Slight Rest For The Maybe Wicked II

Winter had come and taken roost in Greythorne Manor. The green replaced by a carpet of a sludge of white, intermittent cool breeze had become a momentary occurrence, and the smell of blood had but been muscled out by the pervasive aroma of effervescent pine trees.

They were quite close to the highlands of the county. As such, the appearance of snow was within their expectation. What had been, however, was the vastness of its landfall; this day alone, three inches of snow had fallen in the region and had broken some kind of fifty-year record.

Irwin was not sure of the veracity of his information, seeing as he was merely vaguely listening to the tune of Ella's radio as she went to work on the mushrooms that had grown in the mycelium part of the Garden of Eden.

Irwin had assuaged Ella's worry that he wants no part in the futile endeavor of running the Garden, only taking comfort in the fact that she was taking care of the Garden and so long as his hex bags were not bereft of ingredients.

He figured there were many things that would benefit from such thinking. Hunting, for instance, could be relegated to his subordinates once the Protectorate was established. With three of the country's greatest hunters within his purview–coupled by the litany of mystical items he could afford–it would be not unwise for him to say that it would be a piece of cake to handle most monsters that came their way.

Still, it was far too early to say that he had succeeded in that endeavor. Merely getting Kubrick to sign up for the hogwash he was babbling earlier was a dreadful chore in and of itself.

The zealous hunter had been skeptical, at best, by his explanations, even wanting proof of Heaven's existence. Irwin, out of sheer frustration, nearly called upon his favor with Balthazar just so the Kubrick problem could be solved; fortunately, he broke through by allowing him to see Dagon's Angel Sword.

Unlike that of a normal Angel Blade, the Angel Sword bore a mark that it belonged not to the foot soldiers of Heaven nor its petty messengers. The enochian sigil engraved upon the flat of the blade bore the rank of the Angel and its true name, signalling its authority and arrogant proof of its undying loyalty to their Lord.

Of course, Irwin didn't say all that to Kubrick, merely letting the religious man do all the guessing in his mind. It didn't take long before the blonde middle-aged man asked for permission to study the Angel Sword, which Irwin granted in exchange for the former's service to the Protectorate—even adding in a promise to let him be a bodyguard next time he negotiated with them.

Left alone to happily finish his after-workout meal, Irwin dwelled upon the thought he had during the trip up north.

'So… I'm probably, most possibly, an extra in, uh, French Press? No, I know its French something. Ugh, fuck. I have to start writing again. I've already forgotten half the shit Jack Klyne did when he had no soul.

I don't know if Balthazar can transport me back to that alternate reality. It doesn't seem like he can control it and, although Virgil went after the Winchesters, it's possible that he just traced the source of the alternate reality.

This is hard. I don't know anything enough about interdimensional travel magik to make guesses. Fuck, I don't even know enough about magik to assume that they were using interdimensional travel magik. I need to stock up on information which Lady Anastasia might help me with.

I just need to figure out what to prioritize and how to do it, so she doesn't talk much about the history of druidic floriculture. I don't need the theory on any attack spells, which will shorten the scroll scripting of defense spells and hexes because she hates writing in Gaelic–a weird thing for a very famous druid to say.

She just came back from vacation, though, and she's very fond of her time with her daughter. Peachy likes winter, which means that she will like winter, too. I guess this hinges on Peachy getting her mother to teach me about space magik.

Sounds fun.'

Having made up his mind, Irwin stood from his seat and waved at Ella. "Hey! I'm going to the docks. Need anything?"

"That kid you brought last night ate all my chips." She yelled loud enough for said kid to hear it if he were here, "Bring me two–No, three bags full. Please!"

"At least you said please," Irwin muttered under his breath as he took off towards the dock.

It had always been refreshing to walk down Lisbon Valley as the mountainous region surrounding its perimeter brought down fresh dew in the early morning. Coupled with being built around a large lake, the temperature around the town would always be lower than the rest of the county during every season.

As such, Irwin didn't find it an oddity that people milled around town with thick clothing and winter equipment one could find an Alaskan native wearing. That last bit was odd, but seeing as they were teenagers giggling about, Irwin thought of it as a new fad.

'Or an old fad since this is still 2006? God, they don't even have memes yet.' Irwin shuddered at the thought of having to slog through late noughties' internet culture yet powered through as he passed by Maggie's Diner.

He had kept his fingers in the online pulse by keeping up messages on Hallow's Eve, an online messaging board for supposedly hardcore horror, crime, and all-around freak fans. Although he'd been offline for the past two months, he had received breakdowns from some of his chatmates–one of whom was the sheriff's deputy that they encountered during their hunt for Agatha and Charlotte.

Apparently, being outed as a federal agent and threatening him for sending classified information over the internet was not enough to warrant halting his curiosity. He sent four three-megabyte documents containing pictures, CCTV videos, and on-site witness investigation over the chat in the past two months alone.

Irwin would be glad to send his name to Agent Henderson and have him fired for being too much of a dumbass, but he reckoned that having an informant in that city was worth the risk of having a stupid cop on the streets. So long, of course, that he stayed stupid and didn't do anything else that Irwin might perceive as corruption or bigotry.

In any case, the rest of the messages were well-wishers and a few fake evidence of monsters roaming around the world. There was one, however, that had him intrigued and not because it was real, but due to it being an obvious account of a government agent.

He didn't know which agency or government, but he could smell the account like a starving dog in the middle of an orchard.

"Better not be some Men of Letter sect bullshit. I don't want to mess with the eldritch god yet." He growled threateningly but changed his expression into a warm smile as he saw Annalize and Lady Anastasia exiting the boat.

"Morning." He greeted before tilting his head to look at Ansem, who was hard at work towing a basket full of fish into the dock. "Good catch?"

Lady Anastasia nodded, her skin glowing like that of a twenty-something year old."Very much. We are having fish for dinner. And tomorrow night, as well."

Irwin laughed softly, "I could teach you how to grill one. Would you like that, Peachy? Peachy?"

He looked down and saw Annalize's head bent down and checking on her sneakers, deliberately not gazing at him. He smiled through the discomfort as he knelt down with a worried expression.

"Hey? Are you still mad at me?" He asked in a low voice.

"Yes, she is." Lady Anastasia answered.

"O-ok. Uh, do you want to talk about it?" Irwin kept wriggling his head, so that she could see the sincerity in his eyes.

"No, she does not." Lady Anastasia answered once again.

Irwin stood up in frustration, "Ok! Are you, like, her spokesman or something?" 

"I am. How did you know?" Lady Anastasia nodded proudly. "She does not want to talk to you, as you have been neglecting your relationship ever since you declared yourselves to not be her brother. As such, she had decided that I would be your intermediary and translator during this… trying times."

Irwin groaned, palming his face to not cuss in front of a child. "F-Jesus. And you're alright with this?"

She giggled, holding her daughter's hand and walking past Irwin. "You are my student and she is my daughter. I can't choose between the two of you. However, if I did, I would choose the cuddly little girl who doesn't give me a headache every time she goes out of town."

"That's cruel of you!" He yelled as they left him on the docks. "It's a terrible condition that I have! Like leprosy!"

"You have leprosy, boss?" Ansem asked, whose face had healed from the bruises of Gordon's torture and had regained ample color from the food he was eating.

"It's a joke, psychopath. Take the fish to the diner. Maggie will prepare it for us." Irwin sighed, all hopes of getting a free lesson down the drain.

To add insult to injury, his phone rang because Ellen was calling and, if he was being honest, he told her not to call unless there was an emergency on her end.

'I don't like how this day is starting. Maybe I should just turn my phone off–No, that's too much. Maybe it's not that bad. Maybe she's left something in my car. Yeah, absolutely that.'

"Yeah?" He answered smarmily.

"Wow. Tough life, Dick?"

He chuckled, "No, just a tough sister."

"I hear you." She cleared her throat. "Listen, remember when you told us to recruit like an evangelical cult?"

"Yeah?" Irwin had a bad feeling about her next set of words.

"About that. A friend of mine, the one I told you about, well, he wanted to see it first hand. So a bunch of his hunter friends are driving down there in a few days and, well, I'm just calling you to expect visitors soon."

'Ah, fuck!'