Sex is a Job Description? Ch. 08

Before I could advise otherwise, Doran, fearful, heartbroken, and exhausted, removed the blade from her body with one pull. But the blade was not as it had been stuck through her belly. Veronaa had peeled the end backwards into a shape resembling a hook with four heads. As Doran pulled the blade free from her body, he tore out half her entrails and his unborn son, beheading the child in the womb. His mistress died there, staring at the beheaded body of her child, lying in a bedding of her own blood and entrails.

At that point, I had been instructed to reveal who I served and allow Doran to sink into madness, but the years I spent with him and his mistress bore heavily on my heart. I knelt beside my friend, who I considered my brother, and wept openly with him, unable to restrain myself. But Veronaa brushed her hand across my shoulder to remind me that I was her servant, not his, and that I was not done.

A/N: Aaand...safe from all the evils that graphic violence can bring. Please continue to enjoy the story.

So I removed Doran's blade from its scabbard and handed it to him, declaring that I had been serving Veronaa since his mistress had been with child, and that he had destroyed himself, his child, his lover, and his entire house. At this, Doran's heart broke completely, and he loved nothing, felt nothing, saw nothing. He died. Only his body lived, and he could carry on with it no longer. He plunged his sword through his body and died before his mistress and son, weeping more bitterly and betrayed than I could have imagined a living creature being able."

Jerhme looked Ceria in the eyes now, tears streaking down his face. "I have never regretted anything in my life more than watching Doran the Proud slay himself in utter misery. I am haunted by it to this day."

Ceria sighed and shook her head. "And why should I be afraid of a woman who used her husband's tempter to trick him? Do you not realize that human scheming is more complex than that?"

Jerhme smiled at that, wiping his eyes slowly as he calmed himself. "No, you don't understand. It's...Doran was called 'old crow' after he died. Doran the Old Crow. If that still means anything to you ancients in the Sanctuary of Salvation."

Ceria's heart skipped a beat.

"Snuck It Past the Old Crow," she murmured.

Jerhme nodded, tears of shame and regret still falling down his face. "Yes," he said after a long pause. "I am the noble soul, Doran was the old crow, and Veronaa is still the vindictive one." Ceria let him leave after that, not wanting to hear him sob anymore. She sat on the hood of her car, mood growing sour.

She had already made one unwelcome enemy out of Fentin. Now she had Veronaa the Vindictive scheming against her. Enemies from within and without, and one simple thing uniting their animosity. She suddenly pushed terrible thoughts of doubt and regret from her mind.

Yes it was worth it, without question.

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Tom's eyes were heavy, more so than usual. Even on a Tuesday, waking up at fucking six in the morning so he could get to school on time was almost impossible. He groaned as his body collapsed into an office chair in the Debriefing Room. Everyone from the week before was here, including Jona Wilkins, who looked much healthier than he had in the medical wing. He was back to his usual frail-seeming and pale self, rather than a red-faced brute.

Tom paid the old asshole little attention as he scanned the room tiredly. Across from him sat the Director and a few other division heads. Around them huddled some of the demons that would be sent to Hell too, looking over some papers and information. Most of the agents were sitting in their seats, waiting on whatever was going to happen at this meeting.

After a few minutes, the clock on the wall hit nine and Jona rapped his knuckles on the table. The noise lessened, but didn't stop until the Director cleared his throat. Tom was still amazed, even after four years, at how the Director could silence a room without saying anything. Jona pulled a manila folder out of his briefcase and opened it, rifling through the papers it contained before putting on a pair of large, thick glasses.

At that point, everyone had seated themselves and waited on what he had to say. He blinked several times at the papers before reading off some things under his breath. Then, he cleared his throat and sighed.

"Alright, I've received all of your personal information and I've compiled a list of the agents approved and denied access to the Oculus Infernus. So without any further delay, please listen carefully. If you are approved, please remain here for the next part of the meeting. If you are denied, then please leave the room and follow the two agents outside to complete your debriefing."

The Director sipped at his scotch quietly as Jona began to read off names one by one. Out of the first eight or so names, two were denied and they left the room, looking almost disappointed.

"Veronica Harkendale, approved. Andre Hashar, approved, Mattiesko Helsinki, approved, John Lackridge, denied, Thomas Lanzig, approved..."

At the mention of Tom's name, the Director's eyes froze. Tom's heart gave a solid, thudding beat in his chest and his pupils dilated. He gave the Director a fearful and hesitant glance. In return, the Director's brow furrowed and he set down his scotch.

"Hold on, did you say approved under Thomas Lanzig?" he asked, cutting Jona off.

"Yes, Thomas Lanzig, approved," Jona repeated, adjusting his glasses.

The Director shook his head. "Let me see that." He took the papers from Jona and stared at the page on top, examining it closely. "There is no way this is right. I made sure that he wasn't approved from the beginning."

"The database confirms it," Jona said, looking at another stack of papers. He showed the Director and Tom saw something in the old man break.

"Something isn't right here," he growled, tightening his grip on the papers in his hands. "I made damn well sure that when he joined up with the Second Division that he wasn't going to Hell. I remember. There's a mistake somewhere." He pulled out his own glasses and took another close look at the paper.

"Director?"

"Shut it," he snapped. "I remember the damned pen I used to mark no on his personal files! Something here is wrong." Anger entered his voice. He looked up and scanned the room's occupants as if he could determine who had allegedly tampered with the papers. His eyes then went straight to Tom and he narrowed them. "He is not going."

"According to the Secretary of State, he is," Jona quipped, taking back his papers.

"No, he is not. It's my call Jona. He's my agent, not hers, or yours for that matter. He is not going to Hell. And that's final."

Jona rolled his eyes. "Well, whatever your opinion is now, you said yes to sending him when he was recruited. And the database confirms it. So, despite what you want-"

"Jona, the boy isn't going to Hell, no if ands or buts about it!" The Director's fist hit the table so hard it spilled his scotch. Jona removed his glasses and turned his gaze to the Director.

"Please remove yourself from this room. I'll fill you in on what you miss." At that, the Director bristled, and glared daggers at the demon. But, he thought better of saying anything else and left, his features hardened to stone by the altercation. Nobody dared to even look at him as he left, not even the other division heads.

When the door closed behind him, Jona continued.

------------

Later that day, Tom was having a late night farewell to Earth with Harvey and Greg at a bar, the three of them sitting on the outdoor patio and enjoying a bit of live jazz. They talked about everything they found interesting, from food to politics to the moon to biology. They digressed and regressed and found the evening a lot more interesting than most.

"...And the funny thing is, it's like they expected to win fighting over a river with lighter armed troops and crap for morale. Seriously Persia, what the fuck?" Tom finished, downing the rest of the ice from his coke. The waitress refilled his drink as Harvey picked up from there.

"Speaking of Persia, Gaugamela anyone?"

Greg shrugged. "Same thing as Issus, just without the river and with more Agranian peltasts. Frickin' Greek ninjas."

Tom smiled at that. "Seriously, what kind of tribe breeds people that climb sheer cliffs and run as fast as Companion Cavalry?"

"Yeti's or something man, that or Hermes had a hand stuck deep in that gene pool," Greg finished, smiling to himself. Harvey finished his Heineken and looked into the empty bottle as the last drop fell from the lip.

"Well, since Gaugamela is too boring, let's try something interesting. Carrhae," Harvey offered. He raised his eyebrows and the others two looked at him strangely.

"Two words," Greg offered. "Horse archers."

"And cataphracts," Tom added.

Harvey shook his head. "No, how would you win it? As Crassus."

Tom's brow knitted. "Win it? Well, for starters, not walk as straight and deep into a hostile country as I can and fight my only real battle with the natives in a fucking desert. Y'know, maybe use some logic every now and again."

Harvey nodded. "Well, aside from not having the battle at all, how would you have won it? Given Crassus' troops and equipment."

Greg offered a strategy. "I'd have fought it out with the legions. Parthians only had ten thousand cavalry, Crassus had twenty thousand infantry, about eight thousand cavalry, and a genius son there. I would have just waited for the arrows to run out in testudo and then let the fight start from there."

"Tom?" Harvey asked.

"Can I still say not fight? No matter what I come up with, frickin' cataphracts come in and beat my army black and blue while it rains arrows. I can't engage their cavalry because they'll just pincushion my celts and patricians. My legions are gonna get smashed by the heaviest cavalry in the ancient world."

They both expected Harvey to give his own answer, but the older agent was too busy staring at the opposite side of the patio with a genuine look of disbelief on his face. He blinked in confusion and then sat straight up in his chair.

"Director," he said. The old badger quickly made his way to the table and nodded to greg and Harvey dismissively.

"Boy, up. We're going." He waved his hand once for Tom to get up and the agent followed without question. The Director didn't look like he wanted to play games, not that he ever did, but this time was different.

"Later then guys," Tom managed, his head already beginning to fill with wondering thoughts and renewed fear at having to meet Ceria on her own terms. Tom followed the Director to a black Dodge Challenger in a nearby parking lot and when the Director opened the driver side door, Tom realized that it was his car.

"Get in," the Director said, closing his own door and bringing the vehicle to life. Tom got in and the Director backed out of the lot and began driving. He didn't say anything the entire way to their destination. His face looked more grim than usual and his features seemed to be stuck in a consistent frown and furrowed brow. When the Director stopped the car, Tom took a quick look at where they were.

Apparently, wherever they were wasn't in Tennessee anymore, nor was it anywhere in the South for that matter. It was snowing, and the only places that had snow forecasted for tonight were at least in northern Kentuckey. Tom had noticed that they were booking it on the interstate, but it had only been like two hours. Fuck the Director drove fast!

Tom got out of the car after the Director and shivered as the immensely cold atmosphere hugged him closely. The Director grabbed a coat out of the back of the Challenger and tossed it to Tom, who quickly put it on and followed his superior into what looked like an old Chinese restaurant across a small parking lot. Inside, it was decorated like an Oriental restaurant, with tons of ornate wallpaper put up and vases and pictures and whatnot strung, hung, and flung up everywhere. Lots of red and gold and green and silver colors. At the hostess' podium, a short girl looked up at the Director and smiled at him warmly.

"Table for two?" she asked.

"I'm here to see Carl." He said gruffly. The hostess' eyes shot to Tom and then to the door behind them.

"Carl is downst-"

The Director's eyes hardened toward her. "I know where he is. I don't have a key." At that, the girl called another hostess over and then guided Tom and the Director back into the restaurant, through the kitchen, and down a flight of stairs. At the door below, the girl took out a key and unlocked it, leading them down a short hallway to an elevator. She pressed the button and then gave the Director a traditional bow and left quickly, not even giving Tom a second glance.

The elevator door opened and inside there stood a woman lighting what looked like a device that held six cigarettes together so she could smoke them all at once. Her nose was pierced with studs on both sides almost all the way up to between her eyes and a side of her head was shaven clean, the other being spiked like a lopsided Mohawk.

The Director pressed the basement button and the elevator doors closed. Once they were shut, the demon turned her attention to Tom, raising a brow at him curiously.

"You don't look the type to be here with a friend," she said, winking. "Wanna change that?" She made to step toward him, but the Director removed a revolver from his pocket and locked the hammer back.

"Don't. Touch. Him."

The demon raised her hands and blew smoke in the Director's face. "No harm, no harm. Just curious about a new invite." The Director lowered the gun and unlocked the hammer, but kept it in his hand. The elevator descended much further than just one floor however, and when it opened back up, Tom's eyes and ears were assailed with flashing strobes and booming music. As confused as he was, he followed the Director without asking anything or saying a word.

He was too curious and truly intrigued to ask anything. He could only watch and let his thoughts wander hither thither as the old man in front of him nearly blew someone's brains across a wall for looking at Tom and nudging a neighbor. Tom looked himself over and wondered what it was that made him so obviously a newcomer.

At the back of the apparent nightclub, a wrought iron staircase rose above the noise and clamor and met a catwalk that disappeared into the ceiling. Tom followed the Director up this and they were joined by a large man in front of them and behind. The Director didn't try to threaten them, overtly or discreetly, so Tom figured they were supposed to be doing this.

The catwalk ended in a large room that was secured to the ceiling, like a huge skybox that overlooked the entire club from above. The Director entered a code on a keypad at the door and it slid into the ceiling. Tom was about to follow the Director inside when a bouncer grabbed his shoulder and held him back. The door slammed shut with a boom, but in the general loudness of the club it was only a small noise.

Tom let his eyes wander down below the catwalk to the clamoring, screaming, moving mass below. The DJ worked tirelessly as he ran music together and cycled rhythms in and out at will, fading some and switching them once they were soft enough to be left out without notice. Two assistants helped him, shuffling things around on the platform, flipping switches and checking digital readings. Somehow, the DJ kept from being overwhelmed and calmly had his whole body in motion doing things to make the music transition and change.

The club came to life and flared with excitement when he spoke, and he seldom did. It was only a few words, but the entire mass broke into cheers and roars until he was done speaking. Tom was so caught up in it all that he didn't notice when the Director came back out until the agent grabbed him by the shoulder.

"Get in here," he said. Tom snapped out of his daze and followed his superior into the room, the door slamming shut inches behind his entrance. He flinched at the noise.

"This is it? Are you kidding me, a kid? And you want him protected by a Warden? A full-blown Warden?" asked a man incredulously. Tom looked at him for one second and could tell that he wasn't mortal. He sat back on a couch with his arms laid across the back, a woman resting against each. He raised a hand and pointed a clawed finger at Tom. "This is seriously him?"

"Yes," the Director said. "I don't fuck around, Klaus."

The demon stood up, a bright flame bursting between his two curved horns. He glared at the Director, who folded his arms across his chest impassively, gun still in his hand. But as soon as he had decided what to do, he decided against it and just sat back down again, stroking his goatee.

"No, I'm not wasting a Warden on him," came the verdict.

"Do you want to go back to the Basilica of Torment? One bullet and you're there," the Director said, causing Klaus to stiffen visibly.

"Motherfucker I said no! Now get the fuck out of my club," the demon said dismissively, waving a hand at the Director to shoo him away.

But the old man wasn't having it. "Give me a Warden," the Director snarled.

"No-"

Thunder cracked in the cramped room as the Director put a bullet in Klaus's shoulder. The demon's girls bolted away from him, almost throwing themselves against the floor. Klaus looked peeved, but not all the injured. He plucked the bullet out of his shoulder with some effort and tossed it on the floor.

"I said give me a Warden." The hammer of his revolver clicked back again.

"Shit man, you really still mean business, don't you?" Klaus asked, chuckling to himself as he put pressure on his gunshot wound. "Get the fuck out and let me talk to him alone. Find Andrea and tell her to get her stupid ass up her too. Fuck, ouch."

The Director lifted the door by a handle and stepped out of the room.

"Coulda aimed for a leg y'know!" Klaus called over the blaring music, but the Director either hadn't heard or didn't care. The door slammed shut in his wake and that left Tom alone with Klaus and his girls.

"Uh..." Tom said without thinking, trying to figure out why in the Hell the Director had left him in a room with three demons and no weapon or diplomatic leverage. Klaus rummaged around a nearby table for a cloth and stuff it under his shirt, holding it down with one hand as he wiped the other off on his jeans.

"So you're his bitch, huh?" the demon asked idly as he cleaned his hand.

"Sure, whatever," Tom replied. No use arguing now with a demon in his element.

Klaus smirked. "And you've managed to piss off the Stringcutter too, huh?"

Tom arched a brow. "Stringcutter?"

"Ceria, the bitch who's famous for cutting men's heartstrings? Is it not her? He told me it was." Klaus checked his wound briefly before having one of the girls go get him something better to put over it.

"No, I didn't piss her off, I have to go to Hell to be a festival she's holding and the Director told me he'd keep me from being sent. Turns out he wasn't able to, so here I am." Tom shrugged and tried to make his outward appearance calm as his brain began to slowly spiral downward into fear and despair over his situation.

"So what's the problem? Is she pining to gobble up that- Oh that's it exactly, isn't it? She's totally into that. Damn dude, that blows dicks," Klaus said, almost musing to himself as he made himself more comfortable on the couch.

"Wait what? Do what?" Tom asked, unable to contain himself.

The demon grinned. "I could tell by the way you smelled when you walked in that you're fucked up somehow. Your inner parts, soul, spirit, whatever the fuck you wanna call it, is tainted with something. You smell like someone under possession. But there's no demon in you, weirdly."