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At first, Striker had been surprised when Stella, her feather-hair messy from sex, would light a cigarette with a crackle of lightning. She would slide it into a long, pencil-thin cigarette holder and let the ash drip onto Stolas’s nightstand.
“Never figured you for a smoker,” he said as he leaned back, trying to resist the temptation to join her. (He chewed Wrath grass for a reason and an imp in his profession needed good lungs.)
“I’m not,” she admitted through a cough and a small caw that Striker found bizarrely appropriate. “But our bed always smells like smoke after That Imp’s been here, so I imagine there must be something to the vice.”
“Y’know, you’re not really a swan,” Striker had observed with a grin, “you’re just a copycat, Queenie.”
She’d shoved him out of bed, sent him sprawling, but Striker had just slithered his way back up the bedpost to keep smiling at her, clad in nothing but confidence and cowboy boots. “You call that a shove? Hmm, if you’re gonna be taggin’ along on more of my little excursions, I’ll have to teach’a how to throw hands proper, grapplin’ fer sure.” He leered at her and Stella raised one perfectly defined, wingtip-sharp eyebrow.
“I am a Princess of Hell, Striker. I posess more power in my little finger than-“
“It ain’t about power,” said the assassin dismissively, putting one boot up on the bed and sliding it forward between Stella’s legs to grind against her through the sheets. “It’s about leverage Queenie. There’s plenty of tricks to take away a demon’s magic, it’s why I’m not the type fer amulets or charms. They’re a crutch,” he scowled. “Just like your magic.”
Stella jabbed her cigarette holder at him, the lit end searing one of his knuckles. “You take that back!”
“Make me,” he grinned. “No magic, just muscles and mind. Show me what else you got in that pretty featherhead of yours.”
Stella hissed and swiped her legs sideways, sending purple sheets billowing as she tried to hook Striker’s boot and throw him off balance, but the imp was immovable. She started to rise, but her assassin stepped fully up onto the bed in a squeak of springs and put his left boot on her shoulder, pressing Stella back into the pillows. He was surprisingly heavy and as he leaned in she could see he was relishing this. “See what I said ‘bout leverage Queenie?”
She lashed out with her left hand in an open-handed slap Striker ducked easily, only for her beak to catch his lips in a piercing grip that was in no way a kiss. She said something incoherent around his face, but the tone and the gaze in her eyes was challenging. The look of triumph froze as she felt Striker’s hands press down warningly on her extended neck, a thumb pressing inward just enough to choke. The loss of air increased when she refused to let go and Striker stared into her eyes the entire time.
The silent battle of wills ended when Stella, gasping for air, was forced to withdraw as the edges of her vision had turned black. “Heh,” murmured the assassin through twinging lips. “You’ve got some fight in you, but you’re gonna need a lotta work Queenie. That neck o’ yours, as much as I like it, is a liability you havta protect.”
“And I suppose you’re going to teach me?” She glared up at him, rubbing her throat as Striker ground the toe of his boot between her legs again. He savored the little squawk she made, followed by a blush and fluttering tailfeathers somewhere in the sheets.
“I’ll give ya my discounted rate.”
Stella soon found her quiet mornings and carefully curated tea parties swiftly took a backseat to Striker’s training. Every time it galled her to take orders from an imp, but her white lightning still continued to miss its mark. Once, she’d exhausted herself throwing an entire volley of her magic at him, scorching the hedge garden and leaving Striker absolutely spotless as he strolled over and kicked the panting Goetia Princess onto her back. The imp assassin was starting to get a sense of her moods, when she would enjoy the challenge of humiliation, or when it would burn inside her, pushing her back into Striker’s training as she tried to land just one good punch on his sneering, smug, unfairly attractive face.
Most of the time, these sessions would end with Stella storming off, tossing a list of new targets over her shoulder for Stryker to assassinate, along with the ever-absent and oft-maligned Stolas. Sometimes, the sessions would end with both of them tangled in the grass as grappling became grasping and they both snarled into kisses. Least of all, Stella would actually stay at it until Striker pronounced himself satisfied, but on those days, she made real progress.
Once, both of them had completely forgotten Octavia had been at home and the sound of the side door slamming sent Striker into a topiary to hide as gleaming yellow eyes. Stella composed herself as best she could, but there was still dirt on her arms, grass in her hair, and the general disheveled caught-in-the-act look she’d seen on Stolas and Octavia, albiet for very different reasons. “Mooooom, what’s with all the noise-“
Octavia blinked, opened her beak as Stella absent-mindedly adjusted her crown,and closed it again.
“Octavia, I’m taking a page out of your father’s book and getting back in touch with nature.”
The topiary shaped like a swan shivvered with silent laughter behind Octavia and Stella glared at it.
“But Mom, you hate nature. Anytime Dad started talking about herbology, you told him it wasn’t an applicable practice.”
“Well, when I say getting in touch, what I mean is that I’m ripping those damned flytraps in half jaw to jaw, with my bare hands!”
Octavia rolled her eyes. “Or we could both just go to therapy or something. In fact, can we do that anyway?”
“Octavia dear, therapy would be far too expensive, and everyone knows those therapists all gossip with each other. No, no, no, they would leak like sieves and our House has enough bad press without spilling our most personal secrets to the world.”
“Like screaming and firing lightning into this fat ugly swan is any better,” said Octavia, shoving the topiary as it wobbled back and forth.
“Well it’s working for me,” said Stella shortly as the shrub wobbled dangerously and she reached out to grab it. “Run along now Octavia. Mother has some more anger to work out.”
“Whatever.” The younger Goetia trudged off and when it became clear she was gone, Striker pulled himself from the bush with a smirk on his face. He thought about saying something, then saw the look on Stella’s face and thought better of it. Another time.
Another time turned out to be next Thursday, on an cold, acid-rain-soaked night perfect for a light spot of murder. Stella had joined Striker for this one, a gun-runner connected to the circling House Cwynar named Tatters on account of his ruined wings. Apt for a demon who worked with both literal and figurative vultures. He’d sold weapons to a team trying to flush her assassin out of hiding and who Striker had killed last week. She’d wanted to slaughter those demons herself, but Striker had insisted her first outing be one against non-professional assassins.
Stella had tied her hair back with a black handkerchief and covered her nose and mouth with Striker’s red one, leaving her neon pink eyes to narrow down at the rain-soaked docks. Tight dark blue clothes far from her normal blinding white gowns kept Stella hidden alongside Striker in the shadows of a chimney, and he spared a moment to touch the Goetia’s thigh under the pretense of hauling himself further up the incline of the soaked roof. He could feel her tension , her excitement, and her magic, thrumming through her like a drawn bowstring. Coiled, powerful, and ready to be released.
“Alright Queenie, ya ready to put in an honest night’s work for once?”
“Looking forward to it,” she replied, eager anticipation in her voice as she flexed her claws.
“Member, keep that lightning to a minimum. Flashy shit’s gonna just make you-“
“More of a target, I know.” Stella shot him an appraising look. “Why Striker, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you sounded worried there.”
“I put in a lotta effort fer ya, Queenie, if ya botch it and get yerself killed, it’ll be a real pain.”
“You put in a great deal of effort,” said the Goetia demoness, dragging her hand along Striker’s rifle suggestively. “Now, let me show you the fruits of your labor.” She was gone in a flash of lightning and Striker blinked to clear the searing light from his vision. “Damn woman,” he grumbled, adjusting his hat so the rainwater fell away from his face. “What did I just say?”
When his night vision returned, the two guards on the rooftops were dead and he found Stella dragging an imp back into an alley to slit his throat. He watched her through the scope, the cruel satisfaction in her body language as the imp died and remembered why he hated nobles. It could’ve been him she was killing, one imp assassin or another. She just wanted the jobs done, and he was the one on this side of the rifle scope. “Training” had been satisfying, throwing the rich heiress into the dirt again and again despite all her money, power, and magic. Reminding her she really wasn’t that far above him, and he wasn’t that far below her.
Of course she’d tried to distract him with sex, but this wasn’t Striker’s first rodeo…case in point. His rifle fired and the Malacoda trying to rush Stella from the cover of a shipping crate spun back missing the right side of his head. Stella’s look of shock was a thing of beauty when she realized the “lesser demon” would’ve put a spear through her guts if not for Striker. He waved even though at this distance, in the rain, she probably couldn’t see him. Whatever pissed her off more.
The demon liked her better when she was pissed, her biting humor, the way her hair and feathers bristled in affront, but especially the way she moved. And right on cue, there it was! Stella stalked towards the last demon frantically trying to open a locked warehouse door, taking her time. Letting the terror in the little imp build, as she swayed her hips for Striker’s benefit. Probably giving the dumb bastard some noble monologue about “temerity of vultures like you” and “House Goetia’s vengeance”, all that crap.
The imp abandoned his escape route and pulled a gun from his waistband, firing every bullet he had at Stella, who moved through them all in a crackling line of intangible light, manifesting inside his reach with a hand on his throat. She hoisted her victim up with one claw as she wrenched the gun away with the other. Striker could read her lips. “Die like the trash you are,” she said, and snapped the imp’s neck. He watched her savor the moment before tossing the body aside and looking back in his general direction. “Are you waiting for an invitation Striker?”
He showed up a minute later, the rifle on his back and long black coat keeping the rain off of him. “Got your invitation Queenie,” he drawled. “A decent start. Not bad, but you were sloppy with that Malebolgia.” Stella shrugged, pink eyes shining and she dragged down her mask so he could see the excitement on her face momentarily marred by a scowl. “I knew he was there, just like how I knew you’d take care of him for me.”
“I might not next time,” he replied as he scaled the fire escape to slip into the warehouse Tatters was now trapped in. “Just to keep you on your toes.”
“Talons, Striker.”
“Whatever.”
“Look, I don’t tell people who my clients are,” said Tatters defensively as Striker pressed a boot into the demon’s back. “You know how this works!”
“Actually, I don’t,” said Stella, who had her mask back on and was examining her fingernails and the tables full of weapons with seeming boredom. “Even if I did, I wouldn’t care. Tell me what they bought and how they paid for it or you’ll lose those wings of yours for good.”
“Fuck you lady!”
“Oh, I have,” drawled Striker smugly. “She-“
There was a flash of lightning as Stella crossed the space between them and kicked Striker away, her heel sending him flying into a table with ammunition boxes. “You’re getting too familiar Striker,” she hissed as she ground her own heel into a cursing Tatters’ head. “Keep this up, and I won’t give you your present. But, since you’re too useful to kill, here’s a little reminder.” The swan demoness reached down and her hands rippled with energy as she grabbed a wing and ripped it clean off. Tatters screamed as blood fountained from the wound and Stella let it fall on her like the rainwater had, staining dark clothes darker still. When she wiped the arterial red from her eyes and stared at him, Striker felt his pants get uncomfortably tight.
“Now,” said Stella sweetly, bending down to her captive’s head, but keeping her eyes locked on Striker’s. “Tell me what my enemies bought from you, how they paid for it, and I’ll let you keep the other wing. You might need a new name though.”
“Fuckin’ hell, fine! Fine! Just cauterize this so I don’t bleed out, okay?” Tatters grunted as Stella’s magic sealed the wound she’d just made. “Jeeze…” Striker motioned for Stella to be patient as their captive took several deep breaths. “They bought all sorts of stuff. Six submachine guns, ice mines, tranq darts, C-4, net guns, couple ‘a disruption grenades from Dis. They paid in gold, y’know, bars of it, pretty standard. No markings or anything.”
“That’s all?” asked Stella skeptically and Tatters looked panicked. “I swear!”
Striker hissed softly, the air whistling through the hole in his smile where Valentino’s gold tooth used to be. “No angel weapons?”
“What, do I look like the fuckin’ Winchester brothers or somethin? People sell their mothers for Angel weapons, that shit’s rare!”
“Good. We’re almost done here,” said Stella sweetly as she turned away and strapped a dagger to her hip. “Striker, if I wanted to, say, blow this warehouse sky-high, where would you suggest we start?”
The fire lit Striker’s face with warm orange light as he dragged Stella into an alley and she pulled off her mask to kiss him with eager anticipation. “What was it you said-“ the Goetia demoness said between kisses. “About killing getting you riled up?”
“Nothin’ like it,” said Striker as he pushed her back to the wall and clambered upwards to drag off what was once his bandanna and was now hers. “Blood’s a good look on you, Queenie.”
“Oh?” Stella cocked her head as her hands came up under Striker, one to cradle his rear and the other to work at the clasp of his jeans. “I should wear it more often then?”
“I like you best when yer not wearin’ anything at all,” hissed Striker as his own hands dragged off her soaked top and discarded it, her bra shortly following close behind. She giggled and swiped Striker’s hat right off his own head, plopping it on her own and grinning at him. “How about this?”
“Now who’s getting too familiar?”
“Well, you know what I like,” said Stella as his mouth nipped at her breasts and she squeezed his cock through his pants. “There’s something to be said for familiarity.” She pushed back off the brick, flinging herself to the other side of the narrow alley and Striker barely avoided biting her nipple off when she slammed him into the opposite wall. “What’re you-“
The assassin’s question trailed off into an inarticulate groan as Stella pushed him higher up the wall and his pants opened up. She took him into her mouth instantly as Striker clutched her shoulders in exstacy. She was warm, wet, and welcoming, her tongue tracing the underside of his cock teasingly. “Fuuuuck, Stella,” he groaned and when her bright pink eyes peeked out from the brim of his own hat to look up at him with satisfaction, Striker nearly came right there.
She knew it too, from the way she grinned and coyly licked him as his cock twitched in her mouth. “Yes, that is what I’m trying to get you to do.”
Striker hooked his legs around her shoulders as his hands moved to her head. “Careful what you wish for Queenie.”
Stella had an instant of realization before her assassin thrust forward into her face. She let go of his rear, her hands coming up to grab his sides as she stumbled backwards, because this was another mistake. Now Striker had leverage and hissed in satisfaction as he fucked her face. His hips pumped back and forth, building a rhythm and uncaring of how Stella gagged around him. Her elbows locked and briefly halted his dick as their eyes met. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go, he was looking down on her, trying as always to frustrate her, to get Stella to tap out the way they had in training sessions. Well, she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction and the Goetia pulled off of him with a lewd popping sound that still made her thrill.
“You know I could puke on your cock, right? Or bite it off?”
“Then I wouldn’t be able to fuck you like you want,” growled Striker, leaving one hand on her head as the other traced his claws through her matted, soaked hair. “What’s life without a little danger, eh Queenie? Keeps things interestin’.”
“Oh? Am I boring you?” Stella hilted him in her mouth, trying to ignore the impulse to gag around his cock, but she took a deep breath of his crotch and found the rain still hadn’t managed to wash away the scent that was so uniquely Striker. Faint gunpowder residue, the tang of sweat getting washed away by the rain, and the overpowering headiness of his own arousal filled Stella’s nostrils. The Goetia demoness was already soaked in more ways than one, but she felt the heat of her own desire merging with the fire of competition, domination. The urge to once again impress upon Striker that even sucking him off, even in a rainy alleyway with Tatters’s distant screams, she still had control.
Stella staggered from side to side as both of them tried to set the rhythm, coaxing groans from him and lewd incoherent noises from her. In the end, they both pulled away, unwilling to finish the contest in her mouth, when there were so many other options. Now it was Striker’s turn for his eyes to widen as he felt Stella’s thumbs hook into the belt loops and around his hips. His tail lashed out, seeking to grab her throat, but Stella simply lifted her shorter, smaller assassin up and threw him to the ground as the air escaped his lungs with a grunt. The Goetia’s half-clothed knees hit the ground on either side of his body and Striker didn’t try to escape as Stella lowered herself onto him. Instead he just watched as her eyes fluttered closed momentarily, a smile he’d never seen anywhere else beyond the bedroom crossing the Goetia’s face. “There we go. I needed this.”
The assassin can feel the flaps of her jeans pressed flat against her inner thighs, the cold jaws of the zipper on either side of his cock as he reaches up to her hips, slipping his hands to the small of her back.
The Goetia and the assassin sit there in the rain, his hands roaming over her stomach, hips, tracing up to roll her nipples between his fingers or trace shoulder blades. In turn, her own claws move on from his shoulders, thumbs slipping under his shirt and vest to trace sharp collarbones and fangs of his own. Stella cups his face and bends to kiss him, drawing her rear up and away so he can feel cold, rainwater-wet, separation once more. He makes a displeased nasal humm into her mouth and she humms back, pleased she’s back on top. Just this once, Striker tells himself, I’ll let her get what she wants.
Stella is relentless as she fucks him through their combined orgasm, but while Striker is overwhelmed with sensitivity and post-coital bliss, she wrings two more thigh-clenches, two more little cries from her own body before she slumps on top of him. Striker’s got his snout buried in the downy feathers between her breasts and though she too smells of arousal, sweat, damp blood, and ozone, there is something relaxing about it. It is a relaxation both of them so desperately need yet cannot share, not in quite the same way. If they can only find peace after taking their battle for control from the streets to the bedchamber, or alleyway in this case, well,it’s something.
There are several more missions that month as Striker and Stella dismantle or fend off House Goetia’s rivals, nipping away at estates and intermediaries, then turning to nipping each other afterwards. After each outing, the demoness and the assassin were never quite sure how to feel as the necessary violence and the fantastic sex fed House Goetia’s fortunes and Stella’s needs enough to give them both a bit of breathing room. A chance to catch up on other business.
Striker was back in his office, wrapping up a bulk deal on what the slumlord in front of him had referred to as “pest control” when the phone rang. The little red button on the cradle signified an external ring-line as the snake-eyed imp shook hands with his customer and ushered him out the door. The automated voice of a succubus from the reciever confirmed it and Striker felt a chill run up his spine at her words. “Collect call from Lake Cocyutus. Do you accept the charges?”
“I’ll accept for starters,” said Striker, sensing a Game was afoot. A business call from Treachery meant the client was aiming high indeed, or had a risky proposition. “This is Striker, you have a job for me?”
“Indeed I do,” said a garbled voice and Striker scowled at the reciever. Someone was using a scrambling vocathurge to disguise their voice. “I understand you’ve been busy up there in Wrath, rattling the right sort of cages. I’d like you to go one step further and shatter one.”
Assassinating Valentino, or one of his fellow Overlords? It was Solstice come early.
“Now that I can do,” replied the assassin, letting some of the eagerness into his voice. But not too much. Bloodthirst in an assassin had to be restrained, directed. “Are we talkin’ one target or several?”
“Several,” said his potential client, who sounded pleased. “You are currently being offered a rather middling sinecure to eliminate Stolas Goetia, I wish for his entire House to fall. Wife, daughter, servant demons, I want them all dead and their estates put to the torch. When you succeed, I would be willing to offer you…”
The voice on the line listed a number that would’ve been triple what Striker made in a year and his mouth went dry before his brain caught up. “Wait a minute there bud, you got the fortune on-hand to fund that kinda hit? I wanna be sure you can deliver on your promises just like I keep mine.”
“I’ve got a vault at Mammon’s place in Greed,” said the voice. “High security, costs more than some Overlords take in over a century with all their little chump change schemes. You go there, ask for Alain, get an eyefull of what’s inside and call me back.”
“You do this sssong an’ dance with all your assassins?” asked Striker, his control slipping in his shock, which he’d masked with annoyance.
“Only the ones worth invesssting in, Mister Striker,” said the client mockingly. “You have two days to consider your future. Good evening.”
The click and drone of the dial tone blared through Striker’s mind as he stared at the far wall, mind askew and scattered a thousand different ways. Mammon’s was where not just the rich demons parked their cash, but the powerful ones hid even more powerful artefacts. Tomes from Alastor Crowley, Cain’s stone knife, shards from the Harrowing. Even, it was whispered among assassins, Angel Weapons unbloodied since the Fall itself, still dripping with the golden blood of Thrones and Seraphs. Talk about killing tools. With an arsenal like that, with pay like that…Striker really could be one of the most dangerous beings in Hell.
He hesitated and stood up from his desk, shrugging into his vest and hat as he stalked out, locking the front door with his tail.
Striker had intended to go to Mammon’s just as the voice had instructed, but his boots carried him right past the Ring Station up to Greed as an acidic drizzle opened up in the red sky. This felt…wrong wasn’t the right word, Striker was an assassin for hire and here was a hiring customer willing to foot the bill for weapons. He’d been offered targets that would make his name go from “recommended” to “a living legend”.
“Striker wiped out the whole Goetia family, he gets the job done.”
“First Strike, yeah I’ve heard of him. Who hasn’t? Serious business.”
He owed Stella nothing. She was just another client. One with some good side benefits above and in between her hips, sure, but once Stolas died, she’d go back to her garden parties and look at him with icy disdain. They were using each other for specific purposes and Striker fucking hated high-born demons. He’d shoot nobles and Overlords on general principle, if the pay was good.
The pay here was exceptional.
He owed Stella his life and his freedom. She’d gotten him out of Aduadin’s after she’d gone in with him and done well for a frilly noble who’d never had a real fight in her life. She’d ripped out Valentino’s gold tooth and destroyed it before Striker’s head could pop like a meat balloon.
She was a bitch and a liability, her House was keeping its head and her family’s above the water thanks to his own trigger finger, despite their finery. He could walk away and she wouldn’t have the resources or contacts to damage him or his reputation. For whatever short time she had left…
Striker snarled at a passing pedestrian and watched the other imp shrink away as he violently stomped a empty beer can flat. “What are you fucking doing, you corn-brained idiot?” he asked himself. “This is-“
“Oh Striker, right there, yes you’re perfect!”
The look of bliss on Stella’s swan beak as she came, luxuriating in the violet sheets as Hell’s rising sun outlined her white form in gold-red light.
Perfect….
He could do it right then, just like that after he iced her husband, because she would want vicious, celebratory hatesex. Her guard would be totally down.
She trusted him.
Killing the daughter would be almost as easy, with those stupid headphones, she’d never hear him coming.
I’m doing this for her, Striker. She’s not ready to lead a Great House, she needs time and protection and saftey. I can get her those things by getting you to kill the right demons.
House Goetia were now the right demons to kill.
Striker turned on his heel, shouldering an imp back into traffic, and headed to Mammon’s for his guarantee. Despite the complimentary water and later, two fingers of bourbon, he still couldn’t shake the foul taste on his tongue or the slightly oily sensation that had settled on his skin from no obvious source.
The mysterious client’s vault was deep inside, deep enough the smooth chrome vaults and visible guards with heavy weaponry were replaced with Elder Sigils and the vast black stone from when Dis and Pandemonium had been built. There were older, subtler defenses here from far before Striker’s time. From before most demon’s time, he suspected. The Saturnine demon who answered to Alain in front of him with a waistcoat & gold-chain pocket watch stopped and indicated a blank stone wall to Striker’s left. “The Vault, sir. Its owner gave you visibility rights this morning. To see what the vault holds, that is all.”
“Show me then,” said Striker, crossing his arms and preparing his best poker face. The black stone shifted aside at Striker’s words and the imp’s vertical pupils narrowed to thin slits. “Holy…”
“Quite,” said the Saturnine.
Striker had Angel weapons, but they were reforged from the shards left behind by the Exterminators. Guns, modern weapons for modern killing. There were similar weapons stacked in neat pyramids near the corners of the room. Dozens of them. Enough for a large strike force…or a small army. That alone would’ve been impressive but the writhing angel impaled on a stone slab at the center of the vault was impossible to look away from. Chained, silenced, and in torment, the being looked at Striker with eyes long-since gouged out and a face devoid of hope. The bronze sword impaling it to the rock gleamed in the dark despite the absence of any light within the vault. Even with the nicked edges, the roughly leather-wrapped handle, there was still a kind of dangerous beauty to it. Like Stella.
“Visibility rights only,” repeated the Saturnine and Striker realized he’d taken a step forward, just to the edge of the vault door. He blinked and stepped back, noting the amputated limbs, the carefully fragmented bones, the half-finished bullets. Not a punishment, thought the cold-steel part of his mind. A production line.
“Right…Well, I’ve looked my fill.”
“Very well sir.”
As he took the long road to the surface of Greed, past the slot machines and stock exchanges, and back into Wrath, the imp assassin was uncharacteristically pensive. He was occasionally a gambling imp, but he wondered what simply seeing inside that vault did to his odds of survival.
Striker was a good assassin and his time enslaved to Valentino had made him an even better liar. But Stella had grown up in the gardens of Hell’s nobility, playing with her brother and learning of lies, schemes, and duplicity from the moment she understood spoken language. Outwardly, Striker was still Striker, gravelly, confident, lethal, and sharp. The newscaster who’d been sleeping with Duke Absalom and Overlord Vox collapsed back into bed with a chest full of bullets and a stupefied look as his killer holstered twin pistols and turned towards the window. Stella knew she was visible there in profile, the best-looking gargoyle on this tacky faux-ancient building, and pretended to be watching the skyline instead of Striker’s aura. Normally a smooth curve of satisfaction, aggression and with her, desire, now Striker was shot through with black ripples of doubt. Indecision even.
He stepped forward onto the balcony, eyeing her speculatively as Stella put her hands behind her back. “Didja really need me for this one Queenie? Guy was a wimp, you coulda fried him yourself.”
She smiled slightly to show him how pleased she was his estimate of her had risen, but from the imp’s own grin he probably thought he was damning her with faint praise. “I could have,” she admitted, “but I enjoy watching you work. Besides, you spend enough time ogling me through that scope of yours, you should expect some turn around by now. All’s fair in love and war. Especially when Houses of the Old Blood are involved.”
More disquiet roiled in Striker, though he revealed none of it as he stepped forward to lean on the actual gargoyle beside her. “How old’s your House then? Seein’ as how you love spouting off about it to whichever carrion you’ve got in your claws.”
Stella huffed in amusement. “I’m not that bad, am I?”
Her assassin just stared back with those wonderful jade-ringed eyes, letting the silence and the sound of Imp City’s nightlife speak for him.
“Well, if you must know, my husband who you still haven’t managed to kill is the very oldest of the Old Blood. His father Paimon Fell from Heaven and I was hatched here in Hell barely a decade after Stolas’s egg cracked. At this point, the distance in our ages is a footnote, but Mother always liked to remind me I married into a first-Fall family. Octavia could care less about the meaning of such things, but age and prestige are a currency of their own. Though I doubt you’d accept them.”
“I can’t shoot it, drink it, or spend it, so no,” replied Striker, his unease lessening as Stella blinked and shook her head.
“Why am I even telling you this? You’re an assassin! You told me you don’t care for politics.” The swan demoness’s seeming befuddlement was a lure. Perhaps an obvious one, but it was wrapped in her usual tone of arrogant dismissal that was getting harder to maintain around Striker.
You’re both compromised, crooned Andrealphus’s voice in her head and Stella ignored the figment of her imagination.
“Just makin’ conversation,” he said with a shrug. And then, after the briefest hesitation, the demon stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked down at the street below. “I had a client call me a few days ago, wanted to impress me or just make sure I wasn’t small time-“
She hip-checked him into the gargoyle, just a bit. “You’re short in comparison to me, Striker, but I couldn’t call you small. Any part of you.”
Striker rolled his eyes at the double entendre, but continued, returning his eyes and mood to the street. “Showed me something they kept around for kicks. Not the worst thing I’ve seen in this business, but…”
Stella brushed the surface of his thoughts gently, the slightest skimming pass across the top and the image of herself writhing and impaled between a bronze sword and a column of dark rock hit her like one of Striker’s punches. The Goetia’s right hand clenched out of his sightline and she grit her teeth in fury.
“It’s stickin’ with me for some reason.”
The image was going to stick with Stella too, was going to fill her nightmares for weeks, but she’d only had a glimpse. No context. Was this what he’d been shown, his own fear putting her in another’s suffering, or an implanted memory to rattle her towards rashness? Any and all these could be true, but she wasn’t Stolas. Indecisive, whining, lying cluckfuck that he was. “What did you see?” she asked bluntly and Striker looked momentarily alarmed.
“Nothin’ for a lady’s delicate sensibilities.”
“Fortunate then I’m not a lady,” said Stella. “As you said last week, I’m the Queen Bitch of the Wrath Ring.” But aside from that momentary flash of alarm, Striker’s mask was back on, his aura calming as they drifted back to their usual back-and-forth and he refused to give a straight answer.
“Come on then,” Stella said as she stepped forward and dropped out of sight while her assassin scrambled for his rope. “Let’s get you busy and distracted.”
Striker eyed the box in Stella’s hands suspiciously. “A gift?”
“Fair compensation,” she amended. “For your work thus far. And don’t worry, it’s not a painting.” The Goetia opened the box and watched appreciatively as Striker’s jaw dropped. “You replaced my gold tooth?”
“Your gap-toothed smile was getting on my nerves,” said Stella. “But since you did tear out a Malacoda’s throat on my behalf…” One of her claws reached out and scraped away a thin line of gold. “Might as well make it useful for an assassin.”
The pearlescent gleam of Angelic metal gleamed in the dim light of Stella’s sitting room and Striker barely heard her next words. “It cost far more than if I’d made this tooth out of solid gold, but if you want to look at it through your purely mercenary lens, it’s an investment.”
So I’m an investment to her, huh?
“An’ if I cared to look at yer little nugget here through some other lens, what would I find?”
“Nothing!” snapped Stella, wondering why she felt so insulted at Striker’s perfectly valid concern. “Pawn it off to whatever fence or thrice-damned dealer you care to if money’s your only interest.”
The assassin raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t still be here if it was.”
They both stood there in stunned silence for a moment at his unexpected honesty, but more surprises were yet to come. Striker’s eyes flicked between Stella, who was trying not to anxiously flutter her feathers, and the tooth in his grasp which sat heavy and inert, but with a quiet song of hidden grace. Guilt writhed in him like a living tumor and his hand closed the box almost of its own accord. “I can’t accept this. ‘Preciate it, but I’ve had enough bombs in my head.”
Stella’s claw landed atop his own and he looked up to see her expression, expecting anger or insult at his rejection of her gift. There was something soft there, the way she looked at him and her genuine worry pierced through every layer of Striker’s jaded defenses in an instant.
“This isn’t about the tooth is it?”
“No,” he admitted as his silver-white Angel pistol cleared its holster.
Click. THUMP.
He thumbed the hammer back the instant the box hit the floor and put his weapon point-blank in Stella’s face. Then he froze, because a swan claw crackling with white lightning was at his neck.
Somehow she’d gotten the drop on him and the Goetia bitch smiled. It was a sad little smile, like someone who had known this was coming, hoped it wouldn’t, but had prepared anyway. “I’ve seen you draw faster than that, Striker.”
“Stella…” No Queenie, no epithet, no smart remarks now.
“You hesitated, didn’t you?”
The question hung between them, as weighty as the gold and platinum tooth lying on the carpet between assassin and noble. “You’re hesitating now, certainly.”
Was he? He could shoot her now. Or now. Right now!
Do it!
DO IT!
Striker lowered his pistol and to his utter shock, Stella Goetia lowered her arm as white lightning fizzled out. She blinked pink eyes and in a shared instant of incredulity, they both started to laugh.
“I’m nuttier than a fruitcake ain’t I?” managed Striker.
“I almost let you shoot me, that’s far worse.”
“I almost shot you! In the face!”
“We could try again,” she offered, only half in jest. “See if you’ve managed to train me to your high standards.”
“No point.” The imp assassin shook his head. “I choked. I fuckin’ choked on th’ easiest lifetime gig I’m ever gonna get offered. Blood of Baal, you’re just sitttin’ there! Stop sittin’ there!”
“Why?” asked Stella as she cocked her head. “You just said you weren’t going to hurt me, and I’m not going to kill you.”
Striker’s jaw dropped. “What? Why?”
“We both choked,” she said, staring at her hand and flexing sharp claws. “Which puts the two of us at an impasse.”
“I suppose it does.”
They stood there in stunned silence for some time until Stella bent down and picked up both wooden box and Angel-killer tooth in each hand. Striker eyed the relic. “So what would that thing have done ta me?”
“Nothing,” said the Goetia. “I considered an insurance policy, but you’ve had enough chains on your neck.” She held it out. “It’s still yours, if you’d like. Payment for services rendered and some recompense for your losses.”
“You gotta use small words Queenie, not all of us are your kinda cultured folk.”
“Just take the fucking tooth, Striker,” she said irritably and the imp did so, grimacing as he slipped it into his jacket pocket. “I presume you won’t tell me who ordered the hit?”
“I might if I knew,” he admitted. “And if it didn’t put a bullseye the size of the Wrath Ring on my head. ‘Course, the client was probably gonna kill me anyway, so natch. You managed to piss off someone real high up Queenie.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Showed me what’s in his bank vault at Mammons, tryin’ to get me to take the job. There’s a God-damned Angel in there, stuck on a bronze sword and someone was takin him apart while he was still alive to build Angel weapons.”
The fear and confusion on Stella’s face made Striker’s own feel justified and her next words came in a whisper. “Was I your only target?”
“All of House Goetia-“
They put the pieces together in the same instant. Striker’s contract, the non-lethal weaponry bought from Tatters, the elaborate scare tactic of the vault.
“Octavia.”
Octavia Goetia was a regular at Stylish Occult, both for their clothes, which were the kind of stylish Goth she could appreciate, and the rotating taxidermy collection the owner occasionally sold to the right kind of buyer. Octavia apparently was not the right kind of buyer, but she enjoyed window shopping the cats, deer, and even a crocodile that had been stuffed or mounted on a corner of the store. Something in their dead-eyed glassy stares felt comforting, Noble daughter and neutered cat both pretending they were still alive. Still, she couldn’t hang around forever.
“Alright Slither, see you later,” called Octavia, turning to wave at the snake demon manning the register as she opened the front door to leave. The first tranquilizer dart whipped past her cheek and the second and third hit her in the neck. “Ow!”
She’d just pulled the blue-feathered things from her neck when a concussion grenade went off feet from her, throwing Octavia into a stumbling, blinded run towards the alley she remembered was nearby. Her shoulder clipped the wall of Stylish Occult and she spun around at the change in her momentum, hands rippling violet with the magic that was her birthright as a Goetia. The teenager put her back to the wall and strained to listen for any footsteps, but all her ears could get was eeeeeeeeeeeee. “What’s happening?”
Her hearing recovered before her eyesight and she heard footsteps in the alley beside her, so Octavia swung around the corner and blasted the demon with a swirl of raw power. Whoever it was hit the ground with a groan and the smell of burnt hair as Octavia weaved down the alley in a drunken gait, losing coordination as the tranquilizer drugs took effect, but she’d at least gotten some of her vision back. A washed out, faded alleyway and a demon with a submachine gun lay on the ground, smoke still rising from his unmoving form. “Aw shit wha-“
“She’s heading into the alley, box her in!” a deep voice above her shouted and as ten other demons closed in with weapons pointing at her, Octavia summoned what power remained to her still-growing sorcerous abilities. “Alright, portal, portal, portal,” she jabbered trying to remember her father’s instruction to peel apart the skein of space. Her fear overcame her and the half-opened portal to the mansion sputtered out.
“OCTAVIA!” screamed a distant voice and the Goetia teenager had never heard Stella so terrified in her life. She’d seen her mother furious on an almost daily basis, throwing pots and servants at her father, screaming with all her might back when they’d still lived under the same roof. This was different, more primal, more deeply felt by far.
The demons leveled their guns at her and Octavia flinched, expecting a messy hail of bullets. The ones she got were far more precise.
BANG! BANG! BANG! roared guns from above her and three of the demons dropped like taxidermy creatures without stands. The chatter of submachinegun fire answered and the two remaining demons looked up at the sound of a gun battle. “Queenie!” someone shouted and a torrent of living lightning poured over the side of the roof with a scream that was more hunting falcon than swan. Two of the demons pointing guns at Octavia popped like water balloons as all the moisture in their bodies was super-heated to vapor.
“It’s her!” someone shouted and one of the demons threw something at the white swan reforming herself between Octavia and her assailants. Stella cut it in half dismissively with one finger, only for gold dust to explode out like a party favor. Octavia felt her magic vanish instantly, smothered in her bones as she gasped. It felt like being kicked in the stomach, so she followed procedure and doubled over. From the alley floor she saw her mother, dress in tatters and crown missing, stagger and look uncertain. “No more magic,” taunted a huge Malebolgia who had to be eight feet of muscle as he dropped a net gun and drew a knife longer than Octavia ‘s forearm. “Shank ‘em both!”
“Don’t you FUCKING touch her!” hissed Stella weaving sideways like a dancer as a net expanded over her shoulder. “Filthy degenerates, I’ll kill you ALL!”
“Mom run-“ tried Octavia, but two demons were staggering back before she finished the sentence as Stella tore into them.
“You DARE!” shrieked her mother as she ducked a swing of the large knife and dragged one of her assailants close to take the blow instead. Shoving him forward into one of the other Malebolgia, all black skin, muscles, and horns, Stella grinned as the ice mines strung across his chest beeped. Both demons were flash-frozen in an instant and the older Goetia smirked. This lasted until a knife tore across her upper chest in an arc, blood shockingly red against white feathers.
“MOM!” Octavia felt all the air leave the alleyway as her mother backpedaled, hands held up to ward off the large demon. The Malebolgia grinned and moved towards her with the knife a sliver of terrifying promise, lunging as the alley was filled with the sound of thunder. Octavia squeezed her eyes shut.
It had been a galling thing to be thrown to the grass again and gain by an imp, especially with that damned smirk of his, but Stella could see the lunge in perfect clarity. Her opponent was larger than Striker by orders of magnitude, the knife longer, but the technique should work. The Goetia’s hands came up, found his grip and with a twist, the knife was hers now. She grinned. “I did it! HA! Take tha-“ She took the Malebolgia’s fist to the face as she saw Striker, golden tooth bared, jump off the roof and unload every chamber of his revolvers into the other demon’s skull.
Octavia thought all three of them would hit the ground at the same time but Striker kicked the Malebolgia in the chest as his tail swooped out to catch her mother with effortless ease. The imp landed on his feet and leaned back as Stella fell into his arms with what was a textbook ballroom dip. “Nice one.”
Octavia expected her mother to kill him too, but she scowled instead. “I had him!”
“I know you did,” drawled the imp as he brought her mother to her feet and kicked several of the bodies. “You woulda taken too long.”
“Octavia! By the Old Blood, are you alright?” Stella rushed forwards and pulled Octavia into her lap, cradling her daughter with more care than the Goetia heir could remember for a very long time indeed. “Did they hurt you?”
“I’m fine,” managed Octavia though all her muscles felt like the stuffed alligator inside Stylish Occult. “You’re hurt too!”
“Oh?” Stella looked down at her chest as the imp reloaded his pistols with practiced hands. “I suppose I am.”
“You suppose we should be getting out of here, Queenie? There’s probably a second team coming in now.”
“Mom, wait, wait, wait!” Octavia wriggled out of her mother’s embrace to gesture at the imp, who wasn’t looking at either of them, focused on the alley entrance. “Who in all the Nine Rings of Hell is this guy?”
“This is Striker,” said Stella shortly as she picked up the knife that had cut her and all three of them began to run. “He’s a friend.”