The night was dark and stormy, rain pounding against the window like wet, dead fingers begging to be let inside, the blackness around him only disturbed by a flash of lightning. He buried his head in his hands, shivering and flinching when the thunder rolled.
“What have I done?” he murmured to himself, over and over again. “What the hell have I done.”
Not that anything could help it now. The deed was done, the contract signed, and the demon's seed still tacky between his thighs.
Mister Crowley. Dark suit, amber whiskey, and the firelight in his eyes as they sat across from each other in the hotel lounge. It was a simple transaction. Crowley was explicit and to the point - qualities Chad had always appreciated in a man. And the money - God, the money.
Not that Chad can call to a God anymore.
Ten years, Crowley had said, and Chad had laughed it off. He knew a bit of magic, a few powerful witches, and he had ten years to find a way to throw the Hellhounds off. He'd signed without a care, and not even minded the glint in Crowley's eyes.
"Now, then," Crowley had said, snapping back the scroll, "let's make this night something to remember."
So it went.
The scent of the massage oil still clung to the sheets, but in the sweet scent Chad could catch a hint of magnolias. A smell of decay. The pleasant soreness in his backside had swollen into something, something yawning and empty and blacker than the fine wool of Crowley's suit.
Ten years, but he could already hear the yelps of the Hounds.