Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Everything alright, dear?” Cindy asks.

“I’m waiting on, Dante,” Patty mumbles, clinking the spoon inside her empty glass. The glass is cloudy, frothy from the aftermath of a strawberry sundae.

The glass leaves her view, Cindy having stacked it onto her metallic tray. The loss of the glass reveals the emptiness in front of her, the red leather of the booth having lost Dante’s silhouette.

“Dante,” Cindy smiles, “he sure is something.”

Cindy warmly smiles at Patty, an invitation to bother her if Patty needs anything before rolling away with the click clacks of her skates.

Patty leans further onto the now warm wood of the table, she smoothes against it, resting her head over crossed arms. The ruffles of her dress cascade around her like a frog on a lily pad, beneath the flowing thick silks a piece of paper hides. The paper is signed in twirling pink letters, the contents written on it, sensitive.

Patty stares at the circular condensation on the table, water drops prominent. Dante’s strawberry sundae had been there before he’d shoveled the sweet treat into his mouth, afterwards he’d hastily swung his guitar case behind his back and sprinted out the shop, chasing a man he’d been eyeing since they got there. He’d messed up her intricately styled hair before leaving, tangling it within his leather covered fingers. He may have pulled a few strands out, wincing before lamely apologizing to a Patty that was gearing up to smack him right side up.

Patty smoothes a hand over her head, the stray fine strands tickling her fingers.

Patty had arrived at Dante’s shop in the afternoon, her eyes twinkled and her small heart thundered in her chest. In her hands she had clutched the same paper she had hidden under her ruffles. She’d been unsure of herself since the beginning of its creation, the paper was born to be a hit or miss. The paper had been brought to life under the dim moonlight, hidden from the eyes of the other orphans sharing her quarters. Her colored pencils sprawled around her, she wrote what she could deem legible in the dark room. She jumped at the creaking of the beds around her, immediately shielding her note beneath her hands. When the paper was done, its corners were heavily decorated with colors, framing her fine delicate writing that would cause the other orphans to seize in confusion.

The night she wrote the paper, it had been June 14th. The day before Father’s Day, a day that to everyone in that room should have been obsolete. Accounted for as any other day.

Patty had felt like that in her toddlerhood, only recently had the word father started to mean something tangible. Her thoughts about a father, let alone a mother, had been abstract, its basis formed on what she needed in moments where she couldn't help herself. On both ends she expected protection, to shield her from any pain and warmth to chase away the chilling nightmares that woke her in the middle of the night.

She had barely stepped up the stone stairs when the tall doors had swung open, Dante heading out. Dante was tall, red leather coat dripping just shy of touching the floor, his silver hair obtrusive on his face. Patty had caught glimpses of Dante’s eyes, they were a piercing blue, and like the ocean, many wonders hid underneath his cool stare. Patty never pushed, she wasn’t the best at swimming and Dante never breached the shore.

In her hands she’d clutched the letter, a small square, having been folded until the paper protested. It’s small but heavy in her clammy hands, she’d shuffled toward Dante. It didn’t matter if Patty was made aware of Dante’s acknowledgment toward her, she already knew Dante had seen her.

“Dante!” Patty said, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Dante looked at her, lax demeanor on display, Patty swore she’d seen his lips give an upward twitch.

“Patty,” Dante replied, “don’t you have better places to be?”

“I wouldn’t have to come by so often if you stopped being a slob,” Patty said. Her arms were sore from
lugging giant trash bags, she’d been cleaning by herself as she normally did while Dante was out.

Usually if the bags were too heavy Patty would pester Dante to throw them out, it was his filth after all. She’d continued to clean hoping to avoid the chore of throwing the heavy bags, but by the time nightfall crept through the windows, Dante still hadn’t come home. Patty, having known Dante wouldn’t throw it out had tugged her sleeves up and heaved the bags into the dumpsters behind Devil May Cry.

“Slob?” Dante mused, he scoffed a laugh and continued walking down the stairs wordlessly. His enormous guitar case slung over his back, he’d called himself a musician, and Patty had believed him. All too soon the illusions of Dante’s guitar had been shattered, replaced into a long silver blade that he used to protect Patty.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Patty asked, hands on her hips, she pressed down hard to keep the paper hidden. He’d promised her one of those 10 ice creams today.

“Nowhere a little girl like you should be, now scram.” Dante said, shooing her away while he continued his stroll.

Patty made a sound of discontent, her eyebrows furrowed. She stomped toward Dante, her ruffles bounced.

“And my ice cream?” Patty said, having easily matched her pace with Dante’s. She walked beside Dante, following his long strides, that were chipping at her stamina.

“What about it?” Dante said, looking to the side. Unknown to Patty, Dante had slowed down, his large steps cut in half after having heard Patty’s breath catch in her throat.

“You owe me one out of ten, that’s what!” Patty said. An incredulous look on her face, she knew Dante hadn’t forgotten after losing another game of cards last weekend. She’d made sure to rub it in for that exact reason, so Dante couldn’t forget.

Dante raised a brow at her, or that’s what Patty assumed after all Dante’s curtain of hair made it difficult to discern his expressions. Seriously, how could he see?

They’re leaving the corridor where Devil May Cry is hidden, their chatter bouncing off the empty street blends in with the other people of Capulet as they delve deeper into the city.

“I don’t need another Lady in my life, I’ve already got enough with one.” Dante said.

Patty, ready to shoot back, was interrupted by Dante.

“But since I’m going to Fredi’s, I suppose we can have a compromise.”

Patty gasped, beaming as she looked up at Dante. A small rock on the sidewalk blindsided her, the world blurs. A sharp tug on her back halted her descent onto the dirty concrete floor.

Embarrassment scorched her skin, the sun suddenly too hot. Sheepishly, Patty glanced at Dante who’d been holding her. There had been a funny look on his face that left as soon as she saw it. He tugs her back upright, only letting go once both of Patty’s feet are situated on the ground.

“Thanks,” Patty said. She grimaced at the fact she had almost face planted onto the floor.

She heard Dante sigh, a deep breath, like he’d bored all the weight of the world on him at that moment.

“Watch it, sweetheart,” Dante said. The nickname was nothing new, Dante’s relaxed nature making him speak coolly. Just now when he’d said it, Patty swore she’d heard the undertones of something mellow and tender beneath Dante’s typically bored tone.

Patty didn’t think twice about it, and Dante didn’t show any signs that he’d done anything differently. Thus Patty and Dante had ended up at Fredi’s dinner, devouring two strawberry sundaes. Beyond Patty’s teasing toward Dante’s obsession with strawberry sundaes, Patty had found it amusing how Dante would delicately spoon the sundae into his mouth, savoring it like ambrosia. While they ate Patty also couldn't help but notice that Dante had been glaring at a man sitting at the bar, his back facing them. Patty would have made a ridiculous remark that Dante was in love save for the fact that Dante’s eyes shone with a dangerous glint, it was the same look he got whenever he’d whip his sword out.

It had all clicked for Patty, Dante was here to work. So Patty was left waiting for Dante to return because he’d rather leave Patty alone to get kidnapped than take her on a high risk mission. There had been a few exceptions to that unspoken rule. How Dante decides when she can go, is a mystery.

The bell at Fredi’s dinner chimes, Patty sits up on her knees at the booth and turns back to see who it is. Not Dante. Rather an old man walks in. Patty sighs, and sits back down, reclining against the worn red plush of the booth seat, she likes to think she’s full of patience, having to deal with Dante’s filth and idiocy is the purest form of patience.

She takes the compact paper out beneath her poofy ruffles, unfolding the paper she reads what she's written again.

Cindy comes back then and glances over Patty’s shoulder. She’s a fast reader because a soft giggle escapes her promptly after Patty hides the paper.

“I never made Dante to be a girl dad, but it suits him,” Cindy says, the apples of her cheeks prominent as a fond smile overtakes her.

Patty shuffles in her seat, it was one thing to believe you had something akin to a father in your head. The term existing outside of your mind is another thing, making Patty believe Dante truly was as she wanted him to be.

“He’s okay,” Patty says, tilting her head to the side and smiling with faux distaste.

Cindy hands her a kid’s menu with crayons, Patty entertains herself by doodling on it. Patty becomes enthralled in the task after pushing through its dull beginnings, she draws flowers and the likes of it. She’s particularly proud of a chrysanthemum she draws and decides to paint it, she notes that the crayons aren’t top quality, taking too long to saturate the paper. She furrows her brow pressing harder onto the paper.

A leather clad hand taps her shoulder, she startles and whips her head around. She meets Dante’s hidden face, sending him a tired look for taking longer than usual to send away whatever that man was. Dante soothes his hand over her shoulder, a silent confirmation that it’s time to leave. She hops out of the booth, abandoning her draw and note still hidden, now in her hands. She rubs her thumb over the small square, creasing it further.

Patty notes that Dante’s coat is off, which is strange outside of the office. Dante always wore his coat no matter the weather. At the moment he had it hanging over his left arm, covering it fully, the coat lightly bristled disturbed by Dante’s arm moving. Dante brings his arm closer to his chest, pressing it flat in a protective manner. The movement beneath the coat becomes clearer, Dante’s arm has a slight tremble.

Patty purses her lips, “you’re hurt.”

Dante looks at her, face neutral and hums, brushing off Patty’s comment, “let’s go.”

Patty knew Dante’s work involved the occasional bodily damage, she’d seen him after missions hobbling through the front doors of Devil May Cry. He’d then collapsed onto his office chair to nap, within the next hour he’d be back on his feet, no sign of injury. She’d figured Dante had some superhuman traits in order to casually decline a trip to the hospital.

For that reason Patty lets it go, if Dante isn’t worried about it then she’ll try her best to not worry. She doesn’t do a very good job, casting glances at Dante’s arm that remains firmly pressed against his chest the entire way back to the Devil May Cry. At some point Patty catches Dante using his other hand to run it down his lame arm and Patty watches Dante’s face harden, his lips flattening to a line, and his eyebrows furrow.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Patty asks. This time unable to keep the shake out of her voice.

Dante’s expression smoothes out, he clutches his arm impossibly closer to his chest.

“Who do you think you’re talking to?” Dante asks, rhetorically.

At the steps of Devil May Cry, Dante kicks the door open, a loud slam sounds out into the empty street.

The abrupt sound makes Patty flinch, the last thing Dante needed was more debt to repair the shop. Once Dante walks inside, Patty follows, admiring her handiwork from yesterday. At the moment the shop is clean, Dante’s desk shining, it was a wonder customers didn’t walk out the moment they saw the pigstein Dante lived in.

Dante beelines it to the coaches beneath the loft, shedding his guitar case onto the floor, and plops down on the sofa. He still has the red coat wrapped around his presumably injured arm, it’s difficult to discern the severity of the damage from where Patty stands at the entrance, the bloody red of the coat making it impossible. Dante lies back on the sofa, most likely to nap until another job comes to him.

The corner of the note still in her grasp pokes her palm, sharp, not letting her forget what she’s been planning to do since this morning. She squares her shoulders and marches toward Dante, crushing the paper inside her balled hands.

Dante cracks an eye open as Patty nears him, imperceptibly a spark of red flickers over Dante’s blue eye, making Patty falter before continuing her determined trek.

“You should go, Patty.” Dante sighs, turning on his side so his back is facing Patty.

Patty stops before Dante, inspecting him, a warmth apart from the atmosphere emanates from where Dante lies on the couch.

She clutches the note and promptly makes up her mind. She flings the square at Dante, the corner connects with Dante’s head. Dante flinches, shuffling to grab the paper before it gets wedged into the vastness of the couch cushions. Dante unfurls the paper, the crackling of the paper obnoxious in Patty’s ears. She thumps her foot against the wood floors, she wonders if this is how the girls at the park feel asking their dad for a new toy.

A deafening silence follows after Dante opens the letter. Patty brews in her thoughts, none good and all of them ending in Patty making a fool out of herself.

The silence breaks, Dante says, “I think you oughta try playing family with someone else.”

Patty’s brow aches, she’s frowning hard at Dante’s words.

“With who exactly?” Patty says, folding her arms against her chest and leaning toward Dante like a dagger ready to attack him.

Dante still hasn’t turned around to face her, if anything he seems to shrink in on himself from her. He tightly hugs himself, as though he’s hoping to seep into the cracks of the couch.

Dante sighs, it’s gruff and deep, “I don’t know. Maybe waltz around the park—someone would want a brat like you.”

Patty recoils, Dante could be callous not only physically but verbally. Rare if ever where the times Dante would polish a sharp jab toward her, and if he did he’d be quick to mostly apologize.

“Dante!” Patty shouts, she marches up to him and with all the force an 8 year old can concentrate smacks him on the back. A loud slap rings out, ringing her ears, echoing. The palm of her hand erupts in a sharp pain, she makes a silent sound wishing the needle-like pain away.

Dante doesn’t react, it’s like Patty had slapped a boulder.

“Leave.” Dante says, his voice holds a weird echo, warbling.

“Jerk,” Patty says, she turns to storm out the shop but before she does she decides to give Dante another piece of her mind.

This time Patty prepares to go for his head. Dante snaps his head toward the couch, effectively hiding, then again he tells her to leave. The faint echo in his voice is prominent now, reverberating throughout the room and rumbling through Patty’s rib cage. As Patty raises her arm, she notices that Dante’s shivering, it’s faint but there and the worry from earlier washes through her. She rests her arm beside her, she looks over Dante trying to find anything relevant to the situation at hand, no holes are present in Dante’s outfit.

Patty places her hand on Dante’s shoulder, and Dante flinches away from her touch, making no effort to acknowledge the action or her.

“Dante.” Patty says, her eyes sting, “you’re hurt. Let me see.”

A growl shakes the air, rumbling, the growl sounds like the demons Dante kills out of her sight. Dante always covered her eyes from the gruesome acts of violence, but never her ears, so she’d heard how demons responded to Dante’s sword.

“No,” Dante says.

Patty balls her hands into fists, her nails dig into her palms agitating the sting present in one. She darts her arm at Dante and tugs at his wrapped arm, not expecting the movement Dante unravels from his cocoon with a grunt.

Patty’s eyes widen, she immediately lets go of Dante and falls onto the floor.

His eyes are blazing red, his face is speckled in burning scales that appear to multiply by the second, Dante’s coat which hid the worst of it falls with a thud onto the floor. His entire forearm is covered in obsidian scales, ripples of red spread out the center of his forearm like roots and the tips of his fingers are elongated with ferocious black talons.

Dante sits up in a blur, Patty scoots back struggling to get a grip on the wooden floors so that she can stand back up. She can’t stop staring, ice runs down her spine, her bottom lip quivers and the corners of her eyes sting.

For a moment, the atmosphere around her burns. Where Dante stands a sphere of glowing red explodes. Sigils fly toward Patty, she uses her arms to shield her face. The air pressure around her is suffocating, it’s difficult to breathe, her lungs constrict to withhold that last pocket of fresh air.

The clacking of something landing on the ground prompts her to slowly remove her arms. Where Dante had stood, now towered a demon, it’s dressed in red and black scales, a set of wings curl around its front, black spikes protrude out of its arms and jaw. Stubby horns poke out its armored head and a blazing star of light carves the center of its chest.

The demon stares at Patty, unmoving, it grumbles something to itself before stepping toward Patty. Its steps, mere increments toward Patty who remained frozen in place, her legs were weights, she was unable to get up, her breathing quickened as the demon continued its slow pace. Patty glanced around the room for what? She didn’t know. Dante’s arms had been on his person so grabbing those were out of the question as Dante had seemingly been replaced.

It reminded her of when that demon had worn her mother’s skin at the opera stage. She thought she’d recognize the signs were something like that to come again. More so, she’d thought the signs would be more obvious were something like this to happen to Dante, seeing as she’d been spending the last couple of months with him, getting to learn him beyond his icy exterior.

Finally, the demon stands before her, it crouches down in front of her, the floorboards creaking. The wings attached to the demon’s chest flutter, its fiery eyes pierce through Patty. She brings her limbs close, as far away from the demon as she can. It smells like smoke, the area around her hotter than it should be.

The demon opens its maw, rows of razor teeth make her turn away.

“Patty,” the demon says, voice warped, “it's me.”

For declaring their identity the demon sounds almost unsure of itself, leading Patty to believe that this is the kind of demon that masquerades as people’s loved ones. What had happened to Dante? Was that the reason why he’d taken so long earlier?

The demon rumbles a deep sound in its chest, its jagged arm reaches out. Its claws pierce the air, slicing it away in order to reach Patty. Patty’s adrenal glands finally kick in and she screams, she jolts up, slapping the hand away.

“Get away from me!” A sting runs through her fingers. She watches something red drip onto the floor, splattering between them.

Something akin to pain strikes the demon’s features, it becomes fixated on Patty’s injury, its wings unfold shrouding Patty in the shadow it casts over her.

Patty assumes her blood agitates the demon, potentially stirring up its appetite. Pinpricks of icy dread send Patty sprinting to the front door. She thinks she hears the splintering of wood behind her, she pants, shoving the front doors open with her entire body and flees the shop.

Her shoes clop over the ground, her dress billowing behind her, she’s halfway out the surrounding buildings when she chances at glance back. The doors remain shut, there’s no demon hounding her. She feels inclined to slow down, but thinks better of it.

Patty smacks against someone, she yelps, dread flooding her system. The cause of impact grunts as well, they both slightly stumble back, before the figure in front of Patty steadies her by her shoulders. The hands are covered in leather, not piercing into Patty’s flesh.

“Patty?” The voice asks, clearly concerned.

Patty freezes to take in who it is, she looks up, black short hair and heterochromatic eyes filled with worry meet her. They flit over Patty searching for the cause of distress, eyebrows furrowing when she can’t find anything. It’s Lady. Patty scrabbles to hug Lady, she places her head against her stomach, body shaking. Lady tenses then hesitantly pulls her close, her arms over Patty’s back, she rubs her hand in a circular motion over Patty, the press is firm, warm and familiar. Patty sniffles, Lady’s floral perfume wafts into her nose, it fills her thoughts, coaxing them to slow down.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Lady asks, gently pushing Patty away to get a good look at her.

Patty’s face is pale, her eyes blinking fast to keep the tears at bay.

“It’s Dante,” Patty says, she sniffles, “something happened to him.”

Lady’s expression narrows, “what happened?”

Images of volcanic scales and jagged spikes flit through Patty’s mind. Worst of all she thinks about Dante earlier in the day leaving to fulfill his job, he’d left to be—killed. Patty pouts, hot tears blurring her vision.

“Stay with me Patty,” Lady says firmly,” what happened?”

Swallowing Patty manages to shakily explain, “a demon got him. It’s in the office.”

Lady frowns, her face sharp, she coaxes Patty away from her in order to bring out Kalinna Ann which had been strapped to her back. The bayonet glints under the sun as Lady adjusts it, she looks behind Patty, glaring at the shop.

“Stay put. I’ll be back,” Lady says, freeing one hand to ruffle Patty’s already disheveled hair.

Patty brings her arms to her chest, she squeezes her hand, watching Lady make her way toward the shop. Lady was powerful, Patty only hoped it would be enough to squash the demon that had taken Dante.

The tears collecting in Patty’s eyes finally burst, a heavy sob breaks free. Her chest heaves, her vision blurs. She futilely rubs her eyes raw to stop the everflowing tears that rain down her face, pain grips her heart crushing it. Dante was gone. The thought heaves another sob out of Patty; it echoes within the empty street.

Her mind cruelly replays different scenarios of what happened to Dante. Snot trails down her nose, Patty smears it on the sleeve of her soaked dress. In particular, the idea of Dante being run through with his blade makes the sobs wrack her body.

Patty thinks she’ll run out of tears at this rate. Patty flattens her hands against her head, at the prospect of something happening to Lady. If that demon had been capable of downing Dante then surely Lady would be next and it would be her fault.

Minutes pass, Patty never hears Kalinna Ann’s thunderous blast, her doubts fester. The demon must’ve already hurt Lady. Shakily Patty, steps toward the shop, every step is another warning for her to turn back. Lady had told her to wait where she’d been.

Still she proceeds toward the shop’s daunting doors. Heartbeat snapping in her ears Patty pulls through, she makes it to the shop’s stairs.

Unmoving, she contemplates what exactly she’d do in the event that Lady was hurt. Patty didn’t know anything about first aid, at most she could do was apply an anti microbial and bandaid. That wouldn’t help Lady were she bleeding out on the floor. At most Patty could call for help. Not before the demon came down on her.

She hiccups, the remnants of her crying bleeding through her shaky valor. What prompts Patty to move is the sound of muffled voices, she hears the warbling echoes of the demon and Lady, who seems to be scolding the demon inside.

Patty grasps the brass door handle of the shop with the hand that isn’t crusted in her blood. The handle feels like lead, she struggles to turn it. Patty pushes the door open, she sneaks into the shop intent on blending into the background.

“She’s out there crying, Dante!”

Lady has Kalinna Ann back on her back, she’s jabbing a finger at the demon, her other hand on her hip. The demon doesn’t seem put off by Lady’s behavior, it stands there arms crossed, blazing eyes narrowed at Lady.

“I told her to leave—.” The demon cuts himself off. Its head snaps toward Patty, a clicking resonates within the room, bouncing off the walls.

In an instant the demon jumps toward her, Patty screams. The demon roughly lands in front of her, it flits its eyes over her like Lady had done, it zeros in on Patty’s tear streaked face and the hand she’s been subconsciously holding. Patty’s breathing quickens, she tries to look at Lady who hasn’t made any signs to dispatch the demon.

The demon itself crowds her, its wings flare behind it. The demon snags Patty’s injured hand, its claws rest over Patty’s arm, poised to break the skin, except it doesn’t. The demon forces Patty’s hand to open, revealing the laceration crossing over her fingers. It rubs a clawed thumb over the injury, baring its razor teeth at it.

The demon looks over its shoulder, presumably at Lady. While it’s distracted Patty attempts to free her hand, it’s futile, the demon’s grip is unrelenting.

“Lady, open the drawers in my table, I should have something for this,” The demon commands.

Patty hears Lady’s shoes clack against the floorboards, then the shuffling of paper.

“Really? It's clutter. You should do better, Dante,” Lady grumbles.

There it is again, Lady referring to the demon as Dante. Something akin to hurt fills Patty, that Lady would refer to this creature as Dante.

He hears the demon growl at Lady, before it turns back to Patty. The growl peters off into something deeper that rumbles within the demon. Patty flinches as the demon brings its other clawed hand to Patty’s face, Patty’s hair is undone, wild strands of hair fleeing everywhere including her face. With its claw the demon swipes a lock of hair behind Patty’s ear, adjusting it so it doesn’t slip out.

“It’s me, Patty,” the demon says again, searching Patty’s face.

“You killed Dante!” Patty shouts, effortlessly pulling the demon’s hand away from her face.

“Patty—“ Lady chimes in.

The demon barks out a laugh. Patty’s blood runs cold, again she tugs her hand that’s still in the demon’s grip.

“I don’t know if I should be honored or offended that you think I’d be able to beat myself,” The demon grins.

She hears footsteps approaching, Lady comes into view with a box of bandaids and a small tube of an anti-microbial. She stops beside the demon glancing between the two of them, refusing to concern herself with the demon beside her.

“Lady!” Patty cries.

The demon ceases its mirth, it kneels down in front of Patty, its warmth comes in waves.

“Patty it’s me, Dante.” The demon says, more sure of itself.

Patty ceases her struggle to digest the demon’s words, it's got something akin to hope within its volcanic eyes.

Patty shakes her head, she’s not going to fall for that trick again, “No, you’re not!”

“Patty, it is,” Lady says.

Patty scowls at her and back at the demon, she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t both confused and terrified. The demon’s claws press against Patty’s arm, Patty jerks, it could easily tear her arm open.

“No it’s not! And it won’t be until it can prove otherwise,” Patty says. It’s a miracle she still has tears in her burning eyes, prior to this she thought she’d wept all she had.

Through her obscured vision Patty catches the demon’s other hand twitch toward her before it’s forced to placate itself.

“Patty, I know you ate the strawberry pancakes I got last week,” the demon says, distaste adorning its face.

Patty’s bottom lip wobbles, “Dante!”

The demon, Dante’s shoulders sag. Patty’s taut arm goes lax in Dante’s hold. A chitter exits Dante, he’s quick to slap a hand over his mouth. Patty tilts her head curious to what that sound is, it kind of reminds her of a cat. A demonic cat.

He clears his throat, “Lady give me the stuff.”

Lady crosses her arms, “don’t get so cocky just because you’re a lizard now.”

Lady hands Dante the cream and box of pink bandaids. He plops down on the floor, gently tugging Patty toward him. Patty tenses, tempted to plant her feet on the ground. Ultimately she goes with Dante, she stands before him close enough to discern every single scale on his face. His body feels like a hot summer day, not unbearable but not completely comfortable either, and he smells like a campfire, faintly smoky.

Dante’s other hand reaches toward Patty’s face, hesitating before he swipes his thumb over her wet face. Patty involuntarily squints, his claw terribly close to her eye. The fat glob of water beneath her lash line evaporates from Dante’s tepid touch. He concentrates, continuing the motion until Patty’s cheeks are dry.

Dante’s focus shifts to Patty’s hand, he rubs at the raised skin affected by the scratch she’d gotten from smacking Dante’s hand.

Patty jerks her hand, Dante’s featherlight touch agitating the simmer of pain into a burn. Dante’s hand recoils and he grabs the tube of antimicrobial. He uncaps it and squeezes the bottle over Patty’s benign wounds, a mountain of cream coats her fingers.

She makes a face, it’s too much. Lady who’s been on the sidelines for now beats her to the punch. Dante merely states the obvious, she’s injured.

Dante smoothes the cream into the scratch, it seeps into the inflamed skin, stamping out the sting beneath. Patty breathes out a sigh, the sensation silencing her brain’s attempts at telling her to not ignore her injury.

Patty observes Dante while he seals the wound, he moves with the utmost precision.

When he’s done, he soothes his thumb over the skin again and looks at Patty, his lips are downturned. It reminds Patty of the fathers she sees in front of the fountain outside the orphanage, the way they’ll fuss over the scrape on their daughter’s knee acting like it’s a life or death situation.

Realizing he expects a reaction from her, Patty gives him a weak smile.

“Thanks Dante,” she says, wiggling her fingers to quiet whatever is wreaking havoc in Dante’s mind.

The ridges on Dante’s face deepen.

“Patty,” Dante starts, but clamps his mouth shut to look around the room. He exhales deeply, and grabs the box of bandaids.

He slices the box open, clearly having never been used until now and grabs 5 bandaids. He unwraps each one, wrapping all of Patty’s fingers in bandaids. Patty thinks it’s a waste of paper, glancing at Dante she notices that the creases on his face are slowly vanishing. She keeps quiet, letting Dante work through his turmoil that’s quelled from tending to Patty’s non grievous wounds.

Dante drops the bandaids onto the floor, starting his mess anew. He rubs his hand over Patty’s fingers one last time before releasing her hand. Patty’s hand feels uncomfortably slimy, that was way too much cream.

“Bring me some tissues,” Dante says.

Patty hears footsteps, Lady retreating to Dante’s desk to retrieve a box of tissues.

She feels a gentle prod beneath her nose and yelps. Dante thumbs at the crusted boogers on Patty’s upper lip. She slaps Dante’s hand away which immediately returns.

“That’s nasty, Dante.”

Dante chuckles, “I know.”

He makes no effort to drop his hand.

Lady chucks the box of tissues to Dante who catches it without looking away.

“Let’s clean you up,” Dante says. He plucks a tissue out.

Soft paper dabs at Patty’s face, shedding away the crusting of her sadness. He cleans the area beneath Patty’s nose, pressing down and smoothing over all the grime. Placing the tissue beneath her red nose he tells her to blow. She does, her ears ring from a sudden shyness, it was gross. Patty empties her nose, Dante staying still.

Patty resists telling Dante to not throw the nasty tissues onto the floor.

He throws the tissues on the floor, Patty thinks she’s going to faint.

“That’s better,” Dante says. He examines Patty’s face for leftover blemishes, causing Patty to feel subconscious, she rubs at her face.

“So are you going to tell us what happened?” Lady asks, moving to stand beside Patty.

Chapter Text

“Yeah, why do you look weird?” Patty asks.

She jabs her finger into Dante’s armored arm, following the cuts of magma in his scales. He sizzles beneath her touch, but never enough to melt flesh.

Dante huffs, “First, I’m still devilishly handsome,” he shoots Patty an offended look, then focuses on Lady, “second, I got cursed.”

“Try turning back,” Lady says, nodding at Dante.

“I did,” Dante huffs, pointing his spiny body at Lady like a human dagger. Lady rolls her eyes, swirling her finger at Dante to insist he try again.

Dante stands, he backs away from Patty leaving her by the shop’s entrance, and relocates near his desk. He takes with him the warmth that she’d been wearing.

He faces her.

Lady remains where she is, a few feet away from Patty.

Dante’s posture is rigid. His hands clench and unclench at his sides, stabbing his talons into his palms, causing fiery welts to appear and disappear. His wings shudder, crushing him.

He bares his teeth, which glint beneath the yellow lighting of the shop. A deep crease forms between his eyes, and he grunts, a deep rumbling thing that deepens the longer he strains.

Patty’s hands ball into fists, her jaw tight, as the scene unfolds.

Dante’s grunts sound painful, gnawing at Patty’s heartstrings, tangling and ripping them apart. Helpless, she observes as Dante fights against whatever is keeping him in this undesirable form. She fidgets in place, wincing at the jerk Dante’s body forces out of him.

The air around Dante heats, crackling around Patty. It frizzes her hair. She holds her breath, eyes flicking between Lady and Dante, searching for anything that’ll give way to what’s happening.

Lady’s exterior is blank, her posture for the most part lax, and an edge of tension lines her arms, which are folded over her chest. She taps her finger against the glossy leather of her jacket, incessantly thumbing at a crinkle on it.

Patty sucks her bottom lip in, chewing at it absentmindedly, nibbling off a loose piece of skin. The slight burn hardly registers in the face of Dante’s discomfort, which cloys her senses. He’s gone from grunting to growling. He’s resting his hands on his knees, his forearms quaking beneath his weight.

Something glimmers off of Dante’s knee, clinking against the floor. The item skitters toward Patty’s shoe, scratching up the floorboards behind it. It reaches her with a soft tap against the pink material of her shoe, singing it black. Like the burn mark, the thing is dark and leaks a thin line of smoke.

Patty kneels, placating the wild poofs of her dress. With the hand that’s not soaked in anti-microbial cream and loose bandaids, she pokes at what looks to be a scale. It’s hot to the touch, scaring her curious finger away.

A profound roar rips out of Dante.

Patty seizes, drawing her shoulders up to shrink in on herself. Dante’s monstrous growl stirs up her fear from before. It’s impossible to keep the image of Dante, tenderly fretting over a little scratch at the forefront of her mind. After tending to her wound, he’d even waited for her to confirm that it no longer hurt.

And here, Dante was in blistering agony, Patty unable to return the favor, all because her fear strangled the urge to soothe his pain.

A dark red glow works itself out of Dante, and blistering red sigils begin to eerily ascend from the floor. Prompting Patty to sit against the stone pillar at the shop’s entrance, with her legs tucked to the side.

The sigils swoosh around the room forming a twister, their harmony meticulous. The discarded bandaid box and anti-microbial cream in the distance get catapulted at the shop’s doors.

Any sigils that intrude on Patty’s personal space earn themselves a smack, leaving her nerves tingling with an electric charge. A large sigil swoops over her nose. She tracks it, watching it slam into a school of sigils, which causes a spark of light to erupt.

Patty withdraws her attacks and braces herself against the column.

From the light, the sigils stitch themselves together to form a long scarf. The scarf wiggles over the three of them, attracting the other sigils toward it. The rest of the sigils mend themselves into the scarf, lengthening it. From there, the scarf blasts toward the ceiling, creating a swirling cylinder around them.

Patty tilts her head, wondering if this is all a part of Dante’s transformation. She glances at Lady, her demeanor different. She’s scrutinizing the scarf, hardly blinking, and her posture is rigid. Her fingers twitch, reaching behind her, wanting to sling Kalina Ann over.

The sigils' hellish red consumes the shop's soft yellow light, casting them in incomplete darkness. The plants at the back of the shop furiously rustle, and soil spills out of their pots. Dante’s campfire smell turns to acrid smokiness, scorching Patty’s nostrils.

She covers her nose with her palm, the odor plastered on her tongue.

The scarf above them halts, looming over Dante. It barrels down, smashing through the crumbling suspension Dante’s hands have over his knees.

Patty jolts, her foot squeals over the floorboard and toward Dante, but despite the short burst, she decides to remain stagnant.

The scarf trickles down Dante’s body, coiling around his torso, arms, and legs, keeping him in the air long after his knees buckle.

The scarf aims itself at Dante’s mouth, wanting to muffle him, Dante responds by snapping his fangs at it. The scarf flinches away, but continues pestering Dante, who’s eventually able to snag it between his teeth. He gnaws on it furiously. The scarf writhing in pain, before recovering. It pulses around Dante, wringing him.

Dante cries out. He releases the scarf, his head lolls back, the inferno in his eyes wavering. His maw displays his clamped teeth.

Gasping, Patty staggers to stand, her knees weak. She needs to do something. Those sigils are hurting Dante. Her palms sweat, acidity puddles in her mouth, dread prickling down her back.

The sigils die down within the intervals that Dante doesn’t move, only coming back alive when he squirms.

“Dante!” Patty frantically shouts. Her cry gets buried under Dante’s distress.

He needs to stop moving, because he’s making it worse. All Patty can do is move her mouth. She's having a hard time getting up, while Dante’s actively being injured before her.

When it comes to her aid, Dante never hesitates, always there in the blink of an eye to stomp out those demons.

Here in this room, there is no demon, no excuse as to why Patty is holding her breath whilst Dante’s strength dwindles. Why her feet are a part of the floorboards, or why she’s forgotten Dante’s name all of a sudden. Panic apprehends her thoughts, closing around her throat. She's never felt more useless.

A blur of white streaks at him.

Lady sprints toward Dante, her combat boots slamming into the groaning floorboards, as she gracefully unlatches Kalina Ann from behind her back. She heaves it over her shoulders, aiming its bayonet up. The bayonet’s silver exterior sucks up the red glow coming off of Dante, further saturating itself as Lady closes in.

Lady’s jaw is set, her teeth clench so hard they slide over each other, the burning sigils imprint themselves on her eyes.

Patty’s breath hitches, a shrill scream pushes itself out of the depths of her lungs, “Lady, stop—you’re gonna hurt him!”

Kalina Ann dives down, slicing through the dense air. The red on it will darken when coated in Dante’s blood.

Patty heaves, her lips quivering. She braces herself against the stone pillar, finding her footing on the slippery floorboards, transfixed on the scene in front of her. She’s halfway up the floor.

If Lady hadn’t killed Dante earlier, after Patty had so foolishly asked her to. She was certainly going to do it now, even if Patty isn’t able to do much, she’d still feel culpable for the loss. Because she would have been there, witnessing the loss of a man she had just started to consider someone she needed in her life. The stroll down to Fredi’s dinner comes to mind. Her heart throbs.

Kalina Ann tears at Dante’s front, the scarf tangles on her bayonet, wanting to choke it.

Lady grunts, her boots firmly plant themselves on the floor as she exerts more force. Kalina Ann shudders in her hold. Lady takes a moment to look at Patty. Her gaze is fierce, the fire in her eyes still present, but beneath her exterior is a gentle wave smoothing over the blaze.

Patty manages to fully stand, but that’s all she’s able to do. Stand there. Muffling her quiet whimpers as Lady burrows Kalina Ann into Dante’s front. Patty chokes on the stink of Dante’s putrid smokiness.

Patty had screamed at Lady, like that had done much, she thinks bitterly, reaching through the depths of uncertainty to reel in some of that sass she typically carries.

Dante himself is still growling, not making any effort to lunge at Lady. His body quiets either from exhaustion or from accepting that Lady’s going to be the one to finish him.

Dante looks down at Lady. He puffs his chest toward the preoccupied bayonet, chipping more scales off, which land everywhere. They land on his office table next to the picture of that mysterious woman, on his flourishing house plants, and Patty’s head, clipping onto her hair like the little flower clips she insists Dante help her put on.

The bayonet is piercing Patty’s soul, bleeding dry her resolve. Dante so easily accepts that this is it. He’s going to leave Patty, she’s going to be alone again, she’ll have to soothe her night terrors away, alone like she’s always done. The loose bandaids on her fingers are crushing her bones, and the small wound all of a sudden does feel like it needs stitches.

Dante roars. Something cracks and thumps onto the floor. Kalina Ann splinters the floorboards, needles fly high, and Patty rushes to turn around. Her bangs protect her forehead as she presses against the rough stone pillar with her hands behind her head.

She hears a crack, Dante groaning, and another thump. The red illuminating the room recedes, letting the yellow light of the shop fill in the dark corners of the room. The air around Patty feels hot and muggy. There's a cool draft from Dante’s sputtering fan in the corner that feebly scorns it.

Patty turns back, evenly curious and fearful. She thinks it’s a valid way to assess her feelings, as what greets her is significantly worse than Lady slashing at Dante. Lady is beside Dante looming over him, her frame rigid, grasping Kalina Ann on the side, her bayonet stained red. She casts a shadow over Dante’s collapsed form, and for a while, Lady doesn’t move, her eyes flit over Dante, searching for something, presumably any leftover sigils. Or worse, Patty shudders.

Meanwhile, Dante’s on his hands and knees, haggardly heaving, his once pointed horns look dull. Something dark dribbles from his chest, pooling onto the floor. The flaming cracks in his scales flicker, and his wings are splayed on both sides of him, their sharp ends clacking against the floor.

The rope of sigils on the floor around Dante thrashes before igniting itself. The cinders coming off the thread rain down onto the floor. They form a phosphorescent pile around Dante before seemingly phasing out of existence.

Patty freezes as Dante jerks forward, a rattling cough exiting. She glances at Lady, noting how she snaps out of her self-induced trance and eases her hold on Kalina Ann.

Patty finally takes a step forward, only to stop when a crackle sounds out beneath her sole. She steps back, revealing the scale from Dante’s knee, shocked that the small thing had not burned a hole through her shoe. She leans down to prod the scale, which has cooled down, leaving a charred mark on the floor as Patty plucks it off the ground.

She thumbs at the scale in her hand, it’s hardy, pulsing with might. As she approaches Lady and Dante, the scale intensifies in power, beseeching her closer. She stands before Dante and beside Lady. She holds the scale in her bandaid hand and rams her good finger in Lady’s direction.

“Lady! Are you insane? Were you trying to kill him?” Patty shouts, transforming her concern to fury even as her shivering voice betrays her.

Lady’s face is one of shock, then pity, her lips downturned, like she thinks Patty doesn’t know what happened. And maybe she doesn’t, she doesn’t have a clue what happened other than Lady being too comfortable with the idea of potentially ending Dante’s life, even if it had saved him.

Dante clutches the center chest, covering the flaming star over it. He peers up at Patty in his crumbled form.

“It’s all right, Patty. See?” Dante says, straining his voice to pillow Patty’s tumbling thoughts.

Patty can’t focus on Dante’s words. The red pooling beneath him crawls toward her shoes.

“How can you say that?” Patty says, regarding the way Dante clenches his jaw and winces while trying to rebuke Patty’s doubts.

“It’s stopping— I’ve had worse,” Dante says, stamping down his hand where his injury should be. He tightens his jaw so hard that it looks like his teeth are going to crack.

Squeamishness wracks Patty. She thinks she's gonna be sick. She concentrates on Lady, gagging into her hand as the image of Dante presumably touching his wound lingers.

Lady still has that look of pity on her face, although now, Patty isn’t sure if it’s meant for her or Dante, or both of them. Perhaps she felt bad for insisting Dante transform after he’d told her of his first failed attempt. Patty’s angst-ridden wail could’ve also been ringing in her mind, feeling ill for dismissing a child.

“I had to, Patty,” Lady says, squaring her shoulders. Kalina Ann clacks beside her, the sheen of red on her bayonet taunts Patty.

Patty bows her head. She knew Lady had to intervene. Patty hadn’t even been able to stand until now. It was either Dante got spliced or strangled, and between the two, Patty couldn’t decide which one would haunt her dreams for the rest of her life.

“I’m okay, Patty. Just a scratch.” Dante says, insistent on downplaying the possibly enormous gash on his chest.

If that supposed incision is a scratch, then Patty isn’t interested in what Dante considers a fatal injury. Even thinking about his definition makes Patty squirm. For better or worse, Patty doubts she’d be privy to such graphic images. Post missions, when Dante saw her reclining in his office chair, he’d smother himself in his thick red coat and ask Patty to move into the loft. She’s halfway sure that’s the reason Dante’s hand is haphazardly covering his chest.

“What, is Kalina Ann too dull for you?” Lady remarks at Dante for minimizing the intensity of Kalina Ann’s impact. The jab’s not all there, starting as a murmur before gaining traction. She slings Kalina Ann onto her back.

Patty hopes the bayonet rusts and shatters before her.

“It's not half bad.” Dante coughs out. The pillar that is his other arm minutely bends at the elbow.

Lady’s demeanor flips. “Dante, what is this?”

Dante chuckles, mirthless. The armor on him shimmers like a dying flame.

“Like I said. Some demon doused me in hell’s piss,” He spits out, tone rough. It grates on Patty’s eardrums, shredding them in comparison to his usually soft timbre, which would cradle her erratic thoughts until she fell asleep.

Patty shuffles closer to Lady. Dante’s summery scent turns to ash, clashing against Lady’s rosy gunpowder fragrance.

Despite her partially misguided anger toward Lady, she spreads her arm out for Patty, a quiet invitation to come closer if needed. Patty kind of takes it, stepping close enough for Lady to place a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Lady firmly grasps her shoulder, leather scrunching to reassure her.

“Watch it, Dante,” Lady scolds, bringing Patty closer to press against her ammunition belt. The pouches of her belt dig into Patty uncomfortably.

Dante seethes. The atmosphere around them condenses, sucking the moisture out of the air. The plants situated beside Dante’s rack of arms look particularly parched at this point, their leaves slightly shriveling at the edges. The scale in Patty’s palm heats, warning her to release it, but she holds onto it tighter.

Dante, like this, frightens Patty. The grotesque valleys of emotion painted his face foreign.

Dante’s tears were dry, his smiles a mere line on his face that never touched his cheeks. And when Dante’s eyebrows creased deep on his face, the fury that should’ve spilled out vanished.

Never having experienced Dante’s interior makes her feel more than inept. However, one glance at Lady lets Patty know that she’s not alone.

Lady, herself, also bears a nervous glint in her heterochromatic eyes. The hand not on Patty’s shoulders switches between reaching forward and remaining at her side.

Patty feels guilty at being relieved that Lady’s just as clueless as she is. She feels guilty because that’s not what Dante needs right now. He doesn’t need two people bumbling around him when he’s so clearly upset.

Lady is the first to get the memo out in the open. The hand she has on Patty’s shoulder firmly presses down. She gently coaxes Patty toward Dante.

Patty seizes, whipping her head back at Lady to raise an eyebrow at her. Lady grimaces at Patty’s nonverbal query, continuing to prod her toward Dante. Lady tries to ease Patty’s mind by tugging on Kalina Ann’s strap, so that if anything goes awry, she’ll intervene with another hack at Dante.

Patty makes a displeased sound at that but attempts to give Lady the benefit of the doubt. That it’ll be a last resort if something weirder than what’s happening happens.

Patty tiptoes toward Dante, relying on Lady’s hand to push her when she falters. She tries to prolong her already minuscule trip, but the hand on her shoulder abandons her too soon.

Once only centimeters keep her separated from Dante, she realizes she’s stepped into another world. The air around Dante is swampy and heavy, clogging up her nose with every breath she takes. Dante’s fairing no better, he’s heavily breathing as steam seeps out of him. The lack of reaction from him is disturbing. He’s transfixed on the puddle of blood that’s seeping into the floorboards.

Patty swallows, her mouth dry.

“Dante?” Patty whispers.

Dante shakes his head, horns a breadth away from Patty’s poofy dress.

“This is stupid.” Dante murmurs, still staring at the puddle.

Patty fists the top of her dress and looks behind her. Lady’s there, gripping Kalina Ann’s strap and nodding at Patty.

Ugh, this is all wrong. What business did she have comforting a grown man? Especially Dante, who ate sympathy like olives. She was just a little girl who happened to get herself the most unorthodox father figure in her life. She recalibrates her attention onto Dante, flattening down her dress.

“Dante!” Patty shouts at him, like she would for leaving an empty beer can where she’d just cleaned. Patty chastising him was one of his worst nightmares.

His spiny head shifts up, and he assesses Patty. His eyes narrow. Recognition flits over them. The rabid swirls of lava in his eyes decline—his craggily face shifts to something more Dante.

“Right.” Dante huffs. He squares his shoulders and adjusts his wings.

Patty gasps, fresh air filtering through her nose. The swampy climate around them recedes, making room for the typically cool air in the office to feel frigid for once. She holds herself, the scale pressing against her arm, cooling down.

Still with his knees and hand on the floor, Dante waggles his head like a bull, causing Patty to stumble back. His back muscles wind themselves up for action before loosening. This process repeats until Patty’s had enough of it. He needs to stand.

Taking a deep breath, she minds the swings of his head, and reaches out to set a hand on Dante’s sharp shoulder—it sets him off, Dante scrambles to get off the floor, subsequently knocking Patty's hand away.

She recoils, drawing her hand to her chest, twisting the fabric there, crinkling it.

Scritch—scratch Dante’s nails hiss.

By stubbornly plastering his other hand to his chest, Dante makes getting up far more complicated than necessary. Patty’s guts twist as a squelching resounds beneath Dante. His blood creates a slip and slide effect beneath him, causing his arm to dangerously slip before regaining balance.

It’s beyond vile, his efforts splattering all over the floor and Patty’s favorite shoes.

She hops away from Dante to avoid any more of the bloody onslaught. Jumping, when she bumps against Lady, who grasps her shoulders to steady her. She lolls her head back, catching the way Lady’s eyebrows switch between frowning and lying flat over her eyes.

Crunch.

Patty whips her head down in time, internally grateful as Dante comes across the purchase he’s been clawing at. Puncturing the floor with his claws while still hunched over, he drops to his knees and slides over the bloody mess, managing to find his way up on his knees. He’s slightly hunched over now, his hand buried beneath the wooden floorboards for support. He lets out a deep breath.

Keeping his hand in his makeshift handle, Dante starts to ease one of his legs forward. He never once meets their eyes, his spiked head focusing on dragging his knee up into a kneeling position. Throughout it, he keeps his hand on his chest.

She hears the throbbing of her heart in her ears. She guides a hand up to one of Lady’s, which is still on her shoulders, and pats it. Getting the queue, Lady lifts her hands, releasing Patty.

She tiptoes toward Dante.

He cranes his head up enough to see Patty, blazing eyes sparkling in acknowledgement. Patty’s right hand, which isn’t afflicted by an ailment, itches to meet the arm that's currently plunged into the floor, to assist him like he’d done for her on the sidewalk. He’d done it like breathing, one breath, Patty was falling—exhaling, she was not.

Patty tries to breathe like him. She inhales—her hand rises. She exhales—she makes contact with Dante’s strained arm.

Dante seizes up. Patty turns to stone.

Dante’s scales bite the soft flesh of her palm, a warning to back off while she can. She bears the weight of her small hand down, her fingers finding stability on the ridges of his scales. The fragments of Dante’s power linger in her hair, quietly singing their encouragement.

Beneath her small hand, Dante shatters—he jolts from the touch, it’s singed him. Patty echoes the action. She slams her hand against her chest, knocking her breath out.

Dante pants, his breaths lined with something inhuman.

“I got this,” Dante huffs, fixing his attention on Patty and trespassing the planes of her existence. He flashes her the points of his lips, in what looks to be some sort of grin.

Her lips tug down, and the hand cradled against her chest twitches.

Dante lifts his draconic wings, large, angled, and red. The insides swirl with patterns containing more questions than answers. He brings them down, the wind slaps her— he brings them up and repeats the slash, lacerating the heart on her sleeve to slivers.

His propped up knee lifts off the ground, and the leg that’d been flat against the floorboards begins to rise. His fingers slip out of the makeshift cavity in the floorboard.

Dante stands, and where his tall, sleek boots should be are the feet of a devil, hooked and looking like a bird’s feet. He stakes the needles on his toes into the ground. Utilizing his instruments, he launches himself off the ground in a blur of red.

Patty’s arms come forth, palms out. She braces herself against the shove of air, never releasing the ardent scale beneath her pinky. She hears Lady growl behind her in what can be described as annoyance.

She follows the blaze up to the ceiling, where it stills a breadth away from bringing it down on them. Dante’s wings encase him, sealing him from Patty before he unfurls them in a flourish. They span out his back, blocking the yellow light spilling from above. He’s looking down at Patty, his eyes upturned the faintest bit before beginning to slowly drop down. The hand splayed above the center of his chest keeps close.

Dante breathes laboriously, mouth clamped down as he descends, his eyes burning holes in the floor.

Patty’s hands drop to rest at her sides.

Dante lands before Patty, nails clacking against the floor.

“Don’t sweat it, sweetheart,” Dante rumbles, adjusting his wings. The center of his face is marred with a deep crease, and his legs are overly stiff.

His knees buckle before she can scold Dante. Rubber soles smack behind Patty. Lady, bursting through her peripheral vision, slides beside Dante. She hauls his arm off his chest, forcing him to expose the offensive mark.

“Lady,” Dante hisses, jerking his head toward Patty. He’s scrambling to get his balance right. His wings fumble to catch air.

The gash on his chest is dry, sizzling— the area around it has dried blood that’s begun to evaporate. It’s a familiar sight, demons do it all the time, their blood gurgles and pops filling the air with rot, yet Patty doesn't smell anything of the sort, only the heady scent of iron wafting off the pool of blood under Dante.

Patty’s only able to fret over the laceration for one more moment before Dante’s left wing slithers over it.

A grim, if you can even call it a smile, etches its way onto Patty’s lips, she steps forward, behind Dante, to analyze the devil arms on the back wall of Dante’s office table. Her face softens at the deep sigh Dante lets out.

Scuffling ensues, and after a sharp hiss, Patty scurries in front of them.

Lady has Dante’s arm secured over her shoulders, his forearm hanging over her front. Her knees slightly bend, but she keeps her posture straight while glaring at Dante’s profile. Dante has his head facing the other side of the office, his lips downturned. His right wing, which isn’t covering his chest, flutters, offering to buffer his weight, but quiets when it cannot unfold from where it is pressing against Lady’s side.

“I had that, you know,” Dante says, rolling his shoulders.

“Just go sit down. I’ll call Trish,” Lady says, shaking her head. She grits her teeth, swiveling them in the direction of the longue.

The longue rests beneath the loft, the sun’s rays never able to creep in. For Dante and Patty, the lounge is what they like to call a haven.

If Dante, post mission, is fatigued, he’ll slam back down on the couch with his lame magazine obscuring his face, knocking himself out for the rest of the day.

And whenever the orphanage’s vaulted ceilings remind her too much of the lack of figures she can look up to, she leaves. She clops down the stony sidewalks, up and into Devil May Cry, where she nestles herself against the couch’s armrest. It is there that she’ll find herself mesmerized by her romantic soaps, engulfed in the cool hues below the loft.

Occasionally, their intentions align, and they’ll both rest, watching soaps together as Patty explains the plot to Dante, who’s trying to smother himself with his magazine whilst grumbling.

Before Patty, Dante, and Lady start their trek. The first step makes the floorboards whine, and the second step results in Lady readjusting her hold on Dante.

Patty trails behind them, pocketing away every misstep that Dante walks off. She wonders if Lady notices it too, the way that he’ll subtly dip down before straightening out. And if she does, is she simply denying it exists for her sake or Dante’s? It’s when Dante’s ankle does a nasty roll that Patty skips to his vacant side.

She peers up at him. His dim eyes are already on her, his lips twitch up. He doesn’t reveal his sharp teeth.

Patty lifts her left hand, the bad one, and hovers it behind Dante’s wrist. The magma crackling down his forearm flickers.

She pays it no mind, even as her skin prickles. She lowers her hand, grazing his wrist, before situating her hand on him. She wraps her fingers around his wrist, stopping before the halfway mark at the front.

Dante’s wrist curls toward him, halting when he feels the bottom of his palm entrap her fingers. Dante rumbles deep in his chest, and it spills out of his skin, flooding Patty’s senses, the vibrations travelling down her arm to where she’s making contact.

It’s like the vibrations want to shake her off, loosening her hold. She puffs her cheeks and makes an irritated sound as she reinforces her grip—Dante relents, his wrist goes limp, and she feels the edge of his pinky trace the bottom of her arm. And for a moment, Dante’s nail feels round.

Patty’s shoulders sag, Dante smells like s’mores. Her cheeks touch the bottom of her eyes, a light giggle escaping her. She thinks of fathers urging their daughters to hold on tight while they sprint across the road, before that car in the distance runs them over. Softness pools within Patty, the idea of Dante helping her cross the street in an inadequate manner amusing. She thinks about him bisecting a car were it to come speeding at them, of him snatching her and catapulting them above the city line while Patty screams.

“Almost there,” Lady huffs out, wiggling Dante’s arm over her shoulder.

Everything on the couch is as it was when Patty had fled the shop. Dante’s guitar case lies against the end of the sofa, but no. Something is amiss. The couch is empty, there’s no note, Patty’s note from before is gone, and worst of all, there’s no proof that it had ever been there. There’s no ash or white shreds. Had it been incinerated when Dante changed?

Her grip on Dante falters, recovering just as fast as the slip-up.

Once in front of the couch, Dante frees his wing from Lady’s side, pushing her off. The other wing stutters to unfold, lifting slightly before resting over his chest again. In one quick motion, that wing leaps out, and he beats his wings down. Shoving Lady further away, she shouts at Dante. A gust of wind billows around Patty, whipping her hair every which way, her dress flutters, taking on the form of a lily of the valley.

Patty startles, but she’s determined not to let go, not even as Dante does a small twirl. On the contrary, she clings to him, squeezing her eyes shut while the momentum aims to yank her toward the nearest wall.

As swift as he spins, he halts.

She pries her eyes open, gasping, dipping the points of her shoes down to make contact against the plush surface of the couch. She’s hanging off of Dante’s wrist, her side pressed against his forearm. He’s holding her before him, inspecting her like when he’d treated her scratch.

“That’s better,” Dante says, maneuvering Patty beside him. He sets her down on the couch, relieving Patty of her death grip on him, and he retracts his arm.

“Wait,” Dante’s hand swoops into her hair, pinching a strand of blonde hair between his claws.

“Ow ow, Hey!” Patty yelps, subconsciously lolling her head toward Dante to ease the pain.

Dante’s nails shred her hair as they pull back. Her scalp is crying for help. She fruitlessly swats her free hand at Dante’s arm, sighing when he releases her.

“What was that for!?” Patty frowns. The corners of her eyes sting. She replaces the burn on her scalp with her hand, massaging the abused area. From her peripheral vision, Dante is fumbling with something.

She turns to him. A scale is placed between Dante’s index finger and thumb. He’s pressing on it, bending it, almost breaking it, but never actually cracking it. He hums at it, then flicks it.

“Just cleaning,” Dante says, reclining against the couch. He snuggles against the top, tearing it open with his horns. His arms rise to lie atop the sofa, and he kicks his leg over the other.

It’d be typical Dange behavior, except his shoulders and chest are drawn in. His breathing is mechanical, and he keeps popping his knuckles where his hand rests above Patty. She jumps up to butt her head against his knuckles, receiving a flick against her head.

“I’m going to use your phone, Dante,” Lady announces, dusting off her clothes. She looks irked, definitely not appreciating Dante’s outburst.

Dante nods, sinking further into the couch. He shuts his eyes, shuffling atop the couch for a good minute.

Lady lingers, skimming over Dante, who never once opens his eyes. Even without Lady’s scrutiny directly on her, Patty scoots to the other end of the couch.
Lady sends Patty her own personalized look, one built upon a small smile, then leaves, heading toward Dante’s desk. Each footfall is deafening until it’s just a tap.

Patty kicks her bloody shoes off and brings her legs up to sit criss-cross atop the sofa. She glances at Dante, his eyes still closed, very much aware of what’s happening as he turns away from Patty to conceal his chest just a bit more. His wing had already come up to seal her eyes away from his cut.

Sighing, Patty places her hands on her lap, face up. Nestled on the palms of her hands is Dante’s knee scale, blinking up at her. She tilts her head to the side, messing with it. She gives Dante another look. He’s still ‘resting’.

She reaches for the collar of her dress, pushing it aside to fish out a silver pendant. It’s smooth and glimmers no matter how dark it is under the loft. She finds that little knob on the side and twists it. The locket pops open.

Her eyes burn. It's a picture of her mother, she’s in front of a cerulean backdrop, wearing a red dress, wrapped around her neck is a clothing item resembling an ascot. Her lips are brushed red, and her dark blonde hair caresses the blush of her cheeks.

Patty taps her finger against her mother’s face wistfully. The photograph is sleek and brittle. Cold.

She rubs at the scale, it’s brusque but tepid. Giving it one last look, she nestles it at the center of the pendant just beneath her mother’s head.

Snapping the pendant shut, she moves to stow it away again.

Dante laughs under his breath, “You know that’s like keeping a nail clipping?”

Patty thumbs the ornate markings on her pendant and tucks it away. She can feel Dante’s eyes on her, softening.

Dante breathes out, his wing slightly unfolds, and he peers down. Patty stares at her lap, fiddling with the lace on her dress.

The couch huffs as Dante readjusts himself. Patty risks a peek. There’s nothing on his chest save for the crackling star of fire. In the background, Dante’s rotary phone clinks and gears shift.

The loft smells like pine, she’d mopped here not too long ago. The coffee table in front of them is sleek, with a singular strawberry drying at the corner.

Dante shifts his legs. They scrape over each other as he switches their places.

Her palms are sweaty, and she’s struggling to swallow this weird lump in her throat.

The lump catches in her syllables.

“Was that normal?”

Dante’s hand that had been dangling over her head slides behind the couch.

“Did it look normal?” Dante asks. His eyes shut again.

Patty leans forward. The puddle of blood by Dante’s desk is smaller, and there’s vapor wafting off it. Lady’s watching it with a bored expression, swirling the telephone wire around her finger. Patty sits back, posture hunched.

“I don’t know,” Patty says, truthfully. The things they experienced were hard to place on that normal spectrum.

“It wasn’t,” Dante answers.

The mass in her throat won’t go away. She tries to clear it. Her mouth tastes sour.

Patty turns to Dante, eyeing him up and down, “Then is this normal?”

Dante exhales, “Perhaps.”

“Lady seems to know about it.”

Dante knocks his head back, his eyes finally open, and he’s staring at the ceiling.

“She does,” Dante says, bouncing his leg.

Patty cradles her head in her moist hands. If possible, her posture droops more. A cloud blocks off the sun’s rays outside.

“I was scared,” Patty whispers, smooshing her mouth against her palms. The pink bandaids on her hand are slipping off. It was too much ointment.

Dante’s leg drops, his foot smacks against the floor, he bunches over himself like Patty, forearms on his knees, and he clasps his hands together.

He purrs. The tremble in his chest swaddles Patty, bundling her up and interrupting the subtle shake of her hands.

“How’s the hand?”

Patty lets her head balance in one hand. Her scratched-up hand lands between them. Dante’s hand is above hers immediately. He hovers over it, ghosting his claws over pink fabric, prodding at it with his pinkie. He’s sitting up straight now, somewhat facing Patty. His nail slips under the bandaid on her index finger, tugging it. It slips up. His purr turns heavy, guttural, slamming against Patty’s ribcage.

Lady’s chatter ceases.

“We’ll need to change them,” Dante says, clearing his throat, already scooting off the couch.

Lady resumes her conversation.

“Yeah,” Patty murmurs, slinking her hand back onto her lap.

Standing, Dante’s wings flare, heavily flapping down, he leaps toward the office table.

Chapter Text

“My arm hurts,” Patty whines. She wiggles her shoulder seeking relief from her current situation.

Dante and Patty are in the middle of the couch. She’s on the right and Dante on the left, they’re facing each other. In between them there’s a gap of about 3 feet. Her arm is outstretched toward Dante, bridging the distance. Her back is mildly hunched. He’s holding her wrist so her palm is against his. He’s replacing the second to last bandaid with his other hand.

He had flown toward his office desk to retrieve another box of bandaids and ointment. Like before he was tending to her hand. Apply, bandage, apply, bandage and so forth. It was almost the same, except Patty would determine how much ointment she needed. As her skin was still struggling to absorb the first round of ointment.

“I’m almost done,” Dante says, inspecting the little scratch on her ring finger. The inflammation has gone down, yet Dante continues fussing over her scratches. It’s like he’s paranoid that the scratches will turn into a giant gash, similar to the one he had on his chest.

Patty’s free hand thumbs the seam of the couch. Her arm is killing her. She flinches as Dante’s hand agitates the angry line. Mirroring her reaction, he’s quick to soothe over it. Fetching the ointment off of the coffee table he starts to apply it.

Patty monitors him. She blinks and there’s a mountain of the stuff on her finger.

“Dante!” Patty scolds.

She glares at her finger. Wiggling it, she flicks off some of the ointment. The gunk lands on Dante’s forearm. Sizzling the ointment dries.

“Alright—I’ll keep it clean,” Dante huffs, not making any effort to prove it. He sets the ointment down and fishes out another bandaid. He single-handedly strips the paperback off it then wraps Patty’s finger.

Antimicrobial leaks out from beneath the bandaid. He dabs at the spillage with the pad of his finger which momentarily heats up and dries the excess.

“Is that better princess,” Dante drawls, teasingly.

“It is,” Patty says, smiling through the pain. Her arm is on fire, begging her to set it down, but as it is, Dante’s not letting go anytime soon.

Dante shakes his head disapprovingly. He moves onto the final finger and takes his sweet time inspecting it.

Staring at her quivering arm seems to make the ache worse. Patty turns her attention to Lady. She’s at the pool table. Smacking around the object balls and playing a game on her own. She’s the epitome of focus. Her brows are knit and her body slips between shooting positions.

Shortly after nurse Dante had arrived at the scene. Lady had informed them of Trish’s impending arrival. Her tone at the time had seemed lighter. Patty thought it had something to do with taking so long on the phone.

In Patty’s unsolicited opinion, it shouldn’t take that long to invite someone over. However, that wasn’t Patty’s business. Patty was only interested in Trish coming to help them. She didn’t know much about Trish, just that she was another of Dante’s lady friends, was strong like Lady and was a demon.

Feeling a tug on her finger. Patty turns back to Dante. He’s bending her finger in every way possible. In the background the cue cracks another object ball and shuffling ensues.

Patty’s arm is gonna break off if Dante continues doting over her.

Deciding against rolling her shoulder again. Patty sits up straight. The movement drags Dante’s arm toward her. She keeps her eyes on where they’re connected. Dante stills, most likely awaiting another barrage of complaints. Which Patty wouldn’t hesitate on verbalizing.

The gap beneath their connected hands is blaring. They’re so close yet so far. Why was Dante making her suffer?

Patty turns her head to where her free hand is situated. Pressing her hand hard against the sofa, she launches herself in Dante’s direction. Friction works to restrain her efforts with a small whir unzipping beneath her. The distance from her respective armrest increases. This is the antidote she needs for her crumbling arm.

When she turns her head back. The distance is the same. Dante did the opposite of her.

What a loser! Did he really want her to suffer?

Glaring at Dante, she tries again and springs toward him. Deciding to foil her plans again, Dante propels himself away from Patty. A profound crack drowns out the object balls hitting each other nearby.

Did he just? Patty leans to the side, away from the sofa. Her mouth goes slack. Are those pieces of wood on the floor? Putting two and two together, Patty deduces that Dante has demolished his armrest.

If there was one thing they both had in common, it was their stubbornness. Which in this case drives Patty into either making Dante accept his fate, or choosing to fall off the couch. It was his choice.

Dante’s lips curve up. Oh—it’s on.

Accepting his challenge, she scoots toward him again. He doesn’t move back. Instead, he starts to lean toward her. The hand cradling her own starts to push her arm back. It looks like she’s gonna win. Dante doesn’t want to fall off the couch. All she has to do now is press onward. She revels at the sight of Dante’s smile faltering.

The push of his arm against her own mitigates the ache coursing beneath her skin. She has what she wants.

Seriously, why is he going through all this trouble to keep her away?

He had easily accepted her touch after that whole demonic charade. Sure, he had tried to shake her off more than once. That was excusable though. After nearly being strangled, who could blame him for being jumpy at every touch. Still, he’d eventually accepted her touch. What’s so different now?

She takes in Dante’s expression again. In place of the smile he had earlier is a flat line. A crease lines the middle of his eyes. He’s focused on the minuscule space left between them.

Does Dante see something she doesn’t? If she were to seal the distance between them would a sinkhole open up and swallow her whole?

The space between them has been reduced to mere inches. Changing up her pace, she mends the gap in small increments and frowns as Dante stiffens.

Faltering when she meets resistance from him, her attention snaps toward their connection. His hand gently continues to push her arm toward her. She grunts and fights back by pressing against his arm. Her peripheral vision catches something twitching.

Without warning the soft grip on her wrist tightens. Her breath hitches causing his firm grip to slack .

The mellow scent wafting off him turns to acrid smoke.
Every inhale she takes deposits ash into her stomach. Is this what sets Dante off? After everything she’s done, is sitting next to him on the sofa where he draws the line?

Patty’s pounced on Dante for piggy back rides. He’d then always finish what she started. Only stopping if Patty declared she wanted off her steed.

Patty halts, she’s 3 inches away from him. There’s steam oozing off of Dante’s forearm. She follows his arm to where his wing is incessantly scraping against his side.

Holding her breath she takes the final step. It’s beyond catastrophic. His frenzied wing unfolds and extends toward her, red and fast. The wing’s peak dutifully remains arched toward Dante.

Patty gasps. The warmth on her wrist departs. A wall of red obscures her from Dante. Sturdy leather brushes against her cheek.

Her throat swells. The side of his wing presses against her. Demanding she go back to where she was. She doesn’t want to go back. She moves the arm that aches and presses her palm against Dante’s wing. She clings onto the couch with her other hand, feeling as each individual fiber rubs her skin raw.

His wing is a shield against her apparent attack that works to repel her. A particularly hard push loosens Patty’s hold on the couch. Water pours behind her eyes. The soreness in her arm intensifies and her arm begins to quake before giving in. With a final shove Dante succeeds at renewing their initial distance.

The gap between them has turned into a sinkhole.

Despite the hooked tip of Dante’s wing not laying a talon on her. A profound hurt pierces her.

Dante’s wing goes home. He remains against his busted armrest, not meeting Patty’s glassy eyes.

Another chunk of the broken armrest thumps onto the floor. Dante leans forward again. Picking up where he left off, he recollects Patty’s hand.

Just like that he’s back to dawdling over her little scratch. Only, it’s nothing like before, he doesn’t turn her finger in every way possible. She can’t find it in herself to rejoice at the short inspection.

Dante fumbles for the tube of ointment. Aiming it over her scratch, he squeezes it. The ointment pours out thick and icky. His talons dig into the plastic, wanting to puncture it.

The cap clicks shut without her input. She almost feels proud of him for stopping before it became too much. He ties the final bandaid onto her finger and lets go. Patty places her hand on her lap to inspect it.

The bandaid is crooked. Pinching at a crease on it, she notes that unlike the others it’s loose.

Dante curses under his breath, presumably about the broken armrest.

Shifting her attention to Lady, she’s surprised to see her already looking at her from the other side of the pool table. She has the cue resting flat against the green felt.

Lady turns her attention to Dante as does Patty. Dante’s sitting with his back against the sofa. His arms are folded over his chest with his head lolled back on the headrest. He has his eyes closed as he bounces one leg over the other.

Beside her Lady stabs the cue onto the floor. Lady’s eyebrows knit together and her lips pull back ready to charge into Patty’s defense.

Patty’s eyes widened. Showing her palms toward Lady, Patty shakes them along with her head in a motion meant to say no.

Noticing Patty, Lady’s hardened expression morphs to confusion. Heeding her non-verbal request, Lady sends a scalding glare at Dante. Scraping the floorboards, Lady sets the end of the cue atop her hand. Tapping the cue, she sets a rhythm and continues to intimidate Dante.

Patty supposes the glare is better than verbal assault.

There was no one to blame for Dante’s actions except Patty, she had been the one to push his buttons. Patty who couldn’t accept when she wasn’t wanted. The thought travels down to her heart where it takes root.

She shifts to imitate Dante’s position, and lets her hands smooth down the front of her dress. Although she’s not the focus of Lady’s ire, her glare still causes Patty’s hairs to stand on end. Dante on the other hand is faring much better under Lady’s scrutinization.

He’s opened his eyes and is meeting Lady’s blazing scowl head on. They combat each other’s vision, stopping only when there’s a noticeable shift in the air.

Dante’s throat bobs and Lady quits bashing the cue on her hand.

Steadily, Lady turns back to her game. Patty catches a smile escaping from where her black bangs obscure her face. The smile unnerves Patty for reasons she doesn’t want to acknowledge.

“You can’t ever say what you mean. Can you?,” Lady says, positioning herself to strike at an object ball.

Beside her Dante breathes out and tosses Lady a smile.

His smoky stench smothers Patty.

Patty’s head bows. She watches her hands fist her dress.

What did Dante want to say? Apprehension feeds the reason she doesn’t want to hear. That she’s not wanted here, not by Dante, and now even by Lady who supports his decision. It’s what friends do right? They’re supposed to support each other’s choices and all that. Her hands quiver.

Wanting to snuff out the roots of rejection drilling into her heart, Patty considers that Dante’s doing what he’s always done. He wants to keep her out of harm's way. Dante had said the sigils weren’t normal. Maybe something even weirder was bound to happen.

Yeah. That’s it.

Patty observes him. His wings lay flat at his sides, his scales shimmer and he’s once again reclining against the sofa. There’s a mountain of couch fluff around his spiny head. His closed eyes twitch while he chases an unattainable nap.

Much to Patty’s disappointment, nothing appears amiss. Dante wasn’t dumb. He wouldn’t try sleeping knowing there’s danger. He could be careless but even he wouldn’t chase after death… right?

Lady doesn’t seem to be expecting anything either. She has Kalina Ann resting against the pool table. If Patty stares hard enough at the bayonet it starts to look red.

There’s no danger, her mind unhelpfully reinforces.

She gulps. This stopped being about her aching arm a long time ago.

‘Go play family with someone else.’

That’s what he had said right before she ran out. She’d tried to not take it to heart after everything that happened. Thinking back to Dante’s current actions she reasons that he’s mentally recuperated enough to not indulge Patty’s selfish delusions.

All the proof she‘s not wanted is there, but she still wants to give Dante a chance. He’s the closest she’s ever had to something akin to family.

She tries to subtly creep toward Dante. The couch fabric is rough beneath her skin. The friction on her dress’s ruffles crackles. She makes it halfway without Dante moving. The dread manifesting within her desires one thing and one thing only, to be proven wrong by Dante. She quickens her shuffling, eager to disarm this uncertainty.

She’s only overthinking things and Dante does want her around.

A puff of hot air blows her hair back. She slightly tilts her head to the side.

The side of Dante’s face twitches. His wing shoots out with a whistle. The peak of his wing is nowhere near Patty yet it still manages to shatter her fragile hope. She flinches. The side of his wing has a jaggedness to it, which digs into her puff sleeve. It effectively halts her movements. She stares wide eyed at the contact then searches for Dante’s reaction.

He’s all smoldering eyes and barb headedness as he burns through Patty’s delicate flesh. Shrinking in on herself, Patty’s vision becomes wet.

“Don’t,” Dante whispers. The creases on his face deepen. He turns his head away from her.

Don’t come near me.

I don’t need you.

‘I got it’.

The roots of rejection embed themselves. Patty’s heart jolts against her rib cage.

The edge of his wing pulls the strings of her sleeve taut. Maneuvering her hand toward Dante’s wing she deliberately unhooks her sleeve. In the process her knuckles end up brushing against his tepid scales.

Her jaw clenches. Her molars squeal. She tastes brine on her lips and realizes it’s the remnants of a tear.

Dante’s wing remains by her shoulder. She shoves it away. Who needs you anyway! It’s futile. His wing hardly retracts. Grasping the edge of his wing, she tries again. It pushes against her hand and toward her face. She jumps. Her hand slides off the appendage.

The side of his wing brushes against her cheek, evaporating the ocean’s trail beneath its brusque exterior. It’s a familiar feeling, that he does care. Her hands rise, desperate to catch him before he leaves her, but he’s gone.

Her gaze follows the wing to the side of Dante’s face.

She may be as stubborn as Dante but even she knows when to surrender. She considers her perspective armrest. It's deeper within the loft’s shadow which causes the couch’s vibrant red to turn maroon.

With great effort she forces herself away from Dante. The further from him she gets, the stiffer and colder the couch beneath her gets. She makes it beside the armrest and steadies her arm on it.

Dante’s glimmering scales simmer down and his posture sags. He’s content that Patty’s no longer near him.

Her throat hurts. She whips her head away from Dante.

Crushing the armrest, Patty concentrates on Dante's paper covered wall. Hidden beneath Dante’s makeshift posters is one of her drawings. It's wrinkled at the corners. The drawing heavily implies Dante gets a new wardrobe. Courtesy of Patty, she’s drawn what she thinks would fit him better.

When she had given him the drawing. He had scoffed and crumpled it up but later that day Patty had found it tacked beside that stupid pizza poster he had. Apart from the triumph that came from irking Dante. She felt a warmth blossom every time she saw the drawing on the wall.

Now the drawing looks poorly made. Dante’s hair is larger on one side and she didn’t pick the right shade of blue for his eyes.

Deep down Patty wishes it was her first day with Dante. If it were she wouldn’t care about him brushing her off. She would have delighted in it. He was a jerk and slob after all. Another hot tear drips down. She rubs it off.

Suddenly, the heavy wooden doors of Devil May Cry whine open.

The afternoon sun crawls in. The living version of the portrait on Dante’s desk struts in. She’s clad in glossy leather.

Trish.

The doors to the shop click shut behind her. Trish analyzes the room. She lingers on the busted floorboards and Dante’s otherworldly blood that’s still evaporating by his desk. Shutting her eyes, Trish sniffs the air. Her lips curl and she scrunches her nose.

Trish’s pale blue eyes lock onto Dante. He acts unaware of his new guest.

“This place reeks,” Trish scoffs. She stalks toward Dante’s desk. Trish inspects the items on the desk which probably consist of papers, pens, and scales…

Trish doesn't bat an eye at the sight of Dante’s scales. Choosing to prod at them like any other object.

Apparently everyone except Patty knew about the logistics behind this situation. At this rate she wouldn’t be surprised if Morrison knew too. Patty brings her knees up and hugs her legs. She rests her head atop her knees.

“When doesn’t it,” Lady says, smacking another object ball.

Patty opts out of telling Lady she’s an excellent cleaner. She’s still reeling at being excluded from Dante's thing.

Trish quits rummaging through Dante’s desktop and heads toward them. Setting her sights on Dante, Trish’s steely gaze never once falters. Once in front of Dante and Patty, Trish folds her arms over her chest. Dante acknowledges Trish with a hum. Trish’s eyes narrow.

“Smells like demon shit,” Trish says. She purses her lips.

Patty stills at her comment. Patty hopes the demon shit in question isn’t Dante. Patty glares at Trish and pouts. Her cheeks heat up.

Trish doesn’t address Patty.

“You got that right,” Dante replies. He displays his talons to Trish with a flourish.

Trish sighs, unamused. She rests her hand on her hip.

“Lady told me what happened, but I wanna hear it from you,” Trish says, pointing at Dante with her other hand.

Patty kind of knows what happened. She’s just having trouble wrapping her head around how Dante got turned into a demon. No one else thought it was shocking. It makes Patty wonder if Dante getting cursed is a normal occurrence.

“Got cursed—at the alley by Fredi’s,” Dante says, jutting his bottom lip out, “I was about to finish ‘em off then—smash. Glass breaks on my face, and now I’m stuck like this.” He motions toward himself. His wings partially flare.

Patty latches onto every word. Unfortunately Dante’s speech is direct which doesn’t leave any room for Patty to speculate.

Trish remains quiet for a moment then speaks, “did you bring anything with you?”

Dante grins, that smile of his that never touches his cheeks.

“I did, after realizing this was going to be a problem,” Dante says. His hand slides over the busted armrest. He fishes out his guitar case and sets it on his lap.

Vrrrp. He unzips his leather case. His supposed guitar glints dangerously. From the case’s velvet confines, Dante snags a shard of glass. It’d look like any other glass if not for the iridescent shimmer that’s pulsing off it.

Patty’s endears hitches. She’d recognize that gleam anywhere.

It’s a shard from an elixir bottle.

He does a neat trick and catches it between his forefinger and thumb. He flicks it at Trish who seamlessly catches it. Trish holds the shard in the palm of her hand.

“It has a weird smell,” Dante says, scrunching his nose.

Trish hums contemplative and voices what Patty knows.

“It’s from an elixir. A buffer at that,” Trish says. She brings the shard to her nose and takes a whiff. Moving the shard away, she holds it in front of her face, “a weak demon wanted more power.”

Dante huffs. His hand dips into the guitar case. Grabbing his sword by the handle, he slightly lifts it up. The creepy skull on it freaks Patty out.

“You think so?,” Dante asks. Utilizing it as his personal mirror, Dante tilts the blade toward him. He turns his head a bit and runs a hand down his scaled cheek.

Patty’s hand rubs against her skin. Compared to Dante’s armored skin, hers is thin and fragile. It’s hard to believe he’d been like her this morning.

“It is,” Patty whispers, confirming that it is only an elixir.

Patty seizes. Everyone’s focus shifts to her with each set of eyes weighing her down.

Dante’s eyes gleam, crinkling up beneath his lash line. Trish’s gaze remains cool, save for a flicker that passes over them. Lady appears beside Trish with a curious expression.

“I’ve made elixirs,” Patty starts. She fumbles for her pendant. She sets it inside her hand and feels Dante’s fragment vibrate through the silver, “I was given a tomb about elixirs alongside this pendant when I was born.”

Trish fully faces her, “you’re a Lowell. Correct?”

Patty presses the pendant against her chest and breathes out. She thumbs at it to distract herself from Trish’s calculating demeanour.

“Yes.”

“Perfect,” Trish says, placing her hands on her hips.

Patty tilts her head to the side.

“Perfect?” Dante asks. His lips curl to reveal his pointed teeth. He gives Patty a once over. Turning back to Trish, he lets his sword settle back inside its leathery confines.

“The Lowell’s are capable of making demons obey their will,” Trish says, strutting toward Patty, “their units would sometimes be too weak. Which necessitated the creation of buffers to strengthen their units. Likewise debuffs were made alongside them to weaken powerful demons.”

Trish towers over Patty. Her shadow intensifies the murkiness beneath the loft. Patty hikes her vision toward her eyes.

Trish was right. Patty’s tomb was dedicated to elixirs that either enhanced or nullified demonic powers. Seldom were there recipes for humans. The few that did exist were healing mixtures. Patty would have to consult her tomb in order to find out if this elixir truly was a buffer. As far as she knew, buffers and debuffers were only meant for demons. Patty didn’t know the effects of a demonic concoction on the human body. Unfortunately, Dante may have found out.

What’s really shocking to her is the fact that her family knew how to control demons. It finally made sense why she was given this tomb in the first place. Would she be able to control demons one day too?

“The Lowell’s also thought it’d be wise to strengthen their olfactory sense,” Trish says. A hint of a smile grazes her painted lips. She leans down and offers the glass to Patty, “in doing so, tracking down ingredients became a breeze. All they need is the olfactory description of an item and they’re ready to hunt truffles,” Trish jokes at the end.

Did Patty just get compared to a truffle hog? Trish. Patty mentally hisses.

Patty releases her pendant and tentatively reaches for the glass. She was unsure if this ability was something to be proud of. Dante’s silence doesn’t help the matter. Although that shouldn’t matter, he’d made his stance about her clear.

Cautiously accepting the glass, Patty’s mindful about not adding more lacerations to herself. The glass itself is smooth. It has an oily quality to it that leaves a filmy sheen on her skin. The essences clinging to the shard tickle her nose.

Somewhat trembling, Patty wafts at the glass with her empty hand.

Patty’s olfactory system detonates. Scents bombard her nose. There’s two scents that directly bind to her memories: Rosemary and Bayleaf. Beneath that there’s a swarm of otherworldly ingredients. Demonic ingredients. Patty had never had the displeasure of taking a whiff of them. Having only envisioned their stench by words alone, but it was safe to say there was nothing delectable about it.

The demonic ingredients reek a: metallic odor that makes your stomach lurch, flesh melting decay and smoke.

Patty’s eyes well up. Her throat spasms in an effort to cleanse itself. She jerks the shard toward Trish. Trish promptly plucks it out of Patty's hand and stores it in her pocket.

Trish has the decency to ask if she’s okay. Patty hears Dante rustle on his end of the couch.

“We demons also have exceptional noses, but we have to wade through more noise unlike Patty,” Trish explains. She points at Patty, “Little Miss Lowell is still a human at the end of the day which allows for less distractions in the environment. Plus, it looks like she knows her stuff.”

Most of what Trish says registers, but Patty can’t help getting caught up in her usage of we. Trish is a demon. Dante right now is also a demon. Patty shakes her head, there’s nothing to think about. What’s still piquing her curiosity is how casually everyone is reacting to Dante’s current state. Then again, it wouldn’t do them any good if everyone was panicking like Patty.

If Lady and Trish were like her then they’d stand around like Patty, doing nothing. Being useless.

“Color me surprised,” Dante says, scratching at one of his horns.

“She’ll be helpful when we go investigate,” Trish says.

Trish’s indirect invitation lands like a buoy in Patty’s overflowing thoughts. She splashes toward it invigorated. She’s almost there—the buoy is ripped away from her.

“Patty’s staying here,” Dante hisses. Baring his teeth at Trish, he sits at his proper height. The movement causes his guitar to almost fall off his lap.

“Patty is a valuable asset,” Trish says, glancing at Dante, “she’s got this. Right Patty?” Trish asks. The corner of her lip quirks up.

Whether she had it in terms of properly identifying everything was something Patty wasn’t so sure of. Patty had read through her tomb numerous times, but hadn’t bothered learning more about the demonic parts. Instead she’d focused on the brews meant for human consumption which didn’t involve things like demon blood or a hellhound’s tooth. Regardless, Patty wanted to try. She’d scour her mind for whatever knowledge she had about demonic components.

Patty wanted to be useful and not sit around the Devil May Cry.

Her mind made up. Patty clears her throat and speaks, “I can. I want to help—“

A guttural snarl tears itself from Dante’s throat. Patty’s body thrums. His wings fan out, sending a blast of air. Patty’s hair whips behind her. His hardy skin reignites, sizzling.

The vapor emanating from Dante is almost unbearable. Patty starts to climb over her armrest.

“My nestling—is not an asset,” Dante roars. His wings beat down. He rises to his feet with a clatter. The result of that clatter: his guitar case and sword falling off his lap.

Patty’s breath hitches. His unrecognizable warbling causes the hairs on Patty’s neck to stand. She scrambles off the armrest and crashes onto the floor beside the couch. Pain ripples throughout her body. She groans.

Patty clambers onto her knees and pokes her head above the armrest. She utilizes the couch’s wall as a barrier. To put it plainly, there’s a furious Dante looming over a bored Trish. The mark on his chest burns bright.

What’s supposed to be the sunless area beneath the loft is now overrun in Dante’s flames.

Trish absentmindedly twirls a lock of her hair.

“Oh my,” Trish says, amused.

Patty’s panicked eyes lock with Dante’s scorching ones. The hellfire warring within his gaze placates. His lips draw over the daggers in his maw. Flinching, he falls back onto the couch. Placing his hands on his lap, Dante squints at them. He knits his brows together and repeats his sentiments in a hushed tone.

“Patty’s staying.”

His head turns to Patty. His expression is pinched like the mere idea of Patty coming along will make him hurl. It pummels her already bruised heart, but the sentiment also gives rise to Patty’s headstrong nature. She’d already made up her mind. Patty could help. Trish certainly thought so. Lady herself hadn’t said anything to discourage her.

Pushing through her wobbling legs, Patty hauls herself onto the unstable armrest. She plants her feet on the wobbly surface and hobbles to maintain her balance. Placing a hand on her hip, she points at Dante.

Even if Dante doesn’t want her around… she still wants to help. She would tamp down her own hurt for Dante. It wasn’t a requirement for Dante to accept her as something more than just a job—as his daughter. Really it wasn’t his fault, nor was this curse that caused him an ache deeper than she knew about.

Dante had saved her countless times—as part of his job. Patty winces at the notion. If she could do one simple thing to repay him then she would. It’s the least she could do after being so bothersome.

“I’m not a baby! I can do it,” Patty states. She looks around the room. Trish is smiling up at her. Lady is adjusting Kalina Ann back on her person and Dante’s brows are still knit tight.

With roiling eyes, he contemplates Patty which in turn causes her to almost splat onto the couch. Her skin boils beneath Dante’s unspoken thoughts. She didn’t care if he said no again. She would find a way to go.

The pedant resting on her chest buzzes.

Dante sighs. His drawn shoulders slack. He reaches down for his guitar case and sword. A beat passes. Patty’s blood is storming through her ears.

“Stay close to Lady and Trish,” Dante says, setting his sword back inside the case.

Stay away from me.

Patty’s posture deflates.

“Just give me a moment,” Patty says, hopping off the couch. She’s reminded of her lack of shoes. Seeing as they’re caked in blood, she doesn’t bother putting them back on.

She heads toward the metal stairs of the loft and ascends. Her footfalls twang against the icy metal.

The loft is Patty’s room, regardless if it has walls or not. It’s a space just for her.

Following their first excursion, Patty had rushed up the loft and claimed it as her room. Dante letting her stay at the Devil May Cry was all a part of making his job easier since he’d promptly be able to guard her if necessary. At least that’s what Patty thought.

Anyhow, Dante hadn’t been too keen on letting Patty set up shop in his shop. Insistent, Patty had plowed through Dante’s resistance, thus her room was official.

Yeah. Impose on his space, Patty. He’ll definitely appreciate that.

She visually digests her room. The loft’s railing is made of silver pipes. In front of her, at the very back, there’s a small bed pressed against the wall. Beside her bed sits a large chest with her name scribbled on it. That’s where she keeps her clothes.

Alongside the entrance of the loft where Patty stands are towers of cardboard boxes with Dante’s scrawl. Everything is in its place. The loft is the only place that stays clean when she’s gone.

Scurrying to her trunk, she riffles through various
garments and extracts a notepad and pen. She tests the ink on the notepad. Satisfied it still paints she starts her trek back downstairs, but halts at the sounds of a conversation rising through the floor.

“Nestling?” Trish teases.

Lady laughs.

Oh yeah, Patty had kind of heard him say that. She hadn’t been too sure if she heard right though, considering his words had been hard to understand. If given the opportunity she should ask him what it means.

“It slipped out— besides it’s my job to take care of her,” Dante says.

His job.

A sharp spasm in her hands causes her to drop her stuff. Picking it back up, she bites her bottom lip to keep it from wobbling and makes her way down the frigid stairs.

Everyone is waiting for Patty at the bottom of the stairs. Dante’s thumbing the strap of his guitar case which is slung behind his back, Lady has Kalina Ann strapped and Trish twirls a gun in her hand.

In a silent agreement they all head toward the shop’s exit. Right before opening the door, Dante speaks up.

“Hold on—“ Dante begins. He purses his lips and tilts his head at Trish, “how come she wasn’t able to get all the scents?”

“It’s not enough material, she’s still human after all,” Trish glances at Patty, “so she needs the full thing.”

“Why not bring it to her?” Dante asks.

“Elixirs have different durations, some will last longer while others will—“

“Will dry up faster,” Patty finishes for Trish.

Trish cocks her hip to the side and makes a sound of approval. Patty grins.

Dante taps his foot against the floor.

“I get it. It could dry out by the time we get back.”

“Correct,” Trish says, pressing the spine of her gun against her shoulder.

Trish knows her stuff. All she needs is Patty’s ability and poof. Patty wouldn’t be here. Patty almost feels bad that her ability is interfering with Dante’s responsibility along with his sudden need to keep her as far away from him as possible.

The rustling of arms and leather remind Patty of their current predicament. Exiting the shop they begin their journey to the alley end, hopeful that they’ll find the rest of the elixir.

Patty instinctively seeks Dante’s side. It earns her a gentle yet upsetting coax from his wing toward Lady and Trish. Withholding a frown, Patty relents.

Patty ends up sandwiched between Lady and Trish while Dante trails behind the 3 of them.

There’s a couple of gasps and shrieks from the passersby that take notice of Dante. Sometimes they even get stopped for the sake of a quick snap. Dante has the decency to curtly decline. Aside from that the trek to the alley end near Fredi’s diner is exceptional.

The alley is between two red brick buildings. It’s narrow and swallows the daylight. It reeks of trash and another pungent stench that melds into Patty’s tongue. There’s brown puddles of water littering the stone ground. Upon further examination of the puddles there are streaks of red intertwining within the filth. There’s a back wall at the alley containing an enormous red splotch that Patty struggles to ignore.

There are remnants of a glass bottle a couple of feet in front of the wall. The sun that is able to sneak in refracts over the scattered glass. The bottle is sleek and moist and holds that same iridescent sheen from the shop.

Patty heaves out a sigh of relief. There’s plenty of residue. In fact the shards are submerged in a small puddle of the elixir.

Pressing one arm against her nose to stifle the putrid odor. Patty clutches her notepad and pencil against her chest.

“Just in time,” Lady drawls, jutting her hip to the side as she takes in the scene.

“What were you fighting?” Trish asks, taking the first step toward the spilled contents.

Patty follows, minding the sludge on the ground. She thinks of the man from the diner that Dante had been eyeing. She grimaces. That giant splatter at the back wall was all that was left of him. It was a good thing Dante only killed demons.

“The usual,” Dante replies, following behind Trish and Patty. Lady remains at his side.

Patty knew the usual. Demons and demons acting like humans. It was disturbing to think about how many people could be demons.

Patty kicks a bloodied stone out of the way.

“Clearly not,” Lady says.

Up close the magical puddle ripples with energy. Between the shards of glass there’s a small soaked scrap of paper. It must be the name of the elixir, as it is though, the writing is made illegible.

She clicks her pen and flips open her notepad. Beside her Trish stands, silent. It’s unnerving to say the least. She’s already nervous enough, having to get this right.

Patty can already taste the scents from where she’s at. It leaves her mind grappling, are the tastes foul or pleasant? She’ll have to dig through the stagnant pollution to find out.

Placing her equipment under her chin, Patty fists the front of her dress into a knot. That’ll keep her fine silks from touching the noxious ground. Patty crouches down. The supernatural fragrance billows against her face. Begrudgingly she lets her hand fall from her nose.

Shutting her eyes in concentration, she inhales. Tears prick the corners of her eyes. She wills herself to wade through the aggressive stench. She hunts for the elusive essences. And when she catches the barest hint of rosemary. She pounces onto the sharp scent. Following the rosemary, she discovers the other earthly materials.

Patty flits through her mental repertoire of information and opens her notepad. She starts jotting down the names as soon as she's able to make a match. She runs into trouble when she encounters those hellish components from before. She should have bothered remembering the descriptions of them. She has a vague idea of what they could be but she doesn’t want to guess what they are.

This has to be exact. She can’t get anything wrong.

Gripping her pen too hard, Patty leaves a dastardly ink blot on the page.

Trish must sense her slowing down. Which does horrors to Patty’s festering doubt.

“You got it?” Trish asks, above her.

She takes another whiff. She hacks at the decay within the elixir and the preexisting odors within the alley end. Trish had advocated for her. She can’t let her down too, but alas Patty has to succumb to failure.

“I can’t figure out the demon stuff,” Patty shamefully admits.

Trish hums. She must be waiting for Patty to directly ask her for help. Patty can’t tell if that adds insult to injury or if she’s grateful Trish still believes in her.

Ugh—why can't she get it? The spilled elixir shimmers. At this point she’s lightheaded from how many times she’s fruitlessly sniffed the air.

Inching toward the puddle, Patty’s able to see her reflection wiggle. Her jaw is taut and her face is flushed from either embarrassment or irritation. She has one task.

Patty glances at Dante and jerks in surprise. He’s already observing her with his arms folded over his chest. He’s about 6 feet away from her and Trish. Regardless, Patty is able to discern the crinkle between his eyes that tells her everything she needs to know.

It’s the sigils incident all over again.

Dante’s expression deteriorates. If she wasn’t sure before, now she’s beyond sure that Dante’s disappointed in her.

Snapping her head back to the puddle. She abuses her bottom lip and fills her lungs with the magical essence. Her nostrils burn. The puddle roils.

A firm hand lands on her shoulder. Patty jolts.

“What do you smell?” Trish asks, softly.

Patty tentatively meets her eye.

“It smells like ash, copper and smoke,” Patty hesitantly says.

Trish’s fingers delicately dig into her shoulder, “sounds like hellroot, crimson berries and demon parts.”

Patty’s equal parts relieved and disappointed. Relieved because they know all the components within the compound and disappointed because she couldn’t figure it out. Patty opts to focus on the good part. With this list they’ll be able to find what elixir Dante was doused in. After that they’ll be able find the treatment that Dante needs.

A shrill whine nearly costs Patty their efforts. Patty darts her eyes around the alley searching for the source. Trish’s hand releases her shoulder. Her gun cocks.

Following Trish’s lead, metal and gun chambers whistle and clack.

Patty turns her head toward Dante and Lady. They’re glaring at the entrance of the alley.

At the opening bricks shake and clatter onto the ground. A neon red cobweb like barrier sprouts out of the cracks and blocks the entrance. It pulses and shoots over them effectively blocking out the sky.

Beside her Trish whips her gun each and every way.

Patty’s heart smacks against her rib cage and her body goes taut.

Another blood curdling screech pierces the air. Patty slaps her hands over her ears. Still searching for the origin, her hasty sight falls on Dante. There’s a puddle of ebony mist gurgling beside him. Choking on a scream—Patty watches as a bony hand rises out of the puddle. It slams against the cobblestone.

If possible the miasma bonded to the alley end worsens.

Dante observes the withering hand, with something akin to amusement. He lets it palm at the cobblestone where it’s eventually able to find purchase. The thing begins to haul itself out of its crater. It groans. The top of its hooded skull breaks through first, then its soulless empty eyes which make Patty shudder. Knowing demons, it must want a taste of her blood.

Patty flimsily reaches for Trish’s leather jeans.

Bang.

The skull and arm explode. Shards of bone splinter, flying out.

Dante’s firearm sizzles. He twirls it with style and pointedly grins. He fires at the incomprehensible skull again and again until there’s nothing but a pile of white debris on the ground.

Patty shivers and turns her head toward the bloody wall. The previous carnage there bearable compared to watching Dante scatter bone particles.

On the opposite end, Dante and Lady are surrounded by numerous ominous pits. From the cavities decayed limbs burst forth, ready to fight for their meals.

“Protect the kid,” Dante shouts. His voice is deep and sounds way too close to the demons swarming them.

Just after Dante prompts Trish and Lady to protect Patty. Something whizzes above Patty. Her head whips up. Behind the portal to hell, a porcelain doll face emerges. A flashy pair of oversized shears accompany it. It rabidly giggles, giddy to kill Patty. Clanking its scissors together, it lunges at Patty.

Screaming, Patty shields herself with her arms. She’s going to die.

A blast of wind blows against Patty. A crash follows along with a wail. Cracking her eyes open, Patty shakily locates the sound.

The bloodied brick wall is crumpled. From the rubble, Trish rises with her back toward her. She has her leg propped atop of something that’s thrashing beneath her heel.

For a fleeting moment there’s an opening inside the barrier. Their spindly entrapment must feel the tear because it’s quick to seal the opening.

The thing under Trish’s diamond heel groans. It attempts to one hand its shears but fails. A shower of sparks illuminates the area as Trish shoots the shears out of its hand. Lightning proceeds to incinerate the demon.

Too engrossed at the sight before her, Patty fails to notice that another gateway has opened nearby.

Suddenly, there’s something crushing Patty’s leg. It’s frigid. Peering down, Patty shrieks, it’s another skeletal demon swathed in black robes. Stumbling, she causes the attacker to slip out of the portal. Its mouth rattles. Its vast eyes fill with red. It yanks at Patty’s leg and tears at the bottom of her dress with its other hand.

Bam.

The demon’s skull catapults onto the ground and skitters away.

Another pop lacerates the air. The skeletal arms binding her separate.

Firm arms wrap her waist. She’s promptly plucked off the ground. Patty yelps. Huffing, Patty tosses around in the arms encircling her. She beats her hand against its forearm and almost resorts to biting this stranger. One of its hands grips her chin and pulls her head back.

Heterochromatic eyes assuage Patty. It’s Lady.

“Patty! It's just me,” Lady huffs, pressing Patty’s back further against her chest. Lady’s face is flushed and her skin glistens from sweat. Looking away from Patty, Lady keeps her attention in front of her.

Nodding, Patty shakes off Lady’s hold.

The scenery around them blurs. She’s continually jostled as Lady sprints over puddles and slumped over demonic corpses. Gunpowder and rot mingle together creating a dense concoction within the stagnant air. The thick taste of iron lines Patty’s throat no matter how many times she tries to swallow it away. Her legs swing back and forth, precariously dangling over the ground.

Not wanting to derail Lady’s route, Patty brings her knees up as high as she can.

Beneath her terror, Patty discovers curiosity. Where is Lady going in such a rush? She gets an answer soon enough. One of the many smelly dumpsters lining the alley end approaches at an alarming rate. There’s literally flies radiating off the thing.

Is she going to?

As the dumpster gets closer, a different kind of dread brews within Patty. They skid to a halt in front of the dumpster. Gulping, Patty looks between the dumpster and Lady. Hiding in the dumpster would most likely keep Patty safe, but would she survive the stink?

Placing her hands atop of Lady’s arms, Patty prepares for the worst. Lady never ends up opening the lid. Instead she makes her way beside the dumpster and crouches. There’s a space between the dumpster and the wall. Lady lets go of her.

Getting the memo, Patty takes a step toward the crevice. A hand on her shoulder stops her. Confused, she turns her head toward Lady. Patty notices that Lady is scanning the gap for threats.

“Okay,” Lady murmurs. Her other hand comes forth and ushers Patty into the Patty sized-crevice.

She accidentally steps into a murky puddle. If she survives this, she’s going to throw this dress away.

“Stay put!” Lady shouts over the clamor of swords and bullets. Her hands retreat. Her rubber soles tap out of existence.

By the time Patty turns around Lady is gone.

Taking a quivering breath in, Patty crams herself into the gap. Lady’s already back in the fray. She’s dodging scratches and scythes while firing her guns. A little more to the side, Trish is tussling with more of those demonic dolls.

Her hiding spot is anything but comfortable. There’s chewed gum plastered on the wall and the ground is slick with dumpster fluids.

Having seen Trish and Lady, Patty searches for Dante, but she doesn’t see him anywhere. Could he be on the other side? Clicking her pen, Patty lets her posture droop.

A singular thought comes to mind.

Dante was right. She should have stayed home.

Patty sucks her bottom lip in. She shouldn’t have come. She presses her stuff against her chest and through her clothes feels the pendant dig into her skin. She’d been so eager to help that she’d forgotten to tuck it away.

Patty observes a patch of dead grass by her shoe.

All 3 of them were risking their lives against those demons. Now add her to the mix and the stakes are doubled. Now they have to worry about themselves and the defenseless little girl who couldn’t listen to her make believe dad.

Tilting the notepad away from her chest, Patty opens it and reads its contents. In spite of her previous uncertainty, she had no doubts about making it back safe. So when she does, she’ll start rummaging through her tomb to figure out what potion this is.

Then she hears it.

Something red and white collides against the brick wall. Which causes Patty to nearly hit her head on the wall. Foolishly enough, she thinks that that rumpled thing on the ground is Dante. Its gangly spiked appearance sets the record straight.

Patty’s dampened adrenaline skyrockets again.

The demon chooses to lay crumpled on the ground whilst blood oozes out of it. A creaking tickles Patty’s ears, and in a sickenening display the creature contorts. Every twist causes decay to expel itself from it. With one last pop the demon stands. Staring at the wall in front of it, it gurgles to itself. It has a neon red scythe that worsens the appearance of its ghastly white skin.

It doesn’t know she’s here yet.

Patty trembles, she forces her body to still. Her gut is overflowing with bile. She could try sneaking out the other end of the crevice. Lady told her to stay put though. Should she scream for help? The demon will hear her first—Her mind runs in circles. She can’t form a train of thought without her anxiety trampling over it.

She raises a foot to start pivoting away. It makes landfall on the dirty slush. Patty can’t hear the squelch under her shoe through all the ruckus outside. But to the demon, it sounds like a bomb going off. Its head twists toward Patty. It lunges at her, colliding with the dumpster in the process.

Patty shrieks. Its scythe guts the side of the dumpster. In a flash, it’s before her, ready to take a bite off of her face.

Without warning, steaming blood spatters onto Patty's face. Through the dumpster, a long sword embeds itself into the demon’s head, nailing it against the brick wall. Opening its maw, the demon’s tongue lolls out.

A bullet penetrates the dumpster. Its tongue—cut off falls onto the ground.

She’s breathing but oxygen isn’t filling her lungs.

She follows the blade to the hilt and for once that creepy skull on Dante’s sword doesn’t freak her out.

“Patty!”

Dante.

His voice stems from behind the demon’s limp body. A meek syllable is all Patty can respond with.

The dumpster’s shoved aside with a screech. The gap widens. The demon’s corpse remains suspended. Dante emerges from behind the slaughter. His face is coated in a mirage of creases.

Around Patty, the dim crevice turns a soft orange. The demon’s body is in the way. She hesitates on taking a step toward him.

Dante’s arm moves to reach over the demon then stops. His head turns to the obstruction. His lips twitch down. Hovering his hand over the exposed blade of his sword, he reaches down.

Flinching, Patty covers her mouth with her preoccupied hands.

His hand jangles the sword out of the demon’s head. The creature plummets. Dante sheathes the sword behind his back and kicks the beast behind him. He wiggles closer to Patty and crouches down with a grimace. The space is still too small.

Sniffling, Patty darts toward him and wraps her arms around his neck. Dante jumps. Patty wrings his neck.

“D-Dante,” Patty hiccups, shaking. Patty’s selfish. She’s discomforting Dante for her own sake. Dante’s brusque texture indents Patty’s arms. Which causes them to ache. She won’t let go.

“Everything all right, sweetheart?” Dante croaks, bringing his hands behind Patty’s shoulders to pull her back a bit.

Vibrations quake out of Dante and disturb her erratic heartbeat. His hands shift from behind her shoulders to her arms and with a bit more force, unroots Patty’s arms from his neck. Prepared to find disgust or even anger written across his face, Patty squeezes her eyes shut.

Dante doesn’t say anything. His hands slide back to her shoulders, holding her in place. He shifts her around. He doesn’t find whatever he’s looking for and lets his hands cup her cheeks.

Patty twitches. Her eyes crack open.

“Close them,” Dante instructs.

And if that isn’t the least Patty can do after everything, she shuts her eyes. Bolts them shut.

His thumbs flare. He drags his hot hands over her face. Patty’s head lolls back. The putrid substance on her face hardens under Dante’s touch. It flakes off her skin landing on the ground. Some of it ends up in her hair like hazardous confetti. His hands come to rest atop her head, keeping her bangs combed back.

“Damn it,” Dante hisses under his breath.

“I’m sorry,” Patty whispers, fluttering her eyes open.

Sorry for being in the way. Sorry for not listening. Sorry for assuming things.

Shaking his head, Dante embraces Patty. Gasping, she stumbles toward his crackling chest. His spiny chin nestles atop her mussed locks. Nuzzling his chin on her head, he releases a puff of warm air.

His wings unfurl. Slithering out from where they are, they swathe Patty in leather. Beckoning her closer, they twitch until Patty can taste the tang of Dante’s scent.

“Too tight,” Patty wheezes out. She can’t lift her arms. They’re at her sides practically melded.

“I can’t lose you too,” Dante whispers, brokenly. His embrace ramps up, “not like him,” he rasps, his wings shuddering.

Him?

Without warning, Dante stands. Feeling herself momentarily slip from his hold, she lets out a quiet shout.

Dante’s wings flex. He hikes her up and twists her the other way so that her back lays flat against his chest. The back of her head rests against his collarbone. Her arms lay over his wings. Further down, her legs droop about 3 feet off the ground.

It’s a crude imitation of a bat holding their young. It’s cramped and tepid. She risks dropping her notepad if she gets distracted.

Behind her, his chest rises and falls. She hears metal scraping and turns her head. With his sword in hand, Dante turns and starts walking out of Patty’s hiding spot. She ignores the nauseating crunch beneath them.

Exiting from behind the dumpster they catch Trish and Lady fending off demons. Compared to before there are less demons crowding them.

“Let me know if you have any nightmares,” Dante says, rolling his shoulders back.

Taking an offensive stance, Dante lets his sword be his compass. His destination is another skeletal demon that’s heading toward Lady and Trish.

“I wasn’t that scared,” Patty says in spite of her uneven voice.

“Good,” Dante says, adjusting the grip on his sword, “because it’s about to get a hell of a lot uglier.”

With a hefty grunt, Dante charges at the demon. Patty’s head whips back. She shouts as the demon spawns in front of them before getting skewered. Dante draws his sword back. The demon falls onto the ground. It rattles wanting to stand. Lifting his sword up, Dante cleaves the demon in half. In its throes of death, the demon attempts to paw at the bottom of Dante’s wing.

Dante goes ahead and nabs it’s arm off too.

This is what a typical day of work looks like for Dante, Patty muses. Dante keeps thwacking at the demon until it disintegrates in a flurry of black smoke.

Recollecting himself, Dante turns toward the next demon and the next. Like clockwork he uniquely dispatches each of them.

Carving his sword along the ground in an arch, he catapults a demon into the sky. Following the motion, they join the demon. He hacks at it a dozen times and that’s when Patty feels it.

The vice grip he has on her falters. His wings flutter, wanting to keep him airborne. Stuttering, they return to practically crushing Patty.

A cleave down makes the demon crash onto the cobblestone.

Patty’s ears ring. She weighs a ton. It would’ve been better if Lady had thrown her in the dumpster. Patty sees the way Dante has to slice at an enemy more than once to kill it. How his arms don’t fully extend to deliver that finishing blow. She feels the way her leathery binds twitch to readjust her whenever she starts to slip.

Dante sends them flying again. Some stray bones and demon gunk land on Patty’s face. She blanches and snarks at Dante. At least she’s numb to the scent of rot thanks to Dante naturally dispelling the odor with his less stinky smell.

A certain jab sends the demon that Dante’s currently cutting up higher. Following it with her eyes, she wonders if it’d be better if Dante set her down atop one of the rooftops.

She huffs when they land. The merciless slaughter goes on.

Dante’s sword locks with one of the demon’s scythes. Patty gets nervous. His sword’s turning orange from friction. She leans against his chest. Afraid her arms will actually get lopped off this time around, Patty hurries to sneak her arms inside of Dante’s wings. Difficult as it is, she’s able to awkwardly get her forearms and hands inside.

The demon’s beady glowing eyes are glowering at her. Unfocused on the battle it’s involved in. She quietly whimpers and turns her head the other way.

Dante snarls.

He repels the scythe. It comes back in full swing. Twang. The scythe ricochets. Sparks whizz by Patty.

Dante twists the other way. He grunts and something hot lands on Patty’s cheek. Feeling the impact come from Dante’s left shoulder, she turns her head there.

The scythe’s wedged into his shoulder. Causing the scales around it to lift. A steady stream of crimson rolls down. Uncaring, Dante hums and whips back around to slice at the demon. He plucks out the scythe and lets it clatter against the cobblestone.

Like before the injury mends itself.

“You alright?” Dante murmurs, pulling her up higher in his hold. He lets his chin rest atop her head.

“Yeah,” Patty breathes out. Fully aware that this isn’t the first time Dante’s taken a hit for her. He’s been contorting at difficult angles just so Patty doesn’t get nicked. Each hit he’s taken adds onto Patty’s building guilt.

In the background the sounds of gunshots and gurgles have become sparse. She can clearly hear Lady and Trish bantering.

Jumping, Patty feels something rough wind around her ankle. She thinks it’s Dante’s wing brushing against her but its touch contracts. It's not Dante. She jerks her leg wanting to get the thing off. Peering over Dante’s wings, Patty recoils at the sight of another demon.

It yanks her by the ankle.

Gasping, she slips from Dante’s hold. His wings clamp down. His knee grazes the back of her leg as he brings his leg up to stomp it. The demon’s claws rake down her ankle, not enough to break skin but enough for Patty to flinch in pain. Hissing, Dante grinds his talons over it. They tear at its face. Mauling its sickly skin to ribbons.

His knee sinks down. Dante crams the demon back where it came from and hops away from the scene.

His powerful wings press her close. His heartbeat rapidly thumps against her back ready to burst forth. Slithering his arm over his bundle of Patty, Dante’s spiked chin meets her head again.

“C’mere,” Dante says, softly. He temporarily loosens his grip to let the rest of Patty’s arms inside his cocoon.

The entire alley end is filled to the brim with gore. Iron drills into her tastebuds. Beside them Trish and Lady appear. The barrels of their respective firearms expel smoke and the scent of gunpowder.

Dante’s hand which holds her splays over his wing. Patty raises her brow at the action. There’s no more danger. Only Trish and Lady are here. So why is he still holding on to her?

The web entrapping them shatters, covering them in a shower of neon red sparks that fade away.

Chapter Text

They survived. Of course they did—surviving an ambush with Dante, Lady and Trish is far more likely than demons overpowering them. If the demons do manage to overpower them. That means Dante’s looking for more than a warm up.

With Patty in tow, Dante steps away from Trish and Lady. Bloodied brick walls pass by them. They head to a mass of deflated leather. Dante’s guitar case.

Goosebumps pebble over Patty’s skin. The hellish web had snapped with a wail. She’s been on her fair share of missions with Dante and seen things she shouldn’t have. But never had she seen something like that. 

Unsurprisingly, that’s not the case for Dante, Lady and Trish. As soon as the web had gone up. They’d launched into action—ready to kill and defend the indefensible child Dante had brought along. 

Dante stops in front of his guitar case. It’s on the overly contaminated cobblestone. It’s rumpled and next to a bloody puddle. The leather which is supposed to be black is now scarlet. Dante crouches down with Patty. Patty brings her feet up in the process. She already feels a mess. There’s no need to add onto it by soiling her shoes more.

Silver glints in Patty’s peripheral. Dante’s long sword comes into view. There isn’t a single speck of red on the metal. With a clink, Dante sets his sword inside the case. He jostles the case to try and remove some of the wrinkles. The edge of the case hits the bloody puddle. A dozen drops of filth come at them. Patty twists in his wings. Gross. Gross!

Dante doesn’t reprimand Patty’s wiggling. His wings perform their duty—to keep Patty in his hold. He pinches the zipper on the case. A sharp whirr follows. Dante begins to stand. Gravity tugs Patty toward the ground. Fear clamps down on her limbs. For a terrifying second she truly does believe she’ll fall face first into the cobblestone. The ground gets farther from her.

Dante stands. Patty remains in his wings. 

His free hand (the one that isn’t holding Patty like his newborn) holds onto the strap of his case. The case presses against his side. His arm shifts up and down but never fully rises. 

This is the part where Dante sets her down. So that he can sling his case over his back. Afterward they can go back to the shop. She hears the case rustle a few more times. His chest deflates behind Patty as he sighs. Dante turns. The exit to the alley is in front of them. They begin heading to the exit. With every step he takes, the sword jingles inside its confinement.

Patty calls Dante stupid. And while he can be it—he’s not this idiotic. So, why did he do that? It would’ve been much more convenient for him to set her down. That way he doesn’t have to carry that clunky thing at his side, or carry Patty. 

A crack snaps beneath her. Patty’s shoulders draw up. Her pendant, which lays against her chest chimes. It’s a demonic body part. She’s heard too many snaps and cracks today to think it’s anything else.

She won’t look down. Dante’s leg moves back. He kicks the demon chunk back.  A sharp clank breaks out from where the dumpsters are. A shudder runs down her spine—to think he’d done that to that demon earlier. 

Dante swipes his foot against the ground. His talons grate over the cobblestone as he wipes off that. It doesn’t matter if there’s demon bits all around her. She’s not going to enhance the blurred gore at her peripheral vision. 

She focuses on the alley’s exit. Beyond the cobblestone ground there’s a strip of sidewalk visible. Even farther up, she sees Fredi’s diner. 

After a dozen steps they pass between Trish and Lady. Lady and Trish had been waiting for them. As a result they flank Dante on either side of him. All 4 of them proceed ahead.

Patty gags. A noxious concoction of iron and dumpster water suffocates her nose. It’s too much. She recoils. Her head thumps against Dante’s chest. His uneven skin catches on her locks and tugs. Pricks of pain shoot down her scalp. That’s the least of Patty’s problems. The smokiness spilling out of Dante can only mask the stench for so long. In spite of that she turns her head to the side, so that her nose is closer to Dante. As a result the decay becomes an undertone to Dante’s fire.

Vibrations ripple over Patty’s back as Dante’s chest rumbles—the hand that’s been splayed over his wing, presses down. He practically pins Patty against his front. Abruptly his muscles go taut. Stopping in the middle of the alley, his knees bend. 

She may have accepted being set down before, when the stench was invisible. The last thing she wants now, is to tiptoe around gore while keeping her stomach in check.

Ignoring the assaulting environment had been easy. Dante had been throwing himself in every direction whilst slicing away. The breeze had blown away the odor and the action in front of her had kept her mind occupied. Distracted.

Dante shifts. The front of his leg appears in front of her. He wiggles then leaps. Patty’s thrown back in his hold. She gasps. Like a seatbelt his arm and wings keep her from going anywhere.

Red brick rushes past them. A hot gust of alley stench runs over Patty. She grips onto her notepad and pen for dear life. Her forearms embed themselves into Dante’s wings. 

They land with a splash. Droplets hit Patty’s ankles and seep through the fabric of her socks. She squeals and kicks her legs in disgust. Please don't be blood. 

Dante leaps again. 

The land on pavement rather than cobblestone. The alley is behind them now. Death’s odor clears away. The faint buzz of exhaust fumes filters through her sensitive nose. Capulet’s air pollution is suddenly nature’s best. The open air available in downtown Capulet removes the mugginess that clings onto her skin. Demons release vapors when wounded. The cutting of numerous limbs had led to the alley becoming humid.

With the temperature change, Patty feels how her bangs are stamped against her forehead. They’re encrusted in blood and sweat. Her stiff dress brushes against her leg. It’s ruined—streaks of red race down silk. Normally, she'd be upset that her attire is irreparable. The thrum of adrenaline pushes aside those thoughts. 

When she’s on a mission with Dante. Her dying is a permanent possibility. 

The demon’s wretched stench singes her nostrils. The mannequin-like creature snaps its shears together. The city air nips at where her sock is torn from the demon’s nails. There had been three close calls.

She bogged everyone down. The notion had plunged into her at the first demon spawning. The pages of her notepad flutter as a car drives by.  

Patty’s face hardens. Selfish or not, she won’t feel bad for trying to help Dante. He would do the same for her, even if it’s by contract. That’s stupid isn’t it? He’s doing it by written terms while Patty does it because she cares.

Across from them Fredi’s diner fills with its evening clientele. Silhouettes of people move about in the diner. A familiar woman with red hair glides through the windows. Cindy. She said she hadn’t made Dante out to be a girl dad, but that it suited him.

Cindy’s first assumption is right. Dante isn’t meant to be her father. Patty had just gotten lost with her beliefs being perceived as tangible. Which is Dante filling in that empty spot in Patty’s life. 

Dante had left Trish and Lady in the dust. His sudden rush means that he wants to get this over with as soon as possible. They had been at the heart of danger earlier. Once they’re out of the alley’s vicinity Dante will set her down. It’ll be safe for Patty to walk by herself. 

Another car zooms by. Various honks go off in another block. A street lamp beside them whirs to life, it flickers then turns on. A hazy yellow rains down on them, painting their skin the same shade. At the battlefield, Patty had noticed the elongation of shadows. Night would be upon them soon.

Trish’s black heels clack over the pavement. Lady’s ammunition packs rustle. They reappear at Dante and Patty’s side. 

Lady readjusts Kalina Ann by tugging at the strap. She shakes her shoulders. Kalina Ann jumps from the movement with a clank. 

Dante’s wings jerk inward. Patty’s eyes widen. The magma racing through his skin flares. The brusqueness of his scales trespass her not so silky dress. 

Wordlessly they turn in the direction of the office. 

Like when heading to the alley. Some people stop and ogle Dante while others glance and move on.

However, this time, Patty isn’t exempt from the scrutiny of passersby. Many curious fingers are aimed at her. She meets every single one with a frown and hiss of, ‘what are you looking at.’ 

Lady and Trish smile in amusement at Patty’s passerby deterrents. Lady and Trish even go as far as to scowl at someone with Patty. Dante is quiet, but not discouraging her behavior. 

Eventually they come across a pair of passersby who do more than point. They’re an elderly man and woman. 

The elderly are advancing toward them, quiet and in their own bubble—minding their own business as they should. They’re holding hands. Golden bands wrap around their ring fingers. They’re an ancient couple. 

They’re innocent enough and about to pass by the 4 of them when the man abruptly halts. The four of them stop as well. The man stands in front of them with his wife. Classless, the man’s eyes rake over Dante—his unwelcome attention stutters at intervals. The wrinkles engraved onto the man’s skin shift. He marks what he doesn’t like about Dante in silence. 

It all happens so fast, that before any of them can react. He turns to his wife—his lips part and he gestures toward them. 

“Atrocious,” the man says. At the very least his wife has some semblance of decency and suggests that Dante may have a physical condition.

Either way, heat bursts out of Patty’s pores—who does this jerk think he is?

Patty braces her forearms on the spines of Dante’s wings. Grunting, she hauls herself up a bit. Her brow curls down. She manifests the meanest and ugliest glare and shoots it at them. Immediately the man’s expression shifts. Courtesy enters his mind once more and he steps aside with a look that reads, ‘what is wrong with this kid?’

The ire simmering within Patty flickers. That’ll teach them to mind their own business. She empathizes with the fact that it’s not everyday you see a child strapped to her demon guardian. Regardless, they’re far too old to not have a speck of courtesy.

Speaking of which, they’re already closer to the shop than the alley. He should’ve set her down by now. After all that’s what Dante wants. To have her a couch length away. A sense of wrongness winds around Patty’s limbs. It’s a yucky feeling—one that doesn’t make sense to her. 

She slips back into Dante’s hold. His scales grate over her. They press on to the shop.

Dante’s strides bounce Patty up and down in a rhythmic pattern that quiets her thoughts. It’s nice—she feels like putty in his hold. Her eyes flutter a couple of times. On a particular blink she keeps her eyes closed longer than necessary. The notepad in her hand slips by an increment. In an instant her fingers clamp down. She rapidly shakes her head. A telephone box and car meld together. Her blurred vision takes a moment to dissipate.

She has to find the elixir when they get back. There’s no time for napping. 

She peers down. The lines cutting horizontally through the sidewalk swim under their feet. A faint orange glow pulses under them.

At their sides, Trish and Lady talk about a non-negotiable dry cleaning bill with Dante. He’s not paying attention. Since he keeps his usual grumble about how he doesn’t have the money to himself. He’s thinking about how to inconspicuously get Patty out of his wings. Such a thing isn’t possible. She’s already found him out. 

She wishes she hadn’t.

“If you’re lucky it’ll only be one grand,” Lady says. She’s talking about the jacket she’s wearing—which indeed costs one grand. Patty recognizes the collection it’s from.

She had been reading her fashion magazine one evening. Having come across the alluring collection, she’d skipped off the couch. Once at Dante’s desk, she’d set the magazine in front of him. Recalling the pouty faces of girls toward their fathers at the fountain. Patty had puffed her cheeks and jutted out her bottom lip. It was a deception of sorts—act sad and you’ll get what you want. 

For the girls at the fountain, it seemed to have a one hundred percent success rate. At the time she had considered clasping her hands together. To really sell the deal, but didn’t. It would be too much. Besides, her super cute pout hadn’t worked on Dante. Of course it hadn’t. 

Dante had lowered his own magazine just enough to glance between his and her magazine. He asked her how much it was. 

“One grand,” Patty said.

Dante arched a brow beneath his hair. Straightening his magazine, he’d jabbed a thumb in the direction of his room.

“I have an old coat,” Dante said.

In other words, no.

Sighing, Patty had dejectedly picked up her magazine and gone to Dante’s room. An old coat, she’d huffed. Didn’t Dante know women needed good clothes? 

Heading to his closest, Patty had opened it. Aside from a couple of T-shirts and pants. Patty had found a singular red coat on the rack. She’d unhooked it and inspected it. It had multiple bullet holes and a torn sleeve. It reeked of overpriced cologne. It had lots of silver detailing that jingled when she shook it. Overall it had been too old and not for her. 

Patty purses her lips at the memory. The demon blood speckled on her bottom lip blooms on her tongue. She tastes iron. Sticking her tongue out, she makes a sound of disgust. Dante’s thumb soothes over his leather wing in a wide circle.

“Luck,” Dante says. A passerby presses themselves against a graffitied wall. His eyes are wide. The soles of his shoes slap against the pavement as he runs off.  

Dante as always doesn’t acknowledge them. 

On the other hand, the fire from earlier reignites within Patty. Dante looks different, but he isn’t a threat. Only to his office. So apart from that people have nothing to worry about. He isn’t going to do anything to them.

“If luck were real then I wouldn’t be paying for a glamorized laundry mat,” Dante finishes. His foot knocks against a loose stone on the pavement. It skitters into a rain gutter.

Lady shakes her head in disapproval. 

“It’s more than that,” Lady says, waving her hand. 

As Lady’s arm moves to her side. It brushes against Dante’s wing. Unexpectedly, Patty’s leather swaddle clamps down on her. She jolts in his hold.

Grunting she squirms in her vampiric cocoon. Using the back of her notepad, she smacks one of the spines on Dante’s wings. In return Dante’s wings shudder before loosening. 

Lady and Trish stop. Dante’s chest is steel against Patty’s back. Frowning, Patty looks between Trish and Lady. Rather than scold him as they should, a short laugh bursts from Lady. Trish’s head turns the other way while her shoulders bounce up and down. A stream of airy laughter escapes her.

Trish meets Lady’s gaze through Patty. Trish’s lips curl up. Trish knows something Patty doesn’t, which at this point could be a million things much to Patty’s distaste.

To top it off Trish and Lady are telepathic. Without questioning Trish, Lady reciprocates her smile. They nod at each other before turning their attention back to the sidewalk. Silently dismissing whatever that was, everyone resumes their walk.

The tightness gripping Dante’s chest persists. He makes no effort to regard Trish and Lady’s visual conversation. Why would he? Patty’s mind supplies. This has something to do with this. With the thing, Dante refused to answer on the couch earlier.

Patty searches for a different reason—she comes up empty handed. Trish and Lady wouldn’t laugh over Dante carrying her. Protecting her. That ugly root of uncertainty, twines over her beating heart. 

No. She’s getting too caught up again by the idea of family to notice that this isn’t anything special. Dante is only protecting her—caring just enough that she remains alive. Alive enough to fulfill his agenda.

Enough is enough.

Squeezing the pen in her hand, Patty speaks up, “You know I can walk on my own, right?”

She needs this so much. A gash like the one Dante had, splits her chest open. Her pinkie traces over the spine on his wing.

Say there’s still danger around. That you still need to keep me safe. 

His embrace is everything she needs—to be held by her guardian. By Dante, her dad. Who isn’t really her dad—just a term Patty uses to find solace in what she doesn’t have. Will never have.

A sheen of sweat coats her skin. Dante is a furnace. It doesn’t matter. Nor do the impressions his scales leave behind on her skin. Patty’s lips pull down. Where comfort blooms, the thorny roots strangling her heart tear at it.

She’s been selfish enough today. She lifts her arms away from Dante. Foolishly, she imagines his wings chasing after her.

This isn’t for her. Not in the sense she wants it to be. His intentions are clear. 

“Really—well that’s a relief,” Dante says, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk along with Trish and Lady.

Patty’s sure it is.

Dante crouches down. His guitar case thumps. The pavement brushes against the soles of Patty’s shoes sooner than she would’ve liked.

Patty tenses. She leans against Dante’s chest. If she’s lucky her clothed back will snag onto his uneven chest like Velcro. It’d be like when he’d snagged her puff sleeve with the edge of his wing… and shoved her away.

Her soles flatten over the aged concrete. His wings slack. The hand over his bundle is stagnant. His fingers curl into the leather of his wing. His talons grate over it with a scrrich.

With enough room to turn in her fortress, Patty turns to meet his face. 

As a human, Dante’s eyes always read as hollow. Occasionally his eyes will ripple with an emotion that breaks away like ocean waves. It is at those times that Patty rushes to catalogue her father’s language. Later when his eyes return to their typical nonchalance. Patty is able to name what emotions sit at the bottom of his hollow eyes. It’s like she’s learning to read again.

Meeting his searing eyes now, Patty is unable to read them. There is an emotion that stirs within his volcanic eyes. She browses her mental repertoire of Dante language and finds that none of the emotions he’s displayed match the widening of his eyes. 

Abruptly, his eyes snap shut. He bares the peeks of his barbed teeth. His shoulder shifts. The loss of his hand over her undoes her blanket.

His wings shudder. He pries his wings open—one painstaking centimeter at a time. Thwap. At the home run—his wings burst open. They flutter before hugging his sides. 

“Scram,” Dante says. He hops out of his crouch with his bag and briskly leaps away from Patty. 

The cool city air pricks Patty’s skin for the first time. Her nose picks up the rank undertones in the city air. 

What comfort lingers is swept away by a car rushing past them. The comfort will never come back. Since it was never hers to begin with. Patty hugs herself. The notepad and pen prod her skin. 

He hadn’t been inconspicuous at all about it. Patty jerks her head the other way. They’re at the intersection before the shop—one more turn and they’re back.

Lady’s ammunition packs jingle. She joins Patty’s side.

Trish’s heels clack. Trish heads to Dante’s side. Once at Dante’s side Trish taps Dante’s shoulder. He turns his head a bit toward her. Trish leans toward where his ear should be. Her lips move and her brows bump together. 

Trish’s eyes dart toward Patty then back to Dante. 

So, Dante had told everyone he wants Patty out of his life. Including Trish who insisted she come along.

Lady places a hand on Patty’s shoulder.

“Did you get everything?” Lady asks, in spite of her eyes roving the visible parts of Patty’s notepad.

Patty takes it for what it is, a distraction masked as consolation. Help me keep her clueless—Dante must have said to Lady. 

Patty releases her arms. She offers Lady the notepad. Lady takes it. They both begin to walk. Lady flits her attention between the notepad and ground. 

Patty mentally rehearses the ingredients in the notepad. 

Crimson Berry

Rosemary

Bayleaf

Hellroot 

Demon parts?

Meaningless words she’s flit by in her tomb, now bear Dante’s well-being. 

Expecting Dante and Trish to join her and Lady, Patty looks back when they don’t. They’re a dozen feet away from them—Trish is openly talking to Dante. His head is bowed and his hands are curled into fists. Then suddenly, his head whips the other way and he scowls. 

You’re taking too long to get rid of her. Trish must be saying. 

Chest already constricting, Patty focuses in front of her. Her encrusted dress brushes over her knees. The sporadically erected street lamps further down the path hum to life. She steps over every horizontal line on the battered sidewalk. As she entertains herself, her mind wanders to her previous interrogation with Dante.

“Is this normal?”

“Perhaps.”

“Lady seems to know about it.”

“She does.”

Lady knows about it. She glances at Lady’s combat boots which pad over the floor. Patty’s gaze trails up her form and to her eyes which are honed onto the notepad. Lady’s bound to have already finished reading Patty’s notes. 

“Lady?” Patty starts. Lady’s attention falls on her. She lowers the notepad. Go on, her eyes say.

Patty suckles on her bottom lip, her teeth sink into the delicate skin. She lets go. 

“What is Dante?” Patty asks, as she clips her pen on the collar of her dress. Her arms sway at her sides.

Human, Patty. He’s human. This appearance is all a result from him being at the wrong place, at the wrong time. 

“Try turning back.” Lady had said back at the office. 

Apprehension streaks down Patty’s back. Is Dante a demon?—is he wrapped in skin that isn’t his? Patty shudders. Decay didn’t seep out of him and he ate pizza like it was his last meal on Earth.

Lady jostles Kalina Ann’s strap. Devil May Cry looms in the distance, casting a long shadow over the cobblestone. 

“He really hasn’t told you?” Lady asks, more so to herself.

Patty’s hands rise to the front of her chest. She locks her fingers together and kneads the flesh of her knuckle. 

“What—what is it?” Patty asks. A ringing reverberates inside her ears. A forceful thrum pulses at the center of her chest.

Their steps pitter patter over the cobblestone. The red light of the shop’s sign spills on them. 

Lady studies Patty—she pauses at Patty’s antsy hands. Lady opens her mouth to speak—half a syllable breaks through before Lady seals her lips. Lady’s gaze darts to the ground. 

The anxiety twined over anticipation, which had begun to sizzle, is snubbed. 

“Ask him,” Lady says.

Strings of frustration knot inside of Patty. She did! The strings pull taut. Patty’s hands crush each other. Her fingers blush from the force. Dante doesn’t want her and no one trusts her. Her hands unwind once Lady hands her back her notepad.

Reaching the shop’s stone stairs, they clop up the steps and to the front door. Lady twists the metal knob and pushes open the door. Pinesol and smoke battle to fill the barely circulating air in the shop. One of the many yellow lights in the shop flicker. That’s odd, the light had been fine earlier.

Lady and Patty enter the shop. Dante and Trish emerge behind them.

Ignoring the Dante-made hole from earlier, they all gather at Dante’s desk. After placing his case beside the table Dante yanks his chair out and plops down on it. He reclines in his seat as usual. Trish and Lady brush off the scales on Dante’s desk with a clatter and transform Dante’s tabletop into a bench. They sit on opposite ends of each other with their fronts facing each other a bit. Mirroring each other, they slink one leg over the other. 

Patty hesitates beside Dante’s desk. She scrutinizes the spot beside him. Her shoe inches over the floorboard in that direction. Hairs on end, Patty pads over to Dante’s side. She stands beside him. His presence is suffocating. 

Dante’s head lays over the back of the chair. His skin quietly crackles. His wing on Patty’s left twitches in her direction. 

Patty winces and her body goes rigid. Here it comes. 

Dante fixes his chair. He abandons his lax position for something a bit more professional. He leans toward his desktop and rests his forearms on the table. The papers littering the table crackle under the movement. 

He’s keeping her at his side. Patty’s coiled form goes lax. Has he changed his mind about her? Or this a temporary truce while Patty identifies the elixir? She goes with the safest route for her bruised heart. It's a temporary truce.

Patty brings the notepad in front of her. She thumbs at the smooth paper as she rereads the words over and over again. This little paper, it’s everything that Dante needs to return to himself. If something were to happen to this page… Patty clicks her pen. She starts copying the words onto another page.

“Looks like we weren’t the only ones after that buffer,” Lady says. She tugs at her jacket’s sleeve. She grimaces at the splotch of red marring the delicate fabric.

Between scribbling, Patty takes a moment to mourn her dress. Her ruffles are in a disarray and the once vibrant colors are dull. The weight of the notepad in her hand consoles her. 

Trish hums in agreement. Trish looks at Dante, then almost teasingly she smiles at him, “she did great, Dante.”

Dante’s scales flare a deep orange before distinguishing. A smile of her own, tickles the corners of Patty’s lips. 

Dante tilts his head toward Trish. He raises his hand and thrusts an elongated nail in her direction. 

“No more alleys,” Dante warns. He narrows his eyes at Trish. 

‘No more alleys, it makes my job difficult,’ Patty’s toil supplies.

Patty’s smile flickers. She almost misspells one of the ingredients. Focus Patty. Lady and Trish are happy with your work. So are you. 

Rather than be satisfied, her traitorous emotions insist there’s something missing. She’s never going to say it, but she craves Dante’s validation. A ‘good job kid’, or even one of his terrible noogies would do. However, this is Dante, and that should explain everything as always. Patty wistfully sighs. She doesn’t deserve his praise after practically forcing her way into the mission with Trish’s help. 

She finishes copying the words. Patty steps closer to the table. She moves aside a fountain pen and places her notepad near the center of the table. Everyone should be able to see it. Trish and Lady adjust themselves. They must be paranoid about having everything too.

Dante picks up the small notepad. His eyes roam the page.

Okay, it’s time.

Smoothing down her dress, Patty turns on her heel. She scurries up the loft to get her tomb. The tomb is in her trunk. It lays hidden under her impressive wardrobe. She keeps her tomb here, because like her—kids tend to be naturally curious. Especially this one kid at the orphanage who seems to have it out for Patty.

She sifts through the various soft silks. Her hands hit the curdling leather of her tomb. Patty nods. She drags the book out. The center is thick with white pages. Its casing is a soft brown leather that’s begun to wear down. As she holds the tomb in front of her, earth wafts off the leather. The title of the tomb is branded in elegant script. 

The Lowell’s Cookbook

She thumbs at the peeling corner of her tomb. A flake of leather falls. 

She hugs the book. She swivels in the direction of the stairs and skips back down to Dante’s desk. Dante turns his head. His gaze locks onto the book Patty is hugging. His lips twitch in recognition. 

Patty had come to the shop with her tomb, one day. Dante had been sitting at his desk with a magazine on his face. He’d lazily lifted one of the magazine’s wings to glance at Patty’s tomb. As intended by the title of her tomb, it didn’t rouse any questions. Dante hadn’t said anything. He’d let the magazine sag on his face before returning to his nap.

“So that's what it is,” Dante says. He moves to rest his chin on the palm of his hand. His eyes follow Patty as she reaches his side. A breathless laugh exits Dante, “no wonder that five star meal never came.”

Patty slams the tomb on the table. She turns her nose up at Dante and takes the bait. The bait is familiar—and that’s why she takes it. Unlike the alley, this provides her with the little normalcy there is around here. 

She realizes then too, that this is the closest Dante is willing to have her today. Banter is how they connect, unless she’s reading that wrong too.

“Keep dreaming—I already pick up after you!” Patty shouts. She notes the rattle that chops up her voice. Her adrenaline has yet to run its course.

Dante raises a hand in surrender. Patty purses her lip and returns to her book. Yeah, that’s right, that’s what I thought.

Patty lifts the hard cover. She knows that the first few sections of the tomb are dedicated to the recipes of elixirs and ingredients for human consumption. The pages after the recipes contain herbs Patty is familiar with. In those pages rows of text delve into the materials’ scent profile. Beside the text are black and white illustrations of the materials.

Patty deftly skips the first few sections of her tomb. 

The Otherside.

The paper’s grain rubs Patty’s finger. This section is the heart of her tomb. These are the demonic elixirs. The first page explains their general use. That being that they’re meant to aid you and your demonic units. Under the general use there’s a warning written in bright red ink. Not for human consumption. Dante appears in her peripheral vision, inhuman and sharp. 

She pinches the corner of the page and turns it. 

The first of many demonic recipes appears. Like the human ones, the essences’ scent profiles will come after the recipes. 

“I may just get that meal,” Dante drawls. A scaly hand lands on the paper. He points at the elixir on the page. It’s composed of several different herbs that Patty has never heard of. 

Patty’s eyes sweep to the bottom right corner of the page. The pages of her tomb also include a color swatch of what each elixir should look like when complete.  

Dante’s hand strays from the center. It travels to the corner of this page. Pressing the paper between his fingers, Dante prepares to turn the page. Out of pure determination to do this on her own, Patty turns to Dante and shoves his plated arm away. It slams against his mess of documents with a loud riiip. 

Patty’s breath hitches. She expects him to hiss at her for intruding upon his personal space. She’s broken that unspoken barrier between them. Dante does nothing of the sort. He whips his head down and picks up a tattered piece of paper with his empty hand. It has the word: Bill, written on it. He crumples it and lets it plop on the table.

Patty grabs onto the tomb’s wings and lugs the thing closer to her. It’s perfectly situated in front of her. A subtle tremble blankets her. She means it though, she really can do this. Gathering her bearings, Patty straightens her posture and forces her hands to solidify.

“I can do it,” Patty says. She moves onto the next page. The tomb exhales a nutty smell. Despite her previous hesitation, Patty lands on the section that says buffers. She figures that if she has nothing else to go off of. Then she’ll have to rely on the assumption that it is a buffer.

The assumption isn’t that far off anymore. The demons had been starving for what was left of the elixir in the alley. Trish had also not changed her mind about this being a buffer. 

Without lifting her eyes off the page, Patty motions for Dante to hand her her notepad. He does. She accepts the notepad with one hand and compares what she has written with what’s in the tomb. Hmm—this one’s not it. On to the next. Oh this one looks promising—first item, check—Patty’s finger follows the list of materials on her notepad. Her other hand skims the tomb. Second and third item—it’s looking promising. She starts to grin then her finger comes to an abrupt halt on the last item.

She burrows her finger into the tomb. That last ingredient! Patty sighs. She sets the notepad down and runs a hand through her hair. Flakes of demon blood poke her fingers. She yanks her hand out of her hair—Ew! She balls her red flaked hand into a fist. Disgusting. She shudders.

Conversation flows around her. Trish and Lady are chattering amongst themselves about a dress they both want at the boutique. It takes a quarter of Patty’s willpower to not jump into the conversation. Which is much less than usual. Patty releases her fist. She grimaces at the demon gunk. She wipes her hand clean on her not cute dress. 

She will be helpful. She flips through a dozen pages or more while repeating the cycle of comparing and contrasting a dozen times. At some point the words start to become a jumbled mess. 

Patty lifts her hand and rubs her eyes. She sluggishly blinks. Her focus is blurry. It takes her a moment to adjust to the room’s lighting again. She reads the title on this page.

Demon Fertilizer…

She’d dismissed checking the swatches of paint up until now when she decides to look at that first.

The splotch has the same iridescence that the leftovers at the alley had. She prods at the swatch. Her finger slides to the text and she begins to read. Crimson Berry—Rosemary She props her tomb up. She’s been repeating the same words for long enough to automatically recall them. Her breath hitches. Fabric shuffles around her and Dante’s chair shifts.

All the herbs are right! She reads over her tomb again. Everything matches—but will the demon parts match? She sets her book back on the table. The room is fuzzy. Patty rubs her under eyes . 

Demon Parts. She needs clarification on what those are. 

“Trish?” Patty asks.

Trish quits conversing with Lady. She peers at Patty and raises a brow for Patty to continue. 

Patty scoots the tomb over to Trish. More of Dante’s bills fly onto the floor. He makes no effort to pick them up.

“Are these the demon parts?” Patty asks.

There are 3 demon parts listed beneath the herbs: hellhound’s tooth, demon’s horn and high class demon blood. 

Trish accepts the tomb. She lifts it with one hand and sets it on her thigh.

“Demon fertilizer,” Trish begins, her finger lands on the paper. She follows the text as she reads aloud, “this buffer affects a wide range of demons. Its purpose is to feed that devil’s pre-existing well of power, thereby strengthening its demonic capabilities. It is important to administer the dosages as listed, since the unit will become aggressive,” Trish moves her face closer to the tomb. She squints her eyes.

“Find counterpart on page 602,” Trish finishes.

Trish raises her eyebrows. She schools her expression and glances at Lady. They share another telepathic message. They don’t laugh this time. Instead both Lady and Trish’s lips set into a thin line. 

Trish locates page 602. Trish reads it aloud—then stops when she and everyone else in the room realize that the materials are all the same, except for the brewing period and one item. The buffer took four weeks to brew. The new material is, Angel’s Trumpet.

Patty scrambles to jot down the new item in her notepad.

“How long will the brew take?” Lady asks, placing her hands on her thighs. 

“Two weeks. It has to finish brewing on a full moon,” Trish says, her voice taking on a serious tone. 

Lady’s face imperceptibly twitches down. Her hand digs into her thigh.

Patty inhales sharply. Her teeth clench. 

Why does no one in this room want to tell her what’s happening? Dante is cursed because of an elixir, yes. But if it were just that, all 3 of them wouldn’t be putting this much effort into hiding something that Patty already knows. 

If the buffer is meant to feed a demon’s pre-existing well of power—Dante’s a demon. Patty shakes her head. He’s not like them. He could never be. She turns her head to Dante. He's back to precariously sitting on his chair. 

No—Dante’s not a demon. He’s just really unlucky when it comes to well, everything. This is not an exception. Besides, he hasn't shown any signs of aggression. 

Trish sets the book back on the table and slides it toward Patty. Demon Fertilizer’s counterpart stares back at Patty. Patty’s eyes drag over the page. She meets Trish’s eyes. What Patty thought was a forgotten question is answered by Trish.

“Yeah, those are the parts,” Trish says, simply. Nothing more, nothing less, just Patty’s question answered.

Whatever. It’s fine. 

They have everything Dante needs. 

This is it. Patty hops in place and looks at Dante. He meets her eyes—his eyes crinkle up. His lips pull up, but not enough to expose his razor sharp maw. He almost looks… proud. Patty’s heart swells—she’s going to treat Dante’s ailment. All they have to do is gather the demon parts and herbs. They’ll bash them up, wait two weeks, with the full moon then Dante will drink the elixir.

There’s plenty of demons (unfortunately), to get the parts from. Two of the herbs Patty can get from the supermarket. The rest… wait. Demon herbs. She didn’t know where she’d be able to get those.

She breaks off from her little victory dance and folds her arms over her chest. 

“How’re we going to get the demon herbs though?” Patty says, drooping. 

“Easy,” Trish says, setting her hands behind her on the table. She reclines on them.

Dante somehow leans further back in his chair. He folds his arms over his chest, “you aren’t suggesting we travel to hell for some weeds, right?”

Patty shoots Dante a scathing look, “they’re not weeds. They’re herbs! Besides, you need them,” Patty exclaims, motioning toward Dante’s scaled body.

He does need them. Dante hasn’t eased his shoulders all day. Nor has he spoken without prying his jaw open. When he did speak, he would wince like the sound of his own voice pained him. Which betrayed the actions of someone who loved to hear their own voice.

“Don’t play dumb, Dante,” Trish says, narrowing her eyes at him, “they’re easily accessible through those weak spots in the area.”

“Weak spots?” Lady asks, tilting her head at Trish.

Trish nods, “yes, they’re a bit far but there’s areas where Hell seeps through. They’re called weak spots. The areas themselves have begun to resemble hell.”

Patty shudders. She inches a smidge closer to Dante and hugs her arms. 

“Sounds dangerous—why not plug them up?” Lady asks, kicking her boot back and forth. She eases her grip on her thigh.

Dante’s hands squeeze the inside of his elbows. His scales clink together. Patty follows the winded muscles up to Dante’s quivering lower lip. His upper teeth pin his bottom lip.

“Well,” Dante’s hands increase their pressure. He kicks his legs up on the table. The contents on the tabletop jump, “without Yamato…the only things getting sealed ‘round here are pickle jars.”

Patty rolls her eyes. She presses her mouth against her shoulder to smother a cavernous yawn. 

Lady’s brows knit, she turns her head away from Dante, “right.”

“Yamato?” Patty asks, “is that the guy you’re always talking about?”

Dante dismisses her. Big surprise. Patty sighs, and adds the question to her sea of pending queries.

He said something about a ‘him’ in the alley. Many nights before that, Patty had been woken up by the sound of Dante murmuring at night. Such occurrences happened often with most of his speech being gibberish. At times though legible words spilled out of Dante. ‘Mom,’ being the common one. However that night, he’d choked around a stuttered, ‘him’.

She’d considered brushing it off until Dante’s hushed whimpers had changed her mind. Worried, she’d slinked out of bed and tiptoed her way to the loft's railing. Through the ink of the shop, she’d peered over the rail to see Dante sleeping in his chair. Planning to wake him up from his nightmare, Patty had started to turn the other way in order to go downstairs.

When his chair had squealed over the floorboards. Patty had stopped and looked over her shoulder. By his office chair Dante stood, heaving. Was he crying? Dante turned his head in Patty’s direction. She squeaked and darted back to bed under the safety of her covers while fighting the urge to comfort him. Rarely, did Dante express his emotions out loud and while he would console her in his own indirect manner. Patty was unsure she could provide what he needed, or if he wanted Patty’s haphazard comfort. 

Bitterly, Patty thinks of his contract. Did it tell him how to comfort a child?

“So we go to these Hell supermarkets,” Dante says, motioning toward the tomb.

“Yes,” Trish says. She hops off the table with her back to them. She stretches one arm over her head, “Lady and I will go after the demonic parts.”

Trish turns around. She gestures toward Dante and Patty. 

“You two can handle the herbs,” Trish says. Her eyes glisten with that same amusement from the alley.

Smack. The front of Dante’s chair hits the floor. He sits up straight and opens his mouth before closing it.

His phantom excuse on why he doesn’t want to bring her, haunts Patty. Patty casts her gaze down. She blinks hard before looking at everyone again. There’s a blurring to everyone’s silhouettes. Her eyes flutter. The fuzz remains. The shop’s yellow light is dimmer than usual. 

Dante exhales from deep in his chest. He turns his head to one of the tall windows. It’s pitch black outside save for the weak glow of the street lamps nearby. 

Dante places his chin in his hand. He messes with one of the spines. 

“The closest one is about 4 hours from here,” Dante murmurs. 

Lady hops off the desk. She stretches as well and lugs Kalina Ann off the floor. She sets it on her person and takes her place beside Trish. Lady glances between Patty and Dante. 

“See ya,” Lady says. The center of her brow has been creased since her recent telepathic message with Trish.

Together, Lady and Trish turn to the shop’s tall wooden doors.

Shaking her head, Patty realizes that they’re actually going demon hunting right now. 

“You’re leaving?” Patty asks anyway. She braces her hands on the edge of the table.

Trish stops, “it’d be best to get those demon parts as soon as we can. The kinds of demons we need spawn sporadically.”

“Oh—okay,” Patty says, softly. She turns her head to Dante, “shouldn’t we get the herbs now too? Like the ones from the store?” 

Under no circumstance would Patty go to a demon forest at night! 

Dante’s angular eyes round out. He gives her a sad smile. The tendon in his forearm goes taut then relaxes. Almost like he wants to reach out to her. As if, Patty scolds herself.

“No. It’s dark, and probably past your bedtime,” Dante says, pointing out the window with his thumb.

“But they’re going,” Patty says, pointing at Trish and Lady.

Getting something done, no matter how small is a good thing then they’d only have to focus on the demon herbs. 

Patty’s scalp itches. She scratches it, but stutters when demon blood goes inside her nails. Suddenly, the grime plastered on her dress weighs heavy. Her skin slides against each other, sticky. It causes her a discomfort she had completely forgotten about with the tomb in front of her.

Dante. That absolute loser gets a knowing look in his eyes at Patty’s reaction to her current state. Okay, so maybe it would be better if they went tomorrow. Patty’s shoulders slump. The sleep must be getting to her, and the anxiety about not getting anything done while Trish and Lady are.

A yawn builds within the back of her mouth. She sucks her bottom lip in to stifle it. Dante’s chair scrapes against the floor. He stands up with his arms still folded over his chest. He stands beside her and looks down at her. Magma churns within the branches of his skin. 

A firm hand settles on her shoulder. His thumb presses down, pointed but underlined with a gentleness. The point of his nail dips. Patty hears it. His silent plea.

“Bed,” Dante commands, fully grabbing her shoulder. He shifts her the other way. Her back faces his front. The lounge is in front of her. He sets his other hand on her empty shoulder and starts shuffling her toward the maroon bathroom door. Patty’s shoes skitter over the wood with a squeak. Her hands latch onto Dante’s brusque hands. 

Patty gratefully watches the bathroom door get closer. Through the haze, she’s struck with something else. Her fingers press down on the back of Dante’s craggily hands. 

She’s being scolded. 

There’s a loud click in the room. The shop doors are shut. Trish and Lady have taken their leave.

Once Dante gets her to the bathroom door. His grip loosens. As does Patty’s. Patty looks back up at him. That softness in his eyes stays. His eyes flit to the lounge. His hands retreat. He steps away from Patty and makes his way back to his desk. 

Patty remains in front of the bathroom door. She mulls over the fact that yes, she’s been scolded. Unlike the children she’s seen get scolded, her skin isn't boiling with the need to throw a fit. Nor is her heart squeezing at her dad’s gravelly demand. Patty grins and then yawns. To many orphans, the word scolding is only a word. The caregivers at the orphanage may yell at you, or berate you for misbehaving.

But it’s not the same, yelling from her favorite teacher doesn’t carry the same notion as getting redirected by her dad.

She looks over her shoulder. Dante’s in his chair. He’s pulling at one of the brass knobs to his drawers. 

To Patty a warning, enveloped in care is family.

Remembering, scoldings have a reason, she wipes the drowsiness, skewing her vision as best as she can and removes herself from the door. She skips upstairs and retrieves her soft nightgown and towel. Beelining it to the bathroom, she shuts the door. She spends a while steeping inside the hot shower. 

Patty exits the shower in her very fashionable blue night gown. It has cute bows on the puff sleeves and comes with a soft pair of blue slippers. Her pendant rests under the collar of her gown.

The night curls around Patty. The shop is officially closed for the day. Dante sits at his desk. He’s hunched over it. A lone string light hanging over the desk bathes the surrounding area and him in a soft yellow. The red of his armor is dusted with amber from the light. His shoulders move up and down from what he’s doing. 

The drawers on the side of his table are open. Dozens of corners belonging to paper grow out the drawers, amongst all of them a photograph sticks out.

A dizzying mineral weighs the air down. The fan in the corner whirs.

Patty pads over to Dante. Metal clicks. Patty tilts her head to the side. She frantically searches the empty shop for a threat. There’s nothing. 

Patty’s step stutters. Her previous apprehension rears its ugly head again. She’s halfway to his desk. The minerals swirling in the air become concentrated. The smell reminds her of petroleum jelly. Her head bows. She moves her slipper side to side. The lacey bow on her slipper dances with the movement. He’d let her be near him earlier—but what about now? At her sides, her hands choke the air. She lets go.

She takes the remaining steps toward Dante’s desk and stands at his side. The desk is in front of her. Up close Patty recognizes the photograph in the drawers. She smiles softly at the image of a woman and a man with glasses. It’s that demon guy Dante helped. 

Metal clinks on the table. Patty turns her head, she gets more questions than answers. One of his guns, the black one—Ebony? She read once when his guns were at their lonesome on the table. Anyway—Ebony lays sprawled out on the table in a constellation of metal parts. The portrait painted on the handle gleams at Patty.

Patty places her hands on the edge of the table. She leans against the wooden surface. Wait, where’s her book? Her vision sprints over the tabletop in search of her tomb. It’s across from her, safe and sound.

Good. She’s going to need it tomorrow.

She returns to what Dante is doing. He has his other gun—Ivory, in the palm of his hand. While the other hand holds a cylindrical brush between his fingers. It’s fluffy and coated in a copper brown color. He brushes the cylinder over the barrel of his gun slowly. 

Following the fluff of the brush is a glistening trail of oil. 

All Patty will have tomorrow is her tomb. Trish isn’t going to be there to lift her up if she stumbles. Dante will be there with her and while he is intelligent. He lacks the nose and in-depth knowledge about herbs. Patty swallows a bitter wad of spit. No messing up tomorrow—you have to give it your all, Patty. You will help him.

Dante sets his brush atop a leather square on the table. In front of the leather square is a black plastic case. It’s open. Inside the box, is a myriad of brushes that are nestled within their respective indentations. 

Beside the plastic case is a small glass bottle. The light from above illuminates the honey colored liquid inside of it. Lines of shimmering gold zig zag over the table.

Yeah, you’re going to help Dante, Patty. Her determination from before flares. Underneath it, distrust lies. What if she gets the materials mixed up? And they come back to the shop to get started on the elixir, only to realize halfway through that they’ve dumped all the incorrect herbs inside the concoction. 

Trish and Lady’s hard work would go down the drain. They’d have to go hunting again and Dante would quietly stew in his disappointment toward Patty. Such a vivid outcome sends Patty’s heart racing. After all the nagging she did to help Dante—she’d prove him right, she isn’t helpful. 

Clack.

Dante sets Ivory beside its twin. He picks up the glass bottle and uncaps it with his thumb. The white cap smacks against the table. He grabs the brush again. He places it under the opened bottle and tilts the container. A bubble pops inside the liquid. The plump brush absorbs the oil. Dante sets the bottle upright and removes the brush. 

A fresh wave of noxious fumes contaminate the room. Patty scrunches up her nose. The odor bangs against her nostrils. She wafts the area in front of her face. The intrusive scent dispels a bit of her inner turmoil.

“So you can clean,” Patty says, following the movement of Dante’s hand once he sets the glass down. He picks up Ivory and leans over the gun like it’s his newborn.

“Never said I couldn’t,” Dante says. He applies a fresh coat of oil onto the magazine. The portrait on the gun glistens, it’s a hushed thank you.

Dante leans back in his chair. He rolls his neck. A sharp pop rings out in the quiet shop. He groans. Patty’s lips quiver as they struggle to contain her laugh. Dante is old. Patty muses.

“Are you even doing it right?” Patty asks, pointing at Ebony’s dismembered state. She’s asking but she knows close to nothing about guns. She doubts he broke it. He can be careless but she’s seen the way he handles his sword and guns. He wields them with nothing short of care.

Dante adjusts Ivory. He twirls it in his hand. The metal glistens under the yellow light. He meets Patty’s eyes, “sure I am—have a look.”

Ivory comes to a halt. He adjusts Ivory so that it's on the palm of his hand, the silver of it clashes against the obsidian of Dante’s hands. It dangerously glints. He offers the shiny arm to Patty. She leans away from the gun. She glances between the gun and Dante.

“It’s empty,” Dante offers, uselessly. It’s empty. So what? A father shouldn’t offer her daughter a gun. She’d prefer a chocolate bar or doll over that any day of the week. The likelihood of that is zero, she had to latch onto Dante this morning just to get one ice cream.

Dante offers Ivory to Patty again. Befuddled, Patty observes the gun. She does this often—giving into Dante’s antics for that connection. Which is fading as he hands her the gun. Dante tearing himself out of Patty’s life is inevitable. 

Patty clasps Ivory in both hands. Her arms dip from the sudden weight. She recovers.

If holding a gun is what can delay the inevitable then Patty will do it. 

Ivory is warm from the oil and Dante’s hot skin. She holds the weapon at arms length and points the barrel toward the floor. The gun’s form is brought out by the shadows that lay over it. Tentatively, she tilts Ivory into her palms to get a good look at Dante’s handiwork. The oil’s stench fades into the background.

She runs her thumb over the metal. It’s sleek. Her thumb goes down on an indentation that’s on the barrel. She presses against the impression. They’re letters. She squints and reads them. 

For Tony Redgrave 

The script stings. It’s the cold reminder she needs that Dante isn't here for family and connection. Dante’s olive branch of a gun is a thistle. The barbed hooks embed themselves into the palms of her hands. She doesn’t want to hold Ivory anymore.

“I figured since I couldn’t join in on the fun, why not give these beauts a clean?” 

The fun. Patty’s fingers curl over silver. The word rips through her—Dante had said it from the start. He wasn’t here to babysit brats. Yet here he is, doing exactly that. He’s staying behind for Patty’s sake when he much rather be out gutting demons. Patty lowers her head. Her chin presses against her clothed collarbone. She hides under her bangs.

She is glad Dante is willing to stay behind to care for her. The gratitude sinks. If he had her nose, Dante would’ve already gone to get the herbs on his own.

A clawed hand settles over Ivory. She wants it out of her hands, so why is her heart twisting as he removes Ivory? 

His chair scrapes. He’s pulling away again. It hurts. When had she become a nuisance to him? Or was it always like this. Her teeth dive into her bottom lip. 

Metal meets wood with a soft clack.

“I’m going to bed,” Patty whispers.

She motions for Dante to hand her her tomb. He does.

Prepared to bound up the stairs and into her makeshift room, she turns on her heel. Her makeshift room keeps the silly idea of Dante wanting her around alive. It’s the only area in the building that never gets trashed when Patty is gone. Dante has had opportunities to remove her room, yet it remains upstairs.

Going back to her previous query, Dante might just be realizing he should have picked tails that day Morison flipped the coin.

“Patty.”

Patty stops.

One of the plants near the bathroom door loses a leaf. It flutters onto the ground.

“I’ll be down here.”

‘I’m still here’. Patty’s mind translates it as. She won’t trust it, she’s already mistranslated everything else. Flashes of the alley and this morning flood her rationale. He did all that other stuff when didn’t have to. No! Patty squeezes her brows together. That doesn’t mean anything.

The chair grates over the floor. Her heart gives a painful throb. 

She heads toward the stairs and climbs them. Where once the cardboard boxes stacked high brought her comfort of where she is. They now prove how she quite literally shoved her way into his life.

The opaque light from downstairs stains the edges of the otherwise unlit loft. Walking on the icy metal floor, Patty reaches her bed. She sets her tomb atop her trunk.

Feeling for the corner of her bed, Patty peels open the sheets. She hops onto the bed. It dips. Faded detergent skirts under her nose. Her stuffed bear and dolls lay against the wall. She contemplates them. She reaches for the bear—fluffed and squishy. It’s a weak replacement for a real hug, but she hugs it anyway and tucks it into bed with her. 

She lays on her back and stares at rafters. 

Her fingers squeeze the top of her cotton sheets. Her lower lip dips down. Clear visions of Dante pushing her away play in front of her eyes. On the couch, he pushes her away—on the way to the alley, he detaches her like she’s some leech. Her breath catches in her throat. 

But then he did all of that—took her in his arms, wiped the grime off her soiled face. The inflammation on her scratched hand is gone.

He did do all of that, but not for the reasons you want, Patty. She grits her teeth.

She shuts her eyes to escape. 

She ends up inside something worse, red stains the inside of her eyelids. The violence of the alley replays. Her eyes snap open. The rafters above her swim—her vision is blurred. The sheets are suffocating. She struggles to swallow the dryness in her mouth. Downstairs the light is still on—beside the battering in her chest, another thrum comes forth.

Twang. The string of a bass rumbles through her.

Drums thrum. Muffled. A raspy voice echoes in the shop. They sound like words. The woman’s rasp falls between high and low notes. Through the mist of her drowsiness, she realizes it’s a song. 

Sleepless nights I’m spending

Counting all the words that broke my heart

She hones in on where the sound is coming from—the jukebox. The jukebox's perpetually maxed out volume is given a break. As the woman continues to sing, Patty blinks enough of the sleep away to recognize this song. Dante loves this song. Mermaid Rock.

Patty turns on her side, in the direction of the stairs. She snuggles against her pillow and rests her hands under her cheek. They’re trembling—but she’s safe. 

Dante’s here. 

Going on and on until I’m finally myself

She blinks once. Her room turns to fuzz. She blinks again—it takes her longer to open her eyes. On the third blink, gold scatters over the metal floor. 

Now is the time