AN: Regarding timeline: Supernatural/S1E16 – Dresden Files/Pre-Proven Guilty.
It's always nerve-wracking when you go down, down, down into Undertown.
It's dark. I don't mean twilight dark, I mean the electricity goes out and it's so pitch black you can't see your hand even if you held it right in front of your face dark. It's wet, it's cold, and many times you're alone. Or so you think.
There's a reason why we're scared of the dark. Sure, some grown-ups like to poke fun at little kids for not wanting to sleep without the night light on, but they're just as susceptible to the fear as they are. That instinctive reproach from lightless places is so hardwired into our psyche that mere age and time cannot dull its effects. It's been there ever since ancient man huddled by the fire, peeking over his hairy shoulder at the surrounding sea of total black. The darkness holds the unknown, and that which we cannot see we fear. When it's dark, we're vulnerable. Vulnerability begets weakness, and weakness is what predators look out for. You start imagining things. Horrible, terrible things creeping out from the utter darkness and reaching with wicked claws for your pale, shivering neck. And just when you think its imagination, you're grabbed, and then you're nothing but a late night snack.
Morbid? Sure. Truthful? You have no idea.
So when I led two of the remaining Knights of the Cross down through the sewage system beneath Wrigley Field and into the borders of Undertown, I was a little scared. We were in Undertown hunting a daeva, a freaking shadow god. Don't get me wrong, Michael and Sanya were the best at what they do, but I think my unease was acceptable considering the circumstances. Bob was silent in my bag, just like I'd told him to be, but I'd begun to miss his wisecracks. That's when I knew I was really scared.
"How much longer?" Sanya asked from behind. His voice was eerily magnified in the sewer-like halls. I almost jumped.
"Not long," I replied. "It's got to be here somewhere."
Michael cleared his throat. "Harry. You do know where it is, right?"
I swallowed nervously. "Uh. Generally speaking, yeah."
Michael sighed. "In other words, you have no idea."
I shushed him. "Please! A man's got to work. Give me a minute."
I strolled a little further down the dank hall until I was certain I was out of earshot. I could hear the Knights mumbling behind me, but their words were incoherent. Satisfied, I slowly lifted the flap of my satchel. "Bob," I whispered. "A little help here."
Bob's eye socket's glowed in the interior of the bag. "Ooohhh. Undertown's is bad as I hear it is. All kinds of dark auras stinking up the place."
"Good. That's a start. Now, I want you to help me locate the trail of the daeva, if it ever went down here."
"Why don't you just use your Sight?"
I rolled my eyes. "Because, Bob. I don't want to be a drooling vegetable for the entirety of my wizardly life. Now just get on with it."
"Sheesh. You're grumpy today. How do you even know I can do this?"
"Because you're Bob. And as much as I hate to say it, you can do a whole lot of stuff I can't."
"Aw shucks. You're making me blush."
"Bob…" I growled.
"Don't get your panties in a twist, boss, I'm doing it," he said. He hummed tunelessly for a moment. "Make a right."
I frowned. "Wow. That was really fast."
"Eh, it wasn't that hard. The daeva's trail left echoes in the Nevernever. Pretty distinguishable ones, too."
I arched an eyebrow. Leaving footprints in the Nevernever required a lot of potent energy, but many times that could end up differently. Many beings that couldn't control their power left huge swathes of magical residue etched into both the mortal realm and the supernatural fabric of the other side. But, if they were good enough, they could restrain that energy just enough to withhold all that outpour, dampen the effects. It was helpful in chaotic situations, where time was on their side. But, luckily for me, the result was the same either way. A trail was left, and that meant I could trace it.
"How far do you think it goes?" I whispered. Michael and Sanya were starting to walk towards me now, footsteps bouncing around the corridor.
"I don't know. Maybe a few miles or so?"
That meant more walking. "You'll direct me?"
"Of course, skipper."
"Harry?" Sanya asked, frowning. "Who are you talking to?"
"No one," I exclaimed, turning casually and smiling. "But myself, of course. I was trying to think of ways to track it down when you came along."
"And have you found anything yet?" Michael asked.
"A direction." I pointed down the right path of the hallway that branched out from the main one. "This way."
"How do you know?"
"Part gut feeling and part magical savvy. The daeva's no slouch, but it leaves footprints like anything else, invisible or not. Come on."
And so we walked. And walked. And walked some more. It was a bit like spelunking, the whole underground experience, only this was a whole lot more dangerous, in my opinion. Eventually, sewage systems gave way to damp earth, and soon we were traversing the gloomy, literal underbelly of Chicago. Support struts jutted out from the ground like stone shrines from a forgotten age; a metal framework long since abandoned and left to sink into the soil. Old house foundations creaked under our feet as we entered the residential area of Undertown.
Although housing much of the supernatural ilk, Undertown wasn't stranger to mortal tampering. Smugglers would traverse its depths in the days of Prohibition, ferrying illegal goods under the city, away from the authorities that were not in their pockets. It also housed the Manhattan Project before it, you know, was moved to a place not near millions of unsuspecting civilian lives. Tinkering with atom-splitting under the third largest city in America must've come across as a potentially Bad Thing to the higher-ups back in the day. All in all, everyone had a hand in it, but none came to stay. Only things that feared the light of the sun dared to make a home in Undertown.
Many of the pathways we crossed were old maintenance tunnels built by Chicagoans back in the day, but some were of a more sinister construction. We entered a tunnel with walls slick with light, yellow ooze that smelled of mildew and urine. I had to fight back a vomit. Whatever had done that was big, ugly, and must be avoided at all costs. I didn't want to meet the son of a bitch that made entire hallways with its body and secreted a disgusting liquid.
Sanya coughed noisily once we exited that nightmare. "That is disgusting."
"I couldn't agree more."
"Harry," Michael sighed. "Why do I get the feeling you're leading us on a wild goose chase?"
"Lighten up, Michael," I nervously ran my hand down the strap of the bag. "We're getting close."
I heard a catch to his voice. "Alicia has a game today."
I stopped. Sanya did likewise, and let out a low whistle. My ears began to burn in shame. Alicia was one of Michael's children, a cute little girl who enjoyed playing softball and thought I was a little weird. Well, very weird, but that's beside the point. Apparently she'd had a game today, and Michael was missing out. No father should miss out on his daughter's life. In my endeavor to hunt the daeva, I'd happily dragged Michael into it as well, regardless of his consent. Of course he'd volunteer; he was a good man, the best man I've ever known. But his volunteering to help didn't change the fact that I'd made the poor guy miss his daughter's softball game. I thought about how many times I'd asked for Michael's help on a job, and how many times he'd had to eject himself from his normal life to come save my ass.
No wonder Charity hated my guts.
I faced him. "I'm really sorry, Michael," I tried hard to make it sound as sincere as I felt. "I really am. But you're going to have to trust me on this."
Michael sighed. "I trust you, Harry. You are my closest friend-"
Sanya raised his hand. "Shh! Can you hear that?"
I frowned. "Hear what?"
"That…noise."
"Well that helps."
"Listen," Michael whispered, his hand straying to the hilt of Amoracchius. "I can hear it as well."
"Alright, what can everybody hear that I can't?"
That was when I heard it.
A faint skittering noise, like jacks being thrown across a table. Only this sound was drawn-out, continuous, and getting louder. I gripped my blasting rod, turning to face the way from which we came. I sniffed the air. I grimaced. "That's foul." Something bad was coming for us.
The skittering became louder. I began to hear slathering noises, like hundreds of people were simultaneously licking their lips noisily through a comms system. The nape of my neck tingled. "Hold," I said. Michael and Sanya flanked me, swords already drawn. I looked back and noticed their blades shining brightly in the murk. "They could just be passing through."
The giant spider rounded the corner, all eight of its tennis ball-sized eyes glowing eerily as it focused on me. In the center of its oval, hairy head, a very human mouth parted to reveal white fangs dripping with venom, and a long, purple tongue darting back and forth. It tasted the air and shivered. Every childhood nightmare about horrifically gigantic arachnids coming to devour me greedily became a gruesome reality. It yowled; the horrible sound piercing my ears and sending chills all around my body. Five more appeared behind it, skittering lightly on the damp soil.
There was a brief moment of charged silence.
Licking my dry lips, I took one step back.
They hissed, pale poison spraying, and surged forward.
"In nomine Dei!" Michael roared, his voice gargantuan, too large and magnified to come from a mere human's throat. The burning power of the Sword of the Cross spilled forth in a wash of pure light, blinding the spiders and causing them to hiss and rear back. A miniature star erupted in the heart of Undertown. "Lava quod est sordium! Sana quod est saucium!"
Michael brought Amoracchius down upon the lead beast with a furious bellow. The blade cut the thing clean in half, making it spew dark blood for a second until the fatal wound cauterized. The scent of burnt flesh cut into my nostrils. A squeal escaped its eerily simian lips before the light blinked out of its eight green eyes. It collapsed, dead.
The other spiders hissed angrily and gathered around Michael, dodging his measured sword strokes with an alien quickness. They moved like a pack, well-coordinated and technical in every step and jab. One saw his blind spot and pounced, all eight of its hairy legs (half as tall as my body) spread wide to wrap around my friend's body. I sucked in a breath and ran forward, my blasting rod out.
Sanya beat me to it, leaping the gap with tremendous strength, even with the added weight of his cloak and body armor. He didn't recite prayers in Latin, but the stentorian roar that ripped from his throat was challenge enough. Esperacchius sliced through the stale, thin air, taking off four of the spider's legs in mid-jump. The spider squealed in pain, but it was cut short with an upward stab from Sanya. The blade speared the monster through the abdomen, silencing it forever. The Knights stood back to back, warding off the four remaining spiders with periodic swipes.
I pointed my blasting rod at one of the creatures while its back was turned. "Fuego!" I yelled. A geyser of scorching hot flame erupted from the tip of my focus, crossing the short distance with a deafening scream. The fire devoured the spider whole, illuminating the eerie hallway with a blinding flash of red and orange. The thing was still alive as it hissed and burned, trying to douse the flames with its movement. It collided with its brethren, Michael and Sanya darting to the side just in time. The flames reached another spider, and soon both were being cooked alive by my fires. I blew smoke off the tip of my rod. "There's two more," I pointed out. "One for each of you."
Sanya sliced one spider in half and kebabed the other before I even completed the sentence. He smiled, his teeth glowing in the dimness. "Two for me."
Michael pointed Amoracchius down the hall. Shadows were flickering in the light of the still-burning flames. "Careful. More are coming." Sure enough, the skittering sound started again, only this time it was much, much louder.
"Emphasis on the word 'more'," I said. The brief scuffle must've attracted the whole damn spider family. I began to regret not bringing my staff. It was a heck of a lot more versatile than my blasting rod, useful as it is. I cursed. Why the hell hadn't I brought my staff? Every wizard brought his staff to a party.
"What do we do?" Sanya asked, taking up a defensive stance. I tapped him on the back of his head with my blasting rod.
"We sure as hell don't fight," Bob muttered, damnably calm. "Does the Ruskie want us to die?"
"Here's a good idea," I breathed as the first spider rounded the bend. Christ. It was even bigger than the last. I even forgot to tell Bob to shut his stupid mouth. "Run!"
So, we ran.
XXXXX
Sam was running.
He didn't know where. He didn't know much of anything, really. What he did know was that something was chasing him. It was chasing him down through the corridor of an abandoned building, where the light bulbs overhead flickered erratically as he passed. And whatever it was, it was bad. Bad enough for Sam to literally feel the Stygian blackness rushing for him like a tidal wave of icy air. Pure, malevolent intent hounded his heels and breathed down his neck, threatening and taunting him with every step, knowing that it could take the hunter down any second but it was just too damn fun to stop. Sam, with grim clarity, realized that this was what sheer terror felt like.
He was nearly at the exit. Hope flooded his every thought and drove his arms and legs like pistons. He could do it. He could make it out before this evil son of a bitch took him down and tore him to pieces. Sam wasn't about to die anytime soon. Not like this.
By then, the thing was done with playing around, and a hand as cold as ice took him by the ankle and pulled. Sam cried out and fell, hitting the floor with a thud that expelled all air from his lungs. He turned on his back with the intent to die fighting like a man, like his father and his brother would want him to. It was the Winchester way, after all, to ground your heels and spit at the face of Death.
But all he did was scream in fear as the monster enveloped him in its dark embrace.
Then, shadows.
Dean slapped Sam in the face.
"Hey!" he snapped. Sam's eyes opened. "What's the matter with you?"
Undiluted panic filled his younger brother's eyes. A garbled yell escaped Sam's throat and he scrambled off the bed in a flurry of sheets and newspaper clippings. The sudden right hook took Dean by surprise, which he contemplated with full bitterness as he lay groaning on the hotel floor. Lights swam in his vision.
It was a while before Sam regained his senses, and it took even longer to realize that he was half-naked in a hotel room with his older brother on the floor nursing an injured jaw. Dean glared daggers at him. "I deserved that one," he muttered to himself, more as an anger management method than sincere forgiveness.
Sam frowned, still breathing heavily.
"You know, when I pinched your semi-broken nose. I'm guessing that was what the punch was for. Good one, too. I'll make sure to return the favor."
"What? No! No, Dean. That was…I'm sorry." Sam blurted. "I wasn't myself."
"Then who the hell was it?" Dean growled.
"I…" Visions of darkness and fear lurked in the recesses of his memory like a stain he couldn't wash away, try as he might. He swallowed, his throat parched. "Bad dream, that's all."
"Oh. Geez, Sam. Most kids reach for their teddy bears, not go all Muhammad Ali on their brothers."
"Look, I said I was sorry," Sam sighed, rubbing his forehead with the heel of his palm. "Where are we on this daeva?"
Dean reached over and stuck a Post-it note on his brother's head. "Place called McAnally's Pub. Met this guy outside the hotel while you were catching z's. Wiccan, judging by the personal decor. We made small talk. I made fun of the Cubs, he almost choked me, and all in all it was a pleasant experience. He got over it eventually, and I asked if he knew if anything strange was happening around town."
Sam finished pulling the sticky yellow note out of his hair. "Well? What did he say?"
"He didn't know much, but he told me about this back-alley pub. Apparently it's a supernatural watering hole for all sorts of weird characters. Information gets passed around, certain things come to light, stuff like that. Told me to watch out for Wardens, though." Dean snorted. "Whatever that means."
Sam watched as Dean put on his flannel shirt and green coat. "We're not going now, are we?" He was still spooked about the dream, and the sun was going down. Long shadows stretched like claw marks through the blinds of the hotel window. Sam shivered.
"Of course we are, dumbass," Dean replied. "Kid said it's got the best beer in the world, which I find doubtful. But hey, beer is beer."
Sam groaned and lay back on the bed, palming his face. "Give me five minutes."
"Three. You snooze you lose, brother."
Dean exited the hotel with a hearty chuckle. A few seconds later the Impala purred to life, her headlights spearing through the window and onto Sam's face. He groaned and got up, pulling on a long-sleeved shirt as he did. Through the glare of the headlights he could see Dean air-drumming to Metallica behind the wheel.
In full volume.
With the windows rolled down.
The trip to McAnally's was near insufferable. Sam wasn't a big rock fan, much less metal, but he knew that voicing his opinion would only make Dean crank up the volume. So, he bore the unintelligible screaming as they drove away. The sun was on the precipice of the horizon when they made it to the pub. Long shadows lengthened by the fading sunrise stretched across the pavement. Sam and Dean got out of the Impala and made their way to the entrance of the building. Several loiterers were smoking by the door, and they fixed the brothers with curious looks as they walked past. Some made to approach them, but Dean shot them poisonous glares, and they backed off.
Sam walked in first, going down a short flight of stairs that led to the actual bar. He stopped for a moment, taking it all in. Dean came up beside him and scanned the pub approvingly. "Not bad," he grunted. "Could use a little ESPN, though."
Stocky pillars carved with a myriad of grim etchings supported the structure. Thirteen ceiling fans whirred sluggishly overhead, and thirteen long wooden tables were arranged crookedly throughout the huge room. The bar was at the far side, where a tall bald man in a pristine white apron lifted a hand in greeting. Dean returned the gesture.
There were already a lot of people in the pub, so much so that the only empty section was the quarter portion of a table full of pale-skinned, tattooed twenty-year-olds. Dean motioned to the area. Sam rolled his eyes and saved a seat, trying his best to ignore the glances and smirks coming from the kids beside him. Dean approached the bar, where the bartender stopped wiping a glass cup and placed both his calloused hands on the edge of the counter. Dean surveyed the stacks behind him.
"Got any Coors Crafted?" he asked.
The bartender reached under the counter and produced a bottle of his favorite drink. Dean's eyes gleamed. "Now you're talking." He took the bottle and placed a fat wad of cash on the counter. The bald man arched an eyebrow before surreptitiously sticking the money in his pocket. Dean popped off the cap and took a long, deep swig. Sensations danced on his tongue and merrily made their way down his throat. "Oh, God, that's heaven. Absolute heaven."
He wiped his lips. "You do something special with this?"
The bartender shrugged and said nothing. Dean smirked.
"Man of few words, I see," he said. "At least tell me your name."
The man grunted. "Mac. You're a Winchester." He nodded. "Same voice."
The bottle froze halfway to his lips. Dean's insides went cold. He knows who I am. The possibilities were endless, but knowing from past experience, the vast majority of things that knew who he was did so because his grisly death was on their to-do list. Dean sipped the beer and placed it carefully on the countertop. He faced Mac. "How did you know that?"
Mac took a small slip of paper from his pants pocket and slid it over to Dean, who snapped it up quickly. Dean thought he saw amusement flicker over the bartender's face for a split second, but it was gone as soon as it came. Dean tore his glare away from the retreating man and read the note.
To my boys: If you're reading this that means you did the smart thing and went to Mac's. He's good people, you can trust him. And I'm fine, so don't you and your little brother piss yourselves over me. You're probably hunting the daeva, like I told you not to do. Meet me here at 6:00 sharp. Watch your backs.
Dean felt a surge of elation as he finished the note. Dad. His father, John Winchester, was here in the city and presumably come to meet them. After all those weeks of searching, they were finally going to see each other again. Dean peeked over his shoulder to look at Sam. The lumbering giant was perched awkwardly at the edge of the bench, hands folded calmly on the tabletop.
Sam and their dad hadn't been on the best of terms when they'd last seen each other, but Dean was confident that it would work out this time. They'd hug, laugh, and do what they were always meant to do. Hunt together, be together.
A family.
Dean quickly checked his watch. His heart dropped to his stomach. 6:13. Jesus H. Christ. His dad was thirteen minutes late to the meeting he himself had set up. Dean swallowed down a large knot of disappointment. He resisted the urge to slam the Coors bottle onto the counter. Damn. If he knew one thing about his dad, it was that John Winchester was never late. That had to mean something bad had happened to him. Sudden thoughts of a tall, yellow-eyed figure cloaked in shadows came to mind. A chill gripped him, and he whirled around.
"Mac!" he called, knocking on the wooden countertop. "Hey! Yoo-hoo! Need to speak with you!"
Mac ambled over to Dean and stared. Dean cleared his throat and leaned over. "When's the last time you spoke to my dad?"
Mac grunted. "Three."
Dammit. That was over three hours ago. "Do you have any idea where he set off to?"
Mac shook his head. "Sorry. Can't help you."
Dean bit back a curse and nodded in thanks. He walked over to Sam, the beer still in one hand. He couldn't finish the thing, otherwise he'd be a bit tipsy, and there was no way he was letting Sam drive his baby. His younger brother looked up. "Well?"
"We've got to go."
"Now? Can't I order something first?"
"Dad was here, Sammy."
"…Oh." Sam stood up. "He's here."
"Not anymore." Dean frowned and gave his brother the note. A gradual look of horror appeared on Sam's face as he read the note. "He said six, but it's already-"
"Yeah, I know. Let's go."
"Where?" Sam followed hurriedly as Dean stalked towards the exit. "We don't even know where to look. He could be anywhere in Chicago by now."
The humid night air hit the two as they walked out into the coming darkness.
"I don't give a shit, Sammy," Dean spat. "All I know is that Dad might be in danger. And we're going to save him."
They made it to the Impala, where Dean struggled to fit the key into the lock. "Damn car," he muttered darkly.
"Dean, look out!"
There was a whoosh of air behind him. Dean's instincts kicked in, and he swerved to the side just as a crowbar came sailing down out of nowhere. The metal smashed into the hood of the car, denting it with a screech. Dean's eyes widened. "Oh, hell no," he hissed. "Not my car. Not my baby."
He turned around to see a beefy man in a ratty jacket and slacks raising the weapon for a second strike. Dean cocked back his arm and let loose before he could hit him again. His fist buried into the man's beer belly. The man's face went a dark shade of purple as the air left him. He bent over, wheezing. Dean scowled and kicked the man where it hurt: right between the legs. The crowbar clattered to the ground as his would-be assailant lay curled on the asphalt in a fetal position.
"You okay, Sammy?" When there was no answer, he looked over. "Hey, what's the – oh. Oh shit."
The largest man he'd ever seen stood in front of the Impala, a submachine gun in each hand. Both were pointed at the Winchesters. The man's blocky face was cold stone, void of emotion. Eyes like chips of flint regarded the brothers calmly. They dared Dean to pull out the handgun tucked securely on the back of his jeans, but he thought better. Even if they could get past the guns, Dean knew without a doubt that the man could snap both of them like chopsticks. Thickly corded muscle stood out from beneath the smart suit he wore. Sam, hands up, looked at his older brother uncertainly.
"Okay," Dean said slowly. He carefully lifted his arms in the air. "There's no need to shoot. Let's just talk this out like civilized men-"
Something hit him from behind. There was a flash of searing hot pain on the back of his head, and he hit the hood of the Impala head-first. Dean lay on the ground, out cold. Sam stared, wide-eyed, as the man with the crowbar shakily got to his feet, his fleshy face a mask of red rage. When he returned his gaze to the armed man, he started. The man was right in front of him, as tall as Sam but possessing far more muscle and killer capacity. He'd moved so quietly it was frightening. Still eyes stared at him passively. "The boss will see you now."
Sam sputtered. "Uh…what?"
The man's fist came out of nowhere, slamming into Sam's nose and laying him flat. It still hurt from the previous injury, but now it burned and ached like hell. The next thing he knew, a burlap sack was being pulled over his head, and he was led blindly across the parking lot. After a few seconds of being treated like a dog, he was shoved forward. He yelped, half-expecting to be hit by an oncoming car, but instead landed on plush leather seats. He could hear Dean being thrown in beside him, still unconscious. He was in a car, or some kind of vehicle. Fancy, too, by the seating. Confusion muddled his thoughts as the door closed and the car began to move.
Suddenly, the sack was torn off of him, and he could see his surroundings. They were in a car, so he was right about that. The interior was dark and stylistically practical, with seats on both ends of the car. The windows were up and darkened so that he couldn't see what was outside.
"Cozy, I take it?"
The man seated in front of Sam was a shark.
He knew it. He knew just from one cursory glance. The man was dressed in business casual Armani, with his silk white shirt left unbuttoned at the collar. He was medium-aged, jet-black hair with tasteful graying at the sides covering his head. He had a slight build, more lean than thin, built to be quick and lethally precise. Eyes the color of worn dollar bills bore into Sam, and the Winchester firmly believed at that moment that he was in the presence of a dangerous predator. A cold killer.
The man's hands were resting calmly on the knee of his folded leg. He oozed self-confidence, and Sam knew without a doubt that he could have him and his brother killed any time he wanted to. But he had a feeling that the man had far more nefarious purposes for them than mere murder.
"You must be Sam Winchester," he stated. His voice was smooth and mellow, like someone who'd mastered every facet of his being right down to his speech and physicality. "If that is true, then that one over there…" A look of distaste appeared on his face. "Must be Dean. The one who attacked my employee not too long ago."
"What do you want from us?" Sam said heatedly.
The stranger tilted his head. "Compensation. Your brother rudely interrupted a business matter. You are aware that I should have you both dead. My men do not take kindly to intruders, much less cocky outsiders who humiliate their coworkers and give them a bad name." He smiled, his teeth sharp and white. They passed over a pot hole, and the car jerked. "But you would know something about reputation, wouldn't you, Sam. The famous Winchester brothers, right here to do as I please."
"Enough with the foreplay. I didn't go through all this trouble to do small talk."
Sam turned. "Dean!"
Dean had managed to get the sack off his head, and now he was staring venomously at the businessman in front of them. His head was hurting something awful, like a semi had just ran over his skull multiple times. And his car…he dreaded to think of what those bastards would do to it now that they had them in their clutches. "Son of a bitch. Who the hell are you?"
The man regarded Dean as one would regard a pile of cow manure. "Marcone."
"Well, Marcone, you have five seconds to let us go before I rip your frigging throat out."
"Hardly a threat. If you lay a hand on me I'll have my driver stop the car and signal my men to take you out and execute you on the spot." Marcone jutted his chin at Sam. "Your brother, too."
Dean sat back, eyes burning. "How do you know about us?"
Marcone settled in his seat, satisfied. Dean wanted nothing more than to reach over and clobber the smug look out of his face, but doing so would place him and Sam in mortal danger. They'd faced demons and monsters out of humanity's worst nightmares, but there was little they could do in the face of emotionless calculation and big men with guns. Marcone sensed his displeasure and gave a tiny smile.
"Admittedly, I knew nothing before your chance encounter with poor Tommy on Michigan Street. But my resources are vast, and imagine my surprise when I discovered that my employee had been brutalized by a dead man."
Dean smirked. "That's me. Dead man walking. You still want to mess with me?"
Marcone sniffed. "If the fact that you cheated death was supposed to frighten me into submission, I'm afraid you're wrong. You're not the only one to have evaded the authorities in the past. But I have to admit that the events surrounding your supposed death were remarkable. In fact, the corpse found in young Becky's home matched you down to the genetic code. To most, seeing you here breathing and, unfortunately, talking would seem like an impossible miracle." Marcone leaned forward slightly. Sam and Dean could smell the expensive cologne on him. "But for me, I know better."
"Oh yeah?" Dean challenged. "What the hell do you know?"
"Shape-shifter. My contacts confirmed it. An extraordinary being that can match a person's appearance right down to memories, emotions, and genetic makeup. Incredibly recluse and extremely dangerous. And, if I might add, a useful tool if one is able to gain its service."
Dean scoffed. "Fat chance."
"Oh, don't be so sure, Dean. I can be quite persuasive at times, even to those of a less…human disposition."
Dean glared. "You speak from experience?"
Marcone smiled. "Maybe."
"What do you want?" Sam blurted. "Fine. You have us right where you want us. But you kept us alive for a reason."
"Right," Dean continued. "Otherwise we'd be chained up and thrown into Lake Michigan, if I remember correctly."
Marcone chuckled. "Tommy is a brash young man. Such a thing is archaic and unnecessary when I can shoot you and bury you in a ditch on the outskirts of the city. But you are correct. I have you for a reason."
"Then what?" Sam asked.
Marcone's smile widened, and his deep green eyes burned with calculation and intelligence. "An offer. I know of your talents, and I wish to employ them."
Dean blinked. "Hold on. You're offering us…a job?"
Marcone shrugged. "Basically, yes. I can't say that the other boys will cherish your company, but I pay well. And good rewards come to those who follow orders."
Dean shared a brief look with Sam before turning back to Marcone.
"Lookie here, pal," he said in a low voice. "I don't know if you picked it up already, but I'm not the kind of person to follow orders, much less from a criminal snake like you. It's a no. It'll always be a no. Now, let me and my brother go."
Marcone processed this silently. He sighed.
"I can't say that I'm not disappointed. Your services would have been greatly appreciated and justly recognized by my organization. But I expected as much, judging by your insouciance. Trust me, I speak from experience."
"So," Sam said, his heart beating fast. "What now?"
"Now," Marcone said. "I let you go."
The car stopped. The door opened, and several men in suits grabbed Sam and Dean and pushed them out of the car. They were quickly bound and gagged with rough lengths of rope. They were on a dock, where several boats were moored to the wood and gently swaying in the tide. Night had fallen, but the brothers could clearly see the armed men standing by one particular boat nearby. Sam's heart dropped when he realized what was going on.
"Marcone!" he roared as they were led away struggling. "Marcone, you promised!"
"I did no such thing," Marcone replied calmly from the car. They couldn't see him, but Sam could almost picture the haughty smile on his handsome face. "I said that tying you up and throwing you into Lake Michigan was an outdated practice. But, Tommy insisted, and I really don't like either of you."
Dean reeled back as someone punched his face. His collar was grabbed roughly, and hot breath poured onto his ear. "How you doing, Dean?" Tommy hissed gleefully. "Up for a swim?"
Marcone's car peeled from the curb and drove away, leaving Sam and Dean to face a watery death at the hands of Chicago's worst.
Yup, Dean thought as they were shoved towards the waiting boat. Looks like Dad's going to have to wait.
XXXXX
John woke up.
"Took you long enough," Thomas said.
His head was aching something awful. John breathed through his nose and tried to get up, but he discovered that he was bound to the chair with tight strands of sheets. He was in a fancy bedroom, his back against the foot of a queen-sized mattress. The curtains were drawn, revealing the black night outside. Crickets chirped from the open window. He struggled again, but the constraints held fast. He swore.
Thomas, the male creature from before (he might've looked human, but nothing human moved that fast), was leaning against the door frame, sharpening a wicked-looking knife that John recognized as a kukri. He was engrossed in the task.
"What the hell are you?" John asked.
Thomas didn't look up or stop sharpening. "Would you believe me if I said vampire?"
John scowled. "Probably not."
Thomas shrugged. "Fair enough."
John digested that for a moment. If what the priest said was true...
He licked his dry lips. "Which Court are you from?"
Thomas stopped his task, beautiful grey eyes shifting to meet his. They gleamed curiously for a second. "How did you know about the Courts?"
Father Forthill's kind face phased by in his mind, but John held his tongue. "I'll tell you if you let me go."
Thomas snorted and resumed sharpening. John's hopes died pathetically. "No can do. Under strict orders from Big Sis not to release you."
They were silent for a moment. John worked his wrists, trying to loosen himself from the bindings. As he did so, he wondered how the hell he was supposed to get out and escape. The windows were his best bet, but the vampire could stick him with the kukri faster than one could say "Gordon was a maniac". His eyes scanned the room in vain for another escape route. There were only the windows and the door, both of which might as well have been on the moon.
"So," he said, still working his hands. "If you're a vampire, why don't you drink blood?"
Thomas smirked, still whetting the blade. "Excuse me?"
"You should've drained my blood in the alleyway like a normal bloodsucker, but you didn't. You and the other one…did something else."
Their faces had gone completely pale, still as marble and eerily alien. When Madeline had touched him…John shuddered. All he knew was that he hadn't felt so horny in ages. He felt like a complete animal, completely driven by sexual desire and nothing more. The thoughts that had raged through him were too sick and twisted to recount. Thomas sensed his discomfort and allowed himself a little smile.
"Bit different than what you're used to, right?" he said with a chuckle. "We feed on life energy. The stuff that keeps your kind up and moving. My family feasts specifically on wanton sexual need. When Madeline kissed you…" he trailed off, not needing to explain anymore.
John shivered. "So she was feeding on me."
"Correct. She would've drained you dry if you hadn't burned her."
John remembered her scrambling away, clutching at suddenly burnt lips. Something had hurt her, something that he had. "She talked about my marriage," he said, frowning. "About how my wife died a long time ago."
Thomas said nothing else.
The hunter continued to rotate his wrists. If he could just wriggle out of his bindings, he just might have a chance at jumping Thomas. After all, the vampire (or whatever he was) wouldn't expect a full-frontal assault from a weakened mortal like him.
"Oh, and you can stop trying to free yourself," Thomas said, tucking his knife away and crossing his sculpted arms. "My sister should be here any minute now."
There was a knock on the door.
"Well speak of the devil." Thomas opened the door, and a vision walked into the room.
John knew beauty. He'd lived long enough to see it in many shapes and forms. From Daisy, his next-door-neighbor during high school and his first crush to the intense, lush jungles of Vietnam, he could recognize heart-breaking splendor in a second.
But the goddess that crossed the threshold of the room personified female sensuality in a way he'd never seen before. Dark curls cascaded down her lovely pale face like those hair product commercials. No, even better. She was the manifestation of the beauty Greek and Roman sculptors long ago sought to capture in their work but never quite seemed to master. She was sex, desire, and longing all rolled into the most physically beautiful woman he'd ever seen.
But John wasn't dumb. Despite the aching below his hips that told him otherwise, beneath that marvelously magnificent business skirt and suit, beneath that exquisite, milky pale skin, beneath all of that there was a cold-hearted monster that would suck the life out of him even as she rode him to oblivion.
And what terrified him was that he, for a split second, actually welcomed that end.
"Thomas," she said without taking her gorgeous eyes off of John. Her voice was low and sulky; John's heartbeat increased.
"Lara," Thomas replied, arms still crossed.
"Leave us." Lara ordered.
Thomas sighed and left, flanked by the two men in suits who had accompanied Lara at the door. The white oak door shut, leaving John alone with the most beautiful monster he'd laid eyes on. Lara began to circle him, heels clicking measuredly on the wooden floor. John felt like the Impala when he'd first gotten it from the dealership in Mary's hometown all those years ago. He could feel Lara's eyes searching him, cataloging every physical facet of his being and storing it in her brain for later use. John fidgeted unconsciously.
"Well, well, well," she said once she returned to her previous position in front of him. She folded her arms across her ample chest, hips cocked to one side. John struggled to keep his eyes just on her face. His body wanted to take it all in, but falling to his temptation would only encourage her. "The infamous John Winchester. I've heard a lot about you."
"Bad things, I take it." John's voice was irritatingly hoarse.
Lara laughed, and the hunter wanted to get lost in the sound, drown in it. "You've made a name for yourself in certain areas of the country. Bad things tend to be said. But most I have spoken to bear a burning hatred and paralyzing fear for you and your ilk."
"My ilk?"
Lara smiled. "Hunters. Petty mortals who take it upon themselves to fight back against the night and the terrors it holds. Brave, but stupid. Laughingly stupid."
The insult snapped John right out of his trance. "Is that right?"
Lara chuckled. "Oh John, you poor thing. Cattle aren't supposed to fight back. They aren't supposed to run around with their little trinkets killing and hunting things like me. It isn't the natural order of things." Lara came closer, and John broke out in a cold sweat. She was close enough for him to smell the tantalizing perfume she wore. Or maybe that was how she normally smelled like. "Why do you think men and women like you don't get to retire and live a happy life with children and grandchildren? Come now. It isn't hard to figure out, John. You don't deserve happiness when you screw around with nature."
John worked his jaw. "If your goal was to really piss me off, it's working. Why don't you untie me so we can continue this conversation in a proper, polite manner."
Lara's laugh sounded like the tinkling of crystalline bells. "I don't think you understand, John. You're mine now. You don't get to tell me what to do."
John fumed. "I'm nobody's slave, bitch."
Lara's eyes flickered a disturbing shade of grey. "I'll forgive you for that. But just this once. Don't try my patience, little kine, or I'll find ways to hurt you that you'll be screaming for more."
And John knew she could do that without a problem. He shut up, but inside his rage was churning like coals in an oven. He had to escape. It was way past six, and his boys were probably wandering around town looking for him. At night. In the dark. Where a daeva could pounce up and slaughter you in the blink of an eye.
"Please," he said, having to choke the word out. "Let me go. You don't understand."
Lara's face went completely blank. Eerily so. "Oh, but I do. I know everything about you, John. I know about your past. Your sons. How they're in the city as we speak, and in mortal danger."
John had to breathe through his nose to keep calm. "You bitch," he hissed, voice wavering. "You let me go right now or I swear, there won't anything on this Earth that will stop me from coming for you."
Lara cocked her head, the desolation still on her beautiful features. Features that looked like nothing but stone. "Those threats are as empty as you are, son of Henry. You are nothing but a pawn." She leaned forward, gaze distant. "You know what your children are. How essential they will be in the coming darkness."
John shivered. "You stay away from them."
"I need not shy from Sam and Dean. They will come to me."
John was about to spit in her face when a scream rent the charged silence. It came from outside the house, and was quickly followed by quick bursts of gunfire. Lara's head snapped back like a whip, facing the door. She was completely still. Not human still, but statue still, perfectly immobile. She crouched, hands curled like claws. A hiss escaped her mouth. "It cannot be!"
There was the sound of glass breaking somewhere in the building. Alarms began to wail throughout the house. The door opened, and Thomas poked his head in, a nasty cut on his forehead. "Grenade at the south veranda," he said, damnably calm. "Unknown hostiles surrounding the château."
More gunfire erupted on the grounds, followed by more and more agonized screams. Lara stood, peering out the window and into the night. There were ground lights in the encircling garden, but they didn't pierce the outer blackness. "Are my sisters up?" she asked, calm as ever.
"Elisa and Natalia are engaging the intruders. Madeline was having dinner last time I checked."
"Indolent little bitch," Lara murmured. "Fine. I will see to the perimeter. Guard the Winchester prisoner."
Thomas eyed John. "I have to stay?"
Lara glared at him. "Do as I say, Thomas." She disappeared, the only sign of her wake the creaking of the just opened door.
The male vampire sighed, unsheathed his kukri, and walked towards John. The hunter stared at the large, shining knife. "What are you going to poke with that?"
Thomas smiled. "You know, Lara's not going to be happy when she hears about this, but screw her."
The knife went down in a silver flash. John opened his eyes to see that the cord of sheets binding his wrists were slashed apart. He stretched his arms, groaning. "Thanks. Thought you were going to kill me."
Thomas half-smiled. "I'm not like that."
John grunted. "Sure you are."
The vampire just shook his head. "Most of the men guarding the entrance to the manor are all dead. All I got on the comms was static. The attack is centered on the South Wing, so we've got to get the hell away from there. It'll take whoever's attacking us quite a while to fully infiltrate the grounds, so that should give us plenty of time."
"How big is this place?" John wondered aloud.
"Several acres. Lara doesn't believe in petty things like limits."
As they made their way down the hall, John discovered that it wasn't just a house. It was a fucking mansion. The floors were a beautiful hardwood, with custom carve woodworking and whole suits of authentic armor arrayed at the edges of the wide corridor. Stained glass windows caught the eye, real ones probably painted centuries ago. Gorgeous portraits were framed against the pale walls.
"Nice place," John grunted as walked. Screams echoed throughout the grounds.
Thomas laughed. "I can't stand it. Too much Lara."
There was an ominous boom somewhere far behind them. Thomas stopped. "Ah. That'd the cannon."
John coughed. "You have genuine cannon?"
"Of course. We didn't build the turrets just for show."
John corrected himself. It wasn't just a mansion. It was a castle. "Sounds impressive. How long will it hold?"
Thomas shrugged as they rounded the corner. Three maids rushed past them, whimpering and clutching at black handbags. "Depends. If we find a way to kill these guys, then we'll definitely hold. If not, this place will fall in about two hours."
John looked back at the empty, yawning hall behind them. Any second a shadowy monster could jump out of nowhere and give chase. "Do you know who's attacking?"
"I got a good look. As far as I know, normal people."
John stopped. "You're telling me normal people are attacking your giant medieval castle and winning."
Thomas nodded. "Looks like it. Just normal guys and gals out in the grounds. I even saw our gardener out there." He looked at John with very serious eyes. "But no matter how many bullets they took, they didn't go down. It's like Dawn of the Dead out there. Conventional weapons aren't working, so that means our armed men are at a horrible disadvantage."
Sudden fear gripped John. "Oh, no. God, no."
Thomas frowned. "What is it?"
"Those aren't zombies out there. Not even close."
Shrill screams caused John's heart to leap. Thomas froze, just like his sister earlier. "Shit!" he whispered. "Something's ahead."
Someone, a woman, was crying around the next corner. She was pleading, saying no over and over, until it rose into a crescendo of screams. There was a stomp, the sound of something breaking, and a sickening squishing noise. Someone started laughing merrily.
"Thomas," John said very slowly. He began to step back. "Away from the corner."
"Like hell," Thomas snarled. "Those were the maids. I knew them, grew up with them."
Thomas was about to leap when a maid ran out from the around the bend, weeping nonstop. Her blouse was covered with dark blood, and there were several scratches on her face. Thomas dropped his kukri and gripped her shoulders. "Maria! Maria, look at me!" He shook her gently. "What did you see?"
Maria continued to sob, shaking uncontrollably. Thomas rubbed her arms. "Please, Maria, you have to tell me what you saw."
John approached them warily. "Thomas…" he began.
"Maria," Thomas asked again when her tears subsided. "What did you see?"
"I…I saw…" she said, her voice breaking. John's heart was beating faster than it had in a long time. "I saw…"
"What?" Thomas asked gently. "Maria, tell me what you saw."
Maria looked up, and her eyes were devoid of life, and completely and utterly black. "I'm sorry," she said with a grin. Her teeth were stained with blood and bits of torn flesh. "Maria isn't here right now. Please leave a message after the beep."
She snarled and sunk her fist deep into Thomas' belly. The vampire's handsome face contorted in confusion, betrayal, and pain. "Maria…?" he gasped.
The former maid removed her hand, and loops of grey intestines hung out from the wound. Thomas cried out in agony and pushed the maid away. Maria's smile widened, and she gripped the vampire's arms and flung him to the side. He flew, weightless, until he was smashed against two suits or armor. They fell with an almighty crash, and he was soon motionless beneath the heavy metal that had decorated his home. John froze in absolute fear. His one security detail had been easily dispatched in six seconds flat.
Maria placed a hand on her hip and grinned at John. "Hey, Johnny. Want to play?"
The demon roared and rushed the hunter.
XXXXX
If there was one thing I was better at than the two muscle heads behind me, it was running.
I run. No, I'm not one of those fitness nuts who run every morning and are as thin as a whip. I run so that when I've got to escape a potential ass-kicking, I'll actually be successful. I'm faster than your average wizard, mostly because I've seen a lot more action than they have and most of them are fat stuffy assholes. Plus, I've got these redwood legs that help me outdistance most of my friends, save for the supernatural ones that can shift into large wolves and whatnot.
"Harry!" Michael yelled from behind me. The giant-ass spiders were close behind, only held back by occasional fatal swings from Amoracchius and Esperacchius. "Is there an exit?"
I looked around the damp sewer tunnel. "Help me out here, Bob," I gasped. "Which way?"
"Left." Bob sounded annoyingly comfortable in his comfy little knapsack, but I took a breath and barreled left. Michael and Sanya came clanking along soon after, followed closely by Shelob's bastard children. I continued to run, finally stopping at what seemed to be the promise of our demise: a dead end.
"Dammit!" I swore repeatedly. Michael didn't even acknowledge them. "It's a dead end. It's a fucking. Dead. End." I tried to configure ways to destroy Bob rather than hold back the veritable swarm of monsters coming up to kill us. Even in a life-and-death situation my priorities were out of whack.
"Harry," Sanya said. "Look to your right."
I did so, and came face to face with a rusty but usable service ladder.
Oh. Wow. Gosh.
"Go on, Harry," Michael said, breathing heavily. It had to be hot as hell in those fancy Knights of the Cross suits, and I felt bad that I had potentially led them on a wild goose chase only to be eaten by overgrown arachnids. But my own self-preservation instincts kicked in, and I started up the ladder. "I better see you up there, you two!" I called as I reached the hatch and wheeled it open.
"Count on it!" Michael grunted.
He roared, the sword shining like a star, and cleaved into the horde of spiders. Sanya's bellow rivaled his, and soon both Knights were hacking away at the spiders, the temperature increasing rapidly just by the Swords alone.
I pushed open the hatch with a yell and climbed up. I lay on the ground for a few moments, just grateful to be out of Undertown and away from the nightmares below. I gasped for air, and although the temperature of wherever I lay was still hot, it felt like Christmas compared to the humid tunnels underneath me.
I sat up, making sure I had everything with me. Pentacle, check. Shield bracelet, check. Blasting rod, check. Staff, fuck me. Duster, check. Dignity, tarnished but retained. I slumped against the wall and took a gander at my surroundings. I was in the basement of some old abandoned building no doubt. It was probably the boiler room of an old hotel. Faded warning signs still hung on the grey walls, and steam poured out from various machines.
I stood up, stretching. The hatch beside me opened, and Sanya came out, grinning. "Eto bylo veselo!" he cried out. "I want to do it again."
Michael climbed up after him, Amoracchius still in hand. "We took care of most of them. The others fled. I'm sure they'll be back."
I shook my head. "Probably not. Things like them tend to stay underground as much as possible. They'll only come out in times of great crisis, like starvation, but even then rarely. I doubt they'll risk giving chase after three puny little humans who roasted and filleted their hairy butts."
Michael nodded. "True. So, what now?"
I smiled and looked forward. The exit was right there, and that would lead us to a network of rooms and elevator hatches. If Bob's instincts were correct, then a thorough search of the building would eventually lead us to the daeva. "Okay, so here's what we're going to-"
"Harry, duck!"
There were only two options to that statement. Either I comply with the order and get my head down as fast as possible, or I turn around and see if I can spot the plucky little bird that had managed to find its way down here. Wisely, I swore and got down.
"In nomine Dei!" Michael's thunderous challenge echoed off the boiler room walls. Amoracchius swung in a blinding, horizontal slash. The shadows behind me that had gotten mysteriously thicker (beyond my notice, even) suddenly dissipated with an ear-splitting screech. My heart jumped. The shadows unfurled audibly and sped around the room, moving at a dizzying speed. Michael and Sanya stood on either side of me, Swords out.
"Harry," Sanya said. "Give us some light."
I got to my feet. "Don't have my stupid staff," I snarled.
Here it was. The object of our hunt. Adrenaline pumped through my veins as I tried to track the movement of the shadow. My contacts weren't kidding; the daeva was fast as hell. Sanya cursed in Russian.
"Use other light!"
I swallowed. "You asked for it, Ruskie."
I raised the tip of my blasting rod towards the ceiling. "Fuego!" I roared.
The flames erupted from the rod with a vengeful scream. Blue-white illuminated the room as bright as day, and for a brief second I thought I could see the outline of a hideous humanoid figure wrapped in black rags against the wall. Its eyes were wide and yellow, and filled with fear and fury. I smiled. "Eat this, bastard!"
I directed the fire at the outline before it could dissipate and poured my will into the attack. The fire screamed, and it got so hot my eyebrows damn near fried off. The scorching hot flames devoured the wall, and in the midst of the roaring of the conflagration I could hear a pathetic squealing below it all. I gasped and shut off the channel of energy. The flames died with a giant hiss.
The wall before us was a black ruin of smoldering concrete and grey smoke. It stretched across both ends of the wall, corner to corner, damaging it beyond repair. I slumped to the ground, gazing at it with grim satisfaction. Sanya rested a hand on my shoulder.
"You killed it, Harry," he said, amazed.
"No," I replied bitterly. I didn't want to break his little heart, but the truth was the truth. "I only hurt it. You can only kill it in a specific time and place, so I did nothing but piss it off." I rose, my body hurting everywhere. "Let's go. It's still probably somewhere in the building healing, so if we hurry we can finish it off."
Sanya nodded. "Sounds like a plan."
And it seemed like a good plan. A perfect one, even.
That was when the second daeva emerged from the blanket of shadows beside us and ripped its claws across Sanya's chest.
The Kevlar tore open like a candy wrapper.
I watched in horror as Sanya flew like a rag doll across the room. His eyes were wide in confusion, wet and innocent against the dirty smudges on his face. He hit the wall with a sickening thud and landed ungracefully on the floor, completely still. Esperacchius glowed with a dull light, then went dark. I stood still, at a loss for words. I couldn't get them through the fury and guilt raging through me.
Michael let loose a scream and slashed at the daeva. The Sword burned white-hot, but the monster avoided the blow and attacked the Knight, scoring bloody slashes with its claws. Claws as long as a kitchen knife, and much sharper. Michael's small cries of pain brought hot tears of anger to my eyes.
A second one. There was another daeva. I took off my bag and threw it against the wall. I pointed my blasting rod at the daeva, ready to burn its ass to a crisp.
Suddenly, a pressure tightened behind me, like the air itself was ready to combust.
Evil. Dark, twisted, ugly evil rose from behind me like a tidal wave of adulterated filth. It touched my spirit, and I felt violated. Violated by its mere presence. We wizards react to Darkness in different ways, but pure evil like that affected us in a fundamental sense. It twisted us, brought thoughts of malcontent and ire to our minds so much so that we had a method of dealing with it: we took off the heads of whoever had succumbed.
I turned around, every inch of my body fighting that action.
It was a girl.
She was short, almost Murphy short. She had pixie cut of blonde hair, and was quite cute. In fact, I might've been compelled to ask her out if the situation was different, and if she wasn't oozing complete and utter malevolence. She had on a red leather jacket and jeans, and her eyes stared at me with an intensity that belied her apparent normalcy. She looked human, yeah.
But this girl sure wasn't human.
"Wizard," she said in a light, mocking voice. "We've been wanting to talk to you for a long time."
She stepped closer, and I stepped back. The girl smiled.
"Looks like your friend needs a little help there," she said, looking over my shoulder casually. "Want to help him out?"
I gulped. Take it easy, Harry. You've got this.
"I would, but I've got a feeling you'd stab me in the back the moment I turned around."
She laughed, and it was just wrong. There was nothing right about her.
Out of the blue, Lasciel's voice whispered urgently into my ear. You must flee, my Host. Go, leave the Knight. Save yourself!
Like hell. Go back to your room, young woman.
She is a demon! This foe is beyond you. Take the coin! If you will not run, please take up the coin. It is the only way to survive.
Ignoring Lasciel, I smirked, red hot rage replacing the fear I had shamefully resigned to. "Look. You're something else, I'll give you that. But my detective senses are tingling, and they're telling me that you're the bitch behind all of this."
She regarded me like one regards a full course meal. "Oh, yes. You'll be lots of fun." She curtsied teasingly. "Call me Meg."
"Dresden." I lifted my blasting rod. I focused my entire wrath and will into the attack, wanting nothing more than to see this girl and her daeva pets roasting alive for the things they did. "Fuego!" I snarled."Pyrofuego!"
A pillar of white fire, stronger and hotter than anything I'd conjured before, exploded from my focus and turned the room into a furnace of hellish flame brighter than the sun. I held the burning fire magic with both arms, screaming my fury all the while.
When it ended, it ended with a furious bang and with me lying on the blackened floor.
I struggled to my feet, rod out and searching for her. The exit and the walls around it had been caved in from the blast, the metal support frames twisted under the heat of the fire. Smoke rose from the destroyed walls with a quiet hiss. I gasped, hands on my knees. "God," I breathed. "I am so done."
"That all you got, tiger?"
For some reason, I wasn't that surprised. In fact, I really should've expected it. Angel tells you to bail and sounds serious, you obey, Fallen or not. But my emotions had gotten the better of me, and in one blaze of glory, I'd nearly depleted my magical output.
I looked up to see Meg standing in front of me, arms crossed. Her whole body was scorched beyond recognition, like an overcooked barbecued chicken, and her clothes were completely gone. Incinerated, no doubt. But her skin was repairing itself with lightning speed, flaky crispness giving way to a perfectly healthy pale epidermis. I watched in dumb, horrified fascination as the healing process was completed.
Meg stood before me, naked and none the worse for wear.
"You're gifted," she said lightly, but I saw the vein twinge on her forehead. Fuck. I'd only pissed her off. My blasting rod clattered to the floor; I was too weak to get a good grip on it. "I'll give you that. But you had your chance, sweetheart. Now, it's my turn."
AN: Pretty long, I know. Not my best, but I wanted to update for those of you who care. Much love for all the feedback; it's much appreciated. As always, leave a review on your way out. Thanks for reading!
