SATANVILLE - THE BEGINNING

Part 4 - Dante Interlude

This week, The Order of the First headquarters is an anonymous insurance firm on the corner of Madison and East 37th Street. Like all of the Dark Orders, we have no fixed address, we drift like oil on water, ready and waiting for the call.

I stand in the rundown lobby, blending into the shadows next to a ficus badly in need of water. I hear her before I see her. 'Oh it must be serious if he called you here too.'

I don't recognize her face, but know it's her at once. A curious thing. 'You changed your face again.'

Angela is now blond, with full lips and round blue eyes. 'Very perceptive. I felt a change was in order. We don't want people getting suspicious now, do we? Speaking of which, Brother, isn't it time you did something about this?' She pinches my cheek. 'Everyone's a photographer these days...don't want anyone realizing you haven't aged a day since The Beatles split...'

'I like this face,'

'And who wouldn't?' she laughs, giving me a playful slap.

The elevator pings and the door opens with a grind. 'After you,' I say.

'So serious,' Angela smiles, stepping in. There are fifteen floors. Neither of us press a button, however, as soon as the doors slide shut we begin our descent, despite the fact we're on the ground floor. Down and down we go, far, far past the basement. 'How've you been, Brother Dante?'

'Fine,' I say.

'I heard about Vienna. Excellent work.'

'It was nothing.'

'Nothing. I heard...' Angela moves closer, 'I heard she screamed for hours.'

'Don't believe everything you hear, Sister.'

'Still, Brother, one less demon-hunter to poop the party. And Margot Hoffenheim was the WORST! You did us all a favor!'

I'm grateful when the elevator chimes our arrival. The door opens and we step out into a very different office: oak panelled corridors, marble chessboard floor and sanguine red drapes. It looks expensive, opulent. We're greeted by a drude - a lower level, admin demon. If it weren't for her stubby little horns, she'd be pretty in a bookish way. 'Greetings, Brother Dante, Sister Angela.'

'Lilim! Darling, how are you? You are looking, may I say, fabulous. I haven't seen you since Rapture Training in Berlin!'

Lilim blushes. Angela's always been good that way - remembering every drude and succubus we come into contact with. It gets her far. Not my skill set. 'I'm very well, Sister Angela. Father Verrier is ready for you now.'

We follow Lilim down a labyrinth of hallways. The easy-listening musak they pipe into this place does little to cover the wails and screams of the souls in the vaults. I hardly notice either anymore. Eventually we reach Verrier's domain. His office is grandiose, pretentious...a lot like him. He's sitting behind a gloomy desk, puffing on a Cuban cigar. He too has changed his face, this one is dark-skinned - I almost wonder if he acquired it expressly to match the desk. His hair is salt and pepper, complimenting his curled, ram-like silvery horns and amber eyes. 'Brother Dante, Sister Angela, greetings. Be seated.'

I stand behind the chair offered. Angela sits elegantly, crossing one long leg over the other.

I'm always uneasy down here. It must be the human in me.

'Digging the new face, Verrier. Very you.'

He ignores her. 'One of The Five has arrived in Statenville, close to The Fracture.' He stubbs the cigar out.

'What?' Angela's eyes widen. 'Which one?'

'The American.'

'Figures,' I say.

'The signs were there,' Verrier goes on, 'She's been before. We should have taken steps last time.'

'She was only a child.' The last time we had this meeting, the American had only been thirteen.

'She still is.' Angela adds gravely.

'She is of age,' Verrier says. 'You will go there and take precautionary measures.'

'You mean..?' asks Angela.

'Do whatever's necessary. The prophecy must not come to pass. I needn't explain why. Now go. You'll travel to Statenville at once.' He picks up his cigar and it lights at his touch.

'But...' Angela protests.

'It's done,' I say and walk towards the exit. Another day, another job. A little girl. Regrettable, but necessary.