The carriage rocked up and down and screeched as the train slowly braked to a stop at the station. Marcus put down the morning edition of Le Figaro that he was reading to glance out the window at the huge Paris rail terminal. The train intercom sparked to life as the crew announced in Italian, French and then English "Ladies and Gentlemen, we have now arrived in Paris..."

The announcement startled Marcus who’d been lost in his own thoughts whilst reading, memories of his last trip to France flooding back. It’d been ugly business but that was the nature of his work, ugly, always had been and thanks to his damned agreement, always would be. He looked out the window his eyes sweeping the landscape with a casual disinterest, satisfied with what he saw. Marcus reached down and touched his toes then swiveled about and stretched his stiff muscles after the hours of traveling from Milan.

He stood up and checked the small but thankfully vacant first class cabin to ensure he had not left any of his belongings then pulled his small black briefcase that he had stowed in the overhead rack then opened the cabin door and followed his way along the train the exit. Outside the train he found himself joined into the stream of people of all walks of life and nationalities from businessmen, locals and backpackers, chattering in French and smatterings of other languages as they flowed from their carriages along the platform towards the main entrances of the terminal. The station itself was like a huge art deco hanger with ornate, curved iron features besides train after train lined up like anxious snakes waiting to slither away. The air stank of a combination of train oil and cigarette smoke from the multitudes of people who had been pining for their nicotine fix after their long arduous journeys. 

Marcus walked aloof, coolly observing with his hawk like blue eyes his surroundings, trying to spot a hint of trouble, but found none. To an observer he seemed to be an island sailing through a human sea.

He was tall and handsome with a youthful glow while maintaining an aura of maturity and seriousness. His face was well chiselled and square jawed with five o'clock shadow and he currently wore his dark brown hair swished effortless back like a windswept playboy. Marcus considered himself as a man of taste and discrimination. He wore a stylishly tailored slim fitting grey suit that perfectly hugged his dimensions of his large masculine figure, the two buttoned jacket done covering the bottom of a lush red tie. He pushed through the crowd, slipping between the bodies effortlessly, he walked down a set of tile steps and turned a corner and came to the exit of the station and walked through the impressive archway out onto the main street and found himself looking out onto the sprawling cityscape. After the long trip from Italy Marcus was famished and decided to stop for a spot of lunch which he decided to have at a small family-owned restaurant outside of the station.

He briefly spoke to the waiter in hurried French, his accent was so flawless the man naturally assumed Marcus was a local and ushered him politely with a haste reserved for natives inside to a table by the back wall and promptly offered the menu for his perusal. After some indecision he ordered a cheese and fruit platter entree, a main of roast chicken and salad with chips and tarte du citron for dessert. Just because he was in the mood he asked for a bottle of Moet to help wash it down. The chicken was a little dry for his liking but on the whole he found the experience relaxing and spent nearly two hours savouring his meal and reading some local men's magazines. Finally he paid the bill and left a couple of Euros tip for the waiter and left the restaurant.

 Marcus then hailed a taxi which he instructed the driver to take him to his hotel in the 3rd Arrondissement.

It was a warm clear day and the streets were buzzing with activity. Marcus enjoyed Paris. He visited the city only occasionally but in the centuries he had done business here it had grown on him as an interesting place to be. 

Sure they don't cabaret like they did in 1930 anymore but the French still know how to have a good time, mused Marcus. Fifteen minutes later he arrived at L'Hotel Continental Francais and was met by an attractive blond receptionist. "Your suite is prepared for you Mr Moore," she said, blushing at Marcus's handsome Adonis-like figure and charming smile.

"Have you stayed here before Sir?"

"Yes," answered Marcus in a silky voice.

"We have a customer loyalty system where you can get points by registering previous visits in order to get free stays; Would you be interested Sir?"

"Sure, why not."

"When was your first visit?"

"1933," said Marcus seriously.

She looked puzzled then Marcus quickly started laughing as if she'd missed the joke. "On second thoughts don't worry about it."

"Okay then. Here is the key card, Room 41."

"Thank you very much," he replied, his eyes taking her effortless grace in as he did. "Oh... do you have any messages for me?"

The blond receptionist paused and then went through the hotel message boxes. "Actually there is something," she retrieved and handed over a cream envelope. "This arrived for you today sir."

She smiled impishly at him, her eyes bathed in suggestion and longing .Marcus flashed a polite smile and walked away to the elevator and went to up to his room on the fourth floor. It was a luxurious “Rene Coty” suite with slick modern decor, cream walls and large comfortable bed that had the thin, narrow French pillows that he hated more then air travel.

He placed the briefcase down on the drawing table, unbuttoned his jacket and undid his tie. Now visibly relaxed he sat on the edge of the bed and opened the envelope. It contained a simple white card that had a place and time: tomorrow morning at eight o'clock at Notre Dame. Marcus understood what this meant, dropped the card on the bed and went to the en-suite bathroom.

“Christ” he thought “Notre Dame, this must be a big one” the last time he visited Notre Dame he’d been reading a first edition issue of “The Count of Monte Cristo” the tattered copy still remained on his shelf to this day. Marcus shook himself from the nostalgia and chastised himself for being so sentimental, he needed to keep a clear head and tomorrow would be a busy day so he undressed and being a creature of vanity, placed his clothes neatly on the bed before stepping into the shower and enjoyed a long, ice cold shower, he studied himself in the mirror for a moment as he bathed, looking at the scars he’d acquired through a life time of risk and crisis. Stepping out of the shower, his senses now sharpened he dressed himself quickly and walked over to the window, looking outside he sighed and decided to spend the night in. He was in Paris, though after all he'd seen it many times before. It may have come along way from the grotty little fishing village he first remembered but at the end of the day it was the same place with just a few more bakeries.

Marcus ate his breakfast of croissants with jam and bacon and eggs delivered by room service at six o'clock the next morning then followed it up by having another cold shower and dressing. He combed his hair and put on a monochrome black double breasted suit with a beige spotted cravat then left the hotel.

After a casual stroll along the river Seine he crossed over the bridges to the middle island where Notre Dame cathedral stood. He took a moment to admire the great gothic structure and its swarm of stone gargoyle guardians from the Square below. To his right was a large equestrian statue of Charlemagne. It wasn't particularly accurate but then again Marcus didn't care because as far as he was concerned the 8th Century just wasn't that was comfortably on time just before 8 o'clock and stood in line with the first group of tourists who were filing inside the cathedral.

Inside the cavernous stone building every step on the floor and every whisper made by everyone else echoed about the place to be heard. Marcus feigned interest in the stain glass and biblical references around the main chamber and casually strolled to the passage to the cloisters. He loitered there for a moment and then when he was sure no one was in ear shot of him he crept behind a stone pillar and fingered the shape of a pentagram on the wall. The white stone pillar creaked and shifted open to reveal an inner spiral stairwell leading down. Marcus slipped inside and trotted down the stairs as the passage closed behind him. The stairwell was dimly lit with an orange glow and led down several floors to the bottom which as he neared the wall opened into a wide open and well lit space.

It was a modern and sterile grey chamber which in the centre sat two rows of seats, all but one of whom filled with well dressed people busying themselves with papers in their laps. The only distinguishing characteristic of the place was a huge red pentagram emblem of the wall. Marcus walked into the room as a member of a small group that pulled the strings of the world.

Marcus was a Demon. Unlike what most people thought Demons were not red horned beasts with goat legs, they were like everyone else. There was a Hell and there was an devil but since it was impossible to come to the mortal world it was through earthly agents that the world could be influenced by evil. Demons were people who had sold their souls for favours, special powers or what seemed to be immortality in exchange for the service of evil. Each Demon had a different background, role and age and none of them knew the identities of the others, except for the number they went by.

"Evening Number Six," boomed a gravelly voice with an American accent through a microphone. "Take a seat."

At the head of the rows was a raise throne like seat and desk for another tall man who appeared in his late forties. Marcus faced him; he was thin, wearing a casual unbuttoned black suit with simple business tie over a dark blue shirt. His was a tanned weathered oval with slicked back middle aged brown hair. Marcus bowed slightly in deference to his master, the man he knew only as Mr Xardos, and took his place in the last empty seat in the row closest to him.

"Good morning," Xardos began, grabbing the attention of everyone in the large room. "Thank you all for coming on such short notice. Those bastards from Sanctus managed to close down our old meeting place in the Vatican... to think the popes used to be so helpful. So business will be centred here for the time being."

He took a moment to glance at everyone with wide beaming eyes. "Okay, let's start the meeting. Number Two, speak."

A black woman in a cream power suit to his right reported into her microphone: "Adequate success in being made in creating tensions in the Middle East. We hope to have another major by the end of the year. Also drug production is up this quarter and we have devised new methods of exporting to the West."

"Excellent," said Xardos. "Number Three."

An obese man in an orange Hawaiian shirt spoke with a satisfied grin: "Our Media branch has scored higher ratings for this season's programming. Our long term studies show that the latest generations of children are more superficial and influenced by our corruption than ever before. My people predict the complete mental degradation of the world's youth and the undoing all the efforts of public education within the next twenty years.

Xardos laughed maliciously again: "Excellent, excellent... In ten years the internet has done more for our crusade than anything in the last ten thousand years! “He paused and his eyes became so wide they seemed to pop from their sockets." Before we continue I have a small problem I’ve become convinced that one among our number that has committed the most atrocious crime.” His eyes swept around the table before him, everyone visibly terrified, with the exception of Marcus who was curiously fixated on the man opposite him who was nervously glancing towards stone steps they’d all arrived by. Xardos continued “When you made your pacts with Mephisto you agreed to some simple rules. Apparently this is too much to remember for some of us and you all need some reminding. One of you has committed Amor ad Hominem, as you know love of humanity is a capital crime amongst our elite number”

A shocked gasp echoed through the chamber. Marcus remained unaffected but coldly scrutinised everyone around him. To him this was further proof that emotions were a troublesome obstacle in the way of doing one's work and living life of the senses to the full. Whoever it is, is a moron for throwing away the life of a god, he thought with contempt.

"Number Four," said Xardos. "You are the accused of emotional attachment. Do you deny it?"

Number Four was a well dressed young man with long black hair. At first their appeared genuine fear in his eyes and then what seemed to be the mustering of courage and consignment of his fate.

He sighed and answered with finality "No."

Again shocked whispers and gasps made their rounds through the chamber.

"Very well, you know the punishment," said Xardos with his hand raised up, fingers curling as if about to strike and then-

With cracking suddenness Number Four exploded into flames like a human bonfire. Marcus ignored the screams of agony from his opposite being cremated alive and casually perused the items on the meeting agenda.

Once the flames subsided and the charred seat was removed it was announced everyone below Number Four was now promoted one place. A promotion, thought Marcus cheerfully, this is turning out to be a good day!

The Demons one by one gave their various reports until at last Xardos came to Marcus.

"As you all know, Number Five has been on leave since his successful operations to neutralise certain musicians earlier this year. He is undoubtedly one of our best assassins who has done some important work for us over the years."

"Thank you Number One," said Marcus to Mr Xardos.

"As you all know right now in Paris a World Armistice Conference is being held which stands jeopardise all we’ve worked for. Sanctus has invested a lot of effort into this and it must be stopped by any means, which brings me to the next part of our meeting. Number Five, beneath your seat are your orders and the targets for elimination. Our plans require your success in this assignment. I know you won't let us down."

"I don't intend to Number One," replied Marcus coolly.

The Meeting quickly changed course and Marcus grabbed the dossier that was beneath his seat and opened it. He scanned over some of the pages and then studied the photo of the first man he was ordered to hunt down and dispose of. He read the name at the bottom of the photo: Dr Maximillian.

“Before I forget Number 5, you are to speak to Martyras Logan before you proceed any further with your assignment.”

Marcus nodded in agreement and went back to his dossier, his mind all business.