The Sinner

I glance around the alley. It’s empty, but New York City breathes around us, electric and alive. Even in the deepest part of the night, it teems with life. Light.

Satisfied there are no watching eyes, I transform into my demonic form and nearly sigh with relief to feel it envelop me in strength and power, like putting on a suit of armor. I’m no longer weak from Crossing Over; the black clothes and greatsword I wear on the Other Side reform with me.

The bouncer falls back, averting his eyes. “My Lord Casziel, I had no idea. Please forgive me.”

Not long ago, I would’ve exulted in the terror my presence creates. Now it reminds me of all I’ve done to earn it.

“Step aside,” I snarl.

He does so with another bow, and I enter Idle Hands. The dark, windowless tavern reeks of a dozen foul odors—vile fumes emanate off the twenty or so demons that are congregated here. Each wears his or her demonic body. Idle Hands is a safe haven, invisible to human eyes.

Few take notice of my arrival, but behind the bar, Eistibus is staring. The djinn seems pleased to see me but not surprised.

“Lord Casziel.” Eistibus clasps my arm. “How long’s it been?”

“Fifty years by human reckoning.”

“Too long and yet it seems like yesterday.” The djinn glances at a door at the rear of the common room. “Lord Ashtaroth is waiting…”

“I’m aware.”

Let him wait.

“If you think it’s best,” Eistibus says slowly. “What’s your poison?”

It’s not a figure of speech; skulls and crossbones mark more than one bottle on the shelves.

“Wine, please. Red.”

Eistibus sets a glass of wine the color of old blood in front of me. From the waist up, the djinn appears as a rotund, richly dressed human with ropes of jewels around his thick neck and gems glinting on every finger. Below the cloth-of-gold sash at his waist, he’s made of mist. It tethers him to a lamp buried somewhere in the foundations of the tavern. Rumor has it, he lost a bet with Aclahayr.

“How long are you on This Side?”

“Not long,” I answer and sip my wine. “A few days.”

And then there will be an end, one way or another.

“What of you?” I ask. “How’s business?”

“T’is crowded these days. Strange, that. Most times, it’s just me and that wormy bastard.”

He jerks his jowly chin at the demon at the end of the bar, his head resting on the polished mahogany, one scrawny arm curling around a ring of empty shot glasses.

Eistibus pounds a fist. “Oi! Ba-Maguje! Get yer bloody ugly mug off my bar.”

“Piss off,” Ba-Maguje slurs. “I’m working.”

Eistibus chuckles but it fades fast. His gold gaze flickers toward the back door and then to me. “Not to be pressing the point, but Lord Ashtaroth was adamant that you see him immediately.”

“Trying to get rid of me already?” I smile. “I thought we were friends.”

“We are friends,” Eistibus says. “Hence the warning. And you’d be a truer friend to go quick and not let’em cut off my balls for not passing on his message.”

“You don’t have any balls, Eistibus,” I say with a grin, then flap my hand. “I’m going, I’m going.”

I drain my wine and now dozens of eyes—or what serve as eyes—follow me as I cross the room. I step over tails and around puddles of vileness. At the door, I square my shoulders and knock once.

“Enter.”