A/N: This is a sequel to my post AOD fic Queen of Angels. If you haven't read that, this fic may not make a whole lot of sense in some parts. As it's been years since I posted QoA, I recommend rereading the Epilogue of that fic before reading this.

Chapter 1: Vance Renner

Boots splashed against wet concrete. The dark sky shrouded the city like a blanket, only silhouettes cast by street lamps and traffic signals. The man's footsteps scuffed against the damp pavement, his presence masked by the soft noise of the rain.

The man saw the solitary car parked in the empty lot. The window tint prevented him from seeing inside, but this was the meeting place, and without falter he strode to it. In one smooth motion he flung the passenger door open and slipped into the seat, shutting the door after him.

"Hey," Kurtis said.

The man in the driver's seat startled and slammed his knee into the steering wheel, cursing and rubbing the tender spot once his senses returned to him. He glared balefully at the intruder.

Kurtis stared at the balding man wordlessly, taking in his appearance. He was dressed in a suit, but not a nice one—the suit of a middle-management office worker. Shirt slightly rumpled, necktie tied too long and dipping past his belt. His raincoat was dry, and three empty nicotine gum wrappers were discarded in a cup holder. Though Kurtis had been in the vehicle a grand total of five seconds, he could already tell this was going to be a dirty job.

"You—you're Vance?" The man asked Kurtis, stumbling over his words.

"No, I'm just a stranger who wants out of the rain." The man's eyes widened, and Kurtis refrained from rolling his own. "Yes, I'm him," Kurtis added. He wasn't going to be able to joke around with this guy, it seemed.

The middle-aged man rubbed his sweaty palms along the curves of his knees, glancing around the still empty parking lot as if expecting police sirens to come flashing out of the shadows. He cleared his throat and tugged at his tie absently.

"So tell me about the job." Kurtis brushed back wet strands of hair stuck to his forehead. Should have brought an umbrella.

"How do I know you're not a cop?" The man asked, his eyes tracking Kurtis' every movement.

Kurtis spread his hands out in front of him in a gesture that said 'How am I supposed to prove I'm not?' The nervous man cleared his throat again, giving the perimeter a glance once more before continuing.

"It's my boss. Er, ex-boss. She's threatening me with—"

"Jesus," Kurtis murmured, cutting him off. "Your ex-boss? Look, I don't know what Davis told you but I'm not some hitman."

The man frowned, wiping the damp sheen from his brow with the back of his hand. "But—"

"Can't you work things out with her some other way? Go to the police?"

"It's not that simple!" The man stammered, waving his hands around frantically. "Let me finish, please. I stumbled upon some—some illegal activities the company has going on under the table. Really bad stuff, stuff that will send her and all the upper management and bigwigs to federal prison."

"And you didn't go to the police… Why?"

"I didn't have the chance! And... I only found it because I was doing something I wasn't technically supposed to be doing."

"Uh-huh."

"Don't look at me like that!" The man grimaced, crossing his arms. "Anyway, they found out I knew pretty much right after and fired me, then threatened me and my family if word got out."

"So hire a lawyer, call the police."

He shook his head vigorously. "No, you don't understand! If I do, they'll kill my wife and my kids!"

"Possibly. But there's a better chance they're just saying that to keep you quiet. Honestly, you should have tried squeezing some dough out of them. Hush money, you know?"

The man's bottom lip trembled. "I don't care about money. I just want her and the rest of those monsters to leave me alone."

"Yeah, yeah. Say I believe everything you've said. Where'd you get the money to pay me? I don't work gratis."

The man inhaled sharply, clenched his hands into fists as he gazed out the windshield. "I... I got it from a rival company."

Kurtis gave a soft whistle. "This is some heavy competition." He was glad he never got caught up in the corporate world. Way messier than mercenary work or secret ancient knight orders.

"So let me get this straight," Kurtis started. "You want me to kill your old boss who threatened to kill your family because you caught her doing something illegal. And instead of keeping your nose clean or going to the police you're asking me to off her, with money you got from a rival company?"

The man nodded. "They gave me the money to hire you, if—if I don't..."

"No, I got it." Kurtis cut him off. This guy was in way over his head. He'd end up dead himself before the year's end. But Kurtis wasn't here to pass judgment, he was here to put food in his belly. As long as Kurtis vanished as soon as the job was done, it didn't matter who took the fall for it, because it wouldn't be him.

"So you have the money," he said after a moment. Not a question.

The man took a napkin from his center console and wiped the sweat from his forehead once more. The car interior smelled musty, the combination of humidity from the rain and the man's body odor making for a pungent mixture.

"Yes. The agreed amount. Did you..."

"Half now, half after."

"So... you'll do it?"

Kurtis sighed, nodded. "OK, I'll do it. Tell me where she lives."

The client gave Kurtis all the details he needed to know, or where to find them. After a couple weeks of stalking and watching the company building—discreetly hidden in the shadows and disguising himself so should anyone happen to notice him, he would look like a different man each time—he got a handle on the boss' routine.

He learned she managed a freight shipment company that worked mainly with the railroads, transporting goods to and from Boston. It looked innocent on the outside, but it was easy to imagine the kind of 'illegal activity' the man stumbled upon. It wasn't uncommon for the mafia to be involved in those sort of operations. In fact, the rival company that provided the funds was probably mafia themselves.

Kurtis decided to do it while she was at the railway station. On Thursdays she stayed at her office late into the night to receive a shipment personally—the contraband, Kurtis deduced. He watched her and one of her employees walking in the train yard from a distance, having broken into the grounds through the perimeter fence. The woman appeared around his own age, early to mid thirties, with strawberry blonde hair coiffed into curls that fell around her shoulders and a headband to keep it out of her face. She was dressed in a dark pants suit and loafers, not suitable for being out among the tracks, and she stopped before a cargo car third from the end of a train. She opened the doors.

This wasn't Kurtis' usual employment. He had no problem with killing for money, but he preferred knowing the people he whacked deserved it. Since leaving the French Foreign Legion many years ago, he kept himself occupied mostly with mercenary work. A soldier with no nation, against hostile combatants. Kill-or-be-killed, not slinking in the shadows to take out crooked corporate thieves. Less personally responsible, that way.

But after the leader of the Agency was toppled and the ranks decimated, most of his old contacts were either dead or out of work themselves. It didn't take long before a new top-tier group to rise up, but Kurtis lacked contacts in it to let him in and the new agency seemed to have higher standards in their employees; they weren't hiring any freelancers at the moment, preferring to maintain a full-time staff, and Kurtis couldn't risk indebting himself to a company that would ask too many questions about his past.

So Kurtis' schedule was empty when he heard from Davis, one of his old contacts that was still around. He wasn't in the business anymore, but had promised to give Kurtis any good leads or scraps that fell his way. The ex-legionnaire wasn't a hitman—and he made that clear to Davis. Killing innocents was off the table, unless he knew without a doubt they weren't innocent. But he had to admit he was getting tired of living out of the backseat of a truck. If he took a hit job he could get a temporary apartment again. At least until he went back to Europe. If he was frugal with the money, he could even live off of it for the better part of a year.

Beggars can't be choosers.

He wondered what Lara might be doing right now. Probably not killing the corporate owner of a shipping company for money, he thought grimly. Shit, he shook his head in disgust at himself as he surveyed his surroundings, the things we do to survive. Like making sure others didn't.

His attention was drawn back to the train, where the boss' assistant who followed her out to the train yard was now walking away, flashlight shining in front of him and scanning the area, but leaving her alone in the train car. It was the same scene Kurtis witnessed the past two weeks—the boss and one of her lackeys went to scrutinize the goods, then they and a few more of her workers chained and locked up the container from the outside and attached inspection paperwork.

Kurtis only had five, maybe ten minutes to get in and out before the other workers returned. He didn't waste any more time.

Bent over in a crouch he creeped forward, coming towards the open cargo car from the side. The length of the train stood before him, and he could see the dwindling cone of light from the assistant's flashlight as he ambled away in the opposite direction. Kurtis pressed flat against the car, careful to watch where his combat boots landed, not wanting to crunch the gravel beneath. He was dressed head-to-toe in black, and pulled his trusty Boran X pistol from his side holster, already equipped with a suppressor.

He heard the woman murmuring to herself inside the container.

"Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen... twenty? Where's nineteen...hmm..." Her voice was soft and feminine, not at all sounding like some tough-as-nails crime lord of illegal imports. Could she really be the one threatening his client's family with death? Something occurred to Kurtis at that moment: so eager for some real pay, he didn't even ask for any proof before accepting the job...

Too late now. Kurtis readied his firearm, and peered around the corner of the doorway. As dark inside as it was out, the only illumination came from the woman's pocket flashlight, but it was enough for Kurtis to see the contents within. Bile rose in the back of his throat, and he swallowed it down.

The 'illegal goods' were people, young women and girls, each with a number written on their cheek in black marker. They were all immobile, asleep; probably heavily drugged. The smell coming from inside was terrible. Number 19, which the boss woman overlooked initially, was laying facedown in a puddle of her own vomit, dead. None of the people noticed him.

He was going to feel a hell of a lot better about this job, but somehow, he still suspected he'd end up with nightmares.

Kurtis aimed the gun at the back of the boss woman's head, his finger on the trigger. He noticed a presence then, something nonhuman, something demonic.

Of course, he thought bitterly. This place was stinking with rot, it made sense they were involved. The woman was probably possessed or influenced, but he wasn't being paid for an exorcism. Kurtis squeezed the trigger.

The shot was still loud. Silencers didn't really silence like they did in the movies, and Kurtis knew this. He hastily jumped inside the car and knelt before the woman's body, checking for breath. He felt none, and the bloody hole at the base of her skull was proof enough the job was finished, but for extra insurance he pulled out his cell phone and snapped a grainy picture. He pocketed the phone and hopped back out of the train.

A shout down the tracks rang throughout the yard. A flashlight shone his way and he spun around and ran.

The crunching of his pursuer's shoes on gravel followed Kurtis, and his mind flipped through his options. He could try to outrun him, but even with better footwear and in better physical shape, that almost never ended well. He could start a firefight, but likewise that would have a poor outcome. This was supposed to be a stealth mission—get in, get it done, get out—and piling on the bodies would only attract more attention.

Kurtis sprinted past the caboose, leaping over the tracks to wind between trains and loading equipment. Without looking back, he knew the assistant was still following, and he hid behind a stationary train, shrouded in the night. His plan was to wait him out before making his escape—if the man was smart, he wouldn't pursue him any further. He must've known Kurtis had a gun.

Well, there was a reason most low-level criminals were idiots.

The beam of light glanced off the tracks. Kurtis was well-hidden behind a set of train wheels, not even his legs visible underneath. He only had to wait for him to get closer...

A train whistle blared. Signals dinged and flashed, and the line of track in front of Kurtis lit up as a train engine turned the corner into the yards and chugged down the line. This was no good, he wasn't hidden like this, and he started to move when his boots slipped on the gravel, sending a few rocks skittering.

Shit.

Kurtis ran, jumped over the next set of tracks where the train approached. He glanced back, saw the employee turn the corner around the train he'd just been hiding behind. The man saw him and shouted "Hey!" again, blinding Kurtis with his flashlight.

Kurtis didn't want to kill him, but now he had no choice. He ran along the tracks towards the oncoming train. The lackey jumped to the other side and followed after. The train was drawing closer.

He stopped and faced the other man, arms held out to brace for impact. His pursuer tried to skid to a stop when he saw him, but his dress shoes with their poor traction slipped along the gravel, and he slammed into Kurtis.

Kurtis twisted his hands in the man's shirt, and before flinging him, muttered, "Sorry 'bout this."

The man stumbled onto the tracks seconds before the train passed. Kurtis didn't look when it hit, but the garbled, cut-short scream followed him as he jogged out of the yards. He was careful to mind any incoming trains on his way out. He located a functioning landline and left an anonymous tip with the local police about the girls. Hopefully they did their job and got to them before the girls were sent off elsewhere.

He met up with his client early that morning, before the sun rose, in the same place as their first meeting. Kurtis showed him the picture he took on his phone, and the man gagged and covered his mouth with one of the paper napkins he had littered about his car. But he made good on his promise and handed over the second half of the payment. As soon as possible Kurtis jetted out of there, disgust and contempt and shame weighing heavy in his gut.

Another job done, another dead body (or two). Was this what his life amounted to, stomping on the little cockroaches evil used to carry out its bidding?

Memories of a time when he worked side-by-side with a beautiful woman defeating evil, fighting for something bigger than himself cropped up in his mind. He'd never believed in his father's ways, he'd never taken his words to heart. But he couldn't deny that his powers were capable of so much more.

Taking his payment, Kurtis acquired an apartment not far from the train yard. With the boss woman dead, the demon would have jumped to a new victim, likely someone else in the company with the power to continue the operation. Wherever it went, he would track it down, and send it back to hell.

Kurtis was a Lux Veritatis. He was a Warrior of the Light, a demon hunter. He was made for more.

Author's Note pt 2: I posted the first 3 or so chapters of this back in 2017, realized the story had a lot of problems I needed to work out, and deleted it. I've now finished it 5 years later! I will be posting chapters weekly. Feel free to leave reviews or not. I will also be posting it over on my ao3 account once I also upload all of Queen of Angels (the fic before this one). Big thanks to Potkanka for beta reading and encouraging me over the years not to give up on this :)