Chapter 7: Family Histories
She stood sentinel-like by the entrance, her eyes locked onto him. Her face was an unreadable tapestry of aristocratic indifference, marred only by a thin, sardonic smile. With deliberate steps, she descended towards him.
"Questions, my husband?" Her voice dripped with haughty disdain. "You've been quite the explorer, haven't you?"
"The dried blood on the altar?" Peter asked.
"Mostly human," Satana replied icily. "There's some lamb and goat blood, but mostly it's human."
Her gaze met his, unwavering. Though her face remained a mask, Peter sensed the coiled tension in her, a serpent ready to strike. She didn't just want a fight; she craved it.
"You took part in this?" Peter asked.
"I sat there," Satana pointed to a seat in the first pew, closest to the altar. She glared at him. "Sometimes I officiated." She straightened and squared off her shoulders.
Satana wasn't evil—this, Peter knew as if from some buried memory. Yet, the room's grim tableau clashed with that intuition, leaving him grappling with an enigmatic puzzle.
"I'm sure you have something to say," Satana said. "A lecture on morality, perhaps?"
She was impatient for the fight to start, Peter thought. Almost like she wants to be distracted from something. Also, an evil person would be gloating and triumphant. She's defensive and hostile.
"It's a bit odd for Satan, don't you think?" Peter mused. "Sacrificing to himself? Seems rather... petty."
Satana scoffed contemptuously. "Like you would know! He was pretending to be a cult leader. My mother was just an ordinary Satanist. He wooed her by pretending to be some human black magician." Her dark eyes scanned the room, clearly angered. "He's always changing his shape and role, lying and playing games. It's...I won't try to explain it to you!" Her glare swept across the room one more time.
"You despise this room," Peter noted, his voice tinged with realization. "I'm oddly more comfortable here than you are. It's as if the walls themselves repel you."
She glared at him angrily. "Shut up! She snapped. "You don't understand anything."
Peter looked at the dust on the floor. In an enclosed cavern, this would mean many years, no decades, of neglect. This place hadn't been used in a very long time.
"How old were you when you were sitting in here," he asked softly. She froze, staring at him. "How young were you?" he asked.
"It doesn't matter," Satana said, her voice heavy with emotion. "You hate me. And you should."
"14," Peter inquired. "10, 7," her gaze flickered for a split second. Peter looked at the pew, trying to picture a seven-year-old Satana.
"When you presided, did you ever sacrifice a human?" he asked.
Satana looked at the floor and then looked up at him. "What does it matter?" she snapped.
"You seem to want me to hate you," Peter said. "A simple yes here would do that."
"I was here," Satana snapped. "I took part in this. What more do you need to know?"
"Oh sweetheart," he sighed. He stepped closer and tenderly embraced her. She pushed him away.
"You hate me! I know you hate me! She cried."
Peter kept pulling her in. She resisted for a moment longer before nestling into him and he held her close. He tucked her head under his chin and cradled her. "The lamb and goat were oddly specific. That was you right?" She sighed and then nodded in agreement.
"My reactions were...weak," she whispered. "Father tried to bring me along slowly, but I didn't get better. Finally he said I wasn't worthy of," her lips twisted, "the great rite. I made the mistake of letting my relief show on my face."
Peter held her and stroked her hair.
"He was a big believer in tough love," she laughed. She looked around the room again and shuddered. "Let's get out of here."
They spent the rest of the day walking around the grounds and in the forest by the lake. Satana didn't cry, but she did let her self be held and cuddled.
She talked about her childhood. Her mother had loved the lake and had often taken Satana and her brother there to play.
"She went mad when Father revealed his identity," Satana said. "It was too much for her."
"I thought your father had taken you to Hell at that point," Peter said. He was still trying to sort out her history.
"Yes," Satana said. "But he told me. He wanted me to know. He took me to see her in the sanitarium. I had my demon form then and he teleported us into her room. She screamed and screamed while he laughed."
Peter felt a knot in his stomach. He couldn't imagine the trauma Satana had endured. "I'm sorry," he whispered, holding her hand. "That shouldn't have happened to you."
Satana gave him a small smile. "It's all right," she said softly. "I've learned to live with it."
Peter returned her smile and gave her hand a small squeeze. He looked thoughtful for a moment.
"Why don't we get rid of that place?" he asked. "You hate it. I can't stand it."
Satana shook her head. "We can't," she said. "It would send a message, one we can't afford to send."
"What do you mean?" Peter asked.
"We have enemies," Satana explained. "We are being watched—all the time. Closing the chapel down would send a message; it would be choosing a side and would be noticed. We can't afford to send that kind of message-we aren't strong enough yet."
"Who is watching us?" Peter asked. "I don't understand."
"Other hell lords. Other powers. My father perhaps." Satana smiled ruefully at Peter. "You're taking on a great deal with me. Our enemies are too many to list."
"You're worth it," Peter told her. She smiled and leaned in and they kissed.
They continued to walk in silence for a while, enjoying the peacefulness of the forest. The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows through the trees.
Satana suddenly stopped and turned to Peter. "There's something I need to tell you," she said, her voice serious. "Something you should know."
Peter looked at her, sensing the weight of her words. "What is it?" he asked gently.
Satana took a deep breath. "When I returned from Hell, when Father sent me back to be his agent, I murdered several innocents." She looked at Peter and sighed. "I stopped quickly. I began only killing in self-defense, or hunting rapists and murderers. Over time I stopped killing all together." She looked far away. "Actually the first one was a rapist, I think. But the second one just wanted to cheat on his wife."
"How long were you in hell?" Peter asked.
"I tried to kill a priest," Satana said, seemingly not listening. "It didn't work. He believed in me - the priest. Can you believe it? That's when things started to change. Father was so angry; he killed the priest right in front of me. Then, he cursed me and banished me." She shook her head and murmured, "You must hate me," to Peter.
"I love you," Peter said. "How long were you in hell?"
"The last time? Seven years," she said. "I think. It seemed like more than that, Father can play with the time stream. But I was an adult when I returned and people said I'd been gone for seven years."
"He took you more than once?" Peter asked.
"Oh yeah," Satana said. "A month or two here, a summer there, he was trying to toughen me up." She smiled ruefully. "It didn't work. I was a disappointment." After a moment of silence, Satana continued.
"The last time, after the seven years, he was pleased with me. He said I was a worthy daughter and a useful tool." She smiled sadly. "I was so happy."
"Okay," Peter said. "Are you familiar with trauma induced brain washing?"
"That's psychobabble. I murdered people," Satana said.
"I know you did," Peter said calmly. "But trauma can affect a person's actions and thoughts. Your experiences in Hell were traumatic and abusive. It's not uncommon for victims of abuse to feel loyalty and attachment to their abuser, even if their abuser caused them harm."
Satana's gaze locked onto Peter's. "Do you think that's what happened to me? That I was brainwashed?"
"You mentioned being trained," Peter said. "Was it continuous and grueling? Did it include lots of abuse and humiliation? Were there sudden accusations and verbal assaults? Was there physical or mental torture?"
"Yes," Satana replied, her voice shaking. "So what?"
"So that's what brainwashing is," Peter explained. "It's a process of trauma and conditioning to change a person's belief system and behavior. Your father used these tactics on you to mold you into the demon daughter he wanted you to be."
Satana looked stunned, as if she had never truly considered that she was a victim of abuse. "I never thought of it that way," she whispered. She looked up at Peter. "But you never killed anyone and you had stress."
"I had very different parents," Peter said. "And I didn't spend seven years in hell."
"You're not condemning me?" Satana seemed bewildered. "You have to condemn me. You're like a saint."
"I have screwed up so many times," Peter chuckled. "I'm nothing like the perfect guy you make me out to be."
"But that's my worst secret," Satana said, her voice quavering. "My almost-worst secret. It's why we can't work."
"You think you're getting rid of me?" Peter laughed softly and embraced her, their foreheads pressing together. Gently stroking her cheek, he murmured, "I'm not judging you. I accept your past and we'll build our future together."
Satana whimpered, "This marriage is crazy-I'm drowning." She embraced him tightly and he soothed her with reassuring noises. Gazing up at him, she said, "Peter, I'm sorry I stole your love. But I'm never giving you back."
He smiled down at her and replied, "Okay, whatever that means. It's getting dark; let's go home." They walked hand in hand back to the mansion, Satana leaning into Peter.
The next few days were better. Wonderful actually, long rides and walks around the lake, swimming and boating. Nights of incredible, mind-blowing sex, followed by lazy mornings of incredible, mind-blowing sex and afternoons interrupted frequently by incredible, mind-blowing sex.
Their lives had fallen into a harmonious rhythm. Satana was abuzz with excitement over planning their upcoming New York trip and the gala. Peter, too, had his reasons for wanting to visit the city, though they were secrets he loathed to keep. He should've left by now, but an invisible tether seemed to hold him back—she needed him.
Oh come off it, he thought to himself. You're addicted to her; you can't stand to be away from her. But he needed answers and he wouldn't get them here. But being with her was right. That Peter knew.
They went on more tours of the mansion. The place was huge and seemed larger on the inside than possible. She took him up a winding staircase. At the top sat a sturdy oaken door banded with iron. Ancient warding sigils had been etched into the wood.
Satana caressed them fondly. "My old room," she explained with a smile. "As a child, I'd spend hours in here practicing spells and divining secrets."
She eased the door open, allowing Peter a glimpse into her past. Shelves were crammed with mystical paraphernalia - candles, charms, spirit boards. The curtains were heavy velvet, blocking out all light. Posters of fantasy and horror films papered the walls.
Peter chuckled. "Let me guess - you weren't the cheerleader type?"
"Hardly." Satana laughed. "I was always...different. But I didn't care. This room was my sanctuary."
Peter followed Satana down the hall, past more antiquated doors and fading portraits. He paused to inspect an oil painting depicting a severe-looking woman in Puritan dress.
"My great-great-grandmother Prudence," Satana supplied. "She was one of the first Wingate witches. She barely escaped hanging in 1692."
"I thought you were a Hellstrom," Peter said.
Satana shrugged. "The two families intermarried frequently. Many of the old families blend into each other.
Peter studied the Puritan woman. Thinking of the Salem Witch Trials brought a fuzziness that he associated with missing memories. That was impossible. He tried to probe his memories and wound up wincing in pain.
Satana stroked his hair and looked searchingly into his eyes. "Something wrong, my love?" she asked.
"Just a crazy feeling," he smiled.
Outside, the sun had set and the day's light was fading. Satana took Peter's hand once more.
"Come, I want to show you something."
She led him down the grand staircase to the gardens behind the mansion. Night blooming flowers were unfurling, their exotic perfumes mixing with the cool evening air. In the distance, Fire Lake glittered invitingly.
Satana guided Peter to a stone bench at the water's edge. For a long moment, they simply sat in silence, watching the fading light dance across the rippling surface. Despite his lingering doubts, Peter felt some small measure of peace. Here, with Satana's hand clasped in his, he could almost forget his troubles.
After a time Satana spoke, her voice soft. "This lake has been a sanctuary for my family for generations. Its waters soothe our demons, grant us clarity of mind."
She turned to Peter. "I hope in time, they will do the same for you."
Though Peter still had questions, he let them slip away for now, focusing only on this quiet moment together beneath the darkening sky.
Peter tried to shake off the spell Satana had woven around him but it lingered like a fog. He still had questions, yet when he tried to ask, she seemed almost too eager to divert the conversation or coax him into her seductive embrace. Her powers made her impossible to resist.
Since he wasn't getting anywhere with Satana, Peter decided to explore the library in search of answers. If he couldn't have truth from Satana's lips, maybe he'd find some in books.
He descended the steps swiftly, heading for the stately library. The scent of leather-bound books and crackling fireplace welcomed him. If any room held secrets of his past, Peter hoped it would be this one.
With renewed determination, he began scanning the shelves, seeking anything that might shed light on the mystery of who he truly was.
Peter's fingers danced across the dusty tomes, searching for a hint, a clue, anything that might explain the strange abilities he now possessed.
He paused as one title caught his eye - "The Darkhold: A Compendium of Eldritch Lore and Spells." His hand trembled slightly as he pulled it from the shelf, a shiver running down his spine.
Flipping it open, arcane symbols and disturbing illustrations greeted him. Peter's breath quickened as he turned the ancient pages. Here was forbidden knowledge from eons past. What secrets might it divulge?
"Looking for some light reading, my love?"
Peter whirled around to see Satana leaning against a bookcase, watching him with an amused smile. He snapped the book shut.
"Just browsing your family's library," he said casually. "Quite the collection you have here."
Satana tilted her head. "Indeed. Generations of occult tomes and artifacts. But one must be careful when delving into such matters."
She glided towards him, and took the book from his hands.
"This is a poor translation." Satana smiled at him. "I understand your interest. It's our connection. My own mind is filling with biology, technology, computers," she smiled. "But magic is different. Half a spell is much worse than no spell at all. I will teach you, I promise. But patience, we are immortal, after all."
Peter started to say something and then stopped. "Wait," he said, "we're immortal?"
Satana nodded. "Demons and demonic hybrids like us stop aging at maturity."
"Oh," Peter said. He thought for a moment. "So I won't get any older."
"You'll get older," Satana said, "you just won't age. So we have time, we can take baby steps. I'll just put the Darkhold back," she shelved the book. "And..." she ran her eyes down a long shelf of books, "here," she said, taking a book down and handing it to Peter.
"Thaumaturgical Prodigies in the New-England Canaan, by Reverend Ward Phillips," he read.
"Some useful information and a few basic spells," Satana said. "It's ideal for someone starting out. Read it, and we'll review it together. Oh," she said, noticing another book, "this one gives a different perspective. It actually has some helpful facts too."
"Wonders of the Invisible World, by Cotton Mather," Peter read.
"People think he was a fool, but he was a fair observer," Satana said.
"I know him," Peter said slowly. "I've met him once." He shook his head, bewildered. "I punched him in the face."
"Really?" Satana said. "Good for you!"
"How is that possible?" Peter said. "That's insane. Oh my head," he clutched his head, acting as though he had a headache. Satana slipped behind him and pressed her hands on his temples, chanting under her breath.
"No," Peter said, turning to face her and pulling her hands away. "I need to remember."
Satana spoke gently, "You are remembering, Peter. Your body is mending and your memories are trickling back, just as I promised."
He gazed into her eyes, then abruptly grabbed his head in pain.
"Husband," Satana said, "trust me!" She balled her fists in frustration. He groaned and gave a slight nod of agreement. She placed her hands on his temples and began chanting softly while a soft glow came from her fingers.
Peter sighed. "Oh," he said, "oh that's much better." Satana guided him to a stuffed armchair and he slumped down into it. She continued rubbing his temples. "Much better," Peter sighed again, leaning back in the chair.
"Yes," Satana said, a smile flickering on her lips. "Everything is much better when we listen to our wife."
"Point taken," Peter grinned. "But how did I meet Cotton Mather?"
"The first rule of magic is that nothing is impossible," Satana replied, her hands gently rubbing his neck and shoulders in circular motions. "I wonder," she said, looking about the library. She held up her hand and chanted softly. A book on a distant shelf glowed. Satana wiggled her fingers and it floated across the room into her hands.
The pages fluttered and then fell open.
"The village men were leading us to the hanging tree," Satana read. "Suddenly, a handsome youth clad in red and blue stockings burst out of the forest and attacked the guards. He dispatched them with ease before confronting Reverend Mather. The Reverend was felled but his companion, the mysterious rider, struck down the young man with mystic fire. They engaged in a fierce duel. We fled into the forest and made our escape. The youth had a spider symbol emblazoned on his chest which I reproduce here."
Satana held up the book and showed Peter the familiar symbol. "You rescued my great-great grandmother," she said.
"It doesn't sound like I rescued anyone," Peter said. "And how is that possible?"
Satana was turning pages in the diary. "She and her friends did escape and she wrote this diary. Oh, later, a mighty witch appeared from the forest to challenge the rider. A cloaked and armored witch wearing a mask of iron." She looked at Peter. "Doesn't Dr. Doom own a time machine?"
"Yes, he does," Peter confirmed. His brow furrowed as he recalled the situation. "Oh, I'm starting to remember this."
Suddenly, he clutched his head in anguish.
"No," Satana declared sternly. "No memories." She began to massage his temples and shoulders again. "No thinking, no pushing hurt minds. Just relax." Peter leaned back into her soothing touch. At her gesture, a goblet filled itself with a deep red liquid from a crystal decanter and floated towards Peter's hand. A fire crackled to life in the fireplace, and the library door swung shut.
"This is nice," Peter said. "Aren't you having any?"
"No," Satana said. She gracefully moved around the fire to stand before Peter, and then with a wave of her hand, his clothes were gone. He sat there for a moment in shock, and then realized that she was now gloriously nude. She stretched out comfortably in the warmth of the flames and then looked at him. This was new; her clothes had always disappeared whenever she wanted, but this time she had wished his away too. Deciding not to think too much about it, he stayed still and simply enjoyed her presence.
"My great-great-grandmother Prudence was terrified," Satana murmured. "Allow me to express my gratitude for your gallant rescue." She knelt before him, her hands tracing a sensuous path up his legs, her fingers kneading his thighs. Her lips quirked into a tantalizing smile as she leaned in.
"You're welcome," Peter replied.
"Oh, I haven't thanked you yet," Satana purred.