Chapter Twelve
Crowley materialized in a dark forest populated by ancient towering trees. He squinted curiously, reaching out with his senses. He wasn't even in America anymore; these were the sprawling forestlands of Europe.
The crunch of underbrush made the demon king turn, and Crowley saw one of his supporters appear from behind a thicket of smaller trees. "Mr. Crowley," the other greeted, nodding respectfully. "I'm glad you could make it. We need your assistance with this one."
"You're being vague, Melchiah," Crowley replied, a dangerous edge in his voice. "That is unwise. Speak plainly."
"This is bigger than we originally thought, sir," Melchiah explained, falling into step beside his superior. Melchiah spoke quickly, his voice low. "I'm afraid this might be difficult. The nest is more like a stronghold, with more demons than we thought. I'm surprised there are even this many left after Lucifer's armies were decimated."
"Apparently, they weren't all eliminated if we're here now," Crowley pointed out blandly. "And stronghold? How big are we talking?"
"It's...well, you'll have to see for yourself," Melchiah replied, grimacing uneasily. Crowley lifted his chin, eyes narrowing once more. "I can't even begin to describe it. I know you don't like being left in the dark, sir, but in this case, I have no choice but to let it speak for itself."
"Come on, man, it can't be all that - bloody hell!" Crowley's bravado abandoned him as he and Melchiah emerged from the forest into a great clearing. "It's a fucking castle!"
"Yes, I'm afraid it is," Melchiah echoed grimly, eyeing the massive stone edifice. "We've already tried to breach its outer walls. No dice. It's heavily guarded, with far more demons than we have altogether. I don't know how we're going to do this one."
Crowley said nothing. He was studying the obstacle before him with critical eyes. Unlike most castles in Europe, this one was in remarkably good condition. It still possessed the full measure of outer curtain walls, plus four towers, and all of its fortified gates. He could make out a dozen or more demons patrolling the area, each armed with what appeared to be medieval weapons. Whoever lived in this keep was old, old enough to have shirked the modern comforts of the North American continent, as well as its modern methods of defense. No demon visible to them was dressed in the manner they'd all become accustomed. Many seemed to be clad simply, as though they didn't feel they needed protection. Yes, whoever they faced now was very, very old, indeed.
"How did this escape our notice?" Crowley turned to Melchiah.
"You mean why wasn't this piece on the board during the Apocalypse?" Melchiah supplied. He shook his head. "No idea. We only know they're loyal to Lucifer."
"There's not a single major player in Hell that I didn't know. I was Lilith's top man, for God's sake!" Crowley snapped. "How is it this bastard has managed to stay out of Hell for so long?"
"We don't even know who it is, sir!" Melchiah protested. "That's what we needed you here for. If anyone can breach those walls, it's you. You have a title in Hell still, even when you turned traitor."
"Mind your tongue," Crowley warned. "But you might have a point. All right. You lot stay behind; I'll let you know if I need you."
"Sir."
Crowley took another look at the beast before him, shored up his best salesman skills, and vanished.
The demons guarding the main gate immediately lowered their weapons - halberds - when Crowley appeared at the end of the bridge. He levelled them with a mocking stare. "Hello, boys. Is the master in?"
"You have no business here," the guard on the right snarled. "Off with you."
"That's only a little impolite," Crowley remarked coolly. "You know who I am, don't you?"
"A traitor," the left-hand guard replied, baring his teeth. "One we should kill on sight."
"But you won't because you know I'll kill you first," Crowley grinned, raising his hand slightly. The pair lowered their weapons. "Good. Now. Let me in."
Reluctantly, the guards made way for Crowley, who gave them a patronizing smile as he passed between them. The gate's heavy portculis lifted with a grating squeal, ending with a thunderous thoom when it struck the archway. Another line of armed guards watched Crowley with wary eyes as he moved further into the fortress. He ignored them. Despite their master's apparent strength, these demons were still beneath Crowley's power and as such, could be subjugated if they tried anything. They seemed to be aware of this, too, for they kept their positions, hands gripping their individual weapons so tightly they shook. Crowley smiled. Good. They were afraid. That would make his taking over all the easier.
He passed through the wide courtyard, also populated by demons boasting nasty-looking weaponry; these, too, kept their distance. The power Crowley wielded in Hell surrounded him and trailed in his wake, touching all who might consider taking a leap at him. It stilled them as much as it angered them. It was like moving through a pack of wild dogs, all waiting for the alpha to give the signal to attack. They trembled, muscles tense, eager to tear the offending demon king limb from limb. But they couldn't. This truth fueled Crowley's confidence. The master that dwelt here couldn't be as powerful as all that if they insisted on employing lesser demons.
However, when Crowley neared the center of the castle, a swarthy young woman emerged from a side entrance and approached him. Like animals identifying themselves by scent, she and Crowley blinked, revealing their individual ranks through their eyes. To his surprise, hers were white to his crossroads red. Then he smiled. "Almost didn't recognise you, love. How've you been, Jezebeth?"
Jezebeth favored him with a pinched smile, clearly unimpressed. "I think the time for small talk is over, Crowley. You have no right to be here, you know that."
"On the contrary, darling, I have every right to be here."
"Because you think you can take Lucifer's place?"
"No. I know I can. Who rules here?"
Jezebeth's almond-shaped eyes widened. "You really don't know?" She laughed, a dark, husky sound. "You're slipping, Crossroads King."
Crowley frowned. "Who is it, Jezebeth."
"Come in and see for yourself," she offered, stepping aside and stretching one slender arm towards the final gate. "He sent me out here to escort you in. He's very eager to meet you, Crowley."
"And I, him," Crowley replied smoothly. He followed after Jezebeth, maintaining a cool veneer of nonchalance so as not to betray the anxiety he genuinely felt. The change in power was palpable the moment they passed into the center chamber. It weighed down on Crowley's shoulders as though invisible hands clutched at him, pressing him into the stone floor. Jezebeth seemed unaffected by this, for she continued her sultry saunter up to the head of the room. On a dais sat an imposing man with caramel skin and dark, almost black, eyes. He was dressed in all white, the linen fabric of the top and pants loose around his body. Strange tattoo patterns lined the ridges of his cheekbones, rising up to encircle his brow bone and converge in the center of his forehead. Gold rings sparkled on his slender fingers as they rested calmly upon the arms of the great throne he reclined in. At the sight of Crowley, his mouth twitched into a disgusted frown.
"You have a lot of nerve, coming here," he intoned, his voice deep and booming as it echoed throughout the high-ceiled chamber. "Do you know who I am?"
Crowley paused a few feet from the dais, hands now in his pockets as he regarded the imposing figure before him. "No, I'm afraid not."
"You carry the title of a king and yet you know about as much as a whore who kneels between its thighs," the man mocked. He leaned forward in his throne. "You are weak, Crowley. Or should I simply call you by your Christian name?"
"Not if you want to survive this," Crowley warned. At that, the other laughed sharply.
"Such bravado. I'll enjoy killing you."
"Look, as much as I enjoy this particular brand of dick-waving, I'm not here to trade witticisms with you," Crowley said, glaring at his enemy. "Identify yourself."
This prompted the other man to rise from his throne. Immediately, the torches and floor candlebras began to flicker and blow themselves out. Lightning raged overhead, creating a strobe effect in the chamber as great shadowy wings erupted against the rear wall. "I am the Keeper of the Secrets, the General of Hell's Armies!" the man boomed, steadily moving down the length of the room, his wings maintaining their form. "I am Baal, second only to Lucifer himself, and you will surrender this pathetic crusade to take over Hell!"
Crowley stood frozen to the spot. He'd heard of Baal. Like Lucifer, Baal had fallen from Heaven during the original angel war. He'd stood beside Lucifer against God and the other angels, only to share in his fate. Angels in Hell, fallen or not, maintained their Grace, though it was twisted and fostered only destructive magic. Baal was stronger than Crowley, strong enough to kill him with a single thought. Few things terrified the Crossroads King more than angels, even those who would share his domain.
"You are not fit to rule Hell, Crowley," Baal continued. "You think your 'title' - a self-proclaimed one if I recall - entitles you to the throne? No, crossroads demon, no tormented soul will ever take that esteemed place where my brother, Lucifer, once sat!"
"You might be an angel, Baal, but where were you when Lucifer needed you?" Crowley challenged. He was playing with fire, he knew, but he wasn't going to stand there and let this jumped-up choirboy play with him like a cat with a mouse. "I at least had the balls to take my stand and keep by it; you? You hid here, in your little castle and pretended like nothing happened, is that it?"
"Had Lucifer needed me, I would have been there," Baal replied, undaunted by Crowley's words. "I know what befell my brother, what caused his downfall. And I know you aided them, those vessels. Those...Winchesters. How my brothers believed they would bow to their fate is beyond my comprehension; surely they, above all others, knew humans were fallible. Flawed. Damaged. Not fit to contain the glory that was offered to them."
"Maybe so, but those 'flawed' and 'damaged' humans still kicked your brothers' ass if I recall," Crowley reminded him. "They might not be my favorite people, either, but I regret nothing when I helped them. Lucifer would have ended me and my kind. I love myself too much for that to happen. Which is why I won't let you try, either." Crowley took a step closer to the angel, who still displayed his wings like a peacock attempting to woo a disinterested mate. "I will have Hell, Baal, with or without your approval. Although, last I checked, I didn't need it in the first place. I'm a demon, angel, and I always get what I want, one way or another."
"You are inviting a war you cannot possibly hope to win, demon," Baal replied, his voice dangerously soft. "I have all the legions of Hell at my command and you have, what, a handful of lesser demons? Oh yes, I know what you have in your corner, Crowley. Not even your former crossroads demons are backing you. How that must wound."
"As if I need those punks," Crowley sneered. "Demons will follow anyone with a big enough cock, which, in case you've forgotten, I traded my soul for. No one's got a bigger one than me, angel, no matter what 'suit' I put on."
"You trade schoolyard insults with me, demon, and expect to win this?" Baal gave a derisive chuckle. "Oh yes, I will enjoy destroying you."
"Then what're you waiting for? An invitation?" Crowley bit back, eyes flashing to their true color. Heat rolled off him in waves; the runner carpet they both stood on began to smoke beneath Crowley's feet. "You're not getting Hell, Baal. Not while I still breathe."
"You bite off more than you can chew, demon," Baal informed him quietly. "But I suppose that is simply your nature." He raised his hand towards Crowley, who went on the defensive immediately, and curled his fingers into his palm slowly.
The pain that gripped Crowley's gut doubled him over, blood spilling from between his lips. He fell to his knees, the fire gone out of him as he writhed on the cold stone floor, clutching at his middle. Baal twisted his clawed hand slowly, deliberately, as he spoke in low tones heavy with ennui.
"If you insist on continuing this pathetic facade, demon, I suggest you crawl back into that hole you came out of and think about what you're doing. This will not end well for you. You will never acquire enough armies to defeat me. Never."
On the floor, Crowley managed to find his voice through the searing pain coursing through him. "Then why not do it already!" Blood splattered across the floor as he spoke. "Why toy with me?"
Baal sighed. "Perhaps I am curious to see what you might try. Perhaps I need the distraction. Or perhaps," he crouched beside Crowley's shuddering form and bent close to his ear. "Perhaps I just enjoy seeing you suffer."
He tightened his fist once more, tripling the pain tearing at Crowley's insides. Crowley surrendered to the howl of anguish he'd been keeping in. He felt his very essence beginning to churn as red smoke leaked out his mouth. He couldn't even muster the willpower to summon his own followers, still waiting for their master's word in the forest. Once again, he felt cornered and alone. Fear gripped him; he could die here. Baal could easily end him forever. Crowley coughed up more blood, now forming a pool beneath his face, staining his skin and wetting his hair to his forehead. In that moment of weakness, he reached out to the only source left to him:
Murron...!
Crowley felt his awareness slipping away, Baal's face blurring before him. As his eyes fell closed, the pain ceased and he felt the world around him shift.
When he came to, he was lying on something soft and warm. The scent of roses prompted him into further wakefulness and he opened his eyes. He was in Murron's bedroom. She was nowhere to be found and the room itself was dark. Crowley sat up gingerly, wincing at the lingering pain still rolling in his gut. Bending over the side of the bed, he spit into the wastebasket there, grimacing to see it tinged with his blood still.
He'd opened up a can of worms by challenging Baal. His meager army of supporters would have a hard time taking down all of Baal's. There were still many in Hell who followed the old ways and as Baal was the general of all of Hell's legions, many would fall behind him. If he was going to do this, he needed help.
Crowley inched carefully off the bed and limped to the door. He heard Murron moving about downstairs; summoning up what was left of his strength, he transported himself to her.
Murron spun around when she heard Crowley fall to the floor behind her. "Jesus!" she exclaimed, pressing a hand to her chest in surprise. "Crowley! Are you all right?" She knelt beside him and lifted him up by the shoulders. "You couldn't have just, I don't know, pounded on the floor or used the stairs?"
"And ruin such an impressive entrance? Perish the thought," Crowley replied between hoarse coughs. Blood peppered the front of Murron's dress and she pulled back in horrified concern.
"You are definitely not ready to get out of bed; you've taken a serious hit!" She struggled to get him to his feet, stumbling when his weight fell against her suddenly. "What the hell happened to you? Did a convoy of Mack trucks mistake you for a speed bump or something?"
"Or something," Crowley echoed weakly, allowing Murron to assist him back up the stairs. It grated on him to be so dependent, but in this case, he knew he had no other choice. Just a shame he couldn't use Murron in the fight ahead. Witches were strong, but an angel would take them out faster than a demon. Better to leave her out of it and handle it himself.
He let Murron put him back in her bed and make much of ensuring his comfort, fluttering about him like a mother hen with one chick. He would use this time to formulate a new plan. There had to be others out there who'd opposed Lucifer. What he needed now was an army and not just of demons. No, there were other things that went bump in the night that he could employ. It was just a matter of seeking them out and convincing them his cause was worth it.
Murron left him quite tucked in, insisting that if he needed anything he should tell her and she'd get it, whatever it was. He gave her false assurance just so she'd stop fussing over him and go. He knew she had her own problems and though he was grateful for her help - for she had summoned him away from Baal, effectively saving his life again - he needed this time to be alone with his thoughts. This was just the tip of the iceberg in a sea of them. He had a long fight ahead of him and would need every ounce of wit and strength he could muster.