Murder House: Armageddon - Episode 2 - A Whole New World Order
2031
The headboard slammed against the pale yellow wallpaper hard enough to leave lasting marks. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Jeremiah knew he shouldn't be doing what he was doing but that voice of indiscretion got weaker each time he had sex with Constance Langdon.
The first time it had happened he had allowed himself to get drunk. It was soon after all the nonsense next door had settled and his nerves were still rattled by the forces he'd had to fight. Constance was keyed up as well and, after Michael was asleep, they'd gone through a bottle of gin together in no time. Vodka followed and that night he had his first carnal experience with a ghost.
It was a straight slope downward from there. As a member of the Order of Samael, he had already been wed by the church to his pre-ordained bride when he turned eighteen. Though he was abroad on his life's mission, he was still technically a married man and expected to abstain from physical relations. He had felt guilty at first. He'd spent hours in prayer and later had a strange dream about Samael and Lilith that left him both reassured and confused. He had the distinct impression his relationship with Constance was condoned by the Angel of Death but, if that was the case, then the religion surrounding his sect wasn't as concrete as he'd been brought up to believe.
Either way, the world was changing and, years later, Jeremiah only felt the rising peak of orgasm at the moment. The rough sex left them both panting afterward. Constance recovered with the help of a cigarette while Jeremiah got up to get a drink from the bathroom sink and wash up. When he finished, he returned to the bedroom where Constance had propped herself on the mountain of pillows she kept in her bed. Her hair was messy and her makeup was smeared. It leant her a vulnerability she didn't typically show. He was of a mind to return to bed when the doorbell rang downstairs.
It wasn't insanely late but random company was highly unusual, especially since the perma-fog had settled over the neighborhood. Jeremiah threw on some pants and tugged on an undershirt.
"I'll go see who it is," he said unnecessarily.
Constance exhaled smoke. "Don't be too long." When he was almost to the door, she added: "If it's one of those urchins from next door, tell them Michael's sleepin' and not to come back this late again."
He acknowledged her with a lift of his chin and headed out to the hall and downstairs. Her pushy ways didn't bother him. He only did what she said when it aligned with what he would do anyway and she knew it. It was a strange relationship they had developed.
When he got to the door he peeked out but only saw a shadowy silhouette so he turned on the porch light. The fog reflected the light, making it just as hard to see the person.
Jeremiah gave up and opened the door to a middle-aged man. "Can I help you?"
The man smiled. He was a good-looking fellow, dressed in a solid black suit of velvet: A Byron-esque outfit that would have been out of place in any era past the 1800's. His blond hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail but strangest of all was his lack of footwear.
"Good evening," he said, steepling his hands before himself in a manner that made his fingers point down. He spoke with a German accent. "I'm here to see Constance."
That was a surprise to Jeremiah. "Constance passed away." If this was someone from the woman's past, they needed to know that fact up front.
The blond man smiled. "Be that as it may, she is nevertheless here. May I come in?"
Jeremiah put on a friendly smile and offered his hand. "I'm Father Jeremiah. I'm a friend of Constance's. You are..?"
The man looked at the offered hand then ignored it, without losing the smile. "Getting impatient. Stand aside."
He lifted his hand but then hesitated when Constance came down the stairs in a flowing white chiffon robe and fuzzy mules.
"Jeremiah? What's takin' so damned—" She broke off when she saw the man in the doorway.
The man in black smiled bigger. "Constance. It has been too long."
Constance froze on the stairs as her thoughts collided. Then she hurried down, almost tripping on her heels. "No. No, no no!"
Jeremiah fell back in confusion as the woman rushed the door. She clutched her robe closed with one fist, the knuckles going white with the force she was gripping the fabric with.
"It's good to see you, too, liebe," the blond man said pleasantly.
She glared up at him, tensed like she was thinking about hitting him. "I don't know what you think you're doing here, but you can't make me go back with you. I'm dead! You've wasted your time. " Her chin lifted and a triumphant light came to her obsidian eyes.
"There is no need to go anywhere," he assured, speaking like he was talking to a small child. "Your sister is on her way as we speak."
Before Constance could process that, a long black car pulled up to the curb. Pietre glanced over his shoulder.
"Ah, speak of the devil," he said. "Here she is now."
Jeremiah moved in behind Constance and put a hand on her shoulder so she'd know he was ready to assist her if necessary. She brushed his fingers with hers but her eyes were on the ultra-luxury car. A young man got out of the front passenger's side. He was dressed in black as well and he went to the back passenger's door and opened it.
A woman's foot emerged and a shiny black patent leather stiletto touched down on the cracked sidewalk, black silk stockings shading fair skin. The rest of the woman soon followed, dressed as her companions in all black, though she wore a crepe cocktail dress that exposed a shocking amount of cleavage. Her long blonde hair was swept up and held in place with long ruby pins.
She sauntered up the walk and onto the porch like a queen. "Constance," she purred and took in the sight of her twin with a smug smirk.
"Fiona," Constance spat. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Her sister gave a soft, disdainful laugh. "I hope you've enjoyed your little holiday but you've been resting long enough."
Constance looked instantly wary and retreated a step. "What're you talking about?"
Pietre took the opportunity and stepped inside the house. Constance backed up more, forcing Jeremiah to retreat as well. Fiona came in as well.
"You didn't really think running away would free you from your destiny, did you?" Fiona sneered.
"I can't do anything for the Coven," Constance insisted. "I'm dead!"
"I heard," Fiona said dismissively. "Went and got a house dropped on you. Guess we know which witch that makes you." She enjoyed her joke then got serious. "Naptime's over, little sister. We've got work to do."
...
-= AMERiCAN HoRRoR SToRY =-
...
They all gathered in the kitchen. Constance put on a pot of coffee since it was shaping up to be a long night. Jeremiah went and changed into something more appropriate for company. Constance didn't care about her appearance at the moment. Even if she changed her clothes, her hair and makeup were a disaster. There was no point in doing things halfway so she didn't bother at all.
Another car pulled up outside while the coffee brewed. Two more women came up the walk, rining the bell just in time for Jeremiah to answer it on his return. He could tell the two new arrivals were a part of the group in the kitchen. They had the same energy around them and their mode of dress was equally distinctive.
One, an older woman with eyes of two different hues, offered him a demure smile. The other woman was so bedecked in shawls, she looked like a fortune teller's laundry pile. Her long mane of bead-strung blonde hair only added to the impression.
"Hello," the first woman said. "I'm Delia. My mother Fiona should already be here."
"I'm Father Jeremiah," the priest said and extended his hand.
The other woman intercepted it, cover his with both of hers. "You've been kissed by the angels," she breathed in a thick Southern drawl. She pet the back of his hand, stroking firmly like she was trying to rub something off. "Are you their consort?"
"Consort?" Jeremiah squinted and retrieved his hand. "I suppose you could say that. Please. Follow me. They're in the kitchen."
He led the way to the crowded yellow room. There was an animated discussion in progress.
"Even if you can," Constance was saying. "I don't want you to. With things the way they are, I don't see any reason to. I'm better off the way I am! I won't consent to it!"
"Consent?" Fiona laughed. "Did I imply that I was asking you? I don't need your consent, little sister.
"Consent for what?" asked Jeremiah.
"They want to resurrect me," Constance answered, turning to him for support.
"Why do you want to resurrect her?" the priest looked to her twin.
Fiona resembled Constance but the two had entirely different demeanors. Where Constance was flowers and stormy weather, this woman was fire and ice. The energy she put off was darkly magnetic. Attractive to him in ways that transcended just the physical. He wasn't used to such a strong presence but he hid it well.
"She has a job to do," the witch said simply. She lit a long black cigarette and exhaled in his direction. "When we were born, the Grand Master of our Coven prophesied things for us both. He said I would be Supreme of the most influential Coven of our time and he said my sister here," she jabbed the cigarette in Constance's direction. "Would be the 'mother of men'."
"I did my part!" Constance insisted. Behind her, Misty Day started poking around in the cabinets. She glanced at the eclectic woman but had no time for her. "Michael's my grandson and he's the God-damned antichrist! What more do you want from me?"
Fiona took a long pull from her cigarette as Delia moved to rescue the coffee pot from the burner where it was overflowing. Coffee sizzled on the burner plate until she got a cup underneath it to catch the extra.
"Michael isn't the one the prophesy is about," Fiona said. "He's not of the God and Goddess. I'm sure you knew that. He's not even your child."
Constance started to bristle but the last part of that statement deflated her. "Tate was his father and he was—is my son."
"But he's dead too, is he not?" asked Pieter.
She nodded. "He died many years ago." She tried not to feel the stab of pain the words brought. She was dead too, after all. It simply wasn't all that crippling. Still, it hurt to say it. She had no time to wonder why.
"Could we resurrect him?" the blond warlock asked.
"We could try," Fiona said reluctantly. "Where's his body?"
Constance bit her lip. Then she reached for a cigarette. "Cremated."
"Can't resurrect from ashes," Misty Day noted. She had several herbs out of the spice rack and was smelling them.
"She's right," Fiona smirked. "It's why the damned Puritans used to burn us. Christ on a crutch, Stansi. What the hell were you thinking?"
"I was thinkin' I didn't want grave robbers tampering with him!" Constance flared.
Delia poured several cups of coffee and put them on the table where anyone could take one. She found some sugar and milk as well and put those out.
"So much for that thought," said Fiona. Then she reached for one of the cups. "Where is your body? I want to get this done as soon as possible. We've already lost far too much ground these past years."
Constance folded her arms. "I'm not going to help you. I've done my part."
Her twin rolled her eyes. "Of course you're going to be difficult. I knew we should have just skipped all of this bullshit."
Pietre shrugged. "I like to be polite."
Fiona looked at Jeremiah then. "I don't suppose you'd be a dear and tell us where her body is?"
The priest cleared his throat. "I'm sorry. I can't help you without discussing things with Miss Constance first, in private. I'm sure you understand."
The Supreme favored him a slightly impressed sneer, appreciating the show of loyalty if not his obstinance. "The hard way it is."
She got up then and headed for the door. She said nothing more before heading out. Her high heels clicked briskly on the front walk. The others followed after her.
"Thank you for your hospitality," said the barefoot man before leaving. "I'm sure we'll be seeing each other again very soon."
"Sorry," said Cordelia with an apologetic smile. Then she left too.
Misty Day was the last to leave. She smelled strongly of the spices she had been messing with.
—
Author's Note:
I know it's been a bit longer between updates but I had a very good reason: I had finals in college. I'm happy to say I aced them! I scored a 95 on my Psych 101 overall grade. One might think I knew a thing or two about Psychology...
Up till this chapter, it's been backstory. We're cutting into the meat of the story now. I still haven't watched Apocalypse yet. Waiting till all the eps are available on Prime. My primary influences right now are old horror movies and Christmas horror. This will probably mean strangeness in another episode, for you guys. This one's already written so is safe from the Krampus.
