I woke to The Animals- House of the Rising Sun.

I rolled in my bed and looked at the clock, the glare of the red LED display a blur until I blinked the sleep from my eyes. It read 9:21, and assuming that I set the alarm the night before, I must have hit the snooze button twice. Was I that tired?

Apparently

I lay back, letting my head sink into the soft down surrounded by 500 thread count Egyptian cotton, working up the strength and courage to get out of bed. I was tired, I realized, having been up late the night before, getting my new practice room ready; scrubbing and cleaning all day, setting out the mats and hooking up the equipment. It had been almost 3 am when I had finally called it a night, shambling back to my apartment downstairs and collapsing in my soft, warm bed.

I struggled, forcing myself to sit up, stretching for the ceiling and curling my toes, wincing as bones popped with the effort. As my senses came more alert I could smell the coffee waiting in the kitchen- thank you Joe Dimaggio, and heard the hiss of the radiator as boiling water pumped through decades old pipes to heat up the building. Clear and cold was the forecast for the next several days as I recalled. Ah, winter in New York.

Finally I rolled out of bed, feeling the immediate chill as I dropped to the floor to begin my morning ritual. One hundred push-ups, my hands and toes cold against the hardwood floor, waking me with every thrust. Up. Down. Up. Down. Then one hundred quick sit-ups, legs extended and off the ground, half way and hold to a three count…

I was sweating soon as the radiator started to rattle and crank out the heat. I wanted to sprawl, but instead stood and stretched again, cooling down a bit before I made my way to the kitchen and my reward- coffee. I stripped off my Rangers jersey and padded towards the front of my apartment.

Entering my living room I saw that I had messages waiting on the telephone’s answering machine. They could wait a little longer as I strolled into the kitchen, my mind set on caffeine, maybe a slice of toast as my stomach was growling. I poured a cup and took a long, black sip, my eyes closing as I relished the taste and smell, then went rummaging through the cupboards for bread. I had half a loaf but it was more green than grain. I tossed it and made a mental note to buy groceries.

Refilling my I ‘Heart’ Archers mug I headed back into the living room and flicked on the lights, then sauntered over to the angry red winking eye of the answering machine. I settled on the arm of the sofa and pushed the ‘play’ button…

Tasha. Thanks fer nailin’ that Serpent block last week. Sorry I couldn’t get back to ya sooner. Things are jumpin’ in Seattle. Might be up yer alley. Gimme a call.

Your welcome, Nick, and we’ll see.

BEEP

Natasha. Steve. Just wanted to give you a head’s up. There’s something nasty going on involving Ultron. The Avengers are on Red Alpha. Watch your back.

Thanks, Steve.

BEEP

Natasha. It’s James. I’ve drawn Low Monitor Duty in Union Square Park today. Care to join me for lunch, say one-ish? SHIELD’s treat. Call me.

BEEP

“Definitely, Mister Woo,” I said, feeling a smile curl my lips. I’d seen more than a bit of Agent Woo the past few weeks since we had worked together on the run-in with the Russian Mafiya and Yelena Belova- the other Black Widow- my replacement. He had been assigned to me after my stint in Vegas, half body guard, half partner and something had definitely clicked between us. I had to admit that he was not my usual type- that being what- a brash archer or a blind adventurer? Did I even have a type?

Whatever, Jimmy Woo had filled a void in my life over the last month or so. If something was developing, so be it, but in the least I was enjoying his company, and companionship.

But later, Jimmy. Right then I needed to focus and hit the gym. I definitely needed to get back into a rhythm. I swiftly dressed in sports bra and shorts, then grabbed my work out bag, keys, and Blackberry and headed upstairs.

I had been almost ecstatic when the Co-op Board had informed me that the apartment above mine would be vacant at the first if the year. I was tired of Balley’s and was feeling a little guilty showing up at Avenger’s Mansion every couple days to use the facilities when I wasn’t an active member. Jarvis didn’t care of course- bless him- but still, I felt bad taking advantage, plus I was getting out of my regular routine. In my line of work, one had to keep up a regular regime or one got hurt or dead really quickly.

I had jumped on the third floor apartment, draining my savings and putting myself in debt to secure it, but it was perfect for my needs. It was the same size as my own on the second floor of the old brownstone, and with me as the tenant below I did not have to worry too much over the noise that I would be making. I called Tony concerning the reservations, and he had sent out a crew of contractors the next day to see what could be done. Tony and I go way back, and we both stopped counting who owed whom more favors. His crew had come in- the best that money could buy. His money of course, not mine. In the space of a couple days they had knocked down walls, reinforced the floors and ceilings and rewired the whole place to my needs. A day later the equipment I had required started to arrive and was installed. The bathroom had been expanded, a sauna created along with a massive bathtub surrounded by marble with brass fixtures. The kitchen had been refurbished (and the refrigerator restocked). The rest of the apartment had been opened up into a training room complete with wall and floor mats, a heavy bag, a light bag, a free weight set and various top of the line exercise machines including a running board, a gravity bar and a flex master. There were racks of various weapons lining a few of the walls; swords and staves mainly. One full wall was lined with floor to ceiling mirrors with a balance beam set before it.

I was amazed with the speed that Tony’s crew had worked, and within a week my training room was ready. I smiled as I stepped into the converted apartment, dropping my keys and cell onto the table by the door and my bag on the floor. I clicked on the track lighting and hit the background music, letting Vivaldi play softly from the room’s many hidden speakers as I strolled to the room’s center to start stretching properly.

If I was meeting Jimmy at one, I had two hours for a decent workout. After stretching out the night’s kinks I went into a savate kata, combined with bo staff. If I had more time I would have ran through a wider combination, but I wanted to get some time in on the heavy bag, along with some weight lifts as I had been lax on the latter recently. I needed to schedule some time at a firing range also in the near future, as it had been awhile.

After a half hour of kata I went to work on the bag, wearing a five pound pair of sparring gloves and ten pound leg weights. I started slow with medium force punches, gradually working into a quicker, steady rhythm, leaning into the bag and increasing the force of the blows. Once I found rhythm, I added kicks, low, medium and high, short and round, snapping and knee thrusts. I danced about the bag in an age old routine that had become almost second nature. My old dancer’s legs kicked in, the ballerina of my youth stepping lightly, ignoring the burn in my shoulders and calves as I stayed on my toes throughout. My hips started to sway with the motion, the dance taking me to new heights as sweat poured, trickling down my back, matting my long hair and drenching under my arms and in more intimate places.

An hour later I was breathing hard, feeling the burn in my shoulders and toes, a pleasantly warm ache lacing my inner thighs. I slammed a final blow into the bag with a yell that made my voice crack, the punch that would have shattered a ribcage on a normal person. I breathed deeply, one knee touching the mat as I started to cool down, trying to find my center again. I recited mental puzzles that Ivan had taught me years and years ago, calming, eventually easing into peace again. I felt good, both tired and refreshed all at once.

Standing, I bowed to my opponent, such as it was, then glanced at the clock on the wall. Barely an hour to shower and change before my rendezvous with Jimmy downtown. I would have to hurry…

Running late, I grabbed a cab, which took me down the West Side Highway along the Hudson River. Being a Saturday and still fairly early, traffic was not too bad and we made good time. I settled in the back seat and watched the scenery race by, shifting my attention between the backside of the city’s skyline and the docks to my right lining the river. There were several cruise ships berthed in the larger docks running through the seventies, mainly huge ships that were like skyscrapers set on their side in the water of the Princess line. The Love Boat in various incarnations made several runs from Manhattan; south to Florida, the Caribbean and South America as well as to Europe and north to Canada. They also had berths in Brooklyn I knew. Further downtown we passed the recently refurbished aircraft carrier, the USS Intrepid, now an Air/Space/Navy museum since its retirement years ago. We sped along with the traffic’s flow, past the docks for the tourist Circle Line, and the pricey helicopter pad at 34th Street.

The cabby; an Arabic gentleman in his fifties according to his posted ‘Hack’ License, complete with a thick turban and a long, bushy beard peppered black and gray took the 16th Street Exit off of the West Side Highway at Chelsea Piers and headed east. I liked Chelsea, and had actually looked at a couple apartments in the neighborhood before finally settling on the Upper West Side. There was a nice blend of culture and a smooth transition as the city got pricier as you headed towards fabulous 5th Avenue. Warehouses gave way to brownstones at 10th Avenue, and those in turn changed to higher buildings that were built back in the 20’s and 30’s between the Avenue of the America’s and 9th. High rise co-ops started popping up around 6th, the avenue also sporting one of the best mid-ranged shopping areas in the city. Crossing 6th Avenue we passed St. Xavier’s church and school and several more expensive buildings before crossing over the exorbitant 5th Avenue that sported an Armani outlet, Bebe’s, Sacco, Victoria’s Secret and countless beauty shops and salons. I remembered Mesa Grill was just a block away even as we passed a slew of trendy, yuppie restaurants that bordered the park.

The cab turned onto Union Square West and I paid the fare and got out, stepping on a patch of cobblestone reminiscent of the beginning of the previous century. Union Square had been a major stop for the old trolleys in the 1800’s I recalled, and if rumors were true the express had made a wild turn here along Broadway. The famous Del Monico’s had once occupied the far corner, and just up 14th had once stood the equally infamous Tamby Hall of Boss Tweed’s days. My own memories of the park were that it had once been a haven for the homeless and drug dealers. Times had indeed changed.

At the north end of the park was an open-air restaurant and band shell/ amphitheater that saw much activity in the summer months. At the south end were the famous low steps that always seemed packed with people, no matter the weather, watched over by General Washington himself on horseback. There were several subway kiosks in the park, as it was a major stop on many lines. And the park itself, like so many in Manhattan, offered a bit of escape into the greenery, rich with trees and strolling paths, a fountain and a dog-walk.

I took a deep breath of the crisp air as I stepped up on the curb. The Green Market was in full swing I saw, farmers from Long Island, New Jersey, Connecticut and upstate New York having set up stalls and selling their wares; meat, produce, preserves, crafts, whatever. There were also other vendors with tables; painters and photographers selling scenes of the city that they had captured, bead workers and artisans sporting jewelry. The Humane Society had a booth set up trying to find homes for stray animals. The Mutant Liberation Front had a table piled high with literature, a bug-eyed little man rasping into a Mister Microphone and touting his organization’s endeavors. I smiled. Only in America.

I shoved my hands deeper into my coat pockets as I strolled into the park towards where Jimmy had said he would be. I had called him back and we set up a date- so to speak- and where to meet. He was doing LMD- the original- Low Monitor Duty, which meant in spy slang that he was watching someone, or a group in a stationary setting with low danger. As I passed the statue of Ghandi that graced the southwest corner of the park, ordained with flower leis, I understood.

Saturday was Open Mike Day in Union Square. A microphone and speakers were set up and anyone and everyone was allowed to step up and speak their mind. Occasionally there would be artists, rappers or dancers that would take advantage of the free amps, but more often political agenda and conspiracy theorists dominated the microphone. As was the case as I approached.

There was a man at the mike dressed in a black suit, his face cracked and haggard with lines, framed with a wild mane of silver hair spouting revelations about the ‘End Times’. 2012 was just around the corner, and the end of the world was, as always, imminent. He had a huge crowd gathered, tourists and homeless mainly, but a large group of wide-eyed believers if I read faces well.

And I do.

I shrugged my shoulders in my long, woolen coat as a sharp wind blew through the park. I thought I had dressed for the chill air in my long coat, turtleneck, denims, scarf, hat, gloves and Ugg boots. Dress in layers they say- I was still cold.

I saw Jimmy near the subway kiosk, looking slick and handsome as usual. He’s dressed in his skinny black suit, retro from the sixties and complete with tie, covered in a long coat like my own, but his head was uncovered showing his mane of straight black hair, and his coat was open, flapping in the breeze. He’s smoking a cigarette of course. Way too hot. I licked my lips and tried not to scurry forward.

“Jimmy!” I called, stepping up beside him. He smiled, which made me smile in return. I started to lean in for an air kiss, then thought twice.

“Natasha,” he said, blue smoke roiling and spiraling with his words. “Happy you made it.”

I shrugged, suppressing a shiver. Was I really that cold?

“My afternoon was free,” I said, trying to sound casual. “What’s going on?”

Jimmy dropped his cigarette butt to the ground and crushed it out under the toe of his shiny black leather wingtips. “Watching the Conspiracy Theorists,” he said, glancing at the silver-haired man at the microphone. “SHIELD sets a monitor here every week, just in case someone starts spouting propaganda that hits too close to home. Brother Theodore there,” Jimmy shrugged at the man at the mike, “has some interesting theories on the rise of demonic forces. There’s another man that is certain that the Skrulls have infiltrated Washington. He could be right.”

I smiled, remembering the Kree/Skrull war of several years ago when that was an actuality. They were exposed then, when Rick Jones saved the universe, but who’s too say that it could not happen again?

“Hungry?”

“Yes, actually.” I had skipped the green toast, and now my morning coffee was roiling in my otherwise empty stomach.

“Then let’s eat.”

Jimmy extended an elbow and I slipped my arm through his, allowing him to lead me across the park and Union Square West towards one of the yuppie restaurants that bordered the park. The Heartland Brewery was a gentrified place with rock music blasting in the background and remodeled walnut as far as the eye could see. It was two floors, and actually crowded for a Saturday afternoon, though there was no wait. The bubbly, vivacious Hostess led us upstairs to a table and handed us menus before bopping away back to her station.

“So, sailor,” I mused, perusing my menu. The prices were upper end, but Jimmy had said that SHIELD was footing the bill. “You come here often?”

“Rarely,” he said, his hand straying to his coat pocket and the pack of cigarettes there in. New York restaurants and bars were smoke free however. “The Buffalo Burger is good,” he said with a sigh, “as is the Chicken Penne in Vodka sauce.”

“The Buffalo Burger?” I asked with surprise. He shrugged, picking up on my train of thought.

“I am long since Americanized. I enjoy red meat. I will burn in Buddhist Hell of course, but I will enjoy life before I am condemned.”

I had to laugh.

In the end I ordered the Shrimp Scampi and a Brooklyn Lager. Jimmy ordered a New York Porterhouse and a Guinness. Mine was to die for. I’ll definitely come back.

Hopefully with Agent James Woo.

Edwin Nettle slumped against the cold damp stone and sucked on the butt of his cigarette. He did not smoke- not really, but afterwards, after a session it just seemed to bring him back down to Earth and calm him remarkably. It seemed right.

His ass hurt, and was cold on the slick moldy brick. His back too ached, a sure sign that it was getting nasty cold up on the streets. The brickwork of his hidey-hole was frigid, sucking in the low temperatures and holding them tight. The first bitch was steaming. The second not so much, as he had not flayed her yet. He would though, eventually, before she died.

Edwin leaned forward and reached his hand into the cavity of her chest. Her name was Tamara he had learned, according to her passport. Little Japanese bitch, all arrogant and uppity, a snooty snot that deserved a little comeuppance. Lucky he saw ‘em. Lucky he got to ‘em first.

He flexed his fingers, massaging the bitch’s heart as she gasped and thrashed about. He’d used the saw to cut open the hole, slicing off the ribs, ignoring her screams. Her friend had still been alive at that point, but she had nothing left. With her skin peeled away, her tits bleeding, she had been done. A good example. A good sacrifice to the Dark Lord.

He massaged her heart, eight years of medical school not going to waste, and smiled as her eyes popped open again. She drew a ragged breath and writhed in her bonds, still trying to get away. She tried to speak, to beg, but her tongue lay in a bloody mass a few feet away near the sewer grating. He’d drop it down the pipe later, after he was done, after he had burned the chopped up the bodies and soaked the ashes.

It’s beautiful, what you do.

Edwin sat up at the gravelly, high-pitched voice. He looked about frantically for the source, wondering as he saw no one. Was there someone? He gripped the wall and worked his way to his feet, his legs shaking from his recent exertions.

“Who is that?” he asked, turning slowly about his hidden chamber. “Who’s there?”

One that you called, Edwin Nettle. Your Lord and Master. Your friend…

Edwin stared at the dark form that coalesced before him, swirling in the shadows all black and silver, a death’s head visage grimacing where his face should have been. There were no cloven hooves as he had expected, no horns protruding from a red forehead as the Sisters of Mercy at St. Ignatias had taught him for so long. No spiked tail and fangs, no bat-shaped wings, no fire and brimstone. In fact, the only thing that matched the image that had been beaten into him year after year, was the eyes; blank and cold.

Void…

“Lucifer?” Edwin asked cautiously, licking his lips in anticipation. He had called and been answered, but still he had heard of those that had been tricked. Lord of Lies they called him. He was ready, but the Dark Lord simply chuckled.

Hardly. I know Morningstar. He’s busy. I however, am seeking restraint.

The thing smiled, a death’s head rictus that shriveled Edwin, body and soul. Darkness swirled about him, and Edwin heard a gasp. He glanced at the Japanese girl and saw her body twitch and fidget, expelling its final breath. He had let her die, forgotten. Tamara. He would remember her name. He remembered all their names…

Twenty-two. You’ve been a busy boy, Edwin. I applaud your efforts.

Edwin nettle beamed. The Dark Lord approved.

Would you like to help me Edwin? Would you like to please your Lord?

“Of course,” Edwin said, dropping to his knees before the dark figure. “My life for you.”

Very nice, D’spayre said as he gripped Edwin’s skull in a bony hand. The demon squeezed, crushing Edwin Nettle’s skull with little effort and less remorse. A moment later, the demon waved his hand and Edwin’s skull reformed, bereft of skin, a sorry resemblance of his own rictus grin plastering the bare skull of his face.

D’spayre grasped what had been Edwin by the chin, tilting his head in inspection, finally nodding in satisfaction…

Very nice. Very handsome. I dub thee, Fear.

Go forth and multiply…

And it was good.

Next issue: Okay, so the old flame did not show up this issue. Next time for sure, and just in time I should say as the nastiness kicks up into high gear and the Widow gets a beat down- maybe…

Come back here for- Devils: Part Two – ‘Dilly-o in the Deuce’

Or ‘When Titans Clash!’ Haven’t decided yet…

-Curt