As the ringing in her ears stopped, the world came back into focus. She took a shaky breath and peered through the grey plume of smoke rising from the wolf's muzzle.
He lay motionless on the ground. The faces of everyone around her were frozen in shock and terror.
She stepped forward, her boots sinking slightly into the wet earth, and stood over his body.
"You fucking idiot... why...?"
Her words barely escaped her lips, inaudible against the rain. He didn't answer. He simply lay sprawled on the cold, wet ground with a tranquil, empty expression, a large, singed hole disfiguring his youthful face.
"Why?!" she shouted, her voice cracking.
Azazel looked at his master with worry, before noticing a couple of deserters making a dash toward the pile of muskets. He stomped his foot in their direction, and the opportunists were thrown to the ground.
They froze as a deep, guttural growl from the demon rumbled through the camp, keeping them in check.
He turned back to his master with concern, only to see her slump onto the nearest log. Her hand covered her eyes, her teeth clenched.
"You stupid, bloody idiot..." she muttered in a somber tone, shaking her head slowly.
For a few brief moments, the camp fell still under the pressing rain, a woeful spirit hanging in the air, sinking into everyone's bones.
"Just... take the money and go... somewhere," she said weakly.
The deserters exchanged muddled looks but dared not move.
"Just take it and go!" she shouted, her voice permeated with despair. "Please..."
One of the boys mustered the courage to speak.
"S-sorry m-miss, but may we, err, b-bury him first?" he stammered.
Hellion lowered her hand and swallowed heavily. She hesitated, then nodded.
"We'll... take him to the village... pay for the service..." her voice trailed off.
He nodded clumsily. "A-alright, miss, th-thank you. We—we'd appreciate it..." The boy glanced nervously at Azazel. "S-should we, err... c-can we..." He pointed meekly towards the coin.
Azazel stepped back and let them collect the pouch. Some timidly gathered their weapons as well, but none dared raise them with intent. They moved in silence, the rain muffling their retreat. Most of the group followed the one carrying the purse, throwing nervous glances back at the demon as they disappeared into the woods.
She turned to her companion, exhausted.
"Azazel... please, can you carry him?"
He nodded slowly.
"Of course, Master."
* * *
Rain was pouring down by the time they returned to the village. The church loomed silently over the houses, its grey-blue silhouette stark against the dim, orange flickers spilling from the huts.
The muddy streets had turned into shallow, deserted rivers, save for the occasional villager standing under the shelter of a levee, watching with morbid curiosity as they passed—the boy's body cradled in Azazel's hands.
They watched the pair disappear into the inn, the faint sounds of merriment cutting off abruptly as the door closed behind them. Moments later, the door creaked open again. Fedor emerged, gripping Bern by the arm, speaking in hurried, frantic tones before shoving him toward the church. The man stumbled off, his boots splashing in the muddy rivulets.
The sky rumbled faintly above the relentless drumming of the rain. Time passed, and Bern returned with two priests cloaked in heavy, woolen garments. They trailed behind him, pulling a small wooden cart through the muck.
They stopped at the inn's entrance as Azazel stepped out and placed the boy down in the wagon, gently resting his head. One of the priests circled around Azazel cautiously, giving him a wide berth as he draped a black canvas over the lifeless body.
From a window in the inn, Hellion sat barely visible through the rain-streaked glass, watching the wagon trundle away, its wheels creaking softly as it carried Erich off toward the church.
* * *
August leaned unsteadily against the porch railing, bottle in hand, looking more miserable than the weather. He took a long, indulgent swig, swallowing loudly before smacking his lips as if trying to banish the taste, and kept staring aimlessly at the rain.
With a faint splashing sound, he saw two monks emerge from the downpour. One of them was pulling a cart, its load hidden beneath a black canvas, the covering shifting uneasily with each bump in the well-traveled village road. As the cart jolted over another rut, something slipped free—a pale arm, clad in the unmistakable dark blue of a soldier's coat.
The bottle slipped from August's hand. He straightened with a jolt.
"Oi! Stop!"
He startled the two monks, who froze mid-step and turned to him in confusion.
"Stop right there, you fackin' cunts! Don't move an inch!" he bellowed, lurching off the porch and cantering towards them, pulling slightly to the right.
Reaching the cart, he shoved one of the monks aside and yanked back the canvas.
His heart sank.
August's face twisted into a mask of grief and endless despair. He placed a hand on Erich's cold, water-soaked brow, as rain streamed down his disfigured face.
"My boy..." A hoarse, broken whisper escaped him, filled with unbearable pain.
The two monks stood motionless in the deluge, their faces somber, as a father mourned his child. Somewhere in between the sobs, his breath grew heavier and more pronounced. He stared at the corpse of his son with a growing fury in his gut, which burned white-hot against the cold, unrelenting downpour.
His hand fell away from Erich's brow, curling into a trembling fist. He turned abruptly and, with a thunderous roar, stormed down the street, taking big strides toward the inn.
* * *
Hellion stood deathly still, her face a mix of exhaustion, disbelief, and crushing disappointment as she looked at the scuffed wooden table in front of her. On it sat her other flintlock—magnificent and regal—next to a small, deflated, raggedy coin purse, which held no more than a few thalers and maybe some groschen.
"Again, apologies, my dear, but this is all we have!" the innkeeper said in a soothing voice, while the rest of the villagers silently crowded Hellion where she sat. "The hundred thaler you asked for was already a strain for us, but we tried! Honest to God!" He crossed his heart.
Azazel stood near the fireplace, trying to wring out the sea from his braids, fur, and clothes. He watched as Fedor spoke, energetically waving his arms about—his stout belly bobbing with each emphasized word—while Hellion looked utterly dejected, the occasional water drop falling from her coat or the brim of her hat onto the stained hardwood floor. He looked at her with quiet empathy, powerless to ease her burden.
"For years and years to come will the village of Dobrota tell tales of how you came to our aid, striking down the unruly miscreants and bringing peace to our hearth and home forevermore!" the innkeeper proclaimed with a crescendo, twirling his bushy mustache, pleased with his embellishments. "My lady, we will be forever in your debt." The portly man bowed deeply, signaling the end of his performance.
The lass stood motionless, her breathing barely noticeable. Some guests hooted sporadically, and others cheered and clunked tankards, satisfied with his act.
The demon's ears perked up as the door opened with a bang. A figure stood at the entrance, soaked to the bone, eyes brimming with fury. No one but Azazel noticed him enter—the sounds lost in the merriment. He moved in a panic, trying to intercept him as the sergeant made his way through, shoving people aside, the floorboards creaking under his heavy steps.
The old soldier stopped abruptly at Hellion's table, his ragged breaths loud against the sudden silence.
Eyes wide and frozen, the villagers stared like dolls on a shelf. Someone choked on his beer and coughed loudly. Fedor opened his mouth to speak but swallowed his words instead and moved back as Azazel joined them at the table. He looked at his despondent master with concern, trying to figure out what to do.
Hellion remained somewhere far away, still looking at the small bag of coin, seemingly oblivious to the world around her. She slowly reached out to take the purse, but the sergeant snatched it in a blur. Her hand remained frozen in the air, an expression of mild surprise on her face.
"This?! For this?!" he roared madly, shaking the purse in front of her. He looked at her with burning disdain and shoved the small bag into his pocket.
Fedor tried to intercede on her behalf with a peevish, condescending tone. "August, I know how this may sound, but the girl earned—"
His tirade was cut short as a fist met his nose with a sickening crunch, sending him crashing backward into one of the tables, which buckled under his weight. The innkeeper cupped his bloodied nose and let out a soundless cry.
August turned back to the outsider. "You've earned nothin', girl! Not yet!" he growled and turned toward the exit, shoving Azazel aside with his shoulder. "Out of my way, mongrel!"
The demon gritted his teeth but did not engage, more concerned with his companion.
The girl's eyes were still fixated on the empty spot where the coin purse had been, arm still hovering above, trembling. Her breath hastened as her jaw clenched.
Her hand slammed on the flintlock, dragging it across the table.
* * *
The slow, melancholy toll of the brass bell resounded, cutting through the raging storm. The metallic clang coincided with the dull thud of Hellion's well-traveled boots as she stepped out of the inn onto the wooden porch outside. Rain poured in torrents, drumming against the roof and splashing onto the muddy road below.
She saw him standing in the middle of the street, the church to his back—a dark silhouette against the curtain of water. His chest rose and fell in an uneven, ragged rhythm, hand hovering over his revolver, as a distant bolt of lightning streaked the sky.
Her companion followed her out, joined by half the inn's patrons, who crowded the porch. Hellion met August's unblinking stare and held on to it.
As the bell tolled slowly, she stepped into the muddy street, water rushing past her boots—down, down callously on it's way.
Azazel moved to stand beside her, already drenched.
"No," she said calmly, eyes fixed forward.
"But, Master...?!" he shouted in dismay and surprise, his voice straining to pierce the downpour. She turned her head slowly, her one green eye looking warmly back at him.
The bell tolled.
For a moment, Azazel stared at her, his mouth slightly open, his fist clenched. Then he relented. His angry gaze lingered on the sergeant as he stepped back onto the porch, leaving Hellion alone in the street.
The bell tolled.
She stepped slightly forward, finding her balance, and pulled back her coat. Her left hand slowly brushed the handle of her flintlock. Her right fingers tapped gently on the other, in rhythm with her heart. She raised her head. From the brim of her capotain, two eyes half-revealed regarded him coldly—one icy blue, and the other a brilliant green.
She exhaled.
The bell tolled.
He cocked his hammer, and both of them drew. Her pistols spun, hissing in the rain. A shot rang out. It grazed August on the shoulder, staggering him as he fired his gun, the bang muffled by the deluge. Hellion yelled out and fell to one knee. Azazel's breath hitched. The hammer cocked. A finger twitched. The sergeant unexpectedly slid sideways, and his shot went wide. Another bullet pierced the rain.
The bell tolled.
He took a few staggered, clumsy steps backward and stumbled, falling into the mud.
Hellion looked at him, her gun still raised, barely able to lift her head, face contorted with pain. She clutched her side as blood streamed through her fingers, mingling with the water.
August stared at the roiling, dark-grey sky in surprise, rain falling heavily on eyes that neither flinched nor blinked. A singed hole bubbled in the middle of his brow.
She buckled and fell on both knees in silence, bending over. The brim of her hat was almost touching the ground as her shaking hand let go of her gun, which fell, sinking into the muck.
"Hellion!" Azazel cried out, running to her side, splashing loudly through the street. He fell into the mud with her and put his hands on her shoulders. "Master!"
With his help, she forced herself back up to one knee and waved her arm about, trying to find his. He clasped her hand, and she tried to stand. She cried out in pain through her clenched teeth.
Hellion looked at the sergeant, who lay still in the middle of the street, the rain continuously beating on his body. She took a few short breaths and broke free of Azazel, who tried to step with her, but she waved him away.
With great effort, she strode forward, every step sending a painful jolt through her body. She reached the corpse and knelt beside it. Still clutching at her side, she rifled through his pockets and took out the small, raggedy coin purse. She pocketed it and steeled herself.
With a muffled cry, Hellion forced herself up, faltering from the attempt but managing to keep her balance. Azazel lurched forward on reflex but stopped himself.
His companion looked winded as she turned toward him and tried to step forward. Her vision blurred, and the sounds around her started to fade. She made a couple of staggered steps forward, tripped over her own feet, and fell face-first into the muck.
Azazel immediately ran to her side. "Master!" He cradled her in his arms. Her eyes were half-closed, her beautiful face and golden hair half-concealed under layers of mud, her breaths shallow and ragged. He tried to wipe it off.
"Hellion—please!"
She looked at him through narrow slits—he was hazy and far away. He moved his mouth, but no sounds came out. She couldn't hear the rain or feel it. She could only hear the slow, melancholy bell as she fell away, slipping into darkness.
* * *
There was a soft, rhythmic thumping in the vast, boundless emptiness—much like gentle rain falling on a rooftop. A crackle and a pop accompanied it, reminiscent of seasoned wood burning slowly in a cozy fireplace. It felt like a soft embrace. The calming smell of lavender wove its way around it, hand in hand with chamomile's sweet, apple-like aroma.
And something else as well… was that rosemary? Or maybe it was thyme?
Hellion slowly opened her eyes. She was lying down, tucked into a warm bed, staring at the slanted ceiling of an attic room. Turning her head, she gently rustled the covers and saw Azazel resting against the bed frame. His ear twitched and turned toward her, followed by his astonished gaze.
"Master! You're awake!" he said in a joyous voice, slightly tinged with worry, as he quickly knelt beside her bed.
The doctor looked at her from over the rim of his glasses, past the book he had been reading from the comfort of his armchair. He closed the book and set it aside on the bookshelf to his right before rising.
Hellion slowly lifted the cover and placed a leg lazily on the wooden floor, trying to roll over to sit up. A sharp pain pricked her left side. She winced, reflexively placing a hand on her wound—only now noticing the bandages.
Azazel stood and moved aside as Sebastian approached, giving him space to kneel beside her.
"Doc…?" Hellion said meekly, her thoughts still a muddle.
He cupped her chin lightly, tilting her head side to side, peering into her eyes with a stern expression for a few moments. His hand was soft but cool. Taking her wrist, he pressed lightly and withdrew a silvery pocket watch on a chain, staring at it.
"Your clothes are in that footlocker," he said tersely, nodding to the right.
Satisfied, he let go of her arm, slipped the watch back into its pocket, and stood up.
"Apply the balm and change the bandages regularly. They're in a satchel with your other effects downstairs."
"Uhh… thanks, doc… I…" she started hoarsely, her gratitude trailing off as Sebastian crossed the modest room and, without another word, disappeared through the open door by the small fireplace, his footsteps creaking on the staircase.
Some time later, Azazel made his way down the stairs into the doctor's office, gingerly followed by a dressed Hellion. Sebastian sat at his desk, his back to them, engrossed in his notes. She spotted her coat, hat, and flintlocks hanging on a rack by the door. Beside them sat the satchel the doctor had mentioned.
She went to put them on, then slung the satchel over her shoulder and rifled through her pocket for the battered purse holding her payment. Biting her lip, she counted out a few coins and pocketed them, leaving the majority in the scuffed pouch.
Hellion approached the desk and placed it before the doctor.
"Thanks, doc, for… err… saving a bloody idiot, that is…" she said, laughing nervously. "I… uhh…" She tried to speak with some difficulty, fumbling her words.
Sebastian spared a glance at the pouch, then returned to his writing.
"I don't want your blood money," he replied harshly.
His words landed like a slap to the face.
Hellion stood motionless, staring at her mud-caked boots for a few heartbeats. Then she collected her coin pouch and headed for the door, retrieving her hat on the way.
Azazel opened it and stood aside.
She stopped in the doorway, inhaling the crisp, damp air. The sky had quieted down, as evidenced by the small puddles that had formed in every uneven patch of the muddy street, rippling gently as sporadic drops of rain fell from thatched rooftops.
It was hard to tell what time of day it was, but the villagers, wrapped in cloaks and patched coats, were out and about their day. Children splashed through puddles with reckless delight, their laughter breaking the gentle rhythm of dripping water.
Hellion put on her capotain and gently adjusted it.
"Goodbye, doctor. Thank you," she said soberly and stepped outside.
Azazel turned to follow, but Sebastian's voice stopped him mid-step.
"You could have been a better example to your kind," he remarked bitterly, looking at the demon with overt disappointment.
Azazel paused, his ears drooping slightly as he considered the words.
"Maybe so, doctor," he replied quietly, "but I prefer to have been helpful." Bowing politely, he closed the door.
* * *
As the pair of travelers continued along the muddy road out of the village, small splinters of sunlight broke through the soft, grey-tinged blanket of clouds, shining on the snowy mountain peaks far off on the horizon.