The Monstermaker: Ch. I

“Um, Hastur?”

The familiar voice shook him out of his reverie. Turning, he beheld a short, stocky figure in a pinstriped suit and raised a brow.

The last time he'd seen the demon Phelan, they had both been in the rather awkward position of trying to save the world. It had also been the last time he'd expected -- or wanted, really -- to see him again, ever. Phelan wasn't exactly acceptable dinner-guest material. Admittedly, neither was Hastur most of the time, but the junior demon gave him a vague and nebulous case of the jeebies whenever he spent enough time in his presence.

It wasn't the red slit-pupiled eyes and the slight tendency to hiss that got to him. Little wrongnesses in otherwise unremarkable forms were par for the course amongst Hell's denizens; a forked tongue there, a mouth full of canines here. More, it was the round, boyish face and the masses of blond curls. They reminded Hastur of Phelan's true identity: a refugee from a different universe and a different Earth, one where the End of Days really had come to pass when scheduled. One where there never had been a Crawly, but instead an angel once named Aziraphale had fallen, and become the Serpent of Eden in his place.

Phelan was all right as far as neurotic, excitable pedantics went, and he certainly seemed to like Hastur well enough. (He'd had a close, rather complicated, and violent working relationship with the Duke Hastur of his own world. They hadn't really spoken much about it, for which Hastur was quietly grateful.) But even Dukes with Reputations had their limits, and Phelan's story was a bit past the level of creepy that Hastur was for.

The demon in question tugged down his purple-tinted spectacles to peer over them curiously "I believe we were meant to meet to get a job done…" 

"What? I didn't get a notification." Hastur scowled, not at Phelan but at Hell's incompetence in communication. "Old Mephisto's been skiving off again, I reckon."

"Well, you’ll like this one." Phelan raised a brow of his own. "Some folks in Scotland couldn’t wrap their heads around how to properly behave when trying to work with and worship the forces of Hell. Now we’re meant to wrap their heads round something else entirely."

"Really." The Duke smirked down at him. "Are we talking round, say, some crowbars, or something a bit more personal-like?"

Phelan looked innocent for approximately five seconds. “Both… both is good.”

Hastur snorted. "When are we leaving? Now?"

“I’d say so. We can take Molly.”

“What, your motorbike?” Hastur nodded in recognition, before frowning. “We? As in you and I? Both of us?”

“There’s a passenger’s seat,” Phelan answered, zipping up his leather jacket. “And we’re not meant to attract too much attention, so showing up in the town out of nowhere is not a bright idea.”

“… passenger seat,” he muttered, looking disgusted. “This better be worth it.”

“You just need to hold on tight,” Phelan said and lead the way to his bike. “Get on up.”

With an expression of doom and a muffled blessing, Hastur swung his leg over and wrapped his arms around Phelan’s waist. “Let’s get this bloody over with, shall we?”

Phelan nodded.

“Hold on tight.” He let the engine howl and sped off into the gloomy dusk.

Hastur curled his legs up tighter and thumped his chin darkly down on Phelan’s shoulder. “This. Is. Daft. How far is this burg, anyway?”

“It’s in Scotland.”

“Aw, no. I’ve got to do this all the way to Scotland?”

“It’s only six hours. Told you Downstairs said ‘No’ to just jumping there.”

“Christ,” he muttered. “Can you at least take shortcuts? I think my knees are goin’ numb already.”

“Nope. We can take breaks, though.”

“Good. How about now?”

“…We’re not even out of London.”

“After we get out of London, then. If anyone I know bloody sees me—”

“I am not stopping before Beaconsfield.”

“Where’s that?”

“ ‘Bout an hour from here.”

They did, indeed, stop an hour from then. They did not, however, stop every time Hastur wanted to, which was approximately every time a vehicle passed them, and in the appropriate amount of time they’d reached their destination. Hastur took one look around and decided he’d rather have kept driving.

“Welcome to the middle of fucking nowhere.”

“Got that right.” He snorted, kicking at the ground. “Can’t be much here besides crappy Satanists.”

“ ‘Xactly.” Phelan frowned and looked at the little village just ahead. “Well, I’ve seen worse. Last time I’ve been ‘ere we’d been ‘unted down by angels.”

“Last time I was here… oh, wait, I’ve never been here. And hope never to be again. Angels’d liven it up a bit, at least.”

“Matter of taste, I guess. Anyway. The guy we’re ‘ere mainly for lives a few miles out of town. As do most of the others, from what Downstairs said.”

“Lodging first, though, right? Might take a bit. Or we might have angry mobs comin’ after us. Never know in these wilder parts.”

“Like your way of thinking there. Shall we see if there’s a hotel or something?” 

“In a place like this? Gotta be something. They’ll have delusions of being a tourist spot, no doubt.” He snorted.

“Likely.” Phelan grinned and moved Molly down the road to the tallest building of the town. It was a little to the side, and proclaimed itself to be the Six Gallows Inn.

“Cheerful name. Sounds like my kind of place.” Hastur crossed his arms and raised his eyes to the sign swinging bleakly in the faint breeze that had sprung up. “Let’s go see if we get the strangers treatment, shall we?”

Phelan sniffed, amused. “Let’s see if we get the two-odd-male-strangers-travelling-together treatment.” He summoned up a duffel bag after casting a quick glance around to see if anyone was watching.

“ ‘We don’t get many of youuur sort coming down this way’,” said Hastur mock-prissily in a dead-on regional accent. He paused with one hand on the door, about to push it open, and glanced back. “What’s in the bag then?”

“Whatever I want… and clothes.” Phelan answered. “I reckon it’d look a little silly if we say ‘we’re travelling’ when none of us has any luggage.” He smirked up at Hastur.

“Details,” the taller demon sniffed, pushing open the door and heading straight for the most official-looking person he could see. “Any vacancies for a couple of travelers?”

Phelan followed, pushing his dark glasses back up his nose, looking at some of the other people currently in what due to lack of a better term he called ‘lobby’. He stepped next to Hastur, waiting for an answer.

It wasn’t long in coming. Hastur managed a room big enough for the both of them with only a moderate amount of suspicion on both sides. Phelan smacked his lips as they trudged up the stairs, showing his disappointment.

“Double bed, really?”

“It was all they had on the second floor.”

“Just saying, you have bloody cold feet.”

“Then you can wear socks and long pants.” Hastur sniffed. He wasn’t sure whether Phelan was referring to him proper or the other Hastur he’d known in his own world, but he wasn’t going to bother himself asking. It was probably much the same either way. “Or one of us can take the floor or the couch, I’m not picky.”

“We both snore when forced onto the couch. And I doubt there’s one in there.”

“Then shrink yourself and sleep in the duffel bag. I’m not kipping on the floor.”

“We could also skip sleeping and search out the guy we’re here for and show him why you don’t force demons to share a room.”

“Now you’re talking.” He grinned. “Did you bring anything to do it with, or am I gonna have to provide my own?”

Phelan looked up at him, disappointed: “What did I say about the duffel bag holding whatever I want?”

“You didn’t say it held whatever I wanted.”

“You’re a Duke of Hell. You can get yer own blessed duffel bag.”

Hastur snorted. “I don’t need a duffel bag. Shall we go?”

“With greatest delight.” Phelan pushed into the room and threw the bag onto the bed. He figured they wouldn’t be needing it. Yet.

Of course, these things usually always turned out opposite how he wanted them to. At least the bag would be only a finger-snap away.