How the Light Gets In

by Becks Rylynn

History repeats itself. This is a fact of life. It's the way of the world. Where you've been is where you'll be. Two hundred and eight days after fate rips Laurel Lance out of the world, leaving Dean Winchester in nearly the exact same position his father was in thirty three years ago, someone knocks on his door in the middle of the night. This is only the beginning of the story.

21. Interlude: Filth Teaches Filth

AN: Okay, so here we are!

We have finally arrived at Edie's interlude. (Which is basically a full length chapter and stopped being an ''interlude'' a long time ago, but I'm stubborn so I'm still calling it an interlude.) I know that writing an entire chapter from the POV of not only the villain but an original character in a fanfic is a bold and risky move that I do feel kind of weird about, and it may not be what you would have preferred to see after such a long wait (I'm so sorry about that, honestly it just took me forever to work out the logistics of this chapter) but I just felt like it was really important to get a more in depth look at what's going on in our wicked witch's head. Because there's...a lot to unpack there.

Rest assured the next update, which will definitely not take as long to get up because a large portion is already written, will see us back with Dean and Laurel for...possibly the grossest chapter yet tbh.

Additional trigger warnings for this chapter: Aside from general unapologetic villain behavior, including justification for murder and everything Edie has done to Laurel, this chapter semi graphic descriptions of suicidal thoughts, past suicide attempts, pregnancy loss, severe mental health issues including depression, bipolar disorder, and psychosis. Brief mentions of addiction relapse. Pretty major Mommy Issues. Ricky Moretti and all the ableist and blatantly misogynistic comments he brings with him. Mentioned/implied human trafficking, sexual assault, forced pregnancy, child abuse, child neglect, and cult behavior when it comes to Lady Shiva and Sin's backstories.

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How the Light Gets In

Written by Becks Rylynn

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Interlude

Filth Teaches Filth

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The pain is less tonight.

It's still there, as it always is now, lurking in the dark corners of her withering, withering body, coiled springs ready to pop, and there is that bone deep ache at the center of her that never goes away, but the worst of it has receded enough to allow her a moment of peace.

Her fever has broken for the first time in days. Her breathing is easier, her chest no longer feeling as if there is an elephant sitting on it. Inhaling no longer feels like drowning. She is no longer delirious and writhing around in pain, trying - and failing, her vocal chords that have never healed right refusing to work properly - to scream out in agony. She has even been able to keep some food down today; all the things Marlene and Annabeth keep giving her, soup and toast and old witch recipes that are supposed to promote healing and survival, not coming up for once.

She has gotten out of bed.

It is a small reprieve, a small mercy, but it will have to be enough. Small mercies are the only thing she has to come by these days. As time goes on and her condition worsens, an inevitability that she has tried, for years, to ignore, even the small things are worth clinging to.

In the dark of the night, the sky full of stars, the clouds breaking enough to allow a glimpse of them, the moonlight peeking out, Edie sits poolside, surrounded by twinkling lights in the trees and shrubs, looped around the back of the house, in the expansive, luxurious backyard of Alan and Katherine Lovejoy, the both of them gone now, one dead, one imaginary, leaving behind only this. Only the twinkle lights and the trees, only the swimming pool and the moonlight bouncing off the chlorine treated water. Only Edie and her own private war.

She is sitting next to one of the heat lamps, wearing an expensive French silk negligee and matching robe that Katherine bought the day after Alan died. A treat for herself, a reward, something to wear in the big empty bed. The air smells of rain and the herb garden Katherine tended to like it was her child, and she has a glass of Alan's absurdly expensive scotch in her hand.

Edie cares about none of this.

Not the Lovejoys, not the pool, the silk pajamas imported from Paris, the aged scotch. It's nothing. It's meaningless. The multimillion dollar home behind her, the pool and the pool house, the huge property lined with trees in a highly sought after area halfway between Seattle and Star City, the Puget Sound just beyond the trees.

It's all nothing.

It doesn't even belong to her. This is all Katherine's. Katie's house, Katie's flowers, Katie's silk robe, Katie's twinkle lights and tree lined property and heat lamps and expensive outdoor furniture, Katie's herb garden that makes the entire place stink like mint and basil, Katie's dying, poorly placed night-blooming jasmine.

Katie's silly, vapid, unimportant world.

Edie just haunts the grounds.

She puts the glass of scotch down and crosses one leg over the other, pulling the silk down over her thighs, tilting her head back to look up at the sky.

But there is that, isn't there? There is the moon. Always the moon.

And the pomegranate.

She looks at the plate sitting on the table next to her, in front of the decanter full of scotch, the husk of the pomegranate cracked open, the juicy red seeds spilling onto the white china.

Pomegranate.

The fruit of the dead.

Since the beginning, witches have drawn power from nature. Plants, flowers, herbs, fruits. The moon and stars. Energy is harnessed from these things, often beautiful things, for protection. For healing. Ever since things started to fall apart, Edie has eaten a pomegranate every day and swam naked under the moonlight every chance she gets.

And she is still fucking dying.

Folk remedies are mostly bullshit.

Although she is willing to concede that these things might not apply to her specifically.

Real witches eat the pomegranate and bathe their bodies in moonlight and recharge their crystals. They ingest flowers and herbs in teas and cakes and elixirs and slather themselves with herb infused olive oil. They brand themselves with runes and infuse tattoo ink with holy wine or what-the-fuck-ever and stand naked in the woods yelling at the moon and they get to level up. They get to live with their power and their healthy bodies and, in some cases, their immortality.

Fake witches burn.

And thieves...

Thieves are punished.

They cough up blood. They vomit pins and needles and spiders and gallons of the dirty river water former witches were drowned in. Their skin blisters from the fires that burned the witches of the past. Their throats ache from the rope placed around other women's necks. They fever in bed with bloody noses and migraines while black sludge seeps past their teeth, speckling oxygen masks and tissues, their chests feeling tight and crushed by the weight of their greed. They writhe and scream and convulse while the magic inside roils and storms, white hot. Itch while what they stole crawls underneath their skin like the maggots left to feast on the decaying corpses of the witches they killed just to take from.

They suffer.

Rightfully.

It is an old rule, ancient, goes all the way back to biblical times, but somehow it has stuck around through it all, a stubborn, clinging, bloody consequence. A real witch's magic is as alive as she is, slithering in her blood, crawling through her DNA. It belongs to her. Belongs with her.

Only her.

Body and soul, dead or alive, the two cannot be separated. Inside of anyone else, it is a toxin, a poisonous ooze. Inside of a fraud, a thief, magic, real magic, the witchcraft they warn you about, will do anything to get out. It kills the host eventually. Rots them from the inside out and they have no one to blame but themselves.

Thieves do not get to exist in the history books. They do not get a place in the narrative. They come and go, fade in and out of the pockets of time, there but fleeting, and no matter how hard they try, how desperately they claw for relevance, it always ends the same way for them.

They get what is coming to them.

Even if, by some miracle, they manage to survive their greed, if they manage to cheat their own end, to find a way out, their choices follow them for the rest of their lives. A sin is a haunting. All thieves know this. All thieves know the end when they pilfer magic. They understand.

Edie has always understood.

The people around her seem to think that she doesn't. They worry and fret, look at her as if she is a boiling pot, a powder keg of stupidity. They genuinely seem to believe that she does not know what she has done. That she can't see the danger.

Bullshit.

She has always known the risk. She knows what happens to liars and thieves. She knows she has earned every bit of her damnation. She made her peace with the end a long time ago. Pomegranate and moonlight and mint tea and vervain will not save her. Crystals and graveyard dirt and palo santo incense and all the lavender in the world cannot protect her from her own destructive choices.

She never thought it would.

This has never been about survival past the end of her own myth. This has never been about power. This has never even been about revenge.

It's about remembrance.

This is a puzzle and unfortunately, for some fucking reason, she is missing most of the pieces. She would like them back. A long time ago, something was taken from her. She doesn't remember what it was or how it was taken, but she has gone through life for the better part of two decades feeling like something has been cut out of her, living through every torturous, excruciating day feeling like she is missing her limbs, like her heart has been carved out of her chest, and she can't take it anymore. She doesn't think that's unreasonable.

She has been promised life after this, has been told that no matter how close to death she gets, she will live as long as she keeps up her end of the deal, but even if she doesn't, she genuinely cannot bring herself to care anymore. This is no longer about that. This is about answers.

If she has to die to get them, so be it.

What would be the difference anyway? It's not like she's living now.

She picks up the tumbler of scotch, the ice clinking noisily against the glass as she brings it to her mouth with a shaky hand. She has not been able to control the tremors in weeks. Most likely, that is here to stay. Just another reminder of her deterioration. There is barely any of her left at this point. She will have to learn to live with that.

Everything has a price, after all.

It's not like this is the first time she has had to adapt to a change, a disruption, in her body. She has been in pain since 1995. Been mangled, mind and body, since 2000. She can handle a tremor, the aches and pains, the missing pieces. It's not a big deal. She'll survive. That's what she does. Anyway -

It doesn't matter.

As soon as Laurel comes around, things will get better. Everything will be right again. It will all make sense. She will finally know the thing she has lost. All of them will. They'll be together. That's how it works. That's the plan.

Edie closes her eyes and those forest green bedroom walls from the house in Aberdeen flash in her head, a fluttering light, and then darkness. She shakes her head, but the image pops up again, this time of the bathroom door, closed and locked, impossible to enter. The picture becomes cloudy, distorted, the faint sound of muffled whimpers filling her head. There is nothing new about this haunting, but she still flinches at the sound, pushing it away.

She tries to leave Aberdeen, something she has been trying and failing to do for the past sixteen years, and blocks out even the smallest of noises. She tries to look for Laurel in the depths of the quiet darkness. She can feel her still, the warmth of her, that heart that beats alongside hers, but she can't seem to connect tonight, can't pull her any closer.

Which means Laurel is most likely still awake, probably out doing stupid vigilante shit.

Edie opens her eyes.

That girl could at least try to be more grateful, says the voice in her head.

She takes a sip of the scotch. It burns its way down her throat and leaves behind a warmth in her body that she can't help but wince at. The night is cold, heavy and damp with today's rain, tinged with the salt of the sea and the winter fog, but she still feels overly warm. She always feels warm now. It's like the fever never leaves her body, even when it is undetectable. She takes another sip and asks in her rough, gravelly whisper, ''Grateful for what?''

Look, she is a selfish person.

You think she doesn't know that?

She's ruthless. She's cruel. She gets that. She is the bad guy here. She accepts that. She is the villainous witch, bitter, resentful, vindictive, and whatever else people want to call her, but she is not a fool. She lost her voice. Maybe her mind. Not her common fucking sense.

Laurel undoubtedly got the short of the stick here. Seems to happen to her a lot. Hazards of being born into a bloodline curse.

Not to mention her two breathtakingly selfish parents, her sister who can only be described as a dull yet punchable wet noodle with the maturity and intelligence of a twelve year old (at best), and her dumbass Winchester husband who talks like a deranged Cary Grant character and has his father's same wolfish smile.

Right now, she is out there, all alone, traumatized, with no idea how ill she is or how ill she will get once Edie is too weak to shield her from the worst of it.

Laurel would have been better off dead. That part is not a question. At least she would be at rest then. Free of the shackles of this life and this blood and this curse and the fucked up family it comes with. Death would have been a mercy. That is the long and short of it. She has a right to be angry.

But she's alive, the voice says.

Edie puts the glass down. ''Barely.''

It is what it is. We do what we must.

''Yeah, I get that. Believe me, I fucking get that.''

The voice goes silent.

She licks her lips. She shakes it off. She has no idea why she's being so maudlin tonight.

What a waste of a good night.

She feels more like herself tonight than she has in weeks, months even. The sickness that ebbs and flows inside of her has dulled enough for her to get out from under the watchful eye of the woman Ric has assigned to essentially be her nurse, she doesn't feel particularly weak, and her mind is as clear as it will ever be. Her headache is still lurking around, but it's tolerable now. She can function, she can live with it, the same way she lives with a phantom ache in her throat, the burning nerve pain from the scars on her face, the cloudy vision in her one eye, both courtesy of John Winchester, the tingling numbness in her right hand from the car crash.

Another flare will come. That's inevitable. They're becoming more frequent now, closer together, more intense. She reckons she has three, maybe four days before the next tidal wave. Ideally, she would like to get some work done before then. Tonight is a good night. It's as good as it gets. That is where her mind should be.

Instead, she is sitting here...brooding? Oh, ew, is this brooding?

Screw that.

Edie scoffs, rising to her feet. She does not brood. She does not wallow. That is not her thing. It has never been her thing. She moves on. She gets shit done. She plans. She's not like Laurel, or Faye, or - or Mama. She doesn't waste time on that kind of shit. That sentimental drivel. All that grief. The way they all so easily splinter and crack apart, fragile and frail and hysterical. She has never been on that side of crazy.

This is all Clementine Raymond's fault. That dead witch. The same dead witch currently rotting away in her basement. She got in her head. Her and her sister. They made it all so much worse.

I'm sorry.

That was the last thing Clementine said to her, blood filling her mouth, her eyes glazing over. I'm sorry.

Can you believe that?

I'm sorry, she said. Nadine, please, she said. I'm sorry. If we had known the truth – If we had known what we were taking from you… We weren't trying to hurt you. We were just doing what was asked of us. I'm sorry.

Her sister said much of the same, back in Seaback that day, that horrible, useless day. I'm sorry, Fawn had pleaded. We didn't know. We couldn't have known. I'm truly sorry. But we can't help you now. We took an oath. What's gone is gone. Once it has been taken, it cannot be returned. I'm sorry.

The thing is –

None of it meant anything.

Not a fucking thing. Not to Edie. Not to them. Neither of them meant it. They just didn't want to die. People say things like that when they know they're going to die. They apologize. They plead. They make deathbed confessions. She would have preferred a deathbed confession. What can she do with their apologies? What does it do for her? What use does it have?

It's not like she has any idea what they were apologizing for. That's the problem. That has always been the problem. She doesn't remember.

Fawn Marlowe and Clementine Raymond knew her.

They called her by her middle name, Nadine, the name she went by when she was in Aberdeen. They knew her. They knew her when she was young and afraid, sneaking out of the house her parents put her in to go live a fragmented secret life fueled mostly by tequila, cigarettes, cocaine, percs, and one night stands, her greedy, hungry hands clinging to whatever life she could find.

She doesn't remember knowing them.

Not before that day in Seabeck. All she knew of the Marlowe coven was that there was supposedly an elemental witch there, she was in desperate need of a pick me up, and an elemental witch sounded just powerful enough to satiate her for longer than the low level witches she had been draining. She doesn't remember knowing them previously. Certainly not in Aberdeen. But there are many things about her time in Aberdeen that she cannot, for the life of her, remember. She has never known why. No one will tell her why.

Somehow, for reasons she doesn't know, can't remember, Fawn and Clementine knew why.

Her inheritance is not the only thing that was forcibly removed from her in Aberdeen, Washington in December of 2000.

She just can't remember the rest of the story.

The truth of it is that Edie is running on empty. Has been for years. There is so much of her missing that she is not sure she can even be called a person anymore. She has been chipped away at so much over the years, has given and been taken from, worn so many faces that sometimes she cannot remember what her own looks like. Her mind has rotted. Is still rotting. Her body has been butchered twice, undergone severe trauma, survived catastrophic damage only to leave her scarred, warped, in chronic pain, and, at one point, when she was younger, after the horrors of Aberdeen, when she was living in North Carolina, addicted to hardcore painkillers. Her soul is in tatters, corrupted by witchcraft that she has stolen from other witches, real ones, unlike her.

None of that concerns her the way the gaps in her memory do.

It is not wrong that she wants to be whole. That she wants to be healed. To have whatever piece of her that was taken out of her head put back where it belongs. It doesn't make her bad. It doesn't make her evil. She's made some bad choices. She's been thoughtless. She's even been monstrous. But wouldn't anyone if they were in her position? If they lived her life? If you, too, were a broken thing, wouldn't you want to fill in the cracks?

Wouldn't you, at least, want to know what broke you?

Yes, she understands the selfishness.

She understands that what she has done to Laurel - what she still needs Laurel to do for her, what she needs her to sacrifice - makes her the monster. She also understands that if she had just gone to her and told her everything, told her the truth, her cousin, good as she is, would have helped. No doubt about it. But not without questions. Laurel would have dug, would have unearthed the wounds. She would have gone back home to demand answers from their family. It would have blown their whole world apart.

Edie has no interest in any of that. She doesn't want her brothers to be burdened with this when there is no reason for them to have to carry this weight. She doesn't want to have to look at her father, tired, dragged down, and tell him everything that happened. She doesn't want to look at her mother at all. Not ever again.

See, that was another thing Fawn Marlowe said before Moretti killed her. Before Edie dug her fingers in and stole her magic. Your mother, she said. Your mother was just doing what she thought was best for everyone.

It shouldn't have been surprising. It shouldn't have hurt either. She has known from the beginning that her mother had something to do with this. There was no other explanation. It always comes back to her mother. Every missing piece is hers.

All roads lead home and, for Edie, home has never been a place. Home is rain and regret and her mother and all that bleeds within her. Something she ran from a long time ago. Took only what she could carry. Her only regret is that she did not burn it all down behind her.

It was always going to come down to Mama. Everything always has.

Edie has not been Edie for a long time and yet she still remembers what it was like to live in the shadow of her larger than life mother, as troubled as she was beautiful, hard as she was soft. Out of her damn mind. Everything was about her, who she was and who she wasn't, what she said and if it could be trusted, all the things she did, the way she loved, the stickiness of it, like a stain, the way her sickness became their sickness, a family affair, a burden they all had to carry, each one of them. One family - underwater.

Of course she had something to do with this.

Her bloody fingerprints are everywhere. The whole thing reeks of her particular shade of lunacy. Yet the confirmation - finally, after years of chasing and searching, of non-answers and random babbling - still hurts.

Valerie is not an evil person, which makes what she has done even worse. In fact, she is known to be an incredibly charming, unflinchingly kind, and generally very loving woman. Unlike her prickly sisters. She makes bad decisions, maybe, but she means well. She was just born broken. She is resentful of the things inside of her that she cannot control - her bipolar disorder, her alcoholism, her cursed blood, that untapped scream she calms with alcohol and Valium to keep it from emerging.

She does not like this world, made of unfair choices without end, a zero sum game, a wasted landscape of ruin and ash. She has only ever seen herself as a problem, a bomb, a monster she needs to kill, and, unfortunately, that trickled down to her eldest child, her daughter, the girl just like her, born broken and dangerous, a shard of glass sharp enough to cut deep.

Firstborn Ellard daughters are cursed with so much more than just a scream.

Edie steps closer to the pool. She looks at the water, the depths of it, the blueness, the way it sparkles in the moonlight. Long forgotten air mattresses, two of them, float on the surface of the water, rainwater and dead leaves dotting their withered plastic. She has no idea who put them in the pool. Who last used this pool for recreation? It definitely wasn't her. A Moretti maybe? One of the Dolls?

It's February.

She doesn't even know who the hell is keeping the pool clean and functioning at this point. Not to mention tending to the landscaping. Annabeth, probably. She's the one who handles the general upkeep of this place. She's the manager of this giant mausoleum of a house. She handles the finances, she cooks most of the meals, does most of the cleaning, feeds the monster in the basement, and, before things got to the point where more than one person was needed, frequently nursed Edie back to health during her flare ups. She deserves a raise. She may be brainwashed, but she is damn good at her job.

Edie nibbles at her lower lip. She inches dangerously close to the edge of the pool, staring down into the water. A cold breeze blows through her hair and she watches the water ripple, entranced, her grip on the glass in her hand tightening. She imagines, in vivid detail, falling into the pool, plunging into the deep end, and not coming back up, floating for just a second, suspended in blue, before sinking. She also imagines, in that same vivid detail, a gray, rotting hand with long claw like nails shooting up from the depths and latching onto her ankle, dragging her down, taking her somewhere she does not want to be.

She steps back from the edge and takes in a breath.

It doesn't mean anything.

When she closes her eyes, just for a second, she is back in Aberdeen. There is a flicker, a face, a looming figure in her kitchen with a knife in his hand, the back door wide open, and John Winchester is saying what John Winchester always says in her memories of that night. I think I've been looking for you, little girl. She doesn't even know if it's what he actually said that night, if what she has of him is real. Aberdeen is a fog in her mind, too dense for her to see through, too scary for her to walk into.

The fragments of it have been corrupted.

In her nightmares, John is a mocking presence. Laughing at her. Bloodied knife still in his hand. Standing in her kitchen with a smirk on his face while she walks through, stumbling her way around the small home she instinctively knows like the back of her hand, even if she can't quite remember it. You figured it out yet, sweetheart? In her dreams, he's always there, the man who carved her up and took what was hers and then just left her there to die while he ran from what he did.

The man she made into her biggest monster.

Watching while she steps over her own bloodied body on the kitchen floor to find what she is missing. Hovering over her shoulder with a stupid grin on his face while she stands in the entrance to the kitchen, staring down the hallway and into the open door of her bedroom, the forest green walls too far away, the hallway stretching and stretching, too long for her to walk, the one room she can never make it back to, and the one room she can remember in detail. He whispers into her ear, Do you know what you're looking for?

And she wakes with the feel of his mouth next to her ear, the sound of his voice in her head, her skin crawling.

She has never been clear, throughout these long years of watching and waiting and despising, if Dean Winchester really does have his father's smile or if the comparison is something she has made up in her head to make him as monstrous as his daddy, a danger, a threat to her bloodline, to her baby cousin, the little girl she used to hold in her arms and promise to protect.

What she is clear on, a memory that has not been corrupted, has not been taken away, is the memory of being twenty one and dying on a dirty kitchen floor, choking on the blood in her mouth and throat, one bloody weak hand trying to apply pressure to the wound, the other scratching at the floor with desperate fingernails as she tried to crawl towards the bedroom.

She remembers that just fine.

All because of a fucking Winchester.

There is a sudden popping noise, a shattering, a stinging, and she jumps, opening her eyes, realizing, somewhat belatedly, that she has broken the glass in her hand. She inhales sharply, looking down at the ground, the shards of glass glittering, and then at the wound in the soft pad of her thumb, blood blooming from the cut, a sparkling piece of glass caught in her flesh.

She wishes she smoked cigarettes. Wishes she liked the taste of the expensive scotch Alan collected. As it is, she has few human vices these days. She hasn't touched drugs since North Carolina. Hasn't smoked since her stint in New Hampshire. Hasn't even drank much since 2012. She could live without the money, without her expensive wardrobe, her fancy skincare routine, her wealthy, thoughtless ego.

Her mother is an unstable drunk with bipolar disorder, a history of regularly going off her meds, and an insatiable desire to die. Aunt Faye was a hysterical shut in who cycled between two emotions, crotchety and debilitating anxiety. Laurel is a miserable junkie who will either give in and make herself useful or die sad and alone with a bottle in her hand.

Edie is just Edie.

Just this.

She could have been anyone if she had been allowed. She could have been loved, could have been happy. She could have been a doctor, like Dad. She could have been an artist or a writer. Could have lived in Paris. Could have moved to Canada. She could have been a mother. She could have been a mother.

It didn't have to be like this.

She digs the piece of glass out with her fingernail, flicks it away, and then pinches her thumb and forefinger together to staunch the blood flow. She releases after only a second and looks at the small but deep puncture in her thumb. Another cold breeze drifts through her hair and she breathes in the cold night air, glancing out at the thick blanket of trees lining the property. She pops her thumb into her mouth, the coppery, metallic taste of blood filling her mouth.

She ran away from home once, when she was seven.

One night, when her parents were asleep, she got out of bed, pulled on her clothes, her raincoat, and her little purple rain boots. She emptied out her purple backpack and stuffed it full of provisions. Two pairs of clean underwear and a pair of socks, a box of Nilla Wafers, her two favorite books, The Little Prince and Where the Wild Things Are, and a small shoebox covered in stickers and colorful scribbles. She carried her most prized possessions in that box. All the things she couldn't possibly live without: a Winnie the Pooh bookmark, a few family photographs, her favorite crayon, a few seashells and pieces of smooth green sea glass, a cassette tape of Joni Mitchell's Blue, and a drawing of a unicorn that her new best friend, Siobhan, drew for her.

She remembers that night like it was yesterday. She wrote a note in red crayon, left it on her pillow, and snuck out the back door after her parents had gone to bed.

I don't want you to be my mom anymore, the note said. I'm scared of you. I'm going to live in Colorado. Please take care of Judy. I will be gone forever. Regards, Edith Nadine Hart.

She was seven. She was just a baby.

Her parents called her ladybug. They tucked her in every night and said I love you here, I love you there, I love you everywhere and blew her kisses from the doorway and she would catch them and put them under her pillow. They went to Aspen every winter and Mama taught her how to ski. Her grandfather read her The Little Prince every time she saw him, sometimes even over the phone at bedtime. She loved her purple backpack and Nilla Wafers and her best friend, who she thought was the prettiest girl she had ever seen. She had a goldfish named Judy and a seashell collection and she picked up every penny she saw for luck. Her favorite song was River by Joni Mitchell because that was her mother's favorite song. She was afraid of thunderstorms and bats and her favorite color was turquoise just because she liked to say the word. She wore her rain boots everywhere, even when it wasn't raining, and stepped over every crack on the sidewalks. She knew nothing of the particulars of mental illness. She knew nothing of curses or inheritance or the Ellard name. She had no idea she was doomed.

But she knew Mama was different.

Her mother had intense highs and even worse lows. Some days she didn't get out of bed. Other days she never even went to bed. She was full of rage and sadness, one minute smashing all their plates on the kitchen floor, the next collapsing and dissolving into full blown hysterics on the floor while dinner burned.

Once, when Edie was around five, Mama woke her up in the middle of the night, loaded her into the car, and they went to get ice cream. Edie was a child, so she was mostly excited for the ice cream, but she remembers, even now, at thirty-seven, days away from thirty-eight, the feeling of fear and confusion slowly bleeding into her as they drove and drove until they were leaving town, until they were on the dark highway with all the windows rolled down, going fast, going too fast.

When she asked where they were going, Mama just said, ''We're going on an adventure! Isn't it exciting?'' When asked when they were going home, she laughed and said, breezily, ''Oh, we're not going back there.''

Edie, sticky with ice cream, frowned and asked, ''But what about Daddy?''

''We don't need him anymore,'' said Mama. ''We've got each other. It's just you and me, ladybug. Just us girls.'' She grinned into the rearview mirror, the passing shadows catching her face, making her eyes look black in the dark. ''This is how it's supposed to be.''

Edie wonders, from time to time, what would have happened if she had just accepted that reasoning and kept her mouth shut. Where they would have ended up. If Mama would have come to her senses and turned back or if she would have just kept driving until the road ran out. Until she drove right into the sea. But Edie was five. She was little and she was tired and scared and sick from too much ice cream and she wanted her dad.

Ultimately, she kicked up such a fuss that her mother, frazzled and already barely hanging on by a thread, abandoned whatever plan she had and drove them into Starling instead, all the way to Grandma and Grandpa's house.

She remembers so much about that night. The way Mama pulled into Grandma and Grandpa's driveway in the dead of night and just sat there, car idling, hands on the wheel, without saying a word. How Grandma, Grandpa, and Aunt Natasha all came running out in their pajamas, looking wide awake and panicked.

Nat was the one who took her inside. Plucked her out of the backseat, left Mama with Grandma and Grandpa, and took Edie inside. She changed her into clean pajamas, cleaned up her sticky face, brushed her teeth, and then they laid in her bed and sang songs until Edie fell asleep. She seemed happy to Edie then, chatting about a sleepover and how much fun it was going to be, but looking back on it as an adult, she was scared - and Nat doesn't get scared often.

She remembers the next morning as well. Sitting in the kitchen with Grandma, eating pancakes and bacon while Grandma drank her coffee and tried to distract her from Mama, pacing around in the living room, disheveled and disoriented from lack of sleep, angry and cursing while Grandpa tried to calm her down. She remembers when Daddy came to get her, how sad and scared he looked, how tightly he hugged her, how defeated he looked after spending just a few minutes in the other room with Mama. And she remembers going home with Daddy that day. Alone.

Mama didn't come home for a whole week.

She was apologetic when she came back, sheepish, guilty, ashamed, and utterly exhausted. Dad forgave her - because he always forgave her - and Edie forgave her - because she was a child and she didn't know any better - and everyone just moved on. Didn't talk about it.

At no point does she remember anyone explaining anything to her about what happened that night or why.

Then there was that night when she was seven.

When she woke up in the middle of the night to a strange sound, an eerie feeling, like a tightness in her chest, a prickling on the back of her neck. When she sat up, squinting into the darkness, she saw a shadow. There was a thing huddled in the corner of the bedroom, over by the window, next to her dresser, illuminated by the sliver of moonlight coming in through the curtains and the strip of light from the cracked door. The thing was crying and covered in red paint, red dripping onto the floor, smeared on the dresser, the windowsill.

Bleary eyed and groggy, caught somewhere between scared and confused, she thought it was a monster. She thought maybe she was still asleep, trapped in a nightmare. She wanted to call for her mother, but she couldn't make her voice work, couldn't get the words out around the fear constricting her throat. But it wasn't a nightmare, and she was not asleep. The thing in the corner wasn't a thing at all.

It was her mother.

She looked so much smaller than usual, as if she had shrunk, crouched down and curled into herself. She was crying, panting like she was in pain, and she kept apologizing, over and over like it was the only thing she could think of to say. ''I'm sorry, Edith. I made a mistake. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to do this. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, my little ladybug.''

Edie, frozen in a slowly growing fear, had no idea what to say in response. She wanted to tell her to stop. She wanted to tell her to go away, but she just sat there, gripping the covers without saying a word until, suddenly, there were sirens outside and flashing lights and Daddy, who was supposed to be at work, burst into the room, frantic, with Mama's name on his lips.

She remembers when the door opened. She remembers the way the bright golden light from the hallway spilled into her room and lit up her mother's shaking, huddled form like a spotlight. All that red. It was all over her, her hands, her arms, her legs, her face. All red.

A mess, Edie remembers thinking. Mama made a mess. Who is going to clean up all this red?

She remembers the way it dripped onto her rug, the pink fuzzy one with the white bunnies that she had picked out herself a few years before when they moved into that big house in Prospect Hill. She cried when she saw that red paint dripping onto her white rabbits and it was the only time Daddy looked at her.

He had marched right over to Mama, his panic shifting into professional stoicism, a frazzled paramedic on his heels, and took over the situation without even a moment of hesitation. It was only when Edie started crying that he even seemed to consider the idea that his young child was in the room.

''Edie,'' he'd said, voice calm, measured, red paint leaking through the fingers he had tightly clenched around Mama's wrists. ''Everything's okay, baby. Mama just had an accident. I'm going to fix her right up, but I need you to go with this nice lady? She's going to take you next door to Mrs. Reynolds and you're going to stay there until I come get you. Can do you that?''

She nodded, slowly climbing out of her bed, rubbing at her teary eyes with closed fists while a police officer led her down the stairs and out the door, away from Mama. She remembers how the cop told her, gently but firmly, to keep her eyes closed and not look. She remembers looking anyway. She remembers the red. It was everywhere. It was in the hallway, the kitchen, on the door to the basement, there were droplets on the floor, a small pool at the bottom of the staircase, handprints smeared on the walls, doorknobs, the bannister. She has never forgotten the sight of all that red.

Days later, she went back home with her grandparents - who must not have been warned about the state of the house - and as soon as they stepped inside and saw the dried red all over, her grandmother let out this choked gasp, like all the air had been stolen from her, and started weeping.

That was when something seemed to click in Edie's seven-year-old brain and she realized, horrified, that the red was not paint. It was blood. It was her mother's blood. After that, she refused to go inside the house as long as it was still there.

Eventually, the blood was cleaned up, the curtains and rug replaced in Edie's room, Mama came home, tired and hurting, but seemingly better, and all anyone would tell Edie was that Mama had had ''an accident.''

An accident.

Even at seven, she knew that was bullshit.

Two months later, with her mother lost in a thick fog of Ambien, Valium, Prozac, Hydrocodone, and Chardonnay, spending most of her time in bed, watching soap operas with dead eyes and chain smoking, Edie ran away.

She was not scared at all that night. She was matter-of-fact about it. She was smart. She packed the backpack, she left the note that said Regards, Edith Nadine Hart, she put on her rain boots, and she stole all the money she could find in her mother's purse and her father's wallet. Then she left. She walked out the front door, locked it behind her, walked down the hill, and marched herself to the nearest payphone where she called a cab, paid with the money she had taken, and went to the closest McDonald's.

Which is where her mother found her later.

She was sitting all alone, swinging her legs and humming How Much Is That Doggie in the Window while she ate a cherry pie and french fries, completely oblivious to the nearby group of drunk twentysomethings staring at her or the employees whispering to each other and trying to figure out what to do about the random unaccompanied minor in their establishment at three in the morning.

Mama was not crying when she found her, not blubbering apologies the way she usually did, but she was contrite. She was angry, annoyed by the sheer audacity of her cunning seven year old, there might have even been a bit of begrudging pride in there, impressed by her daughter's apparent resourcefulness, but mostly she was sorry. She said that a lot that night. That she was sorry. That she would be better. She promised that things were going to be different. Told her over and over again how much she loved her.

Even then, at seven, Edie knew things were not going to be different. She knew her mother was not capable of different.

Nevertheless, she still went home with her that night. Still let her wrap her up in her arms and take her home. She kept a go bag in her closet after that. Just in case. Learned to live her life out of the way, angled away from her mother, with one foot out the door. Undoubtedly the same thing her brothers were eventually forced to learn. Resourcefulness runs in the family, not an inherent trait, but a necessity.

Even now, here, there is a bag ready to go in Katherine Lovejoy's massive closet. Just in case. Despite the fact that there is nothing to run from.

You learn to go through life differently when you have a mother like Valerie Hart. You learn to be ready to run when your mother is a loving but unhinged source of exhaustion.

Edie releases a long, slow breath, gray wisps forming in the still night air. She eyes the dark woods beyond the twinkle lights, the thick blanket of trees. For a moment, a second, her eyes focus on something in the trees. Right there, tucked away, but not quite out of sight, backlit by a stage light that doesn't exist.

A flickering ballerina with empty eyes, covered in blood, mouth open in a soundless scream.

There is a small start, an intake of breath, but Edie does not look away nor is she surprised to see her. She stares evenly back at the apparition of her first love. An echo of their last night alive.

You know what's funny?

This is not how Siobhan looked when she died. She was not wearing her tutu or her stage makeup during the crash. She was fresh faced and freckled and so young looking, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt in the back of the car that night, her red hair down and falling in her face, framing her green eyes. But she was wearing those earrings, the ones Edie gave her for her birthday, and she was screaming. The last image Edie has of Shiv is the image of her screaming.

Her entire life has been screams and the deafening silence they leave behind.

Shiv flickers, as ghosts do, and then disappears with the wind.

Edie blinks.

At her sides, her hands curl into fists.

She does not hate her mother. That's the stupid part. Not for any of it. She resents her, she's angry, she wishes she had made better choices, she is sad and full of a grief that she has no place to put, but she doesn't hate her. She wants to. She has tried. For years, she has tried to hate her. She just can't.

Despite it all, the turmoil, the upheaval, the middle of the night screaming and suicide attempts, the attempted kidnappings and manic bursts, her mother was, for so long, her best friend. Through it all, in Maine, in Aberdeen, in North Carolina, back home in Tacoma, her mother was her one constant. She was a connection, a lifeline, the only light in the world. She was, to Edie, what she wanted to be to everyone: everything.

When Edie was younger, a child, a naive young woman who believed every lie her mother told her, hidden away in the wilderness, locked away in some small suburban home in a small town that was (and still is) only known for being the home of a miserable rock star who killed himself before he hit thirty, her entire world was found in her mother's face, her touch, her voice. She was all she knew.

She does not yet know, even all these years later, with her insides blackened by witchcraft, a withering thing, rotting with rage, how to hate that.

Though she tries.

She looks away from the trees and down into the blue water of the pool. She tilts her head to the side, looking at her rippling reflection in the water. She stands straighter. She holds a hand to her throat, warm light spilling from her fingertips, and then moves it over her face, a blanket of magic, witchcraft and illusion settling over her face, smoothing her scars, her irreparable vocal chords, forming an elaborate lie.

Then she asks, calmly, ''Shouldn't you be in bed?'' She turns to face the small presence behind her, more felt than heard.

The little girl, clutching a stuffed lamb in one hand, wandering down the back steps ducks behind a dead lilac bush, the branches casting shadows on her face.

A smile, just barely there, tugs at Edie's lips. ''It's pretty late, don't you think?''

Tentatively, the girl pokes her head out. She carefully and quietly assesses the situation, and when she has determined that Edie is not a threat to her, she proceeds forward, down the steps, through the lights, and over to the pool area.

Edie has never spoken to Sandra about the girl and Sandra, naturally, has never volunteered any information whatsoever. One day she got a phone call. She went to Burbank, she was gone for a few days, and then she came back with a kid. A little girl.

Her name is Sin.

Logically, knowing what she knows of Sandra's background, Edie suspects Sin is likely just some kid who was either stolen or born into that fucked up cult that Sandra's mother is the head of. However, there is a small possibility Sin could be Sandra's biological daughter, especially given past events, and that...would complicate things.

She and Sandy have been on and off, hot and cold for seventeen years now, often spending years apart before meeting in the middle once again, scarred by the years, with brand new secrets and horror stories weighing them down. It is not necessarily hard to believe that, at some point during the years, Sandra may have given birth to more children. May have done the same thing she did all those years ago in Aberdeen. But Sin was born on January 24th, 2010 - and Edie vividly remembers being with Sandra that winter.

They met in the middle again. Arizona that time. Maybe New Mexico. It was somewhere in the desert. She remembers that. It was December 2009 and nothing felt quite right where they were. It didn't feel like winter in the desert. It didn't feel like Christmas. But Sandra was there and the noise in Edie's head tended to quiet when she was around. Sandra was definitely not pregnant at the end of December 2009 or the beginning of January 2010.

Then again, stranger things have happened.

Also, surrogates exist.

Technically speaking, Sandra is an incredible success in her so-called family. Not that hard to believe her weird mother and her weird cult might want to capitalize on that success and make themselves another.

There must always be a Lady Shiva, after all.

Or, you know, whatever.

It doesn't matter who this child is, truth be told. Regardless of who she is, she is here. What matters is what Lady fucking Shiva is going to do with her. It's not like she can raise her. Sandra - Shiva - has a very specific skillset and child rearing does not at all factor into it. She made that extremely clear all those years ago in Aberdeen. I mean, my god, the woman was raised in a violent human trafficking cult and birthed a child for an assassin. She doesn't understand the concept of love let alone motherhood. How can she raise a child?

Edie eyes the girl slowly creeping forward. She's a sweetheart of a kid, polite and well-mannered but nervous, strong and already trained in combat but small for her age, and hideously neglected. She is unquestionably in need of care, medical and otherwise, that Sandra probably has no idea how to access. This poor kid is always sick. She is noticeably malnourished, she can barely keep food down half the time, she is permanently tired but rarely sleeps, her little teeth are rotting out of her mouth, and Edie suspects there was a broken limb or two at one point that haven't healed properly.

She deserves better.

Even Edie, made mostly of rot and an endless greed, full of maggots and pomegranates and stolen magic, knows this.

She narrows her eyes slightly, curious. Watches Sin slip closer, through the shadows and twinkle lights, finding her way over to the table and chairs, the plate of pomegranate. Edie steps back over to the table, mostly to see what will happen, if the kid will spook, but she doesn't. A brave girl.

As any future Lady Shiva should be.

Edie picks up the other glass tumbler from the tray and pours herself another scotch, watching the girl's eyes fixate on the amber liquid pouring into the glass, the ice cubes clinking against the side of the glass. ''Has someone fed you tonight?''

Sin looks up, surprised, as if she hadn't expected anyone to care. She nods hastily.

''Yeah?'' Edie takes a sip of the scotch that she doesn't really want. ''Hopefully something that won't make you sick this time.''

Sin starts to move, like she wants to sit down, but then freezes, looking back at Edie, mortified that she has almost done something without permission.

Edie waves her on.

Sin hops up on the chair. She looks at the plate of pomegranate and then back to Edie. ''Salmon with rice.''

''Hm.'' Edie thins her lips, but ultimately nods her approval. ''Better than yesterday when she gave you a single egg and nothing else.'' She takes another slow sip of the scotch while she does her best to pretend she is not scrutinizing the child in front of her.

Sitting on the chair, her arms on the armrests, Sin's feet don't touch the ground. She is still looking at the plate of pomegranate, hunger in her eyes at the mere sight of the blood red seeds.

Edie remembers that. It is not something easily forgotten. Once you know what it is to be hungry, to be truly, utterly, achingly hungry, you never forget it. She takes a step forward, reaching out to nudge the plate closer, her perfectly manicured black fingernails catching in the moonlight. ''You want some?''

Sin's fingers twitch, but she doesn't reach for the fruit, bringing her hands closer to her body, wringing them nervously. She looks hesitant to want anything at all. There is a vague sense of fear and something like shame in her eyes, as if she has been caught red handed. It is nothing a six year old should be feeling. Something about it makes Edie's skin crawl. The palpable evidence of the abuse Sin was born into. The brainwashing. The emotional neglect. It's evident in her physically; the scars, the medical neglect, the disassociation, the way she flinches at nothing, but the mental effects of it, the way it reshapes who you are...

That sneaks up on you.

It's one thing to see how it has impacted Sandra. How it has molded her into Lady Shiva, a deadly force of nature, a killing moon. It's another to see what it makes of a child.

''Seriously, kid.'' She musters up a smile. ''Knock yourself out. It's fruit. It's good for you. Antioxidants. Vitamins. All that good stuff.'' She does not mention the whole ''fruit of the dead'' thing or go into all the magical properties in it. Although, hell, it couldn't hurt, right? Give this poor baby her best shot.

Sin finally reaches out, after a moment of contemplation, her movements slow, exceedingly cautious, and picks up a single pomegranate seed. She holds it in her hand for a moment, like she wants to savor it, and then quickly but shyly slips it into her mouth. Instantly, a slow growing smile starts on her lips, small at first, and then blooming into a full blown grin.

Despite herself, Edie feels her own smile, no longer forced, widen. ''Good, isn't it?''

Sin nods eagerly. ''Yummy.''

''Have as much as you want,'' Edie says. ''Have all of it. It'll just go to waste otherwise. I'm not going to eat it.'' It's a half truth. She would have eaten the pomegranate. Just like she would have eaten the rosemary salt. The lavender cake. The ginger turmeric tea. The bone broth. Anything for survival. She would have horded it too, the way she hordes spells and crystals and priceless artifacts, the magic warming the tips of her fingers, the sacrificial blood - all of it for her, to keep her here. She would have kept it, squirreled it away, greedy, as always, for her own life, no one else's; a greed that began all those years ago when she gulped down all that Lazarus Pit water that Sandra gave her.

However, in this instance, she finds herself wanting to give all that to someone else. In this moment, she wants to feed Sin all the pomegranate she has. She wants the small girl who has so little to have all the crystals, all the handmade herbed candles, the oils and the runes, the rosemary salt and the lavender cake. She wants to watch her drink the bone broth. She wants to watch her light the candle. Sin is just a child, a baby, and she has already been through so much. Edie wants her to live through this.

She swallows another burning mouthful of scotch and takes a seat on the other side of the table. She watches Sin eat the juicy red seeds, still cautious, still shy, but smiling, and something in her throat aches terribly. She looks away. Swirls the ice in her glass of scotch that her (read: Katherine's) dead husband prided himself over.

She has never been a mother. She would have liked to have had that. She would have at least liked to have been given the choice. But she has been a sister. An older sister, reminding her baby brothers to put on their jackets before school, their gloves and hats in the winter, tying their shoes for them, getting them snacks after she got home from school, taking care of them the best she could to ease the burden on her mother who so desperately wanted more babies, more than Edie, that first daughter she loved but feared, but could barely care for two little boys so close in age even on the good days.

And she has been a cousin.

Almost exactly a year after Edie packed her backpack full of clean socks and Nilla Wafers and ran away from home, Laurel was born.

She was a beautiful baby. All pink and rosy cheeked, with ten perfect fingers and ten perfect toes, the cutest button nose, and those startling eyes - Ellard eyes, just like Edie's. She was a strange baby, quiet and always staring, sometimes so intensely it was like she was looking right through you. As if she could see something you could not.

Edie first met her when she was barely a day old, trailing behind her father up the stairs of the rundown apartment Dinah and Quentin lived in back then. They were there mostly to pick up Mama - who had been there, along with Grandma, for the birth - but they wound up staying for dinner to visit with Aunt D, pale and withdrawn, sitting slumped and shaking in bed, looking nauseated, horror struck, and full of regret, and Uncle Q, overwhelmed and jittery with excitement, perpetually teary eyed but happy and full of love. They both kept trying to nervously convince everyone that it wasn't that they didn't want to be left alone with the brand new baby they had no idea what to do with, it was just that they wanted everyone to meet her. See how perfect she was. How beautiful.

Fools, the both of them.

They were young when Laurel was born, too young, babies having babies, and they were flat broke, but they were stupid in love (and just plain stupid) and had convinced themselves that having a baby was a good idea only to realize much too late that perhaps they should have waited a few years. Every adult in that apartment that day knew those two were in over their heads.

Maybe that was why Mama, stable for once, in a rare healthy headspace, evened out on medication that seemed to be working, almost like a real mother, did what she did that day. Why she told Edie what she did.

Edie, having spent her entire life thus far getting all the attention, did not care for this new baby at all. In fact, she actively resented it. She started stewing the minute Aunt D and Uncle Q announced they were having a baby and did not stop for the entirety of those nine months.

When her parents sat her down one day in April and told her that her mother was going to Starling for a few days because the baby would likely be coming soon and Aunt D needed some help, Edie just glared. Whined when she was told Mrs. Reynolds, the peculiar old widow from next door would be watching her after school until Dad came home. ''Why does everybody care about this stupid baby so much? Babies can't even do anything.''

''Edith,'' Dad sighed. ''Please don't say stupid.''

''You're not even a little excited?'' Mama tried to prod. ''You're going to be meeting your cousin soon! Isn't that cool?''

''No, I hate babies,'' Edie announced. ''They're loud and smelly and I never ever want one.''

''That's okay,'' Dad said. ''You don't have to have one.''

''But this one,'' Mama added, ''is coming. Whether you like it or not.''

''Well,'' Edie sniped, crossing her arms, nose up in the air. ''Tell her I don't like her and I think she's stupid and ugly and not my friend.''

She had to go stand in the Thinking Corner (a time out, it was a time out) after that. Which did not help her resentment. If anything, it just made her dig her heels in even more. She was bound and determined to dislike that baby for the rest of their lives. Baby Lance was enemy number one. She was never going to like her, they were never going to be friends, and she hoped that silly baby wasn't going to bother her while she was playing.

Then she met her.

That first day, in that shitty apartment in Starling City full of April sunlight, her mother tugged her into the bedroom, baby in her arms, away from the usual Drake family chaos.

''I know you're not crazy about this whole baby thing, ladybug,'' she said softly, gently nudging Edie over to the ugly brown chair by the window. ''I understand how you feel. I wasn't a fan of Dinah when she came along either. But I wanted you to meet your cousin. It's important, Edith.'' She was serious when she talked, but calm. There was no storm in her eyes. Just something determined. Something knowing. She knelt down, her movements careful but confident, and then, before Edie even knew what was happening, the baby was placed in her arms.

The baby didn't make a sound. She was wide awake, staring up at Edie with her big eyes, but she was calm. All Edie could think to say, with that little weight in her arms was, ''Oh.''

''This is Dinah Laurel,'' Mama said. ''She's the first girl in her family. She's just like you and me. Do you know what that means?''

Edie shook her head, but didn't dare to look away from the baby.

''You have to look out for her,'' said Mama. ''You two are going to need each other more than anyone else.''

''Why?''

''Because your blood is the same. It's just like mine.'' She ran a hand over the baby's soft fuzzy hair and then reached up, placing her soft hand against Edie's cheek. ''There is wickedness in this life, Edith. It's not easy to live in this world when you're like us. People won't always understand. You and your cousin have to take care of one another. Can you do that for me? Can you look after her?''

It was too much to ask of a child, in retrospect. A lot of weight to put on an eight year old. It wasn't fair. But, at the time, it made Edie feel important. It made her feel older and wiser than she was. Like a grown up. She was being trusted with something precious. It made her chest and throat feel tight. It made her feel proud. ''I can do that,'' she said, with a confidence she did not actually have. ''I can take care of her.''

''Good,'' Mama smiled. ''That's my good girl. I knew you would.''

Truth is, in the end, the question hadn't been necessary.

Edie would have made the promise anyway. She loved Laurel right away. Right from that first moment. She held that baby in her arms, tiny and pink, with those endless eyes, with the same blood, the first girl in her family, just like her, and she thought to herself, This is mine. This belongs to me. This, I will protect. It was the first time she was able to understand the enormity of love. How big it is. How boundless. She has tried, ever since, to keep her promise.

She admits she has failed.

It's hard to save someone when you can't even save yourself.

Edie looks down into her glass of scotch. Despite the burn of the alcohol, the strong flavor, she still tastes pomegranate on her tongue.

''There was asparagus too.''

The small voice, hesitant but desperate for interaction, startles her. She looks over at Sin, nibbling away on the pomegranate. Edie tries to put Laurel away, boxes her up in the back of her mind, safe and near to her but out of the way. She twists a smile onto her lips. ''Yuck.''

Sin giggles, just a little. ''Yeah, yuck.''

''You eat it?''

A shake of the head.

Edie leans across the table. ''I wouldn't have eaten it either,'' she remarks, winking.

Sin smiles. She still looks shaky, somewhat nervous, still clutching that stuffed lamb, but she seems to be breathing easier. She's comfortable here. With Edie. At least as comfortable as she can be.

Edie is not sure what to do with that. ''Who made your dinner for you?''

Sin wipes her red stained fingers on her shirt, careful not to get any of the juice on her lamb. ''Annabeth.''

Edie gives a short nod of approval. ''Good. I was worried it was Donnie for a second there. Sometimes he takes over kitchen duties - and let me tell you, he can't cook for shit.''

Sin laughs again, covering her mouth, blushing.

''So.'' Edie puts her glass on the table. ''What'd you do today? Just sit in front of the television all day?''

Sin nods, finding nothing wrong with this. Why would she? That's basically all she's done since Sandra brought her back. It's not like good ol' Sandy is going to take the time to set up doctor's appointments or counseling or take her to a dentist. The thought of school probably hasn't crossed her mind at all. Neither has the thought of just sitting with her, talking with her, spending time with the kid. She just pulled her out of immediate harm and thought that was good enough.

''What do you like to watch?'' Edie asks.

''Mmm.'' Sin thinks long and hard about her answer and then says, ''I like Scooby Doo.''

''Scooby Doo, huh?''

''That's my favorite,'' Sin confirms. ''And Star Trek. And How It's Made.''

''You watch How It's Made?''

''I like to watch how things are made.''

Edie can't help but smile. ''Oh, well, then I guess that'd be the perfect show for you.'' She tilts her head to the side, eyeing Sin for a second. ''You don't get bored just sitting around watching TV all day?''

''No,'' Sin shrugs. ''Sometimes I read. Or draw. I like...'' She ducks her head down, lowering her voice to a near whisper like she's ashamed of saying out loud that she likes something. ''I like to draw.''

''Oh yeah? What kind of things do you draw?''

''Things from outside the window. The sky. Birds.'' She holds up her stuffed lamb. ''I like to draw Luna.'' She starts to say something and then stops, grimacing, shifting slightly in her chair. ''Shiva will not let me draw her.''

''I can believe that,'' says Edie. ''She never lets me take pictures of her either.'' She stands up for a second, making an impulsive choice to step over to Sin, picking up the discarded blanket she threw over the third chair, draping it around the young girl's shoulders, rubbing her cold arms. It's just a gesture of kindness. She is not without kindness.

Despite what some people would have you believe.

''What about movies?'' She sits back down, a heat creeping up her neck when she spots the look on Sin's face, not quite adoring but warm and tender. No one has looked at her like that and meant it in a long, long time. ''What's your favorite? I like Beauty and the Beast.''

''I like Paddington,'' Sin says after a moment of thought. ''And Toy Story.''

''Both good choices.''

''I like Toy Story 'cause there are so many toys.'' Her voice is awed as she says this, her eyes full of both disbelief and wonder.

It occurs to Edie that Sin has probably never seen that many toys in her entire life. She has so few of them. Just two, Edie thinks. The lamb - given to her, as Edie understands, by a kindly librarian in some holiday gift giving thing - and a Black Canary Barbie, hair chopped off, missing her tiny choking hazard mask.

It's such a grim thought.

When Sandra first brought Sin here, the girl was clutching tightly to a blue backpack with yellow stars that held everything she owned. Her entire life fit into that small backpack with room to spare. A single coloring book, a pack of crayons worn down to stubs, an adorably dog eared copy of Where the Wild Things Are, a few ill-fitting and moth eaten articles of clothing, and that doll, that Black Canary Barbie that she was never without.

And that was it.

Her entire little life summed up.

A lonely backpack with room for more and a single toy that wasn't even produced until last summer.

Over the past few months, there have been a few pieces of duct tape hastily applied to the wound of her broken childhood. Sandra has done the best she can, within her capabilities, to update Sin's wardrobe, to offer her more than she was given, even if it's not something she is good at. She takes her to the library every weekend. She bought a winter coat. Edie herself slipped a few new coloring books and a few new packs of crayons and pencil crayons during the holidays. But that's not enough.

A child should have toys.

''You don't have a lot of toys,'' she says softly. ''Do you?''

Sin blinks a few times, as if she can't quite decide what to make of the question. Her fingers curl tighter around her lamb. Eventually, she shakes her head.

''Well, that's not acceptable,'' Edie says, matter-of-fact. Her lips slowly tilt up into a half smile. ''You and I will have to fix that sometime.''

Sin stares at her. ''Really?''

''Of course. You're six. You need toys.''

There is a second where Sin doesn't seem to know how to react to that. She looks confused, then she looks like she wants to cry, and then, very quietly, she asks, ''You would buy me toys?''

''Anything you want,'' Edie declares. She's trying to sound nonchalant about it, but this kid is hardcore bumming her out. ''As soon as things calm down, you and I will go shopping. We'll make a day of it. We'll go out for lunch and then we'll go nuts. Clothes, toys, books, whatever you want. You like to draw, right?'' She waits for the nod and then carries on. ''We'll get you some art supplies too. The high quality stuff. None of that Crayola crap. I'm talking the real stuff.''

''But...'' Sin still looks hopelessly lost. ''Why would you give me toys?''

''Because you're a child,'' Edie answers immediately. ''Children should have toys.''

Slowly, Sin starts to smile. She tries to hide it behind her lamb, but it's there.

Edie doesn't think she has ever seen her smile like that before. ''Plus,'' she adds on, an attempt to lighten the mood. ''I have all this money I don't know what to do with. Can't think of a better way to spend it. Toys are much more fun than paying bills.''

It is not technically a lie.

However, there are certain addendums to her wealth.

Addendum number one: The money, all of it, is not actually Edie's. Because Edith Hart has been dead since December 2000. The money is Katherine Lovejoy's. She inherited it from her late husband. He left her everything he had. He had a heart attack and fell into that pool right there. Poor Katie found him sunk like a stone. It was devastating for her.

Addendum to the addendum: Monkshood, commonly known as Wolfsbane, is poisonous. Highly toxic. Potentially deadly if ingested. Especially in high concentrations. It stops the heart.

She kinda feels bad about that one.

Not terribly bad, though, because turns out Dr. Alan Lovejoy, the beloved retired doctor, pillar of his community, salt of the earth, was secretly a depraved pervert whose biggest kink in the bedroom was degrading women. Why do you think she specifically chose him out of all the old ass rich men in the Pacific Northwest? Do you think he was attracted to Katherine purely because she was a young, perky, beautiful blonde with a nice smile? No, they met in the canteen at the hospital he worked at when she was on crutches, helpless and burdened with a ''broken ankle.'' He was attracted to her because she was fragile and acceptably weak. Just soft and sweet enough for a man like him to devour.

He got what was coming to him in the end. All men like him do.

But still.

She feels a little bad about putting him down.

It's always hard for her to watch the betrayal and fear bleed into the eyes of someone who loved her realize what she has done.

It was hard when it was Alan; when, about an hour after she handed him his usual mid afternoon green smoothie, he started feeling dizzy and numb, when he became violently ill, when the chest pain and trouble breathing set in and instead of helping him, Katherine just stood there on the patio, by her herb garden, his cell phone in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other, expressionless, unblinking. He looked at her before he staggered back, body wracked with convulsions, and fell into the pool.

There was a slow growing look of pure fear in his eyes as he realized what was happening, a revulsion as he looked at her and she looked back, stone faced, allowing, for the first time, Katherine's blonde hair and unblemished, unscarred skin to fall away, replaced by the cold hard truth of what he married.

It had not been her intention to make sure that the last thing he felt before the cold was confusion, disgust, and sheer terror. She just thought she owed him, at last, the one thing she had never been able to give him: honesty. She's not sorry he's gone, but it was still hard to stomach that last look.

It was hard when it was Laurel, too.

Not only the moment of revelation, that night last November down at the docks when Edie said don't get weepy on me now, kid and Laurel said I didn't want it to be you, but all the years before. It had been hard to see the look of utter devastation and hopelessness in her cousin's eyes that night, but it had been excruciating to spend every day before that plotting, putting things into motion that she never wanted to have to put in motion, all the while imagining all the ways Laurel could react; the way her eyes would widen, the way her face would fall, crestfallen, betrayed.

And it was hard when it was her mother.

When, in the spring of 2012, Katherine Lovejoy planned a garden party.

It was a fundraiser for one of Alan's many charities, set shortly after he retired, and she made sure to invite all of his friends and colleagues. Including cardiologist Dr. Daniel Hart and his wife, Valerie.

Katie was energetic and sickly sweet, her big smile never once faltering as she leaned in and shook their hands. Not even when Mrs. Hart took her hand and froze the second their eyes met, all the color draining from her face, her own smile fading, replaced by a ghastly fear, a cold sweat.

A mother will always recognize her daughter.

No matter what.

It's just you and me, ladybug, Mama said once, grinning into the rearview mirror at her five year old who she had just scooped out of bed and ran away with in the middle of the night during a manic episode that would ultimately end after a 72 hour psych hold. Just us girls, she said, the shadows of the trees falling across her face as they drove, making her look deranged in the moonlight, unrecognizable. This is how it's supposed to be.

I don't want you to be my mom anymore, seven-year-old Edie's note read the night she ran away from home, scratched out in crayon, a month after she woke up in the dark to find her mother crouched in the corner, a bloody, weeping thing. I'm scared of you.

Can I tell you the truth, her mother whispered that night, when she found Edie at that McDonald's, eating her cherry pie. I'm scared of me too.

You have given me a beautiful life with beautiful children, read one of Mama's many suicide notes, addressed to Dad, plucked out of a glove compartment by nosy little Katie Lovejoy during that garden party in 2012. But I don't deserve any of it. If you knew the things I've done, you would understand.

It is hard to be the villain. It hurts to destroy just as much as it hurts to be destroyed.

Mama taught her that.

Edie swipes the glass of scotch off the table and drains it dry, the alcohol burning its way down. She looks over at Sin, the sweetheart of a girl, sitting there, huddled in her blanket, looking up at the starry night sky with the kind of wonder only children can muster up. Something about it makes the shaking in Edie's hands even worse, the ice in her glass clinking noisily. All this girl has gone through, all the abuse, the pain, the loneliness, and she can still look up at the sky in wonder. She reminds her of Laurel. Edie puts the glass back down.

Sin, as far as Edie knows, has no real mother. There was Mother, the woman who ferries children into her cult of violence, training them either until they break or harden into empty shells. There was whoever gave birth to her, whoever handed her over to Mother, maybe as a bargaining chip, a way to escape. There is Sandra, Shiva, and whatever she is to this child. There is no actual parent. No real mother.

Edie cannot tell if the hollow gnawing in her chest is pity or envy.

''Hey,'' she says, catching Sin's attention. ''Sandra ever take you to a park?''

Sin frowns. ''Who is...Sandra?''

''Shiva. That's her real name. She's never told you her real name?''

Sin's frown deepens. She looks curious. She wrings her hands. Picks at her cuticles. ''Do...'' She looks up at Edie, apprehensive, an undercurrent of something deeper in her eyes. Like hope. ''Do I have a real name?''

''As far as I know,'' Edie says, ''Sin is your real name.''

Sin's shoulders slump. ''Oh.''

''But you can change it if you want,'' Edie proposes. ''When you're older.''

''I can?''

''Sure. People do that all the time. I have. I've had a lot of names.''

''I can be someone else?'' Sin looks entranced by the idea. ''I can be anyone?''

Edie looks at her for a second, cowed by the fragile look of hope on the face of the girl too young to be this lost. ''Not...exactly. It doesn't work that way.'' Her voice, in all its false wholeness, not a single scary rasp in earshot, is softer than it has been in years. ''You can change your name, but you'll still be you. We are who we are. We can't change that.''

And hasn't that always been the biggest problem.

All the names she's had over the years, all the faces, the lies, the illusions, the stolen power, and underneath it all, she's still the scarred teen from 1995, the disfigured young woman from 2000. Awfully hypocritical of her to be doling out advice on something she hasn't even accepted herself.

''We grow,'' she goes on, ''but we're still us.''

Sin looks downtrodden by the answer.

Edie understands. ''Is it that bad? To be you?''

Sin just shrugs.

Edie wishes she had more pomegranate to offer the girl. Maybe some chocolate. ''So you've never been to a playground?''

Sin bites down on her lip and shakes her head. ''I don't like to be outside.''

''No? Why is that?''

''People can see me.''

''And that's a bad thing?''

''What if...'' Sin shifts under the blanket, gripping her stuffed lamb ''What if somebody sees me and tells Mother where I am and then...'' She trails off, visibly shivering. ''And then she comes to take me back?''

''Well,'' Edie starts, voice even. ''Then she'd have to get through Shiva - and not many people can do that.''

Sin rubs her cheek against the soft stuffed animal.

''She'd have to get through me too,'' Edie says, just to say it. ''I wouldn't let her take you back.''

Sin is an abused child. She is lonely and scared and sad. These are the only things she knows. The abuse she lived with was physical, emotional, and verbal. She was neglected in every way possible. Now she will have to live with that. She will have to live with the scars and the pain, the nightmares and the consequences of the medical and dental neglect that is clear as day in her rotting baby teeth, the way she gets sick all the time, the dietary changes she obviously needs. She has suffered and she will continue to suffer.

Sin is six years old, just.

There is absolutely nothing she could have done to warrant that kind of treatment, that kind of punishment. No child deserves that. Children should be safe, warm, and taken care of. They should be loved. Not brought into this world just to be broken into pieces and put back together as a deadly weapon.

Edie is perfectly aware that she is a bad person, but she is not that far gone. She doesn't think Sandra is either, even if she has no idea where to begin or how to go about things. Edie could help with these things. She could help Sandra take care of Sin, the way they never got a chance to take care of Cassandra. She could take care of the both of them. But Sandra will never allow it. She has no idea what she's doing, but she won't let Edie help. She has never let her help with anything.

All they have is this. An imagined scenario where the monster comes back and Sandra has no choice but to let Edie help.

''I don't know what you've been told,'' Edie says slowly, ''but I'm not all bad.''

Sin looks at her with sharp eyes. ''Shiva says you are xié'è,'' she says, with a matter-of-fact nod of her head. ''That means - ''

''I know what it means,'' says Edie.

Shiva used to call her something else.

Back in Aberdeen. In the desert. In Europe and Canada and Bora Bora and the Hamptons. It was her favorite thing, tell you the truth. She has been called many things, has had many names, but the one that sticks with her the most is what Sandra, not Shiva, used to call Edie in the dark, during the cool, rainy nights she can barely remember.

心肝

Xīngān.

It means darling, but another rough translation is heart and liver. It's meant to convey the depths of emotion you have for someone. Bigger than love, bigger than lust. You don't just want them. Your body needs them as much as it needs your heart and your liver. It has been a long time since Sandra called her that.

November of 2012, in Greece. It was another meeting in the middle. Except it wasn't just that. Back home, in the states, Laurel had just given birth to her first child, a daughter, a fucking Winchester, and Edie didn't want to think about that, so Katie Lovejoy went on an emergency trip back home to the Ozarks to take care of an ''ailing aunt'' and Edie flew to Athens to drink her body weight in ouzo. It was the last time she drank heavily and it was the last time Sandra looked at her with anything even remotely resembling affection.

She told her she was becoming cruel and unusual. Lady Shiva, the feared, cold-blooded mercenary, told her she was cruel. Told her she was becoming obsessed. That if she wasn't careful she was going to turn herself xié'è and there was no coming back from that.

Wicked, by the way.

It means wicked.

''Do you think...'' Sin's voice is small but curious. She has pulled her legs up onto the chair and she's picking at her chapped, scabbed lips. ''If Mother tried to get me,'' she says, voice slow and thoughtful. ''Do you think Black Canary would help me?''

Fuck's sake.

Edie presses her lips together to keep in a huff of annoyance. ''Probably,'' she says, and successfully manages to keep the bitterness out of her voice. ''Sounds like something she would do, doesn't it?''

''Her real name is Laurel.''

''Yep, sure is.''

''Dinah Laurel Lance,'' Sin nods. ''You know her.''

Edie's gaze snaps back to the little girl, sitting there staring at her with calm, knowing eyes. ''I knew her.''

''Were you friends?''

''We were family once.''

''You're not anymore?''

''Nope.'' She stands, pouring more scotch into her glass just to give her hands something to do. ''I don't have any family.''

What do you mean you don't have any family? the voice in her head coos. You have me. I'm your family. I'm all you'll ever need. Isn't that enough?

She doesn't say a word. She doesn't think. She does not pick up the glass of scotch. She tries not to picture her father or her brothers or the look on Laurel's face when she saw her for the first time, a ghost, a horrible remnant of someone from long ago, the leftovers of a dead girl. After a moment of carefully constructed blankness, an emptiness settling in her chest, carving out a place to call home, she thinks about her mother instead.

Her mother, the lunatic.

How she stayed with her in the hospital every day after the car crash in Bellingham, after Siobhan. How she held her hand and stroked her hair and sang I wish I had a river I could skate away on. She was everything she was supposed to be. She was steady. She was warm. She was soft and soothing, like a real mother. She was a safe place.

And then she was nothing at all.

Edie got her inheritance, the weight of being an eldest daughter, and her parents sent her off to Maine. Her mother sent her across the country. Handed her off like she was a bomb Faye needed to disarm. Edie never had a say in what happened to her. There was little she had a say in back then. She was so angry about it. All the time. And she was scared. She was terrified and nobody ever helped her. Her mother should have been the one helping her. Her mother should have done a lot of things that she didn't. She was locked away like a dirty little secret. Like what she was born with, something she had no control over, was worse than everything Mama put them all through.

Seven year old Edie had a point when she scrawled I don't want you to be my mom anymore in red crayon.

After Aberdeen, after the mall collapse, when her mother got her out of Washington and all the way to the relative safety of North Carolina, she set her up with money and a house, but told her she was on her own from there, that she couldn't keep cleaning up the messes, couldn't keep covering up the mistakes. She said it had to end there. She said it was time to grow up.

Your mother, Fawn Marlowe said. Your mother was just doing what she thought was best for everyone.

Edie fumed in North Carolina, the same way she fumed in Aberdeen, in Maine, locked out of her own life, turned into a ghost by her own mother, the one person she should have been able to trust more than anyone else in the world.

Your mother is supposed to be the first love story you ever get. The first person to hold you. The first person you touch. The first person you see. Your mother is supposed to be your home.

And this is what she got.

She was born into the arms of a woman too sick in the head to be a mother. A woman who should have known better than to burden children with her constant suicide attempts and manic episodes and inconsistent medication use. Valerie Drake should have kept her legs closed and locked herself up with Faye in the wilderness of Maine, but no. No, Valerie got what she wanted. The way she always gets what she wants.

Her daughter got jack shit.

Yet when her mother left her in North Carolina, when she paused in the driveway and looked back, blowing her a kiss, Edie still wanted to catch it and put it under her pillow. Even traumatized and angry, she craved the attention her mother gave her. She wanted to be five years old again. She wanted Mama to put her in the backseat and drive until the road ran out. She wanted to be loved that much again. Like crazy. I love you here, I love you there, I love you everywhere, her mother used to tell her, every night before bed, when her smile was soft, when she was most like the moms from the movies.

She still loves her mother, the lunatic, the bloody thing in the corner of her bedroom, the manic grin in the rearview mirror, the first love story she ever got. She loves her more than anything. She hates her just as much. For all of it. Everything. What happened and what didn't, all the things she said and all the things she didn't. She hates her for Maine and for Aberdeen and for North Carolina. For the things she remembers and especially for the things she doesn't. For all the letters that were sent and all the ones that weren't. For I don't want you to be my mom anymore, I'm scared of you and I wish I had a river I could skate away on. The kisses she put under her pillow and the blood dripping on that pink rug with the white bunnies that night when she was seven and all the things no one ever told her.

Years later, as an adult, after Aberdeen and after North Carolina but before the letters stopped, before they became strangers, before fragile Mrs. Hart met Katie Lovejoy's sharp smile, Edie finally learned the truth about what happened that night when she was seven.

Her mother was pregnant. Eighteen weeks. It was her sixth pregnancy, a last ditch attempt after seven years of secondary infertility. They were just getting ready to tell people. They had just barely begun to feel safe. Then, that night, while Dad was working the graveyard shift at the ER, Mama woke up to severe cramping and a lot of blood and couldn't get a hold of Dad.

Already on the verge of a psychotic break because she had, unbeknownst to anyone else, stopped taking all her medications, she immediately spiraled. Just had a full on break from reality. It was her first episode of genuine psychosis, but it would not be her last. She launched herself headfirst into despondency and lunacy, a real Valerie Hart special, blinded by pain, blood loss, and shock. Then, with her usual amount of logic and reason, which is none at all, she did what she always does when faced with something she doesn't want to face: she drank a bottle of wine and tried to commit suicide. That time, her method of choice was the full length mirror in the basement. When bashing her head into it didn't work – presumably because that is a stupid way to kill yourself - and only resulted in a bloody head wound and a minor concussion, she took the broken glass and slashed her wrists.

Then she changed her mind.

At least that's what she says.

It was probably more like she gave up out of exhaustion, in Edie's opinion. Mama rarely changes her selfish, withered mind when it comes to her suicidal tendencies. All of her children likely understand that by now.

She wandered up into the kitchen, in shock, bled all over the place, called Dad, calmly told him what she had done, and then she staggered upstairs, badly wounded, still in shock, likely completely unaware of how bad the blood loss was, and ended up in her seven year old's room.

It was stupid. Everything about it was stupid. And selfish. Disgustingly selfish. Just like everything else she does. If she's happy, everyone else has to be happy. If she's sad, the whole world has to end. If she wants to go off her meds and kill herself, anyone who tries to stop her is the enemy. What a silly, selfish, stupid woman she is. If there is one thing Valerie Hart is going to do, it's make a bad decision. Her entire life is a series of fuck ups.

The worst thing about it is that everyone knows this is not what she wants to be. Has never been what she wants to be. She tries so hard to be good. To be normal. To love her life. She wanted to be a mother. She wanted to be a wife. She wanted to feel full. To have it all. And she did. She, at one point, had everything she ever dreamed of. A doting husband, a big house in an affluent area that had a front porch and a garden, a daughter she claimed to love, two little miracle boys born one after the other following years of heartbreak and loss.

All that bliss and it still wasn't enough for her.

Nothing has ever been enough. Nothing has ever filled her up. Nothing has ever stopped her from feeling empty.

Edie has not lived her mother the way Jackson and Seth have had to in her absence, but she still knows the deepest truth her mother holds. The only thing Mama wants, the only thing she has ever truly wanted, is to die. To leave this all behind, this chaotic world, the dreary rain of Tacoma, the inheritance that terrifies, her tormented mind. It doesn't matter how many times Dad saves her, how many times he pulls her back from the ledge or out of the water, how many times he stitches up her wrists or has her stomach pumped.

Eventually, she will get what she wants.

That is what Edie knows of family.

A severely mentally ill and suicidal mother, a cowardly father trapped by his own devotion, and children left to fend for themselves in a harsh world. It's a recurring theme with eldest Ellard daughters, isn't it? It happened with Mama, with Faye, she can already see it happening with Laurel. When is the last time one of these cursed women raised a happy family? When is the last time one of them chose to stay?

''I don't have any family either.''

Edie turns back at the sound of the hushed voice, gaze settling on Sin. It's more of a mumble, and she's not looking at her, eyes off to the side, but there is a tiny spark of something in her eyes, a plea in her voice. She's hoping Edie will prove her wrong. Say something like now we have each other and make space for her in her life and they can live happily ever after with all the toys in the world.

For a second, just barely, Edie even thinks about it. There is a part of her, underneath all this rage and all these layers of protective armor, that has always wanted a family. The same things her mother wanted, the very things her mother had but could never appreciate. In another life, maybe, she could have had these things. She could have done better than her mother. She would have done better.

In this life, it is not a wise idea. It's not a promise she can keep. She can buy toys and books and set Sin up with doctors and specialists, but the things Sin needs are things that were burned out of Edie a long time ago. She can't give a child the kind of love children deserve to be given.

Sin is too sweet for an Ellard anyway. She deserves better than a centuries old ghost story without end. She deserves a mom, a real one, a family who will love her unconditionally and soothe the scars left behind from her first brutal years of life.

Neither Edie nor Sandra fit that description.

''Hey!''

The voice, loud and deep, with rough edges and a rather rude sharpness, cuts through the stillness of the night. Sin startles at the sound of it, her focus moving over to the two tall imposing figures stalking through the midnight mist. Edie closes her eyes, feeling both relieved and annoyed by the interruption. When she opens her eyes, she tries her best to put her mask of callous indifference back on.

Just what her night needed.

An appearance by Thing #1 and Thing #2.

She tilts her head to the side, watching them approach. You know, she's not going to admit anything out loud but there is a part of her that is seriously starting to regret bringing the Moretti brothers on board. They're just so unhinged. Also rude. No one ever taught these idiots any manners. The poster boys for toxic masculinity and weird codependency. Guess that's what happens when you have a cruel father and all you know of love is violence. She can understand how they would turn out like this.

Does not make them any less annoying, though.

She would rather deal with the Winchester brothers. Underneath their sharp edges, they're probably just a couple of sad sorry fucks damaged by family dysfunction and the world's most bizarre religious trauma. The Moretti brothers might actually be sociopaths. It would have been so much easier to just kill them and focus on the actual Weber coven but no. Her dumb ass thought it would be good to have some actual muscle on the team.

That might have been an oopsie on her part.

Although, for the record, they are decent bodyguards.

Sure, she has her Dolls and she greatly appreciates their loyalty, but there is a certain risk you take when you turn mostly homeless people and addicts into your brainwashed foot soldiers. They are not particularly strong. A lot of them are sickly, their bodies unhealthy, malnourished and addicted and weak. She has tried her best to help them out, get them medical attention and detox, hot meals and warm clothes, to help them as much as they're helping her, but mostly what's keeping them going, giving them bursts of strength is the adrenaline and the false sense of freedom that comes with being released from the weight of a soul.

The Moretti brothers, on the other hand, are both fighters. Physically fit, strong, brutal, and willing to use that savagery to get results. Dante is not a strong witch, despite all his posturing and bravado, caught somewhere between Borrower and Student, abysmal at both, and Ric spends far too much time concerned with where to stick his dick next whenever she won't put out for him, and – really, as people they're both insufferably whiny. A couple of weak willed, absurdly pathetic men full of rage they inherited from their daddy and spinelessness inherited from their mother, but they're good bodyguards. They're protective.

Just as long as she keeps them on a tight leash.

They're just so fucking annoying.

And needy.

Oh god, the neediness. Such an unattractive quality.

Honestly, getting to know these two has seriously made her question how anyone - anyone mostly meaning Laurel - can stand to be around those Winchester brothers for longer than three minutes at a time. They might be less irritating but just given the similarities, they must be insufferable to be around. Her cousin's self-esteem must really be in the toilet if she thinks that mess is the best she can do.

''What are you doing out of bed?'' Ric's voice is like a gravel pit, sandpapery rough and dry. He's trying to sound commanding and intimidating, but she can hear the crackle of discomfort, the wet cough that follows.

Wonderful.

Another thing she is going to have to fix.

Dante speaks over his brother's cough as they approach the pool area. ''Where's Marlene?''

''How should I know?'' Edie tries not to show the growing tension in her shoulders, casually stepping closer. ''I don't keep a log book of your wife's movements. She's an adult.''

''An adult under your control,'' he spits back.

She smiles at him, smooth as ever. ''She's free to go at any time.''

''Which she won't,'' he fires back, ''because she's soulless and under your spell.''

''If this is the best she thinks she can do with her power and loyalty,'' she retorts lazily, ''who am I to stop her?'' She waves him away. ''Check the library.''

He doesn't approach any further, but Ric strolls right into the pool area.

Sin visibly shivers the second she sees him, shrinking back against the chair, pulling the blanket closer, and going still, as if she is trying to make herself invisible.

In all likelihood, it's just Ric's general vibe, or possibly the creepy skull mask he's chosen to rock since his transformation because apparently he thinks it's cool to act like an off brand comic book villain from the year 2006, but Edie doesn't like it. She steps back over to the table and puts her glass down, trying to be as casual as possible as she breezily places herself in between Sin and Guy Who Looks Like He Invested In Von Dutch over there.

Dante watches his older brother walk away from him, a strained look on his face, a flinch when Ric coughs again, an audible rattle in his chest. He regrets it, that much is obvious. What's been done to his brother, what they made of him, what he insisted on doing. He regrets it, but he would do it all over again. His brother is a disintegrating corpse, kept alive, for lack of a better term, and stronger than ever by twisted magic and baby brother's sheer will, unable to die but unable to live, better off dead, but if they had a time machine, if they could go back, Dante would still make the same choice.

Isn't that pathetic?

''What are you doing out of bed?'' Ric asks again, reaching for Edie the moment he's close enough.

She dodges his hand and ducks away from him, leading him away from Sin. ''Needed some fresh air.''

He coughs again, deep in his chest, and lifts his mask up briefly to spit some blood onto the concrete beside him.

''Do you think this is your garbage can,'' she snipes, ''you disgusting prick? Who do you think is going to have to clean that up?''

He laughs at her. ''Not fuckin' you, princess.''

Over his shoulder, she notices Dante's distressed face right before he turns and walks away. Grief makes a monster out of all of us, she supposes.

Ric has not noticed any of this. He rarely does. He does not seem to subscribe to the same brotherly devotion Dante does. ''You're sick,'' he says tersely, his sourpuss expression evident even with his face covered entirely by the mask.

Says the guy who coughs up blood on the regular.

''I'm not,'' she retorts. ''Flare's over. I'm fine.''

''You won't be for long,'' he says. ''It's happening more and more.''

''Oh, is it? Thank you for pointing that out,'' she says, allowing the disdain into her voice. ''I hadn't realized.''

He makes a sound that can't seem to decide if it wants to be a pissed off growl or a huff of laughter. Then, apparently for the first time, he notices Sin. He turns his head toward her and the girl freezes, hunching down in her chair, unable to look at him directly.

Riccardo is...not a kid person. In fact, most of the time, he seems to be actively grossed out and irrationally offended by the mere existence of children. He hates his niece and nephew so much that he essentially put out a hit on them. Not necessarily a personality trait has endeared her to him.

He sounds disgusted when he asks, ''What the hell is she doing out here?''

''We were having a conversation, Riccardo,'' Edie states and snaps her fingers in front of his face to get his attention back on her. ''One you were not a part of. It's none of your business.''

He stares at her for a second, faceless in that tacky mask. In the shadows, in the darkness of the night, even his eyes look empty. Just bottomless pools of blackness. Nothingness. He looks back at Sin, snapping his attention to her so suddenly it makes the poor kid jump and shudder. ''You,'' he points a gloved finger at her, and then jerks his thumb in the direction of the house. ''Get lost.'' You can hear the scowl and thinly veiled revulsion in his voice.

Edie does not care for that shit at all.

Her hand shoots out before she even knows what she's doing and she grabs a hold of his chin, turning him back to her. ''You better watch your tone, Snake Eyes,'' she mocks, digging her fingers in. ''It's best not to forget who made you.'' She releases him from her hold, not without giving him a shove, and then turns back to Sin, softening. ''It's okay, sweetheart,'' she says, offering the terrified, shaking child a smile. ''He's just a mean old bully. Don't listen to a thing he says.'' With a wink, she leans in a closer, whispering, ''No one does.''

Sin still looks mostly frightened, clinging to her lamb, but a tiny wobbly smile does grace her lips ever so slightly at the dig.

Edie holds out her hand and, much to her surprise, Sin takes it without even a moment of hesitation. She's the picture of fear, as usual, all quaking knees and nails that have been bitten bloody, but her small hand is warm and soft and there is something else hidden away in her eyes tonight. Something just beyond the fear as she places her hand in Edie's, something that makes Edie's stomach clench at the sight of it, her throat constricting, confused and unworthy: trust.

What the hell is she supposed to do with that?

She swallows it down and smiles, helping Sin to her feet. She wraps the blanket around the kid's shoulders. ''Listen, why don't you head inside and tell Annabeth I said you could watch Netflix on the big TV in my bedroom,'' she suggests. ''She'll get you all set up. Tell her I said to get you some warm pajamas. Make sure you tell her Edie said it's okay.''

Sin starts to nod, but then hesitates, throwing a narrow eyed look over at Ric.

Edie tries not to think about the fact that the only person still willing to protect her is an abused six year old too kind and innocent to know better. ''It's okay,'' she says brightly. ''His bark is worse than his bite,'' she lies. She places her hands on Sin's shoulders, turning her away. ''I think there's some water in the mini fridge in my office just off the bedroom if you need it. There's an extra toothbrush in the bottom drawer in my bathroom. Make sure you brush your teeth before bed.'' She does not know why she says this. Why it seems important. It just seems like the thing to do. Parents remind their children to brush their teeth. Her mother used to do that. It feels like a normalcy, maybe.

Sin barely acknowledges it, still frowning over at Ric, but she nods.

''Okay,'' Edie grins. It feels foreign on her face. ''Off you go. Don't step on that glass there. I'll see you later.'' She keeps the smile on her face as she watches Sin walk away. She doesn't turn around. Not until she sees Sin step inside the house.

Not until she hears his tired mutter of, ''Fucking wonderful. Now we've got a brat in our bed.''

She turns, icing over, eyes darkening. She doesn't even startle when she sees that he has pulled his mask off. Doesn't flinch at the sight of his mottled, peeling skin, his gnarly eyes, the appearance of a man, melting away. It fits him, in her opinion. ''First of all,'' she says, voice crisp, biting but smooth. ''It's my bed, you ass.''

He lumbers closer and then passes by, picking up her abandoned glass of scotch. If there is one thing the prick has, it's the fucking audacity.

''My bed,'' she repeats, stepping over to him. ''My house. My money.'' She whips a hand out and snatches the glass from him before he can even take a sip. ''My scotch.'' She puts the glass back down. There is a flash, a glint in his eyes that she has come to recognize, and he jerks, hand twitching, reaching out to grasp her wrist.

His hold on her is tight, too tight, vice like, and she can see him gritting his teeth. The most pathetic thing about his toxic, unyielding rage is that he was like this even before he was a monster. In fact, what has been done to him, what she has done to him, what his desperate brother has done to him hasn't changed much at all. It's only revealed him, unmasked him.

Unmoved by his burning fury, she grabs his disgusting disintegrating face with one hand, her nails digging into his chin. A warmth, golden and pure, something far too powerful to waste on him, travels from her to him, spreading over his gruesome face, smoothing out the signs of decay, leaving him as he was before, not a healing but a very convincing lie. Just like her.

There is a reluctant relaxation, a begrudging softening in him as he lets go of her wrist.

Edie feels no such warmth. She leans in closer to his newly - and temporarily - restored face and says, calmly, ''My power.'' She releases her grip on him, shoving him back a step. She puts on her best sneer, the one she learned from her mother during the manic phases. ''You'd do well to remember that,'' she warns coldly. ''I can take just as easily as I can give.''

Normally, this is the part where she would stand here and watch him try to shove down his rage, his urge to retaliate, to grab her by the throat and squeeze. It's all this sad little man knows. It's what he does. It's who he is. He beats the shit out of women because that's what his father did and he is nothing if not carved in his father's image. He doesn't usually lay a hand on her, though. He's tried, sure, a backhand here, a pinch under the table, a fistful of hair, a little blood on the sheets, and she does not love how bold he has become since his return, but he has always been acutely aware of the power dynamic at play here.

One might even say he's scared of her.

At the end of the day, he is just a man. She is a witch. Regardless of where her power comes from, she is the one who wields it. Not to mention the money. He knows not to bite the hand that feeds.

Tonight is different. There is something new about the look in his eyes. He looks at her for a second and it's like there is nothing there but a spark of rage. It only lasts a second a glaring ugliness against his handsome face, and then it's gone. And he starts to laugh. Not one of his smarmy chuckles. An actual laugh. It's out of place. He brings a hand up to his face, healed and alive. He is still laughing.

She understands the mistake she has made here. Let's get that out of the way right now. She gets that she screwed up by bringing this man into her life and her plan. She knows that. But here we fucking are. Too late to turn back now.

Ric - something only she calls him, not an endearment, not something born out of love, but something just for them nonetheless - keeps laughing and walks past her. He picks the scotch back up, pausing momentarily, challenging her to stop him, and he takes a sip.

Her brows furrow, but she doesn't bother to stop him.

He looks around, then pauses, throwing a hand out to gesture at the broken glass by the pool's edge. ''What happened there?''

She crosses her arms. ''Dropped a glass.''

''Hm.'' Seems like there's something more he wants to say there, but, for whatever reason, he doesn't. ''Why the hell are you out here dressed like that?'' He drains the glass and gives her a critical onceover. ''Aren't you cold?''

''I'm fine,'' she says, shoulders tense. ''Where have you been all day?''

He drops the mask onto the plate with the pomegranate husk and sits down, reaching for the decanter of scotch. ''Canada.''

Not in any way what she was expecting him to say. ''Excuse me?''

''Just over the border,'' he says. ''In British Columbia.'' He says it like this is all he needs to say.

She waits for a moment, fully expecting an explanation that does not come. There is a stirring in her gut. A quiet whisper of worry. He's usually upfront with her. He usually knows his place. Finally, she pokes. ''Why?''

He pours himself another glass of scotch without asking for permission. He doesn't look at her. ''Something needed to be done with the body.''

''You took Clementine?'' The rage feels like a buzzing, a vibration under her skin. She lowers her hands to her sides and a single blue spark sizzles on a fingertip. She doesn't know why it makes her so angry. She doesn't know why it's been so important for her to keep Clementine close. It's just a feeling. ''I didn't ask you to do that.''

He just shrugs. The disrespect rolling off him in waves is potent. ''It's not like you were going to get anything else out of her,'' he says. ''She said as much as she was going to say. Power's all dried up. End of story.''

''So you just unilaterally decided to - '' She breaks off, rubbing her forehead. A heavy sigh escapes her. ''Canada, Moretti?'' This is becoming a problem. His boldness. His insolence. She drops down into the vacant chair. ''Where did you put her?''

''Told you,'' he says, evasive. ''British Columbia.''

''You mentioned that,'' she says, clipped. ''Where in British Columbia?''

He peers at her over the rim of the glass. ''Why does it matter?''

''It matters because I'm asking you,'' she spits out. ''I need to know how badly you've fucked up here. If someone finds her body - ''

''Abbotsford,'' he cuts in roughly. He gulps down the scotch in the glass and puts it back down on the table with a thunk. ''That's where she is. Out in a rural area. No one's gonna find her.'' He looks at her for a moment, fingers still wrapped around the empty glass and she bristles under his gaze. ''Something had to be done, Edie. It's been over a week. The body was actively decomposing down there. It stunk.''

''That's not - ''

''What was the plan? What would you have done differently? Were we supposed to keep a dead witch in our basement indefinitely?''

She narrows her eyes. There he goes again with that our bullshit. She does not like the way he has been taking every opportunity to stake his claim here lately.

He ignores her glare. ''You're already sick,'' he reminds her, voice disgustingly patronizing, gentle in a condescending way. ''You don't need to be inhaling decomp.''

''Right.'' Oh, sure. He did this for her. He did this out of duty and love. He wanted her to be healthy. Fucking please. ''And at no point did you think to ask me if this was okay?''

His answer to that is just as frustratingly flippant as all his answers are now. ''Didn't think I needed to.''

She leans back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. ''You need to.''

''Oh, Christ.'' He rolls his eyes. ''Is this gonna be a thing? It was a fucking corpse.'' He leans in closer. ''It reeked. It wasn't hygienic. And it wasn't healthy that you kept going down there to stare at in the middle of the night. Your immune system is shot. You know that. You could've made yourself sicker.'' He looks triumphant, even smug, staring at her with a thinly veiled desire to see her rattled.

She wouldn't say she's rattled. Thrown a bit off course, maybe. Irritated, mostly. She thinks she's doing a good job running things. She thinks she's aware of the things going on in her organization. In her home. But this fucker -

Try as she might, he just keeps slipping past her.

It's becoming a problem.

''So you didn't want me making face time with a corpse,'' she deadpans. ''That's rich coming from the corpse who still expects me to fuck him on the regular.''

All the smugness drains out of his face, dark shadows brimming in his eyes. ''I am not a corpse,'' he practically snarls, and she watches his hand curl into a fist.

Technically, he's right. He is not a corpse. He is a warm body, a breathing man, blood hot in his veins, pulse steady. He's alive. In theory. But he's not entirely human anymore. Not entirely living. Not entirely dead, but dying. And he hates that. With every fiber of his being, whatever that may be these days, he hates what he has become. What he has been made.

Oh, he plays a good game, he stalks around with all the confidence and swagger he can dredge up from the ruins, finds a bloodthirsty grin somewhere down in the dark depths; a violent, arrogant leader, the perfect picture of monstrous. But he hates it. She can see it in his eyes, the way he slips, the terror he tries to keep at bay. She remade this man sitting in front of her. She molded him into this. He regrets that as much as she does.

She thinks his brother does too, although he will never admit it, never acknowledge that his choice to force Edie's hand, to help her bring his brother back was selfish.

Ric knows he is a monster now. The thing he has never had to accept before. He will lean into the newfound strength and invulnerability as much as he can, but he knows he feels violated, trapped, and broken.

Good.

Now he knows how every woman he has ever been with feels.

This time, she is the one to lean in, closer and closer until her lips scrape against the stubble on his newly stitched together cheek. ''What are you then?''

He shivers and she pulls away with a wide grin stretched out on her lips, pleased with herself. He's pouty when she gets a look at his face, shadowy and dark and whiny. But docile.

That's better.

She takes the tumbler away from him and pours herself a glass of the grotesquely expensive scotch that they are basically just wasting at this point. Sorry, Alan. It's mostly for show. She barely takes a sip. She's just trying to prove a point. He looks like a fool when he tries to act like he's her equal. She leans back in her chair and, to add insult to injury, pulls her bare feet out of her slippers and props them up on his chair, her toes wiggling under his thigh. Like a good boy, he lets her.

He looks at her for a moment and then cocks his head to the side. ''Where's Dana?''

''Who the hell is Dana?''

''That would be the woman I put in charge of your care,'' he says, voice thick with sarcasm. ''You know, the one who holds your hair back while you're puking up a swimming pool and helps you to the bathroom when you can barely walk. That's Dana.''

She purposefully does not react to that, not even gritting her teeth, trying to decide if he is deliberately trying to rile her up by bringing up the humiliating facts of her illness or if he truly wants to know. ''Her name is Delilah.''

''I'm pretty sure it's Dana.''

''No, it's definitely Delilah.''

''Then why the hell have I been calling her Dana?''

''I assume because you're an idiot,'' she says. ''I thought we had established that, darling.''

He wants to snap her neck for that, it's obvious in every inch of him, but he doesn't. ''You need to learn to control that tongue of yours.'' He smiles, all teeth. ''Before someone cuts it out.''

Her one act of kindness towards him is refraining from making a joke about impotence. She waves her hand dismissively and says, blasé, ''Oh, blow it out your ass, Moretti.''

''Cute.''

''And I don't need a caregiver, by the way,'' she bites out. ''You're wasting her time.''

He laughs at that, a short piercing bark. ''Yes, you do,'' he says plainly. ''Your flare ups are getting worse. We all see it. You're not eating. You spend most days in bed. You're falling apart. And I can't always be the one to take care of - ''

''You?'' Edie cuts him off with her own mocking laugh. ''When have you ever taken care of me? When have you ever taken care of anyone?'' It's a valid question, in her opinion.

Care requires care.

Some things are simple like that.

In order to take care of someone, to nurse them back to health, you have to have compassion. You have to understand what tenderness is. You need patience. Even love. As nice as it would be to have a partner in this, it will never be this man. He is barely even a man at all. He hasn't even offered her his jacket. They're sitting out here in the middle of the night in February and he has literally commented on how inappropriate her outfit is, but has he given her his jacket like a gentleman would?

No.

Guarantee the thought hasn't even crossed his mind.

He's just some overgrown playground bully. She doesn't think he has ever truly loved anyone or anything in his life. Obsession, sure, he can do that. Lust, yes, he knows what that means. But love? No. That is not in his wheelhouse. Man wouldn't know tenderness from a hole in the ground. He doesn't have it in him.

She doesn't know why he would even want it to be him.

''This isn't Sweet November, Ric,'' she says. ''That's not what we are.''

There is a pause, a crinkling of the brows, and then the bastard chuckles. His laugh is almost friendly sounding. There is a draining of tension, an uncharacteristically good humored look in his eyes. ''Now there's a deep cut,'' he says, amused, like it's all a big joke. ''Whatever we are or aren't, you still need help.''

She looks away from him, over to the blue water of the pool, unable to suppress the involuntary shudder that runs through her. She hates when he does this. When he acts like they're normal people. Like they're a normal couple. It's delusional. He puts an arm around her sometimes and she wants to cut his hands off. He makes inside jokes and sits next to her and crawls into bed with her as if this is something real, and she wants to ask him what the fuck is wrong with him. She never does. She doesn't cut off his hands either.

She's not entirely sure why.

Edie eyes Riccardo Moretti with sharp eyes. There is going to come a time, likely soon, where she is going to have to kill him. She thinks they both know that at this point. She doesn't feel bad about that. It's not something she's going to regret.

''Since you're feeling better,'' Moretti drawls, his tone of voice light and easy and relaxed - another thing to hate him for. ''Have you thought about what I said?''

She pushes down a scoff. Course he's still on that shit. ''Don't need to,'' she tells him. ''We're not doing that. It's a stupid idea.''

''Edie - ''

''No.'' She sits up straight, moving her feet off the chair, sticking them back into her slippers. She puts the glass of scotch back on the table a little too forcefully. ''We're not touching the girl,'' she snarls out, a blazing order, something that would have, a few months ago, stopped him in his tracks.

Here, now, he persists. ''Why?''

''I don't hurt kids.''

''No?'' He smirks, leaning forward, his hand moving to her knee, slipping up her thigh. ''Because I seem to remember you digging into her head to - ''

''That was different.'' She rips his hand off and stands, moving away from him. ''It was just a dream. With time, she won't even remember it ever happened. I didn't hurt her.''

She thinks of Mary, just a baby, sitting in her bed, covers pulled up to her chin while Edie tried to sweet talk her into helping her. It hadn't been one of her better ideas. Not one of her finer moments. But it wasn't that big of a deal. It was a one time thing. It wasn't like what she's been doing to Laurel. It was simple. Harmless. A bit of dream walking here, a bit of storytelling there, the barest hint of intimidation, not towards Mary but towards her parents. She's four. She won't remember it.

Edie can admit that it was a bad idea, that she shouldn't have done it, but it wasn't anything like what Ric wants her to do to her. Mary was safe when Edie was in her head. She was safe and warm in her own bed in her own home with her daddy right next door. It was a bad dream. Nothing more. What Ric wants to do to her...

''I didn't hurt her,'' Edie repeats.

Moretti gives her a flat look. ''You think her parents would agree with that assessment?''

''We are not touching the girl, Moretti,'' she says. ''I mean it. Mary Winchester is off limits.''

He rises to his feet and takes a step over to her. ''You're not thinking rationally here, babe.''

''Don't call me that.''

''We need the scream. The kid has it.''

''She doesn't.''

''She's a firstborn, isn't she? She has the curse.'' His lips tighten into a thin line. He clenches his teeth. He takes another step. The water in the pool casts moving shadows against his face, like snakes slithering across him. ''It's in her,'' he says lowly. ''It's in her like it's in her freak mother.''

''You,'' she points a warning finger at him, ''better watch how you talk about my cousin.''

''Your cousin,'' he echoes mockingly, ''is fucking losing it. You know it, I know it, she knows it. You want proof?'' He fishes his phone out of his pocket, pulls something up, and tosses it at her. ''Here.''

She considers just letting it fall and crack on the pavement, teaching him a lesson, but she doesn't. She catches the phone and glances down at the screen. What she is expecting is something stupid and inconsequential. He has a habit of blowing minor things out of proportion. What she is not expecting is a video. A video of Laurel. She doesn't have any interest in pressing play because she can see how bad it looks already, but she does.

The first thing that registers is the sound of house music, blaring, tinny sounding night club music, a bit of conversation or a drunken holler occasionally puncturing the noise, the beat of the music.

The second thing is Laurel.

Dinah Laurel, the first girl in her family, just like her, this, I will protect. She is standing at the crowded bar, unsteady on her feet, leaning heavily against the bar, upright mostly out of sheer stubbornness. Unlike the people around her, all wearing black masks that cover their faces, she is completely unmasked, one lone face in a sea of nothing, out in the open for anyone to see.

It makes her look small. It makes her look exceedingly vulnerable. There are three empty shot glasses in front of her and a drink in her hand. Given her slightly disheveled appearance, her glassy but empty eyes, and the way she can barely stand, it is likely not her first drink.

Edie chews on her lip. She feels a little ill looking at it. Her mouth tastes sour and she feels sick to her stomach. She would blame it on the scotch if she could, but she doesn't think that has anything to do with this.

This, her seven-year-old self thought, arms full with the weight of her baby cousin, less than a day old. I will protect. There is a static noise in her head, a fuzziness from years ago.

''It's from tonight,'' Moretti's saying. ''Hudson sent this to me about an hour ago. Your girl's a mess, boss.''

Edie presses her lips into a thin line and looks up at him with what she hopes is a disinterested and unimpressed glare, raising a judgmental eyebrow at him. She looks back down at the shaky cell phone video of her formerly sober alcoholic baby cousin in her too tight party dress, drunk off her ass. She pauses the video on a slightly blurred image of Laurel, a small, peachy pink anomaly in all those black masks and dark clothing. Her eyes look red and unfocused and she looks pale and ill, a miserable lost girl.

''And the point of showing me this is...?'' Edie lifts her eyes back to Moretti, this egotistical twit, standing in front of her with some stupid smug look on his face like he has just hit her with some major gotcha moment. Not impressed. ''What were you hoping this would do?''

He seems surprised by her show of nonchalance. He evens out his expression almost instantly. ''Canary's coming apart at the seams, babe,'' he says, taunting. ''Just thought you'd want to know what we've accomplished here. The only thing we've accomplished.''

She looks back down at the phone and presses play. She watches the video twice more. She thinks, I can do that. I can take care of her. She hates to say it, and she is sure as hell not going to let him know, but as far as gotcha moments go – this one actually is rather affective. Something that feels awfully similar to something like regret pools hot in her belly, like fire, mixing terribly with the scotch. She watches the video again and it does not get better. Laurel is still drunk, still miserable, still crashing and burning, and Edie -

I did this. It's a thought that pops into her head without warning. It almost makes her jump. I did this to her.

You did, coos the voice in her head, that awful, raspy voice. You've done so well, Edith. It won't be long now. I'm so proud of you.

Edie forces down a flinch. No, that's – yes. That's fair. That's a fair thing to say. She's right. This did have to happen. This was necessary. It was necessary. Laurel is necessary. This is an unfortunate turn of events, but if she hadn't been so stubborn... If she had just listened from the beginning...

No, you know what?

If Laurel is deteriorating, that's on her. No one forced her to fuck up her life. She was dealt a shitty hand and a shitty life and a shitty family, but none of that separates her from her own shitty choices. None of that excuses her own behavior. Toxicity may run in the family, but she did not have to continue the cycle. No one forced her to be an addict. No one forced her to fuck a Winchester - let alone birth one - and wind up caught in that family's dumbass web of weird. No one forced her into a life of crime and absurd leather clad violence. No one forced her to kill her husband and abandon her child and break her sobriety. Obviously some people have screwed her over, obviously Edie has done some rotten things to her, but screw the goddamn guilt trip.

Laurel is a big girl.

She can deal with the consequences of her own actions and if she can't handle herself like an adult and cope without drinking herself into oblivion then that's on her.

Edie looks back to Moretti, face blank. ''Where was this taken?''

He crosses his arms, eyes narrowed. For a second, she thinks he isn't going to answer. Then, somewhat cautiously, ''Some club in the city.'' He says it with a huffy little snort at the end, disdain coloring his every word. ''It has some godawful masquerade theme. I don't know. Never been there. Don't have people stationed there. It sounds fucking deranged. Rich people sex cult shit probably.''

''What was Hudson doing there?''

''He was looking for his latest toy,'' he says. ''I let him go wild when he wants to. He's a pain in the ass otherwise. Plus, we need some fresh meat, so I put him in charge of recruitment.''

Ah, yes.

Recruitment.

Is that what we're calling it now?

''He's got his eyes on some drugged up artist chick he's stalking and I guess she has something to do with this place. Look, I don't know. Kid's a twisted little shit and I respect that, but he's an idiot. I might kill him and put someone else in charge. Maybe Austin. At least he's got half a brain and won't wear out the merchandise. Point is Hudson found your girl at the club. Said she was alone and wasted. So I told him to put something in her drink and get her here.''

Edie can feel her grip on the phone tightening. ''Clearly that didn't go as planned.''

Moretti exhales slowly. He seems frustrated. ''Looks like he caught her in the one trashy club where the employees are actually on top of things. Bartender intercepted. Bouncer laid him out on his ass. He's lucky he wasn't arrested.''

''Well then.'' She launches the phone at his head. He catches it easily. ''Bang up job, boys.'' Her voice is smooth and even. ''Way to keep a low profile. We don't know what happened to her from here?''

''No.'' He looks at her closely again, far too scrutinizing for her taste. ''You know.'' He takes a few slow, threatening steps towards her. ''If I didn't know better, I'd say you look relieved that we didn't nab her.'' He steps even closer, so close he's towering over her and she has to tilt her head to look at him.

She remains unimpressed. Before he has a chance to react, she takes his phone back, snatching it from his hand and sends it sailing into the pool. ''Luckily,'' she begins, voice tense. ''You do know better. Luckily,'' she pokes at his chest and takes a step, sending him stepping back instinctively. ''You're not that embarrassingly stupid, are you?''

''Edie - ''

''I'm not relieved,'' she snaps. ''I'm aggravated, you bonehead. I'm embarrassed.'' She pokes at his chest again. Keeps backing him away. ''It shouldn't be this hard to get a single tiny woman here. She is one person.''

He grunts and wraps his meaty hands around her wrists. ''First of all, she has super powers.''

''One super power.''

''Second of all, we'll get her,'' he promises, bold. ''We will. Especially now that we know she's back to the booze. This is great for us. She'll go down eventually. That's not the question. The question is what is she worth? Do you honestly believe she's worth all this trouble?''

''It isn't about worth,'' she responds. ''It's about need. We need her. It's not for you to decide what she is or isn't worth.''

''You don't think the guy who literally died for your cause gets a say in how things go down?''

''Nope. Not really.''

''Come on, Edie.'' He lets go of her wrists. ''Even you should be able to see that your wacked out addict cousin might not be the best option for us anymore. Girl's been rode hard and put away wet.''

''Oh my god, can you make it thirty seconds without being a raging misogynistic pig?'' She resists the urge to rub at her sore, likely bruised wrists. She rolls her eyes instead and shows no hint of discomfort. ''Like, is it totally impossible for you to make it through a single sentence without being the grossest person I have ever met?''

He laughs at her. Which is to be expected. ''Not a misogynist,'' he jabs back. ''Just honest.''

Exactly what a misogynist would say.

You know, just for the record, she is perfectly aware that she a mess of a person and has had many, many low points in her life, but sleeping with this guy, whether it was a calculated move or not, was without a doubt the lowest.

And that's saying something.

She once wiped out an entire coven in Delaware just because she didn't like what they were doing with the odd amount of animals they had (totally valid, in her opinion, because they were definitely fucking some of those goats, just FYI) and she still routinely forgets that this happened because – well, to be fair, does anyone remember what they've done in Delaware? Does anyone remember Delaware period?

''God, you're a loser,'' she mutters, shaking her head.

She fully expects some pathetic weasel attempt at violence for that one, but he just clenches his teeth together and shakes his head. ''At this point,'' he begins, voice terse, ''with the way things are going for her, she should be easy enough to get to, but she could also be dangerous to our bottom line.''

''Our bottom line?'' She folds her arms. ''How many times do I have to tell you to knock it off with all this our shit you keep spewing?''

He blatantly ignores this. ''She's sick, she's drunk, she's unstable, and she's unpredictable. She's a loose cannon. I say we cut our losses with her, wipe her off the board, and start fresh. We've wasted enough time on her. Bitch has got bats all up in her belfry. Let's move on already.''

''Move on to what exactly?''

''You know what,'' he insists. ''The kid. The girl. It makes sense.''

''It doesn't make sense.''

''She has the curse. It's an easy solution. We grab her, we trigger her - ''

''She's a baby!''

''Who gives a shit?!'' It comes out in a near roar and she regrets that it makes her flinch. ''She has something we need! I don't care how old she is! Useful is useful.''

Once again, she rolls her eyes at his unhinged dramatics. ''Uh huh.'' She makes sure it sounds as mocking and condescending as possible. ''And how exactly do you propose we trigger the scream? Bribery? Hand over a lollipop and say hey, sweetie, do you think you can scream at this box until it opens and unleashes an ancient evil in your little face?''

He doesn't say a word. Just gives her this flat, emotionless dead look that makes her shiver. It's a practiced look. Something that has been trained.

The realization washes over her slowly, like a building storm. The small smirk on her face slips. Just a little. ''Are you - '' Her lip curls in disgust. ''You sick fuck,'' she gets out, unable to keep the shock from her voice. ''You want to torture a four year old?''

''Not my kid,'' he deadpans. ''Not my problem. She has something we need.''

''What the hell is wrong with you?''

He laughs at that, a dark, foreboding sound. ''You should know.''

''You think you can blame me for the way your loathsome little mind works?'' She wants to throw her head back and cackle at that. ''Oh, honey, no. You were a monster long before you looked like one. I just made your outsides match your insides.'' She steps closer, standing up on her tiptoes, leaning in to murmur in his ear. ''Just ask your ex-wife.''

Abruptly, just as she is moving past him, he twists around and catches her arm. She matches his fiery gaze with a cold one of her own. After a moment, he releases. She fixes her robe and chuckles, walking away, taunting him by being unafraid enough to turn her back on him. She slips back over to the table.

She doesn't want any more of the scotch, but she could use a Valium or something. Something to relax her. Ease the tension. Get her mind off this dumbass brute of a man and whatever the hell is going on with her tonight. Not just tonight. That's the problem. She doesn't know what's happening to her lately or why it's happening now, but she's beginning to feel her steely resolve crumble.

Which doesn't make any sense.

It's been years. This has been the plan for years, she has spent so long putting everything into place, and - okay, yes, not everything has gone according to plan, with Laurel specifically, but she is so close to the finish line. She is not entirely sure what lies behind that finish line, but she has to find out sometime. Why is she just now beginning to feel...

There is a softness inside of her, spreading like a cancer, and it's been there ever since Seabeck. She couldn't get away from it when she went to California and she can't get away from it here.

It vexes.

''He'll kill you, you know.'' She turns, eyeing Moretti. ''Dean Winchester.'' She tilts her head to the side, pausing, but he has no reaction to the name. Because aside from being a fairly repulsive creature, he is also exceptionally stupid. A truly wonderful mixture. ''If you touch his kid,'' she goes on. ''Doesn't matter what you are, how strong you are. You'll die bloody. He will take you apart.''

''You think so?''

''I do.''

He looks amused. ''Boy can try.''

''God, Riccardo,'' she shakes her head, unable to keep the subtle amusement out of her voice. ''You'd think you would know better. Your brother and sister-in-law panicked when they found out they were living next to a Winchester. You didn't think that meant something? You really have no idea who you're dealing with, do you?'' She clicks her tongue. ''I sure hope I'm there when you find out,'' she says, smiling, undeniably threatening. ''You're not touching her.'' She says it as plainly as possible. ''End of discussion. If you so much as breathe in Mary Winchester's direction, I'll kill you myself. And I will make sure it sticks this time.'' She grins, perfectly pleasant. ''That is a promise. You are not in charge here. I think it's high time you remember that.''

He looks like he's struggling for a moment, trying to decide how to respond. Then a look passes through his eyes, something feral and ghastly, and every instinct in her tells her to go, to get away from him, especially when he starts moving towards her, but she is too stubborn.

''Right,'' he says, inching closer and closer until he can touch her hand, cool fingertips brushing against her skin. ''So just be a good boy and fall back in line then?'' He looks away, off in the direction of the house. ''You want me to keep being your lapdog.'' He looks back to her. ''I get that. But you're delusional.'' He says it matter-of-factly, without a hint of his normal rage. ''You're pathetic. The smallest person I've ever met.''

She tries to straighten up. ''I don't think you have any room to - ''

His hand shoots out so quick she can't move, can't stop it, and then it clamps around her throat. His eyes flash, like a switch has been flipped, and she feels like she knows her way around his rage by now, his violence, but this is something completely different. His eyes are so dark they're almost black. He is so full of fury he looks more beast than man.

''Do you have any idea how fucking dense you are?'' He yanks her close, his grip crushing, the pain and lack of oxygen so intense and unbearable that she can't even think straight. ''You think you're in charge? You're barely even here, you little bitch,'' he spits at her, eyes hot with burning rage. He shakes her violently, his grip still like a vice around her throat. ''You're too weak to hold your own goddamn head up half the time. You think I'm going to let you ruin this for us? You think I'm going to let you keep stalling?''

She chokes, fruitlessly trying to claw at the meaty hands he has wrapped around her throat.

''No.'' He leans in, lips brushing against her ear. ''No, baby, that ain't gonna be good for any of us. I want my money. I want my life back.'' He lets go of her and gives her a rough shove, sending her sprawling to the pavement, hitting the table on the way down, the tumbler smashing against the hard ground.

She gasps, the wet concrete cold against her bare legs, the glass cutting into her palm. She has lost her slippers on the way down, come right out of them, and her feet are freezing, caught in the brutal winter air. She tries to clear her head. She blinks away the moisture in her eyes and ignores the sting of the cuts on her palms. She looks up, glaring.

He looks at her like he is looking right through her. ''I let you take the lead, Edith,'' he's snarling at her. ''I fell in line. I played my part. I did everything you asked. I killed for you. I died for you. Know anyone else who can say that? I watched you whine and snivel and fail. And where did that get us?'' He crouches down in front of her, grabbing her by the hair and yanking her back towards him. ''Fucking nowhere,'' he growls. ''And you wanna know why? Because you know you're just as weak and pathetic as she is, you stupid fucking - '' He breaks off suddenly, making this unnerving gasping, gurgling noise.

Something hot, wet, and sticky pours on her shoulder and down her back. When his grip loosens, she tears herself away from him, scrambling to her feet. When she turns, he is on his knees, a stunned look in his eyes, blood gushing out of his mouth, his neck, and there is a blade poking out of his throat.

Behind him, Sandra looks up, locking eyes with her.

She pulls the blade out, only to bring it down once more, slashing at his throat, arterial spray splattering onto her clothes, her face. Her hands are slick with blood, but she doesn't seem to notice, doesn't seem to care.

Edie grimaces, still trying to catch her breath.

Ric collapses in a bloody heap, still gurgling, weakly trying to staunch the flow of blood, trying to speak. She looks at him for a second as the gurgling begins to die down and then she looks away, ice cold. On the pavement, he goes still.

She looks back up to Sandra. She sighs, making sure it sounds as exasperated as possible, and shakes her head. ''He's going to be so pissed off when he wakes up.''

Sandra tosses the blade aside. She doesn't bother to wipe her hands. ''That sounds like a him problem.''

''Easy for you to say,'' Edie snipes. ''You won't be the one he takes it out on.''

''I have warned you about this man, Edith,'' Sandra spits. ''Repeatedly. He is not to be trusted.''

''I've never trusted him.''

''Yet you permit him in your bed.''

''Doesn't mean I trust him.''

''It means you have allowed yourself to be vulnerable around him. Predators like this pathetic waste of cells,'' Sandra remarks, waving a dismissive hand towards the corpse on the ground. ''They latch onto that.''

Edie resists the urge to roll her eyes, examining the blood on her expensive French silk nightgown. She will be taking the cost of this out of his final payment, thank you very much. ''Don't be dramatic,'' she dismisses. ''There is no vulnerability from my end,'' she adds, stepping over his body. ''Sex is a tool like any other.''

''Yes, well,'' Sandra's voice is clipped. ''I hope you know what you're doing here because this man's rage is growing hotter by the day.''

Edie clenches her teeth.

She doesn't know why she is so put off by Sandra's concern. For years, it was all she wanted. She wanted Sandy to chase her. To worry about her, to love her, to think about her. She put herself in dangerous situations just to get her attention. She wanted someone to want her the way no one else seemed to. Now, tonight, Sandra has bloodied her hands for her. She follows after her with softer eyes. She worries. And Edie just wants her to stop. It is far too late for that now. There's no going back.

''I'll make a note of your concern,'' she says, voice tight, heavy with sarcasm.

She snatches the decanter of Alan Lovejoy's expensive scotch off the table, along with the pomegranate plate, and walks away. She's cold now, shivering beneath the bloodstained imported silk, and her throat hurts. She is a little tipsy and a lot pissed off. She has had more than enough moonlight for tonight.

Sandra, always an enigma, even after all these years, trails after her. ''Am I not allowed to be concerned?''

''Do you seriously think I don't know the dangers of predatory men?'' Edie throws over her shoulder, frustrated, without stopping her stride. She hurries across the grass and up the steps to the lit up patio. ''I'm not a fool.''

''And yet you keep putting yourself in their crosshairs.''

Edie stops, steps away from the French doors that lead into the sitting room. She turns, her temper flaring in her chest. ''And I'm the one that makes it out alive, aren't I?''

Sandra has no reaction to that. Her expression is blank and walled off. She remains, as always, stoic and impenetrable. That has always been the number one issue they've had; the wall between them, keeping them apart.

''He's leashed,'' Edie tells her, tired. ''I have it under control.''

Sandra nods. She turns her head to look back at the pool area. The blood, prone body on the concrete. Then she looks back to Edie. ''Do you?''

Something about the way she says that is, frankly, infuriating. ''You always did underestimate me, didn't you?''

Sandra remains impassive. ''I don't know what you mean.''

''You be whatever you want to be, Sandy,'' Edie says, shifting the items in her arms so she can open the door. ''If you're concerned, you're concerned. It's none of this wicked witch's business anymore.'' She slops back into the house and walks away, heading back toward the kitchen.

This time, Sandra does not follow her.

Edie is trying to put it all out of her mind. All of it. It has been a ridiculous night. It's been a ridiculous sixteen years. She doesn't have time for this. She traipses into the kitchen, where Annabeth is busy, the way she is always busy, putting away dishes and wiping down counters. Edie puts the plate with the pomegranate on the island and turns to put the decanter of scotch into the cabinet and when she turns around, the plate is gone, tucked into the dishwasher, and Annabeth is making a pot of tea.

It's how things tend to go in here.

Annabeth runs the house. She makes tea and coffee. She bakes cakes and makes sandwiches and meals specifically for Edie that go largely uneaten. She spends most of her time here, in the kitchen, where she will be safe.

Edie glances out the door and into the dining room, but Sandra hasn't followed. She moves back to the island, putting both hands on the marble island.

''Oh, Edie.''

She looks up at the sound of Annabeth's gentle chastising voice.

Annabeth is standing on the other side of the island, shaking her head. ''That is going to leave a nasty stain,'' she says, gesturing to the blood all over Edie's nightgown.

Yeah, no shit.

Edie presses her lips together. She doesn't acknowledge that. Just asks, ''Did you get the girl all set up in my room?''

''I did.'' Annabeth goes back to preparing the tea. ''She seems comfortable. A tiny thing, though. Especially in that big bed.'' She pulls a teacup and saucer down from one of the cupboards and pours a cup of tea. ''She needs to eat more.'' She turns and puts the cup in front of Edie. ''Drink,'' she encourages. ''Warm yourself up.'' She offers no follow up to this comment. She's too busy finding things to do with her hands.

Sometimes Edie feels guilty for that.

The way Annabeth is always searching, always busy, always looking for a way to make herself useful. More than anyone else, Edie feels guilty for Annabeth.

It's just there was no choice, was there?

Edie watches her wipe down every surface and then she watches her do it again.

Annabeth moves with great purpose, something she has done for her entire life, even now, even though she is not really doing anything at all. The kitchen is spotless. The dishes have been done. Whatever elaborate meal she made for dinner has been put away. The nightly pot of tea - chamomile for Alan, he had to drink a cup of chamomile before bed - has been prepared. There is nothing left for her to do.

Yet Annabeth still lingers.

She doesn't know how to do anything else. This is her life, this is her role, the only one she knows. The only one she has been permitted to have.

Annabeth is not an old woman, maybe ten years older than Edie at the most, but she moves feebly, as if she is frail, with a weariness that does not fit her youth. She seems older than she is. There has never really been a time where she has not seemed older than her age. That's one of the reasons she is still alive. Why, when she discovered all of Katherine Lovejoy's secrets, when she discovered Edie, she was not immediately eradicated. It would have been easy to kill her. However, it is hard to live without Annabeth for Katherine. It's unfathomable to think of this place, this house, the place where she has worked since she was twenty-one, without Annabeth.

So Edie gave her to the house.

To the thing in the basement.

She regrets that now. Annabeth is here, barely. She was the soul eater's first meal, the first brainwash, the first everything. She was the test subject, and now she is something hollow and brittle, worse off than all the others, a phantom more than a person. She haunts. She is haunted. She wanders around this place like the ghost of the manor. She keeps everything running by herself.

Edie does not know how to release her from this. She thinks she would if she could, but she doesn't know how. She looks at the cup of tea in front of her. She looks at Annabeth, happily, dutifully sweeping the floor.

''Would you like something to eat?'' Annabeth asks, once she has completed her task. ''I can make you a plate.''

''I'm fine,'' Edie says. ''But you should get to bed. It's late and I know you're an early riser.''

Annabeth doesn't seem concerned about the late hour. She smiles, one of those creepily devoted smiles they all give her, fake and saccharine, all the same. ''Not yet,'' she says kindly, softly. ''You're still up. I can't leave until I know you're okay.''

It's the kind of thing a mom would say, Edie thinks. It's the kind of thing Valerie would say and then down a bottle of cheap Chardonnay and forget she said it.

''Annabeth,'' Edie says, stern, definitive. ''I need you to go to bed.''

Annabeth's smile never falters. She puts the broom away. She nods. ''All right,'' she says. ''I'm going to bed. Good night.''

''Wait, stop.'' Edie looks at Annabeth, still in the middle of the room, just turning to leave, back to her. ''Look at me.''

Annabeth turns.

''The girl,'' Edie says slowly. ''The one in my bed. The one who comes here with Lady Shiva. Her name is Sin. I need you to take care of her when she's here. Protect her. Feed her. She's very young and her health is fragile. I need you to look after her. Treat her like she's your own.''

Annabeth doesn't even have to think about it. ''Of course,'' she says. ''I'll take care of her. You have my word.''

Edie may be unnerved by Annabeth's blind devotion, but that doesn't mean she's not going to take advantage of it. ''You'll need to work with her on her hygiene - dental hygiene specifically. I think she struggles in that area. I don't think she's ever been taught to...be a person and not a weapon. She has some digestive issues and I believe it likely has to do with something she's eating, so you'll need to help her with her diet. Figure out what her trigger foods are. Start with dairy and gluten. And write notes for me so I can review them later.''

''I can do that.''

''And just – '' Edie pauses. She chews on her lip. ''Please be kind to her. She's been through a lot. I need you to be gentle with her. You're good with kids. I need you to be good with her. Make sure her life is as full as possible as long as she's around here. Do you understand?''

''I understand.''

''This is now your number one priority. I understand you need to take care of the house. I understand you need to take care of me. But you need to take care of Sin first and foremost from now on. This is what I need you to do, Annabeth.''

Annabeth nods, still smiling. Still unflinching. ''I'll do whatever you need me to do.''

''You'll take care of her?''

''I'll take care of her.''

''Good. Now go to bed and get some sleep.''

Edie doesn't watch her walk away. She looks down into the cup of chamomile tea. Inhales the earthy scent that now only makes her feel slightly nauseous. It reminds her too much of Alan. Of Katherine. She was never much of a chamomile drinker anyway. She waits until she's sure Annabeth is gone and then she takes the cup of tea and dumps it in the sink.

It's only when red droplets begin to dot the sink, swirling around in the water that she realizes she's still bleeding. She turns the faucet off and pulls her hand away, looking at the cut on her palm. It doesn't even hurt. It looks bad, it's bleeding a lot now that she's noticed it, leaving smears all over the counter Annabeth just cleaned, but it doesn't hurt at all. She turns the faucet back on and holds her hand under the water to rinse the cut out. She expects it to sting but it doesn't. She turns the water off and grabs a clean dish towel, holding it to the wound.

She looks up, catching her reflection in the window above the sink. She is not sure when it happened, but her scars have slipped past her magic. Her perfectly smooth, knitted together flesh has broken open. She stares at her reflection. Her mouth slowly turns up into a smile and she flinches. Hollow. She keeps staring at her reflection. The water keeps running over the little flap of skin, the gauge in her flesh, the water turning red.

She watches, head tilted to the side, as blonde slowly begins to eat away her dark hair. She changes shape, sheds her skin like second nature, and Katherine Lovejoy slithers into place, whole and unblemished and beautiful.

Edie looks at her reflection.

Katie looks back, smiling.

''Are you injured?''

Edie jumps and falls back to herself, turning off the faucet. She turns, scowling. ''I'm fine.''

Sandra frowns, but remains where she is, hesitating in the doorway. ''You're bleeding.''

''I said I'm fine,'' Edie tries to snap, her voice hoarse and useless.

''Yes.'' Sandra crosses her arms. ''I can see that.''

Edie grits her teeth. She is so not in the mood for Shiva's hypocritical moralizing right now. It's not a good look on her. ''What do you want?''

''I'm checking on you.'' Sandra leans against the doorjamb, casual, unaffected, the splatters of blood now cleaned off her face but still visible on her clothes. ''Is that not allowed? Isn't that what you want? Isn't that what you've wanted from me from the beginning?''

Edie turns away without acknowledging that, focusing back on her wound. She ties the dish towel around her palm, pressure tight against the gash, and then she takes the pot of chamomile and pours it out. She needs to get that smell away from her. She turns the tap on, grabs a fresh sponge, and squirts way more of the heavily scented dish soap than needed onto it. She can feel Sandra's eyes on her as she slowly washes out the teapot and the cup. It's incredibly aggravating.

Sandra doesn't say a word, but she doesn't leave either, patiently waiting.

Finally, Edie turns, hands still soapy, and takes the cheap shot. ''What are you playing at with that kid?''

Sandra has no visible reaction - she is too well trained for that - but Edie knows her well enough to see that it throws her. ''Excuse me?''

''Sin,'' Edie says. ''What's the plan there? Why do you still have her? Are you using her for something?''

''Am I - '' Sandra straightens. Her shoulders are tense, barely noticeable to anyone who doesn't know her well – at least as well as anyone can know an enigma like her. ''No.'' She states it firmly, like a challenge. ''She needed safe passage. I provided that for her. She needed away from where she was. I took her away.''

''Where she was,'' Edie echoes, voice deliberately slow. ''You mean with your mother.''

Sandra says nothing, but her lips tighten.

''Well,'' says Edie. ''That's a good thing you did. I mean it. You got her out of a bad situation. Now what?''

''Now she must be trained.''

''Isn't that what you wanted to get her away from?''

''I disagree with the way my mother chooses to run things,'' Sandra says simply. ''I do not disagree with the purpose. There must always be a Lady Shiva.''

Yeah, yeah, same old song and dance.

Fucking horseshit is what that is.

Edie keeps her gaze even, her head tilted to the side, innocently curious. ''Why?''

Sandra - Lady Shiva - cannot answer that question. She has never been able to answer that question. She narrows her eyes. She looks faintly irritated. But she does not answer the question.

''She's six years old, Shiva.''

Sandra considers this. For a moment. ''I was younger than her when I began my training.''

''And you don't think that's messed up?'' Edie shakes her head. ''It's a cruel thing to do to a child.''

''You believe you have the right to lecture me on cruelty?'' Sandra's voice does not rise at the condemnation, but her eyes flare with that all too familiar fury that so often proves to be fatal to the people who cause it. ''There must always be a Lady Shiva,'' she reiterates, that stupid fucking company line she still believes in, even with that cult supposedly in her rearview mirror. Everything goes back to that in the end. Her devotion to Lady Shiva, the myth, the legend -

The lie.

Her mother, the woman who breeds mercenaries like cattle, some fucked up version of a religious leader who hoards children in the name of what she believes to be some higher purpose. At least that's what she says she is.

Personally, Edie tends to think that what Mother does comes down to the money.

Sandra's mother can pretend all she wants, play the role of an unhinged cult leader who raises girls in violence because it's what they were ''chosen'' for by ''the Gods'' but at the heart of the matter, the woman is very obviously a sex trafficker and organized crime leader. Operates her criminal organization out of various countries in Asia, a handful of states in America (mainly California, Michigan, Washington, Texas, and Florida as far as Edie knows) and, most recently, a few provinces in Canada. It is not about faith. It's not about some belief system.

It's about money.

It has always been about money.

The woman sells girls to the highest bidder. It's never been about righteousness.

Sandra believes what she wants to believe because it's easier, but that's the truth. Lady Shiva is an imaginary friend. She doesn't exist. She is a myth the girls in the cult tell themselves to get through the day. For Sandra, accepting that none of it is real would mean accepting the truth about what really happened to her sister, what really happened in Aberdeen when she was pregnant with that baby girl they don't talk about, and what could have happened if she hadn't left after handing that baby over to David Cain.

Edie may not remember everything about what happened to her in Aberdeen, but she sure as hell remembers what happened to Sandra.

Yes, some of the women from that cult end up mercenaries or assassin. They are living legends in their field of slaughter and grit, almost mythic, full of strength and raw, untamed brutality - mostly because Mother knows that there is just as much money in violence as there is in sex. But, at the end of the day, most of them end up like Carolyn did - dumped in some drainage ditch in rural West Virginia, used up and put down by the pervert who bought her. That's what would have happened to Sin.

But we're not supposed to talk about that.

The house may be burning to ash around them, but god fucking forbid we talk about the smoke.

''Okay,'' Edie says, recalculating her approach. ''There must always be a Lady Shiva.'' She shrugs her shoulders, going for curious. ''If that's the case, why haven't you started her training by now?''

Sandra, unsurprisingly, does not have an answer to that either.

''Kid's sick, Shiva,'' Edie tosses out, attempting casualness, turning back to the sink. ''She's barely potty trained, she can't eat, and her teeth are crumbling out of her skull. You need to take her to a doctor and a dentist. She's been abused and neglected for her entire life. She needs help.''

''I am not her mother.''

''No, you sure aren't,'' Edie agrees. ''But she is your responsibility. You chose that when you chose to save her.'' She finishes up with the dishes and rinses her hands, turning off the faucet. Blood from her cut has leaked through the dish towel tied around her hand and it stings from the soap. She tosses the bloody, wet dish towel in the trash and turns her attention back to Sandra. ''You need to take care of her,'' she says. ''Either that or let her go. Release her to someone who will.''

Sandra sets her jaw, the same unmovable force she has always been. ''You have no idea what you're talking about.''

''Jesus, Sandy, what's this even about?'' Edie rips off a piece of paper towel from the roll and presses it to her palm. ''And don't give me that there must always be a Lady Shiva bullshit because we both know that's not what this is about.''

''I have no idea what you're - ''

''Is this about Carolyn?''

Sandra goes eerily still and blank. Then she grows cold. ''You do not get to speak of my sister. Not ever.''

''Come on,'' Edie goads, moving around the island, removing the barrier between them. ''Who is it you see when you look at that little girl, baby? Who is it you're trying to replace? Carolyn? Or Cassandra?''

''Cassandra,'' Sandra spits out the name, the one she did not choose, like it's poison, ''is immaterial to me.''

''She's your daughter.''

''She was an assignment. I have no debt to her.''

Edie laughs, a real cruel laugh, and looks down her nose at the other woman. She's good at this. She's good at being a provocateur. If a story needs a villain, she's there. There's nothing else she is good for these days. She works with what she has. ''Pathetic,'' she says. ''As usual. How much longer do you think you can keep up this whole apathetic routine you've got going on, huh? Are you going to spend the rest of your life lying to yourself?''

At that, Sandra smiles mockingly, still somehow completely even keeled. ''Your hypocrisy is noted, witch.''

Edie grins at her. ''That's wicked witch to you.'' She turns, flicking her hair over her shoulder. She throws the bloody paper towel away and grabs a glass from the cupboard, just to have something to do, and puts some ice in it.

Sandra says nothing. She watches her get ice. She watches her take the water jug out of the fridge and pour some into the glass. She notices the tremor. She doesn't say anything about it, not outright, but she notices. When she does speak, her voice is quieter, no longer full of cold rage. ''How unwell are you?''

Edie hates the note of pity in her voice. ''That's not what we're talking about.''

''Of course that's what we're talking about, Edith. That is always what we are talking about these days.''

Edie puts the jug of water away and lingers with her head in the fridge.

''Is it worth it?'' Sandra asks from behind her. She sounds closer. ''You are declining more and more every day. Your mind, your body. You are disintegrating. Whatever it is you think you want out of this. Is it worth the pain? The consequences?''

Edie closes the fridge. She turns back to Sandra. ''Yes.''

''Even if all it does it hurt you more?''

''...Do you remember how we met?''

Sandra blinks. There is a tiny crack in her armor. She pretends there isn't. ''We met in Aberdeen.''

''Yes, but how? Where? I'm not the only one with missing information. How can that not bother you?''

''I think it best to let sleeping dogs lie,'' Sandra replies, completely monotone.

''And I think that's cowardly,'' Edie snaps back.

''You won't be thinking anything at all when you're dead,'' Sandra says, shooting her one last dirty look before she pushes off the island and stalks out of the kitchen.

Edie watches her go for a second, calmly drinking her water, trying not to let the anger take over, and then she decides - oh no you don't. ''There you go again,'' she calls out, slamming the glass of water on the counter and marching right after her. ''Running scared,'' she mocks. ''Any excuse to hide, right?''

Much to her surprise, Sandra stops, whirling around, long black hair flying. ''How much longer can this go on for, Edith?'' It doesn't come out sounding angry, but startlingly desperate. ''How long will you continue to torture the people you claim to love because you do not know how to live with your losses? How long will you punish the world because you're lonely?''

Well, now Edie kinda wishes she had brought her glass of water with her just so she could throw it at her. ''As soon as I get what I want, I'll - ''

''You'll what? You'll stop?'' It's Sandra's turn to sneer. ''You will never stop,'' she declares, voice heavy, full of poison and something else that neither one of them is willing to name. ''We both know that. This is all you know now. This hideous rampage. You'll find a reason to continue. Even if you have to construct it yourself. Just as you're doing now.''

''I am not constructing anything,'' Edie fires back. ''I have a reason! There is a reason for this, Sandra!''

''You may be able to deceive yourself,'' Sandra says, ''but you cannot deceive me. You never could. You will always choose to be the monster. To be xié'è.'' She scowls at Edie with burning eyes, a face full of contempt and thinly veiled dread.

Sandra has never looked at her like this before. Even when she disagreed with her choices, when she was haughty and judgmental and self righteous. This is new. This is venom. Like ice in the chest. Edie would be lying if she said it didn't sting, sure, but mostly what she feels is frustration.

Lady Shiva, a mercenary, an assassin, an emotionless, ice cold bitch thinks she gets to judge how Edie lives her life?

Don't fucking think so.

Sandra makes no note of her hypocrisy. She just keeps going. ''If you have to live with emptiness, you will empty the whole world so you don't have to be alone,'' she accuses. ''This is who you are. You have an ugly soul now, Edith. Do you understand?'' She takes a small step closer. ''You have been consumed by the circumstances and the cruelty of your life and now you wish to consume your cousin. To place your burdens on her shoulders knowing full well that she cannot carry it. That she should never have to.'' She takes another step, a small one, just one, and Edie has to force herself not to step back, to breathe evenly. ''And you believe that to be right? To be just?'' Sandra looks her up and down with disgust. ''What a sorry shell of a person you turned out to be,'' she says. ''And what a fool I am. What a grave mistake I made all those years ago when I saved your worthless life. I should have had mercy on you. I should have let you die.''

Edie lets out a laugh. She is going for cruel but it comes out choked. ''Yes, you should have,'' she agrees. ''But you didn't. And you're still here. You still choose to be here. Right here with this sorry shell. Why is that?'' She's not sure what answer she's looking for. She knows she's not looking for a declaration of any kind. She stopped chasing that a long time ago. She's not sure she's looking for a condemnation either, like a warning or a threat. There is a childish part of her that just wants to win. Just have the last word.

And she gets it.

Sandra doesn't say anything else. She remains where she is, close enough to touch but not touching, staring, blank.

''Right.'' Edie tries to smirk, taking a step back. ''Now you've got nothing to say.'' She wants to linger, to wait, but she refuses to let Sandra see her distraught. So she leaves. ''You never do, do you?'' She brushes past the other woman, storming out of the dining room off the kitchen and down the hall towards the main staircase. She makes it pretty far too. She trudges halfway up the stairs and then she hears it.

The voice below her, at the bottom of the staircase. It is uncharacteristically soft, weighted with something that, even after seventeen years, they have not been able to name. Something they have never and likely will never acknowledge out loud. ''I remember us as we were in the rain.''

She stops, hand gripping the bannister tightly. She doesn't turn around. She can't bring herself to let Sandra see the look on her face.

''I may not remember all of what happened in Aberdeen, but I remember that,'' says Sandra, confident. ''I remember you. I had never met such a wild thing before. You were made of light. You wanted to live. I remember that most of all. How desperately you wanted to live. Do you still? Can you even remember what that's like?''

Edie swallows hard against the rising tide, but remains too afraid to turn around.

''If I have ever known anything of love, it was that,'' Sandra says. She says it strongly, without any reluctance, with no shame or frustration or resentment. It is the first time she has said the word love without anger. ''It was you, then. I knew you. I felt you knew me. You were there when Cassandra came into the world. You were there when I handed her over to her father. You wanted to run away with us. I watched you take her into your heart as if she was yours. You wanted her. You wanted me. Do you remember that?''

Edie sighs heavily and, finally, turns around. ''I do.''

''You wanted us to be a family,'' Sandra reminds her - as if Edie needs to be reminded of the 48 hours she was almost happy sixteen years ago.

Yes, she remembers that.

As much as she doesn't remember the specifics of her life in Aberdeen, she remembers that. Her life since she was fifteen years old has consisted of tiny pulses of light that burst through the darkness. Stolen slivers of something resembling happiness. The ocean. The blue skies in the summer time. The way the rain reminds her that she is alive. The sight of her brothers, even from afar. The woman her cousin has become, stronger than her halfwit parents ever could be, one of the strongest Ellard women in generations. Sandy, the way she was then, even the way she is now. And Cassandra. The warm weight of what could have been all those years ago.

It was an impossible thing. The love that was there in Aberdeen. It was stupid. They were young and foolish. She was bold, holding that baby girl who did not belong to her, making promises she knew she would be unable to keep. She was an idiot. Nothing if not a fool for love.

But yes - she remembers it. A reminder is not necessary. Even witchcraft couldn't take that away.

''I remember,'' she says. ''I've always remembered that part.''

Sandra nods slowly. There is an out of place look on her face when she looks at Edie right now. Something not quite vulnerable but something soft. Nothing Lady Shiva should be. She is searching for something in Edie's eyes. Something left behind. Something of the way they were then. She comes up empty. ''What a life we could have had,'' she breathes.

Edie wants to say something, her throat is constricted. Nothing can get out.

''But that was a long time ago,'' Sandra says, moving on. ''Time makes victims of us all, doesn't it? It makes liars out of us. We are not who we were then.''

''No,'' Edie finds herself saying. ''We're not.'' She tries to shutter her emotions. Close it down. ''That was a lifetime ago. So let me ask you again: why are you still here? Why are you with me if you hate what I've become so much?''

''I am not with you,'' Sandra says, switching back to cold, her posture straightening. ''I am here to keep you from dying. Nothing more, nothing less. I've played your games. I've taken your orders. I owed you a debt. Consider it paid.'' She looks at Edie with nothing but cold steel in her eyes. ''We are no longer in the rain, Edith. Aberdeen is a lifetime away. It is a memory and nothing but. One I prefer not to think about. When this ends, regardless of how it ends, you and I are done. We have fulfilled our need for each other. There is nothing left for us now.''

Despite the swell of rising fear in her chest, the hollow, hungry pit in her stomach, Edie pulls a chuckle out of her throat. ''Not the first time I've heard that threat, Sandy.''

''This is not a threat,'' Sandra says. ''I am informing you of my intentions. I will continue to aid you in your quest for answers because I gave you my word and you know what that means. I will do my best to keep you alive this one last time. I swear that to you. But should we live through this, I never want to see your face again. I have felt responsible for your life for sixteen years. I no longer have the patience for that responsibility. You have taken enough years from me. I refuse to allow you to take any more.'' She looks at Edie for a moment, not waiting for a rebuttal but curious to see if there is one, if something can be said to change her mind. When there is nothing, when Edie cannot bring herself to rip open her chest, pull out her bleeding heart and place it in her hands, knowing damn well that violent love is the only kind of love Sandra understands, she turns and walks away.

There is a finality to it, a callousness that has never been there before in all of their interactions over the years. It leaves Edie breathless, standing there on the staircase, a rush of panic shooting through her, that foolish part of her thinking maybe she should have just given her the damn heart. She takes a step down and opens her mouth to call after her, unsure if what is going to come out is a plea or an insult.

Before the words even have a chance to form, a hand, rough like sandpaper, a chill extending from it right into the core of her, latches onto her wrist and pulls hard and fast.

Then, suddenly, she is falling.

She lands hard on the cold ground, dirt and leaves soft underneath her but not enough to cushion the fall. She can't even move at first, the wind sufficiently knocked out of her, hands grappling uselessly at the dead leaves and dirt. The air around her is cool and damp, the low lying fog hindering her view of her surroundings, the clouds blocking out the moonlight. The fog and mist is giving everything a strange blue and hazy filter, but even with all of that, she knows exactly where she is.

What she doesn't know is how the hell she got here.

She rolls onto her back, working on catching her breath, and then there is someone leaning over her, face shadowed by the unruly long dark hair framing her face.

''What,'' the woman hovering over her hisses, ''is wrong with you?''

Edie looks up at her.

The woman in the woods is striking in a unique sort of way. Even now, today, she would stand out in a crowd. She is a gothic beauty with her billowing skirts and her billowing dark hair, now tangled and snarled from years of not being cared for, full of grease and dirt and ash, making it look alomost black, her pale skin a contrast against it. She has high cheekbones, razor sharp, pale pink lips that always seem poised to quirk up into a smirk, and endless green eyes you'd get lost in. She is very beautiful, at home here in the mist and the dead leaves.

You would understand, if you could see her, why something of her remains in every eldest daughter.

They all have her eyes.

Always the eyes.

They all have the animal inside of her too. That part is so much worse than any scream could ever be. The monster is never in the closet, you see. The monster never under the bed. The monster is lying right beside you, watching you while you sleep, waiting.

The curse is a misunderstood thing, Edie knows this to be true. The horror is not in the scream passed down from eldest to eldest. Not in that one small detail of violence that was passed down from poor sad little weaponized Alice Aelard. The horror comes from this.

From her.

Edie has spent sixteen years infatuated with everything about this woman. She has done everything to get to her. To bring her back. She has done everything she has ever asked of her.

But...

Holy shit is this beast in the woods ever getting on her nerves lately. Especially tonight. Words cannot describe how much she is not in the mood for this overwrought bullshit tonight.

She was in the middle of a conversation!

Did no one ever teach this woman any manners?

Her mood darkens considerably when she sees the familiar face. She pushes past the pain of the landing and slowly drags herself up to her feet. ''What's wrong with me?'' She pushes hair out of her face, glaring. ''Are you kidding me? You pull me here - while I was in the middle of something, by the way - and you want to know what's wrong with me? That is not how this works.'' She takes a menacing step forward but the other woman, hands clasped in front of her, has zero reaction. ''You do not do this,'' Edie continues. ''How did you do this anyway? You're not supposed to be able to - ''

''Are you soft?''

The curious - and very blunt - question cuts her off. Stops her in her tracks. She has no idea how to answer that. ''Excuse me?''

''You're soft.'' This time, it is an accusation. Not a question.

''I don't know what you're saying to me right now.''

''It will get you killed,'' the other woman warns. ''That softness.''

''What are you even - ''

Hazel Aelard, the first witch, the first wound, steps forward and cuts Edie off by grabbing her face with her long, bony fingers. She is close enough to smell the rot on her, the rusty scent of coppery blood, the earthy scent of dirt, the musty smell of time, something old, something ancient in these woods, this lost village, for hundreds of years, raggedy and moth eaten.

''You feel something,'' she states. ''For the girl.'' She scowls, disgusted. ''I can smell it on you.''

Okay, well, ew, first of all. Second of all, um...

Boundaries much?

''Yeah, okay.'' Edie grabs Hazel's tiny wrist and squeezes, pulling her hand away from her face. ''If you're about to go off on some bullshit homophobic rant because you're older than dirt itself - ''

''Oh.'' Hazel rolls her eyes and yanks herself free of Edie's grasp. ''Please, Edith, do you honestly think I have not bedded women in my time? Bodies are bodies. Lie with whomever you want.''

Edie frowns, tugging her robe closer in the chill. ''All right, well, that's oddly supportive,'' she allows. ''I'll get you a love is love pin for your new body when you get out of here.''

Neither one of them mention the fact that her new body will be Laurel's.

''Love is nothing,'' Hazel snaps, nearly a growl. ''It is waste and ruin.'' She watches Edie with those harsh eyes but familiar eyes. ''And I was not speaking of Shiva.''

Oh, not this fucking shit again. She is getting so sick and tired of this. Honestly, it is such a boring conversation. ''Of course I love Laurel,'' Edie says, as she has said a million times before. ''I've always loved her. I will always love her. That's hardly breaking news. She's my family. She's my blood.''

''Am I not your blood?''

''You're different.''

''I am,'' Hazel agrees. ''You don't love me. You could never. But you love her.''

''I do.''

''And yet you seek to destroy her?''

A pang of something that feels uncomfortably like guilt gets Edie right in the gut, a direct hit. She ignores it. She is good at that. ''Sometimes sacrifices need to be made,'' she says. ''That doesn't mean I don't love her.''

''Will that be a problem? This love you have for her?''

''Has it been a problem so far?''

''Perhaps not.'' Hazel regards her quietly. ''But it is now.''

''I'm telling you it's not.''

Hazel just looks at her.

In the wrong light, her somewhat mystifying beauty looks ghostly, looks ghastly. Somehow monstrous. Human, but just barely. She is a spook. Her pale face looks shadowed, gaunt and hollow cheeked, an odd dead purple-ish color in the blue of twilight, her razor sharp cheekbones too sharp, almost protruding from her skin. Her mouth is a snarl, showing off her gnarled, rotting teeth. Her eyes are beady black pools of nothingness. She doesn't look right.

Nothing ever looks right here.

She steps forward after a moment and moves into Edie's personal space, bringing her hand up to cup her cheek. Her bony fingers are cold and twig like and the palm of her hand is rough and calloused. ''As I said,'' she accuses. ''Your softness will be your demise.''

Edie wants to roll her eyes, but can't. She finds herself too nervous to swat the hand away as well.

Hazel shakes her head, her eyes softening, turning almost pitying. ''There is something wrong with you, Edith.''

''Uh, and is that something...you? Because you're kinda getting on my nerves lately.''

She clicks her tongue and draws her hand away. ''Ignorant child.''

''Nothing is wrong with me, you old hag,'' Edie refutes. ''I'm fine.''

Hazel just shakes her head sadly. ''All your blunt edges wilt,'' she says. ''You are undone. It's pitiful to see.'' Her sad eyes harden. A cruelty shines in the bottomless green. ''You're pathetic.''

Edie clenches her teeth. ''And you're a cold bitch,'' she fires back. ''See, we both have flaws.''

Hazel laughs. It is an incredibly creepy sound to hear. ''Tell me, my darling,'' she starts. ''Are you beginning to regret the choices you've made? Do you wish to stop what we're doing?''

Very unexpectedly, Edie thinks -

Yes. All the time.

She says, ''No.''

Maybe she is getting pathetic. God, what is that about?

''Good.'' Hazel smiles with her decayed teeth. It does not look right. ''Edie,'' she says. She takes one of Edie's hands in both of hers. Her hands are so cold. Have her hands always been this cold? ''My brave girl,'' she murmurs. ''You have been through so much. I imagine this has been very hard for you. I understand your need for connection.'' She reaches up to tuck a strand of Edie's dark hair behind her ear with her cold, spindly fingers, a maternal act of warmth and kindness that seems out of place here in this wasteland. ''Whatever else you think of me, I do understand that. You want to be held.'' Her voice is gentle. ''Who doesn't?''

She has spent far too much time hanging around in the heads of fucked up women with generational trauma and mental health issues.

Edie isn't quite sure how to respond. What to say here. What to do next. She doesn't know if she wants to back away or move closer. It is a frequent conundrum when it comes to Hazel. From the very moment they met sixteen years ago, while Edie was bleeding out on that kitchen floor in Aberdeen, just weak enough to allow the pieces of Hazel hidden away in her bloodstream to call out to her, just naive enough to answer the call, to allow the shattered fragments to take shape, the woman has been an inexplicable presence in her life.

She wants her to leave and never come back. She wants her to stay and never leave her alone. She wants her to let go and she wants her to keep holding on. She wants to pull her from the box. She wants to put her back in. It has never been an easy relationship. But it is the only one she has.

''But you don't need her for that dear,'' Hazel soothes. ''You don't need her at all. That's why I'm here.'' She inches herself closer and closer. ''Have I not held you? Have I not taken care of you all these years?''

Truthfully, as unbelievable as it sounds, yes, she has. All these years of solitude and bitterness, when there was no one else, certainly not her mother, there was Hazel. For every lonely year, there has been Hazel. She has lived curled up inside of Edie, the way she lives inside every cursed daughter, like a shadow, a cancer, an infection, a comfort.

Hazel is the voice in her head and the invisible arms wrapped around her. Everything that is happening, everything that will happen, is happening because of her. She is the air and the fog and the mist and the rain. Both the coldness and the warmth. A constant.

A mother.

''I have been with you for years,'' she says. ''All those years you needed a mother, I was there. Even before you knew me, I was with you. Tucked away. Waiting. The way I am with her. The way I will be with all of them. Is that not enough?'' She lets go and retracts her hands. ''Am I not enough?''

Edie tries not to feel it, not to let Hazel do this to her again, but it is already there, burrowed in her bones and skin. All that devotion. All that guilt. ''You...You know that you are.''

Hazel just shakes her head and sighs. ''I am concerned for you, dear heart.''

''Well, your concern is misplaced.''

Hazel ignores Edie's attempt at deflection entirely. ''I told you not to reveal yourself to the girl,'' she chastises. ''I told you nothing good would come of it. People like her - they infect, you know. Weakness begets weakness. It is like a poison. It is a sickness. I knew she would ruin you.''

''I am not ruined,'' Edie bites out, narrowing her eyes. ''Nothing has been ruined. Everything is fine.''

Hazel gives her a slightly disbelieving but mostly disapproving look.

''Okay,'' Edie relents. ''So she's a little slippery. This is taking slightly longer than I thought it would. That's unfortunate, but that's life. I miscalculated. I may have underestimated the situation. It happens. But we're going to get her. She can try to gain control like she did when she ran to California, but she will lose. She can run, but she can't hide. Not from me. Not for long.''

Hazel just stares at her mournfully. ''All these years,'' she says. ''All these years you were perfect. We planned all of this together. We waited. And now that it's finally here, you're...''

''I'm what?'' Edie's lips thin. It's stupid, it's ridiculous, but she can't help but feel the need to prove herself to Hazel. ''I will bring her to you, Hazel,'' she promises. ''I will get you out. All of you. Every piece, power and soul. You have my word. That has never changed.''

Hazel tilts her head to the side. She narrows her eyes. She looks thoughtful yet suspicious. And unhinged. She always looks unhinged. She seems to accept - at least outwardly - the promise, but it's hard to tell what's going on in that head of hers. It always is. She's just a fragment of herself, an echo in the blood. How can you tell what's going on inside of an echo?

Most of her - the power, the essence, the soul, the true depths of her greed and strength and psychopathy - is locked in a box, the prison world her daughter made for her. All that is left of her are the parts of her that she hid away in the cursed blood before she was banished. Edie has never been sure how balanced these pieces are.

Hazel, what is left of her here, is capable of learning. She has learned to adapt to the modern world throughout her years with the firstborns, adopting different speaking habits, contorting her voice, the way she forms words, the things she says and the way she says it, depending on whose head she is in at that time. She has evolved. Has changed alongside the world around her. She can grow stronger, which she has, especially over the past sixteen years. But she is still just a phantom. Powerless, for the most part. Angry. Fearful. Desperate.

Impotent.

''You will get me out of here,'' Hazel agrees. ''And in return, I will give you what you need the most. I will restore your memories. I will heal you,'' she says. ''I will fix what was broken and return what was stolen. All those lost years.'' She edges away from Edie, beginning a slow circle. ''I will give them back to you. The way you will give me mine. And we will start anew. We will do this together. Neither of us will have to be alone ever again. Neither of us will be in pain.''

Edie is dimly aware that she is now shivering, nearly uncontrollably. She pulls her robe closed and looks around her, feeling strangely, and rather abruptly, claustrophobic and disoriented in the fog and mist. The trees feel disconcertingly towering and intimidating. The leaves feel crunchy and sharp underneath her inexplicably bare feet.

''But,'' Hazel adds on, holding up one of those twiggy fingers of hers. ''That will only happen once I am free. You understand this, yes?''

''I understand.''

Hazel laughs. It's a dusty sound. ''Whatever you say.'' She approaches from behind, one of her hands sliding over Edie's shoulder as she leans in to whisper, ''Perhaps you're too much like your mother.''

Edie bristles. She knows, is the thing. She knows the comment is nothing more than an attempt to rile her up. Unfortunately it works, the bile rising in her throat, the panic flaring at the mere suggestion, cheeks burning in anger. ''I am nothing like my mother,'' she says, voice shaky with rage.

''You are,'' Hazel coos, moving around to face her. ''You're weak. Like her. Feeble. Sickly.''

''I'm not.''

''You are full of love just as much are you are full of rage and despair. You are sick with it. It will be your undoing.'' She clicks her tongue and then giggles and dances away when Edie makes a grab for her. ''All that power, all that hunger, and you are still not good enough.'' She fixes her lips into an exaggerated pout. ''My poor little witch girl.''

''Stop it.''

''In the end, I blame myself. I should have known what was going to happen from the beginning.'' She shakes her head of thick, tangled hair. ''I failed with your mother. I should have known I would fail with you.''

Edie crosses her arms, miffed. She tries to dull the hot shame with an air of arrogance and annoyance. ''Is this why you brought me here? Just to berate me?''

''I don't want to berate you, Edith,'' says Hazel. ''I want to help you.''

Oh, how selfless of her.

''Let me take some of the burden,'' she proposes. ''Allow me to take over. I can do what you cannot. Let me have her.''

''No.''

''Edith - ''

''No,'' Edie nearly growls the warning out through gritted teeth. ''You don't touch her until I say so. We've talked about this. If this is what has to be done, if it has to be her, I am not leaving her soul to wither. I am not leaving her to wander aimlessly on earth and I am not locking her in your prison. Laurel deserves peace and she deserves rest. You're not getting your filthy hands on her body until I know that she is safe and that she has gotten what she deserves.''

''We don't always get what we deserve,'' Hazel replies, yet another ominous warning.

''Yes,'' Edie uncrosses her arms. ''As evidenced by your continued existence despite your daughter's attempts to put an end to your stupidity.''

Hazel doesn't flinch. ''This is hard for you,'' she says again. ''I understand that. You think I don't, but I do. This is precisely why I think it would be best for everyone to allow me to take over. Let me do this for you. I'll make it quick and easy for her. She won't suffer. And we can get to work. I'll take the blame. You'll reap the rewards.''

Edie is not the slightest bit moved by the phony altruism. ''It's a nice try, but you're not getting my body again.''

Hazel is silent for a moment, the frustration growing in her already wild eyes. ''So I am expected to just sit here, weakened and powerless, and watch while you fail? While you piss away my only shot at freedom?''

Edie grins. Now there's the Hazel Aelard the history books talk about. ''Yep, pretty much.''

Hazel scowls at her. ''You are a horrible child.''

''I've been called worse.''

With nowhere left to go, Hazel wisely decides to back off the manipulation tactics. ''That man,'' she says slowly. ''The one I helped you remake. He is a cancerous boar. You know this, don't you?''

Edie tenses at the mention of Ric, but tries not to let her see. ''I know.''

Hazel takes a long, hard look at Edie. Her eyes rake over her at an uncomfortably slow pace. It feels like leering. She looks her over from top to bottom as if trying to determine what Edie is made of. ''But he is not wrong,'' she says finally. ''You do not have to like the solution, but that child is the key.''

''That child is nothing,'' Edie denies, ignoring the shiver running down her spine. ''She's a baby. She's not the key to anything. Don't be ridiculous.''

''It's in her blood. We are in her blood. She has the curse. She can be taught. She can be - ''

''Manipulated? The way you manipulated your child?'' When Hazel glowers, Edie just pulls her lips back into a harsh smile. A bloodthirsty one. ''Let's not forget why we're all here,'' she says. ''You were such a bad mother that you got your entire family line cursed and your daughter trapped you in a box for all of eternity.''

The mention of Alice does not go over well this time. It so rarely does. Hazel tends to react to any mention of her ''traitorous'' daughter by squirming in incandescent rage, as if her body, or at least the projection of it, cannot hold all of it. It's different today. Her reaction is quiet; steadier. There is that flash of anger in her eyes, like a solar flare, a clenching of the fists, but then there is something else. A certain darkness slants over her. There is a softening of all those sharp, jagged pieces.

For a moment there, Hazel looks regretful.

Edie doesn't trust a slice of it.

''I made mistakes with Alice,'' the witch allows. ''I will not do that again.''

It's such an odd statement to make. ''What is it you want to do with this kid?'' Edie can't help but ask. ''Raise her?''

To her surprise, Hazel does not look entirely put off by the suggestion. Which is bizarre considering her virulent hatred of children. But she just looks thoughtful, an incredibly unsettling grin curving over her lips at the thought. ''Isn't that what you want? Is that not what you have always wanted?''

Edie blinks a few times to clear away the flash in her mind of Aberdeen. Cassandra Cain's tiny hand wrapped around her finger. She shakes her head. The flicker of those forest green bedroom walls, the black and white tiles on the bathroom floor speckled with blood buzzes and then fades away. She tries not to think about it.

Yes.

She thinks she did once want a family. She once wanted a lot of things. She wanted the things she never had. She longed for the monotony of it. You wake up and you tend to the children and you make dinner and your spouse comes home and then you go to sleep and do it all over again the next day. You wake up and you wake up and you keep waking up and every day is the same. Disgusting really. Hardly a life for something like her, a wild thing, a wicked witch, something dead that refuses to die. It is not something she would be particularly good at.

But, after you've been through what she has been through, once you have survived your own death, a half hanged witch, a vengeful ghost, you can't help but wonder if that dull, ordinary life would have been more comfortable than the chaos of whatever this is. If it would have been safer.

She understands the appeal of the white picket fence. If she had been like everyone else, just another bored housewife, a soccer mom, at least she would have been alive.

It's probably for the best that her life didn't happen that way. She's not a very good cook. She would have been a horrible wife. She would have terrorized the PTA. Not to mention her cursed blood. ...But sometimes she thinks she would have been a good mom.

You always wonder what it would have looked like if your life had been different.

She bites at her dry, chapped lips. ''That ship sailed a long time ago.''

Hazel is not buying the casual indifference. ''You want a child,'' she says, like she has uncovered some deep dark secret. ''I want a weapon. We can make that - ''

''Oh, fuck off, Penny Dreadful,'' Edie cuts in. ''I am not kidnapping my cousin's four year old and raising her as my own while you mold her into your own personal weapon of mass destruction. That's insane. We've done enough to Laurel and it's only going to get worse. You know that. We don't need to literally steal her child.''

''You see!'' Hazel shrieks, pointing, jabbing her finger at Edie. ''There it is! That softness. You need to think long and hard about where your loyalty lies, Edith.''

''My loyalty lies where it needs to,'' Edie responds crisply. ''With myself. No one else. I'm doing this for me. This is about me.''

''Good.'' Hazel nods, satisfied. ''Hold onto that selfishness.''

Out of nowhere, Edie wants to laugh.

Hold onto that selfishness?

Always have, thanks. There has never been any other option.

Selfishness is something Edie learned young. She had to in order to live through her mother. Her mother's manic episodes, her mother bleeding all over the pink carpet with the white bunnies, her mother's desperation to die and her desperation to live and the love she had - suffocating yet elusive at the same time. Mama used to hug too tight and Mama used to let go too soon and Edie has never forgiven her for any of it.

If you knew the things I've done, her mother wrote, you would understand.

Edie wanted when she was a child. It was all she knew. She wanted Mama to get better and be like all the other moms. She wanted her to be soft and kind. She wanted Daddy to look at her once, just once, instead of Mama. She wanted life to be simple. She wanted everyone to be happy and alive and with her. She wanted. She ached with it, the wanting, the desire, the desperation.

So she grew up and she learned how to take.

Whatever she wanted, she took.

As a teenager, she stole hearts, boyfriends, girlfriends, lipstick, clothes, the Doc Martens her father wouldn't buy for her, her mother's jewelry, including her priceless Hart family heirloom engagement ring once, her father's car keys, CDs from the Sam Goody's in the mall, the money in the cookie jar on the top of the fridge.

She took care of her brothers because she loved them but also because she liked the envy on her mother's face when she realized her miracle boys loved their big sister more than they loved their weeping mother. She took care of Laurel because someone had to but also because she saw her as hers, something that belonged to her, only to her, no one else, just her, just Edie, her baby, her blood, this, I will protect.

She lost her virginity when she was fourteen to an older boy across the street because she liked his car and she wanted to take a ride in it.

She loved Siobhan, she knows there will be a part of her that loves Shiv for as long as she lives, even after, but she was a terrible friend to her and an even worse girlfriend. For their entire relationship, she was fucking around behind her back so she could take what she wanted from simple minded teenage boys who thought with their dicks. Even got some of them to give her money by laying out some sob story for them and then turning around and using the money to by Shiv something new and shiny that would distract her from her suspicion that she was being cheated on. Three weeks before the car crash, during a sleepover, Edie snuck out of Shiv's room into the middle of the night and into her seventeen year old brother's room and gave him a blowjob so he would give her fifty dollars for the earrings she wanted to buy Shiv.

In Maine, she thought she was a monster so she acted like a monster, ruthless and selfish when she wasn't locked in her bedroom, scared to death of herself. Probably drove poor Aunt Faye into an early grave with all of her manipulation tactics. Not to mention all the times she tried to steal her car to run away.

In Aberdeen, left alone, she ran wild. She swallowed the scream, the cursed blood every time she felt it rising in her throat and prowled the streets at night, looking for light anywhere she could find it - sex, alcohol, drugs, whatever she could have, she took. Anything that wasn't pinned down was hers.

Everyone thought she was a wolf, so she became a wolf, bloodstained and wild and starving.

And in the sixteen years since...

Let's make something clear.

Before, she was selfish. She was greedy and manipulative and self serving because that was what kept her alive.

Now, she is a witch.

She is here, with all this power, because she wanted to be. Because she willed it. She stole her own life. Cheated death. She crawled off the stake they tried to burn her on. And she will do it again.

With or without this sad remnant.

This miniscule sliver of some ancient witch bitch may have existed in her blood since day one. She may be the ghost in the Ellard bloodline, haunting all the girls that came after the way she haunted her daughter until poor weepy Alice slit her own wrists to finally rid herself of the evil mother she thought she had banished. This fragment may think she holds all the cards, may believe her own hype, her own delusions of grandeur, but a broken piece of glass cannot lead.

Make no mistake.

Hazel is conniving and smart and inventive, somehow managing to exist, to persist against all odds, to hide the remains of her away in the blood of the cursed, the voice in their heads, the heavy hand, the reflection in the mirror that looks just a little bit wrong every so often, the hallucinations and dreams of rot, but Edie is the one in charge here. This is her story. This is about her. Everything is about her.

You think anyone else can say that?

''I wouldn't worry about me if I were you, Hazel,'' she says coldly. ''I know who I am. See.'' She takes a step. ''That's the thing. Selfishness is just self preservation at the end of the day. It's how I've survived this long. My mother taught me that.'' She smiles, bright, wide enough to show her teeth.

Hazel looks mildly fascinated, but mostly unmoved.

''But your thing,'' Edie continues. ''This hoity toity arrogance you like to spit at me?'' She takes another step. ''Misguided,'' she hisses, like a venomous snake. She pulls back, still smiling. ''You were powerful, Hazel. You will be powerful again. But right now, you're nothing but a relic.'' She shrugs her shoulders. ''And you do not get to prance around in my head - and hers - acting like a bad bitch. It's pathetic.'' She pauses for just a moment, her smile fading. ''You think you're dangerous, you feckless spook?''

There is a dangerous glint in Hazel's eyes, but she doesn't open her mouth.

''I have nothing to lose,'' says Edie. ''I barely have anything to gain. This all goes south, I'll still be the one left standing. Maybe I won't get what I want, but I'm resourceful. I'll find another way. Even I don't, I think I can live with Katherine Lovejoy's millions.'' She chuckles. Makes it as callous and unfeeling as possible. ''You're the one who needs me,'' she warns. ''You're the desperate one. Don't forget your place.'' She steps forward, quick, ready, and curls her hand around Hazel's bird like neck. ''I'm the one in charge here,'' she declares. ''I am the one holding up this house of cards. I say what goes and what doesn't. I say what we do and what we don't do.'' She squeezes, harder and harder until Hazel makes a gasping noise, until she chokes. ''Me, baby,'' Edie utters. ''I'm the sun. I'm the moon. I am every goddamn star in the sky. I am the half hanged witch.'' She leans in close, listening to Hazel choke. ''You're just a ghost story. You don't have the power to talk to me this way and you certainly don't have the power to keep me here.''

She dredges up every bit of frustration she has felt over the course of this shitty night and lets it burn. She turns the fear into the bright white glow in her eyes and the anger and regret into the fiery red lines splitting down her arm, cracking her open, running from her chest down her arm, creeping their way through her fingers, and all the way to Hazel, the fly caught in the web. ''I am the wicked witch of this story, you irrelevant has been,'' she snarls. ''Never forget that.''

Despite the choking, the red hot power beginning to crawl over her, burning her the way they used to burn witches at the stake, Hazel only laughs. She is neither intimidated nor impressed, neither scared nor hurt, even as she is being consumed.

''She will never love you again,'' she gasps out, realizing, apparently, that Edie's grip is not all that strong, remembering that she doesn't need to breathe in the first place. ''Whatever doubts you're having, whatever happy end you think, in the back of your head, could be possible, the one where you have it all, where you are loved and wanted and forgiven, surrounded by family, it will not happen. Not with her. Not with any of them. You may love them, but they do not love you. Not anymore. Not the way I do. They have forgotten you,'' she says, and the fire retreats, just a little. ''I never could.''

''Wow,'' Edie attempts a smirk. ''You really love the sound of your own voice, huh?''

''You speak of ghosts,'' Hazel says, latching a hand around Edie's wrist, ''and yet you refuse to admit you are one. Remember that, Edith, when your love bleeds you dry.''

Edie clenches her jaw, annoyed, yet again, by the way Hazel always manages to so seamlessly do this. To burn you when she is supposed to be the one burning. Fuck that.

And fuck her.

''Go back to your prison, witch,'' she orders, the fire roaring back, trailing towards Hazel once again. ''I'll come for you when I want you and not a moment before.''

The burning red seeps from her hands into Hazel's throat, down her arms, her hands, moving up, converging in her chest and moving up. She laughs. She cackles, even as blood runs out of her mouth, as her skin turns red and begins to bubble and blister and melt, as her teeth fall out. The long dead ancestor, the power hungry monster who starts all of this, the echo that has persisted in every one of them, burns and crumbles under Edie's hand until only the bones remain, until even they disintegrate into ash and dust.

And then Edie wakes up.

She wakes with a start, not in her own bed but in one of the many guest rooms in the Lovejoy mansion. She is hot and sweaty, with her dark hair plastered to her face and her throat feels dry and sore. Her head throbs something fierce and her stomach churns nauseatingly, like a hangover but worse. There is a sharp pain, a burning, around her wrist.

Slowly, gingerly, she sits up and looks at the burn around her wrist in the perfect shape of a handprint. ''Fuck,'' she croaks out, whispery voice hoarse and gravelly, even more so than usual. ''You fucking asshole.''

Edie rolls her shoulder and rubs at her sore, tight neck. She licks her dry lips. Fucking Hazel. Like the worst infection ever. She rubs at her face, wipes sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. Then she looks around the room. She doesn't remember how she got to bed.

Not that it matters.

She yawns and blinks the sleep from her eyes. Reluctantly, she pulls back the covers and stands, noticing for the first time that she is still wearing the blood stained pink silk nightgown - although the robe has been discarded carelessly on the floor over by the door.

''Ugh.'' She wrinkles her nose. ''Gross.''

She is careful to go slowly as she stuffs her feet into her slippers and shuffles into the bathroom. She is not actually sure which room this is, there's like a dozen, but she doubts there is anything in the medicine cabinet here. No bathtub either. Just a shower stall. A pity.

She wonders if Sin is still asleep in her bedroom. She doesn't want to wake her and she does not want her to see the blood, but she might be able to sneak past her and into the bathroom. What time is it anyway?

Edie looks at herself in the mirror.

Not her best look. But also not her worst. She scrapes the hair away from her sweaty face and pats down the disheveled frizzy bits on top. Her fingertips trace the scars on her skin, a reflex, eyes lingering on John Winchester's handiwork, unable to look away for a second. She just needs a shower. And some ibuprofen. And coffee. A nice big mug of Annabeth's strongest coffee.

There is a lot of work to do today.

Canary's off the wagon.

Who knows what could happen now.

It's the perfect time to strike. No more of this maudlin crap, this softness or love or whatever was wrong with her last night. There will be no repeats of that. She needs to take action. She needs to get her stupidly willful cousin here and get this over with. The sooner this is over and done with, the better. Then everything will be fine. Everything will be right.

Laurel will finally be at peace. Edie will have the answers she has been looking for and the ability, at last, to make her own choices, her own free will. And Hazel will be free to do whatever she wants wherever she wants - hopefully far, far away from the rest of the firstborns, including little Mary.

It's time for Edie to step up her game.

She knows that now.

Because if she doesn't, Ric is going to go after that little girl, and then she'll have to kill him. After she spent all that time stitching him back together. She yawns again, gives her hair one last fruitless fluff, and opens the medicine cabinet. Nothing. She closes the mirrored cabinet and checks the drawers, willing some Extra Strength Advil into existence. Still nothing. Just some toilet paper and loose hair ties and bobby pins. That's a shame.

She takes one of the hair ties and ties her hair back, turning on the faucet, waiting for the water to heat up to lukewarm. She splashes her face a few times, washing off the minor traces of blood and the sweat, and then turns the faucet off. She stands straight - and immediately startles, lips parting, a strangled gasp pushing through.

Over her shoulder, Hazel grins a bloody grin.

''You stupid child,'' the whispery wet voice gurgles. ''Don't you know?'' She moves, a rattling step, her burnt flesh still sizzling, sloughing off her face like melted wax.

Edie wants to jump back, to run, but there is nowhere to go. There has never been anywhere to go. Not for any of them. The firstborn daughters, the cursed blood, the sickest of sick. There is nowhere to run. Not for Mama, not for Laurel, not for Faye.

Certainly not for Edie.

''Burn me, beat me, cut me into pieces, it doesn't matter.'' In the mirror, Hazel places a gooey hand on her shoulder. ''I will always be with you. We're it, my sweet darling girl. We're infinite. You think you can stop me? You are my echo. It's not the other way around.'' She leans in and Edie swears she can feel her breath, smell the burnt flesh, hear the hissing, smoldering, crackling skin. Swears, for a second, that she can hear a faraway echo of that thing her parents used to say to her when she was little, that promise they made every night, the one that can sound an awful lot like a threat if it comes from the wrong person.

I love you here, I love you there, I love you everywhere.

''It's you and me, Edith,'' the witch, the real one, murmurs in her ear. ''Forever.''

.

.

.

end

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Chapter title from Elektra by Sophokles (tr. by Anne Carson)