Luck of a Demon


To say the last week had been interesting would have been an understatement. I had gone from a quiet life to being smack bang in the middle of a whole heap of shit that I could have done without.

The plan had been to get rid of Lucifer; I’m not going to lie that one kind of fell into my lap. The prick was always going to go too far one day; lucky for me that day was now. I needed the power of Hell if I was going to rescue my father.

As for that motherfucker, Azazel, I really should have seen that coming. I had let him get under my skin, and let my guard down, but all was not lost. I had found out some interesting shit. The goat-faced fucker had not been lying when he said that he could get me in upstairs. He had the juice. I just had to figure out how to extract it from him and use it.

I had to find him first.

I padded across the huge lounge. It had been late when we had arrived last night and I hadn’t had a chance to get my bearings. I turned, taking in the space. It was nice, modern, very expensive. I followed the smell of liquor, into a room with a fully stocked bar. Of course, he had his own bar. I rolled my eyes, whilst scanning the bottles for a decent bourbon, clearly, one-eyed willy was compensating for more than just his face.

Teaming up with dumb and dumber hadn’t exactly been a part of my plan, but I had no idea where that fuck face had gone, and the only way to find him would be to involve my mother, which I hadn’t wanted to do. I wasn’t sure what her reaction would be if she found out about my plan, so, Rumplefuckwit, had been in the right place at the right time. I personally couldn’t give a fuck about the stupid sword; he was just a means to an end. And the other guy… well, fuck; what an idiot. All that guy wanted was a glamour for his mug and a fuck from my mother. I laughed out loud, into the silent room at the ridiculousness of it all. I guessed being the son of a deity didn’t always give you brains.

Vegas was as good a place as any to wait it out until Fuckwit laid the trap for Azhole. This was too perfect. I didn’t even have to do anything.

 I made my way out onto the balcony, leaning over the edge. I could just about make out people milling around like ants below. I placed my thumb over the top of a bystander. They had no idea how easy it would be to squash them like bugs. For years, I had lived amongst them, thinking that was where I belonged. A bitter laugh left my lips, I had been such a fool.

I might as well make my trip here worthwhile, I thought to myself whilst digging out my mobile phone from my back pocket. I pulled up my contacts, I pressed call, hooking the phone under my ear, he picked up after the third ring.

“I thought you had finally found a way to top your miserable ass.”

I laughed loudly, “Thought or hoped?” The raspy voice cackled down the phone.

“Is it that time already? I figured we had a few years before you needed work, my friend.”

I glanced down at the fading ink on my left forearm. In all honesty, it could have waited, but I had an idea I was excited about and had found myself in Vegas, so why wait? Shit, luck just kept being handed to me.

“Yeah, I’m in town… so, ”

His voice takes on a mocking edge; it mixes with the Italian accent that he chooses to use, making my fist clench.

“I don’t know if I can fit you in… I mean, at such short notice.”

“Clear your fucking schedule, dick wad. I’ll be there this afternoon.” I ended the call without giving him a chance to respond.

It had been eight years since I saw the weaselly little prick. It takes around ten years for the tattoos that cover my arms, neck, back and torso to burn away. Getting tattooed when you are literally unable to scar is a task, but I had some needles forged in the bowels of hell and they work for a limited time.  It started off wanting to cover the damned mark, but then it became an addiction; and, after ten years I get a fresh canvas to begin again. Win, fucking, win.

My senses prickled, suddenly aware that I was no longer alone. I turned around just in time to see Poly closing a secret door in his lounge. I was instantly curious, what the fuck was the dodgy fucker hiding in there. He was watching me as curiously as I had been watching him.

I swaggered back into the room, casually sipping my drink. “So, what are you hiding in there?” I nodded to the door, my tone sarcastic, “A strip club.”

“None of your fucking business,” he countered, “Who was on the phone?” I smirked back. He was quick.

“None of your fucking business.”

He laughed, pouring himself a drink. I couldn’t help it, my eyes kept creeping to his head. He was wearing the sunglasses that he never seemed to remove and a hat pulled down almost covering his eye.

“Are you having a good look fucker?” he threw over his shoulder. I shook my head, raising my hands in a gesture of calm. If I was honest, I felt sorry for the guy. I mean, he was a powerhouse and clearly a hit with the women. I would never say it out loud but I totally got why he wanted the glamour. I’m not sure I’d risk my life for it, but I guessed vanity affected us all in some way.

He sauntered back over to where I had made myself comfortable on the sunken sofas.

“So, what can kill an angel?”

He perched on the edge of the sofa opposite me, drinking his drink. I shrugged my shoulders; in all honesty, I hadn’t felt comfortable giving out information like that. There was something very fucking off about this guy. I had a feeling his dumb playboy persona was more of an act.

I sat back studying him before I spoke. I didn’t trust him, but I had no choice but to work with him… for now.

“An arc angel blade would do it?” I finally answered.

“You can get one? I’m assuming, being an almighty Prince” His tone was condescending; I resisted the urge to get up and punch him in his smug mouth.

I shook my head, “No chance my mother is going to let me anywhere near the vault now.”

“Some fucking prodigy you are,” he mocked, draining his glass. “So, you’re basically useless,”

Jumping to my feet, rage washed through my body. “Fuck you, fuck boy!”

 “So, what do you know?” He continued, unfazed by my aggression.

After a minute I managed to get the anger under control. I’d had a short fuse ever since my father had taught me to turn on my power.

An idea began to form in my head. We needed something to take Azazel down, but I needed him alive. “sigils,” I said more to myself.

“What?” Poly asked. I sat down, grabbing a note pad off a nearby shelf. Realising what I was doing, he threw me a pen. I caught it and began to draw angel sigils. I spoke as I drew.

“If we can get a blade and carve these sigils into it they will give us the power we need over Azhole.” I deliberately only drew sigils that I knew would control him. They thought we were going to kill him. They didn’t need to know everything.

“But we would need a weapon.” I continued.

Poly, who had become increasingly interested in the lines and shapes I was drawing, said, “I can create one.” I looked up and met his eye, my senses told me he was being truthful. I thought I recalled something about him and weapons but up until now his part of history hadn’t been of any interest to me.

I stood up, and nodded, leaving the crude drawings on the table. “Okay, well, I gotta be somewhere.” I teleported out without another word.

I appeared directly outside an old rundown building. This was the glory part of LA, this was the slums.

“You could update this place,” I grumbled as I pushed open the iron door. The smell of iodine hit me as soon as I entered. Anton always kept a clean shop even if it looked like a garbage can from the outside. The place was quiet.

“Cain,” he greeted me like an old friend, throwing his arms wide. I ignored his fake ass greeting and plopped down in the leather chair. I noticed he had already prepared with the specialised ink and demon needles. He knew not to cross me. He wore the scars of earlier attempts across his cheek to always remind him. I smirked, admiring my handy work.

Anton was halfling like my brother Baako. But, he had a demon father and a human mother. To demon to fit into the mortal world and to mortal to fit into the demon world. It was a conundrum for the poor fucker.

“So, what are you having this time?” he asked in his fake accent, fuck, I remember when he was German. I stifled a laugh at the memory.

I pulled out my phone pulling up a photo, showing it to him. His eyes bulged in his round head. He pushed a strand of greasy black hair from his face. He knew better than to question my choices.

“Okay… one scythe of death coming up.”

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

Website Built with

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: