Sex is a Job Description? Ch. 08

"Go through the door behind you. I'll be with you in a moment," he said, calm and collective. Tom stood up and walked to the door they had all come through. There was a short series of clicks and then the door unlocked in its intricate and delicate way, and opened. Tom stepped through it and closed it behind him.

Immediately, the Secret Service agent to his right grabbed his arm and the agent to his left threw a fist into his ribs. Tom found himself thrown to the floor and his right arm twisted behind his back. He glared up at the agent holding his arm down and his knee on Tom's back.

"What the fuck?!" Tom gasped as the two agents fought to keep him subdued.

"Shut up," one of them said, kicking Tom in the stomach. The Special Divisions agent couldn't figure out how to get out of this by logical means, so he spat out the first thing that came to mind to provoke his assailants into doing something stupid.

"I bet your mother's as much a cunt as Jona," he sneered. The agent reared his fist back and struck at Tom's face. Tom opened his mouth and barely managed to keep the agent's fist from knocking his teeth out. He bit down on the man's fingers, hard. The Secret Service agent yelled and let go of Tom's arm, striking him in the back of the head as his counterpart kicked Tom in the side.

Tom bit down harder, as hard as he possibly could. He heard his ears ringing at the force, but continued to bit down as his head and ribs were struck again and again. He grabbed hold of the agent's arm with his free hand and felt bone between his teeth. He didn't stop.

This was going to hurt Jona, not personally, but it would wound his pride. Deeply. Tom let up as stars danced in front of his eyes, allowing the agent to tear his hand free of Tom's teeth, ripping his fingers down to the nails.

Tom spit out the blood that had pooled in his mouth and rolled onto his side, catching the foot that hit him in the groin. He twisted the agent's leg hard enough to snap something, and the man fell to the ground, holding in a scream. Tom twisted his leg further, and heard something snap again. The Secret Service agent's leg was bent at a very unnatural angle, and he dragged himself away from Tom, snarling through gritted teeth to keep from screaming.

This time, a heel hit him in the head and knocked him flat on the floor, barely able to stay conscious.

"Jona!" Tom yelled. "Get out here you son of a bitch!" He barely managed to get to his feet, with the help of both walls on either side of him. A long time passed, and nobody unlocked the door. Tom struck the door with his fist and yelled for Jona again.

Again, nothing.

So, he did what anyone would do in a situation like this. He started walking down the hall back towards the auditorium, avoiding the two Secret Service agents trying to calm their nerves and keep from going into shock. He used the wall to hold him up as his side began to hurt, badly. He lifted his shirttail and found his entire left side bruised and bloodied. There were knots of the back of his head that felt as big as plums too.

He made it about half way down the hallway before he couldn't even walk, and just gave up trying to go any further. He slumped to the floor and put his arms on his knees, locking his fingers together and setting his head on his hands. He controlled his breathing and held back something between a groan and a sob.

Tom waited for almost an hour before he saw the procession to his left coming his way. Jona strode toward him, cane gripped in a bone-white fist and its partner clenched in much the same manner. Behind him came the hustling group Tom had been sent away from, and the two agents, both still in serious pain.

"You are coming with me," Jona declared, snatching Tom up by arm. The demon forced his way through the agents behind him, whipping his cane back and forth to clear a path. They reached the room at the end of the hallway and Jona threw him into it, slamming the door shut behind his own entrance.

"What?" Tom asked, dragging himself upright against one of the thrones. "You gonna beat me to death? Is that it? Go ahead and start then."

Jona shook his head slowly. "No, not here. Before I send you away though, tell me how you knew I was of the Seventh Circle."

Tom shook his head in the same manner as Jona had, mocking him. The demon clenched his jaw, but said nothing. He pulled Tom to his feet and slapped the cane across his face. The agent just smiled, his cheek bleeding and stinging horribly.

"Ask yourself how much more about you I know before you hit me again," Tom said, bluffing his ass off. Jona raised the cane again to hit Tom, but waivered in his conviction and just let the agent fall back to the floor. Jona turned and left wordlessly, fixing his clothes as he walked.

Tom sat upright against the solid back of one of the thrones and waited for someone to show up. The door in front of his stood wide open, and eventually, someone was standing in the empty space between the open door and the wall, arms folded across his chest and a very unhappy look on his face. Tom would have paled at the Director's mere presence outside of an office had he not felt like one of Big John's practice dummies.

"I've mitigated your punishment, for now. Before I haul you somewhere to be taken care of, I want to know why you did what you did."

Tom met the Director's gaze with a hard, pained look. Tears started to bloom in the corners of his eyes, and soon traveled across his eyes toward his nose.

"He made it a point to hurt me personally, sir. I have no excuse."

The Director extended his hand to Tom and the younger agent took hold of it. He lifted Tom to his feet seemingly without effort and helped the younger agent through the doorway and down the long length of the hall. Tom couldn't tell what the old man was thinking, but he knew he'd just have to wait for it to come out before he'd hear it.

They entered the auditorium, empty now and silent save for the pair of footsteps that he and the Director created. The Director set Tom down in one of the chairs lining the back wall of the auditorium and pulled another one up for himself to sit in.

"Joniae Vasilikou from the House of Phyrakiai is one of the most revered and honored demons in all the Seventh Circle of Hell. He has managed to keep his origins and identity unknown to everyone but the most privileged and power-hungry demagogues and agents in the United States Special Divisions. Not even Mrs. Clinton knows his real identity beyond Jona Wilkins."

"Yes sir," Tom replied, more answering that he had heard than he had understood.

The Director gave his next words careful thought. "Now Tom, I need to know how you found that information out. Otherwise, there are two Secret Service agents outside that door behind you that are going to blow your brains out and inter your remains in an incinerator. Are we clear on this?"

Tom paled. The Director looked entirely serious. "Yes sir."

"Tell me where you heard that from."

Tom shook his head and shrugged. "I just told him pride was an ugly color on him and bluffed so he wouldn't hit me. I swear. Ask Jona wha-"

"Jona claims rather passionately that you 'know who he is and are a spy'. Is he wrong?" The Director's tone was off. He didn't sound determined or steady or even commanding. He was truly asking questions. It scared Tom deeply, and he tried to answer with some degree of coherency.

"I didn't know any of that before you told me. I didn't even know he was from the Seventh Circle until he told me himself. I bluffed about knowing something about him because he slapped the shit out of me with a cane. I swear to God I didn't know anything. I swear. I don't know what I have to do to prove it, but I'm telling you the truth," Tom said, starting to tear up. His throat was getting tight.

Fuck, this was going to be it? The Director was going to walk him through a doorway, and bang, dead. Nothing meaningful, nothing nice, just dirty business to protect some asshole's identity. Tom grit his teeth at the thought of that arrogant prick's existence past his own. He looked at the Director and gave him a long, hard stare before tears rolled down his face.

The Director looked toward the floor and nodded slightly a few times, rolling over the verdict in his mind.

"As far as you are concerned, Jona Wilkins is an old badger who talks slow, has a cane, and is a veteran of the foreign relations with Hell. Am I understood?"

They shared a knowing look.

"Yes sir," Tom replied, and was hoisted to his feet.

"Jona is an asshole by the way, so don't feel like you've done something wrong. We've never seen his feathers ruffled like this before." The corner of his mouth turned up in a very slight grin. "Takes a good long time to forget something like that..."

"Thank you sir," Tom replied, vertigo hitting him as he walked. He could literally feel his heartbeat in his head. The Director held him upright and they made their way, accompanied by two Secret Service agents, to the medical wing.

Tom was sat down across the room from Jona Wilkins, who looked red in the face and had veins rising all over his arms, legs, neck, and forehead. As Tom sat down to have his general condition checked, Jona glared at him with embers in his eyes.

"Boy, if you ever-"

He was interrupted as a nurse stuck a thermometer into his mouth and slapped his jaw shut with her hand.

"None of that now," she admonished with a smile. "I'm not through with you. We still need your blood pressure."

Jona's face darkened again and the embers in his eyes flared some. He turned his gaze to the nurse and spat the thermometer out of his mouth angrily.

"You don't talk to me like that!" he snarled.

The nurse pushed Jona against the wall behind him with a long arm and three more sprouted from her uniform, the white scrubs fading to a teal color. She leaned forward and her eyes darkened to indigo orbs.

"Calm down now or you'll have an aneurism," she admonished, her color fading quickly to blue all over.

"Um...that's a slime," Tom said to the Director. "Why is she a slime?"

"Who better to be a physician than someone who can slip inside you and snip tumors out from their hiding places? Hm?" the slime replied as she put the thermometer back into Jona's mouth and wrapped a tentacle around his head to keep him from spitting it out again. Jona looked even closer to exploding now than he had before.

"I guess that makes sense," Tom replied, testing the long, bleeding red mark across his cheek. Jona smirked as he flinched at touching it. Tom ignored the demon and turned his head as the Director used his knee to help himself stand.

"Alright boy, don't let me hear about you until nine a.m. on Tuesday. There's a meeting I've got to prepare for." The Director left and closed the door behind him.

"Okay then mister...Lanzig. Now it's time for your check-up," the slime nurse said, twisting her body around to face Tom. "Hmmm, let's start with cleaning these up." She lifted a tentacle to his face and wiped away the blood on his cheek and around his mouth.

Suddenly, her brow furrowed and her eyes darkened to almost black. She rolled her jaw back and forth for a few moments in thought.

"What?" asked the agent.

The slime touched his cheek again and then looked off to the side before answering. "Have you had a slime as a case subject recently?"

Tom nodded. "Why?"

The slime grinned from ear to ear. "Oh, I knew her before she came to this realm. She still leaves a flavor." She lifted Tom's arms with her hands and pulled his shirt off, examining his bruised and bleeding sides. She felt the back of his head and frowned.

"What? Ow," Tom said as the slime pressed on his ribs.

She frowned. "You've got some internal bleeding and a lot of everything really. This may take a few hours." At that, Jona smirked behind her and Tom rolled his eyes.

"Oh, well awesome. I guess the other two guys came in here before me, didn't they?" Tom asked.

The slime nodded. "Yes, but their injuries were hardly bad. Two torn ligaments in a knee, a few fingers bitten down to the bone. I assume that was your doing?"

"Yes," Tom admitted, rather proudly. At that, Jona's face began to darken again.

The nurse paused for a moment and then latched a tentacle onto his side. Tom felt a warmth spreading through his chest soon afterward and the nurse turned back to Jona, her tentacle still latched to him. The agent just waited until she was done, swinging his legs idly back and forth as he sat, bored.

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Ceria picked idly at her fingernails as she leaned against the blue truck that Jerhme drove, waiting for the demon to leave work. She was rewarded for her bit of patience when the demon walked up to his car and tilted his head to the side at seeing her. He smiled and stuck his hand out to her.

"I don't believe we've met before," he said. Ceria gave him a sideward glance and frowned.

"You know exactly who I am though," she replied. Jerhme's hand fell back to his side and he sighed.

"Yes, I do. I was only trying to be nice, considering all the trouble you cause every time you show up here."

"I've got a serious question for you," Ceria asked, folding her arms across her chest. Jerhme furrowed his brow and loosened his tie a little. He put his briefcase into the back seat of his truck and then closed the door.

"Alright, shoot," he said, pantomiming a gun with his fingers.

"What happened to Veronica's husband?" As soon as the words left her lips, Jerhme's entire face turned a shade paler, his mouth and eyes going slack and dead. It took the demon a moment to regain his facilities and come back to his senses. His gaze hardened toward Ceria.

"Who told you about that?" He sounded genuinely worried, not that it mattered to her in any case.

"Veronica herself told me. Now I am not a patient person, so answer me."

Jerhme took a moment to sniff the air and look around the nigh-empty parking lot. Once he was sure they were out of earshot of anyone that could be around, Jerhme spoke. "Veronica told you who she is?" His tone was shallow and soft.

"I am losing my patience, Jerhme, so out with it," Ceria growled.

Jerhme shook his head. "I...I can't, not without proof that it was she that told you to ask me. I'm sorry, I can't-"

Ceria grabbed his collar with a clawed hand. "Tell me or I will end your bastard half-breed offspring," she snarled, her face inches from his. Jerhme's face paled a shade whiter and he finally relented.

"Fine. Do you know who Doran the Proud was?" he asked, Ceria's hand loosening enough for him to take a step back.

"I know of him," the demon answered.

"And the children's rhyme Death Stalks His House?" asked the demon-agent.

Ceria pursed her lips in frustration. "Get to the point."

"Death Stalks His House is a children's rhyme about Doran the Proud and his demise. Veronica was Doran's wife, but she was not Veronica then, she was Veronaa."

"I still have not been answered," Ceria said. "What. Happened. To. Him."

"You have never heard Death Stalks His House? You still don't understand?" asked Jerhme, almost in disbelief. Ceria controlled her urge to raise her hand to his throat again. The difference between the Sanctuaries was growing ever faster, apparently.

"I have little time for stories. Now tell me."

"Veronaa loved Doran her husband with all her heart, and wed him knowing that he enjoyed bedding any woman he wished without restriction. She loved him so deeply that she allowed him to bed women as he saw fit even after they were husband and wife, but declared that she would be the only woman to bear his children. But Doran chose another, a mistress, to bear his son. This upset the Lady to such a degree that I could not look upon her as she wept and destroyed all her earthly possessions in a fit of rage and despair. I have never seen the lady so hurt and betrayed in all the years of service I provided to their house. I was Veronaa's personal servant, you see. In many cases, her will made manifest."

"Continue," Ceria snapped.

Jerhme drew his thoughts together again. "As her sole personal servant, she ordered me to serve Doran as if I was serving her, and to love and protect him and his mistress as if they were my very own family. I was made to be their champion, their guardian and confidant in all things. I spent years in Doran's direct service, and we grew to be companions and I his favored servant. All the while, Veronaa planned Doran's downfall carefully.

At first, small things began to happen, things dropping, unexplained missing items, especially from the mistress' personal belongings. Doran the Proud's temper was short, incredibly so, and Veronaa used this to have his house collapse around him. At first, he beat the suspects of petty crimes within his house, and then relieved them of the services they provided, exiling them from his house. But the crimes grew worse. Things began to happen, larger things. His mistress was almost struck by a falling stone, and seven servants were put to death for negligence. Food was improperly cooked, or even poisoned, and more were put to death and exiled. Doran did most of the killing himself, but several of the murders he had me carry out, confessing his greatest apologies for having sent me instead of himself.

Eventually, through these things, his house was greatly diminished. But Veronaa was not to be blamed. No, Doran saw her as a fierce and loyal wife, constantly trying to find the culprits and professing her greatest admiration for his continued success in clearing his house of assassins and negligent servants. She played the part without flaw.

The house saw itself whittled down to the four of us, Veronaa, myself, Doran, and his mistress. I cooked and cleaned and served them as best I could, and Doran praised me even when my services were lacking. As one man can only do so much, he pitied me, but never brought in more servants, for fear that his enemies were waiting to put their machinations within his walls.

Ceria stopped him. "What of his death. I don't care about these details."

Jerhme nodded slowly, his eyes seeing things that had not been brought up in hundreds of years. "When Doran's mistress was near the day when her child would be born, Veronaa stole her from Doran's bed. Even I was unable to notice her until she opened the door in front of my face as she left, nodding to me as she carried the mistress away. I have never seen more malice in a smile in all my life before that day or after. Veronaa put Doran the Proud's mistress to a torture rack and began to torture her in every way one can be made to feel pain.

Doran was awoken by her screams, and I was alerted to the terrible noise myself at that point. Doran leapt from his bed and we searched the estate. I wept and apologized to Doran for hours, and at every apology he forgave me for letting his mistress be stolen from his bed, blaming himself as much as he blamed her kidnapper. He never once thought to ask me how the intruder entered, and never thought that I was the one to blame for the happenings over the years as much as the culprits.

A/N: For those of you who don't enjoy graphic violence, I suggest you scroll past this next part until you see the next Author's Note. Just a friendly heads-up.

We searched for days, unable to find her as she screamed and wept and wailed for Doran and I and the gods to rescue her or end her life and torment. We found her though, days later, in the depths of the estate. She had been strung up with heavy cords, her wrists bound to cords reaching the ceiling, shoulders dislocated and pulled from their sockets. Her legs were strung as wide apart as could be, most of her body flayed and burned and corroded by sorcery. Her belly though had been left unharmed, save for a blade protruding from it.