Chapter 56

This time, I awoke to find that my Frey hostages were atop me and quite eager to feed me their blood as well as feed off me. I cut myself and gladly fed them, pleased that they had taken to their captivity by now. I seriously considered turning them both, but at this point, I wasn’t too sure if I didn’t still need at least two more humans in thrall to me.

“I’m giving both of you names. New names of my choice. My way of claiming you. You’re Melanie and Melissa. And you’re both mine, no doubt of that now, is there? Now, if you’ll come with me, we have places to go ... all of us,” I now determined my next course of action.

I was going to find that damn Colt, and I was going to hunt down Lucifer before he could do any more harm than he already did. The version of him that existed in the Supernatural universe, after all, was no better than Chuck Shurley/God. I need to eliminate him, plus probably God, maybe even a few other angels, such as Zachariah and Michael. Amara would have to go, too, which amused me as I recalled the name of my ring. The Ring of fucking Amara, no less.

I would have a bit more fun with the Supernatural universe, and then do more sorting out in other places in due time. I still had to sort out Game of Thrones to a satisfactory conclusion, along with True Blood and more. There was the Buffyverse, and the Charmedverse, etc. So many more options to pursue, including the Millennium universe ... and X-Files. There was so much I could fucking do with X-Files ... and for amusement, Friends, That 70s Show, so much else. Frasier came to mind, especially since I wouldn’t mind trying out Daphne Moon. Quite frankly, Englishwomen were so delightful, I thought.

Then there was this universe, American Horror Story ... and the Walking Dead. Who knew, maybe I could slide on over to Star Trek or Sliders or Smallville, just to name a few others. Yes, yes, there were so many damn possibilities, weren’t there? Imagine ER or Grey’s Anatomy. Or back to Shameless in time. Or Orange Is The New Black. Or that Danish series about the teacher, yeah, Rita, that was it. Or Riverdale or Sabrina. You get the idea.

I knew exactly where I was headed, of course. I would find Crowley, and once I found him, I would find the Colt. Talk about a handy addition to my arsenal, right? At least, as a vampire, I was outside Crowley’s jurisdiction forever. I could never be damned to Hell. He had no power over me at all. Yeah, a rogue vampire on the loose in the world, the Supernatural one, that was, yeah, that would be a real canary in the coal mine, wouldn’t it?

“So ... you’re the one that did it, huh? Broke the final seal, dusted Ruby, Lilith, some poor girl, and the fucking Archangel Raphael, no less ... tried to dust some poor, unfortunate writer, but he somehow survived. Maybe because he was a Prophet or whatever,” Crowley’s voice called out as he saw me in the darkness of a crypt where he held out.

“That would be me. Name’s Roger ... Waters,” I informed him now, appearing in the shadows with my posse ... while he had his own very close to him.

“So, what do you want from me? You’re a vampire, aren’t you? You can’t be offering me a soul. You guys have none. You could never be where I call home. If you die, you go to Purgatory. Them’s the rules. You have these three, that do have souls, but what are the chances that you’d sacrifice them? They smell like your blood. You’re attached to them, joined at the hip, I dare say. So, what, pray tell, is your ... game? What’s your angle?” Crowley’s crisp English accent couldn’t hide his suspicion and fear of me.

I was a lone wolf, so to speak. A rogue, a renegade. I was a free agent, operating with my crew according to my own damn rules, and with no chain of command to restrain. There was no handbook, no book of regulations, no disciplinary process to bring me to heel. The only ones guiding me were the Muses, and they answered to far greater Deities than any in this particular dimension. A lot greater than Chuck by God Shurley!

Or Carver Edlund, as he was also known. Motherfucking Cosmic sadist, that rotten prick Jehovah or whatever. He and his sister could rotten, for all I cared. So could the Four Effin’ Horsemen of the Apocalypse, too. Death? The Grim Reaper wasn’t Death, not compared to me. As Oppenheimer once quoted and the Hindus wrote, “I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.”

I was the real deal ... the real McCoy. Sickle or no sickle, I wasn’t hype. As a vampire, I was Death on steroids. I was Nosferatu, the Undead. Not exactly Dracula, but as close as this world would come to it. And I would let the fucking bodies hit the floor.

“I want the Colt, Crowley. So, cut the crap and give it to me, or else...,” I dangled the threat.

“And what’s the carrot? I gather that your ‘stick’ is to drain every person alive and rob both Heaven and Hell of all new livestock. Or everyone that you can. And I don’t doubt that you could leave a helluva body count, what with this wrecking crew of yours. Quite the posse, no doubt of that. But then, after that, who would you drain to feed? Eventually, you’d need fresh blood, wouldn’t you? Gorge yourself for now, sure, but you would go hungry all over again,” Crowley observed.

“Maybe so, but in the meantime, I could really gum up the works, couldn’t I? So, how about this? Lucifer is gone, Chuck, God, whatever he’s called, is dead, the Archangels are toast, new management in Heaven, and ... new management in Hell as well. You, Mr. Crowley, the new, very permanent King of Hell. With all of demonkind pledging fealty to one of their own for a goddamned change. Don’t you think that it’s time, buster?” I watched Crowley’s eyes widen and his jaw hit the floor or whatever.

“Wait, are you telling me that ... Chuck ... Shurley is ... GOD? For real? He’s not just a Prophet? Raphael wasn’t just guarding a Prophet ... he was guarding the Boss ... the Big fucking Boss? The Almighty Himself? Well, no fucking wonder he could make his books come to pass, right? It explains things perfectly, doesn’t it? He could naturally pose as his own Prophet, because why the fuck not? Perfect disguise, hide in plain fucking sight! Bollocks! Holy fucking bollocks!” Crowley, “by the way ... Roger Waters ... big Pink Floyd fan, eh?”