It's hard not to watch her, Michael decided one morning as he pressed his forehead up against the front window. The pane of glass was almost hot against his skin, but he barely felt it anymore. He liked the heat now, the heat that radiated off him and consumed the whole house in sweltering heatwaves. He knew the heat got to Miriam sometimes, but she never complained about it, just turned on another fan that circled the horrid air around and around, without ever offering much relief.

It had become a daily ritual, watching Carrie Moore come and go from Westfield High. Sometimes she'd wave, spotting him across the one-way street, but only when her mother wasn't watching her too.

Michael knew his new friend was afraid of her mother, afraid of the abuse and the torment that always had religious roots, but he couldn't understand why Carrie never fought back, not really. He knew the girl had a rage that boiled just under the surface of her skin, he could often smell that rage: sweet and copper. And he could definitely sense it, raw and alive, just bleeding into the air, coiling around her bones.

He was actually waiting for her to explode, to let that rage out onto the world, onto someone. Michael understood rage like no one else, rage that stemmed from mental abuse and neglect from those who were meant to love you the most, those who were meant to love you regardless and unconditionally. Michael had already exploded, burning two souls to ash and dust, to nothing. His explosion had been nothing short of enlightening, and there was a sense of freedom in letting out the rage, the power. Though, it hadn't filled the void in his heart; he wasn't sure anything ever would.

Carrie didn't wave this morning, her nose stuck in a fat book. It pained Michael slightly the days she didn't wave or even spy him in the front windows, just waiting for her. But it did allow him to study her without distraction. He had observed that she never walked with purpose, her shoulders always curled slightly to make herself smaller, less noticeable. She'd often chew on her bottom lip, anxious about something or maybe it was a way of hurting herself, just like her mother did. Michael knew Margaret Moore hurt herself, could smell the older woman's blood when it ripened in the open air—meaty and salty, nothing like Carrie's blood, which was sweet and rich. Other times, Carrie would angle her chin upwards, eyes on the sky above. He often wondered why she didn't listen to music. Michael loved listening to music: Black Sabbath, Joy Division, Nirvana (for Tate Langdon) and Led Zeppelin. Mostly heavy rock music, but he never let his taste limit his curiosity and he was always downloading more songs onto the old MP3 player Miriam had gotten him.

Carrie was already of sight when Miriam Mead called out: "Michael!" He let the blinds drop, turning around to the kitchen. The house was one-story, small and rather modern, even if a little unkempt outside. The interior was all open with white and tan wood with green finishings and appliances. It wasn't as large or as grand as his first two houses, but it suited him and Miriam just fine. "Come help me light the candles," she added.

Michael obediently moved to his guardian's side, helping her with the bundle of new black taper and red pillar candles for their altar behind the kitchen table. The candles burned around the clock, as a way to pay worship to their Dark Lord. There was a hanging tapestry with an inverted pentagram stitched into the back fabric and candle wax pooled on the altar. Michael pressed the new candles into the holders as Miriam lit a match, the fire-scarred the air with its glorious blaze.

"Praise, Hail Satan," Miriam began, lighting the new candles to life as she prayed with such conviction and passion. Michael bowed his head, his lips moving silently with the prayer. "Glory to be Satan, the Father of the Earth and to Lucifer, our guiding light. As it was in the void of the beginning, it is now, and ever shall be, Satan's kingdom without End so it is done." The candles flickered before finding a steady, burning rhythm.

Michael lifted his head, watching Miriam as she shook out the match with a small smile solely for her Dark Lord. He cleared his voice. "May I leave the house this afternoon?"

"You've been quite the explorer lately," Miriam noted, returning to the kitchen.

"I have been, yes." Michael had been leaving the house more and more, exploring their neighbourhood. Last week he had found a rickety playground two blocks over. It was abandoned of children, but Michael lingered for a while, using the old, rusted swing set that he was far too large for now. And just two days ago he had found a graveyard past the strip mall. It was quiet and shadowed; he liked it.

He had never had so much freedom before. Constance Langdon certainly never let him leave their old house, save for the little trips into the Los Angeles Victorian house next door that became his second house, the house that should have brought him shelter and protection, but never did.

"Are you going somewhere in particular?" Miriam opened the fridge, getting out the milk to pour Michael a glass. Miriam knew Michael was prone to boredom, and growing boys needed distraction and entertainment. She had brought him a Game Boy, but he was too good and mastered games with incredible speed, that she had to purchase new games every week. She had tried to school him, but he had already succeeded her level of education and intelligence, and she didn't want to bring another person into Michael's life. He was at an impressionable age, after all. And she was growing concerned with Michael's new friend, Carrie Moore. But she knew if she tried to keep him separated from the blonde girl, it could push Michael in the other direction and away from her, and she couldn't have that now. "Maybe to see the Moore girl?"

Michael's lips broke with a cunning smile. "How did you know?" His humour and sarcasm were sharpening nicely.

"Call it a mother's intuition," Miriam replied, pushing the full glass of creamy milk towards her ward. "You may go, only if you drink your milk," she said with a smile. She hoped Michael couldn't see how strained the smile was, but he was getting good at reading people. Too good.

He took the glass eagerly, swallowing nearly half the tall glass without a breath before lowering it down. The whiteness of the milk coated his lips as he smiled at his guardian gratefully.

And Miriam knew, without a doubt, that Michael Langdon was not ready to play his pivotal role just yet. But he would be, with her help and guidance he would be the Bringer of Doom.

She also silently prayed to Satan that this Moore girl wouldn't be a problem for their divine and wicked plans for the end of days.

—

Carrie Moore couldn't seek haven in the library that day. She actually hadn't been able to hang out in the library for nearly two weeks now because it had been closed off for repairs. Carrie knew it had been her own fault why she couldn't find a haven there now, not since that afternoon spent with Michael Langdon. She missed the quiet stacks where no one bothered her and where she was able to read and further her research into where her power to move objects may have generated from.

The last two weeks without the protection of the library had been hard. Sitting in the cafeteria had been a mistake: Deliah Snell and Christabelle Slater had spilt tomato sauce down the back of her favourite long, grey skirt with tiny purple flowers when she was waiting in the line for her tray of questionable cafeteria food. They laughed and shrieked as Crazy Carrie 'got her period' during lunchtime. The whole cafeteria had laughed and cackled at Carrie's humiliation and she couldn't run from the cafeteria fast enough, which resulted in her spilling apple juice down the front of her faded, collared blouse, and that had only started another ruckus of laughter. Her skin had burned crimson for the rest of the day, but the laughing and the hushed, cruel whispers followed her and followed her. They were relentless and restless, just like Christabelle and Deliah were.

Carrie desperately missed the library. It offered her the power to escape the worst parts of the school day, but now that was gone until the repairs were finished. After the incident in the cafeteria, Carrie went outdoors and ate her carrot sticks on the metal bleachers on the sidelines of the football field. The bleachers were mostly abandoned, save for a light peppering of students. They were mostly couples lost in the giddiness of young, puppy love. But watching couples mooning and swooning over each other in a bubble of cuteness was better than sitting in the cafeteria like prey just waiting to get killed by the hunter, even if the sight of couples showing intimacy and human connection pinched at Carrie's heartstrings painfully. She had never known that sort of human connection, that sort of romantical love and admiration that was nothing short of magical and obsessive. Carrie Moore hadn't even had her first kiss yet. Which was probably a good thing, seeing as her mother would probably skin her alive and make her bathe in holy water. Regardless, Carrie couldn't stop herself from yearning for human connection, for love and acceptance.

The school day was coming to a close with only one double period left when Ava Gold found Carrie in the hallways.

"Carrie," the dark-skinned beauty greeted her merrily. "I haven't seen you around lately!" The hallways were busy and lively due to the fact that the end of the school day was close, close enough to touch and to taste. "You heard about the library, right?" Carrie nodded, squeezing her stack of books to her chest. Ava Gold have no problem with openly speaking to Carrie in the halls of Westfield High. For Ava Gold didn't see Carrie Moore as an outcast or a freak or even as Crazy Carrie, but an interesting teenage girl that didn't fit into the rigid mould of society. To Ava Gold, Carrie Moore was a rebel, a heroine fighting against a corrupt high school culture that wanted to break her, and Ava admired her for that greatly. "I can't believe someone would vandalise the school library!"

That made Carrie's heart skip a beat. "Vandalise?" Is that what she and Michael had done? Carrie had yet to come to a solid and sane conclusion about that afternoon, but surely they hadn't done something illegal.

"Yeah, I heard the place was turned upside down," Ava went on, oblivious to the pack of teenage girls headed their way with flipping hair and smiles full of malice. It was an unavoidable collision, a comet coming to crush Carrie Moore.

"Hey, Crazy Carrie," Christabelle Slater called out as she pegged a tampon at Carrie's head. The tightly wrapped tampon hit Carrie in the side of the face, and then a storm of them came raining down from the pack of girls led by Christelle and Deliah. The commotion attracted attention from the other students filling the halls, including Tommy Ross. There was a spike of laughter, at that was more painful than the tampons that struck at Carrie. Ava let out a gasp and attempted to pull Carrie away from the attack, but it was no use.

"We figured we'd help you out, we all know how sucky periods can be," Deliah called out next, her words dripping in passive-aggressive venom. "Girls have gotta have each other's backs, right?" The popular and perfect girl then hauled a box of tampons at Carrie, and that one did hurt, clipping the delicate skin beside her right eye.

"Come on, Deliah," Tommy Ross cut through the laughter. Tommy Ross was the Prom King to Deliah's Prom Queen. He was a popular jock who always wore his Wolverine's letterman jacket with pride, but he wasn't as cruel as his counterpart.

"We're just helping out the unfortunate," Deliah brushed off her boyfriend as the group glided past Carrie and Ava, their vindictive laughter ringing out like silvery bells. "And Crazy Carrie needs all the help she can get."

"Are you okay?" Ava questioned, kicking away the small pile of sanitary items that had gathered at Carrie's feet. "Bunch of nasty bitches! Karma will get them soon enough," the girl said, brushing her fingertips over the red mark on Carrie's face where the box had landed. Carrie just nodded, fighting hard to stop the tears that welled in her eyes from overflowing. Ava Gold was right, karma was coming for those girls, in the form of Carrie Moore.

—

The soft skin near Carrie's right eye was a little swollen and her eyes were rimmed red from the hot tears that had wanted to spill down her cheeks in rivers. But Carrie had clenched her teeth as Ava comforted her in the girl's bathroom before walking to the girl to her last class of the day. It had been English, a class that usually gave Carrie solace. It was a slow class as each student studied poetry in groups. Carrie didn't end up in a group, and while it still stung not to be asked into a group or even considered, she preferred it that way today.

She just wanted to get home and wash off the day in the tub filled with warm water, but destiny had other plans. Carrie took her usual left outside the school gates but she didn't get much further than that for she spotted a familiar figure leaning against one of the trees that lined that sidewalk.

Michael Langdon was smiling at her, shoulders pressed against the tree trunk, his black military boots edged up on the roots that guttered out of the hard earth. He looked like a vision, a dark vision with his black clothing, but a vision nonetheless. Like some dark angel, Carrie thought as she padded towards him meekly.

"Are you surprised, Carrietta?" he asked, notching up his eyebrows with the question.

She nodded enthusiastically yet she was dumbfounded. "What are you doing here, Michael?" The two hadn't actually spoken in nearly two weeks, and the only communication they had shared were fleeting waves and smiles.

"I wanted to return the favour," he stated, kicking off the tree to come and stand by her side. He was a head taller than she, and he hadn't even finished growing yet.

Her eyebrows pulled together and her lips parted with a tiny escaped breath. "Favour?"

"You took me somewhere, so now I want to take you somewhere," he explained. Sunshine filtered in through the tree branches overhead, and rays of burned sunlight highlighted the angles of Michael's face, making his blue eyes brighter. Bright blue orbs that stared at her with incredible power and intensity. "Are you busy this afternoon?"

Carrie let out a whisp of laughter. "I'm never busy," she admitted lamely.

"Perfect." He took her backpack again, swinging it over his shoulder as they started walking along the sidewalk, the light dying around them. "I think you'll like the place I'm taking you to."

The place Michael took Carrie to was a graveyard, the one past the strip mall her mother worked at. It was overgrown, forgotten and nestled between a Dollar Tree and a block of low budget apartments. It was shaded by giant Weeping Willows that trapped the limited cool air in Los Angeles among their low hanging branches.

"A graveyard?" Carrie queried, her eyes shifting to Michael's smiling face. It was a strange and eerie place to take a girl, but then again, no boy had ever even wanted to Carrie Moore somewhere, so this was perfect in her eyes.

"I feel at home here," Michael said, like that explained everything. But Michael was a boy that belonged with both the dead and the living. The pair ambled into the graveyard, freely and with no direction but for the way their feet guided them.

"I've never met anyone like you before, Michael," Carrie whispered out, even though no one was around to hear them.

"I've never met anyone like you before either," he replied, his honesty true and vibrant in his voice and eyes.

Carrie shrugged off the blush waking on her cheeks, shaking her head. "I'm no one special."

"I disagree," he rebutted. The pair had stopped at a cluster of angels carved from stone and marble. Their stone wings reached for heaven and moss and age tainted their stone flesh. The dirt and the grime that stained the stone from years and years of neglect made the angels appear to be weeping and crying. "Do you believe the Devil is evil?"

The question seemed to be just a passing thought, but in reality, it was precalculated by Michael Langdon. He rarely did anything these days that wasn't designed and planned. It was a strategy that Miriam Mead was installing within him.

She reached for the golden cross around her throat, fingering the warm metal. "And the great dragon was thrown down, that ancient serpent, who is called the devil and Satan, the deceiver of the world, he was thrown down to the earth, and his angels were thrown down with him," she quoted from the book of Revelation.

"So, he's only evil then," Michael mused out, not questioning but stating, as he examined the stone angel in front of him. "He can only be a monster." Carrie looked away from the angel to gaze upon Michael's regal face; there was no flicker of emotion on his face, but his eyes were lost.

"I don't think he was always a monster. He was God's favourite once, so surely there was some goodness, even just to begin with." The coolness of the graveyard twisted around her ankles, making the long grass dance with the breeze that seemed to come from nowhere.

"Do you think the Devil or Satan or Lucifer—whatever you want to call him—can be good?" There was a sudden pleading in his voice, like he needed the answer so desperately. Needed to know that maybe, just maybe, a monster could be capable of some goodness.

"That's not really my place to say," Carrie said, still tracing the edges of her golden cross that sat against her blouse. "But I know that no one prays for the Devil, even though he's the one sinner that needs it the most." Her eyes flickered back to the weeping angel, and she was positive in that moment, that it was crying for something, for someone.