Cult of Two

Sparrows Know

Sabrina knew her spell was a success when she opened her eyes to find herself surrounded by stacks of books. Notes were scattered over every available surface in the room, and they were written in a hasty, barely legible scrawl.

A large bed was tucked away on the other side of the room, and a Union Jack flag was displayed proudly above it. Despite the early hour, and firsthand knowledge of the occupants' usual sleeping patterns, she found it conspicuously empty.

It took her a few moments to find her voice because she was choked by the air of her former home. That should be impossible, since her physical body wasn't even here, but she would swear to the Triple Goddess herself that she could smell cigarettes, freshly made pancakes, and leather-bound books.

"Aunties," she eventually managed to call, "Ambrose?"

The response was almost immediate, "Cousin? Is that you?"

For a moment she was silent. Every emotion she hadn't let herself feel since she moved to Hell came crashing over her like a tidal wave. She's lonely, and she misses her family.

Lilith had made it abundantly clear that queens weren't allowed to cry, and Sabrina finally understood why. If they started crying; they would never stop. Leadership, queenship specifically, was a difficult pursuit. A lonely pursuit. Her closest companions were Lilith and Caliban.

Lilith, who by some goddess-given miracle, Sabrina managed to convince her father to spare. At least for now. She acted as Sabrina's handmaiden, but she wasn't much for conversation. Lilith seemed to resign herself to her fate and appeared to be disassociating. A ghost of her former self.

Then there was Caliban. She wasn't sure what to say about their relationship. She wasn't sure if what they had could even be called a relationship, considering they were plotting several murders. She was keeping him at a distance, barely entertaining his inquiries about her life. However, there were times when she caved, indulged him, as well as herself, by admitting that her Auntie Hilda would love to bake with the exotic fruits they dined on at breakfast, or that Ambrose would drool over Hell's library.

Ambrose. Her few moments of quiet contemplation must've seemed like an eternity to him, so she decided to not keep him in any further suspense, "It's really me."

For a moment everything was still. Silent. But it was only a moment.

It was over in an instant, and her ears were met with the sound of clanging metal. There was only one thing in the house that could make that sound; the metal spiral staircase leading to the embalming room.

She walked toward him, deciding that she didn't want to waste her precious time reflecting on all the ways her life had changed. She could do that back in Hell.

Out of habit, instinct, or just the fact that she hadn't astral projected in a very long time, she reached for the doorknob. At the last second, she remembered she couldn't open the door. She had to settle for passing through it like a ghost. In a way, she supposed she was.

Not because she currently lacked a physical body, but because she felt like a shell of the person she used to be. No longer was she the girl who went to high school dances, or even the girl who ran out on her Dark Baptism. She's queen, and daddy goddess-damned-dearest was by her side getting everything he ever wanted.

She felt more like a Morningstar than a Spellman, but none of that mattered because Ambrose was looking up at her from the bottom of the staircase like she was going off to Baxter's Valentine's Day dance again. He's looking at her like she hadn't changed at all.

"After all this time, the prodigal daughter has finally returned," Ambrose breathed, pushing his embalming goggles off his eyes to get a better look at her, "The Aunties aren't here right now. Zelda is at the academy-"