Chapter 12

Memphis, Tennessee

Trent lay on the asphalt roof, wishing he'd thought to bring a blanket from the car because the goddamned roof was cooking him. He ignored the rivulet of sweat that ran down past his eye and adjusted the focus on the binoculars carefully until the interior of the room was clearly visible.

The room was a mess. It looked like a tornado had been through it. He shifted his view to the other rooms on this side of the building and saw more of the same. No one was there; they'd trashed the place and left it. He couldn't see any of the staff. Maybe they'd done it after everyone had gone home. It was a small hope.

He rolled over, breath hissing in as his skin touched the hot surface of the roof in a new place, and sat up. Garth and Katherine were waiting in the stifling but shaded heat of the roof stairs landing.

He came in through the door and crouched beside Katherine. "Can't see anyone there."

"Was it messed up?" Garth passed him the bottle of water. Trent nodded, swallowing several mouthfuls.

"Yeah, they didn't leave anything intact." He finished a final drink of the cool water and passed it back, wiping his mouth. "Roman definitely found out about it."

"How?" Katherine frowned at him. "How could he possibly, with all the labs here and overseas?"

"Actually, there aren't that many labs with the skills, knowledge and facilities to build a virus," Garth said, almost apologetically. "And the quickest way to find them is to look through the DoDs financial records for funding."

Trent nodded. "Ellie said that too."

"Spilt milk now." He stretched, then got to his feet. "I'd better get over there and give it a close eyeball."

"I'll go." Garth picked up the throat mike and fastened it around his neck, tucking the earpiece into his ear. "You and Katherine just let me know if anything's coming."

Trent looked at him for a moment, then nodded in reluctant agreement. "Get any samples you can. The job number was 606968."

Garth nodded, repeating the number under his breath. He picked up his bag and turned to walk down the stairs.

"And, Garth, be careful," Trent said, swallowing his apprehension. The scrawny hunter had proven himself under fire but the Levis were hard monsters to beat.

"Sure."

Grand Junction, Colorado

The drive had gone quickly, relatively speaking, Dean thought as Twist took the off ramp to the city. They hadn't seen anything out of the ordinary at all.

"Uh, take the next left then keep going until you get to the lights," Dean said quietly. Between them, Adam was hunched up and sleeping.

"Nothing to write home about." Twist glanced at the other man. Dean shrugged, leaning against the passenger door.

"News report said it that the smoke had reached Enid."

"Oklahoma?" Twist sat back and checked his mirrors, turning left. "That was fast."

"Yeah." Dean forced his thoughts away from what was happening in the south.

Listening to the news reports day after day was a part of the job, but it wasn't one they enjoyed. They didn't know if the angels were winning, or losing or just holding their own.

Twist bypassed the city centre and skirted around the residential areas, keeping within the band of light industrial and commercial zones as they headed east.

"Okay, next street on the right, Twist. About four blocks down and take the right into the units."

They drove slowly into the storage unit driveway, Twist following Dean's instructions in the maze of single-story garage units and narrow lanes. He pulled up in front of the one Dean had indicated and turned off the engine.

Dean got out and unlocked the padlock on the door, pushing back the clasp. He walked back to Twist's window.

"Go. Don't stop until you get back there." He looked into the older man's face, his expression vulnerable. "Look after them, alright? Don't let anything happen to them."

"You got my word on that." Twist started the engine and pulled away, reversing the directions to find his way out again.

Dean turned around and raised the garage door, walking into the gloomy interior. The unit held only one thing. He gripped the edge of the tarp and walked slowly to the back, pulling it off as he went.

The Impala looked as good as she ever had, her paintwork smooth and gleaming, new lights, new everything practically. He folded the tarp and popped the trunk, tucking it alongside the bags of salt and pigs of iron. They'd left most of the gear in the trunk when they'd hidden her, and the guns still smelled of oil and solvent. He shut the trunk and walked around to the driver's door, his hand caressing the smooth body with a featherlight touch.

"Hey, baby, miss me?" His mouth lifted in a slight smile as he unlocked her and slid into the seat, closing the door after him.

The engine rumbled into life at the turn of the key, the throaty glub-glub rising through the chassis and into his feet, his bones.

"I missed you."

He put her into gear and eased out of the garage, turning tightly onto the internal road. If he had to go to a state that was a battle zone between the powers of good and evil, he was determined to go with her.

His grin widened as he turned onto the street, his heart lifting and his soul lightening, despite everything coming for him and all he'd put on the line. The last time he'd gone into a fight between Michael and Lucifer had been in her too. He headed east, following the signs to the 70.

Outskirts of Hutchinson, Kansas

Tricia looked around at the blackened landscape. It had been like this, burned into desolation, since they'd crossed the state line past Arapahoe, on route 40.

The air was thick with smoke and tasted foul: metallic and acrid and poisoned. Not a single blade of green grass remained in the fields or verges, not a single tree, or even a weed had survived what had happened here.

She could see the round disc of the sun, flat and colourless through the pollution that covered the sky, but had no sense of time passing here. Her watch, and Sam's, she'd noticed, had stopped the second they'd crossed from Colorado into Kansas. And what the hell did that mean?

Sam hadn't spoken to her at all during the long drive. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, his mouth a thinly compressed line as he stared at the road ahead of them. His fingers tight around the wheel, his knuckles showed the bone through the skin and she thought of how his arms must be aching driving like that for hundreds of miles. But he didn't let the slightest expression of discomfort pass over his face.

She'd tried talking to him, as they'd driven through Idaho and Utah. She'd almost given up when they'd crossed into Colorado. Nothing she'd said had had any effect on him, and he hadn't responded to any of her questions. She rubbed her brow with the ball of her thumb, trying to think of how to get through to him. Short of crashing the car, she couldn't come up with anything.

She'd stopped speaking altogether when they'd crossed over into Kansas. The first small town they'd come through had looked as if a bomb had been detonated in the centre of town. Cars and trucks and bikes and vans had been thrown around the streets, some landing on their sides, some on their roofs, some still right way up on their wheels but the tyres had been flattened and the rims looked as if the car had landed on them having being dropped from an enormous height. Everything was black, and smoke rose lazily in the still air from things that were still smouldering. In the dark, driving through the night, she could see the still-burning fires for miles, like hungry red eyes in the blackness.

For a while she'd kept expecting it to get better, to be less devastating. But it hadn't. And some places were worse. A lot worse.

She shifted against the passenger seat, afraid to sleep, too tired to do anything but stare out of the window as they passed through more smoking piles of rubble and refuse. They hadn't seen a living soul. Twice, Sam had slowed down, pulling over into the shadow of a half-standing building, and she'd heard high-pitched whistling cries above them, the whisper and hiss of wings, although she hadn't been able to see anything, either above or around them. The noises had made her freeze up, too afraid to breathe until they'd passed over and gone. How Sam had known what they were, or how to avoid drawing their attention, she didn't know. One of the many, many things she didn't know about the man sitting beside her, she thought bleakly.

The first of the poles had made her curious. Until they'd driven closer and she'd seen what had been strung on them. She'd barely been able to get the window open in time, and then the smell had hit as well, and her breakfast had gone flying out, spattering along the road behind them. The poles were placed closer and closer together as they neared Hutchinson, the remains not yet picked over by birds—there were no birds left here, nor had she seen any animals or insects—but were rotting in the flat heat faster than she would have thought possible.

She kept her eyes on the road ahead or tightly shut.

Cascadia, Oregon

Ellie tipped her head back, eyes closed as she rubbed ineffectively at her neck and tried to ease the tension. She had vague memories of researching and reading around the clock a few years ago, something she couldn't even contemplate right now.

"Here."

She opened her eyes as Cassie put a cup of tea beside her arm. "You need a break."

"Yeah. Thanks." The tea was hot and soothing and she sipped it gratefully.

"Sorry about shouting at you the other night." Cassie took her chair on the other side of the table and put her own cup down beside the stack of books.

"It's forgotten, Cassie." She massaged her temples gently with the tips of her fingers.

"I still don't know how you did it," Cassie said. "I wouldn't have been able to."

Ellie sighed inwardly. The implication was there, muted but discernible. "Did what?"

"Let him go."

She picked up her cup. "It was his choice to go. I didn't have anything to say about it."

"You could have stopped him; if you'd asked him to stay, he would have." Cassie's look was defiant, daring Ellie to contradict her.

Ellie ducked her head, taking a mouthful of tea as she realised the source of Cassie's animosity.

"But then Sam would have died, and possibly the world would be lost." Ellie inclined her head as she considered Cassie. "Do you think Dean could have lived with that?"

"At least he would have lived."

"That's not how he works," Ellie said. Now, she understood why Dean hadn't even considered how it might have looked when he'd told Cassie to get on a plane.

It wasn't so much a matter of self-sacrifice, although that's how it appeared to the outside eye, at least to most people. It was a matter of being able to do the job, with the responsibility that entailed.

"It's not how either of us work. I don't even think it's how you work."

Cassie shrugged and looked away. "Have you heard from him? Or Twist?"

"Yes," Ellie said, setting her cup down and closing the book in front of her. "Twist called an hour ago. Dean's on his way. And Twist and Adam are on their way back."

And the waiting was going to be hard, she thought. At least another two or three days.

"What's Frank doing?"

"Looking for a new lab. One that's more obscure." She lifted another book from the stack to her right and opened it. "Trent hasn't checked in yet."

"I'm sorry," Cassie said abruptly. "I'm not usually so aggressive. It's just so...unbelievable." She gave a nervous laugh and gestured broadly around the room. "How do you deal with things that are so unbelievable?"

"I've had a lot of practice in believing in them," Ellie said, trying to keep her tone light.

"Yeah, I guess." Cassie waved her hand at the books surrounding her. "Even these...they make a kind of twisted logical sense, some of them, but the premises are fantastic, and I don't mean that in a good kind of way."

"Try to think of it this way," Ellie said. "Everything is energy. Even the table, even the books. Just energy vibrating in its own way, following its own patterns. Our minds are also energy, although our souls and our minds and our bodies all vibrate to different patterns. But at one point they join up, and the vibrations become harmonious."

Cassie listened as Ellie tried to explain. She acknowledged her lack of interest in the fundamentals. Energy. Souls. Magic. None of it had anything to do with what she considered real life.

It brought home again to her that she had no connections with Dean—not mental, not historical, not physical, not even emotional now. Who he'd been, the last time they'd met, was just not who he was now. And who he was now wanted—and perhaps even needed—the woman sitting opposite, gesturing expansively as she explained the nature of science and magic, her face animated as she described the planes that separated ordinary existence from extraordinary realms, a creator who had envisaged and built a world where everything was thought of and planned and designed to be self-perpetuating, living forever.

"So you're...kind of…religious then?" Cassie asked. "No offence."

Ellie laughed. "Uh, not in the sense you mean, I think. I believe in God. But not in what mankind has written about Him."

Cassie's eyebrows rose. "How do you believe in God but not in religion? Isn't that all we know about God, what people have written down and created?"

"God and religion are two different things entirely, Cassie. Think about it." Ellie smiled. "And I should probably go and see how Frank is doing."

She got up, straightening her back slowly. "Thanks for the tea."

"No problem." Cassie watched Ellie walk out. Think about it? What was there to think about?

Memphis, Tennessee

Garth picked his way through the smashed glass that covered the floor of the first lab. He'd found the remains of the first body in the small lounge just inside the door. The second one lay to one side of him now, the bloodied shreds of a white coat with a name tag still pinned to one lapel. Anna Morrison. He'd stopped looking after that. His phone was recording, sending images back to Trent and Katherine. They could look at it.

Every fridge was open and the deep freeze units were all turned off and filling with water. The floor was sodden, the water standing on the linoleum pink. Samples and slides had been thrown against the walls, making him wonder what else the lab had been growing, especially what they'd been doing for the government.

If it was infectious he was just going to have to live with it because he hadn't even remembered to put on a surgical mask before coming in.

He looked down and saw a metal drawer from one of the refrigerators, pitched across the room but with most of the vials held intact in their foam padding. He set the phone against the side of a filing cabinet and started pulling out the vials, checking the project numbers against the number Trent had given him.

606968 was the last vial in the drawer, and still intact. He was tucking it into his pocket when he heard the solid thunk of the rear door closing.

"Trent?" He looked around, his voice barely a breath, hoping the mike resting against his throat was sensitive to pick it up because he sure wasn't going to say any louder.

"Yeah, Garth? I'm here." Trent's voice was loud in his ear.

"Someone just came in."

"Crap. Yeah, I see them. Hide, you idiot. Hide NOW!"

Garth backed away from the drawer, looking wildly around. Everything he saw was either torn to pieces or too obvious. He looked at the frosted glass door behind him, realising slowly that it wasn't another lab, but an office. Picking his way as quietly as possible across the glass and debris, he opened the door and slipped inside, closing it behind him. The room was large, holding two desks, a copier, fax and two walls of shelving, filled with reference books. It was also undisturbed. He walked fast around the desk closest to him and look under it, grimacing as he saw the kneehole was open on the other side. The second desk was old-fashioned, the front of the desk covered and the kneehole large enough for him to squeeze into.

From outside the office he could hear the sounds of more glass breaking, furniture being shoved around. He pulled the chair close to the cavity and wrapped his arms around his knees, tucking his face down into them. It wasn't much of a hiding spot, but he was hoping and praying they'd checked it the first time they'd been there, and maybe they wouldn't check again.

I-70, Colorado

Dean stretched out his back and shoulders, his eyes on the road, with only an occasional glance at the wrapped spear that rode shotgun on the passenger side. He'd passed through the novelty and delight of driving the Impala again after a hundred miles or so, now it just felt normal—reassuring, great, comforting—but normal. He looked at the tapes in the box and decided against playing anything. He wanted to listen to the engine, listen to the road and, he realised with wry surprise, he wanted to think.

He'd had a feeling they wouldn't be left out of this latest destiny-plays-all-the-hits parade. He'd known it.

Sam was probably in Kansas by now, hopefully had met up with some of the Host, not been killed by a random demon. And he was here, heading for that same destination, with a legendary weapon riding beside him, and from what Ellie had said, the only way to finish this mess was to actually kill the devil this time.

Was this the act of a rational god? Maybe that was the wrong question. Maybe rational had nothing to do with any of it. Just a way that people could make sense of things that seemed to have no sense at all. He shook his head impatiently. Whatever it was, it didn't matter. They knew what they had to do. All that was left was to do it.

Sam was at least two days ahead of him. It was impossible to even plan anything until he could see how things were in there. His imagination, usually a vivid and torturous companion, was not giving him anything.

If there's nothing you can do, no plan you can make, then don't waste your energy on worrying over it. Think of something you can do, or think of something totally unrelated. Doesn't use up so much energy.

Her voice in his memory. They'd been waiting on a job in northern Michigan, and he'd gotten impatient, feeling his nerves starting to twang. She'd told him that and then talked to him about day to day stuff. About music. About the car. When they'd finally been able to move and do something, he'd been calm and energised, not running on his raw nerves.

He thought of Cassie's outburst over dinner, and Ellie's response—the two of them talking about him as if he wasn't there. He couldn't remember now how he'd felt about Cassie when they'd met. It seemed like a million years ago, and he hadn't been that cocky, confident guy for a long, long time. He wondered how they were getting along, although they seemed to manage it alright most of the time. Had Cassie really wanted another chance? Had she somehow missed how different he was now? He shrugged the thoughts away.

It had been Ellie's response that'd really surprised him. She could talk about not letting him do something, but most of the time she'd have signed herself on for the ride—only this time, she couldn't. Their conversation the previous night replayed in his mind. She'd backed down, had promised him that she wouldn't try to follow, would stay safe in the house and keep it locked down, but he could still feel the shock and terror that had risen in him when she'd made the suggestion, the thoughts that had instantly filled his mind, bringing sweat to his skin and making his heartbeat race in his throat. So long as she stayed safe, he could do what he had to do.

His throat closed as he realised he probably wouldn't be around to see his son born, or hold him, or teach him how to throw a ball, ride a bike, fix a car. He'd been thinking of doing those things for the last four months. Privately, not even telling Ellie about it. It had been a good thing to think of, a thing that had kept the nightmares away and the fears and doubts and guilt. He'd imagined spending years with them, his family, his own family. Now, it...well, it wasn't all that likely he'd survive.

He dragged in a deep breath, forcing away the regret, his fears, trying to get back to focusing on what he had to do. The house was protected. Frank and Twist and Adam would protect her and the baby. Keep them safe.

Baker City, Oregon

Twist pulled into the gas station, parking beside the pumps. The place was small and old, the paint faded along the storefront and the signs barely legible. Only another three hundred odd miles and they'd be home before dawn, he thought, glancing at Adam's sleeping form as he waited patiently for the big tank to fill.

He felt the cold gradually as he stood there with the pump, not noticing how his hands and feet began to numb out. By the time the drawing sensation began, he could hardly move, and his heart was the only muscle still working well, his pulse beating fast in his throat.

The creature that came from the shadows of the building was unlike anything he'd seen before. It was hard to look at directly, his eyes veering from side to side as if they couldn't stand to focus on it. The cold, directionless wind that accompanied it blew the rags and tatters of the dark cloak fitfully, fluttering against the deep hood that was completely black inside.

Twist heard the clatter of the pump as it fell from his fingers, could smell the gasoline as it ran from the nozzle and spread across the ground at his feet. He swayed, his strength gone, and fell to his knees as the creature drew closer to him. Finally his heart was slowing down, too much and for too long. Darkness closed around the edges of his vision and he saw it bend over him, a long skeletal finger emerging from a shredded sleeve to touch his skin.

He fell back against the side of the pump, his eyes rolled back in their sockets, and the creature turned away, moving for the passenger side of the car, where Adam lay sleeping.

The truck door opened, the radio bursting into life, the tuner jumping from station to station and filling the car with the increasing roar of static in between and Adam jerked into wakefulness, heart pounding. He turned his head as the cold wind filled the cab, his eyes widening as the creature crowded in, he was scrambling backwards across the seat, his back hitting the driver side door and it came closer and closer, a rank and foul odour coming from deep within the hood and blowing over his face.

"Yes."

In the glassy cage of fire and ice, Michael had made a place for him. Far down in his mind, a place to hide when he couldn't bear watching what the archangel was doing any longer. He retreated there and hid, knowing he'd left an empty hole behind, a place where sometimes other things lived. He didn't care. After the cage, after seeing what he'd seen, watching his own body do unspeakable and horrifying things, he only knew how to survive.

He didn't hear the sepulchral voice, didn't feel the fingers of bone as they settled around his face like some hideous spider, didn't feel the push of the ancient and alien mind into his own. His eyes were open but the pupils had shrunk to pinpoints, and as the creature penetrated him the colour of his irises turned from pale blue-green to orange and then to red.

"Bring the woman. Do not harm her. Kill the others."

Adam's head tipped back as the fingers released him, then swung forward again. He sat up straight, looking at the open passenger door. He slid across the seat and pulled it shut, then opened the driver's door and got out, looking without recognition or interest at the man sprawled next to the rear of the truck.

He replaced the fuel cap and got back into the truck, starting the engine. From the bag on the seat behind him he took a book of matches, lighting one as he eased the vehicle forward and tossing it back into the spreading pool of gas. He put his foot on the accelerator and the truck leapt forward, tyres squealing as he went out of the driveway and turned onto the street, white smoke pouring out behind him. He could see the flicker of flames as he sped down the street, then there was an explosion and fire shot up into the sky, raining down around the gas station and spot lighting a dozen more. The underground tanks were even more impressive when they went up, and he could still see the light of the fire as he turned a bend and left the town behind.

Within the room in his mind, Adam shivered. The hole was no longer empty. Something was in it, something not living, not dead. He stayed silent and still.

Cascadia, Oregon

The fire was dying in the grate and the room had cooled off. Ellie shivered and looked up, drawing her jacket around her as she got up and stirred the embers, tossing several smaller pieces on and a larger log on top of them. She stood and watched as the small flames licked desultorily at the wood, their reluctance to burn a likely result of the chimney cooling too much. She sighed and added a couple more pieces of kindling, willing it to catch. After a few moments it did, and the larger log started to burn as well.

Frank, Talya and Cassie had gone to bed hours ago. Ellie walked stiffly to the kitchen, and filled the kettle, settling it over the hob and getting herself a cup while she waited for the water to boil.

She should give up for the night and go to bed, she thought, instead of standing here making yet another cup of tea and preparing for a few more hours of reading. There had been a few oblique references to a ritual that might have been the one she was looking for, in the books they'd already gone through but, so far, there were no details, just the passing mentions of rumour and legend and myth, correlating to the myth that Cas had told them, which might have been substantiation, but offering nothing solid.

The soul sought by the archdemons was descended from all three lines of the Watchers that were compatible with Lucifer. That was plain. Until the fight in Kansas was over and Heaven had won, she couldn't imagine how to find the descendent lines from the Watchers. Cas had said something about the library in Heaven. She had a bad feeling it would be too late by the time the angel could return to search that.

She returned to the dining room, grateful to see that the fire had caught properly and a little more heat was collecting in the room. Picking up her notebook, she walked slowly back to the kitchen, reading as she went.

Talya had put together a list of references, half a dozen works mentioned by Penemue that she'd seen in the books brought from Montana. Running her gaze down the list, she frowned as one title caught her attention. A German translation of a third century account, she remembered, written by a soldier who had been in an army that had invaded the lands that were now the border country between Turkey and Iran. It had held another reference to ensoulment, one that she'd been searching for years before, the reclamation of a soul from Hell or Heaven and the means to transfer back to the body.

She spooned tea leaves into the cup, and leaned against the counter. In her mind's eye she saw again the narrow, brick-paved street, the sunlight splashing across the tops of the buildings, the gold tooth in the wide smile of the street vendor as he'd counted out the American dollars she'd handed over for the box of books, all of them old but only one ancient.

The kettle's whistle started to shrill and she took it off the hob, pouring the water over the tea absently, as she wondered where exactly on the shelves that book had been placed. Perhaps the southern side? Picking up the cup and tucking the notebook under her arm, she hurried back to the dining room, glad to see the fire had caught properly, flames leaping over the logs and the air warming.

Ellie set the tea on the table and walked to the shelves, her eyes searching out the faded lettering, the greyish cloth binding she recalled. Dean had been saved by Castiel by the time she'd read through the book. It had gone to Egypt with her. Her fingers stopped on the spine before she registered the title.

She pulled it out and carried it to the table. The pages were old, yellowed and brittle, and she turned them carefully, skimming through the contents until she found the chapter holding the ritual for returning a mortal's soul to its body. The description didn't give any detail, however. It referred instead to another, older ritual, and the plain text changed, the words becoming dense and obscure, speaking of songs and those who were lost. She reread the passages several times, unable to parse out the meaning. The authors might have been trying to make it cryptic, perhaps out of fear of the Church. It didn't help.

Scanning the rest of the book confirmed what she remembered. There were no further details to the ritual, only vague and ominous warnings of the dangers. She missed the footnote, in minute type at the bottom of the page, twice as she went forward and back. The reference was to another book, older.

Tredecim Hereses.

The title was familiar, bringing an odd dual memory back, the first a flash of a view through the window of a house in Italy, grey, storm-ridden skies over the Forte Belvedere; the other, recent, teasing her with its closeness. She'd seen it: that title, that book, somewhere...memory threw up a smell, of damp and mould and the recollection returned instantly, the weight of the box in her hands, the cramped storage unit and that smell in the truck on the way home.

She rose and walked to the section she'd shelved John Winchester's demonologies. The gold leaf had been almost worn away from the spine, but she could still make it out, Tredecim Hereses. Thirteen Heresies. Her hand froze when she noticed the author's name. Cesare Krivejko.

How had she missed that when they'd brought the books back from Tacoma? She pulled the book out and took it to the table, setting it down and easing back into her chair, resting her forehead against her hand and closing her eyes as more memories rose. That was why she'd remembered the view.

2011. Paris, then Florence. The house on the hill, overlooking the town. Remy Lavesseur, not a hunter but an Adept, and it had been his historical knowledge of magic that had brought them together to track and kill a student of the Left Hand Path. She'd hunted with him for almost six months, using him to convince herself that she was no longer in love with Dean Winchester. Remy had told her about Krivejko, one evening. She'd been sitting watching the storms close in around the town, listening to his trained tenor voice bringing the life and deeds of the black sorcerer from before Christ's time to vivid and frightening immediacy. In her mind, she recalled the realisation that Remy had admired the sorcerer, that recognition finally making her face up to what she'd been doing there.

She pushed the memories away and rubbed her forehead tiredly. If anyone had known of the ritual, it would have been Krivejko.

She opened the book and started scanning the pages. Written first in Greek, then translated to Latin, John Winchester's copy was in French, and she wondered how much might have been lost in the translations. She stopped at each of Winchester's notations, reading his comments and thoughts on the contents. He seemed convinced that the details were the real deal. The ritual was near the end of the section of black magic practices. In blue ink, in the margin, John's cursive asked questions about the origins of the ritual and speculated on its use. A dead man's questions. Despite the fire, a chill passed through her and she started to read aloud, too softly to give the words power.

When the Morning Star crosses the Sun, the Devil will rise from his souled prison. He can be resouled and regain his power over humanity and over the denizens of Hell and over the lords of Heaven. The ritual must be performed when the showers of Heaven are strongest, in the dark of the night when the crescent has vanished, and the heavenly fire comes to Earth from the Lion.

The blood of a Song, to create the links between body and spirit. The body of a Lost, cut from the webs of Destiny, bearing a child of the three lines. He will ride into the woman and into the child through the blood maze. He will nestle within the bloodpaths of the child and be cut free, fed on her blood to rise in flesh of his own. Angel leads angel, soul accordant, blood to blood, flesh to flesh, life everlasting.

Ellie stared at the text, her heart pounding. A Lost. She'd never heard of the term. Cut from the webs of Destiny could mean anything.

Uriel "her actions are not recorded in the paths of Destiny". Raphael "you are a meddler, a wildcard". Michael "Outside destiny, outside Fate".

It couldn't be. She wasn't descended from an angel. Her parents were...she didn't know their ancestry, not really, but they couldn't have had angelic blood. They were ordinary people. Dean had the blood of Azazel and Araquiel, and that was two out of three. Perhaps there was another child, related to the Winchesters—she bowed her head and drew in a deep breath, cutting off the thought brutally.

From the moment she'd discovered it had been his father who'd saved her, she'd wondered about their meeting, about the connection she'd felt with him, about the way it had seemed as if something took a greater interest in them. But that—that was paranoia. It had to be.

She staggered to her feet, knocking her tea over and sweeping half a dozen books to the floor in her haste as she looked frantically for her bag, finally seeing it across the room, on a chair. She pulled out her phone and hit Dean's number.

"Leave your name, number and nightmare after the beep."

"Dean, it's Ellie …" She stopped, not wanting to say it out loud, not wanting to say it to him when he couldn't get back immediately. That was a torture he didn't need. The fact that she was getting his voicemail probably meant he was already in Kansas. He wouldn't get the message until he got out again anyway.

"I found the ritual. Listen, I think Cas is in danger. I think he's been taken by the archdemons for the ritual. Please call me as soon as you get this."

She ended the call, and looked around, fighting against the panic building behind her internal walls. The one thing she could not afford to do was go off the deep end right now. Do it by the numbers and see what emerged, she told herself firmly.

Adrenalin drove her to pace, up one side of the long table, and down the other. The house was reasonably well protected against any demon attack. She had the mines surrounding it. What else? The sigils and the zones of the garden would also be helping to keep her visibility hidden. She had to protect her child. That was the vital thing. Should she go? She couldn't fly out, it was too late for that. And she thought that once she left the protection of the house, anyone looking for her would be able to find her much more easily.

So…hunker down, dig in. The thought brought a flash of anxiety. Against most of the enemies she could think of, the house was a fortress. But against the ones she thought were actively looking for her, it was nothing more than a fragile shell. The archdemons could walk through the defences, even the mines, without breaking a sweat. Only the fact that they couldn't see in through the angel warding was keeping her safe.

The rush of energy vanished as fast as it had arrived and Ellie pulled a chair close to the fire, chilled in spite of its warmth. When morning came, they could double-check the defences. Lay extra boundaries out maybe—figure out a temporary panic room setup. She looked down at the text again as the meaning of the first part sank in.

When the Morning Star crossed the Sun. Venus had transited the Sun in June, when Sam's hallucinations had become unbearable, she thought. Cas had taken on the devil from that point. The showers of Heaven...and...heavenly fire from the Lion. She rubbed her wrist hard against her forehead, trying to think what that could refer to. Meteor showers, of course.

Yes, the Leonid shower was in...November, she remembered. Soon. Very soon. If she could figure out the timing, she would have more options for staying safe, staying out of sight until the danger time had passed. She drew in a deep breath, forcing away the fear which was close to becoming panic.

The crescent? Crescent moon? Sometime after the moon had set, and the meteor showers were at their strongest. It would be a week before she was due. Was that a sign that it wasn't referring to her? That the child Lucifer needed was someone else's?

She tucked her notes into the book and closed it, setting it back on the table, then piled more logs onto the fire, needing to get warm, to stop the recurring chill from settling through her body. It couldn't be. They didn't have a part to play in this. They couldn't. Moisture trickled down her cheeks and she lifted her hand, touching the ends of her fingers to the tears.

She couldn't fight. She couldn't run. She couldn't hide. She'd been set up. Both she and Dean. The question was…by whom?

From somewhere, deep within her, a feeling rose, filled with bright anger and hard with resolve. No matter what they tried, they would not succeed, she thought. She had another choice and she would take that over allowing their child to become Lucifer's body and soul. Her body regained its warmth in increments as her determination grew stronger.