As the gathering came to a close, the villagers poured out into the bleak, cold streets, covering themselves as best they could and scurrying toward their homes. Some stayed, crowding around the bar to continue drinking—maybe to wash away their worries or, more likely, out of simple habit.
Azazel stood next to the crackling fireplace, enjoying the pleasantly relaxing warmth. He threw a glance Hellion's way and noticed she was still dealing with the innkeeper over at the bar. He puzzled over why—until the portly man crouched slightly and pulled out a pair of rustic keys from below the counter. Azazel's gaze shifted to the doctor, who was just finishing up helping put the tables in order.
Sebastian noticed him and nodded, offering a polite smile as he pushed the last chair into place. The demon nodded back deeply and noticed him approaching.
"Good evening, Azazel. You are enjoying what's left of the evening, I see?"
The demon regarded him with curiosity.
"Good evening, Master Miller. I am. We don't often have a roof over our heads at night, and it adds a pleasant variety to our travels when we do," he replied warmly.
The doctor smiled and slowly shook his head. "Your eloquence keeps surprising me. By my life, I realize I might not meet another like you in my lifetime!"
Sebastian crossed his arms and looked at the demon with amazement. "How did you ever learn to speak our language so fluently?"
Azazel beamed from the compliment and replied with childlike enthusiasm. "Well, my sis... err..." He caught himself mid-sentence and looked at the doctor with surprise before his eyes and smile dropped. He continued in a more solemn tone. "My... Master taught me."
The doctor noticed Azazel's gaze drift toward the flames, watching them dance in the fireplace.
"Well, she's done a marvelous job then."
The demon smiled uneasily. Sebastian felt the shift in his companion's spirits, sighed, and tried to continue the discussion anyway.
"I'm sorry to bother you, but in regards to your master..." He drew the statement out, regaining Azazel's full attention.
Hellion took the keys from the bar and started up the stairs. Halfway up, she paused, turning to hand Azazel one—only to realize he wasn't behind her. She spotted him by the fireplace, conversing with the doctor. Raising an eyebrow, she let out a quiet "Hmm" and continued upward.
"Your master seems like a good, sensible person with a big heart—although she appears a bit misguided in this instance. You should try to reason with her," Sebastian explained.
"Reason with her on what?" inquired Azazel.
"On both of you just forgetting this bloody deal and moving on."
He sounded serious but earnest. "If your goal is mainly monetary benefit, I can... compensate you for the help you've already offered. Not with such... abundance as what you negotiated for, but you won't leave empty-handed."
He looked at Azazel with hopeful eyes. The demon did not answer, looking away, lost in thought. A conflict was clearly brewing in his mind.
The doctor took the poker next to the fireplace and moved around some of the firewood, trying to prolong the now-dying fire.
"You do recall the boisterous youth with whom you had a scuffle today?" he asked, but did not wait for an answer. "He is the sergeant's youngest son. His only son now, that is."
He poked around some more, then left the tool in its place and wiped his hands against one another before turning to face Azazel.
"You seem like a good... person, as does your master. Please, make her see reason."
The demon's mouth was slightly agape as he mulled over the doctor's plea.
"I will... try," Azazel replied.
* * *
There was a knock on the door.
Hellion stood up from the windowsill, where she had been sitting next to the open window, enjoying the quiet, cold night contrasted by the coziness of her room. She walked over and opened the door, behind which stood Azazel. She motioned for him to come in.
The inn's rooms were small, rustically decorated like the rest of the building, but unlike most of the inn, the rooms smelled faintly—yet pleasantly—of sap. A small bed stood in the middle of the room, between the door and the window, with a wooden nightstand to keep it company.
Hellion crossed the room to where she had hung her hat, coat, pistols, and the rest of her arsenal, rummaging through her coat pockets. She took out a small, leather-bound notebook and a key, which she passed to Azazel, then went back to sit on the windowsill.
"Your room's next door," Hellion said, unwinding the leather strap on her notebook. "So what did the good doctor have to say?" she asked as she took out a pencil and started flipping through its pages.
"He shared something of note about the loud, aggressive gentleman who kept accosting us—called 'Sergeant.' Although some did name him August as well..." He pondered the thought.
Hellion cracked a smile. "Because it's a military rank, Azazel," she added.
"Really? Which one?" he asked, intrigued.
The question caught her off guard. "What? Sergeant, of course! Didn't I—?"
He shook his head.
She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Right... we'll get on that," she mumbled quietly. "Never mind—what's the thing of note?"
"The... boisterous youth from earlier is that gentleman's only living son."
Hellion's eyes widened, though her expression held little surprise. "Yeah. It was fairly obvious at one point, I suppose..." She looked out into the inky-black night. "Anything else?"
"The doctor..." Azazel paused, and his gaze dropped to the rough-hewn floorboards. "Master? What is it you have planned for us to do?"
The faint scratching of pencil against paper stopped. She looked at him as if she'd been waiting for that exact question this whole time.
"Well, when I said 'I wouldn't need both of my guns,' I was only being half-truthful. I'm planning on us not needing guns at all!" she said with a confident smile. "We just need most of the coin beforehand. Of which we'll see little, actually—but hey, everyone walks away with something."
"But why do it at all? Do we really need the coin?" asked the demon unexpectedly.
The girl threw him a puzzled look. "Azazel, when have we not needed—" she started.
"The doctor offered a smaller sum if we would just leave tomorrow," he interrupted.
Hellion sat looking confounded for a moment, then furrowed her brow. "Not happening." She turned in a fit and went back to her notebook.
"But, Master, we wouldn't be leaving empty-handed! Wasn't this just a brief stop on our way to Altesburg?"
She continued flipping pages in frustration.
"We can just get some supplies and be off in the morning?"
He waited for her to respond, but her eyes stayed fixed on the notebook.
"This endeavor doesn't make sense, Master. We shouldn't risk—"
"Did I ask for your opinion?" Her voice turned sharp.
The words struck Azazel, leaving him stunned.
"I didn't ask you to follow me around everywhere either, so you're free to finally leave me alone if that makes more sense to you then," Hellion remarked in cold anger.
The demon looked on in a stupor, visibly crestfallen.
"I... a-apologies, Master, I meant that..." he tried to say, his words trailing off.
"You can show yourself out," she abruptly cut him off and resumed her writing.
Azazel sat for a moment, frozen in place, her words hanging in the air like a blow.
He bowed slightly and turned to walk out of the room.
As the door closed, Hellion stood motionless, pencil in hand, stopped at a written word half-finished. Only the sound of her heavy breathing passed through the incessant drumming in her ears, which was getting increasingly louder. Her hand trembled as she snapped the notebook shut and hurled it at the wall with a sharp crack that echoed into the neighboring room.
She put her feet on the windowsill and curled up against the open window frame, the cold night air biting against her skin, as she peered out into the darkness, her eyes filled with aching regret.
The notebook sat silently on the floor, an old picture of a man poking out from between its pages.
* * *
Under the dark, moonless sky, the sergeant drunkenly staggered back to his home, guided either by luck or habit. He shoved the door open and slammed it shut behind him, leaning his weight against it from the effort. The air inside was thick with mold and stale alcohol—though his dulled senses barely registered it.
He stumbled toward the small kitchen, moving as if pulled by unseen hands. Reaching the table with a thud, he fumbled for the lantern he'd left there last time. His fingers found it, and with a flick, its small flame flared back to life inside its dusty glass prison.
August kicked aside some old bottles littering the floor, making his way toward the rickety shelf where he kept his liquor. He grabbed one, swished it around, and, finding it empty, tossed it aside with a dull clatter. The next had a pleasing heft. The cork popped free. He sniffed, grunted in approval, and turned back toward the table.
Two glasses sat there, unwashed, stained with yesterday's drink. He poured into both and slid one across to the empty seat before sinking into his own.
For a moment, he sat in silence, his mouth twisting involuntarily, his watery eyes locked on a soldier's jacket draped over a chair. It was much like his own but smaller by a bit—deep, dark blue, clean and pristine, save for a single hole where the heart would be.
He raised his glass toward it and knocked the drink back in one go. The glass clattered onto the table.
A tear struck the wood. Then another. He scratched at the damp spot absent-mindedly with the rim of his glass.
"I had a comrade,
A better one you'll never find,
In step, in step, we stride,
A bullet flew toward us,
And tore him from my side…"
His low, hoarse song wavered, swallowed by the quiet sobs that followed. The dim, flickering lantern fluttered gently in the dark stillness of the room.