It has been quite some time since I have been anywhere near this one. I know that I have promised to update more often, but there have been a lot things going on that I didn’t take into consideration.

1) Freakin’ crazy hours at Ruby Tuesday. They work us like slaves all for less than four dollars an hour.

2) Collaboration fics... they need love too.

3) Yet another semester of school

4) I kinda sorta enlisted in the military (whoopsies! And no... that wasn’t a joke... I really did.)

Now that I have listed my many excuses, its time to get to the nitty-gritty.

I thank everyone who has reviewed and ‘favorited’ and ‘alerted’ for this story (even the anonymous folks... You get love too). You make my world go ‘round (seriously!)

Now to put you all to work! I’d like very much if you read, go with the flow and enjoy. For any critical readers out there, let me know if you see any errors and most of all tell me if the diction works, because I am trying to make sure that it matches for each time period. I'll try my hardest at getting the language right, but at the moment the real historical details are lost on me.

I go on and on... Go on read... down there... not here! Okay... shutting up now! Enjoy!

Time Flies

Chapter Two: At First Sight.

New York – Present Day

Lady awoke on Dante’s couch and covered in a toasty fleece blanket. Her neck was stiff from the hard, lumpy pillow doing little to cradle her still-swimming head. She sat up and pushed the covers off, revealing that she was still dressed in her evening gown. Her black pumps were strewn on the floor, just below her. Lady glanced at the sterling silver wristwatch to which she wore to the party. The face read six minutes past nine. She figured that since she was up, she would shower and dress in something a little more comfortable. From there she would be gone and Dante would be none the wiser... at least until his normal wake-up time at noon.

She gained her bearings as she collected her shoes before quietly trudging up the stairs. Lady made the immediate right to the bathroom; right where she remembered. How could she not recall it? She never stayed away long enough to forget. She stepped into the hot shower, trying to wash away yesterday along with the smudged makeup.

Ten minutes had passed and she was out of the shower with a towel wrapped around her body. She crept from the bathroom past Dante’s bedroom where she bet that he was unceremoniously sprawled across his bed, wearing nothing more than his underwear. Or perhaps he forgot that she crashed on his couch last night and he simply laid in his birthday suit. It was well within the realm of possibility since it had happened before. When no one was around, the man did seem to enjoy sleeping in the buff. Lady’s nose scrunched at the thought of catching him in the nude... again. Then her face relaxed upon thinking that he was not so bad to look at.

She eased against the wall, careful with her footing as to not make the old floorboards creak. Her head and shoulder rounded the corner as she peered inside the darkened room, only to see that it was empty. Strange, to say the least. Neither Hell nor high water could make that man wake up earlier than noon.

Lady continued on into the spare room where she found some of her old clothes tucked away in a cardboard box. She went through the various odds and ends. Stuff that she had not the chance to move into her apartment nor had she the heart to throw them away. Lady had thought it best to keep them here, just in case. Her decision was prudent enough.

She dressed and trotted back downstairs, to the front door. Maybe an intense day of demon hunting will help her forget what Dante told her. It seemed that the whole night was like one of those youtube videos one could not ‘unsee.’ She could not ‘unhear’ the conversations with Dante and Kristy. Still, she had that nagging feeling that she wanted... no, needed to find out more. Her hand held firmly to the door handle as she weighed her options. She may find out more than she wishes to. What was the old adage? Some things are better left unsaid?

But she could not shake her thirst for that knowledge. She had been drawn in like a reader that could not put down a stirring novel. She had to know more. She had almost dropped the thing entirely... maybe saving it for another day. That was until she smelled bacon frying in the kitchen. Was Trish back from her trip already?

She let loose the door and walked over to the kitchen. “Trish?” There was no answer. She readied her gun, which was never far from her side. Dante never cooks, she reasoned, and there have been burglaries in the news where the crooks raid the victims’ refrigerators.

She did not know why her thoughts initially brought her that. Maybe it was her sad attempt at putting logic to what her already active imagination had also conjured in her mind. She honestly could not remember the last time food was cooked in that kitchen, not counting the microwave. She worked and practically lived at a place overrun with take-out meals. She somehow managed to picture a demon... a pig demon burning in the kitchen and perhaps Dante serving it for breakfast. “Meat is meat, Lady,” he would say. This was much more plausible to her.

Still, intruder or otherwise, she would get to the bottom of it. Lady clicked off the safety and quietly eased up to the doorjamb before swiftly rounding the corner, aiming for the kill. She nearly dropped her gun at what she saw. Well, there was Dante, sans the burning pig-demon Lady had imagined. He stood over the stove with his back to the doorway where Lady stood.

“Good morning, sunshine,” he said before turning around with a skillet full of scrambled eggs. It took Lady a moment to return the greeting. She soon realized, but was taken aback at the full breakfast spread set in front her. The kitchen table of red plastic and chrome, that looked like it was stolen from the diner set of Happy Days, was set for a meal for two.

“Shi— Dante. You scared me!”

“You’d better put that away before you hurt someone, namely me,” Dante motioned to the handgun she gripped firmly. She obliged by engaging the safety and placing it on a kitchen counter.

She took her place at the table and Dante proceeded to rake the eggs onto her plate. Lady took in everything before her, the prefect, light and fluffy eggs, the pancakes, the strips of bacon, the bowl of mixed fruit, and even the stem less glass goblet of orange juice. She took her first bite. Heaven, the first thought brought to her mind.

“Mmm,” she let out a blissful moan.

“I take it that you like it,” Dante asked looking up from his own meal.

With her mouth full, the only thing Lady could do was nod her head in agreement. She swallowed and said, “I had no idea that you cooked.”

He shrugged and replied, “There’s a lot I don’t know about you and things you don’t know about me. I guess we don’t make easier for each other to put together the pieces.” She tilted her head at his cryptic words. Then there was an awkward silence that loomed over them.

“You sleep well,” Dante questioned, uneasily trying to make small talk.

“Your couch is as lumpy as ever,” she uttered after swallowing another mouth full.

“Yeah,” Dante sheepishly chuckled, “I had been meaning to get a new one.”

“Dante—”

“Lady—”

They had said each other’s names simultaneously. Dante paused, allowing Lady to speak first.

“Look... about last... I shouldn’t have reacted like that. I mean, I should have known that something like that was possible... Um, after all you’re a demon, ri—,” Lady began to ramble. Dante reached over the table, placing a hand on top of hers. His sapphire eyes met her mismatched ones and she was instantly quelled.

“It was my fault,” Dante finally uttered, looking away briefly, “I shouldn’t have sprung it on you like that... I’m sorry.”

Was Dante really apologizing to her? She could scarcely believe it.

“I actually wanted to talk to you about it,” he continued, “I—” Crap, the food did come at a catch, she thought as he spoke.

It was Lady’s turn to interrupt, “Yeah, I’m a little pissed that I had to find out a little more about you this way. We’ve been partners and friends for the better part of ten years. If I hadn’t found out last night, would you have still told me?” He did not answer. Her expression softened and she released a short sigh before finishing with, “Consider me all ears... and the truth this time, Dante.”

Dante smirked with a mock salute, “Fine. Scout’s honor.”

Lady raised an eyebrow and incredulously gazed at the platinum haired man, “Were you ever in the Boy’s Scouts?”

“No... There were none when I was a kid.”

Lady laughed and joked, “So, I guess Nero was right to call you Old Man.”

“I guess so,” he smiled lightly. Looking at him, Lady would have never thought in a million years that Dante was as old as he said he was. He did not act nor looked his age. However, she did wonder how he felt about it. Most men who reached the age that she thought he was, thirty six, would freak out about getting closer to forty. By fifty, a normal man would have reached a mid-life crisis upon realizing his mortality. That man would have went out and bought a sports car in a vain attempt to hold onto his long, bygone youth. Did Dante ever reach these stages? Did he even care? Curiosity overtook Lady without fear of consequence. Without the fear of what the information could do to their current relationship.

“So, where do you want to start,” he questioned as moved the dishes to the sink, “Where I was born? Where I grew up? Or do you want me to tell you my entire life story like Brad Pitt did in Interview with the Vampire? I gotta tell you that all of the above is going to take a while.”

Lady casually sat back I her chair and crossed her legs, “I’ve got time. How about we start with your birthday? When were you born?”

Lady often thought that is was unfair that Dante found out hers without giving the slightest inkling of his.

Dante gave a soft chuckle, “I doubt that you’d believe me.”

“Try me,” she leaned in.

“Fine,” he threw his shoulders into a shrug, “December 25th, 1672.”

Lady paused before letting a soft squeal escape from her throat.

“Go ahead,” Dante sighed, “Laugh it up.” She did. At least the irony was not lost on her.

“Wow! A demon born on a Christian holiday,” Lady managed in between gasps of air.

“Christmas wasn’t always celebrated on the 25th,” Dante pouted.

Lady calmed down enough to follow up with another question, “Where were you born?”

“In Massachusetts. Just outside of Salem.”

“The birthplace of the Witch Trials, huh? What was it like back then?”

“Scary,” Dante began, “The paranoia was so pervasive. It was like McCarthyism or Terrorism, invading the psyche of every man, woman and child. People frightened of their own neighbors, suspecting them as witches... The constant finger pointing, wondering who would be put on trial next. I guess it was only a matter of time before they’d be gunning for Vergil and me.”

“So you were caught up in all that?” She leaned in farther, her curiosity fully piqued, “How?”

Dante took a deep breath and began, “The villagers always suspected that Vergil and I were different when we were younger. Things became a little more apparent when we had gotten older. Not that we had come into our powers, which did not seem to happen for quite a few more years. The villagers questioned why we seemed to age much more slowly than the others. Mom had always been our advocate, standing up for us against their ignorance. Then there were whispers. Little rumors that Mom was a witch and she had been impregnated by the Devil and we were Satan’s spawns. Little did they know that they were closer to the truth than they might have thought. I mean Mom was no witch and Dad was not the devil they had in mind. Dad had died years ago and left Mom to raise us on her own. By the time we were ten she was dead too. I know now that it had been demons sent by Mundus, but back then I couldn’t count the villagers out. By the time I was eighteen a met a girl.” He breathed a short wistful chuckle, “She was the silver lining to my blood-filled cloud. I remembered that the moment I met her, I wanted to marry her.”

Lady could clearly see the sincerity in his eyes.

Salem, Massachusetts – June 14, 1691

Dante sat under the shade of a large oak tree situated in a grass field with a sketchpad and a piece of charcoal in hand. He was hard at work, furiously drawing on his paper. His hands slightly blackened by his instrument.

“Dante,” a light and airy voice came from the branches above.

“Hmm?” Dante answered without lifting his eyes from his work. A warm summer’s breeze rippled through the field.

“What do you think of me?” Dante paused at the question. He looked up at the direction from whence the voice came. She sat on a sturdy branch some five feet from the ground. With her back firmly set against the trunk, she scrutinized the white haired boy below with her honey colored eyes.

He saw her as a positively radiant woman. She was smart and energetic, always wanting to do things that the other girls of the village dared not to. After all, she climbed the immense oak on her own and lounged in it with a grace and elegance becoming of a woman of her social stature. She was the one and only daughter of a local inn keeper and he would not have her behave as anything other than a woman of great standing.

What impressed Dante the most of her was that the girl had the mind of a philosopher, the dignity of the crown, and she could best any boy in the village at their own games, putting them to shame.

“Dante,” she called down to him, “You did not answer my question.”

He made a stray mark on his paper. Dante reached into his pocket, retrieving a piece of stale bread. He gently rubbed it on the paper, voiding the mistake. He continued drawing and then said, “Please, believe me when I say that I know not how to answer your inquiry.”

“Dante,” she pouted.

“I do not wish to upset you, nor your father.” He wanted to tell her that he did believe that she was lovely girl and enjoyed her company. He had known her for a year and was ready to announce his intentions to court and wed her. However...

“You are promised to an associate of your father,” he sighed with some discontent in his voice.

“I do not wish to be betrothed. I do not have eyes for him,” she admitted as she began descending the branches.

“Mary,” Dante questioned, pulling his face away from his drawing, completely caught off guard from her statement.

“Do you not wish to court me,” Mary asked frankly. God, how he loved her boldness!

“Yes,” he replied truthfully, “Will... your father hear out my intentions?”

“How will you ever know, if you do not ask,” she philosophized his question as she sat down on the grass to his left. The two exchanged loving glances and smiles with his betraying some relief.

“What have you been drawing all of this time,” Mary asked, her voice snapping him to reality. It seemed that he was always making a drawing or painting of some sort. At times he was caught neglecting his duties just make a new sketch of an interesting encounter. She always referred to him as a wanderer and a dreamer. Nevertheless, she could always find him, no matter where his roaming led him.

“An artist must never reveal his work before he is finished. It is of ill luck.”

Before Dante had realized it, Mary was already going through his art. Most of them were things and people he observed around the village.

“You are truly talented. Wh—,” Mary’s comments ended as she turned the pages and landed upon his latest subject; her. She was speechless.

Mary took in each line, each curvature. There, captured on paper, the perfect likeness of her seated in the familiar oak tree with her eyes gaze diverted into a book. There were the keen details everywhere that could only reproduced by camera technologies centuries later.

“I am truly sorry,” Dante softly uttered.

“What? Why do you say that?”

“It does not perfectly capture your beauty,” he truly could not bear to look her in the eyes.

“It is superb,” she simply said, her words and smile comforted him.

“Dante! Dante,” a voice called out to him from just over the hill.

He looked up to see his mirror image trekking midway to the hill with a small, tied bale of hay slung over one shoulder. “Dante, you had better get back to work. He is look for you.” ‘He,’meant their employer, a bull of a farmer and something of an animal wrangler.

Dante bid Mary farewell, but not before telling her that she could keep the drawing. She would treasure it, always.

Salem, Massachusetts – January 29, 1692

Night fell upon the snow-capped hill and the bare oak tree. The two lovers met in the cloak of darkness.

Dante hurried up the snow covered hill where Mary waited.

“What is wrong,” Dante questioned with his breath coming out in little puffs of smoke on the chilled air, “I received your letter.” The worry was palpable in his voice.

The letter he referred to was relayed to him by Vergil some three days ago. Its concise manner was what concerned him the most. Her usual eloquent language was absent from the correspondence, which made him believe that meeting was of great import. It simply read:

My Dearest Dante,

When the moon is at its fullest in three days time, please meet me in our secret place.

Your Beloved,

Mary

Dante stepped closer to Mary with his face bathed in the pale moonlight. She immediately wrapped her arms around him and they both held each other in a tight embrace. She loosened herself from his grasp when she fell into a coughing fit. Once it had subsided, Dante gazed upon her and saw that she was nearly as pallid as the snow that surrounded them.

“Mary, you are unwell. We must get you inside,” Dante said as he prepared to pick her up and carry her home. He did not care if he was caught, just as long there would be the prospect that she could get better. It could be just a seasonal sickness at best or smallpox at worst. He was no doctor, he could only grasp at guesses.

“No,” she stopped him, “I must say what I need to say.” The girl was just as strong willed as he and Dante knew better than to argue.

“Yes? What is it,” Dante was anxious.

“I do not want to stay. I want the leave tonight... with you.”

“No, I will not allow it. You are too ill. Your father already thinks poorly of me. He will not forgive me and I will never forgive myself if something should happen to you. Ma—”

Dante’s thoughts were interrupted by a kiss. A kiss from Mary, so ladened with passion. Such bliss and ecstasy that Dante had not realized that there was another presence upon them. The moment was abruptly ended when Dante yanked backwards by his hair and cast down into the snow.

“Filthy scoundrel,” an angry male voice hissed, “How dare you touch my daughter?!” The maneuver was so sudden that Dante got the wind knocked out of him. He attempted to bring his body up as lightly gasped for air. A blow was landed into his stomach and he collapsed into the snow again.

“Father, no,” Dante heard Mary scream in the background as one of her brothers dragged her off to their home.

Soon there was a blur of kicks and punches upon him from all directions. Dante had put up a valiant effort in fending off the attacks, but the small mob proved to be too much. Mr. Good had found that his daughter was not bed that night and brought his sons to search for her. He was not going to allow her to be spirited away by a worthless peasant. The arranged marriage and dowry promised enough to which Good could retire. Tonight he would deter the white haired youth from once again laying eyes on his meal ticket.

“Mary,” Dante found himself involuntarily calling out her.

She broke free from her brother’s grips and ran, compelled to be at Dante’s side. She made it to a halfway point, just to witness one of her brothers swinging a stone into the side of Dante’s head. He fell on to the pristine hill for a final time. A torrent of sanguine rushed from the nasty gash that resulted in the assault.

Mary dropped to her knees, near Dante’s fallen form. As he lay there, a halo of crimson stained the blanket of white around his head.

She bent down and held his bloodied hand. He made limited eye contact through hazy vision.

“Why,” she cried, “why must you do this? He has done nothing wrong, only what I have asked of him.”

“You know not what you speak of, girl,” Good gruffly returned, “Get thee to your bed!”

“D-do not cr—,” Dante attempted as unconsciousness took hold of him.

“Take him to Hathorne or Corwin,” Good ordered the two sons that gathered up Dante, “Let the magistrates deal with him. By all that is Holy, that the boy has bewitched my daughter.”

Mary was picked up and taken to the family home with Dante’s captors headed off to the jail, with the boy in tow.

Salem, Massachusetts – January 30, 1692

Dante awoke the in a dank, dark cell where not even the flea-infested rodents could survive. Time moved of its own accord inside the deplorable prison. He was left to stew in his own devices.

Dante watched the tiny crack of light from the drafty door, move across the floor. Each inch and half denoted an hour that had passed. He then wondered how long he would be in there before his trial began. He wondered if he would even receive a trial. He began to question what his charges were.

Salem, Massachusetts – January 31, 1692

After a full twenty four hours of neglect, Dante was stolen away from his cell in the dead of night. He could scarcely process the laundry list of questions the two magistrates asked. Before Dante realized it the integration ended with his arm being sliced opened and him being doused with Holy Water. He was once again tossed into the cell.

That afternoon his trial began where for the first time he was told he was being charged with the capital crime of Witchcraft.

Salem, Massachusetts – February 1, 1692

Dante’s morning was greeted with birds chirping and another round of torture and questioning. His arm had fully healed, with no evidence of deep gash he suffered the previous night. Corwin and Hathorne scrutinized his wounds, or lack thereof. The magistrates concluded that the boy was indeed a witch and commanded him to release his hold on Mary Good.

Dante did not sleep that night. He only sat and thought. He thought about Mary and wished to see her once more. Then he thought of how he welcomed death. Could he die?

Salem, Massachusetts – February 2, 1692

Overnight, there were at least three new counts of Witchcraft. Reverend Lawson came forward and claimed that his family was being afflicted by Dante and his evil magic. Vergil was named as an accomplice and brought before the court. Dante pleaded with the courts to let his brother go.

“Will you convict a man because he is born and appears the same as I? He has nothing to do with these charges set upon me. I am at fault for secretly courting a betrothed woman.”

Vergil was released and Dante was convicted of all charges. He was sentenced to death by hanging.

Salem, Massachusetts – February 3, 1692

In the twilight hours, just before dawn, Vergil made his final visit with his twin. Dante had already accepted his fate and was resolute in dying. Vergil left the cell, resolute in saving a life.

The past week was a whirlwind of torture and trumped up charges. Now, Dante stood before a hangman’s noose. The intricately tied knot was carefully brought around his neck and tightened. With the swing of a lever, the trap door sprung open and the youth’s legs were left dangling.

Dante’s body fought against the suffocation for nearly fifteen minutes. A fury of colors danced and swirled around his vision as hypoxia set in. The last thing that caught Dante’s sight before the darkness encroached was poor Mary Good standing in the third row, tears streaming down her delicate face. She was desperately trying to flee, but was being firmly held in place by her father.

Do not cry, Mary, Dante thought before he closed his eyes.

New York – Present Day

“He forced his daughter to watch,” Lady was outraged beyond belief.

“I guess he thought that watching would drive the devil out of her,” Dante replied as he set up a shot on the pool table.

Breakfast had been done and the dishes cleaned by the dishwasher. The conversation had since been moved to the main lobby.

“What happened to her,” Lady asked.

“She killed herself later that night... drowned in that same river where I painted her on the rowboat.”

“Mm,” Lady let out the short sound as the tragedy of it all sank in. “So I guess that Vergil came and save you in the nick of time?”

“Not quite. He didn’t cut me down until later that night. He had to wait. The risk of being caught was too great.”

“Wait. Don’t they normally take the body down when the deed is done?”

“It depends. If there is another scheduled execution, then yes. But they left me there as a reminder, to make an example out of me.” Dante knocked another ball in. “By the time Vergil cut me down and I realized that I had survived, he told me that Mary was dead. So, we gather what we could, including Yamato and Rebellion from Mom’s cottage and fled the village.”

“Wow. I can’t even imagine. How did you manage to cope?”

“I made my peace with it a long time ago. And we had to hit the ground running. You kinda have to. Historically...” Dante lined his final shot and sunk the eight ball, “Humans have done crazy, if not crazier things. The Trials were no exception. I can tell you one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“There was a clergyman by the name of Nicholas Noyes present at my ‘execution’ he tried many times to get me admit to my crimes. Later that year a woman named Sarah Good was to be executed for the same crimes. Her last words were: ‘You are a liar. I am no more a witch than you are a wizard, and if you take away my life God will give you blood to drink.’ Some twenty years later, the good Reverend choked to death on his own blood from a brain hemorrhage.”

“Karma works,” Lady commented.

“Yes it does,” Dante replied. The antique rotary-dial phone on Dante’s desk shrilly rang.

“Devil May Cry,” he answered the phone. He listened and answered with the occasional ‘yeah,’ ‘sure,’ and ‘uh-huhs’. He then hung up the phone and directed to Lady, “Business beckons. Shall we continue this later?”

“Yeah, ready when you are.”

With Lady’s answer, the two hunters grabbed their weapons and took to the streets.

(To Be Continued...)

Eric has gone to bed, folks.... but he’d love it if he got some reviews to look at in the morning (with his Crunch Berries).