Chapter Text
The water line explodes with the sound of a gunshot right above his head, and Angel chokes as a cascade of filthy water crashes down over his face, the bed, and half the room in a matter of seconds. At this hour, the room is dark, barely lit by a flickering street lamp outside the window, and Angel flails his way off the bed straight into a growing pool of water. In the darkness, he hears a terrible sound above the rushing water: the desperate squeals of a piglet in distress.
“Nuggets!” He kicks and thrashes until he’s on his feet, soaking wet and dizzy with adrenaline. “Nuggets! Baby, where are you?!”
More squealing, and maybe a faint splash - although it’s hard to tell with the damn water still rushing out of the ceiling. He fumbles through the rising tide, shoving things aside as quickly as he can, until his fingers meet a quivering snout in the darkness. “Nuggets!” He grabs at whatever resembles a living shape, and after the most agonizing minute of his life, a trembling piglet has been pulled to his chest.
“Shh…it’s okay. It’s okay.” Angel’s assurances break into a harsh cough as water gushes over his head; he shakes the droplets away, then sloshes through the flood until he finds the straps of his emergency bag. The duffel has never felt as heavy as it does now, weighed down by a wad of emergency cash, one change of clothes, a small hygiene kit, and all the essentials for Nuggets. Still, the adrenaline rush is strong, and he hefts the bag over one shoulder while finding his way to the apartment door. He struggles with it for another two minutes before he just kicks the damn thing open. Water surges in the hallway, lapping at his ankles and calves as Angel runs for the main exit. So much for his first bid at freedom; Val will be all over this as soon as he finds out, and Angel will be right back where he started.
A searing pelt of acid rain hits him square on the cheek and Angel recoils under the overhang, little protection as it provides. Great. Just fucking great.
Nuggets coughs wetly against his chest; his tiny shape quakes in Angel’s arms. Fuck. He’ll have to bemoan his loss of freedom another time. For now, he needs to find shelter, even if it’s the cheapest motel in all the Pentagram, before this damn rain burns Nuggets to a crisp.
He jerks off his shirt and bundles Nuggets within its folds; it won’t do much, but it’s all he has. And as for running around shirtless in the middle of the night… Enjoy the free show, fuckers.
Angel takes a deep breath and plunges into the storm, willing his legs to run and keep running. The rain is literal hell to endure, and Val is going to pitch a fucking fit about all the burns. Makeup will only hide so much, after all. Nuggets is still coughing, whining as the rain burns through the shirt, and Angel feels panic rising in his throat like bile. Come on… There has to be something. A motel, an empty warehouse, a fucking shack if that’s what it–
Nuggets squeals, too little, too late, as Angel slips off the curb and hits the asphalt broadside. The blow is far from the worst he’s received, but the adrenaline mixed with the scalding rain is enough to lurch his stomach, and he dry heaves into the road. He sees the glare of headlights approaching fast and curls protectively around Nuggets before he hears tires screech to a halt and a car door flings open.
Don’t be Val. Don’t be fucking Vox. Don’t be–
“Are you hurt?!” A woman’s voice, definitely not one he recognizes; Angel carefully blinks up through the rain as a tall shape hurries over, paying no heed to the downpour as she kneels beside him. “Oh, no - your arm!”
…oh, yeah. His arm, now scraped up and bloodied from the fall. Great.
“Can you stand?” She offers her hands before he can answer, and Angel doesn’t have the pride left for bravado. Grabbing hers with the two hands he can spare, he gingerly works up to his feet, knees throbbing and his injured side probably bruised nine ways to Sunday. He glimpses movements to the right and jerks away on instinct. Bad move, and he has the fleeting thought that he hit his head in the fall before the corners of his vision go dark and he slumps against his rescuer.
“It’s okay.” Her voice is ridiculously comforting, soft and low even with the rumbling storm above; with a few swift movements as though Angel weighs nothing (fair; he really doesn’t), she scoops him into her arms and steps back towards the car. “Grab his bag and the little one, Wallace, and be gentle! The poor thing is terrified. Then take us home.”
Home… But he doesn’t have a home. Not anymore. His home is rubble, a ravaged corpse left scattered on the hill that once felt so safe, even untouchable. But nothing is untouchable to Heaven.
The ground breaks under his feet, snapping apart like dried branches in winter. They used to make it a game - him, Molly, and Sal - to see if they could navigate the woods without breaking a set number of frozen sticks and twigs; the loser got to boss the other two around for a week. Angel was a clumsy child, but he got better. Faster. Able to step lightly through the woods on a dancer’s feet until he came out on top more than he didn’t. But his feet don’t save him now; the ground is scalding hot, lava bubbling and boiling to the top with great belches of steam. He can’t see Fat Nuggets, or Charlie, or Husk. His faceless rescuer in the rain is gone, if she was ever real. He’s alone, half-choked on the steam and blindly stumbling away from the scorched earth against his feet.
“H…help…” His voice is weak, pathetic; he tries again, but the pitch is warbled. “Hel…help!”
His voice isn’t stronger, but it’s louder. He calls out, over and over again. Cries out for Nuggets, his sweet baby boy; for Charlie and Husk, the strangers who believed in him without a drop of good cause to do so; for the woman who came to rescue him in the night, a face and name he knows but can’t remember, not now when the world is trying to burn him alive.
Angel looks up, and the burning sky parts to show three figures he does know: Mama, Nonna, and Molly. They’re laughing about something, bright and carefree, and dressed in the shimmering white of angels. Real angels, not the monsters that come for sinners, dripping blood from their horrible grinning mouths.
“Mama!” He cries, hands reaching even though he can’t possibly touch them. “Mama! Nonna! Molly! Help! I can’t reach you - help me!”
They’re walking away. The sky is closing up, swallowing them to a place he can’t see, a place he can’t possibly reach. “MAMA!” He screams, strength finally coming to his throat for a final shriek, a last plea for salvation before the ground gulps him whole, and now the only screams are wordless, mindless howls of agony as the fire devours on all sides. All he can hear are his own wailing cries, the roar of the flames, and–
“ANGEL!”
Someone slaps him across the face, and Angel nearly falls off the bed. He’s saved by a pair of strong arms catching him by the waist and hauling him against a chest; a warm chest, thin but firm, and faintly smelling of bourbon and cigars. “Angel, wake up. Wake up!”
“Husk…” Angel whimpers; his hands won’t work, not really, but he manages to catch small handfuls of fur to anchor them together. “I…burning…hotel gone…Nuggets…”
“Nuggets came and got me.” Husk says; before Angel can protest or question further, a small, wiggling body is planted in his lap. “He’s here, kid. Right here.”
Fat Nuggets oinks, obviously distressed, and noses his way through Angel’s fur as if searching him for injuries. He’s shaking, and Angel feels sick with guilt. “Did…did I hurt him?”
“Spooked. That’s all.” Husk is rubbing his back, gentler than the bartender is known to be, and Angel starts to cry. Cry from shame, from embarrassment, from terror…he doesn’t even know. The line between dreams and reality has blurred in a way it hasn’t since the days of snorting lines and popping pills like candy. He can still feel the steam boiling his skin, the fire gobbling away at flesh and nerves; his arm is throbbing and he can feel blood dripping down. He fumbles another hand over the injury, as if that will hide the damage.
“What is it?” Husk frowns, extracting Angel’s arm and giving it a sharp look. “Did you hit your arm on something?”
“Tore it up.” Angel mumbles, still half-choked with tears. “Fell off the curb. Ripped it from the wrist to elbow. Val’s gonna be pissed. Won’t be able to film.”
Nuggets oinks again, and Angel feels the pig rummaging around his lap, checking each arm. Husk looks confused, and Angel’s confused too. His arm is bleeding; he can feel it. Why isn’t it there?
“Husk.” A new voice - a woman’s voice - the woman. Did she bring him back to the hotel? But he wasn’t living at the hotel that night…was he? He was in an apartment, wasn’t he? “Charlie’s worried about him. Go sit with her, please.”
A face comes into view: pale skin framed by white hair, the strands streaked with pale yellow and tied back in a loose braid, and purple eyes. Violet jewels suspended in lakes of lavender, and a sob claws out of his throat. It wasn’t a dream, then. That part wasn’t a dream. Forty-some fucking years wasn’t a dream.
“Tana…” He reaches for her like a child, shaking harder now as the adrenaline rush fades and leaves him feeling sick as a dog. Tana collects him as if he were the size of a child, as if he were something fragile and rare, not nine feet of used-up garbage. Her heartbeat is a lullaby he remembers so well, as well as the songs he used to sing with Mama and Molly. It coaxes the tension out of his blood and leaves him blissfully boneless against her chest. “...You came back.”
The absence of a note, of a text message, of anything at all stings even now; one day Tana was here, the next she was gone without a trace, and he was left spiraling into the mental black hole of guilt, regret, and the suffocating fear that he’d simply gotten too needy. He was a washed-up whore, after all, and perhaps she’d become ashamed of their association, held a grudge for every stupid thing he’d said to her after a binge night, or just gotten exhausted with the back-and-forth between him and Valentino. Maybe it was some horrible combination, Angel’s inability to shut the fuck up when he was crashing plus the way people were whispering about Hell’s most favored cum dumpster swanning around town with his boss’ boss. It’s Hell, after all. People have nothing better to do than talk, talk, and fucking talk.
…does Val even know she’s back? Possible, but something tells Angel otherwise. And if Val doesn’t know, Vox definitely doesn’t know, and that is going to be a whole mess in itself. The thought has Angel growling, arms tightening around the warm shape holding him. If that box-headed bitch runs his mouth about her one more fucking time, Angel is going to take a water hose and ram it straight–
“I’m sorry, love.” She whispers, a gentle intrusion into his thoughts. Her lips brush over his forehead and Angel coos. “Please forgive me. I’m so sorry. I should have at least said goodbye.”
Tana’s fingers drag through his hair and Angel releases a long, careful breath. It’s alright. Tana is home - and this is home: a refuge rebuilt by the family’s hands and forged strong in the iron bonds of their friendship. Nuggets is safe, snuggled against his side; Husk is here, the world outside is peaceful tonight, and he can hear the faint strands of Charlie humming in the kitchen.
“You’ve been through so much.” Tana whispers; understatement of the fucking year, but Angel smiles nonetheless. Sometimes, a word is all that’s needed when, really, there are no words, or the words don’t properly exist to describe the hell that’s dragged him across the coals, naked and belly-down.
The lamp light is soft on her face but also highlights how thin she’s become, how dark the shadows are against her pale skin, and especially how her eyes have changed. Her eyes have always stood out, even by the random standards set by demon designs: what should be the whites of the eyes are a soft lilac surrounding irises of brilliant purple, bisected neatly with slitted pupils. He remembers a sparkle always being there, bright even when his day had gone to absolute shit, as she smiled and welcomed him with a favorite drink or just open arms. Now, the smile doesn’t quite reach the eyes, and there’s a heaviness that wasn’t there before. It’s similar to the heaviness he sees every day in Charlie’s eyes, like an innocence has been taken that will never be returned.
Panic surges from his belly to the back of his throat; exhaustion shoved to the side, Angel sits up, chest pounding as he cups her face for a closer look. What happened? What’s been taken from her that left this darkness in her bright eyes? Can’t he find it for her? Can’t he fix this, as she’s fixed so much for him over the years? Anything at all?
“...what happened?” He croaks. His voice sounds fucking terrible, which is going to be great for filming. But that’s a problem for tomorrow. “Your eyes…you don’t…what happened?”
Eloquent as a drunken sailor, but he can’t formulate anything better in the desert that’s become his mouth. Tana rests her forehead to his with a sigh, fingers ghosting through his hair before resting on his cheeks. Her thumbs wipe the half-dried tears from his fur, gentle like they’re something to cherish. Charlie’s tears are precious, because she’s too damn innocent for her own good, but his? He’s not so sure anymore. What are the tears of a whore when they could be as fake as everything else about him?
“Much.” Tana whispers at length. “So…so much happened.”
Fuck, she sounds exhausted. Angel wraps his arms around her, wanting the shadows to leave her and the light to return to her eyes. It’s a wasted effort, and he knows it. No matter how hard he tries, no matter the humor he tries to bring to each day or the clever quips he drops into a conversation, he can’t help them. He can’t chase out the demons from Charlie’s head, and he can’t extinguish the heaviness from Tana’s eyes. Hell, he can’t even manage the horrors in his own head, can’t quell the monsters lurking in his soul, yet he thinks he can possibly help anyone else?
The old man was right. He was born a useless waste and he died the same.
“...welcome home…?” Angel manages, and he nearly cringes at how pathetic he is. She’s endured God-knows-what for the last twelve months, comes home to find Charlie’s original hotel in shambles and him screeching his lungs out in the middle of a nightmare, and that’s the best he can offer? Weak, stupid excuse for a–
Her arms fold around him, one hand in his hair, while her face rests on his shoulder. “Yes, I’m home.” Tana whispers. “I’m finally home, Anthony.”
…Anthony. Yes. His name is Anthony, and Angel Dust deserves to be nothing but a relic of the past to burn in the darkest pits of Hell. Anthony is the one who makes Husk chuckle and scuff him lightly upside the head before pouring him a drink. Anthony is the one who has coaxed Charlie’s tears out from behind her smile so that he can cherish them and plot to avenge her broken heart. Anthony is the one who could wipe any tension from Tana’s face and erase darkness from her eyes with a little quip or impromptu hug. Anthony–
Anthony was the one Valentino (Virgil) loved; the one who made those ruby red eyes light up and his face break into a genuine smile. Anthony got Virgil’s attention with the barest amount of effort, could make his body sing with a single touch, and made his world disappear with a kiss. Anthony, not Vox. Anthony is the one Virgil loved, and he’s the one Valentino can’t function without. Anthony was meant to be an overlord alongside his partner and lover, not the consummate bottom bitch sold for cheap to every Dick, Tom, and Harry in this fucking city. He’s not weak. He’s not pathetic. He survived the streets of New York for thirty years and the unique brand of Hell that was the Pentagram, alone, for thirty more years before a willow wisp of a half-blind moth stumbled into his life.
“Welcome home, Tana.” This time, no question and no hesitation. This is home, and she’s finally here.
Chapter Text
The sound of hooves clopping down the hall catches Tana’s attention just as a blur of red appears to the left. Dazzle comes closer, stumbling a little with sleep heavy in his eyes. She crouches down and scoops him up. “Hey there.” Tana whispers; the greeting feels hollow, not unlike the rest of her. Dazzle blinks, rubbing at his eyes, and leans his head against her shoulder. “Let’s get you back to bed, little man. You’re exhausted.”
Dazzle shakes his head, whining softly. “No?” She frowns. Maybe he was looking for Charlie after a nightmare, but if so…why isn’t he seeking comfort from Vaggie?
Dazzle whines again, as if reading her thoughts, and looks sadly at the cracked bedroom door; the darkness within does nothing to calm the tension building in Tana’s stomach. “...Where is she, honey?” Tana whispers. “Where’s Mama Vaggie?”
He points a hoof to the ceiling, jabbing the air twice to emphasize the point. Tana nods, kissing his head, and heads for the back staircase. The red moon is brighter at this hour, when the sky is so dark that it almost passes for black. The wind is strong too; it ruffles Dazzle’s fur and Tana tucks him close for warmth by proximity. Vaggie is leaning against the rail, hair and nightgown flowing with the evening breeze. Her mouth is set in a hard line, eyes staring a thousand miles away from the city below and the late-night routine of sinners stumbling out of bars into oncoming traffic, a couple’s romantic evening ending in gunfire, and the other usual comings and goings of the hour.
“You left the bed cold.” Tana says, not unkindly, but Vaggie jumps as if the rail suddenly shocked her. She turns, blinks twice, then the stiff expression melts into guilt as she sees Dazzle’s wet eyes.
“I…I thought he was asleep. I didn’t…” She slumps against the stone ledge. “I’m sorry.”
“I’ve heard those words from you quite a bit in the last twenty-four hours.” Tana joins her on the ledge. “You never were one for copious apologies, yet I came back and you’re apologizing for everything from the milk being expired to tripping over the carpet. What’s going on?”
The silence isn’t long-lived, though Tana suspects Vaggie would rather drag it out to avoid saying whatever has been haunting her. When the words do come out, it’s a jumbled, barely-coherent mess and Vaggie looks two seconds away from emptying her stomach along with her conscience.
“I’m guessing this is the part where I should yell about you keeping secrets and betrayal, right?” Tana sighs; the look on Vaggie’s face says as much, and Tana shakes her head. “Sorry; all out of righteous anger tonight.”
“But…you’re not even surprised. Did…did you know? From the beginning?”
“Suspected.” Dazzle is dozing off again, perhaps comforted by the warm bodies around him, and Tana adjusts him in the crook of one arm before she continues. “You’re too human to be a sinner and you came equipped with an angelic spear. I like to think I’m somewhat observant.”
Tears swell in Vaggie’s eye - the one she was left with. “But...You took me into your home. Why would you…if you suspected…?”
“I saw how you treated my sister. What else did I need to know?”
Vaggie’s face crumples, the tears dripping down her cheek. “Oh, Tana…” She scrubs at her face with shaking hands. “I’m so stupid. I should have just told you and Charlie everything from the beginning.”
“Trust isn’t automatically given; it’s earned.” Tana’s free hand rests on her shoulder, frowning a little at how cold the skin is. “And it’s a long journey to get there.”
“Not for you!” Vaggie’s hands clench several times before she starts pacing in sharp circles. She’s like Anthony in that way, always needing to move around, especially when agitated or excited. “You trusted me right away, enough to let me live in your house, and you trusted me to take care of things here while you were gone. You entrusted the hotel and Charlie to my care, and look what happened! Things went from bad to worse, one thing after another, and when I had the chance to prove myself, to justify how much you trusted me, I dropped the ball! And I begged her, Tana. I thought I made a good pitch, but it wasn’t enough. Sure, she gave us weapons and some helpful fighting tips, but it’s not the same thing as being there!”
Tana’s hands flex, dangerously close to scratching Dazzle’s coat before she forces them to relax. “...Are you talking about Carmilla?”
“Yes!” Vaggie’s voice pitches in frustration and Dazzle blinks awake, looking more confused than anything. “I gave it my best shot, Tana; I didn’t think I needed to specify that when I’m asking for her help, that meant fucking showing up to help in person! I mean, even just being there to help us break down the angels’ weak points and how to use her weapons…or something! Anything! But…but I failed. I couldn’t even–”
Two fingers press against her mouth. “That’s enough of that.” Tana whispers.
Her lips quiver as Vaggie croaks, “...I tried, Tana. I fucking tried.”
“I know you did.”
“But it wasn’t enough.”
“You already put too much pressure on yourself, Vaggie.” Tana moves the hand from her mouth to push away strands of hair whipping around her face. “Don’t assume responsibility for other people’s choices on top of everything else.”
Vaggie’s face drops into her palm, body sagging with exhaustion. “...She said Charlie meant nothing to her.” Against the growing wind, the words are almost inaudible.
Almost.
“...Did she?” Tana whispers. Vaggie lifts her head, albeit reluctantly and as if it physically pains her to see the way Tana’s expression is changing. “...Why don’t you tell me exactly how this conversation happened? And I mean, every detail.”
***
“...and I just don’t know where I went wrong.” If the roof was less sturdy, Vaggie probably would have paced a crater in it by now. As it is, she’s certainly made equal damage with the state of her hair; she’s run her hands through it so much that it’s a new brand of bed head. “Obviously, I couldn’t think about it in the moment, but we’ve had nothing to do but think over the last two…no, three weeks, and that’s been ample time for me to realize how much I fucked this up nine ways to Sunday. I fucked up the trust exercises, I fucked up our one shot to make Heaven listen because I didn’t tell Charlie the truth, I fucked up getting an overlord to help us, and then, because I wasn’t done fucking enough things up, what do I do when Charlie is on her knees amidst the rumble of the hotel, death and carnage all around? I tell her to smile and not be sad! What the ever-loving fuck is wrong with me?”
Tana blows out a long draw from her cigarette, the blue haze wafting before disappearing into the wind. “Is that all?” She asks, tapping the ash out over the rail. “I mean, why not blame yourself for the fall of mankind, acid rain storms, and your own feet for not seeing the fold in the carpet before you tripped over it?”
“You’re abusing sarcasm.” Vaggie huffs, but the message falls flat against the way she looks like a hamster that got on the wrong side of a blow dryer.
“And you’re nailing yourself to the cross like it’s going out of fashion.” Tana rolls her eyes and takes another drag. “Look, some things you genuinely fucked up. The rest, you’re flogging yourself because the situation went sideways and you think somehow, some way you should have snapped your fingers and made everything a-okay. That’s not how life works.”
“If I can’t make all this shit a-okay, then why am I even here?!”
Finally, the crux of the issue. Tana crushes the cigarette between her fingers and flicks the remnants away. “At the end of day, did you try your best?”
“...yes.” Vaggie whispers, arms folded tight around herself. “But trying wasn’t enough.”
“But it’s all any of us can do.” Tana stands, adjusting Dazzle once more in her arm, and pulls Vaggie close with the other. “So how about you cut yourself some slack, huh? Maybe you didn’t always get it right, but you always showed up.”
Vaggie blinks and a few stray tears drip onto Tana’s arm. “That’s worth more than you’re giving credit for.” Tana whispers. Dazzle blinks and reaches for Vaggie; she manages a small, watery smile as she tucks him close. “So now,” Tana crouches down and scoops Vaggie up in both arms, earning a delighted squeak from her and an excited whine from Dazzle. “You’re getting off that cross and heading to bed, little sister.”
“Tana!” Vaggie giggles, keeping Dazzle close as they step through a portal and into the bedroom. “I’m not that little.”
Tana sweeps the covers back with a hand and tucks them both in place. “You’ll always be my little sister, no matter how much of a bad-ass you are.”
“I like the sound of…that.” Vaggie mumbles, interrupting herself with a yawn. “...g’night, Tana.”
“Buenas noches, dulce hermana.”
Chapter Text
That little cat gets into more trouble than the pork chop, and somehow, despite knowing he never volunteered for the responsibility, Husk is always in charge of finding KeeKee before she gets into the kind of mischief that will domino into an actual mess. Never mind that the little furball should be Charlie’s problem to deal with; Alastor decided that having a private chat with the princess was more important and thus it fell to Husk, yet again, to dig the walking feather duster out from under whatever crook or cranny she’s ended up in.
The usual hiding places are quickly scoped out; she’s not in the linen closet, not hiding in the fireplace, and not sleeping outside Pentious’ room. Left to once again ponder his life choices, Husk peeks outside and promptly curses himself for making this shit complicated. KeeKee is right there, snuggled up against Tana’s right leg and purring with each stroke of the hand against her back.
“So you’re the new hiding place, huh?” He thinks to grab a chair, but shrugs it off and sits on the cold stone instead. Tana doesn’t respond to the quip, and now that he can see her face, it’s a dull, vacant expression that he doesn’t particularly like. “...What’s going on, Lady Luck?”
Lady Luck. Maybe she’s gotten tired of the name by now? It has been…fucking hell, fifty years? Which would be about the entire length of her time in the Pentagram, right? Jesus, he feels old.
“Hector.”
Oof. Talk about old names. “What’s going on, baby?” He asks, wishing he’d thought to bring booze. Any conversation that begins with his real name calls for a hearty helping of alcohol.
“...I haven’t been a good leader, have I?”
Yeah, definitely should have brought booze. He sighs and pops the tension out of his shoulders. “Well, you have to be a leader to be a good or bad one.”
Tana nods and lights up a cigarette; inspired, Husk pulls out a cigar. “Trouble you for a light?” He asks, then grins when she snaps two fingers and the tip smolders. “Always did like that party trick of yours.”
“Not the only thing about me you liked, Black Jack.” She returns, blowing out a long stream of smoke. He’s always liked the color of her cigarettes; the bright blue reminds him of cocktails that are sure to make you regret life choices in the morning, beads that sparkle around a working girl’s throat and tits on the Vegas strip, and satin sheets on a bed that was just built for sex parties until dawn. Normally, the smoke just fizzles out in the air, but sometimes she’ll make little shapes just to be cheeky. Tonight isn’t one of those nights, unfortunately.
“Damn right.” He takes a puff for himself. “...Look, babe. You came here with good intentions, with a good dream, and it hasn’t fucked you over yet. But you’ve also been a sponge for all that time, and while that’s great, and it was even kinda cute in the beginning, you’re growing mold at this point.”
“Thanks for that visual.”
“It’s what I’m here for.” KeeKee flicks her tail and paws at the air, apparently chasing something in her dream. Husk takes a long draw and lets the smoke roll around in his lungs for a solid minute before pushing it out in a single breath. “Tana…You play this shit so safe, and overlords don’t play anything safe. You got lucky, endeared yourself to the big guns in town, but let’s call a spade a spade: they see you as a little kitten following them around. They like you, but they don’t respect you.”
“Do you? Respect me?”
“‘Course I do.” He taps out the ash. “Helps that you’re easy on the eyes, but more than that, you have the potential to be a fucking wild card, the sort that can take this city and those clowns by the throat and bring it all into order. But fucking hell, woman, you will not get out of your own way so shit can get done. You’re too worried about if people like you, or playing Switzerland like your sister’s been doing, or dissecting a conversation fifteen different ways after you’ve had it and can’t do anything to change what you said or did. And fuck me, now that the king’s moved in, you’re gonna trip over your daddy issues like a boozer pretending they’re sober on Sunday.”
“You missed your calling to be a motivational speaker.” Tana mutters around her cigarette. The smoldering tip flares and briefly illuminates her face with the pale blue of a snowy morning.
“Point is, of course I respect you, babe.” He really should cut back on the smoking, but fuck it. The lung cancer already took him out…or was it liver failure? Probably both. “But I respect what you can be more than what you’re letting yourself be.”
Silence, but it’s a comfortable silence, the sort that involves deep thought while finishing off a good smoke. The blue forms into a hazy cloud, fog machines and strobe lights on a casino stage to shroud the dancers before the air clears and the lights paint them in blue, purple, pink, and gold while it glistens off sweat like water droplets in the sun. The glass lanterns that Charlie set up to line the stone patio are always lit at night, and the light catches nicely on Tana’s ring as she lifts her left hand, the one holding her cigarette, back to her lips. The gold stone matches the lanterns almost perfectly, a striking contrast to the black setting and the tendril-like prongs crawling up the side of the stone to keep it firmly in place. It reminds him of the signet rings of kings and queens he used to read about in school, or watch movies about and, when he was really young or really drunk, imagine what life would be like in a palace atop the hill and all the important papers that had to be signed in glistening black ink and sealed with the press of that ring in hot, bubbling wax.
…fucking hell, if this is the direction his thoughts go when he’s sober, he definitely needs to increase the alcohol intake.
“So, you’re basically telling me to get my shit together.” Tana finally says, crushing the last bit of cigarette into ash and dusting her hands clean.
“Yeah. Basically.” Husk blows out a long breath, watching the half-assed smoke ring swirl for a minute before it fades. “...Look. You came here to make a difference, and for the last few decades, you have, for a fuck ton of people. Then you left for a year - not gonna ask why - and you’re back, and now you got a choice to make: either step down, focus on your clubs and employees, and let the overlords fuck it all up again like before; or you stop cowering, put the crown back on your head, and start getting shit done.”
“Now that’s a motivational speech.” Tana laughs, loud and free, and Husk relaxes. Fucking finally. “Seriously, Black Jack. Call it, ‘Getting Shit Done 101.’”
“Fuck, I’d make bank on that. Especially down here.”
“If it gets you back in a suit, I’ll bankroll the whole program.”
“You have a kink for my suits, woman.”
“No, I have a kink for you in the suits.” Tana grins, eyes sparkling, and Husk has an overwhelming desire to kiss her, which would be exceptionally unwise. She saves him from himself by gently prodding KeeKee awake and then standing for a full-body stretch. He winces a little at the audible cracks coming off her bones; the woman clearly hasn’t been as active during her sabbatical (and probably not eating anything resembling a proper diet). “Ready to head inside?”
No. Yes. Maybe? Too many things he wants, and none of which he deserves. Being attracted to her, loving her, is as foolish as with the kid. They’re too alike, Tana and Angel; both of them, a white-hot flame that dances and mesmerizes and he’s stupid enough to go chasing after them even if he hasn’t the slightest idea what he would do when, if, he caught them.
“Yeah.” He finally mumbles. “Probably should see what Al and Charlie are up to.”
The frown on her face is a lingering reminder of that night in Viper’s kitchen, Tana finishing inventory of the pantry and cold storage while Husk sampled the liquor inventory. A comment, a soft confession that he returned with…what did he actually say? Tell her he was too old, too much of a trainwreck…something like that? Hopefully nothing worse. He’s always been blunt with her, and Tana certainly returns the favor with him in a way she doesn’t move others (with one exception), but he’s never been cruel.
Problem is, he gets cruel when he gets drunk. And he’s been drunk for more of their relationship than he’s been sober.
She lets him have the escape, though the frown hasn’t left; with a nod, Tana scoops KeeKee up in one arm and leads the way to the kitchen. It’s oddly quiet, save for the sounds of the radio that Alastor insists on playing at all hours…until they turn the corner and enter the kitchen.
“Ah, Tana! Perfect timing.”
Alastor’s tone makes it very clear that whatever she and Husk just walked into, it’s been a contentious discussion. His smile is too wide and too tight and Charlie is stewing under a cloud of disgruntlement. The kitchen still bears evidence of the earlier grocery trip, with cabinets nearly bursting and the fully stocked refrigerator exposed as Alastor fetches cream for his tea. Husk retrieves a bottle from one of his numerous hiding places in the kitchen and takes a quick swig before he starts thinking more dangerous thoughts.
Tana tilts her head. “Perfect timing for what?”
“Would you be a darling and talk this foolish notion out of your sister’s head?”
“It’s not a foolish notion!” Charlie whacks her knee on the table when she stands too quickly, but makes a splendid recovery with a half-pirouette as she hops off the bench. “Tana, I have given this a lot of thought, consideration, and concentration, and I am convinced that this is the right course of action.”
This ought to be good.
As ever, Charlie doesn’t disappoint with the grand finale. “I want to go to the overlord meeting with you tomorrow!”
Husk audibly chokes on his brandy. Tana lifts an eyebrow and hums; she’s probably tempted to pull out another cigarette, but if she does, she’ll hear Alastor’s opinions on smoking indoors for the next hour. Instead, she waves a hand at Charlie. “Make your pitch, sis.”
Alastor’s eyebrows disappear into his hairline. “As I said, I’ve thought about it.” Charlie says, thankfully remembering to take a breath before launching into her speech. “I…I haven’t been in the city very long, definitely not as long as you. And during the time I’ve been here, I did a terrible job of…well, doing exactly what you told me to do, including but not limited to, learning the landscape, understanding power dynamics, and knowing the important players. But, tomorrow will have all the overlords in one room, and that will be a prime opportunity for me to meet them, or at least put faces to names. Furthermore, I want us to present as a united front, the two sisters in the Pentagram, just like we talked about before, and show everyone that our family is here to stay and…”
She falters, stumbling over a few breaths, then sighs, visibly deflating like she’s lost her steam. “...I don’t know any other way to show you that I support your dream the way you always supported mine, even back when I could only portray it in crude, poorly rendered drawings that were appalling. So…please?”
Husk is a little shocked when the puppy eyes don’t make an appearance, considering it’s one of Charlie’s trademark displays when she’s pleading. That being said, she’s shaking like a rabbit cornered by a fox in the bush and clearly bracing herself for rejection.
“...Alright, sis.” Tana shrugs; KeeKee stirs awake and promptly hops out of her arms to prance elsewhere in the hotel. “But Vox set this thing for seven, so you’ll need to be ready early. You and Alastor can carpool and I’ll meet you at the tower.”
Charlie opens her mouth, then leaves it hanging while the words process for a few seconds while her brain, obviously, struggles with the notion that her sister didn’t shut her down. Five seconds…ten…fifteen…and then she lights up like a Christmas tree, squeals loud enough to make Husk’s and Alastor’s ears pin back with a mutual wince, and flings all four limbs around Tana. This is obviously not the first time such acrobatics have been performed, because Tana catches her like a pro with an amused but tender smirk.
“Thank you! Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU!! I promise I’ll be on my best behavior and won’t embarrass you. I won’t even talk if you don’t want me to! I can just sit there and take notes and just smile and nod whenever it’s appropriate - oh my God.” A new thought enters, to the point that Husk can practically see it slide between her ears, and Charlie gasps. “I need to pick my outfit. I need to pick my outfit! Good night, everyone!”
She zips out of the room, nearly leaving a trail of fire in her wake, and Tana smoothes her hair back into order before lifting an eyebrow again, this time at the two expressions waiting for her. “What?”
“Darling girl,” Alastor rubs his temple, smile strained. “Which part of ‘talk her out of this’ was unclear?”
“I heard you fine, Alastor.” Tana rolls her eyes. “But it’s my final call, and I want my sister there. Is there any part of that which is unclear?”
His ears twitch, eyes widening a fraction enough to indicate his surprise, and Husk tucks away a smirk in his drinking glass. “...Not at all, darling.” Alastor says, adjusting his cuffs. “Will you be joining us tomorrow for Charlie’s celebration?”
“Of course. But for tonight, I’m headed home. I’ll see you all tomorrow.”
“Splendid, darling. Bonne nuit.”
“Sleep tight, Lady Luck.” Husk lifts his glass at her with a wink. Pity he won’t be there tomorrow to watch the show himself. Alastor isn’t the only one who enjoys a good bit of entertainment.
“Bonne nuit, gentlemen.”
Chapter Text
The palace’s construction came about, somewhat miraculously, through the course of civil war among her aunts and uncles, led by the usual ringleaders, Uncles Mammon and Asmodeus. Despite verbal rows that shook foundations, inventive threats of bodily harm to various parts of the anatomy, and plenty of catfights among her aunts, the final product emerged as a solid, well-built piece of regal architecture, albeit with far too many rooms for its sole occupant.
The gray mist surrounding the gate retreats as she waves her hand through it; while Tana commented from the beginning that it was a bit theatrical, Aunt Levi insisted the aesthetic suited her. Tana personally thinks that was a backhanded compliment, and it probably was, but at least the mist serves two purposes: a security measure and enough of a haze to keep the palace from being a garish eyesore in the middle of her territory. Uncle Ozzie wanted a gate or giant stone wall wrapping around the entire construct, but Tana put her foot down. He got to build his wall around the back half for the sole purpose of enclosing her garden (and providing privacy when she was in the pool) and that was the end of it. Having a palace in the middle of the Pentagram was outlandish enough; she wasn’t going to make her reputation worse among the hellborn and sinners by living behind some medieval contraption like she was on Mount Olympus.
The mist sews itself back together as Tana begins the trek up a winding, cobblestone-paved path to the front doors. There are two, but she only opens one to slip inside. After a year’s absence and becoming far too accustomed to the automatic doors that are so prevalent in the living world, the weight of intricately carved wood is heavy against her arms, but reassuring against her spine for the moment she stops to take a long, uneasy breath. The foyer is lined with floor-to-ceiling windows, which allows for all the natural light she could ask for during the daytime and permits her a cursory view of the cityscape at night. The wall adjacent to the entry hosts a mirror framed in gold leaf; Tana grimaces at how tired she looks and absently runs a hand through her hair, as though that will fix anything.
She blinks, and then her face is shared with another reflection from the darkness: three sets of ruby eyes glittering in the shadows. Despite her exhaustion, Tana smiles as she turns around.
“Hello, my empress.”
Nera emerges with slow, measured steps. As a kitten, she was always stumbling about on paws that were much too big for her tiny frame, but those days are quite in the past. Now bearing the length and muscular build of a Siberian tiger, she has grown into her feet such that moving in silence is her default, and the velvet black fur means that seeing her approach is as difficult as it is to hear. Her tails are the last to become visible; once no more than six tufts of fur like the end of a Q-tip, each is now the length of her body: sleek, whip-like appendages that move in synchronized fashion. From personal experience, Tana can attest that the feel of just one is akin to a steel cable snapping against the skin; she hasn’t yet experienced the pleasure of all six striking at the same time.
The massive head pops her in the hip, accompanied by a low, indignant growl. “Yes, I know. I’m sorry.” Tana crouches down to meet the eyes. After a long moment, all six deliver a slow blink and Nera tucks her head in the space between Tana’s thigh and belly. “I know. I’m home now, though. I won’t be gone for nearly as long ever again.”
Another growl, though this one sounds more like a subtle warning than threat, and it fades into a rumbling purr as Tana drags her nails through the fur. She devotes the next five minutes to reassuring whispers and soothing touches, then Nera gives her massive body a shake to communicate that she has received enough adoration for the hour. Stepping away from Tana’s hands, she trots across the room to the assembly of luggage set against the far wall and gives the lot a cursory inspection. Tana follows, retrieving two items from the top of the pile, and leaves the rest to be addressed in the morning. She sees a flash of movement, enough to assure her that Nera is following close behind, and ascends the grand staircase. No doubt inspired by her childhood love of fairy tales, Uncle Ozzie had determined her bedroom ought to be at the highest point of the palace. He was gracious enough to include an elevator, an intricate design of glass panels and a sleek frame in black metal, but Tana craves the burn in her muscles as she takes the steps, one by one. She’s terribly out of shape, an entire year away from the pole, from regular sparring sessions, from the labors of running her club (and running after Charlie), and the stinging ache in her legs is an old friend that she eagerly welcomes.
The room is one of many throughout the entire palace that never received an assignment; if she was more of a hoarder, Tana probably could use it for a storage closet. Goodness knows she has received enough gifts from Uncle Mammon to fill twelve closets, but fortunately she has connections elsewhere in the city who eagerly accept her offerings for better use. Thus, the room is clean but bare: a modest size, not cramped, with a single large window facing the door. Being at the top of the palace, the moon shines bright and casts a red glow into the room.
Tana exhales slowly. The room has been innocuous for half a century, but now there’s a weight in the air. Or maybe that’s just the weight in her lungs. Her lungs, her heart, her mind: it’s all so heavy. She sinks to her knees, clutching the two retrieved items close, close enough that the pressure hurts. The engraving, almost lost to the aged leather, is the softest pressure of the whole, a barely-there imprint that she only recognizes by memory:
Patrick O’Malley
***
Three weeks earlier:
“I want to die in New Orleans.” Patrick said, rather abruptly as they ate a quaint breakfast in the New York airport. With the past six months primarily utilizing trains and buses as their mode of transportation across Europe, jet lag was not Tana’s friend and she nearly missed the proclamation - probably would have, actually, if he hadn’t repeated it.
“New Orleans?”
“Yes.” He nodded to emphasize the agreement. “I intend to greet my Maker with a belly full of good food, and the rest will be for the undertaker to suffer.”
The desire to spend his final days dining on the notoriously rich Cajun cuisine was medically unwise, but to Tana, unsurprising. Patrick had gone out of his way to disregard doctor’s orders when it came to the cancer. He was more content to let it have its way, and for it to let him have his as long as the Lord intended. The result after six months was the loss of his rosy cheeks, the need for frequent stops as they walked along city streets, sleepless nights when food or the stress of travel disagreed with him, and a thinning of his beautifully thick white hair and beard. But for all his body had struggled, his mind had rallied, and fiercely so, against the cancer. He’d continued to devour books day and night, listened attentively as Tana conversed with German locals in their native language, and engaged her in robust discussions held exclusively in French while they shared the spoils of a Parisian bakery in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower. At the black iron death gates of Auschwitz, he’d offered Hebrew prayers in reverent whispers, and Tana had thought how pleased Rabbi Jakob would have been to know all the years of tutelage involved with the men’s friendship had not been lost in the final days.
They left the next morning on the first train. Patrick had always liked trains, and he often told her of the trains he played with in school and the different adventures he imagined the passengers were partaking in along the way. He had great imagination, and he put it to use for his congregation, painting elaborate visual landscapes that breathed new life into the Word. Even then, as she stared out the window, Tana smiled at the memory of their first meeting, far too many years ago, and the rapture she felt listening to the man teach lost lambs, herself very much included.
New Orleans welcomed them with humidity and rain, but it did nothing to temper Patrick’s delight at arriving in the Big Easy. Their hotel sat on the riverfront, complete with a balcony attached to their room; it was a small perch, but perfectly sized for two travelers to sit with tea, beignets (courtesy of the attached café), and watch the comings and goings of the Mississippi.
Any thought Tana had that involved Patrick finally taking rest at the final leg of their journey was tossed out of the window as soon as he heard jazz music swelling throughout the streets. He promptly dragged her from the hotel with a child’s enthusiasm and they stayed out well past midnight. Such was the theme of the next two weeks, and only in the past three days had Tana noticed Patrick truly struggling. He remained in good spirits, save for the few moments when Tana needed to tend to more personal matters with him, during which he was mostly embarrassed and apologetic.
“It won’t be long now, my dear.” He said as the dawn of their fifteenth day in New Orleans approached. The sky was dark still, but pastel streaks were slowly crawling across the sky. Tana looked up from where she was sketching by lamplight - had been sketching for much of their travels but especially here in a city drenched with history, legend, and lore - and set the book aside to help Patrick sink onto the mattress. His limbs trembled with the effort, even though his frame was nowhere as generous as it had once been, and he required a few deep breaths before he continued, “Not long at all. I expect it might be within the hour. I did pray last night that He would allow me to see one more sunrise, so we shall see.”
Tana handed him a glass of water. “He has been nothing less than merciful for six months, let alone your entire life, my friend.” She said with the best smile she could muster. “I think allowing one more sunrise will be an easy request to grant.”
“Amen.” Patrick sipped the water twice, then once more, and handed the glass back. “But there are other matters that need tending to.”
The items produced were familiar to her, had been since their first meeting, but Patrick putting them in her hands was not familiar. “Patrick–”
“I have no family, love. I’m the last of my line. But when the Good Lord provides a child, it is a man’s duty to provide a legacy for the child to carry on.” He set a weathered hand to the equally weathered Bible and well-loved beads of his rosary. “Now, mine isn’t much, but it’s yours.”
“...it’s everything.” Tana whispered. “But I don’t deserve it.”
“Darling, have I taught you nothing?” He chuffed her cheek. “Life isn’t about what we deserve. If it were, we’d all be on the fast track down to Hell.”
A great truth wrapped in a bit of humor, but Tana couldn’t find a smile. She managed to keep her hands from shaking long enough to set the gifts aside, then guided him to drink more water. A useless gesture, in the long run, but she needed to have something to do with her hands. Something…useful, or at least helpful. She’d rather reach inside his body and take the cancer into her own; let the malignant cells wither and die in her while she nursed him back to health, away from the place of suffering that he’d dragged himself through for six months.
“...What do you think your palace will look like?” Tana finally asked; a foolish, pathetic question, but she couldn’t think of anything better. “Isn’t that what the Bible says is waiting for you?”
“Indeed.” Patrick hummed, then wrinkled his nose. “Though I would prefer a nice bungalow.”
She laughed, choked as it was, and allowed him to take her hands in his, the water glass forgotten on the nightstand. “With a huge garden?”
His green eyes lit up as a smile parted his beard. “A garden! With every plant, flora, and fauna God ever created, all in one place.”
“With a greenhouse for the sorts that need special care.” Tana smiled. “Floor-to-ceiling windows to let in all the sunlight they could ever want. When the sprinklers turn on, it’ll mist up the windows, and the sun will make the window look like they’re encrusted with diamonds.”
“That will be the fulfillment of my dreams. A garden filled with God’s true riches and splendor, spread as far as the eye could see.” His eyes grew wet, voice warbling as he added, “...And Jakob will be at my side, telling me all the things I’m doing wrong.”
“And then he’ll remind you that you need to rest, though your body will never again grow weary, and together you’ll sit on a bench, surrounded by the bounty of your labor.”
“A bench.” Patrick nodded. “Tell me about the bench, Tana.”
“It will be made from white ash.” She answered, responding to the squeeze of his fingers with one in kind. “White ash, sanded down to perfection, adorned with gold and silver, with pearls cresting the arms and back. The seat will be lined with silk embroidered in blue and purple.”
“And we’ll watch the sunset.”
“Yes. Every day.”
“My eyes are growing tired. Is the sun rising yet, Tana?”
“Soon. I can see the light coming.” Her mouth trembled, but found a smile as she whispered, “Perhaps it is the angel.”
“Angel?”
“Yes. Perhaps God has sent Gabriel himself to bring you home.”
“The archangel? The annunciator of Christ’s own conception, come to me? Good heavens, I’m simply not dressed for it.”
“You will soon be dressed in the finest linens, my friend.” Tana laughed. The tears felt warm on her cheeks. “And you shall spend each day in His company. Can you imagine the things you’ll talk about?”
“Imagine? Certainly. You know I’ve never wanted for an overactive imagination.” She laughed again. “But to think of it, now when the hour is so near! I shall endeavor to make my garden like Eden, that He might find it pleasant to walk among even for a moment.”
“And you will.” There could be no doubt of it, not after the decades he spent tending to the grounds surrounding his church. “The light is growing stronger, Patrick. Can you see it?”
“Yes.” His hands held hers tighter though they shook with the pressure. “Will you paint this when you go home, my dearest girl?”
“Of course.”
“But take your time. Don’t rush it.”
“I won’t.”
“See to it that I’m cremated, won’t you?”
“You don’t want a wake?”
“Bah. There’s no one to hold it but you, and I fancy you sober. No, no; I want to be cremated. Though I’d prefer to not be flushed or left in a receptacle.”
“Even now, you make ridiculous jokes, Patrick.”
“I must, because I must see you smile.” He drew his eyes from the window, the green brighter now in dawn’s growing light. “Remember our lessons, my dear. Even if you forget them for a little while, remember them again.”
“I will.”
“You needn’t think of me to remember them. Though, I hope when you do think of me, you’ll smile. You don’t smile enough.” He brought her hands to his lips and kissed the knuckles. “You must smile for me now, my beautiful girl. My eyes are growing dark.”
“Then please, look at the sky. Look at the colors, Patrick.” The pleading whisper scraped over the back of her throat, half-choked by more tears. “He granted your wish.”
“He did. Now, please, I would have you do the same.”
I smiled before. Isn’t that enough? She didn’t ask; couldn’t ask, really, because what kind of person places conditions around the wish of the man on his deathbed? Her mouth hurt, jaw too tight and lips pierced by her teeth, and his hands were growing cold. Cold, like when they were caught in a torrent in Prague; their escape into a nearby cafe had been ten seconds too late, and it took two hours for them to dry. As they did, watching the veil of rainwater through the windows, Tana asked if the ocean looked like that and Patrick declared they would find out. And they did, two months later, in the frigid gray tide of the Baltic Sea. The chill had been unlike anything she’d experienced before, even the shocking cold of a New York Christmastide, and she’d laughed at the absurd freedom of that moment, freezing cold and still running back into the waves until her skin was numb and Patrick had chided her all night about catching her death.
“There.” Patrick pressed their joined hands beneath her chin. “There. What are you thinking about with that smile? Tell me, darling.”
“The Baltic Sea. How ridiculous I was. How happy.”
“Take that home. Share it with your sister. With your friends and employees.” His hands shook terribly, worse than before, and Tana tightened her own grip. “Live as you did that day. Learn to live that way, that day, each and every day you’ve yet to live.”
“Will you tell Jakob about that day?”
“Most certainly. And when he asks if I was fool enough to join you, I’ll answer with a great shout from the center of my garden that I swam in those bloody ice waters and lived three more months to remember it!”
“Do you think God laughed with us that day?” Tana whispered. Outside, the purples and pinks of the rising dawn have made their way to the room: soft, caressing tendrils of light politely crossing the threshold.
“I know He did.” Patrick’s eyes glowed, once more in the sunlight. “I know He did.”
Chapter Text
A proper cathedral would bear the natural golden glow of dozens of tiny flickering flames, but the vivid green of hellfire reminds Tana of Patrick’s eyes, and therefore it feels more appropriate.
The black iron stands were a gift of sorts, inasmuch as it can be considered a ‘gift’ when Uncle Mammon decides to clear out his hoarded collection in order to make room for more acquisitions. Their identical construction is simple, albeit with ornate detail on the rail-like frames, and in another life Tana imagines they probably served as end tables or perhaps tiered plant stands. In this life, she has repurposed them with a good cleaning and new adornment. She places one to the left of the window, its lower tier bearing crisp rows of tiny candles, eighty-five in number for the years Patrick lived, while the upper is the final resting place of Patrick’s urn; to the right, its companion holds his Bible with its worn leather cover and pages softened by age and weathered by the dozens upon dozens of notes that Patrick owner wrote in the margins. Her first attempt, simply resting the Bible atop the highest tier, looked dreadfully plain, and Patrick was not plain. It’s taken her the last three hours to gather the appropriate floral selections from her garden that she thought would best accent the Bible, then she kept gathering because Patrick loved the garden at his parish and it seems appropriate that the room dedicated to his memory should boast the best from her own.
Soon, there will be another kind of garden blooming in Pride, she thinks to herself. A garden born from the rubble of Heaven’s assault against Charlie; tiny, hopeful streaks of green slowly crawling up from the hardened earth of broken dreams and angry hearts. Charlie’s dream would have been pleasing to Patrick, had Tana been able to tell him about it. As it was…
…well, keeping secrets is her trademark, isn’t it? ‘The Ice Queen’...that’s what they called her at court; woefully unoriginal and uninspired, but it’s a waste to expect creativity from the class who swan about as though they are God’s gift to Hell but in reality can’t wipe their collective asses without the aid of an imp.
Her chest throbs, enough that she sets a hand over the area and rubs in slow, soothing circles. It doesn’t help. She tried every remedy in the living world that was easily accessible and wouldn’t raise too many eyebrows. Had Patrick not been such a gentleman and insisted on her privacy even in shared rooms, there would have been no hiding the scar.
Scars, rather.
The throbbing comes again, harder and increasingly painful, as though responding to her thoughts. She stands, wincing again at the audible protests from her limbs, and ventures down the hall to her bedroom. Nera originally joined her in the other room, but quickly became bored and left. She’s curled up by the hearth when Tana comes in and offers a low, displeased noise. Tana hums in response and waves a hand towards the hearth; it sparks to life, fire swelling within its stone belly, and Nera’s purr can be heard across the room.
Stripping free of her clothes is an artless endeavor; she tosses them in the general direction of the laundry basket and makes a mental note to clean it up before Gretchen arrives and she gets a proper scolding. The fire is quickly warming the cold air in her room, but the chill is still present enough to make her skin prickle. Backlit by the green flames, the scar tissue, jagged paths of raised tendrils creeping out from between her breasts, seems darker against her pallor.
Tana pushes out a long, heavy breath, and braces herself on either side of the mirror’s golden frame. Twelve months: six spent in a New York hotel room, every inch of her body in absolute agony from her worst shed to-date (followed immediately by mortifying heat that infected the whole hotel with her pheromones), and six traveling throughout Europe, trying to live out a lifetime of dreams on borrowed time. All time is borrowed, Patrick often told her, but that didn’t make her heart hurt less when he struggled, when he couldn’t hide the suffering in the middle of the night, or when he smiled through the pain and she couldn’t even muster half a grin when she’s endured so much less.
Behind her, in the mirror’s reflection, the city skyline is dark, but not for long. Dawn is already coming in Pride, the blaze of the moon softening into what passes for sunlight. She should sleep, but she can’t. She’s exhausted, but not tired. She wants to scream and pound her fists bloody and then wail out every fiber of her grief. She wants to punch out every wall in the house and then curl into the smallest shape possible and cry for days.
But her sister’s tears were spilled in silence, away from the eyes of those souls Charlie wants to lift up, not drag down with her own breaking heart. Tears spilled because she stood outnumbered, supported only by the lives she’s already touched, the loyalty she earned in such a short time, but abandoned almost entirely by the leaders of the city she’s fought so hard to protect.
Tana’s hands flex around the frame before she rips away, pacing in short circles around the room as the anger crawls up her throat like a thorny vine. Abandoned. Abandoned. Abandoned by those who proclaim themselves leaders, those Tana personally entrusted with the city in her absence, and now…
She wilts to the floor, arms folded around her head. Can she become her own coffin? Just fold in on herself like origami until she’s encased in a place where she never has to deal with this dumpster fire of a city and its leaders ever again? Probably not, but it’s an entertaining thought for when she feels like driving herself half-mad.
…where does she even go from here? Does she throw in the towel, let the overlords go back to their glory days of useless, unproductive meetings filled with tossing insults and vulgarity like it’s a sporting event, after which they go and hole up in their respective domains and can’t be bothered to collaborate for anything? Is that the better option? Maybe she’s only ever caused damage since she tried to be their leader. After all, she’s only failed at being a leader, so…
“Now you got a choice to make: either step down, focus on your clubs and employees, and let the overlords fuck it all up again like before; or you stop cowering, put the crown back on your head, and start getting shit done.”
The morning light is crawling higher across the skyline, painting the area closest to the windows in rosy shades. Like flowers. The flowers Patrick grew on the parish grounds. The flowers Mama once grew in the palace gardens. The flowers Charlie used to weave into Tana’s crown, back when royal responsibilities weren’t a weight on her delicate shoulders and they had the luxury of living in the fairytales Tana would illustrate with her voice to Charlie’s eager mind.
No more. Now, they’ve both made such intimate relations with death in so little time. Death is no longer a mundane part of daily life in Hell; now, there is weight to it. An icy whisper perpetually exhaling over their lives. The ground around Charlie’s new hotel is still soaked in blood, and Tana’s arms bear the weight of Patrick’s last breath.
The weight of Nera’s paw rests over her bare thigh; Tana looks down to see those red eyes gazing up at her. Absent any pupils, Nera’s eyes have somehow always managed to be expressive, just like Va–
No. No, not going there. That’s another trainwreck that she will have to deal with tomorrow. Well, tomorrow is today, so she has to deal with it today, but not yet. Not just yet.
She blinks, and realizes something is glittering in the fire light; something hanging from Nera’s mouth. When she extends her hand, Nera deposits it with the same care that she used to present mangled prey at Tana’s feet. The familiar weight of Patrick’s rosary brings a tiny sob halfway up her throat, where it dies as a choked whimper. It was passed down from his great-great-great grandmother, he often told her, but it shows so little of its age. The silver is dulled, yes, but the emeralds have lost none of their brilliance. The traditional Celtic cross is heaviest in her palm, and as she brings it to her lips, images of watching Patrick hold it close during morning and evening prayers flutter across her mind. He was dying, his body corroding from the inside out, and yet he never blamed God. His faith never faltered, and from faith he drew strength when his body had none.
Well, Tana isn’t sure that God hears all the way down here. If he doesn’t, she certainly won’t lose anything in the attempt.
But if he does…
Notes:
If you've made it to the end, thank you so much! The continued support for this series is so humbling, and I appreciate everyone who has taken the time to read the installments thus far.
I'll see you all in the next segment of "Viper." Have a blessed weekend!
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