Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Katherine wakes to screaming.

Not the half-asleep kind of screaming either — the kind that claws through walls and rips her from her dreams like a knife through fabric.

She groans, rolling over to squint at the alarm clock on her nightstand.
2:57 a.m.

“Jesus Christ,” she mutters, dragging a hand down her face. “What now?”

The chill in the air hits her as she swings her legs out of bed. She throws on her robe and storms downstairs, tightening the sash around her waist. The floorboards creak beneath her hurried steps.

Two of her guests — the newlyweds from Room 3 — are already sprinting for the front door, faces pale and twisted with terror. The bride’s shrieks echo through the hallway like a siren.

“Hey!” Katherine calls after them. “What’s going on?”

The young woman whirls around, wild-eyed, hair sticking to her face. Katherine’s stomach drops when she notices the fresh splatters of red staining her nightgown.

“Your freakish pilgrim child is insane!” she screams. “We’ve had enough! We’re leaving!”

“Wait—what?!” Katherine stammers, chasing after them as they fumble with their keys. “We can work this out! Complimentary breakfast on us, maybe?”

But they don’t even look back. The car engine roars to life, tires screeching as they vanish into the night.

Katherine stands in the doorway, jaw tight, rage and confusion simmering in equal measure.

“What the hell was that about?!” she shouts, her voice echoing through the empty lobby.

Then she sees him.

Standing in the middle of the hallway like a ghost child out of a nightmare — bare feet, dirt-streaked clothes, and a face smeared with drying blood — is Abaddon. In one hand, he holds the limp, mangled remains of a squirrel. Blood drips steadily onto the new carpet.

“I fail to see the issue,” Abaddon says flatly, as if he’s the one inconvenienced. “I merely offered them a sacrifice. A gift, if you will. To bless their union.”

Katherine’s fists clench so tightly her nails bite into her palms. She can feel her pulse pounding in her temples.

The carpet. The blood. The guests. The bills.

“Abaddon,” she says slowly, through gritted teeth. “What have I told you about tormenting the guests?”

“I wasn’t tormenting them,” he protests. “I was—”

“I don’t want to hear it!” she snaps, cutting him off. “Do you have any idea how much you’re costing me?! This is the third set of guests you’ve run off this week! Now clean this up!”

Abaddon tilts his chin up defiantly. “You cannot command me, mortal. I am Abaddon, King of Cobras, Prince of Hell—”

“Clean. It. Up.”

“No!” he howls, stamping a foot like an angry child. “Only Nathan may give me orders! You hold no power, and I respect you not in the slightest!”

Katherine’s glare could burn through stone. It’s that look — the one she reserves for when Ester decides to dig up graves again, or when Ben refuses to bathe for three days.
Abaddon flinches. Just slightly.

“That’s it!” she barks, grabbing his arm in a vice-like grip. The demon screeches, hissing and kicking, but she doesn’t waver.

“First a bath,” she snaps, dragging him toward the stairs, “and then you’re in timeout!”

“Unhand me, you wench!” he roars, his heels scraping against the floor. For all his fury, he’s light — far too light. The kid hardly eats unless it’s Froot Loops or yogurt cups, so when it comes to strength, Katherine wins every time.

The bathroom door flies open with a violent kick. Katherine shoves him inside, slams the lock, and turns on the faucet. The pipes groan to life, water pouring into the tub.

Abaddon fights her every step, clawing and thrashing as she strips away his mud-caked clothes. Water splashes over the sides as she forces him in, bubbles and soap swirling red around them.

“Sit still!” she yells, struggling to hold him steady as he flails and curses in some ancient tongue. When that doesn’t work, she simply forces him under, ignoring his muffled wails. He can’t drown — she knows that much.

Her arms ache as she scrubs the grime and blood from his skin, his resistance fading to weak splashes. She forces him under until he’s completely clean, his protests coming to a stop.

Finally, she releases him. Abaddon shoots upright, gasping and coughing, water dripping down his small frame as he reaches for his throat. For a brief moment, Katherine catches something in his expression — a flicker of pain, of humiliation, maybe even sadness. His lip trembles. His eyes blink too fast, rimmed pink.

She looks away.

He’s not a child. He’s a demon.

And demons don’t get sympathy.

 

“Stay,” Katherine orders, closing the bathroom door behind her.

She moves quickly through Nathan’s old room, rummaging through drawers until she finds a faded T-shirt and a pair of shorts. When she returns, she’s surprised to find Abaddon hasn’t moved. He sits perfectly still in the tub, eyes fixed on the pink-tinged water, strands of soaked hair plastered across his face. He doesn’t bother to push them away.

Katherine sighs, grabs a towel, and drains the tub. “Here.”

Abaddon takes it without looking at her, wrapping it tightly around himself like a cocoon. He keeps his gaze down, silent and still.

“Put this on,” she says, tossing him the clean clothes. They’re plain, untouched by blood. He hesitates, then obediently pulls the shirt over his small frame, the fabric hanging loose on his shoulders.

“Now come with me.”

She grips his wrist and pulls him toward the stairs. He stumbles after her without protest at first, his bare feet slapping against the floorboards as they climb—one flight, then another.

“Where—where are we going?” he asks softly. His voice trembles. For a second, Katherine almost mistakes it for fear. But no—Abaddon doesn’t get scared. He’s manipulating her. Like always.

“The attic,” she says coldly. “You need to learn one way or another.”

That’s when he stops. His feet plant firmly against the step.

“No.” His voice cracks. “Not—not there. Not again.”

“You need to learn to behave,” Katherine says, tugging harder.

He resists, yanking back with sudden strength. “No! No, I won’t allow it! Unleash me! I’ll escape again! I will not have you condemn me to that horrid place!”

“No problem,” Katherine growls, tightening her grip. “I’ll make sure you can’t escape this time.”

She hauls him down the hallway, his heels scraping the floor with protest. With a final shove, she throws open the attic door. Darkness yawns before them, broken only by the sliver of light spilling from the hall. Dust hangs thick in the air.

“Katherine, please! I beg of you!” Abaddon’s voice breaks as she drags him inside. But she doesn’t listen. She won’t. Not again. She’s done falling for his theatrics.

She pushes past the cobwebs and grabs the iron chains waiting in the corner. “You brought this on yourself.”

“Don’t!” Abaddon’s voice rises to a scream. “I’ll chew through my hand again!”

“I don’t think so.” Katherine’s tone is flat, cold. “I asked the welder ghost to make a new one. He found where you hid the broken shackle.”

Abaddon snarls, twisting against her grip, but it’s useless. She locks the first cuff around his wrist, then the second—tight, unyielding, spaced far enough that he can’t reach either one.

“I’ll kill you and your entire bloodline, you witch!” he spits, tugging at the restraints. “Release me at once!”

Katherine doesn’t flinch. Instead, she reaches into her pocket and pulls something out. “And he also found this.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Found it in your stash, in that little hidden room of yours.”

She lets the object dangle from her fingers — a small, beaded crucifix.

Abaddon freezes. The color drains from his face. His feet scrape against the stone as he tries to push himself back, panic flooding his eyes.

“No—no, no, no! You cannot have that!” he wails, voice cracking into something raw and human. “Take it away from me!”

Katherine steps closer. “I’m sick of your little schemes,” she states firmly. “I’m sick of you ruining my hotel, of cleaning animal blood off the walls, of you teaching my daughter black magic—of you making my life a goddamn nightmare! I can’t, I just can't handle it anymore! I don’t know how Nathan put up with you?!”

Abaddon’s eyes glisten. “You don’t understand,” he pleads, his voice small and shaking. “Please—I’ll behave! I’m sorry! I’ll be—I’ll be good!”

Katherine’s hand trembles as she slips the crucifix over his head, pushing down the guilt she feels. “It’ll only be for a few hours,” she says quietly. “I really didn’t want it to be this way.”

The moment the beads touch his skin, Abaddon cries out to her — a sound that doesn’t belong to a child at all. Katherine forces herself to turn away, heart hammering as she steps out of the attic. She has to remind herself that that isn’t a child, but a spawn of hell in a child’s body.

The door slams shut behind her.

And once again, the house falls silent.

Chapter Text

The door slams.

The sound rips through him like a gunshot, then disappears into the still air, leaving only the echo of her footsteps — fading, fading, gone.

Abaddon stares at the space where she stood. He waits for the handle to turn, for her to come storming back in, shouting, regretting, apologizing — something. But the silence stretches. Thick. Suffocating.

The chains burn and pull at his wrists when he tries to move. The metal is blistering hot, biting into torn skin. His breath comes in small, sharp gasps.

He stares at the crucifix burning against his chest — that cursed little thing he thought he’d hidden well enough so no one could find it. Dead or alive.

How could she? How could Katherine do this to him?

The metal hisses faintly where it touches his skin, searing through the fabric. His breath comes ragged. He claws at it instinctively, but the chains pull him back, mocking him.

It was supposed to be gone. Hidden. Forgotten.

He remembers the first time he saw it — gleaming in the firelight, swinging from the neck of his vessel’s father. The man who branded him. The man who called him “monster” before carving holy symbols into his skin while making him watch the crucifix glint with every stroke.

Abaddon doesn’t even know why he kept it. The sight of it makes his stomach twist, makes the back of his throat burn. But the little boy inside him — the human part, the part he never managed to kill — wanted something to hold onto. Something of his father, even if it hurt.

And so he did.

He hid it where no one could reach it. Guarded it. Kept it like a secret, like a wound that wouldn’t close.

And now Katherine — she — has torn that last piece of him out and fastened it around his neck like a leash.

He can feel it now, the burn spreading under his skin, through every nerve, until it’s all he can feel. He screams until his voice breaks, the sound shredding through the attic. His body trembles, small and pitiful, a child’s body.

“Take it off!” he sobs, the words shaking. “Please—just take it off!”

But no one comes.

Only the crucifix answers him, glowing faintly in the dark—a relic of a father who hated him, and a woman who’s forgotten him.

He presses his chin to his chest, trying to escape the contact, but it follows — the holy hum of it sinking beneath his skin, through muscle and bone, into places he doesn’t want to name.

Abaddon clenches his teeth, forcing a laugh that breaks midway through.

“Pathetic,” he mutters to himself, voice raw. “You’re the prince of Hell. The devourer of kings. You’ve torn mortals apart with your bare hands. You’ve—”

His throat closes. He can’t breathe for a second. The memory of who he was feels foreign now — like someone else’s story. Someone stronger. He’s nothing now. An excuse of a prince of Hell. Something disgustingly mixed between a human and a demon. Even his own kind has given up on him, even torn down his beloved castle. They’re not coming. They’re never coming for him.

He swallows hard, feeling a lump in his throat, tears prick his eyes. No. Demons don’t cry. He can’t—he can’t cry.

Abaddon feels himself growing more faint as time goes on. The moonlight makes its way across the floor, slow and cruel, marking the hours. His stomach aches, his throat is dry, and his skin feels too warm. He curls into himself, clutching at his knees, trying to stop the trembling. The chains rattle softly with every breath.
He wants Nathan. Did he not hear him screaming earlier? Where is he? Why hasn’t he come for him? Does he secretly hate him too? Is that why he killed himself…to get away from him as well.

Katherine’s words ring in his head.

I don’t know how Nathan put up with you?!

Abaddon wants to sob, his eyes growing heavy. Because he knows she’s right.

Another couple hours pass. Sleep teases him, even though he refuses. It comes with whispers — cruel, familiar ones that sound like the others. The ones who hurt him before. The ones who locked him away the first time. The crucifix makes him drowsy, sucking all his energy away. Normally he’s cold to the touch but right now he’s clammy, his face hot, sweaty hair sticking to his forehead. He wants to lay down. For once he actually wants to sleep, and that worries him.

“Please,” he cries, not even sure who he’s begging. “Please just take it off…”

His wrists are bleeding now. He pulls until the cuffs grind against bone, until the world tilts and blurs. His eyes sting — not from rage this time, but from tears that fall before he can stop them. He tries to wipe them away, but his hands can’t reach his face.

He hates that most of all. The humiliation of it. The helplessness. The way his body shakes without his permission. Oh how this vessel betrays him.
Not able to take it anymore the sobs start. Quiet at first, then louder, uncontrollable. They echo in the attic, bouncing off the wood until it sounds like there are a dozen versions of him crying at once — all small, all broken, all trapped.

He loses count of how many times he screams Nathan’s name in the process.

When his voice finally gives out, the silence that follows feels worse than the noise ever did.

He pants, feeling so unnaturally hot as the crucifix glows faintly against his chest — a mockery of comfort. He tries to focus on anything else: the sound of the wind, the hum of the pipes, the distant tick of the old grandfather clock downstairs. But they all blur together into something that feels like madness.

Abaddon curls in on himself tighter. His breath hitches as dried tears sting his face, leaving his eyes aching.

She’s not coming back, he thinks, his voice shaking.

She’s going to leave me here to rot forever like the others.

The thought sits heavy in his gut, sinking deeper until it’s not a thought at all — just truth.

No one is coming. Ester doesn’t roam up here. The lack of dead things bore her. Nathan doesn’t even know this room exists and Ben? Ben would probably be happier with him gone. Abaddon knows he doesn’t take to him as well as Ester does…he probably only puts up with him to please her.

The shadows press closer. The attic feels smaller. The crucifix keeps burning, and the chains stay cold, and his body keeps trembling with heat until the shaking becomes part of him. It’s gotten to a point where he barely has the energy to lift his head.

By the time the first light of morning seeps through the cracks, abaddon isn’t sure if he’s still breathing. He feels sick. He’s never felt this way before. Sweat sticks to him like ticks to a stray dog.

All of a sudden he heaves, vomiting up blood all over Nathan’s old shirt. Tears meet his eyes all over again.

He stares at the ceiling, eyes glazed and glassy. He attempts to scream, but no sound comes out.
The only thing that can be heard is the faint clink of chains and a faint whimper— the sound of a child trying, still, to move.

 

And failing.

 

—

 

Katherine rolls over in bed, her sheets tangled around her legs. She keeps seeing the look on Abaddon’s face — that flash of something too raw, too human — when she held out the crucifix. She knew he hated those things. The ghost she consulted made sure she understood that much. But still... was it too cruel?

Tsk. He’s fine. It’s not like he’s her child.

So why does she feel that twisting ache in her chest — that gnawing, uneasy guilt, as if she’s just done something terribly wrong?

She flips over again, forcing her eyes shut. He’s fine. He’s not a normal kid. He’s Nathan’s problem, technically — Nathan’s child, in a weird, infernal sense.

Her mind snags on the thought. If he’s Nathan’s kid, that technically makes him her nephew.

And she just locked him in the attic.

Just for a few hours. She repeats it like a prayer. He’s fine.

Eventually, exhaustion wins, and guilt dulls enough for her to sleep.

 

Morning sunlight spills through her curtains. She wakes with a start, blinking blearily at the alarm clock.

10:12 A.M.

“Shit.” She shoots upright. “I overslept!”

But then she remembers — Saturday. No school. No children bursting through her door demanding breakfast. Peace, finally.

Katherine stretches, tossing on a fitted shirt and jeans, her mind already on coffee. Coffee first, regret later.

Yawning, she shuffles toward the kitchen, rubbing her eyes. She’s halfway through pouring herself a mug of bitter black coffee when Nathan phases through the parlor wall, his usual grin plastered on his translucent face.

“Morning, Kathy!”

“Hi,” she mutters, stifling another yawn. “Any guests this morning?”

“Nope! Quiet as a grave.”

“That’s not something to brag about, Nathan.”

Before he can reply, a shriek splits through the calm.

“MOM!”

Katherine turns just in time to see Ester barreling into the kitchen, clutching a handful of broken twigs and bones.

“Ben stepped on my talisman! It took hours to get everything right!”

“It was an accident!” Ben protests, stomping in after her. “Maybe don’t build your creepy junk on the floor!”

“Maybe don’t walk where people are building!”

Katherine exhales through her nose. “Breakfast? ”

 

The magic word.

They bicker while she starts mixing pancake batter. “Banana or blueberry today?”

“Blueberry!” Nathan calls from the counter.

“You can’t even eat,” Ester mutters. “Banana!”

“Banana it is,” Katherine declares.

For a while, it’s almost peaceful — the smell of frying batter, the hum of the old ceiling fan, her brother’s chatter blending with the kids’ voices.

The day drifts by easily. Katherine cleans rooms, answers emails, and swats at lingering ghosts. Nathan runs the front desk with cheerful incompetence. Ester scavenges for new “spell materials” while Ben hangs out with that ghost girl Katherine refuses to acknowledge exists.

It’s not until lunch that it all collapses.

Nathan leans on the counter, watching her slice bread. “Hey, uh… where’s Abaddon? Haven’t seen the little guy all day.”

Ester freezes mid-stir with her jar of saltwater. “Oh yeah. I was gonna ask him to help with a binding spell, but then I found a curse book buried in the garden—”

The knife slips from Katherine’s hand, clattering to the counter. Her stomach turns to stone.

She forgot.

“Oh my god,” she breathes. Then louder: “Shit!”

She bolts from the kitchen, nearly tripping over Nathan’s ghost cat as she races for the stairs. Nathan calls after her, but she doesn’t hear. Her pulse hammers in her ears as she takes the steps two, three at a time — up one flight, then another, then another — her lungs burning, her thoughts a blur of please let him be okay, please let him be okay.

The air grows colder the higher she climbs. By the time she reaches the attic landing, it feels heavy, stale. The door looms ahead, silent, shut tight.

Her hand trembles as she grips the knob.

She pushes it open.

 

—

 

The light from the hallway barely cuts through the darkness. The room smells of blood and ash, of something burnt through the air itself. Her stomach twists when she spots the faint outline of the small figure still shackled to the far wall.

“Abaddon,” she whispers, stepping closer.

He doesn’t move.

Her breath catches in her throat. The crucifix she placed around his neck has burned its mark deep into his skin — an ugly, blackened ring. His hands are limp in the chains. There’s dried blood along his wrists, like he’s tried again and again to pull free.

“Oh—oh God.” Her voice cracks. “Abaddon?”

The demon refuses to look at her. She notices the dried blood on his shirt and the ground. He looks sick. His face is oddly pale even for him, sweats gleams on his forehead and his breathing is shallow. He lets out a whimper.

She can’t breathe.

For the first time, Katherine doesn’t see a demon. She sees a child — one she’s forgotten, one she’s hurt beyond reason.

She falls to her knees beside him, fumbling for the lock. “I’m sorry—I’m so sorry—”

But when the chains finally fall away, he doesn’t move. The only thing he does is grab the crucifix off his neck, ignoring how it burns his hand in the process, throwing it to the floor between them, its metal still faintly warm to the touch.

“Abaddon,” she whispers again, her voice breaking around his name. “Please—say something.”

He blinks slowly, the motion sluggish, detached. His hair hangs in tangled strings across his face, skin pale beneath the blood and burns. When his gaze finally lifts to meet hers, it’s empty. No fury. No sparks of rebellion as usual. Just exhaustion.

The demon child stumbles to a standing position, pushing past her with a weak shove. She notices dried tear stains on his face as he sprints from the room.

“Abaddon, wait!” Katherine calls out, running after him but he’s too quick for her. She watches him run down the hallway and scamper into the nearest vent in only a few seconds, blocking her out.
“Abaddon, stop!” She cries out, lifting the vent’s lid, but she knows he’s probably already in another part of the hotel somewhere.

She feels her brother's presence behind her.

“What did you do to him?!” Nathan shouts. She’s never seen him this angry before.

“Nothing—I—I was just teaching him a lesson that’s all! I didn’t mean to leave him up there that long!”

“Up where?!” Nathan growls.

“The attic,” Katherine breathes, ashamed.

“You chained him up there again?!”

She turns around, hearing her daughter's voice. Ester looks betrayed, mad even as tears glint in her eyes.

“Don’t you know how badly those chains hurt him?!” She cries out. “That iron burns demons, mom! Why do you think he chewed his hand off to begin with the first time?!”

“I—I didn’t know.” Kathrine sputters out, laying her head in her hands. “Oh god I didn’t know. I just, I just wanted him to stop scaring the guests.”

“Kathy…” Nathan’s voice sounds almost distraught. “You gotta make this right with him.”

“But he’s a demon!” Katherine retorts, causing Nathan to flinch. “He’s not a kid, Nathan! And you keep acting like he is one! I mean, come on!”
“He’s also a little boy, Kathy.” Nathan replies softly, almost hurt by her comment. “Their souls were fused together in some weird way he doesn’t like to admit. He’s not...he’s not as tough as he makes himself out to be…”

And with that her brother leaves, probably going to try and find him.

Katherine meets eyes with Ester who backs away from her, shaking her head as she follows her uncle’s spirit downstairs.

Fuck, what has she done

Chapter Text

Abaddon stays in the vents for days.

No one can lure him out.

Ester tries first. Every morning she sets a plate by the kitchen vent — toast, fruit, little pieces of meat — and every night it’s still there, cold and untouched. By the third day, she starts leaving things she knows he likes: dead squirrels, small birds she finds in the garden, each offering carefully placed on a napkin. Still, nothing.

Nathan takes it harder. Katherine can tell he blames her, though he never says it outright. She catches him sitting beside the vents after midnight, his translucent hand pressed against the grate as he whispers to the boy hidden somewhere in the walls. His voice is always low, soft — the same tone he used with stray animals when they were kids.

But the vents stay silent.

No footsteps. No movement. No sound at all.

It’s like Abaddon has stopped existing, curled up somewhere deep in the hotel’s ribs and decided to vanish.

Katherine doesn’t realize how quiet the place has become until nearly two weeks pass — no shouting, no threats, no unholy laughter echoing through the halls. Just stillness.

 

—

 

On the fifteenth day, Katherine sits in her office surrounded by half-finished paperwork and unanswered emails. The ticking of the old wall clock feels louder than usual.

Nathan drifts through the wall, arms crossed, his face drawn and pale.

“What?” Katherine mutters, not looking up from her screen.

“Stop.” His tone is sharp, uncharacteristically firm. “Look at me.”

Something in his voice makes her pause. She closes her laptop slowly and meets his eyes.

“I don’t know what to do, Katherine.” His words come out hoarse. “It’s been over two weeks. He hasn’t taken a step outside those vents.”

“He’s fine.” Katherine sighs, rubbing her temples. “He just… likes it there. It’s dark. Quiet.”

Nathan’s expression hardens. “No, Katherine. He’s not fine.”

She opens her mouth to argue, but he cuts her off — his voice rising with anger she’s never heard from him before.

“He’s not eating!”

Katherine freezes.

“I know he’s immortal,” Nathan continues, his voice trembling now, “but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel hunger. He’s starving himself, Kathy. He’s doing it on purpose — because he’s scared, or hurt, or... I don’t know! But it’s because of what you did.”

Katherine fidgets with the bracelet on her wrist, the metal suddenly too tight.

Nathan’s voice softens, barely above a whisper. “You’ve seen him. You know how thin he already was.”

She does. Even before he disappeared, his clothes had started to hang off his small frame. She remembers how easily she could lift him, how light he’d felt — like he was made of ash instead of bone.

“How am I supposed to fix this if he won’t even talk to us?” she mutters.

Nathan looks down, the faint glow in his form dimming. “I don’t know.” He admits softly, “but I’m worried about him. Really worried.”

Katherine swallows hard, the taste of coffee gone bitter on her tongue. The silence between them feels heavier than the walls themselves.

“I need you to find him for me, Kathy. Please.” Nathan pleads, his voice barely above a whisper.

Katherine lets out a deep breath.

“Okay.”

 

—

 

That night, Katherine couldn't sleep. Her brothers words wouldn’t stop echoing in her head.

Every sound in the house seems louder — the pipes groaning, the wind whispering against the windows, the faint ticking of the clock on her nightstand. She keeps waiting to hear something from the vents — a shuffle, a hiss, anything. But there’s nothing.

Just silence.

She sits up in bed, clutching her blanket. The guilt that’s been sitting in her chest for two weeks is unbearable now, pulsing like a heartbeat.

“Enough,” she mutters to herself, throwing the blanket aside.

The house feels colder as she walks barefoot through the halls, flashlight in hand. The air smells stale, like dust and copper. When she reaches the kitchen, she stops in front of the vent where Ester always leaves food. Today’s bowl — fruit loops and a few pieces of jerky — sits untouched.

Katherine crouches down, her throat tight. “Abaddon?” she calls softly. “Sweetheart, are you in there?”

Nothing.

Her fingers tremble as she unscrews the vent cover. A gust of air rushes out — cold, dry, and thick with the smell of metal and something faintly sour.

“Please don’t make me come in there,” she whispers, already knowing she will.

 

The metal bites into her hands and knees as she crawls through the duct. The deeper she goes, the heavier the air feels — thick with dust, suffocating. Her flashlight trembles in her grip.

Then she sees it: faint red stains smeared along the metal. Drops of blood.

Katherine’s stomach drops.

“Abaddon?” she calls again, her voice echoing down the passage. “Talk to me, please.”

A sound answers her this time — a dry, retching cough followed by a weak, choked noise that makes her heart lurch.

She crawls faster.

Her flashlight beam catches on him a few feet ahead.

He’s slumped against the vent wall. His skin looks almost translucent under the harsh white light — pale and slick with sweat. His lips are cracked, and there’s dried blood at the corner of his mouth.

A small puddle of dark red glistens beside him.

“Oh, God…” Katherine whispers, crawling closer.

He flinches when her light hits him, pressing his arm over his face as if it burns. “Go away…” His voice is hoarse, shredded.

“Abaddon, you’re sick.” She reaches toward him, but he jerks away weakly.

“I said Go away.”

He coughs again, and fresh blood splatters his hand. Katherine’s chest tightens. She’s seen fever in ghosts before — a fake mimicry of sickness — but this is different. His body is hot to the touch, trembling violently, his breathing shallow and ragged.

“You haven’t eaten in two weeks,” she says, voice cracking. “You need help.”

“I’m fine!” he rasps weakly.

Katherine feels her throat close. “You need to come out. Please. You’ll die like this.”

He lets out a broken laugh, the sound brittle and weak. “I can't die, you know that.”

She swallows hard, tears burning behind her eyes. Carefully, she inches closer and lays a hand on his shoulder. He’s burning. His skin radiates heat like an open flame.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I thought…” Her voice falters. “I thought you’d be fine.”

His eyes open halfway, dull and glassy. “You left me,” he murmurs.

“I know,” she breathes. “And I was wrong.”

He sways slightly, his head drooping. “You shouldn’t be here,” he mumbles. “The vents are my domain.”

“Abaddon, we need to get you out.”

He doesn’t answer. His hand twitches weakly against his chest. His breathing hitches, and then another wave of blood spills from his mouth, splattering across his arm.

“Abaddon!”

Katherine grabs him before he slumps forward, pulling his frail body into her arms. He’s so light — too light — his bones sharp beneath his feverish skin.

“It’s okay,” she whispers frantically, brushing sweat-covered hair from his face. “I’ve got you now. I’ve got you.”

The fever burns through him like something alive, something not human. And as she holds him, she feels it too — that same searing heat creeping through her hands, curling beneath her skin.

Still, she doesn’t let go.

Abaddon thrashes weakly in her arms, his small fists pushing at her chest with what little strength he has left.

“Let me go,” he gasps, his voice cracked and raw. “Don’t touch me!”

“Stop— you’re hurting yourself,” Katherine pleads, adjusting her grip as he writhes against her. He’s all bones under her hands, burning hot but trembling like he’s freezing.

“I said, let go!” His elbow hits her shoulder, more a feeble shove than a strike, but the desperation in it cuts deep. “I don’t need you! I don’t need anyone!”

Katherine’s throat tightens. “You’re sick,” she says, voice breaking as she tries to steady him. “You haven’t eaten in fifteen days, abaddon— you’re burning up, you’re—”

He coughs hard, and the sound claws through the narrow vent. Blood splatters his chin. He sags against her then, the fight draining out of him all at once.

“Please,” he mumbles, his words slurring together. “Leave me.”

Her heart shatters. “I can’t,” she whispers. “I promised Nathan.”

His breathing comes in shallow bursts, his chest hitching with each one. When she brushes a hand through his tangled hair, he flinches again but doesn’t pull away. He seems too disoriented to care.

Katherine looks around the vent, her flashlight flickering across the metal walls. There’s no room to move properly, no way to help him here. She has to get him out.

“I’m taking you downstairs,” she says quietly, trying to keep her voice calm even as panic swells inside her. “We’ll get you cleaned up, okay? You’ll be safe.”

He doesn’t answer.

Katherine shifts her position, sliding one arm under his knees and the other around his back. The heat radiating off him makes her stomach twist. He’s so light it’s like lifting air— except for the dead weight of exhaustion that hangs off him.

As she begins to crawl backward, his hand stirs, gripping a fistful of her shirt. “Don’t…” he murmurs faintly.

“Don’t what?” she whispers, pausing.

“Just leave me.” He pants, weakly trying to fight her once again. “I don’t know how many times I have to repeat myself. I don’t want to go out! And I don’t need help from the likes of you. I can take care of myself!”

Her eyes sting. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, pulling him closer to her chest as she maneuvers through the tight duct. “I’m sorry, Abaddon. But I have to get you out. You’re not well.”

She chokes on her own words. The smell of blood lingers in the air, sharp and metallic.

By the time she reaches the kitchen and pulls him out of the vent, his head has slumped against her shoulder, breath shallow and uneven. His skin is burning, damp with sweat. Katherine brushes his hair back and sees his lips pale, his eyes half-lidded but unfocused.

“Stay with me,” she begs softly, lowering him onto the floor. “Please, baby, stay with me.”

He stares at her through half-closed eyes, unfocused and glassy. “Why do you care now of all times?” he whispers.

Katherine freezes, the question hitting her harder than anything else.

“I…don’t know,” she says truthfully, voice breaking. “But I do.”

He doesn’t respond. His eyelids flutter, and his breathing hitches again.

Katherine scoops him back up, cradling his frail, fever-hot body in her arms as she runs down the hall toward the living room couch. “Nathan!” she shouts. “Nathan, get in here!”

The moment he materializes beside her and sees Abaddon, the color drains from his face.

“Oh my God,” he breathes. “Kathy, what did you do—”

“I’m fixing it,” she says through tears. “I’m fixing it.

Katherine lays Abaddon down on the couch, brushing aside the blanket as Nathan hovers close, his translucent form flickering faintly in the morning light.

“Get me a damp cloth,” she orders automatically, panic thick in her voice—then stops halfway through the sentence, remembering.

Nathan’s expression twists. “I can’t,” he says quietly. “You know I can’t.”

“Right,” she mutters, forcing herself up, heart hammering as she darts to the kitchen. She wets a rag under the tap, grabs the thermometer, and rushes back to the boy on the couch.

Abaddon’s still shivering, curled in on himself. His breaths come quick and shallow, his lips tinged faintly red. Katherine kneels beside him, tucking the thermometer between his lips, her fingers trembling.

Nathan watches from a few feet away, his voice low and strained. “Kathy…”

“Don’t,” she says sharply. “Not right now.”

The thermometer beeps, and she glances at the number. Her breath catches.

“Hundred and four,” she whispers. “God.”

Nathan swears under his breath, pacing through the wall and back, his ghostly form flickering with agitation. “He’s been like that for days—burning up and we didn’t even know!”

“Stop,” Katherine snaps, dabbing the cloth across Abaddon’s forehead. His skin is boiling under her touch. “Please, just stop.”

He stirs at the contact, his eyes fluttering open. “Don’t,” he mutters weakly, trying to pull away. His voice is hoarse, almost childlike. “Don’t touch me.”

“Shh, I know,” she says softly, brushing his sweat-soaked hair aside. “It’s just water. You’ve got a fever, I’m trying to help.”

He blinks up at her—those fever-glazed eyes filled with something between hatred and fear. “You’re lying,” he croaks, voice breaking.

Nathan hovers closer, his translucent outline flickering. “Hey, kid, come on,” he says gently, though he knows the boy can’t feel his presence. “She’s trying.”

Abaddon’s breathing grows ragged. “Go away,” he whispers. “Both of you.”

She sees her brother recoil at this last comment.

Katherine bites her lip until it almost bleeds. She dips the cloth again, wringing it out with shaking hands. “You’re dehydrated. You need to drink.” She reaches for the glass she’d brought, pressing it gently to his lips.

He turns his head away. “No.”

Her voice cracks. “Please, Abaddon. Just one sip.”

Nathan watches helplessly, his hands flexing through the air as though he could grab the cup for her, as though he could do anything at all. “Kathy, he’s fading. Just—do something!”

“I’m trying!” she cries, louder than she means to. Abaddon flinches, eyes wide for a moment before he starts coughing, deep and violent. A spatter of dark red hits his hand.

Katherine’s chest tightens with panic. “Oh god—” She props him up, holding him steady as best she can. “It’s okay, breathe, just breathe.”

When the coughing stops, abaddon slumps forward, limp against her shoulder. His body feels weightless—too light, too small. She feels his small hand grab her shirt for balance.

“I never meant to be a burden to you,” he mumbles, barely conscious. Katherine’s eyes widen, never having heard him apologize on his own free will. “Please just don’t…don’t take me up there again.”

Katherine’s breath hitches. She presses her palm to his back, trembling. “I'm so sorry,” she whispers. “I won’t. I promise.”

Abaddon doesn’t answer. His head lolls weakly to the side, his skin clammy and pale as he clenches her shirt.

Katherine lowers him back down, brushing the damp strands of hair from his face as she tries to steady her shaking hands. “You’re going to be okay,” she murmurs. “You have to be okay.”

Nathan watches her quietly from the corner of the room, eyes full of something close to grief. “You’d better mean that this time,” he says, voice faint as a sigh.

Chapter Text

The world tilts, then folds in on itself.

Abaddon barely registers the floor rushing up to meet him before everything goes black.

When he comes to, the first thing he feels is warmth — a steady, human warmth that shouldn’t exist against his skin. His head lolls to the side, resting against something soft. It takes him a moment to understand it’s Katherine.

She’s carrying him.

Her arms are tight beneath him, steady even as she moves quickly up the stairs. He hears her breathing — sharp, worried — and the faint sound of her heart thudding against his ear.

His body feels heavy, useless. Every motion sends a ripple of pain through him, but her warmth dulls the edges.

He doesn’t know why, but he leans closer, pressing his face weakly into her shoulder. He can feel the fabric of her shirt dampen against his fevered skin. She smells like lavender soap and wood polish. Something… safe.

“Hang on,” she murmurs, her voice strained but soft. “Almost there, Abaddon. You’re okay.”

Okay. The word feels strange. No one’s ever said it to him like that.

His mind drifts in and out, the fever making everything blur. For a moment, he isn’t in her arms at all — he’s smaller, lighter, being carried through a kitchen filled with the smell of stew and firewood. A woman hums above him, her voice warm and low.

“Shh,” she says, brushing hair from his face. “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

Mother?

The word almost slips from his lips, but he catches it — or maybe he doesn’t. He isn’t sure what’s real anymore. Katherine’s arms tighten around him, and he feels the same rhythm of breath, the same gentle sway that once rocked him to sleep when he was human.

But that was centuries ago. Or was it the vessel’s memory? He can’t tell. It’s all tangled together — the vessel’s grief and his own. It’s so frustrating!

They reach the room — Nathan’s old room, he realizes vaguely — and Katherine lays him down on the bed, careful, as though he’s made of glass. The blanket is cool against his burning skin. He shivers anyway.

Katherine brushes damp hair from his forehead, and for a second, the motion feels so familiar it hurts. He can almost hear the lullaby his mother used to hum — something about angels and sunlight. He wants to tell her to stop, that it isn’t fair, but the words won’t come.

“Abaddon,” Katherine whispers. She sounds shaken. “Why didn’t you say you were sick? Why didn’t you come get us?”

He wants to scoff, to remind her that demons don’t get sick — but the cough that tears through his chest betrays him. He doubles over, the taste of iron coating his tongue, and she quickly grabs the waste bin, holding it steady as he retches up blood and bile.

When it’s over, she wipes his mouth gently with a rag. He flinches but doesn’t pull away.

“Hey,” she says, her voice quieter now, trembling at the edges. “You’re alright. Just breathe.”

He wants to hate her for saying that. He wants to hate how soft she sounds. But when she presses the cool cloth to his forehead and hums under her breath — not a tune he knows, but one that sounds achingly familiar — he lets his eyes close.

In his fevered mind, she blurs again — between Katherine, and the mother who used to sing him to sleep. Between the woman who locked him away, and the one who once kissed his scraped knees and told him he was loved.

And as he drifts into sleep, his voice cracks around a whisper he doesn’t mean to say.

“...thank you, mom.”

Katherine freezes, her breath catching.

But he’s already gone again — lost somewhere between memory and dream — clinging to the warmth of a woman who reminds him of someone he’s been trying to forget for centuries.

 

—

 

Katherine ended up carrying Abaddon upstairs to Nathan’s old room. He’d passed out against her shoulder, and she decided he needed somewhere soft to lie down—somewhere safe. As she tries to cool him down with a damp cloth, he mumbles something under his breath. At first, she thinks she misheard. But then it comes again, weak and trembling.

“Mom.”

Katherine freezes. Her breath catches in her throat.

For a moment, she can’t move. His fingers are curled weakly in her sleeve, and his head leans against her arm like she’s someone else—someone from another life.

Her throat tightens, eyes stinging. He’s not her son. He’s not even human. But when he clings to her like this—small, trembling, lost—she can’t help but think he must have been loved once. Maybe that’s who he remembers now.

Then, without warning, his breathing turns ragged. His chest heaves, his face twists in pain. He grasps at his ribs as if he can’t get any air, wheezing and gasping like his lungs are collapsing.

“Abaddon!” she cries, panic flooding her voice. He doesn’t respond. He curls in on himself, trembling so hard the bed creaks beneath him.

She spins around, heart pounding. “Nathan!”

Her brother’s ghost flickers into view, his expression grim.

“Fuck,” he mutters, crouching beside the small boy. His translucent hand brushes the hair from Abaddon’s face, though it passes through him more than touches.

“Nathan, does medicine even work on him? Advil? Tylenol? Anything?!” Katherine demands.

Nathan shakes his head, thinking. “I—I don’t know. I’ve never tried. He’s never been sick before. Not like this.”

Katherine doesn’t hesitate. “Then we’re trying anyway.”

She bolts from the room, feet flying down the stairs, digging through the bathroom cabinet with shaking hands. Bottles clatter onto the counter—pills, chewables, anything that might help.

As she hurries back upstairs, she nearly collides with Esther.

“Mom, what’s going on?!”

“Uh—nothing, sweetie,” Katherine says too fast. “Go back to bed, okay?”

Esther’s gaze falls to the medicine in her hands, then Abaddon’s dark blood stains on her blouse. Katherine watches the gears click in her head.

“Where is he?” she demands. “I want to see him!”

“Honey, he’s not good right now,” Katherine said quickly, trying to step around her. “You can see him later, I promise.”

Esther grabs her sleeve. “Is he… is he okay?”

“Yeah, he’s alright!” Katherine lies, forcing a smile. “I’ll get you when he’s awake, okay? Now go to bed.”

She doesn’t wait for an answer. She pushes past her daughter, striding into Nathan’s room before locking the door behind her in case Esther tries to disobey her, which is likely.

“Okay,” she mutters, setting the medicine on the nightstand. “This first.” She shakes a few orange chewables into her palm. “These should help with the fever.”

Nathan kneels uselessly beside the bed, his ghostly hand hovering near Abaddon’s arm.

“Nathan,” she says softly, “ Esther saw me. Can you keep an eye on her? She’s worried and knowing her she is going to wait outside the door for answers, and I don’t have the energy to explain all this right now.”

He hesitates, glancing at the boy one last time. “Yeah. Call me if you need me.”

When he fades through the wall, Katherine sits beside Abaddon. “Hey,” she whispers, brushing his shoulder gently. “Open your eyes for me.”

He stirs with a low groan, blinking through heavy eyelids. “Wh—what?”

“Medicine,” she says, forcing calm into her voice. “It’ll help your fever. You just have to chew it, okay?”

The moment he sees the bottle in her hand, his whole body goes rigid. His eyes go wide, bloodshot and terrified.

“No,” he rasps. “No—get that away from me!”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Katherine soothes, setting it aside. “It’s just to make you feel better—”

“Don’t touch me!” His voice breaks, sharp and raw. He pushes himself back until he hits the headboard, shaking violently. “That’s what he said before—he said it would help—”

Katherine stares, heart racing. “Abaddon—what are you talking about?” He’s clearly delirious.

Abaddon’s trembling so hard she can hear the bedsprings rattle. Tears mix with sweat on his fevered cheeks. “That’s how he…” His voice cracks, faltering.

Then it hits her. Nathan.

Her stomach turns cold. “Abaddon… were you there?” she asks softly. “When it happened?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He stares through her, eyes glassy and hollow.

“I found him,” he says hoarsely, digging his nails into his arm. “He said it would help. He promised. But he stopped breathing. He wouldn’t wake up—he wouldn’t—”

He starts to sob, small and sharp, until the sound broke her in half. Blood wells beneath his nails as he claws at his own skin.

“Oh, God…” Katherine breathes. She reaches for him. “Abaddon, I didn’t know. I swear to you, I didn’t.”

But he doesn’t seem to hear her. He curls in on himself, coughing until his body shakes apart. “I’m not taking it,” he gasps. “I’m not.”

She doesn’t think. She just moves. She pulls him into her arms, holding his small, fever-hot body against her chest.

He thrashes at first, weakly trying to push her away—but then he gives in. His breathing hitches, and his head drops against her shoulder. His skin burns like fire, but she holds him tighter anyway.

“I’m so sorry you had to deal with that alone,” she whispers into his hair.

He clings to her shirt, his fingers trembling. “I’m fine,” he mutters, though his voice is barely more than a whimper.

She could hear the lie.

“Abaddon,” she says softly, easing back so he could see her. His head rests against her side, eyes glazed and heavy. “I know you’re scared. But I need you to take these, okay? They’ll help you get better.”

He shifts uneasily, staring at the pills with hollow dread.

“I promise,” she said gently. “They won’t hurt you.”

His hands shake as he digs his nails into his arm again—old scars crossing over fresh ones.

Katherine catches his hand gently, stopping him. “Please,” she says. “Can you trust me?”

He looks up at her, eyes glassy and distant. For a long moment, he doesn’t move. Then, in a whisper barely audible, he says, “I will allow it.”

Relief floods through her chest. She presses three chewables into his open palm.

He stares at them for a long moment—then throws them into his mouth and swallows without chewing.

Katherine exhales shakily, her hand resting on his back as he leans against her again, exhausted and trembling.

“Good job, Abaddon.” she sighs. “You can rest now.”