Demons – Chapter Three: For More Than a Name

Disclaimer: I don't own Schwarz, and I don't own America. I own everything else though since it's based in a made up city with a bunch of made up people who aren't even going to be there forever. And I actually built the house, thank you. In my head. Spiffy Co. synthesized, Spiffy Co. imagined. I own Spiffy Co. I am Spiffy Co. So stick that up your nose. Yeah. XP

Crawford was sleeping at his computer again. The blue of the light spread over his shirt and his face. Schuldich watched him and wondered, in spite, what made the man so special. Why did he get to be kidnapped? Why was everyone making such a fuss over one man. Sure, he may be of the Gaki. Sure, he may be able to see the Future. But, honestly, what gave him the authority to be leader? What gave him the right to give orders to Schuldich, to Nagi, to Farfarello?

Schuldich wondered if it was Fate that made this so. But then he knew that it had to do with his impeccable ability to make plans so smoothly. It was too bad that the plans this time around kept Schuldich from having any fun at all. He knew it was to keep him busy and out of the way. But he knew that Crawford wasn't up to anything. At least not yet. He tried to reach...

With his new gifts, Crawford could block almost any mind probing Schuldich dished out. He could keep a barricade around, not only his thoughts, but himself. He was an untouchable man.

He slammed the blade end of the knife he'd been holding into the wood of the desk. It stood upright. Crawford did not wake.

At first, the knife surprised Crawford, but then, he knew.

The attacks weren't as frequent. In fact, they were no more. Those people seemed to have given up on him. At least that was what he was thinking until one night.

A long black trench coat fluttering in the wind, and the man looked up, as if conversing with the night. Crawford was going to walk past, pretend that he didn't think this man was another teenage loony. He'd had enough of teenagers. A hand stuck out in front of his face, stopping Crawford. The movement set off the river of Time. The movement was catalystic. It changed the Future, even in the slightest way. It was something only the best of seers could sense. That was Crawford.

"You don't belong here," was all Crawford said. Catalysts tended to be either psychics, or crazies. There was no way this man could be psychic.

"Neither do you." The man's voice was very deep. Deeper than Crawford's, and that was deep. The sound of the man's voice was the type that rumbled in your gut. "I was sent–."

"To kill me." Catalystic words escaped between Crawford's lips. He resolutely drew his sword, sighing. "Let' get it over with, now, shall we?" His reality skewed. The sky turned white and black birds flew away, scattering into the winds. It looked like an omen from Satan himself. Then it was night again.

"You don't want to know who I'm sent by," the man guessed. It was not a question. It was not a command or a grievance. His arm was still stuck out in front of Crawford's face. His sleeve pressed against his arm, held down by the wind. The man was looking at the sky, silently talking to the stars and clouds, floating against the black backdrop of eternity. In Crawford's mind, the birds turned into flaming butterflies, merrily going along, on fire. The insects screamed.

"You're going to tell me anyways." The Future was leaking again.

"I'm sent," the man said slowly, "From God."

"Oh, very original." Crawford rolled his eyes and played with his sword, slicing at falling leaves near him. "I suppose you're here to save my soul." But in that same moment, he knew he was wrong. You make a guess, set the wheels of Fate spinning.

"No. I'm here to get rid of your soul. Taking on Lucifer." He scoffed. "That is not a very prudent thought." He finally lowered his arm and looked at Crawford. "The Lord and the Fallen One have an agreement. If you take on Lucifer, you are challenging this agreement. You are challenging–."

"God," Crawford finished. "Right. Anyhow, if you're about done, would you let me kill you now?"

"If you can figure out how."

The movements, prelude to battle, were slow and respectful. It oddly reminded Crawford of an old fashioned courtship. Like in those silent movies. Those old mysteries. Someone was going to die in the end. Slow, deliberate circling. Wary gazes. Calculating. Predicting moves. It was a dance.

Crawford had no need to predict. He knew. This messenger. This... Angel, he decided. This angel was no longer a catalyst. Crawford was. Weaving, looming, fabricating the Future to his whims. The world was prisoner of the future he laid before them. He created Fate.

Crawford was first to make a move, slashing, stabbing with his sword. The sword could not penetrate the angel's body. Even his clothes remained undamaged. The angel moved fluidly in response. Punch, punch, kick. And Crawford dodged them. Then he dropped his sword and fought hand to hand as well. There was no effect. The angel struck again, and missed. Considering he was an angel of God, he didn't seem to know that he would never land a hit. Still they fought, angel against a psychic vampire. It sounded crazy, even to Crawford.

How do you kill an angel? How do you defeat an opponent who will never tire, never get hurt? Can you? Is there a way? Crawford remembered something, and wondered if God was actually on his side after all. If it was time for things of all things to end, for the world to give up and crumble, for new agreements. His psychotic episodes were lodged in his memory. He wasn't sure if they had been real, if they meant something, but he was going to try. What had he to lose?

Blood had pored from her eyes when she cried. He wondered, then, if it was the woman-girl's doing. After all, she didn't want him to die until she got her something from him. Aside from that, from his thoughts, what he had to do was to make the angel bleed from his eyes. Gouge them, he told himself. You want the blood.

With a growl, he threw himself onto the angel and wrestled him to the ground. With a smirk, he picked up his sword and held it above his head. Was that fear he saw? Just before he brought the point of the blade down onto, into the right eye. The angel screamed. A horrible wail, sounding of a million voices, sirens, birds. Deep and high at the same time. It shook you. It made you want to fly, but you were falling like a bowling ball.

The left eye was left. And then it was gone. Crawford got them both, and the scream then, was silent. The angel was dead. So much for immortality.

At first, Crawford wondered if he would be struck down by lightning from the heavens. He stood straight to challenge the clouds. He would like to see God try. He came to a realization. So God is real... he mused. Then he wondered if the angel had a soul and where it went now that it was dead. Then he wondered what the blood of an angel tasted like.

He was awfully hungry.

It was divine.

The woman girl made herself known once again the next night. This meant that she had the pleasure of catching Crawford in one of his moments in which he was already pissed. When did anyone not? Why couldn't the world leave him alone and in peace. He was home, and, by god, he was going to get blood while he was there. As if that was so casual as that.

When she approached him, in the middle of the night, near his own home, he felt hospitable enough to greet her with his sword to her throat. He just wanted to talk, after all. When she flinched, he took notice of her nose which had already healed. "I thought I broke that," he remarked.

"Oh please. Vampires tend to heal rather quickly. Put that thing away before you pop an eye out. I don't suppose you can grow a new eye." He saw that she was trembling, despite her words. She crossed her arms in a vain attempt to hide that fact.

"I suppose I wouldn't know," he said. "I've never been hurt." And that was completely true, too. "Have you come to take me away? To try to steal my blood again?"

The woman girl sighed "Look, Crawford, you don't seem to understand. I was asked to come here and explain it to you in the hopes that you would submit and cooperate."

He almost laughed. "Me. Cooperate. Since when?"

"That's just what I said, you know. But of course, superiors don't tend to listen when they know that they are wrong. They sometimes try to overestimate me."

"And anyways," he prompted. He had the right to be curious. She said nothing, only stepped back and away from the drawn sword. She began to walk away and she beckoned him to follow.

They went for coffee and tea.

"There is this prophecy. Not many know about it. Mostly killers and government people. Maybe even less. Well, it says that a creature of the Night, with prophetic Sight and silent Voice, will descend upon the world and the End shall commence in its wake." She took a long, shuddering breath. "Look, I need your powers." Her hands were clasped around her mug of tea. She looked around, nervous. She made it perfectly clear that she didn't particularly like or want to be sitting there. She seemed polite enough to not have said anything, but she probably could've been a little more tactful when it came to body language. She was ashamed of having to drink tea, of all drinks in front of the man she was supposed to have killed. Crawford guessed this much.

He sat, fingers pented, his body leaning back in the chair. He was swimming in his mind, diving for prospect. He was vaguely aware of his body. He could have fallen to the floor, and would've still been lost completely in thought. "You believe that you are this creature, Vespertine?"

"No. I mean, yes. I mean... Why do you call me that?"

He didn't answer. His mind was working even harder now. "Hmm..." he said. And then he stood. "I don't really think I wasn't to help you, Vespertine." He paused. "And you owe me one for that little snatch and grab. I trust you can pay the bill."

"Crawford, sit," she commanded.

"I'm not a dog. How can you expect the master to heed the pet?"

"We must come to an agreement," she insisted, avoiding having to look at him. He couldn't deny it, but it looked very funny. To watch her try to establish a sort of commanding position over him when looking at her hands.

"No," he said, waving away a waiter who was thinking that something was wrong with their drinks, or something or other that a waiter should be concerned about. "We're fine," he said to the uniformed teenage boy. "I was just leaving." Spin the wheels for the Future.

"Brad Crawford," she growled, using her Voice. He had been wondering how long it would take her.

He sighed and sat, just to humor her. "Or not..." he muttered. The waiter finally went away.

"Look," she said, "I don't know why you think you're so hot(1), but you aren't okay?(2) The deal is that you even have the full powers of a vampire, while I do. I deserve this more than you."

"You're acting as if it's some sort of promotional position. We don't work together. Nor will we ever. But go ahead and tell me about these powers I don't seem to have." He leaned back once again and pented his fingers. Truly curious. That was what it meant to sit this way.

"Typically," she sighed, "vampires can read minds. They have a telepathic ability."

Crawford scoffed. "I have one of those at home. Crazy as a bunny on crack, as he may be, but he's still useful." He laughed to himself and stood. "And you think you can buy me with a line like that? I've been a psychic for longer than I can remember. You can't tempt me with a power like that. I don't want to know what the rest of the world is thinking. It's sick." And he walked out. From the window, he could see her sink down into her seat.

She couldn't catch him. She had gotten lucky that last time. An now she can't even reason with him. He smiled at her. She was weak and clueless. She would be dead in a week if she took his power. Oh, and his Sight too.

He walked around until 6 in the morning. He had to admit that Schuldich was right. It was getting pretty boring around here. There was no plan, and hence, nothing to do. But what was up with that angel? An angel? I don't suppose you can get stranger than that. And what made it worse, more unbelievable was that he sucked its blood. His blood, he corrected himself.

When he got back to the house, he considered having Schuldich check his mind out. See if he might be going crazy. But when he stepped into the mansion, everyone was still asleep. He had to wait until that night to find out if he was insane.

He wasn't.

"I'm not sure what the hell you're so askeered of. You killed that..." Schuldich sniggered a little, "...angel, did you say? Because of your," he used a set of air quotes here, "psychotic episodes, right?" He was circling the chair in which Crawford sat. "There's nothing wrong with your brain. Maybe you should get your eyes and ears checked."

"I don't think that's it, Schuldich." Crawford sat back and massaged his temples. "I'm either going insane, or the world is ending. I mean... an angel? I killed a fucking angel. And then I drank its blood... I can still..." he held back the urge to lick his lips, "...taste it." He had to admit. He wanted more. "His blood," he corrected himself again.

"Oh, quit your whining." Schuldich crossed the room and leaned his hip against the doorway. Imitating a woman's voice in the best way he could manage, he mimicked, "Oh, no, the sky is falling. Someone save me. I think I'm a fucking loony."

"You know, you should be British," Crawford said, getting up. Time to sleep.

To Be Continued . . .

A/N 1: Because, ummmmmmmm, he IS...

2: Actually, chick, he IS. You know, I just realized I don't know her name.

You know... I'm really surprised. This is moving a little too fast for my comfort. I can't slow it though. It's just flowing. ... And not to mention going insane.