Madison pushed herself up when the hotel room's adjoining door opened. Seeing Pietre, her mouth formed a tense line. The warlock had chained her by her restraining collar to the wrought iron bars of the headboard which was, in turn, bolted to the wall. Like the triplets, he allowed her only undergarments to wear: Her lacy bra and panties. She kept the blankets pulled up high when he came in and pushed the door shut behind himself. She had heard most of what had happened next door: the worst of it, anyway.

"Children," Pietre sighed. He smiled and shook his head. "When they are good, they are very, very good. But when they are bad…"

"Why do you call them children?" Madison sassed. Fear made her edgy. "They're as old as I am."

He smiled and came around the side of the bed closest to where she was cocooned. Propping the cane against the bedside table, he took up a position right beside her. "They are my children."

She had to look up to see his face. It was even more intimidating than seeing him come in with that cane right after she heard him beating the triplets. "I thought they said you found them or something. How old are you, anyway?"

"I lost count six hundred years ago or so," he responded casually.

She wasn't sure whether he was serious or not. "You said you had cigarettes," she said, to change the subject.

"So I did," he agreed. He nodded to the bedside table.

Madison hesitated then reached for the narrow drawer. Stashed within it was a tarnished silver cigarette case and a Zippo lighter. There was also a lightweight ceramic ashtray. She opened the silver case and found it stocked with thin, black cigarettes.

"Cloves?" she ventured after a delicate sniff.

"It's what Fiona and Michael prefer," Pietre acknowledged.

"I guess I don't have to worry about bleeding lungs," Madison realized out loud and lit one. It tasted strangely sweet and rich. Not at all like a Marlboro.

"No. You don't have to worry about that."

She didn't like the way he was hovering over her like a vulture, but she pretended not to care. "How long are you going to keep me chained up like this?"

He smiled a lazy smile; his blue eyes were unreadable. "Not long, I would imagine. Fiona has Zoe and Kyle now, and the Daggers. There are witches out hunting for the other Relics. We already have some of them, apart from the Daggers."

"Which ones?"

He laughed. "Wouldn't you like to know? You curious thing. You'll know soon enough."

Madison didn't like the sound of that. "What do you even need me for, if you have the Daggers?"

Pietre plucked the cigarette from her hand and put it out in the ashtray. She started to object since she had just lit it, but he pressed his fingers over her lips. They smelled like the cigarette—and blood.

"Fiona is still harboring a grudge about the way you and your friends turned against her," Pietre informed her without concern. "She won't forgive or forget easily. Until then, all three of you are being held at…her majesty's leisure, as it were. You are here, in this nice room, because I wish it. But if you would rather be in a cage in the basement, like Zoe and Kyle, that can be arranged."

He lowered his hand then and she stared up at him, silently digesting what he said. As the silence grew, his smile did as well.

"You always were a clever girl," he said, sliding into the bed with her.

His silky, black clothes brought a chill to her nearly bare skin as he pressed against her. He kissed her, hard and demanding. Soon, he was crawling on top of her, tugging off her flimsy underwear. She could say no; she could try to fight him off but, collared as she was, she had no real ability to defend herself. It was tamper-proof, locked and hexed. She didn't want to risk making her position worse by trying to fight him and failing so, she let him do what he wanted and tried to blank it out when he got rough. She had blanked out far worse in the past.

Later, when she was alone again and drifting somewhere between awake and asleep, she comforted herself by envisioning all the brutal ways she would like to see Pietre come to his end. She had no way of knowing that, just one room over, Meg was thinking similar thoughts in her bed.

…

((Cue up "Cage of Bones" by Son Lux for this bit))

"I can't believe I'm back here," Billie Dean muttered to herself.

The gray-haired medium put the car in park alongside the cracked curb and unfastened her seatbelt. Constance was already out by then and approaching the overgrown wrought iron gate. She was transfixed by the place, moving like a sleepwalker. No matter how many times she was in its presence, the house always had the same effect on her; the same effect it had when it first drew her to it. Returning to it, for her, was always a return home.

When Constance reached for it, the gate swung open with a squeal of rusty hinges. A ghost of a smile touched her lips and she headed up the walkway, toward the front porch. A light breeze swirled the fog that hung over the dead grass and stirred a mobile made of crow's bones that in the big tree out front. The grotesque creation she recognized as Tate's handiwork.

Looking at it objectively, there was art to it. He had been very painstaking in the arrangement of bones, to keep the avian appearance while giving it a whole new purpose. The skull sat on top with a length of sinew run through a crack in the apex, to attach it to the tree branch.

Seeing it set off a series of flashbulb memories that staggered her: Charles Montgomery, helping her grind up her cheating husband's body in the basement, to feed to the dogs. The dead pets Adelaide had hidden in trash bags in her bedroom. The horrific parade of dead animals Michael was responsible for. Tate's first attempt at taxidermy on a turtle when he was six. He said Charles had told him how to do it. He had been so proud of his work.

"Constance?" Billie Dean asked, touching her shoulder.

The woman snapped out of her trance and rubbed her forehead. She forced a smile. "I'm fine," she lied. "Just…memories. The old place always stirs them up."

"I'll bet," muttered the psychic dryly.

She wasn't having an easy time of things herself. As soon as she set foot on the property, her sixth sense was screaming. She had been to Murder House many times before and had even lived in it up until recently. Something was different now. The whole place was charged up, a veritable power plant of supernatural energy. It wasn't welcoming to her, either.

Constance stepped onto the porch. As with the gate, when she reached for the handle, the front door swung open. Billie Dean came along behind her at a slower pace, mistrusting the situation.

"Constance, maybe we should rethink this," she said, hesitating just shy of the porch. She hugged herself and looked up at the dark windows above. "This doesn't feel right."

"Nonsense," the blonde woman dismissed with a short laugh. "This is my house. What's there to rethink?"

She stepped inside the shadowy foyer. Billie Dean started after her, but the door slammed shut in her face. She grabbed the handle, but it wouldn't move.

"Constance!" Billie Dean shouted and pounded on the door.

There was no answer.

xxx

Author's Note:

I know it's only been a couple of days since my last update but I really wanted this piece to go with the last one. If I posted them together, though, that would've been one honkin-huge chapter. So. Here's the rest. And another cliffhanger. Sorry! I promise you'll find out what becomes of Constance next time.

This is the last chapter of this Episode. Next Episode's called "Black Celebration". Michael's turning 20! And it's going to be a party to remember...