It was one of the most complicated spells Dean had ever seen. Essence of kraken was one of the more easily found ingredients, and it had taken Lucius and Michelle over a fortnight of constant searching to find Crowley's stores. Luckily, once they had found it nestled snuggly in the mountains of Switzerland, more than half the necessary ingredients were hidden somewhere in the cavernous vaults, along with what, judging by Lucius's description, Dean suspected to be the Freemason's treasure Nic Cage had been after in National Treasure.
Other ingredients, such as the finely ground horn of a manticore and seven scales from the seven sea nymphs, had been harder to track down. It turned out hunting for rare spell ingredients was just another useful perk of having legions of groupie demons salivating for your every order.
Dean smiled. He was exaggerating. But not by much.
The last element of the spell – the fresh blood of a virgin – had just been procured and, with the screams still echoing through the trees surrounding the mountainside clearing, was added to the rest of the recipe.
Michelle's voice filled the chilly night air as the screams followed their owner into death and she invoked the magic necessary to bind the ingredients together. Her right hand moved slowly in sweeping curling motions through the concoction in gently curving arcs, carefully and slowly mixing the ingredients together. After every fourth stir with her right hand, the spell called for seven stirs in the opposite direction with her left. Each word of the incantation had to be said at precisely the right moment, and if any were mispronounced, the speaker would be, if the translation was literal, atomized and scattered throughout the universe.
Despite that constant threat, Michelle seemed utterly serene. Her voice lilted melodically with the long verse, her lips quirked slightly in a smile. Dean had noticed her curious ability with spellwork shortly after turning her. He marvelled at her confidence, at her skill. He had never seen anyone, not even that Magnus hermit, so comfortable and sure with spells, let alone ones as dark as this. Once she had finished blending the various components together, Michelle carefully scooped some of the gooey reddish-black mixture in her cupped hand and began drawing the elaborate sigil over the short grass.
It was further proof to Dean that her intelligence and dedication exceeded her physical beauty. And that was saying something.
Dean pulled his attention reluctantly from her moonlit face and swept his gaze around the clearing. Almost a hundred demons filled the sloping meadow, leaving a respectful (or more probably fearful) distance between their ranks and their leaders. The moon-silvered pine trees swayed gently in the light breeze, their needles rustling against each other, adding a soft, monotonous background to Michelle's chanting, like a faraway waterfall.
The First Blade waited impatiently in its holster on Dean's thigh. He could feel its eagerness for blood like an itch in the back of his mind. He knew that if he were to hold it, it would be hard to resist obeying its call. Ever since he had almost been turned into a human, Dean had noticed the Blade seemed more aggressive, verging on obsessive with sating its thirst for hot blood. Dean assumed it too was fuming at nearly being rendered useless again. Before Dean had claimed it, it had spent centuries rotting in the Mariana Trench, abandoned by its master. The Mark had been burning dully too, though not so much as to glow on his arm. It didn't hurt, per se, but it was uncomfortable enough that Dean was almost constantly aware of the brand. When he held the Blade, the Mark sent tendrils of biting power shooting up and down his arm, something that did not exactly add to the euphoria of being bonded to the weapon. Dean wondered if this was some lingering aftereffect of the demon cure, or if it heralded some sort of advancement in his powers. That seemed likely. Considering all he'd done since Cain gave him the Mark, Dean thought he was due a level-up.
As his gaze returned to his lieutenant, Dean saw a shimmering crack appear over the centre of the half-drawn spell form. Michelle, intent on her work, was crouched with her back to him, adding another line to the intricate sigil. The crack looked like a fork of lightning frozen in time, but far dimmer. It hovered over the sigil, its tip just touching the central intersection of the design. It was as long as Dean was tall, and with each new word and line of the spell, it climbed steadily higher into the sky. The light it emitted came from the other side of the crack – the Veil. It was the same warm white light Dean had seen before, years ago in a town plagued by Famine. It was the light of souls, waiting to burst back into the Earth.
Dean could feel gentle shivers pulsing out of the crack, like waves tumbling onto the shore on a calm day. They were weak, echoes of the waiting power. A tsunami gathering on the horizon. Like the whistling winds that herald a storm, the screams and moans of the billions of souls whispered from the tear in kingdoms. They were muted now, Dean had to listen carefully to catch them, but as the crack widened, they became louder, more distinct. Soon he would be able to discern the words.
Dean raised a hand, signalling. The sounds of rustling grass filled the air as the demons prepared themselves. Once the crack became a door, the souls would flood out of it like water through a broken dam. Their first instinct would be to find their bodies, so many of them would soar away to the scenes of their deaths. Souls were quick; the demons would have to be quicker.
Dean had ordered them to smoke out once he gave the signal and form a twisting black tunnel to funnel the souls like frightened cattle into the already drawn spell form waiting in a nearby meadow. Any soul that passed through the blood-painted sigil would be instantly transported to Hell, where the rest of his demons waited with sharpened tools. And no soul, pure or soiled, could leave Hell without Dean's word.
Breathing a deep, satisfied breath, Dean smiled. The only thing that could stop them now was if Michelle messed up the spell. Which was as good as impossible.
The First Blade gave an odd sort of tremor against Dean's thigh. He looked down at it, half expecting to see a hellhound grazing his leg. There was nothing.
The sudden cries of pain and shock slicing through the air had Dean whipping around, the Blade flashing into his palm. Instantly he felt the Mark send those strange shooting pains through him, like pins and needles.
Flashes of bright red light were pulsing through the demons like firecrackers. Demons near the flashes were pouring out of their meat suits in terror, trying to flee the oncoming light.
Behind Dean, Michelle glanced up at the sound of the commotion without pausing in her incantation.
Dean felt his stomach plummet to the ground as the flashes of red drew closer, leaving demon after demon crumpling to the ground in its wake. As his army recovered from the shock of the unexpected intruder, they sank into defensive crouches, ready to spring forward and protect their lord if the threat came too close. Those nearest the newcomer threw themselves at them, fierce battle cries piercing the cold air. The wind picked up slightly and it seemed as though the rustling pine trees were egging the soldiers on. The demons who had abandoned their vessels in fright circled overhead like smoky black sharks readying themselves for a feeding frenzy.
Without turning his head from the battle, Dean spoke to Michelle. "Be ready to disappear. The spell can be redrawn; make sure you get yourself out of here, you hear me?"
She didn't respond, absorbed as she was in the spell, but he knew she had heard him. Whether or not she would listen remained to be seen.
Dean's palm was suddenly sweaty. He gripped the hilt of the First Blade more tightly in his hand, afraid it would wrench itself away at any moment. The flashing light was almost upon him now, his demons retreating to flank him, unsure how to defeat the unknown foe.
Well, unknown to them. Dean knew exactly who was killing his demons. He recognised the severe, bearded face and hawk-like eyebrows. He could feel the First Blade quiver slightly as it felt its first master break through the last of the demons and come to a halt, casually regarding Dean as though admiring a painting in a gallery. The silver-speckled beard twitched into an insincere smile. The bare forearms crossed, slowly, giving each demon watching him a clear view of the branded mark below the man's right elbow.
Cain.