The moment Joan stepped out of the bright light of the portal, she knew something was wrong. She didn't see Richard or Thomas, though they went through first. Ragazzino wasn't with her anymore. And she certainly wasn't in the Vale.
She stood alone in the dead of night, in the middle of a Roman or Greek city in ruins and carved into a mountainside. Wherever the portal had brought her, she wasn't anywhere she'd ever been before. She turned around, wanting to step back, but there was no trace of the portal left.
Joan cursed silently, wishing Michael hadn't used her baslard since she was left with nothing to defend herself. She searched for a weapon, but there was nothing apart from a few cracked ceramic plates, jugs, and broken pieces of stone. Those wouldn't do much damage against a seasoned demon warrior or hell beast. And close combat was certainly not an option in her current condition.
A soft rustle drew Joan's attention then. She turned around and gasped when she saw one of her best friends coming out from behind a tree.
"Marina? What are you —?"
"Oh, you're finally here!" Margaret pulled Joan in for a fond embrace. "I was worried sick. It's so good to see you again."
She let go and placed her palm flat on Joan's belly. The baby moved a little to her touch.
"I can't believe how much you've grown in so little time," said Margaret as she looked up at Joan. "You don't have to worry about anything. Your mother and I will take care of you now."
"My mother? Marina, what the hell is going on here?"
"I'll explain everything in a moment. There's someone I want you to meet first."
She moved aside. A tall man in a grey suit stood a few feet away, silently watching the reunion of the two friends. Joan had seen many terrifying creatures as an angel of the Vale, but none had ever taken her breath away like this man.
The right side of his face was absolutely beautiful. Smooth skin with a light complexion, an enchanting green eye and copper locks that somehow shone in the rising moon. The left side, however, was harrowing. Not a green eye, but a white one, with no iris or pupil, and his flesh was contorted in a crude landscape of scars. It seemed impossible to forget such a distorted face. Yet Joan was certain she had seen this man before. But where? And when?
"Joan, this is Samael," introduced Margaret. "My son."
"I'm sorry, you want to repeat that last bit again?" Joan's eyes flicked back to her friend.
"Samael is my son. Mine and Lucifer's."
"But... But I thought... he died? That's what Lucifer told me. And Gabriël, and —"
"He did. He did die, Joan. But God saved him for us. He has been with us this whole time, but we never knew it."
Samael stepped forward and took Joan's hand. The moment he touched her skin, her flesh crawled, and her blood chilled.
"It's a pleasure to meet you at last," he spoke cordially, seemingly unaware of the effect he had on her. "I have heard so much about you."
He brought Joan's hand to his lips. The baby gave a violent kick, making her double over in pain. Samael quickly pulled back from her.
"What is it?" he asked in a panic. "Mother, what did I do?"
"It's all right." Margaret came to Joan's side. "Probably just a kick. She's closer to her due date than you and your father told me."
"Morpheus' doing, no doubt. He's been known to speed time along in the Dream Realm." Samael's jaw clenched in suppressed anger. "Dammit, I shouldn't have pulled her through the portal like that. Father insisted I bring her here now. I-I didn't mean to —"
"Samael, sh, calm down. None of this is your doing. Go get Isabelle, please."
He nodded and ran down a gravel path to some hovels nearby. Margaret sighed and shook her head before directing her attention back to Joan.
"Sorry about that," she said. "Samael can be insecure sometimes. He hasn't had it easy."
Joan bit through the pain to look at her friend. There was something about Margaret. She had always been a serene girl, but now she appeared truly at peace.
"M-Marina, I don't... understand." Joan winced. "How is this possible?"
"When I miscarried, Samael's soul travelled to Purgatory. The scars on his face are... remnants of his time in the Circles. God saved him and made Samael the Angel of Death. Then, one day, he met Lucifer and discovered the awful truth of his existence. Lucifer told him about himself, about Michael, about me... I was reunited with them both only yesterday."
Joan took a couple of deep breaths to calm herself and seized Margaret up. The angel hadn't been harmed as far as Joan could tell. She was a stunning vision, dressed in a teal dress of fine cotton. A silver amulet, much like the one Bathory and Gabriël wore, rested above her bosom. Her cheeks had a pink blush, and her hair was full and vibrant. It almost looked as if Margaret had come alive again. But Joan was hesitant to just accept that everything was fine.
"Marina, how can you trust anything Samael says?" she questioned. "Or Lucifer, for that matter?"
"I trust my husband," replied Margaret, "who has never harmed me, unlike others who wanted me to believe otherwise. And I trust Samael, who is my son, Joan. When I am with them, I feel like the pieces of my heart, pieces I never knew were missing, are finally where they belong. I feel... loved. I feel at home. And forgive me for saying so, but didn't you trust Lucifer when you made a deal to save Gabriël and your baby? Has anything he told you so far been a lie? Has anything he told Gabriël been a lie?"
"No, but —"
"Joan, Lucifer doesn't want to hurt you. He let Samael bring you here so you could deliver peacefully, and brought your mother and me here for you as well. You are safe, I promise."
"But everything he's done —"
"Was necessary."
Joan very much doubted the Devil's actions had been 'necessary'. But she did believe he meant her no harm. The times she had spoken to Lucifer, she had found him almost human. Perhaps with Margaret at his side, he would be less inclined to seek vengeance on Michael and the Vale, and he would certainly keep his word in providing a safe home for herself and the baby.
"Ma fille!"
The Fallen Angel's head snapped up at her mother's voice. If she hadn't been carrying the extra baby weight, Joan would have run straight toward her, as she had often done when she was a little girl. Instead, she had to let her mother come to her.
Isabelle wrapped her arms around her daughter, kissed her cheek, and cupped her face. Tears of joy rolled down both mother and daughter's faces. Joan watched Margaret move to her own child and hug him as well over her mother's shoulder. That was when she saw it.
Samael's composed expression wavered, and he hesitated for the briefest second before accepting his mother's affection. He appeared rueful. But about what? Finally having a mother that loved him? Perhaps he just wasn't used to it yet. He had spent his life alone, after all.
Still, Joan couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss. She remembered Michael's last words to her. He said her daughter was the Angel of Death. Michael was Lord Protector; he would know of these things. And he wouldn't lie to Joan about this. Which begged the question — if her baby was the true Angel of Death, what of who was the current one?
***
Cesare paced the length of his chamber, questioning every decision he had made thus far. What was he thinking, trusting the Angel of Death? The Devil promised to deliver Lucrezia to him as well if he did what he was told. He already proved his worth at Resia and the Castel. With de Rais and the Ripper dead, Tepes turned traitor, and the Russian torn to shreds, there was no one else the Master could trust. There was no need to side with that deformed creature.
I should have retrieved the Fallen Angel myself! I could have used her against Gabriël and the Boleyn whore to get my revenge on them both! Dammit, why did I listen to —?
Suddenly, the door burst open. Cesare reeled around to find the Blood Countess standing on the threshold, arrow shafts stuck in her bloodied shoulder and abdomen, and a French dagger piercing her hand.
"Bathory! What the...?"
His words fell away when she pushed a young woman onto the floor. Long golden hair in tangles. Skin kissed by the sun yet glowing as if bathed in moonlight. Light-hazel eyes which could cast a devastating enchantment on every man who dared look into them. And full pink lips gracing the most delicate face Cesare had ever laid eyes on.
"Lucrezia?"
Her head jerked up. Tears threatened to fall when recognition crossed her face. Cesare rushed toward her, falling to his knees so he could wrap his arms around her body.
"You're here," sobbed Cesare, his voice muffled against her shoulder. "You've come back to me."
He drew back and cupped her face. She grabbed his wrists. Their eyes met. He leaned in. Not for an affectionate peck on the cheek between long-lost siblings reuniting, but for a passionate kiss between lovers who found themselves in each other's arms after an eternity apart.
***
Samael returned to Lucifer's palace after leaving Joan with her mother and his own at Pergamum, passing through the first Circles where the battle had taken place. The angels were long gone, having taken their fallen comrades' bodies along. The only things lying on the blood-soaked ground were demons and hell beasts. Whatever remained of them smouldered as if touched by fire.
This is... holy blood. Interesting. Seems like we've all underestimated Gabriël's prowess. Not that it matters. He won the battle, but the war will be mine.
Samael continued through the dark, icy corridors to the chamber his father gave him. He halted at the door when he saw someone already inside.
"What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded at seeing his accomplice seated at the table. "I thought we agreed to meet at Pergamum?"
"Shut the fuck up and help me!" snapped Bathory.
Samael quickly locked the door so they would not be disturbed. He walked over to inspect her wounds. A thin red line with several crusted blisters ran across her face. An arrow stuck out of her shoulder, two broken shafts pierced her side, and a dagger stuck to the hilt through her hand.
"What happened?" he asked as he removed the shafts.
"That — ah! — fucking traitor Tepes!" she hollered. "And those godforsaken Nephilim! I will have their heads for this!"
"Just their heads? Or do you mean to use other body parts to decorate the halls?"
"As if you don't want them dead! They as much as replaced you!"
"They replaced an idea," corrected Samael, slightly piqued at the reminder.
He took the witch's hand after taking the last arrow out of her shoulder. The dagger had pierced the centre of her palm. Whomever had done it had immaculate accuracy.
"This wasn't a Nephilim's doing," he noted. "The dagger is French. Joan?"
"Michael." Bathory gritted her teeth. "He caught me by surprise. I returned the favour."
Samael's head jerked up. "You killed him?"
"Don't worry, you can still do the honours. I merely ripped his wings out. That half-witted healer in the Vale will have his work cut out for him."
Samael gave an exasperated sigh. He wished his partner wasn't so fickle. Michael was his and his alone.
"Hold still," he said.
He yanked the dagger out of Bathory's hand in one clean swoop. She stifled a scream by biting her lip, and quickly let her magic flow to do the rest. The foul stench of putrid flesh cleared instantly. The corners of the witch's mouth curled up as the skin of her hand grew smooth. She grabbed a hand mirror from her pocket and scanned every inch of her flawless face.
"Aren't we forgetting something? Everyone in the Circles knows Lucifer punished you. And since his powers are supposed to be supreme..."
Bathory's smile wavered at Samael's remark. Her fingers closed to form a tight fist. Her chest heaved up and down, and she flew into a fit of rage, crying and yelling all at once. The mirrors in the room shattered into pieces, and the candles and fireplace were set ablaze. Bathory threw herself on the bed, burying her face in the pillows. Samael rolled his eyes.
A being as old as this one and yet as petulant as a child.
Fortunately, he had already learned how to handle his temperamental partner in crime. He sat beside her on the bed and ran his hand through her dusty hair. She turned her head away from him, but did nothing to shrug him off.
"We're almost there," Samael spoke softly. "Then this guise you wear can come off. You can be your glorious self once more. You have played your part to perfection these past centuries, but I must ask you to continue your ruse for just a little while longer."
Bathory faced him. She pouted her lips at him as if it would make any difference. Samael stroked her nose.
"Patience, my sweet. The Fallen Angel can give birth at any moment. As soon as that baby is ours, we will have dominion over all. The Circles, the Heavens... Everything lies within our grasp."
"I want to do it," said the witch in a childlike voice. "I want to carve it out of that wench and leave her to bleed out, alone and abandoned. Her last thoughts should be of me holding her precious little baby. I want her to know that the darkness has won and has taken her child from her."
"And so it shall be." Samael grinned. "But not yet. Let her have this moment of peace. Let her believe all is well, and then... we kill them all."
"Even... her?" Bathory leaned her head on her hand as if to measure Samael's reaction.
He narrowed his eyes, knowing perfectly well she spoke of his mother, Margaret of Antioch. To his great shame, he allowed himself to feel the slightest hint of love for her. He never knew he was capable of such a horrid sentiment.
Love was the cruellest emotion of all; to have it and long for it, then to feel such agony when it slipped away, even if only for a moment. Samael found it absolutely repulsing that people (angels and demons included) fell for it at every turn. On the other hand, love provided him with all he needed to make the right people believe they were winning this utterly ridiculous war. It would be his greatest pleasure to dispel them of that laughable notion.
"I will handle Lucifer and Margaret when the time comes," replied Samael diplomatically. "Now, have you taken care of the Lord of Dreams, or must I still teach him a lesson?"
"Oh, please," came the scoffed reply. "Even wounded, I can still outmatch that pompous excuse for a deity. I've trapped him in a nightmare loop of his own making and reduced his palace to ash, with the slaves still inside it."
"And Lucifer's other aces?"
"The Romanov boy escaped, but we don't need him anymore, anyway. Lucifer took care of Rasputin for us, and what little prophetic power the boy possessed is a trifle compared to what we will possess once we take over. The Borgia woman is already reunited with her fool of a brother. If he even is her brother." Bathory turned on her back and touched Samael's cheek with the tip of her fingers, carefully tracing his scarred skin. "I still think we should have offered Borgia her corpse instead. Claim the angels killed her or that she got caught in the crossfire."
"He would never have believed it," countered Samael. "Borgia may be a cretin, but he's not an idiot. Not always. The angels do not kill innocents."
Bathory chuckled. "Lucrezia Borgia is far from innocent."
"She is in her brother's eyes. And now, he owes us for delivering darling Lucrezia to him. What do you think he will owe us when we deliver the person who killed her?"
A villainous grin appeared on the witch's face. "Hm, how wickedly cruel of you."
Her hands crept up to Samael's shoulders. She pushed him down and moved nimbly to climb on top of him, already removing his clothing. He had already expected she would be in the mood for that. The rush of battle, the lingering sensation of her magic and the adrenaline coursing through her always left her wanting.
Samael found it bothersome that she always turned to him when there were plenty of others she could devour with her needs, but he couldn't deny she was good. Very good, in fact. If nothing else, it was a fun way to pass the time whilst waiting for the Fallen Angel to deliver her child. So why not let the witch have one more go before he got rid of her? He'd consider it a final parting gift.