They’d called Jack Stanhope because he was reported to be the best. He even looked the part: rumpled hair, rumpled trench coat, haunted eyes giving the impression that he’d seen things that ought not to be spoken of. He had a funny-looking watch that didn’t show the right time; he glanced at it now, then looked over the room where the sleeping girl lay.
“Yep,” he said, in his voice that had just a trace of a British accent. People expected that sort of thing, just like they expected props like the unusual watch. “It’s haunted all right. By my guess it’s the Mists of Olomon-Goth. Terrible thing. Drags a person’s soul down to the Infernal Regions bit by incremental bit so’s you hardly notice but then all at once they get sick and then it’s nearly too late.”
The poor girl’s parents gasped in horror. “Is… is there anything you can do, sir?” the mother asked. “I thought she was acting odd but I didn’t notice until… well… please, please can you help?” Her voice broke.
Jack sighed. “I wish I had Berwhal the Avenger here, but it can’t be helped. Fortunately, I’ve got something else.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a funny little piece of porcelain. “This,” he said impressively, “is the Scransom of Percivalus, Banisher of-”
All at once the room door banged open and someone new burst in, surrounded by golden light so blinding it made Jack wince. “All right,” she said, “Knock it off, you poser.”
“Who’re you?” Jack said angrily. “I’m a legitimate dark arts fighter, and we’re in the middle of a serious-”
“I’m an angel,” she shot back, “Constance, AF1, and it amazes me that you guys never think of calling us. We’re the embodiment of goodness and light, y’all! And besides, that’s not the scransom of whatisface anyway, that’s a cheap knockoff. Wouldn’t have worked if you’d tried.”
The girl’s mother looked back and forth, trying to make sense of the situation. “But… but what about the Mists of…”
“Oh, that?” Constance said. “Yeah, that’s real. Here, let me take care of that for you.” She drew her sword. Light sliced through the room. Jack and the parents heard a distant unearthly shriek, and then the undefinable air of gloom was gone and everything suddenly seemed brighter.
“Mom?” the girl on the bed whispered.
Her parents rushed to her. Jack started to say nothing, but whether it was relief or outrage no one ever knew because Constance seized him by his coatsleeve and dragged him bodily out of the room. “Honestly,” she said once they were outside, “Do you know how many times I have to clean up because you guys try to go up against one of them and you make a mess of it? Just leave it to the professionals, why don’t you.”
“I am a professional!” Jack said, insulted.
“I meant them!” Constance said, gesturing towards a nearby chapel where the bells were ringing for vespers. “Did you think of getting some holy water?”
“Well-”
“And even if you had, do you know the point of it and why it works?” She rolled her eyes. “Amateurs.”
“Fine,” Jack said, “I’m sorry. I’ll do better next time.”
Constance sighed. “Get back to me when you’ve at least taken a proper theology course. Oy. Also, your watch doesn’t have the right time, did you know?” Then she turned, raised her wings, and vanished, halo and all, in a spray of light.