Chapter Fifteen
Murron woke the following morning in her bed. She blinked, confused for a moment, then the memory of the night before made her inhale sharply. She touched her lips lightly, the kiss still burning there. Then, as if not wanting to believe it possible, she slowly turned her head towards the opposite side of the bed.
It was empty.
Her heart dropped in her chest, sadness overtaking her. Guess his consideration ended at dawn. There was really no time to focus on that, she reminded herself, and got out of bed. She dressed hastily, choosing a skirt that allowed for freedom of movement, and a blouse that didn't have the usual swishy sleeves. The last thing she wanted was to give those witches something to grab onto. As an afterthought, she bound up her hair as well, securing it firmly in a bun. A pair of comfortable shoes with straps completed her 'warrior' garb. Satisfied with her first bit of preparation, Murron trotted down the stairs to the kitchen. She needed a good cup of strong Scottish tea to harden her nerves. She abandoned the thought of breakfast, feeling it would only bog her down should she need to run. A quick cup and a slice of toast made up her pre-war feast and soon she was marching into the cellar to gather her arsenal to her.
There was no metal in existance that could magically harm a white witch, but that didn't stop Murron from shoving the steel athame into her pack. Stab anything and it was bound to bleed. To that, she added a pouch of magic dust that burned the skin of anything in came into contact with, a vial of fluid that mimicked the effects of sulfuric acid, and a small roll of parchment with a spell written in blood that would activate when burned. She knew she was being awfully redundant with her fondness for fire-based spells and objects. She just didn't see the point in fixing what wasn't broken, as it had been fire that had gotten her out of demonic scrapes before. And nothing that breathed enjoyed being set ablaze.
Exhaling deeply, Murron took a moment to center herself. She would have liked Crowley there with her, if only to offer up a goodbye - she did her best not to preface that with 'last' - but she knew he had his own matters to attend to. She'd already burdened him with the truth of her love; no sense putting salt in the wound. He'd taken it better than expected, that she had to admit. The kiss had been a pleasant surprise, one that she was sure to carry with her into battle. She allowed it to strengthen her, to boost her confidence. She'd managed to move the seemingly immovable. That alone was enough to go the rest of her days on.
Murron flexed her powers, feeling the fire building up inside her, the heat spilling off her skin. The air shimmered in hazy waves, the roar of flames echoed in her ears. This was the fire Crowley had given her. She would use it to every possible end. The weight of murdering someone no longer fell on her shoulders. This was not a time for fear or morals. She'd sold her soul, invited a demon into her home, had fallen in love with him, and was now fighting for his preservation. Her drive to kill the witches was less about her own survival and all about his. They were a threat to him. And she would snuff out anything that would seek to harm him.
She was ready.
The first kiss of autumn stirred the air as Murron made her way towards the first witch's house. She'd walked the entire way, her aura crackling, no longer preoccupied with how she came off to others. No longer concerned with stealth or deception. No, if she was going to do this, she was going in with both barrels blazing.
The witch lived a few miles outside of town on a large acre of land. The house was quaint, with a kind of Colonial feel to it. Gingerbread moulding was everywhere; it was almost vulgar. The exterior was painted in a pastel shade of purple, a color that reminded Murron of Easter eggs. The clapboard shutters were pale yellow with tulips stenciled onto them. Yes, it was vulgar and tacky and nothing she wouldn't have expected from a white witch. Still, it put her off her confidence slightly as she recalled the methods these witches employed. It made the facade of the house before her all the more haunting. It hid a terrible secret; even now Murron could picture the witch's cellar covered in ancient torture devices, the witch herself the perfect clone of Carol Brady, complete with the white-blonde hair and bellbottom trousers. The image was nauseating.
Murron paused at the foot of the whitewashed path leading to the front steps and looked up towards the windows. Light shone in the upstairs casements, and now and again a shadow passed in front of them. The witch was in, apparently. Good. Murron wanted to get this one over and done with and move onto the next.
She started up the walk, pausing to smirk at a whimisical sign hanging from the porch supports that read 'Patience is a Virtue' in flowery script. She cupped the edge of the sign and fire curled from her fingers to lick across the painted surface. It smoldered quietly as Murron continued towards the door. She was just lifting her hand to it when a force exploded from within the house and sent her careening back on the sidewalk.
Pain shattered her senses as she landed hard on the pavement. The wind was knocked from her in a single breath and as she lay there trying to regain some sense of awareness, a shadow passed over her.
"Well, well, well," a saccharine voice said above her. "Look what the cat dragged in! I wasn't expecting to see you for months, dear!" The shadowy figure bent closer. "How nice of you to make my job easier! That's a good dear, yes, it is."
Murron recoiled from the powdered hand that patted her cheek. She pushed herself backwards, slowly, desperate to get away from the overwhelming scent of musky powder that surrounded the witch. Her pathetic escape was stilled by another figure coming up behind her. It, too, had the strong powder smell, but also something else. Something cold. She angled her head back to squint at the other silhouette.
"This is the bad witch?" a child's voice asked.
"Yes, she's a very, very bad witch! You know what we do with bad witches, don't you, sweetheart?"
"He doesn't like her. He says she needs to be punished."
Murron felt her blood turn to ice in her veins. Instinctively, she clutched at the coin Crowley had given her, hastily muttering a plea for help. To her horror, the child bent down, pushed her hand away, and snatched the coin from her neck with a violent jerk.
"Look at this, Mommy," the child presented the coin to her mother. The elder witch took it and inspected it carefully. She shook her head slowly, clucking her tongue.
"We can't have this. No, I don't want his kind of filth in my house." She gripped the coin tightly in her palm. A brilliant flash of white light erupted from her closed fist, causing Murron to cry out in alarm. The light faded and the witch opened her palm again. Dust fell from her hand: she'd destroyed the coin. Murron was alone.
"Well, we should take her inside. If he says she needs to be punished, then that's precisely what we'll do," the older witch declared, waving a hand at Murron. Murron felt herself lifting from the sidewalk and attempted to cast a fire spell. It fizzled in her mind and her terror grew. The witch had cancelled out her powers. She was now alone and very helpless.
Fear mounted in her chest as tears burned her eyes. She thought of Crowley, wherever he was, wanting desperately to see him again. Foolishly, she looked to the sky, hoping against hope to see the swirl of crackling red smoke coming for her. But there was nothing, only a darkening autumn expanse. Even the moon seemed to mock her as she was magicked into the house, the door closing behind them.
Murron was guided into the depths of the house, her hands and feet bound tightly by ropes that had been strengthened by magic. The witch introduced herself as Patience; her daughter, the cold child that had taken the coin, was Angelica. The 'he' she'd referred to outside had yet to be revealed.
Patience led the way into the cellar, Angelica trailing after Murron's suspended body. She seemed to be in silent communication with someone, for she muttered to herself occasionally. As they reached the end of the stone steps, Patience released Murron from her hold. Murron tumbled to the hard floor, grunting in pain. Patience ignored this and moved to another section of the basement. Light followed her and soon Murron was able to get a good look about her.
Silently, she cursed her overactive imagination. The cellar had been precisely what she'd pictured, only ten times' worse in reality. A wicked-looking iron maiden stood in the corner, it's cover only partially closed to reveal the stained spikes within. A chair with a spiked seat was a few feet from it, iron wrist and ankle shackles attached to the arms and legs. A metal band was at the top of the chair, suggesting it was there to prevent the poor soul on it from moving even their heads. A thumbscrew device was suspended above both chair arms, poised and ready to be used. In another corner stood an bizarre-looking contraption: it sat on a tripod of wooden supports and was topped with an iron upside-down pyramid. Iron rings had been bolted into the wall behind it, long chains hung from them, ending in more shackles. To top everything else off, a rickety wooden rack sat in the very center of the cold cellar, its grained surface stained with blood.
They meant to break her, Murron realized. She swallowed back the tears that threatened to reveal the true measure of her terror. She wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of her pain. She simply had to figure out a way out of this so she could get back to the house and, hopefully, back to Crowley.
"He's coming, Mommy," Angelica announced suddenly, her shrill voice breaking the silence. Patience reappeared from around the corner, a pleased smile on her motherly features.
"He will be pleased with our offering!" she declared with rapturous joy, her face turning towards the heavens in praise. "It is always a good day when one of God's own comes to the Earth!"
Murron grew white. So they did have an angel helping them. She braced herself as the floor began to quake and things fell from their places on the walls. Only Patience and Angelica seemed unaffected by the sudden jostling, their faces lifted in grateful prayer.
In another second, a flash of light thundered down from the ceiling and landed with an eardrum-shattering THOOM between the witch and her daughter. Only Murron screamed, her voice suffocating beneath the feverish exclamations from Patience and Angelica as the angel descended. When the light cleared, a tall man in white turned towards where Murron lay on the floor. His eyes were a piercing blue, brighter than anything she'd ever seen before, and they were indescribably cold. They bore into her as he came near, his long legs breaking the distance between them in two easy strides.
He crouched to her level, inhuman gaze forcing hers to hold his. "This is the witch helping the demon king," he said in a remarkably soft voice. "She is stained. I can smell him all over her." Disgust entered his words as his lips curled into a sneer. "She is to be cleansed." He rose to his feet and turned from Murron.
"At once, Lord Puriel, at once!" Patience trilled, coming up to grip the angel's arm. Angelica drew near the angel as well, closing her eyes in pleasure when he placed a hand atop her head. Only Murron had the sense to appear terrified.
Puriel took Patience and Angelica to him, his palms resting on their foreheads. He murmured something Murron couldn't hear. The blissed-out looks on both Patience's and Angelica's faces suggested whatever he was doing was pleasurable to them. She recalled Crowley's comment about angels granting holy power to their servants; if that's what he was doing, then she knew she was in serious trouble. In the face of holy light, all the demon fire in the world couldn't save her now. And with the coin gone, she was truly at a loss.
Suddenly, a black cloud exploded through the cellar window and surrounded Murron. She heard a strange voice in her mind, requesting her acceptance of it into her. Murron granted her permission just as she heard Puriel and Patience roar their angry surprise at being invaded by a demonic spirit. Before either could advance on her, the demon took control of Murron's body and they vanished.
The demon deposited Murron into the living room, then vacated her body swiftly. Murron lay sprawled on the floor, coughing and gasping as the cloud swirled out of the house. Moments later, a young man burst through the front door and knelt beside her. He helped her onto the sofa, then peered into her face.
"Who are you?" Murron managed through rasping coughs.
"Victor," the young man replied. "Mr. Crowley had me watch over you. I'm sorry it took me so long to get to you; the witch had wards up. I had to waste a lot of meat-suits to break it. That was an angel, wasn't it?"
"Yes, someone called Puriel," Murron nodded, her spasming chest beginning to calm down. She leaned back against the cushions, moaning in pain. "How the hell are we supposed to defeat an angel?"
"I've never seen one before, not even during the Apocalypse," Victor admitted with some awe. "Certainly, there was Lord Lucifer, but he was different from the others."
"'Lord Lucifer'?" Murron echoed, looking at the eager face beside her. "You were one of his before this?"
"Yes, and Mr. Crowley would have had me killed for it, but I proved my worth to him in another matter. I know now I was following the wrong master."
"Then you support Crowley's mission to take over Hell?"
"I do. I have every belief he'll succeed."
Murron stared at Victor for a moment, weighing her next words carefully. "Victor, do you know what he's up against?"
"How do you mean?"
"Something is blocking his progress, I can tell, but he won't say anything to me. Can you tell me?"
Victor appeared conflicted. Finally, he could only shrug helplessly. "My loyalty is to him. If he hasn't said anything to you, then neither will I. I was only told to ensure your survival in this. Nothing more."
Murron sighed. Of course he wouldn't tell her. It had been stupid to even ask. She chose to put it aside for now and focus instead on the problem at hand. "You don't know of any way of defeating an angel?"
"No, I'm sorry, I don't," Victor replied reluctantly. "Like I said, I'd never gone up against one before. I know what they can do to demons. I've seen that much."
"There has to be a way," Murron insisted, standing to pace the floor. "Everything can die, even angels, right?" She spoke more to herself than Victor, who watched her cross and recross the carpet quickly. Suddenly, she turned back to Victor, eyes narrowed in consideration. "I know you have your orders to keep an eye on me, but do you think you could ask around, see if anyone knows how to kill an angel?"
Victor pondered this, then nodded. "There are specific channels I can go through to find that out."
"Meanwhile, I'm going to stay here and brush up on my skills further. I was in way over my head today, I realize that now. And to think there's still three more out there..." She trailed off, sighed, and swept a hand over her forehead wearily. She needed a bath, a cup of tea, and a nap. She also needed to know Crowley was okay, but she didn't mention this to Victor. Some things were best kept to oneself. One thing at a time, she told herself, one thing at a time.
Looking back up at Victor, Murron offered him a tired smile. "Thank you for getting me out of there. I really had no idea what to do after they overpowered me and destroyed the coin."
"Just following my orders," Victor replied, rising and giving her a small nod. "I'll keep an eye out around the house." He blinked out without waiting for Murron to respond.
Grateful to be alone again, Murron entered the kitchen and prepared a cup. She tried not to think about Crowley, choosing instead to put faith in the sigil she'd marked him with. His gratitude last night had proven its success; whatever had happened to him while she was outside had been beneficial. She knew she'd never get the particulars out of him. It was enough to know that the sigil was working and that his safety was assured.
Teacup in hand, Murron made her way upstairs to the bathroom. As she drew a bath, she reflected on the challenges ahead. Patience had been stronger than she'd originally believed, if the blossoming bruises on her back and arms were any indication. She viewed these with a pained grimace, turning this way and that in front of the mirror to get a good look at them. They were dark and ugly, spreading across her skin like spilled ink. She reviewed a number of herbal remedies for them as she stepped into the welcoming hot water, sinking down with a pleased sigh.
She drank her tea slowly, absently staring ahead of her into the bathwater. She hoped Victor would be able to find something; her powers alone wouldn't be enough to take out an angel or his amped-up followers. She tried to recall what she might've known about Puriel, but nothing came to mind. He was almost a nonentity in her limited mental library of angelic scriptures. Perhaps the grimoire could offer further information, maybe even an Enochian binding spell? The possibility soothed her as she leaned back and closed her eyes.
One thing at a time.