What Isn't And Came To Be
Chapter 9: Bloody Hell!
The ingratitude! Everything he'd done for her. And still! the infuriating woman harped on about going back to her boring little life, and her waste of space husband; it was beyond aggravating!
Her attitude was utterly inconceivable, he was a King! Handsome, powerful, wealthy, someone who could give her and that brat of hers, more than her discount electrician husband ever could.
She ought to be down on her knees, kissing his testonis in gratitude of all the time, effort and resources he'd invested in her! So what if he'd burned down her house, the husband would get a better one thanks to him. Everyone was better off with this arrangement.
The lot of them owed him!
He'd saved her, from death via blood loss from her visions, then from the Men of Letters hit, and finally from Lucifer! Surely she remembered all the abuse, rape and torture she would have suffered at Lucifer's hands; the futures slotted to engulf the earth in one annihilation event after another. Her bleeding family was safe, something they wouldn't have been had he not done what he did, and locked Lucifer away.
Without HIM no one and nothing would have been safe from the insane archangel, or his brainwashed spawn…
He might be a demon, but thinking of the prophetic visions of those futures, Michele had passed on to him, as she lay dying. Remembering those thwarted futures, and everything Lucifer had been able to do by adding the child's considerable powers to his own. It still filled him with a feeling of sick, panicky horror.
And it wasn't just because he'd suffered at Lucifers hands too, or because he'd died in every single damn future, leaving the prophet alone with that monster and weeping over his death…
It was because, it had been the end, of everything…
Gritting his teeth Crowley shuddered and turned his back to compose himself.
Collected the bag of baby gear. Reminded himself, once again, that he had won.
The world, such as it was, would keep spinning on it's axis for the foreseeable future.
He'd nullified every bloody, Lucifer spawned ending, and every moment of shared abuse at the archangels hands.
Crowley comforted himself with the knowledge; that soon enough, he'd hold all the cards and nothing and no one would stand in his way or threaten him and his.
Bag in hand and somewhat composed, he turned to face the prophet and son of Satan once more. Took in the odd way the child's neck was craned towards the window. The prophet had a removed-from-reality look on her face, an expression he was beginning to associate with some form of basic communication between the two.
"Someones here," she murmured, eyes tracking in the same direction as whatever had drawn the nephilim's attention.
Crossing the room, he peered down through the shattered nursery window into the yard below, and saw six figures.
They stood stiffly, looking like someone had inserted lengths of dowel up their collective asses, and not in a sexy way.
Angels!
"Ballocks!" He swore, eyes jumping to the barely legible scribbles he'd gouged earlier.
The wind had come up, and those lines were starting to crumble. They wouldn't hold off the god squad for long.
Where were the winged monkeys when they were facing off against Lucifer? Nowhere to be seen!
But now the hard work was done. Bam! A whole flight of the sanctimonious little prigs turned up on the doorstep, to steal his prophet and play at ordnance disposal.
No! Just no!
Hastily he pulled the gold fountain pen he used for contracts out of his pocket and began inking anti-Angel wardings onto the nursery wall; mind churning furiously for purchase on the latest crisis. The sound of the 18 carat gold nib scratching and burring over the dry-wall informed him, he was irreparably damaging his limited edition, Gold Cross 21st Century.
It was, he admitted, too little, too late.
With only two Angel-blade rounds in his Luger and the Angel blade up his sleeve, attempting to fight 6 angels would be tantamount to suicide.
Trying to snap out wouldn't work either, carrying the mass of two extra bodies there was no way he'd get away clean.
He could cut and run alone, leave the dead weight behind and save his skin. But the thought of losing what he'd earned via all his scheming in the apocalypse world, and after, enraged him.
If his meatsuit were still alive it wouldn't be as much of an issue. But, an Angel banishing sigil required blood from a living soul endowed human, and his meatsuit had been dead for years.
"Crowley, who are they? Jack, he seems… drawn to them."
Crowley glanced over his shoulder at the prophet and grimaced. "Then precious wee Jack is almost as naive as you 're angels, Pet. Best guess, they're here to kill him, and if Castiel's reaction was any indicator, they'll probably want to do the same to you."
The prophet's face paled and her arms tighten protectively around the child.
It occurred to him then, that he did have a human chock full of blood and soul, standing right there in front of him.
The only real issue, became that he had no idea what effect an Angel banishing would have on Lucifer's spawn.
Hurriedly he inked up a series of shielding glifs onto the nurseries four walls.
"Remembering all that, and the fact, that if we do die here, your son gets the choice of starving, or becoming hellhound skat. I'm going to need your help, Darling."
"What?" She asked, lifting her chin. Pushed her sulk, over burned-out domiciles and abandoned families, aside.
"I need your blood."
"Seriously?" And just like that it was back.
"You say they probably want to kill us, and you want to get high?!"
"No! And this is why your husband's glad to be rid of you!" he hissed furious, eliciting a flinch. "…Always seeing the worst. Holding a man's indulgences against him. Never letting bygones be bygones.
We, need your blood, for an Angel banishing sigil, you half educated shrew!
I'd use my own, but I'm lacking a soul, and unlike the god squad out there, my meatsuit's dead."
Drawing a blank roll of parchment from his pocket, he held it out to her. "Here. Use this."
She looked at him all wide eyed, like a deer caught in the headlights. "I, I don't…"
"Let me guess, you've got a devils trap memorised, but not an Angel banishing sigil. Colour me surprised at your utter bias!" He waved his ruined pen impatiently at the child. "Put that down and come here."
"Look, it's not like this isn't costing me." He said, trying to sound reasonable, despite the time crunch, "I just wrecked my pen! A Gold Cross 21st Century."
"It's a pen." She muttered unimpressed, rolling her eyes at him.
"Limited Edition… Only 170 ever produced." She continued looking at him without a skerrick of appreciation.
"It probably cost more than that Japanese tin-can you were driving!
Look woman, get your over-padded arse here, now, before I lose my non existent patience!"
Finally the little miser got moving.
With a few soothing words to the Nephilim she laid it back down in the crib, glancing out the window at the angels nervously as she did.
"I've got no bloody idea what an Angel banishing will do to a nephilim, so he stays here, inside the wardings, such as they are. And we, go out there.
Hand!" He demanded, grabbing her roughly to make one sharp slice across her palm with his Angel blade.
The woman yelped and tried to pull away, but he held her fast.
In the moments before blood welled along the wound he was certain he saw a muted glimmer of luminescence flicker along the cut, but then the blood was there, scarlet and distracting.
It was all he could do to focus on smearing the sigil onto a palm sized fragment of parchment. "Do you at least understand how to activate it?"
"I slap my bleeding hand on it?"
"Thank, —whoever, for small mercies, she's not entirely useless." He muttered to himself waving the parchment in the air until the blood dried.
Then, folding it blood side in, pressed it into her uninjured palm and turned toward the stairs, licking his fingers clean absentmindedly as he did.
"Come on then. Stay behind me, and don't draw attention to yourself. When I say, 'now,' let 'er rip." He bared his teeth in eager anticipation. "They'll never know what hit them."
…ooo0ooo…
Michele followed Crowley reluctantly down the stairs, too big footwear thumping clumsily on the wooden steps. Wound stinging rawly, she balled her hand in a fist, to stop it dripping; and clutched the Angel banishing sigil for dear life. The thought of willingly walking towards a bunch of things that wanted to kill her filled her with panic.
When Crowley stopped and turned suddenly half way down the stairs, she wasn't expecting it and stumbled, only stopping herself from tumbling with her wounded hand splayed against his chest.
"Wha—" she gasped but didn't get any further.
The demon looked down and gripped her cut hand, vicelike.
Then his mouth, tongue and teeth were on it. Demandingly nipping and sucking at the sluggishly leaking wound.
Michele yelped and flailed, trying to escape or push him off; but Crowley had demonic strength on his side and all she managed was to wrench her arm half out of its socket.
Finally, when she'd realised resistance was futile, he lifted his face from her abused palm and looked up at her with lazy, heavy lidded eyes. Crazily, her brain noted that his irises were green, rather than brown, as she'd always thought.
"What?" He asked mildly, smiling at her with bloody teeth.
"What?" She repeated, incredulous, glaring at him. "What the Hell, Crowley! One minute ago, you said you weren't out to get high!"
"What I said, was that we needed your blood for the sigil. Can't have that cut clotting, now can we." He shrugged one shoulder, unrepentant and smirked at her slyly. Then lifted her hand back to his mouth, and held her eyes suggestively as he started to suck the drying blood off each of her fingers in turn, like it was chocolate sauce.
Shuddering with helpless disgust, Michele squeezed her eyes shut and turned her face away. That didn't however, block out the sensation or the little sounds he made.
The whole production made her sick to her stomach, it was all she could do not to vomit or scream. But she'd be damned if she'd give him any more reaction.
When he was finally finished, Crowley let her pull free.
Half panicked, she pushed past, and took the stairs down two at a time in an effort to put as much space between them as she could.
"We are going for the element of surprise here you know," he called after her, "you go out there, looking like Carrie at the prom and even that bunch of creativity stunted automatons might twig."
"I am perfectly capable of washing my hands, like a normal, functional, human being." She hissed in reply, words run together by her anger, but unfortunately he still heard them.
"Last-time hand washing was a topic. You locked me in a devils trap! And where did that end?"
'With you stealing my son's soul and calling it a favour.' She thought miserably.
Crowley stood there scowling at her from the bottom step, with his arms crossed. Something about his pose reminded her of the beginning of the first Incredibles movie.
'Mr Sansweet didn't ask to be saved, Mr Sansweet didn't want to be saved, and the injury caused by Mr Incredible's so called actions, causes him daily pain.'
'Hey, I saved your life!'
'You didn't save my life, you ruined my death, that's what you did.'
Suddenly she was bitterly tired. All the fight sapped away.
"I don't want to fight." she sighed wearily, "can we just deal with the angels so we can get back to Jack and Johnny.
Please?"
Crowley smirked at her again.
"Oh I know you don't wan't to fight, darling. If you really hated my attentions so much, you could have used that little arts-and-crafts blade of yours to try and stop me. But you didn't. Did you, Pet."
Michele felt her mouth drop open. The little blade suddenly feeling like it weighed a ton, where it sat in her pocket.
He was right, she could have, she hadn't even thought of it.
Even if she had, though… she couldn't… She couldn't stab Crowley!
Crowley must have seen it on her face, his lips quirked up an a half smile. Nodding abruptly, he led her out the front door towards the group of angels without another word.
….
"Demon!" The lead Angel of the group cried, blade in hand.
"Moron," Crowley replied mildly. "Oh sorry. Thought we were playing eye-spy. Don't suppose you've seen a nephilim have you? I'm guessing we're both here to off the little bugger. Fancy a team up? Enemy of my enemy and all that." Crowley continued to amble closer to the angels, hands buried in his pockets, looking utterly unconcerned. Michele followed behind, mostly hidden.
"Do you really think we are going to fall for that?" One of the other angels, this one wearing a tall brunette woman, scoffed scornfully. "That building is warded."
"Yes well, heard on the grapevine Lucifer was looking for the thing.
The warding seemed… expedient while I searched. Unfortunately, the only thing in there were a couple of dead humans."
"A likely story." The leader gestured to the angels behind him and the group spread out, blades drawn.
"Demon's lie." He declared stonily.
One of the other angels, a tall Black man in a pale grey suit, cocked his head and stared straight at her.
"What is that?" he demanded.
"That? How rude." Crowley chided. "My associate has a certain skillset, and a nephilim's birth is practically biblical."
Michele sucked a breath, the way the Angel was looking at her was so full of revulsion.
"I know Angels of the Lord aren't known for their social graces, but I just assumed you'd recognise the victim of one of your little war crimes. Experimenting on innocent baby prophets, making them all nasty and soiled. Naughty, naughty." Crowley tsked, his voice dripping with amusement. "What ever would Daddy say."
"Crowley!"Michele yelped grabbing at the back of his coat.
What the flaming heck was he doing?
Crowley reached a hand behind him to stroke one finger down the back of her hand in warning. "Adults are talking, Love. Zip your lip like a good girl." He ordered lowly.
All the angels were staring at her and each other now. Shuffling their feet and murmuring. Some were hissing about demons being liars, others were saying her name, and muttering about rumours and someone called Sibiel.
The lead Angel was rapidly losing control of his group.
Crowley took two more steps forward as the angels started to argue amongst themselves, and Michele realised they had just passed over a warding sigil carved into the crumbling dirt.
"Now!" Crowley gritted.
Without hesitation Michele opened the parchment and clapped her two hands together, slapping her still bleeding palm over the sigil.
There was a sudden, blindingly white light and a sound of multiple voices screaming. Crowley wrapped his arms around her, crushing her face against his chest, his own face buried in her hair.
Then, it was over and the two of them were standing there in front of the little cottage, alone.
"Just like clockwork." Crowley mused and patted her on the head condescendingly, before turning back the way they'd come.