Virtual Third Season: Episode #9

[fenris]

Please be advised that this episode contains scenes of an adult nature.

As always, any feedback is gratefully received.


Episode #9: Deal Or No Deal.

Previously on Hex: a brief clip from Episode #3 – Lilith saying “And the search for the other item?”
Brief clips fron Episode #4 - Jo and Corvide throwing the runes, which remain suspended in midair; Ella saying “It’s been altered slightly. There’s various words, phrases and some entire passages that I can’t quite place.”
Brief clips from Episode #7 – Mary saying to Leon “Show me what you’re made of”; Ella cradling Leon’s head in her hands and saying “What did they do to you?”; Mary on the television screen, saying “I took advantage of him, Ella.”; Corvide saying “We have obtained two first-generation copies. We are closer than ever before.”; Jo saying “Everything’s on schedule.”
Brief clips from Episode #8 - Malachi saying "She isn't in Heaven, Thelma"; Malachi saying to Thelma “The Stone of Belial. I want it./if you aren’t here to give it to me, then your Irish bitch girlfriend will burn in agony for all eternity”; Mephistopheles saying to Leon “Mary did more than just abuse you. She mentally conditioned you, by placing a trigger in your mind"; Jo wearing just a towel, saying to Tyrel in her hotel room "why don’t we order room service and stay here?"; Ella running along the aisle of the church in Hobb's End in 1948, pursued by the shockwave of the explosion; the church tower collapsing; Douglas in the present saying to Ella "It's starting again"; Thelma holding up the Stone of Belial.

On-screen caption: Four years ago.
Wearing a French maid’s outfit, complete with a very short skirt that reveals she’s wearing stockings and suspenders, Thelma walks across green, flat, overgrown grassland, until she reaches a tall chainlink fence. A notice on the fence reads ‘Danger. Do Not Enter. Hazardous Structure.’ The camera then moves directly behind Thelma and pulls back, so Thelma is a small figure in the foreground at the centre of the screen. Spread in front of her, beyond the fence, are the burned out ruins of Medenham. The building’s roof and all of it’s floors above the ground are gone, and the structure is now just a shell. Most of the walls are still standing, the windows gaping open like eye sockets. Thelma squeezes through a gap where the fence has come away from one of the metal posts, and go walking through the ruins. She looks about sadly.
“It’s true what they say,” she muses to herself “You can never go home.”
She tries to get her bearings;
“Now if the main stairway was… there, then the library would have been…”
Thelma walks off, eventually coming to a blackened area filled with shattered pieces of stone masonry and roof tiles. She gazes about on the ground, looking for something;
“C’mon, don’t let me down… Yes!”
She’s spotted something. Reaching down, Thelma lifts up a piece of stone roughly the size of a housebrick. Poking out from underneath was a neatly folded plastic bag. Thelma opens the bag, looks inside, then pulls out a piece of white A4 paper, folded in half. She unfolds it and quickly reads whatever is written on it. She laughs.

Cut to the reading room of the British Library. It’s the middle of the night and the place is – of course – empty. Thelma walks purposely down one of the walkways between the rows of reading stations, towards the only station where a light is on. A figure can be seen hunched over the station in question, seemingly engrossed in one of several large volumes that are spread out and laid open. Thelma comes to a halt next to the figure. “Got your message.” She says.
Peggy looks up: “Thelma! How wonderful to see you!”
They hug. Peggy is wearing her usual 1920s pyjama suit, and a large silk wrap is draped over the back of her chair. She glances at one of the large ornate clocks on the nearest wall.
“The guard makes his rounds in five minutes.” She tells Thelma. “Help me put these books back, then we can catch up. I can’t wait to hear all your news.”

Cut to the reading room, a couple of hours later. Pointing straight down, the camera pans across the floor, and we see items of clothing – parts of Thelma’s outfit, Peggy’s pyjama suit – lying disgarded. We can hear Thelma talking;
“ – then Roxy was sacrificed by Malachi, Medenham went up in flames, and we barely got out in one piece. We’ve been in hiding since then, and we’ve just discovered that now his book’s reached the top of the best-seller’s lists on both sides of the Atlantic, Malachi’s establishing his own church. So, to sum up, Cassie died and was exiled to darkness, Maya died a second time and was taken away from me, I blame myself for Roxy getting killed, and Malachi’s rolling in money and setting up a powerbase from which he can end the world.”
The camera reaches Peggy and Thelma, who are lying on the floor facing each other with Peggy’s silk wrap over them like a blanket.
“You poor thing. You’re really been through the wars, haven’t you?” Murmurs Peggy, reaching out and caressing Thelma’s face. “But why do you blame yourself for what happened to that Roxanne girl?”
“She trusted me.” Replies Thelma sadly. “I made her think I was an angel. I warned her to stay away from Malachi, but I really should have told her to get away from Medenham altogether, as far and as quickly as possible. But I didn’t, and she died.”
Peggy thinks carefully before replying;
“Based on what you’ve told me, Malachi and this Jo woman had already penciled in Roxanne to be their sacrifice.” She murmurs. “They would have prevented her from leaving, whether you had warned her or not. You shouldn’t blame yourself Thelma.”
Thelma nods slightly, still not fully convinced, but acknowledging the logic in her friend’s argument.
“Now tell me, where did you get that wonderful outfit?” Says Peggy, trying to lighten the mood.
Thelma grins sheepishly;
“A kissagram fell down a fire escape and broke her neck.” She explains. “When I saw it in the morgue I couldn’t resist.”
They both giggle. Thelma takes one of Peggy’s hands and holds it in both of her own.
“Can I ask you something personal?” She ventures.
“Go on.” Peggy nods.
“All the ghosts I’ve met have become ghosts due to being sacrificed, or by having some supernatural element in their deaths.” Thelma says cautiously, choosing her words with care. “Me, Maya, and I know Cassie lingered here briefly after she died. Leon’s told me that Tom also stayed for a while, before moving on. And I suspect Roxy’s still hanging about somewhere, though I’ve not met her. I don’t know what I’ll say to her if I do.”
“But?” Says Peggy, anticipating what the younger ghost is about to say.
“But you told me you died from influenza.” Thelma continues. “And based on everything I've learnt and experienced, becoming a ghost isn’t that random. Now, I know that it was originally Azazeal’s and now Malachi’s presence on Earth that interferes with reality and enables ghosts to exist in the first place, but it seems that people only become ghosts if something magical or Hellish was involved in their deaths.”
Peggy smiles bashfully;
“So you want to know why I’m still here, ninety years after being killed by nothing more than a very nasty virus?” She replies.
“Sorry.” Murmurs Thelma, slightly embarrassed. “I don’t mean to pry. It’s just something I’ve never been able to make sense of.”
Peggy kisses the younger girl’s hand.
“Don’t worry. It’s not a secret.” She assures Thelma. “With me, it wasn’t a case of how I died, but who I knew. My best friend - when I was alive - was called Victoria. We’d known each other since childhood. I was chief bridesmaid at her wedding, when she married a renowned musician named Anton Phibes. He was a remarkable man in many ways, who shared my interest in Ancient Egyptology, though it was clear he knew many things which he would never divulge to me.” Peggy pauses. “Victoria and Anton visited me when I was on my deathbed. While Victoria was out of the room, Anton told me that as I had been such a good friend to his wife and himself, and because there was so much more I wanted to learn, he had taken steps to ensure that death would only claim my body, and my spirit would remain in this realm to allow me to continue my studies. And he spoke the truth.”
“Wow.” Murmurs Thelma. “Talk about knowing the right people. So how’s the research going?”
“Every mystery I solve merely reveals several new ones.” Peggy smiles contentedly. “I honestly don’t think I’ve ever tire of it.”
“As you’re the biggest history buff I know, I have a favour to ask.” Thelma ventures.
“Name it.” The older ghost declares, clearly pleased at the thought of a fresh challenge.
“Have you ever researched the history of the Medenham witches?” Thelma asks

On-screen caption: Two years ago.
A typical street in one of the more pricier suburbs. Several cars are parked on the long driveway to one of the houses. Further along, on the opposite side of the road, Thelma and Peggy are standing under the shadow of a tall tree. Peggy is wearing her ever-present pyjama suit and silk throw, while Thelma has a white hoodie zipped up to her chin and matching tracksuit bottoms. The two ghosts watch as a young girl, wearing black leggings and a tight-fitting top, with a bag slung over her shoulder, walks along the street. It’s Midge, her hair considerably longer than it is in the present. She heads up the long driveway where all the cars are parked, towards the house.
“So that’s her?” Asks Thelma, though it’s more of a statement than a question.
“According to my research.” Replies Peggy. “I’ve been keeping a discreet eye on her. She attends every week.”
“And you’re sure she has the gift?” Thelma enquires.
“You’re seen her aura.” Peggy murmurs. “If that’s any indication – and it normally is - I’d say she definitely possesses the sight.”
Thelma nods: “I’d better make contact then. Wish me luck.” She says, setting off in the direction of the house.
“Thelma sweetie,” Peggy calls out, stopping the younger ghost before she’s taken more than a couple of paces, “I love you dearly, but that’s really not a good look for you.” Peggy waves her hand up and down, indicating Thelma’s attire. “If you appear to her wearing that, she’ll think it’s Night of the Living Chav.”
“I know,” Thelma mutters, gazing down at her clothes, “but beggars can’t be choosers. These were the only things that fitted me down at the morgue. Besides, what else can I wear?”
The two ghosts look at each other. Then Thelma gazes appraisingly up and down at Peggy’s outfit and grins. The older woman sighs and rolls her eyes in exasperation.

Cut to a darkened room inside the house. The curtains are drawn and the only light is coming from two candles placed at either end of a long table, at which Midge and seven other people are seated. Taking their lead from a middle-aged woman at the head of the table, everyone has placed their hands palms down on the table, and are sitting silently, eyes closed, waiting for the departed to make contact.
“Psst.” Someone whispers.
Midge sits up slightly and raises her head, but keeps her eyes closed, not sure if she heard something or not.
“Psst.” That sound again.
Midge opens one eye. Wearing Peggy’s pyjama suit and with a huge smile on her face, Thelma is standing on the other side of the table, inbetween two of the other attendees. She waves at Midge.
“Hello.” She exclaims breezily.
Opening her other eye, Midge looks at Thelma in surprise, then at the others around the table. Nobody else has moved or reacted, or shown any indication of having heard the newcomer. Glancing at Thelma again, Midge goes to speak, but Thelma shushes her by frantically waving, while putting the forefinger of her other hand to her lips.
“They can’t see me or hear me.” The ghost explains with a grin. “If you tell them I’m here, they’ll just think you’re a nutcase.”
Thelma then clambers up onto the table and sits crosslegged in front of Midge.
“How about a bit of role-reversal?” Suggests Thelma. “Instead of me knocking on the table, how about I ask the questions, and you either nod yes, or shake your head no?”
No sure how to react, Midge nods.
“Great.” Gushes Thelma. “So, do you come her often?”
Midge cautiously nods.
“Well, I’m a newbe. It’s my first time at a séance.” Thelma tells her. “I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I figured it might be a laugh. I actually thought it might be like an AA meeting. You know, ‘Hello everyone, I’m Thelma and I’m dead’.”

Cut to the street outside. With her shoulders, legs and feet all bare, Peggy stands under the tree observing the house, with only her silk wrap - which she is holding tightly around herself - protecting her modesty. She has a look of amused resignation on her face.
“Invisible I may be, but I wouldn’t do this for anyone but you, Thelma.” She sighs to herself.
Opening titles.

We're in Ella’s basement flat. Leon enters. Nobody else is there. He takes off his coat and casually tosses it onto the sofa, then goes into the cramped bedroom. There’s the shape of someone lying under the duvet. Leon sits down on the mattress, reaches out and gently gives the person a shake.
“Ella?” He says. “I didn’t think you’d be back so soon.”
“She’s not.” Declares the person under the duvet, lazily pushing it back from her face as she sits up.
For a second all Leon can see is her distinctive red and green hair.
“Hello Leon.” Grins Mary.
Leon springs up in alarm, stumbles backwards and collides with the wall.
“You’re not here.” He garbles, eyes wide and close to panic. “You’re not real. This is just a dream. I’m dreaming.”
Mary stands up on the centre of the mattress, the duvet falling away. She’s wearing just a bright blue sports bra and a purple leather mini-skirt.
“You know, they say that if you realise you’re dreaming, but you don’t wake up, then it means you’re not dreaming.” She remarks.
Before Leon can react, Mary advances and lunges upon him, grabbing his head in both hands and kissing him passionately. Breaking away from the kiss, she stares him in the eye.
“How real do I feel?” She challenges him.
“Wha – what do you want?” He eventually chokes.
Mary releases her hold on his head and starts to casually walk around the confined room, examining and feeling some of Ella’s outfits hanging up on the walls as she talks;
“No doubt you’ve become aware that I left you with a little memento from our previous liaison.” She announces. “And I know you’ve not told Ella about it. Instead you’ve left it to fester like a dirty little secret. Now, the way I see it, you have two choices: the first is to keep Ella in the dark, but over time she’ll start to wonder why you don’t make love to her anymore, or hardly ever hold her anymore, and eventually why you can’t even bring yourself to look at her. Anger, guilt, rejection, accusations, recriminations, distrust, heartbreak, pain and all other kinds of unholy mess will follow.” She pauses and look directly at Leon. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”
His back still against the wall, Leon slowly, wearily, slides down to a sitting position.
“Your second choice” Mary continues “is to come clean. Sit Ella down and spill your guts out to her. Of course this means she’ll know from that day onwards that everytime you make love to her, or hold her, or look at her, etc, you’re actually be thinking of yours truly.” Mary jabs both her thumbs towards her chest. “And no matter how understanding Ella tries to be – and she’ll try, I know she will - exactly how long do you think your relationship will last with me metaphorically sharing the martial bed each night?”
She stops directly in front of Leon and crouches down to look him in the eye.
“However, there is a third option.” Mary says, reaching forward and prodding the centre of Leon’s forehead with her forefinger. “That I simply remove what I put in there. Of course, I will expect something in return.”
Leon looks at her dejectedly, the look on his face is of a man defeated.
“What do you want?” He sighs.
Mary smiles, leans forward, and whispers in his ear: “I want a baby.”
As she leans back, to rest in her crouching position, Leon gapes at her.
“But Ella told me that Anointed Ones can’t conceive.” He exclaims. “It’s one of the prices of being immortal.”
“Correct. And normally that would be the case,” Mary replies, “but the physical and biological impact to my body of being brought forward in time resulted in some interesting side-effects. Shortly after I arrived in this time frame three years ago, I had a period for the first time since 1785. I realised that I had become fertile, capable of conceiving a child. However, I knew this wouldn’t last, and that it was purely a temporary condition. And now, my body is finally starting to adjust to it’s transition through time, and within a few weeks I will become infertile again. Previously this did not concern me, but now that I have become aware of how little actual time is left, I realise that if I am to ever have a child, it must be now, before the choice is taken away from me. And I choose you to be the father.”
“Why me?” Asks Leon. “Why not just go to a fertility clinic and use donated sperm? Or with your powers, you could pick any man off the street, take control of his body, and force him to have sex with you.”
“No no no.” Murmurs Mary, shaking her head. “All far too impersonal. Do you really think that’s the memory I want to have when I look at my child? Or when he or she grows up and asks me about their father? No, I need someone to do this willingly.”
“Willingly?” Snorts Leon in disbelief. “You’re blackmailing me!”
“I said willingly, not by choice.” Mary counters. “The two things aren’t the same. Besides, would it really be so terrible? You might find the experience quite pleasurable. If fact, I’m certain you will. You know, many of the tricks Ella uses in the bedroom she learnt from me.”
“You still haven’t explained why me, though.” Murmurs Leon, stung by that last remark but recovering quickly; “What makes me so special?”
“Ella and I used to share everything, Leon.” Mary replies. “Everything…and everyone. Let’s just say it’s a habit I’m finding hard to break. Besides, to keep Ella satisfied for five years – and to have her choose you over Malachi - you must be something special.”
She reaches out and caresses his check. He flinches, only slightly – and maintains his gaze at her. Mary smiles.
“You’re the alpha male, Leon. No-one else will do.” She declares.
Leon gazes at her, his mind going over his situation again and again, trying to find a way out, to think of another option. But there isn't one. Mary has him precisely where she wants him, faced with only three choices, none of them good. After several seconds, Leon speaks. And when he does, his voice sounds very small and faint;
“Alright.” He whispers. “I’ll do it.”
“Excellent.” Smiles Mary in triumph. “But there is one further condition.”
“What’s that?” He asks weakly.
“I’m not just interested in sex, Leon.” She says. “This isn’t a quick ‘wham, bam, thank you, ma’am’ deal. I want to spend the entire night with you. I want foreplay. Tenderness. Consideration. I want you to make love to me.”
“I can’t do that.” Murmurs Leon hoarsely, so quietly he can barely be heard.
“Then I’ll settle for you faking it.” Mary counters, her smug grin never wavering. “Just so long as you’re convincing.” She straightens up, unzips the mini-skirt and tugs it down over her shapely legs, revealing black lace knickers decorated with tiny red bows.
"Those are Ella's." Leon gapes. "I bought them for her."
"But they look better on me, don't you think?" Mary murmurs slyly, stepping out of the skirt. "I thought about putting on one of Ella's bras as well, but they're all too small for me."
She begins to pull the sports bra over her head. “You’ve slept with one Anointed One, Leon. Time for you to complete the set.”

Cut to Jo's hotel room. Jo and Tyrell are both lying on the double bed, discussing shared memories and laughing. He's taken off his suit jacket and she's barefoot, wearing just black jeans and a matching t-shirt. A room service tray containing two empty plates in on the floor next to the bed, accompanied by a few small empty bottles from the mini-bar.
"I have a confession to make." Jo murmurs. "I had an ulterior motive when I suggested staying in tonight."
"Really?" Asks Tyrell, comically raising an eyebrow.
"There was always something between us David, back at Medenham." She declares simply. "Something unspoken. Something not acted upon. Perhaps we were both too preoccupied with running the school. maybe the timing was all wrong. But now we're both here, and..."
Rather than finish the sentence, Jo leans across and kisses him. Breaking off the kiss, she gazes at him and murmurs;
"If you don't want this, just say, and -"
Tyrell interupts her by kissing her passionately. She responds, and they only break off the kiss when he grabs the bottom of her t-shirt and pulls it off over her head, revealing her black bra containing her ample breasts. Having raised her arms to assist the removal of the t-shirt, Jo starts frantically undoing the buttons on Tyrell's shirt. She gazes into his eyes.
"I've waited so long for this." She gasps, then they passionately kiss again.

Cut to the graveyard at Hobb's End. It's night-time, but the full moon is providing adequate illumination. Ella skirts the outer wall, cautiously surveying the scene within. We see a flashback to earlier that day, with Ella talking with the elderly Douglas in his front room;
"As you know, I moved here with Margaret when I retired, and Alice came to look after me after Margaret passed away. Of course, I couldn't tell either of them that the reason I chose to settle here was so I could keep an eye on that church. I always felt that what happened there might happen again, and I wanted to warn you if it did." Douglas explains.
Smiling, Ella reaches out and caresses the side of his face.
"I've always valued your loyalty, Douglas. More than I can say. What have you discovered?" She asks.
"When the original church collapsed in 1948, most of the rubble fell into and filled the crypts and catacombs under the building." Douglas tells her. "When it came to clearing the site, they just removed the debris that was above ground level and covered the rest with fresh turf. Then they built a new church - the one that's there today, much smaller than the original - thirty yards away. Anyway, the new church has been in need of some repair for several years now, and about a month ago some charity announced that it was going to pay for the work to be done. And their contractors are doing up the new church alright - during the day. But one night last week I sneaked out of the house after Alice had gone to bed, and make my way over to the graveyard. A couple of the workmen were there, in the middle of the night, working in a large tent, all lit up inside, on the site where the original church stood."
"And so you contacted me." Smiles Ella. "Tonight I'll check it out. But I want to warn you, whatever I discover, I won't be coming back here. Somebody's been watchng me lately, and although I'm certain that they haven't followed me to Hobb's End, I won't risk either you or Alice's safety."
"I understand." Smiles Douglas.
Ella leans forward and gently kisses him on the lips.
"My brave Douglas." She murmurs. "I will always remember you fondly."


End of Part One.

[fenris]

Part Two.

Cut back to Ella looking over the graveyard wall. She sees the large rectangular tent, as Douglas described it, lit up from within, with voices emerging out into the night air and the shadows of the occupants moving on the canvas. Ella vaults over the wall and heads closer, until she crouches down less than thirty feet from the tent, behind a large headstone next to the main path that leads in & out of the graveyard. After a few seconds, a flap opens in the side of the tent and two men in workmen’s clothes emerge, one of them carrying what looks like a large, flat, artist’s bag, while the other is putting on a coat. This allows Ella to glimpse that he’s wearing a holstered gun, eliminating any lingering doubts she may have had that these are merely honest labourers working overtime. The men walk down the path in Ella’s direction, and she waits until they’re several feet away, then sprints out from behind the headstone towards them, reaches out and places her foot on another gravestone and uses it to launch herself into the air, leaning back and performing a scissor kick in both men’s faces. The man carrying the artist’s bag takes the brunt of the kick, his head whipping to the side, a splash of blood squirting out of his mouth and ruptured nose. His companion – who had lunged for his gun upon seeing Ella – stumbles, then topples backwards, the revolver spinning out his hand to be lost somewhere in the darkness. Before he has a chance to try to scramble back up, Ella leaps forward and lands astride him, planting her feet either side of his waist, then she leans down and lands a single quick no-nonsense punch to the face, knocking him out. Straightening, she glances over to the man with the bag, but he’s spralled limp and unconscious over a headstone, his legs on one side, his upper body hanging down the other. Ella marches over to the tent and checks inside: there’s nobody else there. Then she retrieves the bag from the damp grass where the workman had dropped it, and unzips it. She carefully pulls it’s contents into the moonlight, and although it’s battered, creased and covered in stone dust, Ella recognises it as the book that the cult leader was ultilising during the sacrifice that she and Douglas interupted in 1948.
“What makes you so special?” She muses.
Producing a torch from her pocket, Ella rests the book on a gravestone and starts leafing through it’s fading, withered pages. A lone firefly darts about in the air behind her as she carefully studies the various symbols and squiggles that make up the text. A look of recognition starts to dawn in her eyes.
“Of course…” She murmurs in realisation.
Suddenly sensing someone close by, Ella starts to turn, as THWACK – Perie whacks her around the head with the flat side of a workman’s shovel. Ella goes down as though pole-axed. Perie throws the shovel aside, and steps over the Anointed One to pick up and close the book. After carefully placing the tome back in the artist’s bag, she crouches down and checks Ella for a pulse.
“Still beating strongly.” The faerie observes with her usual smile, then she starts tapping a number into her mobile phone.

Cut to Jo’s hotel room in Edinburgh. Tyrel is asleep in the bed. Wearing a dark red camisole top and matching thong, Jo is standing at the room’s large picture window, the curtains drawn fully back, as though she’s drinking in the night-time view of the city. Her mobile starts to vibrate on the dressing table. Jo doesn’t turn around, but simply opens her hand, and the phone suddenly flies lightning fast across the room and lands in her palm. She brings it up to her ear.
“Report.” Jo murmurs.
(Note: through the following conversation, the camera cuts back and forth between Perie and Jo as each of them speaks).
“I have acquired the item.” Perie informs her.
“And you’re sure it’s the original?” Jo enquires.
“Beyond any doubt.” The faerie states. “The waves of energy emanating from it are actually flavouring the air.” She pauses. “They taste of lemon. With a slight hint of liquorice.”
“I’ll be back in London by noon tomorrow. Bring it to me there.” Declares Jo.
“There has been a complication.” Perie advises. “The Anointed One is here. She is unconscious now, but she has incapacitated both of our operatives. How should I proceed?”
“Are our men dead?” Asks Jo.
“I must confess I have not checked their well-being.” The faerie comments, coolly glancing over towards the two men. “But both still appear to be breathing.”
“Trying to move them while they're injured risks attracting too much attention. Kill them.” Jo states without hesitation. “If you can, try to make it look like a gay suicide pact.”
“And the Anointed One?” Ventures Perie.
“Now that we have both the Grimlore and the item, she’s no longer a threat to us.” Replies Jo. “In fact, there’s still a vital part we need her to play, once the other pieces have been put into position. Leave her be.”
“Understood.” Says Perie, ending the call.
The faerie reaches down and tugs Ella across so she’s lying on her back.
“Sisters at last, Anointed One.” She murmurs. “I am sure it will be a pleasure working with you.”

Cut back to Jo’s hotel room.
There's a knock at the door. Jo already knows who it is, so she just opens the door with a glance. Corvide enters, wearing her usual black business suit with short skirt.
"Perie has just reported in. We have it." Jo tells her.
Corvide acknowledges the news with a smile and a nod. Then she catches sight of the slumbering Tyrel.
"So this is the one you told me about." She remarks. "Did you claim his soul?"
"It was laid open before me as we made love. I've placed my mark upon it." Jo confirms.
Corvide has walked over to the bed and is looking down, examining Tyrel's features.
"Handsome." She comments, approvingly. "He'll make a fine pet for you."
"I didn't do it for that." Jo says. "He was my closest friend before my time in Hell. Making him my property will protect him, during what's to come."
"Will you tell him?" Corvide asks.
"He doesn't need to know, and I have nothing to gain by informing him. Let him remain in blissful ignorance." Jo replies.

Cut to Thelma, walking in the moonlight through the graveyard where Maya’s buried. She reaches the bench that Malachi was sitting on in Episode #8, and sits down. With Thelma placed in the centre of the screen, we go into a fast motion shot, as night turns into early morning, the graveyard getting lighter around her, as she sits there motionless. Malachi saunders up.
“Morning Thelma.” He declares cockily. “Been waiting long?”
Thelma doesn’t look at him.
“You know that saying, ‘I’ll sleep when I’m dead’?” She mutters, staring straight ahead. “Well, actually it’s the opposite. When you’re dead, you don’t sleep.”
She turns her head and looks angrily at Malachi, then holds up the Stone of Belial, dangling from it’s chain. He cups the Stone in his hand and she releases the chain, letting it coil up on top of the gem. Malachi shoves it into the pocket of his leather jacket.
"You've got what you wanted. Now keep your side." Thelma declares.
"You're all business today, aren't you?" Malachi swaggers. "I thought we could chat for a bit. Catch up. Reminisce about old times."
Thelma just silently glares at him, refusing to rise to the bait. Giving up, he shrugs and rolls his eyes theatrically.
"You know the drill, Thelma." He mutters dismissively as he walks away, not even bothering to look back at her. “Close your eyes and think of Maya. Give her one for me, why don't you.”
Thelma closes her eyes and sits with her hands placed on her knees, just about managing to be calm. The camera cuts to a close up of Thelma’s face, neck and shoulders as she waits patiently. After several seconds, a girl’s (right) hand moves across into frame from the left of the screen, and – after hesitating for a moment – gently caresses the side of Thelma’s face (her left). Thelma slowly opens her eyes, as – half-guided by the hand – she turns to look to her right. Smiling slightly, Maya is sitting on the bench next to Thelma, turned towards her, wearing the same clothes she had on when she vanished from the morgue five years ago. The Irish ghost leans in and gently kisses Thelma on the lips. As the kiss ends and Maya pulls back, Thelma smiles and her eyes glisten with unshed tears.
“Hello.” Thelma says simply.
“Hello.” Mary replies with her distinctive accent.
Thelma starts to well up.
“I’m sorry.” She murmurs, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand as tears start to escape. “I’m so sorry. I –”
Maya leans across and embraces her, pulling her close and burying Thelma’s face against her shoulder. Ending the embrace, she reaches up and holds Thelma’s reddened, tear-streaked face in both hands, looking directly at her as she talks;
“Thelma listen to me. We don't have much time, okay? You've no need to be upset. You've nothing to be sorry for, understand? Nothing." She declares clearly and firmly.
"But you went to Hell." Protests Thelma. "Malachi told me. For five years. I should have done something, should have stopped it. I should have prevented Ella from -"
"Thelma, I didn't go to Hell." Maya presses. "You understand? I didn't go."
Her former lover looks at her, taken aback.
"But Malachi said - he told me -" Thelma begins.
Maya takes both of Thelma's hands in her own and presses them to her breast.
"The last thing I remember, from my time here, is being with you in the morgue." Maya says, speaking clearly and precisely, and keeping eye contact with Thelma throughout. "The next thing I knew , I was falling, it seemed like from miles up. But I wasn't in the sky. There weren't any clouds, and I couldn't see any land below, but I was falling. And I knew what was happening. I don't know how, but I understood that I was going to Hell."
Thelma goes to say something, but Maya raises a hand and places it on the side of her face, shushing her.
"But I never made it there." Maya continues. "The speed at which I was falling suddenly slowed down. And a line of angels appeared below me, all members of The Fallen. They were there to intercept me. I don't know why, but they seemed...wary of me, as though they wanted to keep their distance from me. They guided me to Purgatory."
"Purgatory?" Blinks Thelma, and Maya nods;
"It's a limbo on the borders of Hell." The Irish girl explains. "It's where souls go when they're not worthy to enter Heaven, but don't deserve to go to Hell. Like a sort of halfway house for the dead. And that's where I stayed, until today."
Thelma has calmed somewhat, but is still clearly emotional.
"What was it like?" She bleats.
Maya thinks for a moment before replying;
"Strange." She declares, turning her head slightly and looking across the graveyard as she remembers, a quiet smile on her face. "Time works differently there. The past, present and future all seem to collide and overlap. You see things that are happening elsewhere, in Hell, Heaven, even here on Earth. Just brief flashes of events that have happened, or are going to happen."
Maya suddenly looks back at Thelma with undisguised urgency, her recollection having reminded her of something important;
"Thelma, I have to tell you - I saw something while I was in Purgatory. One of those flashes. I'm not sure if it was something that had already happened before I arrived there, or something that is going to happen in the future, but you have to tell your friend Ella."
"What?" Asks Thelma.
" I saw something erupt out of Hell." Maya explains, pressing her lover's hand tightly against her breast. "Something strong. Powerful. I couldn't make out any details. I didn't want to. But I remember that it had glowing red eyes, as bright as the sun. And I saw some of The Fallen flying around it, flapping their wings. They looked like gnats in comparison. Like tiny flies. They seemed to be scared of it. Thelma...whatever it was, I think it was coming here, to Earth."
"It might have been one of the Nephilim, being summoned here by Malachi." Offers Thelma.
"Or maybe it's the Devil." Counters Maya. "Heading to Earth at some point in the future to carry out this End of Days that you told me Malachi is going to trigger."
"It might never come to that." Thelma says, doing her best to be reassuring, and making a decent fist of it. "If Ella succeeds in killing Malachi, the End of Days will never happen. And as an added bonus"- she grins -"I'll be released as well. I'll be able to join you in the afterlife."
Hearing this, Maya suddenly looks away, avoiding Thelma's gaze and appearing guilty.
"Maya?" Murmurs Thelma.
The Irish ghost shifts nervously on the bench before replying;
"Thelma... I saw something else while in Purgatory. Something which I knew was the future. It's not what I want, and I don't understand, but... after today, we'll never see each other again."
Thelma looks at her dumbfounded.
"I don't -" She starts to say, before Maya cuts her off;
"Where I'm going... you won't be joining me." The Irish ghost explains, a hint of desperation creeping into her voice. "I saw myself in Heaven, Thelma. You weren't there."
Maya clutches Thelma's face in both hands and starts to cry.
"It's not what I what. I love you. Please believe me Thelma." She pleads.
"I do." Blurts out Thelma, still trying to take on board what her lover is telling her. "Of course I -"
Maya interrupts Thelma by kissing her, hurriedly, passionately. Closing her eyes, Thelma responds, then - suddenly realises she's not kissing anyone. She opens her eyes. And finds herself sitting alone on the bench. Thelma glances around wildly, but there's no-one else in the graveyard. She turns and looks at the headstone over to the left, ten metres away: MAYA ROBERTSON. Then Thelma hugs her knees, folds herself into a near-foetal position, and unleashes a long primal howl of pain, frustration, and hurt.

Cut to the bedroom of Ella's flat. Leon is lying on his back, gazing at the ceiling, the expression on his face unreadable. Mary is lying on her stomach with her head resting sideways on Leon's belly, smiling and stil basking in her afterglow. We can see she has a large tattoo across her back: a black circle with eight arrows radiating out of it, all at forty five degrees to one another. She casually raises herself onto her hands and knees, moves so that her body is directly above of Leon's, and kisses his chest. Then she lowers herself, settling her body down on top of his. Mary places both her hands on Leon's chest, fingers interlocked, and rests her chin on them while gazing at his face.
"Alpha male indeed." She purrs. "Now I know why Ella's kept you around."
"She was the only person I'd ever slept with, until now." Leon suddenly announces.
"I know." Says Mary softly. "I'm glad I was the one to broaden your horizons. Keeping it in the family, so to speak. And talking of families, I'm pregnant. Congratulations Leon. You're going to be a daddy."
He looks at her in surprise.
"How can you be so sure?" He asks.
"My control of my telekinetic powers is so precise that I can use them on a cellular level." Mary smiles. "I made sure that your...deposit...reached the required destination."
She rolls off of Leon, onto her side, takes hold of one of his hands and places it onto her flat, taut stomach. She holds his hand there, her hand on top of it.
"Life, Leon." She declares. "A permanent memento of what we did today."
"So you've got what you wanted." He murmurs after a lengthy pause. "You've got your child."
"Our child Leon." She corrects him, staring into his eyes. "The child that you can never have with Ella. The one thing you can never give her. And which she can never give you. And if you stay with her, this will be the only time you'll ever be a father."
"I did what you asked." Leon says, a taut, almost strangled tone creeping into his voice. "What more do you want from me?"
In response, Mary leans in close, her face barely an inch from his. She pauses there for several seconds, eyes closed, as though breathing him in. Then she opens her eyes and smiles.
"Nothing." She declares. "You kept your end of the deal, and I will keep mine. When I leave here today, the trigger I placed in your mind will go with me. I'm giving you back your sex life."
Mary stands up and start gathering her clothes together.
"Does Ella ever sing to you?" She suddenly asks, not looking at him. "The two of us were in California for a couple of months during the Gold Rush, working in a saloon in this small town that had practically sprung up overnight. The place had a tiny stage, and Ella would get up and sing most nights. The regulars loved it. She has a wonderful voice."
Leon doesn't respond. Mary glances towards him, smiles and does an almost-shrug, then continues dressing. After several seconds Leon sits up, covered by the duvet from the waist down, watches her for a few more moments, clearly deliberating with himself, before he plucks up the courage to speak;
"I have a favour to ask." He blurts out nervously.
Stepping into her thong and pulling it up over her shapey legs, Mary glances over her shoulder at him.
"Intriguing." She murmurs. "Alright, I'll bite. What is it?"
"I want you to use your powers to erase what happened last night from my mind." Leon says. "To wipe it from my memory. I don't want to remember that you were here. I just want to recall coming home and falling asleep."
Mary turns to face him while slipping her sports bra on.
"Was it really that terrible?" She pouts, pretending to be hurt. "I wouldn't have guessed so, judging by all the noise you made."
"It's not like that." Insists Leon firmly but cautiously, not wanting to antagonise her. "It's just that I can't tell Ella about...what we did, and I don't want to lie to her either. If you make me forget it, it'll almost be as though it never happened."
Mary crouches down, then advances towards Leon on all fours.
"Oh Leon," she chides him, smiling "I had no idea you could be so deceitful. You're even prepared to lie to yourself." She pauses, considering his request. "Alright. But I want a favour in return."
"I've given you a child." Retorts Leon.
"And I'm going to remove the trigger in your mind." Mary counters. "But this new request isn't covered by our original agreement. And you're not going to get it for nothing."
"Okay." Leon murmurs carefully. "What do you want?"
Mary kneels in front of him.
"The truth." She declares with a smile. "Did you enjoy inpregnating me? And don't even bother trying to tell me it meant nothing, or that it was purely clinical or just mechanical. I can read your mind, remember? Now, I know that you love Ella and yes, I know that you never would have touched me if I hadn't boxed you into a corner. But I also know that at some point, on a purely physical, animal level, you let yourself go and just surrendered to the experience. You can't fake passion that intense, Leon."
"If you already know all this, why do you need me to say it?" Says Leon, his voice sounding taut again.
"Don't go thinking this is all about you, Leon. I just want to hear the man Ella's in love with say it out loud." She responds. "Now...did you enjoy it?"
After a lengthy pause, Leon finally speaks;
"Yes. Yes, I enjoyed it." He declares, firmly and defiantly.
Mary sighs blissfully.
"Thank you Leon. For everything." She states warmly. "I promise that when you awake, you'll remember nothing of happened here today, and you won't remember right up until the moment you die."
Mary leans in close to him, and gently kisses him on the lips. He doesn't retreat, but doesn't respond either. As she breaks off the kiss, she whispers two words;
"Sleep now."
Leon collapses back onto the mattress, instantly unconsious, his entire body limp. Mary regards him for a moment, then stands up and finishes dressing. Producing a mobile phone from the pocket of her blue leather jacket, she taps in a number.
"It's done. Come and pick me up. Bring the girl." She speaks into the phone.
Turning to leave, Mary pauses at the bedroom door and looks back at Leon while he slumbers.
"Be careful what you wish for, lover." She murmurs, then she's gone.


End of Part Two.

[fenris]

Part Three.

Cut to the lobby of the hotel in Edinburgh that Jo and Tyrell have been staying in. Both are standing, facing each other. Tyrell’s wearing a suit and tie, Jo has on a slinky but respectable low cut black outfit with a skirt that ends just above the knee. Their cases sit on the floor next to them.
“So… shall we see each other again?” Ventures Tyrell.
“David, I really should have told this last night,” Jo begins cautiously, “but I’m with someone right now. It’s an open relationship, but there are certain rules. And one of those rules is that we only see other people if it’s casual, nothing more. And if I saw you again, it wouldn’t be casual. Do you understand?”
Tyrell pauses, then nods and smiles. He’s disappointed but not particularly surprised.
“Well, who ever he is, I hope he appreciates how lucky he is. If I was in his shoes, I wouldn’t want to share you with anyone.” He declares lightheartedly, but ruefully.
For a lack of something better to do, he rather formerly extends his hand. Jo takes it, and they shake.
“Goodbye Jo.” Says David. “Maybe in the next life.”
Jo smiles enigmatically.
“Count on it.” She purrs.

Cut to the interior of a decaying and long disused warehouse. There are gaping holes in the roof, graffiti has been sprayed over nearly every square inch of the walls, the roof girders are covered in peeling paint and rust, and the floor is littered with massed bird droppings and assorted disgarded refuse. A bright red transit van enters the warehouse through the gaping opening where a shutter door once stood. Reaching the centre of the building, it performs a half turn and comes to a halt. We see that Catherine Cotton is the driver. She has her usual emotionless, unreadable expression on her face.
The camera cuts to inside the van. There are wooden benches both side of the interior. Mary Warren sits on one, wearing a bright blue leather jacket, tight hipster jeans, and black high-heeled ankle boots. Sitting directly opposite her on the other bench is someone – clearly female - in a baggy cream tracksuit, a black canvas bag over her head, with her wrists taped together and resting in her lap. We can see that the forefinger and middle finger of the mystery woman’s right hand have been bandaged together with a makeshift splint.
Mary leans forwards, resting her elbows on her knees and interlocking her fingers.
“So here’s the deal, Gemma.” She announces. “I’m willing to let you go, to toddle off and enjoy the rest of whatever it is you have that you think passes for a life, provided you give me what I want. If you decide not to agree to this offer, I will kill you, here and now. I think you’ve gotten to know me well enough over the last couple of days to know that I mean what I say. Speaking of which, I think my associate did a fine job of setting your fingers.”
Gemma shifts nervously on the bench.
“But first, there’s something you need to know.” Declares Mary. “You’re pregnant.”
Gemma noticeably stiffens.
“Now, I know this is news to you,” Mary continues, “but take my word for it. I suspect you conceived during the last tryst you had with your then husband-to-be, probably a few days before the wedding. It will be a girl, if I’m not mistaken. So what I want is this… if I let you go, you will give birth and raise the child. But on her thirteenth birthday, I will come and claim her, and from that moment onwards she will be mine, and you will never see her again.”
Mary pauses, allowing Gemma a few seconds for all this to sink in.
“So that’s the offer, Gemma. Either you and your child can both die today, or you can live and have thirteen precious years with her. And now I’m unashamedly going to put extra pressure on you, by pointing out that child inside you is all that left of your late husband.”
Mary reaches forward and pulls the bag off Gemma’s head. The newlywed & newly widowed girl’s hair is an unruly, tangled mess, and a strip of thick black postal tape covers her mouth. Tears have streaked down her cheeks, and she looks at Mary with frightened eyes.
“I’m only going to ask this once, understood?” Says Mary calmly.
Gemma nods.
“Do you accept my offer, together with all the explained terms and conditions?” Mary asks.
Despite her fear, Gemma slowly and carefully nods again, not wanting the action to be misinterpreted. Mary smiles.
“Excellent.” She declares.
The camera cuts to the outside of the van. The panel door on the side of the vehicle slides back. Mary and Gemma are both on their feet, the former helping the latter (who has the bag back over her head) out of the van.
“Mind your head.” Murmurs Mary, and Gemma ducks under the top of the opening. “We’re going to step out now.” Mary says, and the two of them move forward in unison, placing a foot on the warehouse floor.
The Anointed One moves Gemma another pace away from the van.
“One last thing, Gemma.” Mary comments. “In a few moments, you’ll forget everything that’s happened since you were abducted at the wedding. You won’t remember any of it, not even if the police place you under hypnosis. But the next time you see me, you’ll recall everything. Especially the agreement we’ve just made. Sleep now.”
Gemma’s head slumps forward slightly, and her entire body relaxes, but she remains standing upright. Mary waits a moment, then snaps her fingers.
“Wakey wakey.” She exclaims cheerfully.
Gemma instantly straightens, her bagged head whipping about in alarm.
“It’s alright, Gemma. Stay calm.” Mary says firmly. “We’re lettin you go. All you have to do is stand here for a few minutes, then you can take the bag off your head and go for help. I also have something that belongs to you.”
The Anointed One reaches over into the van and pulls out a bin liner that clearly has something bundled inside. Mary shoves it into Gemma’s taped hands.
“Your wedding dress.” Mary explains. “You may want to have it drycleaned, to get your husband’s bloodstains out. Or you may not.”
She steps back into the van and closes the door. The vehicle moves off, leaving Gemma standing, looking vulnerable and alone, in the centre of the warehouse, clutching the bin liner.
Cut to inside the van as it speeds along. Mary is again sitting on one of the benches. Facing her on the opposing bench is a man who wasn’t there a few seconds earlier.
“Oh, it’s you.” Mutters Mary, unfazed by his sudden appearance. “What do you want?”
The man appears to be in his late twenties with shoulder-length blonde hair. He’s wearing a light brown trenchcoat, black trousers, expensive black shoes, and an open-necked white shirt.
“Heaven is displeased, Mary Warren.” He announces. “You did not kill Ella Dee when an opportunity arose, and you delay killing Malachi. Instead, you waste time with that girl you’ve just released, and the boy Ella has taken as a lover. We expect answers.”
Mary responds by stretching out her long legs, placing one foot in the man’s lap and then putting her other foot on top of the first, crossed at the ankle. The man sits up straight, surprised, slightly taken aback, and clearly uncomfortable.
“Listen up, Gabe.” Mary mutters firmly. “We both know the Malachi situation is irretrievable.” The man goes to speak, but Mary stops him by grinding her heel of her boot into his groin, making him wince as she continues: “Don’t insult me by pretending otherwise. It’s what comes afterwards that I’m preparing for. The long game. If your boss came down off His cloud, He might be able to see what I see.”
“And that is?” Asks the man, with as much composure as he can manage.
“Everyone laid out like pieces on a chess board, or actors assigned roles in a play.” Mary tells him. “The Pawn. The Queen. The Killer. The Mother. The Fool. The Angel. And the Undying. By studying everything they’ve done so far, I’ve realised what roads they're taking, and where those roads lead. I can see every move they’re going to make, every plot twist already written in advance.”
“And your role in this little drama?” Enquires the man.
“I’m the Player, Gabe.” Mary replies. “And right now I’m the only person on your team with a game plan. So a little bit more respect is due.”
To emphasise the point, she grinds her heel into his groin again.
“You still haven’t explained the girl. Or your dalliance with the boy.” The man gasps.
“Two children. Mine and Gemma’s. Both of them will have former Medenham students as one or both of their parents.” Mary comments. “Medenham, Gabe. A virtual hotbed of powerful magicks. Some of which hopefully lingers in those who have lived there, however briefly, and will be passed to their offspring.”
The man’s eyes widen in realisation;
“You’re hoping that you and the girl will give birth to children capable of being Anointed Ones.” He exclaims softly.
“I’m raising an army, Gabe.” Mary declares with a smile. “Heaven knows that we need one.”
“And Ella Dee?” Asks the man. “Why haven’t you killed her?”
“I am, Gabe.” Counters Mary, still smiling. “I’m killing her by inches. A little piece at a time. And when she’s sufficiently battered, bloodied and beaten… when I’ve broken her… then she can either return to the fold, or…”
“Or?” Murmurs the man.
“Or I will give you her head.” Mary concludes.

Cut to a close-up of Ella’s face. She has her eyes closed. Slowly, she stirs and begins to wake up, blinking and trying to take in her surroundings.
“Ah, you’re awake.” Says a man’s voice.
The camera moves back. Ella is lying on her side across the back seat of a large car, her leather coat draped over her like a blanket. Through the windows we can see that the vehicle is moving through a non-crowded urban area. Pushing against the seat underneath, Ella raises herself slightly, tentatively touches the side of her head and winches slightly.
“Anybody else would have suffered a fractured skull and possible brain damage.” Comments the voice. “Even with the accelerated healing that Annointed Ones possess, you still had a worrying concussion. But I took care of it. Rubbed a little concoction of mine into your scalp. Any lingering pain will past soon.”
Ella moves into a sitting position and looks at the speaker, who’s driving the car, has his eyes constantly on the road, and is the only other person in the vehicle. He’s a handsome man, apparently in his early thirties, with incredibly smooth skin and shoulder length dark brown hair. He’s wearing a dark gray poloneck sweater and matching jacket.
“Perifax?” She murmurs. “What are you doing here?”
“Received a phone call from Perie.” Explains the man. “Asked if I could drive out to Hobb’s End, patch you up and drop you off wherever you wanted. She doesn’t know where you live, but thinks that it’s probably somewhere south of the Thames. You’ll have to start giving me directions in about an hour.”
“How do you know Perie?” Ella asks.
“Us magical creatures tend to move in the same circles, though I’d never describe Perie and myself as being friends.” Perifax declares. “And now that I’ve done this for her, she’s obliged to do something for me in the future. Trust me, it’s always useful to have someone as resourceful as Perie in your debt.”
Bundling up her leather coat and putting it on the seat alongside her, Ella puts a seatbelt on, then cautiously touches her head again.
“Perifax,” she murmurs, “that concoction you treated me with. It didn’t happen to include your salvia, did it?”

Cut to the main living area of Malachi’s penthouse apartment in the New Church’s London headquarters. Malachi is sitting spralled on the minimalist couch, a broad, cocky smile on his face. His left arm is resting on the top of the couch, his right arm held in front of him, and he’s dangling the Stone of Belial from it’s chain, which he’s holding between his right thumb and forefinger. The double doors of the apartment swing open unaided, and Jo walks in, followed by Corvide. The latter immediately sniffs the air, and – unnoticed by Jo and Malachi – heads unhurriedly towards the double doors leading to the bedroom.
“You wanted to see me?” Asks Jo.
Before Malachi gets the chance to answer, Jo notices the newly installed light display/sculpture hanging from the ceiling in the overhang. It’s a mass of highly polished steel plates, mirrors, and exposed bright fluorescent tubes, all arranged in a sharp angular – but seemingly chaotic – fashion.
“Oh, I see.” Jo comments dryly. “Well, I hope you like it, Malachi. It cost enough.”
“No, I didn’t ask you here to see that.” Scoffs Malachi, getting off the couch and sauntering towards her. “But this.”
He dangles the Stone in front of her.
“Oh, that bauble.” Comments Jo. “What did you have to trade to obtain it from Ella?”
“I blackmailed Thelma.” Malachi boasts, clearly very pleased with himself. “Told her that if she didn’t get it for me, I’d let that girlfriend of her’s remain in Hell.”
“Hell. Really.” Says Jo, smiling enigmatically.
Malachi nods: “She couldn’t give this to me fast enough. And now we’ve got it, we can just travel back in time and kill Ella anytime we like, when she’s least expecting it. We can probably even use it to locate the original edition of that Grimlore book that you’re having trouble finding.”
Jo has cupped the Stone in her palm and is studying it.
“There appears to be an engraving on the Stone itself that I don’t recall being there before.” She murmurs with interest. “Several lines of words, so small I can’t make them out. Fortunately, Corvide has exceptional eyesight, much better than either of us.”
Corvide is standing on the threshold to the bedroom, holding one of the doors open and peering inside. Upon hearing her name, she closes the door and turns round.
“Corvide, could you read this inscription for us please?” Requests Jo.
The personal assistant joins Jo and Malachi, takes the Stone, and holds it almost a foot and half away from her face.
“This is beautiful work.” She comments.
“Never mind that, what does it say?” Snaps Malachi.
Corvide reads the engraving aloud;
“Hello Malachi. If you are reading this, it means the Stone of Belial is back in your possession. As I was aware this would always be a possibility, I have taken necessary precautions. It took nearly four years of searching, but I eventually found a incantation powerful enough to permanently remove all magicks from the Stone. What you are holding is now just a useless rock. Suggest you use it as a paperweight. Ella.”
She hands the Stone back to Malachi, the cocky smile having been wiped off his face. He opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, instinctly wanting to preserve his supposedly cool and confident self-image with a piece of verbal bravado, but he’s been left literally speechless, unable to think of absolutely anything to say.
“Well, if there’s nothing else, we have other matters requiring our attention.” Declares Jo dismissively, then she and Corvide leave, the double doors opening to let them out.
Malachi stares at the Stone for a moment, then with a cry of anger and frustration he hurls it across the room. It strikes the wall opposite with a sound that’s more like a loud bang than a thud, creating a sizable dent, then it drops to the floor. Malachi storms through the double doors to the bedroom – and stops in his tracks, rendered speechless for the second time in just over a minute. The room is awash with blood, sprayed up over most of the walls and either flowing in thick trickles across the floor or collecting in puddles. All four of the Malachettes are lying on the floor around the bed, the flimsy, barely-there underwear that is their normal attire torn and ripped to shreds, due to the fact that the girls themselves have all been repeatedly stabbed in either the chest and stomach or back. A couple of them have also had their throats slashed from ear to ear. On any exposed flesh that has not been subjected to puncture wounds, the words ‘whore’ or ‘slut’ have been carved. Kneeling in the centre of the bed - on silk sheets so soaked they resemble an ocean of blood - is Alex. She is wearing only a thong that was originally white but is now coloured red, due to her being covered from head to toe in the girls’ blood. She is also holding two large matching carving knives, one in each hand. Upon seeing Malachi, she smiles and casually tosses both knives away, so they fall either side of the bed. Malachi finally finds his voice;
“What did – why did you -” he manages to bluster, before Alex interrupts him.
“I got tired of sharing my husband.” She states simply, as though that was all the explanation required.
She moves to the edge of the bed – the mattress squelches as she does so – steps onto the floor and walks towards him. Blood drips off her, splashing as it hits the puddles underneath, and also flows and trickles down her bare legs. Reaching a transfixed Malachi, Alex puts her arms around his neck, smearing and dripping blood over his shirt and skin, then moves in and kisses him passionately. He responds, the kiss lasting several seconds before they break away.
“You always did know how to get my attention.” Malachi smirks.
“Take me.” Gasps Alex in response.
“Oh, I’ll do that alright.” Malachi gloats, placing one arm around her shoulders and the other behind her knees, scooping her up and carrying her back towards the blood soaked bed. “After the day I’ve had so far, don’t expect any mercy. I’m going to make you scream til your throat bleeds.”
“I wouldn’t want it any other way.” Replies Alex dreamily.


End of Part Three.

[fenris]

Part Four.

Cut to Thelma walking along the street where the house containing Ella's basement flat is situated. She looks downcast and lost in thought. Reaching the front door of the house, she pauses and takes a couple of deep breathes - then immediately realises how redundant this is, as she doesn't breathe. She shakes herself, starting at her fingers and then letting it travel to the rest of her body. Squaring her shoulders, she raises her right hand and holds it a couple of inches in front of her forehead, the palm facing her.
"Okay." Thelma murmurs to herself. "Game face."
She moves her hand downwards. As it descends over her face and past her chin, it reveals that she's now wearing a smile. But a sadness remains in her eyes.

Cut to Thelma entering the main living area of Ella’s flat a few seconds later. Ella is sitting in front of the computer, rewatching the footage of the ritual being performed by Malachi, Alex and the succubus called Shannon.
“You’re back.” Remarks Thelma.
“So are you.” Replies Ella, not looking round.
“I’ve seen Maya.” Thelma says hesitatively.
Ella stops the footage and swings round in the swivel chair so she’s facing her friend.
“Malachi?” The Anointed One asks.
Thelma nods.
“What did you give in exchange?” Ella enquires.
“The Stone of Belial.” Thelma tells her.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Ella enquires, but Thelma responds with a slight smile and a shake of the head;
"Maybe later. There are some things I need to tell you, and some things I want to discuss. But not right now." The ghost murmurs.
"Whenever you're ready." Ella says, then she smiles;
“So we finally palmed the Stone off. I’d love to see Malachi's face when he finds out. If he hasn't already.” She remarks. “As it is, I’m too busy puzzling over what happened to me last night. Perie had the perfect opportunity to kill me, and she passed. She even arranged for a mutual acquaintance to tend to me and give me a lift back here.”
“Back here?” Exclaims Thelma. “So Perie knows where we live?”
Ella shakes her head, then winces ever so slightly;
“No.” She murmurs. “Perifax – he’s the one who drove me – he promised not to tell anyone this address, and he always keeps his word.”
“Yeah, but supposing Perie or Malachi force it out of him?” Thelma opines.
Ella grins: “They won’t even try. You can’t threaten a dragon.”
Thelma stares at her for a couple of seconds.
“A dragon?” She declares. “You were driven here by a dragon? Scales, has wings, fiery breath, eats virgins?”
“I’ve never seen one on their natural form.” Explains Ella. “They all went underground or into hiding several centuries before I was born. But a few of them are still around. Perifax chooses to conceal himself in plain sight. They’re creatures of powerful magick, Thelma. Changing their appearance, size and mass is child’s play to them.”
Thelma muses over this for a moment.
“I’m going to make a sandwich.” She announces. “Want one?”
“Please.” Says Ella, then she swivels back to the computer.
“So why did you think Perie has turned over a new leaf?” Asks Thelma as she busies herself in the kitchen area.
“I honestly have no idea.” Ella replies, restarting the footage of the ritual. “And the thought of her acting in my best interests is more worrying than her trying to kill me. But right now I’m more concerned about what her and her goons had unearthed.”
“Do tell.” Requests Thelma, who’s poking about in the fridge.
“A Necronomicon.” Ella reports. “A book of the most unearthly magicks. The original is supposed to have been written several centuries ago by an insane Arab magician. A few duplicates were made, copied by hand from the original. These duplicates changed hands numerous times and were taken all across the world, during which time handwritten copies were made from the copies, and further copies made from those copies, and so forth. The rumours vary, but in the early twentieth century it was claimed nearly a hundred copies of the Necronomicon were in existance, with eleventh and twelfth generation examples being reported. The Nazis are supposed to have tracked down over twenty copies during the Thirties. The problem was that everything a duplicate was made, the amount of magical power it contained lessened. An eighth generation copy would contain a fraction of the power of a fifth generation copy, for example. And so various individuals have always sought out the original Necronomicon, the source of all the energy and the lodestone of unearthly magic. It’s sort of like the Holy Grail of the dark arts.”
Thelma brings over a couple of plates with a cold sausage & brown sauce sandwich on each, hands one to Ella, then sits down on the sofa and starts tucking into her own. Ella draws her attention to the footage playing on the computer.
“Remember how when we first saw this, I noticed the ritual had been altered? Extra words and passages added? We never did clarify actually what the changes were and what purpose they served. Well, seeing that Necronomicon last night jogged my memory. That’s what the ritual’s been redesigned to locate.”
“You mean they’re not looking for the Grand Grimlore after all?” Mumbles Thelma with her mouth full.
“It’s still a ritual to find the segments of the Grimlore,” Ella comments “but with these amendments it serves a dual purpose. It searches for copies of the Necronomicon as well.”
“So what would Malachi want with editions of this Necronomie-thingy anyway?” Chomps Thelma.
“That’s what I don’t understand.” Muses Ella. “For lack of a better description, the Necronomicon is said to be the Bible of the Old Ones.”
“Old Ones?” Queries Thelma between mouthfuls.
“Also refered to as the Elder Gods and the Many-Angled Ones. They possess powers beyond comprehension.” Ella explains, then she pauses before continuing: "The Creation, like any manufacturing process, had a waste product. That's what the Old Ones are, Thelma. When God created the universe, He inadvertedly created them as well. They're the unforeseen side effect of Creation. The effluent of existance. Over thousands of millennium, they developed sentience and then intelligence. They've spent eons of time staring at the Universe from the other side of reality, wanting in, but unable to join the party. It’s said that only the original Necronomicon can be used to contact them, or perhaps even bring them across to this realm. The forces of both Heaven and Hell have always ignored them. They’re more trouble that they’re worth.”
Wearing just a pair of boxers shorts and scratching his head sleepily, Leon wanders in from his and Ella’s bedroom.
“Morning.” He yawns.
“Blimey, what have you been up to? You look terrible.” Comments Thelma, tactful as ever.
“Can’t understand it.” Mumbles Leon. “I’ve slept like a log, but I feel knackered. It’s almost as though I’ve gone twelve rounds with someone.”

Cut to the bedroom of Jo’s apartment in the New Church’s London headquarters. Perie is lying on her back, fully clothed, on Jo’s four poster bed, adopting a crucifix pose with her arms laid out at right angles to her body. The unreadable smile is present, as always. Jo enters, with Corvide following.
“Did any incubi or succubus see you?” Jo asks the faerie.
Wordlessly raises herself on her elbows, Perie shakes her head, then reaches over the side of the bed and produces the artist’s bag, which she passes to Jo. The ex-teacher unzips the bag and slowly pulls the Necronomicon from within. She glances at Perie;
“Excellent work.” She tells the faerie.
Jo walks over to a painting on the wall. As she approaches, the image on the painting seems to melt, flow, and shift, until the painting itself transforms into a wall safe – only it lacks any visible handle, combination lock or keypad. Jo simply glances at the safe and the sound of tumblers moving can faintly be heard, then the safe door swings open. Inside, the rolled parchments of the Grand Grimlore are gathered on a shelf. Jo places the Necronomicon on the bottom shelf underneath.
“The most exclusive book collection in history.” Murmurs Jo. “We now have the means to destroy the world… or create it anew.”
She turns to face Perie and Corvide. Behind her, the safe door swings shut and can be heard locking.
“There’s someone I want both of you to meet.” Jo announces.

Cut to a minute or so later, with Jo, Corvide and Perie in one of the lifts in the New Church’s London headquarters. Jo pushes the button for the basement. The lift descends, and upon reaching the bottom, it halts and the doors open. Motioning for Perie and Corvide to remain where they are, Jo produces a tiny key, pushes it into an opening built into the bottom of the lift’s button panel, and turns it. The doors close and the lift descends yet further. After a few seconds it stops and the doors open. Jo walks out, Corvide and Perie following, down a wide, dimly lit corridor. At the end is a massive vault door that would not disgrace a major bank, with a simple, tall metal cupboard to one side. Opening the cupboard, Jo pulls out two thick padded coats with hoods, and two pairs of matching gloves, and hands them to Perie and Corvide.
“Put these on.” She instructs them. “Should you need to remove the gloves, take care not to touch anything.”
“Aren’t you wearing any?” Asks Corvide, as she and the faerie struggle into the bulky garments.
“I don’t need them.” Jo replies with a shake of her head.
The ex-teacher turns to the vault door, that towers over her, dwarfing her. On the wall next to the door is a chunky metal keypad. Jo glances at it, and several of the square numbered buttons seemingly depress themselves in a set sequence. There the rumble of massive tumblers moving, and the door slowly, ponderously, starts to swing open with a metallic groan. Icy mist pours out of the opening at the bottom and side of the door. As it opens fully, Jo steps through into a cloud of mist, with Corvide and Perie at her heels. They walk into a large room, the centrepiece of which is a smooth, metal, coffin-like cylinder, lying flat and raised up on a platform. Metal pipes & tubing run between the casket and over a dozen cylindrical tanks standing upright along the walls on either side. Otherwise the room is bare. Every surface is coated in either thin ice or a thick covering of frost.
“A cryogenic chamber.” Murmurs Corvide, and Jo nods.
“Allow me to introduce our secret weapon.” Declares the ex-teacher, gesturing towards the horizonal cylinder: “This is our fail safe. Our guarantee against failure.”
“A frozen, cryogenically perversed corpse?” An intrigued Corvide asks.
There is a display panel and a window on top of the casket, both covered in thick frost. With an enigmatic smile, Jo waves her hand over the panel, and the frost immediately melts and clears. The display is showing a countdown in red letters: 047:58:01. 047:58:00. 047:57:59.
“Current wisdom says you have to bring the subject back to normal temperature over a period of at least 200 hours, to minimalise potential cell damage.” Jo explains. “As you can see, I activated the process several days ago, once we located the final scroll of the Grimlore. Our deceased friend here will be thawed out in just under two days time. Then all our plans will come to fruition. Those who oppose us will be dead. And it will finally all be over.”

Final scene: The interior of a lavishly but tastefully furnished mansion in the midst of considerably large grounds in the country. We’re following a young woman as she walks down a corridor. We can only see her from behind: she’s supermodel slim and is wearing a skin tight black leather catsuit and matching suede high-heeled boots. Her long blonde hair is tied in a ponytail that hangs down her back. One side of the corridor is flanked with large picture windows, and through them we can see a massive courtyard, in the middle of which a helicopter sits resting on three retractable wheels. As the woman continues walking, we cut to a black and white flashback;
Graham Finch (from Episodes #4 and #5) emerges out of a doorway into the lower levels of a multi-story car park. He is flustered and out of breath, and glances about quickly. A female voice calls out from the shadows, causing him to look in that direction in alarm.
“Mr. Finch.” Declares the voice, which has a faint but distinctive trace of either a German or Austrian accent. “Do you have it?”
The speaker steps out into the light. The scene is shot so that the camera is behind her , so we cannot see her face. She is slim, wearing a red leather trenchcoat tied around the waist, with her long blonde hair in a ponytail hanging down her back. Upon seeing the woman, Finch visibly relaxes somewhat.
“Yes.” He says, scrambling in one of his pockets and producing a computer disc. “It’s –”
A shot rings out, and Finch slowly collapses to the ground with a look of surprise frozen on his face. Placing a revolver back into one of the deep pockets of her coat, the woman (still filmed from behind) walks over to where Finch is lying, and takes the disc from his hand. Behind her a large black car emerges from the shadows, engine purring. She gets into the car and it pulls away as Thelma bursts out of the doorway that Finch came through.
The flashback ends, and we return to the mansion (colour). Reaching the end of the corridor, the blonde woman opens a grand, tall and engraved wooden door and walks into a large gymnasium. In the centre of the room two people are having a fencing match. Both wearing fencing masks and lightly padded protective suits, but it’s clear that one of them – shorter and more slender than the other – is female. The blond woman remains where she is, watching the match, which is nearing it’s end. The female fencer wins with considerable ease. After both competitors have saluted each other, the female hands her foil to her opponent, and – spotting the blonde – starts to walk over to her. The camera pans round, allowing us to see the blonde woman’s face for the first time. It’s Janice, the former school canteen worker at Medenham. Unable to restrain her impressive breasts, the zip at the front of her catsuit has slid downwards, revealing a more-than-generous cleavage.
“What news, Kessel?” The fencer enquires through her mask as she approaches.
“Madam, we’ve triple-checked the information that Finch stole from the New Church’s database.” Reports Kessel/Janice with a faint Germanic accent. “Their identities, family histories, careers and current locations - it all checks out. Once you give the command, within twelve hours we will have people in position, ready to extract the remaining members of the extended McBain bloodline.”
Halting in front of Kessel, the fencer lifts off her mask, revealing dark blonde wavy hair pulled taut into a ponytail. It’s Rachel McBain, looking as though she’s barely in her early thirties.
“My bloodline.” She declares, correcting her employee.

[krusty ketchup]

Oh....WOW.....that is a totaly amazing ending and I really think you should have written for season 2 as well.

[orokiah]

Great stuff again fenris.

I didn't think it was possible for things to become even darker (poor, stupid Leon!), but I'm enjoying the direction you're taking this. The Maya reappearance posed as many questions as it answered, and Rachel McBain being back...didn't see that coming, despite the foreshadowing.

Given the way you juxtaposed Thelma's visit to Peggy and the flashback to the seance, I'm now wondering if Midge is connected to the McBains instead of being utterly evil as I've been convinced of all along. Not that the two things can't go together, of course.

I have absolutely no idea how this is going to end, and I rather like it that way.

[WarrenWitchesRule]

Hey when we gonna get our next installment of the saga?

[fenris]

Thanks for the kind words everyone. Much appreciated.

krustibul88 said:

I really think you should have written for season 2 as well.

Thanks, krustibul88, but the important thing to remember is that if you're a fanfic writer, you've got it easy. You can create huge and spectacular action set-pieces, or place your characters in lavish locations, and the only limit is the blank cheque of your imagination.
In the real world, scriptwriters are constantly restricted by the budget available: special effects, elaborate stunt work, pyrotechnics, set construction and outdoor filming are all extremely pricey. Location filming in particular just eats money, due not only to all the red tape, such as obtaining the correct permits, but the necessary logistics involved in transporting the equipment, costumes, cast and crew. Then there's all the related issues to deal with, like organising the on-site catering and first aid, to getting the right kind of insurance to cover any accidental damage you might cause to the location you're filming in.
I dare say every scriptwriter would love to have a multi-million dollar budget to play with, and let their imagination run wild, but 99% of the time they have to work within the firm financial boundaries that have been set.

I've never written for film or television, but I can easily imagine this must be frustrating, although I suppose it can also provide the professional writer with the satisfying challenge of producing good work despite being under such restrictions. When I started writing the Virtual Third Season, it was my original intention to make it feel as much like the televised Hex as possible, and I made a promise to myself not to include anything that I didn't think the producers of the show would have been able to afford in real life.
Well, needless to say, that didn't last long, and my good intentions quickly went out the window as I gleefully had firestorms raging through high-rise buildings, churches exploding and collapsing, and even Thelma plunging out of a skyscraper. None of which I could have ever entertained if I was genuinely writing for a series made with the amount of money that Hex was able to spend.

Something else that fanfic writers don't have to concern themselves with is actor availability. If I want to bring back a character from the show's past, I know that they will show up on time, no questions asked, and do whatever I want them to. However, in the real world those characters are played by actors and actresses who have careers to further and bills to pay. A writer may include a reoccurring character in the script for a particular episode, only to discover that on the dates that episode is being filmed, the actor or actress who plays that role has already signed up to film a part in a movie or another TV show. Cue rewrite. Sometimes the actor will get a contract to appear in a long-running series or stage production, rendering them unable to make further appearances in your show, and you either have to write their character out off-screen, or just let them disappear without explanation.
Occasionally an actor may decide not to come back simply because it's not worth their while. For example, let's look at Episode #9 above: the character of Gemma has one scene, without any dialogue, and spends most of that scene with a bag over her head. Let's imagine that Episode #9 was actually being filmed, exactly as written. Zoe Tapper, the actress who played Gemma, has gone on to a number of significant and noticable TV and film roles since leaving Hex. If she read the script for Episode #9, she'd probably decide she didn't want to come back to film such a brief and unrewarding cameo, and who could blame her?

Apologises for waffling on, but the point I'm trying to make is that I would never in my wildest dreams imagine that I'm good enough to write professionally, especially for television. It must be bloody hard and often frustrating work.
Fanfic is easy in comparison. If I wanted to, I could conclude the Virtual Third Season with an apocalyptic finale in which Ella and Malachi have a sword fight on top of the Millennium Dome, while a portal to Hell opens in the sky over London, and landmarks such as Nelson's Column, St. Paul's, and Big Ben all get pulled out of the ground and sucked into it (I'm not planning to do this, by the way. Mind you... it does sound pretty cool. Scribbles note in pad.)

Hey when we gonna get our next installment of the saga?

When I finished Episode #9, I'd been writing the Virtual Third Season, on and off, for nearly six months. Previously when I'd finished one episode, I'd immediately start on the next one. However, this time I took a break for a few weeks.
This was because I've always written the Virtual Third Season because it's fun, and I enjoy doing it. But there were times while writing Episode #9, especially during some sections that I couldn't get to work and had to completely rewrite several times, that it came dangerously close to being a chore.

Therefore, after posting Episode #9 I decided to give myself a rest, to recharge my batteries and regain my enthusiasm. Duly refreshed, I started work on Episode #10 the week before last, and it seems to be coming along nicely. Afraid I can't say when it's likely to be ready for posting though.

Another development is that I'll be changing jobs soon, and my new job will include longer hours and time spent away from home, leaving me with less time available to spend writing. But to everyone who is enjoying the Virtual Third Season, don't worry. I will finish what I've started, even if it takes slightly longer than I'd originally planned.
There's just two more episodes to go (unless one of them gets expanded into a two-parter), and I can reveal that following Rachel McBain's appearance at the conclusion of Episode #9, another Hex character - one whom I guarantee nobody thought they would ever see again - will make a surprise return in Episode #10. And no, it's not Cassie.

[matt]

It's not Troy is it....

[tenacious]

Ok it was fun to read about Malach geting his and that Ella finally did something about the stone. Time travel is ok once or twice but it's a nightmare for everyone when it becomes a macgufin in the plot.

That dumb-nut leon AHHH!! fix it fix it fix it!!

Okay, other than that, great job. Will patiently wait for the next episode take as much time as you woul like and hopefully when the tech becomes available I can turn your story in to a great animation. Cause with cartoons you don't have to pay for sets.

[fenris]

Thanks for all your comments regarding the last few episodes, tenacious. Much appreciated.


Hmm. Have just re-read the post I made on 07/07/06 (above), and am surprised by how much I rambled on. Having made my point, I then proceed to beat it to death for another couple of paragraphs.
Oh well. It was late, and I was tired.

xandmatt said:

It's not Troy is it....

Troy turned up in Episode #6, just long enough to get himself killed off.

[dianabz]

It will be interesting to see how this all runs along with everything else that is happening.

Oh Leon I know why you did it but seriously? Silly boy! Still I can't say it wouldn't have myself because in both other alternatives it would have meant an end with Ella. Still Meph. saying that only Maya could remove what she had done smells to me. My mind goes by if she were powerful enough that anything she does cannot be broken - well then she could be top bitch, and she isn't. They could have found someone, and if not then he could have done the deed.

[fenris]

dianabz said:

Mephistopheles saying that only Mary could remove what she had done smells to me. My mind goes by if she were powerful enough that anything she does cannot be broken - well then she could be top bitch, and she isn't. They could have found someone, and if not then he could have done the deed.

What I've tried to convey in the episodes featuring Mary Warren is that as she spent a century in total isolation, doing nothing except developing, strengthening and fine-tuning her psychic abilities (inbetween going insane and back a few dozen times), then she possesses mental powers on an unprecedented level. As both Mephistopheles and Ella remark in Episode #7, her abilities outstrip those belonging to any previous Anointed One (and therefore any other human, full stop).

And as for why Mephistopheles or someone else doesn't simply remove the trigger from Leon's mind, it's been a while since I last watched my Hex DVDs, but although it was clear that the angels, demons and Nephilim in the Hexverse were all powerful supernatural beings, I can't recall any of them displaying particularly strong psychic abilities.

In other words, I'm taking the view that in the world of the Virtual Third Season, Mary does indeed seem to be Top Bitch.