Delphine Inland

Archdevil fixes his tie. A grimace at the smell of sulfur, a nervous gesture. An olfactory hallucination due to his condition. Everything smells like sulfur. He moves the tuft from his eye, looks out the window, and adjusts the fur collar of his coat. He fidgets in his seat. He hates trains. He hates the gendarmerie. He hates this train full of gendarmes.

Above all, Archdevil hates witches. That Witch in particular.

He digs his claws into the arm of the loveseat. He clicks his tongue as loudly as he can. No way. Delphine does not turn to look at him. Some gendarme in the white suit and the golden tie turns to give him a dirty look. Not Delphine. Not her owner.

Owner.

That word troubles him. Years have passed. It was a choice of necessity. Yet, even today, Archdevil regrets that choice.

It would have been better to die like a beggar. At least she made me sick, you damn Witch of Infection.

Delphine turns her head from the window, resting her cute face on the palm of her hand on the armrest. She changes the pose of her legs, crossing them and revealing her underwear through the slit in her red skirt and her dark semi-transparent stockings. She stares in Archdevil's direction, taking his breath away.

Calm, she can't read my mind.

Thoughts of hate, but also love. Thoughts that Archdevil knows and represses badly. He unbuttons a button on his vest, looking away. Some witches can read thoughts. Not all at the same level, but equally threatening.

Witch Judges and doctors specialized in the mind. Low-grade witches. Delphine is part of the elite. She does not read minds. She does not need them.

Looking up, Archdevil notices that Delphine is still staring at him. His nervousness makes him smile grimly. He also crosses his legs. He bites his thumb claw. A vulgar gesture with which he hopes to offend his mistress's eyes.

She smiles, blinks those green eyes, and shakes her head.

“Are you cold?”

Delphine's voice is candid. Archdevil contorts his face into a disgusted grimace. He would like to insult her back. She stole his freedom, his life. Mock of fate, now it is up to him to find a cure to save her. But no, that is not enough. No. She also has to humiliate him like this.

Like if she does not know. Possessed people are cold. They always have the cold of the cosmos inside them.

Archdevil raises a hand to his face, chuckling nervously. He has to answer seriously. It is part of the contract. He is forced, even if it is a useless cruelty, said only to make fun of him.

“No, Your Holiness.”

“I imagined you different.” Delphine looks at him impassively, changing the crossing of her legs.

The servant's eye falls fleetingly, only immediately returning to her chest between the neck and breasts, where the aegis of the Delphine family is. Dolphin-dragon.

“If I may ask. What do you mean, Your Holiness?”

“Nothing. I was just wondering why. Many witches choose trustworthy people. I chose a nervous guy like you.”

“The contract makes me more trustworthy than anyone, Your Holiness.” Archdevil gnashes his black fangs.

“I read that hatred and gratitude are the two elements with which to sign a contract. Why choose hate?”

“Tell me, Your Holiness.”

“Because so I can get rid of you without feeling guilty? It's obvious if I think in terms of the Third Witch. Yep, that's what Delphine thought.”

The Witch looks out the window again. The noise of the train is the only one that hovers in the room.

Archdevil does not understand what Delphine means. There is something strange about her. Is this the reason why she summoned him?

A quick look at the gendarmes present in the wagon. Your Holiness's escort. He dressed in black, the Witch in red, and this crowd of puppets in white. There is something funny about it all, but he cannot say what.

Archdevil lets out a nervous laugh, which turns into a short growl. He bows his head, looking catatonic at the toes in his mistress's sandals.

The private track connects to Ampra station. The train slows down and whistles.

Archdevil is no longer used to it. The smell of smog enters from the open window, overlapping the sulfur background, annoying him. The noise of busy people outside the wagon, masses visible from the windows getting on and off the trains, disturbs him. What is he doing there?

With his long index finger, he caresses the butt of the revolver. He could extract it and threaten the Witch with shooting a gendarme to get him brought back.

Archdevil sneers at the idea and observes the five clean and perfumed guards. It would be useless. The Witch would tell him: ‘Go ahead,’ she is a Witch after all.

With a final screech, the train stops for good.

The gendarmes are about to go to the doors. Delphine also stands up, and Archdevil follows her.

The chaos beneath Ampra's covered station is such that Archdevil feels dizzy. Unhealthy air is even worse. Now accustomed to country life as the placid protector of the palace, all this noise does nothing but alienate and stress him out.

Adjusting the tuft that falls over his eye, Archdevil passes the Witch and the gendarmes.

“Archdevil Shield, stop. Stop, I said!”

The voice of Grullo, head of the gendarmerie, reaches Archdevil. However, the hubbub is enough to justify an ‘oversight,’ and Archdevil insinuates himself into the crowd, pretending not to hear.

Weaving among the mass of white-collar workers and workers in work clothes, sniffing the aromas and stinks of the people, Archdevil reaches the large entrance hall of the station.

Pointed arches and pointed windows fill the room. The stained glass windows depict historical deeds such as the drafting of the constitution, the birth of the witches' parliament, and the fall of the last warlords.

Archdevil glances at the windows, the columns carved with gargoyles, the tables with train timetables, and the astronomical clock that acts as a front rose window. It is not that I do not appreciate it, but it is all too sumptuous, rich, empty.

The people around him are part of the lower-middle social estates, people who mean nothing to witches. That is not true. It matters. Those people are livestock, a labor force to squeeze.

And that's fine with them anyway.

Immersed in those thoughts, stunned by that carnival, Archdevil goes out onto the external steps of the station. The crowd has thinned out a little, and large gray houses with sloping roofs welcome the restless monster.

From now on, I go solo.

Navigating the city of Ampra is not hard. The paved streets, intersected with cobblestone or dirt roads, have not changed much in the last five years.

Archdevil recognizes some shops, the scent of bakers' bread in the early morning. The train ride took an hour, leaving just after dawn. The sky is still cloudy, and the reflection of the low sun has dyed everything orange.

The alchemical shop he must reach is beyond the town hall square, where the dolphin-dragon fountain, a symbol of the power of the Witch of Infection, is located.

Her city, after all.

Noting that people around are busy with carts, shops, and passing by, Archdevil decides to spit loudly into the fountain.

He knows that doing so is a stunt, a senseless stupidity.

Let some authority try to tell me something.

Pleased with that bit of rebellion granted to an object like him, Archdevil moves away from the square.

“Hey, Witch!”

Some voices catch his attention.

“Take this!”

“No, stop it! Ha!”

They are children's voices.

“Let's beat her to death! She is a Witch.”

Good kids. Learn from an early age.

“I'm not a Witch! Ha!”

“Take that big rock!”, “No, I have a knife!”, “Yes, yes!”

He is unsure how, but Archdevil starts to feel a knot in his stomach. He looks around, but no one seems to care about those voices. They come from a side alley, isolated and overshadowed by an arch.

No one passes by, but Archdevil sees four boys and a little girl on the ground. They are holding a board with nails, a large stone, a knife, and a chipped bottle. The girl is bent on the ground, with her forearm in a bandage, and she is holding her knee. A red stain runs from her calf to the ground.

They are dirty and rather drained-looking.

Factory kids. That's not a Witch at all. They should know.

Walking briskly, Archdevil reaches the alley.

“Hey, brats, what are you doing?”

Children do not realize who the man is. Maybe they do not even know how dangerous an Archdevil is, assuming they have enough education to understand what Archdevil means.

Archdevil himself, looking back now, remembers that he did not know. He discovered when the Third Witch got it, she cheated him.

The children stare at him, unsure what to do.

“Brats, did I ask you what you are doing?”

A child with a hideous scar, disfiguring his face from lip to ear, points to the curly-haired little girl huddled against the wall.

“Let's kill a Witch,” he says indifferently.

“Are you stupid or what? Does she look like a witch to you? Witches always display the emblem on their chests. If she were a Witch, she would disembowel you, vi—”

“Hey! Look at her hands! What a horror!” Another child, missing two fingers, is pointing at him with an expression of disgust.

“How dare you? Take it back right away—”

A disgusted chorus starts from all the children: “The teeth!”, “How disgusting!”, “A monster! A monster!”, “MONSTER!”

Archdevil is shocked. There are four kids. His revolver has five shots. No, he would never do something like that. At least he would not do it with the people's children. He would disembowel them with those same hands. He can rip their uvula out with those teeth, there—

Dodging a stone, Archdevil wakes up from his truculent thoughts.

The kids are running off laughing. Perhaps they hoped to hit him with the rock and rob him or to escape in a manner. Whatever the answer, Archdevil is pissed. He kicks a pebble on the ground and curses.

A moan calls him to calm down.

The little girl got up and stood leaning against the wall. She has curly, disheveled brown hair and dirty work clothes. The bandaged stump and the swollen eye complete the picture with the bleeding knee.

“Hey, they made you…” Archdevil does not know how to finish the sentence. He does not know what he is doing. In theory, he has a job to do.

The little girl makes horrible faces, trying to hide and not cry.

Archdevil awkwardly pulls a handkerchief from an inside jacket pocket. She holds it out, but the girl hops back onto her good leg. Scared.

“I have an index finger with five phalanges and a claw. A middle finger with four phalanges and a claw, and so on. Do my hands disgust you? My teeth?”

The little girl nods weakly.

Archdevil would like to throw the handkerchief on the ground and leave to cool off a new fit of anger. But what is her fault?

I am a monster. I know.

With a claw, he points to the bandaged stump. The little girl turns pale.

“Press in the factory, right?”

She nods again.

“I lost them both like that. Both. The Witch who ran the plant demanded that I do maintenance. Yes, it's a shame she hadn't notified the press operator. Both.”

Taking out a 100 Lire note, Archdevil bends down to place it on the ground with his handkerchief. He gets up, turns on his heel, and leaves.

Arriving at the alchemist's shop, Archdevil thinks about what happened. Palace life is different. As hateful as the gendarmes, servants, nobles, and their children are, Archdevil lives the good life. He wonderfully defends a place that no one wants to attack. This episode, this reality reminder is disturbing.

What did I expect? To receive a thank-you-sir?

The truth, he thinks, is that poverty troubles him. He is afraid of that world. An abyss from which he escaped. Both. He lost both hands and ended up begging.

The Witch takes, the Witch gives.

Archdevil shrugs. He looks toward the window. The sign dangling alongside the door read: Mirco & Co. Alchemists and Pharmacists. Jars with colorful labels and floral textures are on display. Also, there are test tubes, glass jars, and bundles of loose herbs.

A passing couple reflects in the window. They walk away quickly, chatting with a newspaper in hand.

Wealthy people are to be chatting at this hour.

To avoid being gnawed by envy, Archdevil decides to enter. He pushes the door open, causing a bell to ring. A whiff of perfume catches him at the entrance, along with a cheerful voice.

“I'm coming. Excuse me for a moment.”

“Take your time.” Archdevil does not want to alarm him, on the contrary. There have already been enough hassles.

The shop is not very large. It contains two shelves on the walls, a central table, and a counter with a multi-compartment piece of furniture behind it. A painting on the wall depicts a bald-elderly man wrapped in the blue robe of a university-authorized pharmacists.

“Were you an academic?”

A voice comes from under the counter.

“What, excuse me? Sorry, but I'm in the cellar. I can't hear much. I'll go up straight away, have patience.”

Archdevil approaches the counter, where he finds more jars, a stack of papers, a pen, and a mechanical cash register.

Nice. These keys... were made in the first plant where I worked? No, these are different. Chrome, it must be something more refined.

With the claw, Archdevil scratches the chrome on the back of the register. All customers will see a beautiful scratch now. It screeches, but the owner does not seem to notice.

Soon, you'll have other problems, old man.

The sound of footsteps and creaking steps comes from below.

Archdevil looks at the counter. The bald, puffy-cheeked figure of a middle-aged gentleman emerges. The man appears to be clean and plump. He is wearing a shirt and vest, holding a blue bow around his neck.

Retired professor. The blue ribbon is a tribute to his career.

Archdevil thinks about where he heard those things. Delphine's children are too young for university, perhaps those of some gendarme? Or maybe the servants?

Well, go and remember…

The elder paralyzed himself. The expression contracted into a grimace. Lost in thought about him, Archdevil did not catch the moment it happened. Not that he cares. It was so obvious it was going to happen.

“You are, you are a…” the pharmacist does not finish the sentence.

“Do you know why I'm here?”

Archdevil displays calm and raises his clean-shaven chin in a smug of superiority.

Yes, you useless middle estates should fear me.

“I guess… I guess the dolphin-dragon embroidered on your coat speaks for itself.”

“Well, smart-old-man.”

The man sighs.

“What does Your Holiness want from a humble second-league alchemist?”

“No, you're wrong. You have already served the Princess.”

The man turns red, and his forehead beads with sweat.

“Princess? Well, we sold her some very rare cosmetics. A gift from the Presidential Prince—”

Growling, Archdevil digs a claw into the table.

“We already know this part of the story, old man.”

“I-I, I didn't know that cosmetics—Ha!”

Archdevil grabs the man by the collar, pulling him towards him over the counter. It is a lightning gesture, enough to throw the man to the ground.

The man does not have time to get up. Archdevil pulls out his revolver. He aims it at the man's forehead, crushing it in the floor.

“The poison! The poison! Parliament forgives me! I was obliged!”

Merchants. They are loyal only to themselves. Worse, than the worst of devils.

“Who did you get it from?”

Archdevil does not need to tighten his grip or push harder with the gun. The man is scared. He sees the blue eyes mirrored in the glasses.

“A special cargo with bubble from Presidential Prince! Please don't hurt me. Not—”

“From where!? Where did the cargo come from!”

“Ha! The University! The natural archeology department of Eggrio!”

“Sure, this makes sense. The poison of the ancient plant devours witches.”

“Yes, yes. The husband of the Witch Director of the University is an old classmate of mine. It was he who proposed my name to the Prince.”

Archdevil smiles grimly.

“And you agreed to take part in the conspiracy?”

“I had to! I have a family. I had to! I beg you.”

“There is still an antidote, right? A sample like that of poison, I mean.”

“The university, the root, maybe they—”

Archdevil pushes the gun, keeping the alchemist's head pressed to the ground.

“Okay, let's make a bet.”

“I-Ha!”

“Eighty by twenty, twenty by eighty. You know what I mean?”

“State laws! The tax and distribution laws and—”

“Fire.” Archdevil charges the gun hammer. “I'm talking about bullets. My revolver has five slots. Four are full, and one is always empty. Eighty by twenty, twenty by eighty.”

“I…”

“Let's see which ensemble you're part of, old man.”

Archdevil pulls the trigger. The man blanches.

Laughing, Archdevil stands up. He puts the weapon back in the holster and takes out a wad of 20 lire pieces from his coat.

“You're lucky, you chose well. You are in the right set of micro-society governed by my gun.” Heartly laughing, the being throws the bribe in the alchemist's face. “Take them, maybe we'll need you. For now, pretend nothing happened. Agents of the Third Witch may interrogate you in the coming days. I don't care. I don't think we'll see each other again.”

Stepping over the still motionless body, Archdevil steps over the man and heads towards the door.

I'm so stupid. I just cannot help but laugh at my little naughtiness.

The thing is, he feels powerful. Archdevil understands this when he leaves that shop. He is powerful. He is an emissary of evil who rules the world.

Finally, I'm integrated into society.