Baltimore: March 19 6:53 pm Sitting in Skinner's office after finishing the tale, Scully's gut was hollow, empty of anything but dread. Taylor and his team had found nothing. Nothing anywhere, nothing in the house, nothing in the car, no prints, no fibers, no hair, no nothing, save for what belonged to Mulder. She had taken his briefcase containing his notes and driven back to Washington late that afternoon, having received Taylor's solemn oath that he would call her if he had even the faintest whiff of a hint of a clue as to Mulder's whereabouts and condition. Predictably, Skinner had ordered her back, of course, and had been coldly furious on the telephone. It wasn't anything more than she had expected. What was unexpected was the way he listened to the long form of the story, his eyes concerned. That brought her to a wobbly place that left her eyes stinging and her throat tight. Oh, Mulder, she thought and closed her eyes briefly. "A haunted house," Skinner finally shook his head. "Agent Scully, you realize that he's made enough enemies in this city alone that his disappearance could be completely unrelated to this case." Oh, yes. She *had* realized it. Logically, however, his enemies would want to send a message with his death, or make it appear that it was suicide, with no evidence to the contrary. They had done a fair job of framing Skinner himself, once, and she didn't doubt that they could convince anyone but her of suicide. Leaving out this last sentiment, she explained her point of view. Skinner looked at her over the top of his glasses. "Is Agent Mulder suicidal, Agent Scully?" She hadn't wanted to go there, it made her eyes sting again. "Not now," she answered flatly and left it at that. Skinner appraised her. She wondered what he was thinking. "Sir, he wouldn't just take off." "He has in the past." Skinner's tone was mild; he toyed with his glasses. Swallowing hard, Scully met his gaze. "Not for a long time, sir." He nodded after a moment. "Granted that you've rehabilitated him in that area," he murmured, "What else have you got to go on?" Setting her jaw to keep her chin from quivering--blinking back tears. "Nothing, sir. Except his notes." He held out his hand. After a long moment, Scully handed him the folder. He put his glasses on and read it, flipping page after page of Mulder's angular, messy handwriting. It seemed to take forever. Watching, she wanted to shout at him, thinking of Mulder somewhere, hurting, dying-- maybe even dead already. No, dammit, she would not let herself believe that, he was still alive, somewhere, and she was going to find him. Find him and nail the motherfucker who had taken him. Finally, just when her nerves were wound hair-trigger tight, Skinner closed the folder and regarded her, his expression peculiar. "How thorough was the forensics work at the house?" "Very thorough." She arched an eyebrow with more calm than she felt. "I was there, I worked it with the team Jack gave me. Mulder's hair, in the living room. His prints on the light switch." She swallowed hard. "And you're confident he was there?" "Very." His expression had gone even more peculiar, like a man who'd bitten down on something sour, but was amused by it. Baffled, she held her tongue and temper in check, waiting. "Well, then," Skinner growled suddenly, after another long silence. "Perhaps it's time to consider extreme possibilities." Jolted, Scully stared at him. Mulder's expression--of course, it wasn't like Skinner hadn't had the chance to hear it, but it gave her a chill nonetheless. "Sir?" "Go home, Scully. I'll call you later, so try to rest until I do." "No way, sir." She loosed her temper just a hair. "My partner's missing, and you and I both know, whatever you may want to admit, that there aren't many people who'll look too hard for him. Not like Mulder looked for me." She could have sworn Skinner winced at that. "I'm not one of them, Scully." "I don't really know that, do I, sir?" She set her jaw. "What are you going to do?" For a moment, he stared at a spot on the wall. "There's a woman, a psychologist, she does forensic work, crime analysis, profiles. When the local boys don't want the Feds in on it, they tend to call her." He finally looked at her, his mouth quirking a little, and pulled open one of his desk drawers, retrieving a plain, manila file folder. "Morgan Grayson," he told her and handed her the folder, leaning back to regard the ceiling with that same peculiar look. ************************************* Washington DC: March 19 7:11 Waiting, watching Scully read, Skinner found himself thinking about Mulder. Whatever one might think of Mulder's outrageous leaps, the mind behind those leaps was, without qualification, brilliant. A little frightening, especially to those threatened by the anti-authoritarian strain that ran so deeply in Fox Mulder. Not that Mulder didn't drive him crazy on occasions. But, dammit, the man had talent, and a strange loyalty that shouldn't have been extended to him. He wasn't sure he was comfortable with that, wasn't sure he ever would be. "What is this, sir? A dossier?" Scully gave him a narrow look. "I suppose." He smiled at the ceiling. "I asked Jim Barlow over in VCS about her, he put together some things." Scully lifted out a newspaper clipping. "She broke the Braden Jennings case in Chicago, she was still living there at the time--six years ago." He nodded and looked back at Scully. "They tell me that she sifted through all the reports in about six hours, told the detectives that Jennings had done it himself--which they basically dismissed, Jennings was too high profile as a good guy, family man--asked them to let her talk to him and confronted him. He nearly choked her to death, screaming that his wife was a cheating, lying slut, that Grayson was a cheap, lying slut , and he was going to kill her the way he'd killed his wife and dance on both their graves." A sardonic smile curved his mouth. "And while he was screaming, the cops got their act together and got him off her before he did kill her. It took six men, and she stayed calm and cool the entire time. Insisted on staying for the remainder of his, ah, statement." He imagined some jaws were still hanging open in Chicago. Generally, television is the only place where the suspect confesses when confronted. Frowning, Scully looked at the next piece of paper. "Has she ever worked with the Behavioral Support Unit before?" "She's done some things for VICAP, that's how Jim Barlow met her." Another long and level look from blue eyes. He almost smiled. For such a small woman, Scully had a presence and a gaze that could nail a man's balls to the wall. "Why do you think she can find Mulder, sir?" This was going to be hard. "I had a conversation with an old friend about six months ago, remember the child murders up in Massachusetts?" After a frown, she nodded. "Yeah, I think so. Up near Boston?" "Yeah, that's the case. Gene Kelsey was in on that one, we were in the Marines together years ago." He folded his hands on his desk. "He, ah, had worked with Morgan Grayson on that, he had some interesting things to say about her." One reddish-gold brow arched upward. "Interesting things?" He looked up at the ceiling again briefly. "He said her profile was so goddamned accurate, it indicated the UNSUB's coloring, the way he tied his shoes, and the color of his eyes." The other eyebrow joined the first. He nearly smiled again. "And she pinpointed his movements with such amazing accuracy that they got the last kid back alive." It was only after a few hours and a couple of drinks that Gene had let his guard down enough to tell him that the damned woman was a witch or something, she was freaking psychic, and he wished she'd work with him on every homicide case the State Police had open. However, she was morbidly resistant to being viewed as psychic or intuitive or anything else, and had only been persuaded to work with him by a friend in the area who had told her the victims were children. "She lives in Alexandria now," he added, "Gene's a hard-nosed, old- fashioned state cop, Scully, not some New Age kid. And what he said about her--he thinks she's a damned sight more psychic than the people advertising as such. I think it's worth the chance to ask for her help." Scully gave him a strange look and lifted out another newspaper clipping. "A runaway shelter, a gay youth center, an AIDS benefit, a child care center--she's got a lot of interests apart from crime fighting, it appears." He was silent a moment. Then: "Jim Barlow told me privately that she was as good as Mulder had been during his brief career--and damned near as spooky." Another look, this one thoughtful. "We use someone with Mulder's talents to find him--how do we get in touch with her, sir?" "I don't know, I thought I'd call Gene, get him to play go-between. He said she's really touchy, usually only takes cases involving women or children. But, the good news is that she's not a prima donna, she works perfectly happily with other consultants." He did smile then, somewhat ironically. "She's even written a couple of books, Scully, one about UFO abduction mythology. I'd recommend it to Mulder, but I'm never sure what's going to set him off." Picking up the phone, he punched in Gene's home number, smiling faintly when Gene answered the phone. "Gene? Walt, here. Listen, I need a favor...." Baltimore: March 18 10:20 pm Thirst added to the pain in Mulder's throat. Lying as still as he could, he breathed in raggedly against the pain of torn muscles, watching as Harcourt moved aimlessly around the room, his face ecstatic, his erection visible through the dark trousers. Even that was less disgusting than having Harcourt lick him. The psychologist in him was still observing, a distant part of his mind still clinically writing up the profile as their "relationship" continued. The odds for actual rape, as opposed to object rape, were slim at this point. However, the subject was likely to consummate the "relationship" with the victim after the victim was dead. Or while dying. Post-mortem sexual mutilation would be likely to occur; the subject might well take body parts to keep as souvenirs.... He caught hold of himself at the image that brought before his eyes, trembling again, unable to distance himself quite that effectively. Scully would bring the cavalry, he assured himself desperately, but that clinical inner voice pointed out that Scully would have to work damned fast. Harcourt's excitement was obvious, and it suggested that he would begin to escalate very soon. His stomach roiled at that consideration, the nausea born of pain and fear and rage too long suppressed. "You know, you're older than I usually prefer." Harcourt turned to face him suddenly. "But there's something so vital about you, Fox, you have a very strong personality." He spread his arms out and beamed at Mulder. "And a very childlike curiosity, very open. I find that adults have closed a great deal of that off." "Who are you?" Mulder husked, his voice little more than a whisper. Would his voice recover if he lived through this? He'd heard of people damaging their vocal cords screaming, and his certainly felt damaged. He kept veering from despair to hope, knowing Scully wouldn't just give up, praying she came back with a dozen agents the size of linebackers, kept wishing he was dead and finding new strength to stay alive, to fight, to survive.... "You know who I am, I'm Julian Harcourt." Harcourt came to sit on the bed, tracing Mulder's navel with a delicate touch, his smile oddly sly. "I built the house. I'm the man you came here to find, dear Fox. I killed those boys in your precious files--you would guessed the rest of it eventually--you're astonishingly intuitive, my dear--but I doubt you'd have been able to convince anyone of the truth." "I don't believe you," Mulder whispered and gasped in agony when Harcourt turned the power on again, writhing in pain so great he could hardly breathe, his body arching under the onslaught. When it went off again, he breathed raggedly, "God, please, don't--" "God," Harcourt's tone was contemptuous. "God can't hear you. He's deaf and blind and weak." He rose and walked around the small room again. "I studied the white adepts, you know, seeking enlightenment. All I ever got was disappointment and an empty mind and belly. But then, in England, I happened on a Tibetan text--you'd be wiser to invoke the darker forces, my dear Fox, they'd answer you at least. I studied them, you know, that's why I'm still alive, why I'm still here to meet you, my dear." He gently tugged at one nipple clamp, his gaze dispassionate. "I have sacrificed so many--the first was a woman, but I find that the sense of mastery is greater with males." His light eyes brightened. "This is a wonderful age, men walking hand in hand with men--it was harder to find the right sacrifice in my day, no one would confess to such desires." Mulder swallowed with difficulty and shivered again, not wanting to believe this. But, oh, he could feel Harcourt's lust in his head, he was so damned scared--what if it was true? He shivered again, convulsively. The clinical part of his mind piped up again and noted it as shock. "I need some water--please, can I have some?" Harcourt arched an eyebrow at him, gently flicked the metal probe, a stab of pain that scarcely seemed worth noticing--Mulder swallowed hard, pushing it aside. "In a moment, perhaps." Harcourt smiled again, expansively. "So few people have thought to ask me about myself, Fox. What else would you like to know?" Thank God, Mulder thought, grateful for the respite to the point of tears. While Harcourt was focused on self-aggrandizement, he would be less likely to flip that damned switch on again. His heart was still slamming around in his chest, his flesh felt seared raw, and his muscles were still twitching in spasm. Just give me a few minutes, please, he petitioned silently, and turned his gaze on Harcourt. "I--I don't know, just tell me about yourself." "I was born in 1874," Harcourt leaned back against the foot of the bed, idly stroking Mulder's calf. "I was the only child, and terribly spoilt, not to speak of having the finest education my father's money could buy. I was sent to England to attend university at Oxford, and it was there I first became acquainted with the world of the spirit." His mouth twisted with scorn. "My parents were materialists, you see, blind to anything beyond the physical. But I found more than that. When I found the Tibetan material, I knew I had, at last discovered the truth." Sinking down on the edge of the bed, he ruffled Mulder's hair, smiling brightly. "I found others, found teachers. Oh, it all was secret, of course, people are fools and afraid of power. After a time, I left them behind, I found the gods who mattered, the dark gods who once ruled all the mountain vastness of Tibet." A fucking travelogue--never mind, keep him talking, keep the pain away for a while. But--1874? Believing in the paranormal didn't make him a credulous fool, whatever others might think--but ogod, a part of his mind gibbered, he can touch my mind, he's stealing my thoughts...."I went to Oxford."--Make the victim a person, less of an object, ohgod, please, see me as a person, just for five goddamn minutes, give me a fucking drink of water.... Harcourt's expression shifted to annoyance at the interruption, but he looked at Mulder thoughtfully. "Did you? I knew we were fated to meet." He stroked the insides of Mulder's thighs, making him shudder. "At any rate, it took nearly five years of absolute focus and faithful obedient practice before I was able to achieve what you see today: I am more than one hundred and twenty years old, and I still look as beautiful as I did at twenty two, still as perfect. And I've been able to fulfill all of my desires over those years." His gaze was distant, abstracted. Fated to meet, Mulder thought and closed his eyes. Dark gods, beauty- - stay strong, stay strong, dammit, don't give up, you can hold out long enough for Scully to bring help, she's got to figure it out, she's got to bring back a team, oh please, let it be true, I don't want to die, not like this, oh please.... "But I'm being rude," Harcourt broke out of his reverie suddenly. "Water, wasn't it? I'll bring you something to relieve yourself in, as well. We certainly don't want a mess on the bed, do we." Another respite, Mulder thought and shook his head weakly. "No, no, we don't." He wondered how long he could stall before Harcourt began again. However long it was, it wasn't going to be long enough. ************************************* Washington DC: March 19 8:36 pm "Morgan? It's Gene Kelsey." Sitting at her office desk, Morgan stiffened, hearing something in Kelsey's voice that raised gooseflesh. Not a social call. "Gene," she murmured. "What can I do for you?" "I need a favor, Morgan. Got a call from an old friend, Walter Skinner. FBI. He's got a missing agent. I've told him about you, he asked me to call." Anger flared for a moment and she damped it down; Gene was a cop, he was doing his job, or at least what he felt was his duty. But her stomach roiled and the pencil in her fingers snapped. "I don't do profiling any more," she told him, trying to keep her voice level. "I'm teaching now, Gene. I've got a child to take care of." His sigh was barely audible. "This could be a bad one, Morgan. And this isn't a guy who asks for help, usually. Please, at least talk to him." >From out of nowhere, terror licked at her nerves, something inexplicable made her taste copper against her tongue. She gasped, felt the silence on the other end of the line as something heavy, something threatening. "The FBI doesn't need me, Gene, they have plenty of very talented people they can use." But her heart was pounding hard, her palms were sweating, and her bladder suddenly ached urgently. God, her dreams had come through with a vengeance.... "Morgan, I'm asking you as a favor. Please." She couldn't think. Looked up at the clock on the wall--nearly 6:45--and bit her lip. "I'll call you back, Gene. I have to go, I have a lecture." "Morgan." She heard his voice, tinny and distant as she hung the phone up. Rubbed her hands on her skirt, feeling--feeling very frightened for the first time in a long, long while. Something bad. Something dangerous. And she had Aarin to think of, more than herself. Gathering up notes and her bag, she eyed the phone as if it were something venomous and fled the office before it could ring again. Before Gene could call her back and remind her of her own duty. ********************************************************************* Kelsey had directed them to Georgetown. Morgan Grayson was teaching, he'd said wearily. And had turned them down, had hung up on him. "I thought she wasn't temperamental," Scully murmured, stepping into the dimness of the lecture hall. It wasn't a large class; Forensic Psychology. Skinner made a noncommittal sound in his throat, started forward suddenly, just as her eyes got used to the semi-dark in the back of the hall. She stood where she was, staring down at the front, at the podium. The woman at the podium was ordinary. Not tall, not thin, wearing a dress and sweater that reminded Scully of the seventies. Long wavy hair tied off at the bottom, tendrils hanging loose around her face. But her voice was authoritative, if soft, and she was encouraging questions, walking along the front row. She followed Skinner to a row and slipped in beside him, only half listening. "So, how are you going to convince her." He gave her an impassive look. "How would I convince Mulder?" Her mouth quirked. "By reminding him of the victim." Skinner nodded, looked back toward the front. "All right, then," Morgan Grayson's voice lightened. "Read chapter 32. And remember, those papers are due in two weeks. Exam next week. I'll see you then." Students rose, the usual murmur of voices compounded by the banging of desk tops sliding back into place, the thump of books, the rustle of coats and bookbags. Skinner leaned forward intently, suddenly gestured Scully out of his way and started down the aisle toward the front. She hurried after him, seeing Grayson start toward the side door, heavy bag swinging from her shoulder, low boots making her strides swift and sure. Fast, too, for someone of her height; Skinner lengthened his strides, called after her as the door opened and closed. She heard him swear, let him hurry ahead and shove through the door. It was dark outside, and Scully blinked as she followed them under the streetlight, saw the woman ahead pause and turn, her expression wary. "Dr. Grayson, I'm Walter Skinner." Skinner's bulk was between them, and Scully suddenly realized how threatening it might be to a woman alone at night, moved past him with a look to stand between them. "I'm Special Agent Dana Scully," she told her quickly, holding out her ID and badge. Skinner gave her a curious look and nodded, reaching into his coat for his own. Scully sensed, rather than saw, the brief relaxation, the new tension that stiffened Grayson's shoulders. "I told Gene, I can't help you." Grayson's voice was abrupt. "I don't profile anymore. I can't." "Dr. Grayson," Skinner began, but Scully interrupted him. "Dr. Grayson, my partner is missing. He may be dead. Or he may not. Gene Kelsey told AD Skinner that you--you were good at this kind of case. That you could help." That got a hesitation. But Grayson shook her head. "You don't understand what it costs. I have a child now, I'm a single mother, I don't have anyone else to care for him while I'm hunting killers." "A boy disappeared just a month or so ago," Scully told her flatly. "My partner thought it was murder. Not a runaway. No body, no nothing. He went up to check out the house where it happened. Or where we think it happened. And vanished himself." Skinner, blessedly, was silent. Her instincts were screaming at her-- Grayson was poised on the edge of flight, on the edge of refusing them, but the right approach could change that. She wasn't sure that Skinner's was the right approach. Wasn't sure that her own was, but she'd gotten her to listen. "Please, at least hear us out." God, it was weird. She felt like she was coaxing something wild, something frightened. Held out her hand, let her face show her terror for Mulder. "Please. He's my partner." Skinner cleared his throat. "Perhaps we could show you what we have," he offered softly. "A cup of coffee--there's a place just down the street." The hesitation held. "I can't help you," Grayson told them, but there was less conviction to it. "Please." Scully held her breath. And let it out when she heard the ragged inhalation. "All right. I'll tell you what I can. But that's all I can do." She managed to keep the look of triumph off her face as she glanced meaningfully at Skinner. *********************************************************************** Baltimore: March 19 8:59 pm For once in this hellish day, Fortune had smiled on Mulder, fickle bitch that she was. His feet were free, torn and bloody, but free. Adrenaline had helped, he thought and Panic appeared again, tugging at his thoughts, pointing out how much of the unknown drug he could feel. Please God, if God was fucking out there, let desperation lend him speed and silence, too; he had to escape, because he didn't think his psyche or body would hold up long enough for Scully to find him. Somehow, he made it off the bed and to the door; oversensitized by pain and fear, every small click and creak the door made was magnified a hundredfold. He waited as long as he dared, letting his weight rest against the door jamb--no sound, no sights, no creak of wood or voice raised in protest. Leaning on the wall to keep his balance, he felt his way through the darkness, letting his eyes adjust. He seemed to be in a hallway; he thumped his nose--oh, shit, that hurt, let it go--his eyes stung, but he found it was a corner and, feeling the wall reassuringly solid under his hands. Following it, he tried to hurry, fighting the swooning sense of intoxication that wanted to overwhelm him--move, dammit, he told himself and kept going, quiet as mice until he ran into something, whacking his shins hard, and nearly fell. It hurt, it hurt, everything bloody hurt-- Bending, he felt blindly--God, there were stairs, going up. His eyes filled with tears again, hope this time, rather than pain and fear. Heart hammering, he carefully made his way up, allowing for the fact that the drug was hitting him more and more strongly. When he hit his head on something, he nearly moaned in despair, but quelled it swiftly. Tracing the surface above him, he felt something give at the pressure of his fingertips and pushed as hard as he was able, suddenly hopeful again. His hands went up in the air and faint light spilled into the room, making his pulse race irregularly. Oh, God, he thought crazily, it was beginning to look as if he really had a chance; for there had been no sound from behind or below him. Moving even more slowly and carefully, he inched out into what he dimly recognized as the cellar of Harcourt House, inched out and replaced the trap door carefully flush with the floor, making only the faintest click as it closed. Stark naked and covered in blood from his torn wrists, ankles and feet-- and hurting, oh, hey, let's not forget hurting--he husbanded his strength for a long moment before making his way through the cellar, past the ancient furnace, to the stairs that led upward. It was dark up there; it seemed that the light in the cellar came from the streetlight, which meant that the journey up the stairs required even more concentration, even more time, while he fought the muzziness of the drug and his own terror that Harcourt would come up from behind him at any moment. Then, just as he reached the top stair-- "Damn you!" A hand seized his ankle, yanking his foot out from under him. "No!" He'd been so close; adrenaline lent him fresh strength and he held onto the stairs. Kicking out to fend Harcourt away, he did the only thing he could think of; unsnapping the clasp that held his watch closed, he shouted and kicked again, sliding the damned thing across the kitchen floor with violent force. Please, if he couldn't break away from the bastard, let someone find it, let someone--let Scully search the house. Blows fell on his head and shoulders; at first, he fought back, but the drug hampered him. Putting his arm up around his head, he tried vainly to protect himself, but Harcourt pulled at him hard, tipping him down the stairs. He cried out as he struck the bottom, incoherent with rage and fear. All the old pains had awoken, despite the drug, and the new ones were screaming for attention--he couldn't breathe, heard himself making a sound like a wail. Harcourt's face, distorted with fury, was just visible in the light from the streetlight. "Damn you, I'm going to have to punish you for that, Fox. I didn't want to, but you've left me no choice." Shivering, Mulder tried to protect his midsection as Harcourt's leg moved, but the foot caught him in the solar plexus, leaving him breathless for long enough he simply passed out. He was bound to the bed again when he reached a kind of sludgy consciousness, the manacles biting into raw flesh. "Finally." A vicious smile marred the Botticelli beauty as Harcourt bent over him. "Do you remember, Fox, you told me what you were most afraid of?" He blinked, feeling fresh terror as he remembered--fire, he'd told the bastard he was afraid of fire. Watching through blurry eyes, he saw Harcourt hold up a metal cylinder and frowned at it, squinting slightly to see better. Harcourt smiled and held it up. It looked like a--oh, fuckofuck, it *was* a fireplace lighter. Terror made him wrench his body against the manacles again--nononononono, please, no. "Isn't this cunning," Harcourt asked silkily. "They work wonderfully well, and they don't get too hot to hold." The lighter flicked, the flame wavering slightly. Mulder blinked, mind paralyzed, unable to think--he watched, hypnotized, as Harcourt went to the foot of the bed. A different kind of fire, the real kind, seared the sole of his foot; he sank his teeth into his lower lip, eyes closed, until he could only see red behind his eyes, could not feel anything but bright, white-hot agony, far beyond the shocks, far beyond anything he'd ever felt--his mind just broke and he heard himself shriek in terror, struggling fruitlessly to escape, an animal trapped by the flames that swelled and burned and crackled..... Still screaming hoarsely, he let those flames take him back down into the darkness. ********************************************************************* Sitting in his private chamber, Harcourt sipped at a glass of wine, regretting his loss of temper. Oh, Mulder had deserved to be punished, there was no doubt about that, but he had wanted his captive to last for days, had wanted to bring him along lovingly to the edge of hope, had wanted to bring him to complicity in what bound them together. With enough careful attention, he would have been obedient to his captor's caresses, surrendered to Harcourt's desires in the hopes of escape, of release, of an end to pain that went on and on. That was always the fine line; if the pain could be maintained without damaging the flesh, the hope remained--it was only when the damage became irrevocable, became inescapable that hope shifted from life to death. His loss of control had ruined that; he suspected that if Mulder were not broken yet, the agony of suppurating burns would swiftly break him. And that was useless, disappointing. Ah, well, there was still a possibility he could encourage hope, but it would have to be tonight. And once he had crushed that hope, he would take his pleasure in Mulder's unwilling flesh at the sacrifice, drinking in despair as he always did. Not that Mulder's agony and horror of the flame had not been sweet, he admitted to himself, sighing with pleasure as he touched himself. It had been incredibly heady, drinking in Mulder's awareness of what he had suffered, the physical sensation of the flame licking flesh, and the dull despair that underlay the horror. Oh, he might not have lasted long, but Mulder was one of his most memorable victims. Before the temptation to stroke himself to spending overwhelmed him, he lifted his hand and set the wine glass aside; there was no telling how long Mulder would be unconscious, and he wanted the stage set for that moment. Rising, he went back to the room where Mulder lay, carefully unfastening the manacles and brushing his lips lightly over an unburned patch on Mulder's belly. Smiling, he looked down, savoring the smell of burnt flesh that still lingered in the air. He would have preferred to make it last, but it was still going to be very, very fine. **************************************************** Washington DC: March 19 9:02 pm Seen in the light of the restaurant, Morgan Grayson looked unlike a college professor as well. The dress was Indian cotton, a coppery color that suited her coloring. Her face was fine boned, overwhelmed by the curls that escaped the band that caught her hair back. Earrings that looked like clusters of tiny bells. A refugee from the seventies, Scully thought, her mouth crimping together. But, despite the apprehension in the dark eyes, Grayson's expression was no-nonsense. And troubled. "I'm not sure what you think I can do that your own profilers can't." She gave Skinner a wary look. He glanced at Scully, his mouth flattening. "Dr. Grayson, Gene Kelsey has been--fairly explicit with regard to your, ah, unique skills." She flinched. "I see." Taking the glass of ice water, she sipped at it, eyeing the folder Skinner had laid on the table between them. Eyeing Mulder's wallet. They sat in taut silence for a moment. Morgan put the glass down and pressed her fingertips together, still gazing at the wallet. Watching her closely, Skinner pushed it toward her. Glanced at Scully again. Impatience tightened her gut and reason screamed that they were wasting their time. Time better spent tearing that damned house apart again. Searching the neighborhood. Mulder could be dead, or dying-- One of Morgan's hands came out and touched the wallet tentatively. She saw the woman's throat move convulsively and Skinner nudged it closer to her. A quick breath, and Morgan had picked it up, just holding it, her gaze going distant and unfocused. She gasped and dropped it, taking in rapid, short breaths, her head drooping, eyes closed. Both hands were shaking. "Dr. Grayson?" Skinner's voice was soft, concerned. "God." It was a prayer. Still trembling, Morgan plunged her fingers into the glass of ice water. Kept her eyes closed and her face turned away. It was Scully's turn to gasp, gooseflesh prickling up and down her back. Blood swirled sluggishly through the ice, drifted to the bottom of the glass, tinting the water. Too much blood. Skinner swore under his breath, yanked a napkin from under Scully's elbow and leaned across to jerk Morgan's hand from the glass. He started to wrap the napkin around it, but stilled, looked at Scully impassively. Her fingers were unmarked, no signs of blood, no indication of where it had come from. "Damn you." Morgan's voice held no heat, but a tremor made it waver. "All right. I'll help you. His blood's on my hands anyway." Her eyes opened, she looked up at Skinner, brows angling downward. "You keep my name off your reports. You don't tell anyone that I'm helping you. And don't refer to my--unique abilities again. To anyone." Skinner sank back into the chair. "Agreed." She picked up the wallet again, her mouth firming. Closed her eyes again. "God." Another prayer, an invocation. "Hunger, oh, God, the hunger. The--the killer wants pain, he wants despair, he feeds on it." Her shoulders hunched beneath the bulky sweater. "It's--" Her eyes opened, stared unseeing at Scully. "It's too strong. I--your friend is alive. I can't say how much longer that will be true." She shuddered, scarcely seemed to notice it. A crimson drop fell from her clenched fingers to the formica table top. "He's very strong, but--" She shuddered again, eyes closing again. "He's underground. Someplace safe. Someplace familiar. He's had this place a long time, he brings his victims here, always." Her voice was hushed and shaky. "God, heat and hunger, fire--oh, God, fire." She shuddered again and another drop fell. Scully could see it staining the battered leather beneath Morgan's fingers. "He's been doing this a long, long time." The wallet fell from suddenly nerveless fingers. Scully gasped and looked at Skinner to find his expression still impassive. Unmoved. Morgan put her hand back into the ice water, head bowed. A tear slipped down her face and Scully felt only impatience. But she managed to control herself until Morgan's voice came again, soft and shaky. "Where did this happen?" Scully exchanged another look with Skinnner. "Baltimore." "We have to go there." Morgan lifted her head, pulled her hand out of the water, now murky with blood. Or what looked like blood. The palm was reddened and there were blisters on two of her fingers. Fire, Scully thought and bit her lip. Please, God, not fire. But this was auto-suggestion, she told herself distantly and reached for Grayson's hand, only to be warned off with a look from eyes that were as changeable as Mulder's. Gazing at her own fingertips, Morgan shuddered. "It's too strong, I can't tell you much. He's still alive, but I don't know for how much longer. His killer is enjoying himself too much to put an end to it, but he's on the edge of going too far." Skinner eyed her, clearly unsettled. "His notes." Morgan glanced at the folder, glanced away, then reached for it, still staring past Skinner's shoulder. Her hands trembled as she pulled it toward her; she looked down at the plain, unmarked folder as if it were something deadly, something venomous. And she was making Scully very nervous. Not that she hadn't already been nervous. But this--performance, if it could be called that, was winding her nerves up even tighter. Opening the folder, Morgan frowned down at Mulder's notes, reading quickly--God, as quickly as Mulder did, this was getting more than just a little scary. "Sixty-five people?" Incredulous tone. Her eyes came up to meet Scully's briefly. "And he went there to stay alone?" "We were supposed to go up there together," Scully told her, around the lump in her throat. "I got called away by a court case, I had to go over my testimony with the prosecutor. He went up by himself." Morgan swallowed hard, turned back to the notes, running the unblistered fingers lightly over the paper. "He's still where he was," she finally whispered, closing her eyes again. "His pain tastes like wine to the UNSUB, like something heady and intoxicating. Oh, he can hardly bear to wait, his excitement is so intense." UNSUB, Scully thought, the word was out of place in this setting, it was a clinical word, the word they used to describe an unknown subject, FBI jargon, VCS jargon--it didn't belong on the lips of a woman who was-- she shuddered, brought it under hard control--telling them about the killer based on what she felt from Mulder's wallet and notes. "Where is Agent Mulder?" Skinner asked softly. "Where he was." Morgan's eyes opened, she stared blindly at nothing at all, biting her lower lip. "He's still where he was, I can smell lavendar and blood." Her hands clenched convulsively on the paper. "Oh, god, we have to hurry, we have to get there in time." "Get where in time?" Skinner sounded irritable underneath the softness of his voice. "Where, Dr. Grayson?" Her gaze rejoined them, her throat moved as she swallowed. "I--I'm not sure. I need to see that house, I need to see what I can tell from there. Or--maybe--can I see his car?" Scully's mouth tasted of the acid in the back of her throat. Taking a sip of ice water, she nodded. "It's at the Bureau office in Baltimore." Plainly horrified, Morgan looked at her, eyes widening. "What are we waiting for, then? We don't have any time to waste." She rose, dropping two dollars on the table for her coffee. Bewildered, Skinner rose with her, pushing his chair back. "What?" Morgan eyed the wallet, clearly unwilling to touch it. "I don't think your agent has a whole lot longer, Mr. Skinner. I suggest we break the speed records getting to Baltimore. Bring *that*," she pointed at the wallet, not touching it again. Scully held the woman's gaze, lifting her chin. "All right." She looked up at Skinner. "Are you coming, sir?" He tilted her a strange smile. "Agent Scully, I wouldn't miss this for the world." ************************************************************************ Baltimore: March 19 10:42 pm Skinner had driven, and Scully was glad of it. She needed to think about this, think about Mulder--she wasn't entirely sure that Skinner's notion had merit, but had no better ideas of her own. That Morgan was psychic--even after Clyde Bruckman--was hard to swallow. Intuitive, she could believe, but intuitive wasn't the same. On the other hand, Morgan hadn't claimed to be psychic, had insisted that no one refer to her as such--as they drove, Scully found that she was willing to grasp at straws. For the first time in their partnership, she had an inkling of what Mulder and his family had endured, losing Samantha, and never knowing if she were dead or alive. Something still bothered her. "What did you feel when you touched his wallet," she asked, turning in the passenger seat to face Morgan , eyes searching in the darkness for the woman's expression. She'd know the truth if she heard it, wouldn't she? Or maybe she wouldn't, but she still needed to ask. Morgan looked at her for a long moment. "That's difficult to explain," she finally answered, her voice very soft, so soft that Scully had to strain to hear her. "I don't find victims, Agent Scully, except by accident. I find killers. And this one was inflicting a great deal of pain." She looked out the window for a moment, the lights from a passing car revealed her jaw was set, as if trying to forget what she had sensed. "Is your partner afraid of fire, by any chance?" Scully's skin prickled with gooseflesh. "Yes." Remembered Mulder's confession--God, fire, not fire--she felt, rather than saw, Skinner glance at her and sank back, closing her eyes briefly. God, did she still remember how to pray? Did she still believe in a benevolent God? She no longer knew, not after everything that had happened in the last year. Her mother's faith sustained her; her own seemed no more than the dry bones of what had once been a childhood friend and comforter. Skinner saved her from saying anything that would later embarrass her. "How would you know that, Dr. Grayson?" He asked brusquely, looking in the rearview mirror briefly. "I don't, or rather I don't know." Morgan looked out the window again. "It's difficult to explain why I asked. I don't think of what I do as paranormal, Mr. Skinner, but I don't know how I do it. I've come to think of it as something natural that science cannot yet explain. Perhaps when there's a genuine unified field theory, we'll have a reasonable scientific explanation. Myself, I wonder if it isn't related to some sort of quantum event." She looked back at Scully, her expression hard to read in the dark. "Or particle theory. I did poorly in higher mathematics, so I never went much further than a layman's level of physics." Scully arched her eyebrows, almost bemused at the rueful tone. "Particle theory?" "Well, I may have misunderstood the Schrodinger's Cat story." Morgan's voice was apologetic, "But I've often wondered if it weren't our observation of the measurement, rather than the actual measurement, that collapses the wave. Or maybe I've completely missed the point of the story and that's what it meant to begin with." Physics mixed with psychic--it was the most peculiar explanation she'd ever heard, but Clyde Bruckman hadn't really tried to explain his abilities. They certainly hadn't brought him happiness. She wondered if Morgan Grayson was as unhappy. Her wariness of them suggested that she might not find things comfortable. She saw her head turn to look out the window again, into the darkness of a damp March evening. "Dare we go any faster, Mr. Skinner? Surely, an Assistant Director could quash a traffic ticket." "We're nearly there." Skinner took a left at the next intersection. "Good, Taylor's here." And so were the other members of the team searching for Mulder. ********************************************************************* To Scully's eyes, Taylor's expression was perplexed; it was no less so when Skinner gruffly explained why they were there. Mulder's car was in the back, in the impound area, and the damned woman walked directly to it, unerringly drawn. Luck, Scully told herself, licking dry lips. Mulder's car was a Bureau car, the others were clearly not. Opening the door, Morgan stopped dead, her featured backlit only by the light which illuminated the impound yard. She took in a shuddering breath, hands curled around the window frame. "God," she muttered and bent her head over her hands, as if praying for strength. "Oh, the hunger ....the hunger, he wants pain and terror and hopelessness, he wants to--" She broke off suddenly, gasping, shaking and sank to her knees beside the car. "Sir," Taylor asked, his voice low, unbelieving, "What is this? What the hell is she doing?" Gravel crunching under her feet, Scully walked over to the car, shivering from more than the March night's chill. Morgan knelt still, rubbing her hands together. "What evidence did you get from the car?" she asked hollowly. "Not much. Just proof that Mulder was in it, but we already knew that." Scully licked her lips again. "What are you doing?" "Trying to figure him out," Morgan whispered. "He's arrogant, this one, he wouldn't take him anywhere, he's on his home ground, somewhere he holds all the cards, all the control." "We searched the house," Scully told her; her lips felt odd, numb and stiff. "He wasn't there." "You missed something," Morgan told her and shivered. "Deep, deep under the ground, a feeling of safety, of privacy, something he has killed to protect. A subcellar or something." The memory of the fruit cellar came to Scully, the sense of the gulf beneath--turning, she pelted back to Skinner. "There's a subcellar-- dammit, he's still in the house after all!" "Dana, we searched the cellar," Taylor protested. "We didn't search under the cellar," she retorted, "And the floor to that alcove is wood, not dirt, not concrete. We need to move!" Nodding, Skinner barked orders, making men jump. Using her cellular, she called for an ambulance and paramedics, too aware of Morgan's remarks about blood, about fire. God, please let him be alive, please let him be alive, she'd go without complaint on the next crop circle case he dug up.... Morgan Grayson slumped to the ground. The room was prepared, the symbols marked on the wooden floor in chalk. Now, Harcourt had only to wait until his captive obliged him; the anticipation made his heart race and he touched himself again, the heat of his excitement driving him wild. One of his sentinels whimpered softly; turning, he extended his senses, all of them, and heard the cars pull up to the curb outside. Frowning, he murmured to them and drew back into a dark corner, weaving strands of night together to keep himself invisible to them. More agents, he recognized, and felt only contempt; hardly a match for him, no more than Mulder had been. Summoning his power, he waited for the door to open, waited for the first two to come in and then slammed the door shut, sealing the house with protections more than four thousand years old. One of them saw him, despite his weaving--a gun came up and he felt shock as it fired, desperately commanding his sentinels. The bullet fell to the floor harmlessly, spent, and the screams began as his demons began to feed on the hearts of their victims. But he was shaken and angry that death had come so close to him; it was Mulder's fault that these men had come, his prying into things that didn't concern him. He would make Mulder pay, he told himself, narrowing his eyes in the dark, and make him pray for death before drawing the knife across his throat. Morgan was silent in the car, still chafing her hands together as if they hurt. It had taken some few moments to rouse her again, moments that Scully resented bitterly, knowing they were necessary. Glancing back, she prayed they were in time, prayed that whatever was happening wasn't over; turning her head, she licked her lips and asked, hating the irrationality of it, "Is he still alive?" Morgan's eyes went distant for a moment. "Yes," she whispered, almost inaudibly. "Oh, he wants him, he's laying a trap for him, a trick-- oh, god, hurry." "We're hurrying." Skinner's voice was taut. "Are you sure you're all right, Dr. Grayson?" There was a brief, disquieting silence from the back of the car. "I'm as all right as I need to be," Morgan finally answered, her voice low. "This man--this killer--is much more than Agent Mulder suspected him to be. And far, far worse." She gasped suddenly, wrapping both arms around herself and rocking forward, great, shuddering breaths that made the hair stand up on the back of Scully's neck. "Oh, hurry." It was a moan, more than anything else. Scully unsnapped the seatbelt and turned in the seat, peering in the dimness. And Morgan took in another shaky breath and straightened, bringing a hand up to the light flickering through the car windows. Her fingers were dark and the smell of copper stung Scully's nostrils. "What in God's name--" Skinner turned the corner sharply again and braked, throwing her forward slightly. "We're here," he told them unnecessarily and threw the car in park, pushing the car door open to get out, hurrying. She spared a glance for him, all light and shadow as he hurried past the headlights. "Are you all right?" "Yes." It was a hiss, a whisper drawn taut by pain. "Your friend is fighting him, oh, God--" Shoving past the hand Scully extended, Morgan Grayson got out, Taylor's team had arrived before them, Taylor met them as they got out of the car. "We can't get in. Akers and Alldrin went in earlier--they were first here, first in. By the time Dwyer got to the door, it had slammed shut and we can't get it open." He took in a shaky breath. "We tried the windows, same thing. I tried shooting the goddamn lock out and breaking the windows, and nothing happens. There was some screaming, some shots fired--I've got two of our people in there injured, dying or dead, sir, and I'd really welcome some advice on how to get into that fucking house." Skinner looked closely at the younger agent and realized that he was near the edge of hysteria. A harpy of a migraine immediately took hold, making his temples throb. More X files shit, he thought, with lunatic calm. Closing his eyes briefly, he thought. "All right, Taylor," he began, and Morgan sprinted past him, swearing like Marine under her breath. "Dr. Grayson," he snapped, already moving after her; she dodged the other agents and fairly leapt up the porch steps to stand before the stubbornly closed door. Dammit, he thought, and his head throbbed again. "Agent Scully, get her away from that door!" The words had just left his lips when the wind rose sharply, impossibly, to gale force, tugging at the hem of his coat and pushing him backward. Peering through the glare of the lights Taylor had set up, he saw Morgan standing near the door. Listening over the roar of the wind, he realized incredulously that she was trying to open the door, bent over the knob, her dress whipping around her legs. "Sir," Taylor shouted over the keening sound of the wind. "What the hell is going on?" I don't know, he thought numbly. Trust Mulder to stumble into something inexplicable. No ordinary serial killers for Fox Mulder, no sirree. Instead, something like a cross between Ray Bradbury's darker moments and Shirley Jackson, with a touch--he looked up at the top of the house--of the Addams family thrown in. The air pressure seemed to be rising rapidly. Scully had made it to the porch steps, and was hunkered down over them to keep from being blown backward. It was difficult to think under the onslaught, but he shouted, or tried to, that the other agents should get the women off the porch. Something's going to happen, warned the little inner voice generally reserved for 3 am dark of the night regrets. An instant later, something did. Scully fought the sheer force of the wind--or was it something else she was fighting, she wondered distantly--to stay on the edge of the porch. What the hell was going on? Gale force winds, risen in the blink of an eye? And the sky--she tilted her head back, no easy task--was only slightly overcast, she could see Orion through the thin clouds. The lights Taylor had set up in the yard went abruptly dead, leaving them in darkness, and every street light in what they would later discover to be a two block radius blew out in a burst of sparks and flame. It was several minutes before she realized that Morgan Grayson had vanished inside. ************************************************************************ Breathing hurt, but he managed it. In and out, trying to remember the right rhythm, trying to gain the strength to open his eyes--oh, god, it hurt so much, he didn't have the guts to look, he couldn't look. But the manacles were gone, as if they'd never been, he had to look, he was free, he had to try. The smell of his own burnt flesh made him sick, but there was nothing there to vomit; the painful spasms brought up only the bitter taste of bile. His hands and feet were the worst--his chest and belly and the better part of his left thigh were seared and blistered. Dammit, come on, get into your head, you've done it before, he told himself, breathing in again, breathing out, no time for weakness or sickness, he had to take this chance, never mind it was carefully choreographed by Harcourt. That fucker. Anger bought him enough distance that he thought he could try to sit up. Leaning up carefully on one elbow, he fought nausea and dizziness, achieving enough of a victory to sit up. If I survive this, he thought, with lunatic hilarity he recognized as shock, Scully's going to kill me. Shuddering, he pushed her image away with an almost physical effort. Survival, he reminded himself, and forced himself to swing his legs off the bed. The pain required by that made him gag again, his head hanging down between his knees. God, If Scully *didn't* kill him, the Benefits people would--stand in line, he thought bitterly, Harcourt's called first dibs. Putting his feet on the floor was like walking on knives. Whimpering involuntarily, he forced himself upright only by breathing shallowly through his mouth. The unforgettable aroma of his own burnt flesh made his stomach roll again, but the drug Harcourt had given him was wearing off, he had to take advantage of it. Or Harcourt was going to kill him. Be a kid again, hiding from fists and words, draw inward, inside, let the body do what it had to do.... God, of all the stupid things to do, come up to this house alone and go to sleep--self-blame wasn't going to get him anywhere. Cutting it off ruthlessly, he made it across the room to the sideboard. Harcourt leaving him free? Not bloody likely, mate, he was *supposed* to get out of this room. But to have even the faintest chance of escape or survival, he'd play it however Harcourt desired. But not by Harcourt's rules. The first item on the agenda was to obtain anything that could be used as a weapon; opening the drawers of the sideboard, he bypassed all the assorted paraphernalia until he came to an odd, stiletto like dagger. The handle was forged metal, formed into demonically grinning faces, and the edge, he confirmed by testing, was very, very sharp. Good. Now, just goddamned well hold onto it, he thought, grimly. Just closing his hand around it to pick it up had cost him plenty; he leaned against the sideboard and breathed shallowly again, tasting acid in the back of his throat--be strong, dammit, don't feel it, you know how....Forcing his hand to close, he gripped it tightly. With luck he could do it, please god, and the way his luck had been running, he was due for a change. At the very least, he could do some damage before the motherfucker brought him down. Taking in another breath, breathing it out--the dizziness and overwhelming pain pushed to the back of his mind, shut up and locked behind the compartment door that had once protected him from memory. Before Harcourt. Okay, you bastard, he thought and grimaced, a parody of a smile, let's dance one more time. This time, he made it up to the top of the cellar stairs--on his knees this time, unable to bear what the rough wood did to his feet. Unwilling to trust in his good fortune, he paused there, listening carefully to the night before pulling himself up and stepping through into the kitchen. It was dark; no streetlights could penetrate the thicket that surrounded the back of the house, and he moved carefully, concentrating on the sounds of the night, heart hammering--where was the bastard? He had to be up here, that was the game. Let the captive begin to hope again and then yank the rug out from under his feet. His hand was cramping around the blade of the knife, the hilt was slippery with blood--his blood--but he didn't dare try to ease it, not now. At the kitchen door, he paused again, the hallway stretching out before him, dark and threatening--oh, he didn't want to go down there, it was so fucking hard to make himself, just another triumph of the will to live over common sense. Common sense dictated that he lie down and die, but he'd seldom been sensible. A pale shaft from the streetlights spilled out from the front room, down near the far end at the foyer. That was his target. Taking in a ragged, shaking breath, he moved silently toward it, his head swiveling as he looked each way, muscles tensing painfully as he passed each dark doorway off the hall. The bastard was here somewhere, just remember that, no false hope, you schmuck--he was still taut when he reached the patch of light, refusing to believe that Harcourt would let him go so easily, so simply. "Fox, I've been waiting for you." He only turned his head, unflinching and unsurprised. Folding the hand that held the knife behind him, he kept his arm at his side. "Have you? I'm afraid I have to run, other pressing engagements." His voice was a rasp, broken by his screams. Another bill due on the bastard's account. Harcourt laughed and the sound made Mulder's stomach roil, made his muscles go taut again, waiting. "Dear Fox, I knew I was right to choose you. You have such *amazing* strength. I'm only sorry that your behavior shortened our time together." Mulder edged toward the door. "No regrets here, I'm afraid.." "You can't get out." Harcourt sounded genuinely amused. "But do try, I insist. You see, hope brings such richness to what I get from you, but despair is essential for the sacrifice." That made his fist tighten on the metal hilt; it hurt enough to bring tears to his eyes, to make him take in a hitching, torn breath. Harcourt moved closer, nearer the doorway. "Dear Fox," he murmured fondly, "By the way, some friends of yours dropped by." Dana, he thought, oh, god, not her, oh, please--his heart thudded painfully at the thought of her in Harcourt's grasp. Oh, no, please-- moving forward, almost against his will, he looked at the corner, obedient to Harcourt's gesture. A crumpled shape--no, two--lay in the corner. Two men, not Scully. Peering, he felt himself calm again. God, it looked like Harcourt had cut the heart out of one, the white of the shirt was black with what he supposed must be blood. Looking at Harcourt, he was dimly conscious of a kind of awed amazement overcoming all his other emotions, all the sensations of hurt and terror and rage. "You crazy motherfucker. You think you can kill three FBI agents and get away clean? They'll take this place apart brick by brick to find you!" Harcourt took a graceful step forward. "I am not crazy," he told Mulder petulantly. "And you will not speak to me in that tone." "Crazy." He said it deliberately, giddy with pain and fury and terror. "Crazy cocksucking motherfucking son of a--" Harcourt leapt at him, making a sound like the growl of a beast. Bringing his arm out and up, Mulder remembered all the anatomy he'd ever been taught--it's harder to stab a human being than people think, the ribs deflect most strikes at the heart, the gut is the defenseless spot, where evolution has left humans vulnerable, striking upward beneath the breastbone was a better spot--the blade struck home and he forced it in and up, adrenaline lending him a kind of spurious strength and energy. His attacker screamed inhumanly, a sound that made him long to clap his hands over his ears like a child. Instead, he stumbled back, yanking the knife back out of Harcourt's belly with an effort that left his ears ringing. Incredibly, Harcourt stood, just looking at him. He wished vainly he could see the expression on the bastard's face. "You hurt me." And the son of a bitch sounded amazed. "Sorry." He said it sincerely. "I was hoping to kill you." Throwing back his head, Harcourt howled like a wild animal, then leapt again. The guy, Mulder thought crazily, was fucking invincible. Whatever vitamins Harcourt was on, he wanted some. He'd need some if he made it through this scene. They grappled with one another, and he managed to use the knife to advantage again, slashing and stabbing with great relish. The air grew still; he noticed it distantly, and stumbled again when his peripheral vision showed him movement around him, behind him. Masks of some kind, he thought distantly, but concentrated on Harcourt. The bastard was too goddamn strong; he caught Mulder's wrist and gripped it, grinding the bones together, grinding charred flesh- -tears streaming, cursing under his breath, Mulder dropped the knife from fingers gone nerveless and numb. He brought his other hand up in a fist and connected with Harcourt's jaw, but sharp pain, driven by something like teeth or talons, raked the back of his left leg, driving him down to his knees. "Bastard," he cried, nearly weeping with rage and frustration, and turned his head, raising an arm to fend off whatever had attacked him. There was nothing there. But when he whipped his head back around to face Harcourt, he saw it again, something red and black and grinning like the faces on the knife hilt. A hallucination, he thought, Harcourt gave me something--but he was shaking, and hallucinations couldn't tear your flesh.... "You had better come here," Harcourt hissed. "They're hard to hold when they've tasted blood." His mouth moved, he rattled off something staccato, sharp toned, incomprehensible words that sounded like command. Something immediately nipped his shoulder painfully hard, one more hurt among many. Dragging himself up, he nonetheless reached for the door, turning the handle with desperate speed, but it was immovable. It nearly broke him. God, to be so close--and he had stabbed the bastard more than once, stabbed and slashed him and he was still standing there, rigid with fury- -why wouldn't he fucking go down! His own rage made him reckless. Propelling himself forward in a lunatic charge, he got both hands around Harcourt's neck and squeezed hard, both of them falling to the floor with his momentum. For a moment, he thought he might prevail; Harcourt was struggling fruitlessly, trying to wrench his hands away--something ripped at his side, tearing flesh and pushing him to his side. Briefly, a pair of demonic faces appeared in the corner of his eye--but there was nothing to be seen when he looked. Harcourt was on his feet again, his foot catching Mulder in the belly. Writhing, Mulder saw him look down, the light from the street unfortunately illuminating a frighteningly still expression. "Oh, you will pay for that," he whispered and raised his hands. No fucking way--desperately, Mulder pushed himself up, forcing the last bit of his strength to the fore--and the front door opened, wind howling like a banshee as it scattered dust through the foyer and kissed his skin with damp and chill before it stilled with shocking abruptness. "I think not." A woman's voice broke the sudden silence, calm and quiet and steady. Raising his head, Mulder looked over his shoulder to see a smallish, ordinary woman wearing a dress that seemed to have escaped from the seventies. He had never been so glad to see another person in his life, but terror returned between one breath and another--oh, god, he was going to have to watch someone else die before he met his fate.... Harcourt shouted something in that language again, bitter words that were gibberish to his ears, but which made Mulder's skin crawl. "Watch out!" he countered desperately, afraid for her, completely spent and unable to get to his feet. The woman made a gesture in the air, murmuring under her breath, and the faces in the corner of his eye vanished and even the air felt lighter. "You'll have to do better than that." Her voice was eerily calm, although he heard the faintest tremor. "I was dispersing those before I'd studied one year." Mulder kept staring, feeling the beginning of fresh hope again. She had weapons against the bastard's tricks--oh, please, please, let this not be one of Harcourt's games.... "Who are you!" Harcourt demanded, and Mulder took in a great gulping breath of cleaner air, taking great pleasure in the fear that shadowed the other's voice. "Some call me the Hunter." The woman took in a breath. "And you are the Eater of Souls." Harcourt shrieked in rage and terror and was, between one breath and another, gone completely, leaving no evidence of his existence save Mulder's injuries. He stared at the spot where Harcourt had stood, his mind washed clean by fresh shock. The bastard was--just gone, in the blink of an eye. Wrapping his arms around himself, he began to shake. The woman stepped forward and knelt beside him, placing a gentle hand on his cheek; it almost relieved him to feel the faintest trembling there. "Your people are confused right now," she told him softly. "No, don't move, there's an ambulance outside." The pain in his side eased almost immediately at her touch. He was feeling more than a little confused himself, he thought, and struggled not to burst into either tears or hysterical laughter. Looking at the pale smudge that was all he could see of her face, he wished for light. He wanted to see her. He wanted to see the woman who had managed what he had not--who had frightened Julian Harcourt. Thinking that, he realized what he had not let himself think of--Harcourt had been telling him the truth, he was, in reality, the original Julian Harcourt. With that, the tears came, terror and rage and pain bowing him over his knees. Moving close, she put her arms gently around his shoulders. "It's all right now," she soothed, still soft, still calm. "You're safe again, he's gone." He couldn't answer her. Lifting his head again, he peered at her, saw dark hair, smelled the faintest scent of perfume--something he couldn't identify, wondered why *that* bothered him now, now, after surviving what he had, he was worried about perfume. Unutterably tired, his body wanted to collapse, but she steadied him, careful of his hurts. Tears burned his eyes; the warmth and comfort of her touch were almost enough to make him sleep and his eyes began to slide shut. "Mulder!" Scully's shout startled him and he found he was shivering convulsively. "Oh, God, Mulder." She knelt in front of him, raising her hand to touch his cheek briefly. The woman didn't move, didn't let go of him; he was grateful for that, it kept *other* people from touching him, and the very thought of that was terrifying. Yet her nearness didn't bother him, he felt safer than he had in what seemed years. Which was just as terrifying. "Get that medic in here," Skinner's voice roared and he looked up, marveling at Skinner's presence. Bending, Skinner dropped a coat gently around his shoulders and turned his head to the woman. "Goddammit, Dr. Grayson, you had no business charging in here--" Grayson. She had a name, then. That was reassuring, after what he had seen. She had a name, a nice normal name, and Skinner knew who she was. He peered again, there were others coming in, carrying flashlights. A golden arch of light flashed over Scully's face; he saw tears there and ached for that. "Look in the cellars," Dr. Grayson told them, her voice soft, almost tentative. "It's his lair. Look for a trapdoor, under the fruit cellar." He shivered, wondering how she knew, but it seemed, at this moment, to be part and parcel of whatever she was, whoever she was, to call light with her hands and scare the monsters away. "Uh huh," he agreed weakly, wanting to see her--it was making him a little nuts, not being able to see her eyes. But Scully's hands were cool on his face and he tried unsuccessfully to smile at her, to make her think he was fine--just a flesh wound, Scully, he thought and shook some more, unable to stop. "About time you got here," he told his partner hoarsely. "I was beginning to think you'd stood me up." She leaned close, holding him gently, despite Grayson's presence; it made his skin crawl, made him feel sick again. "God, Mulder, sometimes--" Her voice cracked upward before she got it under control. "They're bringing the stretcher in, we need to get you to a hospital." Grayson released him, touching his hair feather light, a gesture of comfort. He looked back at her, wanting her to stay, struggling to find words to thank her, to demand to know how she'd done it, but she was looking at Scully. "He's been badly burned." Other agents were racketing down the hallway to the kitchen. Reaching up, he woke all the pain in his body, but tugged on Skinner's sleeve. "Tell them--be careful, he's stronger than he looks." His voice wavered, like the voice of a frightened child, and shame heated his skin. Skinner looked at him for a moment, then hurried down the hall. When he returned, the ambulance attendants and the paramedic were coming in. Mulder regarded the stretcher with distaste. "Don't need that," he husked, but it was pro forma defiance, purest bravado, he couldn't imagine why the words had come from his mouth. Skinner sighed. Scully touched his cheek again. "Mulder," she began, but Skinner stepped around her and lifted him to his feet. He bit back an involuntary cry of pain and revulsion and let himself be helped onto the stretcher. Skinner's expression was unfathomable. "Agent Mulder, this is one time you really don't want to give me trouble. Believe me." He grimaced, seeing some humor in it, and settled back against the stiff sheets, still shivering. The medic trained a flashlight on him and gasped. "We need to get him out into the light, Jesus, who did this to him?" A blanket gently settled over him, warming him a little, easing some of the shivering that wrenched his body and nerves. Scully bent over him and touched his cheek. "It's over, Mulder," she told him, her voice steady, strong--but he knew that wasn't true. More than that, he knew Grayson knew it, and couldn't explain any of those insights rationally. Which meant Scully wouldn't believe him. "Wait," he protested, when they began to move him out. "Wait, I wanna talk to her." "Later." Scully's tone was firm, no-nonsense, and Skinner nodded his agreement with her. Entirely upset, completely undone, he pushed himself up. "Now!" he insisted, his voice cracking upward, on the edge of tears again, raging inwardly at his body's weakness, wanting Grayson so intensely it felt like pain. "Now!" "Easy," Skinner muttered, and Grayson came to stand beside the stretcher before anyone could protest, resting a hand lightly on his arm through the blanket. "You saw." He stared upward, seeing only a pale smudge of a face, the lights in the room catching briefly on her eyes, suddenly too exhausted to speak, to make sense. "You saw him." It seemed he didn't have to. "Yes," she agreed quietly. "I did." Her hand rested lightly on his knee, patting him lightly through the blanket. "And--those things." He shivered again, convulsively, and the medics put something else over him, something that leached a little of the cold from his bones, if not his soul. She nodded again. "It was real," he insisted, but whether to himself or to her, he wasn't certain. "Wasn't it?" His voice broke again and he blinked back tears. "I'm afraid so," she agreed again, and touched his cheek gently; some of his shivering eased again. "We can talk later, I'll be available. But you've got to have help now, all right?" He could see her smile, but still couldn't see her eyes. Later, she had said and he let himself be comforted by that. "All right." Suddenly acquiescent, he lay down again and closed his eyes, letting himself fade. "It's over," Scully repeated, from quite nearby. But it wasn't. He knew it in his bones. *************************************