Ungodly Forces
Chapter One: Rachel's Basement is a Nice Place to Visit, But You Wouldn't Want to Live There
From the diary of Santana Lopez:
The stairway that led down to Rachel's basement was dark, with barely enough light to see by. I gripped the railing with white knuckles, terrified of falling – something Coach Sue would definitely not approve of - while the Glee Club's resident hobbit skipped along as though she had a spotlight illuminating each step for her alone. Which, you know, she may have actually had, come to think of it. This is Rachel we're talking about.
"Hey, Rachel," I called in the dimness. "How about some lights up in here? I don't really feel like breaking my neck today."
"Oh!" I heard her say. "I'm so sorry, Santana. I'm so used to navigating these steps without them that I don't even think about it anymore." Her fingers snapped, and the next thing I knew, the stairway was illuminated by a set of evenly spaced torches set in sconces (yeah, I had to look up the right word – sue me) all along the walls above our heads.
That's right, I said torches. And that wasn't even the weirdest part of the deal, not by a long shot (as I would soon see). Still, even though I knew I'd probably regret asking, I gave voice to the question that jumped to the front of my mind anyway.
"Rachel, why the fuck are there torches in the walls? Do your dads have a habit of not paying the electric bill or something?"
She chuckled at the question as though there was absolutely nothing weird at all about part of her house resembling something out of a monster movie, or a particularly depressing episode of Game of Thrones. I began to wonder if she'd lured me down here only to chain me to a wall and force me to listen to her sing the entire Streisand catalog, front to back.
(Then again, I thought, as long as she did it while she wearing her current outfit, that might not be such a bad thing.)
"My fathers are quite financially solvent, actually," she replied in that I know so much more than you kind of way she has, "but in addition to being a much more efficient source of light and heat for this portion of the house, the torches serve a very important purpose, one that would of course not be readily apparent to one who's lacking in knowledge of things arcane."
I groaned at the paragraph of Berry-speak. "At the risk of boring myself to the point where I decide that throwing myself down these steps would be a good idea, I'm gonna ask you what that 'very important purpose' is." I looked at my feet and then realized that the steps were made of stone. "And then you're gonna tell me why we're walking on stone, and not wood or some more modern material."
The stairway seemed to go on forever as I waited for Rachel to answer. I had to admit I was glad for the warmth the torches provided, although their presence still freaked me out a little. The dull slap of footsteps on stone echoed a little too loudly in the silent space occupied by mini-Streisand gathering her thoughts, deciding how she wanted to answer my question. Yes, I know her that well – even though Rachel's back (her strong, sexy back) was turned to me, I could just see the give me a minute, I'm thinking expression she always has on her face when she's choosing her words. Like so much else about Rachel Berry, it's kind of annoying, but so much a part of her that I can't imagine her any other way.
"They're...protective. The torches and the stone," Rachel finally answered, speaking slowly, the way she might if she were trying to explain the intricacies of the international stock market to Brittany. "They help to protect us and the house from things within and without."
My blood ran cold at that, despite the cheerful flames crackling above our heads, and I shivered at the thought of needing to be protected against something in my own home.
"Um...would you mind telling me exactly what that means, Hermione?" I asked, hugging myself with the arm that wasn't holding onto the handrail. "And how freaking long is this stairway, anyway? I feel like we've been walking downstairs for fifteen minutes already."
"You know, I've always wondered what those books would have been like if the protagonist had been female. They might not have sold as well, but they might have been even more important works." Her bare shoulders went and down in a shrug. "I guess we'll never know. In any event, it's better to be the heroines in our own stories anyway. Wouldn't you agree?"
I was about to take off one of my specially designed Cheerios Nike sneakers and launch it at Rachel's head, protection or no, when she suddenly stopped and turned to me with a smile that was completely unlike the 'show smile' I was so used to seeing from her in Glee. This smile was so real, so warm and genuine, but no less white and dazzling, that it made my knees a little weak. Or maybe that was just the result of the hundred or so stone steps we'd just walked down, right after I'd endured one of Coach Sue's insane practice sessions.
"I'm so excited!" she exclaimed. "I've never had anybody down here before. There are good reasons for that, of course, but still – it's so nice to share this part of me with a friend, after keeping it a secret for so long." She opened her arms wide. "I'm going to hug you now."
Before I could even begin to protest, I was trapped in the embrace of all one hundred and two pounds of Rachel Berry, her powerful arms squeezing the breath out of me. Now I knew what her workouts had done for her besides make her look insanely hot – they'd made her ridiculously strong. I actually felt my feet leave the ground as she hugged me, and had to gasp out, "Rachel – please – my ribs," to get her to ease off just a bit.
"Sorry," she said, her face still buried in my shoulder. I sucked in a huge gulp of air as I felt the pressure ease. "I – I'm just so happy! Thank you, Santana, for trusting and believing in me. I assure you, I won't let you down."
"You're welcome, short stack. Thanks for caring."
I melted into her embrace then, oddly touched by the sincerity in her words, enjoying the reassuring strength in her hold. My hands traced lazy patterns along her back and shoulders, reveling in the layers of muscle they found there. They traveled further down along her sides, coming together below her waist, to rest on her -
"Santana. Is it...customary for you to put your hands...there, when you hug people?"
I lifted my hands as though they'd been burned, but Rachel held fast.
"Didn't say I minded it."
Oh. My hands resumed their former position, and I felt a kind of warmth kindle inside me that had nothing to do with the torches – a warmth I hadn't felt since before Brittany and I ended things a couple of months ago. A warmth I'd badly missed. "Well, in that case..." Damn Rachel and her amazing body, pressed so firmly against mine, with all that soft skin and oh so sexy muscle readily available to touch.
We stayed like that for another minute or so, and then Rachel stepped back. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. Her smile now was soft, almost shy; she looked down at her feet as I stared at her, taking in her vulnerable stance, her subtle beauty. In that moment, I saw the fragility within her, for all her strength, and it both surprised and puzzled me. This was another side of her I hadn't seen before.
She cleared her throat, wiped at her eyes, and when she looked back up at me, the vulnerability I'd seen was gone, replaced by the look of determination that was all too familiar to every one of us in the New Directions. She was all business now, and I knew that it was time for me to put away the...other thoughts I'd been having about her, and get down to the reason why I was there in the first place.
But before I could begin to speak, I suddenly felt compelled to take in my surroundings. The space was huge; it felt as though it was too large for the house to contain it. Ancient paintings and tapestries, things far older than I could comprehend, hung high on the walls, above shelf after shelf of large, heavy books with black or brown leather bindings, and on each shelf there were sculptures that looked like gargoyles or dragons or other, stranger creatures that I imagine someone wouldn't recognize without an advanced degree in medieval studies, or at least without having read all of The Lord of the Rings. In the center of the room, behind where Rachel stood, there was something that looked like an enormous podium, on which sat the biggest book I'd ever seen in my life.
"This place is...really, really creepy, Rachel. Where's the stage, the karaoke system, the projection screen TV? The plush couches?" I asked, remembering another, far different Berry family basement – the place where she'd held a very poorly planned out party for everyone in Glee, resulting in multiple hangovers and the most memorable performance of a Ke$ha song in the history of McKinley.
Rachel let out a full, throaty laugh, the kind we rarely heard from her in Glee, and I kind of – okay, really – liked the huskiness of it, so different from the controlled, measured tones of her speaking voice. Immediately, I wanted to hear it again.
"This is...not exactly your average, everyday basement. It's more like its own little pocket dimension. Kind of a spatial displacement field, if you will," she explained, gesturing around the room with her hands. "Large enough for both the entertainment area – the area you remember from that unfortunate party I hosted – this library, and my workout space, yet small enough to fit within the foundation of this house. Very useful, wouldn't you say? Cost my fathers a small fortune, but well worth it."
"Yeah, I understood approximately none of that," I said, shaking my head. "You're saying that your basement isn't a basement? It's...another dimension?"
"Precisely, yes. The normal laws of physical space don't apply here. The room simply adapts to our needs." Rachel snapped her fingers, and suddenly we were back in the party room. She snapped them again, and we were in what looked like a gigantic gym, filled with every piece of gym equipment you could imagine, and a bunch of other stuff that looked like it came from some sort of military training camp – targets, human-looking dummies, an obstacle course – and then, with another snap, we were back where we started.
"Holy shit...how...how did you do that?" My head spun, and I felt slightly nauseous. "And please, for the love of Mr. Schue's sweater vest collection, warn me next time, okay?"
"I'm sorry," she said, hurrying over to a corner of the room where a cube refrigerator sat. I heard more than saw her open it, my mind and guts still both reeling a little, and then she was pressing a small bottle of cold water into my hand. "Here. Drink this. It will help."
I did as she advised, taking a deep gulp. The icy liquid was refreshing, and the headache I'd felt developing was instantly gone, along with all the aches and pains I'd acquired during Cheerios practice. I stared at the water bottle, wondering what the hell was in it.
"Acqua fantastica," Rachel said. "Water from the First Spring. The nourishing liquid of creation itself, according to my fathers' research."
I turned my stare from the bottle to her, a few choice words in reply all cued up in my head and ready to roll off my tongue - but after what she'd just done with the basement, I decided not to risk the chance that the place really did have a dungeon. Suddenly, I really didn't want to end up there, because who knew what might come out once Rachel was done singing...?
She took a sip from her own bottle and pointed to a rather soft-looking black sofa. "Why don't we sit down now, and you can tell me exactly what happened the other day?" she asked gently.
"That sounds like a capital idea," I said, wondering once again just what I'd gotten myself into as I plopped myself down onto the couch.
The sofa was incredibly comfortable, so comfortable that I felt a strong urge to just curl up and take a nice nap for the next half-century or so, but Rachel's inquisitive eyes held me like a steel trap. I couldn't look away, so I let out a long sigh and started to tell the story.
"So, it's like this: I was at a party last weekend – a Cheerios party, obviously – and this guy rolls up on me and starts coming on to me with, like, the lamest pickup lines you've ever heard. He's one of these rich, good-looking, smug, entitled, egotistical white boys from Lima Heights, born on third base and thinks he hit a triple kind of guy, all perfectly coiffed hair and immaculate clothing – like, seriously, he made Kurt look like a slob – and his look at me, I'm so perfect attitude annoyed the hell out of me from jump."
Rachel nodded, her expression so serious and thoughtful that I almost laughed. Seriously, she looked like a therapist; I wanted to hand her a pen and note pad and start talking about my childhood. Then I remembered the part of the story I wanted to forget - the part I'd have to relate next - and whatever humorous thoughts I had flew right out of my head.
"Go on," she said, smiling what I guess was meant to be an encouraging smile, though I didn't feel encouraged in the least. "I know this is difficult – encounters between humans and demons always are – but it's important that you tell me as much as you can." Her hand reached down to cover mine reassuringly; I hadn't realized that it was trembling until that moment. Her eyes held me still, and somewhere deep inside, I found the strength to continue the story.
"He told me that he always gets what he wants, and he never takes no for an answer. And he'd heard, even at Carmel or Dalton or wherever he goes, that I 'never say no.' Then he...he put his hand on my arm, and it felt so...so cold. Like, cold to the bone. I've never felt anything like that in my life. And he looked at me with this...this weird combination of desire and complete disdain, like I was just...just a toy for his amusement. Like he'd just as soon dissect me as fuck me. It was so creepy and repellent and all kinds of disgusting, but his grip...it was really strong. And there was this...this smell...wafting off him, coming from him in waves. I can't describe it – no one else seemed to notice it, but it just seeped into my nose, into my skin, and all I wanted to do was get up, run out of there and wash it away, scrub myself until I got clean again."
At this point, I was shaking and trying desperately to hold back tears, feeling as though I was reliving the encounter all over again. I could almost feel his eyes on me, and my arm began to ache where he'd touched me. His cold breath tickled my cheek again, his tongue darting out to touch my ear as he whispered to me in a smooth, calm, yet utterly deadly voice.
"I – I told him to fuck off, that there was no way in hell he'd ever get all up on this...that – that I was way out of his league, and besides that, the only straight I am is straight up bitch, but even if he was a she, he'd still have no shot." I felt Rachel's fingers thread through mine, felt the strength in them, her eyes never leaving me, even though my head was down and my own eyes were firmly shut. "And...and then...I felt something prick at my arm. He...had claws, or talons, or whatever you wanna call them. He had fucking claws, and they were - they were cutting me, knifing into my flesh. The pain was - it was excruciating, like literally nothing I've ever experienced. I was terrified. But I still told him no. No, and fuck no."
I sobbed outright then, not even caring that I was doing so in front of Rachel. The memory of what happened next was almost too much to bear, almost more than I could put into words, but her calm, solid presence enabled me to find my voice, wet and raspy with tears and remembered horror though it was.
"That was when he said, 'On this pathetic Earthly plane, I am known as Jesse. Jesse St. James. But in other worlds, other realms, I am known by names that your sadly undeveloped human tongues could never hope to pronounce. Names that inspire fear, and terror, and nightmares unending. You could have had pleasure and riches beyond your wildest dreams, had you but chosen to give yourself to me. But no – you chose to insult me instead. That was a mistake."
"Senjems," Rachel whispered. "One of the cruelest, most vicious and sadistic of all the demon sects."
"You...you know them."
"I know about most of the major fifth-level sects. Some choose to stay hidden and work in the shadows, but not this one. I'm not going to lie, Santana. This is not good." The grim tone of Rachel's voice made me shudder once again. From out of nowhere, she produced a tissue, handing it to me so I could dry my eyes, wipe my nose and regain some semblance of dignity. I gave her a smile of thanks. "The only saving grace in this situation is that the Senjems clan has a sense of honor, which can work in our favor. I'm assuming that this...Jesse made some reference to this?"
"Yeah. He said something about how fortunate I was that he wasn't as lacking in honor as I was in manners – like I was the asshole in that situation – and that he would allow me to find a champion to defend my honor against his. Pretty fucked up sense of chivalry, if you ask me."
And then he laughed as he showed me his true form. No one else saw, but I did. The perfectly coiffed hair, the moisturized skin, the tailored clothes...all of it disappeared, and I looked into the face of sheer malice. The incarnation of despite for all other beings in existence, whom the demon clearly considered its inferiors. Its huge form bulked menacingly, towering above me, a picture of horror. Its mocking smile became a sneer, exposing row upon row of jagged teeth in a mouth large enough to swallow me whole, and its cold yellow eyes regarded me as though I was an insect it could flick out of existence – which, I realized, I was. And then I passed out.
"...and when I woke up, it felt like I'd been out for hours, but it was really only a couple of minutes. Quinn and Brittany had no idea that anything had happened. We stayed at the party for a couple more hours, and then we left. I didn't see any sign of him again."
Rachel let out a long, slow whistle, a hollow sound that echoed off the basement's high ceiling. "Thank you, once again, Santana, for trusting me with this." She stood up, and because I didn't know what else to do, I stood up too. "I'm so sorry that this demon chose to inflict itself upon you, but the good news is that you're safe now."
I blinked, startled. "Wait, what? What do you mean, I'm safe now? There's a fifth-level demon – whatever that means - out there who wants to do who knows what to me. And just because I talked to you, I'm safe? Just like that?"
She took a deep breath, and I couldn't help but watch her abs ripple beneath her tan skin. Then an image of the demon's clawed hand, a hand the size of a Christmas ham, tearing through them like tissue paper, came to me. I had to shake my head to clear it away. The thought of any harm coming to Rachel as a result of what I'd done made me feel sick. I drank some more of the water to ease the nausea.
"That's how it works, Santana. A sense of honor is a rare thing in a demon," Rachel said. "And honestly, that's the only reason you're alive right now - because a fifth-level demon, as I told you the other day in school, is nothing to be trifled with."
"Yeah, I kinda got that."
Rachel took both my hands in hers and fixed me with another very serious look. It was her you really have to pay attention right now look,a look I usually ignored, because it was the one she wore in Glee when she was about to explain yet again why she deserved the solo over everybody else. But I didn't dare ignore it now.
"Your attitude likely amused as much as angered it, but an insult is an insult nonetheless. Understand this: fifth-level demons are very powerful. They are creatures of rage, powered by hate and chaos. They feed on pain. They live for torture, for inflicting suffering on others. Brutality is second nature to them, yet what they crave most isn't fear, but respect. They see themselves as noble, somehow. That's where the honor code comes in, and now it's the only chance I've got to drive this thing out of Lima and back to the Fifth Realm where it belongs."
"You make it sound like I've got nothing to do with any of this anymore. I...I don't understand."
Rachel sighed wearily, and belatedly, I realized that I wasn't the only one who'd been stressing out over this whole demon thing. Apparently, she had too.
"My fathers were Lima's guardians against this kind of thing for a long time, Santana," she said, and her eyes looked past me at some memory, some time in the past, a time when fighting demons was just a theory for her and not a reality. "Until I turned sixteen. Then the mantle of guardianship passed to me. The first time I faced a demon, it had control of my mother. She was its thrall, and I...I nearly lost her. Ever since then, I've trained my body, mind and soul every bit as hard as I trained my voice, and I've gotten better and better with each demon I've fought. But this is going to be the hardest thing I've ever done."
Shocked, I wanted to ask her just what had gone down with Shelby - hey, it's probably a fascinating story - but the pain in Rachel's eyes warned me off that particular subject.
Then she regained their focus, her gaze locking with mine.
"I'm your champion, Santana. That means you're off the hook."
I grabbed her hands, squeezed them hard. Tears came to my eyes once more, and my voice was a harsh gasp as I pleaded with her. "No, no. I can't – I can't let you do this, Rachel. I don't deserve it, after everything I've said, everything I've done to you. I'm not worth it."
"Oh, Santana. Of course you're worth it. Do you really think any of that matters now? I told you before: I'm the only person who can do this. It's what I have to do." She sighed, looking down at our joined hands. "So go home, get some rest, and I'll see you on Monday."
I refused to let her hands go, feeling consumed with worry, sick with fear and guilt. I didn't want to see her suffer because of me, but it seemed like I had no choice in the matter. Apparently, even demon fights had rules, and Rachel has always been one to follow the rules.
"What...what are you going to do? I mean, no offense, but that thing is a lot bigger than you. I don't see what you can do against it. Unless you plan to, like, sing it to death."
She smiled at that, releasing my hands, and my heart lightened a little. "I may be small, Santana, but what you felt when I hugged you was only a mere fraction of my strength. And I have a lot of other tricks up my sleeve – well, when I'm wearing sleeves, anyway." She chuckled at her own joke, but when she flexed her arms unexpectedly to accentuate the punch line, I nearly swooned; she chuckled again, and I knew she'd seen my eyes widen, heard my breath catch at the sight.
Damn. Two tickets to the gun show, please.
Her smile told me she was pleased at my reaction, but then her expression turned serious again. "Don't worry about me. And don't tell anybody – not Brittany, not Quinn, and especially not Kurt, Mercedes or Tina. Those three live for gossip, as you know. This is not the kind of gossip anybody needs to hear."
"What, like they'd believe me if I told them anyway? You think Quinn's gonna buy that you're sporting a killer body underneath those terrible animal sweaters? Not in a million years."
"You're probably right about that," Rachel replied, blushing at the compliment. "But all the same, it's best if you don't mention anything about any of this to anybody. Fifth-level demons may be honorable, but they're not always predictable." Her tone was low and deadly serious. "If you were to anger it further by revealing its presence in Lima to anyone but me, outside the safety of this house...well, I'd rather not think about the possible repercussions that might result."
I didn't want to think about it either. "Noted."
"Well, then. I should get back to my training," Rachel said. "But where are my manners? I'm so sorry, Santana. I'll walk you out."
I bit my lip, torn between an acute desire to watch Rachel train and an almost equally strong desire to go home, get into bed and pull the blankets over my head until Monday morning arrived. My extreme exhaustion finally won out, surprisingly, so I nodded for Rachel to begin the climb up those damned stone stairs. And as we trudged our way upwards, I silently swore to myself that no matter what the half-pint said, I'd be back to help her in any way I could.
There's no way in hell I'm going to let her face that monster alone - 'cause no one gets to mess with my hobbit but ME.
