Crowley did a decent job of pretending I hadn't rendered him speechless, but the truth was that I had. I could see the gears in his mind turning behind his eyes, searching for the right thing to say. Something smug, something suave and offensive.
"How the mighty have fallen," he said at last, and he took a single step out of the shadows. "Literally," he added with a roguish smirk. "And becoming a demon all on your own." He gave a dramatic pause for effect. "I've seen a lot of demons born out of torture, but never one that came from self-torment. That must have taken some time."
I remained silent as I shot him a glare. For a few seconds, I contemplated hurling my knife at him, but that wouldn't work. He would teleport away before the blade could find him, and I would be disarmed for long enough to give Crowley a good shot at killing me, or worse; capturing me.
Where the hell are you, Freya?
"Tell me, John," the demon king went on. "How did you manage to elude the legions of Hell?"
"Wasn't that hard," I growled, underplaying my ordeal.
Crowley raised a brow in disbelief.
"How, pray tell, did you manage to escape?" he wanted to know, but I didn't reply. Realization struck him and he nodded knowingly. "Ah," he said, as if I had supplied him with an answer. "Bram. I was wondering where he had gone off to. I presume you were also responsible for Desdemona and Cyrus?"
I stared at him through narrowed eyes and clenched my jaw as my fingers tightened around the hilt of my knife. A shrewd smirk found its way across Crowley's lips as he eyed my weapon with amusement. He opened his suit jacket to unsheathe the long, silver blade — an angel's blade — stored in an inner pocket. He held it up for me to see, boastfully eyeing its sharp edges.
"Mine's bigger," he said, almost playfully. He pointed it at me in a manner more casual than it was threatening, despite the blaze of fury that burned behind his eyes when he looked at me. "The things I'm going to do to you."
"You want me?" I boldly challenged. I lifted my blade and stood ready for a fight. "Come and get me."
Crowley flashed me a devilish grin and took a slow, fearless step towards me. His demeanor was relaxed and casual, too casual for someone who had just been challenged to a fight. His suspiciously calm disposition alone was enough to send a shiver trailing down my spine, but his smile was mischievous. It was delighted and nasty, and telling of the complex web I had unwittingly walked into.
"It seems I already have you," he smugly informed me. His gaze turned down to the book still clutched in my left hand. I quickly dropped it and, the instant the book left my hand, a hot pain scorched my forearm. I tugged desperately at my jacket sleeve, pulling it up in time to see an intricate, Norse-looking symbol burn itself into my flesh. My heart stopped when understanding found me.
"The grimoire was a setup," I said in a low gasp, more to myself than to Crowley.
"Very good," the demon king mockingly praised as he continued to take dramatic steps forward.
"There is no real grimoire, is there?" I asked, glancing back up to him.
"That is technically a grimoire," he said. "A worthless book of harmless spells any simpleton with an herb garden could cast. The spell your wayward sons are searching for does not, to my knowledge, exist, and if it does, it bloody well isn't in any grimoire." He paused when he reached the black oak desk, the only thing that separated him from me. "That was intended for Sam and/or Dean. Preferably Sam. I still rather like Dean."
It was difficult to conceal the dread that gripped me tight as I stared wide-eyed at the king.
"Why?" I wanted to know, my voice barely above a whisper. "What does this do?"
"That," Crowley said, proudly eyeing the mark burned on my arm. "Binds you to me. Anything that happens to me, happens to you. For example."
He held up his angel blade with his left hand and raised it to his right palm. He gradually pushed the blade's tip into his flesh and, as he did this, a white hot pain seared beneath my own palm. I lost my grip on my knife, and it clattered noisily to the floor. My skin was broken, bleeding in the center of my hand, and it burned like acid in my veins. Crowley grinned, seemingly pleased by the pain he had inflicted upon me — and himself — as he pulled the blade from his hand.
"And before you ask, no, this is not a two-way street," he said. "Whatever happens to you won't effect me in the slightest. I'm not a moron."
"Why are you doing this?" I asked through gritted teeth. I rubbed the spot on my palm with my thumb, attempting to massage away the residual pain. "What are you planning?"
"Yes, why don't I just indulge you on my evil plot, then," he said sarcastically. "Not that it would matter. You'll be coming with me."
He didn't give me a chance to respond, or spit curses and foolhardy remarks. The demon king vanished before my eyes and, a split second later, I could feel him standing behind me. Mostly, I could feel the tip of his angel blade pressed threateningly against my back.
"We'll make a proper demon of you yet," he told me. I could hear the nasty smile he wore as he spoke with a pompous indignation. "So much potential for you, John. You will be a great asset to my army. You just need to be a little. More." He pushed the tip of his blade into my back, just enough to pierce the flesh and sent a wave of that hot, burning pain surging under my skin. "Broken."
"I'll never be one of you," I spoke between clenched teeth and a pain-laced grimace.
"Oh, John," Crowley said with a false sorrow. "Judging by the mess you left in the hallway." He paused to lean into me and whispered, "You already are."
I whirled around with a determined fury and made a swift, precise grab for the special blade in Crowley's grasp, but he vanished before I could reach it. I bent down to scoop up my own weapon, and when I stood upright I came face-to-face with the demon king.
"And just what do you think you're going to do with that?" he wanted to know, his tone completely lacking concern as he gave my knife a dismissive look.
"I'm going to shove it in your chest," I spat.
"Don't be daft," Crowley rolled his eyes. "Not only is that little pig-sticker of yours not going to kill me, you'd only be hurting yourself."
"You seem to forget that I'm a Winchester," I viciously growled.
Crowley's smug expression gradually fell as he realized what this meant. I couldn't kill him without killing myself, but it wasn't something I would hesitate to do, not for one second. And though he may have had the upper hand with his angel blade and the extraordinary powers that had been bestowed upon him with his high rank, he knew I would gladly fight him and, judging by the cold expression that had woven its way across his brow, he wasn't confident he could win. I may have been a lowly demon, but I was still enough of a Winchester to kick his ass.
"This is far from over," he told me warningly. "I will drag you back to Hell, and I will go through Sam and Dean if I have to."
"Leave them alone." I tried to sound bold and loud, but the words came out in a stunned whisper. "They don't know who I am."
"Well, then," he said, amusement flickering across his face. "It will be genuine surprise when I kill them to get to you, won't it?"
Crowley was not threatening me, or my boys. He was making a promise.
"Oh," he swiftly added. "By the way, the bitch downstairs? Miss. Torie," he said with an eye roll. "She's as good as dead. I assume the little tart helped you?"
I said nothing, but there must have been something in my eyes, something in my expression that confirmed his suspicions about her were correct. He gently raised his brows and tilted his head back in understanding. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
"I'll be seeing you soon, Johnny."
And with that, he vanished, leaving me with a racing anxiety and a curse. For a while, I stood stiff with shock and lament. I had grown too confident in my demonized state, too cocky. I had thought I was invincible, and it made me sloppy, left me open to dastardly deeds cooked up by annoyingly clever things like Crowley. Of course this was a trap, it was obvious now. And not only did Crowley now know that I was a demon, that I belonged to Hell, I was tied to him.
The muffled, bass heavy music that had been pulsing through the floor stopped abruptly, and left a haunting silence in its wake. The sudden and deafening stillness reminded me I was still standing there, motionless, numb with horror and rage. And it reminded me of the promise I had made to Mystery. But when I turned, intending on racing out the door and down the stairs, I was made aware of what I had done.
The way to the door was strewn with bodies sprawled across the tiled floor, lying motionless in gathering pools of blood. I counted nine of them as I slowly stepped over the stiff, lifeless husks with detachment, as if I had lost control of Max's body and was being forced to witness the bloodshed and mayhem I had created. The hallway beyond Crowley's office held another five bloodied bodies, as well as Freya, who cowered in fear in the corner. She anxiously sat up upon seeing me and, when she was certain Crowley was not behind me, joined me at my side.
A hollow feeling unfolded as I shuffled to the stairs and stared down; the brick walls were smeared with blood, bodies hung limply over the banister and slumped in awkward heaps on the steps. One body was sprawled backwards across the stairs, blood flowing from a deep wound in his neck where it trickled down the step into a thick puddle.
I shuffled amongst the massacre, paralyzed with shock. And then, quite suddenly, I wasn't on the stairwell. I wasn't even in the country. For a split second, I was standing under a hot, arid sun, amidst a thick cloud of dirt and dust. My ears were ringing, and my eyes stung as I squinted into the cloud and saw blood. And bodies. Soldiers and civilians, men and women. A child.
These images flashed across my mind, surfacing in horrible bits and pieces as I took in what I had done. The memory that wasn't mine flared across my mind, and my feet fumbled at the weight the vision carried. My head spun, my chest tightened and my throat felt like it was closing. I gasped for breath as my footing fumbled and slid on the slick, bloody floor, and I reached out for the wall to catch me.
I stood with one hand pressed against the red brick with my head bowed, and my fingers clutching at my blood-stained t-shirt that suddenly felt too tight. My stomach clenched and, as I started to gag on nothing, I realized what was happening; Max was awake. Not only was he awake, he was experiencing a flashback that had launched a full on panic attack. And I could feel it all.
I lurched forward when my stomach rolled, and I threw up. Had I not been so riddled with anxiety, or didn't feel like I was suffocating, I would have found it curious that I was even able to vomit. But at the time, it was difficult to focus on much of anything but the desperate beating of my heart.
I threw up again and gasped, sucking in a deep breath of air as my nerves gradually settled.
Get out.
Thoughts that didn't belong to me whispered in my mind, and it didn't take me long to figure out it was Max.
I changed my mind. Get out!
"I'm sorry, Max," I muttered, wiping my mouth with my jacket sleeve. "But no."
This isn't what I signed up for. Get out.
I pushed myself away from the wall and steadied myself on legs that felt as though they were made of rubber.
"They were just demons," I muttered, more to myself than to Max, and I shuffled down the third floor corridor.
They were people, too, Max whispered.
"They were probably already dead," I argued, again trying to assure myself more than Max.
You don't know that. I didn't say anything when you started hunting, because you were saving people. But this…
"Saving people?" I echoed, and I stopped short. In the chaos realization of my actions and the surge of brutal anxiety, I had forgotten about Mystery. Adrenaline flooded my veins and I sprinted down the corridor until I reached her office. I threw the door open, rushed inside, and my heart sank.
The lights were on, and the tiny room was intact, but Mystery was nowhere to be found. I clenched my jaw as I glanced about the office, hoping to spot spot a clue or a sign, something that pointed me in Mystery's direction. But there was nothing.
She wasn't a demon.
A weighted guilt grabbed at me as I stared at the vacant little space and I whispered, "what have I done?"