The Known/Unknown Quantity

Chapter 124: Cracks of Light

Chapter 124: Cracks of Light

"Fucking little punk!"

Samantha shrieked and threw a shoe at her mirror. It cracked, but didn't break. Even if it did, she had plenty.

She's been collecting for years.

Ever since she caught wind of the Apocalypse, she'd been planning. Long before really. It came much sooner than she anticipated, and left just as quickly. And when she discovered how, and who, were responsible, she plotted further.

That's when she petitioned the Dukes of Hell. Because, who wouldn't want a second chance, and a fall guy, if the bottom fell out once more?

The plan evolved over time, as her powers grew, as her cunning became expertise. Aspirations of power overtook her, and a better path to obtaining the family legacy than the one set out by her ancestor.

Parents were always ruling through their children, in some way.

Kneeling down on the marble floor of her estate (once the property of a deceased theater mogul), she retrieved the high heel and turned it back and forth in her hand. Then, she threw it over her shoulder where it landed perfectly upright next to its mate. Then, both shoes lifted in the air and returned to the recesses of her enormous bedroom closet, a thing so big it dwarfed some New York apartments.

Funny. The estate contained huge windows, open to the directions of the sunrise, nestled in the hills and surrounded by wooded glades. But darkness shrouded the inside. This wasn't her intention, but shadows followed her, always.

Yes, shadows hadn't been her intention. It hadn't been her intention to be marked a witch when she was a sorcerer. It wasn't her intention to have to sooth her creation when the truth of its existence hit home. And it wasn't her intention to get a mental scourging from Hell as a taste of what would come should she fail.

This is why she used shadows and lies just as she used mirrors and dreams. Hastur was not privy to the existence of the holy water she let slip from her grasp. The fool continued to labor under the assumption that Crowley was immune. But she knew better: she had her ancestor's journals, after all.

Smiling to herself, she rose and went to her antique writing desk, and withdrew the tattered tome, opening it to that particular entry. It cheered her up, to read how Crowley thrashed under the implementation of the frozen water to his temples and sensitive areas. To his tear ducts...

And by now the angel would be aware of the faded scares that never truly healed. And he would see that no amount of healing light could bring to health what holy water could take away forever.

"Crowley..."

The demon reached out to sound of his voice, and blessedly opened his eyes. His grin was lazy, relaxed. But the face looking back was not.

So, Crowley stuck out his lip," Pouting? Now why are we pouting, angel?"

Despite himself, Aziraphale's frown softened. But his eyes...

"Your wounds run so dead, Crowley."

"None of that," the demon said.

But the angel went on, weary, worn. "Every time I heal you, I find the roots going deeper. I find injuries beyond cure."

"Angel, I've told you," Crowley smiled, still coming down from elation," it's all a part of me. It's nothing I've haven't learned to live with. S'not a day at the fair, but—"