[B][FONT="Book Antiqua"][COLOR="DarkRed"][JUSTIFY] The smaller of the two in black moved slowly, giving Carter a wide breadth but not as though he were wary. In fact, Vincent saw a strange smile on his face as he ran his hand over his dark brown hair. The larger one moved in front of Carter, raising his hand and winding his fingers in the nest of pale gold hair. He said something, a glare on his face, as though his anger had showed itself. He jerked Carter’s head back, revealing a knife from his pocket. Carter’s face was placid, blank, even when the gleaming blade was passed across his exposed throat light enough not to cut, but hard enough to leave a thin track. Vincent didn’t see anything; it was too dark to make out any details.

The smaller one drew forward, taking Carter by the front of his off-white shirt and throwing him into the door, pinning him there with one hand. Carter shook his hair out of his eyes and focused on the man, raising his hands but not in a threatening manner. He spoke, but it only seemed to enrage them even more. The smaller one pinning him down yanked him forward and threw him to the side, revealing a knife of his own and pointing it at Carter. Vincent had to raise himself up a bit, but could not see Carter’s face as it was turned to the men. He raised his hands and his voice, and for the first time Vincent could hear what words were exchanged:

“… didn’t come here for violence. And I don’t know what your big friend wants of me, but I’m not going to simply roll over and submit.”

“Human.” The smaller one’s voice was loud, but controlled. “You came here for a reason and still are not afraid. Only fools have no fear!”

From the distance, the slight breeze blowing in front of him, Vincent had not noticed that the two men were demons. Their scents would have tipped him off, but they were too far away from each other. They probably wanted Carter’s soul, or something more. Carter didn’t appear to want to give anything up without a fight.

“I have fear.” He said. “I simply won’t show it.”

The small one was pushed forward by the larger one. “If you have fear, you’ll do as told then.” He said.

“No. I’m not a dog.” Carter stepped toward the door. “I just want to leave without confrontation; I knew this was a bad idea…”

The small one leapt forward, barring the only exit. “No! You’ll stay, and you’ll listen to us! We only want one thing. It doesn’t have to be more trouble than it is.”

“These tactics may have worked before,” Carter growled, “but not now. Not with me.”

The large one spoke, but his words were very low. Carter had turned his gaze to him, leaving the smaller one open for an attack, a chance he took. Using the door for leverage, he pushed off with his knife in front of him, but Carter turned and moved aside just in time. He backed away, but drew no weapon of his own, and when the smaller one regained his footing, Carter moved forward and grabbed his wrist. The man struggled, grabbing Carter’s loose hair and pulling it forward, forcing him to look down, but the hand with the knife was still restrained, even as it tried to move. Carter ran him into the wall below where Vincent watched with a slightly-open mouth, nearly unable to believe what was happening.

The larger man moved forward, grabbing Carter around the waist and lifting him away from his companion, throwing him to the floor. Carter rolled, getting onto his knees when the larger of the two bared down on him with his own knife above his head, swiping in vicious patterns that Carter stopped with a swift grab. His thin hand closed around the blade, but no blood was drawn. He bent the blade upward, snapping it off, spinning it in his hand and thrusting forward, burying its tip deep inside the man’s chest to where it was hardly visible in the darkness. He fell forward, spilling blood from the wound and his mouth, and Carter threw him to the side.

Before he could get up, however, the smaller man dragged him backward by the hair, and Carter let out a gasp of surprise. With his hands at his head, stopping the assailant from ripping his hair out, he levered his feet underneath him and spun around, bringing his knee up and connecting with the stranger’s stomach and lower chest. Vincent grimaced, imagining the ribs cracking at the speed and force of the strike, but the man didn’t seem to give any notice to what damage he surely sustained. He repositioned the knife in his hand and pushed Carter back, over one of the only pieces of furniture in the room, and in a moment was on top of him, pinning him with his legs and the weight of his body, stabbing at Carter’s face.

The man was strong, it appeared to Vincent, but Carter had the upper hand; with both arms he blocked the strikes, making his attacker angrier every moment. When he raised his arms over his head, letting out a howl of rage, Carter struck with the swiftness of a serpent, grasping his arms and bringing them down on the seat cushions beside him with such force a snap broke the silence, and the man’s arm. He released the knife with another scream, this time of pain, and Carter scooped it up, winding his arms around the one on top of him and bringing the blade down, digging it into his spine and deeper, twisting it. The smaller man’s body shuddered, his eyes wide, and he fell to the side. Carter dug the knife out of him, tossing it to the floor, and did the same with the blade still jammed into the larger man’s chest.[/JUSTIFY][/COLOR][/FONT][/B]

[B][FONT="Book Antiqua"][COLOR="DarkRed"][JUSTIFY]As the group dispersed, obviously lifted by the roadside sermon, Vincent was left to his thoughts. It was only when he felt someone staring at him did he look around. Carter Hall had gotten down from his perch, and was standing in front of him. The man’s eyes, a color Vincent had never seen before, that odd pale blue, prickling, observing, watchful, met Vincent’s gaze.

“I’ve not seen you around for my talks before.” Carter said. “A new face is always welcome.” He offered a hand and a friendly smile.

“And you know the people who listen to you?” Vincent shook the man’s hand, returning the smile, though not as warmly.

“I recognize faces very easily.” Carter said. “Even if I only see them once, it’s easy to recall.”

“I see. Memory like that is a gift.” Vincent looked around. “How long have you been here in the city?”

“Just about four days now. I must say, the people here are very attentive.”

“Yes indeed. They do love a break from the mundane every now and then. Although I have to assume they take an especial liking to you because you are so different in both disposition as well as appearance.”

Carter watched some of the passersby, a placid look on his face. “Yes, I do seem to be the odd one out. But one cannot choose their general appearance, no?” He smiled again. “Still, it’s easier to attract listeners when you look different.”

“I would have to agree.” Vincent nodded. He battled with himself silently. He could simply draw Carter into an alley and ambush him there, extract his soul and get it over with, but Carter’s gaze was intense, as though he were watching Vincent and his mannerisms, observing him. “People do love a new sight in a city of the same.”

“Very apparent. I’m Carter Hall, by the way. Usually I introduce myself at the start of my speeches, but I noticed you arrived a little late.”

“I’m Vincent.”

“Just Vincent?”

“It’s how everyone knows me.” He looked back at Carter. “Where do you come from? I do know you are a traveler.”

“I am indeed. I go from place to place, trying to spread good will and trust, love for mankind.”

“A noble life.”

“I prefer modest. I ask for nothing in return, except that people take what I say to heart and try to live the best they can.”

“Do you really think people will change their lives, or see anything differently, because you gave a few speeches?”

“It’s worth a try.” Carter nodded. “Just because no one else does it hardly means it’s a lost cause.”

Vincent was silent for a moment. He stared at Carter as though he was an alien thing, something he had never seen before. “You hold no ill will toward people?”

“None whatsoever.”

“What if they intentionally harm you or the people you love?”

“People themselves are corrupted, whether in miniscule ways or in very noticeable ways. I will feel sorrow for the ones I lost, but even if the person holds no apology for what they do, I cannot blame them. Their soul is stained, not their hands.”

“You’re very forgiving.”

“I’m only human.”

“Even humans feel hate. Vengeance, desire, a wish to do harm to those who harm them.”

Carter thought about it. He closed his eyes half way, turning his gaze to the ground. “I suppose.” He looked back up. “I suppose I’m not human, then.”

“Then what are you?”

Carter smiled, then laughed, quietly. “That, Vincent, is for both of us to find out.”

Without another word, he turned and was swept away in the river of people moving along the street. Vincent stood still, watching his pale yellow hair vanish in the mist and people. What Louis had said rang in his head, combined with Carter’s voice. The man was certainly not human, and certainly not a soulless. Soulless humans felt nothing that related to emotion, nothing at all. Some drew into themselves, using their skin as a shell, becoming dead-eyed and muttering husks of their former selves. Others simply used their lack of a soul to their advantage. But Carter felt, while other soulless didn’t. He felt for humans and nonhumans alike, and used his vast understanding of life itself to lead them into the light, into a life lead well and happily. He knew the concept of happiness, Carter did. He knew pain, by the look in his eye, he knew sadness, and he knew how to somehow overcome it to be a better person.

Vincent shook his head, starting down the road to shadow Carter Hall’s path. He would not be retiring to the bookshop or his lodgings so soon, after finding Carter so easily. The man did, in fact, look weak, as Louis had said, but Vincent felt he would not be as strong as the old man had said. Perhaps Louis had a hard time fighting the young man, and perhaps he had made up the rest of the story to unnerve Vincent. The demon couldn’t see Carter as a fighter, especially with what he spoke of and how he behaved. He was awkward, if only a bit, and didn’t seem the kind to take to violence so quickly. Not as quickly as Vincent, anyway. If he ambushed the man from the shadows, he could get the upper hand and extract his soul. Whether it would be the pure white it should be was none of Vincent’s concern.

He caught sight of Carter just as he turned right, that odd hair whipping out of sight as Vincent picked up his pace. That small road would lead back to the square, and indeed Carter was moving swiftly into the step of others, avoiding hansoms and horses with what seemed like serpent-like ability. More than once, he slipped out of sight, and Vincent threw caution to the wind as he ran through the square, catching up but keeping a safe distance back. Carter, though odd in appearance, odd in behavior, was like a ghost. He moved toward the clock tower, the street to its right, and among the dark hair and dreary clothes, he moved as though he belonged, as though he had lived in the city all his life.

Carter walked past a clothing store, a library, and paused outside a café. Vincent shielded his eyes, squinting to be sure Carter was opening the door, glancing behind him quickly, slipping inside. Cautious, Vincent walked with the flow, passed by the people in a hurry, cursed at for being so slow. He moved to the dusty window and pressed his nose against the glass. Carter passed the various tables, nodding at some and smiling to others, and got the attention of a young woman. With a quick word, she nodded, her face brightening as though reuniting with a long-lost friend. Quietly, she referred to the closed door near the back, between a wall and counter, and Carter nodded. In a moment, he was there, and through the door.

Vincent backed away from the door, spinning into the alley and running halfway down. A small, rectangular window stood a couple feet over his head. Its glass had been busted out, and he could hear someone speaking inside. A crate, much like the one Carter had used as his stage earlier, was underneath it, and carefully, Vincent used the slightly-sagging wood to gain height. He leaned against the wall to keep balance, and looked into the window. It was dark enough outside to veil the fact that someone was watching the goings-on in the room.

Carter was leaning against the door, illuminated by the fireplace across from Vincent. He was smiling, in an odd way, looking at the figures across from him. A big man, beside a smaller one, both in black. Vincent watched Carter intently, how calm he appeared even in the presence of two much larger than him, and obviously thinking about harming him. But he stepped forward, into the center of the room, crossing his arms loosely, speaking. Vincent couldn’t hear anything above a dull mutter of garbled language. The larger man stepped forward in turn, moving to Carter’s right, circling him slowly. Raising one heavy hand, he set it on Carter’s shoulder, whether in an accepting or reassuring way Vincent couldn’t be sure, but it seemed put-on. Carter himself didn’t react as Vincent would have.[/JUSTIFY][/COLOR][/FONT][/B]

[B][FONT="Book Antiqua"][COLOR="DarkRed"][JUSTIFY]“What’s brought you out in such gloomy weather?” Roy asked. “Not to buy a book, surely?”

“Never.” Vincent said. “I’m just looking for a shelter to read about my new case.”

“Oh, I see.” Roy led him to the back of the store, past the shelves and old chairs and to one of the three round tables. Oil lamps sat in the center, illuminating the rough wood in a leaping yellowish-orange glow. Vincent and Roy sat across from one another, and Vincent revealed the file, setting it on the table.

“I just got it.” He said. “From a man known as Louis Harvard. Does the name strike familiarity in you?”

“Not in the least.” Roy said, rubbing his eyes behind his round glasses. “But I don’t know many people in the city, you know.”

“Certainly. What I meant was: Have you heard the name at all in the criminal-based rings you’re a part of?”

“No…” Roy paused, eyes drifting as he recalled his acquaintances and enemies. “I’ve not heard it before.”

Vincent was suspicious. Louis Harvard was a strange man, with very dark skin and equally-dark eyes. He didn’t give off the aura of a demon, nor did he affect Vincent as devils did. He was certainly human, and certainly telling the truth. But the demon had to wonder how pure his target’s soul really was. No one he knew, or even heard of, had never given to the pulls and desires of both human and nonhuman nature.

“Well, this will hardly get read if I don’t open it.” Vincent sighed. Carefully, he flipped the light yellow cover aside, and was greeted by a photograph. Underneath was a name: Carter Hall.

His hair was long, longer than most of the women Vincent knew, and very light. It was almost white, but it didn’t seem possible; Carter’s face was that of a young man, younger than Vincent, with wide eyes. The photo was of him standing on something, as he rose above a large gathering of people, his arms wide as though revealing an earth-shattering secret. Vincent studied it for a moment, before Roy took it.

The papers under the photo were cut out of newspapers from different cities. Headlines varied, but not by much: ‘Man Saves, Teaches Street Children Life Lessons; Vanishes’. ‘Mysterious Man Spreads Hope Throughout City, Disappears the Next Day’. ‘Mystery-man Leads Authorities Through Multiple Cases, Leaves Before Reward can be Given’. It went on for several hastily-crafted pages, and when he moved them, a thin, braided rope of light yellow-gold sat in the back of the file. When he picked the end up, it fell to a length of at least three feet.

“What is that?” Roy asked, placing the photo aside.

“Hair.”

“Carter’s hair?”

“It’s obviously Carter’s hair. But I don’t know how Louis Harvard could have gotten it.” Vincent coiled it, replacing it on the table.

“A fight, perhaps.”

“Perhaps. But I‘ve never seen this hair color before.” He was silent then, thinking. There was nothing included that showed his schedule, or how he defended himself from attacks. Louis was hardly helpful, but he promised a good pay. He sighed, frustrated at the lack of information. “Damn it, Roy. I’m faced with a hundred different roads, and all are so dark I can’t see the right way.”

“You have gone through with odds even more impossible than this before.” Roy said. “I’ve got full faith in you.”

“I’m glad to know that, but it will not make this any easier.” Vincent took the photograph back and closed the file. “I’m not even sure where to start.”

“Surely Louis Harvard told you something?”

Vincent paused. “Of course. He spends his afternoons on Moloch Street, where he stands on any high ground and speaks to the people.”

“People in particular?”

“No, in general. He is hardly around long enough in certain cities to have a solid following. Besides, he isn’t part of a church.”

“I wonder why.”

“He probably has conflicting beliefs with the churchmen and women. That, Roy, or he simply wants to go about his business alone.”

“But the churches would be angry.”

“Not if they are not aware.”

“How could they not be aware? People listen, talk, and certainly people would spread these stories to the churches.”

“That does not matter, my boy. What matters is finding him and his supposedly-pure soul.” Vincent stood, followed by Roy.

“Pure soul? That is not possible.”

“I thought so at first.” He scooped up the file. “But now I’m starting to believe. Roy, please hold on to this file. I will need my hands free for now.”

Roy nodded, taking the file and tucking it under his arm. “Good luck, Vincent. I hope I can take a look at this rare soul before you turn it in?”

“If I have time.” Vincent walked back through the bookshelves and to the door, glancing out. The rain had stopped, so he abandoned his umbrella against the wall before leaving.

Rejoining the flow of people, Vincent retraced his steps back to Moloch Street. It was crowded, as usual, with vendors and loiters, carriages, horses with their wide eyes and shaggy hair stomping their hooves. Voices overlapped one another, roaring dully in Vincent’s ears. He pushed through the crowd, making his way toward a jewelry shop, where he could stand still for a moment and observe the various items on display at the window. Before he could get near enough to see into the window, a voice caught his attention, hooked him.

Glancing around, over the heads of passersby, he scanned the crowd for the voice, not deep but easily carried even among the noise. A group of people had gathered around the one standing several feet above them, using a crate for his stand. His hair was long, very long, and a very pale yellow-gold. Vincent had found Carter Hall without necessarily even looking for him, and with a familiar eagerness rising, he crossed the street to listen in among the spectators.

When he drew close, Vincent noted the pale skin, almost as pale as a demon‘s, with eyes as sharp a blue as ice. Pushing through a wall of people, Vincent drew close.

“… sadness. And sadness is a terrible thing. It can take ahold of you and squeeze the very life out of your body. Don’t give in to that sadness; all it wants to see is your failure, because that’s its lifeblood. You have to fight through the wall and succeed, and help those in need. This world isn’t loving enough, it’s not generous enough. Some have too much while others have nothing at all, you have to help your peers, help them! Live not for yourself, but for others, help others to help yourself. Make yourself someone you would like to know, not someone you would fear.

“Live for today, rather than tomorrow. Because the next day is never certain, is never simply given to you. You must take things as they come, and make the best out of what you have. I’m not saying to neglect your responsibilities, no. I’m saying enjoy life while you have it, because it’s a fragile thing. Life is fleeting, sensitive, easily taken from you. Always be vigilant, but love and listen and give and never take anything for granted.”

Vincent drifted, Carter’s voice becoming a hum, while he thought about what the man was saying. He preached a good story, but he knew many people who could do that. They lied well, those people, and Vincent could only consider Carter another good falsifier. He gazed onto the crowd as a loving father observing his children, and when he fell silent, approving murmurs ran in waves among the people. No one could unconditionally love everyone, accept them for what they were, forgive them for their sins simply because they are humans, flawed and meant to do bad.[/JUSTIFY][/COLOR][/FONT][/B]

[B][FONT="Book Antiqua"][COLOR="DarkRed"][JUSTIFY] Rain fell, in large drops warm and thick, coating the roads and hurrying people to their destinations. The horses shook violently when stationary, ridding their gray or black hair of the heavy water. One in particular snorted and jolted forward with its hansom as a couple were boarding, causing a moment of panic from the lady. Vincent was passing at that time, and unlucky enough to be splashed. Cursing, he bolted to the street corner, standing under his umbrella and waiting for a pause in the traffic of carriages and people. Almost noon, he thought, and if the unknown contact was early, Vincent himself would look like a fool for showing up late. He hated showing that side of him, as onlookers judged and ridiculed him silently or among themselves. Dodging the light traffic, he hurried into a group of people migrating toward the clock tower that shadowed the square and the fountain.

Indeed someone waited there, only after migrating away from the pack of people to loiter at the other side of the round fountain. He stood behind the angelic figure, face hidden by an umbrella, one hand in a pocket. Vincent stepped around the base of the fountain, moving into the other man’s line of vision and catching his eye. With purpose, the stranger nodded to Vincent as he approached, a small smile shadowing his face. He glanced around, assuring himself no one was near enough to hear their conversation. His skin was dark, as were his eyes, and what hair Vincent could see under his hat was black, flecked with gray and white.

“Vincent,” he said, “I knew you would make it.”

“Who are you?” Vincent didn’t get very close; he had no idea who the man was, no idea of what weapons he might have. “And how do you know where I live?”

“I am Louis Harvard.” The stranger made to move, but at Vincent’s tense stance, he paused. “I’ve been watching you for a few days, and must say, you’re very good at what you do.”

“And what would you be referring to, Louis?”

“Just about everything. Murder, deceit, fraud, combat. And especially soul-collecting.”

“This is why you wanted to meet me.” Vincent said. “But why at such a public location?”

“I know you have your trust issues,” Louis said. “You aren’t the only one. I felt it would deter either of us from irrational behavior by meeting in public, in the daylight.”

Vincent nodded. “I see. It’s rather reckless of you, though. Anyone could listen to this conversation.”

“Not if we keep it short.” Louis reached inside his jacket and pulled a folder of papers out. “I’ve got my trust in you, Vincent. I know you, and only you, can do this.”

“Only me? So I’m your last resort?” Vincent took the folder slowly, if a bit suspiciously. “It must be serious.”

“Indeed it is.” Louis again swept the crowds with his gaze, observing their glances and passes before lowering his voice and drawing closer so Vincent could hear. “This man is a fighter, with a rare soul. I’ve been after him for several years now.”

“What type of soul?” Vincent slipped the folder into his jacket, protecting the contents from the rain.

“A pure soul.”

“Impossible.” He laughed. “No one in the world has a pure soul.”

“This man does.” Louis’ voice darkened, and he no longer smiled. “His main objective is to save anyone he can, any way he can. He kills only the ones who would do evil upon the good or innocent. He has never cared about the pursuit of earthly pleasures, and his thoughts remain clear. He‘s never smoked, nor has he ever touched a drop of alcohol.”

“Is he a part of any church?”

“No. He spends his afternoons on Moloch Street, away from churches but preaching to anyone who will listen.”

“Is that when you want me to act?”

“No. Only when he least expects it. I know how well you track, how well you spy. If you catch him off guard, you may have the upper hand.”

“He’s really very strong, then?”

“Immensely. Many attackers have fallen at his hand because they thought he would make an easy target.”

“Strong, is he?”

“Shockingly.” Louis squared his jaw. “I can’t give you any advice on this catch, except be very careful. He may be a pure soul, but when defending himself, he will kill.”

“You don’t have to worry.” Vincent assured him. “No soul has escaped me for more than a week.”

“Then I can leave you in full confidence that you will bring me his soul within seven days.” Louis turned. “Good luck, Vincent, and I assure you, the reward for this soul will be more than you can imagine.”

He watched Louis Harvard walk away, slowly, joining the flow of people. The rain had let up a bit, but a dark cloud had been cast over Vincent. Tearing his eyes away from the departing man, he turned and took to a side road, shadowing others as they walked, keeping his jacket closed tightly and the file safe. Turning left, got onto a smaller road with a line of small shops. Walking briskly, he went halfway down, stopping at a bookstore. Roy Brown was the sole owner, a middle-aged man with very dark brown hair and emerald-green eyes, pale skin, and a reserved personality. He and Vincent got along well, despite one being human and the other being a demon.

Vincent leapt up the five stairs, and under the overhanging above the door, collapsed his umbrella and shook the extra water away. A light was on inside, and without knocking, opened the door. At once the scent of old paper and leather hit him, dust and wood. It was peaceful, a bit; no one was there, except Roy himself, who appeared from in between two tall bookshelves. Vincent knew Roy enough to be able to confess his business to the man, since Roy had gotten onto the wrong side of the law many times before. Eyes shadowed, posture poor with sleep deprivation, he nodded to Vincent in acknowledgment.[/JUSTIFY][/COLOR][/FONT][/B]

[B][FONT="Book Antiqua"][COLOR="DarkRed"][JUSTIFY][CENTER]Part I[/CENTER][I][CENTER]The soul of a fighter[/CENTER][/I]
Vincent stood at the window with his hands behind his back. The moon was perched on the pointed tip of the clock tower, which was easily seen from his window. A fire crackled in the grate nearby, two still shadows cast over the old wood floor and its dark red throw rug. One shadow moved, very slightly, of its own accord. Vincent turned and observed its owner, sitting stiffly in one of the only chairs in front of the fireplace. Brushing back his messy black hair, Vincent stepped away from the window and turned.

The man in the firelight was pale-skinned, but not as light as a demon. He was large, a solid man in build, with a rather boxy head and short, dusty-brown hair. He sat rigidly, looking anywhere but at Vincent, small eyes finally locking onto the fire to his left. Vincent stepped up to the chair opposite the other man, reaching into his vest and pulling a crystal bottle out. Within was the recently-harvested soul of a man Vincent didn’t know, or cared to have known. He sat across from the man, placing the bottle beside a teacup. “It’s a demon moon tonight.” He said. His voice was calm, relaxed, mirroring his demeanor. “A demon moon, William. Do you believe in the demon moon?” He leaned forward.

William glanced at him at last. His eyes were dark, and glinted in the fire. “No.” He said. A deep voice he had, only slightly giving away his tightly-wound nerves with a faint tremor. “The demons are always odd, no matter the state of the moon.”

Vincent laughed out loud, but it was mirthless and without joy in any form. “You classify demons as violent and strange, as unpredictable at all times? I don’t think you understand the basic principles of the state of a demon, or a devil. You’ve never met one, personally. Until now, that is.”

“No.” William clenched his hands into fists as they rested on his knees. “But that doesn’t matter, sir. All I want is my soul.”

“Not your soul, William.” Vincent picked the bottle up, turning it in the leaping orange-yellow glow. “The soul of a man who didn’t seem to deserve to die. Perhaps you can tell me why you need this soul so badly? Why you would give me all the silver to your name for this one, insignificant soul? Are you really that desperate, my boy?”

William was silent again. He fidgeted, staring at the floor. He was uncomfortable in the presence of a demon, Vincent could tell. Patiently, he sat back, setting the bottle back down and picking up the cup beside it. Quietly, as William contemplated his answer, Vincent brought the cup to his face. Black tea always made him a little more alert, especially while speaking with clients whose trustworthiness could be called doubtful. The smell was strong, as was its taste. As William shook his head, perhaps to deny a thought that crossed his mind, Vincent sat forward again and placed the cup aside.

“William. Would it not be easier to simply tell me the truth rather than struggle with a lie?” He smiled. “You should know demons are infamous for their anger at being lied to, or deceived, or played in a little game.”

William nodded, as though he had not thought of that. “I just wanted him gone.” He said at last. “The man was a fool, and a waste of space in the city. Not worth the clothes he had on his back; I can use his soul…”

“… Yes?”

“… I can use his soul to pay off a debt I owe a devil. He helped me about a week ago, and would only take repayment in the form of a soul.”

“Oh, he allowed you to find the soul of another, then?” Vincent asked. “Rather than simply taking yours for payment?”

“He said if, after a week, I failed to find a soul as payment, he would take mine.”

“I don’t see what is so terrible about the willing relinquishment of one’s soul.” Vincent twisted several strands of his hair between thumb and index finger. “It’s so much better without that burden, after all. No feelings of guilt, or misery, or love or self-hatred. Inconvenient things like that.”

“But it’s an empty life.” William turned his gaze to Vincent, but refused to look the demon in the striking silver eyes. “A life without feeling is meaningless… Do demons have souls?”

“Every living thing is born with a soul, in one way or another. Demons may not be creatures relating to the good, to the light, but they have souls. So yes, I have a soul. It simply affects me in lesser ways than that of a human.” He picked up the bottle once more. “I don’t care about why you wanted me to take the soul. All I care about is the money that comes with it.” He examined the swirling mist. “Although if you are lying to me, and have not even a bronze piece to your name, your soul will join my collection of foolish humans who thought they could deceive me.”

“I would never lie.” William reached into his trousers pocket, pulling a bolt of purple velvet cloth out and offering it to Vincent. It rattled very slightly as the demon took it and examined it thoughtfully. “I don’t lie.” William assured. Vincent moved the cloth aside, revealing a pile of silver coins. There were thirty. Vincent’s face was impossible to read; William studied him nervously, tapping his fingers on his knees, biting his lower lip. When the demon smiled, William let out a pent-up breath.

“Very good.” Vincent pocketed the cloth and its coins and handed the bottle to the human. “You will keep your soul after all.”

William smiled for the first time since stepping foot into the den. “Thank you, Vincent.” He and the demon stood. “You saved me.” He bowed.

“I didn’t save you.” Vincent said as they walked across the room and to the heavy, domed door. At the man’s perplexed look, the demon chuckled. “You’re dealing with a devil.” He said, opening the door slowly. “They don’t simply let you off after a single favor, even when it’s been repaid.” Without another word, he pushed the man out of his home, but before closing the door spotted something lying on the top step, just outside: A box, made of black wood and brass finishings, wrapped with a dark blue ribbon to hold its lid shut.

He was skeptical, and watched the box for several moments. It didn’t move, nor did it give any indication it was a threat. Gingerly, he lifted it, but nothing rattled inside. On the contrary, it felt empty. Stepping back, closing the door and locking it with the heavy sliding bolt, he went to one of the chairs and sat. The box was harmless, or so it seemed to be. Wood and metal, a bit of silken ribbon, it sat on his knee as a box would normally do. He unknotted the ribbon, letting it slip to the floor. Nothing exploded, or popped out of the box. Lifting it to his ear, he listened. Nothing was scratching, or chirping or chattering or ticking. He lifted the lid.

Rolled parchment took up the blue-velvet compartment. It was tied with the same silk ribbon, though thinner, binding the parchment in its spiral. He pulled the ribbon off and unrolled the parchment, leaning close to the fire to read its inscriptions.

[CENTER][I]Vincent
Your expertise is required. When the clock tower reads
noon, you will find I am in the square where the fountain
sits. If you are up to the challenge I have, you will meet me
there without delay. A large reward may be in your future.[/I][/CENTER]

He had been sent letters many times. Letters asking for his help in retrieving souls, retrieving people, stealing this or that. He was a man--or demon--of many talents. Whatever the man or woman wanted, he would certainly meet them at the fountain in the square at noon. He tossed the parchment and its ribbon into the fire, setting the box on the side table and sitting back. The window was across from him, just behind the other chair, and he could see the moon in the lower right corner. Morning was soon, he knew it. He could see the first of many clouds drifting across the sky, dark like smoke from chimneys, blacking out the moon. Demons would be turning in for the night, their adrenaline-fueled runs lacking in zeal as the demon moon faded from their sight.

And indeed, he was getting tired. The night had been long, and he would need to be well-rested for whoever he would be meeting at noon. Slowly, he levered himself up, a chorus of creaks coming from the old chair and his bones. A demon’s bones always readjusted themselves after being still for a certain amount of time. It sounded like an ancient tree in a high wind, and when he stretched, his joints popped. Moving slowly, he passed the window, drawing the heavy curtain and going through the door on the wall beside the fireplace. It could be called a bedroom simply for the brass bed against the far wall, the tall, thin wardrobe in the corner nearest the door, and the round bedside table containing the brass belt and a candle half burned. The window was filthy, mostly stained from years in the city, and across from it sat a small stove with a fire burning inside its black iron body.

Vincent slouched, shrugging out of his jacket and vest, loosening his tie. Already disheveled before returning home that night, he appeared to have run a marathon when he sat on the low bed. It creaked under his weight, protesting in its old age, but the springs would hold. He carelessly kicked out of his shoes and slid them under the bed, lying back without bothering to change clothes. He was tired, and daylight would come only too soon.[/JUSTIFY][/COLOR][/FONT][/B]