torch song

Even amidst all the invitations that clearly had ulterior, horseman-related motives, Elijah was still used to receiving invitations to real parties. He was in high demand, these days. In fact, this party almost seemed like scraping the bottom of the barrel for him. If there was no chance of a run-in with destiny, it felt like a waste not to be at the same party as Ridley Scott. And yet – here he was. It wasn’t awful. In fact, he was sort of impressed, and there was something to be said for being among regular people who were still awed by his very presence. 

There was also something to be said for a normal night out with Adele. His last shred of normalcy, of feeling, but she was more than that. In a lot of ways, Adele was something of a shield for him. The purest of Saints, his personal endorser, and it couldn’t be more obvious than it was tonight as they navigated the party in matching costumes. If there was some irony to the fact that the character he was dressed as was responsible for her character’s death, Eli wasn’t particularly bothered by it. He’d left her side only to get two more themed margaritas, though he nearly lost them both as someone backed into him.

She snapped at him before he could say a word, and he tensed as he recognized the redhead. Psycho – er, Psychic – Chick. Great. Still, he offered a smile. “You bumped into me,” he pointed out breezily, “But I’ll let it slide.” He shot her a wink, all smiles and ease before casting a glance over her costume and lifting an eyebrow. “What, decided not to dress up as anyone’s dead family members tonight? I’d have figured this sort of thing would be right up your alley.”

Magda rolled her eyes and retorted, “I’m sure, for you, everything just happens to you,” clearly not believing that she backed into him. The smiles and ease were just as charming in real life as they were on camera: she recognized him instantly, even beneath Peter Pan and all. “Little boy lost, didn’t they ever tell you that children get eaten in the woods? Surely there’s someone around here itching to eat their pound of flesh off of you,” she cooed, her words in a complimentary tone even as she taunted. But then—what Elijah said after gave Magda pause, and it probably showed in her face. He spoke to her with... familiarity.

“Have... we met? Did I show up to a relative’s house or something?” she asked, never able to bite back her own curiosity. “I’m not channeling tonight, just here to try to have a good time, with or without you,” she said pointedly—if he was going to be a fun facet, she was down to rub elbows with Hollywood’s best and brightest, but otherwise... there were cocktails to be had and other faces she’d rather be looking at. “And—well, you can think of this costume like a ghost of myself, if you feel so inclined,” she added with a laugh—not intending for him to get the joke. Magda didn’t know, but didn’t believe, he knew that she’d been Eve.

Shibah had waffled between going and not going. She was still feeling terrible but she knew that now wasn’t the time to let that bother her. Putting on a brave front was what she needed to do. And that is exactly what she was trying to do. She put a lot of time and energy into dressing up and making a costume. She had a ton of ideas but she just came back to the same one over and over again so she decided that’s what she was going with.

Something she hadn’t even thought of until she saw herself in the mirror after she had finished. It would be pretty tough for someone to recognize her in her costume. From the red wig to the zombie makeup and tentacles coming from her chest. It would be interesting to see what other people had done and they ideas they had. Maybe she could try picking them out as a way to distract herself?

As Shibah looked around, she couldn’t find anyone that she recognized right away. That was until she felt someone back into her. She quickly turned around, an apology on her lips but was replaced by a smile and a happy laugh. “Magda! Oh wow. I didn’t know you were behind me. You look great. I think your corset is alright, so no worries.”

Magda raised her eyebrows, at first not putting together who was standing in front of her, with the hair a shade brighter than her own—clearly a wig—but killer zombie makeup and a well-done tentacle situation that conjured up a memory of an artist’s similar rendition online. Only the voice gave her away: “Oh! Shibah, I barely recognized you under all that,” she replied, and nodded. “Thanks, I like looking good, and the corset’s safe, so no harm, no foul. Did you get your idea from—something online? It looks familiar. You did it really well, what made you think of going as zombie Ariel? Feeling a little out of your element?” she joked lightly and laughed along with the angel.

She had to hand it to Shibah: at least she was still here, hadn’t run when the vote didn’t go her way. Sure, she’d been quiet, but they’d all had a hard go of it recently—Magda could hardly point fingers when she herself had been sorely lacking on the helpful front, to the point where her guilt had pushed her into uncomfortable territory. And she hadn’t been runner-up for God. Magda couldn’t imagine what it felt like to be Shibah, but she respected her continued good-natured demeanour in spite of it all. “How have you been?” she asked.

Halloween had always been her favorite time of the year, at least in the modern century. This year, however, her excitement was tinged with a sense of alarm. (The last few parties had hardly gone well.) But the Rose Room soothed her, best as it could, with its revelry and glittering skulls, and soon, her shoulders sank as she took in the room. It let her pack away the worries, at least momentarily; neatly filing them away for later– and then a redhead almost backed into her, Leviathan’s free hand reaching out as if to steady the woman as she quickly swivelled around.

“I do think you’re the one that almost made me spill mine,” Leviathan said, but her voice wasn’t unkind. She didn’t let her hand linger on the Prophet’s shoulders, not wanting to intrude on Magda’s boundaries. “But nothing left either glass, so I’d say we’re good.”

“Poison Ivy, right?”

“Hardly,” Magda countered, her words defensive but her tone more playful, more open—perhaps allowing for the possibility that she’d been the one at fault. Smiling, she took in the powerhouse in front of her: Magda recognized the demon; how could she not? The Prince of Princes was notorious and had more than earned her infamy. Tonight, she was dolled up like Morticia to complement Raziel’s Gomez, which was something Magda could hardly find disappointment with. They were—cute, in another world. In a world where angels and demons... where God and the Right Hand of the Devil... could have played house. 

Where Leviathan touched her, Magda felt the soothing ripples of an ocean at low tide, a kind of grounding energy rooted not in the land but in something more mercurial though just as gravitational. It was hard not to be mesmerized by Leviathan: the myth, the legend, and the person herself. The touch was gone, but Magda didn’t mind the company. Continuing to sip her Poison Apple, Magda agreed: “Yeah, practice makes perfect,” she quipped, and gestured to Levi’s glass—”What are you having? Think it’s wise to relax or is this another ruse?” The Prophet’s eyes danced with something between mischief and uncertainty.

“Poison Ivy, indeed. Fresh from the Garden, as it were. You and God make a lovely couple.”

It was a singularly bad idea to spend any time near the Mary of this lifetime, whether she remembered Gabriel or not— Gabe hadn’t forgotten anything that even centuries hadn’t been able to tamper with yet. Try as she might to rid herself of the regrets and choices that she’d made, her inability to completely let go had left her trapped in a world that was in between everyone else’s. She didn’t commit completely to one or the other, not since Adon and even before that—Mary. But she’d been the one to call, to ask a favor, and left Gabriel on the other side of her door once more as if time had never passed between the last time they’d seen each other. ( the time when she ran away when called to return to her duties ) 

Whichever way Gabriel looked at it, the angel had made her decision then and now once more, finding it harder to knock than it should have been when she swallowed down the lump in her throat and stood a bit straighter. All her trauma was a thing of the past, pushed back into the darkest crevices of her mind for as long as possible until they arose once more, not dealt with at all and making her regret once more in acting like she was fine. Everything was fine. The world was only ending, Horsemen were wreaking havoc, and no one had a clue how to stop them—yet.

Word spread that Magda ( her Mary ) had a way of seeing things that hadn’t happened yet, but if she’d been able to see Gabriel on the other side of this door then Gabe was certain that she wouldn’t open it. Instead, Gabe knocked and was greeted by a face that both hit her like a ton of bricks as well as gave her a chance to breathe when knowing that this woman didn’t remember her. Yet. “You called?” Nice. Real nice. “Would have been here sooner but traffic was a nightmare. Birds everywhere.” Not much better.

“Yeah,” Magda breathed out, opening the door for Gabriel, getting her wits back together on the other side. It was true: she didn’t remember, but she knew of, had read, had emotional snippets and smells of memories; they were there like a haze, long long-lost love letters, both in her frame of view out of the corner of her eye and completely out of focus. The sense of a history, without the experience of it. But it didn’t matter: she knew it factually, and with something like vague emotion, mixed with connection. And it brought her all to this moment, to ask what was so impossible for them both, but had to be done. “Los Angeles, man,” she said by way of small talk. “Been here before—this year? Traffic is always a shit show.”

Gabriel made her way inside and Magda gestured to the microfiber couch, which should be decently comfortable. “Can I—get you some... tea? coffee? Anything?” the redhead asked, gesturing to the kitchen beyond the half wall. She almost said snacks? but it felt almost too much like a soccer mom trying too hard. So Magda just sort of shut up, braiding and unbraiding anxiously a few strands of her hair after closing the door behind them. Keeping them both alone together in a room without supervisions. Which was normal but somehow felt hard. And would get harder. “Yeah—so—I don’t know if you got Maria’s text, about trying to—I don’t know, dig something up to get the Grails?” Magda bit her lip and then told herself to cut it out, to act normal, and slowly tried to slide back into her everyday self. A less nervous self.

If life was a party, why not stick around to see what it was like in the after party? Though as Gabriel glanced around her latest place of employment, one that’d pulled her out of the dredges she’d been mulling about in with her very own pity party of one — Gabe wasn’t sure that she was ready to be back, quite yet. A new God, check. A new Horseman, check. Plenty of reason to drink, double and triple check. Why she was there? It only made sense that her invitation had extended a bit longer than the ascension when there were plenty of able bodied Angels and Demons alike to have to deal with it all.

Leave her out of it. Or not. Not when she caught a flicker of redhead come into view, catching her attention out of the corner of her eye when pouring another double for a soon to be regular customer if she kept giving them a bit extra to the rim. ( any good sign of a barstaff was the ability to keep them coming back for more but so was the entertainment ). That was why most came, for the ones who worked there up front and center while her spot behind the bar gave her ample of opportunity to disappear when the need called for it.

And the leave fucking called for it when she wished in that moment that she could drink as much as the customers, eyes unable to take their gaze off the woman coming towards them until it was too hard to deny that she’d been staring before dropping her gaze along with her stomach into the pits of an empty glass with a particularly nasty spot. It didn’t last long, not when the voice that she could have sworn hadn’t changed in lifetimes was there again as if it had never left before. Mary. Her Mary. She stood there, On the other side of the bar and asking for a drink as Gabe complied without comment ( a rarity in all forms ) before sliding it across with a quick glance along with it.

“Ordering off menu means tipping your bartender double, I hope you know that. New policy. Came with the tip jar that’s addressed to angels only. Too bad no one here takes it seriously, bastards.”

So the silence didn’t last long, sue her.

She’d already ordered before the heat crept into her face, and for not the first time, Magda was grateful that the club existed in darkness, in the kind of light that throws shadows and flatters. The kind of light that might make it hard to notice when the girl was or wasn’t wearing makeup. The kind of light that, Magda hoped, made it less noticeable—the warmth that spread over her like candleflame. The Prophet knew the words thrown about, but rarely: soulmate. It didn’t have to be romantic, but all the same, some souls seemed bound together, caught up in each other’s threads, threatening to unravel into something unexpected, something you couldn’t have been otherwise. Soulmates make you into yourself. 

Trouble was, Magda wasn’t looking to get caught up in that. Not everyone had to meet their soulmates, let alone get to know them. It wasn’t on her agenda. There was an apocalypse on their doorstep, sooner or later, and she had a part in keeping the world together, and everything that wasn’t dedicated to that, she kept for herself, or for her lover. There were no empty slots in this new, compact life that Magda had in which to fit Gabriel. She had no room for her. But that didn’t stop the feeling, somewhere between ecstasy and choking, that happened when their eyes met. So Magda kept her eyes down, tried to make it normal, tried to act like this was all in her head, something to be shoved in a box in a hall closet.

Managing to keep her eyes away from Gabriel’s dark ones only made it easier to see the angel’s mouth, her smirk, the curve of her cheek, the curl of her hair. So she looked into the glass she’d been served, instead. How do you talk to someone when you had memories from someone else’s life? How to say, she remembered certain—nights—but they weren’t hers, it wasn’t Magda’s life, it had been Mary’s. What to say to that angel, who must be wondering what had changed—and what remained the same? It was—overwhelming. “St. Germaine and champagne is standard here, angelface,” Magda managed to get out with something like composure, and ending with a familiar smile. “Though can’t say I’m uninterested in any new policies. What else has been recently... decided?”