Dim yellow light trickled in through the dirty window that sat high above the main door. Motes of dust danced in the feeble sunbeams that illuminated the interior of a room that smelled vaguely of mould and neglect. 

Neither of the two men occupying the room appeared to notice the disarray surrounding them, or if they did, they had long since decided that cleaning it up would require too much effort.

John St. John, the older of the two men, sat at his desk, one hand tracing the contours of his chin as his eyes remained fixated on the glowing sphere of light in front of him. He leaned in close for a moment, then, with a low growl of disgust, he swiped his hand through the globe, causing it to dissipate. 

“Anything?” he asked gruffly.

With a sigh, Phillip made the memory sphere he had been searching blink out of view. “Nothing.” 

He looked like he wanted to say more, but a deep boom sounded in the distance, rattling the floors and windows.

“Damn it,” John said, grabbing his cup of coffee before it could spill over the projector on his desk.

“You’d think they could give it a rest once in a while,” he grumbled.

Phil snorted. “I doubt they know how. Who is it this week anyway?”

“How would I know?” John replied. 

Phil barked a laugh. “You don’t even know which house is in rule do you?”

“What does it matter? It’ll be different again by tomorrow.”

“Well, you’re probably not wrong there,” Phil agreed.

Leaning forward in his chair, Phil examined his own projector, then with a curse, he popped out the small, blue marble that had been nestled in its center and brought it up to his eye to examine. He swore again.

“Cracked,” he said. “Right through. That’s the third memory sphere I’ve lost this month.” 

“At least you already examined it,” John offered.

Phil tossed the marble into the trash can beside his desk with a little more force than was required. “Sure, but now I’ve got to log it all manually.”

“Better start now then,” John said.

Phil made a rude gesture, and John chuckled. Pulling an uncolored,  glass marble from the drawer of his desk, Phil popped it into the projector. A clear sphere appeared in the space above his desk and Phil’s fingers went to work manipulating the data within.

John watched him a moment, then returned his eyes to his own desk. He wiped the spilled coffee with the sleeve of his shirt and was in the act of rising to fetch more coffee when the front door opened and a large figure stooped in through the doorframe. 

Deep red eyes peered out at him from the folds of a face so dark and worn, John almost couldn’t make out the individual features. What was impossible to miss, though,  were the large, leathery wings that very nearly didn’t make it through the door.

“Good afternoon, Peter,” John said, making his way toward the coffee machine. “Coffee?”

“Yes, please,” came the growled reply.

Peter turned to regard the door. “Why do you stay in this office, John? That door is a damnable thing.”

John filled a clean mug and handed it to Peter, who grasped it in a taloned fist.

“Because it keeps most demons out,” John replied.

“That’s a fairly prejudiced statement,” Peter replied.

John raised a brow and Peter sighed in a low rumble. “I suppose it’s merited, though.”

“What’s happening outside?” Phil asked, pushing aside his work. 

Peter shrugged one bony shoulder. “What’s always happening.”

“Yes, but which houses?”

“Hardly matters,” Peter responded.

“What’s the point of Civil war, if no one even knows who’s fighting?” Phil argued.

Peter lifted one taloned finger and tapped Phil right in the center of the forehead. “You think too much like a human.”

“I am a human.”

“So the smell of your sweat would suggest,” Peter said, with a wrinkle of his nose.

“Well, we can’t all smell like brimstone,” Phil shot back.

“Never mind,” John said, cutting them off. “What did you bring us?”

Peter held out a large brown envelope. When John didn’t take it, he shook it slightly. “Oh, go on, take it. Not taking it won’t change a thing. Don’t look at me like that, John, I’m just a courier. I don’t write the damn things.”

With a sigh, John reached out and took the envelope. 

Peter swallowed back the rest of his coffee and placed the mug gently back on the desk. “Well, always a pleasure, gentlemen. Thanks for the coffee.” 

He bent down and slunk out the door, closing it firmly behind him.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Phil was the first to break the silence.

“Been a while since we had a name,” he said. “Thought they were still mad at us for that affair in Montana.”

John grunted and sat back down at his desk. He turned the envelope over in his hand. He had a bad feeling about it.

“You going to open it?” Phil asked.

John hesitated another moment, then tore open the envelope and pulled out the single sheet of paper inside. He read the name and address scrawled across the paper, and then he read it again. He closed his eyes and held the paper out to Phil.

Phil glanced at it, then scrubbed a hand across the back of his head. “Guess they are still mad. Want me to take this one?”

“No,” John said.

“You sure?”

John nodded and then, because he was afraid if he waited he would lose his nerve,  he grabbed his coat, tugged it on, and hastened out the door into the sickly yellow glow of the eight plane of hell.

***

“Going up?” the demon in the elevator rasped when the doors opened.

John thought it might have been female, but with demons, it was hard to tell.

John nodded, then said, "Yes."

“ID?” the demon requested. 

John turned his head to the side and let the demon scan the area right below his ear.

The scanner beeped, and the demon grunted. “Reaper is it? Well, get in then.”

John entered the elevator, and the demon hit the button for the top floor.

The elevator rumbled as it passed the seventh circle, but steadied again as it moved on. The two outer rings of the seventh circle were a plane of existence John hoped to never visit again, but the inner circle had been a pleasant reprieve from the usual drudgery of hell, its inhabitants having turned it into a rather splendid beach.

The elevator stopped with a bing on the top floor and John exited into the first circle of hell. He hoped he didn’t run into Aristotle today. He wasn’t in the mood. 

Making his way quickly down a well worn road, that was, contrary to popular opinion, not paved with gold, John approached a small hut, with a weather-beaten door and knocked. 

There was a sound of shuffling from inside, then a hatch opened in the door and an old woman peered out. 

“Oh, it’s you,” she said, and slammed the hatch closed. 

A moment later, the door creaked open and John stepped in.

“Haven’t seen you in a bit,” the old woman said, poking a bony finger into his rib.

“Hello, Miri,” John said. “I’ve been off.”

“Yes, heard you got in trouble for that bit in Montanna,” she cackled. “Would have paid a pretty to have seen that.”

John snorted, but didn’t comment.

“Well, nevermind,” Miri said, “you’re back now. Come on then, up you go.”

She indicated the staircase at the back of the room. John took the stairs two at a time and, ignoring the two bedrooms off to the sides, he made straight for the ladder in the center of the hallway that led to a hatch in the roof. He climbed, popped the hatch, and pulled himself up until he was sitting at the bottom of a grave under blue sky. Birds were singing nearby and John closed his eyes. He’d almost forgotten what they had sounded like.

Standing, he kicked the hatch shut and hoisted himself out of the grave. A man nearby by, clipping hedges did a double take when he saw John, but John wasn’t worried. In a few minutes, the man would forget him entirely and John St. John would be halfway down the street. Perk of being a non entity. 

Pausing in the parking lot, John checked the sheet of paper again and considered his options. None of them were good. With a sigh, he returned the paper to his pocket and picked up his pace. He’d made up his mind, and heaven help him, because hell certainly wouldn’t.

***

He watched the young man exit the east doors of the shopping mall and head towards the subway stairs. Trying to remain inconspicuous, John fell in behind him, employing his elbows to make space where needed. One woman shot him a dark look, but John paid her no mind.

John reached the platform a step behind the young man. The station speakers chimed, announcing the approach of the subway, and John maneuvered closer to his target. Nearby, an argument broke out and John tensed. The young man, ear pods in, seemed oblivious to the commotion behind him as he stepped closer to the edge of the platform and peered down the tunnel. The rumble of the train intensified and as the lights became visible around the last corner, one of the men who had been arguing shoved his adversary toward the platform lip. The man stumbled and stretched out his arm to catch himself on the nearest available object. In this case, the oblivious young man standing on the edge of the platform. 

John reached out, and with a firm grasp, pulled the young man back. The other man sprawled along the platform, but thankfully, didn’t go over. Several onlookers rushed to his aid as the Subway zipped into the station.

“What-” the young man started, still held by the jacket in John’s fist.

“Quiet,” John hissed.
 
A tone sounded and the doors of the train opened. The young man tried to turn to get a look at John. 

“That’s my train,” he said.

He reached his hand up to pry John’s fingers from his coat, but John held tight.

With his free hand, John reached up and plucked the ear pods from the man’s ears.

“Shut up and listen,” John said.

“What are you-” the young man cut off as a high screech resonated through the station. There was no mistaking it for anything other than what it was.

The young man paled. “What the hell was that?”

“A failsafe,” John mumbled, still scanning the crowd.

The people pushing along the platform gave no indication of anything abnormal. Those boarding continued to push towards the train and those exiting made towards the stairs. Off to the side, John could see the man who had fallen being attended to by station security.

The young man in his grip was wide eyed and casting frightened glances around the platform. “Why is no one looking for that sound?”

“Because they can’t hear it,” John replied, “now be quiet. I need to hear which way they’re coming from.”

“Which way what is coming from?” the young man demanded.

Jonah ignored him and listened instead to the sounds of the station. The screeching had stopped, even the echo of it dissipating, but that didn’t mean they were gone. Over the din of the crowd, John heard a faint rustle of wings brushing against each other and the gentle click of talons on metal. They were on top of the Subway car.

John swung the young man around and shoved him towards the stairs, shouting, “Run! Up the stairs. Go!”

The young man bolted like a frightened horse, and John followed close behind, shoving commuters aside to make space.

There was a hiss and another screech from behind and as they made it to street level, John reached out and grabbed the boy by the Jacket again.

“Follow me if you want to live,” he hissed in his ear.

The young man twisted in his grip, this time managing to get free and stumble a few steps backwards. “Who are you, dude? What’s going on?”

 A third screech filled the air, and the young man turned towards the sound.

“What the shit is that?!” he asked, his voice hoarse.

“Demons,” John said calmly. “Well, Pishacas, really. They’re coming for you.”

Wide, gunmetal blue eyes met his. “Are you for real?”

John grabbed the boy by the arm, turning them so they were walking down the street, away from the Subway station.

“Now listen,” John said quietly, “and do as I say. Don’t look back. Walk, don’t run, and try to calm down. They can smell fear.”

The young man yanked his arm from John’s grasp and made a noise somewhere between disbelief and panic. “Calm down? How am I supposed to calm down?”

“This way,” John said, quickening his pace, but keeping it short of a jog. 

They ducked down an alley to the next street,  then darted across to another alley where John lifted the lid of a dumpster and indicated for the boy to hop in.

“Now way,” the young man said.

John pointed his finger and said firmly, “Get in!”

The boy glanced behind him, but the fear must have been prevalent enough because he crawled in without further complaint. John followed him in, carefully lowering the lid above them so only a thin slit was left for them to see the alley.

“Oh god, it reeks,” the young man said.

John motioned him to silence, but the young man ignored him.

“Who are you anyway? You look familiar, but I can’t place you.”

John said nothing, and the boy continued.

“Hey, am I getting punked here? Did Aaron put you up to this? There’s no way there are demons-”

John leaned over and put his hand over the kids mouth. With his other hand, he held his finger to his lips and pointed out towards the alley.

A dark shape slid into view, slinking along the alley. The young man’s eyes fixed on the shape, and John could feel the boy’s breath quicken. The creature stopped, turning to sniff the air.

John leaned forward until his mouth was nearly pressed against the boy’s ear. “When I say go. Run.”

The young man nodded against John’s hand. Outside, the Pishaca turned its snout towards the dumpster and sniffed the air again.

John took a deep breath, shoved the lid upward, shouted “Now!” and flung himself at the demon.