Chapter Thirteen
Murron mulled over the crisp vellum pages, turning them slowly as she absorbed the elegant script explaining how to handle white witches. Crowley had been gone for a good while, giving her time to formulate her own plan of attack. Confident in his abilities to care for himself, she'd delved headlong into the various spells and talismans that would aid her in securing her own preservation. Many of them were relatively simple; some, less so. She focused more on the latter, believing the more complicated the spell, the more effective it would be.
She'd just dipped the quill into the inkpot when a chill ran through her. She paused, the pen's nib hovering just above the container. She dropped the quill as the icy feeling tore through her again, followed by Crowley's voice:
Murron...!
Immediately, Murron abandoned the lecturn and hurriedly gathered the supplies necessary for a demon summoning. She threw the herbs and roots into the ceremonial bowl fiercely, then took up the steel athame from the altar. She sliced into her palm hastily, cutting deeper than necessary, and squeezed her fist above the bowl, allowing the crimson to coat the crushed herbs within. Still bleeding profusely from her wound, she lit an entire book of matches and dropped it into the bowl. As smoke plumed up, she turned anxious eyes to the center of the cellar.
Crowley's body appeared a split-second later. He was curled on his side, head tucked against his chest in a fetal position. Murron gaped in horror at him briefly, then hastened to his side. She lifted his head, eyes searching his face for signs of life. His own eyes were glazed over and his lips were bloody. His hair was damp with more blood, splattering the expanse of his forehead in red. With great difficulty, Crowley met Murron's terrified gaze. A shaky, uncertain smile curled his stained lips as he murmured her name gratefully. Murron made to respond when his head dropped again; he was unconscious.
It took her a few moments, but Murron managed to get Crowley to his feet and began dragging him towards the stairs, all the while wishing she could disappear and reappear at will.
Crowley remained unconscious long after Murron had put him in her bed. She took this time to inspect his body for any wounds. Whatever had attacked him had done so magically. She couldn't find a source for all of the blood apart from his mouth. She parted his lips and peered inside his mouth, checking for wounds there. His throat was red and raw; as she'd suspected, the blood had come from internal damage. He'd coughed up this blood. The front of his black shirt was soaking in it.
Mutely asking for his forgiveness, Murron stripped him of the ruined suit jacket, tie, and dress shirt and put them aside. Peering down at him, half-naked on her bed, it struck her how vulnerable he looked. She knew the demon inside the meat-suit was stronger than his physical form suggested, but there was something about him now that made her fear for him. Gingerly, Murron stroked his face with both hands, fighting the lump in her throat at the thought of his being killed. It was so silly! She mentally chastised herself for being so paranoid and forced herself to her feet to fetch something to clean him up with.
With great tenderness, Murron washed the blood from Crowley's face and hair, then down his chest. Then she fetched another of his shirts from the closet and carefully dressed him in it. As she worked the shiny black buttons through their holes, her fingers remarkably steady, she thought about asking him what had happened. He'd probably never tell her; hell, he'd probably never own up to being beaten at all. If he was lucky, this rest would put everything to rights and he'd be well in the morning. However, something told Murron it would take him a bit longer to recover from this one. Whatever had attacked him had done so with the intention of killing him. She didn't want to think about what could've happened had she not heard his call.
The fact he'd done it at all surprised her. She knew he'd managed to convince a number of demons to his cause; had they not been with him? She knew she should just be grateful and honored he'd looked to her at all, but she didn't want to give herself false hope at being more important than she really was. Any danger he got himself into now would be the sort he could handle on his own. He didn't need her sigils now. No, better to just continue as she had been, pushing those foolish hopes and dreams deep into the back of her mind.
Still, she couldn't help but feel drawn to him now. It was absolutely the most inappropriate time to be thinking like this, but the temptation to kiss him tugged at her. She grunted softly to herself. If she were smart, she'd get up and let him rest. But she wasn't feeling very smart right now, not in the face of his almost dying. No, even if only for a few moments, she wanted to sit there and watch over him. To indulge that tiny part of her she'd always denied. Would it really hurt things?
Murron looked down at Crowley's sleeping face, taking in the curve of his lips and the way his eyelashes rested against his cheeks. She watched as his chest rose and fell with each breath, feeling the heat rush to her cheeks when he swallowed in his sleep. She marveled at her own self-control; having him before her all the time had been a great trial. Every day she'd wanted to be close to him, to tell him how she felt, to really take advantage of the deal she'd made. But she never did. Why she'd always held back was a mystery even to her. Perhaps she didn't want to think of it as being 'only part of the deal'. Just good business. No, what she wanted was impossible and somehow it was better to deny herself everything than believe it was all on the surface. How he treated her, how he teased her. Everytime he'd put his hands on her, she could recall it as perfectly as if he'd just done it. Sometimes she went to bed with the memory of his kiss on her lips. Or the way his skin felt on hers, how electric it was everytime they touched.
Emotions welled in Murron's chest. She pressed her hand to her lips, smothering the sob that escaped her. She'd been comfortable with the thought of dying within the year, never moreso now that she knew she'd be spending it with Crowley. But at the end of that year? Could she truly go to Hell, could she let her soul be torn from her, without ever once having told him how she felt? He could have died on this last excursion and she never would have had the opportunity. She couldn't help him in his quest to control Hell, but she could try to keep him safe.
Murron returned to the bedroom an hour later, her arms loaded down with the necessary materials to create a universal protection sigil. She knelt beside the bed, placed the objects down on the floor, then reached out and unbuttoned Crowley's shirt, exposing the full length of his torso. She smoothed the halves of the shirt down at his sides, tucking them carefully beneath him so as not to be hindered by them. He remained blessedly unaware of her ministrations as she pulled out the leaf of ancient parchment from her materials pile, along with a quill, and put these on the bed. As she prepared the salt water mixture that would be required to make the sigil, she whispered an apology to him. This would hurt him, but the pain would heal and the sigil would be sealed.
She wasn't sure if the universe or the gods that governed it even wanted demons to exist. Invisible sigils were designed to act as messages, requests that whatever the sigil represented would be granted. In Murron's case, she was aiming to protect Crowley from anything that would be thrown at him. She would die with pride so long as he survived. She kept this in the back of her mind as she took up the quill and began writing her intention on the parchment.
After some tweaking, Murron completed the condensed request into its sigil form. She placed the parchment with the completed sigil on Crowley's legs so that she could follow it and picked up the bowl of salt water from the floor. She whispered the apology again, offered a hasty, foolish kiss to the skin she was about to damage, then quickly outlined the sigil onto his chest.
Steam hissed from Crowley's body where the salt water touched him. He arched up off in the bed in his sleep, eyes squeezing shut from the pain. Murron forced her hand to remain still as she muttered incantations to the universe, pleading with them to keep him safe despite what he was or what he'd done, as tears dripped from her eyes.
"I can't protect you out there, but I can do this. I can do this," she whispered as she closed the seal's final whorl with a flourish. Crowley began to relax as the seal burned itself into his skin, then faded out completely. Murron exhaled shakily. "I'm not letting you die, Crowley. I'm just not."
She sat in silence beside him for awhile, then closed his shirt again and drew a blanket over him. She gathered her things, cast another look down at his face, and left the bedroom on trembling legs.
Crowley's failed attempt at getting out of bed too soon left Murron wondering if she should just magically knock him out. As she'd suspected, he'd overestimated himself and was now back in bed, undoubtedly sullen as anything because of it. She was presently in the kitchen piecing together various things that might tempt him. She did these things mechnically, not once asking herself if demons even needed food to heal like humans did. She knew he'd probably just take the Craig and ignore the rest, but she had to make the effort. If nothing else, it calmed her mind. Ever since he'd woken up, she'd looked at him anxiously, wondering all the while if he knew what she'd done. He seemed too preoccupied with his own issues to notice, thankfully.
Crowley was absently scratching at his middle when Murron appeared in the doorway bearing a tray. Catching sight of this gesture, she froze briefly. Her legs found the strength to move when he cast a moody look her way; perhaps he'd just had an itch, she thought as she crossed the room and placed the tray on the end of the bed. He scowled down at it.
"You can't be serious?"
"Patronise me, then," Murron replied with a tired sigh. "I don't know what to do with a wounded demon."
"Give us the Craig and go find something more productive to do. I'll be fine," Crowley made a grabbing motion towards the glass. She handed it to him, balking when he snatched it from her grip.
"Gratitude is so not your strong suit, Crowley," she remarked dryly and turned to leave. Crowley made a noise and she looked over her shoulder. He was pointing at the tray at his feet, brows lifted in an exaggerated shrug. Murron smirked, marched back to the bed, and snatched the tray from the blanket. She muttered something else about ingratitude, ignoring the smug little chuckle from the demon on the bed. She pulled the door shut behind her firmly, suddenly feeling very stupid for even trying.
Later that evening, Murron sat at the lecturn again, head bent over the grimoire and a quill in her hand. On a separate piece of paper, she scribbled down the incantations and materials list for dealing with good witches. She'd yet to really make any plans as to how to deal with the four currently looking for her; Crowley's predictament had successfully derailed her studies, once again forcing her to focus solely on him and his well-being.
A sudden crash from in front of the altar drew her attention from the grimoire. She looked up, at first startled, then sighed heavily to see Crowley pulling himself to his feet. "There's really nothing wrong with taking it easy once in a while, Crowley," Murron remarked blandly, turning back to the pages.
"No, but I can't really afford to lay about like before, love," Crowley replied, dusting himself off and coming to stand beside her. "I know you're busy here and all, but I could use a little assistance, if you don't mind."
Murron laid the quill down on the paper and twisted on the stool to look up at him. "Anything you need,if I can do it, I will."
"Perfect, darling, knew I could count on you," he purred with a smile. "I can't be bothered to do it myself, but think you could do a little of that charming dowsing for me?"
"For what?"
"Rugarus."
"Come again?"
"Oh, at least five times a session, love."
"Crowley..."
"Fine, fine." The demon composed himself. "Roo-ga-roos. They're monsters, rather nasty ones at that."
"What do you need those for?"
Crowley clicked his tongue with feigned remorse. "Can't tell you that, love. Sorry."
"I should be used to that," Murron replied, absently rubbing the back of her neck. "Okay, I'll see what I can find. How common are these things?"
"Hopefully common enough for what I have in mind," Crowley said, his gaze wandering away from hers pensively. Murron regarded him, her eyes narrowed curiously. When he looked back at her, the thoughful expression had left him and he smiled. "Have you been able to find anything interesting in there yet? For your Glindas?"
"Yes, but doing this for you will delay me a bit," Murron admitted reluctantly. "Unless they want to kill these...monster kangaroos you want."
"Cute. And they might, actually. Hadn't thought about that. Maybe you could get two birds with one stone, that sorta thing?"
"I wouldn't mind if I could."
"Fantastic! I'll leave you to it, then." Crowley winked and disappeared. Overhead, Murron heard another crash, a terse 'Bollocks', then silence.
"Guess he hasn't perfected his landing quite yet," she murmured to herself, amused. Despite the outward humor of the situation, she knew that if he was asking her for help that he might be in over his head. Whatever he was planning, whoever he was planning it against, was dangerous enough for him to seek outside assistance. It certainly had been tough enough to knock him on his ass so hard he could barely teleport between rooms.
Putting her faith in the sigil she'd marked him with, Murron rose from the grimoire's stand and moved to another table across the way. A world map decorated the entirety of its surface; in the middle was a tripod structure with a quartz crystal suspected from its center on a fine gold chain. She positioned the dowsing crystal over North America, then set it swinging. She did this multiple times over various spots on the map, marking down every spot it stopped over. In the end, she compiled an impressive list of all the known living rugarus in the world. She stared down at it, biting her lip. She wanted desperately to know what Crowley was planning, especially what he was hoping to do with these creatures, but she held back, as she'd always done.
She pushed these nagging thoughts aside, folded the list and put it in her skirt pocket. Her eyes lifted to the ceiling, blindly searching the house for wherever Crowley was. The list felt strangely heavy at her hip, as though it foreshadowed another instance where she'd have to pull Crowley out of the fire, possibly in worse condition than now.
Murron pressed templed hands to her lips and closed her eyes tightly. Mutely, she prayed to the universe to keep him safe, to allow the sigil to do its job. "Just let him come back to me, that's all I ask," she whispered into her fingers. "That's all I ask."
Her heart beating hard, Murron lowered her hands and went upstairs to give Crowley the list.