This story is set in approximately the same universe as my Demonology stories, but differs in some small ways.
Rain spattered the pavement. It was a weird storm, large drops but not a lot of them. Blake Connors strode down the busy street, past the line of frat boys and the women dressed to attract them that were lined up in front of Filbert's, which had some band he'd never heard of playing tonight, and then past the food trucks, and finally into Lanigan's Irish Bar. Faux Irish, Blake thought, but he wasn't there for the food or really the ambiance.
Lanigan's was a singles bar. It might not call itself that, but that was what it was. Blake rarely had success at such places, but rarely wasn't never, and it was still better than online dating. He scanned the crowd. Young people, middle-aged people, a few bordering on old from Blake's twenty-seven year old perspective. Pretty girls, plain girls, petite ones, zaftig ones, everywhere in between. The place was busy, but not packed.
At the bar he spotted a possibility. Brunette, a few extra pounds, and judging from her right profile, pretty without being a knockout. She wore a short blue skirt and a tight white blouse, and visibly, a black bra beneath. Not trying to play too hard to get, judging from the outfit, and at the top of his league but probably not out of it entirely.
She might be smart, witty, and kind. There was only one way to find out. If he was honest with himself he would have settled for horny and down to fuck, which would do for the night, but he hoped to find more at some point, too. The key was to go with the flow. The empty bar stool next to her beckoned.
"Hi, is this seat free?" he asked. He could have asked the guy to the right of the chair, but he deliberately asked the brunette.
She looked at him. From the front he could see that she'd unbuttoned the blouse to reveal a fair amount of creamy cleavage. "Yes," she said.
He smiled and sat down. A good start. "What are you having tonight?" he said, nodding to the glass. He hated the transactionality of paying a woman for her time, and the idea that she might feel obligated to give value for money spent, but he knew how the game was played. Singles bars sucked. But it was better than sending thoughtful messages that both clearly indicated that he'd read a profile and highlighted interests in common, only to receive no reply. He knew he wasn't god's gift to women. His attempts at working out had done little to add muscle to his scrawny frame. He could hold up his end of a conversation, though, if he could actually get into one, and he liked to believe he wasn't an asshole.
"Whiskey Sours," she said.
He signaled the bartender, a tall man with dark hair turning slowly gray. "Two whiskey sours," he said. He didn't much care what he drank. He'd only sip at it, anyway, because as far as he was concerned none of it tasted all that good.
"You sure about that?" asked the bartender.
It was an odd thing to ask, so he tried to read the bartender's face. But he saw nothing. "Yes," he said.
The bartender shrugged. Whatever the bartender had been trying to tell him was lost now.
He turned back to the brunette. "I'm Blake."
The woman nodded. "Jacqueline."
"Come here often?" he asked.
"Often enough."
"What do you do for fun?"
"Oh, you know. TV, sex." A drink appeared in front of her, followed by one in front of Blake.
Well, she was forthright anyway. "What's your favorite show right now?" he asked.
But she ignored him, scanning the crowd. "Hey, nice chatting with you," she said. "I see someone I know." She grabbed the drink, slid off the stool, and walked away.
Well, thought Blake, that was fast. I suppose if one is going to strike out one might as well get on with it, but still, usually they at least give me a chance until they finish the drink.
Outside the frosted windows of the place, the rain seemed to be picking up some. Well, there was still an empty seat next to him. Maybe someone of the female persuasion would sit in it. He sipped his drink. He respected those who could cruise the place, moving from being rejected by one person to making a move on another in seconds. He needed a few moments to gather himself. Even though probably no one was paying him the slightest attention, he felt getting right up and trying to hit on another girl would make him look shallow. Was he shallow?
No, I don't think so. But I'm willing to settle for less than the love of my life, just so the trip out here isn't a complete waste of time.
"I tried to warn you," the bartender said, cutting into his thoughts. "She does that all the time, sits at the bar just long enough to get someone to buy her a drink and then goes off to talk to someone else."
"Ah well," Blake said. "Live and learn."
So he sat for a few moments, nursing the unwanted drink. Alcohol dulled his wits without doing much for his inhibitions, but the drink at least gave him something to appear to be doing while he looked over the crowd, trying to see someone sitting by themselves who might want company.
Someone sat down in the chair next to him. He looked over, hoping to see a sultry blonde or, well, anything with curves.
Instead he saw an older man in a three piece suit. His dark, reddish hair formed a widow's peak that seemed to point down at a long, angular nose which in turn directed attention to a mustache that threatened to have handlebars and a long Van Dyke beard, all of which served to accentuate a markedly triangular face. "Good evening," said the man in the kind of rich baritone that Blake thought women probably swooned for. "You seem to be having some trouble with the ladies."
"Uh, not always," Blake said.
"I'm going to fix that," said the man.
"Let me guess," Blake said. The guy oozed, well, something, and Blake figured he was a pick-up artist. "You're going to teach me about negging."
"Negging? Oh, insulting women to ruin their self-esteem, with the object of making them desperate enough to sleep with you? Oh, no. Proof, though, that humans are by far the most evil of all the races. It seems like the sort of thing we should have come up with, but you came up with it all on your own."
"Not me," Blake said, wondering what 'we' meant, and sorting out the rest of it at the same time. Clearly, the man was a weirdo. He was interesting, at least. A good way to pass the time while he looked for other possibilities. "I'm Blake. What's your name?"
"Oh, such things aren't to be given out lightly. But people have called me Asmodeus," said the man. "You can call me Az, if you like. Or Modi. Something more suitable to the age. It doesn't matter."
That at least made what the man said form a coherent, if crazy whole. He looked kind of like a demon. He had a demon's name. He talked about humans as being something other. Okay, he had a schtick. Blake wondered if it helped him pick up girls. He decided to play along. "Let me guess, if I sign a contract giving you my soul, you'll make me wealthy and attractive for the remainder of my no doubt short life."
Az laughed. "Oh, quite good. No, we don't operate that way anymore. Blake, my boy, I'm not going to take your soul."
At that point, a beautiful brunette in a low-cut cocktail dress came over, and put her hand on Az's shoulder. "Hi there, big boy, looking for some company tonight?" She practically thrust her tits in the strange-looking man's face.
Az pushed her shoulder, lightly. "Can't you see I'm busy having an important man-to-man talk? Get lost."
"Sorry!" the woman said and scampered away.
Az smiled. "Like moths to the flame. Now, where were we? Oh, yes, I'm not taking your soul. Anyway, I don't have a lot of time. Do you want a little boost with women, or not? And it costs you nothing, and I'm not taking your soul."
"Sure," Blake said, not sure how that was going to go wrong.
Az grabbed Blake's wrist. "Not taking your soul. I'm going to give you a piece of mine."
Blake tried to pull away, as Az wasn't the kind he wanted to hold hands with, but Az tightened his grip without seeming to strain, even when Blake put his back into escaping.
Energy coursed from Az's hand into Blake. It spread up his arm, over his chest, up to his head and down through his legs. His clothes seemed to squeeze him. His jaw ached, and he felt, for a moment, like he was on fire.
Then, a second later, he cooled down, although his jeans and his shirt still felt too tight.
