Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Katherine wakes to screaming.

Not the half-asleep kind of screaming either — the kind that claws through walls and rips her from her dreams like a knife through fabric.

She groans, rolling over to squint at the alarm clock on her nightstand.
2:57 a.m.

“Jesus Christ,” she mutters, dragging a hand down her face. “What now?”

The chill in the air hits her as she swings her legs out of bed. She throws on her robe and storms downstairs, tightening the sash around her waist. The floorboards creak beneath her hurried steps.

Two of her guests — the newlyweds from Room 3 — are already sprinting for the front door, faces pale and twisted with terror. The bride’s shrieks echo through the hallway like a siren.

“Hey!” Katherine calls after them. “What’s going on?”

The young woman whirls around, wild-eyed, hair sticking to her face. Katherine’s stomach drops when she notices the fresh splatters of red staining her nightgown.

“Your freakish pilgrim child is insane!” she screams. “We’ve had enough! We’re leaving!”

“Wait—what?!” Katherine stammers, chasing after them as they fumble with their keys. “We can work this out! Complimentary breakfast on us, maybe?”

But they don’t even look back. The car engine roars to life, tires screeching as they vanish into the night.

Katherine stands in the doorway, jaw tight, rage and confusion simmering in equal measure.

“What the hell was that about?!” she shouts, her voice echoing through the empty lobby.

Then she sees him.

Standing in the middle of the hallway like a ghost child out of a nightmare — bare feet, dirt-streaked clothes, and a face smeared with drying blood — is Abaddon. In one hand, he holds the limp, mangled remains of a squirrel. Blood drips steadily onto the new carpet.

“I fail to see the issue,” Abaddon says flatly, as if he’s the one inconvenienced. “I merely offered them a sacrifice. A gift, if you will. To bless their union.”

Katherine’s fists clench so tightly her nails bite into her palms. She can feel her pulse pounding in her temples.

The carpet. The blood. The guests. The bills.

“Abaddon,” she says slowly, through gritted teeth. “What have I told you about tormenting the guests?”

“I wasn’t tormenting them,” he protests. “I was—”

“I don’t want to hear it!” she snaps, cutting him off. “Do you have any idea how much you’re costing me?! This is the third set of guests you’ve run off this week! Now clean this up!”

Abaddon tilts his chin up defiantly. “You cannot command me, mortal. I am Abaddon, King of Cobras, Prince of Hell—”

“Clean. It. Up.”

“No!” he howls, stamping a foot like an angry child. “Only Nathan may give me orders! You hold no power, and I respect you not in the slightest!”

Katherine’s glare could burn through stone. It’s that look — the one she reserves for when Ester decides to dig up graves again, or when Ben refuses to bathe for three days.
Abaddon flinches. Just slightly.

“That’s it!” she barks, grabbing his arm in a vice-like grip. The demon screeches, hissing and kicking, but she doesn’t waver.

“First a bath,” she snaps, dragging him toward the stairs, “and then you’re in timeout!”

“Unhand me, you wench!” he roars, his heels scraping against the floor. For all his fury, he’s light — far too light. The kid hardly eats unless it’s Froot Loops or yogurt cups, so when it comes to strength, Katherine wins every time.

The bathroom door flies open with a violent kick. Katherine shoves him inside, slams the lock, and turns on the faucet. The pipes groan to life, water pouring into the tub.

Abaddon fights her every step, clawing and thrashing as she strips away his mud-caked clothes. Water splashes over the sides as she forces him in, bubbles and soap swirling red around them.

“Sit still!” she yells, struggling to hold him steady as he flails and curses in some ancient tongue. When that doesn’t work, she simply forces him under, ignoring his muffled wails. He can’t drown — she knows that much.

Her arms ache as she scrubs the grime and blood from his skin, his resistance fading to weak splashes. She forces him under until he’s completely clean, his protests coming to a stop.

Finally, she releases him. Abaddon shoots upright, gasping and coughing, water dripping down his small frame as he reaches for his throat. For a brief moment, Katherine catches something in his expression — a flicker of pain, of humiliation, maybe even sadness. His lip trembles. His eyes blink too fast, rimmed pink.

She looks away.

He’s not a child. He’s a demon.

And demons don’t get sympathy.

“Stay,” Katherine orders, closing the bathroom door behind her.

She moves quickly through Nathan’s old room, rummaging through drawers until she finds a faded T-shirt and a pair of shorts. When she returns, she’s surprised to find Abaddon hasn’t moved. He sits perfectly still in the tub, eyes fixed on the pink-tinged water, strands of soaked hair plastered across his face. He doesn’t bother to push them away.

Katherine sighs, grabs a towel, and drains the tub. “Here.”

Abaddon takes it without looking at her, wrapping it tightly around himself like a cocoon. He keeps his gaze down, silent and still.

“Put this on,” she says, tossing him the clean clothes. They’re plain, untouched by blood. He hesitates, then obediently pulls the shirt over his small frame, the fabric hanging loose on his shoulders.

“Now come with me.”

She grips his wrist and pulls him toward the stairs. He stumbles after her without protest at first, his bare feet slapping against the floorboards as they climb—one flight, then another.

“Where—where are we going?” he asks softly. His voice trembles. For a second, Katherine almost mistakes it for fear. But no—Abaddon doesn’t get scared. He’s manipulating her. Like always.

“The attic,” she says coldly. “You need to learn one way or another.”

That’s when he stops. His feet plant firmly against the step.

“No.” His voice cracks. “Not—not there. Not again.”

“You need to learn to behave,” Katherine says, tugging harder.

He resists, yanking back with sudden strength. “No! No, I won’t allow it! Unleash me! I’ll escape again! I will not have you condemn me to that horrid place!”

“No problem,” Katherine growls, tightening her grip. “I’ll make sure you can’t escape this time.”

She hauls him down the hallway, his heels scraping the floor with protest. With a final shove, she throws open the attic door. Darkness yawns before them, broken only by the sliver of light spilling from the hall. Dust hangs thick in the air.

“Katherine, please! I beg of you!” Abaddon’s voice breaks as she drags him inside. But she doesn’t listen. She won’t. Not again. She’s done falling for his theatrics.

She pushes past the cobwebs and grabs the iron chains waiting in the corner. “You brought this on yourself.”

“Don’t!” Abaddon’s voice rises to a scream. “I’ll chew through my hand again!”

“I don’t think so.” Katherine’s tone is flat, cold. “I asked the welder ghost to make a new one. He found where you hid the broken shackle.”

Abaddon snarls, twisting against her grip, but it’s useless. She locks the first cuff around his wrist, then the second—tight, unyielding, spaced far enough that he can’t reach either one.

“I’ll kill you and your entire bloodline, you witch!” he spits, tugging at the restraints. “Release me at once!”

Katherine doesn’t flinch. Instead, she reaches into her pocket and pulls something out. “And he also found this.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Found it in your stash, in that little hidden room of yours.”

She lets the object dangle from her fingers — a small, beaded crucifix.

Abaddon freezes. The color drains from his face. His feet scrape against the stone as he tries to push himself back, panic flooding his eyes.

“No—no, no, no! You cannot have that!” he wails, voice cracking into something raw and human. “Take it away from me!”

Katherine steps closer. “I’m sick of your little schemes,” she states firmly. “I’m sick of you ruining my hotel, of cleaning animal blood off the walls, of you teaching my daughter black magic—of you making my life a goddamn nightmare! I can’t, I just can't handle it anymore! I don’t know how Nathan put up with you?!”

Abaddon’s eyes glisten. “You don’t understand,” he pleads, his voice small and shaking. “Please—I’ll behave! I’m sorry! I’ll be—I’ll be good!”

Katherine’s hand trembles as she slips the crucifix over his head, pushing down the guilt she feels. “It’ll only be for a few hours,” she says quietly. “I really didn’t want it to be this way.”

The moment the beads touch his skin, Abaddon cries out to her — a sound that doesn’t belong to a child at all. Katherine forces herself to turn away, heart hammering as she steps out of the attic. She has to remind herself that that isn’t a child, but a spawn of hell in a child’s body.

The door slams shut behind her.

And once again, the house falls silent.

Chapter Text

Abaddon

The door slams.

The sound rips through him like a gunshot, then disappears into the still air, leaving only the echo of her footsteps — fading, fading, gone.

Abaddon stares at the space where she stood. He waits for the handle to turn, for her to come storming back in, shouting, regretting, apologizing — something. But the silence stretches. Thick. Suffocating.

The chains burn and pull at his wrists when he tries to move. The metal is blistering hot, biting into torn skin. His breath comes in small, sharp gasps.

He stares at the crucifix burning against his chest — that cursed little thing he thought he’d hidden well enough so no one could find it. Dead or alive.

How could she? How could Katherine do this to him?

The metal hisses faintly where it touches his skin, searing through the fabric. His breath comes ragged. He claws at it instinctively, but the chains pull him back, mocking him.

It was supposed to be gone. Hidden. Forgotten.

He remembers the first time he saw it — gleaming in the firelight, swinging from the neck of his vessel’s father. The man who branded him. The man who called him “monster” before carving holy symbols into his skin while making him watch the crucifix glint with every stroke.

Abaddon doesn’t even know why he kept it. The sight of it makes his stomach twist, makes the back of his throat burn. But the little boy inside him — the human part, the part he never managed to kill — wanted something to hold onto. Something of his father, even if it hurt.

And so he did.

He hid it where no one could reach it. Guarded it. Kept it like a secret, like a wound that wouldn’t close.

And now Katherine — she — has torn that last piece of him out and fastened it around his neck like a leash.

He can feel it now, the burn spreading under his skin, through every nerve, until it’s all he can feel. He screams until his voice breaks, the sound shredding through the attic. His body trembles, small and pitiful, a child’s body.

“Take it off!” he sobs, the words shaking. “Please—just take it off!”

But no one comes.

Only the crucifix answers him, glowing faintly in the dark—a relic of a father who hated him, and a woman who’s forgotten him.

He presses his chin to his chest, trying to escape the contact, but it follows — the holy hum of it sinking beneath his skin, through muscle and bone, into places he doesn’t want to name.

Abaddon clenches his teeth, forcing a laugh that breaks midway through.

“Pathetic,” he mutters to himself, voice raw. “You’re the prince of Hell. The devourer of kings. You’ve torn mortals apart with your bare hands. You’ve—”

His throat closes. He can’t breathe for a second. The memory of who he was feels foreign now — like someone else’s story. Someone stronger. He’s nothing now. An excuse of a prince of Hell. Something disgustingly mixed between a human and a demon. Even his own kind has given up on him, even torn down his beloved castle. They’re not coming. They’re never coming for him.

He swallows hard, feeling a lump in his throat, tears prick his eyes. No. Demons don’t cry. He can’t—he can’t cry.

But a tear somehow escapes him awayway.

—

Abaddon feels himself growing more faint as time goes on. The moonlight makes its way across the floor, slow and cruel, marking the hours. His stomach aches, his throat is dry, and his skin feels too warm. He curls into himself, clutching at his knees, trying to stop the trembling. The chains rattle softly with every breath.
He wants Nathan. Did he not hear him screaming earlier? Where is he? Why hasn’t he come for him? Does he secretly hate him too? Is that why he killed himself…to get away from him as well?

Katherine’s words ring in his head.

I don’t know how Nathan put up with you?!

Abaddon wants to sob, his eyes growing heavy. Because he knows she’s right.

Another couple hours pass. Sleep teases him, even though he refuses. It comes with whispers — cruel, familiar ones that sound like the others. The ones who hurt him before. The ones who locked him away the first time. The crucifix makes him drowsy, sucking all his energy away. Normally he’s cold to the touch but right now he’s clammy, his face hot, sweaty hair sticking to his forehead. He wants to lay down. For once he actually wants to sleep, and that worries him.

“Please,” he cries, not even sure who he’s begging to. “Please just take it off…”

His wrists are bleeding now. He pulls until the cuffs grind against raw skin, until the world tilts and blurs. His eyes sting — not from rage this time, but from tears that fall before he can stop them. He tries to wipe them away, but his hands can’t reach his face.

He hates that most of all. The humiliation of it. The helplessness. The way his body shakes without his permission. Oh how this vessel betrays him.
Not able to take it anymore the sobs start. Quiet at first, then louder, uncontrollable. They echo in the attic, bouncing off the wood until it sounds like there are a dozen versions of him crying at once — all small, all broken, all trapped.

He loses count of how many times he screams Nathan’s name in the process.

When his voice finally gives out, the silence that follows feels worse than the noise ever did.

He pants, feeling so unnaturally hot as the crucifix glows faintly against his chest — a mockery of comfort. He tries to focus on anything else: the sound of the wind, the hum of the pipes, the distant tick of the old grandfather clock downstairs. But they all blur together into something that feels like madness.

Abaddon curls in on himself tighter. His breath hitches as dried tears sting his face, leaving his eyes aching.

She’s not coming back, he thinks, his voice shaking.

She’s going to leave me here to rot forever like the others.

The thought sits heavy in his gut, sinking deeper until it’s not a thought at all — just truth.

No one is coming. Ester doesn’t roam up here. The lack of dead things bore her. Nathan doesn’t even know this room exists and Ben? Ben would probably be happier with him gone. Abaddon knows he doesn’t take to him as well as Ester does…he probably only puts up with him to please her.

The shadows press closer. The attic feels smaller. The crucifix keeps burning, and the chains stay cold, and his body keeps trembling with heat until the shaking becomes part of him. It’s gotten to a point where he barely has the energy to lift his head.

By the time the first light of morning seeps through the cracks, Abaddon isn’t sure if he’s still breathing. He feels sick. He’s never felt this way before. Sweat sticks to him like ticks to a stray dog.

All of a sudden he heaves, vomiting up blood all over Nathan’s old shirt. Tears meet his eyes all over again.

He stares at the ceiling, eyes glazed and glassy. He attempts to scream, but no sound comes out.
The only thing that can be heard is the faint clink of chains and a faint whimper — the sound of a child trying, still, to move.

And failing.

Katherine

Katherine rolls over in bed, her sheets tangled around her legs. She keeps seeing the look on Abaddon’s face — that flash of something too raw, too human — when she held out the crucifix. She knew he hated those things. The ghost she consulted made sure she understood that much. But still... was it too cruel?

Tsk. He’s fine. It’s not like he’s her child.

So why does she feel that twisting ache in her chest — that gnawing, uneasy guilt, as if she’s just done something terribly wrong?

She flips over again, forcing her eyes shut. He’s fine. He’s not a normal kid. He’s Nathan’s problem, technically — Nathan’s child, in a weird, infernal sense.

Her mind snags on the thought. If he’s Nathan’s kid, that technically makes him her nephew.

And she just locked him in the attic.

Just for a few hours. She repeats it like a prayer. He’s fine.

Eventually, exhaustion wins, and guilt dulls enough for her to sleep.

Morning sunlight spills through her curtains. She wakes with a start, blinking blearily at the alarm clock.

10:12 A.M.

“Shit.” She shoots upright. “I overslept!”

But then she remembers — Saturday. No school. No children bursting through her door demanding breakfast. Peace, finally.

Katherine stretches, tossing on a fitted shirt and jeans, her mind already on coffee. Coffee first, regret later.

Yawning, she shuffles toward the kitchen, rubbing her eyes. She’s halfway through pouring herself a mug of bitter black coffee when Nathan phases through the parlor wall, his usual grin plastered on his translucent face.

“Morning, Kathy!”

“Hi,” she mutters, stifling another yawn. “Any guests this morning?”

“Nope! Quiet as a grave.”

“That’s not something to brag about, Nathan.”

Before he can reply, a shriek splits through the calm.

“MOM!”

Katherine turns just in time to see Ester barreling into the kitchen, clutching a handful of broken twigs and bones.

“Ben stepped on my talisman! It took hours to get everything right!”

“It was an accident!” Ben protests, stomping in after her. “Maybe don’t build your creepy junk on the floor!”

“Maybe don’t walk where people are building!”

Katherine exhales through her nose. “Breakfast? ”

The magic word.

They bicker while she starts mixing pancake batter. “Banana or blueberry today?”

“Blueberry!” Nathan calls from the counter.

“You can’t even eat,” Ester mutters. “Banana!”

“Banana it is,” Katherine declares.

For a while, it’s almost peaceful — the smell of frying batter, the hum of the old ceiling fan, her brother’s chatter blending with the kids’ voices.

The day drifts by easily. Katherine cleans rooms, answers emails, and swats at lingering ghosts. Nathan runs the front desk with cheerful incompetence. Ester scavenges for new “spell materials” while Ben hangs out with that ghost girl Katherine refuses to acknowledge exists.

It’s not until lunch that it all collapses.

Nathan leans on the counter, watching her slice bread. “Hey, uh… where’s Abaddon? Haven’t seen the little guy all day.”

Ester freezes mid-stir with her jar of saltwater. “Oh yeah. I was gonna ask him to help with a binding spell, but then I found a curse book buried in the garden—”

The knife slips from Katherine’s hand, clattering to the counter. Her stomach turns to stone.

She forgot.

“Oh my god,” she breathes. Then louder: “Shit!”

She bolts from the kitchen, nearly tripping over Nathan’s ghost cat as she races for the stairs. Nathan calls after her, but she doesn’t hear. Her pulse hammers in her ears as she takes the steps two, three at a time — up one flight, then another, then another — her lungs burning, her thoughts a blur of please let him be okay, please let him be okay.

The air grows colder the higher she climbs. By the time she reaches the attic landing, it feels heavy, stale. The door looms ahead, silent, shut tight.

Her hand trembles as she grips the knob.

She pushes it open.

—

The light from the hallway barely cuts through the darkness. The room smells of blood and ash, of something burnt through the air itself. Her stomach twists when she spots the faint outline of the small figure still shackled to the far wall.

“Abaddon,” she whispers, stepping closer.

He doesn’t move.

Her breath catches in her throat. The crucifix she placed around his neck has burned its mark deep into his skin — an ugly, blackened ring. His hands are limp in the chains. There’s dried blood along his wrists, like he’s tried again and again to pull free.

“Oh—oh God.” Her voice cracks. “Abaddon?”

The demon refuses to look at her. She notices the dried blood on his shirt and the ground. He looks sick. His face is oddly pale even for him, sweats gleams on his forehead and his breathing is shallow. He lets out a whimper.

She can’t breathe.

For the first time, Katherine doesn’t see a demon. She sees a child — one she’s forgotten, one she’s hurt beyond reason.

She falls to her knees beside him, fumbling for the lock. “I’m sorry—I’m so sorry—”

But when the chains finally fall away, he doesn’t move. The only thing he does is grab the crucifix off his neck, ignoring how it burns his hand in the process, throwing it to the floor between them, its metal still faintly warm to the touch.

“Abaddon,” she whispers again, her voice breaking around his name. “Please—say something.”

He blinks slowly, the motion sluggish, detached. His hair hangs in tangled strings across his face, skin pale beneath the blood and burns. When his gaze finally lifts to meet hers, it’s empty. No fury. No sparks of rebellion as usual. Just exhaustion.

The demon child stumbles to a standing position, pushing past her with a weak shove. She notices dried tear stains on his face as he sprints from the room.

“Abaddon, wait!” Katherine calls out, running after him but he’s too quick for her. She watches him run down the hallway and scamper into the nearest vent in only a few seconds, blocking her out.
“Abaddon, stop!” She cries out, lifting the vent’s lid, but she knows he’s probably already in another part of the hotel somewhere.

She feels her brother's presence behind her.

“What did you do to him?!” Nathan shouts. She’s never seen him this angry before.

“Nothing—I—I was just teaching him a lesson that’s all! I didn’t mean to leave him up there that long!”

“Up where?!” Nathan growls.

“The attic,” Katherine breathes, ashamed.

“You chained him up there again?!”

She turns around, hearing her daughter's voice. Ester looks betrayed, mad even as tears glint in her eyes.

“Don’t you know how badly those chains hurt him?!” She cries out. “That iron burns demons, mom! Why do you think he chewed his hand off to begin with the first time?!”

“I—I didn’t know.” Kathrine sputters out, laying her head in her hands. “Oh god I didn’t know. I just, I just wanted him to stop scaring the guests.”

“Kathy…” Nathan’s voice sounds almost distraught. “You gotta make this right with him.”

“But he’s a demon!” Katherine retorts, causing Nathan to flinch. “He’s not a kid, Nathan! And you keep acting like he is one! I mean, come on!”
“He’s also a little boy, Kathy.” Nathan replies softly, almost hurt by her comment. “Their souls were fused together in some weird way he doesn’t like to admit. He’s not...he’s not as tough as he makes himself out to be…”

And with that her brother leaves, probably going to try and find him.

Katherine meets eyes with Ester who backs away from her, shaking her head as she follows her uncle’s spirit downstairs.

Fuck, what has she done

Chapter Text

Katherine

Abaddon stays in the vents for days.

No one can lure him out.

Ester tries first. Every morning she sets a plate by the kitchen vent — toast, fruit, little pieces of meat — and every night it’s still there, cold and untouched. By the third day, she starts leaving things she knows he likes: dead squirrels, small birds she finds in the garden, each offering carefully placed on a napkin. Still, nothing.

Nathan takes it harder. Katherine can tell he blames her, though he never says it outright. She catches him sitting beside the vents after midnight, his translucent hand pressed against the grate as he whispers to the boy hidden somewhere in the walls. His voice is always low, soft, the same tone he used with stray animals when they were kids.

But the vents stay silent.

No footsteps. No movement. No sound at all.

It’s like Abaddon has stopped existing, curled up somewhere deep in the hotel’s ribs and decided to vanish.

Katherine doesn’t realize how quiet the place has become until nearly two weeks pass — no shouting, no threats, no unholy laughter echoing through the halls. Just stillness.

—

On the fifteenth day, Katherine sits in her office surrounded by half-finished paperwork and unanswered emails. The ticking of the old wall clock feels louder than usual.

Nathan drifts through the wall, arms crossed, his face drawn and pale.

“What?” Katherine mutters, not looking up from her screen.

“Stop.” His tone is sharp, uncharacteristically firm. “Look at me.”

Something in his voice makes her pause. She closes her laptop slowly and meets his eyes.

“I don’t know what to do, Katherine.” His words come out hoarse. “It’s been over two weeks. He hasn’t taken a step outside those vents.”

“He’s fine.” Katherine sighs, rubbing her temples. “He just… likes it there. It’s dark. Quiet.”

Nathan’s expression hardens. “No, Katherine. He’s not fine.”

She opens her mouth to argue, but he cuts her off — his voice rising with anger she’s never heard from him before.

“He’s not eating!”

Katherine freezes.

“I know he’s immortal,” Nathan continues, his voice trembling now, “but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel hunger. He’s starving himself, Kathy. He’s doing it on purpose — because he’s scared, or hurt, or... I don’t know! But it’s because of what you did.”

Katherine fidgets with the bracelet on her wrist, the metal suddenly too tight.

Nathan’s voice softens, barely above a whisper. “You’ve seen him. You know how thin he already was.”

She does. Even before he disappeared, his clothes had started to hang off his small frame. She remembers how easily she could lift him, how light he’d felt — like he was made of ash instead of bone.

“How am I supposed to fix this if he won’t even talk to us?” she mutters.

Nathan looks down, the faint glow in his form dimming. “I don’t know.” He admits softly, “but I’m worried about him. Really worried.”

Katherine swallows hard, the taste of coffee gone bitter on her tongue. The silence between them feels heavier than the walls themselves.

“I need you to find him for me, Kathy. Please.” Nathan pleads, his voice barely above a whisper.

Katherine lets out a deep breath.

“Okay.”

—

That night, Katherine couldn't sleep. Her brothers words wouldn’t stop echoing in her head.

Every sound in the house seems louder — the pipes groaning, the wind whispering against the windows, the faint ticking of the clock on her nightstand. She keeps waiting to hear something from the vents — a shuffle, a hiss, anything. But there’s nothing.

Just silence.

She sits up in bed, clutching her blanket. The guilt that’s been sitting in her chest for two weeks is unbearable now, pulsing like a heartbeat.

“Enough,” she mutters to herself, throwing the blanket aside.

The house feels colder as she walks barefoot through the halls, flashlight in hand. The air smells stale, like dust and copper. When she reaches the kitchen, she stops in front of the vent where Ester always leaves food. Today’s bowl — fruit loops and a few pieces of jerky — sits untouched.

Katherine crouches down, her throat tight. “Abaddon?” she calls softly. “Sweetheart, are you in there?”

Nothing.

Her fingers tremble as she unscrews the vent cover. A gust of air rushes out, cold, dry, and thick with the smell of metal and something faintly sour.

“Please don’t make me come in there,” she whispers, already knowing she will.

The metal bites into her hands and knees as she crawls through the duct. The deeper she goes, the heavier the air feels, thick with dust, suffocating. Her flashlight trembles in her grip.

Then she sees it: faint red stains smeared along the metal. Drops of blood.

Katherine’s stomach drops.

“Abaddon?” she calls again, her voice echoing down the passage. “Talk to me, please.”

A sound answers her this time — a dry, retching cough followed by a weak, choked noise that makes her heart lurch.

She crawls faster.

Her flashlight beam catches on him a few feet ahead.

He’s slumped against the vent wall. His skin looks almost translucent under the harsh white light— pale and slick with sweat. His lips are cracked, and there’s dried blood at the corner of his mouth.

A small puddle of dark red glistens beside him.

“Oh, God…” Katherine whispers, crawling closer.

He flinches when her light hits him, pressing his arm over his face as if it burns. “Go away…” His voice is hoarse, shredded.

“Abaddon, you’re sick.” She reaches toward him, but he jerks away weakly.

“I said go away.”

He coughs again, and fresh blood splatters his hand. Katherine’s chest tightens. She’s seen fever in ghosts before — a fake mimicry of sickness — but this is different. His body is hot to the touch, trembling violently, his breathing shallow and ragged.

“You haven’t eaten in two weeks,” she says, voice cracking. “You need help.”

“I’m fine!” he rasps weakly.

Katherine feels her throat close. “You need to come out. Please. You’ll die like this.”

He lets out a broken laugh, the sound brittle and weak. “I can't die, you know that.”

She swallows hard, tears burning behind her eyes. Carefully, she inches closer and lays a hand on his shoulder. He’s burning. His skin radiates heat like an open flame.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I thought…” Her voice falters. “I thought you’d be fine.”

His eyes open halfway, dull and glassy. “You left me,” he murmurs.

“I know,” she breathes. “And I was wrong.”

He sways slightly, his head drooping. “You shouldn’t be here,” he mumbles. “The vents are my domain.”

“Abaddon, we need to get you out.”

He doesn’t answer. His hand twitches weakly against his chest. His breathing hitches, and then another wave of blood spills from his mouth, splattering across his arm.

“Abaddon!”

Katherine grabs him before he slumps forward, pulling his frail body into her arms. He’s so light — too light, his bones are sharp beneath his feverish skin.

“It’s okay,” she whispers frantically, brushing sweat-covered hair from his face. “I’ve got you now. I’ve got you.”

The fever burns through him like something alive, something not human. And as she holds him, she feels it too, that same searing heat creeping through her hands, curling beneath her skin.

Still, she doesn’t let go.

Abaddon thrashes weakly in her arms, his small fists pushing at her chest with what little strength he has left.

“Let me go,” he gasps, his voice cracked and raw. “Don’t touch me!”

“Stop— you’re hurting yourself,” Katherine pleads, adjusting her grip as he writhes against her. He’s all bones under her hands — burning hot but trembling like he’s freezing.

“I said, let go!” His elbow hits her shoulder, more a feeble shove than a strike, but the desperation in it cuts deep. “I don’t need you! I don’t need anyone!”

Katherine’s throat tightens. “You’re sick,” she says, voice breaking as she tries to steady him. “You haven’t eaten in fifteen days, Abaddon— you’re burning up, you’re—”

He coughs hard, and the sound claws through the narrow vent. Blood splatters his chin. He sags against her then, the fight draining out of him all at once.

“Please,” he mumbles, his words slurring together. “Leave me.”

Her heart shatters. “I can’t,” she whispers. “I promised Nathan.”

His breathing comes in shallow bursts, his chest hitching with each one. When she brushes a hand through his tangled hair, he flinches again but doesn’t pull away. He seems too disoriented to care.

Katherine looks around the vent, her flashlight flickering across the metal walls. There’s no room to move properly, no way to help him here. She has to get him out.

“I’m taking you downstairs,” she says quietly, trying to keep her voice calm even as panic swells inside her. “We’ll get you cleaned up, okay? You’ll be safe.”

He doesn’t answer.

Katherine shifts her position, sliding one arm under his knees and the other around his back. The heat radiating off him makes her stomach twist. He’s so light it’s like lifting air— except for the dead weight of exhaustion that hangs off him.

As she begins to crawl backward, his hand stirs, gripping a fistful of her shirt. “Don’t…” he murmurs faintly.

“Don’t what?” she whispers, pausing.

“Just leave me.” He pants, weakly trying to fight her once again. “I don’t know how many times I have to repeat myself. I don’t want to go out! And I don’t need help from the likes of you. I can take care of myself!”

Her eyes sting. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, pulling him closer to her chest as she maneuvers through the tight duct. “I’m sorry, Abaddon. But I have to get you out. You’re not well.”

She chokes on her own words. The smell of blood lingers in the air, sharp and metallic.

By the time she reaches the kitchen and pulls him out of the vent, his head has slumped against her shoulder, breath shallow and uneven. His skin is burning, damp with sweat. Katherine brushes his hair back and sees his lips pale, his eyes half-lidded but unfocused.

“Stay with me,” she begs softly, lowering him onto the floor. “Please, Abaddon.”

He stares at her through half-closed eyes, unfocused and glassy. “Why do you care now of all times?” he whispers.

Katherine freezes, the question hitting her harder than anything else.

“I…don’t know,” she says truthfully, voice breaking. “But I do.”

He doesn’t respond. His eyelids flutter, and his breathing hitches again.

Katherine scoops him back up, cradling his frail, fever-hot body in her arms as she runs down the hall toward the living room couch. “Nathan!” she shouts. “Nathan, get in here!”

The moment he materializes beside her and sees Abaddon, the color drains from his face.

“Oh my God,” he breathes. “Kathy, what did you do—”

“I’m fixing it,” she says through tears. “I’m fixing it.

Katherine lays Abaddon down on the couch, brushing aside the blanket as Nathan hovers close, his translucent form flickering faintly in the morning light.

“Get me a damp cloth,” she orders automatically, panic thick in her voice—then stops halfway through the sentence, remembering.

Nathan’s expression twists. “I can’t,” he says quietly. “You know I can’t.”

“Right,” she mutters, forcing herself up, heart hammering as she darts to the kitchen. She wets a rag under the tap, grabs the thermometer, and rushes back to the boy on the couch.

Abaddon’s still shivering, curled in on himself. His breaths come quick and shallow, his lips tinged faintly red. Katherine kneels beside him, tucking the thermometer between his lips, her fingers trembling.

Nathan watches from a few feet away, his voice low and strained. “Kathy…”

“Don’t,” she says sharply. “Not right now.”

The thermometer beeps, and she glances at the number. Her breath catches.

“Hundred and four,” she whispers. “God.”

Nathan swears under his breath, pacing through the wall and back, his ghostly form flickering with agitation. “He’s been like that for days, burning up and we didn’t even know!”

“Stop,” Katherine snaps, dabbing the cloth across Abaddon’s forehead. His skin is boiling under her touch. “Please, just stop.”

He stirs at the contact, his eyes fluttering open. “Don’t,” he mutters weakly, trying to pull away. His voice is hoarse, almost childlike. “Don’t touch me.”

“Shh, I know,” she says softly, brushing his sweat-soaked hair aside. “It’s just water. You’ve got a fever, I’m trying to help.”

He blinks up at her, those fever-glazed eyes filled with something between hatred and fear. “You’re lying,” he croaks, voice breaking.

Nathan hovers closer, his translucent outline flickering. “Hey, kid, come on,” he says gently, though he knows the boy can’t feel his presence. “She’s trying.”

Abaddon’s breathing grows ragged. “Go away,” he whispers. “Both of you.”

She sees her brother recoil at this last comment.

Katherine bites her lip until it almost bleeds. She dips the cloth again, wringing it out with shaking hands. “You’re dehydrated. You need to drink.” She reaches for the glass she’d brought, pressing it gently to his lips.

He turns his head away. “No.”

Her voice cracks. “Please, Abaddon. Just one sip.”

Nathan watches helplessly, his hands flexing through the air as though he could grab the cup for her, as though he could do anything at all. “Kathy, he’s fading. Just—do something!”

“I’m trying!” she cries out, louder than she means to. Abaddon flinches, eyes wide for a moment before he starts coughing, deep and violent. A spatter of dark red hits his hand.

Katherine’s chest tightens with panic. “Oh god—” She props him up, holding him steady as best she can. “It’s okay, breathe, just breathe.”

When the coughing stops, Abaddon slumps forward, limp against her shoulder. His body feels weightless—too light, too small. She feels his small hand grab her shirt for balance.

“I never meant to be a burden to you,” he mumbles, barely conscious. Katherine’s eyes widen, never having heard him apologize on his own free will. “Please just don’t…don’t take me up there again.”

Katherine’s breath hitches. She presses her palm to his back, trembling. “I'm so sorry,” she whispers. “I won’t. I promise.”

Abaddon doesn’t answer. His head lolls weakly to the side, his skin clammy and pale as he clenches her shirt.

Katherine lowers him back down, brushing the damp strands of hair from his face as she tries to steady her shaking hands. “You’re going to be okay,” she murmurs. “You have to be okay.”

Nathan watches her quietly from the corner of the room, eyes full of something close to grief. “You’d better mean that this time,” he says, voice faint as a sigh.

Chapter Text

Abaddon

The world tilts, then folds in on itself.

Abaddon barely registers the floor rushing up to meet him before everything goes black.

When he comes to, the first thing he feels is warmth — a steady, human warmth that shouldn’t exist against his skin. His head lolls to the side, resting against something soft. It takes him a moment to understand it’s Katherine.

She’s carrying him.

Her arms are tight beneath him, steady even as she moves quickly up the stairs. He hears her breathing — sharp, worried — and the faint sound of her heart thudding against his ear.

His body feels heavy, useless. Every motion sends a ripple of pain through him, but her warmth dulls the edges.

He doesn’t know why, but he leans closer, pressing his face weakly into her shoulder. He can feel the fabric of her shirt dampen against his fevered skin. She smells like lavender soap and wood polish. Something… safe.

“Hang on,” she murmurs, her voice strained but soft. “Almost there, Abaddon. You’re okay.”

Okay. The word feels strange. No one’s ever said it to him like that.

His mind drifts in and out, the fever making everything blur. For a moment, he isn’t in her arms at all — he’s smaller, lighter, being carried through a kitchen filled with the smell of stew and firewood. A woman hums above him, her voice warm and low.

“Shh,” she says, brushing hair from his face. “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

Mother?

The word almost slips from his lips, but he catches it, or maybe he doesn’t. He isn’t sure what’s real anymore. Katherine’s arms tighten around him, and he feels the same rhythm of breath, the same gentle sway that once rocked him to sleep when he was human.

But that was centuries ago. Or was it the vessel’s memory? He can’t tell. It’s all tangled together — the vessel’s grief and his own. It’s so frustrating!

They reach the room — Nathan’s old room, he realizes vaguely — and Katherine lays him down on the bed, careful, as though he’s made of glass. The blanket is cool against his burning skin. He shivers anyway.

Katherine brushes damp hair from his forehead, and for a second, the motion feels so familiar it hurts. He can almost hear the lullaby his mother used to hum, something about angels and sunlight. He wants to tell her to stop, that it isn’t fair, but the words won’t come.

“Abaddon,” Katherine whispers. She sounds shaken. “Why didn’t you say you were sick? Why didn’t you come get us?”

He wants to scoff, to remind her that demons don’t get sick, but the cough that tears through his chest betrays him. He doubles over, the taste of iron coating his tongue, and she quickly grabs the waste bin, holding it steady as he retches up blood and bile.

When it’s over, she wipes his mouth gently with a rag. He flinches but doesn’t pull away.

“Hey,” she says, her voice quieter now, trembling at the edges. “You’re alright. Just breathe.”

He wants to hate her for saying that. He wants to hate how soft she sounds. But when she presses the cool cloth to his forehead and hums under her breath — not a tune he knows, but one that sounds achingly familiar — he lets his eyes close.

In his fevered mind, she blurs again — between Katherine, and the mother who used to sing him to sleep. Between the woman who locked him away, and the one who once kissed his scraped knees and told him he was loved.

And as he drifts into sleep, his voice cracks around a whisper he doesn’t mean to say.

“...thank you, mom.”

Katherine freezes, her breath catching.

But he’s already gone again — lost somewhere between memory and dream — clinging to the warmth of a woman who reminds him of someone he’s been trying to forget for centuries.

—

Katherine

Katherine ended up carrying Abaddon upstairs to Nathan’s old room. He’d passed out against her shoulder, and she decided he needed somewhere soft to lie down, somewhere safe. As she tries to cool him down with a damp cloth, he mumbles something under his breath. At first, she thinks she misheard. But then it comes again, weak and trembling.

“Mom.”

Katherine freezes. Her breath catches in her throat.

For a moment, she can’t move. His fingers are curled weakly in her sleeve, and his head leans against her arm like she’s someone else — someone from another life.

Her throat tightens, eyes stinging. He’s not her son. He’s not even human. But when he clings to her like this—small, trembling, lost—she can’t help but think he must have been loved once. Maybe that’s who he remembers now.

Then, without warning, his breathing turns ragged. His chest heaves, his face twists in pain. He grasps at his ribs as if he can’t get any air, wheezing and gasping like his lungs are collapsing.

“Abaddon!” she cries, panic flooding her voice. He doesn’t respond. He curls in on himself, trembling so hard the bed creaks beneath him.

She spins around, heart pounding. “Nathan!”

Her brother’s ghost flickers into view, his expression grim.

“Fuck,” he mutters, crouching beside the small boy. His translucent hand brushes the hair from Abaddon’s face, though it passes through him more than touches.

“Nathan, does medicine even work on him? Advil? Tylenol? Anything?!” Katherine demands.

Nathan shakes his head, thinking. “I—I don’t know. I’ve never tried. He’s never been sick before. Not like this.”

Katherine doesn’t hesitate. “Then we’re trying anyway.”

She bolts from the room, feet flying down the stairs, digging through the bathroom cabinet with shaking hands. Bottles clatter onto the counter—pills, chewables, anything that might help.

As she hurries back upstairs, she nearly collides with Esther.

“Mom, what’s going on?!”

“Uh—nothing, sweetie,” Katherine says too fast. “Go back to bed, okay?”

Esther’s gaze falls to the medicine in her hands, then Abaddon’s dark blood stains on her blouse. Katherine watches the gears click in her head.

“Where is he?” she demands. “I want to see him!”

“Honey, he’s not good right now,” Katherine replies quickly, trying to step around her. “You can see him later, I promise.”

Esther grabs her sleeve. “Is he… is he okay?”

“Yeah, he’s alright!” Katherine lies, forcing a smile. “I’ll get you when he’s awake, okay? Now go to bed.”

She doesn’t wait for an answer. She pushes past her daughter, striding into Nathan’s room before locking the door behind her in case Esther tries to disobey her, which is likely.

“Okay,” she mutters, setting the medicine on the nightstand. “This first.” She shakes a few orange chewables into her palm. “These should help with the fever.”

Nathan kneels uselessly beside the bed, his ghostly hand hovering near Abaddon’s arm.

“Nathan,” she says softly, “ Esther saw me. Can you keep an eye on her? She’s worried and knowing her she is going to wait outside the door for answers, and I don’t have the energy to explain all this right now.”

He hesitates, glancing at the boy one last time. “Yeah. Call me if you need me.”

When he fades through the wall, Katherine sits beside Abaddon. “Hey,” she whispers, brushing his shoulder gently. “Open your eyes for me.”

He stirs with a low groan, blinking through heavy eyelids. “Wh—what?”

“Medicine,” she says, forcing calm into her voice. “It’ll help your fever. You just have to chew it, okay?”

The moment he sees the bottle in her hand, his whole body goes rigid. His eyes go wide, bloodshot and terrified.

“No,” he rasps. “No—get that away from me!”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Katherine soothes, setting it aside. “It’s just to make you feel better—”

“Don’t touch me!” His voice breaks, sharp and raw. He pushes himself back until he hits the headboard, shaking violently. “That’s what he said before—he said it would help—”

Katherine stares, heart racing. “Abaddon—what are you talking about?” He’s clearly delirious.

Abaddon’s trembling so hard she can hear the bedsprings rattle. Tears mix with sweat on his fevered cheeks. “That’s how he…” His voice cracks, faltering.

Then it hits her. Nathan.

Her stomach turns cold. “Abaddon… were you there?” she asks softly. “When it happened?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He stares through her, eyes glassy and hollow.

“I found him,” he says hoarsely, digging his nails into his arm. “He said it would help. He promised. But he stopped breathing. He wouldn’t wake up—he wouldn’t—”

Blood wells beneath his nails as he claws at his own skin.

“Oh, God…” Katherine breathes. She reaches for him. “Abaddon, I didn’t know. I swear to you, I didn’t.”

But he doesn’t seem to hear her. He curls in on himself, coughing until his body shakes apart. “I’m not taking it,” he gasps. “I’m not.”

She doesn’t think. She just moves. She pulls him into her arms, holding his small, fever-hot body against her chest.

He thrashes at first, weakly trying to push her away—but then he gives in. His breathing hitches, and his head drops against her shoulder. His skin burns like fire, but she holds him tighter anyway.

“I’m so sorry you had to deal with that alone,” she whispers into his hair.

He clings to her shirt, his fingers trembling. “I’m fine,” he mutters, though his voice is barely more than a whimper.

She could hear the lie.

“Abaddon,” she says softly, easing back so he could see her. His head rests against her side, eyes glazed and heavy. “I know you’re scared. But I need you to take these, okay? They’ll help you get better.”

He shifts uneasily, staring at the pills with hollow dread.

“I promise,” she says gently. “They won’t hurt you.”

His hands shake as he digs his nails into his arm again—old scars crossing over fresh ones.

Katherine catches his hand gently, stopping him. “Please,” she says. “Can you trust me?”

He looks up at her, eyes glassy and distant. For a long moment, he doesn’t move. Then, in a whisper barely audible, he says, “I will allow it.”

Relief floods through her chest. She presses three chewables into his open palm.

He stares at them for a long moment—then throws them into his mouth and swallows without chewing.

Katherine exhales shakily, her hand resting on his back as he leans against her again, exhausted and trembling.

“Good job, Abaddon.” she sighs. “You can rest now.”

Chapter Text

Abaddon

He dreams.

At first, it’s warm.

Someone is running fingers through his hair—small hands, soft and playful. His sisters. He can hear them laughing, the sound ringing like bells in the sunlight. There’s a field of wildflowers outside the cottage window, and the smell of bread baking in the oven.

His father hums an old hymn from the porch, voice deep and steady. His mother ladles soup into wooden bowls, the mushroom kind she made when he got the chills. He can almost taste it, warm and earthy, steam brushing against his face.

It’s so real he forgets to question it. For a few blissful seconds, he’s not Abaddon the demon, not the cursed one. He’s just a little boy, sitting at a worn kitchen table, surrounded by love.

Then the memory shifts.

The hymn falters. His father’s voice turns sharp, cold.

The laughter stops.

His sisters’ hands vanish from his hair. His mother’s face twists in horror as townsmen enter the room—angry eyes, torches, iron rods in their hands.

“No,” he whispers in the dream. “Please don’t—”

His father’s eyes meet his, filled with something worse than hatred—disgust.

“Forgive us, my son,” his father says, but his voice shakes. “You are not of God.”

The world burns white. The smell of flesh and iron fills his nose. The pain is endless. His screams echo off the stone walls as the brand sears into his chest, the priest chanting over him as if words could scrub away what he is.

—

He wakes with a strangled cry.

The room spins. He can’t breathe. His chest burns again—only now it’s real. Every inhale rasps and catches. His throat feels tight, raw, closing in.

He tries to sit up, but his body doesn’t obey. The air feels thick, unyielding, and when he forces a breath it comes out as a wheeze. His limbs jerk. His vision flickers.

Then his body seizes.

He can’t stop it, his hands curl, his muscles spasm violently. The pain in his chest deepens as panic claws through him. He tries to call for her, for anyone, but the sound that comes out is only a hoarse, broken cry.

He manages to sit up and stumble out of the bed, holding onto the wall as he fumbles with the door handle, shoving it open.

He grips his chest, barely able to get in air. It feels like he’s drowning. He’s never felt this before. What is wrong with him? He stumbles down the hallway, and collapses against the wall, failing to get away. He needs to be alone. He yearns for the bottom of a grave to crawl into, or the cold floor of a lake. He can't deal with this anymore. He’s survived yellow fever, small pox, tuberculosis, but this gets him? Why now?

A door nearby suddenly bursts open. Katherine rushes out, hair messy, panic clear on her face.

“Abaddon!”

He doesn’t understand what she’s saying—just her hands on him, her voice breaking through the haze. She pulls him up, half-carrying, half-dragging him toward the bathroom.

“It’s okay—it’s okay, I’ve got you,” she keeps saying, even though he can’t answer.

She turns on the shower full blast, hot steam filling the small room almost instantly. She kneels with him on the tile floor, holding his trembling body upright as he gasps and coughs, his chest rattling with every breath.

“Breathe, Abaddon, please breathe,” she begs, her hand rubbing small circles against his back. “The steam should help. I think you have croup.”

He’s crying, though he doesn’t realize it at first. Tears mix with the steam, falling down his fevered cheeks. The echoes of the dream cling to him—his father’s eyes, the pain, the smell of burning skin.

She’s not your mother, something in him whispers.

But right now, as Katherine brushes away sweaty strands of hair from his face, whispering broken comforts into his hair, he can’t tell the difference.

He starts to claw at his arms without realizing it, all of this suddenly too much for him. He needs to feel something familiar, something to remind him of hell. He drags his nails across his skin until the pain reminds him he’s still here, tied to this mortal realm. The blood comes fast this time, trickling down to his elbows. He doesn’t care as relief floods him.

“Stop—hey, stop!” Katherine catches his hands, holding them firm. Her touch feels too warm, too alive. He tries to pull back, but she’s already forcing his hands down, reaching under the bathroom cabinet for bandages.

“Abbadon don’t—don’t do that,” her voice shakes as she wraps his bloodied arms in the thick white fabric before he can tear at them again.

This frustrates him. It’s like a barrier.

He tries to explain his frustrations but his voice catches and he wheezes, unable to get in air again.

Katherine notices.

“Abbadon, calm down,” she says, her voice shaking. “You need to focus on breathing.”

He tries, but it hurts. His throat feels raw, each inhale smaller than the last. His head feels too heavy to hold up. The dream still burns in his mind. The priest’s voice. His father’s face. The smell of ash and iron. The cross burnt into his chest.

“I can’t—” he chokes out, trembling. “I can’t—please make it stop—”

What is wrong with him, why is this vessel failing him so?

“Hey,” she whispers, brushing sweat covered hair strands from his cheek. “You’re doing great. It’ll be over soon.”

Over.

He wants to believe her.

But he sees the priest every time he closes his eyes. He sees his father looking away while they held him down. He sees the glow of the brand, the way it seared through flesh to bone.

Katherine’s voice breaks the images. “Abaddon, are you crying?” she asks softly, her gaze full of concern.

He turns his face away. His throat aches. Shame sits heavy on his tongue. “These stupid—” he swallows hard, “these treacherous thoughts won’t stop. They won’t leave me alone.” The words come out ragged, like they’re scraping him from the inside.

Katherine doesn’t speak right away.

He feels her arms go around him instead, warm, steady, real. He fights her at first, weakly pushing against her chest. He doesn’t deserve this. He’s not supposed to have this.

But he’s so tired.

So he lets her hold him.

Her hand moves up and down his back, slow, rhythmic. He focuses on that instead of the pain in his chest, instead of the ghosts clawing at the edges of his mind. His breath starts to even out, but the fever burns hotter.

When she pulls back, he can barely keep his head up.

“Hey,” she says, voice trembling but steady. “I think the steam is starting to work. I don’t hear wheezing. See, there’s no reason to panic. You’re okay.”

He wants to tell her not to touch him. To stop pretending he’s someone worth saving. To stop pretending she’s one of his kids. But when she slides her arm behind his shoulders and lifts him, his head falls against her collarbone, and he clings to her without thinking.

He doesn’t know why she reminds him of his mother, only that she does. The same hum in her voice. The same way she doesn’t flinch when he cries.

The similarities cause his chest to ache.

“How ’bout you go back to bed now, yeah?”

Abaddon gives her a small nod, keeping his eyes down. How could someone who feels so gentle now have been so cruel before?

He feels her lift him, and for once he doesn’t fight. He lets her carry him back to Nathan’s room. Katherine lays him down, and he crawls toward the center of the bed, curling into a tight little ball.

“I’ll be right down the hall, alright?” Katherine says softly as she steps out.

He doesn’t answer. He just watches her leave, the door left slightly ajar.

Then he closes his eyes.

—

Katherine

Abaddon didn’t get better.

Two full days passed, and his condition only spiraled. The fever clung to him like a second skin, heat radiating off him even under thin sheets. The coughing fits tore at his throat until he gagged on streaks of blood. Every time Katherine managed to coax a sip of water into him, it came back up minutes later. And the seizures—short, sharp episodes that left him limp and trembling were becoming more frequent.

Katherine tried to tell herself it was just another immortal-body thing. That he’d ride it out like he always did. But by the second morning, when she found him half-conscious, wheezing for air like he was drowning on dry land, something inside her cracked.

She waited until Abaddon was finally asleep again, if it could even be called sleep with how shallow and uneven his breaths were, before she went to find Nathan.

He was in the kitchen, sitting at the table, hands clasped and knuckles white. He looks up the moment she entered, like he already knew what she was about to say.

“Nathan,” Katherine begins quietly, “he’s not getting better.”

Nathan’s jaw tightens. “I know.”

“We need to take him to a doctor.”

He inhales sharply, eyes flicking toward the stairs where Abaddon lay. “I don’t—hospitals, Katherine, you know how he is. He’ll panic. And someone’s going to ask questions. He looks like he’s been… through hell. They’ll call CPS, or the police, or—”

“That’s why we’re not going anywhere near this town.” Katherine keeps her voice low and level, even though her hands were shaking. “We go out of town. Far enough no one recognizes us. We give fake names. We answer nothing. And if they start pushing, we leave. Simple as that.”

Nathan closes his eyes, shoulders rising with the weight of it. He hated hospitals more than anyone she knew, and Abaddon hated them even more. But after two days of watching the boy suffer, Nathan didn’t argue further.

“Fine,” he whispers. “Just… lie to him about where you’re taking him. He’ll fight it if he knows.”

“I know.”

A quiet shuffle sound at the doorway. They both turn.

Esther stood there in her pajamas, hair messy, eyes wide. “You’re taking Abaddon somewhere?”

Katherine’s heart squeezes. “Esther, go back to bed.”

Esther shakes her head hard. “I want to go! I can help. I don’t want him to be scared.”

Katherine goes to her, brushing hair from her face. “I know you do. But I need you here with Nathan. If anything happens—anything at all—you call me immediately. Okay?”

Esther’s lip trembles. Katherine could tell she wanted to argue, wanted to fight her, but she just nodded and stepped back, hugging herself.

Katherine didn’t waste another second. She moves through the hotel quickly, grabbing her keys, her bag, and calling softly for Ben from the hall. She wants him there in case anything happens.

He came stumbling down the hallway, fully dressed from staying up all night, worry etched onto his thirteen-year-old face. “Is he… is he worse?”

“We’re taking him to a doctor,” Katherine says gently. “I need you with me.”

Ben nods without hesitation, though fear flickered in his eyes. “Okay.”

Together, they help walk Abaddon, barely conscious, fever-burning and shaking to the car. It was raining, which annoyed Katherine. She hated driving in the rain. It made her anxious.

“Where are we going?” Abaddon asks weakly.

“Uh…to get you special frozen yogurt.”

“Oh. That’s pleasurable.” The demon whimpers.

Katherine buckles Abaddon into the backseat, tucking a blanket around him even though he was already sweating through Nathan’s old clothes. For once he didn’t argue with her on the seatbelt, which worried her. He must be really bad if he’s too tired to complain about it. She knows how much he hates being restrained.

Ben climbs into the passenger seat, glancing nervously over his shoulder every few seconds as Abaddon goes ahead and leans his face against the window of the car, closing his eyes.

Katherine slid behind the wheel, started the engine, and took one last look at the house, at Nathan standing on the porch with Esther, both watching them go.

Then she pulled out of the driveway and onto the road, heading toward the next town over.

—

The rain had been picking up for the last ten minutes, turning the highway into a smear of gray and streaks of water. The windshield wipers struggled to keep up, and the soft drumming of rain on the roof filled the car with a heavy, restless tension. Katherine’s knuckles turn white in the steering wheel, deep in concentration.

Abaddon shifts in the backseat.

It started as a low groan, the kind he made when he was trying very hard not to show how much something hurt. Then he pressed a hand to his stomach, breath hitching.

Katherine saw it instantly in the mirror.

“Abaddon,” she says, calm but firm, “look at me. Do you feel like you’re going to be sick?”

He doesn’t look at her. He squeezes his eyes shut, leaning forward slightly. “Just—just go back,” he mutters, voice strained. “Turn around. I wanna go to the hotel.”

“We’re not turning around,” she replies firmly. “Do you need a bag?”

He shakes his head stubbornly. “No. I’m fine. Just—take me—”

His voice breaks off with a sharp inhale. He slaps a hand over his mouth, eyes going wide with panic.

Ben spins in his seat. “Mom—!”

Katherine grabs her bag, the big one she keeps in reach, and shoves it back toward him without looking away from the rain-blurred road.

“Abaddon. Use it. Now.”

He tries to push it away at first, still clinging to that last scrap of pride.

Then he gags.

Hard.

He snatches the bag from her hands, barely getting it open in time. The sound that followed wasn’t normal. It was harsh, wet, painful. His whole body lurches forward as he vomited into the bag.

And mixed with the sour, sick sound of it…
was the unmistakable dark streak of blood.

Ben flinches. “Oh geez— Mom—it’s—”

“I know,” she says tightly.

Abaddon coughs, a horrible, raw sound, and another thin line of blood hit the bottom of the bag. He whimpers—actually whimpers—shaking uncontrollably as he tries to breathe between retches.

“Mom,” Ben’s voice cracks. “Maybe we should pull over?”

“No,” Katherine sighs. “We need to get him there. With the rain like this? Pulling over is worse.”

Abaddon spat weakly into the bag, chest heaving. He wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist, smearing red. His eyes were glassy, fever-bright, and full of humiliated panic.

Katherine watches as Ben turns around in his seat to make sure he’s okay.

“Don’t look at me,” the demon rasps.

Ben freezes, torn between fear and wanting to help.

“Do you want water?” he asks softly.

“Katherine…” Abaddon’s voice wavers, ignoring Ben. “Turn around.”

“We just need to make a stop.”

“No. Turn around.” He kicks her seat. “I don’t want to do this! I don’t want yogurt!”

His breathing speeds up. He leans forward against the belt like it was strangling him, fingers clawing at the strap even though he didn’t actually unbuckle it this time. His whole body shakes with frustration and fever.

Ben twists around again. “Dude… just calm down.”

Abaddon glares at him, eyes wet and unfocused.

“Shut up!”

The nine year old demon starts to panic, realizing he has no control in this situation.

“Matriarch, where are we really going?!” He demands, his voice cracking as he weakly kicks her seat again. “I want out!”

“Abby,” Katherine uses the nickname her brother calls him in hopes to calm him down. “I’m sorry…but we can’t yet, okay?”

“No! I want to go back,” Abaddon whimpers, breath trembling as he continues to fight his seatbelt. “Please. Please, I don’t want to do this. I just want to go back to the hotel!”

Katherine bites her lib. “I know. I know you do.”
“I don’t want to go get yogurt,” he repeats, voice shaking harder now. “I don’t… I don’t feel good, Katherine. I feel awful. I just wanna go home.”

That word — home — came out so small.

She never heard him say it before when referring to the hotel. Katherine’s heart broke a little.

Abaddon’s hands tremble around the bag. His whole body shakes, not from the cold, but from sheer exhaustion and adrenaline. He leans back, breathing fast, eyes blinking like he was trying not to cry.

He sniffles.

Once. Then again, harder.

In the mirror, she watches him swipe at his cheeks again, jaw clenched, eyes red.

Katherine reaches back blindly, just for a second, and rests her hand on his knee.

He doesn’t bat it away.

He just lets out a strangled, quiet breath, half sob, half exhale, and curls in on himself, gripping her bloodied bag, attempting to hide the fact that he was crying.

The rain kept hammering the car. The road ahead blurred into silver streaks.

And Katherine drove faster.

—

The rain was still coming down in sheets when Katherine swung the car into the hospital’s side lot, the one with the dim security lights and almost no cars. Remote. Quiet. Perfect for slipping in without questions.

“Ben, get the umbrella,” she instructs, killing the engine. Her voice wavering for the first time.

Ben nods fast, grabbing it and rushing out into the downpour. Katherine opens the back door and finds Abaddon slumped sideways, the bloody bag still clutched in his shaking hands.

“Abby,” she murmurs, “we’re here. Come on, we need to go inside.”

He doesn’t answer.

Abaddon blinks slowly, all of his previous anger gone. His pupils are unfocused, breath shallow and papery. His skin holds a grayish/blue hint around his nose and lips, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead.

She slips an arm around him. “Abaddon. Look at me.”

He tries.

His eyes flutter. “Don’t…” His voice was scratchy and faint, no force left in it.

“I know you want to go home,” Katherine says, pulling him gently forward. “But you’re really sick and you’re scaring me. We just need to get you help.”

Ben holds the umbrella over them, trying to keep as much rain off Abaddon as possible.

Katherine pulls him from the seat, but his legs buckle almost instantly.

“Whoa—Mom—he’s not steady,” Ben gasps.

“I’ve got him,” she says—but she didn’t. Not fully.

Abaddon sags against her, breath stuttering. His fingers twitch weakly like he was trying to push her away, but he doesn’t have the strength to. His feet barely moved as she half-guided, half-carried him toward the entrance.

They got only a few yards before he suddenly lurches forward.

“Abaddon?” Katherine grabs him tighter.

He made a small noise, barely a gasp, then his knees gave out altogether.

“Mom!” Ben shouts, scrambling to catch his arm.

Katherine uses her whole body to keep him from hitting the concrete. They dip down together, her knees slamming the wet pavement as she lowers him carefully.

“Hey—hey—stay with me!” Katherine cups his face, rainwater streaming down her arms. “Abaddon, open your eyes!”

He tries to, lids fluttering like they weighed a ton.

Ben hovers beside them, terrified. “Mom—Mom he’s not—he’s not waking up—”

“I know, Ben, I know that!”

Katherine decides to lift him up, Abbadon’s head dropping against Katherine’s shoulder. His breaths are shallow and uneven, wheezing faintly.

“Please,” Katherine whispers to him, panic slipping through. “Not here. Not out here.”

They stagger forward—three steps, four—pushing through the glass sliding doors just as they open.

The moment they cross inside, the warmth hits them, bright lights washing over wet skin.

A nurse behind the desk looks up, startled. “Ma’am—whoa—what happened? Is he responsive?”

“No,” Katherine says, voice sharp with fear. “We need help. Now.”

The nurse rushes out. “Let’s get him on a stretcher. How old is he? What happened?”

Katherine swallows hard. “He’s—he’s my brother's kid. He’s been vomiting blood. He can’t stand. Please—please, just help him.”

Abaddon’s fist weakly grips her coat as he lets out a stuttering breath.

Ben stands soaked and shaking, clutching the umbrella he’s forgotten to close.
And inside Katherine’s arms…
Abaddon goes still.

Chapter Text

Katherine

Two nurses rush over with a stretcher.

They lift him from her arms, his limbs hanging limp, breath quick but shallow. His hair sticks to his forehead in clumps, rainwater dripping down his cheeks like tears he didn’t make.

Ben hovers behind Katherine, trembling, gripping the umbrella like a lifeline.

“Let’s get him to triage three!” a nurse barks.

Suddenly they were sprinting.

The stretcher rattles down the hall, wheels squealing against the tile. Katherine kept so close she nearly clipped the metal frame. Ben skids behind her, shoes squeaking, breath sharp and terrified.

Inside the triage bay, three nurses descend on Abaddon at once.

“Transfer on three—one, two, three!”

His small body is lifted onto the narrow bed, limp, head lolling to the side. A nurse snaps a pulse ox onto his finger, another swabbing his arm for an IV.

“He’s hypotensive,” one murmurs, checking a rapidly dropping pressure reading.

“Pulse thready,” another mutters, pressing trembling fingers to his neck.

Katherine’s stomach drops. “Is he—Is he going to be okay?”

“We’re working on stabilizing him,” a nurse answers, but her tone has that tight, clipped edge that meant we don’t know yet.

A clipboard is shoved at her.

“Ma’am, we need his name, birthdate, guardian information—”

Katherine snatches the pen, hand shaking violently.

Name: Caleb Jones

Birthdate: …

Guardian: Katherine Jones

Fake. Fake. Fake.

The nurse barely glances at the paper, too focused on Abaddon.

“BP’s crashing, he’s going brady,” someone calls.

Then—

The monitor flatlines.

A long, terrible, single tone.

“Shit—he’s in asystole! Start compressions!”

Katherine lunges forward instinctively, reaching for him, but a nurse slams an arm across her, shoving her back hard against the wall.

“Ma’am, stay back!”

“Abby—!”

She can’t breathe. Can’t think. Abaddon was lifeless on the bed while gloved hands pump his chest in brutal rhythmic thrusts.

“Epi ready!”

“Charging—200 joules.”

Katherine sobs into her fist as they place the paddles. Ben stands frozen beside her, white-faced.

“Clear!”

Abaddon’s small body jerks violently.

Nothing.

“Again—clear!”

Another violent jolt.

A pause.

A single blip on the monitor.

Then another.

Then a weak, stuttering rhythm.

“He’s back,” a nurse breathes.

Katherine slumps against the wall, legs shaking uncontrollably. Ben presses his hand into hers.
They work feverishly, stabilizing him just enough.

Not well. Not comfortably. But enough.

“Move him to obs room five,” a nurse orders. “He needs monitored isolation.”

Two nurses roll Abaddon’s bed down the hall into a quieter room, hooking him to a steadier pulse oximeter and a single IV line. A clear oxygen mask covers his mouth and nose; thin breaths fogged the plastic in trembling puffs.

Shallow, but his own.

Katherine stands at his bedside, eyes locked on the rise and fall of his chest, terrified it would stop again.

Ben collapses into a chair against the wall, cuffs still damp from the rain.

“He’s holding,” a nurse says gently as she adjusts clamps. “Weak, but holding.”

Katherine exhales a shaky breath. “Thank you.”

They lift the top of his damp shirt to place EKG leads.

Katherine almost doesn't notice.

But one nurse does.

She freezes—just for a heartbeat—staring at the deep, unmistakable scar carved into his chest.

The cross.

The woman’s brows draw together sharply.
Her hand hovers for a moment before she recovers and places the electrode anyway, covering the scar halfway.

But not fast enough.

Katherine saw the stare.

Saw the tightening of her jaw.

Saw the way her eyes flick, once, towards the doctor finishing paperwork near the sink.

The cross-shaped scar was unmistakable. Puckered. Deep-edged. Old, but not old enough to not take notice.

Katherine forces her expression to remain neutral, even as dread crawled into the back of her throat.

In all the chaos she forgot about his scar, how could she be so stupid?

The doctor approaches them, voice calm but too measured.

“We’re going to need a full history,” he says, eyes shifting between Katherine and the barely covered brand. “Everything you can tell us. Injuries, prior illnesses, living situation, anything that would help us.”

Before Katherine can answer, the nurse clears her throat.

“Doctor, we should… speak to the child as well...alone.”

Katherine stiffens. She knows what that really means.

“He’s unconscious.” She blurts out.

“Children can be surprisingly responsive,” the nurse replies, eyeing her sharply. “And for accurate reporting, we sometimes speak to minors privately.”

Katherine’s pulse spikes. “His heart just stopped! He’s terrified. He doesn’t know anyone here. I’m not leaving him!”

The doctor maintains that frustratingly neutral expression.

“It’s standard procedure in cases where we see injuries or scarring that raise questions.”

“There are no injuries,” Katherine snaps, seconds away from grabbing Abaddon and leaving. “He has a medical condition, that’s why we’re here.”

The doctor meets her eyes with a quiet firmness bordering on warning.

“Then it shouldn’t be a problem to verify that.”

Ben rises from his seat, voice unsteady.
“She said she’s not leaving.”

“Ben,” Katherine warns, not taking her eyes off the doctor.

The nurse tries again, softer this time.

“Ma’am… sometimes children feel safer talking without a parent present. We just need to ask him a few questions. He won’t be alone long.”

“I said no.”

The words break out sharper than she meant, but she didn’t take them back.

The nurse exchanges a long look with the doctor—one of those silent, clinical communications Katherine knew never meant anything good.

The doctor closes Abaddon’s chart slowly.
“Mrs. Jones,” he said (the name she’d given), “if we’re not able to clarify what’s happening, we will be obligated to involve additional services.”

Katherine feels the bottom drop out of her chest.

This was her checkmate.

“Fine,” she growls. “But you’re only going to freak him out! He doesn’t take kindly to strangers.”

The room settles into a tense quiet, broken only by the soft puff of the oxygen line and the steady, stubborn beep of Abaddon’s heart monitor.

The doctor exhales through his nose, controlled, purposeful.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” he sighs. “You may go now. There are seats in the waiting room. We’ll get you in a few moments.”

Katherine angrily clutches her bag, grabbing Ben by the arm as she storms out of the room, taking one last glance at Abaddon before the door closes behind her.

This isn’t good.

Abaddon

Abaddon feels the warmth before he fully realizes where he is. His mother carries him through the house, heavy with fever, each step slow and careful so he wouldn’t jolt or stumble. His tiny body is wrapped in blankets, still damp from the rain that had soaked him outside, and his teeth chatter faintly.

“Fell ill from playing in the rain again, did you?” his older sister, Mary teases lightly as she already lays in bed, propped up on pillows. She smirks, hair tousled from sleep.

“You big baby,” his younger sister adds, giggling as she pokes him lightly in the ribs, then pauses to run her small hands through his damp hair.

Abaddon groans softly, too weak to fight back, feeling both scolded and cared for at the same time.

His mother’s hands were gentle but firm as she tucks them all in, smoothing blankets and adjusting pillows.

“Enough teasing,” she murmurs, though the corners of her mouth turn up slightly. “Everyone is nice and warm now.”

His youngest sister crawls closer to him, still tugging at strands of his hair, humming quietly as she traces invisible patterns across his forehead. Abaddon lets out a faint sigh of comfort, finally sinking into the warmth of the bed.

From her chair by the fire, their mother sits knitting, the needles clicking softly, a gentle, rhythmic sound that matches the crackling of the flames. She hums a tune under her breath, simple and sweet, letting the melody carry through the room. The firelight flickers across the blankets and their faces, painting everything in gold and shadow.

The warmth, the soft hum, the gentle hands in his hair—it all wraps around him, pulling him deeper into sleep. The ache of fever and the memory of rain fades into the comfort of his family, of home, of being safe and cared for.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realizes he could linger in this warmth forever, tucked in between his sisters, soothed by his mother’s song and the glow of the fire.

—

Abaddon’s eyes snap open. The bed beneath him was narrow and flat, not soft and welcoming. There’s an odd mask strapped over his nose and mouth and a slow hiss fills his ears. Tubes of liquid hang from pumps on either side of his bed, one taped into the soft skin of his arm, another threaded painfully along his gumline where a nurse must’ve fought to get access while he was unconscious.

He tries to sit up, panic rising immediately. The blankets he had clung to in the dream were gone, replaced by stiff, sterile sheets. His small body trembles, fever still burning, and he could barely remember how to breathe on his own.

“Katherine?” His voice was weak and raspy, laced with terror.

No warm arms, no soft hum, no teasing sisters. Only the unfamiliar room, the sterile smell of disinfectant, and the faint beep of a monitor nearby.

His chest burns.

His throat feels raw.

He looks around—and Katherine isn’t there.

That’s when the panic hits.

He pushes himself upright, chest heaving under the oxygen mask, hands trembling as he reaches for the tangled tubing. He doesn’t even know what he’s doing—he just knows he’s in a strange place. Alone.

The door opens.

A nurse slips in, clipboard tucked to her chest. She smiles too softly, her eyes too carefully neutral, like she’s been trained for this exact kind of situation.

“Oh—good, you’re awake,” she says.

“Caleb, right? I’m just here to talk to you for a minute.”

He stiffens. His fingers curl into the blanket.

Caleb? Who does this mortal think he is?

“Where’s Katherine?” he rasps through the mask.

“We’ll get to that,” she says gently, coming closer. “Right now I just need to ask you a few questions.”

He glares.

“Is she here?” He presses.

“We’ll talk about her in a moment.” The nurse ignores him again. “First, how’s your life at home?”

He doesn’t answer.

Why is she asking such idiotic questions?

Why is he here?

Did Katherine bring him here?

The last thing he remembers was sitting in the car and perhaps the feeling of rain on his face in the parking lot.

The nurse taps her pen to her clipboard.

“Do you feel safe there? Is your family nice to you?”

His stomach flips. Not from sickness this time.

He looks away.

The nurse’s eyes drift downward, to the faint outline of the cross-shaped scar visible beneath his hospital gown. She tries to school her expression, but Abaddon catches the flicker of unease. Suspicion.

When he doesn’t answer, she tries again.

“It’s okay if someone hurt you,” she says. Too soft. Too practiced. “You can tell me.”

He tenses, eyes widening in disbelief.

Katherine? Hurt him? Is that what she thinks? That Katherine managed this?

The nurse keeps going, like she’s reading from a script.

“How long have you had that scar on your chest, hon? And the marks on your wrists…were you restrained?”

He goes silent—flat, cold, done. He’s had enough of this. This is pathetic.

Abaddon grabs one of the IV lines in his arm and forcibly yanks.

“Hey—no—stop that!”

Pain flares white. Blood beads along the ripped edge of the catheter. He reaches for the feeding tube next, determined to get off the bed, get out of this room, get to Katherine—

But she catches his wrists.

“Sweetheart, don’t do that—”

“Let go of me!” he snarls into the mask, fighting her, his voice breaking with fear more than anger.

The nurse raises her voice. “I need a doctor in here! Now!”

The door bursts open again as a physician strides in. He moves fast, practiced, like this is far from the first terrified kid he’s had to restrain. He pins Abaddon’s shoulders to the mattress as the nurse braces his legs.

“Hold him—don’t let him pull that line out—he’s going to blow the vein.”

Abaddon thrashes harder, snarling, breath hitching behind the mask. Two more hands pin him. He lands a kick. Someone swears. The bed rattles.

“No—no—no—LET ME GO!” Abaddon thrashes, teeth bared behind the fogging oxygen mask. “KATHE—”

He doesn’t get the name out.

The doctor uncaps a small syringe, slides something into an IV port he didn’t manage to tear loose, and within seconds…

Everything softens.

His limbs grow heavy. His head floats as if someone has stuffed cotton into his skull. The room tilts like it’s sliding underwater. He feels like one of Esther’s voodoo dolls. The panic stays, but muffled now, trapped behind cotton and distance.

The doctor exhales. “Alright. He’ll settle in a moment.”

The nurse steps back, shaken but trying to hide it.

The doctor lowers his voice, talking to her softly.

“With the condition he came in… the malnourishment … the scarring, the mother’s evasiveness…”

He looks toward the door, making sure no one is listening.

“We can’t release him like this. Call Child Protective Services. Report it as suspected abuse.”

The nurse hesitates only a second before nodding.

Abaddon, half-sedated, tries to lift his arm. It falls back to the sheets.

He tries to say Katherine’s name.

It dissolves into breath.

And down the hall, the phone for CPS begins to ring.

Katherine

Katherine wasn’t allowed past the double doors.

She’d been sitting in the tiny consultation alcove for almost an hour, her damp jacket still plastered to her shoulders, cold seeping into her spine. Every time a nurse walked by, she jolted, hope, then disappointment.

Then she sees them.

Two people approaching with identical clipped strides, badges swinging, expressions arranged into the kind of soft concern that never meant anything good.

CPS.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

“Ms. Jones?” the woman asks, voice dipped in practiced gentleness.

Katherine doesn’t stand. She doesn’t trust herself to, her knees feel like they’re made of live wires.

She whips her head toward the nurse at the desk. “You seriously contacted them?!” The words crack out of her, sharp and thin. “He threw up blood. He passed out. That’s why we’re here. Not for—this!” Her voice breaks, anger scraping into panic.

The nurse offers a polite, strained smile. “This is standard when we see signs we can’t explain. You were informed of the policy.”

Katherine drags both hands down her face, fighting the tremble. “He’s nine. He’s sick. He was having seizures. Why would I drag him here if I was trying to hurt him?”

The CPS man steps forward as if that might help. “We understand this is stressful—”

“No.” She shoots to her feet, heart pounding so hard it shakes her words. “No, you don’t understand!” Her fists ball at her sides. “This is ridiculous! Where is he? Why won’t anyone tell me what’s going on?!”

“He’s stable,” the woman replies, still soothing, still useless. “But until we complete our preliminary assessment, we can’t allow you into the room.”

Stable.

That word hits her like a mockery, because it’s the one thing he isn’t.

“My kid is terrified of hospitals!” Katherine shouts, voice cracking on the last word. “He’s going to wake up alone. He’s going to think I abandoned him.”

“That’s why we’re here,” the woman replies. “To understand what’s going on at home, and what might be contributing to the level of fear he’s exhibiting.”

Katherine’s jaw clenches so hard it hurt. “The only thing contributing to his fear right now is that you’ve taken him away from me.”

The CPS man exchanges a quiet look with the nurse. “The medical team reported physical findings that raised concern.”

The brand.

That damn brand.

Katherine feels the blood drain from her face. “It’s an old injury,” she starts, steady but brittle. “It’s been treated, it’s not new—"

“And yet,” the woman says softly, “he panicked when asked about it. And tried to remove his IVs. He became physically aggressive with a nurse.”

Katherine’s breath stutters. “Because he was alone. Because he’s confused and he’s sick. Because you people won’t let him see me!”

The woman’s tone shifts—still gentle, but firmer. “Ms. Jones… until we can ensure he’s safe, we cannot allow you access.”

Katherine takes a small step back, like the floor had shifted beneath her.

Safe.

They thought she was the danger.

Her hands curl into fists. “You have no idea what you’re doing,” she whispers. “I brought him here to save his life.”

“That’s why we need to look into things further,” the man said. “If everything is fine, this will be temporary.”

Her laugh was a sharp, humorless sound.

“Right.”

The nurse behind the desk clears her throat, hesitant. “Ms. Jones, if you continue raising your voice, security will escort you to the lobby.”

Katherine shuts her eyes, steadying herself as her hands clench into fists. When she opens them, her expression is carved from steel.

“I’m not leaving this floor,” she mutters firmly. “You can put me in the hallway, in a chair, against a wall—I don’t care. But I am not going anywhere until I see him.”

The CPS workers exchange another glance.

The woman softens again. “We’ll speak with you shortly. For now, please wait here.”

They walk away.

Katherine’s hands were shaking again. She presses them against her mouth, eyes burning, breath unsteady.

She somehow needs to get to Abbadon and get the hell out of here.

—

Katherine had to wait nearly half an hour before the CPS workers reappeared at the end of the hall. They stand together in low, guarded conversation, glancing toward her every few seconds as if she were a bomb with a short fuse.

Katherine glares right back.

“Mom,” Ben whispers, leaning close, voice tight with fear. “This isn’t good. They definitely saw the scar, and his wrists. They look… bad. You know they’re gonna think someone chained him up. What if they try to take him?”

Katherine’s jaw clenches, fingers digging into the arm of her chair until her knuckles went white.

“I won’t let that happen. You hear me?” Her voice is steady, but her eyes were shaking. “You don’t have to worry.”

She ignores how Ben doesn’t look convinced.

The CPS workers finally start towards them, a man and a woman, sensible shoes, clipboards clutched like shields. Their faces were professionally neutral, but their eyes were sharp, already dissecting Katherine.

“We’d like to speak with you privately, if that’s alright,” the older of the two says.

Katherine stares at them, anger simmering just under her skin, jaw tight, rain-damp hair sticking to her cheeks, eyes raw from tears and hours without sleep.

But she rises anyway, swallowing everything she wanted to say.

She turns to Ben, checking the tremble in his hands.

“I’ll be back soon, okay? Grab something from the vending machine.”

She presses a five into his palm.

He nods, though his eyes don’t leave her face.

Katherine follows the women down the hall.

They lead her into a tiny consultation room, barely big enough for the metal table between them.

The woman sits across from her, folding her hands neatly, posture stiff. She introduces herself as Ms. Delaney, but her expression says, I already think you did something.

“So,” Ms. Delaney begins, flipping open a folder thick with fresh notes, “your son was found with a distinct burn scar across his chest. A cross.” She pauses. “He appears terrified of medical staff. He panicked when separated from you. He refuses to be touched. His medical records magically don’t exist. And his wrists—”

She taps the paper.

“—are covered in what appear to be old burn injuries. Circular. Patterned. Consistent with restraint injuries.”

She lets that hang.

“Now, how do you think that looks to us?”

Katherine forces her face into something soft, something tired, something maternal, something that wasn’t boiling with the fury of being kept away from Abaddon.

She inhales slowly.

And she lies.

“My brother rescued him,” she whispers, letting her voice break just enough. “From a religious cult. At least… that’s what he told me.”

Ms. Delaney blinks, startled despite herself.

Katherine presses on, steady and quiet, like someone confessing a lifelong burden.

“I know he wasn’t born in a hospital,” she murmurs. “They kept him isolated. Hidden.”

Her breath shudders.

“They branded him young.”

Ms. Delaney’s brows pull together, suspicion warring with something else.

“My brother got him out when he was six,” Katherine continues, gaze dropping to her hands. “He found him wandering in the woods—starving, barely speaking, terrified of anyone bigger than him. He claimed he escaped.”

She swallows hard.

“He doesn’t like strangers touching him because of what they did. He freezes. He panics. He shuts down.”

Delaney’s expression softens, only a fraction, but enough.

“And those marks on his wrists?” she asks quietly.

Katherine looked up, eyes shining.

“They chain the children. To keep them ‘obedient.’ That’s what he told me. That’s why his wrists look like that. Not because of anything I did.”

Liar, she thinks to herself.

There was a long pause.

The fluorescent light hum overhead.

Delaney lets out a slow breath, her suspicion slipping into uneasy contemplation.

“Where’s your brother now?” she asks.

Katherine doesn't have to fake tears, she lets grief do the work.

“He died six months ago. Suddenly. And I found… paperwork, notes, terrifying things after he passed. He never trusted the authorities. He believed the people who hurt Ab—Caleb had money. Influence. Reach.”

Her voice trembles.

“And I… I didn’t report anything because I didn’t want him taken by strangers and placed in a system that would break him even worse. Caleb is practically all I have left of my brother. I know it was wrong of me but I’m trying—God, I’m trying to give him a normal life.”

Delaney stares down at the notes in front of her, the cross-shaped scar sketched in red pen, the description of the wrist injuries.

Guilt flickers across her face.

Then indecision.

Then—just barely—sympathy.

“I’ll need to verify some of this,” she says quietly. “But… I’ll speak to the attending physician. If he’s stable, I might be able to allow a short visit.”

Katherine didn’t smile. Didn’t thank her. Didn’t relax.

But her next breath came just a little easier.

The lie had landed.

Now she only had to survive the fallout.

—

The doctors reluctantly, warily agreed to let her see him.

Not because they trusted her.

Only because CPS insisted supervision was necessary.

They escort Katherine down the hall like she’s a problem they’re trying not to escalate, two nurses, one CPS worker, and a doctor whose eyes keep drifting toward her like she might bolt.

She keeps her hands clenched together so tightly her knuckles ache. If she lets go, she isn’t sure what she’ll do, fall apart, or start swinging.

The hallway feels too bright. Too clean. Too loud. Every beep from a monitor is a judgment, an accusation.

When they reach the door, Ms. Delaney steps in front of her.

“Five minutes,” she says. “No yelling, no removing equipment, no interfering with staff. If he becomes distressed, we end the visit immediately. Understood?”

Katherine forces a nod.

Distressed?

He woke up in a strange room alone with tubes down his arm—what did they expect?

The lock clicks open.

Katherine was through the door before the nurse could finish her sentence.

The smell hits her first: antiseptic, oxygen, the faint metallic tang of IV lines.

Then she spots him.

And something inside her ruptures.

Abaddon looks wrong—too pale, too still, his lashes sticky with tears, an oxygen mask fogging weakly with each uneven breath. The IV lines snake from both arms, taped down over skin that already bruises too easily. Someone had pushed his hair back from his forehead, and it made him look—

God.

He looks nine

She crosses the room so fast the nurse startles, but she doesn’t care. She drops to her knees beside his bed, hands hovering, terrified to hurt him, to jostle a needle, to remind him he was trapped here.

But he grabs her first.

His small hand clamps around her wrist with a desperation that shakes his whole arm.

“You came back.” The words tear out of him, rough and wet, slurred by whatever they’d pumped into him. “I…thought you left me.”

Katherine bows her head to his trembling fingers.

“I’m here,” she breathes. “I never left the building. I swear.”

But she can feel it—the distrust, sharp and raw as the fever burning off his skin.

His wide, glassy eyes search her face for something, for a reason, an explanation, a promise that won’t break this time. She doesn’t give him one.

In a tiny, sluggish voice he whispers, “’m…not fond of it here.”

It guts her.

“They…keep asking me…odd things…” His fingers tighten on her wrist. “…wanna go back.”

“I know.” Her voice cracks. “I know, Abby. I’m going to fix this and get us home, okay?”

He sags against her, eyelids dragging low, head lolling. But his grip doesn’t slacken. It stays iron-tight, trembling, the hold of a terrified child begging without words please don’t leave me again.

And the moment she feels that limpness in his body, something in her snaps as she realizes—

This isn’t him.

Abaddon doesn’t melt like this. He doesn’t slur. He doesn’t cling in confusion like a toddler pulled out of sleep.

They sedated him.

They actually sedated him.

A slow, cold fury crawls up her spine.

They drugged a nine-year-old, her nine-year-old without asking, without warning, without even giving her the dignity of a damn conversation. Just pumped him full of whatever they thought would make their questions easier to force answers from.

It’s disgusting.

Katherine’s nails bite into her palms as she stares at his foggy, struggling eyes, realizing how small he looks like this, how vulnerable they’ve made him.

“Abby…” her voice cracks. She feels the sudden need to apologize for everything. “I was wrong to bring you here. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. I never should’ve put you in that attic, or—God—the crucifix. I wasn’t thinking, I just…”

His eyes flutter. He gives her a small, crooked, forgiving smile that hurts more than anything else tonight.

“It’s m’kay…”

It wasn’t.

It would never be.

But he was forgiving her anyway.

She swallows hard.

“I’ll get you home, okay? I’ll take you back to Nathan and Esther. I promise.”

The door cracks open.

A nurse steps in, posture stiff. A CPS worker hovers behind her like a shadow.

“Time to go,” the nurse says gently, but with no give in her tone.

Abaddon panics instantly.

His hand jerks, trying to pull Katherine closer, trying to hold her there. But his muscles are sluggish, weighed down by drugs. His fingers slip.

“No—don’t go—”

His voice cracks into terrified whimpers beneath the oxygen mask.

Katherine rises, breath shaking, torn in half.

The nurse moves to step in.

Abaddon’s hand reaches toward her,
weak, pleading, trembling.

And for the first time tonight, Katherine realizes—

They might not let her back in.

Chapter Text

Abaddon

They took Katherine away.

Abaddon tried to scream, tried to beg her to not leave him here alone again with these strange people, but they forced her away. He started screaming as nurses tried to calm him down and, with all my hysteria, all he was able to make out was "Increase the ketamine” before his mind went foggy again.

Suddenly, Abaddon was barely even able to lift his head.

What have they done to him? Why does he feel so sluggish? Why is the world spinning?

This isn’t right. Where’s Katherine needed that’s so important? He wants to go home and see Esther.

The nurses have eased back now that he’s not actively fighting them, and he notices an odd suited worker sits near the foot of the bed with a clipboard, watching him like a puzzle she is determined to solve.

“Hi, sweetheart,” the woman coaxes gently. “Can you tell us your name?”

Abaddon blinks. Confused. Irritated. His tongue feels too heavy in his mouth.

“I wish for Katherine to come back.”

The CPS worker exhales sharply, the gentleness cracking.

“How about you answer these questions and then you can possibly see her again, yeah? Now your name?”

Why do they care about his name?

Why can’t he just see Katherine now?

But his thoughts are drifting away from him again.

He’s too tired to argue. If answering these ridiculous questions brings Katherine back faster…
Fine.

“…Caleb,” he murmurs, remembering the made up name Katherine uses for him when he’s outside of the hotel.

The nurse shares a subtle look with the CPS worker, probably surprised he’s complying.

“And where do you live, Caleb?” the woman asks softly.

“In… the hotel.” His voice drags like he’s pulling it through water.

“Do you feel safe there?”

His brow scrunches. “Why wouldn’t I?” he slurs, annoyed.

They are asking him such idiotic questions

The CPS worker leans forward. “Can you tell us about the people you lived with before Katherine?”

His foggy gaze lifts. “Before…?”

“The cult,” she says gently.

Abaddon stares at her.

“…Cult?” he echoes, bewildered. He tries to sit up, loses the battle with gravity, and slumps back. “I don’t understand?”

The adults exchange a look.

It’s not a good one.

The nurse tries again. “Katherine said some people hurt you. Do you remember them?”

He squints, thinking… far too literally.

“Hurt me…?” His eyes flicker down to his wrists, bandaged and raw. “Iron hurts me.” A woozy shrug. “It…burns.”

The two women freeze.

The nurse clears her throat. “Does Katherine ever…restrain you with iron?”

“Mm...” His head tips. “I…suppose.”

Another shared glance — this time sharper.

“What about the scar on your chest?” the suited worker asks. “Who did that to you?”

“Priest,” he mumbles, as if stating something obvious. “He was attempting to sever me.” A sluggish blink. “It…did not work.”

The nurse’s face goes pale. “S-sever you from what?”

He seems confused again. “From… myself.”

The CPS worker steadies her voice. “And Katherine… does she ever hurt you other than the iron?”

“No.” His answer is immediate, softened by exhaustion. “She is… irritating. And loud. And she scolds too much.” He lifts a hand only halfway before it flops back down. “…But she is not cruel.”

The tension in the room loosens until—

“She gets angry at me,” he adds drowsily, as if he’s naming his favorite snack. “But only when I am being… unmanageable. It is fine. She tells me to go into the vents until I calm down.”

The CPS worker shoots bolt upright.

“What do you mean… into the vents?”

Abaddon’s brow knits, like he doesn’t know why they’re making a fuss.

“My bones are there.”

The nurse's pen stops writing altogether.

He can feel himself fading more by the second.

Another voice speaks up, voice tight. “Caleb…can you repeat that? Did you say Katherine tells you to go into the vents of your house? Do you sleep there?”

He considers. “I don’t sleep.

A stunned beat.

“But the vents are…convenient. Quiet. Warm. Dark. Esther does not prefer it but—”

“Why would you be in vents, Caleb?” she presses, horrified.

“I like them.” He answers simply.

“Does Katherine force you to stay there?”

He tries to answer.

Really tries.

But the sedation pulls his head to the side, dragging his mind down with it.

The world dissolves into a heavy blur.

“Mhm…she likes…when I’m there…”
His words fade into nothing. “’cause I don’t… bother…her work…”

The nurse mutters a sharp curse.

The CPS worker stands abruptly, face hardening.

“We need to speak with the attending physician immediately.”

Abaddon hears none of it.

His eyes slide shut, the world slipping away again.

Katherine

Katherine sits in the hard plastic chair in the hallway, foot tapping so fast it squeaks against the linoleum. Her arms are crossed tight, jaw locked. Every time the door opens she jerks her head up, praying it’s him—awake, calling for her, needing her.

But instead it’s another nurse.

A nurse who refuses to look her in the eye.

“Ma’am,” the woman says cautiously, “you need to stay seated. CPS is conducting an interview. You can’t go in there.”

Katherine almost laughs.

“He’s sedated,” she snaps. “He barely knows where he is. Why the hell would you interview a child who’s drugged out of his mind? He needs me, not strangers interrogating him!”

The nurse gives the same rehearsed line she’s already said three times: “We need to ensure his safety.”

“Safety?” Katherine hisses. “I am his family—the only stable one he’s had. If you want to ensure his safety, maybe stop pumping him full of tranquilizers and grilling him like he’s on trial!”

“Ma’am—”

“No. No more ‘ma’am.’ Just Let me see him!”

The nurse’s face hardens. “You’re escalating. I’m going to ask you to calm down.”

Katherine stands. “Open the door.”

“You need to sit—”

A door further down the hallway swings open. A paramedic pokes his head out and gestures urgently.

“Officers are here to talk to you,” he calls.

Officers?

Katherine’s stomach plunges so violently she has to grip the chair to steady herself.

Of course.

CPS gets spooked—hospital calls the police—now she’s the villain.

They’re going to take him.

“Wait here,” the nurse instructs coldly, walking over to the two cops who are busy making talk with the front desk.

Her pulse spikes. She looks sideways at Ben, who has been silently gripping her sleeve this whole time, eyes wide and terrified.

“Mom?” he whispers.

She squeezes his hand once. “Stay close.”

“What?” He breathes.

“Just trust me.”

The police begin talking with the charge nurse at the front desk. Everyone’s attention shifts. Nurses leave their posts. Doors open and shut. Someone wheels a cart around the corner.

Katherine’s mind clicks.

A plan.

Risky. Stupid. Possibly insane.
But she’s out of time.

“Ben,” she murmurs under her breath, “when I move, you move. Fast. Don’t look back.”

He gives an apprehensive nod.

She waits.

The rain outside slams harder against the windows, thunder rolling overhead like an omen.

Katherine watches the CPS worker leave Abaddon’s room. She goes straight to the officers, voice low and tense. They start nodding, taking notes.

Everyone is busy.

Katherine stands slowly, quietly.

She rounds the corner towards Abaddon’s door like she belongs there—steady, natural, invisible.

She slips inside.

Abaddon is half-slumped sideways on the bed, pupils unfocused, breathing thick and uneven. His hair is damp with sweat. His wristband hangs loose. He’s murmuring something under his breath—maybe her name, maybe nothing at all. His eyelids flutter but never open.

Katherine’s chest cracks open with grief and fury.

“Abby,” she whispers, brushing his cheek. “We’re getting you out, okay?”

He doesn’t respond beyond a faint hum.

Ben hurries in behind her and helps untangle the monitor wires. His hands shake violently but he doesn’t let that stop him.

“Mom, he’s really out of it—”

“I know. We’ll carry him. Grab his things.”

She slips her arms under Abaddon’s back and lifts him, his limp weight folding into her like a toddler’s. His head drops heavily onto her shoulder.

Then—

“HEY!”

A nurse shouts behind them.

Katherine spins around, heart lurching.

The older nurse who’d been arguing with her is in the doorway, eyes wide, already reaching for the emergency button clipped to her shirt.

“Shit,” Katherine breathes.

She bolts.

The nurse lunges and grabs the back of Katherine’s hood, yanking her so hard she stumbles backward.

“Security! SHE’S TAKING THE BO—”

But before the woman can finish, Ben slams his whole thirteen-year-old body into her.

Not strong, but strong enough to give them time.

She goes stumbling into the wall with a sharp cry.

“BEN, GO!” Katherine shouts.

They sprint into the hall.

Nurses scream.

Radios crackle.

The officers whip around at the commotion.

“There! STOP!” one yells.

“Ma’am, put the child down!”

Katherine runs harder, clutching Abaddon tighter to her chest. He groans weakly, head bouncing against her shoulder with each step. He murmurs something about yogurt.

Rain hammers the windows.

Thunder shakes the walls.

Ben runs ahead, shoving open the door to the stairwell. “Mom, come on!”

The officers are already coming after them, heavy boots pounding the tile.

Katherine barrels through the stairwell door. They thunder down two flights, her legs screaming from both the weight and the panic.

At the bottom, Ben bursts outside first into the freezing downpour. The parking lot is a sheet of rain. Their old car sits under the flickering streetlight like salvation.

“Hey! STOP!” an officer’s voice echoes from above.

She doesn’t.

She can’t.

They sprint through the rain, Katherine shielding Abaddon’s limp body with her own. Her shoes slip on the pavement. Cold water splashes up her legs. Lightning flashes—white and blinding.

Ben jerks open the back door.

“Put him in!”

She lays Abaddon across the seats. His head rolls toward her, eyelids fluttering, breath shallow but steady.

“K’t’rine…” he slurs.

The police spill out the doors behind them.

Katherine slams the door, jumps into the driver’s seat, and throws the car into reverse.

A nurse runs out, pointing and shouting, “STOP THEM! THEY’RE KIDNAPPING HIM!”

Katherine floors it.

Tires screech through the rain.

They tear out of the parking lot as blue lights flick on behind them.

Abaddon moans weakly in the back, half-conscious.

Ben is panting, crying silently, gripping the door handle as he sits in the backseat next to Abaddon.

Katherine’s knuckles are white around the steering wheel as the car hums down the wet highway, the wipers whining against mist.

“Ben—“ she starts, trying to come up with an explanation for what the hell just happened.

“What the fuck was that, Mom?”
His voice snaps through the air like a whip.

Katherine’s heart lurches.

I kidnapped him. Oh God. I really—

But she shoves that thought down, reaching for the only control she has left.

“Ben, don’t swear at me.”

He lets out a disbelieving laugh. “That’s your problem right now? Really? Mom, you grabbed him and ran—”

“I was protecting him.”

“It looked like you were stealing him!”

“I’m his guardian,” she shoots back. “I’m allowed to take him.”

Ben throws his hands up. “Are you? Because it sure didn’t look like you believed that when you ran from those nurses!”

Katherine can feel the panic rising in her throat, mixing with anger, fear, instinct.

“He’s sick. He isn’t breathing right. They sedated him for no reason! I’m not waiting for a committee meeting while he suffocates.”

“You made it look like a kidnapping!” Ben fires back.

“They would’ve taken him,” she says through clenched teeth. “CPS, the hospital, the state—someone would have taken him from us.”

“You can’t just break the rules!”

Katherine’s voice bursts out, sharp and raw:
“THE RULES DON’T APPLY TO ABBADON!”

Ben freezes.

Katherine goes on, breath shaking, eyes burning.

“He’s a child demon, Ben. A literal demon. The system isn’t built for him. The rules aren’t made for him. They don’t know what he is or how to treat him or what he needs. They’d find out he doesn’t age, doesn’t get hurt, and put him in some white room, poke him with needles, call the government, call God-knows-who—”

She swallows hard.

“I couldn’t let that happen.”

Ben’s jaw opens…but nothing comes out.

Because what argument is there?

What handbook covers child demons?

What rulebook explains that?

He looks away, breathing unsteady, the reality of it hitting him all over again.

Katherine softens, the defensive fire flickering out into guilt.

“Ben…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drag you into this. I just—”

Her voice cracks.

“—I couldn’t lose him.”

He doesn’t answer.

But he doesn’t ask any more questions, either.

—

Katherine ends up pulling into a run down gas station that looks like it would feature in a horror movie.

“What are we doing here?” Ben asks, finally speaking to her for the first time in a half hour.

“We need supplies.” She answers, unbuckling her seatbelt.

“Stay here with Abbadon. I’ll be back.”

Ben crosses his arms, but doesn’t complain. Which she appreciates.

Katherine pushes through the gas station door like she’d been spat out of a hurricane.

Her hood was soaked, her hair plastered to her cheeks, her hands still trembling with leftover adrenaline. She barely spared the cashier a glance — just threw a brittle “Hey” in their direction before walking stiffly toward the snack aisle.

She grabs things without seeing them: ramen cups, pretzels, gummy worms, whatever her hands landed on. Then medical supplies— antiseptic spray, gauze, ibuprofen, anything that looked like it belonged in a “my-kid-is-bleeding-but-I-can’t-go-to-a-hospital” kit.

Her chest is tight. Her pulse wild. She felt like she was gonna puke.

By the time she reaches the bathroom door, she couldn't breathe.

She slips inside, locks it, and braces her hands on the sink. The fluorescent lights were too bright. The air too cold. Her reflection looks like someone fleeing a crime scene.

Her phone buzzes in her shaking grip as she hits the hotel’s contact.

One ring.

Two.

Three—

“Mom?” Esther’s small voice answers.

Katherine’s eyes snap shut, tears spilling immediately. “Baby—Esther, sweetie, put Nathan on the phone.”

“You sound weird,” Esther says, wary. “Is Abaddon okay? Where are—”

“Honey,” Katherine rasps, her voice cracking. “Get your uncle. Please. And—and go into another room, okay? I need to talk to him.”

A beat. Then a frustrated huff. “Fine.”

Footsteps. A muffled door closing. Esther shouting, “Uncle Nathan! Mom’s on the phone!”

More footsteps. A switch of voices.

“Katherine.” Nathan sounds breathless. Angry already. “What happened? It’s been hours you can’t just—”

“His heart stopped.”

The words rip out of her before she could soften them.

Silence.

“…What.”

Katherine clutches the sink like it was the only solid thing in the world. “It stopped, Nathan. They—they were shocking him. And I—I couldn’t get to him, they wouldn’t let me see him, they kept dragging me out, and then CPS was questioning him alone, and—”

Her breath hitches violently. Her hand slaps over her mouth. She paces a tight circle, struggling to hold herself together.

“Katherine,” Nathan says, voice low, furious, “Where is he now?”

She hesitates.

The pause says everything.

“Katherine.” Sharper. “Where. Is. He.”

She swallows hard. “He’s… in the car.”

A crash comes through the phone on Nathan’s end — something heavy hitting a table or wall. “You took him?! Katherine, what the hell were you thinking?! They’re gonna come here! What about Esther and Ben?!”

“I KNOW!” she snaps, voice breaking. “I know, Nathan! I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t going to—but the cops were there and the nurses were accusing me of—of hurting him and they wouldn’t let me in and he was drugged out of his mind and terrified and—”

Her breath trembles dangerously.

“I couldn’t leave him.”

A choked, distant voice pipes through the phone.

“The police are coming?!”

“Esther—” Katherine says, instantly softening, “Keep out of the office. Listen to your uncle, please. You’ll see us soon. I promise.”

“No,” Esther argues stubbornly, voice cracking. “This isn’t fair! I wanna help.”

“Esther,” Nathan’s voice snaps in the background. “Out. Now.”

A small sniffle. Then the sound of retreating footsteps.

Nathan comes back on the line, seething. “Where are you?”

“A gas station off Highway 19,” she whispers.. “I’m—Nathan, I can’t go back to the hotel. Not yet. They’ll be looking for us. They probably already are.”

“So what, you’re just going to run?” Nathan demands. “With a sedated child in the backseat and the police actively searching for you?! Brilliant, Katherine. Brilliant.”

She presses her fist to her forehead, tears streaking hot down her cheeks.

“I’m getting a motel,” she manages. “Just for the night. I need time to think. To—to figure out what comes next. Maybe they won’t even find us? I gave a fake name...”

Nathan exhales like he was about to combust. “And how is Abaddon right now?”

She hesitates again.

Images flashed behind her eyelids:
Abaddon slumped sideways in the backseat, half-conscious, breathing shallow, Ben trying to keep his head from lolling.

“Katherine,” Nathan warns, low and dangerous.

“He’s…breathing,” she whispers. “And that’s all I can say.”

A long, heavy silence.

“…okay,” Nathan sighs. “But you call me if he stops breathing again. Immediately. Katherine, I swear— if he deteriorates and you don’t call me—”

“I will,” she whispers. “I promise.”

She ends the call before she can hear anything else he has to say.

Her legs feel like wet string as she buys the snacks, the ramen cups, the bandages, antiseptic wipes. Her hands shake so badly the cashier asks if she’s okay.

She lies. She nods. She leaves.

The rain has eased to a mist by the time she pushes back into the car, dropping into the driver’s seat like she’s fallen from a roof. She passes Ben the gummy worms—his favorite—but he doesn’t even look at them.

He’s pale, hunched in the backseat beside the limp boy leaning against his shoulder.

“Where are we going?” Ben asks, voice thin, worn.

“A motel,” Katherine says, staring straight ahead as she puts the key in the ignition. “Just for tonight.”

A beat of silence.

Then Ben explodes.

“A motel?!” he snaps, throwing the gummy worms onto the floor. “I wanna go home! I don’t wanna hide in some nasty motel with— with— cops looking for us! Mom, what the hell are you doing?!”

She flinches like he slapped her.

“Ben, I’m trying—”

“No!” he barks, voice breaking. “You’re not! You’re— you’re just—”

Tears shine in his furious eyes.

“This is your fault,” he chokes. “All of this! If you had just left him there like you were supposed to—like any normal person— we wouldn’t be running, and the cops wouldn’t be looking for us, and we could just go home!”

Katherine’s breath stutters.

For a second, she can’t breathe at all.

Abaddon stirs faintly at the sound of yelling, but doesn’t wake.

Her voice, when it comes, is barely above a whisper.

“I know,” she says, staring at the wet windshield as if waiting for it to swallow her whole. “I know, Ben. I know it’s my fault.”

Her hands tighten on the steering wheel until her knuckles blanch.

“But we can’t go home.”

Another shaky breath.

“Because if we do… they’ll take him away, and possibly me away too.”

Silence.

She turns the key in the ignition with trembling hands.

Ben looks down at Abaddon, who is half-awake, eyes glassy and unfocused, cheek pressed against Ben’s jacket. He’s breathing, but shallowly. Still lethargic from the sedatives.

Ben doesn’t answer.

He just pulls Abaddon closer, eyes glued to the window as the rain streaks down the glass, the gas station lights blurring into smears of gold and red.

—

The rest of the drive is almost silent.

Only the hiss of tires on wet pavement, the occasional shudder of the wipers, and Abaddon’s faint, uneven breathing from the back seat fill the car. Katherine’s knuckles are bone-white on the wheel. Ben sits rigid beside his cousin, glaring out the window, cheeks blotchy with leftover tears and fury.

He hasn’t said a word since snapping “It’s your fault.”

She hasn’t said a word since her voice cracked, answering,“I know.”

The air is tight. Stale. It feels like they’re all holding their breath.

Katherine turns off the highway, following a flickering roadside sign: VACANCY — WEEKLY RATES — NO REFUNDS.

It’s the best she can do under the circumstances. The neon buzzes like an insect as she pulls into the lot.

The motel looks like it’s given up long ago—paint peeling, puddles forming in potholes, half the rooms dark. The rain hasn’t stopped, sheeted across the windshield like static.

She parks under the awning. For a moment, she just sits there, forehead pressed to the wheel, her breath fogging the plastic. Then she inhales hard, pushes the door open, and steps out into the cold.

Ben climbs out more slowly. He’s still seething, but the way he keeps one steadying hand on Abaddon’s shoulder as Katherine lifts him shows his fear more clearly than anything he could say.

Abaddon is limp, heavy with sedation—dead weight in her arms. His head rests on her shoulder, hair damp with sweat. He doesn’t stir.

Inside, the front desk smells like mildew and stale cigarettes. A TV somewhere plays a game show too loudly. A woman in her fifties, stringy hair and expression carved out of annoyance, looks up only when she has to.

“What?” she snaps, not bothering to hide her irritation.

Katherine forces a smile that comes out brittle and shaky. “One room. Two beds. Just for the night.”

The woman eyes Abaddon slumped in her arms as if he’s an inconvenience, not a child unconscious and barely breathing.

“No parties,” she says flatly, sliding a keycard across the counter. “No pets. And if he throws up on the sheets, it’s a fifty-dollar fee.

Ben glares at her with the barely restrained fury of a thirteen-year-old whose whole world is collapsing. Katherine squeezes his shoulder gently as if to say not now and takes the card.

They trudge down the corridor, the carpet darkened by water leaks and footsteps. The room smells like bleach that’s losing a battle with mold. The lights buzz faintly.

Katherine lays Abaddon carefully on one of the beds. He doesn’t respond, his breath shallow, his face too pale.

Ben hovers a step behind her, arms crossed tight, voice small for the first time.

“He’s gonna wake up…right?”

Katherine freezes.

Her throat works before sound comes out.

“I—I don’t know, Ben.”

He looks at her sharply, fear slipping out from behind the anger. “…What do you mean you don’t know?”

“He’s heavily sedated,” she murmurs, brushing sweaty curls from Abaddon’s forehead. “His mortal body’s been pushed past his limits even for him…” Her voice breaks, and she swallows it. “He just needs time.”

Ben doesn’t answer. He turns away, shoulders hunched, blinking fast.

Katherine forces herself to move, to act, because stopping means thinking, and thinking means falling apart.

She finds the grimy microwave on the dresser, tears open two cups of ramen, fills them from the bathroom tap, and sets the first one inside. The machine rattles like it might come apart.

Ben sits at the tiny round table, staring at the gummy worms she bought him earlier. He hasn’t opened the bag.

He finally asks, without looking up, “What if he doesn’t?”

Katherine’s heart twists.

“Don’t think things like that. He’s fine.”

The microwave dings.

The storm outside only gets louder.

And Abaddon still doesn’t move.

—

Ben pokes at his noodles more than he eats them as the motel TV flickers with washed-out colors, playing some ancient Disney movie with crackling audio.

The screen is too bright for the dim, stale-smelling room, but neither Katherine nor Ben reache for the remote. They sit cross-legged on the end of one of the beds, eating ramen from flimsy Styrofoam cups.

Every slurp of Katherine’s feels too loud in the thick, exhausted silence. Outside, rain hits the railing in uneven taps.

Katherine keeps glancing sideways at Abaddon.

He hasn’t moved once since she carried him in—dead weight in her arms, head against her shoulder, breath shallow and milky from the drugs.

Now he lies on the other bed, curled slightly on his side, tubes taped to his cheek, bandages on his wrists bright white against the faded motel bedding.

Ben swallows hard. “You think he told them anything?”

Katherine stops mid-chew. Her stomach twists around her answer.

“…I don’t know, honey.” Her voice cracks more than she wants it to.

Ben stares at the kid. His face softens the way it always does when he forgets to be angry. But he says nothing. Just goes back to picking apart ramen that’s already falling apart.

The air stays thick, humming with the tension of everything unsaid.

After a minute, Katherine sets her cup aside, wipes her hands on her jeans, and digs into the first aid kit she grabbed at the gas station. Alcohol wipes. Gauze. Ointment. Bandage scissors.

She carries it over to Abaddon’s bed and sits at the edge.

Up close, he looks even smaller. Even paler. His lashes rest heavy against his cheeks, stuck together from dried tears and hospital grime.

Katherine breathes in slowly. Then she gets to work.

She checks the IV sites—angry red punctures that look worse under the motel lamp. She wipes them gently, her hands shaking. Ben turns on the mattress, watching her with wide, uncertain eyes.

The feeding tube bothers her the most.

It snakes down from his nostril, taped hastily to his cheek by a nurse who probably thought he’d be there overnight. It looks wrong on him. Violating. Like another stranger who touched him without permission.

She slides her fingers along the tape, takes a breath, and starts peeling.

Abaddon flinches.

Not awake, but that tiny jolt shoots panic right through her.

“Ah sorry,” she whispers. “I’m almost done.”

She removes the tape and slowly draws the tube out. It makes a faint wet sound as it leaves him. His throat works weakly.

Then—

His eyelids flutter.

Barely open, glassy and disoriented. His gaze doesn’t quite land on anything, drifting like he’s underwater.

“Katherine…?” His voice is grainy, barely there.

“Abaddon?” she gasps, smoothing his hair. “Can you hear me?”

He blinks slowly, pupils unfocused.

“…Yogurt?” he breathes, the request so small it almost isn’t a word.

Ben lets out a stunned, anxious huff, like he can’t believe that’s what this kid is worried about.

Katherine’s throat burns. She’s about to ask him how he’s feeling and if he can try to down some water but his eyes slip shut again, drifting instantly back into a drugged sleep.

Katherine keeps her hand on his hair long after he’s gone still.

Ben sets his ramen aside completely, appetite gone. His knee bounces restlessly.

“Mom… is he—”

“Eat your food, Ben,” she says softly, too softly, because any louder and she’ll break. She can’t take another question from him right now.

The motel TV plays on, oblivious, animated characters laughing brightly while the room around them sits drenched in fear, the smell of ramen, and rain.

Abaddon sleeps.

Ben watches.

Katherine doesn’t blink.

—

Katherine waits until Ben finally claims he’s tired enough for bed before she excuses herself to go “downstairs for ice and stuff.” Really, she just needed air—something cold, something that wouldn’t burn going down her throat.

The motel lobby smells like mildew and instant coffee, and the front desk woman barely looks up from her phone as Katherine wanders toward the little shelf of “souvenirs,” which were really just overpriced basics for travelers who forgot real luggage.

She grabs three plain T-shirts—one black, one navy, one a washed-out green. They were thin, stiff, the kind that smelled like cardboard and bleach, but they were clean and dry. She reaches for a pack of toothbrushes and toothpaste along with a pack of cigerettes—which she claims to Esther she quit. She pays for them with shaky hands.

When she returns to the room, Ben had finally settled, sitting cross-legged on the bed beside Abaddon, silently watching the motel TV flicker through static. Some animated Pixar movie was playing, the colors oversaturated, the audio warped when characters spoke too loud.

“Got us shirts,” Katherine whispers, setting the small plastic bag on the dresser.

Ben nods but doesn’t answer.

She hands him the navy one; she keeps the green. And for Abaddon, she lays the black one aside—he’d need something fresh to wear for when he wakes up.

Katherine changes in the small bathroom, staring at her reflection in the spotted mirror. Her hair was frizzy from the rain, and her mascara was smudged in bruised shadows beneath her eyes.

She looks like someone who hasn't slept in three days. Someone who had just kidnapped a child from a hospital.

Someone CPS would take one look at and call unfit.

Her throat tightens. She splashes cold water on her face and tugs the cheap shirt down over her hips.

When she steps back into the room, Ben has already changed. His hair was damp from his own attempt to clean up in the sink. He looks so small suddenly—thirteen, but hunched, shoulders pulled inward, eyes swollen from the crying he’d pretend he didn’t do.

Abaddon lays next to them on the bed, still deadweight unconscious, his chest rising shallowly, bandages at his wrists. He looks younger like this. Helpless. Sedated. Sick.

It makes her queasy to see him this way.

Ben slowly curls up beside him, tucking one leg under Abaddon’s blanket as if making sure his body heat keeps him warm. Katherine watches him lean carefully—not touching the bandages, not jarring the IV marks—just close enough to guard him.

He wasn’t angry now. Not the way he had been in the car.

He just looks scared.

Katherine sits on the edge of the other bed and watches the two boys breathe—one steady, one uneven—and something sharp twists beneath her ribs. One wrong move. One wrong word. One wrong assumption from a stranger…and CPS wouldn’t just come for Abaddon.

They’d come for Ben, too.

Her son. Her actual child. Her responsibility.

Her failure, if this went badly.

A cold pulse shoots through her stomach.

If they’re tracking them… If the hospital reported a kidnapping… If the police had Ben’s name… If CPS claimed she was unstable…

What if this wasn’t just about Abaddon anymore?

What if she’d put both kids in danger?

Ben shifts closer to Abaddon, protective even in his exhaustion, and lays his head lightly against the pillow near Abaddon’s shoulder. His eyes flutter shut, lashes wet.

Katherine wants to pull both of them into her arms, hold them safe against her, swear she’d fix this—but she doesn't know how. Not yet. Maybe not at all.

She sits awake instead—staring at the peeling paint, the dusty lamp, the motel curtains that barely closed—while the TV casts trembling light over the boys’ sleeping faces.

At some point she grabs the pack of cigarettes and lighter she hid under her bag and goes out onto the balcony.

Katherine stands at the railing, forearms resting on the rusted metal, listening to the rain. The parking lot below glows dull and orange, puddles trembling every time a drop hits.

She lights the cigarette with shaking hands.

The first inhale burns. Good. Something sharp enough to cut through the fog in her chest. She exhales slowly, watching the smoke curl and vanish into the rain.

She promised Esther she quit.

She thinks of Esther’s small hand wrapped around her finger, the seriousness in her eyes when she made her swear.

Katherine squeezes her eyes shut and tells herself she’ll make it up to her later. That tonight doesn’t count.

A siren wails somewhere in the distance.

Katherine flinches hard, eyes snapping to the road like she expects headlights to swing into the lot. They don’t. The sound fades, leaving only rain and the low buzz of the motel sign.

They’re not coming for you, she tells herself.

You didn’t do anything wrong.

She presses her palms harder into the railing.

She thinks of Abaddon in the hospital bed — too pale, too warm, too quiet. The way his body went slack when they increased the meds. The way they took her hands off him like she was the dangerous one.

She swallows.

I was protecting him.

The thought doesn’t land right.

Her mind drifts backward to the weight of that crucifix in her hand. The cold iron. The way she hesitated — just a second — before hanging it over his chest.

Her stomach twists.

She shouldn’t have done that. She tells herself she panicked and did it for her own safety, for the hotel’s safety. But safety doesn’t leave burns on children.

She drags another inhale, harsher this time, and coughs quietly into her sleeve. Tears sting her eyes. She scrubs at them angrily.

Another siren, closer.

She freezes again.

This wasn’t all your fault, she thinks, desperately.

He’s not human. The rules don’t work for him. You were improvising.

But improvising got him restrained. Drugged. Alone.

Her grip tightens until her hands hurt.

And then there’s Nathan.

The thought of him comes with heat — sharp, bitter, unfair.

He should be here! He should be standing beside her, taking half this weight. Instead, he chose his ending and left her with the aftermath. Left her with his son. His demon son.

And he has the right to be mad at her?!

She curses him under her breath, a quiet, ugly string of words she never let herself say before.

How dare he leave her with this

With him.

With the guilt.

With all of this responsibility.

The cigarette burns low. Ash drops onto the concrete near her bare feet.

She flicks it away and watches the ember die in the rain.

Inside the room, her children are sleeping — or trying to. One of them is miles away, surrounded by deranged ghosts, because she made the wrong call at the wrong time.

Katherine rests her forehead against the cool metal railing and lets herself breathe for a moment.

“God.” She mutters.

The rain keeps falling.

Her cigarette runs out.

—

A sharp knock shatters the thin motel silence.

Katherine jolts awake, Ben’s discarded ramen cup spilling off her bed and onto the carpet. The TV is still playing the same flickering Disney movie, throwing soft blue light over the room. Ben startles upright on the other bed beside Abaddon, who is still limp, breathing shallowly.

Another knock. Harder.

Katherine’s heart stops. Police. It finally happened. They found them.

She creeps toward the door, pulse thundering, gripping the motel chain lock like it’ll save her.

“Mom?”

A small, trembling voice on the other side.

She freezes.

“…Esther?”

She yanks the door open.

There, on the peeling concrete walkway, stands her ten-year-old daughter—soaking wet, hair plastered to her cheeks, backpack half-zipped, shoes muddy, and absolutely shaking.

Katherine’s stomach drops to her knees.

“Mom—” Esther chokes, and then she throws herself forward.

Katherine catches her, dropping to her knees right there in the doorway, arms locking around the tiny, freezing body. “What—Esther, what are you doing here? How did you—”

“I—I tracked Ben’s phone.” Her voice is a small, breathless gasp against Katherine’s shoulder. “You weren’t answering, Uncle Nathan kept yelling, and I—I thought—” She sucks in a wet, worried breath. “I thought you were in trouble.”

Ben stands behind Katherine, wide-eyed, disbelief crashing over his face. “You tracked my phone?!”

“How did you get here?” Katherine pulls back just enough to see Esther’s face.

“I took a bus.”

Katherine wipes wet hair off of Esther’s forehead. “Esther, you can’t—you can’t just run off like that. Someone could’ve—” Her chest tightens. “You could’ve been hurt.”

Esther huffs, stubborn even through her tears. “I can take care of myself.”

God, this child.

Behind her, Abaddon stirs, letting out a soft, pained sound. Esther’s head snaps up.

“Is that Abaddon? What happened to him?” Her voice wavers.

Katherine stands, scooping the girl inside and shutting the door quickly, scanning the parking lot to make sure no police cruisers followed her.

“We’ll explain,” she whispers, locking the deadbolt. “But you cannot do this again. Ever.”

Esther nods but looks past Katherine toward the bed. Abaddon is half-curled, an IV-taped arm bruised where she removed his line, feeding tube slightly tugged loose, breath rattling faintly.

Esther’s lip wobbles. “He looks worse…”

Katherine pulls her close. “I know. But we’re going to keep him safe, okay? Tonight… we just stay quiet. No one knows we’re here.”

Ben sinks onto the nearest chair, hands in his hair, whispering, “Oh my god… oh my god…”

Katherine swallows the rising panic and closes the curtains tighter.

Three kids. One unconscious, one furious, one soaked through from running away to find her.

And the cops are very likely looking for all of them.

The air in the tiny room feels suffocating.

Katherine forces herself to breathe.

“Everyone… everyone just sit down,” she whispers. “We’ll figure this out. But right now… we stick together.”

Esther slides into her mother’s side.

Ben keeps glancing at the door like it might burst open any second.

Abaddon shivers in his sleep.

And Katherine stands there, soaked child in her arms, rain pounding outside, realizing she has crossed a line she can never un-cross.