If that bothers anyone, don't read it.
Anyway...
Almost immediately after I posted my last entry, I went to the store to get more groceries. We have no working vehicle, and I've been doing the shopping for so many years that it's easiest if I just go myself. Our care provider has problems with the fluorescent lighting in most public places, anyway, as well as sunlight, having lupus just like my wife does. This really works out for the best, but I can only carry so many bags of groceries at a time - a lot more than you might think, though - so I make a trip to the store usually once every day or two as needed.
This morning, I decided to get some healthy food for myself. We live on such a tight budget and my wife has such strict dietary needs, not to mention the expense of supplements, and my care provider does to a lesser degree, so why end up eating whatever I can afford while I'm out, which often consists of the dollar menu at fast food places. Thanks to a bit of income from some art commissions and the generosity of a friend, I was actually able to buy some real food for myself to keep around the house. Healthy food, too. I'm pretty proud of myself since I need to lose some weight and really could eat better, I just usually don't have much of a choice. Today I did, and so I took advantage of it.
After I got home, I immediately did what I said I wasn't going to do and started writing the next episode. Whoops.
So that didn't last very long. Less than 10 hours ago I said I would put off writing the future installments of my serial fiction series, and here I am having written over 3000 words on episode two. I couldn't help myself. I love the character that I introduce at the beginning of the second episode and I couldn't wait to write to him. It was worth it. Everything flowed so well, my narrative style is getting stronger and I'm really settling into this. In fact, I'm so excited and proud of my work that I'm going to share the first chapter of episode two, freshly written! Enjoy!
Chapter 1
Markus Porter was a miracle.
There was no other way to explain it. A poor, orphaned young man from the wrong side of Phoenix who enlisted in the Marines as a way to escape poverty, he’d served with distinction in Iraq and Afghanistan, and finally returned home to a country that had hardly noticed and never been asked to care. He quickly fell back into poverty, and one night, into a coma after being hit by a drunk driver while crossing a street. His body rested in the VA in a vegetative state for a number of months before he miraculously awakened with no discernible signs of brain damage. Three months of rehabilitation later and he walked out the front door to head home.
It probably looked no different than it did when he walked in the front doors of the Saguaro Hills Behavioral Health Center in Mesa, Arizona, one cool autumn morning, though he was dressed much more nicely on this occasion than he had been when he left the VA. Tall and muscular in the wiry, lithe sort of way, the handsome young black man wore a black silk dress shirt and pinstripe slacks along with a pair of men’s dress shoes. He wore no jack or sweater, not that it was all that chilly out, but even when it got colder he wouldn’t wear one.
Markus liked the cold.
“I have an appointment to see one of your patients,” he told the secretary in the large, sterile lobby with a disarming smile, his voice like liquid honey. “Javier Reyes.”
The secretary, a slightly plump but nonetheless pretty young woman with wavy brown hair smiled up at him as she absently picked up the phone and punched in numbers, as if by rote memorization. A few seconds later, she spoke. “Hi Dr. Karcher, it’s Molly. Javier’s visitor is here. Okay.” She hung up the phone, still smiling her practiced secretary smile, though this time it was perhaps a bit brighter than usual. And who could blame her? Markus was a very attractive man. “Dr. Karcher will be out in a moment to escort you.”
“Why thank you, Molly,” Markus replied, still oozing charm. “I’ll just have a seat until he arrives.”
Molly sighed wistfully as she watched him go.
Markus had only managed to get two pages into a story on ‘101 Ways To Please Your Man’ in the latest issue of Cosmopolitan before the doctor arrived. He didn’t feel like he would be missing much as he set the magazine down, considering that what he’d read so far was the usual collection of stereotypes and clichés meant to fit the everyman that only existed in magazines and romance movies. He straightened, shook hands with the middle aged man with horn rimmed glasses and a balding head save for the tufts of hair at his temples, and then followed him down a series of hallways in silence. Neither man attempted conversation. Upon approaching a door marked 118, Dr. Karcher unlocked it and allowed him entrance.
“Simply press the call button by the door when you’re ready to leave,” Dr. Karcher explained before leaving, closing the door behind him.
Markus found himself in a small room containing a bed, night stand, desk and chair, along with a dresser in one corner. A high, long, frosted glass window ran along one side of the room, the kind that doesn’t open and simply allows ambient light in from above. At the edge of the bed sat a young Hispanic boy with long, stringy black hair partially obscuring his features and dressed in simple, neat white clothing. He looked to be in his early teens at the oldest. The boy sat absolutely still, hands folded in his lap and staring straight ahead. Markus pulled the chair from the desk and took a seat across from him.
“The Demon in Black,” the boy said in a soft, dreamlike voice. “Your host body suits you, Mephistopheles.”
“Thank you,” Markus-who-was-Mephistopheles replied. “I wish I could say the same, Lord Mammon. At the very least you need a haircut. Five or six years of puberty would help, as well.”
“I am still adjusting,” the boy replied quietly. “I appreciate you answering my call.”
“I admit, it made me curious.” Mephistopheles settled back in the simple wooden chair, folding his arms across his chest and tilting his head to the side. “I have no idea what you think you could possibly offer me, but what the hell? I can at least be polite and hear your offer.”
“I can offer you many things, Mephistopheles,” said the boy who wasn’t a boy at all. “I have power far beyond your own, and it grows daily. Moloch has already been brought through and resides within these walls. Leviathan will come soon.”
“I don’t see it that way,” observed Mephistopheles in a casual tone. “I see a Prince of Hell stuck in the body of a boy, a body he doesn’t fit and can’t adapt to. You have only a sliver of your power in your current state. I can smell it. You’ve been in that body for years, now, haven’t you? Years, and still you can’t make it work. It’s pathetic, to be honest.”
Javier rose abruptly from the bed, his eyes turning solid black and his caramel skin going ashen pale in the blink of an eye. Power radiated from his small form. His voice came like the rustling of dry leaves, distant and alien. “Watch your forked tongue, Mephistopheles! I will not be spoken to in that manner by one of your station!”
Mephistopheles simply blinked, remaining in his slouched, relaxed position as he watched the display of power made for his benefit. He wasn’t impressed. “Or what? You know I’m right. More importantly, I know I’m right. I’m the only one that’s figured out the trick to melding seamlessly with a host, that’s figured out how to hold on. I’ve been in this body for nine long years, and it’s the only one I’ve had because I only needed one. One shot, that’s all it took me to figure it out, and it burns the rest of you up inside. How many times have the rest of you been sent back to the void by an exorcist’s hand? How many times have you simply destroyed the body of the host you tried to claim for your own? None of you have figured it out, though I give you credit for holding on as long as you have this time. You seem relatively stable, though we both know you’re far from the height of your power and always will be. I, on the other hand, while considerably less powerful, have harnessed the full extent of my powers. So do your worst, Mammon. Let me see what you’ve got.”
The demonic child glared hatefully at him, hands balling into fists, jaw clenched and black eyes burning, but he did nothing. There was nothing he could do. Just being in his presence, he could tell that Mephistopheles had access to far more power than he’d been able to siphon into this body in the four years he’d inhabited it. Something had gone wrong, something always went wrong. Mephistopheles indeed knew the secret and they all hated him for it. Eventually the fists relaxed and the boy sat down on the edge of the bed again, though the eyes remained black. “I will not threaten you, nor will I give you the satisfaction of seeing me in a weakened state. I am loath to admit it, but you are correct. You have knowledge that I want, and you will sell it to me.”
“I’m not selling you shit, Mammon,” Mephistopheles snorted. “I’ve got a good thing going on, and I’m not about to ruin it by letting the rest of you in on it.”
“One day, we will figure it out, and we will come for you.”
“Maybe,” Mephistopheles allowed. “I’m willing to take that chance. I’m telling you now, though, nothing you could possibly offer me will buy you the secret you seek. If that’s all you called me here for, you’ve wasted your time.”
“There is more.”
“I’m listening.”
“I have-“ He stopped, then started again. “My host has a relative that may soon cause me a certain amount of trouble. You know her. You have had dealings with her in the past.”
Mephistopheles thought for a moment, trying to figure out who he might be referring to. Recognition dawned and he nodded once with a sly little smile. “Ah. The hot little handicapped girl, yes. We’ve traded information in the past. Your host is related to her? How ironic. You really know how to pick ‘em, boss. What about her?”
Mammon gave no reaction to the taunting. “I wish for you to make sure that she does not cause me that trouble.”
“You want me to kill her.” It was a statement, not a question.
“I want her out of the way. How you accomplish that is left at your discretion.”
A hand lifted to scratch the goatee at his chin as Mephistopheles considered his options. “I’ll have to give it some thought. What are you offering in return?”
“I can offer you servants, for a start.”
“Nnh. I have a few already, and can have more if I want them. Servants come easy for me.”
“I can channel you more power, perhaps. If you swore to me-“
“-I’d be an idiot. Hell no. Come on, Mammon. Making deals is supposed to be your thing, Prince of Greed and all that shit. I’d almost swear you’re out of practice, but you’ve somehow made deals with Moloch and Leviathan and who knows who else to get them to work for you, so clearly that isn’t the case. I’m starting to get offended. Maybe you don’t think I’m worth it.”
The boy said nothing for a moment, simply staring at the man in utter stillness and silence. Dealing with demons was often like herding cats, though such an analogy would be foreign to Mammon. The others had been easy to figure out, but Mephistopheles was different. He had always been different, but the independence he’d experienced over the last nine years had only magnified it and made him even more strange and difficult to read. Mammon was used to being able to look at someone, even one of his own kind, and instantly figure out what they most desired. It came naturally. Mephistopheles, however, was a blank slate, and that both frustrated and frightened him
“I am most curious to hear your terms, then. Name your price.”
Mephistopheles smiled the smile of the victorious. Mammon, Prince of Greed, couldn’t intuit what he wanted. This was almost as rare an occasion as catching Lucifer himself in a lie. The smile still fixed on his face, he tilted his head and answered. “I want immunity.”
“Immunity from what?”
“From you. From all of this. I do this thing for you, and you leave me alone from here on out. I’m not a part of your team, I’m not on your side, and I never will be. If the rest of you want to rehash the whole war all over again, knock yourselves out, but I’m not playing. Win or lose, and I’m willing to bet you lose, you never look for me and you never bother me again. I’m off the board.”
“I believe that can be arranged.”
“I want a pact,” Mephistopheles stated. “I want a contract, in writing, signed in blood. I’m not taking your word for anything. You write up the contract and I’ll look it over. If I find it to my liking, I’ll watch you sign it. I’ll accept nothing less.”
Mammon was silent again as he considered, and finally he nodded his agreement. “I will do as you ask.”
Mephistopheles watched as the boy got up from the bed and walked like an automaton over to the desk, selecting a piece of paper and pencil which he then jabbed into a fingertip and drew blood. Though only a drop glistened on the tip, when he began to write the letters were all in blood. He wrote for several moments in silence, apparently not bothered to have an audience, and when he finished he turned and presented it to the man still seated in the wooden chair. Mephistopheles took it and looked it over briefly.
“Sign it,” said Mephistopheles, thrusting the paper back at the boy.
He did so. The bloody ink glowed brightly, then it all disappeared, ink and paper alike. The pact was sealed.
Mephistopheles rose from the chair and tipped an imaginary hat. “A pleasure doing business with you, my Prince,” he offered before turning for the door and pressing the call button beside it.
“I should warn you, you will not find her at home. She has warded her haven to prevent anyone from finding her there that wishes to do her harm.”
“I don’t need to go to her home,” Mephistopheles noted with a smirk. “I have a cell phone. You should get one sometime.”
Nothing more was said between the two. Soon enough, Dr. Karcher returned and escorted the man known as Markus Porter from the building.