Chapter Text
Your first thought when you woke up with the knife in your chest was:
So death will still not have me.
Regardless, you struggled, and then stood—much to the bewilderment of the man who’d killed you. It was some sacrificial plot that really had nothing to do with who and what you were, but rather what you had been radiating. The energy that sustained you even in death. You recognized him as one of the men who Aster had been trying to get your feedback on—someone she was hunting.
“That bitch,” you said through a mouthful of blood, practically drowning in it. “I’m gonna fucking kill her.”
He took a few trembling steps backward, his face contorting into something like horror—and then a type of sweaty, childlike glee. “It worked, it actually worked…”
You rolled your eyes and examined where he’d dragged your body off to. It was clearly some warehouse—seemingly abandoned except for a handful of the homeless you could hear milling around outside. None of them seemed to know what had been going on inside the building, but from the uneasy murmuring and rapid heartbeats, they knew it was nothing good.
Any witnesses would be bad—but that was really Aster’s purview, and you weren’t exactly feeling very generous in regards to her at the moment. You briefly considered just snapping the guy’s neck and being done with it—before feeling somewhat nauseous at the idea. You reminded yourself you didn’t kill people anymore, and tried to examine the situation with new eyes.
The stranger—who clearly seemed to think he’d summoned a demon—was chanting in Latin. His eyes growing wider and wider with excitement the longer you said nothing. Unfortunately for him, he had not received what he’d clearly worked so hard for. Instead, he had you.
(This was an arguably worse outcome.)
If he’d been able to keep you down for so long, it meant that his ritual strength was real—but one sniff to the air revealed a very prevalent weakness.
He, the man that killed you, was human.
You stepped out of the summoning circle, feeling a kind of—pull. Very strong, like a chain around your neck. You noted that the pattern on the floor was distinctly satanic in design—painted with blood and surrounded by black candles. Advanced stuff, you’re forced to admit, but this type of thing wasn’t meant to hold something like you, so with a little effort you manage to… push through. To shatter the barrier.
The man abruptly stopped, choking on his own sudden fear, and rapidly switched tactics. The illusions he crafted were meant for human eyes—human opponents. Likely a desperate attempt to tame whatever demon he thought he’d summoned.
The pentagram begins to fade into steam, nothing he’d done, but rather because you realize he had used your blood for the ritual.
How extremely disrespectful.
“Wait, wait, wait—”
You don’t reply, grasp him by the shoulder, and then knock him clean out with a solid blow to the head.
He crumpled to the floor like a sack of potatoes. Unless you’d done real damage he wouldn’t be out long, so you hurriedly tied him up, gagged him, and blindfolded him.
You gathered up your things—most of them seemingly discarded near what was likely his workshop table.
It perhaps went without saying that this had not been in the itinerary of your trip. You had only left California because you had intended to visit your best friend, Amy—and because your cousin had idly mentioned she’d be in the area for work. She’d thought she could use your expertise, and you’d thought it would be a good opportunity to get out of your own head for the summer.
After all, it wasn’t often you could spend months with Selena just—doing whatever you wanted. She had school, and you had your… work.
But leaving the state and traveling so far from your home came with its own hazards—like noticing that an odd man had been trailing you. Almost in a trance, his eyes glazed over, high off the aura you radiated. You thought it’d be a quick fix, nip the problem in the bud and send him home, or to Aster for processing—but he was farther gone than you had anticipated. It had been stupid, and now—it must have been hours. What if Selena had worried?
A glance at your phone revealed you had about fifty different missed calls. You hastily sent a message to Aster first, shortly letting her know about her target’s status, and then examined your other notifications. A few from an unknown number and the rest coming from Amy’s cell.
Before you could call her back, the unknown number popped up on your screen.
Not quite being able to wrestle down the whim of curiosity, you answered. “Hello?”
“Hello, is this Diana Calavera?”
“Can I ask who's speaking?”
“I’m calling from Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center’s emergency room.”
“Oh. Then, um, yes?” You took a deep breath, doing your best to sound like you hadn’t just pulled a ritual knife out of your heart. Blood squirted from your chest until the hole sealed up and your heart started to beat properly again.
“Good afternoon, ma’am. Your daughter Selena was admitted into the ER after a skating accident. She’s alright, was brought in by your babysitter—an Amy Sawyer?”
“Right.” You blinked rapidly, reexamining the room you were in. The man you’d just knocked out was in a dark robe with a couple layers of regular clothing under it. His shirt was likely not shredded to pieces—a quick and easy change out of your current outfit was probably hugely necessary. “Yes. I’ll be there right away, thank you.”
“Of course, ma’am. She’s in good hands—” Another handful of pleasantries you don’t really hear until the click of the phone as the call ends.
The man released a muffled groan as he gained consciousness—squirming.
“I’m stealing your t-shirt, asshole,” you spat, and then knocked him out again.
The satanist wears Ralph Lauren. His polo was a gold-yellow color, paired with some unassuming gray slacks. If you were inclined to investigate, you’d probably find some bullshit rich-kid backstory that drove him to the devil. You are not, as it happens, inclined to investigate anything other then how the shirt fit you. At least you didn’t have to take his pants.
“Ugh,” you said. “It’s almost perfect.” For some reason, that felt like another strike against your dignity.
Unfortunately for you, even designer labels can’t make it look like you haven’t just had the crap kicked out of you. There’s a handful bruises all over you that you can’t brute force into healing—stubborn and purple all over your body. At least your sunglasses would hide the black eye. There’s one on the underside of your jaw that you’ll have some trouble explaining to anyone in the hospital—but it isn’t like people will do a double take if you just say you got mugged.
Healing for you was… tricky. Mundane things healed up quick. A bullet wound? Ouch, but not down for long. A stab with a normal knife? A sneeze hurt worse. But things changed when attacks were charged up with supernatural energy—became more dangerous.
A lot of things that went at you tended to be charged with supernatural energy. It could be painful, if not exactly deadly considering the whole Jesus Christ resurrection thing you had going on.
Usually, though, a little food and rest went a long way—making it so you could hide the bruises from Selena easy as anything.
Not this time.
The clerk at the front desk of the ER took one look at your face and said: “Fill out the paperwork, and we’ll call you back as soon as we can.”
“I’m actually here because my daughter was admitted earlier,” you explained. Every time you said daughter in regards to Selena, the words: pseudo-daughter-actual-sister ran through your mind. You were not as good as her at disregarding past labels for new ones, instead just adding onto old ones. “Selena Calavera?”
“Oh, yes. Okay. Do you have ID?”
You forked it over. “Yes, I’m Diana Calavera.”
“We’ll get someone to lead you back right now. It won’t take longer than a couple of minutes—here's a visitors pass, please write your name on it.” She paused. “Are you sure you don’t want to be seen today, ma’am?”
“I’m alright.” You slapped the sticker onto your jacket.
“Okay.”
You sat at an open chair. Everyone in a one-seat radius to you immediately stood, inexplicably wigged out, and moved to sit or stand somewhere else. You felt a little bad for teenage boy wiggling away from you on a clearly sprained ankle, but don’t move. What would be the point? Anywhere you wandered off to you’d get a response like this—the bad energy was off the charts. Especially because you’d just been murdered.
You didn’t like to visit hospitals often—everyone in them was more susceptible to that quiet, unsettling energy belonging to the supernatural.
When your name is called, you walked to the door.
Her eyes widened. Her ID read: Princess Dela Cruz.
You smiled. “Hi? You called my name?”
“Oh—yes, of course. This way, please.” She forced a more calm expression her face. “You look just like your daughter, you know.”
“Oh? Thank you,” your smile became more real. “I don’t think I gave my mom as much grief though. A skateboarding accident? Wow.” You were, of course, lying through your miserable teeth.
Princess laughed, a little more at ease due to your attempt at boring small talk. “I think everyone feels that way.” Her walking began to feel less like she was rushing to get away from you.
The hospital was overstimulation overload. The scents were—disgusting. Blood and shit and all kinds of other things that were so acrid they nearly brought tears to your eyes. No matter how much they disinfected and cleaned they couldn’t wash out the stench of those they treated. Not to you. It was awful, and that wasn’t even getting into the amount of things you could hear—groans and moans of pain, someone was screaming, there was a doctor muttering a million obscenities under her breath—
Wait.
That voice. Ornery and breathy and drowning you in an ice bath of memories.
You nearly tripped over yourself. She didn’t see you, but you saw her. Heard her.
That’s…
You looked down at your boots and forced yourself to keep following the nurse.
Your thoughts jumbled. Fragmented. Upended each other. A constant stream of: Trinity Santos. Trinity. Trini is here. My—my what. Not even my girlfriend. She was never even my girlfriend. God, what the fuck is she to me. What the fuck could I even call her. Trinity. Trini. Trinity is here—
“Mom!” Selena beamed when she saw you. Her wide, silly grin washed the panic from you. “Ouch—did you get into an accident too? Did you beat someone up?” She, the bloodthirsty little gladiator she was, seemed entirely too happy at the thought.
“Something like that,” you shrugged. You forced down a shiver, trying for a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes, and took the sunglasses off of your face.
Princess glanced at you—and other from a slight widening of the eyes—said nothing.
Selena pouted. “You never want to tell me the fun stuff.”
Managing a tiny, more authentic smile, you slipped further into the room—turning the lights off on autopilot—and slide into the seat next to the bed. Selena’s backpack is tossed on the floor next to Amy’s tote bag. “Am I still pretty?”
“The prettiest.”
“That’s good,” you said, with faux relief. “I can’t imagine a life where I wasn’t.”
“It wouldn’t be a good one.”
Princess badly hid her tiny laugh. “Okay, Mom. Doctor should be here soon to give diagnosis. As of right now she's already had an x-ray, so the major test she needed to take is over and done.”
“It was weird,” Selena added, “I had to wear a heavy apron.”
“That sounds very weird.” You nodded solemnly as Princess excused herself with a smile. You watched her go, and then your eyes drifted to the area she made a beeline to. Trinity was sitting with her back to you, typing something.
You stood and closed the curtain a little. Maybe she wouldn’t see you.
(You should have known better than to think the universe would grant you that kind of mercy.)