Killian stood on the stoop of 1666 Red Street and sighed. He glanced over at Morris, casually smoking one of his god-awful clove cigarettes. “How are you so goddamn calm?”
Morris shrugged. “Getting all worked up about it don’t make it easier.”
“I hate removal day.”
“Everybody hates removal day,” Morris said. “Now, you gonna knock?”
“Gimme a sec.” Killian patted his satchel, taking comfort in the clink of tiny vials filled with holy water. Then he touched the crucifix hanging around his neck. All was in order.
Morris waited, smoking.
Killian raised a fist and rapped on the door. Hard. There was no answer, but he heard furtive movement inside. The skitter of feet. No, not feet. Hooves.
He knocked again. “Sandra Carlisle. This is the OPS. We have a writ.”
“She ain’t gonna answer,” Morris said. He started doing squats to stretch his legs, like he always did before he kicked in a door, but before he could put his steel-toed boots to work, the door opened.
The stench of brimstone that wafted out of the house made Killian’s eyes water, and he was suddenly thankful for the lesser reek of Morris’ clove cigs. When his vision cleared, he saw a woman standing in the doorway, the darkness behind her clearly not the natural kind as Killian couldn’t actually see into the house.
“What do you want?” Sandra Carlisle said. She was dressed in a plain white dress that hung in loose folds from her gaunt frame. Her eyes were hollow pits, and her skin was sickly yellow. Clear signs of soul erosion.
Morris chuckled. “Like you don’t know. How many houses on this block smell like Satan’s asshole?”
Killian winced at Morris’ bluntness, but he was right. The stink tipped off the neighbors. The missing pets (and possibly one child) got the Otherworldly Protective Services involved. “We have a writ to search the premises.” He pulled it out and showed her. It had been signed by both High Priest Vorhees of the Seattle Satanic Temple and Cardinal Dean at Saint Michaels.
“I don’t care,” Sandra Carlisle said. “You can’t come in.”
“Sure we can,” Morris said. “We’re OPS agents. You think that little obfuscation spell you got up is gonna stop a mystic writ signed by both sides?”
Again, Killian wished Morris could be nicer, but the man knew how to get his point across. The darkness behind Sandra Carlisle faded and bloody tears ran down her cheeks.
“Please don’t take my babies,” she whispered, but stood aside, letting Killian see the absolute wreck of her house. The walls were splashed with gore crudely shaped into demonic sigils, and trash was piled everywhere.
“How many?” Morris asked.
Sandra said nothing for a moment, then wiped at her eyes and seemed to gather herself. “Fourteen.”
“Type ones?” Killian asked.
“Mostly. I, uh, summoned a type two a few weeks ago.”
“No wonder you look like chicken fried shit,” Morris said. “Type twos are hungry.” He brushed past Sandra into the house, pulling a piece of white chalk from his pants pocket.
“Sandra,” Killian said. “You can’t take care of this many demons. The first was a familiar, right?”
Fresh tears flowed. “Yeah, Fergie. I was afraid he was getting lonely.”
Killian looked over her shoulder and saw Morris had found space in the living room to draw a portal sigil. He also saw four tiny, red-skinned demonlings peering at the OPS agent from around piles of garbage.
“You’ve only been feeding them from your own soul, right?” Killian asked.
Sandra looked away. “Yeah.”
Killian drew in a deep breath and let it out through his teeth. She was lying, but that wasn’t his jurisdiction. “You have a license for a single type one demon. The others have been summoned outside the laws of the Black Accords. They have to go back.”
“What about Fergie?” she asked then shuddered as Morris began to chant, loudly, behind her.
“He goes, too. You violate the accords, you lose access to transdimensional entities for a term of six years.”
“No, no, please,” she whispered, desperate. “I won’t summon more.”
“You won’t be able to.” While they’d been talking, Killian had palmed a vial of holy water. He popped the cork with his thumb and splashed the front of Sandra’s dress with it. She stumbled back in horror, smoke rising from the fabric. While she was distracted, Killian intoned the Rite of Closure.
“What have you done?!” Sandra cried.
“I’ve saved what soul you have left and made sure you can’t make this mistake again.” Her skin had already taken on a healthy pinkish tone, and she’d start gaining weight now.
Morris stopped chanting, and Killian heard a deep sucking sound. The portal was open. Demonlings flew through the air, drawn inexorably toward the gate to hell. Morris counted out loud as each one disappeared into the glowing red aperture on the floor with a faint popping noise.
“Come with me,” Killian said to Sandra and took her by the hand. “You don’t need to see this.”
Sandra allowed herself to be led outside. She looked shell-shocked. When she said the demons were her babies, she meant it. She’d nurtured them on her soul, and they were virtually pieces of her own being.
“Okay, that’s it,” Morris said from the doorway. “Got all thirteen.”
Killian shook his head. “There’s fourteen.” He then noticed his partner held something wrapped in a dirty bath towel and groaned
Morris pushed the bundle into Sandra’s arms, and Killian caught a glimpse of red skin and shark-like teeth.
“Fergie!” Mrs. Carlisle said and hugged the little demon to her chest. Her tears were clear and bright now.
“We’re not supposed to do that,” Killian said when he and Morris were back in the car.
Morris sparked up another clove and shrugged. “So I missed one.”
“Uh huh.” Killian smiled. “You’re pretty soft for a Satanic priest.”
Morris smiled back. “And you’re pretty hard for a Catholic one.”
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