Three hundred and sixty-four days.

Damien’s words, spoken in that chilling, demonic voice, coursed through Jett’s body, stronger than the blood pumping through his veins. He had a new mantra now, and he knew exactly where he was going to start.

After Jett had showered and shaken himself of the encounter with Damien, he opened his laptop and clicked open his e-mail. Jett had not checked his e-mail in over a month, so there were quite a few unopened messages in his inbox, but he was looking for one in particular – one from His hazel eyes scanned the messages until he found the one he needed. Juliana had sent him a message a while back, inviting him to a cocktail party she threw. He wrote down the address and opened MapQuest. He printed the directions and began to plan.

He vaguely remembered Emon mentioning that he, Lauren, Jules, and her boyfriend had dinner plans; Jett had been invited to come. Jett, of course, had turned this invitation down, but he could not remember for what night these plans had been set.

He grabbed his phone from his bedroom and dialed Emon’s number.

“Hello?” a thick voice answered.

“Emon?” Jett replied.

“Jett? What the hell? Do you know what time it is?”

Jett suddenly realized why Emon’s voice was so thick, and decided to use his friend’s hungover state to his advantage.

“Yeah, I’m sorry man, I just have one question,” Jett said, louder than he normally would have spoken.

“Jesus, okay, what?” Emon was irritated; Jett knew this was going to work.

“Look, this is weird, I know, but I was wondering what day you and Jules are going to dinner.”

“Tomorrow night, why?”

“Damn,” Jett muttered in mock-frustration. “I was thinking about coming, but I have plans tomorrow night.”

“You have plans?” Emon asked, skeptical even in his condition.

“Just meeting this guy for a few beers, but I can’t break these plans,” Jett said. “You and Jules go to dinner and have fun. Call me next time, eh?”

“We can reschedule or something,” Emon said, sounding slightly more awake.

“No, no,” Jett said even more loudly, “it’s okay. You two have fun.”

“Whatever,” Emon muttered. “I’m going back to sleep.”

Jett closed his phone, and for the first time since Kate had died, Jett felt a smile tug ever so slightly at his pursed lips.

“That’ll be ten dollars and fifty-four cents, mister,” the clerk, whose nametag read Doc, said.

Jett silently pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and slipped out a twenty; he handed it to Doc.

“So what’re your plans to do with the ammo?” Doc asked conversationally as the register opened.

“Just going shooting with an old friend, that’s all,” Jett said flatly. This Doc character had no business prying.

“Sure is an awful lot of ammo for some shooting,” Doc said, counting change.

“I have to buy all the ammo because he can’t buy any,” Jett replied, flatter than before.

“Alright, just asking,” Doc replied. “Nine forty-six is your change. Have a nice day, mister.”

Jett grabbed his receipt and the change and shoved it into his pocket. He snatched the plastic bag from the counter and exited the store briskly.

“Only one thing left to do now,” he said to himself.

He got into his car and threw the ammo in the backseat. San Francisco’s hits station played over the radio as Jett drove to the closest hair salon. He figured it would be best to have his hair cut short and dyed, only to make him less recognizable, of course.

At first, Jett had planned to go to a small, privately owned hair salon to have his hair changed, thinking that if he ever became wanted for any crimes he committed, the cops would be less likely to look there. But then he thought long and hard about it, and decided a big salon was a wiser choice – they receive hundreds of customers every week, and a stylist would be very unlikely to recognize his face.

He pulled into the parking lot of a chain hair salon and entered quietly. He gave a name, “Mark Smith,” to the frazzled woman running the counter. The place was extremely busy, which was good. Jett had all the time in the world.

Jett took a seat next to a young mother juggling two toddlers and picked up a tabloid. He stared blankly at the pages for almost an hour before he heard Mark Smith called. He stood up and walked determinedly to his stylist.

She was short and heavy-set. Her violet hair framed her plump face awkwardly, and her large brown eyes bugged out like a chameleon’s. Her fingers, fat like sausages, were wrapped around her scissors and a comb, beckoning him toward her station.

“I’m Veronica,” she said with an accent that was clearly of Brooklyn. “What can I do ya for?”

Jett took a seat in the chair. “I just want my hair cut and dyed.”

“Dyed?” Veronica asked.

“I’m auditioning for a play, so I figured I should look the part,” Jett replied easily. He figured he had to be polite enough to be a mediocre customer; not a jerk, because then she would remember him, but not overly nice either, because then he would also be memorable. Jett was aiming for the happy medium.

“How short and what color?” Veronica asked as she adjusted the chair’s height.

“’Bout as short as my ear,” Jett said. “I think a reddish brown color will do.”

She motioned toward a color chart, and Jett indicated the color he wanted.

After a very long process that involved foil, stinging chemicals, and an embarrassing stint in a dryer, Jett was finished. He examined his reflection nervously. His face was more angular without his thick black mop surrounding it. His eyes jumped out of their sockets, brighter than ever thanks to the new hair color.

But overall, the new look suited him.

“You look like a new person!” Veronica exclaimed.

Jett grunted and followed her to the cash register. He pulled more cash out of his wallet and paid the exorbitant price, giving Veronica a seven dollar tip.

As he sat behind the steering wheel of his car, Jett grinned. His plan was in motion, and soon Kate would be avenged.

The melodic voices of Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel soothed Jett quietly as he sat in his car, waiting patiently. It was after six, and they would be leaving momentarily.

The November night was chilly, breezy, and uncharacteristically dark. His heart beat slightly more quickly than normal; he was nervous but still confident. He’d broken into some houses as a teenager, mainly just to get money for pot. Jules would be leaving soon with her live-in boyfriend whose name Jett could not remember.

“’Fools,’ said I, ‘you do not know. Silence like a cancer grows.’”

Jett continued to wait.

The front door of the small two-story home opened.

“And the people bowed and prayed to the neon god they made. And the sign flashed out its warning in the words that it was forming.”

Jules got into the passenger seat; her boyfriend was driving.

“The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls and tenement halls. And whisper’d in the sound of silence.”

The car backed out of the driveway and drove down the street. Jett turned his iPod off and waited another five minutes before he left his car. It was time to rob one of his best friends.

He exited his car and shut the door silently, not bothering to lock the door or even bring his keys. He carried only absolutely essential items with him tonight.

“If there’s a god, he’s on my side tonight,” Jett thought. Jules lived in a secluded area, and her neighbors weren’t close enough to notice what was going on. She was even naïve enough to put a spare key under a potted plant on her windowsill.

His gloved hands opened the door quietly. He could not explain what unseen force was motivating him tonight, but it was as though his every action was initiated by a master puppeteer. His instinct told him that the password to Jules’ alarm system was her birthday, and sure enough, it was.

In high school, Juliana had always been very organized, borderline obsessive compulsive. Jett knew that what he was looking for would be wherever her desk/office area was.

His flashlight was very powerful. After searching the first floor aimlessly, Jett made his way to the second floor of her house and found her study. He immediately ravaged the desk and found her organizer. He grabbed a piece of paper and wrote down the address he needed.

They would live together, Jett thought mockingly.

Then he proceeded to ransack the rest of her house. He made a terrible mess and grabbed what he believed a thief would: bank statements and similar papers, a box of antique silverware, a guitar, and an original Andy Warhol painting Juliana received for her sixteenth birthday.

He managed to carry these items to his car, reset the alarm, and drive away without incident. When he arrived back at his apartment, he shredded the papers. He had no desire for any real harm to come to Jules’ financial life.

Within a week, Jett had sold the guitar, the silverware, and the painting. He even traded in his barely used car for a motorcycle. He used the extra money to buy himself a large hunting knife that suited his fancy and a silencer for his gun.

It was not until mid-November that Jett was able to commit his first two murders. He had been watching Dale and Micah Porter for over a week; they lived in a cramped one-story shack in a coke ghetto. Normally, they went everywhere together in Micah’s beat up Ford pickup. But that night, November 15th, Micah, the bigger and older of the brothers, left alone with a bag. Jett had realized that they were growing marijuana, and the old gym bag they carried was full of pot that was delivered to dealers.

For some reason, Micah was doing this run on his own, and Jett decided to seize the opportunity. He boldly walked to the front door and turned the handle; it was unlocked.

Dale was sitting in a moldy armchair and an action movie was playing rather loudly on the small television. Countless beer cans littered the floor, along with two pizza boxes. Dale appeared to be out cold; a plate of pizza crust was on his gut and a beer can rested in the crook of his right arm.

Jett grinned. This was going to be easy. He threw the plate and the beer can onto the floor with the rest of the garbage and pulled out his loaded gun. With his right hand, he pressed his .45 hard against Dale’s forehead. He held his knife against Dale’s throat with his other hand.

Jett kicked Dale hard in the shin and his eyes shot open. A few seconds passed in which Dale was very confused. Finally, he found his voice.

“What the hell do you want?” Dale’s voice was deep and throaty, like that of an old man who has smoked for decades.

“Do you know who I am?” Jett asked calmly.

“I’ve never seen you before in my life. Just put your shit down and let’s talk this through,” Dale said, trying not to sound as scared as he was. Jett found this position, holding another man’s life so precariously in his hands, literally on the edge of a knife, invigorating.

A patient smile found its way onto Jett’s sharp features. “Ah, but you see, we have met. Think back, just over a year ago. It was at a party.”

Dale’s face went blank for a few moments, and Jett began to get impatient.

“I may have looked a little different then. Perhaps the fake blood around my mouth did it.”

It only two seconds for Dale to realize exactly who Jett was. Sheer panic crossed Dale’s features. At this, Jett grinned.

“I’ve come here to kill you. I swore I’d do anything to bring her back,” Jett said. He was surprised at the giddiness that was filling his stomach.

“Killing me ain’t gonna bring back that girlie,” Dale said, a feeble attempt to reason with Jett.

“But you see, it will. That’s why this is so beautiful. When you get to Hell, ask for Damien. Tell him I said hi and that you’re number one.”

“Number one? What the hell—“

“Ask him. He’ll explain. I hope you rot.”

Jett slid the knife slowly across Dale’s thick neck. He relished the terror in Dale’s eyes as a crimson flood poured from his jugular. Eventually, his oversized body went limp and his eyes rolled back into his skull.

A high that surpassed any drug he had ever experimented with overwhelmed Jett. He sat in a corner and waited patiently for Micah to return.

They must have a lot of customers, Jett thought as he saw headlights pull into the driveway. He stood and held his knife and gun firmly, not nervous any more. Similar to the night he had broken into Jules’ house, Jett felt an overwhelming sense that not only would he be successful tonight, but also that it would be simple, almost too easy.

The front door opened and Micah walked in.

“I made us a shitload of money tonight, you lazy ass. You still out cold?” Micah’s voice called into the living room. “Hey asshole! Get off your fat ass and come look at this money!”

Micah’s voice was now in the kitchen. “Lazy bastard knocked himself out again,” he said to himself and, unknowingly, Jett.

“Almost a thousand bucks!” Micah said. “I guess I’m gonna have to wake you up.”

Jett heard the approaching footsteps and his heart began to race in excitement.

“Look, Dale, you gotta—what the hell! Oh shit, oh shit.”

Jett cocked the gun. “Don’t even think about moving,” Jett commanded.

“Who the hell are you?” Micah asked. “Did you kill my brother?”

“My name is Jett Mathis. I killed your brother, just like I’m going to kill you.”

Micah put his hands in the air and turned around to face Jett. He stared at Jett for a over a minute before he recognized Jett. Micah had the nerve to grin at him.

“I know who you are!” he exclaimed. “Juliana’s friend, right? From Halloween last year?”

“I see you have a better memory than your idiotic brother,” Jett said, not allowing himself to get angry.

“My brother was an idiot. So you really think you’re gonna kill me, huh?”

“You took away the only thing that meant anything to me. Of course I’m going to kill you.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

Jett smiled. “Is that a challenge?”

Suddenly Micah lunged forward and tried to tackle Jett. Normally, his plan would have worked, and Micah would have taken Jett down easily. But tonight, he was unstoppable. He was shorter and less muscular than Micah, but he met Micah’s charge with ease. Micah made a short-lived attempt to grab the gun, but Jett threw him to the ground, and kept him in the same position he’d woken Dale with.

“I’ll tell you exactly what I told your brother. When you get to hell, look for Damien. Tell him you’re number two.”

Before Micah could say anything, Jett slit his throat. Again, Jett felt the high coursing through his veins as the red blood became a scarlet river, spurting erratically from Micah’s thick neck.

“Two down, ninety-eight more to go.”

Carefully, Jett made sure he left no evidence of his visit, other than the dead bodies. He scanned Dale and Micah’s corpses for any fingerprints in their blood; there were none. He left no footprints or any other evidence.

Jett left the house quietly, making sure to lock the door behind him. He walked to his bike which he had parked a block away from their house and rode back to his apartment. He was still riding his unexpected high; he grabbed a beer from the fridge.

“You must think you’re so cute,” that voice Jett had grown accustomed to said sarcastically from behind him.

“And you must think you’re cute, popping in on me like this,” Jett countered.

“You tell them, right before you slit their throats, to look for me?” Damien asked mildly. “I can get in trouble for that, you know.”

“In trouble with whom?” Jett asked curiously.

Damien shot him a look and there was a pause during which Jett knew he was not going to get all the answers he wanted.

“There’s a reason I’m here.”

“What’s that?”

“You think you’ve done so well,” Damien said mockingly. “You were patient and controlled, you bode your time, and you killed those two idiots with a contained vengeance.”

“Yes, and?” Jett asked, feeling confused.

“You wasted time. Two weeks, Jett. You now only three hundred and fifty-one days left. You need to start thinking bigger if you ever want to rescue Kate.”

“Why are you helping me? Jett asked suddenly.

Damien sent him a cold stare. “You don’t want my help then?”

“No! No, that’s not it,” Jett said hastily. “It’s just…you’re….you’re a…”

“I am a demon,” Damien said.

“Yeah, a demon. So why are you helping me? I’m just the sad excuse for a human being that you made a deal with.”

“I have my own reasons,” Damien replied.

Jett shrugged. “So then what do you recommend?”

“I’m not here to give you tips,” Damien said curtly. “I can’t do that anyway. Just start thinking…larger scale.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Jett asked irritably.

“Figure it out,” Damien said simply, before disappearing.

Jett, feeling quite deflated and angry and confused, opened his beer and slumped into his couch. While Pulp Fiction caused fanciful colors to dance before his eyes, his mind was contriving ways to find ninety-eight more evil people to kill in less than a year.

It just had to be done.

A/N: Here's a shout out to Janelle and Nathan, for proofreading this installment for me, and for giving advice and tips in general. This part is dedicated to the two of you.

Just a quick note - I'd said originally that I was only planning to make this two chapters, which turned into three, and is now four. This story has really taken on a life of it's own, and it could end up being even longer than four chapters, depending on how the writing goes from now on. I'm planning to wrap it up in the next installment, though.

A belated thanks to Carmel March for reviewing chapter two. You rock!