Title: Shadows at Noon
Disclaimer: I don't own anything
Author's note: Sorry for the long delay, I was out of the country, and therefore away from Internet, for a few weeks.
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Anger and Pride
It is strange, to look back on it all now. I think, even as I was doing everything, I still never really comprehended just how much of a difference I would make. I wanted to create a world that was safe and peaceful, and for the most part, I did. But is wasn't until much later, until after I had already come so far, that I took a moment to look back and understand.
The demons were always a problem. Even though Zankou was gone and the major threat of rebellion removed, there were still demonic factions intent on destroying me. It is laughable now, that they ever thought they could do that. But then, it consumed my mind, left me with worry and doubt and the firm belief that I always had to stay one step ahead of them.
Until I realized that, although I was concerned about these demonic factions, they were even more afraid of me.
"Are you ready to give the speech, sir?"
The new President of the United States turned and looked at his aide with an appraising eye. "You disagree with my methods, don't you?" he said quietly. The aide flushed a dark crimson red and looked away, but the President merely smiled and patted him on the shoulder. "That's alright. You're entitled to your own opinion. Besides, it is certainly helpful to have people around me who will force me to defend my choices. Make sure that I am doing what is best for the country, and not what is best for me."
The aide nodded uncomfortably and scurried from the Oval Office, leaving the President alone.
Or, rather, apparently alone.
"What is best for the country, and not what is best for me?" came a mocking tone as Wyatt threw off his invisibility and appeared in the room. "Do you really expect people to believe that?"
The President smiled grimly. "People will believe exactly what they want to believe. Nothing more, and nothing less. And right now, this country wants safety."
"And you can give that to them?" Wyatt demanded, blue eyes narrowed in a questioning stare.
The President raised on eyebrow. "You would not have gone to all the trouble of ensuring that I was elected to replace my unfortunate predecessor if you did not believe that I was capable of caring through on my promises. Why the doubt now?"
"I think I need hardly remind you that you are only in this office because of me," Wyatt snapped, "and I could just as easily take it all away."
"But why would you?" the President challenged. "I am giving you exactly what you wanted, and I am handing it to you on a silver platter. I will spin an illusion of safety that will bring every human in this country into the palm of my hand. And you will be free to do whatever it is you please."
"You make a good businessman," Wyatt said with a begrudging type of respect.
The President laughed darkly, cynically. "That's all politics is, Wyatt Halliwell. Business. You sell yourself and your ideas like they are consumer products. You reap the benefits and cut your losses and try to stay on top." His eyes glittered with a calculating insight. "And I've reached the top. I'm not going anywhere, and I know that means I need to fulfill those promises I made. Trust me, I'll give you exactly what you want."
"I'm counting on it," Wyatt said darkly.
The President walked past the young witch-lighter and out of the office. His staff was gathered in the hallway, waiting for him. They looked up as one, and he read the emotions on their faces. He saw apprehension, worry, distrust, excitement, and hope. Some were against his plan, he knew that. Quite a bit of the country was against his plan as well. But they didn't know, didn't understand that he was only following orders from someone else. He had to make this look like his idea, his plan, or else he would never be able to sell it.
This was how he had risen to the top, and this was how he was going to dig his heels into the ground and stay there. Wyatt Halliwell was the only power in this world worth taking notice of, and he would use that to hsi advantage. Wyatt had made it perfectly clear that he didn't particularly care what the President did with the rest of his four or eight years in office, as long as he gave this one speech and followed through on his promises now. So he'd do that, and then he'd have power... And with Wyatt keeping a magical eye on him, he doubted he'd have much in the way of enemies either.
The arrangement would benefit both of them.
He rubbed his hands together. "Let's do this."
He knew Wyatt was following, hidden by some magic, watching him the entire time. He could feel those blue eyes burning into his back, but he ignored the sensation and allowed himself a small smile as he stepped out into the Rose Garden and saw all the people lined up between the rows of flowers, ready to hear his words.
He'd give them something to remember.
"Ladies and Gentlemen," he heard his press secretary announce in a reedy tone, "may I present the President of the United States of America."
He walked up onto the platform and placed his hands on either side of the podium, smiling easily. He'd long since perfected speech-giving, and a wave of confidence burst through him. This would be a piece of cake.
"Good afternoon," he greeted them, letting his gaze roam over the different faces turned towards him. "I know many of you have come here to hear only one issue, one concern. And so I will address only that one issue today. I speak, of course, of the problem we all face every morning when we rise and every night when we go to bed. It is the only thing we really think about, the only fear that eats away at us. I am referring to the new supernatural creatures that have made themselves known."
A hiss rose from the crowd, followed by a series of men and women stomping their boots and shouting curses. He held up his hands for silence.
"We have tried exterminating them. We have sent witch hunters. We have sent the Army. We have lost men and women in this battle, good people who sacrificed their lives to protect us. So far, all those sacrifices have been in vain. The fighting continues, and we are losing."
The response from the crowd was not only angry, it was tinged with disgust for the blatant truths he had uttered. No one wanted to admit that they were losing to something they didn't understand, something out of fairy tales and myths. But they had to face the facts, it was the only way to overcome the fear and move towards a more productive solution.
"But today, I offer a different path, a new solution. And end to this uncontrollable fighting." The simmering fury faded as all eyes focused on him, waiting for his next words. This was the tricky part, he knew. This would make or break his career, this would be the final detail that allowed him to carry through on his promise… or it would end him.
He took a slow breath.
"Once upon a time, we were afraid of Germany and Hitler. Of the Soviet Union. Of Communism. Of Islamic Fundamentalism. Do you remember those times?" He paused to emphasize his comment, then continued strongly, "But were all Germans members of the Nazi party? Were all Russians hell-bent on the destruction of America? Were all communists determine to take over the world? Were all Muslims terrorists?" Again, the slight pause, and then, "No! They were not! So tell me, do you believe that all supernatural beings are evil?"
He stepped back at the onslaught of response, the cries and shouts, the screaming. This was not the speech the audience had expected, and they felt betrayed by this new turn of events.
Well, let them feel betrayed. He would soon change their minds.
"We can live in peace and harmony," the President continued. "We can live side-by-side. We can live in the prosperity that this nation offers to all its people."
"They're not even human!" a cry went up from the crowd.
"They are not Americans. They are… abominations," came another retort.
"There was a time," the President replied evenly, his eyes sweeping the crowd, "when people believed the same about anyone with dark skin."
A complete silence met his words, and he gave a grim smile of triumph.
"You want to feel safe? I do too." He raised a hand, and a probe drifted towards him like a giant metallic bug. "This is a probe," he announced. "It can scan people and determine if they are witches." A murmur rose from in front of him, and he gestured with one hand, pointing as the probe shot a bright light from one end. The laser casually roamed the face of one of the President's staff, and then turned to another, and another, and another.
He took another breath.
"In this country, anyone who carries a weapon must have a permit. Must be registered. I propose to do the same for magical beings. After all, they have their own types of weapons, and we must be protected from that. These probes will travel through the city and find witches. If any identified supernatural being is not registered, he or she will be arrested." He paused again, then added ironically, "And don't worry, we will create cells that can hold such law-breakers."
A gentle laugh, no louder than a whisper, raced through the crowd at his light attempt at humor.
"What of the evil ones?" a voice called out, a question that drew murmurs of agreement. "How will we protect ourselves against them and their powers?"
The President inclined his head, indicating that he understood the validity of that concern. However, the answer rolled easily off the tip of his tongue. "We have guns. We have police. We have weapons of our own. And we will gain allies, powerful allies. The good supernatural beings can use their powers to protect us. Because I will not lie to you, there are evil magical creatures out there, and we will fight them."
That line brought a few cheers.
"But we must remember," the President continued, "that we cannot judge everyone based simply on rumors, on first impressions, or on the group to which they belong. Rather, we must judge each individual based on his or her actions. This system of probes will ensure that we are kept safe from the criminal aspects of the supernatural community. But we cannot condemn them all for actions perpetrated by only a few. What I want is an end to all this fighting. What I want is a new order in this country. One that accepts these people for who and what they are. We have always committed ourselves to living in peace and harmony with others not like us. Those are the beliefs this country is founded on, and it is what has made us a great nation. Should we turn our backs on it now?"
He glanced at the probe as it continued to flit about, scanning everyone. He doubted that he would ever have enough manpower to arrest any magical creature. But he also knew that those probes would transmit their scans back to Wyatt, and Wyatt would deal with the problems that arose. After all, the so-called Wielder of Excalibur was the one who had invented such machines, and he'd done it solely so that he could keep an eye on his magical domain.
But it didn't matter if he provided actual safety, or merely an illusion. Let the people believe themselves protected, and he would have the power to do whatever he wanted while in office.
He felt the bright blue eyes of Wyatt Halliwell piercing him in the back, the heat of their gaze rising with intensity, and he smiled.
Two days later, the first probe transmitted something worth seeing.
A witch. By the looks of it, she wasn't particularly powerful. She was scanned while coming out of a grocery store, and apprehended by Wyatt's demonic guards only moments later, as she unlocked the door to her car and attempted to drive home. She was brought before Wyatt.
The entire process took perhaps two minutes, if that.
"What's your name?" Wyatt asked, eyeing the young woman carefully. She was short, only about five feet tall. Her hair was a dirty blonde, and her eyes were a matching light brown. She was shaking with fear as she stared up at Wyatt, and he smirked slightly, knowing she could read his aura, sense his power.
"Monica." She hesitated, then added, "Monica Parker."
"Do you know that all witches must be registered, Monica Parker?" Wyatt asked dryly. She was younger than him by a few years, maybe only nineteen or twenty.
"I… I didn't," she stammered.
"You're a bad liar, Monica," Wyatt retorted. Around him, his demons were grinning like fools, shifting from foot to foot in anticipation. He knew they were waiting for him to do something. They expected Monica to be thrown in the dungeons or killed.
"I was… I couldn't," Monica said, her voice breaking in a sob. "He would have…" She stopped suddenly, one hand rising to her mouth as though she hoped she could swallow the words she had uttered. She knew, in that moment, she'd said far too much.
"Who is he?" Wyatt asked, eyes narrowed dangerously.
Monica bit her lip and shook her head. "I don't… I don't know. He… He's old. He has gray hair. I… I see things around him. Scary things." She looked down at the floor, her eyes filling with tears. "That sounds crazy, doesn't it?"
Wyatt frowned. "You were shopping when we found you. You had bought herbs, plants. Were you going to make a potion?"
"I just… I wanted to get rid of him."
"With a potion?"
She nodded miserably. "I… He said if I got registered… you'd kill me. Or mind control me. I saw… I saw the future, what he said would happen. I was killing… my family died to… they…. I didn't want to, but I…" She was sobbing suddenly, tears streaming down her cheeks, body shaking.
Wyatt was at her side in a moment, his entire expression changed. His eyes were hard as ice, chipped and blue, and his mouth was set in a thin line. "Monica," he said harshly, and she jerked her head up and looked at him, "tell me more about this man. Did he ever tell you his name?"
Monica swallowed uneasily. "I don't remember what it was, though. I think he mentioned it once."
Wyatt rocked back on his heels. "And he made you see scary things? Was he a demon?"
"I'm not sure. He appeared and disappeared really suddenly, so I thought he was. But I don't know. I couldn't identify him."
"Monica, I want to help you," Wyatt said, and his voice melted into a gently soothing tone. "I think I might know who this is. I can find him and stop him. I can keep him from hurting you anymore. But I need you to trust me. Can you do that?"
She looked at him, brown eyes wide with wonder. "I… I guess."
"Good." Wyatt placed his hand on the side of her head, his fingers barely brushing against her hair. "This is going to feel a little strange, but I promise it won't hurt." And with that, he closed his eyes and willed his power to look inside her head and pick out the picture of interest.
Monica stiffened, but then relaxed. Wyatt dropped his hand and turned away.
"Did you… did you see him?" Monica asked breathlessly.
"I did," Wyatt said, and his tone was filled with such unadulterated hatred that every being in the room took an involuntary step backwards, away from him. He spun around. "My family vanquished him a few times over the years, but he keeps finding a way to come back. Not this time. This time…" A cruel smile lit his lips. "You're going to help me, Monica. And this time, we're going to teach the Demon of Fear a lesson or two about his own terrors."
She didn't really have much of a choice but to agree with his plan, and so, somehow, Monica found herself returning to her own home with a sense of nervous unease. It was silent, the still air disturbing nothing. A gentle breeze pulled at the curtains as she closed the door behind her, and she inhaled sharply and spun around, searching the empty space for any sign of movement.
Nothing.
She knew she was being paranoid. But with good reason. Every time she had let her guard down, something had happened. And although Wyatt had promised that no harm would come to her, she still couldn't quite believe that he had let her go free… or that he would really be able to protect her from her demonic stalker.
She mused over her interaction with Wyatt for a moment, thinking. He had certainly not been what she had expected, although she supposed that was because most of her expectations had been tinged by fear created by the demon. Still, she could sense the power simmering under the surface, and the rage that was so omnipresent it threatened to break from him at any moment.
She looked around the house again, but saw nothing.
She exhaled, a measured breath, and walked into the kitchen. She wondered if Wyatt was watching her, even now. She wondered what would happen to her after the demon was vanquished. There were a lot of unknown variables in this equation, and she was not sure she liked leaving so much up for fate to decide.
Fate had not been kind to her, or to anyone in her family.
She heard a rustle, a single footstep, the slow intake of another's breathing. She didn't turn around, but placed her hands on the tile countertop to steady herself and waited for another sound.
"It's all going to end, isn't it?" said a voice. It sounded like her own, and for a moment she thought perhaps it was coming from her own lips. She struggled to remember that these weren't her words, but someone else's implanted in her mind. Yet no matter how hard she fought, she couldn't stop the vision from appearing before her eyes.
She raised one hand, summoning an energy ball, a power she didn't even know she had. In front of her, on the ground, tears streaming down her face, was a young girl she'd never seen before. Behind the girl were two adults, probably her parents. The mother was on her knees, blood seeping from a wound on her chest. The father was trying his best to pull his wife and daughter back to their feet, but they remained on the floor.
"Any last words, precious?" her voice was hoarse and cold, but undeniably hers.
"Please… don't hurt them," the man begged, eyes widening with horror as he stared at the energy ball in her hand. "Please… take me instead."
"I think there will be enough time to take all of you," she answered mockingly, pausing only a moment before hurtling the energy ball.
"Don't you see what will happen?" a voice, not quite hers, whispered in her ear. "It's inevitable. You will become a monster, just like the woman who killed your parents. You will destroy…"
She shook her head. "No…" In vain, she tried to push away the thoughts that filled her mind, the fury and anger and fear. "No, stop. Please."
"Please. Your father begged, didn't he? He begged for them to spare you and your mother. You survived, but your parents… They were not as fortunate." The voice grew in volume, its tone filled with malicious glee. "You'll become the person you despise most."
And then the vision was gone. Monica spun around to see Barbus, Demon of Fear, consumed in flames that burned his skin but did not destroy him. He was screaming, his eyes open with agony, his face twisted with pain.
Standing directly behind him was Wyatt, one hand extended casually, watching in satisfaction as the flames continued to fill the air, sending sparks floating towards the ceiling.
Monica turned and ran from the room.
She stumbled to her knees, her body shaking with horror at what she had seen. Barbus' vision had left her unnerved, and his words filled with nameless dread. Was it really inevitable? Would she become the same monster that had killed her own parents? But even more than that, she was terrified of what she had seen flickering through Wyatt's blue eyes as he attacked Barbus. It was cruel and cold and almost utterly inhuman.
She closed her eyes, swallowing nervously, her throat suddenly dry. After a moment, she pushed herself to her feet and walked quickly from her house, pausing only briefly on the steps to glance behind her as she closed the heavy wooden door.
Then she looked up at the sky. She was too young to really remember what the world had been like before all this, but she knew that there was a time when magical beings, like guardian angels, watched over witches. She looked up at the sky and uttered a single prayer, hoping that someone, somewhere, would hear her.
"Help me."
"Did you hear the rumors?" Chris asked as he took a seat next to Myst on the sofa in the small safe-house. "Barbus has surfaced again."
"The demon of fear? I thought he'd been vanquished?"
Chris shrugged. "Mom and Aunts vanquished him many times. Somehow, he always came back." The brunette paused, running a hand through his hair and slowly shaking his head. "He's using his powers to convince witches to fight Wyatt."
"Why would he want to turn witches away from Evil?" Myst questioned, confused. Barbus stood to gain the most if evil took full control of the world.
"I don't think he ever really cared about Good and Evil," Chris answered honestly, struggling to remember anything he might have overheard from his mother, father, or aunts. Barbus was practically a legend in his family, the one demon that somehow kept coming back, no matter how many times they defeated him. "From what I remember," Chris mused quietly, "he only really cared for himself. And I guess… Wyatt causes fear. Of course Barbus is going to use that against good witches. It's what he does."
"Well, Wyatt will catch up with him sooner or later," Myst said confidently. She knew, better than most, that very few could avoid the wrath of the Twice Blessed for long.
"True," Chris agreed readily.
"How's Adam?" Myst asked, changing the subject.
Chris brightened at that. "He seems to be a lot better. The nightmares come less frequently. And he's gotten it into his head that someone we can fix everything. That hope keeps him going."
Myst gave a tentative smile at Chris' words, but she couldn't help but wonder what Adam had seen that made him so convinced everything would work out alright. There was really nothing left in this world, and the remnants of the Resistance were crumbling all around her. They could barely keep the safe-houses protected, and sooner or later Wyatt would find them.
He always did.
Chris rubbed his eyes wearily and stood slowly, stretching sore muscles. A rush of exhaustion passed through him, but he tried to shove it away with all the strength he could muster.
It wasn't enough.
The problem was that while Adam seemed to be getting better, Prue was getting worse. He couldn't quite put his finger on what it was that was wrong with her, but every time they interacted he was left with the uneasy feeling that he should be doing something to help her. And yet he had no idea what it was, because he had no idea what was actually wrong.
"Where are you going?" Myst asked, rising to her feet as well.
"Just going to stretch my legs," he said.
He moved slowly away from her, and she watched him go with a sadness in her eyes. She'd grown closer and closer to him over the past months, and yet every time she wanted to bring up their almost-relationship, something seemed to get in the way. First their had been Bianca's betrayal, and then Leo's death, and then the fall of Valhalla. Now it felt as though she'd just let all the opportunities slide past, and it left her with the hollow feeling of regret.
Chris, seemingly oblivious to Myst's inner struggle, made his way through the hallway leading from the room. He paused after a moment, noticing a dim light flickering from beneath one of the closed doors to his right. With a frown, he stepped forward and pushed the door open.
Prue was standing in the middle of the room, leaning over a table covered in maps of the city. A single lantern flickered on the very end of the table, casting shadows along the length of the wall.
"Prue, what are you doing?" Chris asked in confusion, crossing to her side.
"I'm thinking," she answered calmly, not even looking up at him.
Chris fought back the urge to roll his eyes. "About what? And why haven't you turned on the lights?"
Prue looked up at him then, and her dark eyes seemed to hold something he couldn't identify. "Power supply is low," she answered. "I don't want to waste our resources, we've got precious little of them as it is, and the base has to hold us for a while."
There was far too much logic in her words to argue, but Chris still couldn't shake the feeling that he was missing something here. "Alright," he murmured, "so what are you thinking about?"
Prue leaned over the maps and ran her finger along an artificially drawn black line that divided the city into segments. "We can't hold sector C-4 forever," she explained. They'd divided the city into sectors, and planned their rescue missions according to which sector had the most demon attacks. Likewise, safe-houses were located for places without much magical events, and surprise attacks, of which they planned very few, were always targeted at areas where Wyatt had the most influence.
Chris frowned, his eyes moving across the map to find C-4. It was on the very outskirts of the city, away from almost everything. It had several safe-houses.
"It requires too much effort," Prue continued. "But if we let it go, if we switch our resources, we might be able to shield sector A-1 and F-5 better." Both of those were surrounded by red dots, evidence of Wyatt's attacks and the death toll they had taken.
"C-4 has safe-houses for the elderly and children," Chris argued. "If we abandon it, everyone will die."
"We can move them somewhere else," Prue countered dismissively. "But look how far away C-4 is from everything else. It is practically on the other side of the city. We can't keep transporting all our resources out there, it takes too much time."
"It is over there because we wanted to keep the elderly and children away from all of the fighting," Chris replied with a firm shake of his head. He didn't like the way Prue was looking at this, but he didn't know how to convince her to see things from his point of view.
"And the more effort we put into protecting them, the less we put into protecting those who are actually fighting. And then they die, and we lose soldiers." Prue straightened again and looked at Chris, and he knew she was thinking of all those who had already died in this war.
They were going to lose. It was the unspoken truth no one would utter and everyone knew.
"You would have me trade one for the other?" he questioned finally.
"It isn't as though we are killing them all," Prue sighed. "We are just putting them into a bit more danger by moving them closer, but we are also giving our soldiers, those who can actually do good for this world, a bit more protection."
Chris bit his lip. "I don't like it."
Prue shrugged. "You can't save everyone, Chris."
She turned away from him, and Chris, unable to think of anything to say, walked from the room. He paused in the hallway and found himself staring at Myst, who had obviously followed him. Closing the door firmly so that Prue would not hear any of the conversation, he ran his hand through his hair and said, "How much did you hear?"
"Enough," Myst answered simply.
Chris nodded. "I'm worried about her."
Myst glanced past him to the door, then said, "What do you think you should do?"
"I don't know," Chris admitted slowly. "I feel like… this entire thing is a joke. I mean, we talk about safe-houses and soldiers and fighting this war, but we are barely staying alive. This isn't fighting, this is…" He trailed off and shook his head. "I don't know," he said again.
She placed a hand on his shoulder. "You'll fix this. I know you will."
He gave her a hard look, then shrugged off her hand. "How?" he demanded. "How do you know?"
She was close to him now, so close their faces were almost touching. "I know you," she answered.
"Yeah," he muttered, "but you know Wyatt, too."
She smiled, bitter-sweet. "I do," she agreed, "and I still know that you're going to fix this."
They drew closer, faces barely centimeters apart, and then footsteps in the hall caused Chris to jump back and turn towards the approaching sound.
It was David, and he looked breathless.
The dark-haired witch paused, looking between Myst and Chris with an air of confusion, wondering at their flushed faces and awkward silences. But when neither made any move to explain what he had interrupted, he dismissed it and started talking quickly.
"I heard another rumor. Looks like Wyatt caught up with Barbus."
Myst gave a grim smile. "Of course he did."
"That doesn't mean it's over," Chris pointed out. Myst and David turned to him, questioning, and he elaborated, "Wyatt may always catch up with his enemies, but Barbus isn't just another demon. He's the Demon of Fear. And he always comes back."
Even without the Elders watching over the now-destroyed world, their was still something keeping an eye on the inhabitants of the tiny planet, observing their struggles, successes, and failures. And Monica's two-word prayer was heard by some Power That Be, and was answered.
She witch paused on the street, looking around, wondering how long it would be until Wyatt's demons found her, until it was all over and she was either dead or another member of his empire.
And then the man stepped out of the house in front of her and looked down at her with concern in his eyes. "Are you alright?" he called out, and hurried down the steps to her side. "You look ill."
She gave a faint smile. "I just… I don't… don't feel well."
"Here, let me get you a glass of water," he offered, gesturing back towards his house.
She gave a sardonic smile. "How do you know I'm not evil?"
He laughed. "I've been around evil. You're not it."
Against her better judgment, she found herself taking a liking to this trusting stranger with the kind face. "I'm Monica," she said, extending her hand. "Monica Parker."
He took her hand, shaking it. "Daryl. Daryl Morris."