I've always seen this thread here, but never really tried to post. Everything I write usually ends up being over fifty pages on MS Word. But I can try, at least. This particular post has promise to be something bigger. I might post more later, but tell me what you think about this?
Vincent moved along the sidewalk with the crowd, one hand in a pocket and the other grasping a black book. The moon was a massive, round orange-yellow, illuminating the sky better than the gas lamps could. Hansoms rattled down the cobblestone streets, pulled by great shaggy beasts that slightly resembled horses, which was what they were called, though they seemed to be some other species entirely. Voices blended with the wooden rattles and clopping hooves, the city a busy place even in the night. Vincent’s ears were always overwhelmed when he left the comfort of his home, trying to keep up with the rapid conversations over the unimportant noises and sights. But their meaningless rambles had none of Vincent’s interest at the time. He turned to a less-populated alley, where he could lean against the wall of a café and breathe easily.
He opened the black book and examined the contents. On the flimsy, yellowish pages, in a hurried and slightly spiked script, a name and time was written. He didn’t have a pocket watch--they always broke when in his possession--but the clock tower was conveniently located in the square, which was directly across from the mouth of the alley. He glanced above the bobbing heads of the passersby as they laughed and reveled in the moonlight, as the clock read 11:58. Almost midnight, he thought to himself, closing the book and slipping it into his pocket. He glanced down the alley, into the slight darkness that blanketed the crossing beyond. Someone was moving there.
He didn’t take the time to study who was moving; he leapt into a quick walk as silently as he could. His footsteps were not exactly stealthy, but they were mostly covered by the noise still spilling into the alley and echoing away. The shadow of a man Vincent was stalking moved out of sight, along the alleyway to the left, and Vincent hurried to catch up. Turning the corner, the man had stopped to fiddle with something small in his hands. He was under a lit window, and could be seen easily: Brown hair, the color of earth, and oddly pale skin. His clothes were ripped and dirty, mismatched as though he had scrounged them from bins outside tailor shops. Vincent undid the one button on his jacket, moving it aside and feeling for his belt. It was brass, containing several instruments that were very rare to any humans. Very good as well; Vincent was a demon.
He picked up his pace, trotting then sprinting toward the man; only moments before contact the man was aware of someone else near. When he turned, Vincent ran into him, throwing the disheveled human into the wall behind him and pinning him there. Vincent’s contact had told him the man would be easy, much more than other cases, since he was older and ill. But the man’s face contorted, becoming angry and afraid. Whatever he held fell to the ground and his hands came up, grabbing Vincent around the neck and pushing him back. The demon gritted his teeth, bringing his leg up and kicking him back into the wall. He couldn’t get to his belt while the man was alive. Mostly alive, anyway.
Balling his hand into a fist, Vincent struck out, knocking the man off his feet and onto the ground. He pulled a jade rosary from his pocket--the sight and feel still made him uneasy--and wrapped it around his victim’s neck, pushing down. The man was a fighter, and kicked his legs, managing to hit Vincent’s back and head. His hands flexed, digging into the demon’s arms, but did nothing to stop the strangulation. After several minutes of struggle, as the jade rosary cut both human and demon skin, the older man fell still and silent.
Without wasting time, Vincent returned the rosary to his pocket and pulled a long instrument from his belt. It was an impossibly-large syringe, made of brass and glass, which he uncapped and set on the ground. From the other side he unclipped a small bottle, thickly made of white crystal and corked. Pulling the man’s shirt over his head, hiding his face, Vincent held the syringe in his right hand and pushed the needle into the mortal's chest. When it was secure, he began extraction. Slowly, an odd grayish-red mist filled its chamber, swirling with a life of its own. When it was full, Vincent wrenched the needle out of the man’s chest and yanked his shirt back down, slipping the needle into the bottle through its cork and pushing the mist into the small container.
He stood, placing the syringe back into its holder, and lifted the bottle to the light of the window above. It moved still, as though wind was forever altering its state, but gained a human form from time to time. The soul was relieved of its owner, at last. He replaced the bottle on his belt and backed away, buttoning his jacket back to hide the brass belt. Vincent didn’t need anyone giving him a glance at his odd choice of accessory. He was already strange enough in appearance; with skin light tan instead of pale or grayish of a demon, hair light blonde and almost to his shoulders rather than black or brown or even a dark red like everyone else in the city, and eyes an icy blue rather than brown or dark green or hazel or gray. He stuck out well, even for a demon.
Still, he thought, it was a nice night’s work. A collected soul--be it a cheap one--for his client, and money for him. If it had been a rare or important soul, that of a king or duchess or a high-ranking demon or devil, he would be keeping it. Stepping out of the alley, he smiled. Another soul would come along soon; he knew that. They always did.