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Chapter Text

Vergil swirled honey into his Earl Grey tea as he reread his summer AP English project: an analysis of William Blake’s Auguries of Innocence .  It was his favorite poem.  He expected no less than an A.  Sipping his tea, he grinned complacently over his hard work.  At this rate, graduating with honors was guaranteed.  Valedictorian, a given.  Every university would be begging for his attendance.  

“Mornin’!”  Dante slapped his brother on the back in greeting.

Dark tea sloshed over the side of Vergil’s cup and splattered his homework.

“Fool!” he snarled, dropping off the bar stool.

“Oh, whoops.”  Dante smirked, not at all apologetic.

Sighing, Vergil took a dish towel and blotted his ruined essay.  Recovery was impossible.  He would need to reprint the entire fifteen-page work.

“Good morning, sweetheart.”  Eva paused in making coffee to kiss her son’s cheek.

Dante smiled.  “Hey, Mom.”  He yanked open the towering fridge.  “What do we got?”

“Civilized fare.”  Vergil refilled his teacup.

Dante snorted.  “‘Civilized fare?’  Why do you talk like you’re from the Renaissance or something?”

Vergil bounced a vain eyebrow.  “I’ll take that as a compliment.  I read.  Unlike some.”

“I read!” Dante protested, pouring himself a glass of orange juice.

“Porn is not reading,” Vergil noted incisively.

“Dante!” Eva exclaimed, dropping the sugar spoon.

“I don’t read porn, Mom, I promise!” Dante insisted.

Vergil rolled his eyes.  “Or whatever you call those swimsuit magazines.”

Dante slammed the juice carton down onto the counter.  “They’re called swimsuit magazines, smartass!”

“Language, Dante!” Eva scolded.

“Objectifying women.”  Vergil’s lip curled in disgust.  “Foolishness, Dante.  Foolishness.”

“Apparently they don’t mind if they’re modeling their ass—”

“Dante!” Eva scolded, her voice sharper.

“I was gonna say assets!”

“Enough,” she chided, her mouth tight.

“Sorry, Mom.”  He avoided her steely gaze, but narrowed his eyes at his older twin, an angry huff burning in his throat.

Vergil grinned over the rim of his teacup and sipped.

Eva glanced at the clock.  “Don’t you boys have preliminary quizzes today?  You need to hurry.”

“I’ll leave immediately,” Vergil announced.  He glared at Dante.  “I need to reprint my essay before first period.”  He checked his tie, smoothed the lapels of his school uniform, and snatched up his car keys.  “See you at school, Dante.”

“Have a lovely day, sweetheart.”  Eva kissed Vergil’s cheek.  “Good luck!”

“Thank you, Mother,” he replied, and departed the kitchen.  The sound of the front door opening and closing soon followed.

“Poor Verge,” Dante sighed, dropping a piece of bread into the toaster. “He needs to get a girl.”

Vergil’s Corvette roared to life.  He revved it a few times, and then the luxurious thunder faded as he drove away.

“He wants to excel in school.”  Eva blew gently across her cup of coffee.  “That’s nothing to scoff at.  You should put more attention into your studies, Dante.”

“Eh.”  He shrugged.  “I get bored.”

“Dante, this is your future.”

He stared down into his orange juice, thinking.  “Maybe it’s not.”

“You will not drop out,” she stated firmly.  “We will not have this discussion again.”

“But I don’t even want to go to college!” he protested.  “So what’s the point?”

“Education is important.  You know that.”  She took a sip of coffee to calm herself.  “Don’t make me get your father involved.”

Dante leaned his head back and sighed.  “I’d rather just, I don’t know…kill demons for a living.”

“That is a dangerous and lonely business, sweetie,” she cautioned.

“Maybe, but it sounds exciting at least, unlike my life now.”  He swigged the last of his juice as if it were whiskey, took his motorcycle keys from the pocket of his uniform blazer, and headed for the door.

“Oh, sweetie, your toast?” Eva called after him.

“I’m not hungry anymore,” he replied flatly.  He didn’t say goodbye.

The huge house fell into an ominous silence.

Eva set down her coffee and closed her eyes, sighing.  Her little darling devils were growing up too fast.  So alike they were, and yet so different.  

Do I really understand either of them?   

“Everything all right, my love?” 

Sparda came into the kitchen wearing pants and a shirt that belonged in the 1700s.  Even in such basic attire he bore himself with palpable, magisterial poise.  The weight of his aura reflected his mood, and this morning Eva felt it like a fine wisp of warm cloud.  His hair was humorously tousled.  Apparently he had bound it in a hasty tail before actually combing it.  Their sons’ hair, too, was always mussed in the morning.  Crazy white shrubberies atop their heads that reminded her of when they were little.  

“Oh, those boys,” she sighed.

He smiled.  “Oh, those boys.”  His refined, European-esque accent tickled her sacred spaces.  He kissed her, tender and deep.  “Good morning.”

She gave him a smile, but it was troubled.  “I’m worried about them.”

“They’re seventeen.”  He helped himself to Dante’s forsaken toast.  “They’re half demon and they’re brothers.”  He shrugged.  “It’s a perfect storm, really.”

“Dante wants to hunt demons once high school is done.”

Sparda paused his slathering butter on the toast.

She touched his arm.  “I don’t want that for him.”

Sparda took several moments to consider his next words.  “He could handle it.  They both could, but only after their devils have triggered.”

Eva parted her lips, astonished.  “You would condone that life for them?  After everything you’ve been through?  You know better than anyone how dangerous it is!”

“And my moonlight job would be a lot easier if I had help.”  He spoke firmly, but in love.

She frowned and moved away from him.

His broad shoulders slumped.  “Eva…”

She returned the orange juice to the fridge and placed Vergil’s teacup in the sink, her movements sharp, frustrated.  It was not the first time they had discussed their sons’ futures and disagreed.

Sparda caught her hand.  “Listen to me, my love.  It’s Dante’s choice.  If he wants to become a devil hunter I will not stop him.  It’s important to be happy in one’s work.”

“Happy?  By facing death every day?”  She looked up at him, her eyes pleading.

“I am a warrior, Eva.  Our sons are warriors.  I have seen it since their first steps.”

She closed her eyes, cringing beneath the truth her husband spoke.  “They’re children.”

He gathered her hand in both of his and spoke far gentler than anyone could ever believe a demon could.  “Not for much longer.  Their demonic power is growing.  I see it.  I feel it.  I suspect their devils will trigger soon.  They may only be half demon, but it is an incredibly concentrated half.”  He lifted her chin.  Their eyes met.  “They are the sons of Sparda, the legendary dark knight, savior of mankind.”  He winked.  “Your little seeds are growing very strong.”

A long, heavy breath escaped Eva, and she slipped her arms around his waist.  He held her close and they savored the private moment in silence and warmth.

“I know they will grow strong,” she murmured, “but they’re still my babies.”

“I know,” Sparda soothed, and kissed her hair.  “Trust them.  They’ll keep each other on the right path.”

* * *

“You were speeding again, weren’t you?” Vergil called out.  Dante had just pulled into the parking space next to his brother only seconds after he’d arrived.

Dante dismounted his cherry-red Kawasaki bike.  “Eh, maybe a little.”  His voice was muffled inside his helmet. 

Vergil stepped out of his cobalt Corvette, sneering as if motorcycles were a disgrace.  “You better not flunk this year.  Not when we’re so close to the end.” 

Dante removed his helmet and shook out his hair.  “Does that mean I get to look over your shoulder during exams again?”

Vergil adjusted his messenger bag across his shoulder.  The Corvette beeped twice.  Locked.

The devil-blooded boys strolled to school side by side.

Grey Grove High was a sprawling campus of old brick buildings and older statuary of various academic paragons.  The grass, gardens, and hedges were always thriving and manicured.  The cafeteria was a medieval banquet hall of organic bliss catering to every possible dietary restriction.  Half of the professors were overdue for retirement, but the other half exuded a contagious enthusiasm for the subjects they taught.  Contagious at least for those who endeavored to achieve respectable grades.  All students wore modest uniforms boasting the school’s colors: black, white, and grey.  Ties, collars, vests, and slacks.  Ties, collars, blouses, and skirts.  The rules were only strict for those who preferred to loosen their ties, arrive late, and copy another student’s homework.

“Oh, hey, can I copy your history homework really quick?” Dante asked Vergil, tugging on his tie.

“It’s not that difficult.”  Vergil gave his brother an annoyed side-eye.  “If you put any amount of effort into it you could finish in ten minutes on your own.”

Dante grinned like a pop star.  “Yeah, but you know that’s not how I roll.” 

Vergil sighed and spun the dial on his locker.  He retrieved the requested assignment out of a binder and held it out to Dante.

“You’re the best brother in the world.”  Dante clapped him on the shoulder.

“Remember that the next time I beat you in sword drills.”  Vergil grinned like an assassin.

“Sorry, can’t hear ya, gotta focus.”  Dante never locked his locker.  He flung it open and started scribbling.

Vergil was convinced that the muscles around his eyes and brows were stronger because of all the eye-rolling Dante instigated.  “Just hurry up and don’t wrinkle it.”

“Sure, whatever.”  Dante kept scribbling.  His handwriting was atrocious, little more than the scratch marks of a prehistoric barbarian.  

The clacking of a giant bronze clock echoed down the hallway.  Vergil gave it a glance.  It was a thirty-minute commute from Red Grave City, but he still had ten minutes before class started.  Not as punctual as he would like.

“There are only twelve questions,” he grumbled.  “What’s taking you so long?”

“I had to pick which ones I’d answer differently!”  Dante threw his pen into his locker and returned Vergil’s assignment.  “Can’t make our homework look exactly the same, you know.”

“At least you’re smart enough to realize that much.”  Vergil retrieved his trigonometry book and rearranged a few papers.  

Something behind them caught Dante’s eye.  “Hey, pretty lady.  Need some help?”  He swaggered away.  

Vergil ignored him.

“Oh, yes, please! I need to find Room 307,” answered a female student.

“Let me see.”  Dante perused her campus map.  

“I’m so sorry.”  The girl radiated sincerity.  “I’m new and I couldn’t come to orientation.  I don’t want to make you late for class.”

“No, no! It’s fine,” Dante quickly assured her.  “I just don’t have many classes on that side of campus, so…”  His brow wrinkled as he futilely tried to find Room 307.

Vergil shut his locker.  “Pestering the ladies, Dante?”  He came beside his brother and met the lost student’s eyes.  They were intelligent, warm, and colored like melted caramel.  One of her eyes was more golden than the other.  The strained, stern muscles in Vergil’s face relaxed.

“She needs to find this room.”  Dante pointed at the map, but Vergil had yet to redirect his attention from the girl, so he smacked him on the shoulder.  

Vergil blinked and cleared his throat.  “Give that to me.”  He studied the map for a minute.  “Please excuse my brother.  He has a terrible sense of direction.”

Dante offered a sarcastic smile.  “He always knows how to make me feel good about myself.”

The girl laughed.  “I really appreciate you both taking the time to help me.”

Vergil glanced at her.  Her smile, radiant and honest, caught him unawares.  He tapped the map.  “Room 307.”  

She nodded.

“I have first period right across the way.  I’ll escort you if you like,” he offered.

Her face glowed with appreciation.  “That would be perfect, thank you very much!  I’m Miranda.”  She held out her hand to Vergil.

He took it.  “Vergil.”  Her hand was soft and warm, but he felt strength, too.  Interesting.  “This is my brother Dante.”

Miranda gasped, excited.  “Like Dante’s Inferno ?  The Divine Comedy ? That Virgil and Dante?”

“Well, my name is spelled with an ‘e,’ but yes,” Vergil clarified.  “It’s our mother’s favorite epic poem.”

“I’m the handsome and daring warrior,” Dante boasted, a hand on his chest.  He jerked his thumb at Vergil.  “He’s the informative ghost, which works nicely because he’s a bookworm and I’m the lady’s man.”

“I love that poem too!”  Miranda’s eyes were bright with excitement.  “But Dante never would have made it out of the inferno without Virgil, and Dante is the poet and the narrator, not a warrior.”

Vergil cocked an eyebrow, thoroughly impressed.

“It’s nice to meet both of you.”  She offered a slight bow of her head.

“Hey, I could show you around the—”

“Foolishness, Dante,” Vergil intervened.  He nodded at their new acquaintance.  “Follow me, Miranda.”

“Behave yourself, Verge,” Dante teased, winking.

Vergil scowled.  “I’m showing the lady to her classroom.”

“Dante!” exclaimed three girls at once.

Slapping on his best Casanova smile, Dante turned and welcomed his female following.  “Good morning, babes!  Are we ready for water polo?”

They giggled.  Their lips were glossy and pink, and their skirts were hitched up far enough to break protocol twice.  Dante had chosen water polo as his elective sport only because it was co-ed.

Vergil scowled in disapproval, muttering, “Pathetic.”  

Dante draped his arms across the shoulders of his squeaky fangirls.  They escorted him to the pools, chittering like chipmunks in heat.

“My apologies, Miranda,” Vergil offered, embarrassed yet again by his brother’s obscene lack of manners.  He led them onward.

“I wish I had siblings,” she mused, keeping in step with him.  Her hair was thick, coffee-colored waves that reached her waist.  Vergil caught himself wondering if it was as soft as it looked.  “Sounds like fun.  Your brother is rather comical.”

Vergil sighed.  “His sense of humor baffles me.”

Miranda smiled.  “So how long have you been at this school?”

“All four years.”  He guided her around a corner and down an ivy-latticed cloister.  “Did you just move here?”

“Yes.”  She hesitated, curling her fingers against the textbooks she held to her breast.  Quietly, as if it were scandalous information, she added, “From Fortuna.”

Fortuna.  An isolated community on an isolated island riddled with ruins and inhabited by a sketchy religious cult that had revered Sparda as their god for the last millennia.  The city had suffered several large-scale demonic attacks in the last few months.  Overwhelming odds not seen in a hundred years.  Every time Sparda fought on their behalf, their zealous worship of him only increased.  Sparda did not speak of Fortuna often, but when he did it was with disdain and pity.

“I’m a refugee,” Miranda continued, wondering if Vergil’s lengthy pause was due to confusion.

“I see.”  Vergil wasn’t sure what to say.  He sensed that it was a delicate subject.  “I’ve heard it’s gotten rather chaotic, but it’s fortunate you were able to find sanctuary.”

She nodded.  “The Order of the Sword keeps beseeching Lord Sparda for salvation.”  Sadness and hope mingled in her voice.  “He is our Savior.  I don’t understand why he has not returned to save us now.”

Vergil weighed his next words before offering them as comfort.  “I’m sure he has…strategic reasons.”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and the remnant of a smile returned.  “Of course.  Who am I to question the Savior?”

They walked the hall a moment more before Vergil announced, “Here we are.”  He gestured at the door to classroom 307.

“Thank you so much, Vergil.”  She dipped her head.

“It was a pleasure.”  

She smelled sweet and exotic.  Flowers on ocean waves.  Plumeria.

Miranda smiled.  “Indeed it was.”

The bell rang.

“Welcome to Grey Grove, Miranda.”  He offered a tilt of his head, and then strode across the hall to trigonometry class.

Miranda smiled after him, admiring his slicked-back silken hair.  

White hair.

* * *

“So?”  Dante hustled up to his brother and smacked him in the arm.

Vergil frowned, confused.  “So what?”

Dante bounced his eyebrows.  “Did you have fun with the new girl?”  He leaned against the lockers as his brother exchanged textbooks.

Vergil growled, frustrated.  “Do you think of nothing else?  We went to class.”

“Did she thank you properly?” Dante’s grin was rather indecently suggestive.

Vergil glowered at him.  “You’re a pig.” 

Dante spread his arms, indignant.  “I was talking about a kiss!”

“We met an hour ago!”

“So?”

“You have absolutely no concept of being a gentleman, do you?”

Dante shrugged.  “The ladies don’t complain.”

“You made Miranda uncomfortable.”

“No, I didn’t.  She laughed and shook my hand.”  He seemed especially keen on the latter.

“Because she’s polite and was forced to put up with your incessant foolishness.”

Dante held up his hands, placating.  “Whoa, pump your brakes, bro—”

“And I still need to reprint my essay, no thanks to you.”  Heat waves rippled along Vergil’s shoulders.

“Hey—!”

“She asked me to show her where to find the bathroom.”

Dante cocked an eyebrow.  “Uh…okay…”

Vergil clenched a fist.  “I’m going to be late for my violin lesson now!”

“So you’re mad at the new girl?”

“No!” Vergil quickly rebutted.

“You sound angry—”

“I’m not angry!”  Vergil’s face warmed.

Dante leaned closer and peered at his brother’s schedule, which was taped neatly to the inside of his locker door.  “You have poetry next, not violin, dumbass.”

“Shut up.”  Vergil rummaged through books and spare school supplies.  His frown deepened, and then he paused in his busy rifling.  “She smells nice.”  He muttered it, unable to fathom why he would remember such a thing.

Dante’s mouth dropped open.

Vergil slammed his locker closed and started down the hall.  “I need to go.”  He called over his shoulder, “Get to class and don’t fail, Dante!”

Dante watched his brother leave, wide-eyed and stunned.

Vergil was almost late for poetry class.  He slipped in and scanned the small amphitheater for a seat.

His and Miranda’s gazes met.

She sat at the nearby window, caught his eye, and smiled at him.  The morning sunshine shone upon her hair, illuminating its lovely chocolate-brown color.  She waved at him.

He waved back, but forgot to return the smile.

The professor raised one of her sharply angled eyebrows at him.  “Vergil?  Take a seat, please.”

Scarlet clouds erupted in his cheeks.  He slid into a desk near the door and ran a hand through his hair.

Miranda’s delightful scent distracted him all throughout the hour, resulting in only half a page of notes on Tennyson’s Lotus Eaters .  

What?   

He never wrote less than five pages back to back.  He chanced a stealthy glance at Miranda.  She was diligently taking notes.  The sun kissed her ivory cheek, giving her skin a soft glow.

Vergil swallowed and felt a fresh rush of red surge up his neck.

The bell rang and the professor instructed them to leave their summer projects on her desk as they left.

Vergil had no choice but to surrender his tea-stained essay.

Upon dropping it onto the professor’s desk, he added a bit of demon dash to his gait and practically fled the classroom.

* * *

Sparda stood at the back wall of the vast empty chamber below the house.  The cold underground silence coiled about his tall, broad frame like a subservient caress.  Frowning, he concentrated with his eyes closed as he studied the strength of the pulse of the Underworld emanating from the hell gate before him.

Ancient sigils and complex formulae ornamented every inch of the walls, floor, and ceiling, charged and aglow with the dark knight’s power, feeding the gate, manipulating it.  Machiavelli had done well in such thorough layering.  For ten years, Sparda had worked and sacrificed to keep this gate in the human world and render it invisible and inaccessible to anyone in the Underworld.  He had grown too comfortable and overconfident since sealing the Underworld two thousand years ago, and had so nearly failed to prevent the murderous raid Mundus launched against his family.  Never again.  Mundus could open another gate, but not within at least a few miles of this one.  Gates radiated immense, potent power.  Close proximity would neutralize multiple gates.  Like clustered nuclear bombs, too much power in one place would spell instant destruction.  

No demon can invade our home again as long as this gate does not vanish.  I must not let it vanish!

Sparda rubbed at his forehead, exhausted.

“Tea is ready for you, my love,” Eva called down the hollow staircase.

He was too absorbed in his ominous thoughts to respond.

“Sparda?” Eva called again.  Still no answer.  She descended the stairs and found her husband poring over his most vital mission.

“You should rest,” she told him softly, joining him at the massive crest that girdled the hell gate’s lock.

“The upkeep is becoming more difficult,” he sighed, his weariness all too evident.

Eva stroked his arm.  “Step away.  Refresh yourself.  It will help.”

He sighed again.  “You’re probably right.”

They ascended out of the sub-level and sat beside each other on the couch in the parlor.  The afternoon was peaceful, the autumn leaves stirring outside the windows.  A lovely tea service was laid out with homemade raspberry scones.

As Eva poured tea for her weary husband, Sparda leaned on his knees and rubbed at his face.

“I’m not sure how much longer I can do this, Eva,” he groaned.

Eva offered a freshly-poured cup to him.  “You always find a way, my darling.”

He lifted his head, gave her a tired smile, and nodded in thanks as he took the tea.  Earl Grey.  His favorite.  Vergil’s too.

Eva let the relaxing warmth of the tea settle into Sparda’s bones before she ventured to breach a rather sensitive concern.

“Our sons could help you.”

Sparda stopped mid-sip and pursed his lips in resolve.  “I’ve told you, Eva.  I will not involve either of our sons in any of this gate business until I feel they are powerful enough. When their devils trigger.”

“You’ve admitted it yourself,” she gently argued.  “You need help.”

Sparda stood up from the couch, abandoning his tea, and strode to the window.  Faint purple heat waves rippled atop his broad shoulders.

“They’re almost eighteen,” Eva continued cautiously.  “They have a right to know about the gate’s presence, at least.”

“Once they know of it they will want to be more involved, but they are not ready.  Besides, it is my job to protect you and them.”  His words bled frustration.  

“My love, it will not stay hidden forever,” she pleaded.  “Better to tell them rather than risk them finding out on their own.  You know they will.  Vergil will likely sense it first.  You know how perceptive he is.”

Sparda folded his arms against his chest.  “For now, this is my burden.”

Eva kept pushing, a thread of anger weaving through her words.  “You don’t think they should be aware of what’s hidden beneath their very bedrooms?”

“I don’t want to discuss this any further, Eva,” Sparda hedged, his voice tight.

She joined him at the window, her temper flaring.  “Stop lying to our children!”

Sparda’s head snapped toward her, his ice-blue eyes wide with astonishment.  “Lying?”

“Secrets are the same as lies.”

He clenched one hand into a fist.  “They know of Mundus.  They do not yet need to know that the gate remains!” 

Eva closed her eyes and shook her head.  “But eventually they will know of it one way or another. So just tell them now!”

Frustration was building inside Sparda, coals igniting.  “Eva, I know what I’m doing.”  He offered no sign of capitulation.

“You’ve said yourself that their power is growing.  You will be stronger with your sons at your side–”

“Enough!” Sparda bellowed.  The command carried the deep, dark roar of his devil and it sent a tremor through the entire house.

Eva gasped, stepping back from her husband, tears stinging her eyes.  Sparda rarely fell to angry domestic outbursts, but Eva understood that beneath the wrath there was love.  He loved her.  He loved his boys.  She knew it like she knew fire burned.

Sparda sighed and his demonic aura faded.  “I’m sorry, Eva.”

She looped her arms around one of his.  “It is a matter of honesty and trust.”  Resting her head against his shoulder, she added, “And it pains me to see you so weary.”

He frowned out the window, brooding.  Minutes crumbled away.  Eva slipped an arm around his waist, pressing herself against him.

“Our sons would be honored to lend their power to the gate, to this fight you endure alone,” she whispered, fondling his long white tail of hair.  “To protect what is dear to them.”

“I know they would.” He sighed roughly.  “They are strong, but not yet strong enough.”

“They are their father’s sons.  Your legacy is strong in them.”  She plucked an edge of his shirt free.

He smiled.  “Trying a different tactic against me, hm?”  He leaned toward her and their noses touched.

She smiled, flirting.  “You’re stressed.  You need relief.”

“You know me too well,” he whispered, and kissed her waiting lips.

It escalated quickly, as it usually did.  Sparda drew her from the gaping window panes and bumped her against the wall.  When she needed breath, he scattered burning kisses upon her throat.  Her well-practiced fingers unbuckled his belt.  The clasp and buttons beneath it were nothing.

Sparda, completely unashamed, released a loud, eager groan to be let loose.  He pulled her long, velvet gown up to her hips, panting as if he’d slain a thousand devils.  He slid her up the wall.

As Eva gasped in pleasure, the dark knight’s demon wings sprouted from his back.  Heat waves rippled off their edges.  The lethal claws at their tips gouged into the wall, digging deeper and harder.

In the noise of their love, they failed to hear a Corvette and a Kawasaki roar into the driveway.

* * *

As Dante and Vergil approached the front door, a tremor jostled the foundation of their house.  Dante shoved the key in the lock and they hustled inside, ready to throw power at whatever intruder might be awaiting.  Further in, they heard their mother’s desperate cries.

The Rebellion and the Yamato leaned against the wall near the door, side by side.  Dante and Vergil took up their devil arms and bolted for the parlor, rage boiling, determined to slay their mother’s molester.

Vergil skidded to an abrupt halt.  Dante smacked into his back.  Both of them stood dumbstruck, mouths agape, their swords dangling at their sides.  Dante’s eyes widened to the size of extra-large pizzas.  Vergil’s face felt hotter than Berial having a temper tantrum.

Their father grunted like a beast, the noise two-toned with the deep guttural snarl of his demon.  Their mother’s head was tilted back and she shrieked like a conquered nymph.  She opened her eyes and her gaze fell upon her shocked sons.

“Sparda, stop!” she gasped, horrified.  “The boys!”

“What!” he growled.  His wings detached from the wall and formed a barrier around them, obscuring them as they took a moment to rearrange themselves.

“I need to bleach my eyeballs,” Dante muttered.

Vergil crinkled his nose and nodded.

Their father’s wings vanished in a thick cloud of black and purple smoke and he turned to greet his sons.  “Ah, boys, welcome home.  How was school today?”  His usually slicked-back hair was only partially in place, a few strands hanging over his forehead.  Eva pulled all of her tangled hair to one side.  Her gown was terribly wrinkled.

“Uh…fine,” Dante replied, slowly forming the words.

“Good, good.”  Sparda was still a bit out of breath.  “Your mother and I were just…having a discussion.”  He cleared his throat.

A huge pause of awkward silence dominated the parlor.

“Um...Verge, how about some Mortal Kombat?” Dante asked his brother.

Vergil finally remembered how to use his tongue.  “Gratuitous violence, yes please.”

Both of them abruptly turned and ascended one of the staircases, their pace hastening with every step.  They nearly tripped over each other.

Once they’d gone, Sparda ran a hand through his hair, rolled his eyes, and groaned in humiliation.  Eva pressed her hands to her cheeks.

“I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life.”  Her face burned like a fever.  “We’ve terrified them.”

Sparda nervously cleaned his monocle on a corner of his shirt.  “I certainly did not plan on that happening.”

“Should we talk to them?”

He rubbed the back of his neck.  “Let the shock wear off first.”

She sighed.  “If it wears off at all.”

* * *

“The gore in this game is spectacular,” Vergil mused as he and Dante slashed and stomped their way through another round of Mortal Kombat.  Posters of violent video games, Mecha anime, samurai films, and heavy metal bands plastered their gaming room like wallpaper.  A fully stocked fridge stood in one blue-lit corner and an eighty-inch plasma TV occupied the majority of one entire wall.  The finest quality surround-sound speakers provided an intense battle arena experience.

“Argh!  Quit jumping on my head!” Dante griped, lifting the controller as if that would help his character escape Vergil’s ruthless gameplay style.  “That’s cheating!”

“No, you’re just pathetic.”  Vergil grinned wickedly.  “Too slow.  Die!”

The announcer declared the round over.

Dante tossed the controller on the floor.  “You’re too good at this game.”

Vergil chuckled.  “How about another round?”

Dante polished off his soda and crushed the can in one fist.  “Don’t you have thirty pounds of homework to do?”

Vergil shrugged a shoulder.  “I can finish it in an hour.”

Dante reclined across the couch, threw his feet up onto the armrest, arms behind his head, and stared up at the ceiling.  “I’m never sitting in the parlor ever again.”

Vergil stared blankly at the “character select” screen.  “Neither am I.”

* * *

The dining room was utterly and painfully quiet except for the occasional clinking of silverware on plates.  Dante had an elbow on the table, chin in his hand, as he poked the pieces of tender steak on his plate.  He chanced a glance at his family.  His eyes met his mother’s and he quickly looked away.  Vergil kept scowling at his zucchini, twirling his fork in his fingers.

Sparda and Eva looked at one another.  Eva motioned to their sons with a slide of her eyes.  Her husband sighed, still embarrassed about earlier that afternoon.

He cleared his throat.  “So.  Boys.  How was school today?”

Dante seized the opportunity.  He never let one slide.  “Verge has a girlfriend.”

Vergil smacked his fork down onto his plate and groaned, “I do not.”

Dante snorted, trying not to laugh like a hyena.  Vergil glared at his brother and kicked him in the ankle.  Dante didn’t care.

“Oh?” Sparda said, his eyes brightening.  His grin was the teasing kind he had passed on to his younger son.  “Do tell!”

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” Vergil growled, his eyes dark.

“Well, maybe you should get one because you’re kind of a sour assho—”

“Dante! Language!” Eva admonished.

“He needs to lighten up!” Dante jerked a thumb at his brother.

Vergil rolled his eyes.  “Arguing with you like this has no meaning.”

“Maybe but it’s too fun to stop.”  Dante smacked his brother’s shoulder.

“This reminds me.”  Sparda sliced into his steak with perfect etiquette.  “You boys need the ‘Talk.’”  He bounced his eyebrows impishly.

“Darling, not at the dinner table,” Eva objected, shocked.

Blush bloomed in Vergil’s face.

Dante cocked an eyebrow, eyes wide.  “We know how it works, Dad.”  He kept his head down, tapping his fork.

“I think Dante needs more than a ‘talk’ regarding that matter.”  Vergil smirked vengefully.  “Perhaps he should take an entire class.”

“Wha—?”

“He has quite the female following at school,” Vergil continued.

“It never goes anywhere!” Dante protested.

“Someone sounds quite defensive.”  Vergil’s grin widened.

“Boys, enough,” Eva admonished.

Dante pointed his fork at his brother.  “You sounded pretty damn defensive, too, smartass!”

“At least I treat ladies with respect!” Vergil retorted.

“I do not disrespect girls!” Dante snapped.

“Boys—” Eva tried again, her frustration growing.

“You and your vulgar magazines!”  Vergil sneered.

Crimson flames sprouted atop Dante’s shoulders.  “At least I’m not ashamed of having urges!”

Vergil crossed his arms, snorting.  “Those urges keep me locked out of the bathroom for hours.”

Dante got in his brother’s face.  “Fuck a girl or fuck yourself, Verge, just get some release already and quit being a little shit—!”

“Enough!” Sparda roared, standing to his feet.

The twins immediately fell silent, but they kept glaring at one another.

Eva rubbed at her temples, letting out a sigh.

“Blasted devils below, boys, this is pathetic!” their father raged, yanking the monocle from his eye.  “You’re almost eighteen years old, yet you persist in this childish bickering!”  Purple flame rippled atop his shoulders.

Vergil and Dante dropped their heads and stared at their plates.  The dining room was filled with the pounding of the grandfather clock.  Vergil clenched his fists atop his thighs.  Dante glared at the half-eaten pile of rice on his plate like it meant to murder him.

The quiet grew heavy and awkward and hot.  Sparda remained standing over his errant children, his gaze never straying from them.  The force of their powerful father’s glare was like a bullet train.  The dark knight’s demonic energy pulsed in the air, tainting the light of the room deep purple.

At long last, Sparda sighed, calmer.  “Upstairs.”

Dante and Vergil, without another breath of dissent, rose from the dining table and obeyed.  When they’d gone, Sparda slumped back into his chair and leaned an elbow on the armrest.

“I know siblings fight, but this is a rivalry.”  Exasperated, he rubbed his eyes.  “Are they keeping score?”

Eva sighed.  “They have so much power but no adequate outlet for it.”

Sparda leaned both elbows on the table and put his face in his hands, tired and annoyed.  “Hormones are probably harder for them than for normal human boys, too.  I don’t like Dante looking at those magazines, but it’s better than…alternatives, I suppose.”

“I don’t think either of them are actually…” Eva trailed off, hesitant to face that possibility.

A mischievous smile settled on Sparda’s mouth.  A dimple appeared.  “They’re handsome boys, taking after their father.  Heartbreakers to be sure.”

Eva rolled her eyes.  “My darling devil, what an ego you have.” 

“Well, no time like the present.”  Sparda rose.  “Our boys must go forth fully educated in matters involving the gentler sex.”

The blush in Eva’s cheeks brightened.  “Darling, perhaps not tonight?”

“The topic has been broached, my love.”  He fit his monocle to his eye.  “I prefer to face conflict the moment it reveals itself.  Mustn’t let it fester.”

His boys were occupied in their gaming room.  Vergil was playing Campaign Mode in Mortal Kombat.  Dante lounged on the couch, a scandalous magazine in his hands.

“Boys?” Sparda greeted, clearing his throat.

Vergil bent his brows, concentrating harder on the game.  Dante took a quick peek at his father over his magazine, and then hid behind it again.

“It’s high time to lay down the rules.”  Sparda stepped further into the room.  A few soda cans had missed the trash, which was full to overflowing with snack wrappers.  His disciplinary gaze fell upon Dante.  “Women are to be respected.”  He sounded neither harsh nor disapproving.

Dante winced, his hands wrinkling the edges of the magazine.  Vergil started a new round of Mortal Kombat.  Sparda snatched the magazine out of Dante’s hands.

“Dad!” Dante whined.

“It’s a filthy habit, Dante,” Vergil berated, smashing buttons on the game controller.  “I think your record time in the bathroom is three hours.”

“Fuck you, Vergil—!”

“Silence!” Sparda roared.  “Vergil, turn off the game.  Now.”

Vergil obeyed and took the massive easy chair.

“This conversation is long overdue,” the dark knight continued.  He tossed the magazine at the trash bin and folded his hands behind his back.  “There comes a time when the female mystique descends upon the mind of man—and demon—and savages his very reason, drives shivers through his every limb—”

“Dad, no, please!” Dante tried, slapping his hands over his eyes, fighting images of his parents that afternoon.

Vergil crossed his arms and pursed his lips, staring at the floor, his ears burning red hot.

“A man yearns to sheathe his mighty sword in the burning embrace of one extraordinary woman he finds to be the pinnacle, the apex, the sweet summit of pleasure—”

Vergil’s stomach clenched.  He crossed his legs.  “Father, you needn’t—”

“Do not interrupt me again, boy,” Sparda scolded.

Vergil swallowed.  It felt like choking.

Dante rolled his eyes and groaned.  “We took sex ed, Dad.”

“This stinging urge,” Sparda continued, beginning to pace between his sons, “to impale such delectable delights may be overwhelming.  I had my struggles when I was your age.”  He chuckled, deep and devious.  “The scent of her hair, the glimmer upon her lips, those lush curves ripe for the taking—”

“Dad!”

“Father!”

Sparda blinked, startled, his monocle falling.  “Forgive me, boys, I was lost in the past.  Now.  It is imperative that the impaling of love be reserved for the sacred bond of marriage, the vow of eternal cleaving.  I will not have my boys bounding about, rutting like wild dogs with any loose girl.”  His dour gaze settled on the younger of his twin sons.

Dante avoided his father’s silent disapproval, turning his face away.  Blush creeped into his cheeks.  “I don’t do that,” he muttered, indignant.

Sparda smiled.  “I know.”

Dante nervously looked up at his looming father and found reassurance.

“Do you both understand?”

Both boys quickly nodded and simultaneously said, “Yes, sir.”

Vergil kept his eyes on the floor.  The scent of plumeria and sea salt suddenly swirled through his senses.  He narrowed his eyes, confused, saying not a word.

Why did the new girl at school instantly come to mind?

Chapter Text

It was a particularly chilly Autumn day.  Bundled in her favorite crimson sweater, Miranda huddled over her mocha and stared down at her five-page essay atop her knees.  Sitting on a bench beside the fountain in the courtyard was her favorite place to think and study.  She sighed.  Was her essay good enough?  Her father refused to read it over, brusquely reminding her that being a good student was an obligation and that he had no reason to offer any sort of help or encouragement.

Miranda bit her lip, her heart racing as she recalled his stinging words last night.

“The Order demands excellent marks, Miranda.  Do not shame me, and do not shame His Holiness.”

Taking another sip of her mocha, she sent a little prayer to Sparda.  I just want to do well.

* * *

Vergil had a free period, but instead of squandering the time on studying for a quiz he was sure to ace, he ambled out into the vast courtyard to enjoy the crisp breeze.  The line at the refreshment stand was short, so he bought a black coffee.  Wandering down the cobbled path, cerulean scarf lightly lifting in the wind, he came to the grand ivory fountain.  It gushed and gurgled, and towered thirty feet high in the powerfully elegant likeness of the school’s founder, Artemis Aphelion.

On the opposite side of the fountain, between crystal ribbons of clear streaming water, Miranda arrested his roaming gaze.  His coffee paused at his lips.  Her dark hair tumbled in glossy waves all over her shoulders as she clutched her drink beneath her chin.  She glanced aside.

Pink lips.

Slightly upturned, cute nose.

Dark red flattered her.

Vergil rolled his eyes, rebuking himself.  I don’t have time for girls.  That’s Dante’s area of expertise.

Their gazes met across the fountain.

Vergil froze and made an involuntary gulp.

Why is she looking at me!

Miranda gasped and felt bubbles of blush pop across her cheeks.

Why is he looking at me!

It would be rude to ignore her now that eye contact had been made.  Vergil’s ears grew warm.

The breeze suddenly picked up.

The papers across Miranda’s lap were taken up into the autumn gust.  

She bounced up from the bench.  “No!”

Without a thought, Vergil bolted for her essay.  Effortlessly, he snatched all five pages from the grasp of the breeze.  He put them in order and gave the first page a casual glance.

Her handwriting is so tidy!

His heart… bang bang bang …hurt.  It was not from the spontaneous sprint.  He had been doing track and field religiously for the last seven years.  He had serious stamina, speed, and twelve trophies to prove it.  He glanced over his shoulder.

“Thank you so much, Vergil!” Miranda exclaimed, smiling in relief.  He’s so fast!

He offered her essay back to her.  “It’s nothing.”

Plumeria…

Her smile fell away.  “Oh, your coffee.”

His eyebrows lifted.  Coffee?

She looked away from him, contrite.  “I’ll buy you a new one since it’s my fault you spilled yours.”  Out of her purse, she drew a white leather wallet.  Blue roses were tooled into the front of it.

“Oh, don’t worry about it.”  He ran a nervous hand through his hair.  “I was almost finished with it anyway.”

She sighed, and slipped her wallet away.  “I’m sorry.”

“No need to be.”  He tried smiling, but it was just an awkward twist of his lips.

Her smile was shy and grateful.  “Thank you.”  She glanced down at her essay.  “I was just trying to see if it’s good enough.”

“Which class is it for?”

“Ancient cultures.”

“Oh, I took that class last year.”  The hammering of his heart would not stop.  “If you like, I can give it a read.”

Miranda’s eyes shone behind her classy reading glasses.  The chocolate and gold of her heterochromatic eyes complemented them well.  So much color in her.  “You wouldn’t mind?”

“Not at all.”  A corner of his mouth tilted up, revealing one striking dimple.

Miranda’s stomach flipped backwards.  Oh his smile!   He sat down and started reading.  The admiral blue sweater he wore accented his wide shoulders and long torso.  She shyly eased herself down beside him.  Close, but not too close.  

Numerous girls chittered and sighed over Dante, but some made wistful mention of Vergil.  The locker room was the main hub for overhearing teenaged girl fantasies. 

Oh. My. God. Did you see Dante make that shot in water polo this morning?  I swooned so hard I almost drowned!

I’d offer to lick that chest dry any day.

I think Vergil is hotter than Dante.

Too bad Vergil dates books instead of girls.

I dare you to ask him out!

No way!  His eyes are pretty, but damn do they burn!

He is smart, though.

Boring, you mean.  I’d let Dante have me however he wants.  Is my skirt high enough, you think?

I don’t think your skirt can go any higher without the teachers calling the cops.

Miranda wrinkled her nose, residual disgust for her ribald classmates clinging to her tongue like ticks.  Of course Dante and Vergil were both handsome, but these girls thought of them like they were just pretty toys to play with.  Apparently Vergil’s customary scowl kept most girls at a distance.

He doesn’t scowl.  He’s focused…and he smells so…manly.

Like oiled leather and smoky vetiver.  

A strange, rippling warmth stole over her, melting into her skin.  Slyly, she stole a lingering glance at his toned thighs.  The fabric of his pants hugged his runner’s muscle.  Snug.  Strong.  Fire licked her ears.

Vergil concentrated on her essay, his brow bent, trying to ignore the tingling in his chest.  He never knew how lovely plumeria smelled before.  Was there something else beneath that fragrance?  Something he could only describe as…stirring.

He cleared his throat.  “You’re a good writer.”

Miranda’s fingers curled around the edge of her skirt.  “Really?”

Vergil nodded.  “You read a lot, don’t you?”

“Oh, um, yes, I do.”  She met his eyes.  Deep pools of ashen summer skies.

“I’ll be shocked if you don’t get an A.”

Miranda stared at him as if he had compared her to a toad.

A knot formed in Vergil’s chest.  “Something wrong?”

Quickly she turned her attention to her shoes.  “No one’s ever told me that before.”

Vergil frowned.  “Not even your parents?”

She pursed her lips and clutched at the draping collar of her cozy sweater.  “My papa…”  Those acidic words haunted her.  “I’m sorry.  I don’t like to talk about it.”

Vergil’s stomach twisted.  “I didn’t mean to pry.  I apologize.”

“No, it’s okay.”  A faint smile dressed her glossy lips.  

Together they let a breath of silence pass, taking in the distant raven calls and the rustle of leaves letting go.  Content beside one another.  Quiet.

Vergil nervously ran his thumbs over the top page of her essay, his eyes wandering around the courtyard.  “So how are you liking Grey Grove?”

Miranda drew in a deep breath of coffee-flavored wind.  “It’s a beautiful campus.  The teachers are kind and the other students are—”  

She glanced at him and felt everything from her throat to her knees clench.  Vergil’s masculine beauty was too striking even for fashion magazines.  A nose to rival that of any valiant action hero.  A jawline befitting mighty conquerors.  Lips just perfectly full.  Pensive brow.  Deep, determined eyes.  Now she noticed for the first time that his white hair had a grey tinge.  Soft dove-grey.  The thought of running her fingers through it made hot bubbles build in her belly.

The effect Vergil’s nearness had on her was like eight shots of espresso.  The forgotten mocha cooling on the arm of the bench beside her only had two.

“—helpful,” she finally blurted, and glanced away.  “Thank you again for helping me.”

The breeze stirred her hair.  She brushed some behind her ear, her graceful fingers revealing her rosy cheekbone.  

Defying the cold nip of the season, summer heat climbed up Vergil’s neck.  He gulped.

“You’re welcome,” he mumbled, and stood up too quickly.  “See you in class.”

“Uh, Vergil?” she called after him before he hustled away too far on those long, strong legs.  Smiling timidly, she said, “I need my essay back.”

Vergil’s brows jumped.  Glancing down, he realized he had taken her essay with him.  “Oh.”  Cheeks flaming, he avoided eye contact like it might paralyze him and brought it back.  “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she assured him, taking back her assignment with a trembling hand.  “See you in class?”

“Uh, yeah,” he muttered, and then made long strides across the cobbles toward the nearest cloister.

Miranda smiled at him as he went.  He’s so cute.  Suddenly she remembered she was wearing her reading glasses.  Gasping, she yanked them off, grimacing.  I was wearing these the whole time?  He must think I’m such a nerd!

* * *

Vergil hustled into the nearest bathroom, shoving through the door hard enough to snap the backstop off the wall.  Gripping one of the sinks, he scowled at himself in the mirror.

“Why does she have to be so…”  He sighed roughly.  “Pretty?”

A nearby stall door slammed open.

“What’d you say?”

Vergil rolled his eyes in an almost complete three-sixty spin, and glared over his shoulder at his brother.  “What are you doing in here?”

Dante cocked an eyebrow, his lips twisting in a preface to a snort.  “This is the bathroom.”

“So?”  Vergil growled.

“So I can be in here whenever the hell I want!”  He rinsed his hands and flicked water at his peeved sibling.  “So who’s pretty?”

“No one!”  Vergil snapped, and stomped toward the door, but Dante grabbed his shoulder and spun him back around.

He leaned in close and uttered, “You like the new girl, don’t you?”

Vergil wrenched his shoulder away.  “Tch!  No!”  He crossed his arms and curled his lip into a defensive pout.  “I have absolutely no interest in any girl whatsoever!”

Dante sniggered behind one fist.  Vergil’s cheekbones may as well have been painted hot night-club pink.  “You’re hilarious.”

“Shut up,” Vergil muttered, his voice like gravel.

“So she smells nice…”  Dante held up one finger.

Vergil shrugged, bobbing one eyebrow in feigned neutrality.

“She’s obviously smart…”  Another finger.

Vergil looked away, swallowing hard enough that his throat starkly bobbed.

Dante grinned, sticking his tongue out between his teeth.  “She’s pretty.”

Vergil’s nose crinkled as if he had just bit into a lemon.  “Pointless.”

“I’m more observant than you think I am.”  Dante slapped his brother on the back and pointed a finger-gun at him.  “You got good taste.”

Vergil’s scowl deepened.  “Don’t you have class right now?”

“Eh, it’s so boring.”  Dante spread his arms, unenthused.  “I hate science.”  His devious grin returned and he bounced his eyebrows.  “But this biochemistry you got going on is fascinating as hell.”

Vergil was ready to shoot locomotive steam out of his nose.  “This is senior year, Dante!  You can’t fail!”

Dante rolled his eyes.  “I don’t really care, honestly—”

“Mother and Father care!”

“The only reason I’m making an effort is because of Mom!”

Vergil breathed a little easier now that the topic had shifted.  “I’m revoking your access to my homework.”

Dante panicked.  “Hey, whoa, whoa!”

Vergil’s eyes narrowed.  “Go back to class.”

“Fine, fine.”  Dante lifted placating hands, but a fresh, teasing smirk spread across his face.  “Just promise me you’ll ask her out.”

Vergil winced as if someone had forgotten to flush a toilet.  “What?”

Dante crossed his arms and cocked his head to one side.  “I think she likes you too.”

“How do you know?” Vergil bit back, but then backpedaled, rolling his eyes.  “Not that I really care.”

“Oh my dear brother,” Dante sighed, chuckling, and patted Vergil’s head.  “Welcome to the world of women.”

Vergil swatted Dante’s hand away, glowering.  “What makes you such an expert?”

Dante laced his fingers together and stretched them high over his head, utterly smug.  “If you dropped that Old Grump Style of yours you’d have a female following too.”

“I don’t want one!  Besides, I told you I am not interested in anyone!”  Cerulean flame flickered along his shoulders.

“Vergil,” Dante sighed, “do us all a favor and let your real feelings out once in a while.”  He tapped his brother’s forehead with the palm of his hand.  “You always look like you’re constipated.”

Grimacing as if bee-stung, Vergil gritted his teeth and kept his silence.

“You realize you’re proving me right, right?”  Dante lifted his eyebrows in victory and clapped a hand on his brother’s shoulder.  “Let me know if you need to borrow one of my magazines.”  He flashed a Cheshire grin.

Vergil snorted in disgust and turned toward the mirror.  He slicked his hair back, and then shoved his brother aside, marching for the door.

“Finish senior year, Dante,” he snapped, and then was gone.

Dante chuckled to himself.  “It’s fun to watch you squirm, Verge.  A girl would definitely be good for you.”

* * *

Professor Bancroft wore iron-tipped high heels that stabbed the marble floor like vengeful javelins.  Pencil skirt of charcoal grey, blinding blouse of sterile laboratory-white, and interstellar-black blazer defined her Amazonian build and pronounced her rigid expectations.  Oval glasses rested atop her queenly nose, framing her hard camouflage-green eyes.  The dry-erase marker squeaked across the whiteboard.

“Settle down.”  She never shouted.  She commanded.  Students often wondered if she had a military background.  The prevalent theory was that she was a descendant of Artemis Aphelion.  “Your first project will be due on Halloween.”

Studious to a fault, Vergil opened his planner and wrote the assignment down.  Two weeks.

I got plenty of time.

Professor Bancroft underlined the due date.  “This will be a team project.”

Vergil’s pen scratched to a squiggly halt.  Nothing hindered his rise to Valedictorian like mandatory group efforts.  Teammates always foisted the majority of the work onto him because he was always the smartest and most diligent one in the group.

I’m always assigned to slothful fools.

“You may select any poem featured in the textbook.  You will research the life of the author and interpret the poem you choose line by line.  Always adhere to the standard essay protocols.  The final product must be at least ten pages in length.”  Professor Bancroft strode loftily in front of her podium to scrutinize the level of attention of her students.  Peering down at a single sheet of paper in her gloved hand, she prefaced the declaration of the pairings.  “You may not trade partners.”

Of course not.

Seven pairings were revealed, and Vergil felt some relief that he was not doomed to work with them, but there were sixty-eight students.  Too many bullets left to dodge.  Vergil braced for the worst.

Professor Bancroft continued down the roster, her commanding voice echoing throughout the amphitheater.

“Vergil and Miranda.”

Vergil’s pen slipped out of his grip.  His spine went rigid like rebar and an invisible rhinoceros heel-kicked him in the chest.

“Mr. Redgrave?”

Vergil rose out of his seat a bit stiffly.  “Yes, ma’am.”

“I know you will extend naught but gentlemanly poise to our new student.”

He gave a jerky, but respectful bow of his head.  “Of course, ma’am.”

“Teacher’s pet,” someone groused.

She nodded, and returned to reading off pairings.

Brain.  Glitch.

Birds and butterflies swirled in Miranda’s breast, desperate for escape, flushed and flustered.  Knots tightened deep in her belly.

Vergil’s my…!

She nibbled the end of her mechanical pencil.  Glancing aside, she found herself beneath the scathing, catty leer of several senior girls.  Padded bras.  Garish lipstick.  Eyelashes thicker than a geisha’s fan.  Shoes worth more than Miranda’s laptop.

She dared not glance about to find her partner.  Today she had chosen the second row, but hadn’t seen Vergil since their encounter in the courtyard.  At least he thought her writing was worthy.  Crossing her ankles, she turned to a clean page in her notebook, trying to ignore the scorching glares of her older classmates.

“The new girl gets Vergil?” one of them remarked, arching a perfectly penciled eyebrow.  “How does that make any sense in this universe?  She doesn’t even wear a single name brand.”

Miranda refused to take the bait and doodled her name in calligraphic letters as she waited for further instruction.  The other girl snorted, her jewelry jangling.

Finally, Professor Bancroft concluded the list.  “You will have twenty minutes to meet with your partners and discuss.  Beginning…now.”

Everyone rose at once.  Miranda swallowed and remained seated.  Pencil lead snapped, carving a line across her name.

“He’s cold, you know.”  The girl stood over Miranda, platinum blonde and awash in sickly sweet perfume that was an appalling triumvirate of buttercream frosting, burnt jasmine, and marijuana.  “The dominating type.”  Her vixen grin jabbed like a needle, and then she strode away.

Miranda frowned, nettled.  Why is everything a contest to girls like them?

Even in the small sea of students, it was difficult to find Vergil’s telltale hair color.  She decided to wait for the flux to ebb and flipped through the textbook.

“Miranda?”

Vergil stood beside her, his textbook and notebook under one arm, a pen in his opposite hand.  Glancing up at him, Miranda became tremendously aware of his athletic height and frame.  Length and strength.  Control.  Power.

Dominating?   That’s not what she felt when in his presence.  No, that’s not the right word…

She spun her pencil between her fingers at warp speed.  “Oh, hi.”

That cute little crease seated between his brows amused her.  He sat down in the vacated adjacent desk and opened his textbook.  “I usually despise group projects.”

Miranda’s lungs seized up.  “You prefer to work alone?”

“I know I can always rely on myself.”  He skimmed the table of contents, but snatched a glimpse of her.  Heat rippled down his neck.

She tapped her foot twice as fast as her pounding heart.  “I’ll do my best not to hinder you.”

He winced, feeling like an utter clod.  “No, I mean, I finally got lucky.  For once.”

Miranda smiled, her eyes sliding shyly back to her textbook as blush blazed.  “So which poem should we do?”

Vergil twirled his pen atop his finger and thumb, thinking about how dark and lush her hair looked.  “Well, what do you like?”

He watched her run her finger slowly down the page, wondering what her gentle touch might feel like.  Heat sizzled through his blood, searching for the hormonal equivalent to gasoline.  He shifted in his seat.

“Do you like William Blake?”

The temperature rose.

Vergil just nodded.

Miranda turned to the proper page.  “How about one of his poems, then?  There are four we can choose from.”

Vergil stared at her.  She likes William Blake!  

She fidgeted with some of her hair.  “I used to know Auguries of Innocence all by heart, but that was years ago.  Most people only know the first few lines, but they’re so beautiful I can’t blame anyone for not knowing the rest.  Parts of it are a little confusing.  Lots of animal and political references, but I like it.  The Tyger is good too.  Blake has a powerful way of exuding the mood of the soul.”

Vergil kept staring at her.  His heart was an iron pendulum between his lungs, swinging hard and fast.

She noticed his frozen silence, and laughed nervously.  “I’m so sorry!  I’m getting carried away.”

Blinking out of his stupor, Vergil also turned to the correct section in his textbook.  “I admire your motivation.”

They spent a minute or two skimming over their choices.  Two hearts together timed in flowering fusion.

“Oh, this one,” she sighed, deeply moved.  “Do you know Night ?”

Vergil knew it well indeed.  “Remind me how it goes.”

Miranda, in her dulcet voice, recited:

The sun descending in the west,

The evening star does shine;

The birds are silent in their nest,

And I must seek for mine.

The moon, like a flower,

In heaven’s high bower,

Vergil joined her:

With silent delight

Sits and smiles on the night.

The intensity of the gaze they shared in that moment was an ascension.

“I love that one,” she whispered, her breath coming a little fast.

“Me too,” he agreed, noticing the rise and fall of her breast.  He swallowed hard.

It was difficult to breathe.  For both of them.

“Vergil?”

“Yeah?”

A quiet, heavy minute passed.  His hands looked so strong, but also gentle.  Capable of violence.  Capable of kindness.  The thought she meant to tell him flitted right out of her head.

“Miranda?”

“Yeah?”

“Five minutes,” Professor Bancroft announced.

Both Vergil and Miranda jumped.  They chuckled at themselves.

“So shall we do Night , then?” she suggested, trying to shake the pleasant surge he caused.

Vergil’s concentrated frown returned and he nodded.  “Let’s do it.”  A significant tightness lingered in the vicinity of his hips.  “The poem.  I mean, the poem.”  He bent over his notebook and hastily jotted something down.

“When should we work on it?”

Vergil cleared his dry throat.  “Maybe we should exchange phone numbers?  You know, so we can meet and do it together?”  The POEM, do the POEM together!   His brain needed more blood, but it was rushing everywhere else.

“Good idea.”  Miranda took out her phone.

Vergil did the same.  “I’m ready.”  Ready for her.  Her number!  To get it.  Get her NUMBER.

She gave it to him and he entered it into his phone.  Then he sent a text.

Miranda’s phone made a lovely, musical melody.  “There you are.”

Everything within Vergil clenched.  I just asked Miranda for her phone number!

She sent a text back.  His phone made an epic battle noise.  “Got it.”  Her TEXT, not HER!

“Return to your seats, please.”  Professor Bancroft.

Vergil rose to his feet and gathered his things.  “We’ll ace this easily.”

They smiled at each other, and then he went back to his own desk.

Miranda sighed, trembling.  Vergil just gave me his phone number!   Vergil asked for MY phone number!  He likes William Blake, too!

* * *

According to his professor and old rock ’n roll standards, Dante was excelling in his guitar lessons.  According to Vergil, Dante was only excelling in giving his twin brother an increasingly painful headache.

Slamming his textbook closed, Vergil shot to his feet and stormed out of his room.  It took a solid minute of banging on his brother’s door before the guitar’s broken caterwauling stopped.

“Enough!”  Vergil shouted.  “I’m trying to study!”

By the age of six, the twins had to be separated.  Sharing a room had never worked, resulting only in catastrophe that included four destroyed bunk beds, dozens of bruises, and several bloody noses.  Eva had to buy the Extra Strength bleach to get all the red stains out of their clothes.

The door yanked open.  “I’m practicing!”

Vergil crinkled his nose as if a profound rotten stench came wafting over him.  “That’s debatable.”

Dante glared at him.  “You just can’t appreciate the stellar energy that is rock music.  Sucks to be you.”

“It’s noise,” Vergil emphasized.  “Can’t you do it in the basement?”

“Where, Dad’s study?  The only other chamber down there is off limits, remember, genius?”  Dante reminded him.

Vergil sighed, frustrated, and then turned on his heel and went back to his room.  After gathering his school supplies into his messenger bag, he slid into his jacket and headed downstairs.

Sparda and Eva were enjoying the quiet of the parlor, each reading an old tome that appeared to belong in a museum.

“I’ll be at the library,” Vergil called as he strode for the front door.

“Just be home in time for dinner, darling,” Eva called back.

“I will,” Vergil assured her, his tone rather clipped, and quickly escaped the house.

Sparda lifted his attention from his book and cocked an eyebrow when the door slammed shut.  “Our eldest seems rather troubled lately.”

Eva raised a knowing smile at him.  “Dante might be right.  I think there is a girl.”

Sparda’s eyes widened, sparkling.  “Indeed?”

Eva giggled.  “Time will tell for certain, but I’ve noticed Vergil’s been testy after school.”

Sparda stroked his chin thoughtfully.  “It appears I gave them The Talk just in time after all!”

Eva flinched, shaking her head, but a faint smile remained.  “I find myself more concerned about Dante in that regard than Vergil.”

“Time will tell for certain,” Sparda echoed, “but at the very least, I trust both of our sons to be gentlemen.”

Residual annoyance plaguing his focus, Vergil revved his Corvette over the speed limit.

Why must he be so unbearably obnoxious!

The commotion was mellow at Red Grave’s only public library.  It was small, but offered a little of everything.  Sometimes the atmosphere was not exactly conducive for studying, but tonight it was enough.  Vergil soon lost himself in the back room reserved for students.  After setting up his laptop and stacking his textbooks, he meandered through the poetry section.

Byron.  Chaucer.  Plath.  Poe.  Milton.  Shakespeare.  Sydney.  Tennyson.  Wordsworth.

No Blake?

The scrap metal screeching of Dante’s “practicing” still stung Vergil’s brain like a wasp bite.

“You’re looking for Chaucer?”

Warm sparks like popcorn filled Vergil’s chest.

Again, her voice flowed through the battered bindings of the books between them.

“Ambitious choice, but a fun caper through old British comedy.”

Miranda rounded the corner and almost bumped into Vergil.

She gasped, pleasantly startled.  “Oh!  Vergil!”  She laid a hand on her breast.  Her captivating breast.  “Hi!”

Vergil gawked for about a millennia before he blinked.  “Why are you here?”

Her lovely face fell into dejection as if he’d bluntly told her to get lost.  “I’m sorry for bothering you.”  She turned to leave.

“No, wait!”  Was that distress that so swiftly stole into his voice?  “I’m sorry, it’s just that I, uh…”  It’s just that I can’t think or breathe whenever I’m around you!

Miranda turned back to him, her eyes, caramel-rich and beautiful, were still nervous.  The eyes of a cautious but daring fawn.  “Are you all right?”

Vergil nervously licked his lips and turned back to the poetry books.  “I can’t find any Blake.”

“Oh, for our paper.”  A hint of her usual sunny mien returned, and Vergil was glad he hadn’t frightened her off.

“We need biographical information,” he said stiffly, having noticed that she had come closer.  “If we can’t find anything here there is always the internet, of course.  I prefer books, though.”

“Very thorough of you.”  She cast a small shy smile up at him.  “I’d expect nothing less from a top ranking student.”

Vergil grinned, his ego flaring.  “Well, if I recall correctly, you made that list at an admirable rank too.”

Her smile grew.  Her glossy, plumeria-pink smile.  “It seems Professor Bancroft arranged project partners wisely.”

There was a hot whirlwind spinning madly in the dead center of Vergil’s torso.  “Do you have some time now to work on our project?”

Miranda’s heart scrambled in circles and her hands fidgeted.  “Oh, I’m actually working right now.”

“Working?”

“Yes.  I’m a part-time librarian here.”

“Oh.”  The last time Vergil had come to the library was before the school year had started.  The timing made sense.  “I have some other homework to finish.  When do you get off?”

Blush as stark as strawberries flooded Miranda’s cheeks.  “Oh, um…”  She glanced around for a clock.

Vergil checked the wristwatch beneath his cuff.  “It’s 4:30 now.”

“Oh, I’m off in an hour.”

“How about we work on it in an hour, then?”

Miranda fingered the end of a luscious curl of her hair.  “Okay.”

Vergil nodded.  “See you in an hour.”

She nodded too, her smile like starlight.  “I’ll meet you in the students’ study room.”

“Perfect.”

After she returned to her duties, leaving him in an intoxicating cloud of plumeria, Vergil returned to the study room and fought to focus on his other work.

I asked her when she got off work!  Desperate scum who loiter in bars do that!   He leaned his elbows on the table and ran his hands into his hair.  She must think I’m scum!

“Vergil?”

Startled as if she could hear his thoughts, he whirled around in his chair.  “Miranda!”

“A little jumpy, aren’t you,” she giggled.

His eyebrows reached for his hairline.  “Sorry.”  What time was it?  5:34.  It’s been an hour already?   Miranda had so easily taken up residence in his thoughts, sweetly sweeping all else to the side.

“I found a few books that might help us.”  She struggled to balance the load while trying not to lose the strap of her messenger bag off one shoulder and her purse off the other.

Vergil took the stack from her, set it on the table, and pulled out a chair for her.

“Thanks!”  She smiled, grateful.  

“No problem.”  Something got stuck in Vergil’s throat.  

After hooking her messenger bag and purse on the chair, she sat down beside him and slid on her reading glasses.  “Shall we?”

* * *

Vergil and Miranda were discussing the second stanza of Night when her stomach rumbled.  The noise was like an air horn in the quiet of the library.  Embarrassed, she quickly launched into a nonsensical rambling.  

Vergil gently cut her off.  “Are you hungry?”

“What?  No, I’m fine—”  Her stomach growled again, impersonating a grumpy bear cub.  Folding her arms across her belly, she looked away and muttered,  “Maybe a little.”

Vergil checked the time.  “It’s almost 7:00.”

“I’ll eat when I get home.  It’s really okay.”  However, her stomach was not in agreement.

“Studying on an empty stomach is foolish,” he remarked, and closed his laptop.  “Let’s grab something and then finish this last part of the stanza.”

“Please don’t bother on my account!” she objected.

“Miranda, you are never a bother,” he told her, as if such a notion were the most reckless thing anyone could ever suggest.  “Being hungry is annoying.  I mean, you’re not annoying.  It’s just difficult to focus.”  Scarlet pooled into his face as he yammered on, flustered.  “Of course, our ranks in class are impressive so I don’t doubt that our paper will be exceptional, but I just mean you should really take care of yourself.”  The scarlet darkened.  The deep frown etched between his eyes was confusing yet endearing.  “I’m sure you do, though—”

“Vergil—?”

“—and you appear to be—”

She touched his arm.  He immediately stopped babbling.  Like switching off the radio.

“You’re sweet.”  Her rosebud smile pierced right through Vergil’s chest.  “Thank you.”

Vergil’s everything suffered a malfunction on an unprecedented scale.  Heart fiercely pulsing in his throat.  Stomach swirling in his feet.  Blood surging at three hundred miles an hour along every avenue.  Tongue turned to plywood.

I’m sweet?   “It’s nothing.”  He shrugged as if that were true and fumbled his laptop into his bag.

Miranda waited, wondering why he always seemed so stiff around her.

Vergil could have any girl at school.  Why would he be interested in a strange girl from a foreign, archaic society?  I’m no one.  He’s just being the polite gentleman that he is.

Together they walked two blocks to a nearby fast food joint.  Darkness had fallen.  On full alert, Vergil scanned their surroundings, never letting his guard down.  

“The streets of Red Grave are treacherous without warning,” he told Miranda.  “Stay close.”

She did, wishing he’d offer his arm, but quickly chastised herself.

A blue and yellow neon sign in the shape of a cartoon burger surrounded by lightning bolts blazed just ahead: McMiller’s.

Miranda took a moment to peruse the delightfully uncomplicated menu while Vergil stood vigilant at her side.  Sparda had yet to allow his sons to carry their demonic weapons in public, but Vergil always had his sharp martial art skills.

Miranda noticed his wide stance, centered and balanced.  His shoulders were set, and he stood ready to combat any villain or vagabond.  Like a bodyguard.  A protector.

No.  Not dominating.  Indomitable.

Trying to still the fluttering of her heart, she put in her order at the walk-up window.  Then she turned to her valiant companion.  “Vergil, what would you like?”

“I’m not hungry, but thank you,” he replied.

“Oh, come on, you must be!” she insisted, her cheery voice like a sprinkle of tiny bells.  “French fries?  A milkshake?  Dante told me this place has really good strawberry milkshakes.”

Dante’s been talking to you behind my back?   A sudden little hellfire erupted inside him, and in that deadly second he wanted nothing more than to smash his brother’s face into a wall.

“Are you all right?”  Miranda sounded somewhat frightened.  “You look angry.”

Vergil knew he was an Olympic gold medalist when it came to scowling, but never did he wish to upset Miranda.  Quickly he adjusted his expression.  “I’m sorry, I was just…”  He met her worried eyes and softened.  “Never mind.”

She nodded, but she did not appear all that convinced.  “So what do you want?  Let’s hurry.”  Her teeth chattered.  “It’s cold!”

He removed his thick, royal-blue scarf.  Turning away, he offered it to her.  “Here.”

The blush was like a surprise assault, pouring down her face and over her body like a bucket of molten sugar.  With trembling fingers she accepted his scarf and wound it around her neck.

It smells like him.  He smells so amazing!   Her heart drummed so hard and fast she thought it might burst.

“Just a coffee for me,” Vergil told the cashier, a middle-aged woman of plump shape and chipper demeanor.  He then produced a twenty dollar bill.

“Oh, I can pay for mine,” Miranda quickly said, unused to anyone paying on her behalf.

The cashier offered a few smaller bills and a couple of coins.  “Your change, cute sir.”

Vergil balked a bit at the compliment, but easily shrugged it off.

“It’s fine,” he assured Miranda, accepting the money.

“First date?” the cashier asked, smirking.

Vergil and Miranda exchanged wide-eyed, embarrassed looks.

“No, we’re just um…” he mumbled as he stuffed his wallet back inside his jacket.

“We’re study partners,” Miranda blurted.  “We have a project for school.”

The cashier nodded, still grinning.  “You two sure blush a lot for study partners.”

Vergil cleared his throat, wearing his scowl again.  “How long for the food?”

“Coming up in just a few, cutie pie.”  She winked at him, and then left to check on their order.

Vergil rolled his eyes, unamused, and crossed his arms.

Miranda turned away to hide her most amused smile.  She’s not wrong.  Even his pout is cute.

Vergil’s phone rang.  Upon glancing at the caller ID, he swallowed hard.  Damn it, I forgot!   He put his back to Miranda and answered in a subdued voice, “Hello, Mother.”

“Vergil!” Eva exclaimed, relief flooding her voice.  “Oh, thank goodness!  Are you still at the library?”

“Yes, I’m sorry.  I lost track of time.”  It was rare that Vergil was late for anything.  “We’re working on our project.”

“We?”

Vergil’s heart clenched.  “My partner and I.  It’s a team assignment.”

“Is this partner working well with you?  I remember you’ve had so many disrespectful partners before.”

He glanced over his shoulder at Miranda, who was smiling and thanking the cashier as she took a paper bag and Vergil’s coffee in hand.

A tiny smile tugged at one corner of his mouth.  “Yeah.  Really well.”

Eva sighed.  “Alright then.  Just be home by ten.”

“I will,” he promised.

They hung up.

“Ready?” Miranda asked, coming to his side and holding out his coffee to him.

He accepted it and nodded, that faint smile lingering.  “Ready.”

As they ambled back to the library, Vergil silently sipped coffee while Miranda nibbled her cheeseburger.

“You’re really not hungry?” she asked.

Vergil shook his head.  “I’m not particularly fond of fast food.”

“McMiller’s burgers are exceptional though.”

“I wouldn’t know.”  He indulged another slurp of scalding coffee.

Miranda raised her eyebrows at him as if he’d just admitted to committing armed robbery.  “You’ve never had a McMiller’s burger?”

“I’ve never had a burger period.”

Miranda stopped dead in her tracks.  Vergil continued a few steps before looking back at her, puzzled.

“You have to try it!”  She peeled away more of the wrapper.  “Here.”

He rejoined her and frowned at the proffered untouched edge of the burger.  “I’d rather not get my hands messy.”

She rolled her eyes.  “Oh, come on, just take a bite.  It’s good!”  She laughed, and Vergil thought it was the sound of heaven.  “We can still be friends even if you hate it.”

A dimple came out of hiding.  “That’s a relief.”  Friends.  Miranda and I are friends.

He licked his lips, still unsure about the burger, and then took a hearty bite.  He refused to appear weak in his efforts.  Ketchup oozed out and onto his hands.

“Leave some for me!” she teased.

At first, he frowned, studying the texture and flavor, ready to judge it as inferior to his sophisticated tastes.  Miranda watched and waited for his verdict, wearing a lovely anticipatory smile.

Carefully he swallowed, and then announced, “Greasy, but not bad.”

“Not bad?” she giggled, taking back her burger.

“It’s not zucchini.  I hate zucchini.”  Wrinkling his nose, he stared at his ketchup-stained hand.  “But it’s messy.”

“Here.”  She offered him a napkin.

“Thank you.”  He wiped his hand with firm resolve, still grimacing.

“Well, I’m proud of you for trying something new.”  Harmless teasing glittered in her eyes.  His smile came back.

She took another polite bite, and was finished by the time the library came into view.  After tossing the wrapper into a trash bin, she looked at Vergil and said, “Thank you for dinner.”

He nodded, shyly smiling.  “You’re welcome.”

* * *

Miranda glanced at the clock and gasped.

Vergil stopped typing on his laptop.  “What’s wrong?”

“Damn it,” she muttered, shoving books into her messenger bag.  “I’m late.”

Vergil’s eyebrows jumped.  He hadn’t pegged Miranda for cursing, but the punch of strength in it gave him a pleasurable little thrill.

“Late?”  He checked his wristwatch.  Almost 9:00.  “For what?”

Her hands shook as she zipped her pencil pouch and struggled to adjust the strap on her messenger bag.

Vergil helped her.  His fingers touched hers.  Miranda snatched a small catch of breath.  The warmth zoomed into his ears.

“I have to go.”  She slung her purse onto her shoulder, hugged her bag to her breast, and turned to leave.  “My papa will be furious.”

He knew she didn’t have a car, and taxis were sketchy in Red Grave.  “Wait, Miranda.”  

Turning back, she looked up at him, nervous yet hopeful.  “I have to hurry—”

“The last bus left ten minutes ago.”

“I know.  I’ll walk.”

Vergil rose from his chair.  “It’s too dark.  Let me drive you home.”

Miranda’s lips parted in astonishment as her heart kicked up to a hundred miles an hour.  “Um…”

“I respectfully insist,” Vergil continued, folding his hands behind his back as the heat of a steaming kettle filled his face.  “A lady shouldn’t be left undefended against the unpredictabilities of the urban night.”

He is so eloquent I could die!

Miranda smiled, her cheeks wearing a similar veil of crimson.  “I don’t want to trouble you—”

“It’s no trouble at all,” he assured her.  “I feel partly responsible.”

She glanced at the clock again.  “Well…”  

“I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable, of course,” Vergil quickly told her, spreading his hands, afraid he had offended her.

“No, it’s not that,” she replied, shaking her head, afraid she had offended him.  “It’s just… My papa can be very…”

“Distrusting?”

She dropped her gaze.  “...not exactly.”

“I don’t want you to be in trouble with him.”

Miranda thought for a moment more.  “It’d be worse if I were late getting home.”  Her smile returned, shy but always sweet.  “I appreciate it.”

Vergil nodded, and then quickly packed up his things.

Miranda waited, lost in admiring his broad shoulders and…

He has a cute butt.

“Ready?”

Miranda stiffened, blush storming.  “Uh, yeah.”

Vergil escorted her to his shining Corvette and opened the passenger door for her.

She smiled at him.  “Thank you.”

His heart leapt into his skull and danced in circles around his brain.  He closed her door and then slid into the driver’s seat.  With a powerful purr, the stylish sports car pulled onto the street.  Vergil hit the speed limit in two seconds.

“Your car is beautiful,” Miranda remarked.  The interior was pristine and it smelled like Vergil’s cologne.  Just like his scarf, which was still snuggly curled around her neck.  The virile scent made her throat tighten.

“Thank you,” he replied.  Why can’t my body temperature regulate when I’m around her?   “My father gave it to me for my sixteenth birthday.”

“Wow, he sounds very generous,” she remarked, quiet and monotone.

“I’m responsible for maintenance and gas, though, so I give kendo lessons on weekends to make money.”

She brightened.  “You know kendo?”

He nodded.  “Karate, too.  I’m assistant to my sensei, Master Dan, and he allows me to use his dojo for freelance lessons.”

Miranda was completely entranced.  “Are you a black belt?”

His ego puffed up like a marshmallow.  “Almost.  Next year I’ll have my final test.”

“I’m certain you’ll pass,” she remarked, excited for him.  “There’s always this aura of motivation surrounding you.”

Like a peacock fanning his feathers, Vergil grinned in shameless complacency.

“Are there many female students at your dojo?”

He cast her a bewildered frown.  “What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing!  I’m sorry!”  She turned away, thoroughly embarrassed.  I’m jealous?  I’ve no right to be!

“Are you cold?”  He reached for the temperature controls.

“No, I’m fine.”  I’m a little too warm.

The thrumming of the car was not the only energy between them.

“How long have you lived in Red Grave?”  Vergil asked, driving on autopilot.

“Not long.”  Miranda gave her luscious coils of hair a little toss.  

The fragrance of plumeria fell over Vergil like a warm mist for a powerful second, seeping into his muscle, clenching it.  

Her fingers fidgeted.  “I moved here a week before school started.”

Vergil cleared his throat.  Loudly.  What form of power is this?   “Not long at all.”

“Do you live far from school?” she asked.

“Just outside of town.”

Vergil felt her beautiful eyes on him.  “In the countryside?”

He nodded.  Don’t look at her.  If I look at her…   If he looked at her he might crash.

“I’d love to see the countryside.”  Miranda turned to the window again.  Vergil chanced a glimpse of her, swallowing hard.  “Fortuna doesn’t have many trees where I grew up.”

Vergil spoke without thinking.  “I can take you there sometime, if you like.”

The tiniest gasp escaped her.  “Really?”

She sounds so excited.   He’d hate to disappoint her.  “Sure.”  The Corvette eased to a perfect halt at the next stoplight.  “Am I going the right way?”

“Oh, sorry!  Yes, keep going this way, and then take a left onto Ember Avenue.”

The light turned green.

“I’m the fourth house on the right,” she said, pointing.

Vergil smoothly pulled up.  The porch light was on.  “Would you like me to walk you to the door?”

I would like that very much!   “I don’t want Papa to assume anything.”

Vergil nodded.  “I understand.”

She nodded, grimacing.  “I’m sorry.”

“It’s no worry.”  A smile grew upon his lips.  “Have a good night, Miranda.”

Miranda’s breath stopped.  Those dimples!   “Goodnight, Vergil.  Thank you for the ride.”

His smile remained.  “You’re welcome.”  It certainly wasn’t nothing.

“Oh, your scarf.”  She started unwrapping it from her neck.

“It’s really cold outside,” he said, holding up a hand.  “You can return it tomorrow.”

Miranda’s fingers dug into his scarf, its scented warmth enveloping her.  The scent of him.  “You’re so sweet.”  Red as raspberries, she gave him one last smile.  “Bye.”

She slid out and the car door closed.

Vergil waited until she was safely indoors.  Before vanishing inside, she waved at him.  He waved back.

A huge sigh built in his chest, and then he let it go.  It felt like he’d been holding his breath for the last five hours.  His thoughts wandered back through that evening.  The smile still huddled at the corner of his mouth as he imagined her dark hair stirring in the Autumn breeze beneath the trees of his countryside home.

I bought her dinner.  I drove her home.  I offered to take her to the countryside.  

Suddenly he bolted upright as if a white-hot lance had just impaled him.

Did I ask her out?!

Chapter Text

With a churlish groan, Dante rolled onto his belly in a tangle of bedsheets.

“Dante?” came his mother’s muffled voice behind the door.

He shoved his head beneath the pillow and pinned it against his ear, hoping in vain that she would leave him be.

The door opened.  “It’s almost noon.  You’ve been abed long enough.”

“It’s Saturday,” he whined.

Upon entering, Eva’s leather slipper crunched a candy wrapper underfoot.  The place was more of a den than a bedroom.  Dirty laundry littered the floor.  Clean clothes hung out of half-opened dresser drawers.  Several empty soda cans decorated the cluttered desk.  Magazines on limited topics—girls, guns, and guitars—were haphazardly stacked on the bookshelf that housed no books.  A damp towel was wadded under his easy chair, encouraging mold.

“You mustn’t waste the day away.”  She took up the towel and slipped into the boys’ shared bathroom.  The state of it was a glaring study in personalities at odds.

In the tub, a shampoo bottle was on its side, leaking its contents steadily down the drain.  Obviously Dante’s.  Vergil kept his—along with his body wash—in a neat rack on the wall.  The toilet seat was up and the bowl needed an aggressive scrubbing.  Old shaving cream caked Dante’s sink and his razor was rife with trimmed hairs.  Vergil’s side of the lengthy counter sparkled like crown jewels, and everything was aligned along the orderly shelving.  All of his laundry dutifully resided in a hamper while Dante didn’t seem to understand what a hamper was for.

Vergil always wrote his name on everything.  

Eva sympathized with her eldest.  Completely.

The sons of Sparda had been granted their own living quarters, but the bathroom between them was an exercise in brotherly bonding that prohibited violence.  Ideally.  It offered plenty of space that discouraged bloodshed, yet the warring twins persisted.

Eva shook her head and slung the towel over the shower door.  What is it that compels them to fight?  

The best explanation was the demonic power lying dormant within her maturing children.  Her husband occasionally reminded her of the compulsive need to let his demon rage.  The raw power of the beast could not be thwarted, but Sparda constantly stressed how vital it was that it be directed toward virtuous purposes—such as protecting his family and assisting humankind—rather than vile ends.

The veiled reason for keeping her boys together was that if the worst should happen, Sparda and Eva wanted Dante and Vergil to have each other near at hand, to protect each other.  In the midnight-cloaked hours, Sparda whispered reassurances over his worried wife, promising her that the slumbering power inside their boys was not a hindrance, but, if wielded properly, a heroic gift.

Pushing aside the wearisome dark thoughts that plagued her daily, she returned to Dante’s bedside.  Exerting her maternal authority, she slapped his pillow.

Dante flinched.  “I wanna sleep!”

Eva’s sons were growing in stature and strength, but the power of their demon father was also developing in their blood.  Like a second puberty, subtle signs of that power had gradually manifested over the last few years. 

Regardless, sleeping until noon was long enough for any teenager.

“I need you to run an errand for me,” Eva told him.

“Huh?”

She rested her hands on her hips.  “Look at me when I’m speaking to you.”

Dante unburied himself.  Sitting up, he scratched at the hair that had recently sprouted on his broad chest.  Groggy and droopy-eyed, he grumbled, “What?”

Disapproval arched one of her golden eyebrows.  “Dante?  Attitude.”

He sighed, raking a hand through his wild white hair.  “Yes, Mom.”

“I have a potent alchemical concoction brewing and it can’t be left unattended for long.  However, I am lacking important ingredients.”

Dante yawned, mangling his words.  “Make Vergil do it.”

She fixed him with a hard look.  “I’m asking you to do it.”

He rubbed his eyes.  “Do I really have to?”

“Stop whining,” she scolded, tugging on his ear.  He yelped in protest.  “It’s unbecoming and disrespectful.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled.  “What do you need?”

“Two herbs,” she replied, taking a small piece of paper from the hip pocket of her dress.  “You should be able to find them at Burrow Market.  Horehound and lovage.”

Dante balked, blinking in confusion.  “Whore…what?”

Eva’s lips puckered in frustration.  “Those magazines fill your head with filth.”

Heat creeped into Dante’s ears.

She gave him the paper.  “Please go now.  I’ll need them once the concoction has cooled in a couple of hours.”

He nodded, chagrined.  “Okay.”

She caressed his hair and kissed the top of his head.  “Thank you.”  She then strode for the door, avoiding a pair of boxers on the floor.  “You will clean this sty, young man.  It’s unacceptable.”

After a speedy shower and a dab of deodorant, Dante slid into one of his vermillion leather coats—the winter one lined in black fur—and squished his mother’s note into the back pocket of his pants.  He shook his damp hair out of his eyes.

I hate shopping.

* * *

Burrow Market was a milling, murmuring sea of humanity abuzz about the freshest produce, meat, spices, and faraway herbs.  Autumn sunshine cascaded down through the glass ceiling arcing loftily above.  Elegant banners lifted lazily on the breeze, depicting enticing goods.  People swarmed to snatch popular products and tasty trinkets.  

Dante stood just inside the high-walled brick entrance, leaning against the logo for his father’s subway system, Sparda Express, pondering how to navigate the churning crowd.  Though he’d known of its existence, he had never actually been to Burrow Market before.  It was a favored haunt in Red Grave City, which boasted thousands of citizens who prized high quality wares.  

Of course Eva had sent him on a Saturday, the market’s busiest day of the week.

How the hell am I gonna find Mom’s stuff?

The delectable aroma of fruity pastries wafted over him, and his stomach grumbled.  Above a brightly painted stall a sign read: Strawberry Station.

Dante grinned.  Jackpot!

Winter was on the edge of announcing its official arrival.  The air was crisp as ice chips and clouds were rallying for a downpour.  Fragile flakes of ice encrusted the cobbles beneath Dante’s boots.  The weather rarely stopped people from keeping Burrow Market prosperous.  His demon blood kept him warm as well as the fur lining inside his coat.

As he wandered about, loving his hot sugar-dusted, strawberry-stuffed turnover, boredom and annoyance nagged him like a pair of ex-girlfriends.  The place was packed.  The permanent stands were easy enough to find, but they didn’t carry herbs.  All the nomad vendors who rented space by the hour were crammed together like businessmen aboard the subway at quitting time, their signs difficult to notice.  

By the time Dante was licking sticky strawberry juice off his fingers, he was prepared to call his mother and just tell her he couldn’t find what she needed.

Why didn’t she make Vergil do this?  I don’t know squat about plants or who the hell has ‘em!

A gentle hand touched his elbow.

“Dante?”

The afternoon was then beautifully bereft of its boredom as he glanced over his shoulder to find Miranda standing there.  Her thick, dark hair was twisted into a rope-like braid that draped over one shoulder.  A few wavy tendrils framed her face.  White tights veiled her shapely legs and her winter-warding coat was a catching shade of blood red, of which Dante highly approved.

Oh ho ho, now this is what I’m talkin’ about!

His mouth split into a charming grin.  “This is either destiny or you’re stalking me.”

She offered him a smile, but then glanced hopefully around as if searching for something…or someone.

“My evil twin isn’t here,” he told her, shrugging.  “Sorry to disappoint.”

Guilty as charged, she laughed shyly.  “No, it’s good to see you.”  Crimson bloomed in her cheeks.  “I’m just not used to seeing you without your brother.”

Dante noticed the impressive selection riding in the wicker basket she carried.  Carrots, onions, apples, zucchini, a loaf of fresh bread, and a small bunch of miniature bananas.

“Don’t tell Verge you like zucchini,” he warned.  “He hates it like I hate olives.”

She laughed confidently this time.  “Oh yes, he expressed his firm feelings for zucchini after I’d persuaded him to try my cheeseburger.”

Dante’s mouth dropped open.  “You got my bull-headed bro to eat fast food?”  He would have been equally impressed if she had persuaded Vergil to try cold, leftover pizza.

Miranda bit her lip, trying to suppress a smile.  “Is he really that picky?”

He rolled his eyes.  “I think if I like something, he thinks he has to despise it.”

She made a ponderous sound, nodding.  “Twins, yet so very different?”

He snorted.  “Yeah, something like that.”

People jostled past them and bumped into Miranda’s full basket, tipping her off balance.  Dante gripped the handle, keeping her upright and preventing all of her groceries from spilling to their demise.

“Thank you.”  She adjusted the awkward weight between her arms.

“I got it.”  One-handed, he took the basket from her with absolute ease as if it were merely full of flowers, and so swiftly that it surprised her.

“Oh!  You don’t have to do that!” she implored as if he’d broken an unspoken protocol.

Dante waved it away.  “Don’t ever let Vergil tell you I’m uncouth .”  He pulled a mocking, snooty expression, wrinkling his face and comically twisting his mouth.

Miranda giggled.  “That does sound like something he’d say.”

Together they ambled toward a stall hawking a broad assortment of teas.  The steam billowing from within was a wondrous relief from the November bite.  Taking up a tiny pair of tongs, Miranda pinched a sample of the herbal contents and sniffed, appraising the floral, tannic aroma.

“How did that poetry project go, by the way?” Dante asked.  “Vergil was grinning like a crocodile the day it was due.”

But maybe that smile was for a prettier reason.

The glow of achievement brightened Miranda’s face.  “We received the highest grade in the class.  A nine point eight!”

“Ah, yeah, Vergil always whines about Bancroft never giving a perfect score.”  Dante winked at her.  “But she paired him with a brainy babe.  Congrats.”

She glanced away, bashfully tucking her hands beneath her chin.  “Thank you.  I’ve always earned strong grades, but I’ve never gotten so close to a perfect score before.  I owe it to your brother.”  A distracted, dreamy tone threaded her voice.  “He’s so smart and focused and…”  A wistful breath gathered in her breast.  “…motivated.”

She is definitely the woman for you, Verge.

Dante cocked an eyebrow and flicked the tiny service bell hanging above the counter.  “Kinda makes him an ass sometimes.”  

Miranda blinked out of her enamored stupor.  A puzzled wrinkle formed between her brows.

He shrugged.  “School’s never been my thing, but he’s always nagging me about homework and going to class and not ditching.”

Miranda had an innate talent for perceiving the true and often unspoken nature of things.  “He wants his little brother to succeed.”

Dante’s mouth fell agape.  He felt like an ass this time.  “Never thought of it like that.”

After purchasing a sachet of chamomile and lavender tea, Miranda and Dante walked the meandering thoroughfare together enjoying the inviting smells of gourmet beignets, fried fish, and coffee fit for a royal snob.  Dante proved delightful company, entertaining her with stories of motorcycle street racing and playing hooky.  He never once protested about carrying her basket, which grew heavier after she’d purchased hand-milled soap and farm-fresh butter.  In his carefree presence, Miranda felt a flourishing wish to have an older sibling as fun as Dante.

“No offense, but,” Miranda began as they walked past a creamery booth, “Burrow Market doesn’t seem like your kind of Saturday hangout.”

Dante chuckled.  “What gave it away?”

“You did look rather lost when I came upon you,” she giggled.

“Busted.”  He tossed his hair out of his eyes.  “My mom sent me here for some weird herb things, but I’m clueless about where to find them.”

“Which ones does she need?”

Dante dug into his back pocket for his mother’s note.  “Love something?”  He offered it to her.

She pondered over the note for a quick moment.  “Oh, I know what these are.”

He nudged her with his elbow.  “Brainy babe for sure.”

She turned away, modest.  “I just read a lot.”

No wonder Verge is so damn enchanted!

Miranda led Dante further down the thoroughfare, directing him to the best purveyor of nonnative herbs.  Noticing his increased confusion at the bounty of strange flora, Miranda patted his arm with a smile, and then searched through the stock for the best.

“Thanks, Mira,” Dante said, relieved, as they ambled onward.  “Bumpin’ into you was lucky.”

“Mira?” she echoed.

“Sorry.  I got a thing for nicknames,” he laughed.  “Did I offend your Brainy Babeness?”

Her laugh was a tumble of delight.  “No, not at all!  I like it, actually.  I’ve never had a nickname before.”

“Well, then.”  He adjusted her basket on one arm and gestured down the thoroughfare with the other.  “What’s your next stop, o Mira, Lady in Red?”

She rolled her eyes, smiling, but then glanced about.  “I’m not sure.  Perhaps it is destiny that I found you because I’d like to ask you something while your brother’s not around.”

Intrigued, he raised his eyebrows.  “Such an honor.  Ask away.”

Her fingers fidgeted with the end of her braid.  “I’ve been wondering…”

A group of people dawdled past, chatting and chortling.  The bustle had died down since Miranda and Dante crossed paths.  The mingled scents of buttered biscuits and butchered beef cuts traveled on the air.  The Sparda Express rumbled low beneath their feet, shooting little vibrations into Miranda’s pattering heart.

Her fingers closed around the tail of her braid.  “Does Vergil…like anyone?”

She’s fallen hard for you, Verge.  Ask this girl out, dumbass!

Dante put a finger and thumb to his chin in dramatic contemplation.  “Hmm.”

“I want to thank him for helping me do so well on our project,” she explained, as if to assure Dante that she meant nothing more than simple politeness.  “I thought I’d bake him something, but…if he likes someone…”

“One thing you gotta understand about Vergil,” Dante explained, “is that he hides a lot of what he’s really feeling.”  He tries his damnedest, anyway.

“I’ve heard that twins have a special kind of bond,” Miranda remarked.

Dante chuckled wryly.  “Oh, me and Vergil definitely do.”  I better not mention the demon thing.   “He’s a stubborn ass, and he’d stab me before admitting it to me, but I think he does like someone.”

Miranda’s heart plunged into her stomach.  “Oh.  I see.”  She clenched her hands tighter together to keep them from shaking.  “Then maybe I shouldn’t—”

“His secret obsession is marshmallows.”  A devious smirk appeared on Dante’s face.  

She looked up at him, puzzled.  “What?”

Sniggering, he imparted the memorable tale.  “One time when we were just kids, he snuck into the cupboard and devoured the entire bag of jumbo marshmallows.”  He shook his head, grinning like a jackal.  “He was puking for hours!”

“Aww, poor thing,” Miranda uttered with a sympathetic smile.

“He likes blueberries too.”  His mouth twisted, thinking more.  “Maybe bake a pie?”

Hope sparkled in her eyes.  “So you think I should make him something anyway?”  Her heart quickened at the renewed opportunity.

Dante nodded.  “He needs it.  Vergil’s too hard on himself.”

She clapped her hands together, elated.  “I saw fresh blueberries earlier!”

Chaotic metal guitar screeched out of Dante’s cellphone.  “Whoops, sorry, one second.”  He picked up.  “Hey, Mom.”

“Dante?  Have you found the herbs yet?” Eva asked, urgent.

He could hear his mother’s disapproving eyebrow.  “Yeah, and I had some help so they should be quality stuff.”  He winked at Miranda.  She smiled.

“Then please hurry home,” Eva entreated firmly.  “My alchemical mixture will spoil within the hour.”

“Leaving now,” he assured her, and hung up.  Turning back to Miranda, he offered an apologetic grimace.  “Business beckons.”  He hefted her basket up and down a couple times, studying its weight.  “Can you haul this thing home?”

Nodding, she took the basket with a cringe of effort.  “I’ll manage.  I always do.”  Her parting smile was dear and winning.  Dante had a gut feeling she could never be otherwise.  “Usually my market trips are rather lonely.  I’m happy that I found you, Dante.”

Bending ostentatiously at the waist, he twirled his wrist and gestured at her with an upturned palm.  “The pleasure was mine.”  Straightening, he added, “I’ll be sure to make Vergil come next time instead.”  He bestowed one final knowing wink.

Her burgeoning feelings for Vergil climbed like ivy back into her cheeks, a rush of red as obvious as her coat.  Dipping her head, she said, “Please tell him I said hello.”

Oh, I’ll tell him more than that.

“Sure thing, Mira.  Be safe getting home.”  With a salute, he strode away and disappeared into the crowd.  

Miranda immediately wended her way back to the vendor who boasted beautiful blueberries and used the last of her market money to buy enough for two pies.

* * *

Upon appeasing Eva and receiving praise for the impressive herbs, Dante headed to his bedroom.  He flung his coat onto the bed and stripped off his shirt.  Tossing his hair, he reached for the Rebellion.  

It hung shining and stalwart upon its sturdy mount, the toothy grin of the skull emblem staring back at its wielder.  A hefty claymore, it packed power and menace.  An instrument of death to the evil his father had now long opposed.  A symbol of his family’s war against the nefarious denizens of the demon world.

“What you are does not decide who you are,” Sparda had told his sons when he’d gifted them their supernaturally crafted weapons.  “Demon blood and human blood ride through your veins.  The power you have inherited is simply that.  Power.  Only you, in your own heart, shall determine how to employ that power and who you will become.”  The great legendary dark knight had gazed down in blazing pride at his two young boys, tears shining in his azure eyes.

Rebellion against the darkness.  Against both inner and outer demons.

Fighting to protect what was most important.

Love made all the difference.

Nodding, Dante took the Rebellion in hand and headed out into the courtyard.

* * *

With closed eyes, Vergil knelt upon the courtyard cobblestones in the humble posture of a dedicated samurai.  His gloved fists rested upon his thighs as he practiced his breathing techniques.  The November chill could not bite through his bare arms nor effectively penetrate his navy blue tank top.  Before him lay the Yamato, the lethal, space-slashing katana bestowed upon him by his mighty demon father.  Reverence and motivation burned within him.  This power given him was both an incredible weight and a driving purpose.  The blood and the blade both.  He craved to climb to the next level, unlock a new trait in the soul of his sword, bind it to his own and be one with the power already growing in him.  Ever striving for perfection.  

Without strength, I cannot protect anything.

On that day of initiation when his father presented the Yamato to him, Vergil swore an oath that his power would one day be absolute so that no harm nor malice would touch that which was most important to him.

“You improve swiftly, my son, but pride goes before a fall,” Sparda had warned his eldest child one night after training Vergil how to control his supernatural speed.  “Pride was the original sin, and we all of us bear its mark.”

“What’s got you knotted up?”

Vergil slowly opened his eyes, shifting out of his meditative state like pulling aside a gossamer curtain.  He took the Yamato in hand and stood gracefully to his feet.

“Finally,” he muttered, and turned to face his brother.  “You showed up.”

“Mom sent me out for something,” Dante explained, his stance loose and languid.  The Rebellion rested across one naked shoulder.  “If you wanna be pissed at someone, be pissed at her.”

“Running a simple errand cannot possibly take you three hours,” Vergil grumbled.

A mocking grin split Dante’s face.  “Maybe I bumped into a pretty lady.”

Vergil snorted.  “I suppose nothing else would delay you.”  He raised the Yamato between them, setting his thumb close against the golden hilt.  “You ready?”

Smirking, Dante settled into a half crouch, prepared to lunge, and swung the Rebellion out at his side.  “Are you?”

Vergil flashed him a matching smirk and flicked the Yamato loose.

The Rebellion and the Yamato clashed.  Silver sparks sprayed.  Metal screamed across metal.  Thunder rumbled overhead, mustering like a cheering audience to watch the sons of Sparda play.

Dante blocked a blow.  “She said to tell you hello.”

Vergil wrinkled his nose.  “Who?”  The Yamato caught the very tip of the Rebellion against its slick steel.

“She is so into you, bro,” Dante laughed.

“What are you babbling about?”  He came at Dante, slashing at breakneck speed.

Dante used Trickster and darted out of harm’s way in a bright flash of crimson.  “You know exactly what I’m babbling about!”

Vergil bellowed a battle cry and lunged like a viper.  “Shut up!”  The exertion of their sparring was not the reason for the scarlet pooling into his face.

The devil arms clanged together.  The brothers battled, gritting their teeth as they exerted their might, determined to test one another.  Thunder purred in the distance like a colossal cat.

Dante leaned in, grinning.  “Just admit it already.”

“Admit what?”  Vergil snarled, and flung the Rebellion away.

“You know what!”  Dante hammered against him, one heavy swing after another, beating his brother back.  “Better make a move before some other guy does.”

As a sharp crack of distant lightning skewered the sky, a sudden explosion of energy thundered through Vergil’s body.  Blazing cerulean light surrounded the Yamato, which he quickly sheathed to charge for a punishing strike.  Scowling at his brother, he cried, “We’re wasting time!”

Like a missile, Vergil rushed at Dante, shooting across the cobblestones.  Dante dodged again, evading his brother’s anger-fueled attack. 

“I am not interested in Miranda!” Vergil roared, slamming the Yamato back into its sheath.

Dante bent over in a big belly laugh.  “You do know who I’m talking about!  We might be getting somewhere!”

Vergil stood fuming, chest heaving, cheeks burning.  The Yamato rattled in his shaking fist.  “That doesn’t mean I like her!”

Dante slung the Rebellion over his shoulder again, unable to tame his wild smile.  “Oh really?  Then why are you always so quick to help her with homework?”

Vergil’s nose twitched but he retained his glare.  “…well—”

Dante cocked a knowing eyebrow.  “Why do you get so red whenever I mention her?” 

Vergil glanced away, gulping.  The heat gushed into his ears.  “…it’s just—”

“And why do you suddenly get so quiet when she walks up to you at school?”  Dante marched up to his stubborn brother and poked him in the forehead.  “You look like you’re about to have an aneurysm.”

Vergil released a barrage of excuses that were as credible as a walrus in a kiddie pool.  “She’s a friend!  She asks me for help so I help!  She’s none of my concern!  She is not into me and I’m not into her!” 

Suddenly the enthralling scent of plumeria overwhelmed Vergil’s memory, and the softness of her fingers when they’d accidentally touched, and her heart-stopping smile when she’d snuggled his scarf against her lovely cheek.

Dante shook his head.  “Such a dumbass.”  He hooked his foot behind Vergil’s heel and tripped his brother onto his backside.  Vergil groaned, loathing to be caught off guard.  By the mere thought of a girl!  

…but she is indeed beautiful…

Before Vergil could rise, Dante pointed the Rebellion at his chest.  “Since you aren’t interested in her, I suppose you won’t mind if I go for her then.”

Vergil’s steel-slathered resolve to conceal the truth fractured under the bullet that was his brother’s abhorrent suggestion.  Springing to his feet, he bellowed straight into Dante’s face, “Stay away from her!”

Dante’s eyebrows rose and his grin vanished in astonishment, but it quickly grew back.  “You said you’re not into her, so why can’t I ask her out?”

“Don’t bother!” Vergil snapped sourly.  “You’re not her type!”

“How do you know?  She had fun hangin’ out with me today.”

Bafflement replaced Vergil’s wrath, his frown falling away like broken tiles.  “What?”

Dante could not hold back the sarcasm nor the prodding mockery.  “The pretty lady I bumped into?  The one who said to tell you hello?  It was Mira.”

Vergil’s bewilderment increased as well as his suspicion.  “Mira?”

“Miranda!” Dante exclaimed, punching his brother in the sternum.

Vergil stumbled back and absently rubbed at his chest.  “You were with Miranda today?”

“She found me at Burrow Market, but she was hopin’ to find you.”  Dante bobbed his eyebrows.

Vergil scoffed.  “She was not.”

Dante nodded.  “She blushed at the mere mention of you.”

Vergil’s jaw tightened, a muscle pulsing nervously there.  “She did not.”

Dante gave a snort of laughter at the stiff expression on his brother’s face.  “She likes your motivation.”

Vergil gulped.  He remembered her words when he’d driven her home and the awe in her voice:  There’s always this aura of motivation surrounding you.   He folded his arms.  “Foolishness.”

Dante swung the Rebellion onto his shoulder again and shot a devious grin at his brother.  “If you don’t ask her, I will.”

Vergil’s chest tightened.  A rush of heat rose in him like a tidal wave, threatening to spill loose.  Cobalt flames rippled across his shoulders.  Dashing away in a dark blur of blue, he rounded Dante and slammed the end of the sheathed Yamato into his brother’s back.

Dante crashed across the cobblestones, the Rebellion clanking.

“So slow,” Vergil sneered.  Without looking back, he strode into the house.

Dante sat up, chuckling to himself, enjoying his victory.  “You’re so full of it, Verge.”

* * *

Sparda’s private study was situated below the foundations of the house, an alcove branching off of the main area of the basement where the hell gate dimly glowed with ominous scorched-orange light.  While the legendary dark knight’s sequestered chamber was in the western quarter, the chamber concealing the hell gate was in the eastern one and locked by means of keys both natural and supernatural.

Neither Vergil nor Dante were permitted in the eastern quarter.

Vergil stopped at the bulky doors, his solemn eyes full of curiosity and determination as he tried in vain to decipher the ancient alchemical markings.  Such alchemy was far beyond his level.  Compared to the expertise his parents possessed, he was still but a novice.  Eva had offered to expand his alchemical knowledge if he mastered the fundamentals in his Grey Grove classes.

Sparda had not shown the same enthusiasm about his wife’s offer.

Vergil longed to know what lay beyond these doors, but today he had a far more pressing matter.

The door to his father’s study was a stalwart, nigh-impenetrable panel of varnished black wood, imported from its native land.  Sparda had luxurious taste, and no expense had been spared when he had commissioned his home here in the human world.

Vergil chewed on his bottom lip while his heart rumbled like cannon fire in his chest.  Sparda did not appreciate disturbances whilst working in his study unless they were necessary.  Here he conducted his thriving business, took important calls, approved records and funds.  He had multiple companies under the umbrella that was the Alighieri Corporation—of which he was founder and CEO—but his battalion of secretaries did not work weekends.  So Sparda always reviewed the numbers and schedules on Saturdays according to his preference and strategist personality.  He approached business much like he did devil hunting: with efficiency, resolve, and style.  

As he stood upon the threshold to the dark knight’s sacred hollow, Vergil wondered if the nature of his visit was worthy of an interruption of his father’s work.

I won’t lose to Dante!

Upon the door, an exquisitely detailed horned skull clamped a hefty iron ring in its pale teeth.  The skull was the same crest that adorned the Rebellion and Force Edge.  Vergil took the ring in one hand, dragged in a long breath, and knocked.

Vergil’s tongue twisted into knots.  How was he to explain the mission he had accepted?  Dante’s challenge.  

“Come,” boomed Sparda’s voice from within.  It seemed neutral.

Vergil entered.

Candlelight illuminated the windowless chamber.  The same skull crest was carved into the onyx floor, a massive symbol of death to Sparda’s foes.  A marble pillar stood in every corner, each a different carven image of a hellish creature the dark knight had slain for the sake of humanity, his greatest victories since his forsaking the underworld.  Bookshelves stretched to the full height of the walls.  The sweet, musty smell of aged tomes and brittle parchments was a comfort.  Ancient, yet fully functional devil arms—forged by the master craftsman Machiavelli himself—were cradled in their sconces along the back wall behind Sparda’s wide desk of polished, pitch-black wood.

Behind the dark knight’s desk, the glimmering pair of augmented handguns Luce and Ombra were mounted on the stone wall ready for battle.  The grand weapon with which he had thrown down the emperor Mundus—the very blade of flesh-fused metal and bone that Sparda had used while serving as his second-in-command—was seated high in a place of honor, its keen edge never dull: the Devil Sword Sparda.  

On another wall hung a large oil painting, one that Sparda had commissioned from one of the finest European artists who revered the days of the Italian Renaissance.  Eva wore a soft, blushing smile, like she always did whenever she caught Sparda staring at her at unexpected moments.  The artist had beautifully captured her eyes, the joy and love that sparkled in them.  Both of her hands rested upon her huge belly, cradling their unborn sons.  Only a few days after the painting had been finished, she had given birth to Vergil and Dante.  Sparda had wanted to preserve the maternal glow she had radiated, and the exhilaration and happiness for their coming children.  

“Pardon me, Father,” Vergil began as the door closed quietly behind him.

Sparda looked up from the scattered papers upon his desk and squinted in surprise at his boy.  “Vergil?  Did your mother send you?”

“No, I came to…”  He cleared his throat and stood straighter.  “I’m sorry to disturb you.  I know your work is important.”

Sparda sat back in his ornate chair, sighing.  “Family first, my son.”  He removed his monocle and smiled.  “I need a break, and your mother says I am terrible at remembering to take one.”

Vergil licked his lips, nervous, unsure where to begin.  “I’d like to ask you for advice.”

Sparda’s brows rose in supreme intrigue.  Grinning, he rose from his desk and poured dark wine into a glass chalice.  “I am honored.”  He sipped elegantly, and then his knowing gaze slid to his son.  His mischievous grin reminded Vergil of Dante’s.  “Would it concern a fair member of the opposite sex, perhaps?”

Vergil shifted, but kept a straight, business-like face.  “It would.”

Sparda chuckled, quiet and proud.  “Oh, how I’ve waited for this moment.”  After another sip of wine, he set the chalice aside.  “I have heard the name ‘Miranda’ echoing from upstairs during repetitive rows between you and your brother.”

Vergil’s fingers fidgeted behind his back.  “That’s her name, yes—”  His voice snagged on a sudden involuntary gulp.

“She attends Grey Grove,” Sparda accurately surmised.

Vergil nodded.

“Tell me about her.”  His voice was smooth and rich, a voice that could enthrall and command without reproach.  A particular glitter in his pale blue eyes announced his eagerness to learn every detail.

Blushing, Vergil turned to the bookshelf beside him and pretended to peruse his father’s impressive collection.  Sparda had gathered the works of poets and novelists over the centuries and had inspired Vergil’s insatiable fondness for reading.

He ran a fingertip down the ragged spine of an anthology of Elizabeth Barrett Browning.  “She likes poetry.”

“Ah, I imagine she is quite intelligent, for nothing less could catch your eye,” Sparda said through an exuberant grin.

When he thought of their sessions together in the library, Vergil clearly recalled Miranda’s lovely voice reciting the lines of Night , the garden scent of her skin, and of course the light of her smile that shaped her beautiful lips.  Was it a potent spell that a woman could weave, ensnaring a man so effortlessly?

“She’s listed third in the overall academic rankings at school.”  Vergil drew a breath for bravery, and then turned back to his father, motivation furrowing his brow.  “I would like to invite her on an outing.”

Sparda’s grin spread.  The candlelight glinted off his teeth and his dimples ran deep.  “I believe the modern phrase is that you would like to ask her out on a date, yes?”

Vergil glanced away and nodded.

“Excellent!” Sparda boisterously cried, his entire face bright and enthusiastic.  He paced about the room.  “You must be sure to dress sharply.  Wear a tie!  Fresh flowers are an absolute necessity.  Offer your arm.  Open every door.  Lead her into seclusion.  Whisper to her of your heart.”

Vergil stiffened.  “Father, she’s rather shy—”

“You must build toward the summit, my son.”  Sparda winked.

A shard of the scarring image of his parents lost in their love in the parlor sprang to Vergil’s mind.  He cringed.  

“Father, I will not do anything to make her uncomfortable!” Vergil protested, slightly appalled.

“I mean nothing indecorous, of course!” Sparda assured him.  “But how can any intelligent lady resist my devilishly handsome and utterly astute son?”  He laughed heartily.  “You shall have her in your arms in a matter of hours.  I am certain of it.”

“We haven’t known each other that long—”

“The journey has already begun!”

“I don’t want to frighten her…”

Sparda’s gaze alighted upon the portrait of Eva.  “Your mother was incredibly difficult to woo, but when she finally succumbed…”  He closed his eyes and released a long sigh of delectable memory.  “Oh, how she succumbed.”  He chuckled, and then tapped a fingertip against his nose.  “A woman can be quite unpredictable so you must be prepared for every scenario.”

Vergil rubbed the back of his neck.  “I don’t even know where we should go.”

“It doesn’t matter.”  Sparda rested his hands on his son’s shoulders.  “She won’t say no.  I’m sure of that.”

“Will she expect something…intimate?”

“Ah, dear boy, you will know if she wants it.”

Vergil swallowed.  “Wants…it?”

Sparda cocked an eyebrow.  “Now, now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves, young man.  Recall the Talk I gave you.”

Blush burst across Vergil’s cheeks.  “No, Father, I mean—!”

“You will be tempted, my son.”

“Father, I just—”

“But you must resist!”

“I only wanted to—”

“Respect and honor, above all else.”

“Of course, Father, but—”

“If by some bizarre turn of fate she refuses you, do not despair.”

“I may have already asked her—”

“What was her answer?”

Vergil hesitated.  “She didn’t really give me one.”

“Pursue, my boy!  The ladies love a good hunt.”  He bounced his eyebrows.

Vergil scowled.  “Miranda’s not my prey!”

“No, no, no!”  Sparda waved his hand thrice.  “Of course not, but they love to be chased!”

“All I came to ask was where—”

“Locale matters little.”  Sparda clapped his son on the back.

Vergil sighed, frustrated.  “Never mind.”  He turned for the door.  “I have homework.”

“Do inform me of the results of your romantic venture!” Sparda called.

“Sure.”  Vergil quickly slipped out.

Pressing two fingertips to his forehead, he closed his eyes and shook his head.  He believed his father meant well, but instead of solid pointers, all Sparda had done was offer a confusing slough of flirtatious options.

Perhaps Mother might have more sound guidance.

* * *

While Sparda favored the tenebrous seclusion of underground, Eva best enjoyed her alchemical work on the topmost floor where the natural light nourished her hanging garden and tall open windows provided clean breezes and soothing birdsong.  

“Mother, do you have a minute?” Vergil asked upon opening the rosewood door.

Eva’s long golden hair was bound back tightly in a bun, and over her dress she wore a smudged smock slathered in colorful chemical stains.  Standing vigilant at her bubbling, elixir apparatus, she sprinkled minuscule crystals into the largest flask.  

“Of course, darling.”  With a smile full of love, she gestured for him to join her.  “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind grinding some herbs for me?  I want to finish this batch of vital stars before your father’s hunt later tonight.”

“Oh, not at all.”  Vergil came beside her.  

The hanging garden, a mural of splattered color and sundry scents, grew along the western wall, facing every sunrise, blooming despite the bitter weather.  Jars, flasks, spice mixtures, liquids, crystals, metals, and powders neatly adorned the shelves on one entire wall, all meticulously organized.  Fresh flowers occupied several ivory urns about the quaint and cozy workshop.  The windows were flung wide and the smell of a storm rode upon the air, mingling with still more scents of anise, sulfur, and tallow.

Eva set a mortar full of dried sprigs of feverfew and a pestle before him.  “Something’s weighing on you.”

Vergil absently ground the herbs, his thoughts quite elsewhere.  “So there’s a girl at school…”

Eva smiled, already understanding perfectly.  “Miranda.”

Vergil’s heart shot into his throat and he tried to swallow it down again.  Of course she’d heard the same “rows” as Sparda had.  “I’d like to take her on an outing, but…”  He glanced at his mother, who kept smiling as she poured fine black powder into her concoction.  “I tried to ask Father for advice, but…”  He shook his head, cringing.

Eva giggled.  “Your father often lets his excitement get the better of him.  At times I forget he was once a terrifying commanding force for the underworld.”  The glow of a precious memory bloomed in her cheeks.  “I see so much of his power and valor in you boys.”

That boosted Vergil’s courage.  “Where do girls like to go on a…”  He cleared his throat.  Talking was so difficult when discussing Miranda!  “…on a date?”

“Well, that depends.”  She added a pinch of what looked like grey salt crystals to the feverfew mixture.  “What does Miranda like?”

Vergil stopped working the pestle.  Shameful astonishment fell over him.  “I…”  He branded himself a fool.  “Besides poetry and the color red?  I don’t really know.”

“I’m sure there’s something more.”  Eva affectionately touched his shoulder as she moved to her shelves.

Vergil crushed the crystals into powder, ruminating.  “Well, she did tell me she’d like to see the countryside, and I think chocolate may be something she particularly favors.  I’ve noticed she has a mocha almost every day.”

Eva returned to the workbench.  “Why not have a picnic in that lovely wooded canopy not far from here?  It’s serene and private, and the leaves have yet to fall.  She could see all the autumn colors.”

Vergil smiled, electrified.  “That’s perfect!”

She winked at him.  “Mothers know these things.” 

The zeal then crumbled from Vergil’s face.  “But what if she declines my invitation?”

Eva snipped a few delicate buds of hawthorn off her hanging garden.  “Does she greet you often?”

“Every day, but she’s polite…”

“Do you two often speak?”

“Often enough, I suppose…”

“Does she smile when you’re together?”

“Well, we’re friends…”

Eva kept on grinning as if she had all the mysteries solved.  It too reminded Vergil of how his father and brother had smiled.  “Dante told me she was asking after you yesterday at Burrow Market.”  Her sly gaze slid to her son.  “She wonders if you fancy anyone.”

Crimson rippled through Vergil’s face.  He glared into the mortar and crushed the hawthorn as if it had plotted his downfall.  

Of course!  Dante and his big mouth!  

Eva rested a gentle hand on his.  He stopped.

A thick, wistful moment passed before Vergil sighed and finally admitted, “I fancy her, Mother.  I fancy her very much.”

She patted his hand.  “I look forward to meeting her.”

Vergil looked at her, hopeful and nervous.  “What will we talk about all afternoon?”

Eva took the well pulverized herbal mixture from him.  “Take a few poetry books and show her the countryside.  Everything else will fall into place.”

He raked a hand through his hair.  “I don’t want to do the wrong thing or frighten her or say something foolish!”

“You won’t, silly sweetheart.”  The viscous concoction bubbled as she added the mixture Vergil had prepared.  Then she cupped her son’s face in her hands.  Her touch was warm like the blankets of bygone yesteryear, and the love in her eyes was the love that had braved hellfire for her babies.  He remembered how she’d always held his face like this, since childhood, whenever she wished him to tuck an important truth into his heart forever.  

Stroking his cheeks, she said, “You are a handsome and honorable young man.”  

A small, bashful smile tugged at one corner of Vergil’s mouth.  “Thank you, Mother.”

* * *

The bells chimed out, the proclamation of the lunch hour.  Miranda spent a few extra minutes needlessly rearranging her locker, a habit she had acquired ever since her poetry project.  Vergil’s locker was just across the hall, and sometimes if she waited long enough…

“Hey, Mira!”

Dante sauntered toward her, waving an arm as if he wanted the entire school to know he was calling for her. 

“Hi, Dante,” she greeted, smiling.

He strode up to her and leaned one shoulder against the lockers, a complete devil-may-care attitude about him, and folded his arms.  “Have you seen my brother?”

“Well, not since poetry class.”  She glanced at him.  He smirked as if he’d caught her in a lie.  “Usually he offers to walk me to class after lunch.”  She kept moving books and notebooks around aimlessly.  “Or sometimes he spends his lunch in the library.”

Dante’s smirk only got bigger.  “You seem to be well acquainted with my brother’s habits.”  He glanced across the hall.

Vergil stood at his locker, glowering at Dante as if he were about to take Miranda into his arms.  Dante grinned back silently and leaned a little bit closer to Miranda.  Just a tactical tilt of his head.

“Oh, no, no, I just…” Miranda stammered, her face reddening.  “I just notice things, that’s all.”

Without breaking his challenging stare at Vergil, Dante added, “You’re welcome to hang out with me if he doesn’t show.”

Vergil dragged in a long, furious breath as his fists clenched white at his sides.

Miranda looked up at Dante, who turned back to her with his most debonair smile.  She smiled too.

Vergil’s lip curled and his teeth clenched.

Dante noticed and kept on grinning.  Devilishly mischievous.  

“That’s sweet of you,” she told Dante, completely oblivious to the silent showdown between the brothers, “but I think I’ll just catch up on some reading in the library.”

“No problem.”  Dante straightened and reached across her to point at her schedule.  “You play volleyball?”  His teasing gaze slid back to his brother and he bounced his eyebrows.  Despite the distance, he could see the twitching muscle in Vergil’s jaw.

She nodded.  “I didn’t think I’d like it, but it’s really fun!”

“Maybe I’ll come see a game sometime.”  He grinned at his fuming brother and it took everything in him not to burst out laughing.  “I’d like to see your skills.”

“Oh, I’m not really that good,” she meekly admitted.  “You play water polo, right?”

“Indeed I do.”  Dante leaned his back against the lockers, gaining a much clearer view of Vergil, who continued to seethe like a waking volcano.

You’re gonna need a pair of exhaust pipes for all that steam, Brother.

“I don’t know much about sports.  We don’t play them much in Fortuna.  Vergil’s obviously an excellent runner, though.”  Miranda sighed, dwelling on the few minutes she stole now and then of watching him practice on the track.  “I’m sure he’s the fastest on the team.”

Vergil momentarily softened, and gulped at Miranda’s unexpected compliment.

Get your damn dumb ass over here, Verge!  I am now officially in pain waiting for you to ask her out!

“I got a water polo match this weekend,” Dante mentioned, keeping it casual.  “You should check it out.  You might wanna try it.”

Miranda took a notebook and a leather-bound tome and dropped them into her messenger bag.  “I’m not sure what plans I have this weekend, but maybe.”

Make your move, bro!  She’s immune to my charms!

“I’ll see you later, Dante.”  Miranda offered him a sweet, parting smile. 

“I certainly hope so.”  He gave her a wink.

Once she’d vanished down a cloister toward the massive library, Dante pushed away from the lockers and marched right up to his brother.

“What are you doing?” Vergil snarled, fighting the urge to drill his brother through the floor.  Suspension would certainly mar his path to valedictorian.  “I told you to stay away from her!”

Dante spread his arms.  “Yet you just stood here like a dismal dope while I talked her up!”  He shook his head.  “Tsk tsk, guess you’re really not into her after all.”  Offering one last provoking grin, he turned away and headed for the dining hall, but called back,  “Makes it easier for me!”

Whirling, Vergil smacked his locker closed.  Glancing down the cloister where Miranda had gone, he felt a fresh new rush of motivation.

* * *

Unlike the one in Red Grave City, Grey Grove’s library had strict noise level regulations.  The architecture was strongly influenced by European design like the rest of the campus, and therefore nothing short of resplendent.  Marble floors.  Marble columns.  Intricate motifs.  Soaring vaulted ceilings.  Grand statuary of famous paragons of literature stood as guardians.  

That singularly rich, earthy, masculine fragrance—vetiver—made Miranda’s heart hiccup.  Like always.  Instinctively her fingers went to her throat, searching for Vergil’s scarf, eager to touch its warmth, to touch him, but was disappointed by its absence.  Embarrassed by her wistful silliness, she sighed in self-deprecation and dropped her hand to better clutch the stack of books to her breast.

Reading will distract me—

“Miranda?”

Vergil came around the corner of the aisle.  How long had he been standing just on the other side?  Broad-shouldered, long-legged, narrow-hipped, he was an image out of the poetry Miranda possibly loved a little too much.  The vetiver hadn’t been an illusory aroma after all.  Not a yearning memory risen to tease her.  He was so near…  Near enough to…  

Hardly a handful of students came to the library during lunch.  It felt as if they were the only ones in a thousand miles.

How can he be so…handsome?

Their gazes instantly found each other, as easy and familiar as parchment drinking ink.  A softness was in his eyes, mingled with a curious sort of…dread?  Anger?  She couldn’t be certain.  That adorable broody frown captivated her as much as that sculpted mouth.

“Vergil…”  She feared her tone betrayed her besotted heart, so added, “Are you studying too?”

“Actually…”  He stiffened and his gaze fell to the floor.  A heavy silence settled between them.  The furrow in his brow gradually deepened as he struggled through the tangled ribbons of his thoughts.  Then his eyes flickered to the books in her arms.  Talk about books!  That’s always a safe fallback!   

“What are you reading?”

“Oh!”  She blinked away her stupor and glanced down at her stack.  “A smattering of things, but today I chose Elizabeth Barrett Browning.”

He avoided looking at her, certain that her loveliness would render him as talkative as a rock.  Instead he pretended to peruse the high shelves before them, another smokescreen as he tried to organize his thinking.  “I haven’t read much of her work.”

Their private silence grew like a tree of myriad branches bearing blossoms of things yet known, yet tasted, yet ripe.

“Recently I’ve been rereading The Divine Comedy ,” Miranda mentioned, almost whispering.  

The fluttering inside her was blissful and painful, an ache that radiated.  His presence was like his scarf: near, warm, protective.  Nothing else—no one else—had ever made her feel this way.  Old bloodstained images of mutilated friends and howling demons suddenly swarmed her memory.  

The chaos that had erupted in the bowels of her mother’s laboratory…  

The resentful look upon her father’s face…

“This world can be a hellish place.”  The conflicting ache of loss and longing moved her to clinging tears, unbidden, burning, bewildering.  “An inferno through which we all must struggle.”

She closed her eyes, refusing to shed her old tears, and summoned newer memories made of books, shy laughter, friendship, and, for the first time in such a long time, hope.  All with Vergil.

When I met you I felt truly safe for the first time in my life.  A light having come to lead me out of the fire.

Miranda quickly turned away lest Vergil notice her sorrow.  “I’m sorry.  Literature makes me emotional sometimes.”

Vergil held his disguise of browsing books, but he took in her every word nonetheless.  The next hefty hush was bursting with the clacking of the clock.  He gulped, desperate to find his tongue, and crossed his arms.  “Dante says I’m too serious.”

Miranda’s arms tightened around her books.  “Being serious isn’t necessarily a bad thing.”

Vergil licked his lips.  Plumeria had to be the scent of angels.  He managed a shrug, and then narrowed his eyes as if he meant to obliterate the shelves before him.  “He also says I’m grumpy.”

Heart galloping toward combustion, she uttered, “I still think you’re sweet.”

Her beautiful assurance drew his gaze back to her again.  Blood thundered in his ears, raging through his hammering heart.  He remembered his mother’s words: You are a handsome and honorable young man.  

No.  He didn’t have time for girls. 

I want time with only one.

“Miranda?”

“Yes?”

He swallowed what felt like a lump of wet sand.  “You like trees, right?”

The question puzzled her.  “Trees?”

Vergil’s palms sweated.  “You said you’d like to see the countryside.”

Miranda nodded.  “Oh yes, very much.”

He opened his mouth to continue, but only a stumbling noise came out.

She pressed her knuckles to her mouth to hide a smile.

His mouth and throat were a parched desert chasm.  “Do you like picnics?”

Miranda once enjoyed a picnic with her mother years ago, on a white beach, one of the few fond memories she had of her life in Fortuna.  “I do.”

Vergil drew in a long steadying breath, stood tall, and braced himself as if for an ending blow.  “I’d like to show you.”  The words felt misshapen like the clay creations of a child.  “Would you like to?”

Miranda’s heart was a supernova flaring in her breast.  “See the countryside?”  

Vergil nodded, stiff as a petrified tree.  

“With you?”

Vergil nodded again, gulping hard, apparently incapable of any other gesture.

She finally managed to catch a breath.  “Do you mean…?”

With loud and painful difficulty, he cleared his throat, and then let all the words crash out of his mouth like opening an overstuffed coat closet.  “I-want-you-to-go-on-a-picnic-with-me!”

Miranda dropped her books.  The thudding noise made her gasp and jump.

Vergil stooped and gathered them for her as she stood breathlessly stunned.  Upon straightening, he was grateful that his hands didn’t shake as much while holding her books.  

They stared at one another.

Tiny suns blazed behind Vergil’s cheeks, but he bravely met her gaze.  “Please?”

Miranda stood flabbergasted.  Her hands flew to cover her parted lips.  Say something to him!

Is she trying to nicely decline?   Vergil’s heart stumbled backward into his gut, smacking the dark bottom like fragile fruit on concrete.  I guess Mother was wrong.

“My apologies.”  He glanced away and held out the books to her.

She did not take them, her hands clasped against her riotous heartbeat.  He set the books upon a shelf.  The brightest shade of scarlet colored his entire face.  His mouth was a firm line of dejection he could not hide.

Tears pricked Miranda’s eyes as she failed to answer him.  Why can’t I speak?  Tell him!

He turned to leave, and she felt as if he were walking away forever, never to return.

Miranda caught his arm in both hands.  “I’d love to!”  She cared not at all that she had violated the library’s noise mandate.

Vergil gawked at her, a happiness wondrously new to him filling his eyes.  “Really?”

Miranda’s smile was as pure and enchanting as the flower-dappled meadows near his home in springtime.  “Yes!”

He smiled so wide his dimpled cheeks quickly ached while his heart molded back together and shot up into his chest again, pulsing anew.

She did not relinquish his arm.  He didn’t want her to.  They spent a perfectly precious moment simply smiling at each other.  They shared shy, gentle laughter.

“So,” Vergil bashfully said, “how about Saturday?”

She nodded, ecstatic.  “Saturday sounds lovely.”

Nothing in neither the human nor demon realm could kill the joy he felt.  “I’ll pick you up at your house.  One o’clock?”

“Perfect.”  Like his, her joy did not falter.

The bell rang.

“May I walk you to your next class?”  Vergil’s voice turned a bit husky.

“Of course,” Miranda sighed.

“Let’s not forget your books.”  He picked them up and carried them for her.

“Oh!  Right.  Thank you.”

Together they returned to their lockers.  After Vergil had escorted Miranda to her geometry class, he attended his violin lesson.  He played with such fervor that his professor assigned him a more difficult piece.  Vergil’s soul sang out of the violin like never before.  Soaring.  Triumphant.  Jubilant.

* * *

With a girl mag draped over his face, Dante dozed on the gaming room couch.  The echo of the front door closing jostled him fully awake.  Sitting up, the mag slid into his lap and he flipped through it a bit more.  As Dante reached for the last of his soda, Vergil ambled past the partially open door…

Humming.

Dante froze, the can tipped over his gaping mouth, brow crinkling in equal parts confusion and curiosity.  After sipping the last dregs, he tossed the can into the trash and leapt up from the couch.  Something had happened, and he was determined to find out even if he had to take a few impalements from the Yamato.

Hustling out the door and with a boost of Trickster, he caught up to Vergil before he could seclude himself in his room.

Dante slapped his brother on the back, grinning.  “So what could possibly have you in such an unusually good mood, hmm?”

Vergil met his brother with a cutting, victorious smile.  “I win, Dante.”

Dante hooted with laughter, wrapping one arm around his brother’s neck in a congratulatory hug.  “Jackpot!”

That was not the reaction Vergil had been expecting.  Though confused, he was soaring so high on cloud nine about his date with Miranda that he just quietly let his little brother squish him in another hug.  No resistance.  He smiled, broad and deep, despite his bafflement.

“Holy. Shit.”  Dante finally released Vergil, chuckling.  

“You’re happy that you lost?”  Vergil asked, honestly perplexed.

“I always meant to lose this one, Verge,” Dante replied, savoring his own share of the victory.  His strategy had worked beautifully.  “All you needed was a motivational push.”

Vergil cocked an eyebrow.  “A push?”

Dante rolled his eyes, snorting.  “I was never gonna go for her.”

Vergil was utterly gobsmacked.  “You weren’t?”

“Of course not!”  Dante flung his arms out.  “She’s a hottie, don’t get me wrong, but stealing a guy’s girl is hella low, come on!”

Vergil glanced away, ashamed that he’d consider his brother so dishonorable.  “My apologies, Brother.”

“Besides…”  Dante backhanded Vergil’s chest, a good-natured thump.  “You two are like cinnamon and sugar.  Mac and cheese.  Burger and fries.”  He winked with a click of his tongue.  “Classic combo.”

Vergil smiled again.  “Thank you, Dante.”

“So when you goin’ out?  Whatcha gonna do?”

“We’re going on a picnic on Saturday.”

“Oooh, don’t forget a good snuggly blanket!”  Dante bounced his eyebrows.

Vergil rolled his eyes and opened his bedroom door.

“Hey hey hey!”  Dante stopped him from shutting the door in his face.

“What?”

Dante pointed at him.  “I want details afterward!”

Vergil blew out a rough sigh, considering.  His brother was so excited on his behalf.  Ultimately, he was grateful for Dante’s meddling.  This time.  

“If you want them, then you’ll have to earn them.”  Vergil’s grin was now a provocation.  “But you already knew that.”

Dante folded his arms.  “Best two out of three?”

Vergil nodded.

“Okay, Mr. Poetry.  On Sunday, I’m gonna kick your ass.”

* * *

As he waited for the door to open, Vergil anxiously adjusted his lapis blue tie for the hundredth time.

Shower?  Check.

Deodorant?  Check.

Cologne?  Check.

“Exquisitely dashing,” Eva had pronounced, beaming proudly.

Sparda had ensured that not a single spec of dust marred his son’s crisp white dress shirt, slacks, and suit jacket.  “She shall be overcome!”

“Wow, did I miss the wedding invitation?”  Dante puckered his lips playfully.  

Vergil snorted, hotly blushing.

“My advice?  Ditch the tie and unbutton a bit.”  Dante waggled his eyebrows.  

“I will not appear slovenly!” Vergil countered.

Dante rolled his eyes.  “Oh, ouch.”

Now, at Miranda’s doorstep, a single sizable drop of sweat slithered down his spine and all the doubts flooded his every thought.

The door opened.

Vergil gulped.

Miranda peered out and greeted him with a shimmering smile.  “Hi.”

He peeled his dry tongue off the roof of his mouth and managed, “Hi.”

The door opened further and revealed Miranda’s dark crimson sweater dress, white leggings, and classy brown ankle boots.  The dress stopped at her knees and hugged her womanly shape in ways her school uniform failed to do.  Vergil had been ignorant of the slopes of her waist and full flare of her hips.  Until now. 

The dress was not immodest, but it tastefully emphasized a pair of things that drew Vergil’s attention and made heat explode like firecrackers throughout his body.  He flexed his hands behind his back, chasing away a strange tingling, and glanced away, ashamed of his gawking.

“Oh, I need my coat.”  She vanished for a quick minute, and then stepped out and closed the door behind her.  A large wicker basket hung from her right arm.

Vergil stood firmly rooted, as entranced as a mortal meeting divinity.  Miranda waited on the tall step above him, a rippling in her blood, returning his awe and quiet anticipation.  Vetiver and plumeria.  

“You cut your hair,” he remarked, his gaze unbreakable.  Wavy bangs now hung above her eyes, blending into the longer tendrils that framed her face.  All of her hair was let down, a coiling dark crown falling like a rain of mocha ribbons.

A fashion magazine had caught her attention one evening during her shift at the library, suggesting a bevy of cute modern styles.  There had been a section offering advice for first dates.

Her heart lunged.  The hair stylist had promised her that the cut suited her, but Miranda hardly knew Vergil’s taste.  “Do you like it?”

He nodded, enthusiastic.  “Very much.”

Blush blossomed on her cheeks.  “I’d hoped so.”

He offered his arm to her.  “Shall we go?”  

She nodded and took it.

He walked her to his car, which he’d had washed and waxed the previous afternoon, and fulfilled his chivalric duties.  With a proud rev of the engine, they were on the road.  As they drove, Mozart quietly played.

“I like your tie,” Miranda commented as they left her street.  “Blue must be your favorite color.”

“Yeah.  Thanks.”  Vergil shifted in his seat.  “Red really suits you.”

She nervously fondled the strap of her purse.  “Thank you.”

Vergil navigated the busy weekend traffic with expert ease, taking the freeway to the city limits.  The noise and clash of metropolitan life faded.  Much of the rural area beyond was still part of Red Grave City.  Once they took the offramp, the countryside stretched out all around them.  The roads became old dirt and gravel tracks and Vergil slowed to prevent damage to the undercarriage of his Corvette.  They were the only travelers that day.  The sprawling, forested hills beckoned.  Soft green carpets undulated beneath the steel-lined sky.  Spears of sunshine escaped between the clustered clouds.

“You live here?” Miranda uttered in absolute awe.

“My house is just a few miles further.”  Vergil turned down another earthy road toward a small clump of woods.

After parking the car, they gathered their picnic paraphernalia.  Vergil then led Miranda into the cool, autumn-adorned woods.  Together they came into an open, mossy area surrounded by gnarled oaks and aged walnut trees.  A thick leafy canopy of garnet, copper, and gold sheltered the private little glade.  The grass clung to its lush and vivid summer life, and the peaceful quiet enveloped the thriving wild like a comforting quilt.

Miranda stood in complete amazement, admiring the stalwart trees towering over them.  Vergil removed his suit jacket and spread out the picnic blanket. 

“I’d love to live here,” she uttered, laying a gentle hand upon the trunk of a rugged oak.  “It’s so tranquil.”  Leaves of royal hues fluttered down around her.  The light wind caressed her hair.  

Vergil stopped unpacking the picnic basket to unabashedly stare.  The grand trees and vibrant colors seemed to bow before her, submitting to the beauty she bore, they but servants to the queenly radiance she humbly, unknowingly possessed.

“I envy you of this place,” she sighed, her gaze lost amongst the lofty branches.

Vergil blinked out of his daze and resumed arranging their lunch.  “I used to come here a lot when I was a kid.”  Eva had prepared little ham sandwiches on sourdough bread, homemade lemonade, and a sweet and sour mix of cherries and grapes.  “I still do sometimes.”

Miranda knelt beside him on the blanket.  “I’d come here every day.  It’s perfect for reading.”  She set her basket before her and drew out of it a covered glass dish.  “I made something for you.”

Vergil’s brows rose.  “You did?”  Only his mother had ever made him anything.

“Mhm.”  Holding out the dish to him, she smiled shyly.

He accepted it and removed the lid.  A tart and fruity aroma washed over him.  He gawked at her as if she’d kissed his cheek.  “Blueberry pie?”

She nodded and pressed her clenched hands to her breast.  “Thank you for helping me in poetry class.”

“Oh—”  He gulped.  “You don’t have to thank me, Miranda.”  He bent closer over the pie and drew in a long breath of blueberry.  “This smells extraordinary.”

She offered him a fork.  “I hope it tastes as good as it smells.”

Without wasting another second, Vergil stabbed into the pie, scooping out a hearty sample.  Miranda watched him eat, nibbling her lip, hoping it was perfect.

An intense frown furrowed Vergil’s brow.

Miranda’s heart skipped a beat, the terror of failing seeping in.  The blueberries were sweet and just a bit sour; she’d tasted a few to be sure!  The measurements had been exact!  The crust had come out wonderfully crisp and flaky!  What had she done wrong?

Vergil took another bite.  Then another…and another…  He ate with the unmistakable zeal of a child shoveling cake at his own birthday party.

“Is it okay?”

Vergil swallowed another huge mouthful.  “It’s amazing!”  He turned away and diminished a belch.  He’d eaten much too fast.  “Pardon me.”

She laughed, relieved.  “You had me worried for a minute.”

The happy, boyish, unbridled smile that illuminated his face revealed the rare, unhindered depth of his dimples.  “I might eat just the pie!”  Then he suddenly felt extremely impolite, and his smile retreated.  “I’m sorry.  Here, help yourself.”

“No, it’s all for you,” she insisted, secretly wishing he would smile like that again.  “Did you taste anything else?”

He stuffed another huge bite into his mouth.  “Marshmallows?”

“A little bird told me you liked them.”  She gave him a mischievous smirk.

Vergil liked that smirk.  He liked that smirk very much, and it sparked a shudder in his blood.  He gave her a single, impish dimple in return.

Miranda swore there were scorching fireflies nestled in her cheeks, and let a soft giggle escape.

The afternoon ambled along at a wonderful, leisurely pace.  Neither Miranda nor Vergil paid any heed to time, but sat close together and shared every pleasurable quiver.  She read William Blake’s The Tyger and Shakespearean sonnets while he devoured his pie.  After the third sonnet, Miranda peeked over her book at him.  Her mouth dropped open.

“Did you eat the whole thing already?” she laughed, stunned.

Vergil froze, his thumb in his mouth, and glanced down at the empty dish.  He looked positively culpable.  “It was really delicious.”

He’s just too adorable when he blushes like that.

“I guess I’ll have to make another one sometime.”  She gave him a napkin.  “I’m happy to know that you do in fact eat.”

He quickly wiped his mouth.  He feared his ears might turn into ash from their burning.  “Thank you.”

“You got some on your tie.”  She dabbed a corner of a fresh napkin on her tongue and wiped the sticky drop away.  The light tugging on his tie sent his heart into a dizzying scramble.  He chewed his bottom lip.

I want to hold her.  Would she let me?

Vergil felt her fingers tremble against his chest.

“It seems you don’t mind being messy when pie is involved,” she teased.

Vergil’s gaze flickered to her lips, but then darted away.

Miranda noticed the hard bobbing in his throat.  Her gaze wandered to his scarlet cheek.  The hard thumping of her heart tried to break her ribs.

I want him to hold me.  Would he?

He caught her staring.

They both glanced away.

“You haven’t really eaten yet,” he noted stiffly.  That cute frown Miranda loved came back.  “Aren’t you hungry?”

“Oh…a little, I suppose.”

Vergil read Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Lord Byron to her as she partook of a sandwich and a sip of lemonade.  Gargantuan butterflies roamed her stomach so she barely managed more than a bite.  

Vergil’s voice slowed and his heart hastened as he read Lord Byron’s Stanzas for Music :

There be none of Beauty’s daughters

With a magic like thee;

And like music on the waters

Is thy sweet voice to me:

When, as if its sound were causing

The charmed ocean’s pausing,

The waves lie still and gleaming,

And the lull’d winds seem dreaming:

And the midnight moon is weaving

Her bright chain o’er the deep;

Whose breast is gently heaving,

As an infant’s asleep:

So the spirit bows before thee,

To listen and adore thee,

With a full but soft emotion,

Like the swell of Summer’s ocean.

Miranda drew in a deep sigh.  “You read it so well.”

Vergil stared at her, helplessly spellbound.  …a magic like thee…   “I have a worthy audience.”

Their timid lips were near, near enough to taste the unspoken words.  Plumeria mingled with the dance of sugared lemon on her breath.  Woodsmoke lingered beneath the vetiver, and the comforting heat of a powerful flame radiated off him.

“Miranda…?”

“Vergil…?”

Cold, hard rain hurtled down through the treetops.  

“Oh!”  Miranda scrabbled for her hood.

“Blast!”  Vergil hurried to pack everything into the picnic basket.

Thunder rumbled like a vengeful titan overhead.  Neither of them had noticed that the clouds had congregated into the promised storm.  The day had grown dark, a shroud of gun-metal grey enfolding the world.  The rain struck like bullets, vicious and unrelenting.

As quickly as they were able, they hurried back to Vergil’s car.  He unlocked the door and ushered Miranda inside before setting the picnic things in the trunk.  Then he joined her in the backseat.

“I took a chance suggesting a picnic this time of year.”  Frustrated, he raked his fingers through his wet hair, laying it back.  “I’m sorry—”

Miranda was shivering and soaked to the skin.  Her winter coat had not withstood the ruthless Red Grave rain.  “I’m n-not used t-to this sharp, c-cold weather.”

Vergil reached back and took his scarf—the very one he had leant to her that night at McMiller’s—from atop the seats while Miranda stripped off her coat.  

“Here.”

“Thank you.”  The feel of his scarf again tickled her heart.

Vergil fumbled with his tie, trying to free his throat, but he was too flustered by the fear of having botched his first date.

“Wait, you’ll choke yourself.”  Miranda moved closer in the awkward confines of the car and reached for his tight, wet tie.  Their hands touched.  

As he let go of his tie, Vergil slowly ran the pad of his thumb across the palm of her hand, meandering her skin like it was a swath of velvet.  It was soft like the budding blossoms that climbed the walls of his house.  

Miranda trembled, and her breast suddenly dipped in arousal.  Their gazes held one another, diamond-strong and petal-gentle.  She released a trembling breath that parted her enticing lips.  His throat closed, encircled by an invisible band of fear and desire.  

Fingers shaking, she finally managed to loosen his tie, and slowly slid it off his neck.  She licked her lips.  The color of heart-red gems shone in her cheeks.

“You smell so nice,” Vergil whispered.

She could barely breathe as she felt his warm words upon her flushed skin.

“Thank you,” she whispered back, fighting the bubbling quivers that were swirling between her hips.  The rain had molded his shirt to his muscular chest, the cold defining every gorgeous line.

Vergil moved a damp strand of hair away from her cheek, his thumb brushing against her skin.  He then ran his fingers down her arm and slid his hand into hers.  

As if it had always meant to be, their fingers laced together.  A burning wish now granted.  Strength and sweetness.  Motivation rewarded.

A rush of breath fled Miranda.  Tears pricked her eyes.  Everything within her sang.  She turned away, embarrassed.  “My hair is such a mess,” she muttered, feeling foolish.

“Your hair is beautiful,” he assured her.  “Are you still cold?”

Her whole body trembled, but she’d forgotten about being cold.  “Um, a little.”

He reached between the front seats and turned on the car, then the heater.  Miranda shamelessly admired the rippling movement of muscle beneath his wet shirt.  Emboldened, he then sat closer to her.  Hip to hip.

Miranda slid her arms around one of his and leaned against his strong shoulder, snuggling close, and whispered, “I’m warm when I’m with you.”

Vergil gulped so hard his throat burned.  The press of her body to his own was magic, the powerful stirring of creation itself, a poem playing out in sacred privilege of which he hardly felt deserving.  The cadence that overwhelmed his heart beat through his every limb.  

He unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, hoping to loosen his clogged throat.  “I’m sorry the weather turned unpleasant.”

“I don’t mind.”  She adjusted her cheek against him and sighed.  “Not at all.”

Vergil chuckled, nervous and husky.  “Neither do I.”

The pattering rain was a gentle melody meant for dreaming.  A dream that kissed reality for but a fleeting moment.  A moment that could expand until the end of eternity.

“Vergil?”

“Hm?”

“Will you read more poetry?”

He smiled.  “I’d love to.”

Vergil retrieved the book of Blake he’d had since childhood from the back pocket of the driver’s seat.  Then he happily read poem after poem to her, never tiring.  She dozed, calmed by the rain and his smooth voice.  Safe.

Before he got far in the Book of Urizen , a chorus of chimes rang out of Miranda’s cellphone.  Gasping, she bolted upright and scrambled for her purse.  Quickly she silenced the alarm her father had insisted she set.  Sighing, she told Vergil, “I have to go home now.”

Disappointed, he blurted, “Already?”

She smiled at the yearning in his eyes, but sadness tainted the edges of her lips.  “I’m afraid so.”

Vergil took her hand again.  “Today was too short.”

“There will be another day.”  She ran her thumb across the back of his hand.  “Won’t there?”

Neither Hell itself nor any minion it could ever conjure would obstruct their next date.  If anything proved foolish enough to try, Vergil would cut it down.  “Absolutely.”

The sun had fully set by the time they arrived at Miranda’s house.  Vergil walked her to the front door and they stood hand in hand together under the porch light.

“Maybe we can go see a play next weekend?” she suggested.

“I like that idea,” he agreed.  “Again, my apologies about the weather.”

Beautiful and bashful, she hooked some hair behind her ear.  “Please don’t apologize, Vergil.  Today was better than I had imagined.”  The yearning to melt into him arose.  “I’m glad it rained.”

“As am I.”  He squeezed her hand, reluctant to relinquish it.  “See you on Monday?”

She nodded, squeezing back.  “Of course.”

He fingered the tassels of his scarf, which still hung elegantly over Miranda’s shoulders.  “Blue suits you too.”

Gazing up at him, she said, “Blue is beautiful.”

One dimple appeared.  “You can keep it for as long as you like.”

The mischievous smirk revisited her lovely mouth.  “You may never get it back then.”

Whether it was magic or not, Vergil was unreservedly captivated, as if not to be with her was foolishness and death.  “I hope not.”

Is it too soon to kiss her goodnight?   The allure of her lips was indeed a powerful force, but he thought it best not to hurry anything.  He rushed to speak lest his mouth lunge into that tempting crusade.  “Rest well, Miranda.”

“Rest well, Vergil,” she breathed, trembling anew as she suddenly wondered if he’d kiss her goodnight.

Offering her a nobleman’s bow of the head, he slid his fingers away from hers and returned to his car with an unconquerable grin.

Miranda watched him drive away.

Had today been a dream?  Was she about to wake?  The heat of blossoming ardor lingered, swirling inside her.

Is it too soon to be in love with him?

Chapter Text

The Smokin’ Sick Snack Shack! was a booming hangout for teenagers and famous for its gelato, pastries, and old-fashioned malts.  On Saturdays it was like a bee hive in springtime, but Vergil preferred the calmer crowd of a Sunday.  Plus, on Sundays, the SSSS! offered exclusive sundae creations unavailable on any other day.  He wanted Miranda to have as many options as possible.

As he drove her home one day, pondering possibilities for their next outing, Vergil had asked if she had ever been to the Smokin’ Sick Snack Shack! before.  She’d shyly confessed that she was not yet acquainted with downtown Red Grave.  When he’d told her they had gelato, Miranda gasped in glee as if he had found her lost puppy.  Gelato was the thing she missed the most about Fortuna besides the salty sea air and warm white beaches.

Vergil had smiled at her exhilaration, feeling every bit the clever hero.  Jackpot.

Downtown popped to life like a state-of-the-art, high tech, incandescent extravaganza as soon as dusk snuffed out the tired tangerine sun.  The colossal grid of massive screens in the center looped TV spots for new products, trailers for new movies, samples of new song hits, and quick minutes of top news stories. 

With Miranda on his arm, Vergil led the way into the Smokin’ Sick Snack Shack!.  Soft rock floated on the sugar-dipped air.  A long spotless mirror stretched behind the black and white checkered bar, which was lined with high leather stools.  The retro cash register was a coppery callback to soda shops of the 50’s.  The half-dome display case featured two dozen gelato flavors of swirling colors.  The triptych, chalkboard menu was slathered in calligraphy.  Prices were high-end but everyone agreed that anything at the SSSS! was worth it.

“A jukebox!”  Tugging Vergil along, Miranda hurried to drop in a few coins for a song.

“My brother has always wanted one of these,” Vergil remarked, squinting at the neon-lit disc changer inside.

“In Caerula, my hometown, there is a cafe I frequented, and it had a jukebox just like this.”  The glow in her eyes suddenly dimmed and her happy mouth wilted.  “I hope it’s still there.”

Surreptitiously, Vergil laced his fingers with hers between them.  “I’m sure it is.”

Kyrie by Mr. Mister flipped on.  Its upbeat melody and hopeful lyrics lifted Miranda’s heart again.  Squeezing Vergil’s hand, her smile revived.  “I love this song.”

Kyrie eleison

Down the road that I must travel

Kyrie eleison

Through the darkness of the night

Kyrie eleison

Where I’m going, will you follow?

As the lyrics poured over him, Vergil was accosted by something he had failed to consider: his demonic heritage.  Once Miranda knew of this, would she follow him into the darkness of that night, a road he must travel?  Would she be merciful?  Unable to bear the possibility of watching her draw back in fear of what he was, he buried it because he could not carve it out.  Perhaps it was premature to worry about that…

He squeezed her hand back.  I don’t want to let go.  “Let’s have that gelato.”

The girl behind the counter had garish, princess-pink hair and both of her bare arms were crowded with murals of muscular mythical creatures.  Her pistachio-green eyes glowed amidst the heavy sooty shadows painted on her lids.  Greeting them with a sassy smile, she looked ready to strut into a rock concert.

“Nice song choice.”  She flashed them a wink and a thumbs-up.  “You must be Miranda, huh?”

“I am,” Miranda replied, surprised.  “How did you know?”

The girl turned to Vergil, her jester grin revealing a purple wad of gum between her teeth.  “Looks like I owe your brother a double strawberry sundae.  You asked her out.  Well done.”

Vergil gave her a flat, irritated glare, and then read over the menu above their heads.  It was nice to know Dante had bet on him to come through, though.

The girl introduced herself to Miranda.  “I’m Quinn, and welcome to the quad S!”  She spread her arms and leaned her hands on the counter, her black-glitter nail polish sparkling in the neon light.  “It’s Sunday.  Wanna try a special?”

After perusing the menu for a few minutes, Miranda snuggled Vergil’s arm again and pressed close.  “It all sounds delicious.  Choose for me.  I can’t decide.”

He smiled at her, having already chosen the perfect flavor for her, and then placed their order.  “Blueberry Buckingham and Macchiato Miracle.”

“You got it.”  Quinn took up two ice cream scoopers and twirled them in her hands like a pro drummer with drumsticks.  “Sit your pretty lady down.  I’ll bring it out.”

Side by side in a quiet corner at a window, Vergil and Miranda enjoyed their gelato.

“It’s better than back home!” she proclaimed, savoring the toffee bits and creamy chocolate.  The hot affogato shot pooled into the caramel like liquid bronze.

With a mouthful of hot blueberry preserves and French vanilla, Vergil smiled.  He had chosen the perfect flavor for her indeed.  The joyous light in her eyes lifted his spirit.

“Mm,” she eventually exclaimed as she finished a mouthful of espresso.  “Would you help me study for my Ancient Cultures final?  The professor said it’ll be a beast.”

Vergil was swirling his spoon in the melted remains of his dairy dessert, preoccupied.  A couple marshmallows were left neglected at the bottom of the bowl.

“Is something wrong?”  Miranda touched his arm.

“Just thinking.”  He ate a marshmallow.

Miranda tilted her head to peer into his face.  “Brooding you mean?”

He frowned as if confronted by a baffling revelation.  “I’m broody?”

She giggled.  “Oh yes!”  Lowering her long and lovely lashes, she blushed neon pink.  “It’s cute.”

Vergil’s heart hitched.  “Cute, huh?”  He tried to sound annoyed, but his neck warmed anyway.

Miranda gave him a  sweet, teasing smile.  “It’s a compliment, Mr. Tough Guy.”

He straightened in his chair as one dimple dared to emerge.  “Well, if it’s coming from you…”  He slid his hand into hers beneath the table.

Miranda leaned closer, her lips glistening, rosy bravery rising in her cheeks.

Vergil’s drumming heart shot up into his mouth.  Is she about to…!

“You’re cute,” she murmured, her breath luscious like the dark chocolate that slicked her bowl.  “Deal with it.” 

Vergil caught himself wondering if her lips tasted like chocolate or coffee.  Probably both.  With a scorching flame, he envied the sacred duty of her gelato spoon.

Time froze as their gazes melted together.  A sultry voice drifted out of the jukebox now, floating on a yearning, melancholy melody.  A tender rain pattered the window.  Their entwined fingers moved and caressed, innocent exploration—

The moment shattered when some rowdy freshmen hustled into the shop.

Vergil shifted in his seat, unsuccessfully willing his blood to cool a few dozen degrees.  “I wanted to ask you something.”

Miranda took a second to catch her breath.  “Oh, um…  What is it?”

“Well, I know it’s only been a couple weeks but…”  Is this too soon?  Am I being too forward?  Does she even like me enough yet?  “I’d like you to meet my parents.”

Miranda had never dated before meeting Vergil, but she understood that meeting parents was hugely significant.  Am I that special to him?  Her breath snagged again.

“My father hosts a Christmas party for all his employees every year, and I thought it’d be a nice time for you to meet him and my mother,” Vergil continued stiffly, defying his dry throat.  He avoided eye contact and flattened his mouth, bouncing his leg, anxious.

She fidgeted with the edge of his scarf, which she always wore.  “I’d like to meet them.”

Vergil met her eyes again, delighted and relieved.  “You would?”

She gave a small, nervous laugh.  “I hope they like me.”

He smiled, recalling his family’s excitement.  “They already do.  Trust me.”

Her caramel-toffee eyes widened.  “You’ve told them about me?”

Vergil’s chest tightened.  “A little.”

Magic by The Cars started playing.  It spoke the unspoken between them as they laughed and blushed together.

Uh oh, it’s magic

When I’m with you

Uh oh, it’s magic

Just a little magic

You know it’s true

I got a hold on you

Just a little bit of magic

Pulls me through

Beneath the shelter of his umbrella, Vergil escorted Miranda through the rain.  A private corner awaited them aboard the Sparda Express.  Miranda rearranged Vergil’s scarf around her throat and leaned into him, her cheek to his chest.  He wrapped his powerful sword arm around her and held her.  Gentle.  Protective. 

The Christmas party this year promised to slay all with a little bit of magic.

Chapter Text

It was not the howling dragon of a storm that woke Eva.  

The piercing cold of winter had unreservedly clamped its fangs into Red Grave and raided the countryside, fretting hill and hallway like raving vandals.  The clouds, black as the abyss, churned and rumbled.  The wind, sharp and shrieking, collided against the house, demanding dominion.

A war of nature.

Eva shivered against her silken pillow.  The rich fabrics of the canopied bed failed to comfort her.  Sparda’s absence jarred her awake.  The antique clock clicked past 2 A.M.  Sighing, she cast away the blankets and reached for her gold-embroidered robe of black satin.

Walking the hall, Eva hugged her arms around herself and made her way to the bedrooms of her boys.  Thunder roared like a thousand bloodied warriors.  Quietly, she peered into Dante’s room.  

Her youngest was sprawled in his bed, snoring without a care.  Eva had wept for joy when she’d learned that she was pregnant.  She and Sparda had both hoped for a boy, and they had been blessed with two.  Dante had been a miraculous surprise; and his rebellious, spontaneous personality seemed all too fitting.

Eva smiled.  If only her heart could be so free and easy like Dante’s.  

Oh my silly, boisterous baby.  You restore my spirit.

She then closed the door.

Looking in on her eldest, Eva felt an old familiar unease.  It coiled like a patient snake in the pit of her stomach.  Never had she been able to adequately describe it, but it was like a premonition.

Something wants my children, and it’s sniffing at Vergil in particular, like a hungry predator.  

Eva was no seer, but her maternal instinct was enough to alert her that her babies were in danger.  Vergil was far more focused on honing his demonic power than Dante was.  Surely Mundus prowled about, seeking to devour.

Tears pricked her eyes.  

Vergil slept peacefully, his face perfectly relaxed.  Ever since he had begun dating Miranda, Eva had seen a beautiful shift in his daily mood.  Of course he and Dante still fought and quarreled like siblings do—though resulting in a significant amount of bloodshed—but her firstborn smiled more often now.  He also trained harder than ever.  In kendo.  In karate.  In academics.  With the Yamato.  His motivation had tripled if not doubled.

I’m so proud of you, sweetheart.

Gently, she closed the door.

The wailing of the wind was her escort as Eva descended into the grasping shadows beneath the house.  Sparda’s sequestered domain was deep in the cold earth, housing the fiery essence of his soul.

A converted soul that had burned for love and justice for the last two thousand years.

Eva’s naked feet carried her silently down the torchlit corridor.  The chill in the underground air pricked her skin.  Shivering, she longed for her husband’s warm embrace.  Rain thrashed like a barrage of bullets.  The only heat was a pulsing wave, faint and brief, that seeped out beneath the doors that concealed the hell gate.

Without knocking, Eva allowed herself entrance to Sparda’s private study.

The drowning flickers of flame scattered about the room clung to their bulky stubs of wax.  The decanter of wine was empty, beside it the chalice too.  The inkwell was a glass bladder relieved.  The marble effigies of conquered foes stood pale and silent, stone corpses posed in painful defeat.

Behind the paper-strewn desk slumped the legendary dark knight, sagging half asleep in his throne-like chair, his elbow propped up, his chin in his hand.  He had pulled the ribbon out of his seashell-white hair, which spilled about his mighty shoulders.

It was the posture of a hardworking husband and father trapped in the grip of slumber.

Smiling, Eva came around the desk and eased her fingers across his temple, gently stroking him awake.

“Darling devil mine,” she whispered.

A great gathering of breath filled Sparda’s chest, and he lifted his head from his hand to peer up at his wife.  He offered her a sleepy smile.

“It’s very late,” she lightly scolded.  “You’re working too hard.  Come to bed.”

Clearing his throat, Sparda straightened in his chair and blinked the unexpected nap out of his eyes.  “I’ve business still to conclude.”  His voice was thick and weary like a locomotive struggling to chug but bereft of fuel.

“Even legendary knights need their rest.”  Eva lovingly combed her fingers through his long hair.

Sparda sighed and his eyes drooped beneath the potent magic of her touch.  “I mustn’t neglect these contracts.  The new hotel opens next month and I’ve yet to finalize inventory and employee salaries.”  He covered a gaping yawn.  “There is also the Christmas party still to finalize.”

“Your secretaries can handle those preparations.”  Eva’s fingers wandered to the back of his neck.  

The tension sluiced out of Sparda’s muscles like the squeezing of a bloated sponge.  His shoulders slumped, and he spoke as if defeated.  

“I’m behind.”  The pen fell from his fingers.  He leaned his elbows on the desk and rubbed his eyes.

Eva bent over him and laid her cheek atop his head.  “Rest, and then you can return to your work tomorrow refreshed.”

“I’ve that counseling session with Grey Grove’s principal tomorrow afternoon, as well.”  He flexed his jaw, contemplating.  “Dante’s grades do concern me.”

“He must graduate,” Eva stated firmly.  “He needs a tutor.  Study hall.  Something.  Vergil’s help is not enough.”

“The boy simply has no heart for academics.”  It saddened him, but Sparda did not fault his youngest son for it.  “Let’s postpone further discussion until I’ve met with the principal.”

Eva nodded.  “Now, come to bed.”  She tugged on his brawny arm.

He removed his monocle, pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed.  “I loathe to leave my business unfinished, my love.”

Insistent, Eva plunked herself onto Sparda’s thigh and took his chin in one hand.  A languid, lovesick smile shaped Sparda’s lips as they gazed at one another.  The glimmer of their unshakable love shone in their eyes.  

She stroked the stubbled edge of his jaw and whispered,  “I loathe to sleep alone.”  Her hand wandered down his broad chest.

Sparda smirked and slid his arms around her waist.  “Shame on me.”

Playfully, she nodded, and then pressed her mouth to his.  Sparda’s lips parted and enfolded hers in a gentleness one might deem impossible for a demon.  Once she had admitted to herself that she was in love with the legendary dark knight, a courageous and righteous-hearted demon who had defected to humanity, Eva no longer believed in impossibility.

“I love you, Eva, my golden star,” Sparda sighed, husky and enthralled.  “My only vital star.”

It had been more than twenty years since they first met, but even now the ruddy rush colored Eva’s cheeks.  Rolling her eyes, she pursed her lips in an attempt to suppress a girlish giggle, but when Sparda’s smile expanded it escaped.  He laughed too, an attractive thrum in his throat.

“Please come to bed,” Eva stated, pretending to ignore her arousal.  The blush deepened.

“You’ve convinced me,” Sparda murmured at her lips, smiling deep enough to present his wicked dimples.  Mischief sparkled in his slate-blue eyes as his fingers fondled the nib of one breast.  Despite the hour and her sleep deprivation, her skin prickled with excitement and her heart scuttled faster.

“Forgive me, my love,” she sighed, wistful and tired.  “I haven’t the energy for you tonight.”

Sparda’s full lips slightly jutted, an endearing boyish pout.  “You come to me in the dead of night in naught but a wisp of a garment, seduce me with your ardent kisses and wake my blood to savage pounding, and then tell me you haven’t the energy?”  His shoulders dramatically slumped.  “Does this old creature bore you now?”

Eva gave him an amorous smile.  “Not one bit.”  She caressed his cheek.  “I hope I haven’t disappointed you.”

He pulled her closer and whispered, “You never have, Eva my beloved.”  He drew her into a kiss meant to persuade and reassure.  “Not once.”

For most, age was just a number, but for Sparda it was a guessing game.  Eva had asked him once, but all he knew for certain was that he had lived as a human for two thousand years, give or take.  Yet, however old he truly was, Eva was the one and only woman who had captured the entirety of his scarred and weary, battle-stained heart.

Eva cupped his face and kissed him, delighting in the passion of his strong touch and the truth of their bond.  The kiss reached deeper.  Gasping, she straddled him.  Sparda untied her robe, opened it, and slid his diligent hands inside, exulting in her naked curves—

A sharp and jolting grimace wrenched Sparda out of their escalating fervor.  He slammed his eyes closed as if a monstrous migraine had speared him through the brain.  Clutching his head in one hand, he took a moment to breathe and banish the pain.

“Sparda?” Eva uttered, her heart scrambling into her throat.

He forced steady breaths into his old lungs, silent in his concentration.  When he spoke, his words were made of tired steel.  “The gate…  Its hunger grows…”

Eva’s brows knitted together.  The old argument began to rise in her again, but she stuffed it back down and kept silent.

The storm raged like a rabid beast let off its chain.

Eva shuddered and snuggled closer in Sparda’s lap.  “Nights like this always remind me of when they were born.”

“You looked in on them, didn’t you?”

Eva rested her head upon his shoulder and nodded.

“I will not allow the gate to fade, my love,” Sparda promised, running his fingertips down her back.  “You needn’t fear.”

Eva lifted her head again, and in her gaze burned the vehemence of motherly love.  “Our babies will never be truly safe until Mundus is dead.”

When he whispered, the abyss echoed in Sparda’s voice.  “He shall die.”  Yet a lingering thought nagged him once again like a spider stalking along the edge of his confidence.

I need more power.

* * *

The sensation was like a slow, corpulent eel swimming through Vergil’s chest.  It brushed the edge of his heart and undulated through his limbs like a buttery ripple.  Panting, he awoke, his whole body trembling and his mouth dry.

A pulse of power.  Foreign.  Intimate.  Exhilarating.

Vergil sat up in bed and raked his hands through his hair.  Burning sweat dappled his brow and had soaked through his tank top.  The blood surged through his veins like the force out of a smashed hydrant.  He gulped for air.  The heat in his cheeks was like a sunburn.  Throwing off the bed covers, he headed for Dante’s room.

Taking the shortcut through the bathroom, he stealthily cracked open his brother’s door and peered in.  Dante was out like a burst light bulb.  Vergil padded to his brother’s bedside and shook his bare shoulder.

“Dante,” he urgently whispered.

He snorted, frowned, and rolled away.

Annoyed, Vergil shook him harder.  “Dante!”

He groaned, justifiably disgruntled.  “Vergil?  What the hell?”  He sucked in a breath and yawned, rubbing at one eye.  “Nightmares again?”

“No.”  

Both boys had suffered them almost nightly for a time as children.  In those days, Dante would climb into his big brother’s bed for solace with Vergil’s promise to protect his little brother from the scary dreams.

Dante sat up and tossed his unkempt hair.  “Well, I know you’re not here to tell me the juicy dream you probably had about Mira in the nude so—”

Grinning sleepily, he blocked Vergil’s vicious cross-chop that nearly clipped his windpipe.  “I can read you like a book.”

“I’m not messing around!”

“I know, you wouldn’t dare.”  Dante took up the handgun magazine he’d been reading before sleep had knocked him out.

Vergil snatched it out of his hand.  “Listen to me!”

“What is your problem?”

Vergil took a breath and forced himself to mellow out.  “Did you feel a strange…pulse…a few minutes ago?”

Dante’s brows pinched together.  “Pulse?  What do you mean?”

A faint thrumming kept rolling through Vergil’s veins.  He lifted his shaking hands between himself and Dante.  “A pulse of power.”

Clouds collided like high speed semis going head to head.  The rain poured hard as if the grave-black sky meant to poison the pitiable earth.  The thunder sounded like the screams of the murdered dead.

Why did this sudden sense of impending peril only fall over Vergil?

“It feels like…an awakening,” he uttered, half excitement and half dread.

“Dad told us our power hasn’t fully matured yet,” Dante reminded him.  

Vergil met his brother’s eyes.  “Father’s keeping secrets from us.”

“The basement?”  Dante shrugged.  “Whatever.  I don’t care.”

Vergil’s eyebrows elevated.  “You don’t care?  Really?”

“It’s Dad’s business.  I’d bet my handsome ass it’s demon-related.”  He raised his hands in contented surrender.  “That’s all I need to know.  If the shit hits the fan, I’ll bring the pain.  I try to keep it simple.”

Vergil scoffed, a piece of sarcastic laughter tumbling out.  “We are the progeny of the legendary dark knight Sparda.  There is no such thing as ‘simple’ for us.”

“Dad wants us to keep that on the down low.”  Dante raised one eyebrow, pointedly.

“I do not strut about proclaiming my heritage,” Vergil rebutted.  Suddenly his resentful expression shattered like a chunk of iron through fine china.

“You haven’t told Mira yet, have you,” Dante assumed, cringing.

Vergil’s gaze had wandered miles into hazy grey.  His heart trembled at the mercy of this swath of unknown.  He licked his dry lips.  “No.”  Would she spurn him?  Would she fear him?

“Guess you’re right,” Dante admitted.  “Always gotta be complicated.”

Vergil wiped a hand across his damp brow.  “I know I must tell her eventually, but…”

“You’ll figure out the right timing.”  Dante yawned again, loud and exaggerated.  “I’d like to go back to sleep now, bro.”

Wordlessly, Vergil returned to his room, but sleep would not return to him.

This…power…  Why didn’t Dante feel it?  What is Father not telling us?

* * *

The McLaren cleaved through the cacophonous rain like an aerodynamic scalpel.  Its body, amethyst-black so dark a sunbeam fought to coax a purple glimmer, was the epitome of sleek and sexy automotive style.  Speed to such a vehicle was like breathing to a man.  Utterly effortless.  Absolutely critical.  The storm proved a feeble contender against the supercar.  Wind screamed and thunder thrashed like toddlers throwing tantrums.  Vivaldi filled the sumptuous cabin as the McLaren carried its master gracefully onward.  LED lights illuminated the rear plate: L3GNDRY.  Sparda knew nothing of doing things by halves.

The luxury-laden tycoon pulled into a parking space in the covered lot of Grey Grove’s administrative building.  After enjoying the final foamy sip of his London Fog latte, Sparda adjusted his monocle and tapped a button that lifted the driver’s side door. Like stepping out onto the Red Carpet, he disembarked.  The bitter, brutal air stirred the edge of his lengthy frock coat and a few errant raindrops dared to splatter his crisp frost-white cravats.

Adorned in an exorbitant ensemble—a pinstriped suit and coat of deepest sable, polished shoes of the finest Italian leather, and lily-white silken gloves—the legendary dark knight made his way through several marble corridors toward the principal’s office, his stride imperial and imposing.

These halls were not strangers to him.

The receptionist was a freckled willowy girl who hardly looked old enough for Schnapps.  She was diligently updating appointments in the digital database while wearing headphones, oblivious to the visitor.  Sparda approached her as if approaching a skittish filly.  Sensing a tangible shadow, she looked up from her task and gave a little start.

“Sir Redgrave, I’m so sorry!”  She ripped off the headphones as she sprang clumsily to her feet and bowed her head as if addressing a duke. 

“Good afternoon, Miss Katey,” he greeted, trying to suppress his intimidating aura.  “I have an appointment with Ms. Chambers at one-thirty.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Katey assured him, nodding.  Her pretty copper-gold curls bounced as she resumed her seat at the computer.  “She’s with another parent at the moment.  Please have a seat.”  After checking him in, she gestured at the coffee bar to her right.  “Complimentary drinks, if you like.”

Content without a beverage, Sparda sat in one of the leather chairs, crossed a knee over the other, and waited.

Some time later, the heavy oaken door to the principal’s office opened.  A deep, rasping voice that reminded Sparda of a snarling three-headed dog emitted from the doorway.  The words were not unkind, but firm and pragmatic.

“I want weekly reports.”

“Of course, Sir Macto,” the principal, Ms. Chambers, replied hurriedly.

Sparda raised an eyebrow.  Sir Macto…  A knight?

The man lacked height but was built like a professional wrestler.  The plain beige suit he wore struggled to contain his thick layers of muscle.  He carried himself like any proud warrior, but despite his failure to achieve six feet above the ground, he had a commanding way of stripping the poor lady principal of her confidence with but a brief narrowing of his seaweed-green eyes.

“Good day, Sir Macto,” Ms. Chambers offered, a slight tremor in her voice.  “I appreciate your time.”

Sparda rose to his feet.

As Sir Macto passed, his and Sparda’s gazes met.  An unspoken acknowledgment of their mutual status as soldiers was exchanged.  The knights traded civil nods.  As Sir Macto marched out as straight as a lance, Sparda noted the tattoo on the back of the man’s bald head.

The emblem of the Order of the Sword.

Before Sparda could give this curious turn of fate more thought, Ms. Chambers spewed her regrets.

“My apologies, Sir Redgrave,” she said, laying a hand upon her breast.  “I do hope you haven’t been waiting long.”  

“No, not at all,” Sparda assured her, his smile genteel.  “Shall we?”

The dark and lacquered cherry wood walls of Principal Chambers’s office were slathered in diplomas and certificates, indicating a life of education, diligent studying, and profuse academic focus.  The title of principal had fallen to her half way through the previous year when her predecessor had perished in a brutal, city-wide demonic onslaught.

A cozy, golden fire snapped and sparked in the stone hearth, chasing away the winter chill, and artsy knickknacks decorated the mantle.  Cedar and vanilla hung in the comfortably warm air.

“I appreciate your combating this atrocious weather to meet me, Sir Redgrave.”  Ms. Chambers closed her office door.  

Sparda waved it away with a graceful flick of his gloved hand.  “Oh, I’ve surmounted much worse, believe me.”

Ms. Chambers released a small sigh, a glimmer of awe in her eyes.  “I imagine a man of your background has endured countless obstacles.”

Sparda presented a dimple wrought of veiled implication.  “Indeed, when one is ex-military such as myself, he acquires something of a…second skin in order to prevail.”

Ms. Chambers rounded her desk and settled into her cushioned chair and Sparda took the plush seat before her.

“Our meeting surrounds the topic of my younger son, yes?”  He adjusted his coat around Luce and Ombra, which were strapped snuggly to his thighs.

“Indeed.”  Ms. Chambers woke her computer.  “Let me pull up his record.  One moment, please.”  Keyboard clacking mingled with the crackling of the fire.  A moment later, Ms. Chambers turned to Sparda, folded her hands atop her desk, and offered him a placating prelude.  

“Let me assure you that Dante is a charming boy and quite popular—”

Sparda lifted a hand, gently interjecting.  “Good madam, forgive me, but the matter of my son’s personality is not in question, neither is it the reason for my being here.”  

Ms. Chambers blushed, embarrassed.  “Oh of course, yes, you are correct.”  She cleared her throat, but hesitated to proceed.

“Please, do be frank,” Sparda encouraged.  “I would appreciate it.”

Ms. Chambers sighed and met his piercing ice-blue eyes.  “Academically speaking, Dante is failing.”

Sparda narrowed his eyes.  He had expected low grades, but…  “Failing?”

Ms. Chambers nodded.  “His record currently reflects mostly D’s, and he is barely clinging to a couple C’s.  His singular A in water polo will not carry him through.”

Closing his eyes for a short moment, Sparda let out a sigh of disappointment.  Oh, Dante, my rebellious boy…

“If he does not improve quickly I’m afraid he will not graduate,” Ms. Chambers continued.

“I see.”  Sparda rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and laced his fingers beneath his chin.  “What can be done?”

“Vergil, in stark contrast, is one of Grey Grove’s top students,” Ms. Chambers remarked, “so I imagine he can help his brother in his studies—”

Sparda released a throaty, sultry chuckle.  “My sons may be twins, but they oppose each other more often than you might think.”  Though I’m certain Dante’s C’s are due to Vergil’s interference.  As for water polo, I’m not surprised in the slightest.

“Grey Grove does offer a wide selection of professional tutoring.”  Ms. Chambers slid open a drawer and produced a chunky plastic binder neatly and colorfully tabbed.  “Dante would greatly benefit from one of our programs—”

Like a sucker punch, a shrieking alarm like an air raid siren alerted the entire campus.  A mechanical, male voice chanted emergency instructions.  “WARNING.  DEMONIC ACTIVITY DETECTED IN EASTERN GYMNASIUM.  PLEASE PROCEED TO THE NEAREST EXIT AND EVACUATE.  THIS IS NOT A DRILL.  WARNING.  DEMONIC ACTIVITY DETECTED IN EASTERN GYMNASIUM.  PLEASE PROCEED TO THE NEAREST EXIT AND EVACUATE.  THIS IS NOT A DRILL.  WARNING…”

Ms. Chambers jumped up from her chair, muttering a prayer at the ceiling.  “Blessed Dark Knight help us!”

Grinning, Sparda stood to his feet in all elegance and aplomb.  I intend to do just that.   

Battle fever tingled in his warrior blood.  Oftentimes he wished he could reveal his true identity to Red Grave City’s public, but that would only serve to encourage peril upon his family. 

Katey had already abandoned her station, joining the other administrative personnel hustling toward the emergency exit.  Ms. Chambers did the same.

Following the end of the column of staff members, Sparda exited the building, but slipped away in stealth once a propitious moment presented itself.  Without breaking a single authoritative stride, he pulled free his specially crafted handguns and channeled blazing power into their fully loaded clips.  He detected the auras of his sons to be far outside the gymnasium.  Pushing aside his paternal concerns, he hastened for the heart of the invasion, evading the evacuating crowds, resolved to make short work of the pathetic scum.

* * *

“WARNING.  DEMONIC ACTIVITY DETECTED IN EASTERN GYMNASIUM.  PLEASE PROCEED TO THE NEAREST EXIT AND EVACUATE.  THIS IS NOT A DRILL.  WARNING…”

All forty-three students popped to their feet like meerkats.  Textbooks flopped onto the floor.  Laptops slammed shut.  Girlfriends clung to boyfriends.  The history professor, in his wavering elderly tone, tried to maintain order.

Eastern gym?  Miranda!  

Ignoring emergency procedures, Vergil sprinted out of the classroom and cut a swift path to the gym.  He bolted down hallways and skidded around corners, dodging evacuees, and crashing through the main doors that led out into the courtyard where he had once rescued a lovely lady’s essay.  His heart thrashed against his ribs, harder than his feet hitting the earth.  

Miranda might already be among the dead.  Vergil fought that thought like a savage animal.

Hold on, Miranda!

The rain dashed against the earth.  Thunder rolled across the trench-black sky.  Rage and dread crossed swords in his heart, which madly pounded in his mouth.  

As he neared the hot zone, the mechanical chant faded into a muted drone, replaced by the muffled chorus of terrified screams.  One by one they were silenced.  Final, useless cries.  A hypnotic song carried each of the dying into darkness.  The last scream ceased like the snuffing of a wavering flame.  The devilish siren song altered to a stream of victorious cackling.

Questioning nothing, Vergil shouldered his way into the gym.  Stretching out before him, death was slathered all over the floor.  The breath was torn out of Vergil’s lungs.

The blood was thick and shining, cherry-red, nearly black in the ruined light.  The gym teacher lay scattered in four pieces.  The volleyball was no longer white.  The mangled bodies of Miranda’s classmates lay broken and blood-smeared.  Not one of them made it far to the doors.  The air hung jungle-heavy, hot and wet, in the hazy darkness.  Only a single bar of flickering artificial light remained.

Beneath the basketball hoop, six gangly demons crowded together, their attention gripped.  Pawing and giggling, they whispered amongst themselves.  

Panting and shaking, but holding fast to his mental discipline, Vergil approached.  The terror of what he may yet discover was like a rope of thorns around his heart.

“The scent of Sparda is on her.”

“Sparda…yet not Sparda.”

Ropy, wrinkly tongues like mooring lines whipped and writhed.

“A feast to be savored.”

“A taste of the divine.”

The demons shuffled around the focus of their delight.  Vergil’s heart plunged.  Miranda lay pallid and unconscious at the mercy of the devils as they slid their detestable tongues along her bare legs.  Freakishly long fingers stroked her face, fondled her hair, and tugged at her uniform.

One lifted Miranda’s shirt.  “I want her breasts.”

Another pulled the edge of Miranda’s shorts down, exposing her hip.  “I shall take the womb.”

A third sniffed at Miranda’s forehead.  “The brain is my portion of choice.”

Weaponless, but motivated beyond all rational thought, Vergil gritted his teeth and charged headlong at the hideous fiends.  “Miranda!”

All six tongues arose, joined, and slammed as one powerful battering ram against him, knocking him off his feet.  Snarling, he quickly sprang into an offensive stance and raked back his rain-drenched hair.  The demons swiftly turned to confront him, their tongues wavering high and dripping with the blood of the slaughtered.  

Similar to their Nobody counterparts, the lower halves of their mutilated faces were hidden behind masks, cracked and grotesque.  The blood of their victims seeped through the cracks, dripping like crimson tears.  Pitiless, black pupils filled their scarlet, bulging eyes that never blinked.  Two twisted horns crowned each of their heads and a pair of crooked tusks jutted from their gaping maws.  

Jilted outcasts eternally consumed by demented, unrequited love.

“The spawn of Sparda wants to play!” sneered one with a throaty laugh.

“The girl wears the scent of this one!” hissed another, her tongue thrashing faster.

Pale violet-blue flame rippled along Vergil’s shoulders as new power swelled like a rogue wave inside him.  

The stale air was rife with the fetor of spilt blood and the perfume of falling sakura.

“I want his heart between my teeth,” giggled one.

“Let me lick that handsome face from his skull!” another moaned.

The tongues locked together and swayed in unison.  “Come, child!” they cried in one voice.  “You shall satisfy as our main course!”

Shrieking, the envy-fueled Outcasts rushed at the son of Sparda.

Vergil closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, gathering concentration.

I will protect you.

The devils surrounded him in a tight circle, their tongues flailing.  A great explosion of cerulean light filled the gymnasium.  A concussive blast of power flung the demons outward.  A single slash severed all six monstrous tongues. Each one thudded onto the floor, violently convulsing like a cloven worm.

The Outcasts disentangled their long limbs and scrambled upright.  The stumps of their tongues dangled lifeless and bled black blood.

“The fruit of Sparda’s loins has ripened in power!”

Standing tall and panting in exhilaration, Vergil gawked at the Yamato held firm out at his side.  Its sudden materialization…  The fear for Miranda’s life…  The surge of new power awakening within him…  The will of the Yamato and his own…

The Outcasts dragged themselves toward him again, mangled but not defeated.

With a samurai’s reverence, Vergil slid the Yamato into its sheath again.  Azure-white light sparked to life along its length.  The deciding light of judgment.

Huge bullets wrapped in purple-ebony power blew gaping holes into the Outcasts’ skulls.  A dramatic shattering of bone and black blood erupted like a water show at an amusement park.  The devils were thrown back screaming, the momentum tossing them like rag dolls across the floor.

Vergil whirled around.

Sparda strolled into the gym as casually as if he were walking through the gardens at home.  Grey smoke curled away from the hot barrels of Luce and Ombra.  With a proud-father grin, he came to Vergil’s side as the Outcasts stumbled to their feet once more.

The light of judgment faded from the Yamato as Vergil positioned it behind his left arm as if to hide it, albeit poorly.

“Father, the Yamato—”

Sparda rested a reassuring hand on his shoulder.  “We will speak of it later.  Go.  I shall finish the mission here.”  His dimpled smile widened.  “You’ve done well.”

Vergil squared his shoulders and felt a flutter of relief, but it died when the Outcasts screeched more madly than before.  All of their attention was fixed upon the legendary dark knight.

“Go!” Sparda commanded, and strode to meet his foes.

“I won’t run!  I can still fight!”  Vergil argued, his hold tightening on the Yamato.

Sparda skirted a chopped tongue that refused to expire.  A bullet from Luce punched another Outcast mask through the eye.

“You are not running, Vergil!”  Ombra spat a heavy slug through the narrow kneecap of another Outcast, partially crippling her.  “You are rescuing.  Take the lady survivor and find your brother.  These hell harlots are here for me.  Now go!”

For you?

Vergil itched to end the scum that had threatened Miranda, but she needed him in a different way now.  Not wasting another moment, he hurried to her and lifted her into his arms.  Before exiting the back doors, he glimpsed back at his father who gave him an encouraging nod.  Vergil then hastened Miranda away in search of medical personnel.

The Outcasts clambered atop each other and their bodies morphed together into one repulsive monstrosity of tongues, limbs, and fragmented masks.  Sparda studied the nauseating metamorphosis with an arched eyebrow and curled lip.

He spread his arms in a gesture of inquiry.  “Surely you’ve grown weary of this futile pursuit?  I’m quite blissfully married and entirely unavailable.”

“For three millennia we have sought to devour you,” the conjoined Outcasts gargled.  “We shall not be denied our feast!”

Sparda shook his head, sighing.  “It was amusing during those lost years when you were beautiful, but your obsession with me is no longer flattering.  For me or for you.”  He raised Luce and Ombra, smirking.  “It’s high time I put an end to this perversion of a fanbase.”

The fused Outcasts ejected an amalgamated wail that shook the entire gymnasium.  Sparda was unmoved.  Luce and Ombra discharged a dozen shots that obliterated every mask and eye.  Shards of bone showered onto the floor.  With perfect serenity, Sparda closed the distance, and as the Outcasts flapped about in their blindness and pain, Force Edge manifested in the seasoned hands of its mighty keeper. 

The famous, ancient blade penetrated crinkled crone flesh and pierced the malicious heart within.  The bellowing of the Outcasts terminated and their merged bodies dried to ash and crumbled.

Dismissing Force Edge, Sparda turned from his concluded mission rather disappointed—in such a weak opponent and in himself.  Striding past the torn bodies of the fallen, he felt a pang of pride and dismay.

The soul of the Yamato and the soul of my son have completed their fusion at last.  

Yet the rage of Mundus was not easily quenched.  Imprisoned he remained, yet that did not render him without sycophants and worshippers willing to do his bidding even after two thousand years.  Had he sent the Outcasts to taunt Sparda?  To ensnare Vergil, perhaps, by endangering Miranda?  This attack felt too personal to be dismissed as a simple breach into the human world.  The last personal attack had come ten years ago.

I can sense the power within my sons shall soon come to full fruition.  A startling question suddenly struck Sparda like a bullet to the back of his skull.  Has Mundus also sensed this?

* * *

Red Grave City’s SWAT team that specialized in demonic incursion had taken full control of the situation and were properly disposing of the Outcast remains.  Forensics wheeled numerous body bags into their van.  Thirteen fatalities.  One wounded.

The paramedics strapped Miranda onto a gurney while Vergil stood nearby, feeling useless.  “I’d like to accompany her.” 

An oxygen mask was fitted over Miranda’s face.  “You family?”  

Vergil could not tear his gaze away.  “No.”

“I’m sorry, but in that case you can’t.”  They hefted Miranda into the ambulance.  Vergil considered leaping inside with her anyway.  His hands clenched and unclenched, the angst multiplying.  

“She’s got some nasty contusions and they rang her bell pretty good so we’re taking her to Aegis Shield Medical Center.”

The ambulance doors slammed shut.  The emergency vehicle then sped away, lights and sirens at full throttle.

“Vergil!”  Dante hurried through the unrelenting rain to his brother’s side.  “Where’s Mira?  She okay?  She has PE in the eastern gym, right?”

Vergil stared after the ambulance until the blaring light faded into the grey.  “They took her to the hospital.”

Dante’s jaw dropped and his stomach knotted.  “Oh, shit!”

“She’s not critical but…”  Vergil stiffened, and the muscle in his jaw pulsed.  “I didn’t get there in time.”

Dante thumped him on the back.  “Hard to fight when we’re naked.”

“I wasn’t.”  Vergil brought the Yamato out from behind his arm.  “It appeared to me.”

Dante gawked as if Vergil had brought a nuke to school.  “How the hell did you do that?”

“ I don’t know,” Vergil snarled through clenched teeth, “but I was still too late to protect Miranda!”

“She’d probably be dead if you hadn’t shown up at all,” Dante reasoned.  “You killed the demons, right?”

Vergil shook his head.  “Father did.”

Dante cringed and clutched at his tie.  “Dad’s here?”

“I’m sure he’s gone by now.”  Vergil dug into his pocket for his car keys.  “I’m headed for Aegis Shield Medical Center.”

“Hey.”  Dante squeezed his brother’s shoulder.  “Mira’s gonna pull through.  Keep me posted.”

Vergil nodded, wordlessly appreciating Dante’s concern.  With the Yamato tucked behind his arm again, he strode away into the rain.

Dante crossed his arms and watched his brother go.

Don’t beat yourself up, dude.  It’s not your fault.

* * *

Aegis Shield Medical Center was an organized fortress of steel, stone, and sterility.  Vergil had never been to any hospital before.  Eva had given birth to her boys at home.  She and Sparda made every effort of never allowing any medical personnel to examine him or Dante lest their unique physiology be brought to light.

After asking three different staff members, Vergil found the appropriate counter to inquire about Miranda. 

“Pardon me,” he said, running his hand through his still-damp hair.  “I’m looking for Miranda Fierro.  She was brought in unconscious from Grey Grove High suffering contusions.  Demon attack.”

The medical assistant behind the desk wore pale pink scrubs covered in multicolored koi fish.  Her black hair was tied back in a ponytail and she offered Vergil a compassionate smile.

“What is your relationship to Miss Fierro?”

He clasped his hands behind his back.  “I’m her boyfriend.  Vergil.”

The assistant looked at a clipboard and scrolled through her computer.  “She’s still in radiology.  Please have a seat, Vergil.  I’ll let you know.”

Vergil stiffly nodded, and then sank into an empty chair across the hall.  Every five minutes felt like an hour.  The rain pelted the window panes.  Patients shuffled past.  An infant fussed.  Someone coughed.  The TV on the wall broadcasted live the aftermath of the Grey Grove attack.  Obligatory condolences were extended to the affected families.  

Leaning on his knees, Vergil waited and ruminated.  My power…  It’s stronger.   He clenched his fists.  Miranda…  

“Vergil?”

He sprang up from his chair and hurried to the assistant.  “Can I see her now?”

Smiling, she pointed down the hall.  “Go this way, and her room is the fourth on the left.”

He nodded and rushed off, his heart once again madly drumming.

The door was ajar.  Miranda was awake and resting in bed, staring out the rain-battered window.  An IV fed her fluids and the color had returned to her skin somewhat.

Vergil slipped inside.  “Miranda?”

Listless, she turned her glassy gaze on him.  A frown of struggle and disorientation consumed her face, but then, with a sigh, she emerged from the haze of her injuries.  “Vergil…?”

He hurried to her and took her hand.  “I’m here.”  Bending over her, he pressed his forehead to hers.  Every breath was easier as they clasped each other’s hands.  In the comfort and strength of Vergil’s presence, Miranda freed her shackled tears.

Once her crying had subsided, Vergil lowered himself to the stool at her bedside.  “How do you feel?”

“Um…”  She sniffled and wiped the last of her tears away, her hand still clinging to his.  “I’m sore and a little dizzy, but the doctor said I can go home tomorrow.”

A faint smile struggled on Vergil’s mouth.  “That’s good.”  

She caressed his cheek.  “I heard you call my name.”

He spilled into her eyes, which had regained a little of their healthy sheen.  “You did?”

She nodded, speaking slowly.  “I must’ve been dreaming, though.”

The barest thought of the Outcasts even so much as leering at her rekindled the protective rage inside him.  “You weren’t.  I carried you to the ambulance.”

“You were in the gym?” she blurted.  “Vergil, the demons…!”  Trembling, she bit her lip.

Earnest, Vergil squeezed her hand.  “You were in danger.  I had to come for you!”  He hung his head.  A knife of shame jabbed him in the ribs.  “But I failed you.”

Puzzlement crowned her brow.  “Failed me?  What are you talking about?”

“I was too late to protect you.”  Deep remorse furrowed his brow.  “I’m sorry.”

Miranda sifted her fingers gently through his white hair.  He raised his eyes to her again and she gave him her angelic smile that always sent his heart cartwheeling.  “No, Vergil.  You saved me.”

He smiled back, but the fear of weakness haunted him like never before, a bestial ghost dogging his soul.  I need more power!  Without strength I can’t protect you!

A gruff voice interrupted their reunion.  “You must be the boy Miranda is so obsessed with.”

Miranda gasped, and she squeezed Vergil’s hand so hard it shook.  He sensed her whole body stiffen as if her every muscle had seized up.  

Her voice shambled out of her lips, tiny and timid.  “Papa.”

Seeking to present a worthy first impression, Vergil stood to his feet to greet Miranda’s father.

“Vergil Redgrave, sir,” he said, and extended his hand.

“Sir Dazran Macto, Vanguard Captain of the Order of the Sword.”  With his hands clasped behind his back, he made no move to accept Vergil’s greeting.  His seaweed-green eyes narrowed beneath his pinched brows, regarding Vergil with an unfair amount of skepticism.

“My daughter needs to rest,” Sir Macto asserted.  “You should leave.”

Though unsettled by Sir Macto’s frigid acknowledgment, Vergil chose the path of parental respect, but did not ignore his disquiet about him.

“I’ll bring you something to eat later,” Vergil promised Miranda.  “Cheeseburger and gelato?”

Her smile came to life again.  “McMiller’s?”

“Of course.”

Her mouth quivered, but his smile gave her strength.  “Thank you.”

Vergil gave her hand one last squeeze.

Sir Macto’s scrutinizing scowl deepened as Vergil took his leave with all dignity and fortitude.  Once alone with his daughter, he closed the door.

The silence between them was a cement wall, and Miranda felt as if it might fall and crush her.

“I met with your principal today about your educational competency,” he told her, as if they were in a business meeting discussing statistics.  “I’m pleased to know that you’re pleasing the Order.”

“Thank you, Papa,” she uttered blankly.  It was the closest he had ever come to praising her.

He came to her bedside.  “You want me to approve of that boy.”

She turned her head from him.  “Well…”

“It doesn’t matter.  You’re a valuable asset to the Order, Miranda.  Once they have quelled the demonic uprising we are returning to Fortuna.  You will take your mother’s place.  I will be promoted.  As planned.”  

Tears stung her throat and eyes, but she fought against them.  “Yes, Papa.”

“Your frolicking with that boy will not hinder that plan.”  The harshness of his voice intensified as he loomed over her.  “You can have your fun, but know that it’s temporary.  A boy only wants one thing from a girl, anyway.  Stupid to think he’d want anything more than that.”

Miranda clamped her teeth on her tongue, but her tears escaped.  How could she tell Vergil that she’d have to leave Red Grave City?  She was falling in love with him, and yet hiding the truth from him.

I’m lying to Vergil.

Her father sighed, annoyed with her emotions.  “Accept reality or don’t, Miranda.  It’s only a matter of time before you are recruited to serve the Order.”  He strode for the door, adding, “It is your only purpose.”

Once he was gone, the dam inside Miranda broke.  Muffling her cries in a blanket, she sobbed.

* * *

Pages whispered.  Pencils scratched.  Rain pattered.  Students studied.  Except one.  

The periodic table lay before Dante.  Its gaudy colors and ludicrous abbreviations mocked him.  Cheek against fist, he scowled back, repugnance written all over his face.  The library was too quiet.  The lack of laughter and chatter niggled him.  Tucked away high up in one of the student rooms in Red Grave City’s public library, Dante felt imprisoned on an island of tedium.

So.  Bored.

After checking that the coast was clear, he stealthily dipped his hand into his backpack and retrieved the newest issue of Slap&Tickle.  Laying it over the periodic table, he settled in for a captivating analysis.

“Ahem!”

Damn!

Scrambling, Dante yanked the magazine into his lap and resumed leaning over his chemistry book, pretending to be engaged.  For additional theatrics, he even muttered the elements to himself.  He kept his head down when his exasperated tutor came to check on his progress.

“So?  How many have you memorized?”

Dante thought for a moment, trying to invent a believable answer, but his pretty tutor was far too clever.

“Oh, pfft, at least half.”  He leaned back and folded his arms, offering her a charming smirk.

Miranda folded her arms too, and offered a sly smile in return.  “Really?  Recite for me.”

“Uh, well, there’s iron…calcium…hydrogen—”

“Symbols, too.”

Dante puckered his lips, thinking.  Miranda cocked an irritated eyebrow at him.  He laughed and spread his arms.  “Busted again!  You got me!”

Miranda sighed and slumped into the chair next to him.  Almost a week had passed since the demon attack on Grey Grove, but her bruises were still healing and the ache in her head lingered.  “Dante, don’t you want to graduate?”

He shrugged.  “I’m neutral.”

“Then why did you ask me to help you?”

“Because my dad is pretty terrifying when he’s pissed off, and you’re the brainiest babe for the job.”  He tossed her a wink.

Her smile was tired but appreciative.  “I need to process some returned books.  When I come back I want you to recite ten elements to me.”

“What’s my motivation?”  He grinned, proud of his witticism.

She rolled her eyes, only somewhat amused.  “A strawberry sundae.  My treat.  Your reward.”

Dante sat back and evaluated her proposition.  “Extra strawberries?”

Miranda tilted her head, calculating.  “More elements, more strawberries.”

Playfully, he narrowed his eyes at her.  “Alright, Mira.  Deal.”

Quick as a whip, she snatched the magazine out of his lap.

“Hey!”  He darted for it.

She held it out of his reach.  “Concentrate, Dante.”  With a disapproving grimace, she dropped it back into his backpack as if it were covered in sludge.

“Fine,”  he sighed, but then perked up again.  “Oh, hey, you’re coming to my family’s Christmas party, right?”

Heart skittering, she stiffened.  “No, I’m not.”

Dante frowned, befuddled.  “What?”

“I want to come, of course!  I just…can’t.”

Epiphany struck and Dante snapped his fingers.  “So that’s why Vergil’s been extra frosty lately.”

Crestfallen, Miranda pressed her knuckles to her lips.  “He was so disappointed when I told him.”

Happily ditching his studies, Dante flung himself into her plight.  “Why can’t you come?”

She nibbled her lip.  “I um…”  Looking at him, she once again found the lovable, brotherly heart that had endeared him to her.  “I don’t have anything to wear.”

“That’s all?”

“Vergil told me that it’s a black tie affair.”  She hung her head.  “I don’t have the right kind of dress, and my papa thinks that such things are a waste of money.”

Pondering, Dante stroked his chin.  “So all you need is a dress.”

“Yeah, but—”

“What are you doing on Saturday?”

She blinked, confused by the sudden question.  “Vergil and I are seeing a movie that night.”

“So you’re free in the afternoon?”

Suspicion snowballed.  “Yes…”

“Don’t abandon hope just yet, Mira.”  He grinned like he had a devious scheme up his sleeve.  “I got an idea.”  With that, he stood and stuffed his chemistry book into his backpack.

“Wait, Dante, you barely studied!” she protested.

“There’s always tomorrow.  Besides, I got a more important mission now.”

She raised an eyebrow.  “What are you going to do?”

“You will come to know the answer soon enough.”  He slung his backpack over one shoulder.  “Don’t worry.  I’ll call you.  Until then…”  Saluting her, he winked.  “Adios.”

* * *

The heavy winter rain had finally declared a ceasefire that Saturday afternoon.  The sky remained a dark plane of war-smoke-grey and the air was clean and bracing.  Warm and snug in her favorite crimson sweater, raincoat, and Vergil’s scarf, Miranda navigated the laughing, energetic crowds in downtown Red Grave City.

The Divinity Brew Cafe was a local, family-owned place best known for its house-made plum-rose danishes and exotic coffee roasts.  The emblem on the door was a kneeling woman wearing tribal robes and a lion’s mane headdress.  Her arms were lifted at either side of her, and in her upturned palms she held aloft two mugs of coffee, the steam swirling in artistic spirals.  The cafe’s slogan swooped in stylish lettering beneath her: Transcending Time and Space.

As she waited outside at the window, Miranda called Vergil as promised.  Though he hadn’t directly admitted his worry about her being alone, he checked on her more often ever since the attack on Grey Grove.

Vergil picked up on the second ring.  “Hello.”  His phone greeting was rather rigid, but charming.

“Hello, you,” she replied, soft and silvery.  “I’m at the cafe, but Dante’s not here yet.”

“Are you safe?”

“I’m fine,” she assured him.  “Don’t worry so much, silly.”

“I’m not silly,” he denied, and she could picture him pouting in defense, “but tell me when Dante gets there.”

Heart all aflutter, she giggled.  You’re so cute.   “I will.”

Vergil was quiet for a few moments.  “You know I’m not angry, right?”

Her heart dropped to hear the nervous shift in his voice.  “I know.  You’re disappointed.  I understand.”  A pang of guilt stung her throat.  “I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t blame you, but I wish I knew why you can’t come.”  He spoke gently.  “Your father?

Miranda hesitated.  “That’s part of the reason.”

“Do you not want to meet my parents yet?  I never meant to push that on you.”

“No, I’d still like to meet them.”  Her smile returned, and Vergil could hear it in her words.

“Are you sure?”

“Very sure.”

He sighed, relieved.  “I’m glad.”

“Mira!” 

“Dante’s here,” she told Vergil.

“Okay.”  He sounded more relaxed.  “How long are you tutoring him today?”

“I’m not sure,” she replied, still wondering what Dante actually had planned.  Tutoring was the cover story, per his instruction.  All Miranda knew was that it would result in a surprise for Vergil.  “It all depends on his attention span.”

“That’s very true.”  No doubt he rolled his eyes.  “Please let me know when you get home.”

“I will.”

“If you need me, call me, Miranda.”  His was the voice of a knight prepared to leap into the jaws of hell.

“You’re so sweet, Vergil.”  Despite the weather, sunshine filled her heart.  “Thank you.”  She ended the call just as Dante ambled up beside her.

“Alright, you ready for this?” he asked, grinning like the cat that got the whole jug of cream.

She set her hands on her hips.  “You still haven’t told me why we’re here.”

“Fret not, for all will be revealed.”  Dramatically, he swept his arm toward the cafe.  “Let’s rock.”

The Divinity Brew Cafe was a paragon of cozy welcome.  One of the brick walls was stuffed to bursting with books.  Mismatched couches were arranged near the wide windows.  Patrons were scattered about chatting or reading over lattes and pastries.  Gentle piano jazz played.  Coffee mugs clinked.  Baristas steamed milk and poured espresso.  A white orchid bloomed at every table.  The atmosphere was a realm of undisturbed comfort.

“I need Vergil to bring me here,” Miranda breathed, awestruck.

Dante snorted.  “I’m shocked he hasn’t!”

A woman sat in the nearest leather couch, facing the door, her posture as proper as that of a duchess.  A battered leather book was open in her hands.  Her deep golden hair fell about her shoulders in loose waves.  As the door closed behind Dante and Miranda, she glanced up from her reading.

With a beaming smile that filled her juniper-green eyes, she closed the book and rose to her feet.  She was clothed in stately dignity.  Raising a hand, she waved at them.

Dante smiled a lopsided, boyish smile, and strode to meet her.  Miranda followed, shy but curious.

“Here she is, Mom!” Dante declared.  “Vergil’s brainy babe, in the flesh!”

Miranda’s heart skipped a beat and left another one behind.  Mom?!

“Don’t worry,” Dante muttered in her ear, “she’s only scary when she’s mad.”

“Dante,” Eva chided, raising an eyebrow.  “That is hardly a proper introduction for her or for me.”

Dante slicked his hair back like Vergil’s, and then conveyed in a melodramatic deep voice, “My apologies, Mother.”

Miranda muffled a giggle behind her hand.

After shaking his hair loose again, Dante said, “Mira, this is Eva, my mom.  Mom, this is Mira—uh Miranda.”

Eva’s face was filled with the light of her nurturing soul.  “I’ve been so excited to meet you.  I’ve tried to talk to Vergil about you, but he gets so pink and flustered every time.”

Turning pink herself, Miranda bowed her head.  “It’s a pleasure, Mrs. Redgrave.”

“Please, dear, call me Eva.”

“Well, I’ll leave you ladies to it!”  Dante turned for the door, his long red coat flaring.

Eva kept a motherly eye on her son as he strode away into the drizzle.  “My little trickster.”

“Pardon me, Eva, but…”

Eva gestured at the couch.  “Please, dear, let’s sit together.”  

Miranda removed her raincoat and rearranged Vergil’s scarf around her neck.

“I’ve been wondering why Vergil hasn’t worn his favorite scarf in some time,” Eva remarked.

Miranda blushed and pulled her thick sweater sleeves over her hands, bashful.  “He’s very much a gentleman.”

“I’ve no doubt,” Eva proudly agreed.  “Now, I’m sure you’re curious to know why we’re here.”

“Yes, Dante was tight-lipped,” Miranda said, “which is quite an accomplishment for him.”

Eva softly laughed in agreement.  “He told me why you can’t come to our Christmas gathering.”

Miranda stared at her fidgeting hands.  “I really wish I could.”

“He asked me to help you.”

Hope ignited.  “How?”

Eva let suspense hang in the air as her smile broadened.  “I’ve come to take you shopping for a dress.”

“Oh!”  Miranda covered her mouth with one sweater-swathed hand.  “But I can’t afford one!”

“You misunderstand, my dear.”  The light in Eva’s eyes was like candlelight.  Gentle and calming and warm.  “I’ve come to buy a dress for you.”

Flabbergasted, Miranda gasped in utter disbelief.  “Oh no, no, no!  You don’t need to do that!  I can’t ask that of you!”

Eva rested a hand on her arm.  “Miranda.  I have two devilishly willful boys.  I have never had a girl to dote upon.”

“You barely know me,” Miranda uttered, timid.

“I know my Vergil,” she replied, confident and loving, “and only someone truly special could captivate him the way you’ve done.  He can hardly study, knowing you won’t be at the party.”

Miranda’s stomach twisted.  “Vergil can’t study because of me?”

“He is helplessly enchanted by you, my dear.”

Miranda’s heart swelled.  To spend a beautiful evening in an elegant gown and dance in Vergil’s arms in the sparkling light of a Christmas tree filled her with a yearning she had never felt before.  Tears pricked her eyes.

“Oh, Miranda,” Eva soothed, concerned.  “What’s the matter?”

She gazed at Eva and found what she’d been missing for a long time, something she had been foolishly wishing for in vain.  Yet a wondrous echo of what was lost sat before her.

“You suddenly remind me of my mother.”  Tears slipped, but she smiled.  “She was so kind.  Like you.”

Eva pressed a hand to her breast and gave Miranda’s arm a tender squeeze.  “I’m honored.”

Sniffling, Miranda dabbed away the last of her tears.  “I’m sorry.”

“It’s perfectly all right, dear,” Eva assured her.  “I am happier than ever that a lovely girl like you has stolen Vergil’s heart.”

A little laugh of relief bubbled out of Miranda.

“Now, first things first,” Eva took her hands and together they stood to their feet.  “How about a latte and a bit of girl talk, hm?”  She leaned closer, huddling as if they were co-conspirators.  “Then we will tackle the business of making Vergil’s jaw drop.”

Miranda nodded.  “I’d like that very much.”

* * *

The Elysium had yet to open to the public, but it was the perfect venue for showcasing Sparda’s thriving Alighieri Corporation as well as the luxury it brought.  The new hotel was sure to dazzle every party guest.  No expense had been spared.  Crystal chandeliers.  Vaulted ceilings.  Lavish European furnishings.  Greco-Roman motifs, vases, and statuary.  The courtyard boasted exotic gardens and several marble fountains that flowed with bubbling waters fit to sip.  Seven sparkling Christmas trees ornamented in vibrant colors decorated the soaring banquet hall.  Soft, golden lights twinkled along the walls and spiraled around marble pillars.  Smooth, sable linen draped every table.  Each place setting was perfectly arranged for a repast befitting royalty.  A live orchestra of fifteen members garbed in designer tuxedos were tuning their instruments at the grand piano and playing through a few melodies in preparation.  The festivities occupied the top floor, and everything glowed as if touched by heaven.

Out in the raw deep-winter air, Vergil stood alone on the balcony.  The night was a whispering cloak of emptiness.  The moon was full and shed a mesmerizing radiance. 

The moon like a flower in heaven’s high bower…

Thoughts of Miranda dominated the throne of Vergil’s mind, and there she ruled with angelic majesty.

The emotive voices of cello and violin drifted out onto the balcony, stirring his soul.

…with silent delight sits and smiles on the night.

He sighed.  Tonight was essentially a flamboyant business meeting for Sparda’s vast corporation.  Perhaps Miranda would have just been bored.

“You just gonna stay out here and sulk all night?”  Dante joined his brother as he chomped into one of their mother’s homemade pizza rolls.  “Damn, do I make this tux look good.  Black is definitely my other color.”

Vergil kept his silence, ignoring him.

“Aw, poor mopey Verge is lovesick,” Dante teased, puckering his lips.

Vergil folded his arms and grimaced.  “Leave me and go.”  The heat of the truth flared up his neck.

“Actually I’m not here to torture you.”  Dante stuffed the last bite of pizza roll into his mouth.  “Mom asked me to come find you.”

Vergil turned to his brother, curious.  “Why?”

Dante shrugged.  “I don’t know.  She needs to ask you something.”

“Very well.”  Vergil straightened his marble-white tuxedo jacket, and then returned inside. 

The banquet hall was flooded with richly attired guests, all of whom were under Sparda’s employ.  Waiters weaved through the throng and offered champagne and appetizers.  Jewels sparkled at women’s throats.  Jovial laughter arose.  

“Ah, there you are, darling.”

Eva glided toward him with a smile as merry and bright as the holiday.  A choker of petite rubies glittered around her throat, and she wore a gown of rippling black silk.  Golden embroidery adorned her bodice and poured down to the hem like rivulets of stars.

Vergil gave his mother a slight bow of his head.  “Dante told me you needed to see me?”

“Indeed I do,” she replied, her eyes shimmering.  “I need your opinion on something.”

“Oh?”

Eva took him by the shoulders and turned him toward the nearby archway.  The excitement in her smile grew.  “How does she look?”

Puzzled, Vergil followed his mother’s gaze to the archway as soft footsteps came around the corner.

The staggering beauty Miranda emitted dulled the riches of imperial sovereigns, a radiance that pierced any doom-driven fool.  Hers was a light that bloomed and penetrated, rising out of the Eden that was her soul, her flesh a fitting drapery that swore fealty to a paradise lost and regained.  The velvet gown adorning her figure was a stunning, iridescent red.  A swirling flower motif ran along the hem in virgin-white.  Her hair fell in glorious curls around her bare shoulders.  A white ribbon was woven through the thick braid that crossed the crown of her head.  Her candy-apple-red fingernails glinted in the ethereal glow surrounding her.

Just as Eva had planned, Vergil’s jaw dropped.

Miranda came before him, blushing.  “Merry Christmas, Vergil.”

Vergil could only gape.

“My work here is done.”  Eva patted his shoulder and strode away.

Stunned silence held them fast as Vergil and Miranda stared at each other.

“I couldn’t come because I didn’t have a dress,” she began, worried that he might think she had lied, “but Dante and your mother offered to—”

Vergil stepped forth and took her hands in his.  Miranda’s breath caught.

“You are so beautiful.”

The blush in her cheeks deepened, and she turned away with a humble smile.  “Thank you, Vergil.”

“Whoa, Mira, hot damn!”  Dante traipsed to their side, arms wide in adoration.  “All hail the red queen!”

Timidly, Miranda laughed and pressed closer to Vergil.

“Just my way of saying you look gorgeous.”  Dante made a deep bow at the waist.  “You both look great together.”

“Thank you, Dante,” Miranda replied.  “So do you.”

Dante smacked his brother on the back and winked at him.  “You lucky devil.”

Vergil’s eyes widened, but then he eased and grinned in appreciation.

“Before my bro hoards you all to himself,”  Dante pointed finger-guns at Miranda,  “can I get a dance?”

Vergil shut his eyes.  A muscle twitched in his clenched jaw.  “Only if she so desires.”

Playfully, Miranda nudged him.

“You don’t have to dance with him,” Vergil told her, rolling his eyes.

“I’ll dance with you, Dante,” Miranda said, and patted Vergil’s chest to ease his irritation.

Dante grinned.  “You heard the lady!”

“Very well.”  Vergil gave Miranda’s hand a gentle squeeze, and then watched Dante lead her away.

Dante proved to be a skilled dancer.  He led Miranda well, but was rather fast on the twirls and a trifle too deep with the dips.  As the song moved into a slower refrain on the piano, Dante grew strangely solemn.

“Is something wrong?” Miranda asked, wondering what could dampen his typical blithe bearing.

“No.”  His smile was soft and thoughtful.  “You’re really good for my brother, you know.”

This was a new side of Dante for her.  “What do you mean?”

“He’s happy.”

“He wasn’t before?”

“No, I mean he’s…”  Dante tried to think of the right word.  “I don’t know.  Lighter.”

“He expects so much of himself.”  Miranda wished Vergil didn’t push himself so hard all the time.  “Demands it, even.”

“You help him be less of an ass,” he said, smirking.

She giggled.  “You’re just saying that because he’s your brother.”

“Hey, it’s true.  It’s good to see Verge not so uptight all the time, and that’s because of you.  Don’t tell him I said this, but…”  Dante chuckled in self-deprecation.  “I envy him.”  

Puzzled, Miranda stared at him, unsure what to think.

The music stopped and their dance came to an end.  “You’re a rare peach, Mira, and it’d be a hell of an honor to be your brother someday.”  

You’re already a brother to me.

He escorted her back to Vergil, who was partaking of hors d’oeuvres at the vast banquet table.  Before strolling away, Dante made a parting bow without another word or wink.

“Your brother is a decent dancer.”  Miranda took a delicate bite of a fancy snowflake cookie.

“Are you trying to make me jealous?”  Vergil sipped sparkling cider.

“You’ve no reason to be jealous,” she assured him, smiling, “but it’s cute.”

He glanced away and sipped more cider, his cheeks reddening.

She reached up and smoothed one end of his indigo-blue bowtie.  He swallowed hard, remembering the way she’d taken off his tie on their first date, how close they’d come, and the rain in her hair, and the warmth of her body against his own.

“Always so dapper,” she murmured, enamored.

He blushed harder.  “Thank you.”

“Vergil, my boy!”

He glanced over his shoulder.  Sparda was on the approach.  He was dressed his ostentatious best.  In addition to his customary gloves, cravats, monocle, and ribbon-bound hair, he wore a silver-embroidered black vest as well as a dark, regal-purple cloak that billowed like a storm behind him as he walked with an emperor’s poise.

“My father,” Vergil whispered to Miranda.

She was taken aback as Sparda joined them.

“Vergil, I believe the time has come to introduce me to the lady that has so firmly gripped your heart and soul.”

Vergil cleared his throat.  “Yes, of course.  Miranda, this is my father, Sir Graham Redgrave.”

“An extraordinary delight, my dear young lady.”  Sparda bowed at the waist and took Miranda’s hand.  He raised it to his lips and placed a polite kiss upon it.

“Thank you, Sir Redgrave,” Miranda replied, amused and honored by such antiquated etiquette.

Sparda straightened.  “Vergil is stricken dumb at every attempt to speak of your beauty and charm.”  He chuckled heartily.  “Now I unequivocally understand why.”  He winked at her, and Miranda unequivocally understood where Dante acquired the habit.

“Oh, um, thank you.”  Miranda hardly knew what else to say.

Blush raged in Vergil’s face and his nostrils flared in embarrassment.  Miranda noticed and came to his rescue.

“Your new hotel is truly impressive, sir.  Congratulations.”

“Thank you very much, my lady.”  Sparda gave her a lopsided smirk that reminded her of Dante too, but those dimples and familiar lips were the inheritance Vergil had received.  The smirk fell away into the concerned bending of his brows.  “I heard you had sustained injuries during the tragic attack on Grey Grove.  You are well on the mend, I trust?”

“Yes, thank you, sir.”  Miranda slipped her arm through Vergil’s.  “Your son made sure I did not fall victim to hospital food.”

“I am relieved to hear it.”  He adjusted the large carmine gem affixed to his cravats.  “I must now beg one favor of you.”  He extended a gloved hand to her.  “May I have the honor of a dance?”

“Oh, I…”  She glanced at Vergil, who gave her an annoyed half-smile.  “I can’t say no to my kind host.”

“I shan’t keep you long,” he said as Miranda took his hand.  She gave a little wave to Vergil as Sparda drew her onto the dance floor.

As Sparda and Miranda danced, Vergil offered one to Eva.

“Miranda is an absolute darling,” she told her son, smiling proudly.  “She already seems like a daughter to me.”

“Mother, please, let’s not think that far ahead yet,” Vergil nervously muttered, but managed a shy smile.  “I’m really glad you approve of her, though.”

“I’m not rushing anything,” Eva firmly assured him.  “Such things should be taken slowly and done with great care.  I know you know this.”

Some time later, Sparda brought Miranda back to Vergil, who, once the dance with his mother had concluded, stood out on the balcony again.  

“You are a marvelous dancer, Miranda.” Sparda complimented.

“Thank you, sir,” she replied with a curtsy.  “You as well.”

“I now beg your pardon for I must resume mingling with my corporate minions.”  Sparda chuckled softly.  “Please enjoy yourself, my dear, and do inform me should my son forget how to communicate altogether.”  With a wink, he strolled away, his cloak rippling in his wake.

Rather surprised, Miranda turned to Vergil.  “He’s your father?”

He nodded.  “He’s intimidating, I know.”

“No, it’s not that.  He’s just not how I imagined him!  The monocle is especially…”  Amusement wrinkled her nose.

Vergil laughed.  “He’s very old.”  He cringed and quickly added,  “Fashioned.  Old-fashioned.”

“I see where Dante gets his flirtatious tendencies,” Miranda giggled.  “Both of your parents are wonderful.”

“I hope my father didn’t bore you with conversation about his business ventures.”  

Miranda shook her head.  “I thought it was interesting, but he asked me about myself, too.”

He took a deep breath.  “I am pleased that my family likes you so much, but…”

Sensing his understandable impatience, she smiled.  “But you’re getting jealous.”

Vergil lightly touched her chin.  “I want to dance with you.”

Miranda took his right hand in her left and rested the other on his shoulder.  “The rest of the night is ours.”

The slide of his strong arm around her waist made her shudder.  A heartfelt melody accompanied their flowing, rhythmic steps.  The hem of her gown swished as Vergil led her through the music on their private dance floor beneath the moonlight.

“Dante was right,” Vergil admitted.

Miranda raised an eyebrow.  “You’re agreeing with your brother?”

Together they slowed as the music faded.

“You do look like a queen.”  Vergil wandered blissfully lost in her eyes.

The hand upon his shoulder moved to his chest and rested upon his pounding heart.  “I don’t have a crown, though.”

He smiled and touched a curl of her hair.  “Of course you do.”

She fell into the stormy blue-grey of his eyes.

The night wore on and grew colder.  Miranda shivered and wrapped her arms around herself.

Vergil shed his jacket and draped it over her shoulders.  “Here.”

“Ever my hero.”  Miranda touched his cheek.  It was very warm.

“I have something for you.”  Respectfully, he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and produced an oblong box.  He presented it to her in both hands.  It was wrapped in pearly white gift wrapping and a glossy, candy-cane-red ribbon.

Miranda pressed her hands to her breast.  “A Christmas present?”

He nodded, the blush flaming.

In reverence, she opened her gift.  Her mouth fell agape and her breath was stolen away.  A silver necklace of tiny elegant links lay inside.  Upon the chain was a katana pendant crafted in exquisite detail.

“Vergil, I…”  The words wouldn’t form.  Only astonished breath.

“You like it?” Vergil asked, studying her every expression.

Tears came to her eyes and her voice trembled.  “I’ve never received anything this beautiful.”

He smiled.  “May I?”

She nodded.

He took up the necklace, and as he gazed into her misting eyes, he clasped it about her neck.  The pendant glittered in the moonlight.  Vergil ran his fingertips down the chain.  The wonder of her skin was soft and lovely, and the eager patter of her heartbeat gripped him fast.

“This is a symbol.”

She touched the pendant.  “Of what?”

“My promise.”  He took her hands and held them to his chest.  To his heart.  “To always protect you.”

“Oh, Vergil.”  I don’t deserve this.  I’m keeping things from you.  I don’t want to join the Order!   Sniffing, she whimpered, “I’m not worthy of you.”

Confounded, Vergil uttered, “What?”

“Vergil, I’m not good enough for you.”  She smothered a sob behind both hands.  “My papa says I have only one purpose, but it’s not what I want.”

Vergil’s heart shot into his throat.  He felt as desperate as he had when he found her at the mercy of the Outcasts.  “Then it’s foolishness.”  

“I don’t know what to do!”  Her tears shone in the light of heaven’s high bower.  “All I know is that I want to be with you!”

Unable to resist the powerful urge any longer, Vergil kissed her.

The binding of their shy yet eager lips was a seal upon their hearts.  Vergil’s mouth moved gently while his thumb glided against her cheek, erasing her tears of dread.  New tears now fell in joy as Miranda surrendered to him.  Vergil pressed her closer and dared a deeper kiss, fighting to protect her from her fears.  His jacket fell from her shoulders.  The warmth of her body whispered to his waking blood as they clung to one another.

In Vergil’s arms she stood inside a citadel, a valiant tower unbending.  Her fingertips traced his handsome jaw.  The scent of strength and honor was vetiver and burning embers.  Around his narrow waist her arms enfolded him.  He surprised her as he pressed his mouth to the wild pulse in her throat.  Their lips met again.  Every breath was a gasp between kisses.

Releasing her lips, Vergil whispered, “I’m in love with you, Miranda.”

“Vergil,” she uttered, breathless.  “I’m in love with you, too.”

He stroked her cheek, and they smiled.

“Are you cold?”

She shook her head.  “I’m warm when I’m with you.”

He wrapped her in his arms and she laid her head against his chest, her arms around him once more.  Sweet and gentle piano drifted into the night.

“‘Love me for love’s sake, that evermore thou mayst love on, through love’s eternity.’”

Miranda looked up at him.  “Elizabeth Barrett Browning.”

He smiled down at her and nodded.

“I do love you, Vergil, and I never want to leave you,” she whispered, snuggling against his chest again.

Vergil held her close as if something sinister might take her from him.  He lifted his gaze to the full moon and felt a baleful shadow pass over him.

I do love you, Miranda, but could you love me beyond the darkness within me?

Chapter Text

Yeah!  My brother’s girlfriend is a babe.  I even admitted that to Verge so gimme some credit.  I’m just stating the facts.  If you think I’d make a move on her, though, I’d have to defend her honor and mine and kick your ass into next year.  She may be a nerdy bookworm and a hard-ass about tutoring me, but I actually kinda like that about her.  Because of her I recently got the best chemistry test score of my life, and you know what?  It felt pretty damn good.  Got a solid C, but hey!  Progress!  I sorta failed my history quiz today, though, so I owe her a boba tea.  That’s the deal.  If I drop below a C on anything, I buy her a treat.  C or better?  I score a strawberry sundae.

Mira and I stood at the end of the counter, waiting for her drink.  Like me, she’s got a favorite and she can’t stray.  Not only that, she digs strawberry too.  Chewing on her lip, she scowled at the barista.

I leaned into her line of sight.  Jabbing a thumb at the flustered scrawny dude behind the bar, I gave Mira a puzzled pucker.  “Did he steal your underwear or something?”

She blinked as if I’d shaken her.  “Oh!”  She turned away, embarrassed and adorable.  “I was spacing out, huh?”

I snorted.  “Just a little.  What’s on your mind?”

The sigh she made was dramatic and frustrated, and she slumped as if she’d dropped her tea, which was taking forever.  “I don’t know what to give you for your birthday.”

And here I thought she was gonna give me Round 2 of her disappointment with my history quiz.

“Hey, buy me a pizza sometime and that’s good enough for me.”  I winked with a click of my tongue.

“Pizza isn’t good enough as a birthday present!” she protested, glaring at me like I’d insulted her favorite dead poet.  Who’s the guy she and Verge obsess over?  Blake? 

“I’m a man of simple pleasures, Mira.  Don’t sweat it.”  Like I’m about to ask her to buy the new issue of Slap&Tickle for me?  Hell no!

My wink is magical.  It always gets her smiling.  It’s different from the smiles all the other girls at school give me.  Mira’s a pure and pretty peach.

“You made a pie for Verge, so how about a homemade pizza for me?”

Folding her arms, she cocked her hip and pondered.  “I don’t know.”

“Come on now.”  I gave her a playful nudge with my elbow.  “You’re already saving my ass from a hellish pounding from my old man.” 

My legendary demon dad’s idea of “grounded” is pitting me and Verge against underworld nasties as he runs the stopwatch.  If he’s particularly pissed, the horde is damn near endless.  Pop enjoys it a bit too much.  I’d rather fight my brother until we drop, but that’s usually why Verge and I get grounded in the first place.

Mira looked up at me with a little quirk in the corner of her mouth.  Like she was disappointed in herself.  “I really want to give you something special.”

Too bad Mira doesn’t have a sister.

“Um, excuse me, but uh here’s your tea.”  The gangly dude finally brought Mira her drink.  “I’m um sorry about the uh wait.”

I crossed my arms and furrowed my brow, cranking up the intimidation factor.  “You aiming for World’s Slowest Barista or do you get your kicks making a pretty lady wait?”

The guy’s throat bobbed like he was struggling to swallow a baseball.  “Sorry, I uh…I’m new!  Sorry!”  He actually trembled before me.  “Are you her…”  He gulped again.  “…boyfriend?”

My chuckle was a mild demonic growl, and my grin showed my teeth.  “Worse.  I’m her big brother.”

I swear he moved back an inch and thought I might eat him.  Mira put a gentle hand on my arm.  Our eyes met, and she gave me an appreciative smile.  Then she turned to the quaking barista.

“Don’t mind him,” she told him, tilting her head at me.  “He just likes the drama of the spotlight.  The tea tastes great, thank you.”

I snorted and turned for the door.  Mira fell into step beside me.

“Fun wrecker,” I muttered.

She giggled, and I got the door for her.

My scarlet-hottie motorcycle awaited our return.  Hard gray clouds moshed to rock another storm.  It’d rain again soon.  Very soon.  Thunder boomed like a pumped crowd.  Shoving my hand into my coat pocket, I groped for my keys.

“Hey.”  Mira touched my shoulder.

“What’s up?”

She took a long drag of her milky pink tea.  “So you’re my big brother, hm?”

Smirking, I chuckled.  “Thought I’d give it a go, see what it felt like.  You didn’t object.”

Chewing on a bit of boba, she met my eyes and smiled.  “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

She hesitated for a second.  “Why don’t you have a girlfriend?”

I blinked and my eyebrows jumped up.  The sincerity of her bafflement threw me off.  “I know, weird, right?”  Pop quiz, and I was about to fail this one too.  No fair, Mira!  There won’t be an exam on me! 

Suddenly, she frowned as if she’d crossed a forbidden line.  “You’re fun to be with, so I was just wondering.  I’m sorry for prying.”

Crossing my arms, I played it cool.  “I don’t mind you askin’.”  I shrugged.  “Nobody good enough for me, I guess.”

Tilting her head, she studied me like a geometry equation.  I suck at those too, by the way.  “Oh, is Dante a shy boy underneath it all?”

I snorted in dramatic protest.  “Shy?  Me?  Please.”  Suddenly I was snagged on a sobering thought I don’t often entertain.  “I don’t think there’s a steady girl out there for me.  Easier just to have fun now and then.  I don’t wanna drown in shallow waters, you know?”

Mira nodded, but didn’t press me.  We traded understanding smiles.

“Being your steady big brother, though?”  I winked at her.  “This I like.”

She beamed at me.  “Me too.”  She took another sip and then offered her tea to me.  “Want to try some?”

I gave the giant white straw a skeptical glance.  “You kiss my brother with that mouth.”

Mira’s eyes widened and her cheeks got real rosy.  “True, but you’re my brother too now, right?  Siblings can share without fear of cooties.”

I laughed.  “Secondhand smooching you is quite a temptation.”

Gasping, she slapped a hand over her mouth.  I could tell she was suppressing giggles.

“So I got cooties after all?”  Pouting, I spread my arms and pretended to be stung.

She rolled her eyes and sighed, but she wasn’t mad.  Teasing my little sister was fun.  She held out her tea to me.

I took a swig and smacked my lips, assessing the strawberry flavor.  “Not bad, but nothin’ tops the Smokin’ Sick Snack Shack’s strawberry sundaes.”  I whistled.  “Try sayin’ that three times fast.”

Mira took back her tea.  “Study harder so I don’t get fat drinking all this sugar!”

“Nope.”  I waved a dismissive hand at her.  “That won’t work on me.  You can’t get fat.”

We laughed together.

After Mira polished off her tea and tossed the cup, I helped her don my helmet, and then we mounted my bike.  I stuck the keys into the ignition and revved the engine a few times.  Spinning us around in a jetting cloud of white smoke and a screech of tough rubber, I launched us into traffic.

Bro, don’t you dare break up with this peach.  I’m too fond of her now to see her gone.

Chapter Text

18 YEARS AGO

The wind bellowed like vindictive Beowulf unleashed.  The hard rain lashed against the window panes.  Violet-white lightning cracked open black and bulging clouds.  Thunder proclaimed the witching hour.  Coils of incense drifted above the sweat-stained pillows.  The bedroom reeked of blood.  

The legendary dark knight cradled his whimpering firstborn in his naked hands.  He seemed so fragile, so helpless in such palms of power.  Abounding joy carved deep dimples into Sparda’s face.  Tears welled in his eyes, heavy and heartfelt.   At last, he knew he was indeed gentle enough for fatherhood, and it was a wonderful relief.

The babe was healthy, equipped with powerful lungs, crowned with white fuzz, and still damp with blood and amniotic fluid.  Bringing him to his lips, Sparda kissed his son’s brow.  Like the setting of a seal, he spoke favor over his eldest child.  “Vergil.  You shall be protected.  You shall be loved.  My blessing of power is upon you.”

Pale and weary, Eva groaned and pushed again.  Round two.

Moments later, the midwife scowled and held up one bloody hand.  “Stop!  This one is a breech.”

Panting hard, Eva battled the rising panic.  Something did indeed feel wrong.  Two tiny hands pushed against the inside of her womb, searching for the way into the world.  Tears flooded Eva’s eyes.  

My baby can’t get out!

The blackened veins pulsed and spread across her half-vacant belly.

“I can try to turn him.”  The midwife attempted several minutes of strategically pressing against the unborn child.  Eva felt the impulse to push again, but resisted with gritted teeth, waiting for the midwife’s next command.

The midwife shook her head.  “It’s not working.”  She rinsed the blood from her hands in a large bronze basin.  “We cannot tarry any longer.  I must cut him out of you—”

“No!” Sparda barked.  The deep basso of his demon echoed.

Vergil wailed.  His father pressed him closer to his heart and he soon calmed in the protection of his father’s power.

“If your wife continues to push it may damage or kill your child,” the midwife urgently explained.  “I must remove him now!”

Sparda’s flame-red eyes burned.  The midwife stared back at him, equally resolved, waiting for his decision.

“Sir Knight, you released me from that pit to ensure the successful delivery of your offspring.”  Her horizontal pupils were slivers of white in the black orbs of her eyes.  “Your hesitation costs your child oxygen.”

This she-devil once assisted the delivery and ensured the death of innumerable bastard spawn of Mundus.  Upon discovering her treachery, the erstwhile emperor damned her to an eternity in blistering chains.  Sparda’s decision to risk a run to the underworld and break her bondage was out of pure desperation.  

“Never forget, Myshipha—”

“Sparda!” Eva gasped, clutching his arm and straining.  “Our baby!”

Winged and horned, the shadow of his demon form grew to fill the wall behind him, a warning of doom.  “They live or you die.”

Myshipha nodded and fetched from her ragged leather satchel a thin blade of black steel.

Loathing his uselessness, Sparda held his firstborn and watched the efficient but distressing delivery of his second child.  This blood was different, far more terrifying than any gore-spattered battlefield.

Eva was numbed against the coming knife.  Keen and swift.  Seconds of silence.  Squalling.  Breath.

Gasping, Eva opened her eyes and glimpsed wet, white hair.

Myshipha grinned.  “He is perfect.  Like his brother.”

Relieved, Eva lay back again.  The rush of happiness was the strongest numbing agent as the rescue incision was stitched.

Two boys.

Two sons of Sparda.

The second babe fussed and was laid upon his mother’s breast.  His cries reddened his face, but the touch of his mother’s skin soothed him.  

Eva cupped her baby in her hands.  “Dante.”  Joyful tears ran into her hair.

“Oh, Eva,” Sparda breathed, amazed, “they’re beautiful.”

Releasing an exhausted but elated sigh, Eva reached up and fondled the fingers of her firstborn.  Vergil clutched her finger tight.

“Yes,” she uttered, “and I know they will grow strong.”

Sparda laid Vergil beside his brother upon Eva’s breast.  With one hand resting on each of her children, she closed her eyes and treasured the precious little hearts beating against her own.

“My babies.”  She lightly stroked their damp hair.  “I love you, my little darlings.”

Sparda knelt beside the bed, gently laid his hand upon his second-born, and bestowed the same blessing he had given his eldest.

Eva took her husband’s hand.  Wearily she blinked and smiled at him.  He wove his fingers with hers and pressed a gentle kiss to her lips.

“I’m a father.”  

As he gazed in awe upon his newborn boys, he remembered the ancient days when neither love nor light held sway over his hell-bound heart.  In that age of blood and darkness he had not life, only duty to a malicious tyrant.  Once a slave to horror and ruin, now a husband and a father to a family for whom he would not hesitate to fight and die.

Love above all.

“Oh my handsome knight.”  Eva stroked his stubbled cheek.  “You look as tired as I feel.”

His hair hung in an unwashed mess, tumbling askew about his shoulders, and he hadn’t shaved in days.  The monocle and cravats were absent and his dress shirt hung half open.  

“Oh my beloved,” he whispered, squeezing her hand.  “I am speechless.”

She smiled.  “Then just kiss me.”

PRESENT DAY

Sparda’s kiss was a toasty-vanilla greeting.

Eva let herself melt into it.

“What were you thinking about?”  He fingered her fine golden tresses.

She ran her fingertips over his freshly shaven cheek.  “The very first time I held our babies.”

“An unforgettable moment indeed.”  The light in his eyes was the romantic glow of a smoldering sunset.  “I do not deserve such good boys.”

Sadness and pride and love jumbled together in Eva’s smile, and she returned her attention to the bacon sizzling in the pan.  The kitchen was warm and alive as she prepared breakfast for her children.  Eighteen.  The day had finally come.  A blink and a breath, and now the sons of Sparda had officially crossed the threshold into life’s most challenging juncture.

“Is our eldest attending his newest duty?” she asked.

A solemn grunt was her husband’s answer.

Eva touched his arm, supplicating.  “I pressed you for this, I know.”

Sparda laid a hand over hers.  “You were right.  The time has come.”

Her smile remained uneasy, and then she placed a light kiss upon his lips.  “Please fetch our boys for breakfast, hm?”

He nodded and strode away.

Like all the others, the last pair of blueberry pancakes were perfectly golden-brown.  The strawberry muffins were cooling on the counter, fresh out of the oven.  Vergil had savored his first blueberry shortly after he’d learned to crawl.  Dante had somehow gotten the juice of his first strawberry all over himself and in his diaper.  Had it not been only yesterday when she had fed them from her breast?  Dabbed their tears and soothed their cries?  Kissed their scrapes and tickled their tummies?  She remembered everything.

First words.

First steps.

First blood.

The percolator jingled, throwing Eva out of her musing.  After setting the pancakes in the oven to keep warm, she poured a cup of coffee for herself.  As she stared into the black and bitter liquid, black and bitter dread fingered her heart. 

No.  I will not let fear have a place in my heart.  Not today.  Today is a celebration.  My baby boys are now men.

* * *

Countless thousands of runes and sigils glowed like autumn leaves afire in a solar flare.  However, many were fading into dull grey marks, their power withering.  The entire basement was a perfect square box of stone containing a thrumming air that smelled of ash and sulfur and scorched steel.  One wall bore numerous arcing bands of scarlet symbols, ancient and enigmatic.  In the direct center was a bulky, octagonal lock of ancient pandemonium, a metal blackened by the wars that endlessly raged in the underworld.

Vergil stood sentinel-straight before it.  A mere matter of days ago, Sparda had revealed it to him and Dante, that it was the very gate through which Mundus’s assassins had come ten years ago.  Dante had shown little surprise, and only Vergil carried a righteous frustration toward their father for having deemed it a secret for so long.

Power prickled Vergil’s skin like millions of ravenous teeth.  The Yamato vibrated with yearning.  To think the underworld howled and burned behind such simple elements as stone and metal and light, alchemy the thread that wove it all together. 

The power of his legendary father was the true bulwark, the primary defense, the otherworldly fuel that concealed it.  Yet the runes faded, dissolving into inefficacy.  Was his father losing his power?

“You needn’t be so concerned, my son.”

Vergil glanced over his shoulder.  With an encouraging light in his carmine gaze, Sparda strode to his side.  Close proximity to the underworld, its power, or its pureblood residents triggered the color shift in the dark knight’s eyes.

A strange, darkly melodic drone teased the tense air.  A lay of the damned that wandered over wastelands.  A scattered handful of runes retreated into uselessness.  A heavy sense of despair and emptiness shivered in Vergil’s blood, like a sting that tingled his teeth.

Immediately sensing his son’s unease, Sparda rested a reassuring hand on his shoulder.  “The gate will hold.”

Swallowing, Vergil mustered his belief in his father.  “But it needs more power.”

“Mundus shall not breach our home again.”  Sparda’s voice was menacing and promising, a vengeful vow of slaughter upon any invader.  The demon, too, had spoken beneath his human frame.

Vergil bade his heart and will to focus solely on the protection of his family.  Nothing else mattered.  No cost was too great.

“My power is stronger now, Father.  Let me help you.”

A proud chuckle rumbled in Sparda’s throat.  “Not yet.  Just stay vigilant.  Evil ever seeks to seize a foothold in this frail but undaunted realm.”

Vergil nodded, unable to tear his gaze from the mighty lock that called to his blade.

Welcome chaos…  Abandon all hope…  Darkness eternal…

Instinctively, Vergil stepped back and clenched his jaw, a shot of odium sickening him.  Is chaos the only price of power?  

“Go on.”  Sparda clapped his son on the back, jarring Vergil out of his thoughts.  “Your mother is preparing a glorious breakfast in honor of her sons.”

Vergil crossed his arms.  “You forget Dante won’t stir at this hour on a Saturday.”  

Sparda laughed.  “You forget how persuasive I can be.  Now hurry along.”

After one last perusal of the gate, Vergil left the basement.

Lingering a while longer, Sparda raised one hand, palm out, toward the lock.  “It will hold,” he whispered to himself.  A fragment of fear stabbed at his tremulous words, but his savage resolve fought back.  “You shall never harm my family again, Mundus.”

* * *

The homey aroma of pancakes and coffee escorted Vergil to the kitchen where he was warmly greeted by his beaming mother.

“My firstborn.”  Eva cupped his face in both hands and kissed his cheek.  “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

“Thank you, Mother.”  A yawn interrupted his smile, but he politely covered it.

“Coffee is fresh and hot.”  Eva offered him his favorite mug. 

Armed with the revitalizing beverage of divine awakening, Vergil took a seat at the table and nursed himself into full consciousness.

“It’s Saturday!” came Dante’s petulant whine.  The same ritualistic protestation every weekend.

“Your mother is laboring over an elaborate breakfast in honor of the birth of her children.”  Sparda’s powerful voice filled the entire house as if he were plugged into a concert-grade amplifier.  “You will rise this instant.”

Halfway through Vergil’s syrup-slathered stack of pancakes, the foundations of the house trembled in the grip of the dark knight’s agitated aura.  Neighbors, had they had any, would have mistaken it for a 4.5 earthquake.

“Okay!  Okay!  I’m up!” Dante shrieked.

Vergil rolled his eyes and stabbed another bite of pancakes.  “Dante.”

Eva rolled her eyes and sighed, flipping bacon.  “Sparda.”

The legendary dark knight steered his youngest son into the dining room by his tense shoulders, and then thumped him on the back.  “’Tis rude to keep us waiting, my son.”  

Dante dropped into a chair and promptly released an enormous yawn.

Eva brought him a plate crowded with muffins, eggs, and bacon.  “For my sleepy second-born.”  Brushing aside his messy hair, she kissed his cheek.  “Happy birthday.”

“Dad’s mean,” Dante grumbled.  Slouching, he grabbed a muffin and peeled away the paper.  “Waking up early on my birthday.”  He chomped into the muffin like he was beheading an evil king.

“Miranda will be tutoring you today as well,” Vergil smugly reminded him.

Dante choked on a chunk of strawberry.  After pounding his chest and recovering, he blurted, “Ugh, I forgot!  Who approved this?  Sure as hell wasn’t me!”

Vergil threw him a stony glare.  “You cannot afford to shirk anymore studying.  The agreement was every weekend.  This is the price you pay for your foolishness, Dante.  The blame lies with you alone.”  He took an elegant sip of coffee.  “You are fortunate that Miranda is such a patient tutor.  You hardly deserve her.”

Dante snorted and stabbed his fork into scrambled eggs.  “I could say the same about you, bro.  What that pretty peach sees in you—”

“Stop calling her that!” Vergil barked, slamming his napkin onto the table and rattling the dishes.

“Boys?” Sparda warned, letting his inner demon growl.

The twins ceased fire.  Dante stole a sneaky glance at his father.  Sparda’s back was to his sons as he poured coffee.  Seizing the chance, Dante chucked his wadded muffin paper at Vergil, who caught it and threw it back with vengeful force.

With a snap, Dante instantly summoned a small disc of crimson light.  The paper evaporated against the sizzling energy.  Ash sprinkled his breakfast.

Vergil chuckled in victory.

“Hey, you sure it’s a good idea Mira comes over?”  Dante dusted off a muffin.  “I mean, we kinda have a gate to hell in our basement.”

“Nothing to fret about.”  Sparda joined his boys at the table, a large mug of coffee accompanying him.  “The gate is stable.  Miss Fierro is entirely human and therefore cannot sense its presence.  Most importantly, neither of you will breathe a single syllable of its existence.”  He gave his sons a Stygian stare that could have initiated the apocalypse.  “Am I perfectly clear?”

The twins nodded and together replied, “Yes, sir.”

“Very good.”  Sparda relaxed and enjoyed the first cautious sip of coffee.  He sighed in satisfaction.  French pressed was simply superlative.  “I can hardly believe you’re eighteen now.  Seems like it was only yesterday that you were both drooling all over my cravats.”

Dante rolled his eyes, slouched back in his chair, and stuffed more muffin into his mouth.

Vergil groaned into his coffee, cringing as if it tasted like dishwater.

“Darling, don’t embarrass them too harshly.”  Eva set a plate of breakfast before her husband, and then took her place beside him.

“Is that not a primary obligation of fatherhood?”  Sparda feigned bewilderment, and then winked at her.  “Shall I present the photographs of our nude firstborn to Miss Fierro this afternoon?”

A wad of pancake got lodged in Vergil’s throat.  Leaning over his plate, he coughed, and finally gasped for air.

“Don’t die on your birthday, bro!” Dante laughed.

Scowling, Vergil carefully rinsed his throat with coffee.

Eva raised an eyebrow at her youngest.  “I expect you to be bathed and combed before Miranda’s arrival.” 

“Hey, Dad yanked me down here like this!  I know how to clean up!”

Vergil snorted.  “A dog kennel is cleaner than that dank pit you call a bedroom.”

“Shut up!”

“Your scummy sink is atrocious—!”

“Not on your birthday!” their mother shouted.

Dante, Vergil, and Sparda all froze, dumbfounded.  The lady of the house was not one for sudden outbursts.

“Please,” she continued, gentler, “no fighting today.”

“Unless you’d rather spend your own money on your outing tonight.”  Sparda grinned.

“No fighting, Pop, got it!” Dante quickly promised.

“No fighting, Mother,” Vergil assured her.  “My apologies.”

Together they enjoyed breakfast without further sibling strife.  Once the food was gone and the coffee carafe drained, Eva attended to the dishes.  Sparda had business arrangements to finalize.  Dante showered and made himself more presentable.  Putting aside thoughts of the gate, Vergil left the house to fetch Miranda.

* * *

It was Miranda’s first visit to the Redgrave family estate.  It was exhilarating and terrifying all at once, yet not overwhelming like Fortuna’s opera house or cathedral.  The country house possessed a different sort of grandeur, a rural magnificence.  The tranquility surrounding it was both an invitation and a warning.  Miranda found it just as mysterious and captivating as Fortuna Castle.

“What’s wrong?”  Vergil took her hand to escort her to the front doors.

She fidgeted with his scarf, which kept her warm as always.  “I feel so out of place.”

“What do you mean?”

“I knew your home must be something like this, but…”  

The wintry breeze jostled the naked branches of the trees.  A bench stood alone, waiting for someone to come and read.  A battered, old rocking horse stood nearby, its worn wooden skin a testament to years of play.  Miranda wondered if a certain pair of little boys had fought over whose turn it was to ride.

“Your family is so wealthy and obviously prestigious.  I’m from a common lodging house on a lonely island, Vergil.  I just don’t feel—”

“You’re not unworthy.”  Indubitable assurance shone in Vergil’s eyes.  “Don’t say that anymore.  My family is quite fond of you.”  He pressed a comforting kiss to her lips.  “And I love you.”

Miranda squeezed his hand and kissed him back.

He led her to the doors.  “I strongly advise against touring my brother’s bedroom, however.”

She laughed.  “If it’s anything like his locker at school, I’ll take that advice.”

“It’s far worse, believe me.”

“Oh no,” she giggled.

Cozy, cheerful light greeted the new visitor.  An elegant pair of matching staircases ran upward on either side of the parlor.  A blazing fire purred in the hearth.  Two identical chandeliers high above glittered with fresh candles, and a faint scent of country pine and orange peel floated on the air.  A huge portrait hung above the hearth.  It looked like an old Renaissance-style painting.  A family portrait.  Eva appeared regal and wise, but rather weary.  Worried?  Sir Graham looked rather grim.  Perhaps because his hair had been portrayed so inaccurately?  Dante and Vergil looked to be six or seven years old.  A tense mood clouded their young faces.

“I’ll take your coat.”  Vergil assisted Miranda in the shedding of her fleecy outer layer.  She also surrendered his scarf to him.  He hung both in a tall, white wardrobe near the doors.  Did he and Dante play hide and seek in it once upon a time?  Sooty smudges stained the bottom edges.  Fire damage.

Clomping footsteps came down the left-hand staircase.  “Hey, my peachy tutor’s here.”  Dante leaned over the railing and gave Miranda his customary grin.

“Hi, Dante.”  She grinned in return, detecting the flattery he hoped would persuade her to be gentle about his studies.  His hair was still damp from the shower and his fitted long-sleeve shirt sported three undone buttons that revealed his chest hair, of which he was rather proud.

“Do you require a fancy occasion in order to button your shirt?” Vergil groused.

Dante wagged a finger at his older brother.  “Ah-ah-ah!  No fighting today, remember?  Mom’s orders.”

“I’m not fighting,” Vergil grumbled.  “I’m criticizing.”

“Please excuse my children’s lapse in manners, Miranda.”  Eva entered the parlor to cast a warning glare upon each of her obstinate sons.

“He started this one, Mom, honest.”  Dante pointed at Vergil, who just scowled and curled his lip at his little brother.

“How old are you two today?” Miranda asked, tapping a finger to her chin.  “Five?”

The twins exchanged a look of disdain and quickly endeavored to conceal their embarrassment—denoted by the volcanic crimson rushing into their faces—with identical scoffing sniffs.

Miranda and Eva exchanged smiles, knowing and sly, and then the lady of the manor led the way into the dining room.  The boys followed.  Dante leapt over the railing and used Vergil’s shoulders to secure his landing, nearly knocking his brother down.  Vergil shook him off, snarling in disapproval as his little brother strolled ahead chortling.

“Everything has been arranged.”  Eva spread her hands toward the dining table.  “I’m afraid my husband has some pressing business matters to attend to today.  Can I get you some coffee, Miranda?  Have you eaten?”

“Coffee sounds great, thank you.”  Miranda nodded in gratitude.

All of Dante’s school books were neatly stacked.  Paper, pens, and pencils had been provided.  Not a magazine in sight.  A second but slightly different stack of school books was also present.

“Alright,” Dante groaned, sinking into a chair.  “Let’s get this over with.”

Miranda took the chair beside him so as to easily observe his work.  “You will graduate, Dante.  Even if I have to study with you every day!”

“Whoa, brainy motivated babe!  Careful.”  Dante pointed at Vergil with a teasing smirk.  “You’re turning your boyfriend on.”  

Ignoring the provocation, Vergil assumed his station on Miranda’s opposite side.  He set to work on his recent literary assignment, a detailed analysis on Shakespeare’s Hamlet .  Once Dante was beginning his mathematical campaign, Miranda turned to Vergil, leaned in close, and kissed his cheek.

“Nothing to be jealous of,” she whispered in his ear.

“He better not take all day,” Vergil hissed.  “It’s my birthday too.”

“I can hear you, ya know,” Dante declared as he adjusted his compass.  “It’s not like I want to study on my birthday, dumbass.”

Vergil twitched.

Miranda held up her hands, one to block each twin from leaping at the other.  “Must I up the stakes?”

“Stakes?”  Dante snapped to attention.  “Don’t threaten my magazines, okay?”

“Pardon me.  Incentives.”  She gave Vergil a coy smile.  “Motivation.”  She folded her arms like a warden overseeing prisoners.  “I am officially holding your birthday presents hostage until your homework is done without fighting.”

“It’s all his fault!” Dante objected.

“I hardly said anything!” Vergil rebutted.

Miranda gripped each of their shoulders.  “You’re arguing!  That’s fighting!  Stop!”

With a disgruntled sniff, Vergil dove back into the fate of fair Ophelia.  Dante ground his pencil into his paper until it snapped.

“Come on, it’s your birthday.”  Miranda nudged them both with her elbows.  “Aren’t you two going out for drinks tonight?”

They both nodded, glaring at their homework.

“Wow, your excitement is so convincing,” she wryly remarked.

“My boys bond best through sparring of one kind or another.”  Sparda appeared and placed Miranda’s anticipated coffee before her.  “Welcome, Miss Fierro, to our home.”

Miranda smiled at him.  “Thank you, Sir Redgrave.”  Gingerly, she sipped.  French-pressed.  No mistake.

“If my sons forsake proper conduct, I shall personally organize and oversee their rigorous detention.”

Instantly, both twins devoted every iota of their brain power to their assignments.  Vergil’s reaction was not surprising, but Dante’s sudden conversion to sedulous effort yanked Miranda’s eyebrows upward.  Sparda graced her with a cunning grin.

“It’s all about pressure points, my dear.”  He winked.  “Will you require anything more?”

Had she not known he was the lord of the manor, Miranda might have mistaken him for the footman.  “No, thank you, Sir.”

“The coffee is my handicraft, I’ll have you know,” he boasted with a dramatic lift of his chin.

“It’s excellent.  You have a gift!”

“You are too kind.”  Sparda laid a hand upon his chest and inclined his head as nobly as any highbred ambassador.  “I’m afraid I must take my leave now.  Business beckons.”

“Indeed it does, sir.”  Miranda slid a mildly chastising glance at Dante who merely offered an untroubled shrug.

“Behave yourselves, boys,” Sparda cautioned, and then returned to his underground office.

With scholarly vigor, Vergil bent broody brows at his laptop screen while his long fingers drummed furiously upon the keyboard.

Turning to her roguish charge, Miranda offered a new pencil to Dante.  “Let’s rock.”

* * *

Shortly after lunch, all the necessary homework assignments and practice quizzes were complete.  Satisfied with his progress, Miranda released Dante from his tutoring session.

“So about those birthday presents?”  He bobbed his eyebrows.

“If only you could recall your periodic table as easily,” she sighed theatrically.

“I’ll admit he’s no longer a lost cause,”  Vergil muttered to Miranda, his faint grin mocking.  They sat on one of the couches before the parlor’s hearth, his arm across the back behind her. Cozy in the warmth of the rumbling fire, she snuggled close to him and pretended she didn’t have to eventually depart this sanctuary.

Dante occupied the opposite couch, both his arms across the back, slouched and relaxed.  “Time to let the hostages go, Mira.”

“Alright, alright.”  Smiling, she patted Vergil’s knee and rose to rummage in her purse in the wardrobe.  With great clandestine endeavor, Vergil enjoyed the captivating sway of her hips.

“Nice,” Dante whispered at his brother, wearing a broad, mischievous grin.

Scarlet instantly raged across Vergil’s face.  Quickly he averted his gaze and scowled into the flames.

“This is for you, Dante.”  Miranda handed him a neatly wrapped box that fit in the palm of his hand.  “Happy birthday.”  Leaning down, she kissed his cheek.

“Aw, shucks,” he drawled, playful, “but you missed!”  He puckered his lips at her.

“Dante!” Vergil bolted upright, one hand gripping the armrest of the couch, ready to grind his brother into the cracks of the hearth tiles.

Rolling her eyes, she smacked Dante on the shoulder and returned to Vergil.  “Hey,” she lulled, touching his cheek.  “You’re my sweet V.”  The kiss was light like sugar crystals.

Dante whistled.

Any redder and Vergil’ nose would gush a messy red pint.  Miranda resumed her snuggling position beside him, resting her head against his chest.  He laid his arm around her shoulders.

“This can’t be pizza.”  Dante held up the tiny box between finger and thumb, inspecting it as if he were appraising a jewel.

Miranda rolled her eyes.  “What is it with you and pizza?”

Dante ripped the wrapping off and opened the box. For a moment he stared blankly at the contents.  Then he looked at Miranda and grimaced in confusion.

Fearing he didn’t like it, her voice shrank as she spoke.  “It’s for your motorcycle keys.”

Dante lifted the gift up for all to behold.  A bright red plushie strawberry dangled from a metal ring.  It beamed at Dante with its chibi smile and smelled like strawberry ice cream.

“You love it, don’t you, Dante?” Vergil stated firmly.  His fierce frown warned his brother not to hurt Miranda’s feelings lest he meet a gory end.

Miranda fidgeted with her hair.  “I made it for you.”

Dante’s eyes popped wider.  “You made this?”

Smiling bashfully, she nodded.

He shoved the plushie against his nose and took a long, loud whiff.

“We often get strawberry treats together so I thought…”  Miranda shrugged one shoulder.  “If it’s silly I’ll make you a pizza instead—”

“No, no!”  Dante raised a hand.  He studied the keychain and ran his thumb over its soft and squishy face.  “I like it.”  He winked at her.  “Thanks, Mira.”

Vergil felt Miranda relax as she sighed in relief.  Reassuring her, he caressed her arm.

Dante rested an elbow on the arm of the couch and spun his gift on one finger.  “So what did you get my stubborn-ass brother?”  He caught the plushie in his hand.

Blush bloomed upon her cheeks.  “Um, well, it’s not ready yet.”

“I can wait.”  Vergil fingered a tendril of her hair.

Dante loudly cleared his throat.  “I think I’ll stick my new lucky charm on my keys and take my bike out for a spin.”  He rose to his feet.  “Don’t make too much noise.  Mom and Pop might hear you.”

Miranda and Vergil looked away from each other, redder than the fire blazing in the hearth.

Once Dante had gone and the gentle countryside quiet had settled again, Vergil pressed closer to Miranda and placed a tender kiss to her throat.  Closing her eyes, she melted beneath the touch of his lips.

The purring of the fire faded behind their escalating sighs for one another.

Miranda dipped her tongue between his lips.  Groaning, Vergil gripped her waist and kissed her eagerly.  Desire churned between them, within them, harmonious.

An obnoxious buzzing rattled atop the table.

In defiance, Vergil and Miranda finished their kiss at their leisure.  They opened their eyes and gazed at each other.  He brushed aside a bit of dark hair that had fallen across her cheek.

Her phone continued to vibrate like a mini chainsaw.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, running a hand down his chest, past the button he only now realized she had opened.

Vergil lightly stroked her cheek and nodded, annoyed but understanding.

Miranda answered her angry phone.  “Hello, Papa.”  At the mere mention of him, Vergil’s zeal died like a star exiled to a black hole.

The silence was like a cloud of poison.

“Yes, Papa, I will.”  Miranda hung up.  Staring at her lap, she muttered, “Can you please take me home now?”

A disappointed sigh escaped him.  “Alright.”

They rose from the couch together and went to the smoke-scarred wardrobe.  As Miranda gathered her purse and donned her coat, a pall of sadness fell over her.

“I’m sorry we didn’t have much time today.”  Her fingers tightened on Vergil’s scarf.  “I guess tutoring Dante took too long.”

Vergil cupped her cheek and kissed her, jealous for every moment with her.  “I’ll come to you tomorrow.”

Heart hopeful again, she nodded.  After bidding goodbye to Lord and Lady Redgrave, Miranda took Vergil’s arm, and he drove her home.

Dante was lounging in their game room when Vergil, sullen and frustrated, returned.

“Miranda wanted me to tell you that you did very well today.”  Vergil went to the fridge for a bottle of iced coffee.  He then dropped onto the couch beneath a huge poster of a dark anime about blood-splattered, supernatural samurai.

Lowering his gun magazine, Dante peered at his sulky twin.  “Her dad called, didn’t he?”

Vergil’s expression was a kabuki mask: painted, practiced, stiff.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get more time with your girl today.”  Dante sighed, annoyed on his brother’s behalf.  “Mira’s dad seems like a real dick.”

Vergil’s only confirmation was a curl of his lip.  He opened the coffee with a deft twist and gulped half of its contents.

Miranda’s father was always cutting their dates short, but Vergil was resigned to respect him despite the increasing frustration.  Since that day at the hospital, he hadn’t crossed paths with Sir Macto again, but it was clear that the Order knight held a disturbing sway over his daughter.

Vergil frowned down at the almost-empty bottle of coffee in his hand.  “Miranda’s afraid of him.”

Dante vaulted over the back of the couch and rummaged in a cabinet for a snack.  “Well, it’s a good thing she has a dashing half-demon knight in shining armor to kick ass on her behalf.”  He then rejoined his brother, grinning.  “Oh, and you too, I guess.”

“I will protect her.”  Vergil’s grip splintered the glass bottle.  “Even if I must oppose her own father.”

Dante snorted.  “You’re such a poetic sap.”  He offered chips to his brother.  “But I still say you and Mira are cinnamon and sugar.”

Vergil grunted and took a chip, pretending his grateful smile was invisible.

* * *

The Elysium was fixed in the heart of downtown Red Grave City.  The least expensive room was $1,500 for a single night.  The least expensive appetizer on the room service menu was $30.  There were eight swimming pools, four gyms, and several luxurious bars tended by young women in waistcoats and bowties.  

Even Sparda’s sons were expected to adhere to the dress code.  Dante wore black slacks and a dress shirt, but he left half the buttons undone and he had failed to iron it.  Thankfully the ensemble went well with his favorite cherry-red leather coat.  Vergil matched his brother’s pants and shirt, though he was without a single wrinkle, and wore the costly birthday gift his parents had given him—a custom-tailored, sapphire-blue coat.  The inside of the coat’s three elegant tails was inlaid with glossy gold embroidery and a simple snake motif ran around his shoulders, the head pouring down his left side.  A subtle reminder against the temptation of power and pride, perhaps?  Sparda often warned against such things, for he had known the snares well during his depraved crusades in the underworld.

Sparda’s only rule for his boys—other than no brawls of any kind—was that they were not to exceed $1,000 on the credit card he had allowed them to use for their birthday outing.  They hadn’t reached that limit yet.  Probably because it was safely tucked away in Vergil’s wallet.  

The twins sat side by side at the marble bar.  Vergil sipped at a recommended vintage red while Dante munched on gourmet French fries and enjoyed a frothing dark draft. 

The boys had garnered sparkling, feminine stares and handshakes from prominent business cohorts of their father’s.  Birthday wishes were bestowed upon Sir Redgrave’s sons.  The pianist on the Steinway played a classy rendition of “Happy Birthday” in their honor.

The city’s nightlife lights glittered out the windows that wrapped around the lounge, welcoming moonlight and starlight.  The night was cold, clear, and sharp.  The gourmet drinks and hot food were warm and satisfying.  A unique balance of comfort and portent.

The bartender set a crystal bowl of sugared strawberries before Dante.  Specially ordered appetizer.

“Dad’s swanky taste is not really my thing, but this is a pretty nice joint.”  Dante popped a strawberry into his mouth.

Without a word, the bartender set a mug of dark beer in front of Vergil.  Before he could correct her apparent mistake, she walked away to attend to another patron.  Vergil slid the beer toward Dante.

Gripping his brother’s shoulder, Dante gave him a goading shake.  “Come on, try it!  For me?”  He slid the beer back to Vergil.

“It smells repulsive.”  Vergil continued to sip his wine as he checked his text messages.

“Come on.  Do it for your little brother.  You don’t want to make your little brother cry, do you?”

Vergil did not remove his attention from his phone.  “You’re going to cry?”

Dante’s laugh was a comedic snort.  “No…”  He raised the beer to Vergil’s nose. 

“Stop,” Vergil growled, his face twisting in disgust.  “You’re drunk.”

“And you’re not.”  Dante grabbed Vergil’s phone.  “Are you sexting Mira?”

“You ass!  Give me my phone!”  Vergil snatched at it, but Dante kept it out of his reach.  

“Try.  The.  Beer.”

“My phone!  Now!”

“No.”  Dante stuck out his tongue.

“This is disgraceful behavior!  Father may hear of this!  We have a duty to preserve his reputation—”

“The beer, Verge.  Drink the beer!”

“No!”

“Okay, then I’m just gonna text Mira and tell her you’re puking all over yourself—”

“Fine!”

Dante’s smile would have put the Cheshire Cat’s best to shame.

Fizzing foam dribbled over the rim of the bulky beer mug.  Vergil glowered as if it were noxious sewage specifically devised to dull his intellect and kill his dignity.

“Live a little, brother!”  Dante smacked Vergil on the back.  “Wine is for wimps!  Beer is for big boys!  You don’t want Mira to think you’re not a big boy, do you?”  The grin festooning his face was obnoxious and toothy.

Vergil snorted, refusing to take that bait.  “I am a man.  Miranda knows it well.”

Melodramatically slapping his hands over his ears, Dante cried, “Do not tell me of your bedroom escapades!  You will scar your poor little brother for life!”

Lashing out, Vergil snatched the front of Dante’s already-crinkled shirt.  “Silence!”

Dante raised his hands, palms out, in surrender.  “I just don’t want you to embarrass yourself by announcing to the whole bar—,”  and he spread his arms wide, “how Mira likes it—”

Releasing Dante’s shirt, Vergil yanked on his little brother’s hair.  “Shut up or I’ll break your jaw!”  Like I would ever share that with anyone anyway!  The blush creeping along his cheekbones was due to the wine.  At least that’s what he kept telling himself.

Dante squealed and squirmed in exaggerated pain, and then Vergil let him go.

With a vexed sigh, Vergil rolled his eyes and dared to wrap a hand around the icy cold beer before him.  

“Come on, wimp!”  Dante prodded, and then took several loud gulps of his own foam-laden beverage.  “Or do you think you’ll pass out before I do?”

Vergil stiffened.  The hand around his beer tightened.  “I won’t lose.”

Dante punched him in the arm.  “Only one way to find out.”  He gestured to the bartender and she brought them two freshly pulled beers.  

Mouth twisting in a mix of motivation and disgust, Vergil raised the rim of his first round to his lips.  The chill beat and smooth roll of piano and easy saxophone suddenly seemed to devolve into scratching static, a bandsaw through rebar.

“I already feel defiled,” he grumbled, curling his lip.

“It’s beer, Verge, not a medieval hooker.”  Dante downed the dregs of his third one.  With his fourth, he clinked Vergil’s first.  “To brotherly rivalry.  May it always be fun.”  

A smile pulled at Vergil’s mouth.  Never one to back down, he gulped the beer.  Dante did the same.  Upon finishing their rounds, they slammed their mugs onto the bar in unison.

Puckering his lips, Vergil cringed.  “It tastes vile.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever, but I’m still winning this!”  Dante reached for his next one.

A sudden rush of heat shot up Vergil’s neck and spun his brain in a full three-sixty.  “Now I’m a little motivated!”

“That’s more like it!”  Dante waved at the bartender and she brought more.

“I’ll have you know…”  Vergil poked his brother’s cheek.  “I don’t know.”

Dante wiped his mouth on a napkin.  “Don’t know what?”

“How Miranda likes it in bed.”

Dante’s snort of laughter almost shot beer out his nose.

Vergil imbibed a few more gulps, forgetting it was vile.  “You mock me?”

Dante let loose an unapologetic guffaw.

Vergil’s voice softened as if he’d fallen into a dreamy daze.  “I would be nice to her, though.”

“Nice?”

“Gentle.”

“Right.”

Vergil stabbed a finger in Dante’s face.  “I would ask fer her permission first!”

“Of course.”  Dante chuckled into his beer.

“I’m a gentleman, ya know!”

Dante could not resist egging him on.  “You sure?”

“I would say,” and Vergil cleared his throat, “‘Miranda, I love you…  You are…a heaven in a wildflower…  May I please have the extinguished honor of partaking of your…’ what’s the word?”

Is my prim and proper brother actually talking about sex right now?!  Am I dreaming?!   “Don’t you mean ‘distinguished?’”

“Don’t question me!” Vergil snapped.  He set his elbow on the bar and dropped his chin in his hand, sighing.  “I’d bet the Yamato she is even more beautiful absolutely naked.”

Dante bit his lip to lock down a boisterous laugh.  “Mhm—”

Vergil smacked his brother upside the head.  “Don’ you dare fantasize ‘bout Miranda like that!”

Dante smacked Vergil’s head in return.  “I’d never!”

“You were!”

“Was not!”

“She doesn’ belong in yer slutty magazines!  She’s too angelic fer that!”

“Yer totally right, dude.  Here.”  Dante tapped the mug of Vergil’s half-finished beer.

After he took a couple more gulps, Vergil swayed upon his bar stool and released a long wistful, lovesick sigh.  “She would look stunning in a bikini.  Or lingerie!  The kind with velvet ties on the back and the hips.”  Giggling, he lost himself in his vision.  “I like how when she laughs, her breasts bounce jus’ a lil bit…”  He indicated the amount with finger and thumb, squeezing one eye shut.  

Dante’s jaw dropped.  He’s talking about boobs!

“I luv her laugh,” Vergil went on, enamored and flushed.  “It’s so…so…”  He twirled one hand in the air as he struggled for the right word.  “Pure.  Like her soul.”  Suddenly, he snapped to a stiff vertical.  From noodle to needle.  “I’m gonna ask her ta trade.”

“Trade?”

Vergil shoved a fist to his puffed-out chest.  “My virginity fer hers.”

“You can’t trade that, dude.”  Verge on booze forgets sex ed?

“It would be an honor ta lose ta her.” A yearning overcame Vergil’s heart and voice, something Dante had never seen in his brother before.  Never had he yearned to lose to anything before!

Dante stealthily extracted his phone from his coat pocket.  “Yer made for each other.”

Moments after finishing his second beer, Vergil blinked drowsily and slumped against Dante’s shoulder.  “I worry ‘bout you, lil brother.  Yer sush a fool.”

Dante chuckled.  “Right back at ya, big brother.”  After confirming that Vergil’s eyes were closed, he raised his phone and stole a few shots.

Chopin played on the surround-sound system as Dante half-carried his inebriated brother through the main lobby.  Vergil sagged against his brother.  Dante hoisted him up for the fourth time.  “I can’t decide between a deadweight joke or a lightweight joke.”

That night’s hotel assistance overheard him and giggled.  Her lips were the color of plum wine and her emerald eyes sparkled between long black lashes.  She didn’t look much older than the twins.  The oval name tag upon her breast read: Natalie.

Dante dropped his brother into a nearby armchair and fished for Vergil’s wallet.  He found their father’s credit card and handed it to Natalie.

“Hey, pretty lady, we need a couple rooms.”

“Too much fun on your birthday?” she remarked as she booked them a room each.

“Just the right amount, I think,” Dante snickered.  “I got some photos that’ll come in handy if I ever need a big favor from him.”

Natalie laughed and laid a receipt upon the counter.  “Please sign here.”  She offered him an elegant brass-nib pen.  The use of the CEO’s credit card was merely for record keeping purposes.  The sons of Sir Graham Redgrave stayed for free.

“What’re ya doin’, Dontay?”  Vergil slurred, squinting over his brother’s shoulder.

Dante finished scribbling his name on the receipt and gave it to Natalie, who glanced at Vergil and raised her eyebrows.  Vergil squished his eyes closed, wincing, and then opened them again slowly as if they were lead curtains.

“He’s never been drunk before,” Dante whispered to Natalie, jerking a thumb at his swaying brother.

She giggled, and finished processing the $0 transaction on the computer.

“Ugh, did I drink that…that…monkey?” Vergil groaned, holding his head in his hands and grimacing.  He bent over, growling, “Blast!”

Dante snorted with laughter, still wondering what a Monkey Fizz would have done to Vergil’s low alcohol tolerance.  “Just don’t puke until you get to your room, okay?”

“I don’ wanna puke!” Vergil whined.

“I know,” Dante replied as if speaking to a spoiled brat.  “Those are $300 shoes.”

Vergil laughed hard and loud as if he’d heard the best joke.

Dante leaned on the counter and rolled his eyes, smiling at the amused Natalie.

“Here are your room keys.”  She slid green and gold striped cards to him.  “Check out whenever you like.  Room service is available until 3 A.M.  I’ll be here at the desk until 1 A.M.  Can I help you with anything else?”

“I think we’re peachy for now.”  He offered her another smile.

Vergil leaned one hand on the nearby wall and the other on his stomach as he struggled to keep the alcohol from coming back up. 

“Well, maybe not my brother,” Dante amended.  “Thanks for all your help, Natalie.  You’re a gem.”  He gave her a wink.  

“Dontay…” Vergil grumbled.

“Come on, bro,” Dante said, taking his brother by the arms and steering him toward the elevator.

“Don’t tell Mother!” Vergil begged, frantic.

Dante shook his head and hit the button for floor number five.  “I won’t, but I might have to tell Mira.”

Vergil gasped, glancing wildly around the lobby.  “Miranda?”

Dante laughed.  “You are so trashed.”

“I’m not trash!”  Vergil hiccuped.  “I’m scum!”

Dante bit down on guffawing at his brother’s expense.

Having arrived on the fifth floor, Dante guided Vergil into his room.  He flicked on the light and dumped his sauced sibling onto the bed like a pile of laundry.

“Sleep it off.”  Dante dug into his jacket pocket and slapped a handful of mints on the bathroom counter before heading for the door.

“Wait,” Vergil called.

Dante stopped, the door half open.  “What?”

Vergil tried to sit up, but grimaced and grabbed his head.

“Lay your ass down, dipshit, and stop talking,” Dante ordered, stabbing a finger at him.

Vergil slumped back to horizontal.  His eyes drooped closed.  “Foolishnish.”

“It’s hella funny, though,” Dante sniggered.  “I’ll check on you in the morning.”  He closed the door quietly behind him.  “Good birthday,” he said to himself as he strutted down the hall to his own room.

* * *

10 A.M. was late enough, so Dante decided to make his way down the hall to his brother’s room.  As he flung on his coat, his phone rang.  

The flinch in your eye calls your bluff…

Feel free to die when you’ve had enough…

“Hey hey,” he answered in a cheery tone.

“Good morning, Dante,” Miranda said on the other end.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Vergil isn’t picking up his phone,” she told him, clearly worried.  “It’s not like him.”

“Oh, yeah, rough night.”  He clenched his teeth to keep from laughing.

“Is he okay?”

“Don’t worry, he’s fine,” he promised.  

She sighed, relieved.  “Is he there?  May I talk to him?”

“I think he’s still asleep.  We’re still at the Elysium,” Dante elaborated.  “Had to crash after the party last night.”

“Oh.”

Whoops.  Maybe I said too much?   “I’ll tell him to call you.”

“Okay.  Thanks, Dante.”  She hung up.

Dropping his phone into his coat pocket, Dante left his room to make sure Vergil hadn’t choked on his own sick.

Using his copy of Vergil’s room key, he let himself in and was greeted by the repugnant sound of a vengeful hangover.

“Verge?”  His brother’s new coat was draped over a chair.  The bathroom door was ajar so he peeked in.

Slouched over the toilet, Vergil heaved and moaned.  The air was rank with the odor of sick.

Dante smothered a laugh behind one hand.  “You’re pretty good at driving the porcelain bus—”

“Get out!”  Vergil snapped, his voice echoing out of the toilet bowl.

“Oh, Mr. Grumpy’s back.”  Dante chuckled.  “I’m going home.  Natalie can give you the number for a cab.  Leave whenever.”  He made for the door, but before leaving he shouted, “Call your lady!” and then he was gone.

Lip curling, Vergil flushed the toilet.  “Scum,” he muttered.  He sat a while on the floor, waiting for his stomach to settle.  His phone vibrated on the night table.  He climbed to his feet and wavered.  Grabbing the edge of the doorframe, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath.  His phone kept buzzing.

By the time he reached his phone it had gone silent.  He picked it up.

3 Missed Calls — Miranda

He sighed.  Damn.  She must be worried.

Not feeling confident enough to talk lest he need to punish the porcelain again, he decided to text her.

Messages:

Hey - V

It took less than a minute for Miranda to respond.

Messages:

Miranda: V! Are you ok? I’ve been worried :(

Headache.

You’re cranky <3

Vergil scowled and lay back on the bed.  She knew him so well it was like magic.  His phone buzzed again in his hand.

Messages:

Miranda: I’m right ;) Can I see you?

I’m not presentable.  Vergil ran a shaky hand through his hair.

Why not?

Headache.

You should rest and have some tea :)

Refusing her was as easy as holding his breath for infinity.

I’m still at the Elysium.

I’ll meet you there :*

Vergil’s heart scrambled up into his throat.  Dante must’ve told her about the hotel, but what about the rest of it?  Carefully he rose to his feet and managed to strip and shower without falling on his face.  Afterward, he pulled on his slacks and fitted undershirt.  It felt strange to wear the same set of underwear.  Then he searched the drawers until he found a hotel-provided toothbrush.  The mints Dante had left for him caught his attention.  He crunched five of them, and brushed three times using lots of toothpaste.

Buzz.  Phone.

Vergil shook his hair and checked his messages again.

Messages:

Brother: Did you call your lady?

Vergil just tossed his phone against an extra large pillow, grumbling to himself.

A gentle knock sounded at his door.  He jolted.  Forgetting that his hair was still damp and down, he answered barefoot and muddled.

Sweet and stunning in a plain, strapless, night-black dress, Miranda captivated him.  Her dark hair fell in chocolate twists over her shoulders and she wore garnet-red flats.  The katana pendant, always around her fair throat, glittered like a star.  Vergil turned away and licked his dry lips.  Plumeria suffused him.

Smiling, she said, “Good morning, sleepy V.”

“Morning,” he replied, incredibly articulate.

“Dante gave me your room number, but wouldn’t tell me about last night.”  She looked him over and noted the shadows under his weary eyes.  “What happened?”

He wrinkled his nose and muttered darkly,  “He got me drunk.”

She struggled to keep a straight face.  A tiny laugh escaped.

“It’s not funny!” he retorted, huffy.

“I’m curious to know what my sweet V is like when he’s tipsy.”  She slipped her hand into his.

With an irritated grunt, he moved back into the room.  

“Oh, sweet V, don’t be like that,” Miranda lightly chided, and followed him further in, letting the door thump shut behind her.  “Sit down.”

He stood beside the bed, scowling at his phone.

Messages:

Brother: Mira’s COMING, Verge, so you better be ready!  I know you have a thing for protection ;P

“My brother is such a—!”

Miranda pushed him down onto the edge of the bed and stood between his knees.  Vergil was now more or less at eye-level with her breasts.  Blush exploded like a paint bomb to his face.

“Shh,” she hushed, fondling his hair.  “I’ll make tea.”  She leaned down and kissed his parted lips.

Swallowing, he mumbled, “Okay.”

After setting aside her coat, Miranda made loose leaf chamomile-lavender tea using the kettle tucked away in a cupboard.  The chaos Dante had wreaked upon Vergil slowly ebbed in her presence.  Drowsy and enthralled, he watched her work, his gaze wandering over her.  Her soft humming was ointment to his exhausted mind.

“Here.”  She presented him with a small, elegant teacup she had brought from home.

He blew gently across the tea and sipped for a while.  “Thank you, Miranda.”

She smiled, and then reached up to finger his hair.  “I like it down.”

Warm and overcome by her nearness, he simply gazed at her.  She continued stroking his hair, and he grew more relaxed, blinking slowly as if he might fall asleep any second.

“Can I read a little to you?” she whispered, her breath upon his lips.

He nodded.

She took the tea from him and retrieved a small book of poetry from her purse.  Together they sat against the headboard of the giant bed, tucked into one another.  Vergil’s arm went around her.  Miranda’s legs lay over one of his and she rested her head upon his chest.  Then she began to read.  Soft.  Serene.

Minutes joined into an hour.  Vergil’s head rested against Miranda’s.  When his breathing drew calm and his heart drummed steady, she stopped reading.  

She took his hand and held it between her breasts, whispering, “Vergil?”

“Hm…?” It was a short, almost silent sound.

“Are you listening?”

He drew in a sharp breath.  “Yeah.”  He adjusted his cheek against her hair, sighed, and closed his eyes again.

Her warm and lovely lips woke him.  His mouth moved, slow and lazy, and let her lead, content to burn in the touch of her skin.  Her hands spread wide against his chest as she straddled his thigh.  His arms slid around her waist, pulling her closer.

Miranda tugged up the edge of his shirt.  Her fingers caressed the hard, prominent muscle of his abdomen.

Vergil peeled his shirt off.

She gasped as he took her into a sudden, fiercer kiss.

Trembling, his fingers tugged at the hem of her dress higher up her thighs.  Cradling his face in her hands, she brushed the tip of her nose against his.  He pressed her to his chest.  Each kiss deepened.  His fingers maneuvered to the zipper of her dress, but he hesitated, waited.  Panting, she nodded. 

The zipper slid all the way down.

Heart hammering, Vergil revealed her breasts.

He put her gently down onto her back.  Her hair splayed like dark sun rays across the bed.  Beginning at her throat, his mouth adored every curve on display.  The heat of his hands made her shudder.

“Miranda…  I…”  Panting, he lightly clutched one of her breasts.

“Oh my V…” she sighed, trembling beneath him.  Slowly, her fingers traveled down his muscular back and into his pants.

It was a brave new world, an odyssey rife with the stumbling yet undaunted steps of unversed youth.  Yet in that bravery and guileless exploration stirred the delicate bud of ironclad love.  

The splashes of blush upon her cheeks.  Hidden skin now unveiled.  Even the smallest catch of breath, every shy little noise, was an exhilaration.  Pleasing her pleased him.  Sparks catching bright and hot, he thrust at her, a nudge of nervous desire.

“Vergil!” she gasped, aquiver with pleasure.

Groaning, he ever so gently rocked atop her.  Like a boat on its proving voyage upon benevolent lakeside waves, but pining for the depths.

“I love you, Vergil,” Miranda breathed at last as he stilled.   “I want to give myself to you.”  With adoring fingertips she caressed his bottom lip.  “Your birthday gift.”

Kissing her fingertips, Vergil held her gaze, entranced.  A powerful storm gathered in his heart, electrifying his blood.  Everything within him ached for her.  It was the purring of a thousand flames, the thunder of a burning star, converging as he fell into the beauty of her body and soul.

Damn the gate.  Damn my demon blood.  I don’t want to lose her!

“Miranda, I just…”  He swallowed, helplessly smitten.  “I love you.”

“Oh Vergil,” she sighed, smiling as tears gathered on her long, dark lashes.

In the dark grey ocean of his eyes gleamed love and longing.  To be granted the honor of touching her like this, loving her like this, to feel her heart’s flutter and flurry as they drew ever closer to each other’s souls, was sacred.  An honor no true knight would betray.

With reverent eagerness, Vergil unwrapped his gift until only her necklace, the symbol of his love and protection, remained.

* * *

The sun was setting when Vergil stirred from shallow sleep.  Blinking and bleary, he smiled in complete contentment, breathing in the scent of Miranda’s hair.  She dozed in his arms, her cheek to his chest, their legs entangled.

Vergil heaved a deep, peaceful sigh.  In this perfect quiet, in the warmth and wonder of Miranda, nothing else existed.  

Jackpot.

Miranda softly moaned as she stirred in her sleep and snuggled closer.  He knew she was awake when she pressed her lips to his chest and made a trail of kisses all the way to his mouth.

When they broke for a breath, she murmured, “Hi.”

His hand wandered along her bare hip.  “Hi.”

Blushing, they gazed at one another, stunned and dizzy, sharing the same shy smile.

“Blake was right,” he whispered.  

“About what?” she whispered back, like they were keeping a secret from the universe itself.

“‘The naked woman’s body is a portion of eternity too great for the eye of man.”

Giggling, she brushed hair away from his eyes.  Their lips met again, tender and happy.

Miranda breathed in his scent of smoke and sweat, the scent of fire and valiance.  “‘I love you not only for what you are, but for what I am when I am with you.’”

Breathless bliss blossomed between them.  The brightest kind of flame.  An eternity far too short.  The heart of heaven, come to broken earth.  All ruinous truth forgotten.

Miranda’s phone buzzed.

Their mouths parted and their hearts bolted into their throats.

“What time is it?” she blurted, panicking.

“Uh…”  Vergil blinked, addled and agape.

She reached over him and grabbed her phone from the night table.  “Yes, Papa.”

Vergil’s throat dried up.

She climbed out of bed to converse with her father.  Vergil rolled onto his belly, crushed a pillow under his chin, and let his gaze admire her lovely curves.

“I’m still with Vergil,” she explained, pacing the room.  Vergil noticed an obvious limp in her steps and blushed as if he suddenly had a fever high enough to merit hospitalization.

“We’re…taking a walk in the botanical gardens in downtown Red Grave.”

Vergil’s heart was on the brink of a nuclear explosion.

Sir Macto’s voice was raised against his daughter, severe and unrelenting.

“But I just thought—”  Miranda covered her mouth and quickly shut herself away in the bathroom.  Vergil waited, and all he discerned was Miranda’s frightened voice.  

Minutes later, something clattered to the tiled floor of the bathroom.

Vergil got out of bed and opened the door.

“I hate him,”  she whimpered, shaking.  Hot tears burned her eyes.  “I wish the demons had torn him apart instead!”

He stood behind her, ran his hands down her arms, and kissed her shoulder.

“He’s never wanted me!” she sobbed.  “I’m just a means to an end!”

Vergil brushed her hair aside to kiss the curve of her neck, affectionate and comforting.

“He didn’t grieve when the demons killed my mother!”  Miranda gritted her teeth.  “I miss her so much!”

Vergil’s strong arms slid around her waist, holding her close.  The private quiet, broken only by Miranda’s agony, banished the world outside their room, and he wanted nothing but to protect her from pain.

“Miranda,” he whispered, as hushed and husky as he’d done after their lovemaking.  “I love you.”

Sniffling, she met his sympathetic gaze.  The torturous truth she had endured for years glistened and spilled.  In devotion, he wiped the tears from her flushed cheeks.

Vergil kissed her trembling lips with a gentleness he had learned only in her arms.

Miranda sobbed again and wrapped her arms around his neck, desperate for his strength, his protection, his reassuring love.  Pressing her against the wall, Vergil deepened their kiss.  Gliding his hands down her body, he clutched her hips to his own and nibbled her throat, but her breathing of his name gave him pause.

A silent, lonely tear trailed as she whispered, “I have to go back.”  It was a brittle handful of words.  

Swallowing hard, Vergil heaved in a defiant breath.  “I don’t want to take you home yet.”

Tears fell as Miranda held his gaze, hopeful, fearful.  “No, I mean…to Fortuna.”

Brow creasing, Vergil stared back at her, his heart plunging into the grave.  When he could speak again, a forlorn word emerged, dry and wrinkled.  “When?”

“I don’t know.”  Miranda quivered in his arms, terrified to be torn from him.  “Papa says soon.”

The dread of losing her rolled over Vergil like a black and oily sea.

“I don’t want to go back!” Miranda whimpered.  “I can’t!  I love you, Vergil!”

He cupped her face in both hands.  “I will not let him take you back, Miranda.”  The passionate fidelity in his eyes renewed her hope.  “I promise you.”  One hand traveled to the katana pendant that lay against her soft skin.  “Remember what this means.”

Clutching his hand to her, she held fast, and nodded.

Quickly they gathered their clothes from the bedroom floor.

After pulling on his underwear, Vergil noticed her wincing as she struggled to slip into her panties.  

“Did I…” he started, but blush returned in a furious wave and he looked away ashamed.

Miranda took his hand.  “What is it, my V?”

He swallowed, contrite.  “Did I hurt you?”

She shook her head.  “No, of course not.”  A shudder shot across her skin as she remembered Vergil’s power.

“But you’re limping.”  Nervous and mortified, he raked a hand through the fabulous mess that was his hair.

She stroked his cheek.  “I’m okay.”

As a loving caress, he ran his fingers down her smooth belly.  “I don’t regret any of it.”

Laying a hand upon his chest, she relished the earnest thunder of his heart.  “Neither do I.”

Miranda hastened into the rest of her clothes and brushed her tangled tresses.  Then she gathered the tea service into the same quaint basket that once hid a blueberry-marshmallow pie.  Meanwhile, Vergil got dressed and called a cab for her. 

“Text me when you get in,” he said as they bade goodbye at the door.

“You too.”

“I will.”

With a nervous giggle, she suggested, “You might want to hang that painting back on the wall before you leave.”

His eyes widened.  Face aflame once more, he dipped his head and rubbed the back of his neck.

Giggles escaped behind her hand.

Indignant, he glowered.  “What?”

“You’re just so cute.”  A tiny kiss at the corner of his mouth eased his chagrin.

Vergil transformed that little kiss into a much deeper one.  “You better go.”  

“Okay.”  

Reluctantly they parted.  Miranda walked the cashmere-carpeted hall toward the elevator, glancing back once to smile at him.

Vergil closed the door, still in a trance.  The bed was a glorious, rumpled heap.  The scent of plumeria still hung in the air.  The warmth of Miranda’s body was nestled deep in his skin.

His phone buzzed again.

Messages:

Brother: You so drunk you forgot where you live?  Or did you just lose track of time 

having fun?  XD

Vergil rolled his eyes and didn’t bother texting back.

Glancing at the clock, he thought he might be late for dinner.  Eva always worried in excess if either of her boys were not home on time.  It was 6:15 P.M.  He’d call just to put his mother at ease.  After scrambling into his coat, he grabbed his phone and wallet, and took the elevator to the lobby. 

Natalie was at the desk again.  Did she ever sleep?  Offering him a cordial smile, she asked, “Oh, Mr. Redgrave, how was your stay?”

Striding to the counter, Vergil produced his room key and handed it to her between two fingers.  “Most satisfactory.”  The ecstasy churned against the dread, two roaring seas crashing wall to wall inside his motivated heart.

Natalie smiled and took the key.  “Excellent!  We can’t have the sons of the illustrious Sir Graham Redgrave displeased with their stay.”  After clacking at the computer for a minute, she made a speedy phone call.  “You’re all set.  The limo should be pulling up at the front any moment.  Have a lovely evening, Mr. Redgrave.”

“Thank you.”  Vergil then made his exit through the gilded revolving door.  

The limousine glimmered in the final bloody-golden rays of sunset.  The chauffeur inclined his head like a servant as his passenger approached.  Another perk of being the son of a prominent business baron.

The door was opened for him.  “Mr. Redgrave.”

Vergil nodded his gratitude and slid inside.  As the limousine pulled away from the Elysium’s main entrance, Vergil settled back on the black leather seats with a sigh.  For a few delicious moments, his memory replayed Miranda’s cries of pleasure, honeyed laughter, and rose-tinged curves.  He smiled, bashful, proud, and oh so cloud-nine-happy.

The smile and its mirth wilted when he remembered Miranda’s tears of pain and fear, her cry for help, for protection.

I will not let him take you from me, Miranda.  I don’t care if he’s your father.  I don’t care what I have to do.  If I need more power to protect you, I will find it.  I will not lose you.

Chapter Text

Miranda’s heart was a butterfly, fragile and fluttering, but braced for the burning tirade that awaited her at home.  The engine thrum of the cab faded into the evening quiet.  The ache, sore and sweet, faintly throbbed between her hips, tender as a bruise.  Clutching that sacred space, she closed her eyes and thought of Vergil’s strength moving inside her.  The pulse quickened, rippling through her blood.  Her fingers curled and she panted under the lingering spell of his virility.

The stone pathway winded toward the front door.  Focusing, she hid the ache of Vergil’s powerful loving and slipped inside the house.

Emptiness greeted her.  After shucking her shoes beside the door, she padded further in, peering into the small living room, and then sneaked through the cramped kitchen.  The house was simple and far from luxurious, but it served well enough.  Captain Macto hoarded his money.

Heavy footfalls boomed above her.  She gasped, starting.  Already her father’s anger seemed to assault her.  Sinking into a dining room chair, she fought back the tears of her lifelong conditioning—trembling in the presence of her father.

“Miranda?” called her father from upstairs, the barest inflection making the command a question.

Gathering her strength, thinking of how deeply she loved Vergil, and harboring no regrets, she called back.  “I’m home, Papa.”  Did her voice quiver?  Of course.

Dazran descended the stairs.  As he entered the dining room, she bravely met his eyes.  Everything on his face was flat, but the hardness in his eyes cast a shadow of suspicion upon her.

“About time.”  He took the chair across from her at the tiny table.

“Traffic was bad downtown, Papa,” she answered cautiously.  Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her dress, out of sight.

“You know the rules.  Your curfew,” he chastised, clasping his hands before him as if he were a surly investigator interrogating his suspect.  “You failed to seek my permission to go out.”  He stared at her, his gaze as empty and cold as a shark’s.

“I’m sorry, Papa,” she offered, dropping her eyes to the age-stained tabletop.  “I lost track of time.  I meant to be back quickly.  The garden was so lovely—”

“You are but a plaything to that boy,” he said, his tone clipped.

The throbbing of her significant bruise intensified as her heartbeat raced.  “He always treats me with respect—”

“That’s part of the game, Miranda,” he hissed, his voice like venom.  “You excel in academic studies and yet you remain so pathetically naive.  Do you actually believe there is anything genuine between you two?”

Reaching up, she took the katana pendant hanging from her neck in her fingers to stay their trembling.  Summoning strength from it, she steeled herself.  She feared if she spoke now she would collapse into sobs.  Captain Macto was the scythe and she the feeble Gerbera beneath his iron tyranny.

“You’re grounded this week,” he announced, standing to his feet.  “You will attend school and your usual chores.  Am I understood?”

Miranda bent her head and whimpered, “Yes, sir.”

One of her father’s eyebrows popped up.  “You sound guilty, Miranda.  Good.”

She bit her tongue behind her lips.  “I shouldn’t have left without asking you.  I’m sorry.”  An unexpected blast of pain consumed her lap.  Flinching, she released a groan before she could stifle it.

“What’s wrong with you?”  He scowled at her as if anticipating an inconvenience.   

Miranda bit down on her lip.  “I twisted my ankle while we were in the garden.  Vergil helped me.”

His scowl eased, but just slightly.  “After you make dinner, go straight to bed.”

“Yes, sir,” she meekly replied, and then started upstairs.  “I’ll take some medicine and be right down.”

Dazran studied her strange gait.  “Do not lie to me again, Miranda.”

Only halfway up the stairs, she froze.  The dread was like icy trickles of poison dripping down her back, slowly seeping.

“He fucked you, didn’t he?”

Miranda’s belly clenched, her blood suddenly stagnant.  Paralysis locked her throat.  The jaws of the hound clamped into the hare’s spine.  A second and a snap.  Always waiting for the snap.

“I don’t give a damn if he did.”  His rough voice was gravel and glass churning.  “Boys fuck their way through life.”

Everything within her wilted.  Plumeria smothered in the sand.  Hence my very existence.

“Just make sure you’re not pregnant.”  The malice bubbling beneath his words scalded and stuck like tar.  “Pop some pills for that, too, just to be safe.”

Once dinner was finished, Dazran exiled his daughter to her room for the night as was his wont.  Miranda barely ate a spoonful of the soup she’d made for them.

Cowering in the salt bath, she covered her face and sobbed behind the noise of the rushing water.  Tears meant no more to Dazran than flies to an ox.  Short-lived and bothersome.  So she fought hard not to shed them in his presence.  A gentle dose of pain killers worked to ease the soreness in her body, but her heart was sore for its pounding in fear and longing for the reassuring embrace of her white-haired knight. 

Understanding her father was a useless undertaking.  Rank in exchange for one’s own child.  Power for the price of one illegitimate, Fortuna-born girl whose only saving grace was her intellect thanks to the love of her mother.  Miranda was mere chattel in the miserly mind of her own father.  After burying herself in bed, she worked to dispel this daily haunting and texted Vergil.

M: I’m grounded.  I can’t see you outside of school this week :’(

Vergil responded within minutes.

Messages—

V: I will protect you.  If you need me, call.

M: My sweet V <3  I love you :-*

V: I love you too.  Rest now.  This evening was rather…exhausting.

M: Indeed it was :3

V: …

Miranda imagined the blush exploding in his cheeks. 

M: You’re so powerful ;-)

V: Thank you.  Goodnight, Miranda.

M: Goodnight, my sweet V <3

Chapter Text

Giggling girls and blushing boys crowded Grey Grove’s halls and choked the cloisters like birds flocking for mating season.  The cool morning air was crisp and sweet, heralding a holiday of infatuation, flirtation, and flippant disregard for PDA policy.  The entangled aromas of bloated roses and musky cologne were so thick they seemed to seep into the very fabric of every uniform.  A spicy flare to Friday.

Like oversized confetti, little folded cards of crimson, white, and silver cascaded out of Dante’s locker.  Spritzed with popular perfume associated with playful activities best left to nocturnal hours, the papery expressions of Dante’s not-so-distant admirers fluttered to his motorcycle-marked boots.

The attention was entertaining, but all the girls who hung upon his coattails were missing something.

“Three minutes to first period and I’m already swimming in fan mail.”  Dante peered around his brother’s open locker door.  “You know how Valentine’s Day works, right?”

Vergil smoothed back his hair and checked his tie again.  “I’m no fool.”

“Sure, you are!”  Dante smacked him between the shoulder blades hard enough to make Vergil oof.  “A fool in love.”

Cutting through the cliched effluvium of Cupid’s spotlight, the unique and unmistakable scent of plumeria warmed Vergil’s ears and quickened his heart.  Valentine’s Day had always been a blur on his calendar, a day like any other save for having to suffer the brouhaha of hormonally enflamed teenagers.

This time, for the first time, it was different.

Despite lacking an enthusiasm for overpriced chocolate, Vergil desired to make this day special for his special golden-eyed girl.  A memento to honor their first Valentine’s Day.  An elegant dinner and Shakespeare’s The Tempest .  The tie he had worn on their first date fit proper and snug about his throat again now.  Cerulean blue popped against a backdrop of grey and white.  The stalwart belief that no other student in all of Grey Grove could ever fathom the love he had for Miranda resided in the private cottage of his heart.

Well, perhaps Dante understood a little?  A distinct but innocuous fondness had developed between him and Miranda.  Vergil’s pointless jealousy of their interactions was gradually giving way to appreciation.  He knew he was never in danger of losing Miranda.  At least not in that way.

Glancing over his shoulder, he stole a few moments and watched Miranda unpack her messenger bag at her locker.  Taped neatly to the inside of her locker door was a lusterless, wrinkled photo of the marble statue of the Savior that stood in the sanctum of Fortuna’s opera house.  A stone interpretation of the legendary dark knight.  A depiction of Vergil’s father guarded the metal box that contained his girlfriend’s toolkit to graduation.

Fingers of fire groped at Vergil’s stomach, twisting his insides into knots of foreboding.  Am I lying to her?  Is not telling her the same as lying?

Head held high in defiance of his misgivings, Vergil tucked his books under one arm, closed his locker, and marched to meet the one girl in all the world for whom he’d brave Hell itself.

“Good morning, Miranda—”

Gasping, she nearly lost her bag off her shoulder.  Vergil caught it before it escaped her arm entirely.  “Oh!  Vergil, you scared me.”

I scared her?  Not a comforting thought.  “I certainly do not aspire to do that.”  He righted the strap on her shoulder again.

“It’s not your fault.”  Her face contorted into a painful grimace.  “I’m just really tired.”

A deep frown overcame Vergil’s brow.  “Are you all right?”

Miranda blinked rather slowly and could not seem to focus on him as she spoke.  “I stayed up too late studying last night.”  As she moved to walk away to class, she swayed and put a hand to her head, wincing.

Vergil jolted to her aid, wrapping a steadying arm around her waist.  “Let me take you to the nurse’s station—”

“No!”  she cried, stiffening in his gentlemanly touch.

His eyes widened in staggering surprise.  A few students cast bemused glances at them.  The obvious fear in Miranda’s eyes jabbed a heavy dose of potent puzzlement into Vergil’s heart.

“I’m sorry,” she whimpered, avoiding his gaze as if it might turn her to stone.  With that she hurried away, leaving Vergil to sink into a mire of bewilderment.

For the first half of the day, Vergil endured his classes burdened by Miranda’s evident weariness.  He was called upon to solve an elaborate equation in Trigonometry, but fouled his calculations in front of his fellow students.  During Poetry, he could only dwell on how Miranda took great pains to ignore him the entire time.  Taking notes was a futile endeavor.  His violin teacher had to snap at him several times because he couldn’t focus on his sheet music.

Last time Miranda had been so distraught she had cast herself into his embrace.  This time she avoided him altogether.

The bell for lunch finally rang.

Vergil could not find Miranda.

Two calls and three texts were ignored.  An inquiry at the nurse’s station yielded nothing.  Fellow students who shared her classes merely shrugged their shoulders.  Both her messenger bag and her wallet were missing from her locker.  With only half of the lunch hour remaining, Vergil’s worst fear clamped its fangs around his throat.

He’s taking her back to Fortuna!

“Dude, where’s your brainy babe?”  With arms spread wide, Dante strode down the hall to meet his brother. 

“She’s gone!”  Yanking his locker open, Vergil armed himself with wallet and keys before slamming it closed again.

“Gone?  What the hell are you talkin’ about?” Dante kept in step as they made long strides to the student parking lot.  The harsh sheet of cold rain doused them both.  “She didn’t dump you, did she?”

That question merited not even a scowl, it was so outrageously preposterous.  “She’s been avoiding me all day.  Now she’s gone.”  Too occupied for any thought but Miranda’s protection, Vergil heedlessly stormed toward his Corvette.  His fingers clenched around his keys until the edges bit for blood.  “I won’t let him take her back!”

A student in a blazing white BMW smashed down on the brakes to avoid crunching into him.  Vergil didn’t flinch, only glared at the driver without breaking his stride.  The BMW would’ve lost had it struck him, been rendered into two perfectly divided slices of metal at the lethal touch of the Yamato.

Once at his car, Vergil snapped around and jabbed a finger into his little brother’s chest.  “Don’t skip class, Dante, or Miranda will have your hide!”

Folding his arms, Dante smirked as he watched his lovelorn brother screech out of the parking lot.  The furious rain hammered the asphalt while Dante took shelter under a nearby archway.  Thunder growled.  Reaching into his pocket, he fondled the strawberry keychain Miranda had made for him.

* * *

Traffic was heavier than usual for an early Friday afternoon, but it was probably because of the weather.  The sky was bursting with so much rain that Vergil’s windshield wipers couldn’t slap it away fast enough.

Stop and go.  Stop and go.

Vergil cursed the traffic all the way down the freeway, barely paying much attention to the speed limit.  His fingers flexed and clenched on the steering wheel.  The engine of his Corvette reflected the burning anxiety building within him.

Rubber kicked up vicious sprays of rainfall as he pulled up in front of her house.  Dazran’s massive truck was absent.  Not a heartening sign.  Hurrying around to the side gate, he uncovered the spare key from beneath a thick rose bush.  Miranda had told him of the key in case of an emergency.

“Miranda!” Vergil called into the house as he closed and locked the front door behind him.

Nothing.

Vergil bounded up the stairs, unafraid to use his supernatural speed.

He followed the sound of Miranda’s groaning and sniffling to the bathroom down the hall.

“Vergil?” she called pitifully.

He rushed in at a normal human speed.

Ashen and trembling, she looked up at him, her face haggard.  Her hair was loosely bound in a messy braid.  Strands clung to her clammy cheeks.  Barefoot and wearing black leggings and a baggy, scarlet sweatshirt, she was poised over the toilet, her bent legs splayed on either side of her.  Dark circles hung under her reddened eyes.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, frowning and confused.

“You left school without a word.  I thought your father had pulled you out to take you back to Fortuna.”  He crouched beside her and ran a loving hand down her back.  “What’s wrong?”

She turned her face away in tearful shame.  “Nothing!  Go away!”

“Are you hurt?  Did your father do something to you?”  The flames of protective rage rekindled.

“He’s gone for the weekend.”  She pressed her forearm against her mouth and scrunched her eyes closed.  “Please just go!”

“I’m not leaving you.”  He fondled the stray dark tresses around her ear.  “Please tell me what’s wrong.”

“I can’t!” she sobbed helplessly.  “I want to!  I have to!”  Tears rolled down her face and panic choked her words.  “I’ve ruined everything!”

“What are you talking about?”

Pursing her lips, she forced herself to take a long, deep breath, yet she continued to shake.  Still she did not look at him, but devastation held her fast in its grip.

In the tiniest broken shard of a breath, she said, “Here.”  In her lifted, trembling hand, she offered him a long piece of thin, white plastic.

Vergil took it and stared openmouthed at the little pink “+” sign.  The entire world smashed to a halt.

Another bout of nausea yanked Miranda back over the toilet.  “I missed my period this month.  I’ve never missed it before.”

Utterly stunned, he just kept staring at the innocuous symbol that branded him with a responsibility for which he was altogether unprepared.  His lungs seemed to stop working but his heart was as loud as a landslide, tumbling around inside his chest.  Glancing beside the toilet, he finally noticed numerous identical boxes in the trash can, all printed with the same label: Clear+True Early Result.

“These can be wrong though,” he feebly reasoned.  “False positives happen all the time.”  Desperation chewed through his brittle denial as he scrambled like a drowning man for a bit of floating debris.  “It could just be the flu.”

“Vergil—”

“Food poisoning, maybe?  Grey Grove has had some incidents in the past—”

“Vergil!”  She met his eyes again at last.  “I took a test every day this week.  They’re all positive.”  The expression she wore was that of a prisoner about to be wrongfully executed.

“You’re really…?”

Pale and quivering, she slid a hand over her belly.  “I’m pregnant.”

Everything fell silent except for the chaotic whirlwind of thoughts storming through his mind.

We’re not married!

We’re still in school!

I don’t have a job!

What will my parents think?

Does Miranda want to be a mother?

I’m still living at home!

What will her father do?

His mouth tasted like dust.  Swallowing hurt.  His tongue was dry.

She grimaced, nibbling her lip, bracing herself for the worst.  “Tell me what you’re thinking!”

He blinked and drew a deep breath, trying to steady himself and achieve some clarity.  He looked at the pregnancy test again.  “So many things.”

“You can just—”  Miranda flinched as if a shock of pain burst at the base of her skull.  Her next words were lumps of icy iron.  It took so much strength to push them out of her throat.  “You can just break up with me.”

Such a suggestion rivaled the stupefaction he felt at reading the pregnancy test.  “Break up with you?”

“It’d be easier for you,” she softly argued.  “You have to graduate and go to college.  You can’t let anything derail that motivation—”

Setting the pregnancy test aside, Vergil took her in his arms and held her to his chest.  Resting his cheek against her hair, he promised once more in an unfaltering voice that could not be defied, “I love you, Miranda.  I am not leaving you.”

“But I’m pregnant,” she whimpered.

“I’m not leaving our baby either.”

Tightening her arms around him, she sobbed into his chest.  The warmth of him calmed her nausea, and relief swept over her like a rejuvenating breath of life.  “I love you too.”

Vergil did not let go of her.  “We should tell your father as soon as he returns.”

Miranda gripped fistfuls of his shirt.  “I’m terrified to tell him!  He warned me not to get pregnant!”

Vergil cupped her face, sweetly shushing her.  “Miranda, listen to me.  I’ll be with you when you tell him.  I want him to know that this happened because I love you.”

They gazed at each other.  He caressed her tears away.

“I feel better in your arms,” Miranda sighed.

He smiled, his deep eyes reflecting his undying motivation.  “Then I’ll never let you go.”

Smiling, she fell back into his embrace, and he held her a good long while.

“Oh, you have class!”  Miranda suddenly realized.  “You should go.”

“I can miss a day.” 

“Vergil, it’s your senior year—”

“I can miss a day, Miranda.”  He rested a hand on her belly.  “This is too important.”

A fragile smile began, but then broke away as Miranda was taken by a particularly violent round of retching.  Nothing came up, but her entire body shook, determined to expel something, even if it were her stomach itself.

“Damn it,” Vergil muttered, and made quick swipes of his thumb across his phone, researching how to alleviate morning sickness.  While he was searching, his phone rang.

He answered, testy and anxious.  “What!”

“Since when do you play hooky?”  Dante wasted no time.

Vergil rolled his eyes and sighed.  “Miranda’s sick.”

“Oh, that sucks!”

Moaning, Miranda retched again.

Vergil rubbed her back and hedged in a hushed tone, “She’s nauseated and her father’s gone for the weekend.”  He raked his hand through his hair, clenching it.  “I can’t leave her.”

“Mom’s alchemy might help.”

Vergil thought it over.  No point in delaying the inevitable.  “I’ll bring her home once her nausea calms down.”

“You know, unlike you, I love ditching class,” Dante remarked, cavalier.  “Especially if it’s for a family emergency or a damsel in distress.”  His grin was positively audible.  “I’ll grab your stuff from school.”

“You need all the class time you can get.  I need to go.”

“Okay, but—”

Vergil hung up, and then touched Miranda’s arm.  “How about I make tea for you this time.”

A weak but genuine smile flittered on her lips.  “Thank you, sweet V.”

He nodded and headed downstairs to the kitchen.

As he flicked on the gas beneath a full kettle of water, Vergil already felt the intense sting of scalding castigation that awaited him once his mother was informed.  Leaning against the edge of the kitchen counter, he waited and stewed.

How do I be a father?

Can I be a good father?

What will my father think?

We only did it once!  What are the odds?

The kettle shrieked.  The all-knowing internet recommended ginger tea for morning sickness.  Vergil let the tea steep for ten minutes before taking it upstairs to Miranda.

The mother of my child.  The girl carrying my son or daughter.

When he returned to the bathroom, Miranda was leaning against the bathtub breathing slowly and evenly with her eyes closed, at rest.  They fluttered open again as he entered bearing the hot tea.  Kneeling beside her, he offered the morning sickness remedy.

“I put a bit of honey in it,” he told her.

Taking the mug, she breathed in the ginger aroma and took a sip.  Vergil sat beside her.  The weight of the revelation silenced his voice but his thoughts were screaming.

Once half the tea was gone, Miranda leaned her head against his shoulder and sighed.  “What did Dante say?”

Irritation tainted Vergil’s next sigh, but he also felt appreciation.  “He wanted to help.”

The roar of a speeding motorcycle ripped through the anxious quiet.  The noise climbed louder and then gradually died right outside the house.  Then someone rapped a quick rhythm on the front door.

“Speak of the devil,” Vergil muttered, and left Miranda’s side to answer the door.

“I told you to stay at school!” he barked as he tore open the front door.

“As much as you’d like to be, you’re just not as scary as Dad, so nice try but no dice.”  Dante stepped forward to push past him, but Vergil flattened a hand against his brother’s chest and gave him a hard, pointed shove. 

Stumbling back, Dante scowled.  “Hey—!”

“You’re intruding!”

With a defiant toss of his hair, Dante planted his hands on his hips.  “What the hell is going on, Vergil?  I’m not stupid.  Something’s up.”

“Miranda is sick!”  Vergil’s glare deepened as if he were about to strangle Dante.  “Now leave!”  He moved to slam the door shut between them, but Dante bolted forward with a flash of dark red and an outstretched hand.

“Will you just share the burden once in a while?”  Dante shoved his brother back this time, and then closed the door behind him.  “Let me help, alright?”

Vergil tilted back his head and took a breath to gather his thoughts and bridle his ire.  “Everything is under control—”

The sound of Miranda heaving upstairs turned both boys’ heads.

“What can you do?” Vergil muttered darkly.

Dante crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow.  “You’re cutting class.”

“You dare to chide me?”  Vergil scoffed.  “What a joke.”

“Something is seriously screwy if you’re ditching school.”  Dante spread his arms and quirked his lips.  “No problem, though.  I’ll just go ask Mira myself—”  He started for the stairs, but Vergil pulled him back.

“This is none of your business!” he growled.

“She’s not just my tutor, ya know!  She’s like a sister to me!” Dante snapped back.  “I just wanna see if she’s okay!”

“I will take care of her!  Now get lost!”  Vergil grabbed a fistful of Dante’s rain-soaked shirt and yanked him back around toward the front door.

Dante ripped his brother’s hand away.  “You get off on the whole protection thing, I get it!  But I care about her too!”

“You’re only making things worse!”

“Why is it so damn hard for you to just let me help!”

“STOP IT!”

Both boys instantly turned in unison toward the top of the stairs.

Shaking and clinging to the railing, Miranda stood hunched at the summit.

“Please, just…stop…”  Exhausted, she slumped to the floor.

Vergil dashed up the stairs as a blurry, dark blue streak.  Luckily Miranda was too dazed to notice.  Red-hot on his heels, Dante ascended too. 

Vergil lifted his sickly lady into his arms and carried her into her bedroom.  “Get her some water,” he ordered, yielding to Dante’s adamant assistance.

“Sure.”  Dante headed down the hall as Vergil laid her on her bed.

The bathroom was cramped but tidy.  A tube of mascara and a half-empty bottle of liquid foundation were the only apparent needs for Miranda’s fair complexion.  The shower curtain was a plain soft shade of turquoise and the air was tinted with the scent of coconuts.  A squat, black and white-striped mug proclaimed, “Always Be Reading.”  Dante stuck it under the faucet and filled it.

As he turned to leave, he glimpsed a peculiar logo in the trash can: a pink silhouette of a pregnant woman.  Brow furrowing, he plucked out the box.  As if suddenly a ton of bricks, his jaw dropped.

For a minute that felt more like an hour, Dante stood in the doorway of Miranda’s room and gawked at her.

Staring back at him, she clutched Vergil’s sleeve, her heart thundering like a stampede of elephants.

Finally, Dante blinked a few times as if his vision was blurry.  “Am I gonna be an uncle?”

Shoulders slumping, Miranda nodded.

“Why didn’t you go to the kitchen for water?” Vergil groused.

“The bathroom’s closer, dumbass,” Dante retorted, jabbing a thumb in that direction.

“It doesn’t matter!”  Miranda shouted, wincing.

Dante brought the water to her.  Unaware of her thirst, she gulped it all as quickly as he could do with a beer.  The tea Vergil had made was already gone.

“So you’re not sick.  You’re…pregnant.”  The revelation had yet to fully settle in Dante’s brain.  It had yet to settle in any of their brains.

Miranda nodded again.  “That’s why I left school so suddenly today.”  She bit down on her lip as tears gathered in her eyes.  “I thought maybe all the tests were false.  Maybe my period was late because I’ve been stressed.”  Overcome, she dropped her face into her hands and wept.  “I don’t know what to do!”

Like loyal guardians, Dante and Vergil sat beside her on opposite sides of the bed, offering their silent, fierce devotion.  Each son of Sparda laid a strong, but gentle hand upon her quivering back, a comforting and protective gesture she felt spread through her body and soul.  Their twin touches of love felt like wings.  Soon her weeping ebbed and she looked at each of them, her eyes full of gratefulness and love for them both.  Brave knights, blue and red.  Clouds of uncertainty hovered on the horizon, but her knights gave her courage.

Vergil fetched the nearby box of tissues while Dante left to refill her mug.

“Ugh, I’m such a mess,” Miranda muttered after tending to her dripping nose and puffy eyes.

Vergil leaned close and pressed a kiss to her temple.  Miranda closed her eyes and leaned into him.

“Don’t forget,” he whispered, and touched her katana pendant.

“I went to the kitchen this time,” Dante reported as he made his reappearance.  “The filtered stuff outta the fridge.”  He gave the superior water to Miranda.  “Only the good shit for the Mama-to-Be.”

“Thank you.”  She gave his forearm a grateful squeeze.

“Miranda, please excuse us for a minute.”  Grabbing his brother’s arm, Vergil tugged him out into the hall.

Once they were downstairs and outside on the back patio where the crashing rain would hide their conversation, Dante chortled and punched his brother in the shoulder.  “My prim and proper hard-ass brother had sex!”

“Why is that so funny to you?” Vergil indignantly snarled, angrily spreading his hands.  “This isn’t a laughing matter!”

“Our birthday, right?  The Elysium!”  Dante gave a cat-call whistle.  “So that’s why you were late for dinner that night!”

Brows plunging and nose wrinkling, Vergil summoned his deepest scowl, the kind that prefaced judgment and agonizing death of ten thousand scorching cuts.

Grinning ear to ear and unabashedly sniggering, Dante declared, “Jackpot!”

“I’d rather not upset Miranda by shattering the patio door with your skull,” Vergil blackly remarked, “but oh how you tempt me.”

“Come on, you used to love sayin’ that!” Dante laughed.

“Listen to me!” Vergil hissed.  “She doesn’t know!”

Dante frowned.  “Know what?”

Vergil sighed.  “You know what.”

“You still haven’t told her that we’re…?”  Dante waggled an indicative finger between them.

Vergil crossed his arms and shook his head, regret slathered all over his face.

“Dude, you gotta tell her now!”

“I will!  I just didn’t want you to interfere before I had the chance.”

“I won’t steal that thunder from you,” Dante assured him, raising conciliatory palms.  “I sure as hell don’t envy you that.”

The vexed glower dissolved into stiff distress as Vergil pondered a grave and terrifying possibility.  The rain pounding down was like hammer blows of guilt, preemptively pummeling and bruising him. 

“Verge?”

Quiet little blue flames sprouted along Vergil’s shoulders and wavered weakly in the cold wind.  The vow he faintly emitted was as fragile as a snowflake in summer.  “I won’t let her die.”

Dante frowned.  “What are you talkin’ about?”

“The baby could—”  Vergil crushed his eyes closed and attempted to banish the intruding bloody images of Miranda that came to mind.  “Our birth almost killed Mother.”

Stern and defiant, Dante reminded him,  “But it didn’t.”

“I’ve lied to her.”  The fear for Miranda’s life constricted Vergil’s chest like barbed wire, cutting and piercing and suffocating.

“Hold on—”

“If I’d told her about our bloodline she probably would never have—”

“Hey!”  Dante grabbed his brother by the shoulders and gave him a shake.  “Mira loves you.”

Vergil let his mind steep in that truth for a few moments, and then nodded.

“You love Mira.”  Dante snorted, grinning.  “Hell, I knew that before you did.”

The faintest smile twitched in one corner of Vergil’s mouth.

“So.  We taking her home?”

Vergil nodded.  “I think that would be best, and I’d like to brave the gauntlet of Mother’s fury sooner rather than later.”

“Very wise of you.”  Cringing, Dante scrunched one eye closed and scratched the back of his head.  “I guess the ice breaker will be why we’re both playin’ hooky today.”

“That’s the least of my worries.”  Vergil opened the patio door.  “I don’t want to leave her alone for too long.”

The pitiable noise of Miranda’s condition had resumed, and the boys hurried upstairs again.

“Our mother will know a potent remedy,” Vergil told Miranda, kneeling beside her in the bathroom.  “Let me take you to her.”

Wiping her mouth with a damp washcloth, Miranda nodded.

While Dante gathered her purse and shoes, Vergil stuffed a change of clothes and a few toiletries into an old backpack Miranda had used on her journey to Red Grave City.

“I think the boyfriend should hold the purse,” Dante remarked. 

“My hands are full,” Vergil asserted as he carried Miranda downstairs.  After helping her into her raincoat, he took her to his car.

With Miranda taking deep breaths in the front passenger seat, he drove for home with his little brother’s motorcycle roaring close behind.

* * *

The rain had hardly lightened by the time they arrived, trading buckets for pitchers.  Hair drenched and clothes soaked, Dante and Vergil hurried into the shelter of the foyer.  Miranda clung weakly to Vergil as he carried her inside.  The lord of the manor was away from home on business, but expected home for dinner per usual.  The world-shifting news would have to be divulged in two rounds.

“Get Mira settled,” Dante said, shedding his drenched jacket.  “I’ll find Mom.”

Unable to suppress a painful gulp, Vergil stiffly nodded.  Dante ascended one spiral staircase while Vergil ascended the other.

“How do you feel,” he murmured to Miranda.

The sickly pallor had not forsaken her face.  Running her fingers through his wet hair, she uttered, “Will our baby have your beautiful white hair, do you think?”

Gazing at her, he refused to give fear a foothold, but its claws and fangs relentlessly swiped and nipped.  Like a parasitic mouth, the guilt had already latched onto his heart, steadily sucking away his hope that Miranda would understand once she knew…

“Let’s just make you comfortable.”

I believe in her love for me, but will it be enough?   Will I be enough?

Vergil chose the guest room closest to his own room.  It was neither prodigious nor lowly, but comfortable, furnished with all the necessities.  Like the rest of the manor, dark and sturdy polished wood glimmered faintly in soft golden light.  A sizable Victorian-style, frosted-glass lamp hung from the center of the textured, copper-colored ceiling.  A black wingback chair stood near the small hearth.  The little table beside it bore a stack of old books that lent a cozy scent of aged knowledge to the air.  Like the ceiling, the walls were richly textured, but nothing hung on them.  The only decorous display was a trio of bright, glass stones.  Like a ruby, emerald, and sapphire and yet somehow they were different, more than mortal stone.  Their centers glowed with a mesmerizing, gently swirling white light.

Once Miranda was snuggly tucked into the marshmallow-cushiness of the queen-sized four-poster bed, Vergil set to work building a fire in the hearth.  Due to lack of use, the room was too cold to promote a healthy environment for his lady with child.

With a hand on her belly—a habit quickly forming—Miranda sat back against a wall of squishy, silky pillows and watched him lay the wood and coax orange flames to life.

Warmth gently fingered its way through the room and the rain steadily drummed upon the roof.  The world was otherwise quiet and waiting.  Gripping one biceps in anxious thought, Vergil brooded beside the bright fire.  Nervous and ashamed, Miranda watched raindrops weep down the window panes.

I shouldn’t delay any longer.  I have to tell her.  Now.

“Miranda?”  Raking his wet hair back, he drew near and sat on the edge of the bed.

“What is it?”

Nervously, he licked his lips and struggled for the words.  “There’s something that I—”

“Mom’s not home.”  Dante leaned through the doorway.

The resounding thrum of one of the front doors opening rattled in their chests.

“Boys?”  Eva called, her voice carrying to every room.

“Just kidding.”  Dante grimaced, and then hurried to the balustrade.  “Hey, Mom!” he called back to her, faking a carefree tone.

Miranda snatched Vergil’s hand and gripped it tight.

“Dante?” Eva chided, coming to the bottom of the stairs.  On one arm she carried a wide woven basket filled with small plastic-wrapped packages.  Likely odds and ends and rare ingredients for her alchemy unavailable at Burrow Market.  Disapproval glimmered in her green eyes.  “Why aren’t you at school?  Where is your brother?”

Clutching the railing, Dante considered how little he should relay.  “Mira’s here too.”

Eva set her basket down and tossed her damp golden hair over her shoulder.  “She is always welcome, of course, but why aren’t you three at school?”

Apprehension surged through Dante’s chest.  “She’s not feelin’ so hot so we brought her here.  Thought maybe you could help.”

Eva bent her brows, unmistakably suspicious as only mothers can be of their teenagers, and ascended the stairs.

As soon as she entered the guest room, Vergil shot up from the edge of the bed and took an attentive stance.  Miranda tried to look alert despite the dizziness that had set in, but the morning sickness had terribly drained her.

“Mother.”

“Hello, Eva.”

Dante joined them, but kept to the background.

The severe wan color of Miranda’s face immediately concerned Eva.  Coming to the bedside in a rustle of red silk, she took the girl’s hand and studied the glassy sheen in her eyes.

“What’s ailing you, dear?”

Miranda fought to keep her mouth from trembling.  The motherly touch of Eva’s hand both comforted and broke her heart.

“I’m sorry,” she muttered as tears blurred her vision.

Eva frowned, confused and worried.  “Whatever for?”

“Mother?”

Eva turned to her eldest son.  “What is this about?”

“It’s my fault,” Vergil confessed, his eyes downcast.

“No, Vergil, I won’t let you take all the blame for this!” Miranda objected, tears running silently down her face.

“Vergil?” Eva sternly prompted.  The suspense was fast becoming painful as she suspected through motherly intuition that she already knew the truth of Miranda’s condition.

All three angst-ridden teenagers spoke at once.

“I’m—”

“Mira’s—”

“Miranda’s pregnant.”

The room fell into the heaviest silence as if the whole house had been plunged into an icy ocean trench.  Hands on her hips, Eva let that burdensome silence hang upon Vergil like the weight of his new responsibility.  He kept his chin up but his eyes down.

Eva shook her head, her mouth a flat, despondent line.  The fire crackled and the rain pattered.  Everything stood upon a precipice.

“You have no idea the full extent of what you have jeopardized!”  Eva rebuked.  The keen edge of her voice sliced without mercy, but Vergil bore it without retort as he stood like a bulwark between Miranda and the vexation of his mother.

“I instigated it!” Miranda pleaded.

“That doesn’t matter!” Eva refuted, her voice rising in righteous, maternal castigation.  “You are children!  You are not in the least prepared for this!  What you have done has changed everything!”

Harsh and scorching blush consumed Vergil’s face as he took his mother’s anger like a criminal before the firing squad.

Eva’s fire fell on Miranda.  “Your father is a high-ranking official in the Order of the Sword.  This could affect his standing!”

Hiding her mouth behind the collar of her sweatshirt, Miranda muffled her sniffles of humiliation.

“The captain is a heartless cad!” Vergil blurted wrathfully.

Eva stood unfazed by her son’s outburst.  “Nevertheless, Miranda is his daughter.  Fortuna’s theocratic ways are not as forgiving as they seem.  The captain may yet suffer severe consequences in the Order and in turn Miranda may receive the fallout.”

Vergil gritted his teeth, clenched his fists, and spoke in a low, dark voice, “I will fight the entire Order if I must.”

“Don’t be childish, Vergil!”  Her scalding green gaze never left his contrite countenance.  “How could you, my sagacious firstborn, be so impulsive?”

Vergil met his mother’s eyes, brave and sincere.  “I’m in love with Miranda.”

Dante sniggered from the wingback chair.  “Didn’t have to prove it by knockin’ her up.”

Eva gave her youngest a warning snap of her fingers and a stern lift of one eyebrow.  Dante clamped his mouth shut, apologetically silent for his ill-timed teasing.

“I take full responsibility,” Vergil vowed.  “Whatever I have to do to care for Miranda and our child, I will do it.”

Eva’s stiff, aggrieved posture softened just slightly.  She believed him, but it did not make the circumstances any easier nor alleviate her dismay.  The hard edge of her voice did not falter.  “We will continue this discussion when your father returns tonight.”

Vergil nodded.

Pressing fingertips to her forehead, Eva drew in a deep sigh.  “For now, we will attend to Miranda’s needs.”

* * *

The prenatal tea Eva concocted permeated Miranda’s senses.  The balmy swirls lifting off the liquid’s surface invoked thoughts of burgeoning gardens of tart fruit and pungent herbs like ginger and mint and raspberry and plum.

“I drank this myself during my pregnancy,” Eva said, handing the hot mug to Miranda.  “It will first ease the nausea and then gently pull you into sleep.  Don’t fight it.  This also provides a myriad of nutrients and vitamins for both you and the baby so I want you to drink every drop.”

Sipping carefully, Miranda did her best to ignore the earthy notes.  Despite the less than delicious taste, she trusted and obeyed Eva’s instruction.  By the time half the tea was gone, the nausea had indeed dissipated significantly, and a pleasant calm floated throughout Miranda’s body.

“Thank you, Mother,” Vergil said, standing at the foot of the bed.  He looked upon Miranda with veiled relief.

Eva rose, but before leaving the room she put a hand on her son’s arm, reminding him that her depthless love had not changed.

“Are you hungry?” she asked.

Vergil shook his head.

“I am.” Dante launched himself out of the wingback chair.  “You’re in the best hands now, Mira.”  He winked at her.

Miranda managed a languorous, limp smile in return.

“Come along, my little trickster.”  With a disapproving quirk of her lips, Eva examined Dante’s damp, wrinkled tie.  “Put your uniform in the wash and I’ll iron it for you.”

“You know that ironing my stuff is pointless.”  Dante started unbuttoning his shirt.  “Is it a hobby for you?”

Eva pointed out the door.  Her tone brooked no argument.  “Go.”

Shirt now fully unbuttoned, Dante did as he was told.

“Remember, Miranda.  Don’t fight the power of the tea.”  With an affectionate but worried smile, Eva left the room, leaving the door open a smidge.

As Miranda kept sipping tea, Vergil stoked the fire, and then removed his shoes and belt before joining her on the bed.  Pressing close, he put an arm around her and offered his supernatural warmth, hoping his nearness would also help the baby somehow.

“This tea is magical,” Miranda moaned as sleep crept nearer.  After the last swallow, Vergil set the mug aside.  Snuggling against him, she sighed and let the tea work its wonder.

Within minutes, Vergil was left alone to his thoughts.  Grateful for his mother and her apothecary talents, he listened to the sound of Miranda’s peaceful slumber.  With one hand resting on her belly, he ruminated on how different life would be.  In all honesty, he did not know how his father would take the news. 

* * *

The last light of a scarlet dusk faded on the horizon as the sultry thunder of Sparda’s McLaren heralded the dark knight’s homecoming.  Now comfy in black sweatpants and a tight-fitting tank top of alarming cardinal red, Dante sat on the couch in the parlor, one bare foot up on the coffee table, plucking and tuning his acoustic guitar. 

It’s showtime.  His fingers swiftly executed an ominous little ditty.

Eva glided through the parlor and exchanged a brief, nervous glance with Dante.

The heavy pair of oaken doors opened, resounding.

Hiding her unease, Eva wore a welcoming smile as her husband entered his home.

“My beloved,” Sparda moaned, taking Eva into his eager arms.  “What blasted drudgery this day has been!”  He kissed his wife, indulging long enough to unnerve Dante.

“Hey, Dad!” he called out, waving his arm over his head.  No more parlor incidents, please!

“Good evening, my son!” Sparda called in return, and strode into the parlor with Eva on his arm.  “How many valentines did you reap this year?”

“I lost count,” Dante replied, perfectly smug.

Sparda chuckled.  “That’s my boy.  Any prospects?”

Dante wrinkled his nose and shrugged.  “I’m hoping Mira has a sister she doesn’t know about yet.”

“Ah, well, we mustn’t force these things,” Sparda reasoned sagely.  “Nor rush them.”

“Speaking of whom,” Eva interjected,  “Miranda is upstairs with Vergil.”

“Oh, splendid!  She will be joining us for—?”  He fell silent, his brow furrowing.  A gloved hand moved to Luce.

“Pop?”

Eva put a hand to Sparda’s chest.  “My darling, wait.”

“There is an additional demonic presence here.”  Sparda closed his arctic-blue eyes, and when he opened them again they were hell-ember red.  “It is small but I am certain it is close.”

“Dad, hold on—”

“Stay here.”  Sparda drew Luce and strode for the stairs.  “Dante, guard your mother.”

“Sparda, wait!”

“Dad!”

Eva hurried after her husband, but Sparda teleported in a blur of black and purple to the top of the stairs.

“Vergil!” he called out, drawing Ombra.  He kicked open the door of the guest room, narrowly avoiding damage to Vergil’s face. 

Miranda screamed.

Vergil caught Luce and Ombra in his bare hands and turned their lengthy barrels toward the ceiling.  “Father, stop!”

“Are you all right?” Sparda boomed.  “I thought you and Miss Fierro were in peril!”

“We’re not, but you’ve frightened Miranda half to death!” Vergil shouted.

“What the hell, Dad!” Dante railed, hurrying into the room.

“Sparda, I told you to wait!” Eva reprimanded, closely following Dante.

Clutching the covers, Miranda panted hard and fast.  Vergil rejoined her, taking her hand and calming her with reassuring whispers.

“My dear sweet girl, I humbly beg your forgiveness!” Sparda elegantly implored, quickly twirling his guns back into their holsters.  “I am an utter clot for terrifying you so!  Please believe that I had only your welfare in mind!”

“Sir Redgrave,” Miranda feebly greeted once her breath had steadied.  Unable to look at him, she pressed the heels of her hands against her bowed forehead.

“Are you nauseated again?” Vergil asked.

She shook her head.

“Miss Fierro are you unwell?” Sparda inquired, coming to her bedside.  “You do look rather peaky.”

Eva put a hand on her husband’s arm, solemn.  “We all need to talk—”

“Vergil’s a dad.”

All eyes turned to Dante, none of them pleased.

Dante shrugged, nonchalant and completely without regret.  “Why drag it out?”

Everyone fell silent as Sparda studied his eldest son.  An eternity later, he spoke.  Slowly.  Gravely.  “I see.”

“I have already had words with him,” Eva remarked, disapproval lingering in her tone.

“I understand that it’s poorly timed, sir,” Vergil offered.

“To say the least,” Sparda grimly replied with an upraised brow.  “There is more at stake than you know.”

Vergil stood before his mighty demon father, refusing to so much as twitch under the dark knight’s powerful gaze.  In this moment, Vergil felt at the mercy of a great judgmental rod that would either bestow blessing or bruising.

Sparda shifted his attention to Miranda and noticed the empty mug sitting atop the bedside table.  “My clever wife has applied her talents, I presume?”

Miranda nodded, trembling in his presence.  “I’m grateful for her kindness.”

“A marvelous remedy to be sure.”  Sparda lowered himself into the chair at her bedside, and with a clement tone she had never heard her own father use, he told her, “You are dear to us.  Know that you are safe here.” 

New tears blinded her as she was overcome by his gentleness.  She had expected wrath.

Smiling, Sparda brushed the back of his gloved fingers against her temple in the guise of an affectionate, fatherly touch.  “Rest now.”

Instantly her head lolled to one side and she fell unconscious.

“Father—!”

Sparda lifted a hand for silence and rose from his chair.  “Does she know you carry the blood of a demon?  Does she know you are my son?”

Vergil tried to swallow but his throat was too dry, so he rasped,  “No, sir.”

“So she has no idea that her child possesses that same powerful inheritance.”  Sparda hovered a hand over Miranda’s belly and closed his eyes.  After a moment, he made a humming noise of confirmation.  “It was your child whom I sensed.”  He paced to the fireside where the flames had dwindled to glowing embers.  For a long while his family was silent, waiting for him to gather his thoughts and consider the full extent of the circumstances.

Miranda continued to slumber, nothing indicating harm or discomfort or waking soon.

With one arm against the small of his back, Sparda rubbed at his chin, buried in deep strategic thought.

Eva sat pensively in the wingback chair while Dante leaned his elbows atop it.

“Does her father know of the pregnancy?” Sparda suddenly asked in an even, war-general tone.

“Not yet, sir,” Vergil answered.

Sparda narrowed his eyes at the darkening embers, and then black and purple flames sprouted up as if the coals were seeds of conflagration. “Henceforth, Miranda cannot have conventional medical attention of any kind.”  He clasped both hands behind his back as if to seal his decision.  “Myshipha shall provide all necessary care.”

“The midwife who saved mom and me, right?” Dante asked.

“Indeed.”  Sparda put his back to the fire.  “My trust in her is tenuous at best, but there is no other we can call upon.  Vergil, stand before me.”

His son obeyed.

Sparda’s hell-red eyes studied him to his soul and his voice was stern.  “You are now a father and bear all responsibility that accompanies that great privilege.  While I do not approve of your reckless neglect of self-control, I will pardon it.  Tell me your intentions.”

Vergil glanced at the sleeping Miranda, and then back to his father.  “I will not forsake her, and I will protect her and our child.  I am prepared to do whatever I must.”

Pride sparkled in Sparda’s eyes, but he did not permit himself to smile just yet.  “Why?”

The question was simple and so was Vergil’s answer.  “I love her.”

Now Sparda smiled, wide and bright and joyful.  “I know you do.”

“I regret my disregard for repercussions,” Vergil admitted.

Sparda nodded, adequately satisfied with his son’s level of penitence.  “We shall make necessary arrangements, to which Miranda and you must fully submit.”

“I understand, sir.”

Chortles rumbled in Sparda’s throat, growing louder into bursts of happiness.  “I am to be a grandfather!”  He spread his arms, exhilarated.  A sheen of tears veiled his now blue eyes.  “My heart has not been this merry in many a year.” 

Quite baffled, Vergil stood wide-eyed and agape.  “Are you not angry?”

Sparda sobered somewhat.  “Be not mistaken, my son.  We must be cautious, and much shall be altered.  Such are the consequences.  Yet why dawdle over what cannot be unsung.  I’d rather celebrate the new life of my grandchild.”  He took his son by the shoulders.  “I cannot press upon you enough the cruciality of imparting to Miranda the truth of the child inside her.”

“I will tell her, Father,” Vergil promised.

Sparda nodded.  “Now, come eat something or your mother will fret.”

Before following his family out of the room, Vergil spared one more glance at Miranda.  The fire was bright.  The bed was comfortable.  The tea had soothed.  The legendary dark knight was home to detect any immediate dangers.

She’s safe.

 * * *

The dinner Eva had prepared for Miranda was simplistic and curative.  Neatly arranged on a wooden tray was a small dish of chopped banana alongside an enormous bowl of her homemade chicken broth.  A naked slice of toast stood against the lip of the steaming bowl.

“Be sure she drinks the broth,” Eva instructed before Vergil departed the kitchen with the prenatal meal in tow.

Balancing the tray on one hand, he entered the guest room to find Miranda up and about.  With a sweet and sleepy smile, she greeted him.  The color had returned to her skin and she had remade her hair into a neat, tumbling braid.

“My mother prepared this for you,” he told her, setting the tray on the bedside table.

Miranda slid her arms around his neck and held fast to him.  Wrapping his arms around her, he pressed her close.  For a few minutes, all they did was hold one another.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked.

“The nausea is gone, but…”  She drew a trembling breath.  In a nervous whisper, she asked, “Is your father terribly upset too?”

“Not too terribly,” he replied, meeting her eyes.  “Are you hungry?”

“Starving, actually.”  First she took a piece of banana.  When that proved to settle easily she took a few nibbles out of the toast.

Tell her.  Just get it over with.   “Miranda, there’s something really important that I need to tell you.”

Nervously, she fingered her katana pendant.  “What is it?”

He paced before the fire, running a hand through his hair.  A couple strands fell loose.  “I should’ve told you months ago.”

Miranda fidgeted, nervous and worried.  “It’s about the baby, isn’t it?”

Vergil cringed as if fighting a headache.  “Yes, because it’s about me.”  He stopped pacing and rubbed at his neck, his heart hammering.  Am I about to lose her forever?  Hanging his head, he rubbed at his eyes.

Miranda came to his side and took his hand.  “Just tell me, my V.”

Consumed with the dread of losing her, he met her worried gaze.  Miranda was stunned to find tears in his eyes.

“Vergil—?”

He gathered her in his arms and held her close.  “I never wish to frighten you.”

She put her arms around his neck.  “You don’t frighten me, my sweet V.”

The tears were heavy enough now to blur his vision.  “You know how much I love you, don’t you?”

Miranda sighed, smiling.  “Of course I do.”  She could feel the desperate drumming of his heart.

The terror filling his chest was akin to that which fell upon him ten years ago, the terror that spawned his childhood nightmares.  Clutching her tightly, he held her as if it were the very last time.

In a childlike breath of dread, Vergil finally told her, “I’m a demon.”

Silence.

Vergil’s mouth trembled as he waited.  I’m not strong enough to lose her!

Miranda did not loosen her hold on him, but embraced his fearful heart, and caught his tears upon her neck.

Running her fingers into his hair, she whispered, “I know.”

Vergil’s breath caught and his heart got stuck at the bottom of his throat.  “You know?”  The mantle of bafflement was so thick it was almost comical on his usually stern face.  “How do you know?”

Reluctant, Miranda considered her next words cautiously.  “I’m forbidden to speak of it.”

“Forbidden by whom?” he prodded, already surmising.

She pressed her lips tightly together as if to keep the secret from escaping.  “Forgive me, Vergil, but I can’t.”

He ran a hand down her arm, consoling her.  “How long have you known about me?”

Nervously, she nibbled the cuff of her sweatshirt sleeve.  “I knew for certain when we sat together that day in the courtyard at school and you read my essay.”

She knew all this time…somehow…before we barely knew each other…and still she…

“It’s also the only possible explanation for this.”  Miranda lifted her sweatshirt, revealing her bare stomach.

From behind the hem of her leggings, black, thread-thin squiggles branched toward her navel. 

Alarmed by the discolored veins, Vergil insisted,  “My mother should see this.  Perhaps this happened to her as well.”

“Is your father a pureblood demon?” Miranda asked, lowering her sweatshirt again.

“He’s much more than that,” Vergil admitted vaguely.  “In fact, you were acquainted with his renown long before you came to Red Grave City.”

Miranda’s brows knitted tightly together, but she did not say a word as she puzzled.

“He was once a feudal lord of Fortuna long ago—”

“What are you saying?” Miranda blurted, and then shook her head in disbelief.  “You can’t mean…!”

Vergil took her hands in his.  “My father is the legendary dark knight Sparda.”

Miranda gasped and slapped her hands over her mouth, shaking her head more intensely.  Stumbling back, she bumped into the wingback chair and nearly fell.  Vergil steadied her.  A cascade of ramblings tumbled out of her.

“I’ve been so rude!  So irreverent!  I’ve spoken so informally to him!  The Savior!  I’m a guest in his house!  I’ve eaten at his table!  I’m in love with a son of Sparda!  I’m—!”  Her hands flew to her belly as the biggest revelation dawned on her.  “I’m going to give birth to the Savior’s grandchild!”

“Sit down,” Vergil gently urged, and settled her into the wingback chair.

“Oh my god,” she whimpered, covering her mouth again.

“Quite a Valentine’s Day,” he said, kneeling beside her and offering a wry little smile.

She looked at him, her eyes as large as the bowl of broth she had yet to finish.  “I must beg the Savior’s forgiveness!”  She shot out of the chair again.

Vergil caught her arm and eased her back down.  “You need to rest.”  He fetched the broth and pushed it into her hands.  “Drink.”

Still atremble, Miranda sipped and drank.  Once the bowl was empty, Vergil set it aside and kissed her cheek.

A respectful knock came at the door, and then Sparda peeked into the room.  “Pardon my intrusion—”

Miranda sprang from the wingback chair and prostrated herself before the dark knight, crying, “I humbly beg forgiveness of you, my great lord!”

Sparda stared down at the distraught girl, his white eyebrows climbing toward his swept back hairline.  Then with a compassionate smile, he crouched before her and took her hand gently in his.  Gasping, she flinched, but did not look up at him.

“Miranda.”

The tenderness in his voice was unlike anything she had ever heard from her own father.  Sniffling, she raised her face and met his azure eyes, the eyes Vergil had inherited.

“I have no desire for such strict veneration,” he told her.  “Such fabricated obligations will distance us, and that would grieve my heart.”

“But…my lord…” she stammered.

“Come now, you should be resting.”  Sparda helped her to her feet and guided her back to bed.  The hand upon his strong arm trembled to be touching the Savior.  “You must calm yourself, my dear.  You’ve had a most eventful day.”

After assisting her back into the luscious arms of the bed covers, Sparda imparted a delighted but cautionary half-smile.  “If you know who I am then you know of the…peculiarity of my sons, and therefore of your child.”

Nervously, Miranda nodded, unable to fathom the glacial blue of the dark knight’s eyes.  Sharp and striking like winter, yet calm and many fathoms deep like the sea.

“’Tis vital that you adhere to Eva’s and my instruction as you tread prudently through this pregnancy,” Sparda continued rather solemnly.  “Do not mistake my lack of severity for a dismissal of your and Vergil’s untimely parenthood.”

Miranda dropped her chin penitently.

“We will discuss it no further tonight.”  He glanced at the empty bowl upon the tray.  “Eva sent me to inquire if you have need of seconds.”

“No, thank you, sir,” Miranda meekly replied.

“Very well.”  With ease he balanced the tray upon the fingertips of one hand and once again made the impression of a butler.  A servant.  “You shall stay the night, Miranda.  Arrangements will be set in motion on the morrow.”

Once he had taken his leave, Vergil sat at Miranda’s bedside again.

The storm grumbled in the murky depths of the wet night.

“I can’t tell my papa.”

Vergil stroked her arm.  “We will tell him together.”

“He told me not to get pregnant!”  Miranda pressed her knuckles to her mouth.

Vergil spoke calmly despite the rapid battering of his heart.  “We will explain everything.”

Ever haunting her, the fear of her father gave no quarter.  “I don’t know if the Order will deem this heresy or divine.”

Hope rose, a ray of light amidst the black clouds.  “Either way, wouldn’t it free you from your father’s plans?”

Miranda did not appear as convinced or optimistic as Vergil.  Entrapped in black clouds she remained.  “It’s not that easy.”

Vergil took her hand.  “For now just rest, and tomorrow my father will arrange for you to see the midwife that attended my mother.”

Miranda squeezed his hand.  “Please stay with me tonight.”

He kissed her, his mouth slow and warm and gentle.  “Of course.”

Chapter Text

The satin-soft sunflowers sagged their shoulders, leaning languidly in their black kintsugi vase.  Eva stood before the wide oval mirror of Sparda’s and her bath chamber.  A pair of ivory chopsticks held her golden hair up off her own drooping shoulders.  Cool water rushed down into the basin.  Cupping some in her hands, Eva cooled her flushed face.  The steam of her bath had faded, but the air was still thick with the scent of magnolia. 

A sudden needling pain interrupted what would have been a long, deep sigh.  Wincing, Eva failed to suppress a moan.  Gripping the sleeves of her night-black robe, she closed her eyes and waited for the old sting to dissipate.

“Does it pain you terribly tonight?”

Eva did not open her eyes, but felt her husband’s hands on hers.  There was comfort and remorse in his touch.

“No,” she uttered, having resigned to it years ago.  “No more than usual.”

Sparda gently tugged Eva’s robe off her shoulders, baring her back.  Between her shoulder blades, patches of pale scars marred her skin.  The burns had gone deep and treatment had been delayed, which led to the severe disfigurement she would bear the rest of her life.

A small alabaster jar sat beneath the sunflowers.  After removing the lid, Sparda dipped his fingers into the ointment and massaged it along the edges of the scars.  The nerves directly beneath the scars were dead, of course, but Eva felt all the gentleness and every undying pang of guilt in his fingertips as they brushed over the damaged nerves yet living.

“You’re tense and brooding, my love,” Sparda remarked, replacing the lid on the jar.

Sighing, Eva covered her shoulders and scars again.  “You were too lenient with our son tonight.”

Sparda furrowed his brow at her in the mirror.  “What else would you have had me do?  Raving and roaring at the boy would have done nothing to deepen the contrition he already obviously feels.  I’m sure you accomplished plenty of raging before I arrived.”

“Raging?”  Eva glared at him in the mirror, resentful.  “Vergil is so young!  Miranda is younger still!”  Her voice grew strident in her distress.  “What about graduation?  The Order may vie for the child once Miranda’s father is told!  Miranda herself could suffer more than we realize!”

Sparda lay his hands upon her shoulders and gazed calmly at her in the mirror.  “Eva.  We mustn’t panic nor create problems that do not yet exist.”

“Is there no such thing as contingency, my warrior husband?”

“Indeed,” he admitted, fondling her earlobe, “but let me handle that.”

Eva pulled the chopsticks from her hair and spun them nervously in her fingers.  “I’m just worried.”

Sparda kissed her cheek.  “The boy understands that the timing was wrong.  A mistake was committed, addressed, and repentance expressed.  Now we support the coming of our grandchild.”

Frightful uncertainty slinked through Eva’s heart like a niggling worm before she turned to look directly up into her husband’s eyes.  “Can you really trust Myshipha again?”

The azure blue of the dark knight’s eyes swiftly shifted to stark, firestorm red.  The gaze of a lion whose fangs were poised to clamp.  “She will not betray me again, Eva.  She will not have the chance whether she wants to or not.  I promise you.”

Despite her fighting the dark memories, tears veiled Eva’s eyes.  In a choked whisper, she said, “I cannot bear it again, Sparda.  I cannot.”

Sparda took her in his arms.  Eva held fast to him for solace.

“We must not despair.  Our sons are stronger now.  They will grow even stronger.  If the need arises, we will fight to protect our grandchild.”

Eva looked up at him again.  “The fear threatens to kill my joy of being a grandmother.”

“There is no bravery without fear.”  Sparda caressed her cheek.  His calm, wise eyes were beautifully blue again.  He touched her back where the old scars were.  “A mother is the bravest warrior of all.”

A smile fluttered on Eva’s lips.  Sparda’s smile was tainted by a sorrow that would haunt him until the end of his days.  It pained Eva to see that sorrow again, so cupped his face and kissed him, deep and reassuring.

“Our grandchild is blessed,” Sparda whispered once their lips had parted.  “Already the babe’s strength is promising.”

“We’ve the Order of the Sword with which to contend now,” Eva reminded him.  “Be careful.  If they discover that you reside here—”

“They may already know.”

A foreboding shiver chilled Eva’s blood.  “Sparda, if they know—”

Sparda’s voice turned dark and hard as if declaring a curse.  “They are not as powerful as they so vainly think they are.”  Wings stretched out of his shadow behind him, killing the candlelight.  “Sanctus is a venomous snake.  ’Twas poison that delivered him the title of so-called ‘His Holiness,’ and it is odiously fitting.”

“So you have been investigating them,” Eva concluded.  “I’ve been wondering.”

Sparda removed his monocle and used an untucked shirt tail to polish it.  “I’ve always kept tabs on Fortuna, but having learned that Miranda’s father is a knight of the Order I felt it necessary to dig deeper.”

“What have you discovered?”  Eva followed Sparda into their bedchamber.

The hearty, snapping fire in the aged, stone hearth offered warmth amidst the shadows, but a greater shadow loomed just beyond the surrounding sweep of countryside.

“Macto is one of Sanctus’s closest pawns.”  Sparda set his monocle upon its little velvet pillow on his bedside table.  “Stirs me to wonder why he is stationed here in Red Grave City.”

Eva stood at the foot of their bed, her hands clasped together, a cloud of worry surrounding her.  “I thought Miranda and her father were but refugees fleeing the demonic invasion.”

Sparda tugged at his cravats.  “I’ve reason to suspect that the invasion may have been orchestrated.”

Eva frowned thoughtfully and assisted him with the removal of his cravats.  “To what end?”

A faint, steely growl crept into Sparda’s voice.  “Sanctus desires to be the people’s new savior.”

Eva snatched his arm, pleading.  “You won’t go to Fortuna.  You mustn’t!  You swore to me!”

“I will not go, my love.  Fret not.”  He kissed her forehead.  “I am not so easily coaxed.  My family comes first.”

Relaxing, Eva nodded and placed his hand against her cheek.  “Perhaps you should inform Miranda’s father of the pregnancy.  Vergil has mentioned that Macto is harsh with her.”

Sparda shook his head.  “That is not my place.  Vergil has claimed full responsibility.  He should be the one to relay the news.”

“I doubt Macto will take it well.”

Sparda grunted in agreement.  “Miranda could have made a different choice.”

“I fear what the Order may do to her,” Eva said, wringing her hands.  “They have a twisted understanding of mercy.”

“She is part of our family now and shall not come to any harm.”  Every shadow in the room deepened to bottomless black as if bound to the dark knight’s voice.  “Sanctus and his malfeasant ilk would do well to strangle their lust for power, but I shan’t hold my breath.”

 * * *

Midnight was silent.  The fire had withered to ash.  The rain had abandoned the countryside, leaving it black and wet and too much like a death-soaked battlefield.

Sleep spurned Sparda, the lack of it lately like a disease.  He lay beside his wife, grateful for the serene rhythm of her breath.  Whispers of the past plagued him.  Two millennia was not a long time for a demon of his caliber to attempt to forget anything.  Shadows ever slinking at the heels of his post-defection memories stole his sleep and riddled his peace with the bullets of guilt and bygone sins.

Sighing, he sat up and set his elbows on his knees, running his hands through his unbound hair.  The breath he took was surprisingly tremulous and difficult.  He sat a moment more, reassuring himself that the gate remained hidden. 

Eva is safe.  My sons are safe.  Miranda and the coming babe…

Were they indeed safe?

Barefoot and shirtless, he rose and left the bedchamber, and employed a hurried gait to the basement.  The pulse of the weakening gate was like a second heartbeat in his heaving chest as he unlocked and pushed open the double doors.  The sickly orange glow dimly lit the inscribed subterranean hollow housing what could so easily become a direct doorway for Mundus’s vengeance if Sparda’s power failed.

As he stood before the gate, a mantle of vulnerability fell over him.  The dead glyphs outnumbered the living ones.  The sense of powerlessness prickled Sparda’s skin.  Relentless memories…  Eva’s screams amidst the flames…  Dante’s vacant yet horrified stare…  Vergil’s dark, warm blood…

The gate needs more power than I can provide!  I am too weak while the Underworld is sealed!

In the silent loneliness, Sparda fell to his knees, naked once again before imminent failure.  Like a vampire unable to be slaked, the gate had become too ravenous.

My sons might…No!  It is not their burden to give power to the gate!  Neither are they ready for Mundus!

Hot tears stung his eyes.  Assuaging Eva’s fear was far easier than assuaging his own.  Such fear had compelled him to take back the Devil Sword Sparda from Temen-ni-gru.

Must I break the seal I laid in the heart of that tower of wickedness?  Must I render that ancient sacrifice worthless and release the Underworld so that I may protect my family?

Chapter Text

The rumble and drone of the Sparda Express had become a comforting white noise for Miranda over the last few months.  At first, the occasional scratch and screech of metal had unnerved her, the noises too similar to the shrieks abounding in her memories of her mother’s death.  Fortuna had no subway after all.  Polished and bright, it was as meticulously groomed as its namesake.  Each car was suitable for toddlers to play on the floor, and never smelled of bleach or chemicals.  The triangular handles swayed in unison.  The windows were without a smear.  Advertisements, crisp and colorful, hung from the ceiling, proclaiming new edible wares at Burrow Market and world-famous theatrical performances coming soon.  Every seat welcomed passengers with the luscious comfort of twilight-purple velvet cushions.  

My lord is unquestionably partial to purple.  

Miranda could not yet bring herself to be informal with the Savior, despite his continual gentle insistence upon it.  Never was he cross with her ingrained habit of rigorous though heartfelt reverence.  The patience he possessed was something else to which Miranda was not accustomed.  He often inquired about her wellbeing and that of his grandchild, and always with an excited grin that made his dimples radiate boy-like charm.

A shopping bag, square and small, was at Miranda’s feet.  It concealed a simple purchase that had caught her eye as she’d passed along the street downtown.  Slipping her hand into the bag, she pulled out the little plastic-packed item bundled in butter-yellow tissue paper.

A pacifier.  

Gazing at it brought a nervous smile to her lips.  I’m pregnant.  

It was exhilarating and terrifying.  Mostly terrifying.  So much unknown.  Sometimes she slipped into denial.  Imagining her baby crying already caused her heart to ache.  Her hand went to her belly, eager to cradle and soothe as if the child wailed inside her at that moment.  Hardly a month along, yet when for but a breath all the world around her was utterly still, she could feel the smallest flutter inside her.

I can feel you there.

A muffled, beautiful violin melody issued from Miranda’s cell phone.  Debating, she drew her phone out of her purse.  Heart caroming, she stared at the caller ID, pressed her lips together, and declined the call.

She knew why Vergil kept calling her, and he knew why she kept spurning his calls.  Anxiously bouncing one heel, Miranda drew in a deep breath and put the pacifier back in its bag. 

Seconds later, her phone rang again, but this time it was a frenzied, heavy-metal guitar solo.  Huffy, Miranda declined that call too.

More than two weeks had passed since the news of the pregnancy had been broken to Vergil’s family, but Captain Dazran remained in the dark at the insistence of Miranda’s terror.  Vergil’s all-too-logical argument was that delaying the announcement would only make matters worse.  He was tired of waiting.  Even Dante had taken his brother’s side on this.

Miranda knew both of them were right.  I’m not ready to tell Papa yet!  Maybe after I meet Myshipha.  Hiding the pregnancy had proven easy enough so far.  Eva provided a steady supply of her special prenatal tea that kept the morning sickness at bay.  Every day she would send a fresh batch with Vergil to school.  Brewing it fresh was best.  Once in a while Miranda felt nauseated enough to excuse herself from class, but it was nothing anyone might think suspicious.

The P.A. system’s artificial-but-realistic female voice announced the next station.  The subway came to a smooth halt and the doors admitted a few dozen new passengers and an underground breeze.  A handful of people aptly stepped into the car Miranda occupied.  An elderly woman, hunched and shuffling, was last to embark.  The doors clamped shut behind her, narrowly missing the tassels of her black and frayed scarf.  A crooked cane resembling a sturdy bit of driftwood aided her journey to the seat beside Miranda.  Gingerly she lowered herself onto the velvet.

“Savior bless Sir Graham Redgrave,” she sighed in relief, settling her aged hips.

Miranda offered her a smile in agreement, which quickly faded as her thoughts returned to her dilemma.

The woman noticed her disquiet and took pity.  “Oh, dear pretty thing.  Having boy troubles, are we?”

“Not really,” Miranda muttered.

The woman’s face was a thousand wrinkles, but her smile was understanding and kind.  Stubborn sable strands were scattered few and far between amidst the pale grey of her withered hair.  Elegant long nails extended over her fingertips, dull but not brittle.  

The subway continued speedily onward for a few minutes, and then passengers disembarked at the next station, leaving Miranda alone with the old woman.

Miranda felt the woman’s gaze on her as if she had reached out and placed a gnarled hand upon her shoulder.

“So young for motherhood,” she mused.  “I’d say not yet twenty.”

Miranda frowned, startled.  “I’m sorry?”

The woman’s grin broadened.  “You glow , my dear.  The father must be so proud to have conquered such an exquisite creature.”  Her shriveled nostrils flared, and she breathed deeply as if greedily sampling an ambrosial aroma.  “Newly sired.”  Her eyes rolled back into her head as the lids fluttered closed.  “Ah, the fecundity of youth.”

An oily shiver snaked around Miranda’s spine.  “Please leave me alone.”  Turning to the window, she hoped the frail stranger was simply a bit unhinged but harmless.

“Oh, forgive me, dear,” the woman pleaded in an apologetic tone.  “I am but a humble healer.  I have a gift for detecting the expectant mother.” 

Miranda’s heart hitched.  

“Allow me to offer my congratulations,” the woman continued with a matronly smile, attempting to mitigate the timorous girl’s unease, “and these.”

Clutching her phone in both hands like a lifeline, Miranda cautiously dared to glance at the woman’s crinkled palm.  An assortment of what appeared to be misshapen jelly beans glistened in the white light of the subway car.  Green.  Red.  White.  Purple.  Blue.  Were those faces?  Screaming faces etched into the candies?

In a low, earnest voice, the woman added, “To help the child grow strong.”

Miranda was not such a gullible lamb.  “You are kind to offer, but no thank you.”

The woman did not withdraw the odd candies, nor cease her staring.  “The morning sickness must be just awful.  A legendary power roils within you.”

Miranda stiffened and her heart clogged her dry throat.  

The subway rattled into another tunnel, skewering the darkness like a silver javelin.

The woman extended the candies for Miranda to take.  “The child must be nurtured.  You will need great strength.”  Her eyes fell to Miranda’s belly, staring as if the babe were a coveted treasure.  “Birthing a demigod comes at a steep price.”

The P.A. system announced the upcoming station.

Keeping her silence, Miranda gathered her purse and purchase and made to disembark though it was not her stop.  As she rose to move to the doors, the woman snatched her wrist.  Like a startled koi, a sudden surge of liquid-like power whirled through her womb.  Gasping, Miranda turned to the woman and shielded her baby with one hand.

“Take them,” the woman commanded, quiet and touched by ice.  Again she offered the freakish candies.

Miranda yanked free of her.  The candies scattered like confetti and clattered across the floor.  Hurrying, she did not slow her pace until she had ascended the underground stairs and breathed the fresh, early spring air again.  Having lost her bearings, she lost herself in the milling crowds.

Hand on her womb as if to reassure herself that the stranger hadn’t somehow stolen her baby right out of her body, she ambled along the busy street, searching for anything familiar.  Fumbling in her purse, she found her phone and called Vergil.

He sounded irritated, but also hopeful.  “Miranda, please let’s talk—”  Her panting sliced off the last half of his sentence.  Flashbacks of the gym incident popped across his mind.  “What’s wrong?”

After she caught her breath, she said,  “I’m fine, but…”

Vergil kept his voice level.  “Where are you?”

“Um, I’m not sure,”  She kept on, turning onto the next block.  Downtown Red Grave City was a vast realm all its own.  At last, a haven she recognized came into view.  “The Divinity Brew Cafe.”

“I’m on my way.”

Miranda heard him leave his house, turn on his car, and rev powerfully onto the road.

“Is someone following you?” he asked after switching to speaker phone.

“I don’t think so,” she answered.  “A woman on the subway said she was a healer and offered me some kind of prenatal supplements.”

“Supplements?” he echoed, instantly suspicious.  “You didn’t take them, did you?”

“No.”  Miranda’s voice trembled.  “I think she was a demon.”

Vergil was eerily silent.

“Sweet V?”  Her heartbeat quickened again.

“Are you hurt?”  He quickly glanced at the Yamato leaning low against the edge of the passenger seat.

“I’m okay.”

“And the baby?”  He clenched his jaw.

“Yes, I think so,” she assured him.

Vergil nodded to himself, mumbling,  “Good.”

“Coffee might help me calm down,” she mused, and then regretted thinking out loud.

“Decaf,” he insisted, just as she predicted.

“I know,” she grumbled, flustered.

Vergil heard Miranda order a decaf coffee.  Miranda heard Vergil meaningfully clear his throat.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she muttered tartly.

“Obviously,” he retorted.  “You’ve rejected three of my calls today alone.”

A long heavy sigh of exasperation was her response.

“Do you really want your father to find out when you can’t hide it anymore?”  he pushed, frustration building.  “He will know one way or another, Miranda.  It’s inevitable—”

Beep-beep.   Call ended.

“Here you are.”  The barista set Miranda’s coffee before her.

“Decaf, right?”

The man nodded, awkwardly smiled, and left her alone to wait and agonize.

*   *   *

Spring sunshine gushed through the windows and illuminated the parlor.  Afternoon tea was arrayed upon the table.  The hearth was bereft of winter’s ashes.  The aroma of fresh citrus scones hung in the warm air.  Newspaper in hand, Sparda sipped his Earl Grey with hot milk.  At his side, Eva read a small haggard tome and enjoyed a honeyed rosehip concoction.

“Our son has returned,” Sparda remarked, turning a page of the newspaper.

Eva glanced up from her reading.  “His hasty departure worries me.”

Sparda gave her thigh an affectionate little squeeze, and then stood to greet Miranda and his son.  His smile dimmed when he noticed the rigid expressions upon their faces.

Eva noticed as well, and came to her feet with unveiled concern.  “Are you all right?”

Sparda’s white brows were pinched.  “What’s happened?”

Miranda glanced up at Vergil, wordlessly prompting him.

“I think a demon knows Miranda’s pregnant,” Vergil announced grimly.

Sparda’s frown deepened.  Taking a breath, Eva clenched her hands together.

“A demon?  What makes you think so?” Sparda inquired gravely.

“She touched me, and I felt something.”  Miranda indicated her flat belly with a slide of her hand.  “It was like the baby recoiled from it.”

Sparda gestured to her belly and asked, “May I?”

Miranda blushed, but then nodded.

Sparda gently pressed one hand to her womb, closed his eyes, and read the babe’s aura.  Though the child was hardly bigger than a bean, it held much promise.  At last he grunted in confirmation.  “Yes.  A demon has touched you.  It gave the wee thing a bit of a jolt.”

“Is the baby all right?”  Vergil asked, silently cursing himself for his lack of ability to sense such things.  Lacking the power…

Sparda touched Miranda’s shoulder.  “Fret not.  I sense nothing amiss.”

The concerned canter of Vergil’s heartbeat relaxed.

Miranda sighed in relief, and then her stomach rumbled.  The delicious smell of Eva’s home baking could not be dismissed.

Eva gestured to her.  “Come, Miranda, sit and have a scone.  I’ll make tea for you.”

Miranda nodded and sat.  Eva plated two scones, set them in the girl’s lap, and slid the butter and jam within her reach.  Vergil sat beside her.  Patiently waiting, Sparda said nothing, knowing full well that fussing over her loved ones was a significant means of comfort to his wife.  Once Eva had vanished into the kitchen, he returned to his place on the couch.

Clomping footsteps echoed upstairs, ending when Dante vaulted over the banister and joined his family.  His father’s severe glance pulled him up short.

“What’s goin’ on?” Dante asked, looking from Vergil and Miranda to his father.

“Miranda was approached by a demon today,” Sparda explained.  “Vigilance is paramount more than ever now.”

Eva soon returned with a tray bearing Miranda’s tea, a cup of coffee, and dark strawberry soda on ice.  The coffee she set before her eldest son.  Mini marshmallows ringed the cup upon the saucer.  Looking at her youngest, she said, “Good.  I was about to fetch you.  Sit down with us, sweetheart.”  Dante sat on the other side of Miranda and accepted the soda his mother offered.

“You okay, Mira?” Dante asked, his brow crinkling.  “The kid’s okay, right?”

“Yeah,” she muttered, her smile wavering.

Sparda addressed her.  “Do not spare a single detail.”

She nodded and proceeded to impart the subway incident while Vergil quietly sipped his coffee and Dante gulped soda.  When the topic of the odd supplements arose, Sparda’s expression fell out of narrowed suspicion into sudden alarm.

“Did you ingest any one of them, Miranda?” he urgently inquired.

The Savior’s sudden spike in trepidation frightened her.  Shaking her head, she answered hurriedly, “No, sir, I didn’t even touch one.” 

Sparda released a relieved sigh.  “Smart girl, of course.”

“Brainy babe.”  Dante nudged her with an elbow.

“What does that mean?” Miranda asked, cradling her hot tea in both hands.  “What did she try to give me?”

“Supplements, indeed,” Sparda scoffed, “but such that should only be consumed by demons.  They may have benefited the babe, but would have poisoned you.”

Laying a hand on his arm, Eva looked at her husband, fearful and earnest.  Sparda met her eyes and knew precisely what her silent urging meant.  He nodded at her.

“There is no demon who does not know my name or my power,” he ominously began.  “The demon you met on the subway no doubt sensed my power in your child.  I told you that much is at stake.  Word of a new descendant of mine will surely spread throughout the Underworld.  It is only a matter of time.”  The gaze that fell on Miranda was foreboding.  

Miranda’s eyes widened in exacerbated panic.

Sparda’s sons waited with furrowed brows and hard, flat mouths.  With squared shoulders and determined expressions, both appeared prepared to draw their devil arms and commence the hunt.  

“Soon Mundus will know.”

She emitted a quiet gasp of distress.

“Shit.”  Dante crossed his arms and scowled.

“He won’t touch her!” Vergil hissed viciously through clenched teeth.  “I shall cut down any of his scum that tries!”

The legendary dark knight was silent.  A lump had formed in his throat, and the rage and sorrow of ten years ago was clambering again for release.  The demon within still thirsted to partake of Sparda’s revenge.  Closing his eyes, he leaned upon his knees, laced his fingers together, and bowed his head.  The slightest tremor overtook his shoulders.

Eva gave her husband’s arm a loving squeeze.

“No one knows the mind of Mundus better than I,” Sparda eventually continued, his voice strained.  The memories and emotions of his two dark pasts–one from the underworld and one from the human world–boiled perilously closer to the surface.  “I once served the damned bastard.  As the commander of all his legions no less!”  Bright violet flame licked along his fingers as he spread them in earnest shame.

No one spoke for quite some time.  The only sound was the muted purr of the dark knight’s fire.  He refused to free his true form, but some measure of release was imperative.

At last, the flame died and Sparda sighed as if exhausted unto the fraying edge of his power.  “Forgive me,” he uttered, regretting his outburst.  “Mundus shall never relinquish his relentless desire for revenge against me.  I fear he may try to use Miranda or the child to that end.”

In a quiet, careful voice, Dante asked, “So what do we do, Pop?”

Sparda leaned back against the couch.  “Keep Miranda close.”

Shuddering, Miranda whimpered, “Mundus will come for our baby?”

Vergil squeezed her hand tightly.  “He will not touch you or our child.  I promise.”

“He still has many powerful servants who hunger to accomplish his bidding,” Sparda asserted, “and I do not have the power I once did.”

“You got Vergil and me,” Dante declared as if it were the most obvious solution.

“You are not ready—”

“I’ve sworn to protect Miranda and my child no matter the cost!”  Vergil reiterated, shooting to his feet.  “Nothing shall stand in my way!  If you confronted this prince of darkness, Father, then I can do it too!”

Sparda held his ground.  “You do not yet have the power to do so.  I understand your resolve, but do not be so rash.”

“Then tell me how to obtain the power I need!” Vergil exhorted, balling his fists at his sides.

“Vergil, sweetheart, you must trust your father,” Eva gently pressed.

“As long as the gate holds in the human world, no demon can use it to infiltrate our home again,” Sparda told them.

“So Mira’s safest here,” Dante concluded.

“Let me lend my power to the gate, Father,” Vergil urged in a clipped tone.

Sparda snapped back like a crocodile.  “If the gate fails, it will be my failure, not yours!”  Shame briefly cracked his voice.

Dante and Vergil both softened to see such profound vulnerability in their father.

“What gate?” Miranda nervously asked.

“There is a gate to the underworld beneath the house,” Eva quietly explained when Sparda presented no protest.  “It is forced to remain in an unnatural state, and much power is required to override its constant inclination to vanish.  Sparda sacrifices the power of his own body and soul to accomplish this.”  She slipped her hand into her husband’s, proud of him and grieving to see him so weakened.  “Such a sacrifice drains him terribly.”

“My Lord Sparda,” Miranda breathed, her heart overflowing with sympathy and yearning.  A father’s protection—a father’s love—was dolefully foreign to her.  Every day, every offering of his own power, was for the sake of his wife and sons.

“I have considered alternatives for when the gate finally demands far more than I can supply,” Sparda said, “but it requires trekking through the Underworld, which is not a wise plan of action at this time.”

“But you’re sure there’s a way to power the gate so you don’t have to use your own juice?” Dante asked, hopeful.

Sparda nodded.  “I am sure.  Let us first establish the protection of Miranda and the advent of the little one.  Word will carry back to Mundus.  He’s been biding his time.”  Sparda met the eyes of the brave young mother before him.  “If it can be at all helped, you mustn’t go anywhere alone, my dear.”

Miranda nodded.  “Yes, sir.”

“Full-time bodyguard sounds like a fun job,” Dante remarked.  Tilting his head playfully toward Miranda, he told her, “Since my client is practically family, I’ll take my retainer in strawberry sundaes.”

Miranda tried her best to offer him a grateful smile, but this time Dante’s sweet and swaggering attitude did little to cheer her.

“This is no time for your typical glib approach, Dante,” Vergil sneered.

“My new shiny babies are sizzlin’ to be thrown into some real devil-blasting action!”  Dante exclaimed, ignoring his brother.

“Do be discreet,” Eva preemptively chastised.

“I do not want either of you boys to go searching for a fight,” Sparda commanded.  “This is not a hunt.  This is security detail.”

“Father?”

“Yes, Vergil?”

He scowled in deep thought and suspicion, knowing his father was not above keeping secrets.  “You said your trust in Myshipha is tenuous.”

Dante pointed at his brother and clicked his tongue.  “Been wondering that myself.”

“If not for her, you would have perished at your birth and your mother along with you.”  Sparda recovered his usual calm, understanding the high tension befalling them.  “Going to a hospital is absolutely out of the question, and the hybrid nature of the child may prove the birth unpredictably dangerous.  Despite the misgivings I harbor, the fact remains that Miranda will be safest if Myshipha attends the birth.  Do not oppose me in this.”

Dropping her eyes to the floor, Miranda was at sea on the thought of enduring such a delivery.  Of course she knew it wouldn’t be easy, but dangerous?  What if she wasn’t strong enough?  The Savior and his sons would be at her side, but what if her human body failed despite all?

Being an intuitive mother, Eva noticed the girl’s increasing alarm.  “Everything will be fine, Miranda.  You must believe that.  Myshipha herself will put you at ease.”

Miranda nodded and grasped Vergil’s hand in a trembling grip.

“I will trust my Lord Sparda’s judgment,” Miranda proclaimed, defying the wriggling dread in her heart.  She looked at Vergil, her eyes beseeching and brave.  “Can’t you trust your father, sweet V?”

Could he indeed?  His father had been keeping a secret just as he had suspected, but hadn’t Vergil been keeping his own dark secret from Miranda until finally circumstances had pushed him to confess it?  At least Sparda’s secret had been kept out of protection for his children.  Vergil’s secret had been purely selfish.

In the depth of his eyes Miranda read the swirling reluctance, the fear he incessantly battled to suppress.  She squeezed his hand.  “I’m scared too, but if this is best for our baby then I want to do it.”

What if the delivery goes awry?  What if I have to choose between Miranda and the baby?

The family awaited Vergil’s final thought on the matter.  Not that it was his decision to make alone.  Yet he already braced himself for the worst.

“So be it.”

*   *   *

A Sunday afternoon in the blossoming garden should have been a peaceful respite.  Robins twittered springtime songs.  The feathery breeze smelled of new grass and rosebuds.  The countryside quietude was sprinkled over the Sparda estate like bits of baby’s breath.

Yet Vergil’s mind was turbulent.  Aimlessly strolling along the cobbled pathways, he gripped the Yamato, his only measurable confidence.  As far as he was concerned, if his father did not completely trust the midwife, neither did he.  Yet she had saved the lives of his mother and brother.  Should she raise a single finger to Miranda in malice, the Yamato would deliver painful justice.  Vergil would not hesitate.

“Son?”

Vergil stiffened, his hand vice-like around the Yamato’s hilt, and turned over his shoulder.

Sparda stood at a small distance, arrayed in his distinguished elegant attire that belied the modern age.  A specific tension was present in his posture.  What caught Vergil’s eye was the rare addition to his father’s usual ensemble.

The Devil Sword Sparda—not the Force Edge—hung across the dark knight’s back.

“You and I are very much alike.”  His half smile spoke of pride and compunction.

Jaw clenching, Vergil swallowed.

Sparda then confirmed his son’s assumption.  “She’s here.”

Vergil wasted no time marching back toward the house, his father in step beside him.  “Is she already with Miranda?”  

“No, she waits in the foyer with your mother,” Sparda informed him.  “I knew you’d wish to be present for introductions.  In the meantime, Dante is keeping Miranda company.”

It was not an underhanded slight, but Vergil felt a stab of guilt all the same.  He had stepped away to be alone, to prepare himself.  To brood, as Miranda lovingly labeled it.  If he was completely honest, he could not deny that Dante had a knack for heartening her spirits in a way that Vergil lacked.

That dreaded word again: lack.

Together, the two fathers entered the foyer.  

The first aspect of the midwife that Vergil noticed was the peculiar redolence she radiated.  It wrinkled his nose and snagged halfway down his throat.  The human guise she wore failed to conceal it, but perhaps he only sensed it because of his own demonic constitution.  Like a tattered time-worn shroud, lilies and musk poorly embalmed an endless bloody business, metallic and sweet.  The aroma of living flowers that adorned the dead.

As they approached, Myshipha folded her hands and bowed at the waist.  “My illustrious lord.”  Her voice was between a rasp and a whisper, clawed to shreds, struggling to soothe despite its damaged state.  Numerous jagged scars encircled her throat.  Straightening, her gaze drank of Vergil’s strength of body and bearing.  Devoid of irises, murky white rectangular pupils divided the pitch black of her eyes.  “I am humbled to now serve the son of my lord.  Your father’s power in you is indubitable.”

Without taking his hand from the Yamato, Vergil wordlessly returned the midwife’s greeting with a stony frown of warning.  To think he had once been a helpless babe pulled from his mother’s womb by the hands of this death-scented she-devil.  Now his own child would be placed in the same precarious position.

“Let’s not delay,” Eva suggested, and gestured upstairs.  “Miranda is very nervous.”

“I do not doubt the girl’s worthiness,” Myshipha remarked as they ascended.  “I shall do all I can to ease her fears.”

Vergil led the way as Eva followed him.  Sparda brought up the rear with Myshipha behind his wife.

Dante called out permission to Vergil’s courtesy knock at Miranda’s door.  Like the bodyguard he wholeheartedly agreed to be, Sparda’s younger son had taken up a protective stance beside Miranda who anxiously waited in the wingback chair.  

The Rebellion hung on Dante’s back, and at each of his hips glimmered a long-barreled handgun, one bright, one dark.  Sparda had them commissioned to closely model Luce and Ombre.  Goldstein craftsmanship never failed to impress.  Machiavelli himself could hardly argue.  Dante had received them as his birthday gift and christened his new weaponry Ebony and Ivory.

Miranda stood to her feet, but kept behind Dante.  Like a living shield, he maintained an angle of defense.  Vergil strode to his lady’s side, and she moved into his embrace, wrapping her arms around his waist.  Eva stood to one side of the room.  Sparda closed the door.  Myshipha stood a respectful distance from the apprehensive teenaged trio.

“You are undeniably precious to these knightly young men.”  The midwife smiled and spread her hands, supplicating.  “Under pain of death, I shall do no harm.”

Sparda stepped forward.  “Miranda, whom do you wish to be present during the examination?”

Of course she pressed closer to Vergil, her cheek to his chest.  Dante crossed his arms and cleared his throat, unsure if his brother would let him stay, but preparing to argue for it.  Eva offered her beautiful maternal smile.

“Will you all stay with Vergil and me?”

Dante nodded.  “You bet.”

“As you wish,” Sparda concurred.

Vergil’s dagger-like stare had yet to stray from Myshipha.  “Explain this examination.”

“There is no need for anything invasive at this stage.”  The midwife paused, acknowledging Vergil’s suspicions.  “However, I must touch her.”

That was expected, but Vergil and Miranda appreciated the transparency.

Myshipha offered a bow so deep it was like a groveling apology.  “I am at your disposal by dismissal or death.”

“I want to make something perfectly clear.”  A stifling heat briefly filled the room as a cerulean-violet aura rippled along the Yamato.  “If at any moment I deem you a threat to Miranda or my child, I myself, not my father, will kill you.”  With a flick of Vergil’s thumb, an inch of the Yamato was revealed, punctuating his promise.

The silence was like the belly of a beast, so all-consuming that the purring hum of Vergil’s power was the only sound in the world.

Myshipha held the son of Sparda’s steely gaze.  “As is your prerogative, my young lord.”

A shiver clicked down Eva’s spine.  To witness her son proclaiming a vow of death turned her stomach.  On the other hand, Sparda had long understood that the lion’s share of Vergil’s childhood had been wrenched away that day ten years ago, and that such a deep desperation to preserve what was cherished erased ignorance and innocence.

Myshipha nervously swallowed.  “Shall we begin?”

“When Miranda is ready,” Vergil retorted.

Grateful, Miranda nuzzled him.  “I’m ready.”

Myshipha nodded and motioned toward the bed.  “Please lie down.”

Like sentinels, Dante and Vergil took positions on either side of Miranda at the head of the bed.  Sparda and Eva stood at the foot.

After unbuttoning the bottom half of Miranda’s blouse and baring her still-flat belly, Myshipha rested one hand on her and proceeded to ask basic questions.  How long since conception?  Any spotting?  How intense was the morning sickness?  What teas or supplements was she taking?

She shifted her hand over Miranda’s abdomen, inspecting closely for anything concerning.  “I can assure you that the child is unharmed and developing quite well.  The blackened veins will darken and multiply, but let them not alarm you.  They are merely a sign of the great power of your child.” 

Vergil especially felt a wave of relief at this expert confirmation.

Myshipha continued her analysis.  “You will begin to show next month—”

“What!” Miranda blurted, rising onto her palms.  “Next month?”

Dante whistled his surprise.

Vergil’s eyes widened.  “That…can’t be right…”

Myshipha chuckled.  “Demon children gestate faster than human children do, and in the presence of such legendary power, you may give birth even sooner.”

“But I have to finish school!” Miranda protested.

“Concerns regarding school shall be addressed at a later time, my dear,” Sparda interceded, giving Miranda a meaningful look that ordered the end of the argument.  “Is the examination concluded, Myshipha?”

The midwife straightened and bowed before him.  “There is nothing else to report at this time, my lord knight.”

“When should Miranda be examined again?” Sparda inquired.

“Summon me in one month’s time, my lord,” she prescribed.

He nodded.  “Very well.  I shall see you out.”

Myshipha offered another bow to the rest of the family, and then Sparda escorted her from the room.  

With trembling fingers, Miranda buttoned her blouse.  Next month?  Perhaps that explained why sometimes she could feel the child flutter.  

Vergil sat with her on the edge of the bed.  “You know what we have to do.”

Dante leaned against the wall, crossing his arms.  “Deadline just made one hell of a jump, Mira.  You gotta do what you gotta do.”

Clenching her teeth, Miranda shook her head.  “I can’t!”

Sparda soon returned and closed the door.

“You were quick to kick her out once school came up,” Dante told him.

“No need to offer superfluous information.”  Sparda turned to Miranda.  “I’m sorry, my dear, but I believe it best that you drop out before you show.  The fewer people who know of the pregnancy the better.”

“But Vergil and Dante are with me at school,” Miranda dared to argue, forgetting to whom she spoke.  “I won’t be alone.”

“Even so, Mundus is watching, and the boys cannot freely bear arms on campus,” Sparda countered.  “Public places are too perilous for you now.”

“Hate to oppose your Brainy Babeness, but my old man makes a good point,” Dante confessed, grimacing.

“I’m sorry, my lord Sparda,” Miranda pleaded, bowing her head.  “I shouldn’t question your wisdom.”

“The immediate hurdle is your father’s reaction to all this.”  Sparda cast a disapproving eye upon the girl, pitying her situation.  “Time is of the essence, dear girl.”

Miranda flinched as if bracing for the back of Dazran’s ruthless hand.

*   *   *

Knowing her father had yet to return home was a brittle, teasing relief.  The revelations of the day hung heavily on Miranda’s mind, shrouding the world in thick mists of uncertainty.  With quivering fingers she unlocked the front door.  Silently brooding over the same matters that assailed her thoughts, Vergil followed her inside.

Frantically, she removed her shoes at the door and hurried up the stairs to her room, saying not a word to Vergil.  She had been utterly mute during the entire car ride.  He had tried to initiate some manner of encouraging conversation, but she may as well have been deaf too.  

“Miranda, talk to me,” he pleaded as they came into her bedroom.

“I don’t want to talk!” she retorted, and slammed her purse down at the foot of her bed.  

“We have to talk!” he shot back, the release valve on his frustration loosening.

“About what!” she cried, whirling around to face him.  “It’s all been said already!”

Vergil drew in a long breath to disarm his anger.  “Your father must be told.”

“I know!” she shouted, the words ending in a desperate sob.  Turning away, she covered her mouth and wept.

Vergil gathered her in his arms.  “He can’t hurt you.  I won’t let him hurt you.”

Miranda sobbed against his chest, her arms tight around his waist.  Hysteria took hold.  “I don’t want him to know!  He doesn’t deserve to know!  He won’t love our baby!  He will despise it!  He despises me!”

Every memory of her father’s abuses surrounded her mind like thousands of demons in her own private circle of hell.  Racked with stress, prenatal hormones, and panic, she began to hyperventilate and sob uncontrollably.

Sweeping her up into his arms, Vergil carried her to bed and laid her down.  She clutched the front of his shirt, breathing much too fast.  He smoothed hair away from her face and rested his other hand on her belly.  The baby, though still so tiny, produced vigorous and frightened movement.

Frowning, he lifted Miranda’s shirt.

The entirety of her midriff was an unsettling thicket of scraggly, black veins.  The phenomenon had not appeared in such abundance during Myshipha’s examination.  Vergil laid a steady hand upon her, his palm to her navel.  Gradually the movement of their child eased, and soon Miranda’s breathing did the same.

“Our baby…our baby…” she panted.

“It’s all right,” he assured her, squeezing her hand.

“I gave you one rule, girl,” came Dazran’s grinding voice filled with quiet fury.

Miranda gasped, and she and Vergil looked to the bedroom doorway where the captain stood stony.

“Papa!” Miranda pleaded, hastily sitting up in bed.  “It was an accident!”

“An accident?” Dazran snarled, stepping further into the room.  He brought with him a dark cloud of despair that seeped steadily into the blood.

Unflagging, Vergil straightened, ready to exchange blows, verbal or otherwise.

“Stabbing your prick into my daughter is quite deliberate,” Dazran growled at Vergil, and then turned the heat of his vexed gaze upon his daughter again.  “As is spreading your legs.”

Shame and embarrassment lit up Miranda’s face like a crimson beacon.  The same sort of flame scorched Vergil’s ears, but he did not back down.  It was not in his blood to surrender, human or demon.  A stronger fire rose in his chest, fortifying his heart and willpower.  The desire to summon the Yamato fluttered across his mind–not to kill or harm, but to bolster the truth–but he resisted.  Instead, he declared the truth in word alone.

“I’m in love with your daughter–”

“Get out,” Dazran sneered, as if Vergil were joking or pathetic if serious.

Miranda shrank back against the pillows.

“We want our child–”

“That is nothing to me,” he snarled.  “Leave, boy.”

“Go, sweet V,” Miranda quickly implored.

As an act of defiance, Vergil raised his chin and reveled in the cold silence of his disdain for this disgraceful knight.  Before taking his leave, he touched Miranda’s cheek in farewell.  As he passed Dazran on his way out, he bestowed a threatening glance upon him.

Once Vergil had gone, Dazran came to his daughter’s bedside and loomed over her, as was his imperious custom.  “What was that one rule?”

Miranda’s chest ached and the nausea was rising again.  “Don’t get pregnant–”

Dazran backhanded her, knuckles striking cheekbone, instantly bruising.  Miranda shrieked in pain.  The baby roiled inside her as if angry.

“Don’t let me see you again for the rest of the night,” he growled through clenched teeth, and then turned for the door.

“Vergil loves me!” Miranda shouted at his back.  “We want our baby!”

Whirling on his heel, Dazran stormed toward her.  “When you get fat and bitchy he will abandon you.”

Brimming with rebellion, she screamed in his face, “No!  He promised he would never leave me!”

He backhanded her other cheek.  “Then he’s a liar, you stupid slut!  He just wants a pretty toy!”

Tears spilling, teeth gritting, she retaliated, “Is that all my mother was to you?”

The unexpected counterattack stopped him in a moment of sheer perplexity.  Miranda had never in her entire life dared to defy him so.

“Will the Order cast me off now?  I hope so!  I don’t want to be their lab rat!  I want to be with Vergil–!”

Dazran seized her arms and shoved her flat to the bed, glowering over her, his upper lip twitching with scorn.

“Make no mistake, Miranda,” he uttered, seething, his eyes bulging as the true depth of the rancor he had long hidden hissed forth.  “Had you not survived the Order’s preliminary experiments I would have left you as scraps for Agnus’s mutated demon dogs.”

Terror crawled through Miranda’s blood like swarming spiders, stopping her breath and prickling her skin.

“I never wanted children, so when your mother conceived you and begged for your unborn life I told her that if you did not one day prove valuable in some capacity to the Order that I would be rid of you,” he snarled, his gravelly voice like shards of stone grating against her insides.  “Have you ever wondered why I never mourned her loss?”  His fists tightened around her arms, squeezing as if attempting to break them.  “Because she tried to steal what I had already promised to the Order in an irrevocable contract.  She dared to try to flee Fortuna with you, their auspicious specimen!”  Contempt slathered his every word.  “You belong to the Order.  Nothing else may bind you.  No boy and no bastard brat.  I will one day become Supreme General.  It is assured.  I don’t care what else they want as long as they want you.  If Sanctus commands that demons fuck you or eat you, so be it.”

He removed his hands from Miranda and rose like a tower of white iron, sordid and apocryphal within.  “Luckily, you’re not too far along so the Order need not know.  I’ll make arrangements to rectify the situation.” 

As soon as he disappeared down the hallway, Miranda bolted into her bathroom and locked the door.  Fleeing the Order’s mad clutches and her father’s pathological power-obsession was her every thought.

*   *   *

The cruelty discoloring her cheek had proven difficult to mask.  A few extra layers of makeup the following morning veiled it well enough, but Vergil and Dante had noticed and immediately conjured vengeful curses and vows against the Order-bound cad.   

So dearly did she love those protective boys.

After shedding her school uniform and donning loose shorts and a t-shirt, Miranda came out of her bathroom to have her heart shoved up into her throat.

“I’ll give you a choice.”  

Once again, Dazran stood in the doorway of her bedroom, blocking any escape.  He produced a small bronze-colored glass bottle, naked of label, from inside his coat and rattled it.  A few pills the size of pomegranate seeds clinked.  “Either you take these or I will take you to a clinic tomorrow.”

Miranda’s throat closed and her stomach squelched into a hard knot.

“End it yourself or I’ll have it ended for you.”  Dazran placed the pill bottle atop her dresser.  “You’ll be rid of that thing one way or another.”  

Thing?

Every breath trembled.  Her mouth fell agape.  She spread her hands over her belly.  A flutter responded to her protective touch.

Dazran turned to leave.

“I choose my baby!” Miranda screamed, suddenly dauntless.  “I love my baby!  I love Vergil!  I will not be parted from either of them!  Vergil will protect us both!”

Dazran scowled, his anger surging.  He stomped toward his daughter and snatched her by the arm.  She yelped in pain.

“Nothing shall thwart my rise, you quibbling little thorn in my ass!” he roared, all patience expired.  “The Order has no use for you this way!”

He threw her to the floor.

At all costs, she avoided landing on her vulnerable belly.  Scrambling back against the wall beneath the window, she heaved with dread-laced breaths.  Flicking her gaze to the hallway, she calculated whether or not she could make a dash for it, for safety.

Dazran stood over her, glaring, his frustration tethered by mere threads.  “If you are anyone’s whore, you are the Order’s.  You are theirs to do with as they will.”  Turning from his trembling daughter, he once again abandoned her to the dread of his own making.

Raking a hand through her disheveled hair, Miranda assembled the shards of her bravery once again.  A surge of self-loathing yearned to conquer her.  Alone and resigned to her inescapable fate as a tool to the Order’s ambitions, Miranda had had only her mother to keep the light of her soul from guttering out.  Until Vergil.  Until their child.  Vergil had sworn his love and protection, as had his family.  Whatever fragility she bore would not hinder her from protecting her child.  She would fight despite any shortcomings.  

She touched her belly.  No one will harm you.  I promise.

Defiance and love fueled her.  Throwing the bottle of death out the window fanned the flames.  With great caution she slipped out of the house undetected.  She then hurried to the bus stop around the corner, climbed into the next bus that arrived, and let it carry her away downtown, away from the evil in her house.

*   *   *

It was but a scrap of a second, but it carried the weight of a gut-slashing omen.  Vergil snatched its advent before his father and brother did.  After a brief, befuddled exchange of glances with Dante and Sparda, he abandoned the dinner table and hastened to the front double doors.

As soon as he opened one, Miranda threw her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder, clinging like a cat barely escaping a violent drowning.

A taxi, checkered black and white, vanished down the country road.  Vergil pulled her inside and closed the door.  

Sliding comforting fingers into her hair, he asked, “What happened?”

“Mira?” Dante called as he, Sparda, and Eva crossed the parlor.

“Come sit down,” Vergil gently bade, and guided her to the couch.

Once the family had gathered round, mustering to the aid of the sniffling, terrified girl, Miranda announced in broken breath, “Papa wants to kill our baby!”

The universe slammed to a halt.

Dante’s face twisted with abhorrence.  “Sick bastard!  What the hell is wrong with this guy?”

Eva gasped in shock, her hand covering her mouth.

Sparda’s long, gloved fingers curled against the armrest of the couch.  The glass of his monocle cracked from the hot flare of his anger.

Vergil felt a bestial rage churning in the depths of his chest, a fire burning so hard it grew cruelly cold.  His voice became a soft and deadly murmur.  “He shall die.”

“He said I have to–”  She winced.

“It’s perfectly all right, dear girl,” Sparda assured her.  “You’ve nothing to fear here.”

She gathered a breath.  “He said I have to poison it or he will force me to have a–”  The words were too atrocious for her lips to form.

It was Sparda’s turn to receive revelation.  Without hesitation, he declared his chosen course of action, a commander delivering a battle strategy, brooking not the slightest sliver of contention.  “You shall stay here from this evening forward.”

Miranda shook her head, stunned but no less grateful.  “Oh no, I couldn’t impose–”

“As we have all already agreed, we must keep you close, and there is nowhere safer for you and my grandchild,” he reminded her firmly, almost like a reprimand.  “As I see it, the pathetic scum has practically declared war upon me by this stroke of depravity.”

Her heart warmed and calmed to know that the legendary dark knight, the Savior, was fighting for her.  A shadow yet loomed.  “What if my papa comes for me?  The Order?”

“Miranda.”  Sparda rose, and the shadow of his mighty demon wings filled the parlor.  “Have a little faith in me, hm?”  He winked.  The words were accompanied by ancient confidence and time-tested love.  “My home is your sanctuary.  Leave tainted knights and corrupt priests to me.”

Sighing in relief, Miranda slumped against Vergil’s chest.  Putting his arm around her, Vergil met his father’s wise gaze and nodded in deep-seated gratitude.

“My bodyguard job just got a hell of a lot easier,” Dante mused, slinging a knee over the armrest of the couch.  Suddenly a thought struck him.  He peered around Miranda, who sat between him and Vergil, and frowned at his brother.  “I don’t wanna hear you having fun late at night, though.”

Vergil’s eyes performed their customary annoyed roll.

Miranda’s cell phone rang, making her start and gasp.  She glanced at the screen.  “It’s him.”

Sparda gestured at her phone.  “May I?”

She nodded, eagerly, suddenly taken by a streak of curiosity and a stronger sense of relief.

Sparda tapped the screen and put the phone to his ear.  “Good evening.  Am I speaking with Miranda’s father?”

Candles glowed along the mantelpiece like golden teardrops.  Little hopeful lights.

“Yes, please be informed that your daughter is quite presently sitting in my parlor with a blanket around her trembling form, as my family and I are working to aid the restoration of her nerves which have been thoroughly and dishonorably assaulted by you .”

Sensing her trembling, Dante gave Miranda’s hand a reassuring squeeze.

“Your villainous behavior toward her has been relayed to me, in addition to your intention to murder my grandchild.”  Sparda’s voice darkened as his shadow grew, reaching past the banisters.  Flares of purple flame swayed across his magnificent shoulders.  “This shall be your one and only courtesy call.  She will be staying here from now on and she will not be separated from my son, who loves her and is fully motivated to raise his child with her.”

Protective hearts aflame, bright scarlet and piercing lapis fire rippled atop Dante and Vergil’s shoulders.

Sparda laughed, its echo rolling around the room like a galloping horde of Geryon knights.  “If you believe that such feeble monikers can move me, then the degree of intelligence you possess is vastly lower than I had originally surmised.”

If Dazran knew to whom he spoke he would never dare sink to the use of insults.  He would sink to his hands and knees instead, begging for mercy, one gasp of breath away from slitting his own throat on the ancient edge of the Devil Sword Sparda.  

Sparda chuckled again, like the wheels of war machines, dark and grinding.  “Should you elect to attempt any harm upon Miranda or my family, rest assured that I do pride myself in delivering acute and lasting retribution.  Have a pleasant evening.”

He hung up and set the phone on the coffee table.

“If he’s not shitting himself right now then his dead brain must be up his ass,” Dante remarked.

Sparda grinned and gave the large crimson gem at his throat a slight adjustment.  “I know how to negotiate.”

Miranda rose and threw her arms around Sparda, finally making a considerable breakthrough like a bullet through the glass of formality.  “Thank you.”

Smiling, he enfolded her in a true paternal embrace.  “Of course, dear child.  Rest now.  Your Savior is here.”

Chapter Text

The cell phone smashed against the wall.  Useless bits of metal and glass sprinkled the carpet.  Anger rusted the hinges of his jaw.  Indignation filled his lungs like napalm.  The branding of the Order of the Sword prickled the naked skin of his skull.

So the lordly Sir Redgrave thinks he can filch what rightfully belongs to me?

The sword assigned to Dazran, a gun-metal grey tongue of deceptively brilliant steel, always slid easily into the sheath at his hip.  By word or by blade he would pry his wayward girl from that snobbish man’s haughty clutches.  

“The girl does not belong to you.”

The false-illumined sword hissed out of the sheath again, whirled, poised to behead.

“You’ve made that transaction obscenely irrefutable.”  The unexpected guest grinned, dragging thin lips away from pointed, alabaster teeth.  

With a clogged throat, Dazran returned his weapon home.  “Typhon.”  A stumbling mutter.

“Let’s not forget my lordly title.”  The guest’s eyes were carmine-orange, blotched magma-red, a pair of eager fires hungry for eruption.  The snake-like onyx centers were deep fissures, pitiless, gaping to devour.

Dazran forcefully swallowed a hard lump of his own ego.  “My Lord Typhon.” 

“A tattered bird of mine brought me a juicy morsel of news.”  The grin had not receded.  A black and bifurcated tongue caressed two teeth.  A faint coil of smoke escaped his lips, lithe tendrils rising against pale, chiseled cheeks.

A knot formed in Dazran’s gut.  “So the Order knows already.”

“Dark agents, ever vigilant.”  The black diamonds in his eyes briefly dilated as hunger flared.  “The fruit of your daughter’s womb is far more delicious than you realize.  I’d take it for myself if not for my devotion.”

Dazran’s brow furrowed.  “An ill-begotten child?  Why is Sanctus interested in it at all?  Or you?  Does Echidna not produce enough ilk to your liking?”

Like a fashion model, Typhon casually ran a pale hand through his hair.  Hair so sooty-black that it refused to shine.  Like cooled, ropy flows after a volcano roars.  Light glinted off flesh-colored scales along his lengthy fingers.  “Your raving ambition blinds you to the bastard’s lineage.”

“Miranda is intended for other purposes,” Dazran noted pointedly.

The magma sheen of Typhon’s eyes flared.  “Ah, but your daughter has surprised us all with her excellent taste in a bedmate.”

Impatience and annoyance plagued Dazran now.  “Make your point–”

“Sparda’s blood, you imbecile!” Typhon raged, his forked tongue lashing out.  “Your daughter managed to seduce a son of Sparda!”

The crushing load of revelation dropped.  “The boy she’s been fucking is–”

“Vergil, the eldest of Sparda’s twin sons,” Typhon confirmed.  Brow bending in thought, he added, “For some time I had thought the younger, flirtatious Dante would have been the one.”

“You’ve anticipated this?”

Typhon rolled his eyes.  “It was only a matter of time before a moment alone with a bed was seized.  Though I will admit that Miranda and Vergil’s bond goes far beyond unfettered hormones, and that might prove a bit…”  He wiggled a hand, grimacing in annoyance.  “Bothersome.”

Sparda was here...  He had been this near at hand this whole time... And I just spoke to him on the phone?!  “So we can use the child as leverage, then?”

Typhon pointed at Dazran.  “Now you’re thinking.”

“What if the child perishes?”  Dazran refused to be punished unduly if Miranda’s haphazard bastard proved defective or disappointing in some way.  “Perhaps Miranda will not survive the birth of a child of demon blood.  Especially legendary blood as powerful as Sparda’s.”

Typhon chuckled, a rumbling purr of agitated lava.  “So far you’ve underestimated your daughter.”  His gaze settled on Dazran, entire body as still as ice, yet the flames rippled in his eyes.  “She bears a significant side effect of our pact, I’m sure you recall, which is sure to lend her strength.  Again.” He blinked slowly once and the grin slid back into his lips, pure poison.  “Which brings me to the second reason why I am here.”

A scream ripped out of Dazran’s throat.  Dropping to his knees, he clutched at his right eye.  Blood poured through his quivering, rigid fingers.

The fire-serpent lord circled the mutilated knight.  “You prize only the power to fuel your body and strength for your own ends.  Easily built.  Easily broken.”  Typhon’s voice was the slide of a scaly body over scorched stone.  “Without my venom you would not have succeeded in all those combat trials in your youth.  Without my venom, your daughter would not have survived Agnus’s experiments.”  Typhon spread his long fingers and clamped them onto Dazran’s bald head.  One iota of strength more and Dazran would have five messy holes in his head.  “If I were to take all you owe me from your own flesh you would be little more than a limbless slab of meat hardly fit for factory breeding.”

Dazran groaned, fighting against the pain and desperation in his voice.  The tremors of withdrawal vibrated in his deprived blood.  “May I propose an addendum?” 

Quirking his lips, Typhon made a show of careful consideration.  Suggesting modifications to any deal was the first phase of begging.  Typhon savored it, engorged himself in the unique fear that swelled only in the human soul.  An anaconda slowly devouring a squealing boar.  

“You desire to extend our pact?”

“I am not yet Supreme General.”

Annoyed, Typhon raised a finger.  “Our pact was not to ensure your ambition comes to fruition.  Our pact is essentially a drug deal.”

Dazran drew a shaky breath.  “I need more.”

Half the world was black.  Dazran stared at the dark blood pooling in his hand, dribbling onto the carpet.  It screamed at him.  He loathed to admit it, but without Typhon’s venom he did not have the strength to ascend.  Even before he became His Holiness, Sanctus had seen great potential in Dazran.  Much power could be had with the right connections–the right sacrifices–to the underworld.

Has Typhon’s venom affected Miranda’s child?

“My curiosity ignites at the thought as well.”  Typhon snapped his fingers.

A line of black fire carved its leisurely way across Dazran’s other eye, but cut only skin-deep.  The maimed knight groaned against the burning pain.  The skin blistered and reddened.  A heavy stench of overcooked flesh filled his own nose.

“Get your carcass back to Fortuna,” Typhon hissed.  “That is an order from on high.”

Cringing, Dazran recoiled from the heated spear of breath in his ear.  “What of Miranda?”

The temperature of the room had risen to a suffocating degree.  “We will let things play out.”

“We wait for the child’s birth?”  Less blood dripped from Dazran’s eye.

Typhon’s grin promised no answers.  “A Supreme General obeys his orders without question, does he not?”

Shoving the pain aside, Dazran straightened to his feet and opened his one functioning eye, glaring at Typhon.  “I will obey.”

Typhon dismissed the statement with a bored wave of his hand.  “Of course you will.”

Impatience churned in Dazran’s chest.  “I want to speak with him.  I was promised an audience.”

If laughter were a color, Typhon’s would be coal-black.  “Timing is everything.”  The room reeked of scorched-corpse smoke.  The daylight dissolved as if night approached too swiftly.  “You must prepare yourself to behold his vast resplendent darkness lest you burn in the inferno of his imperial displeasure.  You deem yourself ready?”

Chapter Text

Damn!  Vergil’s spawn is really giving her hell.

It was Miranda’s fourth frantic trip into the boys’ bathroom.  Not that Dante was exactly counting.  The scrambling footsteps rushing from Vergil’s bedroom no longer diverted Dante’s attention away from cleaning Ebony and Ivory.  The pitiful heaving of the girl was ironically familiar and reminded him of Vergil’s episode on their birthday.  For several reasons.  The stark difference was that Dante sympathized with Miranda’s reason and relentlessly razzed his brother for his.

The shower erupted in a powerful gush.  If Miranda kept hurling, Dante couldn’t hear it for the water.

The inner parts of his hefty handguns were neatly aligned along the top edge of Dante’s desk as he deftly handled their sleek, silvery bodies with loving fastidiousness and precision akin to clockmaking.  

It was a quiet spring night.  A cloudless, inky canvas splattered in glittering flecks capped the peaceful countryside.  The rhythm of crickets was tantalizingly calm. 

The bore brush twisted smoothly between Dante’s long fingers as he worked it through Ivory’s barrel.  The dual Goldstein works of art had yet to be dunked in a proper baptism of fire.  That time was likely much nearer at hand now.  Sparda had taught his boys that keeping weapons squeaky clean was not merely a chore, but an act of veneration and could mean the difference between victory and defeat.  Life and death.  Salvation and damnation.  

Laid out before him were swabs, rags, lubricant, and a vial of his father’s homemade cleaning chemical he had used ever since his old underworld campaign days–specifically concocted for devil arms.  The bedroom window directly above his project was splayed wide open, the panes like glass wings beckoning the evening air to carry away the acrid fumes.

A hard, heart-punching thud came from the bathroom.

Bolting to his feet, Dante abandoned Ivory on his desk and practically leaped at the bathroom door.  He rapped the back of his knuckles on it and called, “Mira!”

No answer.  The shower kept gushing.

“Mira!”  He snatched the doorknob, but stalled.  Shower…

Nervously, he licked his lips and opened the door just a few inches, trying to maintain a modicum of courtesy despite his foreboding.  The fogged reflection in the long mirror above the twin sinks seized Dante’s lungs like monstrous mantis pincers.

Miranda was slumped over the edge of the tub, not moving.  

Shouldering the door out of his way, Dante trampled her discarded shorts and t-shirt in his mad dash to her side. Thankfully, she hadn’t stripped off her bra and underwear yet.  The disturbing black veins pulsed and climbed up her waist and lower back.  Dante slammed off the shower’s faucet.  Carefully, he pulled her away from the tub and caught her limp body against his broad chest.  Her head dropped backward onto his shoulder.  The lack of color in her face twisted his gut like tangled, drenched laundry.

“Mira?”  He reached up and yanked out a fresh bath towel from the nearby shelf.  Several other towels fell with it.  Ignoring the linen spill, he covered Miranda.  As he moved to take her back to Vergil’s bed and fetch his mother, she stirred with a moan.

“Holy shit, are you okay?”

Pale and grimacing, she tried to blink away the remnants of the impromptu darkness.   The pattern of her breath was sporadic, panicky.  Barely clutching the towel, she struggled to stand, but dizziness sloshed against the inside walls of her skull, her brain bobbing.  Her legs failed.

“Hey, take it easy!”  Dante caught her before she fell.

With a pain-filled groan, Miranda bent double over his arm.  Had he not been there, her knees would have buckled.  Pushing herself away from him, she plunged toward the toilet and was violently sick in it.  Dante cringed.  In her desperate scuttle, the towel fell away.  The black veins slowly crawled down her thighs, gaining distance with her every convulsion.

“There’s nothing left!” Miranda groaned, her whole body shaking.  “I need to eat!”  Wincing, her eyes slammed closed.  One whiff of dinner that night had her fleeing the dining room in a mortified hustle.

“My mom will figure something out,” Dante assured her as he took a knee and clumsily gathered her hair away from her face.  “She was really sick too when she was gonna have me and Verge.”

It was indicated with no small amount of humiliation that Miranda’s t-shirt had suffered the consequences of her severe morning sickness.  Her shorts were no worse for wear so she donned them again.  Feeling about as useful as a flat spare tire, Dante hurried to his closet and retrieved one of his sweatshirts.  The fleece-lined, brick-red one he’d ordered from his favorite gun magazine.  It was the warmest and most comfy he owned.  A large skull adorned its center, a long tongue lashing out of a grin full of bullet-shaped fangs.  

“Here,” he offered, and assisted her into the loaner.  It was big and baggy on her, and the red affected the spectrum of her skin tone, moving it from ashen to ghostly.   

“Thank you,”  she croaked, and managed a pallid little smile for him, but then her nose wrinkled.  “What’s that chemical smell?”

“Me.”  He raised his black-smudged hands like he was being arrested.  “I was cleaning my guns.”  Realization struck like a nunchuck to the face.  “Oh, damn it!”  Popping to his sock-clad feet, he went to his sink, pumped huge globs of soap into his palms, and vigorously scrubbed under scalding water.

Slouched on the floor, Miranda weakly reached up and flushed the toilet.  Sweat dampened the edges of her waxen face.  “I just don’t want the fumes to hurt the baby.”

“Don’t worry,” he quickly assured her, rinsing all the suds away.  “I swear I’ve never washed my hands this hard before.”

Miranda retched.  The sound made Dante wince.  He stuck a clean washcloth under cooler water, wrung it out, and returned to the miserable girl’s side.

“Vergil and I don’t exactly get sick so we don’t even have antacids.”  He offered the wet cloth to Miranda.

With a shaking hand she accepted it and wiped her mouth.  “Thank you,” she rasped.

“Maybe more of that special tea my mom makes for ya?” he suggested eagerly.  “I’ll go ask her–”

“Wait.”  Miranda grasped his hand before he could speed away.  “I don’t think I could keep it down.”

“Oh.”  Deflated, he sank back down beside her, forced to let the prenatal nausea run its merciless course.

The cool, magnolia-scented air drifted through the open windows, thinning the lingering steam.  Miranda pulled all her limp, unkempt hair to one side, breathing deeply, slowly.

“I’m not even eighteen yet and I’m going to have a baby,” she uttered.  The reality was still taking root, still developing like the child inside her.  A panicked breath gathered in her breast.  “Dante, I don’t know what I’m doing!”

Quickly he brandished an encouraging smile, solid as seasoned steel.  “You’re a brainy babe.  You’ll figure it out, and you won’t be figuring it out alone.”

Her mouth twisted downward and she hung her head.  Then her shoulders shuddered.  Sniffles followed.

“Hey,” he soothed, and tugged on the cuff of his sweatshirt she wore.  “What’s up?”

The breath she released trembled.  “As I fled the house today, I heard my papa on the phone with the clinic.”  In an effort to stanch a sob, she bit her lip, but her voice was rickety like a battered lifeboat.  “He asked them how long it would take…how soon they could do it…how long it would take for me to recover…”  The brutal sob broke free, and she slapped a sleeve-covered hand to her mouth.  “How could I ever recover from the death of my baby!”  Her voice turned reedy, the words splintered as if spat out of a wood chipper.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Dante gently hushed.  He pulled her against his chest and held her.  Vergil wasn’t the only one who wanted to protect her no matter what.  “You’re safe, Mira.  You and the kid are safe.  That shit’s not gonna happen.  Okay?”

Miranda leaned into his warmth, her arms wound tightly around him.  A large pendant rested beneath the soft cotton of his t-shirt.  It was like the one Vergil often wore, but Dante’s hung on a thin chain of silver.  

Nodding, she whimpered, “Okay.”

The frightful sobs and the nausea ebbed as she sat in the strength of his brotherly embrace.

“You know Vergil would burn the world before that happened,” Dante reminded her.

The image of gallant Vergil wielding the Yamato in his beautifully honed fighting stance sliced its way to the forefront of her mind.  Burn the world?  For me?

“And I’d help,” he declared, adamant.  “Can’t let my brother have all the fun.”

“Of course not.”  She smiled, and he felt it against his chest.  It soaked straight into his heart like butter melting on toasted bread.

A long silence passed, long enough that Miranda teetered on the edge of sleep in his arms, but then she remembered how odd it was for him to be so quiet.

“He said he’d do whatever it takes.  He should be here right now.”  Resentment on her behalf stained Dante’s voice.  “He cut school for you before.  He shoulda cut karate tonight.  He gets too obsessed.”

Feeling stable enough, she sat up and blinked at him.  “I’m in the good hands of my bodyguard.”

“Well, yes, you are.”  He leaned back against a cupboard under the counter.  Frustration furrowed his brow.  “Still.  You’re more important than karate.”

Miranda touched the elegant katana pendant that hung beneath her borrowed sweatshirt.  Exhausted, she stared at the floor as if drifting away, but her thoughts were not far.

“He wanted to cut,” she murmured.  “He had already made up his mind, and I really wanted him to stay with me.”

Dante crossed his arms, squinting in suspicion.  “So then why’d he go?”

Raising her tired eyes, she answered, “I insisted.”

“Wait, what?”  Dante’s face crumpled.  “Why?”

“It gives him a measure of control.  Power.  Strength.”  She splayed a hand over her belly.  “This baby wasn’t planned.  My condition makes me vulnerable.  Mundus may strike and we don’t know how or when.  The birth will be unpredictable.  Vergil feels he has no control, and therefore he feels weak.”  She pressed her other hand over her heart.  Tears glistened in her eyes.  “He’s always so strong for me.  I want to be strong for him too.  Karate is a good distraction for him.” 

How opposite of Vergil she was, so willingly opening her heart while he kept his buried under iron plates.  Magnetism.  Iron sharpens iron, and it was in her very name: Fierro.

Dante drew in a deep sigh, impressed.  “My jackass brother does not deserve you.”  He gave her a tilted grin.  “How ya feelin’?”

Crinkling her brow, she took a moment to assess.  “I’m very thirsty.”

With nary a qualm, Dante invaded Vergil’s bathroom cabinet, found his brother’s glass, and filled it with cold water for her.  After she gulped it all down, he got her a second round.

After she drank off the last swallow, she lifted the glass for him to take back, but he stood leaning against the counter so lost in thought that he made no move.

“Dante?”

He blinked, twitching as if she’d poked him.  “Sorry.”  He took the glass and slid it to Vergil’s side of the countertop.

Miranda attempted to stand.  “What’s wrong?”  Wavering, she reached out for him.

“Don’t push yourself.”  He guided her to a plush ottoman, barely big enough for two, and sat with her.

“What were you thinking about?” she softly pressed.  The dark messy tresses of her hair gradually became a braid as she worked them absently.

He closed his eyes for a moment as if to press away a twinge of pain.  “Nothin’, just…worried about ya.”

She looked up at him, one eyebrow lifted.  “I can read your brother.  So don’t think I can’t read you.”  Prevarication was not a skill Dante possessed let alone a word in his vocabulary.  “Please tell me”

He shrugged a shoulder.  “Just thinkin’.”  The sigh he made was full of disappointment.  “About how you won’t graduate.”  A single wry chuckle escaped him.  “Too ironic.”

Her fingers paused in their braiding, and she dropped her hands into her lap.  “Honestly,” she meekly muttered, “the thought of getting pregnant never entered my mind that day at the Elysium.”  Pink pooled into her pallid cheeks and she turned away to hide it from Dante.  He noticed anyway, but would never tease her about such things.  “I wish I could graduate with you and Vergil.”  She cleared her throat, trying to dispel her own dismay as easily.  “After I have the baby I’ll finish school.  Somehow.”

Dante threw his fun and cocky grin at her to liven her spirits.  “You still think I’m gonna graduate, huh?”

The look Miranda threw back at him in rebuttal was a rally to whatever challenges he may pose.  “I know you’re going to graduate.”

He tilted his chin up, still grinning, still thinking he had the upper hand.  “What makes you so sure?”

Her counterattack was a savage hit.  “Because I’m your tutor!”

Dante chuckled.  “Fair enough.”  

The noncommittal undertone of those two simple words did not escape Miranda’s notice.  “You’ll graduate, Dante,” she promised him, her belief in him steadfast.  “You will.”

Like a bellows, her sweet surety woke the embers within him once again to conquer high school.  “Thanks for not giving up on me.”

“How could I?”  The question surprised her.  A shard of strength returned to her wan lips.  Her smile only grew stronger as the nausea continued to dissipate. 

Dante leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees.  “Pretty sure my old man didn’t have a high school degree to do what I wanna do.”

“Devil hunting,” she instantly deduced.

He made a gun of his right hand and pointed at her, closed one eye, and made a loud click with his tongue.  “No other rush like it.”

Miranda finished her braid.  “It certainly suits you.”

“Been talkin’ to my dad about it.”  Nothing detailed had been discussed, but Sparda knew Dante was not meant for college or working retail.  “Maybe start my own business.”

“Really?”  A stroke of astonishment tinted her voice.

“Hey, don’t sound so shocked!”  Dante felt a minor blow glance off his dignity.

“I didn’t mean it like that!”  Playfully, she shoved his shoulder with hers, laughing.  “You’re responsible when you want to be,” she teased.

He laughed too.  “Thanks, I guess.”  

“You would work out of Red Grave City, then?”

Dante nodded.  “My dad may be legendary, but he’s still only one guy.  Maybe Vergil will wanna go in on it too.  Dad says he can help me get started, set me up with a place, an office in the city.”

“Do you know what you’d call it?”

“Nah, not yet.”  He studied his blackened fingertips, the stains that would not fade for a day or two, pondering.  “Mom doesn’t like the idea though.”

“That’s not surprising.”  The debility in her voice was dwindling.  “I would probably feel the same if my baby went into a business like that.”  The idea tumbled around like heavy wet towels slapping and smacking dryer walls.  “Maybe one day my baby will. It could be a family business. You and your nephew could work together someday.”

“Nephew?”  Dante exclaimed, sitting upright and raising both eyebrows.  “It’s a boy?”

“Oh, I don’t actually know,” Miranda admitted with a bashful giggle, “but I’d like to have a boy.”  The nervous bend in her lips was not quite a smile.   Burdened by the inevitable process of giving birth, she shifted her thoughts to the precious moment after the blood and the pain when she would hold her child in her arms.  Then the smile came, brighter.  “I think Vergil would too.”

“Vergil Jr.” Dante mused, testing the idea.  “That sounds like so much fun.”  The sarcasm was all too obvious but amiable.

Miranda rolled her eyes.  “He’d have some of me in him too, you know.”

“He better!”  He thought it over.  “I think it’d be a good combo, though.  Vergil’s motivation and power harnessed by your loving heart.”

The compliment coaxed more color into her face.  “You always know how to cheer me up.”  She gave his arm an affectionate squeeze.  “Thank you, Dante. I’m not feeling as nauseated anymore either.”  A sudden torrent of exhaustion rolled through her body and she blinked slowly as if her eyelids were stage curtains.

“Clearly you’re still really tired.  Let’s get you back to bed.”  Dante lifted her into his arms and carried her back to Vergil’s bedroom and laid her down on Vergil’s bed.

“Don’t be scared, Mira.”  He pulled a blanket over her.  “It’s gonna be okay.”

In one hand she clutched the edge of Vergil’s blanket.  In the other she snatched Dante’s hand.  “But what if it’s not?  What if I get sick or something’s wrong with the baby or I’m not strong enough?”

Is this one of those crazy mood swings pregnant chicks go through?  He gave her fingers a squeeze.  “Hey, don’t start thinking like that–”

“You and Eva almost died!” she blurted, fear ambushing her like a snake out of the shadows.  “What exactly happened?”

Still holding her hand, Dante sank down onto the edge of the bed.  He took a moment to gather his thoughts, hoping that the grim telling wouldn’t aggravate her anxious mood.

“Mom couldn’t have me,” he began carefully.  “Vergil came out all right, but I got stuck.  She couldn’t push me out so Myshipha had to cut me out.”

Miranda uttered a little whimper of “Oh.”

“Scared Dad shitless, but everything turned out just fine.”  Eager to keep her out of the gloom, he quickly pitched his tone back to nonchalant.  “We just gotta trust Myshipha like he did.”  As if it were that simple.

“As long as nothing bad happens to my baby.”  Miranda slid a hand over her belly, feeling that familiar little flutter.

“The kid’s gonna be okay and you’re gonna be okay,” Dante firmly promised.  “That’s just how it’s gonna be.”

She nodded, but she did not seem any less fretful.  “What time is it?  Is Vergil almost home?”

He glanced at the clock hanging above Vergil’s desk.  The black needle-like hand snicked across bold, black Roman numerals that circled an elegant dark-marble face.  “Yeah, should be.”

“Please don’t give him a hard time about going,” she pleaded.

“For you, I won’t.”  Dante winked.  “Remember, you’re brainy but also brave.”

The brittle smile that wandered across her lips was gratitude, not relief.

He gave her hand one last comforting squeeze, and then left her to rest.

If the birth does go south for the worst, I’ll be the one to make ashes of that demon bitch’s corpse.

That was assuming Vergil left anything to burn.

Chapter Text

The kitchen was cold at 2 AM, especially when Vergil was only wearing boxers and a tank top.  He shuffled to the fridge and ran a hand through his mussed hair. It had become a ritual. The baby always kicked Miranda awake sometime in the middle of the night. Maybe it was a practical joke. At least Vergil could expect it. He was never no less groggy or tired, but he refused to complain…at least in Miranda’s presence.

The blender never woke anyone, which was one less thing to worry about. Vergil plugged it in and poured in some raw milk.  A banana was next. Then the peanut butter. His lip always curled when he added the radishes and pickle juice. The recipe was burned into his mind. Whenever Miranda craved a smoothie, it was always the same stomach-turning concoction.

“Time for Mira’s nasty-ass smoothie again, I take it.” Dante came into the kitchen in nothing but his boxers. His hair was sticking up on one side.

Vergil just yawned and nodded as he dumped in chunks of avocado and secured the lid on the blender. It took a minute to buzz it up to the right texture that Miranda liked.

“Smells nastier than it looks,” Dante remarked, wrinkling his nose.

“Would you care for a sample?” Vergil offered sarcastically as he poured the creamy goo into a tumbler.

Dante pulled a disgusted face. “Very funny.” He peered into the blender. “Doesn’t Mira hate pickles? Smells like she’s obsessed with them now.”

“Her body knows what it needs for the baby.” Vergil searched the cupboard for crackers.

“Do babes’ taste buds break when they get knocked up?”

Vergil scowled at him. “Stop saying it like that.”

“Alright, alright, sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it,” Dante conceded. “You know, she put ketchup on her tuna sandwich the other day.”

“Whatever Miranda needs, she gets.” It was perfectly simple no matter how strange Miranda’s appetite.  “Or rather whatever the baby needs.”  Vergil started for the stairs, a package of crackers in one hand, the tumbler of pickle-banana smoothie in the other.

“I dare you to try it,” Dante prodded.

Vergil’s lip curled harder this time. “Why the hell would I do that?”

Dante shrugged. “Curiosity?”

“You first.” Vergil held out the tumbler to his brother.

Dante raised his hands in protest. “Hell no!”

A little grin emerged in the corner of Vergil’s mouth. “No olives, so it should be bearable for you.”

“Man, you’re just Mr. Comedian tonight, aren’t ya?”

“I suppose I’m not entirely myself when I’m sleep deprived.”

“Ah, but the things you do for love, yeah?” Dante winked.

Vergil glanced down into the odorous beverage in his hand and spoke with gentle, sleepy emotion. “Yeah.”

Dante smiled. “I’ll keep reminding ya: Mira’s gonna be okay.”

Vergil glanced up the stairs where Miranda was waiting, sore and far more tired than he was. “I will do anything I have to do to make sure of that. Nothing will stand in my way.”

“Just don’t forget you’re not alone in protecting her,” Dante said, solemn.  “I’ll keep reminding you of that too.”

Vergil didn’t argue, but nodded. Together they ascended the stairs. Dante gave his brother an encouraging clap on the back before heading back into his room. Vergil would never admit it aloud, but he loved how Dante was always willing to put up a fight with him, even if it was just an argument about something he already knew to be true.

Miranda was sitting up with her head bent forward, her brow scrunched and her hands on her big belly, concentrating as if silently begging their child to be still. As Vergil neared, she looked up at him, her eyes weary and aching for rest, and released a broken sigh.

“I must have bruises on the inside,” she grunted. “Our baby is a bit…violent.”

Vergil handed the ghastly smoothie to her. There was silence for a moment as he watched her quickly gulp half of it down.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

Miranda frowned. “Sorry?”

“That this is hard on you.” It was getting progressively difficult to watch her groan through false contractions and cringe at every kick the child dealt. She was in pain. He hated it, and dreaded the day of the birth.

“It’s practice, I guess,” she panted, and set the tumbler aside.

“But this isn’t a norm–” He stopped and gritted his teeth behind tight lips.

The same apprehension came into her own face.  She took his hand.  He squeezed hers tight as if that alone could ward off the worst possible delivery.

“Let’s go back to sleep,” she suggested, eager to shift their thoughts. “Please hold me.”

Vergil climbed back into bed and brought her close. As the nervous beat of their young hearts gradually slowed into a restful cadence, sleep returned.

Vergil hoped that the nightmare would not.

Chapter Text

The sand was as white as a cleansed cadaver.  The ocean slid its watery fingers over it, reaching for Miranda’s bare feet.  The sky was streaked in violet and bruised-blue while the sun slowly scraped the last of its rose-gold into the undulating waves.  The breeze was cold and damp, lifting tendrils of Miranda’s hair.

This beach had been her sanctuary, the only place where she and her mother found shards of solace.  A distant shore where escape was possible if only for a handful of time.  Miranda remembered the promise she had made to herself.  Tears were only safe on this beach.

Tears angered her father.

Only once before had she come here alone.  A thin gossamer garment fluttered along the edges of her pale body, draped over her domed belly like a ceremonial cloth.  Both of her hands were tucked beneath her womb.  The child stirred within.  Closing her eyes, Miranda gathered the familiar salty air into her lungs like a long lost memento.

A strange, dark heat gently touched her skin.  It did not harm, nor did it threaten.  It was heat that warmed just before it scorched.  The instant between golden and charred, prolonged.  The waves whispered and the darkening sky grumbled.

The sand suddenly felt strange, different, under Miranda’s feet.  Frowning, she opened her eyes.  The entire white beach had become an ugly strip of steel-grey ashes.  The ocean stretching out before her appeared as endless as deep space and just as black.  The sky clung to only a few shreds of bronze light.

Out of the still obsidian sea rose the shape of a man.  Hip-deep in the waves, he moved toward Miranda, his facial features too distant to discern.  Wide shoulders.  Powerful chest.  Arms thick with strength.  Yet, instead of legs he moved on a massive, muscular coil of a scaly tail.  

Breath snagged in Miranda’s throat and she turned to flee.

Instantly pillars of fire, orange swirled in black, rose high all around her.  When she turned again to face the demon, he had slithered up behind her and now met her frightened eyes. Burnt black and glowing orange like cracked lava, his skin was a volcanic landscape.  His eyes were churning magma, and slitted in serpentine fashion.  The dark heat radiated from his muscular body.  He was a volcano shaped into half a man and half a snake.  Smoke was his breath.  Like a snake he did not blink, and he smelled of scorched cities and burning corpses.

The demon’s gaze dropped to her womb.  Miranda spread her hands over it, a gesture of protection, as she fought the rising terror.  The demon lifted one black hand, his fingernails sharp and curved like a cobra’s fangs.  Sweat slid down Miranda’s face as the pillars of fire slowly sapped her energy and strength.  The demon laid his hand atop her womb.

The child squirmed wildly as if it had been burned by the demon’s touch.

Miranda panted, the heat overpowering her.

The demon met her eyes again and curled his claws ever so slightly.  The black slits of his eyes widened.  Eager.  Hungry.

“No,” Miranda whimpered.  Her pulse pounded against the buzzing wall of her skull.  Sweat poured down her face and over curve and limb, soaking the fragile garment.  It felt as if her bones were baking, yet she met the demon’s gaze and shook her head in feeble rebellion.

Tears mingled with sweat as the demon put her onto her back.

All Miranda could do was loll her head from side to side, weakly begging.  “Please…no…my baby…”

The demon lifted her garment away from her belly.

“Please…no…”

With one long, curved claw he slit into her belly a long downward cut from her navel.

Miranda screamed, craning her neck.

Blood ran freely, dark and wet, steaming in the hellish heat.

The demon slid his hands into her opened womb.

Miranda kept screaming.

The demon pulled a male child from Miranda’s bleeding body.  Strong cry.  White hair.

As too much blood abandoned her, she struggled to lift her head and looked upon the demon’s grinning face.

The face of her own father–-

Miranda awoke with a cry.  Tears stained her cheeks.  Sweat slicked her skin.  The hellish heat of the dream lingered in her racing blood.  Quickly she ran her trembling hands over her womb.  No blood.  No gaping wound.

Vergil moved beside her in bed, muzzy.  “Miranda?”  He turned onto his side and laid a hand on her belly.  “Again?”

Panting, she nodded.  This was the third time.  It was always the same.  Every time she woke it felt like the first time.  Never before in her life had she seen a demon like this volcanic serpent. Why did such a demon seem familiar? Its true face she did not know.  She struggled up into a sitting position, her own hand beside Vergil’s, shielding their child.

“It’s all right,” he soothed, his voice a sleepy rasp.

The nightmare first haunted her shortly after Dazran had departed Red Grave City.  Following the one-sided conversation with Sparda, he left Miranda a curt voicemail on her phone.  In it he managed to mordaciously berate her one last time for keeping her child and informed her that His Holiness had officially deemed her useless–ruined–now that she had become “infected with unsanctioned seed.”

As if her baby were a virus.

“You’re under a lot of stress,” Vergil reasoned.

“Mundus wants our baby!” Miranda whimpered, her voice dying behind another sob.

His lips found hers in the dark.  Like being lovingly led by the hand, Miranda followed each movement of his mouth.  It was the kind of kiss that struggled to end.  A kiss that would rather not end.  

“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered.  “I promised you that he will not touch you or our baby.”

Miranda shivered against him.  “We don’t know what will–”  A sudden, tight pain arrested her voice.  Cringing, she bore down.

“Miranda?”  Vergil stiffened, ready to leap out of bed.  “What’s wrong?”

Closing her eyes, she waited, saying nothing for a breathless minute.  “I think…”  Her voice was strained.

“Are you all right?”  He touched her womb again.  The baby moved.

Miranda’s face relaxed and she let her breath go.  “It’s okay.  False contraction.”

Vergil was silent.  We’re getting so close.

“I’m okay, my V,” she assured him when he was quiet for too long.  A wince tweaked her nose and a little groan escaped her.

“Do you need anything?”  The urgent need to help and protect was ever present on his shoulders.

The baby kicked Vergil’s palm.

Miranda grunted.  “Oh…I’m really hungry all of a sudden.”

“I’ll get you something.”  Vergil threw aside the blankets.

“What time is it?” 

“Just after 4,” he replied, halfway through a yawn.

Guilt-ridden, she sighed.  “I’m so sorry.  I’ll sleep in my room so you can–”

“No.”  The word was firm and full of love.  “I want you right beside me.”

She squeezed his hand and pulled him closer.  The warmth of his lips brought her solace, and the sigh he made as he kissed her beckoned her hands down his naked back.  She never tired of tracing every muscle of it, relishing in the movement of each as he deepened the kiss.

Caressing her cheek, he gently pulled away and licked his lips.  “I’ll be right back,” he whispered.

She trailed her fingertips across his chin and whispered back, “Okay.” 

Vergil slipped a tank top over his long, toned torso, ran a hand back through his mussed hair, and ventured downstairs barefoot.

Alone in bed, Miranda’s mind returned to the nightmare.  Stroking her belly, she crumpled her brow and fought the recurring bloody images. Quietly she hummed a pretty little tune that Eva had taught her, a lullaby she once sang over Dante and Vergil’s cribs.

Vergil’s return curtailed her rumination.  As he came to her side of the bed, she pushed herself up against the pillows.  He flicked on the reading lamp and placed a small plate under the light.

“Here.”  Cheese and a banana, cut up for easy snacking.

She reached up and touched his cheek.  “Thank you, sweet V.”

Resting both fists on the edge of the bed, he leaned in and met her eyes in the soft light.  “Don’t let the nightmare enslave you, Miranda.”  There was a particular depth in his gaze, solemnity in his hushed voice.  “I know what that’s like.”

Cupping his face in her hands, she smiled and drew him in for a kiss, this time reassuring him.  “You make me braver than I’ve ever been,” she murmured against his lips, “and so does our baby.”

Sliding a strong arm under her belly, cradling it, his mouth seized hers, and she tasted his promise to protect her and their child in every fierce kiss.

* * *

The laundry was warm and smelled like sage and wildflowers.  Every fold was done with precision and gratitude.  It kept Miranda’s mind occupied.  Too quickly her thoughts tended to swirl and churn into a storm of worries.  There were few chores she was permitted to do now, for the child had grown at a startling rate just as Myshipha had predicted.  The perfect dome of her belly was the equivalent of the seventh month of a normal pregnancy.  

The maternity clothes were, according to Sparda, an early baby shower gift.  After graciously arming her and Eva with his credit card, he had happily and quite emphatically urged them to purchase anything Miranda or the baby might need.

A giant box of diapers sat against the bedroom wall near her side of Vergil’s bed.  The crib was due to arrive within the week.  She snuggled a fresh receiving blanket against her cheek.

The house was quiet.  Sparda was at the office.  Eva was caring for her herbs in her workshop.

Yet what made it especially quiet was the absence of Dante and Vergil.  School was almost out and the boys would soon be on their way home.

Clutching one of Vergil’s collared shirts to her womb, Miranda sighed as the reality of dropping out of high school snagged her thoughts again.  She missed going to class, laughing with Dante in the hall, reading poetry with Vergil at lunch.  It felt so strange to not have homework anymore, but she remained a strict tutor to Dante.  Failing to fit into her school uniform was a depression she only mentioned to Eva, but Eva promised her that she would again and that she wore her pregnancy much better than Eva had, considering Eva’s womb had been much more crowded.

Despite her big belly and erratic emotions, she and Vergil still shared intimate moments before falling asleep.  Kisses and assurances.  However, he seemed distant as of late.  Just a handful of weeks left.  Miranda needed him closer now more than ever.  There were other things on his mind too.  His black belt test was also soon, and of course finals in all his classes, so he was furiously studying.  He promised her that he would start working for his father immediately after graduation, refusing to take the summer off.

Oh, Vergil, you work too hard. 

Being apart regularly gave them the opportunity to miss each other.  Miranda found she enjoyed missing Vergil.  He never admitted that he missed her, not with words, but Miranda knew by the way he kissed her when he came home every day.

By the time she finished folding all the laundry, her usual afternoon fatigue overcame her.  The ache in her back and ankles was ever present.  With a hand pressed to the small of her back, she descended the staircase and ambled out into the courtyard where Dante and Vergil so often sparred together.  The lively, babbling slosh of the fountain was always a comforting sound.  The cushioned wicker chair waited for her.  In it, every weekday she waited for Vergil to come home from school.

Rumors spread through Grey Grove mere days after Miranda’s fourth absence in a row.  Both Dante and Vergil were questioned by their fellow students.  They held to the same simple story that Miranda’s professors announced to their classes: Miranda’s father had been unexpectedly called to return to Fortuna and, of course, his daughter had to return with him.  So on campus, Vergil was once again single, and everyone attributed his darker aloofness to a rough and devastating breakup.  In truth, his thoughts were consumed by the worst possible scenario: Miranda may die in childbirth and he was powerless to ensure that did not happen.  Desperate to keep himself occupied productively, he attended his classes, completed his homework, practiced karate, and studied for long hours. Yet he brooded.

It seems I’ve taken to brooding as well.  

Alone in the quiet courtyard, too sore and tired to do much of anything, Miranda sat and endured the warring of her loud thoughts.  Lately she had come to regret her fluctuating moods.  Snapping one moment, crying the next, sleep-deprived, and still occasionally suffering the dreadful morning sickness.

Has Vergil grown distant because of me?  My moodiness?  Tears pricked her eyes all too quickly.  She shook her head and cleared her throat, defying her chaotic shifts in feeling and thought.

The baby thrived.  Ultimately, that’s what was most important, but she’d begun to miss Vergil in a new way.  Was he avoiding her?  Had he begun to regret their baby?  Did he resent her now?

Shaking her head again, she groaned against such crushing thoughts as if they were demonic voices whispering to her heart.  A little bit of fear went a long way.

No!  Vergil promised me!  He’s honorable and he loves me!  He will keep his word!

Serpents slithered toward her on coal-black scales, their touch charring the courtyard cobbles.

As Miranda was drowning in her dark thoughts, they drew nearer, spreading their hoods and lifting their heads.  Black forked tongues flickered out of their mouths.

The baby lunged as if to flee.  The sudden burst of motion inside her warned Miranda, jolting her to her senses.  Gasping, she sat very still, her arms folded over her womb.  

The serpents’ eyes flashed hellfire-red. Wicked maws snapped open, baring long, venom-slicked fangs.

Eager. Hungry.

The air grew hot and stifling.

Miranda swallowed hard and dared not make a single sound or move.  Please! No! Trapped.

A bright azure blade, smoking white, glimmering like a mirage, skewered each scaly snake head. Every serpent collapsed.  Dead.  Precise aim.  Fierce protection.  Deadly power.

Miranda had never seen this power before, but she knew to whom it belonged.

Rising, she turned in time to see Vergil bolting toward her in a cerulean streak of demonic speed.  He had her in his arms in a single pound of his frightened heart.

“Are you hurt?  Are you bitten?” he asked urgently.  With one hand he touched her cheek.  In the other he gripped the Yamato.

Miranda shook her head, her body trembling as the panic slowly dissipated.  “I’m fine.”

Vergil hugged her to him and allowed himself a small sigh, relieved.  Miranda wrapped her arms around his waist and felt a strange steady thrum running through his body.  Like a powerful engine on new fuel.

“Come inside,” he finally said, and led her into the house without relinquishing his arm from her waist.

“Those serpents–” Miranda began as they came into the parlor.

“Demons.”  He growled the word through gritted teeth.  “Yes.”

“But the gate–”

“I know!” he snapped.  Angry urgency flooded into his eyes and voice.  “You can’t leave the house anymore.  Do you understand?”

“But Vergil, I–”

“The gate is too weak!”  He was on the edge of shouting.  “Do not leave the house!”

“Hey, whoa, what the hell?”  Dante came to the banister above them, glaring down at his brother.

“Silence!” Vergil barked up at him, pointing sheathed Yamato at his brother’s face.

“Don’t yell at her!”  Dante vaulted angrily over the railing as if he meant to attack and got in Vergil’s face.  “It’s not her fault!”

“I will not let anything happen to her!” Vergil snarled back.  “Don’t get in my way!”  He whirled the Yamato and struck Dante in the chest with the end of its hilt.

Miranda sharply gasped, throwing her hands over her mouth.

With a grunt, Dante stumbled back a step.  Slowly he straightened, giving himself time to breathe deeply and calm himself.

“You’re being an asshole, Verge,” he said, so quietly it was close to threatening.

“This is my responsibility,” Vergil growled low, his nose crinkling in fury and motivation.  “I don’t need your help.”

“I don’t care if you need it!” Dante shot back, his voice rising now.  “This is about Mira and the kid!  Fuck your damn pride!”

“That has nothing to do with–!”

“Have you told her about ten years ago?”

Vergil’s stomach clenched and his heart stopped.  Words suddenly failed him, dropping like bricks from a burning home.

“That’s where this is coming from, isn’t it?”

Masking the old wound, Vergil hardened his gaze again and retorted, “She doesn’t need to know!”

“Stop talking like I’m not here!” Miranda shouted at them.

Vergil rounded on her.  “I won’t lose you!”

It was then she saw the deep fear overwhelm his eyes.  “I didn’t mean to scare you, my V–”

“It’s not you, Mira,” Dante interrupted.

“I will not fail to protect my family again!” Vergil snarled, his hard, dark gaze whipping back to his brother.

“That was not your failure, my son.”

All three teenagers turned to the front doors to find Sparda standing in late afternoon light, an ominous, melancholy shadow hanging off his shoulders.

Dante turned away from his father, crossing his arms, a disapproving curl in his lip.

Vergil unabashedly met his father’s gaze, the heaving of his chest and the rippling light along the Yamato’s hilt the only lingering evidence of his rage-tainted fear.

“Separate yourselves and cool off,” Sparda ordered his sons in a deep, level tone.  “This chaotic emotion is ill-fitting in the presence of an expectant mother.”  Then he addressed Miranda.  “I’d like to speak with you alone, my dear.”

Softly panting, Miranda watched as Dante removed himself from the parlor, glaring at his brother as he mounted the stairs again.  Her eyes then returned to Vergil.

His brows were pinched and his shoulders stiff.  The fist that clenched the Yamato was tight enough to shake, as if he considered snapping the ancient blade in twain.  He did not look at her, and it was the first time that his doing so felt like he’d backhanded her.

“Vergil–?”

“Attend to your forms, Vergil,” Sparda ordered, dismissing him.

“Father, I–”

Sparda lifted one hand, silencing him.

Vergil’s mouth tightened. “Yes, sir.” Without another word, he strode back toward the courtyard.

Tears pricked Miranda’s eyes.  Confusion and hurt and fear swirling within her.  “My Lord Sparda…”

“Come with me, my dear.”  Sparda gestured in the direction of his basement office.  She nodded and followed him, running a hand over her big belly to calm her tumbling child, who’d certainly felt the effects of its father’s agitated aura.

Once the office door was closed behind them and Miranda was comfortably sitting, Sparda released a long sigh full of regret, shame, and sympathy.

“As I’m sure you’ve now gathered, Vergil refuses to speak of that day of fire and pain,” he began solemnly, taking his cushioned seat behind his enormous desk, “but I think it’s best if you knew.”

Miranda clenched her hands atop her womb, her heart pattering in preparation for the inevitably dark and wounding tale.  The child turned and fluttered inside her as if eager to hear its grandfather’s next words.

“I shall not share my ugly past with you, Miranda,” he told her. “There are hideous things a girl like yourself should never hear. Though I don’t doubt you have seen some ugliness.”

Her mind was ripped back into the past of only a couple years ago when demons tore her mother to death. A dark and devastating piece of her own past she had yet to share with Vergil. “Mhm.”

“Mundus discovered the location of my home in the human world, learned that I had a wife and half-demon twin boys.” Sparda stared at the neatly stacked parchments upon his desk, his cerulean gaze slowly churning into pools of firebrand crimson as the memories bubbled out of the depths. “I had been away in Fortuna. I was returning home earlier than planned when Mundus sent soldiers to murder my family.”

A tiny breath snagged in Miranda’s throat. 

The crimson in Sparda’s gaze reverted to striking blue, the demonic rage calming as human tears appeared in his eyes.

--– TEN YEARS AGO –--

Eva shrieked as the fierce heat of the hellfire burst another window.  She turned her back to the blast, shielding her son in her arms.

“Mom!”

“I’ve got you,” she said, smiling through the sweat and the fear.

He latched onto her closer, his arms around her waist, as they hurried together from the flaming sun room.

“Close your eyes, Dante,” she soothed.

He did.

The roar of the scorching flames stole her son’s breath.

“Where’s Vergil?” he called over the blaze.

She didn’t answer.

“Vergil!” he screamed.

“Hush, my sweet,” she said into his soot-stained hair.

The parlor was all but engulfed.  The fire had yet to consume the family portrait above the hearth.  Quickly, she rushed her boy to the wardrobe near the front doors and pushed him inside.

“Stay here,” she told him, her voice trembling despite her efforts.  “I’ll find your brother.”  Soothing his white hair, she smiled through her tears.  “Keep your amulet very safe.  Do not let anyone take it.  If anything happens to me, just go.  Begin a new life.  Choose a new name.  Hide.  Live.  Stay here!”

“Mom, don’t go!” Dante cried, tears running down his face.

Eva cupped her son’s face and kissed his cheeks, fighting sobs.  “You must be a brave, big boy, Dante.”  She smiled, but panic infected its beauty. “A man.”

Another crackling crash resounded from upstairs.

“I need to look for your brother now.”  She touched the medallion around Dante’s neck and it glowed brighter.

The fire roared anew as more furniture caught ablaze and the house surrendered to the stifling heat and ravenous flames. 

Eva kissed her son.. “I love you, Dante.” Her fingers slid away from his tear-stained face, and then she slammed the wardrobe doors closed.

“Mom!” Dante screamed.

“Vergil!” Eva’s smoke-muffled voice cried into the blaze.  Another burst of glass.  “Where are you, Vergil!”

Dante grasped his mother’s amulet in both hands.  His body shook. Sweat slid down his neck.  “Vergil!”

Eva fled outside, shouting for her firstborn.  Thick shadows of hulking, armored figures were scattered in the distance, converging on the burning ruins of the house.  Dark, crackling laughter mocked her desperate cries. As she ran, the hem of her dress tore. Twice she nearly fell, but regained her feet.

“Vergil!”

A still figure lay in the grass near the wooden horse. A dozen notched blades stuck out of it. Fading sunlight fell over white hair.

Eva’s heart tried to punch through the back of her throat. “Vergil!” Snatching the ruined hem of her bothersome dress up to her knees, she sprinted to her injured son.

“Vergil, I’m here!” she sobbed, slamming to her knees in the dirt beside him.

A devilishly blue light concentrated around every stab wound in his back.

Gritting her teeth, she pulled each sword out.  Blood ran freely from the wounds.

The dark laughter was approaching, converging. Eva bent over her son, shielding him, as a hissing shot of black heat glanced off her back. Pain burst open in the flesh between her shoulder blades with a vengeance. Eva screamed, but bit down on it as skin blistered and sizzled away beneath the ruthless touch of weaponized demonic fire.

A great surge of violet power suddenly streaked across the front garden, so close it lifted Eva’s hair in its rush toward the advancing enemy. The bloodthirsty roars of the armored demons twisted into horrified shrieks as they were battered back from Eva and Vergil in a wave of mutilated limbs and blackish gore.

The first patter of rain stung the deep blisters on Eva’s back. Soon a powerful downpour struck the earth, but the raging flames of hellfire refused to be quenched.

Vergil kept bleeding, the rain washing his life away into the mud.

Eva gathered her boy into her arms and turned in desperation to the triggered, horned form of her legendary husband. 

In Sparda’s grip the mighty Yamato glowed. Demons rushed at him from all sides, entirely overcome by the desire to please their wicked master. Sparda answered theirs with a swift, judgmental desire of his own. Every slice and slash was a streak of sharp, white-hot azure through the air, an executioner’s swing. Destruction delivered unto evil.

Once every demon was a corpse, Sparda dismissed the Yamato. It vanished in a quick, bright length of light. Then he reached over his shoulder and summoned the Devil Sword Sparda to his armored grip. 

The great ancient steel, fused with the flesh and bone of conquered enemies, glowed with a deep, dark blood-red light. A keen humming filled the air. The earth rumbled, vibrated, and misshapen puddles of black smoke-like energy formed at either side of Sparda. Two beasts emerged from the ground. Their forms were akin to massive wolves, canine, muscular, built to chase and devour. Dull scales, blackish-blue, slathered their bodies and shone faintly in the light of the Devil Sword Sparda. With eyes that glowed aquatic green, murky as an oceanic chasm, they trained their hunter gazes upon the legendary dark knight, obediently awaiting a command.

All Sparda did was extend his enormous blade toward his burning home and firmly utter, “Douse.”

The two demon wolves shot toward the flames in perfect unison. As they ran to fulfill their master’s command, their bodies boiled with power. Once they reached their target, they lifted their heads to the weeping sky, opened their fanged jaws, and bellowed a howl that pierced the clouds and filled the countryside.

All of the rain that had soaked into the earth around and under the house, gathered at the wolves’ cry and gushed upward out of the mud. Sheets of water on all sides, surrounding the hellish flames, rose higher than the house itself and converged as a great watery canopy over it.

The howl faded.

All the gathered water fell in one enormous rush over and into the house, dousing every licking tongue of red-black fire.

Sensing their master’s satisfaction as dismissal, the scaly wolves dissolved into the rain-soaked earth.

“Sparda!” Eva cried out through the pounding rain, her voice cracking under the weight of the heavy shreds that were her heart. “Dante is still inside!”

“I know, beloved,” he calmly assured her. “He’s all right.”

“Vergil is–!” she sobbed, unable to admit aloud that her son was dying.

Sparda sheathed the devil sword and took his bleeding boy into his arms. A soft purple glow immediately enveloped his son as he transferred healing power to him. It would not last long, however. The expression of grief and fear of losing his boy was hidden behind the mask of his demonic warrior form.

Eva shakily climbed to her feet and hurried toward their smoking, wounded home. Her hair fell wet and stringy on either side of her face as she shivered. One of her velvet slippers got stuck in the mud, but it did not hinder her. Half barefoot, she ignored the stinging teeth of the cold rain and the searing pain eating across her back, praying and hoping that some of her alchemical healing elixirs and herbs had miraculously survived the conflagration. 

The front doors had burned to blackened rubble. Eva hurried over the threshold. “Dante!”

The door of the charred and drowned wardrobe opened, and Dante stumbled out, coughing, “Mom?”

“Dante!” She ran to him and snatched him in her shaking arms. He was soaked, but alive and visibly unscathed. “Are you all right?”

Dante nodded, his chin resting on her shoulder as he hugged her tightly. “Yeah.” He watched as his father strode past them to lay Vergil down on the scorched remains of the parlor’s sofa. “Vergil?”

Eva cupped his face and spoke firmly despite the tears running down her weary face. “Stay by your brother’s side. Do not leave him!”

Dante nodded again. “I won’t.”

Eva’s lips trembled but she smiled. “My brave boy.” Distraught but determined, she rushed to the kitchen where she kept a small stash of essential alchemical ingredients hidden away for emergencies in a compartment in the pantry.

Sparda was gone from the parlor.

Nervously, Dante approached his wounded brother. Blood soaked his shirt and stained his rain-drenched hair. His every breath was short and ragged.

Kneeling beside Vergil, Dante took his brother’s cold, pale hand. A sheen of tears came over his eyes and his mouth crumpled. “Don’t die,” he muttered brokenly, and squeezed his brother’s hand.

Eva returned with a few cloths, a small corked vial, and a badly chipped ceramic bowl. Coming to her boys, she did not concern herself with Sparda’s absence, but devoted every ounce of her energies and willpower to attending Vergil.

“Dante, take this and gather rainwater out of the courtyard fountain,” she instructed.

“Okay.” Dante took the bowl and hurried outside.

Only the sound of hard rain. No clashing swords. No war cries of murder-bent servants of the underworld’s emperor. A faint but fighting heartbeat.

One single vial of healing solution had survived the fiery onslaught. Eva clutched it in her hand, willing to kill for it if any demon dared to try to destroy it. Gently, she tore open Vergil’s shirt to fully expose the multiple impalements. Her breath hitched at the sight of them. Ever so carefully, she uncorked the vial and let one drop of the precious concoction drip into each wound. It was all she had. A bit of alchemy and all of her love.

Sparda came into the parlor in his human form. Blood and rain adorned his face. His white hair was a soaked mess down his back and his monocle was missing. Mud and blood caked his tall boots, and the cloak that hung from his wide shoulders was tattered. The crimson color of battle had faded from his eyes. Now blue, they fell upon his dear boy who struggled to hold onto life. 

Sparda, too, could scarcely breathe.

This is my fault. Please live, my son. If I am beyond forgiveness so be it. Just live!

“I found the hell gate,” he said, lowering himself to one knee beside his wife.  “The underworld shall not invade our home again.”

Eva did not respond to her husband nor did she spare him even a brief acknowledging glance.

A heavy quiet, disturbed only by the rain and Vergil’s rasps, erected itself like a steely wall between them.

Sparda touched her shoulder. “Eva, I’m so sorry–”

“Don’t speak to me!” she spat.

He took his hand from her. “I’ve slain them all–”

“Too late!” With quivering hands she cleaned blood from Vergil’s chest.  “My baby is bleeding to death and it’s your fault!”

“I know, and I loathe myself for it!” he growled back.

“That’s not good enough!” Eva continued to wipe blood from her firstborn. The bleeding had not completely stopped yet. “You should have been here!”

“Be grateful I returned when I did!” The rumble of his demon side spilled into his human voice.

Eva pressed a new cloth to Vergil’s chest and bent her head over him, losing a hard battle with her maternal heart. “If Vergil was not a child of your body he would be dead!” She finally met Sparda’s glossy, cerulean eyes with tears streaming from her own. “If not for what little demonic power that has woken in him, his heart would have already stopped!”

“Eva–”

“Mom?” Dante returned with the bowl of water.

“Bring it here, darling,” Eva instructed, her voice warbling as it fought to gain control of itself. After setting the stained cloth on the ash-dusted floor, she dipped another one in the clean water and dabbed around the edges of Vergil’s wounds. 

“Your first duty is to your family.” Eva’s resentment was acidic and unmistakable. “You were off glorifying yourself while your family came under attack.”

Sparda felt as if a massive claymore was lodged in his chest. “Eva, I didn’t know–”

“You should have known!” she shrieked.

Silence crashed down like scorched beams from an elegant ceiling, but then Dante spoke. Softly. Sadly.

“It’s my fault. I made Vergil mad, so he ran away…”

“No, sweetheart,” Eva assured him, putting a hand to his soot-stained cheek. “Your father should have been here–”

“Don’t you dare poison my children against me, Eva!” Sparda exclaimed, standing to his full height.

“You failed us, Sparda!” Eva shot to her feet and splayed her palms out before him. Palms smeared in Vergil’s dark red blood. “This is the blood of our son! The blood of my baby ! Vergil is dying because of you !” 

“I told you Mundus would find me one day,” Sparda reminded her evenly. “You accepted that risk.”

With one bloody hand, Eva cocked her arm to slap her husband across his face, but he caught her wrist in time. Lovingly he said, “I will not leave Red Grave City again, never venturing far from you and the boys.”

“You can’t!” Tears poured down Eva’s cheeks. “Promise me you won’t!”

“I promise you.” He squeezed her hand and held it to his chest. “Not until our sons have come into their own power.”

Eva bowed her head and sobbed, almost crumbling to the blackened floor, but Sparda kept her upright, yearning to be supportive somehow.

“Vergil moved!” Dante cried excitedly.

Eva pushed away from Sparda and knelt down again. “Vergil?”

Vergil wore a deep frown of pain and emitted a weak moan. “M…mother…”

“I’m here, sweetheart,” Eva wept. “I’m here.”

Sparda came around the back of the couch and knelt over his son. Reaching down, he took his hand. “You’re strong, my boy. You can still fight. You will live.” 

“Vergil’s gonna be okay?” Dante asked, his eyes blurry with worried tears.

“Yes, Dante,” Sparda promised. “You and your brother will always rise again no matter what befalls you. My power is in him. As it is in you.”

Finally, Eva took a deep breath. “I think he is out of death’s range.”

Sparda ran a hand over Vergil’s hair, over and over, soothing his son. “He is. His aura is no longer stumbling. It’s settling into its normal cadence again.”

“Mundus has found you at last,” Eva breathed fearfully. 

“I should have been better prepared,” Sparda declared. “He has delivered pain upon my family, but it will not be enough for him. The fullness of his revenge is incomplete. He will return, but when he does he will regret it.”

“I am not perfect,” Sparda confessed to Miranda, a weary sigh leaving him. “I am no god. I love my family. They are everything to me.” His fist was clenched atop his desk. “Despite the mingled blood in my sons’ veins, and my underworld origins, there is much human brokenness in this family.”

Miranda found that she could not speak as she sat in awe of the Savior, honored to glimpse beyond the curtains of a fabricated religion around the powerful demon who defied the emperor of the underworld himself. It was more wonderful than anything she had been taught in Fortuna.

“I failed my family.” His gaze nestled in the candlelight flickering in the corner of his desk. “Ever since that day ten years ago, Vergil has needlessly carried that burden of failure and has always had a hard time admitting any kind of weakness. It was my fault. Mine alone. I wasn’t there when my family so desperately needed me.” One tear slid to the edge of his strong jaw. “‘Tis a sin I shall never forget. I should’ve been there. It scarred my children for a time. Even now, Vergil’s scars remain tender.”

Crystalline understanding fell over Miranda. “So that’s where his strong sense of protection comes from. That day. Why didn’t he tell me?” Bowing her head, she closed her eyes, hurting for the one she loved so dearly. “Oh Vergil.”

“I do not reprimand him for his concern for you,” Sparda clarified. “Nay, his fear for you and your child.”
“I understand better now,” she said, “but I wish he’d just told me.”

“Vergil keeps things close to the chest.” Sparda tapped a hand to his own. “Of which I’m sure you are aware.”

“I know, but…” Miranda nibbled her lip. “It’s me. It’s our baby.”

“Hence his anger, his outburst.” Sparda spoke as if he had been guilty of such outbursts himself and understood them well. “Vergil is calm in a crisis by nature, so for him to react in such a way bespeaks his love for you.”

“I don’t doubt his love for me.”

“I know.” Softly he smiled, delightful candy floss that dissolved in the maw of disquietude. “He should not have shouted at you. That I reprimand him for, but you must understand, Miranda. I do have enemies, and you are vulnerable. Vergil is vulnerable because of you and your child.”

Miranda’s heart tripped and fell into a thorny hole. “I make Vergil weak?”

Sparda was swift to explain. “No. That’s not what I mean. I fear he may be capable of rash action because of his deep love for you. He will protect you at the expense of his own life, and now that you know of that day…”

The hole suddenly grew deeper and her heart fell farther. “You don’t think Vergil would…”

“Vergil fights for what is dear to him. That is who he is, and without strength one cannot protect anything.” He glanced at the painted portrait of his wife. “Do not be afraid, my dear. We have an abundance of joy on the way. Let it not be tainted. My enemies are my responsibility. I will handle them as such. But please. You’re very close to giving birth. You mustn’t wander now.” His voice dropped into a grave tone. “Do not leave the house alone. Do not go anywhere alone. Make sure you are with me, Vergil, or Dante. Do you understand?”

She gave him a small nod. “Yes, sir.”

“Come now,” he chuckled. “I think we’re past the formality. My sons call me ‘sir’ when they know I mean business. Now. Let us disperse these dark clouds, shall we?”