Author's Note: Greetings dear Chapelites. Now I know I'm running fast and loose with these author's notes lately, but bear with me as there's always a reason for these introductory ramblings. When you finish reading this chapter, a multitude of things might be running through your beautiful minds, but the one thing I'll guarantee (apart from the usual - damn you, Cinnamon, not another bloody cliffie!) is that you'll most likely say the chapter was too short. And you'll be right, it is. But... in truth, there was actually meant to be a second part to this chapter but it's been a particularly dark and depressing end to the week here in the UK and after watching my future husband, Chris Martin dance disco with Barry Gibb tonight on stage at Glasto and now feeling super happy, I decided - most out of character, I know - to end the chapter on a slightly lighter note. So please forgive me for the length, but as we all know, SIZE ISN'T EVERYTHING, RIGHT?? Thank you, as always, you're gorgeous (yes! you!) and I adore you.

Linz xxx

*********

Lucifer, Father of Lies, is also, in fact, a great teller of truths.

It's probably quite a conundrum for many, trying to pick apart the falsehood from truth, the fiction from fact, and I have no doubt there are some who steadfastly refuse to believe that any words that drip like poisoned honey from his beautiful mouth could be anything but lies. But, when you refuse to let yourself be blinded by myth, scripture and centuries of engrained education, when you look at Lucifer and really see the creature that he is behind the hooves and horns, behind the serpent scales and dragon wings, you will know that a grain of truth always runs through every discourse.

Now, of course, what is true and what is not is the real puzzle, and while I could not possibly claim to know the full extent of his lies and his truths, there was one thing he had told me that I knew to be unquestionable fact and that was that I could access the realms within Purgatory. Just as he did. Just as Michael did.

And it was to one such realm I returned, just as I had done before, only this time without the clumsy blundering way I had on my previous visits. This time, I went with the precision and guile of angels. This time, I went with the authority and power that bristled within me. My physical body might have been bound by the Chains of the Abyss, but here, there were no chains and in my realms, in the realms of the Archangels, I was free to go wherever I pleased.

At least, as long as I managed to avoid the demons, and naturally, Lucifer himself.

The trick to it all would be cunning and speed. Not only because I wasn't sure how long it would take them to search me out, but because back in the conscious world, the clock was most definitely ticking and it wouldn't be long before the Varúlfur guard decided our time was up. I needed to move fast, which wasn't the easiest of tasks when travelling through a world you should be familiar with, but had never really seen before. Not with these eyes, anyway.

When I appeared in the library, it was empty and eerily quiet, save for – ironically enough - the ticking of a clock that I didn't recall from my previous times here. It was a tall, rich mahogany grandfather clock, standing not far from the fireplace and looking strangely out-of-place amidst the Moroccan-style decor. I took a step towards it, the marble figures carved into the mantelpiece moving in unison, shifting and undulating together to look in my direction. I know you, I thought, as I stared at the clock and when the hand hit the hour and it began to chime with a deep and resonant tolling that sounded slightly out of tune, it occurred to me where I had seen the clock before.

Brandon's compound. The clock in the hallway outside the bedroom. 

I couldn't even begin to fathom why it would be here, of all places, but it's presence unnerved me, jarring the steely determination I'd been building in my veins to see this through. I blinked when it chimed for the last time. Thirteen chimes. How could it chime thirteen times? As the sound of the bell faded away, a faint scratching noise echoed down from above, coming from one of the endless towering bookcases that stretched up into the open skies that were ominously devoid of stars. It was whisper of a noise, barely audible and yet I had heard it. I glanced up, scanning as far as my sight would allow and seeing nothing but pure indigo darkness shrouding the tops of the bookcases. Another scratch. A hiss maybe. And the shadows moved far above me, stretching, swelling, spreading downwards.

Move, Megan, move. 

Without waiting a second more, I took off across the library, hearing a cacophony of noise erupt above me, definite hissing and snarling now, the scratching becoming more frantic, faster, as I began to run.

Ahead of me, the mirror waited.

Its oil-slick, black frame seemed to writhe as if it were made up of a hundred snakes, their repellent bodies sliding together, twisting, coiling. The glass shimmered, ripples appearing across its smooth surface. Behind me, in the reflection, the lights in the Moroccan-shades flickered violently, the flames in the hearth suddenly roared with incandescent rage as if seeking to escape the fireplace and greedily devour whatever they could touch. A deep rumbling thunder shook the bookcases, sending brightly-coloured tomes tumbling to the floor, pages torn free from bindings and whirling through the air in a hurricane of fragile paper leaves.

Raising my arms to protect my face, I leapt, throwing myself at the rippling glass, hitting the surface and feeling, not the sharp sting of a thousand jagged splinters, but a resistant nauseating tug pulling on my flesh. There was a sluggish feeling, like I was walking through water, my limbs suddenly heavy, fighting against a strong current and then finally ... nothing.

I was through. I was on the other side. 

*****

I was back in the library.

Only of course, this was a different library, a dark twisted reflection of the real library that now lay on the other side of the mirror. High up above the tops of the bookcases, the skies were as dead and as grey as a cemetery on a cold winter's eve. Every surface seemed to glisten with what looked like condensation. The books were peppered with a faint watery sheen, tiny droplets of water covering the shelves upon which they were stacked, and the tomes seemed to move ever so slightly, pulsating, almost as if they were breathing, the pages swelling as they exhaled.

This library held none of the warmth of the other library, none of the beauty, none of the serene calm that tempted you to curl up your legs under your body and rest a beloved book on your lap and lose yourself within the pages for hours and hours. This wasn't a place where the gentle touch of someone's hand on your arm would tempt you to unfold and lose yourself in their embrace. This was a place that left a bad taste in your mouth to breathe in the stale air.

This was a place where it was best not to linger too long. 

I crossed the room, as the carved marbled figures of the mantelpiece moved together, their actions no longer sensual as they writhed in carnal bliss, but in cruel depictions of horrific acts, mouths grinning wickedly or open wide in silent screams of terror. Ignoring their blank white marble stares, I headed towards the door, grimacing as my hand found the slick tarnished handle.

Slipping out of the library, I scanned the long corridor beyond.

The air was thick with a heavy cloying dampness that clung to the once-plush drapes, dark patches of mould infecting the silk and creating ugly mottled patterns on the fabric. The flocked wallpaper was peeling in places, partly due to the damp, the weight of the saturated paper forcing it to come away from the wall in reams, stodgy piles gathering on the carpet and partly where it had been clawed off, ravaged by great score marks that could have been made by the talons of some nightmarish animal. The damp had even reached the oil paintings lining the walls, spatters of spores spreading across the canvas and distorting the features of those in the portraits.

Looking down the corridor felt like looking into the mouth of some living, breathing creature and walking down the hallway, was like walking straight into the belly of the beast. I didn't want to walk these halls, didn't want to lose myself in this labyrinth of madness and standing here I was suddenly so overwhelmed by the task ahead, I didn't even know how I was supposed to put one foot in front of another, let alone work out where I was supposed to go.

Saving them isn't about thinking. It's about feeling. That's how Michael does it and that's how you will do it.

Little Lucius' voice came from nowhere, the memory whispering in my ear and I closed my eyes for a second to get my bearings, to stop looking and instead, trying to just feel. I'd been here before because Michael had been here before. I knew which way to go, I just had to feel it.

With a smile, I opened my eyes and set off, feeling my way along the hallway, instinctively heading towards the grand ballroom where, on the other side, I had danced with Lucifer and where I had watched the demons spin Caelan like a dervish across the polished tiles. From somewhere ahead of me, I could hear music playing. It sounded tinny, the scratch and hiss of a gramophone speaker grating in my ears and the closer I got, the louder it became as if the sound was coming out of the very walls, permeating out through every tiny crack and crevice. The noise was disorientating, deafening, as it sped up and then slowed down again, the chaotic sound reflecting the madness that existed here. I remembered the song and my steps almost faltered to hear it come back to haunt me. It was her song. Caelan's. The one that had been playing the night I had taunted her about Harper, the one that had been playing when I had walked away from her as she'd sobbed on the bed. Was this meant to stop me? Force me to run away with my tail between my legs? I wasn't sure, just as I hadn't been sure about the grandfather clock, but I gritted my teeth and continued regardless. I couldn't stop. Not now.

Dirty, stale water dripped down the ornately-patterned double doors to the grand ballroom. Creeping through the crack at the top, it trickled down the gilded-edged panels, leaving dirty snail trails in its wake. The music was ear-cracking loud now and the vibrations buzzed through my hands as I grabbed the handles and flung the doors wide.

The music stopped instantly and I was met by an empty hall and the only sound was the hesitant tap of my footsteps as I entered. Without the bustle and chaos of the demonic throng that had danced in the ballroom on the other side, this room seemed even larger, stretching far out ahead of me. Above, the cascade of cherubs adorning the arched ceiling whispered to one another behind small, chubby hands, shaking their golden curls, Cupid's bow mouths turned down in woeful frowns as I ventured further in. The candles in the hanging chandeliers had burnt low, the grey dirty wax dripping down the holders and tainting the crystal drops of cut glass and the flames flickered overhead, blowing gently in a constant breeze that flowed towards me.

At the far end, I could see another set of double doors, only these ones were pure black and the closer I got, the more I realised it wasn't paint I could see, but a thick covering of mould that encrusted the entire door and frame. I watched, repulsed, as it spread out onto the surrounding walls in black veins of putrid glistening mulch, stretching out its dark tributaries over the paintings and candelabras.

"Well," I murmured to myself. "Something tells me I'm not meant to go this way."

Pushing on the doors, I wrinkled my nose at the greasy, slick feel and heard the dull squelch of the mould as it split down the middle.

The next room was dark, lit only by the light from the ballroom chandeliers which illuminated the immediate area just inside the doors and in that dim light I saw glimpses of huge paintings lining the walls either side. I walked to where the edge of light faded and peered into the waiting blackness. My stomach flipped, my skin prickling with goose-bumps when faint murmurs arose, rising and falling as the shadows rolled in front of me.

When the door closed behind me, I jumped, running back and tugging on the handle but to no avail. It wouldn't budge. Hissing a curse, I turned around, feeling the handle digging into the small of my back as I waited, breathing hard, allowing my eyes to adjust to the gloom before I took another step.

This room felt different to the rest of the mirrored realm.

Plunged into darkness, I was immediately overwhelmed by the intensity of this place. A deep, rib-crushing sadness lingered here; a strong flood of fear, heavy tinges of madness and more than anything, an exhausting, soul-annihilating anger that overpowered everything. All at once I felt consumed by it, by this deep-rooted rage that seeped under my skin and buried itself in my bones, and yet I understood it completely – understood the jealousy, the devastation, the unfairness of it all. I felt it all so very deeply and was dually enraged myself and, most of all, saddened by it in a way that made me want to weep tears that would never stop.

Stepping away from the doors, a sudden familiar heat in my hands made me glance down to see warm light emanating from my fingertips. I held my palms up in front of my face, watching in dazed awe as the glow spread. It didn't get any brighter, as it had done those times before, but instead it held constant and as I waggled my fingers in the air, the light filtered into the gloom, allowing me to see more of what the room held.

Closest to where I stood, a huge floor-to-ceiling painting caught my eye and I moved towards it, intrigued by the scene captured on the canvas. It was a chapel, small and crude in fashion, a simple church without the trappings of money and luxury that some larger churches might have. A plain wooden cross hung high on the wall. Faint light crept in through small, high windows. Kneeling before the pulpit was a man dressed in brown woven robes, with his back to me, grey straggly locks down to his shoulders. And as I drew closer to the painting, I was stunned to realise that the man was actually moving – rocking ever so slightly back and forth on his knees – and from the painting a muffled murmuring emanated. A chant, repeated over and over again. No, not a chant, a prayer maybe, but try as I might, I couldn't make out the words, although I felt the pain and the suffering easily enough. Reaching out, I touched a fingertip gently to the canvas and with one touch, the man glanced sharply over his shoulder as if I had disturbed him from his prayer. His eyes widened, deeply alarmed, and with a cry he tried to get up, got his feet caught in the hem of his robes, fell to his knees and tried again, this time managing to climb to his feet. He ran at me, his bare feet slapping against the cold stone floor – I could actually hear the noise clearly – and he threw himself right at me.

Horrified, I flung myself backwards, stumbling myself and falling hard on my backside, scrambling on hands and feet as if he was about to jump out of the painting and grab hold of me.

It was soon clear, however, that the priest couldn't jump out of the panting at all. He was close now, so close that I could see the papery thinness of his skin, the wrinkles around his eyes and the thread veins that patterned his cheeks, but he couldn't escape. Instead he remained as if trapped behind glass, slamming his hands frantically against some invisible barrier, as he shouted at me in some old archaic language that I didn't understand. Latin? No. Aramaic. He was speaking Aramaic and somewhere inside, where only the angel lurked, I knew that's what it was and as I listened, some of the words became clearer, almost as if I was somehow able to translate. He deceived me, I picked out of his chaotic pleas. And release me. And please, over and over again. The please was truly agonising to hear, like listening to a thousand people crying out in terror, instead of just one who stared wildly at me with wide, imploring eyes, tears streaming down his old face.

Staggering to my feet, I stepped closer, noting how the light peeling from my hands seemed to grow brighter as I held one out towards the painting.

"Oh my goodness," I whispered. "Not paintings. Prisons. This whole place is a prison."

Moving to the next painting, I gasped as another face appeared right in front of me, a woman wearing a dress of coarse green cloth, who sobbed and begged me to free her. In the next, another man, this one full of anger, his thin angular face turning an alarming shade of purple as he beat the floor with his fists and screamed at me, as if I was the one that had imprisoned him here.

Open-mouthed, I began to move faster, breaking into a jog as I held my hands aloft, lighting the way and illuminating each painting in turn. My footsteps echoed into the distance as I zig-zagged across the hall, frantically searching for the face I so desperately hoped I would find, the face that had to be here.

Face after face, cry after cry, scream after endless scream.

And then, finally, after running until my legs were shrieking and I was exhaling in short, shallow gasps, I stopped. My knees trembled and weakened, threatening to collapse beneath me. My breath hitched in my throat.

The painting in front of me encapsulated a scene onto the canvas that I recognised only too well. Tiny intricate strokes of oil paint capturing a room that I knew, a room where I had spent much time, browsing beloved bookshelves, sitting in the threadbare armchair in front of the roaring hearth that had been lit for atmosphere and comfort, not because we had needed warmth. A place that I had come to call my home, before it had been invaded and terrorised by the beasts we had sought so desperately to hide from. A place that I had loved.

My heart ached with a deep longing to see the old asylum in all its tattered glory, but it ached even more to see him.

He sat at Benjamin's old table, piles of dusty tomes scattered around him, just like they used to be, only instead of working diligently away, scouring his blood-father's journals and making furious, copious notes about what he had discovered, he sat with his head in his hands, his dark, outgrown Mohawk clenched between his fingers as it tumbled down the side of his face.

Staggering forwards, I raised a glowing hand to the canvas and whispered his name. It had never felt so good to say it as it did right then. It had never felt so good to hear it fall from my lips.

"Garrick?"

*****

It was him. Really him and not some fucked-up demon masquerading as him. I knew it so instinctively that I almost hated myself for not realising it immediately when the demon had first appeared in the guise of him. How could I have ever thought that thing had been Garrick? Maybe I'd wanted it to be him so much that all rational thought and feeling had abandoned me, but whatever had happened then, I knew this really was him. No apparition. No lie. It was Bartholomew Garrick. My Garrick. 

He looked up as I said his name, but unlike the priest in the first painting, he didn't run at me straight away. Instead he shook his head, almost as if he thought I was an apparition, staring at me in stunned disbelief. Slowly, he stood up, pushing the chair away from the table and smoothed back his hair from his face in a way that was so him I almost laughed with joy to see it.

He didn't take his eyes from me as he approached, and I didn't take my eyes from him, worried that if I blinked he would disappear and I really wouldn't ever see his face again.

He was by the armchair now and my head swam with memories of him sitting there, his long legs dangling over the side as he sat slouched, reading one of Benjamin's favourite Dickens' novels. The closer he got, the more I could see the scars from Oxleas still decorating his skin and winced at the sickening dark stain that spread across his stomach where Vánagandr's claws had unleashed that fatal blow. His eyes bore an agony and exhaustion I had never wanted to see and I was reminded instantly of the demon's taunts about the torture he had inflicted upon Garrick. I'd always hoped it was a lie, always hoped it was nothing but the creature's devious, cruel way of causing me the maximum amount of pain, but looking at Garrick now, I wasn't so sure. There was too much torment there, too much suffering and I was so overcome with an almost uncontrollable hatred for that monstrous thing that the light emitting from my skin suddenly burned a hot white, shining so brightly that Garrick took a faltering step back and shielded his eyes with one arm over his face.

Dismayed, I suppressed the rage, forcing the brightness to dim slightly as I fought to regain control. Lowering his arm, he hesitated until I gave him a reassuring smile and gently touched my fingertips to the painting, watching little sparks of light flicker across the canvas, catching the gilded frame which glittered as if electrified. Reaching out a trembling hand, he placed his fingers onto the barrier that divided us and I mirrored him, moving closer so that our palms were together. He smiled then, a smile so full of sadness and longing that I couldn't bear to see it and closed my eyes. Heat buzzed through my veins, a warm sensation that tingled over my skin, infusing me, filling me completely until I thought I would burst from the feeling.

When his fingers linked with mine, when I actually felt them move, when skin and bone slipped between my fingers and gripped my hands tight, my eyes flew open to see him staring wide-eyed back at me. I was glowing now, the light radiating from my whole body, not so scorching that it could blind, but something else, something so beautiful that I felt it deep within, felt it all around me and in that one moment, I knew what I had to do. I knew it. I felt it. 

With one almighty powerful tug, I pulled and fell back, still grasping Garrick's hands and he was falling with me – really, actually falling – out of the painting, out of his prison and we tumbled to the floor together, the light enveloping us both as we clutched at each other. We were laughing, insane, beautiful laughter that reverberated around the Gallery, bouncing off the walls and resonating deliciously in the pit of my stomach.

Finally, eventually, as the light dimmed to a faint glimmer and our laughter faded to distant echoes, we lay side by side, still with hands interlocked, staring up at the dark ceiling high above.

Bartholomew Garrick, son of Benjamin, brother of Harper, turned his head to look at me, his dark eyes glinting with amusement and a mischief that I'd missed so fucking much it hurt.

"Well," he said, with a grin. "You took your bloody time."