Dusk, October 29th, 1881, St. Vincent's Church. 

Church doors swung open and a man stood in the dark at the entrance, a large brimmed hat shielding his face. 
“Father Bates,” he called.
Another man sitting on one of the pews turned to look at him, clutching a rosary in his hand. “Absinthe.”
“Why did you send for me, Father?” Absinthe spoke, his voice deep and hoarse. He looked up at the elderly priest, gray hair, one blue eye and one white.
Father Bates stood from the pew, his hand shaking, threatening to drop the rosary beads. “My son, Edgar is here.”
“That's not possible, I killed him long ago.”
“No. You thought you killed him. He dug through his grave.”
Absinthe shook his head, slumping onto a pew and resting his feet on another. “Or... someone dug him up.”
Father Bates' eyes widened. “Surely if someone exhumed him they would be damned by merely stepping on the cursed dirt of his grave.”
“Indeed they would, Father.”
“Why would someone risk that?”
Absinthe chuckled, placing a toothpick in his mouth. “If you were without morals, wouldn't you want to be endowed with the accursed powers of a vampire lord? Take it from someone who's been there.”
“I see. But who could have done this?”
Absinthe stared at Father Bates' rosary beads. “I think I might know...”

***

Nightfall, October 29th, 1881, Abandoned Building. 

Absinthe stared from behind a bush at an abandoned building. Broken doors, a damaged roof, complete darkness emanated from the windows save for one window with the dim light of a candle shining through.
“What are you planning, Rosie?”
He snuck through the bushes and across a small field, making his way to the side of the house. 
The front door squealed as it opened and Absinthe crouched behind the side wall of the house, waiting for whoever exited.
A young woman stepped out, her auburn curls shining beneath the moon, a cigarette between her lips.
Absinthe kept to the ground as he snuck up behind her, pulling his dagger from its sheath. He sprang up and placed it against her neck. 
“It's good to see you, Absinthe.” Her voice was thick and sultry. A sound he missed and one of few he could tolerate.
“How'd you know it was me?”
She chuckled. “I know your scent; the smell of pine trees on an autumn day. Enticing.” She turned toward him, placing a kiss just below his lips.
Absinthe's mouth curled into a smile. He took her by the arm and pulled her into the house, pushing her away from the door. Grabbing his gun he pointed it at her head.
“That's sweet, Rosemary, but I didn't come here for you.”
She bared her teeth, though not nearly as impressive as a vampires, two fangs jutted from her upper jaw, her eyes glinting a bright yellow.
“And what did you come her for, if not my body? My spells, my blessing... my blood?”
“None of those things. I want to know why you unearthed Edgar's body.”
Rosemary scoffed, crossing her arms. “Edgar Regan? Why in Hell's name would I bother with someone who let himself get killed? Honestly, Absinthe, do you think I'm that stupid?”
He cocked his gun and kept it level with her head. “What if I said yes?”
“I have spells to shrink your most beloved assets.” She raised her eyebrows.
“You're the only one that's ever been able to stop my finger from pulling the trigger.”
“I'm your wife.”
Absinthe smiled. “I can't argue with that.” He holstered his gun and sheathed his knife.
“So, other than Edgar, did you come for anything else?” Her finger traced his jawline. 
“Nothing of the sort.” He grabbed her hand. “Perhaps, though, you could tell me who did dig up Edgar?”
She rolled her eyes. “And why should I?”
“First off, you're a witch.”
“Yes, a witch not a genie. I'm not enslaved to you, Absinthe.”
He lowered his head so his mouth was close to her ear. “Secondly, if you don't help, I will kill you.” He stood straight up again. “No matter the consequences.”
“Fine.” Her voice was gruff. “Follow me.”
Absinthe followed her through the living room where the furniture was mostly destroyed and any fabric was devoured by moths. They climbed a wooden staircase that he was sure would collapse beneath them at any moment. As they ascended, he noticed pictures on the wall of a man, a woman, and a young boy. Unlike most people, he never caught himself wondering where people like them went to, whether they simply up and left or if they died, possibly killed by vampires. 
They reached the top and entered a room to the right of the staircase. The room with the lit candle. A circular table was set in the center of the room with two chairs adjacent to each other. A single weathered mattress lay in the corner. 
“I hadn't realized we were standing in the dark the whole time,” he said, sitting at the table, staring at the crystal ball. Faces circulated within it, most looked like they were screaming in agony.
“You said you were a witch, not a fortune teller.”
“Witches use crystal balls, as well. Now, let's get started.” She lit five candles around them, sprinkling salt from one candle to the other, forming a pentagram. She sat in the chair opposite to him. Taking a knife, she gestured for him to hold out his hand. He sighed. 
“If you want this to work, give me your hand. Now.”
He followed her orders and outstretched his arm, palm facing up. “This is too childish for my liking.”
“My goodness, Absinthe, how many children do you know of that practices witchcraft?”
He sneered. “Too many, Rosie. Too many.”
“Rosie?” She looked up at him. “You haven't called me that since-”
“Yeah, I know. Get on with it.”
She cut along his palm, blood quickly seeped out. She took the knife to her own palm. 
“Squeeze your essence onto the crystal ball.” 
He raised his hand over the ball and squeezed, blood dripping onto the surface of faces revolving inside the sphere. The orb glowed and pulsated with light.
“What's it doing?” He asked.
“There are souls trapped within this crystal ball. When the witch and her client let their blood drain onto it, the souls within soak it up to use as energy. Not the most humble existence, but at least they're not in the clutches of Astaroth.”
“Hell is Hell, Rosemary. No matter where, or who, you are. Human, vampire, witch, or whatever the hell F"I am. Life is unforgivable.”
She stared at him, her expression neither somber nor happy. “I don't know, my existence is fairly tame, aside from the occasional gunslinger here and there. I'm content.”
“Even after what happened to us?” 
She took a cigarette from a metal case and tossed him one with matches. “Yes. Because I know that no matter what happens to me, I should still live my life to the fullest.”
Absinthe lit his cigarette and took a few drags before looking at her. “And by 'to the fullest,' you mean living in a dilapidated shithole out in the middle of nowhere?”
“It's not that bad, Absinthe. I'm happy here. I don't get into much trouble, I can practice my craft how I see fit, and I don't have any neighbors.”
“Alright, whatever.”
She let out a breath of air. “Can we just get this over with?”
He nodded. “The sooner, the better.”
“Thank you.” 
She closed her eyes and whispered an incantation. “Souls of the damned come forth and announce my woes. Unveil the truth; hence, the darkness shall appear.”
The crystal ball, yet again, glowed and pulsated with light. Screams of torment and rage echoed from somewhere unknown, a realm of pure chaos, a place Absinthe himself had no desire to visit.
The room shook, picture frames fell from the wall, shattering. Dust flew off the shelves and onto them.
“What the hell is happening?”
He looked at Rosemary, her eyes rolled to the back of her head, her mouth ajar. 
“Rosemary?”
Shadows appeared beside and behind her, clutching her shoulders, her neck, and pinning her arms on the table.
Absinthe's eyes widened. “What the hell are you?”
The shadows didn't speak or move. 
The stench of rotting flesh and a sudden chill lurked into the room just as a deep, smooth voice came from behind Absinthe. “They're my most loyal servants. They cannot be harmed nor killed, and yet they are powerful beings of my realm.”
He turned to look at the intruder, a tall, thin man with tidy black hair and piercing yellow eyes with his arms clasped behind his back stood underneath a broken crucifix. “Hello, Timothy Romero.” The mans voice gave Absinthe chills.
“You know I don't go by that name anymore, Abigor.” Absinthe reached for his gun which was snatched away by one of the shadows. It floated over to Abigor and placed the gun in his hand.
“Only because I gave you that name.” He fiddled with the gun before it dismantled itself. “Besides dear, loyal Tim, I have a job for you to complete.”
Absinthe gritted his teeth. “What?”
Abigor smiled widely, his sharp teeth visible. “Since you are in my servitude, I-”
“I only serve you because you tricked me!”
“Nonetheless, you are in my thrall. You signed that contract.”
“What in the nine Hells do you want?” Absinthe looked away, his hands balled into fists.
Abigor's smile widened unnaturally. “That is precisely what I want.”
“I don't have the patience for games right now.”
Chuckling, Abigor crept over to Rosemary and placed his hand on hers.
“Don't touch her!” Absinthe lunged toward Abigor, exposing his long fangs. Just as he was mere inches away from Abigor's face, Absinthe couldn't move his extremities. He looked down, noticing he was hovering a foot above the floor. 
“Remember, Tim, the things I can do to you.” Abigor looked at Rosemary. “And to her.”
Abigor twitched his wrist and Absinthe flew into the wall. 
“Do I make myself clear, Absinthe?”
Absinthe stood, not looking at manipulative psycho standing in front of him.
“Well?”
“Yes.”
Abigor wagged his finger. “No. Yes, what?”
“Yes, sir.” He clenched his fists.
“I don't think you truly know our relation, drudge.”
Absinthe clenched his teeth, staring down at the floor. He had an intense desire to rip Abigor to shreds.
“Yes... Master.”
Abigor grabbed the now empty chair and sat next to Rosemary, her eyes still rolled in the back of her head.
“Good. Now, onto business.” He pulled out a pipe then stuffed what looked like the husks of insects into it. He snapped his fingers and smoke began to emanate from the pipe. “If you bring me the souls of four demons, I'll let her go and tell you exactly where to find Edgar.”
Absinthe stared wide-eyed at him. “That's it? A few demon souls and I get what I want...? No, that's too good for you. What's the catch?”
“Simple. I will gain every spectrum of their power. If I were to absorb the essence of the four most powerful demon lords, well, let's just say Lucifer will no longer hold the title of the Dark Lord.”
“Are you screwing with me?”
Abigor smirked. “Oh, I'm not done. As far as whose souls, I want Mephistopheles, Baphomet , Lilith, and Astaroth.”
“You know, Abigor,” Absinthe started, pacing back-and-forth, “you're walking on a thin rope if you want me to kill the four most powerful demon lords. How do you know I won't be killed myself?”
The demon looked at Rosemary. “Well, if you die, she dies. If you fail, she dies. If you refuse... she dies.”
Absinthe took his dagger and threw it toward Abigor who disappeared in a cloud of smoke. He felt long, bony hands grasp his shoulders. 
“Tsk, tsk, tsk.” 
He felt Abigor's hot breath on his neck. 
“What's more important to you, Tim, the girl whose sanity is slowly waning under my Shadow Walker's grip, or the frivolity of your own free will? You cannot deny me.”
Absinthe was quiet, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end, his mind raced between his own morality and selfishness. He was already a servant of Abigor, but if he killed Hell's most powerful demons, not even angels could trust him. It would put him at the top of creations shit list. Permanently.
“I'll do it.”
Abigor disappeared from behind him and materialized next to Rosemary again. “Good. I'll keep her safe until you've finished your tasks.” He placed his hand on Rosemary's shoulder. “And remember, Tim. Do not fail me.” They both disappeared in a cloud of black smoke.
The Shadow Walkers backed up into the shadows, vanishing within the darkness, though Absinthe still felt their hollow eyes on him, watching endlessly.

***

Unknown time of day, October 29th, 1881, Mephistopheles' Realm.

Absinthe stood at a gate, overgrown with dead tree roots. The trees surrounding it had a multitude of faces etched on them, all of which had expressions of anguish or sorrow. The sky was a swirl of reds, almost like a tornado was threatening to form.
A burst of fire sprouted from the ground and a short man appeared, a hump on his back, his arms curled inward, and a flat, pig-like nose with a wide grin baring only a scarce few rotten teeth. 
Absinthe glared down at him, his hand resting on his gun.
“My name is Cresil, loyal servant of Abigor, and your humble guide,” he wheezed, his voice high-pitched, like nails on a chalkboard.
“You smell like shit.”
Cresil wrinkled his nose. “Yes, well, I was sent to guide you to all the souls you are to harvest, and then to your main goal, Edgar Regan.”
“Lovely. I have to risk my life just to become even more of a slave to Abigor, hope Rosemary isn't out of her mind once I return, and now I have to walk around with a crap stained pig-rat-demon hybrid.”
“Right. I'll open the gate for you, Gunslinger.”
Cresil scuttled up to the gate and touched the roots. They withered, turning gray, and fell to the ground.
“Go on. Enter.”
Absinthe grabbed the handle of the barrier and pulled it. A piercing shriek echoed out.
Cresil stood at his side. “Everything in this realm is connected to the pain of any souls residing here. Every step you take causes them severe discomfort, and opening a door causes suffering.”
Absinthe looked down at the pudgy demon. “I couldn't care less.” 
He pulled the door open further, causing more screams of agony. As he crossed the threshold, he noticed the ground beneath him quiver and spasm with every step. It wasn't dirt but it wasn't quite flesh, either.
“Now, one useful thing you can do, is take me to Mephistopheles.”
Cresil pointed his long, sinewy finger at a mound in the distance. It was pink like flesh that just had its skin ripped away from it. Eyes peered from holes within the dune, frantically searching for intruders.
“You're not coming?”
The pudgy demon slunk back through the other side of the gate, staring at Absinthe with over-sized yellow eyes. “My duty is to guide you, not aid in capturing the souls.”
Absinthe sneered. “Coward.”
He continued along a pathway lined with mutilated corpses in the process of decay. Empty eye sockets stared up at him, faces frozen in horror with mouths gaping in a silent scream, stiff arms twisted in a manner where they appeared to reach out for him. They clearly didn't have a peaceful end. 
Nearing the manor, the ground convulsed just ahead of him. It cracked like dry skin and hands burst out. Half a dozen demon heads poked out, gray skin sloughed off, revealing the bones and skulls of the desecrated. None of them dead, but they weren't alive, either. 
One demon, dressed in rusted armor, stood up right, his lips torn away. “No corporeal being may enter the realm of our putrescent lord,” he gargled his words.
“Than it's my lucky day, because I'm no mortal.”
The demon fixed his glazed over eyes on Absinthe. He sniffed the air. “Ah, a menial servant of Abigor, yes? You're saturated in his stench.”
“A horrifying thought to say the least. If you know Abigor sent me, surely you should know I'm no mere peon.”
The demon laughed, choking through his cackle. “Boy, if Abigor didn't intend his drudge to die, wouldn't he have sent his mightiest?”
“It doesn't matter,” Absinthe said through gritted teeth, “I'm not letting our deal fall through.” He gripped his gun. 
“What is your name, Demon, so I may know the name of the one I slaughter.”
“Azazel,” he slurred. “You will become a new addition to my lords spoiled garden.”
Absinthe unholstered his gun, shoving it into Azazel's face. The demon smiled, baring sharp, rotten teeth. “Die, heathen.”
He pulled the trigger and a bullet burst from the chamber. His eyes widened.
Azazel was gone. “Where did he go? Where are you, coward?”
The demons surrounding him bellowed in rage, unsheathing their swords, exposing their jagged teeth and dirt stained claws.
One lunged at Absinthe but was quickly disposed of, its eye socket exploded as soon as Absinthe's holy water infused bullet touched it. 
Another demon taunted him by feigning to bound toward him. Absinthe copied the pestilence ridden fiend and circled around it before turning the other way and kicking it in the face. It fell to the ground, twisting its leg. 
Absinthe grabbed a nearby stone, pinned the demon down, and smashed its head in.
He looked at the other surrounding demons who backed away, some with tails between their legs, and dropped back down the holes from where they sprang from.
“I scared away your entourage, Azazel. Come out and face me.”
The ground shook, bursting open. Azazel stood in front of him, licking his exposed teeth. His sword clutched in his hand. “Impress me, Gunslinger. Kill me and you will have earned my respect.”
“You're not offering much of a prize, are you?”
Azazel snarled, lurching toward him, and swiping his blade down to cut Absinthe's head in half.
Absinthe jumped out of the way causing the demon's sword to get stuck in the ground. He took the opportunity and jumped on the brute's back, strangling him from behind.
Azazel growled, shaking violently from left to right and clawing at Absinthe's arm who unsheathed his dagger and unsteadily sliced into the throat of Mephistopheles' unholy servant. 
Azazel fell to the ground, suffocating on his blood. The rancid smell of the black liquid forced Absinthe to shield his nose.
Coughing intensely, he walked toward the mound of flesh, the cluster of eyes fixed on him.
The mass of muscle pulsated and throbbed. A portion of it tore in a jagged line, splitting open to reveal a hole of darkness. 
Entering the opening, he unintentionally gripped the edges of it and a clear, sticky discharge seeped from the porous surface, clinging to him, refusing to release itself from his fingers.
He ignored the substance the best he could and descended a slippery staircase. Every step he took forced him to endure a squelching beneath his feet. Using the narrow walls to keep himself from skidding, more of the matter slithered around his arms. The fleshy corridor thumped slowly, almost like a heartbeat. 
Absinthe couldn't help but wonder if Mephistopheles' burrow was a living creature of some sort. The feeling made him uneasy.
At last, he reached the bottom of the horrid staircase and a single door, the only thing not made of flesh, was nestled in the clutches of meaty tendons and tissue. 
He grabbed the handle, which was slick from the combination of the liquid the walls secreted and a dampness on the door handle itself, and pulled it open. Ligaments snapped, causing the surrounding meat to shudder. Shrieks of the damned echoed out. 
Absinthe looked through the doorway, and only a few feet away was a thin, bony creature that was three times his height. Its skin was gray with sores all around it. Its tail was long with bones protruding from one side and its face, long and gaunt with yellow eyes.
Stepping into the room, the creature looked at him and smiled.
“Absinthe,” its voice hoarse and weak, “I was beginning to wonder if you were going to make it.”
Absinthe had to cover his nose due to the foul stench of feces, rotting flesh, and blood, as he made his way toward the demon.
“I've come for your soul, Mephistopheles.”
“I know.” Chuckling, Mephistopheles stood from his bronze chair, breathing heavily, his legs trembled with every step he took. “Abigor told me.”
Absinthe's heart skipped a beat. “What?”
“Did you really think you could trust the word of a demon? Of course, he told all four of us. Astaroth is waiting for you.”
Absinthe grabbed his gun. “Abigor told me that he wanted your souls?”
“Exactly, that's what he told you. He informed us that you were attempting to cleanse the world of our 'scourge,' as you put it.” 
Mephistopheles coughed and grabbed a staff with three skulls situated at the top. “My boy, if we were a scourge don't you think angels would have obliterated us after thousands of years? You may not know, but the universe is more corrupt than you think.”
Absinthe scoffed. “And you tell me not to trust the word of a demon.”
The fiend laughed. “Abigor wouldn't dare fight against the most powerful demon lords. He knows he would die. Now,” he stood straight up, his skin stretching tightly over his bones, “fight me and let's get this over with.”
Mephistopheles pounded his staff on the ground and a fleshy mass emerged, its smell worse than a rotting corpse under the scorching sun. It had a thick torso, tree trunk-like arms and legs, and a small head void of any facial features. It charged Absinthe without hesitation, who jumped out of the way, and slammed into the wall, leaving a cracked indentation. 
“Get him, you fool,” Mephistopheles yelled, his voice cracking, “kill him, rip him apart!”
Absinthe pointed his gun at the head of the mass and fired. The bullet entered its forehead and exploded out the back of its head. It turned toward him and ran at him again.
“You can't kill that which is not alive, Absinthe.”
Absinthe repeated his dodges as the golem continued its attempts to ram into him. He barely escaped its fifth or sixth effort to squish him when it pinned his coat to the wall with its fist. It was clear that it was unintentional, but he knew he had to be more careful. He ripped his coat away and slipped behind the creature.
It turned around in circles to search for him but Absinthe stayed behind the creature, mirroring its movements.
Mephistopheles scratched at his skin, his face twisting in rage. “You cretin, he's behind you. Kill him, already!”
Before the corpulent mass could turn around, Absinthe jumped on its back, or what he was sure was its back, and dug into its body, cutting off a slab, than digging a hole into its chest, and sawing off its arm with his dagger.
He used his weight to knock it onto its side, causing it a bit of trouble to stand again. Absinthe took the opportunity and cut its legs off and its remaining arm, leaving a squirming mess of meat. 
He looked at Mephistopheles whose bony face was contorted into an expression he'd never seen before, one he was sure he couldn't mimic without ripping a facial muscle or two.
“Well, I didn't kill it.”
The demon screeched and smacked his staff on the ground again, sending a wave of sinew toward Absinthe.
Dodging it, he was caught by the tendons that fiercely and quickly wrapped themselves around his body, creeping up his legs and twisting over his arms. He slashed at them, rancid smelling blood spewed onto him, leaving him gagging.
He looked toward the demon who had taken his chance and sent a mass of legless humanoid creatures of flesh crawling his way. He jumped to his feet and hacked at the aggregation of semi-humanoids, jumping over a few as they grasped for his legs. He stomped on the last few creatures heads, their spongy insides splattering onto him.
Absinthe stopped dead in his tracks, staring directly at Mephistopheles, his gun pressed against the demons forehead.
He pulled the trigger, Mephistopheles' brain matter spewed onto the wall behind him, blending in with the breathing flesh. The lanky, abscessed body of the demon lord slumped to the ground with a few fingers twitching.
“I guess I won.”
The body convulsed violently, shaking and writhing. The arms and legs flung out in different directions until a mist floated out in the shape of Mephistopheles' face. It screamed loudly until it evaporated.
“Now I know what to expect.”