Detective Inspector Jehovah Kristi stared at the broken chaos of flesh that had once been a man, determinedly forcing his eyes to remain on the body. He looked as if he wished he hadn’t snatched that candy bar from the machine before heading over here. It was acceptable for an officer to throw up when confronted with a victim of violent death, but everyone knew that Kristi had a reputation for a tough stomach, so people often caught him trying to clamp his jaws tight and dig his nails in his palms. Truthfully, he didn’t feel sick at all, he’d gotten a sneak peak of the body before everyone else.

Jehovah was an exception to many of the rules for police, mainly because the commanding officer of that area was hiding in the closet and happened to like Jehovah’s long hair and eyebrow piercing. He had two silver rings in his left eyebrow above green eyes. His hair was halfway down his back, straight, and streaked with blood red. His hair was tied back in a pony tail and plaited into a braid to keep the stray hair back. He was tall and fairly buff, his skin slightly pale. His uniform top was buttoned around him, just a little bit snug around the chest, and his fitted pants were dark blue. He also had a hat under his arm.

Jehovah felt a hand on his arm, just above the elbow. Fixing a grateful face for the chance to look away, he turned to find his sergeant looming below him. He was one of the tallest men on the force, possibly the most physically fit as well. Don Gabbel stood almost five inches shorter then his boss. “Area’s all cornered off sir,” he said in a soft tone, “Coroner’s on his way. What d’you think?”

“I’d say a body shouldn’t bend like that.” They were in an an ally behind a bar in the ‘bad end of town’ called Duval in the rear yard of a pub which catered primarily in the gay trade with an upstairs bar that was lesbian night three nights of the week. “What about the gate?”

“Crowbar,” Gabble said, “it’s not wired into the alarm system.

“What’s the land lord got to say?”

“Whalley’s talking to him right now, sir. Seems he locked up last night around three, tonight.”

“That’s when he found this?” He asked, gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb.

“Just lying there open to elements you might say.”

The body on the site was grotesque, made all the more unnatural by the absence of blood. Logic screamed that a body so broken should be an island in a lake of gore. No one had never seen a corpse so clean outside of a funeral home. The body was twisted into a loose-limbed puppet discarded by it’s puppeteer. The limbs were pulled out of joint, his throat cut, there were burns on his body, and his genitals had been partially severed, almost completely cut off. The body was needless to say, naked.

He took a last look at the masterpiece called death, then exited the gate. “I’m going for a smoke, come get me if something comes up.” He turned and leaned against the building, listening to the heavy music from the club within. Those people had no clue what was going on in the back ally of this very building. He found a cigerette in one front pocket and started to search for a lighter.

Josaiah originally had just as few clues as those inside.

He was feeding his lust for grinding flesh and the heat of bodies from the cluster of dancers.

The minor demon had, of course, partaken of no drinks and therefore was well capable to survey the crowd, many of whom where in slightly less gathered together conditions. Like the girl rubbing against his everywhere-she-could-reach. He could smell the alcohol on her, which was rather pitiful by this point. A case where she would fall and never wake up perhaps.

She was plucking at the base of his shirt, an affair of black torso and white sleeves. His pants were form-fitting, black with snaps up each leg. Flat-soled shoes. He let her pluck for a little white longer before slipping away. He was actually heading to find a suitable place for a brief survey of the ever-shifting crowd. If he could find someone sober enough he wanted to play a little mental game or two. Make it a complete night.

However, something far more enticing caught his attention. A smell. The smell of death. And flesh. Dead flesh when added together. Something he would greatly enjoy having right now. Therefore, Josaiah began to follow his nose. It took him outside the club into the dank perimeter of the alley. But the smell was stronger and he was oh so hungry now.

But blast, something living stood in his way.

He narrowed his dark eyes and slowly crept on the sergeant. One step, two, three, he did not know why he bothered with such care. Clasping both hands into fists, he drew them back before felling a blow at the base of the sergeant's neck. The body was right there and he felt his stomach all but rumble.

People don't sit around and watch for things that go bump in the night to come sneaking up on them, well not unless they were paranoid or they were Jehovah. Especially if they were Jehovah on his own crime scene. And he had been watching, and listening, and though he hadn't heared the demon approaching, he'd seen him from the corrner of his eye just in time to react.

The murdering Investagator moved but not quick enough and the Demon caught him along the side of his throat. He reacted with his training. Instead of reaching up to hold his throat, he lashed out, throwing his own punch towards the left side of the demon's face while swooping his right leg around towards the others ankles. Already, the comotion had been noted by the officers and crew from within the gate and they were covering the body loosly with a large blue tarp.

Fleetingly, in the back of his mind, he smiled. Those fools, they're leaving their own hair and prints all over the ally doing that. They'll be blaming eachother for weeks now.



((Grrrr...sorry, I didn't realize I was on my brothers sn.))

((Quite all right))

Damn it or them to Hell.

Josaiah had not wanted a fight. By the same token, he had all but rushed into an area he was unfamiliar with and under circumstances open for change. It was not smart at all. Not a stellar move on his part by any definition. Him and his stupid hunger for rotting flesh.

Josaiah felt the blow land across his face. It would sting and bruise this physical body, but as for being stunned or blinded, his demonic self was saved from. It turned out the blow also served a helpful purpose. Josaiah had made a half-attempt at backing up after being hit; to decide if escape might be more beneficial at this point. The movement had put most of his thin ankles from the radius of the sweeping kick, catching him about only one leg and sending him hopping off balance but not to the ground.

However, the lashing of the living obstacle was most infuriating. Josaiah would put the fear of Hell in him. And probably find himself in trouble with any other larger, older demons that could hear of this. But an empty stomach and a false bravado do not make for sound decisions.

Of course, it would have really been impressive if he could make fire rain from the sky or even a little earth rumble or two. But Josaiah was young and did not know how to do these things let alone possess the power.

Josaiah made a low growl in the back of his throat and roughly forced his wings back. Thin as the were, they tore through his shirt which he rapidly clawed the rest of the way off. His wings unfurled like pieces of fabric shadow, rising over his lean shoulders and extending around his head. They were tattered and torn like the sails of a ghost ship, sloe black and held in shape by almost invisible, thin bones. They could have looked comical if only they did not smell like burning bodies and flap with a cruel, hissing sound on the air.

Josaiah let his glamour melt away, curling his black clawed hands and baring his fangs once for the Inspector. The steel blue cores of his black eyes burn wickedly. However, he does not waste time being admired (although he would have liked to). Josaiah rounds on the less prepared crew, surmounting the gate and attacking them in their haste to conceal the crime scene.

He brutalizes, for the most part, with his claws, but when he can get at the right angle, he searches for throats with his fangs. At the same time, if someone were paying close enough attention, they might notice how he vehemently spit any blood he might get into his mouth back out.

After all this work, he did not want to walk away with a stomachache.

The sergeant investagator watches this beautiful change occur before his eyes. Anyone would have found this creature, this Demon standing before him hiddiously frightening and run the other way screaming...unless they were Jehovah. Jehovah stood, fasinated by this creature, the beauty, the quickness. And the massacar of his fellow law inforcment was just mind boggling. He stood, watching, frozen to the spot. Not with fear but with facination.

Jehovah had dreament of scenes such as this, he'd manipulated photogrphs to fit this sort of scene. So that attack hadn't been specifically on him by a drunken man, he'd just been in the way of a demon seeking a meal, or a slaughter. He held his fist in his other hand, his knuckles sore from the impact with the demon's face.

Jehovah admired the thin wings, the muscles in the back that lead up to the wings, the fangs, the claws, the power. It was like watching some great predator bird on a hunt. His fellow officers, well, previously fellow offices, were the rabbits, the mice, the pray for a mightier creature.

Finally his senses caught him and he realized he'd been the one to set off this massacur. Of course, this made him swell with a sense of pride, but also with a sense of well placed fear. He'd struck a Demon. And still, he just stood there, awe showing on his green eyes.

Josaiah stops.

Nothing moves.

Dead.

He looks around his feet at the torn throats, the ravaged faces, the split-open rib cages and slashed abdomens with entrails pouring out. And he noticed something. Blood on his pants and shoes. His violent attack is fully curbed as he angrily smears the blood from his pants to his palms, which are covered already in the warm-now-cooling liquid.

Something tastes like rust.

He gulps and spits. Nothing spiteful although one might think that by the way it landed on the nearest ex-forensic officer. He does not enjoy the taste of blood.

It suddenly dawns on them that he is being watched. He looks over and growls, low but audibly. Like a threatened dog.

The first one. He was not running. Why was he not running? He should be tearing off in the other direction wailing and screaming and maybe even crossing himself a few times in panic.

Josaiah faces him fully, pulling his wings back into their full arc and holding back a laugh or two at the light 'splash' noise as the tip of his shoe connects with the surface of a blood-puddle. He tilts his head so his dreadlocks, also partially bloodied, fall across his face in a most (he thinks) impressive and ominous way. It is probably just melodramatic looking.

"Run... mortal."

He speaks in a hiss, reddened fangs always visible, and puts in a light pause as if to give the person time to think about the order. That is what it was. An order to leave so I can eat my dinner, for pity's sake.

Jehovah simply stands there, no emotion shed for the prior officers. He could care less for their lives...or their deaths for that matter. In fact, if he could have killed so many in such a short way, he probably would have. Of course, the demon's method was much messier then his own technique. But then, a demon wouldn't worry about getting stuck in jail, he did.

Run, mortal.

Jehovah noted the pause, giving him time to decide what to do. He'd already decided though. Someone who planned to kill themselves soon really didn't fear death anyways. It didn't mater if the Demon was going to kill him if he wanted to die anyways.

The mortal shook his head. "No."

He said it in a flat tone, purposfully leaving that same suggestive silance that basicly gave the demon time to decide what to do about this. Was he mocking the demon? No not really. His eyes remained unfaltering on that gorey scene.

Josaiah hisses. Angry. Almost threatened.

That was the part where he fled. In the other direction. The smell of blood is making him nauseaous and he is worried the tarp they were laying might not have shielded his dinner, thus ruining some of the delictable morsels.

"Yes."

But he won't be in a stand-off. So he waits only a brief moment before following the 'yes' with a charge. Almost aerial. He uses his wings for a powerful boost forward, fangs gleaming pink and yellow in the nimbus of a weak street light nearby. Claws outstretched for the face and throat. He is aware, all the while, of the blow he first received, but places his trust in speed.

However, Josaiah does not make it to Jehovah.

Something indeterminable at first flies past Jehovah's ear. Preceded by a soft noise litteraly, a 'squirt' sound.

Water.

It strikes Josaiah in the chest and not unlike a regular human and a bullet, he is thrown back. A gutteral hiss of pain rips from his tightened throat. his fangs are bared but his eyes are panicking as the holy water creates a red welt on his ivory skin.

The girl that had been rubbing with his lowers her gun. A child's water pistol. But holy water is, after all, water. She sneers and takes the demon's stunned lull in movement to press forward past Jehovah.

"Pitiful when you can't sense a demon hunter when she's rubbing against that lovely little body of yours."

She is gloating. Josaiah has stood, his face filling with fury.

"A set-up."

He looks between Jehovah and the woman. The woman does not confirm or deny this, hoping it might stall the demon longer. She raises her other hand. Gentle lob. A blessed cross. It strikes Josaiah on the chest, knocking down and pinning him, his wings flailing in blood and gore. He is snarling and yowling in pain as the woman uncorks the bottom portion of her pistol and begins pouring the rest of it over his face.

Jehovah seems to have been pushed back in their minds.