A Piece of History: Commence the Hunt

     "What would it take?"

      Jonas Foster, former death mage and hit for hire, leaned forward to meet the demon’s eyes. "I know you won’t do it for free, and seeing as how I’m useless to you now for more summonings, I need to know. What would I have to do?"

      Betre, as he must now be called, drew on his cigarillo and eyed the man silently. Was he measuring strength? Gauging for future tasks? The demon sat back on the plush brocade couch and tapped ash into a marble ashtray.

      Their setting had certainly changed, and drastically. The single bedroom, bland, lower class apartment had been lifeless. The owner had never cared to mark it as his own in any fashion, and it had retained the same lack of personality which it had come with. Where there had been a single window looking onto a grimy brick wall, there were two walls of floor-to-ceiling, shatterproof windows with a vista of Brandenburg itself. A broad deck stretched beyond the double French doors at the far end of the living room, scattered with potted plants, benches and deck chairs, an elaborate outdoor grill and a shaded table for six. The room itself was on the second "story" of the Ivory Towers’ penthouse: a living room which was treble the floorspace of Jonas’s former apartment. From stained tan carpet to highly polished hardwood, adorned with expensive Turkish area rugs. The furniture was no longer of the lowest penny, but hand-upholstered brocade, a matching set of five armchairs, a couch, a loveseat, two ottomans and a chaise lounge. Mahogany tables, elaborately carved, stood about the room, and the bookcases were filled with leather-bound hardbacks. The overhead lamps were shaded in alabaster, and the room fairly glowed with opulence.

      There was taste in the decorating: the touch of a man starved for elegance, now with free rein in both artistic choice and money. Paintings hung on the two solid walls, interspersed with surprisingly vivid tapestries. A few choice bronzes sat where they would draw both light and the eye. The broad doorway leading into the main hall was closed at the moment with heavy oaken doors, and the music system Betre had hand-chosen piped soothing Debussy into the room. The demon’s Italian loafers left no mark on the heavy plush of the rugs, and he tapped his ash into the white marble ashtray with something of satisfaction. Here, at last, was the proper setting.

     "You haven’t exactly been specific, Jonas, about what you need." Betre smiled a bit toothily and rose, strolling to the inset cabinets. When he opened them, he inhaled appreciatively at the bouquet of mellow liquors that wafted out. Choosing a cut-crystal decanter and snifter, he poured himself a neat measure of brandy, all the while watching the former mage. A faint line appeared between Betre’s brows as he eyed the man. Jonas Foster did not quite fit in the midst of this elegance. His stained jeans, faded sweater and denim jacket were sadly at odds with the beautiful earth tones of the brocade he sat so uncomfortably upon. The demon congradulated himself on his own deep brown, hand-tailored suit as he took a sip of the liquor. Jonas watched in silent irritation as the demon’s eyes half closed. He’s certainly enjoying all of this.

      "I did tell you. You weren’t listening, I guess. She’s alive again… but she’s a baby. I don’t know where she is. Death," and oh yes, he did hiss the word, "didn’t tell me anything other than she’s a newborn." The very idea… His curvaceous, beautiful beloved was now a mewling infant. What did that make everything into now?

      Betre closed the cabinet, a thoughtful frown on his face. "So she’s a child? Ah, he merely reincarnated her?" The demon couldn’t help an appreciative chuckle. Truly ingenous deviousness in all forms was one of Betre’s chief delights. He smothered his smile at Jonas’s expression, and took another sip of his brandy. "So your…what was her name, anyway?" The demon raised a scolding brow. "You never did tell me."
      "…Dia." Jonas paused, and took a deeper breath, looking up at Betre. "Diamanta Rothwell."

      The demon leaned against a 14th Century stone Templar and sniffed his liquor delicately. "Diamanta…" He rolled the name about on his tongue as he did the brandy and then smiled. "French for ‘diamond.’ How very appropriate." Jonas didn’t reply, only dropped his gaze to the rug beneath his feet. Betre shrugged, still feeling exceptionally amused at the entire situation, and straightened. "So your Dia has been born again, and you don’t know where the child is."
 
      The man nodded, frowning as he looked up at Betre. "You think this is funny?"
      "When you’ve been as jaded as I have, my dear man, everything is amusing. God, the Devil, typhoid and late-night television are all a source of hilarity for me. This is simply… so apt."
      Jonas’s frown darkened as he watched the demon pace. "How is it apt?"
      "Think of it this way, Jonas. You, a man with no heart, fall madly in love with some beautiful creature, only to lose her in a brutal fashion. You then go on an insane quest to reverse the injustice, and to do so,  you bargain with a demon and Death itself. That done, you sacrifice everything valuable to you only to have her given back in the form of a child." The demon smiled, and it was an unpleasant smile. "It’s really quite classic."
      "Classic or not, I don’t give a damn. It’s not funny to me, and I want to find her."
      "Why?" Betre’s expression was honestly questioning, and he paused in lighting another cigarillo. "She’s no longer the woman you loved. Why do you want the child she now is?"
 
      Jonas stopped, and for a long moment he could not answer. It was something he hadn’t exactly thought of himself. Why -did- he want the infant? Why did his heart

ache at the idea that Dia was alive again, no matter what form, and away from him? He could recall now, more clearly than ever, the delicate lines of her face, the flutter of her silvery hair, the slightly hunted yet serene expression in her opalescent eyes.
 "She deserves another chance," he found himself saying. "She never had safety, as far as I know. She never felt secure, and someone was always trying to hurt her or take her away from here. If I don’t protect her, it’ll start all over again. She’ll have that look in her eyes…" Jonas trailed off as he looked at his hands, twined together and white-knuckled.
      "She may not be Dia anymore," Jonas finally said, wondering why his throat had gone dry," but I can’t let her go."

      Betre observed this for a moment, and then looked out at the deck. A shadow moved, and Ax walked into view. The demon had done remarkably well in adapting to his new physical form, and had gained control of his intrinsic powers swiftly. He was finding continual joy in the machines of this new century, and a genuine smile touched the demon’s face as he thought of his blacksmith friend learning the wonders of modern technology. Betre shifted his weight and looked at Jonas, his head tilted slightly.
      "You know, Jonas, we’re more alike than you would care to consider. I, too, have found myself unable to let go of something past. However, my reasons for calling the past to present were to benefit the one who suffered. What are your reasons? Is it only your heart, clinging to the tattered remains of a would-be lover?"

      The fomer mage frowned as he looked at the demon. Damn it. He just had to be logical about it. Jonas’s heart was thudding angrily against his ribs, beating the rhythm of her light steps out in his own blood. Perhaps he could have let her go, grieve and move forward, but not anymore. He had come too far to return to his silent, lonely (for that’s what it had been) life. "I don’t give a damn what it is to you," he snapped, shooting Betre a vicious glare. "Are you going to help me find her or not?"
      The demon smiled abruptly and finished his brandy. "Do you have anything of her? A lock of hair, an article of clothing?"
      Jonas opened his mouth to reply that no, he didn’t have anything, but he could get a dress or something. His mouth shut, and hot tears burned behind his lowered eyelids. "…yes."
     "Bring it to the study," the demon said imperiously as he swept out of the room.

       The study was lit by a number of soft overhead lights which gave the room the mellow look of patient years. Betre smiled as he ran his fingertips over the felt surface of the billiards table set in a far corner. Decadence… So much money at hand, and so much to do with it. The demon basked in the dark bookcases, filled with more books, ledgers, encyclopedias. Three heavy oak tables sat in a neat row with green-shaded library lamps upon them. The two desks at the far end of the room were from the late 19th Century, and the artwork hanging on the walls was Japanese. The demon lingered a moment, gazing upon a beautiful piece of calligraphy which, he had been told, read "Blessings of old" when he heard the door open. Past the full wet bar Jonas walked, holding a heap of rather filthy clothing in his hands. His eyes never left the jeans and t-shirt heaped in his palms, and he set them on the indicated table with considerable reverence. Betre wrinkled his nose as he prodded the fabric. Grass stains mingled with large blackish-brown patches, and when he picked up the jeans, he rubbed his fingertips hastily for a silvery powder remained on his hands.
      "…I hesitate to ask," the demon said, eyeing the clothing for a moment. Jonas slumped into a chair and stared at the dark green carpet.
      "I was wearing those the day she died," he murmured, his face impassive.
      The demon tilted his head, and then comprehension lit his eyes and he laughed. "This is her blood? That’s perfect! This will do marvelously." He patted Jonas on the shoulder and pretended he didn’t see the man wince and draw back. "I admit, Jonas, I’m impressed at your determination. To keep these pieces of clothing for an entire year, and with all of the stains intact…" He leaned back and looked at the brown flakes gathering on the polished wood. "Were you intending to try to summon her back in some fashion by yourself?"
 
      "…I couldn’t get rid of them," the man said, dark eyes shifting to look at the clothing. His face twisted at the sudden rush of memories, and he took a shuddering breath. "It was all I had left of her."
      "Well, that shall soon be remedied," Betre said briskly, finding himself oddly repulsed by the former mage’s expression. "Out you go. Keep Ax occupied and I’ll begin tracking down the child." He nudged Jonas’s shoulder before he unbuttoned his suit jacket and slipped it off. The former mage rose slowly and paced to the front door. A bottle of Jaegermeister stood enticingly on the bar, and Jonas paused, reaching for it with a trembling hand. The demon’s movements caught his eye, and he watched motionless for a moment as Betre hung his jacket over a chair and spread out the crumpled clothing. Silver dust and brown flakes left a dull coating on the table’s surface, and Jonas’s stomach turned in on itself. His hand dropped away, and he hastened into the hall, closing the door on the demon and his own bloody memories with something close to a slam.