#zarzamon

Leaving his own coat on a hanger near the front, and taking the phone out of its pocket, Zarzamon navigated to the bar counter. He sat himself near the end of the row of stools, a fair distance away from Kassidy, but still within eyesight. From his position, he could see the candle light illuminating her soft features, and dark lipstick accenting her light skin. Dressed in darker colours, with an air of certainty about her conveyed through mannerisms, it was a mystery how Ryan managed to snag her. Did he blackmail her? Maybe it was out of pity? “What can I get you?” A voice ripped Zarzamon out of his thoughts. Behind the counter, a man covered in tattoos was inquiring about a drink preference that the demon himself did not know. “Just a beer, on the house would be wonderful,” Zarzamon requested, locking eyes with the human. Would it work? The bartender walked off, his gaze looking a little foggy. He returned within moments with the beer, and set it down on a coaster before the fiend. “On the house,” he echoed. 

What a miracle, the heathens can still be brought to their knees for me. Zarzamon thought smugly. WIthout the protection of their heavenly father, humans were at the mercy of those with darker intentions. “Would you bring a drink to the lady with purple hair? Also on the house, but perhaps omit that.” Zarzamon requested, keeping his gaze locked with the human. It was about time for things to go his way. Four days on this wretched plane and he was unable to ask for anything. A part of him was really starting to miss being able to encapture one’s soul and bring them to do his bidding. Ryan’s parents were both too faithful to be meddled with, and Ryan still had that pesky shield. 

Sure enough the bartender poured a colourful drink, and despite people trying to flag him down to order their own drinks, he moved off toward the table. Zarzamon observed the interaction from afar. He had watched enough movies in the past three days to know that this was a common etiquette amongst men: sending alcohol to a woman to display interest. Right on cue, Kassidy peered over in Zarzamon’s direction with a slight smile on her lips. She raised the glass slightly as a sign of thank you before returning to her conversation. Ouch. He anticipated her to come over.

Ryan was under the impression that Zarzamon was just going to sit back and observe today, to try and figure out a plan. He did not need to know that Zarzamon rarely liked sitting on the sidelines, and this situation was no exception. Undoubtedly being coaxed by the friend group, Kassidy rose from the table, moving right his way. As she drew nearer, he realized he did not have a stunning opening line at the ready. He wasn’t dressed to impress, and he was still half figuring out this whole human interaction thing. Everything was impressions, and being coy. After a few decades one forgets the art of subtly, and only knows to be blunt. “Thank you for the drink.” Kassidy initiated the conversation.

“Perhaps you would like to share your company with me then?” Zarzamon inquired. “I wish, but Abigail would strangle me if I stay too long,” she replied with a short laugh and tilted her head back toward the table.

Sure enough a girl with raven black hair was leaning forward, resting her chin on her hand while entirely invested in observing the interaction. She was not even trying to be subtle. Somehow Zarzamon picked up that Kassidy was pinning the blame on the observer, and was simply too polite to take the drink in peace. 

“Are you sure you do not want to sit down?” Zarzamon asked again, rephrasing his question and staring into the depths of her brown doe like eyes. He watched her falter for a moment, struggling to find words to reply with. The dazed look only lasted for a moment as she had somehow managed to fend off the seeds of suggestion.

You’re not immune, but you are not susceptible entirely. Zarzamon pondered quietly.

“I’m sorry, but I really should get back.” She finally answered and retreated. As those shoes clicked away, she gave Zarzamon a final glance over her shoulder. Deciding it would be strange to stare, he pivoted to stare at the bartender instead. Just like that, his opportunity at doing this the easy way was lost.   

The group settled in the dining room, Ryan’s father at the head of the table, his mother to his right, and his son on his left. Much like the living room, it displayed green tones on dark wood. The cushions on the wooden chairs were a shade of mint, contrasting against the table cloth that was a darker shade. Curtains matched those in the living room, without a doubt bought in the same time period. Before them a roasted chicken was served, some salad, a bowl of cut and boiled potatoes, and cooked pepper pieces. Naturally, the pie was still in the oven, being kept warm, as a treat for dessert.   As the storm howled on, picking up with every minute, more candles began to appear around the house. On the table stood two, closer to either end of the table, alight in the instance the power goes off. For a moment, Ryan could not help but wonder if Zarzamon’s gaze floating to the other chair at the end of the table was indicating his desire to take that spot. He nearly exhaled in relief when Zarzamon sat in the chair next to him.  

Taking one another’s hands, Ryan nearly forgot that his parents were both still religious and heavily in the habit of saying prayers before meals. He took the hand of the being next to him and stared at him in concern. Would he burst into flames? Would he transform on the spot? His parents would have a heart attack if wings sprouted from their guests back. Clearly, his thoughts were extravagant by the demon’s standards, for the demon had an unfaltering smile on his face as he bowed his head for the prayer.  

Following everyone else, Ryan bowed his head just as his father began speaking. He was weary, and kept Zarzamon’s movements in his peripheral.   “Oh heavenly Father, we wish to thank you for the meal…” Please don’t burst into flames... “And the company...” Or transform... “That has managed to find us on such a cold night...” Dear God, please let me get through this okay... Ryan had not said a prayer in years, but here at the dinner table with evidence of Hell next to him, he learned to appreciate faith again. Granted, God was probably not looking down on him fondly right now. He did not expect that old spell book to hold truths to it. As they all whispered ‘amen’ and began lifting their heads, Ryan could not help but faintly hear Zarzamon hiss a word that did not sound remotely like English.   Yup. I am going to Hell. Ryan internally concluded. Ryan’s father began slicing the chicken, and his mother helped herself to the salad. Quickly snatching up the bowl of potatoes, Ryan looked at Zarzamon.

“Would you like some potatoes?” “No, I am not hungry.” “Son, it is okay, there is plenty to go around, but be sure to leave room for dessert!” Ryan’s father replied faster than Ryan while still cutting the chicken. Without giving Zarzamon the chance to respond, Ryan dumped a few pieces from the bowl with a spoon before helping himself to some. As he loaded his own plate, he realized Zarzamon had paused for a moment, staring at the potatoes. The demon was taking in weirdly deep breaths, as if trying to smell the air. His fascination moved on to the bowl of cooked peppers, but as he extended a hand to reach into the bowl Ryan leaned over and hissed: “With a spoon.” “Is that a joke?” Zarzamon inquired softly, “it hardly seems practical.” This demon could be the next meme: “failing to human 101.” It would be an image of some guy in a business suit with the fakest smile in the world and a thumbs up underneath. Overtop the text: “boycott spoons,” would be written in horrendous blue font. Maybe if the guy was lucky, he would get a gold star for his “it hardly seems practical.”   “If you look like us, act like us,” Ryan whispered back. He saw the red inch into the obsidian eyes, and the teeth revealed in a smile slowly growing into points. His heart was beating within his chest, and he hoped his parents were still figuring out their portions. “Ryan, dear, can you pass me the potatoes?” A voice chimed in. “Remember who you called,” Zarzamon whispered back, his fingers curling around the spoon of the potatoes.

Beneath his human skin, he felt his muscles tensing, mildly reconstructing, reinforcing the bones that made up his skeleton. A mixture of fury and excitement coursed through his veins in anticipation of the confrontation to occur. He wanted it, he needed to inflict pain on some living creature. Rapidly the ally became lit with a green pigmentation to the fiend, casting the darkness away and giving crispness to the silhouettes. The lust for power, and satisfaction dominated his thoughts. There was no longer a shred of concern for Kassidy, for all he could see were the four opponents before him. 

“I hardly think that is a way to speak to a lady,” Zarzamon spoke up, announcing his arrival. One of the men turned around, a broad smile on his lips. “Yo, bro, mind your own business, you struck out with her already.” “So sweetheart, which one of us will it be?” The other sneered.

He could ask the fools politely to leave, but where was the fun there? Reaching out to grab the shirt of the first individual that spoke to him, Zarzamon felt the adrenaline course through him as he effortlessly swung the man out of his way. For a moment the body went flying, only to crash harshly into the side of a garbage dumpster. The echoing rattling snatched the attention of the other three, who spun around to stare at their fallen friend. They were too far gone in their own mistakes to make a logical conclusion not to pursue a fight. The next threw a sluggish fist, filled with brute force and zero strength. Stepping back, Zarzamon felt his hand catch the wrist attached to the flying fist, securing a hold, and his body twirl to fling the human onto its back. Pulling the wrist upward in the last minute, he prevented his opponents skull from smashing against the pavement. In a moment of vulnerability, he felt a blow land between his shoulder blades, snapping his attention to the next individual. Pivoting and shooting out a hand, Zarzamon’s arm slipped between the raised fists of the next opponent. 

Fingers curling around the throat, feeling the soft compress beneath the grasp of an inhuman entity. Effortlessly, as though the human was a feather, Zarzamon lifted the individual upward, and watched the legs dangle as sounds of gasps filled the air. Slowly, still holding onto his new prey, Zarzamon looked at the final opponent who was standing, speechless, slightly swaying from a lack of balance. Their soft shells were hardly a form of protection, and barely provided a challenge.  Without taking his gaze away, Zarzamon’s fingers slowly tightened around the throat of the helpless creature he held listening to the frantic gasping increase.

Remember not to leave a scratch, he mused to himself internally.

Well she did not throw a drink in his face, so that was a plus. The fact she came over to thank him was a positive sign. He just needed an excuse to talk to her more, to get to know her. It would be a struggle to torment someone if you did not know what made them tick. Even more so since torment he needed to inflict was on an emotional level. Tucking the phone away again, Zarzamon decided against replying to Ryan. There was nothing worthy to report, and the strange alphabetical format of the keyboard was only going to make typing more time-consuming. His gaze drifted once more to the group of four women. They were so lost in their own laughter that they did not notice him silently observing. Steadily his gaze shifted over to the pool tables, where a group of individuals, perhaps a little older than the skin he wore, were making shots on the pool table. Their aim was a little off, and their voices were a little loud, but it appeared they were enjoying the game. Taking the beer he had in his hand, he roamed off to join the little group. “Sup, bro?” One of them slurred, and wrapped an arm over Zarzamon’s shoulders. “Sup?” Zarzamon echoed in confusion. His response of inquiry appeared to be an appropriate response. 

“Wanna join us bro?” Another stumbled against the table.

He spent time learning to lace shoes, do up buttons, and mundane things like brushing his teeth with some wretched flavour called “minty fresh.” Once a morning routine was conquered, Zarzamon would lightly descend down the stairs to accompany Ryan’s sire in their living room. The archaic souls were more interesting than the young Ryan. They spoke of days where technology was not developed; when they could still throw fights in bars. Before Ryan would join them, they would even tell Zarzamon of the little things they would pick pocket for fun.

On the morning of the fourth day, the house awoke to an absence of noise beyond their winds. Well, they did, Zarzamon spent his night perched near a window cursing silently until at 3am when the winds and snow stopped. As much as he enjoyed being in close proximity to Ryan, he wanted to get his task over with and go home. By 3:15 am he repeated his hissing routine, causing Ryan to turn over in an attempt to ignore him. Too ecstatic to share the news of the blizzard ending, an in-humane snarl ripped through the fiend’s throat causing Ryan to flinch. “Oh great, you’re awake,” Zarzamon spoke as if the snarl never happened. “Let me sleep,” Ryan groaned trying to embrace his pillow. “The blizzards over,” Zarzamon informed.

“Great. Go for a walk or something,” Ryan muttered as he drifted back into sleep.

It would be another four hours before Ryan would wake up to the sound of rapping knuckles on his door. Four hours which Zarzamon was sprawled out on the air mattress at the time, staring at the ceiling without an inclination of what to do. This land was too flat and bare for him to roam, so he had waited in silence, pondering over the day ahead. Ryan sluggishly rose from the bed, opening his mouth to release a long yawn.

Today was the day they would head out into the world. By some witchcraft called “social media” Ryan had been following Kassidy’s movements, and saw it fit to finally unleash the demon on her. Going about their morning routines, the two got dressed and ready for the trip out. They descended a flight of stairs and passed along their farewell to Ryan’s mother who was always the first up and about. Zarzamon thanked her for hosting him, much to Ryan’s surprise, and they walked out into the world. 

Raking the soul for inspection was not a subtle motion, the human knew when they were being judged. It would be as though his talons were petting something internally, and the discomfort was reflected in the human’s wincing. A part of the devilish fiend contemplated just enclosing his talons tighter, shattering the soul, just to see what would happen. Would it become soulless? Would he drop dead? Did it really think that hiding within the hood of his coat would act as a barrier? How pathetic.

Peering into the soul broke the man out of his paralyzed state. He pivoted sharply toward the house in the distance and made attempts to stumble forward. Ungracefully running, his black boots slid along the snow, narrowing the gap between him and his destination steadily. Shifting forward, the beast lunged into the air, leaping like a phoenix from the ashes. As he took flight, the remainder of the soot clinging to his pelt became freed, returning the onyx coat to a starless state. The paw like hands stretching outward, to allow his claws to whistle as they sliced a path in flight. A single bound of the fiend brought the summoner to the snow. Careful not to crush the fragile being, the demon’s hind legs crashed into the snow on either side, but he kept a hand firmly planted on the man’s back.

The human struggled frantically, a soft whimper escaping his rib cage as he felt the pressure of claws against his spine. There was minimal resistance between the skin and bone, indicating the man’s slim build. A low wolf-like growl escaped the hunter’s throat, rumbling deep within his chest. Slowly he lowered his muzzle down to the skin of an exposed ear. “You called?” A question filled with disgust escaped the beast's lips. Another soft whimper escaped the man’s body, verging on a squeak due to the wind being crushed from his lungs. “You summon me from the depths of the underworld, and you don’t even have the courage to speak.” Lifting himself off of the man, the onyx coated creature circled around his pray to stand between it and the farmhouse it sought to run to. The hood of his jacket had fallen off to reveal dusty-toned brown hair and a matching colouring of eyes. Oh how wide those eyes were. They were still filled with terror, flicking to the right and the left as though looking for a way out. Oh if he ran faster this evening would be much more fun, the demon had not experienced a proper hunt in forever. Generally, summoners knew what they were getting into, and they stood their ground when a Guardian arrived. Their greetings were a lot more respectful, and welcoming, because they knew starting off on the wrong foot would be dangerous. 

“Rise, human,” the demon growled lowly, glaring down at helpless creature that has yet to make a stand.

On feeble, wavering, sticks for legs the man stood up. Snow clung to his clothes, and had melted against his pants causing the cold to seep through to the skin. 

“You.. you can’t kill me,” he stuttered, staring frantically at the winged being before him.

“I, Zarzamon, guardian of the underworld, will do as I please.” He shot back, snapping his jaws. “Give me a reason I should not slaughter my summoner.” Stepping back, the human sought to place distance between them. Zarzamon followed like a shadow, his grin everlasting. “The laws!” He exclaimed as he was unable to find the courage to turn around and flee again. He took several steps back, nearly falling back from doing so. “You really think a demon of shadows and fire cares about your laws?” The growling voice retorted. Falling onto all fours, the beast began to circle his summoner, looking him up and down. The man was far from a worthy prey to dance with, but he would need to make due for Zarzamon’s amusement. “I-I-I have an offering for you,” the human stammered over his own words as he spoke. With each encirclement of the fiend, he pivoted to try and never have his back exposed.,

“Well, why did you not start with that?” Zarzamon spoke, his voice taking on a sweet tone.

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