Sophia's Chronicles
Chapter 96: Apéritif
22 July 2013, a month later
Restaurant chatter lazily floated to the back of Zara's mind as she bit into the lean chicken breast with a side of salad. She looked over to Dean's plate which was bountifully populated with French fries and a steak, richly drowned in a greasy sauce. Despite herself, her lips thinned. Dean looked up from his phone for once and caught her aversion. Their eyes met, with his not straying as if to stay his ground while she turned away to Sam. The younger Winchester was instead engaged in the news of the paper.
"What? This? Um, cattle deaths a few towns over? A demon possibility or something?" he wondered out loud.
"No, it says right there," Dean pointed with his grub-coated fork. "It's probably just 'cause of the drought."
Sam folded up the paper. "So, what are we doing here?"
"Uh, reason's right on your plate. Lizardo's porterhouse—U.S.D.A. prime," Dean smugly answered. As he said so, his mobile vibrated on the table. "It's the only place between Connecticut and the bunker you can get a decent steak under ten bucks."
"So we came all the way here for the Heart Disease Special," Zara sardonically uttered with an indifferent grin. Underneath her skin, though, was a persistent, uncomfortable itch. She found herself identifying exits and reflective surfaces everywhere she went, the only better alternative to constantly looking around her. Besides, that itch was a little more than metaphorical. She rubbed the skin on her left wrist. It was all sealed up now, almost like the long, vertical incision was never there. There was only the slightest bump to indicate that the miniature hex bag was there at all. It gave her some protection from curious demonic or archangel eyes but there was only so much it could do—demons had to be sprawling everywhere in search of her by now. A wave of heat brought small beads of sweat to her forehead.
The incessant vibration of the phone snapped her out of these thoughts, like a rude spectator demanding she stop. Sam leaned over to take a look. "Dude, you are blowing up. Who is that?"
"Ah, it's just, uh, you know, these alert thingies," Dean deflected and continued cutting into his steak.
"For what?"
"You know, monster… stuff." His eyes darted away. Liar, Zara thought. Before she could voice this thought, Sam went ahead and grabbed the phone, a right smirk plastered on his jaw. "Hey, hey. Unh-unh. No. Give it back."
Sam held the phone towards his chest as a victory against his brother's sheepish smile. "What? Wh-why?" he teased.
"Because privacy… and stuff," Dean weakly defended.
"Oh, priv-" Sam was shut up by the phone screen. Zara leaned over to take a look. An identical frown, one pulled in hard angles at first and then softened to mere brow raises, beset their faces. The image on the phone was one of Dean pulling a smoulder – the kind that came natural to him – while seated atop the hood of the Impala. Below the image, it stated in Sans Serif:
Dean Winchester
Age: 35 Years old
Location: Lebanon, Kansas, Unites States
Seeking: Woman
Status: Never Married
About: Rolling through town, just Man against Nature. You like my Chevy, you're gonna like a whole lot more. No strings attached.
"A dating app?" Zara recognised.
"Yeah, and you know what? Don't knock it until you try it," Dean smirked with a glint in his apple-green eyes.
"Nice screen name, Dean," Sam said, puffing up his chest to summon a deeper voice. "Impala67."
Zara burst into a single-second giggle. The next moment, she couldn't sustain the emotion any longer. What remained was a faux smile and a daze into her cup of black coffee. Sam briefly glanced at her until Dean attempted to snatch the phone from his hand. "All right, give it back. Come on."
Sam, of course, had the longer hands of the two. "Shaylene, huh?" he scrolled. "Dean, there are like a million messages here."
"Yeah, uh, check out her pic." Dean's brows jumped like they would every time he introduced his car to someone.
"Uh...Oh. Wow. Okay," Sam stuttered.
Zara finally snapped out of it and saw the image. The woman was dark-haired, had sparkling brown eyes and one of those diamond-shaped faces that could lure anyone, not to mention the little beauty spot on her cheek. "Damn, son," she tilted her head. "I like your taste."
Dean gave her an agreeing nod, face lit up like a Christmas tree. Then, a weird thought came to him. "Wait…"
"Okay, so she's hot," Sam conceded. "But…"
"But what?"
"But she seems, um… kind of… available. Like too available. 'Oh, baby, whatever you want. I'm burning up just thinking about you'," Sam read off, complete with a mock accent.
"They get raunchier," Dean grinned to himself.
"Yeah. Yeah, I- I see that. It's like a, uh, like a Penthouse letter."
"Yeah. Is that bad?"
"No, it's not bad, Dean. It's too good to be true."
"Hey, leave him alone," Zara urged. "Can't a man get some action in peace? And what's wrong with Dean? Maybe he's too good for her."
"Oh, wow," Sam huffed, nodding his back.
"Exactly. Thank you. Just what I need after a lifetime of dealing with this Nelly," Dean said to her. "Is it- is it so hard to believe that an attractive, red-blooded, American female could be interested in someone like me?"
"Okay, don't gang up on me," Sam held up his arms in surrender. "You realize there's no guarantee 'Shaylene' is even Shaylene. I mean, for all you know, it could be some... Canadian trucker n-named Bruce-"
A paradoxical wind gently blew in their direction. Zara and Sam were drawn to a sight behind Dean. Zara's attention was solely fixed by the bodacious curves wrapped in a creamy purple dress, which puffed up the woman's breasts like they were fresh out of the oven. A venture further up revealed the diamond-shaped jawline which bore a pearly smile.
Dean looked over his shoulder with Herculean confidence and waved at her. She eagerly returned the gesture. "That look like a Bruce to you?" he asked Sam.
"We- we detoured eight hours so you could get laid?" Sam puzzled. He looked to Zara for validation but she was still transfixed by the woman, nodding slowly with her lips upturned.
"Yeah," Dean said proudly. "Yeah. Oh, and, uh, you know what? Lunch is on me." He pulled out his wallet and threw some dollar bills on the table. "And, you two bunnies, uh… don't wait up."
Sam shook his head as Dean suavely put his arms around Shaylene and left. "You seein' this?" he turned to Zara. She was slumped back in her seat sipping on the last ounce of coffee. "Hey, you barely ate."
Only half the meat was gone and the last cut had been stopped midway, leaving a chunk hanging. "Just not feeling it today," she pushed the plate away.
"Noticed you've been doing that a lot," Sam began. "Spending a lot of time alone too. Anything you wanna tell me?"
Everything. "No, it's probably nothing," she dismissed.
"Listen, if this is about Purgatory-"
"It's not," she interjected.
Again, he had his arms up in defence. "Sure. Whatever it is. Don't keep it all to yourself. That ain't good."
She mumbled some half-assed consolation. They were taking a leisurely stroll through a nearby park when Sam's cell rang. "It's Dean," he said, mildly frowning. "This should be interesting."
Zara barely paid attention. She wished the breeze and the bright green leaves were all she could think about. Though still recovering from the events of a month prior, she dared switch on the Hawk anyway. Just to be safe. Only human souls surrounded them. A breath of relief begged for release. But this was like déjà vu.
A single phrase in the exchange between Sam and Dean filtered into her ears. "A demon?" Sam said. That single word sucked the blood from her extremities. She listened closely. "We'll be there."
"What's happening?" she asked him as they briskly walked in the direction of the motel.
"I hate to be right," he simply said with pep in his step. "Shaylene asked him for his soul. She said a demon asked her to. Crazy, right?"
"Yeah…" she retreated into her mind.
"Demons are now pimping out girls," he huffed. "Never thought Lucifer would be the kind."
Because he isn't. Rogue demons? Fire pumped through her veins, hand ready at the hilt of the angel blade. In the motel room, things had been set up for the demon to arrive. He swaggered in with such assurance as Shaylene and Dean sat on opposite ends of the bed, backs to each other. A tingle ran down Zara's spine to feel that sulfurous spirit in her proximity.
"How we doing?" he inquired. From her view of things, something was off about this demon. He lacked a certain… thorniness that she was used to. The power that all demons drew from their King. "Everybody ready for a good time?" He reached into his jacket to pull out a folder. "Okay. John Hancock right here. Then we can get this party started." Dean finally stood up to face him, angel blade in hand. Sam and Zara too walked into view. An eerie silence fell over the demon. "Winchesters," he cursed, and then saw Zara. "And Co."
The demon's head craned up. Red paint in the shape of a Devil's Trap warned him not to try anything.
"She told us everything," Dean began.
"Abduction, forced prostitution—it's pretty gnarly, even for a demon," Sam chimed in.
The demon remained unfazed. "She's got her version, I've got mine."
"Liar!" Shaylene spat out at him.
"Let me guess," Dean continued. "She came to you begging for you to pimp her out."
"Yeah, 'cause that Harvard degree was working out so well for her," the demon snidely remarked.
"How many girls are there, hmm?" Zara interrogated this time. "How big is this?"
"Just me and Shay."
"He's lying," Shaylene hissed. "There's a brothel. I heard him on the phone. They told me what you are – a demon from hell."
"Beats trash from the street. Face it, Missy—without me, you would've been dead of drugs or worse in a year. Frankly, this little hoe should be thanking me."
That just did it. Shaylene snatched the blade from Dean and plunged it into the demon. That was anger if Zara ever saw it, especially for someone so… human. In any case, her shoulders eased. Lucifer's demons would put up more of a fight.
"Whoa!" Dean exclaimed as the demon plopped down before him. "Okay… well, that just happened."
"Yeah," Sam exhaled. "And he was our best shot at the location of the brothel. Do you have any idea where it is?"
She turned back to them, realisation of what she had done dawning on her. "No, but um," she pranced in her heels over to the demon and pulled out a card from his jacket. "I saw him give these out at the bars."
In large, tacky font, the card read: Raul's Girls-1482 Willis Blvd.
Again, it only confirmed Zara's suspicions. No demon working for Lucifer would do anything this out-in-the-open. Besides, prostitution was too small-time for them. The three infiltrated the dark interior of the building. Neon lights and lewd portraits decorated the walls. But no signs of life. Just two dead bodies sprawled next to the pole with black goo all over them. Seeing that, they relaxed their knives. Dean sauntered over to the back of the bar.
"Can't believe somebody got to kill this Raul tool before we could. Check IDs," he said, searching for clues. Zara occupied herself with the walls. The wardings did not match the new standard of Hell. No codewords. No 'Praise Satan'. It became clear who could have been behind this.
Sam knelt over the bodies, tempted to cough at the stench. "From the look and… smell of it, pure demon. I think this is Raul," he concluded.
"What? Did he puke himself to death?" Dean conjectured with due bewilderment. Now that got Zara's attention too and she knelt beside Sam.
"Yeah, literally," Sam used a stray pen to pick up the slime.
"Okay, so... Something went down here," Dean's gaze darted about. "There was a standoff. One demon smokes out and Raul... What can even kill a demon like this?"
Zara smelled the remnant wisps of energy before them. She fuddled around Raul's flank and pulled out the fist-sized hex bag. "A witch," she named. Though its 'battery' was dry, she could just tell that the bag contained something dastardly. The only witch she knew who could pull off something like that was dead—killed in a way that most people wouldn't come back from. Even if it was her, it wouldn't make sense that she'd botch Crowley's operation. Something didn't add up.
They were on the road again when the next breakthrough came to them. Zara had dissected the contents of the hex bag and Sam's research on the items and sigil had yielded a lead. "Here we go," he straightened up in his seat, after hours of relentless searching. "Um, so it looks like in the 18th century, there were accounts of demons killed by witchcraft. Apparently they were vanquished by a spell called defigere et depurgare which is Latin for 'to bind and purge'."
Zara leaned forward to gander at the webpage. "You think that's the same kind of spell that took out Raul?" she inquired.
"Sounds like it. But from what I can tell, that spell hasn't been used in over 300 years. And it was only ever known by one person, the witch who created it."
"That is?" Dean pressed.
Sam slowly enunciated, "Rowena."
Next morning, they'd caught wind of an incident not too far. A waiter died of mysterious circumstances. More specifically, his head boiled up until his eyes liquefied and his brain came out through his ears. Dean headed to the restaurant while Sam hit up the hunters' network to glean insight, and Zara swept the perimeter to check for anything weird. It was clear that their witch was at the restaurant with three of 'Raul's girls'. The hunters had gotten back to Sam with details of a series of hotel murders—all the deaths were of boiled brains, same as the waiter. Zara reported no witchy signs when really, she'd been checking for demon signs—another null.
"Well, I'll give this to the witch, she's got deep pockets," Dean remarked. "The Kensington, the Waldorf, this restaurant. That can't be cheap."
"Come on," Sam beckoned the both of them. "We gotta check out every five-star hotel in the area."
The answer seemed to hit them right in the face, almost literally. The group of demons with the three girls practically just appeared to them in the lucky hallway they turned into. Not a crack was on the polished wooden doors and ivory walls.
The demon was mid-threat as she addressed the girls in skimpy clothes, "Operation skank has been terminated. The only place you three are going is the dumpster out back."
The demons froze in their tracks as soon as the trio appeared before them. Dean was quick to stab the first demon. The copper-haired lady and her three accomplices backed up in utter shock. The second demon tossed Dean to the ground like it was nothing. Sam attempted a punch and was thrown back. Zara sprinted forward just as Sam fell and pounced onto the demon, driving the blade hungrily through his chest. She stood slowly, scarlet dripping from her blade and coldness from her eyes, as the boys joined at her side.
"Who are they?" one of the girls asked.
"Hunters," Rowena narrowed her eyes. Lines of age ran down her cheeks but they never took away from the youthful vigour in her gaze.
"Let's get out of here!" the blonde one tugged at Rowena's sleeve.
"That's not an exit," she clenched her teeth.
"Don't worry, ladies," Dean began, taking a step forward. "Our beef's not with you. We're here for the witch. Rowena."
"Always nice to be recognized," she said in a Scottish drawl.
The blonde girl was just shaking where she stood. "Do something!" she pleaded.
"A spell!" Another one of the girls added, grabbing Rowena's arm.
The witch slowly turned to her, untold intentions steaming to the surface. "Why, that's an excellent idea," sarcasm peppered her voice. She placed something in both girls' palms, whispering, "Impetus bestiarum."
"What did you do to them?" Dean growled.
The only response the witch gave them was a brassy chuckle. The two girls' head teetered around their necks. When they looked up, an unnatural red infiltrated their eyes and dripped from their noses. Something about them had flipped so quickly. Something foreign lurked in their heads. It reminded Zara of the encounters she had in Purgatory. The girls growled at them and charged Sam and Dean first, beastly strength from their delicate knuckles finding release on the boys' jaws. Now it was two against Zara.
She held her arms up as a shield but they tackled her to the ground in no time. Sam rushed to peel the blonde one off of her while Rowena and the last girl made off past them. Dean quickly shot to his feet and went after them. Zara was locked in a wrestle with the hypnotised maniac who looked down on her somewhat like that Kitsune in Purgatory. Survival instinct flooded her at once and she pushed the girl off of her. She reached for the blade just as the girl was about to get back up and stabbed her over and over again. Blood gushed out like lava, but that didn't cut it. The same indifference washed over her like muscle memory—from Hell, from Purgatory. It was like riding a bike. The girl was merely writhing on the floor but her quiet snarls suggested that this wasn't over. Sam, on the other hand, had his shoulder against the broom closet, fighting the raging woman attempting to bust down the door.
"Look! Whatever she did to you, you have to fight it!" he urged her. Of course, he'd try to keep her alive, Zara thought as the one below her scrambled to grab her ankles. Funny how their first instincts were so different. She backed away quickly, each step back buying her mere milliseconds of freedom.
"I… I can't!" the girl screamed through the door.
That was the last thing Zara heard. The girl on the floor leapt up faster than Zara thought possible and bodied her, sending the both of them flying out of the window. Shattering glass cut her skin mid-air. Hard impact knocked the breath out of her and shot a spike of pain through her chest. Luckily, the fall—a mere two storeys—had dissociated the hooker from her. Zara rolled off the indented dumpster and landed clumsily on her elbows. By the time she pulled herself up to her feet, the hexed one jostled in her direction. Bring it on. There was a single slicing sound. Zara held up the head by the hair while the body merely slumped back, lifeless. That's what you get, bitch.
She just stood like this for a while, staring. The head was thrown nonchalantly to the ground. She used her foot to push the body's shoulder back so it would fall on its spine. The blood kept flowing, like wine pouring out of a barrel.
"Zara!" a voice called her from overhead. It was Sam, sticking his head out of the window.
"I'm okay," she replied back. He dashed down the stairs to join her in the alley. Empty breaths in each other's vicinity was all they needed to convey. "Dean," she reminded him. They rushed down the alley where the sounds of fighting came into earshot. From the sound of it, heavy punches were being exchanged.
Zara abruptly halted to a stop. Her heart wanted to jump out of her chest. It was a demon. He was in a stiff suit and was locked in a tussle with Dean, who had bruises painted on him by now. "Tell me what you did to her!" the demon yelled at him. "Where are you keeping-"
It was a no-brainer for Sam. The blade was stuck in the demon's back and he was pulled off of Dean. "What the hell was that?" he asked his brother.
"I don't know. That sonuvabitch let Rowena get away!" Dean growled.
"We'll get her," Sam assured him. "She can't have gotten far."
"I practically had her, Sam," Dean's gaze bore into the dead demon like it would make things clearer. "Before this bastard got in the way."
"I'm sorry about that," Zara said, half-sincerely. She rotated her left shoulder with a wince to ease the dull ache spreading over her back.
"It's not you. It's them," Dean shook his head. His belligerent frown didn't dull. "Except this time he kept coming at me like I was holding you hostage."
Idiots. "I can never tell if they want me or hate me," she crossed her arms.
"Alright, why don't we head back, huh?" Sam suggested. "Let's all take a breather and think this through."
Moments earlier,
The window was squarely within the crosshairs, a mere rectangle on the white exterior of the hotel. The military-grade lens allowed for a much closer view across this distance. The target was within sight. A hand steadied the barrel of the rifle. Zara's neck was lined up with the cross. Even as she backtracked, mere micrometers of movement allowed the scope to track her. Then, she fell ceremoniously out of the window onto the dumpster. The hand reacted immediately to regain perfect accuracy. She was stood in the perfect location, out in the open alley, somehow dumbstruck by a decapitated body. A finger curled around the trigger.
A clicking sounded behind him. "Not so fast," a deep, male voice commanded. "Turn around now, slowly."
The figure, dressed from head to toe in black recon gear, raised his arms and did as told. He had a square face that seemed incapable of emotion, no matter what it showed. He looked like a soulless Jack Harkness. "Who might you be?" he said with a British accent.
The one behind the gun had a deadly scowl which could not be softened by his long, dark locks. "I'll be asking the questions from now," Jack said. He was in a leather jacket and jeans that showed how lean his limbs really were. There was a certain stillness about him, one that the man could not pinpoint. It was… inhuman. "Why are you trying to kill her?"
"You a demon?" the man asked anyway, sounding almost bored.
"You wish, buddy," Jack responded. Even the way his black beanie sat atop his head seemed a little too perfect, like it would never dare move an inch from its position. "Who do you work for?"
The man's eyes were eerily trained on him. In a split second, he kicked the gun out of Jack's hand. The archangel shifted quickly to deliver a non-lethal punch to his abdomen. In that keeled over position, the man somehow retrieved something from his pocket and delivered a blow to Jack's cheek. A grunt escaped Jack's lips. He caught himself just before he could fall off balance. The very real impact of the blow had left him in shock but he was one to recover quickly. Just as the man aimed another punch at him, he expertly stepped back to dodge and had his arms ready like a boxer. That's when he noticed the brass knuckles. Strange symbols gleamed on them. That had to be the source of their power. But it's never about power.
The man threw another fist in his face. Jack stepped to the side and brought down the side of his palm like a hammer onto the man's elbow, causing his body to destabilise. Then, all Jack had to do was thrust his elbow back into the man's nose. With a yelp of pain, the man fell to the floor, unconscious.
When the man came to, he was tied to chair in a small, dark room. "Welcome back," Jack greeted, seated on the edge of a table with his arms crossed. Ambient light streamed in from tiny windows lining the ceiling, not that they offered much with the sky being moody. From this angle, not much was clear outside those windows except fallen leaves and distant branches. "Ready to talk?"
The man struggled against the ropes. They were tied all the way up his forearm and calves with material used to hold back ships. It was only when the rough fibres brushed against his hand did he notice that his gloves weren't on. It made his ring with the Aquarian star symbol pretty evident, glistening in the ambience. This nakedness also revealed an ornate crucifix tattoo on the back of his right palm.
"Men of Letters, isn't that right…" Jack inferred. His eyes were narrow and his lips thin. "…Arthur Ketch?"
"Aren't you sharp?" Ketch nasally jibed as warm liquid dripped from his nose. There was a constant dull pain but it seemed like the bleeding would subside soon. "Interesting choice of a non-magical confrontation."
"If you can't live without it, you don't deserve it," Jack explained. He shifted forward, hands clasped behind his back, as he stood towering over Ketch. "I sure as hell don't need magic for this interrogation, but it would be just a little more fun." He bent forward and put his hands over his knees so he was just a little over eye-level with Ketch. "So, back to where we were: why were you after her?"
"I'm guessing you're no stranger to Zara Joshi," Ketch inferred. The way he studied Jack was almost robotic, eyes flickering over every pixel of Jack's face to maximise analysis. "A demon would've cut first and asked questions later. You're an… interested third party. You must know that she works for the Devil."
"Sure. But what's that gotta do with you? Getting her isn't gonna put an end to anything," Jack questioned. He took slow paces around the chair.
"No, but one might go so far as to say that she knows a thing or two," Ketch said in a tone natural to him, which was usually condescending to everyone else.
"So you wanted intel," Jack inferred, now behind him. "Is that why your ammo was tranq darts? Loaded with… what I presume are nano-trackers."
"You've been thorough," Ketch sounded almost impressed. "Rare for a monster."
"Hm. Monster," Jack huffed, both brows jumping. "You know, that's the problem with you humans. You can't see anyone other than yourselves as people. Imagine how funny that sounds to someone who's lived far longer than you can comprehend." He stopped to admire a crack on the cement wall which was so miniscule that the eyes of his vessel were not built for it. "But I should rephrase. It isn't a human problem. It's a Men of Letters problem. You people with your secret Orders and alchemical sciences and boring academia… you really think you're capable of handling the truth. That you are what keeps humanity from the Eldritch horrors that lie beyond. It's that very same arrogance you had when you kidnapped Zara the first time and that was- that was such a marvellous success, wasn't it?"
Jack could feel the memories of the very same incident flooding Ketch's mind. It made him clench his fists. They did who-knows-what to Zara and on top of that, Lucifer had led a brutal massacre at their American headquarters. A waste of human life and needless trauma. "I'll take it I hit a nerve," Ketch simply said. He turned his head to the side, where his periphery caught sight of Jack. "Tall, long-haired, defensive. I'll take it you're the unnamed 'strange friend' from her teenage years."
"You have a file on that, huh," Jack concluded, nodding his head back. "How many of you are there, then?" Ketch stayed silent. Seeing that, Jack's eyelids fluttered once. He put his hand on Ketch's shoulder, like a creeper spreading roots into soil, and leaned close to his ear. "How did it make you feel when Lucifer brutally murdered your kind in broad daylight? Or when angels nuked your facility to dust?" he whispered through clenched teeth, so close to the man that Ketch had to tilt his head away. "It's what happens when you play with fire, Ketch. Don't let history repeat itself. I can help you, if you help me."
"And why would you do that?" the Brit finally spoke.
Jack straightened up and circled back to his front. "There is a natural order to things. I don't like seeing that order disturbed. Not by the Men of Letters, or by Lucifer."
"What about Zara Joshi? Where does she fit in the order?"
"That's none of your business," Jack answered with a cold, hard look.
"Great, we'll hunt Hitler and let Mengele go," Ketch snidely remarked.
There was a slight lock in Jack's jaw. "If you mess with her, Lucifer will be on you like that," he snapped his finger. "You wanna get to him, you'll need a nobody like me." In this eggshell of a moment, a beeping broke through. Jack checked his watch and silenced it. "You seem like a capable man. Your skills can be put to good use. Much better than whatever the royal Bitch of England wants you to do, anyway. Think about it. Whatever you decide, you'll walk out of here, I guarantee that. With your mind intact or as a clueless farm hand in rural Indiana, your choice." With that, he tied a cloth around Ketch's mouth and bagged his head before leaving. To the armed men stationed outside, he said, "Keep him alive."
The archangel briskly walked—and shortly, flew—to his next location. These days he could barely catch a second. It was always one thing after another. At least this appointment had a spot of luxury waiting to pamper him in the name of business. He wished he had the right suede shoes for the Persian carpet, or the appropriate outfit to outshine the chandeliers, but such things were the privilege of spare time. He just had to enter the hotel room in extremely casual denim and leather. At least it was comfortable.
"Sorry to keep you waiting," he said, bursting through the door to the company of one. His guest set the cup of tea down with her delicate, pale hands, lowering her pinkie, and stood up to greet him.
"No, not a worry, dear," a strong Scottish accent released from the redhaired lady. "Surely a man like you must be so preoccupied."
"Jack Pierce," he extended his hand.
"Rowena," she reciprocated the gesture, carefully eyeing him, and poured him a cup from the porcelain kettle.
"So, what brings you to me?" he beckoned for her to sit. In the glittering backdrop of a presidential suite, she looked like a finely-aged jewel in that velvet chair, and he cursed himself for not being able to look better.
"They said you were the one I had to find," she crossed her legs, leaning on an armrest. "That you could help me. See, I've been running into a tad bit of trouble lately."
"The waiter at Des Moules?" Jack asked with a knowing tilt of the head. Rowena raised an eyebrow, almost stunned to silence. "The bodies in Kensington, Waldorf…"
"But… how?" she said as a mere breath.
"I have little birdies everywhere," Jack said without a blink. "Your little escapade hasn't gone unnoticed. Is there anything you'd like to say in your defence?"
"I noticed you didn't mention Raul's Girls. Perhaps the birdies missed that one?" she continued. Jack's slight squint confirmed her suspicions. As she spoke, her voice expertly danced in tone with a certain theatrical flair, "After all, who pays attention to a bunch of demons reducing women to their bodies like cattle?"
"Wait," he urged. "Tell me more."
"What's more to tell? It's as simple of an operation as it sounds. These poor lassies lure men into selling their souls for a wee moment of ecstasy. They don't even get anything out of it. You must imagine what that felt like to a woman like me, who's always taken everything I needed in spite of men like that," her voice grew more compressed and impassioned as she spoke. Jack's lips turned up ever so slightly, which egged her on to continue. "Naturally, I freed the girls and took them under my tutelage, but things rarely work out so well, do they? A group of hunters caught my scent by then and I had to flee."
She rolled her eyes. "Dirty means for a good cause. Something I can relate to," Jack gave her a single nod. "Tell me, how did someone with such good taste…" he briefly looked to the hand-crafted bed frame. "…and magical finesse as you end up in this situation?"
"Well, it's a bit of story really…" she dismissed with the wave of her hand.
"Old-school witch like you must've been well-regarded in the Grand Coven," Jack guessed. That piqued Rowena's interest. She seemed both impressed and pleased.
"I was, up until recently. You see, we had our disagreements and like any bunch of snobbish fannies, they kicked me out. Stripped me of all my titles and dragged my reputation through the mud. My ideas were too radical for them. People will always stand in the way of innovation, I'll tell ya," she went on, though cowering in on herself with the admission. "So I left. Better to be my own master and all that. That didn't stop those little succubi from coming after me, I'm afraid. So here I am."
"Here you are," Jack acknowledged. "You know, I hate groups. They're always trying to tell you what to do, how to be."
"Precisely. Why should I let them stop me from blooming to my best self?" she defended. "Just because they lack ambition."
"The Grand Coven's always sounded so… self-righteous to me. They claim a monopoly on ideas that Mother Nature herself would give us so willingly," Jack scowled. "They think of themselves as arbiters of morality. The Supreme has been trying to hunt the Antichrist for years now. He's just a child… who chose to walk away from the Apocalypse. They do nothing but harass him when he's done nothing. The stories I hear from that kid…"
"They derive endless pleasure from persecuting those different from them," she agreed with a solemn shake of the head. "So heartening it is, to finally meet someone who understands! Will you help me, then?"
"Well, you do tick all the boxes. You see, I'm trying to assemble a force," Jack told her. "My network of little birdies? It's all people just like you, who want to live free and not have to worry about being attacked for who they are. I can give you that safety. But there is a price. I need you to be my informant. Anything happens, I want to hear about it. On rare occasions, I may ask a favour. But mostly, you have to keep to yourself, not attract attention like the trail that led those hunters to you. Do whatever you want, but you must hide your tracks."
Rowena released a controlled exhale. Her shoulders softened underneath that smooth black dress. "Is that all?"
Jack nodded. "I'm not here to control anyone. But don't be fooled by the arrangement. I can help you a great deal, but you have to be cautious. I can't protect anyone who exposes themselves. If the terms are fine by you, I can set you up with accommodation and contacts."
He got up and straightened his jacket. "This accommodation," she gently placed a hand on his turned shoulder. "Would it be… well-appointed?"
"It'll be sufficient for your needs," Jack stated plainly. "Opulence isn't so low-key, is it?"
"I suppose not," Rowena's expression wilted slightly. "Shall we celebrate with some champagne?"
"Knock yourself out. I have a little loose end to tie up. Pleasure to make your acquaintance," Jack said, before leaving.
Some thought about the state of the world passed through his mind on the return trip and he shook his head to himself. Two potential allies who tried to kill Zara—probably time to get a leash. The train of thought came to a screeching halt just as he froze at the sight before him. The armed men all lay strewn about him with blood dripping out of bullet holes. The door to the bunker built within the cave was busted open. As he ventured down the stairs to the second door, also busted, a couple more of his men lay defeated.
"So hard to find good help these days," he mumbled. Every step was calculated as he constantly remained attuned to sounds from within the room. So far, it was just the noisy collision of air. Finally, he entered the room to find the chair empty. The ropes were disassembled and left loose in dissent, a blaring blasphemy. "God-fucking-dammit!"
"If we're gonna take down this witch, we're gonna need more than bullets," Sam told the other two in the comfort of their motel room. He was seated before his laptop, as usual. They'd barely even unpacked at the rate they came in. It was all still in the car. "There's a book on witches from her era—Grand Coven Priestesses, they were called—and it happens to be in the library a few blocks down."
Zara heard all of this through the open restroom door as she stood before the mirror with her blouse pulled up. A nasty bruise the size of a football appeared around her lower left ribs. So big, in fact, that it was beginning to show yellow and greyish tints as well. She cringed at the sight of it, though it didn't feel as bad as it looked. Cracked rib, looks like. It'll heal quick with the hawk. She pulled down the black tank top and maroon thermal shirt. Besides that, it was just minor cuts that disappeared with a bit of applied pressure.
"Aight, find anything that'll trap her or slow her down," Dean agreed. "Hunter network got a hit on a 'mature-looking woman' fitting her description down by West side of town. I'll check it out." Just then, Zara came into view. "Sophie's choice, Zee, what's it gonna be?"
"I'll take recon this time," she said definitively.
"Really?" Sam was surprised. "That fall seemed pretty bad."
"It looks worse than it feels, believe me," she assured him. Her lips curved up as she rested a hand on his shoulder. "Your concern makes me feel way better than bedrest anyway."
His dimples came out in full view, even when Dean had something to say. "By that, she means she'd rather jump out of a window again than do some boring nerd stuff," he teased.
"Yeah, sorry you didn't get laid," Sam shot back, shutting Dean up. Zara gave him a peck on the cheek and trotted behind Dean out the door.
The pale colours of the library faded to the back of his mind as Sam gained access to the restricted section with a fake academic ID. The old volume exhaled dust with every turn of the page. Lucky for him, he was alone enough in the study room that no one would question him picking a volume so ominously titled 'Enemies of the Church: Occult and Witchcraft'. Despite the 'Ye Olde English', its references to the famed 'Malleus Malleficarum' made it somewhat comprehensible to the learned Winchester. He scanned the pages up and down for mention of these old witches and tales of encounters between them and the Witchfinder General himself, Matthew Hopkins. He was so deeply drawn into the mythos that he didn't notice the shadows shifting around him.
"Sam Winchester," a voice broke the silence.
Sam jolted out of his chair, jerking to face the voice with half a reflex to hurl the chair at the intruder. But once he saw the panting face of the man with a spot of blood by his lips and nose, he just had to reconsider the options. Strange how the man was dressed in all-black, from the turtle neck, to the harness underneath the jacket, to the boots. "You got five seconds to explain who the hell you are," Sam said, hairs standing on edge.
"Name's Ketch," he introduced himself, carefully holding out a palm as he stood to his full height. "We've met. If you remember that army of demons on the highway as fondly as I do."
"That biker. That was you?" Sam recalled. He eased just slightly but did not sheathe the frown.
"We need to talk," he said. The briefcase in his hands was only then apparent. "There are some uncomfortable truths that you need to be made aware of."
"What truths?" A chasm formed in Sam's chest, one that somehow quivered as the stranger approached. He said nothing as the man joined him at the bland table which had a single lamp as furnishing. When no combat was proposed, the tension dissipated, if only slightly.
"Interesting read you've got there," Ketch gestured towards the book with a look as he unclipped his briefcase on the table. "You'll find what you're looking for in Chapter Three, under the section 'Tools of the Trade'."
"Uh, thanks," Sam flipped the pages and to his uncanny amusement, it was all there as stated. His finger tapped on the text once as the whole situation processed in his mind. "How did you know that?"
"Because it's what I was trained for. By the Men of Letters," Ketch revealed, visibly twisting the ring on his left finger which proudly displayed the organisation's symbol.
"Wait, Men of Letters? But they were wiped out by-"
"Abaddon, yes, Knight of Hell," Ketch finished his sentence. Sam was sobered by every word the man had to say. "A tragic loss of the American division of our Order, but you and your brother carry the title by blood, as I hear. Thankfully, our branches elsewhere have thrived with great lengths to protect our secrecy. It's why we didn't approach you immediately. But we've been watching."
"You've been- you've been spying on us?" Sam pressed as he desperately searched his memories for everything he knew about the Order. "What, you didn't trust that hunters could do the job?"
"One could make that argument, but that's beside the point. I'm sure you know that the Devil himself roams the Earth. We've all witnessed some pretty awful things the past several months."
"Okay…" Sam held his breath.
"Did you ever feel like it was all spiralling out of control? Like you were battling a Hydra—cut off one head, and two more grow in its place," Ketch described.
"Sure. It hasn't been easy. He's always been one step ahead of us, all the time," Sam admitted.
"As it so happens, there's a simple reason as to why that is. See, there's been a rogue element moving the chess pieces this whole time," he explained, pulling out a khaki folder and slapping it down before Sam. The Winchester flipped open the cover. His heart stopped for a second. "She's been doing it all in plain sight of you."
"No…" Sam denied. The first page showed a black-and-white photograph, taken from afar, of Zara in the split second before pulling up a face mask. She looked to be in an alley of Eastern European origin with none other than Abaddon at her side. Below the photo was a list of attributes used in identification. He released a shaky exhale as he leaned back in his chair, bringing a hand down his jaw. He almost laughed. All that suspense, and it was for this. "This… can't be real."
"I'm afraid so," Ketch confirmed. "Your girl has been lying to you this whole time."
"I don't believe it," Sam maintained defiantly, leaning back like he was so sure. "This is crazy. Are you kidding? How can she be working for Lucifer when he's been trying to hunt her down for years? Do you know how many demons we've had to fend off because of this?"
"How many is that? Nearly enough that someone with such power as Lucifer could afford?" Ketch calmly argued.
"What about last month? You were there," Sam argued. "You saw what they did."
"The demons were protecting one of their own. She must've missed a check-in, so they assumed she was being held captive," he speculated.
"Check-in, yeah right," Sam huffed with narrowed eyes. "Look, buddy, I don't know how long it took you to get here, or what you've been through, but you're wasting your time."
"Tell me, Samuel, do you know where exactly she goes? Like when she's picking up the groceries?"
"I don't have to. Because A, she's a big girl, and B, she sure as hell ain't having sleepovers with demons," Sam said, arm reaching out in gesture. Once he realised how threatening it must've looked, he eased up again. "She's a good hunter who's thrown herself into the fire over and over again to fight monsters. I can't just sit here and listen to you talk about her like she's some kind of robot. You don't even know her."
"Then turn the page," Ketch instructed.
Hesitating at first, Sam obliged. There were more pictures. The first one instantly sucked the breath out of his lungs. It was one of her casually walking down a street with the blonde man whose likeness had been ingrained in his memory forever. From the date imprinted on the photo, it was a long time ago. "That's…"
"Nick. Your predecessor and successor in being the Devil's vessel," Ketch elaborated with an assured sway of the head. "Sorry to say, she has a type."
"This was… before we met," Sam recalled. All those secrets they whispered to each other in the dark, with no witnesses other than their hearts. "She said demons took him away from her. I didn't know it'd be Nick but she didn't lie to me."
"What about the part that came after? Did she tell you about that?"
"Hunting," Sam answered almost instantaneously. Ketch, once again, beckoned towards the document. Though Sam didn't want to, in protest of these absurdities, his curiosity got the better of him. "It says here that…" his forehead almost began to ache from frowning. "That the British Men of Letters 'apprehended' her. For what?"
Ketch's gaze wavered, sweeping over the table. "At that time, the Order was fascinated by angels. This was right after the Apocalypse. Research on angels was in hot demand, especially what made someone a vessel to something like an archangel. You and your brother were obviously better at being covert, whereas Zara… was not. An operation was set up here to study her and glean some insight."
"Study her," Sam repeated, now growing suspicious. "You mean like human experiments." When the other man didn't say anything, it was as good as confirmed. Sam huffed. "It's pretty obvious to me why she wouldn't talk about that. If this is even true, that is."
"It is." Ketch shrugged. "I was not privy to the details of this operation, except for its gruesome end. When Lucifer himself murdered every member of The Letters to take her back to Hell," he sombrely explained.
"Nice theory you got there. With evidence like this, it wouldn't even hold up in court," Sam jibed. He turned another page. A series of crime scenes were listed with observations. He carefully read every detail. "All of these seem random," he said.
"To the mortal eye, yes. But these were all people of note amongst Immortals. You see, there was a string of murders relating to the organisation known as Javelin," Ketch went on.
"I heard," Sam added. "Zara was trying to take them down, but… these are places all around the world. How would she even travel from Phuket to Oslo in four hours?"
"If only she had demons taking her through shortcuts in the Underworld. Or an archangel," Ketch sounded almost bored. Sam narrowed his eyes. "They had a name for her. The Butcher. For how gruesome the murders were," he continued. "A master of stealth, she could infiltrate almost any place and leave before the bodies of her victims were discovered. Of course, her identity is largely unknown to Javelin. It seemed almost overnight that Lucifer had found them vulnerable for a siege."
"By 'them', you mean the gods," Sam inferred. Ketch nodded.
"She was practically untraceable. Every single one of her hits coincided rather neatly with Lucifer's reach into the area," he pointed to a table of dates and locations. "Like a plague, his influence spread across regions, across pantheons in the largest undertaking known to history. All with her help, of course. She's been incredibly hard to track down, this girl, but we've made our breakthroughs."
Another page showed the rare photos of a female figure fitting her height and physique, though shrouded in a hood and mask. "This isn't proof. That could be anyone," Sam's head shook in denial, abruptly stopping only when a small detail caught his eye. One of the photographs of the figure showed just the hilt of a blade peeking out of her jacket. The hilt was strikingly familiar with its symbols and embellishments. The archangel blade.
"I know this is hard to believe," Ketch divulged sympathy with measured precision. "She is an expert manipulator with no regard for human sensitivities—or life, for that matter." This time, Ketch skipped past a few pages for him and pointed at a coloured photo of a living room with two dead bodies, both with bullet holes in their forehead. "Seventeenth of October, 2012. You were hunting a Dullahan which killed people who narrowly escaped death. Where was Zara that night?"
"How am I supposed to remember that?"
"Try."
Sam closed his eyes, scanning through his own memories. Once fragments from that whole episode appeared in view, he summoned all his strength to reconstructing the events. Zara and Raziel had met a couple days after. A couple days prior, they'd gone to the hospital to investigate. He remembered the road chase with the monster. After that, Zara had returned to the motel a little late. She'd said… "She went out to get her, uh, lady products," he recalled with tightly-shut eyes.
"At midnight?" Ketch questioned. "There were no 24-hour stores in the area." Sam didn't have a comeback for that. He merely watched as Ketch pointed towards the faces of the dead couple. "Recognise her? Brenda O'Connor. She worked as a receptionist at the hospital you visited."
An eerie sense of familiarity washed over Sam. Even that necklace that hung around her neck, one with obvious Irish symbolism, piqued his attention.
"She was working for the goddess Morrigan. She tipped off the Dullahan when you boys came knocking," Ketch coldly stated. "Eerie coincidence, don't you think? She died at the exact same time that your Zara was out."
The hollows of Sam's cheeks undulated when he took a much-needed gulp. He simply stared down at the document before him, not moving. "I don't know, I'm not seeing the connection," Sam sombrely muttered. "Anyone can doctor a photo. If she's really helping Lucifer, why would she bother being a hunter?"
Ketch released a stiff exhale through his nostrils as he stared sharply at the Winchester. "Quite impressive how the obvious just eludes you," he dryly remarked. "You and your brother are sitting on top of a trove of resources on the supernatural. Do you even know the kinds of things that are in that bunker? It could make anyone unstoppable. Is it so unthinkable that Lucifer would want his most trusted to have access to it?" He gave Sam as much of a pause as his patience would allow before continuing. "Sam, I'm sure you're a smart man. Just think. There must have been times you felt something was off about her. How she's always leading you further into danger, how bad things got worse after she showed up—and have you seen her fight? You really believe she learnt to fight like that hunting on her own?"
A sour look came over Sam. He fought every thought that arose. But one broke through—when Lucifer had possessed him and made a bloody mess of people in his life who'd pushed him just a little closer the edge, there was a certain… brutish quality to the force that flowed through his fists. Not so different from those knuckle-shattering blows he'd seen from her. Once the connection was made, he couldn't unsee it. Just like that, it sent every nerve in his body into a tremble.
"I know it's a lot to take in. Really look at this file. And tell me this isn't her," Ketch finally said. "I'm sorry you had to find out this way, but she's dangerous and you're the only one who can help me bring her to justice."
On the other side of town, Dean leaned over a counter to get just a little friendlier than he needed to. A smile on that chiselled jaw married hard angles and softness so perfectly that it would have been hard for the concierge to resist. Who knew what their conversation was about, but the lady at the desk was in blushing chuckles the whole time.
"So, uh, I've been looking for a friend of mine," Dean introduced seamlessly. "She's clumsy with calendars so she's supposed to be here either today or tomorrow. I was wondering if you remember a woman coming through here, about yay-high—she's a redhead and speaks in a funny accent…"
"Uh, no…" the lady trailed off with the shake of a head. On the other side of the lobby, Zara was seated at the couch in deep concentration, trying to reach her awareness out as far as she could to detect any witchy anomalies in the area. Just then, Dean's phone buzzed in his pocket. He thanked the lady and neared a potted plant for maximum discretion.
"Hey, find anything?" he asked his brother. Then a series of ramblings reached his ear with an unprecedented speed that he just had to do a double take. His smile slowly faded and grew into its opposite. "Say what? Slow down, you're not making any sense." His irises darted across the lobby where Zara was seated. She was all closed up on herself, fingers clasped, and silent. A frown deepened on his face. Some memory of her came to mind and he just had to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Man, you're not actually believing any of that, are you?"
In her absolute attention to the ebb and flow of energies around her, Zara did feel a strange difference. Very slight, if not undetectable. It felt like a cavity, awaiting the influx of something. She slowly returned to normal consciousness, allowing the comings and goings of people to register in her senses. It was right at that moment that her phone buzzed in her pocket. A moment earlier and she wouldn't have noticed. She held the phone to her ear. "Jack-"
"Zara, they know."
All feeling receded from her, leaving her cold at the extremities. Her spine straightened up steadily, one vertebra at a time. She cut the call immediately.
"This guy sounds like bad news to me. What, we eat everything up because he says he's from the Men of Letters? Come on," Dean remarked. He shifted his weight from one leg to another. "What if he's just using us to hurt her?" Some mumbling responded to him. "I don't know, Sammy. Tell you what, we'll set up a meet. No weapons allowed. We'll hear her side. You sure any of this holds water?" His eyes shifted back across the lobby. Maroon shirt, short-haired girl was absent from the frame. He snapped to attention, surveying every inch of the lobby. People entered and left, but none of them was her. "Sonuvabitch- hang on, I'll call you later."
As though searching for a ghost, he neared the spot where she sat just moments prior. A lady and her kid son had taken the seat. Left and right, not even an apparition. Dean rang her cell. The call went through. Its hopeful droning, beeping on and on, led to nothing but a surgical cut. He asked the lady if she'd seen his friend, but she politely declined with the added flair of hugging her son closer to herself. As he tried the number again while returning to his car, the unpleasant chime of an error came through:
"We're sorry; you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please check the number and try your call again."
He leaned on the Impala, tapping the phone against his chin. For a moment he just stood there, scrambling to find a solid truth to stand on. A tiny fragment of his vision picked up on the anomaly by the Impala's backseat door. It was unlocked. He leaned closer to investigate the handle. Not even a scratch. He stuck his head into the backseat and that's when he realised—her bags were gone.
"Sam," Dean dazed off into the sunset from behind the wheel. He looked at the sky like he was trying to read the meaning of a painting. "She's gone."
The both of them returned to motel with Ketch. Anything that could have possibly belonged to her was gone. They were just left with a startling absence hitting them like a truck. Sam turned to the mirror, imagining how she looked standing there. It all felt like a figment of his imagination now. Ketch, studying their newly-born silences, returned the enchanted handcuffs to his pocket.
A/N:
This chapter contains scenes from S10E07 Girls, Girls, Girls.
