CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Though Isabel had only been in Hell for a few short moments, an hour had passed in the realm of the living. She never bothered to understand the rules of time when it came to Descensum; they were too damn confusing. Sometimes a few days in Hell would be a few minutes in the realm of the living, or vice versa. Trying to understand it would be like her trying to understand quantum physics with only a grammar book for reference.

Thankfully, she would not need to understand quantum physics any time soon. No, she would just need to get out of her interview alive. Easy enough.

Isabel opened her bedroom door to discover Ms. Meade with a raised fist about to knock.

Ms. Meade lowered her hand. "Mr. Langdon has asked for you."

"My interview?"

Ms. Meade nodded and turned to lead Isabel to Venable's office (not that Isabel needed help; she knew exactly where that office was).

"Have you had your interview?" Isabel asked before Ms. Meade could knock on the door.

"No."

"Oh." Disappointment settled into the fine lines on Isabel's face.

"Hoping I could give you an idea of what to look forward to? You're better off asking one of your friends."

"What, you mean like Coco or Gallant?" Isabel scoffed at the very idea that they were friends. "God, no. I'll lose my last two brain cells if I talk to any of them."

Ms. Meade knew that feeling well. Helping Ms. Venable oversee the outpost had done nothing for her IQ, that was for sure. Why was it that some of the dumbest people were the ones rich enough to live? The only hope now was the Sanctuary. "I guess you're on your own then."

Isabel sighed. "Yeah, I guess I am." And after Ms. Meade knocked on the door and opened it for Isabel, she truly was on her own. On her own with Michael Langdon, whoever the fuck he was.

She walked in to find Michael standing in front of the fireplace, looking pensive. The door closed behind her and Michael turned to face her. He smiled, but it was not warm. It was not welcoming. Nothing about him was welcoming.

"Take a seat," Michael instructed, gesturing to the chair where all of the victims have sat and argued why they were the best choice to go to the Sanctuary; all mindless drivel. This interview would be a welcomed change. "I must say, I have been looking forward to this interview."

"Then why not have it sooner?"

"You don't know much about savoring a moment, do you?"

"You don't know much about wanting answers immediately, do you?"

Oh, but he did. Michael remembered being young and desperate for answers. He had been forced to wait, and learned patience, something that was quite handy for the end of the world. He smirked, admiring the sass for now, though he knew it would quickly become intolerable if she kept it up.

Isabel noticed her file as on the desk. So he had read over it; had a vague idea of who she was. But there was so much that she knew wasn't in there. And she didn't have a file on him that she could check. "Who are you?" she asked, taking advantage of the beat of silence.

"This is your interview, not mine."

"You have an unfair advantage." Isabel regarded her file. "I'm just making the playing field even."

"So this is a game now?"

"Is it?"

The two held each other's gazes, Isabel defiant and Michael trying to solve her like a Rubix Cube.

He sighed, sitting down across from Isabel and propping his elbows on the desk, fingers laced together. "Alright then Miss Noble, you may ask some questions. But you will give me honest answers when I ask you."

"Only if you answer honestly." It was only fair, and when playing against the devil's son, Isabel wanted everything as fair as possible.

So she asked her questions. She asked his name (just to double check and make sure that yes, it was Langdon and always was Langdon and always would be Langdon), she asked what the Cooperative was, she asked where he had been staying this whole time, and what the Sanctuary was. He answered without complaint. Now it was her turn.

"What are your powers?" he asked, and Isabel nearly choked on the breath she was taking. He chuckled at her reaction. There was no way she could deny anything after that. "Oh come on Miss Noble, I can practically smell the witch on you."

Isabel pressed her lips together. Motherfucker. Perhaps this was alright. If he knew that she was a witch, then maybe he wouldn't be too quick to try and hurt her if he felt inclined to hurt people (she could only assume he was, being the Antichrist and all). "Descensum," she finally answered. But she had a question of her own up her sleeve. She didn't come with it prepared, but after listening to him talk and watching the way he moved, and putting her dreams together and what Shachath told her, it formulated in her mind. "Is Tate Langdon your dad?"
d
It as Michael's turn to be surprise. He knew who she was. He had gone to the house; had met her mother. He didn't expect her to connect any dots about him; he hadn't given her anything to connect! "Clever girl," he commended grudgingly. "How did you know?"

"How did you know?"

Michael rolled his eyes. Her answering his questions with questions grew old already. "Not important."

"I'd disagree."

"And why is that?"

Isabel hesitated a moment. She supposed she couldn't keep all of her secrets. It was just the matter of not wanting to admit it out loud. Saying it out loud would mean confirming who the Antichrist was to her, and she almost didn't want to admit it. "Tate's my brother," she finally said. Well, half-brother technically, but brother all the same.

Michael was surprised by this, but almost pleasantly so. Now here was an interesting twist. The young woman before him was not only a witch connected to death, but his aunt. How fitting. "I see it now. You look very much like your mother."

The color drained from Isabel's face. "You know Constance?" she asked, the words almost catching in her throat. The idea of Constance interacting with the Antichrist made her sick to her stomach. When would that have even happened? Isabel didn't remember Michael ever coming by the house. Really the only time he could have come by without Isabel knowing was…

Isabel swallowed, her throat going dry. That one week she had left… the week Constance killed herself…

"A story for another time," Michael promised. "This is, after all, your interview for the Sanctuary."

"And will I be going?"

Michael's expression softened, and he didn't seem intimidating anymore. He resembled Tate very much: a sweet-looking boy who unfortunately harbored evil within him. It should scare her, but it didn't. That in itself was more worrying than the Antichrist. "Of course," he answered. "What kind of cruel soul would I be if I didn't let my Aunt Isabel come along?"

Isabel shuddered at the phrase. "Okay, never, ever call me that again," she said firmly. "Isabel is just fine." Aunt Isabel? No, especially not when he was clearly older than her. Speaking of which, how the hell was he older than her? If he was conceived Halloween night in 2012, then he should be a little boy still! Instead, he was a man who was in his late twenties.

"Fine then," he agreed.

"Who else is going to the Sanctuary?" Isabel asked, suddenly extremely curious. She leaned forward with interest.

There was a beat, and within that single moment, it became clear to Isabel that he didn't have an answer. Either he didn't know yet, or no one else is going.

Still, Michael did say, "I have many things to consider. Notes to go over and such. I'll have a final answer shortly."

It was bullshit, but Isabel wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that at least someone else would be going. Why? She had been out for herself this whole time, so why suddenly want to save everyone? Guilt over Stu? Maybe.

Isabel stood up from her seat. "I think this interview is over then." She had her answers. She would be safe.

"You have no other questions?"

"Stories for another time," she said. "We'll catch up when you get the chance." They would have a lot to talk about.

She left the office. As soon as the door closed behind her, she felt both uneasy and assured. Yes, that was the Antichrist, and Shachath had warned her about him. But that was her brother's son… somehow. She was still a little confused on how a ghost had a kid.

A small part of Isabel didn't want to believe Michael was completely evil, even with the title of Antichrist. He wasn't particularly nice, but it was rather difficult for her to wrap her head around the fact that the man who brought the end of days was her nephew. She didn't want to believe that she was related to someone so vile. And really, other than cause nuclear fallout, he hadn't done anything to show he was dangerous. Not until a few nights after her interview.

There were no blood curdling screams in the night. There was nothing in the night. Yet Isabel woke up with a cold chill. It was that same feeling she got when Stu was killed. But surely that didn't mean anything this time around?

Except it did. She knew it did; she could feel it. Isabel kicked off the duvet. The floor was cold against her bare feet, but it was nothing in comparison to the sensation in her spine and lungs. It was as if she had inhaled death. She was terrified of what she might find, but pursued this instinctual feeling.

What she found was something she never expected.

Evie's bedroom door was opened ajar. Isabel peered in and saw Gallant kneeling on his grandmother's bed. Isabel nearly walked away, prepared to dismiss the scene as just super fucking weird. But then she saw that he was kneeling over Evie, who wasn't moving. Her eyes were opened wide in shock.

Isabel took a daring step into the room, and when Gallant turned to face her, she saw his look of surprise that very much resembled his grandmother. That was when Isabel saw the blood and the knife.

She didn't say anything. She didn't wait for Gallant to say anything. Isabel left the room, hoping beyond hope that Gallant wouldn't follow her and try to stab her as well.

In her heart, she knew that this couldn't really his fault completely. Everyone was fine and yes, annoyed with each other but at peace all the same and suddenly the Antichrist comes along and now someone else was dead?

Isabel went straight to Michael's room. She walked right in without preamble. "What the fuck did you do?" she demanded, hands clenched into fists at her sides.

He looked up from his laptop (which Isabel didn't even register at the moment). "Knocking is called a common courtesy for a reason."

"What did you do?" Isabel repeated. She paused, realizing that Michael had a computer. Seeing the technology stunned her; she had been living like a wretched Brontë character for so long. "Are you watching Game of Thrones?"

"A guilty pleasure. Shame they never got past season seven," Michael lamented.

Isabel was going to point out that if he wanted season eight so badly, he could have not brought on the end of days. However, she didn't because she needed to focus. "Evie's dead. Gallant killed her."

Michael shut his laptop, setting it aside. "I hardly see how I had anything to do with that."

"Because you're the fucking Antichrist!"

"And when something bad happens, it's automatically my fault?"

"Well, was this your fault?"

Michael didn't answer. Instead, he relaxed once more on his bed and picked up his laptop, resuming his watching. That was a good enough answer for Isabel.

Horror mixed with despair as Isabel left his room, now fully aware of just how wrong she was about him. He was her nephew, but he was the Antichrist first and foremost.

Michael Langdon needed to die.

"Miss Noble," Ms. Venable said sharply when the young woman almost ran into her in the hallway.

"Wilhelmina," Isabel sputtered in surprise, partially snapping out of her trance.

"I beg your pardon?" Ms. Venable raised her chin, giving Isabel the chance to rectify her mistake. However, she was quick to realize that would not happen as Isabel had a glazed look in her eyes still, clearly lost in thought. "You're troubled."

Yes, of fucking course she was troubled! But Isabel couldn't articulate the sarcastic response. "Evie's dead."

"She is." And that situation was currently being handled; Gallant was being dragged away to the belly of the outpost for punishment. But only a whipping because really, he just did some of the work for Wilhelmina. One less body to worry about. She would get rid of Gallant at some point, for sure. But let him suffer first.

"It's Michael's fault," Isabel said, her voice like an egg that was tapped against the side of pan: cracked but not broken yet. "I don't know how, but I know it was him."

"And how can you be so sure?"

"I know my family." Antichrist or not, Michael was Tate's son, and while Isabel did have trouble ignoring how sweet her brother had been to her, he was violent and Michael was that same kind of violent. Oh god, what if he just murdered everyone in the outpost?

Wilhelmina cocked her head to the side, intrigued. Family? Clearly that phrase had slipped past Isabel's lips without her thinking twice, but oh how wonderful that it did. Family meant safety. Wilhelmina had been told by Michael that she didn't pass the test; she would not be going to the Sanctuary. But here was someone who would be.

Isabel didn't even realize she was trembling until Ms. Venable put a hand on her shoulder. She held Ms. Venable's gaze, as if that would steady her. Her lips parted as if to speak, but words wouldn't come. They didn't need to.

"You're safe," Ms. Venable said, and Isabel felt herself actually relax, false, comforting warmth blooming in her chest.

Yes, Isabel was safe. She would be safe, and go to the Sanctuary. She was just the ticket Wilhelmina needed.