The Infernalist partakes in an intricate ritual.
He squeezes ketchup onto his burger’s pickles. He places a dozen fries in between the patties. He coats his mouth with a huge sip of a chocolate milkshake, in preparation for the main course. Then, he chows down.
After he swallows, he kicks his feet up onto the table and grins contentedly. No one reprimands him, as the restaurant has been closed for two hours. He thinks he can taste it, this time. Even if he can’t, what’s life without a few rituals?
The Exile who sits across from him, wearing a heavy set of black vestments, glares daggers. She has not stepped foot into this hokey, run-down burger joint to watch a man partake in a hollow ritual. Before the man can lavish another bite, she speaks up.
“I had assumed you’d be wise enough not to waste the time of a potential benefactor, but-”
The Infernalist, whose pungent and greasy leather jacket drapes around his shirtless, rite-carved torso, interrupts by raising a ketchup stained finger.
“Why rush a good thing?”
The woman snaps.
“Because I have a praxis to claim, and little time before Hell—or Heaven breaks loose. And I’d like to cut to the chase, as it were. How much money will it take for you not to cause problems, once I begin to stake my claim?”
The man chuckles, then grins in a way he finds charismatic but that she finds repugnant.
“Lady, it’d take a king’s ransom to stop me from causing trouble. Trouble’s my middle name.”
It takes all her willpower for her not to roll her eyes. The Infernalist continues.
“Besides, this place is crawling with suits. They’d blank you if you tried, before you could even say Jack Daniel.”
The woman replies,
“This place was crawling with suits. They did a good job tidying up, kept the whole city free of us and just about every other creature for almost two decades. But that was over six years ago.”
The man gives a blank look, then shrugs.
“Haven’t done my homework. Enlighten me, miss scholar.”
She explains in the cadence of correcting a child.
“Ever since the broadcast, these suits have been putting out fire after fire. They’ve consolidated, they’ve shrunk, and they’ve lost. Look at what happened to Sacramento.”
He groans.
“Damn place. Don’t remind me.”
She continues.
“You understand my point. They’re too scattered to disturb my Praxis. And if they become troublesome, a deal can be struck. They need all the help they can get, no matter the source.”
The man sets down his burger and claps.
“Well, you’ve clearly thought this through. Hell, I’m even a fan. This could be the first city to tolerate infernalists.”
His eyes glimmer at the prospect. She anticipates his next question and clarifies,
“The demons won’t be troublesome, either. I have one in their ranks. He will be a useful resource.”
He nods.
“Mine too. So long as that resource is spent on killing things.”
She crinkles her nose.
“Don’t remind me. So, do we have an accord?”
The man kicks his feet off the table and sits up straight, thinking. He shrugs, then grabs the woman’s hand for a handshake.
“Sure. Forget the money, though. I’ll cash in my boon later.”
The woman retracts her hand, stained with ketchup. She wipes it on a napkin and stands, looking disgusted.
“Fine. I hope not to hear from you otherwise.”
The woman leaves the restaurant, and the man returns to his burger, fries, and milkshake. Victory never tasted so sweet.1