Mark of the Harbinger (Book 1)

19 - A Witch Hunt and a Bass Guitar

In 1913, when humans were made aware of the supernatural, panic ensued. Crimes were committed, innocent people lost their lives, and economies were irrevocably changed. The world was irrevocably changed. The chaos spiraled without end, and no one thought the others and the humans would be able to coexist. 

That was, until, mankind saw how the monsters quivered in their proverbial boots when the demons came out to play.

Demons resided in the Aetherium, a realm parallel to our own where the Fae actually used to live, before they were tossed out by the castes roughly one thousand years ago. Somewhere along the line, the demons taught the magi how to create binding contracts that allowed them to come and go between the realms with ease. Their penchant for violence and gathering the body parts of "lesser" species—Fae, vampire, Were, magi, witch, and human—for their spells and rituals made them the stuff of nightmares. 

Our information and legends on them stated there were seven major castes, including the caste of Abaddon, and the contention between these castes was great. Whenever civil war broke out in the Aetherium, the demons snatched powerful casters and warriors from our realm like collectible prizefighters. Entire towns in the mid-west disappeared overnight, nothing left but splotches of blood and shattered homes. Years later, those areas still weren't safe to travel through. 

Even for all the havoc they created, demons weren't common. A physical contract had to be written down to summon one, and the details had to be hammered out between both parties. The contract was meant to be destroyed once the demon did as the summoner bid, thus pushing the creature back home where it belonged.

Maligaphrius' casual presence in Roccia Nera meant someone had an open contract with the demon, letting him roam about, making little "agreements" with people like me. Holy shit, talk about playing with fire. 

I had to find something—anything—for the demon to do that would satisfy the imbalance between us. I could not have that nightmare trailing my shadow, not while I was trying so desperately to live unnoticed in this godforsaken city. The authorities shot demon summoners and conspirators on sight. No questions asked.

Of course, if I completed our agreement, the demon might just decide he liked my liver and take it back to his real master—and maybe a leg. A few fingers. 

It also crossed my mind that I could ask for him to find Theda, or to tell me where she was, but that solution seemed analogous to trying to put out a fire with gasoline—namely, it'd explode in my face.

Covered in soot and chunks of melted Formica, I sat in the car and dialed the phone, doing my damnedest to pretend my entire trip to the diner hadn't happened because I hadn't gotten my lunch and I simply didn't have the mental capacity to handle the situation. My legs felt so weak I had difficulty driving, my middle quaking with undisguised nausea. I'd never heard of someone meeting a demon and living. I didn't have a point of reference for the magnitude of my encounter with the man of Abaddon.

Observing my newest problem from an objective—if somewhat hysterical—view, I had only scant days to find Theda, and perhaps a few more before I had to handle the impromptu agreement between Maligaphrius and me. Everything I'd ever read on the species said they had a skewed sense of time, so it could perceivably be years before we had another encounter—and, by then, I could very well be dead, especially if I didn't find Theda. I had to give my attention to one problem at a time. 

I shelved the demon issue, knowing it'd come back to haunt me later. 

The phone rang only once before it was answered, and I heard Telavar's boyish voice say, "Winters residence."