Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Melinda I

A two-hundred-dollar ticket. That was what was burning a hole through Melinda’s purse. Apparently, after a disaster, cops were serious about no loitering ordinances.

Okay, technically it was loitering in recovery and excavation zones. Melinda knew the distinction was important. It wasn’t like she was pacing a hole in front of the cobblers that refused to repair her boots (too far gone, he said). Yeah, she stuck around in the collapsed remains of one of the collapsed buildings, even after her third warning.

The first fireman had tried to explain it to her. There was a process, he said, and safety protocols to follow. They couldn’t have just any random civilian digging through concrete. Go back home and wait for the casualty report.

He didn’t care that Stephan had a client meeting in that building the day of the quake; one that started an hour before the first tremor hit. It didn’t matter that meetings started late all the time and it was plausible that he’d been on the third floor at the wrong time. Carmela cared. So, Melinda cared. And all the squadrons of SFPD and their many ticket books wouldn’t stop her from “loitering”.

Mr. Mustache was still watching so Melinda walked the full length of the block, and immediately took two left turns at a run until the yellow caution tape stopped her track.

“Did you see anything?” asked Carma, ashen faced and dragging from exhaustion.

Mel shook her head, leaving the ticket unmentioned. “No, and then cops ran me off.”

Carma’s legs wavered, so Melinda helped her sit down. Carma immediately brought her face to her knees and dragged her bloody hands through her hair. “I’m okay,” she said, sounding anything but. “He liked to have lunch at this terrible vegan fake burger place and I heard they got hit bad.”

Melinda’s mom would probably suggest they talk over a meal instead. Her dad would suggest that digging through rough concrete and steel with bare hands wasn’t healthy. She was pretty sure everyone else’s right answer here would be to take Carma back home and let the authorities handle the gritty work.

“Let’s grab gloves and coffee first. Then you can show me this terrible vegan place,” Melinda said instead.

Gratified, Carma stood. She closed her eyes for a moment then started down the eastern sidewalk. Traffic was still tricky, so they’d elected to hike to their destinations.

“I’d eat shitty mushroom buns for the rest of my life if it would bring him back,” she said, quietly, as they passed a happy couple holding hands.

Melinda barely repressed the urge to glare at them as their conjoined hands swung. It wasn’t their fault Carma’s boyfriend was last seen by his receptionist an hour and a half before the earthquake.

Carma hadn’t said the words yet, but she’d skated around them enough that the picture was perfectly clear to everyone. They’d come when she was ready.

Grabbing gloves meant a detour to Mel’s apartment since Carma lived in Redwood City, adding an hour to their trek. It gave Carma a chance to wrap her scabby knuckles and charge her phone and Melinda to convince her friend to have part of Piper’s frozen lasagnas and a sugar cookie sent after the throat slitting incident.

There was no point ditching the ticket yet. It’d probably be joined by a few more by the end of the week. Whatever. She’d be signing over her whole paycheque, but it’d be worth it. Junior would understand, probably.

“Ready?” asked Carma, pushing the rest of her portion back into the container that Mel would be dropping off at Carma’s place the next chance she got.

Melinda refilled their water bottles and nodded. They set off again, navigating traffic and pedestrians alike. The city felt emptier, even though only two hundred people had been declared dead. Another hundred were ‘missing’, including Stephan. Three hundred out of a million; A statistical miracle, but tell that to Carmela.

The vegan place turned out to be still standing, though scheduled for demolition as part of stage 4. Carma stared at the sign, helpfully warning citizens of unstable debris.

Melinda glanced over her friend. Carma’s jaw was tight and her brow was pinched, but her hands were stable and her colour looked better after a meal.

“Want to check it out anyway?” Melinda asked, careful to keep her voice neutral, as if they faced a simple fork in a hiking trail.

Carma nodded once then ducked under the tape. Melinda followed, and no one passing gave any notice. The door was padlocked but tape already flapped boneless in one of the windows, so they slipped through the window frame and landed in the middle of a tangle of table legs and chair arms.

While dusty, cluttered, and strewn with jagged glass shards, the eating area held its structure well. The cracks in the wall were small and from a distance, both the door and window frames seemed, to an untrained eye, relatively straight. In the kitchen, however, a freezer sat upside down in the centre of the room, with chunks of wood scattered around it like garnish.

Without a sound, Melinda froze the room and began her initial check while Carma stood still, and most importantly, unseeing. Melinda may be willing to accompany her friend to every demo zone in the city, but she wasn’t going to let Carma see the destruction first. Melinda would be that buffer and she had the power to do so.

Plus, you know, deteriorating building, and everything.

The cracks in the walls grew deeper at the south end of the building. One, at the back, had shards of sunlight glinting through, highlighting the dust still lingering in the air. The silence and soft light gave the area a sense of peace that clashed with the ruin of the walls.

There was no blood, at least, though the room was a mess of shattered dishware, toppled shelves, and the upside-down freezer blocking easy movement. Melinda hopped on top of the freezer, feet spread and knees bent like a surfer, and craned her head up at the room above. Through the jagged pieces of ceiling, she thought she saw a storeroom.

Since longevity had never been her strong suit, Melinda hopped off the freezer and jogged back to Carma. The room unfroze.

“I’ll check upstairs,” Melinda volunteered. “Just in case.”

Already distracted by the kitchen, Carma only nodded.

Halfway up the stairs, the true extent of the damage was more visible. What looked like right angles and straight lines from the ground were actually off centre when viewed from a higher plane. There was probably a reason the city had blocked the building off, but Melinda figured they’d be done soon enough.

As expected, the upper floor offered no answers. From Melinda’s experience with her mother’s restaurant, she quickly gathered the second floor was off limits to customers. Even if the occupants of the building hadn’t been evacuated safely, Stephan had no reason to be in the manager’s office, storeroom, or staff room.

She took the stairs down two at a time, heedless of the groan of the wood. When her boots clunked against the smooth floor, a sharp tone rang through the air.

“Hello?” Carma’s voice shot from the kitchen, sharp and anxious.

The response wasn’t audible, but Melinda heard a sob and fit the pieces together.

Carma stared, dead eyed into her phone screen. “I’ll head over now,” she mumbled, and the screen went dead.

Melinda allowed the silence to linger undisturbed.

“They, um, released a list of license plates from the freeway collapse.” Half a mile of overpass in Soma collapsed just as the final tremors hit. Some people had managed to escape, but not enough. “Stephan’s was one of them.”

Melinda gathered her friend in a hug, the kind her mother gave her, and tried to think of what to say. They’d both known this was the only outcome, but it didn’t hurt any less to hear.

“His parents invited me over. They knew I was trying to- to find him. I’ve only met them twice.”

“Want any company?”

Slowly, Carma shook her head.

Mel offered her a sad smile. “Well, take the rest of the lasagna. Make sure they get something to eat.”

Melinda let Carma swing through the window first, then hopped into the deceptive rays of the sun. A trio of middle-aged women across the street glared at them as they ducked under the caution tape, but neither paid any attention to the disapproval.

“Mel?” Carma asked as they walked. “What do I do?”

Trying to hide the bewildered expression that had to be on her face, Melinda let her head tilt to the sky as they walked. She chewed on her lip in thought.

“You fight like hell.”

Chapter Text

Remedial Witch Lessons Dad! Edition

Lured by the promise of free food (namely, Piper’s mac and cheese), the nine youngest Halliwells waited in their training room in Magic School.

And waited.

“They said six, right?” asked Grace, staring at the empty space at the front of the room. A table sat, empty save for a snapped sprig of rosemary. After waiting ten minutes, Portia had examined the rosemary in detail, eventually declaring that it was probably just leftover from the last potion demonstration and not the first step in an impromptu treasure hunt, as she hoped.

“They did,” confirmed Pru, straight-faced. “Though, dad isn’t always perfectly punctual. I wouldn’t worry.”

“True!” piped up Portia, suddenly sitting as alert as her words. “Dad was late to his wedding.” Her eyes clouding in dreamy nostalgia, as if she had personally witnessed the event and not simply heard her love-struck parents recite their story as bedtime fodder for nigh on a decade.

“I’m sure there was some sudden parolee business, or cupid business, or Magic School business,” assured Wyatt, with an eye to the door leading to the rest of Magic School, where any of one them could easily walk out and check on their wayward uncle/father.

Grace nodded and ducked her head back to her textbook.

Junior watched his sister for a moment and then asked, “Classes are back?”

Astrid answered. “Yeah. They moved the last of the evacuees to other shelters and most of the buildings held up during the quake, so back to the grind we go.” Her face curled. Unlike her sister, Astrid made no attempt to squeeze in extra study time.

“You’ll be glad for normal again,” Pru said, confident. “I know I will.”

“Have they found a new place for you yet?”

Pru nodded once. After a week of huffing through her body’s natural rate of healing, she had finally broken down and asked her aunt to heal her collarbone. Mike was confused, but expressed his gratitude at her speedy recovery, and no one else had noticed. “It would be pretty bad if a real estate office couldn’t find temporary work space.”

Snickering, Portia said, “You’d have to fire yourselves.”

Pru gave her sister a side hug and Portia squeezed back extra hard.

While everyone waited, the conversation shifted to everyone’s work situations. Junior, Wyatt, and Peyton had been able to return to their jobs immediately, while Chris had needed to wait a week for Three’s to revert back to a restaurant. Melinda, however, was still waiting for Hava Java to get the green light to reopen.

“Apparently, coffee shops aren’t a priority for the city,” Melinda drawled, with a short shrug.

After a moment of silence, Grace huffed again. “Where is dad?”

As if summoned, the door opened and Henry Senior appeared in a swirl of blue lights. “Sorry!” he apologized, and cut his explanation off short when he realized he was the first, of the fathers, to arrive. With a sigh of relief, Henry let the large duffel bag over his shoulder drop to the ground.

“I’m not late?” he asked rhetorically.

Pru opened her mouth to refute, but wordlessly closed it a moment later with a sigh. She looked, instead, towards her cousin, slouched in her chair.

“What kept you?” asked Astrid, bluntly.

Henry bore his daughter’s brusque question with good nature. “Some… leprechauns showed up at the house looking for your mother.” He sounded uncertain, but when no one raised dissent, he continued. “I had to bring them to the Manor, so Paige orbed me here.”

Henry’s arrival seemed to kickstart the other fathers. After another minute, Leo hustled through the door, hurriedly explaining about a sudden headmaster emergency. Then, three minutes after that, Coop finally beamed in, his hair askance and breathing as if he’d run between the realms instead of beamed.

“Cupid’s Temple had a minor breach,” he summarized. “They needed extra eyes to patrol.”

Concern furrowed Portia’s eyebrows. “A breach? Is everyone okay?”

Coop hurried to offer reassurances. “Everyone is perfectly fine. It wasn’t an intruder. More like… a leaky roof.”

He was met with befuddlement.

“We’re looking into it,” Coop breezed.

Beside him, Leo’s face took on a small frown. “Magic School’s outer defences went haywire as well.”

That had everyone standing or sitting up straighter. Leo waved his hands. “Similar to the Temple; not by a person or a demon. Just something pushing on the boundary.”

Voices rang out at once, concerned and alarmed. As the din diminished, Pru turned to her other uncle. “The Leprechauns too?”

Shrugging his shoulders, Henry replied, “Maybe. They didn’t explain much to me, but they sounded worried.”

Wyatt’s eyebrows furrowed together. “Mags said the Elders were concerned. Is this all tied together?”

Leo moved to the centre of the table, drawing all gazes. “Maybe, Wyatt. But, that’s not why we asked you here. I know your group training sessions with your mothers are done, for now, but we,” he indicated himself, Coop, and Henry, “have our own lessons to offer.”

Just over twenty years into his calling as Magic School Headmaster, Leo commanded his students’ attention easily. So, before anyone could get too distracted, he quickly began.

Leo sat down in front of the table, so that there was a clean line of sight between him and the “Kids”.

“I want each and every one of you to know how proud I am of you,” he began with a smile, and then addressed each of his students, moving down the line. “Grace, you’ve done a marvelous job working through your fears and Astrid, your unwavering conviction to strive forward is remarkable for someone your age. Portia, for comforting your classmates through a crisis, and Mel, you are a force to be reckoned with. Pru, you sought help when you were outmatched and rescued your cousins, and Henry, you saved your coworker’s life. Chris, for never giving up on your innocents, and Wyatt, I know how scary to is to take those first steps in becoming a full-fledged Whitelighter. Finally, Peyton, for trusting in your family to bring you home.”

“The greatest witches I’ve known aren’t venerated because of their powers, or because of physical strength or skill. What makes a witch great is hers or his heart. Your character is what matters, and at the end of the day, the greatest wish we, your parents, could ask for is to impress us with your strength of mind.”

“Gee, thanks dad,” said Chris, to the laughter of his siblings and cousin.

Leo beamed back at him, and even Chris had to blush under the full extent of his praise.

“So, everyone, close your eyes.” When he was satisfied with the response, Leo continued, “Breathe deeply; in through your nose and out through your mouth. Make as much noise as your need. Be Darth Vader. When you’re ready, I want you to think of a recent moment that made you scared.”

He waited a few seconds, and then, continuing with a pleasant, even cadence, resumed. “Now, let that moment go. It’s over, and you’re here. You’re safe. Then, do it again.”

The kids breathed in and out. And then again. Such was the state of their state of mind that no one protested, though Chris and Peyton, in particular, looked skeptical. Again and again, Leo talked them through fears, sadness, and moments of anger. Then, he turned to happier emotions and had them release those as well, forcing everyone into the present. To conclude, he offered meditation tips and welcomed anyone to speak to him, one-on-one, if ever it was needed.

With the air of the room sufficiently relaxed, and some of the tension gone from the immediate thoughts of their children, the father’s training session moved on.

Henry stood up. “Alright. Let’s make some space.”

Once the chairs were moved to the edges of the room, the Halliwells regrouped together.

“Since our lives have gotten more dangerous, I wanted to make sure you all know how to make and break holds. Hopefully, you’ll never need this information and you can file this back in your brain with the time I told you my old work stories, but just in case… everyone partner up.”

With an odd number of participants and since Melinda already took boxing classes, she offered to help Henry demonstrate, and spent the next ten minutes flying through the air and having her arm wrenched behind her back.

“It doesn’t matter how strong a person is when every human has weak points in our joints. Shoulders aren’t designed to exude force this way.” Henry demonstrated to the group on a backwards-facing Melinda, but he kept his hold comfortable. “With only one hand, your opponent is significantly weaker, especially if you’re behind them.”

He went through the motions twice more, and then had the pairs practised while he supervised. Some, like Portia and Grace, struggled to apply enough force against the shoulder. Others, like Astrid and Chris, pushed their partners too far for a simple training manoeuvre. And, just in case any of them found themselves in the grappled position, he offered movements to escape a hold. Henry repeated the process for a wristlock—since most demons wielded powers through their hands—and an aggressive form of bear hug, which he promised was more intimidating than it felt.

After half an hour, the nine kids stood sweaty and wincing since Henry had neglected to remember a rubber mat. The mood was dour; exhaustion exuded from the young witches in despondent waves. They followed instructions obediently, but Henry noted almost immediately that their hearts weren’t quite in it. After a few weeks already of fighting, and one major disaster rending though their home city, nobody looked up to more, simulated combat.

Luckily, Henry came prepared.

“Just ten minutes more,” he told the group in a light voice as he unzipped the duffel bag. White cloth immediately bulged out through the opening. Unceremoniously, he pulled out the two extremely padded garments, complete with additional arm and leg guards, plus a thick helmet. The suits easily took up the space of an entire person even before being donned.

“My buddies at the canine department lent me these for the evening. I figured we could get some use out of them.”

Henry chose his volunteers carefully, and then urged Astrid and Wyatt to suit up.

Laughter rang out, including from Leo and Coop’s direction, even before the two moved. So much fabric and stuffing were added to the suit that both of the arms stuck out at an extreme angle, and they each had to waddle from the extra dimensions around their thighs.

While Astrid and Wyatt modelled their attire for their jeering companions, Henry quickly drew a large circle on the floor around them in chalk.

“Wrestle,” he told the pair, suppressing a grin. “First one over the line loses.”

Despite the height advantage, Wyatt struggled to get his hands on Astrid, and she, in turn, lacked the weight to move Wyatt more than a few inches. All they really accomplished was the laughter of their audience. After on a few minutes of so-called wrestling, Peyton had tears in her eyes and Junior complained he couldn’t breathe.

By the time the gear was stowed away, smiles brightened the witches’ faces and they faced their fathers with renewed eagerness.

Coop took the stage.

“Are you going to give us relationship advice?” asked Astrid, sounding absurd, but her next words softened the mocking tone. “Because I could use some.”

Portia’s eyes widened in wonder. “Are we finally going to find out why Chris and Bianca broke up?” she asked in a whisper that everyone heard.

Coop held up his hand before Chris could scowl through a harsh reply. “No,” refuted Coop, “But if anyone wants to talk to me, one-on-one, I’d be happy to listen.”

Astrid nodded and Coop continued. “I thought instead we’d discuss another important life skill, one that can take decades to even realize the beginnings: conflict resolution.”

No one groaned, but no one looked enthused, either.

Dauntless, Coop carried on. “Now, demons are one thing. You’d be better to ask your mothers or Leo about those. Even Henry. But, your lives aren’t only demons. You’ll have hundred of arguments during your lifetime, but there’s no reason that a fight needs to result in a collapsed relationship. Often, you can work things out, and trust me, I’ve heard every fight in existence. It’s most of my job. From what I’ve learned, the key to conflict resolution is—” He trailed off expectantly.

“De-escalation,” answered Wyatt.

“Escalation,” said Chris, at the same time.

“What?” asked Wyatt and Portia.

Melinda nodded Chris. “I’m with Chris.”

“I’m with Wyatt,” responded Pru.

Shaking her head vigorously, Portia’s eyes went wide and she stared, flabbergasted. “That doesn’t make any sense. How do you resolve a fight by acting more aggressive?”

“How do you get out of a fight by being submissive?” asked Astrid.

Coop held out his hands, like a referee. “One at a time; let’s hear everybody out.”

Grace hid a smile behind her hand and then shared a knowing look with her uncle, who winked at her.

Assigning himself leader for his side, Wyatt went first. “When there’s a fire, you use deterrent, not gasoline.”

Henry sat straighter in his chair. “Look at wildfires, though. We use controlled burns to prevent catastrophic fires.”

“Exactly,” added Melinda. “Get in there and take the problem out before it gets worse.”

Portia just shook her head again. Beside her, Grace pursed her lips.  “The empath thinks fights are better avoided. Please, just talk things out,” pleaded Peyton, pantomiming a headache.

“Well, the fire starter thinks it’s better to get the bad stuff out in the open rather than pretending it isn’t there,” shot back Astrid.

“That’s not what—”

“See? We’re arguing now. You’re not hiding what you think, and neither am I. And it’s totally fine.”

Chris relaxed in his seat and crossed his arms. “Escalation,” he said with a smirk.

Wyatt poked him above the ear. “Well, it’s five to four for peace.”

“Actually,” said Pru, drawing all attention to her. “Junior convinced me. I chose gasoline.”

Portia gaped at her sister while Melinda shot her arm into the air. “We got Pru! That means we win.”

Coop laughed and waved his arms before the debate could continue further. “The truth is, there’s no correct way to resolve conflict. It depends on the people involved and the situation itself. Most of the time, yes, I would advice the peaceful solution, but sometimes it is better to confront problems with a little bit of force.”

With a slight hop to his step as he walked back and forth in front of them, Coop rattled off scenarios, likely too specific to have been made up, but at the very least there were no names attached to someone conceal his charges’ identities.

“So, what you’re saying is that there’s no right answer to anything,” summarized Pru with a tilt to her head and her voice.

“Yep,” Coop affirmed, chipper. “Part of growing up and maturing is learning for yourself. I am—we are—just here to give you a little help.”

Pensive mouths twitched and thoughts roved, until a low grumble broke the silence.

Henry Junior grinned sheepishly and cartoonishly held his stomach with both hands. “Can we have mac and cheese now?”

With a laugh, Leo nodded. “I declare this training session over.”

Chapter Text

Chris I

The soft cluck of badly-imitated chickens lulled him out of sleep. His eyelids refused to open beyond the barest slit and his limbs were anchors chaining him to his bed. Half a second away from ignoring the noise and resuming his slumber, a rooster called out. It held on half the normal pitch, but Chris couldn’t be blamed for not recognizing such, as it sounded from right next to his ear.

Impulsively, he slapped lazily at the spot, and hit only the soft cotton sheets covering his bed. Suspicious, he cracked open his eyes just enough to get a visual. The spot was, indeed, empty.

The rooster clucked again, as if in warning another call was incoming.

It had been years since the last time the chickens visited him in his sleep, so Chris forgave himself for not remembering immediately. The piece clicked into place just as a familiar voice called out, in a raspy voice closer to a whisper.

“Chris. Christopher Matthew Halliwell.”

Chris groaned. He flung his arm over his eyes, hoping the pressure would suppress his hearing somewhat.

“Christopher Penelope Halliwell.”

“Christopher shit-what was it, uh, Patricia Halliwell.”

Christopher Perry Halliwell groaned. “What the fuck, Grady?”

“Come on, give me a sign, man. You know I can’t hear you,” whined Grady from his phantom position on Chris’ bed.

Wordlessly, Chris held one arm upwards and extended his middle finger.

“Hallelujah, he rises! I’m across the street, in the parking bay.”

“Just come in,” Chris mumbled, still fighting the last vestiges of sleep.

Grady was silent for a minute. When he spoke again, he was audibly impatient. “Chris, this is serious.”

Chris surged upwards, the prospect of sleep immediately abandoned. Hastily, he pulled on the nearest pants, stumbled to his door, grabbed the shirt on the top of his hamper, and made for the front door of the apartment. Thankfully, Grandpa Victor took his hearing aids out at night and missed the crooning of a rooster in his apartment.

Coat in hand, Chris took the stairs, two at a time, and waved a greeting to the night doorman. The night chill bit at his skin and he was glad for the coat. Across the street, Grady poked his head out from behind a concrete pillar and waved.

“Finally!” Grady half-whispered when Chris stepped into the parking bay. He sounded more harried in person.

Chris cut right to the chase. “What’s up, Grady? The last time you woke me up like this, it was to track down the nymph who won your grandma’s amulet.”

Not that Chris could blame Grady. Grandmother Anastasia was a shrewd old bat, who took distinct pride in all three of those epithets, and would have rained sweet hell on all involved in the risking of one of her possessions.

The time before that, Grady needed to procure a very specific herb within an hour or the potion he was making—and hadn’t read the instructions thoroughly beforehand—blew up his apartment. Not to mention, the weekly visits during their teenage years, where the practice began. Grady would use his powers to project his voice into Chris’ bedroom, and no matter just how many of Chris’ electronics were currently under guard by mom and dad, Chris and Grady would always be able to meet up.

By the look on Grady’s face, those times were long gone from his mind. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, shuffled his feet, and looked around wildly, as if searching the shadows but afraid to see the shadows looking back.

“Feel like going for a drive?” asked Grady.

Chris fished around his pockets, grateful that he’d left his car keys with his coat. Grady didn’t own a car, so any drive would come from Chris. Keys in hand, Chris nodded, and directed Grady back towards the apartment building, where his car was parked.

“Anywhere specific?” Chris asked Grady when they pulled onto the road.

Grady shook his head. Chris had to divert his gaze from the road to view the movement fully.

“Just to keep moving,” Grady answered eventually.

Chris stayed silent for a moment. “This because of the pub crawl?” he asked, referring to their earlier activities, five hours previous that now seemed far longer ago.

“Sort of,” amended Grady. “I decided to do a little digging on what we talked about.”

Chris felt himself drawling, dragging out the sound just long enough to get his thoughts in order. “Which thing?” Bianca? The Source? The Void?

Grady cut his own response off by suddenly ducking in his seat. Chris slammed on the brake, to Grady and the vehicle behind them’s exasperation. Ignoring the honking and inaudible cursing, Chris turned to his friend.

Silent and frantic, Grady urged Chris to keep driving by flicking his fingers in a shooing motion. “The corner,” asked Grady, quietly, as if the car couldn’t hide his presence. “What are they doing?”

In the guise of checking for oncoming traffic, Chris eyed the only two men standing idle at the opposite right corner.

“Waiting for the light to turn,” Chris guessed.

Grady stretched one arm over the console to pinch Chris’ knee. “What else?” he hissed.

“This would be easier if you told me what I’m looking for,” Chris whispered back. After a moment, he added, “Get up. They’re not looking at us.”

Grady waited a further block and a half before slinking back into his seat. “I’ve got bounty hunters after me,” he admitted, back to scanning the city streets for danger.

Chris groaned. “As if I didn’t have enough trouble as it is.”

Indignant, Grady flung his hands out dramatically. “I was trying to help with that!” As it did in stressful situations where Grady was truly out of his depth, his voice rose in pitch to near pre-puberty levels.

The benefit of a two-decade friendship was knowing each other in and out. Chris gripped the steering wheel tight and asked his question. “What did you do?”

Grady’s answer was immediate. “I decided to ask around about that power swap incident you mentioned. Seemed important. After a few leads, I found one of the organizers.”

Unbidden, Chris remembered the three demons in charge of the power auction.

“Well, kind of a middle-man,” Grady amended, drawing Chris’ thoughts away from the three branded demons. “But the exact kind of man you go to for info. Had his hands in everything.”

“Who?”

“Holder. Looked like a nerd with horns to me. He prattled on about power inequities for half an hour.”

Chris sighed again. He took a right turn onto a busier street so they might disappear into the torrent of late-night traffic.

“Alright, tell me what you learned first, and then what you did.”

Grady relaxed in his seat, evidently deciding the coast was clear. Or perhaps the conversation was more to his liking.

“The whole thing was put on by Malachy’s Enforcers. There’s three of them.”

“Right. I saw them. How powerful are they?”

Grady shrugged. “Powerful enough to have other demons kowtowing. Not powerful enough to be the Source themselves.”

Chris hummed.

“It seems like Malachy and his Enforcers came to the Underworld together. Started making a scene down there a year ago.”

“They came to the Underworld? From where?”

“That’s what I gathered. Holder said something like ‘stinking of mortals’ so here, I guess?”

“So the Source could have been our neighbour? Great.”

“No kidding. I was always suspicious of that geezer across from your Grandma Victor’s apartment. He still there?”

Chris laughed the suggestion off. “Yeah, he’s still there. Still fighting with his hip. What else did you hear?”

“The Underworld is scared shitless over what happened during the auction.”

Chris’ eyebrows rose. He’d had the impression that the void was an unintended visitor, but if it had upper-level demons running scared…

“There’s rumors of it happening a few other times. Whole groups of demons have just disappeared.” Grady shrugged. “As long as whatever it is stays down there, I’m happy to leave it be.”

Chris wasn’t so sure. “Where does the bounty come in?”

Grady rubbed a hand down his face. “It wasn’t like I could bribe him with powers, so I had to be a little creative. I brought him a ferret and told him it was actually an old and powerful wizard, cursed into the little hairy beast. I had to get creative with my voice, but he fell for it eventually.”

Chris wordless skepticism cut through the air. Grady laughed. “I know. No one’s more surprised it worked than me. I mean, come on, it’s a ferret.”

Lips spread into a smile, Chris laughed with him.

“I guess Holder figured out the ruse and sent bounty hunters after me because someone tripped the alarm in the middle of the night. I had to climb out my window to escape them.”

“How many?”

“Two. They seemed mean.”

“Great.”

“I didn’t want to go to your apartment in case they tracked me there. No need to get your Grandpa involved.”

Chris nodded and sent his friend a look of gratitude. Still, he told himself to text his siblings as soon as possible. More sets of eyes checking in on their grandfather wouldn’t hurt.

“Okay,” said Chris, thinking as he spoke. They were on the freeway now, driving with traffic, giving Chris more room to ponder. “We’ll drive around for a bit and check the Book first thing in the morning. Mom has dealt with bounty hunters before. I’ll whip up a few vanquishing potions, and hopefully the whole problem will be solved by noon.’

Expecting immediate agreement, Chris stared at Grady when the man stayed silent. Grady’s features were carefully schooled, but their long friendship let Chris catch the hint of guilt in Grady’s visage.

“Did I say bounty hunters?” said Grady, belying ease. “That was more of a broad, general term.”

Chris’ stomach sunk, and dread crept in.

“What I really meant was that the Phoenix are after me.”

Chapter Text

Pru I

“I am going to murder you,” Pru seethed towards the current fixation of her rage, the HP TurboPrint F4237. Sure, the manual professed the machine’s advanced intelligence. Able to print, anytime! No hassle!

Lies.

She bent low and wrenched open the back compartment. “I’m going to rip you apart, piece by piece,” she continued in a loving whisper that contrasted sharply with her words. Her eyes few back to the screen, and sure enough, it still claimed there was a paper jam in the back compartment, though she was looking at it with her eyes and saw nothing. She slammed the door back closed.

The machine beeped. “Close compartment door,” read the screen and Pru wanted to scream.

Her hair fell over her face, obscuring her vision, so she angrily tucked it under her collar. Still, some strands filtered out from their impromptu cage and clung stubbornly to her eyeball. Finally, in a fit of exasperation, she grabbed the binding of a package of paper and used that for a hair tie. It was far beyond the acceptable dress code and made her an unsightly mess, but at the moment, she did not care.

Back to the printer, Pru followed the next three suggestions, growing ever more irritated as each failed to solve the problem. Unsure whether she wanted to cry or scream, Pru throttled the scanner lid, as if it were the machine’s neck.

“Network error,” the printer flashed back at her, and now Pru did yell, a garbled grumble mixed with all the frustration currently battering her body into submission.

More than a few curious faces were staring in her direction now. Pru knew she had to make quite the sight, even more so because she was normally composed. If she did fall apart, it was at least in an orderly pile. Not so now, where even a minor printing inconvenience had tears gathering in her eyes. She was using a plastic tie for a hair tie, for magic’s sake!

(In the old building, she wouldn’t be in this predicament. The printer there was hidden from view by a series of blooming shrubs that smelled divine in the spring. There, she could melt down in relative privacy, and then breathe deeply with the floral scent working to put her back at ease. But, of course, the earthquake had ruined that.)

Now, most of their offices were crammed into a room slightly-too-small. Everything was different, and she found herself in Omar’s cubicle when she was trying to get to the kitchenette. The windows filtered the light different, and the midday sun baked them in their chairs. Her computer, and the router, and phone, and now the printer, had been giving her nothing but errors since being set up in the office’s new location. Her day started half an hour earlier, due to the different bus route, and ended an hour later than normal, confused and harried.

“Printer giving you trouble?” asked her old desk mate Marianne. (Her new desk mate was Aubrey, and they didn’t get on as well). The rational part of Pru’s brain knew Marianne was trying to be friendly and that it wasn’t another attack on her psyche, but another part of Pru just wanted to go hog wild over the innocuous question. Remembering her manners at last minute, Pru took a deep breath and nodded. She didn’t trust herself to speak.

Pru stepped aside and Marianne took her place at the printer, prodding at spots and pulling at others. It hardly took a minute before the printer beeped once and spit out Pru’s report.

Pru sighed. “Thanks,” she told her friend, trying not to sound too bitter.

Marianne smiled back at her. “They’re going to take over the world at some point,” she joked, tilting her head towards the printer.

“Not until they can clear their own paper jams first,” mumbled Pru. Marianne laughed, and soon enough Pru joined her.

No longer held hostage by the printer, Pru felt her frustration simmer down, replaced by a general feeling of being frazzled. Not great, but workable.

A tone sang from her watch, a reminder for her upcoming showing, another indication that her brain just wasn’t in the game today.

She said goodbye to Marianne and then dipped into her manager’s office.

“Is it okay if I head home early, after my showing with Nisha?” she asked.

Molly, buried in paperwork and phone blinking on two lines, waved her approval. It was nice, at least, that Pru wasn’t the only one struggling.

The fresh air was wave of relief as Pru exited the building. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine the old neighborhood, with the misspelled thrift store and deli that sold more pastries than sandwiches. She even missed the tech-start up sharing their floor, with the constant stream of employees, irritating music, and ever-evolving names.

She scoffed at her ridiculousness. Missed the tech bros? Who was she kidding? One more sign she needed a change of pace, if she was romanticizing the past. 

Nisha gave her a scrutinizing look when Pru entered their venue, and only then did Pru remember what she did to her hair. Sheepishly, she pulled out the plastic tie, and let her hair filter down, where it succumbed to humidity and stuck to the back of her neck.

Having to wear a cast around her shoulder for the better part of a week had really thrown her hairstyle into perspective. Mike had been willing to help out, but there was only so many times he could be on hand to brush her hair, or braid it back, or straighten the ends.

While Nisha fussed with artwork placement, Pru texted Peyton, asking for an opening. Peyton responded ten minutes later, offering a soonish time slot—if she wanted something simple.

“No color, obv,” came the final response before Pru had to store her phone. “Like, snip snip, that’s it.”

The showing ticked by dismally slowly. Because she was only shadowing her mentor, Pru had very little constructive to do and any input went through Nisharegardless. She was mostly there to listen, learn, and do the small jobs [name] got paid too much to do herself.

Pru practically collapsed into her sister’s chair thirty-five and a half minutes later (two bus trips and a six block walk).

“Hello to you, too,” said Peyton with a laugh, throwing a black cape over Pru’s form, tying the end, and pumping the chair into position.

“Hello, Peyt,” Pru said, a little exasperated, while Peyton brushed Pru’s windblown hair.

Peyton cut straight to the chase. Perhaps she hadn’t been exaggerating when she said her time was short. “What are looking for?”

Pru eyed herself in the mirror before responding, giving herself a moment to reconsider, but as the minute passed, she found her resolve only stronger.

“Cut it off.”

Peyton’s eyebrows rose, and she sought Pru’s gaze in the mirror. “Really,” she hummed.

“Not all of it!” amended Pru before Peyton could get too devious in her plans. “Just to my chin.”

A small smirk spread across Peyton’s face, though she tried to hide it. “I’m giving you thirty more seconds to change your mind.”

“I’m not going to.”

Peyton watched the clock, counting down the seconds. At thirty, she took her scissors and cut a large swath of Pru’s hair to just above her shoulder.

Pru’s eyes widened in shock and her sister laughed, loud and clear.

“I warned you!”

“That’s not how my hairdresser normally does it! I wasn’t expecting you to just do it”

“You’re my sister,” said Peyton, as if that explained everything.

With a sigh and a roll of her eyes, Pru settled back into her chair and watched Peyton work. Pru’s hair fell away in pieces and clumps until a fresh face was staring back at her in the mirror. She wanted to shake her head and feel the air on her neck, but Peyton’s fingers held Pru in place.

“This is a pretty big change. I don’t think you’ve had short hair since you were a kid,” said Peyton conversationally.

“I haven’t,” confirmed Pru. “If I remember correctly, you lopped off my hair that time, too.”

Peyton stuck out her tongue.

Pru smiled and continued. “Having my collarbone injured like it was made dealing with my hair twice as difficult and I’m just tired.”

“Tired of what?”

Sometimes, Pru forgot Peyton had the gift of empathy. Her sister didn’t use her gifts as often as the other witches in their family did, or at least, when she did, it wasn’t as visible. It was easy to categorize Peyton as a non-practicing witch, until she made a comment that cut you to your core. There was no hiding with Peyton. No where to run.

Pru tried anyway.

“Just tired.”

And, Peyton pressed. As she would.

“Of…?”

Sighing, Pru allowed herself to drudge up her feelings of frustration, helplessness, and bitterness. It was utterly useless trying to hide anything in her family of cupids.

“It’s been a long month, and everything is hitting me all at once.”

Peyton hummed but didn’t press further. “So, this is a haircut with a point.”

Pru’s response was to raise her eyebrows.

Peyton tilted Pru’s head back to a neutral position (when had she drifted, she idly wondered), and then explained, all while an impish, pestering smile spread across her lips. “You feel like you can’t control much in your life right now, so you’re going to control your hair.”

Pru’s breath stalled. How had her sister cut to the matter so well and so quickly? “I guess I am,” she reasoned, in a small voice.

Leaning closer, as if passing along a secret, Peyton whispered, “Don’t worry. I get a lot of Statement Haircuts, and yours is one of the better ones. It suits your face.”

She adjusted two strands on either side of Pru’s temple, pulling lightly so the pieces brushed over her high cheekbones.

“Cute,” Peyton affirmed, with a cheeky wink.

It wasn’t possible to hear such a compliment and not blush. Pru felt a small layer of heat wash over her cheeks, and she fought hard against a childish grin. “Thanks.”

Pru knew she was right, as she stepped outside and faced the sun in a moment of reverent reflection. The breeze felt wonderful against her skin.

Chapter Text

Melinda I

“I can’t do this, Mel,” Carma’s voice whispered through the phone’s speakers. “Everyone is just sitting here and all I want to do is scream.”

Melinda parked her jeep at a jaunted angle. The next car would have a difficult time sliding into the space, but Mel barely gave her park job a second thought.

“I just pulled up,” Melinda replied, staring up at the apartment building’s third floor, already guessing the layout in her head for a quicker approach. The left, she decided. Stephen’s apartment would be on the left.

“I can’t take much more of the silence. Stephan wouldn’t like this. He…”

Melinda winced when Carma broke off in a sob. As tough as it was to hear someone crying in person, hearing it through the phone added an extra level of discomfort, especially as Carma audibly attempted to subdue herself—unsuccessfully. She blubbered through the beginning of her sentence—perhaps an apology for her outburst, as best as Melinda’s brain could decipher—and then gave up in a sigh of frustration.

“I will run all the interference you need, for as long as you need,” Mel told her friend, hoping it would bring some comfort. “The rest of my week is yours. Whatever you need, Carm.”

“What I need is Stephen alive again. I need, somehow, for time to rewind to before the earthquake; to make him a little earlier or a little later. Can you do that?”

Behind Melinda, the door slammed shut as she froze in place. Luckily, no one else was around to see her stumble, and the stammering her mouth produced was immediately drowned out by Carma’s cries on the other end of the line.

Why couldn’t Melinda do exactly what Carma needed? The better question was: what was stopping her from doing so? There were spells to travel through time, to affect the present, and to rewrite the past. There were beings and creatures who could do the same. Hell, even Melinda’s own power allowed her to control a facet of time.

And, she thought, even if there weren’t spells to bring Stephen back to the life he knew, there was a way to bring him back in other ways. Surely there was room for one more whitelighter in the world. Would it be so wrong for her to ask the Elders, at least?

What was the point of being a witch, if all Melinda could do in her friend’s time of need was listen to Carma cry?

Melinda swallowed her initial response, and then chose her words carefully. “If I were allowed to go back and prevent the earthquake entirely, I would.” It was the truth, at least.

Carmela’s voice was small when she finally found space to speak again. “Of course, you can’t,” Carma said, as if it were obvious. As if Carma’s best friend wasn’t secretly a witch, and a witch from one of the most famous bloodlines, at that. As if time only ever moved in one direction and the possibility of an afterlife was left to religious debate and philosophical scholars.

Melinda tried to think of what her dad might say, but came up blank. She knew the gist of the speech, but the specific words wouldn’t come to mind, so she just closed her eyes and blabbed. “Sometimes, well, things just happen and we’re stuck dealing with it.”

Carma huffed. “Yeah,” she said, automatically, to Mel’s pathetic attempt at solace.

“I’m almost there, okay?” said Melinda, as she set off for the stairwell. “The food will distract everyone and take some of the pressure off you. Just hang tight.”

She ended the call, even more unsure of herself. The stairs loomed ahead, too many and too few, all at once. Something in the air felt wrong. The lights hummed a little too loudly, the steps felt too solid underneath her feet, and the plain beige paint of the surrounding walls looked like it’d been stripped of colour. Dread and urgency warred in Melinda’s heart.

With a deep breath, Melinda raised her first at the apartment door, but didn’t knock. A stiff silence emanated from within the abode, as if grief swallowed every sound. Even the surrounding apartments appeared lifeless, though the building gave every appearance of full habitation.

The apartment wasn’t right. Stephen’s parents weren’t alright. Carma wasn’t alright. Melinda wasn’t alright.

Melinda propped Piper’s still-warm chicken casserole on one hip, and anchored her other hand on the opposite hip, fully aware she had perfected the aura of a pissed-off predator.

Or perhaps just that of a rabid squirrel.

Still, she turned on her heels and stalked down to the end of the hallway and back into the stairwell.

“Uncle Coop!” she called out, in her best imitation of a Piper voice.

The thirty seconds in between call and arrival passed too slowly in Mel’s opinion, and she passed the time tapping the tiled floor with her boot.

Finally, Coop filtered in. “Everything alright?” he asked.

Melinda twisted to face him, head on. “No, everything is not alright,” she replied. “What was the point of interfering in Carma’s relationship if Stephan was going to die in a month?”

Coop’s eyes closed and Melinda heard him inhale sharply.

“You should have just let her break up with him,” Melinda finished, heedless of the mournful expression on her uncle’s visage.

“Mel,” Coop said, slowly and with an empathy she didn’t have the patience to receive, “My words weren’t meant to dictate anything. It was more of an … allowing of perspective.”

She scowled in response, and Coop continued. He angled his head to look directly into her eyes. “If you feel I’ve overstepped my bounds, we should discuss this further. Perhaps in a safer location?”

His hands waved through the public stairwell.

Melinda stood her ground. “Nope,” she rebutted. “I’m here to offer food and condolences to my friend and her dead boyfriend’s grieving family.” The accusation in her voice hung heavy in the air and she thought she saw a flash of pain crest Coop’s normally affable face.

As if he lost all strength in his legs, Coop nearly collapsed onto the bottom rung of stairs. He patted the space next to him, and after a moment, Melinda joined him.

“I didn’t know this was going to happen,” he began, earnest enough that Melinda started to forgive him. “Cupids don’t often know for sure how our charges will play out, not like your Aunt Phoebe can know. We just have an idea for the greatest possibilities.”

“This wasn’t ones of outcomes,” Coop admitted, quietly.

Melinda sat on the information for a moment. “Are you saying Stephan wasn’t supposed to die?”

“I can’t know for certain, but I wasn’t expecting this.”

She sat up straighter, now inspired. Coop frowned.

“Melinda, do not interfere in the affairs of Death,” he commanded gravely. “If the Powers That Be believed these events unprecedented, Death would not have taken the souls at all.”

Melinda breezed through his advice. “Of course,” she huffed. “The dead should stay dead,” she intoned, with conviction.

Coop must have read the sincerity in her voice, because he immediately relaxed in a way she rarely experienced from her elders, especially once they got the idea that she had an Idea. Still, she wasn’t surprised her uncle believed her in this instance. It wasn’t secret knowledge that Melinda and the undead had a storied past of eighteen years that began with her and her brothers watching a movie that Grandpa Victor had thought was for kids. (It was not). 

“Except for you and dad,” Melinda amended after a moment. “You don’t count.”

Coop gave her a warm and weary smile. “I know this is difficult for Carmela. And for you. If you want to talk about it, my ears are yours.”

Slowly, Mel shook her head. She had a different inkling of a plan, one that she didn’t need her uncle busting prematurely.

“I guess I just wanted to hear that you didn’t want Carma to feel this pain,” she admitted.

Coop didn’t balk at the charge, and instead approached the recrimination with compassion. He and Aunt Phoebe had always been pretty good at diffusing criticism—though perhaps she only thought so because they weren’t her parents. Piper and Leo had perfected the good cop, bad cop routine (rotating positions depending on the issue to keep things really interesting), and hit hard and soft all at once, leaving the offending progeny reeling. Aunt Paige and Uncle Henry, meanwhile, always seemed to be one step ahead, and countered every argument she could muster. Any way she tried, she always managed to come out on the losing end of the arguments.

Still, she pushed on, jutting her chin just so and crossing her arms tightly across her chest.

“I never want to cause pain,” Coop said sincerely.

Reluctantly, Melinda nodded, and the concern faded from her uncle’s eyes. When she allowed her hands to drop to the container on her knees, Coop placed one hand on hers. “Anytime you want to talk,” he said again, and beamed away.

Melinda stewed in the stairwell for a minute longer, connecting fragments of an idea in her head. Coop had—basically—confirmed that something had interfered in the natural Way of Things. If Carma wasn’t supposed to feel this grief, then would it truly be so bad to magically help her in some way? Especially if Melinda wasn’t going to be messing with anything substantial. No way would she have part in the creation of the undead.

Relief flooded Melinda’s being. This kind of comfort wasn’t Melinda’s forte. She was far better at doing than saying. But a tiny spell, that, she could do.

Chapter Text

Melinda II

“Why is half the town parked on this street?” Melinda muttered to herself, coasting, for the third time, her jeep past her childhood home. Cars, bikes, and all manners of vehicles crammed alongside the curbs, and any blank spaces were too small or covered the short length of a driveway.

With an exaggerated sigh, she made two more right turns and slid into the first available spot. The jeep made spluttering noise, but she paid it no mind. “Guess we’re hoofing it,” she said to Carma.

“Fresh air would be nice,” replied Carma, quietly. Her face still bore visages of grief: a downturned mouth, vacant gaze, and red-rimmed, watery eyes. As heavy as her energy, however, it was an improvement over the confused and panicked young woman in the Pollard’s apartment.

Still, Melinda turned to the passenger seat. “You still up for this?”

After a deep breath, Carma nodded resolutely, and twisted to face Melinda directly. “I need to get out of the city.”

“We could try glamping for a change? It might be… fun?”

Carma scoffed, and her lips split into a small smile, like a brief beam of sunlight filtering through overcast clouds. “You can glamp if you want. And I will make fun of you for it for the rest of your life.”

Lifting her hands placatingly, Melinda laughed back. “Just offering. Maybe you wanted to take it easy?”

“No,” said Carma, all levity vanished. “I need this to be difficult.”

Melinda nodded, and shifted her weight to her door. “Well, we’ll just grab a few things from my house, and then we can make as much trouble for ourselves as we can stand. Mom has a skillet that I’ve used before, and dad’s an expert in packing first aid kits.”

They slipped out of the jeep and rejoined on the sidewalk. Melinda led the way. Despite the conglomeration of vehicles parked along the road, the walkways themselves were largely empty. Whatever event had called such a crowd to the neighborhood was evidently indoors.

“Remind me to double check my sat phone before we leave,” called out Carma. “I will not be the object of mockery for the next six decades after dying in a bus.”

As the Manor slipped into view, their steps quickened, and Melinda took the stairs leading to the front door at a jog. As she climbed, she noted that two of the vehicles littering the roadside were her aunts’, and her mother’s own jeep was parked in the driveway. She hummed to herself, coming up with a diversion plan on the fly in case the Charmed Ones hindered her intentions.

Hand already on the doorknob, Melinda belatedly remembered to knock. She released her clasp, gave three quick knocks against the stained wood, and then strode in.

“Mom? I need to borrow some things!” she called out, eyeing the entryway and stairwell beyond, waiting for a response.

After a moment, a faint reply resounded back, half garbled from distance. “Come speak to me in the kitchen like a civilized person!”

Melinda shut the door and addressed Carma. Wordlessly, she directed Carma to the foyer, where warm light filtered in from the tall windows. “Have a seat and check your phone. I’ll be back in a few.”

Instead of heading for the kitchen, Melinda made a left turn, and ascended the stairs. “In a minute!” she yelled through the dining room. On the second floor, she eased her steps, so not to alert those downstairs of her path towards the Attic. She skipped the third stair entirely. It tended to creak.

With the Book of Shadows on its usual podium, Melinda gave a short huff of relief. Getting the proper spell would be far more difficult if the Book had been under the eagle eyes of the Charmed Ones.

She flipped through the pages with purpose, not entirely sure what she was looking for, but certain she would know once she saw it. Finally, she landed on a page, plain enough she otherwise might skip it were it not for the title: to Brush Away your Troubles.  

It sounded promising, but as she read over the spell, it didn’t feel right. So, she held the page with her left hand and continued her search with her right. When she found a spell to erase painful memories the pieces of her plan shifted into place.

“Perfect,” she whispered to herself, and scrambled for a notepad and pen.

Trading ‘troubles’ for ‘sorrow’, and intersplicing the second stanza with the erasure spell, Melinda scrawled her spell on the paper and wrote an instruction to herself to burn sage whilst reciting the incantation.

“Thanks,” she whispered to the Book, and made her way to the ground floor.

On the landing above the final six stairs, she came to an abrupt halt. Directly across the room, in a chair recently repaired from the afarit attack, sat a young man not much older than her. No more than late-twenties, at least. His black hair was a quick trim away from neatness, muscles pressed against the fabric of his shirt, and what little of his brown skin that was exposed boasted dark tattoos. Though his posture was composed, he didn’t appear nervous or uncertain of his surroundings, giving Mel the impression that he’d been in the Manor before. One of her mother’s employees, perhaps.

She caught his eyes and squinted. He squinted back and made no further motion.

Piper called for her. The tone suggested it wasn’t the first attempt.

“Coming!” Mel shouted back, eyes still locked on the stranger. With the expanse of the room between them, she couldn’t read anything in his dark eyes—wasn’t even sure that they were dark at all, actually. It might have just been shadows. His pose relaxed, like he was waiting for something.

In the last moments of their eye contact, Melinda flashed him a quick and wide smile, and as she thudded down the final few stairs, impulsively stuck her tongue out at the stoic figure. If he responded, she didn’t hear as she breezed around the table and turned into the kitchen.

The Charmed Ones were seated around the breakfast table in the corner. The three mugs in front of them told Melinda that they’d been in that position for some time. On her arrival, they turned and greeted her with smiles and waves.

She waved back. There was an empty chair still at the table, but Melinda ignored that in favour of standing against the kitchen island.

“What are you ransacking my house for?” Piper asked, in good humor.

Paige smiled. “Does it count as ransacking if she notified you first?”

Melinda rolled her eyes, exaggerated and playful. “Carma and I are going wandering. I wanted to borrow that skillet I used last time?”

Piper’s expression lost its levity. “You’re going where?”

While inwardly Melinda grumbled through a sudden bout of irritation, she and Piper had been through this conversation before. And she’d learned that complying with her mother’s questions got them through it quicker.

“We’re just going to hike through Point Reyes for a few days,” she answered, like it was no big deal.

Her mother and aunts blinked at her.

“Are you sure Carmela doesn’t want to stay home? She is grieving, and you wouldn’t want to push her too far,” said Phoebe gently.

The irritation bubbled further, and Melinda pushed it down.

“It was half her idea. I suggested a day hike and she ran with it. Said we should take a few days instead.”

Their expressions remained skeptical.

Melinda pressed on, earnest now. “She’s going crazy, just sitting around. At least if we go into the woods, she has something to fight for. Kind of a way of giving death the finger, if that makes sense?”

Finally, Piper nodded. “Okay,” she said, with an understanding tilt to her lips. She stood and brought herself in front of her daughter. Cupping Melinda’s face in her hands, Piper ordered, “Be careful. Don’t chase death. I don’t want you to die in a bus.”

With Piper’s hands still warm around her cheeks, Melinda nodded. “We’re smart, mom. And Carma has her sat phone.”

Piper stepped backwards and nodded towards the door leading to the garage. “The skillet is in the garage with the outdoor gear. I’ll find an emergency kit for you to take too.”

Not daring to argue, Melinda followed her mother’s directions. The skillet was in a box helpfully labelled “Camping gear” and amongst a litter of unopened items. She grabbed it and a set of collapsible cups that were in better condition than her own, having never been used.

Piper placed a small first aid kit on top of the skillet when Melinda returned. Mel uttered her thanks, and then changed the subject. “So what’s the story of the hot guy in the living room?”

The Charmed Ones, already in the motion of returning to their table, froze.

“What ‘guy’?” Piper asked, standing tall.

“Hot guy,” Phoebe corrected, hurriedly, like she couldn’t help herself.

With her free hand, Melinda pointed her thumb in the general direction she had mentioned. “The guy sitting in a chair in front of the stairs?” she elaborated, slowly. “I figured he was one of your workers. You said you were helping a few out.” She trailed off, awareness setting in.

The expression of Piper’s face was all the explanation Melinda needed. With a loud clatter, she threw and dropped the skillet back onto the island and bolted out of the kitchen, yelling “Demon! Carma!” as she ran.

She ran straight though the dining room, into the sun room, and followed it back around to the living room. Her path required a heavy pivot, which she just managed without cause a spill. In the final stretch, she picked up speed.

The man stood as she approached, somehow sensing her intentions despite facing the opposite direction and her admittedly half-hearted attempts at stealth. Heedless, Melinda threw herself at him.

She expected to grapple his torso and fling him to the ground. Instead, she caught a knee to the chest and arced through the air. She landed with an ‘oomph’ and a heavy thud. Her vision swam and her throat clenched at the impact.

Footsteps, from all directions, clattered around her. Through the bright spots in her vision, she saw Carma approach in a panic, head whipping between Melinda and the man. Then, Carma froze.

“Don’t. Move.” warned Piper in a voice close to a growl.

Melinda flipped over and pushed herself to her knees. Paige was there, then, bracing Melinda around the elbows and steadying her as she rose to her feet. 

“You alright?” Paige asked quietly.

Melinda nodded. “Just a few bruises.” She addressed the demon in the room. “What do you want?”

Despite having two witches in front, and behind him, the man appeared no less at ease. He reoriented himself to the side and held his hands out in a mockery of surrender.

“Obviously not to hurt you or you’d already be dead.” His voice was gruff, but even.

“Try me,” declared Piper, eyes narrow. She held her own hands out, fingers stretched threateningly.

“I’m here to deliver a message,” he said, slowly. His eyes found Mel’s, then filtered to each of the Charmed Ones’.

Phoebe tapped her foot, exuding fake impatience. She cocked a single eyebrow. “Well, deliver it, so we can vanquish your ass.”

He scoffed. “If you couldn’t handle Daria, you won’t be able to vanquish me.”

Paige frowned, then stepped in front of Melinda protectively. Phoebe took a single step forward and Piper held her hand at the ready.

The demon stood taller. “Malachy wants a meeting, you and him, to discuss a partnership.”

Humor and disgust warred for dominance in the Charmed One’s faces. Disgust won out. The demon joined them in confusion.

“You don’t know,” he asked and guessed at the same time.

“Know what?” asked Melinda, blinking back the stupor of the outlandish request.

The demon’s jaw clenched. “Ask your Elders, then. I’m only here to set up a meeting.”

“Yeah, no,” said Paige, with a shake of her head.

“No?”

“No,” confirmed the Charmed Ones, one after another.

With a parting scowl, the demon shimmered away, mere moments before Piper’s right hand flicked. The chair, now empty, exploded. She sighed.

The room unfroze, and Carma darted forward. Her eyes furrowed, glancing quickly around the room, confused and searching for answers.

Melinda offered a sheepish smile, as best as she could manage given the circumstances. “False alarm.”

Before Carma could get too caught up in the sudden disappearances and appearancess and destroyed furniture, Mel steered her back towards the kitchen. “Good news! Mom has relinquished her beloved skillet and promised us muffins.” Then, she reconsidered and directed her next question to her mother. “Maybe I shouldn’t go?”

Phoebe answered, her voice warm. “It sounds like the two of you could use the trip.”

Piper looked her daughter directly in the eye. “Just call if you run into any trouble,” she demanded, keeping her hidden meaning layered under a breath of force, to which Melinda nodded.

“I will,” Melinda promised. She thought of the spell tucked in her pocket and forced a disarming smile to her face. “Swear on my life.”

Chapter Text

Henry

The Mitchell residence was a disparate collection of styles and colours, from Paige’s Avante Garde artwork, to Henry Senior’s incredibly tacky stuffed fish hanging next to the photo of him catching it in an equally tacky bucket hat (which, to his then-teenage children’s eternal dismay, sat atop the gaping fish, just in case the monstrosity had escaped notice). It was a far cry from the reluctantly modernizing Manor, or Phoebe and Coop’s sleek abode, but for the Mitchells it was perfect.

Or, at least Henry Junior thought so. His youngest sister Astrid complained about the boring exterior paint, and their father persisted in a decade-long cold war with the downstairs load-bearing wall along the kitchen, which he claimed was off kilter just enough to make their art and photo frames hang crooked.

“I challenge.”

Who really had the time—or the money—to coordinate the aesthetics of an entire household? Certainly not his parents, supporting their family of five on two moderate incomes, in one of the most expensive American cities in which to live? Particularly, when said children, along with their six cousins, were witches and granted relatively destructive powers before the age of ten?

“Grace, my favourite daughter, how about we work out a deal?”

In its own way, the home was a reflection of their family, a home of two worlds, mortal and magic, steeped in the majesty of family, both biological and found. He had to hand it to his parents. They’d had their ups and downs, but they worked hard to come together and compromise: his father, adapting to the tsunami of magic in his life, and his mom, balancing her independence with her nosy and needy husband and children.

“Nope. Show your cards, favourite father.”

Was it so outlandish for want that for himself, now that he was grown and on his own? He knew his parents were a tough example to follow, not because theirs’ was a fairytale of whimsy and happily-ever-afters, but because they were real. They argued and laughed and made some things look difficult and some things incredibly easy. What else could you expect from a social worker Whitelighter and a man who did his best to set his parolees on a better path?

“How does she always know?”

Henry Junior wanted that; the love he saw between his parents. He wanted familiar kisses and a woman at his sides for all the highs and lows life had to offer. He didn’t necessarily want that right now, obviously. In fact, he was pretty sure a proposal at this point in his life would have him dry heaving in the opposite direction, but, surely, he was allowed to start?

“He has a blue seven and red two.”

Obviously not, because he was, once again, Dumped. Yet again, he was playing the most depressing round of Treasure Hunt in his apartment, gathering an ex’s things into a little box, and then getting a similar box in return from her. He had to, once more, explain to the Polson’s across the hall, recently celebrating their thirtieth anniversary, that the “nice young lady” would no longer be with him when he changed their light bulbs and fixed the leg on Gerald’s auto-lifting chair.

“Oh, come on!”

Two weeks ago, they’d invited him and Penny over for dinner, as a thank you for the help. When Henry had knocked on their door last night to explain the break-up, Madeline had given him a hug (the kind only grandmothers could give), and told him to invite someone anyway. He’d asked Melinda.

“Your turn, Junior.”

There was another, successful and admirable couple. Gerald and Madeline Polson. They’d lived in the building for twenty-eight of their thirty years of marriage. No children, as far as Henry knew, and happy just the same. Gerald complained about Madeline’s collection of plants and Madeline patently refused to host another poker night for Gerald’s barbershop friends, but at the end of the day, Gerald picked up rose fertilizer on his errands about town, and Madeline gave her husband tips on how to cheat at cards. True Love.

“Hey, Jolly Green Giant, it’s your turn!”

Junior blinked out of his stupor. As his brain processed what he’d considered to be background noise over the past minute, he pondered his cards while Astrid imitated a ticking clock beside him. As the rest of the family joined it, he hastily plopped his blue card on the pile.

Grace groaned. “No,” she drawled. “I just told you. Dad has blue.”

“You’re lucky I’m here to save the day,” declared Astrid, switching the colour to yellow with a strategically placed yellow four.

 “I’m up to ten cards!” protested Henry Senior, flashing his hand without a care to keep the values hidden.

“I saw a blue six,” whispered Grace.

“Red two,” added Paige, with a small smirk.

Henry Senior visibly deflated in exaggerated exasperation. “I want a new family.”

As if the words themselves were suffocating him, Henry Junior blurted out, “I’m never going to have a family.” Some might say it was more of a wail. And they would be correct.

The conversation drove straight into a wall of silence, and Junior felt four sets of eyes on him.

“What are you talking about?” asked Paige, as she casually tossed a +4 card onto the pile.

Junior had to hand it to his mother. She was a master at asking questions of her children (or younger charges) and not having it come across as too after-school special by adding just a hint of edge into her tone. The final effect was a blunt, but sincere, question.

“Penny broke up with me.” He barely registered his father doubling down on the plus cards. A part of his brain was telling him his game was in trouble, but the larger portion was focused on his romantic woes.

Beside him, the twins shared a look, and then stared back at him, waiting for elaboration. “We know.” Grace, at least, sounded sympathetic.

He huffed. “You’re supposed to console me!”

Henry Senior clapped his hand on his son’s shoulder, and then shook it slightly, in a manly show of support without leaving his chair. “Tough luck, son.”

(Henry Senior, meanwhile, had not quite mastered the pep talk, though he tried.)

Aghast, Junior turned to his mother.

Paige gave him a half shrug in return. “With the earthquake and everything else, I didn’t think you still cared that much.”

“Of course I did,” he shrieked. He forced his tone down a couple decibels. “I mean, yeah, the quake was a bigger deal, but it doesn’t feel great to get dumped!”

“You kind of deserved it though,” spoke up Grace.

Astrid nodded. “You definitely deserved it.”

“I thought she was a demon. Or going to be attacked by one.”

Paige hummed in disapproval. “And instead of discussing things with her beforehand, you used your new power to spy on her and her friends.”

“Like a creeper,” piped up Astrid.

“Like a creeper,” agreed Henry Senior.

The back of Junior’s neck burned hot and he sank into his shoulders. “I know,” he said, sincerely.

“You’ll do better next time,” promised Paige, half encouraging, half a warning.

“If there is a next time,” mumbled Junior.

No one responded, but he did catch Astrid rolling her eyes.

“Don’t you care that your son and brother is going to die alone?” he asked.

Henry Senior hummed. “I don’t think things are that dire,” he said with a laugh. Beside him, Paige nodded in agreement. And his sisters? They just cackled at him.

“You’re not going to die alone,” said Paige, sounding unimpressed.

“You don’t know that,” responded Junior.

Now, she rolled her eyes at him. Junior’s frown deepened. Paige cocked her head, and after a moment, reached over to place her hand on Junior’s, as he was crunching his cards between his fist. “You’re not going to die alone, you’re twenty-three.”

Junior loosened his death grip and the cards clunked against the table. “That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“It’s the truth.”

He groaned. “That isn’t advice.”

“If you wanted advice, you would have asked Phoebe or Coop. Instead, you brought it up during family game night. You wanted the truth.”

As if they practiced on weeknights, all four of them nodded at him, each in their own way. Grace with wisdom in her eyes, Astrid with a sly smile, Paige’s eyebrows pursed, and Henry Senior with an extra half bob every rotation.

“I want a new family,” Junior grumbled, not at all sincere, and allowed his thoughts to lighten. Sure, he was single again, and sure, the sting of his last relationship wasn’t fading quite as fast as he’d like, but his parents were (probably) right. He had time. He’d just have to try again; hopefully, this time, without the paranoia.

As her turn approached, Grace sat up straight in her chair. “If that’s over with,” she said, cool like a queen, and then proclaimed, “Uno.”

She slapped her final card down, gave them all a wide smile, and bowed from her seat.

Life wasn’t so bad.

Chapter Text

Chris II

If Wyatt were here, Chris thought, he would object, but Wyatt wasn’t here. He was off, mentoring or some shit.

If Melinda were here, Chris thought, she’d be right next to him, amped and full of adrenaline.

If Pru were here, well, she’d point out all the flaws in the plan in quick succession, but, like Wyatt, she was otherwise busy.

Which left Henry Junior, who after several seconds of pondering, nodded and said, “Alright, come in.”

Chris and Grady followed Henry through the entryway. Henry’s steps were heavy and plodding and his shoulders hung low in deep arcs. In the living room, Henry flopped down onto the sofa, dropped his head back, and closed his eyes.

“Rough day?” asked Chris.

“Rough week,” confirmed Henry in a mumble. “I’m working more hours than a doctor. Rebuilding a city is no easy feat.”

As he spoke, his voice slowed. After a moment of silence, his breathing deepened.

Grady shot Chris a look, then leaned over and poked Henry hard in the cheek.

Choking on an inhale, Henry sat back up and swatted at the intrusion. His words rumbled together. “Wha’d’ya want?”

Chris summarized the situation quickly. Henry was liable for impromptu naps on a good day and, judging by the heavy bags under his eyes and glossy sheen visible in the brief moments Henry kept his eyes wide open, this was far from a good day.

“Grady’s deep in the shit and we need to infiltrate the Underworld.”

“So, throw on some eyeliner and black leather.”

Grady laughed. Chris didn’t. “We need to impersonate a specific demon, one with enough sway to undo a deal. Do you remember those three upper-level demons protecting the Source I told you about? The ones at the auction? I need to look like one of them.”

Henry cracked one eye open, his curiosity getting the better of his weariness. “How do I help with that?”

Chris leaned forward, primed with energy. “I don’t remember enough details of these guys to make it look convincing. You can help with that, right? Your new power allows you to see things?”

Head cocked to the side, Henry nodded and then shook his head. “It does, but it only works on places I know really well, like the apartment. It’s easier with people, the ones I can picture in my head.”

Beside Chris, Grady groaned, and Chris frowned as he digested the new information, the first snag in their plan. He thought for a moment, backtracking in his mind to find a new route to the same point.

“What about a premonition?” he asked, reenergized. “If you got a premonition from me, and saw what I saw, could you focus on the redhead? Obviously, I can’t pretend to be the woman, and I’m too pale for the hulking one. I need the brands on his arms, to be specific.”

A moment passed while Henry processed the information. In the end, he gave a non-comital shrug. “It’s possible,” hedged Henry. “Forcing premonitions isn’t easy, though.”

Chris stuck out his hand. “Try.” “Please,” he added later.

With an obliging sigh, Henry placed his hand over Chris’ and closes his eyes. Unlike previously, Henry wasn’t relaxing into slumber. His thick eyebrows scrunched together, and his mouth pursed.

“It was a cavern. Lots of demons, before the white void appeared,” prompted Chris.

Henry withdrew his hand and shook his head. “Sorry. I don’t have it in me.”

While Chris swore, Grady suddenly cracked his knuckles. “Time for Grammy’s ‘Walk a Mile in Their Shoes’ spell.”

“What?”

Grady cackled at them. “You Halliwells aren’t the only active witches around, you know. Us common folk can make and cast spells too.”

Chris skipped over the barb. “What do we need?”

“Only to say the spell and to trade shoes.”

“Seriously?”

“What part of ‘in their shoes’ did you not hear?”

Three minutes later, Chris wore the boats Henry called shoes, and Henry winced in Chris’ sneakers. Between them, Grady stood like cult leader at a podium, poised and exorbitant.

“Straps be to straps as laces be to laces,” intoned Chris, feeling increasingly foolish as each word left his mouth. Beside him, Henry spoke the spell in tandem with Chris despite the growing skepticism on his face. “To walk as another; we must swap places.”

“What the hell kind of spell was that, Grady?’ accused Chris the second the spell ended.

Instead of answering, Grady gestured excitedly to the Halliwell cousins. A golden light flared around their feet and travelled up their bodies. As it did so, Grady proclaimed, “Grammy used this spell all the time on me and my cousin whenever we fought. You should be seeing the others’ perspective right now. Chris, think of the auction.”

Following the instruction, Chris conjured the memory of the auction. He felt it sucked from his mind and in its place came an image of a construction site as a deep rumbling ripped through the earth. Beams cracked, people screamed, and fissures appeared in the ground. The earthquake.

Chris hadn’t witnessed the event, having been ‘safe’ in the Underworld. He’d certainly seen the aftermath, and had been dealing with the fallout ever since, just as any other in the city. Seeing it in person, however, was something else. Mollified, Chris watched the scene play out, and felt the gravity of catastrophe anew.

Finally, the vision was whisked away, and Chris saw through his own eyes once more. Henry blinked back at him. Then, he scrambled for a pad of paper and a pencil. Chris let him scribble without distraction, and instead took the time to take off Henry’s shoes.

Henry plopped the paper on Chris’ laps. “That’s the tattoo on their arms, as best as I could get. You’re right about the redhead being your best shot, though he keeps his hair longer than yours.”

Grady gasped in delight. “Does this mean I get to dye Chrissy’s hair? Or even a wig!”

“No!” refused Chris immediately, while Henry snickered. “I’ll just wear a hat or something.”

“Because a snapback is very demonic,” sniggered Henry.

“A hood then,” said Chris forcefully. He was not messing with his hair, especially now that it was finally growing out again.

Grady clapped a hand on Chris’ shoulder. “One day,” he promised. He pulled the paper towards him, and grinned. “We can do this.”

Henry brought out old Halloween makeup, and then left the pair to take a shower. Grady got to work tracing the sigil on Chris’ arm. They made a brief appearance in Grady’s apartment, to grab a vest he swore fit right in with the denizens of the Underworld, and then Chris orbed them to the location Grady had met with the broker.

“Stay out of sight,” Chris hissed at Grady.

Obliging, and trying to save his own skin, Grady moved to the corner, where shadows pressed in. “Remember: Don’t kill him.” As if Chris himself hadn’t been the one to share that information in the first place.

His relationship with Bianca, however turbulent it had been, had brought insights into the hereto unknown Phoenix assassins, and one of the points she had stressed—repeatedly—was that once a contract was accepted by the clan, the clan considered it binding, even if the original patron died.

Their only option, therefore, was to get the broker to take back his bounty. Hence, the disguise.

Chris, disguised as the redheaded Enforcer, puffed his chest and stood with as much arrogance as he could muster. He scanned the cavernous room, an assemblage of carts and rickety market stalls with all manner of beings manning the small structures. A public place wasn’t the opportune place to meet with this broker—more eyes, more to fool—but it could also work in his favor. Perhaps with the cutthroat atmosphere of a demonic market, the broker wouldn’t look too closely at Chris’ features.

Grady’s voice hissed in Chris’ ear. “By the imp.”

Chris’ gaze tracked through the room, finding the imp to his left. In conversation with a warlock was a thin demon with eyes unnaturally large in proportion to his face. The demon held himself tall.

Chris took a breath, to get into character, and then strode towards his target. He loomed over the broker demon, grateful for tall heel on the steel-toed boots he wore gave him an extra inch on his already tall stature. He wasn’t Henry Junior levels of height, but thought he cut an impressive figure.

“You Holder?” he asked, gruffly, remembering only afterwards that the redhead had spoken smoothly.

The demon broker whirled around. The warlock stared at Chris.

Before either of them could think something stupid, Chris flashed the tattoo on his arm, as unobtrusively as possible. It still felt unnatural, and Chris forced through a pang of embarrassment for himself. Luckily, however, the warlock’s eyes bulged, and he disappeared without a word.

The broker, having been referenced by name, could do no such thing, however. “Yes,” he tittered, eyeing the tattoo warily.

“We need to talk,” said Chris, in a better approximation of the Enforcer’s tone this time.

The broker tried to hide a gulp, but Chris’ keen eyes caught the bulge travelling down the broker’s bare throat. Good.

“Certainly,” the broker replied, trying to sound confident but unaware his features betrayed his nervousness.

Already, antsy nerves were dancing up Chris’ spine, so he cut directly to the chase. “The bounty you put out; I want it gone.”

Whatever the demon broker had expected, that wasn’t it, and he sputtered. Confusion had his eyes dancing. Unable to come up with words, he hummed and hawed, looking more like a drowning swimmer than a demonic entity.

Chris threw out a bail line, more for himself than the broker. He needed to keep an air of authority. “I require of them a task of great importance, one that will require all-hands-on-deck, shall we say, but they inform me that two have been sent to deal with your problem and cannot leave until the bounty is finished.” He added a layer of derision to his voice. “Witches.” As if that explained everything.

The broker took the explanation with relative ease, and the panic in his face diminished. “I see,” he said.

Pressing his luck, Chris pressed forward. “You will relinquish your contract, as a favor to me.”

The broker stumbled over his words again, bouncing back and forth between gratitude and an apologetic refusal. Chris stared down at him harder, in the hopes of pushing the demon further to Chris’ proposal.

“Luther, surely, ah..” the broker appealed, glancing right and left.

Still, Chris saw the growing acceptance in the demon’s eyes. The way disappointment hit, then excitement as the prospect of being in an upper-level’s debt dawned on him. Chris knew then that he’d judged correctly. No way would the broker refuse such a tantalizing offer.

A sly smile spread across the broker’s face, which suddenly morphed into pain. The broker opened his mouth to scream, and then burst into nothingness. Behind him, cackling and cocksure, floated the imp, it’s barbed tail still extended from its lethal jab.

“Much easier this way, yes,” said the imp in its garbled voice. “Now me’s the favor.”

It stared at Chris, expectant and thrilled, while nameless dread stole the breath from Chris’ lungs.

They were fucked.

Chapter Text

Pru II

Pru casually tested the colour palette against her chosen outfit with a critical eye. She would, after all, be dining with her parents and Mike, their first formal dinner date together since Pru moved in with her boyfriend. She needed to look smitten and joyous, so neither parent would worry.

She frowned. Where had that thought come from? She didn’t need to look happy. She was happy.

Wasn’t she?

She forced an inhale and an exhale, both though her nose, so she could hear herself breathe and remind her pessimistic brain that just some things were bad at the moment, didn’t mean her life was bad. Sure, a magical catastrophe loomed on the horizon, there was a new Source of All Evil her family hadn’t been able to track down yet, parts of her city were still rubble from the recent earthquake, her new workplace sucked, and sometimes at night her collarbone still ached, but, hey, she had a new haircut.

Despite herself, Pru laughed.

“What’s funny?” yelled Mike, from his home office.

“I’m being overly dramatic,” she replied honestly, putting a tinge of southern flair in her voice, just because she could. He couldn’t see her in the bedroom, but she also fake-fanned her face.

Then, she braced her hands on her hips, and focused on the good. Not just her haircut, but her boyfriend, who she loved and who loved her, their home together, the continued good health of her family, despite their difficulties, and the prospect of a dinner with her parents, who, even at their sternest, always had an easy-going air about them.

Mike popped his head in the door. “Are you worried about your parents?” he asked, concern knitting his thick eyebrows together.

Pru felt her heart grow larger at the affection in his voice. “No,” she assured him, matching the love in his eyes. “Just general frustrations.”

“Want to talk about it?”

Be still, her heart. Mike noticed when she was upset, and wanted to listen to her worries. The absolute, perfect specimen of a man.

She shook her head before grateful tears welled in her eye and he really grew concerned.

He winked at her. “Alright. I’m going to pick up flowers for your mom. I’ll be back in about fifteen, change, and then we can go, yeah?”

Pru beamed back at him. “Flattery is the way to my mother’s heart.”

“And through her, your father,” said Mike.

“You’ve got it all figured out.”

Pru heard the front door click seconds letter, so she returned to her makeup selection. Perhaps a muted pink, to blend in with the soft lighting at Three’s.

She glanced back in the mirror and dropped her palette in shock. Another woman stood directly behind her, close enough to breathe down her neck (though she didn’t). Pru caught only the barest features of the intruder: dressed in dark colours, dark hair, harsh eyes, and an athame in her hand. Pru tried to twist around and use her power, but the silent woman was quicker.

Pru found herself at a standstill, with one arm wrenched behind her back, the point of a dagger pressing against her spine, and a boot painfully pressing on her bare heel. She pushed back with her free elbow, hitting firm leather without much give. Still, she wiggled her body, trying to make herself as hard to grab as possible. She planted her feet like her Uncle Henry demonstrated, and attempted to flip her assailant.

The woman rolled easily with the movement and landed on her feet. Pru heard furniture rattle and glass shatter as they fought, but she pushed the sounds to the back of her mind. The demon was trying to subdue her, not kill her. Pru had a chance. All she needed to do was break free.

Her plans dropped immediately when she felt metal pierce her belly. Something tore upwards from her belly button, and Pru didn’t need medical training to know immediately she was dead. The athame dug too deep and hit too many organs and she was going to die.

The woman held Pru’s shoulders, watching. As Pru’s face drained of colour, the woman held a hand to Pru’s wound, not unlike her whitelighter Aunt. An angry, neon green light flared from the woman’s hand, and Pru felt her organs fuse back together. Her wound reversed course, almost unwilling, in the oddest sensation Pru yet had felt.

Pru spit up blood and bile down both her and her assailant’s shirts.

The woman raised an eyebrow, then twisted Pru around. “Cooperate and I won’t do that again,” she declared into Pru’s ear.

Weakly, Pru nodded back.

“Good. Now, where’s your mother?”

Pru forced her lips together, the faint taste of bile and iron a small price to pay for her mother’s safety.

The woman sighed and shimmered them away. They reappeared in Phoebe’s work office, then in her home office. Pru’s stomach dropped. How did demons know so much about them?

Both rooms were empty, but from beyond the room that used to be shared by Pru and Peyton, the voice of her mother was clearly audible elsewhere in the house.

The demon marched Pru out of the room and down the hallway, toward the noise. Phoebe, facing her laptop in the airy living room, gasped as the two appeared by the kitchen.

“I’ll call you back, Billie,” said Phoebe quickly, as she stood to her feet.

The athame reappeared at Pru’s neck, just as Pru was beginning to gather her wits once more.

“Drop the athame,” ordered Phoebe.

The demon pressed the dagger into Pru’s skin instead. Blood welled, a horrible flashback to Turik flared, and Pru tried her best to maintain calm.

“You’re going to call your sisters and then we’re going to have a chat,” the demon said while Pru focused on her breathing. “Nice and easy, and your daughter goes unharmed.”

Phoebe blinked in surprise. “Go ahead, mom,” said Pru. She wasn’t sure why the demon was stupid enough to demand the presence of all three Charmed Ones, but she wasn’t going to rebuff the offer. Whatever Pru had to do to vanquish this demon, it would be far easier with the Power of Three at her side.

Phoebe complied, and they waited in tense silence for Paige’s orbs to appear.

“Excellent,” said the demon, when all three stood in front of here. She nodded towards the sofa. “Sit.” As if it were a pleasant visit, not a surprise abduction.

“Nope,” responded Piper, popping the p.

The demon sighed into Pru’s ear. She held the dagger easily, and with her other hand, waved it over Pru’s stomach. Pru tried to suppress her whimper, but even if she managed to keep in her feeble squeak, the red splotch blossoming—again—across her top would have given her away.

The wound partially reopened, not as deep as before, but it still hurt. Without the dampening effect of shock, burning pain seared through her stomach, up into her neck, and down into her hips. She felt ripped open and squeezed tight, all at once.

Someone gasped. Green light flared in the demon’s hand. “I can make it better, or worse. You choose,” threatened the demon. Pru swayed. She grasped for a handhold, something to sturdy her unsteady legs, and flopped gratefully onto one of the dining chairs. The demon followed suit, calmly and silently.

“I’m okay,” Pru whispered hoarsely, realizing it was true. The wound hurt like hell, but was nonlethal (for the moment). “Let’s talk.”

“I wasn’t given the impression you took our offer seriously enough,” said the demon, by way of beginning.

“What offer?” asked Piper.

“The demon yesterday,” Phoebe said, in revelation, while she kept her gaze on her daughter. Pru held her gaze, found comfort in her mom’s brown eyes, and tried to smile at her.

The demon nodded. “The very same.” As if it were humorous, she chuckled. Her laugh didn’t sound evil, Pru thought, though that might have been the influence of the blood loss.

“The Source is willing to meet with you, on neutral ground and peaceful terms, to discuss the recent incursion.”

“Our answer’s still no,” responded Piper, after she shot a worried glance to Pru. Once again, Pru tried to nod her reassurance. She would be fine. The Charmed Ones could do whatever they needed to do.

“You will not be able to handle this fight alone,” argued the demon, sounding more alive than before. Pru thought the demon’s voice might have cracked, just a little, in alarm.

Phoebe seethed. “No. Now, get away from my daughter.”

The demon looked at each witch in turn, ending on Pru. Pru was satisfied to see that her guess had been current. There was alarm in the woman’s dark eyes. The demon’s lips pursed, her face puffed, and then she was gone.

Pru gasped and stumbled forward, meeting Paige’s advance in the middle of the room. She practically whimpered as the golden light worked its magic on her wound. The pain faded away into nothingness.

“When we get them,” said Phoebe, as the four witches gathered together. “I’m the one that’s going to vanquish her.”

No one denied her.

Chapter Text

Chris III

“Fuck.”

“Fuck.”

“Fuck!”

Grady paced, swinging his hands wildly.

“The plan worked! Until it didn’t!” His tone alternated between pleasantly and unpleasantly surprised, as often as his directional pacing changed. Chris felt like joining him, but someone had to hold onto rationality.

“What did I do to deserve such shitty luck?”

“I imagine it started with birth,” shot back Chris.

Grady pointed a finger towards Chris’ face, close enough that the digit swam out of focus. Chris blinked until his vision rightened. “Don’t you start,” Grady responded in a voice that was dangerously close to a wail.

“That was my shot at getting rid of the bounty!” yelled Grady, no doubt startling his neighbours. “Now what do I do? Plead with the head of the assassins?”

“Vido.” The name came to Chris’ tongue immediately. “Bianca’s Great-Uncle. He’s stern. Very traditional.”

Grady flung his hands out again and gave a real cry now. “Oh great! Traditionalists love me!”

“Breathe, Grady,” suggested Chris, watching his friend lose his mind.

“I can’t do that! I’m panicking!”

Chris grabbed a spatula off of the counter and lobbed it at Grady. It bounced off his forehead and clattered to the ground. Outside, birds tittered, as if in laughter.

Grady whirled on Chris. “What did you do that for?”

Chris blinked back at him, stone face. “You’re losing it. Come back.”

With a great sigh, Grady flung himself onto the threadbare couch. “What do I do?”

Chris took a seat on the coffee table, facing the couch. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But we’ll think of something. I’ll ask mom for advice. I don’t want to start a war with the Phoenix clan, but I’m not letting you die either.”

“Ah, geez, thanks buddy.”

“You might have to lay low for a bit. If we get lucky, they might pick up a bigger target and be more willing to drop yours. If not, we’ll…”

Chris trailed off, since the recipient was no longer listening. Grady stood suddenly and stalked towards the only window facing the street. He peered into the glass.

“The bird,” Grady whispered, conspiratorially. “The bird is watching me.”

Groaning, Chris fought off flashbacks of bad acid trips. “Not this again.”

Grady pushed his finger against the glass. “Look at it, Chris! It’s staring!”

“It’s a bird!” Chris snapped. With a sigh, he joined his friend at the window and saw the supposed spy. It was a squat bird with red-tinted feathers and a short beak. There was a little fringe down it’s head and neck, and it clung to the windowsill with thin talons. Just a regular bird.

Chris put his hands on Grady’s shoulders and forcibly turned the man around, back to the couch. “How about we deal with the assassin problem first, and then we’ll get to your peeping peeper?”

Grady shot one last glare at the bird. “Alright. But only because you called it a ‘peeping peeper’ and I want to make fun of you for it.”

Chris rolled his eyes.

“Come on,” he said instead of rebutting the barb. “I’ll take you to the Manor.”

Grady brightened. “Hell yes, frittatas!”

“For information, Grady, not dinner!”

“Information and your mom’s amazing frittatas.”

Chris reached for his friend’s arm, then suddenly pushed Grady to the floor. Behind Grady, the air shimmered and two figures appeared silently. On the left was a woman, barely over five feet tall. She wore a muted leather jacket and wouldn’t have looked out of place in a blue-collar bar, but even the flamboyancy in her short, curly hair could detract attention from the long and deep scar that run down from her left temple to the middle of her chin. She smiled at them.

The second intruder was a man, roughly Chris’ height, with a chiseled chin and wispy hair pulled into a neat bun. His hair had a tint of auburn, which showed even more in the red-brown scruff around his jawline. His face was placid, like someone had painted a life-like mask and affixed it to his face.

Neither flashed their birthmarks towards him, but Chris didn’t need to see the marks to know who he was looking at. Phoenix assassins.

“Interloper,” the woman said to the man after a quick and, frankly, insulting assessment of Chris’ stature.

“Leave,” the man told him in a flat drone.

“Like hell,” Chris snarled back.

The woman shrugged. “We tried,” she said, cheerily. To Chris, she added, “We’ll try not to kill you, but no promises!”

With their peace said, the two burst into action. Grady shrieked and ducked under a flying athame. Another, Chris redirected with a flick of his hand. It flew through the window instead of the intended target of Grady’s collarbone.

Too quickly, Chris was separated from his friend, cut off by the man in between. Chris didn’t think they knew who he was, given their speech to him and because he didn’t recognize them from his time with Bianca, so they likely weren’t trying to prevent his orbing away. Perhaps, like the woman had claimed, they were trying somewhat to spare his life, but no matter the reason, it amounted to the same effect: Chris and Grady were stuck for the time being.

The assassins focused on Grady, but rebuffed Chris with ease. Two to one against him wasn’t great odds to begin with, but these were trained fighters and Chris was better at a distance, which the small apartment Grady rented hardly allowed. As for Grady himself, while he and Chris had endured their fair share of back alley squabbles, Grady was a scrapper at best. He preferred to charge into the fray from the back, take a few swings, and then retreat to safety. One-on-one, against professional assassins, Grady was hopeless.

But not, however, stupid. Grady grabbed a stool and held it in front of him like a shield, the legs keeping his attackers at bay.

Grady fought smart, but Chris wanted to give them both the best chance. “Don’t let them grab you!” he called out, sending a flurry of recipe books, some over a hundred years old, at the male intruder’s head.

In response, Grady jabbed out with his impromptu shield. The woman evaded the movement easily. She summoned an energy ball in one palm and batted lazily at the outstretched stool legs with the other.

With a shriek, Grady chucked the stool at his attacker and ducked behind the kitchen island.

Chris attempted to follow, but caught the man’s fist in the stomach no more than a few steps into the journey. Involuntarily, he let out an ‘oomph’ and didn’t see the descending elbow until too late. The force sent him to the ground. His jaw took most of the impact, and it throbbed.

This time, Chris sent the couch skidding into the man’s legs. It didn’t bring him to the ground, but it gave Chris time enough to push himself to his hands and knees and scramble away. Unfortunately, the only direction available was further away from the kitchen.

One of Grady’s prized possessions was an ugly, large, clay urn he claimed was worth more than Chris’ car. Each time Grady moved, it somehow fell to Chris himself to move it, and more than once had he fleetingly envisioned tossing it off the roof.

Now, the urn was his blessing. Using his power, Chris lifted the urn, turned it upside down, and let the bowl fall over the man’s head. It connected with his shoulders in a loud clunk, matched only by the man’s sudden bout of cursing.

“Aaron!” the woman called out, more amused than anything. Without looking in the direction, she fired another energy ball into the kitchen. She caught another look at her companion, stumbling with a pot on his head, and laughed.

Chris took the opportunity to run for the kitchen. He slid into place next to Grady. As he grabbed at Grady’s shoulder, Grady directed his attention back to the woman with a hiss.

“Look!” he seethed. “The fucking bird!”

Sure enough, the fat bird from the window not sat comfortably on the woman’s shoulder.

“Let’s go!” urged Chris, not quite willing to admit his error, and orbed them to the only safe space he could think of.

Magic School slowed down at this time of night, as professors and students headed for home or the dorms, so no one looked twice when Chris and Grady appeared in the library.

“The bird!” reminded Grady, still indignant.

“Yes, the bird,” Chris replied, for lack of anything else to say.

As the seconds passed and the Phoenix witches failed to appear, Grady and Chris relaxed.

“Can they come here? I mean, they are witches, right?” Grady asked.

Chris nodded. “They are, but also kind of not. Bianca always had trouble shimmering in. I’ll confirm with dad that the wards will keep them out.”

For a moment, Grady looked satisfied. However, as he gazed about his surroundings, discomfort grew on his face.

“So, I guess I’m stuck… here. With the… books, and the kids.” At Chris’ askance glare, Grady hastily added, “I know, beggars and choosing and whatnot, but seriously, Chris? I don’t want to hang out with a bunch of hormonal monsters.”

Chris sighed. “I can’t think of anywhere else that will keep you safe.”

Grady thought for a moment, and when inspiration lit up his face, it failed to fill Chris with confidence. “I’m grateful,” he declared, “But I can’t spend however long just sitting here. You know me. I get itchy when I’m stuck in one place.”

“What, exactly, are you saying?”

“Look, they can’t get into a moving car too easily, can they? So, if I’m going to be an outcast for a while, I’d rather do it on the road.”

Slowly, Chris brought himself around to the idea. To help Grady, he needed to know more about how the Phoenix clan operated. He needed to find a loophole, and the only two Phoenix witches possibly willing to speak to him weren’t in the city. So, maybe, just maybe, he could keep Grady safe and sane at the same time.

“Okay,” he said, with a steadying breath. “Get some snacks. We’re going on a trip.”

Chapter Text

The Sacrificial Rat

Six demons stood in a lair, like the start of a bad joke. One was short and stout, one was covered in scales, and one was garbed all in black. One was muscled, one was lanky, and one was about to be dead.

“I don’t understand the need for this,” quivered the rat demon, just now figuring out who was expected to undergo this suicide mission. “I told you what happened. Isn’t that enough?”

“No,” said the demon in the heavy, ceremonial cloak. He stood apart from the rest, flanked by his bodyguards and fronted by his advisors. “I need to know what’s happening now, not two hours ago.”

The rat demon squeaked and swallowed his reply. Even one so lowly as his kind knew better than to contradict the Source of All Evil.

(One knew even better not to mention that he wasn’t the Source, yet. One could suppose that the demon standing in the Source’s mantle might be justified, if a bit premature, to call oneself the Source, even before the crowning. Especially if one liked one’s body whole and above ground (metaphorically).)

“Would not one of your other followers be better for this task?” asked the rat demon, making a valiant attempt to save his hide. “Your Enforcers are much stronger and better suited to face the Void and report back, yes?”

The rat demon’s beady, black eyes sought out the Enforcers’, perhaps seeking approval. He found none. Dominic’s face was impassive, and Luther only shot back a smirk.

“Or Daria? Altan?” He spoke now to the advisors.

The Source answered for his followers. “Your kind have scuttled away from worse fates before, rat. I’m sure you can find a way to do it again.”

The rat demon gulped, and gave every indication he was about to flee. His nostrils flared, his eyes darted about the chamber, and his weight shifted to the balls of his feet. Before the rat demon could make good on his broadcasted promise, the muscled Dominic shimmered behind him, and stood unmoving.

The Source stalked forward, now within striking distance of the rat demon.

“I have your agreement then?” said the Source, not asking. He held his hand out.

Bravely, the rat demon shook his head. “I…”

“I only need a moment of your acquiescence,” the Source declared, as if he were sure of the outcome. He sighed. “Fine. Second, a little help?”

Dominic nodded, and in a blink of an eye, he had both hands grasped around the rat demon’s vest, and hefted him into the air. The rat demon wiggled, the tips of his boots barely brushing the cavern floor, but his captor easily maintained his grasp.

The Source pressed his large hand to the rat’s face. “Only a moment,” the Source repeated.

The rat demon fought harder now, against the hold around his shoulders and the hand on his face. As Dominic increased the pressure of his grasp, the rat demon let out a tiny squeak, audible only to himself and his captor. The tension mounted, and for a moment, the rat demon relented. Then, he fought again.

The Source smiled, no joy to be had in his eyes. “There we are,” he said, cryptically.

The rat demon stopped struggling as a brackish film seeped from the Source’s pores and travelled down into the demon’s eyes. The Source stood back three paces while the rat demon tried to blink away the intrusion. He looked about wildly, in a last bid attempt to find allies, and sagged in compliance when he came up empty.

“Artan, see to it that he completes his task,” the Source ordered his advisor while staring at his rat minion.

Artan nodded. He grasped the rat demon’s shoulder with a painful clench, and blinked the pair of them out of the chambers.

No one spoke. When Artan blinked back into the lair, the Source’s gaze became vacant, and even the air seemed tense. After several long minutes, the Source blinked back into consciousness.

“Just as we thought. The Void is spreading,” declared the Source, returning to his dais. “Nothing so far yet has been able to harm it, though it can be slowed down. The kazi king threw enough of his workers at it, and was able to buy time to escape. Sadly, the rat did not make it.”

If one looked close enough, they might notice the same brackish film slithering from the shadows to return to the Source’s body. Though, those that were permitted in such close proximity were already well aware of the Source’s abilities and knew better not to comment on such things.

“The witches are our only hope then?” asked Dominic, perfectly skirting the line between disdain and disrespect.

“Better them than us,” shot back Luther, gleeful at the prospect.

The Source let them talk without intrusion. Nothing they said could ever be private from him, but it was good to maintain the illusion of approachability. At least for now.

“I will know how to proceed once First returns.” The Source had his own set of names for his Enforcers. In mixed company, he referred to their order: First, Second, and Third. In more personal settings, he addressed each as his Talent. What the demons in question preferred, was kept between themselves.

“Well?” asked Luther, like a pestering imp, when Sierra shimmered back into the chamber.

Sierra looked first to the Source, and her words were for him. “They declined.”

“Yeah, but did you try?” asked Luther, from the safety behind the bulkier Dominic.

Luther wilted under Sierra’s gaze. Once again, she directed her statement towards her liege. “The witches had to listen to me. I made sure of it.” Here, she allowed herself a smirk in Dominic’s direction. “Nevertheless, they rejected the offer.”

Artan hissed, partly in sympathy, and kept his eyes on the ground. Daria stood calmly, ever watching.

The Source thought in silence, only letting on to his followers what he wanted them to know.

“How would you describe these witches?” he asked Dominic, his Empathic Talent.

Dominic’s face briefly broke from his stony silence. “They love, especially each other. They fear, for their safety, and for wellbeing of others.”

Artan, safely out of the Source’s gaze, scowled, displaying once more his true opinion on the Enforcer’s unusual upbringing. Likely, he represented the thoughts of the largest portion of the Underworld. The three Overworld Demons, as they were whispered out of Enforcer presence, would never attain the popularity of Zankou or Malachy, not when most saw their abilities as a weakness. Perhaps that was why the Source kept them around. They could never usurp his position.

Heedless of his advisor’s contempt, the Source turned towards his Healer. “And you?”

Sierra nodded towards Dominic. “Much the same. Love makes them weak.”

Eager, Luther stepped forward. “Is it my time?” he asked, with a gleam in his eye. Luther rubbed his hands together and then held them close to his face, clasped in mock prayer.

The Source considered the option. “Not yet,” he said to his Third Talent. “Visit them a third time, but all you are to do is talk. Do not use your ability; not just yet.”

Luther deflated, his disappointment visible.

“You always want to take the easy way out,” commented Sierra derisively. 

Luther shot her a smirk. “The easy way or the smart way? Why waste effort when I can just ask for what I want?”

“Because it’s a farce,” grumbled Dominic.

“Oh, and feelings aren’t? What a useless power.”

Luther stiffened under the Source’s look. The full force of Malachy’s ire momentarily descended upon the Third Enforcer, causing all in the room to shift in tension.

“I gave you your abilities for a reason,” the Source said, cold as the depths of the ocean.

Luther bowed his head. “Yes, Master.”

Mollified, the Source lifted his tremendous presence. The heavy shadows receded into the corners and the flames on the torch-lined walls licked brighter.

Breaking the impasse, Sierra stood ready. “Will you send in Luther, if the witches continue to rebuff your offer?”

All eyes watched the Source carefully, as each demon and the warlock readied themselves for their part to play in the overarching plan.

“That won’t be necessary,” declared the Source, utterly convinced of his statement.

No one questioned him, but the Source took the opportunity to afford himself a modicum of extra drama.

“The witches will come around. Once mortals start dying.”

Chapter Text

Pru III

Phoebe was fussing and Pru was sulking.

She was trying not to, owing to the fact that she was, in fact, an adult, and could handle her emotions in a respectable fashion, but the culmination of the day, the month, and her mother’s ministrations was cutting short Pru’s fuse.

“Are you sure you want to do this tonight?” asked Phoebe, for the third time, as they exited her new, jet-black car.

Pru barely repressed a sigh. “Really sure, mom. Auntie Paige healed me up, good as new.” If she were a little younger, or a little braver, she would lift up her dress to show her mother, in the middle of the parking lot, her perfectly unharmed stomach.

She wobbled as she stepped out of the vehicle, and her father steadied her with an outstretched arm. He winked at her and she flashed him a grateful smile.

The shoes she borrowed—her sister Portia’s-- were a half-size too small and pinched her toes, which was what was affecting her balance. She was fine.

(She was in a borrowed dress and loaner shoes, but she was fine.)

Naturally, by the time Pru’s wound was healed and the four witches had a chance to calm down, it was three minutes to their reservation time at Three’s. Pru had a dozen texts from Mike on her phone, and all she’d been able to say in response was a thoroughly lame “Sorry, emergency at my parent’s. I’ll meet you at the restaurant.”

“Sorry about the mess,” she’d added five minutes later, when it dawned on her, with horror, that her and Mike’s bedroom was still in disarray from her tussle with the demon. “My phone scared me and I tripped! I’ll clean it up when I get home!”

It was, truly, an awful lie, and Pru had no idea how she got away with it.

Still, her mom lent Pru one of her old dresses, and Portia was fine if Pru raided her shoe collection, so Pru was determined that the night go well. Something had to.

It was just as they stepped through the glass door that Pru remembered her situation. Mike didn’t know she was a witch, and her parents didn’t know that Mike didn’t know. She certainly didn’t want either of those streams to cross; she could handle no more tonight.

Pru barely saw or heard Jay leading them to their seats. Too focused on planning a way out of her (entirely avoidable) mess, she managed one foot in front of the other, and not much more. Coop’s engrained sense of chivalry helped cover her as they arrived; Coop pulled out Phoebe’s chair, prompting Mike to do the same, and Pru took the cue to sit down.

She flashed a mild smile to her companions and tried to dual-focus on the conversation and her plan. By the time the greetings and apologies for tardiness were over, Pru’s heart had calmed and the pit in her stomach loosened. It would be difficult, but she could navigate this dinner.

The first task was getting through the first five minutes, where it would be natural for her parents to discuss more on why they were late, or Mike to inquire more on the sudden family emergency. The key was being proactive.

“Thankfully, that’s over,” said Pru, settling down into her chair and menu authoritatively. “I’ve been looking forward to this dinner.”

She looked over her menu. “Aunt Piper has outdone herself. I don’t think I can decide.”

Here, everyone was duly obligated to compliment the restaurant, and by the time the praises had been passed around, another conversation over meat prices had sprung up. Pru interjected here and there, trying to drag out as much mileage from the topic as she could. When interest inevitably faded, Pru directed attention to her sisters.

“How is Portia’s Physics project coming along?”

The answer, as Pru expected, was “not well”. (Sort of like Pru’s mental state at this moment). Phoebe stumbled over terminologies and eventually waved her hands of the explanation altogether.

Coop took over, sounding more confident in his recitation, though still stiff in tone. In Pru’s experience, her father tried to help with homework through valiant googling, but since he hadn’t gone to school in the first place, he wasn’t much help beyond moral support.

“She’d probably be better off with someone more familiar with the material. She should ask around for a tutor at her school. Grace might be able to help, too,” suggested Pru, with an apologetic smile towards her father.

“Not me either,” interjected law-school graduate Mike, good-naturedly. He winced. “We had to review documents for a biological development firm a few weeks ago. Talk about a Herculean task.”

“Herculean or Sisyphean?” asked Coop, nerd extraordinaire.

Mike laughed, and Pru joined him. Work was relatively safe. Mike, Pru, and Phoebe’s jobs were magic free. Her fathers would be a little trickier to manage, however.

When waters inevitably turned towards Coop’s so-called livelihood, Pru jumped in.

“How did that couple turn out?” she asked, as their meals arrived. “What was the thing holding them back?”

“Well.” He paused. “I can’t say much without breaking protocols, sorry.”

As if Pru hadn’t counted on just that, she feigned an apologetic expression. “Of course! Forget I asked.”

They moved on. Pru nodded and sipped wine, perhaps too much, in an attempt to seem natural. Her glass was empty before they finished entrees. She needed something to give her time to think, so when their waitress passed by, she ordered another glass.

Phoebe complimented Pru’s new hairstyle, which was safe. Mike fussed over Pru’s “healing” collarbone, which was not.

Faked a wince, and rubbed at muscles that were perfectly fine. “It aches sometimes,” Pru lied. To head off her parents, she added, “Not enough to have Aunt Paige look at, though. I just need a hot bath and maybe a massage.” She laughed like champagne, crystalline and sharp.

Was she showing too much teeth?

It was inevitable, growing up, that any adult in frequent enough contact with the family to become familiar with the “Terror Trio”, would comment on Pru’s unlikely membership. They just couldn’t believe that prim little Prudence could be capable of the same type of mayhem as her two cousins. “Look at her,” they’d say, “Not a hair out of place. She must have been tricked into it.” Prim Little Prudence would beam back at them, innocence in her eyes and vindication in her heart.

The truth was, Pru fit right in with Melinda and Henry. She was an equally-contributing member of their trio and she knew it. Maybe she didn’t have the same type of drive to flaunt the rules as Melinda, or the bullheaded curiosity of Henry Junior. What she did have, however, was the psychotic need to not be wrong. There wasn’t much she wouldn’t do, to end up right.

Of course, two of the people who knew her best were currently sitting in front of her, and to make things even better, one of them was an empath, and the other knew all things love (though, at least Phoebe had blocked her family members from her power and Coop swore neutrality when it came to his family’s love lives, so perhaps all hope wasn’t lost.)

 Wrapped up in her own musings, Pru missed how the conversation jumped from the governor’s newest political opponent to Mike and Pru’s apartment. She tuned back in just in time to hear Mike’s version of the Great Apartment Fiasco of a month ago. Or, at least, the version Mike thought he knew.

“I guess they had too much to drink,” commented Mike. He still sounded bitter to Pru’s ears. She immediately fought a wave of guilt. It was bad enough dragging her favorite cousins’ names through the mud the first go around. Now, she needed to affirm her lie, to her parents, just in case she thought she could get away with being the Worst Cousin.

Pru gave them a weak smile. “They were wrestling, and things got out of hand.”

Mike scoffed. “I’ll say. They destroyed the place!”

Phoebe and Coop didn’t look much surprised by the information, though that did little to assuage Pru’s roiling stomach. She wanted, desperately, to defend her cousins’ reputation. Henry and Melinda weren’t those people anymore (for the most part). Maybe it wasn’t always easiest for their parents and older relatives to see, but they’d really had matured since graduating university and living on their own.

“The worst part is, neither has apologized,” Mike declared, a little too loudly considering it was Piper’s restaurant.

Pru interjected, because that was what she would do, if the situation were true. “I’m paying you back.”

Mike clasped Pru’s hand, a gentle and loving reminder of his character. Softer, because now he was speaking to her, he said, “You’re not the one I want the apology from. If anything, their hiding behind you makes me more upset.”

Phoebe frowned deeply. “I’ll talk to them. That isn’t right.”

Reflexively, Pru groaned, and covered it up by coughing into her wine. There were no punishments suitable for her level of Friend Betrayal.

Pru set down her glass and coughed pitifully into her napkin. “I’ll speak to them, mom. They’ll listen to me.”

They would, she knew. They might grumble, and they certainly would poke fun, but they would listen. They would accept the story as truth, and take the blame for the whole ordeal, because, with only some exaggeration, Henry Jr and Melinda were the greatest people on the planet.

After Mike stressed, once again, that he placed no blame on Pru, the conversation thankfully moved onwards to easier topics like economics and composing in iambic pentameter. Pru was on her third glass of wine when the last scraps of dessert faded from their plates.

“You know, we still haven’t been invited over to your new place,” said Phoebe mischievously.  

Mike threw an arm around Pru’s shoulders. He gave her a warm look, brought on by good food and love. “Pru’s been looking forward to this dinner all week. I think we can fit in a late-night stroll and house tour, can’t we?”

Pru smiled, but she knew it didn’t reach her eyes and guessed at least one person at the table noticed. “Of course,” she said, with forced cheer. Inwardly, she wailed.

The night would never end.

Chapter Text

Melinda IV

An hour from their final campsite, Melinda was counting steps and trying to pant in an orderly fashion. The pace, from early that morning to right then, was intense, to say the least. They’d added six miles to their day by detouring through a side path, which had seemed a great idea in the first four miles, but rapidly lost its appeal as the time for their reservation ticked ever so closer.

Half a dozen paces ahead, Carma breathed with a laborious hitch in her exhale. She faced forward, no matter the sights and sounds that stretched around them and made less and less conversation as the hours wore on. Now, they hiked silently, save their own harried breathing and occasional scuffle of dirt beneath their boots.

Melinda watched her friend carefully. Carma’s stance was holding well, despite the strain. She wasn’t under physical distress, but Melinda wanted to be ready, just in case.

“Do you see the marker?” she asked, shouting ahead more for conversation’s sake than curiosity.

Carma was silent for a full minute. Finally, her head swiveled from side to side. “No,” she replied, eventually.

“Okay,” Melinda said to herself. She bit her lip and focused on her second task, collecting sage.

See, she’d written down the spell and instructions that she needed, but hadn’t focused so much on the necessary ingredients, like dried sage for burning. With all the botany lessons she’d endured over the years, Melinda could at least identify the wild herb she needed, but it was still a burden, picking a few leaves here and there. The drying process she would figure out when she got camp set up. It couldn’t be that hard, right?

She spotted her quarry, just off-trail, and darted for it. Like before, Carma made no indication she heard the rustling, and Melinda returned to the path without fuss, two more springs clutched in her hand. She added them to the bundle in her coat pocket. The sage brush might be on the small side, but it would have to do.

 Carma called ahead fifteen minutes later and limply pointed to the wooden post directing them to their designated campsite. Melinda managed to cajole Carma into light conversation about a weird-looking tree overlooking their tent area while they set up camp, and for about thirty minutes, things felt like normal.

Then, Carma’s face fell, and her emotions shuttered to a close.

Like the city was under a heating lamp, the temperature dipped the further away from San Francisco one got. Coupled with the cold breeze coming off the nearby ocean, the October weather was rapidly turning frigid.

Melinda stuffed her fingers into her gloves and pulled out her cooking stove. She’d swiped a package of prepared lentil soup mix from the Manor (made for this situation, she was pretty sure), and was practically salivating over the prospect of a hot meal after two days of protein bars and dried fruit. 

As the water set to boil, Melinda pulled out her clump of sage and picked out the dead leaves. Hopefully the incense component was relatively unimportant, because the herb bundle was paltry at best. She wrapped the herbs in some bandages from her first aid kit (for lack of anything better to use), and placed the bundle as close to the burner as she dared.

The heavy clouds overhead threatened rain, so the burner needed to be put under a tarp. Sure enough, within half an hour, the first droplets began to fall.

Carma and Melinda huddled under the tarp, sipping soup and commentating here and there about nothing important. The veggie broth wasn’t as good as her mother could make, but certifiably fantastic as a contrast to the chill in the air. Chewing lentils and watching puddles form in small divets in the ground; not a bad Tuesday evening.

When the rain gave no hint of relenting, Carma silently packed away the cooking gear and then mumbled about going to bed. Melinda watched Carma slink into her tent, the last rattling of the zipper sounding louder than it should.

The sage was dry-ish. It was more wilted than cured, a little burnt, and probably needed hours more in a proper heat source. But being half-prepared hadn’t stopped Melinda before and it wouldn’t stop her now.

With Carma’s sight safely behind a closed tent door, Melinda pulled out the papers on the inside liner pocket of her jacket. She brushed her thumb over the words as she reread the spells. If she worked one into the other, she thought that it might ease her friend’s woes.

The rest of her supplies were in her tent, and she was more than happy to do the brunt of the mental work away from the threat of rain, so she zipped herself in to her one-woman tent and hunched over a makeshift writing table of a foraging field guide laid atop her pack.

Her Aunt Phoebe hadn’t actually given her lessons on spellwork, she remembered dimly, staring at two spells she needed to make into one. At the time, swapping stories instead of the planned lecture had seemed a brilliant idea, but once again, past Melinda proved to be a moron. Sometimes, she needed to be more like Wyatt.

Finally, as her eyes crossed, the words blurred together, and she found herself doubting her instincts, she decided it was done. For better or worse, this was the spell she was going to use. And just in time, because as she tossed aside her pencil stub in celebration, the distinct vibrating twang of unzipping caught her ears, even over the thundering rain. There was a faint shuffling, and then rezipping. Carma.

Melinda waited, in case Carma wanted something, but the sounds of squelching footsteps never got louder. In fact, within seconds, all auditory evidence of Carma had vanished. Melinda wrenched open her own tent and stuck her head out, only to get a glimpse of Carma’s red jacket walking into the brush.

“Carm!” Melinda yelled, fruitlessly.

Everything in Melinda told her that now was the time to act, so she scooped her spell and sage into her jacket, jammed her feet into her boots, haphazardly tightened the laces, doubled back for a lighter, and stumbled from her position into the rain.

Though Carma could only have had a few minutes head start, the distance between them was vast enough that Melinda needed to jog to catch up. At a twist in the path, Melinda came to a stop and realized with a start that Carma had vanished.

“Carma!” called Melinda, ears perked for a response.

She tried again a moment later. With the rain coming down hard enough to audibly thunk against the top of her head, it wouldn’t be abnormal for her voice to vanish into the wind. She yelled louder, almost at full capacity.

In the distance came a faint response. “Here!”

Instantly relieved, Melinda took to the left, more mindful of her pace than before. Even still, her boots barely gained traction in the mud.

Off path roughly two hundred yards was a steep embankment, already forming rivulets in the rain, and hunched atop the peak was Carma.

Distracted by the morose figure of her friend, Melinda turned too quickly with her right foot and not soon enough on her left. Her left ankle twinged under the sudden strain, and in the next moment she was spitting out mud. She wasn’t however, going to let a minor fall stop her. She’d had both arms and her foot crunched to pieces only a few weeks ago, and found the strength of mind to trust in each again. She could handle a tiny throb in her ankle.

The embankment, monumentally smaller than the cliffs she chose to climb, proved one of the toughest. Granted she didn’t normally try to climb in the rain, and also wasn’t in such an urgent state of mind, but still, she cussed at herself.

The cussing turned to outright growling as her foot slipped, once again, on the muddy slope, and down she went. The next attempt, she tried with the opposite foot leading, and then at a run. Finally, she grit her teeth, narrowed her gaze, and tore up the slope as if daring the wet dirt to defy her. Her hands scrambled for purchase on anything sturdy and she found herself anchoring on tuffs of grass and emerging roots. Finally, her fingers breeched the top and with a final grunt, she heaved her soaked, exhausted body over the top.

Carma, worryingly, didn’t move. She stared, almost as impassive as a statue over the expanse of forest.

“Carma?” Melinda questioned, in between breaths.

Finally, Carmella blinked and focused on her friend. Her forehead creased, like she just realized she wasn’t alone and her lips pursed. There was a question in her eyes.

“How the hell did you get up here so easily?” asked Melinda, failing at cleaning herself up. The front of her jacket, both arms to the elbows, and deep into her nails were caked in mud, as was her face, her knees, and her boots. Tuffs of grass or loose leaves poked out intermittently from the mud, and since she’d long since dropped her hood, her hair clumped around her head.

Wordlessly, Carma pointed behind her, where a moderately steep pathway was worn into the dirt.

Melinda laughed at herself as she sat down next to her friend. “That tracks.”

Carma attempted to smile back, but it was feeble.

“What are we doing out here, Carm?” asked Melinda, when no explanation seemed to be coming.            

“I wanted to be in the rain for a bit.” The half-lidden, vacant gaze swept back to the horizon.

Melinda fished around in her pocket, relieved to feel the spell paper was still dry. She doubted she’d even need to make much of a distraction if she cast it now. Carma was so wrapped up in her grief, she didn’t seem much tuned to the natural world.

She transferred the spell to inside the wrist of her jacket and gave it a final glance.

Melinda opened her mouth to begin chanting, and then closed it.

It felt wrong. Her best not-related friend was suffering through unimaginable grief, and here was Melinda, trying to wipe everything away with a (literal) wave of her hand (and some sage). Sure, as a witch, she could make Carma’s emotions stable again, but was that really what Carma needed? If someone had tried that to Melinda, she’d be pissed.

Reflexively, her hand clenched, and she heard the scrunch of paper. Now resolved, she brought the paper out into the open and watched the rain fall. Slowly, and quickly at the same time, droplets soaked through the paper, letters ran into each other, and soon enough, the spell was gone.

Instead, she scooted closer to Carma and bumped their shoulders together, just hard enough to be a reminder of her presence.

“Okay then,” she said softly. “Let’s sit in the rain.”

And they did.

Chapter Text

Chris IV

All in all, Chris didn’t ‘vibe’ with Los Angeles. It was too hot, too bright, and full of too many pretty people. Not much help in this front was a lack of sleep and the comedown of adrenaline. He glowered at passers-by, even the ones whose mood matched his. His legs ached after the long, cramped drive, so he forced himself to move through the crowds.

Grady had hopped out of the car half an hour ago after giving Chris directions to a strip mall on the northern end of the city and said he’d meet Chris in a couple hours, especially mystifying because Chris himself hadn’t known where he was going to be. Grady hadn’t taken the discouragement seriously, however, and sauntered into the building for whatever he needed at this particular mall.

Ten minutes of seemingly aimless driving later, Chris knew where he was going.

He’d chosen LA for a reason, not just because it was a city of millions of people, but because of two specific women of those millions. Grady was up against a powerful coven of witches, and Chris just so happened to know two members.

Bianca was, well, she was unattainable. Chris had no idea how to face her again, too wrapped up in conflicting desires of want and hurt. His relationship with her, from every angle, stabbed and pierced at every soft part of Chris’ body and soul. He wasn’t a masochist. He’d avoid her.

Her mother, however, was an option. Chris liked Lynn, and he was pretty sure Lynn still liked him. Lynn wasn’t the best option since she’d left the coven before Bianca was six for reasons Chris hadn’t been privy to, but under the circumstances, she was the easiest option. Bianca and Lynn were close, and it stood to reason that whatever Bianca knew, her mother should as well.

Decision made, Chris shouldered through a group of teenagers and approached the bright-coloured home Lynn and her husband had purchased five years prior. If he hadn’t witnessed personally Lynn’s skills with a dagger, he would never have guessed an ex-assassin lived amongst sunflowers, calla lilies, and vibrant pink begonias (not to mention the soft lullaby of the frog-shaped wind chime and the welcome sign painted along the fence).

With a breath to brace himself, Chris rang the doorbell. He knew immediately that Lynn wasn’t going to be the one to answer the door. The thudding of steps was too heavy for her frame. Sure enough, it was Bianca’s stepfather’s face grinning at him as the sage-green door swung wide open.

“Christopher!” Kent said jovially, with the smile that rarely left his face. “Long time, no see.”

Chris was positive Kent knew about the breakup, but somehow it didn’t surprise him that Kent was willing to let the past be the past.

Small talk could wait. “I was hoping to speak to Lynn. Is she here?” He should have called, but having a reminder of Bianca in his phone brought him to a standstill in the weeks following the breakup and he’d deleted her entire family from his contacts.

“Sure is,” answered Kent, and moved his large body to the side in an indication for Chris to enter. He shut the door behind them and pointed towards the kitchen.

The bright additions to Lynn’s home were largely Kent’s influence, from what Chris gathered. They two had met only a year after Lynn divorced Bianca’s father and left the coven. As the story went, Kent was the bright spot in her then-dismal life (second only to Bianca, of course), and they’d married within a year. Bianca’s sister, Yvette, was a late addition to their family, born two years before the three moved to LA (Bianca, 18 at the time, had opted to stay in San Francisco with her father, eventually allowing her to meet Chris in a nightclub long-since closed). As far as Chris knew, Yvette had been born with the Phoenix birthmark, but both sister and mother worked hard to keep her from the family business.

Chris hoped he wasn’t about to ruin everything.

Breakfast was underway in the Vidal-Hollier household. Yvette sat at the island counter, typing on her phone. Her skin was a darker brown than Bianca’s, owing to Kent’s Creole heritage, but the family resemblance was clear. They even scowled the same, which Chris thought hilarious when said scowls weren’t directed at him.

Yvette blinked at him in surprise, going so far as to even drop her phone. Lynn, however, immediately opened her arms.

Chris allowed himself to be drawn into her embrace, and then pulled back to get a good look at her. Her hair was short again, cut to the tip of her ears, and she’d dyed it light brown with just a hint of red (strawberry blonde? Chris didn’t know). She looked good. Stable. Happy.

“Sorry to interrupt your morning,” he told her. “Hi, Yve.”

Mouth hanging open slightly, Yvette stared at him a moment longer. “Hello.” She sounded uncertain. Had Bianca told her something? What was there to tell?

“It’s good to see you,” said Lynn, pulling out a chair. “What are you doing in LA?”

Lynn was good at herding her quarry with seemingly innocuous questions, Chris reminded himself as he sat down. It was better to be upfront.

Still, he glanced at Yvette before speaking. “Uh, I wanted to talk to you,” he replied, directing his attention back to Lynn and hoped she’d get the hint.

She did. “Time for school, Yve,” she told her daughter.

Yvette rolled her eyes (very Bianca), and pouted. “Can’t I stay?”

Chris shook his head. Lynn mimicked him. “Don’t be nosy,” Lynn told her, fixing the strap on Yvette’s top and giving the girl a light push to the door, where Kent waited, car key fob balanced on his outstretched pointer finger.

“You can drive,” offered Kent. Immediately, Yvette perked up.

Chris felt a pang in his heart as the family said their goodbyes, and he wasn’t sure why. He had a good family, but watching the trio he’d considered his second family depart on their day was a punch to the gut.

Lynn sat back down. “What do you need, Chris?”

Unless he was imagining it, her voice was harder than it was when she was kissing her husband goodbye and telling him and her daughter to have fun at school, where Yvette attended tenth grade and Kent taught music. Her eyes narrowed as Chris tried to formulate his thoughts. He wasn’t imagining it.

“My friend is in trouble with the Phoenix,” he said eventually, opting for the straight truth.

Lynn blanched.

“Yeah,” Chris said drolly, unable to help himself.

“Chris…” Chris watched her flounder for a response. She bounced between apprehension and frustration, with a slight hint of fear. “I left that life.”

“I’m not trying to get you involved. I’m actually here for advice. I know you take your family’s safety seriously. I might not even have come, but Grady’s in deep, and well, Bianca and I…” Six months later and he had trouble saying the words. Pathetic.

Lynn’s face gradually smoothed over. She sighed. “Tell me what happened.”

He gave her the overview, including their disastrous attempt at damage control. “Is there anything we can do to stop this?”

Pensive, Lynn was silent for over a minute.

“The only absolute way is to meet with Vido, my uncle. He’s still Head of the Coven,” supplied Lynn eventually, sounding disbelieving of even herself.

“What would that take?”

Lynn shook her head. “A reason great enough for Vido to put aside his pride. I’m not sure something like that exists.”

Because he was a certified asshole, Chris’ mind immediately leapt to the great-niece Vido probably didn’t know much about. Another disciple would get him to the table, but even though Chris’ scheming, traitorous brain developed the idea, he refused to allow it room to grow. He would not sacrifice Yvette.

Chris felt Lynn’s gaze on him. He flushed, and hoped to all the stars that she hadn’t guessed what he was thinking.

She tapped her fingers on the counter. “The witches you fought sound like Marlena and Aaron, my brother’s children. They typically work together. They didn’t like Bianca as kids, and I don’t imagine much has changed since then.”

Before Chris could help himself, he asked, “Why?”

“Because I left the Coven and I nearly took Bianca with me. I’m ‘disloyal’ in their eyes now, and Bianca holds the burden of bearing my blood. Her coming back to the fold so late in her life hardly made things better in their eyes. Plus, envy. Bianca is talented beyond measure.”

Wistful and proud, Lynn’s vacant gaze swept across the kitchen. Then, it passed, and she gave him a small smile.

“Do you wish Bianca hadn’t joined?”

Lynn closed her eyes, probably remembering the day when sixteen-year-old Bianca, riding through her turbulent teens and disrupted by the incoming addition of a sibling, decided to invest in the family Lynn had abandoned a decade earlier.

“I left for her, so she could have a chance at life without bloodshed. And she had it. Joining the coven, despite my hesitations, was her decision, and I trust her to stay true to herself. She’ll find her way.”

Chris nodded. Thinking of Bianca so much was bringing the rock back to his stomach, and he wanted it gone desperately.

“So, these cousins, they’re good?” he said around a lump in his throat.

“They’re human,” replied Lynn. “They all are, even if some of them try very hard not to remember that. There’s a lot of pain in my family’s history. We suffered immensely during the Witch Trials, and that trauma has only carried forward. But, at the end of the day, my family is as human as you and yours. We love and err, just like everyone else.”

Awkwardly, Chris hummed. He’d been asking of their skills, but evidently Lynn had taken the question somewhere philosophical.

She reached over and clasped his hand. “If you need help, I can get your friend to safety. It might not be much, but it’d be a chance. Just text and we’ll meet up in a safehouse.”

Chris didn’t mention he no longer had her number. He wouldn’t use it even if she was still listed in his contacts. “Don’t worry,” he promised, as he squeezed her hand back and stood up. “A war between the Halliwells and the Phoenix isn’t an option. I’ll do everything I can to prevent it.”

Not quite convinced, but used to dealing with headstrong hotheads, Lynn merely smiled back at him. She gave him a hug goodbye and escorted him to the door, repeating her offer as she turned the doorknob.

He waved goodbye and stepped back into the glaring sunlight. While his eyes adjusted, he stared at his shoes, trying to put his thoughts in order. He was no closer to a solution, at least not an acceptable solution.

Something blocked the sun, and Chris glanced upwards, expecting Grady.

“Chris?”

It was Bianca.

His heart froze.

“Chris!”

Chris did what, perhaps, he did best.

He ran.

Chapter Text

Chris

“What is that?”

Back in the car and safely ten blocks away, Chris came across Grady strolling along the sidewalk. So caught up in his own thoughts, he barely registered what Grady carried in his right hand, at least, until it came time to drive once more and the screeching started.

Instead of joining Chris in confusion, Grady reached into the backseat, flipped a latch with a definite clang, and pulled out a ball of grey fur.

“This is Curly!” Grady responded, holding his arm out so that Chris was practically inhaling fur. “He’s my cat.”

“You don’t have a cat,” Chris ground out, barely resisting the urge to swat the cat away. The thing was already hissing at him and one micro-second glance at the claws showed that they were sharp.

“I do now.”

“Since when?”

“Since about an hour ago. You dropped me off.”

Hands on the wheel, Chris couldn’t strangle his friend like he, maybe, wanted to. “Why and how did you get a cat before ten in the morning?”

Grady withdrew the cat and placed him on his lap. The hissing stopped and after a few pats, Chris heard the beast purring. Grady always did have a strange affinity with animals.

“For the bird,” Grady explained, like it was obvious. “As to how, I know some people.”

There was half a dozen more questions Chris wanted ask, but judging by the responses, Chris wasn’t going to get the answers he needed. “Grady, why?”

Grady repeated himself. “They have a bird and now we have a cat. Cats eat birds.”

Traffic was slow enough that Chris could bang his head on the steering wheel.

“You’re going to get that bird, aren’t you, Curly?” cooed Grady, to his cat an hour or so. Then, to Chris, he added, “Do you have a better idea to deal with the bird?”

It killed Chris to admit it. “No.”

Grady settled back into his seat, as smug as his cat. “And, I have an idea as to get these guys off my back.”

“Go on.” Because Chris certainly didn’t.

Grady grinned at him, wide enough to show both rows of teeth, and Chris decided he probably wasn’t going to like what was coming.

“I don’t like this,” said Chris thirty minutes later, in the middle of aisle twelve in Halloween-a-ganza.

Curly, thankfully, was back in his cage in Chris’ car, but that didn’t stop Grady from babbling about him. At least, he was, until Chris threatened him with a fake axe.

“I know you don’t like this. You said that when I told you my plan, when I gave you the directions to this store, and again when we parked. You also haven’t given me any other options. Had an epiphany in the last five minutes?” Focused on the array of props in front of them, Grady didn’t bother to look at Chris.

Gruffly, Chris grabbed a package of fake blood. “No,” he admitted, and threw it in the basket.

“Playing dead it is, then.”

With an irritated sigh, Chris looked down the aisle, both ways, and hissed, “The Phoenix aren’t stupid. How are you going to fake your death? You can’t just disappear, because they will not stop until they see your body.”

Now he sounded like a cat.

“What if we make something look like my body. I’m sure you can come up with a spell for that.” Naturally, Grady passed the bulk of the work off to Chris.

“That might work,” said Chris. Grady perked up. Then, Chris continued. “If they don’t try to steal your power first, which they will, because they know you’re a witch and they aren’t going to leave things to chance. Unless you’re suggesting we let them stumble upon your already dead “body”, in which case, try again. They’re not stupid.”

A gaggle of teenagers slowly crawled by, giggling and shouting, forcing Chris and Grady to act inordinately interested in fake noses. When they showed no interest in moving on, as evident by a sudden fashion show, the pair moved to the next empty aisle.

“I didn’t really think that’s how it would go,” admitted Grady. “Which is why I think we need to time this perfectly.”

Chris opened his mouth, but his friend spoke first. “Listen up. I’m not going to fight them, because we can’t win on our own, and I don’t want to get your family hurt. I can’t just run, because like you said, they’d chase me. I’m not going to give up, so don’t go getting any ideas.”

Aghast, Chris spluttered. “What kind of a man do you think I am?” he protested, allowing every bit of the offense he felt to bleed into his voice.

 Suddenly, Grady’s eyes lit up. “That’s it!” he exclaimed, a little too loudly. “If you’re the one who “kills” me, we can control what happens to me, and as long as it looks good, they might buy it.”

Eagerly, he grabbed a prop knife, and without asking, stabbed it into Chris’ chest. The knife collapsed, as it should, as it hit his skin. “We use one of these bad boys and a whole lotta fake blood and bam, we got ourselves a murder.”

“Can I help you?” came a voice to their left.

A woman in an orange t-shirt, black pants, and witches’ hat stood within hearing range. The Halloween-a-ganza brand name on her shirt identified her as an employee, at least.

“Yes!” exclaimed Grady before Chris could deny everything. “We are going to need something a little more convincing than this.” He indicated the fake knife in his hand. “Do you have something in metal, perhaps?”

She stared at him. “…No.” Like it was obvious a Halloween prop store wouldn’t sell actual weapons.

Grady took the refusal in stride. “How about non-plastic? We want it to look real. And this blood. It’s a little cartoonish. Got any good stuff in the back?”

Her eyes flitted between Grady, grinning stupidly but disarmingly, and Chris, standing stupidly but looking embarrassed, and she relaxed. A fake smile spread across her lips. “I’ll check.”

Grady waved his appreciation as she departed. “Things are looking up, my friend,” he proclaimed, clapping a hand to Chris’ shoulder.

“This isn’t going to work.”

This wasn’t going to work.

Allowing Marlena and Aaron to “catch” them had been simple enough. In fact, it had been too simple. The assassins had already tracked them to LA, and only a chance glance over his shoulder had prevented Chris and Grady from actually being ambushed. Now, they were backed against a fence, cornered by assassins, with only a hissing cat for backup (because Grady had insisted Curly be there to “maintain the illusion”).

“How much further are you going to run?” asked the long-haired Aaron, towering over the only path to safety.

Faking despondency, Grady’s shoulders drooped. “Wait,” he said, impressing even Chris.

Grady turned to the side and faced Chris directly. “We can’t beat them,” he declared, more than loud enough for the entire alleyway to hear.

At the urging flash to Grady’s eyes, Chris forced his voice to what he hoped was an honest-enough cadence. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true,” Grady shot back, amping up the drama. “They’re too fast.”

At least he didn’t say they were too good. Chris’ pride couldn’t allow the quip to stand.

“We can make it Grady,” Chris hissed.

Dropping all defences, Grady held his hands out, palms outward. “Christopher Patricia Halliwell,” he proclaimed, mostly to the two assassins.

Chris couldn’t help himself. “Dude!”

The smirk Grady sent was just for Chris. “Christopher Patricia Halliwell, you are my one and only friend. If I must die, so that you may live, I want it to be by your hand.”

All Chris could manage, in the face of such a boisterous display, was a flat, “What.”

His sentiment was echoed across the alley. “What?” asked Marlena.

“Look,” Grady cried, to his pursuers. “I get it. I’m done. I just want my friend to be the one to do it. Please?”

The assassins’ bodies tensed. “He won’t do it,” said Aaron, sounding suitably suspicious.

Chris took the opportunity, darted forward while both Phoenix witches were perplexed, and stabbed the knife into the gut, where the blood pack strapped to Grady’s abdomen waited to burst. Chris felt the liquid coat his hand. ‘Too much,’ he thought, but there wasn’t anything to be done now.

Grady’s eyes widened, flashing betrayal, and he gurgled more strategically-placed blood. He wobbled on his feet, and then collapsed to the ground.

(One good thing about the Halliwell lifestyle, Chris realized, was that he had an abnormally good recollection of accurate injured behaviour.)

Grady’s act was good enough that Chris’ legs wobbled on their own accord, and he forced himself back two paces. He stared at his hand, and hoped the look of horror on his face was convincing enough.

From the shadows, Curly howled.

The assassins were silent. Then, Chris heard Marlena whisper, “What the hell?”

Slowly, they approached “dead” Grady and catatonic murderer Chris. The blood Grady had gargled was laced with a potion his mom and aunts had once used to vanquish a ghost, which only another dead soul could accomplish, or so Chris thought he remembered. The potion itself was in the Book of Shadows and was easy enough to prepare. It would make Grady just dead enough to pass , but not enough that they had to worry about Death.

Chris’ own heart pounded as the witches approached Grady. Aaron nudged the body with his boot. Dropped to a crouch, hand held out to investigate.

With a startled cry, Grady twitched, rolled over, and sprang to his feet. He scooped up Curly, who was still howling, and darted down the alleyway, hollering for his friend as he ran.

Chris’ brain short-circuited, and he barely avoided Aaron’s lunge.

“Grady!” Chris shouted. His voice warbled from confusion, and Chris did not care. He was going to murder his best friend.

“You know I have trouble swallowing large objects!” shouted Grady.

“I’m going to kill you!” Chris yelled back as he orbed them to safety.

Murder.

Chapter Text

Chris VI

“Drive!”

Ignition started. “Get.” Car in gear. “Your.” Foot on the pedal. “Head.” Reverse. “Down.” Drive.

Finally, Chris physically forced Grady back into his seat. The cat screeched and took a swipe at Chris’ hand, missing him by half an inch.

The car tore off, earning Chris a series of honks and expletives, but there was a time for road niceties and midst-escape-from-assassins was not it. Chris turned at the first available right, and then a left after that. He had no idea where he was going—and would have admitted as such if he weren’t beyond speech at the moment—he just knew they had to get away fast.

Meanwhile, Grady dragged a shaking hand down Curly’s back, one stroke at a time. “That was a dumb idea,” he said eventually.

“You think?”

For all his antics, Grady was pretty unflappable, at least after the initial shock wore off. Maybe that aspect of his character was what made him such a good friend to Chris. It didn’t matter what happened, Grady would always be Grady.

Sure enough, after a few more laboured pants, Grady’s breath softened and he even laughed. “Yeah,” he responded, blowing strands of hair from his eyes, “It was.”

“Glad we agree.” Chris kept his eyes on the road, but he smiled as well. “I think we need to head back home. It might be time to get my mom involved.”

“Ah man, I don’t even want to think about how long her lecture is going to be.”

Chris laughed. “You’ll be sporting more grey hairs by the time she’s done.”

Grady’s eyes widened and he gasped. Frantically, he flipped open the overhead mirror and flopped his hair over, peering closely at the roots. Chris was tempted to step on the brakes, at least a little bit, but held his pace. The way his luck was running, he’d cause a pileup.

“No greys, right Curly?” mumbled Grady, propping the cat up so that it, too, could look through the mirror.

Chris rolled his eyes while Grady continued to coo at his cat.

“Gotta say, this whole thing might be worth it now that you’re in my life,” Grady whispered lovingly to the feline, who seemingly didn’t mind being held like a teddy bear. Stars knew if Chris tried, he’d be torn to ribbons.

While the traffic ahead paused at a red light, Chris’ flicked his gaze between his friend and the cat, an idea forming like a tumor on soft organs.

“Don’t freak out,” Chris began.

Grady interrupted him. “I’m freaking out.” At least he was honest.

Chris ignored him. “You might have been on to something back at the store about switching with something else.”

“Huh?”

“I’m pretty sure there’s a spell to put you into another body,” Chris explained, hedging around what he was really proposing.

The sudden, horrified gasp told Chris when Grady understood. “No!” He paused, and looked deep into Curly’s eyes.

“It’s shitty, but we’re out of options.” Chris kept his eyes on the road. He didn’t want to have to face his friend. He could barely face himself, and he wished he could take the suggestion back, but they really were out of choices. If Chris had to choose between his friend and the cat, his answer was obvious and immediate.

Grady shook his head, back and forth, until Chris was sure the man would get sick. “I can’t do it. You can’t make me.”

“I’m not making you do anything!”

“You’re making me look at Curly like a… a sacrificial kitten.”

“Right, and you’re a regular animal whisperer. What about the ferret?”

Grady was shouting now. Curly, fur and tail, now standing straight, shot into the back seat. Smart beast. “The ferret was fine! It ran off before the demon could hit it!” Horror flashed across his face, and he declared, “A ferret can’t survive in the Underworld. Chris, we have to go get it.”

The cars ahead began to ease forward. “How about after we deal with this mess?” he proposed, but Grady had already twisted in his seat to face the back and was telling Curly all about his new brother. “Grady!”

“Nope, Chris. Not going to happen.” A tiny, black smear crashed into the windshield with a faint pop, and Grady hummed. “But maybe I could switch with a bug?”

Chris didn’t need to look at him. “No,” said Grady immediately. “That wouldn’t work.”

Back to square one, they sighed in unison.

“The Phoenix are above all else, human,” Chris remembered, and then he had an idea.

“One more shot,” he said, after explaining it to Grady.

“This will work,” Chris told himself, an hour later, facing down Marlena and Aaron, alone.

This time, Chris had gone to them. He didn’t think they’d buy them accidentally stumbling upon each other again, and he was right. Neither’s face changed much when he orbed in front of them, somewhere sparsely populated. In fact, Chris was positive it was an actual ghost town.  

The sun was in front of him, blaring with the force of the midday rays despite being only a few hours before sunset. Long, gangly shadows crept in from barren tree branches and decaying wooden rooftops, ticking Chris’ already heightened sense of self-preservation.

“You don’t need to involve yourself,” Aaron called out, calmly, like he didn’t care either way.

Marlena’s eyes slowly scanned past Chris, then back again. “Where’s your friend?” she asked, suspiciously. Despite Chris and Grady’s previous antics, neither of the assassins sounded worried. They were either terminally stupid, or robustiously confident, and Chris wasn’t banking on stupid. They were trained killers, evident in their professional fighting stance and cold glint to their eyes.

“Lost him already?” taunted Chris. “Bianca would have gotten the kill by now.”

Any hint of congeniality dropped from their features, first in Marlena like a flash, and then out of Aaron, like the cool drip of blood. Marlena’s upper lip rose as she spoke, revealing the curve in her canine teeth. “You’re that Chris.”

“Yep.” There wasn’t much else to say to that.

“She’s going to miss you,” promised Aaron while Marlena whistled. “But first, we’ll find Grady.”

Marlena whistled again, louder this time. Chris smirked.

A twitter sounded from behind them, frantic and high-pitched. Then, the peeps were coming from beside Chris, where Grady emerged from a half-collapsed shed, a tiny bird struggling against his grasp. Behind him strolled Curly, curious but otherwise unbothered.

“Liesel!”

“Yes, Marlena, Liesel,” Grady taunted, holding the bird closer to his chest. “Have you met Curly, my cat? Cats love birds.”

Even Chris thought Grady sounded like a lunatic so Chris shouted to get the ball back on his court. “I only need to twitch, and the bird gets it.”

However, Grady couldn’t shut up. “He means it! He threatened Curly earlier!”

Thankfully, the assassins paid Grady’s words little mind. Less thankfully, the reason they didn’t laugh outright was because they were already springing forward to attack.

Chris was forced to dodge away from Grady, again taking the idea of orbing away off the table. Despite his threat, he did nothing to harm the bird. It was merely a pawn. The real threat were the other witches.

With quick, flicks of his hand, Chris sent rocks, beams, and a broken branch at the duo, giving Grady just enough time to scramble away from Aaron’s headlock. Then, Grady opened his mouth and screamed.

Except, his magic projected his voice not in Chris’ direction like Grady faced, but directly into the vulnerable ears of his opponents. Even still, the noise was loud enough to cause Chris to wince. Grady’s magic may not have manifested in a ‘cool’ power, but Grady wasn’t one to let an opportunity pass him by, so he had trained his voice into an instrument of power. When he yelled, it was with the full force of lungs, and this time it was high-pitched as well. No wonder the Phoenix witches soon stumbled to a halt and swatted at their ears.

Chris took the opportunity to move back within grabbing range of Grady and faced the assassins head on once more.

“We’re making you an offer,” he told them, as they blinked in his direction. “The broker who hired you is dead.”

“Wasn’t us,” came Grady’s helpful input.

“There’s no point collecting the bounty anymore. Everyone can walk away from here unharmed. We’ll trade you the bird for Grady’s life.” Chris swallowed a bout of nausea. He would remain calm and confident. The ludicrous, unbelievably stupid plan of his wouldn’t work otherwise.

“Fuck my life, I’m on par with a bird,” Grady mumbled, forcing Chris to shush him.

Marlena practically growled at them, but her eyes were trained on the bird tweeting pitifully from Grady’s hand. Aaron sighed. “Go for it,” he told her, not quite quietly enough for Chris to miss.

“Fine,” Marlena agreed. “It’s a deal, Liesel goes free and we drop the bounty.”

A wave of relief nearly took Chris out at the knees, but he held firm for the sake of his mangled pride. He nodded at Grady to release their captive.

“How do we know that they’ll—” Grady began before Chris cut him off with a solid “Don’t.”

Without further protest, Grady released his grasp. The birds fluttered its wings, even it perilously close to falling under Grady’s charm, and then flew back to its owner, who crooned as it landed on her outstretched palm.

Heart in his throat, Chris waited for an attack, but true to their word, the assassins turned around without a second look and shimmered away. Only then did he breathe deeply. Grady collapsed to his feet, hands clutching his face.

“Oh, sweet mother of pearl, I can’t believe that worked.”

Chris laughed in relief. “Neither can I.”

Grady was silent for a moment. “Do you think Marlena would say yes if I asked her out?”

“… Next time, I’m going to let the assassins win.”

Chapter Text

Pru IV

“Again, Michael, we are very sorry for the destruction we caused.”

Henry Junior and Melinda had been oddly formal throughout the entire affair. To Mike, it might sound like genuine contrition, but Pru more accurately guessed it to be over-compensating. They didn’t quite know what to do, to make up for an error they hadn’t committed, and were trying, to the best of their ability, to sound sincere in a complete lie. For Junior and Mel, lying sincerity came using full names and avoiding contractions.

Luckily, Mike found it amusing. It helped that both were in comical aprons, left over from Halliwell matriarchs of the past. Pru supposed the extra levity could come across as derisive, but since the pair were earnest in their attempt to help Pru, Mike took them at face value.

“We do not have an explanation for ourselves, but we hope that this evening has shown our desire to ‘make things right’ as modern parlance would have it.”

Mike put a hand on both of their shoulders, creating quite a sight between the mismatched duo. “Relax. I appreciate the apology, and it’s great that you guys came over after work to clean the place. It hasn’t been this shiny since I moved in.”

Mike wasn’t lying. At 5:01, on the dot, both appeared at the apartment door, dressed in their ridiculous aprons, and holding a vase of impressive wildflowers each (one for Mike, and one for Pru, for “dragging her through this mess”). They proceeded to clean through the entire apartment in a frenzy that would impress even Aunt Piper.

To say Pru felt guilty was an understatement. Perpetual nausea roiled her stomach, her face ached from forcing a smile, and she was on the constant brink of tears. Especially once her cousins turned their apologies to Pru. She loved them so, so much, and that made her feel worse.

“We are very sorry.”

“I know, guys. I just wanted to hear this all earlier.”

Pru kept her eyes trained on the gleaming doorframe, unable to see her cousins’ expressions and not break down in tears.

“Yeah, our bad, man. Won’t happen again.”

Melinda gave her a hug, and Henry waved at her. “We’ll see you later, Pru.”

Pru weakly waved back, still forcing a smile as the door clicked shut. “Do you feel better?” Pru asked Mike, tentative.

Mike rubbed the back of his head, thinking deeply. “Yeah,” he decided, eventually. “They tried, at least.”

“That they did.”

“But, this was good. Cleared the air.”

“Yeah.”

“Pru?” Mike tilted Pru’s face so that her eyes stared directly into his. “Are you alright? You look like you’re about to cry.”

Pru blinked back her the forthcoming tears. “It’s just been a long week,” she explained, not even addressing half of her problems. She couldn’t. Not when they were magical in nature.

Absentmindedly, she wandered over to her bundle of flowers and played with the soft petals of a daisy. The soft smell wafting from the bouquet was an improvement over the clinical scent of cleaning products still pervading her apartment. It was like her cousins had come in and whitewashed half of her life from her boyfriend.

Pru frowned at herself. They hadn’t, really, and any indications of such a move were her own fault. She was the one making things difficult, but as she watched Mike hum his way through the popcorn setting on the microwave, she contemplated telling him everything.

The guilt in her stomach transformed into dread, stealing the breath from her throat.

Not the time. Maybe she’d try again when she was in a better frame of mind.

“Do you think your parents approved of our place?” Mike asked, guiding her with one hand to the living room sofa. The other hand clutched a bowl of popcorn, lightly seasoned with salt and a little bit of lime, just the way Pru liked it.

Pru raised her eyebrows and pretended to think on the question. Of course, Phoebe and Coop approved of the apartment. It was clean, safe, and the influence of their daughter was scattered all over, from photos of family to ladybug ornaments on the fridge, and the fluffy, white rugs on the floors. They weren’t the most intimidating couple, either, so Pru knew Mike’s heart was in the best place when he sought their approval. “Yeah. I’m happy, so they’re happy.”

The visit after dinner last night had been cut short by Pru claiming to be exhausted. It hadn’t even been much of a fib. She’d worn herself mentally ragged trying to sanitize the conversation of anything related to magic that her brain needed a few extra hours to recharge. Still, they managed to converse through a carafe of coffee and half a dozen shortbread cookies, while Pru gave a short tour of her improved living quarters and gushed over the next phase of her life. (The mess from her earlier abduction, she stuffed into a drawer, to be dealt with eventually). And then, they said goodbye, and Pru crashed into bed, preferring the chaotic world of dreams to the pedantic nightmare of her real life.

Pru lost interest in the movie approximately twenty minutes in when she realized she was rooting for the main character’s death. It wasn’t even a horror film; she was just bored of his navel-gazing. Instead, her eyes remained glued to her phone, as she researched the odd phenomena Magdelena had brought to their attention. As a family, they were convinced it was tied into the weather somehow, so Pru directed her browser to worldwide news.

Temperature records were being shattered left and right; all-time highs in Madagascar and Japan, and frigid temperatures in Columbia, Canada, and New Zealand. Hurricanes hit with extra brutality. Typhoons were rampant, as were tornadoes, earthquakes, and mudslides. Every country seemed to be suffering from its own weather disaster, and in the case of larger nations, several at once. The United States was a claptrap of heatsinks and flooding.

Scientists promised to conduct studies. Biologists feared for the long-term impact on already-fragile ecosystems. Quantum physicists theorized over colliding universes. A few forums were already spreading rumors of extinction events. The discussion on alien intervention, at least, brought a smile to Pru’s face. “So close, but so far,” she wanted to write back, “If only you knew.” But that would be hitting the mother of all hornets’ nest. Then again, with how easily she dismissed such claims, perhaps that was the one place she could vent, without arising suspicion.

She thought about the prospect for a moment, before dismissing it entirely. She wasn’t alone in the fight. She didn’t need to taunt strangers on cryptology group chats. She forwarded a few choice comments to Melinda, and then backed-tracked to scientific data.

There wasn’t much else out there, except more examples of the phenomena. Nothing to bring back to her family, at least.

The movie came to an end while she scrolled. She was sure, whatever the twist was, it was, absolutely, unexpected and changed the whole film. Certainly nothing she’d seen in the last dozen or so movies of Mike’s choosing. She caught his face as the credits rolled. A flash of disappointment crossed his features, probably because of her inattentiveness, but Pru couldn’t bring herself to care. To his credit, Mike suggested Pru choose the next feature.

“Actually,” she said, deciding on the spot, “I’m going to spend the evening with my cousins. It’s been a while.”

He tried valiantly not to look confused, but the war was lost in his eyes. “They were just here.”

“They were cleaning.”

“Weren’t they there for Sunday’s dinner?”

“Yes, but that was with everybody.”

Mike paused. His legal training had him smooth over his features quickly, but not soon enough for Pru to miss the frustration. “Sometimes,” he said, with an emphasis on the word, “I feel like you don’t want me around your family.:

Pru felt herself huff. Her arms crossed and she shifted her weight, closing herself off physically to match the emotional turtling. Her mom would have a field day with Pru’s conversational tactics. “That’s ridiculous. I brought you to dinner with my parents yesterday.”

Ruffling his hair in a sure sign he wished he hadn’t brought it up (too bad, it was in the open now), Mike sighed. “Once.” He ticked his finger, as if Pru couldn’t count by herself. “Any of the other family functions, though? I’m lucky if I hear about it afterwards.”

Because they were magical in nature. But, of course, she couldn’t say that, and the extra frustration laced into her tone. “My family is important to me.”

“I know! I’m not trying to change that, either. I’m trying to integrate our families. When my mom visits next month, I’m going to bring you to more than one dinner!”

“None of the others bring their boyfriends or girlfriends. It’s not just you!”

Maybe this was why the Halliwell family had a difficult time leading normal lives. It was too confusing to continuously segregate certain people from certain facets of their being, that at some point, it was just easier to let non-magical relationships fade into the distance. The thought had a frown forming on Pru’s face. She forced herself to be softer.

“I don’t want to fight. I’ll be back tonight.”

She kissed his cheek, collected her purse, gave him another goodbye kiss for good measure, and exited the apartment.

This wasn’t a relationship she was willing to leave behind. She just needed a moment to breathe.

Chapter Text

Pru V

Pru was enjoying a well-deserved evening with two of her favorite people in the world when her entire world shifted. She was eating pizza with her cousins, only half paying attention to the show on the screen, and thoroughly relaxed for the first time in a week. Each coming from their respective days, Junior in his Riggs Construction t-shirt, Melinda with muddy streaks up her arms, and Pru’s shortened hair cowlicked from her hands running through it. No one made any effort to get serious or address the underlying crises of their lives. It felt good just to laugh.

Then, the temperature shifted, seemingly in the blink of an eye. Hastily, Pru discarded her sweater, expecting her cousins to do the same, and instead was hit with a wave of dread. Melinda gaped back at her, huddled under a blanket she’d just been using for a pillow. Henry, meanwhile, stared in horror out the patio window. Pru followed his finger, to find snowflakes and raindrops filtering from the sky, seemingly at random.

“Manor?” asked Pru.

“Manor,” agreed Henry.

Melinda held out an arm expectantly. Pru took it and beamed them to the Manor’s kitchen and was unsurprised to see her mother already there.

Phoebe took their sudden entrance in stride. She ushered them out of the kitchen like errant sheep. “Attic,” she said, gravely.

Together they ascended to the Attic, where the rest of the cousin’s parents were also gathered. A minute later, Wyatt orbed in, with a promise that Chris would follow soon.

“Well,” said Paige as everyone settled in. “Looks like we all felt the same thing.”

Leo and Henry, looking a little more confused than the rest, nevertheless nodded with the rest of their family. “You’re talking about the weird temperature shift, right?” asked Henry Senior.

His son answered. “Yes, but there was something else, too. Like something shifted, and something else filled its place.”

When no one else moved to better explain, Henry Senior and Leo accepted the explanation with nods.

Piper turned to her youngest sister, and it didn’t take much experience in the lives of the Charmed Ones to guess she was about to suggest Paige ask the Elders what they knew. However, she was interrupted by a flurry of blue lights descending from the ceiling.

Mags appeared in the middle of the room, looking decidedly harried and unchill. “The Veil has shifted!” she announced, gravely.

Pru felt goosebumps crawl up her arms and down her thighs, though she didn’t quite understand what the whitelighter had said.

“The Veil?” questioned Phoebe.

Mags took a breath and some color returned to her face, but there was no mistaking the ashy façade of her features. Abject terror.

“The Veil between this world and the next,” explained Leo, as his face morphed between perturbed and concerned.

Mags elaborated further. “To the Afterlife, to all Planes of Existence, to every depth of Hell.”

Wyatt gulped. “It shifted? That isn’t normal.”

Again, Leo answered. “No, son. It’s not. Some push and pull is to be expected, like currents in the ocean. But for the whole thing to have shifted…”

“Something catastrophic is happening,” finished Magdelena, firmly, so that no one could doubt her.

Coop looked towards the Book of Shadows, as if for inspiration. “What could do such a thing? Is it a being? An accident? I’m assuming this is tied to the recent breeches?”

Mag’s shoulders lifted, and then dropped. “We don’t know.”

Paige’s lips thinned. “Then we have to find out. That’s why you’re here, right?”

Mags nodded, and Paige straightened. She orbed the antique globe into the centre of the room and brought a scrying crystal to her right hand. “Who’s willing to investigate?”

The approvals came in varying forms, from vocal affirmations to hand raising, to a few nods. What she didn’t receive, however, was a refusal.

“Looking only,” Piper advised, in her best Mother voice.

“Yes, mom,” said Wyatt, though even he didn’t sound convinced.

Phoebe turned to her brothers-in-law. “Will you?”

“Magic School,” Leo finished, with a slight sigh of frustration that Henry Senior echoed.

She flashed her teeth at them, in a wide and sheepish smile “You can’t orb,” she pressed gently.

Henry Senior nodded.

(If there was a part of Pru watching the interaction between witch and mortal, wife and husband, and all the complications that dynamic entailed, well then, that part of her was going to have to be quiet for the foreseeable future. She had a job to do. Worries could wait.)

With her volunteers on standby, Paige waved the scrying crystal over the globe. The mood in the room dropped each time the crystal pointed to the map. Once, twice, three, more. Wyatt orbed off to the coast of Mozambique, Chris to the mountains of Peru, and Henry Junior to a village in Mongolia. The Charmed Ones, after careful deliberation, took the mark that rattled on their very own city, and Coop checked in with the Cupid Temple. Pru eyed the last site: Nantucket. She turned to Melinda. “Coming?”

Melinda sat up straight and her countenance brightened. “Yeah!” she practically shouted her enthusiasm, and immediately clasped Pru’s outstretched hand.

They reappeared in a spray of sea water. Pru’s thin-soled shoes slipped on the thin film of water beneath her feet. The floor rocked, and then Melinda came crumbling down too.

The stink of fish assaulted their noses. Apparently, Pru’s point of entry wasn’t quite on land.

“At least we’re on a boat?” Melinda whispered, poking her nose into the netting in front of her to get a better view of the deck.

“We’re on a boat, Mel. How are we going to explain this?” Pru whispered back.

As always, Melinda was unconquerable. “We’ll think of something. Come on, we need a better view.”

She helped Pru to her feet and together and silently, they crept around a stack of netting. Pru slipped twice more, before she set her shoes aside. She needed the extra grip of her toes on salt-sprayed boards. Slowly, they ventured around the cabin. It wasn’t a large boat, at least by Pru’s uninformed eye, so probably needed a small crew.

They didn’t see anyone until peeking around the final bend. Melinda hunkered down closest to the floor, and Pru rested her head atop Melinda’s.

Three men, by their larger figures and broad shoulders, paced up and down the deck of the boat. Over the crash of the waves and the pounding of Pru’s heart, she couldn’t quite make out what they were saying, but it sounded alarmed. Then, Pru’s gaze drifted to the ocean beyond the boat, and the disturbance became immediately obvious.

A hulking, white mass floated ahead of them by about three hundred yards. The waves chopped and broke off in white caps, but Pru was certain the mass was drifting above the surface of the water. Even more distressing, it was gradually growing larger in its approach.

Pru heard Melinda mutter in wonderment, and Pru couldn’t help but join in. It looked strong as steel and flexible as the wind. She felt, more than heard, the pulse as it crept into their world.

The boat came to spluttering halt two hundred yards away from the mass. The fishermen were curious but cautious, talking to each other and pointing in the distance. Pru was relieved to see that none of them were recording the event, at least.

Then, with a crack like a whip, a tendril arm of the mass shot out and closed around one of the crew, a tall, blond man who looked in his early twenties. The man gave a garbled shout and his crewmates screamed after him. One reached out a hand and swiped through air.

Immediately standing to her full, five-foot four-inch height, Pru planted her feet on the deck of the boat and eyed the retreating arm. She used the magic inherent in her blood to pull back on the tendril, but it was like trying to grab a waterfall. Her magic faltered.

The man’s friends bustled in activity. One grabbed a floatation tube, and the other emerged from the cabin with a rifle over his shoulder. The man fired twice into the mass, to no effect. His friend floundered in the entity’s grasp.

Melinda squeezed Pru’s hand in a show of support, and Pru redoubled her efforts. The mass was nigh impenetrable by her powers, so chose instead to focus on its captive. She pointed her squinting eyes to the man’s bearded face, terrified and defiant in the face of his struggle, and tried to extricate him from the emerging arm.

The grasp gave a little, and Pru pulled harder. She heard herself hissing between clenched teeth. The man cried out in pain, so Pru relented enough to bring herself and the entity to a stalemate.

As her world shortened to just the few feet around herself and her opponent, Pru vaguely saw Melinda step in front of her. Melinda had the benefit of movement, so Pru trusted her assessment of the situation.

“It’s strong,” Pru told her cousin. “Not sure I can pull him out without hurting him.”

“You can do it,” said Melinda immediately. “I have an idea that might help. Stay strong.”

Then, she vanished from Pru’s sight.

Pru pulled with every muscle she had available. Tension crept into her joints and although no physical effort was actually being made, her muscles burned. She would not release her grasp.

Pru’s legs shook. Her lungs scrambled for breath. Her eyes strained, and her heart hurt. Horror, grief, and panic welled in her throat. Desperation manifested as tears in her eyes. This entity was so much stronger than her. She was going to lose her grip. The innocent was going to die. She couldn’t—

A blur flew into her vision, solidifying as it drew closer to her focal point. Pru’s mind worked overtime to piece together what was happening, as Melinda leapt from the highest point on the boat directly into the grip of the entity. Melinda’s arms wrapped around the innocent and, like the last droplet pushing through strained film, she and the man crashed into the ocean.

Pru immediately switched tactics. Since she couldn’t see either human to bring them back to the boat, she tried a stalling maneuver. She forced spouts of water at the entity, hurdling whatever her tired mind could grasp. The white, elastic nature of the entity flared as she used her powers. As the seconds ticked by, Pru watched as the intent of the arm switched from its previous quarry in the water to herself.

Panicked, Pru fumbled for more water, but telekinetically affecting the ocean was nearly beyond her capabilities, and she could only summon a thin spray. If only they were on land, with rocks and branches.

Melinda’s head popped out of the water with the innocent beside her. One of the fishermen threw out the flotation device and Pru counted seconds waiting for the two to grab hold. Every moment that passed, the entity grew more curious with Pru’s presence, and she knew she would be next.

“Drive!” she shouted to the other crew member.

“…It’s a boat,” said the other man flatly, and dashed into the cabin as Pru cursed.

Pru made sure Mel and the innocent had decent grips on the tether before heading into the cabin herself. “Drive!” she shouted again at the man.

He turned the key. The engine turned over. “Come on,” he muttered.

Hovering like a predator, Pru felt the omniscient gaze of the entity, the depth unfathomable.

Finally, the engine roared to life. The man gunned it, and Pru darted back to the deck. She fumbled as the boat lurched on the choppy waters, and crashed painfully into the door, but otherwise remained on her feet.

Their cargo was doing an admirable job of holding onto the tube, despite the difficulty. The last crewmember lugged on the rope and let go quickly when Pru used her powers to reel in the passengers.

Melinda forced the man to climb aboard first. With the help of the tube, she gainfully kept her head above water, but Pru watched her cousin carefully until it was Melinda’s turn to be hauled out.

The entity was three hundred yards out, then five hundred, then barely visible on the horizon. When the last vestiges of its presence disappeared, the boat slowed to a crawl and all three crew members joined the Halliwells on deck.

The two groups stared at each other. Pru didn’t regret using magic to save an innocent in need, but tired as she was, she could not think of any other explanation than the truth.

“Was that a demon?” asked one of the fishermen.

Melinda took the words from Pru’s mouth when she immediately shot back, “You’re a witch?”

The younger two nodded. “Marshall doesn’t practice anymore,” they indicated the other man at the helm, “But he’s fine taking us out on his boat. We’re monitoring fish school populations. Any way we can help, you know?”

Though Pru didn’t really know, and she was sure Melinda had no clue too, they both nodded. “We were looking for that, actually,” said Melinda, needlessly pointing back the way we came.

“Demon?” asked the blond innocent.

Pru and Melinda shared a look, wordlessly deciphering what to tell. “We don’t know,” Pru said honestly. “That’s what we were going to find out.”

The innocent smiled, and a blush crawled across his face. “I’m really glad you were there.”

“Trust me,” Pru replied for the both of them. “We are too.”

Dripping wet, Pru and Melinda appeared back into the attic and immediately dropped onto the sofa.

No one else had returned so they took time to let their heartbeats settle and adrenaline to fade.

Melinda held out a fist. “Nice teamwork,” she supplied with a tired smile.

Pru bumped her fist into her cousin’s and despite her apprehension, exhaustion, and general sense of dread, let herself smile back.

Nice teamwork, indeed.