The Devil You Know
Chapter Seven
Sam glanced up when he heard the door handle rattle, and a young woman walked uncertainly into the room, with Dean hard on her heels. She was pale and mousy-haired, with full curves and bright features; blue eyes, pink cheeks, red lips, attractive in a very young, touchingly innocent sort of way. Except – there was something behind her eyes which belied that innocence, something manic: she was a soul clinging to sanity by a thread.
Dean was paler than he'd looked less than an hour before, Sam thought, and he didn't seem to be standing straight; he was hunched slightly sideways. His voice was a little rough, too: something was off. It wasn't enough to comment on, not yet, just a nagging doubt playing at the edges of Sam's consciousness.
'Lucy… Sam…' Dean introduced them half-heartedly, dropping wearily into a chair. Sam gave him a reproachful look, but he ignored it: if he was ever in the mood for etiquette, he certainly wasn't at the moment.
'Nice to meet you,' Sam said, standing up, as though he wanted to demonstrate to Lucy that impoliteness was not a family trait. She nodded at him, and smiled, a little absently, casting nervous eyes at Dean. He guessed she was just shy.
'Find anything useful, Sammy?' Dean asked.
'Ah…' Sam turned back to the computer, reminded of the urgent business at hand. 'Maybe. Lucy, do you have any idea how Paul's mother got hold of that necklace in the first place?' he asked, showing her Rhiannon's drawing of the symbol.
Lucy barely glanced at the drawing; she didn't need to. That symbol was etched into the insides of her eyelids. She started to shake her head. 'I don't know… I only met his mother once; she wasn't really around…' Suddenly she stopped herself. 'No, hang on – he said it was an antique; she bought it from an antique dealer…'
Sam nodded slowly. 'In that case, it might not have been worn for years before she put it on…' He turned back to the laptop, and spun it round to show Lucy and Dean. 'I found a newspaper article. From the 1930s…'
Lucy leaned in to study the picture, and wrinkled her nose in distaste. 'They shouldn't be allowed to print pictures like that in the newspaper. Kids might look at them.'
'Look at her neck,' Sam prompted her, pointing.
'I was trying not to look at her neck,' Lucy replied. 'Oh,' she added.
'You think it's the same one?' Sam asked, almost sure, but needing the confirmation of a second opinion.
'Looks like. Hey, I think I'd heard about this…' she added, suddenly animated. 'A local woman killed her abusive husband, then herself…'
Sam frowned at her. 'This was way back, though. Long before you were born.'
She shrugged. 'I know. But this is a small town, and something like that… well, it's like a taint in the town's history. It doesn't go away…'
'So if the necklace was hers… She must be haunting it, somehow… taking control of the people who wear it. But she… targeted her husband. I was thinking – it seems like the necklace-wearers target specific people –maybe… loved ones.'
Dean finally looked up at that. 'Sam, you went for Michael, when you were…'
'I realise that. But I think…' he paused, struggling with the words. 'I think you would have found it easier, if I'd gone for you. But, listen – I don't hold it against you. I'm sorry I said all that, about you getting injured. I don't want you to think I can't cope…' He trailed off, searching Dean's eyes for understanding.
Dean's stomach flipped painfully, but he nodded, face impassive. He could feel Lucy's reproachful eyes on him.
'I killed Paul,' Lucy said quietly. 'I suppose that makes a parallel with that woman in the thirties.'
'But Rhiannon West got me, Sam…' Dean grated out. 'That was random.' He arched an eyebrow; satisfied that he had trashed the theory.
Lucy was thoughtful. 'Rhiannon's an orphan… I don't think she's got anyone, really. She doesn't open up to anyone. Maybe she could identify with you because you're a stranger, as lonely and out of place as she is…'
Dean scowled, but Sam was nodding thoughtfully and he swallowed his scepticism. It sounded like girl-logic to him, but he lacked the energy to combat it. Every breath tugged at the inexpert, uneven stitches in his side, and although the bleeding had stopped, there was too much of him spattered over the clothes rolled up in the Impala's trunk for him to function normally. He felt strangely absent, apathetic; every movement was a great effort. He blinked, and found Sam staring at him.
'Are you ok, Dean? You've been quiet.' He was already half rising from his seat, his hand outstretched to check for fever. Dean recoiled.
'I'm fine. Tired,' he replied shortly. 'Been a long day.' Dark was gathering outside, and they were far from resting yet. Sam wasn't satisfied, though.
Lucy glanced at Dean. She didn't understand why he was doing this; it was clearly taking everything he had to seem fine for Sam's benefit. Still, she felt in his debt: he had saved her from the mental institution, saved her from death, and it wasn't her secret to give out. After she'd finished the stitches; uneven and rough on his skin, he'd changed into another shirt with her help and explained in short, breathless bursts, that they had to go back and help his brother work out how to destroy the necklace, and that, for the sake of this brother's stress levels he must not know that Dean was wounded. She'd objected, but he was stubborn.
If the situation reached breaking point, though, she resolved, Dean's life came above his insane crusade to protect his brother. But, for now…
'Sam,' she asked, loud and bright-voiced, pulling his reluctant attention away from Dean. 'So, if this woman is haunting the necklace, how do we make her stop?' Dean looked his gratitude at her.
Sam turned to look at her. 'That's kind of our area of expertise. We have to find out where she's buried and burn her bones.'
Lucy wrinkled her nose, raising her eyebrows. 'You dig up dead people… on a regular basis?'
Sam paused, then nodded. 'Pretty much.'
'So how do we find out -,' Lucy began, stopping abruptly when Sam raised a hand, staring avidly at something over her shoulder. 'What?'
The cheap TV had been playing quietly in the background sine Sam had started doing his research: he had felt uncomfortable in the ringing silence of the trashed motel room. He'd been ignoring the noise, but a familiar name caught his attention and he froze, reaching out for the remote without taking his eyes off the news report, and raising the volume.
'Poor woman,' Sam muttered, turning back to the others as the report ended. He was surprised to see the undiluted horror in the glances Dean and Lucy were exchanging.
'Rhiannon killed herself,' Lucy whispered, trembling, her eyes locked with Dean's. 'That woman in the thirties... And, Mrs Hartshorne killed herself. And, I tried to kill myself…'
'After you'd taken off that necklace,' Dean added.
'What?' Sam asked; hoping some other explanation would present itself, even as the evidence linked itself up in his mind.
Lucy looked between the brothers fearfully. 'Do you think I'll try again? Or-' She looked at Sam, and the words died in her throat.
'She- the spirit… leaves something of herself in the wearers…' Sam breathed, forming the theory as he spoke. 'And they have to repeat her actions. Kill a loved one – and then –.'
'You two have both worn it…' Dean muttered, his eyes flicking from one to the other. No way was Sam killing himself, or anyone else, not on Dean's watch. Trouble was, he didn't feel capable of preventing a kitten from doing just exactly what it wanted in his current condition.
Lucy's earlier words echoed in his head: 'it's like a taint in the town's history. It doesn't go away…' This bitch had left her taint in Lucy's mind, and Sam's, lying dormant for now, but ready to tear them apart from the inside, just as it had Mrs Hartshorne, and Rhiannon West.
All this - didn't change the situation, though, not really. It just made it more urgent.
'We just got to torch the bitch,' he said, trying to make it sound simple.
'Wait-,' Lucy said, pointing again at the TV screen, which was now announcing a new story to the room.
'…this young woman may not look dangerous, but she committed murder only days ago, and showed no sign of repentance when the police interviewed her. Do not approach her. If you have any information, call the number at the bottom of your screen. It is believed that she left the hospital in a black Impala, licence plate…'
Dean swore. Lucy started muttering hysterically, but her words were drowned out effectively by swelling sirens, and Dean swore again, louder.
'Get out the back, Lucy, we'll cover for you, ok?' She nodded mutely, following Sam to a window facing away from the parking lot. 'Don't go far… we'll find you as soon as they've gone, ok? Be careful.' He slammed the window heavily behind her as loud knocks echoed through the room.
The brothers exchanged glances. Dean shrunk back, trying to make himself less visible, but reluctant to attempt getting up. Sam was already opening the door, innocent surprise written clearly across his smooth forehead.
'Can I help you, officers?' It was just polite enough, without sounding like he was ridiculing them. Sam stepped back, allowing the heavily built policeman to glance quickly around the room. He didn't seem particularly interested in a thorough search: bags under his eyes suggested that he was nearing the end of his shift and exhausted – luckily for them – he made no comment on the bullet holes and the shattered bathroom door.
Dean didn't catch the brusque reply. 'I just saw, on the news… it's terrible,' Sam said. He resisted an urge to laugh. Lying was difficult for Sam, but playing innocent didn't seem to be too much of a stretch.
'Really? That car right there… wow. Well, if we see anything… yes, of course. Of course. Thanks for the warning.' When Dean looked up, Sam was already closing the door, and he turned, grinning. Dean smiled, and nodded. That'll do, Sammy…
Sam headed for the window, but Dean stopped him. 'Wait till they've gone,' he muttered, as snatches of the cop's conversation with the occupants of the next-door room filtered through the wall.
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Lucy dropped to a crouch and staggered, crablike, away, hunched over to evade the light pooling out through the window. Her heart was hammering so loud and violent in her chest, it should have been easily audible in the motel room. She straightened against a wall, panting, swallowing the humid air in great gulps. It was full dark now, tainted with pools of yellow from windows and street lights. She was in the yard behind the motel, with only waste bins, discarded cardboard boxes and a yowling, mangy stray cat for company.
'Shh…' she told the cat, half afraid its yowling would reveal her presence, half because it would calm her nerves to talk to something. 'You have to be quiet,' she whispered. One more madwoman wouldn't make much difference around here, she thought wryly. A sobering thought followed it: all the other madwomen in town were dead now.
She shuddered. She could almost feel death awaiting her in the shadows, or inside herself; the taint left behind by the necklace, ready to swallow her up. It made her turn cold inside, and she told herself that it was only her imagination. She couldn't convince herself, so she told the cat instead. It stared at her with indifferent green eyes.
She shook herself, and started pacing to shake the thought away. She reached the far side of the yard and spun on her heel, but the world spun too far and blackness took her. The last thing she remembered seeing before unconsciousness claimed her was the bronze symbol, swinging wildly in front of her eyes.
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