Post by Seamus on Jun 10, 2012 20:59:20 GMT -5
Salt, bones, and blood; they are familiar scents, ones that lay heavy with weight, with meaning upon the oppressive and stale basement air. Elijah has had a collection of accrued lifetimes to learn to hate basements; regardless of the time period, there is something insultingly pathetic about dealing with the amateur summoner. It is the hallmark of desperate men or experimental children, and Eli has a vast wealth of experience to draw on that supports the idea that neither is often good. Easy pickings, but small rewards; seldom worth the demon’s time and yet such acts are required of him.
The circle about his feet had demanded it.
It had been a collective, which was not in itself unusual, but their request had managed to turn his evening from mediocre to alluring. Wetwork on its own isn’t fascinating – hardly a challenge, in most cases – but three targets in a single night holds the promise of a worthy exchange, of a sizable return on his investment. Three men had left wearing his mark upon their shoulders, and Eli had been further placated with scraps of offered knowledge, with wealth, with secrets; information is often his most valuable resource, and he hoards it greedily. They had, in the end, remembered to ask him – ask him, as though they lacked even the courage to make it an order – not to kill them. They’d said please.
And he’d just smiled when they’d blown the salt clean.
At some point, really, Eli expected he would have learned that things are never easy. In the hours between exiting that dingy basement and now the situation had somehow fallen to pieces; the demon suspects, in the portion of his brain not concentrating on survival, that he may have been set up. Only time will tell, and time is the sole thing Eli doesn’t have on his side. The little apartment building had been surprisingly quiet and simple to enter, and it was only after room after room had appeared empty and stripped bare that he’d begun to have his doubts; when Eli tripped the first trap laid out for him, laced with holy water, his decision settled firmly on things not being normal. Five centuries in, and he really needs to start asking better questions.
Eli had grown more cautious after that; he’d picked off a patrol or two before they’d finally grown wise, and the remaining meatsacks had converged on him with a hunger. Backing down from fights is not a skill he’s particularly fond of, but he hasn’t lived hundreds of years by making brash decisions, and it’s about the time that the shotguns come out that the demon gets the hint. He flees, proverbial tail tucked – only to find himself caught flat-footed, struck with the sudden knowledge that he is still bound by his contract. Whatever lies his summoners may have fed him, he is still tied to their agreement – and the men he has come to kill are amongst his assailants. And he had to go and be lured in by the challenge of three kills in one night.
He laughs. Because it’s clever, and Eli can appreciate that.
The demon is tucked indignantly behind a couch when the idea to contact Seamus finally dawns on him. He concentrates; draws the other man’s presence towards him in his mind, and speaks. ”Seamus—” –there’s a commotion in the hall outside, and Eli ducks his head and lowers his voice. ”I may be involved in a bit of a snafu.” Definitely footsteps – definitely someone playing with the lock on the door. ”Uh – okay, no-fuckin’-really, I could use a hand.” A beat. ”Please.” Because Eli can be a polite demon, if he wants—
—and a thirty-aught of rock salt explodes against the wall behind him.
Seamus typically dreams in grit and brimstone. He can feel the heat of hell licking at his sides and calling him back with the sweet voice of a mother intent on devouring her wayward child. It is a terrifying rumble of fire and magma-spitting stone – and that is typically how he dreams. But today is different. Seamus falls asleep to the sound of angry Italian men fighting on the latest episode of Cake Boss and when he dreams, it has nothing to do with hell.
Darkness turns to colors, to a sensory feed of palpable sensations. He can hear murmured voices, the sound of breathing, and he can feel a heat that cannot be attributed to his recollection of hell. The stream of nonsensical, fragmented images sets the parts of his brain that deal with addiction and the release of opioids firing off. It is a pleasant, heady feeling that is promptly interrupted by the ring of a telephone. The ring persists and grows louder and louder, until there is a voice yelling at him to pick up. He realizes that it is his own voice and that doesn’t make any sense.
He picks up.
In a huff of smoke, a groggy Seamus materializes behind a man toting a shotgun. The demon does not stop to consider, does not think – he acts. Abnormally strong hands settle on the man’s head; there is a jerk of motion, the snap of a spine, and a body falls slack to the floor with a sickening thud. A moment passes in which Seamus stares down at the corpse in confusion. His sleep-wrought stupor is cut short at the angered, surprised cry of humans and the click of a trigger. A gunshot rings out, his shoulder erupts into a searing, white-hot pain, and Seamus is very, very awake.
He drops to ground, has the foresight to nab the fallen shotgun, and scrabbles into the room like a roach looking for the dark. A wide-eyed Seamus settles behind the couch next to Eli and immediately shoots the demon a sharp glare. ”What the hell. Eli, what the hell,” Seamus demands in quick, seething words because he has no idea what is going on, and if Eli is involved (and of course Eli is involved) it can’t be good. The demon takes a moment to assess the surroundings and finds exploded salt, various and dangerous looking sigils, then summarily redoubles his efforts to flay the other demon alive with his eyes.
”That bastard put a hole in me and it’s all your fault.” His arm is on fire and he is bleeding, and he is pretty sure that dream was going places before he was so rudely interrupted. Seamus looks the shotgun he’s holding over and hopes it is loaded. ”Man, you could’ve picked a better time, y’know. I was in the middle of something.” Despite his complaining, Seamus is not one to refuse an opportunity for some violence, and there’s the whole issue of getting back at the guy who shot him. Vengeance, to a demon like Seamus, is always satisfying – no matter how meager.
”But since I’m here, I guess I’ll clean up your stupid mess.” Seamus has mastered the art of pretentious spite. He shoots the other demon a sardonic smirk before he maneuvers into a crouch. ”I just point this and it…whatever.” He’s seen the movies, he figures that’s enough of an education. With enough zeal and bravado to have Rambo shaking in his combat boots, Seamus stands and opens fire directly at the doorway.
He finds the act of firing the gun oddly exciting and intensely satisfying. And suddenly he understands the human fascination with the weapon. The second shot sees a maniacal grin spread across the man’s dark features.
”—and duck,” is the final offered warning, but Eli can already smell the acrid scent of sulfur released from reality’s abnormal shifting, and he knows with a twisted sense of glee more than anything like relief that Seamus is here. That the world then explodes into a cacophonic display of screams and gunshots is almost expected, because clearly the gold-eyed demon is chewing ass and kicking bubblegum – or whatever – and it soothes him like a melody. Eli perks up and peers over the couch just in time to see Seamus come crawling in, and the grin he flashes the injured man is one fraught with childlike abandon.
Two demons are more fun than one.
It’s an expression that barely reduces itself to a smug, self-satisfied smirk when Seamus hunkers down at his side and fixes him with that look of his, the one that sends mortals running. Eli just runs his tongue over his teeth. ”Surprise?” The statement is complete with sarcastic jazz hands – and then his eyes are drawn to the blood soaking into the shoulder of Seamus’ shirt, and Eli’s face falters. ”Woah, hey – you’re bleeding like meat.” He immediately reaches for the other demon and begins to prod at his shoulder curiously – more like he finds the whole concept interesting than with the idea that he could somehow help. ”You killed them all, then?” Eli meets Seamus’ eyes with his brows drawn up, cheerful, expectant.
A fresh round of gunfire serves as his answer. A pity, really, but he’s getting a hold on this whole nothing’s ever simple gig; and of course, it leaves a piece of the action for him, and that thought seems supremely satisfying. ”Middle of something? Middle of Ace of Cakes, more like,” he huffs. ”We should get – you know. That thing that saves the television for you? One of those.” Good conversation for being shot at, really; but at least Seamus has a mind for the situation, and takes it upon himself to handle it.
”Yes,” Eli encourages, green eyes alight. ”Be my vacuum cleaner.” And as the first wave of return fire hits home – shocking their attackers with a sudden reminder that yes, there are cornered demons in this room, and that is dangerous – Eli rises to stand beside Seamus, a wickedly curved knife suddenly in his unquiet hands. ”Or one of those ladies in a maid’s outfit.” He pauses in thought; Seamus’ shotgun rips into a pair of men in the doorway. ”...A maid, presumably.” In a flash, that knife is in the final man’s throat, and the human gurgles pleasingly as he collapses, clawing in vain at his own neck. Eli rocks back on his heels in the fulfilling wake of a job well done – like he’d somehow been useful all along – and moves forward to inspect the bodies.
He toes at the head of one with the point of his black loafer, brow furrowed in concentration; Eli can feel the threads of compulsion releasing, his ties to that lying little cultist growing strong. The mark on the human’s shoulder must be burning up a storm right about now, and the thought that they’d expected him to die here and never need to make good on their deal sets Eli smirking dangerously. They will not escape; by the end of this night, he will know them. ”That’s one,” the demon explains, and as he glances at Seamus his features back relax into that façade of boyish nonchalance.
”Catch.” And from nowhere, a boxy Polaroid camera appears in the man’s hand, and he tosses it softly to the other demon with a burgeoning grin. ”I need it for my records,” as though that explains why he’s manhandling the corpse upright, putting his own glasses on its face, and posing beside it for Seamus to capture on film. Best scrapbook photo ever. He rises upon finishing, brushing off the front of his pants, and both picture and camera disappear from this reality in a blink. Stepping forward, Eli slings an arm over Seamus’ shoulders – the man’s injury already forgotten, because don’t those heal, or something? – and ushers him towards the door.
”Two more, then,” he prompts, conversationally. He can feel the trace of his marks in his head, skittering around the building like rats. ”Glad you agreed to help.” Because Eli will reappear in their apartment, where he’d been summoned from, when the contract’s complete – and unless Seamus likes being stranded on the ass-end of Denver, the green-eyed demon is his only easy ticket home.
And Elijah does so love a good trade.
”Cake Boss,” he iterates as if the correct name of the show is actually important. Seamus has his priorities and having an unhealthy knowledge of American television is among the top of the list. He considers himself a scholar of sorts and Eli clearly does not have the presence of mind to appreciate Seamus’ expertise. The last gunshot rings out and then the gun refuses to do much else but click uselessly. Gold eyes settle on the weapon, a frown creases his expression, then Seamus shrugs and unceremoniously drops the item onto the ground. ”They were making a cake shaped like an airplane,” he goes on to explain as Elijah dispatches the last human with a graceful toss of his knife. ”It was all very important.”
The final human hits the ground with a meaty thud, gurgles and thrashes about, and Seamus cocks his head like a curious bird. ” That old hag stopped by,” he begins conversationally as the man gives one last valiant attempt at living before he stutters and falls still. ”She seems to be convinced we had a hand in the disappearance of her cat.” Seamus easily catches the camera, shoots Eli a withering look, but indulges the demon by snapping a photo. ”I told her I didn’t know anything, and then she called me a terrorist.” The demon regards the room with a searching stare, ”Eli, I’m pretty sure I hate old people.” The anecdote of A Day in The Life of Seamus ends as he settles his gaze onto the other demon.
”This is a trap,” he deadpans. ”You walked straight into a trap and then you summoned me into it with you.” It is back to business and Seamus’ tone drips with accusation. He shoulders out of Eli’s grip and gingerly avoids tripping on the corpses sprawled out on the ground. ” Some friend you are – useless glitter fairy bastard. I’ll take your bedazzler and show you where you can shove it.” He continues to grumble under his breath as he stalks into the hallway. The demon angles his head this way and that, allows his eyes to fall shut, and focuses. He can hear careful, measured footsteps, the sound of stilted breathing, and the frightened heartbeat of a cornered rabbit. His lips twist into a toothy smirk. ”Looks like your friends are playing hide-and-seek. I got thirty minutes before American Idol, so we better make this thing quick.” It is an honest warning because they both know Seamus will sulk for days if he misses one of his shows.
He strolls down the hallway with a cocksure gait until he makes it to a flight of stairs. ” Olly olly oxen free,” he bellows out in a sing-song voice and takes the steps one at a time. ”Really, you’re just prolonging the inevitable.” Seamus’ pretentious tone echoes throughout the empty building and he can feel the remaining humans stirring. ”So do us all a favor. Pick up those fantastic guns, point them at your heads and call a forfeit.” There is a power to his words now, threads of suggestion that shoot out like the wires of a puppet master searching for a willing marionette. Silence, then the thunderous echo of gunfire.
”Looks like only one went for it.” Whoever these men are, their wills are not easily bent. Gold eyes shift to Eli and narrow. ”Just who the hell did you make a deal with, anyway?” There is little time to talk because humans that know of devil traps and incantations are out there waiting, but Seamus is finding the scenario increasingly suspicious and Eli owes him some answers.
”She tried to arrange a marriage between myself and her unfortunate daughter, back when we moved in,” Eli replies, sniffing as he peers down at the collection of corpses at their feet, as though they might provide an explanation. ”I may have told her boils were the least flattering of plagues.” His expression grows thoughtful, his gaze detached; he tilts his head to one side curiously, and his knife disappears from where he had discarded it. ”I’m not sure she appreciated that. She calls me faygele now.” A blink, a shrug, and Eli picks his head up to project a preoccupied smile in return for Seamus’ dangerous stare; he only laughs when the man finally shrugs him away, and ambles lazily behind as they enter the hall.
He seems to take little notice of – or at least no offense in – the other demon’s heated words. Eli’s smirk lingers, smug and patient, through the frustrated rant; either in recognition of his own craft-related misdeeds, or simply because Seamus is best handled through a determinedly lackadaisical and endlessly unperturbed demeanor. There is, after all, a reason why their strange partnership works. ”Didn’t summon you,” is his eventual clarification. ”Have to come willingly, you know. Or are you bound to me, now?” Eli flashes the man a dark grin, all teeth and narrowed eyes and poorly veiled subtlety, before turning away to smear his thumb through a twisted sigil painted hastily on the wall. ”…definitely a trap, though. Amateurs.” A spiteful word, spoken with a sneer; and with none of the humility that nearly being caught in their supposedly inept snare should have produced.
Falling into step behind Seamus, the tall man concentrates on the distant sensations of the remaining humans crawling about the walls, holed up in their hideaways and hunkering down. He frowns; hunting them out will take far longer than he’d like to spend, and the deadline imposed by his compatriot is clearly urgent. ”Wouldn’t have to rush if we got the television saver,” he mutters sullenly – but perks up with interest when Seamus does his thing. Eli mocks a shiver following the ensuing gunshot, a brow quirked and his smile all wide and wicked. ”I love it when you do that.” He runs his tongue over his bottom lip, contemplative. ”You should use it on the old woman, next time she comes by.” But the display of power and violence seems not to settle Seamus as it does Elijah, and when the dark-haired demon hits him with a hard stare, Eli nearly wilts – but only just.
”Oh, you know – the usual,” he replies vaguely, the statement laced with enough truth to slide off his tongue. ”Hooded, robed fellows, shaking in their boots and begging for my favor. It all seemed so innocent at the time.” The demon’s tone is wistful; he fixes Seamus with a mockingly sad stare. ”Was it something I said? Where did we go so wrong?” Somewhere in the realm of holy water, salt, and shotguns, probably – but that’s neither here nor there. That they had the gall to make a contract and try to stab him in the back incenses Eli to his core, even as he maintains his arrogant air of casualness. Summoners had standards, once. Even hunters had standards. Getting to play twisted-buddy-cop-film with Seamus may be a suitable consolation prize, but the demon is not fond of being on the victim’s end of a scam.
He will claim his marks, he will collect their souls, and he will kill them.
”…I may not have asked very many questions,” the demon admits, sounding more curious at his own error than humble. He shrugs. ”C’est la vie.” He crooks a finger, beckoning, and steps away down another hall. ”Come.” There is the tell-tale beating of a desperate heart lurking just around the corner, and Eli can feel that strand of irresistible obligation drawing him in and guiding his hand. He stalks forward with the natural grace and quiet patience of an apex predator, an obligate carnivore; and when the two men they have cornered finally realize their weakness in a broken line of salt, the demons have already stepped inside. That cruel silver knife makes its reappearance, only to slip from view in the depths of the first man’s chest; there is a requisite retaliation of gunfire from twitching, dying nerves, all futile and pathetic. The second rounds upon Seamus with a shout, a righteous fury in his eyes and salt in his fist – and Elijah leaves his partner to his kill.
”Did you know they make robot vacuums?” he queries innocuously. The demon straightens, red knife in hand, and inhales deep as he tilts his head to listen; his final mark is close, and the little mouse is terrified. The sensation leaves him elated, a feeling as tangible as any physical intoxication, and he smirks slow and satisfied. ”…We should get one.”
”Whatever fag -bagel,” Seamus mutters grumpily as fishes out a cigarette. There is much to this situation that reads dangerous and wrong, and he may be new to the mortal realm, but Seamus has seen his fair share of traps. This trap, though loaded with meats-sack humans, reeks of expert premeditation. A lighter flares to life in the dim hallway and he takes a long drag from the stick dangling out of his lips. ”This, right here? This is some serious shit.” Smoke wafts out of the corner of his mouth and he blows two acrid streams out of his nostrils. ”You piss anyone off lately—more than usual?” A valid question that Seamus does not really expect to get a workable answer to.
Despite his misgivings about the situation, Seamus falls into step behind Eli, committed to his role as the cantankerous partner in crime. ”Why am I not surprised,” is his flat and mumbled reply. The atmosphere in the building grows close and stifled, and the demon can taste human dread sweet and metallic in the air. That fear, the one that harkens to nightmares made real, is a siren’s call to Seamus. He was born –made—to this and though the comfortable habitat of the mortal plain has rendered the demon lazy, those instincts remain.
They enter into the room. Elijah takes out his human with the inspired grace that Seamus both envies and appreciates, and the gold-eyed demon stalks towards his prey. There is a shout, the snap of a hand, and the spray of rock salt. Seamus turns his head in time to spare his eyes, but his cheek and neck take the brunt of the attack. Where the mineral touches, skin and flesh burn and sizzle, leaving pockmark lesions over the demon’s dark features. It is only a momentary stall to Seamus’ cat –like stalking and when the human gives the first indication of flight, the demon pounces.
The human’s feet dangle inches from the ground and he kicks plaintively against the wall Seamus has him against. With one furious hand at the man’s throat, the demon has him pinned with no hope of escape. A shark’s grin spreads over his features and he cocks his head to the side and blows cigarette smoke directly into the squirming man’s face. ”That hurt,” he accuses in a deceptively gentle voice. The rock salt continues to burn and the smell of singed flesh disperses into the air. Behind him, Eli chatters away but Seamus is transfixed by the terror he sees in the human’s eyes. ”No, baby,” it is a heady sort of affection that laces his words, ”I didn’t know that-- Did you?” The question is delivered to the man struggling against him and when an answer is not immediately forthcoming, Seamus’ grip turns threatening but he maintains his façade of resolute calm. ”I asked you a question – did you know they make robot vacuums?“ The man, wide-eyed and bewildered gives a stuttered nod, and Seamus smiles. ”I guess I’m the only one outta the loop, huh?” And with that, he snaps the man’s neck and lets his body hit the floor like cut timber.
Seamus makes a languid turn and fixes his stare onto Eli. ”What’s that leave-- one more guy?” Seamus hasn’t been counting and he isn’t privy to the threads of contract still hanging in the cosmos. ”We should interrogate him.” All those cop and crime shows Seamus has been watching have clearly come in handy. He flicks his cigarette, lets the ashes drift to the ground, then inhales enough smoke to fill his lungs. ”You can be the good cop.” Tendrils of smoke drift out of his mouth and nostrils – and out of the salt-wrought holes in his cheek.
In the relative dark of the room, the demon’s smirk is sharp and bright.
The clicking shutter of a camera, a huff of sulfur and smoke, and Eli is back beside Seamus and peering curiously at the blistering holes in his companion’s face. He does not put the knife away, and the quiet of the building – otherwise limited to a dull electric hum of machinery and fluorescent lights – is interrupted by the dripping blade’s syncopated tick – tick of blood to the floor. ”That’s unattractive,” he says flatly, frowning in disappointment – though whether it’s in reaction to Seamus’ actions or simply because Eli likes his face is unclear, but it is probably for the best that the bold human is already dead. In the way of the demon’s fickle and inappropriately cheerful nature, he brightens back up at the other man’s suggestion – his brief displeasure already forgotten in the light of a new prospect. ”I want to be Jackie Chan,” is the firm assertion, as though specification were somehow required, and they leave the visceral carnage of salt and blood behind them to return to the flickering light of the hall.
The final door, they find, is locked; but such simple blockades are little use, in the end.
Eli runs his hand slowly along the door, as though tactile sensation might allow him to divine the threats within; it is hopeless, he knows, just as he knows his own brazen impatience. Braced, the demon shoulders the barricade open in a display of unnatural strength and cracking wood – the wide-eyed man on the opposite side chokes back a horrified shout at his entrance, and unceremoniously flings the contents of a stone bowl at his face. Eli twists and throws an arm up, catching the brunt of the holy water across his bicep and shoulder, and it soaks through the fabric of his jacket. The scent of burned flesh hits his nose almost before the painful sting. A dark, restrained fury descends over the demon’s features – he hisses – and there is a sick pop when his fingers find a grip upon the frightened man’s shoulder. The human crumples to the floor, and Eli drops atop him like a ravenous animal, pinning him with his own heavy weight atop the man’s chest.
His knife glints in the dim light, rusted crimson, and his free hand fists in the front of the man’s shirt; Eli cracks the hunter’s skull back against the floor in an effort to still his struggles. Satisfied, he turns his head to glower at Seamus over his shoulder, lips pursed in preparation for the barbed words he is already anticipating in response to his lack of forethought. ”That woman down the hall is going to think we had another row.” An indignant sniff, and Eli rolls his stiff arm slowly, looking back to his victim with a forced and wavering calm.
”My partner seems to think I’ve made someone mad,” the demon begins, the human beneath him a story of terror told in pinpricked pupils and bloodless skin. ”I can’t imagine why. Can you?” Slow, dangerous strokes sweep the flat of his knife over the fabric of the writhing man’s shirt, streaking him red; he pauses in his methodical work, head canted to one side in slow realization. ”…Well. Excluding the obvious. Perhaps you can clarify.” The man looks to Seamus, pleading, and Eli only sighs.
”Oh, he won’t save you. I’m the good cop,” he explains blithely, sliding the blunt edge of his knife down the side of the man’s neck. ”So where does that leave him.” The statement is a dark, ominous thing, heavy with implied threat – and Eli breaks the moment with an eerily lighthearted laugh, leaning away. ”It’s his show, you see. America’s— Talented Meatsacks.” Whatever. Eli waves his weapon wildly, carelessly close to the man’s eyes, in dismissal of his own ignorance. ”The one with that horrible man with the lips. But he wants to watch it, and I want to get out of here with enough time to stop at IHOP.” A wolfish grin, hungry and keen, crawls slow over the demon’s mouth, and with a sudden show of intent and interest he had previously been lacking, Eli presses the blade of his knife to the pale flesh of the human’s cheek. The gesture is purposeful in its restraint. ”And even God won’t save you if we’re late.”
It is not a lie; God won’t save this man anyway.
The first confessions spill from lips as blood spills from opened veins, but it is a shallow victory, one Eli has already grown bored with; he rises, and deposits the twitching, blooded man carelessly at Seamus’ feet. He lets the other demon work, picking idly at his nails with the point of his blade, the picture of jaded disinterest; the human’s tale, further exposed at his partner’s hands, proves little more effective in rousing him. There are vague hints at some sort of collusion, of a thing that spans a greater distance than this shabby little building – of a man named Marlowe – but it is a narrative sullied with the believed half-truths of a low ranking lackey. He is left with a pervasive feeling that this was a botched, unapproved affair; an effort to impress gone wrong, perhaps, and the idea leaves him frowning. Elijah does not like frowning.
That the demon’s targets weren’t even important is frustrating; this whole situation is frustrating, and Eli does not handle that emotion well. Not in the least when compounded by the possibility of having been proven wrong. In front of Seamus. He determines to resolutely ignore that feeling – to avoid addressing any lingering problems at all – and slowly peels his jacket away from his scalded shoulder. ”I take us on the best dates.” Eli smirks, roguish and incorrigible, and draws his green eyes upward. ”Can we get pancakes now?”
