III

Strange Ways

Salford and its environs, the site of so much unplanned urbanisation earlier in the century thanks to 'King Cotton" had, most recently, sacrificed yet one more small parcel of green to the need of a new prison. The bleak and peculiarly shaped red brick building was officially known as "Her Majesty's prison: Manchester," but was it was universally called 'Strangeways' after the park over which it had been built.

It always made him laugh, that name. What had once been a simple, descriptive Anglo-Saxon place-name had been twisted and tickled up into the current peculiar title which bore little resemblance to the original. The English had a true genius for it—it was one of the quirky aspects of this little island and its' peoples that kept drawing him back.

The demon landed light as a featther on the high catwalk 'round the tall ventilation tower within the complex, metal heels clicking sharply on the concrete and kicking up tiny sparks of hellfire as he skidded slightly to a stop. He stilled and closed his eyes. Soon even his perennial twisted smirk slipped away as he focussed, listening carefully to all the miserable cries arising from the grim, brick prison—one of the few in England to have a permanent gallows.

He listened particularly to the women. By experience he knew they were the most abused and taken advantage of, hence the most bitter and despairing. He would more likely find a tainted soul longing for solace and a quick release amongst them—it was always best to get a little co-operation in these matters when you were in a hurry. Had he been in the mood for something more violent, spoiling for a little fight maybe he'd have listened in on the men instead, but the Hindi woman had stirred his appetite for something a little softer and yielding. Willing.

After a bit, one voice distinguished itself. In fact, it sounded as though she might be immersed in the act of trying to kill herself even as he stood there poised on the balls of his feet, listening to her. He quickly made himself less than corporeal and honed in on the furious, despairing voice. My, but he did like them furious and helpless...

It had been full dark by the time he'd settled down on the prison ventilation tower, so once inside the prison cell proper, he found it a delightfully uncompromising solid black. So, no need for a constricting disguise. He could come and go in his own skin—a distinct plus. As predicted, he found her standing by the tiny barred window, furiously sawing away at her wrists, dragging them forcefully over the freshly chipped edge of the stone window sill and sending up a delicious reek of torn and heated flesh. His mind flew back momentarily to the stone tools the humans used to make and use and their deadly sharpness and he was momentarily impressed with her ingenuity. His eyes easily made out in the murk: she was small and rather frail-looking little thing, reminding him of his young master. Small and weak but radiating such delicious fury, seemingly strong enough to scorch the earth for miles around. Even if he'd been blind he could've found her in complete darkness by the heat of her emotions, the scent of her tears and her blood, and by her furious sobbing.

He had listened to her thoughts and gathered enough of her history to know there were sins aplenty to feed on here, as well as a fierce anger over being in this place, apparently about to die for something she hadn't done. Not that she hadn't done things in her life that merited death by human judicial standards, she had and she acknowledged it—to herself within her own thoughts at least. She was angry over the injustice of dying for another's misdeeds. Angry enough to cheat the hangman if she could, hence the chipping and sawing. Rather clever of her, he thought, to chip and sharpen the stone. He wondered what she'd used. She certainly was a determined one.

"There's an easier way, Sally," he said as gently as he could.

She screamed.

Of course. All these conversations seemed to start with a scream. Usually ended with one as well. The demon had learned to look forward to the sound. So much so, he'd come to regard them as demonic dinner bells. They screamed and threw themselves into the furthest corner from his voice, no matter how gentle and seductive he made it.

At first, anyway... he reckoned if he couldn't talk them out of that corner and come willingly to him he was losing his touch.

So she was no different that way at least. She shrieked, not knowing if some guard had come to assault or abuse her in her final hours, or if the devil himself had come to call. It actually was the latter of course, but he would explain soon enough.

Sally had wedged herself between the back of the bed and the furthest corner, hugging her shredded wrists to her tiny breasts, gasping in fear, her face lost in a cloud of dark, disordered hair. "Leave me alone!" she shouted into the inky darkness. By her expression and the direction of her eyes he could tell she had only a vague idea where he was. He knelt down before her a good 5 or 6 feet away and made no effort to touch or draw any closer. He would get her to come to him or find another. He wasn't in the mood to force himself on anyone. He'd been demonic enough earlier. He was going to play the angel now. A dark one, admittedly, but an angel of mercy nonetheless.

"Please don't be frightened Sally. I've actually come to help you."

"What?" a tiny, quivering voice asked. "Help me what!"

"What you were doing. I can give you a way out that will cheat the hangman and the devil, and it will be painless—well, painless compared to sawing your wrists open on that stone. You'd prefer that wouldn't you?"

"Wot I'd 'prefer' is to get the hell out of this shithole. Can you do that?"

"Well, yes, but only in a manner of speaking. You have three options as I see it. Your time on earth is up, Sally. You may not know it but there are lists kept and those whose business it is are sent out to collect the souls of those meant to die. They have you down for the coming morning," he extrapolated, obviously not privy to the Reapers' books, but it sounded convincing enough. "I suppose that means eventually you'll give up on the stone idea as too painful or taking too long."

"S'why I was cryin' so hard when you popped up," she confessed, "I'd about given up. Weren't workin' fast enough and hurt a lot more'n I thought t'would," she admitted. She'd become conversational and trusting quite rapidly, hadn't she? An interesting creature, this Sally Bowyer. He almost regretted being in a contract for a moment. He got over it.

"Just so: you can see it is inevitable: you will die in the next few hours one way or the other. You can wait for them to come collect you at dawn, you can go back to what you were doing and hope to do enough damage before the hangman comes to collect you—and may I say from experience you may be reduced to using your teeth if you really mean to die before they come to get you in the morning, or—'

"Wot? Eee, that's 'orrible!"

"Yes, I quite agree. Oryou can choose to trust me and permit me help you. I am able to slip your soul from your mortal body so gently you'll hardly feel it Sally, with nothing more alarming than a simple kiss, and you will depart into a state of non-existence where you will be safe and no one will ever harass or trick you again. There'll be no hell, no judgement and no hangman for you. Just a kiss my dear, and you will know nothing more than sweet, soft darkness embracing you. No more bars or prisons, no more filth or insects, no more randy jailers and no more paying for someone else's sins."

"Wha— 'ow did you ...'ere now: just who an what are you!"

"Forgive me my dear, didn't I introduce myself? I'm an angel of mercy, Sally. Listen and you'll hear my wings."

It was a cheesy line he'd stumbled onto a few decades earlier and been surprised how well it worked on sad, desperate women longing for release. He gave his massive (currently invisible) wings a shivery snap, settling all the feathers back into their proper alignments. Squirming into tight places like these prison cells in full-on demon form was always hard on his pinions and he'd been itchy and dying to give them a good shaking ever since he'd popped into her cell but he'd been saving it for this moment.

He knew she could not see him but she heard the unmistakeable sound of rustling feathers. It almost always had a near-magical, calming effect: she pushed herself up off the floor and stepped away from the wall on quivering legs and reached for him. Surely nothing with angel wings could be something to fear...right? She reached out a trembling hand, redolent of stone dust, old sweat, fear, tears and blood-delicious. He breathed deeply and noted the scent of her fear was lessening. Time to pour on the seduction pheromones. He closed his eyes and concentrated, sending the scent swirling around the tiny cell with another quick pulse of his wings, pulling them tight against his body.

She let go a soft sigh and touched his hand which he'd extended to her, gloves long gone for now. A warm, gentle human-like touch went a long way toward calming fears, instilling confidence and inspiring misplaced trust.

"You can really do all that, what you said about no pain an' all?"

He took her hand and kissed the back of it, then turned it over and trailed his tongue over the ragged abrasions on her wrist and palm, soothing the friction wounds and sneaking a taste. Complex, excellent.

"It is quite a simple thing really. But very few are brave enough to take advantage of it. It's not a trusting world any more, Sally. I have to work quite hard to find a smart girl like you." He wondered of he'd oversold it with those words. His answer was quick and unmistakeable. She pulled back her hands with a jerk, reminded of the way the world works, probably by his uttering the word 'trusting'. He would have to evolve with the times, rethink what words he used in such situations. These decadent days being called 'trusting' was an insult.

"Oi." A rude noise, full of suspicion. "An' wot d'you get out of this, eh? Nobody does shite for free in this world. Why should you do this for me? I been no angel in my life, y'know. St. Peter won't be keepin' an eye out for me at the gate tomorra." She laughed a rich, corrupt chuckle brimming with knowledge of the darkest of sins. The demon felt a frisson born of eager anticipation shiver its way up and down his spine as her soul-tainted breath wafted over him. It was foul with bad teeth but oh, the soul underneath that!

"O yes, I know. You did not do this murder, but you are no stranger to it. I can tell, you see..." he smiled and took a cautious breath because revealing these things could cut either way. True knowledge of why he was there terrified some but with others, it eased their worries. In his conversation with her so far his impression was that the truth would soothe her. "You see I was created to be rewarded for doing my job relieving souls like yours Sally, taking on your soul strengthens me as it relieves you, so we both benefit." Well it wasn't a lie, but he had rather put a bow on it and shined it up a bit.

At any rate she deserved to know so... "So we will be helping each other, Sally. I will give you a painless exit and in return what you will give me will lend me strength," by letting me rip out your soul and eat it, his thought chuckled darkly at the private joke. He wondered briefly if any of his brethren were listening in tonight. Such places of misery and death often attracted them in clouds—of course they'd have scattered as they felt him approaching. Even in Hell he was a massively powerful demon. If any of the lesser devi were hovering and observing tonight, he would show them how it was done, he thought proudly. He felt the small tremor run through her as he said "I hate to rush you dear, but if you do not wish to accept this mercy I must needs go and find someone who will. We both have limited time. If you want to avoid that broken neck tomorrow you need to get busy on those wrists, my dear." Then he stepped back from her: one step, two steps, finessing the pressure.

Finally she rushed forward, throwing her arms around him. "Don't go. It's fine. Your way sounds fine to me," she said, suddenly sucking in a quick breath, as soon as she felt him under her hands. She looked down in the dark and started to run her hands over her dark angel in awe. What had she captured here? "Cor, darlin'. Wish I'd a seen you properly in the light, I do!" she said, channelling Maylene for a moment. He had to stop her roving hands or else he'd completely blow his carefully constructed 'Angel of Mercy' image with an abruptly stiffening member prodding her in the belly. That wouldn't be very angelic! Of course anyone who'd met Ash/Angela might beg to differ...

He laughed as he held her a little bit away from him and caressed her cheek and hair. She wasn't the cleanest and her hair felt like it hadn't seen a comb in months, but it was the throb of life deep inside her he was interested in so he played along. "O dearie me..." She muttered, half turning from him as she ran a hand over her hair self consciously, clearly wishing she'd encountered what she imagined was a handsome man under more favourable circumstances.

"It's fine," he whispered."In the dark you can imagine I am whoever you long for,"he whispered, hoping to finesse her emotions toward something a little less frisky and more wistful. He began kissing her chin, across her jaw, eventually fetching up at her ear. "Who do you long for Sally? Is there a special someone you wish you could've say goodbye to?" Moved to a touch of pity, he'd been thinking of offering her an illusion to ease the way. He could manipulate her thoughts and memories to orchestrate a last goodbye, a loved one's final embrace. He could make her see anyone he found in her memories. But he could feel at once that his words stirred no memory for her.

She loosed a shivery little sound between a sigh and a sob as she caressed his forearm. "Pair o' strong arms like yourn woulda been right welcome in my life, but no, I never once had a man I could trust, not even me Da. If I had I'd a never fetched up in this hellhole."

"Well, have them now, Sally." He said, and having got control of his own body he held hers a little tighter.

"Thank you. Whatever the hell you are, yer a lot more 'uman than many a man I've known in my life," she said as she willingly reached up and pressed her lips to his.

Yes, now open to me... He kissed her back softly, then with increasing fervour, then brought his hands up, one behind her head and one to the centre of her back just underneath her shoulder blades to ensure she didn't pull away when she started to feel the pull. And the pain.

Then with lips and tongue and pressure and pheromones all working together he urged her to let him into her mouth. Open, yield to me...

She had just slipped one hand into his hair and the other was sliding down the long primaries of one wing in a gentle caress when he reached his goal. He felt her eyes fly open and her body jerk in surprise—there was the inevitable sharp, shocking sting it was always better not to mention, and then, nothing. Nothing else but a gentle, melting capitulation. As the last wisps of life were drawn out of her she let go and hung limply in his arms. He sucked her tongue into his mouth and bit down hard, knowing she was beyond feeling it now. He wanted to ensure he took as much sustenance from the woman as possible: the more strength he garnered here, the longer his master would be kept safe when he was the butler once again.

He left her laid out on the miserable little prison cot and covered her with the thin, louse-ridden blanket, smoothing a hand over her hair a moment, arranging it over her shoulder, thinking of the life he'd seen in her as he'd taken her soul into himself. He liked to at least think of them with honour, the ones who sustained him, even if only for a moment. It was paltry thanks, but still, he felt compelled to offer it—he supposed he was a funny sort of devil that way...

Then he turned and quickly stepped into a black blur of nothingness.