Chapter Twenty-Four

Crowley darted through the open doorway into the audience chamber, the angry snarls of Puriel close behind him. He whipped about, snapped the fingers on both hands, and summoned a massive wall of flame between him and the angel. Puriel stopped just outside the chamber, giving Crowley enough time to move further into the room to lure Baal out.

"C'mon, Baal! I'm here for round three! I've got a present for you!" Crowley boomed, his voice bouncing off the charred walls of the room. "You don't want to miss this one, Polly! Trust me!"

The sudden collapse of the back wall was his answer. Baal descended into the chamber, majestic black wings spread as he touched down. Crowley dodged the bits of wall that sailed towards him, sidestepping to move further back away from the fallen angel. Behind the wall of fire, Puriel shrieked in his true voice, piercing the air like a siren. Baal responded in kind, his angel blade appearing in his hand. In the next second, Puriel pushed through the flames, his own blade glinting in his fist. The two stared each other down for an intense moment before beginning to slowly circle the other.

"Puriel," Baal growled. "Decided to come down and join the rest of us, have you?"

"Do not group me with your kind, Baal," Puriel returned coldly, his wings flowing from his back with sickening sounds as the bone, sinew, and muscle congealed from the ether. In a final explosion of blood and sound, feathers spread like scales across the tendons, as pure as snow and just as bright. These he fanned out threateningly, matching Baal's stance. "I have come to deliver Heaven's justice upon the wicked."

"Have you? What kept you? How is it you're not dead with the rest of them?" Baal challenged, darting forward. Puriel took a step back, his right wing swinging forward to shield him. "I had my reasons for remaining out of the Apocalypse; what was yours?"

"The Righteous Man and his poisoned brother," Puriel returned, lashing out with his left wing and catching Baal's right flank. "We didn't have to do anything so long as they were the only pawns on the board. They sent our brother back to the Pit where he belongs."

"And if I recall, our other brother fell with him," Baal taunted with a malicious grin, matching Puriel's opening tactic by stabbing the air with his own wings. "Now he dwells in the Pit. I have seen him."

"You will go there with him, Baal, for I will send you there!" Puriel leapt forward and brought his sword down. Baal deflected the blow with ease, the blades meeting and sending sparks into the air.

Meanwhile, Crowley observed the angelic battle carefully. It wouldn't do for him to sit back and watch forever. He had beef with them both. Puriel might be the one to weaken Baal, but Crowley wanted to be the one to take him out. He had one trick up his sleeve, but it would take everything out of him. He had to wait for just the right moment. He kept to the furthest corner of the chamber, crouched low so as not to attract their attention just yet.

Puriel and Baal continued to clash swords, the sound as deafening as the light from each strike was blinding. They moved up and down the length of the chamber, wings snapping at each other as blood and feathers flew. Baal's left leg was bleeding profusely from a wound Puriel had managed to inflict. Puriel's chest was crisscrossed with shallow gashes, the blood spoiling the purity of his garments. Neither appeared long for this world, though neither seemed ready to relent, either. This furious battle continued on for what felt like an eternity, broken only by the fleeting shadow that passed out the corner of Crowley's eye. He heard his name, almost too faint to detect above the clanging of angelic blades. Suddenly, he was aware of Murron barreling towards him just as Baal drove his blade deep into Puriel's chest.

Puriel's Grace exploded out of him in blinding light. The shockwave of it collided with Murron as she passed behind them, blowing her back. "Murron!" Crowley bellowed. Before he knew what was happening, he was on his feet, the trick he'd been saving up rolling through his body. He felt the extent of Hell's influence and power rumble through the ground, joining his demonic essence as he drew to a halt before Baal. Crowley's eyes flashed blood red, the black of the pupil suffocated by crimson as he lifted his hand to the ceiling. The fury of thousands of tormented souls thundered through him as he summoned all of the Hellfire he could muster. The flames erupted from him, blossoming from his body like a phoenix, the cries of the damned joining his as he directed this devastating blast at Baal. The living flame enveloped Baal, burning flesh and Grace from the fallen angel's bones. Baal screamed as he was burned away, leaving nothing but ash and his angel blade behind.

As the fire died away, Crowley was surprised to find he could still stand. He'd called to the souls of his domain and they'd heeded his request. Hell was finally his. All of the power that came with the title was now his to command. He'd fear no angel, man, or beast ever again. No one was left to usurp the throne. He truly was the King of Hell.

At the sound of Growley's howl from the courtyard, followed by Victor calling his name, Crowley's mind drew back to the present. He spun quickly, eyes searching the rubble for Murron's body. She lay sprawled facedown on the cobblestone floor. A small pool of blood was beneath her and for a moment, Crowley feared she might have died and added her own soul to the blast that had killed Baal. But as he neared her, she coughed violently and drew up from the ground onto her elbows.

"Son of a bitch!" Murron managed between spasming coughs. Crowley knelt beside her and gripped both her hands to haul her to her feet. She tumbled against him, her hair a sodden mess of dirt and blood. "Tell me it's over and I can home now!"

Crowley grinned. "Yeah, love, it's over. It's all over now."

"Good. It'll be too soon when I see another goddamn angel," she groused. Crowley felt her go limp as consciousness left her again. He lifted her up into his arms just as Victor and Growley joined him. Growley's muzzle was stained with blood, as were Victor's hands.

"Is Baal dead?" Victor asked quickly. Crowley nodded. "Puriel, too?" He looked down at Murron. "Is she dead?"

"No, not dead," Crowley replied. "Not yet," he added, too softly for Victor to hear. Growley gave a sharp whine and nudged his head against his master's leg. "Barbatos is dead, I take it?"

"Yeah."

"The girl?"

"We don't know."

"Doesn't matter," Crowley dismissed. "Let's go. I'm done with this place."

Leaving Murron with Victor and Growley, Crowley returned to Hell. None of its denizens bothered him as he made his way back to the Cage where Michael and Lucifer continued to hover over that single human soul.

Michael lowered his massive head to look Crowley in the face when the demon king approached. "What do you want?"

"I've got news, boys," Crowley began, a note of smug triumph in his voice. "Your brothers, Baal and Puriel? Dead. Hell? Mine." He looked up at Lucifer. "And you thought I couldn't do it. I remember. Only unlike you, I won't be an absentee ruler. No, when people come looking for the King of Hell, they won't have to break any seals to do it. No, I'll be there, waiting for them. I've secured my own dynasty, boys. Me. And none of your annoying feathered kind will ever get in my way again. You'll stay down here in the Pit, together, all the while knowing there's a demon sitting on the throne. A demon controlling Hell, as it should be."

"You forget one important thing, demon," Lucifer remarked quietly. Crowley narrowed his eyes, waiting. "You forget about Man. Man will always find a way to destroy you and your kind. It was Man who did this to me and my brother; what makes you think they couldn't do the same to you? No, Crowley, your arrogance will not save you forever. One day, you will have to rely on Man again to keep your throne. Trust that His favorites will always stand in your way."

"Maybe, but they won't be standing for long," Crowley swore through bared teeth. "I won't give in without a helluva fight, you mark me."

With that, the King of Hell turned away from the angels, every step joining Hell's power with his. He moved though the Circles, feeling the souls trapped within them bowing as he passed. When he emerged back onto Earth, he blinked out.

There was one last bit of business he had to tend to before he could return to the cottage, and to Murron.

The witch called Prudence cowered in the corner of her bedroom, a silver knife clutched in her shaking hands. The low baying outside continued, eerie and close. Had it really been ten years? It seemed like only yesterday that she'd made that deal with the crossroads demon. He'd been so charming, so persuasive! He'd soothed her, assured her her desires to be powerful were perfectly normal. He'd found her her coven, her sisters, swearing they would make her strong. But he'd had one stipulation: she would someday do a favor for him. Blinded by the prospect of absolute power, Prudence had agreed. Little did she know it would eventually involve her sisters.

The howling drew closer. Prudence tightened her hold on the silver knife and began to pray. When no answer came to her, she began to sob wildly. Puriel had abandoned her. He'd never liked her, even in the beginning, even after she'd killed all those demons. Nothing she did seemed to please him. She wanted so much to be loved and blessed by him, the way he blessed Patience and Angelica. Not even Faith and Grace were blessed, but they were looked upon with kindness, unlike her. Now she was totally alone, left to atone for her sins. She'd foolishly compromised her soul and now he'd come to claim his prize.

The gentle creak of the front door opening, followed by the scuffle of animal claws on the floorboards silenced Prudence's sobs. She held her breath as the bedroom door opened slowly and a long shadow passed over the carpet. "Prudence," came a singsong voice, the syllables deceptively sweet due to the owner's purring accent. "Come out, come out, wherever you are."

Prudence swallowed hard. The demon passed into the room, his black-clad form coming into view. He was just as she'd remembered: handsome with seductive green eyes and an incredibly powerful aura. He'd drawn her in then; he threatened to draw her out now.

"Come now, darling, you knew this day would come eventually," he crooned, sliding open the closet door with a careless gesture. "Come on, Prudence. You didn't deny me then."

Prudence shivered. How she hated to be reminded of that! It had been a moment of weakness, incredible weakness. He'd been so accepting of her and had given her such pleasure. Even now the memory of his hot touch threatened to give her away. She drew further back into the corner, a small moan escaping her.

Immediately, the demon was upon her, his body blocking any possible escape. He tsk'd at her gently and took the silver knife from her. He tossed it over his shoulder, gripped both her hands, and coaxed her out of the corner. She tried to pull away, to dig her heels in, but it was no use. He was too strong. He drew her out into the center of the bedroom and released her hands. She hugged herself as he began to circle her slowly, his voice low.

"When I told you to deceive your sisters, I did not say you could capture her," he intoned. "I did not say you could attempt to torture her. I did not say you could tell your sisters where she was or that she would be coming." He paused and pivoted to look back at Prudence. "You defied me at every turn," he snarled, suddenly furious. "You never, ever turn your back on a business deal, ever. You do not target what is mine, do you understand?" His words ended in a fierce growl. Prudence cried out and fell to her knees before him. She gripped the edge of his coat in both hands, bowing her face against it as she sobbed.

"Please! Don't! I didn't mean it! Honest! I was tricked by them! They threatened to kill me if I didn't tell them! I've been loyal to you, my king, I swear!" He jerked his coat from her hands, the action knocking her to the floor. She continued to sob madly into the carpet, begging for his mercy. A low whistle was the response, followed by a hot gust of foul breath on her neck. She managed to get out a single gasp before the hellhound's jaws closed on her, silencing her forever.

Crowley stared down at Murron. She'd been sleeping since they'd returned from Baal's fortress, no doubt too exhausted to do much else. He had to admit that he was proud of her. She'd survived just fine. Victor had witnessed her facing off against Astaroth and had praised her bravery. How she managed to kill the demon remained a mystery, not that it mattered.

He sat down beside her gingerly, smiling when she stirred in her sleep and bent closer to him as if she knew he was there. It was strange. He'd known many women, intimately or otherwise, but this one? This unlikely scrap of a thing had managed to leave a greater impression. A lot of people sold him their souls. But not a one of them had bothered to turn their lives, and potentially their moral views, upside down to ensure his safety. He'd found her at a vulnerable time in his long existance and had viewed it as convenient. It wasn't until she began to demonstrate her worth that he realised he'd fallen into the safest place he could've ever found. She never asked him to be anything other than what he was. She never insisted he tell her everything. She called him a friend. The word often put a bad taste in his mouth, but somehow, when she said it, he believed it. When he said 'Trust me', she did. He'd called her stupid in his mind multiple times. No one should ever trust a demon, especially not a demon like him. If it had suited his purpose, he would have cast her aside or thrown her to his enemies, but he hadn't. It was a complicated, emotional mess that he would rather avoid, but now, almost a full year later from that summer night at the crossroads, it was as normal as the feel of his own being. He couldn't say he loved her, not in the way she wanted to hear it. Love wasn't a word demons used lightly, if at all.

Still, these thoughts didn't seem to matter as he sat there, his eyes traveling over her sleeping face. Whatever emotion she stirred in him, be it some bastardization of love or a twisted sense of ownership, he allowed himself to feel it. He leaned in close to her ear and whispered her name. Her eyes opened half-way and she looked up at him as though he were a dream. She reached out for him sleepily, sighing when he took her hand and held it between his.

"Murron," he began softly. The words caught in his throat and he swallowed hard. She'd already fallen back asleep, her warm hand trapped between his palms. "If I could say it, the way you need to hear it," he continued, the words barely being given full breath, "I'd be lying." He lifted her hand to his lips and pressed her knuckles against them, his eyes closing.

I'd be lying...