The Devil You Know

1. The White Exorcist.

1

The White Exorcist.

“Demon [noun]

de·mon ?dē-m?n

Variants or daemon

Plural: demons or daemon

1. An evil spirit. Angels and demons.

2. A source or agent of evil, harm, distress, or ruin.

3. Daemon : an attendant, power or spirit.

4. Daemon (mythology) : a supernatural being whose nature is intermediate between that of a god and that of a human being.

5. One that has exceptional enthusiasm, drive, or effectiveness.

6. (new entry) Creatures from the parallel world known as Hell.

Etimology:

Middle English, “evil spirit,” borrowed from Late Latin daemōn “evil spirit, pagan deity, idol,” going back to Latin, “supernatural being, spirit intermediate between humans and gods,” borrowed from Greek daimon -, daímōn “superhuman power, variably evil or beneficent, intervening in human affairs, fate” (Homeric), “personal spirit, bringing luck or ill, that accompanies an individual,” “spirit intermediate between humans and gods” (Plato), “evil spirit” (New Testament), probably from dai -, stem of daíomai , daíesthai “to divide, allocate” + - mōn , deverbal noun and adjective suffix.”

-Extract from the State Exorcist’s Manual , edition of 2047.

LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA, 2052

“Thank you for coming, Jon,” Willa says. “This is well above my pay grade.” The hand holding her unlit cigarette is shaking.

“That bad, uh?” I ask, pulling out a lighter.

Her smile, too, is shaky as she thanks me for the flame I present to her. For an instant, as she leans her head forward, orange hues light up the scars she keeps hidden behind dark, glossy hair. She must have been beautiful before a demon tore into her years ago.

“A class-three demon,” she answers. “I barely escaped with my life.”

Blood drips from a gash along her left arm. She’ll require stitches.

“You should have called me sooner.”

Willa snorts. “You know I can’t call on you every time I encounter a difficult demon, Jon. The state doesn’t approve of your work. I might lose my job if they knew how often I call you.”

I hate State Exorcists and their higher-ups with a passion. Most of them act like entitled pricks and junkies, drunk on power and self-importance. Willa is one of the rare ones who are worth knowing.

“You could just come work with me,” I say. Before it’s too late , I almost add.

Willa already shows signs of using too much. Her eyes have sunken and her cheeks have become hollow. She’s falling deeper into addiction with every hit of the Angels’ Tears she takes. The drug might keep her alive while facing demons, but it’ll take her life, nonetheless. In a year or two, if she survives her job, she’ll wither into an empty husk. And the government will do nothing.

“You wouldn’t pay me enough, Jon,” she says. “And unlike you—freak—I need the tears.”

I sigh, but let it go. This isn’t my fight.

“Where are they?” I ask.

“Downstairs.” She points to the dingy bar behind her.

Usually, this is one of the busiest streets in Los Angeles, but it’s four in the morning on a Tuesday, and all the bars and clubs are closed. A neon sign blinks lazily over our heads, bathing the street in a red hue. The Devil’s Lair , it spells. The universe has a dark sense of humor.

“Botched ritual?” I ask.

She nods. “Small gang wanted to get into the demonic trade. But the client bargained for more than they could handle. He summoned a class-three demon and they couldn’t contain it. Four of their men died before they could escape and lock the ritual ground.”

At least they were smart enough to do it in a place that could hold the demon. Or else the possessed would already be roaming the streets, killing and abusing innocent people.

“What did the client sacrifice?” I ask.

To summon a demon, one must make a sacrifice that leaves a wound to the soul deep enough to allow the possession. The human psyche is a stronghold with walls that crumble under trauma.

“His lover,” she says unironically. “He broke up with his boyfriend through text. It turned nasty, apparently.”

I raise a brow. “Well deserved.”

The last botched ritual I handled, the man had cut one of his balls off. And yet, he only summoned a class-five demon—the lowest rank. This guy must have loved his boyfriend more than any of us could have guessed. The pain must have taken him by surprise.

“What was he trying to achieve?” I ask.

Even though it doesn’t really matter anymore. He’ll be lucky to even be alive when I’m done.

“From what I’ve gathered, he was a model and wannabe actor. So, the usual. Charisma, beauty, fame…”

She’s talking as if he’s dead already. She doesn’t expect him to survive the demon invasion, either.

“Do you need my help?” Willa asks as I open the bar’s door.

The rusty hinges make a plaintive noise. It echoes along the quiet street.

I shake my head. “I’ll be okay. Go to bed.”

She needs time to get down properly from the high induced by the Angel’s Tear she inhaled before the job. She’ll crash soon.

Willa doesn’t try to hide her relief, and her smile pulls at her scars. She rummages through a pocket of her body armor and pulls out a small vial and a black inhaler. A few drops of silver liquid shine inside the vial. It looks like mercury. Mercury is as poisonous, but not as addictive as Angel’s Tears. I hold up a hand as she tries to give me the vial and inhaler.

“You know I don’t use it,” I say, eyeing it with disdain. What it does to me goes beyond her expectations.

“I know. And I don’t understand how you can survive without it. But take it, just in case. I’ll sleep better if I know I didn’t send you to your death without a safety net.”

I refrain from pointing that I survived much worse than a class-three demon and accept her offering. It finds its place in the inner pocket of my black coat. I can get rid of it later.

“Good luck, Jon. And remember to call the police when you’re done. The bodies need to be retrieved,” she says before I wave her off and close the door behind me.

The bar is dark and quiet. My shoes stick to the floor; they didn’t have time to clean the shop before they evacuated. There are half-empty bottles and glasses on tables, and even a line of cocaine left on a tray. They never expected the ritual to turn bad and to have to evacuate the premises.

I make my way through the bar and find a door that leads to an underground storage room. A lone lightbulb lights the way. There is fresh blood on the dusty concrete. Willa’s blood, I’m guessing. It leads directly to a tall mirror near the staff’s bathroom. The air is warm and smells of sulfur.

I walk to my reflection. Unlike Willa, who has the battle scars to attest to her dangerous job as a State Exorcist, I’m in pristine condition. Not one blemish mars my pale skin. My face is youthful—I’m twenty-seven—and yet my hair is a light gray. All colors have left me a long time ago. Even my eyes are the shade of ice under the sun. I’m wearing my coat over my dress pants and a white shirt—too formal for my surroundings.

I put a hand over my reflection and push. The mirror swings open, revealing another staircase going deeper underground. A manic laugh echoes from beyond a metal door at the bottom of the stairs.

“I hear you, little mouse,” the demon says in a broken voice as I come down the steps. He must have been screaming for hours. “Are you coming back to play?”

There are five locks on the heavy door. The demonic traders were careful, at the very least. I put on black gloves and locate the small wooden box I keep in one of my largest pockets. Inside is a velvet cushion cradling three glass balls filled with holy water. They look similar to the fancy Christmas decorations my mom used to hang in the tree when I was a child. I wasn’t allowed to touch, which, of course, only increased my curiosity. Until the day I broke one of them and cut my hand while trying to put it back together. As soon as my mother heard my sobs and realized what had happened, she slapped me hard enough to make me forget the pain. The thin pieces of glass lost their appeal once covered in blood.

I take one of the holy water ampoules and put the case back in my pocket. The demon is now scratching on the door from the other side, waiting for me. If he expects Willa, he’ll be sorely disappointed. It’s not a mouse who has come out to play.

As soon as I’ve freed the locks, the demon pushes against the door. But I’m holding fast; I’m stronger than I look. The beautiful man he’s possessing appears through the gap, his face twisted with an awful smile.

“Here you are, little mouse,” he says in his broken voice.

I let the door go and bring my hand over his head. The ampoule breaks on impact, releasing the holy water. The demon screeches and backs away as his skin blisters. I enter the ritual ground and kick him in the chest to free the way, then close the door behind me. There’s one lock on this side, too, covered in blood. It must have slowed the victims’ escape when they realized they couldn’t contain the demon.

The ritual ground is like the hundreds I’ve seen before. The circles and runes on the floor are crude, drawn by amateurs with chalk and salt. But they were still good enough to channel the connection with Hell.

Hell, unlike what most religions like to pretend, is not where the dark souls go. No human has ever set foot in that wretched place. It’s another world entirely that overlaps our own—like many others. Except twenty years ago, the veil between our two realities thinned, and the number of possessions increased in a matter of weeks. Hell demanded attention and could no longer be dismissed or confined to religious books. Humanity was forced to adapt, and thus the State Exorcists were created by governments all over the world.

I walk over the salt lines that someone has scattered in the aftermath of the ritual. One of the victims lies over the circle, throat torn open. The other two are near the door, their backs turned into bloody pulps. The demon is busy smearing the blisters on his face with clotting blood from a fourth mutilated corpse.

There’s a tattoo table in the corner of the ritual grounds. The gun and tools are untouched. That’s where they were supposed to strap down the newly-possessed and give him the tattoos to contain the demon. But they underestimated the summoning, evidently, and failed to sedate the host.

The demon straightens up, face red and eyes crazed. His twisted smile widens. “The White Exorcist. I was wondering if I would get the chance to meet you.”

“I wouldn’t call that a chance,” I say. “Not for you.”

“Oh, but it is. I’ll rise in rank when I get back to the other side with news of your demise.”

I chuckle. “You expect to get back to Hell?” I say, pulling out a long silver chain from one of my pockets.

“You think you can fight me?” he roars. “The great Havnir-gish? Do you not know who—”

I rush him before he has time to finish his monologue. The chain whips over his head and circles his neck. The runes etched in the wide links react to his demonic nature and tighten, cutting his airflow. He pulls on it with all his strength, but it only makes the chain more secure.

Realizing his mistake, the demon throws himself backward, taking me down with him. I roll away and pull out another relic, the Dagger of Redemption.

Right as the demon jumps over me, ready to dig through my gut with his fingers, I swing with the dagger, cutting through the wrist. The skin burns and blisters, cauterizing the wound. The hand limply smacks the concrete right next to my head without a drop of blood.

The demon pulls away and stares at his stump. “You fucker! I liked this body.”

“This body was never yours to like,” I say, getting to my feet.

But then I frown, noticing the blood on the front of my coat. It’ll have to go to the dry cleaner…

The demon rushes at me, screeching like a banshee. I dodge his blow and kick him in the leg, dislodging his kneecap. Once he’s on the floor, I stab him in his remaining hand, ensuring that he stays put. I place my foot on his chest with enough weight to break ribs if he struggles.

“I’ve underestimated you, White Exorcist,” he says. “You’re stronger than you ought to be.”

“Your lot always do,” I retort, pulling out a silver cylinder engraved with ritual runes—an Eames vessel.

It contains human tissues grown in labs. It’ll be the demon’s new residency once I’ve evicted him from the possessed. Caging demons is the best way to ensure they never return and possess another soul.

Havnir-gish recognizes the device and real fear shines in his feverish eyes. He knows that if I have time to recite the incantations, he’ll be a prisoner of the Eames vessel, cut off forever from Hell. He bucks savagely, tearing at my combat boots with his teeth.

“Tell me where the gate is,” I say, “and I’ll let you go back home.”

He laughs. “You’re still looking for the gate, after all this time? Like a hellhound running after its tail!”

I dig the heel of my boot into his chest. “Where?” I shout in his face, losing patience.

He sneers. “There’s no gate, human. You’re running after a myth! We are everywhere and your world will soon be ours!”

I hoped that a class-three demon would know more. Seems he’s just another lackey. I’ll have to put him on ice, then.

Right as I begin the song as old as time, he tears his remaining hand free from the dagger, ripping bones and flesh. He grabs the blade and pulls it out of the ground. But instead of attacking me, he buries it in his neck, right through the trachea. Blood sizzles in contact with the relic.

I sigh deeply as the host’s body loses the fight against death. His eyes dim and the demon goes back to Hell, where his soul originated from. They always prefer to kill the host than to risk being captured and stored away like genies in a bottle of human cells.

I take my foot off the man’s chest. I would have preferred to save him, but it won’t stop me from sleeping at night. He’s the one who asked to be possessed. He knew the risks and took them. Nowadays, the demonic trade is becoming so common, most people forget what they’re dealing with.

But I don’t.

I look around the ritual grounds. There might still be decent clues to help the police track down the demonic traders. I wipe the Dagger of Redemption on the corpse’s pants. It took me weeks to find it in a Knight Templar’s tomb in France a few years ago. Humanity has lost its hold on magic, and the best weapons against Hell’s soldiers are now only found in the past. I disentangle the chain from his still-smoking neck.

As I exit the bar, I phone the authorities. They request my name, but I ignore them. I write a quick text to Willa, reminding her to send me a chunk of the pay she’ll get for dealing with the demon. She can keep all the fame. I work best in the shadows.

I check my watch; it’s almost five. The city is waking up.

I jump on an aerial tram, and by the time I reach my destination, the diner under my apartment has opened.

Tina’s Diner is a small establishment stuck between two massive conglomerate buildings on South Broadway. The three-storey edifice is from another time entirely, built with red bricks and metal beams.

“Good morning, Jon,” Tina says as I enter the diner. “Trouble in paradise?” she asks, brow raised.

She knows the only reason I’m up so early is because I haven’t gone to bed yet. I do most of my work at night. The demonic trade isn’t exactly done in the light of day, and neither is demon hunting.

I chuckle and sit at my favorite table at the end of the diner, hidden behind a large plant. “Paradise? Where?” I ask.

Tina is a small woman in her forties, with dyed hair that changes color every few months. Lately, it’s been blue.

“I’ve heard that if Hell is so close to our plane, it must mean we’re in Heaven.”

I make a face. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve heard all week. And I’ve been dealing with a lot of lower demons.”

“Do something else than demon hunting, Jon, and you’ll see that life on Earth isn’t so bad.” She pours me a black coffee fresh from the pot.

I take a generous gulp of the scalding hot beverage and decide to drop the subject. “Thank you.” I pull an envelope out of the inner pocket of my coat and slide it over the table. “The rent for the next three months.”

Tina frowns. “Jon… We talked about this. You owe me nothing.”

I saved her brother two years ago from a cartel dealing in demonic trade, and she has let me stay in the apartment upstairs ever since. I wouldn’t have dreamed of a better place to live. She knows who I am and what I do, but she won’t rat me out to the government or to my enemies.

“Just keep the coffee flowing, and we’ll be square,” I say, raising my mug.

Tina smiles and pours me some more.

I eat a quick breakfast of waffles and eggs with maple syrup before going upstairs.

The fireproof door to my apartment has three locks, and yet I realize quickly that none of them are in use as I insert my keys. I have carved runes and sigils on the doorframe. It’s old magic, borrowed from the Vikings. They give a warning—a sort of vibration and thrum in the air—if a demon crosses the threshold. But they won’t stop them from actually getting in.

I walk inside without making a noise and pull the dagger out of its sheath. The tall windows let in natural sunlight. The sky has a yellow tinge today. It’s from all the dust in the air coming from the west. Before you know it, it gets into your lungs and your pores.

The TV is on in the living room and I find my self-proclaimed assistant lounging on the dusty couch, watching the morning news. The anchor is talking about the death of a Hollywood star who didn’t survive an exorcism. Behind her, grieving fans hold a cardboard sign saying Get fucked, State Exorcists!

“Leo!” I shout. “How many times did I tell you to keep the door locked?”

“Sorry, boss!” he squeaks, getting to his feet. “I was waiting for you!”

Leo is a nineteen-year-old biracial black and Cambodian kid from Skid Row. He watched me exorcise his neighbor last year and has been invading my privacy ever since. He’s harder to get rid of than a class-two demon.

Leo is lanky, with a mass of curls streaked with purple. There is a little cross tattooed under his right eye.

I sigh and put the dagger back in its sheath before taking it off. “One of these days, a demon will follow my scent and find you in my home.”

“Let them come!” he says, too joyfully.

Leo wants to work with me. He doesn’t know what he’s really getting into. But he’s safer here than taking the State Exorcist dehumanizing training. I can keep an eye on him until he realizes it’s a dumb idea.

I take my cloak off and throw it at him. He catches it.

“Take it to the dry cleaner, will you?” I say. “There’s blood on it. And don’t forget to empty the pockets and clean the relics.”

“Yes, boss.”

“And stop calling me boss.”

“Yes, boss,” he repeats, getting to work.

I groan and head to the bathroom. I need to wash away the smell of death and sulfur.

The same tall windows bathe the small room in yellow sunlight. My eyes sting from exhaustion and I close the blinders. Before the botched ritual, I spent my night hunting down a group of possessed who had been on a rampage for a week. They were class-five demons, but they still went down fighting. I managed to exorcise three out of six of the hosts. Not a terrible result.

I sit on the edge of the copper bathtub and turn on the tap. Once the water is hot enough to burn skin, I plug it. I take my clothes off and throw them on the green tiles. As the tub fills, I watch my reflection in the cracked mirror over the chipped sink. My body is lean but muscular; I’ve been fighting demons for years now. There’s not a single bruise on my pale skin from the encounter with the last possessed a few hours ago. My body has already healed.

I slide a hand in my pale-gray hair and feel the little nubs from the horns growing back. I sigh and find the iron file in the cupboard. There’s crusted blood on the teeth; I failed to wash it properly the last time.

I pull my hair back and start filing the horns. Fresh blood drips over my face, painting it in red. The color looks almost obscene compared to the rest of me, so faded. The pain is hard to ignore—the horns are full of nerve endings and vessels—but I’m used to it. Once I’m satisfied with the result, I wash the file with soap before putting it back in the cupboard. The mirror finally reflects who I truly am: a blood-covered shell of a man.

I get into my bath as I am, turning the scalding water red.