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Something twisted in Jean’s gut – something deep, visceral, primal. Something that told him to run, to get as far away from this place as fast as his legs could carry him; but then to stay, to fight. Because that’s what he does, what he’s been trained to do, since he was eight, when his mother gave him his first silver pocket knife.
But the woman in front of him wasn’t evil, not the big bad that goes bump in the night. She was human, real flesh and blood human – more than that, though, she was Marco’s mom. Step mom, sure, but mom nonetheless. So why did the bounciness of her brunette-dyed curls make him jump out of his skin, hand reflexively reaching for the gun stashed in the back of his jeans?
A jab to his side dragged him out of his fear-induced reverie. His own mom stared at him, her ash blonde hair falling around her shoulders not in curls, but in waves, almost too straight to even be considered waves. The general un-bounciness of her hair brought ease to his tense shoulders, but the panicked look just barely hidden in her eyes brought it right back. She had her hand resting on her own gun, tucked safely in a faux-leather holster, the metal glinting in the low light of the afternoon.
Marco’s step mom – what was her name? Cecelia? – led them through the winding hallways of Marco’s home. He knew his friend’s dad to be a bit on the eccentric side, but every time he stepped foot into the four story, three bedroom, six and a half bathroom house, he’s reminded just how much he hates the eccentric. Maybe because he’d been on the run his whole life, or maybe because he’d become accustomed to the stuffy, cramped, and questionable motel rooms he and his mom had called home for years – just a roof and four walls was more than enough for him.
“Cecelia, what’s this about?” Jean heard his mother speak, her tone tense, guarded. Worried.
“Don’t be such a spoilsport, Laura. You’ll see soon enough.” Cecelia’s voice was sickly sweet, Jean’s insides churning as she flashed them a smile. She led them to a door just below the stairs, paint chipping and hinges rusted, ajar. The familiar white hot burst of adrenaline he usually felt on a hunt shot through his veins.
Was this a hunt?
“This goes to Daniel’s study,” Jean said, suddenly remembering he does, indeed, have a voice. He had only been in Marco’s fathers study once, during his initial tour of the house. Marco had snuck them in, reminding him in hushed tones that people weren’t usually allowed in.
He knew the room to be beautiful, with wide open space, giant windows, a little set out of the house in an octagonal shape. A bench sat on the far right of the room, jutting out from the plaster, pillows strewn here and there. A desk, a chair, a few potted plants, and piles upon piles of cluttered folders and notebooks. Jean had felt safe there, with Marco ushering him out the door, a whispered don’t touch anything you’ll mess with his energies harsh in his ear.
But now, with Cecelia grinning before him, sugar and honey dripping from her voice like venom, he felt that same primal fear coil in his gut.
“You’re right, Jean,” she nearly crooned. “It’s a very private place. My husband rarely lets people in it.” She extended one perfectly manicured hand, her palm resting on the old wood. Something groaned on the other side.
“You know,” she continued. “I’ve heard you two are phenomenal hunters.” The two blondes stiffened simultaneously, but Cecelia continued on, her tone quickly delving into a sarcastic one. “I don’t have any firsthand experience with you, obviously, but a few of my contacts just droned on and on about how good the Kirschteins are.”
Jean’s mother, Laura, tried to butt in, to ask where the Hell this was going, but her voice was drowned out.
“You can see my confusion, then, as to why such a good hunter would hang around my lovely step son so much.”
Jean felt his blood run cold. “Cecelia,” he started, his voice gruff, but stopped short when she pushed the door behind her open, manicured claws scraping against the wood like nails on a chalkboard.
Jean went numb, hand on the back of his jeans falling limp to his side, heart plummeting to the pit of his stomach. “Marco,” he breathed, not loud enough for anyone to really hear it. The study wasn’t the same as last time – pillows gone, plants lying haphazard on their side, desk overthrown. The piles of paper littered the floor, creating a sea of white and black ink.
The place was absolute chaos to his eyes. That is, until he saw the intricate and perfectly painted devil’s trap a few feet in front of him. What’s worse, though, was the site of Mr. Bodt, beaten and chained to a chair, dead center. To his left, Marco lay on his side, a small pool of blood forming just under his nose. The image enraged Jean, made him shake with anger, but the overwhelming fear of seeing Marco damaged kept his fists down.
“Marco,” Jean repeated, louder this time, his mind on autopilot as he took a step towards his unconscious friend.
“I don’t think so,” came Cecelia’s voice, hand on his chest, preventing him from going forward. In an instant, Laura’s gun was cocked, trained on the fake brunette. She chuckled, “Come on Laura,” Cecelia turned her gaze to the blonde woman. “We both know you won’t do it. You’ve grown soft.”
“Get away from my boy.” Laura’s voice was ice, and Jean had to fight the instinctual urge to shrink in on himself. He’d only heard that tone a few times in his life, but it never ended well for the party on the receiving end.
Cecelia clicked her tongue, giving Jean’s mom a once over. “Fine, fine,” she said, retracting her hand to her hip. “So long as he doesn’t try anything stupid.”
“What is this?” Jean found his voice again. “What are you doing?”
Cecelia smirked, sauntering into the middle of the trap. “You know, I’ve always despised hunters. A lot of good-for-nothing fools, you are.” She sighed, her hands moving to smooth the grey fabric of her dress. “But then again, I hate demons more.” She landed a kick into Marco’s side, the heel of her shoe stabbing into him. He cried out, and Jean found himself crying with him (though, really, it was a curse directed at the brunette bitch). A strangled mess of protests then left his throat, wishing to any God that he could take Marco’s place.
“Did you know, Jean?” Cecelia asked, her voice was muddled in Jean’s ears. He was too busy staring at Marco – at the dried blood, at the quickly healing burns, at the terrified look etched into the creases in his forehead. He seemed to be knocked out cold, but could still feel every ounce of pain the step mom from Hell was inflicting upon him.
What did Marco do to deserve this? He had only ever been good, a bright beacon of hope in an otherwise shitty world, a strong shoulder to lean on, an angel –
“Well?” Cecelia’s voice cut through. “Did you know your best friend was a demon?”
What? Of course he knew. Why wouldn’t he know?
“What?” Jean repeated his inner monologue aloud, his legs itching to move, to be near Marco. He felt the tremor of movement in his knees, his fingers brushing the cool metal of the gun behind him. Fear welled in his chest, but he was unable to move, unable to think.
He knew Cecelia was right – and, God, he despised her for it. He didn’t want to believe – to admit – that he had been in her place before, gun trained on his best friend.
Jean dropped his hand to his side once again, defeated.
***
“Hey, thanks for letting me come over, Jean. I really appreciate it.” Marco smiled from the passenger seat, and Jean scoffed.
“Dude, we’re not in middle school. Don’t be so sappy.” He threw his car into park – an old Datsun B210, its rusty paint job and groaning engine had definitely seen better years. It idled harshly for a second, a loud banging sounded, before it quieted to a gentle hum. “We’re college bros,” he continued. “Just come in, steal my food, and shut up about it.”
Marco laughed, a twinkling chime of little brass bells. “Okay, but you have to get used to me coming over at three PM and stealing all the coke.”
“Fine by me,” Jean said, a small smile pulling at the corners of his lips. He gave his car some much needed rest as he pulled the key out of the ignition, indicating for Marco to open his door before he got out himself. “Home, sweet home,” he mumbled, even if his house didn’t quite feel like home. He’d been living there for a few months now, with his mom.
They had inherited the house when her grandma, his great grandma, had finally kicked the bucket (“Jean,” his mom would scold, using that special mom voice of hers, “Don’t talk about her like that.”). Though, how else could he talk about her? Other than mom, she was his only living relative he knew of, but did he know her? He didn’t think he could call one-day yearly visits and sporadic five minute phone calls really knowing someone. Nevertheless, mom was plenty happy when she got the news (not that her nan had passed, but that she got the house).
Finally, she had said, we can quit.
Quit, as in stop hunting ghosts and vampires and everything else that haunts a child’s worst nightmares. He and his mom had been travelling, hunting, since he was a kid. Saving lives, kicking asses, sleeping in shoddy motel rooms and munching on pure death, otherwise known as diner food and happy meals.
You know, the family business.
As cool as the life might sound, Jean was now twenty three, and he knew the guilt his mom had – for taking his childhood away, for putting his life on the line, for hauling him around every state that’s in the great country of America, for never letting him have a proper, brick and mortar education. So, when she had driven him to the little house in just outside the suburbs of Trost, their few belongings in the back of her pick-up, he didn’t complain.
He saw how happy she was when he got his GED, when he went and got accepted to Trost Community College, when he told her he made a friend.
A friend.
His chest elated when he thought of Marco, his first real friend. They met in an English class, some composition course required to graduate. Jean had been hunched in the back corner, and Marco meandered over to him, setting his books down with a smile. His excuse? Not wanting to sit with the throngs of freshly graduated high school seniors, chatting away, happily discussing their summers.
It became a routine, then. Marco greeted him every other day with a sunshine-y smile, and Jean grunted at him with a wave of his hand. He was happy, though, that Marco had singled him out.
Jean had never been too good at making friends – or, at least, not with people his own age.
They quickly graduated to hanging out in the campus courtyard, the library, and the dining hall. Eventually, they made their way to cafés on the main street, parks and even a bar or two.
“This place is lovely,” Marco’s voice called from the other side of the car, bringing Jean back to reality.
“Yeah… It’s not much, but my mom likes it.”
“Your mom has good taste.” Marco shut the passenger side door. “My dad’s a little… weird. Bought a topsy-turvy house with four and a half too many bathrooms.”
Jean snorted. “Your house has five and a half bathrooms?”
“Six and a half,” Marco deadpanned.
Jean broke into a fit of laughter. Being with Marco was good. “Who needs that many bathrooms?” He cackled.
“Well, dad says you only live once, so why not?”
“C’est la vie?” Jean supplied.
“Yeah, something like that.” Marco groaned, falling into step behind Jean up the short walk way.
The door was silent as it opened – new hinges – and Jean kicked his shoes off by the cheap Persian that lay in front of the door.
“Come on, food is this way.” Jean rounded the corner to raid the kitchen, but stopped short when he noticed he was alone. “Marco? Dude?” He peeked his head through the doorway.
He stopped, eyeing the panicked look on Marco’s face. His hand reached around to rest on the handle of his gun. “What’s the hold up?”
Marco stayed put. “Jean, I –“ he stopped, face draining of color as Jean pulled the gun from the back of his pants (quicker than Jean would now like to admit), stepping into full view of the man before him.
“What the hell are you, Bodt?”
“J-Jean, it’s me, Marco,” he squeaked.
“Cut the shit, Marco.” Jean steeled his voice, grip tightening.
“Jean,” Marco started, but shut up when the ash blond boy stalked toward him. Jean and his mom may have retired from the life, but their first official decoration was the devil’s trap painted beneath the knock off Persian – the same devil’s trap that rooted Marco to his place.
“Marco, I’ll ask you one more time,” he kicked the side of the rug out of the way, Marco’s eyes widening at the intricate designs. “What are you?”
“You… you’re a hunter?” Marco asked, seemingly more to himself than anything. Jean cocked his gun, the sound rippling through the quiet, Marco’s hands flying up in front of him. “It’s me!”
“What are you?!” Jean shouted, his patience reaching its peak.
“I’m a demon!” Marco shouted back, eyes widening at the words that tumbled out of his mouth. “Or, well, h-half. Demon, that is.”
Jean stopped. “What?”
“I’m half demon.” Marco repeated himself, shrinking at the roll of Jean’s eyes.
“I heard you,” he said. “How can you be half demon? What’s the other half, human?”
“Well, yes.”
Jean stayed silent. “Marco,” he said eventually, the syllables falling slowly from his mouth. “Do not lie to me.”
“I’m not lying!” Marco took a shaky breath. “My… my dad, he’s the demon, but… he got sick of it. He sold his soul, decades ago, for his family. Died, became a soulless, walks-the-earth-and-terrorizes-people-demon. He hated it…” Marco’s voice trailed off, but his eyes stared determinedly at Jean. “I swear I’m telling the truth, Jean.”
Jean breathed, his tongue running over his teeth in thought. “And the human half?”
“My mom. She met my dad… twenty five years ago. Fell in love, eloped, had me.” His voice hitched, the slightest of trembles at the memory of his mom. “She knew, too. But she also knew my dad wanted some semblance of a normal, human life.” Marco waited for Jean to react, but he didn’t. So Marco continued.
“I was born June 16th, 1993, to Daniel and Marnie Bodt, at Jinae Memorial. 2:23 AM. Half demon… half human. We lived in Jinae, normally, until I was seventeen, when mom died.” Jean stiffened at that, so Marco rushed to finish. “Car crash! Perfectly normal, drunk driver car crash.” Marco swallowed roughly. “Then we moved here, to Trost, where I finished high school and eventually went to college.”
They were both silent, the grandfather clock in the living room tick, tick, ticking away the seconds.
“I swear, I’m telling you the truth, Jean.” Marco broke the silence first.
Jean was silent, still. He searched Marco’s eyes for any lie, any fabrication, any reason to put a bullet in his head – but there wasn’t any. His eyes were sincere, scared, terrified. Jean suddenly felt queasy, his hands growing clammy on the metal of his gun, shaken by how ready he is – was – to shoot his best friend.
“Okay,” Jean breathed eventually. “Say I believe you.” Marco brightened at this, so Jean added: “And that’s a real big if… how do I know you’re not lying?”
Marco wrung his hands. “I, uh… I could walk through the trap.”
Jean’s eye brows shot up.
“It’ll hurt like Hell, though,” Marco said, nails picking at nailbeds in front of his stomach, but when Jean didn’t protest, he dropped his hands to his sides in defeat.
Jean kept the gun trained on his friend (though his grip slacked), as he took a hesitant step forward, his face contorting in what could only be described as excruciating pain. It took a minute, and a lot of pained gasps and grunts, but eventually Marco was at the edge of the rug, a fine layer of sweat coating his features.
“See?” he said, his chest heaving.
Jean stared for a moment more, before lowering the gun, uncocking it as he slid it back into his pants. “You’re on thin ice, Bodt. You’d have a bullet in your brain if I wasn’t worried about the paint on the door.”
Marco smiled, a toothy grin, his shoulders relaxing as he nearly collapsed. “So, we’re good?”
“For now,” Jean said, leading him to the kitchen, a quiet “you’re lucky I like you so much,” ringing through the air.
Though, Jean kept an eye on Marco for the next few weeks, and Marco knew he was under scrutiny, but Jean couldn’t bring himself to hate the freckled boy, or even dislike him, a little bit.
He decided, after a month of watchful eyes and tense shoulders, he could comfortably call Marco his friend again.
Marco was – is – the most angelic demon he’d ever met, as ironic as that sounds.
Telling his mom his best friend was a demon, however, didn’t go as smoothly. It took her three months, multiple batches of homemade cookies (the first few thrown out after Marco had left), and dozens of visits for her to even consider leaving her second gun in its safe when he was around.
Jean knew she was on guard, might always be, but it’s been more than a year since then. But she accepted him, liked him. Even asked him to dinner a few times, all by herself.
And Jean couldn’t be happier.
***
“Jean?” Marco’s voice broke through Jean’s mind, beckoning him back to the present, the soft syllables pulling at his heart. Broken, defeated, and God, in so much pain. “What…?” His dazed confoundment was cut short with another kick to the ribs.
“Stop!” Jean yelled, his voice ripping through his throat, leaving it aching and raw. He wanted to run to Marco, his best friend, to save him. Give him his normal life back.
So, he did.
His legs were moving before his brain told them to – everything foggy, hazy, his only thought was Marco, saving Marco, getting Marco far away from her.
“Jean, don’t!” Marco shouted, one meek hand raised. “She’s a witch!”
Before the words could register, Jean was thrown against the wall, so violent it knocked the breath straight out of his lungs. He just barely heard the crack of the plaster, and his mom yelling over the trill in his ears.
“What did I say?” Cecelia said, not sparing a glance when Jean dropped to the floor, his head banging on the hardwood. “Don’t try anything stupid.”
“Cecelia,” Jean’s mom said, her voice trying to reason. “Why are you doing this?”
“Laura, I’ve been here a very long time.” She sounded almost… tired. “That’s the thing about witches – we don’t have normal lifespans. Do you know how long I’ve had to live, with the memory of my murdered family? How long I’ve had to think of their mangled bodies, torn to shreds and displayed lovingly in our house?” Cecelia stood in front of Mr. Bodt, fishing around in the chair, looking for something.
Jean watched Marco crawl toward his father – or, try to crawl toward his father. He only made it a few centimeters, clutching his side, before collapsing, out of breath, face contorted in pain.
Jean felt his own face contort – either from the pain of watching Marco, or the pain in his head, he wasn’t sure – but his blood boiled, burning hot and angry at the small whimpers that escaped Marco’s mouth with every breath out. He had to do something, to protect him somehow.
His gun had fallen from its place when he hit the wall, the heavy weight no longer a comfort on his back – it had been thrown to the corner of the room, out of reach (or, had been put there by one psycho witch).
But the cool steel of a blade itched against his leg, hidden by the fabric of his jeans, tickling his need to protect Marco and his family.
Cecelia seemed to find what she was looking for. “All because some demons,” she spat the word like rancid milk from her mouth, “decided it’d be fun to use my family as chew toys.” She stabbed the needle of a syringe into Mr. Bodt’s neck, filled with what Jean could only assume to be holy water, judging by the way he screamed.
Marco curled into himself, crushing his hands over his ears as his father cried out, writhed, and eventually went limp. His chest still heaved, though each breath he took more ragged than the last.
“You know,” Jean choked out, talking much more difficult when his head was swimming, a steady trickle of blood falling from his own nose. “I’d feel bad for you, if you weren’t such a psycho bitch.” He ran his fingers down his left pant leg, hidden from the way he had fallen, his hand finding the hilt wrapped in torn and stained cloth, the thing practically falling apart in his grip.
Cecelia scoffed. “Yet you’re the hunter whose best friend is a demon. Sounds like a lame joke.”
“Marco didn’t do anything.” Jean spat. “Neither did Daniel. Leave them alone.”
“Oh, sweetie,” Cecelia smiled. “There was a time you know you’d be on my side.”
Jean paled.
“Hunters are very… shoot first, maybe ask questions later. Simple creatures. If you didn’t know Marco, would you be trying so hard to protect him?”
He knew. He knew, he knew, he knew.
If he had invited Marco to his place just a week earlier – would he still be here? Would they be in this situation if Jean hadn’t found a friend in the freckled stranger that sat next to him?
If he had shot first, and asked his questions later?
But… Marco is different. He’s his best friend. He’s the guy that goes out of his way to feed the stray cats. The guy that plants wildflowers for the bees. The sweetest, most God damn beautiful person Jean knows – inside and out.
Jean stayed silent, but the storm inside him was raging. He saw red, and he wasn’t entirely sure if it was blood clouding his vision or not.
He had to reel himself in, control himself. He wouldn’t do any good if he fell off the deep end. He couldn’t protect Mr. Bodt, or his mom, or… or Marco if he lost control of his anger.
“You agree with me,” Cecelia said, assuming his silence to be defeat. “All demons are the same.”
“Go to Hell,” Jean grunted, ever the word smith.
More holy water in the syringe. Another shoot up. Daniel screamed again, blood curdling, before slumping in his chair. Marco cried, using one hand to cover his ears, to drown out the noise, crawling to the outer portion of the trap, his other hand shaking as he touched the bare hardwood flooring.
Cecelia turned her head to look at Marco, the movement no doubt catching her eye. She caught wind of him, her eyes zeroing in on his retreating form, nostrils flaring.
She went to speak, to curse, to yell – to turn her body to the beaten boy, realizing too late that she couldn’t see Jean anymore.
He took his chance, pulling his knife from its sheath, the blade cutting skin in his haste. And then he was on his feet, barreling towards the woman, an ungodly roar tearing through his throat. The anger he had tried to keep under lock and key boiled, bubbling over as he clipped her shoulder, the blade sinking into her flesh with a sickening squelch.
She screamed, the sound making every hair on Jean’s body stand on end. That feeling from earlier returned – primal. Her screams, the blind rage in her eyes, it reminded Jean all too much of a wounded and cornered animal, the knowledge that their short time was soon to be taken from them.
Jean pulled the knife from her shoulder, flecks of blood covering his face. He aimed at her gut next, but Cecelia was too quick, too desperate, and the blade was out of his hand with a frantic flick of her wrist. She pushed him against the wall, the plaster not cracking as ferociously as before. Her attention was elsewhere, at the pain in her shoulder, at her plan quickly falling apart at its seams.
She pawed at her wound, screaming again at the shockwave that coursed through her at the contact. Her eyes practically turned red (though, it wouldn’t surprise Jean if they actually did), and she whipped herself around, to Mr. Bodt, stalking toward him in a last ditch attempt to finish her twisted act of revenge.
But Jean couldn’t get himself to watch her, her manicured and bloody claws gripping his sallow face, muttering an incantation that he couldn’t even begin to understand. He watched Marco instead, his heart pounding in his chest as the boy pulled himself over the threshold, clambering to lay behind Jean’s mom, blood still trickling from his nose.
Then the gunshot rang through the air, deafening, reverberating off the window panes and vibrating through Jean’s bones. He fell to the floor – again – ungraceful and hard, as Cecelia fell to her knees, her hold on him, and Mr. Bodt, disappearing as she bled out.
“I told you to get away from my boy,” Laura said, her voice hard, unfeeling, jaw tight.
Everything was still, and quiet (save for Daniel’s labored breathing), as the blood poured from her chest.
Laura walked over Cecelia, her breaths ragged, few and far between, maybe giving her corpse a good kick as she rushed to untie Daniel, his weight falling into her arms.
Jean was closer to his gun now, clinging desperately to the thing when it was safely back in his hands.
It’s over, he thought, maybe a little too soon. His heart jumped into his throat when Cecelia moved, her claws gripping at his moms ankles, scream after scream tearing through her chest. He watched his mother kick at her, shell shocked, and he watched Cecelia’s hair curl around her head, an artificial and unnatural gust of wind scattering the mess of paper around them.
“Jean – !”
He didn’t let his mom finish her thought, her voice hanging in the air, before Jean was on his feet (albeit a little woozy), aiming at the back of the brunette’s head. A shot, and she was down again, the hands around his mom’s feet loosening as all life left them.
And then Jean scrambled to Marco, where he lay curled in a ball, his body racking with each sob that tore through his beaten chest. “Hey,” he said, pulling the shaking boy into his arms. “You’re okay, you’re okay,” he pressed kisses into the top of Marco’s hair, like his mom would once do to him. “I’m here, you’re safe.”
Marco clung to Jean’s shirt, seemingly trying to melt into the paler boys form, growing paler still at each passing second, the gravity of what the hell just happened sinking into his gut. Jean tried to quell the shaking that ripped through Marco’s body, but found that too difficult, when he couldn’t stop the tremors in his own arms, snaking their way through his torso and clawing at his heart.
The panicked thought of I’m never leaving Marco alone again ran through his mind one too many times.
“D… Dad,” Marco spoke then, gulping down heaves and sobs, his eyes trained on the limp body of his father as Laura brought him safely over the threshold.
The four were silent – mostly silent – until Jean nudged Marco into a sitting position. “Come on,” he said, both to the boy in his arms and his mom. “We’re burning this place down.”