If humans aren’t meant to be eaten, then why do they taste so damn good? Look, it’s not my fault, okay? I’ve tried to go vegan, you know, only eating plant souls, but plant souls are so nasty. They’re all bland and thick and bland and fibrous and bland. What’s a hungry, self-respecting demon to do?
And the old fart called me. It wasn’t the other way around. He wanted to be an Oscar-winning director despite dropping out of film school over fifty years ago.
George got what he wanted. Fair’s fair, right?
Which is why this annoying demon hunter chasing me down Las Tres Boulevard in the wee hours after two a.m. is so infuriating. Do humans get this self-righteous about eating cows? Is there a secret squad of human-hunting bovine roaming the earth looking to drive humans back into a barren land to starve? No.
So, here I am, wearing my Academy Award–winning Best Meat Suit while running from a butthurt redhead in a black tank top, jacket, and jeans before she rudely stabs me with the magical blade of glowing hypocrisy to cast me back into the “Netherworld,” as humans so offensively call my beloved home.
Hey, at least my realm is supposed to be a violent hellscape that grows hotter every year.
George’s heartbeat pounds in my ears in sync with the sound of my feet slapping on wet pavement. His legs wobble, and his chest heaves while his body breaks down, having been pushed to its limits by liver cancer, decades of heavy smoking, and this two-day cat-and-mouse game the hunter and I have been playing. I could only hold it together for so long.
A lesser demon would have eaten his delicious soul years ago. Not every demon has the power to keep a dying man alive through the process of getting a movie written, funded, cast, filmed, edited, distributed, and promoted, yet alone the levels of magic needed to put all the pieces into place. But I love an impossible challenge, and I couldn’t pass up an old soul.
Mmm, so tasty.
Getting up onstage to accept the golden man-shaped award was just gilding the lily.
Snack and move on, was Mother’s tried-and-true motto, but being the obstinate rebel that I am, I nearly vaporized myself making George “Nobody” Potter into a world-famous film director. I just knew fulfilling George’s dream would fatten his already-well-seasoned soul.
I was right too.
Little does my demon-hunting pain in the ass know, there is no one left to save.
I run down a dark alley—because of course. It smells like piss, boiled cabbage, and rotting dumpster trash, as all dank, dark alleys should. George’s heart will give out any minute. Cramps pinch his sides. I have to find another host fast, or … no. Nope. I won’t do it. Damn these hunters.
She skidded to a halt at the head of the alley. “Where do you think you’re off to?” she quips, like all hunters do these days.
I roll my eyes, murmuring, “Merciless Satan, give me the strength to really torture this idiot.”
Sam, short for Samantha? Or is it Dan, short for Daniella? Alex, short for Alexandria? Ugh, all the women hunters have shortened male name monikers while all the men have plain names and wear trench coats.
“You’re not leaving without kissing my blade goodbye, are you?” She smirks as if she just won a sass-off contest.
“Whatever.” I surge magic from my reserves into George’s arms and then rip the hinges off the back door of the building to my right and fling it at her head.
Yelping, she dodges and tumbles into a pile of wet trash.
Rhythmic music blasts me in the face from the entrance. A couple of workers wearing black T-shirts with the same purple diamond logo on it gape at me. I ignore them. Smiling, I enter the music establishment, rush down a long hall, past an office and storage areas, and go through a threshold into the main arena.
I stand out like an old white man in a modern music and dance club, which is exactly the situation. Bodies gyrate and rub together. The noise is eardrum-splitting loud. Bartenders hand out plastic glasses filled with alcohol like candy on Halloween. The disc jockey tells revelers to put their hands in the air, and for some unknown reason, people comply.
I quickly meander through the hip crowd, fully aware of my houndstooth sweater vest and khaki pants, unsure of what to do next. There are so many choices. Looking behind me, I can’t spot the hunter through the sea of dancers. Although this scene doesn’t compare, it still reminds me of the bacchanals we threw at home. Granted, no one here would rend an imp to shreds and then fornicate on its entrails, but the grating music and drunken groping in near darkness brings a bit of nostalgia to my heart. Ah, home. Humans are so different yet the same. They don’t know how to have real fun—ripping off your enemy’s skin kind of fun.
I look back and see a disturbance parting the crowd. Damn! Don—short for Donatella maybe? The hunter is making her way toward me.
Taking any human at this point is obvious, yet that isn’t my style. I prefer to inhabit a willing body. Snatching a human by force makes controlling the flesh difficult and adds a bitter aftertaste to the soul. Everyone here is either too young or too old. The best souls are either preteens, before the cynicism of adulthood takes hold, or the elderly, when life’s joys and sorrows have marinated a soul to tender perfection.
Behind me, a hand slaps down on my shoulder.
“Gotcha,” a silky female voice purrs in my ear. “Come with me now, or I’ll stop being polite.” The hunter pokes my back with the pointy end of her blade for emphasis. Its magic thrums to the bass of the spoken-word music.
I turn around and shove her into a group of sparkly-dressed women dancing together in a circle. “Sorry, my dear, but I decline.”
There’s no way the hunter will reveal magic to a room full of regular humans. It’s against their patronizing ethical code.
I move to run, but there’s little space to get far. The bar blocks my path forward and red Exit signs are all stationed at the far ends of the massive room.
She grabs my collar and pushes me to the floor.
Normally, I’d crush this one-hundred-ten-pound girl with the muscle definition of a newborn puppy like a saltine cracker, but George’s body was frail from the beginning, and I feasted on his soul days ago. Outside of small bursts of strength propped by my magic, there isn’t much left to naturally work with.
Just pick a new host.
I glance around at the gawking partiers, who finally seem to notice the fracas between the lady hunter and me. Most aim cell phones at us, probably to record for social media with no intention of helping either the old man or the plucky, model-thin, twenty-something, half-supernatural-slash-half-human woman glaring at me as I scramble to my feet.
The thought of fighting an unwilling mind while fending off attacks swaddled in snarky quips from Pat (short for Patricia?) or Kit (short for Kitty?) exhausts me. My pride can’t let the hunter win. I just can’t. I’m an Oscar-winning director after all.
Wait. That’s it.
“You have nowhere to run, fiend.” Jay—short for Jade or whatever her bloody name is—says as she tries to hide the glowing short sword under her black leather jacket.
She’s as aware of the growing crowd as I am. Unlike her, I don’t have a code.
Grinning, I step back.
She steps forward.
We do this slow, tense cha-cha until my back presses against the bar’s counter. A lady in a see-through leopard-print top stands to my right. On my left towers a gentleman, wearing a blue baseball cap indoors. The obvious choice would be the man, but the lady would entice a knee-jerk reaction from Madame Hunter.
“Hello, ma’am,” I say to the lady, never taking my gaze from the hunter.
“Don’t even think about it. My blade will express-deliver you back to the Netherworld without hesitation,” the hunter spits at me. To my leopard-print-wearing friend, she implores, “Scram, girl.”
“What? Why?” Lady Leopard asks, batting her fan-like eyelashes.
I smile wide at the hunter. “May I buy you a drink?” My hand hovers close to Lady Leopard’s arm. One kiss, and she’ll be my new meat suit.
“Hell yeah. Ain’t you that director?”
The hunter bites her lower lip. Her body tenses like a coil about to spring.
Without looking, I take my lady’s hand. “Try to stop me.”
I bring her hand to my lips.
The hunter’s gaze darts about. Too many people are watching and whispering and recording.
I hold Lady Leopard’s hand just before my lips, daring the hunter to strike. George’s legs have grown heavy, and his blood pressure is near death. Only my magic keeps the suit functioning.
The hunter steps closer. The magic dagger glows like a mini blue sun. She no longer keeps it under cover as her knuckles whiten around the silver handle. “Please get away from him.”
“What are you drinking, my dear? White wine?” I say to distract Lady Leopard from the hunter. I grip her hand in mine, not letting go.
“Um …” Lady Leopard hesitates, eyeing the hunter and then me with a look of unease on her face. “A rum and Coke. Y’all exes or something?”
Make your move, hunter.
The demon hunter inches closer, but takes no decisive action to strike me down.
I have to find something to goad her, but what? These hunter types are always attractive and uniquely powered, but always believe they’re ugly and not special, like broke, down-on-their-luck, amateur, orphaned detectives with trust issues.
Got it!
“Do you have any young offspring?” I ask Lady Leopard.
“What? Yeah, two. Why?”
The hunter’s nostrils flare.
“Delightful. Maybe, someday, I’ll meet them.” I press my lips onto the back of Lady Leopard’s hand.
“Nooo!” The hunter lunges and drives the dagger hilt deep into George’s stomach.
Blood surges up his throat, choking off his air. Not that it matters. George is long dead, and now, I’m heading home. Magic shreds my essence to ribbons. The pain is worse than the last time and the times before that. I scream and laugh at the same time. If only there were time for a final quip, but I barrel through the portal as fast as the hunter’s blade.
Oh well.
In one hundred years, I’ll have something for the next demon hunter. For now, I’m giddy.
Wait until I tell Mother about my Oscar!
***
A WVSN channel seven news crew is filming in front of The Unlimited nightclub for the seven a.m. newscast. Police cars and yellow tape block the entrance. Reporter Kelly Sanchez speaks to the camera as video footage shot earlier plays over her narration.
“Last night, clubgoers witnessed a horrifying scene as Oscar-winning director George Potter was allegedly stabbed to death in an unprovoked attack by another patron. Video of the crime went viral on social media. The major sites are struggling to take them down. Witnesses say the alleged attacker threatened the Save the Last Laugh for Me director before stabbing him with a large knife. Police captured the alleged culprit—identified as Blake Thomas, a local private investigator—not far from the scene.”
Video plays of Sanchez interviewing a woman in a leopard-print top and then a police officer before returning back to a live feed of her.
“Potter was pronounced dead on the scene. He’s survived by his son and three grandchildren. Back to you, Tom and Melissa.”
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