Chapter Text
At first, she thinks it's snow.
Lady's reloading her smoking gun when a white flake settles on the tip of her nose; she can see it if she squints. She looks up at the ink-black sky, only to see an entire ballet of bright flecks, dancing in the cool air like lightless, autumn fireflies.
She wipes the snow from her nose, but she doesn't feel its cold on her skin; it doesn't melt, just stains her fingers as she tries to get rid of it.
They follow the Knights together with Trish, up and up the winding streets, and the closer to the temple they are, the more ash appears, swirling in the air like a blizzard.
The temple is burning.
No, not burning; it's being consumed. Devoured. Swallowed by the flames darker than the night around them, stone and marble turning into ash and then turning into nothing.
"It was empty," they say, "Everyone got out."
Not everyone, Lady knows.
The flames don't hiss, they don't crackle. Hellfire feeds on all, on light and sound, on life and death.
And it's burning darker than ever before.
***
"He fell," that's what Credo says. "He was standing there and then he just..."
Fell, Lady repeats in her thoughts, placing a comforting hand on Credo's shaking shoulder.
He fell. That's a family thing, isn't it?
***
The night doesn't want to leave. The morning comes so dark and bloody, it doesn't feel like it ever does.
***
Dante starts drinking as soon, as they leave the island; he stops by the first shop they encounter, throws Trish the keys, and returns with a crate of booze, splaying himself on the couch and letting Patty curl up by his side.
No one utters a single word throughout the rest of the journey. The dusk falls on them too soon, too dark, shadows twirl outside the windows and Lady has to close her eyes, because looking at them makes her nauseous.
(not nauseous, not really; some things, some feelings simply do not have names in any human tongue)
Trish's fingers are drumming nervously on the driving wheel and she keeps looking at the backseat in the mirror, more and more often.
The closer to home they get, the slower she drives, until Dante finally passes out, one arm hooked around Patty's sleeping frame.
***
They stop by Patty's home, first. Trish picks her up gently, careful not to wake her up; she whines softly, her fingers clutching weakly onto Dante's coat, but she remains asleep. Lady watches as Trish carries her towards the house, Patty's golden curls clearly visible in the dark, before she turns the key and the RV comes back to life.
Capulet is quiet when she drives through its narrow alleys, neon lights flickering weakly above the empty streets and the pavements wet from the ever-present drizzle.
She parks at the back of the shop; the engine dies and the silence thickens.
It shouldn't be hard, should it? Just a little more and she'll rest. A little more, a while longer.
Step by step. To the back of the van.
Dante looks so young, so, so very young, as if not a day has passed since Temen-Ni-Gru, just as young, as he looked that first night after the tower collapsed, when they were sitting on the opposite sides of his ruined office, hour after hour, with nowhere else to go; Lady was fighting the exhaustion, wrapped in a blanket with a gun in her hand, eyeing the demon in front of her and waiting for any rapid movement. Like a mouse, hypnotized by a snake.
She was afraid of him back then. She's afraid of him now, but she doesn't wish for that fear to be gone, anymore.
Fear is quite a useful thing to have, she's learned. There is no need to be afraid of the fear itself.
"Dante."
Crimson eyes stare at her expectantly. Lady sighs.
"Dante," she repeats, softer this time;
(let Mary speak, for a while, Mary, who could lure wild kittens from their hideouts and calm a mad stallion with just her voice)
"We're home. Come."
Dante winces, turning his head away in childish defiance; Lady kneels in front of him, gently forcing him to look at her.
"We're home," she whispers, "come."
Crimson is easier, she thinks, watching as it bleeds away from his eyes to be replaced by hollow, cold blue. It would be easier for everyone.
This time, she's the one to look away, tugging at his hand to pull him up.
"Come."
He does as he's told, swaying dangerously on his feet as soon, as he stands up; Lady manages to keep him upright somehow, letting him lean against her heavily, though it feels like her spine might snap under his weight.
Dante nearly bends in two, resting his forehead on Lady's arm; his voiceless laughter tickles her ear, something foreign, something he does on instinct without even wanting to, his shoulders shaking in a mockery of cheerfulness.
Demons don't cry, Lady remembers, but then again, why would they need to? They don't grieve. They don't deserve to grieve.
The inside of the shop is dark and cold, so cold, Lady's breath turns into a mist; it smells of mold and dust. She can feel Dante holding his breath next to her, his whole body tensing and that's how she knows, it must smell of Nero as well.
Just a little more. Just a while longer.
She hauls him to the couch, turning away to switch on the light, when she feels his fingers wrapping around her wrist and he pulls her down, kissing her in this scary, hungry way, that doesn't feel like love, doesn't feel like care, doesn't even feel like lust; she can feel the flames, lurking just under the surface, the bones cracking, wings, shifting beneath the impossibly soft skin on his shoulder blades, as if this human flesh is but a disguise for a demon curled up inside it, not the other way round
(and he could eat her alive and he might even want to)
Had she been ten years younger, she'd give in, she'd let him have it his way, as she always did back then, out of fear, out of pity, out of boredom, even. But she's way too old for it now.
(or maybe he is way too young for her; maybe they will never suit each other the way they used to, not anymore)
She breaks the kiss, pulling away as far, as she can with his claws clutching onto her blouse.
"No," she says softly (and it's still Mary speaking, still her), "No." She sounds so calm, it's almost scary. Almost.
He doesn't make a sound; he's never been this quiet, not even in his sleep. Lady risks a look at his face, and immediately averts her gaze.
There's something strange in his eyes, something foreign, different than any hurt Lady's ever known, something starving, something ravenous, that might have wanted to die, at some point, but now, it's devoid of any want. Something, that's been broken one too many times.
And Lady has no idea what to do with this thing. She doesn't know how to soothe it, she has no way of knowing.
It's not any kind of human pain.
"Go to sleep, Dante," she whispers, sliding back onto the couch, "You must be exhausted. It'll do you good."
He obeys wordlessly, curling up on the cushions next to her and resting his head in her lap with his eyes closed. Like he believes, she knows what's best. That she knows what to do.
Lady doesn't, though. She never does. Perhaps that's why she's spent her entire life wishing for things to be different; for her mother to be by her side; for her father to love her; for herself to have stopped him, before it was too late; for Dante to be just a tiny bit more human; for her world not to fall apart every single time she manages to put it back together. Now, she'll be wishing for Nero to be alive but wishes rarely change anything.
So she just waits until Dante falls asleep, gently stroking his hair; the ash is staining her fingers and the shadows are coiling in the corners of the room, but eventually, his breathing evens out.
Lady covers him with a blanket; his fingers clench around its corner and he wraps it tighter around himself, in the very same way Nero always does.
(always did)
If she stays now, she won't be able to leave.
The doors of the shop close behind her with a soft click.
***
Greg doesn't ask any questions – he just lets her in, lets her crawl into his bed, holds her, until she stops shivering and the tears stop flowing.
She'll be grateful for it later. Even later, she'll love him for it. Now she just sleeps.
And she dreams of a hunt that night, of horns, of gallop, of black stallions, rotten sashes, sighthounds, swift and quiet like thoughts and of eagles, vultures, hawks, of owls, eagle-owls and ravens, obscuring the moon with countless wings, calling in the twilight with their sharp, hoarse shrills, chasing after something young and lost, disappearing in the void ahead of them.
The sky is empty when she wakes up, but she could swear, the hunting horns still echo in the night, dark with the wings of countless birds of prey.