Chapter Text
L'enfer, c'est les autres
Grace has had some experience now with Satanic rituals. Of course, the first time, spread out on that table, the pentagram digging into the raw skin of her back and all her sore, straining limbs spread taut, she'd thought it was all a stupid delusion, an empty show resulting from decades or centuries of warped tradition. Rich people are just like us, her ass. She should've remembered what she and every other poor fuck in the world should be clear-eyed enough to know. The rich are a different breed altogether...a vile, warped, inbred fucking breed. She'd thought they were killing her out of some stupid goddamn rite started when the first Le Domas—probably named something idiotic and Puritanical like Righteousness Le Domas, for fuck's sake—had saved a witch from the noose and thought that Satan himself had blessed his cows, or some shit.
She'd thought she was dying for a lie. And that had pissed her the fuck off.
She can't tell whether now, now that she knows better, knows enough to know the devil is real and even to have some real personal beef with the fucker, whether that makes her wedding more or less of a farce.
The drama of it, the empty ritual that isn't so empty—the dress and the crown, the walk into the bowels of the earth where a pit of the fresh and ancient dead sinks like a worm-tunnel of rot in the core of an apple—it almost makes her want to laugh. Like, at least with her marriage to Alex, the pomp and circumstance had been to blind her to all this. The parody of purity pantomimed in the white dress and flowers, the cake and the dancing, the goddamn photoshoot, it had all been a veil dropped over her eyes to blind her to the horrors behind. Why bother with this now? She'd honestly have been less surprised—and maybe even more accepting—if Titus had told her she'd just be tied down and publicly fucked on a bloodstained stone altar to seal the deal.
This is almost worse.
Almost.
Grace walks across the floor to him in her finery and sees him standing in his and wants to scream. Her sister looks up at her with a scared half-smile on her face and tears in her eyes, and she wants to vomit. The officiant puts on his stupid little goat horns and parodies the marriage vows—ones she'd rehearsed not forty-eight hours ago to recite at her wedding to Alex not forty-six hours later—and she wants to die on the spot.
But she can't. And she's not going to. If they—if he—wants her blood, she's going to make him sweat for it.
Besides, with every shallow, panicked breath that rasps up her sandpaper-dry throat, the ember of a plan fans to life in her heart.
In the room they'd prepared her in, there hadn't been anything with an edge she could have palmed, and anything she could have broken a shard of glass or porcelain would have been noticed and taken from her. And she'd scanned the crowd on her walk down the 'aisle'; no one that she could see had even so much as a ritual bloodletting knife. And then she'd seen the pen.
The pen her husband—she swallows a gag—has just used to slice open his palm to let his blood drip slowly into a shallow inkwell. She's almost surprised to see that it's red and not the clotted black ichor of some venomous monster.
Titus offers it to her with—she can't call it a grin and it isn't a smirk, but it's a definite expression of triumph at her expense—and she takes it. There's a breath and a whispered plea from her sister, and Grace loses an instant of focus.
A fresh tear drops from her eye and she becomes suddenly aware that she's been crying this whole time; her cheeks are hot and sticky, eyelashes clumped in dark, damp bunches. “I have to, Faith. It's okay. It's all right.”
Faith whimpers and it breaks Grace's heart to see how this has blunted her, her vicious, barbed-wire sister, whose tongue could cut like a razor. It hurts to see that razor turned inward to sever her own tongue now rather than say something to hurt them both at this crucial moment. Her stupid, irrational, impulsive sister has finally learned how to wait. Hail fucking Satan. She'll spit in his eye for this, if it costs her own soul.
Speaking of which, she takes the pen.
How fucking idiotic is the human body, she thinks, that something as infinitesimal as opening the skin of her palm manages to hurt after everything else she's been through. There's something almost awe-inspiring at how much suffering she's managed to withstand so far, and the fact that her body is still so hell-bent on keeping her alive that it even bothers to clock one new cut among hundreds is impressive. The painkillers swallowed from an anonymous woman's purse made a dent, but not much of one.
She mimics Titus' actions and squeezes her palm over the shallow tray of blood where the drops of his blood have gathered, meeting his eyes with her own narrowed, feral. Her teeth are bared in an instinctual, silent snarl that he matches for a moment as he snatches the pen back from her.
She almost doesn't let it go, but she sees the marriage license—these fucking bureaucratic fuckers, of fucking course there's a fucking license and of fucking course Titus is listed first as the primary fucking consort and she's going to kill them all, every goddamn one of them!—and knows the pen will return soon enough.
Titus is eager now. He swirls their blood together, a few mingled drops splashing onto his knuckles, the knuckles he punched her with, the knuckles he beat her sister almost to death with, the knuckles he tightened under his sister's throat until he snapped her neck, and signs the license in their blood.
And then the pen is hers.
She's done her best to drag this out, although she hasn't needed much help. If there's one thing the Le Domases taught her, it's that the ritual takes precedence over all. They could've had the butler break her legs so she couldn't run; hell, she's pretty sure that as long as she'd ended up dead, Mr. Le Bail really wouldn't have cared who'd done it, or where. But they'd waited for the rite to be done properly, which had given Daniel, and then her, enough time to make it until dawn.
When she'd left the room upstairs, pretty as a washed pig for the slaughter, there'd been an hour still to go. How much time now? Here, underground, she has no way of knowing.
Precious seconds pass as she drags the pen through their blood, imagining Titus' contribution flowing straight from his carotid artery, enough of it to fill the open pit behind them and overflow it, a blood-red geyser erupting like a firework. She rehearses the steps in her mind, calculates that she'll need to take a step closer to the register to sign her name; it'll be a half-turn, a raised hand, and a swift slash down to his throat. Her hand begs for respite and her shoulders creak, but she knows she'll be able to do it. She'll have to.
She signs. Turns. Raises her arm. Stabs down.
She's fast.
He's just that little bit faster.
The pen catches him to the side of his throat, opening a slash that mirrors the one on her cheek, her back, and blood flows but not enough. He dodges sideways and avoids the pit, hands raising defensively, as Grace staggers backwards.
She braces herself and prepares to throw herself sideways behind the altar to put the stone between her and his counterattack; if she can hold out until dawn, just until dawn...
“You'll want to reconsider, Grace,” he sounds winded, but when he raises his hand to his neck and smears the blood there, watching the torchlight turn it black on his fingers, she knows he isn't afraid of her. He smiles. “It was a good plan. You should've done it sooner.”
“I can still do it!” she spits out, raising the pen and feinting forward a half-step. He doesn't flinch. “You fucking asshole, you think I won't? You think your life means shit to me?”
“I know it doesn't,” his smile grows wider, “But we're family, now.”
She laughs, hysterical, deranged. It echoes off the walls like a tortured scream, and in the audience, she sees some of those pampered, delicate assholes react with shudders. Like they haven't heard a scream from someone damned before.
“Doesn't matter. You killed your own sister, motherfucker; I can do the same.”
“She was my sister,” he nods, “but she wasn't the head of the family. I am. You just gave me that power, signed it away in your own blood. I have the high seat. And Grace,” he steps closer and she tries, she tries with everything she has not to give him the power of her fear, but she retreats a half step and jabs forward with the pen, “if there isn't a head of the family around by the time dawn comes, Mr. Le Bail will be very, very unhappy.”
He pauses and waits for his words to sink in, which, like a slow poison, they do. Her limbs numb and her arm drops as cold inertia floods her muscles.
“That's right,” and now his grin is unbearable, “I'll die, sure. But you're my wife. She's my sister-in-law. Every member of every family will go.”
He steps even closer and Grace is too numb now to move, even when his hand reaches out to lift her fist, the fist that still grips the pen, such an inconsequential threat now. Slowly he guides it up to the wound on his throat and his fingers clasp tighter; she feels the strength in his hand and knows it's hopeless. She could lunge forward with her full weight and the tip of the pen wouldn't touch him again, if he didn't want it to.
His tongue darts out and her stomach churns with nausea as he licks the blood from it: his, hers, theirs.
“How long till dawn?”
The officiant clears his throat and consults the spinning collection of gears above their heads. “Three minutes.”
Titus huffs a quiet laugh. “Three minutes,” he repeats, and he lets her hand, enclosed in his, come a half-inch closer. She watches the pulse, excited, thrilled, jumping in his throat, and if a fraction of the fury that lights her blood could set them both on fire, she'd gladly let it go to burn with him.
“Think you can do it, sweetheart?”
He feels it when the fight goes out of her and lowers their entwined hands down between them. There's hardly a breath between them now, but Grace thinks it doesn't matter anyway. She doesn't need to breathe; she might as well be dead standing there, watching him watching her.
His eyes search hers, bright as twin stars, which should be impossible down here in this nightmarish dark. “Something we forgot, earlier. You were pretty eager.”
She has to say something; she has to prove she isn't dead yet. She has to make him work for it, sweat for it, bleed for it...if she can. “Oh yeah?” her voice trembles; she swallows and tries again, “What's that?”
A slit throat, a knife in the stomach, a warm spill of blood baptizing her flesh; she could have withstood that.
His kiss, though.
She bites her own lip bloody not to scream, and doesn't know whether to count it a victory or a defeat that she doesn't. Faith screams enough for both of them.
They lead her from the wedding in a stupor; her body seems to have gone entirely numb now except for the bruised sensation of her lips and the coppery warmth of her own blood coating her tongue. Exhaustion is a gray haze in front of her eyes, thick as a fog bank, and she can barely feel her feet as they trudge wearily up the cold stone stairs. She moves through inertia alone, but spares no thought for running. Even with a clear field and knowledge that Faith was safe—neither of which she has, as her sister has been taken in another direction—she doesn't have an ounce of energy for anything but the next footstep.
Dread is setting in, terror cold enough to freeze her down to her marrow. Without the energy to run, she certainly has nothing left with which to fight. And she knows what happens after a wedding ceremony.
It's not over yet.
After what feels like an eternity, she finds herself back in her(?) room. The room they'd brought her to, gotten her ready in. She looks around, blinking slowly, eyes dull as a cow's. They'd scrubbed her raw in that bathroom, treated the worst of her wounds, and yet now the soft white porcelain is scrubbed free of grime and blood, and the chemical smell of iodine and peroxide is gone, replaced with a rich, soft odor of crushed roses. A candle burns softly in the corner, its flickering light one of the few illuminating the room. Her wedding dress—the first, not the second—has vanished from the crumpled, stinking pile on the floor. Her shoes—trusty yellow Chucks, splattered with gore—are likewise gone.
They are the only things she misses.
“Mrs. Danforth,” his familiar, slightly nasal voice comes from behind her, but she's too tired to jump. “I am here to explain the circumstances and terms of your new relationship. As well as to answer any questions you might have.”
“How—” her throat feels rusty, skin tearing as she speaks, “how long do I have?”
The man's smooth forehead puckers, confused. “Until what, Mrs. Danforth?”
“Can you—” she interrupts herself. Annoying as it is, her new name is the very least of her worries, “Until he comes.”
“Ah,” at least she doesn't have to clarify, “Mr. Danforth has been made aware that that would not be appropriate at this time.”
She almost laughs. Almost. “Why? Doesn't he want to finish the job?”
“As far as the terms of your negotiation are concerned, the wedding is complete. While consummation is to be desired, your name is in the book in your shared blood. Whether or not that final step is taken does not matter at this time. It is done.”
Grace swallows, her head drooping forward like a wilting flower on a stem too withered to hold it upright. “Guess it was too much to hope for, huh?”
“You shouldn't place your trust in hope. It's not anywhere near as assured as a contract.”
“Spoken like a goddamn capitalist,” she sneers, “Is your boss one too?”
He smiles, as if they're sharing the joke. “Of all the ideas He inspired in this world, that has been one of His very favorites.”
Perhaps it's her imagination, but there's something in his voice—a subtle pause, maybe, or a faint accent—she hears the capital letters on the pronouns. That sets him apart from the other cultists she's met so far; some of them didn't even seem to believe in the terms that gave them their wealth and power, while even those that did...well, Grace got the distinct impression that they didn't respect Satan so much as fear him.
This man, though...
“Who are you?”
He tilts his head, as if to ask of all questions, this is the one you ask first? But he answers, “I am the Lawyer.”
Again, that subtle capitalization.
“His lawyer?”
“Everyone needs one.”
Now she does laugh. “Not us poor fucks.”
His face is perfectly serious as he replies, “A good contract protects and binds all parties, Mrs. Danforth.”
Grace hasn't been to Sunday School in a very long time. Titus hadn't had it quite right when he called her parents Irish Catholics—at least, she didn't think so, but theirs was a closed adoption and Grace's memory was foggy on the point of her parents—but one of her foster mothers had been Evangelical, and determined that all the children in her care were given a 'good, moral upbringing'.
She and Faith had been towed to Beacon Hill Evangelical Free Church for four hours every Sunday for two years.
Something had to have sunk in. What does she remember about the Devil?
For one thing—and this had been stressed over and over—he isn't omnipotent, omnipresent, or omniscient. Powerful, sure, but limited. When Satan tempted Jesus in the desert, he couldn't hurt him or force him to do anything Jesus didn't agree to do himself. Was that because Jesus was, you know, Jesus, or because Satan didn't have the power to interfere with human events without permission?
Her exhaustion suddenly closes in on her, thick and fast as a tsunami wave. She reels on her feet.
A strong hand fastens around her elbow and helps her to a seat on the divan at the foot of the bed. “With your permission,” his voice comes to her from a distance, “I'll summon the doctors. You need time to rest and recuperate, Mrs. Danforth.”
Oh, God, that sounds good. If only she can believe him. Which, of course, she can't. This is hell, and she's married to one of the Devil's kiss-asses and talking to his fucking lawyer.
“Yes,” she breathes out, throat dry and mouth sore, “and don't call me that fucking name.”
There's a pause and her vision is so dark and blurry she can't discern his expression. She only hears the weary amusement in his voice as he replies, “Certainly, Ms. MacCaullay.”