Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ruined
Hell is empty, and all the devils are here.
~William Shakespeare
Santino was alive during the first Rioting.
He had been a mere babe then in 1963, still suckling at his mother, his little fingers clawing for her calloused palms as she pressed him tight to her chest, sweat careening down her arms and legs, the frantic 'thud-thud' of her heart like a drum in his ears.
He still remembered every detail - the bomb shelter that his paranoid recluse of a father had built beneath their home just before he'd taken his own life at the hands of a poisonous potion; the way his mother had hidden herself away inside it, singing that old ballad that he could never seem to forget, stroking his hair with one hand and toying with his little toes with the next; he remembered the screaming and the stifling heat of rouge fires and the cries of the dying and wounded; and he would never forget the smells of decayed and rotting flesh that seemed to hang in the air, immovable for days and days on end.
The first years of his life - soaked in blood.
Maybe that was why he'd never quite taken to many people.
As hard as it seemed for the people who knew him now to believe, Santino Garcia did not like visitors.
In fact, he took after his father in the way that he too had become a recluse; from the time he was seventeen - and actually seventeen, in real years instead of just his immortal appearance - ten years after the Rioting had finally subsided in 1970 when the Order, new and in control, had returned from another dimension and taking their world back, he had begun to realize he did not enjoy human or Abnormal company as much as he probably should have.
And so he'd left his mother's home and put up shop on his own, far from any other supernatural creature in the most unlikely place for any sort of self-respecting warlock - a suburban neighbourhood in Brooklyn - shielding his home from unwanted attention by placing a few spells over its threshold and disappearing within it for months on end without seeing another human soul.
He was twenty-one when he heard of his mother's untimely demise.
She'd been a hundred and sixty-seven, but hadn't looked a day over twenty.
According to the Order member who'd reported it to him, she had been in perfect health.
Santino did not cry - he did not even attend the funeral.
He didn't quite know why, but he blamed her for dying - for trusting. He didn't know who exactly had killed her, but he knew that if she had been a little less gullible, a little less promiscuous and a little less reckless and fiery, that maybe she would have seen it coming.
The Order representative had been a mere sixteen years old, with dark - almost midnight black hair, and grey, piercing eyes that seemed to rip Santino apart, watching him for any sort of reaction when he'd told him of his mother's death.
The warlock did not give the boy the satisfaction.
This, for some reason, seemed to please him.
He'd introduced himself as Damien Alcork, a junior member of the Order who'd been given the task of finding Santino and delivering the news - a ploy to get him out of the lab and around other people, because they thought he was spending a tad too much time with his books, regardless of the fact that he still remained one of the most popular people in his youthful class.
Santino had decided he liked the young boy with the sharp wit, intelligent comebacks and intriguing conversation.
They'd spent a year becoming friends, talking and meeting every Sunday evening, speaking of Damien's future in the sciences and Santino's past with the blood. It never seemed strange to him that the soon-to-be Hunter was interested in the Riots that had happened while he had been a child of only two - apparently he'd been kept out of the real meat of it, sent away to live with ailing grandparents while his own parents, who'd perished in the fighting, had returned to the battle - because, after all, it was part of his past.
He didn't even flinch when Damien asked him to describe, in detail, the way the Abnormals had banded together and killed the Hunters sent to stop them, and how they'd disposed of the bodies.
The very idea of the Abnormals who had hated each other coming together to defeat the Order seemed to puzzle Damien to no end - 'How can those who despise each other's very presence, put up with each other long enough to destroy what they also cannot stand?' .
'The enemy of my enemy is my friend.' Santino had simply replied, with a shrug.
He didn't think anything of it when Damien, on a seemingly impulsive idea, convinced him to get a rather interesting tattoo of a chess-piece, with bat wings sprouting from the back of its smooth surface and devilistic horns protruding from its forehead - after all, the kid had been obsessed with chess games, insisting on playing them every time he came over, always fingering the black king between his thumb and his index, eyes shimmering as he did.
The boy had been, admittedly, a little odd - but completely at home, every time he'd shown up on Santino's doorstep on those lengthy Sundays.
'This is the only place I can truly be myself.' Damien had told him suddenly one afternoon, locking his fingers behind his neck and kicking back on Santino's stiff, Gothic chairs. 'The only place where I know I won't be judged - cause you're just like me, Garcia. And people who are alike form unbreakable bonds - bonds not even betrayal can corrupt.' He'd leaned forward then, and instead of picking up his usual black kind, he reached for the bishop resting beside it, raising it to eye-level and showing it to his warlock companion. 'You're my bishop, Santino. My most trusted adviser.'
'Does that make you the king?' Santino had replied, tone dry, but amusement in his eyes - the tattoo on the back of his neck was tingling.
Damien had responded with a grin and nothing more.
It was a year after Damien had first shown up on his doorstep that Santino had been told of his defection from the Order.
It was another Order representative that had brought the news - a stocky, dark female, with an interesting face and sharp eyes - and she demanded to be told if the 'run-away' reappeared on his doorstep for any reason what-so-ever.
A few hours later, Damien had appeared, wet with recently shed rain - and a beautiful blond girl in tow.
He'd introduced them to one another hastily before tugging Santino away from the blond who the warlock couldn't seem to look away from, and asking him to hide them - just for a few days, until Damien could figure out a plan. After seeing the warlock's hesitation, Damien had dropped the bomb on his friend - that the blond girl was pregnant with his child; and that had settled that - they were staying.
In those few days, Santino grew to like Jamie Phelps in a way that was foreign to him - she was soft and kind with that angelic blond hair of hers, with a fresh sense of humour and a laugh that was so sweetly musical, it made Santino's skin vibrate with an alien tenderness, and yet she feisty when she had to be, adamant in getting her way in the important matters and not at all prone to being a pushover.
She looked at Damien the way girls did when they were deeply in love.
It didn't take long for Damien to map out whatever plan he'd had concocted - it almost seemed like he'd prepared for this for years, and was now perfectly content to spring into action - and he'd packed up for himself and his girlfriend, thanking his friend stiffly for his compliance and telling him that now his loyalty would be put to the test - 'Will you be my bishop, Santino? Will you stay by my side?'
Santino's eyes drifted to Jamie - all pink lips, soft skin and motherly glow - before he turned back to the dark-haired boy before him - there was the hint of something dark and cold in Damien's eyes that he'd never noticed before... not until he stood beside Jamie, who seemed to be made of nothing but light. 'I will.'
He hadn't known then that he'd only said it so he could look out for the blond - to ensure she was okay.
He hadn't known then what Damien Alcork was capable of - though all the signs had been there.
Jamie visited in the months after they'd fled from his apartment under the cover of stormy sky and rain, though her husband - they'd married on the go, Jamie refusing to have a child out of wedlock - did not.
Santino had watched her swell with the pregnancy; watched her mill about his house and inspect his furniture and toy with his things as she grew plump around her stomach, looking so delicate and so in need of some sort of protection - he wondered if it was wrong that he was developing feelings for this woman, so obviously pregnant, and so obviously young and naive. She spent more and more time at his home, during those nine months, explaining that Damien had wanted the house to himself - that he was working on something great. The pride in her eyes and in her voice as she spoke of him had filled Santino with an uncanny mixture of jealousy and guilt. He was content in his role of protecting her - of being her friend. And she was content with her life. And for a while, everything had seemed like perfection.
She had been so happy and so at ease with her new life, that Santino never expected her to show up on his rain-battered doorstep on a dreary Friday evening, looking distressed and bloody and very un-pregnant after the nine months had come to their end, tears in her eyes.
She'd been incoherent and distressed, eyes flashing, hair bundled and bleeding profusely from wounds Santino could not see. He'd stood frozen in shock as she lurched towards him, those soft, rosy palms that were so used to patting him gently on the arm latching onto his hand in a death-grip, eyes wide.
'My baby... my baby... He's... It's...' And then she'd collapsed, eyes fluttering shut and crumbling to the floor, leaking her crimson substance all over Santino's varnished wood.
In that moment, though the blond had been incoherent and mumbling, with blood splattered haphazardly over her torso, legs and arms - Santino had known what had happened. And he had no idea how he'd been so blinded as that he could not see what the boy he'd befriended had been capable of. Maybe it had something to do with not being able to believe the worst of the people you love - maybe it was the same naivety that he'd put across on Jamie that had strangled him too. Santino did not know quite how he knew it had been her husband's doing, but what he was certain of was that in that moment, watching her flail helplessly on the ground, wheezing into her own blood, reaching for a baby that wasn't there, he'd truly begun to hate Damien Alcork.
And it was that same night that Jamie's eyes had finally been opened - seeing what she was living with under the illusion of a perfect life with someone that she loved, someone she was willing to do anything for... and seeing what she had to do - warn someone, anyone as to what her husband was planning to do - what he was still doing.
'It's not just my boy... It's tens and hundreds of them... Children, San... They're just children... I don't know how I didn't it before... They're just children... And my son... Gyrad... I...' And then she'd broken down into intelligible words again, shuddering uncontrollably, crying for a baby that had been so freshly ripped from her bosom.
Santino had never seen a mother grieve before - and the girl before him was so young, it seemed uncanny. But the pregnancy had aged her and the forceful taking of her child had stolen her youth - Jamie Phelps was no longer a girl of fresh sweet sixteen anymore; that luxury was long gone.
Each time Santino asked what exactly had happened when she'd given birth - what exactly Damien Alcork had done to her child - he always received the same idiom.
'He can't keep his skin, San... He just can't keep his skin.'
Damien Alcork had fooled them all so completely - and any outsider would wonder how. How was it possible to get so under someone's thumb and not see what they were doing to you? It was almost unimaginable to understand, unless you'd been in contact with the boy yourself - and even then, it was baffling. Maybe because he was so easy to love, so easy to feel like you were important to him - special to his needs? Because he seemed too accepting and notoriously effortless to open up to? He still did not fully understand it, as he hadn't back then, but it had been their blindness that had caused it - all of it.
There was no one to blame, but themselves.
And Jamie had blamed herself most of all, crying herself to sleep that night, clawing at her stomach until Santino had been forced to subdue her, moaning about how she'd let it happen, about how she'd been so blind and so stupid - at first, he'd thought it was her self-induced grief and guilt that was making her sick.
But when she'd started to cough up blood, Santino realized it had not just been her son that Damien had experimented on - after all, the only way to get to the baby before it was born was to go through its mother.
Jamie Phelps, an older soul in a childhood body, was dying.
And Santino had had no clue how to save her.
He'd always hated visitors - and Damien had brought with him many of them. But he'd hated getting attached to those visitors more than anything.
He'd grown attached to Jamie.
And once she had dragged him in, he'd no longer been Damien's bishop - he'd become hers.
And once she'd finished with her crying, without even a thought to worry for herself, she'd started planning - plotting to end Damien's quickly growing rule over her and those around him. The planning had stretched from months to years when the two had realized they couldn't do it on their own - that they would need outside help.
Jamie told him that she knew just the person for the job.
She had been twenty-three by then - getting sicker by the day - and pregnant yet again.
Neither of them quite knew how she was still able to stay on her feet with the disease her husband had engineered spreading through her body, but it was a miracle they were willing to take without much scrutiny.
This boy, Jamie had told him while rubbing her swelling stomach, eyes downcast but voice firm, would be her salvation. This one, she wouldn't let him have.
When Santino asked her of her first, her gaze grew sombre and her eyes wet - It's too late for him, now. It always has been.
Santino, at twenty-one, had blamed his mother for her death. He'd never thought to blame her for the events that followed - but sitting there, in the present day, at his dining room table, stacks and stacks of books piled up high towards his ceilings, with titles from 'The Aesthetic Guide To Raising A Demon' to 'Trials, Tribulations and Tests for Bringing Back The Dead' he couldn't help but think if just maybe the woman had kept to herself and been a little less trusting, he wouldn't be faced with what he was faced with today - having to neutralize a poison that he'd let fester for years on end, without lifting a finger to stop it.
He'd always figured he'd been much like his dad - without the suicidal tendencies, of course - but as he glanced around his bare kitchen, which had only moments before been littered with Cale Schatten, Wynella Dawnlight, Falyla Garter and Malyka - his visitors that he'd subsequently let into his life, just has he had twenty-eight years ago with one Damien Alcork.
These were his mistakes - not his mother's.
And now, he had to rectify them.
Here in his kitchen, when all those years ago he couldn't be bothered, he could find tears for her now - because he finally understood how she'd felt; and he found himself grieving for that woman with her sad ballad and rough hands who'd been his protector in that dank cellar, and his only friend.
Suddenly, there was a sharp 'snap', breaking Santino from his reminiscent mood - it had been a while since he'd sat and thought of things of that nature, and now he shifted in his chair, running a hand through his unruly hair, red eyes glinting, as he climbed to his feet, hating that he'd wasted such valuable time with memories.
Memories would be of no help now.
Another 'snap' made his temper flare - whoever was at the door was extremely impatient, and in his home, the only person allowed to be impatient was him.
As he reached the door, he paused - every time he'd opened this door in the past, nothing but trouble had tumbled in.
With a sharp sigh, he forced his hand around the doorknob and twisted, tugging the wooden frame open and stepping out to peer around - nothing.
The streets of his suburban neighbourhood were as bare as they had been when he'd first moved in, and looking around now - seeing as there were no cars in the driveway, no children in the streets and no lights on in the windows against the dark, evening sky - he sighed again, and spun to re-enter his home, not bothering to call out, 'Who's there?'. If someone wanted to play a game with him, they'd have to do it when a psychopath with a fetish for chess wasn't trying to burn the world to the ground.
Then, Santino froze, jaw dropping.
Sitting there, inspecting her blood-red fingernails with a sort of detached disinterest, sat none other than Jesebelle DiLibante, her ebony hair streaming down her dark shoulders and her long gypsy skirt hitched up around her thighs, booted heels scuffing his coffee table, casting a few magazines on it askew.
She glanced up as he paused, her eyes glinting. "You were taking too long." She finally said, shrugging one shoulder. "I've never been known for my tolerance."
As always, Santino felt dwarfed in her presence.
Even the atmosphere in the room seemed to notice her might - the light bulbs flickered as though fighting to stay alive; the wind whistled in a hollow, wailing sound against the windowpane, making it sound like a thousand banshees were screeching at his home; his TV, that had been on playing a news report in the background, was spitting out static now, the image grainy and broken.
Jesebelle didn't seem to notice any of it.
A short, strained chuckle emitted from Santino's throat as he closed his eyes, a small grin coming over his face. It was only fitting that, when reliving the past, Jesebelle had appeared, unannounced, on his couch - the two had such a colourful history that it surprised even Santino himself at times.
"I see that you still have that patience problem." He murmured to her, red eyes flicking open to meet her own eyes, that dauntless smile on her face.
"And I see you still have that issue with getting lose in your own world." Jesebelle straightened up now, brushing a heavy lock of hair over her shoulder, meeting the warlock's eye before her. "But enough with the small talk - I'm here about business. Where are they?"
"The all-seeing Jesebelle doesn't know where her charges are?" Santino feigned shock, red eyes sparkling as he moved past the tall woman, headed back to his kitchen. "The idea in itself is a ludicrous one."
"Humour me." Came Jesebelle's reply and he could hear the light patter of her feet as she followed him.
He did not miss the surprised laugh that slipped from her throat as she entered, eyes drifting over the seemingly endless stacks of books that towered from every flat surface in the kitchen, their spines bent and used and their pages brittle and old.
"Someone's been a busy little wizard." Jesebelle sounded amused.
Santino tried not to flinch at the term - he'd never much liked the word 'wizard' in reference to his kind. The term sounded childish - almost mocking - and it had been made up by humans, which demeaned it all the more.
Instead of offering a rebuttal, Santino found his free chair and plopped down into it, flicking his wrist lazily and holding out an empty palm - as though it had been called, a book on the table before him shivered slightly, before lifting off of its own accord and drifting towards the warlock's waiting hand.
He glanced to the title - '101 Basic Demons' - before sighing and pulling the book open to a random page, red gaze flicking over it.
All he needed was a spark - a mere hint of what exactly Damien wanted with summoning demons beyond his control - and then just maybe, he'd be able to put a stop to it.
Blood and ties... Blood and ties...
Those had been the exact words of the pawn Kaleb himself. His last words, to be honest. But there were over a million delivistic rituals that involved blood tying - trying to pinpoint which one in particular the madman was gunning for was like looking for a needle in a stack of similarly shaped, practically identical needles.
"Damien Alcork would not be wasting time with frivolous Basics, Santino. We both know this." Jesebelle suggested helpfully, shoving over a pile of books which hit the floor with a dull thud, to perch on the edge of the murky counter. "You're getting desperate."
"As constructive and encouraging as what you're saying in, my dear..." Santino let his stare sear into her, grip on his book tightening. "Please - shut up."
"Ou, and saying 'please', too. Definitely desperate." Jesebelle shrugged, the look in her eyes playful.
Dutifully, Santino ignored her.
With a sigh, the witch brushed an almost invisible wisp of hair from her forehead, looking bored. "How unfortunate that I'm being given the silent treatment. Especially when I came here to share a particularly good piece of knowledge with you."
Imperceptibly, Santino twitched, his grip on the book loosening just slightly before he ploughed on reading, tone disinterested. "Nothing comes free with you, Jesebelle - I know that by now."
"As you should - which reminds me, you owe me for that little trip I sent your friends on to Mirror just last week. And I don't forget my debts." There was a dark lilt to Jesebelle's voice that made Santino glance up at her - but the darkness was gone as suddenly as it came and she was smirking again. "But maybe I'll put that off the table... If you'd do something for me."
Santino shut the book with a snap. "Damn it, Jess, I don't have time for games - the clock is ticking. I just watched four people march to their almost certain deaths without the slightest heads-up for what's to come. There's a psycho who's hell-bent on raising some demon - who's probably going to be way too fucking powerful to control and way too fucking mad to even attempt to be controlled -that will, essentially, destroy the damn world. And you want to sit there and play games."
The corner of Jesebelle's mouth curled down slightly. "If, at the end of the day, you don't have a sense of humour - you die crying. And that's a pitiful way to die."
With a hiss of exasperation, Santino got to his feet and grabbed a random stack of books, not even looking in the witch's direction.
"If you'd excuse me." He said, curtly, before striding towards the exit door, back stiffened.
Abruptly, the wooden door swung in and snapped shut, right in his face.
The swinging kitchen light flickered off.
"Do not take my lightness for weakness, Santino Morella Garciago." Came the booming, gravelling voice of the witch behind him, and he could just - out of the corner of his eye - see the black flames leaping up around her, running like water beneath her flames - her warlock markings, much like his blue sparks. They seemed almost petty in comparison to the terrible beauty Jesebelle's flames had.
Then again, everything seemed petty when Jesebelle released what was just a smidgen of her power.
Santino thanked God that he wasn't looking at her straight on.
"Like it or not, I am still your superior in our magic realm. Whether you have chosen to abandon your role as a warlock for the duties of attending to wayward friends is ultimately up to you - but I will not stand for being chastised like a child. Do you understand me?" Jesebelle's voice was almost inaudible - all that spoke was the magnitude of power that echoed from the very sound of her voice, warping her words and making it ring like an echoing bell.
Slowly and grudgingly, Santino nodded.
"Good."
Suddenly, the light above flickered on again and the creeping heat of black fire that seemed to have been spat from the very pits of Hell died away.
Santino turned to face his companion.
She was sweeping her hair over her shoulder, looking completely unaffected by what had just transpired.
"You said you had information for me?" Santino asked, voice frigid, but a forced amiability to its tone.
"Do you remember when they came to me? As children, I mean." Jesebelle turned away from the warlock, running a long finger over the spines of his numerous books, looking lost in her own thoughts. "Jamie brought them - all in a little bunch. There were six of them - all so adorable I could just eat them up. She'd taken them when Damien was out on the hunt for his new experimental bodies."
"Of course I remember - I'm the one who took her to you."
Jesebelle chuckled. "Ah yes - even back then you were getting me involved with your little mundane schemes. Six - two Fae buds, two Hunter children, a warlock babe, and a seemingly ordinary child - sweet little thing, with its startling blue eyes and pale, pale skin that was almost translucent. She toted them all into my house, looking so panicky and scared that I almost felt sorry for her. Then she asked me to do the oddest little chore for her - seal demon blood." Jesebelle threw back her head, shaking it, expression incredulous. "Seal a demon's blood. Even she must have known how crazy it sounded, cause she got all sentimental, grabbing at my hand and begging me to 'just check them out'. So I did. Turns out only four of the six had demonic blood in them - the human-looking baby, the two Hunter kids and one of the Fae buds. I don't even think she was surprised to know the two Hunters - the blond and the brunette - had it. She didn't even cry - which I thought was quite brave, seeing as they were her sons."
Santino's head snapped up, eyes wide as he regarded Jesebelle.
"You didn't think I knew?" Jesebelle laughed, staring back at the warlock, looking admonishing. "Silly little Santino - I know everything there is to know about that twisted little family. So much more than you've even scraped on - every one of them has a dirty secret, my dear, no matter how innocent they seem. Anyway, the blond was so desperate for a remedy - something to at least slow it down. There was nothing that I knew of, not really - and besides, most of them were too far gone. I sent her away - grudgingly, but there was nothing I could do for her. She took them and pulled out the door with her, whispering that they had to get back soon - but one of them stayed behind. And he looked at me - with those strange, gold eyes of his, so grown up and mature in that sweet babe's face... And I felt something inside of me melt - something that I didn't think was capable of doing so. So I called her back - and I worked a spell. A spell in which Jamie herself was manufactured - a sort of containment spell that would encase the blackness, and encase part of our little blond friend too, inside the little boy; to conceal the demonic influence... to try and stem the flow. I didn't think it would work - and I only did it for that golden-eyed boy. But a part of that spell included me having to venture into that tortured little mind and root around... looking for a good spot to set up shop."
Suddenly, Jesebelle's gaze levelled and she was staring straight into Santino's eyes, something cold echoing within them. "I saw dark, dismal, icy things in there Santino. I brushed with his soul and it was dying - a shrivelled thing, trying to fight back, but unable to get free. The blackness was eating him from the inside out - the demon whose blood Damien had used on his own damn son was coming alive again, fighting to take control of this new host.... Its memories, its will for control, its entire life as a damned being - it had it all. And all it wanted now was the body."
"I saw his soul." Santino spoke, voice hushed. "I know it's almost gone."
"And the demon?"
"Almost in control."
Jesebelle gave that hard laugh of hers. "I knew that stupid spell wouldn't last. Hell, I'm surprised it held out this long - it's only strengthened by the will its wielder and even as a child, that boy was stubborn... Too stubborn to lose his own body to a force he could not even begin to understand." Jesebelle shook her head, leaning away from Santino to look at her own hands. "I brushed with that demon, Garcia. I know its life. I can still feel it, after just a mere glancing - still feel its influence and the strain and the torture it can put someone through... Imagine how that was for a child... Imagine how it must be now." Shaking her head, she closed her palms and blinked her cold eyes. "The point is - I know the demon that Damien raised to implant into his son's body... It's a mere shadow of what lies beyond, in Hell itself, writhing underneath the surface, looking for a way out - which Alcork will so obligingly give it."
"I don't understand how this helps m-"
"Listen to me, Garciago - I know the demon Damien raised. He was one of the first... He was one the ones who lent Damien his ear to the plan that's coming into effect today." Jesebelle's gaze was steely. "There's always a pattern to what Damien does. He doesn't waste moves on his chess-board - there's always a strategy. So ask yourself - why this particular demon in this particular child... A demon that no mere human child, no matter if it's a Hunter babe, can control." A flash of the human-looking baby with the angelic face flashed through Jesebelle's mind so briefly, that it was like it had never been there.
"The first demon he raised..." Santino trailed off, looking confused - before his face lit up, the devilistic bishop on his neck tingling and him raking through the piles of books, honing in on something in particular, finally knowing the direction he was bent for. "The first piece. Now I know where to start."
Looking pleased with herself, Jesebelle leaned back against the counter, the ominous air around the situation gone, and she was smirking again. "Remember San, nothing comes cheap - I'll be looking forward to my compensation: that little task that I have for you."
"Speaking of that..." Santino began, glancing up to peer at her before he trailed off.
His eyes met nothing but a toppling stack of dusty old books and the peeling wallpaper of his cabinets - the witch was nowhere to be seen.
As he hit the ground with a loud 'thud', Cale heard something snap.
A sharp pain darted through his wrist as he hissed out a curse, rolling onto his side and blinking his eyes open, disoriented, trying to get a feel on his surroundings.
The stone beneath him was frigidly cold and damp, and in the background, he could hear the listless echo of a dripping pipe.
There was the soft sound of something being dragged before an amber-haired figure shimmering into view, orange-ish hair cascading down one side of her pretty face and green eyes staring down at him, looking wholly worried.
Groaning, Cale forced himself up into a sitting position, ignoring the numb sting of his wrist and glancing around.
A cell.
They had been placed in a cell.
Cale felt a dry chuckle bubble at the back of his throat - they had a cell?
"That bitch screwed us over." Came the sudden harsh tone that could only be Faye, the sound of scuffling clear as she shifted to move in front of him, staring into his golden eyes. "That stupid, Faerie bitch screwed us al-"
"Not right now." Cale's voice was almost mute as he tried to stop his head from spinning, something warm trickling down his forehead.
Too many things had happened in such a short space of time - too many things that had too much importance.
Wynella's betrayal. His 'brother' and his sudden appearance. The acceptance that they'd been tricked into being led head-first into a trap.
All of it made his skull threaten to burst.
"And what the hell is up with that blond kid?" Faye ploughed on, tactlessly. "He was the one from the Academy, you know - the one giving the orders. And now he's your damn brother?" Faye spat out a sharp, high-pitched 'ha!'. "What a load of bull. Honestly, do they expect us to believe you have any relation whatsoever to Mr Creeper and his Black Shadows Brigade? Nice try trying to throw us off though!" She yelled the last part, directed at the bars of the dungeon, the sound echoing and bouncing off of the cold stone, getting more and more distorted the more it echoed.
For a moment, there was silence, in which only the tapping of the pipe's water could be heard. Then Faye spoke up again.
"Oh God, Cale - you're bleeding."
The warm stuff had made it down to his neck, but he didn't move to wipe it away.
For a moment of pure disillusion, he wondered if he was leaking black - maybe that would make Faye think twice about separating him from any 'Black Shadows Brigade' ever again - but then Santino's sharp voice reminding him that bleeding him wouldn't work rang in his ears.
Annoyed, he ran a hand through the stream of blood, his hand coming away red.
"Look - here." There was the sound of ripping and Cale looked up just in time to see Faye sheath a dagger and hand him a shorn piece of her shirt from the bottom, exposing a long, flat strip of freckled tummy.
Slowly, he took it from her, fingers brushing hers, before he pressed the cloth steadily to the wound, which instantly soaked up the blood.
His golden gaze was trained on her green orbs.
"So. You and Santino."
Faye went crimson red, eyes fluttering down before she gave him a scathing look. "Really? You want to talk about this now?"
"You're right - I don't." Cale's gaze moved away from her, sweeping the surroundings - the cell was roughly the size of a small classroom, cracks in the walls that showed the night sky and a lone tap tucked away in the corner that was leaking milky water.
Nothing that was loose or coming loose that could be used for leverage or a weapon.
"They took Malyka." Faye interrupted his scoping of the room, voice tight. "They dropped the two of us in here, but they took her. She hasn't been brought back yet."
Cale didn't respond - there wasn't anything he could say.
"And you took forever to land here. The black cloud of... of whatever that was, wanted to hold on to you... to keep you. But the blond kid made it drop you - said it could have your leftovers or whatever. Malyka begged him to let the two of us go and just take her... He hit her for that... And then they left."
"You keep saying, 'they'." Cale turned to her. "Gyrad and Wynella?"
"I don't know what they did to the Fae bitch, but she wasn't there with them... No, it was Blondie and some guy... He was older. Had dark hair and these really piercing grey eyes. He'd be cute if he wasn't evil." She added thoughtfully, glancing over to the bars as though the figure was still there. "But... there was something off about him... I don't know how to explain it, but he seemed... Dead."
"Dead." Cale repeated, tone full of sarcastic speculation.
"Yeah... like... Hollow." Faye shrugged. "I don't know how else to -"
Suddenly, there was a sharp clang and the two heads spun to the cell doors. Standing just behind them was none other than the blond male, looking amused, cradling something covered in black tarp in his arms.
Pale feet dangled from beneath the black tarp, and its head was lolled back.
"Well look who's awake from his beauty sleep." Gyrad chuckled, gaze serpentine as it drifted over the seated black-haired male. "Though I can't say it did you much good." He nodded to the gash on Cale's forehead. "That's a pretty nasty tear - wonder how you got it."
Cale's jaw clenched a little but other than that, his expression was one of cool disinterest. "Do you look up these bad one-liners on the Internet or do they just come to you naturally?" He asked, eyes drifting the body in the blonde’s arms, pausing, and then drifting up to his face again.
"I see you've noticed our little friend here." Gyrad gestured to the body in his arms with his chin, ignoring the quip with nothing more than a sharp glint to his eyes. "Pity really - I quite liked the company. But Damien said there was just no more use for another mouth to feed down here. And besides - less people means more room."
Faye sucked in a gasp as Gyrad shoved the gate open with a foot and then, carelessly, tossed the body into the cell.
There was a sickening splat as it hit the concrete head-first, something dark leaking out from under it.
Faye wheezed in shock, scrambling towards the black tarp as Cale motionlessly watched Gyrad pulled in the gate again, hating the shimmer to his green eyes.
"Catch you later, bro - I've got another guest wai-"
"Where is she?" Cale snapped, eyes locked on Gyrad's, unwilling to let him go so soon.
"Whoever do you mean?" Gyrad looked clueless, that cocky smirk on his strong-jawed face; a jaw that was so much like Cale's own - as quickly as it had come, Cale pushed it away... He would not think like that, not now. "Why, if you mean our sweet Fae guest - she's just upstairs, lounging in a spare bedroom, trying on some rather revealing clothes and waiting for my arrival." Gyrad leaned forward, pressing his face against the bars and giving the younger male a genial smirk. "I bet she's just as excited about getting into that huge bed as I am."
There was the flash of something black and suddenly Gyrad reeled away, eyes wide, as Cale leered up in front of him, golden eyes alight with an insatiable fury and hands knuckling around the bars of the underground cell.
A snarl had built in his throat.
Then, with a shaky, self-assured chuckle, Gyrad, moved out of arms-width. "Well. At least we know part of you is still capable of human emotion... Soon, that too will be a thing of the past."
And then, with a parting wave, Gyrad spun on his heel and stalked away.
Cale stayed rooted against the cell, snarling out a pant, gripping at the handle, before he pulled off, forcing himself to calm down, and turning to face Faye.
She'd pulled the tarp off of the body and was no hunched over it, stomach clasped with her hands as though the image made her sick.
Slowly, Cale paced around them to get a better view.
A sickening crash of relief sang through him as he noticed the body on the floor before him was not blond - there was no way the skinny frame on the floor was Malyka's.
Then, slowly, recognition built - the long, twisting green hair; the slightly darker skin; the black, now stationary tattoos that stained its skin; the face... He knew this body.
Jaden Lornwig.
Wynella's friend.
How....?
The question stung as Cale bent beside Faye, reaching for the tarp and - after another glance at the face - covered it up again.
His fingers drifted through a pool of the dark, green-blue blood that was leaking from his shattered skull.
The blood stank of poison and pain.
"You know him?" Faye asked, eyeing the look on Cale's face as he rubbed his fingers together.
"Vaguely." He muttered in response.
"I'm sorry then." She whispered to him, reaching out to take his hand.
"Don't be." He replied. "I didn't like him much." But he let her hold his hand anyway.
Things whirred like a whirlwind through his mind, unstoppable and cruel, and Faye could not keep them at bay. One of the memories that whizzed by kept sticking, like a record with a chip at the centre.
He could just make out a bloodied face, with dark hair framing it, whispering something to him, before the memory whirred on again.
Frustrated, he squeezed his eyes shut, forcing them to slow down... forcing himself to remember.
Angrily, Cale shoved the door to the bar open, ducking in just as a rowdy group of Abnormals stumbled out, simultaneously pulling his hoodie up, over his head.
The Abnormal bar was more crowded than the usual - there was a buzz in the air about the Order crumbling from the inside, and everyone was in the mood for celebration.
Everyone, except Cale.
He found a darkened corner, free of any bustling bodies or peering eyes and settled in, leaning back against the dank wall and brooding.
Who in the hell did the warlock think he was?
He ought to have reached out and rung his scrawny little neck - and he would have too, if Wynella hadn't been in the room, looking ever so worried and innocent. The Fae girl was becoming his catalyst. And he didn't know how to stop her control over him - didn't even know that he wanted it to stop.
But, of course, it would figure that she would have a kid like Santino Garcia flying over her shoulder, glaring down at him with those judgemental, red orbs.
The warlock hadn't liked him from the start - had looked at him with contempt and anger and hatred, like he reminded him of someone with whom he'd had bad memories.
Cale couldn't care less - he didn't have any love loss of Santino either.
But with the way the warlock kept goading him, it wouldn't be long before he blew one of his very short fuses.
"What are ya drinking, cutie?" Came a musical, soft voice, breaking Cale from his thoughts.
He glanced up to see a tall, brunette with blood-red lipstick staining her lips and a seductive smirk on her face. She placed a hand on her hip and leaned forward to stare at him in the dim light, her soft black eyes inquisitive.
She was human.
It wasn't hard to figure that out.
Probably a walking snack for some vampire milling around the bar - a vampire that would probably be pissed his ward was talking to a Hunter of the Order.
Cale smirked - let him be pissed.
"What are you offering?" He asked, golden eyes glinting as he watched her smirk grow, head lolling to the side.
"Oh trust me - I've got pretty much everything you want." Her eyes danced.
It took him roughly three minutes to procure her number and subtly shoo her away, watching her sashay her powerful hips as she went. Mindlessly, he flicked the card over his shoulder - before, the notion of chasing a woman that attractive would have filled him with an excitement that was a thrill while it lasted.
But now, all he could think of was Wynella's soft lips, her sweet smile and her innocent eyes - nothing like the woman that had just hit on him.
With a hiss, he climbed to his feet, pushing past a lingering group of werewolves who snarled at him as he went - he had to get out of there.
"Hey. I think you're forgetting this."
A hand clamped down on Cale's shoulder, forcing him to a stop.
He turned, eyes narrowed and pissed-off - to come face to face with a tall, blond-haired, ethereal male, who was watching him with some interest. He looked to be in his early twenties, with a genial smile and a mischievous glint to his green eyes.
Blond hair and green eyes.
Instantly, Cale felt a pang for Jamie's similarly coloured locks and her soft blue orbs - if she'd still been around, he'd never have to have met Santino.
The blond held up the very same white card Cale had flicked over his shoulder, a coy grin on his face.
"Help yourself." Cale murmured to him, turning to move away when the grip on his shoulder suddenly tightened up like a vice.
"Oh c'mon, that's no fun - after all, we haven't seen each other in so long - let's catch up."
Cale's temper flared. "If you don't take your hand off me right now, I'm going to rip it off and shove it up your -"
"Language, language." The blond admonished, patted Cale lightly on the shoulder. "And besides, why would you do that... Especially when you know the girl outside is going to die if you do."
"The girl...?"
The blood red lipstick flashed through his mind.
"Oh... And hold still."
Cale's eyes focused in on the blond again much too late - he was blowing something from the palm of his hand into the dark-haired male's face, grinning.
Suddenly, blackened spots clouded Cale's vision as he stumbled away, chest tight.
"Now we're gonna have some fun." The blond admitted, gleefully.
Pants ripped from Cale's throat as his limbs grew numb and his eyes lost their sight - his senses dying away one by one.
Sight...
Smell...
Taste... Touch...
Hearing...
He lost control.
And the last thing he remembered before everything went dark, was the sharp, cold, brittle whisper of the voice of death itself: "Sweet dreams, Shadow."
Cale came out of the memory gasping, pulling away from Faye, trying to catch a breath.
He hated the numbness that had leaked over him as he was drowned by it, and he got to his feet, shaking loose, blinking his golden orbs rapidly.
He'd met Gyrad before...
On the night he couldn't remember.
The night of blood.
The cold creep of the deathless voice wrapped its fingers around his mind, sending a chill down his spine.
The pain of blackened blood roiled up under its skin, raising to the call of the memory it knew well.
It had been the memory Santino suggested he revisit.
The one that seemed hell-bent on causing him physical pain before he could get full access to it.
His gaze found the cracks in the wall, and he stared out into the night sky - feeling trapped and helpless.
Wynella was somewhere else in the home above the underground cell, locked away within her own body by a force Cale did not fully understand, with Gyrad. Malyka had been ripped from the cell too and she was God-only-knew-where with whoever had done what they had done to Jaden. Jamie was locked up in some place that Cale had no idea about for what had been weeks on end now - and she probably thought no one was coming for her. The Order was down, the Riots were starting... And Damien Alcork was raising demons in a night's time.
And there were so many questions... So many inquires that he needed answers to.
His mind was jumbled.
"Cale? Cale... what do we do now? What can we do now... It's over. We lost." Faye's voice caught on the last note, eyes turned down. "We couldn't save her... We couldn't save Jamie..."
"Don't talk like that." Cale snapped, gaze hard as ice as it turned on her. "He brought us here - here, Faye. To their base. Everything we need to stop this thing is here... We just need to figure out how to use it."
What do we do now...?
Cale paused in his pacing, his gaze going back to the cracks in the wall.
We do our training - we prioritize... We prepare... We plan... And then we act.
Captured or not - demonized or not - he was still a Hunter. And he'd made a promise - many promises - to many people.
This wasn't going to end in a cell - he'd never been the type to go down easy.
He may not have a lot of time left - but he was going to give them hell until he went.
And when the time came... He knew what he had to do.
As a stab of pain ran through him, he barely concealed a wince, hissing out a profanity - he just hoped his body would let him do it.
The sweet smell of decaying flesh permeated the air and the cries of the damned echoed in the endless pit of blackness.
Dead flames leaped and roared as the masses writhed - begging for release.
The doors would be opened.
A new world would be waiting.
And all, would be consumed.