"Now, who the hell are you two?" Steve turned on Martha and Abigail, his body angled between them and the kids like a human shield. Max sniffled and shook, wrapped securely in Lucas's arms. He rocked her gently back and forth, stroking her hair.

"You're okay. It's okay." He whispered. It sounded like a reassurance for him as much as it was for her. Martha wished that saying it would make it true. The moment she recovered her voice, the second boy piled on, squeezing her between them and shedding thick tears of relief. The wind stirred the dead leaves around them, and the birds and small animals resumed their business as if all was right in the world again. It most certainly was not.

"I could ask you the same thing." Martha rasped, her vision dipping in and out of focus. Gravestones and green-cut grass melded into one. A blend of vague shapes and muted colors. She knelt beside Abigail, who bore the brunt of Martha's weight on her shoulder. "How'd you know how to help her?" Martha's brows furrowed as she looked at each member of their motley crew. None of them seemed to fit together.

Lucas was a jock if Martha ever saw one. Given that her experience with high school cliques and stereotypes was limited to the television she and Abigail saved up to buy, it was a miracle she knew even that. His lettered red puffer jacket and baseball jersey beneath sold him out. His hair was buzzed short at the sides and shaped into a squared afro.

"Lucky guess." The second boy shrugged, his eyes dissecting every detail of the two young women. He was a strange blend of patterns and bold lettering. His shirt was tucked into his belted waistband in a way that must've been drilled into him by his mother. "Your turn." He jutted his chin aggressively towards them. Steve crossed his arms over his chest and raised a brow. After a pause, the boy mirrored him.

"I'm Abigail Montez. This is Martha Labelle." Abigail pointed to them in turn. Martha tried to get her attention by shaking her head with wide eyes and pursed lips. She wished that mind reading was one of the coven's capabilities.

"Steve Harrington," he announced, then looked to the others. "That's Lucas Sinclair, Max Mayfield, and Dustin Henderson." There was a pause, and Martha felt their expectation like a wall of hot air pressing in on her.

"We kinda have to tell them." Abigail sighed and tilted her head to the side. Martha shook her head again.

"It affects more than just us." If it were only the two of them at stake she would take the risk, but their secret was more than theirs. History was not kind to witches, and history almost always repeated itself. It only took one loose tongue to make a spark, and a spark could easily be set ablaze. Martha couldn't trust four people she'd only just met with the most important secret she had. She didn't pick up any malicious energy around them, and though she couldn't muster the power to scan their auras, she suspected they were nothing out of the ordinary.

"You're like El, aren't you?" Max muttered, her voice meek and breathless. All eyes turned to her as she clutched Lucas's arm around her chest with both hands. Lucas held her as delicately as a flower and kept a firm hold as she shakily pushed herself to sit. Her auburn hair was a rat's nest with chunks pulled loose from her bright blue scrunchie. Max met Martha's eyes with an intensity that didn't seem to fit her exhaustion. "You came from Hawkins Lab." Martha's brows furrowed. What did Hawkins Lab have to do with this? Martha thought back to all the places they'd pinpointed as hosting a gateway to the other world. Hawkins Laboratory was on the list, though it was closed without explanation before the coven had gotten to it.

"El?" Martha parroted, scrunching her face.

"Eleven? Dr. Brenner?" Dustin lifted the end of each word as if it should be common knowledge what they meant. The number eleven was nothing significant, as far as Martha could remember. Her mind wasn't working at full capacity, so she decided she could be wrong. Steve's eyes trailed from Martha's face to her hand resting in the grass. He pressed his lips into a line.

"Guys, her wrist." Martha frowned, but before she could ask, Dustin lunged for her. He gripped her hand and yanked her towards him, simultaneously shoving the sleeve of Martha's sweater up her forearm. Had it not been for Abigail's arm around her, Martha would've fallen face-first into the grass. Her head shot through with pain as Dustin peered at the exposed skin of her inner wrist. The pads of his fingers dug into her skin hard enough that she thought it might bruise later. Martha tried to pull her arm back, but his grip was determined.

"Hey!" Dustin dropped her hand and sat back on his heels as quickly as he came.

"Nothing," he frowned. Steve, however, raised both hands in exasperation and glared at Dustin.

"Dude, you can't just grab people!" He turned to Martha and winced. At least he felt bad. Not that he was the one to grab her. "I am so sorry, he can be--"

"I can when they're suspicious! Probable cause!" Dustin pointed an accusatory finger at them like a little kid blaming a sibling for stealing his toy. Martha clutched her head and pressed her eyes shut. The glaring sunset shot daggers into her brain.

"No, you really can't!" Steve ran a hand through tousled brown hair with a groan. He did have very nice hair. Dustin reached for Abigail before Steve could stop him.

"We're not from Hawkins Lab." Abigail hit his hand away with a sharp smack. "We're witches." Martha's eyes shot open. Had she really just done that?

"Abigail!" Martha's head whipped to the side in a panic, and her head throbbed in protest. They were so fucked.

"Witches?" Steve scoffed, arching a brow. Neither Martha nor Abigail smiled. It was Martha's expression of irritation that dissolved his amusement. "Seriously?" He dipped his head, lowering his voice as if someone might be listening. Martha shut her eyes again and focused hard on each breath. In and out, in and out, in and--

"Holy shit." Dustin's eyes rounded to saucers. His head leaned in but his body stayed put. "Like, you can do magic?"

"You're telling me that you guys are running around Hawkins on brooms and casting spells on girls in graveyards?" Lucas stared in awe. Steve, however, gaped at his companions.

"You guys actually believe this shit?" He threw a hand out towards the witches, then crossed his arms. Dustin glared at him.

"Considering last summer we busted a secret Russian base beneath the mall and stopped the Mind Flayer. trying to take over the world-- ya' know, Witches, seem pretty tame to me." Steve shut his mouth.

"I'll give you that," Max said nothing, but Martha was more interested in her than in the argument unfolding. Max watched her just as intently, eyes narrowing as if reading a finely printed document. There was a glimmer of something there that Martha couldn't quite place. Was it suspicion? Confusion? Recognition? The group quieted as Max found her voice again.

"You were in my head. I saw you. You tried to help me." Max's eyes brightened, more alert now. It wasn't a question but a statement. Max remembered her, though Martha wasn't sure if that was a good thing. Martha mustered a small smile.

"Yeah," she nodded. Martha softened her gaze, trying to convey how sorry she was that she hadn't done more to help. The leaves around them stirred, and a chill ran up her spine. It reminded her of where they were and what may be there with them. "We'll explain everything, but right now we need to get out of here. We still don't know how this monster--"

"Vecna. We're calling him Vecna." Dustin held up a finger to interject. Abigail shot him a patronizing look. Martha took a breath.

"Alright, well, we still don't know how Vecna works." She put extra emphasis on the name, and Dustin nodded his approval. "I don't want to test fate by sticking around after an attack." Martha rubbed her temples, the headache only worsening as the sun reached its crescendo before disappearing for the night. Abigail rubbed along her back, which did nothing to lessen the pain, but managed to calm Martha's nerves somewhat. The kids and Steve shared meaningful glances. Martha wondered how many times they'd gotten into a situation like this. They seemed to have a secret language. Steve suddenly let out a long groan of frustration, running a hand down his weary face. An agreement had been made. What it was, Martha didn't know.

"Okay, you're right." He pushed himself up to stand. "You heard her, let's get out of here before Vecna comes back to finish us off." He began to corral the kids to stand, taking special care to lift Max and check her over for any distress. Lucas kept a protective hand on her arm.

"But what about--" Dustin began, but Steve snapped back.

"I don't wanna hear it. I'm supposed to be keeping you safe." He shooed them towards the slope where their car waited on the path below. Martha began pushing herself up as Abigail wrapped an arm around her waist to hoist her. "I will not be the babysitter who gets a kid killed on my watch. Do you know who'd be suspect number one in that murder case? Me!"

"Alright! Alright! We're going, Jesus." Dustin threw up both hands, then turned to help Lucas with a jelly-legged Max. Martha held onto Abigail tightly as they began to descend the steep incline in small, steady steps. Steve slowed to walk beside them. Martha's head shot through with agony at every movement. She fought the urge to shut her eyes against the slowly dimming light, reminding herself that she needed to see where she was going.

"Thank you," Steve was much less impassioned as he stared at the backs of his retreating charges. Martha turned her head, her brows furrowing over the tightened muscles of her eyes. If her stress levels stayed this high, she'd have crow's feet before she turned twenty-five. She could barely sense the sorrow gnawing at Steve's heart. It was a weighted presence beside her, but still not malicious. His eyes drooped with exhaustion, and his frown was deep enough to drag the entirety of his expression down. Martha wondered what he looked like when his mind was free of such burdens -- when his eyes were alight with joy and his mouth lifted in a grin. She couldn't remember what she looked like that way.

"For what?" Martha's voice was tired and breathy. It was Steve's turn to look confused, and he turned his head to meet her eyes.

"For helping her." He tilted his head in Max's direction as if it was the most obvious thing. Martha took another step forward, and her shoe rolled on a stray acorn. The momentum threw her backward. She anticipated the hard strike of the ground hitting her spine and the pulse of agony that would rush through her. Instead, another set of arms wrapped around her middle as Abigail yanked her upright. Her vision spun, and nausea crept its way up her throat.

"Martha, you good?" Abigail's voice was strained enough that Martha could tell she'd been startled.

"Easy, just take a few breaths." Steve's voice was deep and soothing. It rolled over her like the warmth of a burning fire. She leaned into it, shut her eyes, and breathed. She focused all her energy on not hurling all over his shirt. He was so close she could smell his cologne and feel his breath brush against her ear.

"Yeah," Martha whispered. The threat of vomit had subsided, and her eyes fluttered open. "Just-- tired." Steve loosened his arms from around her, leaving one in case she slipped again. Martha shivered as his fingertips brushed the hem of her shirt. Steve's eyes darted around the edges of her face. She felt she was being studied.

"Does, uh, magic...do that?" Steve's words were joined and apprehensive. His cheeks bloomed a faint shade of scarlet. He looked away and took a step, arm still warm around Martha's waist. She followed, sure to check the ground for any other treacherous spots.

"She just did the magic equivalent of running a marathon without water. Of course, she's tired," Abigail scoffed. Martha gave her hand a hard squeeze that said, 'behave'.

"Yes, magic is... exhausting. It takes energy, just like any other task." She smiled up at Steve, hoping to reassure him. "It also doesn't help that Vecna forced me out of Max's mind. I've got the migraine of the century."

"We have a numbing potion in the car." Abigail reminded her, taking extra care to help Martha down the last bit of the hill and onto the gravel drive. The kids were already settling Max in the back seat, taking care to buckle her in like a toddler. She seemed too tired to protest, but the halfhearted glare told Martha that she'd be a spitfire under normal circumstances. When they reached the front of the car, Steve extracted himself from Martha, leaving her to lean heavily on Abigail's shoulder.

"We'll meet up with Nancy and Robin at the Wheelers." Steve leaned across the console and dug a notepad from the glove compartment. When he came out again he jotted down a few lines against the hood. "This is the address. You can follow our car." He looked between them, frowning when he noticed how haggard Martha was. He handed it to Abigail.

"Okay." Abigail eyed the address curiously, and Martha peeked over to get a look. "We'll meet you there." Steve stood still for a moment, and they stared at each other. He cleared his throat, ran a hand through his hair, and nodded. He flashed a bashful smile at Martha, then turned to join the kids. Faint bickering ensued the moment he reached them.

"Are we really doing this?" Martha asked, her face devoid of any emotion. She was too tired to care at this point. In her heart, she knew that following them was their best chance to stop the murders. Max had barely escaped a dark and terrible fate at the hands of that hideous monster. Martha shivered as his meaty face flashed in the back of her mind.

"Do you think we can trust them?" Martha saw Abigail turn her head out of the corner of her eye. She was worried. Martha could tell from the pinch between her brows.

"I honestly don't know." It was the truth. They were going in blind, and at this point, she'd be in so much trouble with the coven that they might as well get as much information as they could before the inevitable blowout with Uncle George. At least then, they'd have something to show for their recklessness.

"I guess we'll find out." Abigail sighed and led Martha back to their borrowed pickup.

The first of two cracks in the universe was no more than a water stain in a crumbling plaster ceiling. The trailer felt more like a broom closet with eight witches crowded in the living room. The cold white of street lights filtered in through drawn plaid curtains. A sliver of aggravated fleshy substance peeked out behind flakes of yellowing white paint. A mirroring deep maroon stain soaked into the carpet below. George Labelle tipped his head back to look straight into the eye of the devil.

"It doesn't look like any monsters had the chance to climb through yet." George's muscles slackened the knots and ties he'd worked up. At least there was that, he thought. The rest of the coven waited in the safety of the woods, their hands joined in a spell that would pool their power into one witch. Into this one spell. Shannon made the ultimate decision for them to keep their distance. The crime scene may not be active anymore, but even a disillusionment spell couldn't hide an entire coven from prying eyes.

"We can't be sure. The Shadow creature doesn't need more than a pinprick to cause carnage." Shannon frowned, her freckled face creasing. George followed the line of his right shoulder to where the High Priestess stood. She looked far older than he knew her to be. The shadows exaggerated the bags beneath her eyes and the worry lines between her brows. She was only eight years his senior, and he thought of her as a close friend. He thought of her more than he ought to. That night, however, he found it hard to see behind the mask she sculpted around herself. Shannon was their leader, and even with the support of the other elders, she bore the brunt of their burdens.

"The shadow monster lost its power when the gates were closed. Even if it's already here, it won't survive if we cut it off from its roots." Shannon seemed to mull it over, nibbling at her lower lip with a glazed expression. She probably wasn't even aware of her little habits, but George had each one cataloged in his mind like an encyclopedia. He heard her huff of resignation in his mind before she expelled it in the stale air of the trailer.

"Alright." Shannon looked up at him, her eyes shining in the street light. George wanted to reach out and take her hand in his, to wind a lock of her burning auburn hair around his fingers and learn if it was as silken as he imagined. He did none of those things. Shannon stepped away, and George retreated to the opposite side of the room, passing Alfonso and Jodie as they hoisted a metal ladder into the center. George stopped beside Peter, who wrapped both arms around his stomach as he stared sightlessly at the ceiling. The fateful white moonstone was clutched in his hand.

"You aren't alone." George placed a firm hand on Peter's shoulder. The man was older than George and already had three beautiful girls with his wife, Carla. Tearful goodbyes were shared, and Peter set off on his next journey. "The others will be there waiting once it's over. Diana chose you for a reason."

"It doesn't make it any easier," Peter muttered, his Adam's apple bobbing. It was a sacrifice that had to be made. No sacrifice would ever be easy.

"No, I suppose it doesn't." George frowned.

"Look out for my girls while I'm gone?" Peter looked at him with such piercing clarity that George's throat pinched tight. George didn't trust that his voice would come, so he nodded, struggling to swallow.

  "It's time." Jodie stood before them, her voice trembling as tears spilled over her cheeks. She held out a hand to Peter, and with only a moment's hesitation, he took it. Shannon stood at the center, where blood from that poor high schooler stained the carpet. The trailer was clean of any other sign of tragedy, but no matter how hard they scrubbed, it would never release the imprint of Chrissy Cunningham's final moments. George couldn't imagine losing a child. She was only seventeen. Younger than Martha by almost three years. Since the very first gate shook their coven to the core, George prayed to Diana that his family be protected, and when Silvia was chosen as a sacrifice, he vowed again to protect Martha with his life.

He reminded himself of this fact each time he was forced to part with another friend. This was bigger than them alone. George watched from the edge of the circle as Jodie helped Peter up the ladder and handed him the freshly sharpened dagger. George's stomach dropped. His mind flashed to the silent forest nine months ago, to the same dagger carving a line through his sister's wrist and spilling blood onto dead leaves. This was the price they paid for their town.

George found his place beside Shannon, and her hand clasped his. He squeezed, once twice, three short pulses, enough for the crinkles around her eyes to ease. She sent him a tired smile and turned to address the circle. The ceremony was the same as every time before, as sorrowful and charged, agonizing. George squeezed his eyes shut as Peter slashed the knife across his skin, and blood spilled once more to the floor. He didn't look back as he climbed through the gap in the ceiling and was swallowed by hell itself.

George watched the place where Peter disappeared and waited for the flesh to knit and wind itself together. He waited, listening to the voices of his coven as they chanted in unison. He waited, for the crack in the plaster to become just that, for the gate to close and lock. He waited...