Chapter Ten
It was clear Murron couldn't stay at the house. Eventually, someone would come looking for the owners and the house would have to be claimed. Murron wasn't sure she wanted to be present when that happened. Her own house had probably been cinders for days now, but she tried not to think about that. She tried not to think about a lot of what she'd lost lately, or what she was about to lose.
It was strange. Crowley had never once said he'd stop coming to see her for the remainder of their deal. Even now, he didn't seem altogether certain what he was going to do now that Lucifer was out of the picture. Yet Murron couldn't shake the feeling in her gut that something would take him away and occupy the majority of his time. During the quiet moments, she could see the gears working behind Crowley's eyes, a scheme to reaffirm his position in Hell formulating in his brain. She'd watch as the myriad of thoughts passed over his face, sometimes as a devious smile, other times as a perplexed frown. He kept characteristically mum about whatever he was plotting and Murron knew better than to ask. In truth, she was quite preoccupied with her own predictament as to where she'd live from now on.
It seemed, however, that Crowley was, as ever, one step ahead of her: a few days after the Apocalypse ended, he took her aside and, without warning, teleported them away. They reappeared in front of a rather nice cottage situated on a lush piece of land with a forest just behind it. While Murron stood, positively agog, Crowley went up to the front door, fumbled with the latch for a moment, then gestured for her to go inside. She followed him slowly, her head turning to take in the scenery as she walked.
"Where did you get this?" she breathed. Before he could respond, Murron was exclaiming over the interior of the cottage. The structure was very Old World, which pleased her immensely. Her old house, while done in the style of a cottage, had lacked the homey country charms a proper cottage did. And, as in her previous home, the walls were covered in Scottish heritage decor, including a Guthrie family crest she'd never seen before. She stepped up to it, reaching out to gingerly touch the smooth velvet surface. "How in the world...?"
Crowley stood back, hands comfortably in his pockets, a satisfied smile on his face. "Best to never underestimate just how much I truly know, darling. Been around for a long, long time."
"Far be it from me to look a gift demon in the mouth!" Murron laughed, delighted. "Thank you, this is very generous of you, Crowley." She turned a beaming smile to him. He shrugged nonchalantly.
"Just looking after my investment, blah blah blah," he trailed off with feigned disinterest, then offered her a wink and teasing smile. "I'd also like a comfortable place to land," he added almost as a disclaimer. Murron chuckled.
"Planning on crashing a lot?" she asked playfully. Crowley's smile turned wry, his lips pressing together pensively. "Crowley, what are you thinking about doing? Really."
"What, are you worried about me?" Crowley asked, bouncing back from his brief moment of self-doubt. "No need for that anymore. Lucifer's gone, stuffed back into his Cage, and Hell needs a new leader. I already have leadership experience, after all, and frankly, I'm the only one left from the old guard that actually has a brain."
"So, you're going to go from public enemy number one to the new Devil?" Murron prompted, a little dubiously. Crowley smirked.
"No, not the 'new Devil'. Don't be stu- foolish. No, I'll do a better job at it. I'm smarter, for one thing. I also know what it takes to stay alive in case you hadn't noticed."
"Oh no, I've noticed! You are quite adept at that, no questions about it!" Murron agreed with an enthusiastic nod. She put her hands on her hips, head angling back to take him in. "Well, I wish you all the luck in the world with this one, Crowley. You might need it. Still," she added with a gracious smile, "we already know a crown suits you."
"Precisely," Crowley replied with a small bow, grinning from ear to ear. "It will take me away for an indeterminate amount of time, but I suspect you've already figured that out. However, I have no intention of leaving you improperly armed." He reached behind his back theatrically, winked, and produced a large leather-bound tome. It looked positively ancient, certainly a lot older than any book Murron had ever seen. He presented it to her, nodding encouragingly when she hesitated to accept it. Murron held the book in both hands, marveling at the craftsmanship. She opened it gingerly, gasping to see the brilliantly illuminated vellum pages. The text was inscribed in Latin, as well as a symbolic language she couldn't decipher.
"What's this?" she asked, pointing at the strange characters. Crowley craned his neck to peer at the page she referred to.
"That's Enochian. Yeah, you'll be wanting to learn that if you're to use this effectively."
"Enochian? The angelic language?" Murron repeated, stunned. He nodded. "What is this book?"
"It's my grimoire. Everything I know is in that book. It's a loan, you understand, so don't go thinking it'll go down with you like some Egyptian burial rubbish. Also, if you could avoid using it near open flame, that'd be fantastic."
"I'll be very careful with it, thank you, Crowley," Murron assured him, closing the tome and hugging it to her chest gently. "I really have to up the ante to match today's generousity, don't I?"
"The cottage and the grimoire can be considered freebies. I don't think there's much you could do to match them, I'm afraid."
"A demonic Book of Shadows," Murron whispered, looking down at it again. "I don't know how I'll manage to absorb it all, even with the time I have left."
"You'll manage, I'm sure," Crowley remarked. "One thing, though."
"Yes?"
He gestured at the book. "There's some blank pages in the back. If you could add those sigils you made, that'd be excellent. You never know when I might need them again."
"You want me to add to your grimoire?" Murron was stunned. Crowley nodded slowly, as if explaining something to a very dim-witted child. Murron was too bewildered to take offense. "Of course I'll include it. I'd be honored to."
"Figured you might be," Crowley remarked casually. "You'll find a very well-stocked pantry of magical goodies downstairs in the cellar. Altar to work on and everything. I can't have my favorite witch running out of virgin's blood, now can I?"
Murron rolled her eyes. "Now you're just teasing me again."
"Believe what you will. But there really is virgin's blood down there. Some of those spells call for it."
Murron laughed, thankful he'd chosen to take her real meaning the 'wrong way'. She was burning red enough to guide ships home in thick fog as it was. "Then I'm glad you've thought of everything. Never know who's a virgin these days, anyway."
"Cheeky. Love it," Crowley grinned appreciatively. They shared a brief moment's comfortable silence, then Crowley pat his jacket front down. "I'm afraid I must be off now. I'm sure it's absolute chaos down there. You enjoy your new toys, darling, and, as always: don't wait up." He delivered the last line with an impish wink and blinked from sight.
Murron, still reeling from the bevy of surprises, simply sighed, looked around herself at her new home, and started for the cellar stairs, eager to inspect her 'pantry'.
The entire sublevel of the cottage was filled top to bottom with all sorts of magical things. The altar he'd spoken of was a grand affair, easily something out of an elaborate fantasy production. Candles were everywhere: on every available surface, bolted to the walls, and dangling from the wood beams above. Anything she could have ever wanted or needed was readily provided to her in countless well-stocked cabinets and chests. The center of the cellar had been cleared, mimicking a kind of "audience" space, perhaps for summoned things.
Set a ways apart from the altar was a lecturn with a tall stool beside it. An ink pot and quill sat upon the lecturn itself, suggesting it would be there that Murron added her own spells to Crowley's grimoire. She brought the tome to the stand and carefully laid it over the polished wood surface. She was no expert at dating books, but this one had to be at least a handful of centuries old. It then occurred to her she had no idea how old Crowley truly was or who he'd been in life. She recalled the day after the deal, how he'd been preoccupied with acquiring a meat-suit with an accent. Strange how she'd never thought to bring it up in conversation during those slow days before the Apocalypse ended. Though, to be fair, she'd had a trifle more on her mind at the time. Perhaps when he came back, she'd bring it up. Until then, she had plenty to keep herself busy.
Murron sat in the cellar well into the evening when the familiar tramp of feet on the ceiling sounded above. She smiled quietly to herself, remaining where she sat scribbling the instructions for the sigils into the grimoire. Yet, as she half-listened to the footsteps upstairs, something struck her as distinctly 'off'. Carefully, she replaced the quill into the inkwell and slipped from the stool. Creeping up to the cellar stairs, Murron craned her neck to look up at the closed basement door. "Crowley?" she called. "Is that you?"
The heavy tramp of the now-foreign footsteps thundered towards the cellar door. Suddenly, it was yanked open violently and a strange man's face appeared around the frame. Murron immediately was on alert, her muscles tensing as she focused her power into her hands.
"I wouldn't try it, witch!" the man sneered, brandishing a knife her way threateningly. Murron glared up at him, fists clenching.
"Who the hell are you?" she demanded hotly. The man grinned, an ugly expression that twisted his face. "How did you find this place?"
"Not hard when you're tracking a demon. Is that what you are? A demon's whore? Cause I think you are," he taunted. "Because me and my boys -"
"Boys!" Murron interrupted, eyes widening. There were more of them?
"Yes, my boys," the man continued. "We've been trackin' your little boyfriend, Crowley, for awhile now. He's a big fish, you know. Be doing the whole world a favor by snuffing him out." He licked the blade of his knife perversely. Murron shuddered, thoroughly disgusted.
"And let me guess," she began coldly, "you think by taking me hostage he'll come for me? You don't know Crowley very well. Or me, for that matter."
"You saying he won't come for you, eh?" the man asked, crouching on the top step and jiggling the knife blade towards her. "I know he can hear you through that coin you're wearin'. Oh yeah, we know all about them things. Heard it from the best hunters around, how they're used to keep tabs on us good folk."
Murron pressed her hand to the coin protectively, almost as if to try and muffle the sounds around her. Crowley didn't need to be bothered by this. Besides, he'd given her the grimoire to help protect herself, as well as the knowledge he'd already granted her. The best thing to do now was clean up these hunters - for hunters they were - and work on securing the cottage.
"If you're smart, you and your 'boys' will leave my house," Murron hissed. Her eyes flared as the internal fire roared to life within her. The hunter finally had the sense to appear on his guard, fingers curling around the knife's handle tightly. "Before I give myself a reason to vacuum my new carpets."
"Think you're clever, witch? C'mon! Let's see how you feel about a little bite of silver!" The hunter lunged down the stairs. Murron had a split second to react. She rolled her back across the wall beside the stairs, wincing as the hunter's knife caught her bare shoulder. Her skin hissed where the blade hit and for a moment, she was stunned. Silver never used to hurt her; apparently, she'd crossed over into black magic territory after selling her soul and using destructive spells. So much for her nice silver earrings!
Murron hurried deeper into the cellar, the hunter not far behind. She reached out to clutch the grimoire in her hands as she passed the lecturn, swearing she'd die before the hunters got hold of it. "Sorry, Crowley, I know I said I wouldn't use it near an open flame, but -" she muttered towards the coin, then threw her hand out to summon flames at the hunter as he rounded the corner. Immediately, he caught fire and, screaming, flailed about the cellar for a few moments before finally collapsing to the ground as a pile of black ash. Murron hastened to hide the grimoire in one of the chests, then rushed upstairs to take care of the dead hunter's friends.
The sound of pained screams met her as she ascended the stairs. The front door was open and she could see Crowley's silhouette against the bonfire that had once been the other hunter's companions. Murron balked in the doorway for a moment, surprised to see he'd actually come. Sensing her eyes on him, Crowley turned and offered her a pleased smile.
"Honey, I'm home!" he greeted pleasantly. "Don't suppose you went grocery shopping while I was gone?"
Murron sighed, relaxing against the door. "Why'd you come? I could've handled it."
Crowley shrugged and, stepping over the smoldering pile that had been two bodies, walked up the stairs and stood beside her in the doorway. "It was on the way," he replied, smirking as though it was the most natural thing in the world to incinerate hunters in the middle of the street. "Also," he added, tapping the tip of her nose with a finger, "didn't do it for you. I don't need trash like that around my safehouse. Bad enough some of Lucifer's little servants are still kicking around downstairs."
"But you did hear them, right?" Murron pressed, following Crowley when he moved further into the house. He went into the kitchen and started opening and closing the cupboards, clearly looking for something. "They were tracking you!" she continued, pushing past him to the right cabinet and pulling his Craig down. He accepted it with a delighted grin and poured himself a measure of it into a glass. "And me, for that matter!"
Crowley calmly enjoyed his drink, seemingly disinterested in her panic. Murron waited, her nerves only slightly fraying from the anticipation. When he'd finished, he put the glass down on the counter and turned a patient gaze towards her. "Yes, I heard them. And what else is new? People are always going to be after me and you, darling, because in case you've forgot, you're a witch and hunters hunt witches as much as they do demons. When a demon and a witch are in cahoots, well, the goody-goodies tend to get their panties in a bunch. Why do you think I gave you my grimoire? You'll have to learn to defend yourself from all threats, not just demons. Hunters are your new worst enemy, so get used to this kind of thing. So," he slid a fingertip from between her breasts to the underside of her chin swiftly, making her jump, "I suggest you get to warding."
Murron ignored the lingering sensation of his touch, shaking her head as if to clear it. "You're certainly all business again, aren't you?" she observed. Crowley nodded as he poured himself another glass.
"Yes, I am. The king is dead, long live the king! Time for a new successor, a new vision." He curled the glass towards his chest, tapping himself with it. "My vision. I've lived under the thumb of my superiors for centuries. Now it's my turn to twist some screws." He wandered into the living room and sat down on the plush green sofa with a satisfied sigh. Murron followed after and sat beside him as he continued. "Lucifer's ways are too old-fashioned, you see. Hell needs new direction if it's going to survive into the next century or ten. I have big plans for Hades, love. Big plans!"
"And you're saying you have support in Hell?"
Crowley shook his head emphatically. "Not a single one. Yet." He gave her a sage nod and tipped his glass to her. "I'll get them soon enough. I didn't get to be King of the Crossroads on my looks alone, oh no. I had to scrape and bow and beg before I got to where I am now. I'll win them over. I have a way to keep more souls in Hell, where they belong, not shuffling about up here where hunters can get to them."
"Are you referring to demons? To their creation?" Murron asked.
"Demons are, basically, twisted human souls. How do they get twisted, you ask? Torture. Plain and simple. Oh, Hell'll still be a place of torture, but it'll be a slow torture. Demons won't spawn as quickly with my methods like they did with Alastair's. What once took a mere two centuries will now take double that with my new vision."
"And this is what I have to look forward to? Slow torture?"
Crowley smirked, exasperated. "You signed up for this, remember? You should be kissing my ass for doing it differently. If it had been Alastair's way, you would be begging for my reign. Trust me, darling. I'm doing you a favor."
"And you're certain you can pull this off?"
"I am."
"Okay, then. Once again, I'm entrusting my soul to you, aren't I?"
"No safer place for it."
"Not touching that one," Murron laughed. "Oh, Crowley, you're one of a kind. You know that?" She looked at him, warmth in her eyes. Crowley winked, but said nothing, and took another gulp of his Craig. The urge to lay her head on his shoulder was strong, but she held back. Despite their last night at the house in Kansas, she'd been careful not to grow overly familiar. Crowley certainly never made any advances, nor did she expect him to. Suddenly, she recalled his offer of making things 'interesting' and blushed, chuckling under her breath. He glanced at her sidelong.
"What?"
"Nothing. It's not important."
"You're a terrible liar, Murron."
"I know."
They fell silent, though the unspoken tension hung in the air around them just the same. Crowley gave a small half-shrug and murmured, almost too casually, "The offer still stands, just so you know."
"I will keep that in mind, Crowley, thank you," she replied tightly. He grinned into his drink. "On that uncomfortable note, I'm for bed. If I'm to expect unexpected guests like this often, I'd best get ready to defend myself, starting with a proper night's sleep for once. No impending doom means I sleep a lot better."
"Can't argue with that," Crowley agreed, saluting with his glass and draining the remainder of the Craig. "Sleep tight, love."
"And you, if you decide to," Murron called back over her shoulder as she walked up the stairs. As she neared the bedroom, she shook her head, laughing softly to herself. Apparently, planning to take over Hell had put him into a very good mood if he was teasing her again. She smiled, pleased. Good. She'd been missing that side of him.
Still smiling to herself, Murron walked gratefully into her new bedroom and closed the door on a very bizarre day.