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“I’m not going anywhere,” Mort said.
“You may come of your own free will, or I will drag you back. Choice is yours. For the next ten seconds.”
“He doesn’t want to go with you!”
Mort groaned inwardly as he turned to see Tristan staring out the window, which he had slid open to stare out, wild-eyed.
“Tris, I appreciate it, but this is not the time to get brave. This is a punisher demon.”
“My name is Agamemnon.”
Tristan took that information in and immediately perverted it from useful to destructive. “That’s way too long a name. I’m going to call you Aggie. Go away, Aggie.”
Mort’s horror began to be joined by intense amusement. Tristan had woken up uncharacteristically feisty. Or perhaps it was not so uncharacteristic. Most of Tristan’s tales of past malfeasance involved fighting. Perhaps now he was about to see Tristan’s true colors — at the worst possible moment — which felt very on brand for Tristan.
“Not now, Tristan,” he said. “Go back to sleep.”
It was at that point that Tristan decided his best course of action was to climb out the window he had opened. He had relatively long limbs, so the effect was of a pale human male spidering his way into trouble.
Mort glanced at Agamemnon. He did not seem amused.
“Get off my fucking porch,” Tristan said.
“Christ,” Mort said, stepping between Tristan and the punisher demon. “Not now. Not here. This is not the fight you want to pick. Literally anybody else, literally any other time.”
There was a rumble from the demon.
“I don’t care about the mortal. You’re coming with me.”
“No, he’s not. He’s staying with me.” Tristan spoke up yet again. Every time he uttered a word he made things exponentially worse.
Now he had Agamemnon’s attention. “You? Who are you?”
Tristan had woken up pissed, parched, and brave. It was a feeling that had a half-life of about five minutes, and he’d used most of those first five minutes arguing with the demon at his door.
This demon had a big, thick-handled lash at his waist. Tristan’s eyes were inexorably drawn to it. It looked like a thousand leather tongues attached to a handle of wood or maybe bone. He was wearing attire that looked thoroughly ancient, a skirt of sorts with thick leather tassels. His thighs were broad beneath the hem of the skirt, his calves muscular and criss-crossed with leather ties. If a guy wore a skirt around these parts, he’d be mocked relentlessly, but this demon was pulling the look off.
“I… I’m Tristan.” Tristan backed slightly away from the demon. He’d never actually spoken to one before, never wanted to draw their attention. This one was bigger than the ones who had come to use his mother. He seemed more high ranking, more dangerous, probably.
“Do as you are told,” the demon said. “Go back to bed.”
“No!” The response was petulant and primal. Tristan regathered his courage. “You’re a demon. You can’t hurt me. You can’t tell me what to do, and you can’t tell him what to do either.”
Mort palmed his face. For the first time, Tristan noticed that the kitten, always present in Mort’s hood, wasn’t there. That seemed like a bad sign.
“You think I cannot hurt you?” The demon’s eyes flared with fire.
“You’re not real,” Tristan said. “I am. Go away.”
For the merest fraction of a second, the demon flickered, almost as if Tristan’s command had some effect.
“I’m going to hurt him.” The demon spoke not to Tristan, but to Mort, informing him in a blunt, bold sort of way.
“No. Please. He doesn’t know what he’s doing,” Mort said. “He’s had enough pain in his life. You’re not here for some bratty mortal. You’re here for me.”
Tristan felt the demon’s irritation as the creature swept its gaze over him, and then over Mort, and back again.
“I see two spoiled boys, both with gifts they never had to work for, both squandering them. I should whip you both. I think I will. Starting with the mortal.”
“NO!” Mort yelled, but the demon had already grabbed Tristan.
Tristan felt obsidian claws going through his clothing, brushing his skin, as he was bodily picked up by the Punisher and carried inside his house. He fought valiantly, but there was no fight effective against this creature animated not by flesh but by sheer punitive energy.
The demon dropped him over the arm of the couch and ripped his pants from his rear, claws turning them to shreds. Tristan tried to rise, but one large clawed hand was at his back, pressing him down into the filthy cushion while behind him the other reached for the lash at his waist.
“This will teach you respect when you walk in the realms of those greater than you!” The demon intoned those words and followed them up with the harsh lash of his whip, a dozen leather tongues kissing Tristan’s bare ass.
