Chapter Text
“....who are you, then?”
“I am part of that power
which eternally wills evil
and eternally works good.
I am the spirit that negates.
And rightly so, for all that comes to be
Deserves to perish wretchedly;
‘Twere better nothing would begin.
Thus everything that your terms, ‘sin,’
‘Destruction,’ ‘evil’ represent—
That is my proper element.”
Faust, J.W von Goethe
I
“Deputy! I know you can hear me. Switch to channel 14, if you please. A private frequency.”
His voice lowers, and she wonders how he can make it sound so savage and violent through so much static.
“Just us.”
John Seed.
The sharp edges of the radio cut into the palm of her hand, and she resists the urge to simply hurl it from the edge of the cliff. She’s up in the Whitetails, and though the place reeks of the oldest Seed brother this is still the region of Hope County where she feels the most at home.
If it can be called that. She’s unsure what ‘home’ even means any longer.
Still.
Sharp, clean air and so much beauty it’s almost intrusive, almost paralysing her senses. Wide open spaces. The Milky Way arching above her at night. The Andromeda galaxy with its solemn, pulling light. So much space. She could never feel claustrophobic here. A reminder what it is she’s fighting for. A reminder not to give up, not to simply curl up somewhere and sleep for a thousand years.
Even though she wants to.
“You have 10 seconds.”
With a choked sigh she picks up the radio and presses the call button.
“Fine, Seed.”
She switches frequency to his proffered private one, hisses into the mouthpiece.
“What do you want?"
His reply is instantaneous, and that’s worse than when he’s playing, drawing things out.
“I want you to meet me at the Lamb of God church tonight. Alone.”
She presses the speak button so hard she’s sure it’ll leave an indent in her thumb for weeks.
“And why would I want to do that?"
“Because, Deputy, sweating bullets in my bunker right at this very moment is every lowlife member of the Resistance that you, presumably, hold dear. Quite the coup, even if I do say so myself. Took some planning. Some doing.”
His emphasis on the last words sends a shiver through her. Assuming he isn’t lying this clearly hadn’t gone down without bloodshed.
He keeps talking, seemingly unwilling to allow her even a second to gather herself together and properly think.
“I’ll see you tonight.”
“A crypt? A fucking crypt, Seed? Really?”
“Ah, Deputy, kind of you to join me. And, setting is everything.”
His voice echoes from within the darkness of the other end of the sepulchral space, making her aware of how visible she is, standing in the faint light from the entrance. Outlined and blind and vulnerable.
Afraid.
And furious.
She takes a step out of the light, a step closer to him.
“You’re a different kind of sick.”
“You wound me.”
He sounds anything but. His voice is even, with an undertone she struggles to identify.
“I came, Seed. Talk.”
She takes another step towards him, eager to escape the light, eager for the protection of the shadows.
“Ah ah ah. Before you come any closer...no weapons.”
She scoffs.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“To your left.”
She turns and looks, and in the dim light sees his knife, the one he uses for atonement, sitting in an alcove next to a revolver and a few scattered bones. Human, by the looks of it.
That dramatic bastard. She stifles a giggle, but only because she fears it might come out as a sob.
A sudden spark, and his face emerges from within the dark, lit with the flickering light from one match. He touches it to the wick of a candle, then busies himself lighting several more, apparently heedless of any danger his distraction could illicit. She detests his needless showmanship, and is disgusted with her own helplessness, but she unholsters her service weapon and places it next to his knife. Follows it with several knives of her own. Leaves one hidden inside the sock on her right foot.
“I don’t think so, you little terror. The last one too, there’s a good girl.”
She grimaces at his patronising tone, but obeys. He’s calling the shots right now, and she rages vainly against impotence. This isn’t her forte. Fast and furious actions, sending bullets into bodies, smashing skulls...those she can do. Playing dangerous games with someone like John Seed...she feels like black, impenetrable water is closing over her head.
Feels like she’s sinking.
He claps his hands together, brisk, all cheerful business.
“Now then! I assume you’ve verified the information I gave you?”
She had. He’d had Nick Rye, Mary May Fairgrave and Pastor Jerome since she escaped her botched atonement in Fall’s End, and now he had gathered up several more.
Quite the coup, indeed.
“You think I’d be here otherwise? Let them go.”
His smile is violent.
“Afraid it won’t be quite that easy.” He taps his chin “You see, you’ve forced me to get…creative.”
She freezes. By now she knows enough of him to know that ‘creative’ isn’t good. His tattoo crawls on her chest.
She takes a second to study him properly. Versions of him slide across his face even as she watches. He hides how truly lethal he is under a veneer of deranged mirth, under flamboyant gestures and distorted faith. Joseph Seed himself had described his younger brother as a monster with a chameleon face, and she agrees.
“Does Joseph know you’re doing this?”
“Well, I’ve always enjoyed a certain autonomy,” he answers easily.
“So no, then.”
He shrugs, grins, that quick, uneven flash of teeth that signals true danger. Then he starts pacing, lazy, unhurried movements, careful not to spook her.
“To the crux of the matter. You must atone. That’s been ordered of me, and of you. And to atone you must confess. You’ve proved a most unwilling disciple, so I’ve been forced, as I say, to get creative. Extracurricular activities. I’m sure Joseph will agree that the end justifies the means.”
“Just fucking tell me what you want!”
He stops in front of her.
“It’s a generous exchange, Deputy. You for all of them.”
She doesn’t hesitate.
“Fine. Fine. Let’s do it.” And she moves towards him with her arms outstretched. Offers him her wrists, presents him with her surrender.
He sighs, rolls his eyes,
“Oh, you. Your heroine complex is so terribly boring and trite. Besides, you would only escape, and this whole thing start over again. No. I’ve got something better in mind.”
Shit.
She should’ve known he wouldn’t let it be that easy.
She is so close to him that she has to crane her neck to meet his eyes, but he makes no move to touch her. Unnerving in its own right, for he is a tactile man, fond of using touch to frighten and intimidate.
“Your soul.” His face is truly terrifying then, all of his teeth bared, his eyes sucking at hers. “One soul in exchange for many burning ones.”
Oh, he doesn’t need to touch her. Her skin itches with his gaze alone as he continues.
“We meet here, say, oh, once a week. You give me one little confession, and I’ll let one of your Resistance friends loose.” His eyes dance in the candlelight, and it looks an awful lot like victory slipping in and out. “Until we run out of confessions. Until we run out of souls. Until there is only one left. Yours.”
Ah. He wants something protracted, drawn out. Wants to rip her to pieces slowly, take his time with the bloodletting. What a pity that right now she doesn’t have much choice but to agree.
“And if I don’t want to confess?”
“Then you can still pay. With, oh, let’s say...a kiss?” His smile is thoroughly vicious now, and she knows it’s a need for power and control behind this, not lust, nor anything else. Just an urge to bend and break her. “If you’re willing to do neither, one of your little friends dies. But, I’ll let you pick which one!” His nod is magnanimous, benevolent.
He’s such a skilful fraud.
“How do I know you’ll do what you promise?”
He rocks back on his heels, raises an eyebrow. His earring catches the light, and her fingers tingle with the urge to rip it straight out of his ear lobe.
“Oh, obviously you have my word.”
“Yeah. Must be hard to put nonexistent honour on the line,” she whispers, and he laughs, because he knows he’s winning.
Has won.
“Do we have an agreement?”
A deal, a bargain: burning souls in exchange for hers. Oh, she is more stupid even than old Faust. But before she sells herself down this black river of his she tries to barter some more.
“While we’re...while we’re doing this, I want you to promise not to hurt them. Kim Rye is pregnant. They’re all good people. None of them deserve this.”
His face goes strange then, thoughts turned inwards, curious flutters behind his eyes.
“I know you don’t believe this, but right now, in my bunker, they are much safer than you.”
He turns taut and keen again, attention wholly on her.
“Do we have an agreement, Deputy?”
She feels it, how this can’t ever end well, how this is the beginning of her end
“Yes,” she says anyway.
He holds his hand out, and she takes it, damn her to hell. His hand is warm, dry, and she can feel his demons move just underneath his skin. They shake once, then he lets her go, takes a step back. Seems to enjoy giving her the illusion of space, even though she has none.
How he loves his mind games.
“The first confession I require from you, Deputy, is quite simple. Just your name will do.”
Not so simple at all, nor easy, she thinks. There is power in a name, and he’s already got far too much of that.
“Margaret,” she spits.
His glee is something terrible.
“Oh that is perfect,” he sighs, and she takes a step back because she knows old stories too.
“I don’t want you using it,” she snarls. Doesn’t want her name resting on his tongue, doesn’t want it rolling around his mouth.
He executes a mocking little bow, the distorted light licking his face, hollowing out his cheeks, making his eyes simmer black.
“As you wish,” he says, cold laughter bubbling in his voice. “Until next time.”
She turns and leaves.
An hour later her radio crackles to life.
“Kim Rye is free. See you next week.”
A week later and she’s back in the crypt.
She steps inside the same way she did before, nostrils flaring and instincts free-falling like frightened birds. Skittish and breathless, wondering if this time, this time it’s a trap?
But he stands alone once again, waiting for her in his long coat and his shadows, surrounded by candles and weeping stone.
It seems he’s taking his little game seriously enough to abide by his own rules.
“Hello,” he says, and waits while she puts her weapons down next to his. Then he gestures towards a piece of pew leaning against a pillar. It wasn’t there last time; he must have taken it from the abandoned church above. “Have a seat.”
And she walks across the floor and she sits down on the wobbly pew, looks up at him where he stands before her.
The preacher in this awful little church play.
“How is the lovely Mrs. Rye?” he asks, head tilted slightly to the side in faux concern.
She resists the urge to grind her teeth, to shout. He would only feed from it.
“Both her and the baby are doing fine, all things considered.”
It’s information she’d gleaned secondhand, because she had been too ashamed to go see Kim herself.
“Ah, that is such a relief to hear.”
She wants to tear his little smile clean from his face but he straightens now, businesslike and keen, false pleasantries over and done with.
“One confession for one soul,” he reminds her as if she needs reminding. “And they are burning over in my bunker, all those people on your conscience.”
“Begin then,” she rasps, and sweat beads like pearls on her forehead at the way he looks at her.
He rubs his hands together, raises a brow.
“How many people have you killed since you came here? In Hope County?”
His face is relaxed, easy, the friendly confessor, the devoted priest, and she opens her mouth to answer.
“...And don’t lie to me now. I will know. I’ve done this for a very long time. I will know.”
She closes it again. She doesn’t doubt him for a second. She remembers what Joseph has written about him. She can never forget.
“Well?”
His voice is velvet, his voice is blood. He moves a little closer, forces her to tilt her neck at an uncomfortable angle, lean it against the rough wood of the broken pew. She tries to run numbers in her head as he waits, but all is blank, blank and grey.
“I don’t have all night, you know.”
She wants to scream at him, but he would like that too much. She tries to remember faces, but is distracted by her own heartbeats in her ears, by the sound of her blood rushing in shame.
“Surely you know how many lives you’ve snuffed out?”
She can feel a splinter digging into her neck, and she presses herself further back, feels the wood cutting in. But it hurts much less than his words.
“I don’t, alright? I’m…I’m not sure. You happy? That what you wanted to hear?”
“Yes, little Wrath,” he coos. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”
She stands to leave, and he backs up a couple of steps to let her pass, throws his arm out in a grand gesture towards the exit. She wants to wipe the ugly triumph off his face, but she doesn’t think she can.
She stops in the doorway, looks over her shoulder at him.
“How about you? Do you know how many people you’ve killed?”
He glances at her from where he’s putting the revolver in his leg holster, sliding the knife into the waistband of his jeans. His voice, when he speaks, is unlike anything she’s heard from him before. A singular mix of reverence and coldness, bloodthirst and vulnerability.
“Of course. I remember them all. Every single one. Their faces, their names. Their sins.”
She turns and leaves then, not another word. She pulls splinters of wood out of her neck as she picks her way between gravestones, and wishes she could see her blood, make sure it’s still red.
Not black.
Just two words from the radio, his voice flat.
“Mary May.”
She doesn’t answer him, she can’t stand giving him any more of her words just now. She keeps moving into the night instead.
She belongs there, now more than ever.
He’d made her see that.
The next time she goes back she feels broken before they’ve even begun, walks across the graveyard towards the church with a wounded gait, like a soldier returning home just to die.
His coat is thrown over the broken pew, and she throws hers on top of his. It’s warm down here, and she doesn’t quite understand how, what with dampness dripping from the masonry and a chill wind seeping through the entrance in odd gusts.
Yet there’s a sheen of sweat on both of their foreheads, and he rolls up his shirt sleeves as he turns to face her.
“Everything well with Mary May?”
She shrugs, doesn’t want to admit that she’s not been to see her, check on her. Doesn’t want him to know about her self-imposed isolation, how she wanders and flits when she’s not here.
“Did she ever show you her tattoo? It’s one of my best. I was able to really take my time with that one. That was before you came along, of course,” he murmurs as an aside, and she likes the implication of that.
But enough. She can’t stand the preamble, has no time for grace.
“Just begin. I don’t have all night.”
“Yes, what a busy life you lead, sleeping rough, killing people, blowing things up. Enriching, no?”
She doesn’t answer, crosses her arms over her chest where she stands. He leans against the wall, seemingly casual, relaxed, but she senses how coiled he is, how he is sniffing for blood. Ready to bare teeth.
“Do you have nightmares, Deputy?”
She recoils as if he’d just slapped her, but the ringing in her ears comes from dread.
“Yes.”
“Tell me about them.”
“No,” she whispers. “No, I’d rather let you kiss me, you fuck. I rather let you touch me than tell you about those. They’re mine.”
He shrugs as if this means nothing to him.
“Very well.”
He pushes off the wall, closes the small distance between them. Gets so close to her that she can feel the heat of him through her thin shirt, feel his breath touching her forehead, whispering across her hair.
Then he touches two fingers to her chin, tilts her head up just a bit, and her skin is too tight for her body, her breaths are stuttery and thin.
She thinks he will brutalise her with his lips, thinks he will bite and bruise and mark as ruthlessly as he does everything else.
But he doesn’t. He goes lightly, doesn’t even touch his lips to hers. Brushes them across her ear and down her neck, instead. Finds her pulse and stays there for a second or two, enough to count her heartbeats in his head.
Too fast. They beat too fast.
He releases her again, takes a small step back, raises a dark brow at what she’s sure he can see in her face.
Gentleness is worse.
But as she staggers out of there, holds herself upright on crumbling tombstones as she goes, she realises that when he touched her she forgot everything else.
Just for a second or two. Just a fragment of time.
But it had felt like a tiny piece of encapsulated eternity, and it had been bliss.
“Charlemagne Boshaw. More or less intact.”
She’d spent the week as far away from Holland Valley and him as she could get, up in the mountains, trying to reassemble herself, trying to shake the loose parts of her right. But the stars look like they’re scattered wrong across the sky, and the sharp winds sigh about things she doesn’t want to hear.
There’s no relief up here anymore. Perhaps that was always a lie.
As soon as she steps over the threshold and sees him waiting for her all those loose pieces clatter at her feet, roll away across the stone floor, into the shadows towards him.
She will never gather them all up again.
“Did you have a pleasant stay back in the Whitetails?”
Of course he knows where she’s been.
“No.”
He hums, shakes a lock of hair from his forehead and those wretched candles seem to make his tattoos move, make optical illusions out of the sins on his hands.
“Let’s get this over with,” she says. “I’m tired. I want to sleep.” Just for an hour. In her car. Or maybe a ditch somewhere.
He seems pleased to hear of her exhaustion, as if he is not the very being that’s been feeding on her energy. His voice is deep, raspy as he speaks. Ready to feast.
“What is the worst thing you’ve ever done, Deputy?”
A picture reel spins and flickers in her mind then, coloured in splotches of red and grey; blood and brains and bone marrow too.
“No. Kiss,” she murmurs, and thinks that might actually be the answer to his question.
He walks towards her, boots scraping the floor, and he crowds her against a pillar.
She turns her face up, basks in the zeal of him, waits.
His fingers slowly, slowly pulls her shirt down and to the side, careful to just barely touch her. She can feel her breath crowding her throat at this almost-touch, this whisper of fingertips traversing her skin. And then he bends down, and once again it’s not her mouth he seeks out, but Wrath, and his lips trace the letters, barely there, just tiny flutters. When he reaches the end his tongue flicks out, only just, licks along the last curve of the ‘h’.
Her breath stutters, whooshes through her lips in a moan that she immediately wants to steal back.
“You taste of salt,” he says.
He’s not unaffected either. The skies come falling from his eyes, and his grip on her arms will leave ghosts behind. A flush high on his cheeks, his hair falling over his brow.
That tiny victory is like complex wine on her tongue, smokey and deep.
Still. He’s the one releasing her and taking a step back, and she is the one following him, before she catches herself and stops dead.
She rights her shirt, and she wants to hurt him for making her feel like this, for making her feel like...like she needs him to make everything inside her go quiet.
“I hated that.”
He hums, moves his hands lazily in front of his chest.
“No. No you did not. Bye for now.”
She punches the stone wall as hard as she can, treasures the almost unbearable pain, then leaves to the sound of his low chuckle.
“Nick Rye. See you next week. I can’t wait.”