Sophia's Chronicles

A/N:

Well hello again. Sorry I couldn't post sooner, but work has been laying on me thick for the past few months and it's been so bad that I barely had the time to write. I used to be able to write a chapter in 2 weeks at most but for the past month I've been stuck on the same chapter. Yikes. Advice for all those who are in college: do NOT overload modules (take more than the recommended number of classes in a single semester). Life comes at you really fast when you do that. Luckily, there are only 2 more weeks before finals and the end of the semester so I'll be able to write more then.

Quick recap since it's been ages since I posted the last chapter: fast forward 6 months since Lucifer broke Zara out of the British Men of Letters' temporary HQ, the Winchesters are hunting a Rakshasa in Missouri. 3 victims, seemingly following a pattern of being young women who have a thing for a certain band. The boys run into Zara, who is busking on the street to get by but she's secretly in cahoots with Lucifer. Also I'm doing a thing where I show you the present day story as well as flashbacks of the past, like they do in Arrow. Past-Zara has fallen off the wagon – she is constantly intoxicated – while Lucifer is trying to find the blueprints that reverse his vessel's degradation as well as mess with the pagans. Alright, you're all caught up! Hope you enjoy the chapter.


Chapter 68: Fear of The Dark

Springfield, Missouri – 15 September 2012, 8.02pm

Bright lights had lit up the concert venue for an audience of cleaners and organisers. The whole place was remarkably lifeless, like music had been its only soul-giving elixir. Now there was only the remnants of what had been a uniting force in the form of strewn litter and dismantled equipment. The clean-up crew buzzed about, engrossed in their own responsibilities, when Sam arrived on scene. Gig's over. Huh. So the band must have left already. But that didn't have to stop him. Though his formal attire stood out against the overalls and casual wear of the staff present, he carefully wove through the bustling crew towards the backstage as he kept his eye out for anything suspicious.

"May I help you?" A lady wearing a headset and carrying a clipboard stopped him.

"Oh, yes, hi," Sam reached into his jacket and pulled out a fake ID. "I'm a journalist from the Missouri Gazette. I was supposed to meet the band, Brides In White, for an interview here. Do you have any idea where I can find the boys?"

"Oh…" A brief confusion eclipsed her face. "I'm afraid the band's packed up and left. Sorry."

She gave him an apologetic look. Sam sighed softly in disappointment.

"These amateur managers, right?" she grumbled. "The band's only got them 'cuz they aren't rich enough to afford a proper one."

"Yeah," Sam huffed as if he totally understood. "Do you have any idea if they happen to still be in town?"

"I can't be sure. But you can check with their motel. I can give you the name if you'd like," she offered.

"Of course. Thank you so much," Sam used his innocent charmer voice. It always seemed to work on normal people. He had those empathic eyes that always seemed down-to-earth and made people trust him. She scribbled the address on a memo pad and tore it off to give it to him.

"Good luck getting past the groupies," she dryly muttered a warning.

Sam perked up at that statement. "Is that a big uh… thing with them?" he asked.

"I guess so. I mean, a lot of these bands generally attract a young crowd. But if you ask me…" she lowered her voice. "Their fans are kinda obsessed."

"Obsessed how?" he pried.

"I… I don't think I should really say anything," she hesitated. His status as a 'journalist' was something she was wary of, Sam realised. "It's probably nothing. Maybe this kind of thing happens all the time. I don't know."

"No, no, it's okay. You can talk to me," he reassured her. "I promise it'll be off-the-record."

Her uncertain eyes considered his offer for a moment before relenting. "Okay," she exhaled. "I've worked these kinds of gigs before and groupies storming the backstage is kinda normal. But with this band… it's just weird. Apparently, the main singer likes his girls a certain way."

"Having a preference can't be that bad, right?" Sam probed.

"It's not just that. Danny's manager talks to these girls first before letting them see him. Almost like an interview to see if they 'fit the mould' or something," she recalled, face contorting with disgust. "Very… cult of personality. Personally, I don't understand it. Who could be so insecure that they allow themselves to be treated that way?"

"People can surprise you," Sam shrugged.

"But you can't really criticise them if the girls willingly sign up for this, you know?"

"Hm," he nodded intently.

"Sorry, just had to get it off my chest," the lady shook her head, laughing it off nervously.

"No, it's alright. Thanks um…" Sam's eyes roved to her nametag. "Karen."

She smiled politely in return and returned to work. So far, what she said seemed to be consistent with the case. The victims – the first two, at least – were not good at staying in relationships, which could be the cause of insecurity. They could also have the tendency to idolise and easily trust someone who would give them attention, which could explain why they let the Rakshasa into their houses. But something about the third victim didn't sit right with Sam. Further investigation was needed. Mind set on the questions he had, Sam set off in the direction of the motel.

The dim light from the hallways reflected off the damp gravel of the parking lot in front of the Wild Horse Hideaway. On the outside, it looked like any other cheap motel – there was the cheap paint peeling off the walls, dried up grime around the corners and little pests running around. There was even construction work going on across the road which must have turned away most customers. Still, it wasn't like the Winchesters hadn't stayed in such low-maintenance places when the times called for it. But those were truly desperate times. Even for a small-time band looking to get big, Brides In White could have afforded a better place. From the absence of large vehicles suited for loading instruments, Sam guessed that he had narrowly missed the band. He sighed a cloud of mist in dejection. Then he spotted something. Perhaps not all was lost.

Confidently, he strode up to a table in the pitifully-sized front office. It had space for barely more than the table and a two-seater couch. The receptionist was a sickly-thin man whose ill-health seemed to be the very essence of the building. He was engrossed in a televangelist programme running on the tiny monitor he had on the corner of his table. A pastor was explaining rather eloquently why he'd spent twelve million dollars of church funds on a private jet when Sam cleared his throat to get the receptionist's attention.

The man's eyes jerked to acknowledge his presence before nonchalantly returning to the TV screen. "A room's forty bucks per night," he recited like he had a hundred times before.

"Uh, sorry, I'm not staying," Sam pulled out his fake FBI badge this time. "Agent Elliott." That certainly got the man's attention. "I'm here to investigate some people who stayed here. A band by the name of Brides In White? They played a gig just recently."

"Oh," the receptionist awkwardly shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. "You just missed them. They left about an hour ago. What'd they do?"

"I just needed to ask them some questions," Sam told the man.

"Shoulda known punks like that would be trouble. It's just what I get for inviting that unholiness into my motel, isn't it?"

Sam raised both his eyebrows, taken aback by the man's sourness. "Is there anything specific you can tell me about them?"

"Where do I begin?" he scoffed. "Um… The noise, the drugs… Christ. Every night they had women with them and let me tell ya, these walls ain't the thickest. We have families staying here too…" The receptionist made a sick face. "I wanted to tell them to get the hell out of here but you know, it's not like business is booming. And to top it all off, they make just an absolute mess of the place. Do you know how expensive cleaning supplies are?"

That would explain the general state of this motel, Sam thought wryly. "May I see the rooms they rented?" he asked.

"At your own peril," the man's eyes widened with an unseen terror. "We're still in the middle of cleaning." The man trudged slowly in front of Sam as he held the keys to the rooms and showed him to the ones the band stayed in. A total of three rooms had been rented. The first two were alright, though a little messy as the receptionist said. But the last one… "This is the worst of it."

Unfinished pizza boxes, women's lingerie, empty beer bottles – the place was a cesspit of insect fodder. And the order of amenities in the room was simply in chaos. Mattresses, lamps – none of it was spared. It looked like a hurricane had swept through the room. If it wasn't for the fact that Sam was on a hunt for a monster, he would have been disgusted by the ability of any human to leave a place in such a way. It was in that opportune moment that his phone rang. It was Dean.

"Got anything?"

"I'm at the motel the band stayed in. There might be clues here," he looked around the room, attention caught by the receptionist disgustedly picking up a leaking packet of ketchup from the floor.

"A motel? Don't Rakshasas live in 'squalor'?" Dean's scepticism was refreshingly clear in Sam's ear, though he was fazed by the state of the room.

"Oh this is squalor, alright," Sam remarked. "It's no bed of dead insects but it's the next best thing."

"Our guy's getting with the times, huh?"

Sam rued to think what that would actually entail for a monster that loved its filth. "What about you?"

"Just reached the third vic's house. This place is way out in nowhere. No immediate neighbours. Perfect spot to murder someone and make liver quiche."

For the umpteenth time, the younger Winchester cringed in repugnance. "Dude, don't say things like that. As if this case wasn't weird enough…"

"We're not exactly hunting Swiper the Fox, Dora." Sam rolled his eyes at that comment. "Anyway, I'm going in. Come meet me here when you're done."

With that, Dean cut the call. Sighing, Sam got down to the arduous task of scouring the unkempt motel room.


Five months ago

Abaddon stood in a small desolate town. 'Town' was a generous term for it – there were only three buildings here a short distance away from the highway and just sand for miles. It was the kind of place someone would own if they really wanted to get away from people. That is, if they could stand the heat. No living person roamed these parts. But that said nothing about the undead. She wasn't alone. At her side were five more demons.

"You're sure this is the place?" she curtly asked the demon closest to her.

"It's what the witch pointed out, ma'am," the demon meekly replied.

"You two, go scope the place and make sure it isn't a trap," she ordered.

The demons complied. One took the front door and the other checked the back of the wooden building. No one seemed to be hiding inside. They signalled that the coast was clear. Abaddon entered the abandoned house. There were cobwebs woven around the furniture and dust had settled in a thick coat over the whole place. "There," Abaddon pointed at a trapdoor. A demon promptly moved to undo the hatch.

Just as he pulled it open, it occurred to the Knight that it was perhaps suspicious that the hatch wasn't locked, considering the important material that was supposed to be hidden. But the thought was a moment too late. A 'click' sounded. Yellow puffs of fire were all Abaddon saw before it truly dawned on her. A loud explosion sounded, though it was pathetic compared to the great expanse that spanned the miles around them. A small 'boom' in the middle of nowhere – it turned no heads. Except those of the demons who flailed about frantically in an attempt to get the holy fire off of their defenceless bodies.

Abaddon screamed in rage but did not let it consume her. Before the cursed inferno could tear into her demonic spirit, she smoked out of her vessel.

Hell

Zara chuckled. There was a pause. She made another noise, this time a mix between a giggle and a squeal. It must have sounded strange to anyone walking past her door. It certainly was to Lucifer. He knocked on the door before entering. Zara looked up from her laptop screen to find his confused glare staring at her, frozen at the door. She straightened up immediately, sniffling and wiping the tears from her cheeks. "Lucifer," she greeted.

He let himself in, still positively befuddled. "What's going on? You sounded like you were being strangled to death," he frowned, taking a seat next to her bed.

"I'm watching videos on taking care of kittens on Youtube," she smirked. Her legs were pulled up to her chest as she remained in a tight ball, secured by a thick blanket like a human burrito.

"So this is what you wanted to do with your internet freedom?" he questioned. Interacting with a human this way was all too new for him. He remained ambivalent about his own position of it, feeling but a mixture of vexation and curiosity. He constantly reminded himself that the only reason he was doing this was for Sophia. To abide by her one request because it was the right thing to do. "I don't understand you humans."

"Come take a look," she angled the laptop towards him and hit the play button. The video showed a woman gently stroking a palm-sized kitten with a toothbrush. It cooed and stretched its paws so adorably that another tear fell, unfettered, down Zara's cheeks. She reached for a glass of wine from the bedside table and took a large gulp. "Isn't that the most adorable thing ever?"

Lucifer's lips simply formed a tight line, unamused. He looked between the hot mess that was Zara and the laptop screen. "You call that thing a cat? Please," he huffed. "I could pick my teeth with its spine."

Zara's face contorted with shock. "Why would you do that?" she asked rhetorically, knowing that there was no point in questioning his decisions.

"Okay, look. This pathetic, pussified excrement of artificial selection is no proper feline. You humans have ruined cats for me," he grumbled, pointing at the poor striped kitty on the screen that wanted nothing more than to be loved. "You want to know what a real cat is? You need to be able to fit a human toddler inside one." Zara merely watched in a disgruntled bafflement as Lucifer held his hands out to show the size of his ideal cat. "It has to be at least yeah big and have teeth so sharp that it just tears into flesh like a scalpel. Now that's a real cat."

"Okay, thanks for educating me," she said with a tone so dry that the salt oozed out of her words. She sniffled again. "I'll take my pussified kitty any day because I just want to cuddle it. Can your Hell-Kitty do that?"

"You can cuddle them," Lucifer defended. "They're fierce in every way. Even in their love," he admitted proudly. "It's how you know you've got them right."

Zara simply nodded in a passive acceptance. There was no point in arguing with him, she realised. He could explode her at will. It was a miracle that he'd just let her be. Maybe he did have sympathy for her after all. "Why're there no cats in Hell?" she asked rather innocently.

"Well, I've got Hellhounds," he answered. "They're pretty adorable. Do you want to cuddle one? They bite when they're excited."

"Uh… no thanks," she humbly rejected his offer, though it was partly out of fear. She remembered her last encounter with them. It was a close call with those invisible, ferocious mutts. "I can't even see them."

"Well, you'll be able to if you used…" he pulled open a drawer and brandished the familiar platinum box. "…this."

"I've been meaning to ask you about that," she prefaced. "Why does it work for me? What's it for?"

Lucifer opened the box, caught in a flashbulb of memories as he studied its every detail again. "I don't know," he honestly answered, sighing. "The universe is full of mysteries. Like where did Sophia go? Why did she leave you here like an orphaned child, assuming that I'd want to look after you? Some things we'll never know, I guess."

"Do you really think it's such a burden to look after me? I don't even bother you," she groaned, taking another swig of her wine.

"Well, you're expensive, for one," he eyed her glass of wine.

"Like money matters to you," she shot back.

"No, but people get you your alcohol, escort you safely to and from earth, don't they? When they could be serving me instead," he argued. "And all you do is drink. I mean, have a fruit for once, Zara. Have an apple. It's good for you."

He materialised an apple in his hand and threw it onto her bed. "I've heard that apple seeds contain cyanide. Do you think eating apple seeds will kill me?" she asked, feeling the weight of the bright red fruit in her palm.

"That depends. Do you want them to? It's an important detail," he asked in return, reciprocating the curiosity. "And then there's that too. You're drinking so much that it's worrying. And do you know how disconcerting that is for me? Me? Worrying about someone's life? Someone who's not Sophia or my son? I feel disgusted."

"Unless you have a cure for crippling depression, I don't know what to tell you," Zara blankly stated. She locked eyes with him defiantly as she downed what was left in her glass.

"I could make you an actual cripple if you try to play games with me," he calmly threatened. "I don't care what you do. All I ask is that you stay alive."

"Does it really matter? We all know where I'm going when that happens," she pointed out. "I'll probably wake up in the same spot, don't you think?"

Lucifer raised an eyebrow. Uh oh, not good. "Are you really that dense?" he brusquely asked. "Don't you remember our bond? I'm supposed to keep your soul intact. No demonization for you."

"Oh," she realised. "Can't even die in peace."

"I'm being serious. You better watch your drink," he ordered. "And thirdly…" Zara sighed. Does this list ever end? "You do nothing all day. You're an utter waste of human life. Billions of years of evolution and you can't even make yourself useful."

"Yes, thank you for reminding me," she dryly replied. Her chest suddenly felt so heavy. "How the hell am I supposed to make myself useful? You don't even let me see the outside world. You just want me to be cooped up in here."

"Yeah, because you're dead weight. You can't even protect yourself. The moment you step outside, Crowley's gonna nab you straight off the streets. You're like a baby. Scratch that, even my baby son could probably take on a common street-thug demon," he smirked. "You wanna be useful, Zara? Pick up a book. Use that brain of yours to find Sophia and tell her to come home."

"You think I haven't tried? I hate the idea of me being in control of my body just as much as you," she muttered. Her frown-riddled expression spoke of an untold pain but of course, none of that really mattered to Lucifer. He just wanted her for what she could do for him. "It's never worked."

That certainly softened his attitude. "Then try harder," he said more serenely. "Read more. Learning more about your abilities should definitely help. You can only get better at it if you keep practising. You don't need to leave Hell for that."

Lucifer got up to leave. "Wait," she stopped him. "Could I still have like a basket of kittens? Please? It's just one small thing."

The Devil merely narrowed his icy blue eyes at her. "This is Hell. We don't do kittens," he denied her request. "Unless someone decides to sacrifice some kittens in my name."

"Come on," she sighed, desperately pleading him with her eyes. "I'm cold and dead inside."

"Me too, Zara," he simply said. "Me too." With that he was gone from her room. When he returned to his study, a resentful Abaddon waited for him. "New meatsuit?" he noticed. This one was a petite, elderly Hispanic woman that she'd found in the nearest petrol station. "Is this why you've taken so long to report back?"

"Crowley rigged the place with holy fire bombs," she pouted with a fierceness shining in her eyes. "I loved that meatsuit…"


Springfield, Missouri – 15 September 2012, 9.13 pm

There wasn't a soul in sight in the third victim's house. Just the heavy air of death permeating the household. A tiny monkey watched the tall man treading in the house through the window from its seat on a branch. The large orange bulbs it had for eyes tracked his measured steps from a tree just outside the house. Dean stepped carefully in the darkness, armed with a flashlight and his .45-calibre. He was on the lookout for any indication at all that this vic had been listening to that God-awful band. He and Sam tried to listen to some of their discography and just recoiled in disgust. Is this what the kids are calling rock these days? he scoffed. His sharp gaze struggled to make out the shapes in front of him. There were all the things you'd find in a normal house. Photo frames, mirrors, all that. Then he spotted it. Something shiny on the floor.

He knelt down to inspect it. A spotlight under his torch revealed it to be a fresh patch of blood. Dean's eyebrows crinkled deeply as he searched around himself. Sure enough, he found a fireplace poker lying nearby. Its tip was laced with blood. From there, his eyes trailed upwards to rest on a single ray of light coming from around the corner. Odd. It wasn't like that before. The only sound was the creaking of the floorboards under his measured steps. There was a door slightly ajar from which the light poured out into the darkness. Dean's grip tightened on his gun. He neared the door, which likely lead into the basement.

His instinct was all that fuelled him now. He wasn't alone and he was well aware of it. The eerie quiet was not a good sign either. His eyes cursorily wandered back to the fireplace. The blood-tipped poker was no longer there.

His head jerked back to the front just in time to see the poker coming straight at his face. Then it all went black.

Dean roused, feeling an uncomfortable tug at his wrists. Through the blaring pain from the side of his head, he realised that his hands were tied behind him. Great. This again. An odd cramp in his back and neck emphasised the uneasy position in which he'd been left on the floor, against a pillar. He shut his eyes almost as soon as he opened them. Even the dim light of the basement was getting a bit much for him.

"Dean?"

It was a soft female voice, one he recognised. He knew this woman. But his spinning head made it difficult to put a name to the voice. His head craned upwards slowly as he began to grow used to his new confinement. His emerald irises turned steely as they rested on her face. It was a face that often made a blank space in his head. Typically, he knew how to read people well. But it was this one face that always left unanswered questions in his memory.

"Zara?"

She was tied up too. But she had the luxury of a chair. She seemed beaten and bruised, all from a scuffle of some kind. There were wounds to match and blood dripping from her mouth and a small cut on her forehead. What Dean seemed most taken by was that she was wearing something completely different from what she had earlier – black pants and a top to match, with a leather jacket to complete the ensemble. It made her appear almost completely different. Who the hell are you?

"Are you okay?" she asked. From the troubled way she was looking at him, he thought he might look more messed up than he actually was. But this was just another Thursday for him.

"I'm… I'm alright," he found himself talking even though he felt an overwhelming need to know everything about her at once. "What- what are you even doing here?"

"I… so… okay," she struggled to find the words but she really was trying. "So I wasn't completely honest earlier."

"Shocker…" Dean remarked. Now that his vision and head were clearer, he was looking around the room for an escape plan.

"Long story short, I've been… hunting," she confessed. Dean paused, immediately fixing his gaze on her. "I should've guessed that we were on the same trail. But here we are anyway. We need to get outta here before she gets back."

"She?" he wondered.

"The Rakshasa, Dean. Or Rakshasi – female. You hunted one before, remember? Funny thing, that's how I knew what this was. The books," she huffed a smile, proud of herself. Dean just rolled his eyes. "Guess I'm officially part of the Supernatural fandom, huh?"

"Please stop," Dean requested. Zara chuckled despite the situation, finding some amusement at his discomfort. That only creeped him out more. "What were you thinking? Coming here all by yourself?"

"I was thinking I could drop the Rakshasi who's been dropping bodies in Missouri," she answered rather confidently. "I've been on her trail for a while now."

Dean was working on his ropes, running them up and down the pillar. "You have a brass knife?"

"I don't need one," Zara answered. Before she could elaborate, the sound of a door opening and closing silenced them. Down she came, the woman with a sharp chin and reptilian eyes. Her cheekbones jutted out so much it could only be described as skeletal. She didn't look like that all the time, of course. But now that she had her target and a rude intruder, anger begged her true form. She trudged towards them like a zombie, dropping the fire poker onto the floor as she stood before them.

"Good, you're both awake. I didn't know you were expecting a visitor," the Rakshasi hissed at Zara, her long, bony finger caressing the side of her face. Zara recoiled away from her touch to little affect. "But it's alright. Ravana appreciates abundance."

"Ravana? Hindu god?" Dean elucidated.

"Don't worry about introductions. He'll be here soon," she gleefully informed him before turning back to Zara. "He wants to see you personally."

"Sorry, but he's not my type," Zara spat out bitterly. "I prefer my men human."

That earned her a punch to the face. Dean flinched at the sound of a crack. The Rakshasi grabbed her neck, her sharp nails digging deep in into Zara's cheeks as she held the girl's face in her hand. A simple flick of the wrist and her life would have been crushed in an instant. "You're going to get everything you deserve," the Rakshasi threatened. "For everyone you've hurt. Ravana will take your head as one of his and offer it to Shiva as a sacrifice. And all of us will fight for bits of your flesh to eat in a grand feast. You'll be torn apart so fast, no one's gonna be able to put you back together. Not even-"

"Save it," Zara quickly cut her off. The pain on her face did not faze her grit one bit. "You're going down just like the rest of them. Just like your husband. Just like your brother. I killed all of them and I'll kill you too. And your god's next on the list."

Dean stared in unfettered shock. Where did that come from? He never would have guessed that there was history between her and the monster. His whole string of thoughts was cut off by a single, sharp scream. Dean's head was caught in a flurry, taking a moment to even register that it was a sound that assaulted him, not a physical force. The Rakshasi's mouth was agape in an unnaturally large aperture. The only noise that came out was that heart-stopping noise. It rang in a high-pitched siren-like fashion, aimed at Zara but taking him as collateral. Zara's eyes were shut and her head was turned away in defence. She had the worst of it, what with the Rakshasi baring her piehole right in front of her. When the noise finally stopped, they were both left to wonder what the hell they'd just witnessed.

"I will destroy you, human," she threatened through clenched teeth.

"But you can't, can you?" Zara taunted, regaining her composure. Though that sudden shriek had left her panting and her heart racing, she mustered enough courage for a reckless jibe. "Ravana wants me alive. He wants me for himself, doesn't he?"

That sent the Rakshasi seething. With a grand sweep of the arm, the monster swung her palm across Zara's chest. Her razor-like nails bit into Zara's skin as she slashed her right shoulder. "Zara!" Dean yelled, now hurriedly attempting to cut his ropes against the pillar. He was going as fast as he could but her blood was faster. Crimson came into view faster than a blink. It was dripping, dripping and flowing from three clean cuts on her shoulder through the tears in both her jacket and shirt.

"He wants you alive. But life and death can be miles apart," the Rakshasi growled, before promptly pacing to the other side of the room to retrieve something. In that brief moment, Zara locked eyes with Dean. She mouthed "Wait" to him. His eyebrows crinkled briefly before he passively conceded. Maybe she did have a plan. It was an odd time to question her confidence so he just went along with it.

"Bidhra, right?" Zara asked. Her head began to grow light. "I get that you want…" she gulped to refresh her dry tongue and push through a wave of stinging pain. "You want revenge for your family and all that. But did you really need to pretend to be part of a shitty band to set up a trail for me? I mean of all the options…"

Bidhra reappeared before Zara, now armed with her archangel blade and a sombre expression. Zara watched the blade carefully as Bidhra rested the tip on Zara's lips. "How self-important of you to think that it was all meant for you…" the Rakshasa traced the blade down her chin, drawing blood and a distinct wince from her. "Maybe part of it was. Just to entice you." Bidhra wiped a stream of blood off Zara's chin with a finger, only to lick that finger clean. "Mmm… All that anger has cooked you well…" she moaned. She even licked the blood off the blade to savour every drop. "Is this the blade you used to kill my husband? They say it is the sword of a powerful archangel."

"Who's saying that?" Dean interjected. He could tell Zara was trying to stall, but for what? In any case, she seemed to be running out of energy (and blood) so he kept it going.

"Oh, everyone. This sword is all the rage in the underworld," Bidhra now held it in the light to admire its detail. "It's the sword that took down the Javelin, it is said."

"The hell's Javelin?" Dean probed. Bidhra paused to stare at Dean in confusion. Then she took a step towards him. Then another. She knelt down, her face coming eerily close to his.

"Your soldier must be an idiot," she simply said. Her claw-like fingers held his chin and inspected his face. "A pretty idiot."

"Soldier?" Dean iterated.

"He's not my soldier," Zara breathed a response. "He's my friend."

"Aww, he's your friend," Bidhra repeated, mocking a touched expression. "Then you can watch while I have him all to myself."

"Whatever happened to abundance for Ravana?" Zara questioned in a weak attempt to keep her away from him.

"He wouldn't mind if I dug in first. It's you he wants anyway," Bidhra didn't even bother looking at Zara. She was fully fixed on Dean, licking her lips as she pondered on which of his bones to pluck out and chew first. Dean was equally raptured. His mind raced for options to get away from her as he yanked his wrists to get free as quickly as possible. But with the knife pointed right at his chest, he wasn't so sure of his escape plan.

"Hey," a voice said behind her. Dean looked up. Zara stood like a monolith behind the Rakshasi. Without a moment to spare, she brought down the fire poker onto the monster's head, knocking her away. Dean reacted quickly, pulling his arms free. Bidhra swiftly recovered, shooting up to her feet and charging Zara.

Zara struck again at the rapidly approaching figure but her strike was futile as the full mass of the Rakshasi slammed into her, hurling her backwards against a wall. The wind was knocked right out of her, leaving her a coughing mess on the floor. She barely had a second to realise her position when Bidhra had her up against the wall, hand around her neck. Zara gasped for air, arms flailing at the creature. It was in that moment that the Rakshasi's serpentine pupils sharply narrowed. Bidhra passively looked down at her abdomen. The bloodied tip of a blade protruded from her solar plexus.

Dean briskly pulled out the blade. Zara coughed again, rubbing her bruised neck. A moment of silence passed between them. Zara simply stared at the dead body of the Rakshasa, ruminating on how close she'd gotten to death yet again. Dean, on the other hand, was enamoured by the power of the blade in his hand.

"Archangel blade," Zara said, heaving. "Wastes pretty much everything."


Hell – 5 months ago

Tick, tick, tick. Her mind counted the seconds. Time slipped through her fingers with the red pearls of wine and blood mixed together. On the floor was a broken glass. Zara's vision blurred in and out. It was the only movement she noticed at all. She'd been laying on her side with a hand hanging off the edge of the bed for a while now, still as a corpse. This time she'd really done it. She was sure she'd never drank so much in her life. Ever. She was so high, consciousness was merely a suggestion. Her palm stung where she'd crushed the wine glass but she really didn't care at this point. It was all just bodily sensations. There was no emotional weight to anything. But at least there was Old School Thrash Metal playing in the background to keep her thoughtless mind company.

Someone knocked on the door.

"Come in," she drawled, pulling herself to a sitting position though the pillow seemed to attract her head like a magnet. She slipped at first and surrendered to gravity. The door clicked open and the visitor entered. She tried again, slowly this time. With a concerted effort, her body managed the task.

"Your hand," the demon immediately noticed, rushing over and kneeling to inspect the damage. He was a rather smartly-dressed one, with clean facial features to match. He had dark, curly hair that seemed soothing to Zara's sleepy eyes. He took her wounded palm and carefully pulled out tiny shards of glass that were embedded in her skin. She winced a little. "We need to get this healed. And this mess cleaned up. I'll get someone to help."

"No," Zara ordered, weakly grabbing his shoulder. "You will not."

"But-"

"It's just a few cuts, Dan," she drunkenly droned, body swaying slightly where she sat. "It won't kill me. Did you get what I asked?" Hesitantly, his hands reached into his jacket and pulled out a sachet of white powder. "Perrffect…" Zara grabbed it from him.

"I don't think this is a good idea, my lady," he worried. "That's more than your normal amount."

"Shut up, Dan. You're not supposed to care about humans," Zara snapped at him. "Now leave." She put the sachet on the bedside table. "Wait." She grabbed at his jacket again and he returned his gaze to her. Dan's face was expressionless. Zara grabbed his jaw with a hand, turning his face to inspect it. "Where'd you get this meatsuit?"

"Accounting firm," he blankly replied. "Will that be all, ma'am?"

"Not bad…" she remarked. Before he could react, she threw her arms around his neck and pulled him into a kiss. Dan was positively befuddled, face recoiling in shock as he pushed her away.

"I'm not supposed to," he just said as he held her shoulders firmly.

"But do you want to…?" Zara reciprocated his confusion.

"Uhh…" If demons could blush… "Boss wouldn't like it, ma'am."

"Boss isn't here, Dan…" she targeted him with those razor-sharp brown irises and a sly smile. "Aren't you supposed to give me everything I ask for?"

For a moment, he was captured by the possibility. I mean, she wasn't a bad-looking girl. And sexual exploits were something fairly enjoyable to demons – all that creativity they had – even if they didn't actively seek out such things. Inevitably, the image of Satan pervaded his mind. "No, I can't," Dan resisted despite immense pressure.

Zara's expression eased ominously, her lips forming a tight line. She'd make a great demon someday, he thought. She had the look. "I guess I'll just have to find Hades," she threatened. Defiantly, she stood up. But it was all too fast, all too soon. She'd barely stood up when her head reeled and she was knocked off balance by her own motion.

Dan rushed to catch her in his arms. Against her pathetic struggle, he managed to lay her down on the bed. "You won't be finding anyone in this condition," he remarked. "Stay here while I get someone to clean up the mess."

She flinched as the door shut. Zara groaned. Can't even get a demon to sleep with me. She wanted to cry but there weren't any tears left. Instead, she grabbed the packet of God-juice, as she called it, and dragged herself to the dresser on the other side of the room and took a seat on the ornate wooden chair with a cushioned seat. Despite feeling like her brain had become a cloudy mush at this point, she remained self-aware enough to know that her hand-eye coordination wasn't going to be the best. Still, she tried her best to pour a measured amount of cocaine onto the table and straightened a line with an old letter opener that she'd found earlier. Then, she rolled up a dollar bill and off she went.

She leaned well over the table to get every last grain. Then her head shot back with the instant rush. Her body eased as she relaxed against the chair. "Yes…" she moaned. Her pink lips parted in a short giggle. Her chest heaved rhythmically as her mind flew at light speed. The tempo of the thrash metal suddenly became more obvious. Its speed became a highway on which her consciousness travelled. She headbanged to the rhythm of an Overkill song, feeling the music like the blood rushing through her veins. "Elimination… Elimination!" she sang clumsily. Loudness was a constraint of the physical universe but Zara had just transcended it. She turned up the volume. Her body twitched and bobbed about in what could loosely be termed a dance. Her hair flew everywhere and she was so close to losing her balance and falling as a messy heap onto the floor again.

The rush began to fade. Zara clamoured back to the table, pouring out just a little more. This was her normal dose, so she didn't think much of it. It felt like there was a large bubble of happiness building up inside of her and it just burst spontaneously when she'd snorted the second line. Again, her body flailed about to the rhythm. This time, she paced around the room, practically prancing about as she sang to the walls and wardrobe and bed. She didn't know what the hell she was saying but she had to keep her mouth moving or else chatter her teeth uncontrollably.

Moving about felt like walking on cotton candy. She moved as though her feet never touched the ground until she grew bored of going about in circles. Have some more! A cheerleader in her head urged. "Maybe I will," she said and giggled. In went another line. Another one! "Gotcha," she nodded like someone in a commercial. More! More! More! The audience cheered. "For me?" she beamed. She carefully tipped the packet, but try as she might, she lost control and all the remaining powder spilled onto the table. "Oh no," she separated a single line from the remaining amount. "I can't… let it all go to waste…"

Before she knew it, there wasn't any left. "Wooo!" she shrieked in excitement. "Fight me, God. Just fight me!"

A poor wall was subject to repeated punches as she decided to train her jabs and hooks. There was more jumping, more dancing, more everything. She was going off the rails on the crazy train, as Ozzy would have put it. It literally felt like veering off a track and falling off a cliff. This was the most she had truly felt in a while. Every emotion at once welcomed her. She didn't have time to keep track of any of them. They all flew past her in a speedy circle – anger, joy, sadness, anger, joy, sadness and so on the cycle went. Until a fourth feeling took over her. Pain.

Zara gasped and froze in her position. She felt something sharp in her chest. Her hand instantly moved to feel whether she'd accidentally stabbed herself. It was a 'no' on that note. That gave her some relief. And then it struck again, harder and longer this time. "Shit," she cussed hoarsely as she sank to the floor. Her heart seemed to be tearing itself apart, forcing a loud groan through her lips. Her breaths grew shallow and her mind panicked. She wanted to yell for help but everything just happened too fast. She was about to pull herself up but her right hand stung with the incisions from the glass. Naturally, she tried to use her left hand. But it wouldn't move. Try as she might, her left hand remained numb by her side. She whimpered in fear but even her mouth felt weird and heavy. It was just a matter of seconds before she fell back, limp on the floor.

The maid demon gently knocked on the door before entering. The door slowly nudged open as the demon's eyes scanned the room for its sole inhabitant. She simply gaped at the lifeless body on the floor.

Lucifer was in the middle of planning his next move with Abaddon and Hades. "…I don't care what you do-"

His icy blue eyes froze in mid-air, as did his sentence. He felt a sudden tingle, like a switch went off in his head. You can't be serious…

"Sir?" Abaddon frowned.

He turned slowly in the direction of the door to his study, staring into the hallway. Then he looked at his palm. A light glowed on his fingertips. He took a tight breath in, eyebrows knotted in a kind of annoyance that he'd never quite reached before. And that was saying something. He promptly took off in the direction of the room at the end of the hallway, leaving his two loyal subjects to wonder what the hell was going on. They trailed cautiously behind while their boss seemed to be tearing through the air with a fiery determination. The door to the room flung open and the demon rushed out. At the sight of her boss, she trembled in fear. "I found her like that, sir!" she quivered.

With a sweep of the arm, Lucifer flung the demon to the side as he rushed into the room. In its centre, he found Zara laying eerily still in the open space. He stopped at her side, simply taking the time to observe her. Her legs were turned slightly to her left, a remnant of an attempt to curl up into a ball. Similarly, her wounded right hand lay resting on her chest while her left was straightened. Her mouth and eyes remained open. Those brown irises stared straight at him, though her eyelids were only half-open. Lucifer wanted to gouge her eyes out. Just dig his fingers so deep into her skull that he could feel her brain. But that wasn't an option.

"Death is your colour," Lucifer told the corpse. "Hm."

He touched two fingers to her forehead. Zara gasped a breath of life.


Springfield, Missouri – 15 September 2012, 10.41pm

There was a knock on the door. Dean pulled it open to greet the concerned face of his brother. "What happened? Is everything okay?" Sam asked. All he'd received was a text telling him to meet at Zara's hotel room.

Dean simply stepped back to let his brother in, face eclipsed with a complex mix of surprise, disappointment and an unknown third emotion. Unsure of what to expect, Sam cautiously stepped inside. His eyes found Zara and widened momentarily. "Hey, Sam. Again," she greeted from her seat at the table.

"What the hell happened to you?" He pulled up a chair to sit opposite her as he studied the cut on her forehead and the one on her chin. Also the bruise on her cheek. She'd changed into a black tank top with a matching cardigan.

"Hunting," Dean dryly answered.

"Seriously?" Sam looked between her and his brother. "You were…?"

"Trying to take down that Rakshasa bitch," Zara completed his sentence, pulling her cardigan closer around her body.

"Since when…?" Sam couldn't even finish his sentences from how baffled he was.

"I've been hunting for a while now," she nodded with an apologetic expression.

"A lot of Rakshasas, apparently," Dean added. He was unamused as ever.

"Yeah, been running into a lot of them recently," Zara confessed. "Just my luck, huh?" She tried to laugh it off but neither of them were easing up.

"Why did you lie to us before?" Sam pressed with a curious frown.

"Well… um," she began. She was nervous about opening up, which she evidently conveyed with a bite of her lower lip. "Honestly, I didn't think the both of you were going to take me seriously. You guys probably think I'm a bad person and… I don't blame you."

"You have made pretty questionable decisions in the past," Dean agreed.

"Yeah, I'm… not known for making good decisions. It's kind of a running theme in my life actually," she smirked sardonically to hide the years of pain brought about by that very trait. "I used to wonder how you guys did it, you know. This… finding trouble and facing it to save people. But I… I get it now. I was in a really dark place for a really long time. This has given me…" The words only got harder to say the more she spoke. "…purpose and meaning, which I didn't have much of before." She suddenly inhaled, straightening up. "I understand if you think it's all nonsense," she shrugged.

"No, no, it's alright," Sam reassured her. The way he saw her now, he could clearly see how much she'd grown as a person. She definitely looked so much more different from what he'd seen before. There was a new calmness – a new certainty – within her that made her look stronger.

"It was kinda ballsy how you talked to that Rakshasi. Like you knew her personally," Dean pointed out.

"I've been tracking these monsters for some time so that I could learn more about them," she explained, meeting his gaze confidently. "It's how I got to her husband and brother first."

"Rakshasa have family?" Sam wondered.

"They are social creatures just like us. Just because they take long dirt naps, it don't mean they don't want a pretty beau to wake up to," she informed him.

"How romantic," Dean dryly commented.

"Yeah," she huffed. "But I think there's something deeper going on with the Rakshasas."

"How d'you mean?" Sam asked.

"This is what, the fifth one I've hunted? They're all waking up from hibernation and staying awake longer than they need to. It's like they're preparing for something. I don't like how it's all looking," she admitted. She paused nervously to see their reactions but they just seemed stunned.

"This have something to do with the Javelin thing she was talking about?" Dean brought up. "What is it anyway?"

Zara shrugged and shook her head in doubt. "Maybe. Maybe not. Javelin is… an organisation," she paused to find the right way to put it. "It's like a communication system for the old gods. Pagan gods, their disciples, their associates – anyone who wants anything to do with them." Her brown irises met his light green ones. "I might have… messed with it a little bit."

"The way she put it, you did more than mess with it," Dean recalled.

"Okay, I was trying to take them down. But if you know anything about these people, this will probably only be a minor setback. They're probably working on fixing it right now," she answered.

"Wow," he huffed a smile. "Put that in a résumé."

"You did this all by yourself?" Sam flustered. "That's dangerous, even for us."

"What can I say? I have a taste for death. But I'm kinda unstoppable," she shrugged it off. "Maybe this is where I'm meant to be. With everything I've learnt from Sophia and an archangel blade that can kill anything, I can… save the world? Now that's what I call career progression."

She chuckled at her own ego boost. Sam reciprocated the smile. For a moment, they simply looked into each other's eyes. Zara could find some comfort in his. And his dimples were distracting too. "Really?" Dean remained cynical. "That thing would've killed you if I hadn't shown up. Why don't you show Sam the little gift she gave you?"

"I've survived worse, Dean," she rebutted, drawn away from Sam's reassuring aura to Dean's impenetrable one. "I'm stronger than I look."

"Just show him," he ordered. Sighing, Zara pulled down the right side of her cardigan, revealed the three nasty cuts, lined with stitches, under her tank top.

"Oh my God," Sam exhaled as he regarded the nasty wound. Now that her cardigan was down, the bruises around her neck were obvious too. "The Rakshasa did that to you?"

"So much for being unstoppable," Dean criticised.

"Hazards of the job," she coolly answered despite the temptation to sound as rude as he did. "Wouldn't the both of you know best about that?"

Sam nodded in assent, shrugging at his brother to say that it made sense.

"Okay, Zara," Dean interjected. "I don't mean to rain on your parade. If you want to put yourself in harms way to take down evil, more power to you. But don't you think there's something you're missing?" The both of them simply looked at him in askance. "You're using Sophia's blade. You don't think she's gonna come back for it?"

Zara sighed. Now this was the real meat of the issue. "I'm gonna be honest with you, Dean. Sophia could be dead somewhere for all I know. Maybe Lucifer killed her. They didn't exactly part on good terms," she firmly stated. "All I know is that I can't keep fearing the moment she comes back. There's only me, myself and I. And I've never felt freer."

"Hm. Okay," he finally relented, albeit reluctantly. Though Sam was uncomfortable with how cynical his brother was being, he had to admit that hearing her actually talk like this only made her case stronger. He felt like he could finally rest easy with the thought of her. He always knew that there was something good in her, even when the circumstances didn't show it. In fact, he could relate. He shot her a brief smile, as if apologising for his brother's behaviour.

"Hey, do you guys think that people will give me more money out of sympathy?" she pointed at the cuts on her face. "You know, when I perform on the streets and all that."

"You won't have to find out," Dean simply said. "Pack up. We're leaving."

"What- Where are we going?" her wide eyes beckoned them for an explanation.

"I think what Dean is trying to say is that we can take you someplace safe. Where you can stay away from demons and all that," Sam said more eloquently.

"Yeah," Dean agreed, making towards the door. Sam got up to join him. "We'll meet you downstairs in an hour."

"Wait, right now?" Zara was still stunned.

"Yesterday, princess," Dean snidely retorted. "Freakin' Hindu god's probably looking for you. How long do you think it'll take for him to sweep the whole city? Be ready."

Sam was puzzled by that revelation but held off his questions for later. "Fine," Zara simply nodded. "Didn't think I could afford to stay here much longer anyway."

When they finally left, Zara heaved the deepest sigh of relief. That was a lot of work.


Hell – 5 months ago

Zara awoke on her bed, like any other day. A momentary disorientation came over her. She tried to think back to her last memory but couldn't recall anything. But something felt different. She slowly sat up.

"You're awake," someone said next to her.

"Dan?" she recognised, rubbing her eyes. "What are you doing here?"

"Have some water," he poured her a glass and held it out for her. Puzzled by his hospitality, she accepted the glass. "The King wants to see you in his study. Get cleaned up quickly."

"Wait, what happened?" she pressed. "Why are you in my room?"

"He assigned me to watch over you," Dan simply said, posture rigid as ever. Before she could ask anything else, he continued, "The King would really like to speak with you."

O…kay. That does not sound good. As she stood in the shower, some bits and pieces came back to her. All that alcohol… and music and dancing. And cocaine. Oh no, she realised. It's happening again. She remembered her last cocaine addiction in high school. Jack had been the only person who knew. The only person who cared enough to make her stop. Now that she thought about it, she'd found herself in this exact situation before – waking up one day, suddenly clear-headed, only to remember the last bout of insane crack sniffing that should have left her in a sorry state.

Somehow she always woke up refreshed and more alive - 'always' referring to the grand total of two times, including this one. The last time, Jack said she'd overdosed and there was a good chance she could've died. Lucky for her, the persistent bastard snuck her back into her room in the middle of the night and stayed at her bedside until she woke up in the morning, risking getting caught by her overbearing mother. There was an ache in her chest at the thought of him. She'd left him in her past life, only to get in return… the Devil himself in this one.

All dressed up and ready, Zara left her room to embark on the stressful journey to the end of the hallway. She hesitated at the doorway. The door was open and he was seated at the table with his back to her. Her knuckle awkwardly froze mid-air, ready to knock, when he suddenly spoke.

"Zara, come in."

She obliged, shaking with every inch she grew closer to him. She knew what was coming. He literally asked one thing of her and she couldn't do it. She wondered how she should apologise. Beg for mercy at his feet? Say some nice things about him to boost his ego?

"Please, take a seat," he telekinetically pushed a chair outward such that she would be sitting right next to him. She obliged. She was horribly uncomfortable with being so close to him. His composure, which was unseemly of the moment, did not make things easier. "Do you remember what happened?"

She studied his posture. His hands were folded and legs crossed. His expression was unreadable. Anyone who didn't know who he was might have said it was a neutral expression – concerned, even. But with Lucifer, there had to be something else underneath. A fury that would only be known when it was too late. "I must've… must've overdosed on crack," she guessed. It was the best she could come up with, considering the fragmented information in her head.

"You died. Zara, you died," he plainly stated.

"Huh." What else was she supposed to say?

"So here's the thing," Lucifer leaned closer to her. "I've come to realise… maybe we've gotten off on the wrong foot. Our whole… 'I-don't-want-to-be-with-you-and-you-don't-want-to-be-with-me' dynamic is just not working out. You see that, right?"

She remained stiff in her seat, mystified by his choice of words. She passively nodded, waiting for the ball to drop. "Uh-huh."

"I don't really like that. I want to fix it. I can't go on with this… bad line of communication between us," he used his palms to demonstrate a back-and-forth between them. "You know what's important for a good relationship, Zara?"

She blinked a few times to process the question. "Uh… trust?"

He nodded firmly and straightened a finger to accept the point. "Trust. Trust is so… so vital. I want there to be trust between us," he confessed, even giving her a reassuring smile. Zara felt her stomach turning. "And I realise that I have to practise what I preach, so…"

"So…?" she pressed. Lucifer turned back to the door, gesturing Abaddon to enter. By now, the Knight had managed to get her old vessel back with the help of a committed demon.

"I have a mission for you," he announced. "Abaddon, you will take Zara with you to Louisiana later for the meetup."

Abaddon seemed rather dumbfounded at the suggestion. "But sir," she protested. "Exposing her to our enemies could be dangerous."

"I think it's high time that Zara learnt to be one of us. Besides, you'll keep her safe, won't you?" Lucifer expectantly put forth with a non-negotiable glare.

"Yes, sir," Abaddon naturally accepted, though a hint of reservation could be detected in her tone.

"Good. The both of you are dismissed," he said, returning his attention to a book he'd been reading. Abaddon was about to leave when she noticed Zara still seated, a question hesitantly poised on her lips. And so did Lucifer. "What?"

"You have my blade," Zara stated, anticipating an appropriate response. But Lucifer merely looked at her and waited for a substantial point to emerge. "May I have my blade?"

"It's not your blade," he challenged. It seemed obvious to him.

"Okay, Sophia's blade," she relented.

"Whatever would you need it for?" he puzzled.

"Wh- to protect myself?!" Zara's eyes darted from side to side, amazed that this even needed to be said.

"You can have a gun," Lucifer granted with a single firm nod to decree that there will be no more questions. But Zara still seemed unconvinced. "That sword is one of the most powerful weapons in the universe. You think you're just entitled to it? You need to earn that right."

Zara said nothing. Internally, she threw up her hands and groaned. But on the outside, she just dragged herself out the door to get ready. Left alone to his thoughts, Lucifer pulled up the long sleeve of his shirt. A nasty sore appeared on his left forearm. It was just a small wound but it reminded him of the limited time he had left. Resurrecting Zara had taken a toll on him. His lungs burned when he had done it, though the feeling had soon died down. But the warning had been made abundantly clear.

Soon, Zara found herself in the armoury of the lower levels among a whole troop of demons. They all stopped their chatter and stared when she entered. Tingles erupted on her skin from all those black eyes curiously regarding her. She expected some kind of sneer or ridicule. After all, she was just a measly, fragile human among robust creatures like them. They all seemed to tower over her like a monolith reaching into a sky that had clouds of sulfur. Without her blade, she was defenceless against them too. An uneasy feeling grew in her chest at that very thought – she was utterly dependent on them for protection, wherever they were going. And the only thing that kept them from chewing her up was the incumbent King.

"You know how to use one?" a demon held out the grip of a gun towards her. She nodded meekly. She holstered it onto her belt and hid it from view under the one leather jacket she found in her closet. Without the only weapon that gave her any kind of security at all, Zara had adorned Sophia's kohl and carried the hawk statue in her pocket. It was a meagre defence, but something was better than nothing.

"Alright, listen up," Abaddon's commanding voice filled the room as she entered. Zara thought it a little creepy how all the demons had chosen to display their full-coloured eyes like some secret greeting of allegiance while she stood out with her human sclerae. On the bright side, no one seemed to care about her presence from the moment Abaddon appeared. "This is a simple negotiation. I don't want anyone opening fire unless I give the signal." Nods went around in abundance. Then the Knight fixated on Zara. "You stay close to my side, got it?"

Even when Abaddon tried to sound reassuring, it came across as a threat. Zara nodded. She didn't know anything about where they were going, which did not help her nerves.

"Don't say a word. Don't go anywhere you're not supposed to. Just watch," Abaddon continued while the demons piled out of the room, some teleporting themselves directly to the location.

"You won't even know I'm there," Zara assented monotonously.

"Just so you know, I didn't ask to be on babysitting duty," the Knight's eyes narrowed. She leaned in close to Zara's ear. "So you'd better keep your head on your shoulders."

Zara gulped. "I'll try my best," she promised. "So what's this mission about?"

"We're about to strike a deal with an organisation called Javelin," Abaddon explained. "They think we're going to buy information from them."

"Oh," she accepted. But Abaddon didn't seem to be clarifying anything for her. "So what are we actually going to be doing?"

The Knight's bright cherry lips widened into a dastardly smile. "We're going to introduce ourselves," she answered gleefully. She put a hand on Zara's shoulder and within an instant, they were teleported to their destination.

River City Casino, New Orleans, Louisiana

"The Javelin uses casinos as a front for their business. Anyone who wants to get in touch with them has to go through their human servants first," Abaddon elaborated as they stood before the large building. The other demons were already inside, disguised, Zara presumed. "That makes it simple for us, of course."

"So you're going to kill them?" Zara inferred.

"Kill them? What are we, savages? No, darling. This is a diplomatic mission," she corrected. "Now put a smile on that pretty face. It might come in handy."

With that, Abaddon briskly went on forward inside the casino. Zara had a hard time keeping up with her inhuman pace. She was panting by the time they entered and then came their first obstacle. A metal detector. Abaddon passed through with no problem. She had no need of weapons, after all. But Zara's heart raced as she neared. The security guard gestured for her to surrender any electronic devices or firearms that she might have. Her frenzied eyes looked to Abaddon beyond the checkpoint. The Knight simply nodded to tell her to comply. Zara exhaled. She handed over her gun and the hawk statue, suddenly feeling so naked.

"Fancy, what's this?" the security guard asked as he looked at the palm-sized figurine.

"Good luck charm. My mom gave it to me before she passed away," Zara lied, shooting him an innocent smile.

"Please step through, ma'am," he signalled. She obeyed, passing through the large metal detector frame without anything going wrong. He handed back the hawk but withheld the gun, keeping it in a locker instead and giving her a numbered ticket. "Have a good one, miss."

"Yeah," she re-joined Abaddon, heart heavy with the sudden feeling of nakedness. "This is off to a good start."

"It was your idea," Abaddon pointed out.

"Excuse me for trying to stay alive. That's what Lucifer wanted, right?" she grumbled, folding her arms. They soon entered a large hall full of slot machines and roulette wheels. The noise made it seem like a different planet of its own, with strange 'beep's and 'ding's sounding in a gluttonous symphony. Zara and Abaddon stood out from the rich elite gambling their earnings away with their simple denim and leather. Just the sight of all the women in skanky clothing and jewellery more expensive than anything she'd ever owned made her a little sick. She didn't know if she felt disgust or admiration towards them. "Where now?"

"Meeting's on the upper levels," Abaddon informed her, gaze caught by a specific door guarded by two men. She approached them, weaving through rows of the affluent, and presented a round gold token. Recognition flashed across their faces and one of them held the door open to let them in.

The hallways were much quieter here. Zara could finally admire the luxury of this place, what with its carpeted floors and domed ceiling. A man wearing a blue velvet suit greeted them and escorted them to one of the highest floors which was reserved for only a few visitors, as was implied by his use of an access card. He led them to a large room with floor-to-ceiling windows that gave them a scenic aerial view of the city below. The ceiling was so high that the room simply looked majestic. It had dark mahogany walls and furniture and a bar on the side directly facing the windows. "Please wait here," the man beckoned with a courteous smile before leaving.

"Snazzy," Zara complimented as she took notice of a costly-looking vase on a small table next to a large couch. They weren't alone there. There was one other man in a suit reading a magazine on one of the luxurious couches sprawled around the room. Soon, a waiter came and served him some toast, even buttering his bread for him with the fanciest butter knife that Zara had ever seen. It was probably made of pure silver. Zara took a seat next to him, though she kept her distance.

She looked through the assortment of magazines on the coffee table, hoping to find something at least mildly interesting. Failing to do so, she decided she might as well attempt small talk with Abaddon. She looked up. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of nothingness. Her head craned to scan the room. Abaddon was gone.

She was alone.