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There was nothing to stop the demon from walking right into Tristan’s home. And absolutely nothing stopping the massive foul beast from regretting that decision immediately.
The second the door opened, heretofore nearly invisible strands of fishing wire were pulled taut, starting an incendiary cascade of great inventiveness and even greater damage.
The entire room exploded, or rather, imploded into a metal trap. The motion of the demon coming through the door triggered gunpowder reservoirs in multiple locations throughout the house, each of those shells detonating what could only be described as a directed dirty bomb of twisted cheap cutlery, shredded old beer cans, screws, widgets, and the entire contents of the junk drawer. All the bits and pieces Tristan and his mother had put away over the years thinking they would one day be useful were suddenly in use.
The demon shrieked in shock as its body was absolutely pummeled with bits of sharp things. It had not expected to be wounded, or to suffer physical damage of any kind. It had probably never been hurt in all its many thousands of years of existence as a construct of the afterworld. But now it bled. Bits of it were on the ground, ripped away by the harsh spray of mortal debris.
Tristan didn’t just see demons. He solidified them. He made them real in a way they had not been real before. He manifested them.
All of these thoughts flashed through Mort’s mind in quick succession as he stepped forward and used his power to banish the wounded and now thoroughly frightened demon.
“BEGONE! I BANISH AND BIND YOU TO THE NETHER REALMS, YOU AND YOUR KIND, FOREVER AND EVER…”
The demon screamed and disappeared, turning from flesh to mist in an instant. It was a merciful escape from the harsh and swift torture Tristan had inflicted on it. Mort never liked to see suffering.
“Amen…” Tristan gasped the word.
There was something in the quality of the tone of Tristan’s voice that worried Mort immediately. He swung around to see Tristan on the floor, bleeding from many places.
The trap had been successful. Too successful. The spray of household shrapnel had caught the left side of Tristan. He was pale where he was not red, his hands trembling as he tried to staunch the flow of his many wounds.
Mort slid to his knees in the growing pool of Tristan’s blood.
“What have you done? Why?” He lifted Tris’ head and cradled it tenderly in his lap. The kitten emerged from its hiding place behind the sofa and took up sphinx-like residence at the edge of the blood, occasionally lapping a little.
“I killed the demon.” In spite of his pain, Tristan had the nerve to seem proud of that, even though it was not in any way true.
“You’ve nearly killed yourself. How did I not see what you were doing? Why was I not more suspicious of you cutting the tines off every fork in the house and stuffing them into a bag around a…”
Tristan coughed up a little blood. “Pretty stupid, bro,” he choked out.
Mort wanted to lecture him, wanted to kiss him, wanted to beat him, wanted to tie him up for his own damn good, but he could do none of those things. Tristan was going to die if Mort did not do something to preserve his life, but Mort had absolutely no idea how to save a mortal life. His expertise lay in the other side of that particular coin.
He needed help.
8
Tom woke up to find himself being dragged out of bed by a blood-soaked specter of death. This set off all sorts of screaming, begging, and pleading that Mort was quite used to, but had no time for.
“Where is the nearest hospital?” Mort questioned him, well aware that in this light, the full skull shade of his face was showing. He did not appear in any way mortal in this moment.
“Uh…uh….” Tom wore a volunteer firefighter t-shirt that clung to his biceps, and tight boxers that left nothing to the imagination.
“The hospital,” Mort repeated. “Where?”
Tom babbled something about north and west and left and right, and in the end Mort just dragged him out of the house, threw him in the passenger seat of his own car and forbade him to move. His reaper qualities guaranteed submission and obedience from Tom. If only they had the same effect on Tristan, there would be no need for any of this.
“Tell me where to go.”
Tom looked over his shoulder, to where Tristan was slowly bleeding out in the back seat. That seemed to wake him up.
“Let me get back there,” he said. “I can put pressure on the wounds, and I can tell you where the hospital is.”
“Alright. Good. Thank you.”
Tom squirmed through the front seats and got to Tristan in the back. Tom was competent at fixing trucks. Mort hoped he was as competent at first aid.
