Prom Queen ｡ Michael Langdon

20 - PRINCESS OF DARKNESS

     "Miriam's a great cook," Michael announced brightly, picking up his utensils like a giddy child. And maybe in another life, Miriam Mead could've been a chef, but the woman knew what her purpose in this life was: To protect and raise Michael Langdon, the bringer of the apocalypse. 

     "Thank you, dear." She smiled at her golden boy with a kindness only reversed for him. And then she switched her dark eyes to Carrie, staring at her plate with a twisting stomach and tear-stained cheeks. Half of her wanted to cross the one-way street, to see the ruins of her life, but the other half knew it would destroy her. "Now Carrie, you've caused us a problem, an unexpectable mess," she started and Carrie's heart shuddered. "Fortunately, I'm good at cleaning up messes." She sent Michael a knowing look, like she had cleaned up many of his bloody messes before. "We'll leave tomorrow morning, before dawn, and head south." Michael nodded along. They had already planned this and the 'we' suggested that Carrie was going too. "But first, we have a Black Mass to prepare for." 

     "Carrie's first one!" Michael agreed happily and with surprising excitement. Carrie's stomach launched and she pushed her plate away. She felt feverish and she wasn't sure it was from the crying or the heat or something else entirely. Even the cross around her neck was hot to the touch, scorching against the cut on her throat from a knife wielded by her mother. 

     "I can't." She shook her head. "I can't leave." More tears stung at her eyes. She needed to bury her mother but wasn't even sure there was anything to bury. And she wanted to see Ava Gold again. 

     Miriam scoffed, cupping her hands together over her own piece of toast littered with slices of strawberry. "Well, you can't stay either, girl. I also need a fresh goat's head. Michael, aren't you forgetting something?" Michael dropped his fork and knife, bowing his head. He then said a dark grace. 

     Carrie wished for that dark sleep again, wished for that still and cool frozen lake. Miriam Mead was right, Carrie Moore couldn't stay in the city of angels, that part of her life was dead. She didn't know where she belonged anymore. Wasn't sure it was at Michael Langdon's side, wasn't even sure if she deserved a life. But Carrie knew her tears wouldn't bring her mother back from the grave, so her tears ceased to fall. 

 — 

    "You are rude," Michael had said, his hands not leaving the trolly he'd been pushing in the local butcher's shop. Carrie hadn't flinched when the shop lights flickered. Carrie hadn't screamed when five knives dug into the butcher's body, cutting through flesh and bones. Carrie hadn't cried as blood streamed out, flowing like a crimson water fountain. If anything, she had welcomed the blood and rejoiced at the sight of it. Carrie and her blood! She had even briefly wondered what it would taste like on her tongue, and wondered if Michael would like the taste of it on her tongue too; her skin had shivered with the thought. 

     The holding cell of the Los Angeles Police Department was cold and grim and smelt faintly of urine and vomit. But it finally allowed the sweat on Carrie's skin to dry as she waited for Michael Langdon to be brought back in. He had been taken away to be interrogated about the strange and unusual killing of the butcher that had been so, so rude to Miriam Mead. Michael's parental figure had chanced out from getting arrested, but Michael and Carrie hadn't been, at least that's what it was made to look like. 

     Michael had been ushered back into the cell, and which a rough shove he fell to his knees in front of Carrie. She clambered to the concrete ground and gently picked up Michael's chin. 

     "What happened in there?" she asked as soft as a mouse, as soft as a kitten. But the souls Carrietta Tabitha Moore had reaped knew she was far from a mouse or a kitten, even if she did look the part. His face was sprinkled with tiny droplets of blood; Carrie brushed her fingers over the rubies, letting the blood fill the valleys in her fingerprints.