(Song: I Put a Spell on You – Marilyn Manson)

The marketplace was alive with activity that afternoon as Michael and Troy entered the square. The two young men dominated their space: People moved out of their way as they swaggered through the place. Dressed from head to toe in black, they struck quite a presence among the drab colors the common citizens wore. The young men were cleaner, too, better groomed, more attractive, more powerful. They were better than everyone and they knew it.

Once past the bottleneck at the entrance they made their way into the heart of the market where Michael's church stood. The open paved area was gruesome by day: Blood, old and new, stained the concrete in front of the church where the clergy had constructed three bulky altars. Two were small and flanked a central larger one.

There was a man at one of the smaller altars actively butchering the corpse of what appeared to be a child. Smoke guttered from a fire that burned on the larger altar where the remains of another human sacrifice sizzled. The air was greasy with the smell of meat and rot. Flies buzzed in thick swarms over discard piles of blackened human and animal bones that had been cast aside.

It was so obscene it didn't feel real to Troy. His hand went to the mark behind his ear—the mark of the Beast. As surreal as everything seemed, this was no dream. An orphan raised with six others in a facility run by a bunch of religious folks, most of what he recalled of his childhood had to do with chores or watching PBS. And now he was clearing a path through hell's carnival alongside the Antichrist.

Michael, for his part, was completely unfazed by the horrific scene. More than that: He looked proud.

"It's amazing what people can do when they all pull together, isn't it?" he said to Troy.

"Amazing," Troy echoed, boggling at the understatement. "Why are you having them do this?"

"Oh, I'm not. That's the best part!" Michael smiled brightly and spread his arms, turning a half circle to encompass the square. "This was all their idea." His smile shifted more sinister and determined. "It doesn't take much for humanity to turn on itself."

Troy looked out over the square, beyond the mess at the altars, and saw the rest of the marketplace was festively decorated with cuts of fresh pine and ribbons of red and gold. It looked almost like Christmas.

"Yule," Michael explained, noticing his interest. "The clergy put up the decor. The celebration is at the end of the month when the year ends. Something for the people to enjoy."

"Ah. I see."

"I stopped celebrating Christmas a while back," Michael explained as they skirted around the small throng of onlookers who were witnessing the human sacrifice. A few noticed Michael and Troy, and they whispered excitedly to each other. The Antichrist ignored them. "Seemed ridiculous to celebrate a holiday for my prophesied enemy. But I do enjoy that…that sense. You know? The cozy feeling of hearth and home. The Danish called it 'hygge'."

Troy wasn't sure the Danes even existed any longer, but he felt fairly confident that what they were witnessing wasn't what they would define as hygge. He followed the Antichrist inside the church, away from the violent scene, knowing it would haunt his thoughts later.

The main worship hall was decorated with more pine and ribbons, accented with sprigs of mistletoe bound in black ribbons. There were pinecones aflame, crackling in two large brass braziers on either side of the entryway. Up at the front of the small auditorium the dais featured a large wooden altar. The heavy oak altar was painted black and mostly covered by a blood-red velvet runner cloth.

"It's good for people to celebrate," Troy mused, trying to put an analytical frame around it. "Traditions are good for culture."

Michael went over to the largest chair that was positioned on the dais behind the altar and, with a flourish of black wool coat tails, he seated himself. His crisply pleated pants were a nice contrast to the shiny black officer's boots he wore. He motioned with one hand to the chair to his right.

Troy joined him, settling with less flair. The same could be said of his sense of style: Left to borrow clothing from the coven, he had to make do with what was on hand. As they were all prone to peacocking, his attire wasn't bad: Black silk shirt and leather pants. It just wasn't a look he would have assembled for himself normally.

A pair of acolytes came into the room and began lighting candles as the afternoon sun was waning. One of the individuals lighting candles was male, the other a female, but both wore the same rusty red head scarves and plain dark gray robes—the uniform of the clergy underlings. Both of the acolytes were bald beneath their scarves as well, another sign of their low rank in the church.

"You," Michael said to the girl. "Come here."

The young woman glanced around to be sure it was her being addressed. She had been serving the church a little over a month and the last thing she expected was to be singled out the first time she was in the room with the leader of the New World.

"Me, Sir?" she said meekly as she approached the dais.

"Yes, you," Michael laughed, amused by her cowardice. "Come closer."

She lifted the hem of her long shapeless robe and stepped up onto the dais. She paused there but he beckoned her closer with two fingers adorned with jeweled rings. His chair was so tall, they were almost on eye level as she came over to where he sat.

"Closer," he encouraged.

When she was just inches from bumping into his knees, he reached out and took both of her hands and pulled her in closer still, between his legs. She either had to look at his face, his crotch, or else turn her attention completely away from him—and she couldn't do that. She tried to make eye contact, but his gaze was so intense, she shied away from it. Which left her looking at his lap.

"What is your name?" he said gently.

"Caroline." She was blushing.

"Caroline," he repeated, savoring the word. He could tell she was a virgin. Her smell and soul told him so. "Tell me, Caroline. Do you love me?"

Troy shifted in his seat, morbidly curious at the turn in the conversation. The girl blushed harder, nearly matching her hood. Watching the blond man make her squirm was strangely amusing, even though Troy wasn't typically inclined to schadenfreude. But Michael did it so effortlessly, it was like watching a cat play with a blind mouse.

"Yes, of course, my Lord," she stammered.

There was a quick flurry of motion and suddenly Michael had her by the throat, her back to his chest, a short but very sharp knife in his hand pressed to her windpipe. He had pulled the black-handled weapon from the top of his boot in a practiced motion so smooth, even Troy hadn't seen it, and he was on the side the knife had been pulled from.

"Would you die for me?" Michael murmured in her ear as he tilted her head sharply to the side. His words were pure sex but the blade against her jugular drew a thin red line of blood.

She swallowed and tried to stifle her fear. "Yes." The word was a whisper, but her conviction was true.

Michael smiled, liking her response. He eased the blade off her neck and gave the wound a long, sensual lick. Caroline's lashes fluttered; she looked like she might faint with pleasure. Troy coughed to cover a snicker. Michael noticed the mirth anyway and shared it with a sidelong smirk that read like an inside joke between them.

"Caroline," Michael murmured in her ear again. He let his free hand roam over her torso, discovering the shape of her body beneath the loose robes. "Would you kill for me?"

He pressed the knife into her hand then, folding her fingers over the handle. She turned her head to see his face, not following what he meant. He arched his brows at her then sent a meaningful look over at the other acolyte, who was still dutifully lighting candles. They were talking too quietly for the young man to know what they were saying.

Caroline looked at her peer then back at Michael, a number of emotions flitting across her features. He gave her an encouraging nod. She suffered an 'oh shit' moment when the implication sunk in fully. Troy had to smother another snicker. Hesitantly, the girl rose.

Carrying the knife low so it was hidden in the folds of her loose robe, she went over to where her compatriot was working. He glanced at her and sent her a quick smile before focusing on his work. Caroline took one last glance back at the dais then drew back the knife and stabbed him in the back, as hard as she could.

It was an amateur strike: She held the blade like in the Psycho poster, which meant that it glanced off his ribs when she brought it down. He was taller than she was, so the blow hurt him, but it wasn't life-threatening. The acolyte turned and, seeing her readying to strike again, he scurried backward. He bumped into the candelabra he had been lighting, knocking white and red candles to the floor in a blizzard of melted wax.

"What are you doing?!" he cried as he retreated from what he saw as a woman gone suddenly mad.

He looked to the dais and the two men seated there. Michael propped his chin on his hand and Troy just sat there, his expression completely blank. The young man reckoned from their attitudes that this was some sort of test and, dodging Caroline's next lunge, he cast about for something to serve as a weapon.

The only thing nearby was the fallen candelabra. It was almost as tall as he was and weighty, but he grabbed it anyway and swung it like a baseball bat at her. It was an awkward weapon and he missed his target. It did force Caroline back, though, and she had to consider her next move as he had the advantage of range now. He poked at her warily with the curled feet of the brass stand. She wouldn't meet his eyes but was alert for an opportunity to try and stab him again. She avoided his pokes easily, but she couldn't find a hole in his defense.

He poked at her again, using the candelabra this time to force Caroline to back up more. He was trying to pin her against the wall, but she figured that out quickly and veered away from it, toward the pews. She scrambled up on the back of one, knife at the ready. Her fellow acolyte raised the candelabra. It was starting to get cumbersome, so he just held it in a defensive position.

The standoff lasted a few tense seconds, then Caroline gave a shrill shriek and launched herself at him.

He tried to swat her aside with the candelabra, but it was too heavy to move so fast. The three of them went down in a heap. Immediately the girl started stabbing and stabbing and stabbing. She plunged the blade into whatever she could, even nicking herself once. She stabbed until she was sure he had stopped making noise. At long last she dropped the knife and fell off the other acolyte, breathing heavily. Covered in blood, she looked to the dais, eye wide in shock at what just happened.

Michael awarded her a slow clap and a smirk.

"Like I said. It doesn't take much to get them to turn on each other," he mentioned in an undertone to Troy, as if they'd never strayed from the topic. Then, in a volume Caroline could hear: "Well done, my dear. Go clean up. Return here to me at midnight."

She blinked silently and nodded, then let herself out of the chapel, presumably to go clean herself up.

"What's at midnight?" Troy asked.

"Nothing. I just want to see how she endures other types of pain," Michael dismissed. "She has a strong spirit. If she doesn't break, she'll be an excellent leader."

Troy suspected he was being put through similar paces himself. "Should I call someone to clear away the body?"

Michael glanced over at the bloody heap. The corpse was already beginning to cool but the Antichrist felt his stomach growl anyway. He hadn't eaten in a while. He didn't particularly want lukewarm flesh that had just been in a brawl. He preferred meat with passion and fear in it, not anger and indignation. He rubbed his mouth thoughtfully. There was nothing more annoying than being snackish and not wanting what was on hand.

"Yes, I suppose," he said finally. "Have him fed to the dogs. They haven't had fresh human in a while." He rubbed his middle, suffering another hunger pang himself. "Tomorrow I need you to head to Long Beach. There's a woman there who stole a medallion that belongs to Jeremiah. Billie Dean Howard. I want it back and her dead. She's a psychic of some small ability. Try to exercise your powers. You won't know what you can do until you try."

"Long Beach is a big place," Troy observed. "Do we know where in Long Beach she is?"

"Give me your hand."

It wasn't a request: Troy was compelled to put his hand out. He didn't resist the impulse. Michael cupped both hands around his. For Troy, there was an instant of electric pain but before he could properly react to it, it was gone again. When Michael released him, a wisp of white smoke escaped and disappeared quickly. On the front and back of Troy's hand, an arcane sigil had seared straight through skin and bone, cauterized and healed instantly.

"That will help you find her," Michael said confidently.

"How?" Troy asked, flexing his hand. It felt normal. No pain at all.

"You'll know."

…

It had been Billie Dean's intention to move the young man inside the abandoned beach house, but she could tell from his aura that he was a good person and that made her feel even worse about hitting him with the car. The world had too few good people left in it.

So, she stayed. He was out for over a day, rousing just enough for her to get some water into him before lapsing into unconsciousness again. The next day he woke for a few minutes, several times. Long enough to get a little food and more water into him. Incontinence became a problem, but she took care of that too. There was a time such work would have been beneath her, but the apocalypse had rid her of such hang-ups.

After the third day, he woke and spoke to her while she was moving a pile of fresh linens into the room he occupied.

"Who are you?" he said, his voice raspy from disuse.

She put the sheets down on the chair in the corner of the bedroom and offered him a polite little smile. "Billie Dean. I'm afraid you had a little accident. I've been caring for you. Do you—What's your name?"

The young man squinted and rubbed his forehead. "Jeff." Then: "Jett."

Billie Dean's smile faltered briefly. "Which is it?"

"Jett."

The medium's smile returned. "Jett," she agreed. She didn't care what he wanted to call himself. "Can you tell me how you're feeling? Are you hungry?"

There was a crackle of thunder outside, muffled by the walls and ceiling. The dark-haired young man started to answer but Billie Dean shushed him suddenly. She keened her senses, looking to him like she was just staring into space. He tried again to speak, but she put her fingers over his mouth and shushed him more insistently.

"There's something at the door," she whispered.

Jett froze and listened. He couldn't hear anything except his own heartbeat. The door to the hall was open and there wasn't anything he could see on the other side. That wasn't the door the psychic was registering, however. She was sensing the large shadowy entity that was right outside the front door.

There were several other shadowy figures flitting by in the fog but the one on the porch was there with purpose. What that could be, Billie Dean couldn't fathom. She could only sense the thing hunkered out there. Her first thought was to find a way out the back but that would leave them out in the open on foot. Whatever was outside hadn't crossed the threshold. It was possible the light or their life essence kept it back. She had no idea.

"What is it?" Jett whispered.

She waved at him but didn't risk more noise shushing him a third time. For a long time, nothing happened. Then there was a heavy knock-knock-knock at the front door. Jett sat up and Billie Dean moved to the head of the bed where she put a hand on his shoulder. They both watched the hallway, lit with emergency candles the medium had found in the kitchen.

There was another stretch of silence then another heavy trio of knocks rattled the door in its frame: Knock. Knock. Knock.

Billie Dean squeezed Jett's shoulder. He pried her hand off and let her grip his instead.

"Whatever happens," she whispered, her words as strong as her grip. "It isn't real. Just keep hold of my hand."

"What? What do you mean?"

There came more pounding at the door then, so loud it echoed in the hall. Knock. Knock. KNOCK.

The last rap was followed by a loud clatter as the door fell in. They both braced themselves but as the seconds stretched into minutes without incident, they looked to each other.

"Let's go see," Jett said quietly.

"I'll go," Billie Dean corrected.

"No way," said Jett firmly. "I'm not letting you face whatever that is by yourself. We go together."

He used her hand to help pull himself out of bed with, wincing only a little at the overall stiffness in his body from laying down for too long. Together they braved the hall, following it around the corner only to find the entryway empty apart from the felled door. There wasn't anything on the porch at that point except fog.

"Is it still here?" Jett asked.

She tried to sense the presence but felt nothing. "I think…it's gone."

"What did it want? Why did it break the door down?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Billie Dean said. "I've never sensed anything like that before. But it seems to be gone now."

Jett was only mildly reassured. "I think it'd be a good idea to get out of here."

"I was heading to Mexico when our paths crossed," Billie Dean smiled awkwardly.

"Do you think maybe I could hitch a ride? I was on my way out of town too. Anywhere but here."

She thought about it. She wasn't entirely sure he was harmless, but she was reasonably confident he didn't want anything from her, except the ride he was asking for.

"You can ride with me if you help me siphon gas on the way." She smiled when she said it, but she meant it. Gas was scarce and she was close to empty when she'd hit him.

"Sounds fair," he agreed.

…

Author's Note:

I've gotten a lot written lately so I'm releasing it a little quicker than usual. Michael seems to be shifting from Justin Bieber to Caligula. Not sure which is worse, honestly. He and Troy make a toxic combination, encouraging the worst in each other. Also: Billie Dean cameo'd a line from her actor's role in American Gothic (1995). Did you spot it?

Next: Madison distracts Pietre while Desiree makes a deal with the devil of voodoo in an attempt to free Kyle and Zoe.