INTERSTATE 80, WESTERN PENNSYLVANIA
November 13th - 10:47 PM
Zale had been driving for six hours.
Haddonfield to Pittsburgh. Simple consultation job. A collector claimed to possess one of Ed Gein's trophies—a lampshade made from human skin. Wanted authentication, curse detection.
It wasn't cursed. Just leather and morbid fantasy. Zale collected his fee—five thousand for thirty minutes—and started the drive back.
A week since Buffalo Bill. A week of minor cases that barely registered as threats. Poltergeists. Cursed objects. Nothing that fought back. Nothing interesting.
The boredom was setting in again.
Then the storm hit.
One moment, clear November night. The next, snow falling so thick the headlights barely cut ten feet. Temperature dropped twenty degrees in five minutes. Ice formed faster than the wipers could clear it.
Wrong.
Everything about this storm was wrong.
The Codex manifested briefly against his chest.
"Trap."
"I know," Zale muttered.
But driving blind was suicide. He needed shelter.
The sign appeared like a mirage: THE DEVIL'S BAR. Neon red, glowing through the snow.
A building that hadn't been there thirty seconds ago.
Zale pulled into the empty lot. Twenty feet from the structure, the snow simply stopped.
Like an invisible dome protected the bar.
He sat for a moment, studying the place. Classic roadhouse. Dark wood. Warm light through frosted windows. Inviting.
Every instinct said trap.
But hypothermia was real, enhanced physiology or not.
Zale dismissed the Firefighter's Axe into the Codex and stepped into the blizzard.
***
The moment he crossed the threshold, the storm vanished.
Not muffled. Gone.
Complete silence except for crackling fire and soft clink of glass being polished.
The interior was luxury wrapped in Americana—mahogany bar, leather booths, brass fixtures gleaming like captured firelight. Vintage photographs lined the walls: jazz musicians, old Hollywood, faces half-recognized.
Warm. Expensive. Empty.
Except for the bartender.
Mid-thirties. Blonde. Blue eyes sparkling with knowing amusement. He moved with fluid grace, like someone who'd never stumbled in his life.
When he looked up, his smile was a predator recognizing worthy prey.
Against Zale's chest, the Codex stirred.
Not manifesting. Just... present. Uncomfortable.
Then, faintly, like static interference cutting through a signal:
"Uncatalogued."
A pulse of cold weight pressed against his ribs.
"Untrusted. LEAVE."
The sensation vanished, but unease remained.
Zale kept his expression neutral and approached the bar.
"Excuse me," he said. "May I stay until the storm settles?"
The bartender set down his glass with a soft clink.
"Please, take a seat."
Zale's hand moved unconsciously toward where the axe would be.
The bartender noticed. His smile widened, genuine amusement dancing in those too-blue eyes.
"Your reputation precedes you," the bartender said. "Supernatural detective. Monster hunter. The man who ended Michael Myers and the wraith of Buffalo Bill." He leaned forward slightly. "A man like that, on a night like this? Hardly coincidence."
Zale took a seat, posture relaxed but ready. "Do I know you?"
The bartender chuckled—low, melodic, vibrating through the warm air.
"Not personally. But your work travels in certain circles." He placed a hand over his heart in mock formality. "Samael. Venom of God, if you prefer the translation. And your presence here is a pleasure, Mr. Akula."
He extended his hand across the bar.
Zale's expression didn't change, but his mind cataloged the detail. He knew my name without being told. Information broker? Precognition? Something worse?
He studied the offered hand. Clean. Manicured. No calluses.
Didn't take it.
"That's either very pretentious or very old."
Samael withdrew his hand, unbothered. "Why not both?"
He turned toward the bottles behind him. "Allow me to offer hospitality. What do you drink, Mr. Akula?"
"I don't."
Genuine surprise flickered across Samael's features. "A hunter who doesn't drink? How disciplined. Coffee, then?"
"Your finest."
"Jamaican Blue Mountain. The only thing hot enough to chase November's chill." Samael moved toward an espresso machine that looked like it cost more than most cars. "On the house, of course."
Zale watched him work. Every movement precise, unhurried. The machine hissed softly. Steam curled through the air.
"Your bar is empty," Zale observed. "Expecting company?"
"I don't wait for customers." Samael glanced over his shoulder. "I wait for events."
He set down the cup without spilling a drop.
"And tonight, a man who ends legends walks into my bar during a storm that shouldn't exist in November." Faint smile. "That's not company. That's timing."
Zale lifted the cup. Didn't drink immediately.
He activated True Sight for just a second, scanning the liquid for curses, poisons, compulsions.
Nothing. Just coffee.
He took a sip. Excellent. Rich, smooth, complex.
Samael watched with amused patience. "Cautious. I'd expect nothing less."
Zale set the cup down. "You knew I was coming."
"I knew someone like you would. Eventually." Warmth left Samael's eyes. "This bar is a crossroads, Mr. Akula. Not between roads. Between worlds. Between choices. Between what is and what could be."
"And you manage it."
"I facilitate transactions. Exchanges." Samael's smile returned, colder. "I provide what people need in return for what I need. Simple commerce on a grander scale."
He produced a manila folder from beneath the bar. Set it down deliberately.
"Let me be direct. You're someone who eliminates problems, Mr. Akula. Very efficiently. You remove what I find... irritatingly persistent."
He pushed the folder forward.
"And right now, there's a man who's about to become a problem that affects everyone."
Zale opened it. Photographs. Documents. A face stared back—handsome, charismatic.
GREG STILLSON
Not campaign materials. Something else. Psychological profiles. Incident reports. Witness statements describing wrongness.
"Currently rising in influence," Samael said. "Charismatic. Persuasive. The kind of man who makes people believe."
Zale flipped through the materials. Not about politics. About patterns. Decisions that rippled wrong. Futures collapsing. Timelines corrupting where he touched them.
He closed the folder. Pushed it back.
"I'm not an assassin for hire."
Samael laughed.
Genuine. Full. Echoing through the empty bar.
"Oh, Mr. Akula." He leaned forward, eyes dancing. "You don't eliminate problems for money. Let's not pretend."
Smile sharpening.
"You don't have righteousness in you. No moral crusade. No hero complex." Tilting his head. "You hunt for sport. For fun. To relieve boredom."
Voice dropping, intimate.
"Buffalo Bill's case—you didn't take it out of kindness for Senator Martin. You took it because you were bored. Because hunting a wraith sounded entertaining."
Eyes gleaming.
"Don't lie to yourself. You're a predator like me. Like everything you hunt. Your taste is just other predators. You wear civilization like an uncomfortable suit."
Silence.
Zale kept his face neutral, but Samael's accuracy was... concerning. Too accurate. Like he's not guessing. Like he's reading something I didn't know I was showing.
He took another sip. Let heat register. Set the cup down deliberately.
"You seem to know a lot about me. Mind reading? Precognition? Good research?"
"Observation. Experience. I've seen your kind before."
Zale's lips curved—not quite a smile. Acknowledgment.
"Yes. I am a predator. I won't deny it. I hunt because I enjoy it. Because fighting things that can fight back makes existence tolerable."
He met Samael's eyes.
"But I prefer to give favors, not take them. Especially from someone I don't know. Someone who reeks of sulfur and wants me to commit murder during our first meeting."
Leaning forward.
"So tell me—are you trying to set me up, or do you genuinely believe I'm stupid enough to accept this?"
Samael's expression lit with genuine delight.
"Set you up? Mr. Akula, no one's trying to trick you." Spreading his hands. "This is trade. Pure. Simple. You want something. I have something. We exchange at agreed prices. Either party can refuse. No debts."
He gestured to the folder.
"And this particular favor happens to prevent metaphysical collapse on a scale that would inconvenience us both."
Zale raised an eyebrow. "You'd have me believe one man threatens reality itself?"
"I'd have you believe," Samael said, voice going cold, "that Greg Stilson isn't just a man. He's a wound in causality. A psychic black hole corrupting every timeline he touches."
Tapping the folder.
"His decisions don't just end lives. They erase possibilities. Every choice he makes narrows the future. In three years, the timelines converge into a single point—total annihilation. Not war. Not politics. Metaphysical collapse. Reality eating itself because one man's psyche is fundamentally incompatible with existence."
"And you care because...?"
Samael's smile returned, hollow.
"Because I prefer a world where predators exist alongside humanity. Not instead of. Not in the ruins of." He straightened. "Greg Stilson is a cancer on the timeline. Remove him from the equation, and billions continue. Billions of monsters continue existing for you to hunt."
His eyes gleamed.
"His trajectory isn't political, Mr. Akula. It's inevitable. Unless someone severs his thread."
Zale studied Samael's face. Looking for lies.
His enhanced senses detected no deception. No hesitation. Samael believed what he was saying.
Which means either he's telling the truth, or he's something that can lie so well even I can't detect it. Both options are bad.
"You want me to believe a man I've never met is a metaphysical threat requiring assassination, based on your word alone." He pushed the folder away. "That's not happening."
"I understand your skepticism." Samael smiled. "Which is why I'm going to offer proof."
He reached beneath the bar.
Produced a briefcase.
Sleek. Black leather that seemed to absorb light. Gold embossed across the front: HELL'S CORP.
Samael set it on the bar between them with deliberate care.
Zale stared at it. The briefcase felt wrong even from a distance. Like it was pulling attention toward it, demanding to be acknowledged.
"Proof of good faith," Samael said quietly. "Consider it insurance for the future."
Zale hesitated.
Then placed his hand on the briefcase.
Warm.
Not leather-warm. Skin-warm. Like touching something alive. Something with a pulse beneath the surface.
The material looked like leather but felt smoother, organic. Like it had been grown rather than tanned.
Zale's enhanced senses recoiled instinctively, but he kept his hand steady.
Against his chest, the Codex pulsed once—sharp, urgent.
Warning.
Zale ignored it.
The briefcase clicked open.
Red velvet interior. And nestled within—
A weapon.
Zale stared.
Not a revolver. Something stranger.
Double-barrel firearm. Compact but substantial. The metal was vanta black—so dark it seemed to pull light inward, creating a void in the shape of a weapon. Gold etching covered both barrels and grip, words in language that hurt to look at directly.
Two barrels, stacked vertically. Beneath them, a third mechanism that looked less like it fired projectiles and more like it channeled something else entirely.
Zale reached for it.
The moment his fingers touched the grip, something shifted.
The metal pulsed. Not quite a heartbeat. Not quite a purr. Something between recognition and approval.
The weapon was aware. And it wanted him.
Zale's jaw tightened. He lifted it carefully, feeling perfect weight, immaculate balance.
It felt like it had been waiting for him specifically. Like it knew his hand before he'd ever touched it.
"She likes you," Samael observed. "Of course she does."
The briefcase contained more: a leather holster that looked like it had been crafted for this specific weapon, and a bound manual in something that resembled leather but felt fundamentally wrong.
"Dual-barrel mechanism," Samael said, voice taking on the smooth cadence of someone who'd made this pitch before. "Top barrel penetrates any defense—armor, wards, supernatural resistance. Bottom barrel damages what's beneath the defense. Soul. Essence. Core." He smiled. "Sequential firing. Very elegant design."
Zale turned the weapon over in his hands, examining the craftsmanship. Every line, every curve spoke of mastery beyond human capability.
"It doesn't require conventional ammunition," Samael continued. "Infinite capacity. No reload. No resupply. You never run out." He leaned forward slightly. "Convenient for someone in your line of work, yes?"
Zale's thumb traced the gold etching. The script was Enochian, maybe older. Fragments translated in his mind, though the full meaning remained elusive.
"LET THE WORLD TREMBLE"
"Of course," Samael added casually, "the weapon does draw on the user's vitality to manifest rounds. But for someone like you?" He gestured at Zale. "Someone with your enhanced physiology? You'd regenerate faster than it could drain you. Barely noticeable."
Zale looked up. "It ends normal humans."
"Well, yes." Samael's smile didn't waver. "It is inefficient when wielded by fragile systems. But you're not a normal human, are you? That's the point. This weapon was designed for beings who can handle its requirements. Lesser wielders..." He waved dismissively. "They lack the constitution. But you?"
He leaned back, smile sharpening.
"You're one of perhaps three mortals who should be able to use this. Whether you're worthy of it... we'll see."
"Its name," Samael said softly, "is Arrogance."
Beneath the weapon in the velvet: a business card.
Matte black. Gold text gleaming.
THE DEVIL'S BAR
Samael - Proprietor
"Where Crossroads Meet"
Reverse side, handwritten in elegant script:
Use once: Agreement accepted.
Burn once: Agreement refused.
Keep unused: Your choice remains yours.
Zale set the weapon down carefully. Looked at Samael.
"You still haven't explained why Stilson requires this level of intervention."
"Because he's not a problem that can be reasoned with or contained," Samael said, all humor leaving his voice. "He's a metaphysical wound that's already bleeding into every possible future. His psyche—his very existence—is incompatible with reality's continued function."
He leaned forward.
"In three years, every timeline I can observe converges into the same point: total collapse. Not nuclear war, though that's the proximate cause. Something deeper. Reality itself can't sustain the paradoxes his decisions create. The universe would rather cease than continue processing the contradictions he generates."
Zale's enhanced senses still detected no deception.
"And removing him from the timeline corrects this."
"Severs the infected thread before it contaminates the whole tapestry." Samael's smile returned, cold and precise. "One man's existence ends. Billions continue. The mathematics are rather simple."
"You're asking me to execute someone for crimes he hasn't committed yet."
"I'm offering you the opportunity to prevent a metaphysical catastrophe that would eliminate everything you enjoy hunting." Samael gestured to the weapon. "But I'm not asking you to decide now. Take the weapon. Take the information. Consider it."
He pushed the briefcase closer.
"Use the card, and we have an agreement. Burn it, and I'll know you've refused. Keep it unused..." He smiled. "And your choice remains yours."
Zale stared at the briefcase. At the weapon. At the card.
"Keep your prophecies. I'm not your executioner."
"I'm not asking you to be." Samael gestured to the windows. "Look—storm's passed. You're free to leave. No obligations. No strings attached to the gift."
Zale glanced outside. Clear night. Stars visible through the frosted glass. No snow.
"Then why give me this?"
"Because whether you sever Stilson's thread or not, you'll need that weapon eventually. The things hunting you—they're beyond axes and conventional arms." Samael's eyes glinted. "Consider it insurance. A reminder that when you face something that makes Buffalo Bill look trivial, I'm here. I'm useful."
He smiled.
"Take it. Don't take it. Use it. Throw it away. Your choice. But you cannot return it. Gift given. No refunds. House policy."
Zale tried anyway. Pushed the briefcase toward Samael.
Samael backed away, hands up theatrically. "Very strict policy. I'm quite inflexible on this point."
"Samael—"
The world lurched.
Not movement. Not teleportation. Reality skipping a frame, like film with a splice cut into it.
One moment: sitting at the bar, briefcase in front of him.
Next moment: standing in the parking lot, briefcase in his hands, door closed behind him with a soft click.
No transition. No sensation of movement. Just... displacement.
Zale turned.
The bar was gone.
Not dark. Not closed. Gone.
Empty lot. Dead grass poking through cracked asphalt. His tire tracks in mud.
No building. No sign. No warm light.
Just Interstate 80 stretching into darkness and the sound of distant traffic.
Zale stood holding the briefcase, staring at the space where The Devil's Bar had been.
He looked at his watch.
11:13 PM.
He'd entered at 10:52.
Twenty-one minutes.
But it had felt like hours. The conversation, the coffee, the offer—all of it compressed into time that didn't match the experience.
He looked down at the briefcase in his hands.
Solid. Real. Warm.
Proof.
He walked to his car. Set the briefcase carefully on the passenger seat.
Started the engine.
Pulled onto Interstate 80.
Behind him, where The Devil's Bar had stood: darkness, dead grass, and a faint smell of sulfur that faded with distance.
He drove in silence, mind processing.
Samael knew too much. Things he shouldn't be able to know. Details about Buffalo Bill, about Catherine Martin, about the pit, about Emma. Information that wasn't public. Information Zale hadn't shared with anyone.
Either Samael had access to information streams beyond anything normal, or he was something that could simply see truth. Neither option was comforting.
Greg Stilson. Timeline wound. Metaphysical threat.
The card said his choice was his own.
Use it: Agreement.
Burn it: Refusal.
Keep it: Undecided.
Tomorrow, he'd decide how much of its truth he was willing to learn.
Tomorrow, he'd research Stilson. Verify Samael's claims.
Tomorrow, he'd decide if severing one man's thread to save billions was a line he'd cross.
Tomorrow.
The road stretched ahead, empty and dark.
***
Inside a space that existed adjacent to the parking lot, separated by a membrane Zale couldn't perceive, Samael poured himself a drink. Something dark and old.
He watched the detective's taillights fade into distance.
"Three days," he said to the empty bar. "I give him three days before he uses the card."
He smiled.
"They always do."
[END CHAPTER 8]
Thanks for reading Chapter 8!
Real quick—huge shoutout to everyone who dropped monster ideas in the last chapter.
Some of your suggestions are already locked in for future arcs. Others gave me ideas I hadn't even considered. I read every single comment and honestly? Some of you gave me ideas I hadn't even thought of especially the tax man. Still not sure how to use him yet.
If you're enjoying the story, please leave a review. It helps more than you'd think, and honestly, knowing what's landing (or not landing) helps me write better chapters.