The first thing Troy registered on waking was pain. Opening his eyes, he found he was on his back, with his head turned to one side so that the first thing he saw was a very pale young woman looking back at him. They were both naked. She was on her belly, arms folded to provide a rest for her cheek. Her eyes were ice blue and intense as she stared at him.

Flickers of memory popped and flashed but didn't connect: Impressions of dirty sex and violence, of beasts and writhing bodies. He rubbed his face and eyes with both hands then looked at the woman again. Her pale lips quirked at the corners in a hint of a smile.

"What happened?" Troy asked groggily.

"You passed out," she said, her smile inching wider. She pushed herself up to her elbows and reached over to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "I'm Tisi. You are Troy. Welcome home."

More flickers of memory flashed; the experience with Pieter was beginning to filter in. "Oh, sweet Jesus," he mumbled. No wonder he was so sore.

"Don't blaspheme," she chided, but her words lacked the sting of seriousness. She was making light of his background.

Troy lifted his head and looked around. They were alone in the room. "Where is everyone?"

Tisi twitched her shoulders. "They left." She pulled herself closer to him and pet a hand over his bare chest. "I'm supposed to bring you back to the hotel when you wake up."

Her smile had taken on a predatory edge that Troy found alluring. Magnetic. He bit his lower lip when her palm connected with and moved down his abdomen. His cock woke, rising to meet her questing hand. He knew he should ask her to clarify what she meant, but he didn't want interrupt what she was doing, so he didn't. At the moment he wanted nothing more than to feel her hand on his groin.

He sighed when she slipped her fingers around his shaft. "I'm going to Hell," he said, with no regret.

She giggled softly then pressed her lips to his, deepening the kiss as she stroked his sex. He reached up to put his arms around her. She shifted and slid atop him, angling his cock so she could mount him. He moaned into her mouth. Whatever pains he'd woken with were forgotten. Before long, the pair were fucking furiously, moaning and gasping and clawing at one another. It was a frenzied joining and when he came, he saw stars. His heart felt like it might seize from the strain of the release.

Tisi collapsed on top of him, her snowy skin slicked with sweat that cooled almost instantly, leaving her clammy. It was a bit like holding a dead person, but Troy was too delirious from pleasure to care. For a moment he lingered in a blissful state of complacency.

"Oh, God! I came inside you," he said, shocked back to his senses by the sudden realization.

She slid back off of him and sprawled on her back beside him. Her long, tangled hair tickled his arm. "I'm sterile."

The news came as a relief, though Troy wasn't sure whether he believed her. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

Her smile came back. She draped an arm over her eyes because she could feel hot tears spring up and she didn't want him to see how much that simple, considerate phrase affected her. To him, it looked like a lazy move to block the light.

"You didn't hurt me," she said quietly.

Silence fell between them then. Troy knew he was at a major crossroad that would change his life and possibly the future of the world. Joining Michael was the worst thing he could do, according to everything the church had taught him over the years. It was dooming one's self to eternal damnation and punishment, if the Scripture was true. But it felt so sinfully right.

Troy had known temptation before, but this was beyond that. This was a distinct drive, a calling the likes he had heard elders go on about. He had assumed his calling was what had brought him as an orphan to the church. That had never inspired true feeling in him, though, much less a sense of purpose. He certainly hadn't performed miracles like throwing fire. But then he hadn't been raped into submission by anyone with the New World United Church either.

"Michael said I was the False Prophet," Troy said.

"He would know," said Tisi, in control of her emotions again. She let her arm drop to the mattress. "He is the son of Satan."

"But how?" wondered Troy. He still couldn't quite believe it. "I mean, I always knew I was different but not that different."

"You just are," she said, sitting up. "We should head to the hotel."

She bent to steal a light kiss from his lips then she got up, jostling him a bit when her weight left the mattress. She was skinny but she had a beautiful body. There were several light injuries marring her skin, including the bite mark on her thigh. Troy found himself staring at that mark while the woman gathered her clothes.

"Get dressed," she urged when she saw he hadn't moved. "Unless you want to wash up first."

He looked down at himself. "I should, uh…yeah." He was a mess and definitely in need of cleaning. "Is there..?"

"The shower in the bathroom works," Tisi smiled at his awkwardness. "There's even hot water. No luxury is spared for the Prince of Darkness."

"Royalty hath privilege," Troy said and hauled himself to his feet. The sore stiffness returned, making him wince. A hot shower would be a blessing.

He made his way to the bathroom, started the shower, then went to rinse the night from his mouth. He intended to use water but there was some mouthwash on the side of the sink, so he took a bit of that, since he had no toothbrush. Then he saw his reflection.

His irises were solid black, and an upside-down cross was carved in his forehead, trickling blood down to his brows. A pentagram was carved in the center of his chest and more blood spilled down his torso in thin rivulets from each point of the encircled star. Shocked at the sight, he stumbled back and looked down at himself, his hands flying to the site of the injury on his chest only to find his flesh whole.

Troy looked at the mirror again and he saw what he should have seen before: His eyes were back to their normal brown and his forehead was whole and uninjured. Whatever he had seen wasn't real, not in a physical sense. His racing heart didn't care. Gripping the sides of the sink, he stared down into the basin and tried to get a grip on what reality even was.

His earliest memories involved his arrival at the church. It was the middle of the night; it was raining hard and the police car he rode in rattled with the sound of it. The radio chattered and made hissing noises that garbled the words so he couldn't understand them. He was eight years old when the police handed him over to the church, a foundling rescued from a town overrun by zombies. How he had survived, no one knew.

Troy couldn't remember what had happened before that night. Over the years he had tried to recall what his parents were like, or even what they looked like, but there was nothing there. Not even a faint impression. The blackness over his early years was almost complete: The only thing he could recall from his early childhood was a vague memory of being under a large parked vehicle—an RV or lorry truck bed—and cutting the palm of his hand on a piece of broken glass. It was a deep cut: He still had a scar from the injury, between the fleshy mounds of his thumb and palm.

Pulling away from the sink, Troy went and stepped into the shower. He let the hot spray beat down on his back. It felt good on his sore muscles. He wondered what his church group was doing. Likely they had noticed him missing yesterday but what could be done about it? Perhaps they had tried to report the disappearance to the local constabulary, but he doubted it. Those who enforced the laws in New 'Salem were enemies of the church.

Troy grabbed the soap and started washing. The heat of the water helped get him cleaner than he'd been in months. He'd forgotten how nice it could be to be truly clean. The idea of going back to the church group was growing more unappealing by the minute. He had never loved his life with them, though it was all he could remember. He wasn't sure what he had found in New 'Salem but he intended to explore it fully, even if it meant he would do it alone. There were worse things than being on his own.

…

Tate fully expected Michael to turn up at the Montgomery mansion the next day. The teen was ready for anger, which he welcomed; he would love a good brawl. He was even braced for a guilt trip. But as the day wore on without sign of Michael, Tate grew restless. As afternoon crept toward evening, he lost his patience and decided to do something about it. His antsy behavior had driven away those who might want to keep him company, so he didn't tell anyone where he was going when he left the house. He just went.

There were no abandoned cars along the road anymore; nothing to steal and drive. Scavengers and profiteers had confiscated everything on the foggy streets that could be moved. Even the old pile-ups and junk vehicles had all been harvested for parts. Being outside put Tate on edge. He didn't like the feeling of being exposed that persisted despite the fog. It had been years since he had seen the Dead Breakfast Club, or anyone from Westfield who had a grudge against him, but the paranoia still lingered.

To avoid walking the whole way, Tate apparated to the closest place he had been to the Bradford Hotel, choosing to start his search there since that's where Constance said Michael had been staying. The fog had extended completely over the area now, engulfing the venerable hotel. Crows of all sizes were gathered on and around it, hunkering on every available surface they could get their claws around. The top of the building in particular was choked with the black birds. It stirred nostalgia in Tate for the blood crows he once fostered. As unappealing as they were, they were the closest thing he'd had to pets.

None of these birds seemed inclined to be his companion, though. They all eyed him warily, beady eyes blinking soullessly at him as he passed. There were a few expensive-looking cars parked in front of the hotel and one Jeep that had seen much better days. Birds sat atop the vehicles as well, depositing large droppings on the windows.

A bird near the main doorway ruffled its feathers at Tate as he passed but otherwise the birds left him alone. He passed right through the double doors, noting as he did that they looked new. The paint was rich brown, and the ornately carved wood showed no sign of age or wear. He noted the condition without understanding its significance, his attention already on the lobby. There was a group of people there, Michael included, and they were discussing something rather animatedly.

Though Tate hadn't made himself visible, Michael looked right at him, acknowledging the ghost teen's presence without calling attention to it. The others kept talking, oblivious to his arrival. The Antichrist was seated in one of the ivory wingback chairs near the lit firepit, stylish in his usual pallet of expensive black materials. He had his long blond hair pulled back in a black velvet tie and looked every bit the Prince of Darkness that he was.

Tate nibbled his thumbnail and tried to get the gist of the conversation. The coven was discussing some ritual they were planning to do that night. It seemed to involve a stranger in their midst: A dark-haired guy that reminded Tate of Superman. Tate never liked Superman. He was too perfect. Batman was better because he was dark and had conflicts of morality. Tate didn't like this new guy either. He smiled too much and his smile was like a Ken doll's.

"Where'd you find this loser?" Tate said, circling the chair where the new guy sat.

Michael's lips thinned. "Excuse me a moment," he said to the others, cutting through the chatter.

He got up then and, after shooting Tate a meaningful look, he left the lobby. He headed for the basement, taking the main staircase because the back stairs led to the area where the succubus and her zombie familiar were being held. When he reached the main boiler area he turned, expecting to see Tate following along. The teen was standing right behind him, a peculiarly intense look in his dark eyes. For anyone else, it would have been a creepy encounter. Michael was unfazed.

"Why are you here?" he asked.

"Because," Tate dismissed. "Why'd you tell me to come to your stupid birthday party if you were just going to bail on it?"

Michael's brows went up and his chin went down. "Really? You're upset about that?"

"Who's upset? Even though it was a dick thing to do."

Michael was torn between impatience and amusement. "God. You are such a child."

The words were a casual critique, but he realized how true they were in a moment of sharp clarity. Memories of his childhood rushed back to Michael, memories of playing with a little boy his own age and the fight that had ended the friendship. It had been about Halloween and Michael not wanting to trick-or-treat any longer. He had gotten too old while Tate—going by the pseudonym Ethan then—still wanted to indulge in the childhood pastime. He was permanently stuck at a point Michael had grown past years ago. The ghost boy was no different than Thaddeus or Joshua or Beauregard in that respect.

"Fuck you," Tate snapped, unaware of the epiphany. "You're not so God-damned high-and-mighty mature. I saw what you did to Constance's car. You think you're so—Are you…crying?"

Michael brushed his wrist over his face, using his lace-cuffed sleeve to sop up the tears that had already made it to his chin. He twitched a crooked smile through the tears. "You know, you're right," he said. "I was a dick. And I apologize."

It was a blanket apology for the past ten years or so, as well as the party. Tate could sense the greater implication but had no idea what to do with it. He knew how to argue and how to fight. Screaming and hitting he understood. He didn't understand this.

"You think it's just that easy?" he challenged. "You say you were a dick and suddenly that just makes it all go away? Because it doesn't! I know because I've been saying sorry to people for years and it doesn't matter!"

The surge of his emotions manifested in the material world in the form of a psychic force that buckled the nearby boiler, ripping it from its pipes. Hot water hissed and steam quickly filled the area. Surprised by the sudden destruction, Michael moved back out of the way of the steam jets. As the surprise wore off, he eyed the damage critically.

"There goes the hot water," he said under his breath and moved to unplug the thing so it would stop spitting boiling hot water everywhere. The scalding liquid had no effect on him but could ruin other things down there. To Tate, he said: "Violet forgave you. So did the Warwicks."

The teen ghost simmered down right along with the boiler, cooled by Michael's intimate knowledge of his personal situation. He had never really spoken to him about it, that he could remember. Doubting himself led to a further deflation.

"Yeah, well," he said, picking at the sleeve of his sweater. "That took years. And lots of other shit.

"I want to make it up to you," persisted Michael. "I do. But right now, I'm trying to figure out how to get Evangelina back from the Dragon. He wasn't supposed to actually take her at the celebration."

Tate had seen the whole thing on the same display Michael had and had found the whole thing quite impressive. "That was crazy. I never thought I'd see a real dragon."

"There are many things coming that the world has never seen," prophesied Michael.

"Do you think the dragon will hurt her?"

"I don't know," Michael admitted. "That new guy upstairs? His name is Troy. He's going to help me get Evangelina back tonight. We're doing a ritual up at the Hollywood sign tonight." He hesitated, then added: "The fog extends to the sign, where we're doing it. You…can come."

It was the first time Michael had offered to include Tate in one of the coven's rituals, albeit hesitantly. Tate found it both flattering and disconcerting. "I'll ask Constance. She doesn't know I came here though. So…"

Michael tipped his head, again struck by how juvenile the spirit was. It was odd to Michael that Tate felt the need to ask permission from anyone to do anything when he was dead. But then, Mother Constance was a ghost as well. She likely had even more control over the teen in death than she had when bound to the flesh. Not for the first time that day, Michael found himself pitying his sire.

"Go ahead and ask her," Michael agreed. "I need to get back upstairs. If you do want to come later, we're meeting at the sign at sunset."

"Yeah. Okay," said Tate, shifting his weight. He felt somewhat unfulfilled since he hadn't gotten to properly vent his temper, but this was the closest to civil they'd been in years.

Michael went back upstairs. Tate hung around a few seconds longer, then apparated back to the mansion. He immediately went looking for Violet.

—

Author's Note:

This one got long. I tried to trim it on my first editing pass and it just got longer so I'm going to have to edit it again later. I hope you had fun with it though. Lots of horror Easter egg homages tucked in there. Some are more obvious than others, like the nod to Freddy's steamy boiler room. I'll point out a couple more when I re-edit this chapter later.

It's been getting busy around here since it's pre-Halloween month. I've already been to Spirit Halloween three times this year. I don't want to think about how many times I've haunted the seasonal sections of other stores.

Next time: Violate.