Sex is a Job Description? Ch. 03

All the previous energy that Tom had possessed was gone, and he collapsed backwards against the wall, sliding down to the floor wearily. He looked up at the demon still lying on the table with her legs spread and dangling, swinging back and forth tiredly. She tried to sit up twice, and managed to do it the third time.

"Is Sohm out of my system?"

"That tasted amazing. Great work. I feel better already." The demon flashed Tom a smirk and slid off the table, tossing Tom his clothes as she began to collect her own.

"Is she out of me?" Tom asked again, trying to get his boxers on while moving as little as possible. He groaned with effort as he tugged his pants on and made his way to his feet. Veronica put his shirt on him and buttoned his pants, trying to smooth out the wrinkles in her skirt. She began to pick up all the papers he'd thrown out of her hands earlier.

"Well, I can safely say that she's out of you completely. Otherwise, you'd be full of life and ready for more." She started humming to herself as she organized the papers and slid the manilla folder down the table to where the Director's chair was. The demon seemed energized now as she walked over to the door and opened it, revealing a number of eager faces and the Director standing in the doorway.

"Is the problem gone?" the man asked gruffly.

"As gone as I can make it," Veronica said, rubbing her stomach fondly. "Along with our agent's energy stores." She let the Director get by and then gave Tom a last glance as she left. "He's quite the handful," she added.

The Director narrowed his eyes at Tom and then looked around the room for a moment. His perpetual frown deepened. "Get out before I lose my temper."

Tom didn't need to be told twice.

He sank against the wall and tried to collect himself for a while.

Outside the debriefing room about an hour later, Greg met him with an even wider grin than before. Tom groaned with enough volume to make it seem exaggerated. His co-worker clapped a hand on his shoulder and handed him a key with a number on it and a water bottle.

"Down the hall to the left is a row of about twenty doors. They're quarters for agents who stay the night here. I don't think you want to drive home, so I got the key to one. I owe you a favor for taking three oh one thirty last time."

Tom breathed a sigh of relief. "Thanks, later Greg."

"Oh, and the water bottle has a ton of vitamins and minerals in it. If you drink it now, you'll be less sore and tired in the morning. I heard the Director is giving us another job to do tomorrow."

"Didn't you just get back from that one in Minnesota? Is he sending you too?" Tom asked, concerned. Greg looked worn out. Usually cases that required a whole team were taxing on both physical and mental levels.

"We all gotta go. I'm tired, so I'm heading home," he said, yawning.

"Night Greg."

"See you in the morning," the older agent replied. Tom trudged down the hallway and downed the entire water bottle as he made his way to the right place and found room number nine. He put the key in the lock, half expecting in not to work, and turned it. The door unlocked and he stepped in, flipping on the light.

He only managed a quick glimpse of the room before the lights shut off and the door swung closed silently. He spun around, but he could only see the purple illusions that his adjusting vision could offer. He felt someone gently place their hands on his shoulders.

"I didn't think you'd be back so soon. Are you ready to have your world turned on its head?"

"What the- Veronica?!" Tom stammered, reached his open hand back to confirm what his ears told him. She dodged his hand and moved to press herself against his back.

"Shush now," she cooed, running her fingers down his chest to grab the bottom of his shirt and pull it up. "I like to have fun after hours too, you know."

"Look, I'm exhausted. Can I just leave and find another place to sleep?" Tom asked, even as her free hand took the bottle from his hands and tossed it aside.

"You just drank a sex drive cocktail that could give a mummy a hard-on and you're saying you're tired? Is it not working on you?" Veronica asked, reaching down to grip his throbbing cock through his jeans. Tom groaned and raised his arms so she could pull his shirt off.

"Can we at least turn on the lights?"

Veronica paused. "What does it matter?"

"I have eyes. They like you as much as the rest of me," he replied. The demon left his back and moved across the room.

The lights flashed on, revealing Veronica's devious grin.

She began to saunter towards him, her grin widening. "You do know how to sweet talk a demon, don't you?"

Tom smirked. "I have to deal with Ceria. I know enough."

"Silly, silly boy," replied the demon as she cupped his face in her hands and kissed him smoothly.

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The debriefing room was filled from wall to wall with agents and advisers from nearly every division in the Departments of Internal Affairs and Homeland Security. There were even two men standing in the corner that wore military uniforms and had their jackets lined with medals and awards. Tom hung on Veronica's shoulder like a ragdoll as they maneuvered past a few people to get to where Tom's seat was.

He got several envious looks from some of the occupants of the room as he slumped into the chair beside Harvey, who looked as impassive and calm as ever. Harvey gave Tom a glance, then Veronica. He held his hand out flat and Tom gave him a tired high-five. The room was in a low murmur as the Director flipped through a notebook and took a few sheets that looked like X-ray scans out of a manilla folder.

He looked at them quietly while they waited. Eventually, Greg arrived and got into his seat, giving Tom a knowing smile as Veronica held the teen's head up to ensure that he wasn't going to fall asleep. The fact that she had her breasts on the back of his head had an effect on his lack of sleeping too. Seeing that everyone was present, the Director turned the sheets toward the trio seated in front of him.

"Now we..." He looked at Tom and frowned.

"Sir?" Tom asked.

"Boy, if I didn't need you for this, you would be in the sorting room for a year. You look like hell, and that demon behind you ain't a good liar. Have some goddamn respect for yourself." And with that, the Director continued. "Here are three photographs from Dùn Fhoithear, a Scottish castle located on the northeast coast of Scotland. We're not sure what, but there's something here that isn't human. Mr. Kieth can explain."

A broad-shouldered man stepped forward and cleared his throat. "Marnin'. I'm Donalbain Kieth, an ah'm one of the caretakers 'o Dùn Fhoithear. We dinnae ken whit's happened tae the fi men whit gone missin' from the Dùn, but we can tell ye it wannah human tha took 'em. Troll, ghost, demon, a beast o' th' other side," he said in a thick Scottish accent.

"So what do we do about it?" asked one of the higher-ups from Division Thirteen.

Donalbain arched a brow at the short man and grinned, revealing his three missing teeth. "Ye'd ken tha' the best heads 'ere could figure 'at one out," he said in an amused tone. "We march up to th' Dùn, root out th' beast, an kell it."

"And if it's not something you can kill with what we bring?" asked Division Fourteen's director.

The Director spoke up. "That's why were taking my team with several of the other divisions' men to ensure we bring the right equipment. Mr. Kieth will lead the team into the castle and make sure that whatever is there is pacified or killed."

"Kelled would be th' preferred way o' course," Donalbain commented offhandedly.

"We don't know what's there, so we've been taking surveillance photos of the castle for three weeks. Thus far, our results have netted us nothing. We're going in blind." He looked around as the men opposite the table from him. "That being said, be careful. You've had experience with Hell's children before, but this one has killed five tourists and thirteen agents from Europe. I don't want any of you dead, is that clear?"

"Yes sir," the agents replied.

"Dismissed," said the Director firmly, pouring himself a glass of scotch as the room began to fill with noise from three dozen voices speaking up at once. Tom looked at Greg and gave him a sour frown.

"The next time you think about getting me laid, don't. I haven' been more tired in my entire life. You know what time she decided was good to sleep? Five. When did she wake me up? Seven thirty."

"Don't whine," Verinica teased. "You were asleep by four forty. You're fine."

"You're not coming too, are you?" asked Tom, crossing his fingers that she wasn't.

She gave him an innocent look. "Why wouldn't I? If it's a slime, do any of you know how to kill it?"

"Fuck." Tom put his head down and groaned.

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Tom slept virtually the entire plane ride to Edinburgh, and half the train ride to Stonehaven. The parts that he was awake for were boisterous, loud, and full of crude laughter from Donalbain, Greg, Allen from Division Thirteen, and the others that had been sent here with them. Harvey sat next to Tom and acted as a buffer from the conversation direct at him. While he wasn't very emotive, Harvey was a great orator and had perfect control of where a conversation was steered.

At Stonehaven, the eight men and Veronica got off the train and were taken by cab to Dùn Fhoithear, where they were met by three men armed with rifles, and a goat. Tom, groggy from thirteen hours of sleep, didn't even register the joke about Scots and sheep than Allen made quietly to Greg.

After conversing with the three men for a short while, Donalbain waved his hand for the group to follow him, and took the goat's leash. They made their way up the steps that led up to the large, imposing gatehouse. The castle, Donalbain explained, was several hundred years old, and parts of it had been restored. And while it was a popular tourism spot, it had been closed due to the disappearances of five tourists and the confirmed deaths of thirteen European agents sent to investigate with inadequate training and equipment.

Through the gatehouse was another two stone guard posts. Through those was the large, open expanse of the central yard, flanked by the keep, smithy, stables, and Waterton's Quarters. Directly ahead was the chapel and guardhouse. To the left was the bowling green and restored palace. The outcropping the castle stood on was surrounded by water on three sides and rose from the water as sheer cliffs.

"Alright lads, ah know yer nae wantin' ta wait fer th' beastie, but it only appears at night. So, we have ta choose th' place we stay an wait til it gets 'ere. We've got th' chapel, th' kep, Waterton's Lodging, th' stables, or th' palace. Remember, if'n it gets broken, yer payin' fer th' repairs. Course if ah break it, ah pay. So, vote."

"All for the palace?" Greg asked.

Five hands rose.

"Ye dinnae have ta all be in th' same place ye realize," Donalbain said as he scratched his large orange beard. He looked around and sighed. "Ets th' keep fer me," he finally said, and then started toward the large stone structure without waiting for a reply.

"Well, let's go then," Greg said as he hefted his backpack off the ground and walked down the path to the keep. Tom looked at Bradley, who shrugged and followed the group heading for the palace. Veronica stayed put with Allen.

Allen quickly excused himself, saying that the Whig's Vault interested him. Tom gave Veronica a wary glance, but she shook her head. "Let's keep those encounters to a select few instances. That way, the sex can stay just like it was last night," she said, winking.

"Agreed," replied Tom, breathing a sigh in relief. Veronica walked off toward the stables, shrugging her backpack off her shoulder to dig something out of it. Tom decided to take a walk around the grounds, and dropped his backpack and rolled blanket off at the smithy.

The castle grounds were well-kept. There was absolutely no trash anywhere, no leftover equipment from the restoration that palace had received, neat, trimmed grass. He saw the majority of the team setting up their sleeping bags and guns in the main hall of the palace. The view from the cliffside was almost breathtaking. The North Sea stretched out for as far as he could see, rolling waves cresting and rising to break against the rocks below.

He finished his walk at the first gatehouse called Benholm's Lodging. Looking around, he found the empty gatehouse to be a decent place to stay the night. The bottom floor room was relatively small, empty save for a staircase to the second story. He decided he'd sleep here and be the first to know if something approached the castle.

He returned to the smithy and unrolled his blanket. Inside of it were his three weapons. His favorite was the sheathed claymore that he'd ordered from Scotland last year and had been taught how to use by Eric Sanders, the melee trainer for the Twelfth Division. The second was his M1911 pistol, which he'd been given when he started working for the Department of Homeland Security. The biggest gun he had was the Mosin Nagant, a surplus rifle from the Soviet Union that he had enough ammunition for to take on a zombie invasion by himself.

He took his cleaning kit out of his backpack and started to disassemble his guns. He'd done this so many times it was almost mechanical the way he sped through his routine. Once his guns were cleaned and loaded, he moved to the claymore, which he counted as the pride of his meager weapon collection. He unsheathed the sword and paid it flat on the ground, digging around in his backpack for his whetstone.

When he found it, he saw someone's shadow fall across his blanket, and turned his head to find Donalbain watching him.

The Scotsman smiled broadly. "A fine blade an stone ye have, lad," he said, squatting down next to Tom to admire his possessions.

"I try to take care of my stuff when I can," the teen replied. "This all cost me a fortune."

Donalbain nodded. "That stone there is worth at least three hundred pounds. An the blade is from the Highlands. Now 'at's hard ta find on a lad 'at's no a highlander." He held his hand out and Tom handed him the sword gingerly. Donalbain stood up and swung with sword with his burly, thick arm a few times, examining the edge of the blade closely.

He looked at the bottom of the pommel and then handed the sword back to Tom and watched him sharped it with slow, methodical sweeps of the stone across both sides of the blade. By the time he was done, the sun was beginning to arc towards the western half of the sky.

Tom's stomach growled unceremoniously as he secured the scabbard of his claymore across his back. Donalbain reached into his coat pocket and pulled out two sandwiches wrapped in saran wrap. He handed one to Tom and unwrapped the other one, taking nearly half the sandwich in one bite. Tom unwrapped his and coughed at the strong smell.

"What is this?" he asked, trying to examine whether or not the sandwich was spoiled or not.

"Haggis. Dinnae worry if it's not ta yer taste, I'll eat it."

Tom shook his head. "No, it's fine. I just wasn't expecting...well, that." He took a bite and furrowed his brow. Well, it wasn't bad...but it wasn't very good either.

"It's an acquired taste," Donalbain said with a shrug. "Time ta get lunch started." The large Scotsman walked off and went to prepare lunch while Tom went to go commit himself to at least a hundred practice swings before he ate.

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Lunch consisted of a large helping of beef and potatoes, followed by haggis and almost half a loaf of fresh bread for each of the ten of them. Donalbain himself ate almost twice as much as everyone else and added a head of lettuce smothered in ranch dressing. Afterward, he returned to the keep without saying much and returned with bagpipes in his hands. He sat down in front of the cooking fire he'd made in the yard next to the stables and began to play. The goat, its leash wrapped around a wooden stake hammered into the ground, brayed once at Donalbain and then lay down.

Tom had heard that bagpipes were loud, but in person it was more like standing next to a sun that was going supernova. He decided that he'd go fire off a few practice shots to see if the Mosin was still working the same way it had been before he cleaned it. He excused himself and brought his Mosin Nagant and a few dozen cartridges to the edge of the cliff near the guardhouse.

He loaded five cartridges into the magazine and took aim at a large rock jutting from the ocean. He took a few shots and realized that he couldn't tell whether or not he was hitting it.

"Need a spotter?" Greg asked he he sat down next to Tom.

"Sure." Tom squeezed the trigger again and Greg winced.

"Didn't even come close," he said.

"I'll shoot you if you lie again," Tom threatened, loading another five rounds into the rifle and taking aim again.

The rest of the afternoon was spent talking about what Greg had done in Minnesota, last night's romp with Veronica, rifles, food, and life in general. Harvey joined them half way through with his own rifle and the three of them fell into their usual banter about this and that. They only managed to realize that they were in another country instead of a coffee table when Robert from the Third Division got them and said it was time for dinner.

Dinner was a quick affair with Donalbain introducing a Norwegian scientist who said that he could help them kill the thing causing the disappearances.

"Bjorn is from Norway, he'll ken whit ta do about our problem," Donalbain stated, sitting down beside the dinner fire with his highland claymore across his lap. Bjorn looked at the group and then sighed.

"Well, first, is there anyone here who's skeptical about supernatural beings? It will make this much easier if the skeptics leave."

They had to force themselves not to laugh.

"Hun, I'm a demon," Veronica said. "Just say what you have to."

Bjorn looked surprised. "Well then, I'll make this simple. You lot have a troll to deal with, something called a Ringlefinch. It's big, about this tall." He held his hand about ten feet off the ground. "And it is about as wide. It's hungry, unhappy, and a long, long way from home. Normally, we'd have some sort of UV device to fry it, but unfortunately, it managed to smash the ones I brought here, so we'll just have to do this the old-fashioned way."

Allen looked around. "Has nobody felt the other presence here too?"

All eyes turned to the odd man.

"Nobody, really? I'd have expected Veronica at least to have noticed something. Generally trolls aren't very smart or capable of more than basic stuff, like eating and sleeping, so they have very little presence in the aether. However, something has been here recently that can stir quite a bit of power. If it is a troll, it's not alone. Something else has been here too."

"Like what?" Donalbain asked, his eyes focused on the mystic.

Allen shrugged. "I dunno; it felt like a ghost or a wraith. It's not extraordinarily powerful, but it is strong."

"Strong in what way?" Veronica questioned.

"You know how these things tend to be. It's powerful, which means its smart. It's like any other demon, so we need to make sure we're watching for it too. This troll probably didn't get here by itself if it had to come all the way from Norway." Allen returned to his quiet, withdrawn disposition and stared into the fire with a thoughtful expression.

Bjorn spoke again. "And just for safety's sake, how many of you are Christians?"

Nine hands went up and Bjorn's face paled. Veronica beamed and folded her hands across her chest.

"Well that seems to present a problem," said the demon as-a-matter-of-factly.

"The troll can smell your blood, all nine of you. You'll need to find somewhere that can accommodate all of you and stay there until the Ringlefinch arrives. So that leaves me, you, and the demon to find another place to hide."