It was a well-established fact that Demon Hunters loved a cliché. Even lived them to differing degrees. For me, the western-themed town was both a sore spot and a safe haven for the part of me that seemed to require dressing like a cow-rustlin’ bandit. Perhaps if I requested a few more detective-styled abilities, I could switch over to a trench coat and fedora. No. Even the thought of it tasted like cardboard. Unpalatable.

The wooden doors swung open, and we stepped inside, toward the bar. As was customary, every conversation stopped, and all eyes swiveled to glare at us. I grinned. It was nice when everything went as expected. There was no fear in my heart, no doubt in my mind that I could turn this whole building to ash if it came to it. My ego was thirsty, and this was my favorite watering hole.

We walked up to the counter past all the various demons, now still in apprehensive silence. A real mixed bag of all sorts you could find in the Lowers. Some of them animal or insect like, others more humanoid in appearance. All of them were weaker than me by far—and they could sense it. I wasn’t a fox in the henhouse. I was a tiger with a flamethrower attachment. No demon here looked eager to become my next crispy meal.

The barkeep was a slender man with a bushy goatee. A crown of small horns circled his bald head, but other than that and his pitch-black eyes, he could have passed as a normal human. Perhaps more than I did, I mused, given some of the things I got up to.

I leaned against the long wooden counter as Wight hopped himself up on one of the wooden stools. Silence remained in the air, as we hadn’t reached the point where something would snap the occupants back to their own business.

“What can I do for you, Hunter?” the demon growled. Rather pleasant and polite, but then I was literally walking death to them these days. The places a human could travel to without immediately being ground to paste were few and far between—and in all those few places, it just meant you had a few minutes to get in trouble before the inevitable.

“Just a table and some privacy. I doubt you have anything I’d consider drinking.” I didn’t even drink normal alcohol—couldn’t, due to the pact—there was no chance I would glug down whatever constituted demonic ale. It would probably upset my stomach more than my noir sensibilities, which was potentially worrying.

He nodded and gestured over to the left wall, where an empty table sat between two groups of demons. Muscled rhino-demons on one side, and pigmen on the left. Cozy.

“Just try not to cause too much trouble. We know who you are."

Wanted poster on the wall. It was hard not to know me. I meant that in the literal sense too—the ‘do not serve’ list in the demonic saloon was a short one, but headlining that show was yours truly. I grinned at the artistic liberties they took in the scratched picture, which made me look twice as cool as I felt.

I turned to the quiet sea of eyes. “I am not here. If anyone speaks to me or interrupts my work here, I will level this place to dust, all of you included.” A threat dropped with no malice, just the cold truth.

My voice echoed around the wooden walls, filling every ear. Where I drew my confidence from, I wasn’t too sure. Too numb to danger to care? Bravado, after all that I had endured? The true answer was a mixture, just like the powers within me. Whatever I had, it worked.

Conversations resumed, as the groups of demons found their tongues a useful tool for prolonging their existence. I raised an eyebrow to Wight, and he nodded back. He hopped down and followed me over to our designated space. There was no need to clue the barkeep in on what we were doing here. In a way, they were all just set-pieces to my actual goal. Hellish vegetation to hide behind while I polish off my rifle. Check the scope.

[How are you feeling now, Eric?]

I shuffled in my chair and screwed my mouth up in thought. “Calm. Confident. Untouchable.”

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He reached out and put his clawed hand on my arm.

[I disagree.]

Couldn’t even roll my eyes at that, so I just smiled. He seemed a little different lately, ever since his near-death experience. Although it wasn’t really death, as I usually understood it. More of an… erasure. Since his return after reforming, he had been acting more human than ever. It had seemed awkward to view him as a childish stand-in for what our found family lacked, but he acted the part so well it was half natural.

It was our bond that made us stronger than most Hunter pairings. He was an entity to be respected, that I actually cared for. Not just a tool. Sure, at the start it hadn’t been such a smooth ride, but we had ground against each other and the Lowers until things smoothed out. Now we were sharp. A perfect fit, flush and secure. The ultimate weapon to carve our way through Hell like a scalpel.

//Target expected in the next ten. Hold for updates.

I nodded slowly. Was this even the best place to ambush the convoy coming through? Naturally, I had been drawn here—it seemed instinctive. Finding a rooftop I could access and fire down from might have made the process a lot easier. Simple answer; I couldn’t avoid a cliché. Loved them.

[When we are done here, can you help me put more pictures on the wall?]

“Sure.” I tilted my head to my pact demon. “There’s still more?” He had an affinity for art, or at least his attempts at drawing something. Everything seemed to join together, but the bigger picture had yet to be revealed. Much like a lot of my life.

[I feel there is more I am yet to actualize.]

There were worse hobbies to have. My fingers rubbed against the rough grain of the tabletop. The demons were doing a good job of pretending I wasn’t here. That there wasn’t a bomb in their midst. Tick, tock. I could sense some of them knew it was inevitable, but were too afraid to make the move to leave.

This could really go to my head. If anything, the Org would need to send me to the Mids just to humble me, lest I become a victim of my own hubris.

“I’d like to get a coffee machine for the basement.” I furrowed my brow. Kitchen would make more sense, but I was a workaholic by nature. Avoiding the horrors of the job with more horrors of the job. A downward spiral I was somehow able to climb back up, like an obstinate yo-yo.

[I have no reservations about that becoming reality.]

That made me feel better about the decision. With the larger house, it would be nice not to have to go up to the kitchen every time the kettle called. We’d order it while Pearl was away. The perfect crime.

//I would also like that.

Rodney didn’t often break normal comms protocol, but sometimes I wish he did a little more. I understood the need to reduce chatter so there was no confusion or distractions, but when things were calm, it was nice to have a third party to converse with. Not that Wight wasn’t capable enough, but he was… odd. Unlike the rest of us, naturally.

My mind slipped away from the potential options for getting the machine—I’d only end up leaving it to Rodney to sort anyway—and back to the murderer we needed to track down. The Org hadn’t allowed us time to rest back at home, but as soon as we returned, I would be sorting out my investigation board in the study.

Gunther was the prime suspect, although I had some doubts. Sometimes the simplest answer was the best, but I couldn’t allow ease to paint the canvas of my detective work. Nothing worth doing was ever easy. Finding him would even be a challenge, with his patron all but abandoned and most of his allies erased. If the Org could actually track him down, they were either being quiet about it or didn’t see the need.

I did, and I would scour the truth from him once we located him. Whether it was demons, humans, or the Org… I would make them pay. My hands relaxed. I hadn’t realized I was gripping the edge of the table. Sitting here with my thoughts running the show, I was liable to get bored without some actual-

//Convoy approaching. Three coaches. Eight targets per coach.

I raised an eyebrow to Wight, and he gave me a nod, able to hear the Blank just as well as I could. It was almost showtime. More demons than the brief anticipated—but that was standard operating practice at this point. I’d be more worried if there were fewer demons than expected.

//All targets approaching. Cargo parked to your right side, across the road.

But that was also the thing. I wasn’t worried. Not even slightly tense at the imminent violence. A soft smile had settled comfortably on my face, even as my fingertips now drummed a tune on the holster holding my revolver. Soon, little one, we will feast.

[Plan of action?]

I shrugged. “Wait for all of them to enter. Block the exit. Kill and maim until we get what we want.” The information, I meant, not the violence. Not just the violence.

Several different Erics inside my head took turns shaking hands. The Hunter wanted to kill all demons. The Demon craved the bloodshed. The Divine wanted to scour the evil from before me. The Balanced just wanted the other three to be happy.

And I was. A little elation flooded through my insides as the doors swung open, our awaited guests taking some of their last steps.