This is the part I hate most--cleaning up afterwards. Grasping my flashlight in my mouth, I held the blade of the knife under the faucet and watched the blood swirl down the drain to oblivion. My choice of weapons had been particularly sharp, and I suspected the late lady of the house had fancied herself a good cook. Then I took the dishtowel and dried the knife thoroughly before returning it to the drawer with the other cutlery. Not that I didn't expect the police to find it. After this, their forensics department would be busy for weeks studying every bit of dust and dirt for clues. But it wouldn't do them much good.

I walked back upstairs to make sure I hadn't forgotten anything. The kids' room first. They were still in their beds; the boy of nine and girl of five looking to all the world like they were asleep, not dead from suffocation. Unfortunate, that, and I almost wished they had been at a sleepover or something. They were too young to know what they would eventually become, but they would, thanks to their father. Someday I would have had to hunt them down anyway. Better this way. Better for everyone.

I closed the door, then went to their parent's room, making sure to avoid the blood of the family poodle spreading slowly across the hallway carpet. I'd killed it first. There was more blood in the master bedroom--blood from the mother staining the sheets and blanket, blood from her husband lying on the floor next to her. If only...

I shook my recriminations aside. Even if she was away, I would have had to come for her as well. She was pregnant. Again. And I would have been forced to take her newborn just as I had taken her other two. At least I had spared her the torment of grieving for her family. I tried to console myself with that.

I stood over her dead husband. In death he looked like everyone else. Even in life he looked like everyone else. But he wasn't. Our battle, fortunately, had been brief. My right arm still bled from his claws, claws now retracted and impossible to discover by any scientific means. To the police and coroner, he was just the hapless victim of some deranged killer. It was just as well they believed that.

The ring finger was missing from both adults. I didn't need or want them--merely removed them to distract the police. Let the psych boy think there was some sort of serial killer with an unpleasant hobby involved.

The sun was just making its inevitable journey above the horizon when I went out the back door. The neighborhood was still quiet except for the warbling of a few early-rising robins. No lights were on in any nearby home. A pleasant-enough neighborhood, one where I'm sure everyone felt safe and secure within their well-maintained homes. They wouldn't feel that way in a few hours. Nor should they. Nor should anyone.

I was parked a block away. I hopped the fence, walked quickly across a neighbor's yard and got in my car. Well, not '"my" car, just the one I had stolen for this evening. Some couple must have been very surprised when they left the theatre and found their Ford Escort gone. Slim Jims are wonderful tools, and I've become quite proficient with them over the years.

I drove off, not turning on the lights until I reached the end of the block. I stayed a good five miles under the speed limit as I made my way through the neighborhood, onto the main artery and finally the expressway. This car was surely reported by now and I didn't want to give the police any excuse to pull me over.

A cleansing always makes me hungry, and every restaurant I passed called out with the promise of steak and eggs. That, however, had to wait. Instead I went to the warehouse district, where my own car was parked. It wasn't anywhere near the shopping center and the movie theatre where the owners of the Escort had gone. But that's what buses are for. I parked the Escort and locked the door, not wanting to cause any more inconvenience for its owners than I already had. Only when I reached my own car did I light a cigarette. Several blocks away I stopped at a dumpster to ditch my gloves and my souvenirs from my victims. My clothes I would burn later. It was warm, but I put on a jacket anyway to hide my wounded arm. Then I went in search of a restaurant.

Sarah greeted me when I walked into our home a good hour later. She was wearing a flowered housecoat over her nightgown, her hair up in curlers, cold cream still on her face. I hate that. "You're back," she said, not at all warmly. Then she noticed my right arm. "You're hurt."

"No big deal." I was already removing my shirt. Next came the shoes, then socks, pants and underwear. I left them in a pile on the rug. "My coat is in the car. Take care of these. I need a shower." I stalked off to the bathroom on the second floor.

I must have stood under the steaming hot water for nearly ten minutes before she joined me. She stood behind me, her breasts pressing against my back, her right hand running slowly down my chest to my rapidly growing cock. She gave it a few playful jerks before turning her attention to my arm. "They fought back. How many?"

"One. Well, four actually, if you don't count the dog."

Her fingers lightly traced the wound. Discoloration was already appearing around the edges and I would have to treat it with antibiotics before too long. "Did you have to kill them all?"

"You know the answer to that," and I turned to face her. "She was pregnant. The kids were demon-spawn. What else could I do?"

"I know, Jonathan. You've explained it to me before." She buried her face in my chest, then looked up to me, her tears mingling with the water from the shower. "I just know how much it hurts you when you must kill the innocents."

I grimaced; I didn't need her to remind me. Especially not now, not so soon. "More 'innocents' would die if I didn't." I lightly pressed her head down. My erection was demanding her full attention.

Afterwards she dressed my arm and helped me into a freshly cleaned white shirt for the office. She even tied my tie. "You look good, Jonathan," she said as she helped me don my suit coat.

"What would I do without you?" I kissed her lightly.

Or tried to. She turned away when I leaned closer. "None of that; you'll be late for work."

"And what if I was? Think they would fire me?" I didn't try to hide my pique.

"Do it for me. For us." She opened the front door and stepped aside.

Considering myself dismissed, I walked out and closed the door behind me. One thing I had to admit about Sarah; her timing was impeccable. John Parker was already pulling up the driveway. I nodded and said good morning as I climbed in the back seat. Terry Bishop was already in front and we would be picking up Charley Neise on the way downtown. I always preferred it when Parker drove in our car pool; his car was much roomier in back than Bishop's Celica or even my Buick. Sometimes I debated on whether I should buy one of those sub-compacts, or even a new Smart Car just as an excuse to opt out of the car pool. But I knew what Sarah would say.

We didn't talk much as Parker chauffeured us downtown. I didn't consider any of them friends; our little group had been put together by a computer listing we had all responded to. The downside of riding with Parker was that he chose the radio station, so we had to listen to what passed for contemporary country. Next week it would be Neise and that meant conservative talk. Which at least was occasionally amusing.

No major accidents this morning, so we arrived early enough that I could enjoy a donut and coffee before trudging to my office a good six blocks from the parking lot. It's on the fourth floor and my company takes up about half of it, which is not as impressive as it sounds as the building isn't that large. Besides, we don't need to draw any unwanted attention to ourselves. The sign on the door says "Meriweather Accounting Services" and we actually do that. There are only a few of us, and I don't know how many, who do the real work of the agency: hunt down and dispatch demons. Not the type of thing you could advertise on your business card.

There was already a pile of work awaiting me when I reached my cubicle. I glanced at the folders and recognized all the names immediately, which meant they were real clients necessary for our cover. I could do most of my basic accounting work with half my brain tied behind my back, so while I input data I thought back to the night before. The hardest part had been taking care of the dog, but I had done that earlier in the day. While the kids were at school and the parents working, I'd broken in and drugged the dog's food. Not the most elegant of methods I admit, but once the dog was fed and the drug took effect, the pooch would be out for hours. When I reentered later that night, I offed it first just to make sure, then on to the kid's room. I knocked them both unconscious, then let the pillow held over their faces do the rest. Then on to the parents.

I shot the mother first, which was probably a mistake because the man/demon heard me even though I used a silencer. He was changing even as I started to fire, and was able to rake my right arm with his claws before my first bullet distracted him. The next I put in his brain and that was the end of another demon.

Of course I wasn't done. I had to make it look like the serial killer that was currently terrorizing the area, so I cut off the fingers and did some disfigurement with the knife. Let the FBI profilers enjoy themselves trying to psychoanalyze my alter ego; anything to throw them off the track. Besides, the serial killer ruse helped justify my frequent missions as there were a lot of demons in the area.

That was a matter of geography more than anything else. The way it was explained to me, this area serves as one of the infrequent contact points between our world and theirs. They've been trying to infiltrate and take over our world for centuries, with little success. For some reason, lately they've stepped up their efforts. We've tried to communicate with them but we can't. Human hosts are oblivious to their possession, and once in demon form, they won't negotiate, just kill. So we have no idea why their sudden increased interest in our little world.

I would like to say I was born into some ancient order charged with protecting our world from the beyond, but that's not the case. In actuality I answered a help wanted ad. I guess I knocked them dead in the interview because they gave me the job on the spot. Not that there was probably a lot of competition for it. I wasn't an accountant then. In fact, I sold vacuums door to door; a much better cover than what I have now if you ask me. But you can't stop progress.

I finished the Gorman return for the monthly sales tax payment, nothing much to it, and opened the next file. I whistled softly as I scanned the particulars. I hadn't paid the folder any special attention when I saw it that morning because on the outside it contained the name of a regular client. The information inside was about someone else. It described a woman, single, in her early thirties. Best of all, she lived in the area. I was given her address, place of employment, a recent photograph and nothing else. But that didn't surprise me; my employers expect me to do most of the heavy lifting. A perfect target for my faux serial killer, I thought. But that would be too soon to fit the scenario I had so painstakingly created. My employers were nothing if not impatient. The fact that they were assigning me another case so quickly could only mean they wanted it finished promptly. I would have to do it another way.

As I walked to our break room to get a cup of coffee, I glanced at the other cubicles and side offices. One of them had to hold my handler, but I had yet to figure out who it was. In some ways I guess it doesn't matter, but just once I would like to hear "Good job" or "Way to go" or some kind of accolade. But then I was certain only a few of us working here were in fact demon hunters, so our real business had to remain under wraps. At least a Christmas card, you would think.

When I returned to my desk, several new folders had been added to my pile, but these were again "regular" clients. I'll have to start tonight, I thought as I began another monthly sales tax return. Sarah wouldn't be happy.