Seven Devils

Chapter 33 / A Birthday and a Funeral

"I told you these were shadows of the things that have been,'' said the Ghost. "That they are what they are, do not blame me!"

— Charles Dickens, "A Christmas Carol"

As a daughter of a theologist, Marlene's childhood was very different from her peers'. Every holiday was an episode of Mythbusters, after which she returned to school possessing a sacred knowledge that could very possibly ruin her classmates' lives. Santa was just a monk, Easter Bunny — a German Judge Judy and you really didn't want to get her started on the Tooth Fairy.

But the greatest myth of them all to have been busted turned out to be...family.

See, to Marlene, family was having dinner with her dad on the days he hadn't been held up at work. Family was her dad taking her to the NY public library every time he had a thing in New-York (and couldn't find a babysitter). Family was the silent visits with her grandmother at the nursing home once a year. Family was her father locking himself in his study on his late wife's birthday and their housekeeper Sona distracting Marlene from the occasional noise of something being smashed coming from behind the closed door.

She gaped at the crowd of people at the grande entrance of a Pemberley-worthy mansion. Yeah, that definitely wasn't her idea of family.

By the looks of it, Marlene had stopped by right in time for a wake. Which took place on her birthday, of all days. Whose it was, she was yet to figure out. Though it wasn't that hard, considering her extended family wasn't particularly...well, extended.

It couldn't have been her grandmother — Ophelia wouldn't pass away for another fifteen years and it obviously wasn't her dad. And since Arthur was an only child, the absence of any aunts and uncles left only one person. The man Marlene's father despised more than the Da Vinci code. Her grandfather Felix.

When the initial shock of the discovery finally wore off, Marlene realised that it was actually a pretty good opportunity to meet the family and do some well-intended snooping. As compared to knocking on their door and having to explain to a peeved butler that she was a distant relation from the not so distant future. Every corner of that mansion was haunted by memories long buried, and Marlene had the prime opportunity to take a peek. No way in hell she'd pass up on that.

She looked down at her clothes: faded jeans she'd got at Salvation Army, a pair of brown ankle boots and Dean's old jacket she'd dug up at Bobby's. Oh, and a black shirt that had a small marinara stain on it. Well, at least it was black, so she was technically following the dresscode. And the pizza had been delicious, so that was a win win.

With a bracing sigh, Marlene began to trudge up the driveway. She stopped and frowned a few moments later. Were her boots...squeaking? Had they always made that sound? Shaking her head, she continued on.

Marley tried to blend in by weaselling her way into a group of middle-aged ladies. The absence of a Chanel tweed jacket and a Jackie-O pearl necklace made that slightly more challenging. She politely ignored everyone who glanced her way with that well-concealed puzzlement which could only be achieved through years of hypocrisy. They were probably wondering who she was and what the hell she was doing there. Well, bully for them — lately, Marlene'd been wondering the same thing herself.

The grumpy butler at the door — called that— gave her an askance one-over. Marley pursed her lips into a sheepish smile, nodding in greeting. The old man dismissed her with a snotty huff. Chill out, Alfred. Marlene wondered if she could fire him.

But all thoughts were promptly forgotten as soon as she walked into the house. The house that belonged to her grandparents. The house her father had grown up in. Her family's house. Marlene gazed at the wide hall, each wall lined with bookcases and paintings, and photographs; at the grand piano in the corner — had her father ever played it? He'd never told her much about his old life. For all she knew, he could've been a regular Rachmaninoff.

Marley looked up at the chandelier hanging from the ceiling, in awe of its magnificence. God, it must've cost a fortune. It seemed to be incredibly old, too; somewhere around the 18th century, if she had to wager a guess. She felt like she stepped into Mount Vernon: each wooden tile, each speck of dust, each yellowed piece of paper a testament to the timeless greatness of its occupants.

Marlene would've kept gawking around like a plebeian moron if someone hadn't very politely given her a shove. Which, although majorly annoying, was deserved since she was blocking the entrance. Forced out of her reverie, Marlene proceeded into the parlour.

People were splattered around the room in small groups, talking in quiet, almost hushed tones that were just a level above the classical music playing in the background. A wide assortment of hors d'oeuvres was laid out on the tables, waiters winding through the crowd with shiny silver platters — it all looked more like a function than a wake. Marlene even began to think that she might've been mistaken in her assumption. Perhaps, it really was some kind of an upper-class party with a highly strict dress code. But then she saw a huge portrait of an old, statuesque man, surrounded by tasteful wreaths. A shiny plate beneath the gilded frame said:

In life, in death, in eternity

Felix Benjamin Ter-Gabrielyan,

1925-1978

So...that was her grandfather. The man Marlene's father hated so much, he had all but erased him from existence.

All she knew about Felix was that he had been a history professor at Columbia before he got bored of teaching inept youths and decided that writing cryptic and weirdly successful books was much more rewarding. Marlene had read one of them once — she'd had to hide that thing more carefully than one would a joint. Really, her dad would've freaked out less if she'd been stashing drugs. Speaking of drugs, they must've been a pretty vital part of her grandfather's writing process. Or so Marlene had thought before Sam and Dean walked into her life. Or before she walked into theirs, more like.

Marlene stared at the imposing black-and-white photograph. Felix had been a handsome man in his late fifties, his looks reminiscent of old Hollywood heartthrobs like Clarke Gable. A thick black stash, bushy eyebrows sitting sternly above a pair of striking black eyes. Marley noted, not without a heavy pinch of irony, that Arthur had taken after his father quite a lot, even though he'd be loathe to admit it.

"I wrote my thesis on his work. A great man," a female voice noted beside her. Marlene had felt a presence by her side, but was too struck my the picture to pay any attention to the person. She'd never seen a picture of her grandfather before, "Took a lot of character to write the stuff he did. A lot of people thought he was straight up cuckoo," the woman chuckled, "Then the 70s happened."

At last, Marlene managed to tear her eyes away from the photograph. But only to be faced by a sight even more haunting.

It was her own eyes Marlene was looking at, only a shade lighter. She had to do a double take to realise she wasn't actually looking into a mirror, but at her mother. Sofia Ter-Gabrielyan — no, her parents weren't married yet. Sofia Rushinek. A Medieval Studies associate professor at the University of Hartford, who specialised in Balkan folklore and culture. A fellow Yale graduate — the very reason Marlene had gone there, too. A ghost that had haunter their lives for as long as she could remember, now made of flash-and-bone instead of woeful memories. A small-statured, petite woman in a plain black dress, dark hair pulled back into a neat chignon. A timeless beauty, Arthur used to say wistfully when he felt nostalgic enough to share sacred memories about his late wife.

"Were you one of his students?" Sofia asked.

Marlene blinked, realising she'd probably creeped her mother out with her staring. Her mother. Huh. Even after demons, angels, shapeshifters and ancient monsters, it was the weirdest things she'd encountered. Still pretty stumped, Marlene somehow managed a faint nod, "I...uh, y-yes. Yes, he was my, um, s-scientific supervisor."

Sofia smiled softly, "I'm sorry. You must've known him really well."

You have no idea, Marlene thought ruefully. She gave a slow nod, assuming what she hoped was a sorrowful expression, "And you?" she turned to Sofia again. She supposed it was rude not to return the curiosity, even if she already knew the answer, "Were you one of his students too?"

"Oh, no," Sofia shook her head, sheepish, "I'm his son's...fiancée." Just then, Sofia caught someone's eyes across the room and smiled. Tentatively, Marlene looked in the same direction, her heart nearly stopping when she saw her dad gazing their way. God, but he looked so young. No greying hair, no stubborn wrinkles on his forehead from excessive frowning. No harshness in his features. Marlene'd never seen him smile like that. She didn't even know his face could do that.

"I can tell he's very...fond of you," Marlene said, voice strained with emotion. She guessed grief really was the price you paid for love. And Arthur had paid it in full.

"I'd be mad if he wasn't. The wedding's in a month and the deposit is non-refundable." Marlene gawked at her mother, shocked by the dry humour. From all her dad's love ballads about Sofia, Marley'd begun to think she had been a blushing 19th century maiden. It was certainly a surprise to see her mother so...human. But it seemed Sofia had taken her shock the wrong way, "I'm sorry," she said self-consciously, "It was in bad taste —"

"Oh, please, funerals are a sordid affair," Marlene told her, "Nothing like a bit of humour to make them slightly less unbearable."

Sofia's face brightened, hazel turning a warm shade of green, "What did you say your name was again?"

"I didn't. It's...uh — It's Lucy," she blurted out, suppressing the urge to wince at the the most unfortunate choice of name. Nice safe there, you idiot.

"I'm Sofia."

Yeah, she wanted to say, I know. Marlene felt tears prickle her eyes and blinked them away. She really hoped Sofia hadn't noticed it. Way to make an impression on your long-lost mother, Marlene. But it turned out Sofia wasn't even looking at her, but rather at something in the back of the room, her face growing tense. She turned back to Marlene, "I'm sorry, I have to go," she apologised good-naturedly, though a tremble of alarm in her voice was unmistakable, "It was nice meeting you, Lucy."

"Y-yeah, you too..." Marley said slowly, puzzled by the sudden change, but Sofia was already half-across the room. Confused and slightly hurt that her mother had just abandoned her, Marlene turned around to see what it was that had made her bolt like that. There was her dad — well, not really her dad, but his younger, less nihilistic self — and...a woman next to him. Marlene squinted to get a better look at her. She looked like a stern, Victorian lady. Dark silver hair braided atop her head, a ceremonial black gown with a beautifully embroidered puritan collar and —

Marlene's face went slack.

Something green glimmered from her chest. Nestled between the frills of the laced collar was a weighty emerald. The emerald. The one Arthur, many years from now, would give away to a psychotic angel to save himself and Marlene from the fate worse than Hell's caverns. The emerald that could be the key to breaking Heavens' curse upon their bloodline. The emerald that, if saved, could change the future and prevent the Apocalypse.

There it was, just a trinket resting on Ophelia's chest. It was bizzarre to see her so animated — the only version of her grandma Marlene knew was the one stuck in a wheelchair, her decease-addled mind a prison to her ardent spirit.

Frozen in place, she stared at the emerald, enchanted, as though it was the One Ring and she Gollum. Could she steal it? Possibly, but that kind of heist would take some time to plan and Marlene suspected that her stay in the past would shortly come to an end. And even if she did manage it, such a disturbance could send dangerous ripples through time, resulting in unimaginable consequences in the future.

That realisation quickly sobered her up. God, what the hell was she thinking? Flustered, Marlene willed herself to look away from the emerald and stepped back in retreat. But instead of withdrawing into the crowd, she hit something solid. The sudden contact staggered Marley. She whipped around and met a pair of milky white eyes staring down at her.

Lilith, her mind screamed in panic only to be subdued by reason. Lilith was dead — Sam'd taken care of that. No, the white eyes belonged to an old man, and where the demon's had been filled with malice, his were blank. Unseeing.

"I apologise, my dear," he said, staring into nothingness. Marlene remembered him. Slightly older, way creepier, but she remembered him, the strange man from her grandmother's funeral.

Suddenly the spacious hall felt very hot and cramped, as though the walls were closing in on her. "It's...it's alright, sir," she mumbled and hurried away. In search of a quiet place to ease her growing anxiety, Marlene rushed up the staircase, and once the bustle of conversation was but a distant, dull noise, she stopped and leaned against the wall, letting out a long, measured breath.

What on earth was she doing? Showing up at her family's house like some kind of ghost of future past, chatting with the dead mother she'd never known and plotting to rob poor grandmother Ophelia? Either the time travel'd had a serious toll on her or Marlene was going stir crazy. It could very possibly be both.

She wondered how Sam and Dean were doing. Hopefully, better than her. Had they managed to warn their parents? Had Anna found them? And Castiel — Jesus, was he doing okay after the journey? Marlene was still feeling the aftermath. Dammit, when would she be good to travel? She needed to meet up with them. Without Cas, she's stuck in the past forever —

"— joy," Marlene muttered to herself, resigning to the overall hopelessness of the situation.

Feeling slightly calmer now that she was alone, she straightened up, brushed her hair away from her face and finally checked her surroundings. It was all dark cherry wood, carpeted floors and antique lamps lining the walls of deep forest green — everything in that house screamed exquisite taste and money. But it was also strangely cold and impersonal. More like a museum filled with prized possessions than a warm, loving home. Marlene thought back to their house in Cambridge; the photographs on the mantlepiece, her drawings on the fridge, the smell of old wood and coffee in the air. Her chest tightened with yearning.

She was just about to go back downstairs when something caught her attention. Marlene really didn't want to snoop around. It was low, and wrong, and disrespectful, and that door was right there, left perfectly ajar, and wouldn't it just be a shame not to take a peek?

Glancing around to make sure she was alone, she snuck up to the door in a most cartoony fashion and looked inside. She didn't even bother to open it wider, too scared it would creak and attract unwanted attention.

"Oh, shit," Marley whispered, awe-struck.

What she saw was a room filled with so much books, you could easily mistake it for a library. Walls plastered with yellowed maps and pictures, and haphazard writings, and — Marlene had already seen this room. Back in their house in Cambridge. It seemed the family resemblance didn't stop at brown eyes. There was not a single doubt that this room was grandfather Felix's study.

There was an air of incompleteness to it. To the notebooks packed on the desk, the boxes scattered on the floor — some open, some stacked on top of each other. There was a cup of what smelled like coffee on the windowsill. It seemed Felix had passed rather suddenly, his study a blueprint of his unfinished endeavours. A place frozen in time.

Much like her dad, Felix had been obsessed with their family's unfortunate legacy, which had ultimately driven Arthur away only to years later catch up with him in full. That only proved that try as you might to outwit fate, it was always a lifetime ahead. The path had already been laid out. Every turn, every detour, every misstep eventually led to the single, final destination.

Marlene found herself staring at a replica of Botticelli's map of Hell — a highly detailed illustration of Dante's Inferno from the Divine Comedy. It occupied a better half of the front wall both in size and grandur, standing out amongst the chaos of sticky notes and random pictures. Marlene had always been amazed by Dante's elaborate and extremely particular rendition of the netherworld. She'd never thought about it before, but was now starting to think that, perhaps, Dante'd had done some field work before writing that opus.

Marley heaved out a sigh and threw a deliberating glance at the boxes. Yes, snooping around in her late grandfather's belongings — at his wake, no less — was certainly a new personal low. On the other hand...when would she have a chance like that ever again? Trains to the past didn't go everyday, and she may have just caught the last one. She bit her lip, torn between conscience and pragmatic curiosity.

But as a daughter of an atheistic theologist, Marlene eventually succumbed to the latter. She threw a hasty look at the door and then all but glided to the boxes, daftly opening lid after lid to see what was inside. It was academic stuff, for the most part: ungraded papers, transcripts; some boxes stored things from Felix's office, old photographs, framed degrees. Marlene made an impressed face — Oxford, Sorbonne, Harvard. Not bad at all, grandpa.

And then there was an old, weary box. Frayed corners, wrinkled cardboard with cracks running across the surface like veins. It even smelled old. The kind of old you'd wrinkle your nose at, the dust and the pungent stench of something claggy and mouldy too strong. The box you'd discover stored far away in an attic, untouched for years and years. And boxes like that, they usually stored secrets. The kind you didn't want to see the light of day.

Marlene's hand froze above the lid, hesitant. It was as if she could feel that whatever was kept inside, would draw a line between what had been and what would come next. Did she want to draw it? Did she want to know? Her hand wavered, brow creasing in thought. Much as she hated to believe in predestination, there was no other explanation to her being here right now. Decades into the past, in Hartford of all places, and at her late grandfather's funeral, no less. Way too many "holy shit"'s for it all to be a coincidence.

Chancing another glance at the entrance, Marlene lifted the lid ever so slightly. She half expected some sprite to jump out that had been locked inside for hundreds of years before she, a fool, let it loose. But it didn't happen. In fact, nothing did happen and then it was just a box: pieces of shrivelled cupboard glued together. Calmer now, Marlene put the lid aside and delved into the cavern of long-coveted secrets.

She pulled out a rather small, antique casket. Inside were photographs, wrinkled and faded by time; some were incredibly old, dating back to the 1890s, some from the roaring 20s, with people she didn't recognise, and some clearly taken post-WW2, Felix's much youthful face staring sternly from the black-and-white pictures, nameless men in dandy suites by his side. Beneath the pictures was buried a stack of yellowed letters, bound together by a frayed twine. Now that was something that piqued Marlene's curiosity.

Setting the pictures aside, she ran her eyes over the envelope. All the letters seemed to have been sent by someone in Illinois, so much Marlene could tell. No name, no direct address. Just a stately, calligraphic "M" pressed into the paper. She couldn't read the letters themselves, however. To do that, she'd have to cut the twine, and that was a little too risky for her taste. Marlene pursed her lips and begrudgingly put the letters back into the casket.

There was nothing else of interest inside. Useless, although remarkably old trinkets, a strange metal stamp in the shape of the familiar "M", some more photographs, and a well- preserved...monocle? Brows raised, Marlene picked it up for closer perusal. Huh. She'd always wondered if they were actually comfortable to use. She supposed she didn't have to wonder anymore.

Marley blew off a layer of dust from the lens and tried to fit the thing between her brow and cheekbone. It stubbornly refused to stay there. She huffed out an annoyed breath — well, there's the answer. The final attempt to have it stay in place resulted in the monocle slipping out of her hands completely. The surprisingly weighty piece of glass and gold landed on the floor with a dull thud. Frozen in place, Marlene watched as it slowly rolled toward Felix's desk before smacking into the mahogany wood. She winced when the monocle finally dropped flat with an unmistakable crack. Could that be counted as a butterfly flapping its wings?

"Dammit," Marlene hissed and crouch down to reach under the table. Once the elusive monocle was back in her grip, she hasted up, but had clearly miscalculated and ended up hitting her head on the expensive mahogany. Face contorted in pain, Marley couldn't even make a decent sound of agony for the fear of being discovered and had to settle for a pitiful whimper, "Freaking mahogany," she hissed and glared up at the violent piece of overpriced furniture. Just then, her glower melted into fascination.

Embedded in the wood was the same "M" Marlene'd seen on the envelope. Only here it was hollowed, almost like a keyhole — wait a minute. Much more careful this time, she got up and rushed to the old box to dig back inside. After some graceful rummaging, Marley retrieved the M-shaped metal stamp. It definitely looked like it could be a key.

Marlene slid back under the table and reclined slightly to get a better view, like a handyman fixing a plumbing problem. Heart hammering with anticipation, she slowly brought the M-shaped "key" to the M-shaped opening and after a beat, stuck the key inside.

"Holy crap," Marlene breathed. It was a perfect fit.

For a moment she just lay there, staring at the key in disbelief. But then she remembered the very precarious situation she was currently in and quickly snapped back. Marley gripped the key tighter and rotated it with extreme caution. In all honestly, she expected it to get stuck. But it didn't. Marlene could hear the wheels turning in the elaborate mechanism hidden in the concealed compartment of the desk until there was a telling creak. No way, she thought and opened the little door, astonished and dazed.

It was small and rather shallow, certainly not made to fit a hidden treasure, but enough to conceal a...Folder? Marlene thought with a frown. There it was again — the capital "M" smacked right in the middle of the grimy-looking paper. What the hell did it mean?

Hands trembling from anxiousness, she pried the folder open and skimmed through its contents. The first couple of pages were typed but the further she got, the older the writings got, some of them written in splotchy ink, the handwriting stern and precise.

These were reports, neither dated nor named, but addressed to someone called Magnus. At least the later ones Marlene could actually read — the ink in the earlier writings was too splotched to make out in the little time she had.

I hope you're faring well, my friend. As for our last talk, I'm afraid there's been very little progress since. In fact, that is why I'm writing to you again — perhaps, you've had better luck with your findings?

Do rest assured that our correspondence remains sub rosa and that none of the others are privy to either my or your dealings. I am, however, pressed to remind you that such an agreement is only viable so long as you, too, deliver on your promise.

Saint Lucia's eyes see all, Magnus. I trust yours will not fail you.

Was that letter sent by her grandfather? If so, Marlene had to applaud his razor-sharp passive-aggression, it was truly rather remarkable.

She frowned at the last words, trying to tie the information together. Saint Lucia. It sounded awfully familiar — then again, there were a lot of Saint Lucia's the letter could be referencing to. Marlene'd have to read more of the correspondence to try and figure out what was that promise her relative was talking about.

But before she could start on another page, a distant shuffle of footsteps came from the hall. Marlene's head whipped to the door at the sound, face paling with panic. The footsteps grew closer and closer. She had to act quick.

Marley glanced at the documents, then at the door, and again at the stack of papers in her lap, "Shit, shit, shit," she muttered anxiously. God, but she hated that crippling indecisiveness that was even worse now paired with numbing fear of being discovered going threw her dead grandfather's belonging under his table.

"Oh, to hell with it," she hissed and folded some of the papers, and then shoved them under her shirt. Real classy. Incredibly well thought-out. Splendid. There was no time left for an extraction plan — she was stuck in this room.

The footsteps were now near the door. Marlene hauled herself out from under the table and jolted up. She hastily put everything back in the boxes and closed them, then looked around the room for anything that might have slipped her notice. Closer. Marley felt the papers scratch at her bare stomach; it felt kind of ticklish. Annoyed, she flattened them down with a smack. Ouch.

The door creaked open. Marlene watched the entrance with a, hopefully, innocent look of someone who had been looking for the bathroom. But all her efforts were thwarted as soon as she saw the person in the threshold. There was no hiding her horror now. Oh, that's bad bad.

"What are you doing in here?" Arthur asked in his usual, imposing manner. The only manner he'd have in about a decade or two. His eyes narrowed into suspicious slits when she didn't answer, "Who are you?"

"I...I — uh, am...I'm Lucy," Marlene said dumbly. Arthur raised a brow, clearly not satisfied with that reply, "Lucy Donovan. I'm sorry, I...I was just a little overwhelmed down there — " she broke off with a sigh. At least that much was true, "It's...it's a big crowd. I don't really do well with big crowds."

Arthur's expression softened, but only slightly, brows still resting warily upon his brown eyes, "Who are you again?"

Marlene gulped. She could barely stop herself from fidgeting — her dad always noticed those things, "Lucy. D-donovan. Dr Ter-Gabrielyan was my supervisor," the familiar lie sled off her tongue with ease. Arthur stared at her a moment, then gave the room an appraising look. Oh, no. Marlene cleared her throat loudly. His eyes snapped back to her, "Again, I'm...really sorry. I'm gonna — " Marlene made a vague gesture to the door and made her retreat that was as awkward as it was slow. Like escaping from a predator — no sudden moves, no direct eye-contact.

"Have we met before?" Arthur asked with a curious frown. Marley stopped. Would he remember this encounter yeas later? She'd have to ask him. If she ever saw him again.

The thought made her chest tighten with emotion. That's the first time she'd seen her father in months, even if he was only a few years older than her. Happy, lively, in love. She looked back at him, fighting the veil of tears that threatened to blur her vision, "I don't think so," she shook her head with a rueful smile, "I'm very sorry for your loss, Arthur."

Marlene slipped out the door just a split moment before her father realised — he'd never told her his name.