Daemonblade

It was like any other night. A long, relaxing stroll through the mild moonlit darkness. An excuse not to think any more, just to enjoy the stillness only 3 a.m. can bring. Wait, scratch that, it wasn't still. Not any more. I could hear.... A car? This late?

"Cops," I said quietly, "I never met a single cop on bad terms before I started walking."

As if in response to my comment, the night was suddenly pierced by carnival flashes of red and blue.

"Hold it right there, boy," said the loudspeaker in a tinny Southern drawl thick with the false bravado of a tiny man with a large gun.

I knew instantly that the cop and I were not going to be buddies, and my tranquil evening was going to end in a spacious cell in the nearest county jail. It had happened a few times before, but I try to avoid it if at all possible. It makes it easier for them to find me.

I could hear booted feet behind me, but decided not to turn unless they asked me. Small-town cops can get trigger-happy in the wee hours of the morning.

"Out a little late for a brisk constitutional, aren't you son?" asked the voice above the boots.

This wasn't the one who had spoken over the loudspeaker. This one sounded a lot like my father. I hadn't heard that voice in years. Spooky.

"Could you turn around for me, please?" he asked.

"Sure, officer," I said, all peaches n' cream, "Is there a problem?"

"We've had some problems with vagrants lately."

"I'm just passing through, I can assure you."

"Sure you are, but I still gotta check you out, and to do that I'm gonna have to ask you to come with me. It won't take long, then you can be on your way."

"Okey-dokey," I sighed, holding out my hands.

"No need for that, you're not under arrest, not yet anyway," he said, smiling. "Just hop in the cruiser and we'll be on our way.

"Are you nuts, Howard? Aren't you going to frisk him, or should we let him shoot us as we're driving along?" This was the loudspeaker again, but now it was tinny and fearful.

He'd have enough to be frightened of soon enough, I thought sadly. I liked these guys. They were normal. I didn't want to see them hurt.

"Okay, Art, okay," he yelled to the cruiser, "Don't get your panties in a twist." Turning back to me, he shrugged almost apologetically, "Sorry, but it is procedure."

"Fine with me," I said, "But let me warn you; I'm very ticklish."

That got a laugh out of him, but it ended abruptly when he felt the knife under my denim jacket. Well, knife isn't exactly the right word for it. It's more like a dagger or short sword, about eighteen inches long. It's almost too big to hide. The cop drew it out of the sheath inside my jacket and gave a long whistle. Not only is it a tad big, but the blade is inscribed with runes and figures. I looked some of them up at a library a year or so ago, and as far as I can tell they're some kind of pre-druidic language. Oh, and it seems to be made of some kind of silver alloy strong enough to scratch steel and not dull. Not exactly something you find on every wandering longhair you see.

"Now, what in the heck is this?" he asked with a perplexed look on his face.

A reasonable question, I thought, deserves a reasonable answer.

"It's a dagger used to kill demons," I said.

He just stood there, looking like they always do.