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Old Scratch Tattoo

Lily stared unblinking at the inside of her client's forearm. She thought she saw something dark, sliding unhindered beneath Reggie's skin. She willed it to stop, to surface. Show me! she silently demanded. It obliged. Its shape formed bruiselike, seeping upward from the bone. Unnatural hues--sickly greens and yellows, shot with neon orange and pink--stained Reggie's light brown skin.

Lily nodded to herself, reaching for the first of the needles and inks. Reggie saw. Not the mark, of course--only she could see that--but her nod. Her absent-minded grab for tools.

"You see somethin?" he asked, eyes round.

"Mmm-hmm."

"What, man? What?"

"Oh...Cancer," replied Lily. She started to trace over the small image she saw on Reggie's arm.

"That it? You don't see nothin' else?"

"No, Reggie. You can relax." She paused, carefully picking out a delicate texture in black ink. "Sort of, anyway," she added.

"Whatcha mean by that?" Reggie used his free hand to scratch his nose. He winced as the needle pricked rapidly across his skin.

"I mean," said Lily, bringing the outline to a close, "that you have cancer. Leukemia, specifically. I don't think that they can cure it." She paused to switch needles and colors.

"Oh." Scratch-scratch. "But that's not like AIDS or nothin'," said Reggie. "People get cancer all the time. My gran' has it. Them doctors took one of her lungs, gave her pills or somethin' that made her hair fall out. She's fine now." Reggie began to wince again as the new needle dug into his arm.

"Good for her." You won't be. Lily had just pronounced a death-sentence on Reggie, and he was simply thankful it wasn't herpes or AIDS. Most of the ones who came to her wanted to know who they could and couldn't fuck anymore. She appreciated their social conscience in that respect. Better that they should have a little care than simply delude themselves and doom others.

She paused to switch needles and inks again. Reggie glanced down at the work in progress.

"Damn! That's cool as shit!"

Lily nodded. "Some are prettier than others." She began filling in the lurid pink. "A lot depends on what you like, I suppose. Some want things fast and hard and jagged. Others want pastels that quietly bleed away."

"So, what d'you like?" asked Reggie.

"Van Gogh."

Reggie stared sidelong at her for several moments before deciding that it was some joke he simply didn't get. He sat silently as Lily finished his mark. Reggie fished down the length of sturdy chain that ran from a belt loop into the front pocket of his oversized shorts. He pulled a few bills from the battered leather wallet dangling on the chain.

"Here's for the tattoo," he said, handing her forty dollars. "And this's tip," as he pressed another ten into her palm.

Lily eyed the ten. "S'a lot, Reggie. You sure?"

"Yeah, man. Hell, I can't walk in a doctor's door for ten dollars. And I'll be lucky if I walk out the door with a lollipop when I'm through. I'm just glad I don't got rotdick or nothin' you know? And the ladies," he added, flashing a white smile, "they know I don't got rotdick, too. Besides, this is a damn fine tat'."

"Thanks," replied Lily as she quirked a half-smile. "If you're sure, then..."

"I am."

She closed her hand over the money, waving to Reggie as he walked out. She rang up the tattoo in the register, and put the forty dollars under the tray. She pulled a small wad of bills from her back pocket, folded the ten over top, and jammed the money back into her pocket.

The rest of the day went slowly. One other customer came in--a timid blonde girl, just barely eighteen. She was looking for a regular tattoo. Something, thought Lily, to shock her parents with. It was a nice change from recording all the physical miseries of the people who came looking for marks. So, Lily helped the girl pick out a small, pretty butterfly that was shocking only in the fact that it was a tattoo. Once she finished, Lily gave the girl instruction in caring for the tattoo while it healed. The girl paid and left. Lily sat behind the counter and read a comic book.

She decided to close up the shop ten minutes early. Nally never minded when she closed early. The owner had come to trust her judgment with regard to the flow of customers. And it helped that Lily was always very scrupulous about marking her time accurately.

She had dropped the last of the blinds on the storefront windows in place, when a man strolled through the door. He wore the black, short sleeved shirt and white starched collar of a priest. But Lily knew instantly that this was no priest. He was tall and thin with limp dishwater hair combed to cover a receding hairline. His face was unlined and clean-shaven, pinched--almost foxlike. Eyes like two, huge gray-green liver spots were set under heavy brows. And the Things, crawling under his skin--she didn't even want to look. Lily's dislike for him was immediate and pure.

Nevertheless, her lips sprang into a plastic smile. "Evening, Father. You looking to get a tattoo? I was about to close up, but if you're...."

"No," said the man, hastily. "No, that's okay." He shivered in the chill of the air conditioning, sweat beading on his brow. His anemic smile looked as though it pained him.

"You sure?" asked Lily, stepping back behind the counter. "I do Jesus real good." Her voice was even, uninflected. But her gray eyes held volumes of dirty implications. Come on, bastard! Get to what you want.

The man's face purpled, and the smile wilted a little under his surprise. Liver-spot eyes became focal points of anger. "No, I'm sure. Quite sure."

He started furiously rubbing his fingers over the letters die-cut into the front cover of his Bible. "You...see...I had...had heard that you give marks. Special marks." Lily noted that the Bible looked new--never even opened, perhaps.

"Maybe. That what you're looking to get?"

"Yes... I mean, No!" he chuckled nervously. "No, I'm here to talk about them." He moved toward the counter. His upper lip had begun to curl in what looked like a nasty sneer.

"Talk? Like what?" Lily rummaged under the counter and brought up an open box of sterile needles, made a quick count, and marked the quantity on an inventory sheet. Perhaps it would be hint enough: Hey, freak...it's closing time and I wanna go home. The man didn't seem to notice. She put the box back under the counter and made sure the shop's shotgun was in easy reach. She came back up with a box of red inks.

"Well...I hear that people come here to get marks that...say...something about them."

Lily stopped counting the inks a moment, "Uh-huh." A quick shrug. "My clients always seem pleased with my custom work." She leveled a cool, pale gaze at the growing frustration within the man's eyes. "You sure you don't want me to do Jesus for you?"

"No!" roared the man.

Lily snatched up the nearby phone, poised to call the police. "If you're gonna talk like that, you can talk to the cops or you can leave. Now."

The man gaped at her, all evidence of anger gone. He put the Bible under his arm, and spread his hands in a placating gesture, his head twitching back and forth in little tics of denial.

"Look, I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to yell like that. I-I-I don't know what happened just now, I just...I'm sorry. Can we start over? Please?" His face strove for a look of pleading innocence. "Please?"

The effort fell flat. Lily, however, was curious. She placed the phone back in its cradle with a shrug, and went back to counting inks. "Whatever, man. You've got ten minutes before I lock the door for the day. Okay?"

Relieved, the man's expression regained some of its earlier oiliness. His eyes traveled up and down Lily's light-boned frame, sizing her shape, measuring her movements, assessing...no, re-assessing her. "That's fine, ma'am...uh, what was your name again?"

The scrutiny was not lost on Lily. "I don't believe we'd gone through introductions, yet, Father...?" she replied, awaiting his name.

"Um, Paul." He carefully set his Bible on the counter.

"Ah, Father Paul." She scrawled a number on the inventory sheet. Great. A phony name for a phony bastard. Fine. Right back at you, fucker! "You can call me Sunshine. 'Sunny,' even, if you like...." She noted the look of skepticism and dark anger in the false-priest's eyes. The Things were swirling in livid, ugly colors under every visible patch of his skin. "Hell, it's just the two of us here, padre. I'll answer to almost anything." She ducked back down under the counter to pull up a partial box of blue inks.

"You'll answer to God."

"Excuse me?" As she straightened, Lily saw that the Bible was open on the countertop. Its pages had been cut to form a hollow for the gun now in Father Paul's hand. She eyed the revolver with mild interest. Huh. A compact Smith & Wesson five-shot .45. That'll make a nasty hole. Lily knew she ought to be afraid. That would be the common sane response. She didn't like pain, and she certainly didn't want to die. Yet somewhere along the line, she had learned there were far worse things than pain or death, and it was for these that she reserved her fear. But this clearly insane man standing before her expected the usual sane response. Lily tried to school her features into a look of panicked anxiety. She felt her face settle into an expression of confused irritation. Damn.

"Are you ready to stand Judgement?" snarled Paul.

"Uh...for what?" replied Lily in a tone that matched the irritation on her face. "Being rude? Being here? What? I mean, if you're going to rob the store, I can make things real simple for you: You say, 'Gimme all the money in the drawer, bitch,' then I say, 'Uh, okay,' or some pussy crap like that. Then, I clear out all the cash from the drawer, hand it to you, you run out the door and catch the next city bus. Or maybe it catches you...life's uncertain that way. Anyway, our business is done, and we're both wiser for the experience. Later, I'll file a police report--'No, officer, I didn't get a good look at him'--and an insurance claim, maybe fudge the numbers a little, and actually come out ahead in the short term. It's simple."

A network of veins stood out on Paul's forehead. By now, he was sweating profusely. Lily could smell the dankness of disease and the rage that was oozing out of the gunman's pores.

"You think I'm a common thief?" he roared.

"Well, I'm trying to give you the benefit of the doubt, though it's pretty obvious you're new at this..."

With a strength and speed that belied his build and evident sickness, Paul reached over the counter and snagged a handful of Lily's straight black hair, and began dragging her toward him. Tears of pain sprang to Lily's eyes as she clutched both of her hands over Paul's to relieve the vicious tugging on her scalp. He hauled her over the counter, scattering the inks she had been counting. Many of the small vials burst as they hit the floor like little, blue protests to the unfolding events. Lily's flailing legs sent the cash register off the side of the counter. The power cord kept it from smashing onto the floor, but its cash drawer sprang open. Coins bounced and skittered in every direction. Paul gave Lily a final yank that cleared her from the counter and guided her headfirst onto the concrete floor of the shop. Her hands protected her head, for the most part, but she still hit with enough force to daze her. She lay there, waiting for the world to reorient into all the familiar directions. Then came the pain. Her nose was clogged, and her entire faced ached. She tasted blood and knew that at least one of her lips was cut. Just relax. It'll all come back to you, honey, she told herself.

Paul sagged into a chair and gulped air. The exertion was taking a toll. But, damn! This was exhilarating! He watched in dim satisfaction as Lily drew into a ball on the floor. This was too easy. He was far from done with her. She must be very young or something. He only hoped that the unholy vermin's weakness wasn't a ruse. Paul rubbed absently at an unfamiliar tightness in his groin and realized with surprise that he had an erection. The doctors all had told him he would likely never have another, and he hadn't in years. But even as his attention focused more upon the unexpected wonder, it wilted. Paul leapt up from his seat.

"Get up!" he snarled. He dug the toe of his right shoe under Lily's ribs and flipped her onto her back. "Get up!" he screamed. Lily rolled painfully onto her knees, then wobbled onto her feet. One of her pale, gray eyes had begun to swell shut, so she cocked her head to get a better view of her assailant. She saw him grinning at her, thrilled with the damage he had done. But his face was gray and sweat poured in steady runnels onto his collar. Lily felt the tickle of tears, blood, saliva and God-only-knew what else running down her own face. She dragged her forearm across her chin and was not at all surprised to see it come away red. "You're not...looking too good, there...Paul," she panted, one corner of her mouth twitching upward slightly.

His grin remained untouched, "Neither are you, Sunny." He looked speculative, "That can't be your real name, Sunshine."

"It can't?"

"No. Tell me your Name."

Lily groaned. "What difference will it make?"

The rage resurfaced in Paul's eyes. He stepped forward and grabbed Lily by the throat, pressing the muzzle of the gun into her cheekbone under her right eye. "Because when I send you back to Hell, I want you to fucking stay there!"

"Send me back to Hell?" wheezed Lily. "Shit, man, my parents practically kicked me out in the first damned place. Nobody wants me back home." Somehow, Lily resisted the urge to look at the gun pressed against her face. She swallowed, trying to ease the tightness of Paul's grip and trained her eyes instead on the unrelenting fury crawling across his features.

"Stop playing with me, whore. I know what you are!" Paul hissed.

"Oh, you do, do you? Heh...." she swallowed again, hard. Was that fear, finally, creeping into her stomach? Maybe I should plead with him, beg him to stop hurting me. "Do you realize that you're totally bat-fuck crazy, too?" Then again, maybe not. Damn.

Paul snatched the gun away from Lily's face and then backhanded her with it. The blow sent her reeling back onto the floor unconscious. Paul was vaguely disconcerted, confused. All the stories he'd heard said that Others weren't like this. They'd fight more. Do incredible things. They would hurt him. And then, if his faith wasn't strong enough, They'd get away. He hadn't ever fought the Infernals, before, but he'd come close, sort of. He was sure that he had dispatched some distinctly inhuman creatures. Well, pretty sure, anyway. Doubt crept into his mind. Oh, God! What if she's just another ordinary kid with a gift? He had encountered those many times before--all of them with the same fierce bravado, much like this girl. Most had been runaways or simply far from their families. And his heart always dropped to the pit of his stomach when the news showed clips of distraught parents coming to reclaim their children, now lost to them forever. Demons were not born and had no parent but Satan. The images of maternal and paternal loss were visions of his mistakes--his failure. Paul prayed steadily for forgiveness, and the Things, his angels, whispered that he was redeemed.

The girl on the floor stirred. He regarded Sunshine--Lilith LaMia, he knew--as she strove for consciousness. To be sure, she was widely regarded as a blessing in the neighborhood. Many people who didn't realize they were sick received an instant, inexpensive diagnosis that might have cost thousands of dollars in testing for a medical practitioner to discern. Often, she would tell her customers what they needed to seek in the way of treatments. But she was never wrong. Whatever she told them they had, they had. What if she wasn't describing their illnesses? What if she were making them sick? Destroy her, the Things whispered. Nevermind her Name. Deal with her if she returns someday, but remove her from this world, now.

The Things had never been so insistent before. But looking at Lily, Paul found it harder and harder to think she was anything other than a very human girl. Ugly bruises purpled across her cheek and jaw line. Blood slicked over her mouth and chin. With her infuriating bravado silenced under the weight of unconsciousness, Lily seemed frail. Pitiful, even. Paul's stomach began to sour at the thought that he was on the brink of ending yet another innocent life. He couldn't afford not to finish the job, now. Even if she were just a girl, she would surely bring the wrath of the law down upon him. His mission was too important to take such a chance. Tears blurred the room into indistinct patterns. Lily's jeans and brightly colored shirt stood out as blobs of contrast to the gray concrete floor. Paul pulled back the hammer on the revolver and blinked away the tears, firming his resolve. He moved to insert his finger into the trigger-well, when his hand went numb. A strange tingling ran up his arm, followed by the numbness. His chest felt tight, and he began wheezing. Paul staggered back to the chair, where he attempted to switch the gun to his other hand. It fell from his nerveless fingers onto the floor, discharging a frighteningly noisy round into the back of the shop. The sound startled Paul, badly, and the tightness of his chest blossomed into crushing pain. He pitched forward onto the floor, near Lily. Paul's entire body spasmed, echoing the searing pains in his chest. A final paroxysm caused him to vomit where he lay. Then, he was still.

Lily finally awoke to the stench of bile and urine. She couldn't really smell it, but the sour tang of it was in the air, and she tasted it after a fashion. She opened and focused her uninjured eye to meet Paul's wide, dead gaze. She winced in disgust, seeing how close the puddle of his vomit had come to her. She scooted away from him before trying to sit up. The room swam uncomfortably. That fucker did some real damage, she thought. She explored the inside of her mouth with her tongue and found that a few of her back teeth were loose. Damn!

Slow realization of her narrow escape began to settle upon her. Lily sagged where she sat, cupping her throbbing head in her hands. Silent tears burned their way down her bruised and swollen cheeks. She rocked back and forth. She didn't like this, the pain...feeling hunted. An anger she barely remembered ever having rekindled in her heart. But she was much older, this time. She would allow it to strengthen her, but not rule. Never again the hot, uncontrolled rages.

"Okay, girl," she instructed herself aloud, "you gotta get up and take care of this mess." She forced aside all of the protests her body could muster. She moved with slow, careful deliberation at first--walking into the back restroom to relieve herself and clean herself as best she could. Then, she dropped fifty cents into the shop's drink machine and bought a Dr. Pepper. She held the cold can to her swollen eye and cheek. When the can warmed somewhat, she popped it open and used the drink to wash down a handful of aspirin. Feeling a little better, she eyed the clock on the back wall. Ten-thirty. Shit. Tempus fugit. Time to get busy.

She began by finishing the shop's normal closing procedure, making careful note of how many vials were broken in her struggle with Paul. Then, she set aside the partial ink-boxes after putting special notation next to them on the inventory sheet. She righted the register, retrieving as much of the scattered coins as she could. She counted it down. She made up for the shortage out of her own wallet, and included extra for the inks she set aside. All during the time that she cleaned and righted the shop, Lily had carefully avoided the area in which Paul lay. Now, it was time to attend to him.

First, Lily found a pile of week-old newspapers. She moved the chair from out of the center of the room and spread the papers in a thick layer on the floor. Then, Lily got a bucket filled with water and disinfectant, a mop, a trashbag, and a handful of paper towels. She rolled Paul's body onto the newspapers several feet away from where he died. She then mopped the floor clean of her blood and his vomit and urine. She took the soiled water into the back and dumped it, replacing it with clean water. She returned to the front room with bucket in hand, and carefully set it on the edge of the papers. Lily knelt by Paul's feet and began unlacing his shoes. She pulled them off his feet, one by one, and dropped them into the trashbag. Crinkle plop. Crinkle plop. Socks went into the bag next. She undid his belt, wincing in vague disgust as she worked Paul's pants and underwear off his body. Both were soaked with urine and the underwear had the even less delightful quality of being filled with feces, too.

The vomit-spattered shirt was next. After the pants, it was almost a relief to work with. She had to lift and handle his body more to work the shirt off, though. When she did, Lily saw a heavy medallion hanging around Paul's neck. It was made of a coppery metal that had begun to turn black and green with age. It was also covered with complex, intertwined symbols that were difficult to discern and seemed to shift around as the light changed. She avoided disturbing the medallion as she yanked Paul's shirt clear of his body. Then, she laid him back on the floor. Lily picked up several paper towels and dunked them into the bucket of clean water. She wrung them out and began wiping away the last traces of Paul's death throes. Her revulsion for the man that she touched was evident in every gesture and expression. Yet as she undressed and washed the corpse, she worked with a strange, quiet reverence for the work itself.

Lily covered another nearby area with fresh, dry newspapers. Once again, she rolled Paul's lifeless body onto them. She wadded up the other papers and stuffed them into the trash bag. Then, she collected her tools and inks. The true labor of the night was about to begin.

She glanced again at the clock. Midnight. She wouldn't have much time after dawn before someone might notice her leaving the shop. She sat cross-legged by Paul's body and extended one cool, wax-colored arm across her lap. The Things still swam under his skin, and one by one, she forced them to surface. Lily recorded every sickness that had ravaged Paul's body, including the heart condition which finally killed him. She chronicled these on his arms and legs. But there were other Things, lurking deeper. These came less willingly to the surface, but Lily prevailed after long minutes of concentration. She scribed Paul's history of mental and emotional illness on his face and belly in bright, nauseating colors. She found it interesting that the Things that eluded her most were often the ones that screamed in color when she finally caught Them.

Three o-clock. Lily sat back with a sigh. She wasn't through, yet, but she needed a break. She rubbed her good eye. Her head had begun hurting again. She probably needed medical attention, but it was unlikely that she would go to a doctor. She never saw doctors. They couldn't tell her, or do anything for her, that she didn't know or couldn't do for herself. Lily got another cold soda and some more aspirin. She was hungry, but it would wait until she finished with Paul. She glanced over at the body lying in the middle of the room. Poor Nally was going to shit a litter of porcupines when he saw this. But the media hype would act as free advertising and the shop would come out ahead in the long run. Too bad she couldn't afford to hang around to see it. With another sigh, Lily braced herself to begin work again.

Minute after minute ticked slowly by. Lily crouched over Paul's chest, her face hovering scant inches above his stiffening flesh. The Thing she chased was stubbornly elusive. It slid deep inside the dead man's guts and twisted away from her grasp with quicksilver speed. She stretched and sped her perceptions, which darted harpoon-like after the Thing. She stabbed at It again and again, and It eluded her. She sat up, rocking back on her heels. This isn't working, dammit. The Thing moved too fast. It wasn't a Thing of Body or Mind. It was one of Spirit. So long as she was confined within her body and mind, she would never be able to match Its speed and agility in any linear fashion. Since Lily was rather partial to her physical confinements, this left trying to out-maneuver the Thing in a non-linear fashion.

She bowed back over Paul's corpse. This time, instead of focusing a directed thought at the Thing, she allowed her thoughts to go fuzzy and indistinct. Her perceptions and presence became a nebulous cloud, benign and innocent-looking. She lost track of how much time elapsed before the Thing finally swam into her cloud. Its movements were languid and slow. Carefully, she began to close the edges of the cloud. The Thing stopped, perhaps sensing her activity. Lily stopped as well, waiting for It to resume Its idle course. It did. She continued to carefully draw the edges closed, around the Thing. As the edges melded shut, It tried to dart away. The Thing began ricocheting within the bounds of the trap Lily had laid for It. Her awareness coalesced into a steel-hard grip around It. Struggling, she pulled the Thing to the surface where It appeared almost obediently. She traced over the image. It was very simple, requiring only black ink. When she was done, Lily drew back to look at what she had struggled to capture.

It was a series of names--Jenny Martin, Rick Ashford, Azure Kupplemann.... Faces surfaced in her mind as Lily read the names--Colm y'Formorian, Blake Goodspeed, Danielle Winters. The list had some fifteen or twenty names. Below the list was a single sentence:

"Killed with malice and by my own hand, their lives weigh against Me."

So, her buddy, Paul, was a serial killer. Somehow, Lily wasn't surprised. Her personal experience and the catalog of insanity scrawled across his face were enough to suggest that. "Poor, crazy bastard," she muttered, looking into Paul's lifeless face. "You'll be paying back this karma a long time, won't you, pal?"

Lily eyed the medallion on Paul's chest. There was one last Thing to find, and It wouldn't be in Paul. Not exactly. She shivered as she took the medallion in hand. The hairs at the nape of her neck stood on end, and her lips peeled back in a reflexive snarl. This One had no intention of hiding from her. She allowed her eyes to follow the patterns of symbols as they shifted and twisted deeper and deeper into the medallion. Her awareness of the shop around her faded as more and more of her consciousness hunted inside the medallion. Then, she found It. Or, more appropriately, It found her. It was unlike anything she had ever encountered in a human being. It wanted. It coveted. It attacked. Things never attacked. This One shot tendril after tendril after her, trying to catch her, penetrate her, infect her. A sense of smug glee spread through Lily. It doesn't know! She opened her awareness just a bit, presenting a tiny hole in her defenses. The Thing found it almost immediately and began to push Itself inside. Lily didn't fight It. Not yet. Just relax. It'll all come back to you, honey, she told herself. When the Thing was completely nested within her, Lily attacked. The Thing flailed with amorphous claws, trying to tear Its way out, but Lily maintained her stranglehold. She stabbed spears of focused thought at the Thing, wearing It down.

As Its ferocity faded, she hauled It back through the maze of symbols on the medallion. Rather than fixing the Thing in place with inks, this time Lily smeared it across the surface the medallion with her thumb. When she did, she slowly regained awareness of the shop around her. Her head pounded and she noticed from the spatters of blood on her hands and Paul's chest that her nose had started bleeding again. She ignored it in favor of seeing what her fight with the Thing won her. She pulled the chain over Paul's head and stood, looking at the medallion. A name emerged amid the twisting symbols: Kurachial. Lily peered at it. No...not a name. A Name. The grin that lit her face was unpleasant at best. Oh, you fool! You fucking fool! You gave your Talisman and your Name to a human for safekeeping? "I will enjoy feasting on you, Kurachial," she said, eyeing the demon's talisman. She looked down at Paul's corpse, admiring her handiwork. Paul's legs were crossed at the ankle, and his arms spread wide, palms up. His head lolled to one side. Lily had left his eyes open, retaining much of the expression of anguish his death had written on his features. "You do Jesus real good, Paul. Better than I ever could." Lily glanced at the lightening sky through the cracks of the blinds. "Gotta go, buddy. You hold down the fort." As a final embellishment, Lily laid the hollowed-out Bible on Paul's abdomen. She peeked out the window at her car. In the dim pre-dawn light, the color shifted from dark red to dark blue. The characters on the California license plate melted and rearranged themselves into a tag registered to a nonexistent resident of Lake Charles, Louisiana.

Lily's short, Asian-black hair lengthened into long, dirty-blonde curls. Her back broadened and she began stretching taller. Shapely breasts flattened into hard muscle as a bristle of two-day beard sprouted on a squared jaw. The ancient, pale gray eyes remained unchanged as they surveyed the driver's license pulled from a back pocket. "Lilith LaMia" blurred on the plastic, as did all the particulars of the persona. "Malachai du Mors" solidified in her place. Mal quirked a half-smile at the picture on the license. Aren't I a handsome devil? He rubbed his newly healed cheek as it whispered of remembered pain. The anger he felt at such abuse hardened into something unique to Mal's odd synthesis of flesh and an inhuman entity which had never been flesh. A hunger for revenge? Perhaps. But there was an edge of relentlessness that a human could never comprehend--nothing that was born ever would. Mal dropped the Talisman over his head, where it rested against his chest.

He took one last look around the shop before opening the door. "Well, Paul...for once, you were fucking right." Mal pitched the shop key back at the corpse, then reached over and flipped off the lights. Mal closed the door behind him and the deadbolt threw itself locked. Outside, a stray dog sniffed hopefully at an empty fast food bag. "You hungry, buddy? You keep me company, and I keep you in all the Dog Chow you could want." Mal opened the driver's side door of his car. The dog hesitated only a few seconds before hopping in. Mal slid into the driver's seat next to the mutt and closed the door. "We got places to go...People to see, don't we, Buddy?..."

And an old friend to find.

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