Chapter 16
When Kyrie returned to the secluded portion of the playground to find Vergil fast asleep, she hadn't the heart to take offense. Though she had welcomed his presence here today, she had felt his exhaustion from their earlier exchange as if it were her own. His complexion had been disturbingly sallow, the shadows beneath his eyes veritable bruises, and though the powerfully built man could never be mistaken as fragile, it had felt like he was a piano wire that had been stretched out - too far, too thin.
As quietly as she could, Kyrie returned to her seat and set down the coffee-bribe she had bought.
Vergil slept with arms wrapped protectively around his abdomen – still and silent. There was no snuffle-y sleep breaths, no dream induced flicker from ivory-blue eyelids, not even the slightest flicker of a pulse from the gap of his coat front that exposed the masculine throat. Here was a statue that rivaled even Michelangelo's David: all elegance and grace with the cold, unyielding perfection of stone. Kyrie could see traces of the thoughtful frowns and the dark glares on the set of his forehead and edges of his eyes and lips, chiseled gently in. The fading light cast dark shadows beneath the ivory cheekbones, like two sharp slashes across the hollow cheeks; she fancied she would cut herself by brushing against his skin and fought with the urge to try.
For some time now, Kyrie had found herself more and more… aware of the older man. It was confusing, startling and wholly unsettling, especially because it was a different sort of consciousness from the wholehearted respect she had for Credo, or the comfortable warmth she felt for Nero, or even the wary fondness she regarded Dante with. Vergil was different from every man she had ever met: all shadow and ice and venom at razor-edges. There was something bitterly angry about him, something unbending and relentless and so very proud. He would not spare anyone what he thought, he would do what he thought needed to be done, and while he was harsh on people, Kyrie knew that he was harsher on himself.
It was because of this that she found that she trusted him. In fact, she rather deeply admired him.
The wind had tugged a strand of silver spun hair free to brush against the ivory eyebrows, and thoughtlessly, she reached out to smooth the errant lock of hair back in place.
Blue eyes, the shade of the winter sea and twice as lonely, bored suddenly into her own as his hand shot out to catch her at the wrist. In that moment, the world as they knew it changed in a course of blood-warmth and soul-touch.
There was a knitting together, a seamless uniting, a coming together of pieces that had not known they were pieces until they became whole. Trapped between the shadows of his fingers around her wrist, in their mingled heat and delving deeper than marrow, there it was: the soul-wrenching warmth of belonging after being alone for so long.
Vergil pushed down on the rising panic. More than a little disconcerted from the sudden transition from sleep to waking, and alarmed with the feeling that something had deeply and irrevocably changed. He had faced hell spawn, demon princes, had been possessed, and was on intimate terms with death. He had scraped himself out of more dangerous situations than he could count, relying on nothing more than his warrior's physique, strategist's acumen and Yamato at his side. He had literally gone to hell and back and resignedly expected to be faced with another apocalyptic scenario or two... but in the face of this unexpected gentleness, he was completely and utterly lost.
Kyrie's eyes were alight with wonder and when her lips parted, the soft exhale of his name felt right and full of belonging, and was so very very sweet.
As if in response, an emotion he had not felt in so long bloomed in his chest. It was pure, it was terrifying - it was joy.
She instinctively reached out – and the desire for her touch was so immense that his own longing frightened him. Vergil could take it no longer: he ripped himself away in a movement so sudden and violent it made both of them cry out at the sheer loss.
Without knowing the reason why, Kyrie began to weep.
He leapt to his feet, chest heaving and wide-eyed. He stared at the tears that trickled from between the clenched fingers and the urge to comfort her was the final straw.
Vergil fled.
There were two kinds of sleep, Nero realized.
The first was the dark and deep kind, the sort that put one beyond dreaming into blessed and quiet rest. The other was a blur of shapes and colours and shades of feeling, of wordless, near-endless, screaming.
Not the type of screams one would make when they saw a spider, not even the kind elicited from the appearance of mass murderers from behind closet doors. No – these were the kind that came from somewhere deep inside ones throat, below stomach, into guts, from marrow and the spaces in between soul and body. It was a horrible, terrible, inhumane sound that grew more despairing when Nero realized that the hellish cry had been coming from him.
Nero choked on screams till he managed to fight and swallow it down, teeth clamping on lips to prevent even the hints of a whimper from escaping. The silence made his eardrums ring and he fought the urge to sob and allow the screams their freedom.
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- …vitals are 90 over 62, pulse at 59… -
- …body is in essence h-h-human. There is necessity to readjust to the energy, which is no longer regulated by the m-m-medicine. –
- …C.T. results are back…-
- …he's hypoxic; PCO2's at 62…-
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"Good job!" A small hand smacked his shoulder with friendly violence and Nero blinked through tears to find he was not alone.
Beside him was a little boy whose cheeky grin was so familiar it was like his own smile, and who incited complicated feelings of resentment and protectiveness. Then Nero would join the blue-eyed little boy in traveling across the watercolour-splashed dreamscape. Time passed in a blur of play-fights that somehow ended up more of fight than play, silly one-sided conversations and even sillier dares. He found himself wading into a stream of colour, both mock-splashing the other with water that never got them wet.
"This is getting boring," The kid hopped nimbly on his hands and began to showoff a handstand. "What do you wanna do next?"
Let's go home, Nero wanted to say, but did not for fear of letting the screams escape again. Nevertheless, the world shifted in answer to his desire, and his surroundings grew familiar – of asphalt and grey stone buildings and stoplights that flashed green, yellow, red.
And in the distance was a girl.
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- …his body has cleansed itself of the s-s-suppressors faster than anticipated…-
- Heart rate is slowing…-
- Intubation tray here! Airway is clear of obstruction; inserting tube… -
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She was coming, he turned to gesture to the kid excitedly, but the boy had continued to walk on his hands, away, away, away, and Nero still dared not speak aloud. He was contemplating on catching up to the kid and bringing him back, when she arrived and the curve of her lips, he swears, was a song.
Nero listened to her smile and learned all about belonging and warmth and kindness and grace - the kind that didn't have to be earned but was willingly given; the kind that saved. Even as he loved her, he was aware of the distance, that she was closed off and unfathomable to him. There was a secret that lingered in the corner of her lips, and no matter how much he wanted to decipher its meaning, to learn why her lips, arched in graceful laughter, was so lonely, he did not understand.
Frustration made his blood boil hot – and his arm answered in turn. Luminous fingers of black and blue flamed beneath skin that barely kept from consuming itself, and he reached out to grasp the slender neck. Nero tried to stop himself, but somehow the stopping was more reflex than want and if he had to be honest with himself, what he wanted most was her. Her: in between his fingers, trickling down his arms, painting his chest and staining his lips. Maybe then he would understand, and that thought made his fingers tighten in response.
Then, she was gone, bringing song and all light along with her.
He tried desperately to find her, but the shadows had been waiting and pounced on the chance that presented itself. His nostrils filled with the burn of brimstone and the coppery scent of blood, into familiar nightmares.
He was falling.
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- …octor, blood pressure is dropping… -
- Patient is not breathing! Flat line; rp at… -
- Nero's b-b-body is adjusting to the change. These are the changes that Nelo Angelo had originally programmed in his host; changes that have been repressed and are now m-m-manifesting themselves -
- Prepare the vasopressin!-
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Wind tore past his ears as he free-fell down, down, down – deeper into the bowels of what he knew had to be hell. He tried in vain to stop himself, aware that the further he went the more difficult it would be to escape, but there was nothing to grab at, no one to help slow his fall. Hours passed, then days, months, years - entire lifetimes of nothing but the scream of the wind and his own barely audible whimpers in the darkness that surrounded him.
Then he realized that the sounds he had been so used to were not from the wind hurtling past; they were real, terrified, and begged for mercy.
It was the screech of a thousand suffering souls, of curses, threats, pleading, and eventually, wordless sobbing. The din in his head was agony, distilled and concentrated, of the tormented and the tormentors alike. Stuck in a dream he could not wake from, Nero opened his mouth to beg for help, but the scream that he had been fighting back, managed to wriggle out, stronger and more viciously than before.
Nero screamed in turn, till his throat hurt, till nothing came out of his lips but a wordless, defeated moan.
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- …his body is c-c-cleansing itself of the accumulated suppressors. It knows exactly what it should do so… -
- Starting cardiac massage… -
- …gative! Defibrillator on; 200! -
-…rything will be just fine. –
- …resuscitators at the ready. -
- Clear!-
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The end came suddenly in a burst of hellfire: peeling flesh in ashy chunks, evaporating blood before it had time to boil, searing all the way to bone.
So this is hell, came the vague thought before Nero was swallowed deeper into the darkness.
The screaming continued.
Dante was in the midst of a maintenance check of the various blades, guns and miscellaneous weaponry that he had gathered throughout his years as a hunter. The house was filled with the quiet of contemplation, an activity Dante had begun to engage in with growing frequency these past few months since his brother's return.
Lady had left to trace the influx of demon summonings to the South and Trish was going to set out to some of her own contacts that evening to dig information on the Gloria and her sudden re-appearance. Dante was left to mull over the sparse information that they had managed to gather so far, ready his weaponry and wait for the signal for him to take center-stage.
Patient, he was not; but he had learned the advantage of biding his time and letting his enemies sweat.
Maybe years ago Dante would have stormed in the precinct where the Order and Gloria were rumoured to be, finger on trigger, sword drawn – hacking, slashing, and in his haste to protect - destroy. But time had calmed his initial rush in attitude and whatever devil-may-care façade he may put on, Dante was always meticulous in his mayhem.
He took a shotgun apart, brushing down barrels with practiced ease.
Kyrie had mentioned that her brother worked in the precinct - but a little digging revealed what she had not mentioned: that he was the Chief of Police of this city and a high-ranking follower of the Order of the Sword, the very same organization that had been unusually prepared for the demon summonings and which had worshiped his father as some sort of deity (Dante fought the urge to snort).
Could she have been a spy? It was too convenient a coincidence.
But Trish had decided upon Kyrie, seeing the girl hunting around the job postings around the supermarket, and Dante doubted that even spies could have anticipated the decision on whim to look for a housekeeper. Furthermore, he had talked with the girl, ate her cookies, and rather liked how she did his laundry, rolling his socks into little balls that made it so much easier to find pairs. Dante hadn't felt even the slightest hint of any motive, ulterior or otherwise, in Kyrie doing her job; and Dante thought himself a pretty good judge of character. Even if he had been duped, Vergil was an even harsher and more suspicious evaluator than he was – and the man had also warmed up to the younger girl.
In fact, Dante nearly had a heart-attack when he realized that his older twin had been walking the girl back home after work. All those cradle-snatching jokes and growing-soft jibes that came to mind were squashed down with some difficulty – Dante being more than pleased at his brother actually making an effort to socialize with someone. Maybe her sunny nature and sweet manners was pulling him out of the dark moods; maybe it was just the presence of someone who had no knowledge of his past; maybe Vergil had a soft spot for the younger damsel-types – Dante really didn't care at the sight of his brother finally starting to become interested in something other than paying of his so called 'debt'.
So.
Either she was very good or they was getting very bad. Dante didn't even spare a thought for it possibly being nothing other than chance. Coincidence was not a word in his vocabulary – not when you were a half-demon half-human with actors from both worlds out for your blood.
So.
The only thing to really focus on was what was he going to do about his little housekeeper.
He tapped the edge of Rebellion and admired its gleaming surface before resheathing the blade. No need for maintenance there. Rebellion's blade was sharp enough to slice through thought – and she got all the polishing she needed from cleaving through demon gut and bone.
Suddenly, the front door burst open and Vergil came through the living room, looking as harried as Dante had ever saw him. Vergil took the steps two at a time and disappeared up the stairs, followed by a slam of a door and then, silence.
Dante didn't even wait for the last echo of the bang to die away before he was up the second landing and in front of his older brother's room. Dante reckoned that Vergil only had three expressions: angry, smirking and his default dead-pan glower. But split second glimpse of his older brother's eyes had shown a petrifying fourth: Vergil had been scared.
"Verge, " Dante pushed the door open to catch sight of the man in question pacing the room. "Oi, what's wrong?"
"Get out." Came the curt reply as the older twin merely continued to walk back and forth.
Dante's grip on Rebellion, which he had brought with him on his sudden dash, tightened. "Kyrie." He said simply.
Vergil stilled and slowly turned to study him. "What do you know?" Came the cold hiss and Dante's suspicions were further fuelled.
Dante felt his adrenalin rise in answer to the dangerous being before him. "Not enough. What are you hiding from me?"
He watched as his older brother clammed up, drawing himself tighter in, muscles coiled and primed for movement. The sword he had kept to replace Yamato had been drawn and Dante pulled Rebellion out in answer.
"Vergil." Dante studied his brother's face, wiped clean of emotion but turbulent beneath the surface of calm. "You told me you owe me. Because of some strange need to repay your 'debt', you've remained and have been helping out with the slaying. I appreciate it – heck, I'm mighty glad you're hanging around because this makes it just that much easier to keep tabs on you. I want you alive. I even respect you. But I sure as hell don't trust you."
Vergil said nothing, but he shifted slightly and Dante knew that his brother would strike in earnest. It had been a long time since they had faced each other seriously. He raised his own blade to point its naked edge at his brother to show his serious resolve.
"Has Kyrie approached you?" Dante continued quietly. "Offered a deal perhaps? A promise of prestige, some high up connection… a means of power?"
Vergil eyes darkened. "What are you on about?"
"It's a simple question," Dante rolled his shoulder, loosening it in preparation for the expected fight. "Are you stupid enough to betray me again?"
Vergil's strike was so fast that Dante was almost gutted. Some nerve had definitely been struck; Dante was surprised at the sheer ferocity of his older brother's attacks – at the speed and viciousness of each hack and slice. He twisted on booted toe and swung Rebellion, letting momentum bring with it power that Vergil just barely managed to parry.
Something was different; was strange. Vergil had been weakened since his possession and Dante had resolved never to hold back when they were fighting – both as a means of courtesy from one warrior to another and in principle that people who pissed him off needed to learn their painful lesson. As a result, each scuffle (and there had been several) had ended fairly quick with Dante as the uncontested winner.
But this time, Vergil held his own; thrusting, slicing, parrying and blocking with characteristic deadly grace. Dante was transported to a time when they were much younger, remembering a dangerous dance atop Hell's tower where each stroke was death approaching: exhilarating and terrifying all at once.
But Dante had improved since then and eventually, the after-effects of Vergil's possession made itself known. Dante began to relax as he was soon pushing Vergil back, who had begun to breath heavily before his younger twin was even winded.
"Stand down and make this easier for all of us, Verge." Dante averted a blow with a simple flick of his wrist. His brother kicked a chair towards Dante's face in reply, swinging his blade low in an attempt to severe the muscles of Dante's thigh. The younger son of Sparda dodged the spinning piece of furniture and caught the naked blade with a gloved hand, twisting it out of Vergil's grip and finishing the fight with a blow to the abdomen.
Vergil took a step back, winded and in pain but refusing to let himself fall in front of his brother.
Dante shook his head at the display of stubbornness, deeming the fight to be clearly over as he resheathed Rebellion. "Fine. If you're not willing to answer then maybe Kyrie will." Dante ignored the tense set of Vergil's shoulders, turning to leave the ruined room.
"..on't…"
"What…?" Dante glanced back, the hair on his nape prickling at the sudden shift of power in the room.
"Don't touch her." Came the snarl, and Dante barely had time to register Vergil's livid face, inches from his own before he felt a blow to his jaw with enough force to propel him backwards, crashing through the door and knocking it off its hinges before he fell flat into the hallway.
Dante immediately leapt to his feet, hand reaching for Rebellion to fend of the attack that never came. Instead, Vergil stood there, staring at his hands as his chest heaved for breath. Stunned blue eyes met his equally stunned blue own.
Vergil took a moment to re-orient himself.
It was because of her – because of what had happened. That was the only explanation he could think of under these circumstances. Strength coursed through his body – made his blood hum and made leaden limbs light. The urge to see Kyrie, to go back and find out how else she could free him – overpowered even his initial reservations about this whole Consort-Magnet situation.
But…
He loathed the idea of being used, and this whole situation was far too similar to his possession at Mundus' hands for him to be completely comfortable with it. He was appalled that he had let his guard drop down, that even then he longed to return to her side. In fact, when he realized what had happened he had – there was no sugarcoating it – run away faster than even Dante faced with the threat of commitment had. If he had needed any more proof to know what she was, what she had just become, it was all there in the keen ache of desire that made each breath near impossible at her distance. She was a Demon Magnet and he, in a moment of carelessness, might just have officially become her Consort.
So.
Vergil knew that one did not solve problems by ignoring them and hoping that they would go away.
So.
He would take control; he would master it. He would turn this situation from being the biggest liability into his greatest asset.
He would not loose.
And if the sudden interest in the return to his old strength she could bring about in him was a factor at all, who could blame him?
"You're back." Was all Dante could manage to croak with his sore jaw. "You… you're really getting your power back, aren't you?"
Vergil slowly met his brother's apprehensive gaze.
Ah yes – but before he could go to Kyrie, here were more pressing concerns. Dante would be a formidable foe, and while he seemed to have be willing enough to shelter and even protect (Vergil ignored the pang of annoyance at this particular thought) him when occasions necessitated it, Vergil knew that his younger brother would not tolerate any hint of a secret that might possibly endanger his precious Agency and friends.
Complete honesty wasn't usually in his nature. There was too much vulnerability… too much that could go wrong. People were such volatile variables. Vergil came to a decision then:
"Dante…what do you know about Demon Magnets?"