The Vision
Between going to the library, hustling humans in bars and then taking that money to the track or the bookies, Doyle's life was busier than it had been in years; busier than it had been since he first found out he was a demon. Sure, he still enjoyed a drink - much too often, and in too great quantities, but he didn't drink as much during the day anymore - he was too busy reading. And he drank beer as much as he hit the hard stuff. It was better to keep his wits about him when he played the pool shark.
And the cigarettes were a thing of the past. He hadn't bought a new pack in weeks, didn't even crave them anymore. He still kept his hands busy by shuffling his cards - it had become his new habit, especially when something was playing on his mind, but - as habits went, at least it wasn't a destructive one.
He still had to hustle and gamble. He didn't suppose that would ever change. He was a demon - and therefore could not hold down a job in the human world. It would be too risky. However hanging out in human bars was not only cleaner and less depressing, but it was safer too. His creditors didn't follow him in there - most of them couldn't, what with the horns and whatnot. They didn't think to look for him in the human world and so - although he still owed money - he had thrown the worst of the people he owed off his scent. And hustling humans and then gambling with that meant he didn't have to borrow anything. He wasn't getting deeper in debt even if he wasn't clearing off his old ones.
All in all, he was cleaning up his act. He wasn't a choirboy - not by a long shot - but things were better than they had been. He felt better too. Whether that was increased fresh air, less alcohol, no cigarettes - he didn't know, but for the first time in years he didn't feel like he was living with a permanent hangover. And that made him feel more optimistic, feel like maybe the future held some hope or purpose after all. Or at least that maybe things didn't have to be so unrelentingly bleak.
It had been over a year since he had spoken to Whistler, assuming he hadn't made that conversation up. It had been about six months since he had started researching the demon world and the higher powers, really learning about them - not just picking up tidbits of gossip from various scaly monsters during a round of kitten poker. There was more than just the underworld - it was more like the otherworld, the underworld was a part of it, but then so were gods and destinies and champions of light. And he was learning about it all - just in case it ever came in useful, just in case he ever joined that team, the way Whistler had told him he would.
But so far nothing had come of Whistler's message - and he wasn't expecting anything to come of it anytime soon. He was past the point of expecting change at a moment's notice - and this week was shaping up to be exactly the same as last week.
It had been just a normal Tuesday in his new life - he'd woken up (lateish, he'd been drinking the night before) and rolled out of bed, pulling on his pants from yesterday and then hunting out a clean shirt. His laundry pile was starting to regrow - he would have to take the time to deal with that soon. But not today - that could be tomorrow's problem. Maybe Thursday's. Instead he skirted the hamper, skipped making his bed and shuffled off to the kitchen for breakfast.
His normal breakfast for years had been coffee and cigarettes, but these days he went for something a little more wholesome. For some reason Frosties were called Frosted Flakes in America, which was a stupid and far too literal name for them, but they were the same cereal - and they reminded him of home, and he had taken to buying them … the other cereals in the store were upsetting colours that no food had any business being, and were heaped with way too much sugar and - for some reason - marshmallows. And Lucky Charms were borderline racist. So Frosted Flakes - dumb name and all - won out. He wasn't quite so mature and clean living now that he was ready for Special K.
After breakfast, he headed on down to the library - same as he did most days these days, took the book he was currently reading down from the shelf and headed over to the quiet table, out of the way, which he had long since claimed as his own. He spent a couple of hours taking notes and then went to get a late lunch.
With lunch he bought a paper and perused all the sports fixtures - circling the likely looking ones, the ones that had good odds and then he went to the bookies and filled out his betting slips.
Bets placed, he headed for a sports bar and started his early evening hustle. He went to a couple of bars, swindling several groups of hapless human men out of their hard earned cash and then - once he made a decent amount - decided to call it quits for the night. He stopped off at a taco stand on the way home, and then went back to his apartment and switched on the T.V.
It had been a perfectly normal day, absolutely nothing to differentiate it from any of the other days he had in a long while now. He sat on the sofa, biting into his fish taco and swigging a beer while a news report followed up on the story of the high school which had blown up further up the coast.
There had been mass casualties - including the mayor - though what was weird was none of these casualties seemed to have been blown up, they had died in other ways. Pictures of the deceased were put on screen: the star football player who had died from head wounds; the pretty blonde girl who was missing, presumed dead; the principal who had just vanished and then the mayor, himself … no one was quite sure what had happened to him.
Doyle wasn't really paying attention - he'd seen all this before, it had been being covered for days now, no one was any the wiser as to what had gone down. There was no new information. He reached out for the remote - hoping he might find a game to watch on a different channel.
As he pointed the control at the T.V, the news flicked back from the photos of the dead to running footage of the high school disaster from the night itself. The scene changed to one of ambulances and fire trucks, and lots of smoke - emergency service workers milling around and then - just for a moment - a tall, dark haired man walking through the mist and disappearing into the shadows.
And that was when the pain hit. It felt like the top of his head was being sliced off. He was vaguely aware of dropping his beer - of hearing the sound of the liquid glugging out and spilling onto the carpet, but there was nothing he could do about it. The agony was too intense.
Instead, he brought his now free hand up to his brow, clinging onto his head, digging the palm of his hand into his right eye - as if trying to prevent it from exploding in its socket. His whole body shuddered and he saw … images. Flashes - of the tall man from the T.V … only, he was dressed as if it was a long time ago - hundreds of years. And he was in alley way - there was a woman - her face became ridged and hideous. And then the man was like her, a demon, a vampire - and he slaughtered just … everything in sight.
On the sofa, Doyle shuddered - blinking and gasping, wanting to look away from all the bloodshed - but unable to, as the images were not out in the world but inside his head. And then the vampire was at a camp - surrounded by Romany caravans - and his eyes glowed orange and then … he was haunted. Staggering through the wilderness as his human soul was restored to punish him for all the evil he had done.
For a hundred years, the vampire wandered until he was broken and desperate and then … he was in the town from the television. He was fighting - killing vampires. He was a champion - until one night, a dreadful rainstorm - and then there was more bloodshed, more slaughter until eventually there was the pointy end of a sword and then nothing. And then the vampire was back, walking through the mist - walking away from the burned out high school … and then the pain receded.
It took a few minutes before Doyle felt able to stop clutching his head, before he stopped panting and gasping. But, eventually, he felt able to sit back up again. He blinked. The apartment looked exactly like it had before - apart from the beer bottle now rolling across the floor and the stained carpet. The news was just moving onto the next segment; the remote control was still in his left hand … But everything had changed.
He knew it.
The higher powers had spoken to him. He was their messenger - a seer - and now they had finally sent him another vision. And the man from the television was the man they wanted him to help.
