Michael was still at the Montgomery Mansion the next morning when Meg arrived looking for him. He wasn't difficult to find: One only had to follow the sound of ravens. They were flocked all around the house. His presence also tended to draw fog. The mist had largely dissipated except where he stayed for long periods. A thin haze hung around the house now.

She knocked on the front door. The house was large, but Michael answered promptly. He knew Meg was there from the moment she set foot on the property.

He hadn't bothered to tidy up for her: His hair was bed-tousled, and he was wearing only a black t-shirt and silk boxers. It was as "normal" as she had seen him look.

"I didn't think Pieter let you out anymore," he said.

It had been a while since Michael had seen her out on her own fully dressed. The thin grey shift she wore wasn't quite weather-appropriate. Though long-sleeved the dress was made of thin fabric and winter had set in. The weather was dry but nippy.

"He sent me to tell you Oracle Janis had a dream. She said the Shroud of Belial is in Massachusetts, in an asylum in Wa- Wapiski?" She faltered and a look of fear flitted across her pale face as she struggled to remember the name. "Wasaugee."

Michael smiled. "Are you sure?"

Flustered, she glanced down, but only for a moment. "Yes. It's in the Briarcliff Asylum in Wasaugee."

"Massachusetts."

"Yes. Massachusetts."

"Do we know anything else?"

She pressed her lips together and shook her head. "Not that he told me. He asked if you want him to go and fetch it."

Michael leaned on the door frame to consider. It was the last of the relics, but he had something else he needed to tend to locally before he would feel comfortable leaving again.

"Yes. I want him to go immediately."

"Will you be going too?"

Again, Michael was tempted. But: "No. I'll join him later if he's not back before tomorrow, but I have something I need to do here first."

She nodded and, with one last unintentional look at his body, she turned and headed back up the winding sidewalk.

—

The smell of winter was in the air. It used to excite Meg when she would smell it for the first time each year. Winter was her favorite season. When she was a child, it held a promise of respite from more turbulent times. A cool breeze tickled her cheeks with stray strands of her hair and she almost smiled.

"Pardon me," a voice right beside her said.

Startled, she turned, ready to defend herself. A dark-haired man in clothes straight from the early 2000's raised his hands.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you," he apologized. "You were speaking to Michael about—about Briarcliff Asylum?"

She eyed him warily, with growing suspicion. "Who are you?"

He flashed a sheepish smile. "Ben. Ben Harmon. Doctor Ben Harmon." He made a little laugh. "I apologize. It's been a while since I talked to someone new. Could I ask your name?"

"You're not alive," Meg assessed, squinting at him. "What do you want, shade?"

"You're good," he admitted. "Are you a psychic?"

"Witch," she corrected. "What do you want?"

Ben couldn't help admiring her tenacity. "I want to go to Briarcliff with your friend Peter."

"Pietre isn't my friend," Meg said sharply. She regretted the intensity immediately. "He's...family." The word soured in her mouth.

She headed toward the sidewalk then. Ben kept pace with her, fascinated. He found her evasiveness enticing. Impulsively, he caught her hand. She stopped short and slid a wary look at him.

"I never knew my parents in life," he told her sincerely. "I recently found out my father was a doctor at Briarcliff. Now you turn up, talking about some shroud that's there—"

Meg flinched but didn't pull away from him. "You know about the Shroud."

Ben shrugged. "Just what I heard you and Michael say."

"If you do go to Briarcliff," Meg said. "Don't tell Pietre you know about the Shroud."

She was careful to edit her words so that the fear was skimmed out of her tone, but Ben had made studying people his hobby for decades. Her anxiety manifested in many other ways to him.

"I won't," he assured.

Gently he encouraged her under the shelter of his arm. She resisted at first, but it was token resistance. It felt good to be held, even if she doubted his motivation was entirely for her comfort.

"I'm going because I want to learn more about my father. Peter doesn't have to know anything about our conversation, or what I heard," he went on. "Strictly confidential."

She looked at him skeptically. "You'd do best not to talk to him at all."

"You never told me your name."

She hesitated. Then: "Meg. My brother is waiting..."

Ben smiled and gave her shoulder a squeeze before letting her go. "Let's go, then."

She didn't smile back.

…

Inside the house, Troy lay face down on one of the hard, ivory couches in the Great Room. Extremely intoxicated, he had wandered in there after his encounter with Pat and promptly passed out.

He hadn't moved much during the night. He didn't stir when Tate appeared in the doorway near dawn, glowering unblinking at him. The teen stood there for nearly two hours, staring dislike into Troy's inert form. It was Violet's call that finally pulled him away from his passive aggressive vigil.

Hours later, Troy was still lying there. Travis and Beth looked down on him with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

"He's dead," Travis said.

"He isn't," Beth insisted. "He's breathing. See?"

Travis leaned in a little closer. "Doesn't look like it to me. Do you have a pocket mirror? We could hold it under his nose."

Troy blinked blearily and turned his head toward the sound of voices. The first thing he focused on was Beth and the ghastly state of her cut mouth. She hadn't bothered to fix the cuts as she wasn't expecting to be seen.

When he saw her, Troy scrambled up and back, falling over himself in the process.

"Jesus!" he shouted.

Beth quickly fixed her face, but the social damage was done. The young man bolted from the room, nearly tripping a couple of times before making it out.

Travis and Beth watched him go.

"I told you he wasn't dead," she said.

...

Later that morning, Michael had acolytes from his church move the paralyzed fallen angel up to the bunker up in the Hollywood hills. Wearing old HAZMAT suits, the men bandaged her wound but did not take the rod out. It was a precaution Michael was adhering to for the time being, while the remaining relic was hunted. He still didn't understand how items like the Rod of Wormwood were supposed to give him global dominance and until he did, he wasn't taking apart any of them.

Once Apsinthos was secured and under guard, Michael tracked down Troy at the Bradford Hotel. The dark-haired young man was slumped on the bar, curled over an empty glass. The ghost bartender was there, and they were chatting, which surprised Michael as he didn't know Troy could see the dead man.

Michael crossed the room to where Troy sat. At his approach, the bartender waited until he saw Michael tip his head in a "get lost" fashion. The man quietly moved away, literally disappearing as he went.

"I see you've met Smilin' Joe," Michael observed. He leaned against the bar but didn't sit.

Troy turned his head and regarded him from a crooked position, still hunched over his glass. "Yeah." He blinked and sat up straighter. "Nice guy."

"I didn't know you could see ghosts."

Troy looked at him funny. He was silent for several seconds as the statement percolated through the alcohol mush his brain had become. Finally: "Oh. Shit. That's...prolly what happened."

He tried to take a drink, but the empty state of the glass made him sad.

"What?" Michael prompted.

"Juss somethin' I saw this morning. Duzzin matter."

Michael was beginning to find him tedious. "Do you have the medallion?"

Troy squinted at him, lost.

"The Seal of Samael."

That brought the light of clarity to Troy's glazed eyes. "Oh. Yeah. Here."

He fished around in his pocket and dug out the necklace. He passed it to Michael, who caught the pendant and inspected it. The metal felt strangely cold despite having been nestled at Troy's hip. He stuffed it into the pocket of his vest.

"When Pieter returns, let me know. If I'm not at the church, I'll be at the Montgomery Mansion."

Troy gave a little nod and Michael left.

—

When Michael found Jeremiah, the man was walking the floor of the nursery with one of the twins. Tate was there as well, wearing his aged-down child guise. It was strange for Michael whenever he saw his childhood friend, but he hid it when he entered the room. Seeing him, Tate tried to withdraw, but Michael asserted a touch of psychic energy and stopped him.

"Stay," he said, trying for a friendly tone. "I won't be long. I've brought something. For you." He shifted his attention to Jeremiah.

The ex-priest's brows went up. "Oh?" He patted the baby's back. "Let me put him down. Tate, wind the swing, please?"

Tate scurried over to one of the twin swings near the back of the room and wound it up enthusiastically. Almost viciously. Jeremiah put the baby down in the quilted seat. Michael couldn't tell which one it was, but it looked healthy and alert. It wasn't crying for once. Letting go of the swing sent the infant rocking back and forth on a steady rhythm.

Once Jeremiah's full attention was back on him, Michael pulled the pendant and chain from his pocket and dangled it out to his mentor without pomp or preamble.

Jeremiah's eyes widened. "I thought it was gone."

"It was," Michael smiled, proud of himself. "Now it's not."

"Michael..." Jeremiah said, but he was too overwhelmed to adequately express his gratitude.

Michael watched as the older man opened the clasp of the chain and put the necklace on. His hand settled over the medallion and he shut his eyes, communing with it in a way Michael could sense but didn't intrude on. The sight brought the Antichrist a bit of relief and a flicker of envy. He wasn't interested in the emotions, though, so he ignored them.

"Pieter is going to retrieve the Shroud of Belial," he told Jeremiah when he came up out of his reverie. "If anyone comes by with news of his return when I'm not here, make sure you inform immediately. I want you with me when the relics are united."

"It's the last?"

"Yes. I'm not sure what will happen when he returns with it." Michael had no doubt the warlock would be successful. "I want you to be ready for anything. Tate? Mother Constance will need more help when Jeremiah leaves." He paused, noticing Tate's expression. "Is there a problem?"

Tate ditched the broody glower for an exaggerated look of innocence. "What? I didn't say anything."

"I'm sure we'll be fine here," interjected Jeremiah.

"Yeah," Tate chimed in. "I know how to handle your kids. Better than you do."

Jeremiah cringed internally as all hope for peace dissolved.

Michael stared at Tate. "It's a shame you didn't show such a knack for parenting with your own son."

Tate hadn't been deliberately baiting him. The tactless comment mostly stemmed from a general observation that he knew when the babies ate, slept, and which one liked to chew on the ancient Minnie Mouse toy. Things someone would only know if they spent a lot of time around the twins. As such, his guard wasn't up to deflect Michael's verbal jab. Wounded, he scowled and looked away.

"..not like I had anybody to show me how..." he muttered and set to chewing on the cuticle of his thumb.

"I have things to do," Michael said to Jeremiah, ignoring Tate. "Is there anything you need sent by?"

Jeremiah considered. "We're all right on supplies for now, but more laundry soap for diapers is always welcome."

After Michael left, Jeremiah went to wind the swing again. "It would be nice if—just once—the two of you could cross paths and get along."

"He started it," defended Tate. "Telling me what to do."

"He tells everyone what to do," Jeremiah pointed out. Swing wound, he turned to the boy-sized spirit. "Why should you be any different?"

Tate blinked a few times then fell back to brooding. "Just seems weird. I'm older than him." He caught a glimpse of himself in the wardrobe mirror and amended: "By birth."

"Birth order only matters when you're dealing with inheritance or child sacrifice."

...

Author's Note:

When I was writing the section with Ben, I couldn't get the song "Little Red Riding Hood" (by Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs) out of my head. I didn't suggest it for listening to while reading because it's really not the vibe I wanted for the scene. Even still, reading it back, the song went off in my head again. So maybe it's a soft recommend?

Next chapter is the last in this Episode. Also, we're coming up on the anniversary of when this fanfic got started. 8 years. Craaaazy.