SPN: "Interlude"
Category: Supernatural
Title: Interlude
Alternate Links: FFN / AO3
Word Count: 4600
Summary: AU, preseries. For six years, she has only been Mary, wife of John. But now a demon haunts Marjeya's dreams.
Part of the Covre Meyanevil universe, set between " In This Town" and " Chiseled in Stone."
Author Note: Look at me, being all productive.
Ever have that one story that you write just for yourself, and fuck everybody else? Yeah, this 'verse is mine.
It had been six years since Mary saw her uncle's stihora.
It had been six years since she wanted to.
Six years since that bright summer day when she had brought John here to meet her uncle, silently begging for his approval of the man she had just married, against every law governing the stac'he. Six long, glorious, happy, bright years in the wider world, untouched by the least shadow. She talked to her uncle on the phone fairly often, while John was at work, and he had visited her, when Dean was born and on the occasional holiday that only she recognized as such, but that was as far as she allowed her previous life to infringe on the present, and he had not even visited in two years. More frequent visits might make John question her story of familial estrangement, might spark dangerous curiosity about the tales she had spun of her past.
She loved her husband dearly, but he was a plain and practical man, not given to imagination, and not very understanding of it. The complexities of shadow and magic, of stac'he and zahe, of the Narrow Way and the wider world, would be too much for him.
There were no cars in the front lot, and in the smaller lot, near the door to the private quarters where her uncle and the permanent staff lived, there were only three vehicles: Jamie's and the two kept here for emergencies, meaning that Jamie should be here alone. Good. She parked the Impala in the closest remaining space, near the high wooden fence that blocked the neighbors' view of the backyard, where sometimes the stac'he observed the rites of their people, and shut the engine off.
The lack of noise and movement woke Dean from his nap. "Mommy?" he asked, blinking drowsily at her.
She smiled. Nothing lulled her little boy to sleep like the rumble of the Impala's engine, and she was never going to understand how that worked. Perhaps there was some benign magic even in the wider world. "We're here, sweetheart," she said, and he uncurled to peer out over the dashboard. "Do you remember what I told you?"
"Can't tell Daddy," he said, through a yawn. "Like M'rjeya and D'h'ran."
"Just like Marjeya and D'herran." Perhaps a mother of the wider world would not entrust such secrets to her child, even as mere play. But she was not such a mother, and she had lived too many years as stac'he to leave her home and family unprotected. The only way to keep a child as active and inquisitive as Dean from scattering the salt lines and scratching out the sigils was to make a game of them, and she had no source for the creation of such games but her own past.
She tried to convince herself that it was not such an important thing. She did not pry into John's time with Dean, did not interfere with the never-ending tinkering on the Impala or his bewildering devotion to football, let him and Dean keep their own secrets in those matters. She told herself that it all equaled out in the end. The relationship of mother and son was always different from that of father and son. Wasn't it?
She lifted Dean out of the car and hoisted him to her hip. He was getting so big. And it was-what, two years before he started school? Less? What was she going to do when she no longer had him under her protection all day, when she had to trust him to the ignorant authorities of the wider world? How long until he lost his wonder at their game and wanted only the common amusements of his father and classmates?
The door was open; a stihora never truly closed. Inside, it looked like any other rural roadside saloon, like a thousand that she'd visited, though right now it was echoing and empty, smelling of pine cleaner instead of spilled beer, the chairs still on the tables. Few of the lights were on, casting the main room into darkness.
Civilians, perhaps even hunters, would be fooled. Never a stac'he.
"Ayalo," came the greeting from somewhere in the shadows-enough like "hello" to fool any customers who were of the wider world. The answer determined how the newcomer would be treated-welcomed as stac'he, offered rest and healing and access to the back rooms, or simply given a menu and pointed to a table.
Or, at this hour, given a polite "We're not open yet." stihora, like bars, were more nighttime enterprises.
"Cazurai," she answered, a stac'he's answer, setting Dean down, and a man limped out of the shadows, leaning heavily on a stout cane. Silver gleamed on one finger, and Mary felt a sudden pang. She had exchanged blessed silver for plain gold, hidden her stac'hera in a box. What right did she even have to come here, a sanctuary of the people she had abandoned?
"Marjeya?" the rough voice asked, and Jamie hobbled into the light. Small hands clutched at her kneecap as Dean got his first good look at his great-uncle.
Of course. She was so used to Jamie's scars that it hadn't occurred to her to prepare Dean. She reached down and stroked his hair reassuringly. "It's okay, Dean."
Jamie, more accustomed to the effect that he had on strangers, stopped, farther away than he would normally, so as not to panic her child. "Mary?" he asked, letting all his questions color the name she had chosen.
"Good morning, uncle," she said, and closed the distance between them to hug him tightly. "K'darish," she whispered, and his good arm tightened around her.
Some things were universal. Nobody ever wanted to hear we need to talk, no matter the language.
"Then talk we shall," he said, letting her go. He looked down to where Dean was trying to hide behind her leg while still staring up at Jamie's horrifically scarred face with wide eyes. "Hello, little one," Jamie said.
Dean shot her a frightened look. "This is your Uncle Jamie, Dean. Say hello."
"Hi," he said-more quietly than usual, her normally fearless little warrior, but- "What's wrong with your face?" he asked.
"Dean!" she reprimanded, and was horrified to feel herself blushing.
Her uncle only smiled-probably as much at her embarrassment as at the question, for embarrassment over scars had no place in the life of a stac'he-and awkwardly bent to look Dean in the eye. "A monster did this to me, a long time ago," he said.
"Were you a Marine?" Dean asked breathlessly, eyes wide with the same awe he routinely directed at John.
"Not exactly." He straightened. "There are other heroes in the world," he said mildly.
She smiled. "Don't say that to John." She had certainly learned that lesson.
"Marjeya," Dean piped up.
"What, Dean?"
"Marjeya and D'herran," he said, quite definitely. "They're heroes. They're not Marines."
"Indeed they are not," Jamie said, giving her a look-the same look that she had gotten on the day she and Avraya had been caught sneaking out of archery practice to climb the condemned bridge on the road just outside the Valley. "They are stac'he, and stac'he must live quieter lives."
"Secret," Dean said.
"Even so." He met Mary's gaze. "As is this visit, I imagine."
"Aren't all missions of the stac'he?" she asked dryly.
Not that John would be angry that she had come here, or even that she had brought Dean-it wasn't as if she had any place else to put their son. Still, he did not exactly approve of Jamie, though she didn't understand why. The one time she had tried to broach the topic, John had muttered something about Jamie "not standing up for her," which made no sense.
"Hm." Jamie considered this a moment, then turned to Dean. "Do you like dogs, Dean?" he asked. Dean nodded. "Well, there is a dog in the backyard who is terribly lonely. Would you like to keep her company while your mother and I talk about boring things?" Another hesitant nod, and Jamie held out his hand-the useless, scarred one. Dean looked at her, and at her nod, he reached up and took Jamie's hand.
Mary followed them into the back, smiling as Dean struggled to keep his steps slow to accommodate Jamie's limp. She knew how hard that had to be for her energetic little boy-and at the same time, it was something he always did, with the elders on their block or the smaller children in the neighborhood, a protector's instinct. "You have a dog?" she asked as Jamie pulled open the door to the fenced yard.
"No, Vince has a dog," he said irritably, gesturing for them to go by. "Unfortunately, Vince lost a fight with a vampire, and for some reason, it was decided that the dog needed to live here."
She chuckled. If by "Vince" he meant brash young Varith Elerivil, who was the only one she knew who had taken that name, then that sounded like something Vince would do. "At least he did not bring you a wife to approve."
"I would have preferred a wife," Jamie muttered as they stepped into the bright autumn sunshine. "Wives are useful." A sleeping dog soaked up the sunbeams near a makeshift doghouse. Dog? No, it looked more like a wolf-the old wolves, the kind that no longer dwelled in the wider world-and it was absolutely huge. It raised its head, exposing quite the mouthful of dangerous-looking teeth.
Mary glanced at her uncle; he answered the unspoken question with a chuckle. "Frances loves children."
She refrained from commenting on the name, which meant something entirely different in their native tongue. Exactly the kind of name Vince would think appropriate for a dog. "Has them for breakfast?"
"Thinks they're hers. Here, Dean." He picked up something that might have been a tennis ball, a long long time ago, and gave it to Dean. "Throw it for her. She needs the exercise."
Dean gave the ball a good hurl-John's football games were good for something, at least-and the dog tore across the yard after it. So did Dean, and soon he and the dog were chasing the ball and each other around the yard.
"Why do you need to speak to me, Marjeya?" Jamie asked softly, in the language of their people. "What is so important that you bring it and your child here, rather than speaking it over the phone?"
"Dreams," she replied, in the same language. Her son knew only names, and a few words that did not translate; she would not take the game so far as to teach him fluency. Perhaps when he was older, when he could understand more. Perhaps, someday, if she could take him home.... "I have seen Cairzath."
Was it startlement that made her uncle's hand twitch, or just a spasm of the injured muscles? "The demon walks again?" Their people had banished him once, a thousand years past; they had known then that it would not hold forever, but even among the stac'he who dealt most with demons, there had been no talk of his escape.
"In my dreams." Her voice shook in remembered terror. "I see him in my home, standing over a crib, claiming an infant, and then there is only pain and fire."
Jamie nodded. "That is the pattern of his claiming, when the mother interrupts."
That...did not help. She knew the pattern of demon-claiming; every stac'he did. What she needed to know was a different matter entirely. "Are these visions, uncle?"
His voice was calm and reassuring. "I am not the one to answer that, Marjeya."
Her fears would not be reassured. "I have no magic!"
"It is not unknown for a child to assert itself before birth, particularly a child with magic. And this will be your secondborn."
The firstborn are warriors; the secondborn have magic; the thirdborn are beloved of the gods. "I am not-"
"Are you certain?" he asked dryly. "Does John sleep separately now? That young man who could barely keep his hands from you?"
"No, of course not," she answered. "But-" The dog yipped and Dean squealed and they went tumbling over each other. She smiled. John had been muttering lately about how they needed a dog. Now she saw why.
"This is how your mother knew she was pregnant with Avier," Jamie went on. "Before any test could, he warned her of his presence with visions in her dreams."
"And they were prepared for his birth," Mary finished. She had heard the story many times. Without the prophetic dreams sent from fetus to mother, none of the midwives would have been prepared for the rare complications that arose when her older brother was born, and mother and child would have been lost. "Rila is zahe," she said instead. "She has the magic."
"It was not her magic that crafted the warning. It seldom is." She felt his eye on her. "Think on it, Marjeya. Has there been no opportunity?"
"I am not a child, unc-" Suddenly, she remembered, and she swore. "I was sick a few weeks ago, they gave me something- I didn't think to ask if it would have effects. Damn it!"
Jamie's expression went from "serene elder" to "confused." "I thought-"
"No, it's just- I wanted to wait until Dean was older." She managed a wan smile. "I am a child of the Narrow Way, uncle. Less than ten years between children seems wrong."
He chuckled, understanding as only another of their people could. The intense magic of their homeland was not without physical effect; a zahe woman could see more than a century, and bear children for most of it. There were forty years between her oldest sibling and the youngest, and for all she knew, Rila had borne more since Mary left the Valley. The stac'he, on the other hand, had less exposure to the magic and aged more quickly. How much more quickly, no one was sure, but then, so far, no stac'he had lived long enough to die of old age.
They stood in companionable silence, as they once had in the stac'mir when she was a child, watching Dean and the dog. "Have you seen any signs?" Jamie finally asked.
Of this much, she was as definite as anyone could be. "None. Marjeya's son has no magic."
"D'herran is firstborn. Magic is not his gift, as you knew when you named him. But this does not make him safe."
My son's name is Dean, she wanted to protest, D'herran is only a silly nickname for the game, but couldn't. Not here. Not now. "Cairzath does not always seek magic," she said. Even a magicless warrior could be useful to a demon.
"True," he admitted, "though he seldom takes children D'herran's age. He prefers to lay his claim on infants."
She closed her eyes, just for a moment. "Uncle-"
"There are precautions that can be taken. If you wish."
"But- I am not-"
"No matter what you call yourself now, you are still-also-Marjeya Rilanen, stac'he of Vaic'theliadam. That makes him of the bloodline as well. D'herran Marjeyavil." She bit her lip, not wanting to admit his point, not wanting to acknowledge the name he had just given her son. Naming was a powerful magic; witness what had happened to Marjeya when she became Mary. "Marjeya, only we know who you truly are. The protections we use out here are those anyone of the wider world might use. There will be no signs to warn a demon away. Cairzath will see only a child as free for the claiming as any other."
"I don't want them to-"
"Neither may ever need to know. But would you rather have one look up at you with yellow eyes? Even if the child you carry does not inherit the full power of a zahe, he will be a temptation for any of the greater lords. And if any of them learn who you are-"
"My children may become a weapon against us."
"No, Marjeya," he corrected, "they will become a weapon against us. A child with magic doubly so." He sighed heavily. "And even should this be merely a nightmare, should there be no claiming- If your secondborn has the magic, Cairzath will not hesitate to use D'herran to obtain it." She shivered under his gaze. "And if any demon should possess D'herran, find the memories of this game...."
Their people had remained free to resist demonkind only by withdrawing from the world, hiding behind the twin shields of magic and isolation. Even a child's fuzzy memories of a game would give a demon enough information to find them, and once it did.... Neya Midaron would never survive a full-power onslaught of demonkind. And if Neya Midaron was destroyed-
It would mean more than just the death of their people. At best, it would mean the end of "white" magic; at worst, it would give demonkind the upper hand over humankind, let them turn the world into an annex of Hell.
"I should never have started it," she said. "I should have found another-"
"It is done, Marjeya. We must deal with it, not with regrets."
Right. Regret was a luxury no stac'he could afford. Hunt. Kill. Move on. "He will never keep a charm," she said instead. She could barely keep her active little boy in his shoes. "And if I tried to have it done permanently, John-" She shook her head. John might be understanding of her quirks, of all the "common knowledge" that she did not know, but getting their toddler a tattoo would strain even his good nature.
"He can be sealed."
"Sever him from the bloodline?" As much as Mary had done to keep her background safely secret, she wasn't sure she wanted to take that step. Even she was not severed, just exiled, and that mostly by choice; the last years had proven that there were no real consequences for rogue stac'he, as there were for rogue zahe. If she finally obeyed those orders and returned to Neya Midaron, even with a man of the wider world as her husband and their forbidden children, she would not only be allowed back, she might very well be welcomed, so long as she could accept a new role among the zahe, so long as John could accept a new life. Their people understood the importance of fresh genes as well as they understood the currents of magic.
But if Dean was severed, he could never go there. Not as more than kallehara, an ally but forever an outsider. What if she was wrong, and someday she-and her son-needed the sanctuary of her homeland? What if something happened to John? Without him, she wasn't sure she could raise her child-children here in the wider world. Too much of it was still alien to her. She could come here, certainly, Jamie would never deny her that, but a stihora was on the front lines, and was meant to be temporary respite, not a home.
"Marjeya," Jamie said, in a weary voice, as if he'd read her thoughts, "even sealed, he is still your son. He is blood, if not bloodline. He will always have the claim of family. Only the magic-and the responsibilities of the magic-will be gone. And once sealed, he will be forever safe from possession." He paused, then added, somewhat sharply, "As you are not, if you will not wear your ring. You should have a charm."
"John will ask-"
"I can cast it on the ring you wear now."
Startled, she looked down at her wedding ring. That should have occurred to her-a simple thing, plain, not obvious, that she always wore. The best sort of thing to turn into a warding-charm. "I should have thought of that."
"It is a thought of Marjeya, not Mary." There was no condemnation in his voice, only a surprising understanding.
"I should bring it to you," she said. "For safekeeping."
"No. The stac'hera belongs to the stac'he for whom it was made. Always."
"I have no need for it now."
"Then save it for the next warrior." He looked at Dean as he said it, leaving her no doubt as to who he meant.
"It is a nickname," she whispered helplessly. "That's all. A nickname for a child's game."
"Perhaps." There was a light in his good eye that she didn't like. He was stac'he, not truly part of their people's magic, but every family of the Covre had its own peculiar gifts, and their family tended to the sight. When she was still Marjeya, she had had her own flashes of instinct so strong that it might have been a vision. "Come," Jamie said, levering himself away from the wall. "We should do this before the crowds gather."
Yes. The quicker this was done, the quicker Dean was out of the bloodline, the quicker he was protected, the less likely that her nickname for him would become a prophecy of its own. "Dean." Dean, the little daredevil, was tempting fate by rubbing the dog's belly. The dog was far happier about that than Mary was. "Come here." Dean pushed himself to his feet and flung himself across the yard. She scooped him up. "We're going to have a little game."
"What kind?"
"Marjeya and D'herran are going to do something to protect him from bad things. And Jamalan is going to help."
"Ja-mah-lan," he said, trying to get the accent exactly right. A frown of concentration flashed across his face. "Uncle Jamie?"
"That's my bright boy."
"Are we gonna draw pennygrams?" he asked. "I draw good pennygrams!"
"Pentagrams," she corrected, for the thousandth time.
"And salt lines," Dean went on. "Do you have a kid to do salt lines for you?"
"No, I don't," Jamie said, amusement lighting his eye. "The salt lines are already done, but perhaps you can draw me some pentagrams."
"Blue's the best for pennygrams," Dean informed him. "Do you have blue?"
Jamie shot her a look. "It matches the house," she said-a weak defense, but all she had.
"We'll see, then," Jamie said, and bless the man, he did not laugh at her.
***
It was nearly dark by the time they were done, the parking lot filling with customers' cars, though thankfully none of the stac'he in the back were any that she recognized. She had called the garage, but Mike had a bad habit of assuming that she was just a nagging wife and tended to "forget" to give John personal messages. He was going to be frantic when he got home. No, he was going to be pissed when they got home. She was going to have to come up with a convincing story. Car trouble? No, he'd demand to know why she hadn't called the garage for a tow, then spend a week taking the Impala apart, and she hated driving his truck. Maybe an emergency involving Jamie? Would that make him too curious about her family, about why she was still in contact with Jamie when she wouldn't even mention her parents? Maybe a mixture, that she had come to see Jamie and there had been a traffic snarl? Trying to think of something would be a distraction on the road home, at least.
Dean was half asleep already, rubbing at his eyes. "Mommy?" he asked as she put him into the car. "My head feels funny."
"I know, sweetheart, I know." She stroked his hair. "It will pass." Even children not properly awakened to the magic had an awareness of it, by virtue of their blood. The stac'he never learned to use it, unless they were very powerful, and eventually the ability atrophied, but the sense remained. It was one of the reasons demons wanted them so badly.
"Watch him for fever," Jamie warned quietly. "It may mean that he has more magic than we thought, and if that is the case-"
"I will have to take him home." She had seen no signs, but they were not always obvious. Not in children this young, children not awakened to the currents of magic. And she was stac'he, not zahe, not raised to know the magic herself, not trained in the subtler signs.
But if she had to take him home because of magic.... He would have to stay, become zahe. He would never be able to leave. And she couldn't leave him there alone among strangers, even blood. If that happened, would John stay with them? Sacrifice the wider world for the life of the zahe? Would he understand?
"It will be all right, Marjeya," Jamie said, and his good arm was around her while she struggled to fight the tears. "I will seek the rites for the secondborn. You-" He hesitated. "Be Mary Winchester for now. Let Marjeya sleep until the child is born."
"Uncle-"
"Go, Mary. I will see you when the child comes."
He stood there, watching them, until she could no longer see the stihora in the Impala's mirrors.
***
Sammy came early, but Jamie was at the house precisely when they needed him, just as he'd promised, without anyone calling him or telling him where their new house was, to take care of Dean while John rushed her to the hospital. He then brought Dean to meet his little brother, and stayed out of the way until John carted their excited older son off in search of coffee for Daddy and something sweet for Dean and flowers for Mommy.
Then, once they were gone, he limped across the room, to where she sat in bed holding the bundle of blankets and baby. "No warrior, this one," he said softly. "Or at least, not only a warrior."
She looked down at Sammy. She should put him down, should let him rest, should take her own rest-but she couldn't. She knew-had known, these last few weeks, as the active baby pummeled her insides, as the nightmares became more frequent, more vivid, more horrifying-with a surety that needed no visions. He was her beautiful, perfect little secondborn, and he might very well be the beacon that drew death to her. "He has the magic," she whispered, committing it to words. Jamie nodded.
Magic. The one thing she wanted away from her sons, like her people-at least until they were old enough to understand. And if John did his job properly, their minds would be too dull to even comprehend that. Football and Marines and cars, not magic and monsters and shadow. "When can we-"
"I have learned a thing, Marjeya," he said, and the pain in his voice could not be ignored. "A child with magic cannot be sealed, unless he performs the rite himself."
Blood. Fire. Pain. "But-Cairzath-"
"I will provide as many protections as I can before you return home."
She nodded, understanding. With John out of the house, there were protections Jamie could work that could not be done otherwise, the long, complicated set-spells of advanced wardings and shields. "Will they help?"
"They cannot hurt." Jamie would make no promises, of course; no stac'he would. Any protection could be defeated, with enough time and power. "If it is in my power, Marjeya, no demon will have him. Either of them."
Title: Interlude
Alternate Links: FFN / AO3
Word Count: 4600
Summary: AU, preseries. For six years, she has only been Mary, wife of John. But now a demon haunts Marjeya's dreams.
Part of the Covre Meyanevil universe, set between " In This Town" and " Chiseled in Stone."
Author Note: Look at me, being all productive.
Ever have that one story that you write just for yourself, and fuck everybody else? Yeah, this 'verse is mine.
It had been six years since Mary saw her uncle's stihora.
It had been six years since she wanted to.
Six years since that bright summer day when she had brought John here to meet her uncle, silently begging for his approval of the man she had just married, against every law governing the stac'he. Six long, glorious, happy, bright years in the wider world, untouched by the least shadow. She talked to her uncle on the phone fairly often, while John was at work, and he had visited her, when Dean was born and on the occasional holiday that only she recognized as such, but that was as far as she allowed her previous life to infringe on the present, and he had not even visited in two years. More frequent visits might make John question her story of familial estrangement, might spark dangerous curiosity about the tales she had spun of her past.
She loved her husband dearly, but he was a plain and practical man, not given to imagination, and not very understanding of it. The complexities of shadow and magic, of stac'he and zahe, of the Narrow Way and the wider world, would be too much for him.
There were no cars in the front lot, and in the smaller lot, near the door to the private quarters where her uncle and the permanent staff lived, there were only three vehicles: Jamie's and the two kept here for emergencies, meaning that Jamie should be here alone. Good. She parked the Impala in the closest remaining space, near the high wooden fence that blocked the neighbors' view of the backyard, where sometimes the stac'he observed the rites of their people, and shut the engine off.
The lack of noise and movement woke Dean from his nap. "Mommy?" he asked, blinking drowsily at her.
She smiled. Nothing lulled her little boy to sleep like the rumble of the Impala's engine, and she was never going to understand how that worked. Perhaps there was some benign magic even in the wider world. "We're here, sweetheart," she said, and he uncurled to peer out over the dashboard. "Do you remember what I told you?"
"Can't tell Daddy," he said, through a yawn. "Like M'rjeya and D'h'ran."
"Just like Marjeya and D'herran." Perhaps a mother of the wider world would not entrust such secrets to her child, even as mere play. But she was not such a mother, and she had lived too many years as stac'he to leave her home and family unprotected. The only way to keep a child as active and inquisitive as Dean from scattering the salt lines and scratching out the sigils was to make a game of them, and she had no source for the creation of such games but her own past.
She tried to convince herself that it was not such an important thing. She did not pry into John's time with Dean, did not interfere with the never-ending tinkering on the Impala or his bewildering devotion to football, let him and Dean keep their own secrets in those matters. She told herself that it all equaled out in the end. The relationship of mother and son was always different from that of father and son. Wasn't it?
She lifted Dean out of the car and hoisted him to her hip. He was getting so big. And it was-what, two years before he started school? Less? What was she going to do when she no longer had him under her protection all day, when she had to trust him to the ignorant authorities of the wider world? How long until he lost his wonder at their game and wanted only the common amusements of his father and classmates?
The door was open; a stihora never truly closed. Inside, it looked like any other rural roadside saloon, like a thousand that she'd visited, though right now it was echoing and empty, smelling of pine cleaner instead of spilled beer, the chairs still on the tables. Few of the lights were on, casting the main room into darkness.
Civilians, perhaps even hunters, would be fooled. Never a stac'he.
"Ayalo," came the greeting from somewhere in the shadows-enough like "hello" to fool any customers who were of the wider world. The answer determined how the newcomer would be treated-welcomed as stac'he, offered rest and healing and access to the back rooms, or simply given a menu and pointed to a table.
Or, at this hour, given a polite "We're not open yet." stihora, like bars, were more nighttime enterprises.
"Cazurai," she answered, a stac'he's answer, setting Dean down, and a man limped out of the shadows, leaning heavily on a stout cane. Silver gleamed on one finger, and Mary felt a sudden pang. She had exchanged blessed silver for plain gold, hidden her stac'hera in a box. What right did she even have to come here, a sanctuary of the people she had abandoned?
"Marjeya?" the rough voice asked, and Jamie hobbled into the light. Small hands clutched at her kneecap as Dean got his first good look at his great-uncle.
Of course. She was so used to Jamie's scars that it hadn't occurred to her to prepare Dean. She reached down and stroked his hair reassuringly. "It's okay, Dean."
Jamie, more accustomed to the effect that he had on strangers, stopped, farther away than he would normally, so as not to panic her child. "Mary?" he asked, letting all his questions color the name she had chosen.
"Good morning, uncle," she said, and closed the distance between them to hug him tightly. "K'darish," she whispered, and his good arm tightened around her.
Some things were universal. Nobody ever wanted to hear we need to talk, no matter the language.
"Then talk we shall," he said, letting her go. He looked down to where Dean was trying to hide behind her leg while still staring up at Jamie's horrifically scarred face with wide eyes. "Hello, little one," Jamie said.
Dean shot her a frightened look. "This is your Uncle Jamie, Dean. Say hello."
"Hi," he said-more quietly than usual, her normally fearless little warrior, but- "What's wrong with your face?" he asked.
"Dean!" she reprimanded, and was horrified to feel herself blushing.
Her uncle only smiled-probably as much at her embarrassment as at the question, for embarrassment over scars had no place in the life of a stac'he-and awkwardly bent to look Dean in the eye. "A monster did this to me, a long time ago," he said.
"Were you a Marine?" Dean asked breathlessly, eyes wide with the same awe he routinely directed at John.
"Not exactly." He straightened. "There are other heroes in the world," he said mildly.
She smiled. "Don't say that to John." She had certainly learned that lesson.
"Marjeya," Dean piped up.
"What, Dean?"
"Marjeya and D'herran," he said, quite definitely. "They're heroes. They're not Marines."
"Indeed they are not," Jamie said, giving her a look-the same look that she had gotten on the day she and Avraya had been caught sneaking out of archery practice to climb the condemned bridge on the road just outside the Valley. "They are stac'he, and stac'he must live quieter lives."
"Secret," Dean said.
"Even so." He met Mary's gaze. "As is this visit, I imagine."
"Aren't all missions of the stac'he?" she asked dryly.
Not that John would be angry that she had come here, or even that she had brought Dean-it wasn't as if she had any place else to put their son. Still, he did not exactly approve of Jamie, though she didn't understand why. The one time she had tried to broach the topic, John had muttered something about Jamie "not standing up for her," which made no sense.
"Hm." Jamie considered this a moment, then turned to Dean. "Do you like dogs, Dean?" he asked. Dean nodded. "Well, there is a dog in the backyard who is terribly lonely. Would you like to keep her company while your mother and I talk about boring things?" Another hesitant nod, and Jamie held out his hand-the useless, scarred one. Dean looked at her, and at her nod, he reached up and took Jamie's hand.
Mary followed them into the back, smiling as Dean struggled to keep his steps slow to accommodate Jamie's limp. She knew how hard that had to be for her energetic little boy-and at the same time, it was something he always did, with the elders on their block or the smaller children in the neighborhood, a protector's instinct. "You have a dog?" she asked as Jamie pulled open the door to the fenced yard.
"No, Vince has a dog," he said irritably, gesturing for them to go by. "Unfortunately, Vince lost a fight with a vampire, and for some reason, it was decided that the dog needed to live here."
She chuckled. If by "Vince" he meant brash young Varith Elerivil, who was the only one she knew who had taken that name, then that sounded like something Vince would do. "At least he did not bring you a wife to approve."
"I would have preferred a wife," Jamie muttered as they stepped into the bright autumn sunshine. "Wives are useful." A sleeping dog soaked up the sunbeams near a makeshift doghouse. Dog? No, it looked more like a wolf-the old wolves, the kind that no longer dwelled in the wider world-and it was absolutely huge. It raised its head, exposing quite the mouthful of dangerous-looking teeth.
Mary glanced at her uncle; he answered the unspoken question with a chuckle. "Frances loves children."
She refrained from commenting on the name, which meant something entirely different in their native tongue. Exactly the kind of name Vince would think appropriate for a dog. "Has them for breakfast?"
"Thinks they're hers. Here, Dean." He picked up something that might have been a tennis ball, a long long time ago, and gave it to Dean. "Throw it for her. She needs the exercise."
Dean gave the ball a good hurl-John's football games were good for something, at least-and the dog tore across the yard after it. So did Dean, and soon he and the dog were chasing the ball and each other around the yard.
"Why do you need to speak to me, Marjeya?" Jamie asked softly, in the language of their people. "What is so important that you bring it and your child here, rather than speaking it over the phone?"
"Dreams," she replied, in the same language. Her son knew only names, and a few words that did not translate; she would not take the game so far as to teach him fluency. Perhaps when he was older, when he could understand more. Perhaps, someday, if she could take him home.... "I have seen Cairzath."
Was it startlement that made her uncle's hand twitch, or just a spasm of the injured muscles? "The demon walks again?" Their people had banished him once, a thousand years past; they had known then that it would not hold forever, but even among the stac'he who dealt most with demons, there had been no talk of his escape.
"In my dreams." Her voice shook in remembered terror. "I see him in my home, standing over a crib, claiming an infant, and then there is only pain and fire."
Jamie nodded. "That is the pattern of his claiming, when the mother interrupts."
That...did not help. She knew the pattern of demon-claiming; every stac'he did. What she needed to know was a different matter entirely. "Are these visions, uncle?"
His voice was calm and reassuring. "I am not the one to answer that, Marjeya."
Her fears would not be reassured. "I have no magic!"
"It is not unknown for a child to assert itself before birth, particularly a child with magic. And this will be your secondborn."
The firstborn are warriors; the secondborn have magic; the thirdborn are beloved of the gods. "I am not-"
"Are you certain?" he asked dryly. "Does John sleep separately now? That young man who could barely keep his hands from you?"
"No, of course not," she answered. "But-" The dog yipped and Dean squealed and they went tumbling over each other. She smiled. John had been muttering lately about how they needed a dog. Now she saw why.
"This is how your mother knew she was pregnant with Avier," Jamie went on. "Before any test could, he warned her of his presence with visions in her dreams."
"And they were prepared for his birth," Mary finished. She had heard the story many times. Without the prophetic dreams sent from fetus to mother, none of the midwives would have been prepared for the rare complications that arose when her older brother was born, and mother and child would have been lost. "Rila is zahe," she said instead. "She has the magic."
"It was not her magic that crafted the warning. It seldom is." She felt his eye on her. "Think on it, Marjeya. Has there been no opportunity?"
"I am not a child, unc-" Suddenly, she remembered, and she swore. "I was sick a few weeks ago, they gave me something- I didn't think to ask if it would have effects. Damn it!"
Jamie's expression went from "serene elder" to "confused." "I thought-"
"No, it's just- I wanted to wait until Dean was older." She managed a wan smile. "I am a child of the Narrow Way, uncle. Less than ten years between children seems wrong."
He chuckled, understanding as only another of their people could. The intense magic of their homeland was not without physical effect; a zahe woman could see more than a century, and bear children for most of it. There were forty years between her oldest sibling and the youngest, and for all she knew, Rila had borne more since Mary left the Valley. The stac'he, on the other hand, had less exposure to the magic and aged more quickly. How much more quickly, no one was sure, but then, so far, no stac'he had lived long enough to die of old age.
They stood in companionable silence, as they once had in the stac'mir when she was a child, watching Dean and the dog. "Have you seen any signs?" Jamie finally asked.
Of this much, she was as definite as anyone could be. "None. Marjeya's son has no magic."
"D'herran is firstborn. Magic is not his gift, as you knew when you named him. But this does not make him safe."
My son's name is Dean, she wanted to protest, D'herran is only a silly nickname for the game, but couldn't. Not here. Not now. "Cairzath does not always seek magic," she said. Even a magicless warrior could be useful to a demon.
"True," he admitted, "though he seldom takes children D'herran's age. He prefers to lay his claim on infants."
She closed her eyes, just for a moment. "Uncle-"
"There are precautions that can be taken. If you wish."
"But- I am not-"
"No matter what you call yourself now, you are still-also-Marjeya Rilanen, stac'he of Vaic'theliadam. That makes him of the bloodline as well. D'herran Marjeyavil." She bit her lip, not wanting to admit his point, not wanting to acknowledge the name he had just given her son. Naming was a powerful magic; witness what had happened to Marjeya when she became Mary. "Marjeya, only we know who you truly are. The protections we use out here are those anyone of the wider world might use. There will be no signs to warn a demon away. Cairzath will see only a child as free for the claiming as any other."
"I don't want them to-"
"Neither may ever need to know. But would you rather have one look up at you with yellow eyes? Even if the child you carry does not inherit the full power of a zahe, he will be a temptation for any of the greater lords. And if any of them learn who you are-"
"My children may become a weapon against us."
"No, Marjeya," he corrected, "they will become a weapon against us. A child with magic doubly so." He sighed heavily. "And even should this be merely a nightmare, should there be no claiming- If your secondborn has the magic, Cairzath will not hesitate to use D'herran to obtain it." She shivered under his gaze. "And if any demon should possess D'herran, find the memories of this game...."
Their people had remained free to resist demonkind only by withdrawing from the world, hiding behind the twin shields of magic and isolation. Even a child's fuzzy memories of a game would give a demon enough information to find them, and once it did.... Neya Midaron would never survive a full-power onslaught of demonkind. And if Neya Midaron was destroyed-
It would mean more than just the death of their people. At best, it would mean the end of "white" magic; at worst, it would give demonkind the upper hand over humankind, let them turn the world into an annex of Hell.
"I should never have started it," she said. "I should have found another-"
"It is done, Marjeya. We must deal with it, not with regrets."
Right. Regret was a luxury no stac'he could afford. Hunt. Kill. Move on. "He will never keep a charm," she said instead. She could barely keep her active little boy in his shoes. "And if I tried to have it done permanently, John-" She shook her head. John might be understanding of her quirks, of all the "common knowledge" that she did not know, but getting their toddler a tattoo would strain even his good nature.
"He can be sealed."
"Sever him from the bloodline?" As much as Mary had done to keep her background safely secret, she wasn't sure she wanted to take that step. Even she was not severed, just exiled, and that mostly by choice; the last years had proven that there were no real consequences for rogue stac'he, as there were for rogue zahe. If she finally obeyed those orders and returned to Neya Midaron, even with a man of the wider world as her husband and their forbidden children, she would not only be allowed back, she might very well be welcomed, so long as she could accept a new role among the zahe, so long as John could accept a new life. Their people understood the importance of fresh genes as well as they understood the currents of magic.
But if Dean was severed, he could never go there. Not as more than kallehara, an ally but forever an outsider. What if she was wrong, and someday she-and her son-needed the sanctuary of her homeland? What if something happened to John? Without him, she wasn't sure she could raise her child-children here in the wider world. Too much of it was still alien to her. She could come here, certainly, Jamie would never deny her that, but a stihora was on the front lines, and was meant to be temporary respite, not a home.
"Marjeya," Jamie said, in a weary voice, as if he'd read her thoughts, "even sealed, he is still your son. He is blood, if not bloodline. He will always have the claim of family. Only the magic-and the responsibilities of the magic-will be gone. And once sealed, he will be forever safe from possession." He paused, then added, somewhat sharply, "As you are not, if you will not wear your ring. You should have a charm."
"John will ask-"
"I can cast it on the ring you wear now."
Startled, she looked down at her wedding ring. That should have occurred to her-a simple thing, plain, not obvious, that she always wore. The best sort of thing to turn into a warding-charm. "I should have thought of that."
"It is a thought of Marjeya, not Mary." There was no condemnation in his voice, only a surprising understanding.
"I should bring it to you," she said. "For safekeeping."
"No. The stac'hera belongs to the stac'he for whom it was made. Always."
"I have no need for it now."
"Then save it for the next warrior." He looked at Dean as he said it, leaving her no doubt as to who he meant.
"It is a nickname," she whispered helplessly. "That's all. A nickname for a child's game."
"Perhaps." There was a light in his good eye that she didn't like. He was stac'he, not truly part of their people's magic, but every family of the Covre had its own peculiar gifts, and their family tended to the sight. When she was still Marjeya, she had had her own flashes of instinct so strong that it might have been a vision. "Come," Jamie said, levering himself away from the wall. "We should do this before the crowds gather."
Yes. The quicker this was done, the quicker Dean was out of the bloodline, the quicker he was protected, the less likely that her nickname for him would become a prophecy of its own. "Dean." Dean, the little daredevil, was tempting fate by rubbing the dog's belly. The dog was far happier about that than Mary was. "Come here." Dean pushed himself to his feet and flung himself across the yard. She scooped him up. "We're going to have a little game."
"What kind?"
"Marjeya and D'herran are going to do something to protect him from bad things. And Jamalan is going to help."
"Ja-mah-lan," he said, trying to get the accent exactly right. A frown of concentration flashed across his face. "Uncle Jamie?"
"That's my bright boy."
"Are we gonna draw pennygrams?" he asked. "I draw good pennygrams!"
"Pentagrams," she corrected, for the thousandth time.
"And salt lines," Dean went on. "Do you have a kid to do salt lines for you?"
"No, I don't," Jamie said, amusement lighting his eye. "The salt lines are already done, but perhaps you can draw me some pentagrams."
"Blue's the best for pennygrams," Dean informed him. "Do you have blue?"
Jamie shot her a look. "It matches the house," she said-a weak defense, but all she had.
"We'll see, then," Jamie said, and bless the man, he did not laugh at her.
***
It was nearly dark by the time they were done, the parking lot filling with customers' cars, though thankfully none of the stac'he in the back were any that she recognized. She had called the garage, but Mike had a bad habit of assuming that she was just a nagging wife and tended to "forget" to give John personal messages. He was going to be frantic when he got home. No, he was going to be pissed when they got home. She was going to have to come up with a convincing story. Car trouble? No, he'd demand to know why she hadn't called the garage for a tow, then spend a week taking the Impala apart, and she hated driving his truck. Maybe an emergency involving Jamie? Would that make him too curious about her family, about why she was still in contact with Jamie when she wouldn't even mention her parents? Maybe a mixture, that she had come to see Jamie and there had been a traffic snarl? Trying to think of something would be a distraction on the road home, at least.
Dean was half asleep already, rubbing at his eyes. "Mommy?" he asked as she put him into the car. "My head feels funny."
"I know, sweetheart, I know." She stroked his hair. "It will pass." Even children not properly awakened to the magic had an awareness of it, by virtue of their blood. The stac'he never learned to use it, unless they were very powerful, and eventually the ability atrophied, but the sense remained. It was one of the reasons demons wanted them so badly.
"Watch him for fever," Jamie warned quietly. "It may mean that he has more magic than we thought, and if that is the case-"
"I will have to take him home." She had seen no signs, but they were not always obvious. Not in children this young, children not awakened to the currents of magic. And she was stac'he, not zahe, not raised to know the magic herself, not trained in the subtler signs.
But if she had to take him home because of magic.... He would have to stay, become zahe. He would never be able to leave. And she couldn't leave him there alone among strangers, even blood. If that happened, would John stay with them? Sacrifice the wider world for the life of the zahe? Would he understand?
"It will be all right, Marjeya," Jamie said, and his good arm was around her while she struggled to fight the tears. "I will seek the rites for the secondborn. You-" He hesitated. "Be Mary Winchester for now. Let Marjeya sleep until the child is born."
"Uncle-"
"Go, Mary. I will see you when the child comes."
He stood there, watching them, until she could no longer see the stihora in the Impala's mirrors.
***
Sammy came early, but Jamie was at the house precisely when they needed him, just as he'd promised, without anyone calling him or telling him where their new house was, to take care of Dean while John rushed her to the hospital. He then brought Dean to meet his little brother, and stayed out of the way until John carted their excited older son off in search of coffee for Daddy and something sweet for Dean and flowers for Mommy.
Then, once they were gone, he limped across the room, to where she sat in bed holding the bundle of blankets and baby. "No warrior, this one," he said softly. "Or at least, not only a warrior."
She looked down at Sammy. She should put him down, should let him rest, should take her own rest-but she couldn't. She knew-had known, these last few weeks, as the active baby pummeled her insides, as the nightmares became more frequent, more vivid, more horrifying-with a surety that needed no visions. He was her beautiful, perfect little secondborn, and he might very well be the beacon that drew death to her. "He has the magic," she whispered, committing it to words. Jamie nodded.
Magic. The one thing she wanted away from her sons, like her people-at least until they were old enough to understand. And if John did his job properly, their minds would be too dull to even comprehend that. Football and Marines and cars, not magic and monsters and shadow. "When can we-"
"I have learned a thing, Marjeya," he said, and the pain in his voice could not be ignored. "A child with magic cannot be sealed, unless he performs the rite himself."
Blood. Fire. Pain. "But-Cairzath-"
"I will provide as many protections as I can before you return home."
She nodded, understanding. With John out of the house, there were protections Jamie could work that could not be done otherwise, the long, complicated set-spells of advanced wardings and shields. "Will they help?"
"They cannot hurt." Jamie would make no promises, of course; no stac'he would. Any protection could be defeated, with enough time and power. "If it is in my power, Marjeya, no demon will have him. Either of them."