Virtual Third Season: Episode #10

[fenris]

The latest instalment. Originally this was going to be a relatively short, action-orientated episode (think ot it as 'Assault on Fortress McBain'), but while writing it I realised that some scenes had to be lengthened considerably in order to work, and as a result I've changed it into a two-parter. Therefore, this episode is now mostly the set-up, and the next episode will be the action-packed pay off.

Be advised that this episode contains scenes of an adult nature. As always, any feedback is gratefully received.

Episode #10: The Last McBain.

Previously on Hex: a brief clip from the First Season, Episode #1 - Cassie and David Tyrell discussing Rachel McBain's portrait.
A brief clip from the First Season, Episode #4 - Cassie being electrocuted.
A brief clip from the Third Season, Episode #4 - Corvide gazing at Malachi as he walks away from her and commenting "He's incomplete. Part of him is missing." Jo replying "I know." Corvide asking "Is he aware?" Jo declaring "No."
Brief clips from the Third Season, Episode #9 - Thelma asking Peggy "have you ever researched the history of the Medenham witches?"; Thelma & Peggy standing in the street watching Midge. Thelma asks "You're sure she has the gift?"; Kessel saying "Within twelve hours we will have people in position, ready to extract the remaining members of the extended McBain bloodline. Rachel McBain removing her fencing mask and declaring "My bloodline."

The camera pans across the darkened kitchen space in Ella’s flat, and we see a digital clock that reads 03:11. We continue into the main living area, and as we pan over the desk on which the computer monitors are crowded, we see a newspaper also lying there. The front page has a wedding photo of Gemma, smiling in her bridal dress, and is accompanied by the headline MISSING HEIRESS FOUND: REMEMBERS NOTHING. The camera continues around the living area, and we eventually alight upon Thelma, who is crouched down and tugging a small metal strong box out from behind the battered sofa. She’s wearing her dark red clubbing outfit: skin-tight, hipster trousers and midriff-revealing sleeveless top, with white trainers. Placing the strong box flat on the floor, Thelma lifts over her head a thin silver chain that she was wearing, and we see that a tiny key hangs from it. Inserting the key into the strong box’s lock, she turns it, then lifts the box’s lid. Inside are two handguns, crammed together with several boxes of bullets. A light comes on, and Thelma looks round to see Ella standing in the doorway to the bedroom, wearing just a black t-shirt that protects her modesty by about an inch. Ella yawns, blinks, and runs a hand through her bedhair.
“Couldn’t sleep?” Asks Thelma.
Ella shakes her head ‘no’ while walking past Thelma and throwing herself down onto the sofa, where she lays on her back, stretching.
“I’ll go on line in a few minutes.” Ella murmurs. “Apparently there’s some websites about sightings of me in the Twenties that I keep meaning to check out.”
“There are websites about you?” Queries Thelma, looking up.
“Sort of.” Mumbles Ella, yawning again. “I spent some time in New York in the late 1920s, tracking down the last descendents of one of the Medenham coven. They’d gotten involved in organised crime – nothing major, but some of them were working as legmen or street-level enforcers for one of the ruling Mob families. So in order to get them, I had to take on their employers as well.”
Ella props herself up on her elbows and looks at Thelma as she continues talking;
“Anyway, this was just over a decade after Mary had died” the Anointed One frowns ruefully “- or so I thought. And after working as a team and having her watch my back for over a century, I was still getting used to working solo again. I got sloppy, made some mistakes, and allowed myself to be seen a few times while leaving various premises owned by the Mob, either dashing down alleyways or escaping over the rooftops. I was even snapped by press photographers on a couple of occasions. Luckily no-one ever got a really good look at me, and the photos were all long distance, or blurry and out of focus. But word spread, and before I knew it I’d become urban folklore: loose-lipped lowlifes in seedy bars were talking about this shadowy female vigilante who was hounding the Mob.”
“A legend in your own lifetime.” Quips Thelma.
“Strangely, yes.” Murmurs Ella with a quiet smile. “The pulp magazines had started to become popular, featuring characters such as Doc Carnage, The Apparition, The Arachnid, and Mr. Vengeance. And so the press leapt on this trend and dubbed me ‘the Ghost Girl.’ A couple of the newspapers even printed artists’ impressions of me. They portrayed me wearing a cloak and a skimpy outfit with my breasts falling out.”
“I’d like to see those pictures, if you can find the websites.” Grins Thelma.
“I bet you would.” Replies Ella.
“So what happened next?” The ghost asks, sitting crosslegged on the floor by the end of the sofa.
“I eliminated the last of the descendents, but my actions had weakened their employers, and damaged their operations. Other competing Mob families moved in to take over their territory. I left New York just as the shooting started. Speaking of which,” Ella murmurs, eyeing the handguns now resting in Thelma’s lap, “you going out to indulge in some target practise again?”
“Yep. Going to vent my frustration on some bottles and cans.” The ghost declares.
“Make sure you take the silencers this time.” Cautions Ella. “We don’t want the neighbours calling out the armed response unit again.”
Thelma nods in acknowledgement, then asks;
“Any update on when we’re expecting the amended ammo?”
“Monty sent an e-mail last night.” Ella replies. “He said we can pick it up later today.”
“He’s got a bit of a crush on you, hasn’t he?” Thelma grins slyly.
“Monty?” Ella murmurs, acting mock-innocent and demure. “We maybe had a brief fling about twenty years ago, back when he was a full-time gunsmith. He’s sweet.”
“Another of your multitude of lovers?” Exclaims Thelma. “Exactly how many notches are there on your bedpost?”
“A lady doesn’t tell.” Declares Ella, still in exaggerated bashful mode, closing her eyes then stretching.
“That wouldn’t be code for ‘I lost count after the first hundred’ would it?” Thelma enquires with a raised eyebrow.
“I’ve been around for almost four and a half centuries, Thelma.” Ella remarks dryly, with an amused smile. “Use your imagination.”
Thelma laughs as she gets up and heads over to the kitchen area. Holding a revolver in each hand, she tucks one of the guns into her armpit, freeing a hand which she uses to open one of the floor level cupboards, pulling out a straining plastic bag that’s filled almost to bursting point with tin cans and glass bottles. Retrieving the gun from her armpit, she pads over to the door out of the flat, a revolver once again in each hand, the extremely stretched handles of the bag gripped firmly by one finger. She stops mid-step and looks over at Ella, who’s still lying on the sofa.
“Hey, ‘Ghost Girl.’ If you’re not using the name anymore, can I have it? It would be more appropriate.” Thelma asks.
“Consider it yours.” Declares Ella, her eyes closed.
“See you in an hour or so.” Thelma declares.
Ella hums an acknowledgement. We hear the door open then close, accompanied by the sound of glass chinking. The Anointed One opens her eyes and stares at the ceiling, the expression on her face is unreadable. Leon emerges from the bedroom wearing a pair of boxer shorts.
“I thought I heard Thelma’s voice.” He mumbles.
“She’s gone out. Target practice again.” Ella tells him, still looking at the ceiling.
“How is she?” Leon asks.
“Still hurting, but hiding it well enough that anyone but you and me wouldn’t know.” Ella reports sadly.
She swings her legs round and places her feet on the floor. Getting up and walking over to Leon, she places her arms round him and presses the right side of her face against his chest.
“Hold me.” She whispers.
Leon puts his arms around her and rests his chin on her head. The lovers stand silently for several seconds, drawing comfort from each other. No words are necessary.
“Leon…what have I done?” Ella murmurs.

Cut to Malachi’s bedroom in his penthouse apartment in the New Church’s London headquarters. A new carpet has been laid, a deep rich black, matching the silk sheets on the bed, under which Malachi stirs and then awakens. He blinks a couple of times and then glances across at Alex, asleep and curled up next to him, a contented smile on her face. Sliding out of the sheets, he pads across the room wearing only a pair of black silk boxer shorts, and enters the connected bathroom. The camera pans back to Alex, who stirs and shifts about, but doesn’t wake up. We hear a toilet flush.
The camera cuts to inside the bathroom, as Malachi casually washes his hands and gives them a quick rub with a towel. Switching off the light, he’s about to go back into the bedroom when he notices a glow under the bathroom’s other door, the one leading to the apartment’s main living room. Inquisitively, he walks over, carefully opens the door and steps through.
The living room is dimly lit by a dozen large candles placed around on the floor, dividing the room into flickering wavers of orange light and pools of shadow. As Malachi looks about, his eyes are drawn to the two candles furthest from him, placed at either end of the overhang. Standing there in the centre of the glass structure is Jo, proudly naked, the light from the candles dancing over her flawless skin and caressing her body.
“Ever since you got back from Rome, you haven’t shown me how much you love me.” She remarks, fixing him with a stare.
Smirking, he starts to walks across the length of the room towards her.
“Alex has been especially possessive of late.” He murmurs. “You can’t blame me for giving her some extra attention. I mean, look at what she did to my other bedmates.”
“Yet another mess to be cleared up.” Responses Jo coolly. “Although Corvide won’t be going hungry for a while. But now you have to make amends for neglecting me.”
Malachi half-glances over his shoulder.
“She’s asleep in the bedroom.” He cautions. “Supposing she wakes up and catches us?”
“Has that ever stopped us before?” Jo counters. “Besides, the risk… the danger… just adds to the intensity. Enough excuses Malachi. Time for you to show me how much you’ve missed me.”
Malachi is now standing just a few feet from her, where the glass floor of the overhang meets the rest of the building. Grinning, he pulls his boxers down to his feet and steps out of them. Jo gazes down and smiles.
“That much.” She purrs in anticipation, then she reaches out and runs her forefinger under Malachi’s chin.
“My beautiful boy.” Jo murmurs softly. “Come to Mummy.”
Malachi steps forward and grabs her, slamming her back against the cold glass of the overhang wall, then kisses her, passionately, eagerly. Jo responds with a hunger that matches and even surpasses his. After several seconds, she reaches up wth one hand, grabs his hair and yanks his head back, away from hers. Surrogate mother and son stare at each other, both breathing heavily, their bodies pressed together.
“Do you love me?” Jo demands, inbetween gasps, still firmly holding his head back.
“Of course.” He replies without hesitation. “You raised me. Nurtured me. You’re been a better parent than my father ever was.”
“And my other attributes?” She asks, her eyes never wavering from his.
“You’re the best lover I’ve ever had.” Malachi states simply. “No-one else comes close. Alex may legally be my wife, but it’s you I’m married to, in every sense of the word. You’ve been my protector and teacher since birth. I can’t imagine my world without you.”
Jo gazes at him silently, weighing up his words.
“My son.” She declares, then she pushes his head forward, pressing his mouth against hers.
Opening titles.

We see the bench by the pond in the nearby park. A lamp-post which stands ten feet to the right of the bench illuminates the area around it. The bench’s wooden backrest is about four inches wide and slightly slanting at the top. Thelma is stood behind it, taking tins and bottle out of the plastic bag and lining them up along the length of the backrest, barely an inch between each one. Have emptied the bag, she stuffs it into a ball and drops it into the rubbish bin next to the bench, then she reaches up with both hands and pulls the neckband of her top forward. The ghost gazes down into her top.
“Hello boys.” She remarks, then she puts one hand up under her top and rummages round for a moment, eventually withdrawing it to reveal that she’s holding two slim cylindrical silencers, made of polished black metal and held together by a rubber band wrapped round them both several times.
Untwisting the rubber band, Thelma picks up one of the revolvers from where she’d placed them on the bench seat and starts to screw the silencer onto the barrel. It’s an easy, assured activity. She’s clearly done this several times before.
As Thelma picks up the second handgun, we see a brief flashback to the events of Episode #5 – Ella taking cover behind the pillar in the department store, under fire from Perie, and yelling in exasperation to Thelma: “JUST THROW ME THE GUN!” Thelma reaching down, grabbing the revolver and tossing it clumsily to Ella.
Then we see a subsequent event from Episode #5 - Ella, Thelma and Perie in the underground car park, standing round Graham Finch’s body, with the Anointed One and the faerie pointing guns at each other.
“I seem to recall you running out of bullets.” Says Perie.
“I did.” Confirms Ella, “But this is the gun belonging to the other man you killed.”
Finally we see Ella and Thelma walking out of the parking structure into the daylight. Sirens can be heard getting closer, and the two of them duck down an alleyway, past some commercial wheelie bins. Ella stuffs the two revolvers into the internal pockets of her long leather overcoat.
“What are going to do with those?” Asks Thelma, nodding in the direction of the coat.
“We might as well keep them.” Replies Ella. “Trust me, weapons have a tendency to come in useful.”
We cut back to the present. Thelma is walking away from the back of the bench, in the opposite direction to the pond and into the darkness, a revolver in each hand. Having walked about twenty metres, she turns and faces the rear of the bench, the bottles and cans glinting in the light cast by the lamp-post. She raises the guns and fires a series of rapid shots from both weapons simultaneously, shooting at the targets at the furthest ends of the bench and working her way towards the centre, the guns producing sharp, subdued coughing sounds. Bottles shatter or explode, while the cans and tins go spinning off into the dark when hit. Twice Thelma misses a target, whereupon she ceases firing for a moment, takes aim, fires a single shot, and having hit the errant item, continues rapid fire until the final targets at the centre of the backrest have been struck. The ghost surveys her handiwork.
“It’s true what they say. Practise does make perfect.” She muses. “Not quite there yet though.”
She walks back to the bench, places the revolvers on the seat, starts picking up the holed cans and bottle pieces and tosses them into the rubbish bin. Coming across one particular jagged shard of glass, Thelma pauses, then presses it into her palm, closing her hand around it and cletching her fist as hard as she can. As Thelma stares at her hand, we hear Maya in voiceover;
“Where I’m going, you won’t be following…. I saw myself in Heaven, Thelma. You weren’t there…. It’s not what I want. I love you…”
After several seconds, the ghost opens her hand. The shard lies in her palm, the skin on which is completely unmarked.
“No blood, no pain.” She remarks simply. “I never thought I’d be envious of self-harmers.”

Cut to the main living room in Malachi’s penthouse apartment. Still unclothed, Jo is silently making her way around the room, putting out the candles with her thumb and forefinger. As a result, the room is dimly lit, the lights from neighbouring buildings, visible through the glass walls and floor of the overhang, provide what little illumination there is. Malachi is lying on his back in the overhang, arms folded behind his head, gazing at the metal sculpture/light-fitting that hangs from the structure’s ceiling, directly above him.
“You know, sometimes I think it’s a shame this all has to end.” He murmurs conversationally. “This world has got a lot going for it.”
“Such as?” Queries Jo, not pausing in her task.
“You and me, for a start.” Malachi offers. “Moments like this. Though I suppose after the End of Days happens, and I become one of the rulers of Hell, I can have you as my Queen.”
“To make me your Queen implies that you expect to be King, and I don’t think Lucifier would approve of that.” Cautions Jo. “There’s room for only one absolute ruler in Hell.”
Still lying flat, Malachi moves his shoulders in an approximation of a shrug;
“Then I’ll settle for being a Prince, and you will be my Princess.” He declares.
Having extinguished the last of the candles, Jo walks over to Malachi, kneels down and kisses him on the chest and then the lips.
“I’m touched.” She whispers. “Don’t forget to go back to bed before your wife wakes up.”
The ex-teacher straightens, then walks across to the apartment’s door, opening and closing it softly as she steps through. Malachi remains lying in the overhang for several seconds , then gets to his feet and pads over to the connecting bathroom between the living room and the bedroom. Walking through the darkened bathroom, he pauses in front of the large mirror wall behind the sink.
“Better check for marks and scratches.” He muses to himself.
He switches the light on – and stares at his reflection in shock: there are now deep lines and wrinkles running across his forehead and around his mouth, and crows’ feet at the side of his eyes,. His thick, black hair has thinned dramatically and is liberally run through with streaks of grey, and noticeable bags have developed under his eyes. It’s as though he’s aged thirty years or more in the space of a few hours.

Cut to the corridor outside Malachi’s penthouse apartment. Jo is getting into a black silk dressing gown being held for her by Corvide, who’s dressed in an identical garment. Malachi’s sharp, shrill cry of panic and alarm can be heard coming from within the apartment. Jo and Corvide calmly exchange a knowing look.

End of Part One.

[fenris]

Part Two.

We're in Ella’s basement flat as Thelma re-enters, casually holding a revolver in each hand. The room is a mass of activity: Leon is sitting on the sofa, wearing faded blue jeans and white trainers, and doing up the laces on the latter. Then he hastily tugs an extremely worn khaki t-shirt over his head, before leaning forward and tying the back of Ella’s corset while she sits in front of the computer, calmly but hurriedly scanning the screens, quickly jotting down details on a notepad with a ballpoint. Thelma takes all this in with a look of bemusement.
“What’s going on?” The ghost asks.
“You know how we set up the computer to scan the internet and all the emergency services’ frequencies for certain names and key words?” Leon tells her, still struggling with Ella’s corset.
“Yeah.” Thelma confirms.
“Well, the brown shuff has well and truly hit the fan.” Leon reports. “In the last hour, four of the five McBain descendants who Peggy located for us have been reported as being abducted, all in full view of eyewitnesses. Snatched off the street, in some cases as soon as they stepped out of their front doors. Someone means business and they don’t care who knows about it.”
“On the contrary, they’ve made certain that all interested parties do know.” Interjects Ella, nodding towards the screens in front of her. “This is free advertising.”
“You said four out of five.” Thelma says. “Midge?”
“Isn’t answering her mobile, or landline.” Ella replies grimly. “It’s not been reported yet, but whoever’s doing this, they’ve probably snatched her too.”

Cut to the bedroom of Malachi’s penthouse in the New Church’s London headquarters. Wearing his black silk boxer shorts and with an angry, panicked look on his face, Malachi is sitting on the end of the bed. Alex is sat next to him, a bed sheet wrapped round herself. Firmly clutching Malachi’s hand, she keeps glancing anxiously at her husband, her mouth set in a taut line, bewildered but trying to be strong and calm for him. Jo, her hands in the pockets of the silk dressing gown she’s still wearing, is stood before the couple and seems to be remarkably calm.
“What’s happening to me?” Yells Malachi, a shrill edge in his voice.
“I realise this is distressing, but try to stay calm.” Jo tells him, sounding reassuringly like the tutor she once was. “This is not entirely unexpected, and isn’t as serious as it seems.”
“Not serious?!” Hisses Malachi. “Look at me. I’ve aged several decades overnight! What caused this? How do I become young again?”
Before Jo can answer, Alex seizes on the ex-teacher’s last remark;
“Wait – you said this wasn’t unexpected.” The succubus says to Jo. “You mean you knew this was going to happen?”
Jo pauses, as though judging how best to explain what she’s going to say next.
“You’re incomplete, Malachi.” She announces. “Somehow, part of your lifeforce was siphoned away while you were either an infant, or still in your mother’s womb. We don’t know precisely when this happened, or more importantly how. But your accelerated growth after conception and birth placed your remaining, depleted lifeforce under extra strain. In simple terms, it’s been working overtime to keep you in peak physical condition, pushing past it’s maximum capacity to compensate for the part of you that is missing. But now it appears to be running out.”
“And you knew about this?” Queries Malachi in anger and disbelief.
Jo calmly nods.
“Why didn’t you do something about it?” He yells. “Try to find where this missing part of me has gone?”
“It wasn’t considered important.” Jo states simply.
“Not important?!” Malachi rages, jumping to his feet and taking a step towards her –
Jo’s eyes flash red, and her surrogate son suddenly finds himself flying backwards to land on the bed. He angrily tries to get straight back up again, but can’t move. Jo coolly glances across at Alex, but the succubus just cowers slightly, nervously holding the sheet around herself, and clearly has no desire to cause any trouble. Hands still in pockets, Jo unhurriedly walks around to the side of the bed and looks down at Malachi.
“It was believed that the End of Days would occur before any adverse effect like this would happen to you.” The ex-teacher explains. “Therefore, it was a moot point. Never considered to be a legitimate cause for concern. However, despite my best efforts to keep you in line, your wiltful nature and indulgent need for self-gratification has led to numerous delays. The End of Days has fallen behind schedule. And crows that you didn’t know existed have now come home to roost.”
Jo lifts a hand out of a gown pocket and reaches down, gently caressing Malachi’s greying hair.
“If you’d just listened to me, it would all be over now, and this could have all been avoided.” She chides him gently. “Now do you see? Mother knows best.”
She straightens, all business again;
“Obviously, you can’t make any more public appearances.” Jo announces. “We’ll cancel as many as we can, and those that we can’t, Alex will attend on your behalf.”
“I’m staying here.” Alex declares firmly, reaching out and taking hold of her husband’s hand. “With my man.”
“You’ll do as you’re told.” Jo says, affording the succubus the briefest of glances before gazing down at Malachi again. “Blink if you’ve calmed down.” She tells him.
Malachi blinks, and promptly finds that he can move again. He hesitatively sits up. Jo bends down and kisses him on the forehead.
“The End of Days will happen soon enough.” She whispers in his ear. “And then none of this will matter. I’m to be your Princess, remember?”
Straightening, Jo turns and walks from the room. Alex waits until the door has closed behind her, then turns and looks at her husband;
“She’s hiding something. She knows more than she’s letting on.” The succubus declares.
Malachi glances at his wife, then gazes at the door through which Jo has just left. Hesitatively, he nods.
“Look into it.” He murmurs.
The camera cuts to the main living room of Malachi’s apartment. Corvide – now wearing the short-skirted black business suit that is her usual attire – stands with her right side facing the door leading to the bedroom. Jo is stood a few feet away, hands still in the pockets of her silk dressing gown.
“Well?” Jo asks.
Turning to face her mistress, Corvide smiles and nods.
“Excellent.” Jo states softly, with a quiet smile.
The two women walk towards the double doors that lead out of Malachi’s apartment, which swing open as they approach and close behind them after they’ve passed through. The camera follows Jo and Corvide they head down the corridor, talking as they go;
“We’ve received an anonymous e-mail, apparently from the same individuals who stole information from our database, then offered to sell it back to us.” Reports Corvide. “They claim to have all the remaining female descendents of the extended McBain bloodline. They’re willing to hand them over to us.”
“I was wondering when Rachel would make her move.” Smiles Jo. “What does she want in exchange?”
“The e-mail doesn’t say.” Replies Corvide. “It merely states they want to arrange a meeting to discuss terms.”
“You’ve told them we’re not interested?” Asks Jo, and Corvide nods;
“I sent back a reply immediately, informing them that the New Church has no interest in their offer, and we will ignore any further attempts they make to contact us.” She declares. “What do you think they will do?”
“Rachel will switch to the only Plan B available to her.” Jo remarks, as she and Corvide take a left and continue down another corridor. “She'll contact Malachi direct and offer the girls to him.”
They pause, having reached the door to Jo’s quarters.
“The timing couldn’t be better.” Jo comments. “We’ve entered the final phase, and Rachel’s manoeuvring will keep Malachi distracted and out of the way. It couldn’t have worked out this well if we’d planned it. Go to your office, access your password-protected files, and then leave your computer on. I’ve given Alex enough reasons to be suspicious. She’ll start snooping, and the information on the system about Amber Chase will give Malachi an extra incentive to accept Rachel’s offer.”
Corvide nods, and walks briskly off down the corridor. Jo enters her quarters and makes her way to the bedroom, where she stands and gazes round at the blackened oak furniture: the wardrobes, cabinets, intricately carved four-poster bed, dressing table, and free-standing full length mirror.
“I know you’re here, Roxanne.” She announces. “You might as well come out. There’s no point in hiding.”
Several seconds pass, then Roxy steps out from behind the full length mirror, a slightly guilty but wary look on her face.
“How did you –” The ghost begins, but Jo raises a hand, shushing her.
“You’re always watching and listening, Roxy.” The ex-teacher declares, the tone in her voice making it clear that she’s stating a fact, as opposed to making an accusation. “You have been for the last few months, ever since – I suspect – Thelma and Ella broke out that girl who Malachi took a fancy to.”
We suddenly cut to a flashback to a previously unseen moment during Episode #1: wearing her cheerleader outfit, Thelma is walking quickly but cautiously through the corridors of the New Church’s London headquarters. Rounding a corner, she comes to a stunned halt at the sight of Roxy standing in the centre of the corridor ahead. Roxy looks almost as surprised to see her.
We cut back to the present, in Jo’s bedroom;
“I think that’s when you met one or both of them, and agreed to become their spy.” Jo tells Roxy, whereupon the ghost goes to speak, but the ex-teacher doesn’t give her the chance: “Please don’t insult either your intelligence or mine by attempting to deny it. It was shortly after that incident that it became clear Ella was receiving inside information. The only other individual in a position to leak it was Alex, and she’s too pathetically loyal to Malachi. Besides which, one of his ghastly jewel-encrusted mobile phones was mislaid a few months ago. He’s got so many that he didn’t miss it, but the New Church pays all his phone bills, and I noticed that calls were still being made on it.”
A look of alarm flashes across Roxy’s face, but Jo instantly raises a reassuring hand.
“Don’t worry, I didn’t have the number traced. I know you won’t understand, but I have my reasons for wanting to keep Ella in the game. Now, about this phone, would you be so kind…?”
Looking slightly deflated, Roxy reaches into her pocket and produces a chrome-covered mobile, decorated with several tiny diamonds. Very bling, very tacky, very Malachi.
“That’s the one.” Jo observes. “You might as well keep it now. Consider it payment, for what I’m about to ask you to do.”
“What?!” Roxy asks in surprise.
In response, Jo sits down on the end of the bed, crosses her legs, regards Roxy with a slightly amused look… and smiles.

Cut to the main living area in Ella’s flat. Leon and Ella are now both fully dressed. The Anointed One still has the chair in front of the computer, Leon is crouched – feet on the floor, knees bent - alongside her. Thelma stands behind them, looking at the screens over their heads. Suddenly the ghost’s eyes widen in recognition and she jabs a pointing hand at one of the monitors;
“Wait a minute! I know her! It’s the Goon!” She declares hurriedly.
Ella looks at the image Thelma is indicating.
“Amber Chase.” The Anointed One reports. “One of the descendents of the diluted McBain bloodline, reported as being abducted. What was it you just called her? The Goon?”
“She was a student at Medenham!” Thelma gushes.
“I don’t remember her.” Muses Leon with a frown, gazing at the girl’s image on the screen.
“You wouldn’t. She was only there for two terms. She didn’t hang out with your crowd. Didn’t hang out with anyone really. She was one of those quiet kids who keep to themselves, though I think I saw her talking to Felix a couple of times. I only really knew her because her locker was next to Cassie’s. Her parents removed her from the school after I electrocuted her.” Thelma reels off.
That last remark causes Ella and Leon to stare at her in disbelief.
“You did what?” Gapes Leon.
“It was an accident. Well, sort of.” Thelma mutters with a shrug. “Cassie was under Azazeal’s influence at the time, but I’d learnt that Nephilim don’t like electricity, so I thought I’d try to shock her out of it. I wired up Cassie’s locker to the power supply, but it was the Goon who got zapped. It worked out alright in the end though, because Cassie got a shock while trying to pull the Goon clear. And it freed her from Azazeal’s control, just as I’d planned.”
“And the Goon? Amber Chase?” Ella asks.
“Spent three days in hospital and we never saw her again. She never came back to Medenham.” Thelma replies.
“I vaguely remember something about a girl being hurt. How come you never mentioned this before?” Queries Leon.
“I’ve never seen her photo before.” Murmurs Thelma. “When Peggy located these girls, you assigned me the task of befriending Midge because she was the one most likely to have the sight, remember? I didn’t have any involvement with the others.”
“What are the odds of Cassie – a direct descendent of Rachel McBain – and this girl Amber - a descendent of Rachel’s extended family - both attending Medenham at the same time?” Leon wonders aloud.
“It must have been Azazeal.” Ella declares, looking at Amber’s image on the screen. “Working behind the scenes, using his influence, pulling strings. Amber was probably his back-up plan. If Cassie had resisted, or refused to be taken by him willingly, he would have had Amber to fall back on.”
At that moment, Thelma’s mobile rings, playing the theme tune to Scooby Doo, Where Are You? The ghost puts the phone to her ear.
“Hello?” She says, then after a few seconds her face furrows in puzzlement. “Wait a minute. Slow down. Whoa!” Thelma moves the phone away slightly and places her free hand over it’s lower half. “My contact at the New Church. Something’s up.” She explains, then removes her hand and places the phone back to her ear.
“Okay, start again.” Thelma declares, and after several seconds her eyes widen and she turns to look at Ella and Leon, the expression on her face indicating to them that whatever she’s being told is very important indeed.
“Tell me again about Amber Chase.” Thelma says to the caller.

Cut to a close-up of Midge’s face. Her eyes are closed and she’s apparently either asleep or unconsious. After a few seconds she stirs, mumbles and opens her eyes. The camera pulls back into an overhead shot and we see that Midge is lying on a thin bunk in a small square windowless room with bare stone walls. Illumination comes from an uncovered but dim light bulb behind a glass panel in the ceiling, which is otherwise also stone. The only other feature of the room is a large wooden door with a small opening approximately three quarters of the way up, the view through which is hindered by black vertical iron bars. She’s in a cell.
The camera angle changes as Midge sits up, then pauses slightly, as though dizzy. After several seconds she slowly gets up, swaying, and has to place one hand against the wall at the head of the bed to steady herself. Once she's confident that she can balance, she walks the few steps over to the door and looks through the opening.
The camera switches to Midge's POV: a featureless corridor on the other side of the door, with bare stone walls and lighting identical to that in her cell. Kessel and Rachel McBain walk into shot from the left of the frame. Kessel has her long blonde hair in a ponytail that hangs down her back, and is wearing a black leather catsuit with matching knee-length high-heeled boots. Rachel also has her hair in a ponytail and is wearing a horseriding outfit: a bright red jacket with cream jodhpurs and long black boots. She's also carrying a riding crop. Three figures emerge into frame from the right, walking towards Kessel & Rachel: two tall, burly men in black suits, and inbetween them is a young woman in her early twenties. The two men are actually half-carrying, half-dragging her along. Both are holding her with one hand firmly around her arm just under the armpit, and their other hand holding her arm just below the elbow. The girl's body is semi-limp, her head is hanging down, and her feet - clad in white trainers - are being dragged along the stone floor on their toes. The men stop in front of Kessel and Rachel with their burden. The captive girl has peroxide blonde hair, in a bob. She's wearing a sleeveless midriff-bearing yellow lycra top and matching leggings that only reach to above the knee, and was clearly abducted while out jogging.
"The last of our guests." Says Rachel brightly.
She reaches across, places the riding crop under the girl's chin and uses it to lift and tilt back her head. The young woman's eyes flicker open, but her eyes are unfocused. She's not fully conscious.
"Greetings, Miss Chase." Rachel murmurs. "I do hope you enjoy your stay with us."
She glances up at the two men;
"Take her to the fifth cell." She orders, with a smile.
Kessel and Rachel step aside to make way for the men as they drag the girl off further down the corridor. As we hear the sound of one door being unlocked and opened, Rachel catches sight of Midge looking through the opening.
"I see the first of our guests is awake." Rachel declares cheerfully, as she crosses the corridor and stands in front of the door to Midge's cell, looking through the bars so her face is only ten or so inches away from the young girl's.
"I apologise for the somewhat basic accommodation." Rachel remarks. "These cells were built during the Civil War. The lighting is the only modern concession we've made."
She pauses, regarding her captive curiously;
"You know, I've made several attempts over the years to develop my telepathic abilities, with disappointingly mixed results, but you're broadcasting my name so strongly that I can't fail to pick it up. How do you know who I am?" Rachel asks.
"I've seen your portrait." Murmers Midge, finding her voice.
"The only portrait ever painted of me was destroyed in a fire nearly six years ago." The older woman counters.
"I've seen photos of it, on the internet." Midge replies, telling the truth.
Rachel ponders for a moment, weighing up the young girl's answer, then silently nods;
"Even so, that doesn't explain why you don't seem too surprised to see someone walking round alive who is supposed to have died over two hundred years ago." She declares. "And I can think of only one reason why that might be. Tell me, my dear" she smiles "how is Ella?"


End of Part Two.

[fenris]

Part Three.

We're in the main living area in Ella’s flat. Thelma is still on her mobile, Ella and Leon waiting and trying to gauge as much of the content of the conversation as they can from the ghost’s one-sided remarks. The call is clearly coming to an end;
“Okay. …I understand. …You be careful, okay? …You too.” Thelma murmurs into the phone, then moves it away from her ear, pressing the button to end the call.
She looks at Leon and Ella;
“You’re not going to believe this.” The ghost remarks.

Cut to Jo’s bedroom in the New Church’s headquarters. Roxy is sitting on the bed, holding the chrome mobile in front of her so her hand is almost resting in her lap, gazing down at it sadly. Sitting next to her is Jo, who has a quiet, reassuring smile on her face.
“Don’t worry.” The ex-teacher says soothingly. “Although I don’t deny that what you’ve just told them may potentially place them in danger, you can see why it was vitally important to let Ella know. I promise you’re not leading them into any kind of deliberate trap.”
Roxy looks at her.
“Do you swear it?” The ghost enquires firmly.
“I swear.” Jo replies, unblinkingly meeting Roxy’s gaze.

Cut to the expansive, flat and lush green lawn of Rachel McBain’s country estate. Two chairs and a circular table have been set out in the centre of the lawn, under a large shading parasol. It’s bright and sunny, and the mansion looms large in the background. Rachel sits in one chair, and Midge in the other - having been handcuffed to the arm-rests. Several heavily-built bodyguards in dark suits stand approximately a hundred metres away around the edge of the lawn, spaced apart. A light lunch has been laid out on a silver tray on the table: triangular sandwiches, a bowl of salad, a glass jug of orange juice with ice cubes bobbing about, etc. Wearing a white top buttoned up to her chin, tight dark brown trousers and black high-heeled boots, Rachel gazes across the lawn and speaks to her captive audience (Note: throughout the following sequence, we cut back and forth between Rachel and Midge in the present, and silent black & white flashbacks of what Rachel is describing, accompanied by her voiceover);
“It’s been such a long time since I’ve been able to tell my story to someone who would appreciate it.” She remarks with a smile. “You’ve no idea how refreshing it is. So… where to begin?” She muses.
“The beginning?” Suggests Midge warily.
“Indeed.” Replies Rachel, the smile never wavering. “In 1743, I founded the Medenham coven. There were thirteen members in total, women from the local village and members of my household staff, but as founder it was my decision that we should try to summon a Nephilim. I foolishly thought that such a creature would be so pathetically grateful to be freed from Hell, that he would grant us great power. Greater than any man or woman had ever possessed. (We see the coven standing in a circle around a pentagram that has been carved into the dirt in a field. It’s night, and each member is carrying a torch. They are all dressed in simple hooded robes and silently mouthing an incantation in unison.) But the ritual invoked magicks that were darker than we realised. (We see Azazeal, naked and with smoke erupting from his skin, lying on his side in a curled position in the centre of the pentagram. As the coven members watch, the Nephilim slowly, painfully, gets to his feet, trembling as he does so) Not only did we summon Azazeal, but we were blessed – or cursed, to put it more accurately – with a dubious privilege: being capable of bearing his child.”
“The Messiah of the Fallen Angels.” Murmurs Midge.
“Just so.” Rachel confirms. “Rather than give us the power we craved, Azazeal was only intent on taking what he wanted. And he wasted little time. On the night of his summoning, within an hour of him being freed from the fires of Hell and able to walk on this Earth, he forced himself on the youngest member of the coven. (We see a terrified young girl, screaming in fear and pain, struggling while lying naked on a dirt floor, trapped under Azazeal as he – equally naked – restraints her by holding down both of her arms as he violently thrusts into her, a look of sadistic glee on his face) Her name was Meg, she was barely a teenager. Practically still a child. Her parents had served my family and both had died while Meg had been very small. I had taken her into my house and put her to work, but I always looked after her, and ensured that she received an education better than most. And now this child had been raped by a monster I had summoned.”
Rachel pauses to take a sip of orange juice before continuing;
“Azazeal vanished immediately thereafter. Within days Meg was showing signs of being with child. (We see Meg in a simple cotton nightdress, sitting up in bed, a bulge clearly showing. She is in tears and looks extremely distressed. Rachel is sitting next to her on the edge of the bed, turned towards the girl with a look of concern on her face, reaching across and stroking Meg’s hair.) The poor girl was terrified, myself and the rest of the coven, extremely unnerved, although in hindsight we shouldn’t have been too surprised at the unnatural pace of the pregnancy, considering who the father was.”
Rachel allows herself an ironic smile.
“What happened?” Asks Midge.
“A week after the conception, Meg violently and painfully miscarried. (We see Meg – clearly in great pain – staggering out of the servants’ quarters – a long single storey building at the back of Medenham, separated from the mansion by a large courtyard. She grabs the doorframe for support with one hand, while clutching her swollen belly with the other. Then she collapses. Two women dressed in simple maids’ uniforms are running across the yard towards her.) I wish that had been the end of her ordeal, but the child had grown to such a size within her that she still had to give birth to it’s body.” Rachel replies. “Meg went into labour five days later. I stayed with her that night and all the following day (We see a sweat-covered Meg in bed in a dimly-lit room, looking exhausted and in agony. Rachel – grimfaced but calm - is by her side, clutching the girl’s hand as she screams, then patiently and gently applying a damp cloth to her feverish brow). Several times she became so weak she started to slip away. I bullied her into staying alive. Azazeal reappeared the next morning, to lay claim to the child. I confess I took some pleasure in informing him that I had thrown his offspring’s lifeless corpse onto the fire a few hours earlier.” (We see Azazeal standing in front of Rachel, a look of both surprise and impotent anger on his face.)
Rachel looks across at Midge;
“I think it was then that both myself and Azazeal realised that no child of his could ever be carried and born successfully unless the mother gave herself to him willingly. Instead of taking a woman by force, he would have to manipulate and seduce her, deceive and trick her into inviting him between her legs. Since then I’ve discovered that Azazeal had walked the Earth before, in ancient Egypt, and impregnated a woman then, but on that occasion his lover had gladly surrendered to him because she believed him to be one of her gods. Until the moment I confronted him that day, I believe Azazeal had always regarded humans collectively as a feeble-minded irritation and women in particular as chattel. It had never occurred to him that he would need a woman’s agreement – a woman’s permission – to obtain what he wanted.”
“So what did Azareal do, after you told him that his child was dead?” Queries Midge.
“He fled.” Murmurs Rachel. “I was actually foolish enough to believe he feared that myself and the rest of the coven would take revenge, after what he had done to Meg. As if we could have harmed him!” She snorts a humourless laugh before continuing: “We soon learnt the real reason for his flight. Because shortly thereafter, I met an Anointed One for the first time." (We see a dark brown horse slowly approach Medenham along the mansion’s lengthy driveway, a cloaked and hooded figure in the saddle. The rider reaches up and pulls back the hood, revealing a beautiful but grim-faced woman who appears to be in her early twenties, with long blonde hair and a dark, crescent shaped birthmark encircling her left eye.)
Rachel smiles, almost bitterly;
“The only mercy shown to Meg was that her death was quick. I don’t think she suffered. Myself and the other members of the coven realised that the same fate was intended for us, and we fled, some with only the clothes they wore on their backs, as far as possible. (It’s night, and a scene of chaos. We see the servants’ quarters engulfed in flames. Several women are running away in panic, and in the centre of the courtyard Rachel is atop a pebble grey horse that is rearing up in fright. After several seconds she manages to bring the animal under control. She glances round and sees the Anointed One emerging from the burning building through an open doorway, carrying a large sword in one hand. The light cast by the flames causes the blood on the blade to glisten. For a long moment, the eyes of the Anointed One meet with Rachel’s across the courtyard, then Rachel digs her heels into the horse’s sides and rides at speed out of the courtyard.) It was only later, when we felt able to stop and rest, that the full gravity of our situation weighed down upon us: we were tied to Azazeal forever. He could sleep with countless other women, but it was only in our bodies that his seed could take root and grow. Ours… and those of our daughters. And our granddaughters. And so on. We had cursed our own descendents.”
Rachel lets the words linger in the air.
"I discovered later that the Anointed One who slew Meg was named Madeline Thawn." She comments. "Or at least that's the earliest name she used that I've been able to trace."
"But you said this happened in 1743?" Questions Midge. "Ella was the Anointed One back then."
"An Anointed One, my dear. Not singular. Heaven likes to have more than one option." Rachel counters. "From research I commissioned, I've established that Ella was born in 1563. Her father, John Dee was an Annointed One and trained her as his apprentice from an early age. However, it was Madeline Thawn who had taught and mentored him, much earlier. They had gone their separate ways once she was confident of his abilities and knew there was nothing else she could teach him. Madeline continued to operate independently of John Dee, and subsequently his daughter, for many years. When she arrived at Medenham, I believe she had been an Anointed One for over four centuries."
Rachel pauses to sip her orange juice before continuing;
“Needless to say, that wasn’t the last I saw of Azazeal. He tracked me down, but when I resisted his advances he took my sanity, and I sacrificed a loyal servant in a deranged attempt to send him back to Hell. And then the curse was visited upon my daughter, Esther.” She murmurs. “I had sent her away, to stay with relatives. But Azazeal found her. Her guardians fell under his influence, and he persuaded them to return her to Medenham, where his power was strongest. And she subsequently died for her mother’s sins.”
Several seconds pass before Midge speaks, cautiously, and chosing her words with care;
“One thing I don’t understand,” she ventures “is that historial records state you died, in an asylum.”
Rachel looks coolly at her captive, then gazes over the lawn again, a slight ironic smile on her face;
“Yes, madness was my punishment for refusing Azazeal,” she confirms “but immortality was my reward for raising him. A particularly double-edged sword. I think it amused both Heaven and Hell to have me see the suffering my actions would bring to generations of McBains. Eventually the madness passed. And as for reports of my death, I’ve found that if you gain enough wealth, power and influence, you can dictate how history is written. I had a grave and headstone planted in the Medenham grounds to complete the illusion. I’m sure your friend Ella Dee has also assumed new identities numerous times over the centuries.”
She takes another sip of orange juice, then looks across at Midge.
“Where are my manners? Would you like some?” Rachel asks, indicating the jug on the table.
Midge slowly nods, then subtly raises her arms slightly, just enough to rattle the chains on the handcuffs.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be mother.” Rachel announces with a prim smile, then she gets up, pours juice into a free glass, and walks round to where Midge is sitting.
As she does this, several of the bodyguards surrounding the lawn visually tense, but Rachel waves a hand in their direction - a gesture that’s half-dismissive, half-reassuring - letting them know there’s no cause for concern.
Lifting the glass to Midge’s mouth and gently placing the rim against the girl’s lower lip, Rachel then puts her other hand supportively behind Midge’s head. She carefully tilts the glass forward as Midge tilts her head back, enabling the captive to drink unhurriedly for several seconds. Rachel then slowly moves the glass away and places it on the table. Picking up a napkin, she softly dabs Midge’s mouth dry.

Cut to the bathroom in Malachi’s penthouse apartment. Malachi is facing the large mirror that covers the entire wall above the black imitation marble counter which contains the sink. He is leaning forward, staring intently at his now-aged features, slowly running the middle finger of his right hand over his recently acquired wrinkles, tracing the path of every line. Alex silently enters the bathroom, wearing just a cream silk nightie, and stands at his elbow, facing him sideways on.
“I’m not staying like this, Alex.” Malachi murmurs firmly, acknowledging her presense. “I won’t. I’m never getting old. I’m going to say young forever. That’s how it’s supposed to be. I’m going to be young.”
As he prattles on, locked in denial, he never takes his eyes off his reflection, fixating obsessively on his face. Alex moves a few inches closer and starts gently nuzzling his ear.
“This means nothing.” She whispers. “It doesn’t matter. I love you no matter –”
Before the succubus can finish, Malachi spins and violently strikes her across the face with the back of his forearm, knocking her to the floor. He stands over her, eyes glaring and his face distorted with rage;
“IT MATTERS TO ME!” He snarls so loudly that it’s practically a yell, fists cletched at his sides so tightly that the veins stand out on the back of his hands.
Alex doesn’t cower. Instead, as she lays on her back she raises herself slightly on her elbows and regards her husband, looking him firmly in the eyes. His blow has badly split her upper lip, and blood in flowing freely from the wide, lengthy cut, staining her teeth and descending in trails to drip off her chin.
“I’ve managed to access Jo’s private files.” The succubus announces coolly. “My suspicions were correct. She’s been lying to you all along. She’s always known where the missing part of your lifeforce was. It’s inside a girl called Amber Chase. She was a student at Medenham at the same time as your mother.”
Taken aback, Malachi’s anger dissipates so quickly it’s as though someone had flicked a switch.
“Why would she lie to me?” He queries in near-wonderment, meaning Jo.
Alex extends a hand towards him in expectation. He looks at it for a moment in non-comprehension, then understands her intention and takes hold of it, helping his wife to her feet.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Declares Alex, placing a steadying hand on his chest as she regains her balance. “So that she and Hell could control you. They wanted some leverage, a hold over you, to ensure that you didn’t stray from their plan of bringing about the End of Days.”
“But they had no reason to doubt me.” He murmurs, annoyed, slightly bewildered and almost hurt. “The End of Days has always been my intention, the same as their’s.”
“I suppose they thought you were a little too – what did Jo say? – wilful.” Suggests Alex. “This way, they would have a guarantee.”
Malachi ponders on this for several seconds, then nods.
“So where is this girl? How do I go about about getting this part of me back?” He asks.
“Jo’s files include full details of the ritual that can extract the piece of your lifeforce from her and place it back into you.” Alex tells her husband, standing in front of him with her hand still placed on his chest. “I’ve printed it off and placed it in my wall safe. As for the girl, there’s been a surprising development. I’ve just checked your personal e-mail account. You been contacted by someone who claims to have Amber Chase, together with four other women, whom they say are all descendents of Rachel McBain’s extended family. They want to trade.”
Malachi takes this on board, his ears almost visually pricking up as he realises the implications.
“Show me this e-mail.” He commands.
Alex adopts her most kittenish smile.
“I need to get cleaned up first.” She purrs, then she makes a show of slowly running her tongue over her bloodied upper lip.
She turns her back to him, takes a dazzlingly white towel and drabs at the cut with it. A thought occurs to Malachi;
“Why didn’t you tell me about this Chase girl straight away?” He asks. “I wouldn’t have needed to get angry with you if you had.”
To emphasise the point, he playfully but sharply slaps the right cheek of her behind through the silk of her nightie, causing Alex to give a slight start, then laugh softly. She finishes tending to her lip before she replies;
“I felt the need to be punished.” She remarks casually, gazing at herself in the mirror. “Plus I thought spurring you into action would remind you of who you really are. You’re no victim or hostage to fate. That man who stood over me, filled with strength, rage, power – that was my husband. Besides,” she murmurs, turning back towards him “you know how much I enjoy bloodsports.”
Malachi regards her curiously, reflecting on what a unique catch she is, and slowly beginning to realise – for the first time - perhaps how well matched they are. He offers her his arm. With a satisfied smile, Alex takes it, and husband & wife walk out of the bathroom.

End of Part Three.

[fenris]

Part Four.

We're back on the lawn at Rachel’s country estate. The lady of the house is stood leaning over the circular table, refilling Midge’s glass, before sitting back down on the seat opposite her young captive.
“Now, where were we?” Rachel ponders breezily. “Ah yes – the other members of the Medenham coven fled far and wide. Some of them traveled to Ireland or mainland Europe. Madeline Thawn managed to track down and butcher a couple of them, but the others remained safe. After my madness passed, I used my family’s fortune to establish a new identity for myself, away from my former social circle but still an acceptable position in society, in keeping with my previous circumstances. I managed to locate and forge lines of communication with those members of the coven who had remained in mainland Britain. And discovered from them something remarkable.”
Rachel pauses to glance over the sandwiches. Selecting one, she picks it up and takes a small bite out of a corner. She chews delicately and unhurriedly, shallowing before she resumes talking;
“You have to remember that at this time child mortality was high. It was common for a woman in her late twenties to have had twelve or more babies, of which – if she was lucky – two had perhaps survived past infancy. However, the coven members I contacted all informed me that the majority of their offspring were surviving not only birth, but early childhood, and remaining in good health. Some of the coven believed the only explanation was that they had been blessed – that this good fortune was a sign that God had forgiven them for practising the dark arts. But I knew better. I sensed Hell’s hand in these children’s wellbeing. Azazeal wanted to ensure there were many potential candidates to bear his child.”
Rachel takes another petite bite from the sandwich, slowly chews and shallows.
“But as the years went by,” she continues “the surviving coven members watched their children grow to adulthood, became grandparents, and eventually died peacefully in their beds. The last reported sightings of Madeline Thawn occurred in the late eighteenth century. It seemed that both Heaven and Azazeal had been distracted by other matters – that their attention had migrated elsewhere. Decades passed without incident, and I dared to think that we might actually be safe. But then Ella Dee and Mary Warren fell upon us.”
Rachel pauses, uttering the names with a mixture of weary bitterness and resigned acceptance.
“Ella Dee and Mary Warren. God’s Assassins.” She murmurs. “By this time, only a few of the families and descendents of the coven had remained in the British Isles. Most had emigrated overseas. To them, the Anointed One had become a half-forgotten story about a family curse, used to frighten unruly children. They had no idea what awaited them. (We see Ella and Mary, both in hooded cloaks, striding through a graveyard on a brightly moonlit night. Ella is walking directly towards the camera, looking straight ahead with an emotionless but determined look on her face, while Mary follows one pace behind, slightly to Ella's left.) Madeline Thawn had been ruthless. Ella and that Warren bitch were worse. Far worse. Relentless. Untiring. Entirely without mercy, or pity, or remorse. Over the course of several decades, they tracked some of the families down and murdered their womenfolk. Azazeal re-appeared, having learnt of Ella & Mary’s success, and attempted to find and seduce the other female descendents before the Anointed Ones could place them permanently beyond his reach. And so, with the fate of the world at stake, Heaven and Hell played their sick little game, using the deaths of dozens of innocent young girls as a means of keeping score. One by one, the entire family trees of the original members of the coven were wiped out. Whole bloodlines ceased to exist...”
Rachel’s voice trails off. She gazes at the nibbled sandwich sitting on the small china plate on the table, lost in thought.
“And what were you doing, while all this was going on?” Ventures Midge.
Rachel glances up, almost as though having forgotten that Midge was there, but the prim smile is back in an instant;
“I risked a final visit to Medenham and used an incantation to place a psychic marker there, to warn any of my direct descendents about Azazeal.” She states. “Then I retreated back into hiding. I spent the last few decades of the nineteenth century travelling the world, switching identities every few years, but always remaining amongst the upper echelons of society, consolidating wealth and influence. When you live as long as I have, the time inevitably comes when you’re no longer infiltrating the power structure – you have become the power structure. I always tried to monitor the activities and location of Ella, Mary, Azazeal and the scattered descendents of the coven, but unfortunately for most of the twentieth century I was preoccupied with a rather unseemly power struggle against the Count St Germain for control of the Illuminati. When the dust had settled from that squabble, I discovered by using the various considerable resources at my deposal that none of the remaining families descended from the Medenham coven had survived to see the new millienium. To be fair, Ella Dee and Mary Warren weren’t entirely to blame, especially as the latter was now out of the picture. The assorted wars of the twentieth century, which had moved away from the battlefield and instead targeted the general population, had also taken their toll. But the result was the same: all the bloodlines had ceased. Stopped dead. Except one.”
“Your own.” Murmurs Midge, and Rachel nods;
“Of all the coven, I had two descendents left.” She confirms. “Cassie Hughes and her father. I learnt that Azazeal had managed to install Cassie at Medenham, and sent a spy to the school to access the situation (we see a flashback of Kessel in her Janice identity, breasts threatening to spill out of her canteen uniform as she shovels large spoonfuls of mashed potato onto students’ plates), but Cassie had already been impregnated prior to my agent’s arrival. No doubt Ella has told you what happened next. As for Cassie’s father, he died of auto-erotic asphyxiation in a Hamburg hotel room, three years ago ”
“That still leaves Malachi, Cassie’s son.” Midge points out.
“A parasite that fed on the end of my bloodline, nothing more.” Counters Rachel, quick as a flash. “Which leads us to the question that you’ve shown remarkable and, quite frankly, admirable willpower in not asking, namely ‘Why have I abducted you and the other girls you saw down in the cells?’”
“It had crossed my mind.” Deadpans Midge, giving the handcuff chains another jangle.
Rachel smiles – a proper, amused smile which causes her nose to wrinkle, as opposed to the usual prim smile she displays – and just manages to surpress a giggle.
“I like you.” She declares, looking at Midge with new-found curiosity. “I never expected that. How strange.”
“I’m afraid I can’t return the compliment.” Murmurs Midge.
“Quite understandable.” Replies Rachel, totally unabashed. “But to answer the question about you and the others…” She pauses for a moment, and looks Midge straight in the eye: “I had a sister and a brother. Four sisters originally, but Elizabeth died when only three days old, Anne passed away one month before her first birthday, and Jane when she was four. Disease knew no class boundaries in those days. Only my elder sister Emily, my brother Thomas and I survived to adulthood, and Emily died in childbirth, while bearing her first and only child, a sickly boy who died when he was seven. Thomas however produced a son and a daughter, both of whom had children of their own. The son’s bloodline ended early, when his only great-grandchild died young, without any children of her own, but the descendents of Thomas’s daughter married into other families, and eventually scattered across the globe. And despite numerous wars, revolutions, diseases, disasters, and all the other assorted routine strife of human existance, five female members of my niece’s bloodline, all of child-bearing age, are currently alive and well.”
Rachel looks pointedly at Midge and sits silently for several seconds, letting what she’s just said slowly sink in. For Midge, the penny finally drops.
“Me and the other girls –” Midge’s voice tails off.
“You really didn’t know, did you?” Purrs Rachel, who is smiling again – but instead of her usual prim smile, this one is undeniably smug. “Typical Ella.”

Cut to the street outside the house that contains Ella’s basement flat. Thelma, Leon and Ella are all placing bulging backpacks into the open boot of Leon’s Vauxhall Corsa.
“We’re certain this is on the level, then?” Queries Leon, straightening up. “Azazeal knocked up Cassie, who then received an electrical shock when she touched Amber Chase. And as Malachi was gestating in Cassie’s womb, part of his lifeforce was transferred via Cassie to Amber?”
“It’s certainly possible.” Ella decides as Leon slams the boot shut. “Nephilim are susceptible to electricity. Who knows what it’s effects would be on the embryo of a half-Nephilim child?”
“Especially with Amber being a very distant relative, having McBain genes from way, way back in her family tree. It must have made her compatible. If it had been anyone else, the transfer of Malachi's lifeforce wouldn't have happened.” Adds Thelma. “Don’t forget, my source has never put us wrong before.”
Leon unlocks the doors and the three of them enter into the Corsa.
“If nothing else, at least this proves we were right to sew tracking devices into most of Midge’s clothes over the last few months.” Comments Leon, settling in behind the steering wheel.
“I still don’t like that we did it behind her back, though.” Thelma mutters from the back seat. “Do you know how many times I pricked my fingers with that sewing needle? It’s a good thing I don’t feel pain. Good thing I don’t bleed either, or I’d have left bloodstains over half her wardrobe. I’d liked to have seen you try to explain that to her.”
Sitting in the front passenger seat, Ella is leafing through several pages of A4 printouts, reading and re-reading certain sentences or paragraphs.
“If the signal’s accurate – and we’ve no reason to believe it’s not – Midge’s being held at a country estate that was sold twenty years ago to a multi-national corporation. It’s a shame we don’t have more time to dig up anymore information on them, whoever they are.”
Leon reaches beneath his seat and pulls out a creased and battered map-book. It’s cover is almost falling off and it’s pages curl inwards at the corners. He passes it back to Thelma, who takes it with a peeved look on her face.
“Why have I got to map read again?” The ghost complains.
“Because you’re good at it.” Ella chips in, glancing back at her friend. “Remember that time I took us the wrong way round the M25?”
“And we ended up getting snarled up next to Heathrow, right at the beginning of the rush hour.” Thelma murmurs, concluding the anecdote.
The ghost starts flicking through the map book, looking for the correct page to start from;
“It’s nice to be appreciated for something, I suppose.” She opines. “Alright Leon, wagons roll.”

Cut to the lawn at Rachel’s country pile. Rachel is looking, slightly amused, at a distressed Midge. Thoughts of shock, realisation and betrayal have been racing through the young girl’s mind, but she’s collected them into some kind of order;
“Okay… so me and the others are descended from your brother.” Midge murmurs, speaking slowly more for her own benefit than for Rachel’s. “That still doesn’t explain why you’re brought us here.”
“All the members of the coven were cursed with the ability of bearing Azazeal’s child,” Rachel replies, “but as I was the coven leader, responsible for the notion of raising the Nephilim in the first place, it has often been suspected, or alleged, or even assumed that my actions cursed not just my own descendents, but my entire family. Those whose blood was closest to my own. My siblings.”
Midge’s eyes widen slightly.
“You mean that –” She beings, before Rachel finishes the sentence for her;
“There’s a slim chance that one of you may be capable of carrying and successfully giving birth to Azazeal’s spawn.”
Rachel takes another sip of orange juice.
“As the Messiah of the Fallen Angels, Malachi has been a wash-out.” She continues. “Hell assigned a representative to babysit him and keep everything on schedule, but despite her best efforts Malachi is perilously close to completely cocking up the End of Days. And if that scenario comes to pass, then you and my other four guests are the last hope that Azazeal and the Nephilim have of creating another Messiah."
Rachel pops the remaining corner of her sandwich into her mouth, deliberately chews and shallows.
"Earlier today I contacted Hell's representative and offered to trade you and the other girls. To my admittedly considerable surprise, that offer was rejected. So, as I can't sell to the forces of Hell the means of creating another Fallen Messiah, I have already contacted Malachi and made him the same offer. He’ll realise that you and my other guests pose a threat to him. As long as you all remain alive, there’s the possiblity that another Messiah of the Fallen Angels can be born. But as you are the last remaining descendents, if Malachi were to eliminate you, he will be making himself irreplaceable. The end of the McBain bloodline will mean that Hell will have no choice but to support and protect him, as he'll be the last chance of the End of Days ever happening."
Midge stares at the immortal for several seconds in near-disbelief.
"You're selling your last remaining family to someone who wants to kill them so he can destroy the world." She eventually murmurs.
"My dear, I have the blood of my daughter and two and a half centuries worth of descendents on my hands. I have no more tears to cry, nor any pity to give." Rachel declares flatly, no longer smiling. "So... now you know."
Kessel has entered the lawn and is walking towards her employer and Midge, coming from the direction of the mansion. Spotting her approach, the immortal catches the eye of one of the bodyguards on the parameter of the lawn, and waves a dismissive hand towards Midge. The guard walks swiftly but unhurriedly across the lush green grass to the table, where he takes Midge firmly by the arm, and lifts her out of the chair.
"Hasn't it occurred to you" Midge blurts out to Rachel "that even if Malachi does a deal with you, no matter how much money he gives you, it won't be any good to you if everything ceases to exist?"
Rachel adopts an amused smile;
"Money? No, my dear. Nothing so mundane." She declares, then nods to the bodyguard, who starts to firmly escort Midge - maintaining his grip on her arm - back towards the house, the pair of them passing Kessel as the tall Germanic blonde heads towards her employer.
"What news?" Rachel asks as Kessel reaches her.
"Malachi has accepted your offer." Kessel reports. "He doesn't even want to negotiate. He says he's prepared to give you whatever you want."
Rachel beams like a cheshire cat, leans back in her chair and claps her hands together in front of her, clasping them together in triumph.
"Excellent." She purrs, then gazes slyly towards her underling. "I think a celebration is in order."
Rising from the chair, Rachel stands in front of Kessel, places her hands on the young woman's shoulders, and gently pulls Kessel towards her while leaning in and softly kissing her on the lips. As Kessel responds, Rachel moves one hand to the zip at the front of the girl's catsuit, and starts to pull the fob downwards, immediately exposing the German's formidable breasts as they almost burst out of the confines of the tight outfit. Kessel breaks away from the kiss to glance in the direction of the guards on the edge of the lawn.
"Here?" She asks.
Rachel smiles and reaches up to softly caress her employee's face;
"No need to be coy." The immortal gently chides. "It's nothing they haven't seen before."

Cut to a semi-darkened room, the only illumination being a single bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. The walls are bare plaster, splattered and splashed with numerous long-dried stains of various colours, some faded, other more recent. A man, naked except for a black leather thong, is strapped by his wrists and ankles to a large X shaped metal frame that stands against one wall. The man's body is covered in dozens of long, thin, nasty-looking weals and cuts. His head is hanging down, his eyes are closed, and he's wearing a ball gag. A tall, slim woman is standing in front of him, admiring her own handiwork. She's wearing an outfit almost entirely of black PVC and leather: a corset, long gloves that almost reach her elbows, a thong, thigh-length boots and a head-covering gimp mask with zipper mouth. High on her left leg she's also wearing a garter, behind which a mobile phone has been tucked, and in her right hand she's carrying a very long leather whip, most of the length of which is coiled on the bare concrete floor. The phone starts to ring. Draping the whip over the man's neck, the woman pulls the phone out from the garter with her left hand, while with her right hand she reaches back, undoes the vertical zip at the rear of the gimp mask then pulls the mask off in one swift movement, revealing herself to be Perie. Taking a moment to shake her hair loose, the faerie answers the phone.
"Speak." She purrs in her exotic accent.
We hear Jo's voice, clearly audible over the phone;
"Are you busy?" The ex-teacher asks.
"I was just concluding my first session with a new client." Perie murmurs. "The initial encounter is always the most exhilarating. Their limitations are a mystery, waiting to be discovered. Unfortunately this particular individual proved to be something of a disappointment. He commenced screaming the agreed safety word with barely twelve minutes having passed. I have to confess that I was enjoying myself so comprehensively, I completely ignored him. It was very unprofessional of me."
"And now?" Jo enquiries.
Perie gazes over the man's prone form.
"He is broken." She concludes.
A pause.
"I have something for you." Jo reports. "You'll need to be ready to move at short notice."
"Am I to presume that you need me to kill someone?" The faerie enquires.
"Correct." Jo confirms. "Most likely a great many people."
Perie smiles.

On screen caption: To be continued.

[robgairey]

Just to re-iterate that I am loving this continuation of the "Hex" story - it's building nicely to what looks set to be a hum-dinger of a climax. Mary Warren is a great addition to the mythos, and now Ella and co have Rachel McBain to contend with too!

Looking forward to the next instalment!

[orokiah]

Another great instalment - some real gems of moments in this episode, particularly the revelations about Rachel McBain's survival, Jo in mother/lover mode and miracle-gro Malachi being taken to its logical conclusion. If only we could have seen that on TV.

I also really like that you've stuck to your mission statement (for want of a better word) at the outset of the virtual season: not having Ella and co constantly playing catch up. To find out they knew all along about Midge's lineage and didn't have to scrabble around to work it all out - nice touch, and very satisfying.

[fenris]

Thank you so much for the kind words, rob and orokiah.

Apologises for the delay in posting the next instalment, but as I explained in the thread containing Episode #9, unfortunately I don't have much spare time to spend writing these days. However, I'm still working on the Virtual Third Season when I get the chance, and am currently about halfway through Episode #11. Afraid I can't say when it will be finished.

[WarrenWitchesRule]

Any idea when we can read the next installment coz I'm sure I'm not the only one who's desperate to read it

[fenris]

Thank you for your enthusiasm and encouragement, WARRENWITCHESRULE. It's good to know that you're enjoying the Virtual Third Season.

I'm still working on Episode#11, but at the moment I can't honestly say when it will be finished. Hopefully sooner rather than later.

[tenacious]

;D Once again really good work, I like the fact that you work so well with the within the bounds of the Hex world. And that characters you add keep the story moving foward without losing the main charactars.
Anyway thanks again for giving us more the Hex.

[dianabz]

I am getting repetitive in saying I enjoyed another episode but it is true.

How long does it take for you to work on each ep. roughly? It seems to take you quite long with certain ones which made me wonder. Was it a case of you sitting there and working things out or do you wait for the muse to sort itself out. Though you've mentioned you do re-writes.

[dianabz]

Oh I know what else I meant ot ask. Do you see it then write it or does it unfold as it is being written?

With me I see the characters and have to play catch up at jotting it down, oftentimes because I can't and am not able to write triggers the idea gets forgotten.

[fenris]

dianabz said:

I am getting repetitive in saying I enjoyed another episode but it is true.

I'm just glad that you're enjoying my efforts, dianabz. Thank you for all your comments and queries.

How long does it take for you to work on each episode roughly? It seems to take you quite long with certain ones which made me wonder. Was it a case of you sitting there and working things out or do you wait for the muse to sort itself out.

It's mostly finding enough free time to spend writing. As I've remarked above and in the thread for Episode #9, due to various changes in my personal circumstances about a year and a half ago, I don't have as much time available as I used to.
However, there are occasions when I'm enthused with a genuine joy of writing and being creative and it comes easily to me, and other periods when it's more forced. There's the old saying, 'a writer writes', and I know it to be true. I have nothing but admiration for professional writers who are filled with the desire - the need - to write. To get all of the ideas, the words, the phrases that are inside them, out onto the screen or page. I get that feeling sometimes, for a few days, or weeks or months, but genuine writers experience it all the time. Those people are writers - I just dabble.

Do you see it then write it or does it unfold as it is being written?

I usually have entire scenes, sequences, and lines of dialogue all worked out in my head before I sit down and start typing. Sometimes when writing I might think of a better choice of words or a more imaginative descriptive term, but such changes are usually minor.
That said, I do struggle with some scenes, because I know what happens (in the scene) and what I'm trying to achieve, but I'm just not happy with what I've initially come up with. To be blunt, what I've written either isn't working, or just isn't good enough. It's on those occasions that I do rewrites, until I'm (reasonably) satisfied with the result.