Chapter Text
It wasn’t a common occurrence that Crowley found himself tasked to handle. Sure, he did his usual temptation here and there, played the long game with certain road signs to create landscaping chaos, and even had the duty of manipulating certain political groups.
But to go to a shop because a lesser demon had arrived there without any of the authorized paperwork? That was new.
Any other time, Crowley would have been annoyed with an unexpected task like this, an assignment that wasn’t his typical. But given the…uniqueness? Well, he could spare a few minutes, knock the demon’s head about to let off some steam, and gain some brownies points with Hell.
Never hurt, not now.
The Bentley came to a sharp stop before the address. He got out and looked up at the sign. Although it was night, he kept his sunglasses on, unaffected by the lack of light.
‘Fruit of Knowledge: An Occult Shop’
He blinked and read it again. Nope, he read it right the first time. Fruit of knowledge…and an occult shop? Crowley scoffed. The play on the apple and sin was…actually rather nice.
“Hm.” He reminded himself why he was there, which further piqued his interest. What ever was a lesser demon doing here at a shop like this?
“Best way to find out.” He mused to himself aloud.
He grabbed the door handle without a second thought and then…paused. The infernal energy pulsed through the walls, not unlike the music of a nightclub. The sound of the bell above the door was muffled when he threw the door open, a minor miracle.
Several things came to Crowley’s attention right away: one, the scent of herbs (rosemary in particular) and aged parchment (something he knew well from Aziraphale’s shop) hit him hard; two, there were rows of various jars on the walls and shelves, some of oil, most full of strange things; and three, the fierce glow of bundles of candles beckoned him towards the back of the shop.
The demon took his time walking through the shop. Many of the labels, he noted, were handwritten. There were organs floating in liquids, bones of different shapes, powdered and whole herbs, and more. Iron shavings, railroad spikes, graveyard dirt, dried hearts of poultry and possibly more, claws, and more. Nowhere could he see the typical popular market goods – no ‘love, light, and perfect trust’ nonsense, no tarot cards themed with cute kittens or a horrible TV show, nothing of an overproduced wolf-shaped decor, and none of the shirts that read silly things like ‘We are the granddaughters of the witches you couldn’t burn’ that he saw in most shop windows.
All in all, it seemed…legit.
A few rows of already-made items – prosperity candles, love oils, hex bundles, and so forth – but most was a piece-meal. Interesting. Very interesting.
Crowley turned down the hall and into the room – and stopped.
Before him was a whole scene illuminated with the glow of several dozen candles. There on the ground was the very lesser demon that had left Hell without the proper paperwork – kneeling, snarling. Around him was a summoning circle, except…it was wrong.
No, no wrong in the sense of “everyone dies screaming” wrong, but…irritatingly creative sort of wrong. Crowley had seen many summoning circles in the last few thousand years – got really popular during John Dee’s time, then Cosme Ruggeri, and oh, those years with Aleister Crowley were wild. Most made by the typical human didn’t do more than create a mess and make for really shitty B-rated horror movies. Some of them from people who knew what they were doing had been really good for Hell those years – transactions, deals, souls and all.
But this one…he felt it before he saw it, this one was wrong. It was…different. But different wasn’t bad.
Before the white chalked circle stood a woman. Her hands were lined with rings of various stones, all silver. Her wrists and forearms were stained with ink, the tattoos intricate and delicately done. Curves were shown under her tight fitting maroon dress, her bare legs long. Her hair was a chestnut brown, pinned in a bun but had several strands loose, as if she couldn’t be bothered to fix it throughout the day. In her hands were two things: a grimoire that consumed her attention and a sapphire studded athame, the sharp blade bright in the firelight.
She looked…ancient. Not ancient like himself or even Aziraphale, and not old. But she appeared wiser than what she should be, an older soul in a young body. She was comfortable in her body, her stance, her power – that was abundantly clear with how she didn’t even flinch when the lesser demon shouted obscenities at her.
Her lips parted and a confident command was snapped, “Shut up and sit down!”
And to Crowley’s amazement, the lesser demon…did.
His brows raised and he leaned against the doorframe, the wood creaking ever so softly. “My, haven’t seen a little witchling control a demon so well in a couple millenia.” His voice rang out, rich and smokey like a good scotch.
The confidence and ease the woman held cracked. She looked up sharply and couldn’t hold back a soft gasp. Crowley froze as he took in her face now that she was looking at him. There was an ink smudge on her chin, but that wasn’t what caught his attention.
It was her eyes.
Her eyes were green, vivid and bright like emeralds, but there was something about them that wasn't normal. Almost as if she had a ring of light around her pupils – but it was there and gone in a blink. Quick enough to make Crowley wonder if he had imagined it.
Before he could mull on that, the woman closed the grimoire in her hand and set it on the table at her side. She held onto the athame though, her grip firm. She studied Crowley – a tall, lean man with a shock of red hair wrapped in sunglasses and a black jacket. “What are you doing here?” She asked, her voice regaining the no-nonsense firmness.
He didn’t respond right away. No, he was too busy taking her in. The grip on her dagger showed her unease, but she didn’t step back or panic. She wasn’t a desperate occultist nor a power-hungry fool. She knew what she was doing.
Crowley ignored the question entirely as he stood and walked closer to the circle, staring at the summoning glyphs instead. “You modified a Goetic restraint pattern.” Genuine interest entered his voice. “That’s clever.” He titled his head. “One wrong stroke and…” He made a slashing motion with his hand to his neck.
The lesser demon hissed suddenly, “Let me out! Let me out so I can snap her fingers one by one…so I can rip off her arms and…”
Crowley sighed dramatically, “Oh, we’re in the middle of a conversation, do shut up!” And with a snap of his fingers…the lesser demon vanished with a pathetic yelp.
This got a reaction from the woman. Her lips parted in surprise and her shoulders curved protectively inward just a bit. “You…dismissed him.” She said quietly, watching the chalk circle turn from white to a dishwater grey – her spell was broken.
“Mm.” Crowley made a noise of boredom.
The woman’s jaw tensed. “You’re a demon.” Of course she’d be on edge by this. The one in the circle, she had full control over. Crowley, however…
The man tilted his head lazily, voice dry, “Very good.”
She took an involuntary step back. This, Crowley realized with confusion, he did not like. Why should he care if a little witchling was scared of him?
“Easy there, witch. If I wanted to take your soul to Hell, we wouldn't be having a conversation.” Which was objectively not reassuring, but his tone had shifted subtly to be softer around the edges.
She paled.
He just kept putting his foot in his mouth, huh? Like a snake eating its own tail.
Brushing off the thought, he looked around the room to lessen the appearance of a threat…and because he was nosey. There were herb bundles hanging upside down on the wall, stones scattered here and there, inks of various colors open and papers scribbled upon. A true work room.
“Whats your name, hm?” He asked as he turned away from her.
The woman hesitated, unsure how to react to this man. A demon powerful enough to dismiss her spell had his back to her. Either he was cocky or he truly meant to put her at ease. “You first.”
A smirk flickered across his face as he looked back at her. He liked the spine on this one. “Gentlemen first, hm? Alright. The name’s Crowley.” He gave a little bow of his head. “Now, what's the name of the powerful little thing that managed to summon and maintain a demon without Hell's explicit permission?”
No reprimand in his voice, just facts. And, ok, maybe a little bit of awe. Not that he would ever admit that.
“Evelyn. Evelyn Beaufort.” She responded after a moment.
Crowley paused in his perusal. Evelyn…wished for…Beaufort, beautiful fortress. Well, her surname got that right.
Crowley wasn't embarrassed or ashamed to admit finding beauty in things or even humans. And while she might be as common as the next one, there was something about her that he couldn't put his finger on, something that held…enchantment. But then, she was a witch, wasn't she?
His nose scrunched up. “Evelyn…dont go short as Eve do you?” He had a bit of…rocky experience with the first Eve. And given the name of the shop, it would have been just on the nose enough to make him squirm.
She scoffed softly, perhaps thinking along his lines. “No. I prefer Evie.”
“What, not Lyn?”
Now it was her turn to turn her nose up at that. “Absolutely not.” Pause. As if realizing how comfortable she was getting, she added, “You may address me as Mistress Beaufort.”
This brought a smile to his lips. She had nerves and she wasn't afraid to speak her mind. “If you wish, Mistress.” He didn't bother hiding his mocking tone. “You can keep holding that if it makes you feel better,” he gestured to the athame, “but it won't do much if push comes to shove.”
Evelyn took a sharp breath. “And will it, come to shove?” She asked cautiously.
He gave her a lopsided grin. “Depends on your answers.” He turned and picked up an obsidian charm, rubbing his thumb over the jagged surface. “What were you doing summoning a lesser demon?” When she didn’t respond, he glanced back at her. “Let me guess…money? Revenge? Fame?”
Ah, the usual temptations that demons loved. He found them a bit plain and dull at times, too used to expecting them.
Evie observed him, trying to see past his sunglasses. “I was hired by a woman.” Pause. “Who needed her stalker dealt with before he took her life.”
That gave the demon pause.
“How do you mean?” He asked as he set the obsidian charm down.
Evie lowered the athame, perhaps settled more by the curiosity in his voice. “He broke into her flat twice, stole a bunch of intimate stuff, mailed letters asking why she doesn’t want to make him happy…bunch of sick shit. Lately he’s escalated to approaching her when she’s outside – at work, going into her flat, at the store. Police won’t do anything because he hasn’t technically hurt her.”
And she was pleased to see an expression of…disgust on Crowley’s face, one that mirrored her tone. Which confused her after she thought about it. Most demons she interacted with…well, they often didn’t care about humans beyond what they could tempt them to do. This one…?
“So you called forth a lesser demon to…?” He continued, his tone flattened by the whole story.
“I’ll let you fill in the blanks there, Crowley.” It was the flippancy in her tone that amused him, but to hear her say his name…had a strange effect on him. A sort of…shiver down his spine.
He brought his focus back at hand. The witch had summoned a demon – lesser, yes, but still a demon which suggested she had some serious power – to take care of a stalker for a client. Not selfish for money, not greedy for fame, not desperate for revenge – protective, just, intentional.
Morally questionable in a fascinating sort of way.
He liked that.
A slow grin spread across Crowley’s face before he could stop it. “Terrying a predator – I’m generally in favor of that.”
That clearly wasn’t what she expected. Evie set the athame down on the table carefully, the soft ‘clink’ in the air. That cold fear that had settled under her skin at his arrival started to disperse. “Well fat lot it does now with my demon dismissed.” There was faint irritation in her tone. “I don’t have enough energy to do that again so soon and I’d rather take care of this problem before the next couple of nights.”
Crowley glanced back at the grey summoning circle, painfully empty now, and grimaced. “Ah. Right. ‘Bout that…” He turned to look at her and saw she had crossed her arms over her chest, athame still on the table. That was a good sign. “I’ll take care of it for you – what’s the bloke’s name?”
Her green eyes widened a fraction. “In exchange for what?” Suspicion laced her tone heavily now. She wasn’t a fool, she knew how demons worked.
As did Crowley. And the fact that he was about to undermine his own reputation by doing something for free, or as an apology for his mistake, startled him. For Aziraphale, always, but for this new little witch he just met? What was wrong with him?
So he moved around the room, looking through the various objects she had on shelves. “In exchange for…” he scanned. Oils, chicken feet, hearts, sulphur…he paused. There was an older gold-laced book, one that screamed 18th century. His brows lifted slightly. “This.”
Except when he reached out for it, he was surprised to feel fingers wrap around his wrist. Crowley froze, not because she had stopped him, not even because he hadn’t heard her move so quickly, but because…she was willfully touching him.
He turned his head just so towards her, enough to see her from the corner of his eye. She was staring up at him, focused. “Absolutely not, Crowley.”
And then she became abruptly aware of what she’d done – where her hand was. Her eyes moved to her hand over his wrist, the sensation of his warm skin against hers. Nothing harmful, nothing ashy, nothing spikey. Just…flesh.
How deceptive.
This, she reminded herself, was a demon…and a powerful one, at that. An unknown one. Not one she should have been so comfortable grabbing, and yet…she wasn’t frightened. No, not frightened, but…the flutter in her heart…
She released his wrist and he brought it down slowly. Swallowing, she tried again, “How about you take care of the stalker and I’ll call us even?”
He turned towards her, his red hair brushing across his forehead. Up close like this, she could see the snake tattoo on his temple, notice his sharp cheekbones, and…his eyes. Crowley’s eyes were visible now with his glasses lowered, an action that allowed him to take her in fully now that there was just a foot between them.
And his eyes were…stunning.
Gold, not human gold, but ancient. Powerful. A living gold that burned, molten, in an odd shape that only drew her in further. Hypnotic. Dangerous. And yet…Evie couldn’t turn away.
And Crowley found this fascinating. Most humans recoiled from him eventually, if not instantly. Instinct, he found, always won. Survival instincts especially. But she didn’t look at him with fear or even pull away; she looked into his gaze with cautious fascination, with curiosity. What was more, she leaned in.
“Your eyes…” she murmured quietly, “I’ve never seen a demon with such…beauty.”
Crowley felt something dangerous uncurl slowly in his chest. Something that felt soft at the edges, warm even. A flicker of fear lashed out and he pushed his sunglasses up, turning his head away. To think, he looked away first from a human – what was he coming to?
Clearing his throat, he tried to push on. “Right, I’ll take care of the stalker to make up for my little…” he gestured towards the empty circle.
Evie felt her face warm at the spell being broken. She nodded. “I’ll write down his name for you, address and all. Do with him as you see fit so long as he can never harm my client again.” Pause. “Please.” She wasn’t dealing with a contained demon under her orders, but a…a powerful stranger.
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him if she’d see him again, but she changed it at the last second as she finished writing, “How will I know the job is done?”
If Crowley read between the lines, he didn’t show it. Instead, he took the paper from her, mindful to keep his fingers from hers, and thought. “I’ll bring by a souvenir." She couldn’t help hoping that he was serious. “Stay away from summoning demons from Hell, Little Witchling.” He started out of the room.
Evie studied his figure as he left, noting how his hips moved. “I’ve never been good at following other people’s rules, Crowley.”
And damn it all if that didn’t bring a grin to his face.