It was an ordinary night for Issabella. A shot of espresso, green face paint, lace bra, panties and the little black purse of exorcism to-go. The Thompson house on North Orchard, another demon, another job. Issabella was no ordinary woman, she was a demon huntress. She knew all their tricks, at least most of them. Catching a low-level Fallen was easy. Truth be told, most were dumb as rocks, and though some quite handsome, it was still a dirty, sexy occupation and someone had to do it
You wanna catch a beast? Tame it, but don't get involved. That was the code. Once you've got him? Categorize him, inspect him, even fuck him, and then lock him up... but don't get involved. It was a standard, and Issabella knew it. Relations with a beast was one thing, a relation-ship with a clientele's problem does not look good on a resume. There were many tricks in a demon hunter's handbag. Playing the innocent, playing the dominant, assuming false identities and often, often enough appealing to their animalistic desires was all part of the game. But regardless of how you get there... Bam! When the pants come down and you've sucked all the power from him; out comes the purse of containment.
Issabella's tiny handbag was a relic passed down through generations. Originally owned by a famous alchemist from the 1600s, had now been refreshed and up-cycled. From once a threshold to ensnare the malevolent, now successfully masqueraded as a smart-looking party purse.
Therefore the more intelligent of the male species preferred to stay out of their dates belongings, perceiving that hell may be found between the lipstick and cellphone.
Tonight's job should be easy, and Issabella was counting on it. It had been a busy week, between the part-time at Mafioso Pizza, the steam room yoga, trying to earn a business degree, teaching demon defense at the Y, and the other unexpected things that fall into the lap of a twenty-seven-year-old female incubus trapper. A spa day... heavy on champagne-mimosa was long overdue, but alas, the Thompson's demon had taken precedence. Last week, a call about tapping windows and electronic devices gone fuzzy had been bumped up to code-red with furniture destruction and wall-word scratchings.
To understand the psyche of the male demon, you must remember this. Number one on their brain is a deadly thirst for blood, creating fear, destruction, and just making a general mess of things. However, bubbling right up under that thin veneer is Number two; their insatiable carnal desire; which fortunately makes them forget about number one, at least for a short time.
It was 9 pm and Issabella had been let inside an average American house known as the Thompson's residence, AKA: Case number 335. The owner agreed to stay away during the extermination process. Once alone, she detected its essence. Smokey, charcoal, and musk with a hint of myrrh. Probably a Satanyic. The living room, however, was typical poltergeist; furniture knocked over, books laying on the floor, burned footprints on the carpet. She followed his scent into the next room.
There he was, standing in the kitchen. A rugged beast with a short mane of wild hair. Confirmed, Satanyic. One of the lower levels. He stood semi crouched, poised for action. To learn the demons name gave you more power over them. However, Issabella didn't know it. She would have to trick him, for most demons were not forthright with their identity.
"Why are you causing trouble?" Her manner deceptively simple.
"Roaaaaaarrrrrgh!" He snarled in sudden anger.
This one was particularly dumb. She noted. "What is your name?"
"Ego Autem Non Doceo Vos! Roaaaaarrrrghhh!" He shouted to the kitchen skylight.
"Let me start again, my name is Issabella. What is yours?"
He stopped in his tracks and stared at her. She was a cool drink of water in a hot hot hut. Her hair dyed green the color of nature and her eyes painted as if to wear a mask. He drew silent for a moment to drill deeper. Triangular chin, short-cut sweater, and low-rise jeans. Under that, undeniably female. Sexual. Spunky. A scent of citrus and peppermint. She was young, therefore weak and foolish. Her eyes twinkled.
"Arrrooghhhth! Vos Provoco Veni Interrogo!"
"I request you speak in my tongue."
A moment passed as he questioned her audacity.
"Very well Girl. But I'll cut your mouth-willy out and wear it round my waist before this night is over!" He scowled, deep, raspy and with words chosen from a limited vocabulary.
"You do speak English." She smiled. "But, perhaps I will regret my request."
"That is NOT all you will regret when I am done!" The demon approached her with nostrils blowing hot steam down his lips.
"What is your name?" Issabella asked as if requesting milk choices at an espresso stand.
He stopped to shake his head in confusion."I will NOT tell you my NAME!" He bellowed for good effect.
Some of these creatures were quite handsome and alluring. This big guy was a six. Oh well, you can't win them all. She would still get paid and retain her folk hero status of ridding the world, or at least Clark County of yet one more demon. What more ought a girl want? Free smoothies for life would be great, she thought. Why couldn't they pay in smoothies? As if minor fame and a varied pay scale for doing the work that even the clergy declined, wasn't reward enough... still, free creamy fruity beverages on demand would be nice. She scrutinized the beast. He was big. Unsure of his origin or family. He looked half-ogre, half-brute, a mini-tank covered in muscle armor and wearing black leather that clung tight across his hips. Truth was, it was the smaller monsters you really had to be careful with.
"I'm here to destroy!" It bellowed again, then raised a huge arm to the ceiling and suddenly brought it down hard. The dining room table buckled briefly before becoming an unintended two-piece.
"That's coming out of your pocket." She said plainly.
"Arrrrgggggghhh!!" He snarled and reached for the blender.
"You are reaching for the smoothie maker?"
"I will grab something heavy to smash over your pretty head!" This demon had the uncanny ability to make each word sound like a dead fish hitting the floor with a heavy smack.
"Drop the smoothie maker. I am terrified of you."
"Good! As it should be!" His confidence returning. "Now scream for me! Pee your pants in scared-ness!"
"I would, however, I am not aware of whom I am terrified?"
The demon looked to the ceiling again and posed with arms back, laughing loudly.
"What I mean is, I would be horrified if I knew who was scaring me?... so badly. Ehhh!" She feigned a scream.
"You are TERRIFIED by none other than HUNSYNUCKLE! The Damned! Second generation Satanyic!" He announced proudly.
He was a dumb one. With a silly name. "Hunsey-knuckle? I see." She smiled. "Now I have your name."
"Fuucckkkk!"
"Yep. You gave it up. Now, I'll make you a deal..." She placed the petite handbag neatly on the counter-top by the door and opened it. "You can jump inside my little ole purse-trap where you can be delivered back to your sugar daddy, or, we can do this the hard way."
"I will Kiillllllll YOOUUUU!"
And the dance had begun.
The devil bellowed and she knew it was time. The sweater-top had to go. Quick, up over the head, her woven armor sailed then neatly clung to a pot rack. The monster lunged and Issabella stood firm. Then, just as suddenly as it started... he froze. He tanked mid assault at the site of her sheer black-lace bra; part of the springtime collection.
"Just like men, so like monsters." She smiled.
