#mnil

2018

It was 31st of October, and the cliché made him cringe. His hands were trembling while he poured salt on the stone floor, making a circle around himself. You can back off anytime until you burn the sulfur. Once you burn it, you have two options. One, call the one you want; two, deal with anything they send to you. Jay’s words circled in his mind while he finished a perfect circle of salt around himself. He breathed deeply and looked around, confirming that the circle was completely closed.

His heart was hammering in his chest. The fear of what he was going to do, added to the fear of someone noticing he had broke into the dungeons of the castlewere mixing in his head and making him a bit dizzy. Or it was the shivers running down his spine that were responsible for his dizziness, he wasn't sure. The only thing he was sure was that he needed to go until the end.

He sat in the middle of the circle, picked up the two pieces of wood and the sulfur that were close to him. He wasn't looking at the pentagram with a pile of sulfur in the middle, drawn on the floor in front of him. He had the impression of some movement at the dark of the dungeon in his peripheral vision, but he tried to ignore it as best as he could, knowing that seeing those things was common in this kind of situation.

He held a big sulfur rock between his boots, put a flat piece of wood with holes on it over the sulfur, held a wooden stick between his hands, positioning it inside one of the holes, and started to rub his hands quickly, creating a fast friction. He was sure it hadn’t heated enough to set the sulfur on fire, but a bit of nasty smelling smoke started to drift from the friction point, heating up his hands.

“With this fire, I summon the messengers of Gehenna. I am in need and I bring an offering. With this fire I lay my offer,” his voice cracked, but he didn't stop the chanting, his melodious voice raising over the eerie quiet of the dungeon. He was swallowing hard, sweating profusely, concentrating on his movements and his chanting, repeating the invocation until he noticed that the wood had catched fire. He kept doing it until an orange glow was seen on the wood, and he discarded the stick to the side. He brought the smouldering wood close to his mouth and blew on it. He picked up a bunch of dry roots he had collected before and surrounded the amber, blowing some more to make them catch fire as well. Then, he touched the sulfur rock and yelped because it was too hot and burned his fingers.

“Fuck,” he mumbled, and almost put his finger in his mouth, but stopped himself. He didn't know if it would be dangerous or not.

You can back off anytime until you burn the sulfur.

I won't back off.

He took a deep breath and picked the hot sulfur up again. He grit his teeth, held it over the flame, and an acrid smell filled the air as a blue flame erupted from the sulfur. He got up and, without leaving the circle, threw the burning sulfur over the pile on the pentagram. A small explosion engulfed the rocks, and he stepped back, almost leaving the protection of the circle. His eyes started to water because of the smoke, and he blinked repeatedly.

A strange vibration was buzzing from the stone floor. He’d never experienced an earthquake, but he guessed it was just like this and, not for the first time, he feared for his life. He wiped his face and licked his lips, concentrating on the fire.

“I'm searching for a messenger to take my word and make it real. I need the one that crawls through the light and the dark, the beloved Basaleel, to deliver my message,” he said and raised his hand, picking a strand of his hair and pulling roughly to rip it off his head. “Basaleel, I call you. Here's my offer.” He noticed that the strand came with blood.

He threw the strand of hair over the sulfur fire, and it hissed, popping loudly and burning up in a flash, turning the blue fire in an orange liquid flame like lava, spreading the smoke through the place. It burned from the middle in an orange rage consuming the burning sulfur in the pentagram.

It was like a single movement that left him paralyzed: as the orange wave of fire destroyed the sulfur, leaving a dust of ashes, a sharp, grey claw attached to a greyish leather limb emerged from the ashes, clamping on the floor; a second claw emerged in quick succession, clamping on the floor as well, and then two heavily tattooed hands covered in ashes emerged, the four limbs pulling something from the pits of hell.

“Fuck,” he breathed, unable to move, and even if he was able, he probably was safer inside the circle. “Fucking hell!” He jumped when what was coming jumped off the ashes, landing in a crouching position on the floor. Its right hand was on the ashes, the left was balled into a fist on its knee, it was wearing a dark grey hoodie covering its head and a pair of long, grey bat wings stretched from its back.

The creature raised its head and looked at him dead in the eyes. It had its face covered with a muzzle, the mark of its legion. An orange flame flickered in its dark eyes, a flame only few would notice.

“Basaleel?” he asked, insecure. The demon, because that was what it was, stood up and put his hands in his pockets. He fluttered his wings and ashes rained on the floor, spreading beyond the pentagram and through the stone cold place. Only then was it possible to notice that his wings were in fact white, almost translucent, with hard muscle and sinewy veins through them. “You-- you have wings,” the man stuttered, shocked beyond himself, trembling inside the salt circle.

The demon looked at him, unbothered by his words. His dark eyes took the man in front of him in a unfriendly manner, his stance businesslike, and he said, in a throaty, deep voice, “Who do I have to kill?”

2017

As soon as he put his feet inside the club, a shiver ran through Zayn’s spine. He felt like he was entering a Harry Potter movie, because the inside of the club was big and luxurious, completely different from the outside. The front of the club wasn’t exactly seedy but it was far from this. From the outside, it looked more like a pub than a club. Maybe it’s for privacy, Zayn thought, knowing that it was a high class place. Only selected people entered there, and those who entered, knew to leave what happened in the pub inside its walls.

There was a spacious dance floor with a stage in the form of a T, very much like a catwalk, ending in the middle of the dance floor. It had three poles, one on each edge of the T. The place was filled by patrons drinking and dancing to the sound of a pounding dance song. Zayn noticed that all of them were women in different stages of inebriation, laughing and having fun.

He looked around and saw a mezzanine to his left, clearly the VIP section, and a long bar counter to his right. There was some doors that lead to other places in the building, but he didn’t knew where to.

He was there to talk to the manager, and he walked to the crowded bar trying to locate Niall. His Irish friend was at the other side of the counter working on some colourful drinks for his clientele.

Zayn leaned on the counter, gaining some appreciative looks from the women around him, but ignored them. Niall noticed him and came closer, a big smile on his face.

“You came! I’m glad. Andy is waiting for you,” Niall said, shouting over the loud sound of the music.

Zayn only nodded, looking around, not quite comfortable there.

“You go through that door right there.” Niall pointed to a red door to the left of the counter, hidden by darkness, that Zayn hadn’t noticed before.

“Thanks, bro,” Zayn said, and went there.

He knocked on the door and waited. A few moments later a tall man opened the door. He had long dirty blond hair, and a trimmed beard on his face. He was handsome, in a objective way, but Zayn didn’t felt comfortable when close to him either.

“You must be Zayn,” the man said. “I’m Andy. Nice to meet you.” He stretched his hand out and Zayn shook it.

“Nice to meet you too,” Zayn said, out of politeness.

“Come in,” Andy said and guided him into a luxurious office, decorated in red and black, full of leather and sleek furniture. When he closed the door, all the sound from outside disappeared. Andy sat at the desk and gestured to a chair in front of it. “Sit.”

Zayn sat in a plush chair, probably made to be comfortable, but that only increased his wariness. “Hm.” He cleared his throat. “Thanks for receiving me.”

“No problem. A friend of Niall is a friend of mine,” Andy said, with a smile. “So, you sing.”

“Yep, I do sing,” Zayn said, squirming on the chair. “R’n’B mostly, but I can do pop, rock, reggae and any other rhythms the house requires.”

“Good, good. I would like a private show before we agree to anything,” Andy said, and he looked like he was proposing exactly what he said which calmed Zayn a bit.

“How would that go down?” Zayn asked, cautious anyway.

“Oh, we can schedule for, let’s say, tomorrow at 3 o’clock, and you’ll perform a set of six songs to a small audience,” Andy suggested.

“Okay.” Zayn nodded. He could do that. “Would you like any specific set?”

“Not really. Surprise me.” Andy winked.

“I’ll try,” Zayn said, smiling politely.

“Great!” Andy got up with a huge smile on his face. “Now, how about you stay in the place to know a bit about how we work?”

“Sounds good to me,” Zayn said, getting up as well.

“Any doubts you can talk to Niall. He knows this place better than I do,” Andy said good naturedly.

“Cool,” Zayn said, and Andy guided him to the door. When he opened it, Zayn almost jumped because of the noise from the club.

“Yeah, it’s a shock how loud it is after we spend some minutes locked in here,” Andy said, laughing. “See you tomorrow, Zayn.”

“See you,” Zayn said while Andy shook his hand again.

Andy closed the door and Zayn turned to the bar.

“How was it?” Niall asked as soon as he leaned on the counter.

“It was okay, I guess. He wants a private performance tomorrow,” he answered.

“You’re gonna do great,” Niall said, his happy go lucky attitude making Zayn smile and believe it. “Here, on the house.” Niall gave him a beer. “Go wander a bit, know the place. It’s straight lady’s night, so you’re gonna enjoy the show.” He laughed and Zayn rolled his eyes, but went to wander a bit.

He got tired and went back to the bar, finding a comfy looking stool and sat observing the place between sips of beer. It was a bit later when a dark skinned man came onto the stage to greet the audience.

“Ladies, welcome to Gehenna!” the audience shouted and cheered, and Zayn turned to the stage to watch the show. “I have two bits of news, one good and one bad. Which do you prefer first?” Some uncoordinated screams sounded around the dance floor, and the man continued, “The bad first, okay. One of our boys, our sweet Callum, couldn’t make it tonight,” he said affecting a sad face. Instead of cooing or booing, the audience screeched like a bunch of banshees. Zayn frowned and looked at Niall.

“They are regulars,” was Niall’s explanation.

Zayn didn’t understand what it had to do with anything, and looked back at the host.

“Yeah, yeah. Sad, isn’t it?” The women keep screeching like it was the best news of the year. “This brings me to the good news. Someone had to take Callum’s place.” The noise of the audience went deafening, and Zayn made a face. “Yes! You know who I’m talking about, don’t you?” The screeches increased in volume, which Zayn didn’t think was possible. “Are you feeling it? Are you feeling the pain?” the host said and the women went crazier.

“Liam! Liam! Liam!” the women started to chant, and Zayn looked at Niall again. Niall just nodded, gesturing to the stage.

“Are you ready for him?” the host inflamed some more, and the women started to stomp on the floor along with the chanting. “Louder!” And the women grew even louder. “Yes! Here he is, for you: Liam Payne!” he said and jumped off the stage.

The women screamed and jumped in a kind of hysterics Zayn had only seen before in teenage girls. The lights of the club died down and a rush crossed the audience, lacing the club in silence and darkness. Then, a light flashed on the stage illuminating a man standing in the middle of it. He was wearing a white vest and black pants, with his head bowed, hiding his face in shadows. He wasn’t too big, but, even from the distance, Zayn could see he was built, and his stance screamed confidence. It was like his presence took the energy of the women around the place, silencing them in something that could be called reverence.

Then, the first chord of Why’d You Only Call Me When You’re High?, by Arctic Monkeys floated through the place and the man, Liam, raised his head. Zayn understood immediately why the women were like this. The man was mesmerizing. He had a sharp jaw and cheekbones, beautiful eyes and incredible lips. His face was set in a closed off expression, like he was angry and ready to kill someone.

Zayn felt a jolt of fear mixed with excitement, and blinked confused by his reactions. Liam started to walk, going to the part of the stage where it advanced over the dance floor, each step was like he owned the place. Zayn guessed he did own it or, at least, he owned the undivided attention of his audience.

He stopped walking when “The mirror’s image” echoed in the club, swivelling his hips in an enticing manner that snapped the women from their trance. They started to scream again, pilling close to the stage. He moved like sin, dancing in a way that made Zayn feel breathless. He touched his chest, his belly, pulling the edge of his vest up and exposing his chiseled abs.

Damn, Zayn thought, so enthralled in the show that he didn’t feel jealous ― something he always felt when he saw a man that could dance.

Liam fisted his vest in his hand as “Left you multiple missed calls and to my message you reply.” sounded from the speakers. The women around the stage gasped, and Zayn moved  to the edge of the stool he was sat on. And then, Liam ripped of his vest on the “Why’d you only call me when you’re high?” line. The noise in the club rose to deafening levels again and ― fuck. Zayn understood them one hundred percent. He felt his cock twitch and he squirmed, trying to control himself.

The women started to throw money at Liam, and he ignored it, letting it fall on and off the stage, walking in a sensuous way to the pole. “Somewhere darker,” he held the pole with a hand. “Talking the same shite,” he stood with the pole between his legs. “I need a partner,” he thrusted his hips like he was fucking the pole. “Well, are you out tonight?” he looked straight at Zayn.

Zayn’s breath suspended. He looked back at Liam while he moved his hips like a sex god. Zayn noticed something change in his eyes, like he was going to smile ― but he didn’t.

Still holding the pole with one hand, Liam turned his face away. “Why’d you only call me when you’re high?” he pulled himself up on the pole with only one hand, circling it like it was the easiest thing. He knew exactly when and how to move to make his audience delirious, covering the stage with money. He jumped down and started to unbutton his pants, exposing white boxer briefs. He held the pole again and swiveled his hips, rubbing his crotch on it. He let it go and ripped his pants off ― they were common pants, not stripper pants ―, and he ripped them like they were made of paper. Fuck.

His legs were slender, but made of hard, chiseled muscle. For every step he took, a different set of muscles clenched. Liam played with the pole like he weighed nothing, holding himself up with a strength that made Zayn wish he could feel it used on his body, manhandling him.

A woman threw an expensive watch on the stage and Liam leaned down sensuously to pick it up. He twirled it between his fingers, the only thing he took, when the final refrain of “Why’d you only call me when you’re high?” sounded. He started to walk back to where he appeared on the stage, looking at the women on both sides with a smouldering look. Even his walking was in the rhythm of the song, every step coordinated with the tempo.