Chapter Eleven

A month had passed since the end of the near-Apocalypse. As before, Crowley came and went as he pleased and Murron returned to her craft studies. The grimoire Crowley had given her kept her busy long into the night as she absorbed the wonders within its pages. She'd already laid out the instructions for the blood sigils as he'd requested, including the means to make these sigils 'invisible'. Most sigils, as she understood them, were meant to be created, then burned or cast out, as the intention was meant to be the only thing left behind. However, those methods only worked for non-protective intentions; still, she added that footnote in, if only for her own satisfaction.

She wondered at Crowley's possession of such a thing as the grimoire. Had he been a dabbler in life? Or had he acquired it from another practioner somewhere along the way? She made a mental note to ask him when he came back. The thought brought her back to something he'd said in the very beginning, how a meat-suit with an accent had been important. She couldn't be sure if he'd be feeling open enough with her should she ask, but it never hurt to try.

The opportunity to press for further information presented itself a week later. Crowley had been gone for an extended period, presumably still securing Hell for himself, and returned looking more than a little worn out. He collapsed onto the sofa, flopping his head back as Murron fetched him a glass of Craig. His eyes were closed when she returned from the kitchen; he held out his hand for the drink, grunting a 'thanks' when she pressed it into his palm and sat down herself.

Murron studied him for a few moments, debating whether or not it was a good time to talk about her suspicions. She'd start slow, then. "Rough day?" she asked conversationally. Crowley smirked briefly, licking his lips free of the lingering drops of whisky. "I'll take that as a yes?"

"Mm."

"Should I leave you alone?"

"Please yourself, love."

"You sure that's a good thing to say to me?" Murron teased, hoping to perk him up a little bit. This produced a tired smile from the demon king. It was a start. "So, I was curious about something..."

"Why do I suddenly regret something I don't remember doing?"

Murron smothered a giggle at that. "It's harmless, I promise."

"Well, that's no fun, then."

"You're a ball of contradictions, you know that?"

"Been called worse." Crowley opened one eye and looked over at her. "What're you on about?"

"You said once a meat-suit with an accent was important," Murron began carefully, sensing she might be treading dangerous ground. "Are you ready to tell me why now or will I spend the rest of my brief life in suspense?"

"I suppose you've earned it," Crowley conceded, opening both eyes and shifting further up the sofa cushions. He exhaled, as if readying himself for something he didn't reveal lightly, and twisted to face her a bit more. "This does not leave this house, or your pretty head, do you understand?"

Murron heard the warning note in his voice and nodded quickly. "Take it to the grave."

"No, you'll take it to the ends of the universe and be the wiser for it," Crowley corrected, pointing a steady finger at her nose. Whatever he had to tell her was clearly serious; she looked down at the threatening digit inches from her face and nodded again, this time solemnly. He held her gaze for a moment more, green eyes flashing, then lowered his hand slowly. "I can't have my enemies knowing this, so should you ever feel like turning betrayer -"

"Give me some credit, Crowley," Murron interrupted, smirking.

"Trust no one, darling," Crowley advised sagely. "Not even me, though I know you do. It's a damned foolish thing to do, too."

"I'll reserve judgment on that, thanks."

"And I'll still call you a fool for it," Crowley repeated. "But as I said, I think you've earned it. You'll not get the whole story from me tonight, but I'll give you a taste."

"Whetting my appetite, are you?"

"I'd keep that saucy tongue of yours in your head unless you plan on using it for more interesting things."

"I'll be quiet."

"Good." He cleared his throat. "The accent was a bonus. I was more interested in this particular man for what he could do. He held a position of small power and had a measure of prestige that I could use in my favor. He provided an ample foundation that I naturally made better and went from there. But as to why it could be considered a bonus, it's because I am - was - Scottish."

"Really?" Murron couldn't keep the delight from her voice. She leaned her elbow on the back of the sofa, resting her head in her hand. "You were interesting before; now you're just fascinating."

"Flattery will get you everywhere," Crowley grinned. "I thought you might like that, being Scottish yourself."

"What was your name? Or is that too much information for one night?"

Crowley cupped her chin with two fingers, lifting her face towards his. "No sense in spoiling the entire mystery, is there?"

Murron smiled, admittedly enjoying the feel of his skin on hers. "No, I suppose not. I'll be a good girl and accept what I've been given. Thank you for sharing."

"You might have to do a bit more to earn the rest," Crowley said suggestively. He released her chin, his fingers trailing down her neck and coming to a rest at the base of her throat. He smiled, seemingly pleased by the flush in her cheeks, its rosy tint blossoming across her collarbone as well. "Could you? Is your curiousity so aroused?"

Murron couldn't help the shiver that rolled over her. He had to choose that word, didn't he? "Anything worth having is worth waiting for," she managed, swallowing past the heat in her throat. "And I'm patient."

"Are you?" Crowley pressed, shaping small circles with a fingertip across her skin. When she didn't respond, he chuckled good-naturedly and withdrew his teasing hand. He leaned back again, grinning like a cat that'd had the canary. "You are an endless source of amusement, love, and you take it so well. Cheers."

Murron took a moment to regain her poise, willing the burning warmth in the pit of her stomach to cool before it could spread to less innocent places. "I can't give as good as I get, but I do try."

"No, you'll never be able to make me speechless," Crowley nodded, not the least bit apologetic. "It is fun to watch you try, though."

"I aim to please," Murron replied, then immediately regretted it. The gleam in his eye returned and he angled himself a bit closer to her as if aiming to unsettle her again. She pushed against his shoulder lightly, laughing when he did. "Terrible, horrible man. You should feel bad for putting me through so much." But she smiled as she said this, as ever grateful for his company, moreso for his good humor. It had been absent for too long while they'd been on the run. Even if she was always the butt of the jokes he'd pull, she didn't mind. Still, being teased like this was exhausting!

"Well, I appreciate the bit of honesty," Murron remarked, rising from the sofa and making for the stairs. "I'll be sure to reflect on it appropriately. Will you be here in the morning?"

"Maybe, maybe not," Crowley replied. "I have something brewing; might have to disappear for awhile again."

"No less than expected. Good night, then, Crowley," Murron gave him a small wave as she ascended the stairs and went into the welcoming darkness of her bedroom.

Murron's eyes fluttered open. Something had coaxed her awake; sitting up, she cast a bleary look about the dark room. Her head still heavy with sleep, she eventually laid it back down onto the pillows, confident it had been nothing. As she turned onto her side, tucking her hands beneath her cool pillow, she felt something touch her back. She looked over her shoulder, squinting at Crowley's shadowy face. The faint light that peeped through the heavy curtains caught his eyes, illuminating them enough for her to see the altered expression hidden there. She opened her mouth to speak, only to be silenced by his sudden kiss.

Murron started, then melted into the kiss, twisting onto her back and wrapping her arms around his neck. Crowley bent over her, his hands snaking beneath her back and gripping her almost painfully. Together, they rolled to the center of the bed till Murron was partially on top of him. His suit jacket was gone, as was his tie. The collar of his shirt was open almost to the middle of his chest and the black hair that curled there tickled her skin as she pressed against him. His fingers went up the length of her back, catching the hem of her camisole and pulling it up towards her shoulders. The kiss deepened as Murron's hands disappeared inside Crowley's open shirt, savoring the feel of him.

They broke apart briefly, Murron breathless from the intensity of the kiss. She let Crowley strip her of her top, just as he let her do the same for him. They rolled together once more, arms entwined together in a clutching embrace, their lips meeting again and again. Murron moaned into the kiss when she felt his hands slide down her hips, catching the waistband of her sleep pants in his fingers and relieving her of another layer of clothing. She heard the click of his belt buckle, the cool swish of leather against fabric as he slipped it from its loops and cast it aside. In an instant, the length of his naked body pressed against hers, his knee wedging between her thighs. Murron obliged, lost in the sensation of his tongue playing over hers, of his weight pinning her to the bed, the feel of his burning flesh on hers. One final layer of fabric lay between them; this he freed her from as well. Now fully exposed to the other, they lay in a writhing embrace, fingers grasping, clutching at hot skin, his hands tangling in her hair, hers holding the back of his head so as to deepen the already intense kiss.

Almost as if by its own magic, their bodies joined and Murron arched against him, sighing in longing. Crowley bent his head to her neck, lips moving down her skin with the same slow deliberance as his hips. She curled her legs around his waist, holding him to her as tightly as she could. The scent of him overwhelmed her, even the sulfur smell becoming an intoxicating thing as it joined the taste of whisky lingering her tongue, his voice heavy in her ears. His breath stirred the hair beside her ear, his lips forming her name.

"Murron..."

Murron...

"Murron!"

The sudden outcry of her name sent Murron all but leaping from the bed. Gripping the blanket to her chest, she turned wild eyes on Crowley. He stood in the doorway, one arm leaning casually on the wooden frame, and an expression of perplexed curiousity on his face. Her eyes traveled to his other hand, blinking to see he was holding a cup of tea. Her tea.

"Plan on sleeping all bloody day?" he asked, wiggling the cup towards her slightly. "It's gone cold. I can't be sitting around waiting for you to wake up when I've got an Underworld to take over."

"What?" she choked out. "No! No, I'm sorry. I'll get up. Why are you even waiting, anyway?"

"Because there's something you should know. Get up and come downstairs." With that, he turned away from the doorway and disappeared. Murron, the dim memory of a dream still clouding her thoughts, threw back the covers and got up to fetch her robe. Whatever she'd dreamed about had left her knees strangely weak and her heart beating a mile a minute. She frowned at these little mysteries as she made her way down.

Crowley was in the kitchen, his back to the counter, when she walked in. A fresh cup of tea sat on the table; she went to it and lowered herself into the chair, looking up at him expectantly. "What's going on?"

"I've been putting my feelers out lately and it seems my spies have some across something you might be interested in," Crowley began. "There's a coven of white witches near here and they've got your scent."

Murron balked. "What? How?"

"Those hunters who came for you, I'd wager. Being wrapped up in the future King of Hell isn't going to make you any friends, as I'm sure you've figured out."

"Are you suggesting they'd come for me?"

Crowley shrugged. "I wouldn't give them the chance if I were you. Best to nip this problem in the bud before it spreads."

Murron sighed, pressing her face into her hand wearily. "Great. First Corrine, now this."

"You kind of did this to yourself," Crowley pointed out with another shrug. Murron glanced at him, for a moment unsure of what he meant. Then it dawned on her and she frowned.

"Do all of your clients deal with this or am I just lucky?" she asked.

"Just lucky, I guess. You'll be fine. Plenty of ways to get rid of Glindas, right there." He nodded towards the cellar, indicating his grimoire. Murron tapped her lower lip thoughtfully for a moment, recalling a few rather nasty hexbag recipes.

"Do you know where they are?"

Crowley gestured, producing a sheet of paper and handing it to her. "Addresses and associates, all right there."

Murron inspected the paper. It listed at least four witches and anyone connected to them. "Very thorough," she remarked. "Guess I know what I'm doing today. How about you? Still going to check on that thing you had, what was it? Brewing?"

"Indeed. There's a nest of Lucifer loyalists I need to take out before they round up further support against me. Seems we both have prices on our heads."

"So it would seem," Murron agreed grimly. She stood up from the table and started for the cellar door. Crowley cleared his throat, causing her to turn. He looked pointedly at the untouched cup of tea still on the table. Murron chuckled, went back the few steps to the table, and retrieved the cup. "Wouldn't want to waste this, now would I?"

"Not if you know what's good for you," Crowley returned, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. "Good luck, love."

"You, too."

Crowley vanished from sight just as Murron closed the basement door. It'd be a busy day for both of them.