For Whom the Bell Tolls
Crowley looked up from the end of the weathered pier.
The tide had gone strangely still.
No gulls.
No wind.
Just the patient rhythm of water striking ancient pilings beneath the dock.
Then footsteps.
Slow.
Measured.
Unhurried.
They echoed across the old boards long before their owner emerged from the morning fog.
Black boots.
Dark coat.
Gloves despite the summer heat.
The Warlock.
Crowley's jaw tightened.
"You've got quite the nerve showing up here."
Before another word could be spoken...
BONG.
The bell from St. Bartholomew's rolled across the harbor.
Then another.
BONG.
BONG.
Twelve slow tolls.
Not loud.
Heavy.
Ancient.
As though something older than the church itself had reached up and pulled the rope.
The Warlock smiled.
"Still ringing," he murmured.
Crowley's eyes narrowed.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
The Warlock didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he rested both hands atop the weathered railing and stared out over the gray Atlantic.
"Do you know why churches have bells, Drake?"
Crowley scoffed.
"To tell time."
"No."
The answer came softly.
"That's simply what men remember."
Another bell rolled through the air.
The Warlock watched the ripples spread across the harbor.
"Long before clocks... bells marked boundaries."
"Between villages."
"Between kingdoms."
"Between the living..."
"...and places they were never meant to wander."
Crowley's scar ignited.
Not burning.
Pulling.
Like a compass suddenly remembering north.
His hand instinctively reached for his neck.
The Warlock noticed.
Of course he noticed.
"It remembers me."
Crowley's eyes hardened.
"No."
"It remembers what you stole."
For the first time...
The Warlock actually looked surprised.
Only for an instant.
Then the smile returned.
"Morgan taught you that."
Crowley didn't respond.
Silence was answer enough.
The Warlock chuckled to himself.
"Remarkable."
"Even dead..."
The Warlock continued, "...he's still making my work more difficult."
The bells stopped.
The sudden silence felt heavier than the ringing.
The Warlock's expression changed.
The amusement vanished.
Something almost resembling pity settled across his face.
"I'm not here to kill you."
Crowley laughed once.
"You never are."
"No."
"Because I can't."
That landed like a hammer.
Crowley blinked.
"Can't?"
"Not yet."
The Warlock stepped closer.
"There are doors in this world that only one bloodline can open."
"Your father couldn't."
"Morgan wouldn't."
"You..."
He looked directly at the scar.
"...already have."
Crowley's pulse thundered.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"No."
"That's the tragedy."
The Warlock reached into his coat.
Crowley tensed.
Instead of a weapon...
He produced a single weathered page.
Torn from an old journal.
The handwriting stopped Crowley's breath.
Morgan's.
Across the top, in faded ink, were only four words.
It was never Vain.
It was Vane.
The Warlock folded the page closed before Crowley could take it.
"You finally started asking the right question."
He turned to leave.
"Now ask yourself the one Morgan died trying to answer."
Crowley's voice followed him.
"Which is?"
The Warlock never looked back.
"Why did the bells ring..."
"...before either of us spoke?"
