind.

Having seen enough, I stepped away and left them behind; heading out into the night.

I feel no shame for what I had done. If the human did not wish to be in that situation, she should not have attacked me so recklessly. Letting her emotions run as rampant as they had, letting her anger boil over; that's no different from praying for death.

The same can be said about Nero.

Down on the empty street, I had nothing but the sound of my own footsteps for company.

I clenched my teeth together, clicking them once, twice, thrice; to make sure that all were there. Though it still felt as if my face were torn apart; my muscles shredded and pulling. My tingling jaw swinging to and fro like a pendulum made of ivory.

Tic-tok. Tok-tic.

It's funny in an odd way, had any attack even remotely similar to this occurred a little over a month ago, just one day before I had taken that tiny piece of Dante's soul…

It would have been the end of me.

Thinking back, it felt so strange (but not at all unwelcome) that such a small piece of a soul came with such godlike power. Hardly a mouthful had fed me so well; I haven't had any desire to eat ever since then…

After I had taken the mongrel, when I knew for certain that he was gone; there was a light feeling in my chest that I have trouble articulating; even now.

I remember how giddy I was with that strength, almost ludic as I made my way back to the shopkeeper, cantering up to him like an eager dressage horse clothed in red. At that time I was not at all troubled to be wearing the mutt's skin, I suppose one could say that I even relished in it, if only for a little while. The man had paid me for my services, more than just a bit irritated after my flippant Dante-esque apology for leaving him mid-sentence and dashing off.

I took the approach of an idle flaneur; a man who acted as if applause and admiration were due to him with each and every movement that he made, no matter how mundane or banal they were. That the mere flick of his wrist was meant to be met with all the oohs and ahhs of the world.

"You killed all of those things right? Every last one?" The shopkeeper had asked in a serrated tone that heavily contrasted the rubicund nervousness of his plump face; staring at me. It seemed as if he could hardly believe that one man could obliterate an entire group of demons without any sort of trouble at all. This was one of the few instances where the mongrels reputation did not precede him.

I recall having to smirk to stifle my laugh, for I had taken care of that flock of Scarecrow since before that hybrid bastard had even gotten the call.

"Yes sir! It was no problem at all. A little too easy if you ask me!" I remember saying to him with a wide smile that seemed to unsettle him greatly. Even though I had meant him no harm, (he meant nothing to me) that man was still fearful, masking his fright under his saw-like anger and American tough-guy masculinity.

The shopkeeper shoved a bit of money at me, his hand clenched into a tight fist to keep from shaking; silently telling me to leave.

I moved away from him, as satisfied with the encounter as one could get, and headed back into the city.

Everything was drowned in the phantasmagoric delirium of the religious holiday season. The streets were alive with color, as it was the time of year where petty materialistic chaos reigned king of all.

I remember the motley decorations; the sparkling fairy lights; red and gold and white were strung up in doorways and strewn across windows, flashing like multi-colored fireflies. Streetlights were wrapped in garlands, decorated with angels and stars. Cookies, candy, clothing, and toys visible each and everywhere one would think to look. But the thing that stood out the most were the people.

People, humans, mortals.

Nothing but pathetic sacks of souls, covered in meat and gristle; ripe with blood.

So, so many of them; it had made my head throb.

The young and the old hanging onto each other's mitted hands as to not lose one another in the frenzy. Those little fledgling boys and girls that would look up at the clouded sky every chance they could, their tiny tongues poking out, greedy to catch the first snowflakes that had yet to fall. Whilst the busy adults above them carried in their arms bags and parcels whilst chattering away on their wireless cellular phones.

So many scents. Sweet peppermint, cardboard, leather, and the winter coldness of the day.

So many sounds. I could still hear their laughter and chatter echoing around me, the memory of that time nipping at my heels with its teeth, hanging onto my coat tails like a child tugging and whining for attention.

I was in the center of all of that, one of them, or pretended to be. (That was nothing new)

Though the half-breed was always the type who stood out no matter where he was; the personification of heavy emphasis. (Look at me! Look at me!) And even at that particular time of the year when there were men on every street corner, dressed in bright red clothing with white hair, eyes would still manage to turn towards me as if I were the one ringing the bells.

How strange it felt to be recognized and acknowledged fully by others, for I had never taken the form of someone so well-known.

Sometimes their stares would linger, (especially those of the human cubs) other times they were so brief they could hardly be called a glimpse. I entered three different bars where the barkeepers shooed me out as if I were an invasive pest, grumbling about the nerve I had to show my face there before reminding me (no, Him) about various unpaid tabs.

I left His scent behind, weaving about and making a maze that lead straight back into itself like the fake plastic wreathes that covered the doors and windows around me. I walked across streets and up empty alleyways and down busy sidewalks. A jigsaw puzzle without any pieces. It was a precaution of sorts.

It was nightfall when I had finally made my way back to Devil May Cry.

I see it now in front of me.

The sign, a whorish neon pink that I still think is more appropriate for a brothel than a legitimate business of any kind.

Devils crying…how absurd. I remember thinking.

How confident I was when I entered in the shop, how recklessly I threw those double-doors open with my strong arms. To me it felt incredibly strange to walk so freely about inside of there without the need to huddle in and hide myself in the darkness any longer. I drowned out the silver of my hair and the red of my clothing, pushed it all aside in favor of the darker hues.

I had expected to see Nero, (I wanted to see Nero) but had instead found a note hand-written in his atrocious penmanship on the mongrel's desk, folded in half and tucked under the rotary phone.

Got a call while you were out. Be back soon Old Man.

One could say that his style of fighting was comparable to his handwriting. Sloppy, artless, and intimately personal. Slashes and dashes half-remembered from formal teachings that had been diligently ignored and partly forgotten.

As I had walked about in the office; I remembered something strange, something that I had been curious about for a while at that time. Various scents; all demonic, unfamiliar, and absolutely powerful. It was in a room at the back of the shop, a normal-looking door, nothing at all extraordinary about it. One could pass by it every day of their life and never possess the urge to look inside.

I hesitated (shall I call it that?) for a moment before I had let myself in, immediately greeted by a flowering bouquet of demonic energy. The air was different from the office, its smell and taste, overrun by devilish puissance the likes of which I had never experienced before.

A large greeting was bellowed at me. "Who is this? A visitor! A guest!" I looked over and saw them, swords; two of them. Chattering excitedly in their deep, baritone voices.

"We must be gracious hosts!"

I ignored them as I looked about the room.

Weapons all around, (swords and gauntlets, ice-blue nunchaku, a jagged purple lute of some kind) They were demonic yes, but not at all like the empty-faced trophies that hung about in the front of the office for all to see. This was something else entirely. The Scarecrow and the Hell Vanguard? Those were bodies.

These were souls.

A private artillery straight from Hell.

"I am not a visitor, nor your guest. You do not need to bother yourselves with me. I need no host." I remember saying aloud, addressing either one of them. It didn't matter which.

This information had displeased them.

"You have his form but you are not he." The blue one had stated plainly after a bit of silence.

"You're right. I'm not he."

"You wear his face. You wear his skin and clothing, though darkened."

"Yes, I do." I sighed. "Thank you for noticing."

"You have a weak soul. There is only darkness where there should be fire." The red one addressed me with a low rumbling growl.

"The fire has gone with your master."

"You are an imposter then, a fraud. An imitation. A charlatan, a—"

"Brother, what do those words mean?"

Their inane babble quickly deteriorated from there.

I know they would have killed me; (knowing such as that, takes the form of a heaviness in your bones) Not just the swords, but every other devil arm that was stashed away in that room; the way they shimmered and hummed and rattled around me. But there was just enough familiarity for them to hold themselves back; but not obey me. If I were to use them in battle, they would have not kept me safe.

Needless to say, I have not gone back in.

I sat down at his disgusting desk and waited.

The door was opened and in the boy stomped, that red hood pulled up over his disheveled mane of silver hair. It's color much healthier then. Simply looking at him was more than enough to whet my appetite, as I was enamored by the boyhood softness of his face, smooth and tender; undamaged at the time.

"Fuck, it's freezing in here, Old Man. And would it kill you to turn on the lights?" His tone was barbed with a playful kind of irritation, his demon arm shooting out to flick on the weak light switch. He hadn't even bothered to glance in my direction, as he kept his face turned away and shook his head; weary.

I watched with interest as he fussed about with his weapons, the sword and that firearm. "The job was easy but the client was nuts. Kept bitching for a discount due to the fact that I kinda wrecked her front porch. I mean, yeah okay, maybe I went a little crazy. But, seriously? Lady, I just saved your families lives and you wanna bitch at me about some smashed patio furniture? That's so fucking stupid!"

Though he was complaining (a lot), he seemed at ease; the tension that he constantly carried around with him was loosened considerably due to the successful hunt. "So…if we get a bill in the mail…"

I sat at the desk in silence, asking myself, asking the cur: Why is this boy even here? Was he someone needed for the company, to ease your loneliness?

Or did you believe that you could love each other? Are you really that goddamn stupid?

I did not try to hide what I was. I did not pretend. "It sounds like you had a very nice time in spite of everything; I'm glad of it, Nero."

"…The fuck?"

When he finally looked over at me, there was a long hushed moment between the two of us; an uneasy sort of silence that was as swollen as the tongues of the drowned dead. "…Dante?" I watched his limpid eyes blink slowly, his muscles stiff and uneasy as he pushed his hood down to get a better look at me.

I rose from the desk and stood out in front of it. Arms crossed firmly over my chest, my grin as fraudulent as my face.

"Is everything alright? Perhaps you should have a lie-down. You look like you've seen a ghost."

Black hair, red eyes, a dark and friendless voice; improper and wrong.

Cold astonishment flickered trice across his face, then anger clouded over and darkened it. He reached out for me, snatched me up with that giant ethereal devils hand and threw me out of the double-doors of the shop and into the cold street. (I could not have asked for a grander exit!) He had followed close behind, shooting at me with that ridiculous revolver of his.

Such a wildly insufficient gun, only three shots at a time before having to pause to reload.

I remember that he had his sword unsheathed, that beautiful devils arm of his flaming bright, ready for anything. (Or so he had thought)

"Remarkable boy!" I remember saying to myself as I rose to my feet.

Such ferocity! Demons are not the types to greet one another with a friendly smile and firm handshake, as we prefer a different form of etiquette. And unlike the blow from the she-devil, Nero's strike was a small blow hardly worth gritting one's teeth over. He couldn't swat a fly.

That fight was a carnival of color. The phosphorescent blue of his spectral hand, snatching and grabbing for me; sometimes missing and sometimes not. His eyes rimmed red and blazing like the sword in his hand, his fingers twisting its handle to unleash its mechanized roar. The pink neon sign of Devil May Cry drowning us both in its harsh amaranth light.

It was a bizarre dance, a waltz of sorts, romantic only in its élan violence. I treated him the way Dante would, with a flurry of taunts and needless movements. There were times when I would dilly-dally, then behave flirtatiously. I would wink and flick my tongue at him. Pucker my lips for a kiss that would never come. And in response he would only scoff and snarl and swear, his face burning.

I had observed his fighting style more than once; his moves were unsurprising; easy to predict and even easier to react to. A puerile form of combat that was just about as effective and deadly as any toddlers temper tantrum.

Snap out of it, Old Man!

What the hell's the matter with you?!

His voice was torn with panic. He just wanted me in my right mind.

This isn't funny!

But it was, it was very funny. He was like a thread of thin twine unspooling and getting tangled up within itself. Constantly tripping over his own feet, knotted and snarled and unable to wind back together again without snapping.

I was untroubled, euphoric even. There were moments when I would clap my hands or pat my thighs to excite him further like the rambunctious little pup that he was; calling out to him in the half-blood's voice. "Hey what's up?"

Come just a little closer.

For the outcross, victory has always been there no matter what. It was always as certain as the wind sings and the water runs and the sun rises. And because of that, it was there for me as well.

That boy was manic with recklessness. I was waiting patiently for him to tucker himself out.

He had dashed up to me and I felt the hot metal of his revolver under my chin, his gaze holding mine and not letting go. But he had made a mistake, had miscounted his rounds, I had not.

A harmless little click was all that was heard. A no-bullet roulette.

Click! Click!

As close to me as he was, I grabbed him and tore his hooded sweatshirt off his shoulder. He smashed his revolver against the side of my skull, but it did nothing to dissuade me. I remember how I sank my teeth deep into his skin, creating a happy sound that was as satisfying as crunching into the ripest of apples. It was more of an insult than anything else; as the wound had healed by the time I pulled my mouth away, wet with spit.

I cracked my elbow against his face before shoving him down onto the street, kneeing his legs apart. He was spraddled open; vulnerable. (a stern warning for what was to come.) He hissed and spat and bitched all the while, struggled and writhed underneath me. His human fingers clawing for the hilt of his sword that had been knocked away, just out of his reach.

I remember how he swore at me in a voice fractured by pain, called me every name he could think of. "What the fuck are you doing?!" It was panic that strangled his tone into high-pitched whine. I braced my knee right up against him, right in his middle, had pressed down hard enough to stifle him down. "You gettin' off on this?" He snarled at me, his sweet blood climbing through the cracks in his teeth, spattering my mouth and chin as he spoke.

I remember smiling down at him as I licked my lips.

Yes, I was.

There was something alluringly post-coital about his heavy breathing and hateful dark eyes.

I felt a mischievous glint flicker in mine as well, similar to that of the half-breed's when he was getting ready to lean in close and tell Nero the punch-line to a dirty joke.

So I humbled him greatly, gave him far more than what he could endure; and I have the Son of Sparda to thank (and blame) for it.

I remember how I slapped my hand down hard against his mouth, cutting his lips on his teeth. I covered his eyes with my other, leaning my weight down to keep his head still. I let my hair tickle his nose. He had no choice but to breathe me in unless he would have rather suffocated.

He craned his neck away from me as hard as he could, his breathing ragged and heaving; his lips hot against my hand. The delicate skin of his throat exposed, pale and ripe for the taking.

Submission, surrender, from one demon to another; that was all I had really wanted from him.

I got up and away from him, stepping back.

I remember the way the neon pink light illuminated him in an otherworldly glow. His silver hair falling in front of his eyes, his coat torn and hanging off one shoulder, exposing where I had bitten him; alluringly indecent. The way the blood stained his mouth and skin, I had to pull the urge to lick it back by its hair.

The snow fell then, the very first of the winter, sprinkled down slowly from high up in the black sky. As we stood apart, my gaze held his, the whiteness powdered his face and dusted his trembling shoulders like the sugar that coated childhood Christmas cookies. He was sniffling like a child ready to cry, and in response, nothing close to pity moved my insides.

It never has.

Finally Nero managed to stagger to his feet, scrambled for his sword and gun. He turned and ran off down the street, away from the shop, away from me.

"Merry Christmas." I remember cooing after him.

I suppose that one could say that I am drawn to both natural and unnatural vulnerability. But if you are not vulnerable, then I will make you vulnerable, expose you completely in a way that you won't be able to stop. I can take what is firm and make it brittle, take a thick line of steel cable and pull it apart until it is as weak as the cotton thread taken from soiled bed sheets.

I ran my fingers over my mouth and lips, finding them smooth.

I entered into Devil May Cry to see that Nero was now awake on the couch, staring up at the dark ceiling. His lips were peeled and bleeding, as if he had been gnawing on them in his sleep. I paused as he looked at me for a moment before cutting his eyes anxiously away, questions about my whereabouts bubbling up inside of him. He yawned instead, covering his mouth with his glowing devils hand.

The phone rang loudly, its shrill wail choking off the silence. Nero groaned, looking incomplete; lost. He sat up slowly, his expression was one of petulance and a sleepy sort of irritability, running his hands over his face. Before he could do anything else I already had the phone in my hand, pressed to my ear, cradling it in my shoulder. I took a small moment to clear my throat, before speaking in the half-blood's voice.

"Devil May Cry." I murmured into the receiver, only to be bombarded by the shrieks of a terrified woman who screamed about a frightening demon that had attacked some people at the inn where she worked.

"…Uhhhh…Ma'am?"

I began, but she would not let me speak. She complained about how law enforcement could not do anything to help since demons were 'not in their jurisdiction.' She told me of the room, the ruined window, the gunshots and black stains that 'smelled like dog shit'. She spoke of how she heard a window breaking and seeing something black fall into the street.

But it was too dark, she said. Too dark and too far away to see what that thing was.

"It looked like a person, but then it disappeared." She whispered in an uneasy tone that told me that she felt that I would not believe her.

I spoke to her with warmth and tranquility, trying to calm her jangled nerves, telling her that there was nothing to worry about.

"Yeah I'm worried about it! That thing sent a woman to the hospital! What if it comes back?!"

But I won't go back.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." I waved my hand in the air as I spoke. "Don't worry about it. Just gimme the password and I'll be right over."

There was a tense pause. "…A password? What password?! I'm not trying to log into a computer, I'm calling because I need your help! I don't know! Please?!"

"Sorry sweetheart, but no password, no job. Besides, we close at 9:00 anyway." Before she could say another word, I placed the phone back in its cradle. Nero stared at me, his expression locked in place.

"…Aren't you going to do something? She sounded desperate…" He grumbled.

"They all sound desperate, Nero. I'm not going to waste my time with it. I'm sure that it's only a 'dumb fucking prank call.'"

I looked as his eyes begrudgingly rolled up to meet mine. His glower like the stones at the bottom of a deep well, leaving me unsure as to whether he was trying to crush or drown me with his gaze.

"I'm being honest with you, Nero." I lied. "Take my words to heart, or toss them out the window. It's your choice."

I stretched like a cat at its leisure, and sat at the hybrid's desk. "Go ahead and go back to sleep." I said plainly as I unplugged the phone.

"That's enough distractions for one night."