Chapter Text
There is one economical way to get to the island of Fortuna and it is misery. Plenty of boats go to and from the island at any time of the year, but those passenger ferries are for curious tourists and they're not cheap. Especially if you're on a shoestring budget because you haven't been able to get any work in the last two weeks. No, for the dead-broke traveler trying to reach Isola della Spada, as some of the mainlanders call it, the only option is to give a fishing boat captain about thirty bucks and a pack of cigarettes, pop a fistful of Dramamine, and tuck into a corner of the dinghy that feels stable.
Dante groans and drops himself forward to rest his forehead against his knees. This feels like complete bullshit to him. He's been shot, stabbed, burned, hit with a car, thrown out of a fifth story window, eaten by a flying whale-thing, and poisoned at least once and all of those he walked off. Seasickness should be the kind of thing he can power through as easily as a shot glass full of arsensic but nope. The only thing keeping him from losing the burger he had on the drive here is raw willpower. Then the boat roils underneath him again, lifting up and dropping down, and he can feel the grip on his stomach slipping. So much for Dramamine.
"Aye, boy, you alive in there? We'll be at the docks in a tic," the captain calls from outside the cabin door and Dante gurgles in affirmation. It takes him a few minutes to make his legs work, but eventually he pulls himself off the bench at the back of the lower cabin, picks up his guitar case, and half-stumbles out onto the deck. The crew - which is just the captain and his sons - give cordial nods to their passenger as they work to bring the old trawler into the harbor. The castle town of Fortuna looms beyond them.
It's bigger than he realized, sprawling out wide with spires jutting up into overcast skies, lights in windows glowing orange as dusk falls. There are only a few boats in a harbor that looks as if it used to hold far more and not many people milling around. Most seem to be dockhands or rich tourists getting off the late ferry, but he spies a few in hoods pulled low to conceal their faces and, concerningly, a duo of guards armed with swords walking along the docks. He shifts the guitar case on his shoulder and takes hold of nearby rigging as the boat lurches one last time on choppy waters.
"We beat the storm just in time," the captain calls to Dante, between shouting directions at the son steering the boat into port. Soon they've come up along the docks and the second son - he older one, he thinks- hops out to tie the ship down. Dante watches him call instructions to the younger up in the bridge only for his little brother to yell back, with deep annoyance, that he knows what he's doing. They bicker even as they work, exchanging barbs until the boat is secured in place and Dante can haul himself out of the boat. He's eager to get on solid ground and away from the sudden nagging familiarity swelling inside his chest.
"Be here by 11AM tomorrow if you wanna ride back with us. Otherwise you're gonna have to pay someone else to carry you, kid," says the captain, finally lighting one of the cigarettes Dante gave him on the mainland. He pops a lazy salute up to his forehead as he walks backward along the wooden dock. Both of the brothers give him a jovial goodbye despite the arguing they were just doing. Above them, the sky rumbles the first warning of a building storm.
--
Into Fortuna he goes. It already feels like a bad idea or, at least, money misspent. He has no idea what he's even doing, chasing after rumors of someone that he knows is gone. He should leave it alone and get on with his life. The shop has a name, albeit not a customer base, and he isn't earning any money on some island in the middle of nowhere.
Yet Dante couldn't ignore Morrison's offer of information either. The chance to learn where Vergil had been before he turned up in his city that night. The question had been nagging at him relentlessly in the weeks and months after the tower, long after he had convinced Lady he was all right. He didn't know why that specific question ate at him so much. It just seemed like the right one to ask, the one that would make sense of everything. If he knew where Vergil had been, what his twin had done before Temen-ni-gru, then maybe he would understand why things ended the way they did. Dante mentioned it in passing to his old contact and eventually he got an answer in the form of this island. No idea what brought Vergil here, but he came and went often enough to get noticed by Morrison's vast network. Not just to the city in general but to a single, specific place over and over - a store for antiques, oddities, and rare books.
Thunder rolls and the first drops of rain plink into his hairline. The another and another and soon those few drops have turned into quiet, steady shower. He swears under his breath and yanks the hoodie he's wearing underneath his coat up over his head. The lamps lining the tiny backstreet pop on one after the other, casting everything in a soft, golden light - including the written directions Morrison gave him.
A junk shop is not what he expected out of his twin, though he isn't sure what would suit him. It's hard to anticipate something out of someone he barely knew. Every time he encountered Vergil in the ten years following their mother's murder, his brother had changed. Quieter, colder, more threatening than any merc or demon he's ever stared down. There were plenty of rumors about his sibling to go along with the demeanor too. A young teenager in blue slaughtering the inner circle of Verona Beach's largest crime family. A trail of bounty hunters and mercenaries - trying to claim the price on his head - left eviscerated with a few lucky to survive. Plenty of rumors about a dangerous man consorting with monsters and devils, setting them free.
Dante heaves a long sigh that comes out cloudy. The temperature is dropping with the rain. Once again he skims over the piece of paper in his hand to double check where he's going, then folds it up and tucks it into his pocket so the rain won't keep smearing his instructions. His fingers are starting to feel numb but at least the weather means the streets are quiet. The occasional car rolls by and the one cafe he passes seems plenty busy with people's voices and music muffled by the downpour. But he's only passed a few other individuals on the sidewalk and none of them have given him so much as a glance.
The time's beginning to get away from him and he has no idea how long he's been walking. The only thing he knows is what Morrison told him and what Morrison told him is that this junk shop wasn't too far from the docks. Fortuna is definitely not his usual stomping grounds. The city is most infamous for a local religion that deifies his father and of course this is the kind of place Vergil would frequent, right? Maybe that's what brought him here in the first place. At least Dante's starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel. On the other side of the crosswalk is the bodega Morrison mentioned and, right beside it, an alley leading down a short flight of stairs.
"This had better be worth this hike."
The alley is small and tucked away from the hum of the rest of the residential district - the stairs lead down further than Dante expects and open to a tightly packed row of mismatched townhomes. Most of them are lit up and he can hear quiet piano music drifting through the air. He lifts his eyes and spots an old woman smoking on her covered balcony next to a record player. She notices him watching and scoffs to herself.
"So you're finally back, huh?"
So Vergil really did come here regularly. Enough to be recognized by the locals, anyways. All he can think to do is nod gruffly in response. If he opens his mouth and talks, then she'd immediately know the difference.
"Bah. Rude as always."
That's Vergil all right. He keeps walking the uneven cobblestone street to the very last townhouse dead-ending the row. Sure enough, there's a set of signs hung by the door advertising "Antiques & Oddities." Its curtains are drawn but warm light glows behind the second floor windows and he can barely make out a silhouette shifting around. The old man really never has sent him on a goose chase, has he? Dante finds himself grinning a little as he approaches the door but it fades when he realizes that he has to ring the bell.
"All right, big bro," he mutters to himself and nervously lifts a hand to the doorbell. "What are you hiding..."
He presses the button and listens to the rattling of a bell somewhere inside. At first, there's no response. Of course there isn't - the sign in the shop window says "Closed" - but someone is clearly home. So he pushes it again and holds his breath. Then there's the tell-tale sound of feet coming down stairs and then one, two, three? locks sliding out of place. He's still holding his breath when the door opens and a woman's annoyed voice chimes:
"Sorry, but I'm-Oh!"
Her distracted gaze turns to look at him and take in who exactly is in front of her and he does the same. She's young - his age? - and pretty. Visibly exhausted with dark circles under her eyes but pretty. Her hair is a sheet of liquid red that falls into her face and hangs down past her hips. Amber eyes focus and study his face, flickering up and down. For one gossamer moment he's the most important person in the world when she almost breaks into a smile.
A moment which ends as soon as she realizes he doesn't recognize her. Her expression shifts, turns cold and dangerous. She backsteps and a weird shimmer runs through her hair from scalp to tip, like dim light passing through a fiber optic. He reaches for one of the guns strapped to the small of his back, and in the half-second it takes for him to level Ivory, there's a spike of red hair pressed deep enough against his throat to break the skin. Both of them fall perfectly still and Dante wiggles his index finger to show its distance from the trigger.
"Easy, easy. I'm not here to start any trouble."
"You're Dante."
"Huh! I'm surprised! I didn't expect him to tell anyone about me. You know how it is, being the black sheep and all. Though considering your ... everything, maybe you don-"
"Where is he."
Cutting him off with her voice sharp and the point of her hair pushing deeper. Reinforced by magic, controlled completely by the woman in front of him. He's not even surprised. It's a type of witchcraft that requires a level of skill that would impress his brother. He still flinches when it digs into his skin and hisses through his teeth. Ivory stays up and tucked beneath her jaw even as she tries to lean her head away from it.
"So what're you, his accomplice or something? Or did Arkham con you into getting involved too? You don't seem like the type to be taken in by bug-eyed freaks but what do I know?"
"Answer my question." Harsher this time with her mouth twitching, her throat tightening in an attempt to restrain herself from shouting. He can feel irritation itching up his spine. He's freezing cold, fingers gone completely numb at this point, he doesn't know what's going on, and now he's being too-slowly speared through the neck by a spike that isn't sharp enough to make it clean. If she doesn't want to raise her voice, he sure the hell will.
"I got bad news for you, sister. Vergil's gone."
The storm booms loud enough to shake the air and make the glass in her window frames rattle. Neither of them move but her expression goes almost unreadable. All of the irritation is gone and her eyes pull wider. Her jaw trembles as the silence that fell between them is abruptly shattered by an ear-piercing wail. At first he thinks it's a cat yowling but no, it's too loud, too distressed.
A baby?
Dante's stomach lurches up and his eyes focus on the mystery woman. She shrinks away from him, further into the shop, pulling the spike of her hair away from his neck. Her face has gone pale, her shaking hands fumble to grab at the doorknob. A flood of unexpected guilt washes over his entire body. He re-holsters Ivory and lifts both hands in surrender.
Whatever he was expecting, it's not this.
"What do you mean gone?"
Dante remains silent and still, trying to find something to say that will make this better, and comes up short. He looks at the young woman in front of him with strangest sense of helplessness blooming inside him. The rain won't let up. Over their heads, the baby keeps screaming.
"Get-" She looks over her shoulder then at Dante with her jaw set tight. "Get inside. Leave your... 'guitar' at the counter. The guns, too. Both of them."
There is no way this is what he thinks it is. It can't be. Vergil's not the type, right? He wants to outright ask her before stepping in, but she's already turned to stride toward the stairs at the back of her shop. It could be a trap. Plenty of demons can mimic the sound of a baby crying, after all. But he has a pretty good sense for traps and the only thing he can sense right now is the gut-twisting contempt he has for himself in the wake of her genuine shock. So he quickly shrugs the guitar case off his shoulder and fumbles to unbuckle his holsters.
"Close and lock the door behind you," she orders, the bite gone from her tone. "I know your mother raised you well enough to do that." Disappearing onto the second floor and leaving him confused and alone in the middle of a dusty shop full of strange curios. Within moments, he hears quiet shushing and the crying begins to taper off. He drops his guns onto the counter by an old analog cash register and a guest book, secures the door as ordered, and then follows after her.
"It's okay, it's okay..."
He can hear her murmuring as he ascends the stairs. The skin on his neck and down his back starts itching at the sound of her voice. Why? Is this nerves? This place feels like somewhere he shouldn't be, like he's intruding on something that was supposed to be kept secret.
The second floor landing opens to a small living room with books and notes scattered everywhere. They're piled on an old coffee table or stacked next to a lamp or sitting on the floor. Tucked next to the bay windows is a bassinet and standing next to that, with her back to him, is his strange host. She's holding a bundle wrapped in a blanket, swaying to and fro, keeping her head down. The crying has turned into unhappy whimpers every time the thunder rumbles outside.
When was the last time he felt this awkward in his own skin? Part of him wants to go downstairs, get his stuff, and leave. But his feet are rooted in place by the need to know that's growing out of control inside of his chest and taking hold of every part of his body.
"You got a name?" he finally forces himself to ask in a voice that comes out rougher and quieter and more nervous than he expected. She briefly glances over her shoulder, then returns her attention to the baby tucked against her chest.
"Aster."
The uncomfortable silence persists. It's like the tiny room is gradually shrinking around him. He's too loud, too graceless to handle something like this. If Vergil were here-- "What do you mean he's gone?" she repeats, softer this time.
He wonders if he's ever going to actually learn or if he's going to stay so stupid and tactless for the rest of his life. "Just that. I mean he fell." More of her attention falls on him and he squirms under unblinking amber eyes. "At the tower. Into..." His palm is stinging from the memory. One hand reaches to rub at the other to try and will it away. "...into the underworld."
By the way her eyes suddenly close tight, he guesses she understood all of that. She turns her head away to stare hard out of the windows in front of her, watching rain clatter against the old glass. It's the only sound for what seems like an eternity. Not even the baby is making sound. Dante finds himself focusing very specifically on that little bundle of blankets, watching it shift and squirm in contrast to how perfectly still Aster's become.
"He's a fussy little guy, isn't he?" He doesn't get a response. "So... is that..." The question keeps nagging and he can't not ask. It's the worst possible time to ask, he knows that, and his mouth verbalizes half of the question anyways.
Aster doesn't say anything. She shifts her weight to face him and he can actually see the baby swaddled in her hold. White hair frames chubby cheeks and icy blue eyes blink to fight off sleep. The baby - and Dante is pretty sure the baby is a 'he' by the blue onesie peeking out of the blanket - is ... small. Smaller than a normal newborn, he thinks, though Dante hasn't seen that many babies. But he wriggles around in Aster's arms until she adjusts him to tuck into the crook of her elbow and then goes more still, seemingly contented to be held tight.
That answers that. He'd ask to sit if he didn't feel like he was imposing on her so much already. The world feels off-kilter now. Vergil managed to have a kid without him ever knowing and now his twin is gone. So far out of their reach that he might as well be dead. No wonder Aster hasn't said a word since he told her. She's laid her own attentions on the boy in her arms, crimson hair falling into her face, hiding her expression from him. Just as abandoned as him.
"...what's his name?"
"Nero."
It's not a bad name. He wonders if she came up with it or if it was Vergil. He wonders how much Vergil actually cared. The ache in his palm returns, brighter than ever, and he couldn't force it away if he tried. He isn't sure if he's supposed to be angry; mostly he's miserable. Part of him wants to leave. He wants to put her and Nero out of his mind for the next eternity and go back to the Devil May Cry and drink until he stops thinking about his twin slipping through his fingers and falling into a yawning abyss that Dante couldn't follow his only family into.
Except that isn't exactly right anymore, is it? It wasn't his "only family."
"Listen, we barely know each other but-"
He doesn't get a chance to finish before Aster's voice cuts in. It's rough, shaking, but still harsh enough to shut him up. "N-no. No, I-" The words stop and she breathes in deep. "I-I don't want to listen. I want... I want you to go."
"Wh-"
"Because I know-" She sucks in a breath to steady her words. "I know what the plan was. And I know that if you're here and he's not then..." Her jaw trembles. She shakes her head and pulls Nero in closer. "...then it's because of you." If she's bothered by the way he flinches, then it doesn't show. "So you need to leave. Right now. Or I am going to make you leave." The long sheet of her hair twists around itself again, forming that familiar point, pulling it out of her eyes so he can clearly see the unrestrained loathing all over her face.
Oh. So it's like that. He can't really blame her, all things considered.
Both of his hands come up placatingly but he doesn't close the gap between them. That's right. He is an intruder in here. He needs to be making himself scarce. But Dante keeps looking at the two of them and the ache that's been chasing him since Temen-ni-gru grows stronger. It's in his bones, his DNA, the feeling of disappointment in yourself for letting something important slip away. It didn't have to happen like this but it did and it's just as much his fault as anyone else's. It hurts. But he keeps his hands up and takes a slow step toward the stairs. Aster's unblinking stare cuts deep into him and her protective hold on Nero moreso.
"Okay. Okay, don't worry, I'm going." Nodding toward the steps.
"You have thirty seconds."
"I'll be gone in ten."
Her mouth twitches. He doesn't need to be told again. Before Aster can finish that hole she tried to put in his neck, Dante hurries down the steps to the first level shop. Ebony, Ivory and his "guitar case" are all exactly where he left them - sitting next to her register and what looks like a guest book. It only takes him a few seconds to reholster his gun and swing the large case back onto his shoulder. She's going to come down here any moment now but he grabs the pen anyways.
The name of his shop, the number, and he's gone by the next time thunder claps.