Sitting on the park bench, I patiently waited for my quarry. The Commerce Court West building, one of the tallest buildings in Toronto's Financial District glitters in the distance. I know for a fact that it houses several law firms, mega-corporations and the offices of at least one billionaire. It's where my prey works.
Today's target is Jonathan Wendell, and he is quite simply impressive. Tall and ruggedly handsome, with reddish brown hair, alabaster skin and green eyes, he looks really good in a Brooks Brothers business suit. Born into the wealthy Wendell family of East York, Ontario, Jonathan studied accounting at the University of Toronto and later earned his MBA at Harvard University.
The guy took his family's wealth, which was in the low millions at the time of his birth, and turned their thriving textile business into a billion-dollar empire. Yup, Jonathan Wendell is a golden boy in every way. He's happily married to a tall, lovely blonde-haired and green-eyed woman named Mildred O'Connell whom he met in Boston six years ago. They have a daughter together, Emily.
Jonathan Wendell is a veritable pillar of North American society. At forty one, he's the CEO of Wendell & Thorpe Incorporated, and expanded their operations from Ontario and Quebec to Nova Scotia and Alberta, before finally leaping into the U.S. market by simultaneously opening locations in New York and Texas. The guy seems too good to be true. And he is.
During his rowdy days at the University of Toronto, Jonathan Wendell and some of his frat buddies got into a scuffle with a homeless black man outside of Mac Wilde's, their favorite bar. The homeless gentleman in question was fifty-eight-year-old Jamaican immigrant Cameron Fisk, in Brampton. They beat him to a bloody pulp, called him racial slurs and the poor shmuck ended up in the hospital. When the Toronto police service discovered Wendell's involvement, scandal followed, family lawyers went into damage control mode and hush money exchanged hands.
In exchange for fifty thousand dollars, the Wendell family bought Cameron Fisk's silence. The poor bastard died six months later, the result of head trauma. While it's true that Fisk had several head-related health conditions his whole life, they were never a life-threatening problem until he took some severe hits to the heads, thanks to certain racist frat boys. That man didn't have to die, folks. Someone should pay for what was done to him. That's where I come in.
As per his custom, Jonathan Wendell exits the building for his evening stroll through the park. He likes to do this while he's working late. Clad in a T-shirt and sweatpants, his headphones on, he looks like a regular Joe out for an evening jog. Just another fit and attractive, well-dressed and borderline middle-aged jogger in one of Toronto's top neighborhoods. I know better.
"Hello Jonathan," I whisper, and the man practically jumps out of his skin as I quite simply materialize next to him. Jonathan Wendell stopped by the bench to tie his shoelaces. Oddly, there's nobody around. Or so he thinks. There are people around but they just can't see us. I won't allow it. When will humans realize there's more to the world than they know?
"What do you want?" Jonathan asks, and I allow the Change to come over me. At least partially. My eyes turn yellow, and I give the frightened businessman a smile a shark would recognize. I sniff the air, and the pungent scent wafting up from Jonathan Wendell's sweatpants tell me the rich bozo just pissed himself.
"Justice," I say, and with a simple touch, I set Jonathan Wendell, one of Canada's wealthiest men, on fire. Literally. His howls fill the park, attracting attention far and wide. When his smoldering remains are discovered, there won't be anything that can explain what happened to him. Spontaneous human combustion is a myth, any scientist will tell you that. The police and forensics experts will be besides themselves trying to figure it out.
Look, I'm not going to sit here and tell you that I regret my human days or bore you with how I treasure humanity and endeavor to protect it. I'm not Blade or Spiderman or Angel or Captain America. I'm a motherfucking Half-Demon from Hell and I absolutely love it. The name is Afreet, and I am a Soul Reaper, though once upon a time, I was known as Suleiman Abdirahman of Somalia.
Anyone looking at me would see a six-foot-one, lean and athletic man with light brown skin, curly black hair and golden brown eyes. I was born in Dhamasa, Somalia, on February 5, 1895. In 1919, I encountered a man named Ahmed Bin Yasser while traveling to the Holy City of Mecca, Saudi Arabia, for Pilgrimage. I was a devout Muslim, once.
Here I was, completely and utterly alone in this ancient city, and one of the locals took an interest in me. When Ahmed Bin Yasser offered me his hospitality and friendship, I accepted.
I didn't know that this man was a powerful Sorcerer, one who had been alive for centuries. He once served Baal, a powerful Demon that the people of the Levant and Asia Minor once worshipped as a deity. "The Dark Lord granted me great power but he exacted a terrible price after bestowing my powers upon me," Bin Yasser told me one night, as we stayed at his residence in the Ibrahim El Khaleel neighborhood of Makkah.
I listened with rapt attention as Bin Yasser rambled on and on that first night, dismissing his ramblings as words of folly. The man was fond of wine and had drunken himself into quite a state, after all. Lord knows what I've said while under the influence of the fruit of the vine.
