#esperacchius

    This wasn't going to end well. When does it ever? Sure, on a small scale optimism has its perks. You may find a small amount of money in an old pair of jeans, or every light on the road might turn green for you. Little stuff.      It's when things are important that everything feels the compulsive need to go to Hell in a hand-basket. In fact, the cosmic order seemed intent on taking me on a little basket-ride, too. Who does it think I am? Todo?      The agenda for the day had been simple. "An idiot sorcerer summoned a demon. It killed him, and it's loose. Go get it, big guy!" I did what any guy in my situation would do: I picked up my Holy Sword and set out to kick some demonic ass. I suppose there aren't many guys in my situation. I'm a Knight of the Cross. Capital "C". Yeah, the Cross. The one used in the Crucifixion. I have a sword with one of the nails that pierced the hands and feet of the Son worked into its hilt. It's a mighty piece of work, where evil-vanquishing is concerned.      That day's calling brought me to some old warehouses in Portland. It was a few days before Halloween, so I figured going with Esperacchius belted at my side with my great white cloak that bore a red emblazoned cross wouldn't attract too much attention. I might be heading to a party! I'm cool enough to get invited to parties, right? (Humor me.) I left my Ford Explorer a few blocks away from the warehouses. No point in announcing my arrival by parking right out front. (I know, I know; the sword and the cloak didn't scream subtle, but at least the demon wouldn't be waiting for me because of my loud-ass car.)      The sun was setting as I neared the warehouse entrance. I knew exactly which warehouse to enter. The surety I felt was like knowing which side of your body is facing the sun and which isn't with your eyes closed. One warehouse just felt like it was giving off cold--or drawing in heat.      I put my ear to the old door and listened. Silence. You may not know this, but demons aren't particularly quiet, or at least not after slaying an impotent mortal summoner and summarily feasting on his corpse. They roar in trumph, cackle with monstrous glee, get bored, and start destroying stuff.      Which meant it sensed me coming. Oh, well. So much for subtle. I drew my saber, launched a kick that tore the old door from its hinges, and strode in confidently, flowing cape proudly declaring my bad-assery. There was a reason to that confidence. The sword is sort of a super focus for one's faith. That confidence I was feeling was multiplied a thousand-fold, and when I entered the warehouse a golden light radiated from Esperacchius. If it touched that filthy hell-slime, it would likely set his skin to blistering. Awesome, I know.      I glanced around. Sealed crates, discarded clothing from naughty teenagers or perhaps a vagrant. No demon.