Chapter 24 A Final Glimmer of Hell
July 17, 2013. Byers, Colorado
The jet engines shrieked as they passed from the sunlight into the shadow, the two fighters low over the plain, their grey fuselage darkening to charcoal. The concussive explosions that followed them hit either side of the county road in two staccato lines of noise and fire, drowning out everything else.
A ragged cheer rose around him at the sight of the damage to the other side, and Dean glanced at Rufus, the comms unit crackling softly against his ear.
"Dean!"
"Yeah, we're going in, Franklin," Dean confirmed, rolling to his knees, his rifle held out.
"Jack, Drew, Boze, Tim, Elias – go, go, go!"
Dean felt the surge of men on both sides as he climbed to the top of the earthwork, his attention fixed on the sudden rush of the living and dead black-eyed horde that poured down the slope on the other side of the river. Dirt and blood and flesh sprayed into the air as the first possessed hit the mines, but they kept coming, and he tightened his grip on the rifle, scanning the higher ground behind them for any sign that the jets hadn't take out all the heavy artillery the Grigori had brought with them.
Above the yelling and the blasts, he heard the whine of stressed engines and his head snapped right, catching sight of the fighter as it looped and dove and corkscrewed desperately in the murky twilight. One wing was ripped from the side and the plane shuddered and began to spin, smoke streaming out behind the body as it tumbled out of the sky and slammed into the ground, the fiery impact brilliant against the darkness.
"Franklin! What the hell happened?" he demanded, his gaze shifting to the other plane, spiralling and rolling above the plain.
"The demons, I think," Franklin bit back. "Got the frag bombs on them."
"Dean," Rufus said, dragging his attention back to the valley in front of him.
The second and third lines of buried claymores were detonated as the main force of demons crossed them and reached the shallow banks of the small river, sending car-sized chunks of earth into the air and a thick veil of dust that filled the valley floor. A steady thud-thud marked the launching of the fragmentation bombs and from the corner of his eye he saw them exploding distantly in the sky to the north, saw the remaining Hornet roll and break free of the demon attack and begin to climb.
The world narrowed down to sensory clues, an overview no longer possible. Dean heard the splashing of feet through the water and raised the rifle as he made out the first figures through the thick cloud of smoke and dust, coming up the slope toward them.
Loud. That's what war mostly was, Tim decided, the steady roar of his gun beside his ear as he picked off the possessed coming up the slope toward him. Loud and chaotic.
He couldn't see further than a hundred yards down toward the river, or more than twenty yards to either side of him, although he could hear the guns of the men that lay with him along the raised earthen bank. Behind them, the constant boom and high, piercing whistle of Franklin's heavy artillery created a cacophonous background to the more immediate sounds, and in the distance he could hear the enemy's artillery, a rumble that was followed by the ominous howls of the shells arcing overhead.
The rifle in his hands ceased shaking and fell silent and he rolled half onto his side, ejecting the empty magazine, the fresh clip already in one hand, finding the slot and slamming it home, rolling over and lifting the rifle again one smooth, fluid motion. He raised his head slightly, peering above the level of the trench and the stray bullet hit him in the right temple, exiting to the left of the back of his skull.
Jack swore silently to himself as he saw the movement to his right, half-hidden in the churning smoke that mantled the slope.
"Dean? Gotta a big group coming along the valley from the north."
"How many?" The hunter's voice crackled faintly in his ear.
"Couple of hundred," Jack told him, focussing the scope on his rifle. He pulled the trigger and saw the first few fall, the rest dropping to the ground or lifting their guns and returning fire.
"Sean, you got a BFG with you?"
"Roger that, Dean, big fucking gun," Sean replied casually. "I see 'em."
"All yours," Dean said, his voice fading slightly and then strengthening. "Boze, watch the valley north and south, they're breaking off, trying to out-flank us."
"Affirmative," Boze said, his voice tinny and flat in the earpiece.
Jack nodded to the men to either side of him as the cannonade of Sean's .50 calibre gun began to thunder. They moved down and along the trench, heading north under the covering fire.
Travis clung to the stick and rolled the fighter again, hearing the banging on the fuselage as he hit a thick clump of the almost-invisible demons. They didn't show up on his radar either. The frag bombs had given him enough clear space to climb another five thousand feet, but he couldn't get through the cloud; the electro-magnetic charges screwed his instrumentation when he got within five hundred feet of the lower level.
Bank. Try and get out under, he thought, his thumb hitting the firing button as he caught a glimpse of something in front of him. He couldn't see what the fuckers were doing to the plane but the flaps were tight and stiff and he was losing manoeuvrability by the minute. Straight run, full throttle, he decided, coming out of the turn as another frag bomb exploded to his left, and he saw charred and burning shapes falling to the ground in his peripheral vision.
The heavy thuds on the canopy snapped his head up and he saw gleaming fangs and bulbous black eyes looking hungrily down at him. He shoved the throttle forward as claws punched through the thick Perspex dome and his hand clenched around the stick when the demon reached through the hole and buried its teeth into his skull, half lifting him from the seat. The plane responded, nose lifting and climbing vertically into the thick black clouds above him.
Paralysed and dying, Travis watched helplessly as the first bolt hit the nose and the lightning crawled in thick tendrils of white fire across the metal, the instruments failing in front of him, the engine stalled. He heard a shriek against crackling of the bolts, the unmistakable sound of metal tearing then the sparking electricity found the fuel in the torn wing and the world disappeared in infinite heat and light.
Jesse shuddered as the explosion shook the truck above them, feeling Sabrine's arm curl tighter around his shoulders. They could hear the Grigori's chanting, rising and falling and penetrating even the constant thunder of the shells falling around them, could hear the insistence in Lehmann's voice as he screamed out their names.
"We have to obey," Sabrine whispered, her breath warm against his ear.
He shook his head. "No, Hubertus said we have to go."
"They'll kill us, Jesse."
"They can't," he told her, not knowing if that was true or not. He felt her arm move, knew she was touching the thin gold necklace. Turning around, he looked at her, and reached out for the slender links of the chain, his fingers closing around them and pulling sharply. The necklace snapped and fell to the ground.
"We're going," he said, wrapping his arms around her. The other cambion were too old to do what they could do, what he could do, he thought, closing his eyes. Hubertus had told him that they couldn't give the advantage to the fallen, that without them, the Grigori could only fight as the humans were fighting, more powerfully perhaps, but without the ability to wipe them all out with a single thought.
He thought of the huge house in the mountains, seeing it in his mind, and they disappeared.
Two miles from the county road, the tank sat in the middle of the interstate, the gunner staring through the scope at the smoke-filled battle to the east, his attention on the numbers that showed at the bottom of the digital display.
"Ninety-two point one one degrees east," he said softly. "Elevation eighteen point four five."
The massive gun beside him moved incrementally to one side then rose slowly.
"Ninety-two point one one east. Eighteen point four five elevation," a guttural voice confirmed in the headphones.
"Fire!"
His goggles darkened to black as the enormous blast of flame filled his vision. When it had gone, he focussed the scope on the distant line of the enemy, and grinned in cold satisfaction as he saw the shell hit the tank, a billowing cloud of black smoke and debris rising in slow motion above the line.
"HuAH!"
Dean looked up at the snap and hiss of wings above them, rolling onto his back and lifting the rifle. Beside him, Rufus did the same and they opened fire, the automatics discharging a hail of bullets into the demons that shrieked and dove on the men in the trenches.
"Frank! The frags!"
The explosion trembled through the ground and he and Rufus rolled onto their fronts, arms curved over their heads as the hunks of debris fell onto them.
"What the fuck was that?" Dean grated as the rumble dissipated and the thuds of falling metal and earth ceased.
"Anti-tank," Rufus said, looking over his shoulder. "Must have something back there we missed."
"Frank, Franklin! You read me?" Dean shook off the dirt and rock from his back as he pushed himself onto his knees. The slash across the side of his face took a second to register, his skin going cold then numb as he staggered back from the impact. The sensation thrust a memory into his mind, and he ducked and fired as the demon swooped again.
"Flares," he muttered as the demon crashed to the ground in front of him, the slick and shining hide riddled with holes and the long, leathery wings shredded and broken. "Godammit!"
"What?"
"Flares!" Dean snapped at him, doubling over as he ran up the other side of the trench toward the artillery line behind them. "FRANK!"
Boze lay on his back, trying to force his eye open in the eerie silence that seemed to be packed close around him. He couldn't move his arms to wipe at the gunk he could feel sticking the lashes together, couldn't feel the rest of him at all. A slit of light appeared and he forced the small muscles of his eyelids to open wider, turning his head to one side as they reluctantly obeyed, monocular vision coming into focus.
Franklin lay there, a few feet away, face blackened and the blue eyes wide open and staring. Below the chest armour, half of his body was gone, his organs spilling out onto the red-soaked dirt, shrivelled by the heat and dulled by the charring. Where the tank had been, beyond his body, the crater was still smoking.
He saw a face appear above him, familiar under the coating of dirt and blood and soot and tried to open his mouth. The face hardened, dark green eyes becoming flat and chill as they looked at him. He couldn't put a name to the face, though he remembered it, remembered that he'd known the name. It withdrew abruptly and he wondered vaguely what had happened.
Dean stood up, his face stony as he looked from Boze to Franklin, his chest cold and empty. He scanned past the crater and the bodies scattered around it, the sounds of screaming and battle pushed away. The truck he was looking for was a hundred yards further down the line and he started to run, adrenalin surging through him as he accelerated.
"Sean, you there?"
"Affirmative, boss." The hunter's voice came back loud and clear.
"Move the tanks back, at least two hundred yards, all of them, now," Dean told him, skidding slightly as he reached the truck, and ripped the back flap aside.
"Hua," Sean said tersely and gave the orders, running up the embankment to get a look at the lines of tanks. The engines rumbled and the tracks clanked as they backed out of line, retreating from the edge of the slope.
Dean saw the box and grabbed the gas-propelled flare cartridges, stuffing them into his pockets as he looked around for the grenade launcher. There were three in the rack and he took one, loading the cartridges as he climbed back out of the truck, lifting and firing it as soon as he'd cleared the canvas.
The cartridge shot out of the tube, leaving a pale blue contrail and the flare exploded at the apex, the magnesium canister burning a brilliant white light across the field as the small parachute opened and the flare began to descend slowly. Under the intense light, the demons writhed and burned, their shapes visible to the men on the ground.
Loading and firing, Dean shot a dozen more flares over the trenches, the high-pitched screams of the demons and the roar of automatic gunfire drowning out the pop and hiss of the launcher. He tossed the launcher and a couple of the canisters at Drew as the tall, broad-shouldered man ran up to the truck, turning back to grab more.
"Keep it all lit up," he grunted as Russell took the next launcher and a dozen canisters. "They can't tolerate the light."
Russell nodded and turned away, loading and firing toward the southern end of the lines. Dean climbed out of the truck, eyes narrowed against the merciless white glare, watching the demons falling out of the sky, hit by the fusillade of bullets, or burned up by the gradually descending incandescence.
A breather, he thought to himself. That's all.
"That was a clever trick."
He spun around to face the figure behind him, eyes widening fractionally at the sight of the angel and the hundred men and women standing around him, tall and perfect, armoured and carrying weapons.
"Who the hell are you?"
"Balthazar, at your service." The angel inclined his head, his expression amused. "A friend of Castiel's," he elaborated, waving a languid hand at the Qaddiysh and nephilim behind him. "Who requested that I bring you some help."
Dean stared at him. "Where's Cas? Are the angels coming?"
"I'm afraid not," Balthazar said, his tone coloured with regret. "The rebels have started a war and Michael won't release the Host."
Glancing at the fallen angels and the swords and shields they held, Dean asked, "They going to be any use against rifles and bombs?"
The closest Watcher smiled thinly. "Your weapons cannot destroy us."
Dean remembered. "Good, we got demons coming up both sides, trying to get past," he said, gesturing abruptly to the southern end of the line. "You could take them out, save us some men."
The Watcher nodded and turned, and they moved away fast, long strides quickening to a run as they headed down the west-facing incline of the embankment.
Dean looked at Balthazar and the three Watchers who hadn't moved. He recognised the middle one. Long, dark hair and green eyes, broad-shouldered under the archaic armour. Araquiel, he thought. From whom the Winchesters had descended.
"You sticking around?"
The angel shook his head. "We have to find Kokabiel and break him free. The demons will be sent back to Hell without his control."
Dean stared at him coolly. "Well, what the hell are you waiting for?"
Balthazar smiled and the air shifted as the four disappeared.
The distant buzzing had been getting louder for the last few minutes, and he turned around, lifting a hand to shade his eyes against the brilliance of the flares, staring to the south-east. It took a few minutes before he was able to pick out the plane against the cluttered background but his mouth quirked up as he recognised the outline, the engines growing louder as the plane began to descend.
The Herc lumbered across the sky, under the cloud, bouncing furiously in the turbulence. Dean watched the missiles falling, pushed out of the rear cargo door by the looks of them, and heard the roar of his people as the first one hit the ground on the other side of the interstate, exploding on impact with a massive spout of fire and swelling clouds of smoke. Passing straight over the county road, the plane banked at the far end, its guns shredding the demons that swarmed toward it, and dropped another line of destruction on the way back.
He wondered who was piloting as it made another tight turn, gaining altitude then swooping down and turning west, the shell falling out and hitting something further away. Just get out of here now, he thought, watching the plane as it climbed. We can take it from here.
As if he'd been heard, the plane kept climbing and banked away, heading south in a long, curving arc.
Litteris Hominae, Kansas
Jerome frowned at the message on the screen as he tried to imagine all the implications of the new information. He leaned forward, fingers over the keyboard.
Is it possible that the Grigori leading the army are not the original angels but doppelgängers created by that machine?
He hit enter and waited, fingers drumming impatiently on the desk's smooth surface.
"Inner tension is bad for the heart, Jerome."
Jasper walked down the stairs and stopped beside him, glancing at the screen and back to the legacy. "What's got you all wound up now?"
Jerome gestured at the screen. "Alain sent through some new information on the Grigori," he said shortly. "They found the European base."
"Good," Jasper said, pulling the chair from the next workstation across and sitting down. "Or … not good?"
"Definitely not good." He rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. "Luc and Marc found a machine in the building, and at least some of the notes of what they were doing with it."
Jasper raised a brow quizzically. "And?"
"It appears that the necromancers have found a way to marry certain technology with magic." Jerome looked at him. "It seems to be the way they were able to create the exact copies of themselves when they fled Germany."
"The doppelgängers? They use a machine?" Jasper turned over the information in his mind. "And it was used recently?"
"Apparently," Jerome said tiredly. "At least the one in Europe was."
"The copies, though, they don't have the powers of the original fallen?"
"We don't know."
"Do you think there is another like it here?" Jasper turned as the computer beeped softly, both men leaning forward to read the response from the Chambre d'Ombres.
It is possible but unlikely. The procedure, as much as we can deduce from the notes Luc brought back, appears to be extremely painful and unless there was a compelling need to escape, our profiles on the Grigori in the US suggests that they wouldn't use it on themselves.
"God, what does that mean?" Jerome asked no one in particular, brows drawn tightly together. He reached for the keyboard.
Why have it if not to use?
Jasper read the comment over his shoulder. "Diversion? Deflection? Decoys?"
"If they're not making copies of themselves, I don't see how that would benefit them," Jerome argued irritably. "The procedure is too painful for the original and draws too much from the magician to enable mass copying."
Expediency? Don't know. Not enough information.
The two men looked at the screen and sighed together.
"Maybe they had it but didn't use it," Jasper suggested, looking back at the legacy. "Did Michel get any useable images from the satellite showing Denver yet?"
Jerome stared sullenly at the screen for a moment, then shook his head. "Not yet, another four hours, he said."
"Penemue said that he lost contact when the cloud covered the area."
"I don't think we'll know what's going on there until it's over." Jerome pushed himself away from the desk and turned his chair. "Has Oliver delivered the pastes to the keeps?"
Jasper nodded. "Went out yesterday, enough to drown the army, according to Merrin."
"Good," Jerome commented sourly. "By my best estimates of what they're facing, we'll need every bit we can get."
Byers, Colorado
A gust of putrefaction blew over him and Dean ducked, twisting around and firing three shots into the chest of the rotting corpse behind him. He watched it fall backwards, arms still raised with the long machete clutched in bony hands.
Pushing off the ground, he fired again at a wild-eyed woman running toward him, the sigil-engraved bullets hitting skull and chest and dropping the meatsuit as the demon was bound tightly within it.
Not so much skill required, he thought distractedly, as being able to see them coming before they got there.
Around him, the water of the stream was muddy and red-tinged, bodies lying on both shallow banks, spread up the slopes and unseen in the deeper craters of the mines. They'd gotten rid of a lot of the dead army as it'd come down the mountains but even here, the animated corpses outnumbered the living possessed by a factor of three.
The entire area was still lit with the brilliant argentine light of the flares and most of the winged shadow demons had fallen. He looked up the western slope and started climbing again, the automatic in one hand. The rifle had run out of ammo and was too likely to over-penetrate when the army had finally overrun the trenches and for what he needed to do, his auto and the long-barrelled Colt tucked in through his belt would be more than enough. The Grigori were here.
He came over the crest warily, half crouched as he looked along the top. Several trucks were grouped a couple of hundred yards away, mostly intact. The bulk of their heavy guns and the tanks that had made it down to the plain were gone, gaping cracks and craters where they'd been, blackened and the earth and detritus still burning in them. Closer to what remained of the shattered interstate he saw a firefight between the demon-possessed and his men, both sides taking cover in the ruins of the road and the columns that had supported it. He watched a grenade lob gently over the kill-zone in between them and explode a little above the ground, the shrapnel ricocheting from the hard concrete surfaces like a swarm of hornets, cutting down the group of walking corpses.
The sight brought no feeling one way or the other. He hadn't felt anything in particular since Cas had healed him, and had told him that they were on their own. He wasn't sure if it was temporary protection or a permanent state now. It wasn't a concern. He had a job to finish and the frozen emptiness that seemed to fill him helped with keeping that clear.
Straightening up slowly, he started walking toward the trucks. A curl of grey smoke rose lazily from behind the middle of the grouped vehicles and he was pretty sure they weren't cooking back there, at least not in the conventional sense. The back of his neck prickled suddenly and he turned, slowing as a man came out from behind the ruined carcass of a tank, tall and lean in dust-covered dark clothes, weathered face crinkling into a chilling smile as he lengthened his stride.
Dean saw the long, black metal blade in his hand and stopped, hand going to the Colt's grip at his back. He yanked it free and lifted it, the sight centred between the thick black brows as he pulled the trigger.
The hole was small and a thin trickle of blood ran out, following the contour of nose and cheek and running down onto the man's lip as his smile widened and he kept on walking.
Belial.
The thought hit him and he backed up a little, thrusting the Colt back through his belt and pulling the serrated-edge knife from the sheath at the same time. It looked short and stumpy beside the reach of the demon's sword, but it was all he had.
"Dean, drop." A cool female voice was behind and to one side of him and he dropped to the ground automatically.
Winifred had the Kalashnikov stock hard against her shoulder, her head ducked to look along the barrel as she held the trigger down and the gun emptied its clip into the archdemon. The bullets punched in, expanding and remaining in the body, each one engraved with a binding sigil, holding consecrated salt and blessed water in with the load that spread through the body as it ploughed into the flesh. None of it slowed the fallen angel at all.
She didn't have time to eject the spent magazine and reload before he was on her, long, wiry fingers closing around her throat as he tore the rifle from her hands. Dean sprang to his feet behind the demon and slashed across the backs of the man's thighs with the knife, gripping his neck as it sagged backwards and driving the blade deep into his back, through the ribs. Under the skin, light boiled and flickered, red and gold and white around the spelled metal.
Belial dropped Win and swung around, his speed ripping the hilt from Dean's grip, leaving the knife still embedded. His hand closed around Dean's shoulder like a vice, and he forced the hunter to his knees, bending close to look into his eyes as the vampiric touch reached into the living body and drew off energy and life and vitality.
Dean stared at the black, pupilless eyes, feeling himself grow weaker, the sensation impossible to describe, even to himself. In the depravity he saw in the depths of those eyes, he realised that he'd been kidding himself for years, imagining himself to be evil, imagining himself to have been corrupted and tainted and stained. Evil swam in the face above him, a marrow-deep corrosion that the demon exuded with every gleefully polluted breath.
Cache Valley, Utah
The ground rolled and shifted with every step he took, and he stumbled across the broken plain in fits and starts, swerving and stopping to avoid the appearing and disappearing sulphur pools, the sudden spouts of lava that seared his skin with their outflung blasts of heat, feeling his lungs and throat and mouth drying out and shrivelling from the noxious fumes that thickened the air.
The cliffs seemed no closer and Sam shook his head impatiently, stopping and closing his eyes, the triangular chip of metal with its single numeral filling his mind as soon as he recalled it. He resisted the impulse to fling out his arms for balance as the plane spun around him, clamping his jaw shut tightly with nauseating drop and sensation of violent motion. He dragged in a deep breath when it stopped, opening his eyes to see the marker, and beyond it at the end of the short tunnel the doorway standing ajar to the borderlands and Father McConnaughey lying in its shadow.
The ground beside the door was soaked in blood and Sam strode forward, dropping to his knees as he saw the long cut in the priest's forearm, the trickle of blood still seeping out. He tightened his hand around the wound and yanked the sleeve from his shirt, folding it awkwardly one-handed and wrapping the forearm with it tightly.
"What the hell were you thinking?" he asked the old man as he gripped his wrist and pulled him to his feet, ducking under and putting his arm around Father McConnaughey's ribs.
"Didn't have another vial of the guardian's blood," the priest whispered ruefully as he tried to walk beside the young hunter. "Remembered what Dean had said about getting out with that demon."
"I have another vial of Cerberus' blood," Sam told him acerbically.
"Ah."
Sam felt the wind through the door increase, pushing his hair back from his face and cooling and drying his sweat. "I think we're all out of time."
He shuffled through the gap, easing the priest around the edge of rock and bracing himself as the wind strengthened further, pushing hard at them now. The pewter-coloured clouds were getting darker and he saw that the darkness was gathering in points along the other side of the river. Where the gates to the real world are, he thought, shifting his grip on the old man and hurrying faster.
"Pilgrim!"
His head snapped around at the deep voice, shoulders swinging and almost lifting Father McConnaughey off his feet as they both stared at the boatman.
"Come, they are returning!"
"The demons?" Sam glanced again at the gathering darkness on the other shore. A vortex was forming there, he could see the leaves and branches being torn from the trees as the speed and pressure of the whirlwind increased. "How do we get out if the demons are coming in?"
"Come!"
The prow of the boat sank deeply into the grey mud as Sam climbed in, handing the priest to the boatman who lifted him easily to the centre. Sam clung to the gunwale and pushed off the bank with one foot, swinging himself inboard as the boat came free with a sucking gasp. Charon drove his oar against the current's flow and the small vessel spun around, sending Sam to the bottom as he lost his balance. He straightened up as they began to move downriver, the oar driving them forward fast.
"Is there a place we can leave here?"
The boatman nodded, his gaze remaining fixed to the river, adjusting their course to one side or the other with a deft twist of the oar as they continued to gain speed. Sam looked at the priest lying on the other side of the centre thwart, his face pale and waxy with sweat. He wondered how much blood the old man had lost in his misguided attempt to help, then caught the corner of his lip between his teeth as he considered the possibility of the strong, buoyant energy he felt flowing through him. Would it help the priest?
He reached over the seat, and looked at the makeshift dressing on McConnaughey's arm. It was still clean, the flow of blood stopped, at least for now. Leaning further, he rested his palm over the priest's forehead and closed his eyes, searching for the source of the clean, bright power inside, for the wellspring of the contentment he could still feel.
Charon glanced at the two men in the bottom of the boat for a brief moment, seeing a flicker of light pass from the younger man to the older, seeing the older man arch upward, drawing in a deep breath and slump back down, his skin less pale, more ruddy than it had been before. He shifted his gaze back to the river, assured now that he was making the right decision.
The boat tossed and rolled on the quickening current, lurching occasionally to one side or the other as it followed the water foaming around the rocks. Sam lifted his hand and looked down at Father McConnaughey, seeing the grey tinge beneath the pale skin of the priest had gone. He gripped the side of the boat and shifted his hand to rest against the old man's chest as they heeled over, Charon thrusting the oar against the rock and keeping them off.
He could hear a deepening rumble ahead of them, and hoped it wasn't what he thought it was. A flickered glance at Charon's set, craggy features suggested that the boatman was using all of his considerable strength and skill to keep them upright and moving in the right direction as the river became more and more wild.
"Much further?" he asked, flinching slightly as they swept between two high, jagged rocks.
"No," Charon said tonelessly, driving the oar into the water deeper and twisting it to avoid another outcropping.
Sam cleared his throat as he looked back at the boatman. "Uh, you know, as much as we appreciate your help, I'm kind of wondering what you're getting out of this?"
For a long moment, the boatman didn't answer, his expression unchanging. Then he looked down at Sam.
"I have carried the souls of the damned along the rivers of Hell for forty thousand years," he said, his voice deep and rough. "It was a punishment. God promised that when the gates were closed, I would be free of my sentence."
Sam swallowed slightly at the admission, wondering what the man had done to deserve a term like that. "Has anyone tried before?"
Charon's mouth widened suddenly, showing a set of big, uneven teeth. "Thousands."
Thousands, Sam thought, unable to take that in. "What happened to them?"
The boatman's brows drew together and Sam followed his gaze, seeing the white water ahead, hearing the roar of the falls now. The boat jerked sharply and he was snapped forward, his ribs cracking against the solid timber thwart as Charon dug the oar in and swung it to one side. The light craft spun on the water, bow pointing to the bank and the boatman sculled furiously, driving them out of the current into a quiet hollow in the bend of the river.
The prow crunched against the shore and jerked again, more gently this time. Sam clambered to his feet, looking back at Charon.
"They died. Here, in the jaws of the guardian, or in the levels, or outside when they tried to run from their contract," Charon said quietly, moving forward as Sam stepped onto the shore, helping the priest to his feet and Sam's support. "They were not right. Not the right one."
He reached out as Sam shifted Father McConnaughey's weight over his shoulder, gripping the hunter's arm.
"When the last demon passes through the outer gates, Hell will be closed to mortal and demon alike." He looked at the shimmering mirage of the gate that stood half-open between the river and the thin woods behind it. "Only the souls will be able to pass into this place, and they will never be able to leave. Do you understand?"
Sam nodded. "Thanks, uh, thank you."
"Go fast, the storm is building, the winds will become stronger and stronger."
Byers, Colorado
In the grip of the archdemon, Dean's head fell forward and he looked at his hands with a vague astonishment. The skin was thin and papery, dried and stretched out tautly over the bones. Was the fucking thing ageing him? Or taking his life, every particle of it? He tried to lift his head to see Belial's face, but the effort was impossible. He compromised by rolling it to one side, eyes rolling as well as he looked up at an angle.
The archdemon's hand spasmed on his shoulder, the fingers biting into him then loosening. Focussing on his face harder, Dean saw the smile fall away, the black eyes widen as his body twitched and jerked. An unexpected surge of energy returned to him, fed, he thought incoherently, through the hand that still clutched at him. Backflush? Was that even possible?
He turned his head as he heard a heavy thud to one side, watching as three of the possessed soldiers dropped bonelessly to the ground, the charcoal smoke of the demons bursting out of the mouths. The long streamers of smoke didn't look like they were leaving voluntarily, he realised, as he saw them elongating against the darker cloud overhead. They looked like … they were being … pulled.
Belial arched backward and for a second Dean saw straight through him, the trucks behind him clearly visible for a flickering moment. His eyes screwed shut as a monstrous wave of power fell into him, his hands flying up and fists clenching as the demon shrieked in his mind, a ragged insectile scream of rage and fear.
The archdemon staggered again, lurching to the side, staring at his lifted hands, as the construct he wore began to break apart. Dean fell back, sucking in huge breaths as he watched the archdemon flicker and distort, face and body pulled from multiple directions at once, the black eyes that had been filled with an evil too deep to define, now wide open in disbelief.
He did it. The knowledge finally came to him, and he rolled onto his side, an unconscious grin spreading over his face. His little brother had done it. He looked around, seeing the bodies dropping everywhere now, the demons ribboning up into the air and twining together to form dark clouds that were definitely being pulled or sucked west and south, back towards the nearest gates.
Pushing himself up until he was sitting, he looked back at the archdemon. Belial was barely visible, stretched upwards and outwards, the construct of the man like a vision in a carny mirror, elongating and thinning as he was drawn by the irresistible force to the west.
"HE DID IT!" Dean screamed at the archdemon, getting to his feet, his voice cracking with the mix of fury and a diamond-hard, sun-bright joy.
The archdemon stared down at him for a moment longer then blinked out, a rushing spiral of air picking up the dirt around him and whipping it into the sky. Overhead, the clouds were breaking up, the power that had held and charged them gone.
Lawrence, Kansas
"Not much further, come on," Sam panted, shifting his grip on the staggering priest again and looking out from under the sweaty fall of hair over his forehead as he half-walked, half-ran for the gate.
"Sam, just leave me," Father McConnaughey groaned, feeling his toes catch and drag on the ground, slowing them further.
Sam didn't even dignify the comment with a look. The wind was shrieking through the gate now, buffeting them this way and that, and carrying with it streamers and thinning shreds of smoke, flashes of malevolence and pungent odour that they closed their senses against as they gained the ground foot by foot.
He could see the sunlight on the other side, the thick, rank green grass springing up just behind the shimmering portal, full-canopied trees beyond that. They were going to make it. They had to make it.
The rainbow-tinted air flickered for a moment, thickening and his heart leapt into his throat. More smoke and intangible but easily sensed entities flowed through above him, the wind screaming through the gap and battering their faces with leaves and twigs and dirt from the other side. He thrust Father McConnaughey through as the gate seemed to pulse, no longer transparent but barely translucent, the forest thirty yards away on this side waveringly visible behind it and felt a vicious slash across his forehead and scalp, ducking and crawling as he glanced up.
Above him, holding their own against the pressure of the wind, eyes looked down at him, black and ancient and filled with malice. Sam lunged forward, feeling another long scratch slice through his jacket and shirt, through the skin of his back, and he clenched his teeth, head ducked down as he fought to get through the last few feet to the gate and through. Ahead of him, he could just make out the priest's boots, digging into the soft, long grass.
A high-pitched, ice-pick sound bore into his mind and he flicked a look back involuntarily, knowing the sound that wasn't a sound, seeing the black eyes disappearing as a cloud of black swept through the gate and smothered it, carrying it across the river. The gate pulsed again and this time the forest behind it was almost solid, he couldn't see Father McConnaughey or the grass through the opening and he scrabbled in the dirt, driving himself forward, bracing himself against the expectation of hitting the solid gate … or nothing, he thought despairingly.
A hand gripped his wrist and yanked at him hard and he fell forward, snatching his feet and legs up, drawing them tight against himself as he felt the pressure of the gate clutching at them.
The wind was gone.
Sitting up, Sam looked around, starting back a little as he saw the leaning stone beside him, its shape tugging at his memories with an old, old familiarity.
In the hot, close air and harsh sunlight, the weathered stone and its engraved sentiment were as sharp as a black and white photograph. He saw the edges were crumbling, the letters were worn, but still legible.
Dedicated to the memory of the hundred and fifty citizens who defenceless fell victims to the inhuman ferocity of border guerrillas of the infamous Quantrill in his raid upon Lawrence. August 21st 1883.
Staring at the stone disbelievingly, Sam was barely aware of the man beside him releasing his arm and sitting up.
"Quantrill led the group in retaliation of Lane's attack on Osceola," Father McConnaughey said quietly. "They kept up the attacks on both sides in the name of revenge. The gate opened here when the men were massacred and who knows how many of the later attacks were driven by the possession of formerly rational men?"
"We're in Lawrence?" Sam asked, his mind reeling at the too-many, too-close coincidences that kept piling up. No such as coincidence, Bobby's rough, dry voice said in his mind.
"Two hundred and twenty miles from home," the priest confirmed, looking to the west. "More or less. Gonna be a long, hard walk."
Sam lifted his face to the sunlight, pushing aside his thoughts of coincidence and manipulation, destiny and fate. He'd done it, he thought, eyes closing against the brightness of the blue Kansas sky. Finished what he'd started. Locked Hell down for good.
"Sam?"
Opening his eyes, he turned to look at the priest and smiled, a boyish smile that deepened the dimples in his cheeks, that lit the hazel eyes to a clear, light green, free of secrets, of worry and anxiety.
"Might not come to that."
Byers, Colorado
Julian stared at the clearing sky, watching the twisting smoke stretching out to the east, more and more bodies dropping as the demons were dragged from them and pulled back to the gates. The youngest cambion had fled. Marius and Luke had been killed by a direct hit to the ordnance truck.
"We need to go," Harrer said from beside him, his face worried as he watched more bodies falling on the opposite slope, the human army regrouping slowly as they realised what was happening. "Our advantage has gone."
The necromancer's face hardened and Harrer drew back a little. Julian smiled suddenly at him.
"You're right, Karl. Get everyone into the truck, we leave now."
Karl blinked at the shift in his brother, but turned quickly away, unwilling to argue with the first sensible idea he'd heard all day. The losses coming down the mountain pass had been catastrophic, their ability to overwhelm the humans with sheer numbers reduced hourly as the attacks had kept coming, mines and booby-trapped bridges and sniper fire and missiles decimating their forces and their armament. Julian had laughed at those losses, paying little attention to them and assuring them all that the humans would not be able to field a countering force on the plain where the advantage would lie with the larger army. Even the sight of them, dug in and prepared, hadn't dampened Lehmann's confidence.
The tanks had.
And the planes had been a surprise, to all of them, Karl thought. Their losses had been severe.
"Hey."
Karl swung around, his thoughts scattering as he saw the man come around the truck behind him, eyes bright in the dirt-covered face, a long-barrelled pistol in his hand.
"Wh-what?"
"Time to die."
The bullet hit the fallen angel in the chest and he convulsed as blue fire filled him, crackling from mouth and eyes, lighting up skeleton and organs from inside.
Dean swung around as he heard the rumble of a truck engine start up. He accelerated around the big Army carrier the Grigori had come past and skidded to a halt, watching the moving truck veering wildly from side to side as it negotiated the craters and piles of debris and picked up speed, heading for the interstate.
Sonofabitch. Looking back at the truck behind him, he ran a fast glance over its wheels and grabbed the driver's door, pulling it open and climbing inside, the Colt tossed on the bench seat beside him as his fingers found the keys in the ignition and he turned it.
Deuce and a half, he thought absently. Standard Army cargo or transport and the same model as the one that had just left. The big engine was multi-fuel and had a top speed of around sixty, pushing it. He pulled out, seeing the belch of black smoke in the side mirror as the transmission responded quickly to the press of the accelerator.
Rufus looked up at the roar of the engine on the other side of the river, eyes narrowing as he watched the driver weaving in and out and reaching the interstate. A second truck followed, and he bit back a curse as he recognised the skill of the man behind the wheel, cutting through the piles of crushed and broken concrete as he increased his speed.
"Elias!" He turned around and looked for the auburn-haired hunter. "Come on!"
Elias and Win picked up their guns and hurried across the torn-apart ground. "What?"
"Dean's just taken off after the Grigori, I think," Rufus barked at him, grabbing his rifle and shoving the handgun into its holster. "We got any smaller vehicles still in one piece?"
Win nodded, gesturing toward the 36. "A few."
"Let's go."
Dean felt the accelerator hit the floor and kept the pressure on, automatically apexing the lines closest to the craters without touching their crumbling edges, gaining feet with each tightly-controlled manoeuvre. The truck ahead of him was bouncing all over the place, hitting every divot and crack and hole in the concrete road, and he looked at the back, wondering how many it held and how much they were carrying. He had no load, and it would make a difference, even with the lead they had.
He had another six bullets for the Colt in his jacket, he thought, glancing briefly at the revolver on the seat. He'd used two of the five in the cylinder. He wasn't sure he'd have enough time to reload when he stopped them, swearing mildly at the lack of time they'd had to get the cylinder reloader working.
Just bring 'em down, he told himself, fingers tightening around the big, vinyl-covered wheel as he sashayed the truck around another crater. With any luck, he'd be able to take his time killing them.
The vibrations travelled up from the wheel through his hands as the speedometer climbed past fifty. It wasn't a vehicle made for chases but the engine was good and it was doing its best. And he was still gaining, catching glimpses now and again in the side mirrors of the truck ahead, barely-seen flickers of faces, staring back at him.
Beneath the layers of ice and emptiness, the fury was still there, seething away to itself. Sam had closed the gates and he was within reach of the Grigori, within reach of killing them all. He couldn't feel an emotional response to that thought, just a flat satisfaction.
Ahead, the Grigori truck swerved violently, almost lifting at one side and he saw the wide fissure crossing most of the road, easing the truck over to the very edge to avoid it, gaining another hundred feet as the truck in front of him slowed down to regain control. It was both a confirmation that the driver was feeling the pressure of the pursuit and that he wasn't all that skilled with a vehicle of that size and weight.
The road began to climb and the gap between the two trucks began to diminish more quickly, Dean's long run-off at top speed carrying the deuce easily up as the Grigori struggled to get more power with his greater weight and slower approach speed.
He looked along the sides of the interstate as he crept closer. He wanted something definitive, something to stop the chase and hopefully shake them up enough to reduce their advantages of strength and speed.
A strip of rubber suddenly flew out from under the truck ahead and he grinned coldly, running over it and watching other pieces expelled as the retread gave up. Leaning forward a little as he eased to one side, he calculated their relative speeds and wished fervently for a manual transmission, that he would've been able to coax a little more power from. He guessed the other driver was wishing for the same thing.
Four hundred yards ahead, the on-ramp from a crossroad caught his attention and he nodded slightly to himself, hearing the shrieking revs of his engine as he came even with the rear of the truck to his right. He could see the driver's face clearly in the mirror and knew what the abrupt change in expression meant almost before it had registered.
The Grigori truck slowed suddenly and Dean was already braking as well, not as heavily as he came level with the truck's cab. He wrenched the wheel to the right, and the metal panels screamed as they grated over each other, the Grigori truck being forced sideways, the driver yelling incomprehensively and struggling with the wheel.
Dean pushed hard to the right again, and behind them the tyres left thick black marks and clouds of smoke as they were forced across the road's surface, closer to the edge. The driver tried to accelerate again but the incline worked against him now, and the bull nose and bar of the deuce slammed into the wheel arch, driving the curved metal into the outside tyres and blowing one.
Grinning like a shark, Dean swung the wheel over and yanked it back. The Grigori truck hit the guardrail at the side of the ramp and tripped over it, twisting viciously as it catapulted over the drop and hit the ramp twenty feet below on its wheels, all three outside tyres blowing with the impact, the truck rolling twice more and ramming into a concrete pillar under the edge of the interstate.
Hitting the brake, Dean twisted slightly, thumping the transmission into reverse and watching the ramp's rapid approach in the mirror. When he was level with it, he changed back, accelerating again to knock aside the rusted remains of two cars blocking the entrance, the engine howling as the transmission struggled to transfer the power to the axles. He bounced down the cracked concrete surface, no longer interested in saving his tyres or suspension, and pulled up in front of the crushed truck, grabbing the Colt and swinging out of the cab as the back flap of the cargo tray opened and a tall, bloodied young man half fell to the ground, lifting a wobbling gun toward him.
The Colt fired, and the bullet hit the nephilim in the forehead, a coronial burst of light flaring brilliantly, a small black hole left in the creature's skull when it died away.
Grabbing a handful of the bullets from his pocket, Dean broke the old-fashioned breech and slid four more into the cylinder, his gaze flicking up when the barrel of a rifle swung around from the torn canvas.
He hit the ground, rolling to one side as the gun chattered, the bullets going over him to and to one side, the simple extrapolation of the shooter's position flashing through his head as his fingers reassembled the gun automatically and he fired the Colt again. The rifle barrel fell and the gun slid out of the back of the truck to land clattering on the concrete.
Two down, Dean thought, pulling the hammer back and getting warily to his feet. He heard the creak of the other cab door opening and moved back, going around behind the canted rear of the truck and lifting the Colt as he saw a man fall out and hit the road, short blond hair matted with blood that was still flowing. The Colt's bullet hit the back of the man's head and blue lightning crackled through the body.
That made three. Which, he considered remotely, would be more use if he knew how many there were in total.
The flap at the back of the truck shifted and he backed fast along the crumbling shoulder, the Colt's long barrel rising when he reached the corner of the vehicle. Dean stared at the man standing on the steep incline of the truck's bed. Long, white hair blew around the pale face, streaked with blood; a bleeding cut open down the forehead; a long, black leather coat … a memory stirred restlessly as he took in the details and frowned at the feeling of recognition.
"Winchester, isn't it?" The man's tenor was casually curious and the question dragged Dean's attention back to the man, shunting the unresolved memory aside. "Julian Lehmann."
"You one of the Nazis?" he asked, lip curling slightly as he looked pointedly at the long coat.
Lehmann laughed softly. "Ancient history."
"Not to some folks," Dean countered, lifting the Colt and centring the sight on the man's chest.
The necromancer disappeared behind the canvas as Dean's finger tightened on the trigger and a woman was thrust out, the Grigori hidden mostly behind her as she was pushed out of the truck and landed awkwardly on the road.
A cold frisson discharged through his nerves as he looked at the tangled, bloodied and dirty fall of hair that covered her face, his gaze skimming over the thin dress that was stretched taut over her swollen breasts and belly, flapping around grime-and-blood-covered thin arms and legs.
Behind her, Lehmann took a handful of hair and yanked her to her feet, pulling her head back. Her hair spilled away and the bright sunlight lit her clearly.
Dean saw her face. The bones were too prominent. Wide, storm-coloured eyes and full mouth looked too big against the sunken hollows of her cheeks. A detail leapt out at him, beneath the dirt and blood and bruises. A small scar. Over one brow. From the ghoul attack, he remembered.
Strawberry Peak, Utah
The huge house was empty and abandoned and Jesse ran down the hall, hearing Sabrine's light footfalls behind him. The mirror had not gone with the Grigori.
"What are you doing?" Sabrine hissed as he slowed at the doorway to the room.
"Getting Hubertus," he told her, pushing the door wide and walking quickly across the room to the black-mantled frame. Dust motes danced and sparkled in the sunshine as they were skirled from the floor. Sabrine glanced over her shoulder at the corridor.
Jesse.
"Hubertus, I didn't get the spell!"
No matter. They are coming, I think. I can feel the light of the angel.
"Who?" The boy sucked in a sharp breath as he struggled to lift down the heavy frame from the hook in the wall. "What angel?"
The gates have been shut. The demons are gone. And the commander has awoken.
Scowling as he staggered back under the heavy mirror, fingers scrabbling to keep the cloth covering every inch, Jesse didn't have time for the cambion's cryptic musings.
"Sabrine! Help me," he called out to her, seeing her trepidation as she walked slowly toward him. "It's alright, it's just too heavy."
Jesse, you and the girl can stay here, it will be safe.
"No!" he yelled at the mirror, his heart thumping against his ribs. "They'll kill us!"
"Who?" Sabrine stopped halfway across, staring at him.
"Nothing," Jesse said, shaking his head. "No one. Please, I'm going to drop it."
She hurried toward him and caught the corner as it slid out of his grip, readjusting the cloth.
Jesse, they will not harm you. I can talk to the angel –
"No," he repeated. There were too many unknowns and Hubertus was not the same man he remembered before the cambion had entered the mirror. He couldn't make decisions like this. He needed to be far away, from everything and everyone to take the time to think, to talk it over with Sabrine. "No, we're going."
No, wait – Jesse, this is our chance!
"Hold tight to the mirror, Sabrine," Jesse told the girl seriously and closed his eyes.
The air rushed to fill the emptiness with a soft pop as footsteps sounded down the long hall.
Balthazar heard the sound and slowed, turning to look down the hallway. There was nothing there now, he realised, angelic senses stretched deeply through the place. He wondered what had been there and vanished so effectively, leaving no track for him to feel. Beside him, Araquiel lengthened his stride.
"Hurry, I can feel him."
"The gates are closed," Balthazar murmured reassuringly. "He should be free of whatever trap the Grigori was holding him in."
Mouth thinning out, the Qaddiysh hurried to the door at the end of the hall, pushing it open and racing down the stone stairs. Balthazar and Sariel followed him, exchanging a brief look.
In the long room, the candles and circles were dead and benign, their power gone. Kokabiel turned his head slowly as he heard the footsteps ringing on the stone floor.
"Hell is closed."
"Yes," Balthazar said as Araquiel dropped in front of the Demonmaster. "So we gathered."
Getting slowly to his feet, Kokabiel shook his head at his brother's concern. "I am all right, Araquiel. Gadriel is dead."
Looking around the room, Balthazar saw the door at the far end, brows drawing together. "What lies that way?"
Kokabiel followed his gaze and shrugged. "I know not. The moment Camael brought us here, I was trapped in the circle, and the last few thousand years vanished from my memories. I commanded the Horde and opened the way for them," he said quietly, his head bowed.
"That does not lie on you!" Araquiel countered fiercely, his fingers closing around his brother's arm.
"Perhaps not," Kokabiel sighed, lifting his head. "But it happened, nonetheless."
"Where is Camael?" Sariel asked.
"I don't know," the Qaddiysh said. "I don't think he remained here, even after I was enthralled."
"Meddling elsewhere," Araquiel commented caustically. "I told Michael he was not a suitable replacement for the scribe."
Sariel smiled a little, then turned at the squeak of the door at the far end of the room. The angel stood by it, eyes half-closed as he pulled the door a little wider.
"Balthazar, we should return to our home."
"In a minute," Balthazar said absently, feeling the presence of souls close by. He lifted his hand and light blazed out from the palm, filling the deeper room and showing him the small group frozen in the open tunnel entrance to one side. Women, he thought, with a moment's unangelic surprise. And all with child. And all of them, he realised, focussing on the rapid beats of their hearts, afraid.
"This place no longer holds evil," he told them.
One woman stepped to the front of the others, her hand lifted, angled to cut the light from her eyes. "What are you?"
"I am an angel of the lord," he said, lowering his hand and softening the light. "I'm here to rescue anyone who needs rescuing."
"That so?" she responded tartly. "Can you take us somewhere safe?"
He stepped closer to them, slowing as the woman stepped back, looking at the gravid abdomens and thin, pinched faces. "Assuredly. Where do you want to go?"
Behind the woman who'd spoken out, another woman moved forward unsteadily, pushing lank, red hair back from her face. "Can you take us to the keeps, in Kansas?"
"Yes." He turned back to the door. "I'll need your help with this," he called out to the Qaddiysh in the other room. Araquiel, Sariel and Kokabiel walked into the room, stopping abruptly and staring at the women.
"Gather them between you, and hold them fast," Balthazar told them. The women walked forward and the angel saw they were half-carrying, half-dragging one in their midst. "Araquiel, get her."
The Watchers stood around them, hand to hand or shoulder and Balthazar completed the circle. He closed his eyes and drew on the souls for power.
The air whipped up in a violent spiral with the departure and died away again in the darkness.
I-70, Colorado
This is not fucking real, it's a spell or a trick, Dean thought, lifting the barrel of the Colt, the notched sight over the woman's face.
From behind the woman, Lehmann smiled. "You're going to shoot her? A splendid decision! After all, men like you and I need no hostages to fortune, do we?"
Pull the fucking trigger, he told himself, a muscle at the point of his jaw bulging as he set his teeth together. Shoot her, then the fallen. And it would be over.
Staring at him silently, he watched Alex's eyes fill, the gleam of light on the bulging edge as the tears spilled over the lower lid and ran down her face. It's a trick, his mind screamed at him, small muscles in his forefinger tightening infinitesimally.
The cold certainty that he wasn't going to finish the pull swept through him and he shifted his gaze from Alex's face to the pale face behind her, anger and pain scouring him as he heard the Grigori's laughter.
The shot was deafening in its unexpectedness. Dean started, his heart jumping in his chest as he watched the fallen angel release his hold on the woman, his gaze dragged down with her fall to the ground, the big exit wound mercifully hidden as she landed face down. A movement to his right twitched the Colt around and he took in the man leaning against the side of the truck, rifle rising, at the same time as he glimpsed the big black auto in Lehmann's hand.
He was moving, falling sideways as he pulled the trigger, and the man dropped the rifle and fell backward behind the truck, light flickering across the concrete as the bullet ate through him. The Colt was plucked from his hand by an unseen force as he turned back, an abrupt gesture from the Grigori sending it flying over the ramp's rail into the undergrowth under the main road. Dean noticed that Lehmann held something tightly gripped against his chest, then the Beretta rose and he looked into the round black bore of the handgun.
The hole appearing in the Grigori's right shoulder was inexplicable until he heard the flat crack of a rifle a fraction of a second later, watching the auto fall, Lehmann unable to keep a hold of it. Rolling hard to one side as a second hole appeared in the fallen's chest, Dean's hand snaked to the knife at the back of his belt and pulled it out.
Lehmann staggered toward the centre of the ramp, blood flowing over the leather coat, and Dean lurched to his feet, lengthening his stride and vaguely hearing shouts and the thud of feet as he pursued the necromancer across the incline. He hit the Grigori with his shoulder, sending them both crashing to the concrete and shoved the man over onto his back, wrenching at Lehmann's hand and pulling his arm back from his chest.
A chain and pendant fell free of the necromancer's hand as he drove the tip of the knife through Lehmann's ribs, and Dean's mouth twisted a little as he saw the design when the swastika pendant hit the ground. Originally, it had been a symbol of protection, he knew. Probably still was. But it was also a potent reminder of what the man under him had done.
He shifted his weight, driving the knife into the chest to the cross-guard and pulling it back, levering the ribcage apart, bones snapping and cracking under his increasing force, opening wider. Lehmann screamed and a shadow fell over his face, Dean's head snapping up to see Win standing there, both hands gripping an automatic, her face expressionless as she squeezed the trigger and put a bullet in the necromancer's head. The scream ceased.
Her gaze turned to meet his and she nodded, taking a step back. Looking back down at the split ribcage, he wondered distantly if it would be enough for her.
Working the ribs apart steadily, he was aware that he wasn't really feeling anything, his emotions cushioned or cauterised by shock, the blind, black rage he'd felt burned out … he wasn't sure what'd happened. He knew when it'd gone.
He pushed his fingers into the cavity as soon as there was room, and yanked hard at the slippery organ that rested under the lung, feeling the fragile tubes of veins and arteries split and part, hot blood gushing from them as he lifted the heart up and dragged it out.
Getting to his feet he turned and threw the organ across the ramp, blood spattering as it flew in a flat arc and hit the rocky cutting on the other side. The job was done, he thought remotely and there was still no reaction, no sense of satisfaction or release, no easing of the tension he could feel, thrumming through muscle and bone, prickling up the back of his neck and tingling in his fingertips.
He didn't look at Win, or Elias or Rufus, standing behind her, bending to wipe the knife blade on the Grigori's long coat. He wiped most of the blood that gloved his hands on it as well. The stink of it filled his nostrils and he turned away, crossing the ramp and walking into the shadows of the elevated road. The Colt was easy to see, lying in the weeds, and he picked it up, shoving the barrel through his belt.
In some part of him, held back or held down, he knew he should be feeling something. Should be dealing with what'd happened. But that was a distant part, so far away he could barely feel it. The light had gleamed on the bulging edge before it'd spilled over, a trickle down her cheek. The image was strong and every muscle in his body tightened, his head ducking and his throat closing suddenly on a scream that ached in his chest.
It wasn't her. Some fucking magic trick of the Grigori. Some cheap attempt to weaken him. Not her.
Sucking in a deep breath, he turned around, gaze fixed to the ground as he climbed back onto the ramp.
Elias watched him go then turned back to the woman lying on the concrete by the back of truck. He dropped to one knee, turning the body over, his breath hissing as he recognised her, and his eyes closing as he realised why Dean had left so abruptly. Looking up as Rufus knelt on the other side of the body, he watched Rufus' eyes widen in shock as he stared down.
"Don't know too many who can take this twice," Elias said softly.
Rufus shook his head, his mouth thinning out and his brows drawing together as he turned her head gently and pushed back the sticky hair. "Look at this."
Elias leaned over the body and saw the small mark, a blue tattoo of two capitalised i's, almost hidden by the ear.
"What's it mean?"
"I don't know, but I can tell you now that Alex never had that." Rufus let the hair fall and got up slowly, a memory of something they'd heard about the necromancers niggling at his thoughts.
"I-I?"
"Or the number two," Rufus said distractedly. He followed Dean up the slope of the ramp, Win dropping into step beside him, Elias hurrying to catch up on the other side as the engine of the Jeep they'd brought started, idling impatiently.
July 18, 2013. Byers, Colorado
Sean looked around the muddy, torn up ground, filled with the corpses of the demon army and the living survivors, the injured and those who were simply in a deep state of shock. What a fucking mess, he thought.
"Leave the corpses," he told Billy and Jack. "Get our dead into one of the craters and get Davy and Joseph and Phil every piece of medical kit we've got to tend to the injured." He looked around at Kelly. "We need all the intact vehicles up on the 36, fuelled and ready to go as soon as we've finished getting people to a stable condition, whatever munitions we've still got packed up and loaded. Still gotta get home."
Kelly nodded and wheeled around, gathering up the remains of Franklin's garrison as he explained the new orders.
Sean walked over to Joseph, squatting beside him as the medic cleaned and dressed Boze's injuries. "He gonna make it?"
"I think so," Joseph said. "A couple of breaks. His bell got rung pretty good and he lost a lot of blood but he's A positive so I've got plenty to give him."
"Renee'll kill me if he dies here," Sean grimaced, looking down at his friend.
"So long as we can keep him stable, he'll be okay." Joseph looked down at the mess of his patient's leg. "I'm not going to amputate. I've pumped him full of antibiotics and it's clean. The rest is going to be up to Doc Hadley when you get home."
"It's a long road, Joe," Sean said worriedly.
They both looked up as someone stopped beside them, a shadow falling over the man lying between them. Rona looked down at Boze, her mouth thinned out.
"Kelly told me to talk to you. Anyone we need to get home urgently can come with us," she said to Sean, her gaze flicking to him. "Got room for about twenty."
Sean remembered the Hercules and nodded quickly. "How close can you get?"
"Ernie's put the plane down on the interstate," she said, gesturing to the highway on the other side of the camp. "We'll be able to use Dave's road as a runway when we get back to Tawas."
She glanced around, her forehead creasing up. "Where's Franklin?"
"He didn't make it," Sean told her.
Nodding, she looked back down at Joseph. "Bring the ones who are the worst. We'll go as soon as you've loaded them."
July 19, 2013. West Keep, Kansas
Bobby looked up as the Qaddiysh stopped talking mid-sentence, head cocked to one side.
"What?"
Penemue pushed back his chair and got to his feet, turning for the door. "They've returned, with an angel," he said to Bobby over his shoulder as he strode out of the room.
"Angel?" Jackson lifted a brow at the old hunter.
"Cas, maybe," Bobby said, getting up and following Penemue, slowing a little as he heard Jackson rising behind him. "Must have found the Grigori base."
"Then they've killed them? It's over?" Jackson lengthened his stride to catch up.
"I hope so," Bobby said fervently.
The huge hall was full of people when they walked in, and they heard Merrin's voice rising about the rest, hoarse and filled with a sharp worry.
"Move aside!"
In the centre of the crowd, a tall, thin man in gleaming armour stood, massive wings folded tightly against his back, looking around bemusedly. Next to him, Penemue was talking to three others – Qaddiysh, Bobby realised, taller than men, the unnatural symmetry of their features giving them away. The fallen angels stood protectively around a group of women, and Merrin was kneeling on the floor beside one. She looked up as he walked over, her face drawn and pale.
"Bobby, get the doc out here straight away and get someone to help these women to the wards," she snapped, looking back at the woman on the floor beside her. Bobby took off for the medical offices and Jackson singled out several young men to follow him and get gurneys.
"What's wrong?" he said, hunkering down beside the nurse.
Merrin glanced up at him and moved aside a little and Jackson looked down at the face of the woman she was hovering over. His breath caught in his throat as he recognised her.
"That's – that's not possible," he whispered.
"We'll know more soon," Merrin said, taking the thin wrist and holding it. "She's in labour, early stages but it's been going on for some time according to the others." She glanced at the other women standing nearby. "And it's not progressing."
The rumble of rubber wheels across the stone floor interrupted her and she and Jackson got to their feet, moving aside as the gurney stopped. They lifted the woman onto it and Merrin gestured impatiently at Alan and Todd, waving them away as she pushed the gurney back to the surgery.
Jackson turned to the nearest woman, tall and gaunt, her belly pressed outwards. "I need to know the whole story."
Jane looked at him consideringly. "We need food."
Ducking his head, he acknowledged the blunt answer and hid a smile. "Alan, take these ladies to the kitchen, tell Diane and Pat to feed them up."
He watched them waddle after the boy, all in their final few days, by the looks of it. The keep had been filled with the sound of babies crying for the last couple of weeks, and Liev and Ryan had finished the additional housing that spread around the towers and along the outer walls in small single or double storey apartments. There'd be room for the new arrivals, he thought, but they were going to have to scramble to get more people trained up.
Looking back at the man in armour, he took a step closer to him. "You're an angel?"
"Balthazar," the angel confirmed. "The women were prisoners of the Grigori, but they don't appear to know why they were needed, aside from feeding a monster."
"Feeding a monster?" Jackson's forehead wrinkled up. "What's that mean?"
"The Grigori were keeping one of Nintu's firstborn, apparently," Balthazar told him, his voice dry as his gaze moved around the hall. "Spelled and bound. Their blood –" He gestured toward the hall the women had left through. "– was a part of the binding. They escaped when the monster did, they said, and have been hiding ever since."
Too much information and not enough, Jackson thought sourly. What the hell had Alex been doing there? Alex who had died in Iowa.
"Are the Grigori dead? Is the battle over?" he asked the angel, pushing the rest aside.
"The gates of Hell are closed," Kokabiel said, stepping forward. "The demons the Grigori used were pulled free of the army and returned to the accursed plane."
"That's good news," Bobby commented, walking up behind Jackson. "What about our people? And Sam? And Dean?"
"I don't know," the Qaddiysh told him.
Balthazar looked from the Demonmaster to the hunter. "My task was to provide help to the human army. Castiel sent me. That's done and I must return the Qaddiysh to their home. There are more Grigori, marching across Asia. This isn't over, you know."
Jackson exchanged a look with Bobby, his expression sour. "No, figured it wouldn't be."
"BP's falling," Bob Hadley said tersely. "She's nine centimetres, Merrin and they're coming out now, but she's hardly responsive."
"Do you want to do a c-section?" the nurse asked abruptly.
Hadley shook his head. "Give her the picotin drip."
Merrin nodded and retrieved the labour-inducing medication from the drawer, hanging the bag from the frame and changing the tubes. Her gaze shifted between the doctor and the woman lying on the table.
When they'd washed the dirt and blood from her, she'd seen the needle marks. Hundreds of them. Running up and down the length of her arms and legs, double rows, all on the outside of her limbs and down her sides, even a double row that bisected the soles of her feet. She couldn't imagine what procedure had required such a thing, or how it was that each mark was precisely the same distance from the next and the rows aligned exactly. The needles had been quite large and from the bruising that underlaid the regions where they'd been inserted, they had gone deep and had been inserted more than once. Cleaned up and under the pitiless glare of the surgical lights, the nurse had seen she had no reserves of fat left, muscle falling in around the bone, which protruded sharply against her skin. The children she carried were both living, perhaps a little smaller than they should've been, but alive and, she thought, healthy and ready to be born. It was their mother who might not survive.
"Good, okay," Bob said a moment later. "We're going again."
Merrin squeezed out the excess water from the warm flannel washcloth, the trickle of the water going back into the bowl the only sound in the quiet room. Beside the bed, the two infants were sleeping, swaddled firmly in light blankets. Both were healthy, a little underweight from their mother's ordeal but otherwise fine.
She looked down at Alex again, the soapy cloth moving in steady circles over the pale skin. They could give her the nutrients she needed, could replace blood and tend to the cuts and wounds but they had no idea what had been done to her, or what effects it might have had on her physical condition. The marks lined up with both the major blood vessels and the nervous system, and neither she, nor Bob, could think of a reason for it.
Blood tests matched to the ones they on file. And Merrin was convinced it was Alex anyway, although she couldn't think of anything to explain what might've happened. She lifted the cloth and rinsed it again, her gaze snapping back as she caught movement in her peripheral vision.
Alex opened her eyes, turning her head a little as she looked around the room.
"Alex?" Merrin breathed, looking down at her.
Grey-green irises, flecked here and there with blue, rimmed in a darker blue, looked back. There was no recognition in them, Merrin realised after a second, they stared at her blankly.
"It's Merrin, honey," she said, picking up Alex's hand and holding it. "You're home. This is West Keep."
Alex's gaze moved past her, her brows drawing together slightly as she looked around the plain room. "I don't … I don't remember."
"It'll come back," Merrin said reassuringly, hoping that was the truth. "You – we think that you've been through a terrible trauma," she added.
Alex looked back at her, a flicker of doubt crossing her face. "I don't remember anything."
"I know," the nurse said, trying to keep the worry out of her voice. "You need to rest, Alex. You have two beautiful children –"
She turned to look at the infants and Alex's gaze followed hers curiously.
"They're mine?"
"A boy and a girl, just like Kim said," Merrin told her, grimacing inwardly at the choice of words as she heard them come out. Kim was dead. And Alex didn't remember her anyway.
"Who's the father?"
Merrin swallowed uncomfortably. "He's a good man," she said. "He's not here right now, but he'll be home soon. His name is Dean, Dean Winchester. He's a hero, Alex, he saved us all, really, more than once."
She hoped he would be home soon. They hadn't heard anything from Colorado.
"How do you feel?" she asked, hoping Alex wouldn't want to know more about Dean just yet.
"Tired," Alex said. "Uh, sore."
"You need to rest, to get back your strength." Merrin looked down at the lines of black dots that patterned the arm in front of her. "Alex, do you know what caused these?"
Alex looked disinterestedly at her arm, shaking her head slowly. "No."
"Could you eat something? Something light?"
"Maybe."
"I'll be back in a minute, then," Merrin told her, releasing her hand and straightening up. "It's good to have you back."
"Was I – um – gone for long?" she asked, the frown still there.
"Four months."
"Can you tell me what happened?"
"As soon as you've had something to eat," Merrin said. "We'll figure it out together, okay?"
"Okay."
US-36 E, Colorado
Rufus flicked a glance across the cab to the man leaning into the corner of the passenger seat. Dean hadn't said anything since they'd pulled out. He wasn't sleeping, Rufus could see that much. The hunched up frame was radiating tension.
Ahead of them, a line of trucks followed the straight stretch of the highway toward the state line. Another hour and they'd be in Kansas. And then they'd be home. He glanced in the side mirror, checking on the vehicles that followed them. They'd lost nearly a thousand and were carrying home almost as many injured. It wasn't that bad for what had happened, he thought. The Herc had lifted off the previous afternoon, heading east with Boze and a dozen other critical cases. The dead had been burned and then buried, and Miller had carved a marker stone for the mass graves, a short description of the battle, a list of their names.
It wasn't the losses that were eating at Dean. And he didn't think he was worried about Sam either despite a lack of concrete information about his brother.
"What about the Grigori here, in the US?" he'd asked Bobby over a glass of whiskey.
"Nazis, apparently, or Russians," Bobby said tiredly, with a half-shrug. "Made copies of themselves so they could get away clean. Jerome called 'em doppelgängers."
"Heard of that," Rufus had acknowledged. "Lotta lore about them, from death visions to messengers."
"Yeah, well, these ain't either. Just carbon copies, memories an' all," Bobby had said sourly. "An' we've been looking for anything that might support that, how they did it, but we ain't found nothing and no one else has either."
The memory returned to him whole. He'd just gotten back from looking for survivors and Bobby had filled him in on what had been going on since he'd left. Carbon copies. It might be an explanation. Even of the roman numeral behind the ear of the woman they'd thought was Alex. Dean hadn't mentioned a tattoo on the first 'Alex' killed but that was understandable. If they were just copies, where was Alex? Still alive, somewhere at the Grigori base, maybe? He cleared his throat.
"Dean, you know that – that woman wasn't really Alex."
Dean lifted his head and looked at him.
"I mean, Jerome said those bastards had a way to copy people, maybe they copied Alex," Rufus continued, ignoring the warning in the shadowed green eyes studying him. "Maybe she's still alive somewhere?"
"Rufus," Dean said very quietly. "Stop talking."
"You need –"
"I mean it."
The impact wouldn't have been lessened, Rufus thought suddenly. The shock, the horror of it. That couldn't be mitigated or forgotten about, no matter if it was just a copy. It had acted on him the same way, seeing her lying there.
"I was going to shoot her," Dean said a moment later, looking through the dusty windshield, his profile granite-hard. "I had my finger on the trigger and then I couldn't."
Rufus remained silent, staring at the road. He felt Dean turn, look at him.
"Even if they were both copies …" he said slowly, his voice thickening a little. "Even if she's alive …"
"Cas could maybe –"
"Cas is busy with Heaven," Dean cut him off sharply. "And – how the fuck would I know? If it was real? Or just another one of those things?"
"The number, behind her ear –" Rufus tried again.
"She's dead," Dean said, turning away. "I know it."
Hearing the flat tone of the younger man's voice, Rufus wondered if Dean believed that, or if he was trying to convince himself of it.
July 19, 2013. Tawas Camp, East Tawas, Michigan
In Kansas, Merrin tucked the phone against her ear as she wrote down the details.
"Slow down, Meredyth, I need to get all this information to Bobby and Jackson," she said, writing fast. "How many successful to term?"
"Ninety percent," the obstetrician said more slowly on the other end of the line. "Eighty percent success even with the triplets."
"What were the problem areas?"
"Age, primarily. Too old. We had an outbreak influenza here, in spring and we lost several to that."
Meredyth looked down at the stacks of files that covered her desk. "We had a lot of women who developed complications late in the pregnancy, again, primarily due to age. Multiple c-sections just before term and some of those we lost because everyone was delivering at the same time and we just didn't have the resources to cope."
"But the headcount, you've almost tripled the camp population now?"
"Easily, and a very even mix of male to female," Meredyth confirmed. "If we can keep infant mortality and childhood mortality down, we've added almost six thousand souls to our population."
"That'll be similar here," Merrin said, straightening up and pushing a stray lock of hair back off her face. "We had less problems with age, more with psychological anxieties. A lot of men went to Colorado."
"Speaking of which, Boze is fine, we saved the leg," Meredyth told her. "Renee wanted me to tell you."
"Good, how was her delivery?"
"Textbook, two hours labour and a boy and girl, both healthy."
Merrin felt a wash of relief at the words. "That'll keep her busy."
There was a muffled snort at the other end of the line. "Busy is an understatement for what we'll be facing in the next year!"
"I can think of worse things to complain about," Merrin said mildly.
July 21, 2013. West Keep, Kansas
The vehicles rumbled down the county road and began to split off to the different keeps. Stretching back against the truck's seat, Rufus felt his tension start to dissolve, the towers of the keeps against the broad, blue sky acting like some kind of tranquiliser on him, he thought with a derisive grin.
They'd been in radio contact for several hours and everyone knew what had happened now, knew to expect the injured and have welcoming food and lodgings ready for them. Bobby's reticence on the radio had surprised him, but he'd figured that was hunter business the old man hadn't wanted to talk about over the airwaves.
The news that Cas was in the keep, had brought back Sam and Father McConnaughey from Lawrence – hell, that there'd been a gate in Lawrence – had been surprising but good. He'd watched Dean breathe a little more deeply, knowing his brother had made it out alright.
He drove through the tunnel and pulled the truck around to the keep steps, engine idling as people raced down to help those in the back out, taking them into the building.
"You going in now?" he asked Dean.
Dean stared at the masses on the steps. "Yeah," he said reluctantly. "I need to see Sam."
"Bobby wants to talk to you as well," Rufus reminded him, watching as he opened the door and jumped down. "And Jackson."
Dean nodded in acknowledgement and slammed the door shut, ignoring the men and women who made room for him to walk up the steps into the keep. Rufus saw them reach out to touch him, pat a shoulder or smile or offer him thanks or welcome and he watched Dean's shoulders hunch a bit higher under the attention. It'd been the same when they'd gotten back from Atlanta. That adulation had lasted for months.
Sighing slightly, he put the truck into gear when Riley waved at him and pulled away, driving out of the bailey and through the eastern tunnel to park the truck in Franklin's sheds.
Bobby pushed a bowl of food across the desk, watching Dean pick it up and start to eat.
"Cas wants to talk to you," he said without preamble and Dean kept his eyes on the food in the bowl. "Sam too."
Jackson's gaze shifted from Dean to Bobby uneasily. Neither man knew how to bring up what they needed to tell the younger man.
The door opened and Bobby felt a cowardly wave of relief as Castiel walked in, followed by Sam and Father McConnaughey.
Dean looked around at the footsteps behind him, his gaze cutting past the angel to his brother.
"Made it out in one piece," he said, putting the bowl back on the desk. "Must have done something right."
Glancing around the room, Sam recognised his brother's tactic. They could talk about the trials and what had happened later, without the audience they had now. He nodded and shrugged one shoulder.
"Had a lot of help," he said lightly.
Dean turned to look at the angel, his face tightening a little. "I take it Heaven's still there?"
Cas looked away. "For the moment. The Host defeated the rebels. Camael escaped," he said shortly. "The angel tablet is in danger."
"Not my problem," Dean said, leaning back in the chair.
"I need your help."
"I needed yours."
"Dean, I did what I could –" Cas started to say. Dean shrugged.
"Yeah, thanks for the Watchers and the nephilim," he said. "The angel flunkey wasn't quite as useful but he had other things to do apparently."
"He had to find –"
"Yeah, he filled me in," Dean cut him off again. "We lost more than a thousand men, Cas. Not that many of us left."
"If the Grigori find the tablet – or if Camael does, they can bring down Heaven, Dean."
Dean got up from the chair, stretching a little as he turned to look the angel in the eye. "You're gonna have to come up with some reason that's a bad thing, Cas."
He looked at Sam and walked out of the room.
"Cas, give us some time," Sam said, looking at Bobby for confirmation. "A hell of a lot happened and we need some time to get it sorted out."
The angel nodded unwillingly, looking from Sam to the priest.
"Did you verify that it is Alex?" Father McConnaughey asked him.
"It is," Cas confirmed. The priest looked at Bobby. "Did Jerome have any idea of what had happened?"
"The French chapter found a machine, in the Swiss base. Seems like it's what they used to make the copies. They're still working on figuring the exact procedure." He grimaced at the memory of what Michel and Francesca had already surmised from the notes on the machine and the descriptions of the machine itself. "No one over there thinks she'll get her memories back."
"The human mind is surprisingly resilient, Bobby," Father McConnaughey said gently. "It's amazing what it can endure and remain intact."
He didn't look at Sam but the younger man felt that the comment was at least partially aimed at him.
Dean was in the apartment when Sam finally tracked him down. He looked at the tension that held his brother rigid as he walked through the door and past him, wondering how the hell he was going to get through to him. Hit first and ask questions later, he thought.
"You gotta minute?"
"For what?" Dean stopped in the hall, looking at him warily.
"Need to show you something," Sam said, glancing at the door. "It won't take long, but you need to see it."
"See what?"
"It's easier if I show you."
"Sam –" The warning was clear in his brother's voice, in his face.
"Dean, please, just … humour me," Sam said, turning to leave. "You need to see this."
He walked out again, hearing the slower footfalls behind him and hoped he was doing the right thing. He'd spent hours with Alex since Cas had brought them back, at first unable to believe what he was seeing, then trying to help her regain some memories. There were some memories that were coming back, at about the same speed as her health was improving. She'd recognised Father Emilio, surprisingly. Not much about him but she'd remembered his face.
Behind his brother, Dean closed the door and walked after him. He knew where they were going. He didn't know if he was going to be able to do it.
It wasn't just the shock. It wasn't just struggling with the things he'd walled up and buried and tried to put behind him. It wasn't just that he couldn't trust his own eyes and senses. He felt the cracks opening up every time he thought anywhere near the possibility.
The memories, as real and teeth-filled as any other, replayed over and over behind his closed eyes. The shot and the hill. Blood and bone exploding outward. Dust-covered open eyes. Maple-coloured hair spread across the road, blood slowly turning it red. The sharpness of the railway gravel under his knees. Her face behind the sight of the Colt.
His teeth snapped shut and he shoved them all aside, feeling his pulse accelerate as he followed Sam down the stairs and along the hall to medical offices.
Sam pushed a door open and Dean hesitated on the threshold, his gaze flicking around the room. There was no one in there. He followed his brother inside and belatedly registered what Sam was looking at.
A soft shock of pale blond hair over a smooth, rounded face. The other, wrapped in a pink blanket, had a little more hair, reddish in the reflected light from the windows.
Sam looked at him. "They're yours, Dean. Whether you can believe it or not, they are."
Looking down at them, he couldn't make that connection. All the time he'd spent thinking about it before had been wiped away, wiped out by what he'd seen with his own eyes and he couldn't find a way to get any of it back.
"And it's really her," Sam continued softly. "Cas confirmed it."
The shuffling noise from the door caught both men's attention and they turned to look at the woman standing there.
It hit him again, an avalanche, an earthquake, a fucking inferno. Everything shaken loose and thrown around and he could feel his heart hammering furiously against his ribs.
She looked thin and pale, the needle marks still visible, the bruising turning green and yellow and grey now, up her arms and along the sides of her neck. Her hair had been washed and was tied back from her face, still the maple-gold he knew exactly, lit up by the sunshine that came through the window.
He took a step toward her involuntarily and she looked at him. And he couldn't see anything beyond a polite curiosity in her eyes. Couldn't see the things that had been there for him, all the things she'd known about him, the way she'd looked at him, her eyes full of feelings that had changed everything, that had filled him with hope.
His breath was caught, somewhere low down in his throat and it was suffocating him.
Dean walked past her and through the door, turning down the hall, his stride lengthening, speeding up as he tried not to see that empty gaze, tried to force it out of his head, his memory.
That wasn't Alex. It wasn't her.
A/N: I hope you're enjoying the series. The Apocalypse series concludes in Book 3 – In the Lies of Celestial Intent.