Chapter 19 Horns from the Deep Behind the Sun
June 1, 2013. Nahant, Massachusetts
Without the demon's power, the house was dark and cold. Jesse stood in the middle of the large room that had been used the most, the indistinct shapes of the furniture looming and threatening in the thin moonlight that came and went through the tall windows as clouds scudded across the sky.
Sabrine's hand closed tightly around his and she snapped her fingers, a ball of light, brilliant white, the edges flickering blue, appeared above them, dispelling the shadows and the gloom and brightening slowly until the light reached every corner.
"Where was it?"
Jesse gestured to the doorway and they walked together out of the living room and into the hall, the girl's light spell bobbing along the ceiling ahead of them, turning right toward the kitchen and the basement door.
The room had been used by Hubertus, mostly. That'd been why the Grigori had hung the mirror there. To remind him, Hubertus had said. Remind him that they were not all-powerful. Jesse remembered the dry amusement in the cambion's voice. He hadn't been sure why that had been funny to Hubertus. The cambion had added that the Grigori were scared of them, and that one day, they would leave them, continue the search on their own. That'd been before Alison had disappeared. And now he was alone. He glanced up at the girl beside him and pushed the thought away. He wasn't alone.
"Stop," Sabrine said, looking at the scattered pieces of mirrored glass and the torn cloth lying on the floor as she sent the ball of light into the room ahead of them. "We can't search with our eyes, Jesse. We'll get trapped too."
He could tell she saw the blood, her mouth pinching up slightly as she looked elsewhere. There was a big dried patch in the floor under the hook, more spattered in congealed pools and puddles, here and there around the room.
"Close your eyes," she told him quietly. "I'll show you what the glass feels like, in our heads, then we'll pick it up together and put it in the bag."
He watched her put the wide-mouthed bag on the floor and closed his eyes, trembling a little as he felt the brush of her mind against his.
"Don't be afraid," she whispered.
"Tickles," he said, lifting his chin. He wasn't afraid. He was glad of her hand, still curled around his.
It wasn't like anything he'd done before. Images appeared to him, not exactly images … imagethoughtactionexplanation … was more accurate.
Feel the pieces, all of them, the big ones and small ones and the tiny pieces of glass powder from the edges, feel how they are all the same, all made of the same thing, vibrating with the same energy, they're not like anything else in the room.
His head tilted a little, as he listened to her, the images that weren't images overlaying the speech that wasn't speech, and he felt the swelling heat in his hands and chest, the heat that always presaged the things he could do.
When you bend reality, when you manipulate the universe, Jesse, you are changing the form of the energy already present, Draxler's voice sounded in his memories. To change the form of energy, it is often heat that is the by-product, yet another form in the infinite variety that we can touch. The cambion had explained what he could do. Had been teaching him about it.
In the brilliantly lit room, the shards and fragments and fine, powdery dust of the broken mirror rose and formed a spiral, the reflective glass flashing as the pieces were separated from the ordinary dust, from dried flakes of blood and tiny shreds of rope and cloth, from motes of steel and scraps of flesh.
She was right, he thought remotely. The mirror was different from everything else, he could feel the difference and it made it easy to keep all the pieces separate.
The growing spiral fountained in a gentle arc across the room, flowing smoothly into the bag, each piece and grain and sliver cushioned from the others in air and the black cloth the Grigori had used to keep the mirror's power quiescent ribboning in after them. The zipper on the mouth of the bag closed and Sabrine opened her eyes.
"Good," she said, repressing a shiver at the thought of the mirror. To her, it had felt cold. And hungry. "You did really good, Jesse."
He nodded self-consciously, staring at the closed bag. Hubertus was in there. Trapped in a piece of the mirror, Sabrine had told him. Julius would make the mirror whole again with one of his spells, and they were working on a way to get the cambion out. It wasn't as bad as Alison disappearing.
Strawberry Peak, Utah
"Good job," Karl said shortly, taking the bag from the girl and turning away. "See Peyotr, he has another, much more important task for you."
Jesse watched the burly man carry the bag away down the hall, his questions caught in his throat.
"Come on," Luke's voice, more or less broken and consistent now, caught his attention. "We have to find people. A lot of people."
"Why?" Sabrine asked, taking Jesse's hand again and drawing him after her as she followed the older boy.
"I don't know," Luke said with a careless shrug. His powers were declining, he wasn't as strong as Sabrine anymore, and nowhere near the power of the younger boy. "There was some talk of an army."
"Marius said that they were looking for graves," Sabrine half-whispered to him. "Are we supposed to find dead people too?"
"No." He shook his head, only a little uncertainly. "No, they said we would look in Virginia and in Washington, in the mountains beyond Spokane. There are people hiding there."
"If we're looking in two states …" she trailed away, her gaze flicking to the boy walking beside her. "They won't split us up, will they?"
Luke slowed and turned his head to look at her. "Sabrine, they'll do whatever they have to and we will do whatever we're told," he said sharply, his gaze slipping past her to Jesse. "And to bring so many back here, of course you'll be working one state while he works another. You know that."
"He's not ready to work on his own."
"He won't be," Luke assured her. "Marius said he would go with Jesse, to the east. You and me and Felice will go north."
June 10, 2013. West Keep, Kansas
Dean walked fast across the stone-paved bailey, head ducked against the heavy rain. The water trickled down the back of his neck and into his coat, and he lengthened his stride, his right arm tucked hard against his ribs to keep it from moving, every footfall jarring it a little. He looked up at the keep steps and saw Sam waiting for him inside the doors, his brother's hair equally wet and hanging around his face.
"Ellen alright?" Dean called out, taking the steps two at a time and squeezing sideways through the doors, Sam closing them behind him.
"Doc thinks so," Sam said, waiting as Dean shed his coat and ran a hand through his hair. "Meredith is coming over as fast as Tim can drive her."
"What happened?"
"Merrin said placental abruption," Sam said, seeing incomprehension on Dean's face. He'd had no idea before the nurse had explained it to him either. "It's serious."
"How'd it happen?"
"Older women are at more risk than younger ones," Sam said, his long stride keeping up with Dean's fast pace down the hall easily. "And Ellen said she had the same problem when she had Jo, that increases the risk factor as well."
"Where's Bobby?"
"Waiting to see her."
"What're they doing?" Dean said, brows drawing in as they turned together for the stairs leading to the wards.
"There's not much they can do – just keep an eye on things. Apparently, the placenta has only just begun to come away, Ellen recognised what was happening and got here fast, but she was unconscious by the time she did."
Dean slowed as he saw Bobby sitting hunched up in the hall outside one of the smaller rooms. He glanced back at Sam. "Can you find Merrin, ask how it's going? Gimme a minute or two?"
Sam nodded and turned into the offices, and Dean walked to the old hunter.
"You alright?" he asked Bobby, sitting down on the long wooden settle next to him.
"No," Bobby growled. His hands were mangling his cap, twisting the brim around and crushing it as he tried to keep the volcanic feelings out of his face, out of his voice. Dean looked at him for a moment, uncomfortably disconcerted by the vulnerability of Bobby's face without the familiar protective shadow of the hat over it.
"Is she going to be okay?"
Bobby exhaled sharply. "They think so. They don't know for sure."
He ducked his head, staring at the cap. "Kim told Ellen there was a chance this'd happen. It's not like we weren't prepared for the possibility," he said slowly. "'cept, a' course, I wasn't."
Clearing his throat, Dean asked, "When will they know? If she's going to be alright, I mean?"
Bobby turned to look at him, his face bleak. "She'll have to stay for the next few weeks," he said, mouth twisted up. "There's no way of telling what's gonna happen, so she has to be here in case – well, just in case."
"Who's taken over at Lightning Oak?" Dean asked, not wanting to ask but unable to just leave it. Without either of them there, the keep was pregnable.
"Took a leaf outta your book," Bobby told him, his face screwing up. "Asked Franklin to move over and run things."
"What about Rufus?"
"Thought Rufus'd be needed here, when you get the itch to go do something else stupid," Bobby said acerbically.
Dean leaned back against the wall. Despite spending the past week doing little else but researching every available source, he wasn't anywhere close to being able to do anything, stupid or otherwise.
"Haven't found all the details for the second trial yet," he told the old man mildly.
"Not for lack of looking," Bobby said. "How many bullets you got left for the Colt?"
"Nine."
"Bring it around tomorrow, I gotta go back to the keep and show Franklin the ropes, I'll give him the run-down on making more."
In the hall, the distant sounds of the machines the medical team used for patient care was muted. There was the occasional clank of metal on stone or concrete and the footsteps of Merrin's trainee corp of nurses in their soft-soled shoes coming or going, but they were there on their own for most of the time. Dean felt the weight of the near-silence surrounding them. It was filled with too many things. Hope. Fear. Doubt. Urgency. Resignation.
"I didn't want kids," Bobby said suddenly, drawing in a deep breath. "When I married Karen, I didn't tell her that. She waited. And waited. And it was a few days before the – the – uh, attack, that she finally couldn't wait any more."
Dean slid a sideways glance at the man beside him, seeing Bobby staring at the cap still, his hands closed and tight around it, knuckles gleaming white through the taut skin. He'd never said much about Karen or his marriage or his life before Rufus had charged in and explained what had happened.
"I told you before, my old man was a waste of space," he continued, the words coming out reluctantly. "I didn't want to take the chance that I'd turn out the same. Didn't want to raise any kid like that, didn't want that responsibility."
"You wouldn't've," Dean said quietly, watching him.
"Didn't know that then." Bobby shrugged, his breath escaping in a long exhale. "When your Daddy brought you boys, that first time, hell," he said, snorting softly. "I didn't know what I was doing, more nervous those first few days than I've ever been, before or since." His hands relaxed on the cap slightly and he lifted one and rubbed his forehead. "By the time he came to get you, I knew I'd been wrong."
He lifted his head, staring at the thick wooden door on the other side of the hall. "I can't lose this chance twice," he said softly.
Dean closed his eyes, the words dropping into the emptiness. He'd thought that too.
In the long dining hall, dressed in an assortment of cast-offs and thick, knitted sweaters, Dean passed Jimmy twice before he recognised him, unconsciously looking for the tan trenchcoat that had become an integral part of his memories of the man.
"Been looking for you," he said, dropping into the empty chair on the opposite side of the table.
Jimmy looked up at him, wiping the sauce in his bowl with a piece of bread. "Why?"
"I was wondering what you wanted to do," he said, frowning and shifting his position in the chair as the shoulder twinged. "You can stay here –"
"Did you find my family?" Jimmy asked abruptly, pushing the cleaned bowl aside.
"No," Dean said uncomfortably. There'd been no records of Amelia or Claire Novak in any of the keeps, nor in the camps in Michigan. "They might be hiding, or with a much smaller group –"
"Or they might be dead," Jimmy said, looking at him steadily. "And we'd never know, never be able to find out."
"No," Dean admitted. The virus. The croats. The demons. Lucifer. The monsters. They'd never be able to find out, one way or the other.
"So, why would you think I had any plans?" Jimmy leaned forward on the table, his eyes cold. "What makes you think I want to do anything?"
"Cas might come back –"
"Yeah," Jimmy said sardonically. "And I'm looking forward to that because that was so much fun."
"What'd you do, before Cas jumped you?" Dean asked, not wanting to get into that conversation. The last time Jimmy had likened the experience to being chained to a comet. It hadn't sounded fun then either.
Jimmy blinked. "I sold advertising time on radio," he said slowly. "I went to church. I believed in God." He looked around the big, high-ceilinged room. "I liked it better when I just believed, when I didn't know – not for sure."
He looked back at Dean. "Castiel told me he'd protect my family. He promised me that when I let him in. We had a deal and he – he fucking well broke it," he said, his face twisting up. "You think I give a rat's about any of this now?"
"No," Dean said, his pulse beating erratically in the wound in his shoulder. "No, I can see you don't."
He got up and looked down at the man whose face was so familiar, and who he didn't know at all. "Let, uh, Jackson know if you get the itch to do something useful."
Jimmy stared at him for a moment, then looked away.
Talifah, Jordan
The desert wind sighed through the narrow canyon, belling softly in the hole in the rock. On the canyon floor, the hard sand shifted and then spun up as the downdraught of the angel's wings swept it aside, the faint patter of the grains against the rock walls unheard even by the canyon's nocturnal inhabitants.
The precise location of the Qaddiysh had been difficult to find, despite the knowledge of their individual frequencies, the shielding around the canyon blurring it all just enough to make it seem … more natural. But Metatron had not taken everything with him when he'd fled from Raphael and Heaven, and the libraries had eventually yielded the information.
He walked along the twisting narrow floor of the canyon, the starlight adequately showing the path through the wind-sculpted rock, and looked up at the façade as the bends and turns brought him to the stronghold, smiling a little at his brothers' efforts. It wasn't exactly the same as the eastern face of the Temple but the resemblance was close enough to bring a pleasant sense of familiarity to those who'd been there and seen it for themselves.
The doors opened and golden light spilled through, casting sharp-edged shadows over the paved porch and haloing the two men who stood in the doorway.
"Armârôs," he said, inclining his head to the taller of the two. "It has been a long time."
"Too long, Camael," the man who was not, really, a man, said, his long copper-bright hair lit to flame with the flickering torches behind it.
"To what do we owe the pleasant surprise of this visit?" the other man said, his voice without inflection but the edge still faintly discernible.
"I have news, Sariel," Camael said, stepping up to the porch and looking at them. "And an urgent request from Michael."
Armârôs stepped back, pulling the door open as the archangel walked through it.
"What kind of request?" Sariel asked warily. In the light of the huge hall, his hair gleamed like the feathers of a raven, a straight fall bound at the brow with a simple circlet of silver.
"And what news?" Armârôs added, closing the door and turning to the archangel. "Of Heaven? The conflict?"
"Yes," Camael answered Armârôs' question first, following the Qaddiysh into the library. "You know Raphael is dead?"
"We felt it," Armârôs said, his voice tight. "He was conspiring against Michael?"
"For a long time, we've discovered," Camael confirmed. "This conspiracy goes beyond him, we do not yet know the extent of the corruption Raphael wrought throughout the ranks."
"How many?"
The archangel lifted his hands. "One third of the angels in Heaven fell with Lucifer, to fight against the edict of our Father. We believe more – many more – felt the same way but could not make that choice for themselves. Someone is helping the Grigori."
Armârôs' eyes narrowed. "Helping them to do what?"
"Gabriel is in China now," Camael said, sitting at the low table and leaning toward the red-haired Qaddiysh. "They have been raising the dead there, attempting to build an army for the prophecy of the Last Battle."
"What?" Sariel stared at him.
"You remember the story," the blond angel said.
"It is not the end," Sariel countered tightly. "Even the three wouldn't dare –"
"Oh, they would dare," Camael cut him off. "They have dared. Belial rose two days ago to see the Grigori in the state of Utah, and the shadow he draws is growing."
"And what is it that Heaven requires of us?" Gadriel asked, his voice raised as he walked slowly toward the table.
Camael looked up at the man. "Michael asks for the power of Kokabiel," he said simply. "To force the demons back into the abyss."
"Kokabiel has not dealt with Hell in more than two thousand years, Camael," Sariel said, glancing to the end of the long library.
"His authority was never relinquished, Sariel," the archangel argued. "You know that. We cannot risk a conflict on the lower plane while Heaven is so close to outright war."
"Where is Michael?"
The voice, deep and measured came from behind them. Kokabiel walked into the library from the hall, almond-shaped amber eyes on the archangel.
"Quelling a rebel force that attempted to attack the library," Camael answered.
"We are no longer Heaven's weapons, Camael," the commander of demons said evenly, stopping beside the table.
"Your swords are still your own," Camael retorted, his gaze flicking to the long, silver blade that hung from the knotted cord at the man's waist. "They still sing with your Grace." He looked back at Sariel. "And I can take care of Belial. What I cannot do, what I must have your help for, is to send the demons he's brought with him back to the accursed plane."
Gadriel looked at Kokabiel. "He might be right."
The Qaddiysh's crooked smile creased his face as he acknowledged that. "How many have they raised?"
"I don't know, none of us know the full extent," Camael told him. "Many have already possessed the living and the dead, and those have been shielded from us, hidden by ward and guard."
Kokabiel got to his feet, looking at his brothers. "More than one gate must be standing open for so many to have come through. I will come with you, Camael."
"And I too," Gadriel said, rising from the table as he looked at Kokabiel. "You will need someone to watch your back."
The words, lightly spoken, did not hide the lack of trust in the Qaddiysh's eyes for the archangel who came to his feet more slowly.
"Of course," he said, his voice cool. "Two swords are more useful than one."
June 14, 2013. Fletcher Pond, Northern Michigan
It was dusk, and the half-moon wouldn't rise for another six hours, but the wolf song was all around them, distorted and muffled in the forest and echoing out over the broad stretch of water to their right, ululations rising and falling in the cold night air.
Boze grimaced at the disorienting noise, glancing over his shoulder at Maurice. "Half-moon, not even risen yet, and they're all out."
The hunter nodded, looking around. "We found a lot of lore about the first ones," he said, in a low voice. "Not triggered by the moon, and they can transform whenever they like. Passed it on to the next four generations as well."
"Well, that's just great," the big man said sourly. "Please tell me silver still does the job."
"It does," Maurice said. "So long as you get the heart."
"No problem."
He lifted the rifle and checked the load again. Franklin had delivered the cases of the silver bullets when he'd arrived last week, fourteen men with him and a couple of trucks of new ordnance and ammunition for the camps.
The clearing was perhaps thirty yards across, a stream running between the woods and the open ground to one side, with a steep bank and a tangle of storm debris piled up the side. In the thick gloaming light, the trunks of the mixed forest were indistinct, shadow on shadow and half-hidden by the undergrowth of bracken and shrub and wild blackberry. They had no fire, needing their night vision, as much or more than the shooters concealed in the branches around the clearing. It'd been Dean's idea, Boze recalled, a few months back when they'd been gas-bagging about hunts in general. A half-joking suggestion of tethered goat and marksmen, but he'd thought it was a good one, joke or not. He was sure that Raat was here, with the pack that had been attacking the camps. The creature hadn't shown itself near the settlements, too much open ground and too many defensive points for the shooters. Maurice had agreed. A bait-and-trap was the only way they'd bring it out, and they'd come a long way north, into what had been a state park, to do that.
In the spreading branches of a young maple, Sean shifted his position slightly and scanned around the edges of the clearing through the thermal imager mounted on his helmet. Every time he saw Franklin, he ended up coming away more soldier than hunter, he thought. The unit was heavy but not cumbersome, fast to move out of the way if he got a target in the dense undergrowth and the range was three hundred yards, which would give the men below the essential time they'd need if the monsters came in fast.
He saw the blurred shape at the edge of his field and moved his head slightly, watching it joined by several others.
"Boze," he breathed, the throat mike picking up the vibrations of his larynx and transmitting them to the leader crouched in the middle of the clearing. "You got company."
"How many?" Boze's voice was soft through his earpiece.
"Six."
"Rob, Paul, you got a visual?"
Sean heard the affirmatives from the hunters perched in trees on the other side of the clearing.
"They're coming from every side, Boze," Paul said, turning through the twenty degrees he was covering. "They'll be at the edge of the trees in less than a minute."
"Alright." Boze slid his finger from the guard onto the trigger. "Take 'em out when they break cover, or in the tree-line if you've got a clean shot. Here we go."
Knowing that they were coming, the three men crouched in the open ground could hear the rustles, the soft snaps of twigs under the heavy feet. Boze felt his eyes widen involuntarily as he saw the first animal emerge from the depth of the shadows into the clearing through the goggles he wore. The colours and lighting were wrong, the night-vision turning everything to green and grey, but the shape was distinct and clear. It was a wolf. Maurice had told him about the transformations, but he hadn't really believed it. He couldn't doubt what he was seeing now. A huge wolf, no trace of the man that it'd been, the pelt shaggy and thick, the head canine, long muzzle and jaws slightly open, tongue hanging out. He felt himself tense, his finger taking up the resistance on the trigger.
In less than a heartbeat, the clearing was chaos. More than six wolves bounded out from the forest edges, the shooters in the trees firing and bringing them down, ten yards from the men, or five. Boze, Maurice and Mel were back to back in the centre, crouched and shooting the automatic rifles they held on semi-automatic fire; the bullets, punching through fur and muscle and bone, designed to expand in the bodies, wreaking terrible damage and not exiting. The wolves fell in the ferocious cross-fire, their bodies piling on the ground, transforming hideously back into men in the cold light of the half-moon.
A group of four burst from cover together, accelerating toward the hunters, and Boze swung around, aiming and shooting automatically, bringing down two. In the tree to the left of the men, Sean screamed the warning into the headset, fingers fumbling with the bolt of his gun as the creature bounded out from the opposite side, jumping the steep creek bank and the tangle of deadwood and landing feet from Mel.
It was a wolf, there was no mistaking that but it was twice the size of the others, possibly three times the size of a normal grey wolf, eyes narrowed lambent gold in the massive head, the shoulders the width of a big man. Mel turned as it leapt, his shot going wide as he swung the gun up automatically, the weight of the animal knocking him to the ground and his bellow of shock and rage cut off abruptly as monstrous jaws closed around his neck.
Beside him, Maurice rolled back, his thumb flicking the gun to automatic and the bullets chattering into the wolf's side when it dropped Mel and turned on him. He was instantly aware that every fucking shot had missed, heard Boze wheeze from behind him and the fusillade of the leader's M60 roar past him, but the wolf lunged forward, and he felt the teeth sink deeply into his leg, shredding through his clothes easily, stabbing into muscle, and an enormous pain ripping up his body through his nervous system.
Boze swore furiously, rolling away and coming up on one knee, the barrel sweeping across the smaller wolves still coming from the woods, as the steady crack-crack came from high in the trees. He saw a hole appear in the side of the animal's head, the exit hole spattering bone and blood over Maurice's face as he was dragged across the grass. The wolf dropped him and howled into the night as another bullet ploughed into his chest, missing the heart by millimetres only.
Then the clearing was still, filled with blood and bodies, churned up grass and piles of thick, coarse fur that the transformations shed, the rasping wheeze of Maurice as he lay bleeding out onto the spring grass. Boze straightened, lurching to his feet and ran to the hunter, his heart sledging against his ribs as he looked down at the livid mess of Maurice's leg.
"Christ."
Maurice rolled his head toward him, jaw knotted and eyes narrowed. "Boze, make it fast."
Staring at him, Boze shook his head. The order had come up with a cure for vampirism, maybe there would be one for this too. Maybe they would have the right spell or potion. He couldn't give up on Maurice, not here, not now. He felt the hunter's hand close around his arm, the fingers digging in as they clenched involuntarily in anguish.
"Come on," Maurice ground out. "We both know where this goes. Just get it over with."
"The order – they might –" he stumbled over the words, staring at the man's eyes. Already, there was a light behind the irises, faint but there.
Behind them, Sean, Rob and Paul dropped to the ground, rifles cocked and barrels raised as they looked around at the bodies and walked toward them.
"They didn't have anything for any of the shapeshifters," Maurice said, his voice deepening into a harsh rasp. "There's nothing going to help me now, man, just a bullet."
Neither of them noticed the shreds and strings of skin and flesh rippling slightly under the flaps of denim, drawing closer together. Boze stared at Maurice, knowing that he was right, knowing it and unable to lift the gun in his hand.
Maurice jerked forward, his body curling in on itself as a groan forced its way out of his throat. Heat and a twisting pain filled him and he rolled onto his back, fingers clawing deeply into the grass and soil. Boze stood immobile as he stared at the bones of his friend's face, pushing out, heard the crunching and crackling of unnatural growth and elongation. Maurice arched up, muscles of back and legs contracting sharply, lifting him off the ground as a deep, guttural roared out of his throat.
"Boze! Back!" Sean shouted, lifting his rifle as Maurice rolled over, Rob and Paul's shots coming straight on the heels of his.
Maurice spun around and leapt for the deadwood, transforming from man to wolf mid-air, hind legs scrabbling on the loose dirt of the bank as he landed, and the four men fired together. Sean saw the impacts on the dark grey coat, shoulder and hindquarter, one skating under the flank.
Boze stared at the dark forest, listening to the snapping of the vegetation and thuds fading away. He had to get back to the camp. Had to tell Rufus and Dean. Had to figure out what to do. He turned back to the clearing and gestured tiredly.
"Come on, let's get these burned."
June 20, 2013. Ghost Valley Farm, Kansas
The evenings were still cool enough for a fire and sitting at the scrubbed oak table, Dean was glad enough to feel the warmth on his back, the cheerful light playing across the white-painted ceilings and the muted crackle of the flames behind him.
"Why me?" Jackson scowled at him, ignoring the amusement in Riley's face.
"Liev was the other choice," Dean said, leaning back in the chair. "He's got too much on with the new accommodation to be able to manage both jobs at the same time."
"And I'm sittin' here twiddlin' my thumbs, that it?"
"You've got more backup," Sam said diplomatically, glancing at Riley and Harrison, the two farmers careful to keep their faces expressionless.
"And most of what's needed is centred around what you're doing anyway," Dean added bluntly. "Food for everyone, protection for everyone, you know the people, they've all worked out here at one time or another, you know the hunters …" he trailed off, waving a hand vaguely. "And you won't put up with bullshit."
"Got that right," Riley said, ducking his head as Jackson swivelled to glower at him.
"They're looking for someone stable," Dean told him, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table. "That's not us."
For a moment he thought the older man might argue with him, and he marshalled his counters carefully. It wasn't just the people, it wasn't just the fact that he or any of the hunters could die tomorrow if the job turned sour. It was always going to be like this, there would always have to be those who were prepared to go and meet the problems head-on, and he couldn't do it if he was worrying about what was going on back in the settlements while he wasn't there.
"Alright," Jackson said, leaning back slightly as Rebecca set fresh coffees in front of them, moving around the table silently. "For argument's sake, let's say I agree –"
Dean's mouth lifted at one side. "Yeah, let's."
"Is this a permanent job or just a temporary one?" Jackson asked, ignoring the smirk and the comment.
Sam glanced at Dean. "Four year term?"
Dean shook his head. "Can't do dick in four years," he said, picking up the hot coffee and swallowing a mouthful. "For the moment, no end date. If we get through what we have to do, and everything's still standing, there'll be time to sort out a better system. For now, we need stability and one person where the buck stops."
"Heavy load," Harrison said, looking at Jackson. "Lotta detail in a job like that."
"Maybe a decision-maker and a couple of advisors then?" Sam suggested, looking at his brother. Dean had worked that way for the last three years, according to Alex. He didn't make a decision without checking all the input he could get.
"Bobby and Rufus'll keep you up to date on the threats," Dean said, repressing the impulse to shrug. He didn't really care how the man worked it out so long as the responsibility was off him. "Liev, Merrin, Maria and Freddie'll tell you what's happening day to day. And Franklin handles whatever justice needs to be meted out. It's more about seeing that it's going smoothly and stopping anything from getting out of hand before it gets going than anything more hands-on."
Patrice appeared in the doorway, lifting a brow as she looked at the clock above the range. "Are you gentlemen partaking of our hospitality tonight?"
Dean glanced at her, then at his brother. Sam nodded. They weren't nearly done here.
"Yes, ma'am," Dean said, catching a glimpse of Jackson's harried expression as she sent him a sharp stare and turned on her heel to make up the bedrooms.
"Can't you find someplace else for that woman to organise?" Jackson looked at him aggrievedly through Riley's snorting laughter.
"Not my job anymore," Dean grinned at him. "You figure out a place where she'll be of more use, you can stick her wherever."
Three hours later, Dean stretched his toes out to the fire blazing in the long, wide living room, head tipped back and eyes closed. He couldn't get warm anymore, didn't matter how close he was to the fire, his skin burning hot but a steadfast chill everywhere else. Whiskey had the same effect, a roar down his throat then sitting cold in his stomach.
Mel gone. Maurice gone or as good as, hunting with the monster who'd turned him now. Jasper and Katherine had found more about the demon prophecy and he kept dreaming about the plain at the edge of the mountains and the shadow drawing across the land from the east. Denver, he thought tiredly. What was left of the city. It wasn't surprising it'd taken him so long to figure it out, there was virtually nothing left of it.
Franklin had finished the talismans. They didn't know if they would hide Sam and there was only one way to find out for sure. Chuck had listed the gates and the incantations to get through them. He'd watched his brother's scowl deepen. There were dozens of ways to get into Hell, apparently, if you had the right resources. Sam hadn't and it was all ancient history now anyway.
A gate. In Sioux Falls. Azazel's gate and he wasn't sure if that meant something or not. Whatever it was that was tearing his brother up inside was getting worse, not better, and a creeping certainty told him he was going to lose everything, no matter what he did or how hard he fought.
The thought was curiously dry, devoid of any feeling, good or bad. Driving back from Iowa, he'd worn the medallion for three days, partly to ensure that he couldn't feel anything, partly to hide the cars from Crowley if the demon decided that they'd be easy targets on the open road. When he'd taken it off, the numbness had remained, a cold emptiness that tasted like poison at the back of his throat and had damped down the one emotion he could still feel.
Nintu was still roaming and he was going to have to do something about that. It was another job he wasn't going to leave to someone else. And then there were what Rufus and Bobby had nicknamed the Alphas. The first born children of the dark goddess. The werewolf and vampire were out there. Possibly others. Probably others, he thought, rubbing a hand against his jaw, the stubble pricking on his fingertips. Their destruction wasn't going to be as easy as the skinwalker. There was supposed to be a tablet for dealing with them too, but of the nine possible locations the spell keyed to the scribe of Heaven had revealed, there wasn't much chance of figuring out which belonged to which tablet. Except, of course, the angel tablet.
He opened his eyes and looked at the half-full glass on the small table beside him. The golden liquid didn't do much now. Unless you counted what it was doing to his liver, he thought sourly. But he wasn't drinking much either anymore. There didn't seem to be a point. He was tired, dog-tired, but he shied away from the thought of sleep and the dreams it invariably brought along with it, looking up as Sam came through the door, hair damp from the shower.
"What else do we need?"
Sam sighed, sitting in the armchair opposite. He knew exactly what Dean was talking about. He closed his eyes, leaning against the plush back of the armchair as he mulled over what Chuck had revealed about the gates and the disparate elements of the second trial.
"Not much else," he said finally, opening his eyes and turning to look at his brother. "I can go pretty much anytime."
Dean smiled humourlessly. "Good, we'll go tomorrow."
"Not we, Dean."
"You have a meltdown on the road there and kill yourself and how's that going to help the cause?"
"It's not happening that often any more."
"But it's still happening," Dean said, leaning forward in the chair. "And whatever's going on with your lungs, that's getting worse."
Sam looked away. He hadn't realised his brother had known about the coughing.
"Oh yeah, I know," his brother told him, as if he'd read the thought. "This thing – this contract – even if it is burning that blood out of you, Sam, you're a helluva lot weaker than you were, and you got no control over it."
"So?" Sam asked bluntly. "This is a one-man show, Dean. You can't come into Hell with me."
"No," he agreed unwillingly. "But I can get you there, and back."
"I thought you wanted to go to Michigan, find Maurice and that alpha?"
"I will, when we're done."
"I was going to ask Adam to do the driving," Sam said, looking at the fire.
"Adam?" Dean stared at him. "Adam's still recovering from having his guts ripped to shreds by a point-blank shot."
"Whereas you're a picture of health?" Sam asked derisively, looking at the white taping that still held his brother's right shoulder stiffly. "Of the two of you, I wouldn't bet on who was the quicker draw."
"That's hilarious," Dean said, his expression flattening out.
"Look," Sam said appeasingly. "I just think you'd better off doing something more – proactive – than babysitting me."
"Yeah, well, you're wrong about that." Dean looked at him, his face tight and drawn. "Number one job we got – closing Hell. And going in there to grab the devil's pig-sticker, that's not a cake-walk, Sam. So you got back up."
Sam looked down at his hands. The burning was still going on, and he could feel the cells in his body, reluctantly giving up the component that had been a part of him all his remembered life. Dean was right, he was weaker. And that wasn't improving. He didn't understand why his strength would be sucked out of him right when he needed it the most, but he knew, beyond any doubt whatsoever, that it would only be in completing what he'd started that it would improve.
Watching the expressions chase each other over his brother's face, Dean realised that Sam was scared. He didn't think he was afraid of dying.
"The last time you completed the trial, you just about collapsed, Sam," he said carefully. "You need someone who knows what's going on when you get out."
"Yeah," Sam acceded unwillingly, knowing it, not wanting to think about it. "Alright."
He didn't want Dean there, watching him, assessing him, ill-concealed impatience and the cold indifference judging him. But he was right. If – when – he finished the trial and renewed the contract, he had a feeling what was happening to him would only get worse, and he needed someone he could trust there. He had to do this, had to finish it. Had to find a way to make right the mistakes of the past and see something in his brother's eyes that wasn't disappointment.
Appalachian Mountains, Virginia
Standing by the folded and cracked exposed slabs of the mountain, Jesse looked down into the small valley below. Two or three buildings of stone had been supplemented with a dozen ramshackle and hastily-made log cabins, their walls leaning or not meeting precisely at the corners, the buildings surrounding a pond and some ground cleared, the thin soil turned in crooked lines and showing a mist of green.
"Guess they missed out on finding any engineers," Marius said, his mouth twisting as he looked at the buildings. "How many do you see?"
"There are a hundred and eighty-three people there," Jesse said, his gaze fixed on the valley floor. He looked up at the man beside him. "I can feel them."
"Well, let's get on with it," Marius said impatiently, starting down the narrow deer trail. "We need a lot more than this and we're probably not going find any really big groups."
Lee Chambers looked up from the grinding wheel, seeing the two figures walking across the meadow toward the settlement. He let the wheel rumble to a stop, thumb automatically feeling for the sharpness of the knife blade in his hand as he slid it back in the sheath at his hip, his right hand reaching for the shotgun that leaned against the chair. He stood and walked out of the low, roughly-made shelter into the sunshine, his gaze fixed on the strangers as he moved toward them.
Behind him, he heard the cocking of rifles and the bootsteps of several others.
A man and a boy, he thought, holding his hand up to the men and women behind him.
"Help you?" he called out, when they got closer.
"We're looking for people," the man said, his gaze swinging around the small group of buildings. "We were – there were – these things, in the dark –"
Lee heard a snort from beside him as Seth moved up. "Yeah, lotta that going around now."
"Can you help us?" the boy asked. "I'm Jesse."
"Marius," the man said, holding his hand out to Lee. He took a few steps nearer. "We're not armed."
June 22, 2013. Sioux Falls, South Dakota
The car bounced over the corrugations and trenches in the soft dirt road, Dean pressing them against the side of the hill when parts were washed out altogether. Rising through the low hills, the road followed the contours, detouring where the bare red rock protruded, dug out drainage ditches long since collapsed and clogged with earth, sending the rainfall and runoff sluicing under the wheels.
The steady beat of the wipers was a little louder than the engine and the sibilant hiss of the tyres through the wet mud, and Sam looked down at the map he held.
"Another few hundred yards and we're over this ridge," he said. "The road finishes at the top of the valley."
Dean nodded, shifting down as the tyres slipped a little on the muddy surface, his face closed and tense as he concentrated on the conditions. The storm had blown up while they'd been picking their way around the degeneration of the larger roads leading from Nebraska north and while most of the gravel or asphalt roads had been reasonably clear of hulks, their condition was usually a lot worse after three years of zero maintenance.
The headlights arced over the ridgeline and he pulled off on a broad flat stretch of shoulder, turning off the engine and killing the lights, the low-hanging cloud and gloom of the storm swallowing the car. Sam listened to the tick of the hot engine over the drumming of the rain on the roof, his thoughts still cycling over what he had to do next.
Blood opened gates. Blood and pain. From the outside, on this plane, it took an enormous amount of both to use that key. The blood of Cerberus opened the inner doors, through the cliffs. The vial Oliver had extracted from their clothing would be enough to get him through those. Azazel's gate, connected to the Fallen, but not one of the nine, could be opened with a ritual using the demon's sigil. Aaron had been working on collating the sigils, the true names of the beings that had no souls, before he'd died and Katherine had taken over the painstaking research, finding the incantation when Chuck had revealed the details of the gates.
In magic, Jerome had told them a few days ago, the legacy's face still thin and pale, the ability to influence and control anything depends solely on knowing what it is – the essence of it. For humans, even for the nephilim and the cambion and the monsters who'd once been human, that essence is the soul. For the angels and the angels who'd become demons, and the creatures that had been created without a human beginning, power over them relies on discernment of their true essence in a different way. Calling the elements, Jerome had explained, needs the knowledge of their true names, what they are, not what mankind calls them.
It made a certain sense, Sam thought. People used magic through their subconscious, really, not through their conscious minds. And the subconscious did not have language, only symbols, powerful encapsulations of concepts, stripped of ambiguity, whittled down to the essential – to the essence. He'd felt a rush of excitement as he'd listened to the old man, an unacknowledged longing to learn more about the subject not for a end-goal or purpose but for the knowledge itself.
He'd watched Marla's face light up as she pursued the track of an elusive fact through the histories and books and texts in the library; had seen her focussed delight when she mastered a precept that was essential to her understanding of a spell or ritual. He remembered the same high when he'd understood something he'd been studying, when understanding came in a blazing light and all the pieces fell together effortlessly. He didn't think he'd be able to follow her into that world, certainly not now, but it hadn't stopped the yearning, felt far back in his mind, of wishing it could be.
Dean opened the door, ducking his head against the rain as he got out. The rear door opened and he pulled out the small gear bag that held everything they needed, flicking a look at his brother.
"You ready?"
Sam nodded. He was as ready as he was ever going to be. He'd flamed out once on the drive here, his brother's face impassive as Dean had waited for it to pass, but the told-you-so look in the green eyes when he'd come to, cold and clammy with the heat gone, and shaking from a coughing fit that had lasted several minutes.
Three ridges met in a crooked bird's track and they followed the middle one, boots saturated with liquid mud in minutes, the rock slippery underfoot. The valley formed by the meeting of the ridgelines was small and deep, the air close and unmoving in the shelter of the hills, and one end blocked by a smooth slab of rock, a fold of deeper granite that had been thrust up aeons before, and was inclined against the east-west run of the ridges and ravines. Water streamed down the face and pooled at the base, and Dean looked around sourly for anywhere he could light a fire to burn the ingredients that would convince the gate to open.
"Here," Sam said, crouching beside a small stretch of broken rock and gravel, far from dry but not actually sodden. Dean nodded and passed him the bag, walking down the slight slope to the trees that clustered between the other two ridges.
Sam unpacked the bowls and knife and wrapped sachets of bone and crystal and herbs, grimacing at the feel of dried skin on his fingers as he pulled out the spell that had been written on it. He wondered briefly what his father would've thought of them using black magic to enter Hell, and shrugged the vague question aside. John had used whatever he'd needed to get the job and hadn't thought of the consequences. Looking up to see his brother returning with an armful of damp and dripping branches and twigs, it occurred to him that Dean would've kicked up about using a spell like this once. He too had abandoned his concerns over the lines between what was permissible as a soldier of good and what got the job done at the end of the day.
Everything we do, everything we touch, leaves a mark – a stain – on us. Marla's soft, faintly lilting voice wove through his thoughts. It is impossible to think that using the darkest spells will not, in some way, taint us with their intent and their power, even if we attempt to use them for good purposes. Expediency has a way of biting back through consequences too far-reaching to be seen at the time.
He felt a slight shiver thread down his spine. When she'd said it, in the library late one night, he'd argued that the good would outweigh the evil. She'd looked at him steadily.
Sam, even with the best of intentions, what we use, what we touch, what we think and feel, all things leave their track on our souls. Knowledge cannot be unlearned, un-known once it has been acquired. You cannot un-see what you have seen.
You're saying that what I've done, the choices I've made, I can never be free of them? he'd asked her reluctantly, his stomach clenching.
You can be free of them, of course, she'd told him, her hands warm around his. Acceptance, penance, forgiveness and atonement will free you. But you've seen now. The things you've learned will remain. You cannot regain the innocence you had.
The conversation had been very similar to his talks with the Jesuit priest, and he'd looked at her face, filled with earnest certainty, wondering if she had discussed these things with Father Emilio.
With the help of a few squirts of butane, the fire Dean laid leapt into life and he became aware that Dean was watching him, dragging his thoughts back to what they were doing.
"You here, man?" Dean asked quietly, that appraising look back in his eyes.
Sam nodded. "Yeah, I – uh, yeah, I'm ready."
He put the bowl over the flames, tipping the sachets into it one by one. The bone and crystal blackened slowly, the herbs and dried scales, body fluids and crushed bark smouldered, sending a twisting ribbon of pale lavender smoke into the air.
The rain stopped. Dean looked around in surprise. It was still raining, he saw, just no longer over them.
"That's … not creepy," he remarked to no one in particular, looking back at the bowl.
"Dean," Sam said slowly, feeling the warmth of the fire drying his face and hair. "Do you think that what we do – what we're doing here, now – is changing us? Corrupting us?"
He looked at his brother when he didn't respond. "Dean?"
"Yeah," Dean said, adding another twig to the fire. "Yeah, I think it is."
"Are we becoming what we used to hunt?"
"I don't know." The exhale was long, then Dean turned to look at him expressionlessly. "And you know what? It doesn't matter." He looked back at the bowl over the flames. "We know what we're supposed to do. That's enough."
"But –"
"Read the spell, Sam," Dean said sharply, twisting away and getting to his feet. "Just read it and open the damned gate."
Sam looked down at the dry and stiff skin in his hand. Archaic Latin, Jasper had told him. A bastardised version that had been in use since the Dark Ages. For this purpose, primarily. Witchcraft.
He stumbled over the words, knowing that he had to focus on the feeling as well – the desire to open the portals of Hell and enter – feeling his stomach churn and a tingling in his body, countered by a rising heat. The demon blood and its destroyer, he thought fleetingly, fighting over possession.
There was a groaning from deep in the earth, and a rising squeal and both men looked at the slab of rock in front of them, cracks opening to either side of a convex bulge in the face, a reddish light spilling out from the edges.
Huron National Park, Michigan
The pain was excruciating.
His bones and skin and muscle and tendons melted and reformed, pores expanding as the thick pelt fell out, claws dropping away, every cell burning white-hot with the enormous energy needed for the transformation. Lying on the thick, damp humus of the forest floor, Maurice struggled to breathe as his body returned to the shape of a man.
"The pain will pass."
The voice close by was deep and hoarse, and the hunter opened his eyes, rolling onto his back. Behind him, a man crouched by the tree trunk, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, long, thick black hair streaked with silver framing a wide-featured face, the cheekbones high, aquiline nose and heavy brow shadowing dark eyes, the skin smooth and dark gold, darker along the jawline and throat.
"Who're you?" Maurice asked, his mouth forming the words uncomfortably, as if he'd forgotten how to use his lips and tongue to speak.
The man grinned at him, the flash of white teeth showing incisors that were a little longer than human.
"You know who I am, hunter," he said, reaching out a hand as he rose to his feet.
"Raat," Maurice said, ignoring the outstretched hand and rolling onto his knees, every muscle aching and trembling but the heat dissipating fast and his skin goose-pimpling in the cool of the night air. "We thought you were still locked up."
Raat nodded, looking around the small clearing. Maurice followed his gaze as he heard the small noises surrounding them and several men walked out from behind the trees.
"No." The werewolf looked appraisingly over the men then turned back. "She came when the land was still locked in snow and ice and melted my prison and gave me her blood and brought me to freedom."
Months ago, Maurice thought. His stomach rumbled and he tried to ignore it, tried to ignore the staccato beat of his pulse against the base of his neck, the high-voltage charge that still coruscated through his nervous system. Watching the men, he realised belatedly that he could see them clearly, despite the wan light of the half-moon that barely filtered through the thin, spring canopy above them. And that he could not see colour, only black and white. Some of the changes were truly permanent. He could hear distant sounds. Could smell the individual scents of each of the men surrounding him, the new sap flowing in the trunks of the trees, and faintly, as a wandering breeze shifted through the clearing, the scent of a deer, far to the north.
"What do you want with the camps, Raat?" he asked, distancing and distracting himself from the sensations that were both utterly foreign and completely familiar.
Raat looked at him, the dark eyes lit slightly from behind even in his current form. "The Dark Mother walks the earth again, for the first time in almost forty thousand years, hunter. It means that this is our time again, when we are strong and many."
"Except that her other children are free too," Maurice said, tilting his head slightly as he gauged the monster's reactions. "And the human populations are small."
"They were small then too," Raat said, a scowl quickly hidden at the mention of the others. "They will grow and we will hunt them."
He looked at the men and jerked his head to one side. "Come, the settlements are a night's walk from here. They will not come into the woods after us again," he added, looking at Maurice with a wolfish grin. "We will feast on their hearts in their own dens."
He walked out of the clearing and into the trees, the men following him and Maurice trailing them a few yards behind. The silver bullets had hit the monster everywhere, and he could've sworn that at least one had penetrated the alpha's heart. He needed intel and he needed it fast, before they reached Tawas. It wouldn't matter if the wolves couldn't get into the camps if no one could reach the fields to plant the food that would sustain the population and their stock through the coming winter. They'd be forced into the forests to hunt for game and then Raat could pick them off at his leisure.
The first werewolf dropped back after an hour's walking, and Maurice noticed the others spread out a little, each taking a slightly wider track through the woods. He lengthened his stride, ignoring the aches as he caught up to the alpha.
"The silver didn't kill you," he said, his voice low as he matched the bigger man's stride.
Raat glanced at him. "No, I am too close to the Mother for silver to have the same effect on me as those of my get."
"Too close to the Mother?"
Raat slowed a little, gesturing vaguely at the woods surrounding them. "All things, all elements she is made of, iron and silver and gold and copper, the things that in concentration can kill us … or bind us. When she made me, she passed on some of those elements, they are in my blood. I am immune to them, you – you and the others – less so. As the generations are built from the lines, the toxicity becomes more powerful." He looked down at the hunter. "Your line will be strong, hunter. Your get could rule these northern woods, if you train them well."
Feeling his stomach roll over lazily, Maurice swallowed at the thought. He had always been honest with himself, about what he did, about how it felt. He thought it was the only way to stay sane in the business he'd chosen. That honesty told him that a part of him had revelled in the strength and power of being a wolf. Had been excited at the call of the moon and the night and the sound of the pack in full voice. He tried to keep that part away, pushed down. He was still a man. Still a hunter.
"The moon is but half-full," he said to the werewolf. "How can we transform without its power?"
"Ah, the moon fills us as it waxes," Raat answered slowly. "But we are powerful without her as well. The dark gift declines the further from the source it is."
"And silver alone cannot kill us?"
The monster looked at him narrowly. "It can kill you, if it finds its way to your heart."
"You alone are invincible?"
"Nothing is invincible," Raat snorted softly in the darkness. "Not even our Mother."
Hell
Sam looked around, seeing the river and the cliffs with a jolt of familiarity. The talisman Franklin had made was warm against his skin and he touched his fingertips to it, hoping that it would do as it was supposed to. He had two vials of the guardian's blood in his pocket, and he walked along the river bank, looking for the stones, wondering if there was a particular place he was supposed to pour it, or if it would work on any section of the high, black cliff walls.
The unfamiliar shape of the black sword hung against his hip, the end tapping his thigh as he walked. The black metal had killed the dog, cutting through the necks with ease, he thought. They would kill anything but an archdemon, but it was the archdemons that were loose now and would be difficult to avoid.
The river curved and he could see the stones, their tops flat and dry in the middle of the fast-flowing current. Every time, the river seemed different, he realised, walking to the bank near the first. Last time, the river had flowed sluggishly. His brother had told him that the water had been black, when he'd come in by himself. Now it was clear, sparkling in the not-quite-sunshine on this shore. Was it darker on the other side? He couldn't tell from this angle.
There was no more than a little over a yard between them and he crossed quickly, glancing down at the water as he made the far bank. The water remained clear and he could see through it to the bottom, a yellow-grey mud covered in water reeds with delicately curling tendrils.
Walking to the black and pitted cliff, he looked along its edge. Nothing leapt out at him as being different further down. The soil leading to the wall was a uniform dark grey, scattered with gravel, here and there puffs of steam escaping from deeper underground. He pulled out the first vial of the black liquid that had filled the veins of the guardian dog and drew out the glass stopper carefully. His skin had stung and blistered from contact with it before. Looking at the rock, he flicked his wrist and the blood splattered across the craggy surface, dripping from the edges. Sam stared at it, his hope fading as nothing seemed to happen. A drop hung from a deeper edge and fell, hitting the soil beneath. And the wall shuddered minutely, cracks opening to both sides.
The wash of relief stirred something else, a heat that slowly twisted and rose through his veins and he closed his eyes and set his jaw, willing the burning back. There was no way he could afford to lose it now, not here, not in this place. As the pulsing red light spilled out of the widening fissures, he felt the heat subside slowly and opened his eyes, looking down at his arms. It was dissipating, he thought, his gaze flicking back up to the opening door in front of him. The proximity to the plane that had originated the blood? Or something more sentient, living in him, recognising that now was not the time?
Neither thought was particularly comfortable and he pushed them aside, stepping through the door into the dark, carnelian light as soon as the opening was big enough. The pulsing was steady, and it was beating in time with his heart, he realised belatedly, ducking his head in the narrow tunnel. No. Not in time with it. Just a fraction of a second behind it. He felt his pulse falter slightly as it tried to adjust to the beat, slowing a little and the pulse of the plane changed again.
Leaning back against the wall, Sam tried to shut out his awareness of that rhythm. It would affect flesh and blood this way, he thought, attempting to control him, control whatever part of him allowed it. And it could kill him if he got lost in that pulsing throb. He walked down the tunnel and stopped as he came to an intersection. The new tunnel was much wider, much higher, the floors smoothed stone and the walls almost polished in places, rough in others.
Need to find this place again, he thought a little absently, putting his hand in his pocket and pulling out the first of the nine markers Franklin had made for him. The first one was gold, a triangular chip of the soft metal, marked simply with the numeral one. Looking along the uneven rock wall at his own eye-level, he tucked the chip into a shallow crevice. One meant his exit, he reminded himself.
There was no description of Lucifer's sword, no pictures or paintings, not even a written account in the few transcriptions the order and the other chapters had of encounters with the angels. He would have to make his way through the levels as the tablet had described them. The talisman, of titanium and gold and tantalum, smelted with sulphur and salt, was supposed to keep the layouts fixed for mortal incursion. There hadn't been any indication in the tablet or rather the parts Chuck had managed to translate, regarding the size of the levels, or the distances between them. Each level had a way through to the next. Sometimes they were gates, locked or open hadn't been specified. Sometimes they were portals, shifting through a trans-dimensional pocket to a different section of the accursed plane. Deirdre had shown him the three-dimensional renditions she'd calculated from the five-dimensional equations that the tablet had given. An archway leading from the second level to the third. A trap-door of some kind leading from the seventh level to the eighth. Closing his eyes, Sam reviewed the layout he'd memorised of the first level and turned to the right, following the long corridor that twisted this way and that, feeling the faint incline in the pull on the muscles of his legs and back.
He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, ignoring the movements he caught from the corner of his eye. Where the walls were smooth and polished, he could see through them. Nothing they showed were images he wanted in his head, he realised after he'd turned to look at the first one. The talisman might have hidden him, but the blood in his veins, the demon power in his cells, showed him the souls and the demons working on them. In the corridor, their screams were distant, muted and indistinct. Without knowing how he knew, he was sure that if he approached those reflective sections of wall and looked through deliberately, he would hear them – close and loud and in shocking detail.
No soul in this place is innocent, he told himself, lengthening his stride and hurrying down the hall. Closing the gates would lock the demons inside, but not prevent those souls who'd betrayed and tortured and killed from entering. The key had been in the transcripts, not of substance but of will. And faith. He wasn't sure he had enough faith.
Slowing as the tunnel ahead of him widened, Sam looked up involuntarily when the tunnel became a ravine, and the ravine opened into a broken plain. He stopped at the mouth of the defile, staring around him.
Pools of acid sent clouds of pale yellow and blood-tinged steam into the air, and the screams that had been distant were all around him now, discordant and tormented, rising and falling over other sounds that were more frightening. The sky was close, thick with a roiling, oily-looking cloud cover, muted thunder and livid sheet lightning filling the deep-bellied nimbostratus. In every direction, the souls, retaining their memories of themselves in life, shredded and torn apart by the demons, were stretched out, hung up, tied and shackled and held.
Dean.
The thought flashed through Sam's mind as he watched a demon flaying the skin from a man held by his wrists and ankles, the four demons on the wheels at the corners of the rack tightening the screws with each lash of the razor-edged whip, the bones being pulled from the sockets incrementally and the face of the man elongated in an agony he could not escape from.
Above the plain, he could see the uneven and thundery light catching gleams and reflections from things that floated and hovered on the rising thermals. They were, even to him, mostly invisible, corporeal demons created by belief, never human, without souls, sustained by the blood and pain of the victims who were convinced of their existence.
I shouldn't have lied to you. I do remember everything that happened to me in the Pit. Everything.
So tell me about it.
No. I won't lie anymore. But I'm not gonna talk about it.
Dean, look, you can't just shoulder this thing alone. You got to let me help.
How? Do you really think that a little heart-to-heart, some sharing and caring, is gonna change anything? Somehow... heal me? I'm not talking about a bad day here.
I know that.
The things that I saw... there aren't words. There is no forgetting. There's no making it better. Because it is right here. Forever. You wouldn't understand. And I could never make you understand. So, I am sorry.
He hadn't understood. He didn't know that he did now. No matter what he'd tried to imagine, no matter how he'd tried to envisage what it had been like – it wasn't enough. He looked around. It wasn't this.
Every soul saw Hell in the framework of their own worst fears and memories, he remembered suddenly, the pages of the translation coming back to him almost photographically. Every soul's mind, filled with the persistent and indelible memories of its past, saw their own keys to their torture. Sam's stomach churned as the knowledge of what his brother must have seen, must have felt, trickled into his thoughts.
The gate to the second level lay across the plain. None of the demons had noticed him. That was something, he thought unhappily. The talisman seemed to be working.
He looked at the ground, watching where he put his feet, keeping his eyes narrowed and focussed on the rock and trying to ignore the blood stains and the scraps of unidentifiable moist meat that littered it. The screaming filled his ears and the smell of brimstone, nauseating and overwhelming, filled his nose and mouth, but he kept walking, head down.
Strawberry Peak, Utah
Gadriel opened his eyes as he felt his feet touch ground. He'd known it would be a trap.
The room was broad and low-ceilinged, huge timber beams stretching across the width and a cold stone floor covered in circles that to his eyes glowed faintly in the dim light. Surrounding them were nephilim and cambion, he could perceive the gentle gleam of their souls, even as he could feel the cold nature of their hearts.
The sword whistled through the air as he drew it and stepped forward, some part of his mind despairing at the numbers, understanding that he could not beat all of them.
Camael stepped clear of the circle as Lehmann lit the candles surrounding it. In the centre the Qaddiysh who controlled the demons of Hell stood, awareness fading from his eyes and face as the spell took hold of him, entwining the commands of the necromancer into his thoughts, dispelling recent memory and searching for the recollections of older times, through the past when the commander had called upon armies of the damned and sent them into battle.
There. Lehmann smiled. And there.
Kokabiel nodded, his face smooth and expressionless as he slowly knelt in the centre of the circle and began the ritual, his movements precise with the ease of long, long familiarity.
Gadriel slashed at the man whose sword had blocked his, strong wrists twisting the other's weapon, the sharp clatter on the stone drowned out as the Irin's sword slid between the ribs and levered sharply down, opening a wide enough space for his hand to squeeze in and grasp the heart, and the nephilim's scream rose in the enclosed space. He was already turning, the heart flung from him as his sword rose again, sweeping aside the blade aimed for his heart and stepping close to the young woman, his hand gripping her throat as he slashed from diaphragm to pelvis, releasing her and thrusting his hand up into the breached cavity.
The sword that entered his back was a curving scimitar of Arabic origin, the blade widening abruptly from hilt to tip. He gasped as he felt it go in, his fingers scrabbling at the smooth, hot organs surrounding his hand, and the world disappeared when the blade twisted through his spine.
Usiku listened to the clash of metal and the shouts and screams from the other side of the wall. He would not get a diversion of their attention as good as this, he thought, flexing his arms against the bite of the chain. Silver. As if that could hold him, his Mother's son. The women were here and he would need some of them, to strengthen him and to prevent the fallen angels from being able to complete the ritual that would bind him.
At the end of the corridor, the two nephilim looked at each other as the sounds of the fight got louder, the young woman finally shaking her head and drawing her sword. Neither noticed the creaking from the cell, as metal links stretched and stretched under the duress of the creature's strength, the soft noise was lost in the clocking of her bootsoles as she half-ran to the doorway and left.
"Give me your arm," the male nephilim demanded, grabbing the thin and needle-pocked arm of the next woman in the line. She stumbled toward him, her other arm clutched protectively over her belly, as he dragged her closer.
"Give me your throat."
A warm, deep baritone countered, from behind him. He dropped the woman's arm and spun around as hands of extraordinary strength caught his shoulders and pulled him into a close embrace with the creature standing there. Usiku smiled and his head snapped forward, mouth fastening on the side of the nephilim's neck, bristling with fangs. The line of women barely had time to take in what had happened, when he dropped the drained body, the fair skin of the young man now completely white, eyes open and staring.
"I need you," the vampire said the woman standing beside the table, extending his hand to her. She looked at him and shook her head, long, lank hair covering her face as she backed away a step.
Behind her, the tall red-haired woman stepped out. "You're getting out of here?"
"I am."
"Are you going to kill us?"
He smiled. "No, my dear, you are too precious to kill. I will drink from you, a little each day, never enough to harm you or your children," he said, looking at the gravid swell of her abdomen. "I promise you that."
"Take me with you," she said, hiding the trembling fear she felt as he moved in an eyeblink to stand next to her. She looked at the women behind her, gesturing abruptly around the room. "Anything would be better than this? Waiting for them to kill us and our babies?"
The vampire watched them. The once-lovely dark-haired woman stepped up behind the red-head, nodding her agreement, her eyes on him. Behind her, the fair one also nodded and crowded close to the other two. He looked to the back of the line. The new woman had moved away from them, along with two others.
"Do you want to die then?" he asked her, glancing at the others. "They will kill you when I am gone, you will be of no further use to them."
"I'll take my chances," she said, her voice barely a whisper.
"As you wish." He inclined his head and looked back at the small group who would come voluntarily. "Come close, and make no sound."
There was no transition. He enfolded them in his arms and they were gone.
The five women left looked around the empty room then at each other.
"We have to get out of here," the woman who'd first refused the vampire said. "He was right about them killing us if they find him gone."
"That one," the smallest of them said, pointing to the dead nephilim on the floor. "I overhead him talking to the other woman with him, said that there were caves here, all through these mountains. Maybe we could find a place to hide?"
"Better than being beaten and drained and starved here, Carly," the tallest agreed, looking at the rest. "How do we get out of here?"
"There's another door there." The woman pointed to the shadowy back wall. "I don't think it can be a part of the basement, it's the wrong direction."
"We're either living on borrowed time or we've got a chance of getting out of here, Jane," Carly said decisively. "If I'm going to die, I think I'd rather be on my feet and running away."
"Let's go." Jane walked across the room to the door, pausing to look behind her. "Are you coming?"
The three others nodded, shuffling over the stone floor to follow into the darkness of the mountain.
Sioux Falls, South Dakota
Dean moved around the space in front of the rock, pouring out a light grey powder from a long, thin cloth sack. It was the third circle he'd surrounded the gate with and he thought that between them, they'd probably hold back anything that tried to get through the crack that the spell had left open.
On the fire, the ingredients were still smouldering. As long as the smoke rises, the gate stays open, Jerome had told him. Probably how the other one had been held open, he thought vaguely, although neither he nor Cas had seen any signs of a fire or smoke in the cemetery.
Fluttering at the back of his mind, the knowledge that Sam was going to see Hell, see what happened down there, lurked uncomfortably. The brief summary he'd managed to tell him, after seeing the way that girl had been twisted into something not human by her own father, had been dragged out purely because he couldn't keep in his head any longer, couldn't face the fear, of having turned into something else, on his own. He'd learned that his brother wasn't the right person to tell. They'd been too close, but not close enough. And Sam had been trapped in the chaotic vortex of his own power, filled with confusion and fear and driven by the need to make it all mean something.
Those memories, those grinding emotions, that had tortured him even once he'd been out, hadn't been forgotten or even buried all that well. A lot of their power had been removed, though, he thought as he looked around the still valley, moving to the edge of the circle that protected the fire and the spell. In some ways it was as if they were now memories from a different lifetime. Distant finally. Something he could get away from now. He veered away from the thoughts surrounding that recognition with practised ease and wondered a little bleakly what he was going to do if Sam didn't come back through the gate.
The beating of wings brought him to his feet instantly, swinging around with the black sword in one hand and the automatic in the other as he stared at the softly glowing construct that stood behind him.
"Cas?"