Author's Note:  

IMPORTANT: TRIGGER WARNING - sexual abuse, rape, violence, drug-abuse, child-neglect. 

Towards the end of this chapter, there is an asterisked break and the subsequent content is written in all italics. This scene is a flashback memory from Casey's childhood and details a traumatic event from her past, that some readers may not wish to read. If you read my Author's Note at the beginning of the story, you will be aware that this chapter is a particularly difficult one, however if you didn't read the Note, please do check the trigger warning above and please please do not continue reading past the asterisked point if you feel this may distress you. If you skip that part of the chapter, I can assure you that it will not impact on the rest of the story. Alternatively, if you decide you'd prefer to skip the whole of Chapter 34 but wish to know what happens in the first part of Mouse, then please do reach out to me via DM and I can give you a brief run-down of that section. 

I thank you all for your support, as always xxx

***

His Gospel.

Ethan had a fucking Gospel written about him.

The Gospel of Helel.

I couldn't process it. How was I meant to process something like this?

I knew how I wanted to deal with it, but I couldn't. Being with Ethan and without any access to my supply, everything he had told me, everything I had seen and experienced, had filled me so completely that I had almost forgotten there was this big part of me that always stayed true to form whenever things got too tough to handle. I was lying, of course, because half the time, shit didn't even have to be that tough for me to reach for the coke. I got wasted because I could. I got wasted because it was easy. I got wasted because it was way better than everything else my pathetic life had to offer. I got wasted because I was Casey Brogan, champion ghost-carrier, champion party girl, champion death-stalker.

Since New Year's Eve, my rollercoaster life had lost its brakes and I'd been increasing speed by the day, hurtling along the tracks, around bends, facing the highs and the lows with a clear head and a clarity of vision I hadn't even known I possessed until then. Yeah, there'd definitely been times when it would have been easy to fuck it all away with drugs – that's why I'd taken the smack from Oscar's office – but I'd come to realise that everything had begun to take a weird and surprising turn. Instead of getting high on powder and pills, I'd been getting high on Ethan. High on being with him. High on this crazy, messed-up adventure. In fact, I'd been so high, I hadn't even noticed when I'd just started accepting everything.

Davey's dead. Oscar Turnbull isn't human. Angels exist. You're a witch. Oh, and that demon you're now sleeping with has a Gospel written about him, because he's not just the son of Lucifer; he's the most powerful creature alive and the future of the world rests in his reluctant hands.

Blake was still talking, holding the book aloft again as he addressed his demon army, but I couldn't focus on his words. I was floating under the surface, my flight instinct in full-force, but with nowhere to go and no means to get there, I could do nothing but stare numbly at Ethan, who was staring straight back at me. He could have flattened the whole room with that stare and I was lost in it, as if we were the only two people here.

Stay with me, Casey.

The words he'd said – that question – hit me hard then. He'd trusted me enough, wanted me enough, to offer me the blood of the First and ask me to stay with him for an eternity, but he hadn't trusted me with his biggest secret. He hadn't trusted me with the truth. I dragged myself out from under the weight of his gaze, looking away from the cold challenge in his eyes.

'...the witch knew. The witch gave us this story, knowing that this was our destiny,' Blake was saying, his voice now tinged with an excitement that was mirrored in his dark eyes, and in the faces of those around him. It was strangely captivating, watching how hooked they were to all of this, how addicted they were. I vaguely wondered if this was how I looked when I was off my face on drugs.

'No longer will we bicker and fight between ourselves,' Blake continued, 'No longer will we remain divided, while our enemy laughs at us. Hunts us like we are nothing but animals. No longer will we stay Earth-bound, cast out of our rightful home. No longer will we be the Fallen. Inside this book, the witch's words will unite us all at last.'

He lowered the book, holding it flat in the palm of his hand, as his other caressed the cover.

'Inside this book,' he said, a giddy smile making him look younger than his many years, 'lies our future. At last, at last...'

Pulling back the cover gingerly between thumb and forefinger, he opened the book, the smile on his face growing more rictus by the second, as he began turning the pages, one after the other. He closed the book and began again, this time, the grin dying on his lips and become more like a grimace as he frantically flicked through the pages. He shook his head, eyes widening in panic.

His head jerked up, rage seeping from every pore as he glared at Ethan, who just looked back at him, a smug innocence dancing in his eyes.

'Something wrong?' Ethan said, raising his brows. 'Oh, wait, did you just realise you never read the first in the series, is that it?' He clicked his tongue against his teeth. 'Well, that's a shame. Nothing worse than reading a story and realising you have no idea what happened up until that point, eh?'

Blake's face twisted darkly. 'Where is it?' he screamed, stalking towards Ethan and brandishing the Gospel right in front of his face. 'Where's the real book, Helel?' Grabbing a handful of Ethan's hair, he yanked his head back and Ethan winced, but the grin remained.

'That isthe real book. Do you really think I had time to whip up a new one? Even I'll admit your little trap in Milan caught me by surprise,' he said, with a shrug. 'Got to hand it to you, turns out you're not quite the predictable loser I thought you were.'

With a snarl of rage, Blake released Ethan, only to draw back his arm and strike him hard in the face with a clenched fist. The crack of his knuckles against Ethan's jaw made me gasp out loud. Ethan's head snapped to the side with the force of the blow, and he blinked for a few seconds as if trying to shake off the shock of the punch and spat a globule of bloodied saliva out onto the floor by his side. As he slowly turned to look back at the other Demon, he moved his jaw from side to side, grinning brashly with blood-stained teeth.

'Now, that was probably the most interesting thing you've ever done in your life,' he said. 'Who'd have thought the great Grigori, Azazel, would bruise his knuckles? You just went up in my estimation. Just a tiny bit, mind, but still... fucking bravo.'

Blake bent down until he was face-to-face level with Ethan, breathing heavily through his nose as he looked at him. 'What have you done to the book, Helel?'

Juliette stepped forward, clasping onto Blake's arm. 'What is it?' she hissed. 'What's happened?'

'Look!' Blake said, shoving the book into her eager hands. 'Open it. Look. It's blank. Every single page. Blank!' He raised his fist to strike Ethan again, but Juliette quickly grabbed his wrist and held him back.

'Wait!' she warned, pulling him closer. 'Be wise, Azazel. Whatever has been done can be undone.'

'How, Juliette? The Gospel is useless to us without the witch's words.' The muscles in Blake's arm tensed as he wrenched it from her grasp, clearly exerting a great deal of self-control to stop himself from beating Ethan senseless. He thrust his fists into his sides.

Juliette flicked through the pages herself, her eyes shrewd as she looked at each page in turn, running her fingers over the now-wordless paper. Pursing her lips, she raised her head to look in Oscar's direction. The rogue Demon, I noticed, had gone very red in the face, which had never been a good sign if you'd had the misfortune to be on the receiving end of his Vesuvius-like temper.

'Did you have a hand in this, Berith?' Juliette accused.

Oscar's eyes hardened. 'You fucking what? I brought that book to you myself. Do you honestly think I'd hand it over if I knew it had been tampered with?'

'Then how do you explain it?' Blake barked at him.

The demon pulled on the cuffs of his suit and puffed out his chest, his face indignant. 'How the blue fucking blazes should I know? The boy showed it to me. I saw it with my own eyes and I'm telling you it was full of Lilith's handwriting. I'd know that woman's penmanship anywhere.'

'Then where is it?' demanded Blake. 'Where has it gone? How can it be blank? It's not possible!'

'Give me the book,' Oscar said, gruffly, as he marched over to where they stood. Taking the Gospel from Juliette, he turned it over in his hands, before opening it up and looking closer, raising it to his face until his thread-vein nose was almost touching the pages. Pulling back, he held his hand over the first page, hovering about an inch above. His fingers twitched. Then he smiled. 'Good ol' Lily,' he whispered.

'Berith?' said Blake, impatient.

'This is Lilith's work,' Oscar answered, a strangely proud look on this face. 'It's Endorian magic. I should have known she'd pull a stunt like this.'

'Like what?' Juliette placed her hands on her hips. 'And how on Earth do we fix it?'

Oscar handed the book back to Blake. 'You don't,' he said. 'Like I said, it's Endorian magic. I've no doubt that Lilith has enchanted the Gospel so that if it were ever to fall into the wrong hands – no offence, Azazel' – he shot the other demon a wry grin – 'the book would then hide its secrets. We won't be able to undo whatever magic she has cast over it. Only another Endorian can do that.'

I sucked in a breath and swallowed. From where Ethan knelt in between them all, he caught my gaze as he tongued where his lip had split open. My heart beat faster.

Juliette raised a perfectly-plucked brow and sighed. 'I'm not sure if you're aware, Berith dear, but the world is hardly overwhelmed with Endorians these days.'

The old demon turned to look down at Ethan. 'Well, maybe you don't need an actual Endorian,' he said, narrowing his eyes. 'Maybe you just need someone with Endorian blood in his veins. The book was fine until he gave it to me and we all know it's his Gospel. You want someone to fix this, perhaps you'd better ask Helel here to sort it out himself.'

All three of them were now focusing solely on Ethan.

'Endorian magic doesn't pass down to male heirs,' he replied, his expression impassive. 'Every Shedim alive knows that. I can no more undo my mother's magic than any of you can.'

Blake stared at him, jutting out his chin and sucking thoughtfully on the inside of his cheek. Seconds ticked by. Long, agonising seconds that filled the huge hall with an uneasy silence that settled on my skin and made the hair on the back of my neck prickle.

'Yes,' he mused. 'Yes, we do know that. But Berith is right. It would make no sense whatsoever for the witch to hide the book's secrets from the one person the story is about. Whatever magic this is, you can restore the book to its original state, and if you cannot personally do it yourself, I think you know full well who can.' He smiled a cold, thin smile. 'You will do this, Helel, and you will do it now.'

Ethan rocked back onto his heels, his steady gaze fixed upon Blake, before rolling his eyes and pretending to stifle a yawn. 'Always so demanding, aren't you? Do this, Helel. Do that, Helel. Honestly, you're sounding more like my father every day. I reckon you might have a bit of a daddy complex going on there, Azazel.' He winked at him.

Blake cocked his head to the side. 'Everything is always a joke to you, isn't it? Do you take nothing seriously?'

Ethan rolled his head on his shoulders and smiled. 'Funny you should say that,' he said. 'Because right now, I'm thinking about what it's going to be like when I eventually break free – which I will by the way, because you know, the Morning Star thing and all that – because when I do, I'm going to tear you apart little by little and bury your body in pieces all over this world and I'm going to laugh my fucking arse off as I do it. I'm thinking I might leave your head poking out of the ground in the monkey enclosure at London Zoo and have them piss on your face every day. Fuck, I'd even pay the admission fee to go in there and see that.'

He chuckled, but the darkness in his eyes was terrifying.

'You're barking up the wrong tree, as always. I can't do what you ask, and I don't know who can, apart from my mother of course, and the last time I saw her, she was wrapped in a burial shroud and being placed in a hole in the ground, so I hate to break it to you, but I don't think she's going to be able to fix this anytime soon. Oh, and by the way, she does have a name. You don't have to constantly refer to her as the witch.'

Blake rapped his fingertips against the cover of the Gospel. 'Forgive me. She was your mother and without her, we would have no Morning Star. Of course, she was an Endorian also and that too, made her revered above all other maledicti, but your misguided loyalties to the other witches, I never could understand it, Helel.'

When he turned to speak to me, I flinched.

'Tell me, Miss Brogan, has Ethan ever spoken to you of my abilities?'

Beside him, Ethan stiffened, his smug expression fading fast.

I opened my mouth to speak, wishing that my throat didn't feel so dry. In the end, I just shook my head.

Blake stepped closer. 'Everyone's soul holds the residue of their life, Miss Brogan. Everything they have ever done, everything they have experienced, these things leave a mark. Now, for some of us, the more unfortunate of us, should I say, that mark is something we feel. We feel your joy, your pain, your suffering, almost as if it was our own. Luckily for me, I don't feel, but I do see. I see what your soul carries, and I can make you see it too. Again, and again and again.'

'Blake, no!' Ethan said, shaking his head frantically, his eyes wide now with alarm and a shock that had hit him hard. 'Blake, you can't! you don't need to do this! Please, look, you want answers, I'll get you answers, okay? I'll help you! Forget what I said, just don't do this!'

Blake held up his hand to silence him. 'You had your chance. You might hesitate, but I do not.'

'But you don't need to punish her, for fuck's sake,' Ethan cried, his face aghast. 'You want to punish someone, then punish me!'

The other demon smiled as looked back at him. 'Oh, but Helel, that is exactly what I am doing.'

When he turned his gaze back on me, I shrank from it, feeling my stomach flip with fear.

'You see, Miss Brogan,' he said, 'while I am gifted with certain abilities, your friend Helel truly does have a plethora of skills. He can also see as I do, but sadly for him, he also possesses something of an empathic nature. I hear it's quite unpleasant for someone as sensitive as he is to human suffering and while, I must say, I do not wish to cause you pain – because as I said, I am not a monster – I shall enjoy his pain immensely.'

Behind him, Ethan was shouting, screaming, fighting against his binds, but Blake just inched closer and placed his hand over my eyes.

'Sleep well, little mouse,' he whispered.

*

My hands are free.

Blurry-eyed, I rub at my wrists, expecting to feel the burn of the invisible binds, but they feel fine. Unhurt. Unbruised. I'm okay.

With a jolt, I remember, and I reach for the pendant around my neck, only to find it's no longer there. In its place is a small, slightly tarnished silver crucifix. I frown, the ghost of a memory whispering in my ear as I rub the crucifix between my fingertips and it's then that I notice my hands.

They're smaller. A child's hands.

Gasping, I look up and I'm looking directly into a mirror.

I'm falling. Tumbling. Crashing. My stomach flips, and nausea forces an acrid-tasting saliva into my mouth.

It's her. Me. As I was then.

Twelve-year old Casey is thin, with delicate bird-like bones, ashen face, hair greasy and prone to knots. I am her. She is me. I am twelve again.

Oh god, oh god.

I look around, heart pounding. The bathroom in my mother's council flat is small and smells of damp and urine where they've missed the bowl and pissed up the wall. The paint there is cracking and peeling off, yellow-stained plaster showing through underneath. The shower curtain – a purple and yellow gaudy affair - is hemmed with brown mildew. The bathtub is stained with patches of limescale. I've tried to scrub it so many times, but it doesn't come off. The stain never comes off.

I hear music and laughter. Sounds that dig deep, cutting sharply through my confusion and panic, gouging inside my ears. I hear voices. Voices of ghosts and nightmares. Voices I've heard my whole life. Voices I could never escape. I want to piss myself, I want to puke, but I know that will make Mum mad.

I can't stay here, in this tiny bathroom. There's no point. The lock is broken.

Sometimes, if I'm quiet, if I'm really quiet, they forget I'm here, so caught up in their shit that they don't remember the little mouse hiding in the bedroom. I could go there now and hide in the wardrobe. Yes, that's what I'll do.

My small hand trembles as I reach for the door handle.

The hallway beyond is dark and full of shadow. I want to sink into it as I tiptoe carefully out of the bathroom. I want to disappear into the shadows. Become invisible.

There's a sickly green light coming from the living room, where the voices and music creep through the open doorway. It smells of weed and beer and sweat. The whole flat stinks of it. Of them.

Don't breathe. Don't make a sound.

I creep towards my bedroom, but I can't resist looking in. I don't want to because I know what I'll see, but twelve-year-old Casey's head is drawn to it because the touches of normality amidst the festering chaos always give her hope.

The damp that plasters the walls around the window. A framed picture of her and Claire on the wall, one of those school photos, holding hands, smiles a little too stretched. The large, green chintz-edged lampshade. The small gymnastics trophy Claire won in year 4, that sits on the mantlepiece above the electric fire, which only seems to work when it wants to and mostly when you give it a good kick. The blanket that hangs over the curtain pole. The ballerina figurine she and Claire had clubbed together to buy Mum a few Christmases ago. The bloodstain on the carpet where Mum had been off her face and had fallen and hit her head on the corner of the coffee table. The empty beer cans. The tarnished spoons on the table. The needles. The smack.

The room is full of male voices. I don't hear her, but I know she's there, probably on the sofa behind the door where I can't see her.

The TV is new – or at least, second-hand – and there's a music video playing on screen.

I stop. My feet are fixed to the floor. I can't move, because I know that song. The Stone Roses, I Am The Resurrection. That song has haunted me my whole life and as soon as I hear it now, I know what this is. I know what day. What time.

The worst time.

Oh god, oh god, no, no. Not this day. Anything but this. Anything.

I see the profile of Mum's dealer in the living room, as he sits in the armchair near the window. He's not looking at me, hasn't seen me yet, but I always get the sense he can smell me. Like one sniff of the air and the animal he really is comes bursting to the surface, splitting through skin and bone just to get to me.

Don't breathe, Casey.

My chest hurts.

Run. Hide. Yes, hide.

I make it to my room, pushing the door closed as much as I can without properly shutting it. The latch makes a noise when it clicks shut and I need to be quiet now.

The wardrobe is there. My hiding place. My Narnia.

I reach for the handle.

'What are you doing, little mouse?'

It's stupid, because I know this day and I know I can never escape from it. Why did I think it would be any different this time? Why did I think he wouldn't sniff me out?

Even just the sound of his voice makes me want to whimper, but I know he likes that, so I don't. I just freeze and when he turns me to face him, I'm like a statue, like ice, and my feet shuffle robotically on the carpet.

I don't look at him at first. I never do. I look at my schoolbag propped up against the radiator under the window. I've had it for two years already while the other kids get a new one every September term. The zip often gets stuck halfway round and I have to carry it upright or all my shit falls out. On the front pocket in black marker pen are the letters KC, because at one point I thought it would be cool to abbreviate my name into letters. Almost like creating another identity. Being someone else, just for a while.

He lifts my chin, so I have to look at him and I do it with dead eyes. His eyes are alive. They're always alive. Always alert. Always hungry.

When Mum first met him, she went on and on about how good-looking he was, how he reminded her of some film star, how fit he was, and I suppose, compared to the others, he must have seemed that way to already-past-her-prime Maggie Brogan. But I know what he is. He's a monster.

The worst of them all.

'We've got a bit of a problem, little mouse,' he says, his brow creasing with a worry I know is fake. 'Your poor ol' Mum's having a bad day. A bad week actually, what with the bailiffs taking her TV. I got her a new one though. Ain't that nice of me?'

He pushes strands of hair away from my eyes. I nod numbly.

'Yeah, very nice of me,' he says, his eyes moving down to my chest. I've just started wearing a bra and I hate it. I hate that I'm getting boobs already and hate wearing the bra, but Mum says it's better if I wear it. I wanted a more grown-up one, but Mum insisted on the one with Minnie Mouse straps. She thinks I don't know why, but I do. It's because they like it. The monsters. They don't want me to be grown-up. They want me like this.

'But the thing is,' he continues. 'You don't get nothing in life for free. You want something, you gotta pay for it, don't you?'

He strokes my shoulder and I feel sick again.

'Yeah, yeah, you know that. You're a smart girl. So, you see, the thing is, Mum's had a tough time this week and she needs to let off steam. She needs a little hit of something to make her feel good again. Only she's got to pay for that too, don't she? New TV's. A good time. It all costs. Ain't that right, Maggie?'

Mum is standing in the doorway, watching but not seeing.

She stopped seeing a long time ago.

I look at her, but I know there's no point begging. There's no point asking her to do something. She has done something. This. She used to have the decency to look ashamed, upset even. But now, she just nods with glazed eyes, grateful she's found a way out. Grateful she has me. Grateful that she can get high and pretend her life isn't a shitty, stinking waste of breath.

She slumps against the doorframe. She's so skinny now that her clothes hang off of her. She's a mess of bones and cheap clothes, of pale-grey skin and chewed fingernails. She sees me looking at the needle and packet of brown in her hand and she clutches it to her chest as if she thinks I'm going to try and take it from her. As if it's the most precious thing in the world. And it is. It is.

Without a word, she slinks away, sliding along the wall in the hallway, leaving me alone. Leaving me with him.

He doesn't bother shutting the door. He knows he doesn't have to. No one cares.

I'm on the bed now. The duvet cover was Claire's. It's a lurid print of the Powerpuff Girls. I don't even like the Powerpuff Girls, but the other one is stuffed in a Bargain Booze carrier bag and shoved in one of my drawers. I wet the bed last night and had to clean it up before Mum saw it, but there was no washing powder and no money to buy anymore. I make a mental note to get some tomorrow. She'll have money tomorrow.

The single bed creaks under his weight. He looms over me. He doesn't try to kiss me. Never does. Some of them do and their tongues make me gag, but not him.

I want to screw my eyes tight shut, but I can't, he won't let me. The first time I did that, it earned me a slap to the face. The second time, a punch to the stomach that almost made me puke. I don't close my eyes now. He wants me to look at him. He wants me to see and he wants to look into my eyes as he does it all.

When he smiles, he reminds me of the Cheshire Cat, all sharp teeth and cunning. His hands are cruel talons. Grabbing. Crushing. Squeezing. He knows the pain he inflicts, but he doesn't care. He likes it. Loves it. When you scream or cry, those hungry eyes of his light up, like he's feeding off of it, and it seems to encourage him. The others do what they have to do and go. He takes his time. Takes what he's owed.

He pulls at the strap of my Minnie Mouse bra and lets it snap back against my skin. The brief sting is nothing. I don't even flinch. There are worse things to come.

His hands are on the move now. A squeeze here. A pinch there. He's enjoying this. Turning his abuse into an art form. Learning every time how best to hurt me. Trial and error. What works. What doesn't. How to get the reaction he wants.

Twelve-year-old Casey doesn't cry. Not even when he unbuttons his jeans. Not even when he slaps her thighs hard enough to bruise, to force her knees apart. Not even when he pins her down.

But I'm crying. Me. Adult me. I'm sobbing. I'm screaming. I'm screaming so hard in his face that I think my lungs will split apart and my throat will bleed.

I'm screaming so hard I think it will last forever. It feels like it lasts forever.

Oh god, don't let it last forever.

It doesn't, of course. He finally finishes with a grunt and a smile. Always that hateful smile.

But I'm still screaming.

It should be a blessing when he leaves the room, with barely another glance at me, but I know it's not over. I want to curl up inside the wardrobe, but I can't.

There'll be another one soon.

And another.

He needs to get his money's worth tonight. Mum owes him.

Footsteps shuffle up the hallway, coming closer. Beer breath and nicotine-stained fingers.

Casey is quiet now as her face is pushed into the pillow. As quiet as a mouse. As still as the dead.

But I'm still screaming.

I think I'll scream forever.