The Devils Cry Ch 1-3

[eiahmon]

Title: The Devils Cry Chapter 3
Category: Devil May Cry
Rating: PG-13
Devil May Cry and it’s characters and situations are the sole property of Capcom. I am making no money or profit off of this fanfiction and no copyright infringement is intended. On the other hand all original characters and situations are mine so please don’t run off with them without my knowledge or consent.
Summary: A daughter’s dreams of a place that Dante doesn’t want to remember make him recall things that he had once tried so hard to forget as the skeletons in the Sparda family closet come out to play. Lost family history is revealed, and people once thought long gone return.
SPOILER WARNING!!!: Spoilers for all three Devil May Cry games.

3.

Alastair reached for the tin of polish and growled in irritation when she saw that it was almost empty.

“Dad!” she called “Where did you put the polish?”

“It’s in the weapons room!” he called from the kitchen “I thought I told you to go easy on it!” She didn’t dignify that with an answer. Instead she just put Alastor aside and walked out of the living room. She ducked into the small storage closet under the stairs and through the small hidden door that led into the 20 X 20 foot room where they stored the swords and other weapons that they did not use.

No matter how many times she came in here, the large room covered wall to wall in swords, knives, daggers and other demonic weaponry was still her favorite place in the house. The room sported a fireplace, a few chairs and couches, as well as a large, life size painting of a man whose identity was unknown to them.

The painting had been commissioned by her grandfather, Sparda, over a century ago. Dante didn't know how he had come by it, only that it had been present at Atalia's apartment when he was a child She had moved the painting to its current position after she bought the house so Dante would have room to run amok. Only he had known who the subject was, though it was fairly obvious that the man with the angular face, eyes the color of ice chips, and stark white hair pulled into a tail halfway down his back was a member of the Sparda family. Dante assumed he was one of his father‘s demonic relatives, perhaps his own father. The figure was dressed in simple yet elegant robes of black and silver and was holding a book in one hand and a sword in the other. Even as a two dimensional painting, he radiated an aura of knowledge and power. Alastair had always been fascinated by the painting for many reasons, one of which was his eerie resemblance to Vergil.

There was a small cabinet next to the large fireplace, where they stored sharpening stones, cleaning rags, and such, and it was this cabinet where Alastair went rooting around in, looking for polish. She found it easily, on the top shelf, and was closing the doors when she saw something just below her line of sight. Swinging the doors back open, she looked down to the bottommost shelf. There, carefully wrapped in padding and linens, was her late uncle’s katana, the Yamato.

Dante had found the sword years before, clutched in the hands of his then three year old son. He had cleaned it, wrapped it, and put it away, and only handled it after that when it was absolutely necessary. And for good reason. The sword had let him handle it just long enough to give it the care that it needed. After that, it had given him a brutal shock whenever he tried to touch it. Alastair had once tried to pick it up and had gotten the same response.

Vergil on the other hand could use it with no repercussions. As a matter of fact, the sword responded to him like it had once done for his long gone namesake. Though, Vergil confessed, he didn’t like using it overly much. It let it’s power flow freely, and he could take his uncle’s form when in Devil Trigger, but it didn’t feel right. He said it was almost as if the sword were waiting for something - or someone, and it was only tolerating him in the meantime. He had left it behind when he traveled to France, because when he had tried to take it with him, it had refused to come off it’s shelf. It hadn’t shocked him or harmed him in any way, it just hadn’t wanted to move. So instead, Vergil had taken the Rebellion, as well as his Beowulf gauntlets - with a stern warning from Dante that if something happened to the Rebellion, there would be sooooo much trouble in store for him when he got home.

Looking at the Yamato now, Alastair had to swallow her heart, which had somehow gotten wrapped around her voice box. There was a soft glow coming from within the wrappings. As she watched, the white blue glow, changed to the dusky bluish-red smoke that was her brother’s demonic power. Actually no, that wasn’t quite right. It was a little darker than her brother’s power, closer to purple, though not quite so. Alastair rocked back onto the heels of her feet where she was crouched and sat down on the floor, staring at the sword in shock, and in a little fear. Whatever it was, the essence of her uncle that lived in the sword was very happy about something.

“What is taking you so long?” The door opened and Dante stepped in. “I know I put that polish on the top shelf.”

“Dad,” Alastair said, swallowing heavily “Maybe you should come look at this.”

“What is it?” Dante walked towards her. “There is nothing in there, but your uncle’s......” He caught a glimpse of the wrapped Yamato, and his voice trailed off. “...sword.” Alastair risked a glimpse up at him. All of the color had drained from his face, and he didn’t even seem to be breathing. He stared at the sword for a moment longer, completely unaware that Alastair had gotten to her feet and was poking him in the chest and waving her hands in front of his face. Finally, he chest moved, and he took a deep, shuddering breath.

“Close the doors,” he said in a strangled voice “and lock them. Don’t come near this cabinet again.”

“But Dad, the polish -”

“Don’t worry about it.” He shoved his way past her, and closed the doors himself, snapping shut the lock that only he had the combination to.

“Let’s go. We got a job across town.” He grabbed her by her jacket and all but dragged her from the room. He didn’t look back at the cabinet, and actually seemed to be forcing himself not to look. Alastair looked, however, and could still feel the power radiating from the sword and see the purplish-red smoke swirling around the cabinet.

******

They were coming for him. Finally. He had no idea how long he had been waiting for them, as there was no day or night, or any other way to tell the passage of time down here. He sat in his corner and waited for them to come in and pull him to his feet. When they did, he let them pull him up without attempting to stand himself. Let them think he was not as weak as he looked, it could only work in his favor in they underestimated them. It wasn’t a total charade by any means though. He was very weak from well over a quarter century imprisoned in the Underworld. It didn’t help that he wore a heavy metal collar around his neck, inscribed with runes and other archaic symbols that kept his demon powers restrained and locked away. In short, it forced him to be human, and he hated it.

He heard a loud clanking as his chains were removed and dropped to the almost organic substance that made up the floor. Strong arms gripped his own arms and he was dragged from the room. As he crossed the threshold of the door, he tried to keep his heartbeat under control, fearing that his guards would hear it if it beat too fast or too hard. He didn’t want to do anything that could risk giving himself away. He had to wait until just the right moment to make a break for his family’s tower. Once he was inside, no one that was not of his family’s blood would be able to reach him. He had to be patient. The right moment would come.

It would come.

******

He is dead. One half of Dante’s mind insisted. I saw him die.

Ah, but you saw him die twice before didn’t you? The other half replied.

Dante turned over on his side, burying his face in the pillow, trying to ignore the warring thoughts in his head. They were swirling around in his brain, refusing to settle, refusing to quiet. It was torturing him.

He DIED this time! I know it!

And you “knew” it the night your home - not that you remember that - was attacked too. And you “knew” it after the whole Temen-ni-gru business. You were wrong then. You could be wrong now. And of course let’s not forget, that even though he “died” thirty-five years ago, he still somehow managed to sire a son twenty years ago. How do you explain that, hmmmm?

He died! I know, because I killed him! He is dead!!

Uh-huh. You know perfectly well that Mundus would not have let him die. He would have kept him alive to better punish him for his failure. Death would have been letting him off too light, in Mundus’ eyes.

I. Killed. Him.

And yet you don’t seem to be particularly bothered by his loss. Atalia told you that the two of you are joined at the soul level, so his death should have affected you alot more than it has.

Gods, how he hated it when that voice was right. It was the voice of guilt, and it liked to pop up every now and then and plague him for a few nights, giving him nightmares, pitting his thoughts against each other and such. They mostly focused around his brother and mother, and after Mallet Island, especially his brother.

He sighed and closed his eyes. There was no way that he was going to sleep tonight, but he was still going to try. He hated to do what he was going to do, but he didn’t have a choice. He was going to have to speak to Rachel tomorrow.

Down the hall, it was the opposite. Alastair desperately wanted to wake up, but found herself trapped in the thrall of the dream once again. It played itself out as she watched, though once again she noticed slight differences. During the castle’s happy times she could hear the sounds of laughter and young children playing. As the first demonic aura faded, she could hear the sounds of weeping. The biggest difference this time was that she actually saw one of the residents. A woman, with long blond hair falling down to below her waist, dressed in jeans and a red jacket, sat on the edge of the fountain, crying into her hands. She seemed to be in the grips of unbearable grief. Alastair didn’t see her face, and the woman didn’t turn around.

Frustrated by the nightly disturbance, Alastair tried to move closer to get a closer look, and was surprised when she actually began to move. But before she could get close to the weeping figure, the clouds gathered overhead and the figure disappeared from the fountain. The storm exploded over the castle, and she covered her ears to try and block the screams, but it did her no good. The sounds were being heard with her mind, not her ears. She was relieved when the screams stopped, leaving her in the quiet of the neglected courtyard.

******

Dante’s sensitive nose wrinkled in disgust when he pushed the rickety old door open. The door led into a small store that specialized in the sale of folk remedies, herbs, and other “cures”, and was owned by his godmother, Rachel Areceli. There was more to the store than one could see in the small room, but Dante knew that the more serious and dangerous things were kept in the back.

He took one quick glance around the dim, candle lit room, not seeing Rachel anywhere. That meant he was going to have to go look for her. Gods, he really did not want to go into the back. The smell was even worse back there. He stood there a few minutes, waiting for her to show, since she could sense his aura and would know that he was waiting. He leaned against the counter with its glass display case that was so filthy whatever contents it might have held were not visible and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

Sighing in resignation, knowing that he was going to have to swab out the inside of his nose with Q-Tips later to get the smell out, he walked through the threadbare curtain that separated the back of the shop from the front. Immediately he was nearly knocked flat by the smell of the many “ingredients” for sale. He had once remarked to her that if it was disgusting with an awful smell, she sold it. Holding his breath, which thankfully, he could do for a long time if necessary, he walked quickly to the door in the back, resisting the urge to run. Swinging it open, he jumped into the stairway behind it, and slammed it behind him. Releasing the breath that he had been holding, he gagged at the awful smell that still permeated his nose. He imagined that he could hear her up in her apartment, laughing at his expense.

Climbing the stairs, he soon encountered another door and knocked before being welcomed by a woman’s voice.

“Come in, Dante.” He opened the door that was in much better shape than it’s counterparts downstairs, and it swung silently on well oiled hinges. He stepped into the room, closed the door behind him, and looked around for his godmother. Rachel’s apartments were the exact opposite of her store. Clean, neat, and orderly, they were well lit by large windows by day, and multiple candles and oil lamps by night. Thick rugs covered the old wooden floors, and comfortable furniture dotted the rooms. Rachel was a stickler for design in her private space, and it showed. She was such a stickler that when Dante had set the kitchen on fire as a seventeen year old and badly damaged the tiles and wall paint, she had redecorated the entire apartment to match the kitchen’s new color scheme after the damage had been fixed. Dante remembered it fondly, also remembering the rap across his hands with the wooden spoon every time he got too close to the stove after that.

“In the kitchen, Dante.”

Startled from his thoughts, the half demon strode into the small kitchen, where he found Rachel sitting at the lace covered table, sipping tea and reading a magazine. He moved to join her, careful not to go to close to the stove. He had noticed the wooden spoon resting near Rachel’s hand and did not wish to become reacquainted with it.

Rachel saw her godson’s eyes dart to the spoon and chuckled.

“Don’t worry, Dante. I imagine you’ve learned your lesson by now.”

“No harm in being safe.” he quipped as he sat down across from her. She poured him a cup of tea and added a generous amount of honey to it, before handing it to him.

“You always did like more honey than I thought necessary.” she remarked.

He smiled. “Yeah, I was in a big hurry to see how fast I could rot my teeth out.”

She chuckled again.. She looked to be about Alastair’s age, with long auburn hair that touched the floor and grass green eyes. Her figure was tall and thin, yet deceptively strong, something that trouble makers in her area often found out the hard way after she had given them a good pounding and bodily thrown them out of her shop. She was nearly as tall as him - not surprising, considering that she was a full demon. Dante had always suspected that there had once been something between his father and godmother, but he had no proof, and since his mother had liked and trusted her then maybe he was just grasping at straws over the subject. He did know that her name was really not Rachel, though he didn't have any idea what her real name was.

After the deaths of his parents, Dante had gone to live with her in the very same apartment that they were sitting in, but his need for space to run amok in had prompted Rachel to move them into the house that he, Alastair, and Vergil currently lived in. After Dante had started Devil May Cry in his late teens, Rachel had gone back to her little apartment, and had later given the house over to Dante a few months before Alastair’s birth.

“So why did you keep me waiting down there?” he asked “I know you knew that I was there.”

“I’m a witch, not a Seer.” she replied with a cheeky grin.

“I’m sure, but you sensed me, just as I sensed you, so don’t start.” She laughed at him, just like he knew she would and had to set her cup down on the table to keep from slopping the tea everywhere. Once she had herself under control, she paused to catch her breath (Which Dante knew was a stalling tactic, as she could hold her breath even longer than he could.), and said:

“I’m sorry Dante, but you are so fun to annoy sometimes.”

“Did you annoy my parents this way?”

“Worse.”

“Then how did you ever end up as my godmother?”

“Simple, the day after you and you brother were conceived, your parents came to me and asked if I would fill the position, and I accepted. Does that answer your question?”

“Hardly, but I’ll settle with that for now. Though I really don’t want to know how you knew when Vergil and I were conceived.”

She smiled again, picked her cup up and took another sip. “So what brings you here today? I know it isn’t a social call, since you’ve made it clear to me on several occasions that you hate being here.”

“It’s nothing against you -”

She waved his explanation away. “I know that, Dante. This place reminds you of what you were feeling after your mother was lost, so I understand. So tell me, what is it that is important enough to bring you here to me?”

Dante took a breath. “Alastair.” he said quietly. Rachel sat her cup back down and looked at him seriously.

“What is wrong?” she asked. Dante took another breath and described the dreams that his daughter had been having, telling her every detail that he could remember. When he finished and looked up from the table, he found her looking at him intently, frowning.

“The castle seems familiar to you, does it not?” she asked. He nodded hesitantly, not liking that she was steering the subject towards him.

“But I can’t remember where I know it from.” he confessed and was surprised when she smiled at him.

“Oh, I’m sure you remember somewhere in the back of your mind. But it’s vague because you do not want to remember. As soon as you unblock those memories, everything will be clear.”

“Well that’s helpfully vague.”

“As always.”

“If the castle is a place that I’ve seen, why is Alastair dreaming of it and not me?”

“Maybe someone is sending the images to her. Maybe someone is trying to tell her something.”

“Who? Why?”

“I do not know. And unless they see fit to tell her, then I doubt we will be able to find out.” Dante sighed.

“What must I do then?”

“Nothing. These dreams are important, for both of you. The best thing to do would be to let them go on, and hope you can learn more.” Dante sighed again.

“Alright.” he said quietly. His pager beeped, and he glanced down at it to see that it was Alastair, using the code they used to inform the other that they had a job. He stood up from the table.

“I have to go.” he said. She smiled at him.

“Go then, and be careful.” He leaned over the table and kissed her on the top of her head.

“I will.”

Dante strode down the stairs and out of the foul smelling shop. Some demon dueling seemed to be just the thing to quiet his whirring thoughts.