Her sleep was dark and peaceful. So still and cool like a frozen lake that one would believe this was death. But as Carrie stirred awake, and when she remembered what she had done on the night of prom, she wished her slumber had been sweet, sweet death.

Her skin was clean, but the blood that had decorated her skin like red tattoos had sunk into the lining of her flesh. She could feel it, like a snake crawling, slow and calculated. The second her eyes opened to the world, tears pooled. Sleep had cured her power-sore body but not her sorrow. Carrie edged herself up onto her arms, blinking in her surroundings. Thin grey cotton sheets, a neat yet boyish bedroom. Books and DVDs (mostly horror and slasher flicks) were stacked in a tower on a desk and a pair of unlaced military boots were sitting by the bed.

The prom queen knew where she was instantly—across the one-way street in a bedroom that she had often imagined in her mind. She was in Michael Langdon's bedroom, tangled beneath his grey cotton sheets, and she was sweating. Sweat had taken the place of the pig's blood. It glossed against her skin and the air was thick and sticky with it. How on earth did anyone live in this hotbox of a house that burned with the fires of hell?

"You're awake!" Michael popped up beside her, his blond curls framing his striking face. His smile was infectious but only tears escaped down her cheeks. She had massacred her fellow students, in a fashion that riled against Tate Langdon's massacre, and had murdered her dear mother.

"Michael." Her voice was dry, brittle. "You should've let me die."

"I couldn't let that happen. Not ever," he replied as he lowered himself onto the bed too. The mattress groaned under the new weight. Carrie's sweat was mixing with her tears. "You've been asleep for thirty-eight hours," he added, his fingers twitching to hold hers.

Carrie shook her head and she just couldn't be thankful or grateful that Michael had saved her life. "My mother's dead!" she choked out, her lips trembling. Her mind flashed with a steak knife rooted into her mother's chest, blood soaking into the carpet in the lounge room.

"Death comes for us all eventually," he stated plainly. Michael was being blasé about Carrie's loss, and while he was empathic to her feelings, he had no need for them. He had lost so much already and he didn't need a mirror in Carrie Moore right now. No, for there was so much to celebrate, so much to plan. Michael's nonchalant demeanour turned Carrie's stomach. She had literally lost everything and all due to her own hands.

"I've destroyed everything!" Her heart ached and her chest felt tight, her breathing uneven. Outside the window lay the ruins of the Moore house, just rumble and ash. Surely someone had called the police by now, but nothing was left to investigate.

"Destruction is a form of creation," he quoted Donnie Darko, taking her hand now. Carrie didn't have the heart to rip her hand away. And in reality, Michael Langdon was all that she had now in this giant, lonely and ugly fucking world. "Come, Miriam is making breakfast." He guided her out from under his sheets and down the hallway towards the kitchen that opened to the dining area. Carrie felt like she suffocating in the stuffy, sweltering air and a ceiling fan was spinning and spinning overhead, yet it did little to cool the air. Miriam Mead, draped in a long chiffon dress detailed with a red and gold pattern, moved away from the kitchen counter, holding plates of French toast, dusted in icing sugar.

The woman still looked harsh and cruel even in the morning light, her eyebrows pointed and jet-black hair gelled back. "You've made quite a mess, young lady," Miriam uttered, clicking her tongue. Her tone came off as disapproving, but the woman was impressed, though she wasn't about to admit it out loud. "Sit. Eat." Carrie obeyed the woman, dropping into the chair furthest away from the Satanic alter were the flames of black and red candles burned steadily.

"Miriam's a great cook," Michael announced brightly, picking up his utensils like a giddy child. And maybe in another life, Miriam Mead could've been a chef, but the woman knew what her purpose in this life was: To protect and raise Michael Langdon, the bringer of the apocalypse.

"Thank you, dear." She smiled at her golden boy with a kindness only reversed for him. And then she switched her dark eyes to Carrie, staring at her plate with a twisting stomach and tear-stained cheeks. Half of her wanted to cross the one-way street, to see the ruins of her life, but the other half knew it would destroy her. "Now Carrie, you've caused us a problem, an unexpectable mess," she started and Carrie's heart shuddered. "Fortunately, I'm good at cleaning up messes." She sent Michael a knowing look, like she had cleaned up many of his bloody messes before. "We'll leave tomorrow morning, before dawn, and head south." Michael nodded along. They had already planned this and the 'we' suggested that Carrie was going too. "But first, we have a Black Mass to prepare for."

"Carrie's first one!" Michael agreed happily and with surprising excitement. Carrie's stomach launched and she pushed her plate away. She felt feverish and she wasn't sure it was from the crying or the heat or something else entirely. Even the cross around her neck was hot to the touch, scorching against the cut on her throat from a knife wielded by her mother.

"I can't." She shook her head. "I can't leave." More tears stung at her eyes. She needed to bury her mother but wasn't even sure there was anything to bury. And she wanted to see Ava Gold again.

Miriam scoffed, cupping her hands together over her own piece of toast littered with slices of strawberry. "Well, you can't stay either, girl. I also need a fresh goat's head. Michael, aren't you forgetting something?" Michael dropped his fork and knife, bowing his head. He then said a dark grace.

Carrie wished for that dark sleep again, wished for that still and cool frozen lake. Miriam Mead was right, Carrie Moore couldn't stay in the city of angels, that part of her life was dead. She didn't know where she belonged anymore. Wasn't sure it was at Michael Langdon's side, wasn't even sure if she deserved a life. But Carrie knew her tears wouldn't bring her mother back from the grave, so her tears ceased to fall.

—

"You are rude," Michael had said, his hands not leaving the trolly he'd been pushing in the local butcher's shop. Carrie hadn't flinched when the shop lights flickered. Carrie hadn't screamed when five knives dug into the butcher's body, cutting through flesh and bones. Carrie hadn't cried as blood streamed out, flowing like a crimson water fountain. If anything, she had welcomed the blood and rejoiced at the sight of it. Carrie and her blood! She had even briefly wondered what it would taste like on her tongue, and wondered if Michael would like the taste of it on her tongue too; her skin had shivered with the thought.

The holding cell of the Los Angeles Police Department was cold and grim and smelt faintly of urine and vomit. But it finally allowed the sweat on Carrie's skin to dry as she waited for Michael Langdon to be brought back in. He had been taken away to be interrogated about the strange and unusual killing of the butcher that had been so, so rude to Miriam Mead. Michael's parental figure had chanced out from getting arrested, but Michael and Carrie hadn't been, at least that's what it was made to look like.

Michael had been ushered back into the cell, and which a rough shove he fell to his knees in front of Carrie. She clambered to the concrete ground and gently picked up Michael's chin.

"What happened in there?" she asked as soft as a mouse, as soft as a kitten. But the souls Carrietta Tabitha Moore had reaped knew she was far from a mouse or a kitten, even if she did look the part. His face was sprinkled with tiny droplets of blood; Carrie brushed her fingers over the rubies, letting the blood fill the valleys in her fingerprints.

"The detective had been rude too," was all Michael said, his eyes glassy from unshed tears and there was a scarp on the side of his face. Carrie knew without a doubt that the dead detective had treated Michael poorly and deserved his punishment. The two teenagers sat on the hard bench, holding hands in the dimly lit cell, just waiting together.

A few long hours later a man appeared at the cell door, peering through the bars. "Hello, Michael." His voice was a surprise and it seemed to echo in the empty cell.

"You're not a lawyer," Michael observed, lifting his head off from Carrie's shoulder. His body warmth was amazing against her skin, and she absorbed as much of it as she could.

"I'm a friend," the dashing man said, removing his hat. He was dressed in a stylish black cape but didn't look like he belonged in Los Angeles.

"I only have one friend," Michael replied, the pad of his thumb tracing a pattern into Carrie's skin. Carrie studied Michael under the weak, green light. He looked small here, afraid even and so, so young. She wondered if she looked the same.

"I think maybe I can help you, Michael, if you let me," the man went on, stepping closer to the thick bars. "I saw the tape of the interview with the detective... It was impressive. I'm not with the police or social services or any part of the government." His voice was sure, steady and his eyes blinked with keen interest. "I'm a warlock. And I think you're one too."

Michael cocked his head to the side. "A warlock?" He cast a glance at Carrie, a curious glance. Did this man know about Carrie being a witch, too?

"All your life, things have occurred around you that you can't explain. Like a fleeting thought or an impulse or a moment of rage. But then it happened! Like magic." The man smiled brightly and rather smugly, making a show of his gesturing hands before continuing on. "A warlock or a witch is someone who can control that magic. I'm positive that both of you have lashed out before, making some awful thoughts true." So, he did know about Carrie Moore, then. She could only guess about how this man knew she was a witch, but then again, Carrie's prom night hadn't gone unnoticed.

"I never wanted to hurt anyone," Michael uttered out, a stray tear rolling down his cheek. He gripped harder at Carrie's hand.

"Your life is about to begin. Time for us to go," the man announced, securing his hat back onto his head.

"What about Carrie?" Michael's voice was high with desperation.

The man barely even glanced at Carrie, completely uninterested with the teenage girl. She was nothing to him, but she was everything to Michael. "Someone is waiting outside for the little witch," he said, nodding curtly at Carrie, brushing her off. He waved his hand and the locked, barred door slid open on its tracks. Both teenagers rushed to their feet.

The sunlight was wonderful on Carrie's face and she inhaled a deep breath of fresh and relatively clean air. The three had made it out a back door with only a small obstacle, that Michael had gotten rid of with a clench of his fist. A navy car was waiting for Michael and the warlock but not for Carrie. Another car—a sleek black town car—was parked across the way and a pretty lady with caramel brown hair and a black hat with a wide brim leaned against it. The lady straightened as she spotted Carrie Moore and trotted over in her heels boots.

"Miss Benson, I see you arrived just in time," the man said, greeting the lady as she approached the group.

"We appreciated the call, Ariel Augustus," Miss Benson replied cooly, her dusty lips curling up with a polite smile.

"Please, send my regards to your Supreme," Ariel said through clenched teeth, opening the passenger side door for Michael.

"She's your Supreme too, Grand Chancellor," Miss Benson pointed out, her voice turning away from politeness.

"Right, of course." He turned towards Michael, wanting nothing more than to get away from the witches. "Hop in." Michael's eyes snapped to Carrie's in an instant and his mouth fell open with an unspoken question. He hadn't anticipated separating from Carrie Moore, but Miriam Mead had.

"Wait, we're being separated?" Carrie spoke out, her voice wavering as she looked from the warlock to the witch.

Ariel laughed callously. "Our schools are not co-ed, little witch." Alarm flared in Carrie's heart and she shook her head, eyes flashing wildly at Michael.

"No, we can't be separated!" she cried out, shaking her head frantically. She had lost so much already, she couldn't lose Michael too. Ariel pulled Carrie away from Michael, and her fingers slipped from his.

"Off you go now," he commanded, brushing her off again. Carrie fought against him and fought her way back to Michael's side, back into his arms.

"I don't want to leave you," she breathed into Michael's ear as he encased his arms around her midsection. She could feel the muscles in his arms tighten around her and she felt safe and wanted in his arms.

"It won't be forever, my Carrietta," he whispered, his words melting into her heart. "I won't be far." His eyes were so vivid, so dedicated, all despite the sweet sorrow of a parting. Michael knew without a doubt he'd see Carrie Moore again, they shared a road, even if they were in different lanes. Michael hadn't gotten to choose his direction, but Carrie did, and the young witch was at a crossroads.

"Michael..." She felt herself caving, her heart shaking and tears welling in her eyes. She had cried so much lately and she hated it. She wanted to carve her tears ducts out.

"Dream of me," he replied, letting her go and slipping into the navy car. Her knees buckled as the car pulled away from the curb, taking Michael away from her to the Hawthorne School for Exceptional Young Men. Zoe Benson helped steady the little witch, her fingers gentle and reassuring. The scene picked at Zoe's heart and made her miss Kyle Spencer desperately, and while he was long gone, her heart was still sore without his presence.

"Come, Carrie, I'll take you home," Zoe said tenderly, guiding her towards the black town car across the way. "I'll take you to the place where you belong."

"No," Carrie uttered, her throat tight with emotion, tight with claws. She imagined her mother's glossy pearls around her throat instead of a golden crossed. And defiance was stirring in her heart, in her soul that had been born centuries ago, lost in time and tied to a blood moon. Carrie knew something else then, she didn't belong in a grand house in New Orleans, and she got the feeling that she was hellbound, that the whole world was hellbound. She was a bloodied prom queen, a princess of darkness, and no one told her what to do anymore, not her mother or God or even Michael Langdon. "I'll find my own coven."