It would soon be Michael's birthday. He would be turning twenty, which was strange because he felt much older than that. He had experienced and absorbed so much in such a short amount of time. Still, he knew in the grand scheme of things that twenty mortal years wasn't much. By the standards of recent society, he wouldn't even be old enough to drink yet.

That law had fallen to the wayside with the ruins of the mega-governments that made it. Drinking was something he had already done so much of it had lost its novelty. Alcohol was just another of many common indulgences to him now, like cigarettes, sex, and food.

Michael stepped out of the black Escalade. Shiny and tricked out with hand-tooled wrought iron curlicues, the vehicle had been converted to a coach. Hitched to a team of twin white horses, they had black ostrich feathers strapped to their heads, matched to the leather tack that bound them to the SUV. The reins ran under the hood up through the customized body of the Escalade and were gripped by a driver in an ornate black masquerade mask and black suit.

Michael's clothes were characteristically posh and dark as well: Black paisley-print shirt, dark red silk vest, a polished mountain lion's claw in lieu of a tie. His pants were skin-tight velour, black, tucked into knee-high riding boots. The calf-length silk coat was his favorite piece of the ensemble, a gift from an emissary from South America. His lacey cuffs poked out nicely from the hand-stitched hems.

He wore his hair in a loose ponytail and had even bothered to smudge on some red and black eyeliner; drama for what he expected would be a most interesting encounter. He was a Gothic romance poster boy in the flesh.

He stopped at the end of the brick walk that led up to the old Hollywood mansion. It reminded him somewhat of the Montgomery Mansion, but only in age. Its style was boxier. The cladding on the outer walls was painted gray. They paint was curling badly with age and the shingles of the roof were visibly askew. The overgrown yard intimated the place was abandoned. Every window he scanned was covered, either with heavy drapes from inside or rickety shutters on the outside. An old-fashioned sign above the ivory door was hand-lettered, faded with exposure to the elements.

ELYSIUM BOARDING HOUSE

He pulled the room key from his coat pocket and looked at it again.

"Eighteen," he said, reading the number on the antique tag.

He looked at the run-down mansion again. For just an instant he felt like he was at some sort of crossroad. That he was facing a choice where there was no right answer, but simply two different directions he could go. One direction was back, into his SUV, and back to one of the many places he called home. He had many proverbial pokers in the fire, several groups of people roaming the world searching for things for him. Every day, something new rolled into town that wanted his attention. He didn't really need to complicate his life more.

But the other direction drew him with its mystery. Though he had been busy the past weeks, the red-cloaked woman he had met in the hills had lingered at the back of his thoughts. When he and Troy returned from Pripyat, one of his senior priests told him they'd located the boarding house.

He had considered bringing Troy with him to investigate, but the excursion into Chernobyl seemed to have bothered the False Prophet. Michael wouldn't have minded some company. He had instructed his driver to wait curbside with the vehicle. Everyone else he might've wanted with him was already busy doing things for him.

To stave off an unexpected flash of loneliness, he started up the walkway, taking it in long strides. He considered whether to knock or just let himself in, but the door opened on its own as he stepped up onto the stoop. He did a quick multi-layer scan on the place and was temporarily overwhelmed by the sheer amount of energy the place was giving off. He couldn't sense anything beyond that blinding psychic static.

With some misgivings, he stepped inside the foyer. The door swung shut behind him, clicking quietly. The hall was all dark red fabrics, golden brown woods, and antique brass fixtures. Much dimmer lit than it had been outside, but not too difficult to adjust to. In the distance he could hear lilting notes of classical music, something Russian played on an old record player. The gritty sound of dust cluttered the sound.

The same psychic noise pervaded on the inside of the place, restricting him in ways he wasn't used to. He was about to turn and make for the door when a woman dressed in red stepped out of a doorway near the back of the hall, beyond the main staircase.

Her black curly hair was pinned in a loose Gibson-girl style and her red sleeveless gown shimmered as she moved. The collar of the dress was high, right under her jaw, making it look like her throat had been cut and the dress was made of her blood. The fringed fabric clung to her shapely form, terminating in long strands of glittering jewels that dribbled like drops of blood from the asymmetric hem of her skirt. She had a cup and saucer in her hands, held close to her bosom. She was barefoot.

"Mister Wolf," she said with an alluring smile. Her lips were as red as her dress, her dark eyes made intense with thick, smoky black eyeliner. "What big eyes you have."

He was staring. Being called out on it didn't bother him, either. She was an exotic beauty, but there was more to her that drew him to her. It was similar to the urges he felt in Pripyat yet subtly different. Apsinthos had been incapacitated and easily subdued. This creature was at full strength and acuity. She was in her lair and ready for him.

Michael hadn't felt so excited in ages.

"The better to drink in your exquisite beauty," he said. His tone was playful, but his words were sincere. "May I have the pleasure of your name?"

Her smile turned coy. "You can call me...Madam."

He arched a brow. The pertinence ruffled his feathers even as it thrilled him. Few people tried to challenge him and of those who did, most were so far beneath him, he could kill them without effort. His senses were thrown off by whatever psychic barriers, but he could get a whisper of the magnitude of power she possessed. It was like a hint of captivating perfume. He wanted a stronger dose of it. He closed the distance between them.

"You know who I am," he said.

Standing right before her, he was taller than she was by a few inches. When she looked up at him, he could see the predacious edge to her playful smile. He suspected she was feeling something akin to what he was experiencing. The thought delighted him.

"I've known you longer than you have," she said enigmatically.

Michael opened his mouth to ply her for clarification, but her hand went for his crotch. He reacted instantly, seizing her wrist, and stopping her just short of contact. They both looked at her caught hand, then made eye contact.

"I'm flattered," he said, and a smile surfaced. "But you'll forgive me if I don't quite trust you."

She seemed to melt a little, easing into his personal space so that there was only an inch or two between them. "You don't have to trust me."

He could feel his heart beating strong and fierce under his ribs. Desire for her welled up from that point and flooded his groin. It was a purely physical reaction; his mind was strangely clear. It made fighting his carnal urges a little easier despite his stomach growling.

"Who are you?"

She laughed. "Your best friend. Your worst enemy. Fuck me, Michael."

She pressed herself against him then and he let her. It felt so good, that connection. He could feel her energy merging with his and the rest of the world began to fall away.

He shoved her back suddenly, needing space to think. His cock was rock-hard, his heart pounding so loud in his ears, it drowned out the psychic static of the house. Her expression flickered ugly for just an instant, then she regained her composure.

"Who are you?" he said again. This time he tried to apply his force of will to the demand.

He encountered solid resistance from her. She smirked at him.

"That trick won't work on me," she dismissed. She turned and went back into the room she'd come out of earlier. "But I'll indulge you. Since that's all you seem to care about."

He followed her into the room, a lounge filled with antique furniture, gas lamps, and a large wet bar made from the inside of a globe. She went over to the bar and fixed herself a drink from the many crystal decanters.

"I am Samael's partner," she said as she poured. "A sort of spiritual mother to your foster father, Jeremiah." She sipped from her heavy crystal glass, dark eyes seeking him over the rim.

That was a lot for Michael to digest. "He's not my father," he said, buying himself time to chew on the bigger picture by nitpicking the small. "Foster or otherwise. How—"He paused, then frowned. "Would you make me one of those?"

She lowered her glass slowly, eyes narrowing. "You'll take liquor from me, but you won't have sex with me?"

Aware that he was in danger of offending her, he spread his hands. "I can control what goes into my body. I'm...tricky to kill. I can't control you while I'm in the throes of mind-blowing sexual ecstasy."

The explanation both appeased and complimented her. Pacified, she handed him the glass she'd already sipped from. Surely it was the safest to offer.

"In the realm of the living," she said as she fixed herself another drink. "I taught man most of what he knows about sexual intercourse beyond masturbation." She turned back to him and arched her razor thin brows. "A night with me would spoil you for mortal women."

Michael lifted his glass to that. "That's what I'm afraid of."

He downed half the glass in one toss, welcoming the burn of the high-class alcohol. It didn't do anything to tame his erection, but it helped take his mind off of it. She sipped her drink, but he caught a tiny, very real smile she tried to hide behind her cup.

"So why are you here," she said after swallowing. "If not to...engage?"

"To find out why you are here."

She considered toying with him, but the sport had lost its edge for her. "I am here because Samael is here."

Michael blinked a few times, puzzled by the answer. "He is?"

"And Abaddon."

"They are?"

She made a soft sound, almost like a cross between a laugh and a sigh. She set her glass down and went over to an old-fashioned record player, the source of the old Jazz playing in the background. She switched the wax disc for another, a Glenn Miller record.

"I'm surprised you didn't know," she admitted. "You hold their talismans."

"The relics."

She gave a short, soft laugh. "Whatever you choose to call them, they're yours."

"Not all of them." Being reminded of that cooled Michael's blood. "Refill?" He tipped his empty glass toward her.

She obliged him by moving out of the way, allowing him access to the wet bar rather than serving him again.

"Not all," she agreed, watching him fill his glass. "There's the one that got away. I daresay the most important for you."

"I have someone fetching the Shroud of Belial now," boasted Michael. "Nothing has gotten away from me."

"But does he know who has it?" his hostess said, sidling closer to him as he gulped his liquor.

"It's someplace called Briarcliff. He should be there soon if not now." He set the glass down on the nearest end table, rattling it loudly.

"Does he know who has it?"

Michael checked his irritation. Even without his supernatural senses, he could tell the Madam knew. "Who has it?"

...

Massachusetts

The setting sun stained the evening sky crimson and gold above an overgrown courtyard where several dozen people had gathered despite the dropping temperatures. Torches strapped to poles lit the central space and threw dancing shadows on the walls of the buildings that corralled the space. The people looked to the central building where more torches had been staked on the roof and outside the door where two armed men stood watch.

A figure stepped out onto the roof from a fire access door held open by another guardsman. The individual was heavily bundled in a wool cloak and several underlayers, their hands full of cloth as well. The hem of the cloak stirred the freshly fallen snow that had settled earlier that day.

The group below gave a ragged but heartfelt cheer when they saw the familiar figure step up to the edge of the roof. The wind was stronger there, whistling sharply up over the edge of the old brown brick. The cold was bone-biting there.

"Children of the light," Billie Dean called down to those gathered below. Her pride and love for them warmed her words though her teeth chattered. "The time draws near. The year will soon end and a new one will begin. A new age. Our age! We will fight back the evil that is trying to destroy our world! And this will be our standard!"

She unfurled the cloth she held. Stained to a yellowed ivory with age, the broadcloth hung for a moment before the wind caught the trailing ends of it. It was an ancient straitjacket sized for a giant. Its long sleeve-like restraints snapped in the icy breeze. The sound was quickly drowned by the cheering crowd of Briarcliff.

xxx

Author's Note:

End of Episode 10. Roll credits. This last chapter isn't as edited as I'd like, but I've been short on time with the school year ending. Soon, I'll have some summer free time to use. I've still been craving old horror. I'm talking Arsenic and Old Lace old. Love that film.

Next episode:

A lot's on the slate, but one thing's for sure: Michael's not going to be happy about the fact that Billie Dean's alive and has the Shroud of Belial.