Chapter Three
Over the course of the following day, every available surface in the house was covered in ancient texts, papers with incantations and practice sigils scribbled all over them, plus mortars and bottles of herbs, roots, and various types of dirt. Murron moved between these piles, gathering what necessary information and materials she could from each.
The actual sigil creation part was easy. It was amping them up that proved difficult. In some kind of bizarre hindsight, she'd kept the bloodied guaze she'd used to clean Crowley's face the night before; it was from these she obtained the strongest ingredient for the wards. Very little of the blood remained usable, having been tainted with ash, but with a little careful handling, she managed to salvage a tablespoon's worth.
This she added to the mortar already holding her own blood, as well as the yellow sulfuric powder Crowley always left in his wake. These personal touches would enhance the power of the sigils, as well as exclude Crowley from their effects. Once completed, she could use the mix as a kind of paint to seal doors, windows, and coat the ceilings from basement to attic with the sigil. The entire process would take a day to carry out, tested only when Crowley returned. The common warding symbols were placed "invisibly" with a salt mixture, those even these dictated that Crowley's energies be permitted within the house.
After she'd covered every important surface and portal with the charged sigil, Murron settled in for a potentially long wait for Crowley's return.
It wasn't until another day had passed that Crowley reappeared, his suit jacket torn at one shoulder and as dusty as if he'd been rolling on the ground. Murron had been in her room when she heard him cough from the living room; she couldn't remember a time when she'd raced down the stairs fast enough to almost launch herself off the landing. Crowley looked up at her with feigned surprise, patting the dust free from his jacket with such nonchalance you'd think he hadn't been in a potentially serious scuffle.
"Have I kept you waiting too long, darling?" he quipped cheerfully. "Good work, by the way." He gestured about the room, then towards the floor and ceilings. "Seems your little sigils have done their work nicely. How'd you manage it?"
Murron, desperately wanting to ask where he'd been, if he was okay, if more demons were on their way, stumbled further into the room to stand closer to him. She blinked a few times, clearing her head, then haltingly explained the sigil creation process, all the while eyeing his damaged suit. Crowley listened patiently, making appreciative noises where appropriate, then pat her on the shoulder.
"Again, very well done. I appreciate the effort. Now, I don't suppose you have a dry cleaner, do you? And maybe a good tailor? Demons sort of...ate mine," Crowley pulled at the torn sleeve gingerly, wincing when the seams popped further.
"I'm sorry - demons ate your tailor?" Murron repeated, thoroughly confused.
"Oh yeah, devoured the poor sod like a fat man at a buffet. Pity, really. He knew his way around a needle and thread." Crowley shrugged and dropped his overcoat onto his chair carelessly. "Good thing I thought to grab some other suits before they torched my house. Are they still -?" He looked at Murron questioningly. She nodded, absently pointing towards her room. "Cheers." Crowley disappeared; after a moment, she heard him moving around overhead.
He reappeared at her side about ten minutes later, dressed only in his shirtsleeves and trousers. His tie was missing, as were his shoes and socks. He looked, if she had to describe him, like someone who'd just come home from a very rough day at work and wanted only to relax. Perhaps that was the truth, for Crowley dropped into his chair with an exhausted grunt and reached for his bottle of Craig. He tipped the meager amount into his glass and, scowling darkly into it, muttered something about needing a new bottle soon.
Murron went to perch on the chair arm wordlessly, leaning against the back of the plush recliner on an angle so her shoulder was just brushing the side of his head. He didn't shift out of her way, seeming to be perfectly fine with the contact. He might be calm and collected as anything, but the electric sensation that shot up Murron's arm was very difficult to ignore. The silence continued unbroken for almost a solid fifteen minutes, ending when Murron said, "I was worried about you."
"Well, as you can see, I'm just fine."
Murron shifted uneasily on the chair arm, crossing her arms over her chest. "So, coming home all banged up twice -"
"I wasn't bleeding this time; not even my blood," Crowley interjected, self-consciously swiping at his clean face as though the splatters remained. Murron continued.
"- is your idea of 'fine'?"
"Yes, it is, actually. I've gotten myself out of worse scrapes, darling, so you needn't worry about me," he replied conversationally. When she repositioned herself again on the arm, he glanced up at her sidelong. "If that's so unpleasant, you could always just sit in my lap." He pat his thigh invitingly, casting a devilish grin her way. Murron gave him a slow, deadpan look. "No? Your loss, then." Crowley drained his glass, plunked it back on the side table, then reached for the remote.
Murron was faster: she snatched the remote from its place on the table and held it out of his reach. "You'll have to forgive me for worrying about my friend when he's clearly in danger," she snapped. Crowley, fingers still extended to grip the remote, flexed them in a kind of anxious rhythm to hear himself referred to as a 'friend'. "Because I sure as hell don't make it a habit of covering my house in protective sigils so said friend can have a safe haven when demons are trying to roast him alive."
Crowley looked down, his gaze distant. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For worrying." He turned in the chair to meet her glare. Something she couldn't describe shone in his eyes, but still it gave her pause. She relaxed her defiant posture, melting against the chair's back and consequently his shoulder as he continued. "I'm kind of in a rough spot now, as you've no doubt surmised. I don't really have any allies. The allies I have need to be convinced repeatedly of my intentions, that I'm not just messing around with them. Even then, they don't trust me completely. Can't blame them, really. I wouldn't trust me as far as I could throw me." He laughed, the sound weak and self-deprecating. "It's bloody amazing, how quickly demons turn on people. I'm just a defunct Crossroads King at this point. Whatever prestige I might have held before has been snuffed out, leaving me the most wanted man in Heaven, Hell, and on Earth. So thank you, for what it's worth."
Murron, stunned into silence by this heartfelt confession, could only stare down at him open-mouthed. He placed a finger beneath her chin and gently closed her mouth. The touch lasted a fraction of a second too long for a careless gesture, and when he lowered his hand, Murron felt the separation of his skin from hers as though he'd just disappeared altogether. But no, he was still sitting there, in the chair that used to belong to her late father, feet bare on the worn blue carpet of her living room, and with such a grateful look in his eyes she felt her breath catch. She wanted to say "You're welcome" as though it had been nothing at all for her to reinvent sigil creation, to plaster her windows, walls, and ceilings with them so he'd be safe, to make light of the entire situation. But she couldn't. All she could do was sit there and feel the wonder at what she'd let into her life, what she'd sold her soul for, sitting right there, plain as day and as comfortable as if he were still in his own home. So she did the next best thing: she smiled. She didn't care if her heart was in her eyes at that moment because part of her wanted him to see it, to see the gratitude at his accepting her deal and trusting her to keep his enemies from him so long as he remained beneath her roof.
But what about when that year was over? Her smile fell. "What will happen to you?" she asked, a tremble in her voice. The mood of the room darkened slightly as his brows drew together over his large green eyes, looking down so that his gaze was hidden from her.
"With any luck, all of this will have blown over long before that." His eyes lifted to meet hers again and there a secret knowing in them. He knew, like he knew a lot of other things about her when she let her thoughts rise to the surface, that she was thinking of the next eleven months. He understood she wanted to know how his being hunted would affect it. If it would separate them again. If he'd come back bruised, battered, or worse: wouldn't come back at all. It had been a very long time since she'd formed this kind of close connection with anyone; she wasn't keen on losing his companionship. He knew and he didn't mock her for it.
"You really believe that?" she asked.
"I do." The absolute confidence in his voice gave her further calm. "I will have to be in it again and very soon. I'm also very focused on making sure my ass gets out of it alive, so," he smiled, "don't worry so much, yeah?"
"No promises, but I'll try," Murron managed, the weariness of her two days' worth of magical working and worrying about him finally hitting her. It was only the early afternoon, but she desperately wanted to sleep for a week. Finally reassured of his safety, at least for a little while, she got up from the chair's arm and announced she was going to bed. At the foot of the stairs, she turned back to him and asked, "Will you be here?"
"You're already stuck with me for a year, darling. What do you think?" Crowley teased, a wide grin changing the entire landscape of his face with such brilliance she couldn't help returning it. Further assured, she bid him a soft goodnight and went up.
With demons on his tail now, Crowley's absences became fewer and fewer. Murron, by proxy, had grown equally wary of leaving the house, despite not having anything to really worry about. In response to this, Crowley took it upon himself to further her magical education. He told her of hex bags: how to make them, how they worked, what they worked against, everything he could think of to soothe her anxiety. Her spells of choice had always been defensive, but now she needed to up her offense if she expected to continue living with Crowley.
As an added bit of security, Crowley produced a cord where an ancient coin hung. "This is a tracking coin," he explained as he slipped it over her head, "With it, I can keep an eye on your whereabouts. I don't expect you'll be especially targeted as no one knows where I am, but better safe than sorry."
Murron touched the coin gingerly. "But how will you know if I'm in danger? Does it tell you that?"
Crowley nodded. "It picks up sound as well. One way, but I would be able to hear you if you were in trouble."
"And what would happen then?" Murron pressed.
"What do you think?" Crowley smiled. "Consider it my tit for your tat. You've redecorated in order to keep me safe. I might as well do the same."
"But wouldn't exposing yourself like that leave you vulnerable?"
"Not if they don't see me. Or if it isn't even me, for that matter."
"You sure do enjoy confusing me, don't you?"
"Highlight of my day, darling. But no, there is one who's still on my side," Crowley explained. "You won't be able to see him, but if demons try to get you, they'll definitely know what's what."
"Who's 'him'?"
"Nevermind that. Just know you'll be fine," Crowley dismissed her curiousity with a careless wave of his hand. Murron narrowed her eyes a bit, still very puzzled by his reluctance. Still, she knew she wouldn't be able to get it out of him. Better to just let it lie and be grateful.
"Thank you," she said after a moment. "I'm still a little worried, though."
"There's really no reason to be," Crowley pointed out. "No one that matters knows I'm here and you don't seem to get out much. If you keep to yourself when you do go out, it should be perfectly fine."
"If you're so sure it'll be fine, why give me this, then?" Murron challenged, lifting the coin from her neck. Crowley smirked. "Okay, okay, I can see you're reaching the end of your tether here. I'll stop asking questions and just say thank you again. Thank you."
"You're welcome," Crowley replied dryly. He settled down in his chair, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. Murron studied him, a pensive frown on her face.
"Do demons sleep?" she asked. Crowley cracked one eye open.
"Sometimes. Jumped up human souls, really, demons. Still plagued with all of the usual appetites: hunger, lust, etcetera," he twirled his hand lazily. "Sleep can be among these, but few of us actually bother with the ritual of it."
"Do you?"
"Are you asking me to sleep with you?" he quirked a playful eyebrow at her, biting the tip of his tongue in an impish fashion. Murron turned her head from him and clicked her tongue impatiently; he laughed. "Yes, sometimes. And given that I'm more or less housebound, I might as well do it more often. Like right now, if you don't mind." The foot rest extended as he closed his eyes again, shutting her and her questions out.
He opened them again when he felt something light cover his lower body: A quilt had been placed across his lap. He looked up in time to see Murron ascending the stairs, a content smile on her face.