Chapter 8: Tea and Revelations
The sleek black town car pulled up to the golden awning of the Four Seasons Downtown, its polished exterior gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight. Stepping onto the sidewalk, Peter was immediately engulfed by the city's cacophony—honking taxis, chattering pedestrians, and the sultry notes of a saxophone jazzing up the corner. He glanced up at the imposing building, a knot forming in his stomach. This was a world he had only occasionally known - doormen in pristine uniforms, a lobby glowing with marble and crystal chandeliers.
Satana emerged beside him, her red hair cascading over her black coat, eyes bright with excitement. "Ready, my love?" She slipped her arm through his. He nodded, swallowing down his nerves.
As they entered the golden lobby, Peter couldn't help but gape at the opulent surroundings. Crystal dripped from the chandeliers, marble gleamed underfoot, even the air seemed perfumed. He felt utterly out of place in his simple button-down shirt and slacks.
They approached the front desk hand in hand. "A reservation under Hellstrom," Satana purred. Peter noticed the appraising glance the man gave her, taking in her otherworldly beauty and confident aura. "Of course, Ms. Hellstrom. The penthouse suite." He handed them a keycard embossed with gold. "Please let me know if I can be of any assistance during your stay."
As they stepped into the elevator, Peter's muscles tensed, his nerves jangling like discordant notes. The penthouse suite - just hearing it made sweat prickle his neck. He knew Satana came from wealth, but this kind of luxury still stunned him.
The elevator opened directly into their suite. Peter's mouth fell open. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over glittering Manhattan, modern furniture sat stark and pristine, even the flowers seemed more vibrant than any he'd seen. Satana smiled, hanging her coat in the closet. "What do you think, my love? Only the best for you."
Peter moved numbly to the window, looking out over the city. "It's...incredible. I just hope I don't break anything." He laughed uneasily. She came up behind him, slipping her arms around his waist. "You deserve this, Peter. I want to give you the world." She kissed his neck softly. He relaxed into her embrace, soaking in her warmth, pushing down his doubts. This was all for him, she said. He had to trust that.
Satana stepped back, a playful smile dancing on her lips. "But first, dinner. I ordered all your favorites."
She glided to the dining area, where a table had been set with gleaming china and crystal. A vase of red roses sat as the centerpiece, their rich scent perfuming the air. With a flourish, Satana lifted the silver domes covering the dishes - steak, potatoes, creamed spinach. Comfort foods Peter hadn't realized he'd been craving. His stomach rumbled. "This looks incredible."
As they began to eat, Peter found himself opening up about his scattered memories of the city. "I remember living in Queens, at least for a bit. There was this tiny apartment, just a bedroom and a kitchen. I was always ducking my head to avoid the pipes along the ceiling." He smiled faintly. "Not exactly like this."
Satana listened intently, her black eyes focused on him. "And I remember being downtown a lot. Swinging between the buildings, looking at the people below." Peter's voice grew distant. "It's all flashes, blurred. I can't grab hold of anything solid." A tide of frustration surged within him, threatening to drown his appetite. He stared down at his plate, appetite fading.
Satana reached across the table, laying her hand over his. "It will come back to you," she said gently. "We have time." Peter turned his hand over, lacing his fingers through hers. Her skin was hot against his, almost feverish. But her touch anchored him. She was real, whatever else remained hazy.
"Thanks for being here," he said, his voice tinged with relief.
Satana's eyes softened. She lifted his hand to her lips. "Always."
Peter let out a long breath, trying to release the tension coiled within him. He knew Satana was right - forcing his memories would only lead to more frustration. Patience had never been his strong suit, but for her, he was willing to try.
He turned his gaze to the view outside the expansive window, the lights of the city blurred through the evening rain. "Somewhere out there, I was someone," he murmured. "I wish I could show you the places I knew, the people..." He trailed off. Faces swam in his mind's eye, indistinct and fleeting.
Satana moved her chair closer. "You will," she said. "We have time to find them again." She laid a hand on his cheek, guiding his eyes back to hers. "But know this - you are still you. My love for you does not depend on names or memories. It depends only on the man before me now."
Peter covered her hand with his own, leaning into her touch. Her words washed over him like the rain outside, gentle and soothing. "I don't know what I did to deserve you," he said quietly. "But I'm grateful."
Satana smiled, a hint of mischief in her eyes. "It's quite simple, really. You were you." She leaned in and kissed him, her lips fever-warm against his. For a moment, the city lights and memories faded away, eclipsed by her.
The next morning, Peter awoke to find himself alone in the massive bed. Sunlight streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, announcing a new day. He sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Satana?" No response. The suite was silent except for the soft sounds of the city filtering up from far below.
Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, Peter stood and stretched. He noticed a piece of hotel stationary on the nightstand. Picking it up, he read Satana's elegant script:
"Peter, I've gone out to do some shopping and explore the city. Please try to rest - you had a difficult night. We'll talk more when I return. Yours, S"
Peter set the note down with a frown. The thought of lounging around this lavish suite alone all day did not appeal. Ever since arriving here with Satana, he'd felt a restless energy buzzing under his skin, like a live current.
He paced over to the window and looked out at the city bustling below. Something about it called to him, familiar yet foreign. He pressed a palm to the glass. "I wish I could be part of that world again," he murmured, his voice tinged with longing.
Turning away, he wandered through the suite's spacious rooms. He paused by the writing desk, trailing his fingers over the leather blotter. "Maybe I'll write her another note," he mused. But what to say?
Behind him, a gravelly voice spoke. "My lord seems troubled this morning." Peter whirled to find a tall, thin man standing in the shadows. His sallow face and sunken eyes gave him a grim appearance.
"Mortifex," Peter recalled. "You're the, uh, valet?" The man inclined his head. "Indeed. I am at your service, my lord."
Peter blew out a breath. "I wish I could be of service. To someone, anyone. But here I am, pacing around uselessly." He dropped into an armchair, raking a hand through his hair. "She wants me to rest, but I'm restless as hell. This city...it calls to me. Makes me itch to get out there, even if I can't remember why."
He shot the valet a wry look. "I have a doctor friend I'd like to visit. He's an occult expert. I've forgotten his name; you don't know it by any chance do you?
Mortifex smiled thinly at Peter's question. "I'm afraid I do not, my lord." His gaze flicked away toward the window, where the sunlight was spilling over the city's rooftops. "Though Greenwich Village has a number of...advisors." There was a hint of mischief in his voice that made Peter look up sharply. But the valet's shadowy face was impassive.
"Greenwich Village," Peter said slowly, his memory working. "Bleecker Street." Peter stood, decision made. "I need some air. Maybe seeing the city will jog my memory." Mortifex inclined his head. "Very good, sir. I will inform the staff you've gone out."
Peter clapped him on the shoulder. "Thanks, man. I appreciate it." He grabbed a light jacket and headed for the door. Pausing, he glanced back. "Hey, which way to Bleecker Street?"
"Take the elevator to the lobby and head east, my lord. I believe you'll find your way once outside." Peter nodded and slipped out the door.
In the elevator, he bounced on the balls of his feet, adrenaline rising. Stepping outside, he took a deep breath. The city hit him like a wave - car horns, sirens, millions of people rushing past. He set off down the crowded sidewalk, senses heightened.
His mind churned as he walked. Satana wanted him to stay put, but the confinement was maddening. He needed to do something, find answers. Still...doubt crept in. Was he being unfair to Satana? She'd been nothing but devoted since his arrival. But he couldn't shake the feeling she was keeping things from him. Half-truths and omissions.
"Get it together, Parker," he muttered. "You can trust her. Can't you?"
But the only way to know for sure was to keep digging. And this doctor was the key. Peter quickened his pace, weaving between pedestrians.
Peter had just passed Washington Square Park when he saw it: that big brownstone with a funny-shaped skylight. He knew it; he'd passed it so many times before. The angle was different; he'd seen it from above, and the skylight was the first thing he saw. Now he was on the street, and so it looked different, but it was the same building. He squared his shoulders and began walking forward.
He heard a rustle of air behind him and then a faint scent of brimstone. He tensed his shoulders but kept marching towards the brownstone. Then her voice arose from behind him, forlorn and sad: "Peter, please stop," she pleaded. "Please."
He sighed and turned around. Satana was standing there, looking incredible as always, in a designer outfit, looking like she was ready to go on a date with her boyfriend. Why wasn't she doing that? Suddenly, he felt ashamed.
"This is a bad idea," she told him. "I can't explain why, but please don't do this."
He stared at her for a second and then turned back to the brownstone. He looked back at her and said, "The doctor in there is a friend of mine. I trust him."
"And I'm your wife," Satana interjected. "So, you don't trust me?"
She shook her head. "Fine," she said. "Let's do this."
Brushing past him, Satana ascended the steps and rapped sharply on the door. She turned back to face him. "They're hardly ever home," she told him. The door opened after a moment, showing the face of a bald Asian man in his middle years. The face was oddly familiar to Peter.
"Hello Wong," Satana smiled. "Peter Parker would like to see Stephen Strange or Clea. Are they home?"
Wong stared at them. His name was Wong, Peter now realized. He knew this man, and Strange—Dr. Stephen Strange—was a friend.
"I'm afraid the doctor and the mistress are out," Wong intoned gravely. "Please, come again."
He started to close the door when Satana cut in. "This is important. Peter doesn't trust me. He wants to leave Dr. Strange a message and wants to make sure he gets it. Peter's worried that I'm deceiving him." Wong studied her for a moment and then nodded.
"Please, come in," he gestured, stepping aside to allow them entry. As they crossed the threshold, Peter felt a tingling sensation pass over his skin, a subtle reminder of the protective enchantments woven throughout the brownstone. The interior of the sanctum was dimly lit and cluttered with artifacts and mystical paraphernalia.
"Unfortunately, Master Strange and Clea are away at the moment," Wong informed them, leading Peter and Satana further into the warm, dimly lit interior. The scent of incense hung heavy in the air, mingling with the smell of ancient leather and parchment. "But if there is anything I can do to help, please don't hesitate to ask."
"Actually, I'm hoping to leave a message for him," Peter explained, his mind racing as he tried to articulate the thoughts that had been plaguing him since his arrival at Fire Lake mansion.
"Of course," Wong said, guiding Peter to a writing table nestled in a cozy corner of the room. He offered Peter an old-fashioned pen and paper, the inkwell glinting softly in the flickering candlelight. "If you leave a message," he told Peter, "I will be sure the master gets it as soon as he comes in."
He paused for a minute, "Would you like anything, Mr. Parker, Ms. Hellstrom?"
"Satana," Satana said, sounding hurt. "Wong, we've been through it, no?"
He looked at her for a moment before breaking into a smile. "Of course, Satana. If the two of you would like some tea," he motioned to the chairs, "please make yourselves comfortable."
"Yes," Satana said. "That would be delightful."
Wong left. Peter paused at the writing desk. "He's leaving us alone?" he said, surprised.
"Yes, he's leaving me alone. He trusts me," Satana answered, sounding a little smug. "Don't worry; this place is a mystic fortress."
Pen in hand, he began to pour his jumbled thoughts onto the paper. Peter bent down, trying to figure out what he should write and what questions he wanted to ask. Thoughts all jumbled in his mind, making it hard to think. He started at the beginning, so he just wrote down events as he found them. Satana was walking around the room, but he focused on his writing.
"Oh, I remember this mirror," Satana said. Peter kept writing. She cleared her throat, and he looked up at her. She was standing in front of a large circular mirror. She struck a commanding pose and said, "I summoned you, arachnid," in a stern voice.
She stopped and looked at him. "Remember? This was the first time we met. I was standing here," she indicated where she was standing, "getting ready to risk my life, and you were standing right about there," she pointed to a place next to where he was sitting. "And you were not trusting me," she said, "Don't you remember?"
It did ring a bell; the memories were misty, but they started to clear. "I didn't completely distrust you," he said slowly. It had been such a long time ago.
She smiled at him again. "I started off strong, because I only knew you from what I'd read in the Daily Bugle. I assumed you were some sort of loutish frat boy. Then I get a good look at you." She struck another pose and said, "I am Satana. Some on your world know me as succubus, as demon sorceress, as Satan's daughter, and as a friend. I am of all these-and more."
She stopped and looked at him, waiting. "Oh come on," Satana said. "That is some of my best 'impress the cute hero' material.
Peter sat staring at her. It had been a warm summer night. It had been…long ago.
"I was impressed," Wong said, arriving with a tray of steaming tea.
"One cute hero at least," Satana said smiling. She got up and helped Wong serve.
Peter went back to his letter and then paused. He looked at Satana. "You died," he said after a moment.
"It didn't take," she shrugged. "You've died too, Peter. What a crazy life we lead. Have you died Wong?" Satana and Wong sat down at a small, intricately carved wooden table, the scent of rich black tea filling the air. Wong's demeanor had softened, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled warmly at Satana.
"Yes, it didn't take as well," Wong replied with a smile. "A crazy life indeed, as you said. But you will always be welcome in this house."
"That was such a strange night," Peter said.
"Yes, it was," Wong said. "A very bad night, but friendships, at least, can outlast hardship."
Wong poured Peter a cup of tea, then handed it to him and settled back with his own. "As I know both of you," he said, beaming, "I must say that I consider you two well-matched. Independent, yet brave and dependable; irreverent, but trustworthy." He smiled warmly. "Are those wedding rings I see on your fingers?"
Peter and Satana exchanged glances and both smiled. "Yes," Peter said. "We're recently married."
"Congratulations," Wong said with a smile. "I am delighted to hear the news. Stephen and Clea are certainly going to be overjoyed. After all," he continued, "they were responsible for bringing you two together."
They both laughed. "Yes, I suppose that's true," Satana said. "They were our connection people."
Peter looked down at the table and sighed. "At this point, I'm not sure that I need to write this letter," he said. "I think I've found what I needed to know."
"Write the letter," Satana said. "It was dangerous to come here, but having come, we'd be foolish not to try and get all the help we can."
"Family trouble?" Wong asked.
"Perhaps," Satana replied. "I didn't want to risk approaching Clea and Dr. Strange, but now that it's done, we should seek their help if we can get it."
"They should be back in a few days," Wong said. "I'm sure they'll be glad to help." They chatted for a while longer and then Peter and Satana left.
They took a stroll through Washington Square Park and Peter smiled at Satana. She looked at him and frowned.
"There is a smug possessiveness about your expression, husband. It doesn't suit you."
Peter's smile broadened. "I'm just happy I remembered that night," he said. "I know your secret identity," he told Satana. "You were so busy trying to save Dr. Strange and everyone else that you let your mask slip. I know who you really are, oh princess of hell."
Satana frowned. "Don't be too sure of me, Peter. That was long ago. Much has happened since then."
"I'm sure," Peter agreed, still smiling.
"My Father was sure of me," Satana warned. "He ordered me to be evil."
"Oh I agree," Peter said. "As your husband, I order, no I command you to be very evil all the time. Make Dad proud."
"Really," she smiled. "I am not so predictable. Perhaps I shall surprise you and become an obedient wife."
"I like living on the edge," Peter quipped, his smile unwavering.
With a laugh, she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into her world, a place as complex and enigmatic as she was.
"I shall wipe that annoying smile off your face," she told him and then proceeded to kiss him thoroughly.