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Some basic instinct made him thrust the remnants of his chimichanga toward the creature. Better his snack be eaten than his soul. The demon leered, ignoring his offering. Deep red eyes seemed to fill the entirety of his vision, and suddenly he was falling into a pit of eternal despair. He felt the pointlessness return. He felt his worthlessness. He felt the noose swinging behind him. Suddenly, it was as though the walk had never happened, nor the conversation with a stranger fast becoming a friend. He was thrust back into the darkness of his life and his heart, and reminded that he was nothing to anyone, least of all to himself.
“DAMNED DEMON!”
Mort boomed the words, pushing past Tristan and putting himself between them. He was taller now, at least seven foot tall, or maybe Tristan was shrinking. Either option seemed to be a potential possibility.
The kitten in Mort’s hood woke up and put two paws on his shoulder, arching its back and hissing with tiny feline fury. It was small and it was helpless, but it knew neither of those things about itself. Tristan found himself admiring the little thing. It was brave. He had never been brave. He definitely wasn’t brave now. He would have run, but he was drunk and frozen in place. So he stood there and watched and listened.
“What are you doing here?” Mort made the demand with cool authority. He spoke to the demon like a middle-manager chastising a floor worker. It was not the only authoritarian interaction Tristan been party to, and the last time he experienced such a thing, he was the floor worker. It didn’t end well for him. He did not think it would end well for this demon either.
“I am here to claim the soul.” The demon spoke in a high pitch. If Tristan had met a person who sounded like that, he would never have been afraid of them. On a demon, it was terrifying.
“He’s using his soul. He’s alive.” Mort’s plain statement of fact came with a side of scathing, unspoken idiot.
“He relinquished it hours ago. A place was made.”
“Then unmake it,” Mort said simply. “Stack a different soul in his place. He is alive. Clearly. You’ve made a mistake.”
“You know these places are not interchangeable.” The demon shifted uncomfortably. It was not used to human furniture and it seemed unsure how to use it. “You should have brought him.”
“I quit,” Mort said.
“Then let me take him.”
“No.”
“You cannot save the damned.”
“He doesn’t need saving,” Mort uttered through clenched teeth. “And he is not damned. He’s not even fucking dead.”
The demon shifted to perch on the chair, knees high, hands between its feet like a gargoyle. That seemed to make it more comfortable. “If you don’t let me take him, the boss will come.”
“Let him come,” Mort said. “Now get the hell out of the house. BEGONE!”
At that final command, the demon disappeared in a flash of sulphur and flame, banished by the will of Mort.
“The fuck…” Tristan let out his breath.
The kitten shook its upright fluffy tail and settled back down, curling into Mort’s hood, almost as if taking credit for the success of the interlude.
Mort turned to Tristan with an apologetic expression. “I am sorry. That must have seemed strange to you.”
“I mean…”
“I do not yell at empty chairs often.”
Tristan frowned. “The chair wasn’t empty. It had a fuckin’ demon in it.”
Mort’s dark brows rose. “You could see him?”
“Him? I’m not bold enough to assume that thing’s gender. Whatever it was, they were clear as fucking day. I need another beer.”
Mort looked at him with pale intensity, speaking as if the answer to the question really mattered very much. “What did you see. Tell me exactly.”
“Red dude, sharp teeth, fiery eyes, claw hands…”
“Alright. Yes. That was the demon.”
“Yeeeah,” Tristan drew out the word with a sense of punctuating the obvious, as if Mort had just confirmed that yes, the sky was blue. “I figured.”
“Interesting,” Mort mused. “You should not be able to see demons.”
Tristan cracked another beer. “Buddy, I’ve been surrounded by demons my whole fucking life.”
3
Tristan had drunk himself into a stupor and fallen asleep in a bed in which the sheets had not been changed in months. He was still dressed in jeans and dusty boots, which either made it worse, or better. Mort could not tell.
Mort sat beside Tristan, watching him sleep. He felt deeply curious about this man who possessed greater gifts and potential than was indicated by his trappings, comportment, or surroundings. From time to time, humans were born with more talents than were useful to them. Those talents became burdens, and those burdens sometimes became anchors, dragging them down, out of the realm of the living. Some of these gifted people had a greater sense of the hereafter plains, but he had never met one who could truly see demons.
