Living. It was a romantic notion, anyway.

I really did try. For a while, actually. I traveled for fun, not necessity. I visited a dozen national parks and a national lakeshore. I saw the Atlantic and the Pacific oceans in the same day. Twice. I flew to Europe and sailed down to Africa and from there I traveled so far east I eventually ended up back in the west.

And for a while it was good. Exploring places I'd never thought about visiting. Standing on historic grounds I'd forgotten existed. Vacationing. I consumed the sights and sounds, inhaled them as quickly as I could, just trying to get on to the next world wonder, the next beach, the next whatever.

I never was very good at relaxing.

I realized after a year on the road and on planes and ships and trains that I wasn't traveling for the experience. I wasn't navigating the planet for fun or to live, as I said I'd do. I was trying to distract myself. If I were to stop, I would think, I would reflect. And by that point in my long, long existence, I had endured enough to know that introspection was hell.

At least it was my Hell.

In Hell I had eluded the demons for over a millennia, but it hadn't all been running through narrow caves and slipping through shadows. There was a lot of time to sit. A lot of time to think. A lot of time to reflect.

When I first got to Hell — the second time around, that is — I didn't think I belonged there. I didn't deserve to be there. It wasn't that I regretted selling my soul, not for what I'd gotten out of the deal. But I couldn't accept that Hell was it for me. I'd worked so damn hard, hurt so damn much for so damn long, the pit couldn't be where it all ended for me.

Except, after a while, I realized Hell was always where it was always going to end. People — good people — were dead because of me. I had taught my sons to be soldiers, sacrificed their happiness to my own crusade. I had expected them to bend to my ridiculous standards, but I never really raised them. I was gone too often to have done anything that resembled actual parenting. I never hit them, not once, but Jesus, I was a distant son of a bitch. I wasn't there for them, even when I was around.

And then there was Mary. Everything I'd done since her death, I'd done for her. Because of her. I swore my revenge and couldn't - wouldn't — see anything but that. Everything else was just a means to an end, including my children. What kind of heartless bastard does that?

I couldn't even remember why I was so intent on avenging my wife. I remembered loving her, deeply and completely. But the reality of those feelings had long since dispersed and I no longer recalled what it was about her, about the mother of my children, that had driven me to feel so profoundly.

These thoughts fueled me to run. They trailed closely behind me wherever I went, and they continued to torment me on earth. I tried like hell to outrun them, but they drove me to pick up a blade and a gun and return to the same damn life I'd left behind so long ago.

Only, hunting no longer consumed me the way it used to. It no longer provided the powerful distraction I had been looking for. Because hunting as a demon was easy. Too easy. I could feel a monster's presence, could taste it in the air. I could see their true form beneath their mortal masks. I knew what I was hunting the moment I rolled into town, and, so long as there were no other demons around, it would be dead within a day.

Still, I pressed on. It was something to do, something that satisfied my demon-inspired lust for violence without letting it drag me down deeper into the abyss of malevolence. Something to keep me busy as I served out the rest of my sentence of solitude on earth.

At least I tried to serve my time. Fate has an annoying habit of altering one's plans.

I was working a Vetala case on the outskirts of Tallahassee the night we met. I suppose it was inevitable, us meeting. A hunter can only keep to himself for so long before he starts running into other hunters, and they were not the first I had encountered. Weeks before I'd had a run-in with a newer hunter named Cole, a man who found my existence perplexing. I had left him with a broken nose and a look of bewilderment.

But I digress.

I followed the pair of Vetala to a seedy motel, the kind of motel I used to stay in, back when I still needed things like sleep. The "women" — a thin brunette and a tall redhead, both dressed in short skirts and fishnet stockings — slipped into room seven, and quietly closed the door behind them. I watched them from my seat behind the wheel of a black '52 Ford pickup, and carefully checked the parking lot for witnesses. Satisfied I would be able to slip in and out without being seen, I popped the door open.

"Stay here, Freya," I instructed my canine companion. "Window's rolled down if I need you. Don't go jumping through anymore glass, you hear?"

Freya gave me an exaggerated look of guilt as she gradually laid on the leather bench seat. I rolled my eyes at her dramatic reaction but couldn't help the tiny grin that tugged at my mouth as I stepped out of the car and into the muggy night.

I moved with a swift silence across the parking lot, my right hand clutching the hilt of a silver dagger I kept hidden in the pocket of my black leather jacket. The door to room seven was locked, and no light crept out from inside. They were waiting for someone.

I threw my elbow into the wooden door, and the latch cleanly snapped in half upon impact. The door creaked open and I let myself in, brandishing my weapon as I looked about the dingy room. A couple of twin beds sat on the left wall, neatly made with duffle bags sitting on top, and a cheap wooden desk sat on the right side of the silent room. At a glance, the dark room appeared vacant, but I knew better. Even if I hadn't watched them enter the dingy room, the bitter scent of venom that clung to the thick humidity would have given them away.

I sniffed once, twice, to isolate their hiding spots, and I easily located the brunette. She was holding her breath in the shadows to my left, crouched in the cramped space between the window and the first bed. I nudged the door closed with my foot, and grinned thinly as her golden eyes met mine. She haltingly rose, hissing threateningly as she flashed her sharp fangs.

"Come on, you ugly bitch," I taunted as I turned to face her, holding my dagger out for her to see. "Try me."

The Vetala stared warily at the silver blade and took a cautious step back. A sly grin formed across her red lips, a tell that her sister was nearby. Not that I needed the hint; I could smell the sharp traces of the monster's poison as she noiselessly approached me on my right. Without looking away from the brunette, I casually put my hand up and sent the redhead sailing across the room. A thick gasp forced its way from her lungs as she slammed forcefully into the wall, and a sharp wail escaped her throat when she found she couldn't move.

"Wait your turn, sweetheart," I said lightly without turning my head. "Well?" I spoke directly to the terrified brunette. "I'm waiting."

The creature eyed me with apprehension. She knew what I was, and it changed everything. A desperate rage ignited behind her eyes as she flashed me her fangs and bravely stepped forward. She came at me hard with her fists swinging, hoping to get in at least one solid blow before the inevitable happened. I moved my head to the right to avoid her fist, and easily deflected her left fist with my arm. She had left herself wide open, unintentionally leaving her chest completely unprotected in her frenzied attempt to strike me. Without hesitation, I seized the opportunity and skillfully drove my dagger into her heart. A heavy breath escaped her lips, and I slid the blade a little deeper.

"Commendable effort," I said, almost sincere as her body slipped to the floor and began to deteriorate.

I turned and instantly set my sights on the redhead. I held up the dagger for her to see, showing her the sticky red mess that glistened across the blade, and took pride in the horror that flickered across her face as she stared at her sister's blood. I released my hold on her and she staggered, grasping at the wall for balance. "What about you?" I inquired. "Are you going to go out swinging, too?"

The redhead eyed me skittishly as I made slow steps toward her, and she cowered as I drew near.

"That's really disappointing," I commented. I paused when I reached the center of the room and arranged an expression of exaggerated and entirely false sorrow on my face. "And sad. Are you crying? How am I supposed to enjoy this if you're crying? You know what?" I stepped aside, clearing a path between me and the door. "Just get out of here. I'm not even in the mood anymore."

The Vetala sniffled, her wet eyes blinking at me with hopeful uncertainty.

"Go on." I motioned towards the door with my left hand. "Get out of here."

She didn't think twice about my offer. She steadied herself and made a break for the door. I snatched her mid-run and brought her into me so swiftly she didn't have time to struggle. I gradually pushed the bloodied blade into her chest, inching the sharp silver towards her heart, and I watched as her expression filled with shock and betrayal.

"I know," I nodded as she gaped up at me. "I'm surprised, too. I didn't think you would fall for that."

Old John — human John — wouldn't have been so cruel. The old me never would have taken his time or carelessly tried tricking creatures. The hunter I used to be never took pleasure in killing. But I wasn't John anymore, not really. I was a lot like him, but, at the same time, I was nothing at all like him. I was a demon. And there was something entirely satisfying about carnage. Something terribly enjoyable about watching the light fade, hearing the breath halt and knowing I had taken those things.

Fucking demons.

I removed the knife from her heart with a quick hand and released her from my grip. She tumbled lifelessly to the dirty carpet below, and carelessly left her body where it lay. I turned and pocketed my weapon, and casually made a stride towards the exit. I didn't get far; an invisible force suddenly confined me, preventing me from advancing any further. I looked up. Painted overhead in white, one shade lighter than the ceiling itself, was a sizable demon trap painted in the center of the room.

"Really?" I sighed in annoyance.

It was then that I realized where I was. This wasn't just any motel room. I was in a hunter's room. Two, judging by the bags that sat on each bed. Just as this new turn of events sank in, the door opened.

I squinted at the light that flooded the room, and the tall figures that stood silhouetted in the doorway.

"See, Sammy?" One of them said in a rough voice. "Told you it'd work."