Disclaimer: Characters and concepts of Devil May Cry belong to Capcom, and other legal/corporate entities who are not me. This story is meant purely to entertain other fans. No profit has been made, and no challenge to copyright is intended.
Overall story warnings: AU, language, violence, genderswitch, incest, dark themes. Other chapters may contain more specific warnings. May offend the traditionally religious. Includes elements of manga and novel canon, and some anime place names
The Mirror Crack'd (Dark Ambrosia 1)
by Jacynthe Demorae
Chapter One
"He that is stricken blind cannot forget the precious treasure of his eyesight lost."
--Romeo and Juliet Act 1, Scene 1
Over the years, Vergil had developed a ritual he named The Calling. As a thaumaturgical exercise, it was inelegant, a welding of sympathetic folk magic, esoteric theory, and a sprinkling of demon lore. Yet when the one he sought was also an inelegant blending of human and demon, the odds of a favorable outcome increased. Like drew like, after all.
Or at least, it should. The success rate was not to his standards.
Vergil sat cross-legged on the poured cement floor of the storage unit he'd rented. Before him lay a massive black book, an atlas of great age. It would take a careful eye to note the parchment that made up its pages had a peculiar texture, that the inks that outlined the maps were subtly off-color--and still warm to the touch. Vergil had wrested this book, the Libellus Phantasmis Geographica from its keeper only after careful years of stalking and preparation. In the end, the defenses had proven more formidable than the librarian.
Still, four years. Four years taken from building his own power base, from finding the key that would unlock that last barrier between himself and his true destiny as the firstborn son of Sparda. He hoped Dante had a good explanation for this near-decade of silence.
He opened the massive book, turning the spell-treated pages with care. The number of pages within the great atlas remained the same, two for each discovered country. It took an act of will to 'set' the page to show the correct map at the correct time. The maps of the physical world took the most effort. One night, he'd been too tired for the task and found himself scrying for his brother while using a Civil War era map of the Confederate States.
He found the page he wanted, a large map of the East Coast of the United States. Three-quarters of the coast were grayed out, already searched. He frowned at the struck out areas. He'd worked his way across Europe and most of the continental United States in an effort to find his lost twin. Once, he'd only needed to calm his mind to reach out for Dante. Nearly ten years of separation had reduced him, a son of Sparda, to puttering with hedge witch's props.
If this next session brought no results, he would have to expand his search into Canada and Mexico. If that failed... There was the Middle and Far East, and other, less likely places. Places where Dante's nature could not be so easily hidden, and so should have been revealed long before now. He kept an ear out for such reports, wherever they might originate.
He lifted the amulet from his neck, careful not to handle the stone itself. His parents had never explained just what the red crystal was, but even his untutored eye could tell this was not a ruby. Not even star rubies held such an intense white core. Touching the crystal always left his fingertips numb, as if the stone siphoned off some of his own strength.
A black stone bowl sat a safe distance from the Libellus Phantasmis. Mere water and oil likely could not harm the book, but he'd learned such precautions in his father's library. The bowl itself was uneven, with a tendency to wobble if set set on a surface not 100% level and smooth. He lifted the bowl and set it before him.
A fat drop of oil floated on the surface of the water like a buoyant piece of black opal. He dangled the red gem over the bowl. THe only light came from a three-armed candelabra, set on the far side of the unit. Unlike those pathetic hedge witches, he didn't have to waste time on 'sacred breath' or 'patterned breathing' or whatever foolish names they gave to the most basic manipulation of power.
He and Dante were twins, physically identical to the last drop of blood, the smallest sliver of bone. Any spell cast to find Vergil cloud also find Dante, and vice-versa. He plucked a single silvery hair from his head, letting the brief pain feed into the spell He dropped the strand into the bowl, watching it begin to lazily spin on the surface of the oil. When it stopped moving, he would have an axis to search along.
Could the demons have killed Dante without him even noticing? At first, perhaps. The shock of Mother's death reverberate for a mile, blotting out all else. Eva had spent so much power, expended every talisman Sparda had taught her how to use, the maelstrom of magic had lit up worlds.
Afterwards, he should have felt the absence. He and Dante were like a plant that branched away from the same root. However disparate their paths, they were connected with a solid base. That he could not find his brother meant only that Dante had managed to construct a very hardy ward, or gotten himself captured by a powerful enemy, a sorcerer, perhaps.
Any seal broke with enough power. Any lock turned with the right key. He would get both.
The single hair stopped moving. Vergil lifted the amulet and held it over the bowl, letting the red stone move over it. An unseen force pushed the stone away from him, towards the opposite end. That was the spell's echo taking root in Dante. Vergil smiled. A strong reaction, too.
He moved the bowl aside and set to work with the map. The stone pulled his attention along the ragged line of the Dob River, where it washed towards the Hudson The gem slowed, its pointing moving in tighter and tighter circles around the region called Fairfield County, touching down at last on the city-dot of Capulet.
If his brother was not there, he would find news of him. In the past, he'd journeyed in person to such 'positive' sites, only to find the trail long cold. He'd since developed a morefficient use of his time and resources.
He took out a small drawstring pouch and worked it open. Squeezing the bag, he poured a generous handful of gritty brown sand over the spot on the map. Replacing the pouch, Vergil stood and spread his arms wide. His summoning proficiency fell somewhat short of his desired level, but it would work for this errand.
His vision blurred, the air thickening with the misty forms of disembodied devils. They swirled with the currents of the air. Weak, pathetic creatures, these, barely enough intelligence to recognize their own natures. He did not know if these creatures had ever once had physical forms of their own and he did not care to know. They were far more useful to him like this.
He concentrated, focusing his pore like a great hand pressing down. There was resistance, of course, but not enough to turn him back. The pile of sand began to vibrate, scattering across the map with a hissing sound. Vergil held the image in his mind, willing the creatures to take form The grains of sand began to rise, hanging n the air like a dirty fog.
"Go," he told the swirling cloud of dust. "Go from this spot and search this city for the one who reeks of power and demon's blood, the one who is my shadow. Call him by his name, Dante. Show yourselves and challenge his strength, and return to me with his answer."
The dust cloud split into three distinct swirls. They moaned in unison, then whirled away, leaving only a brief scattering of dry sand in their wake. Vergil touched Yamato's hilt. He'd waited for nearly a decade, he could bide the short time it would take for these creatures to confront Dante. Only one, he imagined, would return. They're all craven things, barely enough wits together to tell wet from dry. The only flaw in this plan lay in Dante. His twin might easily overcome these pitiful creatures, forcing Vergil to send after him again and again.
His gaze fell on the open atlas and the waiting bowl. Only a little longer, now.
* * *
"Massssssssster?"
A tattered red leather coat fell with a wet thwap on the floor. For a moment, fury and dread seared through him. Red, the color Dante gravitated to whenever he had had the chance or choice, as if wearing the color of his soul. Vergil dropped to one knee and gathered up the ruined garment. Raising the dollar to his nose, he sniffed.
Blood, yes, a great deal of it. Human, mostly, with the scent of cordite and scorched leather. Vergil grimaced. Even as a child, Dante had shown an indecent fascination with firearms, pestering their father to allow him to examine Luce and Ombra at any opportunity. But
surely he'd outgrown such a childish fascination. Swords were the proper weapon of the demon-blooded, not those loud toys of mortals. Yet Dante wore gunpowder like cologne, it seemed.
He inhaled again, deeper. Male fear-sweat, the stale smell of beer and cigarettes, gun oil and silver polish. Death. And almost overwhelmed by those scents, one familiar note.
He and Dante didn't smell alike, not to him. Dante's scent had always carried something wild, like the smoke of a fire about to burst control. He caught a hint of demon-blooded female, and the candlewax smell of potent sorcery. Dante had indeed worn this coat, but someone else had died in it.
"Damn you, you imbecilic vermin!" He flung the coat down on the floor, ignoring the wet 'splat' it made. Apparently, the servants hadn't entirely emptied it before bringing it to him. "I sent you fools after a man, not a woman! Surely together you have enough wit to tell the one from the other!"
Reaching behind him, he wrapped his fingers around a leather-wrapped hilt. Not Yamato--failure of this nature did not merit execution by his father's blade. This was some glorified bit of pot-metal, clumsily ensorcelled and hawked as an Artifact of Power (TM) by the fool who'd sold it to him. He kept it the way other men might keep knives for physical labor.
"Your orders were clear. Yet you bring me this?" He kicked at the offending garment.
The Pride shivered, its outline becoming fuzzy as it began to lose cohesion. "It lived, O Massssssster."
Lesser demons, those without bodies, could not manage abstract concepts like 'time' and 'gender'. The human that had died in Dante's coat must have matched the description--in the early search, he had not been specific enough, and so several elderly humans had been sped into their next lives. He had a few precious physical items that had belonged to Dante alone, but Vergil would not entrust them to the likes of these. After all, what could be used to track Dante could be used to track him, and he held no illusions as to his standing in the demon world.
"You challenged the one I bade you, one who wore this coat, and it defeated you?" he asked, wanting to be sure of the events.
The Pride cringed, scythe drooping in its grip. Sand sifted onto the floor. "Yesss..."
"But the one in the coat now is not the one you fought, the coat is proof of the one you did fight."
Its eyes sockets blazed, relieved to have pleased the master. "Yes!"
Proverbs about camels and sewing needles swam through his mind. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "All right, enough. Go."
The Pride slipped from its sand-shell, leaving a gritty pile on the floor. Vergil ignored it, staring instead at the ruined leather coat his twin had apparently recently worn. Ten years was a long time in the human world, especially for those growing from boys into men. Dante might not have matured into anything like the man Vergil was.
He crouched down, fingering the torn edges of the leather. Most of the rents were singed, enormous punctures made by something very hot, moving very fast. Bullet holes, and high-caliber, if his minimal knowledge held true. Not enough blood to be fatal, not for a son of Sparda.
The coat itself looked expensive, good quality workmanship and materials. Except for the ornaments, of course. He touched one of the few silver ornaments left intact , a crudely carved Eye of Horus that could have been purchased from any street vendor in any city of decent size. Why would Dante sport such a paltry protective charm?
Showy. And distracting. The method in Dante's madness lay in the disorienting power of his annoying behavior. For all his whimsy, Dante had inherited a full share of a devil's cunning. Vergil disdained firearms, so he could read nothing from the ragged holes, aside from the simple that that before encountering the Prides, someone had emptied a great deal of lead into his brother.
"Making yourself popular, I see," he murmured.
Who was the female, though? Her scent to be mixed so thoroughly with Dante's indicated she had to be a very iintimatei acquaintance. Vergil snorted softly. At least he had the sense to choose a female with demonic blood. Still... had Dante been deterred from seeking him out because of a iwoman/i?
Well, Dante had the attention span of a cat, Vergil allowed, distracted by anything flashy or noisy that happened in a half-mile radius. He sat back on his heels, considering. Fact: Dante had very recently worn this coat. Fact: Between getting shot full of holes and the appearance of the Prides, Dante had abandoned the garment, and a human had, for some reason, donned the bloody rag. His servants, confused by the thick blood scent soaking the garment, had attacked and killed the human, believing him to be their true target. Fact: somewhere in or near Capulet City, Dante lived close by a female with strong demonic blood.
If he wanted more details, he would have to go to Capulet City.
He sighed. He hated traveling.
* * *
Capulet City was nothing like he'd expected. Oh, the ubiquitous urban trash, both human and otherwise coked the streets. Colorful lights played on dirty walls and greasy streets. Tinted glass in the buildings and cars hid interiors like a woman lowering her eyes in false modesty. The underworld of a city did not organize itself in tidy grids. A building here, a street there, a neighborhood, a parking lot, eddies of darkness spiraling inward.
Humans cherished their little masks, their precious facades. They liked to present themselves as virtuous, heroic, and wise. All it took was one mis-step, one tiny error, and their masks fell away. Their facades crumbled, and they willingly threw themselves into the pit Sparda had dragged them out of at such great cost.
The Freetown section of Capulet changed his perception. The very air seethed around him, an urban blister about to burst. A nascent Hellgate. Interesting, Vergil thought. He could tell very little about the gate at this distance. It felt small, perhaps artificial. But it was here, and according to the spell, so was Dante.
He passed a few hard-eyed women in tight dresses and cheap, spindly shoes. Where and how had Dante met the woman? he wondered. Contrary to Hollywood's dreams, succubi did not flourish in the world's oldest profession. The men who hired such women lacked the core of purity that made coupling with a human palatable. So what manner of demon had Dante secured for himself?
That Dante kept a female close enough to leave her scent on his closest possessions meant he had a lair somewhere within the city, a place he could hold against enemies. No matter how carefully his brother might hide his power, Vergil should be able to detect it and trace it back to its source.
A grudging admiration flared. To create a ward so strong even a twin could not unravel took enormous power and concentration. Still, it was a purely defensive magic, and very draining. Dante would need to replenish himself often to sustain it. Which, he thought, turning a corner, might explain the woman. Sex was a handy power source and less likely to draw attention than death and bloodletting.
"Hey! Hey, Redgrave! Where's my damn money, asshole?"
Running feet pounded up the pavement behind him. A heavy hand fell on his shoulder. Vergil spun with it, coming face to face with a swarthy human man. Dark eyes widened in surprise.
"Shit, sorry, man, I thought you were someone else. I mean you look just like--"
Was it going to be this easy, Vergil wondered, after all this time?
"Oh?" Vergil cocked a brow. "And who did you think I was?"
The human's gaze fell on Yamato. He raised his hands and began to back away. "Nobody, sorry. My mistake."
Nobodies were the nameless vermin of the Underworld, lower than maggots. Vergil did not like being compared to one, even in the clumsy human vernacular. He closed the growing distance between them with a single pace.
"A mistake, yes. One you are compounding by lying to me. Who is this Redgrave you speak of?"
"Nobody, man, look, I'm sorry, I didn't mean anything by it--"
Vergil knew his appearance was distinctive. Humans just did not run as pale as he and his brother, not without some genetic defect to account for it. That a complete stranger could accost him, mistaking him for another... This man had seen Dante, knew him by another name.
Vergil grabbed the man's shirtfront and pushed him down a narrow alleyway. The man fell sprawling among a pile of black garbage bags. One of the bags burst, releasing a fetid, soggy mass that stank of rotting fish. Vergil followed after. The only exit was behind him, and this was not the kind of neighborhood where Good Samaritans flourished.
He raised Yamato, holding it lengthwise. The man froze, staring.
"This will go much easier for you if you simply tell me what I wish to know." He set his thumb under the hilt guard. "Now, tell me of this Redgrave."
His eyes fixed on the sword, the fallen man began to talk.