The Known/Unknown Quantity

Chapter 142: What She Made for Her Crowley

Chapter 142: What She Made for Her Crowley

From deep, deep in the bowls of a cavern, the thing hid her portal, and hid in it as well.

She hunched in a corner of her mirror universe. Her bunker now, watching with false eyes. The visage of Samantha wavered, flickered back and forth from refined to disheveled as she focused on the mirrors, watching the little party navigate her abode.

Acid drooled from her metal teeth, boiled the ground next to her. Unblinking, the false eyes glowed red.

"They've protected themselves."

She focused on Crowley, blind. The extremes the demon would accept to keep her out. Surely, he was more insane than she was.

With more distain she glared hard on Aziraphale. There, that was the weak point. Still warded, growing in strength, but unsure in his new powers.

Both of them shouldn't be here. With all she had seen, she could guess their mental status. Strained, unstable, trying to bring it all to heel.

Why, look at them, having to rely on humans as handlers. How could such vessels of power be so weak?

The thing held its hand up, saw the claws flicker to red nail polish, and back again. Broken vessels. What had Hastur taught her?

Crack the vessel. Reclaim, and reform, what's inside.

The thing leered like a trypanophobic's nightmare.

Game on.

Come on, come and get me, little angel. Time to be enslaved.

Fuck splitting up in this creepy place!

Between them, they have 500 years of exposure to Scooby-Doo cartoons, horror cinema, personal knowledge, mystery novels, and in one strange circumstance, a conversation with Poe. No one was splitting up.

Gary, in particular, despite his Marine training, personally took the old trope about his complexion to heart. Fuck that, if he was going to play that role.

But, he did turn to Newt and say," You do give off huge virgin vibes."

"Why are you being so rude to me today?" the young man asked, exasperated.

Gary looked back out into the darkness. "Just tryin' to reassure you. You'll be the one to survive."

They moved on.

The home of Samantha Anouilh was a grand estate. Once her husband had died of a magicked heart attack (not long after being coerced into signing everything over to her alias in his will, but long enough for it not to look suspicious) she really didn't do much to it. All the redecorating had been finished while he was alive. He was under her thrall from the beginning.

She had a beautiful pool with a waterfall. She rarely swam in it.

She had seventeen rooms, all dedicated to one theme. By now she'd forgotten what they were for, or even that they were there.

The kitchen was pristine, and unused.

There was no support staff. The magic kept the dust from settling. Too bad it couldn't do anything for the ever-permeating darkness.

In all this space, there were only a hand full of rooms in constant use. The closet was one, and it was indeed a room. The bedroom and personal bathroom were another. These doubled as her work space, and it held all the things the imagination can ascribe to a bat-shit crazy spellcaster. Add a little serial killer in there and you had the stuff of nightmares.