41. Double Trouble

This is stupid. This is not a smart plan. Why can't we just snatch a run-of-the-mill demon and do it that way? Why do we need to dig her up and sew her back together? Hell, I'd be willing to summon Crowley here!

I'm pacing, resisting the urge to scratch my arms raw as the boys temporarily become Dr. Frankenstein. From the moment they had the idea, I said no.

This is insane.

"You could have just waited out in the car, Max," says Dean.

"And miss the reunion? Nah. Besides, I want to watch it blow up in your faces." I make sure I'm not facing the surgery that's going on nearby. "I still think there's an easier way to do this."

"We don't have the time to track a demon and play kidnapper. If we had no other option, then we would."

"But you know what she's done. She killed Henry!" I snap. I stand my ground. Thankfully, Sam's body is keeping his work out of my sight. I glare at Dean. "Why do you think you made her into puzzle pieces and buried her so she couldn't build herself back up again?"

"Max—"

"We should at least put a Devil's trap on the floor."

"She's still got the bullet in her. She won't be going anywhere."

I snort. "I still don't like this idea."

"You think we want to play surgeon?" Sam asks. He steps away, and it takes everything in me to not puke.

You would never know she's been sewn back together, minus her hands, unless you look at her stubs that are her arms, and the lovely stitched smile across her neck. She looks even more intimidating this way. A modern day Frankenstein, only ten times worse.

Abaddon.

I cringe as she stirs, cracking her head. She gives a sigh of relief, and my first instinct is to throw holy water on her. Her eyes open, pitch-black.

"Morning, sunshines," she croons, her eyes reverting back to her possessed body's normal coloring.

"It worked," says Dean. He looks at me. "You owe me a beer."

"And I owe you three so, so much," says Abaddon. "I can't wait to tear out those pretty green eyes. But I think I'll start with the girl first." Her smile is feline. "I never got the chance to properly introduce her to our world."

"Good luck with that," I say haughtily.

"We figured kitty didn't need her claws," Dean tells her.

"Then I'll stump you to death," spits the demon. "It'll be swell."

"Yeah, that's not gonna happen, either. The bullet—remember?" Sam reminds her.

"So you sit there like a good little bitch," Dean degrades her. Under a normal circumstance, I'd lecture him. "We're gonna consecrate the ground, and you're gonna get to fessing up."

"Oh, I know this tune," says Abaddon.

"I doubt that," I say.

"Father Max Thompson, born October twelfth, nineteen ten. Died August fifth, nineteen fifty-eight. Who do you think ripped him apart?" The feline smile is still there on her face. "Word got back to home office that Maxie was messing with things, so we made an example. It wasn't my most artful kill, but it was effective. And bonus—before he died, he told me all about Josie Sands. I found her, and I rode her into the Men of Letters." The demon laughs. "And what I did to them, that was art."

"So you know what Max was doing?" I ask.

"Fella screamed the basics...but it'll never work."

"You keep telling yourself that."

Someone's phone goes off—it's Sam's. He answers. Just the look on his face alone tells me it's not a wanted caller.

"Crowley," he practically growls.

I swallow.

"Crowley?" Abaddon inquires. "The salesman?"

"Try the King of Hell," I tell her bitterly, sticking my hands under my arms so I don't scratch.

"This is a joke, right?" She sighs.

"Stay," Dean orders.

The three of us head outside (because there is nothing on God's green Earth that will make me be in the same room as the redheaded demon), and Sam puts the phone on speaker.

"How'd you get this number?" asks Sam.

"Ah, first things first—what are you wearing?"

"Oh, okay, hanging up now," says Dean quickly. "Hang up."

"Fine. This isn't a social call. I was wondering. You lads been reading the papers, say, Denver Times from yesterday? No? Well, you should. It's side-splitting." There's creaking. "What the hell—I'm sexting you an address. Check it out. Then we'll talk. Cheerio."

"Wait, what?" I stammer. "Crowley?"

But the call's done. I run a hand through my hair, feeling anxious the longer we're away from Abaddon.

"Here it is," says Dean, bringing my attention back. "Vic's name is Tommy Collins. Tommy. Why do I know that name?"

"Well, Tommy Collins, we saved him from a Wendigo like forever ago," Sam says.

"Okay, and, what, you think that Crowley blew his head off? Well, what are we dealing with here? Some sort of demon-Wendigo team-up?"

"Uh, no clue."

"All right, well, we'll pour one out for Tommy later. As far as Crowley goes, screw him. We got everything we need to put him in a permanent time-out."

I'm the one to lead the charge back into the room. My heart sprints with my legs as it drops. No. No, no, no, no. Shit no.

We're missing the one key factor: Abaddon. Somehow, the bitch has made her escape. No trace of her, only an empty chair.

"Son of a bitch!" I bellow at the disappointing sight. "She's gone."

"Max, Dean!" Sam's got a bullet between his fingers—the Devil's trap bullet.

"Fuck!" I feel like stabbing something. I feel like I need to injure something. The one chance we had to complete the third trial, and we took our eyes off of it for no more than five minutes. How did she manage to get away? "I told you we should have put a trap on the floor! But no, you insisted that the bullet in her body would keep her hostage! A mark on the floor would have done it!"

"All right, all right, so we made a mistake," Dean tells me.

"A big mistake."

"Okay, okay, calm down, Max. We'll move on from this."

"We should have just hunted for one ourselves instead of digging her up."

I hear the chime of Sam's phone, which startles me enough to diffuse the anger inside me.

"It's a text message from Crowley—an address in Prosperity, Indiana."

"Prosperity?" asks Dean. "Didn't we work a case there? Yeah, yeah, the one with the witches and the baked goods. So what? He's going after somebody there now?"

"I don't know. We got to check it out."

"Well, you know it's a trap," I say indignantly.

"Of course it's a trap. But a trap means demons, and we could use one right now."

"See? Problem solved," Dean tells me.

* * *

As we roll up to the house, I hope there are demons waiting. I want to hurt one. I'm in one of those moods. A mood I haven't felt since I was out on the streets, since I fought for my life, for Emmett and Sophie's.

As we get out and arm ourselves, Dean presses the gun into my hand.

"Don't get trigger-happy," he warns me. "If you do, shoot to injure, not kill."

"No promises." I receive a flashlight.

The three of us cross the street in the night.

I hate eerie silence. I'm extremely alert as we make our way through the house. While I'm focused on finding something, I'm also searching for a light switch. My light falls onto anything my eyes think they see.

"Sam," Dean whisper-calls. "Max."

Sam and I meet Dean in the kitchen. I wrinkle my nose as Dean's light is shone on a burnt body, lying down in the open oven. It's a grisly sight, and the burnt smell makes me gag.

"Is that...Jenny?" Sam asks reluctantly.

"You were a great gal, Jenny Klein."

"Jesus!" I yelp as Sam's phone rings. No doubt it's the King of Hell again. Sam makes sure to put the phone on speaker.

"Hey," comes Crowley's voice.

"What the hell are you doing, Crowley?" I demand.

"Oh, Maxi, isn't it obvious? I'm killing everyone the boys have ever saved—the damsels in distress, the innocent whippersnappers, the would-be vampire chow—all of them."

"How do you even know—?" Dean tries.

"I have my sources and a cracking research team." Crowley chuckles, sending violent shivers through me. "When you boys hit a town, you tend to leave a mess. Now, you're probably wondering why my droogs aren't in there giving you the bum's rush, so let's brass these tacks, shall we? I'm gonna gut one person every twelve hours until you bring me the Demon Tablet and stop this whole trials nonsense."

"We don't have the tablet," I say, exasperated. "Kevin took it and—"

"I took Kevin. Then someone took him back. Word from the cloud is that it wasn't Heaven. So either the cutest little prophet in the world is with you three saps, or you better find him tout-bloody-suite because time, she is a-wasting. About now, you're thinking of ways to stop me. You won't be able to, but you'll try because that's what you do. You—you try.

"So, time for an object lesson. Indianapolis, the Ivy Motel, room one-sixteen. You have fifty-seven minutes."

Dean and Sam take off out of the house in a sprint, and I'm hustling to keep up after them.

"Guys!" I nearly fall down the steps. "Is it within running distance?"

"Of course not, Max!" Dean says as we run for the Impala. "You better buckle up quick, otherwise you're gonna get launched."

Fortunately, I just get my belt in its holder before Dean tears off into the street, gunning it for the Ivy Motel.

**Quick interjection here: At this point in the story, there's not too much left. So, consider this the final leg in the journey.

How will it all end, you ask? Well, I know how it'll go.

The question is: do you?**