My food finally arrived and it was truly glorious to eat. I'll say one thing for Hell, for all of the great things I could list about my home, demons were far from the best cooks. There were so many different breeds and all of them didn't half eat some weird and wonderful things – or disgusting things perhaps would be a more astute description. Hybrids like me were the only breed with a stomach for typically human food, but Hell was also not abundant with good cooking facilities; beyond a nice rare steak it was often hard to get a really good meal. The food was one of the only things that made time on the surface much more bearable.

As I ate I mulled over my options. Goal one of my case may have been about half completed, I'd successfully located my target, but I still needed to figure out a way to weed my way into his life enough to influence his corruption, and that proved to be more difficult. It was only when I took my empty plate back up to the bar that the ideal opportunity presented itself.

Frances took my plate from me and I forced a smile to my lips, which actually became much more genuine an expression when I spotted yet another chalk written sign beside the kitchen door. It read 'Help Wanted'.

“Thanks, that was lovely,” I said in my best, most perky, enthusiastic voice, though I'm certain she didn't believe it; trying too hard maybe? I let the smile droop a little and adopted a more sedate, professional tone. “Uh, hey, I couldn't help but notice the sign.” I pointed in case she wasn't sure which one I was referring to. “You looking for bar staff?”

She nodded, though a frown added deep furrows to her already creased brow; I got the impression that she frowned a lot. “Yes, the signs been up there for months actually. You got any experience working behind a bar? I'm short handed already, working every hour under the sun, and I really don't have the time to train somebody how to pull pints.”

“I've worked behind a fair few bars before. I know the drill,” I said.

“You're not going to be too busy doing...whatever it is you came here to do to work the shifts I need covered?” she enquired, arching an eyebrow in my direction.

It didn't seem often that somebody actually rented one of their rooms, I supposed it was pretty obvious I already had another reason for being in the village – and I knew I needed to create a 'reason' I could actually tell people about if I was questioned, no time like the present.

I smiled and shook my head. “No, I have a few things I do need to tie up around the village. Family business y'know, that's why I'm really here. But I'm not actually sure there's a whole lot I can do here on my own, and no idea how long I'm going to be stuck here before the rest of the tribe turn up so...” I shrugged. “May as well make myself useful if I can, need something to do with my time.”

“Uhuh...” she intoned, disbelievingly.

The lie had fallen so easily off of my tongue, decades of fabricating myself a background and wheedling my way into peoples lives, I was certain that my knack for 'acting' the part wasn't failing me – not entirely anyway, perhaps I wasn't quite up to my usual standards, but it was a good enough story. Frances just wasn't the trusting sort.

Still though, I was hopeful that she would offer me the job – desperately hopeful, if she didn't I'd have to think of another plan, maybe become an alcoholic just so I could spend all my time in the pub. Her quizzing me felt quite a lot like many other informal interviews I'd been given over the years, perhaps a little more critical and scrutinizing but on the whole it was the same.

I waited for her response, a small smile stretching my lips. If the sign had been up for months and she'd rejected all the other 'applicants' because they had no experience I was a shoe-in surely, if only Frances could work through that distrustful stance she held.

An even deeper set of frown lines creased her brow and she suddenly leaned over the bar, drawing her face so close to mine that I actually jumped and leaned away in surprise. Her eyes were tracing the lower half of my face with a little too much interest. It was unnerving.

“You get that in your last job?” Frances asked, her voice laced with suspicion as she slipped back to a more comfortable distance and pointed to my jaw.

Confused, I lifted my hand and pressed it against the side of my face, just below my mouth where she'd pointed, and flinched as my fingers traced the bruise. I'd almost forgotten it was there, I healed pretty quickly and it had only been a superficial injury where Shane had backhanded me across the face. The scabbing inside, where my teeth had cut through the flesh of my cheek, had already gone, though still slightly tender, and the bruising along my jaw had already turned a sickly yellowish green. Apparently it was still clear enough for Frances and her beady grey eyes to spot.

“What? Oh, no, no not from work. This is, I suppose, what I get for trying to help out some family,” I said, formulating a story as quickly as I could. “Packing boxes,” I added in explanation, reading by the look on her face that she wasn't following me. “Someone was a little careless with their stacking, one box too high and the whole pile took a tumble. Tried to catch them but they were heavy, filled with books, and my face took the brunt of one.”

The story sounded a little pathetic, not at all up to my usual standards, so I couldn't really blame the woman if she didn't entirely believe me. But it was all the story she was going to get, wasn't like I could tell her the truth about what had happened. In the end she turned away from me and started to load the pot wash.

“Well, I suppose we can give you a try, Ms...Smith was it?”

I nodded and managed to hold back the cringe that wanted to fall over my face, my lack of imagination with my alias had been even worse than my attempt at sounding 'exotic' in my last case. But I'd had no cover story pre-arranged at all, not even a name, so when I had to sign the booking form for the room I'd rented it had put me on the spot and Ms Smith was all that had come to mind.

“You know, I should probably know your first name too if you're actually going to be working here and not just a guest.”

“Right, of course. Sorry...” I looked up and cast my eyes around the room, searching for some inspiration. I couldn't go with Rayne, it was too weird, plus it was frowned upon to use our given names on the surface, almost believing if we reveal that first part of the secret then the rest of the truth behind our identities would come spilling forth to follow it.

My eyes fell upon a watercolour hanging in the centre of the cabinet that held glasses behind the bar. Where, traditionally, a mirror would be hung sat a sprawling field of flowers.

“It's Heather,” I finally replied, quietly thanking that field of purple flowers.

“Okay then, Heather. Tomorrow, six sharp, that's when the evening rush will start. I'll give you a quick run down of how things work and then me and Alan can take a much needed few hours off.”

“Thanks, that's great....uh, so you're going to leave me to run this place alone?”

“We'll be around to keep an eye on you, but if you know what you're doing it shouldn't be an issue. Right.” She fixed me with a hard stare and I knew that, even if I was alone in the bar, she'd still be watching me somehow; the thought made me a little nervous.

“Nope, no issue at all.”

“Good. Fridays are usually our busiest so it'll show us whether you're going to be up for the task.”

“Great, I will look forward to it,” I said with some apprehension. I may have gotten exactly what I wanted, but for some reason I didn't exactly feel happy about it.“So, are those guys over there regulars here?” I asked, wanting to inject some enthusiasm back into my step. Frances might well have some useful information on my target that would be of help. “They're a rowdy bunch, aren't they.”

“They're all regulars, the people that come here. We don't get many who don't live in the village dropping in. You're the first in at least six months; lucky for me I suppose. But those boys, yes, they are probably in here more often than most. Useful to have around, builders the lot of them, but they do like a drink or two and can get a bit rowdy at times. They're mostly good boys though. Still think you can handle the job?”

“Of course. If I could handle the drunken lechers when I worked the bar in a strip club I can handle anything.”

That little snippet of information slipped out before I'd even noticed, but I knew right away it had been a bad slip. Frances cast me a dark, sideways look from where she was polishing a glass and shook her head. She was going to be even more wary and suspicious of me now, but as long as it didn't interfere with the job I had to do it wouldn't matter much. I'd just have to be more careful – and somehow work the strip club into my cover story – hopefully I would be out of there before she discovered anything interesting enough to sink her teeth into. Besides, it's not like I told her I'd been a stripper or anything.

“Well, just remember Heather, tomorrow, six sharp. If you're late don't even bother showing up, I don't have time to train someone and I certainly don't have time for you to mess me about.”

I nodded and forced a smile. Her attitude was abrasive and unpleasant, but she was asserting her authority over an 'intruder' in her life so I could understand it, a little. I wasn't there to tread on her toes, in fact I would avoid her at all costs if possible; her idea to have me work the closing shifts so she and her husband could spend some time alone together would be quite the perfect set up.

The day was most certainly looking up.

* * *

I spent the rest of the day, and most of the next, trying to work out a more thorough cover story for my 'Heather Smith' alias; somehow I didn't think Frances was done with her questioning.

We'd had a little more, awkward conversation and she'd agreed that I could carry on renting the room at a slightly discounted rate in return for the working the hours up to closing behind the bar and then helping to lock up pretty much every night of the week. I'd get a day or two off if I was lucky, at least that was the impression I got. Or , at least, I could stay at the pub until I 'found myself somewhere more permanent to live'. I was now hoping I could get the job done and be out of there before she started asking me how my house hunting was going.

It was when I finally crawled into bed that first night that the exhaustion hit me like a ton of bricks. The room, for all of its frills and flowers, was comfortable, and falling beneath the covers was the best feeling I'd had in weeks. Having nowhere else to be until six the following evening I planned to sleep in late and properly recharge my batteries. I hoped I could also get a grip on my human side, she'd been putting up too much of a fight recently for my liking; I blamed the lack of sleep.

While it wasn't quite the restful nights sleep I would have gotten back home, I woke feeling mildly refreshed and much more confident about tackling the next part of my case. The time was nearing noon before I dragged myself out of bed, appreciating the quiet indifference of the sleepy country village; far less infectious than the busy city I'd recently left behind. While my human side was still gently simmering beneath the surface, she was much easier to ignore and not demanding so much control, nor craving so severely for companionship.

Perhaps I could have spent a few hours in the village doing a little more reconnaissance, but by the time I'd dressed I had talked myself out of the idea. I'd learned nothing from all my trawling the streets the day before, why would today be any better?

Jesse was sure to come to the pub that night; it was a Friday, he was a regular, it seemed inevitable. So, instead of taking a fruitless walk I took the time to be sure I had my cover story firmly set in my mind. An actress I could be, but improvisation could be a problem. Make too many things up on the spot and before you know it you're contradicting yourself.

By the time six o'clock rolled around that Friday evening, and I stood behind the bar waiting to begin my trial as barmaid, I had pretty much figured out the complete life and times of Heather Smith. My creative bone had been feeling a little fractured so I'd taken a few liberties with my previous Dahlia alias, and the events that had happened on that case – the working in a strip club part not the murdering bouncer being dragged to Hell part.

So, should anyone actually venture to ask, I was Heather Smith, formerly from London where I had lived and worked for some time in bars and clubs mostly; some much more questionable than others. But when one of the girls I had worked with was found dead in one of the back-rooms I'd decided to leave the big city and find myself somewhere more quiet to settle down as I neared my thirties.

The perfect opportunity arose when a distant relative passed away, leaving some property to my immediate family. Being the only one without a job to interfere with my time, I was sent to the village to check things out, begin proceedings with lawyers and what not, but most of all scope out the area so the decision could be made on whether to sell or not. It all sounded complicated and boring enough for people not to question me too deeply about the facts, but was also feasible enough to pass for a decent explanation as to why I was there, as well as why I might suddenly leave.

Friday nights, as it turned out, were actually pretty busy. I'd been dubious at Frances' words but I'd been pleasantly surprised. Okay so it wasn't anything like the heaving crowds that had frequented that seedy strip club, but for a quaint country village there was quite a crowd.

The bar was never overrun with customers, particularly with both myself, Frances and her husband Alan all serving. They were finishing up the afternoon shift and hanging around to 'show me the ropes' and mostly, I suspected, watch me and make sure I could work up to standard.

They appeared to be satisfied with my work. Once I'd learned how their till worked and where everything was located I fell into the flow of a job I'd done a hundred times before. My only worry was my 'real' job, for Jesse and his friends had still to show their faces.

Frances eventually told me that the job was mine and she expected me on closing duty for the rest of the weekend.

Nine o'clock rolled around, Frances and Alan announced that they were going to retire upstairs for the night and to just yell if I needed anything – though I had a feeling she would be down to check on me from time to time. But hope that I was going to have a productive evening had started to fizzle out, sure I'd got the job but that had only been part of the days goal. I really didn't need another case that lasted a week or more.

The door that led upstairs slammed closed as Frances and Alan disappeared, shooting hungry looks at each other all the way across the room. Apparently Alan hadn't gotten away from the bar before midnight for at least and year and I had a funny feeling they had a little more than a decent nights sleep on their minds.

I had to shake my head at them. Not at the fact that they wanted to get upstairs so badly and tear each others clothes off, but at the fact that they'd let running a pub between them interfere with them doing just that for the past however many months. I bet that, even despite the late nights that working the bar asked of them, they both still felt like they had to be up and ready for the day by eight in the morning for fear of feeling like they'd wasted their day. Sometimes I just didn't understand the way humans would think, what was so wrong with the night that they felt they should just sleep it all away?

Though I didn't have long to linger on my thoughts, for at that same moment when one door closed, another one opened and in strolled Jesse and his band of builder friends. Time to really get to work.