Hell's Greatest Weapon

Chapter 11: Static

Rowena was a 17th century witch that you thought had been blown to the bottom of a well by the grand coven, only come to find out that she was, indeed, alive.  And still just a big a pain in the ass as ever.

Naturally when you expressed your concerns to Crowley, he was silent upon receiving, but his face showed that he was clearly of opposite opinion. Now perched on his throne with his head supported by his hand which was, in turn, being supported by the elbow propped up on the arm rest, Crowley rolled his eyes and looked at you.

“I can get you a chair, you know.”

“Books will do,” you shook your head and crossed your arms over your chest, a small (but somewhat comical) act of defiance against the king.  “I have this theory that you absorb knowledge this way.”

“So it’s easier to pull out of your ass, is that it?” The sarcasm in Crowley’s voice kept you from responding so he, instead, rolled his eyes.  When you got a small chuckle from his clear embarrassment over the situation, however, his eyebrows raised.  “Funny?”

You raised your hands and shook your head, a short signal that you weren’t about to get sucked into their family drama… not entirely.  “I’ve just never had a king of hell’s mother locked in the bastilles, before.”

“Yeah, well.” Crowley brought a hand to his forehead, rubbing his temples a moment before regaining his focus on you.  “You came here for a reason other than to harass me about personal matters, have you not?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, leaning forward and propping yourself up on your knees.  “I mean I originally came to tell you about our witch issue, but now that she’s in the bastilles we can watch numbers to see whether she was the problem.”

“And is that all?”

You tilted your head to the side as you looked at the king of hell, who had truly just given you the most sass you had received in quite some time.  Somehow managing to hold back your desire to turn him into a rodent, perhaps grow him a tail or an actual set or horns, you bit your lower lip, then shook your head. “I got word that the level threes are planning a revolt.”

“The level threes are always planning a revolt.”

“But they’ve never gotten so far as to set a date, time, and keyword.”

Crowley took his head from his hand and looked up at you, his eyebrows rising with half disbelief and half annoyance.  “And who is your resource?”

You shook your head.  “I can’t say, but believe me.  If I think it’s a concern, it’s definitely a concern.”

“And what gives you such a superior ability?” 

You opened your mouth to speak, ready to go off on Crowley with your entire, millennium-old resume, but a slightly fuzzy but somehow understandable echo cut off your thoughts.

(Gragnis help)

It was like listening to an old walkie-talkie, one that was picking up a message from an adjacent frequency; it was loud, the white noise nearly canceled it out entirely, but it was there.  It was comprehendible. 

“Well?” Crowley asked, his head tilted slightly to the side, his eyebrows raised as he anticipated your response.  “Any time now, believe it or not I’m not made entirely of spare time.”

You pointed at him while standing, tossing your canvas backpack over your shoulder in the process.  “Age, Crowley,” was all you said, never giving the king a chance to respond before you flew out.

When you landed where the frequency had come from, you were standing in front of what appeared to be an old barn.  Upon turning around to check out the rest of the surroundings, you knew you were in the right place; in the driveway were a couple of cars, including a staple 1967 Chevy Impala.