Desiree was the unlucky one Michael woke in the wee hours to make a meal for Evangelina. It was a peculiar order but no worse than many of the odd meals that were prepared in the old kitchen these days. Evangelina wanted raw lamb steak, warmed to body temperate without cooking the flesh, and milk mixed with honey. Michael's own strange dietary requirements meant they kept meat, blood, innards, and even live sheep on the property so filling the request wasn't difficult; just messy.

Desiree served the bloody chunks in a white ceramic bowl, swimming in a gravy of warmed blood. The red contrasted darkly with the white, looking black in the thickest parts. Her maman used to eat a similar "stew" when she consulted with the loa, voodoo spirits that once spoke to Desiree, too. She hadn't seen one since she joined the coven. She didn't particularly miss them, either. She'd met Baron Cimitière once, in St. Louis #2, and was shocked when he tried to molest her after she'd summoned him in a ritual using rum and a fine cigar she purchased herself from the tobacconist.

Everything she'd read about that incarnation of the Loa of the Dead said he was the polite one, the healer and wizard. Oh, he'd looked the gentleman, in his purple velvet suit and fancy top hat. He spoke smooth and sophisticated. But those hands of his! He was a magician, all right. He'd distract her with grand gestures using one hand while the other was trying to settle on her posterior. He baited her with promises of good fortune and power even as his fingers were tracing the outline of her bra clasp beneath her sweater. She'd had less handsy third dates. But she managed to leave the encounter with her virtue intact—and she was wiser about trafficking with spirits.

It was already dawn by the time Desiree finished delivering Evangelina's visceral breakfast. The mulatto witch was too alert to go back to bed, so she started prepping food for the basement prisoners.

She had become their keeper of sorts as no one else cared whether they were fed. She had been told Kyle didn't need food to survive but he ate when she brought food, so she kept bringing it. Zoe definitely needed to eat, so it was her needs Desiree tailored the meals to. The succubus' diet mainly consisted of meat, apples, and water, and liquor when Desiree could sneak it down.

Over the days, she had gotten closer to both of the prisoners. Though Kyle was still sullen and Zoe often tried to prey on her emotions in order to get her to release them, she couldn't blame either of them. Privately, she wished she could let them go. Nobody was using them for anything or even talking about them. The fact was, nobody cared. They were Fiona's prisoners and she was dealing with more important things.

Desiree had given up trying to talk to anyone about it after Pietre made her feel stupid for even asking about them. Instead, she thought about how she could free them without anyone catching on. The problem was two-fold: Zoe and Kyle were locked in cages Fiona had enchanted herself, and both were wearing collars that were cursed by Pietre. Desiree wasn't strong enough to break either of the spells by herself and neither of the captives could help, thanks to the effects of the collars.

She had been working on something she thought of as a magic mirror spell, something she hoped would allow her to open a portal she could pull them through. So far, though, she'd only managed to spy on the prisoners from a distance. Reaching through to touch what she saw was proving much harder to do on her own. She suspected it would be easier if she had a couple of other witches to help her but there wasn't anyone she could ask.

It was mostly fantasy anyway. She didn't want to anger Fiona or risk bringing Michael's dark attention her way. Plotting ways to help her basement friends escape was a hobby she didn't seriously think would ever pan out. Still, she practiced in secret, using the antique hand mirror she'd found on a vanity in one of the hotel's rooms. And she wondered.

She couldn't help wondering if Maitre Carrefour could break the black magic that trapped the pair. The loa was a no-nonsense creature who was reputed to be able to break curses, hexes, and spells. He was also known as a spirit one didn't approach lightly. He earned his title of Master of Evil Spirits for a reason. Guardian of the crossroads, he was uncompromising and demanding. Not a loa most approached without the assistance of an houngan or mambo.

The more she thought about it, the more certain she became that he could help. What she wasn't so sure about was whether it was worth the price. Not only would she risk the wrath of the coven and the Antichrist, she would be seeking the direct attention of a being far more potent and intimidating than Baron Cimitière, and she would need to ask him for a favor. Just the thought of it made her heart race in an unpleasant way.

So, she kept practicing with the hand mirror and hoping an alternative would present itself.

...

((Music that I played while writing this and a lot of this season can be found on YouTube under the title "Arkham Horror: 1 Hour of H.P. Lovecraft Music for Board Games and Role-playing" by Graham Plowman. Highly recommended for ambiance.))

Evening light shone red through the fog that hugged the Montgomery Mansion. The clatter of wing feathers heralded the arrival of a flock of black birds that settled on the eaves of the roof and in the branches of the old tree in the front yard. A lone bird came in last, eschewing a perch and instead coming down at angle to meet the sidewalk at a break-neck pace.

Far from suicidal, the large raven blurred just before it hit the ground, solidifying into Michael's impeccably dressed form. He dropped immediately into an easy stride, having no trouble adjusting to the shift. All it had taken was witnessing Aunt Fiona's transformation to get him wondering if he could do it. Wondering had opened the door and he found he was quite a natural at shifting into that form and back.

He strode up to the door opened it with a negligent wave of his hand. He crossed the threshold just as the sun's last light faded from the mist.

He was home.

The place smelled and felt like a piece of his childhood. He had spent more time next door living with Mother Constance, but this place had always felt like home to him, from the moment he set foot in it when he was little. His earliest memories of the place were tinted with fear but more than that he remembered the good times, back when Thaddeus and Ethan played with him.

But Michael wasn't there for nostalgia. "Mother Constance."

He smelled the smoke from her cigarette before he saw her emerge from the shadows of the hall. "Hello, sweetheart," she said. "What're you doin' here?"

Michael studied her. She had youthened herself once more and, dressed in a flowing tangerine and black kaftan, he imagined she looked like she must have when she was his age. She was quite lovely, in fact, but he was in no mood to care. He closed in on her, crowding her personal space. His height advantage forced her to look up to make eye contact since she didn't retreat from his presence.

"The Dragon put a baby in Evangelina," Michael told her. His tone was buttery smooth, devoid of true feeling. "That baby should have been in you." He tipped his head but didn't blink. "That's what the prophecy said. Isn't it?"

Constance hugged her middle with one arm, unsettled by his demeanor. Despite his outward calm, to her he seemed coiled; ready to strike. "Prophecies aren't iron-clad. Obviously." She hit her cigarette and exhaled slowly, arching a brow at him as she did.

"It should have been yours," Michael reiterated in that too-gentle tone. "That baby doesn't belong in her."

"Well, it doesn't belong in me!" she snapped, turning away.

Michael didn't allow her the luxury of retreat. He shifted through space, appearing right in front of her again. "If anything happens to my baby, you're the one I'll blame."

She sucked on her cigarette again to hide her surprise at his protectiveness over the unborn child. "I don't know what you think will happen. You turned out just fine."

Michael wasn't sure if that was intended as a dig or not. "My twin didn't. Or did you forget?"

Constance fluttered her hand to wave away the matter. Smoke danced in the air. "I was busy with you while he was bein' born. Someone had to take care of you! God knows none of the others there knew the first thing about handling an infant except your mother, and she—"

"—was dying because of me," Michael finished sharply. Hot tears slipped down his cheeks, but his expression didn't change.

Constance pressed her lips together briefly. The whole subject was one she would rather not think about. Ever. "It wasn't your fault, sweetheart," she said gently.

She reached for him, but Michael dodged her touch. He didn't want to be soothed. "I killed my mother. And I killed my brother. I wasn't supposed to be there."

"They died when you were born. But it was the house—"

"It wasn't the house, Mother Constance," he said with grim certainty. "My father killed them. My real father. And now he's going to kill Evangelina and my baby." He turned away from her then and shoved his thumbs in his pockets. "I can't tell them apart inside her. The babies. I can't tell them apart."

"You grew faster in the womb," Constance said, trying to placate him. "They saw it on the ultrasound. Whichever infant grows faster, that one isn't yours."

Michael bowed his head and stared at the hardwood floor for several silent seconds. Then he said quietly but firmly: "I'm bringing her here. She's started to get sick from not being here because of the parasite. She'll rest here and when His child starts to grow…I'll get rid of it."

The dire words sent a dark chill through Constance. "Michael. Honey. I think you should give this more thought. You're talkin' about the offspring of a—"

"I don't care," Michael interrupted. He looked back over a shoulder at her and said simply: "I'm not going to let him kill my baby."

His outline blurred and suddenly he was right in front of her again, grabbing her wrists. She dropped her cigarette.

"You're hurting me!" she protested. She tried to phase out but couldn't escape his hold, despite having no physical form.

"You're the reason this is happening," he said. His expression was still neutral, and his words quiet, but there was a sinister edge to them; poison dripping from serpent's fangs. "You have one chance to make this right, Mother Constance. If my baby dies or even comes out with so much as a sniffle…you'll suffer for it. I know your secrets and I won't hesitate," he squeezed her harder to emphasize his point. "To tear you open from the inside if you've fucked this up."

He smiled then and let go of her. He even reached up and smoothed a lock of her hair that had fallen from her updo. He studied her shaken demeanor then nodded, satisfied he was understood.

"When Evangelina arrives, make sure she has the master bedroom to herself," he said, tone deceptively pleasant. "And have the Warwicks fix up the nursery. They're so good at that sort of thing."

—

Author's Note:

Happy Halloween! That's the date of this posting, anyway. So I thought I'd serve up an extra-large chapter with some voodoo spice as a treat, to celebrate.

So, if I've learned nothing since I first start watching American Horror Story and writing the fanfic, it's that history loves to repeat itself in the series. Sometimes it does it over a stretch of a long period, with decades and even centuries between similar occurrences. Sometimes, it's just a few months. It's been 20 years since the house has had twins...

Next time: Michael moves Evangelina into Murder House. It's always so nice when someone new moves in. Until it isn't.