Father Jeremiah put the car into park and he and Michael got out. The building itself wasn't much to look at: Three stories, it was a blocky rectangle. It looked every bit like the penal institution it used to be. The topmost windows still had bars on them.

With the crows circling and the dark clouds above, it was a forbidding sight and a stark reminder to the man that they were living in the end days. He felt a chill run through him and he wished he'd thought to grab one of his prayer books. In its absence, he reached for the pendant of Samael that he always wore. The metal pulsed warmly between his fingers, like a calm heartbeat. The vibration of the rhythm settled him and gave him confidence.

Michael led the way, already halfway to the entrance when Jeremiah got to the front walkway. He hurried to catch up to his ward, alert for anything. "We should be careful," he cautioned.

The boy waited for him to catch up then tried one of the broad wooden doors. It swung open easily.

"I guess they want us to come in," said Michael with a smile.

"I don't think that's a good thing," cautioned the priest.

They went inside. The interior foyer opened up wide and high, lit only with fire and candlelight. The room smelled of herbs and Obsession perfume. They'd only gone a few steps when the heavy doors behind them shut and locked. Jeremiah put a hand on Michael's back, but the boy stepped away from him, heading toward the central fire pit and the figure in black seated near it, without so much as a glance back.

"Aunt Fiona," Michael said.

She was perched elegantly in the chair, a black cigarette trailing smoke from the end of a long stem filter. She was dressed for business in a crisp crepe pantsuit and witchy pumps. There were several other people scattered about the lobby, hanging back in the shadows and dressed in black as well. Somewhere in the distance there was a low thrumming sound, some kind of heavy machinery running despite the lack of public electricity in the area. Jeremiah reckoned the witches somehow managed to get the boiler for the place running. If so, that meant they likely had hot running water. A genuine luxury in these times.

The blonde woman cocked a brow, unused to being called by a familial term other than 'sister'. Hearing it from the son of Hell was a unique experience. "Michael." She looked him over, taking in his physical presence as well as his astral signature. He was a good-looking boy, and a powerhouse. Not that she couldn't handle him here, in her lair, but he could be a serious threat if not dealt with properly. It was like being visited by a living incarnation of Murder House.

He was assessing her, too. Trying to, anyway. She was ready for him, though, and had her defenses up. He couldn't feel her organs or anything he could latch onto. She was more like a ghost than a ghost, to his immature senses. What he could feel was the strength of her energy. It radiated off of her like heat from an open oven. He sensed that was just a latent hint of her power. Full blast, he suspected that energy could melt something. Possibly him. It fascinated him.

"I want the bodies you took," he said simply.

Fiona gave a short laugh at his demand. "My sister is right where she belongs." She paused, fine brows pinching. "Did she tell you about us?"

Michael frowned. He glanced at Father Jeremiah, who gave a little shrug. The teen looked back to the blonde woman. "No."

She laughed, short and derisive. "Figures." She put out her cigarette and rose. In her stilettos, she was taller than Michael. "Humor your Auntie: Let me tell you about this side of your family. Then we'll talk about what should happen to Constance's body."

Michael thought about it. He almost looked at the priest again, but Jeremiah seemed lost on this one and the teen wanted to make a strong show. So he kept his eyes locked on hers. "Sure. But I'll know if you're lying."

She laughed again. It was a prettier sound than the laugh she made before. "Oh, I have nothing to lie about. The truth is better than anything you'd care to make up. Let's move over to the couches and get comfortable. This is gonna take a while. Do you want a drink?"

...

Tate was in a terrible state. As soon as he reappeared at Murder House, he went to find his mother. It wasn't that he thought she could do anything about the situation. It's just where his mind went in his distress. He found her downstairs, in the kitchen, rummaging through Chad's liquor supply.

"Goddamned queen never keeps a decent bottle of rum around," she muttered as she pawed through the half-empty bottles of chablis and cabernet wines.

"There's some Fireball in the cabinet above the fridge," said Tate as he trudged into the room. He tugged his sweater sleeves down over his fingers and one poked through a new hole it discovered there.

Constance straightened and looked at her son, surprised by his voluntary helpfulness. Then she saw the look on his face and braced herself. She headed to the cabinet and, tugging it open, peeked inside. There were a few more bottles up there and she pushed them around, looking at labels. She turned her nose up at the Goldschlager but grabbed the Fireball and what was left of a bottle of Cointreau.

"What if they don't bring both of you back?" Tate said as she poured herself a mixed drink in a tall glass from both bottles. "What if they don't come back?"

"What if?" she deflected, grabbing a spoon out of the drawer. She stirred the alcohol briskly.

Tate didn't like that answer. He drifted closer to the central island where she was making her drink. "What're we going to do?"

"What can we do? Sit and wait. Like we always do." Constance took a hefty swig from the glass and sighed in masochistic relief as the booze scalded her throat.

Tate liked that answer even less. "I don't want to wait! Mama, what if—"

Constance reached over and put her fingers over his lips. It wasn't a forceful gesture but he hushed anyway and sulked at her. A tear slipped out and she lightly brushed it off his cheek.

"You can sit here and worry till you're sick about 'what if's or you can find somethin' to do to take your mind off of it till whatever happens... happens." That was as reasonable as she was going to be about the matter.

His lower lip trembled a little when he spoke next. "Should I tell Violet?"

Constance gave a short laugh and had another gulp from her glass. "That's up to you. There's nothin' she's gonna be able to about it either but she might want to know. Me, I wish I didn't know." She shook her head and just downed more of her cocktail.

He chewed on a cuticle and the problem. He had no idea how to tell Violet without upsetting her and he wasn't even sure he should tell her.

"Can they resurrect people?"

"I don't know," his mother admitted. "I've heard it's possible, in theory, but I've never actually seen such a thing. But then, before I lived here, there was a lot I'd never seen."

Tate hauled himself up onto a bar stool and folded his arms on the edge of the island. He sank into the arm pile miserably and watched his mother drink. He thought about asking for some but even if she said yes, which she wouldn't, Nora would have a fit. He felt even sorrier for himself and another hot tear escaped. This one slipped down his nose and disappeared into the sleeve of his striped sweater.

"I fucked up."

Constance sighed softly and reached over to pet his hair back from his forehead. It crept right back down again. "You took on my sister and a warlock who's over one hundred years old," she said. "Either one would be a handful."

"That guy was over a hundred?" Tate boggled, momentarily surprised out of his funk. "He looks, like, forty."

His mother had another belt from the glass, nearly draining it. "Yeah. Not bad, hm? And my sister." Those last words were a bitter barb. "She must have pulled a trick from his book. She looks almost as young as I do! She should look the hag she is."

Over the years, Constance had steadily youthened herself till she'd reclaimed the aspect she'd had in her prime. No one remarked on it any more than they would an older woman applying makeup to hide her age but everyone knew it was as much a visage as Moira's old lady seeming. Her resentment of her twin's ability to avoid old age was real, though.

Tate sank back into his folded arms. "Why does she want to bring you back to life anyway?"

She shot him a sidelong look. "You don't like the idea?"

He frowned. "No. You're better this way. Evolved. Nobody can hurt you. I mean, you're stuck in the foggy areas but the whole world's going to be foggy eventually. That's what Michael's doing, right? He's making this our world. So... Why would you want to go back? People who die again in the fog don't stay. I never saw one stay."

Constance's lips tugged in a thin line and she downed the last of her drink. Normally she could dismiss her son's paranoid ramblings but he was making too much sense. Which meant she needed more alcohol. So she filled the glass again, emptying both bottles.

"She wants to bring me back so the coven's prophecy can be satisfied," she said, frowning into the glass as she stirred. "She wants me to have a baby."

Tate laughed. He tried to stop himself but the more he thought about it, the funnier it struck him. He could feel his mother's glare but he couldn't help the manic reaction. "Holy shit. She's nuts!"

"Yes," Constance said bitterly. "She is. She's also a determined bitch. But so am I."

Author's Note:

Happy New Year! Or Horror New Year!

So what do you think? Is Violet better off not knowing she might be resurrected? Or is that something she should be told?

Next time: We find out what'll become of the stolen bodies.