Enrico Maxwell sat alone in his office. It was late, late at night and he was still reading. He'd been reading since he'd arrived this morning with only the briefest of pauses to rewaken his body with the - he had to say it - divine expresso of Father Renaldo. It was late and he was tired, but his pride wouldn't let him sleep just yet. He would absorb this information this night, and on the following, he would start out for the City of Angels to perform his sacred duty as a member of the Iscariot Organisation.

He ran a hand over his temple and a frown creased his forehead as he discovered that at some stage he must have clenched his hands into fists, dragging furrows in the silver-blond and destroying all order it had started the day with. He propped the file against a small picture frame - very small; he had only one surviving relative - and reached back to tug the tie from the hair at the nape of his neck.

Gloved hands brushed the skin in his efforts, and he could feel the marks through the cloth.

Once, long ago, when he had been young and significantly more foolish than he was today, he had been caught by the very demon which he strove to slay. The demon had caused damage enough before he had summoned the strength of mind, of faith, to destroy it. And then as he had lain, recuperating, a heathen he had thought dead lunged from the shadows, striking him and branding him with a symbol of great evil power...

They'll come to you, and one day they'll destroy you... your pathetic God cannot shield you forever!

Of course He could. But that did not change the purpose of the mark, nor its power. Enrico was Iscariot's exorcist, but all too often he drew the demons too close and suffered dearly for it. It worried Yumiko to the point of tears. (Yumie was nothing short of impressed.) He combed gloved fingers through his hair absently, watching the fine strands slide part around the message on the back of his glove.

Speak With Dead

Enrico's mouth twisted in a sardonic smile. That was certainly appropriate. He finger-combed his hair down over one shoulder and leaned forward to turn the page of the report of a demon summoning.

The next night, he would leave the city-state. He would go to Los Angeles. Perhaps the heathen would be proven right.

But then, perhaps he would not.

Author's Note

Maxwell has always seemed too cool and self-important to be a mere paper-pusher, so I decided he had to have powers of some description. Apaprently in my head, he handles the exorcism of true demons and spirits of Hell.

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