Red Nightmares at Midnight

Douglass : As Dante collected his sword and the child, she pushed herself up and returned to the spot she'd been examining before the demon bastard had shown up. "Before we go, what do you make of this?" Smearing a bit of something on her finger, she held it up to him; slightly greenish colored clay, not a common thing. "From what I understand this stuff is found in three places in this city, one is a baseball field in the center of town. The park got tired to keeping the grass so they made it an all clay field. Second the gardens in downtown, again to cut back on water usage, and third the mines just south of downtown." Turning to look at him, she couldn't help but melt for the little boy cradled under Dante's jacket; by hell it almost seemed natural, Dante cradling a child. Dee was surprised at the gentleness of the vulgar man, didn't seem like he was capable of it until this moment. Rising once more she wiped her hands and approached the two, "Let me hold him a minute," taking the child from Dante she held him close, his legs wrapping around her torso and arms clinging around her neck. She cooed to him gently, stroking his hair tenderly as he cried deep into her shoulder. "Hush now baby, everything will be alright," she soothed the child tenderly, and in a few minutes his howling cries had given way to stifled sobs. "Come on honey, let's get you cleaned up and warmed up. Do you want to ride with him, Dante or shall I?"



Dante let her take the boy from him, listening to her examination about the clay with one ear. The other was busy listening for any other theatrical disturbance. All seemed quiet so far, so he cocked a brow. “Clay in LA’s central park? This place is at least thirty miles from any of those others. I don’t see Bellina covering that much distance. But,” he amended, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, “there’s no telling how long she’d been lurking or where she got in from.” A steely glint lit his eyes. “Which is why I need to pay Marco a little visit.” He nodded at the kid in the woman’s arms. Like her, he was vaguely surprised to see the ‘maternal’ come out. “Keep him with you. Probably keep him calmer that way.” Reaching out one black-gloved hand, he smoothed the tousled brown locks as the little one sniffled and put a dirty thumb in his mouth. Dante couldn’t help but grin. Ah, let the kid have his comforts. Germs or no germs, the tot’d had a bitch of a night. Returning to his motorcycle, he kickstarted the beast and motioned for Douglass to ride ahead of him to the police station.



Douglass : Nodding once more to Dante, she clipped her helmet to her hip, no sense in wearing one right now. "Baby, I need you to hang on ok?" she gave the toddler a gentle squeeze, and in return he clung a little tighter around her neck. "Good boy," she cooed gently. Kick starting the bike was a tad difficult, but she managed, and really using only one hand to steer she maneuvered the bike through the back-city streets. The child would whimper from time to time, and once he asked for his mommy. Douglass almost chocked, she couldn't tell this poor kid about his parents; she wouldn't. Pulling up along the curb outside the police station, at least half a dozen officers eyed her; a piece of meat, that's all she was to these bastards. Likely they thought her a prostitute or crack whore looking to dump of her bastard child so she wouldn't have to deal with him anymore, but no more than a split second after her own arrival Dante pulled up, and suddenly their moods shifted. They all seemed to back away, slink back like rats into the darkness; made Douglass smirk. Holding the child firmly she set the kick stand and dismounted, slowly ascending the steps to the station.



Parking his bike in front of the station, he gave hard eyes to the uniforms that lounged around the front. They backed off warily, knowing Dante tolerated no shit of any sort. Snorting down his nose at the little kiddies, he just rolled eyes and preceded Douglass inside, holding the door till she entered. The uniform at the front desk widened eyes to see the tall red-clad man; the last time Dante’d made an appearance, several officers had been hospitalized. He spoke brusquely and without preamble. “Get your lieutenant.” The man gulped and bolted. Cooling his heels had never come easily. But he managed, for the kid’s sake. The lieutenant returned not three minutes later; ah, good, one he knew to be semi-competent, as his judgment of cops went. Nodding, he greeted the man. “Williams. Been a while.” The other tall slender man returned the greeting. “Dante.” But his eyes shifted to the child Douglass still held. “Christ’s mercy. You found him.” Dante gave a glance over his shoulder. “Yeah. Parents are dead. So is what killed ‘em.” Williams earned a smidgen more of Dante’s respect by having a social worker summoned immediately and the file for the parents pulled up to find surviving relatives. “The kid’s been through a lot, Williams.” The black man nodded. “Hell, I just bet so. Don’t worry; we’ll handle it.” The rest of the station hands were still giving the devil hunter a wide, healthy berth, eyeing both him, Douglass and the child with peppered curiosity.



Douglass : Douglass half smiled in thanks for Dante holding the door, the child still whimpering into her neck. Inside, she was almost impressed by Dante's influence, but at the same time loathed his dramatic style for all the attention they were receiving. She was uncomfortable with so many eyes on her, and it showed in her gestures. She seemed on edge, but held a straight face and continued to soothe the child. However, when Dante spoke of the toddler's parents' deaths, the child began to wail. Apparently he understood what dead meant; likely the parents had to explain a deceased pet, or elderly relative. Douglass gave Dante a stern look and began to walk around with the child, soothing his cries with a gentle voice and stroking hand. It felt like an eternity in the station; however they found that the child's grandparent lived on the east side of town, and they were summoned immediately. No more than thirty minutes after they had been called, they were there, stripping Douglass of the child and smothering him with their affections. "Oh Jesus, Jesus!" the grandmother carried on. Wrinkling her nose slightly, Dee walked to an isolated corner of the room, something about the grandparents didn't sit well with her. They made her feel uneasy, not to mention they were more eyes looking in her direction. They thanked her graciously and she managed to smile at them, sort of. As the station seemed to become increasingly crowded, she looked to Dante, "Time to see a man about a horse isn't it?" She motioned out the window, television crews were starting to arrive.



Dante missed and would have ignored Douglass’s hard look had he seen it, still in conversation with Williams. But they waited for the kid’s relatives, the grandmother nearly asphyxiating when hearing of her daughter’s death. Dante just remained stone-faced through it all. He’d been through it a million times. But nostrils flared and his shit-o-meter went up as another woman approached them; apparently she was the deceased woman’s sister, the boy’s aunt. Looking up at the tall hunter with a tear streaked face, she quavered, “…you’re the one who saved my nephew…?” Dante didn’t answer for a minute, merely looked at the other woman, then nodded slowly, once. Out of the blue, the woman’s hand cracked across his face, all her misery and grief poured into her strike. “Why didn’t you save my sister then!” she wailed, trying to pummel him again. Dante, his cheek turned by the slap, inhaled a deep breath and just pushed past the distraught woman, disappearing into the crowd on the tail of Douglass’s question. There was no way to make them understand, any of them. They couldn’t; they were human. The five fingers of the woman’s hand burned across his cheek, a flaming reminder he’d never be good enough for these damned…humans. Without a word he exited the police station, his anger riding across set shoulders like a battle barge. It only needed the wrong word to set it off and things would bleed. Straddling his bike, he spoke three words to Douglass; she could follow or not, her choice. “Fifth and Rose.” That was where he was headed and with a roar of finely tuned engine, he squealed rubber into the traffic, disappearing around a tight corner, a crimson flash of seething rage.



Douglass : Perhaps he's not the monster he pretends to be, Douglass thought watching him disappear around the corner. She'd pulled the computer apparatus off her forehead before leaving for the police station, but she could still feel the adhesive there. Rubbing it lightly she slipped the helmet on, and kick started her bike. As it purred to life, she looked up at the police station window, the sister standing there, sobbing. Deeply she felt sympathy for the woman, sympathy on two levels. Shaking her head slowly she sighed deeply, Well shit, I've got a lot to learn yet. Dealing with people, the concept was entirely new to her; Dante she could handle; but civilians, the thought almost scared her. Throwing the bike into high gear, she tore out of the parking lot, three different patrol cars thinking about taking off after her and issuing her a citation; but none of them had the gull to do it. Taking ally ways and one way streets she made good time, and as far as she could tell, she hadn't been too long behind him. Pulling her bike up behind his, she quickly dismounted, killing the engine and setting the kick stand with one single motion. Glancing from side to side, she took in her surroundings; a slum no less. The tails of Dante's red coat were disappearing behind a door, briskly she jogged and caught up with him, silence her offering.



The ride hadn’t alleviated Dante’s dark glowering mood any. He could still feel the burning handprint, even though it’d long faded from his skin. But he made it to Boris’s place in one piece, thankfully, both he and his bike. It was on the seedier side of town, true, but it usually fit his mood and tonight was no different. Striding inside, he merited no more than a glance from the patrons inside. Unusual, but they knew him around here. Which he really didn’t like, but no help for it. Miscreants talked in hushed tones in smoky dark corners. A swanky sounding system played low, slow music. Prostitutes trolled their tricks with shrill laughter. No questions were asked. Unless there was money involved. Dante took a barstool, propping an elbow on the counter. Dimly he realized Douglass had followed him after all. Boris, a big beefy man with a skilled eye and knowing smile sauntered over and greeted the platinum haired hunter. “Evenin’, Dante,” the other drawled amiably. “Been a while since I seen ya ‘round.” Dante shrugged a shoulder, the leather sliding in hushed tones. “Been busy.” Boris grunted. “The usual?” Dante slapped down a hundred dollar bill, his eyes flinty. “That and Marco.” Boris shifted his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. “…gonna be hard, this time of night…” Dante’s flat expression never wavered. Boris backed off a bit. “I’ll see to it.” Turning to Douglass, he smiled cheekily and inquired her pleasure.



Douglass : "A double of Jack please," she leaned against the bar, pelvis providing support. She slipped a twenty from lord knows where and set it upon the bar top, "Better make that two." She offered him a sarcastic smile and pushed herself away from the bar. He set the glasses in a hurry, and confiscated the money before seeing to Dante's business. Brows flicked upward momentarily as she lifted both glasses and drank them down without hesitation. She nearly dropped them back onto the bar counter, and smacked her lips once, "Thanks," she uttered out of the corner of her mouth. Dante's mood had not improved, so she didn't even give him a second glance, just pushed her way back to the jukebox and began thumbing through the songs offered. "Hey there cutie, haven't seen you before," one of the drunks approached her, beer mug in hand and smiling at her with missing teeth. She looked at him for a moment, brow furrowing with distaste; "That's because I didn't want you to see me." She turned back to the jukebox, hoping her dry, smutty remark would give the hint, but he persisted. "I like it when ya play hard to get doll face," one of his chubby, filthy digits came down and smacked her ass loudly. She inhaled sharply, tweaking her head to one side so that her neck cracked, as she exhaled, he laughed flamboyantly with his buddies, but the laughter wouldn't last long. In a moment Douglass had planted a hard right hook across his jaw, the bone cracking, if not shattering under her punch. In retaliation one of his friends moved in, "Now, now; come on pretty we're just having a bit of fun with ya," he was the next to go down, first a knee to the groin, then a left handed backhand to the nose, blood spurting out and plastering the wall. Two more advanced, they were met with much the same treatment, scarcely could she hear the prostitutes screaming, or some of the drunkards cheering. The last one of the five looked at his friends, then decided it better to sit this one out and laugh at them, god bless the drunk. When no more takers stepped forward, she stooped down, taking her initial fan's nose between her index and middle fingers and pulled his face up towards her; "For the record, I'm nobody's doll." She dropped him harshly, straightening her coat and stepping over the four pricks. "Dumb fucks," she uttered under her breath as she finally selected a Johnny Cash song. The sweet old melody of "Ring of Fire" poured out, and the odd hue of her tattooing caught the dim lights giving the illusion that they too were glowing dimly.



Boris brought respective drinks and, after another sulky look at Dante, slurked off to do as told. Dante didn’t even bat an eyelash as his Irish whiskey was brought, sans glass. Uncorking the bottle, he just took a long draught, relishing the fiery bite of the potent alcohol. Keeping a grip on the bottle neck, he ignored Douglass as well, returning her favor to him. He was aware of her presence, of course, but he knew she was a big girl and could take care of herself. Point was proven not five minutes later during all the ruckus by the jukebox. Dante merely snorted a chuckle and didn’t even bother to turn around, he could hear the carnage. Keeping fixed eyes on the far wall, he nursed his bottle, brooding into the whiskey. A dangerous pastime, that he knew, but by damn he was entitled, after tonight. Boris didn’t even bother to call the cops; he was already preoccupied on the phone. After hanging up, the bartender waddled back to the end of the bar, where the red-leathered man sat patiently. “All right, Dante. It’s done.” Eyes flicked over to the human. “Good,” was all that was said, and that hard word held enough finality to slam a vault closed. Boris nodded once and slinked away again. Now, all he had to do was wait. Marco was on his way. This should be quite interesting. He damned sure hoped it didn’t end up in a brawl. But he’d be damned before he backed down from one. Nostrils flared in annoyance. The liquor was getting to his head. Just like clockwork, after Douglass’s ruckus settled down, a young Hispanic trollop approached the hunter, draping a languid arm over one leathered shoulder. A brow flicked as the gears whirred. This one actually seemed to have her real teeth. But there was business to attend to, and that always came first. So, with a nuzzle to warm scented flesh, a whispered promise was given, one he knew he’d never keep. The girl flushed and nearly tackled him right then, but he brushed her off, gloved fingers on her hip guiding her onward.



Douglass : Hips swished on her way back to the bar, the tender looked concerned, likely Dante's doing. Leaning up against the countertop once more, she eyed him; "Now then, barkeep, I know I gave you more than enough money, I haven't eaten or drank more than spit in the last day and a half, so I'd like my moneys worth. Two more doubles." His brow rose, confusion maybe, "Honey if you ain’t eaten nothing then I think you aught to lay off the booze." Now she was getting agitated; the lack of food in her system did in fact heighten the alcohols affect, and not being much of a drinker really, she was pretty much a light weight. Full lips pressed together firmly for a moment, as hazel eyes bore into the man, making him uneasy, he'd seen what havoc she'd caused not more than a minute before. "You might have tits old man, but you're not my mother. Give me my drinks." A whore three stools over howled with laughter at the remark, "Shut up, loosey goosey," needless to say the prostitute was offended. In a huff she stood up, grabbing the hand of her client and moved to the far end of the bar, Douglass merely smirked. "My apologies barkeep, I haven't been out in a while. Now about those drinks," lowering her head, she looked at him through long lashes. "Right," he seemed reluctant, but did as bid. "Thanks," her tone dry as she lifted one glass in salute to the tender, then downed it quickly. The second followed soon after.



Dante kept to his bottle and silence, not really wanting to get too overly engrossed in anything until Marco dragged his slimy tail inside. The heathen made it about ten minutes later. A scrabbly looking punk, all mottled and poxy-looking meandered inside, spied the red-clad man and swallowed, hard. Ducking his head, he marched forward, passing behind Dante without so much as a glance or word. Neither was returned as the hunter rose from his stool and followed the humanoid into a room behind the bar, the door closing with a firm click. About twenty minutes later, the door opened and Dante exited alone, still grim-faced and stony-eyed. Not a sound had emanated from the door, but Boris asked, “Didja kill ‘im?” Dante snorted. “Didn’t have to…this time.” He walked down the bar and paused behind Douglass, leaning over to peer at her. “Drunk yet? I hope not, unless you want to be drug back.” His own alcohol had loosened his tongue and he wasn’t discriminatory whom it flailed. But that was hardly news. He was tired, irate and hungry. He needed a shower, food and about two days’ uninterrupted sleep, but from what he’d just learned, it was doubtful but he was damned to give it his best shot. His gaze crossed the young Latin whore and his mind stirred but exhaustion pushed it aside. He excelled at everything he did, and that meant everything. He wasn’t about to lower that standard, even if it wouldn’t cost him a red cent.



Douglass : As he leaned over her, she tilted her head back, looking at his face upside down. "Not drunk enough." Pushing the stool back she rose and began to tread back across the room, but glancing up she noticed him watching the Latino whore. Leaning in a little closer to him, but not enough o make him uncomfortable she said lowly, "You can do better." The barkeep looked from one of them to the other, confusion on his face; "You two know each other?" Douglass shrugged and took the opportunity for her exit. The cold night wind hit her like a brick, damn. Pulling the jacket slightly tighter about her she quickly walked to her bike, straddling the machine with adoration. She leaned forward and then arched her back backwards as the rain clouds opened up and began drizzling down upon the world; she didn't look at him, instead she peered upward into the endless black sky. "You can't save them all you know, especially not from themselves." With that she kick started her bike and tore down the road tires squealing from the sudden acceleration, at the corner she turned westward heading back to Dante's pad. The wind caused her coat tails to flap and snap behind her, the helmet clunked stupidly against her side and the tires hummed along the dampening road. It felt good to be out now, almost creating the sensation of flight. A few minutes later she hit the dirt road, the bike bounding and leaping along, she didn't slow until reaching the barricades, weaving in and out through them with ease, she stopped just before the hologram entrance, she wasn't sure if good ol Lucy would recognize her yet.



Dante snorted to her ‘better’ comment. He’d had much better, actually, but those days were long gone. Not wanting to get into it right here in a damned bar, he just kept his tongue behind his teeth and shook white hair from his eyes, ducking his chin and striding outside just as the rain began. Lovely. As if the night couldn’t get any worse. He knew it could and just might, but please, just let God humor him one night, please? He didn’t answer Douglass’s comment about saving the humans; there wasn’t need. He’d known that for years. Taking his time as she started her ride and hauled ass, he merely sat atop his bike, letting the soft drizzle wash over him. The rain was cold, much like his soul. No chance for warmth; all faith had died long ago and the ashes were damp and dark. A red leathered shoulder shrugged. Such is life, then we die, he thought sourly, nostrils flaring a bit. Kickstarting his bike a bit angrily, the previous incidents still niggling his mind, he just swiveled around and tore downtown, eating up the streets. Several patrol cars blared their sirens in warning, but Dante pretty much ignored them, not sparing a glance. He lived his life according to his own standards, no one else’s, by damn. But eventually he found himself turning up the familiar road to home, having taken yet another different route leaving the city. Wouldn’t do to get predictable. Gunning the throttle, he swerved the barricades at about seventy miles an hour, kicking rocks in the air with his passing. A flash of recognition saw Douglass sitting out in the rain, still atop her bike and he slowed before disappearing inside, delivering the familiar routine to Lucille.



Douglass : She'd been watching the sky before he'd arrived, no more than a few minutes. The cool water washed down her face and neck, and she felt soothed by it. Alone in the darkness outside of Dante's compound she'd felt safe, secure; at home even. She'd never felt that way at the clinic, or at her pad; the constant surveillance, the fluorescent lights, no wonder it couldn't feel homey. Here it wasn't much different, the constant watchful eye of Lucille, her clicking and whirling thoughts; Dee supposed it all made it slightly more tolerable. It irked her though, how she knew Dante was always watching, she could hear Lucille become present inside the workout room, and then she knew Dante was watching her; several times she'd been tempted to flip off the cameras. But here, outside in the darkness of night, she felt content for the fist time in years. As Dante slowed through the hologram entrance, it almost made her ache as she followed. The bike rolled easily aboard the lift, and after both were settled it began its decent. Silence, she'd found it to be the most trustful companion; hazel eyes blinked lazily at the darkness around them. She almost wanted to turn to him, offer some kind of compassion, but her stubborn born nature wouldn't allow it. Sorry Dante, seethe alone. As the lift settled in the lower level, she moved her bike to the back wall, away form his toys, a sign of respect. Wiping her hands together, she gave the dirt bike a quick once over, everything seemed fine, for now; a detail job could be done later. Letting out a sigh she stood erect, eyes turning to her companion for the first time; he seemed old, a shadow hung just above his head. Strolling casually to the elevator, she waited just outside its door for him.



The garage lights were cold bulbs; they offered scant warmth from their high resting places. Dante walked his bike to the right side of the second level, making a mental note to work on it some in the morning. He owed it a good scrubbing and sanding. Probably wouldn’t hurt to tweak around with the belts and chain, either. Running a gloved hand through damp platinum locks, he flicked stray rainwater from his coat and strode to the lift, metal buckles and weapons clanking against metal quietly with his every step. He didn’t speak as he entered the elevator, merely kept his eyes averted, not out of embarrassment or any uncertainty or the like, but the simple fact that he was a loner. He had to be, in his job. And the job was all he had left. Hard was his life, by necessity and by birth. No one else could do what he did and survive; he’d seen countless die. Among those he loved most in this world and the next. It’d left deep scars on the man; scars that even great time would be hard pressed to heal. But he did his job, kept the peace on this plane of existence and by damn he did it well. Closing the gate after she followed, they rode down in silence, the lift halting at the living floor. After opening the door, Dante stepped out and broke the quiet for the first time since arriving home. “Lucille, register voice print analysis for Douglass McQue. Invoke security clearance and update mainframe.” That quiet order given, he kept walking down the hall, giving her his back as he made for his room.



Douglass : A single brow arched as Dante gave the order, seemed slightly off. "Douglass Gean McQue, Authorized personnel," Lucille whirred and clicked a few times before announcing voice recognition completed. Douglass nodded to what seemed like nothing. "Dante," her voice was low, almost fragile; finally finding herself capable of breaking the silence, she couldn't find any other words to fit. What did a person say to a man like him? 'You're not the bastard I thought you were? Nice moves?,' no way. She sighed, more out of frustration than anything, "Are you hungry? I'm not much of a cook but I think I could manage something." Oh nice one Douglass, real smooth; here you are being a total jackass this entire time, true you have your motives but you’re better than that. Now when you finally cool off enough to say something decent, you can only manage a stupid remark like that? What the fuck is wrong with you? Scolding herself mentally wasn't anything out of the ordinary, and if he wouldn't be so close in proximity, she might have even smacked herself. None-the-less, the offer was made, and so it stood.



Sharp ears picked up on the incredulity in her voice, was that surprise he detected? Besides, he might as well put her in security. She was living here, for the nonce, anyway. He’d rather not have to open the door every time she wanted to run to town for whatever it was women ran to town for. Besides, she’d kept up. Consider it a small reward. But he paused in the hall at her offered question, his head tilted over his right shoulder just a bit. Did he dare? Or would he only read contempt and loathing as he did in all other human faces. The strike to his cheek still burned. But he half-turned, wet red leather sliding with his movement and glanced back at her, still standing in the middle of the hallway. Lifting one shoulder in a short shrug, he nodded towards the kitchen. “Sure. Help yourself.” Before he could stop it, his mouth curved in his rare boyish grin, a small light illuminating the crystal azure in cerulean eyes. “The kitchen’s stocked, so whatever you can find’ll work.” He turned back to his door before her expression could form any semblance of disgust or the like. He’d had enough of that for the rest of the month. Lucille slid his bedroom door closed behind him as he disappeared inside, crimson leather swishing sibilantly in his wake.



Douglass : "Thanks," she half whispered, not really sure what to make of the situation. "You’re stupid, you know that?" she uttered low, under her breath. Any normal person wouldn't hear her, and if they did her actual words would be lost to them; the statement was directed towards herself anyway. Turning on heel, she went to her room, removing coat and weapons as she went. Dropping them all on the bed, she pulled the duffel bags out from under it once more, sifting through the clothing she settled upon a pair green flannel shorts and a black tank top. Stripping down from the nights uniform, she glanced at the closet, did she dare? Why the hell not, she was 'Authorized personnel' now. Dragging the clothing bag to the closet, she unloaded the lot of her garbs, arranging them all nicely on hangers or in drawers. Not much of a shoe selection; three pairs of boots and a pair of running shoes; not a sign of a pump or heel. That done, she dropped the night’s weapons into the empty bag and pushed it back under the bed; seemed like as good a place as any to store the stuff. As she made her way back to the kitchen, she pulled the ponytail holder from her hair, finger-combing it out. When she reached the kitchen, not much to her surprise the lights were out. "Lucille, lights please," and with that the fluorescents blinked on; it made her smirk. Pulling open the fridge door, she almost had to step back at the array of food kept in stock; "Holy shit; it's a fucking grocery store." Rummaging through the contents of the icebox, she finally decided on some carrot sticks and a turkey sandwich; seemed the logical thing. No cooking involved and an easy clean up. Settling down at the table, she dove into the meal like a starved child, true she hadn't eaten much of anything in the last few days. The stitches on her arm were doing well, and she looked them over carefully with a mouth full of turkey sandwich. Two, maybe three days and the stitches could come out.



Dante would have heard her had he been listening, but the shower called to him just now. God, he was tired. His very bones ached. It was the weather. Always ached when it rained. Old scars never healed. But first things first. Inside his room, he crossed to the far wall and reverently lifted the huge blade from his back. The Alastor flickered lightly at her master’s touch, flashing amethyst light across red leather. He spoke gently to the child demoness that lived in the blade. She flickered once more, a ripple of lightning running from tip to hilt before falling quiet at his whispered reassurances. He placed the sword in its wall cradle and covered the hilt with a dark velvet cloth. Next came the gunbelt, Ebony and Ivory, named respectively. They channeled their power through his body, magicks bound into the steel of their casings to pull his demon power into the enhanced bullets. The holster was softest leather, yet durable to withstand even the fires of hell, as it had ofttimes been. He folded it and placed it in the upholstered chair beneath the sword, making another note to clean and oil them on the morrow. Now, for the shower. The coat slid from his arms like the lingering hand of a lover; boots followed, as did vest, gloves and shirt. Naked and loving it, he stepped into the massive tub and turned on the water, hot as it would go. The stinging heat took his breath as it hit shivering skin. But he relished it, bending his head to the force of the spray. He stood under it a moment, letting the steam and heat soak into his very bones; how he wished his soul could be washed clean so easily. Leaning his forehead on the tile, his thoughts once more turned to the couple resting in the frozen silence of the morgue…how they could never again hold their child as he had this very night. And the wailing of that infant as he realized the awful truth. The tears came unbidden. He’d been there…seen the awful realization of murder by demon claws. Drops of saline mingled with the running rivulets of water down his cheeks. Proof yet again he was human, he was. For devils didn’t cry. They couldn’t. No sobs left his throat, merely the crystals from behind blue eyes. He allowed himself a small moment of peace, then sniffled once. Heaving a sigh that seemed to come from the soles of his feet, he finished his shower, scrubbing his scalp with nearly half a bottle of shampoo. It never really left, the stink of the other world. At least to his mind, it didn’t. But he stepped out, dripping and left wet prints on the carpet as he dried his hair, foregoing body until last. Tossing the towel with his former outfit, he hauled on worn jeans and left them unbuttoned, as was his wont. Barefoot and shirtless, he took his laundry to the utility and loaded the washer. Lucille would bitch if he didn’t. Running now-bare digits through unruly damp hair, he let it fall where it would. So nice, not having to style the thick mess. Shaking back his platinum mane, he padded to the kitchen, seeing Douglass eating as if she’d just discovered food and couldn’t bite back a grin. Shaking his head, he crossed to the fridge silently, opened it, extracted a beer, then asked quietly, “Leave anything?”



Douglass : She hadn't noticed him standing in the doorway; her thoughts had turned back to business. As his voice broke the cherished silence, she looked up in mid-bite, ashamed of her manners. Lowering the sandwich slowly, was that pink in her cheeks? "Sorry, my stomach was screaming murder at me." Looking down at the table she swallowed once, clearing her mouth of any stray food particle. "Want me to whip you up something warm? I thought you'd gone to bed for the night, so I was just going to grab a quick bite." Pushing her chair back she rose to her feet, grabbing a carrot in the process. Popping the end of the sprig between her teeth she moved to the pantry, eyeing through the dry goods kept stored there. "You could live for five years on the stocks you have here; that is if your perishables wouldn't perish." This time her lack of conversation skills made even her smile, Oy what a fool I am. "You have everything I'd need to whip up a clam chowder, sound good?" She peeked from behind the pantry, sun-bleached hair billowing over her shoulder as she leaned backwards. Sleek brows furrowed slightly as she really looked at him, his eyes were slightly swollen and red, either he'd gotten something in them or he'd been crying. "Are you OK?" she actually seemed concerned.



Dante just schooled his features into smoothness, save for the crinkling of his eyes with amusement to see her blush just slightly. Waving a hand slightly, he took a long pull from the longneck and shook his head. “It’s fine. Go ahead and eat.” Crossing back to take a stool at the island opposite her, he propped arms on the polished counter, a brow rising as she rose and peered in the cabinet. “That was sort of the purpose,” he told her, propping a cheek on his palm. “I detest shopping, for obvious reasons. I’m not a day person. The meat I get delivered by a buddy of mine, along with the rest of the fridge stuff.” Another long swallow of the brew, followed by a lingering yawn. “Chowder sounds good, but I’ll settle for the rest of this beer and a carrot stick.” So saying, he snatched two from her plate and bit into one, the crispness sweet on his tongue. Falling into a muse, she caught him a bit off guard as she turned around and made her inquiry, making him blink back at her. “Hm? Oh. Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired, is all,” he said, rubbing at one eye with a fist. But he was loathe to go to bed this early, his inner clock read just after midnight. He planned on sleeping through all the police phone calls in the morning. Just to piss ‘em off. But a curiosity from earlier wiggled back into his brain. “Do you just have a fetish for tattoos or does that coloring actually serve a purpose or sate a need?” Innocent question; the thing nearly covered all the upper body skin he could see.



Douglass : She looked down at her arm, the swirling goldish hue winking at her in the lights; "Yeah it's got its purpose." Heaving a heavy sigh she pulled a few of the ingredients needed for the chowder from the pantry and dropped them on the counter. "When I first joined the ATT, I was thirteen. I'd already had basic military training, could operate a firearm, and loved doing anything and everything that gave a thrill. My dad was a military man, and one of the founders of ATT; Conroy was the second." She moved about the kitchen as she spoke, instinct directing her to pots, spoons, bowls and everything else she'd need. Picking spices from the rack, set them with the rest of her clutter and then went to the fridge, glancing only once at Dante as she spoke. "My old man died that year, the year I joined; so it was a bitter sweet time. Two years later, at the age of fifteen, I was heading missions, commanding small bands of five or less; Conroy called me a natural." Opening up a bottle of crème she estimated the appropriate amount, setting it to simmer while she prepared the rest, knife worked diligently at potatoes, onions and a few carrots, as well as mincing the canned clams slightly finer. "On one of the missions, I'd neutralized a target chemical; when I say neutralized I don't mean rendered it harmless, only made it so it wouldn't have airborne qualities anymore. We do this by placing any harmful chemical in a vial of a blue viscous material, the exact make up of the stuff is known only to two of ATT's chemists at any given time; trade secret. I've got one of the vials in my room." Dumping the veggies and clams into the simmering crème, she added a bit of milk then began to season with a whole array of spices. "Now this substance is harmful by itself, it doesn't need anything else added, can burn the flesh from your bones. Strangely enough it becomes less corrosive when another chemical is introduced. Anyway, during one of our missions, one of my boys ended up in the line of fire, I couldn't leave him to suffer." She stirred the chowder slowly, eyes fixated on the whitish substance inside. "I'd put the end back in place, but I must not have twisted it all the way; only minutes after I'd set out to help my guys my back was on fire, shit leaked." A quick taste of the chowder, small nod of approval, then she walked the distance between them; standing just in front of him, she pulled her top off once more, the sports bra beneath covering anything of importance; "Four teaspoons, that's all that got to me. Seven hours later I was being operated on, I'd come in and out of consciousness countless times, I couldn't take the pain. Two years later I got the first of the tattoos, covered the entire scar." She went back to the pot, stirring lazily. "More followed, I got tired of being called 'Doll Face' so I had my face done next; tattoos were nothing after what I'd been through." She laughed lightly, "The rest seemed natural after that, fill in the spaces between." She shook her head slowly, smiling quaintly, "Soup will be done in about twenty minutes."



He listened quietly to her soliloquy, nodding in all the appropriate places as she puttered around the kitchen. That fact made him quirk a brow even more than her story. How often did he cook? Once a month, if he could recall right. Sounded about accurate, the more he thought about it. But he merely remained silent; the routine seemed to soothe her nerves, make the words come easier. Eyes followed her as she cross the room to stand in front of him, letting him get a fuller view of just what her body had suffered. Lips twitched as she returned to the stove. “So, you were more or less born into your trade, seems like,” he commented quietly. “Small world, ain’t it?” The stuff smelled good, he had to admit. Snaring another carrot stick, he munched it slowly, thoughtfully. “Yeah, I know all about pain,” he said with a grimace and an eye roll. “Once you get used to it, it’s like it doesn’t even exist any more. Just something else to let you know you’re alive.” A hand sifted through tousled platinum, pulled the strands from his eyes. “And now you want to hunt demons…” A sigh left his lips. “So, what did you learn, per se, tonight?”



Douglass : "Trust nothing and no one, things aren't what they seem and you find information in trashy little honky tonks." She winked at the end of her statement, a petty attempt at humor. "I learned that I'm more vulnerable than I first thought, and that I'm going to have to deal with people." Emphasis was placed on the word 'have'; "I've lived my entire life avoiding the public, and now I'm thrown right in the middle of it." Sighing she stirred the chowder a bit more, taking care to ensure that none burned to the bottom. "I wasn't really born into my profession, my mother fought my getting involved tooth and nail; but I was just too much like my father. After he died, she couldn't hold onto me anymore." She went silent; one subject she wouldn't go into was her mother. "I don't feel pain anymore, especially on my back. That was the night I died, the night when Douglass Gean McQue would come to exist as only a name in a select few's memories." Stirring the chowder a bit more, she tasted it yet again, deciding it needed a bit more, she added some pepper to it. Picking out a potato and biting it in two, she munched it slowly. "Well it’s done enough that you can eat it, the potatoes are softening up nicely." She turned and looked at him, eyeing him up and down for a moment. "What about you Dante, I know you're involved because you have to be; but what's your story?" Brashness, she was never short of it.



His story… God, what a question. He’d known it was bound to come up sooner or later. He didn’t have the time nor the inclination to lay the details of his life down so she could pick and choose what she wanted to believe. Dear Christ. Running a hand through his hair once more, he rubbed the back of his neck, tilting his head back a bit. “Oh…nothing really interesting,” he replied offhandedly. “I’m good at my job, so I do it,” he said with a short shrug. Another world glossed over in that simple statement. Then he sighed a bit, knowing he was going to regret it. But he wouldn’t start out by lying. “It’s not a story for the kitchen. It involves lots of beer and an easy chair, that’s for damned certain,” he said tiredly, returning his chin to his palm. Half of him ran screaming from the prospect, the other wondered if she’d push the issue.



Douglass : She eyed him wearily, "Well I know for a fact that there's plenty of beer in the fridge, and in the pantry. If it's not something you want to discuss right now that's fine; but I would like to ask who Sparda is; from what I understood from your little friend out there, it's your dear old pops." She moved about, opening one cupboard and then another, finally finding bowls she served them both; him a more gracious serving than her own, besides she still had a sandwich to finish. "Spoons?"



“In the drawer by the dishwasher,” he answered automatically. But a brow quirked to her curiosity about Sparda. Hm, he might just have to go through with it after all. Waiting till she dug out the silverware and sat back down, he stirred the thick creamy soup, looking down into his bowl before releasing the handle and looking at her intently. “How old do you think I am, Douglass?” he asked seriously. “Honestly.”



Douglass : "Now that's the question stuck in the pickle jar." Sighing she looked his face over carefully, "You've got the stamina of a young man, but the face of something rotted away. It's behind your eyes, you try to hide it but you can't. A boyish wonder but an old man’s pain." She took a spoonful of the chowder, slightly impressed with how well it came out; swallowing it down she licked her lip. "From what I can tell though, I'd have to say you were somewhere in your early thirties."



He nodded, going back to stirring his soup. “That’s what I thought you’d say. Well, hate to disappoint you, sweets, but I’m pushing ninety.” He shrugged. “My family’s got good genetics, seems like.” Taking a mouthful, he himself was a bit surprised to discover the sweet creamy flavor of the thick soup. Chewing carefully and swallowing, he nodded at her. “Kudos, ‘s good.”



Douglass : Smiling as he revealed his age, brows flicked up for a moment. "Figures," taking another spoonful of soup she let the flavor linger upon her pallet for a moment, before chewing slowly and swallowing. "After what I saw tonight, I'd have to say I'd believe just about anything." She stood up and went to the fridge, pulling a long neck bottle of beer and popping the top before returning to her seat. After a long swallow, she set the bottle down atop a napkin. "Thanks by the way; I really don't spend much time in the kitchen."



A brow quirked. Good, he wouldn’t have to worry about her being shocked and amazed too easily. But one more hurdle; this one would be lovely, he could only hope she didn’t try to kill him. It’d end up messy if so. “You’re welcome,” he told her, setting down his spoon and getting to his feet slowly. “One more little thing, then if we can have decent conversation after that, I’ll be impressed,” he said dryly, taking a few steps back for room. Lids fell to half mast over darkening blue eyes as he exerted his will on his other half, the half that paced away just under the cage of human flesh. His skin rippled, stretched, then changed, darkening and thickening, becoming scaled and hard. Fabric melded with his body; the scales rendered every part of his frame harder than brass casings. Blue eyes flared beautifully for a moment before fading to dark haunting crimson. Canines lengthened a bit and sharpened behind his dark lips; horns protruded from his temporal lobe, curving slightly back over his head. With an audible rip, the wings burst from his back after a moment of concentrated straining, a growled sigh escaping the now-rough throat. They flared, batlike and membranous, topped with a single claw on each. Small droplets of blood splattered the floor where they tore his skin, the hard bone resting against his back. They rose over his shoulders and ended at his ankles. He stretched them languidly; the span nearly flooded the wide kitchen. Lifting his hands, he looked at his palms, and two tiny orbs of flame appeared, dancing and writhing madly. “And this…” he growled, voice guttural and thick, inhuman, “…is a gift of Sparda, the demon prince who rose against Mundus and defeated the hordes of Hell. And my father.”



Douglass : It was like something out of a horror movie, only it was real. If she'd have heard it from another's lips, she'd have pushed them off as loons and went about her daily business. But here it was, in black and white for her; she'd be lying if she said fear hadn't struck her, but she never moved. Spoon had stopped moving, and her muscles twitched and ached for release, they wanted to run. Her stubborn streak held her in place, and her face refused to show fear; from Conroy, the good poker face. "Well that sure as hell explains a lot." Looking him over, she almost thought herself to be dreaming. "By fuck," she stood up slowly; truthfully unsure of how to handle the situation, but finally something particular drew her attention; the eyes. The hue had changed, but not the look; still buried deep behind the crimson orbs was that boyish wonder, and old man’s pain; she even managed a smile. "Well I'd be lying if I didn't say it was an improvement," another feeble attempt at humor.



Those eerie eyes rolled at her statement and he snorted; an odd sound coming from a demon. But better to let her get over her fear/curiosity, so he turned, giving her his profile and pulled his wings closer to his body. Holding out an arm, he invited, “Go ahead, they’re real, but don’t cut yourself, the scales are sharp on the ends.” Nostrils flared as he scented fear; by Jehovah it was delicious. Growling at himself, he jerked his head away snarling, lips rippling over sharp teeth. By damn, he wasn’t a monster who was ruled by primal nature!



Douglass : An internal battle, the Ying and Yang of the man before her; I guess I've seen the good, the bad, and the ugly by now. She stepped forward, swallowing down her fear along with her pride. Light fingers ran delicately over the leather-like make of the wings; fingertips tread lightly upon the ends of the claws, her face remained straight through the entire thing. "Do you even feel it anymore? When they come out?" She examined the base of the wing carefully, before her very eyes the wounds were healing, watching with cautioned wonder her eyes ventured upward as she stepped back around, standing just before him, eyes locking on his. "You still look like Dante to me."



Standing stock still under the touch he’d invited, Dante just let her examine as she would, clenching his fists, nails cutting into palms to keep his sanity. It’d been a gamble, but by shit, one he’d win. The membranes fluttered under the light stimuli, and he shivered involuntarily. It had always taken a light touch…NO! He wrenched his brain away from that, grinding teeth. Eyes flashed with hellfire, but he squealched it. Forcing his will on his blood once more, he shifted back to the more ‘acceptable’ guise of human, the transformation taking his breath and very nearly his balance, exhausted as he was. Slapping a hand against the wall to keep from falling over on his nose, he panted softly, eyes closed as the blood raged under his skin, angry at being quelled. But he managed to get his breath and look over at Douglass through strands of platinum. “…every time…” he managed to whisper, wincing as the flesh of his back closed once more, blood drying on his skin.



Douglass : "Jesus fucking Christ," she fetched a clean rag and ran it under the faucet quickly, wringing out the excess water she returned to his side, dabbing at the blood spots carefully, once again watching the flesh of his back mold back together. Her tone held annoyance, anger even. "Why the hell would you do that to yourself?"



Finally managing to stand upright again, he nearly whirled around and attacked her when she began to clean the fluid from his skin. But he realized the gesture for what it was and allowed it, shrugging. “It’s part of my life, Douglass, part of my job. If I don’t, who will?” A small dry snort. “You can’t, can you?” But he sighed. “That’s what I do,” he said simply, looking at the far wall, lapsing into silence.



Douglass : "What, beat yourself up for bunch of worthless shits who don't appreciate your efforts? They take what you give them without thanks, then damn you for not delivering more?" She shook her head, finally wiping up the last of the blood. "Ungrateful worthless bastards the lot of them; sometimes I think we should be left to our own devices, maybe then we'd smarten up." Tossing the rag on the table, she picked up her bowl and what remained of her sandwich; "I hope you don't mind but I've lost my appetite." Covering the remaining food with saran wrap she set it on the top shelf of the fridge, appetite or no, she'd finish the beer. Striding back to the table she snatched it up, pressing her lips to the bottles mouth and drinking deeply from it; after the initial drink she slunk back into the chair, mind really absorbing what she'd just witnessed.



He laughed quietly. “Welcome to the life, doll,” was all he said before staggering over to the island and retrieving his half-empty beer. He wasn’t the slightest bit surprised she didn’t return to her meal; the sight was quite enough to knock a horse’s appetite. Finishing the bottle, he absently tossed into the tall wastebasket at the end of the counter, then sighed heavily. “And I’m going to bed. Quite enough excitement for one night, I think.” Without another word he turned and left the kitchen. Nothing else need be said; he was an old friend of rejection. Sometimes he counted that and misery his only company.



Douglass : "Goodnight Dante," she called after him, eyes moving up from table top to watch him depart. You're a regular bag of tricks aren't you; I don't understand why you fight it, its part of who you are. A light, single laugh; Well shit if I could do that I think I'd take your job too; by all that's been fucked. Head shaking from side to side she couldn't even begin to fathom what life must be like for him; clearly he fought tenaciously to let her touch him, she could feel his body seething under her hands; even after he'd converted back to his normal form. Not waiting for any response from him, she rose, downing the last of her liquor and strode to the exit, dropping her empty into the same wastebasket he'd used. "Lights out Lucille," and with that darkness. Padding down the hallway, she instinctively turned into her own room, closing the door behind her. Without even requesting a light she hopped onto the bed and nestled down; sleep wouldn't grace her for a while, it'd been too short a day. Her mind swam with the nights events, chewing over the details of the evening. She formulated an image of the child's face, and the bodies of his parents. She etched into her memory the succubus, and the way it looked while still inside the child. Well, I asked for it all. Mind floating around with all the facts, her eyelids drooped shut, sleep still refusing to take her.



He just fell into bed, not bothering with stripping. The denim scraped across expensive black silk, but he didn’t care. He knew he shoulda taken that hooker up on her offer. Grunting in consternation, the tired groggy hunter flopped to his back, every touch he’d just endured outlined in blazing fire across smoldering skin. God’s teeth and monkey balls! He closed his eyes tight and, not for the first time, damned his demon blood to the abyss and beyond. Normally, to alleviate such tension in his body, he’d work out, but right now, he didn’t think he could raise his head to save his soul. Both physically and emotionally exhausted do not a happy hunter make. Lucille, tuning to his upset and level of irritation, her motion sensors catching his tossing and turning, spoke in his room quietly. “Dante, go to sleep. My readouts are indicating you’re exhausted.” He opened one eye and glared at the ceiling. “Thanks for the newsflash, Lucille,” he retorted dryly. “I couldn’t tell.” She didn’t respond to the thick sarcasm. Dante sighed and finally kicked off his jeans. “It was stupid, letting her come here, Lucille,” he admitted, flopping over once more. “How long has it been…?” Since a living touch graced his flesh. Years. He groaned once more, trying to find a comfortable spot in the middle of the bed. “But so help me…I swear on my mother’s grave, I will not…won’t…mmnnh…” And his eyes closed finally, the exhausted hunter drifting into an uneasy, troubled sleep.



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