Baltimore:  March 20 1:03 am    

Pacing, Scully kept herself from thinking what was going on in the 
trauma room; she'd gotten herself thrown out in the first ten minutes for 
behavior she wouldn't have countenanced in anyone.   She'd never seen 
Mulder look so bad, not even in Alaska, hypothermic and nearly dead.   

"Would you like some coffee?" Morgan asked softly.  "Or a soft drink." 
 
"No, thank you."  She reached the far edge of the waiting room and 
turned again, unable to sit still, pacing back toward the door. 
 
"You did everything you could," Morgan's voice was almost apologetic.  
"You know that." 
 
She whirled on her, but felt her temper turn to grief at the compassion 
she met there.  "I should have found him earlier." 
 
Skinner, who had been leaning back, eyes closed, opened them. 
 
"How?"  Morgan rose and came toward her, taking Scully's shoulders in 
gentle hands.  "You were there, Dana Scully, you saw how the house 
was protected.  How could you have found him?" 
 
Her mouth trembled, her mind veered jerkily away from the memory of 
blood on Morgan's fingertips--"I was in the cellar, I should have found 
him." 
 
"You would have both died if you had," Morgan told her.  "But that would 
have been at his whim.  And his whim was to keep your partner well 
hidden." 
 
A tear spilled over; feeling it track down her cheek, she shook her head.  
"I should have found him." 
 
Morgan shook her head, equally firm.  "You never would have, Dana.  
You may not believe what you saw there, but believe this.  You are not 
responsible for what happened to him." 
 
Looking into a stranger's eyes, Scully felt some sort of peace find her 
heart.  Finally, still struggling with it, she nodded, trying to accept it.  
She had to accept it.  Those eyes were hard to disagree with. 
 
Morgan smiled faintly at her.  "Go sit down.  I'll get us all some coffee." 
 
She vanished down the dark hallway. 
 
After a moment, Scully went and sat beside Skinner.  "She found him." 
 
Skinner was silent for a very long moment.  Finally:  "Yes, she did." 
 
"How?"  Scully bit her lip.  "How did she know?" 
 
Skinner didn't answer that.  "I think that in this one, unique instance, 
Scully, the methods are unimportant.  The results are." 
 
She could hardly deny that. 

God, she wished they'd come out and tell her something.  What she'd 
seen before they threw her out was bad enough to make her shake, 
wondering if someone had finally, irrevocably done Mulder enough hurt 
to break him. 
 
His eyes, oh, God, his eyes, when she'd touched him.  Eyes that had 
seen hell.  Her mouth trembled again and she looked away from 
Skinner. 
 
"He's in good hands, Scully," Skinner told her quietly.  Not quite gently, 
he wasn't that kind of man, but it was what he could offer; she valued it 
for that. 
 
************************************************************************ 
 
Baltimore:  March 19 2:00 am 
 
Sitting beside Scully, Morgan looked at the clock again  Two ack emma.  

She wished that the doctor would come out and talk to Skinner and 
Scully.   She wished she could to talk to the man she'd held, tried to 
give comfort, in that hellish house.  She needed to know what he knew, 
needed to know what she was dealing with.  

The trouble was, her teacher had been almost stereotypically cryptic.  
He had warned her years ago that she would face the Eater of Souls, 
had warned her that it was her chosen destiny, that she had deliberately 
accepted it.  Philosophically, metaphysically, she could dance to that 
beat;  in reality, it was tougher, far tougher.   

In the house, she had managed to keep the calm of the Circle.  Now, 
she sat with her arms wound around herself and forced herself not to 
shiver.  Thank Fortune for the years she had studied and practiced and 
trained, thank whatever deity there was that she'd had the years with her 
first teacher, learning the ways of forbidden magic and mystery. 

Or she'd be gibbering right where she sat.  

But who was the Eater of Souls?  And what had he to do with an FBI 
agent hunting a missing boy? 
 
She had warded her home long before, and Sharon knew enough to 
add strength to those protections against arcane violation. The security 
system was top of the line, a gift from a friend who worried that 
someday, the prey would come after the Hunter.  

She shivered again, wrapped her arms around herself, grateful for the 
jacket Skinner had lent her.  Grateful for the mundane light and solidity 
of the hospital waiting room.   

God, that name--*he* had given it to her at the same time he had 
revealed that she would come face to face with the Eater of Souls, the 
one who had twisted the magic, who had consumed--he had opened 
and closed his hands a few times, signifying hundreds and hundreds of 
lives. 
 
She dared not underestimate this man, if indeed he was a man.  He 
would have to come after her, she had destroyed his protections, she 
had challenged him and dispersed his guardians.  


But her gut told her Mulder was in the most danger at the present.  
Mulder had been his captive, his prey, and had defied him, fought him.  
Mulder *would* have died, had she not intervened, but he had thrown 
his captor into such a fury that he would have died free, not annihilated 
as the sacrifice required.  Scant comfort there, but it was something. 
 
This hospital was no safe place for Mulder, either, not really.   No 
hospital was, there was too much traffic, the protections would be hard 
to set.   Perhaps a general warding would keep him safe enough until 
he was fit for a private room; it would have to, she would have to make it 
strong enough to do so. 

If she was given time to do it.   And thinking about Mulder's danger 
distracted her from her own.  Her teacher had named her the Hunter.  
And she had continued to study, to practice, to hone the gifts she had 
never asked for.  Hating them and rejoicing in them at the same time. 

Stilling those thoughts, she began to breathe in the way she'd been 
taught, reaching for center.  She might never achieve detachment, but 
calm, at least was possible.

The true dark of the moon might have passed, but it was still within the 
realm of acceptability--and with the waxing moon and time to cool his 
temper, Harcourt could still achieve his desire from Mulder's death--
more life to feed his unnaturally attenuated existence, one more soul 
annihilated, never to know rebirth, never to be free from the Wheel. 
 
At that moment, Scully opened her eyes and tilted her head enough to 
look Morgan in the eyes.  "Gregorian chant?"   

Morgan almost smiled.  Not quite.  So, she remembered some of it, at 
least.  "I was raised Catholic.  It still resonates of the sacred to me, 
despite leaving the Church behind years ago." 
 
Scully arched a copper brow.  "But Gregorian chant?"     

"If they'd held any power over my soul, I could have sung nursery 
rhymes or Irish rebel songs."  Humming the first few bars of The Rising 
of the Moon, she arched a brow in return.   

Scully's mouth quirked.  "I don't think I want to understand."   

Morgan shifted in her chair.  "It's very simple.  That which evokes the 
sense of the sacred in us is also that which grants power.  There's a 
wonderfully powerful Buddhist Sutra which comes close for me, but I'm 
not Buddhist and so it's not as energizing."  Morgan sighed, wondering 
if Scully believed any of what she was saying.  "I remember the Latin 
mass well, so Gregorian chant...It forms a kind of a mind-body-soul 
interaction which works."  There, she'd said as much as she was going 
to say openly for now.   

Scully frowned thoughtfully, sighed and closed her eyes again.  

After a moment's consideration, Morgan did the same, silently focusing on 
her meditations, renewing her strength and, hopefully protecting the man in 
the trauma room.     



Baltimore: March 18 10:20 pm 

Shifting in the uncomfortable hospital chairs, Skinner thought distantly 
about getting another cup of coffee from the vending machine down the 
hall, but was simply too tired.  He would have probably had to be 
tortured himself to admit it, but he was worried, too.  Worried about 
Mulder.  It was another Spooky wonder, Mulder sensing the presence of 
a murderer and bringing him to light, but this time he'd been caught in 
the same snare that left at least six kids dead.     

The hell of it was, the bastard had gotten away.  

He had been furious and Taylor apologetic.  "He just vanished, sir," 
Taylor had muttered before calling it in to the Baltimore PD, and there 
had been both fear and shame in the back of the younger man's eyes.  

Now, sitting in the hospital waiting room, he wished to unsay his angry 
response.  Taylor was a good agent, might even someday be a great 
agent if he could recover from this night's events.  And Harcourt's 
escape had not been his fault entirely; they had all been unnerved, and 
Taylor's partner Dwyer lay in a hospital room upstairs resting 
comfortably.   

Slanting a look sidelong, he saw that Morgan was leaning back in the 
uncomfortable hospital chair, her face expressionless.  "You look tired," 
he murmured, not wanting to disturb Scully, who appeared to be sleep.  
"I'm sorry, we'll get you home as soon as we can. If you like, I can see if 
someone can be spared from the Baltimore office to drive you down."    

She looked at him, her eyes betraying surprise.  "No, I'm fine.  I'd like to 
hear how he is, frankly.  It looked pretty bad."    

Skinner rubbed his forehead, mortally weary himself. "I know.  I've seen 
burns like that before."  A dull coal of rage burned beneath his 
breastbone, adding to his discomfort.  "If I had to guess, I'd guess he'll 
be lucky if he doesn't lose any of his toes."  And thereby be eligible for 
disability and ineligible for field work.  Which, if he knew Mulder, would 
be worse than a prison sentence.    

"Don't kill Schrodinger's Cat."  Her expression was weary.  "It may very 
well have looked worse than it is."    

Scully started awake again, and the door across from them opened, a 
young doctor emerging, his expression determinedly non-committal.  
Skinner rose in time to follow Scully to meet him, leaving Morgan sitting 
behind him, his stomach knotting as he heard the doctor start to speak.    

He understood enough of what was said to know that Mulder was in 
serious condition.  He had been badly beaten, two cracked ribs--no 
internal bleeding, they thought, a major blessing at this point.  Third 
degree burns on the flesh behind and between his toes,  second degree 
burns over approximately twenty percent of the rest of his body.  There 
was a large wound in his side, another on the back of one leg, and a 
smaller one on his shoulder, all of which looked like he'd been bitten by 
an animal of some kind.     

Skinner dispelled this theory tersely, but offered the doctor no other 
alternative.  He also understood how lucky Mulder was:  badly 
dehydrated, suffering from additional electrical burns in areas Skinner 
didn't want to contemplate, and deeply in shock, he was nonetheless 
alive and going to recover.  The fears about his feet were groundless; 
his toes were the worst.  Generally, despite the blood he had worn when 
they'd found him, he had not lost much; his blood pressure and heart 
rate were frighteningly high, which might be due to pain and stress as 
much as anything.    

At least, Skinner reflected, watching Scully nod and listening to her ask 
intelligent, if somewhat snappish questions, that was what he thought 
the doctor told them. 

He would ask Scully for a translation later, God knew, but Mulder's 
having his feet in bad shape might prove to be a mixed blessing.  He 
knew his agent and Mulder made a very bad patient.   He owed Gene 
Kelsey a bottle of Scotch, by God, even if it did stick in his craw to have 
to deal with paranormal events; he disapproved of them, disliked them, 
refused to accept them, and here he was in the middle of one, an 
eyewitness to the eeriest thing, bar one, he had every seen.    

And what in the hell was Schrodinger's Cat?    

"Agent Scully."  He consciously gentled his voice, "You need to get 
some rest."      

As he might have expected, she whirled on him with fire in her eye.  "I'm 
not leaving this hospital, sir."    

He considered that, bemused.  "I didn't suggest that you should.  If that 
was my partner in there, I'd stay, too. As it is, I want to see him before I 
drive Dr. Grayson home, just to satisfy myself that this was worth 
descending into the world of the X files."    

She frowned at him.  "He's alive."   Her tone was flat, she eyed him with 
an expression that told him that made the worth of it clear. 

"He is," Skinner agreed patiently and turned to the bemused physician.  
"I'd like to see him.  And we'll need to establish a guard around him."    

The physician nodded.  "Agent Taylor has already set it up, I believe."  
He sounded a little annoyed.  "Although I must say that his insistence 
seemed premature when we didn't know if he was going into intensive 
care or not."    

"And is he?"  Scully demanded, sounding snappish again.    

"Just overnight, until we see how he does.  He's still in a great deal of 
pain, he seems to be very resistant to pain medication, and we're 
reluctant to give him any stronger doses with the his heart and blood 
pressure so high."  The doctor's eyes met hers, scowl for scowl.  "Mr. 
Skinner, if you'll come this way, I'll take you to him."    

Skinner hesitated.  Moved by impulse, he turned to Morgan and 
beckoned.  Her expression puzzled, she rose and came to join them.  
"Come on, you can see him for a moment."    

Scully looked as though she would protest for a moment, then 
surrendered gracefully.  "Of course."  Then, at Morgan's questioning 
look.  "I'm sorry, I'm tired."    

Morgan nodded.  "I won't stay long, I just want to see for myself."  Her 
mouth quirked.  "That measurement and observation thing, you know."    

Scully almost smiled.  "I do."    

No less baffled than he had been earlier, Skinner looked after the young 
doctor and gently took Morgan's arm to follow.    

********************************************************************* 
Mulder was sleeping, swathed in bandages, his hands looking 
ridiculously like mittens, except for the fact that his fingertips poked out, 
unwrapped--his palms were a mess.   His face was drawn, haggard, 
even in sleep; Scully's heart ached uselessly for him.  There was some 
kind of frame under the blankets they'd layered over him, keeping the 
weight of them off his feet.  

His feet, oh, God, they'd looked so bad. 
 
Her eyes were drawn to the monitor, automatically checking the 
indicators; Morgan went to stand at the foot of the bed, her gaze distant, 
eyes hooded, her hands resting on the rails at each side. 
 
Scully watched her for a moment before Mulder made a sound, crying 
out wordlessly and raising his arms as if to ward off his tormentor. 
 
She was at his side instantly.  "Mulder," she murmured, gently catching 
one arm. "Mulder, it's all right, you're safe now." 
 
His eyes opened; he gazed at her blindly for a moment, then blinked.  
"Scully," he husked and winced, carefully pulling his arm away from her.  
"Hurts." 
 
"Sorry."  Her voice was shaky suddenly.  "How are you doing?"  He 
gave her a bleak look; stupid question, Dana Katherine, she told herself 
and blinked back tears.  "Are you thirsty?"  

He'd complained of it in the trauma room; it was what had gotten her 
thrown out, they weren't listening to him. 
 
He nodded; she held the glass of ice water up, guiding the straw to his 
mouth--they'd put a couple of sutures in his bottom lip, it looked 
savaged, but he'd haltingly explained that he'd bitten it himself.  Before 
they'd thrown her out. 

That still rankled, never mind she understood it logically.  

Mulder drank deeply, pausing to swallow hard and take a breath, then 
drank again, sinking back on the pillow when he was done.  "Thanks." 

His voice made her blink rapidly again.  She couldn't bear to think about 
the screaming that had done that to his voice, couldn't bear to think 
about him in that room--ah, God, what Taylor had told her about that 
room. 

He looked at Skinner, then quickly flicked his gaze around the room, 
coming to rest on Morgan.  His expression eased slightly.  "Don't think 
we've been introduced."   His voice was little more than a broken rasp, 
but he was reaching for his usual coolness--Scully's eyes burned 
abruptly.
 
Morgan's mouth curved faintly and she inclined her head in 
acknowledgement.  "Morgan Grayson." 
 
He moved one gauze-wrapped hand slightly.  "Fox Mulder--sorry, can't 
shake hands today."  His gaze moved randomly, taking in the room, the 
lights, the windows, the door--then, again, Skinner.  "Sir." 
 
"Mulder."  Skinner nodded, his expression almost kind.  "Got yourself in 
a bad place.  But you broke the case, give yourself credit." 
 
For a brief instant, Scully saw terror flicker across Mulder's features, 
replaced by bleakness again.  "Yeah."  He looked at her again.  "I heard 
you.  When you were down in the cellar, I heard you calling me."  It was 
very nearly a whisper, but it hit her in the gut like a blow. 

Morgan was there in a moment, her hand warm on Scully's, 
encouraging, comforting--taking in a deep breath, she answered him.  "I 
had them start looking when I didn't find you there." 

He closed his eyes, mortally weary.  "I know.  I couldn't answer you, he 
had me gagged." 

Her stomach turned over, a lazy roll that left her nauseated, seeing 
images of him, tormented and mute, hearing her, hearing rescue so 
close, so far away. 

His eyes opened again, he swallowed, licked his torn lip.  "I don't think I 
would have anyway, but I'll never know." 
 
Skinner moved closer.  "Why not?"  His tone was mild, genuinely 
curious, but his brows drew together. 
 
"Because Harcourt would have killed her."  Morgan's voice was little 
more than a whisper.

Mulder's eyes opened again.  He looked at Morgan for a long silent 
moment, his expression gauging her, then nodded. 
 
Scully didn't dare look at her.  "I had a gun," she told the room at large, 
more harshly than she'd intended. 
 
"It would have availed you nothing."  Morgan's tone was still soft, the 
phrase archaic, pretentious in a room full of modern medical 
technology. 

Scully pulled away from her, suddenly angry.  "He's just a man."  She 
looked at Mulder, wanting to convince him, seeing the doubt, needing to 
convince him....  "Mulder, he hurt you terribly, but he's human, we're 
going to bring him down." 
 
His gaze was bleak, haunted.  "No, Scully, he's not." 
 
That touched too close to what she didn't want to remember.  

We perceive things, she thought distantly, but that doesn't mean our 
perceptions are reality.  There was no way to explain what she'd seen, 
other than--God,  some sort of mass hysteria that had affected all of 
them.  

"Mulder," she began, then thought better of it.  Shock was still affecting 
him, shock and terror and pain--God, she wanted that bastard, wanted 
him badly. 
 
Morgan gave her a long look, unoffended, but clearly not backing down.  
"Believe what you wish, Agent Scully, but Harcourt's still out there." 
 
"Dr. Grayson."  Skinner's tone was quelling; Scully blinked at him.  "I 
think it's time to get you back home." 
 
"No."  Mulder stirred again. "I want to talk to her." 
 
This time, Scully hardened her heart.  "When you've rested." 
 
Morgan's mouth flattened out.  "Yes," she agreed, not sounding as if it 
gave her any pleasure.  "I'll see you again, Fox.  I promise you."  She 
gave him a long, reassuring look.   

Or at least it was presumably meant to be reassuring; Scully didn't think 
he looked entirely reassured, but he didn't protest when Morgan left the 
room, Skinner close behind her.  

Her feelings about Morgan were muddled, but she privately thought that 
it would be better if Mulder didn't talk to Morgan Grayson again until he 
was feeling stronger, feeling saner.  "Do you want me to leave?" 
 
His head turned away from her, he stared at the glass windows.  "You 
don't believe me."  Another whisper. 
 
Her head hurt suddenly.  "It's not that I don't believe you, Mulder," she 
began, but he closed his eyes, shutting her out: 

"I'm tired, Scully." 
 
There was nothing she could say to that, except, "Rest, Mulder."  Her 
hand hovered briefly, but she let it fall before touching him.  "I'll be here 
while you're sleeping."  It was all she could give him. 

And that was more of a failure than not finding him earlier.  For not 
finding him before Harcourt, or whoever the hell he was, had inflicted 
this kind of damage on him.

************************************************************************** 
The team presently tearing the house apart had brought in floodlights 
for the subcellar, the plaster walls gleaming almost white under lights as 
bright as noon sunlight, casting shadows in sharp relief against the 
glare.

Following Skinner down the stairs, Morgan shuddered at the psychic 
reek of the place--terror, agony, hopelessness and despair were like 
something physical, a miasma that tried to wrap around her bones, 
around her gut--shuddered and swayed dizzily as she entered the room 
in which Mulder had been tortured.

As she hesitated, staring, Skinner took her arm, giving her a wary look.  
"Dr. Grayson?"

Carefully detaching herself from him, Morgan went to stand over the 
bed, swallowing hard at the sight of blood-stained sheets.  Manacles 
hung from the head of the bed, wound through the wrought iron.  
Another pair had been removed from the foot, the technician was 
sealing the plastic evidence bag as she approached.

"Blood and tissue on the manacles," one of the forensic agents told 
Skinner softly.  "And on the sheets--Lots of good physical evidence, this 
guy isn't going to walk when you get him."

Skinner nodded, his expression grimly pleased.  "Good."

She turned from that, inwardly sighing.  They weren't going to get him, 
not like any other predator.  But Skinner wasn't entirely ready to face 
that.  That was fine; she wasn't entirely ready to face it either, yet she'd 
been preparing for nearly six years.  

The echoes of what Mulder had felt, of what he had endured in this 
room,  made her ill.  But the worst part was Harcourt's glee, his savage 
enjoyment of Mulder's agony, mingled with the resonance of all the 
earlier victims.  "This is his killing ground," she murmured, conscious of 
Skinner's eyes on her.  

Looking up at him, she suppressed another instinctive shudder and 
moved toward the sideboard--the drawers were already empty, the 
evidence bags lined up on the scarred surface.  

Peering at them, she saw a silver button--blackened by the decades--
commemorating the Pan-American exhibition, a handful of driver's 
licenses, kids with braces smiling back at her, kids with short hair, long 
hair--her stomach turned over again and she faced away, faced Skinner 
briefly before walking past, walking back out into the narrow hallway and 
started down to the far end.

She could feel Harcourt here, too, smiling in satisfaction.  "Open the 
walls," she whispered, "They're in the walls."

Taylor looked up at her from a conversation with another agent, his eyes 
narrowing.  "What?"

"He put the bones in the walls," she told him, her voice stronger, 
comforted by an awareness of Skinner's bulk behind her.  "Open up the 
walls."

Taylor looked at the AD, who nodded silently.

She felt gratitude for that.  Skinner might not want to believe in her, but 
he did, and he was willing to take her at her word.  But she'd bet her 
next royalty check that he was going to write the report with enough 
justifications to hedge his bets.  

It didn't matter.

Making her way past Taylor, she found Harcourt's private rooms, lit up 
as bright as day.  Books lined the walls--he might be a monster, but he 
was a well read monster, she thought wryly and accepted the latex 
gloves Skinner handed her, smiling faintly at him.

"Dr. Grayson?"  His gaze was brooding.  "Why don't you tell me what 
you think about Harcourt?"

She gave him an assessing look.  No, she didn't think that was wise.  
He might be willing to take her word on certain things now--she doubted 
that would last if she told him that Harcourt more than the usual 
psychopath, more than just a serial murderer.  

"He's been killing a long, long time," she murmured, hedging her own 
bets.  If Skinner started to doubt her, she would have no access to 
Mulder.  And without access to Mulder, she could not count on finding 
Harcourt.

Skinner's eyes rested on her stubbornly.  "How long?"

"Longer than you might imagine."  She snapped on the gloves, reached 
up to open one of the books.  The publication date was 1872.  Closing 
it, she laid it down and reached for another.  1853.  Skinner leaned over 
them, eyeing them with something resembling acute distaste.

"A taste for antiques," he growled.  "Except for his interest in electrical 
toys."  He nodded at the typically Victorian furnishings, heavy fabric, 
dark wood.  "What does that mean?"

She shrugged.  "An identification with the era."  God, she loathed 
herself, she had already caught the scent, adrenaline was already 
speeding her pulse, the hunger for the hunt flaring to life in her gut.

Skinner's eyes narrowed.  "Cut the crap, Dr. Grayson, what are you 
getting?"  His voice was low, he looked back to make certain they were 
still alone in the room.  "If I'm going out on a limb, I'd rather by God 
know how long it is."

Flushing, she looked away, a little ashamed.  "He's--not your ordinary 
killer, Mr. Skinner.  He's been alive a long, long time and he's been 
killing that long."  She opened the book she held, holding it open to 
show him the date of publication.  

1889.

His mouth twisted with distaste and he looked away, his jaw tightening.  
"You're telling me that Mulder's right.  That this guy is more than 
human."

"No, he's human enough--but he's found power and used it to extend 
his life unnaturally."  She put the book back on the shelf.  "Power in 
killing."

"Like a vampire."  His tone was almost flat, yet held a trace of bitter note 
of amusement.

"Not quite."  She sighed, reading the titles.  Occult classics, translations 
of arcane texts from the east--"I'd like to look these over, Mr. Skinner.  
We might be able to get a better idea of what he's going to do next if I 
know what he believes."

Another long look came her way; she met it without hesitation.  After a 
moment, he nodded grudgingly.  "We'll take it all in as evidence, Dr. 
Grayson.  But you'll have to come down to Forensics."

She didn't like that entirely, but nodded.  He was giving her more than 
she would have expected.  "Don't underestimate him, Mr. Skinner."

His expression shifted to bleakness.  "You believe he'll come after 
Mulder."

She nodded silently.  

He frowned.  "And you'll be there to stop him?  How?"

Her heart sped again.  "Yes."  She swallowed against the exhilaration 
that flooded her, keeping it leashed.  "But not alone.  *I* won't 
underestimate him, either."

That seemed to satisfy him.  His mouth quirked slightly as he looked 
around the room.  "Needless to say, Dr. Grayson," he told her, almost 
amused again.  "This conversation never took place."

Lunatic hilarity caught in her throat.  "What conversation?"

A brief, appreciative look and he left her, leaving her to stare up at texts 
written in Latin, in Greek--she knew her lack of a classical education 
was someday going to give her a problem.

Fortunately, she knew experts who had done better.




Baltimore: March 18 10:20 pm 

Harcourt huddled in the darkness, a darkness so dense he could not 
see or feel--his gods were displeased, he thought and shuddered as a 
feathery touch brushed his cheek.  They had brought him here, 
removing him from one danger to judge him themselves. 
 
And he was not judged leniently. 
 
"Please," he begged the unyielding blackness, "I can still kill him.  I've 
never failed you before, I won't this time.  I swear it."  His heart thudded 
against his ribcage and sweat rolled down his sides beneath his shirt.   

He had been a fool, underestimating Mulder's resistance, and the care 
the FBI took of its agents.  Worse than a fool--he knew the terms of his 
agreement with his gods, and had risked failure.  Whatever he began in 
their names, he was bound to finish, and Mulder was still alive. 
 
"I can find him," he insisted, beginning to shiver.  "I can still take him, I 
won't fail you again." 
 
The darkness lessened slightly, as if consideration were being given to 
his offer; he thought that was a hopeful sign, as hopeful as the fact that 
they had not immediately consumed him.  "And that woman, the 
Hunter," he added, with less enthusiasm; the thought of her made him 
shiver again.   

He had grown used to striking without resistance, without meeting a 
defense.  And now, on top of his failure with Mulder, he had caught the 
attention of a white adept.  Bringing their machinations to the attention 
of that same adept.  No wonder his gods were angry.  "I'll kill her, as 
well." 
 
He heard no answer in his heart, but the darkness lessened further, the 
walls around him melted away, and he found himself in the shadows of 
the hedges on the corner of the street where his house stood. 
 
Cars and lights surrounded it, men moving in and out, violating his 
home--inhaling raggedly, he saw one man carry out a box, felt the 
resonance of all his victims from where he crouched.  All his 
remembrances of his rituals, he thought bitterly and cursed them 
silently. 
 
Then, taking no chances, he slipped away from the street, moving 
steadily downtown, to a place where he might find an easier victim to 
regain his strength. 
 
Oh, Mulder would find room for deeper regret when he was taken this 
time.  

And that bitch--he would need all his strength for her.  

************************************************************************
 
Baltimore:  March 20 1:00 pm    

Starting awake, Scully came upright in the hospital chair, only to find 
that Mulder was still sleeping. 
 
His sleeves rolled up, Skinner sat nearby, sipping at coffee and reading 
a Baltimore paper.  His presence still amazed her, but it also made her 
wonder.   

He'd returned around ten that morning, clearly not taking much time to 
rest or attend to office business; she suspected he was here to keep a 
lid on Mulder's wilder statements.  According to Jack Taylor, he'd 
already clamped down on loose talk about what had happened at the 
house.   No one protested; no one wanted to talk about it.  Two dead 
agents--their hearts cut out--and one agent badly injured.   Taylor had 
been cool to her--small wonder, this had happened on his territory, on 
his watch, and he blamed  Mulder as much as he blamed Harcourt.   

Glancing up at her, Skinner shook his head.  "He hasn't stirred." 
 
Raking a hand through her hair, Scully rose slowly, stretching the kinks 
out of her back and legs. 

Mulder had her worried; he seemed to sink into sleep as if grateful for 
the escape.  While she couldn't blame him, it was uncharacteristic to 
say the least, and it had persisted since they had brought him into the 
trauma center.  Well, after they'd taken him to his room, at any rate.  

After she'd told him she didn't believe him. 
 
Pushing that thought away, she sighed.   "So much for runaway kids."  
Her voice was soft; she glanced at Skinner to be sure he heard her.  
"He was right, all the time.  Those kids were murdered.  By Harcourt." 
 
Skinner gave her a mild look, his coffee cup poised at his mouth.  "He 
*was* the boy wonder of VCS," he answered and arched an eyebrow, 
waiting. 
 
She flushed unaccountably and went to the bed, keeping her eyes on 
the monitors. 

Whatever Mulder dreamt now was unpleasant; his heart rate kept going 
up and down and that scared her, too.  Even as she watched, the 
monitor showed it decreasing from 160, slowly going down as if the 
dream had released him.  Despite this, he moaned in his sleep and 
twitched, as if trying to run or fight. 
 
He had woken intermittently, of course, if one could call it waking. 

Skinner had given Mulder all the ice water he could take after his arrival 
this morning; Mulder had finished and literally fallen back, his eyes 
closing again.  She had talked to him, trying to reassure him, but he'd 
turned his head away, waving her off with one weak motion. 
 
As she moved nearer to the bed, he jerked awake suddenly, his eyes 
wide and disoriented, making a sound in his throat.  The monitor 
showed his reaction, heart rate soaring again, frighteningly fast.  His 
eyes tracked the leads this time, following them back to the machine; he 
made a sound, inarticulate and horrifying and his arms rose, flailing--he 
dislodged two of them before she could get there and hold him down. 

And Skinner was up and on the other side of the bed, trying to help her 
hold him down....

 
Mulder was adrift, lost on a sea of pain, drowning in it.  Nearby, 
someone was making a painful noise, it hurt his ears--it took a moment 
of re-orientation to realize that he was hearing himself and he 
shuddered, trying to recall where he was, why he hurt so goddamned 
badly.  Why there were people trying to hold him down....

He blinked upward, trying to interpret sensory input past the hurt.

"Mulder, don't, lie still."  Scully's face hovered over him, pale with worry, 
the flesh under her eyes looking bruised with weariness.   "You're 
fouling the monitor leads." 
 
A chill rippled across his skin--monitor, he told himself, still trying to 
break the grip of their hands on his shoulders, it was making him sick, 
being touched.  He flashed then, seeing Harcourt above him and bit his 
lip, hard, tasting blood, using her voice to bring him back to the here 
and now. 
 
He could hear the distress.  "Mulder, don't, you're going to tear your 
mouth open again, God, listen, you're safe, we're here, please Mulder." 
 
Her voice was a lifeline back to reality--blinking, he took in the room 
again, his struggle ending immediately as  memory returned, memory 
he didn't want.   Sleep was an escape, even with the nightmares; he 
was hiding.   

Hiding from memories he had successfully suppressed for most of his 
life, but which now stood revealed in all their ugliness, memories of his 
father, memories of his father's rage and fists.  Not just after Samantha 
had been taken, but for all his life.   Logically, he had known they were 
there--how could he not have?  His professors at Oxford had been very, 
very good.   

But to *know* what they were was going to take a lot of balancing, and 
right now he had lost his equilibrium.   That was the hell of it, it wasn't 
just his distant past he was hiding from.  The sound of his own 
screams still echoed too clearly in his mind, and the physical memory of 
the pain--oh, god, the pain that hadn't gone away when the nightmare 
ended.... 
 
And his partner didn't believe him.  Just another wild theory Spooky 
dreamed up, something for her to analyze scientifically.  Oh, god, he 
wished she could convince him this time, he wanted not to believe.   
Skinner--well, he never could tell what Skinner believed and what he 
didn't.  It didn't matter, it didn't make his stomach hurt, not like Scully's 
disbelief did.  "Scu-lly," he whispered, and took in a shaky breath.  "Um, 
it hurts."  

Her brows drew together worriedly and she glanced up at Skinner.  
"Mulder, you're getting pretty strong medication."   

He turned his head away again, looking away from both of them.  Scully 
looked tired, so tired.   Because of him.  He'd gone off on his own again, 
god, he should have known better--six people had already vanished, 
why the hell had he thought he was invulnerable?  Because he had a 
badge and a gun? 

He knew differently now. 
 
"Hey."  Scully touched his cheek gently, making him flinch.  "I didn't 
spend the last eight hours waiting for you to wake up to have you look 
away, Mulder. "   

The horror was still too close to let himself feel safe.  It wasn't over.  
"Scully, he's coming back for me, he hasn't finished--"  He shifted, 
trying to sit up, and pain made him breathless for a moment. 

Skinner regarded him with evident worry.  "Mulder, we've got men 
outside the door, he's not going to get in this room."

He spared only a brief glance for the AD.  Spared a slightly longer one 
for Scully.  She laid a finger on his lips.  "Hush, Mulder, we're on it, 
we're here and we've got men stationed outside in the hall.   Come on, 
now, you've got to lie still." 
 
He let his eyes drift across the room, brought them back to Skinner, 
standing there watchfully.   God, why was Skinner here?  It made him 
shake again, they were going to get him now, good cause, disability, 
psychiatric or otherwise.   

Scully pulled another blanket over him.  "Is that better, Mulder?  Are you 
warm enough?" 
 
"Sure."  His voice sounded like his vocal cords had been cracked and 
broken.  He looked away from Skinner, staring distantly at nothing at all. 

Scully tugged at the blankets edgily.  "Are you thirsty?" 
 
Swallowing, he decided that he was; as he shifted, he flashed again on 
Harcourt, the catheter reminding him too much of the metal probe.  
Breathe in, he commanded himself, dragging air into his lungs, out, in 
and out--think straight, dammit, you have to convince them.  

Scully touched his arm, making him flinch, before he could get his head 
cleared, before he could let her guide the straw to his mouth.   But, god, 
it tasted better than anything he remembered in his life, icy and cold, 
soothing raw tissues.  

When he sank back again, Skinner was still eyeing him with some 
concern.  "I hate to do this, Mulder--do you think you can give me a 
statement?" 
 
His shivering wouldn't stop, despite his concentrated effort to still his 
body; Scully regarded him worriedly and pulled his blankets up higher.  
Still shaking, Mulder shook his head.  "No statement," he told them, his 
voice little more than a rasp. 
 
Skinner's eyebrows rose.  "We'll need one eventually, Mulder.  When 
we get him.  And it would help to have a more detailed description than 
Dr. Grayson's--it was dark when she saw him." 
 
He could feel his mouth tremble, bit at his lip to still it.   Skinner's words 
made sense.  Too much sense, he didn't want to have to talk about it.  

But this was his job, dammit--he took in another ragged breath, 
reaching for strength already stretched past the breaking point.  "He 
looks like he's in his early twenties, maybe--about 5' 9", 5' 10", I think."  
He spoke quickly, trying to move past the images flickering against the 
backs of his eyelids, trying not to conjure what he remembered.  "Maybe 
160, pale, pale hair, maybe white, maybe just pale blond, shoulder 
length.  His eyes--"   

He flashed on those eyes, soulless, cold--his heart hammered with 
renewed terror and he bit his lip, struggling for control, finding some 
semblance of it by staring at Skinner's face.  "His eyes are very light, 
pale blue or grey, I couldn't tell.  Very delicate features, almost feminine, 
beautiful, not handsome.   Um, he was wearing black when I saw him."   

Another deep breath, trying to slow his pulse, to pull in enough oxygen 
to think past imprinted horror--"He's vain, I had the impression he wore 
it deliberately to contrast with his fairness of skin and hair.  He's very 
strong, stronger than he looks--he's got a very precise, almost Victorian 
manner of speaking."  He paused, rattled, trying to think what else they 
would need to know....Harcourt's voice whispered in his ear, "She's a 
pretty little thing, Fox".   

Scully's hand touched his arm again and he jumped, jarring all the 
hurts, flinching away from her.  "That's all I can tell you, sir."  He closed 
his eyes, shutting them out, shutting out the images--that's all I can tell 
you except that he's more than one hundred years old, that he can take 
a walk through your mind like it was his private hunting preserve, that he 
drinks in pain and fear and grief like vintage wine..... 
 
Opening his eyes, he looked at Skinner, saw more concern there, but 
the notepad was out, the AD was writing down the details of Harcourt's 
appearance.  It calmed him, paradoxically, letting himself distance 
himself just a little from what had happened.  "He's gay," he managed to 
add, "Though he doesn't really think of it like that.  Men give him a 
sense of mastery, he said."  

He wanted to stop there, but it seemed he couldn't stop being a profiler, 
even now.  "Check the gay bars, he's out hunting, I can feel it."  He 
shuddered again, raised bandaged hands to his head before pain 
reminded him.  "God, I can still feel him in my head." 
 
Skinner and Scully exchanged long looks.   He wondered grimly what 
the FBI equivalent of a Section 8 was called and bit his lip, hard enough 
to draw blood, to taste it on his tongue. 

Scully made a wordless sound of protest, her hand coming out to touch 
his cheek.  He flinched away, not meaning to, and then held himself 
carefully still to let her fingers rest on his cheek, burning him.  He stared 
at her, seeing red hair, blue eyes, weary eyes that were afraid for him.  

No pale hair, no avid gaze drinking in his pain...

He stared long enough that his eyes began to tear up, then he blinked 
and looked away, taking in a deep breath again as the leads caught his 
eye.  "Scully, go get some rest, you look awful." 
 
Her mouth twitched.  "And you don't?" 
 
"He's right."  Skinner was blunt.  "Doesn't your mother live here?  Why 
don't you go and try to get some sleep, Agent Scully." 
 
"Get a shower," Mulder told her, trying for humor, "A decent cup of 
coffee.  Some of her coffee cake." 
 
She wavered, her gaze moving back and forth between them. 

Act normal, he told himself, hating the worry in her eyes.  

But he needed to talk to Dr. Grayson and he'd seen Scully's resistance 
to that notion.  He thought he had a better chance of convincing 
Skinner.  That was hell, she was his partner, he trusted her more than 
anyone else he'd ever known.  But she didn't believe this one, he 
needed help he could trust.  

Tears stung his eyes and he blinked them away, afraid she'd see them.  
"Go on," he told her hoarsely and looked at Skinner for backup. 
 
Skinner gave him a level look and nodded.  "I'll be here, Agent Scully, 
and we've got people outside the door.  Go and get some rest." 
 
After another long moment of consideration, Scully nodded.  "Okay--but  
call me if you need me."  Her eyes flicked to meet Skinner's and her 
chin came up slightly. 
 
Skinner handed her the notepad.  "Write down the number." 
 
When the door had closed on his partner, he looked up at Skinner 
again.  "I need to talk to Dr. Grayson." 
 
Skinner's expression shifted to something suggesting acute discomfort.  
"Agent Mulder, I don't think that's wise." 
 
"I need to."   His pulse sped again, stomach knotting--God, they 
couldn't stop him, could they?  But how could he do it if they blocked 
him? 

The Lone Gunmen could locate her, but he couldn't talk to people right 
now, god, don't do this to me, Skinner, please don't do this to me.  "Sir, 
she knows what we're dealing with."  It was as far as he dared go after 
the look the AD had exchanged with Scully. 

They thought he was irrational, traumatized, half-out of his mind.  They 
were right, but he had good reasons, reasons they were unwilling to 
accept.  

"Sir," he tried desperately, seeing Skinner's expression go shuttered, "I 
swear to you, we need her.  *I* need her.  Or he's going to come back 
and kill me and there's not a goddamned thing anyone with a gun can 
do about it."   His voice had risen, he found he was shaking 
convulsively.   "I don't wanna die like that, dammit, please--"  Biting his 
lip, he sank back, looking away, ashamed and furious because of it.   

He'd believed in Skinner once, not too long ago, believed in him and 
worked to clear him of murder and attempted murder, believed in 
Skinner's own experience with the inexplicable and then, after that, the 
bastard had shut him down again, slammed the door shut, keeping his 
teeth closed on how he had known when to be at the Ambassador 
Hotel.  

He knew why--Skinner's advocacy of Mulder and Scully had called for 
an object lesson.   He suspected that Skinner would shed few tears if 
Harcourt *did* get him, might even be relieved. 
 
But when he looked back, Skinner was regarding the monitor dourly.  "If 
you'll try to calm down, I'll see if I can reach her." 

Still shaking, Mulder stared at him, relief warring with disbelief.  "Okay," 
he whispered and closed his eyes. 




Skinner had no luck in finding her number.  

Hell, Gene had set the first meeting up over the phone, a long distance 
intermediary and he hadn't thought to get her number when he'd taken 
her home.  However--slanting a look at Mulder, he called the office, 
arranged to have someone go out to that address in Alexandria, earning 
himself a look of such naked gratitude that he had to look away.   He 
couldn't afford Mulder's trust, couldn't afford to care too deeply what 
might happen to him.  One of these days Mulder was going to walk out 
too far on that high wire and he was going to have to cut it, letting 
Mulder fall without a net.  

And even if he didn't cut it himself, he'd have to watch. 
 
"Thank you, sir," Mulder told him hoarsely, putting that gratitude into 
words. 
 
He nodded.  "I'm going to get a cup of coffee from the machine.   You 
want me to see if they're going to let you have something to eat?  You 
slept through the lunch hour." 
 
Mulder blinked.  "Something cold," he agreed, sounding almost wistful.  
"My throat hurts." 
 
He didn't wonder, listening to the broken rasp of Mulder's voice.  
Nodding again, he went to the door.  "We've got two men outside, 
Mulder."  A reminder, gruffly given, that it was time to let go of fear.  If 
Mulder could.  

He wondered about that, looking back into those haunted eyes before 
stepping out. 
 
********************************************** 
Washington DC:  March 20  1:52 pm 
 
Left alone, he had nothing to think about but the pain. 

He still hadn't dared  look, still hadn't seen what had been done to him.  
Oh, he'd felt it, but pain suggested damage gone too deep to be 
anything but permanent.  He was shivering, almost convulsively, 
thinking about that.  The images kept wanting to flash on him, making 
him relive it, and he forced it back, keeping his mind on the here and 
now. 
 
After a long, long moment of hesitation, spent gathering his courage, he 
laboriously peeled himself free of the blankets and sat up to take 
inventory, going slowly, leaning on the rail.  

His ribs ached dully, but it underlay the rest.  He had a number of small 
cuts and the electrical burns were an angry red, glistening with what 
they'd put on it, gel or ointment, he couldn't remember clearly.  

He flashed on that room again--things sliding into him,  inside his cock 
and ass, the burning agony of the shocks--leaning against the side of 
the bed, he shook for several minutes, bit his swollen lip until the wound 
re-opened.  The coppery taste of his own blood brought him back; his 
chest hurt from breathing so hard and the monitor was pinging merrily. 

Breathe, he thought, chanting the word like a mantra inside his head, 
gradually bringing his pulse back down again.  When he could bear it, 
he sat up further, examining himself, reassured that he was whole, still 
in one slightly battered piece.  

But he wondered if he was ever going to have an erotic thought again in 
his life without remembering the pain.  

Flexing his hands, he winced at the pain and the bandages--but they'd 
left his fingers relatively mobile; he drew his knees up and began to 
unwrap the dressings on his feet.  Scully had once told him that third 
degree burns destroyed nerve endings; it scared him, thinking of this, 
but he had to see it, had to know for himself.  It took a few moments, 
between his trembling hands and the layers of gauze, but he finally sat, 
examining his own charred flesh, the soles of his feet suppurating, 
blistered and raw.  

That brought a flash again, another bad one, a reliving of those 
moments while the flame consumed him, while he screamed, straining 
against the manacles, trapped in a nightmare of bright agony and the 
smell of burning meat.  A sob tore loose of his chest; appalled, he 
pressed his wrist to his mouth, trying to reason with himself.  It would 
heal, it wasn't like scars on his feet were any big deal, no one ever looks 
at the soles of their feet--but tears burned as all terror and rage broke 
free.... 
 
There was a small sound in the room, a stealthy sound--catching his 
breath, ashamed, he looked up to see the face of a fallen angel, 
Harcourt's face, smiling slyly at him.   Shock stole his breath for a 
moment until Harcourt took a step.  He wore hospital whites, dressed 
like an orderly-- 
 
He cried out wordlessly, the sound all negation and denial, "No!"  
Almost a scream.  Too hoarse for a scream.  The monitor went off 
again.  Distantly, as if in a dream, he heard someone calling outside in 
the hallway, heard footsteps hurrying. 
 
Harcourt took another step, still smiling.  "Dear Fox. It's so good to see 
you again." 
 
He did scream for help then, eyes moving frantically around the room 
for hope, for a weapon, for anything. 
 
As if in answer, the door burst open and the two men outside his door 
stood, guns drawn. 


Skinner was halfway down the corridor toward Mulder's room when he 
heard the cries.  Cursing himself for leaving and Fox Mulder for getting 
into this situation, he shouldered past the men in the doorway and saw 
the huddled figure on the bed. 

"It's all right," he snapped, taking in the strewn gauze, the horrid sight of 
what fire could do to human flesh.  "Go on, he's still in shock--get a 
nurse down here, will you, Wilson?" 

Setting his coffee cup on the table, he moved to the bed, regarding 
Mulder's feet queasily for a moment before looking up at his face.   
Mulder's eyes were wild; he looked away from Skinner then, perilously 
close to breaking down--oh, don't, Skinner thought, clenching his jaw, 
don't do this to me, Mulder.  Wait until your partner gets back, I can't 
deal with this. 

Christ, that was unfair, but he wasn't the person for this, he scarcely 
knew what to do.  If he'd been some damned touchy feely sort, he'd 
know instinctively what to say, what to do to bring comfort.  Even 
temperamental Mulder himself would know. 
 
Too late. 

He heard a stifled sob as Mulder rested his head on drawn up knees, 
no doubt oblivious to how much of his battered body he was exposing.   
He could see the bandage on Mulder's shoulder, the bare, bruised 
curve of his back--oh, hell, he had no notion what to do now. 

Mulder, more than anything else, reminded him of other boys he'd 
served with in 'Nam, eighteen years old and crying for their mothers, 
gutshot, holding themselves as their lives poured out on the dirt.   He 
hadn't known what to do then, either.   Finally, clenching his jaw tighter, 
he drew took a blanket from the foot of the bed and wrapped it around 
the shaking shoulders, holding on to them. 
 
When Mulder reared back in shame and shock, he growled,  "Just let it 
out, dammit, it's like being sick, just get it over with." 
 
He wasn't sure which of them was more surprised by this approach, but 
it worked.  

Mulder wept for a while, shaking, his head bowed, his arms wrapped 
around his knees--God, at least he hadn't tried to unwrap his hands, 
they kept saying that infection was the worst worry right now.  Only after 
Mulder's shaking had subsided to an occasional tremor, only then did 
he speak.  

"Better? I've been waiting for something like that, you put on a decent 
show for Scully."  He gradually loosened his hold and rested a hip 
against the bed, regarding the unbandaged burns with resignation.  
"You know, I don't intend to include what really happened in the file, 
Mulder.  This X-file is closed.  I'm not going to interrogate you about 
what happened in there, and I'm not going to let anyone else interrogate 
you.  But if you need to tell it, I'll listen." 
 
Mulder's head remained down; he shivered again.  "You won't believe 
me."  

Skinner was silent a moment, thinking about the past.   "Maybe.  Maybe 
I will.  You won't know until you tell me." 
 
Silence.  

Sighing, he went to the bathroom and wet a washcloth, returning to find 
a nurse castigating Mulder, who sat docile and silent, utterly unlike 
himself. 
 
"He needed to see it," he told the nurse sharply, putting an end to the 
outburst, and was both surprised and troubled when Mulder gave him 
another look of gratitude.  "Lie back down, Mulder," he advised and 
gave him a keen look.  "Put this over your eyes, you're going to have a 
helluva headache." 
 
"Wouldn't notice," Mulder muttered, but obeyed. 
 
Skinner stood by the bed watching, wincing periodically as the nurse re-
bandaged Mulder's feet, and sighing with relief when it was finished and 
the nurse stalked out. 
 
"How are you doing?" he asked softly, half-hoping Mulder was asleep. 
 
Mulder removed the washcloth.   "He was here.  I saw him."  
Swallowing hard, he gave Skinner a look.  "When Dr. Grayson came in, 
she did something to him, sir, I can't explain what--he just disappeared.  
Right in front of us."  He shuddered again.  "It was real, he was going to 
kill me, and she came in and just held out her hands--"  The husky 
voice cracked upward.  "She called him the Eater of Souls.  And he just 
vanished." 
 
Skinner closed his eyes briefly, not wanting this, not wanting to believe 
him, not wanting to remember what he had seen.  "Agent Mulder, I can't 
speak to what happened when Morgan Grayson entered that  house."  
No, dammit, he owed this man more honesty than that.  "But I believe 
that *you* believe you saw him vanish.  And I believe that *you* believe 
you saw him in here.  I can't go any farther than that--she'll call, I'll tell 
her what--just happened in here." 
 
Mulder gave him a bleak look.  "You still want my statement?" he asked 
bitterly.  "You won't use it." 
 
"I still want your statement," Skinner agreed gravely and pulled the chair 
over to sit down.  The years melted away and he was no longer the 
ramrod AD, but a field agent, listening to another horror story from 
another victim.  He'd been surprisingly good at that; at least, it had 
surprised him. 

"Why don't you start out with looking at the Carter file," he told Mulder 
gently.  "And go from there.  Just one step at a time, Mulder.  Just start 
with Jesse Carter,  what led you to the house."   Mulder gave him a 
quick, guilty look, but he nodded reassurance.  "I know, I've seen your 
notes, Mulder--but tell me how you saw it.  That's a good starting 
place." 
 
After another long hesitation, Mulder began to speak. 
 

An hour later, feeling as if he'd been forced to watch Harcourt brutalize 
Mulder, Skinner stood by the foot of the bed, watching Mulder sleep 
again, exhaustion making him look more ill than he was. 

But his face looked as though he'd found a little temporary peace. 
 
Tibetan mumbo jumbo--but he'd been to that room, seen it, felt it.  He 
couldn't tell Mulder that, not in his current state, nor could he tell him 
that the subcellar reeked of evil.  He couldn't accept what his own 
senses told him; and Mulder didn't need to hear it. 

There had been bones in the walls, just as Morgan had told them.  
Some of recent vintage, some yellowed and brittle with age.   The lab 
was reconstructing skeletons now, young men, boys really.  Mulder's 
bones might have ended up there, too.  

They'd found Mulder's watch in the kitchen, and he'd felt grim about 
that, listening to Taylor and Scully both swear that it hadn't been there 
when they'd searched the house earlier. 
 
He'd believed them.  And he hadn't heard Mulder's statement yet.  

He'd believed Morgan Grayson--and found his missing agent. 

And even though she hadn't said one word to him about one hundred 
year old killers, he suspected she already knew everything that Mulder 
had just told him. 
 
The antiques, the books, none printed before 1889.  A silver 
commemorative button, almost ninety years old, bones that forensics 
swore had to be nearly that old.  How was a rational man to deal with 
evidence like that?  He couldn't countenance it publicly, but he was 
damned if he was going to let logic let a killer escape--he was going to 
have to trust in Morgan Grayson's  instincts.  He was going to have to 
trust in Gene Kelsey's, Jim Barlow's.   

But he was double damned if he was going to let this X File run amok 
destroy his career.  It was a tightwire he was walking, not unlike the wire 
Mulder walked every day.  And for the first time, he could almost 
understand  Mulder's temperament. 
 
He really was the most perplexing individual.  Skinner sighed, 
envisioning another battle when he ordered therapy after Mulder left the 
hospital.  Perhaps he wouldn't have to, perhaps Scully could persuade 
him, but it was surely necessary.  He hoped so; Mulder had evidently 
deemed him trustworthy enough for the truth--or maybe Mulder just 
didn't give a damn anymore.  

He was inclined to hope for the latter; dammit, even though he knew 
better, felt slightly--oh, warmed was a good enough word, even if it 
wasn't right, by what looked like trust.  He just couldn't afford Fox 
Mulder's belief in him.  The bastards had shoved him over the line, that 
much was true.  But he had a wife, a wife already threatened and nearly 
killed by the bastards who watched Mulder. 
 
Sighing, he sat back down to finish reading the paper. 
 
 
In the end, Morgan Grayson came to them, slipping into the room with 
an apologetic smile for Skinner.  "I know Agent Scully won't be 
pleased," she murmured, looking at Mulder, still asleep.  "But I 
promised him.  How is he?" 
 
Skinner considered, eyeing her.  "He thinks he saw Harcourt here." 
 
Morgan's eyes widened.  "Here?"  She turned her head as if scanning 
the room.  "This room?"  Her hands stretched out slightly, as if she 
were going to play the piano--it made him nervous, remembering what 
he'd seen before the doors and windows of Harcourt House had 
exploded inward.  He nodded anyway. 
 
"Not physically."  She turned back to him, her tone and expression 
troubled; his mind jittered away from that statement, letting it pass.  
"You need to get him out of here."  Turning to look at him, she--she 
went taut, there was no other way to describe it.  "You believed in Gene 
Kelsey's recommendation enough to ask me for help--believe in it 
enough to get him out of there.  If you don't, I sincerely believe that 
Harcourt will get to him."   

"This room is guarded," he protested, but all his logic and good sense 
melted like ice in the sun; his gut told him, his little voice told him--she 
was right.  And not all the guards in the room would prevent what was 
coming if he didn't listen to her.  Clenching his jaw, he closed his eyes 
briefly; Jesus Christ, what had he done to deserve this?   "I'll make the 
arrangements," he grated through his teeth and rose. 

"And keep it quiet, Harcourt--Harcourt has resources you can't begin to 
imagine."   

He thought he could, if only he allowed himself to.  Which he quite 
patently was not.   "I'll take care of it." 
 
 
Waking at the sound of voices, Mulder lifted his head, peering owlishly 
as the door closed.  The woman who stood there was a stranger--no, it 
was *her*.   The fog of drugs and exhaustion lifted slightly and he 
stared at her. 
 
She looked utterly normal, completely mundane.  Well, she *was* 
wearing black, but there was no way to compare her to Harcourt--jeans, 
a loose tunic sweater, black low boots, a silver pendant--oh, god help 
him, it was a crescent moon and star, he was relying on a flake for his 
life. 

And maybe, if  he had one, his soul. 

She was regarding him with interest and a shade of--compassion, he 
guessed.  It wasn't pity.  "Hello."  She smiled tentatively at him.  "How 
are you today?" 
 
How the hell did she think he was?  "He came here." 
 
"Not physically," she disagreed, her tone matter-of-fact.  "A projection.  
Some people would call it a Sending, I suppose, but I really detest that 
jargon.  A little too New Age for me." 
 
He blinked.  Okay, maybe the pendant had misled him.  "A projection?  
Is that how he disappeared last night?" 
 
Her brows angled up.  "No, I'm not sure how we'd explain that.   He was 
definitely there last night, you have the scars to prove it." 
 
He blinked again.  "Try." 
 
She blinked back.  "Try to explain it?  Jesus, I don't know, maybe it was 
illusion to cover his escape.  Or maybe it was like a fold in space-time.  
Time-space.  Whatever.   I barely made it through algebra, I never made 
it into the upper echelons of mathematics or even the lower echelons of 
physics." 
 
Swallowing hard, he wondered if this was really his best hope.  "How 
did you get there?  Last night." 
 
She turned Skinner's chair around and sat in it, resting her arms on the 
back of it.  "Long story.  The short version is that your Assistant 
Director Skinner contacted someone I know, asked for my help in 
locating you." 
 
"You're a psychic."   

That was definitely the wrong thing to say, those brows drew together 
again, a faint line forming between them.  "I am a psychologist," she told 
him quellingly.  "I sometimes do profiling on murder cases." 
 
Morgan Grayson. 

God, he knew that name, it was rattling around in the back of his head, 
presently obscured by all the shit Harcourt had stirred up from the 
bottom.   "Profilers don't do what you did last night," he told her 
hoarsely.  "I've done that kind of work, I don't have any magic tricks." 
 
She rested her chin on her arms, her expression gone pensive, even a 
little sad.  "Perhaps not.  Think of last night's display as one of my side 
interests.  Like playing the piano." 
 
His mouth twitched, much to his own surprise.  "Piano," he repeated 
and suddenly shivered--Harcourt's question to her--"Why did you call 
him the Eater of Souls?" 
 
"Another long story."  Morgan's expression was distant, suddenly, her 
voice soft.  "I was told about him many years ago--I just didn't ever really 
believe I'd face him." 
 
"You knew about Harcourt?"  His voice rose slightly. 
 
"No."  She sighed.  "I was told that I would have to face the Eater of 
Souls.  When I saw Harcourt, I recognized him."   Grimacing, she 
shook her head.  "Forget it, it's like trying to describe colors to the blind-
-I can't give you the kind of answers you want, Fox.  I can only promise 
you that I won't let him take you again." 
 
His pulse sped.  "How can you prevent it?" 
 
Rising, suddenly, she went to stand at the window, her gaze going 
distant again.  "Agent Scully will be back soon, and I doubt she'll be 
pleased to see me here."  A wry glance.  "She thinks I'm encouraging 
your irrational fears." 
 
After a moment, he nodded reluctantly.  "Are you?" 
 
One dark eyebrow angled upward.  "No, I don't think so.  You faced him 
yourself, am I?" 
 
A shudder wracked him, making him hurt again.  "No."  It was the 
barest whisper.  He hadn't the strength to give more. 
 
Abruptly, she was at his bedside, a gentle hand touching his face.  It 
didn't make him flinch.  And that bothered him.   

"I don't know how to explain what he is.  I'm not entirely sure, myself.  
But I've been digging today, and Mr. Skinner was kind enough last night 
to give me some of your notes.  He's not comfortable with me, but he 
wants Harcourt--so he compromised, he let me play profiler." 
 
"What am I supposed to do when he comes back?"  His pulse had 
sped again.  "I need to know."  He felt pathetic, like a child afraid of the 
dark, but not even shame could prevent his voice from cracking upward.  
"What am I supposed to do?"    

"Nothing.  I'll deal with him.  I am dealing with him."  She leaned closer, 
her eyes concerned, warm--who the hell was she?  She scared him, he 
needed her too much, she believed him, she *knew*.  And she had 
frightened that bastard, put him to flight, she could tell him what to do, 
how to fight this.   "But you have to promise to sit quietly and not speak 
to me until I've finished doing what I need to do, all right?  No matter 
how weird you think it is." 
 
He blinked again, taken aback.  What the hell did that mean?  He found 
out when she went to sit in the middle of the floor, lotus style.   

He really had lost his mind, trusting a stranger.   Trusting a stranger 
who, moreover, wore a crescent moon and star pendant and sat in the 
middle of his hospital room--meditating? 
 
Sinking back again, he kept silent as she had asked, watching her--do 
nothing at all, so far as he could see.  It went on for perhaps ten or 
fifteen minutes.  He dozed uneasily, the drugs knocking him under, the 
fear pulling him back. 
 
Finally, Morgan sighed, stood up and bent to touch her toes.  "I'm 
getting too old to sit on the floor like that," she sighed and straightened, 
putting both hands in the small of her back.  "All right, that should take 
care of projections--in the meantime, Mr. Skinner is arranging for you to 
be moved out of here." 
 
He swallowed, groggy from dozing.  "To where?" 
 
"Probably back to Washington.  A private clinic would be best, but I 
doubt that the government would cover that."  

Skinner came back in, his expression harried.  "All right, they've agreed 
to release him to another hospital.  I'm trying to get through to 
Georgetown--" 
 
"Give me about ten minutes,"  Morgan told him, her expression 
thoughtful and went to the phone. 
 
Skinner opened his mouth, closed it again, looked at the ceiling and 
back at Morgan.   

The faintest thread of amusement traced its way through Mulder's 
misery;  pushing himself up a little straighter, he eyed her.  

For a flake, she certainly bore an interesting resemblance to a natural 
force.  It was rare to see Skinner without a response.   

Skinner gave him a neutral look.  "I hope, that you're up to explaining 
this to your partner." 
 
Bloody hell.  He was going to play dead on this one.  The nurse came in 
then and did something to his IV to insure it. 




Baltimore:  March 20  6:15 pm   

Margaret Scully had been appalled to have her daughter appear on the 
doorstep, rumpled and sleepless and burst into tears when asked why 
she was there. 
 
Scully was still embarrassed about that now, not that she needed to be; 
between the dread that had consumed her during the search, and the 
guilt that now hovered in the back of her mind, she'd simply broken 
down.  A warm hug, a shower, and a couple of hours of sleep had done 
wonders for her state of mind.   

So much so that when she met Morgan Grayson in the hall, carrying 
two cups of coffee, she was able to greet her pleasantly.  "How is he?"
 
Morgan's expression was no less carefully schooled than her own, she 
suspected.  She offered Scully a rueful smile.  "I think Fox is doing as 
well as he could be expected to do, frankly.  Mr. Skinner has made 
arrangements to move him to DC, to Georgetown." 
 
Scully frowned.  "Why?  I'm not sure that's a good idea at this point, 
he's still pretty shaky." 
 
"Harcourt was here."  Morgan blinked at the cups in her hands.  
 
Rocked, Scully stared at her.  "Harcourt was here?  How the hell did 
*that* happen?  Hospital security is supposed to be watching for him, 
we've got men in the hallway--" 
 
Morgan raised her hand, forestalling more.  "I don't know," she sighed, 
but something in her eyes  suggested she might.  "Listen, I think you 
and I have developed a problem; I don't mind so much for myself, 
people either like working with me or they don't, c'est la vie.  But your 
partner has a long road ahead of him, and I don't think it's going to help 
to have us barking at each other." 
 
Guilt cramped Scully's stomach.  "Well, I'm sorry, I was short last night, 
but he doesn't need to have his fears reinforced." 
 
"Denying them isn't going to help him, either."  Morgan's voice was cool.  
"I realize that you may find this all too fantastic to believe--but he was 
the one in that subcellar, Agent Scully.  He's the one who faced Julian 
Harcourt and lived to tell us about it, maybe the first one *ever* to live to 
tell it." 
 
Scully felt her temper flare to life.  "Maybe that's true.  But he doesn't 
need to hear a bunch of New Age crap about this bastard." 
 
One of Morgan's eyebrows elevated.  "I can't argue that point.  I detest 
New Age crap myself, but unfortunately, we don't have a syntax to 
explain the unexplainable.  I will tell you this.  Julian Harcourt is exactly 
what Fox believes him to be.  Only Fox doesn't know the half of it.  I 
didn't ask to come on this joyride, your Assistant Director called me.  
And now that I'm here, I can't simply walk away and leave him to 
Harcourt's tender mercies." 
 
"That's such--"  Scully closed her mouth suddenly, anger warring with 
fairness.  This woman *had* found Mulder in time, had taken them back 
when they would not have looked at the house again.  

And that fed her guilt, dammit. 
 
Morgan's eyes met hers.  "What did you see last night, Agent Scully," 
she asked softly, "Can you deny that?" 
 
"What I saw means nothing," Scully told her raggedly.  "No ghost did 
that to my partner!" 
 
"I agree.  Do you believe in God?"  Morgan's chin rose slightly, mouth 
quirking. 
 
"My beliefs aren't at issue here," Scully snapped. 
 
"They are if they affect your partner, don't you think?  Do you believe in 
God?" 
 
After a moment, Scully nodded, grudging admiration breaking through 
her anger.  The woman wasn't going to back down; she kept branching 
left instead of right and, dammit, she was hard to dislike.  "Yes, I believe 
in God, but--" 
 
"Do you believe that God is good?"  Morgan's eyebrow went up again. 
 
"Of course," Scully eyed her warily. 
 
"Do you believe in evil?"  Morgan was definitely amused now. 
 
The amusement irritated her, but she was starting to feel some of her 
own.  "Yes, I believe in evil. But I'm afraid I can't accept the notion of 
some Cosmic evil--I don't believe in the devil, Morgan." 
 
"There's hope yet," Morgan commented mildly, "But you do believe in 
evil, that human beings are capable of evil, of generating it, of 
maintaining it?" 
 
After what she had seen, that was hard to deny.  "Of course," she 
agreed patiently. 
 
"Then believe in Julian Harcourt.  He's managed very well to do both--
and it's kept him alive for a long, long time.  I don't care if you believe 
he's one hundred years old, Dana, but you do need to believe in what he 
can do.  And you need to believe that I know what to do about that--I 
can't fight this on two fronts." 
 
Why was it so hard?  With all she'd seen, she knew there were things 
she was never going to explain.  Reluctantly, she nodded.  "All right.  I 
can't give you that, but I can call a cease fire.  Just--just don't feed his 
fear, please." 
 
"I don't intend to."  Morgan's voice was very soft.  "Not in the least.  The 
fear will kill him--I'm very concerned about that, he sets the monitor off 
far too often for it to be good for him." 
 
Her pulse sped at that.  "It isn't." 
 
Morgan held out her hand.  "Truce, then.  But don't assume I'm feeding 
that fear when I validate what he says." 
 
That made her smile.  Yes, the woman was a psychologist, she kept 
forgetting that.  "I'll try to remember."  Her tone was dry and Morgan 
grinned crookedly. 
 
"Let's go in and make nice, I think he'll feel better.  And Dana--"  Scully 
sighed, waiting.  "It's not my business, but I'm an incorrigible meddler--
you need to talk to him.  If you can't believe him, give him some reason 
to believe in you." 
 
Thank you, Dr. Grayson, Scully thought, but it was oddly without heat.  
"He knows he can trust me."  But remembered him flinching from her 
touch, that odd stare--"But I'll talk to him, okay?  Now that you've done 
your  interpersonal good deed for the day, I want to see him." 
 
 
Mulder was awake when she came in, trying a ghost of a smile on her. 
His eyes flicked to her, a little worried, but she smiled, trying to convey 
reassurance, holding the door for Morgan to follow her in. 
 
Skinner eyed her.  "I thought you were going to get some sleep." 
 
"I caught a couple of hours," she told him. 
 
"We're moving him back to DC." 
 
Nodding, she glanced at Morgan, amused.  "Morgan told me already."  
Her amusement faded.  "How did Harcourt get in here?" 
 
Skinner looked at Morgan, then at Mulder, then back at her.  "I don't 
know," he told her, his tone brusque.  "But we aren't going to take any 
chances here." 
 
She fervently approved *that* attitude, thank you very much.   Reaching 
out, she risked touching him on the cheek.  "Hey, partner.  I think you're 
looking a little less dreadful than you were earlier." 
 
One corner of his mouth lifted fractionally.  "You, too."   

"Yeah, I can imagine."  Searching for words to say this was hard; which 
was hell, because she trusted him as much as he trusted her.  Maybe 
more.  

He'd lost so much in his life, there were times she wondered.  "I want to 
say something to you, Mulder--I want you to know that even when I don't 
accept your perceptions, I'll back you, you know that."  He should, but 
maybe Harcourt had shaken him too badly to remember it. 
 
His throat moved; swallowing hard, he looked away.  Her heart ached, 
he looked too vulnerable here:  hair sticking up in cowlicks, dull and 
sticky with sweat; hands bandaged up to the middle of his forearms; 
bruised and bloodied mouth, his lips cracked and dry. 

Which reminded her--reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a small 
container of medicated salve for his lips.  "I'm going to put some of this 
on your mouth, is that okay?" 
 
Peering at it, he nodded, relaxing perceptibly.  He flinched slightly when 
her fingertips touched him, but that might have been simply from 
discomfort--his mouth *had* to hurt.  At least, she hoped that was it.  
He was staring at her again, but there was relief in his eyes, not that 
strange intensity of focus. 
 
"Thanks."  He moved his arms restlessly. "I hate this, I can't use my 
hands."  Then, not looking at her.  "I need you to believe me," his voice 
a thin whisper. 
 
Perceptions, she thought again, looking at his hands.  Could she accept 
his perceptions without accepting the reality of them?  Would that be 
worse than simple disbelief?  "I always believe you," she told him softly, 
hurting for him.  Hurting for both of them.  "Even when I don't agree with 
the foundation of your belief." 
 
His eyes came back to her.  "That's a start."  She was startled and 
almost relieved to hear some of his usual tone under the roughness of 
his voice.  He tried to smile at her again, but it was half-hearted. 
 
"Hey, we're going to blow this place, I hear," she told him lightly, putting 
the salve away.  "Going to see your old friends at Georgetown again." 
 
He made a sound, not quite laughter, not quite chagrin.  "Yeah, they 
know everything about me there, Scully.  Even things you don't know, I 
bet." 
 
"I wouldn't be too sure," she grinned, treasuring that sound.  "You might 
be surprised."  And glanced back to see Morgan Grayson look over, her 
expression serene.  "So what do you think of Morgan Grayson?" 
 
His eyes moved over there and he swallowed hard again.  "The jury's 
still out on that one, Scully." 
 
Scully followed his gaze.  "I know what you mean."  Dry tone, making 
his eyes flick to her face. 
 
They came with the gurney then, and there was no more chance for 
conversation. 
 
 *************************************