Center City Philadelphia woke up the same way it always did; slowly, expensively, and with a latte in hand.
Morning light cut between the high-rises on Market Street, catching the chrome of a passing SEPTA bus and the silver flip phone a woman snapped shut as she jaywalked toward Reading Terminal. A man in a puffy North Face vest talked too loud into his Blackberry about quarterly projections. Two university students sat on a bench comparing their new iPods, white earbuds dangling like status symbols. A billboard for Spider-Man loomed over the intersection, Tobey Maguire's masked face watching the commuters shuffle beneath him.
It was 2002, and Center City was clean.
Not clean like "someone swept the streets" clean. Clean like money. Clean like the kind of neighborhood where people still called the cops when they saw something suspicious, because the cops actually showed up. Clean like fresh mulch in the tree planters and not a single piece of trash in the gutter and every single person walking to a job that offered dental.
Two men stood by a newspaper stand on the corner of 12th and Chestnut, coffees in hand, the Philadelphia Inquirer spread open between them. The headline read: NORTH PHILLY DEMON ATTACK CLAIMS 9 — DCB RESPONDS.
"Nine people," the first man said. He wore a tie and the expression of someone who'd never been north of Girard Avenue. "Jesus."
"At least the DCB got there." The second man shook his head, turning the page. "Took 'em, what, four hours? That's fast for up there."
"Says here it spawned near some old recycling plant. Third one this month from that area."
"Well, yeah." The second man sipped his coffee. "You know how those people live. The garbage, the drugs. Surprised it doesn't happen more often, honestly."
"True."
"My brother-in-law works in insurance, he says property values actually go up after a demon clears out a block. People finally move, developers come in..." He shrugged. "Silver lining, I guess."
"City should just let 'em run out the clock up there. Save the DCB the trouble."
They shared a laugh.
A blur of motion cut between them; sneakers slapping pavement, a hand shooting out, quarters scattering across the newspaper stand's counter like shrapnel.
"Thanks, chief."
The kid was already five steps past them by the time they registered what happened, a stolen Inquirer tucked under his arm as he half-jogged down the sidewalk.
"Hey! Hey!"
The kid turned, walking backward now, and spread his arms wide. He was maybe eighteen, nineteen, with a messy, brown haircut and a hoodie that had seen better days. His jeans were ripped at the knee; not fashion-ripped, just ripped.
"What?"
"You can't just—that's not how you—"
"Eat a dick, dude!"
He spun back around and kept moving, not running anymore, just walking with the specific energy of someone who had places to be and absolutely no respect for anyone else's schedule.
The two men stared after him.
"North Philly," the first one muttered, like that explained everything.
Jax flipped through the paper as he walked, pages snapping in the morning air. He blew past the front section; demon attack, demon attack, mayor says something useless, Sixers lost again, and went straight for the back.
CLASSIFIEDS.
He'd done this enough times that his eyes knew exactly where to go. Past the used car listings. Past the "WORK FROM HOME, MAKE $$$" scams. Past the personal ads, which he did glance at, because sometimes they were funny.
There.
DEMONIC ACTIVITY REQUESTS — LICENSED CONTRACTORS ONLY
He snorted at that. Licensed. Sure.
His eyes scanned down the list, mouth moving slightly as he read:
Class F manifestation, Fishtown area. Residential basement. $8. Contact D. Moyer, 555-0142.
Eight dollars to crawl into some yuppie's basement. Pass.
Possible Class D, South Philly. Commercial property (restaurant). $15, but contractor must provide own equipment and sign liability waiver.
Fifteen bucks, bring your own gear, and if you die it's your fault. Pass.
Class E swarm, Kensington. Abandoned row home. $6 per entity, max 10.
Jax did the math. Sixty bucks, maybe, if he killed all ten. But Kensington swarms were nasty, little skittering things that got into your clothes and bit chunks out of you while their friends distracted you. Last time he'd done a swarm job, he'd spent twenty bucks on bandages and Bactine afterward. Pass.
Class F, West Philadelphia. Residential. Base pay $12. "It's in my son's room and he can't sleep." Contact Mrs. Patterson, 555-0177.
Jax stopped walking.
West Philly. Residential. Class F; that meant small, probably fresh, definitely manageable. Twelve bucks base, and "my son can't sleep" meant the lady was desperate, which meant she'd probably tip if he showed up fast and didn't track mud on her carpet.
He looked up, scanning the street until he spotted the payphone on the corner. Some guy in a suit was leaning against it, talking and laughing, twirling the metal cord around his finger like he had all the time in the world.
Jax walked over and stood about two feet away, staring.
The suit glanced at him. Kept talking.
Jax took one step closer.
"...yeah, no, I told him that, I said—" The suit put his hand over the receiver. "Do you mind?"
"You got about thirty seconds before I start making this real awkward for you."
"Excuse me?"
Jax leaned in and started making a sound. Not a word. Just a sound. A sustained, low, droning hum that got progressively louder and more annoying, like a mosquito the size of a dog.
"What the—dude."
The hum got louder. Jax's face remained completely neutral. Just a man making a terrible noise two inches from a stranger's ear.
"I'll call you back." The suit slammed the phone down and pushed past Jax, muttering something about fucking animals as he stormed off.
Jax picked up the receiver, still warm, and dialed.
It rang twice.
"Hello?" A woman's voice. Tired.
"Yeah, hi. I'm calling about the demonic activity listing. The one in West Philly. Class F, kid's bedroom."
"Oh, thank God. Can you come today? He hasn't slept in three days, and I can't—I work nights, I can't keep—"
"I can be there in an hour. Maybe forty-five if the bus doesn't suck."
"Oh, thank you. Thank you."
"One thing, though." Jax leaned against the payphone, watching a woman across the street yell at her kids to hurry up. "Twelve bucks is the base. I'm gonna need a tip on top of that. Figure out what that looks like before I get there."
Silence on the other end.
"Ma'am?"
"I... yes. Okay. Yes, I can do that."
"Cool. What's the address?"
She gave it to him. He didn't write it down; he couldn't afford a pen, and he'd remember it anyway.
"Forty-five minutes," he said, and hung up.
The 34 trolley to West Philly was half-empty, which was a miracle. Jax found a seat near the back, slumping against the window as the city scrolled past outside.
He pulled the crumpled bills from his pocket and started counting.
Yesterday had been good. Seven demons, seven kills. Two Class Fs in Germantown—twelve bucks each. One Class E in Strawberry Mansion that turned out to be a Class D, which meant more work but also more money—eighteen for that one. Four more Class Fs scattered across North Philly, ten bucks each because the listings were all from the same slumlord who owned half the block and was too cheap to pay full price.
Seventy-two dollars.
Then he'd gotten a cheesesteak from Jim's, because he'd earned it, and also because he'd only eaten a gas station hot dog in the last two days and his body was starting to make concerning sounds.
Ten bucks for the cheesesteak. He could've gotten something cheaper, but he'd told himself he deserved it, which was a dangerous thought to have when you were four months behind on rent.
Sixty-two dollars.
He folded the bills carefully and shoved them back in his pocket.
Four months. Four months he'd owed Mrs. Reyes, and every time he saw her in the hallway, she gave him the same look; not angry, which would've been easier. Just tired. Disappointed. The look that said I know you're trying, mijo, but trying doesn't pay my mortgage.
Rent was three-fifty a month. He owed fourteen hundred dollars. At this rate, he'd have it paid off by... he did the math in his head... never. He'd have it paid off never.
But sixty-two plus whatever Mrs. Patterson tipped him was a start. Maybe if he took a few more jobs this week. Maybe if one of them turned out to be misclassified like that Class D yesterday. Maybe if he stopped eating entirely, which was starting to feel like a realistic option.
The trolley rattled over the bridge and into West Philly, the skyline shrinking in the window behind him.
Jax closed his eyes.
Forty-five minutes. Kill a demon. Get paid. Do it again tomorrow.
This was the life.
The Patterson house was a narrow rowhouse on a block that couldn't decide if it was coming up or going down. Two doors had fresh paint. One had plywood over the windows. The sidewalk was cracked but swept, and someone had planted marigolds in a coffee can by the steps.
Jax checked the address against his memory, then climbed the steps and knocked.
While he waited, he cupped a hand over his mouth and exhaled.
Jesus Christ.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd brushed his teeth. Tuesday? Last Tuesday? Did he even own a toothbrush anymore, or had he pawned it? Could you pawn a toothbrush? Probably not. So where the hell was it?
No answer.
He looked around while he waited. West Philly was nicer than North Philly, which wasn't saying much, a dumpster fire was nicer than North Philly, but you could see it in the little things. Fewer boarded windows. More cars that actually ran. The trash on the street was regular trash, the kind that blew out of cans on garbage day, not the kind that accumulated in drifts against chain-link fences.
Down by the corner, a pile of junk sat waiting for pickup. Old CRT monitors with cracked screens. A keyboard with half the keys missing. Tangled cables spilling out of a split garbage bag like electronic intestines. The usual post-dot-com detritus that showed up everywhere outside Center City these days. Companies went under, dumped their shit wherever was cheapest, and the neighborhoods got to deal with it.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
Jax knocked again, harder this time.
"Yo! Mrs. Patterson! It's your demon guy!"
Nothing.
He banged on the door with the side of his fist, the hollow wood rattling in its frame.
"Lady, I took two buses to get here! If you changed your mind, you could've at least called the—"
He stopped.
A sound from inside. Short. High-pitched. Cut off almost as soon as it started.
Then a wet sound. Like someone stepping on a ripe tomato.
Jax's hand was already moving, reaching down to his ankle where his jeans bunched over his sneakers. The serrated knife slid out of the sheath he'd duct-taped to his calf three years ago. Six inches of ugly steel that he'd sharpened so many times the blade was starting to curve.
He tried the doorknob. Unlocked. Of course it was unlocked.
The door swung open without a sound, which was somehow worse than if it had creaked. Jax stepped inside, knife up, eyes adjusting to the dim interior.
The smell hit him first. Copper and something else. Something burnt, like melted plastic and ozone.
The living room was small and neat; doilies on the armrests, school photos on the wall, a Bible on the coffee table. Normal. Painfully normal.
Except for the hallway.
The hallway was red.
Jax moved toward it, keeping his back to the wall, knife leading. His sneakers stuck to the hardwood with each step, making soft sucking sounds. He tried not to look down. He looked down anyway.
He'd seen bodies before. You didn't do this job without seeing bodies. But there was a difference between "dead" and whatever this was.
Mrs. Patterson was against the wall, or what was left of her was. It looked like something had grabbed her by the ribcage and just... pulled. Her son, couldn't have been more than eight or nine, was a few feet away. Jax made himself stop cataloging the details. It didn't matter. They were gone, and they'd been gone before he'd even stepped off the trolley.
A Class F didn't do this. A Class F was a nuisance, like a big rat with anger issues. This was something else.
A sound from the end of the hallway. The kid's bedroom. The door was open.
Jax should have left. Should have backed out the front door, found a payphone, called the DCB, and let the professionals handle whatever the hell was in there. That was the smart play. That was the survival play.
But professionals meant paperwork, and paperwork meant questions, and questions meant explaining why an unlicensed contractor was at a job site with two dead bodies.
And more importantly, that thing had just cost him twelve dollars plus tip.
Jax stepped into the doorway.
The thing in the bedroom turned to look at him.
It had been a Class F once, maybe. You could still see the basic shape; vaguely humanoid, about three feet tall, the proportions all wrong in the way demon proportions always were. But something had happened to it. Something had made it more.
Its body was a patchwork of flesh and electronics, like someone had tried to build a creature out of a recycling bin. Circuit boards jutted from its shoulders like pauldrons. Copper wire wound through its muscles, visible through splits in its skin that glowed faintly orange. Its head was half-skull, half-CRT monitor, the cracked glass screen flickering with static that almost looked like a face.
One of its arms ended in a hand. The other ended in something that looked like it used to be a printer, all gears and metal teeth, slick with red.
The static on its face shifted. Rearranged. For a split second, it almost looked like it was smiling.
"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?" Jax's voice cracked on the last word. "I CAME ALL THE WAY OUT HERE! TWO BUSES! DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH THAT COST?"
The demon tilted its head, the static on its face rippling with what might have been confusion.
"THREE DOLLARS! THREE DOLLARS I'M NOT GETTING BACK BECAUSE YOU COULDN'T WAIT TWENTY MINUTES FOR ME TO GET HERE AND KILL YOU PROPERLY!"
The demon lunged.
It was fast, faster than a Class F should be, faster than anything with that much metal grafted to its body should be, but Jax had been doing this since he was seventeen, and his body knew the drill even when his brain was still processing.
He sidestepped, felt the printer-arm whistle past his face close enough to ruffle his hair, and brought the knife up in a tight arc that caught the thing under what passed for its jaw. The blade bit deep, snagging on wire and gristle, and Jax twisted hard before yanking it free.
The demon stumbled. Sparked. Made a sound like a dial-up modem having a stroke.
Jax didn't give it time to recover. He kicked it in the chest, felt something crack under his heel, didn't care what, and rode it down to the floor, stabbing as he went. Once in the neck. Once in the eye socket, if you could call it that. Once more in the chest for good measure, the blade punching through circuit board and rib alike.
The thing twitched. The static on its face dissolved into snow, then went dark.
Jax stayed on top of it for a long moment, breathing hard, knife still buried in its chest.
"Asshole," he said finally.
He pulled the knife free, wiped it on the demon's flesh—the organic parts, not the electronic parts, because he'd learned that lesson the hard way—and stood up.
The bedroom was a kid's bedroom. Posters on the wall; Spider-Man again, and something that might have been Yu-Gi-Oh. A twin bed with Transformers sheets, now spattered with things that didn't bear thinking about. A desk with homework on it, half-finished.
Jax made himself not look at the homework. Made himself not wonder what subject it was, whether the kid had been struggling with it, whether his mom had been helping him.
He walked back down the hallway, stepping over Mrs. Patterson without looking, and found the phone in the kitchen. Rotary dial, green, probably older than he was. He picked it up and dialed 911.
"911, what's your emergency?"
"Yeah, I need to report a demon attack. Two dead. The thing's already down." He gave the address. "I'd stick around but I got somewhere to be."
"Sir, we need you to stay on the—"
He hung up.
The bus stop was half a block away, and Jax made it there just as the 34 was pulling up. He could see the cop car coming from the other direction, lights on, no siren yet. Probably thought they had time.
The bus doors opened. Jax climbed on.
"Hey!" A cop was getting out of the car, hand raised. "Hey, hold up! We need to talk to you!"
Jax looked at the cop. Looked at the bus driver. Looked back at the cop.
"Yeah, that's not happening," he said, and dropped his fare into the box. The coins rattled against the metal, his last dollar fifty, the absolute dregs of his pocket, the difference between riding home and walking three hours.
The cop was jogging toward the bus now. "Sir! Sir, I need you to step off the—"
"Close the door," Jax told the driver.
The driver, a heavyset Black woman with reading glasses pushed up on her forehead, gave him a long look. Then she glanced at the cop. Then back at Jax. She took in the blood on his hoodie, the knife-shaped bulge at his ankle, the general aura of "not someone who's having a good day."
"You kill somebody?" she asked.
"Just a demon."
She nodded once and pulled the lever. The doors hissed shut just as the cop reached them, his palm slapping against the glass. The bus lurched forward, and Jax grabbed a pole to keep from stumbling, watching through the window as the cop got smaller and smaller behind them.
"Thanks," he said.
"Uh-huh." The driver didn't look at him. "Sit down. You're dripping on my floor."
Jax found a seat near the back. The other passengers; a tired-looking woman with grocery bags, an old man with a newspaper, two teenagers sharing headphones, very deliberately did not look at him.
He pulled out the Inquirer, now crumpled and spotted with something he didn't want to identify, and flipped to the classifieds again.
His eyes scanned the listings. The ones he'd skipped earlier. The ones he hadn't wanted to take.
Class F manifestation, Fishtown area. Residential basement. $8.
Gone. Someone else had probably snagged it while he was on the trolley.
Possible Class D, South Philly. Commercial property (restaurant). $15.
Those jobs went fast. If it was still available two hours ago, it sure as hell wasn't available now.
Class E swarm, Kensington.
Nobody wanted swarm jobs. That one was probably still open. But he'd already spent his last bus fare, which meant walking to Kensington, which meant an hour and a half on foot, which meant the swarm would have moved or multiplied by the time he got there.
He let the paper drop into his lap.
No tip. No base pay. Minus three dollars for the bus. Minus one-fifty for the ride home.
Net loss: four dollars and fifty cents, plus the cost of a woman and her kid, plus whatever the hell that upgraded demon meant for the neighborhood.
Mrs. Reyes was going to be thrilled.
Jax leaned his head against the window, watching West Philly blur past. The e-waste pile on the corner was still there, waiting for a pickup that probably wouldn't come for another week. He could see it clearly now; the old monitors, the keyboards, the tangle of cables. And at the center of the pile, something that might have been a server rack, its guts spilling out onto the sidewalk.
His reflection in the window looked like shit. Bloodstained, exhausted, and completely broke.
"Home it is," he muttered to no one.
The bus rattled on.