25

Isobel stripped down and stared at herself in the mirror for a long time inspecting her skin. Her chest, arms, legs, all were bare. No marks except her familiar tattoos. However, she did find more smudges on her feet. One between her big and middle toe and another on the bottom of her heel. Like the ones on her hands, they did not lighten or even smear when washed. What were they?

She dressed again all the while wondering if there was someone she could ask, go to. Were there doctors in Hell? If there were, they probably wouldn't be very good. Still contemplating and growing more and more anxious by the moment Isobel opened her door and stopped short as a glint caught her eye. There in the middle of the hall Nifty waited, knife in hand and an angry expression on her small face.

"I know what you're doing," her small voice sounded menacing. Isobel was confused and also did not have the patience for this right now.

"What am I doing?" She asked briskly.

"You're bad."

"I thought you like bad things." Now she just felt like she was arguing with a small, deranged child.

"You're bad for him."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'll stop you. I'll… I'll," Nifty lifted the knife. "I'll cut off your hair."

Isobel released a very annoyed sigh. She was over this. Nifty had hated her since day one, which was fine, Isobel wasn't going to argue with it. But she also was not going to stand there and be threatened by something she could punt the length of a football field. And if Nifty thought she could just pick a fight over Alastor, she had another thing coming. Isobel's eyes narrowed as she scowled and her voice dropped to a low dark whisper.

"Hair grows back, Nifty" she said.

"Then I'll take out your eyes."

"We both know it's not only my physical appearance he likes, but sure go ahead. I wonder what he'd say if he knew you were threatening me with a knife." She pretended to think about it. "I'm sure he'd just laugh it off. I'm sure he'd just say, oh, that's just Nifty, she wouldn't hurt a fly." Isobel slowly dropped to the floor trying to get on her level. "Maybe I don't say anything. Maybe I just tell him that you make me nervous," Isobel feigned a girlish type of fear, "and if anything happens to me, he should look at you first. Do you think if I cut myself and tell it was you, he would believe me? Think he would be angry?"

"But I.. he's my… grrr," Nifty seemed very frustrated. She couldn't get her words out and tears were starting to form.

"Save it," Isobel sneered. "And don't cry. It's useless. Listen, I don't know what you think I'm doing. And I'm sure I can't convince you that it's nothing nefarious. So I'll just say this, what I do, does not concern you. You've made it very clear that you don't like me, well, I don't like you either. So leave. Me. Alone."

Isobel stood up, stepped over Nifty, fighting the urge to kick her. She quickly went to the end of the hall and then turned back.

"I know I'm not a demon, but if you continue to insist on meddling, I will tear your limbs off one by one. And believe me, I'll make it so that Alastor will not care."

Nifty snarled and threw the knife as Isobel turned the corner. If somersaulted through the air and stuck into the wall with a loud thud.

For the next few days Isobel tried to ignore her spots and dodge Nifty. She failed miserably. Her trying to ignore the black marks just made her obsess over them even more, and Nifty seemed to be around every corner. She also made it her mission to be Alastor's very small shadow. So Isobel had no choice but to evade them both. Which meant, she had no idea what that little monster was telling him.

She became distracted and irritable. If she wasn't snapping at people, she was avoiding them altogether while still trying to subtly examine they're hands. She constantly checked her spots. She tried to measure them, hoping to gauge if they were growing. She couldn't sleep, the nagging feeling of doom constantly in the back of her mind. It wasn't until she found a new spot on her lower back aligned with her spine, that she hit her last straw.

She sat on the window seat, knees pulled to chest, watching the deep black silhouette of the city. She looked down and even in the dim gloom of night, she could make out the black smudge on her palm. In that moment she realized she had to do something. What if she was dying from some horrible disease? What if she was literally rotting away?

As silently as she could, Isobel dressed and then in the dark stood over a sleeping Alastor. He looked peaceful and at ease, and yet still smiling. She leaned over him, brushing his hair aside and kissing him on the temple. He didn't react, and Isobel thought it was a good thing he didn't sleep alone, anyone could sneak up on him without waking him.

She left the hotel and walked out into the night. Any fears she once had long since gone. There was nothing to fear with the power of the Radio Demon at her back. She traveled passing from pools of neon light into complete darkness and wound her way to the only place of logic and safety. Her citadel among the chaos, the library.

Her eyes looked up at it as she hoped against hope that she could find something that would explain the spots and allay her fears. At the same time she trembled at the thought of finding an answer and realizing it was worse that she could have imagined.

As she walked in, the light fixtures came aglow cutting the dark just enough to see. The silence was oppressive, the kind of quiet that one feared breaking, so she stepped carefully, lightly as she made her way looking for any kind of book that might hold information that she needed.

A few hours later she had a pile of old mildewing medical texts, but no answers. It was still dark outside, and sleep was at last calling her. Her frustration and fatigue mingled with her anxiety and the feeling of helplessness fell over her. She laid her head down on crossed arms and fought against the urge to cry.

"You, good lady, seem to be in distress. What plaques thou?" Isobel sat up startled. Her movements were too quick, and her chair rocked back on two legs, threatened to tip over, then righted itself. Her tears were instantly forgotten, as she desperately searched the gloom for the speaker.

"Hello?," her voice was choked with fear.

Behind a bookcase stepped a tall, dark figure. A phantom with glowing green eyes and a top hat. He was extremely tall and thin, cloaked in black, with the feel of a spider waiting for prey. A crooked smile greeted her.

"Good morrow, lady."

"I'm sorry, I didn't think anyone else was here," Isobel said a little wary.

"I oft come to the library late at night. It has always been a great comfort for me. I have read all these works many times over."

"Oh, I usually come in the morning. I thought I was the only one."

"Yes, I have been wondering who has been moving the books about."

"Hey, you must have been the one who put my books away that one time."

"One shant leave a mess lying around." He chuckled.

"Right, well, thank you for that."

"Tis but a trifle." He gave a little bow, the feather on his top hat swayed as he did so. "But now back to the matter at hand. What vexes you, gentlewoman?"

Isobel looked around herself at the medical texts. "I can't find any answers to my problems."

"Ah yes, that can be quite frustrating. Perhaps I can assist you, I know these chronicles like my own name. If your answer is contained within these four walls, I shall surely know it."

Isobel hesitated, but what did she really have to lose? She stretched out her hand, displaying the black smudge.

"I'm trying to understand what this is," she said. The tall figure came close examining her palm. From his cloak long spindly fingers emerged and she was reminded again of a spider. "It's not dirt or ink, like I first thought. I tried scrubbing but nothing makes it leave, and I think it might be growing."

"Fascinating," he said reaching out, his fingers dancing just like the legs of a black widow. "Wouldst thou allow?" He asked before touching her hand. She shrugged, sure, and he held her palm close to his face. The bright green light shining from his eyes and mouth illuminated her hand in the dark. He turned it over, and then again. She gave him her other hand to examine, as while.

"I've found it on my feet also."

After what seemed like a long, maybe unnecessarily long, examination, the tall cloaked phantom stepped back.

"I believe I may have the answer you seek, however, it be based on theory not yet proven."

He drew a few symbols in the air and a bright green glow emanated from the very top of a bookshelf. A single book shuffled out of its place, floated through the air, and came to rest in front of Isobel. The pages began to turn on their own until they came to rest on a paper with drawn pictures of hands all with black spots. Isobel could not read the language it was written in, but it looked like a doctor's field journal or something. Her brain jumped right to what she thought was the worst case scenario. Oh, god I have the plague.

"This journal speaks of the witch's mark. A physical manifestation of corruption on the soul. Witch hunters of old would search for such a mark on the bodies of suspected witches, however, they be but fools and identify any spot, freckle, mole, birthmark. They knew not what they were looking for.

"A witch's mark cannot be seen in the living world, but it is said that at the time of our judgment, the full extent of our own corruption will be on display for God and the Angels to see. However, being that no one remembers their own moment of judgment, if there is in fact such a moment, this cannot be completely proven."

"But how?" Isobel asked, staring again at her hand.

"The theory states that in life the experiences we have mold us and leave a stamp on our souls. The more good you experience, the brighter, the more evil, the darker. Then the state of one's soul dictates how one manifests in the life beyond."

Isobel looked up, confusion crossing her face.

"Let us take your master as an example."

"My master?" Isobel blurted incredulously.

"Forgive me, but are you not the paramour of the Radio Demon? I have heard rumors."

"Oh," She had never thought about it in that way. "I guess, kind of." Isobel did not like the thought of having a master.

"Alastor in life surrounded himself with evil. He experienced great evil from others and partook in many depraved and immoral acts himself. It all left a mark on his soul. So much that he was imbued with certain infernal powers that match the wickedness he endured. Good and evil both leave their hallmark on our souls and most come in contact with both.

"However," he turned to face Isobel. "You, a living soul, are here, a place in which evil is in the very air you breathe. You cannot escape it, and the actions you choose to partake, and those you choose to partake with all leave a black spot that can only be seen when one is beyond the veil."

Enki's words rang in Isobel's head. She had called her unmarked. Isobel thought it was just an analogy, not a true blotch on her skin.

"What can I do? Is it going to kill me?"

"Oh no, your life will play out, but the longer you are exposed the darker and deeper the corruption becomes."

"Can't I counteract it or something?"

"If you left, dedicate your life to Heaven, surround yourself with the good and divine, perhaps you could stall the infection." Isobel thought about Enki's offer, the life of quiet contemplation, praying and confessing for the rest of her life.

"However," the phantom's voice came from just over her shoulder. It had an edge of sly and wicked to it. "There is another option."

Isobel was afraid to ask, "what other option?"

He leaned in. He was much taller than even Alastor and Isobel thought to herself how she was tired of people towering over her.

"You could embrace it," he said, eyes glowing sinisterly.

"What?" she said, shocked.

"A living soul with such a mark may have never been seen before. Think of the demon you would become and the power you could command. What a sight you would be to behold." At this point he backed off, pulling his arms into his cloak and lowering his voice. "That is, if the theory is true. As I have professed, it has yet to be proven."

"I think you have me confused with someone else. It's awfully grand for someone like me."

"Who's to say? As the bard did once write, some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them."

"But I don't belong here."

"Do you not? Hmmm." He tilted his head as if considering.

"I'm not evil," Isobel placed her hand next to the one pictured in the book. She never thought she would wish to have had the plague instead.

"Perhaps not, but that never stopped a soul from being condemned to Hell before." He smiled at her before turning away. With a little puff of dust, the book snapped closed and floated away, returning to its place among the stacks. "I fear to change your course you may have to beg the intervention of the divine. Certainly whatever relationship you may have with the Radio Demon or those who inhabit that hotel will only further your path into darkness. A choice must be made, I'm afraid."

Isobel noticed that the windows showed the unmistakable glimmer of daybreak and the shadows had begun to retreat. She felt stunned by this new information as she moved to the door and placed her hand on the latch. Turning back she half expected the figure to be gone, a figment of some fever dream. But there he stood at another shelf perusing the titles.

"Who are you?" she asked.

With a bow and a flourish of his robes, showing a glimpse of acid green spiderwebs inside, he said, "Zestiel, good lady, at your service. I do hope we meet again, perhaps after you have come into your own."