#i drew so many prowls this year hm

[ihatebrainstorm]

New years! My Secret Solenoid gift to @ prwlabout on insta! (A Prowl for Prowl?)

[tilltheendwilliwrite]

Star-Crossed: Bound by Blood

Chapter Five

Master List / Read on AO3

Previous Chapter

Warnings: Canon divergent during Chapter 13 of The Mandalorian, serious pining, much angst, violence

A/N: I make this stuff up as I go along, if I screw something Star Wars-y up, apologies in advance, I didn’t do it on purpose, but I’m new to this Fandom. I will be cross posting this story between AO3 and Tumblr except the smutty bits. Those chapters will only be available to registered users on AO3. (I’m trying something new for people who want to read here on Tumblr, but to also avoid the smut for minors controversy. We’ll see how it goes.)

*I do not have a tag list* Please follow the story on AO3 if you want email updates, or follow @tilltheendwilliwrite-library where I post the new/latest chapters of all my stories.

Din watched Baast with growing concern. She'd withdrawn after Nevarro, spending the majority of her time with Grogu or in the sleeping hammock she'd strung between the walls of the Razor Crest. She refused to take his bunk, wouldn't even hear of it. When she slept - which he knew wasn't often as he could hear her prowling quietly around his ship - she did so in fits and starts and bad dreams. 

By the time they arrived at the Tribe's new home, he was genuinely worried. He didn't know enough about Zentari biology to be able to say if this was normal or not, but with how worried Grogu seemed, he was going to go with not. 

But Din couldn't focus on Baast as he navigated the high winds and icy blizzard of the Tribe's new home. The planet was damn near inhospitable, but that was why they liked it. 

This was his first visit since the massacre on Nevarro, and he was both excited to see who remained and dreading it. There had been far too many Foundling helmets in the Armourer's pile. An old outpost carved into the rock served as a place to land ships and keep them from being snowed in. Blast doors slid open, appearing to welcome him home. Mandalorians waved him forward, and he recognized the armour of Paz Vizsla.

"That kriffing bastard would live," he muttered as he maneuvered the Razor Crest around and set it down. The blast doors were already closing, not that those who worked on their ships appeared to care either way. 

Descending into the belly of his ship, he found Baast growling at her hair and tsked when he snaked the comb from her fingers. "You're making matters worse," he huffed, quickly separating the tangle. He twisted the mass into a long tail, then wrapped it into a knot at the base of her skull, where he tucked two long sticks he'd picked up in the market on Nevarro. They were made of hardened steel, sharpened to a deadly point, and would make a handy weapon if she ever needed one. She kept her eyes down and didn't look at him when he helped her into her cloak. 

While they'd been on Nevarro, he'd been careful to pick out clothing she could layer for cold weather rather than buying winter gear. He had no desire to lead the Tribe's enemies to them again and made damn sure they weren't followed. The one thing he couldn't avoid buying were boots, but Dune came through on that one. 

After Baast damn near killed her, they spent a mostly pleasant few hours with Dune while she'd cooed over Grogu and listened intently as Din told of his run-in with the Jedi. They said nothing of Baast's origins and wouldn't. What Cara didn't know couldn't get her killed. Of course, the ex-shock trooper would attempt to kick his ass if he said that out loud, so Din hadn't, remaining silent as Dune fumed for being "out of the loop."

Before he drew up Baast's hood, he lifted her chin with gloved fingers. "Baast, everything will be alright."

She gave him a wane smile, her vibrant eyes too dull for his liking. "As you say, Mando."

He gritted his teeth. That, too, had changed. She no longer called him by his name when they were alone. He was back to Mando. It was the first time in his life that he hated hearing anyone utter that word. 

"Baast, we need to talk-" He cut himself off when loud pounding came at the ramp and flipped her hood over her head. "We're not finished," he warned, determined to get to the bottom of whatever was going on with her. 

She picked Grogu up but said nothing. There was no defiance, no strength, no beskar spine left to her. 

He clenched his fists and headed for the ramp, where he punched the release with more exuberance than was needed. It lowered to reveal Paz and another, weapons trained on the doorway. 

"Nice greeting," Din grumbled.

"You've too many bodies on your ship."

He held out his hand, and Baast joined him, her hand sliding up his arm to his elbow. "We seek the Alor."

Weapons slowly lowered, but he could tell they remained suspicious.

"This way." Paz turned and headed across the hanger. 

Din didn't bother to hurry. Paz would wait because they'd piqued his curiosity. He would remain once they reached the Alor to see just what Din was up to. Suspicion followed them like a red wave as they made their way through the rock corridors. The deeper they went, the warmer the air grew, indicating the Tribe had found lava flow or hot springs heated the base.

It was good, secure. Hopefully, they could remain here for some time.

Paz stopped at an open doorway and indicated inside. "Leave the child with the other Foundlings."

"Nu draar," Baast growled, her stance defensive as she rolled onto the balls of her feet. 

"He will be safe and happy with the others," Din encouraged. Looking inside, his heart plummeted. Where once there were thirty or more Foundlings, now fewer than fifteen remained. "Is this all?"

"Sabine has the older ones. They train." 

"This is The Way," Din murmured. 

"This is The Way," Paz agreed. "Leave the child."

Baast hissed at him, and Din stepped between them before things escalated. Already he could tell Paz wasn't impressed.

"Baast, udesii," he murmured, laying his hands over hers on Grogu. "He will be safe and far happier with the Foundlings. No one will touch him, I swear it."

She held onto him as if her very life resided in the little green menace, and leaving him behind was allowing a part of herself to be torn apart, but with gentle coaxing, he managed to remove Grogu from her hands and set him down to join the others children. Grogu cooed happily and toddled off to play while Din urged Baast onward after Paz. 

The giant warrior peered at Baast for a long moment before continuing away from the Foundling Nursery. 

Finally, after more twists and turns and stares from other Mandalorians, they arrived at the Foundry where the Alor waited in her golden helmet. She didn't bother to look up as she worked on polishing a pauldron. 

"You dare to bring an aruetyc here?"

At any other time, he might have flinched at such a reprimand coming from her, but not this time. "She is not an outsider. She is Baast'mal, last of the Zentari."

The pauldron slipped and clanged against the forge before she caught it and set it carefully aside. "The Zentari are no more."

"She knows The Way," Din insisted. "We completed the greeting."

The Alor turned then to face them as Baast pushed back her hood. The sharp intake of breath Paz took did not escape him. 

"I am Baast'mal, daughter of Sengor'du and Lin'talia of Zentarus." She tilted her head. "Great Alor, I greet thee. Holder of the Creed, blessed of the constellations. May you raise warriors strong in the Way and find your riduur. Your cyar'ika. Your ka'rta." 

Din had never seen the Armourer show surprise in her body language before. "I greet thee, Zentari of the Bright Star, though it saddens me to learn you are the last. Can you be certain of this?"

"I felt the only other of my kind die three years past," Baast murmured. 

The Alor bowed her head. “Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la.” 

Din knew how she felt. It was like a gut punch without warning to know they'd lost something so damn special. 

"Be welcome, Baast'mal. Perhaps among our Tribe, you will find the one you seek." 

Baast said nothing, looking away as if in shame, and Din reached for her elbow before remembering they were no longer alone on his ship where he could take such liberties. Now, she would be courted by every able-bodied male of the Tribe to see if they proved worthy to be her riduur.

"Leave us," the Alor commanded. 

Din hesitated, but when Baast didn't look at him, he stepped back and walked away.

***

"Shut the door, Vizsla," she commanded as the big one followed Din out.

Used to Din's t-shaped visor, the Alor's eye slits were almost disconcerting, but Baast didn't allow it to show.

"You are of a great lineage, Baast'mal, daughter of Sengor'du. The Tribe will see this as a great omen, a reason to rejoice when we have so little."

"Not so great," Baast sighed. "I cannot be what I was born to be. I am no riduur. My fated mate will never complete the bond."

She tilted her head. "Oh?" Then motioned toward a table next to the forge. "Sit. Tell me your story, Baast'mal."

Baast, knowing her future depended on her honesty, spoke the truth. She told the Alor of her kidnapping as a child, her brutal years as an experiment, and the wretched way the Empire forced bonds with the Sand Cat and Manka. She showed off her Snake Tooth and admitted how broken she felt knowing she would never have the one thing she yearned for. 

"I was bred to grow warriors, but I will remain barren," she whispered, unashamed of the tears streaming down her cheeks.

The woman across from her tilted her head, having remained silent through her entire recitation. "They took you from Zentarus too young. There are… things missing from your education, knowledge you have yet to acquire."

"There is?" Baast was surprised and yet not completely. She had been very young when they ripped her from her family.

"There is. I can teach you, but it will take time."

"I am not sure Di- Mando will be alright with a delay. I promised I would help him find a Jedi for Grogu."

If she was surprised Baast knew Din's name, she didn't show it. "Hm, for the child you took as your own. You will find parting with him to be like death. I do not envy you the position you have placed yourself in."

"I know," Baast whispered. "But he may be my only chance at a child."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not." She stood and motioned for Baast to follow her to the forge. "For now, you will sleep. Rest, Baast'mal. You are safe here, and I can see you have not been sleeping."

"Not because I felt unsafe," she snapped. "Mando is not to blame."

"Isn't he?" 

She stared, but Baast refused to look away. She would give the Alor no reason to doubt Din. 

She chuckled and turned to the forge, her hands busy out of Baast's view. "I have long considered Djarin one of our finest warriors. I am pleased to see him living up to his potential."

When she turned back, the mark of the mudhorn was in her hand, dangling from a leather thong. The Alor stepped forward and tied the cord around Baast's neck, settling the shiny bit of beskar against Baast's chest.

"There. Now, none who see you will challenge that you belong. I will have one of the others deposit you in a family suite so you may remain close to your Mandalorian with your child."

"He is not my Mandalorian."

She looked at Baast, and Baast swore she could feel the amusement rolling off the woman. "Isn't he?" she asked before going and opening the door. "Vizsla. Retrieve the child and take her to the home set aside for Djarin."

"Respectfully, no." The one called Paz crossed his arms, radiating defiance. "If she is Zentari, she should not be living with him. She should be available to all to choose."

Baast was too tired and too stressed to deal with his macho bullshit any longer and walked into the corridor with long smooth strides. She let her cloak fall behind her as she stalked the male keeping her from her child. 

"And do you think you are worthy?" she asked, soft, cold, and deadly.

"Baast," Din warned.

She could feel him now, more and more; even with the beskar, his emotions were starting to bleed through. Being with him was agony; her soul cried out for his, but being apart would likely be even worse.  

"I could be," Vizsla snickered.

Baast smiled to show off her fangs, then kicked him down the corridor. "You do not choose!" she roared. "I choose!"

When she made to stalk after him to teach the too proud Mandalorian a lesson he would not soon forget, she found herself captured against Din. 

"He means no disrespect, but he is right. You... you must find your fated mate." The words sounded like they pained him. "You can't stay with me and do that."

Baast felt herself crumble and swayed into him, distraught at causing him such grief. 

"She is clan of your clan as the child is the child of her heart. Baast'mal wears your sigil. Until she says otherwise, she will remain Clan Mudhorn. Collect the child, take her to your home, and return to me, Djarin."

The Alor's command was not one they could ignore. Din bowed his head and pulled Baast away, past Paz, who radiated wary respect. 

The traversed corridors in reverse until they came to one deserted of others, and Din spun her into the wall. "Are you alright?"

She clung to him, clung and shook as every cell and fibre and atom of her body begged for his until she could hardly bear it. "Your Alor has information for me. My knowledge is incomplete. I must stay until it is no longer this way."

"Then we stay."

The easy acceptance shocked her into searching the t-visor for his unseen eyes. "But, Grogu. The Jedi."

"It can wait."

"Mando," she sighed.

"Din," he growled low, pressing his body closer. "You will use my name with the Tribe and in private, Baast."

She closed her eyes, the pain growing. 

"Are you sick? Do you need a healer?"

His concern broke her a little more. "No. I am fine."

"You're not fine!" he snapped. "You're fading! I can see how much something is hurting you, Baast. What is going on?"

She dredged up every ounce of self-preservation she had left to stare him cooly in the visor. "That is not your concern."

He stepped away as if she'd hit him. "Fine. Use my home. I will find somewhere else to sleep."

She watched him walk away, her heart cracking with each step until he turned the corner, and it shattered. 

Baast landed hard on her knees, unable to catch her breath, gasping and dry heaving, tears spilling freely down her face. When the hands came, they were gentle, but she would not have cared if they brought pain. Nothing hurt as much as Din walking away. 

"I'm Sabine. Allow me to offer aid, Zentari."

Baast could only nod as she allowed the female to help her up and lead her away.

***

He stalked back to the forge with angry strides but a heavy heart. Baast was breaking down, and her continued refusal to let him help would drive him insane.

Paz nodded as he went by and shut the door to the forge as he left.

"So, you have brought us a Zentari. This is well done of you."

He said nothing, knowing she needed no response.

The Armourer held up the pauldron of earlier and discarded it. "But she is soul-sick."

"Soul-sick?" He'd never heard of it before.

"She believes she is damaged. Too long was she with the Empire. Too long has she battled the mind games of the demagolka. They could not break her spirit, so they poisoned her mind. This poison sickens her soul. She needs mirjahaal."

"Demagolka…" Din whispered, horror filling him. The Demagol was the notorious Mandalorian scientist of the Old Republic, a real-life monster and war criminal. He was known for his experiments on children and was hated by all Mandalorians for his perversions. Children were to be cherished, never tortured. "Are you sure?"

She looked at him. "What else would you call one who experiments on children?"

He felt foolish for not seeing it himself and tilted his head in apology.

She hummed and returned to the forge. "You will help her find mirjahaal."

"She doesn't want my help."

"But she needs it. You will do this. I have spoken."

He sighed but made sure the sound didn't leave his helmet and drew the ingot of beskar from his pocket. "For the Foundlings."

The Alor hummed. "This is The Way."

"This is The Way." Din turned and left, knowing a dismissal when he heard one. 

He stormed out but only made it as far as the turn to the first hall, where he stopped to sigh and closed his eyes. How could he help Baast find mirjahaal when she didn't want anything to do with him anymore?  

How could he help her find healing and peace of mind when he no longer felt it himself?

***

Nu draar - no way/ not on your life

Udesii - calm

Aruetyc - traitor/outsider

Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la - not gone, merely marching far away.

Mirjahaal - peace of mind, *healing*, general term for emotional well-being especially after trauma or bereavement. 

***

Next Chapter coming soon

[littlemisslol-fic]

Summary: Two years after the events of Barviel Keep, Varian has tried to adapt to the expectations brought by being a King’s Ward, with mixed results. Haunted by ghosts, Varian is forced to face the demons he tried to leave behind in Bayangor when his abdication is forcibly stopped by a third party, out for revenge against the Bayan Royal bloodline. On the run, with few allies left to turn to, Varian finds himself chasing a ghost through a series of tests that only a true heir of Demanitus could ever hope to pass.But the shadows are ever present, looming and dark, and not everything is as simple as it might seem.

Notes: It's the beginning of the end.

Varian’s feet were glued to the floor. The absolute shock of seeing Merrick— if he was here, where was Arianna?— standing in front of him— how had he gotten here so quickly?— was more than enough to leave Varian stunned. His brain was trying to parcel through too many questions at once, he couldn’t keep track; his mind was firing on so many synapses at once that it wasn’t registering any of them.

Eugene and Rapunzel were already reaching for their weapons, frying pan and sword ready. Varian stuttered to life enough to begin grabbing for his alchemy belt, only to realize that he didn’t have anything left. He’d used the last of it against Cerise. The feeling of dread in his guts only multiplied at that, especially when Merrick began to move.

The mage pushed himself off the wall, casual and calm in a direct contrast to the Coronians in front of him. Merrick paced outside the threshold of the door, eying the invisible line between the rooms. Varian was reminded of a prowling animal, like Hector’s bearcats. With a small, testing motion Merrick stuck a boot out, smirking when it crossed the barrier with no trouble. Merrick did a little hop over the barrier, as if expecting to be stopped, and delighting when he wasn’t.

“Do you know how long I’ve been waiting to do that?” he asked them. When none of the Coronians replied, he continued on his own. “Because it’s been a hot minute, let me tell you. Ol’ Geldam had this place locked tight for centuries, trying to keep me and mine out.”

He shrugged, looking around the room with a sense of smug satisfaction. When his eyes landed on Varian, his grin sharpened.

“Good thing his descendant turned out to be a bit of an idiot, huh?”

Rapunzel scowled, pointing at Merrick with her frying pan. “You leave him alone!” she demanded.

Merrick paused at his place at the top of the stairs. He focused on her frying pan, like one would stare down the barrel of a gun. He pursed his lips, arching a brow.

“Hm, right,” he said, “You two are still here. I’ll be real I was hoping it would just be the crow alone, but I can make this work.”

He brought up a hand, waving flippantly. On cue, a group of people appeared from thin air, the room shuddering with the series of loud pops that rang through the air. Varian flinched at the loud noise, whirling around and tensing up when he saw they were surrounded. He turned back, letting out a shout when he saw figures sneaking up on his friends.

“Look out!” he yelped, a second too late. Rapunzel and Eugene let out twin cries when they were grabbed from behind, their arms drawn back. The clatter of sword and pan against marble were damning, rattling around in Varian’s skull and finally shaking him to action. He ran for the closest weapon— Rapunzel’s pan— only to feel a hand on his wrist jerking him to a halt.

Merrick held quick, even when Varian tried to pull away. The alchemist hadn’t even noticed him moving, when had he even—

“Ah-ha, nope,” Merrick chided him, “None of that, thank you. You’ve got a job to do.”

“Let go!” Varian demanded, trying to yank his arm out of Merrick’s metal grasp. “Let go!”

The man scoffed, shaking Varian’s wrist roughly. “Let go,” he mocked, “Sheesh, get something original maybe. At this rate it’s not even fun, just pathetic.”

He dragged Varian back toward the tomb, rough and uncaring when Varian nearly fell over. Instead, Merrick merely wrapped an oppressive arm around the alchemist’s shoulders, keeping him in place. Varian cringed, unable to keep from tensing under the deceptively casual touch. Merrick may have been playing like things were fine, but Varian could see the underlying danger.

“Don’t touch him!” Eugene shouted; his cry cut off when the man holding his arms yanked him back. The brunet yelped at the feeling of his arms being drawn too far, stressing his shoulders and forcing him to be quiet. Merrick snickered, turning back to Varian.

“Do you know why we led you here?” he asked. “Because I assume you’ve figured out that mommy dearest isn’t around, hm?”

Varian swallowed the knot in his throat, shuddering. All of this had been for nothing. He’d lead Rapunzel and Eugene across the map and directly into a trap, gods he was so stupid—

“Why?” is all he was able to choke out, tears starting to well up. He’d wanted so badly for it to be her, been blind to everything, Eugene and Rapunzel had both tried to warn him and he’d just ignored it, and now they were all paying for it. The crushing feeling of failure, an old friend by now, sprung to life in Varian’s chest, cloying and overwhelming. He’d been such an idiot. Merrick, uncaring of the crisis he’d just sparked in Varian, only snorted, gesturing to the coffin.

“Because of your blood, of course,” he said, as if that explained anything. When Varian remained quiet, Merrick continued. “Geldam was a tricky old rat, I’ll give him that. He stolefrom my family, and to protect his ill gotten gains, he created this place.”

He gestured around the tomb, and to the center dais. “We’ve been trying to break into here for yearsto get our property back. But once it was locked down, only one of his heirs could open it with blood, willingly given. He knew exactly what he was doing, that bastard. Knew that no one from his family would open the tomb, or his coffin.”

Varian shuddered, leaning away from the podium. Merrick seemed delighted with his fear, patting Varian on the shoulder in sarcastic comfort.

“Cerise thought if we forged a letter, it would have drawn you out,” the mage admitted. “But after a few months the trap was still there, and you were still locked up tight in your pretty castle— so we elected to go with my more… direct approach.” The mage sighed, huffing a laugh. “I guess her plan ended up working, in the long run; she’s probably laughing at me right now.”

Varian’s eyes squeezed shut, trying to force the tears back. He wouldn’t cry, not here, not now— this was all his fault, who was he to cry about it? He shook his head roughly, trying to dispel the despair. He was such an idiot.

“Aw, jeeze, you’re not gunna cry already, are you?” Merrick patted Varian’s shoulder in false comfort, “We’ve barely gotten started!”

Varian shoved at him; strategy be damned, he couldn’t help but lash out. That got Merrick to let him go, a win, but Varian’s arms were immediately caught by two masked adults, a new problem. Merrick danced out of the way of Varian’s blow, snickering. Once Varian was contained he drew close again, taunting.

“What?” he leaned close to Varian’s face, tilting his head. “Did you reallythink Queen Crow was still alive after all this time? That she’d survived in a place like this—” he gestured around the tomb, his voice echoing, “—just for the hell of it?”

He leaned closer to Varian, so their noses were nearly touching. Varian couldn’t help but flinch away, squirming back for as much space between them as possible. Merrick seemed to revel in Varian’s discomfort, leaning all the closer.

“You didn’t really, right?” his voice was barely above a whisper. “I’ve heard of you; you’re supposed to be smart. So why did you come?”

Varian remained quiet. He tasted salt on his cheeks. Merrick’s eyebrows furrowed, almost confused. “You wanted her to be alive that badly, hm? Wanted mommy to come make things better?”

“Shut up,” Varian choked out, shaking his head. “I- you don’t know anything.” His voice was barely over a whine, he couldn’t muster up anything beyond that. Merrick’s confusion flipped again, back to the smug mockery.

“Ha, there he is!” Varian got a pat to the head for his trouble. “Thought you’d forgotten how to talk for a second there.”

“Leave him alone!” Rapunzel demanded from behind them, kicking a bare foot at the mage in front of her. Merrick paused, attention shifting from Varian and onto the older woman. Merrick seemed annoyed at the interruption.

“Wanna knock it off, princess?” he asked, “I don’t really have the patience for you right now.”

“You are going to let us go.” Rapunzel’s voice was strong, regal. Commanding. Like a proper queen.

Merrick only let out a loud laugh at that, popping a hip and leaning against Geldam’s coffin with a casual air. Rapunzel held strong, spine straight and her eyes set in a glare. The mage seemed unhappy with how she refused to be scared by him, but Merrick only played it off with a flippant shrug.

“Am I now?” he asked her. “Because something tells me you’re in no place to be making demands, no ma’am. In fact, I’d say that if you don’t want me to just kill the Crow and drain him like a pig over that coffin, you’d do best to hold your tongue.”

Varian flinched at the threat, a shudder inadvertently crawling up his spine. Willingly given, he repeated to himself in a twisted attempt at comfort. The blood has to be willingly given. He can’t kill me until he gets what he wants.

Rapunzel seemed to figure the same, as she kept pushing. “You’ve committed crimes against Corona and her people,” she spat the words like the insult they were. “No matter what you think you’ve won by tricking us here, it won’t mean anything when you’re put on trial—“

Merrick only laughed, shrugging. “I’d loveto see them try and make a prison that could keep me in,” he challenged. “Let alone meet the person you send to try and catch me. That’s the thing with magic, you see. Makes us a pain in the ass, for people like you.”

“Like me?”

“Perfectionists,” Merrick said blandly, “Goodie-two-shoes. Boot lickers. Whatever you want to call it. You and yours sit up there in your perfectcastles, living your perfect lives, and you don’t ever notice that the people on the ground level are suffering. Aldred was the same.”

“Aldred was a monster—“

“And you all were bloody aware of that!” Merrick actually raised his voice for the first time. Varian flinched again, rattling the armor of the Bayan who held him in place. That seemed to divert Merrick’s attention from Rapunzel and back onto the boy, who shook as the older teenager approached.

“Your father caused so much suffering,” he hissed, getting into Varian’s face once more. “And for so long, the only people who were willing to do anything about it were my family. We sacrificed so much to see him dead, all while the other nations stood by and let it happen. And now we find out that he left one last little stain on the world. It’s my duty to wash it away. Hell, you could even call it my destiny.”

Merrick straightened, taking a breath. He forced himself to relax, the tenseness in his spine slowly uncurling. When he turned back to Rapunzel, it was back to the strange, flippant calm he’d had before.

“You and your family only cared when Aldred took something that you thought was yours,” he flatly accused. “Bayangor had been in a spiral for centuries before then, but you didn’t care to do a thing until it directly affected you. Corona may pretend to be innocent, but there’s a special type of evil in people who are willing to stand by and let others suffer.”

Rapunzel seemed at a loss for words, shaking her head quietly. “You can’t blame us for things that happened before we were even born!” She seemed truly confused by it. “Corona is helping Bayangor now, Aldred is dead now, isn’t that exactly what you wanted?”

“I want my birthright.” Merrick said. “And if I have to break a few spines to get it, then so be it.”

He looked back to Varian, arching a brow. “I really didn’t think luring you here was going to work,” he admitted. “I thought for sure I’d have to drag you here kicking and screaming. That was the plan, you know.” He scratched his chin in thought. “To grab you at the coronation. Bring you here, force you into this. If I’d known it was going to be this easy I would have just dangled a turkey leg on a string or something.”

He shrugged, gesturing to his men with a wave. “Ah, such is life. Search them,” he said, approaching the coffin with more interest. It seemed to rumble with a hazy kind of energy when he got too close, the stone lid rattling. It was obvious that the enchantment was reacting negatively to Merrick’s presence. Varian couldn’t help but feel a little fascinated by it, the intricacies that would have been needed, but his attention was drawn away by the feeling of hands patting him down.

Varian scowled as one of the Bayans holding his arms began to root through his pockets. From the sounds Eugene and Rapunzel were making, they were getting the same rough treatment; clattering noises echoed around the tomb as miscellaneous objects were tossed to the ground. Varian aimed a kick at one of his captors, only for the woman to avoid it and smack him for his trouble.

The woman ripped the note and adder stone from Varian’s pocket, holding them up to the light.

“Sir.” Merrick turned, taking the items from her. Varian scowled; even if the note was fake, made by Cerise and Merrick, the stone was something that had been given to him. It was his—

“Where did you get this?” Merrick’s voice was strained. He held the adder stone up in the torchlight, gaze intense on the little runes. They shone bright gold, much too bright to be a reflection of the torches. Varian could just see through the hole in the middle, the desaturated gray of the stone, before Merrick brought his attention back with a snap of his fingers. The boy scowled, playing petulant.

“Found it,” Varian immediately shot back. He wasn’t about to give up Ori, even if the man seemed to have a trick or two up his sleeve. The man was hiding for a reason, even if it had nothing to do with the tomb. Varian had thought that Ori had meant to help in the search for Aisha, but if this place was where he meant, then the adder stone truly had been the best thing to give Varian. When they met again, he’d have to thank the mage for his help.

If they ever met again.

The man in front of him wasn’t pleased with the answer Varian gave, if the pissy expression on his face was any indication. It made Varian feel a pulse of pride; he still had the ability to get under people’s skin when it mattered, apparently.

“Try again,” Merrick snapped. “I recognize the handwriting. Next wrong answer loses you a finger. Where. Did you. Get this?”

“A friend,” Varian shrugged. Merrick’s face only got darker. The man turned to the room at large, holding up the adder stone. It shone brightly, distractingly so. Merrick held it like it was trash, loose and delicate like he couldn’t bear to have contact with it for longer than necessary.

“Lookie what the crow found.” Merrick showed the stone to his men, dangling it between two fingers. “Looks like one of my siblings has swapped sides.”

The Bayans all made the appropriate noises of disgust or anger; Varian almost rolled his eyes from the theatrics of it. Gods it seemed that whole family was made of showmen.

“Guess that lunatic isn’t as dead as I thought.” Merrick mused. “Great to know he turned traitor; it’ll make hunting him down easy enough. I am going to need a hobby once this is done.”

He flicked the stone up into the air, like one would a coin, but instead of catching it Merrick let it drop to the floor. It hit with a crack, the adder stone shattering like glass. Shards scattered everywhere, disappearing around the room. Varian winced when it did— he’d liked the little stone, it had been a small comfort in the darkness of the tomb.

Merrick watched it smash, uncaring.

“Anything else?” he asked his men, who all responded with a negative. “Wonderful. Let’s get this show on the road then, shall we?”

The soldiers holding Varian pulled him closer to the coffin. The boy struggled, trying to dig the heels of his boots into the floor, but the polished marble offered no purchase. They dragged him up on top of the small platform, holding him tight as Varian tried one last yank of his arms. Their grip was like steel, Quirin’s cloak nearly tearing under their fingers. Varian found himself face to face with their attacker and tried to keep the shaking in his hands hidden.

“So, Varian.” Merrick’s voice was nearly a purr. Varian stilled when he felt gloved fingers grab at his chin, his whole body tensing at the horribly familiar act.

He was trapped, entombed in stone and dark oak wood. A thousand portraits stared down at him, glaring, watching, examining, like a bug under a microscope. Father, right in front of him, holding him in place and keeping him under the rushing waves, suffocating him, drowning him—

“I have a little job for you.” Merrick’s voice cut through the haze of memories. Not father, though someone who proved just as much of a threat. “Just a favor, if you don’t mind.”

“Go to hell,” Varian tried to force himself to stand straight. If not for his family, then at least for himself. Merrick seemed taken aback for a second, blinking, before letting his hand drop from Varian’s chin.

“Oh, ho, so the crows got some iron, after all.” Merrick snorted, a rough rush of air. “Cute. No, okay, I know I phrased it like a request, but you really don’t get a choice here.”

“Blood has to be willingly given, right?” Varian kept his chin high. His hands shook behind his back. “I don’t care why you want in there. You get in that coffin over my dead body.”

Merrick pursed his lips, considering. “Hm, we’re growing a spine now, are we? Final hour show of bravery?”

Varian didn’t reply, keeping the scowl firmly on his face. Just like old times, something cynical in him whispered. Rapunzel definitely would be able to tell this was a fear response. A choice of fight from fight or flight. She knew him well enough to see the false bravado, though hopefully Merrick would fall for it, just as Frederick did, all those years ago.

Merrick tilted his head, appraising. He seemed to pause in thought, thick eyebrows knitting together. Varian held his stare, locking down his emotions and trying to hold himself together under the fear. Merrick suddenly straightened, seemingly finding his silent answer. He looked over Varian’s head, toward where Rapunzel and Eugene were.

“Kill Fitzherbert.”

Varian let out a wordless shout, kicking his feet out and pulling against the people holding him still.

“No!” he screamed, falling on deaf ears. Panic flare up his spine, desperate and cloying. He couldn’t focus on anything other than where a man was taking Eugene’s sword off the ground and unsheathing it. He yelled again, a garbled mix of curses and rage as he aimed another kick at Merrick in an attempt to stop what was happening.

Rapunzel was frantic, panicking, the woman forcibly dragged back from her husband and grabbed by the hair. Varian winced when her head was yanked back, obviously painful from the way she yelped. The men pushed Eugene so he was nearly bent over, the third one raising the sword high. It gleamed in the torchlight, shiny and dreadful. Varian screamed again, choking it out through the knot in his throat.

“Wait!” he shrieked, voice going squeaky, “Wait, wait! I’ll do it! WAIT!”

Merrick, still next to Varian, held up a hand. The man with the sword paused, the blade held high over Eugene’s prone neck.

“Care to repeat?” Merrick’s voice was smug. Varian scowled, tugging his arms out of the grip of the soldiers behind him. They let him go, surprisingly, letting Varian get into Merrick’s face for once. Even if he was shorter, it was more than enough to give Varian his voice back.

“I’ll do it,” he spat. “If you let them go.”

Merrick arched a brow. “Really?” he asked, “What, do they owe you money?”

Varian’s glare only intensified. “Let them go.” He took a small step back. “Or neither of us get what we want.”

Merrick’s grin sharpened. “Open it,” he ordered. “And they’ll walk away. We both know I’m not here for them.” The man held out a knife, holding it by the blade. “I assume you know what to do.”

Varian’s world focused down to the knife in front of him. He could hear Rapunzel and Eugene behind him, telling him not to do it, that they would be fine, but he couldn’t find it within himself to believe it.

He’d gotten them into this. It was his responsibility to get them out.

He took the knife from Merrick, holding it in a shaking grip. The blade glittered in the firelight. It looked razor sharp, with an ornate handle of carved bone. Obviously old, but well cared for. Interesting. Varian had barely touched the thing when he heard his sister speak up behind him.

“Varian,” Rapunzel’s voice was shaky. “Look at me.”

He turned to her, trying to keep his breathing even. Her chest heaved, the princess tugging at the restraining grip on her arms; Rapunzel shook her head frantically, her hair swinging every direction.

“Don’t.”

Her voice was strong, but her eyes were blown wide in fear. Eugene, to her left, looked pale, spooked. It was obvious how he felt about the whole situation. Varian shot them what he hoped was an easy smile, pushing down the fear. He must have failed, from the way she refused to look away.

“It’ll be okay,” he said. His voice was hoarse. “I promise.”

Rapunzel’s expression got even more horrified, struggling again. “Varian!” she shrieked, her volume only getting louder when he turned away from her. “Varian!”

He stepped toward the coffin, breathing deeply. He held the knife so tightly it nearly dug into the leather of his glove. He could sense Merrick looming behind him, making absolutely clear that he wasn’t trusted to keep his word. Varian shook the feeling of eyes on his back— he quietly took his left glove off, looking down at the wound he’d made before to get the door open. With a grimace he pushed the blade into the cut, breaking into the skin once again and drawing a well of blood to the surface.

The wound had barely had time to close, so he didn’t have to press hard, but it still sent a sharp sting rattling up his arm. He stood before the coffin, sucking in a deep breath before he held his hand out over the chalice in the statue’s hand. With a damning plip, blood began to drip from his cut and into the cup. Varian wasn’t positive that was where he was supposed to bleed on the creepy statue, but it seemed as good a place as any.

Everyone held their breath. Even Merrick and his men seemed frozen, waiting for something to happen. The mage was impatient, stepping up to Varian’s side and eying the statue.

“What’s it going to do?” he asked, eyes following another drop of blood as it fell into the cup.

“You think I know?” Varian shot back, “You’re the one who wanted to be here.”

Merrick pulled a face, sneering. He opened his mouth, probably to make another threat, when both teenagers were startled when the statue in front of them began to move.

Varian stumbled back out of instinct, well versed in magical bullshit by this point. He watched with a twisted sense of fascination as, with the grinding noise of stone on stone, the statue slowly rumbled to life. It sat up, much like a human would. Its face was static, unmoving, unblinking. It was creepy, to be honest, the way it turned its unwavering gaze around them all. It seemed to linger on Varian, making him take another step back; he didn’t much appreciate being watched by a creepy carving, thank you.

The statue of Geldam slowly raised the cup up, bringing it to its lips and tipping it back. Varian nearly gagged once he realized what it was doing.

It was drinking his blood.

Disgusting.

The statue seemed content with the offering. It slowly lowered the cup from its face and took one last look around the tomb before settling back down to lay on the top of the coffin once more. Once it was back in place, the whole lid began to shift, moving to the side and exposing the interior of the coffin at last.

Varian shuffled forward, unable to help it. He briefly heard Rapunzel and Eugene telling him to get away from it, but he couldn’t resist leaning over and taking a peek inside. His nose wrinkled at the sight within, the disgusting view rolling his stomach a little.

As one would expect, a skeleton lay within the coffin. It wasn’t… clean, however. A few patches of hair, and even a small area of dried, flaky skin on the face was still attached. Varian swallowed the bile wallowing up, instead opting to look away from the dead eyes of the skull. Geldam’s skeleton was clothed in fineries, think velvet and golden jewelry fit for any king. A tarnished crown sat upon his head, multiple amulets and necklaces lay across his chest, and even rings, gold and silver both, were still on boney fingers.

The centerpiece of it all, however, was a thick Staff, clutched tightly by the dead man’s hands.

It was ornate, carved silver, a twisting design made to mimic vines or the gnarled roots of a tree. They all curved up into a delicate top, where they held a large, clear crystal in their grasp. It was beautiful, seemingly mythical, even. It held the same kind of aura as the rest of the tomb did. Varian’s mouth went dry at the sight of it, the feeling of pure energy surrounding it setting off alarm bells of every kind in his mind. Stay away, his instincts whispered, dangerous.

“There it is.”

Ah, right. Merrick.

The mage looked nearly shell-shocked, eyes wide with wonder. Varian felt himself tense when the older teenager drew closer, so they were shoulder to shoulder.

“The Novis Staff.” It was said so quietly that Varian almost missed it. The name was familiar, Ori had mentioned it. He looked back down to the grave, eyes locking on the silver. This was why all this had happened? Caused the feud?

All this, for a stick?

A sudden hand on his shoulder startled Varian. Merrick drew him close, smirking when Varian tried to push away.

“Congrats, Crow,” he said. “You just destroyed your family legacy. Your daddy’s about to be realpissed in whatever layer of hell he would up in.”

Varian shuddered at the closeness, shoving at Merrick’s chest. Being so close to the other teenager made him feel nauseous, a rolling, ugly feeling that was a mix of disgust and fear.

“You got what you wanted,” Varian muttered. He was sick of all of this, he wanted to go home. “Let us go.”

Merrick pursed his lips, not looking away from the Staff. “A deal’s a deal, I suppose.” He brought up a hand and waved it over his shoulder. “Let the princess and her boy-toy go, I guess. Their use is over.”

Varian felt a weight lift when he saw his family being released, only for it to come right back when he felt Merrick’s arm wrap around his shoulder once more. A binding bar of iron to keep him in place.

“He did what you said,” Eugene spoke up, at last. “Hands off the kid.”

Merrick scoffed, rolling his eyes. “I said you two get to go,” he clarified. “I didn’t say shit about the Crow.”

Varian’s stomach sank. He knew this was coming, he’d heard the specifications when Merrick had said it, expected this, but it still made his guts roll with dread. He couldn’t even feel disappointed, more of a resigned acceptance. If there was anyone who was to blame, it was him—maybe it was best for them to leave him behind to be buried here with the ruins of his bloodline.

Eugene took a step forward, looking ready to throttle the mage, only to be stopped by a sword blocking his path. One of the Bayans stood between him and Varian, keeping the distance between them. Varian winced when the grip on his shoulder tightened to the point of pain.

The coffin in front of them may as well have been a chasm. Varian had never felt more separated from his friends in years. His hands shook, and the side of his body that was pressed up against Merrick felt uncomfortably warm. He could see the way Eugene scowled, how Rapunzel was pale. It made the dread in his stomach only grow.

The mage to his side snickered at his own joke, peering in to stare at Geldam’s coffin. Varian saw the gears turning in Merrick’s brain, in the way his eyes focusing on the Novis Staff. He flinched when the green-eyed man moved, leaning forward and bringing the arm not holding Varian up.

“Wait,” The alchemist blurted, before he could think. “There’s been traps-”

Merrick paused, eying Varian. His fingers were only a hair away from connecting with the silver of the Staff, ghosting just above its surface. Merrick twitched pulling his hand back and arching a brow.

“Good point,” he acquiesced. There was a solid second of silence before he gave Varian a nudge, jostling him. “You grab it.”

Varian scowled, glaring at the man, before reaching in and, hesitantly, grazing the tips of his fingers on the surface. He grit his teeth, bracing, before allowing his fingers to curl around the handle. Varian’s eyes closed in preparation— for an explosion, for a trap, for something— but after a solid second of peace, he peeked one eye back open.

The Staff was freezing cold to the touch. Colder than it should have been; it was like touching something made of pure ice. Even through the thick leather of his gloves, he could feel the way the cold permeated everything around the Novis Staff. Stranger though, was the feeling of… rightness, that came when he touched it. Something in him felt the energy coming from the thing, surely magical in nature, and he could feel it reaching to him, beckoning him; it called to him in the depths of his chest, like a magnet. Holding it, having its power connected to him… it felt right.

Varian was so caught up in the feeling that he missed Merrick grabbing for the Staff until it was too late.

“Yoink,” the mage laughed, snatching it from Varian’s lax grip with a harsh tug. “Mine now, thank you.”

Varian blinked, shocked, as the connection severed. He tried desperately to cling to the tattered remains of it, but they slipped from his proverbial fingers quicker than he could react. His hands twitched, the feeling of cold leaving just as quickly and leaving his fingers dreadfully numb.

Merrick smirked inspecting the Staff for a moment, before frowning. The large crystal in the top, once glowing a light blue, darkened, instead looking almost midnight navy.

“What the hell did you do?” he demanded, shaking the thing in Varian’s face. The alchemist staggered back, surprised when Merrick actually let him go.

“I didn’t do anything,” that he knew of, “How could I have—”

Varian cut off as the room around them suddenly shifted, the ground beginning to rumble. The alchemist was nearly knocked off his feet by the rough shaking; like the tomb was tearing itself apart at the seams and would surely crumble with them all inside. Varian fell into Geldam’s coffin, sending a pulse of pain up his ribs and making it hard to breathe for a second. He heard the others, Coronian and Bayan alike, scream as they too were bowled over by the harsh earthquake.

The way he’d fallen, catching himself on the lip, meant he was face to face with the skull of his ancestor. Varian cringed back, starting to push himself up and away, only to stop as a bright blue light began to overtake the dusty old bones. He watched with abject horror as the corpse began to rattle, not in sync with the earth and stone, but instead under its own power.

Varian shrieked, flailing back and falling on his ass on the stone before the coffin. He felt his mouth go dry when, over the lip of the stone, he saw a skeletal hand lift up and grab onto the edge. His breath left him when the fingers moved, flexing, and clinging like they would if they still had muscle and skin attached to them. The fingers twitched, and Varian felt the sudden urge to vomit when the rest of the skeleton began to pull itself up into a seated position.

His attention was pulled away from the horror show in front of him when the others in the room began to scream again, accompanied by a bone shattering BANGthat echoed around the chamber. The alchemist watched in slack jawed horror as the coffins surrounding the circular tomb, all eighteen of them, burst open at once, sending shards of stone and dust into the air.

He caught sight of Eugene covering Rapunzel, breathing a sigh of relief when he saw they were both okay. At least someone was doing alright. Merrick’s men all had their weapons drawn, the Coronians forgotten for the time being as they stood with their backs to each other, a formation to cover every angle. Merrick was still holding the Staff, looking furious at this sudden chain of events.

A ghostly howl filled the room, a cacophony of voices filling the air and screaming in utter agony; everyone alive covered their ears from the volume of it, voices of every type screeching in a horrible harmony loud enough to make the ribs rattle in Varian’s chest. The boy managed to finally flip onto his knees, staring in horror at one of the closest coffins.

Stumbling from within was the figure of a young woman, draped in heavy armor and dragging a massive war hammer behind her. Everything about her was a ghostly blue, and her ghostly figure was slightly transparent. The worst thing of all, however, was the sight of her head being split in twain, a horrible cleave right down the center of her face. There was no blood, the wound looking strangely clean, however everything was visible in excruciating detail.

Varian gagged at the sight of the inside of her skull. The woman stepped forward, sluggish and odd, her gait almost drunk as she stepped into the room. Her one eye scanned the room, focusing on each person in turn, before she opened her mouth and began to scream.

She rushed forward, a blue mist following her every footstep. As she drew close Varian realized with startling terror that he recognized her. She was one of the women who had glared at him in the hall of portraits, bitter and angry looking. Aldred had never mentioned her, too wrapped up in the more impressive names from their line, but Varian could tell from the bridge of her nose and the stripe of teal in her hair.

The woman lifted her hammer, descending on the Bayans with a lethal speed. One of the humans, a man, tried to raise his shield but was too slow, the ghost bringing her hammer down and slamming it onto his skull. All of them screamed when it immediately crushed his skull, the man dropping like a stone in a spray of blood and bone fragment. The other Bayans all began to panic, one of them taking a swing with her sword only for it to pass through the ghost without a prayer of damage.

The spirit paused, snarling at the humans in front of her like a feral animal; it sounded nearly demonic, nothing close to a human voice. Her screams were met with the collective of voices ringing out once more. Varian felt the urge to wail along with them, something in his chest tugging and commanding him to join the oppressive opera surrounding them.

From the other graves came a sudden wave of spirits, descending on the humans like a deadly flood. There were too many to count, at least fifty ghosts surrounding them all and attacking anything that moved. Varian pushed his back against the stone of Geldam’s coffin, staring with horror at the faces of the ghosts running by.

He’d seen them all before, in the cold halls of Barviel Keep. Maybe not exactly as they looked here, as their portraits had been them at their most perfect; the ghosts were all brutally mutilated in some way, missing limbs and ripped open torsos, cleaved open heads and one, horrifically, missing their head entirely.

The spirits all had the same dead eyes, soulless and dark and empty, shrouded in fog and almost transparent. They were stained in blood and offal, some of them more so than others, but all of them very obviously dead, dead, dead. Varian shuddered when one ran right by him, leaving him be to charge Merrick. The man yowled, backed away by the creature and fighting back with a plume of flame from his hands.

Varian shrank back from the heat, the rising panic in his chest slowly clawing up and into his throat. He peeked over the top of the coffin, catching sight of Rapunzel and Eugene, back-to-back and fighting with everything they had. It was obvious that pan and sword weren’t working against the new foes, but they’d already seemed to figure out a way to keep the attention away from them.

The tomb had descended into anarchy. Varian caught sight of multiple bodies dropping as the Bayans tried to fight the tide of ghosts back, all of them failing. He heaved a breath as he caught sight of one Bayan screaming as they were overwhelmed and fell to the ground. Varian shuddered at the sight of his ancestors; all of their faces were contorted into pure rage. He caught sight of Geldam, some others he knew the name of, some he didn’t. All were recognizably… him, however, in the way all their portraits had been. Same eyes, same noses; and as always, that damn stripe burst from their hairlines. A marker. A brand.

The spray of souls seemed to finally slow, the last few emerging from the tombs at long last. Varian saw two figures he actually knew by name appear, joining the fray just as the others had. The two Aldred had called his grandparents, Kamron and Abelia, looking as dreadful as ever— but if they were here then…

Varian watched the final tomb with a sudden, dawning dread. If the rest of the family were here, regardless of where they’d been buried…

Oh.

Oh no.

One, final figure emerged from the darkness beyond the tomb. He was tall, foreboding. The man had deep wrinkles set in between his piercing blue eyes, wrinkles made from a lifetime of scowling. His face was a mess of harsh angles, all coming together into a pointed nose and angular chin. His salt and pepper hair was combed back, slicked down and generally imposing.

Varian was frozen, locked in place and paralyzed by pure, unadulterated fear. A shock of cold ran down his spine, horror frying any sort of thought in his mind beyond run, run run—

Aldred hadn’t changed a bit since the last time Varian had seen him.

He was still as imposing as he’d been that last day on the tower. His blue eyes— perfect mirrors of Varian’s own, needle prick points of blue on pale canvas— scanned the room, finally landing on Varian. The boy locked up even further, his spine pressing into the stone behind him as if he could shove his way through it and escape. Varian’s breaths came in stuttering gasps, the alchemist unable to get enough air into his lungs. He felt compressed, like a fist had him in its grasp and had begun to squeeze.

Aldred’s attention was locked onto Varian, the ghost of a man sneering as Varian stared at him in abject terror. Varian shook like a leaf; why couldn’t he move?

It was an odd sort of standstill they found themselves in. While the other ghosts seemed content with attacking the Bayans without rest, Aldred’s spirit focused on Varian to an uncomfortable degree. The boy couldn’t even find it within himself to blink, his eyes wide and locked onto the man in front of him. Aldred smiled, something smug and malicious, and opened his arms, as if asking for a hug.

“My son,” he crooned. His voice was raspy and deep, but just as it had been the last time Varian had heard it in his nightmares. Aldred took a single step forward, his long cloak flaring out behind him. “It’s been so long.”

Varian bolted.

In something akin to pure, animalistic fear, Varian threw himself over the coffin, landing hard on the stone. He could hear Aldred approaching behind him, over the hammering of his heart. It made him run faster, like a rabbit from a wolf— he needed to get the hell out—

“Rapunzel!” his voice was a full shriek, any sense of decorum lost as he stumbled down from the dais. He caught sight of her hair over the fighting and began a dead sprint for her. He felt sluggish, like his body couldn’t keep up with his whirling thoughts— father was here, coming to take him back to the Keep and drag him down, down, down until he drowned— and he nearly slipped on the final step. He needed his sister, damn everything else, he needed her.

“Rapunzel!”

The woman whipped around, catching sight of Varian across the room. He saw the exact second she noticed Aldred behind him, her face going ashen white. Varian ran for her, tunnel vision crawling in through the fear.

Get to Rapunzel, his thoughts screamed, she’s safe, I need to be safe, I need her to stop him-

A hand wrapped around his wrist.

Varian whirled around, a scream caught in his throat. He threw his free hand out, shoving at whoever had grabbed him— he had no time to think, he just needed to get away, put as much distance as he could between him and father, he needed OUT—

He came face to face with green eyes.

Merrick’s face was set in a deep scowl, looking at Varian like he was nothing but a bug to be squashed. Varian looked past him; the sporadic breaths the boy tried to make doing nothing to help the way his mind swam in a soup of primal fear.

“Rapunzel!” He screamed again, flailing around and scanning for her. He just caught sight of her before he felt a thick arm wrap around his waist.

“I’m not done with you, yet,” Merrick snarled. Varian tried to tug his wrist like a feral animal in a trap, it made his wrist hurt and his shoulder ache, but he needed to get out—

“Let’s go somewhere a little more private, hm?”

Varian barely had time to try and buck his way out of the grip before Merrick pulled him back, the air cracking around them. The world went sideways, just as it had with Ori, but this time Varian didn’t bother to try and stay cautious. Something in him didn’t have the strength to fight through the world rearranging itself combined with the adrenaline crashing through his veins like raging fire.

Battle lost, he let the darkness consume him.

And then he was gone.

[jabberbeans]

Wangxian Coffeeshop AU: First encounter

I put Wangxian, coffee, urban magic, fluff and slowburn into the melting pot and crossed my fingers - read at your own risk. I’ll be updating this story in shorts before revising and posting a full length version to A03 (somewhere in the distant improbable future).

Featuring confused pining over magic tea and magic sweets, cafe shenanigans and baker/patissiere(?) WWX and LWJ. 

Tranquility turned tea from pear-green to a deep sea foam. Lan Wangji felt this was appropriate - water was the most tranquil thing he knew. His uncle disagreed - as he often did - and had attempted to shift the colour back to its original green many times. That one was a failed experiment - it reduced the efficacy of tranquility and made the tea taste like grass.

“That’s not green tea,” Lan Qiren had scowled, pointing an accusatory finger at the perfect sea foam brew. “It isn’t traditional.”

Was magic traditional? Lan Wangji had been tempted to ask, but held his tongue. Using their energy to shape the natural order of things into something else - perhaps that betrayed tradition, or at least some law of nature. But magic ran as deep as blood, and the healing teas were so much more healing when they used magic, so sea foam it was.

They still called it green tea on their menu. It was very popular. 

Gusu had been a traditional Chinese tea house, once. Lan Qiren would have been quite content to keep it that way too, but even he couldn’t shout gentrification into going away. Gusu was dying. So he turned the shop over to his nephews with the vague hope that they could reassess its business model and bring in some customers. Then he went on a long vacation.

When he returned, Gusu was transformed. Literally. Its dark wood finishings were gone, replaced with snow-bright walls. The tea was unrecognisable. There was a dessert menu. And a bar counter. 

But there were also customers. So many, in fact, that Lan Qiren was forced to don his apron and help out not five minutes after walking through the door. Lan Wangji had never seen his uncle so disturbed as he’d been that day, trapped behind the counter while teenagers pointed their phones at his hands and cooed over the quaintness, the rarity, the sheer aesthetic - of hand brewed tea.

It wasn’t that Lan Xichen and Lan Wangji had betrayed their uncle and tradition. It was more accurate to say that they took his best ideals, put them in the proverbial blender and stood by silently to receive the scrambled results. 

Floor seating and low tables remained - but there was also a large communal table and benches, and of course, the dreaded bar counter with its stools. The tea menu was largely the same, just tweaked to look and taste better. Ice blended options were now available, to their uncle’s everlasting horror. And there were traditional desserts - almond soup, sesame balls, milk pastry, cakes - all arranged artfully and minimally on little porcelain plates.

And so Gusu was preserved, albeit not quite in the shape their uncle would have preferred. But four years on, the cafe continued thrive - building a solid reputation among locals and visitors. Lan Qiren had mostly adapted to the teenagers with their phones and the cakes by now, but he still eyed the green tea with deep suspicion.

Lan Wangji was doing the very same that morning, as he regarded Lan Jingyi’s practice brews. The teen had arranged the tiny glass cups from dark amber to pale yellow. Perhaps he thought he might get points for neatness.

“Again,” Lan Wangji said with finality, eyes sweeping down the line. “When you make clarity, the oolong should lighten to parchment.”

Jingyi wilted first at again and segued quickly into bafflement at parchment. 

“Parchment?” The boy repeated, unsure if he heard right. Lan Wangji paused to think it over, then nodded.

“Like paper white, tinted with yellow or tan. Parchment.”

Jingyi looked exasperated then, eyes wide and swivelling in their sockets to catch Lan Sizhui’s, who pretended not to see. Finding himself without allies in the kitchen, Jingyi’s shoulders slumped with defeat. “Yes, Hanguang-jun.”

Lan Wangji didn’t blame him. Clarity was difficult to make. Oolong got particularly stubborn when energy was channeled into it. If one had poor magic control, the colour could turn almost violently, from amber to walnut to black.

He left Jingyi to continue his oolong studies and approached Sizhui instead, who had finished divining the difference between parchment and white the day before, and so was allowed to move on to desserts. Lan Wangji approached from behind silently, but Sizhui’s hands remained steady as they attempted to transplant a sesame ball onto a spun sugar base. It wobbled unsteadily when he drew back.

“I’ll do it again,” Sizhui said before Lan Wangji could. “The base is too brittle. It must have been the temperature.”

“Mn,” Lan Wangji approved. “Continue.”

The boys were young, only fifteen, but they were fast and eager to learn. Their progress came at no little effort however, if Jingyi’s growing army of oolong cups was any indication. But Lan Wangji was not worried. His uncle had handpicked them himself from some branch or other of their very, very extended family, and they were proving to be dedicated workers. It had been less than a month since they began training, but they would soon be ready to work the counter.

There was a loud rattling sound from Jingyi’s corner of the kitchen, a hastily bitten off curse, and then Sizhui was abandoning his station to fly over with a towel. Lan Wangji pointedly did not turn around to look. Perhaps not /too/ soon.

Jingyi’s cups were no closer to parchment by the time Lan Xichen poked his head in. “Wangji,” he called. “Would you check outside? The customers say there’s an obstruction near the entrance.”

“The deliveries?” The deliveryman occasionally left their parcels at the front, if he was busy.

“He would have called if he wasn’t coming in.” 

“I’ll check.”

It wasn’t a parcel. Lan Wangji spotted the problem the moment he stepped out - it was taking pains to make itself known, actually.

A little stickman was drawn onto the walkway in what looked like chalk. Someone had magicked it to life so that it danced about - harmless, but an annoyance regardless. It surged towards Lan Wangji’s foot, circling playfully and attempting to slide onto his shoe. If it succeeded, the chalk drawing would transfer to the leather.

Lan Wangji stepped briskly out of its path and tried to trace its spiritual source. It was strong, and he followed it easily out the gate. The little stickman raced to stay close, its arms waving about.

He was so preoccupied ensuring it didn’t touch him that he nearly tripped over the problem’s source. 

“Careful!” The man squatting on the pavement said, flinging an arm up in reflex. His hand was covered in chalk dust. Lan Wangji stepped back to look at him. Then he looked again. 

“You…” He had no words for what he was witnessing. The man was surrounded by chalk drawings that stretched all the way up the pavement, past the neighbouring lot. They were wriggling with life - little stick figures dancing, animals prowling, scribbled phrases vibrating - and food - so much of it, all moving.

It was a simple matter to implant spiritual energy in the drawings - small children could do it with enough practice. But that was precisely the problem, it was a trick for children, not adults.

“You’re blocking my sun, do you mind…?” The man said, not unkindly. He still hadn’t turned around, eyes focused on his next drawing. Lan Wangji did not move.

“This is vandalism,” he told him.

“It’s only chalk. It’ll wash away with the rain. Or a good sweep.” 

The man looked up then, and…Lan Wangji did not know what he was expecting - he had no preconceived notions. But he felt a flicker of surprise. The man’s mouth was curved like he was laughing, though no sound passed his lips. His smile was sun-bright. For a brief moment Lan Wangji allowed himself to notice the rest of him - his impish features, his haphazard ponytail, and the red ribbon that tamed it, just barely. 

He looked away.

“You’re obstructing our business,” he told the air in the middle distance. He sensed the man was staring at him but he kept his gaze averted. There was a small gasp, like the man realised something.

“Oh! You run the cafe?” Lan Wangji let the weighted silence speak for him, and the man continued to speak as if he’d received a proper reply. “I didn’t notice I was in front of your shop. I started drawing and I had so much inspiration that I forgot -“

“Please remove yourself and the drawings. You are inconveniencing the customers.”

The man pouted. “I want to save the drawings first…but I don’t have paper. That’s why I’m drawing out here. You see, I had this amazing idea for a triple tier reverse lava cupcake and I needed to sketch it out before the idea got away from me but all I had was this chalk in my pocket so -“

Lan Wangji was quite finished listening to him somewhere around paper. He said sternly, “If I give you paper will you stop?”

“And a pencil too, please!” The man said shamelessly, as if it was perfectly normal to make demands of strangers that he was inconveniencing.

Lan Wangji unfolded his wallet, and ran his fingers through it briefly. He kept some useful things inside - stationery, a first-aid kit, a spare apron - and his notebook. It was twice the size of his wallet and the man hummed with interest when he extricated it.

“Handy trick,” he commented, eyes twinkling. 

Ignoring him, Lan Wangji carefully tore three pieces of paper from the spine. Then he glanced at the chalk drawings and tore another piece. The man was gleeful as he accepted them.

“I drew a lot, didn’t I,” He sounded pleased with himself. “Thank you.”

“Hm.”

He stood aside while the man lay the paper sheets on the ground, spreading them neatly. Then he wriggled his fingers and whistled once, sharp. The doodles froze where they were, some in the midst of sneaking onto the street. When the man tapped the paper with his finger they began to slide along the pavement very quickly, shrinking as they went, until they were paper drawings. Lan Wangji was surprised by the sheer number of doodles of cake, sweets and desserts - each one elaborately drawn and unusual. 

Unbelievably, there was a reverse three-tiered cupcake - just like the man had described. A long string of untidy handwriting accompanied it, jostling the cupcake as they both slid onto the last empty spot. Then it was over, and the pavement was clean once more.

Almost.

“You forgot one.” The little chalk man was still trying to climb his foot despite the slight energy field Lan Wangji had put up to rebuff it. It hopped around the toe of his shoe, waving indignantly.

“Hm...” the man crooked a finger at it, and when that didn’t work, he whistled sharply. The little chalk man appeared to toss its head rebelliously at his efforts, marching away until it was behind Lan Wangji’s shoe. 

The man only laughed, “You should keep him, I think he likes you.” Then he winked and turned away, his ribbons flying as he did. Like they were taunting him.

“You...!”

“Take good care of him,” the man called back, already walking away. 

[meshugana1]

New suggestion

A hypnotist makes two best friends (of the same age) think they’re mother and daughter. One loses 7 years, and the other gains 14

Can do, will do.

   The first thing Patty and Valerie noticed was the scent of stall popcorn that hung in the air. The brightly colored lights and the shouting of food vendors was a delightfully nostalgic addiction. Patty was the first to recall that the pair met at an event much like this one. It was a small county carnival, barely more than a farmers market with a few rides around. Patty clung to her mother's skirt, confused and intimidated by the smells and sounds of the big crowd until a bubbly girl with cotton candy all over her face ran up and said: “Hi I’m Vally, want some?” They were inseparable after that. Fate even seemed on their side. It turned out they lived on the same street, had the same school and thankfully had many similar interests. There were countless slumber parties and little adventures around the town. They even managed to remain int he same schools all the way into college. But all things, eventually, must come to an end.

   “So,” Patty said, “I hear that the arts program in California is pretty good. I’m sure you’ll do wonderful there.” Valerie nodded, she was excited to be pursuing her dream at long last. Sculpting wasn’t exactly the coolest art form but it brought her a zen-like peace. “Yay, it’s gonna be great. And what about you? I heard that the trade program you’re in is pretty fast-tracked,” Valerie said. “Yeah, they already have us making chesterfields,” Patty said trying to sound enthused for herself. She came from a long line of trade workers and it was only natural that she followed in their footsteps, but a big piece of her wasn’t in it. It was going with her friend to California to be a struggling artist.

   Patty looked at her friend, a long look trying to memorize the best things about her. There were thousands of pictures of the two together but Patty never quite felt that a picture really captured a person. A slight breeze rustled Valerie’s strawberry blond hair. Her skin had a golden tinge to it, she hated being stuck indoors and always spent her free time chipping away at her next masterpiece in the sun. It wasn’t a cool evening so she had worn a plain looking denim skirt that displayed her legs like so many of her sculptures. Her frame was thicker than the average twenty-one-year-olds, due to her constant stonework the past few years. Her arms were laced with definite muscle.

   As was common among great friends their thinking often paralleled the others and Valerie was memorizing the face of her beautiful friend. Patty’s hair was shorter and brown, but that didn’t stop it from having an incredible shine even in a dim room. She wore a much simpler outfit than Valerie, just yoga pants and a boyfriend sweater. Patty never did quite shake that shy modesty she had as a child but over the years her time with Valerie mad things easier. Patty had a much slimmer build than her friend but only where the muscle was concerned. The sweater was long enough to conceal most of the young woman body, but even still the outline of her curves was hard to miss. Her breasts were large but not distractingly so as was the case with many women in her family, but what didn’t make it up top found its way to her bottom with a vengeance. Even the sweater did little to hide the nubile, round butt of the young carpenter. It was not known to anyone, but if ever Valerie sculpted a woman she used Patty as her mental model.

   The two walked down the center of the carnival, neither one saying it but both knowing that this was the last hurrah of their friendship for some time. Valerie first saw the signpost over the tent. “Hey Patty, check that out,” Valerie said, “Edwin the Incredible, master of mesmerization and prestidigitation, sound’s kinda fun. We should check it out. When they entered the tent they were greeted by a very young man, no more than eighteen, in an ill-fitting top hat and cape. “Oh! Uh, welcome to the…uh, the den of mystery! I am the Incredible Edwin! Master of the mystic arts!” It was not a well-delivered introduction, and the girls could've sworn that you could hear a cricket inside the empty tent. The pair glanced at each other, unsure of their next move. Valerie spoke up first, “I thought it was Edwin the Incredible?” The young man’s shoulders visibly slumped, “Sorry about that, I’m not really him I’m just the owner's kid. I guess the old guy had a heart attack and had to go to the hospital so I’m filling in, as best I can,” the young man said, “but I guess you can tell I’m not that good.” The maternal instinct was strong in Valerie and she swooped in to comfort the young man. “Hey, it’s your first day right? Why don’t you show us all your tricks and then we can talk you up to other people? You’ll have a big crowd before you know it.”

   It was the usual bag of tricks. The young man opened with some card tricks, inexperienced though he was. He connected three seemingly solid rings, he sawed a woman in half which is much less impressive when the woman is a dummy, he disappeared and reappeared several times, and with each trick, his confidence seemed to grow. “All right, Ladies. Now, Edwin the Incredible will perform incredible feats of hypnosis!” he said. He drew from his left pocket a long golden chain and dangling from its end was an ornate pocket watch. It was unlike any watch that the girls had seen. It had ornate pattern engraved in silver along its surface and the tick-tock of the arms was loud enough to fill the tent. “Gaze into the face of this pocket watch and come under my power!” he said with more confidence than the two thought was possible.

   A slight motion and the pocket watch began to sway. Both of the girls played along and focused their attention on the prop. Neither of them believed in hypnosis but it was very easy to get lost in the intricate patterns of the watches silver inlays. Even on the clocks white face, they could make out light patterns. It was actually jarring for the two when they heard a deafening snap. “Welcome back ladies, I believe you’ll find that you are now totally within my power. Now, Ms. Patty, why don’t you start hopping up and down like a bunny for us?” he said snapping his fingers. It wasn’t an outrageous request so Patty obliged and began hopping. Her arms were held in front of her with her wrists high and her fingers pointed down. Each bounce sent her chest wild, but it was safely hidden inside her sweater. “And you Ms. Valerie, why don’t you start acting like a chicken?” he said again snapping his fingers. Valerie wanted to giggle at the classic hypnosis move but also didn’t want to embarrass him. She tucked her arms behind her back and bent forward, bobbing her head every which way and clucking periodically as she mimed searching for grain. The young man looked at his helpful audience and sighed relieved, if only these girls could work as plants in the audience then I’d be all set, he thought.

   “Thanks for helping me, this has been huge. But the old guy usually ended on a kind of weird twist, so don’t feel like you have to do it. I’m just gonna practice the delivery. Hm, hm. Now, ladies and gentlemen, I will…um, I’ll bend time itself!” he said throwing his arms out and trying to add gravitas to his voice. “Patty,” he said. This time he held the watch and swung it in front of her, “When I snap my fingers you will have aged into a beautiful, sexy, thirty-five-year-old MILF on the prowl for a new man!” He then turned to Valerie, “And what is a mother without a child? Valerie, when I snap my fingers you will age backward, and become a shy young girl of fourteen.” He took a step back and raised his empty hand to the sky, then with a deft motion snapped his fingers. “And after a bit I’d change you two back, sorry if it was a little risqué but dad says you should always…” he said. He stopped when he looked at the glassy-eyed expression on the young women faces.

   Patty had heard of a person’s life flashing before their eyes but she hadn’t experienced it until now. It was like someone had put her on fast forward. She saw her and Valerie separating, her apprenticeship at her families shop, her meeting her husband, her daughters birth, her divorce, she experienced everything in the blink of an eye. It was the opposite for Valerie. Her entire life seemed to unravel and change in an instant, she lost the last few years of college, her sculpting history, all the boyfriends she had, gone. Then another history altogether took root.

   The two twenty-one-year-olds came out of their trances simultaneously. Patty regained control of herself first. Her body language was totally different, she moved her hips more slowly and she had a more relaxed posture about her. Her eyes set on the young man before her in a predatory gaze. “So,” she said as she rolled her hips toward him, “you said your daddy owns this place huh? That means you probably come from a rich family, right?” She grabbed the young man’s shoulders as a confused blush overtook him. “I really do love a family man,” she said biting her bottom lip as she moved in closer and closer. “Ugh, Mom! Would you please not embarrass me for like, a minute? I’m gonna be a freshman this year, I can’t have my mom hitting on guys my age, it’s gross!” Valerie said. Her mom was so embarrassing, but truth be told she did admire her mom's brazen confidence. “Oh, I see, sweetie. Well don’t worry, I’m sure this young man would be happy to go out with you instead,” Patty said. She knew she could be a little over the top but she did love it when her shy little girl showed an interest in the opposite sex, she had so much she could teach her. “M…Mom!” Valerie said with crimson cheeks, “Jeez, it’s not…I mean I…why are you so embarrassing?!”

   The young man looked back and forth between the young women. They had to just be acting, they couldn’t really have…Then it came to him. The watch. The old guy had taken his watch with him, so he had to get a replacement for the show. He got this one from this weird lady at a hole in the wall shop. She said he needed to be careful with it, and never to look at its face. It was crazy, but what else could explain this. Before he could work out a way to fix these two poor girls, Patty’s big cumbersome bottom worker against her. She turned around to better address her little girl and her bottom pushed the young frazzled man. His foot tripped on a loose bit of paper that had floated into the tent and he went crashing to the ground.

   The only noise he heard was a loud crunch. He felt Patty’s arms around him as she helped him up, apologizing for her clumsy butt. On the ground was the watch, it was crushed and there was glass everywhere. Its hands were bent out of shape. He didn’t know much about watches but it didn’t look fixable. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m just so darn clumsy. Why don’t I give you my number? Then you can call and I can pay you back, somehow.” Patty said. “Mooom? Let’s go, this place is boring,” Valerie said. “Well kids are a-callin', I’ll see you later maybe?” Patty said as she left the tent. The young man followed after the two, unsure of how he could help them. He saw them walking away. Patty had removed her sweater, her bosom on display in a white tank top and Valerie following behind her moaning and asking her new mother not to embarrass her more.

The end. Hope Y’all like it!

[wayward-wheels-blog]

I've Been Waiting for This Part

She’s My Rider - Chapter II

(I know this is a switch, but hell it’s been a year and writers find new ways at going about things so … this is all in third person. Too many personas to balance and I thought Gabriel’s part came out best in the original anyway. Sorry this took so long. I hope it was worth the wait.)

Word Count: 4401

Read Chapter I and Chapter III

THEN

To say the last year had been a pivotal one in the book of Winchester would be an understatement, but also somewhat disrespectful to everything that had come before it.

When Gabriel woke Baby up, Dean had just put an end to Death and the Darkness had been unleashed on the world. Looking back now, the brothers are almost certain, Gabriel didn’t expect any of them to survive another year. They’d spent countless hours on back highways discussing that night … the angel’s shifty movements and cryptic messages about keys and kingdoms.

It was Sam that suggested it first. “I think he thought we were all gonna die.”

“And what?” Dean glanced across the cab at him. “She was our parting gift?”

“He did always have a soft spot for you two,” Castiel said. When Dean cut his eyes at him the angel glanced back out the window. “Or so it seemed.”

“Or she was our last ditch effort,” Sam shrugged. “He said she had power.”

Dean’s eyes had flickered to Baby in the rear view mirror, oblivious to their conversation. He’d bought her an iPod and a set of headphones and the girl could disappear for hours into her music. She was staring out her own window, hair half-pulled back in a clip, looking perfectly normal.

And that was just the problem.

For all intents and purposes, aside from a head full of years and memories she looked too young for and a bloodhound’s nose for danger, Baby was a normal, human woman. If she got hit, she fell down. If she got cut, she bled. She’d never thrown any furniture across the room with her mind or scared a demon out of its stolen skin. Sometimes she knew things, like knowledge had simply been instilled in her upon creation, but it wasn’t anything to write home about.

The year rolled on. The Darkness became Amara who became God’s sister who turned out to be Chuck. Dean still couldn’t make himself call him God. It was both too big for the strange little man and too intimate at the same time.  

Chuck had taken one look at Baby and said, “Oh! You’re here,” with a quirky grin. “I’ve been waiting for this part.”

Then the siblings of creation and destruction had disappeared leaving behind another Winchester in their wake and new questions to ask and, more importantly, a new normal to find.

NOW

Chicago, Illinois

It was after hours at the Field Museum and Bill Cunningham was making his first rounds of the night. He always swept the building of trash first before he went back the other direction with the cart loaded full of cleaning supplies to give the place a thorough scrub.

The janitor didn’t notice as he rolled his cart down the hallway, long oblivious to the obnoxious squeak of one of the wheels, that something moved inside one of the exhibits. He didn’t notice the strange smell that wafted in the air, a bi-product of too many chemicals stinging at his nose for years while he cleaned.

It was only when he walked past the exhibit of two lions prowling dangerously over a rock that he thought he saw something twitch. One of their tails, maybe. Bill turned and stared at the lions, but their dead coats lay dusty and still. He chuckled at his own foolishness and even waved the big cats away as he turned back to his cart.

Then a low, menacing growl stalled him in his tracks. The sound rolled over itself like a giant rattle in a deep, tumbling box. Bill Cunningham turned back to find one of the lions had stepped forward … right up to the fucking glass.

The lion met the janitor’s eyes and when he looked back, he saw a depth of evil that turned his blood to ice water in his veins. A fear like he’d never known swallowed him almost completely, numbing every nerve in his body so that only his eyes were wide in stark, ghastly terror. The lion’s lips drew back and it let loose an unearthly roar just before his brother leapt over his back and straight through the glass, cutting short Bill Cunningham’s screams with his massive jaws.

Blood splattered across the sign that hung to the right of the exhibit, engraved with four words in brass: The Tsavo Man-Eaters

Sam was frowning at the story of the janitor’s mysterious death in Chicago when he saw Baby appear in the kitchen doorway over the top of the laptop screen. She was wearing one of his t-shirts, which swallowed her like a baggy dress and the neck was so wide it hung off her shoulder. She’d stolen several of them to sleep in. The girl yawned and shuffled in her slippers towards the coffee pot.

Sam chuckled, wondering if she’d even noticed he was there. “Morning, B.”

“Morning Sammy,” she said groggily.

Dean was the only one who called her Baby anymore. Sam had been right, of course. A girl that looked like her in a public place with three grown men calling her “Baby” came off a little weird. The looks irritated Dean and made him want to punch people. Sam found them embarrassing. Cas was oblivious to the whole thing. So, they’d taken to calling her “B.”

Sam clicked to the next article, looking for something a little more concrete. Dean plodded into the kitchen and went straight for the coffee pot, too. He didn’t think twice anymore when Dean kissed the side of B’s head and they mumbled mornings to each other while they made their coffee. It was just understood that the bond Dean and Baby had was something sacred.

If Sam had been a betting man, he’d have been certain his brother would have tried to get her into bed by now. He was much more affectionate towards her than he’d ever seen Dean be towards anyone, but there was nothing selfish about the way he touched her either. He wasn’t looking for anything. He’d never tried to kiss her or even cop a feel that Sam had noticed, though he did stare at her sometimes. But then again, it wasn’t that normal covetous stare he turned on other women.

In the end, Sam had decided it was very simple. They loved each other. There was nothing complicated about it. He loved her, too. Even Castiel had come to see her as one of their own. Their mother was still a little weirded out by her, but Mary hadn’t been around much so it hadn’t been much of an issue.

When Dean and B made it to the table, Sam turned his laptop around. “Think I’ve got a case.”

Dean grunted.

She reached out to drag the laptop closer so she could read.

“You remember that movie, Ghost in the Darkness? About the lions that killed all those men?”

“Yeah yeah yeah,” Dean motioned with his coffee cup. “Kirk Douglas played Remington.” He looked at Baby and did his best Douglas impression. “Everyone has a plan until they’ve been hit.”

She smirked.

Sam chuckled and kept going, “Right, well, it was actually based on a true story. Two lions really did kill all these people when the British government was trying to build a bridge through Tsavo. They eventually killed the lions and had them stuffed and they’ve been on display at-”

“The Field Museum in Chicago, Illinois,” B read from the laptop, finishing his sentence.

Dean was actually reading now. “Wow. They found the guy torn to pieces.”

“Hinky,” she muttered.

Sam lifted a finger. “Gets hinkier. The lions? The actual lions from the display?” He lifted his chin a bit for effect. “No one can find them.”

He watched Dean and Baby exchange a look and then his brother shrugged. “Okay. So let’s go lion hunting.”

—–

One twelve hour drive and three hours of sleep later, the 65 Mustang they’d taken to driving since Baby showed up pulled into the parking lot of the museum. Sam was continually surprised by the fact that Dean never lamented the absence of the Impala. The only time he ever brought the car up was to make note of how much better she handled than whatever else he was behind the wheel of.

They met a short, gray-haired man at the door, still taped off with caution tape, who introduced himself as Detective Schrader.

“I’m Agent Kristofferson,” Dean flashed his fake badge and motioned at Sam and Baby. “This is Nelson, and Joplin.”

Then, with a bright grin, “We hear you have a stray cat problem.”

The crime scene had been cleaned, and obvious construction had already been made to the metal frame in preparation of a new plate of glass for the display. The very empty display.

“So-” Sam frowned. “Let me get this straight. He was lying here, right?” He motioned at the floor and quirked his head down the corridor at the display case where Dean was bent down over one of the fake rocks and B was watching with her hands on her hips.

“What was left of him,” Detective Schrader said.

“Hm.” Sam muttered.

“What?” Schrader asked.

“Just … not really lion behavior,” Sam said. “They kill and they eat. They don’t play with their food.”

“You telling me you think this was actually done by lions?” Detective Schrader cast him a pitiful look, like he almost felt sorry for him.

Sam looked up curiously. “You don’t? The autopsy seemed pretty conclusive.”

“So did my last prostate exam,” Shrader huffed. “Still got cancer. Look, are we done here? I don’t really see what you expect to find around here, anyway. Like I said, you can read everything we found in the report.”

“Yeah,” Sam forced an irritated smile and slipped his hands in his pockets. He wasn’t fond of law enforcement that treated a person’s death like another day that ended in Y. “We’re done.”

Dean and Baby wandered over while Detective Schrader let himself out. Dean rubbed his fingers together, gave them a sniff and jumped his brows at Sam. “Sulfur.”

Sam looked confused. “Really? Demons?”

“That surprises you?” Baby asked.

“No. I mean …” Sam looked past them at the empty display. “Kind of. I was betting money on some kind of Hoodoo thing.”

“Why?” Dean asked, thumbing over his shoulder. “Cause Africa?” His brows lowered in sarcastic accusation. “That’s racist, Sam.”

Sam’s face dropped, annoyed. “No. Because it tends to be used to bring things back to life, Dean.”

“Uh huh.” Dean smirked. “Racial profiling then.”

“Whatever.” Sam rolled his eyes up then back to B. “Any of those spidey senses tingling?”

Baby frowned, her heels clicking against the floor as she circled around to the other side of Sam, staring at the spot where Bill Cunningham’s body had been found. “Not really,” she said. “But I think you’re right. This isn’t a normal demon thing.”

“Well.” Crowley’s voice lifted up behind them from out of nowhere. “You’re not wrong.”

Sam and Dean pivoted on their respective heels in an instant, the youngest Winchester tugging Baby behind him.

“Relax,” Crowley rolled his eyes. “I haven’t tried to kill you for months now.”

The brothers exchanged a look. Did he know about Baby? Had he seen her?

“Then what do you want?” Dean quipped.

The lapels of Crowley’s peacoat flashed outwards with a shrug of his hands from inside his pockets. “To be of humble service.”

“Right,” Dean said. “Cause you’re always so helpful.”

“Helped with Lucifer, didn’t I?”

“Yeah?” Dean chuffed. “Where were you when they tossed us in a hole and threw away the key?”

“Like I told Wings, I didn’t know where you were. Still working on getting a demon into the oval office,” Crowley sneered. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“Fine,” Sam said. “Then why are you here?”

“To let you know you’re in way over your heads on this one,” Crowley said. “The Cwn Annwn? They’re Lucifer’s personal lapdogs.”

Dean arched an impatient brow. “The coonan-what?”

“Kun,” Crowley emphasized the phonetics. “An-wynn. It’s Welsh.”

“Okay fine, whatever,” Dean said. “Explain the coon hounds.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Honestly, I don’t know why I even bother.”

Dean growled Crowley’s name, signalling his loss of patience.

The demon king sighed like a long suffering, and very bored girlfriend. “Fine. The Cwn Annwn aren’t lions. They’re the original hounds of hell. The first breeding pair. The two that came for you?” Crowley quirked his brow at Dean. “Those were puppies in comparison.”

Real fear flashed across the eldest Winchester’s face in a single split second, but Crowley caught it and smiled. “These two were made specifically for hunters.”

When the boys exchanged another look that managed to hold an entire conversation, Crowley spotted a slender hand slip out from behind Moose’s hulking figure and catch the side of Dean’s jacket. He watched Dean’s head snap to the side like he’d suddenly remembered she was hiding there and shake his head at whoever was back there. He watched him grab the delicate hand curled around the army-green corduroy and push it back down in an attempt to conceal it.

It didn’t work.

“Well well,” Crowley mused, rounding out a step to try to get a look behind Moose. “Who’s this?”

Sam flexed his jaw at Crowley and side-stepped to obstruct his view. It only served to deepen the demon’s curiosity. Sam shut his eyes against the inward scolding he gave himself for his mistake and cursed under his breath.

It was futile anyway.

They couldn’t hide her from him forever.

Baby peeked out around Sam’s arm from between the two boys and Crowley’s eyes went wide … could he really be seeing what he thought he was seeing? The beautiful brunette stepped into full view, Sam stepping aside with a relenting sigh.

The Winchesters watched Crowley like hawks while his face went slack and his jaw dropped open. “Oh … my,” he shook his head in, what looked to Dean, like a certain flavor of awe. “I haven’t seen you in a very long time.”

“Wait-” Dean started, and Sam joined him when he said, “What?”

“You know her?”

Baby was staring at Crowley the way a little girl might stare at a massive gorilla at the zoo … with that look when it dawns on a kid that what they’re seeing is just a little too scary and yet, a little too much like them to be okay with it.

Crowley’s voice was almost reverent. “Of course I know her,” his eyes ticked up to meet Dean’s. “Do you?”

Dean’s eyes narrowed at Crowley like he was assessing which punch to throw to break the man’s nose. Then, after a few seconds, his entire body abruptly kicked into gear. “Alright, Sammy, let’s go.”

The boys split to move past him, Dean yanking Baby tightly into his side, trying to unsee the wonder in Crowley’s face when he watched her go by. He could practically feel the demon thinking about how he could use her.

“… Don’t you want to know about the lions?”

Dean dropped Baby’s hand in time to pivot back and charge like he meant to beat the ever loving shit out of the King of Hell, but somehow managed to reign himself in before he got within swinging distance. “Crowley, you have thirty seconds!”

The demon managed to pull his eyes away from Baby, a little too slowly for Dean’s liking and smirked. “Matilda of the Night,” he said. “She controls them. It’s her punishment.”

Worry clouded Sam’s features. “… Punishment for what?”

“Well,” Crowley shrugged. “The woman once said if there was no hunting in heaven she’d rather not go. That might have had something to do with it.”

“So she’s a hunter,” Sam said.

“One of the oldest,” Crowley said. “She was a viking once upon a time, and very nearly brought down Lucifer himself. He created the hellhounds to return the favor and when he finally caught her, he granted her wish. She would hunt with her hounds for all eternity … hunt people like you.”

The more he spoke, the colder the room seemed to get. It was Sam’s turn to reach for Baby and pull her back, swallowing a tight dread that had formed in the back of his throat. He wasn’t necessarily worried about himself or his brother, but she was still learning how to fight.

“They say she cries out in misery when she has to kill them,” Crowley added with a hint of whimsy. The demon king cast one last, lingering look at Baby. “I have a feeling I’ll be seeing you again, sweetheart.”

Then his form blinked out in a split-second you could never see with human eyes and he was gone.

Sam, Dean and Baby trotted quickly down the stairs of the museum and made for their car.

“Do you think he was telling the truth?” Sam looked across the hood at his brother who was opening the back door for B.

“About Matilda?” He slammed the back door and jerked open his. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he turned the engine to life. “I think I actually read about her in dad’s journal a while back. He called her the traitor.”

“From the sound of things, it wasn’t her fault what she turned into,” Baby said, slouching down in the back seat.

Dean caught her eyes in the rearview before he turned back onto the feeder road. “Maybe not. Doesn’t matter. If those things are Lucifer’s pups and she’s got the leash …”

“Yeah, but how do we find her?” Sam asked.

“Far as Luci’s concerned we’re the big bads,” Dean shifted gears a little harder than he needed to. “I’m betting she finds us.”

They didn’t stay in Chicago. “It was too damn crowded,” Dean said. And anyway, it was best to keep to back roads and small towns, especially now that half the government had it in for the boys. Instead, they shot down I-57 to a town called Champaign and stopped at a rundown Super 8 for 41 bucks a night.

An hour later, Sam was propped up on one of the beds with his legs stretched out and his laptop in his lap while Dean sparred with Baby in the space that the small kitchenette jutted out to provide. He glanced up just in time to see B duck a swing but miss Dean’s opposite fist when it came in at her ribs. His older brother had an uncanny ability to bring a punch mostly to a stop before it hit her too hard.

“Keep your fists up,” Sam offered. “Block him with your forearm.”

The girl lifted her fists, concentrating, determined to get better. Dean darted down to pat the back of her leg, “Weight on the ball of your foot,” before he came back up to throw the same combination without warning.

This time, Baby blocked the sucker punch.

“There ya go,” Dean nodded, bobbing out of the way of her next swing before smacking her upside the head. Not hard, but it got her attention. “Fists up.”

“Hey,” Sam said, sitting up. “Hey, I think I got something.”

“What?” Dean said, crossing the room to look over his brother’s shoulder.  

“They moved quick,” Sam said. “An entire campsite just got wiped out next state over. I bet it’s on the news.”

Baby snatched the remote up off the end of the bed and flipped through the channels until she found a 24-hour news channel. They caught the tail end of a story about the President getting out of the hospital and exchanged nervous looks at the reminder.

Oh yeah. There was still that to deal with.

A few seconds later, the screen jumped to flashing lights in the darkness and a view of police walking through picnic tables in the background. One bent down and looked inside a body bag.

“Park Rangers have verified this was some kind of animal attack, but there’s still no official word on what kind of animal it may have been. What we do know now is there are multiple dead and, as of yet, there are no survivors. From Ft. Wayne, Indiana, I’m Sarah Smith.”

“Shit,” Dean turned from the TV and pushed a hand back through his hair.

“We need help,” Baby said. “Where’s Cas?”

“With mom on a werewolf hunt in Mississippi,” Dean huffed.

“We could use them both,” Sam said.

“No,” Dean said. “She needs to work some stuff out. Let her do it.”

Most people, even Sam, had assumed Dean took after John. He didn’t. He was much more like Mary on an emotional level.  

“You realize that leaves Rowena and Crowley,” Sam said.

“Uh uh,” Dean shook his head sharply. “Nope. He’s not getting within a ten miles of Baby again.”

“Dean-”

Dean motioned at Baby, looking half pissed and half horrified. “He was looking at her like she was food. No, Sam!”

“Does Baby get a vote?”

The boys both looked at her, Sam with an open mind, Dean immediately irritated.

“Yes,” Sam said, at the same time Dean barked, “No!”

She lifted her hands to her hips and looked pointedly at Dean. “Call Rowena.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Not Crowley …”

“For now,” she said. The man had entirely creeped her out but she wasn’t about to tell either one of them that. “If she thinks we need him, then we need him.”

Dean stared at her for a beat, forced himself to take a deep breath, and admitted defeat. “Okay,” he rolled his eyes, fishing his phone out of his pocket. “But I’m not calling Crowley. You can bat your lashes at me all you want. No.”

“We need Fergus,” Rowena said, leaning back in her bar stool and casting a disgusted look over at a table full of rednecks laughing about their exploits. “Honestly, this was the best place you could find to rendezvous?”

“Yeah. Cause, whiskey,” Dean said, immediately downing the rest of his glass.

“Why,” Sam interrupted, “do we need Crowley?”

“Because,” Rowena’s brows lifted at him as if it were simple. “He’s the King of Hell. He’s the only one aside from Lucifer who can see to it that the hounds are locked back in their kennels. I can’t imagine how Lucifer woke them up in the first place, truth be told, given his state. It’s quite difficult to conjure that level of magic without a proper vessel.”

Dean pointed a finger at Baby the second her mouth opened. “No.”

“Dean, you’re being ridiculous,” she said.

“She’s right,” Sam shook his head at his brother. “We’ve gotta send these things back to hell and if there’s only one way to do it …”

Rowena sat back watching in utter amusement, with a smile that said she knew something they didn’t. Neither of them noticed. But Baby did.

“Fine,” Dean shrugged and sat back, locking his eyes on B’s. “Then you’re not coming.”

Her amber eyes flashed at him. Sam didn’t think he’d ever seen her look at Dean like that … let alone yell at him. “Like hell I’m not!”

“The stitches just came out of that shot to your shoulder last week!” He snapped back at her.

“Ya know what, Dean?” The legs of her chair scraped against the wooden floor, scooting away when she lept to her feet. “Maybe it’s time you remember that I’m the one who’s protected you for the last 39 years. Not the other way around.”

Baby turned on her heel and headed for the door, finally putting Dean on his feet. “I’m 38!”

The girl whipped back with clinched fists at her sides, “Fine! 38 years and nine months!”

The door slammed behind her, leaving several patrons staring at the Winchesters’ table curiously and looking at Dean sympathetically because they assumed he’d just had a fight with his girlfriend. Sam was staring at his big brother wondering if he had.

“Oh, I like her.” Rowena’s Scottish brogue crooned, eyes floating up at Dean. “She certainly knows how to put you in your place, doesn’t she.”

Sam shook his head, completely disappointed, and pushed to his feet. “That was great, Dean. Real classy.”

The guilt of yelling at Baby finally seemed to make its way through Dean’s features after Sam turned away, watching his brother head for the door to go calm her down. It occurred to him that if he were the one headed out there, he’d have no idea how to calm her down because he’d never seen her that angry. And that was his fault.

“Shit,” Dean muttered and dropped his ass back into his chair, reaching for Sam’s leftover whiskey.

Rowena was watching him with her chin propped atop her fingers. “Do you even know what the poor lass is?”

Dean shot a look at Rowena, warning her he wasn’t in the mood for games.

The woman simply stared at him. Like he was an idiot. “She’s the burning bush, Dean. The dove with the olive branch. She’s the very breath of God, himself.”

The glass was halfway to his lips but it stopped on route. “She’s … what does that even mean?” In the back of his mind he was scolding himself for humoring her, but .. she sounded like she knew what she was talking about.

“It means, dearie, that she’s as powerful as they come,” Rowena smiled that sweet, yet twisted little smile she had, put her palm against the table and pushed to her feet. “If she wants to be. That really all depends on you.”

Dean’s brows twitched trying to put that together and when he couldn’t, he looked back up at her. “So … what am I supposed to do?”

“That’s between you and her.” Rowena tipped her eyes up as if an answer had suddenly come to her from the ether before dropping them back to Dean with a wave of her hand. “Try sex. It worked for the pagans.”

Dean’s eyes widened and his face dropped blank, staring at her while his brain tried to catch up. It made Rowena toss her head back with her laugh. “Dean Winchester, proper scared … Now that was worth stepping out for.” The overly sensual witch turned and sauntered out the door, leaving Dean thinking about things he shouldn’t be.