O Fortune, like the moon you are changeable, ever waxing, ever waning. – O Fortuna by Carl Orff

The old house stood, silent and stoic in the darkness that had reigned over Los Angeles for nearly 72 hours. No insects chirred in the overgrown grass. There was no wind to whistle through the broken, stained glass windows that adorned the rounded front portion of the house. Even the crows, a constant presence around the place, were silent in their roosting spots.

Inside the house, Nora entered the nursery, clutching a lace-trimmed handkerchief and a look of tearful hope. There were two cribs there, and though she only remembered having one baby, she was willing to accept the second, dismissing her confusion without any deep thought put into the matter.

Approaching the nearest crib, she peeked in at the swaddled baby. The sleeping infant looked so angelic and pure that her heart hurt. She clutched her kerchief to her breastbone to stop herself from uttering the cry of joy that welled up inside her. He was so very perfect, her little one. Then she turned to the other crib with anticipation. The sight that met her killed the smile and replaced it with a look of horror.

"His eyes!" she squealed. "What's the matter with his eyes?"

Constance, who had been in the next bedroom over, burst into the room ready to defend her babies. When she saw it was only Mrs. Montgomery, she came down out of battle mode and right into irritation.

"What are you screaming about?" she demanded.

Surprised by the tone, Nora gave the shorter woman a look of pained indignation. "How dare you speak to me that way!" Then, remembering the baby, she turned downright hostile. "What have you done to my baby's eyes?"

"He isn't your baby," Constance said, unsympathetic to the ghost's anguish or memory loss. She pushed between the other woman and the crib to lift Zach, who was crying by then. She saw nothing wrong with him. "And there's nothing wrong with his eyes. He has his father's eyes." She nuzzled the baby and rocked him gently in her arms.

"Charles doesn't have eyes like that!"

Constance favored her an intolerant look. "Charles isn't his father."

Nora found the whole conversation too confusing and upsetting. She looked to the other crib. The baby in it was still sleeping. "Silly me," she said, trying to make sense of everything. "You're right. That isn't my baby. This is my baby."

She reached for the sleeping child, but Constance moved to block her. "He needs his sleep," she said in a tone that brooked no argument.

Nora was offended all over again by the woman's impertinence. "I should have my husband fire you for such conduct!"

"Good luck with that," Constance snorted. She transferred Zach to her shoulder now that he was quieting down and rocked him like that. "Now unless you want to assist me in changing this sweet li'l angel's diaper, you might want to clear the room."

Horrified by the thought of even seeing a messy diaper, Nora fell back a step. "I will have words with my husband," she said as a final threat before fleeing the room.

Constance watched her go, then shook her head. "Your great-grandmother is a basket case," she murmured to the baby she held. "Let's hope the gene skips your brother and you."

She kissed him gently on the head and carried him over to the changing table. He fussed a little when she set him down but settled down again when she cranked the music box mobile. His eyes rounded as he tried to focus on the indistinct shapes dancing above him. Eyes with irises that were as black as the darkness outside—as black as the eyes she had seen in her trip to the underworld.

Eyes just like her own son's.

Gabe's eyes were the same way, which Constance counted as a blessing. If either twin had exhibited marked differences from one another, she wasn't sure how Michael would handle it. Since their birth, he had only visited them a few times and never long enough to satisfy her that he wasn't still thinking of hurting them. She didn't particularly want him around to dictate how she should care for the babies, but she would worry less if it looked like he was actually bonding with them.

Once Zach had a fresh diaper, she carried him to the rocking chair where she settled in with him nestled on her left shoulder. The sweet smell of clean baby filled her senses, flooding her with feelings of peace and joy that were off limits to her under other circumstances. She wished they could stay small forever.

Outside, a gray dawn crept slowly over the city, bringing wan light to the nursery windows for the first time in three days. It wasn't a healthy, healing light…but it was light.

It was the first dawn of the new world.

...

-= AMERiCAN HoRRoR SToRY =-

...

((Music: Edge of Darkness by Graham Plowman))

"Bring forth the heretics!"

The sky above was putrid orange, smothered beneath a thick blanket of ominous clouds. A crowd had assembled at the water plant, with most gathered nearby on the roof of the facility's storage unit. The floodwaters prevented access to the parking lot below.

Along the catwalk where the huge water tanks were, Michael had assembled a coterie of his supporters: Fiona was there, as was Pieter and two of his hollow-eyed triplets. Troy and Jeremiah were at hand as well, as was Dr. Hugo, the keeper of the plant. All were inappropriately dressed for the flooded riverside setting, wearing expensive black clothing that would have blended more with an haute couture fashion show or a rich man's funeral. Fiona even wore a black felt hat with a net veil pulled down over her face.

One by one, five people were strong-armed out onto the catwalk by acolytes from Michael's church. The bound individuals were hooded and dressed in simple, plain gray short-sleeved shifts. It was far too cold for such thin outfits; the cold cut right through them. The men who steered them, by contrast, wore dark grey turtleneck sweaters and red pants so dark, they could almost be mistaken for black. Their hands were covered in black leather gloves and they wore black balaclavas trimmed around the eyes in red. The balaclavas had no mouths.

Once the five prisoners were rowed up along the edge of the nearest water tank, Michael left his group and casually strolled down to where the hooded captives stood trembling, their bound arms held by their guards. The hard soles of Michael's ankle boots tapped severely on the metal catwalk, heralding his approach. He stopped before the first prisoner he came to and clasped his hands behind his back. Then he lifted his chin to that person's guard, signaling he should remove the hood.

The woman whose face was exposed blinked furiously against the sudden daylight. She squinted at Michael and he could see fear in her brown eyes.

"I told you to stay," he said to her, using the same deceptively calm voice Mother Constance used to use on him right before she started hitting him. "But you didn't. You ran."

"I was afraid!" the woman bleated. Michael reckoned she was roughly fifty years old. "We all were! How were we to know the tide could be stopped?"

Michael faked a sympathetic look. "You doubted my powers? After all I've done for you?" He clucked his tongue and shook his head. "O ye of little faith."

He gave another nod to the acolyte behind her. The man, already instructed as to what was expected of him, shoved the woman hard from behind. She gasped and stumbled forward. She teetered on the edge just long enough for Michael to see the funny look of surprise and dawning terror on her face, then she fell into the icy water below.

There was an immediate thrashing as the Leviathan tore her to pieces, consuming her flesh and staining the frothing water red. Over on the nearby rooftop, a cheer went up from those gathered there.

Dr. Hugo looked away, across the river, and tried to divorce himself from the proceedings. He wouldn't have even been there except that Michael had insisted.

The Antichrist moved down the line to the next prisoner, who was trembling quite noticeably. Another nod from Michael and that man's hood was removed as well. He looked about wildly, trying to determine what had happened to the woman who had stood to his right. Spying the churning red waters below, he went white in the face.

"Please," he begged sincerely, looking to Michael desperately. "Forgive me. I didn't mean to run. I didn't!"

Michael clucked his tongue again and feigned that sympathetic look once more. "I know," he said in a soothing tone. He reached out to pet the man's cheek, then ended the surprisingly gentle gesture with a friendly pat. "You're forgiven."

He lifted his chin and the guard gave the man a vicious shove, propelling him into the water tank. The man's scream terminated abruptly, and the water frothed again. The crowd atop the storage unit gave another boisterous cheer.

The third person, another man, was praying when his hood came off. Michael favored him a curious head-tip.

"Are you…praying?"

The man flicked a watery-eyed glance at his inquisitor but didn't stop muttering his confessions. The lack of response annoyed Michael but he bit down on the feeling.

"Do you actually think God is listening?" he said with a sneer. "Do you think He cares what happens to you? God has much bigger problems to deal with…if He even exists anymore."

The man shut his eyes. Tears leaked out but he didn't stop praying.

With a look of utter contempt at the heretic, Michael gave the signal for his guard to shove the guy in. The man didn't stop praying until he hit the water. The crowd signaled their approval with loud applause.

"Moron," Michael muttered under his breath. Then he moved to the next person.

When that woman's hood came off, she was ready for him. "You won't win," she said defiantly. "You came to destroy the world, but God's army will triumph. It is written!"

Michael's lips twisted in a dry little smile and he stepped up into her personal space, so close she could smell the clove smoke on his breath. "The world was already destroyed when I entered it. I came to rebuild it…in my own image."

"That's not your right!" she exclaimed, trying to stall for time.

"Says who?" Michael challenged, suddenly amused by her attitude. "Do you see anyone else stepping up to take charge?"

"Let her go!" the hooded man at the end of the line suddenly broke in. "Please, just let us both go! We'll leave New 'Salem and never return, just please! Let us go!"

Distracted by his heartfelt pleas, Michael moved to him. He plucked the man's hood off himself and leaned in to catch the man's eyes with his own.

"Let you go?"

The man, mistaking the attention for possible clemency, nodded hastily. "Yes. Please. Let us go."

"You want me to just…release you?" Michael asked, spreading his arms as if the man was asking for the whole world.

The assemblage on the nearby rooftop was beginning to get impatient at the delay, hooting and calling for someone to get pushed in.

"Yes," the tied-up man agreed. "I want you to release us. Please. We'll leave right now. I promise."

"Did you hear that?" Michael raised his voice so all could hear. "They want to be released."

The crowd, uncertain about how to respond, both cheered and jeered.

"You heard him," said Michael to the acolytes. "Release them."

The two guardsmen shoved their prisoners hard, sending both into the water tank. Their shrieks of surprise terminated abruptly when they hit the water. A loud cheer went up from the audience.

Most satisfied, Michael turned to them with a smile. He straightened the bow that held his long hair back from his face, then addressed the crowd. "Let it be known that any who try to desert me or turn against me will me a similar fate. And know this! There is NO place to run to. You cannot survive outside of this settlement. New 'Salem IS the world and I am your divine ruler, sent by my Father to shepherd you into the new world. Without me, you will suffer and die."

"We love you, Michael!" a woman on the roof cried out impulsively.

He gave her a little nod of acknowledgement and, sweeping a glance around that encompassed the rooftop group and his close advisors as well, he took his leave of the catwalk. One by one, his black-clad associates followed, with Dr. Hugo bringing up the end, looking ill. The crowd atop the storage unit gave another cheer then they, too, dispersed to go tell everyone back in town what they had witnessed.

—

Author's Note:

The first portion of this chapter was in part a nod to the film Rosemary's Baby, which I've mentioned before in these notes. It's a gripping movie, dated but somehow still quite unsettling. Part of what it did that impressed me was: You never saw the most horrible thing in the film, yet you got the feeling of how horrifying it was just from the way the actors behaved. That's some seriously good storytelling there. I kind of took that tact with the Leviathan. I believe you'll imagine something far more terrifying than I'd describe. Words would cheapen and confine the beast. Your imagination won't.

Next time: Tate tries to cope with all the changes that are coming down. Easier said than done.