Madness: DxD

Pricked Up

The inn smells like sulfur trying to pass for ale. I'm seated at a crooked table, one boot hooked around the rung, a dented mug of something brown and bitter sweating in my hand. This place does that. Everything sweats like it knows it's guilty.

I take a pull of the beer. It tastes like rust. Reminds me of Egyptian beer.

The room is loud in the way only damned places get: low growls of conversation, chains clinking somewhere behind a wall, a lute playing half a song and giving up. Through it all, I hear something else. A scuffle. Upstairs. Soft at first, then sharp. A slap. Breath knocked out of someone.

I set the mug down. It stops wobbling a second before the table does.

I turn to the barkeep, a thin man with horns filed down to stubs, eyes darting like he's counting exits.

Y/N: What's happening upstairs?

He flinches. Wipes a glass that was never clean.

Barkeep: Probably nothing. Just... business. You know. A girl and a drunk. Whores are pretty common down here.

I stare at him. Let the silence do the work. Another muffled sound filters down. A whimper this time.

Y/N: Doesn't sound profitable.

He swallows.

Barkeep: Best not to get involved. You don't wanna piss off Valentino.

I stand. The chair tips back and doesn't hit the floor until I'm already halfway to the stairs.

The stairs creak like they're warning someone. The hallway upstairs is narrow, walls pulsing faintly like they're breathing. The sound comes from the last door on the left.

Another slap. Louder.

I don't knock.

The room is small. Bed bolted to the floor. One window showing nothing but red fog and distant fire. A drunkard has a woman by the arm. He's mid-swing, face flushed, eyes dead. She stumbles, catches herself against the bed.

I step in.

Y/N: Let her go.

The drunkard turns. Looks me up and down. Smiles like he thinks this is funny.

Drunkard: Or what.

He swings at me. Sloppy. Predictable.

I lean aside. His fist cuts air where my face was. I grab his collar, twist, step through. There's a wet crack. His body goes heavy in my hands, then lighter as I let it fall.

He hits the floor wrong and doesn't get up.

The room is quiet except for the woman's breathing.

She stares at the body, then at me. Then she laughs once, sharp and disbelieving.

Woman: You didn't even hesitate.

I shrug. Check my knuckles. Still intact.

She kneels by the corpse and starts going through his pockets with practiced efficiency. Turns them out. Nothing. A coin with a devil's face. A broken comb.

Her hands slow.

Woman: Damn it. Nothing.

She stands, worry creeping into her eyes.

Y/N: Trouble?

Woman: If I go back empty-handed, yeah. Big trouble.

I reach into my coat. Count what little clinks together. Not much. Hatchet's corpse had more bullets than coins. I hold it out.