It’s a pleasant night out in Ourea, all things considered: a marble clock striking ten, a moon waxing crescent.
No stars out, not in the city's filthy, beating heart. Only flashing lights and neon signs guide wandering souls home. Here, suns winking out of existence weigh little on the minds of the weary.
Locals move through Ourean architecture—both modern and archaic—with practised ease. They are a colourful, singular body, an entity compromised of all shapes and sizes. Tourists often find themselves simply carried away by the flow of this shifting mass, only every so often stopping to wonder at the tickle at the back of their minds. They think, “Have I seen this limestone statue already? Why does it seem like it’s following me?”
But no one else seems to notice, so they too carry on.
Even at this hour, the roads are choked with cars, and taxis, all honking in tired exasperation. Buses clog lanes, brave cyclists weave through the hulking metal, and braver pedestrians attempt to cross before the lights have changed. Fresh scents fight for dominance in the night air: smoke, food, people, brine—magic.
Usually, it’s the sea that Hector notices first.
A cloying smell hits him hard the moment he steps out of the train station. The stench of seaweed from the harbour is strong all year round, but it’s almost unbearable during the hotter seasons. It rises and seeps through gaps in doors, and trickles down leaky ceilings. A local might tell you it’s something one gets used to. Hector would disagree.
You never really get used to anything in Ourea.
Tonight, the air is humid, and the smell of the ocean is nauseating. Hector’s shirt is stuck to his skin. A mosquito buzzes beside his ear, a little too close for comfort. Ah, sweet summer. He thinks he’d actually enjoy it if he wasn’t busy getting his ass kicked by a demon.
Demons.
Ourea‘s version of a rat infestation.
In the cramped alleyway, there’s hardly room to put distance between him and its ugly mug. Was that the right term? He squints. There’s no proper face to speak of. Just a mouth, huge and jagged; teeth upon teeth upon teeth. Its lips are set vertically; a red gash the length of its forehead to chin. Four arms stick comically out from a death-metal band shirt, knees bent and tense in too-tight torn jeans. The mouth snaps at Hector with a wet sound.
‘Gross,’ he says.
They’ve been at this for a while, getting good and bloody, tossing each other against cement, grinding cheeks into stone walls. Hector’s not in great shape: his right arm is numb, and what corestuff he needs to blast the demon back into whatever Hell it had crawled out of is long gone.
The heat makes it hard for him to keep the sweat out of his eyes; he’s fighting half-blind. An arm slams into his ribs, eliciting a cry of pain. He doesn’t see it, but by the gods, he feels it. The air chokes out of his lungs. Black spots dance before his eyes.
He goes flying. Only when he hits the wooden crates against a wall does he figure that the pain will register in a minute.
The wooden crates splinter on impact. Small but no less sharp pieces dig into his lower back and shoulders. A loose nail scratches a long line into his forearm.
‘Damn it,’ he manages.
Concrete meets him in a rush.
His shoulder hits it first, the pain slamming into him with such force the black spots in his peripheral turn red. Stabbing heat starbursts all up his left side.
Hector groans, ribs protesting as he tries to prop himself up on his elbows. He coughs and sputters, something warm hitting the front of his shirt. Blood. The taste of salty metal makes him wince. When he spits, a red glob lands just short of a leather boot tipped with some mean metal.
The demon crouches and Hector is forced to stare straight into the undulating mouth. A forked tongue slithers out. Hector grins, despite the pain.
‘Hey there, beautiful.’
The demon makes a high-pitch sound that Hector takes as laughter, grating as it is. He can’t tell if it’s amused or mocking. Probably both.
His head throbs, and he presses a hand to his waist where something, he swears to himself, has definitely been punctured. One of the demon’s arms reaches out to touch him, and it takes all his willpower not to flinch away.
‘You don’t look too bad yourself,’ the demon’s voice makes Hector’s gums itch. ‘Well. You know what I mean. But I’m surprised to see the famous Argyris brothers are in town.' A low, guttural growl. 'My tip was off—they said you’d be down in Wolfpick this week.’
‘What?' Hector blinks. 'No, that’s next week. Your tip’s an idiot.’
The demon cocks its head, undeterred. ‘So, which one are you? The baby?’
‘Nope.’ The reply is accompanied by the wave of a hand, although the movement prompts a grimace. ‘Middle brother. Hector Argyris, at your service.’
The demon picks something out from between its teeth. Whatever it is, it looks—and stinks—like rotten meat. It studies the lump on its hooked claw for a moment before flicking it to the side. Squelch.
‘Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Number Two.’
‘Man. You know what that makes me sound like, right?’
‘I wouldn’t know. You can call me Eaughshy.’
Hector chuckles. ‘Now that sounds like vomit.’
Eaughshy sighs. ‘I don’t want to dash your dreams of being Ourea’s star stand-up comedian, Hector,’ the demon sounds almost sympathetic. ‘But you might want to stick with your day job.’
‘You know rich kids with an inheritance don’t have day jobs, right? Could you imagine the scandal involved if word got out that I mow lawns part-time to make a living?’
‘I’ve got some questions for you, Hector.’
‘Oh, now we’re getting personal,’ the young man wiggles his brows. They don’t hurt to move. ‘Hit me. Not literally. But go on.’
If Eaughshy had a brow to cock at him, Hector feels like it would. It shakes its head. ‘How did you know where to find me?’
This one’s easy. 'I followed the trail of half-eaten corpses. You wasteful bastard.’
Eaughshy hums. ‘That’s fair.’ Hector's almost affronted by the non-committal response. He huffs.
‘Anything else?’
‘Just one,’ Eaughshy says. ‘What do you know about the Key?’
An awkward silence ensues. Hector opens his mouth. Closes. Opens. The demon waits, to its credit, with some notable patience while Hector gapes at it like a goldfish. Finally, he manages:
‘I’m trying to think of something funny. I’ve got nothing.’
Which was true; neither wit nor knowledge (neither of which he possessed in great quantities) would aid him here. Some secret code, then? Hector frowns. If it’s a literal key the demon wants, it’s going to be awfully disappointed. He doesn’t even have the one to his front door on him.
Eaughshy growls again, planting a hard boot on Hector’s chest. Hector grunts as the demon leans in, pungent breath washing over him. ‘I don’t have all night to play games with you. Tell me.’
‘I’m not playing games,’ Hector retorts. ‘Get your foot off me, or you’re gonna lose it.’
‘You have a big mouth,’ Eaughshy rasps. ‘For someone who’s about to die.’
Before he can stop himself, Hector says, ‘I have a big mouth?’
He doesn’t even get a half-hearted groan for that one. Instead, the demon presses its boot down harder against Hector’s sternum. An alarming pain shoots through his nerves, and his hand shoots up to grab the demon by the ankle. Pathetic sparks of magic dribble from his fingertips. He swears.
‘It’s really too bad,’ it says. ‘It would’ve been fun to keep you around. You seem like a guy down to party.’
Eaughshy’s mouth opens wide, wider until only the red wound of its throat is all Hector can see.
Ah, fuck.
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