VOICES, STRANGE SONGS, COMMERCIALS and other snatches of radio programs drifted with the static until it stopped on an objectionable voice reporting the news: "Father Dick Badden, the parish priest of the Church of Christ's Second Coming, is dead. He succumbed to a massive cardiac arrest last night at his private retreat house. He was 66."

     The voice came from the black sedan traversing the long road amidst scanty vegetation of Nirvañana's badlands.

     "Christians are dying," the voice shifted from news reporting to an acerbic commentary. "One day ago, the dead bodies of the pastor and twelve members of a Christian cult were found. Police report indicated that it was a ritual mass suicide using a cardiac arrest drug."

     The car turned to the Mary Immaculate Convent, a lone, middle-of-nowhere building in the badlands. Its eroded condition seemed to evoke the mixed feelings of awe, shame and solemnity.

     "Aw, give me a break, will you?" the commentary went on. "Ritual mass suicide? Hah! Liars go to hell. It's nothing but the usual police cover-up."

     The car parked in front of the convent's entrance.

     "According to a reliable source, the name Infinit is being whispered in hushed, terrified tones in the police station."

     A click killed the voice.

     Police Detective Tomb Heap, a tall crescent faced man with a goatee, wearing dark designer three-piece suit, tie, wingtips and all, got out of the car. He stared at the convent and pulled an apple from his side pocket, revealing a handgun in his holster and cellphone and radio clipped on his belt. He took a bite at the apple and stared at the convent for a long time before going in.

     In the chapel, Sister Teresa, in her complete nun's habit, was kneeling at the prie-dieu before the altar, praying.

     Heap, half-eaten apple in hand, entered the church with the Mother Superior. The detective walked to the altar and stood before Sister Teresa with brazen effrontery seemingly born of innate superiority complex.

     "Sir, you're standing between me and my God," Sister Teresa said.

     "You're requested to come with me, Sister," Heap said. He put his hands on his heaps to subtly display the handcuffs tucked into his waistband.

     The Mother Superior gaped in surprise. "Detective Heap, are you trying to arrest Sister Teresa?"

     "This is an official request from a duly constituted authority," Heap said. "Come on out to the car. I'll brief you on the way."

     "You've got the wrong person," Sister Teresa said.

     "Wrong person, my ass!" Heap said. He turned to the Mother Superior. "Oops, pardon the expression, Mother."

     Heap squatted and put his face in front of Sister Teresa's face. "You're Detective Grimmilda "Grimmy" Reaperby. You're the so-called Demon Slayer. But after your controversial massacre of a gang of murderous wackshmucks they called you Grimmy Reaper."

     "She no longer exists," Sister Teresa said.

     "Hannibal Cromwell ordered me to bring you in alive even if you're dead," Heap said.

     "Cromwell, huh?"

     "Grimmilda Reaperby?" the Mother Superior said. "Sister Teresa, you said that your name was Mary Therese Smith! And that you were a librarian."

     Sister Teresa rose. "I must confess, I lied."

     The Rolling Stones sung "Sympathy for the Devil" in the car stereo as they drove away from the convent.

     Grimmy Reaper, riding shotgun and still in nun's habit, prayed the Rosary while Detective Tomb Heap drove and ranted while eating the apple.

     "I told Cromwell I could handle this serial killer. He said no. He thinks we have a demon in our hands. The chief is slipping. Just because he murders by numbers, doesn't mean he's a demon. And why always blame it on demons? Humans are much worse. I tell you, even angels can do nasty things. Read the Bible—who's the number one mass murderer of them all? God. Quick proof? Sodom and Gomorrah. What say you?"

     "I'm prayin'," Grimmy said.

     "Ugh! Will you quit that sanctimonious façade? You're makin' me nauseous! Beneath the penguin costume is a real badass killer."

     Grimmy held her breath for a few seconds and resumed praying.

     A bend on the road, a long dusty turn, and they were now crossing Nirvañana's Mobius Bridge.

     The old cantilever bridge glowed with eerie Gothic luster in the after-light of the departed sun. It was as mystifying as it was squalid. Its state of bad repair was perceivable at a glance; cracking and crumbling in many points, the seasons had mercilessly gnawed the paint, its supporting framework of beams, struts, and other parts of the truss were rusty. All over the bridge it seemed like an invisible power had cast a bewitching spell: enigma.

     "They say, when the Department wants some guy put out of business—you get the assignment," Heap said. "Sooner or later, the bad guy disappears without a trace. Nothing beats a license to let go of one's homicidal instinct, huh?"

     A low, fitful, mesmerizing music from a reedy flute broke the mournful silence of the bridge.

     "They say you hunt demons for sport and you kill them with silver knives forged by fairies," Heap said, laughing out loud. "Silver knives forged by fairies? Sounds like some bad B-movie stuff to me."

     At the other end of the bridge a young sweet-natured teacher played the flute. She was walking in the middle of the bridge followed by school children that seemed to march to the hypnotic tune of the flute music.

     Grimmy continued to pray with eyes closed.

     "They say you're Nirvañana's best agent. Well, I tell it as it is. You don't impress me, so-called Grimmy Reaper. You're just a typical female to me."

     The car slowed down and yielded to the peculiar parade of the teacher and the children.

     The teacher gazed at Grimmy with a deadpan expression.

     Grimmy opened her eyes, as if a loud explosion just stunned her. She stared back ambiguously at the teacher.

     "Pull over," Grimmy said.

     "What?"

     "Stop the freakin' car!"

     The car stopped. Grimmy got off.

     Heap looked at the rearview mirror and saw a terrifying spectacle: the teacher was leading the children to a suicidal jump off the ledge of the bridge.

     Grimmy raised the bottom of her robe to reveal a leather knife sheath strapped to her right leg that held three eight-inch silver throwing knives. She drew one knife and pointed its tip at the schoolteacher. The teacher twisted her body from the waist up 180 degrees and gave her a wicked look.

     "Not another note, and drop the flute," Grimmy said.

     The teacher stopped playing the flute.

     Heap got another apple from his pocket and stepped out of the car, grumbling. "Why can't women just mind their own business?"

     Without the music, the children had wakened from the trance and were now screaming in fear. The teacher crouched and hid behind them—showing only her left eye to spy on Grimmy Reaper. Then she played the flute again, putting the children in zombie-like trance and taking them to the ledge of the bridge.

     "What—you're a teacher and you can't follow a simple instruction?" Grimmy said. "Fail." She put her left foot forward and bended her knife-wielding right arm at the elbow, raising the knife alongside her head.

     "Easy, Reaper...mind the kids...the knife...you can't throw," Heap said.

     Grimmy turns to Heap. "Throw?"

     She swung her forearm forward from the elbow so that it was now straight out in front of her, releasing the knife without looking at the target.

     The knife missed a child head by a hair's breadth and hit the teacher's left eye. The impact propelled her more than one meter away from the kids before falling dead on the ground.

     Heap's jaw dropped. "No. You can't be true."

     "True? Oh, I thought you said throw." Grimmy cracked her hands. She produced a pack of cigarettes from underneath her habit and got one stick using her lips. From her wimple, she took out a hidden lighter and lit the cigarette.

     Heap's eyes were wide. Awed.

     The body of the teacher burst into flames.

     "And that's your typical female demon," Grimmy said. "I suggest you call the Crucible to send people to take care of the kids."

     As the demon vanished, the children awoke from the trance, crying and shrieking. Grimmy approached the kids with open arms to pacify them.

     Heap followed her, gripping his apple tight, his steps tentative.

     "You're—you're crazy!" Heap said.

     "No, I'm Grimmy."