You get jaded to this job after a while. To be fair, I was pretty jaded before I died and became a, Agent of Purgatory, but this job certainly hasn't helped. I've seen shape shifters, bird demons, things that eat fear, anger, blood; it all gets to be about the same after awhile, but then that's the same in any job, isn't it?
Still, I get to travel a lot; yeah it's mostly just in California, but it is always a little interesting where demons try to hide. Some prefer to get lost in the big cities, while others try to find small towns where they are less likely to run afoul of an Agent. It doesn't really matter though, because when the order comes down from the boss, we always get our demon.
Today I am after the sort that likes to hide out in small towns. This one is something called a congregantis animarum; it means soul eater, or something. To me, anything that can actually destroy a soul seems pretty bad, but Reg assures me that it's not that big a deal.
“Xader,“ Reg's voice says through the speaker on my ear piece, “you can't truly destroy a soul; you only imprison one.”
“And when we kill a demon, it's not destroyed?”
“Demons don't have souls.”
“Okay, but you and Captain Fontaine have both told me that I can be destroyed with my own gun. Don't I have a soul?”
“It's complicated, Dax, stop nitpicking! When you kill the congregantis animarum, all of the souls will be released and will return to their bodies, if possible.”
“So if this guy is such small potatoes, why am I even bothering with him?”
“Because it's your assignment.”
“So it's important to someone.”
“Every soul is important.”
“So then-”
“I'm hanging up now, Dax, let me know when you're done.”
And with that my ear piece goes silent. That's okay though, as I am nearing my destination; it's a town called Fireproof. The name must be meant to be ironic, seeing as it is surrounded on all sides by forest.
Town is a generous term for the place. Take your pick of small town cliches here, wide spot in the road, blink and you'll miss it, out where the buses don't run. The only one that probably would not apply is calling it a one horse town; I'm sure people out here have horses.
I slow down a bit as I drive through the center of town, all three blocks of it, trying to get a feel for the place; looking for anything that looks out of place here. I see it immediately, a storefront with tinted windows and a sign which reads “The Pitch Black Soul”. Judging from the leather-clad mannequin out front, this is either an S&M shop, or some sort of goth boutique; neither of which seems appropriate for a town that has signs up in most of the other shop windows about a bean feast this Sunday.
Maybe I can finish this up quickly, and not have to worry about drawing too much attention to myself. I pull into an empty slant spot right in front of the store, do a quick check that my knife and gun are secured where they should be, and head inside.
Given the name of the store, I am not surprised at all to find the inside of “The Pitch Black Soul” is dark. The tint on the window kills a lot of the sunlight, and it seems like the few lights that are on inside the shop are more for mood than actual illumination. What does surprise me is that there is more than one person in the store.
The boy behind the counter is what I expected: pale skin, stringy black hair hanging in his eyes, all black clothes. What surprises me is the other two men in the store. One of them looks to be maybe mid-twenties, and is wearing a Jimmy Johnson t-shirt, while the other is a mailman who looks to be in his early fifties. Nascar boy is browsing a display case of piercings while the postal carrier is looking at a selection of black leather vests with way too many buckles on them.
The kid at the counter greets me with a less-than enthusiastic, “Hey.”
I can see the faces of both of the shoppers, but I don't think they've actually registered my entering the store. I can see into their eyes, and even in the store's dim light I can see that they look wrong. They look... I don't know, vacant, I guess; like the lights are on, but no one is home. If that doesn't scream soulless, I don't know what does.
The kid at the counter doesn't look like that though. His eyes look normal, almost amused at the situation; smug little bastard. Even for a demon, this set up is a little obvious, but maybe he thought he was far enough off the beaten path to get under the radar. Too bad that nothing escapes the big boss' sight.
I start towards the counter. I'm already going for my knife, planning to destroy the little soul-devouring bastard before he has a chance to react when I realize something isn't happening that should be: my ring is not reacting. There's the normal tingle that says that there are demons out and about in the world, but not the heat that tells me I'm right on top of one. Unless this kid has figured out some way to deceive Agency rings, he's not the demon.
I ease away from my knife, but continue to the counter, “So, uh, this is an interesting store you have here. Do you normally get a lot of business way out here? I mean, a town like this is enough to support such a... specialized store?”
“No, I usually do most of my sales online. I only have this place because my dad couldn't rent it to anyone, so he told me to have a go with it on the condition that I move all of my crap out of the garage.”
“Usually?” I ask, “So you don't get a lot of walk-in traffic?”
“No, not until last month anyway. Suddenly people like you, and them started coming in here,” he motions to the other two people in the store, “Last week my fourth grade teacher came in. She didn't buy anything, but she spent, like, an hour browsing. It was kinda weird, you know?”
I ask the kid if anything unusual happened last month; any new people in town, that sort of thing. He told me that there had been a couple of suicides, but that he didn't know of any new people. I left “The Pitch Black Soul” empty-handed, and nowhere closer to completing my assignment than when I went in.
I get back into the car, start it up, and sit there thinking. As the engine idles I notice that the gas gauge's needle is just a hair above a quarter of a tank. I can see a gas station at the edge of town, and decide to head for it before going off to find whatever passes for a police station around here.
As I pull into the gas station, I can see another car at the other side of the pumps, an SUV with Nevada plates. A young couple emerges from the gas station's little store as I get out of my car. They look stunned, and have that same vacant look as the men in the goth shop.
The tingling of my Agency ring on my increases as an older man appears in the door of the shop, “Thanks for stopping by,” he calls to the couple, “Stop by on your way back and tell me how it went!”
As I approach the attendant, the burning on my finger increases; this is my guy.
I expect the demon, his coveralls identify him as Bob, to turn and run, but he doesn't even flinch. Maybe he hasn't seen my ring yet. That's okay though, because if I can take him out inside it will mean less work the cleanup crew when I'm done.
“Well hello there,” Bob says to me, “Just passin' through?”
“Yeah, thought I'd stop in for gas and a soda.”
“I think we can fix you up on both counts there,” he says, and turns to go inside.
The inside of the shop reminds me of the 1980's. There are no roller grills, soda fountains, nacho cheese dispensers, or mocha drinks to be found here, just racks of chips, beef jerky, candy bars, and crackers along with a couple of coolers of drinks. It makes me feel a little nostalgic for my youth.
While Bob goes over to the counter, I go to the cooler and grab a Zing Cola. I look over at him, half expecting him to be pulling a shotgun out from under the counter, but he's just standing there adjusting a rack of cigarette lighters shaped like spark plugs.
Something over his shoulder catches my eye. On a shelf next to the doorway that leads out to the gas station's garage is a glass jar fill of shining coins with a black stopper plugged into its mouth
“Ah, I see you've noticed my jar,” Bob says.
“Yeah, it's very interesting,” I say. My mind feels foggy, and I can't seem to pull my eyes away from it.
“It's called a Hydria Manes,” Bob explains.
The coins in it... they're not like any coins I've seen before. They're definitely not American currency. They're a silvery gold color, and each one looks like it has a different face on it.
“Here, why not take a closer look,” Bob says, and takes the jar from its shelf, placing it in front of the me on the counter.
The faces on a couple of the coins look familiar.
Bob circles around behind me casually, as if you see his treasure from my point of view, “Each coin is unique,” he explains, “They're very easy to find, but hard to collect many at one time. I think my time here is about done... maybe just one more coin. Feel free to open it, if you like.”
Where have I seen those faces? I can't think....
“Of course, I doubt it will actually work on you.”
Outside! It's the couple that was outside when I pulled up! The ones with the blank eyes! I can't focus enough to pull my eyes away.
“I guess I'll have to take care of you some other way.”
I manage to close my eyes, but as I start to pull away a searing pain erupts in my back as Bob shoves a large knife between my ribs. I think he was going for my spine, trying to paralyze me long enough to find my weapons. He missed, but the pain clears my head like wind blowing a pile of ashes.
Eyes still closed, I shove backwards from the counter, driving the blade deeper into me, and bringing my elbow up into Bob's face. He staggers, and I turn to face him, feeling warmth running down my back and onto my legs.
Before I can say anything witty, Bob regains his balance, and lunches forward, punching me harder than any human ever could. I may be stronger now that I was in life, but I'm not Superman, and the laws of physics still apply to me. I tumble backwards over the counter, knocking the novelty lighters and the Hydria Manes to the floor. The lighters scatter, but the jar survives just fine. I reflexively roll over onto my front, trying to keep my weight off of the knife.
“I'm too close to a full jar, hunter,” Bob taunts as he rounds the counter, “I'm not going down now.”
I lay there on the floor, breathing hard, not rolling back over to face the demon.
“I bet you don't even know what a Hydria Manes is, do you?”
I roll over suddenly, trying to ignore the blast of pain as the knife digs harder into one internal organ or another, with my gun drawn, “No, and I don't care.”
My gun sounds like thunder, and red light erupts from Bob's chest creating a mini hurricane inside the confines of the shop. When the storm ends, there is a pile of ashes and blue coveralls where Bob stood, and most of the floor is covered in bags of chips, paper, and anything else that was light and not held down.
I climb to my feet, pull the knife out of my back, and then call Reg on my mobile.
“Thracken,” he answers.
“Reg, it's Dax. I'm ready for cleanup crew.”
“Any witnesses?”
“There might be a security camera here, but I doubt it. No civvies.”
“Good.”
“I've got this jar here though. It's full of coins,” I say picking it up and putting it on the counter. I still feel attracted to it, but not like I did before.
“Hydria Manes?” Reg asks.
“Yeah, that's what he called it. What is it?”
“It's a soul jar.”
“I thought this thing ate souls.”
“No, Dax, it was a soul collector. You need to release the souls from it.”
“So what, just open it?”
“No!” Reg almost yells, “Do not open it! Even with the collector dead, the jar will still try to steal your soul. You need to break it. Just-”
I take the jar and fling it across the room. It punches a whole in the drywall above the magazine rack before falling to the floor. The coins inside sound musical as it rolls.
“What was that?”
“I tried to break it.”
“And?”
“It broke the wall.”
“You ready to let me finish now?” Reg asks.
“Sure.”
“Just shoot it.”
With a shrug to no one in particular, I pull my gun, aim, and fire. The sound of my gun firing is dwarfed by shrieks that fill the room as the souls escape like exploding fireworks. In an attempt to cover my ears, I smack myself in the sides of the head with both my gun and phone.
When it's all over it takes a few moments for ears to stop ringing for me to be able to hear again. I notice that the front window of the little shop shattered at some point during that; I didn't even hear it happen.
“You still there?” Reg asks.
“Yeah,” I say.
“Sorry, pal, maybe the next one will be your last. I'm dispatching clean-up, head in as soon as they arrive; you've got paperwork to do.”
I sigh, “Yeah, great. See you when I get there.”
I hate paperwork.