Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Old books and aged leather. Bitter coffee and dust. That’s what your childhood smelt like. You’d spent hours, days even, lurking in between the shelves of your uncle’s odd little book shop. Walls lined with shelves of dusty books, rare books, antiques. Stacks upon stacks of books, narrow pathways carefully measured out to ease navigation through the chaos. As a girl, the place had felt like a relic of time gone by. The dimmed lighting designed to emulate gas lamps, the ever dreary weather outside, the deliberate lack of technology. It had always felt as if you’d fallen into one of those old books and woken up a hundred or so years in the past. You’d loved it there. You’d not been there in years.

Or, at least, you’d not been back until now. The weather is grey and gloomy as you navigate the cobblestone streets, relying purely on muscle memory to take you back there. It had been a little over a decade, but you still remember. Take the fourth alley off Main Street, follow all the way to the end, turn left onto Convent Close, walk a little further. And there it is. The sign still reads Reginald's . The windows are still lined with books. You’re once more stuck by how both everything and nothing has changed. Fumbling with the keys, you unlock the door and step inside. Old books and leather. Bitter coffee and dust. It smells exactly the same. The memories come rushing back. Dear old Uncle Reggie, lover of the arcane and hater of the modern era. A man with a wealth of knowledge about books and literature — you’d thought him the smartest man in the world during your girlhood years — who knew seemingly nothing about the popular culture. He’d taught you to read with books your mother would never approve of, with tales of the obscure and the esoteric. Uncle Reggie had always been your favourite family member.

Now, he’s simply another body buried six feet under in a cemetery across the city. And you’ve inherited his beloved book shop. It’s changed very little since the last time you’d set foot in the place. Same cluttered layout, simply with different books. Or perhaps some of them are the same. It’s hard to say; you aren’t sure how successful the place has ever been. Clearly, your uncle was doing well enough to keep the doors open, to keep buying new books to fill the place. Wandering through to the back office, making a note that dusting would have to be a priority, you’re dismayed to find that your uncle had stayed a technophobe until his death. It’s appalling, really, how much dust can accumulate in barely over a week. There’s a computer on the desk — you don’t need more than a glance in its direction to know that it’s old and in dire need of an update — but there’s also a stack of ledgers, and you know exactly which of the two stores the shop’s records. It’s definitely not the computer. Wonderful. Utterly wonderful. At least there is less dust in here, you suppose. Thank god for small miracles, right?

The door at the back of the office leads upstairs, to the flat your uncle lives in. Lived in. It was yours now. You had very few possessions with — a singular suitcase and a carryall or two, left back in your hotel room. It wasn’t as if your uncle had planned his death, but it was fortuitous that he’d left you a job and a home at the exact time your lease and job were coming to an end. It had been easy enough to leave slightly earlier than planned and fly back to the small city you’d once called home. It had been easy enough to accept the keys to the little shop you’d once loved. You aren’t sure if it will be so easy to just… move in, to live here, to work here. After all, you’ve spent so much time running away from this part of the world. Can you cope with living here again? With being surrounded by memories of days passed? 

Another key is needed to unlock the door to the flat. There’s another staircase, another door. The attic. You’ve never been up there and you don’t plan on doing so, or at least, not today. No, you need to keep things manageable. The book shop needs to be reopened, the flat needs to be moved into. Fiddling with the lock, you finally get the door open. The flat is a little smaller than you remember it being, although considering you were a child the last time you’d seen it, perhaps that makes sense. It’s clean, to your relief. And weirdly, it’s relatively empty. Sure, there’s furniture, books on the shelf, paintings hung on the walls. But as you poke around the living area and the kitchen, before heading back to the bedroom and bathroom, it strikes you. There’s nothing particularly… personal. It’s as if the place has been cleared out ahead of your arrival. But… no one could’ve done that. It was a sudden death. And the lawyer who had given you the keys mentioned that no one had been in there since your uncle's passing. And yet. The cupboards are mostly empty, save for a few non-perishables or bottles of fine whiskey. His clothes are gone, the clutter you remember being ever present has disappeared. The place is a clean slate, no longer your uncle’s but yours. 

No. There is something left. On the kitchen counter. There’s a piece of paper, folded in half. You pick it up, noting that the words scrawled over the page is your uncle’s odd handwriting. 

Scamp,

Sorry we didn’t get to reconnect. I thought about reaching out to you, so many times. But considering… well, I’m sure you understand. Regardless, don’t think I ever forgot about you. I was always watching from afar, know that. I’m proud of you. 

You always wanted to work at the book shop when you were a girl. I wonder if reality will live up to those daydreams you held onto so tightly? You were the only one to ever love this place as much as I did. I hope you decide to keep it, to keep it going. 

A small smile graces your lips. You miss him. It’s been years, you’d basically resigned yourself to the fact that you’d probably never see him again, but reading his words on the page makes you miss him. Of course you are keeping the store; there’s not exactly much else going on in your life and your career has pretty much hit a dead end. A change of pace is necessary, and the book shop will be a good challenge. You’ve both deeply missed and dreaded returning to the city you grew up in. It will be hard, living here once more. But as soon as you saw the shop again, as soon as you entered its maze of books, you knew that there was no way you’d be selling the place off. It’s your weird little bookstore, filled to the brim with arcane knowledge, now. Breathing deeply, you read on.

A few things to note. 

• The clientele can be… a little odd. They’re harmless, mostly. Or at least, they won’t mean you any harm. The Cardinal should be able to help, if any problems arise. 

• It’s best to avoid reading anything in Latin aloud — especially during the witching hour. 

• Every so often, some of the more… shall we say, traditionally spiritual, folk will show up, asking if you’d like the place to be blessed or cleansed. DO NOT ACCEPT. 
• The ghoul that sometimes haunts the attic does not like Mozart. Do not play Mozart. Don’t go up there — but leave him an offering outside the door, every so often. I’ve found he rather likes raw red meat.

I know, I know. You must think this note is ridiculous. Your hare-brained, occultist uncle has lost his mind completely. 

Perhaps he has. Or, perhaps he has not. Perhaps intrigue lays ahead.

With love, 

Your Uncle Reg 

… What?

You read the latter part of the note, once, twice, three times. God, perhaps you should crack open one of those bottles of whisky, even if it is really a little too early in the day for a drink. Walking over to the sofa, you kick off your boots and slump down onto it. You read the note again. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t make any more sense the fourth time around. Reg was always an eccentric character. Your mother, his younger sister, has always made it clear that she finds his idiosyncrasies infuriating. Growing up, you’d found it enthralling, his interest in bizarre and outlandish oddities that felt so at odds with the rest of your life. Had you totally believed in the rituals he spoke of, in the world of demons and the preternatural? It depended on the day. You had wanted to, for it had all sounded unearthly and fantastical and so different to everything else you’d heard of at school or from your mother. 

But you aren’t a girl anymore. You’re an adult woman. An adult woman who has to make a living, who shouldn’t be wasting time on the unfathomable. 

Certain points make more sense than others, you think. The odd clientele… well, that surely is a given, considering the nature of the literature for sale. Most people buying expensive and rare books of a darker, esoteric nature, tend to be a little unorthodox. You remember it from your younger days, the individuals who’d enter the store in odd clothing and painted faces that sent shivers down your spine. Yes, a peculiar sort of clientele was only to be expected. It would be different from your student days, the time you spent working in your university’s book shop, but you couldn’t help looking forward to meeting some of Reginald’s customers. You wonder if the person he’s referred to as ‘the Cardinal’ is an actual member of the clergy. Did religious leaders really read the sort of books sold downstairs? From your brief glances at titles, they seem to focus on topics that seem as if they’d be verboten in the eyes of the Catholic Church. Perhaps it was a nickname, a sort of inside joke. As far as you’re aware, there has always been — and still is — a rather large Catholic presence in the area. The idea of your Uncle Reg being so at odds with them makes sense to you, for he’d never been the most amicable towards them in your youth.

But the other two points have you reeling. Sure, you could read enough Latin to get by in a pinch, he’d taught you the basics all those years ago, and you’d taken a class or two during your studies years after. But why would he specifically ask you to avoid reading Latin aloud in the middle of the night? Did he think your late night readings of whatever books of magick he kept downstairs would somehow conjure up something a little too real? Magic, as far as you know, is not real. Of course, your knowledge is not endless and your own area of expertise lies well outside of the occult. It’s an offbeat request, but there’s no harm in following it, you suppose. After all, you had no plans to be reading aloud in Latin in the first place. The last point is the one that makes the whole thing seem so… outlandish. It feels like a prank, a joke you don’t quite understand. A… ghoul. In the attic. Who likes raw meat and hates Mozart. There’s a part of you that considers playing Don Giovanni or something just to see what happens. But another part, a larger part, is cautious. You’ve always been taught that some things are beyond comprehension. Reginald taught you that. And while you’re sceptical these days about the magick and the occult and and rituals… well, if anyone was going to have a ghoul haunting their attic, it would be your uncle. 

“Only Uncle Reg, huh.” You snort quietly, shaking your head and running a hand through your hair. 

God, what a weird situation you’ve found yourself in. At least the flat’s liveable, a minor miracle. You can move in tonight, instead of wasting more money on the overpriced hotel a few streets away. You’d checked in the day before, giving yourself some time to recover from the jet lag before dealing with your new property.  But, clearly, the place was already set for your move in. Someone — you didn’t want to think about it all too closely, in all honesty — had anticipated your move in. Groaning, you haul yourself off the sofa. It’s still early, early enough for you to grab your things from the hotel and hit the supermarket for some essentials, without having to stay up to the middle of the night. 

You were desperately in need of a good night’s sleep. After all, come morning, you’re opening up your very own book shop. 

Morning comes too soon, as it always does. Your anticipatory nerves are tempered only by a lingering sleepiness, left behind by a night’s sleep on a too hard mattress in an unfamiliar room. The oddity of being back in the bookshop on Convent Close will wear off soon, but you doubt your body will ever grow to find that bed comfortable. As you wander down to the shop floor, stretching your tense muscles, you decide a new mattress topper will be your first major purchase. That is, if you can afford one. Your meagre savings won’t last long, you are painfully aware of that fact, and you aren’t exactly sure how financially successful Reginald’s is. Perhaps checking the ledgers is in order. 

Returning to the shop floor reminds you so much of your youth. Shelves towering high, stacked to the point of collapse with books, a few overstuffed armchairs crammed in a few corners. Seriously, you aren’t sure how your uncle managed to fit so many books into the place. You wander around the shelves with a duster in hand, taking in the titles around you as you wipe away the worst of the dust. From odd little religious texts to demonology guides, alchemical treatises to astrological manuals, grimoires to the bizarre volumes that were beyond categorisation. Diverse in language, varying states of well being, from pocket sized to table sized. Walking through it all once more, this time as a fully grown woman, is strange. That sense of wonder from your girlhood is still present. The magic of the place still remains. Only now, it’s coupled with a concern of sales and profit. Your uncle, admittedly, had never seemed too worried about such things. But you were no veteran book salesman. 

Retreating to the back office, you begin your more detailed exploration of the space. You hadn’t noticed the night before, but there was a smaller notebook placed on top of the bookshop ledgers. It was titled with your uncle’s scrawl, How to Run a Bookshop, for Beginners . Flipping through the pages, you see he’s written pages and pages of instructions for you. Relief floods your veins. You aren’t going to question how he possibly knew his death was so swiftly approaching, to the point of leaving notes and notebooks and empty housing for your arrival. That question will bring no answers, for dead men do not speak from beyond the grave. Or at least, they aren’t supposed to. Besides, attempting to get metaphysical so early on in the day will give you hives. Setting the notebook aside, you turn to the ledgers. The pages are detailed accounts of sales, purchases, useful tidbits on repeat customers. Once more, you’re deeply thankful at how organised your uncle’s business had been in the time leading up to his death. A part of you is pleasantly surprised at the volume of sales; you’d expected the occasional scholar interested in the darker arts to stop by and make a purchase now and again, but your uncle shifts a surprising amount of rare texts. Perhaps there is a larger market for the occult than you’d thought. His most frequent customer seems to be the Cardinal his note had mentioned — in fact, next to the ledgers was a book seemingly designated for the man, his name scrawled on the post-it pressed to the ancient tome. 

A noise distracts you from your reading. Glancing at the door, you suddenly hear an accented voice from the shop floor. You hurry out, ledger in hand, wondering if this is to be your first customer as the official owner of your uncle’s shop. 

“Amico mio, it is good to see your doors open once more.” You walk out into the store and the man speaking trails off, confusion clouding his face.

You come to a stop at the counter, placing down the ledger. The man standing in front of you is not what you’d expected. Or perhaps he’s exactly what you should’ve expected. You’re not well versed on the fashion choices of the church, but his dark robes are full in length, an odd looking crucifix adorns his neck, a square cap upon his head. But then, he doesn’t look like the Catholic clergymen you’ve seen from afar or in images. His eyes are ringed with dark circles, there is just something… uncanny, about him. Perhaps this is the Cardinal, who seems as if he may be an actual man of the cloth rather than a man with a funny nickname. He looks unsure as he watches you, clearly expecting your presence as little as you were expecting his. A twinge of sadness strikes you as you realise that he is anticipating your uncle’s arrival, as you realise that he clearly does not know your uncle has passed on.

“Ah, my apologies, Signorina . I — is Reginald present?” He finally asks politely, quieter this time; you pay closer attention to his accent, Italian in origin. You wonder what brought him here to this quiet corner of the historic district, in a small and oft overlooked city.

“He’s… Reg died, last week. That’s why the shop was closed for a bit.” You tell him apologetically, still coming to terms with the situation yourself. 

“Dead…” The man murmurs softly, more to himself than to you. “My apologies, for your loss. Are you — will — is the shop yours, now?” He seems genuinely sorry for your loss, but you sense that a hint of anxiety seeping into tone as he mentions the future of the shop.

“Oh, um, yes, it is. Reg was my uncle. I spent a lot of time here growing up, so he left the place to me.” You smile gently at him, memories flickering in your mind’s eye. 

“Not recently though, no?” He asks inquisitively, moving slightly closer to your position at the counter. 

Now that he's moved closer, you can see that his eyes are indeed ringed with some kind of dark kohl or paint. Your breath hitches when you realise that his eyes do not match. One is an easy green, soft and natural. The other is a stark white, piercing and intense. And yet, even with such a distinct quirk in his appearance, one you can imagine most find intimidating, you find him rather distinguished. He’s older than you, probably near twice your age, yet there’s something appealing about him. 

“No. You know how life can be, I suppose. But I always loved this place, more than anyone else did. The plan is to keep the doors open, of course. I mean, I’m no expert, not in small business ownership nor the occult, but Reg left some instructions. I guess we’ll see how things go.” You laugh humourlessly, a fretful edge to your tone as you think of all the issues that come with running a business you really do know very little about.

“I’m sure your business will be well. After all, Reginald had many regular customers. I do not doubt they’ll stay visiting here.” He tells you, and you find yourself reassured. The man is soft spoken with his smooth accented tone, but his words feel weighted, as if there is some great authority behind them.

“Thank you. I hope so.” You flash him a proper smile, and you hear his breath stutter; despite your sense that he is a man of some influence, he seems rather reserved, almost shy. “Are, uh, are you the Cardinal he mentioned in his notes?”

“Sì, sì, that would be me.” He nods quickly, and you wait to see if he will introduce himself further — you’re becoming increasingly sure you’ll be seeing him often. After an expectant pause, he realises. “Ah, I am Cardinal Copia.” 

“It’s nice to meet you, Cardinal.” You offer your own name in response, wondering if you should reach your hand out for him to shake, but he stays still, continuing to observe you with those striking eyes of his.

There is a beat of silence, before you open your mouth to speak again. “You know, I actually have a book for you in the back office.” 

He hums softly, and you take that as a sign of approval to disappear for a moment. You slip back into the office, heading for the desk where the book had been left. Pulling off the post-it with his name, you finally take a look at what exactly the good Cardinal is here for. Your eyebrows raise immediately — you wouldn’t describe yourself as fluent in Latin by any means, but you definitely know what Daemonum translates to. The book is visibly old, and now that you’re finally paying attention to it, seems to radiate an ominous sort of energy. Perhaps you’re just tired. Perhaps it’s just that your mind cannot reconcile a devout Cardinal reading a book on the hierarchy of demons in between his daily prayers. You pick up the book carefully, making your way back to the counter. The Cardinal has moved closer in your absence, now inches away from the counter, his eyes trained on your face. You place the book down in front of him and look up.

“Demonology, huh? No offence, truly — I’m pretty uninformed when it comes to the Church — but aren’t you Catholics like… not into that kind of thing?” You regret the words as soon as they escape your mouth, really, you didn't even mean to say them aloud. God, why would you say that? It’s as if you want the business to fail, as if you want to scare away customers with your judgements. 

He says nothing in response, continuing to gaze curiously at you; you wonder if he can see the embarrassment and shock at your own words clear upon your face. You tear your eyes away, looking down at your hands, still on the book in front of you. 

“Shit, I’m — I’m sorry, Cardinal. That’s really none of my business. I didn’t mean to offend or anything —” You begin rapidly, hoping to do as much damage control as possible, but he cuts you off.

“I’m not with the Catholic Church, Signorina.” Cardinal Copia’s voice is soft, and as you look up you see his unending, unnerving stare is still trained on your face. He looks vaguely discomfited, as if he’s waiting for you to have some kind of realisation.

Not with the — oh. Oh. Your eyes widen.

The Catholic Church isn’t the only prominent religious movement present in the historic district. No, a few streets away from your little shop is the headquarters for a very, very different church.  

It seems as if the good Cardinal is in fact a Satanist. 

“Oh! That makes a lot more sense, I guess. I forgot you guys were, uh, around here.” You chuckle awkwardly, absolutely mortified. Upon reflecting, it seems slightly ridiculous that you didn't pick that up immediately, what with his upside down crucifix and face paint. 

“We are.” He looks slightly wary of you, as if he’s trying to piece together your opinion on his church; you can’t blame him, not really, when most of the historic district tends to fall on the anti-Lucifer side of the argument.

“It’s a relief, honestly. I was a little concerned with the whole occult thing being bad for business — it’s kind of a specific vibe, right?” You say, keeping your tone light in an attempt to convey to him that you really, truly, are not about to get all judgemental and preachy on him. 

The whole worshipping the Dark One thing really doesn't bother you; your uncle had been a member of the Church, you’d spent your formative years hearing about their beliefs and rituals. The fact that they had their headquarters nearby means that you’d likely find a good number of people in the area with an interest in esoteric literature, and that most definitely works in your favour. 

“Indeed. You shouldn’t worry. The library at our Church here is… merda, to say the least. Your uncle was very helpful in finding texts for many of our members.” The Cardinal reassures once more. He gives you a barely there smile, before sliding the book towards himself. “How much do I owe you?” 

“Ah, let me check.” You flip open the ledger, scanning the pages to see if your uncle had been so organised as to note the amount owed. “Um… the ledger says £87, does that sound correct to you?”

“ Si, si. Here. Welcome back, Signorina.” He hands you two fifty pound notes as he slides the book off the counter.

You mess around pressing what you assume are the correct buttons on the till, hoping that your uncle had left money in there — you’d not gotten that far ahead with your preparations for opening, in all honesty. You hadn’t expected to make any sales so quickly either. However, as the draw finally sprang open, you glanced up to see the door of the shop swing shut. He’s gone. You didn’t even hear him walk away from you. And he’s left you with a pretty decent amount over what he owed, which is rather strange in your opinion. Tipping culture isn’t big in your home city, and you’ve never been anywhere on your travels where not collecting your change at a bookshop is considered usual behaviour. 

The rest of your day goes by slowly, with no other customers showing up. Which, in all honesty, is fine by you. It means you can spend the time cleaning up a little, checking the stock, nosing around the corners and drawers. The lack of customers allows you to go back into the office and to boot up your uncle’s old computer — which in itself takes about half an hour to turn on and configure — in an attempt to find more shop records. But the effort is worth it, for you are met with a database your uncle must have spent hours compiling. It details all the books currently in stock, their locations around the shop. At least if a customer comes in with a request for a specific book, you’ll be able to give a better answer than ‘no clue.’ You continue to be deliberately oblivious to the fact that this is all a little too easy, a little too smooth a transition, continuing to familiarise yourself with the details you need to know. But all the while, as you attempt to focus on the ledgers and the databases, you find that your mind is continually straying back to the Cardinal. 

There is just something… indescribable, about him. He's said so little to you, really. All you know is that he’s a Lucifer-worshipping Cardinal, who seemingly loves books and has an Italian accent. But still, there's something strangely seductive about him. Perhaps it’s his refined stature, his neatly groomed hair and sideburns and little pencil moustache. Perhaps it’s those eyes of his, mismatched and mysterious and penetrating in their stare. Or maybe you’re just deeply lonely, back in a city you’ve been away from for thirteen years, an ocean away from everyone you know. 

Later that night, you crack open one of the finely aged whisky bottles left behind by your uncle. As you sip at your generous tumbler, your thoughts creep back to the note you’d been left. Specifically, the part about the attic ghoul. Your eyes drift up to the ceiling, wondering if some ghoul is up there at this very moment. Are ghouls even real? Or is it the ghoul simply an old and lonely man's delusional creation? You aren't sure. But during your shopping trip the night before, on a complete and total whim, you’d bought a cut of sirloin. You don’t eat red meat.

But… the ghoul upstairs does. 

The decision comes easily enough, in the end. This silly little act will be the litmus test for how invested you’ll be in all this occult and Satanic business. You grab the cut of meat from the fridge, dropping it onto a small plate. Swallowing deeply, an odd feeling of apprehension slowly drawing up your spine, you leave the small flat. The staircase and attic door are right in front of you. This isn’t a big deal. You’ll ascend the steps, leave the plate, and go back inside. It couldn’t be easier. 

The silence is perhaps the worst part of it. The deafening nothingness coming from the attic. Now that you’re paying it attention, there is a distinct sense of foreboding, as if the space is emitting some sort of signal telling your body to stay away. But you climb the steps, wincing at their creaks and groans. You reach the top. The plate is set down quickly. You pause. Nothing happens. But then, why would something happen with you standing there? You shouldn’t stand there much longer. 

You’re back within the comfort of your little flat in mere seconds. The test is in progress. If the meat is there in the morning, then you can brush off some of the more… out there, aspects of running an occult shop. Disregard some of the weirder notes left by your uncle as an old man’s fantasy world. And, of course, you’ll lose a good part of your day to trying to get rid of the smell of rotting meat. But if the sirloin is gone… well, if the sirloin is gone, then you’ll have hard proof that the magicks you grew up learning of, the arcane religious teachings you’d studied with your uncle are undeniably real. 

You just had to wait to find out. Sleep comes easily enough, and you dream of mismatched eyes.

Chapter Text

The meat is gone.

You stand there in your pyjamas, halfway up the attic stairs, staring at the plate in disbelief. 

The meat is gone.

You blink once, twice, three times. You pinch your arm harshly, but nothing changes. You are awake, this is real. 

The meat is gone.

It might be partially because it’s so goddamn early — or maybe it really is just the fact that the meat is fucking gone, entirely gone, not a trace left behind — but your brain is short circuiting. It was a decent sized steak. You’re not convinced that a couple of mice or rats could’ve just eaten it away or dragged it off or something. For starters there’s no mess, just an empty plate. No. There’s a ghoul in the attic. 

Robotically, you grab the plate and head back down to the flat. There’s a ghoul in the attic. It looks like you’ve found your answer; there’s credibility to your uncle's words. It’s funny, you’d been a whole hearted believer in your youth, up until the day your mother sent you away to boarding school. A lack of access to material, an odd feeling deep in your soul you couldn’t quite understand nor shake, and the ever-present cruelty of teenage girls had you turning your back away from the teachings your uncle had provided. But now…well, it looks as if you’ll have to brush up on your Latin, on your understandings of ritual and arcane magicks.

Aside from having to come to terms with your worldview shifting once again, it’s a relatively smooth first week. A few visitors, some local, some from further afield. You attempt to make a social media account for the bookshop, but quickly decide that it may not be the best idea. Telling the entire world the location of your little occult bookstore, filled to the brim with the sort of supposedly deviant knowledge that is frowned upon by a large number of the population, is perhaps not the best of ideas. No, while that might drum up more business, it would likely bring trouble along with it. You’re not looking for trouble, no. You want peace. And besides, the handful of customers you’ve met in your first week all seem to be repeat buyers, people your uncle had been friendly with. All sad about his passing, all with their own tales of their meetings with him at the bookshop. Business might be slow, but it turns out that obscure and old books sell for rather a lot of money. Some of the prices your uncle has set have your eyes watering slightly — in a way it reminds you of your ephemeral career in academia which burnt out before it had really began, the cost of those rare texts you'd end up having to source through less legitimate means — but at least it means a few sales a week will keep the lights on and the fridge filled.

Saturday afternoon, a dreary and quiet day, finds you reading up on demonology, trying to piece together a little more information about your upstairs neighbour. The ghoul has been rather quiet so far, but forewarned is forearmed, after all. You’ve spent a considerable amount of time sifting through the English based demonologies with little luck so far, which is starting to convince you that you might have to dig out a Latin dictionary or two and delve into the more obscure texts for answers. You’re contemplating the thought — that, and wondering if there’s any specialised Latin dictionaries within the shop already, for you are sure that the majority of the mass produced ones do not contain the sorts of vocabulary you’ll be in need of — when a woman walks into through the door, a blast of cool air following her. 

You glance up and groan internally. It doesn’t take more than a few milliseconds to realise what sort of interaction this is about to be. The woman standing in front of you is decidedly not here to source an ancient tome on mesmerism or necromancy. No, it’s easy to tell from her Chanel suit set, her pearls, her perfectly coiffed hair. That, and the disdain written clear on her visage as she scowls around at the perpetually dusty stacks of books. You give her a quick smile and she returns it, although hers does not reach her eyes. 

“Hello, dearie.” She is still smiling as she approaches the counter, although it seems as if she’s gritting her teeth, as if she’d rather be anywhere else in that moment. 

You’re well aware that this is likely going to be a painful conversation, having to make nice with some local who hates the presence of the more unconventional religious practices in the area and the businesses they associate with. You knew that an encounter like this was bound to happen sooner or later, but you'd been hoping it would be the latter option.

“Hi, what can I help you with?” You respond, attempting to keep your tone light and airy, to not make any enemies right off the bat.

“Ah, yes, I’d heard rumours that Reginald’s hadn’t closed down, but had changed ownership. My name is Joanna Prescott.” There’s something about the way she says her name, with a pregnant pause after the fact, as if it is meaningful in some way, as if she is expecting you to respond accordingly.

However, you don’t know who she is, not at all. The name Joanna Prescott rings no bells whatsoever. She sniffs, shifting her gaze from you as if she cannot bear to look at you, as if you are some accursed being, unworthy of her presence. Really, it’s a little rude. Sure, you’re not dressed in some pristine suit set, instead in your comfortable trousers and oversized jumper, looking every bit the academic that you previously were. But you're still a person, a person she doesn't even know to pass judgement on, and you can’t quite understand why she already seems so dismissive of you. Although, she probably doesn’t need to look at you to make her verdict, considering your new line of work as an official supplier of rare texts to those who worship Lucifer. That alone is probably worthy of damnation in her eyes.

Finally, you speak. “... Yes, that’s right. Nice to meet you.”

You don’t bother introducing yourself, telling her that you are Reginald’s niece. There’s little point in indulging in social niceties here with this woman.

“Mm, how… wonderful.” She seems disappointed that someone’s claimed ownership of the place; you’re internally rolling your eyes, waiting for her to get to whatever the point of her visit is.

“So… do you shop here often?” You ask politely, knowing that her answer is a resounding no, but hoping the question will spur her into action; for the judgemental looks are getting old fast and you’ve got Latin dictionaries to scour the shop front for. 

“Goodness gracious, no! No, I don’t.” Joanna’s eyes are wide and she’s clearly appalled that you’d even suggest such a thing, which has you smirking internally.

“Oh.” You’re trying so hard not to laugh, to look innocent. 

“I came by to see what exactly will be happening with this place. Are you still planning on selling… those books?” She lowers her voice for the last words, as if she’s terrified that someone will overhear her inquiries on occult literature, as if her god would smite her down in an instant. 

Still, you can’t help but play with her a little, “Um, what books do you mean? We have a lot of stock here.”

Perhaps it’s a little insensitive, but it is entertaining to see her falter and fumble as she tries to avoid actually naming your morally reprehensible wares.

“Dearie, please. You know exactly what books I am referring to.” Her gaze hardens as she looks at you, and you decide to let the matter drop — pissing off this woman might be fun in the moment, but you’d rather not deal with the long term effects of it, for you are sure those will come if you aggravate her enough.

“The occult stuff? Yeah, sure. It sells better than you’d think it would, honestly.” Your tone is casual, hopeful that she'll leave now that she’s gotten her information.

“I see… do you plan on selling? Maybe going elsewhere? I know several people who’d adore to get their hands on such a historic piece of property.” She smiles that forced smile once again.

It is a good piece of property, you must admit. Old, very old, and tucked away in a charming corner of the historic district, preserved in a traditional style that makes it seem as if you’ve slipped back in time to days long forgotten.

“No, not at all. I love this little place. Besides, I doubt it would go for what it’s worth, considering the amount of upkeep that needs to be done.” You shrug at her; it’s a total lie, you’re pretty sure the place is in rather a good condition, but there’s no way you’re telling her that.

“How… how lovely for you. Say, my husband is the priest over at St. Benedict’s. He’s outside, one of his congregants called right before we came in. How about I have him come in and bless the place, bless you?” Joanna’s tone is sugary sweet as she presents her offer, and everything is beginning to make sense.

Of course she’s connected to the local parish of the Catholic Church, of course her presence here is for a larger purpose than simply gathering gossip for her bridge club. Reginald’s note flashes in your mind, his instructions to decline any such offer. You swallow, and you’re sure your discomfort is visible on your face.

“That’s kind of you, but no. Thank you, but no.” You stumble over your words, hoping she decides to cut her losses and leaves. Something about her offer has your skin crawling.

“Oh? Why?” Her concerned tone is very clearly fake and you’re starting to get antsy, although you can’t quite put into words why that is.

“I’m just not comfortable with that, I’m afraid. Perhaps you should leave now, if you’re not planning on buying anything. It was nice to meet you.” Your tone is firm and you’re sure she can tell that your polite words are hollow, that you'd rather have never met in the first place.

“Goodness! I’ll see myself out then.” She makes a tutting sound, clearly affronted at your dismissal, but thankfully she leaves without any fuss.

You watch her go, your body still tense and on edge. Letting out a shaky breath you didn’t realise you were holding, you peer out of the window and see her walking off with someone. Realistically, you'd known this sort of thing was bound to happen. You remember the odd occasion during your youth, where someone would come and argue with Uncle Reg about the shop’s presence in the district and its wares. One would have to be oblivious to not see that the contents of your shop is by and large considered transgressive by the masses, especially those of the Catholic persuasion. Which, in this city, is a good many people. It’s futile to hope that such an instant will never happen again, for you know it will.

But what truly confuses you, what truly has you baffled, is why your body had such a visceral reaction to the idea of the building, of yourself, being blessed by a Catholic priest. Something about it set off some innate and instinctive agitation that seems to be taking a while to fade away.

The swirling thoughts in your mind are so all-consuming, it’s not until they are stood right in front of you that you realise someone else has entered the store. Luckily, she is not Joanna Prescott, making a return to proselytise. No, the woman is younger, probably close to your own age, dressed in a habit and veil. One of the Sisters of Sin, you think, judging by the tailoring of her habit and the upside down crucifix. She’s smiling at you, firmly cementing your belief that she’s not another Catholic looking to absolve you of your sins.

“Hi, what can I do for you?” You return her smile with one of your own, albeit one that’s a little tired and worn.

“Hey! I’ve got something for you, actually.” She grins easily and hauls up a small hamper onto the counter. “It’s a ‘welcome to the neighbourhood’ type thing. I’m Sister Magdalene, by the way.”

“For me?” You query, a little surprised. While you’ve met Cardinal Copia and a few other clergy members, a welcome gift from their Church is unexpected.

"Yeah, totally! The Cardinal put it together, he’s a big fan of this place. He’s big into the books, that guy, and this really is the best place to get your hands on academic literature around here.” She explains, before giving you a sly look. “Guess he wants to be on good terms with the pretty girl who owns the place now, huh?”

“It'd be pretty hard for us to be on bad terms, considering all my business comes from your church — this place is not exactly popular with the rest of the locals.” You huff, still reeling a little from your earlier interaction, although a part of you is filled with delight at the Cardinal’s kind act; you cannot shift the pleased smile from your face.

“Getting trouble from the Jesus freaks already, huh?” Sister Magdalene sighs sympathetically. “That Prescott lady is a menace, I swear. I saw her down the street just a moment ago, and if looks could kill I’d totally be six feet under.”

“She was just in here, actually.” You say, glad to have someone to commiserate with a little, someone who gets it. “She wanted me to let her husband bless the place, if you’ll believe it.”

“Ugh, I hate that I’m not even surprised by that. Oh! I’m supposed to pick up a book for the Cardinal while I’m here, if you have it.” Quickly, she yanks a post-it off the hamper and thrusts it towards you; in an elegant script — strangely, it looks more like the antiquated style you’ve seen countless times on historic documents from centuries passed than someone's handwriting — someone has scrawled the title of a book, on the subject of black magicks during plague time.

“A bit of light reading, huh?” You quip dryly, as you pull up the database you’d spent hours painstakingly transferring to your own, far more modern, laptop.

“That’s the Cardinal for you! He’s like, insanely well read. I’ve been working as his assistant for a while now and like, he’s a pretty quiet guy, he’s shy, but he says the smartest things if you start talking about whatever intellectual thing he’s fixated on that day.” She laughs, leaning against the counter as you wander over to the stacks to pick out the heavy tome in question.

“Here — careful, it’s heavy — this is the one he wants. Are you paying for it now or did he want to settle up next time he’s here?” You’re a little breathless as you carefully heft the book into Magdalene’s arms.

“Erm, depends how much it is, actually. I’ve got like, a hundred quid on me, but he said if it’s any more than that he’ll have to pay up next time he’s here. The book was a last minute add on.” She shakes her head softly, as if that’s common behaviour from him.

You laugh with her and settle what you can, giving her a new post-it with the remaining balance due and a quickly scribbled thank you. Magdalene throws a quick goodbye over her shoulder and exits the shop as quickly as she arrived, tome tucked under her arm. With her exit, you check the time. Three in the afternoon. A perfectly acceptable time for closing the shop on a quiet Saturday, in your eyes. Locking the door and flipping the sign to closed, you grab your things and the hamper, and head up to your flat. You can’t help the soft smile upon your face as you place it down, ready to see what exactly Cardinal Copia had placed inside. He’d carefully arranged a few tea blends, a bottle of expensive looking whisky, and a tin of biscuits together inside the small hamper. The whole thing has you feeling all warm and fuzzy; moving thousands of miles away from your former life had meant leaving behind every single friend you’d had, and this small gesture, this simple gift, might be the most thoughtful thing someone has done for you in a good while. As you pull the items out, you come across a piece of heavy paper, expensive paper, lying at the bottom of the hamper.

Signorina,

A simple gift to welcome you back to the city, back to your shop. Please accept this as a humble token of thanks, for your acceptance and assistance, now and in future days.

May the Dark One bestow upon you riches beyond measure,

Cardinal Copia 

The feelings of warmth, the faint tingle of butterflies within your stomach, increases tenfold. Once again, you feel an odd desire to know more about the strange Cardinal who apparently loves to frequent your bookshop. Placing the note gently aside, you power on your laptop; it’s time to do some research. You’d been meaning to have a look into the details of the Church, considering they were your primary demographic of customer, and this is the perfect excuse to do so. And if your research just so happens to heavily focus on a certain high ranking figure, then so be it. After all, according to your ledgers, he’s the type to visit once or twice every single week — it’s important to know your customers well, right?

Unfortunately, your searches uncover incredibly little. The Church’s presence online is vague enough to avoid attracting too much controversy, while still staying true to their teachings and beliefs. You find that if one really wants to get good information on them, it has to be through official channels by making a formal request. You’d rather not let your clientele know you’re doing some heavy research into them, so you exit out of their site, dejected. There’s a few message boards and sub threads talking about the Church, specifically their ministry in your city, although most of the information seems to be speculation or rumours. None of them are particularly useful anyway, unless you were planning on seducing the current Papa Emeritus, which you most definitely are not. Switching search tactics, you begin to look into the Cardinal specifically. The results aren’t much different, simply references to him in the few publicly available church documents. Several pages deep in Google brings you to a selection of academic articles written by a Cardinal Copia, although you’re not entirely sure they are penned by the same Cardinal you’re looking into; three of the four were written around forty years prior and while you don’t know his exact age, you’re pretty sure he couldn’t have been old enough to be writing elaborate treatises on Satanic doctrine back then.

It’s futile, you realise, you won’t find anything. The sort of information you want will never be publicly available for all to see. You’ll have to learn about the Cardinal and his church via old fashioned methods — by actually talking to him.

You’re not asleep. You’re not entirely awake, but you’re not entirely lost in slumber either, stuck half way between two worlds. Sighing, you huddle deeper into your pit of blankets and pillows, willing your mind to drift away peacefully. It’s almost working, except for the irritating noise of indistinct chatter from outside your window. Uncle Reg clearly didn’t invest in double glazing, for the voices sound as if they’re right outside your home. You wonder what exactly they’re doing, at eleven o’clock of a night, wandering around the closed shopfronts of Convent Close. That troublesome realisation has you alert in seconds; there is no reason for anyone to be lurking in the streets, not moving on, at this hour. It’s a generally quiet road and there’s no nightlife in the surrounding streets, so why would people be gathered there, if not for some nefarious business? Ice cold fear shoots through your veins at the thought.

And then, the most awful, ear piercing, heart-wrenching shrieking starts. It’s coming from above and you know deep down that it has to be the ghoul. Finally, an indication it exists. You’d rather have gone on living with assumptions than cold fact. Your heart is beating a little too fast, you can barely catch your breath. The icy cold fear has given away to an unbearably itchy heat that is coursing through your veins. You need to leave, immediately.

Grabbing an old cardigan and a pair of trainers, your keys and your phone, you fly down the stairs, an instinctual need that you cannot comprehend screaming in your ears that you need to be outside. Hands shaking, you unlock the main door and fling yourself outside, only to come to an abrupt stop.

Standing in a semicircle, chanting in Latin, are several members of the Catholic congregation. God, did you slip into some shitty direct-to-VHS horror film?  They finish what seems to be their final phrase moments after you appear, and you glance around at them. Several are staring at you with mixed expressions, fear and apprehension, disgust and judgement. Joanna Prescott is there smirking while her husband, the priest, steps forward.

“What did you do?” You’re breathless, because something is wrong, they’ve done something, you know it, yet you can’t quite figure out what it is.

“My child, we’ve blessed the shop and its inhabitants — yourself — as you have asked.” Father Prescott intones, his voice solemn.

“I didn’t ask you to bless this place! I asked you not to do that! I said no!” You’re frantic, unable to catch a breath, your body feels as if someone has taken a match to it and is burning you, you are igniting internally and it hurts.

“I… this I did not know.” He looks baffled, glancing sideways at his wife who simply stands her ground, looking oddly pleased with herself and her eyes glinting with spite. “My… apologies, I suppose. Be well, know that the Lord is with you, child.”

The group leaves with little fuss, as if gathering in the night to bless a bookshop is a regular occurrence for them. How easily they leave. You can still hear the shrieking of the ghoul in the attic — it’s faint, but you can hear his agony, the pain he’s in, you can feel it yourself. You’re shaking, you realise. It’s not that a cold night — even if it was, you’re wrapped up in your sweatpants and thick cardigan — but your whole body is trembling. Something is wrong.

The note flashes in your mind. The Cardinal should be able to help, if any problems arise. This is a problem, right? His phone number is somewhere inside, you know that. It’s late, he might not answer his phone, but you have to try, because the dread is rising and you’re on fire and a part of you thinks you might actually die, and you don’t know how this ghastly sensation could have possibly been the outcome of something so minor as a Catholic blessing.

It takes you a moment to force yourself back inside. Those instincts, strange instincts you’ve never felt before, feel innately as if re-entering the shop will make everything even more excruciating. Swallowing deeply, you push yourself to enter. It’s harrowing, the fear is increasing, the pain is rising, and you’ve never been convinced that spontaneous combustion is a real phenomena but you’re sure that if you spend another five minutes within this building that you’ll finally have proof of it, but what use is proof of such things when it is your own self ablaze? You tear through the pages of one of the ledgers, the one you know contact details for the Cardinal and his church lie. Upon finding it, you rip the page straight out — you cannot stay another second, you cannot bear it — and rush back outside. As soon as your body is out that door way the inferno inside of you lessens some, the fire is still searing and painful, but you are no longer convinced that you’ll become a human torch in a matter of moments. Your hands will not stop trembling and it takes a few tries to key the correct number into your phone. It rings, for what feels like hours but cannot be more than a handful of seconds, before the line picks up.

“Pronto.” You’ve never been so grateful to hear someone answer the phone, never been so relieved to hear another person’s voice.

“Cardinal! It’s — it’s me, the new owner of the bookshop?” Your voice is raspy, you're short of breath, you can hear the edge of desperation clearly. “Sorry to bother you and all, but Uncle Reg said you’d know what to do if something went wrong. There’s a — something happened.”

“Are you safe?” His accented voice immediately sounds concerned.

“Something’s wrong. A priest was here, a Catholic one, he blessed the place — I didn’t want them to do it, I knew it would cause trouble, but they did it anyway and proved me right in the process — and now there’s this horrible screaming, the energy of the shop feels wrong, as if something terrible is going to happen in there, I feel like I’m on fire, like I’ve been burning since they blessed me —” You’re rambling, you cannot stop, the panic is reaching peak heights.

“Will you permit us to perform a ritual, Signorina? If we come now, this very moment?” The Cardinal cuts you off abruptly, a clear sense of agita to his tone of voice.

“Yes! Please, I need whatever those fuckers did to be undid. Apologies for the language.” You’re breathless, you can barely think straight, but a sense of relief tempers some of the panic at Copia’s understanding of your situation, his willingness to help.

“I am a worshipper of the Dark One, Signorina, swear and sin all you like. Papa and I will be there shortly, twenty minutes. We will fix this problem, do not worry.” His voice is calm, so unlike your own, imbued with a sense of authority.

He hangs up the call. Twenty minutes. You can make it twenty minutes, you will make it twenty minutes. You slide down the wall, planting yourself on the cold cobblestones and leaning yourself against the building. The cool structure does not help the flaming embers inside of you, the feelings of inherent wrongness coursing through your veins.

You close your eyes, still shaking, and wait.

Chapter Text

It could have been hours or seconds. It’s probably been neither, just the twenty minutes you were promised. One moment, you’re alone, waiting. The next, you can feel watchful eyes on you, smell the heavy scent of incense. Your eyes flicker open, blinking rapidly. It’s hard, to focus on anything other than the scorching heat that you think might be from your very soul smouldering and smoking. There’s two figures there in front of you, one more familiar than the other. The Cardinal is here, wearing a deep red cassock, his strange white eye luminescent in the dark. A few feet behind him is a man in opulent papal robes, which would probably be the most striking thing about him if it wasn’t for the skull painted onto his face. He must be Papa. Really, being alone in the night at the mercy of men who look so intimidating should be terrifying. Instead, you feel relief. You try to push yourself off the cool cobblestones, but your body feels weak, so weak. The Cardinal steps closer, his gloved hands gentle as he takes your arms and helps you carefully to your feet. You smile weakly at him, thankful. The other man steps forward and the two exchange a meaningful look; it’s not clear what conclusion they’ve come to, but you’re aware they’ve reached one.

“You give your permission for a ritual, Signorina? This will help. First you, then the shop.” Cardinal Copia murmurs softly, still standing close to you, watching you closely with his mismatched stare.

You cannot form the words, you simply nod rapidly, desperately needing the relief he’s promising. He pulls out a vial, its contents dark and viscous. There’s a metallic smell as he pulls the stopper out, and you’re almost certain it’s blood. From what, or from who, you are unsure. Seemingly ready, he nods to himself. Quiet, so quiet that you can barely hear him, he begins to mutter underneath his breath in Latin. Mostly words you recognise, but your brain refuses to translate. You watch on, unable to tear your eyes away from his intense stare. His speech is rapid, you’re unable to make out much of it, your energies focused on trying to breathe, on remaining upright. His gloved left palm comes up to gently rest on your forehead as he continues his chanting, your breath hitches. The rising flames within you are beginning to ebb away, no longer threatening to consume you. The Cardinal removes his cool touch from your head, not breaking eye contact. You’re not sure if either of you have even blinked once. Out the corner of your eye you see him dip a gloved finger in the vial. He lifts his hands to your head once more, this time dragging a wet finger down your forehead to form an upside down cross. The rapid Latin stops, his hand lingers. You swallow deeply, eyes finally fluttering shut for a moment. The flames are gone, regular breathing has resumed, the bonfire of your soul has been quenched. Opening your eyes once more, you see the Cardinal has not moved an inch, still observing you.

“Better now, yes?” He murmurs, almost inaudible.

“Yes. Yes, thank you.” Your voice is raspy as you speak.

Satisfied, he steps back once more, joining the man with the painted face and ornamental robes who you realise has been observing you carefully this whole time, a calculating look upon his face. His eyes, you suddenly realise, are like the Cardinal’s — strikingly mismatched. You smile at him shyly; if he is the man you’ve assumed him to be, the head of the Church, this is not how you’d have liked to meet him. After all, you’re all sweaty and gross and acting a little crazy. And that doesn’t even include the fact that you’re dressed in your tried and true ratty old sweats, tank top, and cardigan combo that really shouldn’t be seen by anyone other than yourself. Especially considering how the two are stood dressed in their opulent robes, robes you just know were designed and tailored specifically for them. Awkwardly, you wrap the cardigan a little tighter around your body, trying to cover up exactly how low cut your tank top is.

“It’s nice to meet you, bookshop girl. I am Papa Emeritus III. You will call me Papa, yes?” The man with a painted skull face, Papa, gives you a devilish grin. “Now, tell us what happened, with the details, per favore.”

Nodding, you give the pair the rundown on the events of the night. While their expressions are difficult to read, you can see Papa’s eyebrows raise slightly at the mention of the ghoul in your attic, and Copia’s bewildered frown at your description of the pyretic heat that had overtaken your body. You know that your words are rambling, everything you say sounding vaguely nonsensical. Hell, that’s because it is nonsensical. As you trail off, having said all there is to say, having said all that you’ve been able to comprehend of this odd little evening, the two men exchange yet another look. You don’t understand what it is they’ve taken from your words, but you know inherently that there’s no use asking. It’s unlikely they’d tell you. Papa gives you another warm smile and gently taps your arm, asking for a moment before pulling the Cardinal aside.

“...Non avevi detto che non era una membra della Chiesa?” Papa’s voice is low, rapid, you only catch pieces. You don’t speak Italian well, not well enough to pick up anything at the speed in which he spits out his words, not when your brain is still trying to piece itself back together after the strange occurrence of the last hour.

“Non lei è! Lei…” Cardinal Copia responds quietly, and you notice him glance over at you. Averting your eyes, you glance down at your shoes, not wanting to look as if you’re trying to listen in.

“È lei umana?” Papa scoffs, trailing off as he’s tone turns pensive. “Allora perché...”

“Non lo so, amico, non lo so.” The Cardinal replies sounding equally as deep in thought, and you wonder what about your situation has merited such an intense sounding discussion. You wonder if you’ve done something wrong, if there’s reason to be concerned. Perhaps you should’ve continued on with Italian classes. However, it seems as if that is the end of their private conversation.

“One thousand apologies for our rudeness, cara mia. Now, I will do the ritual on the shop, yes? You should pay close attention. Il Cardinale is a scholar, yes, but me? I am an artist.” Papa descends towards you, his robes sweeping effortlessly as he moves.

You smile gratefully at him, positioning yourself so that you’ll be able to observe the ritual once it commences. Now that you’re slowly returning to normal, now that your brain is no longer alight and the smoke is slowly retreating, things are coming back into focus. The academic in you is curious to see such a ritual in person, especially performed by Papa himself. Your uncle had attended rituals back in the day. He’d told you about all them, promised to take you when you were no longer a child. He’d never had the opportunity. So then perhaps it’s fitting that your first ritual is taking place at your uncle’s shop, despite the unfortunate circumstances that facilitated such a need for one. The Cardinal hands Papa the vial he’d used during your own ritual, before walking back to stand beside you. You’re struck by just how wonderful he smells, heady incense and old leather. It’s curious, just how conscious you are of his presence, how his arm is inches away from your own.

“You look better now, hm?” He murmurs to you, catching you off guard. You glance up at him quickly, wondering what exactly he means, and he rushes to clarify himself. “I mean — I could see it, in your eyes, that things were amiss, yes? Now, you look calm. You no longer feel the fire.”

“Yeah. Thank you, for helping, for rushing down here, so late at night.” Your voice is soft as you glance away from his penetrating stare to watch as Papa prepares to start his ritual, feeling heat rising on your cheeks.

“There is no need for thanks. Of course I — we — would offer our help to you. You did not ask for this to happen, no? But it happens because of us. Now, Papa is about to begin. His approach to the performance of rituals is far different to mine, I think.” The Cardinal tells you, his voice equally as quiet, and you feel him turn his gaze away from you to watch the anti-Pope in action.

Indeed, he is correct. Papa glances back, clearly wanting to ensure he has a captive audience for his ritual. Satisfied, he begins. The Cardinal is right once more, for the two do differ massively in style, you think. Papa’s ritual begins quietly, at first. Soft words in Latin as he stands unwavering in front of the shop entrance. His arms slowly raising as his volume slowly increases, from a murmur to chant, enunciating clearly. Hopefully his chanting isn’t loud enough to disturb the neighbours; you aren’t sure how you’d ever explain the events of your evening to anyone other than the two men here with you. You catch words here and there, aware that he’s calling upon the Dark One, asking him for assistance in driving out that which is pure and holy. Quickly, his arms drop down. Grabbing the vial from its perch on the window sill, Papa’s moves are reminiscent of the Cardinal’s, albeit with extra flourishes and embellishments; he dips in his index finger and begins to carefully smear the viscous content into various symbols upon the door frame. Narrowing your eyes, you try to make out what exactly they are, but you do not recognise their meanings. The dull yellow street lighting is not conducive for reading dark symbols hiding in shadows.

“The cryptograms break down the light’s godly protections, calling for return of the dark energies. A little more complex, but a better fix; they will not be able to do a similar act so easily.” The Cardinal speaks to you in undertones, as to not distract Papa; was he paying that close attention to you to register your curiosities, even now?

Moments later, the ritual is seemingly done. Papa turns to face you both with a dramatic flourish, satisfied smirk on his face. He reaches behind him for the door, pushing it open and gesturing for you to follow him inside. Upon entering you realise you can no longer hear the ghoul howling, which is a relief. But you can still hear movement from upstairs, as if someone is storming around the upper floors. It’s vaguely disconcerting; you’ve never heard the ghoul make noise before now. Not a single peep. Papa does a sweep of the shop floor, his fingertips trailing along the shelves closest to him as he looks around. You stand by the entrance, observing him. It’s almost laughable, seeing a man like Papa roam around your shop. He seems almost out of place, with his elaborate Papal robes. It’s so unlike seeing Cardinal Copia in the store. He blends in with the place, you realise. It’s as if he belongs here. You glance over at him, standing a few feet away from you and looking at a heavy tome with interest. Papa hums loudly, dragging you away from your observations of the Cardinal.

“Your shop and your books are all fine now, you see? Papa never fails to perform, in any capacity.” He winks at you playfully, and you can’t help but crack a smile at his innuendo.

“I appreciate it, seriously. I cannot thank you enough for coming to help, I owe you both big time.” You sigh, an edge of tiredness colouring your voice. This night has been insane, unbelievable, and you’re still trying to figure out exactly how you ended up with the anti-Pope himself in your shop. “You’re both totally getting the friends-and-family discount here for life.”

“Ah, Papa is not one for the books, cara mia, I myself am not entirely convinced he knows how to read.” The Cardinal’s tone is droll as he glances over at his companion, before he turns to you with a more sincere expression in his distinctive gaze. “But please, you owe us nothing, fret not.”

“Vai al diavolo, Cardinale.” Papa makes an obscene gesture with his hands, before beckoning you closer to him. You obediently cross the room, hoisting yourself up to sit on the counter next to him. “Now, I have a question for you, before I tend to your angry little attic ghoul; how was your childhood? Ordinary, or demonic?”

“I’m sorry?” You let out a shocked laugh at his words, which seem so out of left field. What does your childhood have to do with anything that’s happened here tonight?

You glance towards Cardinal Copia, who steps forward with his hands raised placatingly. He shoots the other man a vaguely annoyed glare, seemingly frustrated at the lack of tact in his phrasing. But then, you suppose a man like Papa doesn’t need to be tactful, not when he possesses such authority.

“I think what Papa means to say is this; humans who do not dabble in the Satanic arts should not have such a… severe reaction, to the devil being cast out of their soul. Your reaction was most unusual for someone unaffiliated with the Dark One, someone who is not demonic in nature. You are surrounded by vessels of His knowledge, that is true, but even this would not have such an effect on one’s soul.” There’s an inquisitive edge to his tone, as if he’s desperate for you to provide some kind of answer to his unspoken questions. Unfortunately, you have none.

“I mean, the only weird thing about my childhood is the amount of time I spent in this bookshop, as far as I can recall. My mother had me young, my father wasn’t present, so my uncle was on babysitting duty. I went off to boarding school at thirteen, and that was it as far as a Satanic presence in my life.” You respond slowly, brows furrowing as you cast your mind back to those hazy days long gone. It was a normal — albeit slightly unconventional — childhood, was it not?

Papa's eyes light up — you could swear his white eye was actually glowing slightly — as if he has a brilliant idea, as if he’s figured it out. “Did your mother ever — hm, how to put this — fuck a demon, around time of conception?”

You blink rapidly, waiting for some kind of punchline to whatever bizzaro joke this is supposed to be, but none comes. He’s not kidding, it seems. Another cursory glance at Cardinal Copia confirms this; while he looks resigned at his superior’s continued lack of sensitivity, he does not seem surprised by the question.

“Um, probably not. She’s very Catholic. Hated this place, I was only ever allowed here because she didn’t want to pay for childcare. Besides, I’d probably know if that were the case, right?” You run a hand through your hair, pushing it back and sighing. You don’t exactly like thinking about your mother, about your fraught relationship with her.

“Eh, maybe, you’d be surprised.” Papa shrugs, deflating slightly. He does not elaborate further.

A loud bang sounds from the attic, drawing your attention back to the fact that your attic ghoul may or may not still be struggling with the effects of tonight’s encounter with the local Catholic congregation. You push yourself off the counter as Papa rolls his sleeves up slightly.

“Andiamo. Let me go see about your ghoul, sì? Then I must go — I have an engagement with Sister Delilah that cannot be pushed back any longer.” He raises an eyebrow saucily and gestures for you to lead the way. As you reach the first floor, he steps in front of you, blocking the attic stairs from you and the Cardinal.

“Perfetto. Now, I deal with this. You, go have a drink together.” He instructs with great zeal, pointing a gloved hand towards the door of your flat as he practically shoos you off and away.

“Papa, I —” Cardinal Copia begins to protest, and you watch his eyes frantically flit between yourself and Papa.

“No, no, mio Cardinal. You work too much, you need to have some fun, indulge for once.” Papa points towards the man in question with a wide grin, before turning his gaze towards you. “And you, you need someone to make sure that there is no more of the fire burning inside you. So drinks for you both, e forse anche una scopata veloce, sì?”

Whatever he quips in Italian clearly startles the Cardinal; you glance over to see him blushing furiously, looking intently away to the doorframe. You shoot Papa a curious look, but he simply smiles knowingly as he gestures once more towards your flat. Thanking him once more, you push open the door and show Cardinal Copia into your flat.

“You drink whisky? It’s that or cheap vodka that tastes like lighter fluid.” You ask as he stands in the doorway, shoulders tense and cheeks still tinged red. Does he not want to be here, is he uncomfortable at practically being ordered to sit in your flat? Is he just shy? It’s hard to tell.

He gives you a slight nod, so you grab the expensive looking bottle he’d had delivered to you the day before. It’ll be nice to have someone to share a drink with, rather than drinking alone for once. You watch him as his eyes roam over the spartan decor of your undecorated flat, and something about it makes you feel ever so self conscious. Getting the bookshop in order has given you precious little free time to devote to your living situation; the only aspect of yourself visible in the main room is a throw blanket hanging off the side of the sofa.

“I’m still figuring out how I’m decorating this place, so it’s a little… I don’t know. Uh, here, let me grab some glasses.” You flash an awkward smile, placing the bottle down on the coffee table with a little too much force before whirling back around to grab glasses from the kitchen; you’re nervous, you realise, you’re nervous about being in your flat with the Cardinal and you don’t quite understand why. He’s still standing as you return, and you drop yourself onto the sofa, looking up at his tense frame. “Sit, please. Make yourself comfortable.”

He acquiesces, carefully settling down next to you. You’ve never noticed quite how narrow the seats of this old sofa are, but as you both sit there, angled towards each other, knees inches apart, you can’t help but fixate on his closeness. Cardinal Copia’s eyes are laser focused on you, and it’s almost impossible to keep your hands steady as you pour out the drinks. Something about the closeness of his gaze thrills you. The only sound is your shallow breathing, the whisky glugging as it waterfalls from the bottle into the glasses. Placing the bottle down, you grab both glasses, each filled with a generous pour, and hand one to him. His gloved fingers brush against your own, lingering for a moment longer than necessary. Your breath hitches slightly and you tear your eyes from your hands to look up at him; he’s watching you so intently, you think you might ignite once more. But it’s a different heat, a familiar one, softly lighting in the pit of your stomach. He raises the glass to his mouth, still surveying you. It’s too much; you look down at your glass in your hands, overwhelmed.

“How are you feeling?” He finally asks of you, and you don’t need to see him to know the exact concerned edge that features in his gaze.

“Normal. A little tired, I suppose. Is there really a chance that, uh, the ritual didn’t work, that the awful feelings from before could come back?” Your eyes finally raise to look at him once more; you’d thought everything would be fine, but Papa’s implications have you a little concerned.

“No.” He gives a small shake of his head.

“Then why…” You contemplate aloud, more to yourself than to him, leaving your question hanging.

“Papa’s actions make sense only to himself.” Cardinal Copia answers with a long suffering sigh, swirling the whisky around his glass.

“I see.” You don’t; a part of you wants to ask him what else Papa has done to elicit such a response, but perhaps it’s best to move on, for you do not want to frustrate the Cardinal further.

At least he seems to be relaxing some, the tension easing out of his shoulders as the two of you sit there together. A comfortable silence settles between you, as you steal glances at him over sips of fine whiskey. You can feel warmth radiating from his body, inches away from yours. The little voice in the back of your mind, the one that dreams up your most audacious ideas, contemplates leaning over, closing that gap and kissing him. Heat pools in your core at that idea, of your lips against his. You need to redirect yourself, quickly, before your exhausted mind decides it’s a good idea and actually does it.

“Been up to anything interesting lately?” You hope he doesn’t sense the slightly desperate edge to your voice as you attempt to drown out your more uncouth impulses.

“Most of my time has been spent on translating works for church, big tomes of ritual prayer. That, and paperwork.” He exhales, and you wonder if he too sounds a little relieved that the silence between you has been broken.

“There’s a lot of paperwork involved in being a follower of the Dark One? How disappointing.” You quip, your mind instantly conjuring an image of Papa sitting in front of a paper strewn desk — an image that seems more than a little farcical. You can far more easily imagine the Cardinal at a desk piled high with documents and tomes, scribbling away at his papers.

“Mountains of it, cara mia. They leave that out of the moral panic, hm? In reality there’s far more paperwork than there is ritual sacrifice.” He raises an eyebrow and you giggle at the idea of Joanna Prescott condemning such mundane documents as disgustingly sinful.

“So your days are dreadfully boring then?” You’re genuinely curious about his job and his life, about him.

You want to know him, as much as you can truly know another person. And, terrifyingly, you want him to know you. You want to be known by him, in every way fathomable.

You aren’t sure where these thoughts keep coming from. You’re shattered, it’s late, you’re drinking on an empty stomach, you’re lonely. Such reasons might explain exactly why these feelings are making themselves known, right? Except, you know yourself well enough to understand that these are not simply thoughts of a tired and lonesome state of mind. You force yourself to stay present, to not let yourself be distracted by such traitorous thoughts.

“Eh, not always. For example, I’ve had two rather intriguing visits to this very bookshop. I even got to perform a ritual. I am no Papa, but tell me, was I any good?” At this, he leans forward, expectant. You feel warm; heat rising on your cheeks, heat pooling in the pit of your stomach with a greater intensity.

“Am I the best person to judge, considering how woefully undereducated I am in the art of ritual performance?” Your tone is teasing, bordering on flirtatious, leaning forward slightly yourself. You hope desperately that he’s not paying close enough attention to notice exactly how you shift in your seat, pressing your thighs closer together.

“Perhaps I simply value your opinion.” He tilts his head slightly, a small grin dancing upon his lips. You desperately fight the urge to shift closer to him, to capture his lips with yours, to discover exactly how he tastes.

“Well, the ritual worked. And it was… compelling, to witness it. I’d rate your work pretty highly.” Your words are sincere, you’d been mesmerised as he worked, entranced by his eyes. The whole thing had been entirely ineffable, indescribable, a religious experience.

“Grazie mille for your approval.” He gleams, his eyes aglow at your approval.

You have to look away, to look back down at the near empty glass in your hands, lest you do something you’ll regret.

“Might I ask you a question?” He asks, a few moments later. His tone has shifted to a more reserved, reticent one. Any sense of flirtation has been swept away by a hesitant curiosity, it seems.

“Go for it.” You wonder what he possibly could want to know.

“You do not have to answer, I will not be offended. But, you mentioned before that you left all this behind, never to return, as a girl. Why?” It’s clear to see that he means no harm, there’s only genuine curiosity present in his words. Still, you’re unsure why your youth seems to be so significant, for it to have been brought up twice in short succession.

“It’s okay, I don’t mind answering. I don’t know the details, honestly. My mother and my uncle had this major fight, she wanted nothing more to do with him, and that was that. She wouldn’t even speak his name after that. I reckon it was over their differing religious beliefs or something, she always thought he was indoctrinating me into a baby Satanist.” Your tone is casual as flashes of memories cross your mind; your mother yelling, being bundled away from the shop and told you’d never be returning, the plane journey to a boarding school you’d never heard of.

“You probably would have been an adorable baby Satanist, cara mia, I’ve no doubt of it.” He’s smiling at you once more and fuck, maybe it’s the fact that you’ve not gotten any in an embarrassingly long time, but you want him desperately.

These emotions you’re feeling, they’ve come on so suddenly it’s like whiplash. You want to blame it on the vulnerability of your situation tonight, but you know that isn’t the case. You’d been interested in him, fixated on the idea of him, since his unexpected arrival in your shop.

“Hah, I was hardly practising — I’d read a prayer of devotion to the Dark One out of a book every now and again, but that was all.” You laugh, following your words with a large yawn. A glance at the clock tells you it’s almost one in the morning; way past your bed time, now that you’re a (supposedly) responsible adult. As fatigued as you are, you don’t want the Cardinal to leave, you want to stay in this moment with him until dawn.

“Ah, you are exhausted. I will go, let you sleep.” His smile softens, and you could swear you saw his hand twitch, as if he’d considered reaching out to touch you but changed his mind. Perhaps you are sleepier than you thought.

Exhaling quietly, you rise from your comfortable position and walk the Cardinal downstairs to the front door. He opens it, but he lingers, as if he would rather not leave, as if he wants to stay. You’re reading into it, you think, the fatigue mixed with yearning creating cruel illusions within your mind, taunting you.

“Good night, Cardinal.” Your voice is barely above a whisper.

“You do not have to call me by my title, you know. After all, I’m not your Cardinal, am I?” His tone is light, teasing.

No, he’s not your Cardinal. But god, you want him to be.

“Good night then, Copia.” You can’t help but smile at him as he steps into the night.

“Sleep well. Do call, if you need anything.” Within moments, he’s gone, fading into the darkness.

You trudge back up the stairs to bed, a secret smile dancing upon your lips. As you slip beneath the warm covers, dragged almost instantly into dreams, you can’t help but think of a certain Cardinal. But this time, you’re not dreaming of his enthralling stare. No, as you slip away into the nothingness, you dream of Copia’s lips upon yours.

Chapter Text

To your immense relief, Copia had been correct; in the week following your run in with Father Prescott and his so-called blessings, your life has been totally and completely normal. Well, perhaps normal is an exaggeration. You’re not sure if there’s anything particularly normal about owning a used bookshop that caters exclusively to the occultists and satanists and enjoyers of the esoteric. Regardless, the blazing inferno ignited by Catholic blessings has not returned. The Prescott’s and their congregants have stayed far away from your property. The attic ghoul has returned to his usual act of existing in complete silence. You are starting to fall into a comfortable rhythm here, figuring out your new reality. Perhaps it is a little more insulated than you’d accounted for, your time mostly spent in the confines of your shop, your company consisting solely of customers. But you found it rather charming, to spend your days surrounded by old books and saturated in the nostalgia of your past. You’d not realised how greatly you missed this place. You’d not realised that a part of yourself had been lost when your mother tore you from your home. There’s a great joy in reconnecting with your past beliefs, reconstructing your worldview amongst the literature. This is how you’ve spent your time.

Well, perhaps that’s not entirely true. You’ve spent a significant amount of time — an embarrassing amount of time — thinking about a certain Cardinal. Something about your encounter with him the week before has left you more than a little flustered. There was something so hypnotic, so enthralling, about him that night. A part of you, a large part of you, is hideously attracted to him. You’re well aware of the fact that you barely know anything about him. He’s oddly mysterious; you’re intrigued by that quiet demeanour of his; for it does little to cover the fact that there’s far more to him, a barely restrained energy lurking under the surface.

You’ve seen Copia twice, since that night. Both occasions have been brief meetings, over far too soon. He had stopped by for heavy tomes on ritual magicks, with a deep tiredness haunting his visage. You are sure that if he removed the black paint from under his eyes in those moments, dark rings would still be present, a lingering gift from his sleepless nights. The ministry has him working all hours, it seems, translating endless texts for endless occasions. During both your interactions, he had been apologetic regarding their brevity. He had stood at the counter, anxiety radiating from him, watching you pull books for him off the overstacked shelves. Each time, he had taken the books from you with a devout reverence, wished you well, and left. Each time, you’d selfishly wished for more. You want so much more from him than pleasantries exchanged over books.

This is the strain of bothersome thoughts plaguing you tonight. You’re curled up on the sofa, the coffee table beside you strewn with various volumes and dictionaries. It’s taken a while, but you’ve finally dug out the Latin demonology texts and some of the more specialised dictionaries. Translating from Latin to English is something you’ve never particularly enjoyed, but you’re finding it especially difficult considering your Latin classes tended to focus on the more commonplace topics. Hours have passed, with little to show for your efforts and no new information revealed. Groaning loudly in frustration, you flop back against your seat as you consider simply giving up for the night. A vibration from the table startles you, and you knock the book from your lap onto the floor with a loud bang. Your phone is ringing, you realise, somewhere underneath the various open texts upon the table. Scrambling around, you answer the call without checking the number; who would be calling so late on a Friday without a good reason?

“Ah, cara mia, thank you for answering; I know it’s late.” A softly accented voice is on the other end of the line and your heart skips a beat — it’s Copia calling.

“Copia, hello. It’s no problem, what’s going on?” You can’t help the smile spreading across your cheeks, even if you’re pretty sure he’s calling to talk shop. The interactions you’ve had with him have proven that Copia wouldn’t know a work-life balance if it hit him in the face, so you doubt he’s calling just for the sake of having a chat.

“I was perhaps wondering if you have a specific text within your collection. We’re having a slight situation here, and — chiudi quella cazzo di bocca, Terzo. Sto cercando di risolvere il problema, il problema che avete causato voi!” You can barely hear someone on the other end mumbling something, and you’re surprised when Copia muffles his speaker slightly to yell at them. Clearly, whatever has happened over at the church has irritated him greatly. “Apologies for the interruption.”

“It’s all good. What’s the book?” You reply, trying not to laugh at the chaos. He rattles off a long phrase in French, the frustration evident in his tone, and you put the phone down for a second to search the shop’s database. “Yes, I’ve got a copy here. Do you need it, like, now? I can bring it over to you, if you want.”

You glance at the time on your laptop. It’s a little late, but the ministry is only a short walk away. Some fresh air might ease your mounting exasperation with your translations. And, well, you’ll take whatever excuse to see him again, even if he’s all pissed off about god knows what.

“You’d do that?” There’s relief evident in his voice, and you get the sense that he’s pleasantly surprised by your offer.

“Oh, totally. Anything for my most favourite of customers.” You can’t help the edge of flirtation creeping into your words.

“You are far too kind.” He chuckles slightly. “I’ll see you at the ministry, very soon, yes?”

You reply with an affirmative, before hanging up. You’re going to the ministry, to see Copia. An odd, nervous excitement is building within you, as if you’re a teenage girl going on her first date once more. It’s ridiculous, it is, you’re simply delivering a book. In all likelihood, you’ll exchange nothing more than a few words before leaving quickly after. This is not a big deal, this is business.

Regardless, you take a quick moment to change into something slightly more stylish than sweatpants, to fix your hair a little.

The book in question is an easy enough find, nestled in amongst a selection of hefty old books on one of the lower shelves. You grab it, wincing at what seem to be minute bite marks around the edges of the cover. Like most of the older buildings in this part of the city, rats were a common visitor to your little shop. You don’t mind the little creatures — that’s not to say you particularly like them, but they don’t scare the living shit out of you — but you’d rather they didn’t eat at your books, especially ones such as Copia has requested. The book he wants is already incredibly old, so a certain level of deterioration is expected, but you’d rather not have to explain that it’s also been used as a rat chew toy in more recent days. Sighing, you shove the book into your tote bag and move to unlock the door.

It’s then you notice the flyers that have been unceremoniously shoved through your letter box. You pull them out, noting that they’re all the exact same. At first, you’re a little confused as to why someone would shove six of the same flyer into your door. But actually reading it, it makes total sense. They’re not professionally made, someone’s shit graphic design printed onto a glossy photo paper. It’s a badly photoshopped design; bold bright letters demanding, ‘NO MORE SATANISTS IN OUR DISTRICT!’ and an image of Papa behind prison bars. The underneath text — written in clashing colours that hurt to read — informs you that Joanna Prescott is behind it, urging the reader to contact her to join in on future protests and bids to move the Satanic Church and associated businesses out of the area. In all honesty, it makes you laugh. Was it supposed to be an intimidation tactic? A threat, a warning? Did her lackey — you doubt Joanna went out posting these herself — get the wrong door?

Dropping the flyers unceremoniously into the rubbish bin, you lock up the shop and head north towards the ministry. You shove off any thoughts about the Prescott’s and their campaign. Instead, childlike excitement is coursing through your veins at the idea of getting to enter the gothic inspired building the ministry is housed in; you’d walked by countless times in your youth, always wanting to enter but always being dragged away by your mother. It’s a quick walk, motivated by curiosity and a desire to see Copia once more, you’re there ten minutes later. Dark architecture and intricate stained glass window panes loom over you. Your breath hitches. As you start to make your way up the path to the entrance, you notice a familiar figure leaning against the door, grinning at you.

“Hi, Sister Magdalene, right?” You smile back at her, slightly breathless.

“You can drop the ‘Sister’ part, just call me Magdalene. Anyway, thank Lucifer you’ve arrived — I’ve been watching the Cardinal and Papa yell at each other about this book for two fucking hours. You know how badly you’ve got to piss off the Cardinal for him to stop repressing his rage and start yelling at you?” Magdalene groans dramatically, yanking the door open and gesturing for you to enter. You have to admit, you can’t really imagine Copia embroiled in a screaming match.

“Seriously?” She laughs at the look of disbelief upon your face as you walk together down the winding corridors. The ministry’s interior looks both exactly and nothing like you’d expected it to. It’s a lot brighter than you’d pictured, warm lighting colouring the walls. But the gothic architectural influences are deeply present, with classical art work and more stained glass windows lining the walls. You adore it.

“Oh yeah.” She whistles lowly, shaking her head. “I’ll save you all the details, but Papa is a fucking idiot who tossed the church’s copy of that book into a fire place, so naturally everything went to shit. Turns out it’s the only book to contain this one specific ritual, a ritual that they’ve been planning to have performed at tonight’s mass for months.”

“Shit, sounds like a fun evening.” You say dryly and she elbows you playfully in the ribs.

Rounding another corner, you begin to hear the muffled sounds of frenetic and frustrated Italian ahead of you. As you approach one of the rooms, coming to a halt outside a wooden door, the ferocity of the argument inside becomes clearer to your ears. Whatever the two voices are arguing about, it seems intense.

“Fucking hell, they’re still going.” Magdalene complains, groaning slightly. “You should just go in there, giving the Cardinal the book should shut them up. I’m just going to go — well, anywhere other than here. I cannot be arsed with them right now. See ya!”

Before you can say anything, aghast that the Sister is leaving you to fend for yourself amongst the fighting, Magdalene leaves, practically scurrying off down the corridor. You’re left stood in front of the door, tote bag in hand and eyes wide. Shaking your head, you pull out the heavy tome and push the door open. There’s no point in knocking; you doubt either party will hear you.

Surely enough, you enter the room to see the Cardinal and Papa stood on opposing sides, both shouting and gesturing widely with their hands. They’re shouting over each other, and you have to wonder if they’re even listening to a single word the other is saying. Neither even seem to notice your arrival, and you doubt you’ll be able to get a word in edgeways to try and break up whatever is going on. You watch for a moment, paying close attention to the rage radiating off Copia, the ire in his voice. It’s oddly attractive, distracting you from the matter at hand momentarily. Shaking off the feelings of desire, you take a moment to assess the situation. You’ve walked into a large office, elaborately decorated and sinfully ornate; a couch and coffee table near the door, the desk centred between stained glass windows, a fireplace in the corner. It’s a lovely room, truly, but as the anger of its occupants seems only to increase with every passing second, you switch your focus away from the decor and towards putting a stop to the fight. Still unnoticed, you step over to the coffee table and slam the heavy tome down. The loud — and rather satisfying — thud it makes manages to stun both men into silence as they whip around to face you. You stand, sheepish, giving them a slight wave.

“Ah, bookshop girl! Benvenuto!” Papa grins widely as he opens his arms welcomingly towards you, whatever frustrations he’d previously felt seeming to completely seep away. You’re not entirely sure he actually knows your name.

“Evening, Papa. Copia, I’ve got your book. This one isn’t going to end up on fire, is it?” You attempt to crack a joke, acutely aware of the tension in the room. While Papa’s demeanour has completely relaxed, you can see that Copia is not so easily placated.

“No, it will not. Terzo, pay her for the book.” His jaw is clenched tightly as he glares at Papa.

“Eh, just send a bill to the church, cara.” Papa waves off the comment, until he looks back at Copia.

The Cardinal’s eyes are downright dangerous, his green eye darkened, the white practically glowing. It’s chilling and yet you can’t look away, heat pooling in your stomach. While you might be slightly aroused at the sight, Papa clearly is not — he instead grabs a chequebook off the desk and begins to scribble in it, before ripping the cheque out and thrusting it towards you. Your eyes widen as you take in the number written, it’s at least double what the book is worth, but he laughs off your shocked expression as if it were nothing. This action seems to finally mollify Copia, who walks over to you, his eyes softening.

“I am deeply grateful for your assistance here, thank you.” He says, his voice gentle as he picks the tome up carefully with his gloved hands. He is stood close enough that you can smell heady frankincense; you breathe it in deeply, for there’s something so reassuring about it.

“That’s what friends do for each other, right?” You smile easily at him, catching his eye. You do not want to be friends with him, but you are selfish and will take what you can get.

“Friends… yes, I suppose it is.” He sounds pleased, a hint of surprise evident in his tone as his eyes linger on your own. It’s as if he does not realise that you think so highly of him. If only he knew. “Excuse me, I must get to work on this.”

Copia strides back towards the desk, dropping down in the large leather chair, skimming through the book to find the right section. He’s immediately captivated by the text, and it is as if the rest of the world has ceased to exist for him. Picking up a pen, he begins to write rapidly, his eyes flickering between his notes and the yellowed pages of the tome. You find it fascinating, watching him work. Next time he’s free you’ll have to ask him for tips on translating texts, for he seems to be speeding through it all rapidly. It takes a moment for you to notice — so enthralled by watching Copia work — that Papa has crossed the room to stand right beside you, an all-knowing expression glinting within his eyes that seems more than a little mischievous.

“So, why exactly did you throw the book in the fireplace, Papa?” You mutter to him, trying not to distract Copia from his rapid scribbling, trying to distract Papa from whatever he was plotting.

“Eh, it was one of those… do-first-and-think-later moments, you know? I dislike the French.” He’s unbothered about the volume of his voice, shrugging as if his actions weren’t entirely nonsensical to anyone other than himself.

“He was throwing a tantrum because Sister Imperator told him he’d have to either do the ritual in French, or translate it into Latin himself, seeing as our official translation no longer exists.” Copia’s tone is dispassionate as he speaks without looking up, without even slowing his pen, deeply focused on his task. You roll your eyes at Papa, who pulls a face.

“Vabbé, stronzo. Now, see, il Cardinale is translating the ritual and performing mass, so I think that is a win for Papa, sì?” He smirks at you, clearly pleased with the night’s turn of events. “Will you be staying for mass? Our friend would love the support, I think.”

Out the corner of your eye, you notice Copia’s pen falter for a moment.

“Am I allowed to? I’m not actually a member of the church.” You inquire curiously, although internally you’re ecstatic at the invite. Especially in recent days, your interest in attending mass at the ministry has increased exponentially. And to know that Copia will be leading the service? You’d love to attend, even if he seems slightly apprehensive.

“Psh, per favore. I am Papa! And I say you are welcome any time here, no invite needed.” He waves off your concerns easily, reminding you of the fact that he’s an immensely powerful man — you’d almost forgotten this about him, having never seen him truly exert his authority. “Now, let me give you a real tour of the ministry? We’ll let il Cardinale prepare for mass in peace.”

Nodding, you follow Papa as he sweeps out of the office in his robes. As you close the door, you glance back at Copia. His head is down, brow furrowed as he works. A part of you wants to say something, anything, but perhaps it is best to leave him to his work, to not disturb him.

So, instead, you walk alongside Papa as he begins his grand tour of the ministry grounds. He tells you that he’ll show the parts he thinks you’ll be most interested in first, so naturally you end up at the library. It’s small, with half empty shelves, and almost looks as if it was not supposed to be a library in the first place. You consider asking about it but your guide seems antsy to move on, uncomfortable with the quiet and sedate nature of the room, so you resolve to ask Copia another time. He then takes you across the hall to Copia’s office, asking if you want to take a peek inside. Laughing, you deny him — you’re sure Copia is the sort of manically organised individual that would simply know if someone had set foot in there without him. Sighing dramatically, Papa leads you down a new corridor, one that seems a little busier with other Siblings of Sin. They greet him adoringly, he winks and waves at each and every one of them. It’s odd, walking next to an individual so obviously deeply revered. You slip down a quieter few corridors, to an isolated door.

“You said no to his office, but how about Copia’s rooms, eh? We could look in his drawers, find something interesting, maybe something a little dirty?” Papa’s eyes twinkle impishly as he leans against the doorframe.

“Haven’t you already angered Copia enough today?” You shake your head in amusement. He considers your words momentarily, before agreeing and leading you back the way you’d came.

The tour really begins in earnest, after the odd instances outside Copia’s chambers. Papa enthusiastically leads you around to the chapel, the canteen, various other halls and meeting spots. He’s a surprisingly good guide; he takes the time to point out fine details of the architecture, explains the art that adorns the walls, tells silly stories of the hijinks he’s caused in certain places — and perhaps a little surprisingly, not all of those stories revolve around his sexual exploits. Finally, he leads you out back to a little garden. It’s beautiful, despite the dark skies and cloud cover; you’ll have to come back in the daytime to really appreciate it fully. The two of you sit down on one of the benches, gazing out towards the flower beds.

“So, how have you been, principessa? And how is your ghoul? Better now?” He asks you, after a few moments of silence. You get the impression that Papa is not one for quiet moments, not one for ever slowing down, the kind of man who only ever dances through life at the fastest of speeds.

“I’ve been alright, thank you. I’m assuming the ghoul is okay — I’ve never seen him. I’d been told he existed, but I didn’t really know until that night. But he’s back to being dead silent, so I’m guessing he’s fine.” You respond, watching his expression carefully. He’s speculative, and you wonder if he’s back to thinking that there’s something vaguely off about you and your situation.

“Hm, your ghoul is a strange one. I do not know ghouls who act like him, hiding away. It’s like he’s watching, waiting for something.” Papa hums thoughtfully, before he looks at you with another crafty expression. “I wonder, if perhaps you should spend more time with il Cardinale. You have someone to keep an eye on that ghoul, he does less of the paperwork. Maybe, he even relaxes. Tell me, principessa, you can help him relax, sì? He is… what’s the phrase… alla ricerca disperata di una scopata. Ah, tightly wound, sì.”

“I’m sure he has better things to do than play glorified baby-sitter, Papa.” You shoot him a bemused look as he sighs loudly at you.

“Bah, no he doesn’t! He works, he reads, he never comes to my parties… boring! I shall bring this idea to his attention, I’m sure he will be thrilled.” Papa scoffs, jumping up to his feet. “Now, time for mass. You can see il tuo Cardinale at his finest.”

You walk with him back to the chapel. The corridors are busier this time, with other groups heading to mass. You see Magdalene with a group of Sisters, and Papa calls her over.

“Sorellina! Our friend shall be joining us at mass tonight. You will take good care of her, sì?” He smiles benevolently at her, before bending to whisper into her ear. She blushes slightly, glancing at you as he speaks, his voice too low to hear.

“Of course, Papa.” Magdalene giggles slightly, ignoring the curious look you shoot her.

“Ottimo! I must take my leave, ci vediamo, principessa!” He was already halfway gone as he spoke, sweeping towards the chapel and raising his arm to wave goodbye.

“C’mon, let’s go in. We’ll sit up front — you’ll have a great view of the Cardinal in action.” She winks at you, linking her arm in yours and leading you into the chapel.

You’re aware that some of the Siblings are staring at you. Perhaps it makes sense — you’re the only person there not dressed in some variation of their official clothing, you’d been gallivanting around the ministry for the past hour with Papa. Still, it makes you feel a little self conscious, especially as Magdalene insists on sitting at the very front, slightly to the left. You sit in the pew, heart beating abnormally fast, waiting for the service to begin. You’re a little unsure what to expect; you’d never been to any kind of religious service, Satanic or otherwise. Finally, the quiet chatter throughout the chapel came to a hush. The chapel doors swung open. You rise to your feet along with everyone else, looking over your shoulder to the doors.

Copia strides down the aisle, an air of confidence to his step that seems unfamiliar. Of course, it’s not like you know him particularly well. It’s just that in all your encounters, there has been a sense of reticence, an awkwardness that informs his every act. And yet, as he comes to stand behind the pulpit, you can feel a dark confidence radiating from him. The air surrounding him is electric, and it takes your breath away.

“Saluti, figli miei. Thank you for joining us tonight in a session of devotion to our Dark Lord, a moment for us to reflect upon his offerings of friendship and his teachings. We shall begin now, sì?” He calls out to his captive audience once they have sat, his voice seemingly lower, more powerful than usual. His mismatched eyes gleam in the dimly lit chapel.

You can hardly tear your eyes from him as he begins to lead the congregation in some form of prayer — it’s one you distantly recognise, pledging devotion to Lucifer and his ways — murmuring the words you can barely focus on under your breath. There’s a sense of dominance about him, dark and commanding as he begins his sermon. Your eyes are drawn to the way his fingertips trail over the microphone stand, the way his gloved hands flex as they come to grip on the pulpit. His tone is alluring, hypnotic. You’re hardly paying attention to the words he’s saying — something about lunar cycles and Lucifer — too in awe of his drastic change in disposition. As he begins his ritual, the one he’d been furiously translating earlier, your breath hitches. Copia had conducted a ritual in your presence before, that’s true. But something about his performance now was utterly enthralling and you find yourself entirely entranced by him. His low levelled intonations, his fervert mismatched stare, the intensity of his being, is unlike anything you’ve ever witnessed.

Perhaps it’s an effect of the ritual magicks he’s chanting, for you can feel the electricity of it crackling in the air, feel the shivers it sends up your spine. But as his eyes roam the crowd and settle on you, lingering for a moment longer than necessary, you know the heat in your core, that urgent need rising within you, is not down to the ritual act he is performing. No, it’s him. The room is buzzing with energy, the myriad candles are flickering. You’re almost certain you’re supposed to be affirming your connection with Lucifer in this moment, taking advantage of the ritual magicks deepening your bond, but you cannot. As Copia’s eyes drift back to settle your own, feeling as if they are staring deep into your soul, your only coherent thoughts seem to involve him taking you roughly up against the altar, the feeling of his body pressed to your own. You could swear he’s almost smirking at you as he chants, and you wonder if your desperate need for him is written so clearly upon your face.

And then, suddenly, the energy fizzles away. He turns sharply from you, looking back out to the rest of his congregation.

“May He be with you all. Buona notte.” His words mark the end of the service.

You turn to Magdalene, eyes wide and slightly breathless. She gives you a slow smile, knowing look in her eyes.

“His whole vibe is different when he’s up there, huh? Anyway, you should wait here — once the crowd goes you’ll be able to say goodnight to him personally.” She stands, stretching slightly, before exiting the chapel with the majority of the crowd.

Turning towards the altar, you see that Copia has a crowd of Siblings around him, each waiting their turn to talk to him. That dark confidence seems to have dissipated, his smiles and his posture restrained once more. You move slightly closer, standing at the edge of the aisle. You don’t want to intrude upon the group or interrupt the religious guidance he seems to be imparting. Finally, a good twenty minutes later, the last of the group drifts away, leaving the two of you as the chapel’s only occupants. He approaches you with a smile, his eyes tired.

“Sorry to have made you wait.” His voice is quiet and it is almost strange to think that this is the same man who had been behind the pulpit half an hour before.

“Please, it’s not a problem.” You brush it off, for the wait had given you the chance to get the worst of your lustful feelings under some semblance of control.

“Still. Did you enjoy the mass?” He asks, his words tinged with something, perhaps a desire for your approval.

“I’ve never experienced anything like this before, it was… transcendent.” You tell him, embarrassingly earnest in your words.

“Ah, your Catholic services did not inspire such religious fervour?” He chuckles slightly, looking pleased.

“I never attended, actually. My mother was always at church, but she had this weird hang up about bringing me with her. She banned me from attending. So no, the only thing inspiring such devotion is your brilliance at the pulpit.” You explain with a short laugh, conscious of how intently he’s watching you, an unreadable look within his eyes.

You neglect to mention that type of the devotion you’re referring to is perhaps not the exact religious worship he means. No, you’re yearning, longing, to pledge your devotion to Copia's own altar, to him. You are desperate to receive his blessed sacrament, to be deemed worthy of his adoration.

You pause for a moment, refocusing yourself. “I’m glad I stayed to witness your service tonight. But I should probably be heading home; it’s late.”

“Ah, but of course. I shall walk you, sì?” He says gently, as he gestures for you to start walking.

“Really? You don’t have to.” You tell him as you exit the chapel, but in all honesty, you’re just being polite. You wholeheartedly want for him to walk you home, the idea makes your heart flutter.

“It is best that you are not caught walking alone from here so late at night. There have been… instances, lately. Some of the Sisters have found certain friends of the Prescott’s lurking in the area, waiting to harass them. È deplorevole, but there is little to be done about it.” He sounds irritated as he leads you out of a side door and onto the streets. The night air is cool upon your skin, but you barely notice it.

“Seriously? Has there always been such an issue between the two churches?” You ask him curiously as you walk down the cobblestones at a leisurely pace. It thrills you that he seems happy to go slowly, making the most of your time together.

“Eh, here and there,” He shrugs slightly. “The previous Father left us alone. But when he died and Father Prescott took over, well, things changed.”

“Prescott’s wife is kind of an arsehole.” You say, thinking back to your interactions with her. Copia snorts slightly, clearly agreeing.

“Hah, indeed. From what I am aware, she is unhappy here; she misses the previous Anglican parish he was assigned to. She has not taken the changes well, not his change of denomination nor the move to our city. So, she places the blame at the foot of our Church, she makes her own problems ours. A faction of their congregants, the ones who have long opposed our presence and were simply waiting for opportunities to arise, they have delighted in her mission to exorcise us.” He tells you, speaking in a low tone lest anyone overhear his words.

“That would explain the flyers shoved through my door this evening. Did you see them, with that shitty photoshop job of Papa in jail?” You chuckle softly, the odd situation, Joanna Prescott’s strange and hateful behaviour towards you and your shop, beginning to make more sense.

“They are certainly… creative.” He shakes his head disbelievingly. “But you have my apologies, for any troubles they are causing you, cara mia.”

“It’s not your fault; besides, what’s the worst a group of overzealous Catholic’s can do?” You grin up at him, shifting slightly closer. There’s only an inch between you, and you desperately want to close it, to link your arm around his and pull him close. But there’s no point; you’ve arrived outside of your shop, you’re home, and the night is over.

“Still, you’ll let me know if anything happens? No matter the hour, you will tell me, sì?” He comes to a stop, resting his hand gently upon your forearm.

Your breath hitches, staring at the way his gloved fingers move softly against the cashmere of your jumper. Tearing your eyes from his hand, looking up at his eyes, you find him staring at you, earnestly, intently. You feel your cheeks warming, butterflies fluttering.

“Promise.” Your voice is slightly breathless, and you attempt to regain control of yourself. “Thank you, for walking me home.”

“It is nothing, truly. I enjoy your company.” He says, before noticing his hand has not moved from your arm. He withdraws it quickly with a nervous chuckle, before speaking once more. “I will see you soon, yes?”

“Definitely. Good night, Copia.” Your voice is barely more than a whisper, barely concealing the feelings that are clouding your thoughts. Is it the late hour that affects you so, or is it him?

You watch from the doorframe as he leaves, glancing back at you as he goes. Once he has rounded the corner, you step into the shop and lock the door behind you, sliding down it to sit on the floor. Sounds of scrabbling paws greet your ears, but you ignore it for now. That’s a problem for another day. You lean your head back and breath deeply, knowing tonight has done little to calm the brewing storm that is your desire for Copia.

Chapter Text

You’re dreaming, on the precipice of something wonderful, until the blaring of your alarm jerks you wide awake. Slamming your hand against the off button with a little more force than strictly necessary, you sink back into the pillows surrounding you, attempting to return yourself to the dreamworld. But, naturally, your dreams are intangible, just slightly out of your grasp and you are left only with fleeting images and moments.

Desperately, you try to recall the moment within your dream from which you were so brutally torn. The ministry chapel, empty. Low lighting, candles flickering as violently as they had at the height of the ritual. A bare altar, your bare body draped across it. The marble should be cold, but you’re burning, hotter and hotter. Staring at the neoclassical art adorning the high ceilings, waiting for him. Copia’s face, appearing above you. His eyes, dark and aglow, intense. Hunger evident, no longer restrained. He’s drinking in the sight of you, completely still. And then, his hands are on you. Gloved, ghosting over your body. A gentle caress of your breast. Trailing down, down, down. A finger, gloved, pushing into you. An ungodly groan, as he realises how wet you are. Just for him, only for him. He moves. Fast, hard, exactly how you need it.

You let out a soft whimper, your own fingers creeping into your underwear. You’re desperate for some kind of release, you need it, you need him, but he is not here, so you will simply have to rely on your fantasies and your own hand. Gently, your body trembling, aching, burning, you slide two fingers against your wetness, before slipping them inside. Shit, how you wish they were another person’s fingers, gloved fingers. A few swift, slick circles of your clit and you are finally falling, fast, as your orgasm washes over you. You lay there, breathing heavily, contemplating your actions.

It’s been four days since you saw Copia perform mass at the ministry, four mornings of waking up on the edge, desperate and needy. It isn’t even funny how insanely sexually frustrated you are, despite your morning masturbation sessions. Your own fingers have nothing on how wonderfully delicious you know the Cardinal’s would feel. Would it be a step too far to buy some leather gloves for the purpose of… Probably. You’re already feeling as if you’ll barely be able to look him in the eyes the next time you see him. While you’ve been attracted to people before, lusted after them, wanted them to do unspeakable things to your body, it’s never been like this. There’s never been a man who makes you so utterly wild, so desperate, who makes you burn as brightly and intensely as he does. Really, you’ve never exactly met anyone like him; older and mysterious, so refined and calm, an undercurrent of dark power under a reserved surface. There’s something totally ineffable about him, and it calls to you. But despite your woeful inability to find any words in any language that could even begin to encapsulate the feelings you have about Copia or the way he’s invaded your thoughts at every turn, you know that is not the part that really matters. What matters is that you want him. You like wanting him. You don’t think you’ll ever stop wanting him.

But what do you do about it? Dragging yourself from the warm duvet and into the scalding hot shower, you sigh loudly. What do you do about it? What is it that you even want? You want him, but for what? A few rounds of intense sex? One and done, or an ongoing situationship? Do you want strings attached? Would you like to fall in love with him? That last question almost has you dropping the shampoo bottle on the shower floor. Love? No. He’s a mystery to you, and you want to untangle that mystery. And promptly after, get tangled in some bedsheets.

It’s just sex. It’s just attraction. You’re just lonely, deeply lonely. Moving home has made you acknowledge the deep emptiness, the gaping hole within you that’s been with you since you left all those years before. It’s natural that you’ve latched onto the first person to show you genuine kindness, surely. It’s normal to yearn like that, for somebody that you cannot have.

Because you can’t have him. There’s no way he’s interested. He’s far older, surely almost twice your age. He’s far more intelligent than you could ever dream to be. And he’s a high ranking member of the clergy, surrounded by Siblings who would jump at the chance of sleeping with him — you’ve heard what they say about the Siblings, how they are most willing to engage in lustful acts of worship. Why would he be interested in you of all people, when he’s likely already inundated with offers? No, you know that he simply sees you as a friend, as the woman with the bookshop.

You need to get a grip, seriously. Pushing all thoughts of a man you cannot have to the back of your mind, you continue with your morning routine. You go through the motions robotically, forcing your mind to focus its energies elsewhere. What will you do for dinner, what about those rats downstairs, will the ghoul in the attic ever make himself known to you? As you finish drying your hair, you snap back to reality, to the sound of your phone vibrating. Four missed calls, all from an unlisted number. It buzzes once more, and you answer.

“Hello?” You say, your tone curious as to who would be calling you repeatedly at eight in the morning. Was there some sort of emergency?

“Dearie, it’s Joanna Prescott.” A saccharine voice practically oozes down the line.

For fuck’s sake.

“How did you get this number?” You ask, trying not to sound as off-put as you felt about the woman. But seriously, how did she get your personal number? Was she stalking you?

“I have my ways. I just wanted to see if you’ll reconsider on your refusal to sell the bookshop.” Her voice is still overly sweet, but there is an edge to it, something dangerous lurking beneath the surface.

Perhaps you were wrong, when you’d joked about Joanna’s little group being practically harmless. Anxiety is slowly seeping through your veins. Why does she want you out so badly?

“Yeah, no. I won’t be doing that.” You’re attempting to sound confident in your convictions, for you have no desire to give up on your shop any time soon, but you can hear the slight waver in your tone. Hopefully Joanna does not pick up on it.

“Dearie, this is no laughing matter. I’m tired of all the sinners dirtying up the place. Your people disgust me. Look at this as an opportunity. Sell the place, make some money. Then go far, far away. And you won’t end up caught in the crossfire.” The soft sweetness fades away to a hard steel. She’s dead serious.

You pause for a beat, genuinely lost for words. Are you truly being threatened by the local Catholic priest’s wife? It’s like fever dream, honestly. But a part of you knows she means business. It might have been funny to laugh at her shitty little flyers, but there’s something concerning about her finding your number, calling to threaten you, implying that you’re in danger unless you bow down to her demands. Frankly, despite the apprehension induced by this call, your anger is growing. Who does she think she is? While she might believe otherwise, the bitch has very little power outside of her congregants — does she even have any real say amongst them? She certainly doesn’t have any power over you. Your patience has been running dreadfully thin the past few days; an unfortunate side effect of your unsatisfied lustful feelings. Something within you snaps.

“No offence, Joanna, but you really ought get a life. I mean come on. The presence of the Satanic Church shouldn’t be that big of a deal to you.” You tell her, your tone sharp. Perhaps it was unwise, to speak to her that way, when she’s absolutely not fucking about with her threats upon you and your livelihood, but fuck it.

“That is where you are wrong. I am waging holy war, in the name of our Lord, the true God. You idolatrous sinners, you devil worshippers, must be banished.” She's not offended, to your surprise, but her words are cold and unfeeling. And that makes it even more deranged in your eyes.

Holy war? Is that how she views this? She truly believes her god wants her, specifically her, to wage destruction upon his so-called enemies? It seems almost laughable, some posh little church wife suddenly declaring open war on anyone in the vicinity of her husband’s parish who dares to reject the Catholic teachings he preaches.

“I’m not leaving. That’s all I have to say to you.” You inform her levelly, despite the apprehension slowly rising within you, slowly choking you.

“Fine. Know you’ve brought this upon yourself, know that you could have left.” Joanna hangs up on you. The phone drops onto the bed with a soft thud.

God, what a morning. What a fucking morning.

It really is shaping up to be one of those days where everything, every single thing possible, is going to hell in a hand basket. That call from Joanna has set your already tumultuous thoughts racing ever faster. There’s nothing to be done about her, however. You shall just have to wait and see what happens, and that is terrifying. They say patience is a virtue, but it is one you do not possess. You need things to happen, you need to know everything, you want resolution.

Of course, it’s all too easy to say that. But as Mick Jagger said, you can’t always get what you want. He was probably right.

Attempting to distract yourself from the swirling rollercoaster of thoughts within your mind, you decide to do some organising of the shelves. They’re disgustingly messy, books haphazardly thrown together with very little care or organisation. It’s a direct juxtaposition to how neatly planned out Reg’s ledgers are, how detailed his database is. Really, you’d remembered him as being a little harebrained, disorganised. The stacks need to be reconfigured, and now is as good a time as any to get on it. Perhaps you’ll be so busy lugging books around that you’ll be able to draw your mind away from deliciously debauched thoughts of Copia, away from your stress over Joanna’s little campaign. It works, somewhat. There’s comfort in the repetitive nature of picking up tomes, shuffling them around, taking outliers over to the counter to deal with later. Your mind stills, lost in the monotony.

And then, as you’re carrying a small stack of tomes towards the counter, you hear that little scrabbling noise once more. Your little invaders have made their return, although you can’t see where exactly they are. But then, you feel something on your foot, something clawing at your leg. Letting out an embarrassing shriek at the realisation that the rat is on your fucking leg, you drop the books to the floor. The resounding bang of leather against the wood of the floor is startling. Before you can even really think, you’re up on the counter, desperate to get away. The rat lets out a squeak — thank god you missed it, that you didn’t crush its little skeleton to death in your panic, for cleaning up rat goo might just finish you off forever — before scurrying off somewhere. You feel like a fool, but at least you are alone in the store. Standing up fully, you glance around the shop floor, trying to spot the creature once more. Although what you plan to do with the thing upon finding it is anyone’s guess. Killing it seems excessive and cruel, so that’s off the table. You want to get rid of it, sure, but not via death, you're not that opposed to the creature. After all, death is a rather permanent state of being. You could put the rat outside the door — although that would entail catching it first — but wouldn’t it just come back in?

You suppose you could set it upon Joanna, should she return for another in-person visit. That would probably elicit a rather entertaining response.

“Buongiorno, cara mia. Is there a reason you are, eh, on the counter?” A bemused voice calls out from the doorframe.

Sheepishly, you turn to face him, heat rising furiously upon your cheeks. You wonder if he can tell how deeply embarrassed you are to be caught in such a position, especially by him. Copia is smiling up at you, watching you with mirth clear in his mismatched eyes. Your eyes widen a fraction as you take in his outfit. Gone are the cassocks you are used to seeing him in. Today he is dressed in a black suit that is sinfully tight against his body. Something about it has you almost feral. You want to jump off the counter, to push him up against the door, to drop to your knees in front of him and show you exactly how he makes you feel.

But you do none of these things.

“Copia,” You breathe out softly, trying to shove all that lustful longing deep down inside, trying to hide the mortification of being caught in your moment of panic. “I don’t usually stand on the counter, I promise.”

“I’m sure you do not. But what has brought you to stand up there?” He chuckles, walking closer towards you.

The pitter patter of scurrying little paws against the wooden floor sounds once more. The rat — it’s smaller than you expected it to be, actually — appears once more. It approaches Copia, stopping about a foot in front of him. The little thing seems to be eyeing him curiously. You wish it had shown that restraint before, rather than crawling up your ankle.

“That.” You gesture to the critter staring up at him.

“Ah, you don’t like rats?” He asks, as he crouches down carefully, slowly. “Vieni, piccolino.”

As if it understands him, the little rat scurries towards his open hand, climbing up onto him. Copia stands, carefully, slowly, as to not scare the thing. He whispers to it, in soft Italian undertones. You don’t understand what he’s saying, nor why he seems to like the thing so much. But you have to admit, you find how caring he is incredibly attractive.

“I don’t feel any particular way about them, in all honesty. But I’m not a fan of them clambering all over me; that’s where I draw the line.” You tell him, before realising that you are still stood up on the counter, despite the fact that the rat is no longer a threat. Not that it ever really was in the first place, that is.

For all that is evil and unholy, honestly. Must you embarrass yourself in front of him constantly?

He seems to notice your position too; he allows the rat to scurry up his arm, to perch on his shoulder and nuzzle into his neck, before moving closer.

“Here, let me help you down.” He says, as he comes around behind the counter. “Step to the chair first, then the floor.”

Copia holds out a hand, gloved in leather, for you to hold on to. Placing your hand in his, you cautiously step onto the chair. It teeters slightly, and for a moment you think you might just fall and crack your head on something. It would be fitting, for you to embarrass yourself once more, it is that sort of day. But his hand comes to your waist, steadying you. Your body stills. That hand upon your waist, warm despite the soft leather covering, drops away a moment later. Still grasping his other hand, you step to the floor, your eyes rising to meet his. You are close to him, too close. A few inches separate your bodies from each other, and it would be so effortless to bring them together. His gloved hand still embraces your own, despite being on solid ground. You are staring, you realise, but so is he. A moment passes, and then another one, eyes locked, hands connected. Flashes of your dream return, flashes of exactly what you’d love those gloved hands to do to you are present in your mind. Should you…

The rat squeaks. The tension breaks. You both turn to look at it, still perched upon his shoulder. You remove your hand from his, and instantly mourn its loss. Out the corner of your eye, you catch the hand in question flex slightly.

“He is rather sweet, no?” Copia smiles at the critter. You wish you could glare at it, for it interrupted whatever the hell was happening between you and the Cardinal. But something about how much he seems to like the rat has your resentment melting away.

Still, it doesn’t mean you like the thing.

“I suppose he is rather cute.” You say, fudging the truth a little. “I guess I tend to associate rats with plague — I lectured at a university for a bit, on mediaeval history. I taught a course on the Black Death.”

“Hm, I do not think you are alone in that, unfortunately. Many people do not see them for the smart little things they truly are.” He says, glancing at his shoulder with a gentle smile, before fixing you with a curious stare. “May I ask, why did you stop teaching?”

“I inherited a bookshop. And I kind of hated the lecturing. Or maybe I just hated the institution I was teaching at. Regardless, they decided not to renew my contract and I was starting to look elsewhere, but this place sort of dropped into my lap.” You pull a face at the thought of your old job — sure, you miss your friends, but you’ve taken to this odd little corner of the city with a surprising ease.

“Well then, I am rather glad you chose to leave, to come here. You make a fine bookshop owner, far more pleasant to meet with than that uncle of yours.” His eyes are focused on you, an edge of shyness to his tone. A smile teases at your lips, your heart warms. God, how you want him.

“I am too.” Is just about all you can manage, without sounding like a complete fool, without saying something you’ll surely regret.

He opens his mouth, to speak once more, but the rat interrupts your moment once again, scurrying back down his arm to rest in his hands.

“Ah, I believe piccolino here would like to return to his mama.” There’s a warm edge to his voice and you wonder what exactly it is about rats that he is so fond of. You personally cannot see the attraction.

And then you realise that he means to say there are likely more rats around. With a tinge of dread, you ask, “His mother?”

“Sì, he’s young. His mother, perhaps some siblings, will be roaming somewhere not too far.” He tells you, stroking the little rat with his hands. You wish he was stroking something else, but you try not to get too distracted by that train of thought.

“Great. What am I even supposed to do with them? I really can’t have them chewing at the merchandise. Reg left a bunch of traps in the office, but I’d never use those to deal with this.” You run a hand through your hair, frustrated. Nothing seems to be going well for you today, it seems.

“No traps, assolutamente no.” His tone is vehement. You’re slightly taken aback, and he flashes you an apologetic look before continuing, tone softening. “Do you have a box, perhaps? I will take them with me when I leave, release them near the ministry.”

“You’d do that?” You smile at him, ever so grateful; you really did not want to have to deal with the little shits by yourself.

“Of course, cara mia.” He says, before giving you a wicked look. “Did you know, Terzo doesn’t like rats?”

You can’t help but giggle at the implication, at the idea of him deliberately bringing the small animals to the ministry grounds purely to annoy Papa.

“Ah, revenge for the book burning?” You quip and he winks at you, he winks at you, and you want to fall to pieces there and then.

The rat squeaks. You have to get the things out of here, lest every conversation you attempt to have with Copia is interrupted. Leaving him for a moment, you run to the back room to grab a box. There’s none that are empty, so you dump out a stack of papers upon the desk; you can organise later, once there are no more rats within your shop. You return to the shop floor, only to find that the Cardinal is no longer stood near the counter. Wandering back through the stacks you come across him, knelt down upon the floor, right at the very back. Approaching carefully, you see that there are three more rats, staring at him inquisitively. The largest — she must be the mother — is perched upon something.

“What does she have there?” You murmur, dropping down beside Copia, passing the box to him.

He doesn’t respond immediately, getting to work convincing the rats to clamber into the box. He’s muttering to them in low tones, encouraging them. Or at least you assume he is — perhaps you should learn Italian, considering how he and Papa slip into the language every now and again. It doesn’t take him long to get them contained, a minute or two at most.

“Huh, are you some kind of rat whisperer? How did you get them to do that?” You’re a little in awe, but he simply chuckles lowly, leaving your question unanswered.

With the task at hand complete, you both stand, Copia groaning slightly under his breath as he stretches his legs. As you rise, you grab the object the rat had been sitting on. While it’s dust-ridden and dirty, nibbled at and water damaged, you recognise it immediately. Your uncle was fond of journaling, you remember that from your girlhood days. There were often occasions where you’d be here, or in the apartment, watching him scrawl away in those little books. He’d owned stacks of them.

“This is Reg’s, one of his diaries. What do you think is in it? Tell me, is it considered rude to read the diaries of the dead?” You wonder aloud, more to yourself than to Copia; he is rather preoccupied with his little box of rats.

“Eh, they’re dead. What are they going to do about it?” He shrugs, not looking up. “Perhaps he will have some interesting stories of your youth, one’s you’ve forgotten — it looks to have been long forgotten about.”

You nod thoughtfully as you follow him out of the stacks and back to the counter; Copia has a point. Your girlhood memories of the bookshop have been on your mind lately. It would be interesting to see them from another perspective. Perhaps it may even answer a few of the burning questions you have about those years, for there are many things that do not quite add up. But that is a matter for later. Suddenly, it dawns on you that Copia is probably here for something, that you’ve probably derailed his day with your rat problem.

“Oh! What volume did you come in for, by the way? I’ve totally distracted you.” Your tone is apologetic. However, Copia seems unbothered, placing the box of rats upon the counter.

“Do not fret over it,” He waves off your concern with ease. “I came in for a book, of course.”

“Which one? There’s a lot of books here, you know.” You flash him a smile, and you could almost swear there’s an edge of dismay within his mismatched eyes at your question. But then, his eyes are so enthrallingly unlike anything you’ve ever seen, so perhaps you are misreading them, for what in your simple question could cause such a feeling?

“Ah, I came for — I’m looking for a book on ritual magicks.” He stumbles a little over his words and you’re surprised, because when it comes to arcane texts, Copia always seems to know exactly what it is he desires.

“Any specific title?” You ask, feeling vaguely lost.

“Ah, I’ve not yet decided. Which shelf do you keep them on?” He smiles quickly, almost nervously.

You point him in the right direction and he rushes over, scanning the shelves rapidly. He seems almost in a rush, as if he’s suddenly realised that faffing about with the rats has made him horrendously late. Within minutes, he’s back at the counter with a book on the use of cryptograms within ritual magicks, a satisfied look upon his face. After a quick exchange of money, he smiles at you once more. Then, he leaves, rats and book in hand, out of the door. You watch him go, thoughts entirely focused on how phenomenal his tight suit trousers make his arse look, how desperately you’d like to ride his thigh unto completion.

Seriously, are you going to have to go upstairs to fantasise about Copia doing wonderfully depraved things to you once more?

No. You really can’t get away with closing the shop so early — it’s not even midday. Your eyes flicker back to the tattered diary. What better way to distract your mind, than by focusing yourself on someone else’s thoughts and feelings?

14th July, 2009

My ability to lose a journal is unparalleled, it seems. Not a month appears to pass before I need to make a trip to the stationary shop for yet another journal. The shop clerk is under the impression I am writing my magnum opus. I shan't tell him that I simply lack any and all organisational skills. It’s beyond me how I’ve been able to keep the bookshop open, most days. I never know where the books are, what books we even have in. I’m sure the customers find me dreadfully irritating, but thankfully, I am the only decent bookshop of the occult around. And while I may be a useless shopkeeper, I certainly am knowledgeable. There are very few individuals in this country with as great a grasp on the esoteric arts, I’ll tell you that!

15th July, 2009

Rebecca might despise me, but she still insists on leaving her daughter with me at all times. “I can’t bring her to church,” she says, “I cannot bare to look at her.” I disapprove, of course. Rebecca might have made mistakes, gotten pregnant with a strange man’s child when she was barely grown herself, but it is getting ludicrous. Supposedly, the girl looks like her father; I wouldn’t know, for my foolish little half-sister refuses to reveal who exactly the father is. Sometimes I wonder if she even knows

Perhaps I should have been more present during her childhood, I do feel a semblance of guilt about that. But really, what could I have done? Father’s new wife did not want me there, so I left. I doubt I could have done much to sway Rebecca from her fervent religiosity — I wouldn’t be surprised if that girl was born with a rosary in hand. I will never understand it, nor will I understand the way she can so easily abandon her devout beliefs to pretend as if her daughter does not exist. Scamp does not seem too upset by her lack of parental figures, but then why would she? She’s never had one, after all.

17th July, 2009

Must impart upon Scamp the importance of NOT reciting prayers to Lucifer around her mother — all my china plates, ruined…

21st July, 2009

Rebecca has not returned since the argument. That is fine — I am more than happy to avoid her. But she’s left Scamp here this time, and is not answering any request to retrieve her. I am not used to being around the child for so many unending hours; I have many things to do, and many of my rituals and reading are inappropriate for a child. There’s really not the room here for her, and I refuse to buy childish crap to entertain her. Usually she sits and reads on her visits, or we continue her education. But one cannot teach for days on end, and thirteen year old girls get restless after so many hours of reading dense tomes. It’s unfortunate I’ve had little time to write, not here in my personal journal, nor within my ritual journal. It just won’t do. I have many things to be working on, and Scamp is dreadfully distracting. My wretched sister will hopefully return soon.

If not, I shall have far deeper problems than attempting my most risk involved of rituals on the next full moon…

23rd July, 2009

Scamp is back home; thank Lucifer. It was starting to get tenuous, both of us in such a small apartment. She does not understand her mother’s behaviour, nor why she’s sent away so often. Rebecca will be keeping her there for a few days, which gives me time to prepare certain details for the moon’s ritual at the beginning of the month. I confess, I am rather excited, albeit scared… I have been working towards this for decades.

However, there are of course large risks involved. Large rituals such as this oft come with dreadful side affects should they go wrong, and I am unsure if I am prepared for such a thing. But glory does not come from sitting on the sidelines, no. I will perform the ritual and be revered! As long as nothing interferes with the preparation I shall be doing over the next fortnight, I shall be grand.

25th July, 2009

Many rituals and spells have been performed in the past forty eight hours. The shop is well-prepared, and come the moon, the connections between worlds will be lowered to a rather perfect level. I am rather confident in my abilities.

Papa Emeritus II came back to the shop today — awfully intimidating fellow, isn’t he? The book he picked up certainly made me blush like a stammering fool. It turns out the second Emeritus brother is rather interested in the most depraved sex magicks a man could find!

I believe he picked up something of what I am working on; he’s a stoic man, but he asked a question about the rituals I perform here with the most inquisitive look upon that painted face of his. I bluffed and blustered — I shall not be telling anybody my plans until I have done them, successfully!

26th July, 2009

Rebecca is a nasty piece of work, I tell you. She claims to be the perfect Catholic woman — although her child out of wedlock tells a rather different story — and yet I cannot think of a single of the seven virtues she truly embodies. I am quite sick of her dumping her sobbing child at my door time and time again, I do not have the time for it! Scamp is a good girl, truly, but I did not want children. I have other priorities and yet here I am, raising the girl myself. I have had my revenge on Rebecca for this, however. The girl has been raised to worship Lucifer.

I had considered at one point — and forgive me, for the idea is so villainous that it repulses me nowadays — that I could use the girl. Virgin sacrifice might have fallen out of fashion, but one cannot understate the power a correctly done ritual like that would bring to an individual. But, no. I am too attached to the child to do it. And I am rather convinced that Rebecca would be relieved to be rid of her. Scamp will not be sacrificed to our Dark Lord in that manner. But she’s enthusiastic about the occult arts, and I believe she’d more than happily donate some blood, etc. to my causes. I shall think on it some, and perhaps

29th July, 2009

One week! The full moon is almost upon us. Scamp is excelling in her Latin lessons. I taught her a few little ritual spells — minor ones, of course. But she is peculiarly good at them, I must say. Innate talent, that girl. It does make me wonder who exactly her father is; does talent in this field come naturally? I myself have had to work impossibly hard over the years.

My hard work will soon prove worthy. I am counting the seconds until the moment of my ritual. The idea of it intoxicates me, thrills me. I am aware that most men have an odd perversion or two, but I find the idea of this specific ritual, the outcomes of it should it work, fill me with carnal pleasure.

I will be a god amongst men.

Lots more preparations to deal with in the coming days, and I anticipate that I will have little time to write. When we next speak, my dear journal, everything will have changed.

6th August, 2009

Blast it all to hell! No time to write — I have to research this, for I cannot quite comprehend the occurrences of this blasted, damned day. But I simply must expel some of this rage that is brewing, before I do something I will regret. She’s gone and fucked it, fucked it completely, the idiot girl.

For once, I speak not of Rebecca. Perhaps that little meddling shit really is her mother’s daughter, ruining everything for me.

My ritual cannot occur, not now. She — a child, a mere slip of a girl — has destroyed everything for me. Everything! She should not have even been able — well, it doesn’t matter. Nothing of it matters anymore, for it is over.

My dreams, in tatters.

I shall have to tell Rebecca, I suppose. She should know exactly what has happened here.

6th August, 2009

Rebecca, naturally, was livid. A screaming match like no other. Still, the child did not wake. She was still asleep when Rebecca had me drag her to the car. Some preternatural response to the events of the day? Unclear. Still, for my sister, this has been the final straw. Teaching the girl of the esoteric was bad enough, but after what I have inadvertently let happen? Well, I’ll never be seeing her again. That is for certain. No, Rebecca will send her off to boarding school — with myself footing the bill, naturally. My penance for what I have done to the daughter she despises. In all honesty, I am quite sure she is relieved, having a reason to ship the girl off and never see her again.

9th August, 2009

I know for a fact now; she’s damned herself.

She’s damned me, too.

There is nothing to be done.

Chapter Text

There’s tears upon the yellowed journal pages. Fresh tears, your tears. It takes a moment to realise they’ve fallen from your own eyes, that they did not miraculously appear from some unknown location, but eventually you do. You are sat at the counter, open journal gripped tightly between your fingers, the most awfully heart wrenching sobs coming from deep within your soul. You let the journal fall from your hands. It lays open on the table, taunting you. A wave of revulsion rises within you; it is quickly brushed off the table into a rubbish basket. Why did you let your curiosity get the better of you? Why did you feel the need to read Reg’s most private of thoughts? Just, why?

You’re good with words, usually. After all, at one point you were preparing for a career in academia. You’ve had to be good with words, to be eloquent, well written. This is not something you’ve struggled with in your life. But upon reading that godawful diary, upon seeing such callous words written so boldly about your girlhood self, you find yourself ill-equipped. Your vocabulary isn’t broad enough to encompass the soul numbing hurt you are feeling. Hell, if someone handed you a dictionary, if you learnt all the odd little words defined within, you still would lack the ability to put your feelings down in any comprehensible way. It’s as if someone has taken a blade and gutted you entirely, leaving you lying on the floor to bleed out with little concern. It’s as if — it’s as if metaphors are useless, language is useless, there’s nothing to be said or to be done, not when the gaping void within your heart within you is screaming with pain into oblivion.

It’s not as if everything Reginald had written was a surprise to you. God, you’ve always known that your mother despised your very existence. You’ve always known that whatever brief love affair produced you was her most hated regret. Her role as a mother had been one she’d treated with abhorrence, for you were an abomination in her eyes, a physical and ever present reminder of her sins. Her church was her sanctuary, for it was away from you. She’d banish you away to her most disliked brother, for two sinners belonged together. For you were sullying her world with your vile little presence, and she needed a reprieve from the horrors of your existence. That is a fact you’ve come to terms with, long ago.

You were a child, you were her child, and she bitterly loathed you for it with her entire being.

But, in those moments, when tears threatened to spill at the thought of being so utterly abhorred by your own mother, your girlhood self always had a singular comfort. Your beloved Uncle Reginald loved you. Your singular friend, the man who practically raised you. The man whose sofa upon which you’d slept during countless unplanned overnight visits, the man who ignited your interests in the occult and the darkest of arts. He had been your singular lifeboat in the tempestuous waves of your childhood, your one protector.

And here, years later, you find that he had not loved you.

You were an annoyance, you were a burden. He had considered the idea of ending your life, of killing you dead. The man you had so deeply admired, who you had loved as a father, would have sacrificed you to the devil, oh so easily, had he not been so ‘attached’ to you. It’s such a detached way of wording it, that you find yourself lost at the apathy of it. He describes his connection to you in the way you’d describe a favourite pair of shoes you’d rather not part with. Were you as meaningless to him as any of the inanimate objects he’d littered around the place? You’re sickened by the callousness of it, the disrespect. The rose tinted nostalgia you’d felt towards your younger days here has been shattered irreparably. You’ll never be able to look at this place the same, you’ll never be able to sit here and reminisce again. Deep down, no matter how much you will try to repress those dark and twisty little thoughts, you will always know. You will always know that you were, that you are, unwanted and unloved. Oh, how you wish you could leave. Oh, how you wish you had somewhere else to go. But like it or not, this shop, this place of false memories and lies, this is your home now. You don’t have anywhere else. You have your books, your shop. That is all.

It dawns upon you, as you sit with your head in your hands, loud sobs still emanating from your body, that the shop is still open for business. Anybody could walk in. Shoving the chair back, you practically run over to the door. Flipping the sign, turning the key in the lock, you are officially closed early. A part of you hates to do it — for you are well aware that should Joanna or her lackeys walk past, they’ll assume you are rattled by her threats against your business.

God, was it only this morning that she had called you? This might just be the worst day, the longest day, of your life. But right now, you can’t find it within yourself to care about Joanna, to care about what she does or what she thinks. Your brain can only handle one crisis at a time, and your emotional breakdown over your pathetic little childhood supercedes all.

Whether it’s a good idea or not, the shop is closed. You want privacy, you want to be alone. As you make your way to the back office, to head up to your flat — how you wish, for the first time, that you did not live above the shop — you falter at the counter. Eyes flashing down, you stare blankly at the journal in the wastepaper basket. You never want to see it again. You cannot get rid of it. Reaching down, you pick it up. With the forsaken journal in hand, you make your way upstairs, where you know you will be completely alone, no prospective customers to bother you.

Alone.

It seems to be your natural state of being, for it seems you have always been alone. Perhaps you had not realised it, but even in those shiny moments of naive joy, you had been so wholly alone. In moving back to the city, you’ve found your friends from your former life have drifted. It’s not entirely unfathomable that this is the case; you are all young and busy and wrapped up in your own lives. But if your existence was painfully lonely before your day’s discovery, it is now categorically agonising, excruciating.

Is there something wrong with you? Is there a reason, that you seem destined to end up perpetually alone? Is there a reason, for your own family to view you with such little regard, to have such cool and unfamiliar feelings towards you? You have to wonder, if there is something about you that screams unlovable, undeserving of affection. Are you broken, were you born broken? Papa had wondered if there was something inhuman, something demonic about you. Perhaps he was right, but not in the literal sense. Perhaps there’s something demonic within you, metaphorically, figuratively. An evil deep in your being, something so utterly repugnant to the people around you. As much as you may wish otherwise, you are not built to be loved. It is a painful thing to realise, sharp pains shooting within your chest as you crawl into your bed to hide from the world under your covers, that you have never truly been loved. Those failed relationships during your early twenties and late teenage years, your weak familial bonds with two people who had no use for you. Your heart has always been so full of love to give, you feel strongly about things and about people. A deep yearning exists within you. Such feelings will never be reciprocated, it seems.

And this is the crux of it, why you have been so sure that nothing will ever work with Copia. The Cardinal surely sees you in the same distasteful lighting that everybody else has. Why would he want you, so damaged, so unnatural in some unknown way that even those supposed to love and care for you would not do so?

How you want to pick up the phone, to call him up. You want to hear his soft tones on the other end of the line. You want him to speak to you with that tender care he shows the rats in your shop, you want him to hold you as fragilely as he would the littlest baby rat. You want him to care for you, you do, you really do. You’d give anything for him to love you. To make you his, and only his. For him to tell you that you are fine, that you will be okay. For him to tell you that you are not broken, or wrong. You want him to know you, to know all your faults and all your sins, and to love you despite them. You want him to understand you in every way a person can be understood, and still crave your company. You want him to know every inch of your body, every scar and every imperfection, and desire you regardless of those flaws. To be perceived, truly known, is a mortifying ordeal, but you’d expose yourself to the vulnerability of it fully, if only for a fraction of his love.

Oh, fuck.

It’s no longer about mysteries and lust, a handsome face and the kindest of personalities. You don’t just want him. You don’t just desire him. No. There’s another word to describe these feelings, to describe why you want so much from him. But now is not the time for acknowledging it. It is to be pushed down and repressed, something to deal with another day.

Fate is probably laughing at you, mocking you relentlessly.

You’ve had enough of it all. Of feelings, of your past, of your present. You’re so utterly done. Over it. Exhaustion is overtaking your body, for you've cried yourself out. You need oblivion, for a moment. You need to be embraced by nothingness. As you lie there, breathing slow and shaky breaths, sleep mercifully carries you away.

It’s dark when you wake. A look at the clock shows you it’s almost nine in the evening. You’ve slept the afternoon away, and for that you are grateful. You need this day to come to a close. Sleep, as it often does, has washed away the worst of the hurt. While your heart still aches, tears close to the surface and a deep lingering loss ever present, the fog has cleared. Coherency and reason have returned. The emotional uproar has dulled, no longer threatening to overwhelm your senses entirely. And now that it has, now that you feel a little more human, you have questions. So, so many questions.

What the fuck happened on August 6th, 2009?

Reluctantly clambering from your warm spot in the bed, you grab the journal once more. You skim the pages, going straight for the end. You ignore Reginald’s thoughts of your mother, you ignore his feelings about yourself. No, what you are most curious about, what has you on edge, what is making you incredibly tense and uncomfortable and has you on red alert, is the fact that you have no recollection of any of this. Thirteen years old. You should be able to remember, surely? If something as big as his words — frantically scrawled upon the page, pen pressed against the page so hard that it leaves indentations on the next — would imply, you should know what had happened. For it revolved around you. Whatever had happened on that day, you were at the centre of it all. Whatever you did, that was the catalyst for the events following. For you being sent away to boarding school, banished from your home, only allowed to return thirteen years later.

But as you sit there, face screwed up in concentration, desperately trying to remember those days… there is simply nothing there. Those memories are nothing, nonexistent, lost in the abyss. And they shouldn’t be. Your breathing is shallow and panic is rising within you, because you cannot remember. This is not normal, not for you. Your memory is wonderful, you remember most things, all the insignificant details. It’s practically photographic. So why, why, why can you not remember? This isn’t correct. It’s as if someone has reached into your head and plucked them out, leaving you with a blank page in their place.

Something happened on that day. Something life changing. Whatever ritual Reginald had planned… it had gone horrifically wrong. Wrong enough that he claimed you were both damned by your actions that day.

Wandering into the bathroom, you take a good look at yourself in the mirror. You’re searching for something, anything, for a sign. Any indication that there is something damned about you. Any indication of the ritualistic magicks that you seem to have gotten too far involved with as a girl. Desperately, you’re staring at the familiar face in the mirror. But — not that you’re even sure what it is you’re searching for — she looks the same as always. Tired, exhausted, a little puffy from crying, but normal. Human. What were you expecting — to suddenly see something otherworldly? To see evil personified, to see devil’s horns? It’s a laughable thing, thinking that you could possibly have seen something else present.

Before this day, had anyone asked you about yourself, you’d have used words like ‘normal’ or ‘average’ in your description. Now… you’re less than sure.

Staring at your own drawn face is getting you nowhere. Sighing loudly, you exit the bathroom and head for the kitchen, grabbing a half stale bagel and taking a bite. You’re starving, enough so that you don’t bother to slice it or add any sort of filling. It’s dry and unappealing, but you have no energy to devote to making yourself an actual dinner. On your fifth overly dry bite, a thought comes to you.

Reginald might have more diaries.

You rush downstairs, half eaten bagel long forgotten. There has to be something in the office, in one of the many stacks you’ve not gotten around to looking through. Boxes upon boxes line the walls, Shelves stuffed with all sorts of things. A diary or two has to be lingering, surely. Even if all of Reg’s things had somehow been removed prior to his death. Something had to have been forgotten. After all, the diary from that one month of 2009 was left, stolen away by rats. Perhaps another had been misplaced, forgotten about, left for you to discover.

You’re frenetic, frantic, frenzied. Throwing things around, flinging useless old books aside. It’s going to be a mess to clean up in the morning, but you’re not so bothered about that. Not right now. Sure, in the morning, you’ll bitch and moan and hate yourself for this, but that’s not a problem for now. There’s nothing, nothing… there’s something.

Another diary. Less worn than the previous, no rat bites or tattered edges. Someone had placed it behind the books upon the bottom-most shelf, as if wanting it to remain hidden. But it had not remained hidden, you have found it. Anticipation is coursing through your veins as you bring it over to the desk, hopeful for some kind of revelation, one that will make everything make sense.

Luke 16:13 | No servant can serve two masters; for he will hate the one and love the other, or else he will be devoted to one and despise the other. You cannot serve the devil and yourself.

Matthew 22:37 | And He said to him, “You shall love the Dark Lord your Devil with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.

1 Samuel 12:24 | Only fear the Devil and serve Him in truth with all your heart; for consider what great things he has done for you.

Joshua 24:20 | If you forsake the Devil and serve yourself, then He will turn and do you harm and consume you after He has done evil to you.

Romans 12:11 | not lagging behind in diligence, fervent in spirit, serving Lucifer;

A singular page. Five warped bible verses. No dates, no references to anything useful. Just five edited verses. You don’t even recognise the penmanship. It is not the loopy scrawl you were familiar with. But you have a gut feeling, one you can’t quite shake, that this is one of Reginald’s diaries, these are his words scribbled. They look like the work of a madman. Scratched upon the page, the letters odd looking and not quite right. It doesn’t look like ink, the colour an odd rust. The churning in your stomach only increases as you begin to suspect that someone, that Reginald, might have written within this journal with blood. This is not the journal of the man you remember. But then, he doesn’t seem to have even been the man you remember in the first place.

Glass shattering, a startling crash disturbing the silence of the evening, has you on your feet in an instant. The sound is from the shop floor, your heart sinks. Someone up — or down — there really has it in for you today. You’re well aware bad things come in threes, but seriously? Three massively shit occurrences all in the same twenty four hours seems deeply unfair. Swallowing deeply, you stay still, eyes trained on the door. There’s no sounds coming from the shop floor, it doesn’t seem as if anyone has actually entered the place after destroying what must have been the window. Who knows what on earth you’d do if they had — you’re no fighter, you’ve nothing to defend yourself with.

But no, it’s quiet. Waiting a few minutes more of the silence — they are painfully long minutes, that drag out endlessly — you decide that you best check out the damage. It seems as if it will be safe, as if no one will harm you. Once more, the urge to call Copia is rising within you, but you push it down. You’re sure he has little interest in hearing from you, so late in the evening, yet again. No, best not bother him. Even if you’re terrified and in desperate need of some comfort. Even if he said you could. He doesn’t want you, he was being polite. Opening the door between the office and the shop floor, you glance around the poorly lit store nervously. As you’d thought, it is empty. As you’d thought, the window is shattered, glass strewn everywhere. The floor is completely covered with minuscule fragments. Wonderful. Not only will you have to clean the office but the shop floor needs to be swept meticulously, lest some unfortunate visitor ends up with shards slicing at them. A large rock lays in the middle of it all, the cause of all the damage. You edge closer, wary of the glass near your feet. There’s something, a sheet of paper, taped to it. Wading through the glass, you lean down to pick it up, to see what has been written. Of course, you know exactly what it will say; it’s not hard to know who has orchestrated this. Joanna Prescott warned you, and this must be her first offensive move in her holy war on Lucifer. As you go to take the rock, a sharp pain slices at the side of your hand. Hissing, you pull it back, only to see in the dim lighting that you’ve sliced it, up to your littlest finger. It hurts, and you’re aware that blood is dripping onto the floor. Another thing to clean in the morning, you suppose. With more care this time, you actually grab the rock, before retreating back into your glass free office.

With better lighting, you can see that the note has been written on pale pink note paper, in a perfect cursive script. The juxtaposition between the elegance of the note and the brutality of the action has you giggling hysterically. It’s not even funny, it’s horrifying, but this day has been so insanely terrible that you just can’t help it, you can’t help it at all. As you actually read the note, you fall silent. It’s sobering.

Next time, it won’t be the window. It will be YOU.

You’re frozen in place, eyes wide. Should you call… no. No. You should call the police. You should stop thinking about him. You do one of those things, the former. It’s rather useless, all in all. The non emergent line has you waiting for a painfully long time, before a bored voice finally answers. As you describe what had happened at the store — yes, you’d been previously threatened by Joanna Prescott, no, you didn’t have any proof of those threats or that this was orchestrated by her — you come to the realise that little will be done. Nothing will be done. They won’t even send someone to come by, they don’t need pictures of the scene. Someone will fill out and file the paperwork away, it will be forgotten about. By everybody except you. Or Joanna. It was late, so late, by the time you’re off the phone. You want to go to bed, desperately, despite having slept the afternoon away. You’re frustrated, to the point of being beyond caring. The window, smashed entirely, is an issue. But what do you do with a broken window? Cover it up? You don’t bother to do that, to do anything. If people really want Reginald’s occult books that badly, they can have them. Fuck it all, is all you can think as you go up the stairs to deal with your bloody hand and go to bed.

You can only hope that the morning will be better.

The glass shards are gone.

You rose early, ready to clean the shop floor, ready to find a glazier to fix the window. There is a lot to be done. While your mood is still low, while you still feel overwhelmed and rather sorry for yourself, you don’t have the time for it. So, you find yourself downstairs, a little earlier than usual, ready to sweep.

But, the glass shards are gone.

The shop floor is perfectly clean. Nothing inside has changed — you double check the videos you’d taken the night before of the glass covered floor, which had captured the rest of the place in with it — not a single item seems to have been stolen. The door is still locked, no indication that it has been picked open overnight.

And yet, the glass shards are gone.

You’re not sure how this has happened. There’s no explanation, is there? But wait. You do not live here alone. Did the mysterious attic ghoul… surely not. He’s never made his presence known, outside the disappearance of the meat you leave outside his door on occasion and that one awful night. Could he have?

There’s too much going on in your brain for your liking. Too many mysteries, too many weird occurrences, too many threats. You’d moved back for an easy life. A simple life, a quiet life. One where you’d sell your silly little books and be happy. This, this is not that. Your brain is fried. Toasted. No longer working. The shop isn’t opening today — you can’t really open for business until the window is fixed, which reminds you that you need to call a tradesman to sort it immediately. Although, can you even afford someone, especially if you’re calling them out so urgently, is there even —

“Alright there, love?” A rough voice drags you out of your panic ridden plans. A man is standing in front of the window, looking at you strangely.

To be fair to him, you’re stood staring intently at the floor, panicked expression upon your face, so you probably look like a total idiot.

“Oh, hi. I’m sorry, we’re closed today — smashed window and all.” Your voice sounds artificial to your own ears, as you smile awkwardly at him, tension radiating from your body.

“Ah you got me wrong there. That’s what I’m here for, to fix the window.” He says, raising a toolbox in one hand and gesturing towards the van parked behind him with the other. He’s a glazier from a local window and door company, you recognise the logo. How you’d missed the van was beyond you.

Confusion floods through your veins once more. How many odd occurrences are going to happen in your shop this morning? Next thing you know, Reginald will be back from the dead to spill his secrets or something. Well, probably not. That’s not how death works. You’re losing it, lost in your thoughts, and you drag yourself back to the conversation.

“Sorry? I — I didn’t call anyone.” You say slowly, eyes narrowing slightly. Was he really here to fix the glass? Was he cold calling, about to hit you with an extortionate price for repairs?

“No, your old man did. Paid up front too, so we’re all sorted here.” He grins, setting the box down.

“My dad?” You choke out. Who? The only father figure you have is Reginald, who thought you were a massive burden and is also dead. Like, six feet under, not coming back, dead.

“European sounding bloke, bit of an odd duck.” The man’s tone suggests that ‘odd duck’ is a far politer version of what he’d wanted to say. But the vague description is enough to clue you in as to who has paid for your window repairs.

“Did he call himself Papa, by any chance?” You let out a breathless laugh of relief. Thank Lucifer for Papa. Although how he knew about the window, knew to call someone about replacing it is beyond you.

“Yeah, that’s the one. He said your upstairs neighbour called, summat like that anyways.” He shrugs, and your jaw almost drops. You school your expression quickly, as to not convince the glazier you’re not a total freak.

So the ghoul did make an appearance. Huh. A passing thought has you wondering why exactly the ghoul seems to avoid you, why you’ve not yet seen him.

“Ah, he’s not my father, he’s uh, my priest.” You nod, explaining with a smile, trying to seem normal. You don’t feel normal. None of this is normal.

“Yeah, well he did ask me to pass on a quick message, faxed it over, I ain’t looked at it yet. Here, I’ll read it.” A note is pulled out of the toolbox, and he begins to read. “He says that if you feel the need to thank him you can take the Cardinal and… oh. That’s… explicit. I can’t be reading that filth in front of a lady. You said he was a priest?” His eyes are wide and he’s staring at you with horror and you really, truly, do not need to know what deviant acts Papa has written on that page. Heat is rising to your cheeks and you truly don’t know how to make this situation any less weird.

“I see. Sounds like Papa. Do you need me here, or?” You chuckle awkwardly. He nods with raised eyebrows, his disbelief clear upon his face.

“Nah, you’re all set, sweetheart. I’ll call to ya if I need anything, alright?” He dismisses you, bending down to get his equipment ready.

Smiling at him — although it’s not a smile that reaches your eyes — you head back upstairs, flopping onto your bed. Should you follow Papa’s advice? It would be so easy to walk over to the ministry, to visit his office. You’re pretty sure that everything would be better upon seeing him. But if you see him, you’re sure you’ll do one of two things. Confess everything, or cry all over him. Neither sounds appealing. No. You’re mopey, and you refuse to be mopey around him. You’ll give yourself the day. One day, to get your act together. One day, to mourn the death of your childhood. One day, to recalibrate your brain.

And tomorrow, you’ll visit Copia.

Chapter Text

You cannot stay away from him any longer; forty eight hours without Copia’s presence has you craving him. It is slightly ridiculous. It is more than slightly ridiculous. You’re a grown woman, acting like a teenage girl with her first crush. There’s no reason for your heart to ache so violently, for your thoughts to turn back to him time and time again. But, your heart does ache violently and does not leave your mind for long. So, despite that mean little voice in your head, the one that claims he has little interest in you, that claims you are pathetic, you make a decision. You will see Copia today.

The shop is closed, once more. It’s not exactly great for business, and you’re sure you look like a complete and utter coward. However, it cannot be helped. You need a short break. Actually, you need more than a short break. What you really, really need is an all expenses paid holiday with Copia, in which you could spend all the time in the world having the most depraved sex imaginable, but it’s unlikely that would ever happen. So, you’ll settle for closing the store for a few days, and a visit to see the man you desire so intensely.

And you will not fantasise about him eating you out during your visit. You will not.

The walk to the ministry is unremarkable, which pleases you. None of Joanna’s little crusaders seem to be following you, an idea that had been floating around your mind as you readied yourself to leave. You’d rather not get attacked on the way to see Copia — partially because it would only serve to postpone your visit, but also because you’ve really had quite enough trouble the past few days. As you enter into the ministry, you find it rather empty, despite it being just gone midday. Fiddling with the straps of your tote bag nervously, you wonder if there’s something happening — perhaps mass is ongoing. Hell, how embarrassing would it be to knock at Copia’s office door, only for him to simply not be there. Nerves are rising as you walk down the halls, your footsteps echoing behind you. What if he’s disappointed to see you? What if he asks you to leave?

You approach the door, the one Papa had shown you on your last visit to the ministry — seriously, thank Lucifer for his insistence at showing you where Copia’s office was, for you’d be mortified to have to ask around for him.

Swallowing deeply, you knock lightly upon the door. A harried voice calls for you to enter. The butterflies are more like angry wasps as you slowly crack the door, stepping into the gap. Copia is there, sat at a desk stacked high with papers. It’s rather similar to the office you’d seen him in before, but less ornate. Books are ordered neatly upon shelves, files and papers in tidy piles — everywhere, even upon the coffee table. A loveseat is placed behind it, wedged into the corner of the room. There’s a noticeable lack of technology. It’s exactly how you’d pictured it. He doesn’t look up as you enter, continuing to scribble away at whatever document he’s working on.

“Hi, Copia. I hope you don’t mind me stopping by.” You sound a little awkward, and you’re cursing yourself internally for it.

He looks surprised to hear your voice, his head jerking up immediately. As his mismatched eyes catch yours, he smiles widely, practically jumping up from his chair.

“Mia cara.” He exhales, a tinge of something indescribable within his voice. Awe? He moves to the front of the desk, beckoning you forward. “You are most welcome, always. Come in, come in.”

Returning his grin with a shy one of your own — begging your mind to get a grip, to relax — you walk over towards him, coming to a stop a foot or so away. A tiny part of you is screaming, demanding, that you launch yourself into his arms, let him hold you, take the comfort you so desire from him. Resolutely, you ignore it.

“How have you been? Terzo told me — as in, ten minutes ago, told me — about the window at your shop. I was planning to visit, to make sure you were alright, but Sister has buried me with paperwork of the ‘most urgent’ nature, and —” He’s speaking rapidly, the concern in his eyes rising as he gestures frustratedly to the stacks upon his desk. You do feel sorry for him, it is clear he is overworked, it always has been.

“Breathe, Copia. It’s okay. I was going to call you, actually, when it happened, but I didn’t want to interrupt anything here. I know how busy you are.” You reassure him, stepping ever closer to him; you have to remind yourself that you cannot reach out and touch him.

“It is never an interruption. Not if it’s you. Well, yes, in the technical sense, I suppose, but what I mean is this. You should never feel as if you are imposing upon me. I… I want you to interrupt, to impose. I would like you to call, should you want to, that is.” His eyes are wide, oh-so genuine, there is an eager passion to his words and you hardly know what to think.

“Yeah?” Words are hard to form, when your mind is so full. So full of wonder, so full of hope. So full of… you will not say it, you will not say that word.

“Yes. Yes. The idea of having a person, having you, take time from their own schedules, to come here, to see me… oh — your hand!” The sincerity in his voice makes you want to kiss him, but you cannot kiss him, so you raise your bandaged hand to your mouth as if to block its desired movements. His words trail off as he catches sight of it.

“Broken glass. I was trying to pick up the rock that got lobbed through the window and ended up cutting my hand, see?” You laugh breathlessly — not that there’s even remotely anything to laugh about, but you are nervous and so you laugh — raising your hand slightly to show him.

“May I?” He steps closer and everything slows.

Your mind comes to a halt, as he settles directly in front of you, close enough to touch, close enough to smell the familiar scent of frankincense and old leather. Oh, how you love it, how you dream of it at night, how you desire it within your loneliest moments. Copia smiles softly, taking your still outstretched, injured hand in his larger, gloved ones. His touch is feather light, deeply comforting in a way you cannot explain, as he gently strokes his thumb against the skin. You glance up from your joined hands, meeting his mismatched eyes. He is watching you, oh-so-intently, expression unreadable. Slowly, so slowly, he lifts your injured hand to his mouth, bestowing the sweetest of kisses to your cut. Your breath hitches as he lingers, his lips brushing so softly against your hand, eyes still locked upon each other. He lowers your hand, he lets go, and you miss his touch instantly. It hasn’t even been a second, he’s standing right there, but you miss him. You want him, so badly, the formerly angry wasps within your stomach melting into the warm heat of desire.

“Oh.” You exhale softly, unable to form any real words, your mind entirely overwhelmed from Copia’s touch, yearning for more, more, more.

“I, uh, believe there is a tradition of ‘kissing it better,’ sì?” His mismatched eyes, the ones that should look utterly terrifying and yet are filled with such brilliant warmth that it makes you want to cry, are still gazing into yours.

“Huh, would you look at that? It doesn’t even hurt anymore.” You quip, smiling properly for the first time since you read that cursed journal. It’s not a lie; you cannot feel any pain, for all you can feel is that pooling heat and the quickening of your heartbeat.

“Fantastico. Now, come sit. Will you tell me the details? I want to hear them, all of them. You look… sad, today.” His eyes crinkle in concern, gesturing towards the small loveseat.

Can he really read you that well?

“I — it’s been a really rough few days.” Your voice wavers — fuck, you’re mortified — as you speak, and you implore your body to not betray you, to not cry.

“I will listen, if you would like to talk about it. It is good to talk about these feelings, sì?” His voice is so tender that you can’t help tear up slightly. No, it will not do. You must get a hold of yourself.

“It’s a little intense. And you’ve got all that paperwork…” You try to shrug it off, gesturing at his paper filled desk. For you cannot understand why he would want to sit and listen to your problems, when nobody else has before.

“Psh, fuck the paperwork. Here, let us go somewhere else. My chambers, perhaps? Sister and Terzo are supposed to be here soon for a meeting, but I think their meeting is far less important than you. So, we shall avoid them, and you can tell me what is going on.” Copia dismisses his responsibilities as if they are nothing, so easily, and it has you spinning. He would do that? For you? It is almost beyond belief, outside the realm of possibility. You are reeling at the thought of it.

“I don’t want to make you—” You’re sure the disbelief at how easily he, the greatest workaholic you know, would skip out on his responsibilities all because you are sad is evident on your face.

“You,mia cara, are making me do nothing. Shall we go?” He walks to the door, opening it, gesturing for you to walk through.

“Yes.” You agree, after a moment’s consideration.

He begins to lead you down the corridors, towards where you remember his chambers being. The walk is quiet, comfortable, there is nobody else around. That is, until you hear loud footsteps and a familiar, teasing voice.

“Cardinale! E la tua principessa? Oh, how exciting to see you both!” Papa Emeritus III appears, arms thrown wide and a roguish grin slowly spreading across his face.

“Hello, Papa.” You both greet him, Copia sounding vaguely exasperated.

“We are supposed to be meeting, are we not?” Papa asks, a knowing look upon his face. You are sure he’s already worked out that Copia is ditching the meeting, and likely assuming you’ve decided to take whatever lewd advice he’d sent through the glazier.

“Che cosa? You are skipping? Oh, il mio Cardinale, I am so proud of you! Finalmente si sgattaiola via per una scopata veloce, sì? Ah, it is like being a real papa, this pride I am feeling.” Papa’s tone is at first filled with mock outrage, as he pretends to be scandalised by Copia’s decision. But deep in his eyes, you can see a hint of delight. You still have no idea what the Italian phrases he uses mean, but you’re sure that they’re rather indecent.

“Terzo? Sei un fottuto idiota.” Copia’s tone is flat, his cheeks flushed, as you look over to him. Oh yes, Papa’s words are definitely of the lustful variety.

“Eh, maybe. I shall make sure Sister does not drag you away, that you are not interrupted.” His eyes light up mischievously, and you almost want to feel sorry for Sister Imperator, for whatever it is Papa is about to do in an attempt to steer her away from Copia. “Oh, so many ideas…”

Clearly lost in thought, plotting away, Papa continues to stride through the corridors. You glance up at Copia, who is still blushing. Oh, how you want to kiss his cheek, his forehead, his lips. But, you do none of these things.

“Let us continue.” He says, finally, as the redness slowly fades from his cheeks.

You simply nod, butterflies fluttering within your stomach once more. He’s taking you to his rooms. His rooms, in which he lives, in which he sleeps. There’s something so… intimate about it. You want to study every inch of his living space, to know everything about him. You want to know every title of every book, know every sinlge backstory to every little oddity he’s collected. It’s not long before you’re turning down another corridor and walking up to his door. He throws a sheepish, slightly flustered look your way as he unlocks it.

“Here. I apologise for the mess of it; I do not usually have company here.” He lets you in, following after you. He does not bring people here? Your brain fixates on that thought, as you take in the space around you.

The first room, the main room, is a similar size to your apartment. A small kitchenette shoved in the corner, dishes left on a drying rack. A large dark wooden desk, far messier than the one in his office, with papers strewn everywhere, used mugs lined up on one side. A large couch, dark in colour. Books stacked tall upon a low coffee table. Shelve-lined walls, crammed full of books. Renaissance art lines the walls. There’s a single door on the opposing wall — it must lead to the bedroom — but it is closed shut. A shame, for you long to see his most private of chambers, but perhaps for the best. You are here to talk about your problems, not fantasise about all the delicious things you’d like him to do to you in his very own bed. It is cluttered, crowded with well loved belongings accumulated over the years, and it makes you smile. You glance over at him; he is watching you with nervous eyes, as if he is waiting for you to pass judgement.

“It’s very… you. I think. You might have more books than I do.” You tell him softly.

“I have had a very long time to collect them, I suppose. Now, sit here, let us talk. I want to hear about your very bad days. What has happened?” Copia nods, before leading you to the sofa. After setting your bag upon the coffee table, you sit first — at an angle, so that you’ll be able to face him easily. It is a large sofa, but he chooses to sit close to you, close enough that your knees are a hair’s breadth from touching.

You think that even the slightest touch from him would wholly overwhelm your agitated heart, enough to kill you dead.

“Do you want to hear about Joanna, or do you want to hear about the journal?” You finally ask, looking up at him. There’s so much compassion, he is so tender, that you want to tell him everything. You want him to know everything, even if you had previously been so convinced of it being a bad idea.

“The journal was bad? I am sorry I encouraged your reading of it. Let us… perhaps Joanna is the easier of the two to deal with. Tell me about her.” He sounds genuinely upset, apologetic. He sounds as if he well and truly cares. It is so shocking to you, so utterly meaningful, especially after your discoveries.

“She called, not long before we last saw each other. The whole thing is weird — why am I so high up on her shit list? Like yeah, I have the shop and all, but she seems dead set on pushing me out. She told me that if I didn’t sell, she’d — and this is a direct quote — wage holy war upon me, upon the Church. So the rock went through the window later that day, with a note. Here.” Your tone is tinged with your frustrations, as you pull the note from your tote bag and hand it to him.

He takes it carefully from you in his gloved hands. His fingers are oh-so close to touching your own, but they do not. You wish they had. You watch as Copia’s brow furrows as he reads the note. He sighs, before placing it upon the coffee table.

“I see. There have been issues between our church and the Prescott’s since they came here. However, things have become more fraught, in recent days.” There’s an edge to his tone, as if he is skirting around something, but he doesn’t need to be specific for you to know exactly what he is hinting at.

“It’s since my arrival, isn’t it? I’ve totally inadvertently fucked things up.” You let out a humourless laugh, for you are sick of it, sick of everything around you falling to pieces, of ruining everything. It is as if you are cursed, cursed to bring turmoil wherever you tread — maybe you are damned, just as Reginald had written.

“Sì, but only to the first part. Do not blame yourself — no, really. You are not to blame for the actions of others. I, for one, am most glad of your arrival. Most glad indeed. It is nice, to have a… friend. To most, I am the strange Cardinal who leads the occasional mass. You make me feel like a person, rather than a cog in the machinery of this ministry, and I thank you for that.” That devastating earnestness has trickled into his tone once more, and fuck if it doesn’t drive you crazy. He makes you feel worth something, he makes you feel so incredibly valued, with such ease.

“I’m lucky to have you.” Your voice is low, barely above a whisper, for you are overcome with emotion for him, emotion that you cannot let show, for you do not want to push him away with how deeply you feel. You do not want to be too much.

“I will make sure that some of the ministry ghouls are watching your shop, looking out for anyone of Joanna’s followers intending to cause trouble for you. No, please. It would make me worry less.” You try to protest it, for you do not want him to get in trouble for misusing ministry resources, but he is firm and resolute. Does he really worry for you?

“Thank you.” You are so grateful for him, you don’t know what you’d do without him. Your life has upended itself suddenly, violently, and he is the one solid, the only consistency, remaining.

“But of course. Now, what happened with the journal?” Copia’s words are hesitant, you can tell he is well aware that this is treacherous ground.

You pause for a beat, and then two. He does not push, just waits, patiently. Finally, you pull the stupid thing out of your bag, practically dropping it in his lap. “It would be easier for you to just read it.”

He does. You fiddle with the sleeves of your jumper as he rapidly flips through the pages. You cannot bear to look at him, cannot bear to see the expressions upon his face. For if you do look up at him, if you do see his face filled with revulsion… you could not live. It would be as if all the oxygen was sucked out of the air at once. No, no. You do not look. You cannot. Finally, the journal slams shut, jolting you from your morose musings. You look up at him hesitantly, fearfully.

“Quel bastardo malvagio. I…” He practically growls, steely rage evident, emanating from him.

You breathe in sharply. Does he hate you now? Does he now see you for your true self? He glances at you then, registering the fear that’s as clear as day upon your face. He softens. He reaches out a gloved hand. He places it on your thigh, gently squeezing, thumb rubbing small circles against your leg. You stop breathing for a second, you stop thinking for a second, everything stops for a second. Heat is pooling within you, and it takes everything to stop yourself from doing anything to relieve the building pressure within you. Now is not the time for your most lascivious of thoughts. Your brain suddenly reminds you of the conversation at hand, that you are here to talk about Reginald’s journal, and the lust dissipates rapidly.

“I apologise; I am not angry at you. His words, they disgust me. To know he wrote about you, you, in such a manner. It is a disgrace. Reginald, your mother, they failed you. They did not deserve the gift that is your presence within their odious little lives. Know that.” Copia is so utterly decent, so wonderfully compassionate, and you do not deserve him. To hear his words, to have him refer to you as a ‘gift’ of all things, well, it’s the biggest relief you’ve ever known. You want so desperately to believe him.

“It was a lot to take in. That the one decent family member I had wasn’t all that decent.” You sigh. Your eyes are watery, but no tears fall.

“Hm.” He pats your thigh softly, his hand still resting upon your leg.

“What was your family like? You don’t have to answer.” You ask suddenly, deeply curious about him, before embarrassment overtakes; he’s not exactly the most forthcoming of men, you’re sure he has little interest in talking about such things with you.

“Ah, my youth was a long time ago. I have very few memories of those days.” It’s odd, the way he says it, as if he is ancient, as if he has lived for a lifetime already.

“You’re not that old.” You tease, a small smile returning to your face. What must he think, of the emotional rollercoaster that you’ve dragged him along on?

“I am older than you, that is for certain. No, I did not live with my family, from what I remember. It is all rather blurry, those boyhood days. I am sorry I cannot be of much help, in this regard.” The way he speaks, it’s as if he’s being overly cautious with his words. As if he’s trying to choose his words carefully. It registers in your mind, that perhaps he is hiding something, but you choose to let it go. Now… now is not the time. You don’t want to push him. You don’t want him to remove his hand from your thigh.

"It’s fine, it’s just… I have to be the problem, right? Like, there’s something wrong with me, for them to care so little. I mean, they were supposed to love me, and they just… didn’t.” You don’t mean to say it. Not really. It’s one of those dark and twisty thoughts, one that is supposed to stay locked up tight in your brain, a secret. But he was looking at you, and you are so overwhelmed by his presence, so overwhelmed by how deeply you want his affections, it slipped past you.

You glance away, embarrassed. But as he squeezes your thigh, drawing your hesitant eyes back to him, you are struck by the sincerity, the ardent tone of his voice as he begins to speak.

“No! No. I — my opinion means very little, I am sure. But I think you are wonderful, remarkable. You are brave and strong and kind. You are well-read, you have the most enjoyable personality. And I, I think you are beautiful. You are deserving of so many things, deserving of so much love.” It practically winds you, sends all the air flying out of your lungs, leaving you unable to remember to breathe. Because, because the way he says it, the way he stares earnestly at you, oh, it’s almost as if he loves you. You could almost believe it, and you want to believe it so desperately.

There’s silence. You are struggling to gather your thoughts, to gather your words. Because he cannot feel such a way, surely? No, no. He’s comforting you, he’s reassuring you, this is a man with a heart of gold, who gives so easily, who is so kind and friendly and full of affection, and that is surely how he intended to sound. Friendly.

“I’m sorry — I didn’t mean to overstep —” Copia’s eyes widen, cheeks flushing once more. He goes to remove his hand from your leg, as if you have burnt him. You rush to reassure him.

“No, no, you didn’t. I… you really think of me as all those things?” You tell him, placing a hand upon his, keeping it in place. He swallows deeply.

“Sì, certo. And I am sure I am not the only man in this world to think of you in such ways.” His voice is barely above a whisper, and he leans forward ever so slightly, barely perceptible. But you notice, oh, how you notice.

“Well, yours is the opinion I value most.” Your voice is as quiet as his.

You’re gazing at him, he’s staring at you, something barely restrained within his eyes. God, you want him. You want him to push you back against the arm rest of the sofa, to spread your legs and press his body into you, to kiss you so gently as he takes you, slowly, to kiss you so tenderly as you whimper beneath him. His eyes flicker down to your lips, and you wonder, if maybe, maybe, he’s having the same thoughts as you. You open your mouth, desperate to ask.

And then, movement outside his chambers. Raised voices audible even through the heavy wooden door. You both whip around as you hear Papa’s voice, a pitch higher than usual, babbling away.

“...Sister, I have told you più volte, that he is not here! Il Cardinale, he had an emergency.” Papa’s loud tones have both you and Copia sighing loudly.

It seems that he did not manage to convince Sister Imperator to postpone their meeting, after all.

“Yes, you did say that, and I did not believe you. You are a terrible liar.” A woman’s voice reproaches; she must be the Sister. And she sounds dreadfully unhappy.

“Psh, I am not.” Papa sounds offended, and it makes you giggle slightly, turning back to look at Copia. There’s frustration evident upon his face, but he does not move to stand. He does not move his hand, either.

“So you admit to lying to me?” The Sister sounds awfully unimpressed.

“What? No! Copia is not here!” Papa continues to insist. You have to give it to him, he’s committed entirely to keeping the bit going, even if it’s very clear the game is up.

“So where is this… ‘emergency?’” The Sister’s tone is flat, irritated.

“He is… well, you see, it’s a funny story. Very humorous. He fell down a flight of stairs and is in the hospital with a broken leg.” She’s right — Papa is a terrible liar. It’s evident that he’s thought up his words milliseconds before they pass his lips. It’s a dreadful lie; no wonder the Sister has shown up here.

“I’m going to ignore the fact that you are calling a broken leg ‘humorous,’ Papa. Which staircase did he fall down?”

“The… one by the bell-tower?”

“Indeed?”

You clap a hand to your mouth, to stifle another giggle — Papa is doing an abysmal job, truly. You look back at Copia, mirth clear in your eyes. He sighs good-naturedly, stroking at your leg softly.

“Clearly, Terzo has failed in his task, mia cara. I shall have to make an appearance, it seems.” He tells you softly, and while there is a clear edge of disappointment, his gaze is still warm.

You want to kiss him. It would be so easy, to lean forward and press your lips against his. But, you are cowardly, so you do not. You want to tell him you’ll wait, that you’ll stay here so that you can continue this conversation after his meeting. It would be so easy, for you feel sure that he’d eagerly accept such an offer. But, you are afraid of rejection, so you do not.

“I should probably head home, I have a book order coming in soon.” Is what you tell him instead. There’s no book order. But you tell him there is, and you stand to leave.

“Thank you, for visiting. It is always a joy to be with you. Please, do not feel as if you must stay away. I… you could visit constantly, and it would still not be enough.” He stands with you, his words deeply earnest, a faint blush colouring his cheeks. His arm comes up to brush yours, and you wonder if he will pull you in for a hug. He does not, simply resting his gloved palm against you.

“Oh, you’d surely grow sick of me.” Your words are quiet, not completely a joke.

“Never. That is an impossibility. Not even if our lives lasted a millennia.” There is so much conviction in his statement. You nearly throw yourself at him.

But you do not, for the door is flung open. The Sister stands there, deeply unimpressed. You take a step back, almost embarrassed to be caught in such a tender moment.

“Cardinal, really! What exactly do you think you are playing at?” She demands, and you realise it is best to get out of there, before you are dragged into the disagreement too.

Copia seemingly thinks so too; he looks at you once more, tilting his head towards the door, giving you permission to leave, before turning to speak.

“Ah — my apologies, Sister. I did ask Papa to postpone our meeting but I see…” He does not sound apologetic in the slightest, and you grin to yourself.

Your stolen moments have definitely come to a close. Mouthing a soft goodbye to Copia, you duck past the furious Sister Imperator, shaking your head good naturedly at a smirking Terzo. And as you make your way down the unhallowed ministry halls, beaming from ear to ear, you start to wonder.

Maybe… just maybe, love is meant for you.

Chapter Text

The world is a little bit brighter, a little bit happier, in the days following the encounter in Copia’s chambers. Of course, things are not perfect. Things are never perfect. But, as you reopen the bookshop and return to your odd little sense of normalcy, you think things might be okay. Things really might be okay. Sure, there’s a faction of Catholic zealots wanting to wage war upon you. And yes, maybe your childhood was totally fucked up in ways you didn’t even realise and still cannot entirely comprehend. But life isn’t supposed to be perfect. Life is messy, life is complicated. You love the bookshop, despite your troubled past there. It is home; even if that facade is irreparably cracked. Even if something terrible happened there, once upon a time. You just know, at the depths of your soul, that this is where you are supposed to be. Because even though it’s brought hardship and pain, good has come. You think you’ve finally figured out your place in the world. You’re connecting with your spiritual roots again. You’ve met Copia.

Not that a meeting a man could ever make everything better. It doesn’t. He cannot solve all your problems. He cannot fix all those deep rooted insecurities that have crawled out the darkest recesses of your mind in recent days. But, he makes you feel less alone. He makes you feel as if at least one person in this crazy world wants you. And that is enough, you think. Knowing that you have someone, him, who cares. It’s all you want.

And while you’ve not seen him in a few days, your mood stays strong. Hopeful, even. He’s called you, late at night, needing someone to listen to his worries. You answer, naturally. You’ll always answer when Copia calls. As if you could ignore him. You want to be the person he turns to when he needs something. To be the person he speaks to candidly about his concerns. There to listen when his tone is anxious, his words are uncertain, as he murmurs his worries about the inner workings of the church. Right now, there are problems, at another ministry. Sister Imperator’s actions are strange, she is being shifty. He might have to leave to fix them, but he does not want to go. His words tell you that his reluctance to leave is because he is shy, because he feels as if he does not fit in, because he dislikes being the ‘weird’ Cardinal. His silences, his pauses, they tell a different story. Or perhaps, you just hear what you would like to hear. There’s a reticence, as if he does not wish to leave you. As if, perhaps, he wants to stay, because you are here. It’s a pipe dream, perhaps.

But, these days, you’re hopeful.

However, while your heart might be in fantasyland, your head is firmly in reality. You’re not taking chances with Joanna’s ire any longer. That rock through your window is not going to be the last of it, that’s a stone cold fact. While you can’t exactly afford a decent security system, you can afford to buy one of those video doorbells, with the motion sensor alerts. At least you’ll have a little warning, the next time someone tries to damage your property. You’re in the process of logging into the app, trying to figure out how the stupid thing works — you own a shop full of antique books, technology is absolutely not your thing — when it starts vibrating and ringing. Panic sets in, until the shop door swings open. Oh. Well, it works, you suppose, although any thoughts of alarms and intruders and customers are lost as you look up.

Copia is approaching your position in front of the counter, in the most sinful of suits. White and tight in all the right places. Fuck, how well he wears it, how utterly wicked he looks. His hair is perfectly styled, his pencil moustache and sideburns perfectly groomed. He almost looks as if he’s from another time, but it’s strangely enthralling. You try not to let your jaw drop, you try not to let out a whimper at the thoughts flooding your mind. How incredible it would be to lead him into the stacks, to let him push you up against the shelves. How you want his mouth trailing hot kisses along your jaw and down your neck. How you want to feel him grinding against you roughly, practically wild with desire. How you want to hear him groan deeply into your ear as you touch him, caress him, hands ghosting down his body. How you wish —

You need to focus. Blinking rapidly, you try desperately to shake away your lustful daydreams, to ignore the heat burning within your veins.

“...Mia cara?” He’s speaking, he was speaking, and you completely blanked out for the entirety of it, too busy ogling him, fantasising about him.

“Shit, I’m sorry. I was, uh, daydreaming.” You say, breathless, trying so hard to not stare at how good he looks — failing miserably.

“Indeed.” His mismatched eyes are practically glowing, as if he’s wholly aware of the fact that you’re entranced by his suit, as if he’s chosen it specifically to garner such a reaction. After a moment of intense eye contact, that practically has you dripping, desperate for his hands upon your body, his tone shifts, eyes apologetic. “I said that I am sorry we have been parted for so long. But, the church. So many problems, and they all seem to fall to me for fixing.”

“Is everything better now?” You ask, trying so hard to focus, but focusing is impossible when you’re desperately trying not to get caught glancing down at his thighs in those obscenely tight trousers, or up slightly at his —

“Unfortunately, no. It has been… requested, that I deal with the problem in person. I was supposed to leave this morning.” He sounds frustrated at his situation, he sounds as if this has been a well-worn topic of discussion already.

“And yet…” You trail off, gesturing at his presence in front of you — clearly, whatever fight he had, most likely with Sister Imperator, he won.

“And yet, I did not.” There’s a proud little smirk on his face. You want to kiss — focus, you want to focus on the conversation.

“Belated teenage rebellion? Midlife crisis?” You tease, with a flirtatious little giggle, eyes attempting to drift lower once more, before you catch yourself. You fix your gaze upon his own, although that doesn’t help much, for his stare is dark and hypnotic and — really, what’s to stop you from dropping to your knees, right here, right now?

“Behave now, mia cara.” His tone is teasing, but you still have to suppress a moan at his words, because unholy fuck is he hot. “No, I wanted to visit you first. I’ve been thinking about the rituals of which Reginald speaks of in his journal. I find myself deeply concerned on the matter; the magicks and rituals he was using were not for the light of heart it seems, and I — I would like for you to be well. It is clear you were affected — the Catholic blessings proved that. I want to do some research here; look around at the books, see if there is any… residual matter left behind. It has been a long time, yes, but the darkest of the ritual magicks will never truly leave a place, a part of them will always remain.”

And it’s as if someone has poured ice water all over the growing inferno within your core. All that desperate need has dissipated instantly. Being reminded of the fact that you are maybe damned for all eternity or something just as depressing utterly kills the mood. However, you can’t help your growing curiosity at his words — could he really find anything here, even after so much time has passed? Surely Reginald would have sold the relevant books, surely the passing of thirteen years has washed away any relevant clues. Except…

“... Like the ghoul up in the attic? Did Reginald bring him here?” You’re inquisitive, wondering exactly what rituals both bring a ghoul to the earthly realm while damning another individual — it seems oddly specific. Or were multiple large rituals occurring, or is the ghoul totally unrelated in the first place?

“I cannot yet say. Will you permit me to work here, for a little while?” Copia shrugs apologetically, concern clear within his gaze.

“I mean… sure, do you want me to close down the shop?” Closing early again isn’t a great idea, but you doubt you’ll be receiving any more customers. Besides, closing early means you will be totally alone with Copia, and your heart races at the thought.

“Please. You know, Sister Magdalene is waiting outside — she helped me bring some materials for my research. Perhaps the two of you could go, and uh, do the ‘girl-talk’ somewhere? I fear that having you here while I research… I will be greatly distracted by your presence. And I mean that as the greatest of compliments, you must understand.” He’s deeply apologetic, and there’s a hint of fear in his eyes, that his words will be ill-received.

You won’t pretend that disappointment isn’t coursing through your veins. But, behind his remorse, there’s an edge of something else. He finds you… distracting? Now that sets the fire within you alight once more.

“I, uh, wouldn’t want to distract you.” You tell him, stepping closer to him, so that you were practically inches from him. You can hear his breathing, it is slightly ragged, and you smirk internally. You really do distract him.

“Hm. I would like you to, but alas, this is how it must be.” He smiles, and his eyes are practically gleaming once more. At his side, his hand twitches, as if he longs to reach out to you. But alas, he does not.

“I’ll have Magdalene bring you in your things?” You offer sweetly, trying to pretend your own body isn’t burning for his touch.

“Please, mia cara.” God, when he speaks so softly in Italian, you want to melt.

You walk past him, deliberately close, your shoulder brushing his as you exit the shop. It’s odd how much even the smallest of touches sends electricity through your whole body, sends shivers down your spine. As you reach the door, you cannot help but glance back at him. He’s looking at you, no, watching you, a barely restrained hunger evident in his eyes. It nearly convinces you to lock the door and stay, you’re sure he’s considering the idea himself. But no. You need to know exactly what happened thirteen years ago. Copia is your best chance of that.

Still, you’re craving him, yearning for him, as you step outside. You find yourself immediately face to face with Magdalene, who is eyeballing you with an unimpressed gaze.

“What?” You ask, a touch self conscious.

“Oh, you both have it so bad. And let me guess. You haven’t even snogged him. You’re that disgustingly happy, just from some light flirting.” Magdalene teases, wicked grin spreading upon her face. She’s rolling her eyes at you, and you come to the realisation that perhaps you might look a little smitten. Probably more than a little smitten, for you cannot help the cheesy smile gracing your lips.

“He’s a really great man.” Is all you can manage, your brain still laser focused upon images of Copia’s white suit.

“Let me take this to him real quick. Then, we are so totally discussing this over coffee. Unless you’re into doing tequila shots at three in the afternoon. Because I’m up for it, but you don’t seem like the day-drink type.” She winks, her tone still light, as she grabs a large bag off the ground and begins to haul it towards the door.

Before she disappears inside, you sigh and tell her, “I get the feeling that I’m going to need tequila for this discussion.”

You find yourself at a little pub, about half way between your shop and the ministry. It seems to be one frequented by the Siblings, for Magdalene’s habit receives no strange looks from the few clientele scattered around the room, nor the barman. She directs you rather firmly to a booth hidden away in the corner, set slightly apart from the other seating. It is perhaps a good idea on her part; this way, if other Siblings come in for a drink, they will be unable to hear your conversation over the slightly too loud pub rock playing out of the large speakers. After a few minutes she walks back over, balancing a too-full tray of shots, lime wedges, and two mixed drinks. Your eyes widen slightly at the array; when she’d mention going for tequila shots, you’d been thinking two or three. Not six, plus whatever mixed drinks she’d bought as well.

“Okay, drink these. Then, we talk.” Magdalene orders, placing the shots in a row in front of you.

“All —” You begin to ask, but you’re cut off rapidly.

“Yes. Go on.” She grins, gesturing at you to drink up.

Diligently — because you like Magdalene, and you’ve not had an excuse to let loose like this in longer than you’d care to recall — you grab the salt shaker. Lick, shoot, suck. Again and again, until you are six shots in and feeling woozy. You’re drinking on an empty stomach — terrible idea, you really should know better by now — and the buzz is already creeping up on you.

“Shit, it’s like being a student again. So, what’ve you been up to lately?” You pull a face, the final shot burning your throat a little too much.

“Oh, you know. Sinning, slutting it up around town — much to the dismay of Joanna Prescott. I keep seeing her hanging around our part of town being all judgy with her ‘Jesus loves you’ and ‘go to hell, sinners’ flyers or whatever.” Magdalene throws back her final shot with ease, winking at you with a wide grin, before regaling you with a few tales of Joanna Prescott’s latest antics, her growing obsession with harassing the Siblings of Sin.

“She’s the worst.” You grimace as she finishes her story. Seriously, considering the size of the city you’re in, surely it should be easier to avoid the woman. However, it seems as if she’s practically searching out those she detests, as if she wants the conflict it brings.

“Yeah, heard about your window and all. What a prick. But let’s face it, we are not here to talk about me. You and the Cardinal. Spill, right now." Magdalene turns to her drink, taking a sip and staring at you dead in the eye.

A part of you wonders if Copia knew he’d be the topic of conversation when he sent you away to hang out with his assistant. Another part of you muses that this is the perfect opportunity to find out as much as you can about the mysterious Cardinal.

“What do you mean?” You keep your face impassive, wishing to worm out of the feelings part of the conversation — you aren’t ready to talk about those feelings you’re burying, not out loud, not during the day. Not even after multiple shots, not even with alcohol-fuelled warmth flooding your veins.

“Don’t fucking play coy with me — you’ve got the exact same look in your eyes that he gets when your name comes up!” She narrows her eyes, pointing at you with an accusatory finger, although it’s clear from the giggle she lets out that it’s all lighthearted. However, you couldn’t care less about her tone, for her words have completely captured your attention.

“My name comes up?” Your eyes widen; Copia talks about you? Fuck, you need to know everything, every detail.

“All the fucking time. Nothing bad, he just thinks about you… all the fucking time. It’s a little pathetic, but then, I suppose you’re the exact same way. So, I guess, it’s just kind of pathetically sweet. Ugh, stop smiling. Drink this.” She pulls a face as she shoves the second mixed drink towards you — a double tequila soda you realise as you take a sip wincing at the strength. You were going to be trashed by the time you ended up back at the shop, you knew it.

“You’re his assistant, right? Have you worked for him long?” You lick an errant grain of salt from your lips, leaning forward with intrigue. There’s a desire deep within you, to learn absolutely everything possible about Copia.

“Uh huh, about four years now. He used to run through assistants like crazy, but I like working for the guy.” There’s a knowing look in her eyes as she answers your question, as if she has been waiting for you to start questioning her about him since entering the pub.

“How come?” You don’t care if she feels as if you’ve proven her correct, or if she’s found your behaviour utterly predictable. Perhaps it’s the alcohol — it’s probably not the alcohol — but your mind is completely set on using this meeting to figure out more about the man you’re so… interested, in.

After all, the only other person you could possibly get information from is Papa, and you’d be wholly mortified to have to ask him to tell you about Copia. Hell, you don’t even want to know what the man would deem appropriate and useful information.

“He’s funny, in his own weird way. I don’t mind his idiosyncrasies and he’s, like, way more respectful to us Sisters than some of the other Cardinals — a lot of them think themselves too good to show anyone of a lower rank any common fucking decency. Pricks. But he would run through assistants so often because, you know, he’s very… peculiar. Needy, as well.” She muses, fiddling with her glass.

“Peculiar? Needy?” You need more information, because that sounds, well, a little sketchy at best. As Magdalene glances up at you, she catches your hesitant perturbation and rushes to clarify.

“Oh — no, no, he doesn’t fuck his assistants! It’s not a weird sex thing. He’s like… almost Catholic, in that regard. I never hear any rumours of him shagging about, which is so weird. He’s like, the anti-Papa. I mean, I’m sure he was getting some before he began obsessing over you, because he’s totally wound up tight these days and I’m sure it’s because he wants to fuck you so bad or whatever, but yeah. He’s just like, super anal about stuff. He wants everything done just right, he’s always needing someone to run around and get things, he gets assigned an insane workload. That’s what I mean. He does the work of like, three men.” She explains away quickly, a glimmer of panic in her eyes, clearly not wanting you to think the worst of him.

“He does seem to have the worst possible work-life balance. Last time I saw him, Sister Imperator was furious at him for skipping a meeting to spend time with me.” The memory of her intrusion has you pulling a face. Something — you aren’t wholly sure what, but something — had been on the precipice of happening, and it was all ended far too abruptly.

“Oh, don’t even get me started on that bitch.” She cries out, leaning forward to speak in undertones. “Okay, let me tell you this. She’s like, weirdly obsessed with the Cardinal. I mean, look. I’ve only been at this ministry for… seven or eight years, right? I have no idea how long he’s been there, I mean, forever, it seems — I don’t know of anyone who remembers his arrival. But Sister came around the same sort of time I did. She’d been away, at a ministry on the continent with Papa Nihil, Papa III’s dad? But as soon as she showed up, she was totally fixated on Copia. Half of me thinks she has some creepy crush on him or whatever. She’s always assigning him stuff that, really, Papa should be doing. She’s always undermining Papa. I don’t know what her deal is, but there’s something not right with her.” She finishes her quiet rant with a long pull of her drink, and a furrow of her brow.

“Huh. That’s so odd.” You would file that information about the Sister away, for a time in which you can feel your face and think clearly. “But, uh, Copia’s been at this ministry a long time?”

“Yep. He’s been a high ranking church member for as far as anyone seems to know. Like, when I started working for him I obviously wanted all the gossip, right? So I asked about to all the Siblings, and I couldn’t get shit on him. He’s like, the most mysterious man alive.” Magdalene seems impressed at how low-key the Cardinal is, but you’re internally groaning in disappointment. How hard is it to find out even the most insignificant of details about this man? “But seriously, I wish Papa could be more like that. Do you know how many times I’ve walked into his office, only to find that man standing there, dick and balls out? And sometimes he’s not even mid-shag. Like, he just likes to vibe in his office all naked. I mean, I guess I can understand why, because he does have a pretty nice dick...” She drifts off into some kind of daydream, which you can only assume is about Papa’s dick.

“I’m kind of not even surprised.” You’re giggling, partially because tequila makes everything so fucking funny, but also because you can totally imagine Papa — the man who sent explicit sexual instructions for you through an unsuspecting tradesman — doing such a thing.

“No you’re so right. It’s classic Papa. Anyway, you might have been able to avoid my question so far, but I’m not letting you return until you tell me all about your icky little feelings towards the Cardinal.” She shakes herself out of her reverie, suddenly laser focused upon you.

Well, you’d tried to avoid it. But the slightly crazed look within Magdalene’s eyes tells you there’s no way to avoid answering this time. But, too much tequila kind of makes the talking hard.

“I don’t know.” Is all you can say, swallowing deeply and looking down at your drink.

“You don’t know.” She repeats your words back to you blankly, disbelievingly.

“I don’t know how to put it into words. He’s… he’s Copia. And I’m me. And it’s just… right. The attraction I feel towards him is… it’s intense, electric. I want, well, everything from him. Every single thing. The best of him, the worst of him, the parts of himself he hides from the world. I want him. I want him. And I cannot define that feeling, I can’t put it into words. And maybe it’s the tequila but I think not.” You’re saying nothing and everything. You can’t admit the feelings. You aren’t even sure if the feelings are even what you think they are? How do you know, how are you supposed to know? Your brain is too fuzzy to figure it out.

“So, you love him?” Magdalene speaks slowly, as if she’s explaining quantum mechanics to a really stupid five year old.

“I don’t know. How can you call it love?” You certainly are afraid to say that little word.

“Uh, those goo-goo eyes you got for each other, that kind of makes it seem like you love him.” Again, she speaks deliberately slower than usual. While you cannot deny her words entirely, you cannot agree either.

“I don’t know him to love him. Like, how can I tell you that I know totally for certain that I love him? I think I do, maybe, I don’t know. I want to love him. That would be nice, to be in love with each other. But —” You are beyond the point of speaking on deep topics coherently, that much is clear. You’re panicking and babbling nonsense, and Magdalene puts a stop to it quickly.

“But you’re a scared little shit, is what. Love at first sight is a thing, you know. There’s books and poetry about all that, surely you’ve heard of it.” She snorts, tipping back the rest of her drink.

“I…” You aren’t sure. You don’t know what to say.

“Exactly. Now, we are walking back to your shop. And you, well. You are going to make a move on your beloved Cardinal, because Lucifer knows he’s not going to act on his feelings.” She stands, giving you a wicked grin.

“What?” Make a move? You aren’t sure what is going on, if you’ve missed something. When, in that conversation, did you agree to make a move on Copia?

“What did you think we were doing tequila shots for? Liquid courage, baby!” She’s practically cackling, throwing her head back in laughter.

“Oh, you’re evil.” You gasp, because you very clearly played right into whatever plan she’d thought up.

“Yeah, no shit. I’m a Sister of Sin. It’s in the job description. ‘Be hot, be evil, have great sex while worshipping the devil.’” She’s still giggling as she leads you out of the bar, and you begin the short walk back to the shop.

You’re both laughing as you stumble over the cobblestones, paying little attention to the people around you. It’s relatively early in the evening, just gone five, and many of the local businesses are still open. However, a voice calling out to you makes you stop cold, ice freezing in your veins. You feel yourself sober up as the fear grips you.

“Dearie, hello.” Joanna Prescott is a few feet away, glaring at you. There is such a venomous hatred within her eyes, that you’re taken aback slightly.

“Joanna.” Is all you can say, trying to regain control over your drunken mind, trying not to look scared.

“Goodness, such drunken behaviour in public really is unbecoming. But then, what more could one expect from some misbegotten wench of a girl.” She looks the two of you up and down in disdain, sniffing slightly.

“Oh, fuck off.” While you’re attempting to hold back the rising bile, memories of rocks in windows and neatly written threats floating into your mind, Magdalene is not interested in having a conversation.

“Was I talking to you?” Joanna hisses at her, taking a step back. Clearly, she doesn’t want to be anywhere near such despicable sinners such as yourselves.

“Dunno, wasn’t really listening. I saw your mouth moving and stopped paying attention. Go fuck yourself, you wanker!” Magdalene cries out, giggling loudly to herself before grabbing your arm and practically dragging you down the road, away from the heinous bitch.

“Watch your back, young lady — a little camera on your door won’t change anything!” Joanna calls threateningly after you, but you don’t look back, you just keep running until you turn down your street.

Should she know about that camera, the one that only went up today?

“Fucking hell, she’s heinous. Did you sacrifice her dog to the Dark One?” Magdalene is huffing and puffing slightly, as you walk towards the shop.

“Hah, I don’t know what I did to piss her off. Exist?” You sigh dramatically as you walk towards the door.

“Well, whatever. I’ll see you around.” She pulls you back for a quick, slightly drunken hug, before bounding back the way she’d came.

You turn to the door. Copia is inside. You’re going to see Copia. You recall Magdalene’s words, her demand that you use this liquid courage to make a move. It’s… the idea is enthralling. You want to, oh, how you want to. You probably shouldn’t. He’s supposed to be leaving town. Does that make the timing better? Or worse? You want him. Should you finally give in to that desire?

It takes a few moments of lurking outside your door. But a half-cocked plan is forming, and you are sure as hell going to act upon it, before that liquid courage evaporates entirely.

You throw open the door and step inside. Hearing the noise, Copia pops his head out of your office. It’s only been two hours, but fuck you’d forgotten exactly how perfectly that white suit showcases his body. You want to devour him. But then he gives you a soft smile, as if he’s so utterly delighted to see you, and your heart melts.

“Copia!” You almost squeal his name, as you practically skip towards him. Shit, you’d missed him.

“Mia cara, is everything —” He seems a little bemused by your enthusiasm, but his breath stutters as you wrap your arms around his neck.

You pull yourself close to him, ducking your head into the crook of his neck. His breathing is rapid and his heart is pounding against you. He’s clearly confused — for you rarely touch, and you are almost never the instigator of those fleeting moments — but he slowly wraps his arms around your waist, holding you to his body. It’s incredible, to be held by him. He’s warm and soft and he smells heavenly. Well, perhaps heavenly is the wrong word to use, considering the whole devil worship thing he’s got going on.

“Hm. You smell nice.” Nice isn’t a good enough word, but you murmur it against his skin anyway.

“I — what is happening, right now?” His voice is a little higher in pitch than it usually is, his breath a little shaky, his hands pressing tighter against the small of your back.

“I’m hugging you, duh.”You giggle, but take pity on his clear panic at your surprising movements.

You pull away from him, letting your touch linger as you finally let him go and step ever so slightly back. His hands reluctantly drift from your waist to his sides, and you watch him flex his hands ever so slightly. Oh, how you immediately miss his touch. You want to launch yourself at him, but that’s not a good idea, even if you know it would feel incredible. Glancing up at his face, you see he is flushed, for you have ignited a fire within him.

Good.

“Yes, I am well aware of what a hug is, amore, but why?” He finally responds, watching you intently. The way even a simple look from him can have you trembling, your underwear soaked, is so supremely unfair.

“Why not? You’re leaving town.” You keep your tone light, coy, as you edge closer. You’re a hair breadth away from him. “I was just saying goodbye.”

“Sì, but I will be back as soon as I can. Are… did Sister Magdalene take you for tequila shots, by any chance?” Ah, he can finally smell the liquor on your breath. That’s okay, you’d assumed he’d be able to tell.

After all, you don’t usually attempt — very poorly — to seduce him.

“Yes! Don’t you just love tequila shots?” You let a hand drift up, stroking at the lapels of his suit, reaching up to rest upon his shoulder. His eyes are burning into you, your mouth is too dry.

“Ah, no. I am a dark liquor man, myself.” His hands, hesitantly, gently, with the lightest possible touch, come to rest upon your hips.

He’s not wearing his gloves. It takes everything in you to suppress a whimper as you feel heat radiating from his hands straight to your core.

“Hm, that makes sense. Do you want to know a secret?” You rise to your tiptoes, your face moving ever closer to his.

“Sì… sì.” His breath is ragged, heavy, and you can tell he is trying so hard to restrain himself.

You almost don’t want him to.

“Do you know why Magdalene plied me with so much tequila?” Your mouth is centimetres away from his parted lips.

“Why?” His voice is barely audible, and you step closer, letting your body press lightly against his. His grip upon your hips tightens, almost painfully.

“So I’d make a move on you.” With these words, you let your lips brush against his own. Ghosting them, barely touching them.

Even the briefest of touches has your entire body aflame, igniting, practically crying out in need. You ache for him, but you will not give into your needs. Not right now. There’s no time.

“I see.” He presses his hips against yours, ever so slightly, and you can feel he is rock hard.

Your own restraint wavers.

“Hm. Thoughts?” You keep your tone light, coy, as if you are not so worked up that he could probably get you off with a single stroke of an ungloved finger.

“I…” He seems as if he can barely think straight, so you step back from him. His hold on you releases, and you feel less as if you could explode without the warmth of his hands upon you.

“How about this; you go deal with your church business. And then, come back. Come back and take me to dinner.” Impatience flashes in his eyes, but you know that it’s not aimed at you. He’d forgotten that he’s supposed to be leaving town, caught up in the moment.

“You’d like that?” He licks his lips, his mismatched eyes locked on yours.

“I would, very much so.” You grin at him, relief coursing through your veins. The plan worked.

“Then it is a date, mia cara.” He pronounces, almost breathless.

“Very good, Cardinal.” You do not miss the darkened flash of his eyes as you call him by his title, and you file that away for later.

“I really do need to leave.” He tells you, but he does not move.

“Okay.” You step closer to him. A hand gently placed on his chest, for balance. You lean up, you press a gentle kiss, a lingering kiss, to his cheek. As you go to step back, he holds your hand in place, moving it slightly so it is over his racing heart.

“... Cazzo.” He groans, so low you almost miss it.

He breathes deep, once, twice, three times. Slowly, painfully so, he lets your hand drop. He walks slowly, painfully so, to the door. As he reaches it, he hesitates. Copia looks back at you, as if he is memorising your face in that moment.

“Goodbye, Cardinal.” You’re giggling a little, still a little tipsy, still in disbelief that you’ve just scored yourself a fucking date with him.

“Soon, amore mio. I will see you soon.”

Chapter Text

The first day of Copia’s trip out of town begins rather predictably. By waking up with a pounding headache and a too dry mouth, a deep impatience for his return to town consuming your thoughts. Sister Imperator, despite probably having little clue as to who you are, has totally worked her way up to a decently high ranking upon your shit list. You desperately wish Copia had not been needed elsewhere, that he could’ve done his duties from his own ministry. But despite the minor hangover and your hatred for the dragged out nature of your meetings with the Cardinal, you feel… good. Very good, actually. Even with the dull ache of yesterday’s tequila clouding your mind, you cannot stop replaying the events of the evening prior. No, even the annoyance of waiting cannot dull the excitement you feel upon remembering your tipsy flirtations. You’re a little in awe of your drunken self, actually, in total disbelief that such a half-cocked and liquor-inspired plan came off exactly as you’d wanted it to. In all honesty, it had worked out even better than you had dared to hope. Because fuck if your wildest of fantasies could ever compare to the reality of being so close to him. Your most depraved late night desires pale in comparison to actually pushing your body up against his, feeling his erection pressing against you, his ungloved hands gripping tightly to your waist as he struggles to restrain himself. Shit, nothing had even really happened. And yet. Even simply recalling those moments has you squeezing your thighs together, longing for his hands in other places, craving some kind of release. You miss the electricity of his touch, the way it sparks something within the deepest crevices of your soul, the parts of yourself nobody has ever been able to reach before. The desperation, the yearning, the aching he inspires within you, with such little action, is unprecedented.

Because truly, you’ve never had someone spark such deep arousal, such strong emotion, within you as he does. A look, a touch, and you’re burning hotter and hotter and hotter. It has to mean something, surely. But what? Is it some cosmic sign from the universe? There has to be some reason that something so… ordinary somehow has you, body and soul, aflame. Is he a kindred spirit, a soulmate, a twin flame? Are such things real?

Or… or is this passion too much? Will it consume you and burn you out so wholly that there’s nothing remaining, just ashes and the memories of your former self? Something about him calls to you, in the most powerful of ways. So much so that it feels almost dangerous. You do not want to lose yourself to the passion.

But perhaps… perhaps you worry too much. Perhaps you should quit the overthinking of problems that do not yet exist. After all, Copia is away for an indeterminate amount of time. There is no point stressing about him until he returns. You are already desperate for him to return; you like knowing he is nearby, even on the days you do not see him.

Lost in your dream world of fantasies about a certain Cardinal, you take your time getting ready for the day. There’s a hopefulness within your movements, as you head down to the bookshop ready to start the day. But that blissful Copia-inspired reverie does not last. Oh, how quickly it slips away. For, as you go to unlock the shop door, ready for a slow day of business, there is a small pile of folded notes at the foot of the door. Another one stuck in the letterbox. Light pink paper. You know that paper. And you already know that upon opening the notes, you’ll find an elegant and neat script adorning the page.

Perhaps, not stopping Magdalene as she yelled obscenities at Joanna Prescott the evening before was a bad idea. Not that you could have done much — you rather get the impression that Magdalene is not the sort of woman who can be contained, that she will do whatever she wants without a second thought. But maybe you should have been a little more polite, maybe you shouldn’t have run away laughing without a second thought. But really, you know that wouldn’t have changed anything. Joanna’s declared war upon you and you will have to suffer the consequences, regardless of any attempts to circumvent it. You scoop up the notes, dumping them on the counter to wait while you go through the motions of opening. The hopeful spring within your step has faded now. Dread has taken its place. Returning to the counter, you stare down at the notes. It’s odd. Carefully folded light pink paper. It should not radiate such malevolent energy. And yet, you find yourself apprehensive. They are just words. But words can be more hurtful than a bullet to the brain. After all, words can haunt you, torment you. The right combination can stay with you for the rest of your days. A shot to the heart might kill you instantly. But words… they linger, they endure. Do you open the notes? Let her words prey upon your insecurities for days? But the not knowing… perhaps that would be worse. They cannot say much that will surprise you, for you’re aware of how vehemently Joanna despises you. No. you should look. So you do, and you are not surprised.

You are a sinner, and god shall smite you with his divine power.

2 Thessalonians 1:8 — He will punish those who do not know God and do not obey the gospel of our Lord Jesus.

No wonder your whore mother did not want you, an abomination in the eyes of our Lord.

This crusade against you shall truly begin. It is as our Lord, our God, our Saviour, has demanded. With his power and his blessings, you shall suffer greatly, as you so truly deserve.

There is more, all in the same vein. Toxic words dressed up in elegant script. It all just makes your aching head hurt more. Should you be scared? Because it feels more than a little ludicrous. But then… she had a rock thrown through your window. Her words are not idle threats. She plans to act. Holy war has become her calling and you have become her most hated enemy. But there’s one aspect of it, aside from the threats you’ve heard before, that sticks out in your mind.

Your whore mother did not want you.

Joanna’s words are not exactly wrong. It’s the truth; your mother didn’t want you.

But how does she know that? You don’t exactly go around telling people about your relationship with your mother. To the best of your knowledge, she left the city when you did, moving as far away as she could. She wanted no reminder of you, of Reginald. So it’s not as if she could have told Joanna such things. And as far as you can recall, Rebecca didn’t tell anyone about you. There were times when she’d accidentally run into her friends with you in her presence, and you would be introduced as anything but her child. A niece, the neighbour’s girl, the child she babysat on occasion. How on earth could Joanna have gotten this information?

That is the part of all this that scares you, that convinces you that her words are not empty. She has clearly researched you, has put effort into knowing all about you. Knowing what words to use, to cut you the hardest.

She wants to hurt you. And you’re sure it’s just a matter of time before she does.

The second day of Copia’s trip begins with a missed phone call. There’s a moment of panic — your mind had jumped straight to memories of Joanna’s last phone call to you, how hideously that situation ended — but no. It is from him. Copia called you, at three in the morning. That brings a secret smile to your lips; for it means he has not forgotten you, it means he still thinks about you. And your smile widens, when you see that he has left you a voicemail. He has left you a voicemail. He wants to speak to you, he does care about you. But three in the morning… a part of you wonders if it was one of those late night phone calls. A part of you wonders if he’s left a wonderfully and deliciously depraved message. It is unlikely, in all honesty. But you cannot shift the smile upon your lips as you press play.

“Mia cara. I, eh, I was just calling to say — I am sorry, I did not realise the lateness of my call, I should have tried to get away earlier. It has been… the most chaotic of days here. I fear greatly that this may not be the quick trip I had envisioned. I wish… I wish to be back with you already. I have spent our time apart thinking about our last encounter. I find myself utterly captivated by you, every fibre of my being is entranced by you. I shall try my hardest to be back soon, for I would very much like to take you on that date. I know you said dinner, but I am thinking of other things, for there are so many ideas that I have… But anyway. It is late, and I am sure you are well and truly asleep. Perhaps I shall call sooner tomorrow, if I can. I hope you are sleeping well.”

The smile turns into the widest of grins. Oh, how wonderful it is, to be wanted. How wonderful it is, for someone to care about you. You listen three times, saving it.

Three days into Copia’s trip, Joanna Prescott feels the need to make her presence known once more. And of course, naturally, she picks a day on which you are already tired and moody. You wonder if she just somehow knows when to catch you at your lowest. Copia had answered your call the night before, but you were barely on the phone two minutes before he was dragged away. You aren’t mad at him, of course not — he sounded insanely stressed. Clearly, his assignment is going poorly. Clearly, he will not be back as soon as you both hope. But despite the evident hectic nature of his work, you still stayed up late. Hoping, desperately, that he might call again. He did not, and you cannot hold that against him. But you miss him.

And so, when you begin to hear some sort of rowdy crowd growing outside of your shop that afternoon, frustration begins to ignite within you. You don’t need to look out your new window to know who is stirring up trouble. Joanna fucking Prescott. Slamming closed the book you’d been struggling to work through, you storm over to the door, ready to tell her exactly how you feel about her showing up at your shop. Except, as you swing the door open with a little too much force and step outside, the sight greeting you causes you to falter.

Joanna Prescott is there, naturally, dressed in a vintage Chanel skirt suit. A rosary in one hand and a megaphone in the other. A vicious look in her eyes and a dark smirk upon her mouth. Behind her is a small, but oh-so agitated crowd. Holding signs, grumbling loudly. They all turn to look at you, grim looks upon their visages.

Fuck.

She’s organised an actual protest outside of your store. The crowd isn’t large, by any means. Between fifteen and twenty, you’d guess. But you are just one person and they look rather angry. Their signs say things like, ‘burn in hell, burn those books’ and ‘Satanists get out.’ Not exactly clever or catchy, but you suppose the catchiness of one’s protest slogans isn’t really essential when the sole purpose is to intimidate a small business owner. It’s a compelling strategy, you have to admit. Because a part of you wants to get the hell away from them, to never see any of these people again. You want Joanna to fuck right off with her bullshit holy war. But you doubt you’ll get that. So you sure as hell aren’t letting them get what they want. You will not leave. Whatever happens.

“Joanna, are you having a laugh with all this? Really?” You finally muster, tearing your eyes from the group to their sneering leader.

“We are good Catholic people, trying to live a good Catholic life. We will not have our way of living disrupted by devil worshippers! We have that right, dearie, to live freely without such evil on our doorstep.” There is a cold loathing within her words, her eyes glinting with her disdain for you. She speaks through the megaphone, the words echoing. You have no doubt everyone in the area can hear her hate-filled vitriol.

“I didn’t know Jesus was into all this aggression. Didn’t he preach peace and love?” You will not show fear in the face of this. Your tone remains calm, light. Even if you are quaking in your boots. Even if you are scared of the agita the crowd possesses, the war Joanna wants to wage upon you.

“There is a time for peace. This is not it. You need to leave. We will hold this protest today, we will remain here. And you will lose out on the business. Tell me, dearie, can you really afford to keep closing, to have your customers driven off like this? Perhaps you should sell, before bankruptcy ruins you.” Her voice is sickly sweet, her satisfaction is evident.

You’re sure you’ve lost some business, with the unexpected closures and whatever Joanna’s been up to behind your back. There are definitely some regular customers you’ve not seen in a while. But Copia buys a lot of books. A lot of books. And he refuses any offer of a discount. In fact, he usually pays more than necessary for them. You’re not rolling in cash, you’re not making big money. But you’re doing well enough to keep the lights on, to keep your fridge stocked. You’ve enough money to get by. If worst comes to worst, you can definitely turn a profit selling books on the internet. Her threats of potential bankruptcy do not scare you.

“I’m good, thanks. I’ll be staying here, and my shop will stay open. Please leave.” You consider pulling out your phone, you consider calling the police. But you doubt they’ll do anything — these people aren’t on your property, you don’t own the cobblestones outside your door.

Joanna turns to her crowd, stepping back towards them. She murmurs something, you miss it. Whatever her words were, it seems to rile them up. The agitation is building. Voices are getting louder. The angriest of men, glaring at you from the front of the group, begin to yell.

“You’re going to hell, Satan’s bitch!”

“You’re going to burn in hell!”

“Why are we just standing here?”

“We should burn it down, rid the world of such evil!”

You stare wide-eyed at Joanna, no longer able to control the growing panic. It’s evident upon your face now, you know it is. Surely… surely she would not encourage this. But no. She simply smiles at you, malice in her eyes. This might actually happen. They might actually burn your home down, they might leave you with nothing. And then what would you do? You’d have nothing, you’d be nothing. You can’t breathe. The men are stepping forward menacingly, and all you can do is stare at them with fearful eyes.

“Ah, Signora Prescott, you are partying without us?” A familiar voice — Lucifer, you’ve never been so happy to hear his ever light-hearted tone — quips.

Turning quickly to your left, you see Papa standing there with his arms spread wide and a cheeky grin upon his face. He is flanked by four masked ghouls, standing either side of him. Oh, how glad you are to see them. Winking at you, Papa moves to your side, wrapping an arm around your shoulder reassuringly. A huge part of the tension within you fades away at his touch. You’re not alone. He won’t let them burn down your home. You are safe.

“Leave, you demon.” Joanna’s eyes are narrowed, she’s clutching at her rosary.

An uneasy air has fallen over the crowd. The ghouls practically glide to stand, just a little too still to be human, between Papa and the protesters. They are guarding you. They practically radiate danger. You’re sure the crowd feels it, for even the most aggressive of the lot shrinks away from them. Everything is going to be fine, you’re sure of it.

“No, no. I love a party. Are we celebrating la mia piccola principessa? She’s so marvellous, sì? Lovely girl, wonderful.” Papa squeezes your shoulder slightly, his voice still jovial. He seems the only one unaffected by the ghouls’ presence. He’s probably used to their strangeness. Still, you cannot help but smile softly at his words.

“This is a protest, you imbecile.” Joanna’s words are dripping with contempt, clearly thinking the anti-Pope is an idiot. You’re pretty sure he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Eh? Protesting what?” He replies, mock confusion colouring his tone — he’s having fun winding these people up, you just know it.

“Her Satanic presence in our district, that’s what!” One of the men from the group steps forwards slightly as he yells.

A ghoul slides towards him, aura menacing. The man steps back, chastened.

“Siete tutti dei fottuti imbecilli. She is barely Satanic. She has some books. Bah! Boring. Not worth protesting. Now, if you want a good protest location? My church. Very Satanic. Big Satanic energy, sì. She is just one girl. But my church? Many, many people there.” Papa chuckles, — you’re sure he has just insulted them in Italian — gesturing wildly with his free hand.

The crowd sits with his words for a moment, quiet. Joanna tenses, as if she’s finally realised Papa’s true motive. He’s here to lead the crowd away from you, focus their attention elsewhere. It doesn’t take long for the mob to come to the conclusion Papa intended.

“He’s right!”

“Yeah, let’s go there.”

They are off, marching angrily with their signs, down the street towards the church before you can even blink. You’re safe. Your home is safe. Papa totally threw a wrench in Joanna’s plans today, and you could not be more grateful. A part of you is stunned; he hardly knows you and yet he’s gone out of his way to help you, three times now. It fills you with warmth, knowing that he has your back like this. You are not alone in the world. You have Copia. You have friends here, in Papa and in Magdalene.

But it is not yet finished. Joanna Prescott remains. Rage radiates from her body. She is furious. Evidently, she had not expected Papa to intervene. She steps closer. The ghouls glide towards her. That gives her pause, she glances warily at them.

“Well played, dearie, but this isn’t over.” She practically spits the words at you, before turning on her heel and flouncing off in the direction of the crowd.

You sigh in relief. But you know, deep down, that while she might have left this time, the game is not yet done. For Joanna will not stop until you are gone. But she is gone for now, and that is what matters. Slipping from Papa’s hold, you turn to face him.

“Papa, thank you.” Your voice is filled with emotion. Lucifer, you still cannot believe how close to the edge this encounter was.

“The ghouls watching this street sent word. What sort of friend would I be if I didn’t step in, eh? We are practically family.” He shrugs off your thanks, grinning widely at you.

“But now you’re stuck with the protest, that’s hardly fair. And, uh, family?” Guilt seeps into your words. He did this at a personal cost. Now the whole ministry would be stuck with an afternoon of protesters badgering them. But you’re a little confused by his mention of family — he barely knows you, you’ve met only a brief handful of times.

“Sì, you and il Cardinale. He is like a brother, so you are like… a sister-in-law!” He chuckles, making it sound as if this connection should have been obvious to you. It wasn’t. You’re deeply touched by his words, his willingness to see you as a worthy member of his family. Nobody has ever, ever wanted you like that. “And we are used to such things. The ghouls and Siblings have fun with the protesters, and I like to please my people.”

Still, a tiny thought can’t help but plague you.

“Copia and I aren’t together.” You sigh — it’s embarrassing, how much longing is captured within your words. You miss him.

“Psh, please. I heard about the other night, sì? He was very… pent up, as he left town. Very entertaining. You will be together soon, I know these things. Now, I have a party to oversee. Be good, but not too good, sì?” Papa winks at you lewdly, giving you one last pat on the arm. But before you can even process his words, think of any kind of response, he’s half way down the street, his ghouls following closely behind him.

Huh. Copia told him about that moment?

Four days of Copia being gone. You miss him. You aren’t sleeping. Those two things are not entirely connected. Stress is radiating through your body. Yesterday had been a close call. Too close for comfort. You are terrified you’ll wake to some tragedy. You are terrified you’ll wake to a body looming over you, ready to hurt you for your perceived sins. Fear is an exhausting emotion. Being constantly alert is an exhausting emotion. Three hours of tossing and turning does not constitute a restful night. You’re dead tired, wishing for rest. But you cannot rest; there is a shop to open. Closing, in the wake of the protest, shows fear. You are done showing fear. Fuck Joanna Prescott. Fuck her twisted perception of god. Fuck it all.

Of course, going downstairs to open up the shop only makes your morning worse. For, somebody is in the process of graffitiing your window. Large letters, bright red paint.

Fuck off Satans slut.

Seriously? That’s a brand new window. And he’s missing the apostrophe. You want to scream and yell and lose your mind. When will this end?

You rush to the door, to confront the man. He’s young, younger than you are. Tall, tough looking. Angry looking. But you’re deeply frustrated yourself, and you’re not thinking.

“Are you fucking kidding?” You cry out, gesturing towards the window.

He turns, and looks at you. A dark grin lights up upon his face. He drops his canister of spray paint, bending down to pick up something else. Oh no.

He has a large hammer, and he’s raising it towards you, stepping forward slowly.

You freeze.

“Huh, I bet I’ll get more money off that old hag if I —” He begins in a nasty tone of voice, before he is interrupted.

An arm around his throat has completely cut off his ability to speak. A ghoul has appeared — out of nowhere, entirely out of nowhere, you didn’t even see him approach — holding the boy back. With a pretty tight grip, judging by the concerning colour his face is turning. You cannot bring yourself to care, even though you probably should. Can he even breathe? Slowly, the masked ghoul drags him away, disappearing into an alley. He says nothing to you as he does so, simply leaves. You suppose that you can consider this matter resolved; the ghoul will deal with him, you will deal with washing away the graffiti.

“Hello.” A quiet voice says from beside you. Like, right beside you.

You startle, whipping around to see a ghoul standing inches from you. This one is shorter, closer to your own height.

“Oh, hi.” You say carefully; you don’t quite understand the ghouls, although you’re sure they don’t mean to be so… intimidating.

“You call the Cardinal? I’ll fix this.” He nods at you, and you’re sure he’s smiling under that mask. Or whatever the ghoulish equivalent is to such a thing.

“Are you sure?” You’re not entirely sure what to say, you feel bad that everyone else seems to be solving your problems for you. “You don’t have to.”

“Yes. I like paint.” The ghoul replies, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world.

You decide not to ask anymore questions, to take his advice. You’ll call Copia. He has the uncanny ability to cheer you up, and fuck, do you need that right now. This has been a hellish week, you’re sick of it, completely sick. Waving awkwardly at the ghoul, who seems to be eyeing up your vandalised window with an odd sort of delight, you head into the back office with your phone.

Nerves overtake you as you press the call button. Will he pick up? Are you sure he even wants to hear from you? But you don’t have long to panic, to work yourself up into a frenzy; he answers on the third ring.

“Mia cara, are you okay?” His voice sounds urgent, concerned. Your fear of being unwanted by him subsides, and other emotions take its place. Sadder emotions.

“Honestly? Things suck right now.” Your voice wavers, and you’re embarrassed by it. All you want is for him to comfort you, to hold you in his arms, whisper sweet words in your ear. But he is not here, and a phone call will have to suffice.

“I heard about the graffiti, and the protest. I am sorry. I wish I could be there to help; I feel awful that I’ve left at such a bad time.” He sounds guilty, and he shouldn’t, you wish he didn’t. What catches you off-guard though, is how much he already seems to know.

“You heard about that already?” You ask him.

“Sì, one of my ghouls informed me as soon as he started with the spray paint. I told them to take care of it.” He tells you, his voice soft. You can just picture the warmth in his eyes. You want him here, desperately.

“He tried to attack me, with a hammer.” Your words almost come out as a sob. A stray tear falls. You’d wanted to stay strong for this, but you don’t know if you can. You miss him, you need him, you want for things to be good and happy and things are decidedly neither.

“Cazzo. I did not know of this. Are you well? He didn’t hurt you?” Copia sounds frantic at the idea of you being attacked. You rush to reassure him.

“No, I’m okay, I’m okay. One of your ghouls stopped him, dragged him off. Another one is cleaning the window. And it’s not your fault you aren’t here, by the way. Don’t feel bad.” You tell him, holding back the final words you want to say. Come home. He doesn’t need more pressure, the Sister piles on far more than necessary.

“Still, I shall worry about you regardless. You are… you are of great significance to me.” His words are filled with emotion. The fact that you’re not together is painful.

“I miss you.” The words slip out, unbidden. You’d not wanted to say them, not wanted him to feel as if he has to rush back to you. Of course you want him to, but you understand his role, his importance.

“And I you, mia cara. I shall do my utmost to be back to you soon.” He says softly, and you believe him. You’ll see him soon. Things will get better.

There’s murmuring on the other side of the line, someone is talking to him. You’re sure he’s being called away.

“Duty calls, I am afraid. Have you… have you considered calling the police? They will likely do little to help, but perhaps filing a report might help in other ways. If Signora Prescott catches wind of such a thing, she may call a ceasefire for the time being. I must go.” The line goes dead.

You drop the phone to the table, and drop your head into your hands.

The fifth day of Copia’s absence is deeply unproductive. You take his advice and call up the police, attempting to report the continued harassment from Joanna Prescott and her church. But, as you’d expected, they are unsympathetic. Especially as the officer in question seems to attend Father Prescott’s services, and does not appreciate the family’s reputation as good Catholic people being called into question. You are told that without proof, without cold hard facts that prove your point, nothing will be done. And besides, threats are meaningless. Until action is really taken, there’s little to be done. It’s useless, utterly useless, and you find yourself sitting dejected after the line disconnects. You’d had low expectations, but it is still crushing to be told that nothing can be done about the threats and the vandalism and the annoyances of it all. The rest of your day passes, equally as unproductive. You close the shop up early — your singular customer buys a rather expensive text, one of the most expensive in the place, so you feel justified in your actions. You put on your comfiest sweatpants and take a nap, attempting to shift the mental exhaustion you’ve felt all week. It does little to help. As much as you try to force yourself to relax, relaxation does not come easily. You’re waiting for something to happen. For anything to happen. For the quietness to be rudely interrupted.

Your phone bleeps, ripping you out of your thoughts. The sound is distinct, it is the alarm for the doorbell app. Someone is at the door. It is early evening, nobody should be here, you have long since shut for the day. Yet, someone is at the door. The thought of it being Joanna or one of her lackeys sends fear shooting through your veins. Sighing, you run down the stairs, frying pan in hand. It is a slightly ridiculous move, but after having someone try to go after you with a fucking hammer, you’re taking no chances. But, as you peek out the window, you place the frying pan down on a shelf.

You don’t need it.

Rushing to unlock the door, you fling it open with the widest of grins.

He’s back.

“Mia cara, I have missed you greatly.” Copia smiles at you, exhaustion written clear across his face.

You step aside, let him in properly. It is evident that he has not yet stopped back at the ministry; he is holding a large travel bag, his white suit jacket draped over it. His shirt is a little crumpled, sleeves pushed slightly up so that you can see a narrow strip of skin between his shirt cuff and gloves. The white suit pants are as delightful as you remember, even if they are a little creased this time. He looks exhausted, fatigue radiating off him. He is a little mussed up, and it is the first time you’ve ever seen him as anything other than immaculately dressed, but you do not care. He’s still handsome. And he’s here. He’s here to see you.

“Copia!” You practically throw yourself at him, your arms wrapping tightly around his neck. He holds you close to his body. The tension is slowly draining out both your bodies, now that you have been reunited. “You just got back?”

“Sì, but I wanted to see you. I have missed you. Do you know how hard it was for me to leave here, after our last encounter? I had to come back to you.” He sighs, a gloved hand gently stroking your hair as he holds you to him. Oh, you never want him to let go. You’d happily stay like this forever.

“I’ve missed you, so much. This week sucked so badly.” You murmur against his neck, before finally pulling away from him. You want to see his face, for you’ve missed it greatly.

“Mine too, topolino.” He smiles wanly, before a nervousness flashes across his mismatched eyes. “Perhaps… Perhaps you would like to come back to the ministry with me, for a drink? I do not mean it as our date, of course. I would like for that to be most special, not at a time when I am deeply fatigued from travelling.”

“I’d like that.” You smile at him; as if you’d say no.

Copia grins at you, before opening the door and leading you out to a waiting car down the street. A ghoul is in the driver’s seat, so you both slip into the back. You’re well aware that you’re in sweats and a tank top, definitely not the sort of thing you’d usually wear to go for a drink. But it’s Copia. He… there’s something about him, something that makes you feel so comfortable in his presence. Besides, he’s probably too tired to even notice. You spend the short car journey glancing over at him; he’s completely wiped. Really, he should be going straight to sleep. Perhaps it’s unfair on him to have accepted his offer. But you’ve missed him. Endlessly. You both need this, need to spend a little time together after your own shitty days apart.

Once the car has pulled up to a side entrance to the ministry, Copia leads you to his chambers. This entrance is closer than the main one, and you memorise the route. Just in case. He unlocks the door, drops his bag to the side, flings his jacket across the arm of the sofa. Dropping your phone upon the coffee table, you take a seat and curl your legs underneath you, watching as he goes to pour the drinks.

“I only have whisky, I am afraid. No tequila.” He calls to you over his shoulder, and you feel the heat rising to your cheeks.

“That’s okay, I like whisky.” You tell him, as he walks over with two tumblers in hand. As he passes one to you, your fingers brush against his gloved ones. You both linger for a moment, gazing into each other’s eyes.

“Hm, but I like your reactions to tequila very much.” He winks at you, slowly sitting down next to you, groaning slightly as he leans back in his seat, taking his time removing his gloves and getting comfortable.

You try not to stare at his hands, his bare hands.

“I — how was your trip?” As much as you want him, tonight is not that night. You change the subject, curious to find out about what exactly had happened while he was away.

“A waste of my time. I do not know why I was needed to deal with such a restructuring endeavour, for such things should fall to the abbess of that specific ministry. However, the matter is supposedly resolved. I shall not return — they do not need me there, no matter what they claim. But let’s talk about you, hm? You have suffered greatly, these past few days. How are you?” You watch the frustration on Copia’s face drain, as he looks tenderly at you. He places a warm hand upon your forearm. Despite the fact that you can tell that he desperately needs to sleep, tiredness clouding his eyes, he clearly wants to hear about your problems, he wants to help you through them.

“I mean, I’m stressed. But there’s nothing to be done about Joanna fucking Prescott; the police could not give any less of a fuck about it all. It’s frustrating.” You sigh, knocking back the contents of the tumbler.

“I could have my ghouls tear her to shreds, if you would like.” He murmurs, eyes half closed. You know the offer is at least a little bit sincere, even if his tone is light.

“That’s awful. And yet…” You quip, placing a hand over his upon your arm. His hand is warm, soft. It provides all the comfort you’ve so desperately craved this past week. But he is half asleep already, and you feel terrible to keep him awake. “You look exhausted, Copia.”

“Hm. I’ve not had much time to sleep, and travelling does so take a toll upon the body. But, you see, I am a selfish man.” He opens his eyes, tilting his head as he looks at you. His eyes, despite the exhaustion, are gleaming darkly with desire.

“And why is that?” You ask him, feeling a warmth spreading all over your body.

“Because, despite this lethargy, I knew I would ask you to come see me. I fear I am incapable of even staying awake for much longer, but I still asked this of you. And I still desire to kiss you, despite the fact that I am too fatigued to worship your body as you so truly deserve. It is sinful, to leave a woman wanting in such a way. And yet.” He is watching you intently. So intently. You want him to kiss you, to worship your body, there’s a fire burning deep in the pit of your stomach just hearing his desire spoken aloud.

But he is so tired, and you are fine with waiting.

“I know you’re sleepy. It’s written all over your face, I can see it in your eyes. It’s been obvious since you appeared at my door. I’m not expecting anything from you, you know. I never am. I like your company, I like you.” You say softly, an idea coming to mind. “Maybe… maybe you should lie down for a bit — I’ll stay, for a while, if you want.”

Copia nods slowly, “I’d like you to stay forever. I’ve told you, I am amongst the most selfish of men. But I will greedily take whatever you will offer.”

Fuck, he always makes you feel so ineloquent. His words always sound so carefully chosen, so precise. They take your breath away, every time. Slowly, oh-so slowly, he stands. He offers a hand to you, helping you rise. And then, he leads you to his bedroom. Anticipation is building within you. Not because you think something will happen — you’re rather sure it won’t — but because you will finally get to see his bedroom. There’s something sacred about such a space, the most personal of spaces. You wonder what it will tell you about him.

It is mostly bare. The basic furniture is all there, in dark heavy woods. There are a few art pieces, Old Master’s, hung neatly. It’s tidy, everything arranged just so. The classically designed four poster bed is centred, deep red sheets covering it. Oh, how you want to come back here again and again.

He does not bother to change, simply taking off his shoes. You watch as he throws back the bed cover, sliding within the sheets. Copia looks at you, expectantly. He is waiting, and you mustn’t keep him. He needs his rest. While this isn’t exactly how you’d pictured your first time within his bed, you cannot find it within yourself to be disappointed. In a way, this feels far more intimate. It pleases you, to be close to him in this way. You slip in next to him, leaving the smallest of distances between you. He rolls onto his side, curling up slightly, gazing at you sleepily. It’s adorable, and you cannot deny how much you’d like to see this sight every evening. You mimic his position, reaching out a hand, capturing one of his own. You lay there, holding his hand gently, perfectly comfortable.

“I like this.” You murmur.

“As do I, topolino. Very much so.” His voice is barely audible.

As you lay with him, you let your thoughts wander. It is the most comfortable of silences. He makes you so deeply happy, even when doing nothing. Glancing up at his face, you realise that he has been watching you most intently, despite his obvious need for sleep. There’s a sort of half-smile upon his tired lips and his eyes are a little glazed, but they are trained upon you.

“You’re staring, Cardinal.” You whisper to him, your eyes twinkling at him.

“Indeed, I am.” He murmurs in agreement, but he does not stop.

“What are you thinking about?” You ask softly, a smile gracing your lips.

He shifts closer to you, “I am thinking — as I oft am, in some way or another — about you.”

Oh, how you want him to kiss you. Just one kiss.

“Vague.” You giggle slightly, slipping your hand from his, raising it to cup his cheek gently.

Copia reaches his own hand up, capturing yours, holding it firmer against him. His eyes flutter closed, just for a moment.

“I have already told you, mia cara. I am a selfish man. I would do terrible, terrible things, for a single kiss.” His words are soft, almost inaudible, and they take your breath away.

You want to give him that kiss.

“So kiss me.” You cannot help the smile spreading across your lips at the thought of it.

He blinks, unable to completely shift that tiredness away. You edge closer to him, your body practically touching his own.

“Just one kiss, that is all. And then I shall sleep, and dream of you.” He says softly, more to himself than to you, nodding slightly.

“That sounds agreeable to me.” You say, anticipation building within you.

Your hand slips from Copia’s cheek to reach around his neck, pulling him ever closer, your heart racing oh-so fast. His hand comes to rest upon your jaw, tilting your head to his. And then, his lips are upon yours. His movements are slow, tiredness seeping in even now. But it is soft and gentle and languid, as your lips move against each other. You can taste the whisky on his breath, and something that is purely just him. It’s driving you crazy. After a few moments, he takes control, shifting so he is leaning over you, demanding more, more, more. It might be slow and lazy, but he wants everything, and you want to give it to him. His hands do not leave your face, but your whole body is alight with the passion of his kisses. You let out a soft whimper, and it is swallowed up greedily by him. His mouth drifts from yours, trailing hot kisses along your jaw, down your neck. With one last kiss, he rests his head against your shoulder, laying his tired body upon you. The weight of his body is grounding, comforting. It reminds you that this is real, that this is not some fantasy, some dream. As if you could even confuse the two; no fantasy could live up to the inferno he has built within you. You ache, you crave more. But you are content, for he is here and he has given you what he promised. A kiss.

But the only word you can form is a soft, “Oh.”

He has overwhelmed you, greatly.

“Siamo fatti l’uno per l’altro, topolino.” He murmurs, sounding as if he’s already half asleep. Perhaps you should be offended, but you are not. You just want for him to rest.

He shifts himself off you, curling up next to you once more. You miss him already, yet he’s still here, right next to you.

Copia opens his eyes, clouded with sleep once more, “I have left you wanting. Mi dispiace.”

“Sleep, you can make it up to me on our date, yeah?” You smile gently at him with swollen lips, as his eyes drift shut once more.

“Sì, sì, e ti sognerò.” The Italian words come out slowly, as he drifts away into dreams.

You watch him for a few moments. There is something so intimate about watching him sleep, seeing him like this. He is always so put together. But tonight? He has shown you something of himself. A private side to him, one he hides away. It has only made you want him more.

From the other room, you hear your phone bleeping incessantly. It’s that one specific bleep, the one for the alarm. The calmness that had previously blanketed your evening slips away in an instant. Carefully, as not to disturb the sleeping man beside you, you slip out of the sheets and rush to check it. It shows little; someone has covered the stupid camera. Useless. But something is wrong. You can feel it. You have to leave, to go resolve the matter.

Glancing back into the bedroom, you see Copia remains fast asleep, a soft smile upon his face as he dreams. Fuck, how you wish you could stay. A selfish part of you wants to wake him, wants him to help you through this problem as he has helped you through others. But that would be unfair. You cannot. Quickly, you write a note for him, briefly explaining the potential break in at the shop. Placing it on the pillow next to him, you rush out.

You can just picture it; your home, completely and entirely trashed. It has you tense, stressed, panicking immensely as you practically run the short journey back to the shop. You’re freezing, for it is late and you are wearing very little clothing, but you cannot care about that. No, you’re far too preoccupied with whatever is going on at the shop.

Moments later, you skid to a stop outside your door. There is tape upon the camera. The door is open wide.

Shit. Shit.

You should call the police, probably. But they haven’t helped so far, so why would they help now? Sighing deeply, you walk in cautiously. At least the frying pan should still be by the door.

Except, as you walk in to the darkened shop, it is not.

Someone has definitely been in here. There is a chair sat in the middle of the room, and you cannot comprehend why. The office light has been switched on.

You walk towards it, icy fear flooding your veins.

And then, as you approach the door, you hear it.

Footsteps, behind you.

You whip around. From the stacks walks a man. He is holding two things.

A rosary.

And a hand gun.

Chapter Text

A Rosary and a handgun.

It looks as if the first real casualty in this holy war will not be your shop. No, Joanna Prescott fully intends for the first real casualty of war to be you. The rest will come later, but you will be the first.

You look at him, this man in front of you, with his rosary and his handgun. Icy fear has frozen within your veins, you cannot move. You should run, try to escape, surely. Could you get past him, get out the door and into the streets? What about running upstairs, locking yourself in the flat or trying to get into the attic where the ghoul could potentially protect you? But no. The man has a gun. If you flee, he will definitely shoot — he will be forced to. But if you stay put… could you talk your way out of this? Will your words set you free? You watch him, carefully. He might have a gun. But he has fear in his eyes. There’s sweat beading upon his forehead. His hands are trembling. He has a gun. But he is scared. There’s a hesitance, as he thrusts the gun up to point it at you. As if he is reluctant to even be here. As if he does not want to hurt you.

This could work. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll get out of here.

“Sit.” The man suddenly says, the gun jerking wildly towards the chair left hazardously in the middle of the room. His voice is high, nervous.

“What are you —” You want to ask him what he is here for, what he is going to do, but he cuts you off in a burst of anger.

“I said, sit. Fucking sit down.” He cries out angrily, brushing the rosary-clad hand through his thinning hair.

You follow his orders, quickly. You rush to sit, to face your fate. Whatever it might be. As you do, you watch the man in front of you, this stranger who so brazenly broke into your home. He looks oddly familiar, you’re sure you’ve seen him before. You watch him as he locks the door and lowers the blinds you’ve never bothered to use. He does not want to risk anybody seeing, it seems. There will be no interruptions, nobody arriving to play the hero. Papa will not save you this time. It finally comes to you, a moment later. The protest. This man had been at the protest. One of the angry men in the front line. He’s angry again, but his rage is tempered by his evident fears. His wide face is a little pale, there are sweat patches on his shirt. Whatever he’s planning upon doing, he is terrified by it. And that… well. That makes you pretty damn certain he’s not here to rough you up a little. He’s not here to scare you into leaving the bookshop.

He starts pacing. Muttering to himself. Backwards and forwards, rapidly. It’s like he did not expect to find himself in this situation, as if he’s backed firmly into a corner and unable to escape it. Really, you should be the one panicking — after all, he has a gun, a real gun. You’ve never even seen one in real life before, and now there’s a man not six feet from you holding you hostage with one.

“Are… is everything alright?” You finally ask him, uncertainty clear within your tone. You do not know whether talking to him will help you or hurt you. Will it make him want to end your life sooner, will it convince him to spare you? It is hard to say. But you have to try.

A strange calmness is slowly descending over you. It’s irrational, perhaps. You should not be calm. You should be terrified. And you are, to an extent. But you cannot do anything. Whatever happens here, well, it’s mostly out of your control. You breathe deeply. A decision is made. You will remain as calm as you possibly can. He is scared. You’re going to convince him to let you go, you have to.

While you have settled into a bizarre sense of tranquillity in the face of danger, the man in front of you seems to be unravelling. His pacing is increasing in speed. His words are getting louder, until you can finally make out what he is saying. No, not saying. Praying.

“O My God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins, because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell, but most of all because they offended Thee, my God, who art good and deserving of all my love. I firmly —” He is gripping tightly onto his rosary, words rapidly spilling out with increasing volume, words that you begin to recognise from your youth.

Your mother used to recite such prayers, constantly. Usually, whilst looking at you.

“That’s an Act of Contrition prayer, right? Have you sinned?” A glimmer of hope has sparked within your mind. He seems to know this is wrong. He seems to be aware that this is not right, no matter what Joanna — and you know she is behind this — has used to manipulate him.

He halts. He turns. He looks at you, agitation burning in his eyes. Perhaps, that was the wrong thing to say.

“I am not like you” He practically snarls, clinging to his rosary.

Ah. So he wants desperately to justify his actions. He wants absolution. He wants you to fit into the role cast by Joanna, the role of villainous sinner.

“Right, so I’m the sinner here.” You shake your head, thoughts racing.

How do you convince him otherwise? Can you? Is there any possible way you can persuade him of the truth, that you are simply a girl, a girl with a bookshop, who wants no part in any of this conflict?

“You are.” He says, although he is uncertain. His voice lowers, as he murmurs to himself, “You have to be.”

There’s already cracks within his convictions, large ones. You decide to push on, belabour your point, draw attention to his own sins.

“Maybe. Maybe I have sinned. I am a non believer, after all. But. Let’s establish some other facts. You’ve broken into my shop. You’re in possession of a handgun — and those have been illegal in England for decades, so that also makes me think that you’ve committed some kind of crime to get ahold of one. Weapons smuggling, buying illegal goods. And… I don’t think I’m wrong in my guess that you are here to kill me. Now, those? They sound like rather large sins in the eyes of your god, do they not?” You’re trying to be careful, for you do not want to provoke him too much, push too far. You try to keep from sounding accusatory, you try to keep your tone light.

It works, you think. For his breath is shaky, his hands tremble even more.

He waves the gun towards you, distress radiating from his body.

Perhaps your words are not helping, perhaps you will die. Maybe you are not as good with words as you’d thought. But you keep on, hoping to break the man down entirely. You want to live.

“Seriously, explain it to me. Does your god not say, ‘Thou shalt not murder?’” You ask him, eyes trained upon the gun.

He sinks to his knees, gripping his rosary and his gun tightly to his chest. You breathe a soft sigh of relief.

“He does say that.” The man whispers, his hushed tones barely audible.

“And yet… here you are. With a gun, a rosary, and a murder plot.” You point out, eyes glued to his face, trying to figure out his emotions, trying to get some insight.

He does not look at you, dropping his hands down from his chest, staring intently at them, at the rosary and the gun. You wonder if he can see the metaphorical bloodstains already. A moment goes by, and you’re beginning to wonder if he’s rethinking it all, if he’s realised the flaws of his actions thus far. But his head jerks up, his eyes lock upon yours, and they are as hard as steel.

“I am doing His work. And He shall reward me for my trials.” It sounds as if he’s trying to convince himself of this, as if he is repeating another’s words by rote, as if he desperately wants them to be true.

“Who told you that? A priest? A bishop? Your god himself?” There’s really no need for you to ask this question. None of those people told him to do this, told him he’d be rewarded at the gates of heaven for his actions tonight.

“You are a devil, I should not talk to you, I should not let your words poison my ears.” The man, still gripping his rosary and his handgun, presses his hands to his ears as if to block out your voice. His body is quaking, he raises his face to the ceiling, mouth moving in silent prayer, as if he is begging his god to protect him from your evil lies. But you are not the liar, that role falls to another.

“Or… did Joanna Prescott tell you to do this?” You are tense as you say these words, unsure how he will react. If Joanna manipulated him into doing this, then…

“Don’t you mention her name!” He scrambles to his feet, stepping closer to you, forcing the gun up to point at your head once more.

You gaze up at him, at the ever present desperation in his eyes. But at the mention of Joanna’s name… there is something else there, a hint of something you’re still in the process of piecing together. How on earth did Joanna find someone to do this, to commit cardinal sins, purely for her own selfish gain?

“I think that answers my question.” You say, gripping tightly onto that sense of eerie tranquillity, for panic will not help you. You will not back down from this. You cannot. This is life or fucking death.

The man is not backing down either, jabbing his gun closer to you, the cool metal only inches away from your head.

“She is doing our Lord’s work. She is waging holy war upon the sinners and the idolators, the heathens and the infidels! While our methods may seem extreme in the eyes of the law and of those who do not understand it, we are just in our actions in the eyes of God.” He is frenetic as he speaks, gesticulating with his rosary-clad hand. But the way he stumbles over the words, the way they do not sound like his own, is evident.

He has been taught, to say these things. You’re almost certain that Joanna has groomed him into being a devout follower of her mission, convinced him that her grudge and holy war are for the greater good. They are not, of course. That is not even what this is about. It’s about hatred. You know it, she knows it. This man, this lackey, he does not know. He is eagerly trying to make sense of it all, he is desperate to believe that what she has told him about crusading in the name of their lord is true. He will kill for her, to be rewarded by god. You are probably just the first name on his list. You’re sure Papa, the Siblings, the Cardinal, they’re all there too.

“Are you sure about that? You don’t even sound as if you believe your words.” You scoff, shaking your head slightly.

“Jo — Mrs Prescott said you’d try and corrupt my mind.” He hisses at you, looks upon you with a deep contempt, as if he’s just realised that you’re trying to sway his mind, lure him away from his fanaticism.

But he has fumbled, in his fury. He has stumbled over her name.

“Are you close with her?” You question, a realisation forming in your mind.

“She’s a godly woman, a pure woman, you should not speak of her!” He spits at you, before stepping back. He’s dropped the gun down to his side. He is starting to pace once more. Your question has discomforted him, it seems.

But the reverence in his tone, despite his aggression towards you, confirms your suspicions. Joanna hasn’t just indoctrinated him with her words… she’s manipulated his feelings. He likes her, more than he should, it seems. There’s an air of guilt to his freneticism, as if he knows he should not feel such things for his priest’s wife. But, she has him captivated and has used it to manipulate him.

It’s almost enough to make you feel sorry for him.

Almost.

“Joanna is a wonderful woman. She is kind and generous and a good Catholic woman. She has put the Church first all her life. She is the sort of woman that all should look up to as a role model!” He’s reverencial toward her, he idolises her. It is as if she is the first woman to ever show him attention, and he is most grateful for it.

He is devout in his worship of her, which leaves a sinking feeling within the pit of your stomach. A growing seed of doubt. Perhaps it will not be so easy to convince him to leave here. To convince him to let you live. This is not solely a case of wanting to please his god, as you’d thought. No, he has another mistress to please. He is as devoted to Joanna’s lies as he is his religion, moreso, even. It had seemed as if it might be possible to convince him that his god did not truly want this. You do not think you can convince him Joanna does not want him to do this.You’ve met her. She is unwavering in her convictions. She is strong in her adamance that you will leave this bookshop, whether you want to or not. By any means necessary.

You are sure he knows wholeheartedly how much she wants him to go through with this. And you are quite sure that he would allow himself to become a zealot for her cause for an ounce of her affection.

“You want her, don’t you? You have a shameful little crush on your priest’s wife. And she knows it, clearly. She’s out here manipulating you into doing her dirty work because of it.” You shouldn’t prod the metaphorical bear, not when he’s already riled up. But you cannot help it, a slow burning anger is growing within you.

He’s going to kill you. A stupid crush on that heartless woman is going to get you killed. You probably won’t be the only victim. He’ll end up in prison. She’ll end up free, alive, and getting everything she wants.

“It is not a crush! I mean — it’s — I — She has not manipulated me! How dare you say that about her, how dare you try to —” He whips around to face you, brandishing the gun. His face is red, anger filled. He is no longer quaking in fear.

Perhaps you should keep your mouth closed. But you cannot.

“It’s all this big secret, right? You yearn for her, she knows it. But she doesn’t speak to you publicly, she won’t acknowledge you as anything but a congregant in front of others. But when you’re alone… she makes you feel like someone in this world wants you, right? A gentle touch to your arm, a secret smile, she’s a whole new person. She makes you feel important. I’m guessing she’s the only person to make you feel that way.” You continue, despite the little voice in the back of your mind telling you that now would be a very good time to shut the hell up. “And then, naturally, she begins talking to of her holy war, of her mission from god. She wants your help, above anyone else’s. She wants you to be her most special of soldiers in her mission, in her war. It’s all a big secret, of course. No one is to know. It’s all a secret, that she’s asked to you kill the ‘evil Satanists’ for her, right?”

His eyes narrow, the gun now held steady in his hand. His grasp on the rosary loosens, it falls to the floor.

“You don’t understand what we have.” He’s seething, and you know you’ve hit the nail on the head.

“I think I understand it better than you.” The words slip out before you can think better of it.

Fuck, are you trying to goad him into blowing your fucking brains out? This is not going to help matters.

“Well you’re wrong, for one. She doesn’t want me to kill the Satanists.” His tone is childish, smug, as if he’s proved a point. It gives you pause, for a moment. This isn’t about Satan, of course it isn’t. It’s about you.

You’re no longer calm. You’re going to die. He’s going to kill you, for what? For some pathetic crush on that horrid, bitter woman? You’re filled with a desperate anger. You’re desperate to live. You’re desperate to understand this, to understand why he’s doing this, to understand what it is you did to Joanna fucking Prescott to have her so entirely abhor your existence.

“Then why the fuck are we here; why the fuck are you standing there with a gun pointed down at my head?” You stand abruptly, anger swelling within you, kicking the chair back from under you.

If you’re going, you’re not going easily.

His eyes are practically bulging at your movements, as if he was not expecting you to do such a thing. As if he expected you to take your death quietly, to accept it as the natural order of things. It is not, and you will not.

Regardless, he simply raises the gun level with your head once more.

The rosary is forgotten upon the floor.

“You are supposed to die.” He finally says, watching you warily, as if he expects you to lunge at him, as if you could win in a fight against him.

You wouldn’t dare try that. A bullet is faster than you could ever be. And he is twice your size.

“Just me.” Anger still clouds your words, but your mind is racing, desperate to clarify.

“Yes. No. I don’t know! I just know what she said!” He’s panicking now, as if your sudden defiance has reminded him that you are a person, that you exist, that he is here to kill a living, breathing, human.

“And what did she say, when she sent you here? Exact words.” You grind out, glaring at him, at the gun.

His hands have started to shake, once more. Good. He doesn’t get to kill you as if it’s nothing.

“She didn’t send me, I offered.” He says, almost petulant, as he defends Joanna once more. How he can even attempt to justify any of this to himself is beyond you.

“I’m less concerned about the proper phrasing and technicalities, and more concerned about your little murder plot, I’ll be honest.” You continue to glare at him, the anger burning within you still swirling, confusion over this whole situation still growing.

Just you?

“I… I don’t know. I don’t know. She talks about you more than the other devil worshippers. She hates you the mostest.” He mutters, brow furrowing, gun lowering slightly, no longer pointed at you.

As if, finally, he’s realised that Joanna’s abhorrence for your existence, the way it runs far deeper than her distaste for the rest of the church, doesn’t exactly make sense. As the night wears on, it’s become slowly clear as to why this guy was so easy for her to manipulate. He is really, really stupid.

“What is it about me, specifically?” Your tone is frustrated, sick of how vague his words are.

“She never said! She did call you a ‘life-ruining satanic bitch’ a lot.” He says, gesturing in a way that suggests that name should answer all your questions. It does not.

“Life-ruining…” You repeat the words quietly to yourself, trying to figure it all out.

What did you do to Joanna? You’ve done something to her. You have to have done something. It’s not about the church, you’re almost certain of that now. She calls you with vague threats, not Papa. Sure, her followers harass the church, the Siblings of Sin. But… she is fixated on you. On this shop. Could it be something Reginald did? Did Reginald piss her off so greatly, that upon his death you not only inherited the shop, but her resentment and this grudge? Hell, you don’t even know how Reginald died, other than the fact it was supposedly unexpected — could the bitch have orchestrated that too? No, that seems ludicrous. You ruined her life, you, not him. Is this all perceived slights and insanity on her part?

“Oi, this whole thing has been a distraction, hasn’t it? You’re trying to distract me from my mission!” You look back up at him. The gun is being brandished at you once more. He has forgotten the rosary entirely, it seems.

“I just want to know why I’m going to die. Is that too much to ask? Can’t the soon-to-be dead girl have a little bit of an explanation?” You shake your head softly, words bitter upon your tongue.

You’re never going to see Copia again.

It hurts, knowing that you never told him. You love him. You love him. You’re going to die, you might as well admit it, put a name to the feeling you’ve been trying to ignore. You love him, wholeheartedly, with every fibre of your being. And you’ll never be able to tell him. Because you’ll be dead. Gone. A body with no soul or spirit, blood spilled upon the wooden floors. The worst part is that you know it will be him who finds you. Nobody else cares enough to look for you. Hell, the ghoul upstairs seems unbothered; he’s surely heard the commotion down on the shop floor by now, even from the attic.

No, Copia will find you. Dead. Gone.

That might just hurt more than knowing you’re going to be dead before the night is through.

“You worship the devil. That is why.” The man spits at you, dragging you back to the present, no longer lost in mournful thoughts of the man you love.

He’s picked up the rosary. You know what that means. He is drawing strength from his god, to do what is required. He wants to feel as if he is protected, as if what he is about to do is sacrosanct.

The confusion has left your mind. It no longer matters. You are angry, so angry. But acceptance is slowly seeping across your body. This is it. You will be dignified. There is no dignity in death, of course, not really. But you will be dignified, for as long as possible. You will not cry. You will not beg.

“We both know, there’s no use in pretending. You might not want to admit it, but we both know. That isn’t the whole story. That is not why this is happening. Joanna is using you. Regardless of how this plays out — and I’ll take a moment to remind you that you do have a choice, here — you will be the one facing the consequences of this night. Not Joanna.” Your voice is level, calm.

He, on the other hand, is not. Agita is spreading through his body once more. He’s working himself up to do it, to kill you. Sweat is beading across his forehead, dripping slightly. The rosary is clutched to his chest, the gun is levelled at you, both hands trembling with nerves.

“God will protect me, he will! He works in mysterious ways.” His tone is pitched higher, and you know those words serve only to convince himself.

“From what? DNA evidence? Security footage from the businesses around here? I’m sure Joanna will drop whatever incriminatory evidence she has straight into the hands of the police, you know. You’ll be painted as an obsessive stalker, one who killed some girl in the hopes of catching her attention. You’ll go to prison for life, she’ll be free to do as she wants. And me? I’ll be dead. Buried six feet under. You’ll have killed me.” You tell him, speaking slowly, wanting him to truly understand the consequences.

But he does not care about consequences. Oh, he knows his actions are wrong on some level, deep down. He’s aware of the gravity of the situation at hand. But he is working, hard, to convince himself otherwise. To force himself to believe whatever he’s been told by Joanna. That this is supposed to happen, that her god has ordained your death, that he has commanded it as the first action of the holy war being waged upon the evil devil worshippers. He is so focused on convincing himself of this, that he cannot comprehend the idea that this is a set up, that he is being manipulated. He will not acknowledge he is committing a crime, a most egregious crime, for it is to be done in the name of his god.

But still, on a level, your words resonate. The hand around the rosary tightens. He back away from you, but does not lower his weapon.

“Oh my Jesus, forgive us our sins, save us from the fires of Hell; lead all souls to Heaven especially those who are in most need of —” He’s chanting prayers once more, eyes squeezed closed, sweat dripping, hands shaking, gun wavering in your direction.

“Praying changes nothing! It does nothing.” You cry out, and he looks up at you. One more try. You’ll try once more to convince him to stop this. You try to sound friendly. “Look, what’s your name?”

“Gideon.” His voice is wary.

Of course it is. The situation is getting to you, the ludicrosity of it all. You let out a hysteric giggle.

“Don’t you laugh at me, you bitch!” The man, Gideon, is almost yelling. He’s trying to steady the gun in his hand, trying to relax enough to aim.

“It’s just, I mean, you’ve read the Bible, right? So you know. Gideon. Biblical hero, a warrior, chosen to condemn the idolators by his god. It’s like, it’s like a massive fucking cosmic joke, isn’t it?” You’re giggling manically, hands covering your face.

It’s just so insane. You’re standing here, in your shop, moments away from dying for Joanna’s holy crusade, and the guy about to kill you is named after a biblical warrior.

He is quiet for a moment. Too quiet. You look up, to see wonder in his eyes, a good amount of his previous agita having leeched from his body. You stop laughing.

“You’re saying… you’re saying that I’m destined to do this. To pull the trigger. Just like Joanna said.” He’s wondrous, awestruck, as he looks down at the gun with an dumfounded smile spreading across his lips.

Oh. Oh.

You’ve just fucked up massively. Your blood freezes in fear; you might have accidentally just convinced him to go through with it. Gideon is no longer scared of being punished by his god, all thanks to your hysteria. Wonderful, just wonderful.

“That’s definitely not what I was getting at.” You’re trying to placate him, hoping that maybe there’s still a chance. Still a chance of not dying tonight.

“No, no. It was. I am a soldier. And I am proud to serve my Lord.” His voice is astonished, confused, as if it all finally makes sense to him.

Fuck, you’ve accidentally turned him into the fanatic Joanna wanted him to be.

“Are you sure that is who you serve? Are you sure it’s not your little crush, Joanna?” You needle, trying to remind him of the holes in her story, the fact that this is not really about her god at all, anger still churning within you.“You’ve spent most of your time here shaking and sweating, and I’m pretty sure you almost cried at one point. You’ve kneeled and hesitated and prayed. You don’t even want to do this, but you think it might just get you up Joanna’s crusty little skirt suit —”

What is it with you and agitating him? You cannot control the words spilling past your lips. He takes a threatening step forward, gun first.

“Disrespect her again and I blow your fucking brains out, you cunt. Just — just shut up. Shut up! You fucking she-devil bitch. This is what God wants, I am doing what He commands, and He commands you dead.” He’s snarling at you, tense, body vibrating with anger and fear and whatever other emotions are swirling within his mind.

You stand there, still. There is nothing to be done. Words seem to have failed you. He will kill you, Copia will find your body, few people will mourn your death. But nothing happens, Gideon just stands there, hand wavering slightly, gun aimed. He’s waiting for something.

“Do you want me to beg?” You scoff at him. “I’m not begging, not when you’ll kill me regardless.”

He nods, as if your reasoning makes sense in his fucked-up little brain. “Will you repent?”

“I am not the one in need of repentance here.” Is all you can muster, slightly shocked he’d even ask such a question.

Absolutely not. You will not spend your last moments praying to a god you do not believe in. You will spend your last moments, thinking of him. Of Copia. You will spend your final time upon this earth remembering that kiss, the best kiss you’ve ever had, the only one that’s ever truly mattered.

"I will pray for you, then.” Gideon shrugs, as if he expected your refusal. “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

It’s fitting, you suppose; you are at the hour of your death, after all.

“So, this is it then.” You say, as he finishes with a nod.

The rosary is held close to his chest, the gun is pointed at you. His hand is trembling, not as much as it had previously. He is resolute in his actions. You’re sure he is still terrified, to some extent, but he will go through with it. There’s a glimmer of hesitation in his eyes, but he does not back down. You know what is coming. You do not bother running, fleeing. There is no point in it.

You breathe in, slowly.

You let your eyes flutter shut, replaying memories of a tender and sleepy kiss.

There is nothing left to say, to Gideon at least.

There is so much left to say, to Copia. It will all remain unsaid.

You breathe out, slowly.

Bang.

Chapter Text

There’s nothing.

Oblivion calls to you, enticing you to stay within the void.

In which there is nothing.

You want to stay in the abyss, embracing the nothingness.

No more pain.

No feelings.

No complications.

There is just… nothing.

Nothing.

And then, suddenly, all at once, the nothingness is gone. The world rushes back to you.

Gasping violently, choking on the air around you, your eyes open abruptly. You’re on the floor — when on earth had you ended up on the floor — blinking frantically as you stare up at the ceiling. You need to move, you cannot breathe; you fling yourself up into a sitting position, hunched over your legs, choking and practically convulsing, barely in control of your own body. Memories are coming to you in unintelligible flashes, incoherent and obscured by panic, but you’ve forgotten how to breathe, so you push away those horror soaked moments to contemplate later. You need to breathe, but you don’t know how, and you’re desperately attempting to figure it out. You are lost to it, the panic, frantically trying to understand the unfathomable, because nothing is making sense to you, nothing at all. The hysteria is all-encompassing, but you’re trying to push through it, because you need to fucking breathe, so you screw your eyes shut and try to remember how it goes. In and out. In and out. In and out. There’s the most awful of noises; wailing, somebody is wailing, a dreadful keening that hurts to hear. And then, you realise it, you realise that it is you — you are crying out the most painfully gut-wrenching sobs, still unable to fucking breathe.

“It is okay, amore, sì? Don’t try to move, just look here, see, look at me. We can breathe together, sì? In — good, and now out.” A face appears close to yours — Copia’s face, fuck, how you love his face, his perfectly groomed facial hair and those little crows feet around his eyes that you’ve grown so fond of — but fuck, had he always been here? When did he appear? He wasn’t here, was he?

You’re not sure. You don’t know. You just don’t know.

But despite the total confusion and the deep-rooted fear, his soothing voice cuts through the tumultuous spiralling of your mind, cuts through the madness of it all. You keep your eyes locked upon his, vaguely registering the terror within them. Following his instructions, staring at him, unable to look away, you can see his exaggerated breathing and you mimic it erratically. It’s stilted, but you’re doing it, no longer choking on the rusty air. Time passes, you are sure of it. Still, you both sit there, trying to level out your uneasy breathing. You cannot focus on anything, nothing at all, other than his eyes and the sound of his breath. There is no comprehension of how you arrived here, at this very moment, upon the floor. Letting your eyes flicker shut, you try to still the chaos within your mind. You try to piece together the fragments of memories, but it’s a jigsaw puzzle with too many missing pieces and you’re just so confused. Gideon. A handgun. A rosary. All jumbled and inarticulate. It’s a total guessing game, trying to work it all out. But all you know is that you are here, you are here and you are on the floor and Gideon seems to be gone and for some reason Copia. You left him sleeping and he shouldn’t be here, because he really needed to sleep last time you saw him, but you don’t know how much time has passed. Has any time passed? Has it been hours or days?

You open your eyes, a little more focused, a little more able to breathe. Copia’s eyes have not left your face, he is watching with the tenderest of concern, with the deepest of heartbreak, clear in his eyes. They are puffy and bloodshot, as if he has been weeping. You don’t understand it. You look blankly back at him, trying to figure it out. Why is he looking at you like this? You tear your eyes from his face, only for your breathing to falter once more.

He’s wearing the white suit from before, the one he’d travelled home in. Last you’d seen it, it was wrinkled from a day of travelling, he’d not bothered with the jacket. But this once pristine white suit, this wonderful suit that inspired utter worship within you, is no longer pristine. It is covered, soaked, in dark blood.

A lot of it. A lot of fucking blood. Too much. Far too much blood.

Panic seizes you once more.

“What? What’s — Gideon. Did he — he shot you? You’re covered in blood, Copia, you’re covered in blood. Did he?” The words are frenetic, feverish, as they spill out of you rapidly, barely coherent, tripping over each other in an attempt to get out the fastest.

Pushing yourself onto your knees, mimicking his own position, your knees bumping against his, your shaking hands reach up clumsily to his face. There’s a smudge of blood upon his cheek, but as you touch it, with the intention of removing it, you only serve to smear more blood upon his face. Your eyes flicker to his, filled with dread. It’s not…

“It was not me who was shot.” He murmurs softly, pushing a strand of damp hair from your face, tucking it carefully behind your ear. Devastation is heavy upon his face.

You realise it all, in that moment. The jigsaw pieces are beginning to slot neatly into place. You are also covered in blood. The formerly white tank top, your light grey sweatpants, entirely saturated, with blood. Wet in some places, drying and rusting in others. The metallic scent in the air makes sense, for you are sitting in a pool of blood. A far too large pool of blood.

“Oh, fuck. Oh, fucking fuck Am I dead? Is this it? Is this what death is? Fucking hallucinations of the person you love, waiting for you to figure out that you’re a corpse now? This is — there is too much blood. Bodies are not supposed to lose this much blood, I know that. I like medical dramas. Liked? Is everything I say about myself supposed to be in the past tense now? I — oh, shit. Shit, I still have so much left to do. I don't — I can’t — how can I die, when I’ve barely even lived? I’m twenty six, I’ve not even done anything yet! I didn’t even get to tell you — This isn’t — it’s not — I don’t —” You’re hyperventilating, panicking, your entire body trembling, your eyes wide and pulse racing.

You’re dead. This is it, this has to be death. Because you cannot be sitting in several litres of blood and still be alive. Copia is oddly composed, as if none of this is remotely shocking, and you do not understand it, because this is horrifying. But then, if he’s a dying delusion, a manifestation of your mind as you drift away into oblivion, then of course he would be comforting and calm in your final moments. Is he death, welcoming you into his cold and loving embrace?

The urge to flee is rising, impossible to ignore. You need to leave, to go, to get away from this hellhole, you’re scrambling to get up. Or trying to, but the slippery and wet puddle of blood is making it difficult to do such a thing. Suddenly, Copia’s hands, warm and ungloved, shoot out to grab your arms. He holds you in place and you still, looking up at him, eyes wide and feral with fear. His grip is surprisingly strong, it’s grounding, it feels… real. It feels real. His mismatched eyes are pouring into yours, staring at you so deeply it’s as if he can see right through you, to your very soul. You watch as he blinks rapidly, as if he’s blinking back tears, his eyes unusually shiny. Perhaps he is not so composed, perhaps he is not so calm. You stare up at him, as he lets out a shaky breath. Finally, finally, he pulls you into his lap. You’re drenched in sticky coagulating blood, but he does not care. Slowly, his arms wrap around your back, pulling you into his embrace. Tension and panic is still radiating through you, but he simply holds on to you tightly, waiting for your body to relax into him. It only takes a moment. Despite the horrid metallic stench of blood, the fact that you are both covered in the stuff, you can still smell him underneath it all. Now that your face is pressed into the crook of his neck, you can smell that intoxicating scent of frankincense and old leather that usually sets your body alight. It does not, not in this moment. In this moment you are relishing it, savouring it, for it is the most comforting scent imaginable. It almost makes you think that this could be real, for his body is so soft and solid beneath you, he is so warm, he smells as he always does. Like home. Closing your eyes tightly, hoping the moment lasts forever, you slowly reach your arms around his neck, clinging tightly to him.

Oh, how incessantly you’ve wished for this. How deeply you’ve desired to spend your time curled up in his arms, in his tender embrace. The reality of it, however, cannot be anything other than bittersweet; your fantasies of this moment do not involve being shot by a religious fanatic, they do not involve being blood soaked and petrified, they do not involve possibly being dead.

But you can feel your heart beating against Copia’s chest. You are breathing. Nothing makes sense.

“You are not dead, amore. Or at least, not anymore. I do not know the full story. The note you left me, I awoke to it, and I knew something was wrong. So, I came here. Only to hear a gunshot and see a man running out of here, as if his life depended on it. I knew instantly that he’d done something to you. And so, I rushed inside. He’d shot you. Right here.” He pulls back from you and tilts your chin up, fingers ghosting along the centre of your throat. There’s nothing there, no sense of any sort of wound. You watch his sorrowed expression, hear the grief in his words. “You were dying. Bleeding out, everywhere. I sat with you, held your hand, watched as the light left your eyes and you took your last breath.” His voice breaks slightly, it is gut wrenching to hear.

“But I’m here. And there’s not even a wound.” You tear your eyes from his, selfishly, because it hurts to look at the sheer devastation upon his face. As you rest your head back in the crook of his neck, you feel him press a gentle kiss to your hair.

“I know, it is confusing. I sat here and prayed to the Dark One for you. Prayed for your soul. And then, suddenly, I was not alone.” His warm hand drifts up to your head, cradling you to him. His hands are not steady, a slight tremor to them.

“What?” You murmur, disoriented, for his story makes little sense. Dead and then alive. What does that mean?

“Your ghoul was sitting opposite me, watching. I understand what Terzo means now, when he calls your ghoul strange. He told me I must stay for your return.” The ghoul, who would not come to save you at your most desperate of hours. It’s all muddled, incomprehensible, words that do not make sense.

Return?

“How did he…” You wonder, because why would this ghoul, this elusive creature, know anything about you? Copia’s hands tighten slightly against you, against your waist and your head.

“I have my suspicions, but I would not dare say without confirming them. I knew what he meant. It is good, to not be alone when coming back. Especially the first time. So, I stayed. Not that anything could have convinced me to leave you. It was not long. You were gone… perhaps ten minutes. The longest ten minutes of my life.” His tone is bleak. You’re aware you’ve inadvertently traumatised him, you wish you knew how to make it better. You don’t know how to make it better.

“I just… rose from the dead.” Your voice is filled with disbelief as you finally lift your head from his shoulder once more, only to see silent tears rolling down his bloody cheeks. Your blood, tears caused by you.

“Sì, you did.” He sniffs softly, as you reach up to tenderly wipe away his tears with your thumbs, smiling weakly at you as you begin to trace the lines of his face. Perhaps he is real. Perhaps you are here.

“How?” You whisper, tracing your thumb over his bottom lip. His breath hitches slightly as you do.

“It is not so complicated, the how. The Dark One demanded it be so, that is how this works. The why… that is the true question.” He is an academic, perhaps it is not so surprising that he just knows these things. But there’s something in his tone, as if this is not just a topic he’s read up on, as if he has more knowledge on it than he’d like.

“He brought me back? I’m not… I’m no one special.” At your words, a hand comes to rest upon your cheek. There is so much emotion within his eyes, it is almost unbearable.

“Topolino, you are the most special.” He whispers roughly, tone so sincere, that you do not know whether you want to cry, or to kiss him.

It would be so easy to kiss him. Especially knowing how good he is at it, how his kisses set you on fire and make you burn so desperately for him. You’re curled up in his embrace, face inches from his, it would be so easy to just… lean up. But while the hysteria has ebbed away, it has left in its wake disorientation and a bone deep weariness. You are exhausted. You are utterly bewildered. You just want to understand it all.

“And I have suspicions, as to why you did not die permanently. But again, it is best I say nothing until I can confirm it.” His tone is low, dark, there is an underlying frustration. There is the sense that he knows a lot more than he is willing to say, and you wish he would just explain it all to you.

“Oh.” You sigh, hands dropping from their resting place upon his jaw to his chest. You’re toying with the fabric of the shirt, morbidly intrigued by the way your blood has dried there, rusted into stiff blotches upon the white fabric. It’s hard to keep your eyes open, but you do not want to move.

“Hm, the exhaustion has settled in now, hasn’t it, topolino?” He murmurs, looking at you so tenderly that you simply never want to let him go. You are sure you’d still be in hysterics if he wasn’t holding you, tethering you to reality. If, that is, this is reality.

Words seem hard to form, so you nod quietly. He chuckles, placing a lingering kiss upon your forehead. His lips are soft, warm, and you smile tiredly up at him.

“Coming back from the beyond takes rather a lot out of the already exhausted body, I know. Dying is hard enough as it is; living, when you are not supposed to, that is even harder. To bed, sì?” Copia murmurs quietly, pressing another quick kiss to your temple, as if he simply cannot help himself.

Unwillingly, you remove yourself from his lap, allowing Copia to help you stand. Your legs are unsteady, wobbly, and it is as if you are learning to walk all over again, as if this is the very first time you’ve ever had to do it. You stumble, almost immediately, and his arm is quickly around your waist. He holds you up with a surprising strength, allowing you to lean yourself against him. The clothes you are wearing feel uncomfortable and stiff now that the blood has dried, but you cannot bring yourself to care. You lean into him the entire trek up to your flat — it feels so much further away than usual — for walking feels near impossible, but also because you are mourning the loss of being wrapped up in his arms. You’ll take any excuse to touch him; perhaps it is you who is the selfish one. As you reach the door to your home, you could swear you see a flicker of a shadowy grey figure in the attic door frame. Could it be the attic ghoul? Watching you, checking to see if you are okay?

You lead Copia through your home. He’s been inside once before, but this time… this time it is different. He follows you to the small bedroom, lingering at the door. Despite the overwhelming tiredness, you wish he was here for a different reason, a far more pleasant reason, that you weren’t both mildly traumatised and caked in dried blood.

The exhaustion is enough that you do not care about crusty blood ruining the bedsheets, the cleaning you’ll have to do in the morning. A shower would likely be pleasant, and you should probably try to get as much of the coagulated blood in your hair out as soon as possible, but the idea of standing in that cramped little shower feels like the most monumental of tasks. You’re seconds away from passing out into the deepest of sleeps. You died. An hour ago, you died. Who can be bothered to care about dirty duvets, when you just cheated death? Kicking off your shoes, you crawl under the covers with a soft groan. Looking back at the door, you see Copia is still there. Watching you, his white eye practically glowing in the shadows. It is too dark to read his expression properly.

“I shall let you sleep, topolino.” His voice is gentle, but it sounds as if he is leaving, and that sends a jolt of fear straight through you.

The idea of being without him… it is unspeakable.

“You’ll stay, right? What if Gideon, the guy who — what if he comes back?” Your voice wavers, tears filling your eyes. It’s childish perhaps, but you are desperate for him to stay, you are terrified of being alone. You want him to remain by your side, you want him to stay. Forever.

You know, logically, that Gideon would have no reason to return. Why would he? He killed you; you should be dead. There’s a ghoul in the attic and Lucifer seems to be looking out for you. Regardless of Copia’s presence, you should be safe.

But you cannot stand the thought of him going.

“He will not come back, amore. But if you wish it, I can sleep upon your sofa, hm?” He reassures you gently. He’s the perfect gentleman, he really is, it is clear he does not want to take advantage of your vulnerable state. You know he would never do anything to hurt you.

“No.” It comes out blunter than intended. Within the darkness you can see his brow furrow slightly, confused. You rush to clarify. “I mean, will you stay here? Just to sleep, I mean. I… it’s just that I — what if I don’t wake up? What if this is all some crazy hallucination as I lay dying?” He is still quiet, and you feel the heat rising to your cheeks, embarrassment flooding your veins. “I’m sorry, you don’t have to, I —”

“I’ll stay. Of course I will stay.” He cuts you off, finally stepping into the bedroom.

Your eyes do not stray from him as he finally closes the door behind him. They do not leave him as he carefully removes his shoes, as he peels off his ruined suit jacket and places it on the small ottoman at the end of the bed. Tentatively, he walks to the other side of the bed, your eyes still trained on his every move. He pauses, as if waiting for permission, as if he expects you to rescind at a moment’s notice. You don't; of course you do not do so. His white eye is still practically glowing in the low lighting, and a passing thought has you wondering how well he can see in the dark. You flick up the edge of the duvet, a silent acceptance of his presence. He slips in next to you, his breathing uneven. You pay little attention, already fading into sleep, tired beyond belief.

You hope this is real, that you will wake up tomorrow morning, that he will be with you.

“What do you need, topolino?” He asks you so tenderly, so sweetly, as your eyes begin to droop closed.

No words are able to escape your lips, for you cannot form them, exhaustion overtaking you, your mind already straddling reality and the dream world. Instead, you shift yourself closer to him, resting your head upon his shoulder.

The last moments you can recall have him slowly, hesitantly, wrapping his arm around you, pulling you closer to his warm body.

The rosary is held close to his chest, the gun is pointed at you. His hand is trembling, not as much as it had previously. He is resolute in his actions. You’re sure he is still terrified, to some extent, but he will go through with it. There’s a glimmer of hesitation in his eyes, but he does not back down. You know what is coming. You do not bother running, fleeing. There is no point in it.

You breathe in, slowly.

You let your eyes flutter shut, replaying memories of a tender and sleepy kiss.

You breathe out, slowly.

Bang.

You jerk awake suddenly, trying to outrun a dream that is already fading away with the morning. Panic is flooding into your veins, and you want to run, to escape, but a firm hold is keeping you in place. That practically sends you into an even larger frenzy, until you realise whose arms are wrapped tightly around you. Frankincense and old leather. You are in Copia’s arms. The fight fades from your body. You are here. He is here. This is real.

“Sei al sicuro, topolino, stavi sognando. You were dreaming.” His voice is rough in your ear, thick with sleep.

You’re a tangled mess of limbs; his arms are holding you tightly to him, you have an arm around his neck and one resting against his chest. Your head is tucked under his chin, you can feel his heart beating against your body. You’ve got a leg draped over his thigh, pressing your hips against his own. He’s half hard against your leg, a realisation that has heat slowly, lazily, pooling within the pit of your stomach.

But despite how wonderful this moment is, despite how much time you’ve spent dreaming of a lazy morning with Copia, just like this, there is an edge of fear to it all.

You died, last night. You died, and then you lived. As if it was nothing. You lift your hand from Copia’s chest to graze your fingers against the supposed wound left by the bullet. There is nothing there. Is any of this even real? Is this moment real? You’re in bed with the man you so desperately love and you cannot even enjoy it fully, for you are not wholly convinced this is not the dying dream of a dying girl, some form of afterlife that you’d never previously considered. But he feels so real. He is so soft and so solid, pressed up against you. The scent of frankincense and old leather surrounds you entirely. This has to be real… doesn’t it? You so want it to be, you so want to be wrapped up in the arms of the man you love.

You just want to know if this is real. A deep sigh escapes your lips.

“Hm, morning, amore.” He murmurs sleepily, his fingers stroking gently at some exposed skin, where your top has ridden up in the night.

It does nothing to quell the slow burning fire growing in your core.

“Copia… this is real, right? I just… is this real?” You’re a little embarrassed as you ask the question, pulling back to look up at him.

He looks adorably sleepy, hair a little mussed, eyes a little glazed over. But he looks down at you with such understanding, as if he knows exactly what you mean.

“You still feel… not quite settled back yet, hm?” He asks softly, continuing to softly caress your skin, despite how there’s still crusted blood covering just about your whole body. It seemingly does not bother him. Then again, he’s covered in it too.

“It feels like… like I’m dreaming, the strangest of dreams. Or like I’m dying, and this is a final hallucination, some sort of metaphysical goodbye.” You admit, your eyes tearing up slightly. You will the tears to stay, to not fall. You’ve had enough of being an emotional wreck.

Copia hums softly. Slowly, he slips an arm from your waist, ghosting his fingertips up and along your body until he reaches your face. He brushes his thumb across your bottom lip, caresses your cheek oh-so gently. You can hardly breathe at his touch, at the way his eyes are burning into you, no longer sleep-filled, but intense.

“Did that feel real, topolino?” He murmurs with a satisfied smile. Your eyes are wide, your cheeks feel warm, your lips are parted, you are left breathless by his touch.

“Yes.” You sigh.

His fingers slide down to your jaw, gently dragging your face closer to his. Slowly, gently he presses his warm lips to your own. Your heart is pounding in your chest, warmth spreading throughout your body, as his lips softly move against your own. You press closer to him, push your hips into his, desperate for more. Copia smiles against your lips for a millisecond, before kissing you harder, deeper. He’s hard, against your hip. The kiss is hard and deep and it's setting you on fire, your whole body is burning, completely aflame, and it’s all because of him.

This is real. It has to be real. There is no way that the fire you feel could be a dream. Only he could inspire such ferocity.

Slowly, he pulls away. You’re breathless, completely desperate for him. You need him, more than you’ve ever needed anything. You want him. The fire within you is burning incessantly, you need him to quench it. All your thoughts are consumed by him, you cannot focus on anything aside from the fact that he is here, this is real, this is all real and happening.

“And that? Did that feel real?” His hands are still holding firm onto your face, keeping you inches from him. You want him to kiss you again, and again, and again.

“Please, please. I need…” You need everything. You want everything from him. His every kiss and every touch. You want his hands everywhere. You want to know him most intimately. You need to know him most intimately.

He’s watching you intently, his eyes dark, his lips parted, his cheeks flushed. You’re sure he wants you just as much as you want him. You’re almost certain he needs you as much as you need him.

“What is it that you need, amore?” He tilts his head forward, his lips brushing against your own as he speaks. You cannot help the whimper that escapes them.

“You. I need you to prove this is real. Make me believe it.” You whisper, gasping softly as his mouth trails hot kisses down your exposed neck.

Slowly, Copia shifts his body, nudging your legs wider so that he can rest comfortably between them, so that his body is hovering over yours. He presses one more, painfully gentle, kiss to your lips. It’s loving and heart wrenching all at once. You glance up at him, wide eyed. There’s so much emotion written all across his face. Grief, lust, desperation, desire. This means as much to him as it does to you. You almost lost each other. It’s a minor miracle you made it back together. He sits back for a moment, eyes on yours. There’s such a raw intimacy within your gaze, just looking at him fills you with the most indescribable feelings. You’re not sure when this man started to mean everything to you, but he does.

“Perhaps, let’s remove these, hm? Let me worship you properly, as you deserve. No barriers.” He murmurs, voice low, as he ghosts his hands to the hem of your top.

You nod frantically — anything, you’d do anything for his touch — and he carefully helps you remove your tank top, slowly peeling the crusted bloodstained article from your body. Both of you are like this, bloodstained and grimy and in need of a shower, but you don’t care. You just want him. He’s watching you, his gaze reverent as he skims his hands across your breasts, his touch tender as ever. You watch him, as he ghosts down further, reaching the waistband of your sweatpants. He glances up, as if asking for permission. Words are beyond you, so you simply nod once more. Slowly, oh-so slowly, the stiff material is dragged down, inch by inch. You wonder if he’s moving so slowly on purpose. He slowly eases each leg off your body, with the softest of touches. You are naked before him, you’re completely bare. Perhaps you should feel nervous, but he’s looking at you with such adoration, his eyes wide as he takes in your exposed body, that all you want is his touch.

“Copia, please I —” You’re about to beg, desperate for him to move faster, the fire within you reaching a fever pitch, burning so hot that you ache almost painfully.

“Shh, topolino, let me take care of you, sì? Let me worship you as you so deserve.” He leans down to press a desperate and messy kiss to your lips, one that lets you know that he wants you just as badly as you crave him.

He pulls away, sitting up so that he can undress himself. As he starts unbuttoning his own shirt, you pull yourself up, pushing his hands aside. You want to do this, you need to. Your hands are trembling a little as you work your way down his shirt, acutely aware of his eyes gazing at you with a barely restrained hunger, feeling his heart pounding. Fuck, you want him so badly. As soon as the last button is undone, he is practically ripping the shirt from his body, throwing it away from you. You cannot help your eyes roaming his rugged chest, your hands from trailing down, savouring the feeling of his skin against your own. Copia’s hand at your chin, tilting your head up so that you’re looking at his beautiful face once more, distracts you from your explorations.

“Let me prove to you how real this moment is, amore, sì? Cazzo, I want to worship you, revere you, show you how greatly I yearn for you, in every moment of every day.” He tells you, his eyes burning with need, punctuating each phrase with soft kisses. Soft kisses everywhere, all over your face, your forehead, your cheeks, your lips, your jaw, edging down your neck once more.

Copia lays you back down, pressing his body against yours. He is so hard against your thigh, you cannot help but whimper. You need him, so badly. You are burning from the inside out, you need him to extinguish the flames. Slowly, his gentle kisses filled with desire begin to trail down your body. Hot open mouthed kisses to your collarbone, your breasts, your stomach, and then down to your thighs. He spreads your legs further apart, groaning at the sight of how wet you are. You’ve never been so turned on in your life, you’ve never needed anything so direly.

Slowly, softly, he peppers gentle kisses upon your thighs, inching ever closer to your wetness. The wait is painful, you can hardly think a coherent thought, caught up in your need and the sheer overwhelming desire you have for him. Finally, finally, he gently swipes his tongue across your centre. Your breath hitches. He begins in earnest then. His tongue laps at your entrance, dipping in slightly, before he moves up slightly to suck gently against your clit. You can hardly control yourself, lost in the moment of it all, because everything is so real. This is real. It has to be real. Your fantasies of Copia are nothing compared to the real thing. You’re hardly aware of the fact that you’re practically grinding down on his face, desperate for more, whimpering softly with every new sensation. He slips a finger inside you, then a second, stroking you as he continues to lavish your clit with attention. It does not take long for you to come undone under his gentle caresses, so utterly overwhelmed from the past day, so utterly in need of his touch. You are completely undone, softly whimpering as he guides you through your orgasm, finally withdrawing his fingers from you, placing a final soft kiss upon your thigh.

Copia sits back, his mouth shining with your slick wetness. You’re watching him watch you, still recovering from your orgasm. Slowly, deliberately, you watch as he licks his fingers clean. It serves only to reignite the fire within your core once more. You need him, again. You are as greedy as he claims to be.

A blind man could see how desperately Copia hungers for you. The tension, the way he is desperately trying to restrain himself, is radiating off him in waves. He sits there, a disbelieving awe evident within his expression, as his eyes roam your body. It is as if he is unsure of his next move, as if he does not know what he wants, as if there are too many options and he is overwhelmed by his choices.

“What do you need, Copia?” You ask him, softly reaching for him.

He leans down, pressing his body to yours. He drops the sweetest of kisses upon your throat, to the smooth plane that should be scarred with death, before placing another upon your lips.

“All I need is you, topolino. What would you like?” He’s so tense, you can tell that there is so much he wants, so much he needs, from you, but he is holding back. It is as if he’s afraid his unadulterated passion would hurt you. You want everything from him. You want to watch him come undone.

“Fuck me. Please. I’ve — I’ve dreamt of it for so long.” You’re too desperate for him, to be embarrassed by your admission, too turned on by the pure lust within his eyes, as he grinds himself into you at your words.

He’s still wearing his trousers, you realise, and your hands reach down furiously in an attempt to remove them. Copia quickly moves backwards, practically tearing them from himself, and you barely even catch a glimpse of his nakedness before he’s back on you, pushing his erection against you, groaning lowly at the friction.

“You’ve dreamt of it? Well, topolino, I hope I do not disappoint you.” He murmurs with a soft chuckle, a hand ghosting down your body. Slowly, almost painfully so, he eases himself into your wetness. You cannot help the soft whimper you let out as you feel him filling you up entirely.

Copia is still for a moment. Another soft kiss is dropped against your throat, as if to convince himself that this is real, that you are here. You know it to be true. You are both here, together. Gently, you grab his face and tilt it to meet yours in a kiss, moving your body underneath him, wrapping a leg around his waist to deepen your connection. He begins to move against you in earnest. It’s all messy kisses and soft sighs, fast, desperate, and filled with a wealth of emotions that neither of you could ever convey with words. He’s thrusting into you, your hips rising to meet him, as he presses unrelenting kisses across your mouth and jaw. Coherent thoughts are of the past, all you can focus on is the overwhelming sensations bringing you closer and closer to the edge. A hand ghosts down to your clit, and he barely has to touch you there before you are falling, hard, over the precipice, waves of pleasure rolling over your body. He does not stop as your orgasm washes over you, his mouth pressing hard to yours once more, swallowing up any sounds you might make. It does not take long for him to falter, pushing himself deep within you as he cums, hard, pulsing within you. Copia practically collapses on top of you, nestling his head in the crook of your shoulder for a moment. You can feel his lips moving, but you can barely hear the words he speaks.

“...Cazzo, ti amo tanto, mio topolino, sei tutto per me. Ti amo.”

He shifts his weight off you, and you mourn the loss of it, of how it grounds you. Almost immediately, he pulls you into his embrace, and you smile at the contact. Your head is resting over his heart, you can feel it pounding against you. You run your fingers gently across his rugged chest, simply listening to his heavy breathing, to his heartbeat. This is real. You and him, existing here in this moment, it is real. You’re both naked and bloodstained and crusty and your hair is a mess of coagulated blood, there is cum on you and on the sheets and it probably should be disgusting, it is a little disgusting, but you could not care less. You couldn’t care less about any of it. You’re curled up his arms, this is real, and you love him.

You love him.

The silence is comfortable, comforting. You lie there in his arms, safe in the knowledge that you are not alone. You’ll never be alone. He will be here for you, always. Of course, there’s a thousand questions running through your mind. You’ve got endless problems to solve, there’s a deep apprehension surrounding the many unknowns you are facing. Endless mysteries are plaguing you, and you are practically begging for them to resolve themselves. You so deeply crave a peaceful existence, a peaceful existence full of love and laughter with the man embracing you. You’ll take whatever you can get, as long as he is present. But you wish, you yearn, for a little less chaos.

“I think perhaps showers are in order, hm? We are rather…” He finally murmurs, trailing off with a small yawn, shifting slightly under you.

“Grimy?” You supply helpfully, gazing up at him. It’s perhaps an understatement.

“Sì, amore. It would be nice to be clean.” He smiles tenderly down at you, pressing a kiss to your temple, before you both move to sit, stretching out a little.

The mess is your fault; it’s your blood that has traumatised him. “I’m sorry.”

You’re sitting on the side of the bed, arms wrapped around yourself. Shit, what a state you’ve gotten yourself into, dragged him into. There’s going to be repercussions to Gideon’s actions, you know that for certain. Joanna will not be pleased that you somehow lived. You don’t want to drag Copia deeper into this situation, this war she has declared. It’s abhorrent that you’ve already involved him this much, by letting him discover your dying body the night before. The thought of it, picturing him clinging to your body as you bleed out, has bile rising up within you.

In an instant he’s on his knees in front of you, looking up with concern. “Whatever for?”

“We’re both covered in the remnants of my death, Copia.” You gesture half-heartedly at him, at the bedsheets, at your body, all crusted with flecks of blood.

“Do not apologise for that. You are not to blame, for anything. Now, perhaps you will let me wash your hair, hm?” He places a gentle kiss on the inside of your knee, before standing, offering a hand to you.

Grabbing it, you rise and lead him into the small bathroom. It’s tiny in there, clearly designed for solo usage. The room is something you eventually plan on renovating, for none of the appliances seem to even be from this century. But still, the two of you persevere. You climb into the shower, pulling him under the warm water with you, bodies pressed up against each other. There’s no room for you to stand otherwise. It is cramped, a little uncomfortable. It is wondrously intimate. It is elbows knocking each other and soft breathy laughs. It is increasingly familiar touches upon newly acquainted bodies. It is lathered soap, dripping down to tiles. It is heads bumping and awkward manoeuvres. It is his hands, reverent, washing your hair. It is flecks of blood, your innermost pains, being washed away down the drain. It is the silence, it’s the sound of running water. It is lingering kisses and gentle hands healing each other.

Eventually, you are clean. He is clean. The water is cooling rapidly. You need to get out, but getting out means losing the intimacy of this moment, and you desperately do not want that. Copia seems equally unenthusiastic to leave; you’re watching him wash his face under the streaming water, watching the way the beads of water cling to his thin moustache, the way there are only the faintest remnants of his usual dark paint around his eyes. You wonder what he uses; it stays remarkably well, for he had to scrub hard to remove it. He finally glances down at you, a fond smile upon his lips.

“I am about done in here, topolino. I think I shall make us some tea, how does that sound? And perhaps call upon one of my ghouls; I will need some clean clothing.” He tells you, carefully wrapping his arms around your waist as he switches places with you, edging towards the shower door.

“Okay, the tea’s in the cabinet above the kettle, and there’s fresh towels in the linen closet. And, uh, I’m perfectly fine with you not wearing clothes, by the way. In fact, I quite like it.” You giggle, pressing a kiss to his jaw.

“Ah, you might not mind, but I have it on good authority that public nudity is still frowned upon.” He says with a long-suffering sigh, leaving you to infer that there just has to be some wonderfully wild story of Papa Emeritus III behind it. From what Magdalene has told you of him, you are not entirely surprised.

You feel a sharp pang of loss at his words, at the idea of him leaving. It’s clingy, and you hate to be clingy, but you just cannot bear the idea of him leaving. Not yet, at least. You just… need him. For a little longer. He’s the busiest of men, you know this. But you would like for him to stay, just a while longer. You’d like him to avoid the Sister and the paperwork and the responsibilities, just for a little bit.

“Are you leaving? I mean — stupid question, really. You probably have a lot to do, what with being gone for —” The question slips out before you can think through how needy it sounds, so you try to backtrack, try to make it sound as if you are not totally incapable.

“Non ti lascerei mai, amore, non di mia volontà — I am not leaving. But your flat is rather chilly, is it not? Clothes are rather useful.” Copia places a soft kiss upon your forehead, smiling at you with mirth in his eyes. He’s not leaving. Not yet.

Recently, you’ve begun to notice that he slips into Italian in certain situations. When he is sleepy. When he is annoyed at Papa. And, perhaps, in the moments he feels most comfortable. You’ve never seen him look so relaxed, no tension held within his shoulders, a lazy smile upon his face, contentment radiating from his body. You’ll have to learn, you think. So you can finally understand all the little things he says.

“I suppose I’ll allow it.” You tease him, smiling widely — you do not think anyone has ever made you so happy.

“Good. Now, I’ll see you in a moment, sì?” He opens the door, about to step out of the cramped shower.

“Sì, amore.” You laugh, teasingly.

Copia turns, so rapidly you almost stumble back in surprise. You’ve barely registered the dark flash of desire in his eyes before his lips are upon yours, your back pressed up against the cool tiled wall as he kisses you thoroughly, fervently. There’s an intensity in his eyes as he pulls away, breathing ragged, his arms holding you steady. His lips meet yours for one more shorter, but lingering, kiss. And then he’s backing out of the shower, eyes still locked upon yours.

You take a shuddering breath. As soon as you get out from under the water, you’re totally changing the bedsheets. And once he leaves? You’re buying an Italian textbook.

Taking a few moments under the rapidly cooling stream, you breathe deeply. This is real. You are alive. Movements and the sound of the kettle from the kitchen ground you, for it reminds you that Copia is here, that this is real, that you are safe. Returning to the bedroom has you utterly cringing at the sight of the bedsheets, the ruined clothing discarded upon the floor. It’s worse than you’d remembered. You dress yourself quickly, ignoring the mess. You want tea, and another kiss.

Entering the main room you see Copia standing at the counter, pouring water into mugs. He’s somehow gotten his hands upon an ill fitting pair of pyjama pants, too large for his frame, wearing them low upon his hips.

“Where did you get those?” You ask him, almost sure they look like a pair your uncle had owned, way back in the day.

“They were placed on the counter. I think we must have had a visitor last night.” He shakes his head, gesturing to the attic above you.

Apparently the mysterious attic ghoul can deliver clothing and cryptic messages, but cannot intervene in murder plots. Is he avoiding you specifically? Does he just not want to be seen by you?

“I — you know what, I don’t even want to get into it.” You sigh, grabbing the milk from the fridge and finishing up the tea.

Copia comes to stand behind you, arms wrapping around your waist as you stir some sugar into your cup. You lean into him, eyes fluttering shut momentarily as he rests his chin upon the crown of your head. He is warm, despite the ever present chill of your flat and his lack of proper clothing. With every waking moment, you’re increasingly convinced that this is real. You’re alive. You can feel your heartbeat. You can feel his heartbeat. He smells like frankincense and old leather, even though it’s masked a little by your own shower products. It’s everything you could ever have wanted, and more.

“You know, if I ignore how horrendously traumatic last night was… this might just be the perfect morning.” You smile, turning around to face him and leaning back against the counter.

He steps closer, resting his hands upon the counter either side of you, effectively trapping you. Not that you mind, you’re relishing in his closeness, that the barrier keeping you apart has effectively been broken. You’re finally able to act on all those longing glances and secret desires. Glancing up at his face, inches from your own, you can see the concern in his eyes.

“Do you wish to talk about it?” He asks in undertones, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. You notice, as he pulls away, how his eyes flicker down to your throat. Where the bullet had torn through flesh and muscle, where you had bled out.

“No, not yet.” You sigh softly, reaching a hand up to his cheek, resting it against him. He leans into your touch, eyes closed. You’re sure he’s remembering all the godawful details you’d been lucky enough to miss, what with the dying and all. “I just want to be here, in this moment, with you. If that’s okay, that is.”

“More than. I would do absolutely anything you asked, topolino, you know this.” He takes your hand in his, pressing a gentle kiss to your fingers. Oh, the way he looks at you, the way you can tell there is an earnest sincerity in his words, it’s almost too much to bear.

“Yeah?” You smile at him, widely, tea long forgotten. Your hand trails down his chest, across tufts of hair to rest over his heart.

“Sì, of course.” He murmurs, eyes so soft, so gentle, so full of an emotion you want to call love. You think it is, you hope it is. You think he might love you.

“Hm… what if I asked for a kiss?” You ask him, flirtation edging into your tone, your gaze flickering down to his lips.

His hands are either side of you once more, trapping you to him, as he closes the gap between you. Snaking your hand up and around his neck, you pull yourself closer to his body. It’s not a long kiss, but it’s sweet and soft and lingering. You break away, unable to stop the heat rising to your cheeks, the delighted smile upon your lips.

“And, uh, how about breakfast? Will you make me breakfast? I have… I don’t know what I have in the fridge. Something, probably.” You can’t quite think clearly, what with the way he’s gazing upon you with his mismatched eyes, filled with longing. He wants you. And he can have you. After breakfast. And after you change those ruined sheets.

“Of course, topolino. I shall come up with something edible for you, I am sure.” He smiles, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose, before heading to your fridge to rummage around for any kind of usable ingredients.

“I’m going to sort out the bedding situation. I don’t even know what to do with it — I can just throw those all away, right? And my clothes. Those are going too. Ugh.” You’re whining a little, but it’s a necessary task. The idea of looking at those sheets upon your bed, at the clothes stiff with dried blood, for any longer than necessary makes you feel ill.

“Hm, yes. Dispose of it all. My clothing too; I’d never wear that suit again, even if getting the stains out was a possibility.” He calls to you, as he takes something — you think it might be bacon — out of the fridge.

“Okay!” You tell him as you walk back into the bedroom. It makes sense for him to want the white suit gone, but you’ll most definitely mourn the loss of it. Of how well it fit him, how perfect his thighs looked while wearing it, how perfectly it — you need to cease that line of thinking, before you go back out there and beg him to fuck you hard upon the countertops.

Carefully, you pull the sheets off the bed, trying to keep the mess contained. As you’ve folded them into a pile upon the floor, about to place the ruined clothing on top, a loud bang of the flat door terrifies you. The clothes fall from your hands.

“Police! You there — on your knees, hands behind your head. Quickly!” A male voice barks out aggressively.

Police? What the fuck were they doing here? Did somebody call them? Did somebody somehow see the literal murder scene downstairs? No — the blinds were shut. Had Copia left the door open, in his hurry to find you? The night is blurry, you cannot remember if you’d even looked towards the doorway. Had someone called them? Did Joanna… did she report your death? Did Gideon? Your breathing is panicked, fast and shallow. They must have seen the blood downstairs. Shit, they probably think Copia murdered you, did something terrible to you, to your body.

Fuck.

Shoving the bloodied clothing and stained sheets under the bed — a piss poor hiding place, but you’ve got little to work with within your small bedroom — you rush out to the main room.

“Where’s the girl?” The same voice as before is shouting at Copia, who is on his knees in the kitchen, his body tense. You wish you could see his face.

There’s two police officers standing in your front room. They look stern, severe, ready to attack should Copia even think about moving.

“What is happening? Why are you here? I’m right here, you don’t need to yell at him, I’m here.” You frantically rush out, practically skidding across the kitchen floor to stand directly behind Copia. You cannot see his face, but you rest a hand upon his shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly.

Fear and panic are coursing through your veins, you’re terrified, you simply want them to leave, to go and never return. You’d known that you’d have to deal with the repercussions of last night at some point, but you didn’t think you’d end up with the police in your flat the literal morning after.

“Miss, are you the owner of this shop?” The first one, the angrier one, asks as he eyes you with suspicion.

“Yes?” You tell him your name as you gesture to the polaroids of you and your university friends upon the fridge, a frantic attempt to prove your identity. “What is this even about?”

“And you’re safe? This man, Cardinal… Copia, is it? He has hurt you? Is he keeping you here against your will?” The second asks, her voice slightly perplexed as she eyes your hand upon his shoulder.

“No! He’s my — of course he hasn’t hurt me. This is my flat, why would he be holding me hostage here?” You’re almost trembling, mind flashing back to the night before.

Gideon. The gun. Trying to talk your way out of a situation you could never truly escape.

“It’s okay. So he’s not broken in? You’ve invited him to be here?” She presses, trying to clarify, as she exchanges a look with her partner.

You’ve not got a clue as to what is going on. All you know is that Copia is on his knees, and you keep seeing flashes of Gideon’s gun pointed straight at you.

“He was in the middle of making breakfast, he’s wearing pyjamas! Why would he have broken in to make breakfast?” Your voice wavers dramatically, your eyes are starting to fill with tears. You are sick, sick of confrontation.

“Okay, it’s okay.” The female officer placates you, before turning to her partner. “Mitch, stand down. This isn’t… go wait in the car, I’ll finish up with this one.”

The man, Mitch, nods at both you and Copia, leaving silently. You cannot look down at Copia, panic swirling in your mind. Nobody has mentioned the blood downstairs. That should’ve come up, surely. The fact that there’s a too-large blood stained section of flooring that has not been cleaned. You are confused and you cannot think straight and everything is a mess and you keep seeing Gideon’s sweaty face in the moments before the trigger was pulled and you were dead.

“You can get up, Cardinal. It’s fine. Let’s just have a chat, okay?” Now that it’s seemingly established that Copia isn’t planning to kill you, her tone is a lot friendlier. “I’m Sergeant Duncan. Look, I’m sorry about how we burst in, I understand it must have been frightening. But you have to understand, we had good reason to. A report was made to us about an attempted murder in progress, specifically naming the Cardinal as your attacker.”

Copia quickly stands, groaning under his breath slightly. He wraps his arms around you tightly as he listens to Sergeant Duncan’s words. You’re sure he can feel you trembling against him, which only makes him hold you tighter. It’s grounding, it reassures you that you are safe. He is here, Gideon is not. You are fine. This is real.

“About me, trying to kill her?” Copia’s voice is strained, as if he is desperately repressing feelings of anger, as if he is desperately trying to be polite.

“Yes, unfortunately. We received a phone call about forty minutes ago, alleging that there was a disturbance in progress here. An anonymous woman claimed that she’d seen the Cardinal enter the shop last night, that the door had been left open and it seemed strange. She then said that while on a walk this morning, she noticed the door was still open, and sounds of a struggle were very clear from inside, that you were begging for him not to hurt you. We take calls like that pretty seriously, as you can understand.” Sergeant Duncan explains apologetically, her brow furrowed, confusion evident. It is obvious that she’s realising the phone call does not add up entirely, that no disturbance could have been occurring.

“So you simply burst in?” Copia’s annoyed, you can tell, you can feel his hands flexing around your waist, even if you cannot see his face behind you.

“Well, the front door to the shop was wide open, she was correct about that. It didn’t seem as if there had been any disturbances downstairs, but we could hear some noise upstairs, so we came up. I am sorry to have interrupted what is clearly nothing, but we have to treat these calls as legitimate.” She shrugs. The door was left open. The blood had disappeared overnight. You have a myriad of questions and no answers to any of them.

“Do you know who called, did they give any indication?” You ask suddenly. It had to have been Joanna, surely. Who else would send the police to your door, implicating Copia in your supposed death?

“No, I’m sorry. The call came from the phone box down the road.” Sergeant Duncan tells you, sympathetically.

You consider mentioning Joanna Prescott, telling this woman about how awfully Joanna has been harassing you. But, you do not. What is the point? What can they do? She has plausible deniability, you’re sure. None of the other policemen you’ve spoken to have cared to investigate her harassment. Why would they listen to an occult bookseller over the well-respected wife of a priest? It’s pointless, all of it. You’re exhausted. You just want the Sergeant to leave.

“Okay. Well, if that’s everything…” You trail off and Sergeant Duncan immediately gets what you’re hinting at.

“I’ll leave you both to it. If you need anything, feel free to ask for me down at the station, okay?” She smiles at you kindly. You’re sure she’s nice enough. But you’re not about to trust anyone outside of Copia’s church any time soon.

Offering to walk her out, you follow the woman down the stairs to the shop floor. Sure enough, there’s no sign of a disturbance. There’s no indication that last night’s events even occurred. Everything looks… normal. Totally, completely normal. Except, there is one major difference. A rug. An old looking rug, one you’ve not seen before, has appeared. Laid down carefully, exactly where you had died. It’s like an odd little gravestone, marking your death, of significance only to you and Copia. You have to tear your eyes away, to act normal, as you see Sergeant Duncan out and lock the door firmly behind you.

You walk back to the rug. It’s… just looking at that spot, knowing what happened, has your stomach churning. You no longer want breakfast. With a shaky breath, you kneel next to it. You lift a corner, to see underneath.

There’s no blood. It’s all gone. All that remains is a slight discolouration of the wood. Barely even visible. It sends a shiver down your spine, and you can look no longer. You need to leave, get away from it as fast as you can.

You race back up the stairs, stumbling into your flat and locking that door too; you want no more interruptions. Copia has abandoned breakfast, it seems, which is fine by you. There’s noises from the bedroom, so you wander over. He’s there, putting together clean bedsheets upon your bed. How is it he just seems to get you, so perfectly?

“Are you okay?” You ask, finally taking a good look at his face.

He’s exhausted, you can tell. Without the dark paint around his eyes, you can see the tired bruise-like circles beneath them. Trouble seems to plague you, to follow you around. You seem to drag him into it at every step. A part of you expects him to finally tell you that it is too much, that he must leave and go somewhere your problems will not affect him.

But he simply smiles wanly at you, “I’m fine, amore. You?”

“It’s gone.” Is all you can say, watching as he finishes up fixing the bedding.

“What is?” He turns to you, arms gesturing for you to join him.

You walk over to him, dropping down onto the fresh linen sheets. Copia sits too, close enough that your thighs are touching. He rests a hand upon your knee, looking at you with concern.

“The blood. Downstairs. There should be a whole mess down there, but there’s not. A rug has… appeared. And underneath it, the wood’s a little stained, but it’s… it’s like someone cleaned.” You sigh heavily, running a hand through your hair. There are too many mysteries, too many unknowns, and you’re sick of them all.

“Ah. One thing about the ghouls is — they, eh, will consume… anything.” He informs you, awkwardly. You look up at his face to see him cringing a little, and you’re sure there’s some story he’s neglecting to tell. You’re sure it's for the best.

“Oh.” You don't really know what to say, honestly.

“Sì.” He rubs soft circles against your leg with his hand, slowly moving it up your thigh.

“Why would he do that?” You muse, although you know Copia will not have an answer for you.

“I do not know, amore.” He sighs too.

You shift back onto the bed, so you can lie down. You stare up at the ceiling, wondering if the attic ghoul is up there. Why does he stay up there? What does he do with his time? Is it not a lonely existence, haunting an attic? You don’t even want to broach the subject of Joanna’s attempt to implicate Copia in your death, her awful intentions for him. Was having you killed not enough? Did she have to try and ruin the lives of everyone around you? You push the thoughts aside. There’s no point in any of them.

“I’m just… I don’t know. Kind of exhausted, I guess.” You finally let out, with a small groan.

Copia lays down next to you, tracing delicate patterns upon your skin with his fingertips.

“That’s normal, very normal. Would you like to sleep some more? We can go back to sleep, if you wish it.” He tells you softly, and you’re sure he’s hoping you’ll say yes. You’re pretty sure he’s longing for a nap as much as you are.

“That sounds good. But, uh, only if you’ll tire me out completely before we sleep, yeah?” You giggle, as you watch his eyes darken and flicker down to your lips.

His body is on top of yours in an instant, his lips immediately trailing impassioned kisses along your jawline, drawing out soft moans with every single touch.

You cannot help the grin spreading across your face as he draws back to tell you, “If that is what you want, topolino, then that is what you shall get.”

Chapter Text

After death, life resumes again as if nothing had ever happened. Like unrelenting waves crashing upon the shore, hitting like a train upon the tracks. It’s funny, how your life can change entirely in seconds. And yet, to the rest of the world, it is as if nothing has even happened. Even to you, it’s almost as if nothing has changed. You look in the mirror, multiple times a day, eyes locked on your throat. It is smooth, the skin is unblemished. It is as if nothing has happened or changed, not at all. The whole thing feels like the most confusing of nightmares, horrifying and wondrous and utterly unreal. It cannot be real. But you remember the gun and you remember Gideon and you remember hearing the shot even if the moments following are blissfully removed. There’s nothing left but three memories of a moment, and stained wooden flooring.

You open the shop, two days after dying, as if it is an ordinary day. It doesn’t feel like one. Of course it doesn’t. It is completely mundane, if you discount the number of times your eyes are drawn to the rug that hides a murder scene. It’s, perhaps ironically, a deep red. Previously, you’d have described the colour as a deep wine. Now, all it reminds you of is a white suit stained dark. You wonder if the colour is a ghoulish attempt at humour, or if it simply was the only old rug stored up in the attic. The customers you serve are simple, easy, pleasant. You do not see Joanna. A part of you is curious; does she know you are alive? Does she know Gideon did not succeed in his task? You’re reshelving a few books, ready to close for the day, ready to curl up in bed. You don’t know how easily sleep will come, now that you don’t have Copia there. He has been a grounding force throughout this whole experience; at the first sign of discomfort he’d wrapped you up in his arms, enveloping you in warmth and the scent of frankincense and old leather books.

You’ve missed him, since the moment he slipped out of your flat this morning. He was needed at the ministry, Sister Imperator was furious with his absence. He had left you with a lingering kiss that rendered you breathless, and a promise to see you once more as soon as he could possibly manage. And then he’d left, and you’d missed him instantly. You know that he is not the solution to your problems. He cannot fix you, your every trauma and flaw and problem. But his presence… it helps. You cannot deny how things seem a little easier, the heavy weight upon your shoulders feels a little lighter, when he is around. Copia might not be able to fix you. He might not make all your problems disappear as if by magic. But he makes the world feel a little less harsh, a little less scary. And that? That is more than enough. It’s more than you’ve ever been offered before.

“Hello again.” A voice drags you from your thoughts, speaking directly into your ear.

You visibly startle, knocking into the shelf. There is a ghoul, standing inches away, eyes boring into you. Breathing raggedly, you try to get the fear under control. This is a ghoul, one of Copia’s ghouls. He won’t hurt you. In fact, he’s probably here to help you. They’re odd creatures, you think. So close to being human and yet… decidedly not. It’s uncanny, a little unsettling. From the limited interactions you’ve seen, both Papa and Copia seem completely at ease with the odd creatures. But you? You still haven’t quite wrapped your head around their existence.

“Fuck! Unholy Lucifer, you cannot just sneak up on a girl like that!” You gasp, trying to still the small tremors in your hands. The sudden presence had… it had reminded you of Gideon. There’s no gun, you try to remind yourself. There is no danger here.

“Sorry.” The ghoul seems unapologetic, but you figure that he probably doesn't get human emotions all too well.

There is silence for a moment, and you are not entirely sure what is going on. Why is the ghoul here? Has something happened? Panic is churning within your stomach. Has something else happened? Joanna is instantly on your mind. Did she do something to Copia? After all, while she might want you dead, you are not her only target — she certainly wants his church to suffer too. The ghoul doesn’t say anything. He just stands, staring, eerily still and unblinking.

“No, it’s fine. Is, uh, everything okay?” You ask, apprehensive.

“I’m watching.” He replies simply. He certainly is watching you, at least.

“... Watching what?” You’re desperately trying to draw out some sort of information from a creature that seemingly does not understand the sense of urgency radiating from you.

“You. The shop. We are. Better than before.” He says it as if it’s obvious. It is not, not to you. The ghouls you’ve met don’t exactly seem to be the most effective communicators.

“Okay?” You blink rapidly, trying to piece it together. Copia had told his ghouls to watch the shop a while back… perhaps they were redoubling their efforts, after the shooting. After your death.

“The Cardinal is very upset about you dying. Hm. You do smell like death. Interesting.” The ghoul brings his face to your neck, inhaling deeply.

Your body tenses; somebody should probably teach the ghouls about human boundaries. His face is pressed up against your skin, freezing to the touch. His words have you panicking — you smell like death? What does that even mean? Like the stench of a body rotting, noticeable to humans? Why hadn’t Copia mentioned it? Or is this a ghoul thing, a part of their preternatural abilities?

“You can smell that?” Fear is evident in your tone. A part of you is terrified that you have come back wrong, scared by the ghoul’s words. After all… there has to be a price, doesn’t there? To coming back, so easily?

“Yes. It’s not unpleasant. It’s a warning.” The ghoul finally pulls away. His expression is hard to read.

“Explain, please.” Fear is freezing cold within your veins. A warning to who?

“You’ve been marked. No big deal. You were marked before. It’s just stronger now.” You’re not sure if it’s just that you cannot understand ghoulish emotions, or if they cannot understand yours. But the ghoul in front of you is being so blasé about this horrifying situation, so slow in dispensing information, that you can scarcely breathe. What does he mean, marked? You look normal, you look exactly the same as you did a week ago. Marked?

“Marked by who?” You grit out, when it becomes evident that the ghoul has nothing else to add.

“Him, of course.” If he were human, he’d have shrugged.

Does he mean Lucifer? You suppose that makes sense. Or at least, as much sense as it can. Your mind is still swirling and this whole conversation has gone sideways remarkably quickly. In a way, you finally have solid proof that you died. Aside from the blood… the whole thing could’ve been a dream. Now, you’re stuck with more evidence that this is real. You died. The devil brought you back. You’re alive, but at some unknown cost. But you’ll get no more answers from the ghoul, you are sure of that, so you move swiftly forward.

“I — okay. Okay. So you’re watching the shop more now?” You clarify, trying to entirely understand what exactly the ghoul was here for in the first place. He’s so still, so intent with his gaze, it’s unnerving.

“Yes. The Cardinal says to make sure you are not alone.” He states. You wonder if ghouls breathe in the same way humans do; his stillness is nigh impossible. “In public. In the shop. You won’t notice us.”

“... I’m sure I won’t.” You let out a stunned laugh, brain stuck on the puzzle of your marked-by-Lucifer death stench.

“Sister is mad at him. Keeping him busy. He might not visit you as soon as he wants to. Goodbye, marked one.” The ghoul tells you with what you think might have been a smile. You’re not entirely sure. Before you can say anything, you blink, and he is gone.

As you lock up for the day, you play the ghoul’s odd words over within your mind. Perhaps… it’s not so much that nothing has happened, that nothing about you has changed. It's just that, well, you’ve been deeply unaware of it. You’ve changed. That is certain.

The evening is lost to several trains of thought that go nowhere. You comb through your database of books, but there doesn’t exactly seem to be anything relevant to your situation. This isn’t necromancy. Lucifer marked you and brought you back. You didn’t know he could do that. And judging by the titles and indexes of the books you’d flipped through, neither did any of the so-called experts on the esoteric. Another trip to the bathroom mirror has you scrutinising every inch of yourself. Your face, it’s the same. Your eyes are tired, but they are not different. Your throat is normal. There is no entry wound. The back of your neck is smooth. There is no exit wound. You look the same. There is no sign of death. There is no obvious mark. No sign that you have been touched by the devil. It’s pointless, you think. You certainly don’t possess any of the necessary information for any of this to make sense. Before he’d left for his work trip, before… Copia had been trying to figure out exactly what had happened during your youth. He’d not found anything, just residual energies from rituals, a sense that great power had been harnessed. What power for what purpose was unclear.

As you continue to stare into the mirror, analysing the face staring back, a loud vibration from your phone startles you away from your desperate need for answers. A part of you dreads that it’s Joanna, calling to find out why the fuck you’re alive. You wouldn’t know what to say. Funny story… so you’ve heard of the devil, right? But, to your relief, it is not. Copia is calling. You answer immediately, butterflies inexplicably gathering in your stomach.

“Amore.” His tone is warm, almost loving, and you can picture the exact way he’d smile at you, if he were here in person.

You take a final glance at the girl in the mirror — she looks different now, light in her eyes and a lingering smile — before leaving the cramped bathroom. Crawling into your bed, you wrap yourself in the duvet and try to pretend you’re wrapped in Copia’s arms. It is not the same, but the scent of frankincense is lingering on the bed sheets, so you close your eyes and try to imagine his body against yours.

“Hello. How are you? I, uh, I saw one of your ghouls today. He told me that you were swamped with work.” You say softly, missing him horribly. You’re aware that you saw him briefly that morning. It’s a little ridiculous. But you… you love him. And you want him. Horribly so.

“Sì, sì, I am indeed. I had hoped… well, I’d wanted to be able to return to you sooner. But… Sister Imperator has rather a large number of assignments for me. Well — for Terzo, but she will not allow him to see them, so they are given to me instead. I have his work and my own work and very little time left over.” He sounds frustrated. There’s a rifling of papers in the background, and you’re sure he’s probably still at his desk, still working despite the late hour.

A part of you wonders how he’d ever be able to make time for you, considering his hectic schedule. Does he even want to make time to see you? You’re uncertain. Sometimes, you think your feelings for him might be reciprocated. But you push those insecurities away; for you are curious about what exactly is going on at the ministry. You can recall Sister Magdalene’s whispered words, that Sister Imperator has an odd little thing for Copia.

“She won’t let him do his own assignments?” You ask him, thinking back on the few occasions you’ve seen Sister Imperator. She seemed rather… uptight, to say the least; you’re sure that her attitude does not mesh well with Papa’s laid back approach to life.

“Sì, she believes him incompetent. It’s… Terzo is a ridiculous man, it is true. But he is surprisingly capable.” He sighs loudly, muttering something in Italian under his breath. You don’t need to see him to know he’s exhausted and overworked, despite only having returned to the ministry that morning.

“You sound stressed, Copia.” You desperately wish you could kiss him, place the most gentle of kisses to his lips.

After having him there for over a day, the small apartment has never felt so large. He was barely there, but you feel his absence strongly. It’s a little pathetic perhaps. But by the sounds of it, he’ll be buried in ministry paperwork for a while. And if you know one thing about Copia, it’s that he’s overly dedicated to his job. You cannot see him pushing aside his responsibilities, shirking his duties, just to see you.

“Ah, that would be because I am, topolino. But it is okay. Do not worry about me, sì? How are you doing?” There is such kindness in his voice. You’ve never known anyone as kind as he is. When he asks how you are… it’s as if he actually cares. You think he does, he does care about you, and about how you are, and it’s almost too much to bear. You very much want him to, and yet, the thought terrifies you.

“Like I said, one of your ghouls spoke to me today. It was…” Swallowing down your angst-ridden inner turmoil, you begin to try and explain the conversation you’d had. Only, you don't quite know what to say. How do you explain that the ghoul believes that Lucifer has marked you, that you are surrounded by the stench of death?

“I have heard. I, eh, I apologise for him… smelling you. They are not always the best at mimicking human behaviour.” Copia quickly interjects once you trail off, clearly having been updated by the ghoul in question. He’s apologetic, a hint of resignation to his tone. You wonder if he has attempted to correct the ghouls’ behaviour many a time.

“It’s okay. I… do I smell like death? Did you just, like, not want to tell me?” The self-conscious edge to your voice is insanely obvious, and you’re sure he can tell. It makes you wince, for you hate to seem so… needy. But you’re terrified that he’s going to say yes, and tell you that he never wants to see you again.

“Topolino, you need not worry. It is a ghoul trait, being able to sense things beyond a human capacity. It is a little concerning, perhaps, but not so surprising. The Dark One does not just bring people back for free.” His tone is gentle, tender, oh-so comforting that it only serves to make you crave his touch even more fiercely.

“I guess I’m just a little freaked out.” You admit, wrapping the duvet closer around yourself. The lingering frankincense does not sooth you as much as you’d hoped. You want the real thing, you want him.

“That is only natural, amore. But it shall all be fine, I promise.” His tone is empathetic and it’s as if he entirely understands the odd situation you’ve found yourself in. “Now, I must ask you something. I am insisting upon an afternoon off in two days’ time. I would very much like to take you on that date I have promised you. Is that agreeable to you?”

Copia wants to take you on that date. You’d almost forgotten, what with all the chaos, that you’d told him to take you out while drunk. It’s a surprise to you that he still remembers it. That he’s still planning on it. He’s had you. He fucked you, more than once, during his brief stay. He’s seen you at the lowest of the low, as a literal dead body and in the most frenzied of panics. He’s seen all of you. And he still wants to see you. He wants to take you on a date. Copia is going to clear his busy schedule for the sole purpose of taking you somewhere, of spending time with you. He wants to spend time with you.

“You’re going to take me on a date?” You cannot help the words slipping out, the edge of astonishment present.

“You sound surprised.” He chuckles, and you’re immediately embarrassed. You’re sure you sounded terribly rude, but a part of you is utterly awestruck. He’s interested in you. After everything.

“I just… you still want to go?” There’s a wide grin spreading across your lips, you cannot help but feel overwhelming joy at the idea of a date with Copia.

“Of course I do, amore.” He is so fucking earnest. There is a deep tenderness to his words. Every time he calls you amore, you want to die, overwhelmed by emotion. You’re sure he doesn’t mean it as an ‘I love you,’ but you cannot help the warmth it brings, without fail, every time.

“Then yes, two days’ time works for me. I’ll close up shop early. Where are we going?” Excitement and nerves are bubbling up within you. A date. You’re going on a date with Copia.

In the background, you can hear a door slamming and rapid muffled Italian. You’re almost certain it’s Papa, yelling something at Copia. You wonder if there will ever be another uninterrupted moment between the two of you.

“Ah, I am needed, I am afraid. I will come and meet you at your shop, sì? Three pm, two days from now.” He murmurs into the phone softly, and you agree, before he hangs up.

You lie there, surrounded by the fading scent of frankincense, a soft smile lingering upon your lips. Copia is taking you on a date. You cannot wait for it.

The date arrives alarmingly fast. You’d expected the days to drag out, while your anticipation rises to uncomfortably high levels. But, it doesn’t. Moments of reading and waiting for customers and restless nights of sleep blend together and all of a sudden it’s three hours before Copia arrives and you’re a mess. You’d not bothered to open the shop for the morning; to say sleep had been elusive since dying would be an understatement. Tiredness runs deep, to the bone, and you desperately want to feel like a functioning person for your date. You had attempted to sleep in — but the bed sheets no longer smell like him and you mourn the loss of it — hoping that you’d maybe look a little less dead behind the eyes. Best not remind him of the whole dying thing, after all.

As you shower, dress, decide to hate your outfit, dress again, you ponder exactly what a date with Copia means. You aren’t quite sure what he even wants from you. You aren’t quite sure what you have to give him. He likes you, you know that. For some inexplicable reason, he likes you. He wants you, desires you. Sometimes, you think he might, somehow, hold feelings towards you that could be mistaken for love. You desperately wish it to be true, but that traitorously mean voice in the very darkest recesses of your mind will not stop telling you that it is delusionally wishful thinking. Maybe it is. None of it answers the question of what he wants from you. Sex? The sex was good. Sinfully so. Perhaps he just wants to have someone unaffiliated from church life, as to not feed the rumour mills. Perhaps he’s lonely, and you’re the only one offering company. Perhaps he really does genuinely like you. That’s the scariest part of all. He might actually have feelings for you, and you’re terrified of doing something to scare him away.

But despite the doubts swirling, the nerves building, you’re eager to see Copia once more. Being around him feels like the most natural thing in the world, despite all your lingering worries. He’s intelligent and kind and a little mysterious, and you just find his company the most enjoyable of anyone you’ve ever met. By a quarter to three, you find yourself unwilling to wait upstairs any longer. There’s only so many times you can pace the short length of your living room before it gets tiresome. With one last glance in a mirror, you wander down the stairs to the shop floor. Perhaps you can find something to pass the oh-so painful fifteen minute wait. Except, as you enter the shop floor, you see a figure lurking outside. Copia. He’s standing there, body language slightly hesitant, dressed in a fitted black suit. You cannot see his face, but you watch him for a moment, the way he’s carrying what looks to be a hamper, the way he keeps checking his watch. Just seeing him, standing outside of your door, agitates the butterflies within your stomach beyond belief. The anticipatory nerves have your pulse racing. Swallowing deeply, you exit the shop.

As you step out, his mismatched eyes are locked onto you. He looks a little sheepish, as if you’ve caught him doing something he wasn’t supposed to. Your lips part as you look at him, words lost; you don’t entirely know what to say to him, nerves overtaking you. Copia might have seen you at your most vulnerable — and dead, and naked, and crying — but as he stands in front of you, a soft smile gracing his lips and warmth in his eyes, you cannot think of a single thing to say. In all honesty, you just want him to hold you, to press a soft kiss against your lips, just for a moment. But a part of you is terrified to initiate anything.

“Amore, I have missed you endlessly.” Copia’s voice is gentle, earnest, as he steps towards you. Your breath hitches as his gloved hand comes up to rest upon your cheek, thumb brushing softly against your bottom lip, and you lean into his touch.

“It’s only been a few days.” You tell him, breathlessly, gazing at him with wide eyes. A simple touch from him is all it takes to spark a fire within you.

“And every second we were apart was torturous; hence my early arrival.” His smile is a little bashful, there’s a faint flush upon his cheeks. His hand trails from your cheek, fingers tracing their way down your neck and across your shoulder, coming to rest upon your arm.

“I’ve missed you too. Sister Imperator had you that busy, huh?” You smile at him, resting a hand against his. The leather of his gloves are cool, smooth.

“An understatement, truly. She is utterly furious that I do not devote my every waking thought to the ministry, these days. But I would much rather dedicate the predominance of my musings to you. After all, you are far more pleasant to think about, no?” There’s an intensity to his gaze, the way his mismatched eyes are locked upon yours, and you wonder if he wants to kiss you as much as you want to kiss him.

“And what thoughts are those, exactly?” Your smile widens, a hint of flirtation within your tone.

Copia removes his hand from your arm, reaching his hand up to your face. With a gloved finger, he tilts your head so that he can place a gentle, reverent, kiss to your lips. His mouth is warm against yours, and you feel all the tension slowly drift away. He kisses you, and everything is okay. Your worries about this date melt away into nothingness. As his lips brush languidly against your own, your hands grab hold of his shirt, pulling him closer to your body. Eventually, leisurely, he pulls away from you, raising his head to place a chaste kiss to your forehead. Your eyes flutter shut momentarily.

“Ah, topolino, that would be telling, would it not? They are very pleasant thoughts, believe me.” He murmurs, his lips brushing against your forehead once more before he steps back.

Heat pools in your stomach as he watches you with such intense and warm affection, and you almost consider calling off whatever plans he has to invite him back up to your flat. But, no. You want this date. You want to get to know him better. Copia can be so elusive, and you want very much to uncover some of his many secrets.

“So… where exactly is it you’re taking me?” You ask him, turning to lock up the shop. As you do so, you realise the doorbell camera is broken — of course it is, it should’ve notified you that Copia was outside. Clearly, Gideon must have damaged it properly on his way out of the shop several days ago. Sighing internally, you shove away thoughts of Gideon. You are not going to spend your date with Copia thinking about that night.

“Can you keep a secret, amore?” He asks, eyes filled with mirth. He offers you an arm, and you take it eagerly. It’s a little old fashioned but you’ve found that Copia can be rather quaint at times, and you rather enjoy that about him.

“Who exactly would I tell?” You reply, scrunching your nose slightly; for during the short time you’ve spent in the city, you really haven’t gotten to know too many people. There’s Papa and Sister Magdalene, of course, but it’s not like you spend large amounts of time with them. You’re a solitary individual at heart. Except when it comes to Copia. You’d like him to be around always.

“Hm, well, at least keep this from Papa, won’t you? I am taking you to my favourite place within this city of ours. I visit often — alone — to contemplate in peace.” He tells you, as he leads you down an alley, away from your shop and from the ministry.

Your heart is pounding. He’s taking you to his secret little spot, a place he’s shared with nobody else in his life? He’s sharing this with you. You know, from your own experiences and from Magdalene, that Copia is not one to willingly share about himself. He can be intensely private. And he’s taking you somewhere meaningful to him. That fact makes your heart swell; you have to mean something to him, right? For him to show you this?

“And you’re bringing me there? To your secret place of quiet contemplation?” You smile at him, but internally you’re more than a little overwhelmed by it. It means something, surely? You want it to mean something.

“Sì, most certainly. There is not one other person I’d rather share this place with. Just you. I think that you will like it; perhaps it can become as much of a comfort to you as it has been for me over the years.” His tone is warm and most ardent, as if he desperately needs you to know that he wants to bring you here, that you aren’t intruding upon his sanctuary.

In fact, it rather feels as if he wants you to intrude. As if he wants your presence in his most private of spaces. The idea of it fills you with hope, for perhaps… perhaps it means that he wants a future with you too. You’ve avoided acknowledging that fact, that you desperately want something more from him, but as you walk down the cobblestone streets towards his secret retreat — that he wants to share with you, of all people — you have to admit that perhaps you’d like him to stick around for a while.

A few minutes later, you turn down another narrow street. It’s remarkably quiet. It barely feels like you are in the city at all. Copia slows some, leading you towards a wrought iron gate. The sight within makes you gasp; in the midst of the narrow streets and city architecture, the chaos and the bustle, is the ruins of what looks suspiciously like a church. However, there’s greenery, leaves and vines and trees, enveloping the ruined architecture. The ruins have become some kind of garden paradise, taupe stone walls covered in climbing plants and dark moss, glassless windows and doorways with no doors. Copia leads you through the gates, entering into his odd little reprieve from his daily life.

“What was this place? It’s so beautiful, I didn’t know we had anything like this just around the corner.” You’re awestruck, looking around at the ruins and the overgrown trees weaving through windows as if they had always been a part of the structure.

“It was a church, once upon a time. It was a beautiful place, even then. I might be most devoted to the Dark One, but I can still appreciate extraordinary architecture. In some form or other, it’s been here for nine hundred years. Destroyed and rebuilt, and finally repurposed. War and tragedy have plagued this little plot of land, and yet, the remains still stand. As a quiet garden, rather than a place of Christian worship, but still. It stands strong.” He tells you, voice quiet, as he leads you through open hallways to a small courtyard. A semicircle of empty benches surround a small fountain, backed by plants and trees and partially ruined walls. You’re almost surprised, that such a serene little spot doesn’t have a crowd.

“That’s a long time. I — this is a stupid question, but do you think it’s disappointed, at how things turned out? It’s not a church anymore. Its whole purpose changed, from one thing to something entirely different. Do you think, if buildings had feelings, that it would be sad about that? For its entire world to be shifted?” Your words are clumsy. It’s a stupid question. You’re not entirely talking about the building. How do you stay strong when things are changing oh-so drastically for you?

Copia sits on a bench, placing the hamper down and gesturing for you to join him. You sit, a few inches between you, but he slips an arm around your waist and pulls you in. Your thigh is touching his, his gloved hand sits gently upon your hip, you rest your head upon his shoulder. The babbling of the fountain, the sound of birdsong and distant traffic only add to the quiet magnificence of this moment with him. You can scarcely believe it to be real.

“I do not think it is a bad question. What I do think, is that things change. Things fall apart, and things do not work out as intended. This church, it is no longer a place of worship — at least in the Anglican sense. But can you not feel it? This is still a place of reverence. Just… not in the same way. It is a sacred place for one’s own reflections, rather than of worshipping a careless god. Things change, amore. That is the way of life, is it not?” He tells you, gloved fingers stroking at your side. His voice is calm, a little restrained. As if he’s trying to hold back a wave of emotion, as to not overwhelm. You wonder if he’s felt as deeply affected by your brush with death as you have.

“Hm. I can see why you come here.” You sigh, breathing in his familiar scent and looking at how the plants have integrated themselves into the windows, the way twisting creepers wind themselves through the gothic arches. It’s peaceful, it’s as if you are completely alone in the world, with only Copia for company.

“Sì, it is truly wonderful, is it not? And practically nobody knows of its existence. So I come and I reflect. I hope and I pray. And now, I get to share my strange little sanctuary with you.” There’s an edge of something in his tone, as if he finds it entirely wondrous to be here, in this moment, with you.

“I almost feel as if I’m intruding, or something.” You tell him, and it’s the truth. A part of you is still absolutely astounded that he seemingly cares about you enough to show you such a private part of himself. This is where he comes to be alone, and he’s brought you with him. With the implication that you are welcome here again.

It’s hard to reconcile, in all honesty. For once, you’re not being shunted off by your family members who do not want you around. You’re being welcomed into Copia’s world with open arms. It’s a horrifyingly brilliant experience.

“Never. Never, topolino. It is a wonderful thing, to share these quiet and most sacred of moments with somebody you… care deeply for.” His voice is low and practically urgent, as if he desperately needs you to believe that he wants you here. You very much would like to believe it, to believe that he cares deeply for you. The traitorous and dark voice in the back of your mind is whispering hateful things, that Copia cannot mean what he says. You’re ignoring it.

“Have you been coming here long?” You ignore the urge to ask him what he means, to explain his feelings for you in excruciating detail. Instead, you decide to focus on getting to know him better.

You sit up fully, shifting your body to face him. Copia moves to mirror you, arm no longer wrapping around you. He’s facing you, and his hand drifts to rest upon your thigh. You wonder what those gloves would feel like against your bare skin.

“The building was destroyed in the war, bombed by the Germans. But they did not transform it, open it to the public, until the seventies. I have been coming ever since, to escape the mundanity of my days, to take a moment for myself. It has always been so perfectly quiet, as if am the only man to know of its existence.” He tells you, a soft smile upon his lips as he reminisces.

You’re reminded, once more, of the fact that Copia is quite a bit older than yourself. He’s never mentioned his age to you, not once. It’s a question he seems to dodge; as if he believes you’ll find his answer unsatisfactory. You’d suspected him to be somewhere around fifty — twice your age — but his words are slightly… well, you have questions. The way he’d described the church, it was as if he’d seen it in its former glory. He makes it sound as if he was escaping his duties by coming here, even back in the seventies. He would’ve been young, a child. Something about it all is puzzling to you.

“Did you grow up here, at this ministry? I’m sorry. You don’t have to answer.” You ask, before remembering how vague he’d been about his younger years in previous conversations. Perhaps they were awful, perhaps he doesn’t talk about them ever. As much as you are curious to know him, to know him in every possible way, you do not want to push him to tell you things.

“I would like to tell you, or at least tell you what I can. You should not feel as if you cannot ask me things, topolino. Things had a tendency to be… complicated, shall we say, during those boyhood years. I was between places, the ministry was one of them. You might say I was… destined to be a Cardinal, perhaps.” There’s a reticence to his words, and you are certain there’s a lot more to the story than what he says. It is fine, you feel no need to interrogate him. But you watch the far away look within his mismatched eyes, listen to his odd tone of voice, and wonder exactly what Copia was like during his youth.

“You didn’t have a choice?” The question is hesitant. You would hate to ruin what is a most precious moment between the two of you. But you cannot shake your desire, to know him. To know every detail of him, every inch of his body and his existence and his mind. And something about his story, the vagueness and carefully chosen words, is most intriguing.

“There is always a choice. But things were complicated. I do not regret the choices I have made, however. After all, they have brought me to you, have they not?” His eyes catch yours, filled with warmth, and a feeling you are unwilling to put a name to. You are almost certain of what he feels, but you cannot name it. Just in case your darkest thoughts are right, that you have read far too much into these moments with him.

“In that case, I am very happy you stayed with the church. What would you have done, had you decided upon a different path?” You smile at him, shyly. As much as you want to blurt out that one specific phrase, three words and eight letters, you do not. You cannot. His thumb is moving in slow and aimless circles against your thighs. It’s driving you crazy, in the best possible way.

“Truly, I do not know. Perhaps an academic. Perhaps, in another life, we would have taught together. You could have taught mediaeval history, I could have taught alternative religions and the occult. I think, perhaps, some people are supposed to find each other, no matter the circumstances.” Copia’s voice is tender, and his eyes are watching you oh-so intently. Your breath hitches at his words, at the implications present.

There is no way for you to deny the meaning you are supposed to infer from his words. He believes that you and he are, in some way, intrinsically linked. Your souls or your spirits or whatever it is that brings two people together. Copia believes you would have found each other, no matter the circumstances.

“And you think we were supposed to find each other?” You have to clarify, regardless of the obviousness of his words, voice slightly breathless. You cannot tear your eyes from his intense gaze, the way he is staring at you with such deep and indescribable feelings.

“I do. Very much so.” He is quiet, most ardent, words laden with affection. You have to tell yourself that you must not cry.

“Why?” The question is barely audible. You wish to look away from him, but you cannot. Your eyes are locked onto his own, and you know he can likely see your inner turmoil and insecurity swirling within them. But you ask, because you have to know.

“Do you not feel it? That wondrous feeling, so strong you can scarcely breathe, every moment we are together?” He raises a gloved hand, pressing it to your face, his thumb gently stroking your cheek. You lean into his touch, your eyes fluttering closed for a moment.

“I do. I do.” You know exactly what he’s talking about. You just cannot believe that you are not alone in your feelings. To have them reciprocated… it is horrifyingly wondrous. You are terrified and you are awestruck and you cannot comprehend the idea of him holding you in such high regard.

“It unnerves you, I think.” He always knows exactly how to read you, he always seems to have such an innate understanding of how your mind works. You have never felt so known by another person.

“I just — it’s rare, for me. To find somebody who wants to stick around. I — you want to stick around, right?” You swallow deeply, trying to articulate your thoughts. You cannot, for this moment feels entirely inconceivable. He wants to stick around. He might be the first one to do so.

“I’d like to never leave. I’d like to use a word such as ‘forever’ to describe us, and not mean it figuratively.” His tone is so gut-wrenchingly earnest and you wish — oh, how you wish — you could just believe it. But you are terrified to do so.

“Oh.” You’re left entirely inarticulate. You’re dumbfounded, honestly. That someone could so willingly want to be around you, to say such a thing and mean it.

“I apologise, I do not mean to overwhelm.” Copia’s voice is soft, his eyes concerned. He is still holding your face in his hand. You want him to never let you go. You’d be perfectly content to sit here, in this garden sanctuary, forever and ever.

“No. It’s only — I feel like the other shoe has to drop, right? There has to be a catch. You can’t just… want me.” You turn your face to the side, averting your eyes from him, knowing your words are deeply entrenched with your innermost doubts. It’s hard to tell him, to explain it. That you are terrified that he will — sooner rather than later — realise that he does not want you as much as he believes currently. That he will tire of you, that once he truly knows you he will not want you.

He draws your face back to his, slowly, his gloved palm ever gentle against your cheek. His eyes are filled with the most tender concern, he is patient in his reassurance. You’re begging your body to not betray you, to not start sobbing at the idea of being cared for in such a way.

“I don’t simply ‘want you;’ what I feel for you is far more complex than that. I’d like to be yours, for you to be mine, if you’d like simple terms. I want to court you, to date you. I’d like to take you to my most favourite of places, I’d like to spend my nights worshipping you. I want to make you tea in the mornings. I want those quiet moments of intimacy with you, more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life, amore. I want many things. I am selfish, very selfish. But every single thing that I long for, revolves around you.” Copia’s eyes do not stray from your own. His leather gloves are soft against your cheek. Every word feels so carefully chosen, each one spoken with conviction. There is no denying that he means it, he means everything he says.

It all sounds rather a lot like love. Once more, you wonder if perhaps, if just maybe, this man could love you. It’s what you crave, it is entirely frightening. To love and be loved… you would be content. You would be perfectly content with a life of soft and peaceful moments with the man sitting in front of you.

“You mean that?” You ask, because you need to be sure. You need to be certain.

“Sì. I’ve never meant anything more.” He tells you, and you believe him. Fuck, do you believe him.

“I want that.” You nod, a little frantically, as his hand drifts down to clasp yours.

Despite the leather gloves, they are warm. Comforting. He is yours. You are his. It’s entirely wondrous.

“Good.” He smiles, wider than you’ve ever seen him smile before.

Copia always seems serious. Nervous, but serious. He is not like Papa, big smiles and wide open to the world. He is soft smiles and reassuring touches. But now, his smile is wider than you’ve ever seen it, his eyes filled with joy. It is breathtaking, how handsome he is like this. You’d like to see him smile at you in such a way always.

“So… we’re like, official? I guess?” You let out a relieved, slightly embarrassed, laugh. Should you really need such assurances, after what he has said? But it is you, and you have been so deeply burnt, so you do. You need him to tell you.

“I would like that very much, topolino.” He squeezes your hand a little.

A life with Copia. It would be utterly perfect, or as perfect as such things can ever really be. You so greatly want a future with him. A simple life of literature and of rituals, of these cobblestone streets and this secret garden. It would be perfect. There are things to overcome, but in this moment, you are filled with hope. You wonder what he envisions a life with you to be. Books and mass? Would he want to marry you, someday far down the line? You aren’t certain if that’s what you want exactly, but the idea sparks a realisation.

“I — I have another question.” You ask, hesitant, vaguely shy.

“You may ask whatever it is you desire.” He is always so patient with you, with your questions and demands of him.

“Is — I can’t believe I’ve never asked you this before — is Copia your first or last name?” It’s a little embarrassing, that you’d never thought to ask. But you’ve only ever heard him referred to by that name or by his title. Even Papa refers to him exclusively by those. You should know such things about your… boyfriend? Partner? Potential soulmate, if such things even exist?

“My youth was complicated, as I have told you. I was assigned the name Copia, and that was all. So… both, I suppose.” He shrugs, as if such a thing, to have been given a name as if it meant nothing, was ordinary.

It only serves to open a floodgate of questions about his mysterious past. Copia, the man who nobody at the ministry seems to know anything about, and yet has always been there for as far as they all remember. But, now is not the time to press for answers. Not as you slowly try to figure out your relationship, not as you try to enjoy the day together.

“Huh, just the one name? You’re like Bono, or Cher, or one of those other one named celebrities. Björk, Kylie.” You giggle, pushing the questions away. He seems like the most unlikely sort of performer, you could hardly imagine him up upon a stage. Although, when you remember the raw sexuality he had exuded in your bedroom a few days prior… perhaps he’d be rather good at it.

“Rather less remarkable, I should think. Simply an overworked Cardinal, who is unable to leave the ministry and his work as often as he would like.” He shakes his head, a soft smile gracing his lips and an edge of frustration within his tone.

Ah, the ministry. You’ve always known that the ministry takes up the abundance of his time. He is a busy man, and you are unsure where you rank on his list of responsibilities. Will he prioritise you, the girl he met not so long ago, who he is still getting to know? Or does his career come first, the job he claims to have practically been destined for. You cannot imagine the former will be true. Perhaps you can be okay with being second to his job; at least you would be on his list of priorities.

“You’re pretty remarkable to me.” Is all that you say, looking shyly at him. It is hard, to place your feelings into words. Remarkable is an understatement, to say the least.

“Grazie, amore. Now, while I might be, for all intents and purposes, chained to my desk by Sister Imperator… that does not mean I cannot receive visitors, you know.” There is a glint of mischief within his eyes, as if he has figured out the most wonderful of loopholes to a problem.

You wonder if Sister Imperator had ordered him to remain at the ministry, if he is in some sort of trouble for constantly leaving to visit you. A part of you is awed that Copia — who seems so endlessly dedicated to his work by all accounts — would just invite you to visit whenever, regardless of what he is doing. It only serves as another reminder, that perhaps he truly does desire you and your company. He’s said as such, many times, but you cannot help being plagued by insecurities, your fears of intruding.

“You wouldn’t mind me interrupting?” There’s a hopeful edge to your voice, and you’re cringing internally at how needy you must sound. How insecure he must think you are. But he simply shakes his head and smiles.

“It would not be an interruption. It is an open invite. You may visit whenever you like. My office, my rooms. You are welcome, in either, no matter the hour. Here.” Copia turns your hand over, before reaching into his pocket. He places something small, metallic, into your outstretched hand.

“A key?” You ask, unable to help the smile spreading across your face. He’s given you a key.

In any other situation, it would be too much, too soon. But you understand what he means by it. He’s horrifically busy, unable to tear himself away from his work. This is your way to interrupt him, to visit him, to be able to actually see him. And he has a key, for your usage. You are well aware that Copia has clearly been thinking about this. He’s gotten a key cut for you, he’s wanted you to come and see him. You are not some burden. You cannot stop staring at the smooth metal in your hand.

“For my chambers. I cannot guarantee my location at any given moment, but you may let yourself in. I have ghouls everywhere; one will let me know if you are present, and I will do my utmost to return to you.” He informs you, closing your hand carefully around the key.

You place it in a pocket, alongside your own. This day feels surreal, you cannot believe how carefully Copia seems to have considered everything. He seems so certain in his mind, so sure of what he wants. Does that come with time, you wonder? Knowing your own mind so well?

“You’d be fine with me visiting, whenever I wanted?” You, naturally, have to clarify; you so greatly fear intruding too often, you dread the idea of him growing sick of your presence.

“Amore, I am a selfish man. I’d like you to not ever leave. But that is an outrageous demand, for we both have our responsibilities to attend to. So, a key. For whenever you might wish to see me. I hope it will be used often.” He tells you once more, ever patient when it comes to your deep rooted need for assurance. And you have needed so much of that, today.

“It will. I… I’ve not really been sleeping that well. Not since…” You trail off slowly; you had told yourself you would not talk of it today. But here you are, bringing up what has to be one of the more traumatic moments of both of your lives.

But you cannot help it. You want to tell him everything. There is an underlying tiredness that you have not been able to shift since you died, and you have not slept well since he returned to his home at the ministry. As silly as it perhaps is, you feel like perhaps sleep would come easier in his arms. He cannot fix you. But sometimes, you feel as if he might be the only person who could help you fix yourself.

“It is understandable, to feel such exhaustion. You have experienced great trauma. It will pass, with time. But should you like to visit for the nights, to sleep, know you will be most warmly received.” He tells you, placing a gentle kiss upon your temple. No matter how many kisses he’s bestowed upon you, you cannot help the way your heart flutters each and every time.

But there is something about the way he says it, the knowing edge to his voice, that has you curious. “You talk as if you’ve been through something similar.”

“I am older than you, topolino. I have been within the church a great many years. I have seen… I have seen many things. Some scarcely believable, things that simply cannot be put into words.” He is frustratingly vague at times, you think. What does that mean? Has he experienced death and resurrection first hand? Has he witnessed it before?

“So what happened isn’t totally unusual?” The idea, that perhaps you are not alone in your experience, is somewhat comforting. Although, more details wouldn’t exactly hurt.

“It’s rare. But it has happened before. Usually it means… well. I shall have to research some. If it provides any comfort, it perhaps narrows the scope of my research regarding your girlhood accident with ritual magicks.” He is insanely knowledgeable. You aren’t, not when it comes to the arcane, not at all. It is comforting to know that you will likely get answers from him about the strange events of your past eventually. It is comforting to know that your death — as nightmarish as it was — might just bring about an answer. You are tired, of the endless questions.

“That is reassuring. Thank you, Copia. I appreciate you looking into all of this; I know you probably don’t have the time for it.” You smile at him, endlessly grateful that life has brought you to this moment, despite the godawful events of recent days.

“It is nothing. I would do anything for you. Perhaps you shall have to give me some time, to convince you of that fact, sì?” He pushes a strand of hair away from your face, smiling softly, smiling knowingly, at you. He knows of your insecurities, of your troubled past, he knows of all of the horrible things that have happened. And still he wants you.

As he tucks that strand of hair behind your ear, he trails his fingers down to your jaw, pulling you in for a kiss once more. A simple kiss, the briefest of touches between his lips and yours, sets your body on fire every time. It takes the smallest of sparks to set off a burning heat within you, a raging inferno that only his touch can quench. You reach up, pulling his face closer to yours, trying to bring your body as close as you possibly can. The position upon the bench is a little awkward, a little uncomfortable, as you kiss him with the most reckless abandon, but you do not care. There are some things you cannot convey with words. You cannot tell him how deeply you feel, how you think he might be the only person in the world for you. But you can kiss him, and you can show him.

You want him to push you back, to rest you against the uncomfortable and narrow wooden bench, to push his body up against yours. You want to feel him against you, you want him to take you here upon this bench, to fuck you fast and hard until you cannot think of anything but him. But you are in public, and this is still — technically — a church, even if it is in disuse. So, desperately in need of breath, you pull away reluctantly. Now is not the place for such thoughts. You are breathing heavily, lips a little swollen. He is flushed, slightly, a few strands of neatly placed hair having been displaced. From the barely restrained look of hunger within his eyes, you are almost certain he was contemplating the exact same idea you were.

There are a few moments of silence, as you both try to regulate your breathing, as you attempt to quell the burning desires within you. Eventually, Copia speaks once more, his voice still a little breathless, his face still a little flushed.

“Now, I sent Magdalene out to buy some food and drink for our little outing; I did not have time to go myself. Shall we see what she has sent with us?” He asks, gesturing at the long forgotten hamper in front of you.

Distraction would be good. Anything to help push away ideas of public sexcapades in the ruins of an Anglican church. Because the way Copia looks in that black suit, the fact that his trouser pants are tight enough to see that he is half hard right now, the fact that he is still looking at you with barely restrained desire, is almost convincing you to abandon your morals and your sense. You nod, and he lifts the covering of the hamper open. You cannot help but laugh at the contents.

“Is that a bottle of tequila?” You look at him with mirth filled eyes.

You are not sure what he’d told Magdalene to buy, but the good Sister clearly had her own ideas of what was essential food and drinks for a date. Inside the hamper are three things. A bottle of tequila. A box of condoms. A family sized bag of salt and vinegar crisps. Confusion is written clear on Copia’s face, and you are sure this is not at all what he was expecting. However, with a resigned shake of his head, he pulls out the tequila and pushes the rest aside.

“Indeed it is.” He chuckles, screwing off the bottle cap. “I shall have to give her a raise.”

You wonder how long it will be before you end up back at your flat, falling into bed with him. But judging by the glint in his eyes, and the bottle in his hands, you’re pretty sure it won’t be too long at all.

Chapter Text

There’s just something about a lazy Sunday morning, you think. There’s just something inexplicable about it all, the quiet intimacy of a lazy Sunday morning with somebody you’re quite fond of. It’s wondrous. You get it now, why there are so many songs about Sundays. Because this tender and idyllic interlude, interspersed amongst the tumultuous course your life seems to be taking, is entirely wondrous. There is something so perfect about sleeping in a little later than usual, waking softly and drifting back to dreams, an arm wrapped tight around your waist. The last time you’d woken up with Copia at your side had been after that horrifying night; your body filled with frenetic and panicked energy, desperate to escape and with a less than solid grasp on reality. But today, you simply let yourself relax into his embrace, allow yourself to be comforted by the familiar scent of frankincense and old leather, by the warmth radiating from his body. His bed is larger than yours, far more comfortable. Despite the additional space, you’re well aware that he is still holding you close to him. You’re only half asleep, but you’re pretty sure he’s awake, judging by the way his finger tips are trailing languidly over your exposed skin.

You almost don’t want to move, you don’t want to break the silence. Something about lying there, half in dreams, is just wholly perfect. Nightmares and memories have plagued you something awful in recent days, endless questions of untold mysteries refusing to leave you in peace. But here? Spending the night in Copia’s chambers, curled up in his arms all night long, has been entirely pleasant. There had been no midnight terrors. Just soft moments of utter devotion to each other. For once, for the first time in a while, you feel well rested. At peace. You let your mind drift as you focus on just feeling him. The way he is drawing intricate patterns upon your skin with his fingers, working his way up your arm. He drops a kiss to the side of your neck, lingering, letting his lips brush against you as he begins to speak.

“Morning, amore. How did you sleep?” Copia’s hand drifts from your arm to your shoulder, trailing oh-so slowly towards your chest. Your breath stutters slightly as he gently cups your breast, thumb grazing over your nipple.

You arch your back softly, pressing yourself into his hips, and he groans softly. He’s made you well aware of how greatly he desires you, many times. And yet, every time you’re given proof that he wants you, it fills your stomach with surprised little butterflies. A small part of your brain is waiting for him to get bored of you. A larger part of your brain is in awe that maybe, he might actually mean it when he tells you he wants to stick around.

“Good, it was good. Your bed is much nicer than mine.” You sigh softly, as he begins to trail lazy open mouthed kisses along your neck and down your shoulder.

“Well, amore, you know you are most welcome within my bed, at any time.” He murmurs, lips moving against your skin. Heat is pooling at your core.

It is a slow and pleasant burn, not the frenetic energy he usually inspires. Even last night, his kisses had formed an almost pyretic response within your body. A feverish desperation for Copia to claim you and take you, to prove his desire. But this morning… perhaps it is because it is a Sunday morning, an inherently lazy sort of morning. You crave him, but it is not overwhelming. Perhaps because you know that you have him. In this moment, as you feel his hands roaming across your naked body, you can drown out the dark and twisty voices in the back of your mind, because he is yours.

Slowly, you turn to face him. He’s laying on his side, eyes roving your body, hunger evident. Copia looks at you as if he wants to devour you. You very much want him to. He pulls you closer to his body, and you relish the feeling of his skin against yours. Hitching a leg over his thigh, pressing yourself against his hardness, you look up at his handsome face. He’s flushed, lips parted, eyes locked on yours.

“Hm, I might have to take you up on that offer, amore.” You whisper breathlessly, hand trailing up his rugged chest, running your fingertips through his chest hair as you wrap an arm around his neck.

His eyes darken, his grip around your waist tightens. He swallows deeply, before his mouth descends upon yours. He kisses you deeply, languidly. There is no rush, no urgency. But there is a neediness to it, a desire for more. You need more from him, the gentle ache within you slowly making itself known. The way his fingertips dig into your waist, before one hand drifts to cup your ass, holding you tight against his body.

“Mi fai impazzire. Ti voglio sopra, sì? On top, sì?” Copia groans softly as you roll your hips against him, desperate for something, anything, to dull the ache at your core.

You nod, pressing soft kisses to his jawline. Anything, anything, to have him once more. He gently pulls you up to straddle his thighs, leaning up to press his lips to yours, bestowing slow and messy kisses upon your lips. Copia is unhurried as his hand drifts betwixt your thighs, stroking gently at your entrance. You let out a whimper, needing more than just the soft stroking of his fingers, as they dip gently into your wetness, needing him to fill you completely. His mismatched eyes, filled with hunger and a tinge of sleepiness, stay locked upon yours. You’re sure he knows what you need. Sometimes, you think he knows your mind better than you do, for he always seems to know exactly what to say and do. He just knows you, and it is thrilling and terrifying and wondrous all at once. He withdraws his fingers from you, never breaking eye contact, before he guides you to his cock. Slowly, almost painfully so, he pushes into you, filling you entirely. His eyes do not leave yours, not for a second, as you begin to ride him, rolling your hips against him as he thrusts idly into you. It’s unhurried, relaxed, a little sleepy. And then his lips are upon yours once more, open mouthed kisses and soft whimpers escaping, the bristles of his moustache tickling your upper lip. There’s nothing but him, here in this moment, nothing but his body and your body moving against each other. There’s no rush, just soft building pleasure and gentle caresses. You both have morning breath, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is you, and him.

Your eyes flutter shut as he begins to trail his mouth along your jaw and down your neck once more. A little desperate, a little needy, and you’re sure he’s leaving marks as he slowly descends. Your hands are traversing his rugged chest, wanting to feel him beneath your fingertips. Sometimes, in these moments, when he’s buried deep within you and you feel yourself reaching the precipice, moments away from falling, you need some sort of reassurance that this is real. That this is happening. Because sometimes, it just feels like too much. Even this, so soft and gentle and languid, is too much. Because the way he touches you is so reverent, it almost hurts. The way his hands wander your skin with such delicate touches, as one roams downwards to circle your clit, and the other wraps around your waist. You’re sure he’s close now, his gentle thrusts becoming a little more desperate.

“Ti adoro — cazzo, ti senti così bene intorno a me, ti senti così bene.” His voice is ragged as he murmurs in Italian against your throat, placing a soft kiss to the smooth skin.

You try not to think about the significance of that, of his kiss upon your throat, focusing instead on the moment, on his skin against yours, on the sound of his breath, on the feeling of his fingers brushing faster against your clit and the feeling of him deep within you. The pleasure that has been slowly building finally reaches a fever pitch, it is too much, and you are breaking, falling over the precipice. You coming undone is seemingly all Copia needs, for you feel him finish deep within you. As you ride out both of your orgasms, slowly, he looks up at you, adoration clear within his mismatched eyes. Perhaps it’s because you’ve just had the most tender and almost loving sex of your life, but you are so close to letting it slip that you love him. You want to tell him. Three little words. But you do not. For you are terrified of ruining the moment, of ruining your lazy Sunday morning.

Easing yourself off his lap, you quietly curl up next to him, resting your head upon his broad chest. He drops a kiss to your temple, wrapping an arm around you. Why your mind is so overwhelmed from such tender and slow sex, you’re unsure. But he seems to realise that your mind is racing and confused thoughts are swirling within, for he says nothing. He just holds you to him, while you try to get a hold of yourself. You’ve never felt quite so cared for, by anyone. There’s a trail of failed relationships in your past, awkward little things that fizzled out before they even started and feel entirely insignificant. But here, with Copia, you feel as if he truly cares for you. You feel like he might even love you, one day. Such a thing is almost a novelty, for it has never been a reality within your life. It’s terrifyingly wonderful to consider it. You lie there, head upon his chest, listening to his heartbeat, waiting for your thoughts to settle. And eventually, they do.

“I think I rather like Sunday mornings.” You finally sigh, dragging yourself from your thoughts. Everything is fine, more than fine. You are here, with him. It is more than enough.

“Indeed?” He asks, his fingertips trailing over your skin.

You glance up at him. There’s a soft smile teasing at his lips as he watches you. Hell, if you could start every day this way, wrapped up in him, surrounded by soft sheets and the scent of frankincense, you would. You absolutely would. Perhaps he feels the same; you’d love to know but you’d hate to ask.

“Yeah. This is just… really nice.” Nice is an understatement, for this is so much more than nice, but if you were to describe how you feel in any more detail, you’re sure you’d say too much too soon.

Do you love him? Absolutely. But you’ve barely been together more than a week. This is not the time for love confessions and promises of forever. Perhaps that will come, in time. You hope it will. You want everything from him. He might consider himself the selfish one in the relationship, but you would have to disagree. You want everything, the tangible, the intangible. Every touch and kiss and thought.

“It is. I would be content to stay with you, here, for the longest of times.” He tells you, sincerely, ardently. You believe it, you do.

“You’d get bored awfully fast.” Still, you cannot help the latent insecurities swirling. Everyone else has gotten fed up with your presence, after all.

“Of you? Never, topolino.” He presses a gentle kiss to your temple, and you try to let the insecurities fade. You want to stay present, in this moment, you want so desperately to not worry about the mysteries plaguing you or your own deepest insecurities. “Can I get you anything? I’m sure I am being the most inconsiderate host.”

You smile at his words; he’s anything other than a poor host. There’s something oddly intriguing about him sometimes, the way his words and mannerisms seem as if they belong to a time long past. He’s such a gentleman, he is always so… distinguished. Sometimes it makes you wonder why on earth he’d take such interest in you. But again, you push away the insecurities. You want to exist in the moment, for once. Really though, as if you could want for much, when you’re in bed with him, being held by him, being cared for by him.

“I could go for some tea. And some toast maybe.” You muse softly, sitting up slightly. Immediately, you miss the comforting sound of his heart thumping against your head, the warmth emanating from his soft body.

“I would be most pleased to make you tea and toast, if you would like it.” He’s smiling widely at you, voice soft and practically reverential. There’s wonder in his eyes as he looks at you, and you question if you’ve missed some important detail buried within your words.

“What’s the smile for?” You’re curious, for he just looks so… happy, in this moment.

“Eh, it is all I have ever wanted, you see. To have someone to do such things for. I am not a man who craves great extravagance. That, well, that has always been Terzo. No, I have always been a man who enjoys the quieter moments. The finer details of it all. To spend a simple morning with mia amata, that is all I want. So, making you tea and toast? I would very much like to do that.” He says to you, almost shyly.

It is as if he feels hesitant to share this part of himself, his very clear yearning for such soft and simple moments. Moments he wants to share with you. Thinking back to the scant details of gossip Magdalene was able to dig up about him, you’re starting to think that perhaps he’s as new to this as you are. Perhaps there has not been this sort of easy contentment with another person before for him. Perhaps this budding relationship means as much to him as it does to you.

“All I ever really wanted was some peace. A nice life, a quiet life. Maybe — maybe somebody to share it with, you know?” You tell him in kind, and you so desperately hope he catches your meaning, that the somebody you would like to romanticise a quiet life with would only ever be him.

“Ah, well, perhaps we can build a nice and quiet life together, sì?” He so easily infers what you mean, what you were far too nervous to say out loud.

While he might be closed off about himself, while he seems to struggle with sharing his past, Copia certainly has no qualms in being open with his feelings. You love that about him, how unwavering he is when it comes to his emotions. You wish you could do the same, that you were not so terrified of his rejection. But perhaps, such things come with time.

“I’d really like that, Copia.” You let out a shy laugh, hope coursing through your veins, for you can almost see it. The two of you, years down the line, spending endless lazy mornings together, tea and toast in bed, with soft kisses and light whispers.

You want it terribly.

Unhurried in his movements, Copia slips from the bed sheets. You watch as he pulls on the pair of burgundy sweatpants that had been so hurriedly discarded the night before, as he scrounges around for a clean t-shirt. Seeing him in such casual clothing throws you a little; you’re used to the sinfully tight suits and the clerical robes he wears with such authority. It’s almost intimate, another small insight into the life of a man who shares very little of it. His warmth is starting to fade from the bed, and you consider dressing too. You’d been cosy, cuddled up next to him under the sheets. Without him, the bed is a little too large, a little less warm. As you slide from the sheets, eyes scanning the room for wherever your own sweatpants had been unceremoniously dumped the night before, Copia comes to wrap his arms around you. He is warm, and you melt into his touch immediately. He’s got your shirt in his hand, you notice, as he presses a soft kiss to your temple. You take it gratefully, for his chambers tend to be rather cool in temperature. He murmurs something in your ear about going to boil the kettle, and you smile as he leaves, before dropping to your knees to search for your pants. Upon discovering them, dropped at the foot of the bed, you pull them on quickly before going to join Copia.

He’s leaning against the counter, waiting for the kettle to boil and the bread to toast, watching you with a soft smile as you walk over to join him. A comfortable silence settles as you both begin to put together breakfast, pouring hot water into mugs, rifling around cupboards for sugar, buttering the toast, trying to find milk. It feels natural, standing in his small kitchen to prepare breakfast together. There’s no need for words as you brush against each other, exchanging teaspoons for butter knives. Copia doesn’t have any real sort of dining space — you’re almost certain that he rarely entertains in his chambers — so you curl up together upon the sofa, steaming mugs of tea and a shared plate of toast.

“What are your plans for today? Do you have to work?” You ask, cradling your mug in your hands, as you shift your body to face him. He’s so handsome, you think; he always manages to look somewhat distinguished, even early in the morning, dressed in sweats.

“My plans, topolino, are entirely dependent on you. I have the day off, for once. We may do whatever it is you would like — I mean, only if you would like to spend the day with me. Of course you are free to leave, if you would like, if you have other plans.” He mirrors your body language, shifting to face you. There’s a hint of anxiety within his eyes, as if he’s worried you would say no, as if you would not want to spend every possible moment with him.

As if you’d leave willingly. The more time you spend with him, the more you crave him, the more you crave that quiet little life with him, the more you crave gentle and tender mornings with lazy sex and steaming mugs of tea.

“Oh, no. I’d love to spend the day with you. I really would.” You smile at him, eyes bright.

Will it always be like this? Days that are easy and tender and filled with something that you’d like to call reciprocated love.

“I am glad. I find, these days, that all I want from my free moments is to devote them entirely to you.” His tone is earnest, hushed. Oh, how you wish you weren’t so reticent with your own emotions, how you wish you could say such things without fearing instant rejection, how you wish you could hear those words and just believe them.

“You do?” You ask him, unable to quieten the dark and twisty thoughts in the deepest recesses of your mind, the one that loves to tell you that Copia will leave, that Copia does not mean what he says, that Copia will end up disappointing you just as every other person you’ve let into your life has.

“Sì. I have spent a very long time alone, amore. A man gets lonely, after a while. I’ve done many a thing to fill that void of loneliness. But now, perhaps selfishly, I find that I do not want to spend these rare free moments alone. Not when I now have you, with whom I can spend them.” He says, reaching out to rest his hand on your thigh, fingertips stroking gently at the fabric of your sweatpants.

You understand feeling lonely, for an ever present loneliness had saturated every moment of your every day before you’d met him. How you’d longed to feel less alone, to feel as if you belonged. You’d felt as if there was something deeply wrong with you, something entirely unlovable. He makes you feel like a person, a person who belongs, a person who is deserving of good things. Copia cannot fix your deep rooted insecurities himself, but he can prove them wrong, you think.

“I don’t think that’s selfish. Not at all. You’re very much the opposite, you know.” You tell him, because it is true. He might be the least selfish person you have ever met. He has done so much for you, and you wonder if you can ever return the favour.

“Hm, well, perhaps we’ll agree to disagree there, amore.” He smiles softly, taking another bite of his toast.

The pair of you eat in an easy silence for a few moments. His hand does not stray from your thigh, a gentle warmth spreading through your body. You cannot explain it, but you feel more alive, the world feels brighter, when he touches you.

“Could we go back to the ruins? But, uh, actually bring some food with us this time. I really liked it there.” You ask, thinking about how you’d like to spend the rest of a lazy Sunday with the man you so deeply love. The church ruins had been on your mind since you’d left them the week before, and you so desperately wish to return.

“Of course, topolino, of course. We could perhaps —” He smiles, so widely, as if you’d thought of the greatest idea in the world, but his words are cut off.

There is a pounding noise against the heavy wood door, somebody knocking oh-so frantically. You jump slightly at the very abrupt interruption of your morning; you are dreading the idea of it being something important, of Copia having to return to his work. But he does not rise immediately, as if he is debating pretending he is not present to avoid the return to his responsibilities.

“Cardinal!” A stern voice calls loudly through the door; you recognise it as Sister Imperator’s.

“Cazzo Madre di Satana, che cazzo vuole?” Copia mutters under his breath, his frustration evident as he runs a hand through his greying hair. “One moment, amore, I apologise for this unwanted intrusion to our morning.”

He stands, sighing, practically stomping over to the door. As soon as he even cracks the door open a little, Sister Imperator is pushing past him to enter into the room — she clearly has no intentions of being dismissed. Her face is stern, her body tense. She folds her arms as she comes to stand by Copia’s desk, annoyance clear within her eyes. It is at that moment in which she realises that Copia had not been alone. Her eyes flicker to you, and she narrows them. You aren’t sure what her issue with you is, for her glare is filled with utter contempt. Unsure of how to respond, you simply send a wide eyed glance over to Copia. He is clearly irritated at the way the Sister has intruded upon your morning, but his eyes soften as he mouths an apology to you. As the door swings shut, Sister Imperator finally tears her hateful eyes from you and begins talking to Copia.

“Cardinal. Where on earth have you been? Honestly, you should know better — shirking your duties like this? You are acting like Papa.” She’s scolding him, as if he were a child, as if she’s caught him red-handed. The way she hisses out Papa’s name, brings to mind Magdalene’s gossip on how Imperator dislikes his authority.

“Sister, forgive me, but I am entirely unaware of what it is you are talking about. Today is my day off, I do not work on Sundays. I am sorry if there is something scheduled, but it shall have to wait until tomorrow. I have plans.” Copia moves to stand next to you, his hand coming to rest on the back of the sofa, inches from your head. His words are polite, but there is a tension to them.

“Copia, that is simply not good enough. Are you not supposed to be our foremost Cardinal? Are you not supposed to be dedicated to this church? Will you throw away your position, your faith, all for some girl?” Her words are acrid, she throws another hateful look in your direction.

A part of you feels guilty, that you have caused some discontent between the two. However, you remind yourself of Magdalene’s words, her warning of Sister Imperator’s near obsession with Copia. You aren’t sure what the deal is with it all, having only interacted with the woman in passing, but it’s clear she has some very strong opinions on Copia, on his role as a Cardinal. You try to ignore the dark and twisty voice within your mind as it tells you that you’re ruining Copia’s career, that you are not deserving of him. He wants you here. You must remember that.

“Sister Imperator. I resent such accusations. She is not some girl, first of all. Secondly, I am no less devoted to the Dark One than I’ve ever been.” He defends you most adamantly, you can hear anger creeping into his tone.

“You are a fool. You practically run this church, you should not be abandoning it! Do you want our mission to fail?” The Sister retorts, stepping forward. There is an exasperated edge to her words, as if this is a regular argument between the two. No wonder Copia is so heavily overworked, you realise; Sister Imperator seems to consider him unofficially in charge, she seems to see him as solely responsible for the church’s success.

“Terzo is Papa. Not myself. Terzo runs this church. Perfectly well. I am not needed for whatever this issue is.” Copia lets out a long suffering sigh, and you just know that he has likely told the Sister a similar thing many a time.

“Terzo is more of a fool than you are. I refuse to loop him in on this. He does not have the delicacy needed to handle diplomacy issues. He knows not of the issues in the south, and I do not see the need in informing him of such things. He could not handle it.” If you thought Sister Imperator disliked you, it is nothing compared to her abhorrence of Papa, the utter contempt in her tone as she spits out his name.

You know very little of the long standing tensions between these three high-ranking members of the Satanic Church. But you are starting to get the impression that whatever is going on there, is worse than Magdalene described. It’s looking as if your peaceful easy Sunday is over; you doubt Copia will be able to postpone whatever crisis is occurring within the church until tomorrow.

“You underestimate him, Sister.” He says with a resigned sigh, but his words are immediately dismissed.

“I know what is best for this church, even if you both cannot see what is right. Terzo is not deserving of the role of Papa. You are needed to deal with the discontent in the south. Or are you content to allow our people to suffer, so you can get your dick wet?” Sister hisses, glaring at you once more.

You have half a mind to excuse yourself to the bedroom, to let them argue in peace, honestly. It would be far less awkward than sitting there watching them fight, drinking your now-cold tea.

“You will show la mia amata the respect she deserves, Sister. I tire of this argument. Believe me when I tell you that I shall not be putting up with your disrespect towards Papa or myself for much longer. This is untenable. I shall resolve whatever this issue is. But you will not interrupt me on my day off again. Are we clear?” Copia’s words are said with firm resolve, a touch of wrath behind them. To hear such agita in his tone of voice is odd, unusual.

“Good. This is official church business, young lady. You can leave now.” Clearly satisfied that Copia has technically acquiesced to her demands, despite his adamance that this would be the last time, Sister Imperator turns to you with a scathing tone of voice.

“Do not tell her what to do.” There is a warning in Copia’s voice. His annoyance is increasingly evident, to the point where even Imperator looks surprised at his tone.

“She’s not of the church! She shouldn’t be here in the first place!” She gestures dismissively at you; this whole situation, being present for this argument, has you highly uncomfortable. You sink lower into your seat.

“Do you not read Terzo’s memos, Sister? She has permission to be anywhere she likes on ministry property, he has approved her presence.” Copia assets, his tone authoritative. You’d not realised you were supposed to have permission for such things, and you find yourself once again increasingly thankful towards Papa Emeritus III.

“Regardless, this is private business, she —” Sister Imperator’s voice is rising in volume, and you decide that enough is enough.

Your lazy Sunday with Copia is very clearly over — this argument does not need to be prolonged.

“It’s okay, it’s fine. I’ll head out. Let me just grab my things, okay?” You cut her off, rising quickly from the sofa and raising your hands placatingly.

Sister Imperator says nothing, simply giving you another withering glare. Sighing, for there is simply no pleasing her, it seems, you turn to Copia. He looks frustrated — clearly you are not the only one mourning the loss of your day together.

“Mi dispiace, topolino.” He murmurs his apology softly, as he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you close to his body.

You smile up at him, your hands reaching up to cup his face. He leans into your touch. You hear Sister Imperator mumble something derisive behind you, but you ignore her. You press a gentle kiss to Copia’s lips, which he returns enthusiastically. You might have agreed to leave, but there is no way you’re heading out instantly. Copia deserves a proper goodbye, after all. And you really like kissing him, the way his lips are always soft and warm against your own, the slight tickle of his moustache against you, the way even the briefest touch of his lips against yours ignites a spark within you.

“It’s okay, really. It’s not your fault. I could, uh, stop by tomorrow evening?” You say, barely pulling back enough to speak, before pressing another short kiss to his lips. His hold on your body is tight and you’re half considering telling Sister Imperator to fuck off for an hour or so, so that you can show Copia exactly what emotions his touch inspires within you.

“Hm, sì, I would like that, very much so.” His eyes light up at your words, a smile teasing at his lips as he captures your lips once more. It is a brief kiss, painfully sweet.

“I’ll see you soon.” You pull away slightly, unwilling to exit. But you must, and so you do.

“You will, amore.” He replies gently.

Grabbing your bag and your phone from where you’d unceremoniously dumped them the night before, you give him one last smile before exiting his chambers. The door closes behind you with a solid thunk, and you miss him already.

You begin to walk through the ministry corridors, when you see Magdalene hurtling around the corner towards you. As she sees you, her eyes light up. She skids to a halt in front of you, throwing her arms around you and pulling you into a big hug.

“Magdalene, hi.” You laugh, hugging her back.

“Hey, babe. I was hoping to come warn you and Cardinal Copia before Sister Stick-Up-Her-Arse showed up, but I got pulled into an issue with one of the ghouls. He was trying to eat something from Papa’s art collections. Again. Ugh, nightmare.” She rambles, voice muffled against your shoulder as she squeezes you tight.

“Sounds like a hectic morning.” You giggle slightly as she finally releases you, stepping back.

“Yeah, no shit. Anyway, I’m assuming you got ejected out of the Cardinal’s rooms pretty abruptly?” She pulls a face, gesturing for you to follow after her as she begins to walk back the way she came.

“I did, I did. And I was having such a nice morning too.” You sigh, as she leads you down towards where you believe the Sisters’ dorms are located.

“Ha, I’ll bet. Wait. She didn’t catch you mid-shag, did she?” She pauses momentarily, pulling a nauseated face at you. You’d not even considered the possibility of that occurring, in all honesty. But you’d not put it past the Sister to break into Copia’s rooms, and the thought becomes an alarming future possibility.

“Fuck, no. We were having breakfast. But, uh, had she been any earlier…” You match her expression.

“Oh yeah, I mean, you have that just-had-great-sex look about you.” Magdalene snorts and you can feel the heat rising to your cheeks.

Honestly, you’ve not even looked in a mirror this morning. You’re sure you look a complete state — but then, this is a ministry filled with those who celebrate and indulge in lustfulness at any given moment, so you’re sure it doesn’t matter all that much if you look a mess.

“I — it was good sex.” You cannot help the grin spreading as you think about Copia. Honestly, good is a total understatement. The Cardinal is the best sex you’ve ever had.

“Good to know the Cardinal has it in him, I guess. Anyway, my place is just through here. The biggest benefit of being the Cardinal’s assistant is that I get a nicer room — a private bathroom too. Perks for putting up with his weird quirks, I guess.” Magdalene laughs as she drags you left into an unlocked room.

The place is so utterly Magdalene, you think. The decor is just… loud. Posters and art, trinkets and clutter, everywhere you look. A bed covered in far too many pillows, a couch covered in blankets. The desk is piled high with books and CDs and so many other things that you’re entirely unsure how the Sister ever knows where anything is. She slams the door behind you, before flopping onto the sofa and gesturing for you to join her.

“So, you and Copia are officially together now, right?” She asks, beaming widely when you nod in response. “Thought so. He seems happier, happier than I’ve ever seen him. He’s always humming to himself with the stupidest grin on his face. It’s sickening. I love it.”

“He makes me really happy too. I… you know about, uh, what happened, right?” You cannot help the small smile upon your face, although it quickly fades into an awkward grimace.

How exactly do you bring up the topic of your death in conversation, casually? It’s hard to wrap your head around it internally, let alone talk about it to someone aloud. But it’s Magdalene, one of the nicest people you’ve ever met, who in all honesty is your closest friend here in this city, and you’re sure she’d try her hardest to understand it all. Despite how utterly incomprehensible the situation is.

“That arsehole shooting you, you mean? Yeah, I know. If I ever see the fucker, I’ll kill him with my bare hands.” There's a steel edge to her words, her eyes narrowing, before she grabs your hand, holding it sympathetically. “How have you been with it all, babe? It’s got to be rough, I’m sure.”

“It was terrifying. I’ve not been sleeping well since it happened, my brain is still all confused. I can hardly wrap my head around any of it, honestly. But, uh, Copia makes it better. I feel better when he’s around.” You confess, and it feels good to say such things aloud.

You’ve said very little about it, you’ve avoided thinking about it, even. As much as possible, anyway. Turns out that it is very hard to avoid thinking about a situation that still haunts you in the middle of the night, a situation that is so intertwined within the mysteries of your life that you cannot run from it. But you’ve not spoken of it aloud to anyone other than Copia.

“That’s important, to have someone like that. I really do think that you guys are meant for each other, or something.” Magdalene says softly, squeezing your hand

“I hope so. But ugh, I’m so annoyed about Sister Imperator interrupting us this morning. It was the nicest start to the day, we were planning to go out together, and then suddenly she’s pounding on the door and demanding Copia works on his day off.” You say with a sigh, mind flickering back to just how satisfying your start to the day had been, to how Copia had felt within you, to the taste of his kisses as you’d been forced out.

Shaking your head slightly, to rid yourself of the lewd thoughts filtering into your mind, you wonder if perhaps Magdalene will have any idea of what exactly the deal is with Sister Imperator. You’d gotten the idea that she was pretty knowledgeable when it came to ministry gossip, and you hope that she’ll have the inside scoop as to exactly what the tension is between Imperator, Copia, and Papa. Luckily you do not need to ask. Magdalene pulls a face and leans closer, clearly ready to fill you in.

“Yeah, she’s a heinous bitch. Things around here are getting kinda bad, if I’m honest. Like, Papa can be a little hard to work with, sure. He’s very… well, you know Papa. But he’s not a fucking idiot, you know? She never liked him. But lately, it’s becoming more and more obvious. She’s straight up sabotaging him, deliberately making him look bad.” Her voice is low, as if she’s afraid of being overheard, despite the fact that you are alone in her room.

“That doesn’t sound good.” Your brow furrows, trying to figure it out. You don’t know the Sister, you barely know Papa. But he’s one of the kindest people you’ve ever met; you don’t know why she would have such a problem with him.

“It’s not. It’s causing a lot of issues. Not just for this ministry, but for others now. And look, I’m not saying she has to like Papa. But she’s a high ranking member of the clergy. She’s at least gotta keep up the facade.” Magdalene’s usually cheerful expression is gone, her face clouded with concern. She is not the type to be serious often, and it sends a shiver down your spine.

You and Copia are both desperate for a peaceful existence. Yet, it looks as if neither of you will be getting such a thing any time soon.

“Why is she so obsessed with Copia? What does he have to do with any of it all?” You query, although you’re sure the Sister’s actions are comprehensible only to herself.

“Honestly? I think Imperator wants him to be Papa. Which, again, isn’t possible. That’s not how the role of Papa works, because he’s not even of the Emeritus bloodline, you know? I don’t know. But I’m hearing whispers of things… it’s not good. Whatever is going on isn’t good. Look, I’m devoted to this church, okay? This place saved my life, and I mean that. I’m not one for serious conversation, usually. But do me a favour. If you hear anything about Imperator… let me know? I’m not letting that bitch bring down my fucking church with whatever shit she’s planning.” Her tone is entirely serious, dark, even.

You don’t know what goes on at the ministry, and you get very little detail from Copia, who prefers to gloss over what he sees as the mundanities of his job. He does not gossip, does not spill secrets — or at least, rarely, and usually it’s just embarrassing stories of Papa. But from Magdalene’s sombre face, and the odd interactions with Sister Imperator this morning… you’re pretty sure this situation runs deeper than her simply disliking Papa. You cannot have peace until Copia has peace. You resolve, in that moment, to help your friend figure out exactly what is going on at the ministry. And then, you and Copia can have your quiet and easy and peace filled life.

“Of course, Magdalene. I’ll do whatever I can to help.” You tell her sincerely.

She squeezes your hand once more, before her eyes light up. Sitting up slightly, she glances around the room, as if in search of something. Clearly, she finds it, for she jumps up quickly with a clap of her hands. Magdalene practically skips over to her desk, pulling a half finished bottle of tequila from the mess and turning around with a wicked grin.

“Good! Now, seeing as you have the afternoon free… I think we should drink together. After all, you are my new source of gossip on the Cardinal. Tell me: is he hung? He just seems like he’d be hung. I wanna hear all about that man’s penis.”

The next morning, it doesn’t take you long to come to the conclusion that drinking with Magdalene is a dangerous, dangerous activity. You’re hungover, entirely not in the mood to crawl from your bed and open up shop for the day. However, you need the business. Your hours have been far too irregular recently for you to continue to skip opening, and money is starting to get a little tight. So, with great reluctance, you open the store for a rather respectable nine o’clock start. As you sit at the counter and slowly sip at your coffee, regretting the copious tequila shots you’d taken the afternoon prior, you barely register the door swinging open and somebody walking in.

“My God.” Bile begins to rise within you at the voice from the doorframe.

“Joanna.” You croak out, eyes snapping up to see her figure in the door.

There’s a deep horror upon her face. She looks genuinely terrified, standing there with a crucifix clutched between her manicured hands. Of course she’s deeply disturbed to see you. You’re sure Gideon has a crazy tale to tell about having shot you dead. But yet, here you are. And here she is, horrified.

“You — how are you — I don’t understand.” Her voice is wavering. Had she not tried to kill you, perhaps you’d feel a little guilty about the intense fear that she is clearly overcome with, trembling hands and tears in her eyes.

“I should be dead, right? Your lackey was supposed to have killed me.” You say harshly, feeling no need to sugar coat the situation. Why should you? This woman has tried her damnedest to ruin your life. You owe her nothing.

“I — I would never tell somebody to do such a thing, d-dearie.” Her tone is entirely unconvincing, her breathing ragged as she stares, unable to tear her eyes from your face.

“Gideon told me everything, Joanna. I still can’t quite understand why, but I know you’re behind it all.” You tell her, placing down your mug of coffee and slowly walking around the other side of the counter.

Your head is pounding a little and you really regret standing up, but the fear in her eyes as she stumbles backwards fills you with a sick satisfaction. In all honesty, you’re not much of a fighter. But seeing Joanna today has a bitter anger building up within you.

“That bitch was right about you. Oh my God, she was right about you!” Joanna is reaching backwards for the door behind her, hand waving wildly as she searches for it. It’s as if she’s scared to look away, as if she fears you’d attack her the second she turned her head.

“Who was right, what?” You ask, but it is fruitless, for Joanna has finally found the doorknob and is stumbling out of the shop.

She’s entirely shaken. You’re not sure if you understand completely why. Joanna Prescott seems to know something, and you’re not sure entirely what that something is. It makes you incredibly nervous — although that could just be the hangover — that perhaps things are a lot more intertwined than you’d thought they were. You don’t know what Joanna knows. But the way she looked at you… could she know what happened? Could she know that you came back from the dead, that Lucifer brought you back himself?

Groaning softly to yourself, you decide that now is a decidedly good time to take a little nap — the hangover has not been helped by Joanna’s brief appearance, and you are rather exhausted in all honesty. A short nap will do you good, and then you can open up once more for the afternoon. Locking up the door, you grab your mug and walk into the back office.

You drop the mug, barely noticing how it smashes upon the floor. There’s a person within the office. Not a person, a ghoul. You wonder if ghouls count as people, if they are their own subcategory, before pushing the thought away. There’s a ghoul in the office. He’s dressed slightly oddly, not in the draping robes that the ministry ghouls seem to wear, but in clothes that don’t quite fit. In fact, they’re clothes that look familiar. The ghoul is wearing Reginald’s clothes. Is this… is this your mysterious attic ghoul? You don’t quite know what to say, your jaw dropping as you stare at the odd creature. He is entirely still, watching you, blocking the stairs up to the flat.

“Greetings.” He says. You’re not quite sure if he’s even speaking aloud, for his mouth does not move quite right, the sound of his voice is unlike anything you’ve ever heard.

You understand what Papa meant now, when he’d called your ghoul odd. He is nothing like those you’ve seen from the ministry. He is larger, more intimidating. Scarier. You cannot help but be alarmed at his presence; why now? He’s avoided interacting with you thus far, and yet. Here he is. It cannot be a good thing.

“Hello.” You finally splutter out. “Are you — you’re the ghoul that lives in my attic, right?”

The ghoul says nothing. He nods, once. His stare is intense, unyielding, and you feel an icy fear beginning to seep through your veins.

“I — why do you live in my attic? Not that I have a problem with it, of course! I just — I guess I’m just curious, is all, because I’ve never actually seen you.” You’re stumbling over words. The hangover is not helping your usual inelegance with words, neither is the terror you feel at the ghouls presence. They are unnerving creatures at the best of times. But this one… there is power rolling off him in waves. He is not like the other ghouls you’ve met, not at all. That is becoming clearer by the second.

“It’s my job. I wasn’t to be seen by you.” He says in the most monotone of voices. You are certain that his mouth and his words are out of sync, that your brain isn’t just malfunctioning.

“Oh. Right. But… you’re here now?” You say slowly, trying to figure out what could have drawn the mysterious creature from your attic.

“New rules.” It’s a response that does little to alleviate the tension you feel.

“What does that mean?” Your voice has dropped to a low whisper as your fear intensifies within you.

“You’ve been granted an audience.” For the first time, his tone differs. There’s something you almost want to call… reverence, within his words.

“An… audience?” Clarification is needed, for the ghouls’ clipped choice of words, their inability to elaborate, seems to be a universal thing and not just an odd quirk of the ministry’s group.

What do you call a group of ghouls? A gaggle, perhaps, for alliterative purposes? Although they are not exactly rowdy — you need to focus on the actual matter at hand, that someone is granting you an audience, whatever that means. But the odd tone that feels like it must be deep respect within the ghouls voice has you on edge.

“He is waiting.” He tells you, and you are not sure if you like the sound of such a thing.

“Who is waiting?” You ask quietly, almost begging for an answer.

“In there. Faster, go faster.” He steps aside gesturing for you to move, to move rapidly.

“I — okay.” You respond, hesitantly walking up the stairs.

You do not look back at the ghoul. You are more than slightly terrified of him, so you simply walk up to your flat, refusing to turn around. The smashed mug, taking a nap — those are things to be dealt with later. In fact, all thoughts of such things fly out of your mind as soon as you realise that the flat door is wide open. You’d closed it earlier, you know that for a fact. And yet. It is open. There’s no other entrances into the building, aside from the shop’s front door. And yet. Someone has somehow entered your flat. You really ought to do something, considering the staggering amount of break ins and acts of vandalism you’ve had to deal with since moving here.

Cautiously, you step into the small living space. Once again, you are not as alone as you should be. There is a man there, lounging upon your sofa. You’re sure you’ve never seen this man before. He’s a total stranger, sitting upon your sofa, observing you with a knowing smirk. Yet, he’s oddly familiar. Should you know him? There’s something off about him. Not in the same way that there is something off about the ghouls, however. They have an uncanniness about them, they are unnerving. This man… he looks a little too perfect. There is something enthralling about him, terrifying and wondrous. You are not sure who he is, but he cannot be human, you don’t think.

“Ah, hello, little one.” He speaks, beckoning you closer.

You step towards him without a second thought. His voice is strangely alluring, enough so that you almost forget the fact that this stranger has broken into your apartment. Almost.

“Who are you? How did you get in here?” You shake yourself from the trance, watching him apprehensively.

“Ah, I have forgotten my manners. Of course you wouldn’t remember me. Please allow me to introduce myself.” He stands fluidly, reaching a hand out for you to shake. But in that moment, you are struck by a realisation as to who stands in front of you. He needs no introduction; you know exactly who he is. But still, he smiles as he grasps your hand.

“I have many names, little one. But you may call me Lucifer.”

Chapter Text

You’d figured it out, that the strangely alluring man in front of you was the Devil, moments before he’d even said the words. It was somehow, inexplicably, entirely obvious. Immense power radiates from him, in a way that is both terrifying and wondrously enthralling. His large hand is hot against your own, practically burning, as he grasps it. You’re looking up at him, eyes wide and lips parted, for you have absolutely no clue how to respond. Lucifer, the literal Devil himself, is standing in your living room, shaking your hand, as if the two of you go way back. He finally lets go — and your hand is left feeling as if it has been scorched — before he drops languidly back onto your sofa, as if he is utterly at home here. Smoothly, he gestures for you to join him. You sit without even thinking about it, without even realising that you’ve acquiesced until you’re there next to him, close enough to feel the stifling heat emanating from his body. He’s watching you, his white eyes hypnotic, never blinking. It’s as if he’s re-familiarising himself with your face, as if you’ve been parted for many years, and he’s trying to catalogue the changes within your visage.

But then, his words seem as if he does know you. You have to assume that he does know you. And yet, you do not know him. You cannot comprehend it, you cannot understand how you might have interacted with the devil in the past, only to forget it so easily. Examining his face, you’re desperately trying to place it, trying to figure out how you could possibly know this man. He is entirely distinguished, in a way you find vaguely reminiscent of Copia’s deportment, elegant and poised as he lounges delicately upon your sofa. He is entirely too perfect, with his chiselled bone structure and perfect skin, not a wrinkle upon his face. His eyes are terrifyingly wonderful, bright white, glowing, hypnotic. Lucifer has the sort of face you could never forget. You cannot have known him and forgotten him, surely.

The serene expression upon his face is hard to read. His eyes are too hypnotic, too alluring, and you find yourself barely able to look within their terrifying wonder to work out exactly what he’s thinking. There’s very little you can do to figure him out. Can you, a slightly abnormal human woman, even begin to understand the devil? A seemingly immortal creature, a fallen angel probably as old as time itself? You’re sure he could run circles around your young, fallible, human mind. After a few moments of mutual observations, as your still hungover brain fails to put together all of these pieces, pieces that seem to belong to entirely different puzzles all together, he speaks.

“Hm. You do look very confused, little one.” There’s a familiarity to his voice, a tone that feels almost fatherly towards you.

“Well, I think most people would be confused to find the Devil in their apartment, you know?” You let out an awkward chuckle, begging your hangover to dissipate faster.

In all honesty, you’re entirely unsure of what to say. Lucifer is sitting next to you, on your old sofa, in your little flat. If there’s an appropriate etiquette for dealing with unexpected visits from the Dark One, you’re not up to date with it. All you can do is crack awkward jokes and hope for the best, it seems.

“Perhaps you are right. I am sorry to drop by so suddenly, little dove. However, advance notice… tends to be tricky. After all, would you have believed it, had I let your upstairs neighbour leave a note?” He quirks an eyebrow at you and, well, you have to concede to him on that one.

You had already been vaguely suspicious of the attic ghoul’s message of a visitor, and you’re sure a more advanced warning would have made little difference. Despite the oddities of recent days, the peculiar world of ghouls and ritual magicks and devil worship that has been thrust upon you, it’s most likely that you’d have shrugged off any strange ghoulish messages of meetings with the devil himself.

“So, he does work for you?” You ask him, curiosity evident within your voice. The attic ghoul has been perhaps the most idiosyncratic quirk of your new home, the strange presence who seems to always be lurking unseen in the background, eating the occasional slab of raw meat you leave for him.

“Of course, little one. He does a most necessary job here in this dimension.” Lucifer smiles, his eyes glinting. The vagueness of it all has irritation flaring up in the back of your mind; what is it with these people and their inability to explain things, to provide any sort of clarity?

“And what is that, exactly?” You press on, trying to remain respectful, trying not to yell and beg for answers.

After all, best not anger the being that resurrected you from the dead.

“The role has shifted, over time. My ghoul oversaw Reginald, for a while. Now, he is here to watch over you. Not that he has done particularly well at that task, mind you. See, that is the issue with ghouls. Overly literal. He was told to observe and protect, while remaining unseen. Naturally, when it comes down to it, which does he choose to listen to? Remaining unseen. And then I find myself having to perform a resurrection. All rather inconvenient, really. I’d hoped to spare you that fun little experience, for at least a little while. Although… well, there are benefits to everything, I suppose.” He explains with a long suffering sigh, as if everything that had happened was just… entirely ordinary, as if they were standard enough events in his eyes.

Really, it only awakens more questions within you. A part of you had thought, suspected, that perhaps it had been intentional, that you’d died. But to know that it had been a misinterpretation of instructions, that you were supposed to be saved that night, that you could have avoided the trauma of death, that Copia could have avoided watching you die… your stomach is churning, and it’s not because of the excessive tequila from the night before. But you do not have the time or the space to get angry or sad. You do not have the time to process all of these things, because you have an abundance of questions and you are sure the devil does not have time to coddle the emotions of some girl, who has managed to embroil herself in this preternatural side of life.

“Observe and protect? Why? I’m just some girl.” You say, quietly. And it’s true. You are not all that special. You’re just a girl of no importance. And yet, here you are, being watched by ghouls, being brought back from oblivion, being granted an audience with Lucifer himself. None of it really makes sense in your eyes.

“You are anything but, my dear.” He says gently, kindly, reaching over to pat your knee. You wonder if he knows that his hands are scorching hot, like touching an open flame. “And I am sure that your lover would agree with me, no?” He winks at you, a knowing smirk upon his handsome lips.

The reference to Copia perhaps should not surprise you; after all, he has admitted to having you watched. And yet, it does.

“I — do you know, like, everything? Everything about me and my life?” You blurt out with an awkward chuckle. You’re desperately hoping he doesn’t take offence from your words, that he doesn’t think you are ungrateful, but honestly, the devil’s handsome face is incredibly difficult to read and you’re entirely guessing what he’s feeling at any moment.

“More or less. And of Copia’s too. You are both rather important, even if you yourself are currently unaware of it.” He nods slightly, and you’re becoming entirely fed up with not knowing things. That flicker of frustration is slowly turning into anger, and you are desperately trying to keep your cool.

You just want to know why you, an oft unwanted girl with very little to offer the world, have somehow become a major player in whatever it is the devil has planned in your little corner of the world.

“I get why he’s important; he’s one of your Cardinals. But why me?” Your voice is barely above a whisper, and you’re sure he can practically hear the insecurities within you screaming out. But surely, if he knows so much about you, he knows that you’ve never really been of much importance to anyone. Except, perhaps, your Cardinal.

“That is not necessarily why he is important, but it is a complicated story, I suppose. One that I will explain shortly, little dove. Everything will make sense, I promise.” He sounds as if he’s trying to be reassuring, but it does little to quell the rising vexation, for you want to know now. Before you can retort something you’ll regret, he asks a question that quells some of that anger. “But I must know, how are you feeling? I hear that returning from the beyond is a rather jarring experience.”

“I — I guess I’m coming to terms with it. I don’t know. The dying part was terrifying. The returning was disconcerting. Not exactly sure what I would have done without Copia, I don’t know if I could’ve handled it so well without him.” You sigh deeply, pushing your hair out of your face.

The topic of your death is exhausting. You are sick of thinking about it, but it is as if that fateful night is haunting you, as if you cannot escape it. Ghouls revealing that you smell of death, Lucifer showing up and acting as if it is entirely normal to return from the dead. The way Copia’s eyes drift to that non-existent wound in your neck, the way he presses soft kisses there, as if he has to remind himself that you are alive and well. The way that sometimes, you swear you can almost feel a bullet tearing and ripping through flesh and muscle. But the devil asks, and you will answer.

“He has grown into a good man, yes? You are well suited for each other. He has always craved the sort of love you have for him; he has waited a long time for it. I am glad you have found each other, that he is no longer alone.” Lucifer smiles widely, brightly, at your mention of Copia.

The way he talks about him… well, it’s as if he knows your Cardinal, personally, as if they go back many years. It’s almost fatherly, the way he seems to care for Copia. There’s something, perhaps a touch of tenderness, within his tone. You’re rather unsure what to make of it.

“Do you know Copia well?” You cannot help but ask. Copia’s references to the past have never been anything other than hazy descriptions that tell you very little about him. Perhaps it is wrong, to try and press for details from another person, but you so desperately want to understand him a little better.

“Ah, well enough, dear girl. Perhaps that is a story for him to tell you. But I am glad you are working through your death. I truly did not intend for that to happen, you understand. Again, my ghoul was supposed to be protecting you — especially considering the threat against you from Mrs. Prescott.” Once again, he pats your knee with this white hot hand, seemingly apologetic. However, you are most intrigued by his last few words, the way the apology gives way to a withering roll of his eyes upon mentioning Joanna.

“Wait. You know why she’s doing all this, don’t you?” You are certain he does, the way his voice drips with disdain as he mentions her name.

“Naturally. I am the Devil, after all. But I think it is best that I say nothing. Let things play out as they are supposed to — for the most part, that is. It is all rather mundane, honestly. Resentment is a rather dull emotion, if you ask me. Especially when her resentment should be aimed — well, regardless of that. Let’s move on. Tell me; what are your theories?” He is dismissive of Joanna, and it rubs you the wrong way.

It must be very easy for him, a being who has seen the worst atrocities humanity has offered the world, time and time again, to be dismissive of Joanna’s actions. Granted, perhaps they have not been so terrible, in the grand scheme of things. But to have your shop trashed, to be threatened repeatedly, to be murdered, because of whatever underlying resentment she has for you… it is not something you wish to be dismissed so easily.

“I — theories about what? Joanna? Can you not just tell —” Frustration is bubbling up within you, and you’re so close to snapping, but Lucifer cuts you off.

“No, little dove. Why do you think I’m here? What do you think you did to capture the Devil’s attention, hm?” His refusal is firm, but the rest of his words are teasing, as if this is all a game to him.

Your life is not a fucking game.

“I don’t have theories. All I have is questions, and I’m tired of having questions. I’m tired of not knowing the answers to things. I’m tired of being left in the dark. I just want my life to make sense, I just want a little bit of peace. So either tell me, or don’t. You might be the Devil and all, but I’m not a game or a puzzle or some form of entertainment. I’m a person. This is my life. And I just want to know what the fuck is going on for once. So, again. Tell me, or go.” Your voice is raised, insistent, angry, and you are done, so completely done with trying to appease the literal Devil, who has shown up and made the Monday morning hangover ten times worse.

You’re starting to come to the conclusion that maybe you aren’t as good at dealing with high pressure situations as you’d previously believed. It’s starting to seem as if you have a problem with letting your anger get away from you, at the worst possible moments.

There’s a tense moment of silence, and you begin to wonder just how badly you’ve fucked it this time.

But he laughs, shaking his head and saying, “I always knew I liked you. I’m not going to tell you. I’m going to show you.”

Before you can even ask what he means, his flaming hot hands are clamping down upon your shoulder. Your gaze snaps down to his grip upon you, then back up to his hypnotic face, your eyes wide and questioning. He’s chanting, so rapidly in Latin that it’s impossible to translate even a word of it. But it’s as if the world tilts sideways, it’s as if you are falling through space with only his grip upon you to ground you to any sort of reality.

And then, suddenly, you realise that you are no longer in your living room. No. You’re somewhere else. It’s familiar and strange all at once. It’s a room, a little blurry around the edges, and nothing feels entirely concrete, a little too fluid to be real. The colouring of the reality around you is off, a little too greyscale. You’re trying desperately to focus on your surroundings, but your head is spinning — remnants of the hangover you’ve not yet shook off, and the utter confusion of this ongoing audience with the devil himself — and you can’t quite piece anything together.

“What — where are we, what did you do?” You ask him, voice wavering, looking up at him in fear, the anger dissipating rapidly. His face is serene, as if everything is fine, as if he didn’t somehow transport you from your living room to this almost liminal space.

“Little one, do relax. You think I would hurt you? Take a closer look.” Lucifer urges with the soft tone of voice you’d use to speak to a child. Although, you probably are nothing more than a child to him, all things considered.

You do as he says. Blinking rapidly, trying to focus, you scrutinise the space around you once more. It does look familiar, you’re sure of it. The walls… they almost look like shelves, flickering in and out and too fluid to be tangible. Shelves. Shelves like in a bookshop. You survey the room once more. Now that you have an image of the bookshop in mind… it looks eerily similar. You wonder if this is some sort of twilight zone, for everything is just… off. Wrong. It’s familiar, but unreal.

“This is the shop. But what’s… what is wrong with it?” You say slowly, gazing back towards Lucifer.

“Hm, it looks different to you?” He’s watching you, inquisitive, as if the bizarreness of the space is entirely ordinary to him. Is this what Hell feels like? Oddly intangible and dreamlike?

“Yeah, like a dream, blurry. A little… off.” You explain to him, as he finally loosens his grip upon your shoulder, as he begins to wander ever closer to the back office. Or what you would assume to be the back office. What’s to say that it is the same, here in this place, this entirely unknown place?

“Well, little one, if I attempted to explain the physics and multidimensionality of the universe to you, I would give us both a headache. And I cannot even get headaches. Think of it as… time travel. Or a memory. A glimpse into a past moment, in which we are simply bystanders. We are not here, not really. We are just… observing. Understand?” He chuckles dryly, lounging against the doorframe, an indulgent smile spreading across his lips. It’s as if he’s entirely amused by your lack of understanding.

“I… observing what?” You say, because you really do not understand why — or how — he’s somehow bent dimensions or time or space to somehow end up here, in this dreamlike and greyscale and blurry little shadow world.

“How we first met, naturally. You have been so frustrated, what with all these mysteries that have been swirling around you for so many years, yes? You want to understand it?” He smiles, patiently, as if he’s waiting for you to come to some life-changing revelation.

“Yes.” You sigh, brushing a hand through your hair. Perhaps, despite how mystifying — and quite frankly, weird — this meeting has been, perhaps this is a good thing, perhaps your life will finally begin to make sense.

“Well, I think you will find this answers many of your questions. This is the moment, perhaps, that shaped your entire existence, will continue to shape your entire existence. I wonder, can you guess when we are?” He gestures for you to join him in the doorway, as he starts to step back into the office.

When. When could you have possibly met the Devil? Your heart sinks. You know exactly when this long forgotten meeting must have occurred. You know exactly what wretched day he’s taken you back to.

“August 6th, 2009.” Your words are barely audible, as you mindlessly heed his instructions, stepping towards the door to the back office.

“Smart girl.” Lucifer’s bright eyes are glinting wildly, and you hardly know what to make of it all. “Hm, yes, this was probably the most important day of your life. Not that you knew that, of course. Now, shall we?”

He gestures widely for you to enter into the office. Cautiously, anticipation flooding your veins, you step forward into the office. The sight before your eyes is gut wrenching, and it floors you. In a panic, you stumble backwards, attempting to get back into the other odd interpretation of the bookshop, because at least that room made more sense than the scene within the office. But fiery hot hands stop you, holding you in place. Lucifer murmurs for you to stand still, that this is just a memory, that you have no reason to panic. Swallowing deeply, you finally stop struggling, you stop trying to run.

“Good girl. Now, pay attention.” He whispers into your ear, pulling you to stand at the side of the room, no longer blocking the exit, before finally dropping his hands from your arms. The heat is still radiating from his body, you can feel it, but it is less unbearable when he is no longer touching you.

Blinking rapidly, your still slightly hungover brain tries to process the scene in front of you. For you are not the only people within the office. No, a familiar young girl is curled up in the armchair sat in the corner of the room, looking restless. She’s a little hazy, almost blurry, but you cannot mistake her identity. That young girl… she is you. Your younger self, at thirteen years old, is sitting in front of you, fidgeting relentlessly. The man at the desk — a man you’ve not seen in thirteen years — is Reginald. He looks exactly as you remembered him, a worn tweed suit and a slightly receding hairline, huge glasses framing his eyes. He’s writing at the desk, paying little attention to the girl in the corner. It’s disconcertingly familiar, and you almost want to be sick, because this is horrifying and impossible and just entirely not where you’d expected this day to go.

You’d wanted a nap, not a trip down forgotten memory lane.

“Uncle Reggie! I’m bored.” Your younger self finally speaks, dragging you from your internal panic. Her voice is unnervingly familiar, distant, echoing.

“That’s… that’s me. That’s my voice.” You cannot help but utter quietly, in total disbelief.

“Shh, little one, let us watch carefully, hm?” The Devil murmurs beside you. You glance at him briefly, only to see him surveying the scene with interest, his white eyes glowing. They are hard to read; whether it is malevolence or mischief, if he is wholly attentive or vaguely apathetic.

“Scamp, goddamnit, can you not see that I am busy today? Don’t you have homework or something else to do, aside from inconveniencing me?” Reginald’s voice, a voice you’ve not heard for the longest of times, responds sharply, although you notice that his mouth is not moving entirely in sync with the words you are hearing. Another disconcerting feature of this odd dreamworld, perhaps.

Listening to your Uncle Reginald’s voice after so many years stirs up mixed feelings. You miss him, you resent him, you love him, you wish you could never think of him again. It’s utterly confusing. Of course, it is hard to hold pleasant feelings towards him when you can hear the sharp warning tone within his voice, see the frustration upon his face. And of course, you know now, as an adult, that he’d wished you were around less, that he’d found you — more often than not — to be a tiresome burden dumped upon him by your mother. However, now is not a productive time to dwell upon such things. You resolve to pay attention to the scene in front of you, to take in every minute detail. This, supposedly, will make everything in your life make sense. That sounds far too good to be true, but all you can do is watch closely, and hope for answers. There is no way you’re missing out on crucial details because you were too busy lamenting your sad and pathetic childhood.

“Uncle Reggie, it’s the summer holidays. And I’ve read all my books. And you don’t have a telly. And I’m bored.” Your younger self whines, shifting restlessly again within her seat.

As much as you’d loved the bookshop growing up, you have to admit… there wasn’t necessarily a lot for a child to do. Especially when Reginald was in a mood, as he seems to be now, on this day you cannot seem to recall.

“For fuck’s sake. Why Rebecca had to bring you here on today of all days…” This odd echo of Reginald mutters frustratedly under his breath, although your girlhood self seems entirely oblivious to it. Sighing, he slams his notebook closed, he looks up to face the girl. “Alright, you little scallywag, what will it take to entertain you?”

“Can you tell me more about the ritual you went to?” Her face — your face — lights up instantly, as if she’d not expected him to actually give in to her demands for entertainment. “You never finished the story last time, because Rebecca showed up.”

You’re sure, at the mention of your mother, you pull the exact same discomforted face that your young facsimile does. The more things change, the more they stay the same, it seems.

“Ah, Rebecca, is it?” Reginald chuckles, with a shake of his head.

“She gets mean when I call her Mum.” Your younger self mutters softly, looking down at her feet, and it’s all rather odd, to see that look of heartbroken longing and confusion on your own younger face.

“Ignore her, Scamp. Your mother is a troubled wretch of a woman, and you deserve better.” Reginald’s voice softens a fraction, and is genuinely tender for a brief moment. This is more like the man from your rose-tinted childhood memories, the man who was there for you when your mother was not, the man who was essentially a father figure to you for the majority of your childhood years.

It’s a nice reminder, that perhaps not every interpretation of your childhood memories is based on falsehoods, that despite his inner feelings, he did — at times — treat you with the loving respect you remember.

“Why doesn’t she love me?” It’s gut wrenching to hear your childhood self — despite the echoey and out of sync way she speaks — ask such a painful question, to hear the way her voice breaks slightly, on the verge of tears.

You sigh deeply, struggling even now to comprehend the scene in front of you. Because really, how can you possibly be watching a past memory you’ve somehow entirely forgotten. It’s odd, because it should be familiar. This is so similar to so many memories you have, and yet, you cannot remember it. It’s real, that you’re sure of. You recognise the outfit your younger self is wearing, for it had been your favourite outfit, long ago. You recognise Reginald’s godawful tweed suit, all the way down to the small hole near his left elbow. It’s real, it’s happened, and yet you have entirely misplaced your recollection of it. Lucifer places a burning hot hand comfortingly upon your shoulder, squeezing for a brief moment. The weight of it, the heat of it, is grounding. Yes, this is real, and it is awful.

“I… I honestly do not know, Scamp. But, happier topics, yes? Let me tell you about the ritual. Now, Papa Emeritus II had invited me after I proved most helpful in sourcing a book for him. The ministry grounds have a site especially for such summoning rituals, you know.” Reginald speaks again, quickly attempting to lift the mood by segueing into his story of ritual magicks at the ministry. He looks slightly uncomfortable, hyper aware of the fact that your younger self is on the verge of an emotional meltdown, and seems very devoted to avoiding such a thing.

You cannot blame him, not really. You are entirely uncomfortable right now, desperate to get out of here. Wherever here is. You aren’t entirely sure. Shit, how you wish you were at the ministry right now, curled up in Copia’s silk sheets, his arms around you.

“What were they summoning?” You — or rather, the younger version of you — seems to have perked up immediately at the mention of whatever ritual your uncle had attended.

This, although you cannot remember this exact moment, is familiar. There were many a day in which he’d regale you with tales of events with the church, stories of Papa Emeritus II or the ghouls. It had all seemed so fantastically strange to you, back then. Now, it is practically commonplace for you to see a ghoul lurking around corners, to run into Papa. It’s strange, the places life leads you. You wonder, if that young girl, your childhood self, would be so enthralled with all this should she know how it would all turn out. You yourself are unsure of how you feel, even now. You still haven’t figured it out, not by any means.

“Nothing interesting. New ghouls. Rather tedious, all in all. I’ve never seen the attraction of those odd little creatures. But, it was rather a useful thing to watch. After all, one never knows when they will have to summon something, and it is always best to know what you’re doing.” Reginald sighs, as if the concept of summoning ghouls from hell is entirely mundane, as if it’s some sort of tedious errand that no one really wants to bother with. But his tone shifts, as he talks about the usefulness of it. It’s hard to tell, what with the haziness of this dreamworld, but you’re almost certain that there’s an odd little glint in his eye as he speaks.

“Are you planning on summoning something, Uncle Reggie?” Clearly, your younger self has picked up on the same peculiarities as you. You narrow your eyes as you watch Reginald’s blurred face, trying to figure out exactly what he’s plotting.

For, you know that he had been planning something, his diary had told you that. He’d had a very big plan, one that was foiled, by you, on this day. And while you’re sure you’ll see exactly how badly your thirteen year old self fucked everything up, you’d rather not be entirely blindsided by it all. You despise surprises.

“Never you mind, Scamp. Oh, hell — is that the time? Bollocks, I need to run to the bank before closing. You can keep yourself out of trouble for a bit, can’t you?” A glance at his watch has Reginald practically flying out of his seat, rifling through the messy stack of papers and books upon his desk for something. The strange nature of this illusion, this dreamlike world, makes this odd picture of Reginald hazier, harder to focus on, the faster he moves.

He grabs something, a large envelope, one you assume to be full of cash. Your younger self jumps up from her chair, clearly disheartened at the fact that she’ll be left to distract herself from her tedium once more.

“But there’s nothing to do, can’t I come with you?” Her voice is a little whiny, but you can see a glimmer of something in her eyes. She’s upset, genuinely so, at the idea of being left there. Alone, always so alone. Your heart aches for her, for yourself.

“For Lucifer’s sake, Scamp! Can’t you just do as I bloody well tell you to? Read some books. There’s a pile on the table. Your Latin is appalling, so you might as well take this as an opportunity to practise.” Reginald slams a fist down on his desk. You, both versions of you, jump slightly, taken aback.

She, the younger you, says nothing, she simply nods and looks down at her feet, clearly chastened. You grit your teeth, watching silently as Reginald practically storms out of the shop, the door to the building slamming shut violently in his wake. Your younger self is still for a moment, and you are sure she is willing herself to not cry, to not let his harsh words get to her. You might not remember this specific moment exactly, but that was a feeling you knew well.

“I don’t ever remember him being that… mean.” Your voice is low, quiet, despite knowing the girl in the memory cannot hear you.

“Hm. Maybe he was, maybe he was not. I cannot say, little one. But he has always been insufferable.” Lucifer matches your hushed tones, but you can tell from the edge within his voice that he was rather not a fan of your uncle.

“You knew him?” You glance up at him curiously. Really, does everyone in your life have personal and intimate connections with the devil?

“Oh, yes. We shall get there, do not worry.” He chuckles darkly, before gesturing for your gaze to return to your younger self.

You turn to see her rifling through the stack of books upon the desk. This isn’t exactly an odd sight, you’re sure of it; after all, you’d read many a book you’d found shoved onto that desk in your years visiting the shop. All sorts of odd books, many of which you had not entirely understood. But you cannot quite figure out why this exact moment is one of such significance. After all, heeding your uncle’s — rather rude — instructions to practise your Latin… what could be wrong with that?

Except, your younger self pulls a book from the bottom of the pile. And even despite the fact that you are not physically there, that this is a version of a memory that has long since occurred, you just know that the book in the girl’s — in your — hands is powerful. A dark energy is radiating from it, seductive and dangerous. It looks old, there is no title embossed onto the front of it, and from your line of vision you’re entirely unable to tell what sort of book it is. Written in Latin and the sort of book a girl of thirteen should steer well clear of, presumably. You wish you could tell her — yourself — to stop, to stop right now, to put that book down and go elsewhere. But you cannot, for this is not real, for this has already happened. All you can do is watch on, in abject horror, as your younger self flicks through the pages of the book, finally settling on something. She begins to read it, to read it out loud, and the energy in the room, slowly, subtly, begins to shift. Even you, an onlooker to this memory, can feel it. But as you stare on in wide eyed terror, you cannot for the life of you remember this happening.

“I really shouldn’t have done this, right?” Your voice wavers as you ask the all important question to the being next to you, unable to tear your eyes away from the scene in front of you.

The girl doesn’t seem to notice — and you’re entirely unsure of how — that it feels as if the air is being sucked out of the room with every Latin word she stumbles over. Energy, dark energy, is pulsing out of the book in waves, and yet, she keeps reading, entirely oblivious to it all.

“That, little one, depends entirely on your perspective. Perhaps you should not have, for you did not understand the consequences such an action would bring. But, would you be where you are today had you not made that choice?” The Devil tells you, his tone far too light for your liking.

He seems utterly unaffected by it all. You suppose he is used to such darkness, such power. In all honesty, you still don’t entirely understand the consequences of your girlhood self’s actions, but you are sure you’re about to find out just how awful they are.

“I—” You begin to answer, but a strange light begins to emanate from the book, the tension is at its most palpable, and it feels as if something is on the precipice of occurring at any moment.

“Ah, here we go!” The Devil laughs, with a clap. He seems excited, as if this is highly entertaining to him. You wonder if he’s ever experienced real human emotions, if he’s ever felt terror or such fear of the unknown.

The room is drowned in white light for a moment, so bright that you cannot see, that you have to squeeze your eyes closed, for it is blinding, painfully so. But then it fades, rather quickly, and you open your eyes to see that your younger self is no longer alone. No, there is a familiar being standing next to her. A being that has not changed, not in the slightest.

“Why, hello there, little one.” The copy of the Devil, who has seemingly appeared from nowhere in a white hot haze of light, says, grinning down at your younger self. Her eyes are wide, her mouth hanging open in shock. His voice is slightly more in sync with his mouth’s movements than yours or Reginald’s, but the disconnect is still slightly jarring to watch.

“Wh-who are you?” She asks, voice pitched slightly higher, clearly terrified. Her fear is not entirely unreasonable; after all, were you not vaguely scared yourself to walk into your flat this morning, only to see the Devil lounging on your sofa?

“Well, I have many names. But I can be your friend, if you would like.” Her eyes light up at his words, and you curse your childhood craving for acceptance, at how easily she seems to accept his vague answer. Someone must have taught you not to befriend inhumanely handsome men that appear whilst reading Latin from a book, surely? “Wonderful! Now, what exactly did you do to bring me here, dear girl?” His tone is airy, oh-so friendly, and it seems to set your younger self at ease.

Or perhaps that’s just a perk of being the Devil; for even now, as an adult, you find his commands hard to resist.

“I was practising my Latin.” Your younger self says cheerfully, gesturing at the heavy tome upon the desk. Darkness is still radiating from it, even now, and it is shocking that she seems so oblivious to it all.

“Oh?” The hazy image of Lucifer steps forward, eyebrow raised, to take a closer look at the text. He seems deeply intrigued, as to why a child has such a powerful book. Honestly, you feel the same — you cannot believe Reginald would leave such a book out in the open.

“Uh huh! I was reading one of the passages aloud. I think it says this part is about praying to Satan.” She tells him enthusiastically, pointing towards a section of the text. He takes a closer look, before letting out an amused laugh.

“Oh, my dear child. That’s not exactly a prayer; no, that word there means calling. This is actually a summoning ritual.” He kindly tells your younger self as he pores over the text, the text that has clearly caused such chaos in your life. It’s a little sad, that the only adult to really treat you with grace, when you’ve very clearly fucked up, is the Devil himself.

“Huh. So I summoned you here? Wait — does that mean you’re actually Lucifer? The actual Devil?” Your younger self looks slightly terrified, wide eyed once more.

“Oh, do not be afraid, little dove. You did a little more than summon me, actually; this summoning ritual here is for a very specific purpose. But, hm. Tell me, you did this all by yourself?” Once again, the Devil is oddly gentle with her, with you, as if it is not entirely inconvenient to be accidentally called to this realm by a child.

Of course, you cannot know if such things are annoying to experience, but you cannot imagine such things happen often, nor that a being as old at time itself would enjoy such a thing. You’re paying close attention to his words, registering his every word, in a way your girlhood self is not. You’d suspected, as soon as he appeared, that this wasn’t just a basic summoning ritual. After all, you’ve come across many a ritual that claims to call upon the devil. None of them seem to hold the same sort of intensely dark energy that this book has.

“I didn’t mean to?” Your younger self is slightly apologetic, her voice tinged with fear, as if she is afraid of being scolded.

“That is very, very interesting. Will you take my hands, just for a moment? I’d like to see something.” There’s an inquisitive, calculating look upon his face, as he reaches out his hands for her to take. She hesitates, and you cannot blame her, for it is all rather strange and terrifying. But despite the uncertainty upon her face, her hands — your hands — are reaching out to grab ahold of his outstretched ones.

He closes his eyes for a moment, concentrating. You look over at the Devil next to you, the real Devil, curiously.

“I can read people. Not in a telepathic, I-know-your-every-thought sort of way. But I’m looking at her potential, who she will become. At you, who you are now, who you will be in the future. I had to see if you would be as useful as I suspected, after all.” He shrugs nonchalantly, as if this revelation is entirely normal. It is not, and you want to press him for more precise answers, but your younger self speaks once more.

“Your hands are warm. Are you sick?” She asks curiously, looking up at the version of Lucifer in front of her, as he finally lets go of her hands.

“Ah, no.” He smiles indulgently at her, before that inquisitive look returns to his eyes. “Tell me… have you always had such an affinity with ritual magicks?”

You’ve not performed ritual magick in years, not since childhood. Reginald had taught you minor things. Levitation, lighting candles, the very basics. He’d taught you, to get you to shut up one dreadfully dull afternoon, not expecting you to be able to do it, expecting you to spend hours attempting to lift a pencil an inch or two from the table. Except, to both his surprise and your own, you’d taken to it like a duck to water. He’d praised your abilities, in a shaky sort of tone that seemed slightly apprehensive. You’d forgotten the spells after a while, stuck at boarding school and banned from accessing any sort of interesting materials involving the arcane and the occult.

“Yep, that’s what my uncle says! I’m not allowed to tell my mum about it though, Uncle Reggie says she doesn’t understand it.” Your younger self rolls her eyes dramatically at the mention of your mother. You cannot blame her, but a part of you wonders if perhaps your mother was right, wanting to keep you away from the more esoteric of knowledge, from ritual acts and magicks.

“You seem to have a natural propensity to the dark arts, my little dove. Perhaps, that is why this summoning has worked.” The hazy version of Lucifer’s eyes are twinkling deviously, as he praises your younger self.

“Is that bad? Am I going to be in trouble?” She still seems a little hesitant. You cannot blame her. After all, did your mother not spend years criticising the supposed inherent darkness in you, hating you for being borne of sin?

“No, no. It is a… happy coincidence, shall we say. See, as I have said, the ritual you have rather unwittingly performed was a little more complex than a straight-forward summoning ritual. You have offered yourself to me, offered to become one of my most devout followers. And — not that I can exactly deny it, it’s all very complex — I accept your offer.” He tells you, smiling, and your heart drops.

He cannot mean… can he?

“What does that mean?” Your younger self is confused, it is practically written across her face. Her brows furrowed, a little frown as she tries to piece it together. You’re waiting for clarification, hoping desperately that it will not be what you think it is.

“Your soul. You have — inadvertently, it seems — sold your soul to the Devil, young one.” The Devil tells your younger self, as if it is entirely inconsequential, only for her to gasp audibly and immediately burst into tears.

Even a girl, barely out of childhood and with little life experience, can understand that such things are not done lightly. She knows — you know — that an irreversible mistake has been made.

“Shh, shh, do not cry! This is a most unblessed moment. You are my daughter now, my most favourite of daughters.” He steps forward, placing a caring hand upon her shoulder, comforting her. That sort of concern was such a rarity in your life growing up, it is no wonder that your younger self immediately looks up at him with wide eyes, a sighing shakily.

“You — you promise?” She is no longer crying, looking up at Lucifer with wide eyes, wiping a remaining tear from her cheek. She looks so goddamn hopeful, at the idea of being wanted, at being cared for, that it turns your stomach. She is — you were — a little fool, clearly.

“Oh, of course. Although — how old are you, dearest girl?” He asks her, oh-so caring that it makes you sick. You’ve just sold your soul to him, accidentally, and he’s accepted it, despite your young age. Why should he care about your age, after all that?

Of course, you’re entirely unsure how the whole selling your soul to the devil thing works, what the rules are. There has to be rules, right? Perhaps there are no take backs. Perhaps you’ll have to find that old book, see if you can translate the summoning spell. Perhaps you can ask Copia, for you’re sure if anyone would know the logistics of it all, it would be him. But then, of course, you’d have to tell him. You’d have to tell him that you are not in possession of your own soul, and hope that it does not matter to him. Hell, you don't even know the implications of such a thing. What does it mean, to have sold your soul to the Devil? It never seems to turn out well for anyone, from your limited knowledge of that section of the literary canon. Will he reject you, knowing this about you? Will you have ruined your chances of him perhaps loving you one day?

“Thirteen.” Your younger self replies, jogging you back to the moment. She says it as if thirteen is rather grown up. It is not, and in this moment you hold so much resentment towards that specific version of yourself that it hurts.

Just thirteen years old, and she has — you have, for she is you — ruined your life.

“Ah, perhaps a little young, to help me carry out my missions upon this earth just yet.” Lucifer laughs softly, which infuriates you. That is the part of all this he has an issue with?

You want to turn to him, to yell, to scream, to cry. But you cannot. You must continue to watch, to pay attention.

“What the bloody fuck is going on in here? Get away from my niece!” You are startled from your laser-focus upon your younger self. Reginald is in the office doorway, looking furious.

Of course, you cannot blame him for that, despite how ill advised yelling at the Devil seems to be. A strange, inhumanely attractive man having appeared in your locked shop, talking with your young niece must be a rather startling experience.

“I think, perhaps, I should have a talk with your uncle, little dove. Time for a nap, yes?” The facsimile version of Lucifer says to your young self. Before she can respond, she’s collapsing into his waiting arms, already fast asleep.

He carefully deposits her upon the armchair, as if she weighs nothing, before turning back to face Reginald. His white eyes are glowing dangerously, a wide smirk gracing his face.

“Oh, oh my. You —” Reginald begins to splutter as he suddenly realises exactly who he’s facing off with. There’s panic in his eyes, as they flicker between the Devil and your girlhood self, who seems to be in the deepest of sleeps.

“Hello. Uncle Reggie, is it?” Lucifer asks, his tone mocking as he steps closer. Something about it is almost threatening, and you are almost scared for Reginald.

“Reginald, your Unholy Eminence.” He says, practically bowing to the Devil. “I — forgive me, but — what exactly has brought you to my humble shop?”

He’s terrified, you can tell. You’re sure, almost positive, that receiving an unexpected house call from Lucifer is not a common occurrence. Not at all.

“Ah. I think your niece might have stumbled across the wrong book. One you must have been saving for your own purposes, hm? I see how you’ve marked out that specific page. Tell me, why exactly would I have wanted your soul? You seem rather… unremarkable, at first glance. But, oh! The girl! She is something, isn’t she? I mean, you have lowered the barriers between the realms, but still — how remarkable for the girl to just… summon me, as if it is nothing! Has she grown up within my church?” Lucifer derides your uncle, throwing a disdainful look towards him.

It is all becoming horribly clear. Reginald had planned to summon the devil himself. Reginald had planned to sell his own soul — although for what purpose, you are entirely unsure. You doubt you’ll ever know his reasons, other than the vague references within his diary that it was all for his own selfish gain. He wanted power; although, speaking from experience, you’re not entirely sure if selling one’s soul actually does afford them such a thing. You do not feel as if you’ve gained anything from the selling of your soul, personally. Trauma, perhaps.

“Oh, hell. Did she — she didn’t read the book, did she? But, uh, no, not at all, simply a humble education on the basics here with me; my sister, her mother, is a devout Catholic.” He’s horrified, and rightly so. It’s slightly surprising, how deeply he seems to care, although you aren’t sure if he’s more concerned with the fact that his young niece has sold her soul, or if it’s the fact that his own ritual plans have evidently been ruined.

“Ah, how I love the corruption of Catholic morals. So fun. Perhaps that is the root of her natural talents. Regardless, you are a fool for leaving such texts unmonitored.” Lucifer’s words have you wondering, once again, if your mother was right. It seems you always were destined for sin and darkness and evil.

“Scamp sold you her soul. She did it.” Reginald seems to be having trouble accepting it, as he grasps onto the door frame for support. He is blinking rapidly, trying to process it all. Honestly, you’re sure there’s a similar nauseated look upon your own face. It is a bitter pill to swallow.

“Yes, she did. And I am most grateful for it. She will be a wonderful help to me, I can already see it. I am anticipating certain troubles, say, fifteen years down the line. She’ll be most useful in carrying out my will here, in this corner of the earth, I can already sense her potential.” Lucifer informs him, a warning clear within his voice; he shall not be backing down, and your Uncle would be wise to not question him.

“But she’s a child!” He exclaims, so deeply frustrated, that he has not noticed the clear warning signs emanating from the powerful man in front of him. Hell, you’re a visitor to this memory, and even you can feel that the Devil is tiring of Reginald rather quickly.

You’ll admit freely, the man was often more than a little insufferable. But there’s an edge of something else, as if Lucifer perhaps blames him for the events of this day, for not keeping such powerful magicks away from a child.

“Perhaps, by modern standards. But childhood is only a construct. A girl of her age was old enough to marry, many a year ago. And do pay attention. Did I not say in at least a decade? I can be a benevolent man, Reginald. She can have her youth. I have no use for a mere slip of a teenager.” He challenges, an eyebrow raised, patience clearly running thin; a marked change in how he’d responded to your young self. He’d been indulgent, fatherly, with you. He still is. Reginald… he seems to be an annoyance.

“So what, you’re just going to leave her with the knowledge that she has sold off her free will until you call upon her?” Reginald inquires, exasperation evident despite the hazy nature of the scene playing out in front of you.

“No. She can remain oblivious. Leave now. I must perform the ritual, to seal the covenant. And then, I shall take her memories of this day. She’ll be mine, and I shall come to her when I have a need for her, a decade or so from now.” Lucifer shoos him away, as if he is some stray animal, beginning to turn back to where your younger self lays resting.

Ice cold fear runs through your veins, at his words. Despite the heat radiating from the real Lucifer next to you, you are freezing. You are almost certain now, that his presence here is no coincidence. He has a use for you, finally. Thirteen years later, he needs someone to carry out his plans, and you’ve been picked. Again, you’re deeply unsure about how any of this works. But a part of you is selfishly, desperately, hoping that whatever you’ll be required to do does not involve giving up Copia. If he still wants you, that is.

“Please, she’s a child. She did not mean to. I will give you my soul, freely. Just do not take hers.” Reginald does not leave, his grip tight upon the door frame, as if that is the only thing keeping him from mindlessly obeying the Devil’s commands.

“You’d give me your soul?” He turns back to Reginald, inquisitively, a cunning glint within his glowing white eyes.

Instinctively, you know it is a bad idea. You are silently begging Reginald to say no, to simply turn around and leave. But this is a memory long since passed. You can change nothing.

“Yes! Bloody hell, of course.” He says most insistently, and your stomach drops. There is no going back.

The image of Lucifer rushes forwards, his elegant hands grabbing tight to Reginald’s face. As much as you try, squinting at the scene in front of you, it is hard to make anything out. This strange dreamworld becomes hazier, clouded, and it is impossible to tell what is occurring. Reginald is screaming, although it’s as if someone has turned the volume down on the moment, for it should be deafening. Yet, it is nothing more than an irritating buzz, barely audible. This memory version of Lucifer is chanting rapidly in Latin, dark power rolling from him in waves. It is suffocating, the power of the ritual magicks that are occurring as he chants, low and fast.

Finally — and you are not sure how long the moment takes, whether it has been hours or minutes — the Devil steps away, and Reginald crumples to the floor, breathing in sharp and painful gasps. It is frightening, and you desperately wish to leave, for you are sure you’re about to see a similar ritual take place with yourself as the victim, and you’d really rather not.

“Thank you, my son. But, alas, the covenant between myself and the little one has already begun. I cannot break it now. Wait outside, if you please.” Lucifer’s facsimile gives a saccharine and insincere smile, before pushing the crumpled man out his resting place in the doorframe, slamming the door shut.

You want to ask the real version of him, standing right next to you, exactly what is going on. You want to beg him to reverse everything, you want this all to be over. But you say nothing. You can feel him, feel the way he is staring at you most intently, likely trying to figure out your reactions to everything occurring. However, you are trying your hardest to remain impassive, to not fall to pieces. If you let even the tiniest bit of emotion show, you’re terrified that you’ll just break down entirely. You cannot do that, you must not do that, and so, you breathe deeply, trying to unclench your tense muscles, trying not to look entirely terrified and broken and exhausted. All you can do is continue to watch, as the memory continues, as the copy of Lucifer walks over to your younger self, waking her from her deep sleep in an instant.

“Wake up, little one.” He hums softly, as the girl slowly returns to the moment, looking entirely disoriented. She’s staring over at the door, likely looking for Reginald, clearly puzzled at his sudden disappearance.

“What’s going on?” She sighs, stretching and sitting, looking fearfully up at the Devil.

“Have you ever wanted to see a ritual in person, little dove?” He questions, and your stomach drops, for you’ve just seen a ritual, and you decidedly did not enjoy it. You cannot imagine watching a repeat performance, this time with your thirteen year old self as the subject.

“Yes, yes, yes!” Your younger self does not have the same hesitance as you do, her eyes lighting up, as she practically jumps out of her seat.

“Well, we are going to take part in one. And then, I shall make you forget this day.” He chuckles, and you are once again struck by how different his treatment of you is to the way he’d been with Reginald.

Clearly, he was not lying before. You are, inconceivably, important to him.

“Forget it? Why?” Some of her enthusiasm deflates slightly, as she looks up at him with huge puppy dog eyes, as if she could so easily convince him otherwise.

You do not know which is best. To forget, or to remember? Even now, you are unsure whether or not you’d have wanted to know, all these years. It is devastating, to have such a huge secret kept from you. But you do not think they are wrong, when they say ignorance is bliss. You do not know how you’d have coped over the years with such knowledge.

“There is simply no reason for you to know everything, not yet. I shall give you the gift of a normal youth, yes?” His voice is gentle, as he comforts your younger self. She’s on the verge of tears, you can tell. Confusion is evident in her furrowed brow, and you think this might be the nicest any adult has ever truly been to you, at that point of your life.

“Do you not like me? It’s okay if you don’t.” She’s looking down at her shoes, defeat clear within her tone. You know, from experience, that she’s just waiting for rejection. Hell, you’d be lying if you weren’t, even now.

“Hush, little one. You are most precious. You know, you are not the first child to have sold their soul. There was a boy, once. I think, perhaps, he would have been happier had he been gifted a normal childhood. I’m sure you’ll meet him, one day.” He soothes her gently, wiping away an errant tear. You glance at the man next to you, curiously, but he only smiles serenely. It seems as if you will not be getting answers on that particular question. You wonder if you’ve met this boy already.

Carefully, almost reverently, the facsimile of the Devil kneels in front of your younger self, and you are already deeply confused, for this is entirely dissimilar to the ritual you’ve just witnessed. You watch, as Lucifer places his large hands carefully upon your younger self’s cheeks, cradling her face. Her eyes flutter shut as he begins chanting. However, this time, there appears to be no pain. Even the energy in the room feels different; you cannot deny the power being wielded by the memory version of Lucifer, but it does not feel so dangerous. There is a warm and bright light radiating from him, as he chants loudly. Again, the ritual could have been hours long, it could have been minutes. You cannot tell, entirely caught up within the beauty and majesty of it all. Finally, the light fades, the power flooding the room begins to recede. You watch on as your younger self’s body seems to once again fall into a deep sleep, collapsing into the Devil’s arms. Only this time, he does not place her on the chair. Instead, he lifts her lifeless looking body with ease, as he takes her up the stairs, presumably to the flat to rest properly. Swallowing deeply, you turn to the real Lucifer. He is watching you with deep interest, as if he is trying to figure out your exact feelings on the scene you have just watched.

In all honesty, you aren’t quite sure how to feel. Too much has happened. There is too much going on. Your head is pounding, you feel sick. You sold your soul. Reginald was tricked into doing the same thing — although, he’d been planning on doing it anyways, so maybe not. Either way, seeing two souls traded to the Devil, knowing now that your life is not entirely yours to live as you wish, has your head spinning. There are so many thoughts swirling, a hurricane of emotions, and you simply cannot think of anything smart or funny or witty to say.

“So that’s the moment that changed everything, then.” Is just about all you can manage, your voice faint. Really, this whole experience has been exhausting, and you’d do anything for a nap. But you are sure there is more to be known, you are certain the Devil has more to show you.

“Yes, it is.” He nods, a small smile upon his lips. You are sure, despite his immortality and wealth of experiences, he cannot truly comprehend the mix of emotions you feel right now.

Surely enough, the mirror version of him appears once more, his hazy figure striding down the stairs and across the room to fling open the door, calling out, “Reginald!”

“Your Unholiness?” Reginald sounds awful, as he awkwardly manoeuvres to the doorway, leaning against the frame.

He looks as if the ritual has taken all his energy from him, and you could swear he looks visibly older. You are most certain that there were differences within the two rituals performed. Because while your younger self collapsed into a deep sleep, her face was serene and peaceful. Reginald just looks… haggard.

“The dear girl will be out for a while. She will not remember anything of this day. And you will not tell her. She is not to know any of it, until I decide. But I would like for you to continue to teach her of our ways, encourage her in the arts of ritual magicks. I think… I think she shall grow to be one of my most wonderful subjects.” Lucifer tells him, his tone of voice uncompromising.

Internally, you’re begging Reginald to just acquiesce to his demands. But you know what happens. After all, you’ve lived it. You’ve lived it, and you know that Reginald absolutely does not continue to teach you of religion and ritual.

“I see. I shall… I shall do that.” His voice is hoarse, and you cannot tell what he is thinking. But there is a hard look within his eyes, an edge of steel. You cannot help but wonder if he is truly considering disobeying the Devil, despite being in his presence, under his watchful gaze.

“Yes, you will. Do not think for a moment I cannot sense the fact that you are most displeased with me, Reginald. After all, I have your soul. I can feel it. Do not consider disobeying me, it shall be most unpleasant for you. And please, do not interpret that as a threat. It is not. But the way our little ritual works… you cannot disobey my wishes for you without consequence. You understand?” Lucifer’s voice booms loudly, echoing, entirely out of sync. You wonder, if this is a warning for you as well.

You have, of course, sold your soul. Reginald is not alone in that. And you cannot deny that you are displeased with the Devil. Can he feel that? Does he know? Is he standing there, watching you, feeling your discontent? It’s uncomfortable to think about, to know that he can so easily read your emotions. But, what else could you expect from such a being as Lucifer? Still, you cannot deny the tension creeping through your bones, at the thought of being forced to do his bidding.

“Of course, your Unholy Majesty.” Reginald’s teeth are gritted, his voice insincere. You do not believe him. You are sure the Devil does not believe him either, both versions.

“Good. I shall be sending one of my ghouls in a few days. He’ll be watching you, most closely. Perhaps you should clear out your attic for him, hm? Give him a nice little place to live?” Lucifer’s tone is pleasant, but unwavering. There is a silent command within them, and anyone would be a fool to deny him.

You are sure this memory version of Reginald can feel the immense power emanating from him. A part of you wishes he’d listen. But, alas, you know the truth. Reginald will not follow Lucifer’s commands.

“Yes.” He nods, looking away, down to his feet.

“I’ll see you soon, Reginald. Goodbye.” With those words, a bright light flashes, blinding you entirely for a moment.

The light fades, slowly. Reginald and Lucifer — at least, the past version of him — are both gone. The office around you remains, but it is hazier than before. You can barely make out the details, their fluidity is hurting your head, so you turn to the decidedly more solid Lucifer and focus on him instead.

“Reginald didn’t listen, did he? I was sent away to school, which goes entirely against what you’ve just instructed. What happened to him?” You ask, quietly, although you already know the answer.

For you are most certain, that this is the very reason Reginald seemingly lost his mind, the very reason he died mysteriously. You were not kept under his influence. And he paid the price. Guilt floods your veins, your stomach is churning unrelentingly, you feel like the worst person in the world. No wonder Reginald considered himself damned. No wonder he considered you damned. You completely and utterly fucked everything up. For both of you. Not purposefully, but it doesn’t matter, for it is irreversible. Reginald is dead. You are damned.

“I can show you, if you’d like.” The Devil’s voice, entirely serene, cuts through your shame spiral. If he can sense how torn up you feel about this all, he’s keeping it quiet.

You nod, and his hand is instantly burning against your shoulder. His white hot touch reminds you once more, that this unfortunate sequence of events is entirely real. The room shifts, you feel as if you are falling, but nothing happens. The room is the same — no, it is not the same. You’re still in the office, that has not changed. But it is very clearly a different day, for things have moved around greatly. Books have been tossed all over the floor, papers strewn everywhere. In the centre of the chaos, is Reginald. He looks gaunt, far worse than he’d been in the last memory. There are large bags under his eyes, his tweed suit is stained. He’s exhausted. And yet, he’s manically flipping through pages of a large and ancient tome, as if desperately searching for answers. No explanation is needed for the scene in front of you. Reginald seeks answers, explanations. He is almost certainly trying to understand exactly what happens when one sells their soul to the Devil. You cannot blame him, for you are sure you’ll find yourself in a similar situation in the days to come.

There’s a loud bang from the shop floor, but Reginald does not move. He simply continues to turn page after page, murmuring words to himself. Even as a figure appears in the doorframe, his ire so strong that you can feel the fury radiating from his tense frame, Reginald does not move.

“Reginald! You complete fucking imbecile. Where is the girl? What did you do with her?” Lucifer, once again appearing as an odd apparition, voice out of sync and hazier than ever.

He’s furious, and despite the fact that this is a memory, despite the fact that you are not even there, you are terrified of his anger. He is entirely dangerous, and you are terrified for Reginald. And yet, the man in question seems entirely unfazed. You think that there has to be something wrong with him. He has to be sleep deprived to the point of madness. You spy a few empty bottles of whisky, so perhaps he is simply tired and drunk and completely out of it. Except, you’re almost certain that you can see a manic alertness within his blurry eyes. He glances up to look at Lucifer, his face stoic.

“She does not live here, your Eminence — bloody hell, what is that?” He starts, in an even tone, beginning to stand. However, something clearly startles him, and he almost falls back into the pile of papers.

You whip your head around to look back over to Lucifer. Behind him stands a ghoul, looking as strangely terrifying and uncanny as ever. Honestly, you struggle to tell them apart. They all look vaguely the same, almost-but-not-quite human with little variation between them. However, something about this one seems familiar. He’s larger than most you’ve encountered, radiating immense power… you have the sneaking suspicion that this has to be your attic ghoul. He snarls at Reginald — something you’ve never seen a ghoul do before — and it is horrifying, too many teeth, razor sharp, bared violently. It cements the fact that this is not some social call. No, the Devil is infuriated, and someone will pay dearly. That someone will be Reginald.

“That is my ghoul. The one I have assigned to you, remember? And he tells me that the girl is nowhere to be seen. In fact, all the silly little items belonging to her, that were once strewn across this place, are now conveniently missing. So, care to explain?” Lucifer’s voice is icy cold with fury, and your stomach drops.

Your mother sending you away has evidently ruined everything, and Reginald will be the one receiving the punishment for it. You wonder, if he had encouraged your mother towards that specific course of action. If he had deliberately tried to put some distance between yourself and the occult. But, regardless, you cannot change a thing. All you can do is observe with horror filled eyes, and try to hold it all together.

“I — Scamp is no longer here, I am afraid — would you keep that, that thing, away from me!” Reginald begins before scrambling back rapidly, his back to the shelves, as the ghoul stalks towards him.

He is a peculiar blur of movement, and you’re not sure if that is down to the instability of this odd dreamlike place, or if it is just how ghouls are. The ghoul comes to a halt, an inch away from Reginald, snarling like a rabid dog, teeth bared once more. His vaguely claw-like hands are holding him in place, he cannot move, cannot escape. Your uncle looks terrified, breath coming out in ragged gasps, as he tries to no avail to squirm out of the ghoul’s iron clad grasp. You are terrified, just watching the scene unfold. The facsimile Lucifer glides forward, hazily, fluidly, coming to a stop about a foot away from Reginald. His attractive and perfect face is horrific in its rage, and you come to the silent conclusion to do your utmost to never anger the Devil, ever.

“Ghouls have remarkably sharp teeth, you know. I’d hate to have him tear you to shreds. It would be such a waste of a soul. Now, tell me. Clearly, concisely, in full. Where is the girl? And before you try it, I will know if you lie. Best not test that, hm?” Lucifer growls, low and guttural, and you swear that the room is getting hotter and hotter with every passing moment, burning alongside his anger.

“Her mother decided it would be best to send her away to school, in fact, she’s already there. She’s attending a prestigious boarding school on the continent, and she shan’t be home any time soon. I believe her mother would like her to remain as far away from this city, from me, as possible. In fact, I believe a restraining order might be in the works. So, Scamp will not be returning anytime soon, unfortunately. Dreadfully sorry to be the bearer of such bad news.” Reginald finally gets out, stumbling over his words, doing his best to keep his head as far away from the snarling ghoul as he can.

He doesn’t sound all that devastated about your leaving, in all honesty. There is no edge of mourning, no dismay at the fact that he might never see you again. Perhaps he is entirely overwhelmed by fear. But you are quite sure you see a glint of defiance within his eyes, so perhaps not. Maybe he truly believes sending you away from it all is for the best, that this is his misguided attempt at doing the right thing. Except… you’ve read the diary. Surely, surely, if he had truly cared that much, he would have written that, he'd have jotted down those feelings. His writing was cold and detached and utterly unfeeling. You cannot quite understand it, and you will likely never know.

“You really have conspired against me? After selling your soul to me? You are an almighty fool, aren’t you?” Lucifer’s voice drops in volume, barely above a whisper, sending shivers down your spine. You are not alone in that, for Reginald looks entirely petrified as the Devil edges closer to him.

“I stand by my actions.” Reginald says, and you think he is entirely stupid to practically confess to it. Of course, you’re sure the Devil would be able to tell, regardless.

You cannot imagine acting in such defiance. Perhaps you are a coward. But you’re almost certain this is the end for Reginald, in some capacity or other, and it nauseates you. This, to some extent, is your fault, isn’t it?

“For now, perhaps. I am sure you will regret them in the days to come.” Lucifer’s hissed words, disjointed and out of sync, echo your inner thoughts.

“And why is that?” You’d never pictured your uncle to be the sort to fight back. He’d always been a vaguely pathetic academic, with his books and his unending knowledge. You hardly know what to make of all this, truly.

“There are benefits to selling your soul, dear Reginald. Having the Devil himself on your side, for one. But you? You’ve betrayed me and my generosity. I am not on your side, not any longer. I owe you nothing. You deserve nothing.” Lucifer practically spits at him, white eyes alight with his ire.

He turns on his heel, walking away from Reginald, beginning to pace. He hisses something, and you do not understand it, but it sounds inhumane and vaguely disconcerting. However, seemingly the ghoul can comprehend it, for he lets your uncle go, gliding a few inches backwards. Reginald lets out a sigh of relief, slumping against the shelves. For a moment, it seems as if this is all over. As if, perhaps, the Devil had just wanted to give a good warning. But then, he spins upon his heel, and you can see the calculating glint within his eyes. No, this is far from over. You watch on, deeply uncomfortable with the scene playing out in front of you, yet again.

“No, we shall have to come up with a new plan. Tell me, do you have a will in place?” Lucifer’s voice is lighter, conversational. But there is an inexplicable edge to it. He is not over his rage, he is repressing the worst of it, and you are sure there is some sort of catch yet to come.

After all, you cannot make a deal with the Devil and win, can you?

“What? Yes, of course, but —” Reginald starts, his confusion evident.

“And who gets this fine establishment, upon your death?” Lucifer turns to face him, a cunning smile spreading across his handsome lips.

“I — Scamp, naturally, she’s the only one who could ever want it, but —” Reginald is cut off once more.

“Wonderful! Oh, I love it when everything works out so nicely!” The devil claps his hands together, a satisfied look upon his face.

You glance at Reginald, who looks perplexed. You cannot deny that you are rather confused yourself, feeling as if you’re missing details. But perhaps that is simply how it works with the Devil. He is, always, ten steps ahead. But there’s a sinking feeling forming within the pit of your stomach. Wills. Death. There’s only really one place this is going, you just do not want to acknowledge it.

“You are going to prepare this place for her. Keep it in business, make sure everything is in perfect order. Enough so that even the most inexperienced idiot would find this place easy to run. And then, when the timing is right, within the next fifteen years, you are going to die. She will have to come back and I am sure that she’d love to stay, to run the little shop she remembers so fondly. What do you think?” Lucifer’s voice is rather cheerful, entirely contradicting his words. He’s telling a man, your uncle, that he’s going to die a decade from now, with bright eyes and a wide smile. Of course his expression is tempered with a sick satisfaction, but the whole thing serves only to nauseate you.

“You’re going to kill me, to bring her back here, years from now?” Reginald finally utters, entirely floored. He seemingly cannot believe it.

Unfortunately, having lived it, you can.

“Reginald, you’ve done this to yourself. I am a benevolent man. But I have limits. And I do not trust you. This ghoul of mine will be a permanent house guest, I think. Just to keep you in line. And remember, if you do anything to jeopardise this? You will make a rather pleasant bedtime snack for my dear friend here.” Lucifer threatens, and you see that defiant spark within Reginald’s eyes fade. His shoulders droop and he is a man, defeated.

And now, your uncle’s mysterious death is entirely not mysterious, and entirely heartbreaking. The oddities of it all, the way that nobody had really known the cause of death, the way the flat and the shop were perfectly prepared, the handbooks and the guides to running everything… they all finally make sense. They were designed to entice you to stay. Everything was constructed so perfectly to draw you in. That dark and twisted traitorous voice in the back of your mind begins to question whether Copia was in on this the whole time. Was he another player in the Devil’s plan? Was his role to convince you to love him, simply to make you stay long enough for Lucifer to ensnare you once more?

You’re going to be sick. You take deep, slow breaths, trying to settle your nerves and your stomach and your gut wrenching disgust at all of these horrid ideas.

Copia doesn’t love you. Your relationship is most likely another detail of this masterplan.

“I understand.” Reginald says, drawing you back to the moment, his voice barely above a whisper.

He is a broken man. You can understand it now, his descent into probable madness.

“I’m glad we are finally seeing eye to eye. Goodbye, Reginald.” The facsimile of Lucifer says, jovially, and the scene slips away.

All of it, this time. You are standing in the darkness with the Devil, his white eyes glowing. There is some sort of light source, despite the darkness, and you cannot see it. It doesn’t make sense, but you’re sure other realms — which you are convinced is what this odd dream world is — need not make sense. He’s looking at you, expectantly. There are words, tangled up in your mind, but you cannot sort through them. You do not have the energy. He seems to realise that you are entirely unable to come up with anything, still standing there in this twilight zone type of space. He smiles softly, placing a gentle hand upon your shoulder. His touch burns furiously, only serving as another reminder that this is, unfortunately, very real.

“I shall take you back now. I am sure you are most overwhelmed.” He murmurs quietly, before he begins chanting once more, barely audible.

Everything shifts, the nausea returns, you are falling and falling, faster and faster, until suddenly you are on your sofa, and it is as if you’d never left. Except, it’s been six hours, you realise, looking at the clock upon the wall in confusion. Could it have been? Surely not. You are disoriented and confused and trying to articulate the nightmare that is your thoughts, although you’re coming up with nothing.

You sold your soul to the Devil. And now everything makes sense, and now you understand absolutely nothing. It is dreadfully confusing and entirely enlightening all at once.

“So? Does everything make sense to you now?” He asks, expectantly.

Really, you don’t quite know what you’re supposed to say. Do you thank him? Yell at him? Cry? You aren’t sure.

“Mostly.” Is just about all you can manage, your entire being filled with uncomfortable tension.

“And? You have nothing to say? I do not quite believe that.” He laughs knowingly. Does he really understand you that well? You don’t think so. See, he can claim to know you, to have been watching you for an unknown amount of time, to have seen your true self within your mind. He can say all of that. But you’re pretty sure he can’t know you.

You’re getting overwhelmed. And, as you seem to do so often these days, in those fraught situations you oft land yourself in, you lash out.

“I… I don’t know what to say. What am I supposed to say? I sold my soul, thirteen years ago. And I have been scouring my mind for any reference to that day, but I cannot, for the life of me, come up with anything. This is why you brought me back, right? It’s inconvenient for one of your little human playthings to die? And now I’m just supposed to… I don’t know, do whatever it is you demand of me? I don’t know how to feel about this! You’ve dropped a fucking bomb on my life, you get that, right?” You exclaim wildly, hand gestures and all.

It’s horrifying, all of it. This huge revelation that you don’t entirely know how to process. And it’s made worse by the fact that you just yelled at the fucking Devil, the one person who has proven quite well that you should absolutely not piss off. And yet, here you are, perpetually making your circumstances worse with your little temper tantrums. Again, these repeated high pressure situations are really proving that you do not do well under duress, not at all. However, Lucifer’s calm demeanour does not shift. There is no anger there, no barely repressed rage.

“I know you must be overwhelmed, little dove. I am not the best at understanding human emotions, I will admit that up front. You are not the first to be frustrated about that. But I did not bring you back purely to do my bidding. You are of importance.” His voice is soothing, oh-so smooth and serene. But you are not so easily placated.

“What does that even mean?” You demand, exasperation evident.

“You matter. I quite like you. Copia is in love with you. I cannot let the first woman he’s ever loved die because my ghoul made an idiotic mistake.” Lucifer tells you, simply, as if those words do not hold deep significance.

You cannot breathe. You physically cannot breathe. Even if he is correct in his assumptions, even if it is true that Copia loves you — which you are deeply unsure of, considering the extent of the plans to convince you to stay here in this bookshop and this city — you do not think his feelings will last. Could he love you, knowing that you are not in possession of your own soul? You doubt it. You are already broken, far too broken for another person to truly want. This is a step too far.

“He can’t love me. Not when he finds out about this.” It is a struggle to verbalise your thoughts. Your words are barely audible. You cannot even look at Lucifer, instead staring at a mark on the coffee table that you’d never bothered to clean properly.

“Ah, insecurity. That is a human emotion I am rather glad to not experience. But I can promise you, little one, that your lover will react in the way you are anticipating. It will be fine, I assure you. You are right, that I do have plans for you. But this is not… what you witnessed, with Reginald. Our partnership is not like that. Those were two different rituals, for one. But I can assure you, you are not a meaningless pawn to me.” Lucifer tells you, in what you think might be an attempt to comfort you.

But he cannot understand the godawful heartache that you can barely verbalise. You can see it now, the moment in which Copia finds out. The look of disgust upon his face. Sure, he’s a worshipper of Lucifer, one of his biggest devotees. But to sell one’s soul… that is to lose a part of themselves. You have lost a part of yourself. Perhaps, this is why your relationships have always fallen apart. People have always been able to tell, even if they cannot comprehend exactly why, that you are truly rotted inside. Soulless and unworthy.

“I see.” Is all you can say. You’re not sure if you do see. The world is fading around the edges as you lose yourself to the panic. You cannot drag your eyes away from the spot upon the table to even look at him.

“Maybe. I think, perhaps, you need some time to sit with this. Some time without my presence. I will be back to visit you soon, little dove. We can talk about my plans for you then. But for now, perhaps get some rest, yes?” He tries again, white hot hand stroking gently at your arm. It hurts, it is grounding, but you cannot move.

The thoughts are swirling and taking over and it is all entirely too much. You do not know how to process this. Your death? That was bad enough. It would be a lie to say that you’ve come to terms with that tragic accident. But this, your lack of a soul, accidentally sold? Where do you even begin with coming to terms? You do not think there is a single person you could turn to, for you are terrified of pushing them away, of scaring them off. It is a lot to handle, and you have always been a little too much.

“I think that’s a good idea.” Is just about all you can manage.

“It is. Goodbye, my dear girl.” He pats your arm softly, and you offer a weak smile, unable to tear your eyes away to look up at his terrifying beauty.

And then, Lucifer is gone, so suddenly, it’s as if he was never there at all. Lost, utterly lost, you sink back into the old sofa cushions, and let the panic and the horrors submerge you completely.

Chapter Text

You’re staring at the clock on the wall, unable to move, a deep exhaustion settling over your body. Very little time has passed. It feels as if it has been years. The hands upon the clock are moving so slowly, barely moving at all. Creeping at the slowest of paces, tormenting you. Is time real? Is anything real? Your head is spinning, nothing is feeling as it should. You’d had a sense of how the world worked, and it was entirely corrupted in a matter of misplaced hours. You’d been gone for six. It had felt like less. Time has felt wonky since returning from that odd dreamscape of purposefully lost memories. You’d just gotten used to the intangibility of that odd world, and now everything feels a little too much. Too solid. Too fixed. Too slow. Everything is so utterly wrong that it hurts, it physically hurts. It shouldn’t, for there is no reason or cause. But fuck, if this horrifying experience doesn’t hurt more than dying. You don’t remember that, the memory forever lost to the abyss. Coming back was petrifying, but dying was blissful ignorance. You’re stuck with today’s godawful discovery for the rest of your days. There is something about you that is — for the lack of a better word, because you cannot find adequate words for any of this, you lack the vernacular to even understand it all properly — wrong, will always be wrong, something you cannot fix.

It’s barely even been a half hour of this, of being entirely paralysed by panic, staring silently and the clock on the wall and struggling to process Lucifer’s revelation. You blink. The hand ticks by, painfully slow. You cannot find the right words or feelings, you cannot force the knowledge inside your head to make sense. So you sit, and you stare, as the seconds pass sedately. Time is moving, you know that. You can see it, even if it feels inhumanely slow. For you, at least, everything feels frozen. You feel frozen, unable to move on, mind circling back and around to today’s discovery. Are you supposed to just accept this change and move on? Are you supposed to act as if nothing has happened? But then, really, nothing has happened. Your life is exactly as it has been for the past thirteen years. There is only one key difference; now you know the truth.

You are a human without a soul. It’s a foreign concept. You’d never really thought about the soul, not properly, not in such a concrete way. It had never been anything more than an intangible idea that you’d never connected much with, for you’d never needed to think about it. Honestly, you’d never even considered the soul to be something that human beings possessed. But you’ve been given confirmation of their existence, in the worst possible way, by learning that yours had been stolen from your girlhood self, snatched from you before you could truly understand the gravity of the situation you found yourself in. It is horrific, to know that you had inadvertently ruined yourself at such a young age. You might not have been born the abomination that your mother saw you as, but you turned yourself into one. And surely, this lack of a soul has affected you. As you sit there, eyes trained on the clock, watching time pass, you are certain of this fact. For perhaps the pervasive sense of isolation you’ve felt throughout your life makes sense. The strangeness and the odd emptiness you’ve known for so many years has a reason behind it. It is no wonder that you’ve felt a profound sense of loneliness over the years, one you’ve always struggled to explain. It is no wonder that you have been deemed so entirely unloveable, so entirely unwanted.

Because what is a soul, if not the very essence of one’s being, if not the very thing that makes a person? You’d be the first to admit that you are no scholar of the subject. But your most rudimentary knowledge of it informs you of one clear fact: a soul is one’s humanity. And you, it seems, have been bereft of a soul for half of your life. The day you’d met Papa, he’d wondered aloud if there was something demonic about you. You know now that he was wrong. There is nothing demonic about you. There is just… an absence of the very thing that makes you human. Perhaps you were always supposed to end up here. Perhaps this was predestined. You do not know. But you are well aware that you do not belong to yourself, but to the Devil, and he is in control of your life. Especially now that he has made himself known to you. How the whole soul-selling thing actually works is beyond you, but you are well aware of how poorly things worked out for your uncle. Driven to madness, ending up dead. This is not the life that you wanted. You’d wanted peace. You’d wanted a peaceful existence with Copia. You, with your bookshop. Him, with his clerical career. Will you ever be able to have that?

It hits you then, as you mourn the peaceful life with your love that you will never be able to live. Copia. You’d told him you’d be by this evening, and it is somehow already nearing five o’clock. It’s odd, the passage of time. It feels as if weeks have passed since you promised to visit. Yet, it has only been a day, for you promised him yesterday, on your dreamy Sunday morning together. That dreamy Sunday morning, where you’d tentatively, shyly, mentioned the idea of a life together. He’d seemed so supportive of it. You’d believed him, truly believed him, when he’d smiled and suggested building a nice, quiet life together. How quickly things change.

Because you’ll have to tell him, about that pesky lack of a soul. He’s been searching tirelessly for an answer to the oddities that have surrounded you since you arrived at the bookshop. You know, even though he does not say, that it is something that causes him concern. Copia is busy enough, stressed enough, as it is, without having to worry about your problems. You’ll have to tell him. The idea makes you sick. You are almost certain of his response. He will not want you, not like this. You are already an angst-ridden mess, filled with inner turmoil and insecurities. To add the lack of a soul to that… how could you expect him to stay? You are already too much to deal with. There is little you can offer him, when you are obliged to do whatever the Devil requires. Who would want to put up with that? Copia is a wondrously brilliant man. But you are certain that as much as he likes you, as deeply as he desires you, he will not want you like this. Nobody could. You’re no love expert. But love is of hearts and of souls. You are soulless. Can you have a soulmate, if you are not in possession of a soul?

Or, as the traitorous dark and twisted voice in the recesses of your mind reminds you, perhaps he was never all that interested in you in the first place. Lucifer spent over a decade preparing for your eventual return. Whatever he wants from you, it is clear that he needs you here, in this city. Everything was so perfectly orchestrated. Reginald died at the most convenient time, leaving you his shop right as your final term of teaching ended. You had arrived to a perfectly prepared flat, to an unusually well organised shop, to instruction manuals and databases that made everything seem as if it was meant to be. That dark and twisted part of your mind whispers the most wretched of thoughts, suggesting that perhaps your meeting with Copia was not simply luck or fate or predestined meeting between two souls. After all, you are a soulless being, undeserving of love. Was Copia, who the Devil seems to know all too well, another part of this plan? Was his sole purpose throughout your interactions to convince you to stay here, to make sure that you did not sell up and move far away? Has everything he’s done, every kind word, every kiss and touch and glance, been a part of a larger scheme? You cannot fathom it. He’d have to be the most remarkable of actors. Or maybe he just desired you, and used your obvious feelings for him to get what he wanted. He’d not be the first man to use you like that.

Your stomach is churning at these most unpleasant thoughts. The hands upon the clock are still ticking away. If you are going to go to him, you should leave soon. You want to see him, desperately. You love him, more than anything. You want to spend forever with him. That seems like a fleeting pipe dream, at this point. But perhaps you can have one last night of blissful ignorance, one last night pretending, before you tell him, before it ends. One last night, that you can reminisce on, alone and cold in your own bed, after he casts you aside. A part of you, the most pathetic little part of your brain, wonders if he’d still desire you, regardless of your lack of a soul, regardless of the fact that you are some odd aberration. Copia may not be able to love you, when there is nothing to love, when you have no soul to match his own. But that does not mean he will stop desiring you, surely? And fuck, if it’s not the most pathetic thing you’ve ever thought. But you’d take meaningless sex, if it meant you could still have him. You are selfish, oh-so selfish, the greediest of women. But you would take whatever crumb of affection he’d offer most gratefully. You should not place so much onto another’s shoulders. It is unhealthy. But some days, you think he might be the only thing keeping you afloat.

You might have a horrifying lack of self worth. But you’re sure none of it really matters anyway. You are nothing more than a puppet, unknowingly manipulated by the Devil’s hand. Does it matter, what you choose to do, when you’re seemingly being steered in a specific direction, when every decision you make is seemingly pre-planned?

The hands on the clock tick by, seemingly faster now. You have to make a choice; stay away, go to him. There’s no decision to make, not really. There was never any real chance of you staying away. You crave him, always. Even if tonight is the end of it all, you want one more night with him. You’ll take what you can get, at this point.

Sighing, you finally pull yourself off the sofa, moving for the first time in what feels like hours. Your body aches, exhaustion runs bone deep. But you cannot be deterred, for you are desperate to see him, to see Copia. You look a mess, you are all too aware of that fact as you quickly wash your face, as you rush to try and look at least a little more presentable. A new change of clothing, nice underwear, a swipe of makeup. But as much as you try, in the short amount of time you allow yourself, you cannot rid yourself of the deep despair that has anchored itself to your very being. It’s evident in your posture, your visage, your eyes. Staring at yourself in the mirror, attempting to disguise it, does very little. No matter how many fake smiles you attempt, nothing looks natural, nothing tempers the clear devastation radiating from your body. There is nothing you can do about it, except hope that he will not notice how utterly ruined this day has left you. Of course, that is a ludicrous wish; Copia is so deeply observant, he practically knows what you’re thinking in any given moment, he knows you better than you know yourself.

Trying, regardless of how futile it is, to shake off the deep depression, you begin the walk to the ministry. The streets are quiet this evening, and for that you are grateful. You are in no mood to see people, to be seen by people. It only rubs salt in the wound. Everyone else is normal, living their lives Lucifer-free. Or perhaps it’s somewhat self-obsessed, to dismiss everyone around you as normal. Doesn’t every single person in this world have their own struggles, their own ups and downs, their own trials and tribulations, to work through? Perhaps you are vaguely narcissistic, to write everyone else off as normal, to consider yourself different. But you are most certain that nobody you could pass in the streets tonight is a soulless being whose life is now tied to Lucifer. Nobody else here will, eventually, have some great task demanded of them by the Dark One. You are, as always, so painfully alone in that fact.

The ministry hallways are similarly empty as you enter through the side door, making your way through the long corridors towards Copia’s room. A part of you is apprehensive, dreading the possibility of running into Sister Imperator. Whatever it is you have done to piss her off, you are unaware of it. But you are almost certain that should she see you roaming the halls, she’d march you out of the ministry without hesitation, regardless of the fact that Copia and Papa have both deemed your presence here acceptable. For once, for the first time in a while, luck is on your side. You make it to Copia’s chambers without a single soul seeing you. Or at least, that you know of — you’re sure there are ghouls lurking, just out of sight, observing you with their uncanny dead stares. Do ghouls have souls? Or are they soulless entities, called upon from hell to serve the church and to serve Lucifer. You are unsure, uneducated, but it does not matter, you suppose. Nothing really matters.

Letting yourself into Copia’s chambers, you are both disappointed and relieved to see that he is not there, that you are alone. You want him, so desperately that it aches. A part of you needs him to be here, so that you can collapse into his tender embrace, so that all the hurt and the suffering and the pain can slowly fade away into the ether as you breathe in his warm scent of frankincense and old leather. You want him to hold you to his chest, you want to feel his heart beat against you as he murmurs soft Italian words into your ear, softly comforting you. At the same time, you’re relieved he’s not present. It is for the best, you think, that you have a few moments to collect yourself. It’s a long shot, but you hope a little time to yourself will allow you to push down all the terror and the devastation and the pre-emptive feelings of loss. While a part of you craves the comfort only he can provide you, another part does not want to burden him with your problems. You do not want to push him away. You want him to want you, most ardently. Even if tonight is the last time he will.

But as you sling your bag down onto the coffee table, as you remove your shoes and look around, you’re starting to wonder if this was a terrible mistake. You shouldn’t have come, you should have stayed away. Fuck, are you that desperate for the tiniest scraps of affection, that you’ll come to Copia’s chambers, despite knowing that your brief relationship is effectively over? Or it will be, as soon as he finds out the truth about you. Wrapping your arms around your waist, trying — failing — to provide yourself with some sort of comfort, you try to figure out what exactly you should do to fill the time between now and Copia’s eventual return. You have no idea what time he’s usually done with work. He’s expecting you, surely? Unless he has somehow, inexplicably, found out about your soullessness and is standing you up, waiting for you to get the hint that he does not want you. But no, surely. Copia is the effective communicator within your relationship. He’s a closed book, for everything other than his feelings towards you. Surely he’d tell you, if this was over. He would be a decent enough man to not leave you hanging.

Still, his absence is sorely felt, it is profound, his chambers have never felt so empty and hollow. Wandering to the shelves, you run your fingertips over the endless array of books, in various languages and of various ages, wondering if perhaps reading would provide a worthy distraction. But you let out a great yawn, and the deep tiredness settled within your bones makes itself known once more. You are far too exhausted to read. Perhaps you should prepare yourself for his return; perhaps you should strip, drape his silk sheets over your naked body in the most seductive of ways, ready to seduce him upon his return. You have to prove that you are of some worth to him, after all, soul or not. But you cannot guarantee when he will return, if he will return. You could be sat there, looking like a fool, for the longest of times. He could return with company, which would be most embarrassing for you both. And honestly? If you climbed into his bed, with its comfortable mattress and silk sheets, you’d fall asleep, instantly. You’re exhausted.

You wonder if it’s too much of an imposition to take a nap. To fall asleep one last time, wrapped up in burgundy sheets, surrounded by the familiar scent of frankincense, with the hope of waking in his arms one final time. Sighing deeply, you know which option sounds best. The fatigue of your hangover combined with the day’s trauma has entirely devastated you. A nap sounds heavenly, a brief and most wondrous escape from the horrors of your life. Entirely drained, you slouch on over to the bedroom, carelessly stripping as you go. Your sweatpants, your t-shirt, both are abandoned at the foot of the bed. You slip between silk sheets, dressed only in your underwear, curling up in the spot Copia would usually sleep. Eyes fluttering shut, you can almost pretend that he is there, that he is with you. Sighing deeply, you let your most delusional dreams — of being wrapped up in his arms, of your happy future together, of sweet kisses and soft touches — drag you into temporary oblivion.

The deep exhaustion works in your favour, for you are too tired to dream, offering you a brief reprieve from the horrors of the day. There is nothing, and for a moment, it is bliss. But, all too soon, you are drifting awake once more. You try to fight it, try to recapture the sweet numbness of sleep, but you cannot. For, you drowsily realise, you are no longer alone. The room is warmer, the scent of frankincense intensified. You can feel cool leather fingertips trailing over the exposed skin of your arm, you can hear barely audible words in a low and familiar hum. You blink slowly, shifting slightly so that you can gaze up at him. Copia has returned — recently, judging by the fact that he is still fully dressed in his usual black cassock. He is not under the covers, you realise, for you have most selfishly cocooned yourself within them, as if wrapping yourself in his sheets was the closest substitute for being wrapped in his arms. Ignoring the sharp pang in your chest you think might be heartbreak, you take in his appearance, knowing this might just be the last time.

Weariness is evident upon his handsome visage. Copia is tired, so much so that he has not noticed that you have awoken, that you are watching him closely. He’s clearly had the longest of days, for his usually pristine clerical face paint is smudged around the edges of his eyes, faded upon his top lip. You try to count each freckle, forcing yourself to commit each one to memory. Each wrinkle, you catalogue lovingly. His neatly groomed moustache and sideburns, the way a strand of hair — usually so perfectly in place — has fallen forward. You have to fight the urge to lean up, to kiss all your favourite parts of his distinguished face, to press soft kisses to the freckle upon his bottom lip, to the tip of his nose. It is devastating, to realise that this might be the final time you can study him like this, to realise that you may never have such an opportunity again. You exhale sharply at the thought, trying to control your emotions, trying not to disturb him.

But he is most attentive, as always, and his eyes snap up to yours, his hand stilling upon your forearm. You swallow deeply as you finally look in his eyes once more, his gorgeously striking, mismatched eyes. You recognise the swirl of emotion within them. Copia is tired, yes. But there is a hint of something, something you almost want to call a desperate longing. You have to ignore that, for the idea that he cares is a most dangerous one. No, you are focused on that familiar lust-filled expression, he wants you, and that fills you with relief. You might feel like some disgusting soulless being, but he does not see you as such. Not yet. You revel in feeling wanted, in being desired by him. That is what you so crave from this last night with him, for you do not think you can accept kindness from him. These final moments with him, you think, are not supposed to be filled with soft caresses and tenderness. You want him to desire you, you want him to take what he wants from you, you want him to use you for his own pleasure. The idea of him being gentle with you, of saying things that could so easily be mistaken for love is entirely agonising. This is, in a way, a goodbye to your relationship, for that door will close, and you know it. He cannot love you, that you are certain of. But — and you are horribly selfish and pathetic for even thinking it — you can offer him sex. You don’t need for him to find meaning in it. As long as he wants you in his bed, nothing else matters. You’d let him use you however he saw fit, if it meant you could be with him, even if it is only in the most carnal of ways.

“You are awake now, hm?” Copia smiles softly, contentedly, as he begins to trail his gloved fingertips across your bare skin once more.

“Sorry for falling asleep.” You let out a deep sigh, your eyes fluttering shut for a moment, as you relish in his touch.

“I do not mind finding you asleep in my bed, topolino. In fact, it is a rather pleasant discovery after a long day. To return to my chambers and find a beautiful woman in my bed, waiting for me… no man could be disappointed with that, could he now?” Your eyes open once more as he speaks, desire evident across his beautiful face.

You ignore the wonder and the longing colouring his tone. Those are emotions you are not equipped to handle, not right now. Instead, you focus on the fact that he wants you, that he needs you. So, you attempt a coy smile, shifting your body closer to his, letting the bedsheets fall away from your body. Copia’s eyes drift down to your breasts, lingering upon the lingerie you’d decided upon. His breathing turns ragged, he swallows deeply, looking back up with a barely restrained hunger. It is a good thing, you think, that he is so caught up in his arousal that he has not yet registered the sadness that has settled within the space your soul is supposed to sit. For that you are glad. All you want is to be wrapped around him, all you want is to please him.

“No, Cardinal, I suppose not.” You try to keep your tone light, flirtatious, as you slowly let your hands trail up his broad chest. They are trembling, slightly, and you hope he does not notice.

You are sure he won’t. For, as always, your usage of his title elicits a most visceral reaction, with any restraint he has quickly dissipating.

“Cazzo, ti voglio.” His voice is low, filled with arousal. The way he looks at you, with such an intensity behind those mismatched eyes, immediately sparks a raging inferno within you.

And that fire is only made all the more insistent by the fact that you know this may be the very last time. Copia’s gloved hands are instantly upon you, sliding across your bare skin. He draws soft whimpers from you as he cups your breasts, as his hands glide further down to settle firmly upon your waist, before pulling your body against his own. You can feel his erection through his robes, pressing insistently into your hips. It is so deeply wondrous, to feel wanted. Even if this is the last time, even if you are only good for sex. But you have to be in control of this, you need to prove that you are of some worth to him. Gently, you nudge at him, and he quickly realises what you want from him. He sits up, pulling you into his lap. Copia is still fully dressed, a ludicrous amount of buttons creating a barrier between the two of you. That desperate need for him, for his touch, is burning furiously, your thoughts are racing all too fast, spurred on by overwhelming arousal and heartbreak. You have to take a moment, to think about how best to get him naked, the quickest way for those robes — you’ve never hated an article of clothing more than in this moment — to be off his body, without giving up your position within his lap.

But that pause is your mistake. For it gives him time to pay attention to more than just your body, to more than just his own burning desire. You had hoped he would be too distracted to notice it, that lingering sadness that so fiercely haunts you. But this is Copia, who knows you so intimately, who knows you almost as well as you know yourself. Really, it should not be a surprise, that he notices the deep rooted sorrow within you.

“Amore? What is wrong, has something happened?” His hands cease their explorations of your body, he is looking at you with such a genuine concern that it makes you feel physically ill.

You cannot talk to him about this, not yet. You cannot. The idea of telling him that you’ve sold your soul, that you are only here because the Devil has unknown plans for you, that you cannot give him that peaceful and pleasant life he wants and so truly deserves… it makes you sick, you feel bile rising up within you. You swallow, breaking eye contact, looking at the myriad buttons upon his robes, trying to get ahold of yourself. Crying, breaking down, is not an option. Repressing everything, trying to numb all of the horror soaked emotions deep within you is hard, but you have to shut it down. You do not want to cry. You want him to fuck you, you want him to make you his, even if it’s only for the briefest of moments. You want him to remind you that for at least a little while, you were deserving of his affections. You don’t want to tell him any of this. You just want him to fuck you, you just want to show him how much you care for him.

“I’m fine, Copia, really.” You manage to choke out. It is unconvincing. His face softens even more, a gloved hand gently coming to cup your cheek. You close your eyes for the briefest of moments as he brushes his thumb gently against your skin, trying to commit the sensation to memory.

“Please, if something is wrong, if you do not want to, please say. If you would like, I will let you rest. We can talk about whatever it is that is bothering you.” Copia implores, softly, tenderly, and it is entirely torturous.

What you would like, what you need, is him, in every possible way. You find yourself wishing he was a lesser man, less concerned about you, more focused on chasing his own pleasure. You are desperate to please him, to watch his ever present control falter as he loses himself in the act. It is all you have to offer him.

“Or, we could work off our frustrations together. You look awfully frustrated, amore. Was it a long, hard, day of work?” You brush it off, teasing him, trailing your fingertips along the many buttons of his cassock, coming to a pause as you reach his straining erection. You lean closer to him, lips grazing against his ear, as you whisper, “Let me make you feel good. I want you.”

Your hands linger, palming his cock, and you hear him let out a shaky groan. Copia wants you, he does. His grip upon your waist tightens, as you pull back slightly so that you can see his face. He is a little flushed, and you know you’ve won. He will not push you to talk, not yet.

“Cazzo. Amore, per favore, let me take care of you. You might deny it, but I know you, I know something is not right.” His voice is ragged, he lets out a low groan as you tilt your hips forward, pressing against his erection once more.

The idea of him being so tender with you is sickening. This is not supposed to be about you, you are sick of things being about you. All you want is to worship him, to show him how deeply you crave him. You push away his concerns once again, pushing away everything other than your arousal for him.

“Hm, yeah. Something isn’t right. You’re still wearing all those clothes.” Your playful tone is probably contradicted by the dead look in your eyes. There’s only so much of your grief that you can hide.

“La mia adorata, I —” Copia sighs, evidently torn, but you have no interest in his kindness.

“I want you. Please. Please. This is what I want.” You’re begging, pleading, fixing him with a wide eyed stare as you attempt to convey how fine you are. You aren’t fine. Not at all. But he doesn’t need to know that, for the problem does not lie with him. You are your own worst enemy, the root cause of everything wrong in your life.

He eyes you carefully, warily, as if he’s trying to gauge your mental state. You cannot handle his gentle care, the clear concern within his eyes. It hurts, agonisingly so, it makes you want to scream, it would hurt less. So instead, you lean in and press your lips to his. It’s a desperate kiss. Messy, open mouthed kisses, trying to convey the tumultuous emotional state you’re in. Copia reciprocates almost immediately, kissing back with equal force. Your hands are woven into his hair, holding his head to yours, giving him no room to pull away. Not that he wants to — his gloved hands, warm against your bare skin, are tightening, pulling you ever closer to his body. You grind yourself against him, smiling as he moans between his frenetic kisses. He wants you. He wants you. Your underwear is soaked, the inferno burning at your core is reaching a fever pitch, you are desperate for his touch. But this isn’t about you. This is about him, about pleasing him, and he is wearing far too many clothes.

Hastily, you tear your hands from his hair, pulling away slightly so that you can see what you are working with. Buttons, too many buttons, separate you from him, and it is unforgivable. As you begin to fumble with them, your hands still trembling slightly, pulling them undone at a far slower pace than you would like, Copia’s hands come up to join yours. His movements are fluid, well-practised, as he rapidly begins to unbutton the cassock. You slip, most unwillingly, from your seat upon his lap, watching as he smoothly removes his clerical robes, as he quickly folds them and places them upon the floor. Your eyes do not leave his, as he removes his shirt, his trousers, his underwear. He goes to take off the gloves, but you interject sharply.

“Not the gloves. Keep those on.” You grimace internally at how desperate, how needy, you sound.

“Sì, sì. If you would like it.” Copia’s eyes widen slightly, his lips parted, as he breathes out his response, nodding slightly.

As much as you adore those gloves, as often as you’ve fantasised about him wearing them as he touches you, the feel of the leather brushing against your clit, that is not why you’ve asked him to remove them. You are sure that if you feel the tender caresses of his fingertips against your skin, you will break into a million pieces, shatter completely, be entirely wrecked. This is protection, a thin layer of leather to protect you from wholly ruining this for him, for yourself.

Copia sits back on the bed, almost entirely naked, his mismatched eyes filled with lust. You try to ignore the tinge of concern. You try not to think about how this might be it, the final night you spend with him. He gestures for you to come closer and you oblige instantly, settling yourself upon his lap. Almost immediately, his gloved hand comes to rest upon your jaw, guiding your lips to his. This time, his kiss is soft, it is slow, it is sweet, and it hurts bitterly. You have to pull away from it, before it breaks you. Instead, you focus on committing every sensation to memory. Trailing your fingertips across his rugged chest, you attempt to memorise all of it, his soft skin, the coarse hairs, the warmth he radiates. Every moan as you grind down against his cock, the sound of his breath, the thud of his heartbeat. You have to remember every moment of it, just in case.

His gloved hands slowly wander lower as he draws intricate patterns across your skin, slowly reaching your underwear, beginning to dip below. Copia’s fingertips brush against your clit, and you want so badly to let him touch you, to make you forget about everything entirely. But his touches are so gentle, so caring, that it is heart wrenchingly agonising, and you have to make it stop. Was this a bad idea? Was convincing him to have sex with you the wrong decision? Should you have simply curled up in his warm embrace and cried, knowing that you would never have him again?

You need to be in control. Of this devolving situation, of your tumultuous emotions. Grabbing his wrist, you pull his hand away.

“Not yet, Cardinal.” You tell him, as you shift yourself off his lap.

His brow furrows momentarily, he watches you with intrigue, as if you are a puzzle he can’t quite solve. You’re sure you must be acting strangely to him, for you are usually so greedy for his every touch, so utterly selfish when it comes to him. But you do not want to take, for you cannot bear the gentleness that informs his every move. No, you want to show him how good you are, that you are worth at least something to him. His intensely mismatched eyes are locked upon yours as you slowly grasp his length, stroking it languidly as you bring your mouth to him. You watch his every reaction as closely as you can, laser focused on his every response to your touch. The way his breath hitches as you press a soft kiss to his tip, the low moan as you drag your tongue over his head, how his eyes roll back as you suck him slowly into your mouth. His gloved hands are gripping the burgundy bed sheets tightly, and you wish they were intertwined within your hair instead. There is a sense of restraint within his actions, the way he attempts to hold himself back. Copia does not want to hurt you, he wants this to be gentle, he wants to take care of you, even now. You wish he would not. That dark and twisted voice buried in the deep recesses of your mind almost wants him to hurt you, want him to snap his hips forwards, to wrap his hands within your hair and fuck your throat unrelentingly. But he doesn’t. He lets you take control, as you take as much of his length into your mouth as you can, stroking what you cannot. Despite his refusal to let go of his restraint, to lose control, you are certain he is slowly coming undone. Copia groans as you swallow him down, breath ragged, and you are sure he is close.

But then, his hands let go of the sheets, reaching to softly stroke at your cheeks. Copia proceeds to remove himself from your willing mouth, pulling you up to his lap once more. You are confused, you are hurt. Were you not good enough for him? Was it bad? Is there something wrong with you, has he figured it out, does he no longer want you? Doubts are swirling, panic is rising. His fingertips are trailing over your body, back down to your underwear, pushing it aside, gloved fingers slowly entering into you, slowly fucking you. But you cannot focus on it, you are starting to panic. He does not seem to realise that your shallow breathing is for an entirely different reason, that you can barely feel his leather encased fingers within you. You can barely feel anything at all, aside from a deep rooted fear. He doesn’t want you, does he? You cannot keep him.

“Voglio sborrare dentro di te.” He murmurs against your skin, as he begins to press soft kisses to the sensitive skin of your neck. It would usually drive you crazy. It does nothing for you.

For the first time, you find yourself hating the way he slips into Italian in these moments.

As he pushes himself into you, you’re barely paying attention. You love him. You love him so fucking much, that it hurts, it physically hurts, and you’re going to lose that. He held back, he didn’t want you. Did you ever mean anything to him? Are you simply convenient, an assignment from the Devil? He’s thrusting up into you, and it should feel incredible, you should feel wanted. His touches are so tender, the way he holds your body to his, the way his lips are moving against your neck as he whispers to you. You’re losing control. No, not losing. Lost. You’ve lost control. You’re so close to tears, and you’re certain Copia is entirely wrapped up in the moment, entirely unaware, for your body is reacting as it should, soft whimpers escaping your lips, your hips moving in tandem with his.

“Satana empio, you are so beautiful. Sono pazzamente innamorato di te.” His breath is ragged, you are sure he is close, you know he is. Are you? It’s hard to tell, for your body and your mind seem to be working on two separate wavelengths, not communicating at all.

But then, he moves his head from the crook of your neck, and drops a kiss upon the centre of your throat. On the smooth and unblemished surface there, where the flesh should be torn and scarred and ruined.

It’s a simple kiss. It breaks you entirely.

In an instant, your body seems to catch up with your mind. You are sobbing, uncontrollably sobbing. Hard and guttural, your entire body shaking with the force of it. Everything is entirely overwhelming; your death, your lack of a soul, the impending end of your relationship, the impending loss of the only person who’s ever truly cared. And fuck, if it isn’t entirely mortifying, to be uncontrollably and convulsively weeping while Copia’s cock is rapidly softening within you. He’s frozen, unmoving, for a fraction too long. You are utterly humiliated, but you cannot move. You simply cling to him. Wrapping your arms tight around his neck, trying to take what little comfort you can find from his warm body. It is disgustingly selfish, and you are entirely loathsome for not immediately removing yourself from this situation.

Finally, it is Copia who makes the decision to move. He slips himself from you, shifting your body to sit more comfortably within his lap. His formerly firm grip, arm wrapped tightly around your waist, loosens. It is as if, with unspoken words, he is giving you the opportunity to disentangle yourself from him, to put whatever distance you need between the two of you. Distance, however, is the last thing you want, the last thing you need. The more masochistic part of your mind wishes he’d ignore your emotional state, that he’d simply continue to fuck you through it, taking whatever pleasure he wants from you. But you’ve killed the mood spectacularly. Instead of moving away, as you most probably should, you only tighten your vice-like grip around his neck, dropping your head to rest upon his shoulder. The unrelenting sobbing continues, as you hold yourself as close to him as physically possible, selfishly comforted by the softness of his body and the warmth of his skin. It is wrong of you, you should leave. But you cannot leave, and you cannot move.

All your body is seemingly capable of is weeping. The grief you had so painstakingly bottled up, that you had hidden away in the deepest recesses of your soulless body, could not stay hidden it seems. You had built a wall to hold in the overwhelming grief, but it has crumbled completely, impossible to piece back together. Hell, you don’t even know where the pieces are. You have fallen apart, and you will never be whole again. And as much as you want to stop this, as mortifying as it all is, you can do nothing but let the gut wrenching emotional waves crash over you. Copia must find this all entirely confusing, he must find you entirely ridiculous, a pitiful mess. But he cradles you gently within his arms, stroking softly at your skin.

It is as if he cares. Could he care? Is it an act?

Your thoughts about it all are a tumultuous tangle that you cannot quite tease out. What is real, what isn’t? What is delusion, what is reality? There are no answers. Just heartbreak and insurmountable grief. There are things you would like to say to Copia, apologies you must make. But you lack the words. You cannot find them. You cannot even move, cannot even look up to see his face, cannot gauge his own feelings about this mess. Or, no. That last one is untrue. For his breathing is ragged, his heart is pounding against you, his bare hands — you’d not noticed the removal of his gloves — have a slight tremor to them as he brushes soft patterns against your skin. Now that you’re paying more attention to his movements, trying to piece things together between each painful sob, you notice he is murmuring softly. The words are barely audible over your crying, not all of them in English. His voice is low, thick with emotion, wavering slightly as he whispers. Copia is comforting you softly, you realise. Trying to reassure you, repeatedly apologising. Blaming himself. He is blaming himself for your instability, he believes he is the cause of your tears.

It only, inadvertently, makes the situation worse. For his sweet words are instantly soured by the knowledge that you have fucked this up so greatly. He is hurting, blaming himself, and it is your fault. Sex was all you had to offer him, because your soulless being cannot possibly give him the love he deserves. But Copia could not want to have sex with you again, not after this. You cannot even please him, you cannot get him off, you’re so disgustingly selfish, making every encounter about yourself. You’ve destroyed any chances of keeping some sort of relationship with him going with your inability to regulate your emotional state.

That realisation only makes it hurt more, makes the tears fall harder. They are an unstoppable force, and you have to wait for them to run dry. Time passes, you do not know how much. Minutes or hours. You stay there, wrapped around Copia, letting him hold you close, body trembling as you cry into his neck. He treats you with such kindness, more than you deserve, allowing your outpouring of grief to continue freely. Eventually, as all things must, your crying falters, stops. Sobs subsiding to slow and shaky breaths as you try, hopelessly, to find some sense of composure. Yet, you do not move. For the most part, it is because your body is utterly exhausted. But you cannot deny that, in part, it is because you find such comfort in having his body pressed against your own. You cannot deny that moving means you will finally be able to see his face, that you are reluctant to see discomfort marring his handsome visage. You do not want to be faced with the reality that you are too much for him, a burden to be dealt with.

Copia, however, is as observant as ever. He is the one to pull back, warm hands splayed across the bare skin of your spine, stroking softly, gently forcing you to look at him. Unwillingly, you drag your eyes to his face. His eyes are filled with a tender concern, with a gut wrenching sense of heartbreak. And, naturally, confusion. He looks as if he is desperately trying to figure you out, to figure out how he has hurt you. Of course, he hasn’t. This is not about him, and you wish you could tell him so. But the words are impossible to reach, intangible, ever out of your grasp.

“Would you like to talk about this yet, tesorino?” Copia watches you carefully as he speaks, searching your eyes for any hint of an answer to his unspoken questions.

Your lips part, you try to find some sort of adequate explanation for your momentary lapse of sanity. But you cannot find the words. All you can do is gaze at him, hoping he will understand that the vernacular you are so desperately searching for is missing, that every fragment of your mind is overwhelmed and lost, that if you try to speak you will not make sense, that you will be a tearstained wreck once more. And of course, Copia understands. He knows you so well, that the words are so often superfluous. You do not need to tell him that you cannot speak of it yet, for he knows. Those mismatched eyes of his soften, more than you’d thought possible.

Humming softly, he turns away, looking around the bed. He is still holding you to his warm body, but he is searching for something. Awkwardly, one handedly, he grabs the bed sheet and draps it around your shoulders, around his own. It brings some warmth to your numb body; you had not noticed how cold you’d become, that you were practically shivering against him. Seemingly satisfied, Copia gently rests a hand upon the back of your head, cradling you to his body once more. You cannot help let out a small sigh, a tension you’d not realised you were holding draining slowly from your tired body. The silence between you lingers, but it is not terribly oppressive. If this is the last time he will comfort you, then you will have to make the most of it, pay attention to all the details. The beating of his heart, the sound of his barely audible breathing.

“Perhaps, topolino, I shall tell you about my day instead, hm? It was a frustrating one, I suppose. It is my turn to lead our midweek mass, you see, and I am woefully unprepared. Perhaps you would like to attend, sì? I would enjoy seeing your face in the crowd, I think. But anyway, I thought it best to take the morning to write my sermon, only to find myself interrupted many a time with the many emergencies of the day. First, naturally, the ghouls…” Copia begins to speak softly, slowly, as he holds you.

As he speaks, you let your eyes flutter closed, paying attention to his story of interruptions and disasters and misbehaving ghouls. It takes a moment to realise that you are crying once more, silent tears slipping down your cheeks and pooling upon his skin. He pauses, for the briefest of moments, dropping a soft kiss upon your temple before continuing his tale.

“And, of course, Terzo had to cause his own chaos. He shows up at my office for lunch, with a stack of overdue paperwork he doesn’t quite understand, begging for my assistance. I found myself forging his signatures across these documents, ones that Sister Imperator demands he completes each month. They are entirely unnecessary, have no meaning whatsoever, but we are trying to keep the peace, so they must be completed…” Copia’s voice is level, soft and gentle, although he cannot help the tinge of frustration colouring his words.

Words that you are perhaps less focused upon than you should be. For, while his story is comforting, while it is nice to direct some of your attention to less devastating matters, you are trying deeply to commit this to memory. To be comforted by him, despite the fact that he is entirely lost, that he does not know what is wrong… it is as close to being loved as you have ever gotten.You want to remember this wonder of feeling as if he cares so deeply for you, forever. After he leaves you to be alone once more. The warmth he radiates, the softness of his touch, the rich scent of frankincense and old leather, his accented voice, his occasional slip into his mother tongue. The feeling of his hands upon your bare skin, woven into your hair. These are moments you’d like to never forget.

Eventually, once more, your tears run dry. Eventually, Copia runs out of things to say. There are only so many things that can happen within a day, after all. You are cried out, emotionally exhausted, hollow within. There is a silence lingering between you, but you are loath to break it, to destroy what little comfort you have left. Glancing down at the burgundy silk sheets surrounding you — for you cannot bear to look him in the eye — you wonder if they also remind him of your blood, of that terrible night within the bookshop.

But eventually, you know that you cannot prolong this any more. It is unfair to him, more so than this has already been. You pull away, glancing at his distinguished and distressed face. He hides it, as well as he can, but he is upset, concerned. He is watching you carefully, clearly trying to figure out the best way to bring up the subject you have been evading since waking.

“Topolino, please. Help me understand this. I… was this my fault? I have been replaying those moments over and over, trying to make sense of it. You were already upset, this I know. But did I — have I made this worse? Did I hurt you, do something that you did not wish for? I beg of you, per favore, to let me understand so that I might make this better, so that I might apologise properly for my role in this.” Copia’s voice breaks as he speaks, he is overwrought with emotion, devastation clear within his eyes.

He is convinced that he has hurt you, and this anguish is what finally tears down that final barrier that you’ve hidden behind. You cannot keep treating him in this way. As much as you want to never have to tell him, as much as you never want him to leave, there is little to be done. You must tell him, for he deserves to know. Words begin to fall from your lips rapidly, incoherent and disordered.

“No. This wasn’t — this isn’t about you. I mean — this, you didn’t — I need you to know that this wasn’t about the sex. You shouldn’t — don’t blame — I am the one who should be sorry. For being such a fucking wreck. I mean, I ruined this. But this mess is not about — you are not the cause of this.” Your outburst, a pitch higher than usual, a frenetic waterfall of words, makes little sense. But there is an urgency behind each word, a need for him to know that he has not hurt you.

There’s a long list of people who have hurt you, who continue to hurt you. Your mother, Reginald, the Devil, yourself; those are names that sit firmly at the top. But Copia? He is not on that list. He is nowhere near it. And, of course, he cannot help the look of relief that passes across his weary face, as some of the tension seeps from his shoulders. It sends a wave of self disgust through your body. Will you ever stop forcing him into awful situations, forcing him to comfort you as you hit rock bottom, time and time again?

Softly, once more, he asks you, “What has happened? I care for you. You know this, deep down. I just — what I would like, so greatly, is to help you through whatever is happening. But if I do not know, I cannot help, sì?”

There is such a genuine concern within his eyes, a deep tenderness to his every word. Your breath catches in your throat; you so desperately want to believe that this is genuine, that he will continue to care for you even after you tell him. But you cannot dispel the notion that this is another facet of Lucifer’s elaborate plans. Love would be a strong motivator to stay, had you ever planned upon leaving. That dark voice in the back of your mind will not let go of its most poisonous idea, that Copia is a part of the Devil’s plans. After all, the two are well acquainted, from your understanding of things. As much as you want to believe this is real, you are hesitant. How are you supposed to trust this, trust him, when you’ve been so unable to trust anyone else’s motivations in the past?

“Do you care for me, is this real? I don’t — I don’t know what is real anymore. Do you love me? Is this all a part of His plan? I don’t, I just don’t know.” You, like a fool, blurt out the vile accusations rattling around your confused mind.

Instantaneously, you regret the question. It was wrong of you to allow those words to fall from your lips, for you are sure it has hurt Copia. He is unaware of the viciously tumultuous nature of your inner monologue, he is unaware of the vile thoughts plaguing you, and most pressingly, he is unaware of how contrived your presence in this city and in his life is.

And, as fear and bile rise within you, he does not answer. He does not answer. No, instead, Copia just looks at you, taken aback, brow furrowed. There’s a horrified hurt within his eyes, tinged with confusion, clear to see. Fuck, he must find you exhaustingly perplexing, for you have been acting consistently out of character this evening, actions barely recognisable to yourself. He remains silent, and it is a heavy silence, one that hurts. And it is as much of an answer as words would be. Despite the warmth radiating from him, the warmth of the sheets, your veins are turning to ice, freezing. Your heart is breaking, the pain of it so devastatingly strong, and you cannot breathe, you feel as if you are winded, drowning, as if you’ll never breathe right again.

The chaotic turmoil of your mind finally quietens for a moment of coherence. And with it comes a deep vulnerability. You are painfully, oh-so painfully, aware of the fact that you are still seated in his lap and wearing nothing but his bed sheets and lingerie. A singular thought forms. You need to leave. To get out and get away, from here and from him. You’d run home, except home has never been a place. No, home has been a recent discovery. A feeling, a person. Him. You’d wanted so desperately to make a home with him, a little life in your shop and in his ministry. But without him, your shop feels a barren wasteland of tainted memories. And you will be as you were: lost, confused, and deeply alone. It is quicker than you’d thought. You’d hoped that your final moments with Copia would linger a little longer. But perhaps you’ve already proved a little too much for him. So you have to leave; you push yourself from his lap, shrugging off the sheets, desperate to put some distance between yourself and him. Scrambling from the bed, you awkwardly scramble around for your clothes, a deep embarrassment settling itself where your soul is not. Finally, you find them in the doorway. You pull them on quickly, almost falling to the floor in your haste.

You do not look back to the bed. To him. Should you see his face, you know that your resolve will crumble in an instant. For there are new thoughts forming in your freshly coherent mind, and they are insistent. It’s that same masochistic, dark and twisty voice once more, telling you to drop to your knees and beg him for even the smallest fraction of his love. So you keep your gaze averted as you clothe yourself, as you turn to exit his room, as your heart begins to shatter.

Or, at least, you try to leave. A warm hand is upon your arm in an instant, firmly holding you in place. You’d been so deeply intent upon leaving, so caught up in your rushed movements, that you had entirely missed him rising from the bed. But he has, and now Copia is here, in front of you, gripping onto your arm. His trousers are haphazardly pulled on, his hand is tense against you. You stare at it, frozen, unable to drag your eyes away to meet his mismatched ones, for you are terrified to see what you might find there. Whether it be apathy, anger, annoyance, adoration, it will only make the loss of him harder. But, with the utmost tenderness, his other hand reaches for your chin, slowly turning your head to face him. Copia is most patient, as he waits for you to stop averting your gaze. There is little else to do other than, finally, bring your eyes up to meet his own.

And those beautifully mismatched eyes of his, rimmed in his trademark black paint, are heartbreakingly sincere.

“I am in love with you, amore. So much so that I can hardly speak to the depth of my feelings. I am a well-read man, one who has lived a long life, who has seen so many things. And yet, despite all of this, I cannot find the correct words to describe my feelings for you in a way that is even remotely adequate. I adore you, wholeheartedly. I love you, most ardently. I care for you, more than anything or anyone. I will confess, I do not exactly understand the events of this evening. But I would like to. And I would like, very much, for you to not leave. Not ever. I apologise, that I was not clearer about this. But it is hard to articulate one’s feelings, when there are no words worthy of them.” Copia gazes at you with the softest eyes, his every word heartbreakingly earnest. Emotion colours his tone, love and fear mixed together.

And you desperately want to believe him. His words are not ones that could be said by a person who didn’t mean them. Copia loves you. It is beautiful. It is terrifying. You are deeply hesitant, although you do not want to be. But that dark little voice keeps whispering, a little too loudly, that this is simply another one of the Devil’s tricks, another method of control. That Copia’s love might come with conditions, requirements, that once he truly knows you, knows every facet of your being, that love might fade. It is all very irrational, but you cannot help your irrationalities and your fears. You cannot help the deeply ingrained distrust of such kindness, even when Copia has never been anything but. After all, how are you supposed to recognise such tender and true love, when you’ve never known such a thing before?

You know all these thoughts are written clear upon your face. You know that Copia, who oft knows you better than you know yourself, can likely tell exactly what strain of inner turmoil is troubling you. His hands drop from your jaw, from your arm. His eyes are kind, slightly pained. You wonder if he’s beginning to realise exactly how broken you are. You wonder if this is something he’ll quickly grow to resent. Perhaps he already does. Now that he is not holding you in place, you have a choice. Run or stay. But you cannot leave. You love him, wholeheartedly, desperately. In an ideal world, you’d like to never leave him. Of course, he may change his stance on keeping you around, once you tell him about your lack of a soul. Can you really love him without one? Can you be worth anything to anyone without one?

“I just… how do I know?” Your voice wavers embarrassingly as you ask him, practically begging. Life feels so confusing, nothing is how it is supposed to be, you are filled with doubts.

And you just don’t understand how he could possibly love you.

Copia’s brow furrows lightly and you wonder if your words were a mistake; for you are too needy, too broken, and just entirely too much to deal with. Could he want to be with you, knowing this, now having seen you at your absolute worst, at your most pathetic? He grasps your hands softly, saying nothing, simply leading you to the sofa, gesturing for you to sit. And it is for the best, you think. To be out in the main room of his chambers, rather than his bedroom. The space was too emotionally charged, the lingering intensity of having been both physically and mentally stripped bare in front of him too much to handle. And it is better, to not be surrounded with his burgundy bed sheets, which remind you of the last time you hysterically wept in his arms, of ruined white suits and sweatpants, of blood crusted bodies. To sit upon his sofa, huddled up in the corner, more distance between you than ever before… it feels wrong, it feels as close to neutral ground as you’ll ever get. You watch him, as he sits a foot away, every inch feeling like a mile. You’ve never felt further from him, you’re not sure you’ll ever be this close to him again. The silence weighs heavy upon you, but you cannot break it.

“Topolino,” Copia begins, his voice quiet but his concern loud. “Forgive me, but… have you ever been loved before?”

There is an answer to that question. It is so painfully easy to answer. But it is so hard, to say those words aloud to another, even if it is him.

“I think you already know, don’t you?” You glance at him, but the tenderness in his eyes hurts, and you end up staring down at your hands once more. “Love never exactly felt as if it was meant for me. You know about my family. There’s something wrong with me — I’m entirely fucked up. To use Reginald’s words, damned. I’m a damned mess and I guess I just don’t quite get how you can love me, love this.”

“And their inability to love says very little about you. The problem lies with them, not with yourself. You are not damned, nor broken, nor unlovable. None of these things are true. If you would let me, I would rather like to spend my every moment convincing you of the fact that I mean these words. I love you, amore mia.” There is an unyielding resolve to his words, and you cannot help but glance up at him. Copia is watching you, mismatched eyes bright, and only a fool could miss how blatantly his love for you is written across his face.

Desperately, you are trying to accept his words. That masochistic part of your brain is unwavering as it whispers hateful thoughts, and it is almost impossible to ignore. But you want to ignore it. You want to accept the love he is offering, greedily. Even if you are not sure if you deserve it. Even if you are certain he deserves better. Even if you suspect this love might be fleeting.

“You are so reluctant to believe my words. What is it, if you do not mind me asking, that has you so certain that things must be false? I just… I am certain I am missing something, sì?” He questions softly, silently begging you to finally share with him the details behind your emotional breakdown.

Sighing deeply, you shift a little closer to him. You are exhausted, you miss him. If you are going to do this, finally tell him everything, you’d rather be close to him. For, it could be the last time. Everything could change. Or, perhaps, nothing will change. Maybe this is real. Maybe he does love you. There’s only one way to know for certain.

“I found out some stuff today, is all. My return to the city was meticulously planned out. Someone manipulated everything perfectly, so that i returned here at the exact right moment, so that I decided to keep the bookshop. The whole thing has me wondering if my free will is simply an illusion, and I guess it’s messing with my head a little.” You sigh, noting that he is only inches away from you. As much as you’d like to curl yourself up within his tender embrace, you do not, you restrain yourself. It would only make all this harder, you think.

“Do you mean your Uncle Reginald, that he brought you back here with a purpose in mind? You have not spoken much of his death to me, I do not think; was he suffering from an illness?” Copia’s tone is vaguely perplexed as he tries to piece the fragments together.

You are not helping; the least you could do is tell him of your feelings in a coherent manner. But your brain feels entirely inarticulate, entirely unintelligible.

Still, you could try harder than simply snorting out a vaguely hysterical, “Yeah, he was sick, that’s for sure. Not in the way you mean though.”

Copia’s brow furrows once more, as he looks at you with that same unsure look. You have to try, harder, to make this make sense. To get the words out, to tell him everything, to let him make a decision about the future of your relationship? At the end of this, it all comes down to one small matter. Can he really be happy, being loved by someone missing something as fundamental as a soul, being loved by someone who is bound to answer to the Devil above all else?

“I must admit that I am lost, that I do not quite understand, la mia adorata. I find myself desperate to help fix this. But I am most confused, as to what exactly has occurred.” He speaks slowly, a small frown upon his lips.

“I’m sorry, I know I’m a mess right now. It’s just that I had the most — I don’t know, horrifying, or maybe enlightening — visitor today.” You begin, swallowing deeply. As you open your mouth to continue, you are swiftly interrupted.

“Joanna Prescott? Has she been harassing you once more?” Copia’s voice is tinged with a frantic energy, a deep fear, at the idea of her return. You cannot blame him for that, you suppose, not after she tried to have you killed, for whatever reason. It is as if he is scared of the idea that he might lose you.

“No, no. Well. She was at the shop, briefly, this morning. She’s totally petrified by my being alive, by the way. But she’s not — this isn’t about her. It’s, um, worse, actually.” You’d almost forgotten her presence at your shop, until he’d mentioned her name. It is almost funny; you could care less about her vendetta towards you, now that you are tangled up within Lucifer’s unknown plans with no possible escape. “I — I met the ghoul, the one who lives in the attic? He appeared in the shop this morning, and he told me that I’d been granted an audience, that someone was waiting for me upstairs.”

You glance up at Copia, only to see the strangest look pass across his face. There’s a glint of some unknown emotion within his beautifully mismatched eyes. But he does not — as you had expected — look surprised. No, there is a flicker of recognition, as if he knows exactly where this tale is going. He cannot, surely. How could he know of Lucifer’s visit, of the stark truths that you’ve only just found out yourself?

“Anyway, I went up to the flat and — fuck, I don’t even know how to say it, it sounds utterly insane. But, Lucifer — like the real actual Devil — was just sitting there on my sofa. And it just… everything was ordinary, and then it wasn’t.” Even having lived it, the words sound fantastical to your ears, as you awkwardly force them out.

It’s not that the story is so complex; sure, there are many details you don’t quite understand and some facts you are missing, but all in all it’s a tale as old as time. Girl accidentally makes a Mephistophelian bargain, ends up damning herself for all eternity. It’s a simple enough story, but it is most terrifying. This, most likely, changes everything. This, most likely, changes your relationship with Copia irreparably. And that makes it all the more difficult to talk about.

“And I’m sure whatever it is He had to say was most… unexpected, hm?” Copia nods slightly, encouraging you to continue speaking.

But you watch him closely, for you are sure something is not quite right. There’s an almost imperceptible tension to his shoulders, a hint of something within his expression that you can’t quite place.

“No, it wasn’t.” You reply, eyes narrowing slightly, suspicion colouring your tone. He is silent, offering nothing, so you press on. “He did this… thing, I don’t really know how to describe it. He took me somewhere, to this odd dreamlike place, where nothing felt real.”

“To show you some memories, I am assuming? It is an odd trick that He possesses; shifting through the realms, pulling moments out from their time to see. It is mostly used as a party trick, I believe.” He explains in an odd tone of voice, pulling a slight face, as if he’s speaking from experience.

Once more, you find yourself wondering about the nature of the relationship between the two. Lucifer spoke fondly, in what seemed like a fatherly sort of tone, when mentioning Copia. Yet, Copia does not hold the same warmth in his tone. And he offers so little information about his past, about his connection to the Devil. As curious as you are, you do not inquire about it. Perhaps, if he does not decide to cut ties with you, perhaps you shall ask him.

“Well, I’m sure attempting to understand the metaphysics of all that would just give me a headache — I have so many questions, ones I know I won’t understand the answers to.” You try to laugh, but it comes out flat, so you move swiftly on. “But, whatever. He showed me the past; myself and Reginald. You remember those final journal entries, right?”

You watch him now, closely, most intently. Tension is radiating through your body as you fight the urge to cut your losses and run, far away. Recognition sparks within his eyes. Is it because he remembers the journal? Or is it because he’s figured out exactly where the story will end? Copia’s body language is hard to read, you cannot quite grasp what he’s thinking. He can be most reserved about things, and in this moment it is driving you insane. You wish you could simply glean from a simple glance whether he knows about your soul.

“I remember. August of 2009, sì? An incident happened, you could not recall it.” Copia’s voice is frustratingly even. His tone is warm, but he is giving away nothing. Nothing.

“Right. August 6th, 2009. He — the Devil, I mean — showed me everything I’d forgotten from that day, the memories I’d misplaced. Or, I guess misplaced is the wrong word — He decided, with Reginald, that it was best that I not remember. I don’t fully understand it, I guess. Anyway, that day I — shit. I don’t even want to say the words aloud, you know? It makes it… real.” As you attempt to speak, uncomfortably aware of how awkward your words are, how incoherent your storytelling is, you realise why it is so impossibly hard to force the words out.

To tell Copia that you are a soulless being, tied to the Devil, is to truly acknowledge it as a fact. Telling him means that you are accepting it, believing it, that you can do nothing about it. And you so wish that it wasn’t. You yearn, for the first time, for the days in which the occult and esoteric magicks and religions you’d been raised with were hazy childhood memories. If only you could return to the blissful ignorance you’d had upon your very arrival, when everything was simple. You had a bookshop, you had not explored its mysteries. You’d briefly met the distinguished and handsome Cardinal, you’d fantasised about maybe getting to know him, and everything had been such a perfect combination of idiosyncratic and mundane. And now… those days are over. Gone. Never to return.

“Whatever it is you have to say, topolino, you will receive no judgement from me.” He reaches a hand out, resting it momentarily upon your thigh. His words are so earnest, his expression soft. He is most sincere.

“None at all?” You ask, eyes wide as you meet his gentle gaze once more.

“No, amore.” He smiles warmly at you, with a glimmer of understanding.

It is most confusing, and you are already so deeply overwhelmed, so you do not dwell upon it. Instead, you close your eyes. As much as you want to so carefully analyse his every movement, every expression, every emotion… you could not bear it, should those emotions not line up with your most unrealistic hopes. You’d like for him to be able to look at you, with the same tender care, after all of this. For him to accept you, to maybe even still love you. It is, perhaps, unrealistic. And you do not think you could bear to see thinly veiled disgust within his eyes. No, you must look away, until it is over, until the words have been spoken aloud.

“Reginald had this stack of books in his office that day. Not unusual, but he was planning some ritual, and the books were for that, I guess. He left for a bit, told me to practise my Latin, he was all angry and stressed and just… left me to it. And, of course, I picked up the worst possible book of the lot, read the worst possible passage aloud. I don’t know exactly what it said, my Latin still isn’t that advanced, but whatever it was… I — I sold my soul. Accidentally. I sold my soul, accidentally, to Lucifer. He showed up, accepted, things happened, my memory of it all was taken. And I guess… I guess it explains everything. Why I came back. Why the ghouls think I’m marked by the Dark One, why Father Prescott’s blessings affected me so awfully. I just… don’t have a soul.” You finish with an exhale, eyes firmly glued to your hands. Looking up at him feels impossible. Whatever vague and hard to read expression is colouring his face, you do not wish to see it.

Breathing hurts, you cannot get enough of the oxygen your lungs so deeply crave. You are trying, hard, to appear normal. But breathing is hard, and your breath is shaky. Your heart is pounding, so loudly that you are sure he can hear. Surely, Copia can tell that you are on the verge of falling to pieces, dreading his response. You wonder if he will explain it to you, the nuances of soullessness. He is a well read man, he possesses a deep knowledge of the arcane. Will he tell you now, how impossible it is to truly love when one is missing their soul? Is he going to look at you with those kind eyes, as he tells you that you are not worthy of his feelings, for you cannot reciprocate them in the way he deserves? Might he possibly explain how you are barely a person, simply a plaything for the Devil, a tool for carrying out His plan upon earth, and therefore having a relationship with you is simply untenable, for you will always be bound to the Devil first and foremost?

But instead, he tells you none of these things.

“I see.” Is Copia’s only response, his gently accented tone even, his words spoken no differently to his usual manner of speech.

It forces you to tear your gaze from your hands, to look up at him. You are not sure what to make of his expression. It is oh-so tender. He is looking at you with the same softly mismatched gaze that he always does. It should quell the anxiety that has been churning deep within you. It does not do this. For, there is no surprise within his expression. You watch him closely, carefully. He does not seem shocked by your confession. In fact, you have the oddest suspicion that your words were… expected.

“It makes sense, I believe, that He would come to visit you. I have been pondering this — waiting for it, in a way — since your return.” He tells you, pensively. You wonder if his avoidance of the real issue at hand, your lack of a soul, is meaningful.

Still, his words spark something within you. Icy fear is giving way to something else. Anger. If he’d thought it… why would he not tell you? Warn you? A visit from the Devil is surely deserving of a brief word of forewarning.

“And you never thought that was worth mentioning?” There’s a steely edge to your words, and you grimace internally at just how confrontational it sounds.

Copia does not deserve your anger, not really. But you are too exhausted to properly regulate your tone. And you are so tired, so entirely sick of not being told the whole truth. The missing memories, the limited information you have about your lack of a soul, that was bad enough. But for Copia to sit there, to tell you he’d expected Lucifer to visit… you cannot help the slight frustration slowly seeping into your words and your thoughts.

“His presence is always startling, topolino. Regardless of forewarning, His presence is immense. I did not think it would aid anything, to have you awaiting a visit that might not have occurred.” He is so patient with you, always. He does not match your tone, but instead remains mild and warm.

And you know, rationally, that he is not exactly wrong. Being warned that the Devil might pay you a visit would only have placed more stress upon your shoulders. And there has been so much stress, so much trauma, in recent days. Logically, you know, that this was a piece of information that you did not entirely need. But you cannot help the pull of your insecurities. He didn’t tell you. He didn’t want to tell you. Are there other things he isn’t telling you? Are there other things that he is actively hiding from you?

“Right. And what about everything else? Does my lack of a soul ‘make sense’ to you?” The words are tumbling past your lips before you can really think about it, before you can dismiss them as unhelpful and incendiary. You do not exactly want to start a fight with him, you do not want to push him away. But your tone of voice is fraught, the anger is beginning to burn through your veins.

Copia watches you for a moment, saying nothing. It is as if he is weighing up his options, your potential reactions to whatever he is considering saying. The Cardinal is hard to read. He is reticent in sharing his past, in sharing many aspects of himself. But you know him reasonably well by now, and you can see it plainly within his eyes as he hesitates. He knew something. Copia knew something, and said nothing.

You’ve spent years feeling as if you are not entirely whole. Of course, things have come to a breaking point more recently, everything has rapidly spiralled since your return to this strange and arcane world. But for the longest time, you have had this odd feeling, one you can hardly put into words, that something about you was wrong. Missing. Just… not quite right. You have words for this intangible feeling now, you know that the wrongness has a name, that you are lacking a fundamental piece of yourself. And you found this out in the most traumatic of ways, having long forgotten memories thrown in your face with little context and even less of an explanation. Sitting here, looking at Copia, who so clearly seems unsurprised by what you had thought was an earth-shattering revelation, hurts. It cuts deeply, the burning rage is growing to a white hot fever pitch.

“The truth of the matter is, topolino, that this is not so unexpected. There have been several instances that have had me contemplating this scenario… people do not just get resurrected, you must understand. There are rules to life and death, even for the Dark One. Quindi sì, I had considered it a possibility. It makes every strange occurrence since our first meeting make sense, does it not?” Copia does not react to your anger, his words are calm and carefully chosen. He explains it so simply, so easily, it is as if he is talking about the most mundane of topics.

And it does so little to placate you. His ease around the topic that has only brought you feelings of utter devastation is infuriating. Should it be? You are shattered by all of this. You will never be the same, nor whole, again. And he is so calm. The more rational part of your brain knows that his calm demeanour serves to not escalate this into a real argument, that he is — as he always is — attempting to care for you as best as he can. But that masochistic and hate-filled voice from the darkest recesses of your mind has other ideas. It gleefully clings on to your desperate need to lay blame somewhere, anywhere, and whispers wretched words within your mind. You should be mad at Copia. He has deceived you, lied to you. Is he really any better than Reginald, than the Devil? Is he complicit in all of this? Is he still, even now, telling you lies of omission?

“Oh, so you’ve thought about this issue, extensively it seems. And you… what, just didn’t think it necessary to let me know?” You’re slightly hysterical, you’re overreacting, you don’t care. “But of course, why would I need to know anything about it? It’s only my fucking soul, it’s not important at all!”

The frustration, the frenetic agitation bubbling up within you has you on your feet, pacing the room before you even know it. The exhaustion you’d felt after crying has faded away fast, giving way to an undeniable anger. It is all too much, all too confusing for a girl who had moved back home in search of peace and a comfortable life. You’ve had anything but. At times, it is as if everybody is in on the cryptic mysteries of your life aside from yourself. Even Joanna Prescott, who is so wholly unconnected to this part of the chaos that is your life, seems to know details about yourself you do not know.

“Who is to say, what a soul really means? But I did not know, not for certain. And had I known it as a fact, I would have told you, amore. But to tell you such a thing, when it is naught more than a suspicion, would have been cruel. I have been looking into it, speaking with my ghouls, consulting the books. My hope was to find an answer, to have some certainty, before I brought up the possibility.” Copia remains seated, but his gaze follows you as you move around the space, trying to ease the burning fire with you.

He is inconceivably calm, he makes no effort to match your anger. It only frustrates you more. The irritation has peaked and you are very much spoiling for a fight. What you need is for him to be just as angry, for you crave any sort of response from him other than the soft spoken explanations that are far too logically sound for your liking.

“Do you not think that I deserved to know, Copia? Do you see me as being so inferior, that I can’t handle knowing something like this?” You question, voice low, harsh, cutting. Even as you say them, you know the words are false, designed to be a low blow. And it has the desired effect; you see the brief flash of hurt within his eyes.

Good. The hurt you feel has settled deep within, has grown roots within the void that should house your soul. You cannot ignore it, it is killing you slowly. And, as the dark and angry voice in the back of your mind whispers, perhaps this is what Copia needs to see the truth. To see you for what you truly are. Maybe you need to prove your unworthiness to him, to show him how utterly fucked up and undeserving of him you are. Do you want him to stay or go? Your mind is a rage filled mess of contradicting thoughts. You are furious, you hate him, you never want to see him again. You want him to hold you, to kiss away the pain, to love you.

“Perhaps I was remiss in not mentioning it. But I did not want to cause you unnecessary emotional distress, tesorino. I believed I was correct in my actions. I did not intend to upset you, I am deeply apologetic. Mi dispiace molto, amore.” Copia is disgustingly sincere as he softly stands and steps towards you, palms open and facing you.

A part of you wants to take his outstretched hands as a peace offering. To trust him, as he is asking you to. The calmer, more rational part of you that so desperately wants his comfort and his kindness. But that fragment of yourself is not in control. Your rage rejects any apology, for it is not good enough. It resolves nothing, for you are still broken.

“What the fuck do you think this is, if it’s not emotional distress? I am sick of my life being decided for me. This is — you know, I was so scared you’d end whatever it is we have tonight, after I told you about all of this. But now I’m wishing that you would, because this? This is bullshit.” You are gesticulating wildly as you practically yell at him, words falling from your lips before you can really think them through.

Immediately you regret them, you ought not have said those words to him. The idea of Copia leaving you is abhorrent, you never want to be parted from him. But you are just so indescribably, grievously distraught. You are lashing out at him, somewhat unfairly, probably. And he is pained by your words. There’s a growing anxiety visible within his mismatched eyes, a flicker of distress flashing across his face. You are hurting him, and you cannot stop; you are the worst and most selfish of women. And yet, despite your incessant lashing out at him, despite all you’ve put him through this agonisingly terrible evening, he does not fight back, he does not give up. It would be so easy for him to write you off completely. After all, you have given him every reason to, with your stupid and self destructive behaviour. You’d deserve it, if he did.

But despite everything, despite how easy it would be to send you away, despite how he absolutely should give up on you for you are nothing but damaged goods, he does not yell. He does not respond to your vitriol in kind. No, Copia simply walks forward, he reaches for your face. Half-heartedly, you try to push his hands away. You do not deserve his touch nor his comfort. You aren’t entirely sure you want it. But he does not let you push him away. Instead, he gently cups your cheeks with his large hands, thumbs brushing gently against your skin. It is instinctual, the way you melt into his touch, the way the raging wildfire within you begins to recede.

“Why would I have ended our relationship, topolino?” Copia’s voice is barely above a whisper. He looks vaguely perplexed once more, as if such an idea has never crossed his mind.

The fact that he has not once thought of breaking things off, on this god awful night, seems even more fantastical to you than your meeting with Lucifer.

“Why wouldn’t you? I’ve been nothing but a mess of a person this whole time.” Your words sound suspiciously close to a sob and you grit your teeth, begging your body to not betray you by dissolving once more into tears, pleading with yourself to hold it together.

Copia sighs, anguish evident within his eyes, before dropping a delicate kiss upon your forehead. You swallow deeply, trying to hold it together. No more crying. You are sick of crying. He pulls back, looking you dead in the eye. You’d love nothing more than to pull away, for you do not deserve his comfort. But even now, as your body gives in to the wonders of his touch, a part of you is still furious at his reticence in sharing with you. You try to dispel its bitterness, try to focus on the feeling of Copia’s warm hands upon your face, the softness of his lips upon your forehead. Despite the vague discomfort of being comforted, when you have done so little to deserve it, despite your urges to scream and cry and run far away, you watch the tender care within his eyes avidly. He is nigh impossible to figure out, you think. But perhaps, that is less to do with him, and more about yourself. You’ve never known someone to treat you so kindly, and his kindness is just so hard to understand.

“You have had many horrible events befall you in recent days, amore. Since moving here, even. It is of no surprise that you have not been at your best. And this, tonight? It is understandable. I know, that what you have experienced today can be a most staggering discovery, that meeting the Dark One can be horrifying. But none of this would make me leave, you understand?” Copia is soft spoken, but every single word is said with such conviction that you cannot help but want to believe him.

Truly, you cannot understand how he could possibly want to stay, after you’ve acted so terribly towards him. And you are sure that he cannot understand how it feels for you, to have Lucifer show up in your home and drop a bombshell upon your life. How could Copia know? There’s a hint of something indescribable in his tone as he mentions it, something you can’t quite figure out. But still, it irks you. You don’t want empty platitudes from him. You want… you don’t know what you want.

“You couldn’t possibly get how terrifying it is. I… it all feels so real now. This was always — I was a casual believer. I didn’t ever think that — from how He tells it, you and Lucifer go way back.” You retort, frustration bubbling up once more.

Will you ever learn to think before you speak? It is getting ridiculous now, how easily you blurt out the worst possible responses in times of turmoil. But really, Copia cannot know. He just… can’t. He has grown up within the church, he is devout in his beliefs. He has known the Devil for the longest time, seemingly. How can he understand how harrowing it is, to have your life uprooted in the way you have? Can he really understand just how terrifying the Devil is, to someone who is so new to this world?

“I have known Him a long time, this is true. I — hm. Perhaps I cannot relate entirely. But this… this is fine. You are fine. All relationships have highs and lows, sì? What kind of man would I be, if I left at the first hurdle, eh? I do not plan on leaving. Not ever. I have been waiting a long time to find a love like this, to find you. I do not plan to let go of such love. Sei la miglior cosa che mi sia capitata, sì?” Copia acquiesces quickly.

He is so confident in his feelings for you, he words them in the most breathtaking of ways. And while your breath hitches in your throat at the thought of him wanting you, forever, you cannot quite help but feel as if he is steering you away from something. There is something about the way he skims over his connection to Lucifer, the odd look in his eyes as you both speak of his supposed inability to relate to your wretched experiences today… you cannot help but wonder if he is keeping something from you. Does he not trust you? Is he still, even now, omitting some aspect of the truth from his words? The rage threatens to flare up again, the raging inferno considers alighting itself once more.

But you push those feelings down and away. You do not want to fight. You do not want to push him away. No, as you stand there, his hands caressing your face, his eyes practically glowing with warmth, you do not want to argue or throw around accusations. His words, while they leave you awestruck, are wonderful. You would like, very much so, to believe him. Or at least to try. If he is still, after everything, offering his love to you so easily… you shall take it greedily, with both hands.

“What does that mean?” You ask softly, as you consider how difficult learning Italian would be.

“You are the best thing that has happened to me, topolino.” Copia translates, his lips quirking up into a soft smile. You consider pressing a kiss against them.

“Oh.” You sigh, deciding against kissing him. You do not deserve his kisses.

A part of you wonders if he will always think that way, or if perhaps one day he’ll end up resenting you. You and your lack of a soul. Because really… can you give him what he deserves without one? You do not know, and he has not said much about it at all.

“What is it that scares you so?” Copia’s voice stirs you from your thoughts. It seems as if your concerns were clear upon your face; you are far too tired to mask every emotion within the hurricane of your mind.

“I just don’t entirely understand. I mean, I don’t have a soul. Am I not missing a fundamental part of myself?” Your voice is a barely audible whisper. A part of you is, inexplicably, so deeply ashamed. You do not truly know what it means, to have sold your soul, but it does not exactly feel like a good thing. It feels bad, wrong.

Copia’s hands trail down from your face, skimming across your shoulders, along your arms, as he takes your hands. His grip is firm against yours. It is grounding, to have him touch you.

“The soul is not so fundamental. Have you read much on it?” He asks, that odd tone returning to his voice. You are exhausted, so exhausted, so tired of your anger. And so, you let it go. You do not question it. You simply want to accept his love and his affections, for as long as you may.

“No, not at all.” You tell him, honestly. Philosophical musings on the soul had never interested you, something which you are now regretting.

“Do not bother with it, I find there are no written works that are accurate when it comes to the soul. You are not incomplete because you do not have one, nor are you devoid of humanity. It is, in my eyes at least, inconsequential; I mean this in the sense that it does not affect my love and admiration for you. I know, right in this moment, it may not feel as if things will get better. But they will. You are well, not possessing your soul has not caused you some irreparable damage.” Copia explains, his tone still holding that odd quality, a sense of resignation clear upon his face.

You wonder why he knows so much about this. But then, he is a scholarly man, an expert member of the clergy. Perhaps this is a typical subject in which members of the clergy are well educated on. Still, you are hesitant. Remnants of fear refuse to leave your body. You are still acutely aware of how easily Lucifer has manipulated you thus far. The idea of such machinations occurring again is untenable to you.

“But how can you know that? I’ve been manipulated into returning here, into staying. Who can know what’ll happen next? What the Devil will demand?” Your eyes are wide, and you are sure he can see how bothered you are by the possibility of the Devil derailing your life. You want peace. That’s all you’ve ever wanted. You do not think Lucifer will bring you that.

“Things are not so black and white, topolino, I promise. You have agency, you do not wholly lack free will. I have found that Lucifer does not exactly treat human life with the most respect, but the Dark One is not manipulating everything.” He is so reassuring, he looks so certain.

“Are you sure?” Surely he is sick of your overwhelming insecurity, your inability to truly believe in his kindness.

“Sì. I know this is true.” He is obscenely patient. You do not know how he does it, how he hasn’t lost his temper with you.

“Okay. Okay.” You sigh, letting your eyes flutter shut for a moment, letting yourself breathe properly.

As you do, he releases your hands. You mourn the loss of his touch. But then, he pulls you into his warm embrace, wrapping his arms tightly around you. The tension releases, you melt into his strong hold, against his soft chest. Time passes, you pay it little attention. You allow yourself to take comfort you want from him, the comfort he has so freely offered. But as you do, you cannot help but wonder what happens next. This… whatever this was, this car crash of an evening, is over. Should you leave? Is that the correct choice? You do not want to leave, you wish to stay, to stay wrapped up in his arms, to be with him until he forces you away. But you are unsure if he’ll want that. After all… you’ve been at your very worst tonight. With your breakdowns and your anger, your mean words and constant distrust. He deserves a break from you. In fact, he probably craves one. But you so desperately want to stay with him.

“Copia?” You pull away from his hold slightly, just enough so that you can see his handsome face.

“Sì, la mia adorata?” He murmurs softly, looking contently down at you. Any traces of his discomfort, that odd quality to his behaviour, the anguish and pain he’d felt, it is all gone. Washed away.

He looks… happy.

“Can I stay here tonight? I mean, I can go, if you’d prefer. I know I’ve been a lot tonight and —” You are rambling before you know it, backpedalling, making excuses.

The idea of him asking you to go home sends a wave of heartache through your body. It’s not that you wouldn’t get it. You’d understand it. But, and you are aware of how selfish it is, you need him tonight. Being alone feels agonisingly painful. The idea of being left alone with your thoughts is deeply painful.

“Zitto, topolino, none of that. I would very much like for you to stay, always. I have told you, many a time. I am a selfish man. If I could have you with me always, if we could never be parted, I would very much like that.” Copia hushes you softly, fingertips drawing incomprehensible patterns against your back.

The idea of him being the selfish one is laughable; you so deeply wish that you could show Copia exactly how wonderful you think he is.

“Thank you. I’m sorry, about tonight.” Shame is settling in the pit of your stomach, sickly and rancid. He deserves so much better.

“There is nothing to be sorry for, hm? We have both erred, perhaps, but everything is well again.” You cannot understand why he is so kind, so understanding. But you do not want to question it.

In fact, you do not even want to think upon any of this any longer. All you want is to forget about it for the night, to wrap yourself up in Copia’s arms and talk with him about meaningless things. To tell him the gossip Magdalene had told you about the other Siblings, to laugh about Terzo’s antics, to discuss literature and music. Anything but the issue of your soul, the drama of this evening.

“I guess.” You shrug as you step back from him, stretching a little, yawning loudly. “Shit, I’m sleepy.”

You are. It’s not so late, but tiredness has seeped into your bones, and is calling for you to slip away into your slumber. A quick glance at Copia shows you that he feels similarly. There’s a sleepiness deep within his eyes. It has been an evening of emotional turmoil. You both deserve rest. You both need it.

“I can well believe it. It sounds as if you have had a most stressful day. Perhaps we can retire early tonight, hm?” There’s a hopeful edge to Copia’s words, and you smile internally as you nod.

He begins to walk towards his bedroom, stretching his muscles gently as he goes. You realise, as he disappears from view, that you have neglected something most important. Swallowing deeply, you feel your heart drop. Once again, you have proven yourself undeserving. You have proven yourself to be most selfish. There is one last thing he needs to know, and you hope that you can get the words out. For, they are words you have never found yourself needing to say aloud.

“Copia?” You call, a nervous edge to your voice.

“Hm?” He pops his head around the doorframe, a soft smile gracing his face.

Your breath catches. The words are lodged in your throat, stuck, struggling to get out. He waits, patiently, as you try to figure out how to speak, for it seems you have suddenly forgotten. Eventually — it has been a few moments, realistically, but it feels like aeons — you remember. Steeling yourself, you look at him.

“I — I do love you. You know that, right?” Your voice wavers slightly. It is mortifying. It should not be, but the horrors of being known, truly known by another, have never weighed so heavily upon you.

His smile widens.

“Of course, amore. I know.” He tells you reassuringly, gesturing for you to join him.

And of course, you go. You rush over to him, letting him wrap his arms around you, letting him pull you up into a gentle kiss. You can feel his restraint, as his lips press softly against your own. There is a hunger there, a need, that he is holding back. A part of you wants to deepen the kiss, to truly show him the extent of your feelings. But this evening has been so heavy with overpowering emotion. Tonight, some restraint is necessary. You pull away, quicker than you would like.

“I’m, I guess, not so good at sharing my feelings.” An odd feeling of bashfulness is washing over your body as you step back. “But I really do love you, Copia.”

Sometimes, you feel so much younger than he is. You wonder, if that sort of certainty with one’s feelings comes with five decades of life experience. You wonder, if you’ll ever get there.

“And there is nothing wrong with that. Now, how would you like to spend the rest of the evening, topolino? Or would you prefer to sleep?” He drops a sweet kiss upon your temple.

It is a moment you want to commit to memory. Not in the way that you had before. Not because you think it will be the last. But because this is important. Despite having watched you hit rock bottom, having seen you at your very worst, he has not abandoned you, he has not chosen to leave. No, Copia has chosen to love you, even though the lows of it all. For the first time, someone has picked you. For the first time, someone has loved and wanted you. You want to commit this to memory, because you adore the warmth within his eyes, the reverence in his kisses. You can almost believe it, that you are loved. And it is wondrous, truly and unbelievably beautiful.

“You know what? It doesn’t really matter, I don’t think. I just… as long as I’m spending it with you, I don’t think it matters.” You tell him softly, shyly.

And perhaps, just maybe, the panic is settling. The fear of Lucifer’s plans is fading in the rearview mirror. Perhaps, possessing your soul is not the most important thing in the world. Maybe what Copia has said about it being less essential than one would think is true.

And perhaps, almost certainly, you are loved.

Chapter Text

Waking is not peaceful, not easy. It is not a morning where your mind drifts oh-so serenely from dreams into consciousness, nor one of those mornings where being present in your body does not feel like a chore. No. It is as if you were helplessly drowning under the oppressive weight of nightmares, only to be dragged most violently from them, left stranded and suffering. Wait — were you even having nightmares? You cannot remember. But the piercing whistle of the kettle next door is practically indistinguishable from the cacophonous clamour of emotions within your mind, and you are too awake, breathing harshly. That familiar sense of impending doom is weighty as it settles upon your shoulders, and you can’t help but wish you were still sleeping.

Because last night was an utter shit show. A mess. You are a mess, and you don’t quite know how to handle it.

The hour is early, it is still dark within the bedroom, and you are alone. Well — not entirely alone. No, that dense and oppressive anxiety is firmly settled upon your shoulders, crawling beneath your skin, ever out of reach. You can’t quite shift the agita you feel over last night’s events, you can’t quite help but wonder what exactly Copia thinks of it all this morning. Is this the reason he’s not in bed with you, the reason he has not woken you? Is this all some failed act of avoidance, foiled by his obnoxiously loud kettle? Morning could have so easily brought him some newfound perspective, some clarity, the realisation that you are a lot to handle. But perhaps that is the brash, dark and twisty voice within your head speaking, spouting its usual hateful rhetoric. Because your heart… she has a different tale to tell. One of compassion and understanding, a softer and quieter tale, reminding you of one simple fact; Copia loves you, adores you, with his entire being. He is a busy man, an overworked man, and today is no lazy Sunday. The issues within the clergy are precarious, that much you know. Having to wake early to handle business is not so far out of the realm of possibilities.

Closing your eyes once more, you attempt to relax, you attempt to ignore the voice in your head, you attempt to focus on the compassion and truth held within your heart. For you know that it is hard to accept love, when you’ve known so little of it and only heard stories of such tender care. It is hard to accept love, when you are convinced that you are undeserving of it. And fuck, you are so near certain that you are undeserving of his love. But you can no longer deny Copia’s feelings to yourself, not when he has told you of them so ardently and with such fervour. His actions have only proved his feelings; even last night, at your very worst, he was so loving and so patient. After… everything, the two of you had fallen asleep early, cuddled up under the covers. A numb sort of exhausted acceptance had settled over your body as you laid with him, talking of nothing in particular. You ponder upon those last moments, before you had drifted into dreams, thinking of how closely he had held you, of how his bare fingertips had traced unknowable patterns and words upon your skin. He loves you. He loves you, he loves you, he loves you.

The old wood creaks, in its old familiar way, as the bedroom door opens. Copia is standing there, his silhouette bathed in the dim light of the next room, standing with two mugs of something hot. Tea, you think, as you sit up against the bed frame and curl your legs beneath you. His face is bare, he’s wearing pyjamas and socks, and you cannot help but smile at the picture in front of you. There’s something so… domestic, about it all. A quiet moment of domesticity, one you’d believed you would never have again. It is a blessing, one you’ll most happily and most greedily receive. You flip the lamp beside you on, letting the warm lamplight brighten up the room, and watch as he pushes the door shut with an elbow before approaching you.

“Good morning, amore. I’m sorry, if the kettle woke you from your sleep.” Copia murmurs quietly, as you cautiously grasp onto one of the steaming mugs, your fingertips brushing against his own. He smiles gently at you, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

Perhaps the early hours are not so awful, what with his kisses and his tea, his adoring smiles and the way his presence so easily quells your inner-most anxieties.

“Morning, Copia. Thanks for the tea.” You cannot help but smile in return, before blowing slightly at your drink. The hot tea warms your hands, his affections warm your heart.

He settles himself upon your side of the bed, sitting in front of you, as close as he can. Close enough that you can easily reach a hand out to him, close enough that he can easily grasp it. The last of that lingering tension within you is beginning to fade fast.

“It is nothing. I know it is early, I must apologise for that. But I am supposed to be meeting with Sister Imperator and Terzo at seven, and… well, if I am being truthful, I simply wanted to spend a few moments with you before I must prepare myself for the day.” At the mention of his meeting, a look of concern passes across his face. It is brief, so brief that had you blinked, you’d have missed it. But then he fixes you with a look so tender, as he squeezes your hand softly, that you entirely forget about everything else in the world outside of him, here, in this moment.

But that traitorous part of your mind that forever fears for the worst will not quieten completely. And while you do not want to talk about last night… you have to settle it, once and for all. You need things to be better than fine. You need things to be fixed.

“I’m glad you did. Wake me, that is. I — are we — are things… okay, between us? I mean after —” Words are failing you and your voice is faltering, hesitant. You don’t want to mention the specifics, to say the words, to talk about your lack of a — and thank Lucifer that Copia understands, for he oh-so gently cuts across your rambling.

“Listen to me, topolino. You and I are fine. Everything is well, sì? Couples have disagreements, and as far as I am concerned, everything is resolved. And you had a most valid reason for being so upset. How are you feeling this morning, about what He told you?” His grip upon your hand remains strong. It is reassuring, it is grounding. Concern colours his visage as he looks upon you.

“I guess I’m still processing. I don’t know. It feels like a huge thing, it brings back all this family drama, stuff I thought was behind me. It’s just a lot to deal with.” With a deep sigh, you avert eye contact, sipping at your tea. It is hot, it burns slightly as you swallow, but you embrace the sensation; it is a reminder that you’re real, alive, present.

“It is. It is a huge revelation. Perhaps one that could have been handled with more tact, on His part. But what is done is done. And we shall work through it, together. I am here, in whatever capacity you need.” Copia tells you most earnestly, his thumb absently stroking circles against your skin. You believe him — no matter what, he’ll stay, you are certain.

“Thank you, Copia. I — I’m lucky, to have you.” And you are lucky, for you are loved by him, and you’re not sure there is any greater feeling. To be so loved, so adored, is almost too much to bear. And whatever gratitude you can muster up does not do him justice.

Especially seeing as you cannot quite get out those all-important words, the ones that scare you so. Three little words, that are more terrifying than Lucifer himself.

“I love you, amore. There are no words for how deeply I feel.” Copia looks upon you with gentle eyes, loving eyes. He knows how you feel, the three little words you can’t quite choke out.

For a moment, you are both silent. It’s a moment of calm, between the tumult of last night’s emotional outburst and the stresses of the coming day. To finally have someone to pass these brief and tranquil minutes with is something you’re finding most pleasant. You’ve been a solitary figure in this world for too long, it is nice to share your life with another. It is nice to not be so alone. Even if it’s just drinking hot tea in the mornings and savouring the silence together. But moments are fleeting, and time marches on most unrelentingly. Copia glances at the clock next to you, letting out a barely audible sigh.

“Alas, I cannot sit here all day, no matter how tempting such an idea is.” There’s a rueful edge to his words, as he shoots you an apologetic look. He downs the remnants of his drink, standing with a sigh.

“I have to actually open the shop today; I’ve really been slacking with that.” You tell him, although you’d much rather stay in bed with him. But sales are slow these days and while you’re not broke yet, you cannot afford to continue being so lax with your schedule, closing every time something goes wrong.

“A profound shame, that we both have lives to attend to. But you are welcome to stay here for as long as you please. Do not feel as if I am rushing you out my door.” Placing his empty mug upon the bedside table, Copia leans down to press a lingering kiss to your forehead once more.

“At this hour? I’m not moving from this spot.” You grin up at him, your mind and your body finally at ease. Things are going to be okay. You are going to be okay.

“Bene.” He murmurs fondly, in no rush to leave your side.

Instead, his hand comes to your chin, fingertips brushing against your skin as he tilts your head up, bringing your mouth to his, capturing your lips in a most tender kiss. There’s such an underlying reverence to his every touch, as he kisses you so thoroughly, it practically leaves you breathless. There’s no rush, his movements are languid, practised. It does not last long, but you find yourself entirely wonderstruck as he pulls away. He smiles, a satisfied little smile, before leaving, strolling off to the bathroom to ready himself for the day. And you cannot help but stare at his retreating figure, still trying to catch your breath, still in awe of him.

The sound of the shower, the rush of water against tiles, shakes you from your drags you from your dazed state. A smile is spreading across your lips, your heart is beating a little faster than usual. You take another drink from your rapidly cooling tea. Oh, how the shortest of interactions with him can entirely change your mood, your perspective. While last night was awful, while you’re still processing all of the surprises Lucifer shared with you — the missing pieces of yourself and your memory, the reality of your fucked up relationship with Reginald, your potentially limited free will — the tempest is finally beginning to cease, hopeful rays of sun are beginning to shine through. You have Copia, no matter what happens. And perhaps simply knowing that he is there for you, that he loves you, is enough to get you through the worst of this. Overthinking and catastrophising are second nature to you, your go-to responses to anything and everything. But perhaps zeroing in on the worst case scenario is only causing more harm.

For last night… last night was decidedly not what you expected it to be. You were not shoved out of the door unceremoniously. You were showered in affection, you were loved. Sure, you’re almost certain that he’s hiding… something, from you, but that’s not a huge concern right now. He’ll tell you, when he’s ready. The real issue is that of your soul, but there is very little you can do, for you have little power. Lucifer conned you, tricked you into agreeing to his Mephistophelian bargain, there is no debating the matter. It is not a situation you want to be in. If you can change nothing, if everything you do is pre-determined by the Devil himself… then perhaps, all that matters, is your happiness. The past — and potentially, the future — is fixed, set in stone. But it’s your choice, how you approach it. Maybe it is time, to let go of your fear and your anger and your hopelessness. Maybe it is time to focus on the good. Because despite the pain and the suffering of your recent days, there is good. You have Copia. You have your friends. You have your books. You have so much love to give, you are loved in return.

But this is all too existential, for the early hours of the morning. More caffeine is required for such thoughts. As you finish your now-cold tea, the bathroom door flings open; you hadn’t noticed the shower switch off. Copia strides out — in a rush, for he is always in a rush for his work— his robe tied loosely and his hair still damp, not yet neatly styled. He is sinfully handsome, and you want him. A spark is lit within your core, a low and simmering heat, but you know there is no time for shenanigans this morning. Being Cardinal is something your lover takes seriously, and you would not want to jeopardise his role here.

Still, that doesn’t mean you can’t observe him with a lust-tinged interest as he rifles through his wardrobe for the day’s attire. And you know he is well aware of how your eyes linger upon him, of the exact effect he is having upon you. Why else would Copia remove his robe, artfully throwing it upon the bed, giving you an unrestricted view of his body? And if you happen to be staring rather intently at his ass, who could really blame you? He does not look at you, it is as if he is completely oblivious to your presence. But you know that is not the case. His chambers, as always, have a slight chill to them. Yet, he dresses slowly, methodically. That spark within your core has ignited furiously, that heat is no longer simmering evenly. You want him. So badly. Desire is radiating furiously from your body, you shift in your seat, hoping to find some relief, thighs pressing together. Finally, finally, he turns to you, pulling on a crisp shirt. His mismatched eyes, still lacking their signature paint, meet yours. A smirk pulls at his lips. Ah, yes. He knows exactly what he is doing.

“Do not look at me like that, amore, or else I will not make my meeting on time.” Copia’s tone is teasing, as he wanders closer to you, slowly buttoning his shirt.

It is enough to motivate you to move; you swing your legs off the bed to stand up as he approaches. There’s only a few inches between you, it feels like too many. His eyes are clouded with desire and fuck, you are so tempted to pull him back onto the bed, to shower him with the affection and adoration he so truly deserves. But you do not.

“No? Are you sure?” You look up with a faux innocent expression — for you are entirely guilty of lusting so shamelessly after him — as you knock his hands away so that you can button his shirt for him. His breathing falters slightly, as your fingers brush against his own.

“Positive, unfortunately.” There’s a genuine undertone of disgruntlement at the idea of leaving for such an early meeting. Instantly, you know for certain that you’ll be coming to his bed once more tonight. You crave him, all of him.

But tonight is a while away. And you want him now. So you finish buttoning his shirt before reaching your hands up to his neck, hoping to pull him just a little closer, to close that minute distance between you. Copia knows exactly what you are angling for; without delay, his mouth is upon yours once more. It’s a desperate kiss, an urgent one. He makes no secret of the fact that he desires more from you than a simple kiss. Everything has its consequences, including his teasing. Both of you are a little worked up, neither of you have the time to spare. And neither of you can pull away for more than a fraction of a second.

“You’ll have to stop kissing me, if you want to be on time, you know that?” You say breathlessly, between kisses.

Copia groans frustratedly, his bare hands upon your waist, pulling you closer against his body. He’s half hard. If only the situation with Imperator wasn’t so precarious, if only it was a meeting with some other esteemed clergy member. It would be so easy for him to push the meeting back a little, for you to get reacquainted with his body in the way you so desire. Reluctantly, oh-so unwillingly, he pulls away, glancing over at the clock. Whatever it says disappoints him.

“Merda. I have to finish dressing.” He throws an apologetic look your way as he dashes back to the wardrobe to don the day’s cassock, but there’s an unspoken promise within his gaze as he heads back to the bathroom. Later. He’ll make it up to you later.

Or rather, tonight you’ll apologise for yesterday’s dramas by worshipping him in the way that he deserves. Feelings are difficult, you struggle to find any adequate phrasing for them. Lucifer knows, there are no words to do your feelings justice. You could hardly manage to choke out a love declaration last night; it was underwhelming, to say the least. Especially compared to Copia’s eloquence. But maybe one day, when you’ve finally let go of your reservations, you might be able to reciprocate his grand declarations with the articulate sort of admiration he so deserves. The future seems unsteady, perhaps not in your favour, but you want to hope for good things. You are sick of misery and tired of loneliness, you are yearning for happiness, as elusive as it often seems.

Something clatters in the bathroom, and you hear a barely audible string of curses at whatever he’s done. Slightly curious, you wander over, the door has been left ajar. And you miss him already, you always yearn for him when he’s not right at your side. The noise is simply an excuse to distract him some more. A hairbrush is on the floor, the culprit in the disruption. Copia’s almost ready to go, his hair neatly groomed, his clerical clothing perfectly adjusted, nothing is out of place. The only thing missing is his signature paint, laid out on the counter and ready to be applied. There’s an intimacy to it, for higher members of the clergy are never to be seen paintless. You cherish these interactions, these not-so insignificant moments together. Truly, you’d be perfectly happy to just linger in the doorway, watching carefully as he raises a dark brush to his eye, his practised hand beginning the outline of black painted rings with ease. But as he pulls the brush away, he catches your eyes in the large mirror, his expression lightening instantly.

“Topolino. Do you need something?” He raises an eyebrow and you’re caught. Oh well.

“No. I missed you, is all, so I came to see what you were up to.” You shuffle into the room — the tiles are cold beneath your bare feet — coming to stand behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist, resting your head against him. He smells like frankincense, a scent that has quickly become your favourite since knowing him.

“Just applying my paint. And then, leaving.” He murmurs, his free hand coming to meet yours.

An idea is beginning to form in your mind, as you pull away, hopping up to sit on the countertop next to him. You can see him now, his distinguished face. All the little freckles, each and every wrinkle. He dips the tip of his brush back into the paint, before bringing it to his face once more. But before he can, you pluck the brush from between his fingers. Copia gives you a look, and you know that there’s not really the time for messing around. Meetings with Imperator, and all that.

“Can I do it?” Your voice is a little shy, and a part of you feels as if this might be some sort of overstep. Papal paint is a great honour, an important mark of one’s devotion. Is your request disrespectful?

But his eyes soften, he makes no move to retrieve the brush. Instead he positions himself between your legs, his hands coming to rest on top of your thighs.

“If you would like. You know what you are doing, sì?” His voice is soft, his mismatched eyes gleaming.

Yesterday, you’d been convinced he would hate you. Today, you are filled with love and warmth and joy, safe in the knowledge that he is most fond of you, no matter what. If every morning could be a little like this… your heart would know no sorrow.

“Course I do. I look at your face most days, don’t I?” You grin at him, unable to keep your adoration from your eyes. Of course you’ve memorised the exact placement of his paint; his face is beautiful. His heart is even more so.

“Then I am yours, to do with what you please.” Copia tells you gently, but he is not only talking about your painting of his face. His heart is yours and yours is his, forever entwined.

Time is slipping fast through your fingers. So you wrap your legs around him to pull him a little closer, your free hand tilting his head slightly, trying to figure out the best position.

“Close your eyes, okay?” You murmur, and he obliges.

Taking a breath and steadying your hand, you bring the narrow tipped brush to his left eye, carefully drawing the familiar shape around his eye socket. Your strokes are a little hesitant, a little slow. He could apply it better himself, with his practised hands — and he probably should, considering how fleeting the minutes are, how little time is left until his meeting. You pull the brush away, needing more paint. As you look down to dip the brush in the pot, you feel warm lips grazing against your cheek, his fingertips reaching higher upon your thighs. Oh, if only he had more time.

“Aren’t you supposed to be leaving soon? You should really stop distracting me.” You let out a small giggle, capturing his chin once more to steady his face. But you cannot do anything with his eyes open, so you fix him with a mock-stern look.

“Ah, but I am certain that it is you who is distracting me, topolino.” He raises an eyebrow, leaning in to drop another quick kiss upon your lips.

“Hm, maybe. Seriously though, close your eyes.” You instruct, bringing the brush back to his face.

With the first outline done, you begin to gently fill in the shape. Careful paint strokes over his eyelid, up to his grey-streaked eyebrow, under his eye. You fall into the rhythm of it easily. Dabbing more paint onto the brush, evening out the coverage upon his skin, working it into every crease. Your spare hand holds him in place, caressing gently at his jaw. His breath is mostly slow, even. But every so often it falters, and his grip upon your thigh tightens. Satisfied with how his left eye looks, you move on to the right. It takes a little longer to get the outline to match perfectly; you are striving so hard for perfection, for Copia is the sort of man who takes great pride in his appearance. It’s intimate and it’s healing, methodically applying his papal paint, faces inches apart. Sure, it’s a bit of a time crunch and you definitely have morning breath, but does any of that really matter? It doesn’t feel like it, as you check the evenness of his eyes, now that you’re almost done with the right. They look fine, you think, as your eyes flicker between the two. Near perfect, even.

“Do you want to check that?” You pull back slightly, continuing to scrutinise your work. He leans sideways, looking past your body to the mirror. Impatiently, nervously, you wait for his verdict.

“Perfetto. Just the lip to go, eh?” He smiles at you, a sense of pride filtering into his words. Relief courses through your veins.

“I know. But I wanted to kiss you again before you leave, and I’m almost certain that your paint needs a few minutes to dry down so… I’d like that kiss now, if you don’t mind.” One day, that shyness, that fear of rejection will surely fade.

Copia’s hands ghost up your body, finally settling upon your jaw. And he kisses you. Oh, how he kisses you. His third kiss of the morning sets your heart and your body aflame, and you think you might die from the intensity of its blaze. He kisses you as if this is the first time, the only time, the last time. It is as if he’s trying to convey every iota of his feelings within this one kiss, as if he is trying to tell you all the things he cannot say. He tastes like tea and toothpaste. Your hands are in his hair, holding him close, and a small voice in the back of your mind is aware that he’s going to have to fix it before he leaves. But the rest of you does not care. For his kiss is life-giving, all-encompassing. How did you ever live without his touches, his kisses, his presence? Or did you only start living, once he entered your life? It doesn’t matter. You don’t care. But there’s no time, and you’re running out of air, and so you have to break the kiss. He lets you, reluctantly, resting his forehead against your own as you both try to catch your breath, exhaling harshly.

“Are you satisfied?” He murmurs, as you pull away. There’s no clock in here, but you’re certain that he’s going to be late if you don’t hurry up.

“Not nearly. But I suppose you’ll have to make it up to me later, right?” You let out a dramatic sigh, grabbing the small brush from where you’d dropped it upon the counter.

“Of course, amore.” There’s an intensity to his eyes, a hunger. His words are a promise.

“Perfetto. Now stop talking so I can apply this.” You grin, dipping the brush in the paint and waving it in his face once more.

Copia nods, parting his lips slightly. Methodically, still a little dazed from being so thoroughly kissed by him, you begin to apply the paint to his upper lip. Slow and steady strokes, forming an even layer. But every few seconds, you cannot help but lift your eyes to meet his. He watches your every move, near unblinking. It only takes a minute or so, for you to finish up. It would’ve been quicker, had you not been distracted by his gaze, by the freckles upon his bottom lip.

“Done!” You drop the brush down on the counter, before trying to smooth his hair back into place; luckily, you’d not messed it up so badly, it is an easy fix.

“Grazie.” He says softly, but he does not move from his position between your legs.

Instead, he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you down from the counter and into a hug. He holds you close, saying nothing, but words are superfluous and unnecessary. You wish this moment could last forever, but nothing lasts forever. Except, perhaps that’s not true. Because you’re almost certain that no matter what happens, your love for him will last. Even when you’re dead and gone, whatever remains of you will still love him. Until the very end of everything.

“I do have to leave, as distasteful as the idea is.” He finally murmurs, but he does not go, instead pressing his face into the crook of your neck; you’re hoping the paint is dried, that he’s not going to pull away with smudged eyes.

“Yeah, me too. I have chores to do before opening.” You grimace at the thought of the laundry and the dusting that is in dire need of being done. Truthfully, you’re kind of terrible at the whole running a business thing, and being a responsible adult, and doing whatever it is that normal people — the stuff that doesn’t involve Lucifer or the Satanic Church or hateful religious fanatics.

“So we should leave then, eh?” He finally, reluctantly, releases you.

“Definitely.” You look up at him, already missing him — you really are in a remarkably clingy mood this morning. He presses a firm kiss to your forehead, and he’s out the door before you know it, off to face the day.

And as you listlessly exit the bathroom, your motivation to face the day fading fast, you cannot help but glance at the clock upon the bedside table.

Copia’s going to be late for that meeting of his.

It takes a week or so to really settle back into normalcy. Or rather, to settle back into your most peculiar life with your niche bookshop, and the lurking ghouls, and your relationship with a high-ranking Satanic clergyman. Normal is not something you’ve known much of, since Reginald’s death. But you’re back to your usual activities, actually opening the shop during its set hours, spending your nights in your lover’s bed. Sure, you don’t have a soul. It’s… fine. Kind of. You’ve come to terms with the way things are. Kind of. Things are confusing, nothing entirely makes sense, Lucifer nor the ghoul in your attic have reappeared since that fateful day. But it’s okay. Kind of. Because you may be lacking your immortal soul — good thing you’re not looking to enter the afterlife any time soon, for you’d most definitely be denied entry — but you have Copia. And being loved, having someone to love, it makes it all easier. It makes the harder moments worth it. Sure, the nights might be filled with existential thoughts about free will — if a soul provides it, if a deal with the devil retracts it, if everything is predetermined, if your choices even matter. But you’re not unhappy, nor living in some state of panic. You are fine. Your life is fine. Things are a little fucked up, but doesn’t everyone feel that their life is a little more fucked up than everyone else around them?

You try to hold onto that. Especially when a familiar face strides through the door to your shop, a stern expression upon her face, once more upsetting your most tenuous grasp on some form of normalcy.

“Afternoon.” She greets with a curt nod, approaching the counter.

A sense of dread is beginning to seep through your body, slow and dark and heavy. You are so desperately trying to move on from everything that has unfolded in recent weeks, from the tragic saga of your soulless life. She’s a painful reminder of that night, the night you died, the night you lived. The night you wish you did not remember in such visceral detail. Flashes of images pass through your mind, as she comes to a halt in front of you. Rosaries and handguns. That first frantic gasp of breath after being dead. A white suit and pale sweatpants stained dark with blood. Sex, frenetic touches. Copia on his knees, the yelling of police.

You’d hoped to never see those police officers again. Naively, you figured that awkward morning would be the end of it. You aren’t dead, Joanna is scared shitless, Gideon is… you don’t know, actually. But you’re not dead, and nothing else can happen, surely. Is this not over? Shouldn’t this be over? Or maybe, this visit has nothing to do with that. But that rising dread in the pit of your stomach, like sludge in your veins, says otherwise. The sense of purpose radiating from her, says otherwise. She’s not here for some introductory texts to arcane magicks and occult practices. No. Something is wrong and that something, somehow, no matter how tangentially, involves you.

In recent weeks, you’ve come to terms with the very obvious fact that you don’t do well under high pressure circumstances. Being able to talk your way out of a situation is very much not a strength you possess. And as you stand, flashing an awkward smile at the Sergeant, you realise that you are going to have to get it together, fast. Whatever reason she has for being here, you’re going to have to figure out how to handle it, how to deal with it.

“Hi, um… Sergeant Duncan, right?” You ask with a forced levity to your tone, and you hope that it seems natural. That you don’t seem… suspicious, guilty.

Why would you be guilty? What would you even be guilty of? Being a neglectful shop owner? Being a little too dependent on your partner? Lacking a soul, potentially being some sort of vessel for the Devils plans for this plain? None of those are illegal acts, last you checked.

“Yes, that’s me. How have you been lately, since our last encounter? Been up to much?” Sergeant Duncan smiles tersely at you as she rests her forearms upon the counter, leaning slightly forward.

It feels like a loaded question, as if she’s looking for some unknown answer, and you feel like you might just be missing some essential piece of information. But she does not follow up her question, simply looking at you expectantly as she waits for a response. So you swallow awkwardly, and answer with a sense of hesitancy.

“Um, fine, not a whole lot, I guess.” It’s a simplification, it’s probably annoyingly vague. You think of first dates and morning sex, you think of Lucifer and the ghoul from your attic and your lack of a soul. Highs and lows, the very wonderful and the very terrible.

“Working here, spending time with that boyfriend of yours, the Satanist?” She’s trying to fill in the gaps, but there’s something about her words. She’s not curious or interested; she’s fishing for information.

Her mention of Copia immediately sets you on edge, and you’re starting to get a little way about where exactly this is heading. Your lighthearted demeanour falls away fast, defensiveness rising. Her tone is suddenly a little more… reluctant, as she mentions the man you love. As if Copia and the church are some manifestation of evil, as if he’s not simply a man devoted to his beliefs, an academic, as if the church is not a refuge for those who believe in free will.

“The Cardinal and I spend a lot of our free time together, sure.” You tell her, voice strained as you emphasise his title. In some ways, this exchange reminds you of Jonna, of the way she denigrated and degraded the ministry during your meetings with her.

“Right, sorry.” Sergeant Duncan coughs slightly, throwing you an apologetic look. “That sounded a little… discriminatory.”

You don’t press the issue, you don’t want to make a scene. It would not be wise. What you really want is for her to leave, but you don’t think that’s happening any time soon. So you force another smile, trying to relax your shoulders, praying to Lucifer that your apprehension and fear are not evident. You want this over with, as soon as possible.

“I — are you here for a book? We don’t have much outside of the occult or arcane, unless…” You gesture towards the shelves as you switch up the subject, but you already know what her answer will be. Sergeant Duncan wants something from you, definitely. But it’s not literature.

“Oh! No. I actually wanted to speak to you.” Her eyes widen a fraction as she briefly glances at the stacks. She seems a little… fearful, of what they contain.

“You did?” You aren’t as surprised as you’re pretending to be; you’d figured that out the second she stepped foot in your shop. But playing dumb has its uses. Hopefully, it’ll get you out of this mess a little faster.

“Yes. I’m working on a case right now. And — well. Do you by chance know a Gideon Moloney?” She inquires, looking at you intently.

It should be an innocuous question. But it isn’t. Gideon is not exactly among the most common of names. Flashes of a rosary and a handgun pass through your mind, but you cannot let your guard down, you cannot break. Focusing on your breathing, you try to keep it even and unbothered. It could be another Gideon, couldn’t it? But then, why would she be asking you, if it was some other man? Not that you even know what her questioning is about. Has he gone around raving about having killed you? Has he confessed to his crime? Is he involved in other illegal acts? Did Joanna file some report on him, like how she attempted to implicate Copia?

Immediately, you are aware that you cannot tell her anything much. How exactly do you explain to this woman, this Sergeant, who is so utterly removed from your life’s dramas, that you might just know this Gideon Moloney? That he may just be the man who shot you dead, before the Devil brought you back to life, for your soul and your future belongs to him? No. You must obfuscate. You must deny. You must pretend as if hearing Gideon’s name does not strike fear into your heart. To Sergeant Duncan, you are a simple bookshop owner. An ordinary girl. A girl with no secrets, no unusual connections, outside her unlikely love story with a Satanic Cardinal. You are a girl with no problems, no mysteries. And most importantly, you are a girl who does not know Gideon Moloney.

“Well, I can’t say the name sounds super familiar. Why?” You reply after a beat, furrowing your brow slightly, trying to pretend as if your heart is not pounding furiously in your chest.

Is it wrong, to lie? In the back of your mind, you can hear your mother’s voice calling you a sinful little liar. But the truth cannot be known. And surely your lie isn’t so bad — she truly could be asking about another Gideon.

“Hang on, I’ve got a photo.” She scrambles to pull a small photograph from her pockets, a folded up image of a man, placing it on the counter for you to see.

It’s an old picture. For a passport or licence, perhaps, it’s a little grainy. But there is no mistaking the face in the picture. Thinning hair and a nervous disposition, even in this old photograph. Watery eyes you’ll never forget. You cannot help but think of a rosary and a handgun. This is not some other unfortunate man named Gideon. You know this man, he is one you shall never forget. Swallowing back the rising bile, you push the picture back to the Sergeant.

“I might recognise him? There was a protest outside of my shop, congregants from the local Catholic church. He looks like one of the guys from that protest. But I don’t really know anything about him.” You inform her, and it is so difficult, to keep the fear from your voice. But you try. You try to talk about him as if he’s just another face you’ve seen in a crowd before, as if you’ve had no real interaction with him before.

And it’s not really a lie. Not completely. You had seen him at the protest. It’s just that you’d seen him again a few days afterwards, when he’d shot you with his handgun and temporarily killed you dead. But that part of the story is not to be told, not to Sergeant Duncan.

“There was a protest here? I know one happened not too long ago at the… other Ministry.” She seems deeply uncomfortable with the concept of the Satanic Church, as if she’s scared her god will smite her if she even mentions them too explicitly.

It only reaffirms your suspicions that you cannot try to involve anyone else in your struggles against the extremist Catholic faction in this town, for the police will be of no use to you. Should Joanna even choose to strike again; you aren’t sure that she will, considering her plans to kill you fell through. It would be nigh impossible for her to do much worse than that. And she had seemed so entirely terrified during your last encounter. You’d like to think — however naive of you it might be — that she is done with this game.

“Oh, yeah. That one started here actually, but not much really happened. Papa Emeritus III kindly suggested they take it elsewhere, you know?” You explain quickly, glossing over the details, ignoring the fact that you are the target of Joanna’s ire, that her issue with you is only tangentially related to the Satanic Church.

“Got it. That makes sense. Mr Moloney was seen at that protest according to our reports.” She nods, talking more to herself than you.

But there’s something about this odd line of conversation that has you unable to shift the mounting anxiety within you. This strange sense of foreboding will not leave you alone. Something is wrong.

“Why are you asking me about him?” There’s a hesitancy, a slight fear in your tone, that you cannot hide. But surely anyone would be nervous, even if they weren’t hiding things, should the police arrive to ask vague questions about an individual they barely knew?

Sergeant Duncan takes a moment to answer. She picks up the picture, folds it, returns it to her pocket. When she finally looks back at you, there’s a scrutinising look upon her face, as if she’s trying to figure you out. It only serves to make your heart beat faster. Whatever this is… this is bad. You’re certain of it. That dread is only increasing, to a suffocating level. You are trying to act normal, but you’re not so sure you are succeeding. This is going to be bad. And fuck, you are so tired of all of the bad.

“Mr Moloney was found dead in his flat yesterday morning.” She says carefully, watching your face so intently for your every reaction to her words.

“Oh my god.” The words fall from your lips. Of all the possibilities… dead? Dread turns to shock, shock turns to cold and icy fear. “But wait — what does this have to do with me?”

Because, clearly, you are somehow linked to this, to whatever has happened. The police do not ask any odd individual about a death without reason. There is a reason she is here. Panic is rising, and there is little you can do to quell it. Gideon is dead. Gideon is dead.

The more hysterical part of you wants to laugh; the man tried so hard to kill you — he did kill you, it just didn’t stick — yet he is the dead one, you are still living, and everything is seemingly a mess once more.

You’re staring in horror, wide eyed and entirely lost for words. Gideon is dead and the police have somehow, inexplicably, connected him to you. The Sergeant looks at you, seemingly coming to some sort of conclusion; she seems to soften slightly, her voice lowering in pitch.

“Can we sit in the back for a moment?” She asks, a tinge of sympathy within her words.

“I — sure.” You swallow, nodding slowly.

It’s not like you’re expecting a sudden rush of customers anyway. Your legs feel a little shaky, as you lead her into the back office. You’re trying so hard not to freak out, not to cry, not to reveal anything that could cast some sort of suspicion onto yourself. Not that you even know anything about Gideon’s death. Maybe he was sick, maybe there’s nothing suspicious about it even at all. But then, why would the police pay you a visit, if it was a perfectly mundane sort of death?

Grabbing the desk chair, you drag it over to the corner of the room, before dropping into the armchair nearby. The Sergeant sits, her gaze never leaving your tense body. You are sure that you’re doing a horrible job at pretending to be unaffected by all this. Or should you be affected? You’re sure it is normal to be freaked out by something like this. It must be. But are you too freaked out, are you too tense, too nervous, too scared? Fuck, you wish Copia was here. You are sure he’d be able to deal with this far more deftly than you are capable of. But he isn’t. So you sit, and you wait for an explanation. Sergeant Duncan seems conflicted, it is clear upon her face. It’s as if she’s coming to some sort of decision, about you, about Gideon’s death.

“Okay. I can’t tell you everything, understand? It’s still an ongoing investigation. But Moloney’s flat… it was sure something. That man was a religious fanatic, to the extreme.” There’s a hesitancy to her tone now, as she begins to talk about Gideon, with a horrified sort of awe. As if she’d never encountered his brand of religious fanaticism before.

You, however, are all too acquainted with that sort of extreme devotion. But you wish — oh, how you wish — you were not. Gideon was a disturbed man, his faith was used against him, he was manipulated into committing a horrific act. He wasn’t innocent, but he was being used by Joanna. He was not a smart man, probably not particularly stable. You are sure that obsession with God, that extreme belief and devotion, was evident in his home. The situation was a complex one, and you cannot help but feel a little bad for the man and how clearly he’d been exploited. But he killed you, traumatised you, and you are haunted by that night. A part of you is glad he is dead, and you feel disgustingly guilty about that.

“Right.” You are waiting, for what, you do not know. But you are sure she’s about to drop some bombshell of information, judging by the nerves beginning to show upon her previously calm and composed face.

“From the looks of his flat, he was obsessed with two things. With God, and with you. There were a lot of pictures. Through windows, from a distance, all with varying quality. Each picture looks to be from the same handful of days. I’m starting to think he must have developed some sort of obsession with you after that protest you mentioned.” She is speaking in a low tone of voice, as if she’s scared she’ll be overheard. The shop is empty, nobody else is here — except perhaps the ghoul in your attic, but you doubt he cares about such human matters.

In all honesty, her words should not be so surprising to you. You should not be shocked. In a lot of ways, it makes perfect sense that Gideon didn’t just show up out of nowhere, that he did some intense reconnaissance before the shooting. He must have been trying to figure out your schedule, to figure out you. Did he expect you to leave the shop that night, did he expect you to return? What was his plan, did he have one? Was it all spur of the moment?

No. No. You are not doing this right now. There is a time and a place for spiralling, and it is decidedly not while you are being lightly questioned by the police about a dead man.

“Yeah, seems like that must be the case. How awful.” The words sound brittle, awkward. But what are you supposed to say, or do? How do people usually react to news like this? Averting your eyes, you look down at your hands, clenched tightly upon your lap.

“I’m sorry. I’m sure this is massively overwhelming. But he can’t hurt you — he’s dead. I just needed to ask a few questions, to see if this was something you were aware of. But clearly, you didn’t, so everything is going to be alright, okay?” Sergeant Duncan says in what you think is supposed to be a sympathetic manner. But her words… her words are concerning.

A chill is settling deep within your bones. Her strange questions are not so harmless, you are right to be concerned. There is a point to all of this. It’s about more than a little stalking, about knowing the name of a too-religious and now-dead man.

“Wait. Why did you think I’d already know about all of this? How could I possibly — how did Gideon Moloney die?” You narrow your eyes slightly, a conclusion already forming within your mind.

You didn’t like Gideon. You loathe him. You resent him. You hate him and pity him in near equal measures. But you are most certain that his life did not reach a natural end. And perhaps that is a sad thing. But you find yourself rather terrified by the fact that you have been drawn into this tragedy against your will — another tragedy, you seem to attract them. Is there something inherently tragic about you, for so many different horrors to have inflicted themselves upon you. Or wait — is that self-centred of you? To make another person’s death about you? You might be a little bit self centred. And you’re getting distracted. You’re almost certain that there are suspicions about Gideon’s death, and his little obsession with you has placed you firmly upon the list of suspects. Fuck.

“They’ve not done the autopsy yet, so we don’t have an official verdict.” Sergeant Duncan is evading, and you both know it. It’s maybe a little hypocritical of you to be annoyed about her non-answer, but you’re panicking, more than you had been before. A lack of an answer is not a good thing, not at all.

As hard as it is, you must keep your breathing even. You must not cry or scream or say utterly stupid things, as you so often do. Gideon is a stranger. You do not know him. You do not know him. You do not know—

“Is this a murder investigation?” You press on, determined to get some sort of answer.

But seriously, who would kill Gideon? Joanna Prescott? But she’s not the sort of woman to get her hands dirty — after all, was that not the whole reason for manipulating Gideon in the first place?

“I shouldn’t be telling you this, but you don’t seem to know anything, so... we aren’t sure, not yet. We found him hanging and at first glance, it looked like a suicide. But… there’s inconsistencies. Big ones. It’s looking as if it might have been staged.” Sergeant Duncan speaks quickly, a conflicted look upon her face. You think she might believe in your innocence. Which is good, because you are most definitely innocent of murder.

But you have to clarify, you need to know for certain that you’re not going to have any more surprise visits; you’ve had more than enough of those, enough to last a lifetime. “Fucking hell. Just so we’re clear: am I a suspect?”

Is it suspicious, for you to ask her that? You aren’t sure. But you’re horrified and afraid and so damn tired of life fucking you over. All you want is peace. Happiness. To spend time with Copia, to love and be loved in return, without being haunted by your past. You don’t like fighting, you’re not interested in conflict. But you are starting to realise that you might just have to fight for your peaceful little existence in this small corner of the world.

“Oh, we’re not that far along yet, we need an official cause of death. I doubt it, honestly. But I’m sorry, about all of this. I’m sure it’s a lot to take in. Are you okay?” She brushes the question off, as if it’s a minor concern. To her, maybe it is. Sergeant Duncan probably lives a pretty regular life, one without so-called ‘holy wars’ or deals with the Devil. She probably has never had to worry about being connected to a potential murder victim.

So there’s no point in sharing your fears with her. It’s not like she’d understand. She’d probably think you were insane, with your talk of souls and resurrection and Mephistophelian bargains with Lucifer himself.

“I’ll be fine.” You lie, through gritted teeth. She doesn’t quite buy it.

“Maybe you should call your, uh, Cardinal, get him to keep you company?” She throws you another sympathetic look, as she stands from her seat.

Alas, your Cardinal is stuck in meetings for the rest of the afternoon. The issue with being the glue that is barely holding the upper clergy together, is that one actually has to be present for it to work. Not that it’s working all that well — things between Papa and Sister Imperator are only getting worse, in Copia’s opinion. He whispers these concerns to you late at night, with a furrowed brow and an anxious air that no level of reassurance can entirely shake. No, he can’t keep you company, not right now. But it’s okay. You’re a big girl, you can handle this alone, for now.

“Maybe I will. Thanks. I am sorry, about what happened to that man.” You rise, more than ready to see the Sergeant out of your shop.

And you are sorry. Gideon’s death is unfortunate. Death is always a tragedy. You just wish — oh, how you wish — that there had not been evidence of his, of Joanna’s, obsession with you in his flat. This is not something you want any part in.

“Yeah. Have a good rest of your day, alright? And if you remember anything useful or relevant to this case, you’re more than welcome to come see me down at the station, okay?” Sergeant Duncan calls, as she strides back out of the door.

You have no intention of seeing her again, if you can help it. Gideon’s death was not your fault. You did not kill him, you did not point a gun and shoot — but no. Gideon was not shot, he was hanged. You were shot. He was hanged. You lived. He died. And you did not cause it. If he did it himself, perhaps out of guilt over having committed a murder, even if that murder was not permanent, you are not to blame. He is a grown man, making his own choices.

But you cannot help feeling a little guilt.

And as you settle back at the counter, waiting for customers who do not come, staring at your page but unable to read, you cannot forget. A rosary, a handgun. A prayer, a gunshot. A dead man, a living woman. It plays over and over and over. Like a needle stuck in the groove of a record, repeating the same fragment of song on a loop, to the point of near insanity. That night does not leave your thoughts. Gideon does not leave your thoughts. And that night, as you sleep alone, the memories of that fateful night will not leave your nightmares either.

So much for that sense of normalcy you’d been slowly cultivating. You’d been well on your way to getting back to the strange life you call your own, but Sergeant Duncan’s visit has knocked everything way off course again, and you’re struggling to keep it together. There is only so much you can handle, after all. A potential murder is just a tad too much for you to deal with. It’s another incident to keep you up at night. Flashbacks of dying moments, existential crises about the state of your free will, and now the heavy weight of anxiety over potentially getting done for the murder of your murderer.

And to think, you’d been worried about your new life at the bookshop being boring.

At this point, you’re almost certain you’d quite prefer the mundane to the extraordinary ineffability of your existence. You’d quite like the novelty of an ordinary day; in which you would do nothing more than sell a few pricy tomes and eat take out on the couch. No occult magicks, no ghouls monitoring you, no murderous Catholics. Although, that would most likely be a day without Copia, for he’s so deeply entrenched in this fantastical world of ritual and religion. And that would not do, not at all. As much as you hate it, you have to acknowledge that there is no good without the bad. But there’s an unfair amount of bad going on right now, and it is exhausting.

So you spend a few days in a state of distraction, exacerbated by your minor sleep deprivation. It only takes a day or so of being around your extra-preoccupied self for Copia to come to you and ask, with a tender look of concern upon his face that makes you want to break down and cry, if everything is quite alright.

But things are not alright, for either of you. While you’ve been tossing and turning over the issue of murderers and souls, Copia has been lying awake, staring at the ceiling. He is not as restless in his distress as you are. He’ll tell you fragments of his concerns, but he is a restrained man, one who bottles up the worst of his worries and buries them. His attempts to mediate the ever growing rift between Papa and Sister Imperator are failing, despite his best efforts. You know that while he does not say it, he is anticipating this disagreement to culminate in disaster in the near future. For things to reach a fever pitch so hot and so destructive that it could completely crumble the Church’s internal power structure. It will be catastrophic, should it happen.

And so, when he pulls you into his arms late at night, murmuring sweet words and asking if you are well, you make a choice. You don’t want to lie, you do not want more secrets within your relationship. At the same time… he does not need more stress. Sure, you’re panicking about being framed for murder, but you’re pretty sure that’s irrational of you. So, instead, you fudge the truth. Not much, but enough. Smiling weakly, you quietly respond with a few carefully worded half truths. In hushed whispers, you tell him that Gideon is dead, that he might have been murdered. That hearing such things has brought back the nightmares of your dying moments with a vengeance, that you are simply a little unsettled. It’s not the whole truth. But it’s enough, you think.

He inhales sharply, and you can feel his eyes upon your throat. Your throat, where once a bullet tore through flesh and muscle. Your throat, which bears no scar or memory of the moment you died. It’s the one part of your body that you can hardly bring yourself to look at, for it is too disconcerting. There’s a wrongness to the smooth flawlessness of the skin. There’s no ugly scar or freshly healed wound. There’s an absence of any real sign that anything happened that day. And a part of you hates it. Perhaps unreasonably so. Copia finds himself drawn to your throat, in a way that seems unintentional. He glances at that spot, where there is no bullet wound, a little too often. Especially when talking of your death. He presses kisses there, his fingertips brush against it. But there’s nothing there. An absence of a scar. A part of you wishes there was a scar, a mark, some physical reminder that what you went through happened. But all you have are flashes of memories, and the knowledge that you are not alone in your trauma. For each and every glance and touch and kiss is a reminder that Copia too was forever changed by Gideon’s actions. And it hurts. It hurts to know that you, that Gideon, that whatever Joanna’s problem with you is, has hurt him irrevocably.

But you can’t do anything about it. The past has passed, you cannot change a single second. So you shift yourself a little closer and let him hold you a little tighter, before falling into uneasy sleep once more.

Although, to call it sleep would be overly generous. It’s the sort of night where you never quite reach the dreamworld, stuck in limbo, unable to reach the relief of drifting peacefully away into oblivion. You crave the simplicity and peace of slumber, but it torments you. The closest you come to dreaming is nightmarishly reliving the moments before your death, as the sun slowly begins to rise. The alarm rings, you pull yourself out of bed, sleep-deprived and zombie-like. You’re receiving an early delivery of books, you cannot be late. A trip to the bathroom only serves to prove that you look as terrible as you feel, with bloodshot eyes and a dead expression. Copia looks equally as exhausted, as you watch him apply his paint, covering up the dark circles underneath his eyes. It’s a quiet morning, there is little to be said. But it is not a comforting silence, it is fraught with both of your tensions. Both lost in your thoughts, drowning in your own problems.

Even so, he still kisses you softly, before you trudge out of his chambers to face the day. He still murmurs soft declarations of love as you leave him, unable to stay longer. These days, knowing that he loves you is all that keeps you going.

Naturally, things do not improve for you. The book delivery is a disaster, for you inexplicably receive an assortment of bibles. Not what you had ordered, and perhaps the worst possible book for you accidentally received fourteen copies of. They make you nervous, these days. Is that the lack of a soul, influencing your feelings? You aren’t sure. Regardless, you’re dealing with a pounding headache before the shop even opens for the morning. And it does not get better. Your singular customer of the day is a local academic, who is overly pedantic and tight with his cash. Why he believes you’d even consider parting with a rare old tome for only a third of its worth, you’ll never know. The disagreement makes your headache worse, and there is little relief. Part of you wants to close up shop early, and attempt to nap. But you cannot — you are not making nearly enough sales these days, what with your irregular opening hours. So you force yourself to stay awake and to keep the shop open, and try not to think about shootings or souls.

Finally, five o’clock rolls around. You waste no time in closing, running up to your flat almost immediately. It’s early, but you want to eat before collapsing into your bed and letting sleep take you. Except, because you have spent your recent days in a daze, you find all that is left within your fridge is some stale bread and mouldy leftovers. Of course. It’s just one of those weeks it seems.

Idly, as you grab your purse, you wonder if you’ll ever have one of the other type of weeks, where everything goes smoothly and you know nothing but happiness and peace. Does such a thing exist?

And of course, because good luck is not something you seem to possess, the supermarket is busy, overwhelmingly so. It’s a bad evening to go; they’re running low on just about everything. They’re out of your favourite brands, and so your mental shopping list ends up being unusually short. Do you give up and get takeout? But no, you can’t exactly afford to keep ordering in, so you must suck it up and buy alternatives. You find yourself in the meat aisle, looking at the cheaper cuts of red meat. Have you fed the ghoul in the attic recently? You don’t believe so. And having met him — albeit very briefly, for you’ve seen him more in Lucifer’s memories than in person — you find he is rather more intimidating than you’d expected him to be. Do ghoul eat people? You aren’t sure. Perhaps you should give up on finding the last few items on your list, and buy him some dinner instead. Always best to keep him on side, seeing as you are pretty sure he might have murdered your uncle on Lucifer’s orders.

Later than you would have liked, you arrive home with your shopping. Unloading the food doesn’t take so long, but you’re fatigued by the end of it. Sleep is all you crave, yet it is most elusive these days. Too tired to cook a real dinner, you heat up a somewhat unappetising ready meal, scarfing the too-hot food down the moment it leaves the microwave. It’s not exactly good, but it’s food, and it will do. Opening the refrigerator once more, you go to pull out a can of whatever mixed drink was on sale; perhaps alcohol will solve your sleeping problems.

Closing the fridge door and turning away, lost in your own thoughts, you are startled from your depressing inner monologue by a figure, standing inches from you. Menacing and fearsome, wearing ill-fitting old clothes. The ghoul from your attic, is making his presence known once more.

The drink falls from your hand. He, moving his hand impossibly fast, grabs it instantaneously. The ghoul stares down at you, his dead eyes unblinking, his body impossibly still. Your heart is pounding, you cannot help but be terrified. There’s something uncanny about the ghouls, the way they’re so close to being human and yet distinctly not at the same time. This ghoul, your attic ghoul, is a little too large, a little too tall. Far too still, in a way humankind could never be. Too many too-sharp teeth, eyes that seem soulless. Except you’re soulless, and you don’t have eyes like that, do you? Those strange eyes bore into you, staring you down. You don’t quite know what to say, what to do. Danger radiates from him, you cannot help but be afraid of him.

He does not speak. He does not stop staring. What he does do, however, is raise the can up to you, indicating for you to take it. You do; it is dented, from the pressure of his strong grip.

“Oh, thank you.” You say politely, automatically.

He nods, a near imperceptible nod. Patiently, you wait for him to… you don’t know what you’re waiting for him to do. It’s still a little surreal, seeing him here in your kitchen. Unnerving. You find the ghouls utterly unnerving, and you’re not sure how Papa or Copia or Lucifer can be so unaffected by their presence. Especially your attic ghoul, who radiates immense power and danger, who could so easily tear you to shreds with his inexplicably claw-like fingertips, his razor-blade teeth. He does nothing, however, except stare. It is up to you, it seems, to break the silence.

“Is there something I can do for you?” You ask him, hesitantly, unable to keep the fearful edge from your words.

For surely his appearance cannot be a good thing, there must be a reason for his presence in your flat. That realisation sends ice cold terror down your spine. Will Lucifer be paying you another visit? Exhaustion is plaguing you, you cannot cope with his games and tricks and demands.

“You bought me food.” He responds, his voice deep and monotonous. It’s an odd voice; you’d blamed the abnormality of it on your hangover before, but you are not hungover now. No, his voice is just… inhuman, as odd a descriptor as that is. Slightly out of sync, his mouth moving a little too slow.

“I — yes. How did you know?” It takes you a moment to register his words, focused more on the bizarreness of his voice. How does he know? It’s not like you have any way of communicating with him — you’ve basically ceded the attic to him at this point, you have no interest in intruding upon him.

“You don’t eat red meat. But I can smell it.” The ghoul says, as if it is the most normal thing in the world to be able to smell a cut of meat from the floor above. It only serves to prove that this creature is decidedly not human.

But really, you’re almost… relieved. He’s here for the cheap cut of meat you’d bought for him? You’d been running through all sorts of horrifying possibilities within your head, demands from Lucifer that you couldn’t possibly bear to carry out. And yet… the ghoul from your attic is here, asking only for meat.

“Uh, sure. Do you want it now?” You ask him, smiling nervously. Sure, you’re relieved, but that doesn’t stop you from being scared shitless. You’d be perfectly happy to not see the ghoul again for a good while, for his presence sends chills up your spine.

“Later. I have a second reason, for being here.” His words instantly wipe the smile from your lips.

Of course he has a second reason. As if he’d come just for the meat. Whenever you get him food, it’s left outside of the door relatively soon after. And it would be so easy for him to get in and out of the flat without your knowledge — he’s done it before. You wish people would have more respect for your space, honestly. Is it normal, to have so many break-ins? Lucifer and several ghouls and G— you don’t want to think about this, anymore. So you turn back to the uncomfortable truth, that the Devil has mostly likely sent this ghoul to speak with you once more.

Fuck. Can’t you just have one quiet night?

“Oh, you do?” You cannot help the reluctant dismay creeping into your tone.

But if he notices it — you aren’t entirely sure ghouls even understand human emotions — he does not say, simply telling you, “I have a message.”

Well, at least you’re near certain who the message is from. Your stomach drops. You are so not in the mood for this.

“Is He coming to see me again?” The words are barely above a whisper, as if you are scared that even speaking of him in a loud enough voice will summon Lucifer to your kitchen once more.

But you’ve summoned him before, and you know that is not how that works. Or, you’re pretty sure. Perhaps you should read up some more on Devil summoning.

“No. Busy. Just me.” The ghoul tells you. You wonder if he ever blinks.

Relieved, you lean back against the kitchen counter, placing down your almost-forgotten can. This is good, right? That Lucifer is not here? Surely if it were that important, he’d be here himself. Or is that a little egotistical, to assume that the Devil himself would put all else aside to speak with you. Are you really that important to him? Probably not, you’re certain he must be in possession of many souls. This could still be bad. Couldn’t it still be bad? Maybe you ought to be more concerned. And the way the ghoul is staring at you — that dead stare, unreadable and unyielding — does little to ease the anxiety that is once more bubbling up within you.

“Okay, that’s — that’s okay. I, um, I don’t know your name. Do ghouls have names? That’s probably insensitive to ask, isn’t it, I’m sorry, I —” You’re rambling, again. You’re panicking, again. Is his name relevant? Perhaps not. But maybe if you… make friends with him, those feelings of dread he so deeply inspires will ease.

He is silent for a moment, and you wonder if you’ve offended him. There’s little information about ghouls, none that is all too accurate. You must ask Copia for some literature, you are certain the Ministry will have some. Maybe then you’ll have some inclination as to what his blank stares mean. But then he makes a noise. It’s fearsome and awe-inspiring, all at once. It’s… indescribable, as if multiple strange ghoulish voices are speaking at once, making noises you could not possibly replicate.

“What was — oh. Was that your name?” Of course, the ghouls have their own language. It’d be ridiculous to think otherwise. You just hadn’t expected it to be so… different.

“Yes.” He nods, and you find it a relief to hear him speak English once more. There was something innately terrifying about him speaking his language. It sent a shockwave of terror through your body, your instincts were screaming at you to flee.

“I don’t know if I could say that.” You say, unnecessarily; as if he ever would’ve expected you to.

“No.” He shakes his head, before looking at you with what you think is supposed to be a grin. His mouth is stretched a little too wide, he’s baring his razor sharp teeth, but there is no malice in it. It’s almost… friendly. Terrifying, but still… oddly friendly.

“What should I call you?” You’re wondering aloud, mostly.

It’s just that it feels a little rude to refer to him as just ‘the ghoul in the attic’ all the time, especially if getting sent messages from Lucifer via this ghoul is to become a regular thing. And you think it might be. You fear it might be. You should plan for it, regardless. And part of planning for that involves being on good terms with the ghoul from your attic, Lucifer’s most faithful of servants. After all, you saw his interaction with Reginald. You’re certain he was involved with Reginald’s death, at least to some degree. You’d rather not get mauled by his claws or his teeth; you plan on staying alive, on having a peaceful life with Copia.

“The name tag in this shirt says ‘Reginald.’” He says, baring his teeth once more.

His words stun you, your breathing falters slightly. You think, although you cannot be sure, that he is trying to make a joke. Is it a joke, do ghouls joke?

“I — I don’t think I can call you by, uh, my dead uncle’s name.” It takes you a moment, to formulate the words. You’re scared of angering him — does he want to be called Reginald? It’s a weird choice, but then, he wears Reginald’s clothes. They fit badly — the ghoul is taller than Reginald was, built differently.

“Humans are oddly sentimental.” Is his only response. If he was human, you think he would’ve shrugged in a nonchalant sort of way. But he isn’t. The ghoul stands, still as ever, staring at you with those dead eyes.

“Sorry.” You’re not sure why you’re apologising, what for.

“Do I need a name?” He asks, and you’re sure you can hear a faint curiosity to the words. Or perhaps you’re projecting, feeling that inherent need to humanise him, to make him less… terrifying.

“I mean… not if you don’t want one, I guess.” You swallow, unsure of how to answer.

“Ghoul is fine. That is what I am.” It’s so hard to read his voice, to figure him out.

“Are you sure?” You double check, for offending this fearsome being is the very last thing you want or need right now.

“Yes.” He nods, pausing for a moment. “Before I eat. I have to give you a message.”

Ah, yes. Back on track. Lucifer has something to tell you. Your heart is beating faster, your breathing shallows. What he wants, you are entirely unsure of. But you are hoping, praying, that he won’t make you do something abhorrent.

“Okay.” You whisper, barely able to form the word, focused entirely on the nightmarish potential scenarios that dark and twisty part of your mind feels the need to show you. Lucifer won’t make you commit any crimes for him, right? Maybe the sleep deprivation is making you a little more dramatic than usual, but you don’t want to end up like —

“The Old One wants information.” The ghoul interrupts your dark thoughts, and you are surprised at his words. Information?

“From me? I don’t — I don’t really know anything, surely.” You blurt out, confused.

Because seriously, you know absolutely nothing about anything. Unless Lucifer is interested in mediaeval history, you don’t have an awful lot of knowledge to share.

“Not yet. You can learn.” He says, as if it’s simple. You aren’t so sure that it is.

“Information about what?” The confusion is only rising. What could you possibly find out, that another of his followers does not already know?

“The Ministry.” The ghoul tells you; as ever, a ghoul of few words. Concise to the point of frustration.

You cannot help but laugh in disbelief. Is the Ministry not full of true believers, of ghouls, of those who have willingly devoted their lives to the Devil? And here is this ghoul, asking you, some girl who made a dreadful mistake in her youth, to gather information within his church. You are not even an official member. You know next to nothing, only snippets of information about Imperator’s power struggle from Copia or funny stories of Papa’s shenanigans from Magdalene. You have no influence, you are on speaking terms with a whole three members of his church. Granted, Copia and Papa are two of the top ranking officials, and Magdalene is Copia’s assistant. But still, your point stands. You are a horrible choice for such a mission.

“I mean no disrespect or anything but surely there’s countless people there who would not only be more than willing to help, but would be more helpful. I don’t know much about the Ministry at all, only what Copia tells me.” You exhale, pushing a strand of hair away from your face. Perhaps it’s the exhaustion. But this all feels so entirely ridiculous, surreal.

“Asking others will not work. He needs you to find out information.” The ghoul ignores your outburst, the potential disrespect. But — and again, maybe you’re projecting — there’s an insistence to his voice. A firmness. He is not asking you to do this. He is telling you.

“I mean, I guess I don’t really have a choice.” You cannot help but let out a long sigh, resignation settling over you. You’re still fuzzy on the whole soul-selling thing, how it works. But you know that Lucifer does not take kindly to disobedience. His outburst of fury when Reginald sent you away… that is not something you’d like to see again. You do not want to invoke such wrath upon you.

“You don’t. You are like me. Bound.” The ghoul nods once more, and his words send an icy chill through your veins.

Bound. It’s horrifying. You’ve had many a nightmare about your free will in recent days. It seems like the conclusions you’d drawn were right. You are not in control of your life. All sense of choice these days is an illusion. You will do what you are told, you suppose. Perhaps, if you are good, if you follow orders, Lucifer will eventually leave you in peace, with Copia. It is all you can hope for.

“Oh. I — yeah. I am. We are.” You acknowledge, even though the words feel heavy, depressing. It is strange, so peculiar, to have such a thing in common with the ghoul from your attic. “What information does he want, did he tell you specifics?”

You are resigned to your fate. It seems, you will be gathering information for Lucifer, whether you like it or not.

“Sister Imperator. He wants to know about Sister Imperator. What she is thinking, what she is planning, what she has done recently.” The ghoul tells you, with that same monotone voice. He gives nothing away, there is no emotion there.

And it is… it is not wholly surprising, that Lucifer would be interested in Sister Imperator, you think. The power struggle, the potential threat she poses, her issues with Papa. These are major issues. But you’ve met the woman twice. She’s barely spoken to you, although she seems to have some sort of grievance against you. You’re not sure why, but she has strong feelings of disdain towards you. Honestly, although you know nothing of her, the feeling is mutual.

“I — why me? Surely Papa or Copia would be better for this, they interact with her constantly!” You ask, more than a little frustrated by this whole situation.

How are you supposed to get information on Imperator? Does Lucifer expect you to go around interrogating Siblings and ghouls? Are you supposed to question Copia or Papa, go through their papers and listen in upon their conversations?

“Papa is blinded by hatred. Copia… that is more complex.” The ghoul tells you, vague as ever.

“What do you mean?” You’re pressing for more details, and you cannot help the exasperation in your voice. Ghouls, you’re coming to find, are the worst possible beings to glean information from. Far too concise, indistinct, unclear.

“I am only repeating what I have been told. Will you do what has been asked?” He says, and you suppose that really, he can’t know a whole lot about Copia, or Papa.

After all, has he not been haunting your attic for the past thirteen years? You doubt that he spent any of his free time, when he was not watching you or your uncle, checking for updates on the Ministry’s gossip. No, this is another dead end for information. Still, you are curious… what is so complex about Copia and Sister Imperator’s relationship? As far as you know, they’re simply colleagues. He doesn’t talk much of her, other than to complain.

A yawn escapes your lips, ever-present exhaustion making itself known once more. You just want to get to bed, to fall into dreams. Pleasant ones, ideally. So you give in, give up. It’s not as if you’ll get more information from this ghoul. He seems to know little more than what he has been ordered to tell you.

“I — yeah. Again, there’s not much of a choice.” Your acceptance is begrudging, to say the least. You have little interest in involving yourself in Ministry business. “How long do I have? How am I supposed to pass the information along?”

“You have time. He’ll come to you again in time. Weeks or months, maybe.” The ghoul smiles once more. It unnerves you, you almost wish he wouldn’t.

“Right. Okay. I… would you like that meat now?” You’re exhausted, longing for your bed. Although your mind will not quieten, thinking of handguns and bloody suits and souls and power hungry members of the clergy.

“Yes.” He steps forward, a little too close for comfort. “Wait. You are tired.”

It’s not a question, it’s an observation. You are, and you cannot be annoyed at his observation, for it is obvious. Several days of poor sleep will do that.

“I am.” You agree, wondering if this will prolong his visit. Your bed is calling, you want to curl up under the duvet and forget about everything.

“Humans have trouble sleeping?” He asks, in a way that you want to believe is curiosity. Or are you simply anthropomorphising him, wanting to apply some sort of human convention to the terrifying being standing too close to you within your kitchen?

“Yeah, sometimes. Do ghouls not?” You ask in return — really, you must ask Copia for some sort of accurate literature on the ghouls, if you’re going to be interacting with them on the regular.

“No. I can help you.” He tells you, and you cannot help the apprehension rising within you.

Help you? What could he possibly mean by that? Of course, you’re tempted to accept his help, without even knowing what he means. Anything, anything, for a good night’s sleep. And you’re pretty sure he wouldn’t hurt you; Lucifer did just assign you a task, and he’s already resurrected you once. You doubt he’d allow his ghoulish servants to do any sort of permanent damage to you… right?

“I — how?” You inquire. Perhaps the sleep deprivation has impacted your sense of self-preservation, because you think you might be willing to do anything for some sleep.

You just want to sleep. All of this… you can figure this out in the morning.

He looks at you, tilting his head slightly. Then he opens his mouth to say a singular word, “Bedroom.”

You look at him in confusion. Bedroom? He wants you to take him to your bedroom? It’s a little strange, you’re almost considering telling him to leave. But… the allure of sleep is greater than the weirdness of his request. So you head to your bedroom, going to stand beside the bed. You turn to look back at him — once more, he’s only inches from you. How he moves so imperceptibly, you do not know. He glances at you with that same unyielding gaze, before looking down at the bed. You take it as a cue to sit. He’s looming over you and if you were less tired, you’d be a little terrified of him. He places a clawed hand upon your head. It’s icy cold.

“Look into my eyes. Goodnight, marked one.” His voice sounds almost gentle. As gentle as something vaguely demonic could ever be.

You look up at him, into those strange and unblinking eyes. A low noise is emanating from him, a barely perceptible buzzing sound. But, before you can truly wonder what it is the ghoul is doing, you’re falling fast into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

Sometimes, your dreams are indistinguishable from reality until the point of waking. But that is not the case for this dream which you are currently dreaming. No, this dream feels like a dream. Like you’ve been dragged from waking through the sleep-filled oblivion, only to fall out the other side, into some strange dreamscape. Some strange dreamscape which is not your own. It does not feel like your own dreams, there is no familiarity. No, instead it is foreign, as if you are an intruder within the scenes playing out in front of you. Or perhaps as if some unknown entity has slithered into the dark recesses of your mind, lurking there, projecting his own strange visions onto your dreams. For that has to be what is happening, surely? These aren’t nightmares, some ghastly conjuring of your own mind. It is too nonsensical. And not in the way dreams are usually nonsensical, with teeth constantly falling out or the inexplicable knowledge of how to fly. They are too vivid, these monochrome dreams in a colour you can’t quite describe. You’re falling through scenes and unfamiliar memories faster and faster, before one finally sticks.

A bare stone room, dimly lit, rapidly melting candles scattered all across the floors to outline what might be a pentagram. Two figures in the centre, their faces obscured by poor lighting. You can taste the heat from the candles, you can taste the lingering desperation in the air. They are hot and bitter upon your tongue. Should you be able to taste such a thing? Both figures are speaking, too fast and too slow all at once, in a language you couldn’t possibly understand. Unfamiliar. Inhuman. You cannot get a closer look, you cannot figure out who they are. What is this strange dream, what is its meaning? Do dreams need to mean something? Or wait — could this be some side effect of ghoulish magicks?

The taller figure, intimidating, strong, finally moves. He’s facing you, standing behind the smaller figure, and you recognise him. You do not need to see his face. That is the Devil, you are certain. There’s something in the way he carries himself, something that separates him from the mere mortals surrounding him. The figure in front of him — smaller, a woman, you think — is still a mystery to you. She’s speaking, begging for something, in a language you do not know. You are dreaming, this is a dream, but it feels real. As if it is a recollection of a memory long passed. But you cannot leave, the spectre lurking in your mind is forcing you to watch this strange sequence.

Something — you are not sure what, you are sure of very few things — happens, drastic and sudden. Light floods the room, blinding, too strong. If it wasn’t a dream, it would hurt. You feel nothing, however; you are an unwilling ghost, a passive observer. The light dims, you can see the stone room clearly for a moment, bathed in false sunshine. You can finally see the faces of the two individuals standing within the stone walls.

And you cannot be sure; for she is much younger. But you are near certain that the woman, in this dreamscape with you, is Sister Imperator.

But before you can examine the scene any closer, you are being dragged out of this strange and foreign dream, waking abruptly. Your alarm is blaring out at a headache-inducing volume. The time on your phone reads as five minutes past eight in the morning; it had been ringing for five minutes, aggressively loud, and yet you had slept on, blissfully unaware.

These past few weeks, you’ve slept so poorly. And yet, despite your bizarre dreams, you do feel well-rested. Very much so. Whatever the ghoul from your attic did, it worked. Aside from the dreams, that is. Were you supposed to see that — did the ghoul expect you to glean some essential piece of knowledge from those scenes? Or was it some magic-induced figment of your sleepy imagination? Sister Imperator and Lucifer together in a dark stone room, illuminated by candles, some sort of ritual going on. Both in strange clothing, both speaking in tongues.

And as much as you ponder upon it, as often as you replay those brief flashes of your dreams while readying yourself for the day, you cannot quite piece together its meaning.

The dream is a problem for a later day, you quickly decide. It was an odd start to your morning, a strange instance that you cannot quite explain; but you have more important concerns than unusual dreams, than ghoulish magicks. No, your focus, all day, has been on Lucifer’s task. You must gather information on Sister Imperator, despite not being a part of the Ministry, despite having little to do with her. You have so many questions, and very few answers.

Because why would he assign such a task to you? Where does he think you’ll get this information from? What could you possibly find out that would be of use to him? Is she even hiding anything of significance? Surely there are others who would be able to gather information, far quicker than you ever could? Can you tell others of this, can you ask Copia to help? The problem with having ghouls convey such a task is their annoying tendency to be a little too vague, overly concise. You hardly know what he wants. And you could go back to the ghoul in your attic, for he may have some answers, but quite frankly, you’re awfully intimidated by his presence. He’s… he’s an ally, you think. He will not harm you. But those claws, those teeth, that air of danger that surrounds him… no, you would not want to bother him. Not unless it was a life-or-death sort of thing. And you don’t think that this is.

You spend all day pondering the issue. Do you tell Copia, do you ask for his assistance in all of this? After all, he’s around Sister Imperator all day, they work together closely. Of all your possible ideas, this is the one that would make the most sense — you have no desire to fail in this task, of disappointing Lucifer, for you are far too aware of the fate that befell Reginald. And quite frankly, your other ideas are ridiculous. You are no spy, there’s no way you could bug the ministry, or break into Imperator’s office, or listen in to meetings. That concept is nonsensically bizarre, and there is no How to Spy on Power-Hungry Satanic Clergywomen guide anywhere online.

But the decision is made so easily for you, when you arrive at Copia’s chambers that evening. You breeze in with dinner — takeout, for you have both been entirely too lost in your thoughts in recent days, and neither of you feel like suffering through another burnt meal — only to find him at his desk, fast asleep. He cannot be comfortable, hunched over, face down against a tall stack of papers. And yet, he’s entirely oblivious to your presence, lost in dreams.

So, it makes your decision so simple. Copia is already stressed to the point of exhaustion, he’s already nearing his breaking point. He’s usually so put together, quietly confident. In recent days he’s been plagued by anxieties, his worries over the Ministry’s future growing ever louder.

You cannot — you will not — put more stress upon his shoulders. And it’s not as if you are lying to him, you’re not hiding anything. You are simply… omitting a few things. Skating over the truth. It’ll be just like how you obfuscated a little with the Gideon situation. Glossing over the truth. Relationships cannot thrive nor prosper when built upon lies, you know this. And you will tell him, you will! Just… not right now. If things with Sister Imperator calm down, you’ll tell him of your mission. Gideon’s death might not even come to anything. Maybe it was suicide. Maybe the murderer will confess, and your involvement with him will be dead and buried and left in the past.

Should you wake him, now that you’ve made your choice? It feels wrong, you feel as if you might be betraying him in some inexplicable way. And so, perhaps selfishly, you decide to let him sleep a little longer. To let your decision settle. To come up with a better plan. Quietly, for you do not want to disturb him, you grab a slice of the rapidly cooling pizza, chewing thoughtfully.

If Copia is not an option, how are you supposed to investigate Sister Imperator? Of course, you could spend your free time rifling through his desk while he’s stuck in meetings, reading his planners and papers and searching for scraps of secrets. Except, you’ve no clue what secrets are most significant, which secrets are superfluous. And it feels wrong, a true betrayal of trust. You cannot convince yourself that snooping through Copia’s things is the best way to go about this. And you cannot do this alone. There are too many things within the Ministry that you are blissfully unaware of — you’re not so great at being a devoted follower of Lucifer. There are few within the church whom you would call friends.

But, of course.

A conversation floats into your mind, one you’d soon forgotten about, lost in a tequila-fuelled haze.

Magdalene.

Sister Magdalene, Copia’s most trusted personal assistant, who knows most everything occurring within the Ministry.

Sister Magdalene, who has been so open with you about her distaste and distrust for Sister Imperator.

You cannot help the relieved smile spreading across your lips. Magdalene will help you, you’re almost certain of it.

Early morning meetings have become the norm for Copia in recent days. Meetings that stretch on for hours, hidden away in some secret chamber. He does not talk much of them; you can glean from his never-ending exasperation that it’s the same fight between Papa and Sister Imperator, over and over again. His early meetings deprive you of cosy mornings together, but for once you are not frustrated by it. Because today provides you with an opportunity. Copia is guaranteed to be occupied for a large stretch of the morning, and that gives you more than enough time to find Magdalene, to speak freely with her about these problems that plague you.

He’s about to walk out the door by the time you finally slip out from beneath the warm bed sheets. A small wave of guilt washes over you, as he comes over to press a gentle kiss to your temple, asking with tired eyes how you plan to spend the day. It hurts slightly, to respond with deliberately vague words, to obfuscate the truth once more. You are not lying. You are not entirely telling him everything. But he seems oblivious to your inner turmoil this morning, in a rush and already far too stressed about the day ahead.

Copia leaves for his meeting, you ready yourself, and you wait. You wait, to make sure he does not return unexpectedly soon, to be certain he’s not forgotten some crucial paperwork, to ensure you don’t bump into him on your way to Magdalene’s. Why do you feel so secretive about it? There’s nothing wrong with visiting his assistant, the two of you are close. But you fear it would rouse curiosity, should you cross paths with Copia in the ministry hallways. After all, it is a little too early to be making social calls. And you can no longer hide the turmoil of emotions from your face, your determination and desperation, your need for some sort of plan for carrying out the task you’ve been unwillingly assigned.

Reaching Magdalene’s door, you knock rapidly. Is she still asleep, should you have held off on this, waited for later in the day? Should you even be bringing others into this, is it selfish and wrong for you to be asking so much of her in the first place? But no. This is the best time to have this conversation. Neither of you busy, Copia preoccupied, little chance of being overheard. And you cannot do this alone; it is impossible, you need somebody involved within ministry life. You have to get a handle on the situation, quickly and quietly.

There are sounds of movement from within the rooms; someone is shuffling about, a low muttering on the other side of the door as it is cracked open. Ah, yes. Sister Magdalene is many things, but she is most definitely not a morning person.

“Magdalene, hi.” You grin — a little too widely, a little too brightly, most likely failing miserably at covering up your nerves — as she sticks her head out of the door, clearly disgruntled about having been dragged from her bed before eight in the morning.

“Hey babe, little early, isn’t it?” The sleepy annoyance in Magdalene's eyes fades, a curiosity creeping in to take its place. She wasn’t expecting you, that much is clear.

“I know, I’m sorry. It’s just — we need to talk.” You do feel a little guilty about showing up so early, so unexpectedly, about having very clearly woken her up. But your desperation overrides any guilt you might feel.

She can hear it in your voice, that something is wrong. That sleepiness within her eyes dissipates, replaced with an alert apprehension. She knows that something is not quite right.

“Come in.” She swings the door open a little wider, pulling you inside before locking it once more. There will be no interruptions. “Coffee?”

“Sure, thanks.” You smile gratefully, though you’re feeling more than a little unsure of yourself.

A part of you can hardly believe you’re doing this, going behind Copia’s back. But then, aren’t you doing this for him? The tumult amongst the highest level of Church leadership is causing him so much agita. You don’t want to add any more pressure, or intensify the situation. It’s not wrong, for you to want to save him from more disruption… is it?

As you curl up on Magdalene’s sofa, watching as she heaps large spoonfuls of instant coffee into mugs, you steel yourself for what you’re sure will be a tough conversation. For you, at least. It’s inevitable really, that you’ll have to tell her about the soul thing. Lucifer’s task makes little sense with that tidbit of information omitted. It’s just that you’re still coming to terms with it all, still trying to make peace with your past. But it’s Magdalene; you are near certain that she’d never be anything but supportive of you. She’s your closest friend these days. She won’t judge you. At least, you hope she won’t. You pray to Lucifer she won’t. Finally she trudges over to the sofa with two mugs, placing them down upon the messy coffee table before slumping down next to you. There’s an expectant look upon her face, she seems unusually serious.

“So, what’s going on? I’m pretty sure I know what this is going to be about but… spill.” She murmurs quietly, as if she’s afraid of being overheard.

You are alone in Magdalene’s rooms. The walls are relatively thick, as are the doors. Surely nobody would be able to hear your discussion? Is she being paranoid? Does she have a reason to be paranoid?

Either way, you are risking nothing.

“We need to talk about Sister Imperator.” You tell her, keeping your voice low. She laughs humourlessly, shaking her head.

“Ha, yeah. We do. You been hearing about her from Copia?” Magdalene tilts her head at you inquisitively. You cannot blame her for her curiosity; Copia is well known for being a closed book. He gives so little away, about himself, about his work, about his past.

“Barely, I get fragments here and there. He’s stressed though. Whatever is going on, it keeps him up at night.” Maybe you shouldn’t be telling his assistant such things about him. But you want to help him, in whatever capacity you can. Perhaps doing this task for Lucifer will improve the situation within the Ministry, will ease the fraught tension of his days.

“It’s keeping all of us up. She’s… I don’t know what she’s doing. But the situation is getting pretty dire.” Magdalene commiserates glumly, pulling a face.

You cannot imagine working with Sister Imperator. Quite frankly, the woman is more than a little intimidating, with her cold eyes, her unwarranted disdain towards you. Truly, you’d be more than happy to never see her again, to forget she exists entirely.

“It’s caught a certain someone’s attention, that’s for sure.” You are deeply apprehensive, it is painfully obvious, reluctant to even speak his name — as if saying his name aloud would summon him here, as if it would bring more misfortune to your door. It will not, of course. But the words you need are hard to find, lost in a tangled mess of fear and anxiety.

“What do you mean?” Magdalene furrows her brow, perplexed. But there’s something in her tone that indicates that maybe she’s not so confused. No, there’s a part of her, deep down, that instinctively knows what it is you are so afraid to say. It’s not so hard to figure out from the fear in your voice, the trepidation within your eyes.

Swallowing deeply, you prepare yourself — this is not something you can avoid much longer. You need an ally in this strange mission you’ve been set, and Magdalene might just be the only one you can lean upon for help.

“Lucifer wants information on Sister Imperator.” You look down at your hands, clenched into fists upon your lap. Your words are quiet, barely audible. The silence following is loud.

“What? He — what? Explain.” Glancing up, you see she’s staring at you in utter disbelief, blinking rapidly as she tries to wrap her head around the bombshell you’ve just dropped.

Honestly, you can’t really blame her. From your limited knowledge, you’re pretty sure it is rare for Lucifer to make personal contact with his followers. Even those who summon him are not guaranteed his presence, no matter how hard they pray and beg and suffer for it. And very few, barely anybody, are on speaking terms with the Devil himself. You are an unlikely candidate to receive the honour of his presence, you are most aware of this; you aren’t so devoted in your worship of him, you are hardly one of his most ardent followers. Hell, you aren’t even an official member of the Satanic Church. Magdalene knows this. And so, you are quite certain you cannot get away with skating over your connections to Lucifer. She needs to know, for this all to make any sort of sense.

Magdalene will not judge your soullessness, right? It will be fine. You are terrified.

“There’s a bit of a story, as to why he wants me to do this, I guess. I — essentially, I accidentally sold the Devil my soul as a kid. It’s, uh, a whole thing.” The words feel clumsy, a poorly-told summary of a most complex and painful discovery.

For a moment, she says nothing. The tension is suffocating, and you consider leaving. How pathetic would it be, for you to bolt from the room? It’s beginning to feel like the only real option you have.

“Holy fuck.” She laughs and finally, the tension dissipates. “You have shit luck, you know that?”

Relief floods your veins. It’s fine. It’s fine.

“Yeah, I know. I only found out recently. It was… a bit of a shock.” Your smile is too wide, your voice is brittle. Really, you need to stop being so… emotional, about this. There is nothing you can do to change things. Crying about it solves nothing.

“A little insane of your younger self, but I support it. So you’ve met Him? Is… is He hot? The Devil just has to be hot, right?” Magdalene leans forward, intrigue colouring her tone. There’s amusement in her eyes, but you know she’s not joking — she absolutely wants an answer to her question.

“I — yes, I mean, I guess? In a weird, too-perfect, sort of way.” You blush, averting eye contact. Sure, most would consider Lucifer to be hot. In more ways than one, really, as you remember his burning hot touch. At the same time, he is terrifying, dangerous, inhuman. “But yeah, I met Him, just the one time. He showed me some memories of my past, it was all very weird. This time, He communicated with me through one of the ghouls.”

“The one that lives in your attic?” She asks, to your surprise; you’re almost certain you’ve never mentioned him before. Does Copia talk about the ghoul, does he talk about you?

“Yeah, it was — I didn’t realise you knew about him. So this attic-dwelling ghoul showed up last night, telling me that Lucifer wants information on Imperator. No other concrete details, aside from the fact that supposedly He can’t ask Papa or Copia to do it. I have to be the one to get this information. I don’t know why, but it’s what he wants.” You sigh, grabbing your mug and taking a large sip. It is hot and strong, it burns your tongue slightly, but you do not mind. You feel… better. To finally tell another about your task is a great relief; you feel as if a weight has been lifted from your shoulders.

“Of course I know about your ghoulish acquaintance; I know just about everything that goes on. But… huh. I guess maybe the Devil thinks she’d be less likely to suspect you? You’re not a member of the clergy, you don’t exactly have any power here. But… what does he want?” Magdalene hums thoughtfully, taking a large swig of her own coffee, clearly unbothered by the temperature.

It’s a question you’ve been slowly mulling over for days. It’s a question you do not have an answer to. She does have a point though. You are the least likely suspect to be spying on Sister Imperator. But whatever the end-goal here is, you are lost in the dark.

“That’s true. I mean she doesn’t exactly like me, but she’d have no reason to ever suspect me of anything. But like… why? What’s the point of all this? I have no clue what this is about. I cannot figure it out for the life of me.” You cannot help the frustration creeping into your voice.

It’s unfair. Of course, that’s simply how life is; it’s naive and childish to expect things to be perfectly happy and fine all of the time. But fuck, if you aren’t so entirely annoyed at your thirteen year old self, for accidentally getting herself into this mess. You’ll forever be cleaning up after that one mistake, it seems.

“It’s strange. So there’s just… no specifics, on what Lucifer wants to know?” Magdalene is quiet, and you can tell she is thinking deeply. She seems nearly as clueless as you are.

A part of you had hoped she’d have answers. A part of you had wanted this to be easy and simple and over fast. That’s not going to be the case.

“No. I’m lost, I don’t even know where to start. I’m guessing it’s got to be to do with this whole power struggle that’s going on.” You groan, taking another sip of your coffee.

“Yeah, that’s gotta be it, it’s the only thing really going on with Imperator and the senior clergy. And it would explain why Lucifer doesn’t want to ask other siblings or clergy members or ghouls. It’d only make things worse, having more people knowing about it and all. I’m pretty sure that He’s not in support of whatever she’s trying to do.” Magdalene tells you slowly, carefully. Her voice is still quiet, she is still seemingly scared of being overheard.

But then, if Sister Imperator is posing a real threat to the Church, a threat that might lead to its demise, then perhaps caution is a good thing to have. Are you really equipped to deal with such a responsibility? You aren’t sure. It makes sense to have as few people involved as possible, if things are so unstable, you only hope there will be no consequences for dragging Magdalene into all of this.

“I — will you help me? I know it’s a lot to ask but —” You have to make sure. Because she might seem invested, curious, but to involve her in your mess… it’s a lot to ask. But she cuts you off quickly, waving off your concerns with her hand.

“Oh, stop it. Of course. You know there’s no love lost between myself and Sister stick-up-her-arse. I’ll do whatever I can.” She rolls her eyes, as if it was a stupid question to ask.

Perhaps, to Magdalene, it was. As a friend, she’s always been ferocious in her loyalty. It should not be a surprise that her devotion extends to spying upon a power-hungry clergywoman for the Devil. You are not so used to having others be so devoted to helping you, having people in your life who care for you like this.

“Thank you. I just — thank you. I appreciate it, seriously.” You tell her softly, earnestly. Truly, you do not know what you would’ve done had she asked to remain uninvolved. “So… where do you think we should start?”

You are hoping, praying, that she has some sort of an answer. For you are overwhelmed with the whole situation, and you do so terribly under pressure. A part of you feels frozen, unable to act, unable to think of any starting point for your mission. Most of you wants to tell Copia, to curl up within his arms and beg for his assistance, despite the fact that he’s dealing with his own stressful situations. But that would be selfish, and you are trying so hard to be good for him. To not be such a burden. He cannot solve all your problems. Neither can Magdalene, of course, but at least she can direct you towards a starting point. And you can gather your information, and Lucifer can have his knowledge, and then — hopefully, maybe— you can be allowed your peaceful life with Copia.

Magdalene sips at her coffee, slowly draining it, a thoughtful look clouding her eyes. You let her think, you do not rush the process. Anything, you’ll take anything. Flashes of the ghoul from your attic pinning Reginald against the wall flicker through your mind once more. That, you are certain, is a fate that might await you should you fail to meet Lucifer’s expectations. And you refuse to meet that same fate. Finally, Magdalene places the mug down, dragging you out of your thoughts. She’s got a plan, you can see the self-satisfied glint within her eyes. You cannot help but feel relieved.

“Hm. Good question. Now, your man and Papa are still in that breakfast meeting of theirs, but it’ll be over soon. Then, the Cardinal has another meeting with the senior clergy members and Imperator. But Papa? Papa is free. He usually decompresses after these meetings by hiding out in an empty office behind the library — nobody would ever think to look for him there, which is why he likes it so much — and you can go and talk to him about Imperator. He’s a little biased, because he fucking hates her, but it’s a good starting point. After all… this bullshit power struggle began between the two of them, right?” She speaks slowly, a familiar determination within her words. Magdalene is firmly committed to this, it seems. But then, she is not the sort of person to ever be half hearted in her actions. She is a fighter, a winner. Strong and confident, always. You admire her for that.

And it makes sense. A lot of sense. Best go directly to those involved, getting as close to the epicentre of Imperator’s chaos as you can. Even if Papa is more than a little biased, at least he’ll give you information. He’s your best chance to learn more about the origins of this conflict, you’re certain.

“You’re right. That’s — yeah. That’s a good idea.” You smile at her gratefully. It’s a simple enough plan, but Lucifer knows you’d never have thought of it yourself.

“C’mon. Let’s take a moment for you to finish your coffee and for me to dress, and then I’ll take you up there, alright?” She winks at you, before standing and stretching slightly.

“Sounds good.” You begin to say, realising something rather interesting as she strolls over to the closet. “But, uh, tell me; how exactly is it that you know where Papa likes to hang out when he’s avoiding everyone?”

And as Magdalene whips back around to face you, a soft blush spreading across her cheeks, you cannot help but laugh.

Papa’s favoured hiding place is not exactly what you had expected. He’s an opulent man with the most extravagant tastes. And yet, the abandoned office is small — tiny, even. A narrow window that lets in little light means the room is bathed in dark shadows, the furniture is aged and minimalistic. A desk, a chair, a sofa shoved in the corner. Even with the lights switched on, it’s a dimly lit room. It almost looks as if nobody has set foot in this room in years. Except, there's a distinct lack of dust, unlike the hallway outside. The cleanliness of it is the only sign of a human presence here in this office, hidden away in a forgotten corridor and the back of the library. So you sit upon the desk, swinging your legs absentmindedly.

You wait. Then, you wait some more.

And you start to wonder, panicking more than a little, if perhaps Papa has decided to skip his post-meeting ritual of hiding out in this abandoned office, for once not in need of his precious alone time.

But the wooden door swings open, and you find yourself face to face with a rather incensed Papa Emeritus III. Ah; you’d not thought of that possibility, that his time alone was a way to work off his Sister Imperator fuelled rage. You’re desperately hoping that your presence doesn’t anger him more, that he doesn’t demand your exit.

So you smile weakly at him, unsure of what else to do — after all, he’s blocking the only exit. He falters, looking at you with a strange expression. You can’t blame him, you are certain that your presence is once again most unexpected. While you’re allowed to roam the ministry halls, you tend to stick to Copia’s chambers or Magdalene’s room. Wandering around the halls alone for you often means strange looks from the Siblings, who seem confused over your continued presence, or running into a glaring Imperator. But he relaxes, the tension from his shoulders melts away, and he opens his arms wide as he greets you.

“Principessa! And what are you doing, hiding away in here?” He beams at you, before stepping into the small office and closing the door gently behind him.

Good. He’s — perhaps surprisingly — not irritated by your presence. And with the door closed, there’s little chance of being interrupted.

“Hi, Papa. Waiting for you, actually.” You hop off the desk, flashing him an awkward smile.

Internally, you’re panicking slightly. What are you supposed to say to him? You can’t exactly demand he tells you everything he knows about Sister Imperator out of the blue. No, you have to be smart about this. Except, you are no detective, no spy. You have no clue how to engineer a conversation in which he very easily tells you everything you want to know without arousing any suspicions.

But, luckily for you, Papa does not seem to register your internal strife.

“Eh, you’re waiting for me? Do you not already have an old man, il Cardinale, to have secret trysts with?” He winks at you salaciously, chuckling.

Truly, you’d rather be having mid morning sex with Copia right now. You’d rather be thinking about anything other than Sister Imperator.

“Copia’s not that old.” You roll your eyes; you’d always thought he was younger than Papa.

“Sei così divertente, principessa. But, tell Papa the truth. What is it you need, eh?” Papa walks around you, dropping elegantly into the desk chair, groaning as he settles into his seat.

He gestures for you to sit upon the sofa opposite him. You slowly move to curl up against the armrest, taking the moment to think of exactly what you should say. Because you can’t tell him outright that you’re running some stupid investigation for the Devil. So you breathe out slowly, and go with a twisted version of the truth.

“I’m… you know, I’m worried about Copia.” You choose your words carefully. It’s the truth; you’re very concerned about the stress the political dramas of the church is having upon him. It’s close enough that you can maybe, somehow, work your way towards talking about Sister Imperator. You hope.

“Hm, sì, I understand. He is stressed. More than stressed. Worrying about this, fretting over that… is he getting enough sex? Or is he this wound up even when he is… what is the phrase… getting his dick wet?” Papa asks you, with an almost genuine sense of concern. It’s so him, it’s such a ridiculous thing to ask, that you cannot help but let out a shocked sort of laugh.

How you’ve missed your strange chats with the Anti-Pope. It’s been far too long.

“Fucking hell, Papa. I — we — our sex life is fine, thanks for the concern.” You reply with an awkward smile, shaking your head at him.

“Ottimo. It is good to relieve that tension, no? If only we could relieve ourselves of Imperator, eh?” He laughs, but it is not his usual friendly laugh. It is mean, bitter. Angry.

Quite honestly, you can’t believe your luck. You’d been trying to think of some way to naturally bring her into the topic of conversation, without any luck at all. For once, things are falling exactly into place. Perhaps too easily. Still, you should tread cautiously; Magdalene’s warnings, her claims that Papa despises Imperator do not seem to be an exaggeration. Besides, would he not find it suspicious for you to be too interested in his dramas?

“You really don’t like her, huh?” You sigh sympathetically, hoping that you seem at least mostly normal.

Because you don’t feel normal. Your heart is pounding, anxiety has flooded your veins, and your brain is a tangled mess of panicked thoughts. You need this to work. For him to tell you something useful. Except you don’t know what that means, not in this case. So you focus on regulating your breathing, on keeping your expression as one of neutral concern. Look interested, so he keeps talking. Don’t look too interested, or else he’ll know you’re snooping for secrets. It’s a balancing act, you feel as if everything could collapse around you at any given moment.

Papa does not notice; he’s entirely blind to everything around him, you think. For he might be lounging in that chair as if it’s a throne, but there’s a rarely seen tension to him. A fire simmering just beneath his surface. Anger. Rage. All barely contained, all directed towards Sister Imperator. He has no time to pay attention to the inconsistencies in your body language.

“She is una stronza, I cannot stand her. Not since she arrived here in this place. She came not so long after il tuo amante, unexpected. Il Cardinale, his arrival was planned for months — he was to help with my transition to Papa, sì. But her? No. That stronza, she arrives later, out of nowhere, demanding to be installed as Abbess for this Ministry. I say no, Sister Margaret è magnifica, I would not replace her. The next day? Sister Margaret is dead, and I am being convinced by i miei fratelli to transfer Imperator here, for she is experienced in the role. The timing is… suspicious, do you not agree?” He leans forward as he speaks, and it’s almost as if he’s sharing the most scandalous tidbit of gossip; you cannot help but mirror his actions, intrigued.

Except, he’s not telling you gossip. There’s no salacious affairs, no dramas between friends. No. Papa is talking of murder. Of assassination. Of Sister Imperator committing a most grievous act in order to secure a role within this ministry.

“Are you telling me you think Sister Imperator killed someone to gain a position here?” You are entirely floored by his words, unable to process them properly.

Blinking rapidly, you cannot help but wonder if it could be true. Could Sister Imperator be a murderer? Really, you do not know her well. You do not know her at all. She’s cold, and hateful, and power hungry, but that does not make her a murderer. Does it?

You are clueless, as to what Lucifer wants to know. But this? The possibility of Imperator having murdered someone for her career here? That has to be useful, surely.

“Eh, they call me paranoico. Maybe I am! Sister Margaret had a heart condition, they said she had a heart attack. This type of thing happens, sì, I do not deny it. But the timing was strange. And they did not see how insistent Imperator was for that position!” Papa shrugs, as if it is nothing, but you can see within his eyes that continued dismissal of his suspicions has worn thin. He desperately wants someone to see it as he does.

That, you think, is your in. He’ll keep talking if you believe him, if you validate him. It’s terrible, you feel heinous for even thinking of it. But regardless… you cannot deny that it seems suspicious. It could be a case of unfortunate timing, sure. However, considering what you know about Imperator now, you highly doubt it. A large part of your mind believes Papa’s words, without question. It just seems like a very real possibility. But, you do have questions. Natural curiosity, partially. And a need to know everything, just in case — you cannot disappoint Lucifer. You cannot. Ending up as ghoul food is not what you want for your future. Not at all.

“But why would she kill someone for the sake of a job? I mean, I’m not discounting your suspicions, not at all. But like… it’s a weird thing to do, right? Kill someone for a job?” You’re pondering it aloud, trying to come up with some sort of motive, but you’re mostly drawing a blank. Of course, the fact that you’re oblivious to the ins and outs of clerical politics, probably doesn’t help.

“Ah, il mio agnellino, you are a sweet girl. Power. This is a most powerful ministry, and the Abbess has a most important job. It is a position of great power and influence, if you are liked. Sister Margaret, she was well liked. Imperator… less so. E quindi, she finds herself with less power than she hoped for. And now, we have a lovely little fight for power.” Papa chuckles darkly, shaking his head slightly.

His words only really affirm your belief that you’re rather happy with your little bookshop, that workplace politics is very much not your thing. Although, your own business is not exactly a murder-free zone, so you can’t exactly judge.

“I mean, I guess that makes sense. What do you plan to do about it?” You’re trying to temper your intrigue, at least a little. How curious are you supposed to be? Is it weird to ask?

However, he does not answer, countering your question with one of his own.

“Tell me, principessa. What do you think of me, eh? How do I seem to you?” He tilts his head slightly, looking at you attentively.

“I — what do you mean?” You aren’t exactly sure what he means. Is he — could he be on to you?

“My personality, disposition.” He clarifies, although it doesn’t clear up much of your confusion.

“I don’t know you all too well, I suppose. But from our few meetings, from what Copia says… I’d say; charismatic, a little mischievous, you don’t take things too serious.” You smile cautiously at him, hoping that your answer is right, that this is what he wants to hear.

“Esattamente. It is deliberate. I am not so nice, not always, not behind closed doors. But it is useful, to be well liked. It is useful, to be underestimated. Power, it is a game. I play it well. Sister Imperator does not appreciate these things. She is disliked, distrusted. I shall win this little battle she has started. After all, the people love their Papa, sì?” Papa is smiling, but it is chilling, it does not meet his eyes.

There is far more darkness to the Anti-Pope than you’d originally believed there to be. Of course, perhaps it was naive of you to assume otherwise; darkness comes with the Devil-worshipping territory. But he keeps this side of him underneath his joking and alluring charisma. And really, it is no wonder he is adored by his followers. He is magnetic and fun, he is a little ridiculous at times. You are sure that few pay close enough attention to see how calculating he can be, his cold and ferocious rage.

“What is it she’s even trying to accomplish? Aren’t you the last of the bloodline? She can’t exactly replace you.” You are pushing it a little, you think, this might be going too far. You are supposed to be concerned about Copia, not about Imperator’s power plays.

“Perhaps I am, perhaps I am not. The bloodline is a precious secret, eh? No, no. Do not apologise, you did not know. Now, I do not know why. Il tuo Cardinale, he does not know either. He did not know Imperator before here. She likes no one, it is true. But she likes him more than the others. He is a good man, good at his job; perhaps that is why she wants him to be Papa.” He brushes off your wide-eyed apologies before you can even truly make them, before shaking his head in a tired frustration.

You cannot imagine Copia as Papa. He would not wear the role as the current Papa does, brash opulence and fun-loving. No, Copia would be more reserved, a little more awkward — although you’ve seen him hold mass, so you know that he can command attention just as easily as Papa does. You’ve heard stories of Papa Emeritus II, who ruled most severely, a terrifying man. Copia would be far different as a leader. He’d make a good one, you think. But you are certain that he does not want this. He is like you — he wants peace and quiet, he wants to love and be loved.

“But that’s not possible, surely. He doesn’t want that.” It just doesn’t make sense — why would she push so hard for some sort of coup, when her chosen replacement Papa has no interest in such a thing?

“No, impossibile. That is not how things are done. I am not sure what possesses her. Besides, I have talked about this with him at length; he has no interest in being Papa. No… it is all a mystery. But neither of us can escape her wrath. Copia wishes to placate her, to calm her. I want her to suffer. Neither of our methods are working. Yet.” Papa sounds calm. But his words are filled with icy rage, chilling you to the bone. You have no doubt that whatever suffering he wants for Sister Imperator, it is brutal. Actually, you’d prefer not to know.

The pair of you sit with that for a moment, in dead silence. This conversation has been filled with revelations, you’d expected none of them. You’d thought Papa would have information about Imperator, sure. But this is far more sinister than you’d imagined. This is good, useful. Lucifer will be pleased, won’t he? You hope, desperately, that this will be enough. To start with, at least. Magdalene will likely have ideas about where to go from here, where to look next.

“What should I do? I mean, is there any way in which I can help?” You finally ask, voice soft. As much as you’d rather stay entirely uninvolved, as much as you’d love to be completely removed from this power struggle, you are involved. Even if none of the major players know it.

“Ah, principessina. You are too sweet. Perhaps encourage il tuo amante to engage in some sinning, sì? Have a lot of the sex, be lazy, help him release some of that frustration, eh?” He beams at you once more, his jovial mask firmly back in place, as if his previous ire had never existed in the first place.

And you go along with it. An angry Papa is a most terrifying Papa, after all.

“Okay, Papa. Will do. I’ll leave you to hide out alone for a while.” You stand, grinning back at him.

“Grazie mille, principessa. I will see you soon, I am sure of it. Dinner perhaps, some time soon? You, il tuo Cardinale, myself?” He rises, pulling you into a quick hug. His cologne is strong, a spicy sort of tobacco scent, one you could’ve sworn you’ve experienced before in a certain Sister of Sin’s rooms.

“And Magdalene?” You giggle at him, your smile only broadening as his eyes widen a fraction.

“Ha!” He scoffs, playfully gesturing towards the door. “Off with you. Arrivederci, principessa.”

So you go, wandering back down forgotten corridors, turning over the surprising wealth of information you’ve learnt today in your mind. There’s a lot for you to think about. But you’re confident that you’ve made a rather strong start to this assignment of yours.

Murder is never far from your thoughts these days. First, Gideon. Him killing you, him getting killed. It’s been a week since Sergeant Duncan’s visit to your shop, since she told you of his untimely demise, and you’ve heard nothing since. It’s driving you crazy, the waiting, the not knowing. There is far too much that you do not know, it has you stuck in a permanent state of apprehension. And now, there is potentially another murderer within your small circle of acquaintances. Could Sister Imperator have really murdered the woman she replaced here in the Ministry?

You’d gone to Magdalene’s room that evening, intent on telling her everything you had discovered. Sister Imperator might be a murderer, Sister Imperator is desperate to have Papa deposed. And he knows it, which only makes the fraught tensions between them that much worse. Would she be willing to resort to such actions again, if she felt circumstances called for it? These were the panicked concerns you had whispered to pale-faced Magdalene, both of you sitting there with wide eyes and grave expressions. Neither of you want anything bad to happen to Papa. Neither of you want anything bad to happen to the church. But you cannot cause a scene. You cannot draw attention to your concerns, your suspicions. So Magdalene began to form plans to snoop where she could, through all the paperwork she could get her hands upon. It made the most sense for her to do the brunt of the spying — for she has the sort of access you could never even dream of, as Copia’s assistant. She has good reasons to be borrowing paperwork, to be caught in offices that do not belong to her. You would be caught immediately, for you stand out in the corridors of the Ministry, the only being not dressed in robes or a habit.

And she is not the only one with a job to complete. For you are to somehow extricate information from Copia, who is so often unyielding and reticent when it comes to sharing. So you spend another wasted day, thoughts looping like a broken record. Gideon is dead. Imperator might be a murderer. You need to get Copia to talk. It’s unhelpful, unwavering, and you feel entirely hopeless. A part of you wonders if he’ll ever be willing to truly open up to you, if he ever will feel comfortable telling you the intricacies of his innermost thoughts.

These thoughts have you so distracted, you find yourself losing most of the afternoon. In fact, you’re so preoccupied with the troubling thoughts rattling around your mind that you completely miss your five o’clock closing of the shop. Instead, you’ve been sitting and staring at the contents page of a book you’ve been failing to read since opening this morning. But no, you’ve been gazing at the same words, words you have no real desire to read, for hours. You don’t even know what the book is about.

What you do know, however, is that you’re late. You should be arriving at Copia’s chambers around about now; the two of you had made dinner plans, although you’re not sure either of you are really present enough to focus on the cooking and the eating, too distracted by the many stresses of your respective lives. Even so, you find yourself scrambling to lock up and leave. While you’re most pensively immersed in thoughts of murder these days, things feel better when he’s there. It’s hard to feel too despondent when you’re in his arms. It’s hard to focus on death and dying, when he’s kissing you with such frenetic passion in the dark of his bedroom. Although, considering you probably sleep there more than he does — ever the insomniac, it seems — you might as well consider it your bedroom too. You do, in your own mind, at least. His chambers have fast become a home to you.

But you arrive late to empty rooms bathed in darkness. Copia is nowhere to be seen, you are alone. It’s peculiar; you are certain his meetings were scheduled to finish no later than six o’clock. Long hours are not unfamiliar to him — he’ll often bring work back to his chambers if the hour is getting too late, preferring to be with you rather than alone as the evening gives way to night. So you hurry over towards his office, hypervigilant and all too anxious about running into a certain Sister, only to find it locked. You knock, but there’s no response nor any sound from within. With a furrowed brow, you hastily return to his chambers. Perhaps you just missed him, perhaps he’s currently within his chambers wondering where you’ve gotten to.

But, alas, he is not. Copia is dependable, always. He is not one to miss meetings or flake out on you at the last moment. And these are his chambers. Ice cold panic is slowly seeping through your veins. It could just be paranoia. It’s probably just paranoia. But that dark and twisty voice in the deepest recesses of your mind cannot help but hiss the most abhorrent answers to your question of where he might be. Dead, bleeding out, in pain, suffering, dying; perhaps it will be your turn to play the role of grieving lover —

No. You will not go there, you will not listen to your traitorous mind. Instead, you curl up on the sofa, wrapping a warm blanket around yourself. It smells like him, like frankincense and old leather, comforting you in his absence. Perhaps a meeting ran long. Perhaps there was some emergency. Perhaps he too was distracted, mind elsewhere. Perhaps, for the first time, he has forgotten. Copia is fine. You are find everything is —

The door swings open. Your head whips up, desperate to confirm that it is Copia, that he’s fine, alive. And it is Copia. But he does not seem fine. He is so often a man with inordinately good posture; he takes a respectable amount of pride in his appearance, in how he presents himself. But his shoulders are hunched, he is a man defeated. Despondency is emanating from him in waves. Perhaps you were right to be worried for him.

You watch as he closes the door, leaning against it for a moment. Something is bothering him and it is heart wrenching to watch. So you rise, quietly approaching him. He looks at you with such a pained expression that you can’t help but wonder what is tormenting him so.

“Hey, you’re back late. Busy day?” You murmur, pulling him into a close hug.

Really, the hug is as much for you as it is for him. These nightmarish images your brain keeps producing have you deeply unsettled, you want peace but you cannot have it anytime soon. So you’ll settle for his arms around you, you’ll settle for breathing in his familiar scent and feeling safe within his embrace. And he clings to you, in a way he so rarely does. He struggles with vulnerability, you think. He struggles to let you in, parts of himself hidden away within an impenetrable fort that you are ineffectively trying to breach. Sometimes you wonder if his innermost vulnerabilities are trapped in there, if there’s a key that he lost a long time ago, one he’s struggling to find. Copia’s trying, he is. You cannot deny that fact. But there’s not much you can do, other than be patient. So you hug him, you hold him, and you take a moment together, in comfortable silence.

“Ah, no. After my meetings, I went for a short walk. I… I needed to think. To be alone, for a moment.” He finally speaks, his voice sounding rougher, more emotional than usual.

Slowly, you extricate yourself from his hold. You want to be able to see his face, as you ask him.

“Is everything okay, Copia? I mean, I know it isn’t. But do you want to talk?” Your voice is low, soft. Barely above a whisper.

“You are very sweet, and very kind, amore. I… I find that I am feeling very old these days. Very old, very tired. You must find it rather dull, eh? To spend your time with such a man.” He sighs, and for the first time, you think he looks old. There’s a hint of something you can’t quite recognise within his eyes, an emotion you cannot place.

“I… I love you. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be — you know that, right? C’mon, let’s sit down. You need to relax a little.” The words are still hard for you, that ever present fear, lingering and irrational, taunting you with the concept of him spurning your love the moment you vocalise it. But you force the words out regardless, for you know he needs to hear them.

“Let me remove my paint, change out of these clothes first.” He sounds defeated, exhausted, as if the world is collapsing around him and he is helpless to stop it.

What could have possibly happened to inspire such an outpour of emotion within him today?

Despite his words, Copia does not move. It’s as if he cannot bring himself to leave this spot, as if the idea of doing anything at all is utterly overwhelming to him. He looks lost. It almost hurts to watch.

“Or, alternatively, I could help you?” You glance at him, desperate to do something, anything. Really, you half expect that suggestion to spur him into action — the idea of allowing you to care for him a little too much to handle.

Yet, it does not. Rather, he nods, a barely perceptible sort of nod, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it sort of thing. But you take it for what it is, a tentative acknowledgement that he needs something, needs this, from you now.

Wordlessly, you begin the arduous task of unbuttoning the many buttons of his cassock. You stop briefly as you reach the sash, slowly untying it, folding it neatly, placing it upon the coffee table. And then you kneel, continuing to undo the long line of small buttons. Briefly, you glance up at him. His mismatched eyes are on you, unwavering, and for a moment, you could’ve sworn they were filled with unshed tears. But you look away for a moment, only to find the glassiness gone as you meet his eyes once more. There’s a resigned sadness there, you wish you knew what the cause was. You wish you could fix it. But you do not know what needs fixing, he will not say, so you finish unbuttoning his cassock, standing once more to help him slip the now undone garment off his body. And then it’s onto his shirt, more buttons to be carefully unfastened. He’s watching you so intently, so carefully, as if he’s trying to memorialise you. It’s a familiar look; one you’ve worn yourself. Is the world ending, has Imperator claimed her victory? His shirt off, you remove his belt, the final piece. Each item lovingly folded upon the coffee table.

In a barely audible voice, you tell him to sit, that you’ll get something to remove his paints. It takes a moment — you aren’t sure he even processes your words at first — but Copia agrees, slowly lowering himself onto the sofa. He’s entirely lost to his thoughts, you think.

You think back to that night, as you wander to the bathroom. To feeling terrified at the idea of losing him, of being undeserving of his love, of the end of your relationship, of love being a thing with conditions. Of his own secrets poorly hidden, topics clumsily avoided. Secrets will always come out. You know this. Nothing can be hidden forever. You sigh, grabbing his cleanser, cotton pads. Nothing can be hidden forever. You’re not the only one telling half-lies and dodging the truth. Still, you cannot help but wonder what is so terrible that it could elicit such a reaction from him.

Copia is still sitting upon the sofa when you return, staring at nothing, deep in thought. That sadness is lingering, he is still slouching. So you settle yourself into his lap, ready to remove the remnants of his paint. His hands, gloveless, come to rest lightly upon your lower back. Just enough to hold you in place, but barely touching you. Not how you want him to be touching you.

Soaking a cotton pad, you begin to carefully remove the paint from his eyes. They flutter shut, and it’s almost better, you think. Not just for the purpose of removing the day old paint, but because you don’t have to see the utter despair entrenched in them. Whatever product he uses, it is strong, set deep within the creases and crevices around his eyes. But slowly, you wipe the black paint away, revealing the dark circles hidden beneath. He’s not been sleeping. That’s not a surprise; neither have you. It takes a while to remove it all, he is patient, still. Your touches are soft and tender, as you move on to the few remaining flakes of paint upon his lips. His face is clean, but his eyes remain closed. You might have cleansed away his paint, but you have not cleansed him of his devastation. Almost instinctively, you lean forward, lips brushing against his in the briefest of kisses. When you pull away, you can taste the lingering chemicals within the cleanser upon your lips.

“Thank you, topolino.” He murmurs, finally opening his mismatched eyes once more.

“Yeah, of course.” You do not know what it is he is thanking you for. But it doesn’t matter, not really; you would do anything for him.

A soft sigh escapes his lips as he finally leans back, relaxing against the sofa. He shifts you slightly, settling the two of you into a more comfortable position. You lean against his chest, resting your head in the crook of his neck. The silence stretches onward, as you wait for him to speak, finally. You think that he is desperately trying to claw his way through those near-impenetrable walls he has built for himself, to try and get the words out. So you wait, patiently, for him.

“I am — I have not been truthful. With you, I mean. I — I have been hiding something, and I feel utterly wretched about it.” He finally says, reluctantly.

You already knew this, of course. He is not as subtle as he thinks he is. But he does not need to hear those words. Tilting your head up to look at him, you smile at him softly, reassuringly, quietly urging him to continue. It’s funny, how when things reach that crisis point, how some things become so utterly clear. And fuck, if you aren’t at some sort of critical moment. You are bad under pressure, yes. But it’s like a switch has flipped. A light bulb moment, in which certain undeniable truths have revealed themselves to you. He loves you. You love him. Soulmates is the wrong term, considering that your soul has not been yours to give for a very long time. Your twin flame, perhaps. He is the other part of you, a part you did not know you were missing until he walked into your bookshop one morning. For the first time, you feel quietly confident in your love. This is not an ending.

“Oh? Is it — is it bad?” You ask, for you are concerned. There are so many things going wrong… it is hard to say what this could be about.

“I — perhaps not. Perhaps it is not so terrible, that I did not tell you. See, there was never exactly a right time to tell you such a thing. And it is such a fantastical thing, and you are so new to this way of living, to our church. I thought about perhaps telling you, once Lucifer visited you. In hindsight, perhaps I should have. For perhaps it might have helped. But you were struggling so greatly, and I thought it best to focus on comforting you in the way you needed, rather than adding another revelation to your already overwhelmed state. So I said nothing, and continued to tell you nothing, and time is so fleeting, that —” His brow is furrowed, you can feel his heart pounding beneath you; he is so anxious, this has clearly been playing upon his mind for quite some time.

So you cut him off, stopping his spiralling in its tracks, “Copia. Please, breathe. What are you trying to say?”

He pauses. You watch him, watch the trepidation in his eyes. And then he speaks.

“You are not the only one, who is no longer in possession of their soul, amore.” His words are so soft, you nearly miss them.

At first, you wonder if you’ve misheard him. But there’s a grim resignation about him, no glimmer of hesitation. Your breathing falters, you cannot quite wrap your head around it. Copia is like you. He is like you. No wonder he was so calm, that disastrous night. No wonder he accepted your confession as truth so easily. He is not looking at you, instead staring ahead most determinedly, as if he is scared of what he’ll see upon your face. If he looked, he would only see your acceptance, your understanding, and your love. And, of course, a hint of surprise. Because you are surprised — this was the last thing you would have expected from him.

“You — you sold your soul?” You ask him quietly, shock creeping into the edges of your words.

“Eh, not exactly. It is a longer, more complex story. There was no accident. But I did not have a choice in the matter.” He sounds so bitter, you think. It is a familiar bitterness, one you so often feel yourself. And he is not as indifferent as he is pretending to be, with his forced casualness.

“So what happened?” Perhaps you shouldn’t push him. But you are so curious. For the first time since finding out about the truth of your soul, that perpetual loneliness is fading away. For you are no longer alone in your pain.

He stays silent for a beat. You wonder if you should apologise, for asking for more. It is a little unfair of you, when he is so clearly struggling to speak even the most minimal of details.

“I will tell you the story, as it was told to me.” He tells you, a weariness to his words.

But he continues to stare off into the distance. You’ll take this odd detachment, so different from his usual demeanour. If this is the only way he can break through the cracks in his walls, the only way he can share this most intimate and protected secret… you’ll take it.

“Once, many years ago, there was a young woman. She was from a well-off merchant family, she lived a pleasant life. Until, once again, the magna pestilencia came to her city. There had been epidemics in other nearby cities in recent memory, but she’d never paid it much attention. Her family, her husband, all of them dead. She was left alone — alone, terrified, and heavily pregnant.” He begins, arms still around you, eyes still focused on some fixed point across the room.

It’s as if he’s reciting an old favourite fairytale. Like a strange bedtime story, told time and time again. There’s something you cannot place within his tone of voice. Does he resent this story? Is there a part of him that is nostalgic for it?

Regardless of that, the content is… perhaps not what you had expected. Of course, you had not anticipated him being soulless, just as you are. But you freeze at his reference to the magna pestilencia. You know that term well, from a life of teaching that seems so far removed from the life you’re living now. So you know, very well, what he is not quite saying cannot be possible. Can it? You’ve always found him to be strangely timeless, sure. But you are most certain that those who lived in the times of recurrent plagues would be long dead by now. To have been born during that period… he would have to be centuries old.

You do not interrupt, you do not interrogate him, or push him to say the words explicitly. No, you just wait for him to continue, silently supportive.

“From what I have been told, her husband was secretly a worshipper of the Old One. And so, in this time of great trouble, she too turned to Him. She lit her candles, performed her ritual. The Old One came to her, curious. There were not so many women who would call upon him back then, He claims. And when He asked her what it was she wanted, she already knew — she wanted to make a deal.” Copia’s voice remains level, but you know him well. Whoever this woman — his mother — is, he resents her deeply on some level.

“And what did she offer him?” You query, but you already have your suspicions. It's an old and familiar tale.

“Two souls. Hers, and that of her unborn child. And in exchange, she asked the Old One for life, for freedom, and for power. She did not enjoy the constraints placed upon the women of her time. She wanted to live her own life, uninhibited. Now, the Old One did not believe it a fair deal. After all, she asked Him for three gifts but only offered two in return. Unfair, no?” Copia remarks with a humourless laugh, you’ve never heard such bitterness from him.

And you cannot blame him for being bitter, not about this. He had no choice, no free will. You made a mistake, damned by your own ignorant hand. Copia never had a chance to make such a mistake.

But there is a grim humour to his words, in the Devil’s knack for twisting situations to his favour. Something you are all too familiar with.

“Sounds like Him.” You rest your head upon his shoulder once more. He holds you, just a little closer, as if he is trying to reassure himself of your presence.

No matter what he says tonight, you have no intention of leaving.

“Hm, sì. So, the Old One told the woman that He would give her two of these things. But He would be the one to decide. So, He granted her life. She would not die during the magna pestilencia. She would not die. And, He gifted her power. But she would not have her freedom. She would be bound to His church, until the end of time, or until He no longer wanted her presence.” He continues, reciting to you this strange fairytale of his past.

Oh, how it reminds you of Reginald. Your flawed and favourite uncle, fooled so easily by Lucifer, now dead and buried.

“Can’t outwit the Devil, I suppose.” You hum softly. It only serves as another reminder that you are trapped in his game, a pawn on his chessboard. Another reminder that you must complete his strange little tasks, or else suffer the consequences. And he would make you suffer, dreadfully so.

“No. He always wins. It is His game, after all.” Copia’s words are fatalistic. But you do not doubt them.

You will never have the upper hand over Lucifer. Both of you fall into a contemplative silence. He is haunted by memories of his past, you are sure. And you are haunted by the future, the inevitability of losing the dangerous game you have fallen into.

“What about the baby?” You finally muster up the courage to ask him, a curious edge to your words; you have oft wondered about his earlier years, what he was like before you knew him.

“She had a boy. And soon after the birth, the Old One arrived once more. He took the child, who was raised within an Abbey under the influence of the Satanic Church and the Old One himself. The woman was sent far away, where she would have no opportunities to know the son she traded away.” He tells you, with perhaps less detail than you would like. Because you want to know him, to truly know him, to have him bare his innermost secrets to you and share your own in return.

“And then what happened? To y— to the boy, I mean.” You correct your slip-up immediately. You’re certain there’s a deliberateness about disconnecting this tale he is weaving for you from his past.

He does not remark on your slight blunder, though you feel his hand flex against your back. Glancing up at him, you see he still has that faraway look in his eyes. What he is thinking of, you do not know. You wish you did.

“The boy was raised to be a most devoted follower of the Old One. He grew up, joined the clergy, rose through the ranks. He had what his mother did not; freedom. Of course, the Old One occasionally required him to complete a task, reminding the boy that his soul was not his own. But the boy did not mind so much, for those moments were few and far between, for the Old One had been almost like a father to him. And supposedly, like his mother, the boy did not die. He grew older for a while, but eventually that stopped too. He spent many years, alone, dedicated to the Old One. Working at ministries and abbeys across the continent.”

It’s strange hearing Copia talk about his life in a way that is so far removed. It has you questioning many of the things you thought you knew about him. His devoutness to his religion, his devotion to his church. Does he truly feel these things, is this habit after so many years of living and breathing clerical life?

You wonder what he would’ve been like, had his mother made another choice. But then, these are the choices that brought you together. Had his mother not traded him for her own selfish gain, had you not made a childish mistake, you’d have never met. He would have died centuries before your birth. You would never have returned to England. Without these cruel twists of fate, you would have missed each other. Does that make it worth it, worth the pain and the suffering?

Regardless, your heart aches for him. It sounds, in all honesty, like a melancholy sort of life. Isolated and sequestered within the walls of different abbeys. The world moving on without him, as he passed the years within the four walls of the church.

“And then he came to England, right?” You smile up at him, though you know he does not see it, for his eyes flutter closed at your words. The first real reaction you’ve seen from him since he began his tale.

“Sì, he began to work at the largest of the English ministries. He worked, and he translated texts, and he visited a local bookshop. One day, this old and weathered Cardinal set foot in his usual bookshop, only to find that the owner had died, had left the shop to his niece. And before I knew it, I found myself falling so deeply in love with her. With you.” And finally, finally, he shifts his position slightly so he can glance down at you.

Copia might struggle to let you in at times. He might find being vulnerable most difficult. But the way he looks at you, with such blatant adoration, with such earnestness… you would be a fool to not know how deeply his feelings for you go.

“I love you. So much. But, uh, to go back to the beginning of your tale — which plague are we talking about?” The words are hard for you and your irrational fear of rejection, but you’re working on it.

At your question — a slightly less direct way of asking his age, but you know he is aware of what you are getting at — he tenses up a little.

“My love for you, topolino, is all-encompassing. I adore you, very much so. But, I — it has crossed my mind, on many occasions, that I perhaps might be too old for you. And I would not blame you, if you wanted to end this. This is an abominably large secret to keep from a loved one.” His words are quiet, you can see his guilt written clear across his face.

It’s a large secret, sure. But leaving… you would not leave him, not for this. Is there a certain way you are supposed to react? Are you supposed to be angry at his hesitancy to reveal the truth, or freaked out over his age, or disgusted by his own lack of a soul? The latter would be rather hypocritical of you, honestly. You cannot deny that you are overwhelmed, at least a little bit. But your feelings — despite his soullessness, despite his age, despite the fact that he has waited to tell you — they have not changed. You think he might be the love of your life; you are near certain of it, in fact. Perhaps, although you are not certain you believe in such a thing, you were fated for each other.

And you cannot be mad at him for keeping it hidden, when you have been hiding things of your own. Gideon, Lucifer’s task. At least Copia has told you, has entrusted you with what must be his greatest secret. You are most grateful, for the privilege of knowing, for the privilege of loving him.

So, no. You have no interest in ending things. Your love for him is something eternal, something that will last far beyond the end of the earth.

“I don’t care about your age. That’s not — I’m just curious. You know I taught classes on this, back in my previous life; it seems like forever ago. I’m assuming some time during the second plague pandemic, but that’s still like… five centuries worth of epidemics, you know?” Your inner historian, who is so often shut away with the boxes of your past life, is finally making an appearance.

And truly, his age is meaningless. You’d previously thought he was around twice your age, it did not bother you. Your interests lie in wanting to know about him, about his past and about the history he experienced firsthand.

“Naples, in the 1650s.” He coughs a little as he says it, as if he’s embarrassed. His hesitation makes sense, you suppose — that’s a rather large age gap, to say the least.

But you don’t care.

“Will you tell me about it? Not now, but… one day. Will you tell me about all the things you’ve seen? The places and the events and the details they’ve gotten wrong in the history books? I want to know about it, I want to know about you.” You inquire earnestly, before pressing a soft kiss to his jaw.

Before you can pull away fully, Copia’s capturing your lips with his own. It’s a tender sort of kiss, gentle and loving. And with it, he is saying all the things that he can’t quite bring himself to verbalise right now. It’s a thank you, an apology. It’s relieved elation at the fact that you have taken his confession well. He breaks the kiss, examining your face for any signs of doubt. He will not find any.

“Certo, amore. But… are you not — you are fine, with this?” He’s still scanning your face, your eyes, for discomfort.

“I mean, I get why you didn’t tell me. I didn’t exactly want to tell you about my own dealings with Lucifer. Not at all. And I was… I was a fucking mess, that night. I get why you’d keep quiet. I wish you had felt like you could talk about it. But I can’t be mad at you for it. You know? Everybody has secrets. It’s fine. We’ll be fine.” You reassure him softly, resolutely.

Oh, how you wish everything was fine. How you wish this was the last barrier between you and him. But you are haunted, you have skeletons in your closet, and you cannot rid yourself of them. Gideon’s death is still being investigated, you are connected to the crime. Lucifer is using you as some sort of player in this power struggle that is unfolding, and you are unable to escape his control.

“I find myself most relieved to have told you. That you have not chosen to leave. I find myself unable to picture my life without you, these days.” Copia sighs, tiredness filtering back into his voice once more. As if telling you of his past has utterly exhausted him, has drained him of any remaining energy.

“Me neither, I—” You say, only for him to interrupt you with a yawn. “Hm, you’re sleepy.”

“I am, indeed. Sister Imperator, she keeps us rather busy. And I will confess that the constant fighting, the power struggles, they are wearing upon me.” He groans softly, stretching out slightly underneath you.

“Is there anything I can do?” You press a kiss to his lips once more, sliding from his lap to sit next to him. Thoughts from your conversation with Papa filter into your mind, his suggestion of indulging in sinful behaviours. Tempting, but not tonight; Copia can barely keep his eyes open. You don’t think your ego could handle him falling asleep during the act.

“No, topolino. In fact, promise me this; stay away from Sister Imperator, sì? I do not want you dragged into this pandemonium. She… she’s dangerous. Papa underestimates her. I will not be so blinded by arrogance.” He might be speaking in hushed tones, but there’s a surprising amount of vehemence behind his words. Perhaps not so surprising, considering Sister Imperator’s supposed inclination for murder.

“I’ll do my best to keep out of her way. Alright?” It’s a lie, kind of. You should feel bad. You do feel bad. But you, like him, are trapped within this situation. Lucifer does not take kindly to disobedience.

“Thank you.” He says, groaning once more as he stands. “Are you coming to bed? Or shall you be returning to the shop?”

“No, no. I’m coming to bed. I just need to check a few things. I need to sort out a few dates for book shipments, you know?” You smile softly up at him. Bending down, Copia presses a soft kiss to your temple before trudging towards the bedroom, disappearing into the darkness.

There are no book shipments. Not for a while, anyway. You’ve nothing of importance, nothing that has to be done right this moment. But, you think, perhaps Copia needs a few moments to himself. He needs a moment or two outside of your presence, to decompress. To rebuild some of those walls around his innermost thoughts, to regain his composure. He will not ask for it; in his eyes, he has already asked too much of you tonight. But you know him, what he needs. So you sit on the sofa, for an indeterminate amount of time, giving him his space.

And of course, your obsessive thought cycles cannot help but return to places you’d rather forget. Murders and bids for power. Lies and the illusion of free will. Yes, it seems like no matter what, murder is never far from your mind these days.