Post by Deleted on Dec 29, 2007 17:23:27 GMT -5
Waking had been slow and arduous for Eleanor Kannon-Hall last Saturday morning. Her mind skittered along the boundary of consciousness and slumber, vague awareness of self scrabbling for a foothold on icy cliff-faces of half-dreams and shadowy musings. Somewhere in her mind resided the knowledge that she was sleeping, lost in nightmares, buried with the realization that if she could just take hold of the thought that she was awake it would end. With her mind fogged by drugs she couldn’t remember taking it was like swiping at a star in the sky, always out of reach no matter how she stretched.
Fire roared and crackled all around her in a neat ring, its heat pressing in from all sides as if she was in an oven. Laying down and bound by unseen cords, she tried to sit up and groaned with pain. Muscles that felt like bags filled to bursting with cement refused to cooperate, limiting her motion to a slight swivelling of her head and a wild rolling of her eyes. The flames licked higher, fuelled by her fear. Heat and light stung her eyes, making her flinch. The ring was closing in on her; she couldn’t see it eating up the ground, but whenever she forced her eyes open it was undeniably closer.
"Eleanor," a voice boomed over the hungry snapping of the blaze, bearing down on her from everywhere, suffusing her with a fear the flames could never accomplish on their own. It echoed eternally in her head like a warning, or a condemnation, a barbed knife twisting in her mind, and had she been able to move her arms she would have clamped her hands down over her ears.
The terror climaxed as a shadowy figure strolled through the wall of flame and paused just inside the ring, nonchalantly cocking his head to the side as if to study her. With his serpentine figure shimmering behind heat waves, she couldn’t make out any details about him, but she could have drawn his every feature down to the eyelash. She knew who it was. It was the bearer of the voice. The lord of this hell.
She blinked the sweat and tears from her eyes, gasping for air, trying to scream, and suddenly he was kneeling over her, brushing her bangs back from her forehead, cupping her face in his hands. They burned like no fire she had ever imagined, molten flesh that would melt any volcano that dared to contain it.
Worse by far were the eyes that filled her vision, bottomless pools of liquid nitrogen that flashed crimson with delight when she threw back her head and screamed.
"Eleanor!" Pierce almost shouted, shaking her by the shoulders. The scream cut off with a strangled gasp as Eleanor finally woke, and before she could think about what she was doing, she lurched up from the blankets and wrapped The Deville in trembling arms, nuzzling her head against his chest. He didn’t seem in the least surprised by it, nor by her screams or tears; he simply returned the embrace and tried to soothe her with soft hushing sounds, whispering that everything was alright, assuring her it was just a bad dream.
A week later, she was still entangled in that nightmare. Despite being over a thousand miles from Pierce’s home, back in the safety of her own, she could still feel that ring of fire closing in. She could still feel those hands burning her. She could still see those eyes scorching her soul. Devouring her.
She couldn’t remember everything that happened the night before she had woken in The Deville’s bed. In fact, she could recall very little, as if she had become so intoxicated with drink that her memories decided to flee the shame of it. The last clear memory she had was of perusing Pierce’s many books, of glaring down at her glass of champagne.
Pierce had told her with a sly grin that he’d never seen a woman pound back so much drink, mock-admonishingly waving an empty bottle under her nose. Eleanor didn’t think she could have drank all that over the course of an entire weekend, let alone a few hours, and when she said as much, The Deville just laughed and postured that people weighed down by stress did many strange things they normally wouldn’t do. The way his eyes twinkled when he said it made her want to slap him, but she felt too embarrassed by her supposed revelry to make a scene over what was probably a misinterpretation on her part.
She apologized profusely for the inconvenience, but he refused to accept it, insisting it wasn’t her fault and that his bed was honoured to house such beauty. Her surprise at discovering she was stripped to her underclothes paled beside the shock of finding a cotton swab bandaged over the crook of her elbow and the pinprick beneath. Pierce casually explained both away as doctor’s orders. Apparently, when she passed out and he was unable to wake her, he feared alcohol poisoning and made his family doctor rush to the scene. He also told her that he had called Christian to let him know she was alright, and that Christian hadn’t taken well the news that she would be spending the night. That was an understatement if she had ever heard one.
Getting dressed was a chore weighed down by vertigo, but Pierce surprised her pleasantly by leaving the room. He told her he would drive her back to the hotel whenever she was ready. She protested, saying she could drive herself, but The Deville wasn’t having any of it, arguing that she was in no condition to drive and he would never forgive himself if there was an accident. Grudgingly, she acquiesced, then practically had to fight him to keep him from carrying her to her room. She harboured no doubt it would have been Christian fighting him if that happened.
Christian’s only words on the matter were "Never again," bitten off so crisply and vehemently that Eleanor cringed. She would have been happy to not have to talk about it, but Christian had been cold and distant ever since, and she could see pain welling up in his eyes whenever he looked at her. He thought she had been unfaithful. She ached to tell him it wasn’t so, to make him believe, but she knew that she couldn’t bring it up without cementing his suspicions, so she held her tongue. For a week now he had been sulking and pretending he wasn’t, speaking with her no more than was absolutely necessary, trying to bury his pain with anger and distance. Eleanor wanted to choke him for the suspicion, but when she asked herself how she’d act if their positions were reversed she decided all she could do was grit her teeth and bear it.
It made for very tense and delicate times in the Kannon-Hall residence.
Presently, Christian was in the living room, watching wrestling videos -- undoubtedly of Deville, perhaps plotting a comeback the whole world knew he couldn’t make -- and Eleanor had retreated to her garden. She hoped it would help take her mind off of her troubles, but it had done exactly the opposite, focusing her mind to it and little else.
Pierce Deville was an enigma. She couldn’t reconcile him in her mind. He was overly forward and flirtatious, but at the same time he was kind, gentle, and respectful of her privacy. Worse, he seemed genuinely concerned for her. He had denied staying up all night when she pressed him on it, but the dark circles around his eyes betrayed the lie. He was nothing at all like she remembered, or like his reputation painted him. On the surface, at least.
Beneath the surface, Eleanor wasn’t so sure. She suspected there was more to the story than her simply getting drunk and passing out. It itched in the back of her mind like the memories she couldn’t recall, the lost memories that would give her the truth of it. Though it was little more than a vague suspicion, a queasiness in the pit of her stomach wouldn’t let her dismiss it.
Not for the first time, she considered having it out with Christian, considered telling him what she suspected happened. As with the other hundred times it had occurred to her, she smashed it down immediately, lecturing herself not to be silly. It was only a suspicion, after all, and Pierce had been nothing short of miraculously courteous and accommodating. If she told her husband what she suspected, that The Deville had drugged her for an unknown reason, he would fly into a rage and go after him, and there was no way for that to end well. Christian was strong and athletic, but Deville was a monster. It was whispered that even the Mob feared him. What kind of man would it take to inspire fear in the Mafia?
If Christian went after him, there was no doubt as to whom would walk away hurt, if he walked away at all. There was even less doubt that The Deville would let it end there. Christian would be marked and so would she. No matter how much he contrasted his reputation, there were parts of it she knew were true. Parts of it she had begun to experience firsthand in RPW, before he forced the organization into bankruptcy. Perhaps culminating with it.
When The Deville felt wronged, he would kill the one who wronged him and himself in the process long before he forgot it, and forgiveness was as foreign to him as frailty. He would raze the whole world before foregoing revenge.
Eleanor wasn’t sure where she would draw the line, but hazy doubts in the face of appearance and reason weren’t anywhere close to making her consider it seriously. It would take much more than that for her to condemn Christian and herself to The Deville’s enmity.
Only the truly foolish and naive or the suicidal brought that avalanche of doom crashing down on their heads.
"What do you mean Pierce Deville has resurfaced?" The demand came in a gruff voice from a middle-aged man leaning against a low-rider. He was well beyond forty, but he liked to dress and act much younger. A white tank top revealed a plethora of tattoos, most of them the drab black and blue epitomized by jailhouse artistry. Most of them had to do with his home of Mexico, praising it as Heaven on earth. In spite of that, beyond maintaining permanent residency in Mexico he was American to the core. He made his money in America, he spent most of his time in America, and his atrophying Spanish was used only at necessity, shelved in favour of American English.
"He’s resurfaced," one of the towering youths flanking him repeated, earning himself a sharp glare. Hastened by that look, he continued on. "About two weeks ago he crawled up from out of nowhere, re-establishing himself in Canada. He hasn’t made any major moves that I’ve heard of, but it’s been confirmed that he is back." The other young man grunted.
"Do we have any reason to believe he’ll stay in Canada this time?" the older man asked, sharing the question and his gaze between the other two. He didn’t need to see their faces or their exchanged look of deliberation to know the answer.
About eight months ago, when The Deville last resurfaced, the underworld of organized crime took a hit unlike any other in history. Pierce Deville had been inside it for years, had grown up in it, had helped cultivate it. He knew more about it than any ten cops or Federal agents alive, and his dismantling of those at the top had been as systematic as it had been ruthless. Rumour had it that his only grievance was with the Italian Mob, but bosses from all nations and families had been mowed down without any prejudice beyond their lofty occupation.
Hits were ordered from all sides, more death warrants issued for one man in the span of a couple of months than had been ordered in the entire country over the past decade. Skilled thugs, assassins, imported guns, everything that could be thrown at him was thrown as hard and as fast as possible. Innocents had been slaughtered by the dozens -- by the hundreds -- as buildings and cars were blown up, but like a cockroach, or a ghost, The Deville always survived.
It was said he couldn’t be killed. A couple of the would-be assassins were left alive to spread the tale, and their wild stories were as consistent as they were disconcerting. They all said they shot Pierce Deville in the head, checked his body to make sure it was a corpse, and moments later another Pierce Deville swaggered into the room behind them, or onto the rooftop where they were perched, flouting death and daring them to try again. A few of them did, with the same result.
Some people said it was easily explained by cloning, but that didn’t match the evidence. Other rumours said it was much more sinister than cloning. The rumours the older man believed were the most sinister of all, and he considered them gospel more than rumours.
The Deville had made a deal with The Devil.
It was the only possible explanation if the stories were to be believed. And however illogical the premise, logic said they must be believed.
Equally baffling was his sudden disappearance. It was said the underworld could never die, but Deville was well on his way to making that a lie. Heads couldn’t be replaced as fast as they were taken out, and the criminal ranks had dwindled considerably with people removing themselves from the equation before they were forcibly retired. But just when organized crime was reeling, ready to topple, The Deville vanished. Everyone had assumed -- had hoped against hope -- that it meant someone had finally done the impossible and killed him.
No one took the credit, but after a few months without incident crime began to swell again. Criminals breathed easier in the belief that their only worry was the government and the competition they had come to know and expect. No more supernatural avenger with an axe to grind.
Until now.
"He’s right here in Miami as we speak," the smaller youth, the one who had spoken before, said after clearing his throat. The older man’s eyes bulged. He tried to tell himself that it couldn’t be true, that The Deville wasn’t invading his home, but the abashedly grim look on the younger men’s faces told him not to kid himself.
It was hard to speak, to summon up enough saliva to wet his lips. When he spoke, it was half-whisper and half-croak. "Where?"
"Not far," the other young man responded, rubbing his huge hands together in anticipation. "He’s staying at the Journey’s End just down the road." He gestured absently, keeping his eyes locked on those of his mentor. His lip curled back in a snarl. "I could go send him a message for you."
"Don’t be a fool, Curtis!" the older man barked, drawing his hand back as if to slap the stupid proposition out of his mouth. Instead of walloping him, the older man raked his hand through his dark greasy hair. He took a deep breath and moderated his tone before speaking again. "We don’t want his attention falling on us."
The other young man began nodding his agreement, but Curtis pressed on with a sneer. "It’s already on us. We would have to be stupid not to think so." Both of the others’ eyes widened at that remark, but Curtis affected not to notice. "He is supposedly here for his wrestling, but everyone knows that’s just a cover up. He must be here about business. And if he is here about business, who controls more of it than you do?"
The older man shook his head with frustration. "And what message do you propose to send?" He paused long enough to eye them both dubiously, then spat. "That we want war with a man who cannot die?"
Curtis smirked dismissively. "Tales to frighten children. He is not El Diablo. He is just a man. Give the word and I will show him that I -- that you! -- are a greater man than he is." Swelled up with pride, he pounded his chest when he referred to himself and thrust a thick finger forward when he spoke of the older man.
Still shaking his head, the older man said "This is crazy," but there was a glimmer in his ferrety eyes. He swept his gaze up to the other man and arched an eyebrow. "Miguel?"
Miguel rolled his head around on his shoulders, cracking his neck like stepped-on bubblewrap. "I agree with Curtis. If he is here, he will come for us eventually. Let us instead face him on our terms, while his back is turned." He looked at Curtis, who nodded his support, before going on. "We could sneak into his room tonight and kill him while he sleeps."
It was a long time before the older man spoke, and when he finally did, his voice was tinged with reluctance and saturated with regret. "Be careful."
Tasting victory, Miguel and Curtis grinned.
It was near three in the morning when Curtis and Miguel, clad in hooded black jogging suits, approached the open first-floor window of the room where The Deville was staying. They knew it was his room because Miguel had slipped into the lobby earlier in the night and swiped the ledger, then they had snuck in through a back entrance and found exactly where the room was.
Pausing in front of the window, they signalled each other to silence as they listened for any sounds within. Silence reigned but for the stereotypical ungodly hum of hotel air conditioning. After several minutes they decided it was safe to proceed, and Miguel began working at the screen with his pocket knife, slowly and silently slicing the sealant epoxy. After a moment the screen folded down, and Curtis peeled it from the window.
Miguel pushed back the heavy curtain and squinted into the darkness, then slung a leg over the frame and ducked through, disappearing behind the curtain. Curtis held his breath, waiting, until Miguel’s hand suddenly jerked back through the opening and motioned him to follow. As soon as both were inside, Miguel with his knife in hand and Curtis with his gun, Miguel charged the bed and stabbed the lump in the middle over and over again, the wet tchunks pounding in their eardrums along with their heartbeats.
The stabbing continued until a gunshot exploded in the room, from the far corner, and Miguel was rocketed off the bed clutching at his chest. Cursing, Curtis pointed his gun at the corner, only to find a man coming out of the shadows, already aiming a gun at his head. Dressed in a fine black suit, waiting with a grin that said he knew they were coming, The Deville stepped out from the corner and cocked an eyebrow at Curtis, then sneered at the gun in his hand.
"Shoot me," The Deville said in a calm and melodic voice, still approaching with a nonchalant gait that belied the situation. An overwhelming confidence that belied mortal sense. "Or else why point it at me in the first place?"
Curtis would have fired if he could bring his finger to twitch, but he was paralysed by fear. He opened his mouth to shout, to call down the man for shooting his friend, but no words would come. It was like he had lost control over his own body.
"Afraid, are you?" Pierce chuckled from deep in his throat, then shook his head ruefully. "Such big men, with such big words and plans, but then when it comes right down to it, too small of cajonas."
The macabre resolve that filled Curtis had melted away with that first gunshot, and now that he was faced with Death incarnate, there was no hope of getting it back. He knew he was dead. "F-
you."
"Clever," The Deville said. "But it appears you’re the one who’sed." He gestured to Miguel with his free hand. "Much like your friend. Seriously, Curtis, are you going to use that thing or not? Surely you’re not afraid of rumors. Surely you’re not too afraid to find out for yourself if they’re true."
Curtis had gasped when Pierce named him, and his panicked mind struggled to figure out how the man knew who he was. The only answer he could come up with was that the rumours were true. The man was in league with the devil.
"If you won’t test it," The Deville began conversationally, bending his arm up so he was pointing the gun at his own temple, "allow me to demonstrate."
Curtis flinched as the gun went off, whipping The Deville’s head to the side as if it had been hit with a baseball bat. The Deville didn’t fall over, though, nor did his arm drop limply to his side. Instead, the gun lowered until it was once again pointed at Curtis, and The Deville gave his head a revitalizing shake.
"You have no idea how good that feels," The Deville whispered, the words echoing menacingly in the aftermath of the shot. In the darkness, his white teeth flashed in a ghostly grin. "Would you like to find out?"
Dropping to his knees, Curtis let the gun clatter to the ground and pressed his head down to the carpet, reaching his arms forward in prayer. "Please!" he sobbed. "We didn’t know! I didn’t know! Let me live! I’m sorry!"
He waited like that as the silence stretched, punctured only by The Deville’s soft footfalls as he crossed the intervening space. A hand suddenly curled up in Curtis’s hair, pulling him up to a kneeling position. The Deville forced his head all the way back, until he was craned back enough that their eyes met, then forced his mouth open with his gun. Curtis cried around it, begging for his life, but Pierce’s face remained stoic.
"Swear to me."
Curtis flinched through his tears as The Deville produced a knife with his other hand, then slowly and methodically sliced the one holding the gun, straight across the back of the hand. Curtis swore as best he could around the cold steel cylinder in his mouth, pledging himself to The Deville as a river of blood flowed from the small wound, running down Pierce’s knuckles and onto the cold steel, then into Curtis’s mouth. The Spaniard tried to jerk his head away, tried to spit the blood out, but Pierce held him fast.
"You are marked as mine," The Deville intoned solemnly, almost chanting. "Henceforth you will spread the word of my arrival, and the price of opposition. Your friend’s life is forfeit. Your master’s life is forfeit. Your life is forfeit, save for my sheltering hand." He withdrew the gun and kneed Curtis’s jaw shut, knocking the man sprawling backward into the wall.
"Leave now and herald my return." The way The Deville spoke of it, it would be like proclaiming the return of Jesus, only with an end more sinister than the apocalypse. "Turn on me again and you will beg for death more passionately than you have ever begged for life." The Deville grinned again as Curtis scrambled up and began climbing through the window. "Only then I will not be so merciful."
The room was silent for a long moment after Curtis left, then Pierce barked a mirthful laugh and walked over to the wall, flicking on the lights. "He’s gone," he called over his shoulder. "You can get up."
Squinting in the light as he climbed to his feet, Miguel studied his chest, pulling the fabric this way and that as if to make sure The Deville really had fired the blanks he promised he would. He laughed nervously as Pierce turned around. "That was . . . weird, esse. What was the deal with the blood?"
"Don’t worry about that," The Deville dismissed with a wink and a grin. "That was nothing."
Fire roared and crackled all around her in a neat ring, its heat pressing in from all sides as if she was in an oven. Laying down and bound by unseen cords, she tried to sit up and groaned with pain. Muscles that felt like bags filled to bursting with cement refused to cooperate, limiting her motion to a slight swivelling of her head and a wild rolling of her eyes. The flames licked higher, fuelled by her fear. Heat and light stung her eyes, making her flinch. The ring was closing in on her; she couldn’t see it eating up the ground, but whenever she forced her eyes open it was undeniably closer.
"Eleanor," a voice boomed over the hungry snapping of the blaze, bearing down on her from everywhere, suffusing her with a fear the flames could never accomplish on their own. It echoed eternally in her head like a warning, or a condemnation, a barbed knife twisting in her mind, and had she been able to move her arms she would have clamped her hands down over her ears.
The terror climaxed as a shadowy figure strolled through the wall of flame and paused just inside the ring, nonchalantly cocking his head to the side as if to study her. With his serpentine figure shimmering behind heat waves, she couldn’t make out any details about him, but she could have drawn his every feature down to the eyelash. She knew who it was. It was the bearer of the voice. The lord of this hell.
She blinked the sweat and tears from her eyes, gasping for air, trying to scream, and suddenly he was kneeling over her, brushing her bangs back from her forehead, cupping her face in his hands. They burned like no fire she had ever imagined, molten flesh that would melt any volcano that dared to contain it.
Worse by far were the eyes that filled her vision, bottomless pools of liquid nitrogen that flashed crimson with delight when she threw back her head and screamed.
"Eleanor!" Pierce almost shouted, shaking her by the shoulders. The scream cut off with a strangled gasp as Eleanor finally woke, and before she could think about what she was doing, she lurched up from the blankets and wrapped The Deville in trembling arms, nuzzling her head against his chest. He didn’t seem in the least surprised by it, nor by her screams or tears; he simply returned the embrace and tried to soothe her with soft hushing sounds, whispering that everything was alright, assuring her it was just a bad dream.
A week later, she was still entangled in that nightmare. Despite being over a thousand miles from Pierce’s home, back in the safety of her own, she could still feel that ring of fire closing in. She could still feel those hands burning her. She could still see those eyes scorching her soul. Devouring her.
She couldn’t remember everything that happened the night before she had woken in The Deville’s bed. In fact, she could recall very little, as if she had become so intoxicated with drink that her memories decided to flee the shame of it. The last clear memory she had was of perusing Pierce’s many books, of glaring down at her glass of champagne.
Pierce had told her with a sly grin that he’d never seen a woman pound back so much drink, mock-admonishingly waving an empty bottle under her nose. Eleanor didn’t think she could have drank all that over the course of an entire weekend, let alone a few hours, and when she said as much, The Deville just laughed and postured that people weighed down by stress did many strange things they normally wouldn’t do. The way his eyes twinkled when he said it made her want to slap him, but she felt too embarrassed by her supposed revelry to make a scene over what was probably a misinterpretation on her part.
She apologized profusely for the inconvenience, but he refused to accept it, insisting it wasn’t her fault and that his bed was honoured to house such beauty. Her surprise at discovering she was stripped to her underclothes paled beside the shock of finding a cotton swab bandaged over the crook of her elbow and the pinprick beneath. Pierce casually explained both away as doctor’s orders. Apparently, when she passed out and he was unable to wake her, he feared alcohol poisoning and made his family doctor rush to the scene. He also told her that he had called Christian to let him know she was alright, and that Christian hadn’t taken well the news that she would be spending the night. That was an understatement if she had ever heard one.
Getting dressed was a chore weighed down by vertigo, but Pierce surprised her pleasantly by leaving the room. He told her he would drive her back to the hotel whenever she was ready. She protested, saying she could drive herself, but The Deville wasn’t having any of it, arguing that she was in no condition to drive and he would never forgive himself if there was an accident. Grudgingly, she acquiesced, then practically had to fight him to keep him from carrying her to her room. She harboured no doubt it would have been Christian fighting him if that happened.
Christian’s only words on the matter were "Never again," bitten off so crisply and vehemently that Eleanor cringed. She would have been happy to not have to talk about it, but Christian had been cold and distant ever since, and she could see pain welling up in his eyes whenever he looked at her. He thought she had been unfaithful. She ached to tell him it wasn’t so, to make him believe, but she knew that she couldn’t bring it up without cementing his suspicions, so she held her tongue. For a week now he had been sulking and pretending he wasn’t, speaking with her no more than was absolutely necessary, trying to bury his pain with anger and distance. Eleanor wanted to choke him for the suspicion, but when she asked herself how she’d act if their positions were reversed she decided all she could do was grit her teeth and bear it.
It made for very tense and delicate times in the Kannon-Hall residence.
Presently, Christian was in the living room, watching wrestling videos -- undoubtedly of Deville, perhaps plotting a comeback the whole world knew he couldn’t make -- and Eleanor had retreated to her garden. She hoped it would help take her mind off of her troubles, but it had done exactly the opposite, focusing her mind to it and little else.
Pierce Deville was an enigma. She couldn’t reconcile him in her mind. He was overly forward and flirtatious, but at the same time he was kind, gentle, and respectful of her privacy. Worse, he seemed genuinely concerned for her. He had denied staying up all night when she pressed him on it, but the dark circles around his eyes betrayed the lie. He was nothing at all like she remembered, or like his reputation painted him. On the surface, at least.
Beneath the surface, Eleanor wasn’t so sure. She suspected there was more to the story than her simply getting drunk and passing out. It itched in the back of her mind like the memories she couldn’t recall, the lost memories that would give her the truth of it. Though it was little more than a vague suspicion, a queasiness in the pit of her stomach wouldn’t let her dismiss it.
Not for the first time, she considered having it out with Christian, considered telling him what she suspected happened. As with the other hundred times it had occurred to her, she smashed it down immediately, lecturing herself not to be silly. It was only a suspicion, after all, and Pierce had been nothing short of miraculously courteous and accommodating. If she told her husband what she suspected, that The Deville had drugged her for an unknown reason, he would fly into a rage and go after him, and there was no way for that to end well. Christian was strong and athletic, but Deville was a monster. It was whispered that even the Mob feared him. What kind of man would it take to inspire fear in the Mafia?
If Christian went after him, there was no doubt as to whom would walk away hurt, if he walked away at all. There was even less doubt that The Deville would let it end there. Christian would be marked and so would she. No matter how much he contrasted his reputation, there were parts of it she knew were true. Parts of it she had begun to experience firsthand in RPW, before he forced the organization into bankruptcy. Perhaps culminating with it.
When The Deville felt wronged, he would kill the one who wronged him and himself in the process long before he forgot it, and forgiveness was as foreign to him as frailty. He would raze the whole world before foregoing revenge.
Eleanor wasn’t sure where she would draw the line, but hazy doubts in the face of appearance and reason weren’t anywhere close to making her consider it seriously. It would take much more than that for her to condemn Christian and herself to The Deville’s enmity.
Only the truly foolish and naive or the suicidal brought that avalanche of doom crashing down on their heads.
~><>…<><~
"What do you mean Pierce Deville has resurfaced?" The demand came in a gruff voice from a middle-aged man leaning against a low-rider. He was well beyond forty, but he liked to dress and act much younger. A white tank top revealed a plethora of tattoos, most of them the drab black and blue epitomized by jailhouse artistry. Most of them had to do with his home of Mexico, praising it as Heaven on earth. In spite of that, beyond maintaining permanent residency in Mexico he was American to the core. He made his money in America, he spent most of his time in America, and his atrophying Spanish was used only at necessity, shelved in favour of American English.
"He’s resurfaced," one of the towering youths flanking him repeated, earning himself a sharp glare. Hastened by that look, he continued on. "About two weeks ago he crawled up from out of nowhere, re-establishing himself in Canada. He hasn’t made any major moves that I’ve heard of, but it’s been confirmed that he is back." The other young man grunted.
"Do we have any reason to believe he’ll stay in Canada this time?" the older man asked, sharing the question and his gaze between the other two. He didn’t need to see their faces or their exchanged look of deliberation to know the answer.
About eight months ago, when The Deville last resurfaced, the underworld of organized crime took a hit unlike any other in history. Pierce Deville had been inside it for years, had grown up in it, had helped cultivate it. He knew more about it than any ten cops or Federal agents alive, and his dismantling of those at the top had been as systematic as it had been ruthless. Rumour had it that his only grievance was with the Italian Mob, but bosses from all nations and families had been mowed down without any prejudice beyond their lofty occupation.
Hits were ordered from all sides, more death warrants issued for one man in the span of a couple of months than had been ordered in the entire country over the past decade. Skilled thugs, assassins, imported guns, everything that could be thrown at him was thrown as hard and as fast as possible. Innocents had been slaughtered by the dozens -- by the hundreds -- as buildings and cars were blown up, but like a cockroach, or a ghost, The Deville always survived.
It was said he couldn’t be killed. A couple of the would-be assassins were left alive to spread the tale, and their wild stories were as consistent as they were disconcerting. They all said they shot Pierce Deville in the head, checked his body to make sure it was a corpse, and moments later another Pierce Deville swaggered into the room behind them, or onto the rooftop where they were perched, flouting death and daring them to try again. A few of them did, with the same result.
Some people said it was easily explained by cloning, but that didn’t match the evidence. Other rumours said it was much more sinister than cloning. The rumours the older man believed were the most sinister of all, and he considered them gospel more than rumours.
The Deville had made a deal with The Devil.
It was the only possible explanation if the stories were to be believed. And however illogical the premise, logic said they must be believed.
Equally baffling was his sudden disappearance. It was said the underworld could never die, but Deville was well on his way to making that a lie. Heads couldn’t be replaced as fast as they were taken out, and the criminal ranks had dwindled considerably with people removing themselves from the equation before they were forcibly retired. But just when organized crime was reeling, ready to topple, The Deville vanished. Everyone had assumed -- had hoped against hope -- that it meant someone had finally done the impossible and killed him.
No one took the credit, but after a few months without incident crime began to swell again. Criminals breathed easier in the belief that their only worry was the government and the competition they had come to know and expect. No more supernatural avenger with an axe to grind.
Until now.
"He’s right here in Miami as we speak," the smaller youth, the one who had spoken before, said after clearing his throat. The older man’s eyes bulged. He tried to tell himself that it couldn’t be true, that The Deville wasn’t invading his home, but the abashedly grim look on the younger men’s faces told him not to kid himself.
It was hard to speak, to summon up enough saliva to wet his lips. When he spoke, it was half-whisper and half-croak. "Where?"
"Not far," the other young man responded, rubbing his huge hands together in anticipation. "He’s staying at the Journey’s End just down the road." He gestured absently, keeping his eyes locked on those of his mentor. His lip curled back in a snarl. "I could go send him a message for you."
"Don’t be a fool, Curtis!" the older man barked, drawing his hand back as if to slap the stupid proposition out of his mouth. Instead of walloping him, the older man raked his hand through his dark greasy hair. He took a deep breath and moderated his tone before speaking again. "We don’t want his attention falling on us."
The other young man began nodding his agreement, but Curtis pressed on with a sneer. "It’s already on us. We would have to be stupid not to think so." Both of the others’ eyes widened at that remark, but Curtis affected not to notice. "He is supposedly here for his wrestling, but everyone knows that’s just a cover up. He must be here about business. And if he is here about business, who controls more of it than you do?"
The older man shook his head with frustration. "And what message do you propose to send?" He paused long enough to eye them both dubiously, then spat. "That we want war with a man who cannot die?"
Curtis smirked dismissively. "Tales to frighten children. He is not El Diablo. He is just a man. Give the word and I will show him that I -- that you! -- are a greater man than he is." Swelled up with pride, he pounded his chest when he referred to himself and thrust a thick finger forward when he spoke of the older man.
Still shaking his head, the older man said "This is crazy," but there was a glimmer in his ferrety eyes. He swept his gaze up to the other man and arched an eyebrow. "Miguel?"
Miguel rolled his head around on his shoulders, cracking his neck like stepped-on bubblewrap. "I agree with Curtis. If he is here, he will come for us eventually. Let us instead face him on our terms, while his back is turned." He looked at Curtis, who nodded his support, before going on. "We could sneak into his room tonight and kill him while he sleeps."
It was a long time before the older man spoke, and when he finally did, his voice was tinged with reluctance and saturated with regret. "Be careful."
Tasting victory, Miguel and Curtis grinned.
~><>…<><~
It was near three in the morning when Curtis and Miguel, clad in hooded black jogging suits, approached the open first-floor window of the room where The Deville was staying. They knew it was his room because Miguel had slipped into the lobby earlier in the night and swiped the ledger, then they had snuck in through a back entrance and found exactly where the room was.
Pausing in front of the window, they signalled each other to silence as they listened for any sounds within. Silence reigned but for the stereotypical ungodly hum of hotel air conditioning. After several minutes they decided it was safe to proceed, and Miguel began working at the screen with his pocket knife, slowly and silently slicing the sealant epoxy. After a moment the screen folded down, and Curtis peeled it from the window.
Miguel pushed back the heavy curtain and squinted into the darkness, then slung a leg over the frame and ducked through, disappearing behind the curtain. Curtis held his breath, waiting, until Miguel’s hand suddenly jerked back through the opening and motioned him to follow. As soon as both were inside, Miguel with his knife in hand and Curtis with his gun, Miguel charged the bed and stabbed the lump in the middle over and over again, the wet tchunks pounding in their eardrums along with their heartbeats.
The stabbing continued until a gunshot exploded in the room, from the far corner, and Miguel was rocketed off the bed clutching at his chest. Cursing, Curtis pointed his gun at the corner, only to find a man coming out of the shadows, already aiming a gun at his head. Dressed in a fine black suit, waiting with a grin that said he knew they were coming, The Deville stepped out from the corner and cocked an eyebrow at Curtis, then sneered at the gun in his hand.
"Shoot me," The Deville said in a calm and melodic voice, still approaching with a nonchalant gait that belied the situation. An overwhelming confidence that belied mortal sense. "Or else why point it at me in the first place?"
Curtis would have fired if he could bring his finger to twitch, but he was paralysed by fear. He opened his mouth to shout, to call down the man for shooting his friend, but no words would come. It was like he had lost control over his own body.
"Afraid, are you?" Pierce chuckled from deep in his throat, then shook his head ruefully. "Such big men, with such big words and plans, but then when it comes right down to it, too small of cajonas."
The macabre resolve that filled Curtis had melted away with that first gunshot, and now that he was faced with Death incarnate, there was no hope of getting it back. He knew he was dead. "F-
you.""Clever," The Deville said. "But it appears you’re the one who’s
ed." He gestured to Miguel with his free hand. "Much like your friend. Seriously, Curtis, are you going to use that thing or not? Surely you’re not afraid of rumors. Surely you’re not too afraid to find out for yourself if they’re true."Curtis had gasped when Pierce named him, and his panicked mind struggled to figure out how the man knew who he was. The only answer he could come up with was that the rumours were true. The man was in league with the devil.
"If you won’t test it," The Deville began conversationally, bending his arm up so he was pointing the gun at his own temple, "allow me to demonstrate."
Curtis flinched as the gun went off, whipping The Deville’s head to the side as if it had been hit with a baseball bat. The Deville didn’t fall over, though, nor did his arm drop limply to his side. Instead, the gun lowered until it was once again pointed at Curtis, and The Deville gave his head a revitalizing shake.
"You have no idea how good that feels," The Deville whispered, the words echoing menacingly in the aftermath of the shot. In the darkness, his white teeth flashed in a ghostly grin. "Would you like to find out?"
Dropping to his knees, Curtis let the gun clatter to the ground and pressed his head down to the carpet, reaching his arms forward in prayer. "Please!" he sobbed. "We didn’t know! I didn’t know! Let me live! I’m sorry!"
He waited like that as the silence stretched, punctured only by The Deville’s soft footfalls as he crossed the intervening space. A hand suddenly curled up in Curtis’s hair, pulling him up to a kneeling position. The Deville forced his head all the way back, until he was craned back enough that their eyes met, then forced his mouth open with his gun. Curtis cried around it, begging for his life, but Pierce’s face remained stoic.
"Swear to me."
Curtis flinched through his tears as The Deville produced a knife with his other hand, then slowly and methodically sliced the one holding the gun, straight across the back of the hand. Curtis swore as best he could around the cold steel cylinder in his mouth, pledging himself to The Deville as a river of blood flowed from the small wound, running down Pierce’s knuckles and onto the cold steel, then into Curtis’s mouth. The Spaniard tried to jerk his head away, tried to spit the blood out, but Pierce held him fast.
"You are marked as mine," The Deville intoned solemnly, almost chanting. "Henceforth you will spread the word of my arrival, and the price of opposition. Your friend’s life is forfeit. Your master’s life is forfeit. Your life is forfeit, save for my sheltering hand." He withdrew the gun and kneed Curtis’s jaw shut, knocking the man sprawling backward into the wall.
"Leave now and herald my return." The way The Deville spoke of it, it would be like proclaiming the return of Jesus, only with an end more sinister than the apocalypse. "Turn on me again and you will beg for death more passionately than you have ever begged for life." The Deville grinned again as Curtis scrambled up and began climbing through the window. "Only then I will not be so merciful."
The room was silent for a long moment after Curtis left, then Pierce barked a mirthful laugh and walked over to the wall, flicking on the lights. "He’s gone," he called over his shoulder. "You can get up."
Squinting in the light as he climbed to his feet, Miguel studied his chest, pulling the fabric this way and that as if to make sure The Deville really had fired the blanks he promised he would. He laughed nervously as Pierce turned around. "That was . . . weird, esse. What was the deal with the blood?"
"Don’t worry about that," The Deville dismissed with a wink and a grin. "That was nothing."
~><>…<><~
