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“Gah!” John grunted as his arm brushed against the wall too hard, but was quickly silenced by Noel.
Gods did his shoulder hate him. How in the ever-loving fuck had Arthur ever walked off a dislocated shoulder? In the Dreamlands, no less! What the fuck had his caretakers fed him, growing up? John’s shoulder ached and burned horribly, even after it was pushed back into the socket. Hours after.
He shot Charlie a glare - solid, hard, and very frustrated. The other man favored him with a dark, firm look to match.
They were trying to be discreet. Unfortunately (or perhaps very fortunately for the two of them), John had a half-functional sense of self preservation. He didn't want to get killed and he definitely didn't want to get Noel killed. Even though John had gotten hurt on the way in, was in mild agony, and felt like being a bitch, he'd keep his trap shut.
…As best he could. Only so much he could do when his arm was aching like it was broken. The pain seemed to bleed - hot, warm, and sticky - through his veins, all the way down his arm, radiating out from his shoulder.
He huffed around Noel's fingers, glaring at the ‘blonde’ until he withdrew the offending hand.
Talk about a fucking ‘follow-up’ on a ‘practical shot in the dark kinda lead.’ Lowell - damn him - had, apparently, been tied to the occult. Not simply the Order, mind you. That would have made him too easy to deal with.
No, the man had apparently tied himself to not one, not two, not three, but… well, more than three different cults. John and Noel had found evidence of business dealings with no less than half a dozen groups - and counting. For all the nightmare Noel'd had tracking all of them down (with some assistance from John, with the small pile of corpses left in the cultist’s wake), John would have happily kicked his stupid teeth in. Unfortunately, any satisfaction the action could have brought him would have required the guy alive. John (and Noel) had been pretty damn disheartened to learn that some lucky fucker had beaten the two of them to the punch.
He could easily imagine Arthur yelling in frustration alongside them. Even the cool, collected Detective Finley had broken his pen on a clipboard while taking notes on the corpse's condition and how the son of a gun had died. John, for his part, had gone on a solid 6 mile run - he wasn't in Arkham and didn't want to deal with any charges for destruction of property.
...Nor did he want to deal with Dowd bailing him out. The humiliation - gods, he would never have lived it down. He'd tough through fifty different dislocated shoulders before he would ever deal with Charlie bailing him out of prison (Though, with how his arm was hurting, he would almost rather the embarrassment of being bailed out of prison by a detective. Almost. If he thought Dowd wouldn't bring it up in every argument they ever had afterwards. Gods, the man could be insufferable. John would destroy anybody who tried to hurt him.)
John had dealt with injuries before - of course he had - but that didn't make them not hurt. Still, he knew he had no room to complain. Noel was right and, really, they needed to get a move on.
Noel and John were in Vermont (Noel had already cleared it with whatever superiors he had). They'd driven more than twelve hours to follow just a few of Lowell's (frankly insanely long) list of leads and potential threads for follow-up investigation. They were currently in one of the suburbs (if they could even be considered that - tiny, cold little state, tiny population) of Brattleboro, breaking into a cult hideaway. John had caught his arm wrong on the window as they were coming inside, earlier, and had been stuck suspended by said arm (with the dislocated shoulder) for a solid 15 minutes, until Charlie had found a way to get him down again. That had been hours ago, now, and - much as there was clearly some occult shit happening here semi-regularly, it seemed to be of neither the “human sacrifices for the gods” variety of occult, nor the “let's start a weird set cult around this eldritch monster and try having it's kids - that sounds like a fucking fabulous idea” variety (thank heavens).
It was just… cursed - and that wasn't just John being proverbial or metaphorical or dramatic, either. Books, objects, even some consumables from the Dreamlands were relatively common here (they'd found some in pretty much every room they'd explored, for pity’s sake) - to say nothing of the shit from other outer realms they'd come across.
John would complain about being bored, if he wasn't so scared of getting the two of them caught. They'd heard footsteps and voices, echoing through the rooms of this place. It wasn't pleasant, knowing that a wrong move could get the both of them caught by unknown cultists, who were armed to an unclear extent… far away from home.
Was it more a blessing or a curse that John worked mostly alone? He wasn't sure if he should be grateful or scared in the knowledge that, probably, nobody was coming for him or Noel. Nobody really knew where they were. Noel had been vague and John didn't have a partner or anything - not yet, anyway - so, as far as anybody knew, the two of them were going off to Vermont for an unspecified amount of time, chasing down a case that (to the officers back in New York) probably didn't matter much in the grand scheme of things.
The building the two of them were searching through was… obnoxiously large. A former large office building (now “deserted” - according to the local authorities, that is) had three levels above ground (they hadn't even checked anything related to the basement, yet) and all the nooks, crannies, extra space, and hidden corners that a cult could possibly hope for. They'd heard some footsteps and voices, echoing through the space, but neither man had actually seen any other people in here (small mercies - fucking hell, creeping around was stressful.)
(How had Arthur never actually passed out, doing stunts like this? It was nerve-wracking enough with his eyesight. Navigating situations like this blind? Had Arthur's nerves been made of tungsten steel, or something?)
(Focus, focus. No getting sidetracked - not in here. Not now.)
Both of the main entrances had been walled off from the inside so, naturally, some breaking and entering had taken place. The two of them had managed to get inside easy (painfully) enough, and had managed to check through the top two floors (and the better half of the ground floor) with minimal issues - ignoring the clearly cursed and/or occult items in pretty much every room. Those weren't going anywhere, though.
There had been mercifully few traps and alarms set, in the areas where they'd explored, and even locked doors were pretty uncommon (and easily picked open).
It was hard to stay silent, but they managed it (mostly). For somebody who was, by his own admission, “getting too old for this,” Noel was shockingly light on his feet. In spite of moving slowly to avoid detection, John’s injured arm, and the sheer size (and age) of the building they were in, the two of them finished picking their way through the ground floor in under an hour. Once they were certain that they’d covered the floor in its entirety, the two men shared a glance.
“Basement?” Noel inquired.
“Basement.” John begrudgingly sighed.
He probably wouldn’t be very good at fighting, with his arm still smarting, but… well. He had his mind and had brought multiple guns with him for a reason.
Noel led the way down the stairs, moving almost like a ghost down the stairwell. His steps were all but silent, even with how quickly he moved. The trench coat gently billowing behind him and his own pale skin and hair certainly didn’t help dispel the illusion that he could have been some sort of spirit, silently moving down the stairs, revolver drawn in his free hand.
The elevator was most definitely still active, so (alas) the two of them had to avoid it or run an even higher risk of getting caught. Thus, the stairs.
John had thought there would only be one or two sets of stairs - they’d been on the ground level, after all - but the staircase just kept going. It was dark enough after the first two staircases that John couldn’t really see the bottom of the shaft. He couldn’t see where the stairs ended. However, when he chanced a look upwards, back where the two of them had come down from, he saw far more staircases than there reasonably should have been, just for a basement floor a normal depth belowground. Any light from the upper levels was a dim glow, and could have been hidden under a dime, from where he stood.
They kept on, unnerved and almost silent, down the stairs. As they neared the bottom, though, John started smelling something… metallic. It almost smelled like copper pennies. Or, maybe iron? The air smelling like pennies usually meant that there was some sort of electrical issue, like overheating wiring, arcing, and… a few other things. But this entire stairwell was dark - almost completely black. Could the lack of lighting have been because of the electrical issues? But the scent of pennies seemed stronger near the bottom. If it was an electrical issue and went all the way down the stairwell, wouldn’t it have smelled more like pennies up near the light, too?
“John?” Noel’s voice floated quietly up the stairs to John, snapping him out of his reverie.
“Hm?”
“Could you, ah… D’you have a light?”
“Is that… wise? With the smell and all, I figured it might be electrical-”
“This ain’t electrical issues, kid.” He sounded grim, but… very sure of what he was saying.
“You’re certain of that?”
“Yeah, John. I’m… I’ve got a guess as to what this smell is. Here’s hoping I’m wrong, of course, but…” The note of distasteful horror said more than a thousand words could have. Noel continued speaking, after a short pause. “I mean, we’ve had easy going thus far, right? Dislocated shoulders aside, it’s been pretty easy going. Stressful, but… easy. Right?”
“You think this is where things are gonna go wrong.”
“I mean…”
“Yeah, basements are… usually where the shit hits the fan.”
“Exactly.” He sounded grim. Almost against his better judgement, John pressed further, hoping Noel wasn’t implying what John was worried was true.
“So, you’re worried what we’re smelling is…”
“Blood.” Noel replied darkly. John sighed.
“Would it be so wrong for me to wish that we wouldn’t have to deal with that?” That got a chuckle out of Noel.
“Nah, I can’t blame ya there. Unfortunately, if you expected anything other than-”
“I know, I know. Gods, Noel, I know.” John cut him off. “There’s a reason I started working as a Private Eye who specifically investigates the “unnatural and occult,” you know. I just…”
“Humans suck?” Noel responded dryly from a few stairs in front of him. That got a chuckle out of John.
“Some of ‘em are alright. Not like they’re the worst horrors the universe has supplied. Kayne and-... Kayne and the King were good enough examples of that.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” They lapsed into silence for a minute, before Noel quietly called back. “So, uh… the light?”
“Shit- right, sorry.” John fumbled in his pockets for the lighter. He wasn’t a smoker, but gods if the things weren’t useful.
“No problem, kid.” Lilted Noel’s fond chuckle, as John pulled out the lighter-
“Oh.” John had nearly forgotten what he’d grabbed from his suitcase, before they’d left the car and entered the building.
“Ruh roh. You didn’t forget your lighter back in the car, did you?” Noel questioned.
“No, I have it, just…” John pulled out his torch, clicking it on and temporarily blinding Noel, who had turned around to look in John’s direction while talking.
“Ack!” Noel grimaced and turned away, rubbing his eyes.
“Sorry!” John clicked it off again.
He kept it off until they reached the bottom floor. John could hear that he and Charlie had stepped into a puddle of something at the bottom of the stairs. He’d expected some sort of horrific sight when he clicked the torch back on, but nothing could have prepared him for the sight just beyond the doorway of the stairwell.
“Jesus Christ…” John breathed.
“Fucking hell?!” Hissed Noel.
Blood and shreds of various body tissues painted the concrete walls and ceiling in wide, smeared arcs. There was enough arterial spray for it to gleam in the dim light of John’s lighter. More than a bit of the muscle and organ matter seemed to still be moving, quivering and twitching and clearly still warm.
Bodies - at least a dozen, not counting the various chunks of skeleton that didn’t still have flesh attached - were strewn in grotesque piles, their familiar robes all but soaked through with their own blood. Some had been torn apart with brutal efficiency, perhaps even… willingly. Others, though, looked like they’d tried to run and hadn’t made it more than a few feet before being cut down and ripped to shreds.
John caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye and swiveled his flashlight beam over in an instant.
There was a man - in the cultist robes - standing, walking around through the slaughter. John couldn’t catch what he was murmuring, but he could hear enough to know that the man was not speaking English or… any language on earth, really. Something in John’s gut told him that, whatever language it was, he’d probably get a migraine trying to listen to it if he weren’t the fragment of a literal eldritch god.
“Hey. Did you do this?” Noel’s voice was calm, but firm. He had his gun cocked at the stranger (though, his finger wasn’t on the trigger yet) and was projecting his voice so the cultist - whoever he was - could hear it all that way across the room. The cultist didn’t seem to hear him, though.
“Hey! I’m talking to you. What happened here?” Noel was doing a remarkably good job at keeping his composure, but the faint tremor in his voice and hand told John everything he needed to know. Noel’s face was pale. His eyes were wide and pupils dilated in fear. This was horrifying and, admittedly, terrifying, even by John’s standards. With Noel (and all the traumas he endured in the Dreamlands, at the hands of the King), it could only have been worse.
If John wanted to turn tail and run (and, believe you he, John wanted to leave), Charlie probably wanted doubly so. He was standing firm, though, and he needed somebody in his corner. John wasn’t going to give in to the fear. The two of them had a job to complete. They had a cultist… ritual(?) to disrupt. If Charlie could look this maniac in the eyes - for the man had turned to face the two of them, now - and not lose his composure, so could John. He had to.
He had to keep calm.
The man’s eyes were wide and bloodshot. His pupils were blown wide enough that barely any of his iris was actually visible. His lips were curled up and twisted into a horrifying, snarling grin. It was… unnatural. His breathing was heavy and labored, as he slowly began to make his way towards the two of them.
“Stop. Stop! That’s close enough!” John snapped, before the man made it more than a half dozen paces closer to them. The stranger stopped, before letting out a manic cackle - oddly reminiscent of Kayne’s most amused laugh, but far more drawn out. The sound of it drew a shudder from both detectives - nothing good ever happened when somebody laughed like that. When he spoke, the man was interrupted by his own amused giggles.
“You- You thought- You- Th-The vessel-” A pause, as he descended into a maniacal fit for a few moments.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Look, we don’t want to hurt you. Just… calm down a minute. It’s okay.” The man finally got ahold of himself and straightened, his eyes flicking between Noel and John as he spoke again.
“No more doubt… or hesitation. Simple… and meaningful… drive.” His grin was wider than any human’s should have been and entirely deranged. “No more doubts. Just. Action.” The man lunged forward shockingly fast, eyes trained on John - or, maybe just on his flashlight.
Noel pulled the trigger and, in an instant, the stranger’s brains were just another bit of gore decorating the floor and walls. The detective staggered back a few steps and John caught him, gripping the other man’s shoulder with his uninjured (flashlight-lacking) right hand.
“It’s okay. It’s okay. I- It’s okay. You don’t- I get it. You’ll be okay.” Noel was faintly trembling. Or- was that… John trembling? It was hard not to be disturbed and panicking, in a place like this. The adrenaline and fear seemed almost contagious. Noel let out a shaky exhale, keeping his eyes open for any other sources of movement but… leaning into John’s half-embrace and- yes, the detective was trembling.
He’d only just lowered the gun when the two of them heard a noise and froze. It sounded almost like… weeping. Quiet and contained, but present. From further into the basement. John’s eyes met Noel’s, just to confirm that he was hearing correctly and that the noise wasn’t his mind playing tricks or his nerves taking a mind of their own. From the sudden glinting edge to the detective’s gaze, Charlie heard it, too.
“...We could always burn the place down and book it outta here.” Charlie breathed.
“That would require a source of ignition.” John countered, just as quietly.
“What was that you were sayin’ about potential electrical issues? We could do- do somethin’ with that, maybe?”
“Charlie.” Dowd sighed through his nose, pursing his lips a moment.
“...Burning the place is Plan B.” John let out a faint chuckle - hardly more than a scoff, really.
“Your terms and conditions are acceptable. Once we’re done here… Well, we can light the place on fire on our way out. Now…” John heaved a sigh. “...Further in?”
“I mean… should we? Who’s to say this isn’t a trap or- or worse?”
“It very well might be a trap, but I don’t think it is.”
“How d’you figure?” Charlie seemed open to John’s take, but unsure nonetheless.
“Human sacrifice is clearly a… thing, with these particular cultists. But, when it comes to simply dying and murder- I mean, there’s no way to know if…” Charlie’s eyes widened in understanding as John spoke. He finished John’s sentence quietly.
“If… all of the people killed were willing.“ John nodded once, his eyes scanning the room.
“Plenty of old, pagan religions that involved human sacrifice would… the cultists and devotees would- would kidnap their enemies and sacrifice them, because they didn’t want to kill their own people. Is it… Is it possible that…”
“Fucking hell, John. That’s- I…” The poor man seemed almost too horrified for words. John couldn’t even find it in his heart to blame Charlie, at this point. He swallowed, hard, before forcing out his question in a hoarse whisper.
“So… So, forward?” Noel just nodded, shivering a moment before taking a deep breath and forcing his hands to steady.
“Keep an eye open for sigils, runes, and occult symbols.” John murmured.
“Always.” Came the muted response.
John stepped in front of Noel, taking point and leading the way further in before Noel could get a word in edgewise. He was bigger than Noel and he had the flashlight, anyway. Besides, any attempts at aiming would be thrown off by his injured shoulder. Best he could hope to be was a meat shield, at this point. If shit hit the fan, he could draw fire and act as a solid distraction while Noel actually killed… whatever they might run into, down here. The two of them were silent as they followed the sounds of crying.
Every room in this place seemed overturned and was filled with… piles upon piles of corpses. Some of them were decomposing, even, but- but there weren’t any flies down here. There wasn’t any of that infernal buzzing that John had always come to associate with rotting bodies. It was just… silent and leaking and (for lack of a better word) smelly. The further into the basement they got, the stronger the scent of rancid flesh became. The pools of blood were filled with… other liquids. John didn’t look closely enough to figure out what they were - he didn’t want to know.
Eventually, they came upon the room where the crying seemed to be coming from. There were fewer corpses in this room, but… none of them looked particularly aged. The corpses almost looked fresh - not as newly dead as the ones in the front area, but certainly fresher than any of the bodies in the other rooms they’d been through. The crying stopped a moment or two after they stepped into the room and the two men shared another glance.
Noel stepped out from behind John (much to John’s chagrin - the last thing either of them needed was for the guy to play the hero and get shot in the neck again, for pity’s sake!), calling out quietly into the room.
“Hello? I’m- we’re here to help. We’re not going to hurt you unless you attack us first.” A pause. “Is anybody there?”
There was silence for a minute, before John heard movement from a corner of the room. The sound came from an overturned… wardrobe (Amoire? Eh, John was gonna call it a wardrobe). Looking back around the room, it occurred to John that this room looked almost like a bedroom. A… child’s bedroom. Or, maybe a playroom? The walls had been painted, before they’d been decorated with blood. He could see depictions of clouds and grassy hills on parts of the walls, with a painted lighthouse overlooking the ocean on the other side of the room. The ceiling had been painted to look like a day-night cycle, with the westernmost side of the ceiling having a large, sun-shaped lamp hanging from it, the color slowly changing from a bright summer blue, to the soft reds, yellows, and purples of twilight, to a lovely white-speckled midnight blue on the easternmost side of the room, with a smiling crescent moon-shaped lamp attached to the ceiling there.
The wardrobe was large and wooden, but appeared to be rather cheap. It wasn’t ornate or over-the-top, as John had come to expect from most cults. It simply looked… functional. It was bought cheaply, probably built in-house… it was built for a normal person to live with - not for some white-collar creep’s collection. The noises were coming from inside of it, almost as if somebody were… inside of it, shifting.
Charlie stepped forward (likely intending to lift it himself), but John stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. He looked confused for a moment, before John pressed the torch into his chest and stepped forward himself. Injured shoulder or not, he would have an easier time lifting the thing than Charlie. Besides, it was probably for the best if the guy who could aim was able to, you know, aim the gun. It was better to have John lifting the heavy thing, with Noel covering him in case things went wrong.
John hooked his fingers under the edge of the wardrobe, turning it onto its side so he could open it. He could feel something quivering inside the wardrobe, even if it wasn’t making any noise anymore. Once the wardrobe was on its side, he opened it, and actually started back in surprise.
He was looking at… a child. A child? A child with… spider features. The kid’s torso looked totally human, but- but it looked like some sort of arachnid-based centaur, or something. Their lower body was that of a spider - slightly chubby and covered in a fine layer of hair (John couldn’t make out any details, in the current lighting). And the kid - the little girl - looked… scared.
She’d been the one crying, if the tear tracks on her face said anything, and her eyes were filled to the brim with exhausted terror, as she looked up at John. John, for his part, tried to hunch down and make himself look smaller, to try and not scare her. His voice was low and lilting, as he tried to speak to her.
“Hey, hey… it’ll be alright.” He reached out to pick her up and, scared as she looked, she didn’t resist him when he lifted her out of the wardrobe. It was a little awkward, juggling her half-spider self around his injured arm, but John eventually managed to find a position where he could hold her without killing his injured arm too badly. The dress she was wearing was, thankfully, loose fitting - he didn’t need to worry about bending it uncomfortably around her as he got her situated in his arms.
“What the-...” Noel was taken aback - reasonably.
The girl looked… maybe seven or eight years old? She was very light and he could feel pretty much every bone in her torso - how long had it been since she’d eaten or drunk anything? She was malnourished to an unhealthy degree. Her hair (from what he could see in the slightly better lighting) was a soft, dark, coppery ginger, and was very loosely curly. Her skin was - perhaps unsurprisingly - pale. Her eyes - she had eight eyes, good word - were… a deep, dark, iridescent green. They all but gleamed in the light, almost like “Alexander’s” had, back in the 1200s. She had two eyes where you’d expect a human to have them, an eye on the outside of each of those, and two smaller eyes underneath each of her “normally placed” eyes, for a grand total of eight.
That was all he saw of her face before all those eyes closed, and the child buried her face in his neck. John froze.
“Uh-” He was about to try peeling her face out of his neck before he heard a sniffle and felt something warm and wet against his neck.
She was-
Shit.
The little girl was crying.
On John.
He cast a helpless glance at Charlie, who looked equally flummoxed and unsure how to proceed. Crying kids weren’t something either of them were… well-acquainted with or certain of the handling of. Clearing his throat awkwardly, Noel jerked his head towards the door.
“Should we…?”
“Y-Yeah, yeah. Yeah, please.” He spoke quietly, trying very hard to keep his voice down, for fear of further disturbing the already distraught child. What malevolent fucking deity had decided John should be handling a kid? Good gods, this was so far out of his expertise…
Charlie led the way back. John just rubbed the kid’s back in an attempt to soothe her. That was how people soothed human kids, right? There wasn’t an elevator that went this deep (thank the gods - John had his arms full and didn’t want to risk a scuffle with any cultists when he was dealing with an already emotionally-fraught child), which meant that the two of them had to hike back up the stairs.
…Still better than tussling with cultists, as far as John was concerned.
After entirely too long a hike up far, far too many stairs, Noel, John, and the kid were back at the first-floor stairwell, and it only took a few minutes to get back to the window they’d gotten in from. John had set the child down (she curled up into an even tighter ball, but hadn’t moved much otherwise) and clambered back through the window, before turning back and having the kid passed to him by Noel. Noel himself didn’t climb through, though.
“Just get the kid back to the car, okay? I’ll be out shortly, I promise.”
“Noel?” He was plotting something. John could hear it in his voice.
“Look, she needs something on her stomach. Water, a little food… see if she can keep it down. I’ve just got somethin’ I wanna do, before we leave this place.” This fucker.
“Noel, you cannot actually-”
“I am lighting this place on fire. Look, I don’t know what the-... heck was happening down there. This place is cursed. It’s… utterly cursed. Would you actually recommend that we leave it standing? That we- That we phone the police or some sh- something?” John just sighed. He couldn’t see Noel’s face, but he mustered up the most disappointed voice and expression he could, before he responded.
“I never said it wasn’t cursed, but… come on, Noel. What happened to torching the place being plan B?” He was rewarded with the car’s keys getting chucked through the window and nailing him in the face.
“You saw all the corpses. You’ve got the kid. I’m still inside. Are you really gonna tell me that it’s a bad idea? Especially with… all the everything they have going on?” John’s glare deepened.
Because, frankly, it wasn’t a terrible idea. It wasn’t a good idea, but “good” had flown out the window the moment “human sacrifices” and “eldritch half-breeds” entered the picture. The safest thing to do here would, probably, be to burn the place down before anybody else got involved. No innocent lives lost trying to deal with the cultist problems, no hapless civilians kidnapped or recruited to the cult, just…
There was no good answer to this, was there?
Shit.
John heaved a sigh.
“If you die in there, I will bring you back just to smother you. You’ll set the fire, make sure it starts burning, and then get the heck out of there. You are not going to touch any of the cursed artifacts in there or open any of the creepy books. You will get in, set the stupid fire somewhere bad, and then come right back here. If you don’t follow these instructions or get yourself killed in there, I will find a way to revive you for the sole purpose of smothering you myself. You are not going to play the hero and you are not allowed to die. Clear?”
“As a summer’s day.” Came an all-too-cheerful reply. John could hear the fucking smile in his voice. Noel’s voice was more serious, but still fond, as he continued. “You take care of yourself, John. I’ll meet you back at the car. ‘Kay?”
“Fine.”
“John…”
“Just don’t die in there. I know making bone-headedly dangerous decisions is an occupational hazard with you, but seriously. Be smart. Make absolutely sure you’ve got an exit open before you start the fire.” Charlie, the bastard, just chuckled.
“Will do. If I’m not back in an hour, take the car and the kid and get away from here.”
“Two hours.”
“John.”
“I’m not leaving you behind, you dumb- idiot!” He hated having to censor his swears. Noel had gotten on his case about swearing in polite company and around kids on more than one occasion. John didn’t see what the problem was, but he’d learned to shut up and accept the weird social “norm,” by this point. Noel sighed, but John could tell it was as affectionate as it was annoyed.
“Hour and a half. Then, you leave.” John wasn’t about to accept that, but something told him that Noel wasn’t going to take “no” for an answer at this point.
“...I’m getting her to the car. It’s too cold for her, dressed like this.”
“Yep. See you in a bit. Good luck!”
“Same to you.”
And they parted ways. John began making his way to the car with the little girl. Charlie had parked a solid distance out, for fear of alerting the cultists to their presence. The kid was shivering in the cold air, now. John couldn’t really blame her - she was wearing a short-sleeved sundress, in early winter, in the cold, snowy north. Sighing faintly, he stopped a couple hundred feet from the building, and (almost against his better judgement) set the girl down on the snow-covered ground. She was a bit unsteady on her feet and grabbed hold of one of his pant legs for balance. That was fine, though. This wouldn’t take more than a minute or two.
Working quickly, John unbuttoned and removed his overcoat before wrapping the thing around her shoulders. Then - now just in his shirt - he picked the child up and, once again, began his trek to the car. She snuggled back into his chest almost immediately, her small, thin face resting in the crook of his neck. Even with the coat and spider… features, the kid was way too light. Cumbersome and bulky, sure, but not heavy by any stretch of the imagination. How long had it been since she’d eaten anything?
Those corpses around her, in the room - who had they been? Thinking back on it, a lot of their wounds were defensive, and most of them had been killed near the entrance to the room. The kid’s… bedroom/playroom place. A room specifically designed with a small child in mind.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out that cult had definitely leaned into the monsterfucker-y stuff that so, so many cults ended up falling into.
The real question was which “monster” this kid had spawned from. After all, John couldn’t bring back any of her human relatives or caretakers (he wasn’t sure that he’d want to). Most evidence of the cult’s existence - and information surrounding them - would be burned to cinders and buried under the charred remains of that building within a couple hours. He’d been focused enough on himself and the kid that he, admittedly, hadn’t noticed any sigils or cult symbols when they’d picked their way out of the basement.
He had no clue about the girl’s parentage. Was she even part human?
…She was probably part human.
Finally making it to the car, he unlocked the car doors and set the kid down just inside the backseat. Her eyes were red-rimmed and glassy as she looked up at him.
“Give me a minute, okay? I’m gonna grab something from the trunk real quick.”
Her lower lip quivered, but she nodded shakily. The poor kid was trembling.
Moving quickly, he went around the side of the car, unlocked the trunk, grabbed one of the thermoses of tea he and Noel had packed, closed and locked the trunk, and went back to the kid. She was right where he’d left her - he thanked his lucky stars that she hadn’t tried to bolt for it.
(Did she even have the energy to try running, at this point?)
He unscrewed the cap off the thermos and offered it to her.
“Here. I’m not sure if it’s still warm, but… well. Better than nothing, right?”
She took it, holding it with both hands, and took a cautious sip. Her eyes widened at the taste and she started drinking in earnest.
“Hey, easy there. Don’t choke or… puke. Please.” She slowed down, but only by a little bit. It’s probably the sugar. John reflected dryly.
He and Noel had bickered a bit about how their tea should be prepared when they’d packed it, but he’d won the argument. Glucose was easy and fast to metabolise. If they’d been running for their lives or hadn’t eaten in a long while, the sugar and caffeine would keep them going for longer than just plain water. Besides, John would rather drink hot tea than hot, black coffee or hot water. He didn’t know how Noel stomached the stuff - John needed a liberal amount of cream (or some sort of sweetening, at the very least) before he could drink any amount of coffee. Though, granted, spending some time in the prison pits had probably given Noel the ability and willingness to consume just about anything that wouldn’t actively poison him.
John shook his head, trying to dispel his errant thoughts, and focused on the kid. She’d nearly polished off the thermos, by this point. John waited until she was done before he tried talking with her again.
As soon as she was certain there wasn’t anything else she could get out of the thermos, she’d offered it back to John, who took it, screwed the cap back on, and chucked it into the passenger footwell. Then, he turned back to the kid.
“More?” Inquired the kid. Her voice was a bit scratchy and she coughed briefly after speaking. John chuckled faintly.
“I’ll get you more, but I’m gonna give it a bit. I need to make sure you don’t just puke it all up.” That elicited a pout from the kid. John shut the door and walked around to the other side of the car, sitting down next to her and shutting his door behind himself. Recalling the keys, he spent a minute searching through his pockets, before he finally got hold of the car keys. It took some acrobatics, but he leaned up past the front seats, pushed the keys into the ignition, and started the car running. The kid might or might not feel it, all wrapped up in his coat, but John was unpleasantly aware of how cold it was outside.
Once the car was running, he slumped back into his seat with a heavy sigh, closing his eyes and rubbing his hands over his face.
“...What’s your name?” Asked John, hazarding a glance over at the kid. Her legs were curled up under her on the seat and she looked rather snug, all bundled in his coat. She looked comfortable enough, at least, and she wasn’t cold. Small victories.
“Quinn.” Came the quiet, slightly hoarse reply. It seemed like it hurt her less to talk, now.
“It’s nice to meet you, Quinn. My name is John.”
“John.” Quinn echoed, tilting her head.
“That’s right.”
“...John Dee?” Who was that? It probably didn’t matter much. John just let out a faint laugh.
“Close. John Doe.” She blinked owlishly at him.
“I haven’t heard any stories about you.” John shrugged.
“Not surprising. I’m not one for big… exhibitions, or anything.” He widened his eyes comically and batted his lashes, giving her a fake expression of wide-eyed innocence. “Do you think I’d look good on stage somewhere?” She smiled and shook her head rapidly, her green eyes gleamed in amusement.
“No!” John clutched at his chest with his right hand, hamming it up for comedic effect.
“What?! Oh, you wound me, Quinn! I’m grievously offended, little lady. Honestly - oh, my pride.” He chanced a glance over at her and that seemingly opened the floodgates for her. Quinn started laughing hysterically. John couldn’t help but smile at that.
The kid had clearly been through a lot. If he could help make her feel less bad by being an overdramatic idiot then dammit he would play his part. Although… there was something about Quinn’s laugh that struck a chord with him. Something… familiar, about that manic giggle. Looking closer at her face, he realized that, yes, her face looked incredibly familiar. It wasn’t the same as whatever he was remembering - he couldn’t place exactly where he’d seen a face like this - but… John felt like he’d seen her somewhere.
Her green eyes glittered in the light and, as the moon came out from behind the clouds for a minute, they looked almost… silvery-violet. And then it hit him.
Lilith. Kayne. This child looked like she could have been related to them - either of them. Both! Lilith didn’t seem the type to get… “down and dirty” with mortals. Could this-
Good gods. Was Quinn a daughter of Kayne? Or- a different Nyarlathotep?
“..John?” He realized, belatedly, that he’d gone quiet for a few minutes.
“Yes?”
“Can I have more… of that drink?”
“More tea?” John smiled dryly, but considered her request nonetheless. “...It’s been a few minutes and you’ve kept it down well enough so far. So, sure. Give me a minute to grab you another thermos. And,” John raised a finger. “Drink it slowly. I’m sure you’re hungry and gods know you need something to drink. But I don’t want you puking tea all over the car. So, don’t chug the whole thing when I give it to you. Okay?” She nodded eagerly.
Damn sugar addict. John couldn’t even blame her.
Sighing a bit, John exited the car, grabbed the keys out of the ignition, went around to the trunk, grabbed another two thermoses of tea, shut the trunk, plugged the keys in, and hurried back into the backseat with the thermoses. He opened one of them and offered it to a delighted looking Quinn.
“Here you are.” She took it and started drinking immediately. John sipped at his own tea, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. Relative of Nyarlathotep or not, she wasn’t human. He didn’t know what abilities she might have and, frankly, he wasn’t sure he wanted to take his eyes off the kid.
He’d have to figure something out there - some way to get a solid understanding of her powerset. The last thing he wanted to deal with was another body-hopping, nightmare-inducing, Nyarlathotep-related headache. Now granted, Quinn definitely didn’t seem malicious, but… intention meant very little, if she didn’t have a good grasp on whatever powers or abilities her parentage offered.
No kid should be given a gun if they’re prone to fits of rage, don’t know how to use a gun, and don’t understand that their actions have consequences. There was a reason a person couldn’t get a concealed carry permit until they were an adult and had finished a class for it.
…John didn’t have much of his own powers left to him, but he knew more about controlling his magic than any human did. He wasn’t related to this kid, but… maybe it was a similar enough concept? Maybe he could help her learn to use her own abilities.
Once Quinn was done drinking - she offered him the half-finished thermos and he put the lid on it, setting the thing to the side - John cleared his throat.
“Quinn.”
“Mm?” Her many eyes gleamed curiously at him.
“I was wondering… do you have any abilities?”
“Abilities?” John was so awkward - gods, who had decided that he should be the one keeping an eye on some magical kid from a crazy sex cult?
“You know, uh… magic? Things that a lot of humans can’t do?” She just stared at him quizzically, so he rephrased his question. “Is there anything that the cul- the people you were with had you do? Things that they… couldn’t do themselves?” Her eyes brightened.
“Yeah! My, uh… father taught me some stuff. Wanna see?” The way she said “father” almost made John think it was more of a title than an actual genetic relationship.
“Can you show me a safe distance away from the car? I’d rather not risk this thing, if I can help it. It’s not mine.”
“It isn’t?”
“It belongs to Noel - the man who was with me when I found you.” Her eyes widened in understanding. “So, can you… show me outside?”
“Sure!” She was enthusiastic, despite seeming exhausted and clearly malnourished. It occurred to John, belatedly, that she might not even know her own physical limits. She was out of the car before he could even ask, though, and John had little choice but to sigh, shut off the car, and follow her. He walked her maybe fifty yards away from the car, before he voiced his biggest question.
“Quinn?”
“Yeah?”
“You talked about your “father,” before. What was his name?” She chortled, before answering.
“He was always taking different names and sneaking in to see if I was being treated okay when he “wasn’t around.” I don’t really remember his real name - he only got called that by the other grown-ups. I asked him about it, but he always just told me to call him “father” and stuff.”
“Mm.” So, her “father” was a genetic relative of hers. And, presumably, where she got her… less human traits from.
“He gave me a few nicknames to use, though. For his disguises.” Interesting.
“Did he, now? Can you tell me a few of them?” She giggled.
“Nathanial Hotep was his main one, I think.” Nyarlathotep. Fucking bastard.
“Oh, really? That’s an odd last name.”
“Right? Uhm… he also called himself “Mister Arkham” a few times, too.” That stinking son of a gun. “I’m not sure if he ever read Batman comics, but it always reminded me of those. Did you know that they put all the worst bad guys in Arkham asylum?”
“I did not, no.”
“Do you read comics?”
“...I can’t say I do.” John had never even heard of “comics,” before. Maybe it was something new that people had invented. Though, it was just as likely to be something that Nyarlathotep had “magicked” out of nowhere.
“You should! I think you’d like them.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah! You look a bit like Hal Jordan - Green Lantern.” John had no idea who that was. He just nodded politely.
“I… see.” He continued, before she could start on a tangent. “I think we’re far enough away from the car, if you’d like to show me some of the things you and your father could do?”
“Oh! Right.” She grinned hugely and her normally green eyes sparkled a brilliant blue.