It was more than an hour before the car finally pulled up outside. Tate had spent the entire time in his mother's company, fretting and watching her attempt to get drunk. The moment the car arrived, he was out the front door and barreling down the front walkway. Constance followed with more dignity. Tate reached the car as the priest was getting out.

"Did you get them?" Tate asked anxiously as Michael got out on the other side of the car.

"Yes," said Father Jeremiah. Despite the good news, he didn't look elated. "They're in the back seat."

Tate tugged open the nearest back door on the car and stuck his head in. Both bodies were wrapped in hotel sheets.

"Which is which?"

"Constance is on top," said the priest.

The woman was already opening the other side of the car. "Don't just stand there!" she snapped at her son. "Take me into the house."

He wasn't sure which house she meant, so he decided for himself. Lifting both bodies, he headed for Murder House. Constance almost stopped him but decided she didn't want her corpse littering up the house next door. Just the thought of sleeping in the same place as her own bones creeped her out no end. She lit a cigarette and looked to the priest.

"Well?" she prompted as they all followed Tate inside. "What did you have to do? I know she didn't just give those over to you out of the goodness of her heart."

"Aunt Fiona wants to teach me," Michael supplied.

"Aunt?" Constance said, pausing on her way to the kitchen to look at the teen. She gave a short laugh. "Great Aunt is more like it. What's she want to teach you that you don't already know?"

Michael and Jeremiah followed her into the kitchen. Michael sat down at the island while the priest started digging around in the refrigerator. He wasn't particularly hungry; he just didn't want to be the messenger on this one.

"Lots of things," Michael said defensively. "She's a witch, Mother Constance. The head witch. They call her—"

"Supreme, yes, I know," Constance dismissed. She filled the kettle and put it on the stove. "If she's so God-damned Supreme, I'd like to see her power up this settlement. The church is puttin' a huge strain on the generator and gas is gettin' scarce."

Michael rolled his eyes, not interested in the mechanics of running a town. "I'll figure something out," he said, to shut her up about it. "Why didn't you tell me we were witches?"

"You're not a witch," Constance denied. She paused fussing with the tea pot to look at him. "You're far more special than that. What Fiona does is parlor trickery by comparison. She can't teach you anything."

"She can teach me history," he countered. "I want to know about the witches! Who they are and what they want. Did you know they have a prophecy about me too?" He looked over at Father Jeremiah to include him in the question. "They do. And I want to know what it is. I think it's important."

Jeremiah set the mustard down next to the rest of the sandwich stuff he'd been amassing on the counter. "Of course you should hear it," he supported, earning a black look from Constance that he tuned out. "And anything else they have to say that you want to know."

"I think it's a foolish idea," Constance groused, turning back to her tea. "That woman is nothing but trouble. A solid gold bitch, through and through."

"I guess I'll find out for myself," Michael said. "Tomorrow."

...

Tate put Violet's body back in the crawlspace, only this time he wrapped her up in a sheet, one Chad's super-soft jersey sheets. Not satisfied with the bundle, he put some fresh-picked hollyhocks from the garden on her chest. He was pretty sure she wouldn't mind that the flowers grew out of dead crows. If anything she might like the macabre detail, so he decided he'd go scavenge some feathers for her as well, adding those to the pile.

He considered taking his mother's body down to Dr. Charles but there was too big a chance the man would cut her up. Moira suggested they put her in a shallow grave out back when she tired of Tate moving the body from room to room.

He couldn't decide what he wanted to do with her but the yard was definitely out of the question. He finally took her up to the attic. As he carefully stowed her in a trunk and covered her with a cashmere blanket, he told Beau: "This is Mama's body. It's sleeping while her ghost does things. She's evolved, like us, but she kept her body just in case. You have to keep her safe, okay? Nobody except us and her can touch her, okay?"

Beauregard drooled and nodded, bouncing with enthusiasm. "Mama!" he cheered.

Beau liked the idea of getting to have his mother all to himself, even if it was just the sleeping part. He liked that part of Constance best because that part didn't yell or hit. He watched as Tate tucked the trunk into the corner behind Beau's bed on the floor.

"Okay. There she is. Keep her safe," he reminded.

Tate had every confidence that his older brother would do a better job of caring for the body than he had. Beau would be her best protector ever.

...

The next few days, Michael traveled out to visit the Coven at the Esplanade Hotel. Father Jeremiah went with him, even though he was left sitting in the lobby while his ward and Fiona went off alone together. He liked to be within range of calling, should the young man need him.

In the suite she'd staked out as her own, Fiona educated her grand-nephew about witches and warlocks, and their role in the universe as some of the most powerful beings on the planet. While they conversed about ancient religions and powers, Jeremiah spent his time catching up on his reading. One particular afternoon he had a letter with him instead of his usual nonfiction fare. The message had arrived that morning, delivered by a courier who had been sent all the way from Utah to deliver it.

Jeremiah had read it at the time but brought it with him to the daily meeting without sharing it with anyone, so he could go over it again. He had been the only one to witness its arrival, which bought him some time to decide what he should do about it.

The missive itself was simple, written by the head of the compound where he had grown up. It informed him that his performance as a missionary abroad was unsatisfactory and a tribunal of elders would be arriving within the week to dispense judgment.

It also said his wife, Evangelina, would be coming with them.

...

From birth, Evangelina was different than other children in the compound. Her skin and hair were the hue of paper. The healer thought at first she must be dead but then she gave a loud cry no one could miss. Her eyes were pale as well, and never darkened from the icy light blue she was born with.

When it was sunny out, Evangelina had to cover up under long sleeves and floppy hats. Her skin was so sensitive, she sunburned easily. She often had to sit in the shade and help the old women with sit-down chores while the other children helped in the fields or tended animals. She didn't mind the work or the company: The old ladies had interesting stories to tell and they told tales from scripture that worship class didn't cover. Very interesting stories.

She missed not getting to play with the other kids, though. She longed to do things she couldn't, like swim or go out on a sunny summer day in a shirt with no sleeves. Not getting to bond with the other girls meant she felt very awkward when she was with them, a feeling that got worse the older she got.

In the compound, when girls reached their twelfth birthday they moved out of the children's hall and into the family home they would live in for the rest of their lives. They would move in with an older man, who would teach them everything they needed to know about being a wife when they turned eighteen. At age fifteen, the girl would be blooded to the older man. When she turned eighteen, she would marry her pre-selected age-mate in a complicated ritual. After a month sequestered together trying to make offspring, the boy would be sent abroad and the girl would go back to her family home to raise her baby with her blooded Father, until the child was old enough to move into the children's hall, right after potty training.

It was normal life to her and all of the children born there, and yet Evangelina always felt trapped by the place. She knew there was more out there beyond the compound walls. She never wanted to be blooded or married to anyone. She didn't want to have babies. She wanted to be a prophet; someone who communed directly with Samael, not someone who sat around tending a cook fire while babies cried.

She knew she couldn't tell anyone about her feelings so she wrote about it in a secret diary. She wrote about it when she got blooded, and when she got married.

Her blooded Father, Justin, was a strict man who seemed to look for reasons to punish her. Sometimes he would even hit her while she was actively doing whatever it was he told her to do. He hit her less after she married, but that was only because he could have sex with her then. She got pregnant, either from Jeremiah or from her blooded Father, and for a while he let her be. As soon as the baby was born, though, he started hitting her and fucking her regularly.

There wasn't much she could do about it within the compound. She was his blooded Daughter and under his authority until either Jeremiah returned or Justin died. Outwardly, she stoically took the abuse, like so many of her Sisters did. Because she was so well-behaved, no one even wondered when the man died from what appeared to be a heart attack a few weeks after Evangelina's daughter was removed to the children's hall. No one ever suspected Evangenlina had been slipping poison into Justin's evening tea for several weeks before he died.

...

Author's Note:

Fun fact: Evangelina is played by Lady Gaga in my head. Her back story (and Jeremiah's) is inspired by tales of weird compound-dwelling religious groups from present day all the way back in the 1800's. She was mentioned briefly waaay back in my original Murder House fic. I figure nobody in American Horror Story gets a happy ending and Jeremiah was too content for too long. Time to rain on his parade.

Justin, Evangelina's guardian, takes his name from Brother Justin in HBO's Carnivale series but is like... his evil twin. Brother Justin would totally smite the heck out of this Justin. If he wasn't already dead.

Next time: Tate and Violet take the flesh-eating fledglings on an outing.