Past Reflections: A pet's story

Chapter 4

When he couldn’t take the absolute silence, he cranked up the radio and sang along to whatever played. It was a vain attempt to fill up the silence within him as he sang to The Who and Pink Floyd. The closer he got to Frost Industries the more restless he became so by the time he arrived he was sullen and angry. Phoenix, one of the assassins hired by Deacon, glanced at him briefly before hightailing it the other way. Deacon usually only dealt with anger one of two ways: sex or violence and he preferred them together. Unfortunately, Phoenix was completely straight and was totally opposed to fucking the boss. Deacon didn’t even pay attention to him today, whereas normally he would have hit on him, made a joke, and then continued onto the offices. This time he stormed through the receptionist’s area where Jolie was trying to look busy at her desk so he wouldn’t have a reason to take her to task. He didn’t even bother announcing to Rocco he was there, he just barged right through the oaken doors in front of him while the older man sat comfortably back in his leather desk chair, feet on the desk.

“Good da…Oh. Well, Afternoon then since its obvious not a good day.” Rocco began to busily shuffle through the paperwork on his desk looking for a file that he had set-aside specifically for Deacon.

“Hey Rocco.” Deacon plops down into the chair and sprawls into the comfortable suede fabric but couldn’t find a suitable position. “What’s on the agenda for me since I’m not planning on staying around the area for any length of time? I’m looking for something exciting; fresh…everything has been boring me lately. It’s the same old death every time. Bad guy needs killing, molester needs lesson, and dictator must be overthrown. Isn’t there anything new? How about demon’s run amok? That would be fun…or…or… pygmy terrorists killing millions?” Rocco just stared blankly at him before trying desperately not to laugh.

“Pygmy terrorists, eh Deacon?” He chuckles as he tosses the file to his employer. “Not quite but something you might be interested in.” Rocco watches him carefully as he reads the file, not bothering to hide his glee when he sees Deacon’s face split into a happy grin.

“You’re my hero Rocco. Dragoons, vampires, angels, gods and Demons. Sounds like my kind of party since it seems almost suicidal. What’s the payday?” Deacon’s fingers caress the file lovingly; it was exactly what he wanted. No. It was exactly what he needed right now. He had been getting soft on these pansy missions to assassinate dictators and the such. The last good assignment he had was the assassination of the Fey King and his court. That had been an adventure he wasn’t likely to forget, nor had it endeared him to Celey but whatever. Rocco fidgeted when he was asked what the payday was and Deacon knew that wasn’t a good sign but he was at least willing to listen.

“Well…there’s just a wee bit of a problem with the money situation. They can pay, oh yes can they pay, but it’s not in cash like we’re used to. It’s not silver, or gold, or anything we would consider valuable but they are willing to pay with magical artifacts and my contact was quite certain you’d be interested in a mythical spear called the flame of the Ice Dragon. I assured him that was ludicrous….” At the mention of the flame of the Ice Dragon, the spirit within Deacon awakened and stretched his figurative wings.

“Good Afternoon Deacon. It’s been awhile, has it not?” Deacon groaned inwardly which caused Dregan to smile. “Have I missed something of importance Deacon? You seem rather angry, I can feel your pain and shame and it is quite unusual for you to care about anything.”

“Dregan shut up! God, you just woke up and you’re already annoying the fuck out of me. How am I ever supposed to know what the hell is going on with this new job if you keeping running your mouth.” His tone was far from friendly but to Rocco is just appeared as if Deacon was daydreaming about something unpleasant.

“You’re so rude. I only awoke because someone called to me and I could not resist such a summons. Why don‘t you return to the nice gentleman you were talking to, since you insist on wasting your talents on such insignificant opportunities. Your greed will someday kill you and I will find great amusement in it.” Dregan was purposely trying to bait Deacon; it was a game he loved to play with him because he knew that it was Deacon’s way of rebelling against the situations in his life he could not control. Death was a way for him to control the very core of his being and he would often tempt fate with his reckless behavior.

“Who the hell would call you? I didn‘t realize you had any friends.” Deacon had to stop and think for a moment to try and remember if there was ever anyone who had actually wanted to see Dregan. “And I’m trying to get back to my job but your ceaseless chatter and stupidity make it hard to concentrate. I can’t believe how much easier my life was before I ever had the misfortune of meeting you.” That made Dregan snort in derision as he began to subtly take over his host’s body.

“You’re life was simple, you moronic child, because you were seven. Whose life is complicated at seven? Now, I beg of you to be quiet and listen to someone other then yourself for a change. You’re arrogance is astonishing. And as for meeting me, I don’t think either of us had a choice. If you have a problem with the arrangement, then might I suggest you talk to the Grim Reaper whose eternal wisdom placed us in the same body. He believed that since we were both broken and in desperate need of companionship and understanding so we did not condemn ourselves to a hell of our own making, that we would be acceptable companions. I am sorry that you are dissatisfied by my presence. I try not to bother you, however, I must also enjoy my freedom and you would deny me that right. So, as you say, deal with it.” Deacon started, and Rocco noticed the movement and his sharp eyes narrowed in suspicion at the ice blue eyes that looked deep into his own before his inner voice answered the dragoon.

“Damn Dregan. You know I don‘t necessarily dislike you; it’s more that we‘ve shared this body for twenty years and I know absolutely nothing of you. And, I‘ll pass on talking to the Grim Reaper, he keeps trying to recruit me since I do his job better then he does. Though I did fill in for him while he went on vacation. Seriously, if this was his choice then I will abide by it for eternity because he has been my savior for many years and he must have a reason for doing as he did.” The two share a common laugh and a small sense of camaraderie begins to develop though both were quick to clamp it down tight so they didn’t have to think to deeply about these new feelings. It was a first that they were actually able to laugh at something that had so deeply affected the both of them. The Grim Reaper had saved Deacon’s life nigh on twenty years ago, the day his parents died, and while he was in limbo gifted him with the presence of the Dragoon as his guardian and eternal companion.

With their internal dialog finished, Deacon accepted the highly dangerous and completely unpredictable mission with the hope that this would be his last mission. Rocco just shook his mane of silver hair and patted Deacon’s hand awkwardly. “Is there anyone you want me to contact in case….” he sighs deeply, always hating this part, “In case something goes wrong? Deacon made an utterly ridiculous face as he thought about the question.

“Just please contact my husband so that he might know. Well we’re talking about this, I really should update my will…just in case.” For a minute his mind totally blanks, he had always thought he was invincible since he had Dregan. It was finally dawning on him that he was mortal and could suffer the wounds of mortal men. Rocco walked to the locked safe in the room, behind the picture of Saihetei and Deacon painted as Cupid and Ares, unlocking it quickly and withdrawing a thin sheet of parchment from the interior depths of the musty dark. The piece of paper crackled slightly as he walked it back towards the desk, floating it across the wood surface until it rested, hovering, about Deacon’s hand.

“You have bequeathed everything to Saihetei until you’re daughter reaches the age of eighteen, with a yearly penance for Akio that would suffice to keep him living in comfort until the end of his lifetime. Is this still your wish, Deacon?” He poises a pen over a new sheet of paper, waiting to make the necessary changes that he knew were imminent.

“I still want my husband to receive his yearly penance since it is the least I can do for all the shit I’ve put him through. I guess….shit…I hate Saihetei. Fucking bastard put me in a tight spot since there’s no one else I trust enough to leave all my worldly possessions to until my daughter comes of age.” Deacon strokes his chin, looking pensive. “Hmm, I guess it would just be easiest to make you her financial consultant. She already has a bank account set up in her name worth a small fortune so she should have no need of money.” He leans back in the chair with a distressed and oddly worried look on his face, his eyebrows furrowed and drawn together. “I would however, like to set up accounts for Cildern and Melili in case I die. I want to make sure all of my children are set up in case of the most unfortunate of circumstances.” As he speaks of his children, the love he bears them is evident in his voice and the softening of his features.

“As you wish, Deacon. I will make sure they both have trust funds set up in their names. Anything else, my dearest friend?”

“Just….just break it easy to my family please. They have already suffered so much that I don’t want this to overwhelm them. Provide them with everything they will need to cope with the loss, even if it means selling Frost Industries to do so. My daughter will inherit this company upon my death, so I recommend starting to kiss her ass even though she’s only 3 years old. The last thing…well, I ask it as a favor of you. If you decline, I will understand.” Rocco turns to him quickly, confused at the openness that Deacon was displaying. Part of him was highly suspicious this was a joke but the other part of him honestly believed in his concern for his family.

“What is it Deacon?”

“Would you, would you please take care of my daughter? She will need someone in her life to balance out the influences of everything else…and well…I would be proud to know she had someone like you to look up to and someone like you to mentor her. It would make me comfortable to know that she would at least have someone who would teach her the things that matter most in life…ya know, how to load a rifle, how to protect herself…more…I guess I want someone who will teach her that I wasn’t a complete and total fuck up. You know, better then most, that I would die to protect my family and I gotta believe that you will give my daughter the most accurate depiction of the person I am or at least the person I wanted to be.” While Deacon was famous for his treachery, there was no hint of betrayal in his words, just an honest plea to someone he considered a friend. Rocco looked at him with tears in his gray eyes and shook his head in silent acceptance. They clasp hands briefly before Deacon rushes out of the office to get away from his emotional breakdown and heartfelt plea to one of his oldest friends.

There is a brown package waiting for him in the lobby with a big red ribbon sitting on top of it. Deacon halts in front of it and inspects it, wondering who the hell would have bought him a present. The note attached is simply signed Love Oriya. With a gleeful squeal, he tears into the box, the cardboard coming away in pieces of brown. Inside, nestled among paper as red as the ribbon was a brand new set of knives, complete with leather hip sheaths and oils to rub the blades with. There is a moment of silent contemplation while he reads the note that was attached to one of the blades. For Deacon. To replace the knives you lost last time we saw each other. Much love. Oriya. P.S. The sapphire stones complement your beautiful eyes! Next to his name was the outline of a pair of luscious lips, almost like Oriya had sealed the note with a kiss, which he probably did.

Deacon and Oriya had first met while they were both still executioners. Unlike Deacon, who had a specialty in Demon executions, Oriya dealt almost exclusively with other supernatural forces. His favorite just happened to be weres, like Chiyhayha. His older brother had been slaughtered by a pack of roaming werewolves and ever since then he had a personal vendetta against all of them, not just lycanthropes. The two men had bonded almost instantly since they both had tragic pasts that had scarred them. Deacon had watched his parents roasted alive by fire demons before being sold into slavery to the very people who had initiated that tragic experience for him. During one of their routine inspections, they had stumbled upon a den of vampires and by sheer luck and instinct, had managed to eradicate all of them. From that day forward, they were the best of friends, however, Oriya couldn’t understand Deacon’s undying love of his most hated enemy. Saihetei, like usual, came between the two of them. Nothing Deacon said could make Oriya understand why he was different, he was a demon and Deacon passionately hated Demons. In time they became enemies as they both became bitter towards each other, because one person could not understand the other’s love despite the love they felt towards each other. In truth, Oriya would have been Deacon’s one true love had he never been forced to experience what it meant to be a slave.

Remembering this, he blushes a delicate pink and the secretary watches him with utmost curiosity while he acts like a love struck teenage girl. In the midst of his fits of giggling and hair tossing, he wanders over to her desk to snatch a blank piece of paper, which he promptly starts a note upon. Dearest Oriya. Thanks so much for the beautiful knives. They are as stunning as the man who bought them for me. I have missed our little encounters and I dearly hope that we encounter each other soon. Feel free to drop me a message at any one of my numerous locations and I will be sure to get back to you at my earliest convenience. With love, Deacon. He slips the letter in an envelope and seals it with a kiss before setting it lovingly on the secretary’s desk. “Please send this out as soon as you can. It’s quite important.” He couldn’t resist giving a dramatic, lovesick sigh as he talked to her. She snickered and placed the envelop in the mail slot on her desk.

“Yes Mr. Frost. I will make sure it goes out with the mail this afternoon. Have a pleasant trip.” She was a soft-spoken woman, and when she spoke to Deacon, it was with real affection. He was a great boss who took care of his employee’s; they had incredible benefits and healthcare options because, in many ways, these people were the only ones who literally had to be there for him. He repaid them the best he could for making them put up with his unpredictable moods and life threatening jobs that often ended with people in the hospital.

“Thanks Jolie. You’re a doll.” He smiles winningly at her as his good mood begins to return and the whole encounter at the house slowly slips away on the mists of his limited memory. He strode to the elevator in the area and punched in the special code; waiting patiently for the doors to open before selecting the 17th floor of the black building, the box nestled in his arms. The 17th floor was simple labeled “weapons,” but contained so much more. This floor was what did, and continued, to make up Deacon’s hopes and dreams. On the walls hung high power rifles and guns, grenades and bombs littered the shelving units, swords, knives, dirks, bows and arrows were all strategically placed and categorized by size, shape and material. This floor, more than any other, held his personal touch. He caressed the cold steel of a brand new sword gleaming on the table by the door. His fingers lovingly caressed the etchings down the sharp blade, smiling as his fingers felt out the words “Bringer of Death.” It was a nickname he had earned over long years and it was the one name he had the scars from. That though made his back spasm in remembrance of the whippings he had endured under the skilled and highly erotic hands of his master, Katsuro.

With a shuddering groan, he is transported back to a dark place beneath the earth, the scent of moist dirt smothering his senses, as his face is pressed hard against the loosely packed dirt. Crimson blood stains the dirt underneath his haggard body from the lashes that crisscross over his back but the blank gaze told Katsuro that he was no longer feeling the tiny crystalline droplets sliding across his perfect alabaster skin. That infuriated the deranged demon and he tightens his grip on the leather whip the color of the crimson stain creeping over the ground. With a furious crack, the whip cuts Deacon back open from hip, up against his spine and he involuntarily arches off the hard ground with a sobbing cry, but he refuses to let the tears filling his eyes fall. He bites his lip feeling his teeth rip through the soft skin even as the tip of the crimson whip snaps against his ear as it forces his face back into the dirt. Deacon can feel each perfectly exquisite lash and he has to force his hands to lie still to keep them from reaching behind his back to run his fingertips delicately over the destroyed flesh.

With a savage kick to his ribs, Deacon is left on his own. He crawls forward on his hands and knees, head hanging between his arms as he coughs up blood. It splatters down his chin before dripping onto his untouched chest. The world spins severely and for a moment he can’t make his body move and then the world suddenly stops and everything becomes black. With his world dark and forbidding, he finds himself back in the weapons room with his fingers tightly wrapped around the hilt of his new sword and tiny crescent shapes decorating the palm of his hand. He sits heavily on the floor and wraps his hands around his knees, his eyes wide and frightened the same way they were as the eight-year-old boy he was at that time. He doesn’t hear the sword clank against the floor as he drops it to reach beneath the soft, silky shirt he was wearing to touch the series of scars that marked up his otherwise perfect body. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get past the 10 years he had spent in the care of the Demon Lord as his slave. Deacon knew then, just as he did during his servitude, that he would always go back to Katsuro if he but called. In a horrible twist of fate, Deacon had come to love his tormentor and his tormentor had come to care for him in his way.

Even worse then being a slave to a deranged Demon Lord was the fact that Katsuro was Saihetei’s uncle. Not to mention, Saihetei’s own father had sold him into slavery where the two boys had met. Deacon had first belonged to Daichi before him, and Saihetei, were both sold on the underground slave market. The two boys had bonded during their years of being sex slaves to the demon elite, along with Chiyhayha. As he sat on the floor Deacon couldn’t pull himself away from the painful memories but this time he let the tears fall and mar the cold perfection of the marble floors. He stayed slumped against one of the shelving units as he sat on the floor until the sound of the door being opened jerked him back into the present. He hastily brushed away the shameful tears that stained his cheeks and busied himself with straightening up the rows of deadly weapons. Whoever had come into the room didn’t say anything and either did he until he felt someone’s presence behind him. He turned around quickly only to stare into the stunning scarlet eyes of Katsuro.