A/N: Okay, here's the next chapter! WARNING! Self-mutilation and mentions of attempted suicide ahead! Don't say I didn't warn you!

I only own Cassie

Sixteen months.

Seventeen incidents.

Forty-three murders.

Forty-eight states.

More churches than I'd care to count.

One close call to an arrest.

In all honesty, I've become nothing more than a fugitive, thin to the point of anorexia. I don't even recognize myself on 'Have You Seen This Child?' posters. It's become a routine, I guess—Wake up at sunrise and hit the road. Pick the pocket of the nearest person who looked well-to-do. Use the money to gas up the bike, get a bottle of aspirin—the pain was a constant companion now—and my next meal. If I got enough, I might get a small bottle of liquor or occasionally a new t-shirt, always plain and white. Hit the road. Find a church once the sun starts to set. Go to sleep. Repeat the process. Aside from that, about once a month, I'd chop my hair short, to a couple inches before my chin. No more drugs. No more smoking. No more one night stands.

I was in San Diego that day, the sun beating down on me as I watched giant crates be boarded on gigantic ships. I saw police putting up posters for a wanted murderer. Looking at them, I saw me. Or the other side, at least: a skull on fire wearing biker gear. When I looked at that poster, I realized something: the second I changed next time, the police would take me in. More people would get hurt. I couldn't let that happen.

No matter how many times I'd tried to kill myself in the past months, I just couldn't do it. I couldn't pull the trigger. I couldn't cut any deeper. I couldn't take any more pills, and I was building up a tolerance to them, besides. No matter how dangerously I drove, the crash didn't kill me. I was a coward. I couldn't end my own life while I murdered almost four dozen people. There was only one option. Run. As quickly as I could, I rode into the nearest shipping crate. I prayed I wouldn't lose myself without being on holy ground for a few nights. I was grateful that I had my knife with me, though. It drew me into focus. Surprise, I stole that, too.

The first night was hardest. The security guard checked the outside of my crate a few times to ensure there were no stowaways. Drawing the blade to my wrist, I felt the kiss of the blade bring me back. Warmth blossomed on my arm—blood, still hot. Once he left, I took a bit of the gauze in the bag on my motorcycle (stolen, again), and wrapped it around my left wrist. Leaning my head back, I fell into a deep blessed sleep until the nightmare began.

"What are you?"

"Freak!"

"Don't kill me! I'll go straight! I'll do anything!"

"Have mercy!"

The faces were frozen in pain in terror before they all burned. A sick pride ran through me as I watched myself kill these men.

"You may as well accept it. You love this. This feels good, doesn't it?" the other side scowled at me before moving to me. I knew this place. It was the alley where this all started. It choked me as I felt my soul sucked out.

"I tried to help you. You and your father both. But you, like him, proved to be beyond saving." Moreau, in the black trench coat, clicked his tongue disappointedly.

I woke up in a cold sweat. Was I still alive? Standing up, I threw myself at the ribbed wall. The pain in my shoulder proved that I was. I wondered where I was, praying I was in Spain, or perhaps England. Somewhere I spoke the language.

Well, I decided, it would be better not to stay around long enough for the people manning the ship to find out. When I felt the crate lurch before being set down again, I mounted the bike and rode out the second the people manning the boat opened the door. It was sunny outside. That was good. It gave me time to find a holy place.

As I rode, I found that I couldn't recognize anything on the signs. That ruled out the rest of North America, South America, and Europe. I decided to pull into the nearest thing that resembled a church and pray they spoke at least a little English.

The nearest church proved to be a tiny monastery on the outskirts of a city that I didn't know the name of. Pulling off and entering, the monastery proved to be a little… poor-looking and outdated.

"Hello?" I asked, hoping someone was there.

I heard clambering and hushed discussions in another language. I was met by a young man in a priests' uniform with spiky light brown hair. He started speaking in a confusing language.

"I can't understand you. Do you speak English?"

Widening his eyes in recognition, he asked in a heavily accented voice, "My name is Yamazaki. How can I help you?"

"Where am I?" I started with the most pressing question.

He grinned. "Oh, that's easy! You're in Our Lady of Sorrows monastery in True Cross Town, just outside of Tokyo. Can I ask who you are?"

"Cassandra Martin." I lowered my voice, pulling out the cross Moreau gave me. "Do you think you could help me? I just need some lodging for the night."

He smiled again. "Nonsense! You can stay as long as you like." His expression sobered. "Where did you get that?"

"An exorcist who helped me about a year ago. After I found out I was half-demon."

His eyes widened and his jaw dropped. "Who's your parent?"

I lied. "I don't know. But I don't have any money and I don't speak Japanese, so I can't stay in a hotel." I paused. "I'm sorry to ask this of you so suddenly. I can help as a church hand, if you want."

He grinned again. "Are you kidding me? We held a son of Satan for fifteen, almost sixteen, years here before his powers awakened. A daughter of a demon who was once an angel would be a walk in the park!" He scratched his chin now. "Though we did have the Paladin watching him with us. Oh well. Maybe we could teach you Japanese while you stay." He called three other priests up. One was a chubby, black-haired one named Ebisawa, a black-haired one with it spiked up named Kenmatsu, and a brown-haired one named Ise.

Each of the priests proved pretty friendly, though surprised when the only thing I had to unpack was… well… books and booze.

At dinner, Ise apologized, "I'm sorry our cooking isn't very good we used to depend on a kid who used to live here for food and our cooking skills leave a lot to be desired."

I certainly didn't think so. "I've been living off of fast food restaurants for the past year. This is pretty good."

"So, maybe we could help you… you know… learn Japanese."

"That would honestly be awesome."

XXXXX

Eight months later…

When I convinced myself that I could passably speak Japanese (foreign languages were one of the few things I was good at—one of the only classes I passed back in high school was Spanish), I thanked the priests for their help and letting me stay there.

"Come back anytime!"

"Tell Rin we said 'Hi' if you ever meet up with him!"

Rin was apparently the son of Satan and the case that brought the issue of half-breeds to light that Moreau was talking about.

Driving off, I, for once, really wanted to return there. Maybe it was because I stuck around long enough to get to know them instead of running off at daybreak.

While I was riding, after about half an hour, I felt something very wrong. Very, extremely wrong. There it was, in the back of my mind, fighting to get out. The other side. But how? How in the hell was that even remotely possible? It was about two in the afternoon—far too early for sunset, proven by the sun high in the sky.

This is what you get for your complacency, girl. I'm hungry and the most evil spirit I've sensed in a long time is out there. It started laughing maniacally as I changed.

As always, it hurt. After all, I was literally being burned alive. But this time it was fast, almost instantaneous. It must be really hungry to get out that fast. I don't know how long I was on that road before it drove into the woods. Then it hit me. Hard. It was the darkest, most evil soul I've ever sensed—murder, insanity, trickery… the other side was right. I headed straight for it, belatedly realizing that there was a group of teens around her. For the first time in my recollection, the other side spoke to someone other than me.

"I see your wrongdoings, demonic angel. I have come to punish you," it looked around, seeing into the soul of each of the teenagers, all guilty, "and the ones who stand with you, for all have committed wrong."

At this point, the person in question would beg for their life, weeping in fear. There was no question about it—she wasn't human, as proved by what she said next. "You come to punish those who have committed wrong, kin of Zarathos. But tell me, what will you do with those who have committed no wrong?" How did she know who my father was? She continued, "I have two sons present with me. Whilst they are demon in origin, they hold some angelic blood from me and they have committed no wrong deed. So will you punish them as well?" Kids? No. whatever I did, I tried to hold myself back.

Listen. There are kids. Please hold back, just this once.

Never. This would be the most delicious meal I've ever had and I'm not about to hold back because some pill-popping alcoholic has a soft spot.

"You would at least grace me with your name so I know who to curse when I am returned to my father."

She's stalling.

She has authority. Let me answer her. You can remain in control.

Very well.

"Cassandra Martin."

She chuckled a little and said something before I felt a rush of water. No effect. Another one, larger this time. Somehow, I could tell I was me again and distantly registered being carried on something before blacking out.

A/N: Okay, we're kinda caught up now. So… recap: after running for about a year, in San Diego, Cassie finds out she's a wanted murderer. She runs onto a shipping container, hoping it's not going anywhere, but it ends up going to Japan, where they don't even have the same writing system. So she meets up with the priests from the monastery where Rin used to live, learns Japanese, and meets Astarte.

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