Change of Heart
Chapter 4: Rebirth
by Lilian.
lilian413 at yahoo dot com
Author's Note: Chapter 4 already, oh my! And this is all because of all the wonderful reviewers who have given me their wonderful comments, and to whom this story is dedicated!The more you review, the more I write! I swear, just reading your beautiful words makes want to write faster and faster... I'm a praise-addict, I think:p
To Barb, who answered my questions, and without whom this chapter would taste different.
.
The child wasn't going to make it. And neither would the witch. He was going to loose both of them, taken away by incompatible physiologies. The Source knew this, and cursed in a thousand dead languages before he calmed down.
He could sometimes look into the future, only glimpses through his head, but he had seen what would happen should things continue on this path. If the girl came to term, Phoebe would die, taking her daughter with her in the process. During birth, the child would drain her mother dry, her power too strong for Phoebe's weak human body to hold. The witch would die during labor, if not sooner. And he would lose his chance at gaining a new type of demon.
He would have none of that.
He had been raking his brain for the past few days, trying to stop it. To save it. And he had come up with a solution.
He would need to bond with Phoebe. Despite the marking in her arm, that inverted triangle only his closest guards shared, they were still separate entities. It was more of a medal, an indication to those stupid enough to get in his way that the Source was not without warriors of his own. Now, to save mother and daughter from death, he would share his blood with her.
His blood was ancient and as thus, powerful in its own right. Sharing it with Phoebe would blood-link them, his blood to hers and her blood to his—they would become one. Empowered by the magic of a thousand year old demon, Phoebe would deliver the child to full term without problem. And, as an added compensation, grant the Source total and complete control over her.
If the marking ritual had given the Source ownership of her body, the blood linking would give him rights to her soul.
It would be easy for him to give her active powers through that bond as well. What use was a demonic hit man with no lethal powers? There is only so much an athame can do, the Source thought, drawing a hand over the ancient carvings upon his face. Magic, magic will kill at a distance. And maim in ways a blade never could.
He could feel the child's power already—it was like a halo that surrounded Phoebe wherever she went. It was intoxicating. It rippled and waved, oozing around her like an expensive perfume, heralding a new breed so powerful, so great, it would make any other demon obsolete.
Maybe Belthazor hadn't been a complete waste of time.
Still, it disgusted him to no end, the idea of bonding with a witch. There had been tales of such a ceremony—ancient folklore transmitted through generations of demons in the wee hours of the night. It was a forbidden magic: there were few still alive who remembered the last time it had been used, and even less who could perform it. The Source was one of them.
The sharing of blood was a sacred ritual: it linked two beings as if they were one, creating an invisible bridge between them both until the death of one would mean the death of the other. He didn't fear death: he was death, after all. It was the notion that should anyone find out he shared blood with the witch that scared him. His enemies – and despite his title as leader of the Underworld, there were many who would see him dead – could use her as a weapon against him.
I will have to make her invincible, then.
He smiled. Yes, that would do.
Who knew what powers the child would possess. Levitation, shimmering, energy balls, premonitions—and all the others possibilities that still remained unexplored. Fire balls, time freezing, deflection, telekinesis, energy drains, blinking, morphing—the list was endless.
The thought of having such a powerful demon in his hands was enough for the last of his doubts to disappear. Yes, yes. For the chance of having such an unprecedented asset in his hand, he would risk the blood link and much more. Mother and child, working for him, both feared warriors at his disposal to do as he pleased.
There was one tiny problem, though.
For the blood sharing to be complete, the Source needed Phoebe to be willing. Unless both parties willed it so, the blood link would never snap into place. And how to convince the still reluctant witch to give herself over to him completely? He knew there would be no torture, no torment enough to make her surrender. The only reason he had gotten away with what he had so far, had been because he had used the child's life as leverage. Somehow, he doubted that would work now.
He needed something else. Something powerful enough to bring her to her knees. To destroy the last bits of faith that still remained. And Belthazor had given him just that.
The Source laughed. Oh, Belthazor might try to deny it, but while his body was half human, his mind was purely demonic. Who other than a demon would attempt to bed their lover's sister not a week after her death?
"Phoebe", he began, summoning her to his presence. She came slowly from the darkness but came nonetheless, and that pleased him. Despite her resistance, despite her protestations, she was well on her way to becoming his, "I have something to show you."
She said nothing, and the Source basked in the energy waves coming off of her. To drink in that power was addictive—day after day, the child's power grew, changed, crested—every time he thought the girl had achieved her plateau, he realized that maybe there was no such thing for her. So much power and she was not born yet—who was to know how powerful the hybrid would become?
For a split second a shiver went up his spine. A glimpse of a possible, distant future… if the girl was this powerful, would he dare to let her live? Would he allow her to come into full power and perhaps one day turn against him?
Yes, he would. Arrogance was the greatest sin among demons, and in his arrogance, the Source dismissed such premonitions as fears born of an over-cautionary mind.
"Look. Behold what Belthazor does while your bed is still warm."
He ran his long fingers up and down her cheeks, almost like a caress. Phoebe was too exhausted to push him away, but it did not stop her from shivering in disgust. He laughed, and that laughter made her cringe and that's when he forced the images through.
She watched helplessly as Cole kissed Piper and screamed when the kiss turned passionate. She tried to look away, tried to turn from the image, but the Source's grip on her face was strong and his fingers dug into her cheeks like talons, holding her still.
Over and over, the image repeated itself, and Phoebe need not see what came after that. She saw as Cole pushed Piper back against the door, forcing her to rise on tiptoes to meet his lips. She knew what followed, because Cole had held her in a similar embrace many times before.
"Demonic love does not exist. It is only lust."
Cole had said those exact same words to her a long time ago. And when the Source whispered them in low tones, hushed and meaningful, she feared the truth they carried within them.
The memory of their love had helped her hold on. In the darkness of her cell, when the screams and cries from other tormented souls filled her ears and made her wish she could die, she would remember Cole and things would be a little better. She would remember her family, and the whips lashing across her back would not hurt as much.
But now—what did she have to hold on to?
The Source watched with knowing eyes how despair blossomed in her heart. How easy to fool, humans were…
"I can make it better."
Like a dark poison his offer fell into her, and like a dark spider it wove its web around her heart. So easy, it is so easy, he whispered in her mind, just give in to me. He watched her shake her head, the last, feeble attempts to push him away. And that's when he knew he had won, even if she wasn't aware of it yet.
Teardrops fell into the earth and it drank them down. Humanity did not belong in the Underworld and the Source's lies spread through Phoebe like wildfire, bringing her defenses down until she was stripped bare of them all.
He heard her in his mind, heard her call out to the heavens for help. No one answered her call. The angels were too far away to hear her, and even if they could hear her plea, who knows if they would have answered?
Phoebe felt herself falling, falling as she had fallen when Prue had died. Because the floor had just vanished from under her feet and there was nothing to hold her afloat. Cole had been her rock, her strength in those dark days, still so painfully close. He had cuddled with her on those cold nights when the reality of the empty room next to hers was too much to bear. He had washed away her tears with kisses, chased away her nightmares with his love—Piper had been too immersed in her own pain to console her little sister and Leo had been busy consoling her... their tiny family had fractured into couples and only Paige's arrival had began to mend the rift.
And now… now Cole lay with her sister, snatched from her without warning. When she needed him the most he left her… had he ever loved her? Had he ever cared? She couldn't really tell. Everything he had said, everything he had done was now colored with the Source's insinuations. She couldn't get a clear picture of their past, because every memory she conjured his words poisoned it until it wasn't her memory any more.
"I can make the pain go away."
The Source's patience was wearing thin. The witch had not spoken a word, had not said a thing—had he pushed her too far? Had he broken her mind as he sought to break her spirit?
And then, it happened. A damn broke inside of Phoebe's heart, that thing that had kept the darkness at bay. It burst forth with the energy of years of containment, desperate, angry and hating…
"How?"
Her voice was low and hushed, as if she was speaking through clenched teeth. One look at her and the Source realized she was.
Phoebe was a very complex woman. Many would have labeled her crazy. But through layers and layers of grins, witty comebacks and dangerous lifestyles lay an insecure young woman, still doubtful of her own worth. Her powers had come at a very low point in her life. Running from her past in New York, returning to a place where she knew she wasn't welcome, looking for a brighter future—the weight of responsibility falling on her fragile shoulders all too suddenly, consuming her time, covering her uncertainties, hiding them from sight.
Her life had become a roller coaster overnight, never stopping, never ending, never giving her time to breathe. Never once did she stop and try to come to terms with what she was carrying inside...
Hell, she probably had more emotional baggage than Cole himself!
She had always been the youngest and perhaps because of that, the black sheep in the family, the prodigal daughter who never completely repented of her sins. She had never had a mother to nurture her... lost her at the tender age of three, so young, so naive, so impressionable. Penny Halliwell had been too consumed in her own pain, in her own loss, to realize she was loosing her youngest grandchild—
And now—when things were looking up, when it finally seemed she would have time to heal, her life took another turn and left her dazed and lost in the process. The low self-esteem, hidden behind sassy attitudes and rude comments resurfaced with a vengeance.
The Source didn't even need to twist her thoughts... they became twisted on their own. Oh, the wonders of having a conscience. It was a demon's best friend when it came to undermining someone's self-confidence to the point of insanity.
"Blood Link. We will share blood and you will become powerful. Powerful enough to get your revenge."
Up until that point, Phoebe hadn't really thought of revenge. She just wanted to forget. Maybe, the Source could give her what she so longed for. Something to quiet the howl of her dead heart, of that place where her love for Cole bled, wounded beyond repair. But when The Source said it, it sparked something to life within her. Emotional scars had been accumulating for the past three years, and they were just screaming for a way out. And with Phoebe's first little hesitation, they slipped right through the crack in her armor and presented her with a whole new different point of view.
Why settle for acceptance, when she could make them pay?
It was easy to direct her anger towards someone. Having a target, someone to hate, gave her wrath focus. Gave it strength. And Piper and Cole presented themselves as the perfect victims for such hatred, because they had turned their back on her while she was still alive.
Oh yes, revenge sounded very nice indeed.
Thoughts spiraling in her head like a mad storm, Phoebe fought for control. Yes, revenge sounded nice: every scar in her back would mirror one of them. Every tear she had cried she would make them cry. An eye for an eye she would earn her keep!
No more doubts clouded her mind, no more questions pestered her thoughts. Her decision made, only one thing remained constant in the sizzling whirlwind of change than overcame her.
You will pay.
Revenge is a dish best served cold, they say. Oh, she would wait. She would wait all right.
She raised cold, dead eyes up to the Source looming over her. And even such an old, ancient evil like the Source himself shivered slightly at the hatred he saw in them.
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
"Do it."
Still reeling with the heady taste of victory, the Source nodded slowly. He took her hand in his own. A long, black fingernail came forward, so long, so vicious, that just by looking at it, Phoebe trembled in fear. But hatred has incredibly power and she bit her bottom lip and let it come forth. Almost like a caress, the Source drew his fingernail over her palm. She did not even flinch when her soft skin parted under the pressure and hot, red blood gushed out.
A thin red line, it seemed to glisten in the torchlight and it looked almost—black.
She watched, unmoving, as he did the same to his hand. His red skin matched his red blood, and she absently wondered why he didn't bleed black. Only half-demons bled human.
"My blood." His whisper was low and strained, almost as if he was fighting an inner battle to let the words come out. Phoebe somehow knew what she had to say. The words rolled off her mouth, slid down her tongue and she let them, she welcomed them, she embraced them: "My blood."
She raised her hand, the red droplets shinning as they slid down to her wrist like snakes. Magic tickled at her skin, making the hairs on her arms stand on an end. It was old magic, she could feel it in her bones…
He lowered his hand, and it was so much bigger than hers. Their hands touched, their palms met and their blood mixed.
"Our blood."
Lightning and thunder cracked around them as black light emerged from their fused hands and darkened the room. It was almost as if had swallowed the fire. Phoebe had to close her eyes at the onslaught of power that took hold of her.
It itched at first. Quickly the itch grew, creeping up from her hand and into her arm, through her neck and into her heart. It was like sticking her finger in a socket—strange, unsettling and just this edge of painful. Her teeth rattled with the force of the link and then she cried out as pain erupted from her hand and across her skin, her entire body on fire as the very blood in her veins began to boil.
Her eyes rolled in the back of her head and just before she passed out, she heard the Source gasp for breath as the contact broke and the link was established. Because he had never thought it would take this much energy to bond with her. But now he had, and there were consequences to be paid.
For both of them.
.
Leo trusted Cole. Ever since he had risked his life to safe Piper, throwing himself in the way for bounty hunters to take him to the Source, his doubts had been quenched and his trust earned. Saving his wife scored as the highest on his list. That was why he didn't care about the touchy-feely way they behaved around each other since—since Phoebe.
Really, he did not care at all.
Well, maybe a little.
He remembered as Piper had gone upstairs and locked herself up in Phoebe's room. It wasn't until they came out together, long hours later, that Leo realized Cole had been in there too. The fact that his arm was around Piper's waist struck him as odd at first.
When they hugged each other good night, he began worrying.
After all, Cole had this whole 'tall, dark and handsome' thing going on, and he knew for a fact women – and especially the Halliwell women – liked that. And he also knew he couldn't compete with it. He found the 'not-so-tall, light and cute' category fit him better.
But throughout his years as a Whitelighter, Leo had seen how people dealt with pain. And he clearly remembered as Piper had recoiled under his touch when Prue had been killed. They had spent long nights on opposite sides of their big bed, unsure, uncertain, needing to touch and be touched but afraid to ask the other for it. The fact that he had confirmed Phoebe's death had probably hurt Piper's psyche much more than she let herself know.
So he let it slide and squashed the little green bug of jealousy that reared his head whenever Cole approached his wife. Because he knew Cole was hurting too. Could see it in his eyes, haunted and cloudy, ever since Phoebe had—
It didn't feel right. It just didn't feel right. Phoebe and death in the same sentence. Phoebe and party. Phoebe and fun. Heck, even Phoebe and sex. But even the idea of the feisty, energetic woman he had grown to love as his own sister, laying somewhere, cold, unmoving, dead felt wrong.
But the Elders had confirmed it. And now the Power of Three had been broken again. And this time there was no hope at reconstituting it.
The thought scared him more than he could bear.
As he lay in bed, Piper's warm body seeking his own in her sleep as she dared not do when awake, he asked whomever may be listening if their life was cursed. How were they supposed to survive now? The Elders had assured him that now that the Power of Three was no longer an issue, demons and their brethren would not come for them as much. They had gone from being a huge mark on the demonic radar to barely a blip… why didn't he feel better, then? Why did he lay awake at night, listening to the sounds of the old house around them, and wondering if that creak, if that sigh was something more?
Ever since Melinda Warren had begun the long line of powerful witches, the Halliwell family had been burdened with pain and death. None of their women lived long, sometimes just enough to ensure the continuity of the bloodline and then died, taken early by evil. And the circle began anew each generation, unforgiving, unmerciful, never ending, never stopping.
What would become of the sisters? What would become of all of them? Of two powerful witches, who had broken every single rule in the Universe; of the tortured half-demon who had defied all the laws of Nature, and fallen for a witch; and of a whitelighter who dared fall in love and marry one of them?
He sighed and brushed some strands of Piper's hair away from her face. Even in sleep her face was tight, unseen tension keeping her from getting a good's night rest. Always the survivor, he thought, except for that day that never happened. What would he have done if Piper had been the one he had been unable to heal? What if it was Prue who had begged him to heal her sister and not the other way around?
He didn't remember much of that day; of the first time they fought Shax. Only glimpses and flashes, half-remembered dreams in the first moments of dawn. He remembered a hospital room, and Prue—Prue was always there. Covered in blood, her high-fashion clothes dripping with it. But none of it was hers, he knew, and Piper… Piper was just laying there, eyes closed and not moving.
She was with him now, nestled in the curve of his arm. And the fact, the certainty of how different things might have been chilled his heart. Phoebe had given up her freedom for her sisters to live. She had agreed to remain in the Underworld, knowing she could be dead come first morning just so Tempus would make the day start anew. For that, Leo would forever be grateful. It had been that sacrifice that had saved his wife, which had given them both a chance to go on.
But Phoebe was dead now… despite his best efforts, his younger charge was dead.
He remembered distinctively how Cole had brought a desperate Phoebe back to the manor, stopping only to look at Piper's sobbing form as Prue's body lay amidst the debris. He had shimmered away after that, intent on drawing the bounty hunters sent after him and Phoebe away from the Halliwells. He had done his job well—it was days before the next demon attacked, days before they heard from him again. He returned in time for the funeral, a haunted look in his eyes.
And now—now the manor lay in ruins once more, work to repair it well on its way but still far from complete. The earthquake had come swiftly, tearing at their lives like a bird of prey, slashing and clawing and breaking until everything but their bedrooms lay in waste.
It was strangely fitting, Leo thought, to have to rebuild their house as they now attempted to rebuild their lives.
.
TBc...
