"All I hear are screams every time I dare to close my eyes. I no longer dream, only nightmares of those who've died. Nothing is what it seems, but in the Underworld, your past is always close behind."
Jorge Rivera-Herrans
The grimoire feels heavy in his hands, heavier than he knows it should, as if the words carry the weight of the souls it has claimed. He flips through its pages, languages long dead written on the aged sheets. The tome is believed to be an artifact from the Old Gods, though he doubts the truth of the legend. Regardless, he knows the grimoire carries immense power if one knows how to wield it properly.
His benefactor requested its retrieval, but he had yet to notify him of his success. The ease with which he retrieved the tome still disturbed him. His years of experience in this line of work spoke of deception, but for what reason he had yet to ascertain. Better to keep his benefactor waiting than reveal his hand too soon.
He sets the book aside, finding nothing more to be gained from its perusal. The monitor before him displays the image of the altered tabernacle, the new engraving standing out starkly against the gold embossing of the crucifix. The design appears to be runic, though the language is not one with which he is familiar.
Its similarities to the Mark of Skath are impossible to deny, though he knows it is not one and the same. For seemingly the hundredth time, he traces the shape of the carving, remembering the way the rune began to glow a sinister red from his touch. Without conscious thought, images of times long gone, still frozen in moments of rage and horror and resentment flutter past his mind's eye, as if kept in a flipbook to be perused at leisure. The images melt into one another, creating a macabre animation.
An image of Raven staring in horror at his pursuit. An image of Raven clutched tightly in his hands; blood red runes carved into her skin. An image of Raven overlooking the ruins of Jump City, her eyes brimmed with unshed tears while he whispers vicious threats into her ear. An image of Raven falling from the skyscraper, his callous actions sending her to an untimely death if not for the intervention of her friends. An image of Raven shrouded in the darkest shadows of fear and despair, trying to piece together her tortured and shattered soul. An image of a childlike Raven fleeing from him in distrust, no semblance of recognition or familiarity left in her frightened gaze.
The images taunt him, torturous in their reminder of his many faults. He wishes he could burn the images from his mind, set them aflame until they incinerate into cinders swept into the darkest corners of his psyche. A foolish desire. It would be better if he could turn back time, never to be entangled in this mess to begin with, never to be bothered by his conscience or the consequences of his own stupidity. A dark grimace carves itself onto his face.
He pushes himself up, his hands trembling upon the desktop, fingers clenched against the hardwood; he fights to shake off the recollections. He thought he had left this frailty behind, but it seems Raven's recent arrival back into his life reopened old, festering wounds.
At once frustrated with the bend of his thoughts and his inability to shake her influence from his life, he slams his fists into the desktop, rattling the contents, causing his forgotten cup of coffee to slip off and shatter on the floor.
A deep sigh rattles through his chest, his hands calmly brushing the hair that had fallen over his face back, combing the strands into place.
He expects to hear Wintergreen entering the room, dustpan held in hand and ready to pick up the porcelain fragments, before Slade remembers he is thousands of miles away, ensconced at his west coast residence. He did not expect to stay long in Blüdhaven, so he did not plan for Wintergreen to join him. Perhaps it was time to call for his aid.
Slade quickly tidies the floor, removing the shards lest they get in his way later. The tediousness of the chore helps calm his erratic thoughts.
Glancing again to his work, he feels at a loss. Despite all his research, little could be found of the grimoire or the symbol, and despite his many encounters with it, the occult was never his expertise. Not for the first time, his mind wanders to Raven, knowing she could be of immense use in this pursuit; however, he had little desire to drag her into this affair. He knows there will be no avoiding it in due course, as he is certain she lay at the heart of whatever disaster was brewing in Blüdhaven, but he would do his best to keep her clear of the mire as long as possible. And if her continued absence helped him hold onto his last strands of sanity just a little longer, so much the better.
Still, her knowledge and mastery would be invaluable.
It had been a few days since she had come crashing back into his life, both literally and figuratively. He was still disconcerted by his innate reaction to her, his immediate ease with her presence. Despite the longevity of their estrangement, his soul still sought her own, wishing to entwine with hers once more the moment she was within reach; he dared not let his mind linger on the implications.
Truth be told, he was relieved to see her. She seemingly disappeared five years ago, leaving no trace. For months, it was widely assumed she had taken a sabbatical or was involved in a covert operation. The Titans made an official statement once the press started to fuss about the length of her absence, but its hollowness left much to the imagination. Her name, and those of the founding Titans, was dragged often and at length across news outlets for months, but the Titans remained tightlipped. Eventually media outlets shifted to some other inane topic before Raven all but vanished from the public mind.
More than once Slade had sought a means to find her, or at least learn of her whereabouts, but he came up empty every time. It seemed even the Titans did not know. The herald of the new Teen Titans under the guidance and tutorship of the remaining founders seemed to close the door on any chance Raven would return.
To learn now she had been so close at hand was shocking. That she could easily slip through everyone's fingers and live a life detached from her previous a mere coastline from her first and, at one time, only home on Earth was impressive. She had easily vanished from the public eye, despite her beloved Titans seeking her, despite his own efforts to locate her. How she maintained her concealment is beyond him, but maybe in time she would enlighten him.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sharp ringing of his comms. It appeared his benefactor was not happy with his lack of communication. He reached for his mask, concealing his identity behind the stoic, two-toned facade. As loathe as he was to speak with the man, he would continue his deception for now, buying himself time to better understand the events unfolding before him.
As the connection was opened, the image of a honey-blonde man smiling vaguely back at him filled his screen.
"Ah, Deathstroke, so good to speak with you. I do so hope you have good news." The sickly-sweet greeting grated on Slade's nerves. If he hadn't been suspicious of the man before, he certainly was now.
Slade let the silence grow between them before responding, "Mr. Ludovic, I am sorry to disappoint, but there was an unexpected obstacle. Your continued patience will be necessary to fulfill your request."
The man considered his words before responding. "I am not the most patient of men, Deathstroke. Please deal with this... obstacle..." As he uttered the word, the man's lips pulled back over his teeth, his face stretching into a grotesque likeness of a grin. At once Slade was reminded of a predator stalking its prey, content to enjoy the hunt a little longer.
"...in a timely fashion. As you know, your reputation far surpasses my doubts. I trust you will reward my patience, but do not spit on such kindness. I expect no further disappointments."
Slade took a moment to maintain his self-control, his anger at once rising at the condescension of the man before him. He must keep a level-head. As suspected, the man seemed to anticipate Slade's feigned failure. He had no more doubt, his benefactor had orchestrated the events of the other night, and yet, he clearly still sought more from him. He doubted the tome he now possessed was the true quarry, but that meant...
"Mr. Ludovic, I will secure what you most desire, have no doubt."
The abrupt end to the call left him roaring in laughter. Yes, Slade would perform as anticipated. The board had been set; the pieces placed in their exact positions. She would come to them in due course, it was only a matter of time.
Champion or not, willing or resistant, Slade would watch her downfall. He could not halt prophecy; he could not dare to defy its beckoning call yet again.
He would share the message with the Church. Brother Blood's arrival was nigh, and Azrael would ensure Blood's chosen bride would be bared before him.
The Angel of Death had come to claim the soul of the Black Bird of Death, in the name of the Divine.
She was drowning, choking on thick, tacky blood. The copper tang of it filled her mouth, forcing a wet cough from her chest. She could not distinguish up from down, left from right. She struggled against the weight of it holding her under.
Her lungs burned in agony as her body grew weak. Her feeble attempts to breach the surface of the pool were futile.
As her vision dimmed, she thought she heard the rhythmic chanting of the disciples past the rushing pressure in her ears.
"We are born of the Blood, bathed in the Blood, undone by the Blood."
In the haze, the shape of a man takes form, emerging from the viscous liquid. He grasps her chin, pulling her roughly against him. He claims her lips in a bruising kiss as she begins to lose consciousness. Before she slips completely into oblivion, he leaves her with a final message.
"You are mine."
Raven gasps awake, choking on the sudden breath. Dry coughs follow, her body attempting in vain to expel blood from her sore lungs. Her ragged breaths are laborious, as if she had not dreamed of her own drowning but had instead lived through it. Her arms and legs feel heavy, struggling to hold up her weight. She slumps back against her pillows, attempting to quiet her panicked thoughts, to slow her quickened breathing.
Many minutes go by before she feels any semblance of peace.
It had been months now since she'd had such a vivid dream, at least one that she could remember. Fear, real and primal, grew in her chest. No, dream was not the right word. Vision was more appropriate.
The bright red glow of her clock reminds her of the hour, far earlier than she wished to be awake. And yet she knew sleep would no longer claim her this night.
On shaky legs she made her way out of her bedroom and into her kitchen, flicking on every light she passed. It had been years since her fears manifested themselves into true terrors through her powers, but she knew better than to tempt fate.
She filled and set her electric kettle to heat water, allowing the monotony of the task to calm her frayed nerves. As she waited for the water to heat, she forced open the stiff window that opened out onto her fire escape. The cool night air blew in against her face, cooling her flushed cheeks.
As she turned back to her tea-making, a small tuxedo cat jumped from the neighboring building's terrace onto her window ledge, mewling at her. Raven turned back, a small smile curving her lips for the first time since she awoke.
"Hello little one. It's been a while since you last visited."
She grabbed a small bowl, filling it with milk for a treat. She joined her furry friend out on her fire escape, placing the bowl at its feet. She gave the small cat a little scratch under its chin before leaving it to lap up the milk.
She sighed heavily, her mind easily turning back to those moments of dread in the pool of blood. Though she knows she has never seen the man from her dream before, he seemed familiar, as if she knew him from somewhere, or as if she would.
It had been a few days since she had encountered Slade at St. Eustace Church, but somehow, she knew this dream was connected to the events of that night. He had been following the movements of a new cult, prepared to take something of value, she was sure. Slade had called them the Sons' Acolytes.
We are born of the Blood.
Raven grasped at her head, the thrumming pain of a headache building in her temples. The cat, now done with its meal, sidled up next to her, rubbing its soft fur against her bare leg.
She glanced down at the gesture, rubbing the cat behind its ears. The cat began purring in appreciation before languidly laying its body against her.
The Sons' Acolytes, that name did not sit right. They were not the people from her dream. They were not the people pulling her and Slade onto this treacherous path.
Bathed in the Blood.
There was someone else, another group, she was sure of it. Someone with more power, using the Sons' Acolytes as a front for their own affairs. But who? And why did she feel like she should know?
She shakes her head at her own grand leaps of logic. Perhaps she was just tired, her wearied mind yielding to emotions conjured by her night terror, guiding her to make wild assumptions.
She needed to calm herself first, to think rationally.
She had left most of her days as a Titan behind her, but perhaps it was time to look closer at the inner workings of Blüdhaven. She had watched idly as this darkening cloud moved in over her city, content with waiting, with living this new life free from her former burdens, but now... she would not let another beloved home fall to ruin.
Undone by the Blood.
But then that meant one thing: she would need Slade.
Author's Note: There is a little easter egg in here from a video game. Not an exact grab, but a little sprinkling. I could not resist. All credit where credit is due.