A/N: Hello, and welcome to the first chapter of As Above, So Below. This idea has been stewing for almost a year now, and I've finally gotten around to putting it on paper. For those of you familiar with either Devil May Cry or The Witcher, you might notice nods to them here and there, but this story is set in neither of those universes. It's a modern AU with demon hunting at its core, featuring Moth and a certain Demon Prince set on making her life miserable. Or interesting, depending on which of them you ask.
Please note that the rating is subject to change in later chapters, and tags and characters will be added as needed.
"left hand path aftermath to bring
forth demons cast sorrow
felt deep beneath shall I ever wrath
upon the ash to stand at hand"
— temptation for the take, Devious Saint
The city is suffocating. Weathermen offer apologies full of self-deprecation as the heatwave they swore would pass the city by digs in its claws like a cat settling in for a nap. Children idle restlessly inside; the air is thick and oppressively humid, leaving clothes and hair sticky with sweat as they cling to anyone unfortunate enough to be outdoors. Even the roads are nearly empty, save for the few who have to suffer the commute to and from work. It is another day in the same place, another repeat of the annual dashing of hopes for a long, mild spring, and it means absolutely nothing when you're caked in dirt and clots of blood and are desperately craving a shower and just one job where a demon doesn't decide to throw you into the nearest ditch.
Which is, in Moth's opinion, something that happens far too often.
Her boots squelch as she climbs the steps that lead to her shop, and she shoulders the door open carelessly as she kicks them off. The air inside is so cool that her skin prickles, the filth seeming to harden once it's out of the heat. Moth glances at her desk and the phone with its flashing message indicator and decides that whatever ungodly creature is wreaking havoc can wait until she doesn't smell like a saltwater swamp. Through the door marked Private and up the stairs is her apartment, though she supposes the whole building is her home, and the familiar squeaking as she turns on the shower pulls the tension from her shoulders. This is one of the safest places in the city thanks to the wards woven into the walls, which means it's a place where she can actually, truly relax.
She takes her time, remaining under the shower until the water runs cold, and she's getting dressed when the sound of her phone ringing pierces the air. Her mobile, not the landline, which means it's more than likely Dalton with an anxious client in his ear. Everyone thinks their situation is urgent these days, even when it's more often a leaking pipe causing odd sounds than a malevolent spirit, but he never calls her unless the job is worth the hassle. Moth digs gingerly through her still damp bag until she finds what she's looking for — a phone that, according to him, was made to be nigh indestructible and might actually be thanks to the enchantments she'd placed on it — and the moment the line clicks she hears him talking soothingly to a sobbing woman. The client, she assumes.
"About time you picked up," he snaps, and she rolls her eyes as she pads from the washroom to her closet. "I've been trying to reach you all morning."
"I was waist-deep in a river, so you'll excuse me if I didn't answer right away."
She can almost see the shrewd look in his eyes. Personal flaws aside, he's a damn good broker, and he never lets anyone undercut her costs. "They pay you?"
"Enough." She rifles through her clothes. "What have you got?"
Dalton sighs. There's the sound of muffled footsteps and a door closing, and his voice is much more frank when he answers. "I'm not sure. I thought it was a hellhound, but the way the client is describing it, it'd be the biggest damn one I've heard of."
"Details?"
"Showed up two days ago. You know the usual signs: sulfur in the air and pets going missing. Thought it was a wolf until they saw the tracks. I checked, Kevrim, and they're three times the size of my hand. And the area around them was scorched. Aren't hellhounds supposed to be the size of pitbulls? When did they start burning shit?"
Moth clicks her tongue. "Did you check for gasoline? We've had people try and set stuff on fire to get our attention before."
"Not a trace of it." There's a pause as the door opens and a murmured voice says something she doesn't quite catch. "Yes, of course. I'll let her know." The door closes again. "Listen, these people are willing to pay quadruple what we charge."
That surprises her, as her services aren't exactly cheap. "Why? You don't give money away like that without a good reason."
"It killed their kid." Her fingers still on the shirt she'd been considering. "Tore him apart. He was a sleepwalker. And I guess they forgot to lock the doors or maybe it didn't matter if they did, because he got outside and they didn't know he was gone until he started screaming."
She closes her eyes, taking a deep breath as she works to suppress the memory that looms uninvited. "Alright. But they don't have to pay that much. I'll do it for free."
"Which is why I negotiate prices and you get the job done." Dalton's voice softens and she hates it, hates the idea that he thinks she's so weak-willed that he has to tiptoe around whatever it was that got her into this line of work in the first place. "You gonna be alright?"
"Yeah. I'll need a few hours to prepare, which works. Hellhounds are nocturnal as a rule." Moth glances at the window, then her clock. "Tell them I'll be there at seven, and give them the usual precautions. I'll try to keep it away from the house, but . . ."
"Shit happens," he finishes blandly.
The heat from the day makes the evening muggy. Moth tugs on the collar of her shirt, a simple black affair with long sleeves to keep her better hidden in the dark, trying to keep it from melting to her skin even though she knows it's a losing battle. Luckily the clients didn't want to meet with her, meaning she can get to work without the awkward introductions and patronizing side glances. Demon hunting was a man's world for a long time, and some people still don't know what to make of having her show up instead of a six foot soldier with a bad attitude.
With a low hum, she sets her pack on the ground as she surveys the spot she'd decided on. The clearing is wide enough that she has room to maneuver, and it's far enough from the house that she's not worried about anyone else getting caught in the crossfire. Banishing might be the more humane method, but it pisses demons off just as much as trying to kill them does.
Clouds shift from gray to amber to a dusky violet while she prepares for the job. Salt to purify, rosemary to repel, sage and lavender to cleanse when it's all over. Then comes the not-so-nice stuff, the things that make people uncomfortable when Moth has to describe them. Lamb's blood to draw the runes, a live goat to tempt the hellhound, virgin bones and gravestone mold and cemetery dust. Death to death. Her hair clings to the back of her neck by the time she's done, and the moon is low and fat and preternaturally bright. If there's a demon nearby, the goat's panicked bleating will draw it out to investigate soon enough, so she checks the gun she carries just in case — silver bullets won't kill a demon but they'll slow it down and that's the difference between living and being torn apart — and sets it next to her with the safety off and a round in the chamber.
It's a waiting game now, but she doesn't have to play it long. The stench reaches her first, matchsticks and woodsmoke and rot, then the wet sounds of snuffling and branches breaking under foot, and then it steps into the clearing and Moth feels the first vestiges of worry. Most of its kind come to her waist. A rare few to her chest. But this one towers over her, and she knows that she'd barely reach its shoulder if she dared to get close enough. As for the scorched earth, the whole thing is wreathed in black flame, or made from it, its eyes two pinpricks of red, mindless hatred that sear into her as it prowls closer.
A barghest. Not a hellhound, not of the usual sort, anyway, and that means that she is woefully underprepared.
The goat yanks frantically on its chain as the hound breaches the outer circle. Ignoring it, Moth reaches to her side and hums a mindless little tune. It won't be so mindless soon, but demons are keen and this one will rip her apart if she starts too early. "You're a big one," she murmurs, trying to make her voice sound appreciative, "and lovely. You must be quite strong."
The hound pauses, baring its teeth with a growl; saliva sizzles when it hits the grass, its fangs long and dagger-sharp in the moonlight. "You're a bit far from home, I'm afraid," Moth continues as her fingers close around the handle of a small, silver bell. "What are you here for? Food? Or maybe . . ." It crosses the threshold of her sanctuary and she stands, bell ringing a clear note when she lets the stopper go. "Maybe you're just a bastard who kills kids."
The barghest lunges, but she's prepared. The bell swings, first a figure eight, then a slow circle, its chiming sweet and pure. She hums along with it, feeling the familiar draw of her magic responding. Moth had discovered long ago that music was easier for her, less than draining by far than the traditional chants and prayers, and had stuck to it even with the occasional other hunter shook their head and called her a fool. You're supposed to kill them, one had laughed, a man she'd made the mistake of bedding, not sing them a lullaby. He had died a week later when he'd lost his breath and the changeling he'd been hunting tore out his throat. But there's an innate danger to it, too; now that the song has started, it cannot be stopped, not until either the barghest is back where it belongs or she dies. Moth keeps her voice steady, crooning wordlessly so she does not falter even when she breathes in.
Wherever it came from, the hound is strong. It writhes and snaps its jaws, rips at the damp earth with its claws in a fury, and the air around them steams as it thrashes its tail. All too soon, sweat is cooling on her spine and dotting her brow; she is no stranger to its kind, and she knows she should have brought baby's breath instead of rosemary, but it should be weakening by now. Not bucking against the chains she's trying to weave around it, and the only thing that keeps her from giving in to fear is the knowledge that fear will get her killed. Against the cold of her magic, the barghest's heat rages, and they are caught in the midst of a tempest that fills the air with the saltwater scent of a boiling sea. Moth grits her teeth and alters her pitch, hoping to force it into a slumber, but the bell she holds is one of walking, and its tune is discordant with her own.
If this continues for much longer, exhaustion will kill her before the hound can.
Finally, it begins to weaken. The signs are small, at first: a paw slips on the charred grass, a low huff leaves its mangy muzzle. Then it begins to slow, as though its limbs are too heavy to move, the loud snarling replaced by labored panting, the pinpricks of its eyes dimming, flickering. Keeping her grip on the bell firm, Moth walks a careful circle around it, tapping the runes she'd drawn with the compass with her foot as she passes them until the barghest is enclosed in a thin barrier that makes the air shimmer and dance. Almost, she thinks, with no small relief. Almost. Her fingers tremble as she lets go of the handle, her palms clammy with a sort of panicked exhilaration, and she claps her hands together once, smartly, so the sound reverberates through the clearing.
"Ite domum!" she says sharply. The hound whimpers, trembles. "Revertimini ad infernum unde venistis!"
There is a single, infinite moment where she thinks it will not obey. Then it lies collapses, foam drooling from its muzzle, and she reads the promise in the gaze that holds her own: I will kill you, it seems to say, I will crack your bones and feast on your flesh. But the fight is over. The ground trembles as the barghest sinks into it, the fierce fires of its body sizzling into smoke and ash; this place will need purification in the oncoming weeks to dissuade anything else from being drawn to it, and that will be a taxing job, yet as she watches the last, grasping tendrils disappear into the earth, Moth cannot help but feel pleased. She had survived. The family would mourn, and they would do so safely, and maybe one day children could play in the clearing without fear. Yes, she thinks, she had done well, and done it without shedding blood, even the goat unscathed, if terrified. She smiles, takes a step forward.
And collapses.
The strength goes out of her at once. Heaving for air, she tries to get herself under control, knowing that there is still so much to be done before she can go home. Though she does not vomit, her stomach roils, the aches in her joints and the weakness in her shaking legs the result of drawing too much from a nearly empty reservoir. She needs to call Dalton. Lifting her head, she spots her bag where she had left it, and a groan escapes her at the thought of crawling to it. Still, she cannot remain like this, and he will be able to seal the area until she can deal with it.
Before she can go anywhere, however, a low voice calls, "Impressive. You aren't the first to meet my beast, though you are the first to survive it."
Moth closes her eyes, her mouth full of the taste of pomegranate and rich wine. A demon, and a high-ranking one, going from the thrum of power through the air, and she is too weak to do anything to stop it. Slowly, she forces herself to sit back on her knees, meeting the amused obsidian eyes of the creature at the edge of the clearing. It looks like a man, if one were to take all of the things a man was made of and idealize them. Its face is handsome, rugged, the nose aquiline above a mouth curved in a sinful grin, the jaw strong, the cheekbones sharp. From the broad shoulders to the strong arms to the carved muscle of its chest and the defined v of its hips, it is every woman's fantasy. But darkness curls over its forearms and thick thighs to form claws that are no doubt as lethal as they look, and from its head swoop curved black horns like a ram's.
"Yes," it muses, its voice like honey over gravel, smooth and alluring and dangerous, "though you look rather worn down. Surely one round wasn't enough to tire you so?"
"Piss off," Moth answers. Her knees are still too uncertain for her to stand, but she reaches for the bell, despite knowing it's hopeless to fight in her condition. Even if she were not exhausted, such a being would be almost impossible for her to overcome. "What the hell is your problem, sending a monster like that to . . . to devour an innocent child?"
It seems mildly surprised. "Did it, now? Is that why you came?"
Her eyes narrow as it prowls closer, hearing the soft whisper of its talons against the grass. "That's none of your business."
"But it is. That barghest, you see, was a scout. It had no business doing anything other than what it was ordered to do, and I did not tell it to hunt." It kneels in front of her, and this close she can smell it, sandalwood and spice and something like the air after rain. "So if you killed it, you saved me the trouble of doing so myself, which means I am in your debt."
She bares her teeth. "Again, piss off."
It throws back its head and laughs. "Feisty! Mortals like you are truly entertaining. Well? What would you ask for as a reward? Your wish," it purrs, "is my command."
Moth takes a deep, shuddering breath. Already she can feel its magic working against her, pressing along her mind for any chink, any crack that will give it more influence over her. Desperate — too tired to banish and too knowledgeable to make a request and give it ownership of whatever soul she might have — she whispers, "Abite hinc et vade irrumabo te."
She has barely a moment to register the stunned fury on its face. "You little witch," it growls, and she watches an arm draw back with a sort of sick fascination. Before it can kill her, however, a plume of smoke encircles it; blinking her eyes against the sudden sting, she realizes that it is gone. It will be back, of that she has no doubt. What she said was a vulgar request for it to fuck off, but now Moth has time to prepare for its arrival. The next time they meet, it will not find her cowering in the dirt. She will face it as an equal, and only one of them will walk away from the encounter.
A pity, she thinks, beginning the arduous shuffle to her belongings. If it were not a demon, it would be exactly her type.
Drawing her phone from her bag, she dials Dalton's number. "The hellhound is gone," she says as soon as the line clicks. "Come pick me up."
Then she lies down in the grass, and knows no more.