Sophia's Chronicles

Chapter 65: The Throne of Evil

Lebanon, Kansas – 7 March 2012, 6.22pm

(Keeper of The Seven Keys by Helloween wafts in the air)

"All I'm saying, Sammy, is that no one gains anything by feeling sorry for anyone. That's not the way the world works," Dean lectured. The rumbling of the Impala was the ever-present background noise to Sam's internal lament that they were having this conversation at all. It was just ridiculous. "When all is said and done, you have to come to terms with the fact that she chose to become a stripper."

"Yeah but Dean, she had the grades and the passion. She could have gone to college," Sam rebutted, unable to believe that he had to voice out any of this. It just seemed obvious. "Just because someone doesn't have the financial means, it doesn't mean that should stop them from pursuing a meaningful career."

"What are you saying? That becoming a connoisseur of the garment-removal industry isn't a meaningful career?" Dean scoffed.

"That's not how you use 'connoisseur'," Sam pointed out. "A connoisseur is someone who is a good judge in matters of taste. It doesn't refer to expertise."

"Her name was Candy, Sam," Dean argued, completely ignoring what his brother just said. "Makes your mouth water just saying it. And you made her cry!"

"I didn't know she was sentimental about vet school!" Sam defended.

"You could have at least paid for a sympathy lap dance," Dean persisted. "Maybe then she'd be closer to getting into vet school."

"Okay, you know what, enough of this. I don't like strip clubs. I just- I just don't, okay? Can we please leave it at that?" Sam finally said.

"Fine. Whatever," Dean said disappointedly, turning up the radio.

~You're the Keeper of the Seven Keys

That lock up the seven seas

And the Seer of Visions said before he went blind

Hide them from demons and rescue mankind

Or the world we're all in will soon be sold

To the throne of the evil paid with Lucifer's gold~

The Impala soon came to a stop outside the old Men of Letters bunker, their new home. Now engaged in a conversation about whether Dio or Ozzy was a better frontman for Black Sabbath, Dean pulled open the rustic metal door and Sam followed behind, leaving it to come to smooth and certain close as he trailed behind his brother. In that opportune moment, a little rat scurried into the bunker, unnoticed as the Winchesters proceeded down the stairs and headed straight into the kitchen. The little grey rodent paused snugly in a gap between the railings that oversaw the whole bunker, surveying the whole scene before him. A little surprised squeak escaped his little mouth. To such a tiny thing, the bunker seemed as big as the universe. And it was bad enough riding quietly in the backseat of the Impala for thirteen hours straight. He had to hold in the inclinations of his little rat guts that wanted nothing more to release its bodily waste. It was such an uncomfortable experience… until it suddenly wasn't. Let's just say that the elder Winchester wasn't going to like what he was going to find the next time he opened the rear seat doors. Well, whatever way one could spite the Winchesters, one should take, the rat thought.

Nose set on its goal, the rat hurried down the stairs, keeping its senses out for what it was looking for. This place was huge. Where would it start looking? There were so many shelves. So, so many. And with its tiny legs, it was covering the expanse of a few Winchester steps with many, many paw steps. The wide desert that was the hallway seemed like a never-ending trek to a distant land. The other end didn't seem to be getting any closer. The rat could hear the muffled sounds of the Winchesters talking with home-made sandwiches in their mouths. A fizz sounded as one of them popped open the cap of a beer bottle. Being a rodent, everything looked and smelled drastically different. His head jerked in the direction of the kitchen. All those edibles… it was so tempting. But no, he had to move on. So scurry he did, past the kitchen door.

He froze. His little nostrils flared. He picked up a distinctive sulfurous smell. Aha! Now he knew where to go. Taking a right turn, another arduous section of his journey began. There was a door slightly ajar up ahead. It led into something really dark. Keeping his eyes on the target, the rat scurried faster while trying to keep the patter of his little paws as silent as possible. Just then, footsteps sounded behind him. They were getting louder.

"Right, I'm gonna go crash for maybe a week," Dean stated, stretching his arms to the back and feeling the tension releasing in his shoulders. Just as he and Sam turned the corner, their attention was suddenly captured by the little ball of black fur gliding across the edge of the wall.

"Rat," Sam simply exclaimed, making for the creature. The rat in turn squealed loudly and took off at break-neck speed. It barely made it through the gap in the door and into the shadows as Sam pulled the door open further, staring in vain into the darkness, wondering where that damned rat went. "Dammit."

"Where did that come from?" Dean stared absently into the store room.

"Don't know," Sam's eyes made out the shape of several metal racks in the store room. He was already beginning to resent the thought of looking for a rodent in all the possible hidey holes in the room. "Thought this place was supposed to be air-tight…"

"The bunker's only been abandoned for what, fifty years? Go figure," Dean reasoned. "You could ward a place against God Himself but you can't keep the little critters out."

"Great, do we have to worry about a rat problem now?" Sam grumbled.

"It's just one rat."

"What if there's a nest that we don't know about?"

"So? We've lived in motels much crappier than this place. We can deal with some rodent housemates."

"Dude, it's a hygiene thing. Ever heard of Black Death?" Sam argued.

"Alright, whatever," Dean sighed, not ready to hear Sam go into lecture-mode again. "We'll get a mouse-trap on the next milk-run and catch Stuart Little o'er here. Happy?" Dean promptly marched off to his room and Sam, though a little concerned, put the rat out of his mind and retired to catch up on a book on vampires he saw in the main study. The rat poked his head out from a little corner, watching as the shadows of footsteps disappeared from the stray entry of light from the hallway into the store room. Ha! You fools! A mouse trap will not get me!

Latching onto the olfactory signal his nose had detected, the rat did some expert manoeuvring and scaling up and along the shelves to reach a specific box. His little paws rapped against the sides of the box, clawing their way to its top. With some fiddling here and there, he finally got the lid open and slid into it with a great breath of relief, albeit painstakingly. The stench of semi-rotten flesh hit its nostrils in a sudden wave. But at least he found what he came for. Squeak as he might, no response came from the severed head. Dead eyes merely stared straight ahead, purple rings of de-oxygenation lining them. From his proximate position to the head, he felt a familiar power-nulling force emanating from it. Must be something inside. His furry head caressed the underside of the decapitated head, finding the blood-crusted hole through which a lone bullet had been lodged. His beady eyes inspected the damage. Ah shit, the bullet's in deep. His paws wouldn't be able to reach it from where he was.

Guess we'll have do it the hard way. Though he knew the Knight probably wouldn't appreciate it, he had to do what he had to do. Bracing himself, the rat scurried into her cherry red lips, finding the puncture wound at the roof of her mouth. From there, he initiated a grisly digging campaign, having no choice but to drill further into her head to retrieve the bullet with the Devil's trap carved on it. Bits of innards sprayed into her mouth, like tiny paper shavings except it was bloody and pink. Eventually, the unruly bullet was retrieved. The rat backed out of her mouth, holding the bullet between its jaws. As soon as the bullet left her face, Abaddon gasped a breath of life. Immediately, she coughed and spat out all the bits of her head that lay on her tongue in a messy heap.

"That feels a lot better," she sighed. Then she tried to move but found a disturbing lack of extension from her head. Something fuzzy rubbed against her cheek. Her light blue eyes craned to see the little rat curiously watching her from this confined space. "You? You're my rescue?" she wondered, sounding a little disappointed and surprised at the same time. The rat squeaked rather excitedly. "Yes, I can see you're a demon. Duh." More squeaking ensued. "Your name is Tommy… uh-huh… you're here on- wait, what? The boss is back?" Her lips cracked a relieved grin but faded as soon as the rat continued its story. "You can't be serious! Crowley? The businessman? UGH!" she groaned. More squeaking. "Oh yeah, you bet. I'm gonna make this right. Now get me out of here!"

The air was calm in the bunker. Just a normal day for the boys after finishing a case, spent relaxing and chilling. Sam sipped on a cup of coffee as he settled in his seat in the main study, nose-deep in a book. Dean, on the other hand, surfed the net as he headbanged to an upbeat song playing through his headphones. It was a moment of peace and nothing could disturb them. With the rhythmic blaring of music in Dean's ears, he was none the wiser when a box thudded onto the floor of the store room. Neither was Sam – he was too far from the store room for the noise to reach him. "Ow!" Abaddon muttered through clenched teeth. "Be careful, idiot," her voice sounded angry but muffled through the box. Her head was now sideways and she could feel the gravity acting at an odd angle on her face even when she was shrouded in darkness again. Not paying mind to the vexed Knight, Tommy used all the might of his little rat nose to push the box. His demon strength came especially handy in this moment. After some initial exploration, he managed to lug the box across the cement floor of the bunker into the garage. It seemed like the only way he would be able to leave unnoticed, even though he'd be running on a timer.

Rows of classy, vintage vehicles lined the walls of the garage, making it look like every collector's paradise. In front of the garage entrance stood a small cubic box with a severed demon's head in it. With a fair bit of struggle, Tommy managed to find the switch and flip it, causing the garage door to slowly open. Having been unopened for decades, the rustic door creaked open upwards, protesting noisily in every corner that had not been oiled in a very long time. If he could cross his fingers, he would have. Racing towards the door, he began pushing the box with a strained exhale as soon as the opening became high enough. Though his muscles seemed like they would give way soon, the demon kept on going, his unholy spirit fuelling the impossibly strenuous movement of the rat's body. It was only when he felt the cool cut of the breeze from the outside did he stop to take a breather. Now he would no longer be limited by this rodent's vessel.

The demon immediately smoked out of the rat in an obsidian flurry, flying off into the distance to retrieve his favoured human vessel. Never again would he complain about the limitations of a human body. As soon as he felt like himself again, he returned to the spot outside the garage of the bunker, picking up the box with a triumphant smile gently pulling up his lips on one side. The now-liberated rat merely gawked at the creature towering above it, traumatised by what it had just been through. Its alarmed squeaking sounded so insignificant from up where Tommy's head was. He grinned condescendingly at the rodent before stepping on it. Its life ended with a single crunch and a spurt of blood shot out of its mouth. With that, he disappeared with the final piece needed to put Abaddon back together.

Sam shifted slightly in his chair. His hand rested on the table, inches away from the handle of his mug. He couldn't tear his eyes off the page he was on, engrossed in an argument written for the use of fire in killing vampires. He shuddered slightly and rubbed his left upper arm with his free right hand. That's when he noticed. Is there a draught in here? He looked around but nothing appeared different. Still, taken by curiosity, he took note of the page number and set down the book before going down the hallway.

Dean's eyes were glued to the laptop screen. Out of the corner of his eye, something moved. His body instinctively flinched, ready to attack the large figure but as soon as he looked – really looked – he relaxed, recognising his mammoth of a brother standing at the now-open door. "Dude, knock next time," he grumbled as he rolled his eyes.

"I… did…" Sam insisted, frowning slightly.

Dean shut the lid of the laptop and put it aside, removing his headphones. "What's up?"

"Hey, is it just me, or has it gotten colder in here?" Sam asked.

Dean simply stared at his brother, thinking it a strange question, until he realised that it did feel a little chilly. "Did you check the thermostat?"

"I did. It's normal," Sam reported. "Heater's working."

Dean's eyes darted around the room in contemplation. "Ghost?" he speculated.

"I- I don't know," Sam replied, puzzled. It seemed like a possibility yet sounded so… unusual. Why would a ghost haunt them now? They'd settled in for a while already. Not wanting to take a chance, the boys surveyed the hallways, armed with their salt-loaded shotguns.

"Hey, over here," Dean called out after some time. Sam hurried towards him, not finding anything out of the ordinary. He came to the scene of his brother staring at an open door. "The garage door's open."

"We have a garage?" Sam huffed.

"We do now," Dean answered, heading through the mysterious door. The elder Winchester simply gaped at the array of unused vehicles, awed by their simple shine that was nostalgic of an era past. He sauntered over to an old bike, every muscle in him aching to caress the pristine leather seat.

"Here," Sam snapped him out of his daze. He, on the other hand, was taken by the sight of something on the ground immediately outside the garage. Taking cautious steps, he stepped into the natural light of the cloudy day. His brother joined him soon after and they both halted in their step, confused as ever. There, on the damp gravel, was a dead grey rodent.


Hell – 9 March 2012

"You seem awfully quiet," Crowley remarked as he stood in front of the archangel. Lucifer simply shrugged. "What, no smart comebacks?"

"Eh," Lucifer did a head-tilt. His eyes were still, blank and lifeless like an unfinished canvas. "Not really feeling… inspired. Your ugly face is still ugly and your dumb plan is still dumb."

"If it's inspiration you want, that can be arranged," Crowley snarked, deviously sauntering over to a table near Lucifer's chair. He picked up a scalpel whose blade appeared so small to Lucifer that it was almost laughable.

"What are you gonna do with that? Tickle me? Ooh, scary," Lucifer said monotonously. Clearly he wasn't even feeling the basal level of sarcasm. It was that kinda day.

"The thing about torture, old chum…" the demon began, uncapping a flask from his coat. He poured some transparent liquid into a small metal dish on the tablet and dipped the end of the scalpel into it. "… is that it requires one to always be at peak creativity. I always thought you knew best about that." With a snap of the finger, the scalpel blade erupted in a signature blue flame. "Anything can be an instrument of torture if attuned just right."

"Holy fire. Huh," Lucifer huffed. "Well I'll be damned again. But I'll tell you what: this little roleplay between us? It doesn't have to be boring. We could play a game. Like uh- like arm wrestling. Yes, we could have an arm wrestling match and loser takes a little 'holy shower', if you know what I mean. I mean, I'd survive that, but you?" He waved a hand dismissively. "Ah, nothing'll happen to you either. Because you're the boss-man and the boss-man always wins, right? What say you, uncuff me for a little mano a mano?"

Crowley had a mild look of disappointment mixed with amusement. "I thought you'd at least try to come up with something better," he said, disenchanted.

"Yeah," Lucifer sighed. "Not one of my best." The demon king endured a small moment of silence for the fallen angel. Then, he remorselessly stuck the scalpel into Lucifer's upper arm, eliciting an immediate groan of pain followed by the resolute clenching of teeth. Crowley's fingers seemed to move seamlessly as the he dragged the blade down the arm, making a long, bleeding incision. The archangel was left panting for breath when the demon finally yanked the scalpel out. "That all you got? I've had bug bites worse than that."

"I don't know about you, but I, for one, am glad that holy fire doesn't kill archangels," Crowley declared as he eyed the growing blood stain on Lucifer's sleeve. "It'd be rude for one person to finish first."

"You keep talking sexy and I'll promise to rape your dead corpse before I make a meal out of you and feed it to the Hellhounds," Lucifer snarled, a devious grin lighting up his face like a challenge.

"Some choice words you got there," Crowley pointed out, remaining calm as ever. If anything, Lucifer's outburst reignited the fire in him. "That how you talk dirty to Sophie?"

"Oh you should hear the things that come out of her mouth," Lucifer shot back, almost laughing. "You'd be surprised. Honestly."

"You still remember her fondly, don't you?" Crowley observed.

"Is there a reason not to?" Lucifer asked as if he didn't know the answer. But if Crowley thought he could break him by destroying his image of her, he was wrong. No one could criticise her except for him, he thought.

"You're an idiot in love, you know that?" the demon raised an eyebrow. "She didn't even leave a goodbye note, Luci. Move on!"

"All men are idiots in love, idiot," he sighed. "Even you." When he met Crowley's wondering eyes, he elaborated. "You and that broad I saw on the bridge… that a thing?"

"If you're getting any ideas of using her to get to me, you can forget it," Crowley stated outright. "I'm not as attached as you think. Trusting someone with my feelings? Please, that's a rookie mistake. Case in point: you."

"You're wrong, you know," Lucifer sighed in an almost sing-song fashion. "Love makes you do things. Things you wouldn't normally do." He balled his fists suddenly, almost slamming them against the armrests. A flame seemed to be ignited in him as he recalled his tender memories, speaking now in a sombre tone, "To be in love is to protect that love so fiercely that the earth falls apart underneath your feet. Everyone else be damned. Love is destruction."

The demon raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Poetic," he complimented. "Didn't expect that from you. As long as you remain so blind, I'll always be ahead."

"I don't expect you to understand," Lucifer grumbled, shifting in his seat. "You probably have the emotional capacity of a dung beetle."

"Oh I understand, Lucifer. I understand that every moment of her absence makes you question everything you thought you had with her. Why wouldn't it? It's only reasonable, you miserable sod," he retorted. He dipped the scalpel into the dish of holy oil again. Lighting it up, he dragged it down the archangel's right cheek, eliciting a wince of pain. "Not that it's going to save you from this."

Hours later, Crowley finally let up, only leaving the archangel any relief when too many bloody cuts had been made on his body. Some closed soon enough only to be opened again by the eager demon. More tools came into play – nails driven into Lucifer's limbs while their piercing blue flame glowed under his skin being merely one of the many creative innovations the demon had in mind. In all his zeal, however, the demon failed to realise the power of Satan's growls of pain. Who could blame him? Crowley had been thoroughly enjoying himself, so much so that nothing else was apparent. Not even the winds of change in Hell. After all, it was a realm built specifically for the angel in the hot seat.

A strong gust swept over the desolate hinterland that was the Fourth Circle of Hell. With every one of Lucifer's screams, a wave of energy rocked the mounds of ice which had been frozen so hard that they were almost as strong as metal. A tiny web-like crack broke into existence despite the great resistance from years of accumulation of layers of ice. Another scream, another wave of energy. This time, a great big split appeared. With another mighty wave, the whole front face of the mound shattered into tiny blocks. From the ice a dark, greyed figure was revealed. His torso built like a cliff face, his biceps large and unforgiving, his face the very canvas of depravity. He had a thick, dark beard and hair that hung just past his shoulders in messy clumps. There was a hole where his left eye used to be and a single gold earring hung from his left ear.

Hades punched away the remaining bits of the ice in which he'd been encased for millennia. He stepped out into the open, his every breath a grunt. A single black loin cloth wrapped around his waist and hung to his knees in modesty. His black irises scanned the horizon. It was a long way to the passage between the levels of Hell.

Later…

"So?" Lucifer stared in askance at the demon before him, icy blue eyes suggestive of hope. By now his wounds had fully healed but the effort was beginning to take its toll on him. If anything, it made him more impatient. "Is the little toad croaking?"

"We have something, sir," Carl reported with a trembling jaw. He reached into his coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper. His thumb slipped into the fold and nudged it open, revealing the written Latin in it. "She spoke of a spell that could weaken the workings of the system."

"And you're sure she isn't lying?" Lucifer prompted with an expectant voice that meant business. The demon gulped, the paper visibly shaking from his nervous grip. "Carl…" Lucifer stood up, standing too close to comfort as he adjusted the demon's collar and tie. "If this backfires…" He pulled the tie, bringing the demon closer to him in a swift motion that almost caused the demon to lose balance. "It'll be your head."

"I'm… certain," Carl coughed a response. Not a muscle on his face dared twitch. "Sir."

"Good," Lucifer broke into a grin as he set the demon back on his feet. "Now get on with it."

The demon nodded slightly, his heart racing even though the boss appeared satisfied. Here goes. "Renodo fasiculos…" Carl raised a palm facing the archangel, feeling his entity come into contact with a firm magical structure of some kind. Consequently, a small white glow appeared under Lucifer's skin, reacting to the incantation. "… quod ince poro esse co imum."

Lucifer felt something shift within his vessel. Like the turning of gears, something clicked into place – or out of place, rather. With it came a wave of cool relief, rushing to fill him like the first breeze of winter. Lucifer inhaled a breath of comfort, savouring the feeling as his eyes drifted to a close. "Finally…"

"But sir," Carl interrupted.

The archangel's eyes flung open in response. "What is it?" An impatient look returned to his face.

"Something… something's not right…" The demon used his palm to assay the vessel again, eyebrows contorting in a curious frown. "It's still… it's still there. It's less strong but it's still there."

"She tricked you?!" Lucifer muttered through clenched teeth. "And you said you were sure," he hissed. His palm was raised threateningly, destructive power waiting to act with the command of his fingertips.

"No, no, sir. I think-" Carl put his hands up defensively though his legs were frozen to the spot from how terrified he was. His mouth suddenly felt dry but he gulped all the same. "I think there may be more spells involved. Multiple 'locks' are in place."

"And the witch didn't tell you any of this?" Lucifer questioned, aggravated. He was so close. So tantalizingly close to real freedom but this feat of magical innovation just had to put a bump in the road. He was getting tired of this. He wanted out of these shackles and he wanted it now.

"Um, no, but sir- We can get her to talk," Carl reassured his king.

"You'd better. Break every bone in her body if you have to," he ordered, his every word sounding like a needle piercing the air.

Carl stepped back and did a bow that was confused between actually being a respectful gesture and a strong desire to get out of the room of death with Satan in it. He scurried off, not wanting to waste any more time. As soon as he exited the throne room, he took out a handkerchief and anxiously dabbed at the sweat pouring down his forehead. As he hurried in the direction of the place in which they held Esther prisoner out of Crowley's sights, the demon failed to notice the sweeper at the end of the hallway. The sweeper with a mission. The sweeper with open eyes and ears.

Roman pressed his back against a large rock, shifting cover from one end to another as he tracked his target. In his rush to get answers, Carl failed to notice the extra shadow following him. Roman watched him enter the lone shack in the middle of a literal nowhere. This place was so far from the main infrastructure of Hell that you could accidentally fall into the lake of fire if you didn't watch your step. The ground had frighteningly deep cracks that seemingly led into an unending plummet into the deep abyss below. Whatever was in that shack must have been important for the demon to risk such a travel. He watched as Carl entered. That small time-frame when he opened the door was enough. Enough to see a woman, bloody and gagged, tied to a chair inside. A woman Roman recognised. Her face was barely the vision of radiant moonlight that it normally was. Her left eye was swollen shut and the visible parts of her body were full of cuts and bruises. She looked barely intact yet somehow her chest moved with her shallow breaths. That was all Roman needed to see.


Just as Tommy pulled the needle out, finishing the final stitch, Abaddon's mouth stretched out as if the feeling of her face was new. After all that time spent as pieces, it finally felt good to be whole again. Well, as whole as being an empty-hearted demon with an intact body got. Her bright red fingernails shone like marble as her delicate fingers felt the continuum of her neck to her shoulders. It was all in place. She was ready to go. "Let's get this rodeo started, cowboy," she announced, standing up.

"Uh…" Tommy stuttered as he put down the sewing materials. "There is something you should know before you begin your um… siege, ma'am."

"What is it?" Abaddon snapped, strolling over to a mirror to observe herself in her blood-stained clothing. It was the same one she had on when she was shot and maimed by the Winchesters – mostly denim with a shirt that said 'the Devil made me do it'. A little casual for her taste but she kinda liked its attitude. A gentle smile curved up her hot red lips on one end as she admired herself. Then the demon spoke again.

"It's… it's His Grace. He's kind of stuck in a situation," Tommy prefaced. "It may be unwise to move in immediately. Some… strategizing might be necessary."

As he explained to her the vessel problem, her face flickered between various states of upset and disbelief, but mostly it was resolute fury. She felt nothing but the vilest concoction of disgust building up in her chest, making her ball her fists. When he finally finished his story, she was simply shocked to silence. "How?! How did any of this happen?" she exclaimed. "How did any of you bottom-dwelling morons let it come to this?!" Tommy flinched as she slammed her fist against the wall, causing a controlled crack to form. "This isn't right. Hell isn't right," she muttered audibly to herself. She paced around in deep thought, her eyes fixed on the creaking wooden floor. Getting Crowley off and Lucifer on the throne would be harder than she initially thought. But it wasn't impossible. She stopped, locking eyes with Tommy. "Follow me. We have work to do."

Hell – 9 March 2012

"I'm sorry, I don't think I heard that properly. Did you say Abaddon is out and about?!" Crowley yelled at the demon informant before him, who instantly flinched. "How is that possible? You said the Winchesters had it handled."

"I… I don't know… sir," the demon stammered, visibly shaking.

"Well then, FIND. OUT." His snappy tone made the poor informant shiver like a leaf. "What do I pay you lot to do anyway?"

"S-sir, there's one m-more thing," the demon began. "Sh-she seems to be… weeding people out." He gulped. "She's already killed… everyone I work with."

"What's her motive? What's she trying to achieve?" Crowley probed.

"I- I don't know, sir," the demon answered.

"Then why are you still here?" he muttered through clenched teeth. The demon hastily nodded and left. Crowley sighed, massaging his temples with his fingers. Great, just great. Just when he thought he could begin to enjoy himself, this had to pop up. He didn't even know why he bothered allocating responsibilities like gathering intel to these idiots when all they did was die at the first sign of trouble or blather nonsense if they lived to tell him about it. If Abaddon was truly free and seemingly on a rampage to kill Crowley's intelligence people, that could only mean she was trying to dig up whatever she could on him before she eventually launched an attack. Sure, that was the worst case scenario – perhaps there was a possibility of working out a deal with her – but he couldn't take the chance. He didn't get to where he was without planning for emergencies.

As he sat, twirling his phone between his fingers and a fist resting against his cheek, Roman entered briskly. "Sir-"

"Yes, Roman, please do enter," Crowley lazily welcomed, somewhat reassured by the sight of his crisply-dressed new recruit. "Surely you must bear good news."

Panting, the demon paused in front of him. His body seemed to be saying 'perhaps' but his eyes seemed to be saying 'are you fucking kidding me'. "I'm afraid I can't speak for your definition of 'good news'," he reported.

"Naturally," Crowley responded. "It would just be too reasonable for a day like this to pass without some Hell-shattering news, wouldn't it?" Roman hesitated, eyes darting about as he remained uncertain of how to respond to that. "Go on, tell me then," the King beckoned.

"I found something, Your Grace. It's Lady Esther. She's… she's been kidnapped, sir," Roman informed him. He told of the various kinds of abuse she'd been subjected to and what the demons were trying to pry from her.

"Bollocks," Crowley cursed sharply. His fist clenched so hard that his phone would have snapped if he hadn't cautiously restrained himself. This was bad. It wasn't just bad – it was terrible. His plan was falling apart. If she'd told them anything useful – and it was highly likely from the various abuses Roman had described – he needed a plan and he needed one quick. Everything was falling apart so quickly. The hairs on Crowley's body stood on end, craving the relief of scotch. But not yet. Maybe… he still had another ace up his sleeve.

"What should we do, sir?" the demon stood modestly with his hands behind his back. He appeared sharp and ready for anything, his eyes steady like his posture. Especially in that maroon vest he wore over a long-sleeved white shirt. In a moment like this, his relative calm seemed like just the stability that Crowley needed.

Barely concealing his distress, Crowley stroked his chin in contemplation. Esther was caught, huh? Was that… was that a pang of emptiness in his heart? No, it couldn't be. That was impossible. He didn't feel anything for her, right? It was just a business relationship. And now his business partner was compromised. And that always meant jump-ship-and-run. Right? This was a lot harder than he thought. "What would you do in my situation, Roman?" Crowley asked, purely out of curiosity. So far, his newest informant appeared much smarter than the others. Already he'd proven his capabilities in blending in and being unnoticed. Maybe all Crowley wanted was for this one investment not to go to shit.

"Me, sir?" Roman found himself being continually surprised by every meeting with his King. He certainly didn't mind – it gave him something to look forward to, admittedly. "I would storm in with a militia and kill every single one of them before they could carry out their plot against you, my Lord."

"What if you had another problem that needed your military power? Say, a Knight of Hell who possibly wants to kick you off the throne," Crowley posited, watching him with intrigue as his face contorted with expressions of curiosity and consideration. "Not to mention a certain archangel who you need to maintain your hold on." Roman's eyebrows crinkled slightly at the mention of Lucifer. "Oh, don't pretend you didn't know. You saw what they were doing to Esther. You're probably thinking of changing sides."

"But sir," Roman rushed to reply. "I would never."

"Oh?"

"I mean," he stuttered. "You are the King, my Lord. You still hold the power to defend your Kingdom from usurpers."

"Hm." Crowley's head lifted. This conversation was certainly getting more fascinating. True loyalty? That was hard to find.

"Perhaps you could kill two birds with one stone," Roman suggested.

"Go on."

"If this Knight of Hell comes storming in and sees the hold you have over… him… perhaps she would think twice. I know I would. I mean, who wants to mess with a guy who could bring Satan to his knees?" Crowley smiled. He liked the sound of that. Roman continued, "And as for those who plot against you, why not make use of Lucifer? If you can control him, you have what is essentially a nuke. And I say, do a Hiroshima."

The look on Crowley's face seemed ambiguous. Did he approve? Did Roman step out of line in taking that tone with the King? The lower demon couldn't tell. He began to feel a tug of anxiety as soon as the words left his mouth. But Crowley simply said, "Not bad for a sweeper."


There was almost a spring in his step when Carl returned to the throne room. He had the second spell with him and this time Esther had promised that this was all that was needed to destroy Crowley's control over Lucifer's vessel. That meant Lucifer would be free to take the throne again; free to reward those who had helped him. His legs moved briskly, taking him to that familiar room in the back. He imagined a hundred ways in which he could break the good news to his master. He imagined the pleasant surprise he would see on the archangel's face. He wondered if Lucifer's benevolence would be as magnanimous as his wrath. It had to be, right? Eager to get it over with, Carl twisted the door knob and pushed. But as he entered, he froze in his step, eyes unsure of what to make of what he saw at first. An empty chair. Light filtered into the room from the windows near the ceiling and exposed the bare emptiness before him. Huh?

"Looking for something?" a voice said behind him. Carl spun quickly, coming face to face with Crowley's deviant smile. The King was suavely positioned at the centre of the throne room. His eyes seemed to pierce Carl even from where he stood.

"Your Grace, I-"

"You…" Crowley cut him off, his voice curious as he tried to infer what the demon was going to say. "You're here for what, exactly?"

"I uh…" Carl stuttered, trying to come up with some convincing bullshit as to why he was caught in such a suspicious position. "I was told…" Crowley did a half-nod as he tried to follow the argument. "… that I had to get… supplies… from here…"

"Did you find what you were looking for?" he asked, extending an inviting arm. Hesitant, the demon took a few steps towards him so as to not raise further suspicion. "I know I have."

With a snap of his fingers, demons emerged from the darkness and grabbed Carl by the arms. "Hey, what the-" The demon struggled with his captors momentarily until its futility dawned on him. A look of foreboding eclipsed his face. He gulped, unsure of what to expect.

Crowley sauntered over to the traitor, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a piece of paper. "What's this? A spell?" he probed as if he didn't already know what it entailed. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were plotting against me, Carl. And treason is punishable by death."

"No, please, Your Majesty!" Carl exclaimed. "I beg for mercy, my King. I'll do anything to make it up to you. Please don't kill me."

"You'll do anything?" Crowley wondered out loud.

"Anything, sir," Carl pleaded.

"Huh." Crowley crushed the paper between his fingers and tossed it onto the floor. He clapped his hands and the doors to the throne room opened, revealing none other than Satan himself, chained and bound by Crowley's people. "Hear that, Lucifer? Your saviour. Willing to sell you out, just like that. Guess you aren't as scary as you thought." Lucifer's eyes seemed to convey an unspoken threat to Carl, who learned then that there were no right moves to be made. On Crowley's command, the demons lugged him closer to the throne as if readying him for a confrontation. Now the throne room appeared crowded, the demonic audience in eager anticipation of what was to come. "I have gathered all of you here on this fine day for a little show-and-tell…"

As Crowley went on and on about his own greatness, Carl looked around the room in despair, still bound by the arms. It looked like everyone was getting really into Crowley's speech, convinced by the sight of the enslaved archangel. This couldn't be it. This wasn't the way it was supposed to go. He almost wanted to sink to his knees in a cry of hopelessness when he saw him. Tommy. What was he doing back here? Wasn't he supposed to find Abaddon? Yet he was right here, within spitting distance of Carl. Something about the way he was looking at him – those smiling eyes that couldn't contain their excitement – told Carl that something was going on. Through this ambiguous eye contact, Carl tried to point him in the direction of the crushed piece of paper on the ground. Tommy's eyebrows creased in a small frown before he noticed the crushed ball. Taking the cue, Tommy shuffled his feet, inconspicuously kicking the ball into the shadows before retreating into the darkness himself to read it.

It sounded faint at first, but there was a footstep. A big, heavy footstep. "… you should hear it from the man himself. Go on, Lucifer, tell them who the real King is," Crowley taunted. The footsteps got louder. They were slow and seemed to have a steady rhythm. Just as Crowley was about to jeer further, the sound gave him pause. The demons looked around themselves, looking for the source of the noise. Then, through the wide threshold of the throne room, he came. The large, monstrous figure who'd climbed all the way up to the highest level of Hell. Crowley frowned. Now that, he hadn't expected. "I'm sorry, but who the hell are you?"

A smile cracked on Lucifer's face. Oh, this is gonna be good. "Who… are… you…?" Hades grunted, ignoring the demon's question as he stepped forward through the crowd. His speech began slow as the workings of modern English began to filter into his mind.

Crowley shifted his footing. Truth be told, the enormous size of the being before him was beginning to look frightening. Those giant grabbers on him looked like they could crush his skull between them. "I'm Crowley," he stated, trying his best to remain confident. "King of Hell."

"Ha. Funny," he scoffed, glaring at the demon through his sole right eye. "Move aside, demon. I need to talk to the King."

Lucifer suppressed a smirk, though his warm smile still showed. "Nice to see you again, Hades. Sleep well?" he greeted.

"Woah, woah, hold on," Crowley interrupted. "Hades?"

"Are you done playing with those chains?" Hades growled. His voice was coarse and deep that it almost resonated in everyone's chests. "I have an issue to straighten out with you," he said with a clenched jaw. The anger radiated from him in waves. No one dared entertain even the thought of getting near him.

"Of course," Lucifer relented. "But I'm gonna have to ask a favour first." He pointed a finger at Crowley. "Get rid of him," he whispered loudly.

Crowley's eyes widened as he looked between them. But Hades remained where he stood, locking eyes with the archangel. "Do it yourself," Hades spat out bitterly, much to Crowley's relief. "Demons are your problem. Not mine."

Hades turned away, ready to leave. "What about Persephone? Is she your problem?" Lucifer's words halted his step. He turned back to face the archangel. "You want to know what became of her, don't you?"

Hades snarled, nose crinkling. "Where is she?"

"I'll tell you, but… tit-for-tat?" Lucifer negotiated, eyes playful with hope.

Hades grunted an exhale. His eyes met Crowley's. "What are you waiting for, idiots? Defend your King!" Crowley demanded.

The demons exchanged confused looks and then moved messily to oblige. They attacked the Greek god from all sides, only to get tossed about like salad. Taking notice of the scuffle, more demons piled into the room in an attempt to overwhelm him. Amidst all the chaos, Tommy managed to sneak around to where Lucifer was. "My King," he greeted as he unfurled the piece of paper he'd picked up.

Crowley watched in sheer amusement as the load of all the demons became too much even for Hades to handle. He never thought he'd see the day when a bunch of demons overpowered the freakin' Greek god of the Underworld. But it was educational nonetheless – he needed to find out more about this connection between Lucifer and Hades. What was that all about? He pushed the thought out of his mind as Hades struggled under the weight of what looked to be a dozen or more demons. With one great yell, he pushed them all off of him and took off in a ceremonious exit. "Well that was anticlimactic," he remarked, brushing off a speck of dust from his collar. He couldn't help but grin at the thought of what just happened. "It just isn't your day, is it, Lucifer?"

"The day is still young…" Lucifer drawled. Just as Crowley was about to turn to him…

"Hey!" a sharp female voice now caught his attention. Flaming red hair came into view and an entourage of demons suddenly entered, brandishing blades and stabbing every demon in sight. Crowley's own retaliated in response like an addendum to the skirmish that had just occurred.

"Abaddon, right on time," Crowley greeted. "Luckily I have just the treat for you." He snapped his fingers. As she watched, nothing in particular happened. Her light blue eyes stared at him in askance. Puzzled, Crowley chanced a look at Lucifer. And there he stood, out of his chains and free, hands on his hips.

"Expecting something?" he teased.

"Wait, no," Crowley stammered. He snapped his fingers again. Nothing happened. The sudden fruitlessness of his plan finally dawned upon him. He looked between the Knight of Hell and… the King of Hell. "I think I understand now…" he blabbered as his mind raced with plans of escape. Lucifer took a step towards him, making him step backwards in response. "You… are… the King… and I… can be of valuable help…"

"Yes, I do think that the hounds haven't been fed properly in a while," Lucifer suggested as he waltzed over. Crowley took more defensive steps towards the exit though it was positively blocked by Abaddon. "But you are right about one thing, though: Treason is punishable by death."

"Wait, wait a minute," Crowley held up a finger in a desperate attempt to bargain for his life. "The crossroads… flourished under my supervision. Let me take it back again and prove my worth. I can- I can be of use, you know."

"Hm," Lucifer sighed.

"Crowley!" a voice called out from behind him. There, bound in shackles was none other than the beaten and battered form of Esther. She appeared as a shadow of her former self, recognisable yet in a miserable state covered in blood.

"What do we have here?" Abaddon smirked, grabbing Esther by the arm and yanking her into the throne room. "New playtoy, my liege?"

"This, my dear, is Crowley's favourite lady-friend, as I hear it," Lucifer explained.

"Oh?" Abaddon had a look of pleasant surprise, no doubt hiding sinister intentions underneath. "He's done quite well for himself, hasn't he? She's still standing!"

Crowley watched in mild bewilderment as he watched the scene unfold. Carefully, he took small steps backwards. The exit seemed unimpeded now. "Tell you what, Crowley, come and get your little girlfriend here from Abaddon and I'll let you walk out of here," Lucifer proposed gleefully. "Come on, no tricks. I promise."

Crowley and Esther's eyes met for the first time in a long time. Her hand reached out to him unknowingly, craving his very touch. After all she'd been through, a single loving caress was all she needed. Seeing him then, unhurt in front of her, gave her a little hope. He'd get through this. He was smart. She just needed to trust him. "Crowley," she uttered his name through a swollen lip. It tickled her lips through all that pain, urging a smile though she wouldn't bare one until she was safe in his arms. But as she watched, Crowley took a few steps back, turned, and disappeared. Needles of pain pierced her chest.

"Aw, guess he wasn't that into you, huh?" Lucifer remarked. He stepped down from the elevated platform on which the throne was seated. Grabbing a fistful of her hair, he pulled her head back. "It's alright. You and me, we're gonna have a great time. A witch would be… a great addition to my forces."

"Oh I doubt that," Esther spat out, wincing at the tension he exerted on her head. She managed a snarky smile that gave Lucifer pause. "That second spell… comes with a price…"

"What price?" Abaddon demanded to know, looking between Lucifer and the witch.

"Release me and I'll tell you," Esther bargained.

"Oh you'll tell me, alright," Lucifer reassured her, unamused. "Don't know if you ran into my old pal Hades just now, but let me tell ya something – he doesn't remember what his Persephone looks like. So if I were to tell him, say, that you're his lovely wife – who he kidnapped and raped, by the way – imagine what he'd do to you." Esther's eyes widened at the thought. Lucifer smirked. "You can tell me the truth before you get all your holes resized, or after. It's up to you, really. Think about it." Lucifer exhaled, baring a toothy grin as he turned in a circle slowly with his arms outstretched. It felt good to be King again. "Abaddon, be a doll and escort our guest here to her cell."

"As you wish, Your Majesty," the Knight happily obliged.

"Hell is back in business, baby," he announced as he plopped onto his throne, satisfied. He leaned forward, his right elbow resting on his knee in a regal pose. The demons were struck by his nefarious gaze, now fully present and demanding subservience. One by one, they knelt before him, pledging their allegiance.