"You done moanin' or do I have to flip you over again?"
The room stank of sweat, cheap perfume, and last night's piss. A wooden bed creaked under his hips, the woman beneath him grunting in rhythm but staring blankly at the cracked ceiling. Her fingers clutched the sheet as though she cared, but he knew she didn't. Neither did he.
Darius Drake grunted once more, drove in deep, and finished like a man emptying a tankard of spoiled ale. No tenderness. No kiss. No words. He pulled out, wiped himself with the same cloth she'd use to clean the floor, and sat on the edge of the bed, lighting the stub of a pipe.
The door burst open with the confidence of someone who paid the owner more than he should. A bloated man waddled in, his gut stretching his wine-stained tunic. He held a goblet in one hand, the other scratching his chest like he was trying to dig treasure from under his rolls.
"Knights are here," the fat man said, slurring through purple-stained teeth. "They're waitin' for ya downstairs."
"I'm busy," Darius muttered, not turning around.
"They're from the High Church," the man added, sipping noisily.
That made him pause. He let out a slow sigh, stood, and pushed the woman aside like she was just another pillow in a whorehouse. She rolled over without a word. Darius reached for his trousers, pulling them on without bothering to lace them fully, then fastened the belt that held his worn, stained coat together. His sword leaned against the wall like a tired old dog. He strapped it on.
Outside, the brothel reeked of incense trying and failing to cover the stench of flesh. A knight waited near the door, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, nose wrinkled at the smell. His armor bore the golden seal of the High Church—a sun pierced by a single sword.
"Well, if it isn't the bastard of crows," the knight said. "Still stinking of sin, I see."
Darius exhaled smoke from his pipe, stepping out into the cold air. "If you waited five more minutes, I'd have finished wiping."
Another knight snorted behind him. "They say your blood's more demon than man, Drake. That true, or just brothel talk?"
Darius ignored it. He pulled on his gloves, cracked his neck, and started walking. "If you've come to preach, there's a dozen temples with empty pews. Go kneel somewhere else."
The lead knight stepped in front of him. "You going to work, or you planning to fuck your way through the damned city?"
Darius stopped, stared him dead in the eye. "If I wanted preaching, I'd have let the priest inside me instead of a whore." He took a final drag of his pipe and flicked the ash at the knight's feet. "You want that demon gone? Then wait in the dark. I'll find it."
The knight sneered. "You'd better. The High Church is losing patience."
"So am I," Darius said. He turned and walked toward the end of the alley, his shadow stretching like a blade behind him.
The younger knight leaned toward the older one and whispered, "Why him?"
"Because," the lead muttered, "no one else walks where demons do."
And Darius Drake, half-man, half-curse, vanished into the fog.