After Dusk [Howl, Jamie, Joey]

[mnemosyne]

Sera is - surprised - to when Pan leads her away from the church, across the street to a modest and otherwise unremarkable house. The truth is, she never thought about where he lived, but had she considered it she would have imagined him inhabiting some nameless and nebulous space in the bowels of the church itself. Sleeping on a folded-down Murphy bed in his office, or simply, tucking himself away in the catacombs or belltower (oh, she knows there is neither) until it is time to pray.

But no: this house across the street, which she had never before noticed. She looks at the facade, looks at him, looks at the facade again, the narrowest line between her brows, all thoughtful. Does not ask him if he lives here, though the surprise and curiosity is evident on her face. Like the priest, she cannot lie for love or money. She is what she is. There is no deception in her.

--

Sera follows the priest through dark interior, turns as he locks the doors, glancing at the dark walls and shadowy spaces. He does not bother to turn on the lights, because he does not require them, and it is true dark now so long shadows slice in through the windows, cut oblong shapes across the carpet. They go upstairs to the bedroom and she hooks a shoulder against the doorframe, studying the spartan surroundings.

He's going to pray or something; her eyes are dark in the gloom (she does not share in his light) as they trace over the line of his head and shoulders, the bulk of his frame. She's very quiet, turns away before he begins and starts - well, watching. Waiting.

Darts down the stairs after the first fifteen minutes or so, now flipping on the lights as she goes, now taking in the walls empty of all but a Holy Family wall scroll in the living room and the Our Lady of Guadalupe calendar (en español) in the kitchen. She crouches down on her haunches, attention ticking over the spines of the books she finds here and there. Opens neither his private drawers nor his linen closet nor his medicine cabinet, but does check out the contents of the fridge and circles back through the living space, cataloging the Virgin Mary candles scattered about. Listening to the sounds of the house settling about them, the muffled sounds from the street. A car passing, headlights slashing along the front windows.

She sits on his couch, feet propped up on the coffee table, and rehearses, idly, the chords and key changes in Light My Fire, then swings upright, boots solid on the floor, and spends sometime studying the postcards stuck to the fridge. The snapshot tucked beneath one separate from the rest.

Time passes. One hour slides into two and here and there she nips up to check on him, her booted tread heavy on the old stairs. Hand across her mouth as she watches him.

--

By the time the ritual is finished, four hours have passed. Downstairs, there's a sandwich on a plate, sliced on the diagonal, with a few carrots and grapes on the side waiting for him on the kitchen counter, beside the sink. If he thanks her, she just shrugs and flashes him a wry look. " - would've made you tostones, but then I might've burned down your fucking house."

--

Her window is half-down, she puts her crumpled pack of cigarettes, lighter tucked into the cellophane, on the dash as she makes that call, glances at the priest in her periphery, eyes tracing his profile as she makes that call to Jim.

While the phone rings, she considers the priest.

"Even if we don't find her, if we can find someplace where she's been for a while, I can look back. Maybe it'd give us some clues. Help us find a way to get a message to her."

There's a wiry energy to the Cultist after such a long, enforced stillness, just waiting which is never something she was made to do without stimulation. But, truth is, she has no fucking idea what comes next.