((Suggested music: Seven Devils by Florence and the Machine))
The coven's return to the hotel was chaotic: There was a flurry of motion as the bodies of the two dead women were brought in, and more commotion when Parker saw Dawn's condition and started freaking out. Troy managed to block the skinnier guy from getting to his friend's battered corpse, but Alec finally had to physically pull him away from the group. Parker's anguished cries echoed through the halls after them as they carried the sacrificial witches to the roof.
The roof was made of concrete and up above the reach of the predatory creatures that roamed in the fog. The group quickly threw together a pyre from broken-up wooden shipping pallets and torn up cardboard boxes. Michael insisted on a change of clothes before the actual ritual. He was filthy and disheveled and wanted to be properly presented for the ritual, even if it was a hasty one.
Being that it was a special occasion, he chose a black watered silk shirt and his cape-sleeve crepe topcoat. Black velvet pants and black leather ankle boots with sharp pin-box toes made him look and feel darkly majestic. He pulled his blond hair back into a ponytail that he fixed with a long strip of thin black leather, wrapped around and around, like a noose. He fastened it that way with a small loop, liking the effect. He eyed his reflection in the bathroom mirror critically then decided to smudge on some black eyeliner as well. The smoky effect added drama to his dark eyes, though his mood accomplished that well enough on its own.
Once he approved of his reflection, he rejoined the others on the roof. Pieter, Meg, and Tisi were all there, and he was pleased to see that they too had cleaned up some. Azalea, the plump curly-haired witch, had joined them; Michael didn't see Cordelia or Desiree. Troy was there though, and Fiona was perched nearby, still in raven form.
"We're ready," Michael said confidently as he approached the pyre.
The bodies of the dead women were laid atop the tinder with obvious respect, their hands folded over their middles and bodies aligned. The others formed a circle around the pile, with Michael at the apex near the heads of the deceased. Troy and Fiona stayed back, watching.
Michael considered saying something pithy or ominous, but as much as he enjoyed ritual and performance, he really did want to get on with things. So he focused his thoughts on the broken up debris in front of him. The fire touched off easier than striking a match. He barely even thought about the dry, flammable nature of the wood and it was ablaze. In seconds, the supernaturally hot flames devoured the wood and cardboard. The bodies went next, sizzling and smoking with the sudden and intense heat. It smelled a lot like bacon.
Michael's brow furrowed as he concentrated on what he desired. He could feel an odd sense of mild resistance to his thoughts, unseen but similar to pushing on the skin of stove-cooked pudding. Then the barrier burst. The air quivered, sending a strange shudder through all present. The smoke from the fire intensified, growing so thick and white that it completely obscured everyone's vision for several seconds.
When the smoke cleared, the fire was out. The only thing left of the pyre were two blackened forms that hardly even resembled bodies. Not at all what Michael expected to see. He was on the verge of full nuclear rage when one of the charred corpses wobbled.
"What the—" Azalea mumbled, disgusted by the sight.
The right arm cracked and fell into meaty black chunks, exposing peachy whole skin.
"She's alive!" Tisi gasped.
"No," Michael said. He stepped into the charcoal remains of the pyre and assessed the body. "The person inside her is."
He bent then and started ripping chunks of the barbecued witch off of the person who was just beneath the carbonized flesh. The person inside was moving more and trying to make noise. The other body was starting to do the same thing.
"Break open the other one!" Michael barked, because the others were still just standing there.
Troy sprang into action first, breaking apart the other witch's body as quickly as he could without hurting the person just beneath the second skin. Soon they were all helping, all except Fiona, who used her condition as an inarguable excuse to sit out of the grunt work.
Michael ripped the outer meat shell from the face of the person he held and was relieved to see it was Evangelina. He resisted the impulse to hug her. She still had a lot of dead body encasing her. A glance over saw that Troy had successfully gotten the burned head off of Jeremiah. Both individuals were alive and breathing, awake but not the least bit alert or coherent. It was like they were sedated.
Meg tore a large section of abdomen away, exposing Evangelina's bare, pale belly. Michael's hand settled on the soft, warm skin. In the short amount of time she'd been gone, her middle had grown drastically. She looked like she was closer to six months along, not a few weeks. Then Michael noticed something even more disturbing: Instead of one life force, he could sense two in her womb.
A strange, cold feeling washed over Michael's insides. It was like anger only anger, for him, was hot. This feeling was colder than ice. Forgetting everything else, he tried to identify his fetus by its energy signature, but they were identical. And yet he knew beyond doubt that one was absolutely not his offspring.
One of them was the Dragon's child.
—
An hour later, Michael sat brooding at the hotel bar. Evangelina and Jeremiah had been bathed and put to bed in individual rooms, with someone to sit with them in case they woke. Most everyone else did the sensible thing and went to bed. Those that could sleep, did. Those that couldn't found other more carnal ways to pass the time.
Michael sat and sipped bourbon and tried to decide what to do.
The presence of another baby alongside his bothered him to no end but there wasn't an easy solution to the problem. He had no idea which of the twins was his or he would simply eradicate the interloper. It also bothered him that his supposed father put the parasite in there.
"Some father," he muttered into his glass and followed the complaint with a large belt of bourbon. He slammed the near-empty tumbler down on the bar.
Some father, indeed. Whatever Lucifer was to Michael, he was nothing like the human concept of a paternal figure. By that definition, he should be here now, telling Michael what he needed to know in order to become a successful leader of men. Instead, the fallen angel was impregnating his son's chosen mate behind his back and expecting him to just deal with it. He wasn't even accessible to yell at about it.
Michael rubbed his eyes, mashing the heels of his palms into them. He wanted to rail against the idea that a celestial being should behave like trailer trash, but Jeremiah's lessons haunted him. The very reason many of the angels fell in the first place was because they couldn't keep their dicks under their robes. Impregnating mortal women was the first of their sins but hardly the worst. Michael's own conception had been a parasitical pregnancy, something he had come to understand over the years but had never fully appreciated until now.
"Tough night?"
The unfamiliar male voice snapped Michael out of his dark thoughts. Across the bar from him, a man in an old-timey bartender's vest stood wiping down a brandy snifter. He had a waxed handlebar mustache and a warm expression. Michael knew just looking at him that he was a ghost.
"Who are you?"
The bartender's smile tugged his mustache. "Joe. Smilin' Joe is what they used to call me, but nobody's called me in so long…"
"What are you doing here?" Michael pressed. "Why haven't I seen you here before?"
Joe shrugged and put the glass away. "Guess we just haven't crossed paths. Can I get you a refill?"
Michael looked at his empty glass. "Sure," he decided. "Bourbon. Neat."
"A man after my own heart," Smilin' Joe smiled. He reached under the bar and pulled out a bottle of Black Maple Hill. "So what's got a guy like you stewing in a place like this, at so late an hour?"
Michael watched the amber fluid fill the glass, finding it soothing to watch it flow. He thought about how to answer the question and said with a sarcastic twist of a smile: "Woman troubles."
Joe's expression shifted to immediate understanding. "Say no more, friend, say no more! Man's eternal curse is the so-called fairer sex."
Despite his mood, Michael found himself warming to the anachronistic bartender. "And yet we want them so much. Why is that?"
"I don't know for sure," said Smilin' Joe. "But I think it's because our balls are hardwired to our brains."
Michael laughed, caught off guard by the answer. "Yeah, maybe."
He had a sip from his glass and was surprised by the smooth richness of the liquor. He'd had bourbon many times before; it was one of Mother Constance's favorite alcohols. But she never kept $200 bottles around the house.
"So tell me about yourself, Joe," Michael said, both because he was curious about this spirit he hadn't met before and because he wanted the guy to talk some so he could enjoy the bourbon.
Smilin' Joe grabbed a damp rag and started wiping down the bar. "Not much to tell, really."
"How did you die?" Michael prompted bluntly.
The man's easy demeanor cooled a touch and he looked uncomfortable. He took his time swabbing the bar top before finally saying: "Woman troubles."
Michael snorted a soft laugh. "Right." He lifted his glass. "To women. The worst addiction known to man."
…
Author's Note:
It being nearly Halloween RL, I couldn't resist dipping into a couple of my favorite stories for inspiration. Ghostbusters influenced the first portion of this chapter, I'll admit, and the second was an homage to the bar scenes in Stephen King's The Shining. Warner Brothers is releasing Doctor Sleep this year, the official sequel to the original story, so it's been on my mind a lot lately. Michael's no Jack, though. He's a lot scarier than Jack when he gets worked up.
He's also having a hard time with the reality of having Satan for a dad. It seemed pretty cool up till now. Being the Devil's son ain't all it's cracked up to be.
Coming up: Michael finds ways to express his growing anger. Not good ways, but ways.