TITLE: In the Shadows of the Moon   (Parts 1-8 of 25)
AUTHOR: Joyce 
DATE: April 1997

DISTRIBUTION: Please post to ATXC.  Already archived.
RATING: NC-17  (graphic violence/profanity)
CLASSIFICATION: X, S, A
SUMMARY:  Mulder and Scully investigate a series of brutal
murders in the hills of Eastern Tennessee and find more than
either of them bargained for.

DISCLAIMER:  Fox Mulder, and Dana Scully, and Walter Skinner
belong to CC and Fox Broadcasting and I am only borrowing them
for a moment and will return them.  No infringement is intended.
All other characters are copyrighted to me and may not be used
without my express permission.

FEEDBACK: Always welcome

Posting schedule:  I will be posting this over three days; parts
1-8/9-16/17-25.

Finally, last but certainly not least, a very big thank-you to
Kathleen for her dedicated and excellent editing.  Without her
this wouldn't be half the story it turned out to be. I would
also like to thank Debbie for her encouragement and patient
assistance with the formatting.


************
IN THE SHADOWS OF THE MOON  (1/25)


In the hills above Helsgate, Tennessee
11:00 a.m.  May 2


"Damn feds.  Busting up a man's livelihood.  T'ain't right!"


Lafe Mileson was angry.  A torrent of obscene profanities seared
the air around him as he smashed his way through the thick brush.
The trees seemed to shrink away from his lean body as if his
touch would scorch their bark and set their sap to boiling.  A
swath of broken bushes and twisted saplings marked his path down
the mountain.  The fog-shrouded hills echoed his curses until a
chorus of frustrated rage beat against an indifferent heaven.
The eerie beauty of the spring woods immersed in a dense white
fog was lost on Lafe.  Deer, lured out of their sanctuaries by
the fog-summoned twilight, froze as the odor of Lafe's rage
seeped through the damp clinging air.  Timid brown ghosts,
hovering motionless; fearful spirits shrinking from the violent
turmoil of Lafe's furious passage.


"I never have no luck."


In a frustrated raging litany of humiliation and anger, Lafe
railed against the unknown government agents who had discovered
and destroyed the still he had spent five months painfully
constructing and hiding.  Now, just as the product of all his
labor was ready to market, the damn feds came along and spoiled 
everything.


"Damn interfering government," he shouted, reveling in the sound
of his curses in the still air.  "That money was goin' to set me
up right fair."


In a torrent of vivid self-reproach, he cursed his stupid pride
that had led him to boast in Charley's bar of his impending
fortune.  


"To Hell with you, you damn too-good-to-drink-with-a-man-smart-
ass revenuers.  Go to Hell and take them damn McCaver snitches
with you," Lafe roared as he tore an inoffensive sapling in half. 


Lafe's hands were covered with scratches from his rampaging
descent through the brush.  Streaks of mud and blood covered his
high sharp cheekbones, heritage of a Cherokee great-grandmother.
Indiscernible under the layer of dirt, the pale freckled skin of
Irish freebooters mixed uneasily with dark lowering eyebrows that
hid pale, soulless blue eyes.  On his hands, tiny beads of blood
sprang up and seeped into the thick encrusted dirt that had long
ago turned his fair skin to a muddy brown.  The stench of stale
sweat, blood, and rot-gut whiskey followed him, contaminating the
honeysuckle sweetness of the spring air.


"I'd kiss the devil's ass if I could see those lowlanders and
their damn lap-dogs burn in Hell.  By God Almighty that would be
a sight to see: all them feds and those high-and-mighty McCaver
boys sizzling and burning like sausages."


Lafe danced drunkenly around a tree, entranced by the vision his
whiskey had summoned.  Whiskey-proud and bold, Lafe raised his
eyes to the heavens and, with a raised fist, screamed his rage in
God's face.


"Hey, God, you hearing me?  What you got agin folk like me just
trying to make a living?  Ain't you got no taste for whiskey?  I
know for Hell-certain you ain't got an eye for women."  Lafe spat
upwards.  "To Hell with you, God!"


Between heartbeats, the air grew heavy.  A strange, eerie
stillness imprisoned the earth.  Silenced, the forest held its
breath.  The distant chatter of squirrels ceased abruptly.  Even
the whisper of the restless aspen trees fell silent.  Shrouded in
fog, the mountainside slipped out of time and hovered, breathless
and still in fearful anticipation.  Even Lafe, drunk with
moonshine and anger, sensed the sudden shift and halted his
insane charge down the mountain.


"Hey, God, you don't like old Lafe mouthing off like that?  Well,
maybe Lafe will just find himself a better offer.  Bet Old 
Scratch would offer me a better deal.  You hear me Scratch?  You
come on by right now and I'll give you a sip of this here whiskey
and we'll talk, man to man."


Silence bore down heavily on the mountains, crushing Lafe's
drunken taunts in his throat.  Drained of his whiskey courage,
Lafe began to fear the familiar mountains.  Cautiously he sniffed
the air.  No breeze broke the tense anticipation of the forest,
no sound relieved the aching silence, except for a deep groan
that seemed to rise up under his feet.  Lafe shivered as he
listened to the earth speak.  His profanities of a moment ago
were forgotten and Lafe began to pray in a stumbling, incoherent
parody of a child's bedtime prayer.


"Now I lay me down to sleep.  Oh dear God, please, I don't want
to die.  I pray the Lord my soul to keep.  Holy Shit I'm not
ready to die, please God go away.  Come again some other day."


In mid-prayer, Lafe was thrown to his knees, as the earth began
to tremble.  The groaning of the earth changed to a hideous bass-
screech that made his bones vibrate as the mountains bucked and
bounced like a maddened horse.  Lafe clung to the broken trunk of
the sapling he had torn apart and closed his eyes.


"Please, Scratch, God, somebody help.  T'ain't fair.  I ain't
done nothin'.  Go plague them damn feds, iffin you gotta throw
someone down a mountain."


With a sound, like evil laughter, the sapling sprang loose from
the ground.  Lafe howled in terror as he careened down the
mountainside.  Rocks, tree limbs and small bushes similarly torn
loose from their fragile roots joined him in a cascade of debris
that tore through obstacles and carried them along in its wake.
Twisted and rolling, Lafe and the other debris were shaken like
the dust from a beaten rug down the side of the convulsing
mountain.


With a jar hard enough to shake his teeth, Lafe came to rest
against a large smooth boulder.  He felt his ribs crack with the
impact.  A warm trickle of blood poured down from a gash in his
head and collected in a sticky puddle in one outstretched, cupped
palm.  Dizzy from the whirlwind descent, Lafe retched and spewed
out the whiskey-soaked contents of his outraged stomach onto the
shivering earth.  For nearly an eternity in Lafe's reckoning, the
hills skipped and danced like young rams as he lay clutching the
ground in terror.  Incoherently he pleaded with the earth to stop
and go back to sleep.


"Please stop . . . oh, God, please stop . . .go back to sleep . . 
. don't you be scaring Old Lafe like this . . . please . . .."


Grudgingly, the earth at last relented and after giving one final
stomach-sinking lurch, returned to its sleep with only an
occasional hiccup betraying how fragile that sleep was.  As
abruptly as it had fallen silent, the forest found its voice
again.  Still cowering beneath the boulder, eyes shut tightly
against the fearsome sight of a mountain that rolled like the
sea, Lafe heard the frantic relieved chatter of squirrels as they
bolted across the forest roof in a hysterical release of fear.
Birds chirped queries, as if to ask the earth if it was quite
finished with its antics.


Lafe lay in the midst of the debris cast up against the boulder,
relieved to be alive.  Ashamed of his panic, he tried to spit in
a boyish show of bravado, but only dry dust spewed from his 
mouth.


"Fooled you Old Man, my soul ain't yours yet," Lafe cursed as he
defied the God he only half-believed in.


More 'n likely, Lafe thought, the devil weren't ready to take him
either.  Dim memories of camp meetings and a fiery preacher's
description of Satan had always made the devil seem more real to
him than the opaque, vague Jehovah who didn't approve of a man
having any kind of fun.  

"Hey Scratch, you through shaking yer fist at God?  Man, oh, man
that was a ride!  You thinking to scare old Lafe?  All I was
offering you was a sip of whiskey; some of my best too."


Lafe was anxious to placate the devil before he got any madder.
He had always imagined the devil to be a young virile sort, the
kind who understood a man's needs and was more than happy to
oblige his desires.


Wincing from the pain in his ribs, Lafe threw off the shroud of
tree branches and dirt that had followed him down the mountain
and sat up.  His chest exploded in sharp pain and a rib-racking
cough bent him double, gasping for breath.  This time when he
spat, dark blood speckled the leaves.  He shook his head and
collapsed against the boulder as the world spun in a slow
nauseating circle.  The pain in his head exploded leaving him 
dizzy and confused.  Even with his eyes closed, he felt the world
spin around him and he held on tight to the boulder.  It took him
some time of resting before he dared open his eyes again to try
to reckon where he'd fetched up.


"Good Lord Almighty, someone done shook this mountain up till I
can't tell where I am from seven ways till Sunday."


The old familiar landscape had changed with the dance of the
earth, but Lafe was finally able to recognize the boulder that
was his anchor.  Despite all the pounding he had taken and the
fear that the earth waited like a panther to strike at him again,
he could still feel startled amazement that the boulder, known as
the Devil's Cork, had finally popped loose from its rocky bed.


"Well land's sakes alive.  You've gone and popped the Cork.
T'aint no one ever done that, 'cepting maybe the witch what put
it there."


As far back as Lafe could remember and as far back as the tales
of the elders could recall, this boulder had sat lodged in a
mouth of a cave.  The Cherokee spoke in hushed whispers of a
haunted gateway to the spirit world where a malevolent spirit
hung imprisoned between this world and the next.  They sang of a
great thundering battle between this spirit and a ghost woman
which lasted for days and tore the land apart in great shuddering
waves.  Finally, with the help of Crow, Deer and Serpent, the
woman cast down the demon and imprisoned it within the cave with
the giant boulder set to seal the gateway.


The white settlers who came west and pushed the Cherokee away 
whispered stories of a fantastic treasure that lay hidden behind
the boulder.  As each generation tried and failed to go over,
around or under the boulder blocking the cave, the stories had
faded into children's tales.


"Bet there's real gold coins buried in there . . . and jewels,
lots of silver and diamonds . . . and maybe even rubies; just 
like Solomon's treasure.  Now that's right neighborly of you, Old
Scratch, to give a man something he can use.  Yessir, right
kindly, if I do say so myself."


Lafe grinned and saluted to give the devil his due.  He had
always believed and now it would be all his.  Lafe Mileson,
bastard son and community wastrel, not some high and mighty
gentry, would be the one to claim the treasure.


Ignoring the pain in his side, Lafe struggled to his feet.
Moving cautiously to avoid agitating his aching head, he
scrambled up the treacherous mound of debris to the gaping hole
in the mountainside, pausing every so often to let the dizziness
pass.


Visions of the treasure danced before his eyes.  Women, liquor,
and men to do his bidding would all be his once he had the
treasure in his hands.  His hands clutched at the earth as he
ripped hand-holds in the dirt and pulled himself up to stand
shaking and gasping before the cold stone gateway to his
dreams-come-true.


The air from the cave was cold as the devil's heart and caught in
his throat.  For just a moment, Lafe's inbred superstition
likened the unfamiliar bittersweet scent to the smell of evil on
the wind, but the lure of gold was stronger than his fear of
evil.


//Come hither, child of man.  Are you afraid of a story told to
frighten children?//


Lafe shook with fear as a voice came out of the dark depths of
the cave to whisper to him.  The voice was as cold as the grave,
but as alluring as a painted woman.


"Shit my head hurts.  T'ain't fittin' I should be hearing ghosts;
t'ain't right, I don't hold no truck with ghosts."


Lafe cradled his head carefully in grimy hands and tried to shut
out the voice echoing in his mind.  His vision was hazy and he
shuddered at the thought that he was hallucinating.


//Lafe why are you afraid?  I am no ghost, but the answer to your
prayers.  You did pray to the Dark Lord of Hell for wealth and
power, did you not?  He answers those who are brave enough to
seek him out.//


"I ain't afraid.  The devil looks after his own.  Ain't that
right, Old Scratch, you'll protect old Lafe?"


//Hell looks after its own, Lafe.  Come and claim your reward.
Follow my voice and I will protect you.//


On that questionable note of comfort, Lafe entered the cave,
brushing aside a curious woven talisman that fell to the floor
with a single loud ringing note; a church bell tolling the nine
tailors.  Lafe's feet crushed the intricate web of ash wood and
hawthorn bark.  A brief scent of a pure spring breeze that might
have come from the dawn of the world wafted towards Lafe.  For a
moment he was drawn to the scent and made as if to turn aside,
but a cold dead wind blew out from the inner chambers of the cave
and dispersed the final dying breath of the broken talisman.


Lafe felt himself gaining strength as he pushed into the dark
cave, his mind lost in the lure of treasure.  It didn't occur to
him that he shouldn't be able to see in the pitch-black darkness
nor that he should find his way so easily past obstacles and
traps laid cunningly in his path.


//Lafe son of Miles come deeper in.  I've been waiting for you.
No one else was smart enough or brave enough to find me.  I've
been waiting here just for you.  Just a little farther in and you
will hold more power and gold than you can imagine//


The voice whispered to him in the darkness of his mind; a father
calling to a beloved son.  Down he trotted, threading his way
confidently through a maze meant to confuse and entrap anyone
daring to come to this haunted place.


//Come hither Lafe Mileson.  A pirate's treasure awaits you.
More gold than you can carry.  More jewels than Solomon's temple
ever saw.  Hurry.  Wealth beyond your wildest dreams awaits if
you are strong enough and brave enough to find it.//


Lafe listened with trusting greed to the whispered voice that
promised him riches and power beyond his wildest dream if only he
would hurry.  Darkness meant nothing as long as the voice spoke
to him.


//Heed my voice and my voice alone, Lafe Mileson and I will guide
you past the traps meant to deprive you of your rightful due.
Step carefully here, four steps to the left, then two to the
right, now step wide over that rock.//


The ancient safeguards failed in the face of this alliance of man
and voice.


//Good.  Now hurry.  Don't mind the darkness, just follow my
voice.//


After an endless journey through the darkness, Lafe emerged into
the heart of the cave.  Ahead of him burned a wall of light.
White fire spread outwards from a great pole bearing a woven
banner two-foot high and three-foot across.  Emblazoned on the
banner of white fire was the device of a great sword wreathed by
some sort of plant.  After so long in the dark, the light seared
his aching head and he threw up his hands to shield his eyes.
Turning his eyes away from the incandescent light, Lafe groped
for something to blot it out.  Even through the shields of his
hands, searing light pierced his eyelids.


Finally, in desperation, Lafe tore off his ragged dirty shirt and
threw it blindly at the banner.  Guided by the devil's luck, the
shirt draped over the banner.  The coarse cloth smoldered where
it touched the banner, but the white flames were damped and fell
into sullen embers.  Blessed darkness fell.


"Foolish mortal.  Turn back lest your soul be swallowed up.
Ahead lies damnation.  Beware . . .." a voice cried out from the
dying embers of the icon.  As the last ember flared out, a long
drawn-out sigh of lamentation filled the cave.


Lafe felt his soul shudder as it clung to memories of childhood
hymns.  He half turned to look back the way he had come, suddenly
unsure of his path.  Memories of his mother's tales of guardian
angels rose up to wrestle with his greed.


The banner exploded into dark green flames that melted as they
hit the floor.  The scent of heather broke through the heavy cold
bitter air for just an instant.  Lafe hesitated, almost called
back to sanity by that brief memory of the sun and the earth
above, but the whispering voice drew him back down into the cold
darkness.


//Such a pitiful charm to try to bar the way of such a brave
strong warrior.  You wanted the power to send your enemies to
Hell?  I can give you that power; all you have to do is ask.
Come farther in and you will be exalted as my champion.  These
mountains and all who dwell therein shall bow down to you.//


Lafe laughed, a hideous chuckle that echoed back and forth in the
vaulted cavern until it seemed as if he had been joined by a
chorus of shrieking demons.  Shadows of deeper darkness sprang to
life and danced across the walls of this sheltered hollow in the
heart of the mountain.


//Come to me, Lafe.  Find me and you shall rule these mountains 
and bring low all who have wronged you.  Hurry, Lafe, hurry.//


The voice dug its spurs into his mind.

//There is gold here, more gold than you've ever seen in all your
days, Lafe.  And gems . . ..  You will be richer than Midas.  
Those McCaver boys will come round begging you to forgive them.  
Lord Lafe . . ..//


Silkily the voice sang him back into submission.  Shaking his
head in disgust at the fancies which tried to lure him from his
treasure, Lafe breathed in the welcome bitter dregs of air that
promised him power and pressed forward into the darkness.


"Can't fool old Lafe that way.  T'ain't such things as angels no
ways.  Just my mama's fancy tales.  I ain't gonna let some damn 
fairy tale keep me from that treasure.  If you be listening God,
just shut up and go bother someone else."


Freed from the menace of the white fire, the shadows flowed out
from their hiding places in waves to lap against Lafe's feet.
Cold tendrils snaked up his legs and coiled around his body until
he was cocooned in evil.  Only then did they part to reveal a
massive web of silver wire entwined with ivy and grounded in two
twisted ancient thorn trees.


Enmeshed in the web, eight feet above the ground, threaded to the
web by wrists and ankles, throat and genitals, was an apparition
that froze Lafe's soul.  His mind gibbered with fear so great his
bones shook and he would have fled in horror for the safety of
the upper earth, but the shadows held him in place and, in ever-
increasing pressure, brought him to his knees before the
suspended creature.


Frantic with terror, unable even to muster the will to scream,
the only coherent thought remaining in Lafe's mind was an absurd
gratitude that he couldn't see the thing's face.  The body was
bad enough; reptilian wings hung down behind a statuesque male
body.  The wings were pinioned by two-foot long thorns so that
they hung in great shrouds over the being's lower extremities.


Lafe's final grasp on sanity evaporated when the being shuddered
in agony. A deep bass groan shook Lafe's heart until it felt
close to bursting. The wings pulled against their restraints,
parting just enough to expose the genitals.  Lafe shivered as he
felt the cold radiating from the thick serpentine penis that
writhed blindly, seeking a warm haven for its cold seed.  Power
and death lay in the restless shaft.


//Am I so terrible to look upon Lafe?  I hold the power of the
Changing within my hands.  That power can be yours as my most
favored champion.  You shall be a lord of beasts; these mountains
will tremble at your roar.//


By the time the creature raised its head, Lafe's mind had
recoiled into a tight little knot surrounded by a tempest of
insanity, helpless to resist the will of the being suspended
above him.  With a startled shriek of fear Lafe tried once more
to flee, but his eyes were caught and held by the dark amber gaze
of the creature.  Lafe felt his own will drain out of him as
those eyes swallowed him up.


Leonine features haloed by a dark red mane glowed with malevolent
pride as Aristide, bastard child of the mating between human and
demon, bound neither to hell or earth, an opener of ways,
surveyed the wretch whom the dark lords had cast at his feet to
be the tool of his deliverance.


With only the tiniest effort of will, Aristide stilled the
tempest within Lafe's mind.  Drawing on the patience bred by two
centuries of imprisonment, Aristide slowly enticed Lafe's soul
with promises of wealth, power and behind it all, the dark
secrets of beast magic to work his will upon the world which
scorned him.


//Serve me, Lafe Mileson, and the legions of Hell will rise at
your command.  Women will be slaves to your desires, you will
have man-flesh to feast upon and men will obey your slightest
whim.  Those who scorned you shall feed your hunger. The bones of
your enemies shall be your throne.//


Concealing his contempt behind the smiling pledge that Lafe would
be his favored lieutenant upon his release, to rule these
mountains in Aristide's name, the half-breed demon seduced a soul
with all the skill of his demonic father.  Mind to mind, he
conjured Lafe's soul from Heaven's hope.  Finally, sure of his
prize, Aristide posed the formal question that must be answered
before Lafe's soul could pass from God's province into his own.


//Do you, Lafe Mileson, willingly surrender your soul to me in
exchange for the power I can bestow on you?//  Aristide's purring
voice thundered the formal question in Lafe's mind.


Lafe felt his soul shiver, affrighted by the fires of darkness
that reached out for it.  //Jesus, Dear God help me,// Lafe's
soul whispered but the prayer was smothered by the darkness of
disbelief.  Aristide smiled to hear the tiny whimper as he
snuffed out a soul's hope with a casual breath.


//Now, now, none of that.  A child's superstition has no power
against me.  I am a dark angel who drives out the light, didn't
you know?  What meaning do your little prayers have to me?  Pray
if you wish, but you pray to emptiness and despair.  What is God
to you that you should be mindful of Him?  I am lord here, I am
the god which holds your soul in thrall.//  


Aristide whispered damnation into Lafe's mind as he fed upon his
victim's terror.  Aristide smiled as he drew Lafe's soul into his
eyes.  Emboldened by the lures of power and revenge, laughing at
his childish fears, Lafe reached up his hands to Aristide.


"I do," Lafe said in trembling tones, trying to believe he was
trembling with eagerness, not fear.  As the words left his mouth,
Lafe felt his soul wither as the dark, cold flames of Hell
scoured him clean of all that had been good in his life.


Aristide poured his will into the empty vessel of his servant.
His will now joined with the darkness that remained of Lafe's
mind and soul.  A new Lafe rose to his feet intent on carrying
out his master's will.  He would spread terror through the
mountains.  He would be the trumpet announcing the inauguration
of Aristide's reign.


Aristide was pleased by the eagerness of his servant to do his
biding as well as his enthusiastic discipleship in terror and
pain.  Slowly he whispered the words of change and watched Lafe's
body melt into the shape of a great fanged cat.  When Lafe
recovered from the agony of the change, he marveled at the
transformation.


//This is your beast-shape.  With it you can gather the harvest
of souls I will need to break these chains.//  A vicious snarl
rumbled through the cavern as Aristide remembered the agony of
the blessed chain wrapping around his ribs.  Then the creeping
horror as he realized that death was not to be his fate, but
everlasting imprisonment.  Well, his enemy, if she was still
alive, would learn the folly of leaving him alive to suffer.


//Nine souls, then nine again to open the gate, then one more to
take my place and release me back into the world of men.  Bring
me those souls Lafe and I will raise you up to rule these
mountains and give you all who dwell therein to be your lawful
prey.  The ritual I have set in your mind is the gateway to my
release.  Do not fail me or I will gnaw upon your soul for
eternity.  Go now and let these frail mortals know that the King
of Terror is approaching.//


********

Auld Sallie's Cabin
12 miles northeast of Helsgate, Tennessee
11:30 p.m. July 15  (2 months later)


Rain struck the rust-streaked tin roof in a thousand discordant 
hammer blows and rolled down the sharp slope in a cascading 
waterfall.  The plunging river of rain hit the walnut rain-
barrels with the sound of waves crashing ashore.  


Thunder boomed in a long rolling blast that shook the cabin.  The 
white-fire explosion of lightning directly overhead provoked a 
howling protest from the cat in the loft.  An old woman sitting 
at a large wooden loom threw up her head and cast it slightly to 
one side as if listening to someone speaking through the thunder.


"Bloow all ya want ye auld windbag.  Ye knoow ye canna coom in 
'cept I be wantin' ye ta.  Auld Sallie still ha tha poower, o do 
ya be wantin' a taste o it?" she asked the empty air with a dry 
chuckle that sounded like winter leaves stirred by the wind.  Her 
voice was old but still retained a rich deep alto tone that had 
faded from spring to autumn.


The old woman paused in her weaving to listen to the wind howling 
around the cabin.  Hands, brown and gnarled like the roots of an 
old oak, smoothed the threads with a supple gentleness.  Her face 
was hidden by a cascade of long white hair which hung nearly to 
her waist, flowing free in the slight draft that flowed through 
four air ducts carved into the walls of the otherwise stout 
cabin.  


The furnishings in the cabin were few and simple.  A knotty-pine 
bed, covered with a faded blue bear-paw quilt sat in the darkness 
under the loft overhang.  Tall spiral posts rose up at each of 
the four corners to tower above the bed; fierce dragon heads with 
gaping mouths and fierce hollow eyes guarded the sleeper.  A 
large cherry-wood chest tooled with Celtic knotwork inlaid with 
silver and jasper stood below the shuttered window.  The chest 
squatted on four legs that ended in lion paws, like an ancient 
beast of prey, at rest, but alert.  Dark red wood glistened in 
the firelight and the mingled scent of cedar shavings and pine 
oil perfumed the air like a summer's eve.  


Footholds, carved into the thick oak wall, led up to a loft lost 
in shadow.  The scent of herbs and straw mixed with the smell of 
cats.  Small rustling noises, punctuated by kitten cries and an 
occasional sharp-toned command of an adult cat, could be heard 
between the thunderous explosions of the storm.  A large smoky 
black cat lay stretched its length along the edge of the loft, 
merging with the concealing shadows.  Through slitted eyes he 
watched the old woman below, much as a great lord might survey 
his servant.  Only the slow pendulum move of his tail betrayed 
his presence; that and the golden glow of his eyes reflecting the 
fire.


The cat howled its defiance at the storm, now joined by another 
voice and echoed by the tiny squalls of kittens imitating their 
sire's fierce defiance.  The smoky black cat sat up to make room 
for a calico cat half its size.  The newcomer walked out of the 
shadows with an aristocratic grace to stare down at the old woman 
with glowing sapphire eyes.  The two cats touched noses and 
twined together briefly before parting.  Perched on the edge of 
the loft, they sat like sentries staring at the shadows under the 
roof.  Once more they caroled their song of defiance.


"Peace ma darlins.  Tha loowland devil bloows harrd but canna 
enter.  Evil be abroad this night, but t'will naw dare ta coom ta 
us til tis much stronger.  It remembers an tis wary."  The woman 
gestured soothingly to the cats who ceased their cries and began 
to observe her with unblinking scrutiny.  At last the old woman 
bowed her head.


"Aye, I kna.  Tis past time I summoned help, but I ha hope 
t'would no be a necessity.  When tha moon-set coomes an evil 
wanes wi tha night, I be casting tha runes.  Only then will I 
play tha drum an call on them can still hear summons ta coom an 
face tha devil's fiddler," she said with a sigh.  


Sallie turned resolutely away from the cats who stretched their 
length along the loft's edge, immobile except for the slow beat 
of their tails.  "Noo Jock an Bridget, ya loud-mouthed kitlins, 
let ma finish tha pattern whilst tha moon rides high aboove tha 
storm.  I ha gi'en ya yer way, but I'll do it in me oon good 
time."


As the storm continued to rise in fury, it struck at the 
mountains with impotent rage.  Unruffled, Auld Sallie wove her 
cloth and hummed a tuneless song that carried more than a little 
note of rebuke.  Subsequent thunderbolts seemed almost apologetic 
and the fury blew out of the storm like a deflating balloon.  
Gradually the song changed to an insistent lullaby that carried 
out of the cabin and drifted with the wind across the 
mountainside.  


Sailing through the starry wastes far above the dark storm 
clouds, the moon peaked in the heavens and began its slow 
descent.  As abruptly as it had begun, the storm ceased and the 
rain changed to an airborne mist that cast a luminescent cloud 
around the thin silver crescent moon waxing in the western sky.  
A hushed expectant silence fell upon the mountain, broken only by 
the thin faint cry of an owl hunting high above the trees.


In the silence Auld Sallie's song lifted up in prayer and praise 
to God in terms at once both familiar and respectful; an ancient 
woman speaking to an even more ancient god as if to an old 
familiar friend.  Letting the prayer-song fade, Auld Sallie 
lifted up her hands in supplication and bowed her head.  She 
would not ask for acceptance or even forgiveness for what she was 
about to do, only asking for understanding of a need greater than 
obedience to law required.  


"Dear Laird, must I abide by thy oon commands tha ya laid upon ma 
so long ago.  Tha dreamworld be mine ta command as be tha beasts 
o' tha air and wood, but this evil be o' human seed,' she prayed 
in a determined plea for remission of the restrictions placed 
upon her.


"I can guard tha wildwood.  I can stand sentry in tha shadow-
world o' dreams agin tha horrors spawned by ma oon people so long 
ago, but I be gettin' auld, Laird.  So few o' us left, tis na 
even worth countin'."


Sallie paused and remembered the tales her mother told her of 
their race's final apocalypse.  Of their people, only a remnant 
survived, bound by a great Pact to guard and atone, but never to 
intervene.  The last of her people were almost gone now, slipping 
back into dreams as the humans destroyed the wild lands that 
nurtured them.  


"I canna move agin tha enemy.  He hae enslaved a mortal man, a 
foolish, damned man ta do his will on earth.  By yer oon command, 
unless tha fool unleashes tha darkness, I canna strike him down.  
But O Great Laird o' Heaven, if tha evil coom ta pass, I can but 
destroy tha servant.  Tha demon I canna face alone."  Auld Sallie 
bowed her head once more, a stubborn mulish look hovered about 
her eyes.


"Weel, then, Laird.  If I canna bring Lafe down, then I must be 
aboot tha task o' summonin' help.  Add it ta ma other sins, i' ya 
must, but I be damned afore I'll let him set tha demon free," 
Sallie finished with a defiant shake of her head.


Moving slowly, she got up and knelt before the chest, her knees 
creaking in the newborn silence.  From within she drew forth a 
small drum, a large cream-colored candle and a leather bag that 
rattled as she lifted it.  It had been a long time, she thought, 
since she had been driven to use these instruments of power.  


Twelve generations had come and gone in the farmsteads scattered 
across the valley that lay below this mountain.  The protections 
she had cast so very long ago had held.  Only now, when her life 
was fading like the sunset of a very long day, did something 
challenge her authority and break through her circle of power.  


Fear.  The dark looming fog of evil now clung to these hills.  
The earthquake had broken her ancient wards.  She had felt them 
collapse before Lafe's assault.  For three nights she had 
wandered the dream-world, haunted by the nightmare terrors of the 
hell-spawned Aristide.


Solitary hikers vanished from well-marked trails.  At first they 
were strangers, but soon local men began disappearing.  Fear 
spread through the scattered homesteads like a contagion.  The 
mountain folk came to her, ancient witch-woman of the hills, 
older, some said than the hills.  


Frightened men, angry in their fear, threw offerings of meat and 
grain at her feet, demanding charms against the evil that haunted 
them.  Before long the men ceased to come and witch-markers 
appeared on the trail leading to her cabin.  Then she knew that 
the enemy had gathered in the fearful men who would have accepted 
dominion by the devil himself in return for safety for themselves 
and their families.  Probably more than a few needed no 
incentives.  The dark lords lured weak, sinful men to their 
banner through greed and lust.  


Auld Sallie carefully placed the items she carried onto the table 
and returned to the chest.  Knees protesting anew, she knelt once 
more before the chest.  With a muffled grunt and a sigh for 
ancient bones, she lifted out a heavy clay pot and set it on top 
of the chest with a thump.  The pot was plain red-baked clay with 
a lid shaped like a watchful cat.  


Muttering a half-resentful prayer for strength, she stood up and 
indulged in a fleeting fit of self-pity.  


"I hae earned tha right ta a peaceful endin'.  It bein't fair ta 
hae ta ride ta battle again.  I hae done ma fair share, Laird, 
nay more than fair i' truth be told," Sallie grumbled softly.  As 
if to rebuke her, Jock reared up and cried plaintively while 
stretching his length against the wall until his front toes 
touched the herb charm swinging from the rafter.


"Aye laddie, I ken as loong as I live I must fight whene'er tha 
battle summons, but at least let me dream o peace an a quiet 
endin'," Auld Sallie explained as she shrugged her shoulders and 
cast off the mood of self-pity.  Lifting the lid off the pot with 
her left hand and placing it carefully on top of the chest, she 
reached in with her right hand and scooped up a handful of pure 
white sand.  


In the ember light of the dying fire, Auld Sallie shed her 
feebleness.  In its place she donned the aura of a priestess.  
Carefully and slowly chanting a formal invocation, she spoke in 
clear English words, with a soft country accent that smoothed the 
hard sounds into something resembling a plainsong.  With the sand 
dribbling from forefinger and thumb, she traced a pattern of 
symbols around the center of the room, matching words and 
gestures.  


"A great circle I cast to cup ma power within.  Transfixing this 
circle o God's unending love, I place a cross, tha symbol of 
God's sacrifice ta carry ma summons beyond tha circle.  Upon tha 
cross's ends I draw tha symbols of tha archangels: Gabriel, wha 
guards tha rising sun; Raphael, wha wards its setting; Michael, 
wha keeps tha fires of tha southern heaven; Uriel wha walks alone 
in tha dark forbidding shadows to tha north."


Auld Sallie paused a moment to cast a critical eye upon her 
handiwork, sprinkling a touch more sand here and there to close a 
miniscule gap, invisible to all but her keen Sight.  At last 
satisfied, she threw the few remaining grains of sand into the 
air to float upon the softly moving air.  


Taking a deep breath, she uttered a single ancient word of power.  
With a rush of sound and flame, the airborne sand ignited 
creating a glowing globe of fire within the circle.  


A second word followed on the heels of the first and the sand 
patterns on the floor ignited to close the warding circle.  The 
fire was cool to the touch and gave off a slightly green-blue 
light that dimmed the firelight to a shadow light.


With a satisfied smile, Auld Sallie turned to the table and set 
the candle in a pewter dish.  Using flint and steel, Sallie 
struck a spark and the wick sputtered and caught, filling the 
cabin with the scent of beeswax.  A row of glowing eyes now lined 
the loft edge as the entire family of cats watched intently.  
Their deep-throated purring shut out all other sounds as 
effectively as the circle shut out all intrusive influences.


Auld Sallie cupped the leather pouch in her left hand and poured 
out nine polished bone fragments into her right hand.  Each 
fragment was marked with a black-line pictograph representing an 
animal.  Holding the runestones in her hand, Sallie mentally 
reviewed the beastiary; goat, the evil one, nature uncontrolled; 
boar, the harvest-bringer; horse, the symbol of spirit 
intervention in human affairs; serpent, warden of earthly 
knowledge and giver of power over the spirit-world.  There was 
toad, symbol of fertile water, life-bringer; lynx, proud guardian 
of spiritual knowledge and wielder of power over shadow 
creatures; bear who brings death and rebirth; deer, fleet-footed 
monarch, symbol of the wild hunt and priestly intervention; and 
last and greatest, wolf, the hunter, the wild one who cannot be 
bound.


Gravely, Auld Sallie saluted the symbolic gates of the four 
archangels with the runestones in her cupped hands.  In a final 
invocation she lifted the stones high above her head, then, with 
a sharp snap, she threw open her hands and flung the stones upon 
the table.  They hit with a clatter, slithering across the 
polished wood, reflecting sparks from the enfired air and 
candlelight.  Three times she cast the runestones and three times 
read their message with dismay.  The air swirled for a moment 
above the table in a whirlwind of fire, then all light was 
extinguished except for the tiny flame atop the candle.  Auld 
Sallie stood over the table, staring down at the runes, her face 
clouded with worry.


"Sooo, tha battle lines are drawn.  May tha good Lord hae mercy 
on us all."  Sallie glanced over at the two runestones that fell 
apart from the others, half in shadow at the edge of the table.  
Auld Sallie straightened up with a heavy sigh and bowed her head.  


"As ye hae sent, so Lord, I'll do, but ma heart be sorrowful tha 
I must summon strangers ta this battle."


Abruptly Sallie swept the runestones back into the pouch and tied 
it shut.  Placing it on the table, she took up the small drum, 
not bigger than a large mixing bowl, and sat down.  The leather 
over the drumhead was stretched to near transparency over maple-
wood.  It thrummed softly as she cradled it in her lap.  Slowly 
at first, using two fingers, she woke the drum.  Like the distant 
sound of thunder, the deep tones echoed through the cabin.  


Above, in the loft, the cats began to pace uneasily, mouthing 
cries that could not be heard over the drumbeats.  A slow pattern 
of sound began, escalating into a rapid-fire patter of beat and 
counter-beat that sounded like the running of a great wolf across 
the earth.  Just as the pace became unbearable, the cats screamed 
out and Auld Sallie silenced the drum with the flat of her hand.


Breathing heavily now, beads of perspiration trickling down her 
face, Auld Sallie once again began a two-finger beat upon the 
drum.  This time the rhythm stayed slow, a measured pace that 
summoned warriors to this battle.  In spite of herself, a descant 
beat wove itself into her rhythm.  The leaping notes sounding 
high and clear like a clarion call of pipes.  Unconsciously she 
tapped out the drumnotes of an ancient battle summons of her own 
clan, the battle flag of the Clan MacTeer unfurled in the shadows 
cast by the fire.  


Tears rose in her eyes as she felt the battle song surge in her 
blood then fade away like a piper's tune upon the evening wind.  
Leaving the descant as smoothly as she entered it, she wondered 
to whom this ancient clan summons was sent.  Her hands were 
shaking with exhaustion by the time she let the last beat fade 
into silence.


Hands still resting on the drum, Auld Sallie slipped effortlessly 
into the dreamworld, leaving her body safe within the warded 
circle.  Here in the ethereal world of dreams and shadows, she 
could assume any shape, but this night, having far to roam, she 
chose to travel in the form of a hawk.  Soaring through the 
silver shadows on silent wings she sought out the dreams of those 
she had summoned into battle.  


Letting the drum-magic pull her along, Sallie touched the cold-
iron dreams of the county sheriff.  Harvey Collins would scoff at 
the notion that anything he could not touch or see could 
influence him yet the drums were already casting uneasy 
perplexing riddles in his dreams which would drive him to summon 
the strangers.  Sallie smiled as the spirit world he so 
vehemently denied reached out to use him for her purposes.


Leaving Collins behind to dream his uneasy dreams, Sallie sought 
out the strangers, worried at her lack of knowledge of their 
strengths and weakness, uneasy in her own mind of drawing them 
into such a battle against such a foe, yet the runestones had 
spoken and the summons had gone forth.  To her dismay, she found 
the strangers were beyond her ken, barricaded by defenses too 
strong to breech at this distance.  


She must trust the runes until the drums could bring them within 
her reach.  Still, she had the flavor of them, a man and woman 
bound by ties so strong that she doubted if even the fires of 
Hell could sever them.  They would need such bonds and more 
perhaps until the gate was secure once more.  She would know them 
when they arrived in her mountains.  Now, exhausted, she allowed 
her spirit to flow back into her body and sagged bonelessly over 
the silent drum.


"Tis done.  God hae mercy," she prayed.  In reverent silence she 
placed the drum, the pouch and the candle back in the chest.  
With arms that ached with weariness, she took out a straw broom 
and swept the floor clear of the mystic symbols.  Carefully 
collecting the discarded sand she cast it out the door to fly 
free upon the pre-dawn breeze.  Content with her summoning, she 
stood in the doorway and watched the sun rise over the mountain, 
letting the cool breeze wash away the strain of the night's 
exertions.  It would be several days before she would know if her 
summons had been heard.  Time enough to prepare herself for 
battle or death.  


She felt relaxed.  It was a relief to cast herself into God's 
hands and trust her fate to his will.  With a girlish grin, Auld 
Sallie turned and shut the door and went to bed.  It was like old 
times, she thought, to sleep the day away. She enjoyed the 
indulgence and the memories it evoked.

********


Washington, D.C.
X-Files Office
11:00 a.m.  July 19


Fox Mulder was not a happy man.  He was not a man who got 
headaches.  For two days he had ignored the steadily increasing 
pain inside his head.  A throbbing drum beat in his head, 
increasing in tempo and strength until he had been driven to the 
unprecedented step of taking two aspirin late yesterday 
afternoon.


By late Sunday night, he was fighting an overwhelming sense of 
betrayal by the failure of the drugs to dull the pain.  Rational 
thought was beyond him.  By 2 a.m. Monday morning, the pain had 
gotten so bad that he fled his apartment, driven by the pain and 
an escalating restlessness into his car.


Compelled by the throbbing drum in his head, he pointed the car 
southwards.  Urban sprawl gave way to rural fields; skyscrapers 
to rolling hills.  The steady hum of the wheels on the road 
lulled his aching head until the iron bands constricting his 
temple began to relax.  A steady homing instinct pulled him 
southwards.


He came back to full awareness at a gas station in Virginia, 
staring at the rising sun trying to figure out where he was and 
how he got there.  Alien abduction only briefly crossed his mind; 
he doubted if the aliens would have been interested in abducting 
his car as well.  Confused and disoriented he turned around and 
headed home.  He did not particularly want to explain to Scully 
his new-found hobby of 'sleep-driving.'


As soon as he left his southward course, his headache exploded 
into a crescendo of pounding hammers beating on steel drums in 
the close confines of his head.  Even the simplest of mental acts 
became a painful challenge.  By dint of stubborn concentration, 
he made it back to his apartment to change and then to the 
sanctuary of his basement office without crashing the car.  


Immersed in his own bleak thoughts, Mulder barreled into the 
office pursued by his personal demons.  Unerringly he wove 
through the chaos until he reached the comfort of his desk, 
barely visible under the walls of paper and books scattered over 
its battered surface.  He actually got as far as collapsing at 
his desk, absently grabbing at a pile of paper that threatened to 
collapse, before he realized something was missing.


Flicking on the small desk lamp, grimacing as its glaring light 
exploded in the dim room, he looked around the office, his eyes 
finally coming to rest on his partner's eternally neat desk.  As 
late as he was, Dana Scully was not waiting impatiently for him, 
demanding an explanation for his tardiness.  Even worse, the 
coffee machine sat cold and empty.


As he busied himself fixing coffee he tried to remember if Scully 
had told him she would be late this morning.  As far as he could 
think with this headache, he didn't recall that she was planning 
to be anywhere else.  Of course it was possible she'd been called 
on the carpet by Skinner to explain her partner's tardiness.  It 
wasn't fair, but Skinner seemed to think Scully was his keeper.  
Not that he might not need one, he conceded, but Scully was his 
partner, not his damn den mother and the sooner Skinner figured 
that out, the better.  Mulder retreated to his desk while the 
coffee pot burbled encouragingly, to write himself a note to tell 
Skinner to lay off Scully.


Surrounded by the familiar smells of old wood and paper Fox 
Mulder leaned back as far as his old wooden chair would allow and 
stared blindly at the ceiling.  After nearly seven years, he knew 
the ceiling tiles by heart so contemplating them didn't interfere 
with his concentration.


This basement office was his cavern lair, his refuge against the 
demons that haunted him.  Stacks of yellowed paper rose like 
stalagmites from every flat surface.  Books of every shape and 
description were crammed into the few bookshelves which clung 
precariously to the walls.  The old metal file cabinets strained 
to contain the overload of files stuffed with photos, evidence 
and reports.  Strange, surrounded by horrors reduced to bleak 
photos and minimalist reports, he should be more at peace here 
than at his apartment.  Here he could control the impulse which 
sought to drive him southwards; here he was in control or at 
least in control as much as he ever was.


He embraced the oldness of the office.  The horrors he hunted 
seemed less anachronistic here than on the upper floors 
surrounded by modern steel and glass.  Hell, at times he felt 
like an anachronism; a modern-day St. George hunting his dragons 
of nightmare and dark conspiracy.  More tarnished perhaps, always 
walking that thin edge between the light and the darkness.  But 
to hunt dragons you have to be at least part dragon; to embrace 
the dragon within in order to slay the dragons of darkness.  Fox 
Mulder appreciated the irony.


Hoping to find a note from Scully that would tell him where she 
was, he began sorting through the usual conglomeration of inter-
office mail, post-it notes, and assorted index cards that 
littered his desk.  Surely Scully knew better than to leave him a 
note on his desk, but occasionally she tried to leave a note 
perched prominently on his latest stack of files.


Ignoring the blatant demands to complete overdue paperwork, he 
tossed them aside into a box marked "Will Get To When Damn 
Ready."  As he rummaged through the piles of paper scattered 
across his desk, a loud knock shattered the silence and nearly 
sent him whimpering to the floor.


"Come in," he whispered, trying to ease the words out around the 
pounding in his head.


The cheerful countenance of Art, the mailman, smiled at him from 
the doorway.  Wincing a bit as the muscles in his face protested, 
Mulder smiled back.  Art was worse than Scully when it came to 
one of his people maybe being depressed and needing cheering up.


"Morning Agent Mulder.  Warm out there isn't it?"


"I'm sure it is, Art.  It's July in Washington.  Hot would be 
closer to the truth.  However, down here it's nice and dark and 
cool."  Mulder spoke slowly and softly, relieved to find the 
words didn't cause his head to explode.


Art carefully put the stack of mail in the box on Scully's desk.  
Long ago he had learned that to put the mail on Mulder's desk was 
equivalent to sending it to the Bermuda Triangle, it might never 
be seen again.


"You're looking a mite under the weather.  They should fix the 
air conditioner down here.  Well, got to go.  Bank Fraud gets a 
bit testy when I'm late with their mail.  You'd think they all 
got lottery tickets coming through Uncle Sam the way they act."


Art laughed and departed closing the door with a firm sharp snap.  
He left behind an exhausted Mulder who was considering whether 
someone could overdose on cheerfulness.


//It would make for a very interesting autopsy report for Scully, 
but I don't particularly want to be the body in question.//


An envelope marked urgent caught his attention and, hoping it was 
a message from Scully, he tore it open.  What he found was a 
scathing note from Skinner.


"Oh my God," Mulder moaned as the memory of an eight a.m. meeting 
with Skinner crawled out of his memory.


Skinner's note left nothing to his imagination concerning the 
Assistant Director's opinion of the aborted meeting.  It was 
blistering on the subject of Scully's absence.  Mulder winced as 
he remembered he had promised to tell Scully that Skinner wanted 
to see them a.s.a.p. on Monday morning before he had to fly to 
Boston for a conference.


Attached to the note was a case file with two tickets to 
Asheville, North Carolina prominently attached.  At first glance, 
Mulder could discern no X-File angle and, other than the fact 
that six of the eighteen victims were found within a mile of the 
borders of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, very little 
to command the personal attention of two FBI agents from 
Washington.


Given the complete absense of the two agents of the X-Files 
division from a meeting with their boss this morning, Mulder 
considered it likely that this was Skinner's unsubtle way of 
reminding them who held the other end of their chain.  A memo 
attached to the report included the cheerful news that since the 
report was filed, on July 16, three more bodies had turned up, 
one per night, including one just inside the national park.


"Bingo!"  Mulder cringed as his voice crept out of the whispering 
range.


//Now it's a federal case and I just bet Freyson in Knoxville saw 
my name written all over it.  A lot of mutilated bodies?  Call 
Mulder, it's got to be an X-File.  Never mind that it's probably 
just a wild animal with an attitude.//


From the autopsy reports and crime scene photos it looked like he 
and Scully would be hot on the trail of some type of wild animal, 
probably a mountain lion.  Well, it made a change from aliens, 
but Mulder wasn't into change.  He gave brief consideration to 
sending the file back to Skinner with the notation that the X-
files division was too busy to go on safari and to hell with the 
consequences, but two things stopped him.  One, the X-files 
division hadn't had an active case in over a week and two, he 
suddenly recalled that the mountain lion was extinct in the 
Appalachians.  Of course it could be an exotic pet that got loose 
and turned feral, but Mulder's instinct smelled something more.


Grimacing, Mulder placed a call to the ASAC of the Knoxville 
office.


"Freyson, it's Mulder."


"Hi there, Fox old man.  Got the case I sent you?  Thought it was 
right up your alley.  I know how you love the gory stuff."  
Freyson sounded abysmally cheerful.


"One of these days, Freyson.  Wait for it.  Some liver-eating 
mutant's going to come your way and I'm going to be on vacation," 
Mulder parried feebly.  He really was in no condition to trade 
barbed witticisms this morning.


"Well, I don't envy you.  The state wildlife boys are already out 
here in force.  Been lion hunting but all they've turned up are 
three stills and a couple of real tempermental boars."


"Relatives of yours?"


"Very funny, Mulder."


"How many of the locals have managed to shoot each other during 
this great hunt."


"Not as many as you'd expect, but there are a fair number 
sporting minor wounds.  No one can quite say where this cat is 
supposed to have come from.  Most of the wildlife agents are 
bailing out.  They're convinced it's a giant hoax and they are 
none too happy about it."


"What got them convinced it isn't a mountain lion?"


"Well, up until just recently most folks around there swore up 
and down that it was a mother lion protecting her cubs. The 
victims were just damned unlucky to have come across her.  At 
least a dozen farmers have lost cattle and hogs so the theory 
seemed a good one."  Freyson gave a small chuckle.


"What?"


"Oh nothing, just remembering a certain farmer who claims to have 
lost more cattle than he had to begin with.  Some folks are 
cashing in on this case.  Can't you just see the IRS boys joining 
this mess?"


"That still doesn't . . .."


"Just be patient with us mere mortals, Mulder.  As I was saying, 
even the sheriff of Helsgate finally realized that a mountain 
lion wasn't going to abruptly stop killing and then just as 
abruptly begin again one month later. Hence the call to the FBI."


"So, other than the fact that there are plenty of gory bodies 
around, and you know how much I enjoy gore," Mulder's voice 
dripped with sarcasm, "why me?"


"One, it's a serial killer and as much as you hate it, you're one 
of the best profilers the bureau has.  Two, there is something 
just downright spooky about the case, no offense intended, 
Mulder."  Freyson dropped his bantering tone and became utterly 
serious.


"We need help down here and I'm up to my ears in drug dealers, 
two bank fraud cases and a federal prosecutor who suddenly 
realized that organized crime might be involved in the some of 
Knoxville's politics.  Do you think I could possibly send him to 
Helsgate and hope this 'thing' or whatever takes a fancy to him?"  
Freyson sounded harried.


"Naw, this 'thing or whatever' as you call it probably has better 
taste."  Mulder actually grinned and decided the resulting twinge 
in his head was worth it.  Freyson chuckled.


"Mulder they need help and you're it.  Once this guy or whatever 
left a body on federal land, we had to intervene.  The sheriff 
was actually relieved to have us butt in.  He can now pass on the 
responsibility for failure to us.  Hell, before I even finished 
trying to build up to mentioning your name, A.D. Skinner was 
already offering your services."


"Remind me to thank him some day," Mulder sighed.  "Anything not 
mentioned in the reports?"


"Other than the fact that the tabloids and other denizens of the 
press are in Helsgate in full force, no, not a thing I can think 
of."


Mulder felt his headache increase tenfold at the thought of 
dealing with this kind of crime while fending off the press.


//Why can't any decent serial killer target some of the tabloid 
reporters.  It would be a boon to society while boosting sales at 
the same time.  If I ever decide to take up serial killing, I 
will make them my first priority,// Mulder thought uncharitably.


"Thanks, now my morning is really complete."


"Anything to help out an old friend, Mulder.  Gotta go.  My 
secretary just warned me the prosecutor is headed my way and I 
want to be out to lunch before he corners me again.  Bye."  
Freyson hung up abruptly.


Mulder sent a silent prayer that the prosecutor would be faster.  
He really didn't want anything bad to happen to Freyson, just a 
few hours of boredom and political ass-kissing should be enough 
revenge.  Freyson was a pain in the ass, but a competant pain in 
the ass.


Considering briefly whether to call Scully and reassure himself 
that she was OK, Mulder decided to wait a bit longer.  The last 
time he'd done that, Scully had firmly reminded him that she was 
a big girl and if she wanted to be late, she'd damn well be late 
without having to worry about his over-protective instincts 
kicking in.  Admittedly, he had overreacted, but considering 
their past histories, he didn't think driving to her apartment to 
make sure she was OK was that far out of line.


A quick check told him her cell-phone was turned off and all he 
got when he called her place was her answering machine.


"Scully, it's me.  Noticed you're not here."


//Boy that's a swift call,// Mulder thought.  //Show her not much 
escapes me.//


"Skinner's dropped a case in our laps.  We got plane tickets out 
of here this afternoon.  Give me a call a.s.a.p."


Trying to ignore the pressure in his head and the increasing 
worry about Scully, he began to immerse himself in the details of 
the case.  After a few moments he noticed that his headache had 
faded to merely an annoying thrumming echo of a large bass drum.  
His interest now caught, he narrowed his focus to the apparently 
irrelevant details of the case that triggered whatever gift he 
had for smelling out dragons.  Small details in the crime scene 
photos began to catch his eye and he scrawled notes on a yellow 
pad as he poured over the reports and photos with a growing 
enthusiasm.


"Mulder, please tell me that isn't a current case file you're 
holding and, if you have any shred of common decency left, assure 
me those aren't plane tickets on your desk."  Scully's voice was 
taut as if she were straining to keep it muted.


Startled, Mulder looked up to see his partner standing at the 
door.  She was dressed in one of her usual professional suits, 
but Mulder could detect small lapses in her usual impeccable 
attire; indication that her entire attention hadn't been focused 
on dressing.  Her eyes were dilated with pain; her body language 
screaming that she was holding herself carefully lest an 
incautious move should aggravate the pain.  In fact, if Mulder 
didn't know better, he'd swear that his stoic partner was close 
to tears.  He sympathized.  The act of turning his attention away 
from the case file to his partner brought back the steel drum 
band in his head, as if he was being chastised for turning away 
from the case.


"Scully?"  Mulder had tried to keep his startled query soft and 
low but the abrupt resumption of pain turned it into a baritone 
yelp.


"Mulder, I've got the grandfather of all headaches so either keep 
your voice down or just nod or shake your head," Scully snapped, 
her temper plainly fraying.


Trying to think around the pounding, Mulder considered the 
situation and began to grow uneasy.  Scully never admitted to 
pain; therefore this headache must be agonizing.  Giving his 
partner a long intense visual examination as she carefully walked 
over to her desk and gingerly sat down, he concluded that she 
looked as bad as he had when he last looked into a mirror nearly 
an hour ago.  What were the odds that both of them would come 
down with killer headaches the same morning?  He didn't know and 
his head hurt too much to even try to calculate them.


"Scully, did you by any chance find yourself heading south last 
night?"  Mulder asked innocently.


Scully's eyes went wide in startled confusion then narrowed in a 
suspicious glare.  Before she could speak, Mulder held up a hand 
for silence.


"Before you ask, no I'm not clairvoyant, I didn't follow you nor 
am I responsible for your headache.  At 5:30 this morning I woke 
up about a hundred-fifty miles into Virginia with no clear memory 
of driving there yet there I was, in my car, at a gas station, 
nearly out of gas, with a kick-ass headache that got worse when I 
turned around to come home."  Mulder recited the bare facts in a 
soft strained voice that spoke volumes about his own pain.  He 
could almost see his partner's brain begin to shift gears to 
consider the problem.


"Don't ask, just trust me on this.  Read this file.  You may be 
pleasantly surprised."  Mulder felt a certain reluctance to let 
go of the file as he passed it into Scully's hands.  To occupy 
his mind, he began bringing his hastily scrawled notes into 
coherent order.  That seemed to mollify his headache and it 
obligingly diminished to a low throbbing rumble.  Scully looked 
doubtful, but shrugged, wincing at the pain that shot through her 
head and began reading.  After a quick glance she looked up and 
gave Mulder a glare of puzzled irritation.


"Yes, we have to go," he answered her unspoken question.  
"Skinner didn't leave a whole lot of room for negotiation.  I 
think he noticed we didn't show up for a meeting this morning."


At Scully's puzzled look, Mulder shrugged.


"Yeah, I forgot to tell you Skinner wanted to see us first thing 
this morning.  Skinner is not a happy man and no doubt wonders 
why we both decided to be late on the same day," he added with a 
Mulderesque combination of a leer and a rueful grin while holding 
up Skinner's note by the corner as if expecting it to burst into 
flames.


//Only Mulder,// Scully thought, vexed.  Now resigned to her 
fate, she began reading the file in earnest.  After scanning the 
autopsy reports for a few minutes, she was startled to realize 
her headache had faded to a simmering drumbeat.  Seeing her 
startled look, Mulder chuckled.


"I know, its almost an X-File in itself.  Apparently something, 
or someone, really wants us to investigate this case," he said 
with an exaggerated shrug of his shoulders.


"Mulder, I don't see an X-File in the fact that we both have 
headaches and I see even less of an X-File in this case, must 
less a reason to involve the FBI in what is obviously a series of 
animal attacks."


"True, except for two things," Mulder paused for dramatic effect 
while Scully attempted to wait him out.  After a long silence, 
she gave in, too tired to stay stubborn.


"And they are?" she asked, letting her exasperation with his 
game-playing show.


"Several experts have concluded that these attacks were most 
likely carried out by a mountain lion, their reports are in the 
file you're holding, but there are no mountain lions in that part 
of the country and no one has reported the theft or escape of an 
exotic pet," Mulder finished triumphantly.


Scully smiled indulgently, drawn into this game of wits despite 
herself. Par for the course, she admitted.  She waited for Mulder 
to lean back with a self-satisfied smile on his face before 
pouncing with science and logic, counting off her answers on her 
fingers.


"One, if someone owned a mountain lion illegally, they aren't 
going to report it lost or stolen; two, experts have been known 
to be wrong or so you often tell me, and there really wasn't much 
left of the bodies when they were found so even determining the 
cause of death much less what type of animal was responsible 
would be guess-work at best; and three, maybe the rumors of their 
extinction are grossly exaggerated," she finished feeling a bit 
exhilarated at turning Mulder's favorite arguments against him.


Mulder flashed a predatory grin and Scully realized that her 
damned exasperating partner was about to trump her aces.


"I would be forced to agree with you, especially since you have 
so nicely conceded my argument that scientific experts can be 
wrong, except that included in the experts' reports are photos of 
the paw prints found beside the latest victim.  Either they are 
very elaborate, if improbable fakes, or we're dealing with one 
very large, very upset critter."


Turning serious, Mulder handed her the photo showing a paw print 
deeply imbedded in the bloody mud beside a savagely shredded 
body.  The ruler laid beside the print for reference merely 
confirmed what the print clearly demonstrated; this was a kill by 
a very big, very powerful animal.


"Scully, that beast must weigh in at over two hundred pounds and 
if it stood up on its hind legs, I could have a face-to-face 
interview with it.  That's a *big* cat."


After staring at the photo for several minutes, Scully offered a 
half-hearted objection that didn't even begin to convince her.  
"Fake?"


"Why fake such a huge print?  If I wanted to blame a mountain 
lion for my killings, wouldn't it be simpler to use prints 
matching a normal-sized lion?"


"Unless the purpose was to convince the locals that the killings 
were done by some monster.  They seem to be more than willing to 
hunt down a regular mountain lion, but might avoid tangling with 
a mythical monster," Scully's expression brightened as she warmed 
to her argument.  "I'll even bet you that the area has a legend 
of some great cat monster that preyed on innocent travelers in 
their great-grandfather's time."


Scully's whole attitude changed as she became engrossed in her 
theory until she resembled a cat about to pounce on a troublesome 
mouse.  For a millisecond Mulder felt a yen for overripe cheese.


"You'd win the bet.  The good folk in the hills around Helsgate, 
Tennessee, our ultimate destination by the way, are convinced a 
half-demon, half-human shape shifter confined to a rocky prison 
nearly two hundred years ago has escaped and is out looking for 
revenge.  However, the sheriff of Helsgate, a stolid, no-nonsense 
man, is now just as convinced that there is a dangerous criminal 
hiding in the hills on federal land emerging to kill anyone he 
stumbles across.  Now that he can blame the failure to catch this 
perp on someone else, he is delighted to have us.  Besides, once 
the killer left a body on federal land, he had no choice, hence 
his call to the FBI."  Mulder threw his arms wide in frustrated 
resignation, "And down to us."


"So we are supposed to?" Scully asked warily.


"You, and I quote 'one of the FBI's finest forensic 
pathologists', are to review the autopsy reports and be prepared 
to perform autopsies on any new bodies that show up during our 
stay in beautiful downtown Helsgate in order to provide a 
scientific basis for prosecution.  Yours truly, and again I 
quote, 'one of the FBI's leading profilers of serial killers,'"  
Mulder gave Scully an ironic bow, hand held to chest, "is to 
create a viable profile of a killer who likes to rip his victims 
to shreds while leaving no trace evidence except for giant cat 
tracks next to the bodies," Mulder finished with a groan.


With a wry grimace he continued, "But I'll grant the sheriff this 
much, there are signs that there may be a human agent involved, 
at least some of the sites show signs of ritual activity.  Plus, 
Skinner has made it very clear that it would vastly improve our 
good name if we managed not to turn this into an X-File."


"I didn't know we had a good name, Mulder.  Have you been keeping 
secrets?"  Scully gave him one of her rare half-smiles and 
watched in quiet satisfaction as his frustration melted into 
resigned amusement.


"Who me?  I wouldn't dare."  He smiled back clearly aware of her 
ruse yet seemingly grateful for an escape from the dark mood that 
had been creeping over him.  She understood how he hated doing 
profiles, especially if this really did turn out to be the work 
of a very sick, twisted mind.


"How's the headache," he asked as he got up to grab his coat.


"I'm fine.  Yours?"


"Better," he dismissed the lingering throb in his temples. He'd 
expected Scully's answer.  'I'm fine' was her standard response 
to anything less than death or dismemberment.  He saw the pain in 
her eyes, but granted her the space she demanded when physical 
weakness pounced.


"Our plane leaves in two hours.  I'll pick you up in an hour.  
Pack rustic.  I expect we'll be doing some hiking since our perp 
seems to prefer isolated mountain trails."  Mulder looked down 
meaningfully at his rumpled suit and then at Scully's dress 
shoes.


"Just another pleasant walk in the woods, eh Mulder?"  Scully 
flung the good-natured jibe as she sailed past him towards the 
elevator.


Mulder winced and raised his hand in a fencer's acknowledgment of 
a hit.  They rode the elevator and walked to their cars in 
companionable silence, neither feeling the need to fill the 
silence with empty chatter.


***********

National Airport
1:30 p.m.  July 19


"Damn idiots!"


"Mulder, calm down.  I'm sure they didn't have an accident just 
to annoy you."


"Yeah, how do you know?"  Mulder retorted sarcastically.  His 
head felt ready to explode.  The annoying drumbeat was still 
there, an old familiar friend, but lost under the pounding rage 
of frustration.  Two cars cannot occupy a single space, even he 
knew that much physics.  Why on earth Washington drivers didn't 
know that was beyond him.


"Mulder, pounding on the steering wheel is not going to move the 
cars ahead of us."


"Scully, we are going to miss our plane if those idiot traffic 
cops don't untangle this mess.  Do you want to explain to Skinner 
that on top of missing a meeting with him, we manage to miss our 
plane as well?  I really don't like transcribing surveillance 
tapes very much and I really doubt you would either."


Scully bit back a sarcastic retort of her own.  Her headache had 
mercifully retreated to an annoying throb, but Mulder's 
frustration was contagious and she found herself drumming her 
fingers on the arm-rest.


"I wonder if I can get up on the median and slip past this mess?"  
Mulder pondered the narrow median and tried to calculate the 
width of his car versus the width of the median.  Unfortunately, 
even to his unpracticed eye, the space was too narrow.


A crescendo of blaring horns from equally trapped and frustrated 
drivers rolled up the highway.  Mulder sighed and laid his head 
down on the wheel.


"OK, that's it.  The next idiot who blows his horn gets his car 
shot.  I'll claim temporary insanity."  Mulder didn't look like 
he was joking.  He was beginning to seriously contemplate 
violence, on whom or what he wasn't sure, but he had a sneaking 
feeling it would feel very good to smash something just then.


Scully gave him a look that he easily translated into "don't you 
dare or I'll let you explain to Skinner why we missed our flight 
and you ended up in jail.  He settled for muttering obscure 
British curses under his breath at the offending drivers.


Scully restrained her own urge to shoot her partner for much the 
same reason she'd given Mulder; she didn't want to endure the 
explanation such an act would involve.  She comforted herself 
that she was mature enough to defer a momentary pleasure in light 
of the subsequent unpleasantness.


Suddenly the car ahead of them began to move as the traffic jam 
began to untangle in a slow but steady trickle towards the 
airport exit.  By the time they reached National Airport, both 
Mulder and Scully were feeling rather frazzled.


As they plowed through the crowds at the airport, Scully began to 
see the attraction violence held for her partner.  They had 
merely traded one traffic jam for another, this one involving 
people.  It appeared to her trained eye that half the population 
of Washington D.C. had descended on National Airport intent on 
flying somewhere.


Most of the mob milling about seemed edgy and tense and she 
overheard several vehement arguments erupt between the harried 
airport personnel and impatient travelers.  By the time they 
reached the gate, their flight should have been in the air for 
nearly twenty minutes, but some kind angel of mercy had managed 
to arrange for bad weather over Philadelphia which delayed their 
flight by an hour.


Mulder soon abandoned the miniscule waiting room chair, opting to 
pace the length of the gate area.  Scully settled comfortably in 
a chair and began to people watch.  Her attention was caught by a 
woman approaching the ticket agent.  She was not particularly 
striking but carried herself with an air of certainty that made 
her seem older than the mid-thirties she probably was.  Despite 
being dressed in black jeans with a blue denim shirt with a large 
silver brooch and wide concho belt she looked totally at ease 
among the business suits that swarmed the terminal.  Her red-
black hair was brushed back into a bun wound with silver wire 
that should have made her look plain but instead lent her an air 
of a helmeted warrior prepped and ready for battle.


Startled by her unusual flight of fancy, Scully looked for her 
partner and found him staring strangely at the woman, almost as 
if he knew her but was afraid she was who he thought she was.


//Old girlfriend?// Scully wondered, though the woman wasn't 
exactly his type, at least the type that appeared on his videos.  
Add to that, the fact that the woman was carrying a large cat 
carrier and Scully could pretty well put her out of the 
girlfriend category.  Mulder wasn't much into cats.  They liked 
him entirely too well for his peace of mind.  She recalled an 
intoxicated Mulder, sitting on her couch late one night, 
ruminating that perhaps the real aliens weren't gray or green, 
but rather furred with sharp claws and arrogant tails and 
attitudes.  Mulder had gone on to wax poetic on the subject of 
feline egos.


The woman plunked the carrier firmly on the counter.


"I don't care whether you're over-booked or not.  I have a 
reservation for two and I damn well intend to see you honor it."


"I'm sorry madam.  The cat must go into the luggage compartment.  
We have excellent facilities . . ." the ticket agent sounded 
bored.


"Excuse me, what part of my sentence didn't you understand?  You 
seem to have a passing familiarity with the English language so I 
must presume you understood the words.  Perhaps it's whole 
concept of 'I paid for two seats so I get two seats' that 
confuses you?"


Scully wasn't sure who this woman was but she had to admire the 
use of language as well as the fact that she hadn't even raised 
her voice yet was making her determination crystal clear.


"Madam, the luggage area is over there.  Next!"


Scully watched in amusement as the woman merely looked at the 
agent as if he were some sort of unpleasant bug then calmly 
turned the carrier around so that the occupant could stare at the 
agent through the mesh window.


After a moment or two, the agent's face paled and his fingers 
began flying across the keyboard.  To Scully's amazement, the 
previously filled flight apparently produced an empty seat and 
the woman carefully lowered the carrier back to the floor, 
satisfied that her argument had been understood.


"Scully, I've got a really bad feeling about this flight right 
now," Mulder's voice broke into her reverie.


"What now, Mulder?  Do you really think Skinner is going to 
accept the argument that you missed the flight because a cat was 
on board?" Scully asked incredulously.


"Not just any cat, Scully.  If I'm not mistaken that is Julia and 
Primrose.  And I'm not certain which of them is the greater 
portent of disaster."


Scully turned to look up at her partner, amused by the distress 
in his voice, usually reserved for paperwork and other natural 
disasters.  His face was pale and he was glancing around 
nervously as if expecting a full-blown attack from persons 
unknown at any moment.  Scully did find it strange that despite 
his paranoid nervousness, his hand never strayed near his gun.  
It was as if whatever this woman could conjure up wasn't even 
going to be fazed by a gun.


"Dr. Mulder!"


"Damn," Mulder muttered as he straightened up to greet the woman 
who was striding over to them.  A grating yowl from inside the 
carrier made him wince, but to Scully's surprise he knelt down 
and held his hand against the mesh wire.


"Hello Primrose.  Hello Julia," he added, standing up after 
Primrose had inspected his hand and approved his manners in 
greeting her first.  Scully was faintly surprised to find that 
Julia was at least head and shoulders shorter than Mulder, she 
gave the impression of being much taller.


"I hoped I would get here in time.  I was afraid you'd already be 
gone before I even got word of the troubles."  Julia looked grim, 
but there was a sparkle of mischief in her eyes.  She glanced 
over to Scully who got up to stand next to her partner.  There 
was something instinctively compelling about Julia, something 
that said *trust me* and that made Scully wary.


"Julia, this is my partner Dr. Dana Scully, a forensic 
pathologist."


Scully raised an eyebrow, Mulder didn't usually go into that much 
detail when introducing her.


"Scully, this is Dr. Julia McTyre, professor of forensic 
anthropology and part-time magnet for paranormal activity," 
Mulder finished with a wry grin that carried an odd mix of humor 
and extreme wariness.


"It's really not as bad as Mulder makes it seem, Dr. Scully,
or do you prefer Dana?  I'm not much into titles myself unless 
I'm ramming an unpleasant truth down the throat of one of my 
academic colleagues, so you can call me Julia, if you want to 
call me anything at all."  Julia had a clear alto voice that 
carried well, an asset no doubt to a lecturing professor, 
accompanied by an engaging smile that lit up her eyes.


"Dana will do.  What does he mean by 'part-time magnet for 
paranormal activity'?  Or do I really need to ask, knowing 
Mulder?"  Scully responded with a smile.


"Nothing too serious.  Let's just say your partner got more than 
he bargained for the last time we met."  She turned to Mulder.  
"She didn't hurt you that bad.  After all, you did bust in rather 
unexpectedly and we were expecting something a bit more, how 
would you say, dangerous."


"I'm fine," Mulder grunted, looking embarrassed.  Scully wondered 
what had happened but it was also obvious neither party was 
willing to cough up the details.  Sometime soon, with the right 
timing and the right lubricant, she intended to worm the story 
out of him, but for now she'd let it rest.  Besides, the skittish 
look he was giving her as he realized she was going to pursue 
this later more than made up for the delay.


While they waited for their flight to arrive, Dana and Julia 
began chatting about their respective fields.  They both dealt 
with dead bodies; Dana's were just a couple of centuries fresher 
than Julia's.  Mulder left them to their discussion of morbid 
details of autopsies and archaeology and resumed pacing.  He 
wasn't sure he liked the idea of exposing Dana to Julia.  It 
wasn't that he didn't like Julia, it was just that things 
disastrous seemed to happen whenever she was around.  Still, it 
might be nice if Scully could see that believing in the 
paranormal and being a scientist weren't mutually exclusive and 
if anyone could prove that, it was Dr. Julia McTyre.


*******

Flight 703 Washington to Atlanta
2:45 p.m.  July 19


As he listened to the roar of the jet's engines as they leveled 
out and headed south towards Atlanta, Mulder pondered the eternal 
question of why it was necessary to go through Atlanta to get 
anywhere else in the South.  Another one of life's imponderables 
he decided; the modern equivalent to the medieval question of how 
many angels could dance on the head of a pin.


Another imponderable was how he found himself wedged into the 
middle seat between Scully, whose smaller frame could fit 
comfortably next to the window, and Primrose, who was hogging the 
aisle seat.  He briefly considered switching, but a low rumbling 
growl from the interior of the carrier changed his mind.  A 
twenty pound Maine Coon was not something he cared to irritate, 
especially this particular Maine Coon.  He'd encountered Primrose 
before under less than friendly circumstances and, although they 
had since been properly introduced and a truce had been enjoined, 
he was aware it was an uneasy peace.


"Anything to drink ma'am?"  The cool, polite voice of the steward 
brought Julia out of her half-doze.


"Yes, a whiskey sour would be most welcome," Julia replied as she 
stretched out the kinks in her back.  "And a bowl of milk, if you 
would?"  Primrose purred an enthusiastic amen.  The steward 
placed a brimful glass of dark amber liquid in front of her and 
carefully set down a small cup of milk with a smile and a 
conspiratorial wink.


"Thank you," she said gratefully as she leaned forward to sip the 
drink carefully to avoid spilling a drop.


"A light snack will be served in a few minutes.  Would your 
travelling companion like something to eat as well?  We've not 
had too many companion animals on board.  I understand from the 
ticket agent that she's something quite special."


"That she is, that she is," Julia agreed heartily.  "I think a 
snack for both of us would be very welcome.  I think I managed to 
miss lunch.  Come to think of it, I think I also missed 
breakfast," Julia said with a rueful chuckle.


"Then I'll see if we can't make your snack a bit more substantial 
ma'am.  Just relax and let me tend to it."  The steward continued 
down the aisle dispensing drinks and goodwill in his wake.


Julia leaned back and let the scotch whiskey soothe out the last 
of the tension built up during her hasty departure.  It was nice 
to slip loose from her duties and melt into the crowd.  The 
urgent message she had received had sent her scurrying to catch 
this plane.  Auld Sallie had called for help and there were 
forces determined to prevent that help from arriving.  She wasn't 
sure where or how the attack might come, but she had to be ready 
to counter it.  Whoever Sallie was facing had some formidable 
allies, it seemed.


Despite the urgency of her mission, or perhaps because of it, 
Julia began to feel like a dreamer awakening to a new day.  Once 
again she had stepped out of the dream where life was safe and 
operated under certain set rules.  Ahead of her lay a world where 
the supernatural was commonplace and a wrong move could bring 
damnation, not only upon herself, but for those in her charge.  
Walking into that uncertain future was terrifying, yet, at the 
same time, she was honest enough to admit it was exhilarating.


Whatever Sallie had gotten mixed up with was probably powerful 
and more than likely would test the souls of these two FBI agents 
to their limits.  Sallie was capable of handling everything up to 
and including lesser demons, so if she called for help, something 
big was brewing.  She hoped Mulder was up to whatever it was.  
Tam hadn't been sure what they were facing, just that there were 
forces willing to intervene directly to make sure that Mulder and 
his partner never reached Helsgate.  It was her duty to make sure 
they did.


She liked Mulder.  He was a refreshing blend of true believer and 
absolute skeptic.  He'd believe ten impossible things before 
breakfast without missing a heartbeat, but throw one demon or 
fiend at him and he began to question his conclusions, and God-
forbid, a divine miracle should appear and he choked on it.  But 
if he valued his soul and Dana's as well, then he had better be 
prepared for extreme possibilities.  She could only assist them 
in getting to the place of confrontation; after that they were on 
their own.


Once the plane had leveled out, most of the passengers settled 
into naps or busywork.  Bored and vaguely restless, Mulder closed 
his eyes and tried to relax.  Primrose's purr was a low 
subterranean rumble that provided a soothing counterpoint as he 
sat there, eyes closed, assembling the facts of the case for 
review.  Scully was already napping against the window, lulled to 
sleep by the engines and Primrose's purr.


A heavily perfumed woman passed by dredging up college memories 
of incense burning in a small twelfth-century chapel in Cornwall.  
Despite the differences in religion, he had sensed a unity of 
purpose and faith between that chapel and a synagogue in the out-
skirts of London that dated back to the early seventeen hundreds.  
His faith in a beneficent God had long since eroded, but he could 
envy men, like the builders of the chapel and the synagogue who 
retained their sure, steadfast faith as a shield against the 
myriad evils of humanity.  The memory brought him a remnant of 
peace that he had long since forgotten existed within his soul, 
and he relaxed into the memory.


The plane began to buck like a wild horse bringing Mulder's 
reminiscence to an abrupt halt.  Primrose let out a screeching 
battle cry that would have summoned the sleeping dead.  Several 
people who had neglected to leave their seat belts on were thrown 
out of their seats.  Screams of pain and panic burst from the 
rear section of the plane.  The lights flickered once then went 
out plunging the plane into darkness.  Mulder could smell the 
panic spreading throughout the cabin.


The man in the seat in front of him began cursing and fumbling 
for his seat belt as another passenger was flung into his lap.  
The two men thrashed together in a cursing, screaming tangle of 
flailing arms and legs.  Primrose's basket heaved and strained 
against the restraining seat belt but remained in place.  Scully 
came awake, eyes starting in fear.  Mulder knew she wasn't 
comfortable flying; this would be her worst nightmare.  He 
grabbed her hand to reassure her that he was close by.


"Ladies and gentlemen, please remain in your seats.  We are 
currently experiencing severe air turbulence, but the situation 
is under control," the pilot's voice was calm, but Mulder 
detected a note of strain in the crisp professional tone.  He 
suspected that the situation was nowhere near being under 
control.


The plane bucked again and spiraled into a sharp nose dive.  
Whatever hadn't been dislodged by the first jolt was now flying 
or rolling towards the front of the cabin.  Several bodies slid 
down the aisle from the back of the plane.  Mulder snagged the 
arm of a small child as she catapulted through down the aisle and 
over the thrashing mass on the floor towards the cockpit.  She 
was screaming hysterically, fighting his efforts to hold her.


Finally, with Scully's aid, they got her wrapped in a blanket and 
handed back to her mother.  The girl's screams were lost among 
the howls of panic from the other passengers.  Primrose continued 
her high screeching cry that seemed to be getting more and more 
impatient.  Fury rather than fear was contained in her cries.  
The basket rocked with her frantic efforts to claw a way out.  


Startled out of her half-doze, Julia's first thought was an 
ironic wondering if she had come so far and through so many 
exotic dangers only to die in something so mundane as a plane 
crash.  //Thy will be done Oh Lord, but I would like to point out 
that I'm needed elsewhere.//  She prayed silently, trying to 
achieve a serene acceptance of fate while trying to discern if 
this was the attack she'd been led to expect or simply a natural 
accident.  As if in answer to her prayer, calm swept over her; 
the noise and panic around her faded to a low roar, a distant 
angry sea of pain and fear.


Once her mind was calm, she calculated the odds that of all the 
planes aloft at this very moment, it should be this plane that 
the fates chose to crash.  Silently praying that she was 
overreacting, Julia allowed her senses to expand.  Slowly she 
scanned the darkness with her inner Sight for any sign of 
unnatural power.


The darkness paled to a light silvery haze.  The hard physical 
bodies of the other passengers faded as their auras flared up in 
a rainbow of colors flicking about their shadows like tiny 
tongues of flame.  The auras betrayed the strong emotions of 
fear, anger and despair like exploding suns, blinding in their 
intensity.  Scully's aura was edged with fear but the center of 
it burned bright with resolve and dedication to her scientific 
logic.  Already her aura was stabilizing as she shifted into 
doctor mode.  Julia was surprised.  Apparently she worked on more 
than just the dead; of course being partnered with Mulder 
probably gave her a real live body to practice on rather 
frequently.


Speaking (or rather thinking) of Mulder, Julia saw his aura flare 
up as he scanned the cabin, expectant, alert and definitely not 
accepting that this was an accident.  So much natural talent so 
untrained made her nervous but he always managed to harness it 
exactly when and how he needed it.  He did have a tendency to 
push the envelope though, and she greatly feared that one day 
he'd push too far and no one would be there to pull him back.  
What was especially worrisome was the thought that he'd probably 
take quite of bit of the surrounding territory and bystanders 
with him when he did.


At least there was one other person who was on guard and at least 
semi-protected, even if he was unaware that he had shields or 
that he had put them up not only around himself but also around 
Dana.  Interesting that.  If they all had lives after this, she 
really must find out more about Dana.  Anyway, back to the matter 
at hand, she reminded herself sternly.


As always, she had to fight a sense of vertigo as her perceptions 
shifted from the physical world to the astral sphere.  Forcing 
herself to remain anchored in her physical body while letting her 
Sight roam was difficult; she kept wanting to shed the ponderous 
weight of her physical being.  She felt the wrenching of time 
itself and knew she had passed into a realm where a second could 
seem as long as an hour and a lifetime crammed into the space of 
a minute.  If the angels of death were here, she would 
acknowledge them and return to her physical form to await the 
will of God, but she was beginning to smell an imp in the chaos 
that extended even into the astral sphere.


Almost immediately in front of her, she sensed a presence, an 
almost tangible shadow drinking in the panic as it grew stronger.  
Incredible as it seemed, the shadow was furiously responding to 
Primrose's challenge with hissing curses.


The two of them appeared to be fully aware of each other and, 
from the sound of it, were mortal enemies.  Although the shadow 
hissed and struck at the air, it seemed to fear getting too close 
to Primrose's basket.  Julia looked over and quickly understood 
the shadow's reluctance.  On the astral plane, Primrose had 
assumed the form of a very large, very angry wildcat perching 
atop her basket.  Tiny sparks flew off her fur whenever the 
shadow came too close.


As if her awareness of it triggered the dark one's awareness of 
her, the shadow raised its face and Julia found herself staring 
straight into the face of evil.


"Yesss, Watcher, I am your death," the shadow hissed, gloating 
over its victory.


It raised a wing and the plane twisted in midair and made a 
barrel roll before beginning a steep assent.  Mulder gave a yell 
of fury and latched on to Scully whose seat belt took that moment 
to rip loose.  His aura flared with the violent hues of rage 
against whoever was doing this.  Julia saw the imp flinch 
slightly and scrabble a bit more to the left out of the aura's 
tongues of fire.  Another gesture from the imp and everything 
that had rolled to the front of the plane now careened down the 
aisle to the back.  Primrose's battle song abruptly turned into a 
howling protest and complaint as she found herself upside down.


Julia grasped the arms of her seat and forced herself to maintain 
eye contact with the shadow.  Even as her body protested against 
the gravitational stresses, her mind assessed the situation and 
began devising counter-measures.  The demon was barely powerful 
enough to qualify for that title, but its power seemed to be 
sufficient for the task it had been given.


The cabin walls began to buckle under the extreme pressures of 
their wild plunge.  Primrose's cries were now muted, but anger 
still throbbed through her deep rumbling growls.  The howling 
rage of a moment ago had disappeared and the growls were almost 
contemptuous as she seemed to be baiting the demon.  Julia could 
have sworn Primrose was screaming her defiance at the demon to 
keep it from concentrating its full attention on Julia or Mulder.  
The demon spat at Primrose who returned the compliment in a 
flurry of hissing.  Sparks flew in all directions, sizzling 
ominously in the air around the demon.


Fighting the centrifugal force which pinned her back against the 
seat cushion, Julia reached inside her shirt and pulled free a 
blood-red crystal shard on a silver chain.  A quick jerk broke 
the clasp and the chain fell free around her hand.  Holding the 
crystal like a sword in her left hand, Julia began to chant words 
of dismissal as she held the eyes of her adversary in a stern, 
unyielding gaze.  She felt the crystal heat up, a comfort in the 
now chilly air of the cabin.  The popping sound of oxygen masks 
exploding out of their overhead containers sounded like rapid-
fire gunshots.  Julia felt her ears pop as cabin pressure 
dropped.


The shadow grinned and Julia felt its exultation like a whip 
across his soul.  Ignoring the oxygen mask dangling in front of 
her, Julia continued her chant, desperate to assert control 
before she blacked out from oxygen deprivation.  As she faded 
from consciousness, she felt Primrose's encouraging presence wrap 
itself around her mind and demand that she not yield to the 
comfort of unconsciousness.


The taste of plastic and the blessed flow of air into her starved 
lungs combined with a sharp raking pain that scored her astral 
body, shocked her back into consciousness.  Primrose's astral 
form reared back to strike again, but relaxed as Julia once more 
hurled her power against that of the demon.  She saw Mulder half 
sprawled across the aisle directly in the imp's path as he 
struggled to hold onto Scully with one hand and while reaching 
across the aisle to adjust her oxygen mask with the other.  His 
eyes were dilated with fear and Julia realized he was taking the 
full brunt of the imp's ire.  //A damn annoying man, but a damned 
brave one,// she thought rather giddily.  //Now to distract that 
imp before Mulder's heart explodes.//


"Begone you hell-spawned shadow.  You have no power here.  I am a 
servant of the Most High, a wielder of the sword of Michael.  
Begone lest I summon the flaming sword and drive you back into 
the pits of Gehenna."


The shadow twisted and tried to shield its face with its wings.  
Its eyes now desperately sought to break free of Julia's gaze.  
The plane shuddered and bucked as the demon fought her efforts to 
expel it.  A sudden sharp lurch to the left, followed by a 
stomach-churning drop of several hundred feet of free-fall broke 
Mulder's hold on Scully and sent him flying against the side of 
the plane with an alarming thump.  Scully, buried under his 
sprawled body, pinned and unable to move, fought the creeping 
horror of their impending death as she struggled to regain her 
balance.


//This cannot be happening.  I'm not ready.  We're not ready.//  
Scully wasn't sure where her fears ended and the prayers began.  
The demon howled in triumph and swelled with the waves of terror 
flowing from the humans caught within his power.


Desperate and running out of time, Julia lashed out at the imp 
with the crystal.  The demon stretched out a claw and pain, sharp 
as ice, numbed her left arm.  Three parallel gouges cut across 
her left hand seeped blood that dripped slowly down her fingers.  
Tasting fear like bile in the back of her throat, Julia swung the 
crystal at the end of its chain, trying to ward off another 
attack.  Confident now of its victory, the demon reached out for 
her, enveloping her with its sulfurous stench, choking the last 
of life and hope. 


"Saint Michael defend me," Julia croaked as she whirled the 
crystal like a flail against the imp's attack.


The imp howled, an ear-grating harmonic screech that set the 
metal walls humming in protest.  Pulling its shadow-wings around 
its head, the demon cringed back.  Where the crystal had struck 
its face, a foul stinking smoke of scorched leather and sulfur 
arose.  Pressing her advantage, Julia cupped the crystal in her 
right hand and resumed the exhortation.  By the force of her 
words and her will, she dragged the demon's eyes back to face her 
own implacable gaze.


"Begone, creature of darkness before I grow angry.  By the Holy 
Names of God I abjure you to obedience," Julia thundered at the 
demon who covered its ears and howled again.  Its triumph had 
turned to ashes in its soul and it cowered in desperate fear of 
her voice.


"Pleassse lady, releassse me," the demon pleaded as it withered 
in power and stature until it slunk to crouch in the aisle at 
Julia's feet like a whipped puppy.


"Return this plane to its normal course," she commanded, never 
once taking her eyes off the now whimpering demon.  The red 
crystal in her hand burned like a young star and the stench of 
burning sulphur rose from the shadow's form wherever the light 
struck it.  The plane gave a sudden lurch and righted itself.  
The lights began to flicker on and off.  In the distance Julia 
could hear the low murmur of people who were startled to find 
themselves still alive.


"Pleasssse," begged the shadow again, its voice now low and 
submissive.


"Depart and return here no more.  If you cross my path again I 
will expel you to the outermost regions of Gehenna, where even 
your master will not find you."  Julia allowed a trace of the 
thundering tone of exorcism to creep into her voice.  The demon 
wailed loudly and fled into the ether outside the plane.  
Primrose's triumphant battle cry followed its hasty flight.


After a moment, the lights gave a final convulsive flicker and 
came back to full.  With a sudden whoosh, pressure returned and 
normal air flow poured from the air vents.  Julia removed the 
mask and breathed in the recycled air with a new-found gratitude 
for the simple pleasure of breathing.  Through the window, she 
could see the sun sparkling on puffy white clouds against a 
searingly blue sky.  With a sincere prayer of gratitude for her 
survival she breathed a hearty sigh of relief.  Primrose gave a 
curious chirrup-like cry that oozed self-satisfaction.  After 
stretching languorously, she curled up and firmly placed her long 
furry tail over her eyes.  Julia could almost read her mind.


"Yes little one, I think you deserve a nap.  You've done well, my 
little demon-hunter." Julia said with a muffled chuckle, careful 
not to let Primrose hear the amusement.


The evil that threatened Mulder and Scully had lost this round.


//So, whatever Mulder is going to face has allies in the infernal 
regions.  Interesting.  Sallie is a host unto herself.  Why would 
she need help from Mulder?  Wonder if he knows anyone with an 
ounce of psychic sense can hear the drumbeats echoing around 
them.  Sallie might as well have put nametags on the pair of 
them.//


Julia relaxed back into her seat and tried to think soothing 
thoughts.  Sallie was an old and wise spirit.  Maybe she had no 
other choice but to use a bloody claxon to summon help.  At least 
she had had enough warning to be here.  She bought them the time, 
now she hoped they would use it wisely.


Looking across the aisle she watched a dazed and somewhat bruised 
Mulder untangle himself from his partner.  From the furious 
blushing both of them were doing, he had obviously ended up with 
his hands and/or face lodged somewhere personal.  Julia occupied 
the remainder of the flight with considering just how 
professional their relationship was and whether they even knew 
themselves.


As he settled back into his seat, Mulder gave Julia a dark 
suspicious glare.  He said not a word, but left no doubt that he 
believed she was somehow linked to this near disaster.  Julia 
smiled at him before opening up a book and tuning him out.  //Let 
him wonder.  He wouldn't believe me anyway.//


She felt good.  She had accomplished her task and could now look 
forward to a night of rest before turning around and flying back 
to Baltimore in the morning.  Her students were expecting an exam 
tomorrow afternoon and she certainly wouldn't want to disappoint 
them.


"Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize for the disturbance and 
expect smooth flying from here on.  Relax and enjoy the flight," 
the disembodied voice of the pilot spoke to unheeding ears as the 
passengers clung to the miracle of life after swinging on the 
gates of death.


**********

Atlanta airport
4 p.m.  July 19


Dana seemed to be genuinely taken by Julia.  //Of course she 
hadn't seen her waving a *bloody* crystal around chanting like a 
madwoman during the middle of that near catastrophe,// Mulder 
thought, unsure whether he was irritated or amused.  Relief in 
being alive still dominated even his stray musings.


Mulder, however, was secretly amused by the fact that his 
scientific, rational partner thought she had found a kindred 
soul.  Dana and Julia chatted for nearly an hour over coffee 
while they waited for their flight.  Topics ranged from Celtic 
folk music to academic politics and, of course, dead bodies.  
Mulder contributed little to the conversation, content to watch 
his partner relax and enjoy herself in the presence of a fellow 
scientist.  The two redheads made a striking combination, the 
short Irish and the tall Scot, causing heads to turn as they 
strode purposefully through the terminal leaving Mulder to follow 
in their wake.


Despite Mulder's casual but determined queries, Julia was not 
forthcoming about her reasons for flying to Atlanta.  Excusing 
himself while they discussed corpses, fresh and desiccated, 
Mulder ran a quick and highly improper check on all outgoing 
flights until he found Julia's name on a red-eye flight back to 
Baltimore early the next morning.  Apparently her entire reason 
for travel was to be on that plane with them.  The question was, 
was she the cause of the disturbance or the reason he and Scully 
weren't pancaked into a field in Virginia?  Mulder made a mental 
note to open a discrete X-File on Julia.

********

Connecting flight from Atlanta to Asheville, North Carolina
7 p.m.  July 19


The flight to Asheville was turning out to be uneventful, to 
Mulder's great relief. //Of course Julia wasn't on board,// he 
thought irrationally.  It was tempting to think that her absence 
contributed to the calm, well-ordered flight.


Scully spent the short flight from Atlanta to Asheville in tense 
expectation of another crisis.  Rationally the odds that two 
separate flights would experience problems were astronomical, 
however she felt more comfortable if she concentrated on helping 
the plane stay up.  She was acutely aware of Mulder's barely 
suppressed amusement.


"Not a word, Mulder.  Not a single word."


Mulder merely gave her a sly grin and, with eyes full of 
mischief, began telling her the history of Helsgate, Tennessee.


"Scully, did you know that the first white men to settle in the 
mountains around Helsgate arrived in the mid-eighteenth century 
to find the area more or less deserted?  The Cherokee considered 
the area within twenty miles of Helsgate to be cursed.  
Apparently their legends spoke of a great battle between the 
forces of good and evil that took place near Helsgate a hundred 
or so years before.  Evil came out on the short end and ended up 
imprisoned in a cave sealed by a giant rock.  The white settlers 
scoffed at the notion of a cat-demon, magically imprisoned and 
named their little community Helsgate to mock the legends.  A 
frontier equivalent of spitting in the wind I guess."


//The settlers should have met Primrose.  That would convince 
them that there is such a thing as a cat-demon,// Mulder thought 
in a silent undertone to his spoken words.


Scully raised an eyebrow which clearly told Mulder what she 
thought of the fantastic nature of his *history*.


"I'm just repeating what I've read, don't blame me if it sounds 
crazy."  Mulder shrugged and smiled.


"Anyway, there actually was a rock stuck in the side of a 
mountain near Helsgate called the Devil's Cork by the locals.  
Supposedly no one has ever been able to move it.  Rumor has it 
that an earthquake in May obligingly popped the cork," Mulder 
paused for effect, "so to speak," he finished with a chuckle.  
Scully gave him a pained look, whether at his attempt at humor or 
at the conclusion she saw looming in his dissertation.


"The first death on record. . ."


Scully noticed the peculiar emphasis Mulder gave to those words.


". . . occurred four days before the new moon one month later.  
These latest series of deaths however began nine days before the 
new moon is due to occur, four days from now."


"Mulder, are you saying that there have been more than nineteen 
deaths?" Scully asked incredulously.


Mulder sighed and tried to put the best possible face on his 
conclusions.  Scully was going to be easy to convince compared to 
the sheriff of Helsgate.  At least, if he could convince Scully, 
he'd have one less battle to fight when they reached Helsgate.  
Windmills would be easier than Dr. Scully, but apparently whoever 
had arranged his life this time had decided he needed the 
challenge.


"Not only that, but there are two different types of murders 
going on," he said grimly.


He noticed that Scully was too polite to snort in disbelief, but 
the look she gave him spoke volumes.  If the matter was not so 
serious; if his need to convince her was any less intense, he 
would be resisting the temptation to cringe.


"Mulder. . .."


"No, Scully, listen to me.  I'm not suggesting two separate 
serial killers; one man with two different methods of killing.  
One involves ritual sacrifice performed within a specific form 
and function; the other is sheer murder for the love of killing."  
Mulder ran a hand through his already tousled hair then absently 
let it fall back down on his forehead.


"So far as I can tell from the reports and photos, there have 
been thirteen ritual murders; nine last month and so far five 
this month.  I think it very likely that there may be four more 
ritual murders before he stops again.  Nine is a mystic number.  
He's already killed five, so that leaves three out, although 
seven is a strong possibility, but I think he'll stick with 
nine."  Mulder's discourse trailed off as he realized he was 
beginning to ramble.


"Do you realize how . . . how . . .."  Scully searched for a word 
that would convey her skepticism without insulting her partner.


"Spooky?" Mulder supplied with a self-depreciating smile.


"Off-the-wall, I think were the words I was looking for, thank 
you," Scully snapped.


Mulder shrugged off the distinction.  Scully felt a twinge of 
guilt.  Mulder could be maddening most of the time, making leaps 
of assumption without any firm basis in fact, but his profiling 
skills were too good for her to dismiss them as flights of fancy.


"*If* you're right, Mulder, and that's a big *if* . . ."


Mulder grinned at her quibbling and Scully couldn't resist giving 
him a quick encouraging smile in return, before returning to her 
argument.


". . . how does he choose his victims?  Why does one end up as a 
candidate for ritual murder while another simply becomes a random 
victim?  There is always a pattern, Mulder, you've told me this 
repeatedly."


"I don't know!  It makes no sense, but that's what I'm picking 
up; the common thread linking all the reports and photos," he 
paused, a distant look of pain clouding his eyes.  "It's what I 
do, Scully," he whispered so softly that she wasn't sure he meant 
her to hear it.


Scully swallowed her retort.  There would be time enough for 
arguments later.  She gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze, letting 
her hand linger for a second or two longer than necessary to 
reassure him of her support no matter what her opinion of his 
theories.  A slight smile rewarded her efforts before he began 
busying himself packing up his briefcase as the plane began its 
descent.  Scully left him to his private thoughts as she 
concentrated on helping the plane land.

*********

Asheville, North Carolina
8:30 p.m.  July 19


It was getting dark by the time they cleared the Asheville 
airport.  A thunderstorm was coming in over the mountains with a 
spectacular display of lightning that lit up the hills.  Ominous 
dark clouds boiled down over the valley as Mulder and Scully 
sprinted to their rental car.  This time, in deference to the 
possible rugged terrain they might have to navigate, Mulder had 
arranged for a sturdy Ford Explorer.  By common consent they 
grabbed motel rooms on the out-skirts of Asheville rather than 
attempt the mountain roads at night.


Mulder knew he was too wired to sleep, but saw how tired Scully 
looked so he willingly agreed to the stop.  His headache had 
mysteriously disappeared the instant they had landed in 
Asheville.  Something or someone apparently felt that if they got 
this far, they weren't turning back.  He was willing to bet 
Scully's headache was gone as well, but knew she'd assure him she 
was fine even if her head was splitting apart, so he left her 
alone.


He managed to find a reasonable motel that didn't look like it 
was ready to collapse.  The evening wouldn't be a total loss; he 
could use the time to get the results of the searches he'd asked 
the Gunmen to run.  While Scully showered and changed, Mulder set 
up his lap-top to receive faxes and began sorting through the 
accumulated data.  When he heard the water shut off he ordered a 
light supper from room service and had dinner ready and waiting 
by the time Scully poked her head through the connecting door.


Later, over sandwiches, home-fries and ice tea, Mulder briefed 
Scully on the Gunmen's findings.


"You have no idea Scully, how bitterly disappointed Langely was 
to have to report that the sheriff was a model of integrity.  
About the only thing Langely could come up with against him, 
other than a tendency towards Reagan conservatism, was an open 
prejudice in favor of town over hill.  Byers couldn't find even a 
smidgen of evidence of nefarious government involvement in the 
area."


"I'm sure they'll get over the disappointment, Mulder."


"Probably, but they did turn up a decent history of the town.


"I can hardly wait.  A town that defies the Gunmen's belief in 
conspiracies."


"OK, according to Byers, up until ten years ago Helsgate was 
another dying Appalachian town decaying back into wilderness.  
Small family farms dotted the hills above the town clung 
tenaciously to traditional mountain culture, while the townsfolk 
struggled to develop a diverse economic base.  Salvation came 
with the recruitment of a computer hardware plant.  Low labor 
costs and hefty tax incentives lured the new industry to 
Helsgate."


"Sounds more like the town has a guardian angel than a resident 
demon, Mulder," Scully smiled around a large bite of roast beef 
sandwich.


"Well, Langely is convinced there has to be other, more sinister 
reasons, but admits that the chance to practically own a town 
could have been reason enough."


"Doesn't Langely like capitalism?"


"He likes capitalism fine, it's the robber barons that come with 
it that bother him; a bit like fleas on a dog."


"Anyway, since the arrival of the computer factory, the town has 
prospered.  The only downside is that this prosperity has created 
a growing chasm between the aspiring cosmopolitan towns-people 
and traditionalist-minded mountain folk."


"Let me guess Mulder, Sheriff Collins is a townsman."


"Got it on one, Scully.  He has even publically ridiculed the 
hill folk and borders on open harassment whenever they come into 
town.  Langely is convinced that only the fact that the more 
recent victims appear to be chosen at random between town and 
mountains has kept the sheriff from arresting some of his more 
vocal detracters among the hill folk."


"Well, it's a start, Mulder.  We've got a good solid antagonism 
between two sets of people.  Plenty of reason for a feud to get 
out of hand.  I think we'll probably find a very human, very
ordinary perp behind all of this," Scully said confidently as she 
popped the last home fry into her mouth.


While Mulder sent an e-mail thank-you back to the Gunmen, Scully 
read Frohike's list of several persons gone missing from the 
Appalachian Trail over the past two months, people never 
mentioned in the sheriff's report.  She wondered how people from 
the mountain farms might have gone missing without his knowledge.  
From the looks of things, the sheriff's concern seemed to stop at 
the town's boundaries unless something major, like a body, caught 
his attention.


Stifling a yawn, Scully finally gave up the struggle to stay 
awake.  It was barely 10 p.m. and Mulder looked good for another 
several hours, but Scully found the combination of almost no 
sleep the night before plus the stress of the day's events to be 
too much.


"Mulder, are you going to stay up all night?"


"No, just want to finish reading these reports."  Mulder looked 
up and gave Scully a soft smile.  "You look bushed.  Go on to 
bed.  I promise I will get some sleep."  Mulder held up his hand 
in the scout salute.


"Sure Mulder.  I'm supposed to believe you were a boy scout?"  
Scully let out an exasperated sigh that turned into a yawn.


Mulder waved her off to bed.  Scully gave him a tired glare and 
went to her own room, shutting the door behind her.  She hoped he 
would at least attempt to get some sleep, but she knew that on 
cases like this, Mulder and sleep tended to become strangers.


Before Scully had finished shutting the door, Mulder was deeply 
engrossed in a fax Byers had sent him of a nineteenth century 
manuscript.  It recorded the Cherokee legends of the area as well 
as the reports of the early settlers concerning the monster and 
the great battle to imprison him.


Scully was asleep almost before her head hit the pillow.  She had 
learned to treasure respites like this before the horrors of the 
case crashed home.  Threaded through her dreams, as always, was a 
silent prayer that Mulder would find rest in a sleep without the 
nightmares that haunted him.  Sometime after midnight, her 
prayers were answered when Mulder slipped into a deep sleep 
blanketed by faxes and reports and crime scene photos.  While his 
dreams were restless and uneasy, they did not disturb his sleep.  
The nightmares remained in the shadows on the edge of his 
awareness and did not emerge to torment him.

*********

Auld Sallie's Cabin
Sometime after midnight, July 20


After many hours of searching the dreamworld, Auld Sallie could 
sense that the summoned ones had arrived.  The mountains 
whispered their names until she wondered that the very woods 
didn't break out in song to herald their coming.  


"It is perhaps ta death that I ha summoned them an' I accept tha 
responsibility for their lives.  More weight upon a soul already 
deeply burdened, but I must have help an' tha ancient spirits o 
light an' air ha chosen these twa unwittin', but na unwillin' 
servants in tha fight against evil." she whispered to the night 
breezes.


She could sense that this would not be their first battle against 
ancient evils born anew.  That was good, perhaps they would be 
prepared for what they must face.


"Laird, I nearly lost them today.  Tha forces o' Hell are na 
bound ta this place as I be.  Thy name be praised tha thou sent 
one o' ma own distant clan ta be their protector.  Now they be 
within ma lands.  Now they be under ma protection."


The sickle moon was riding low on the horizon.  It would be red 
with the blood of sacrifices if the summoned ones could not halt 
the horror.  Another death befouled the sacred earth tonight.  
Auld Sallie recalled the horror she felt when she heard the howl 
of a soul torn from its moorings, cast into the maw of the demon.  
She knew her prayers could not succor the souls so sacrificed 
unless the demon was defeated.  Only then could the souls of the 
slaughtered sacrifices reach their fated end, be that Heaven or 
Hell or even somewhere in between as God willed.  The demon fed 
on bloody sacrifices born of a madman's dream.  An ancient 
summons, twisted in madness, given to a fool who thought he could 
trust the darkness that lurked on the other side of the gateway 
he labored to open.


She waited and watched long until sleep claimed the man and woman 
who had answered her call.  Sleep seemed to be a fickle companion 
for the man and she began to grow impatient with his efforts to 
fend off the slumber he needed.  Whispering words of quieting 
upon the night breeze blowing down from her mountains, Sallie 
felt him finally yield and surrender to sleep.  //Stubboorn 
ma'an, wastin' energy on battles na worth fightin'.//


Slipping into the dreamworld, she soared down to the lowland 
places and hovered to observe the mortal forms of the summoned 
ones.  Two such oddly matched champions.  The dark, brooding man 
harbored power: unfocused, raw energy that blazed around him.  
For him, the shadow world of dreams and myths lured him in a 
quest for faith, his own particular search for El Dorado.  For 
him, facts were a springboard to the greater truths he could 
sense yet could not reduce into solid, rational proof.  She could 
feel the man's thoughts; he was one who already walked half-in, 
half-out of her shadow-world.  His mind was strong, tormenting 
the shadow realm that bridges the world of the living and the 
dead.


The woman who walked at his side was fire to his darkness.  She 
seemed mesmerized by fact.  Wrapping herself in the crystal cold 
cloak of reason and science, she denied the fire that lurked 
behind the boundaries she had laid for herself.  Her flame-bright 
hair and sea-blue eyes betrayed her heritage as one of the sun-
worshipping Celts who settled on the soggy isle of Eire.  So 
strange to see one who was kin to her kin entranced by the cold-
iron allure of science.  She was, nonetheless, fey, as the man 
was fey.  Sallie shook her head in wonderment at the mysterious 
ways of God in choosing these two half-blind gropers for the 
truth to be His champions.


Cautiously she slipped into their dreams, a shadow among other 
shadows; testing their strength and resolution.  The dark man's 
dreams were haunted by ghosts that tore at his sanity but his 
spirit weathered the storms they summoned, battered and weary, 
but resolute.  He clung to a chain forged by an unshakable trust 
in his partner, anchoring him to sanity.  Sallie's appearance 
disturbed his dream, as if he sensed an alien presence, and she 
quickly retreated; it was not yet time to speak.  Few had ever 
sensed her intrusion, but this man sniffed the air like a hound 
catching a scent until she faded quickly beyond his reach, 
letting him sink back into his restless sleep.


The woman's dreams were fairy bright, passionate, rich tapestries 
just barely frosted with the chill touch of reason; so unlike her 
waking mind.  Finding few shadows, Sallie was forced to hide 
among the dark uncertainties that haunted the edges of her 
dreams.  These darkling memories smelled akin to those that 
haunted the dark man, but were not yet as strong.  Auld Sallie 
was pleased.  Their spirits were strong, perhaps strong enough to 
battle the forces being loosed in this remote place.


Sallie smiled as she reflected that this unlikely pair seemed to 
be linked in so many unlikely ways.  Swords of fire and darkness 
come to answer her summons; tempered spirits she could use to 
battle the gathering storm.  They had the resolution, forged in 
past battles, but whether they had the strength - only the gods 
of air and earth knew.  These two were the unwitting weapons she 
must use to strike down the fool who sought to open the gate to 
horror and chaos.  Their law and hers would be served.


"May tha price na be beyond our payin'," she prayed to the God 
she knew heard, but who answered in His own way and time.


**********

Helsgate, Tennessee
Early afternoon, July 20


Mulder tried to ignore the intent way Scully scanned the road map 
she had been clutching since they left Asheville.  Mulder could 
not fathom why Scully, who would trust him with her life, refused 
to trust him to find his way from point A to point B.


"Turn right here, Mulder."


"You know Scully, there is a lot of very nice scenery you could 
be looking at instead of that map.  I am not going to get us lost 
and yes I know I turn right here.  There are road signs that tell 
me such things," Mulder responded letting just a touch of 
asperity enter his voice.


Mulder wasn't sure whether it was a lack of trust or merely that 
she was using the map as an excuse to avoid reading the stack of 
tabloids and local papers he'd picked up at the diner where they 
stopped for lunch.  The "Slaughter at Helsgate" was big news and 
the tabloids were eating it up.  Even Mulder's normally open mind 
refused to give any credence to the notion that aliens had landed 
at Helsgate to start their war to take over the world.  


"Not interested in reading 'Aliens Invade Sleepy Mountain Town,' 
Scully?  How about 'Were-cat Terrorizes Local Residents'?  Then 
there's always the ever-popular, 'Demons Stalk HellsGate.'"


"Mulder, why do you spend good money on such trash?  I can find 
better news stories on Geraldo."  Scully straightened the map 
with a snap, refusing to rise to her partner's lure.


"Scully, I don't for one minute believe that aliens have chosen 
an isolated town like Helsgate to launch an invasion, unless of
course their navigator needs a serious refresher course in Earth 
geography," Mulder said with his usual ironic amusement.


"Still, there might be a grain of truth lodged somewhere amid all 
that chaff.  We are not dealing with an ordinary killer.  
Sometimes the fantastic is more credible than the banal rationale 
that a 'disturbed' mind is behind it all.  Of course the killer 
has a disturbed mind, the man is fucking crazy if he's doing what 
I think he's trying to do."  Mulder slammed his fist against the 
steering wheel, causing the car to shimmy slightly.


"Sorry, Scully.  It just seems that science prefers to close its 
eyes to the darkness and hides behind the platitude of a 
'disturbed' mind."


"Mulder, it won't help catch this killer if you run us off the 
road, much less get us lost.  I haven't seen a sign in over a 
half an hour.  Are you sure we're still on the right road?"  
Scully's voice dripped with suspicious pessimism.


"We're not lost Scully," Mulder assured his partner with a 
mischievous grin as he swung the car around a slow-moving pickup, 
then darted back into his lane, narrowly missing a speeding Land 
Rover coming from the opposite direction.


"In fact, I think we are just about to enter the bustling 
metropolis of Helsgate."


"Mulder I would prefer to arrive in Helsgate in one piece."  
Scully snapped breathlessly, trying to erase the vivid memory of 
their near collision, not the first today.  Seeing the boyish 
grin flash across her partner's face, she decided to emphasize 
her point.


"Mulder, it is my considered opinion that you should not be 
allowed behind the wheel of a car on two-lane country roads.  
Somewhere, buried deep within that urbane exterior of yours, 
lurks a race-car driver.  Personally I intend to live to collect 
my pension and not end up as road-kill on some damn country 
byway.  Am I making myself perfectly clear?"


Scully glared at him so hard he felt her gaze burn into the side 
of his head.  He turned and gave her a rueful grin and a slight 
shrug of his shoulders.  A large sign announced that they were 
entering the town limits of Helsgate, Tennessee, home of Delphi 
Electronics Corporation, and gateway to the Smokies.


A few neat wood-frame houses, ranging from restored farmhouses to 
Southern Gothic houses, soon gave way to modern brick homes 
creeping out from the center of town.  Many of the older homes 
had elaborate gardens and awesome shade trees that reminded 
Scully of slow summer afternoons spent on a hammock sipping 
lemonade watching the world roll past.  Just ahead of them she 
could see the town square: a model of historic restoration 
straight out of early-twentieth century Americana.  The historic 
look was marred now by a legion of vans sporting satellite dishes 
and antennae.  Nattily dressed men and women clutching notebooks 
and accosting wary citizens sprouted like weeds in the square.


"They're here," Mulder intoned in his best "Poltergeist" voice.  
As he ruefully surveyed the pack of media swarming about, he 
wondered again what he had done in a past life to deserve cases 
like this.  The case was fascinating and he was already beginning 
to formulate some theories, but this media circus was not on his 
agenda.  Diplomacy was never his strong point, but dealing with 
the media made his diplomatic skills look world-class.


"Be nice, Mulder," Scully cautioned.  She was even less thrilled 
to see the media than her partner, but had learned long ago to 
cope with them.  Perhaps having a naval captain as a father 
helped lend her voice that snap of authority that made even 
tabloid reporters quail long enough for her to make her escape.


"Where does it say in my job description that I have to be nice 
to reporters?"  Mulder glared at a van garishly decorated with 
the logo of a particularly rancid scandal sheet.  He felt his 
headache returning; it was going to be a long day.


There was nothing in the outward appearance of this small town to 
justify the hellish kind of murders being carried out in the 
surrounding hills.  Helsgate bore very few reminders of its 
Appalachian roots.  With the arrival of the high technology 
industries, Helsgate had furiously plunged into the modern age, 
ruthlessly wiping out all traces of its mountain heritage.  Only 
the carefully renovated and preserved town square recalled the 
past, but the area surrounding it had been transformed into a 
caricature of urban sprawl by modern buildings and fast food 
restaurants.


Threading the car carefully through the bottleneck in the square, 
Mulder drove almost through the remainder of the town until he 
reached the small ten-room motel on the out-skirts of town.  
Scully had been expecting the worst and was actually pleasantly 
surprised.  The Glen Morgan Inn was old, but appeared to be well-
kept.  It was painfully quaint, but the rooms were spacious and 
clean and the view of the mountains was almost worth enduring the 
studiously mountain-rustic decor.  The parking lot was festooned 
with more media vans and the clerk had a faintly harried air 
about her that brightened once they identified themselves as FBI 
agents.  Scully was relieved to find that the sheriff had 
reserved two rooms for them, otherwise, as the clerk confided, 
they'd have had to drive about 70 miles to the next motel.


After dumping their luggage in the rooms, Mulder accepted that he 
had no further excuse for delaying their visit to the sheriff.  
He gave an appraising look at the stack of newspapers he'd bought 
as if they might provide him with an excuse, but Scully gave him 
a stern look and herded him back outside.  She wasn't looking 
forward to running the gauntlet either but the sooner they got it 
over with, the sooner they could turn their attention to the 
case.  As they walked back to their car, a Jeep roared up.


"Hop in folks.  Sheriff Collins sent me to pick you up once Nancy 
gave the word you'd arrived.  Parking's nigh to impossible with 
all those damned reporters, but man have our ticket revenues sure 
picked up."


The crisp-looking young deputy appointed as their driver grinned 
boyishly.  This was exciting to him and Mulder felt certain that 
somehow he'd managed to avoid being affected by the murders.  
Maybe the sheriff had kept him from the crime scenes, probably on 
traffic detail or perhaps as a genial sheepdog herding the media 
about.  The kid didn't look to be much over twenty and would be 
just perfect for dealing with the media.  Mulder began having 
some hope that the sheriff, having shown such savvy intelligence, 
was going to be a man he could work with.


Scully headed to the local freezer company temporarily designated 
as a morgue to review the autopsy on the latest victim.  Mulder 
went directly to the sheriff to discuss his preliminary profile.


The sheriff's office was almost obscenely modern even though it 
occupied one of the historical buildings whose facade was 
carefully preserved.  Computers, fax machines and other high-tech 
paraphernalia littered the office.  Mulder saw it as an 
antithesis to his basement office.  Personally he found the 
town's embrace of modern architecture to be enough to raise any 
number of outraged ghosts from the area's past.  There was a 
Yuppie feel to the town that warred with the ghosts of rural 
Appalachia hovering beyond the town line.


"So, you're the FBI agent Washington's seen fit to send me as an 
answer to all my prayers.  Freyson said you were good, spooky but 
good."  Sheriff Collins bit off the ends of his words as if they 
tasted sour.  The sheriff was a short stocky man with a temper 
like a pit-bull with a toothache.


Mentally asking the gods for patience, Mulder nodded and held out 
his hand.  He made a mental note to do something about that 
optimistic streak of his.  


"I'm Agent Mulder.  My partner, Agent Scully, has gone to review 
the autopsy reports.  When she returns I'll probably be able to 
give you a firmer idea of what we're up against."


The sheriff looked at the hand for a long moment then took it in 
a grip that nearly sent Mulder to his knees.  When Mulder's eyes 
flinched, the sheriff gave a small satisfied grunt and released 
his hand.  Cool, professional, yet cooperative, that's the ticket 
Mulder thought as he concentrated on restoring the circulation to 
his abused hand.


"Well, you better be as good as they say.  I'm up to my ass in 
reporters, wildlife agents and most of the people around here are 
getting ready to shoot at anything that moves.  I need answers 
and I need them now.  You boys from Washington think you're so 
great.  Well prove it.  Give me a killer, animal or man, I don't 
much care at the moment."


"Well I can pretty well assure you the suspect is not a mountain 
lion, at least most of the time.  It is possible that he might be 
able to shift form, but most of the killing is done in human 
form."  Mulder tried to lower the boom as gently as he could, but 
from the icy glare the sheriff shot him, it was a wasted effort.


"My God, you are as flaky as Freyson said you were."


"Although my initial findings indicate that you have a serial 
killer fixated on some type of ritual, possibly satanic in 
nature, I believe there is some evidence of a mix of animal and 
human killings.  They are close enough in style to indicate that 
the perpetrator of both types is the same individual." 


"I don't care what kind of bullshit you're used to shovelling 
back East, boy, but I don't appreciate you calling one of my 
people a raving lunatic killer.  We are all mostly kin around 
here and those that aren't kinfolk are close friends."


"Well, sheriff, it makes more sense that the killer is a local 
than some outsider.  The killer knows the area, has chosen his 
sites too well for it to be an outsider.  As you said yourself, 
outsiders are noticed and I haven't seen any reports of an 
outsider lurking about, have you?"  Mulder fought to keep his 
temper in line as he realized that he was going to bear the brunt 
of the sheriff's impotent fury over the killings.


"There were nine ritual slayings last month, six so far this 
month.  They are laid out in a precise occult pattern.  My best 
guess is that the killer will strike again tonight and again for 
two more nights.  You're missing the ritual slayings because 
they're mixed in with the more random slaughters."  


"This New Age crap you're peddling . . . ritual sacrifices, 
alignment with some mystical compass . . ..  Damn it, if that's 
the best you can come up with, I could have saved the taxpayers a 
hell of a lot of money by just going to talk with some of our 
local airheads.  You on drugs Agent Mulder or just naturally 
flaky?"  The sheriff carefully enunciated Mulder's rank as if in 
total disbelief that he could have earned it.


"I've heard about you *Agent* Mulder.  You chase aliens and 
mutants.  When I told those damn press boys you were coming, they 
couldn't stop telling me stories about you.  Why the hell did the 
FBI send you here?  You going to tell me we got aliens?"


"Actually no.  The Reticulans prefer the desert in July.  May is 
really the month you need to watch out for them in the 
mountains."  Mulder knew he would regret his flippancy but it was 
either that or tell the sheriff exactly what an idiot he was.


The sheriff's face began turning an alarming shade of red.  
Mulder wondered if the man was going to have a stroke.  Not that 
he personally minded, but it would create a problem in 
coordinating the investigation.  Then there was Skinner to 
consider.  How would he react to the news that two hours after he 
arrived in town to investigate a serial killing, he drove the 
local sheriff into a coronary?  Not a pretty thought, Mulder 
reflected as he braced himself for the sheriff's reply.


**********

Helgate, Tennessee
late afternoon, July 20


Walking back from the temporary morgue, Scully found herself 
suddenly besieged by reporters.  Ignoring them and tossing out a 
crisp no-nonsense 'no comment' got her through most of the pack, 
but as she hurried down the street she realized that she still 
had one persistent hound on her heels.  She stopped and turned so 
abruptly that the poor man practically ran into her.  Grabbing 
him by the arms she prevented a collision.


"Sorry ma'am, sorry . . . I . . . uhm . . .."  The young man took 
a deep breath to steady himself, looked down at Scully then 
hastily turned his eyes to a point about two inches above her 
head and took another deep breath.


Scully felt a laugh surge perilously close to escaping.  This 
young man was obviously green or else completely unused to 
interviewing strangers.  He was almost as tall as Mulder with 
long brown hair neatly pulled into a ponytail, wire-rim glasses 
and freckles, lots and lots of freckles and was built like a 
linebacker.  Despite the awkward expression on his face and in 
the way he moved, Scully saw a deep penetrating awareness shining 
out from his eyes.  The contradiction between his body language 
and the expression in his eyes fascinated her and she forgot to 
make her escape while he was distracted.


"I'm Francis Macsen.  I'm the reporter, actually the reporter, 
editor and printer, of the _Helsgate Dominion_.  I know you're 
busy and you're probably thinking of any number of things you'd 
rather be doing than talking to me, but I am a desperate man."  
Francis gave her a rueful grin that reminded Scully of Mulder 
when he was trying to get her to do the paperwork again.


"You're a reporter.  All reporters are desperate by nature," 
Scully shot back sternly.


Despite her efforts to remain stern, Scully's smile slipped out. 
and she found herself actually willing to take a few minutes to 
hear this young man out.  Either he really was this green or else 
he had latched onto the most clever entrance line she had ever 
encountered and her curiosity was aroused.  Mulder was probably 
getting himself in trouble with the local sheriff with his 
theories, but he was a big boy and could probably take care of 
himself.  This was a chance to talk with one of the locals about 
the case and find out things the sheriff might have neglected to 
include in his reports.


"OK, if you know where we can get some coffee without being 
hassled by the other reporters, I'll talk, providing you give me 
some information in return," Scully said firmly.  


"Bless you ma'am . . . er . . . Agent Scully.  My office is just 
around the corner and I can guarantee you that none of the others 
want to slum that much.  One-horse-town rags are beneath their 
dignity to notice, as mighty champions of the press."


Scully did laugh this time.  Francis was an endearing combination 
of green reporter and astute sardonic commentator of society.  If 
he was ever turned loose on Washington, he'd probably have the 
secrets of the Consortium in his pocket before they even knew 
what hit them.  She realized he was a dangerous young man, 
precisely because he was disingenuous and disarming.  She 
resolved to keep a close eye on her words and an even closer eye 
on what he said.


"Here we are.  All the comforts of home, actually it is home, but 
that's beside the point."  Francis ushered her into the dim 
office.  She was half expecting to see an old-time printing press 
and ink-stained printers devils in leather aprons scurrying 
about, but instead was greeted by a modern computerized printer 
and a sophisticated computer station worthy of the Lone Gunmen.  
Francis grinned at her startled expression and escorted her to a 
comfortable chair.


//A very, very dangerous young man,// Scully reminded herself.  
The coffee was excellent, better than most she bought.  Over the 
rim of the cup she raised an eyebrow at Francis who grinned 
again.


"A friend bought me a gift membership in a coffee club on the 
Internet.  I actually *own* a coffee tree somewhere in Columbia.  
I get a one pound sack of coffee beans sent to me every month.  
With coffee like this, I don't know why anyone would fool around 
with drugs."


"Mr. Macsen, has anyone ever told you that you are a very 
dangerous young man," Scully asked bluntly.  Francis looked 
startled for a moment then relaxed with a sardonic smile.  
//Damn, he reminds me of Mulder, without the obsessions.//


"Yes, ma'am, my professors at Columbia did kind of mention that 
somewhere along the line, as I recall," Francis drawled with a 
wicked look in his eyes.  Scully nearly choked on her coffee as 
she glared at him.  


"OK, ma'am . . . Agent Scully.  What do you want to be called?  
Ma'am seems proper but I get the feeling you suddenly feel about 
fifty every time you hear it."


"Agent Scully will do just fine."  Scully retreated behind 
formality.  This was a very formidable young man and she wanted 
all the defenses she could muster.


"OK, Agent Scully, why has the FBI been called in?  Up to now 
Harvey has been adamant that we're dealing with some wild beast.  
Of course he started out with a rabid dog pack then shifted to 
bears and now, as I recall, the latest theory is a mountain lion 
with cubs.  Now I'm no mountain boy, but I'd say this beast is 
more accustomed to walking on two legs, than four.  And I haven't 
heard lately that the FBI handles beast attacks, though from what 
the other members of the press were saying, your partner is the 
resident FBI expert on the weird.  General consensus is that the 
stranger the case, the more likely you'll see Agent Fox Mulder."


"Agent Mulder is here to profile a very human perpetrator, Mr. 
Macsen.  There may be some attacks that could be laid to a wild 
animal or perhaps an animal trained and used by the perpetrator, 
but the majority of the attacks appear to be of human origin."  
Scully picked her words carefully, trying to conceal her anger 
that the tabloids were already poised to sensationalize Mulder's 
involvement in this affair.


"Well then perhaps we can exchange some useful information.  I'll 
tell you what I know and you give me an exclusive interview once 
the killer has been caught."  Francis held out his hand to shake 
on the proposed deal.


After a long moment of reflection, Scully agreed and they shook 
on it.  Better to have at least one member of the pack on their 
side.  At least she felt she knew where Macsen stood, which is 
more than she could say for the tabloids.


"OK, Agent Scully, I understand you can't divulge any information 
beyond what I've already got.  We can save the gory details for 
the exclusive interview.  Better for sales that way.  I don't 
want to spoil the story."


"You seem awfully sure there's going to be a story."


"Agent Scully, I have done a fair amount of research on you and 
your partner once the sheriff announced the FBI was involved.  
Between the sheriff's loud mouth and my Knoxville sources, I 
probably knew you were coming before you did.  Freyson is no 
fool.  He wouldn't have recommended calling in Agent Mulder 
unless he felt he was the best man for the job.  Your solve rate 
is almost twice that of any other FBI field operatives and Agent 
Mulder was once considered the 'Golden Boy' of the Behavioral 
Sciences unit at Quantico.  If you two can't solve this, I'm 
moving to safer ground."


Scully smiled and surrendered the point.  It briefly crossed her 
mind that if Francis was the killer, he could have chosen no 
better way of assessing his opposition than by waylaying and 
charming her into this conversation.  Trying to envision Francis 
as a crazed killer mutilating his victims or shredding them into 
hamburger, however, was beyond her powers of imagination.  Still, 
she tucked the thought away and kept a close guard on her tongue.


"Any background information you can provide on the victims would 
be helpful."


"Gossip you mean.  Well, what's a reporter anyway, but a gossip 
who gets paid for it?"  Francis grinned and sat on his desk, 
propping his feet on the back of an ancient wooden swivel chair.


"Let's see now, the first known victims were all mountain folk 
caught out on the hills after nightfall.  Took the sheriff a good 
five corpses and no telling how many missing before he decided 
maybe something strange was going on.  I'm surprised it only took 
five deaths," Francis added with a bitter bite to his words.


Scully raised an eyebrow at his tone.


"Sorry.  Fact is the sheriff considers most of the mountain folk 
to be shiftless, boozing embarrassments to his bustling modern 
community.  Never mind that they and their families have been in 
these hills next to forever and most are hard-working farmers 
trying to scratch a living from the land."


Scully thought she sensed a bit of partiality towards the 
mountain people in Francis but she wasn't sure.


"Then there is tension between the town and the farmers?"


"Not exactly tension.  More like each tries to ignore the other.  
Sure, there is the occasional brawl and feuding is still a 
recreational pastime for some of the hill families, but no one 
ever gets seriously hurt on purpose."


"Could these deaths be a result of a feud gone bad?"


"No, I don't think so.  I'd have heard something.  I have kin 
among the hill folk, though most consider me to be a decadent 
lowlander.  Most of them think the demon's come back.  There's a 
booming market in witch-markers and charms up in the hills."


"Demon?"


"Don't laugh, Agent Scully.  I've heard about the demon since I 
was a boy.  Rather famous story hereabouts."


"You honestly believe these murders were committed by a demon?"


"I didn't say I believed it, just that most of the folks living 
up in the hills believe it.  Superstition is still a very 
powerful force among the hill folk.  Even some of the town's 
people have gotten a charm or two to hang on their porches."


//Mulder is going to love this.//


"Well, perhaps someone is using the story to cover his tracks."


"Possible, but I wouldn't discount superstition quite so quickly.  
There's a feel to the air that I don't like.  Sort of like a 
storm brewing that won't break; just keeps building and building 
until you ache with wanting it to burst."


Francis got up and refilled his cup, offering more coffee to 
Scully.  She shook her head and motioned him to continue with his 
story.


"OK, seems that about three hundred years ago, give or take a 
decade or two, this cat monster was spawned from an unholy union 
between a woman and a demon.  The Cherokee say she was one of the 
ghost people who had come up from the south and been exiled from 
her clan for practicing witchcraft.  She died giving the demon 
child birth or some say he took her as his first victim."


"Ghost people?"


"Not important.  Anyway, this demon terrorized the area on and 
off for nearly a hundred years.  Victims were found shredded in 
much the same way as the victims today.  The mutilations are 
something new, however.  Legend says his constant attacks drove 
the Tuscaroras over east of here clean away.  When the colonists 
began drifting into the area, the demon turned his attentions to 
them and nearly wiped them out.  That's when the story really 
takes a dramatic turn."


Francis paused and grinned.   His smile lit up his entire face 
with a boyish charm that captivated Scully despite her intention 
to remain professionally objective.  There was something 
endearing and alluring about Francis and Scully felt a definite 
attraction to this contradictory young man.


Forcing her attention back to the purpose of the story, Scully 
noted several points she wanted clarification on.  Who were these 
ghost people that Francis claimed were so unimportant?  Where was 
he getting the details of the attacks?  None of Mulder's sources 
had mentioned this.  If the details were common knowledge locally 
then anyone could have set the murders up by following the 
legend.


"Sorry, curse of a story-telling grandfather.  He always liked to 
pause for dramatic effect."  Francis took a long drink of coffee, 
cleared his throat and resumed his story.


"According to the legend, the demon was finally imprisoned by a 
strange white woman who confronted it and in a three-day long 
battle that rearranged large portions of the landscape, finally 
imprisoned it.  Legend has it that she vowed to remain in the 
hills, watching and guarding against the demon's escape.  The 
Cherokee believed that she was a spirit.  I guess they felt that 
the area was becoming rather infested with supernatural events 
and abandoned the area for safer territory."


"I reckon everyone around here has traipsed up to the Devil's 
Cork at one time or another and had a try at getting into the 
cave.  I can tell you that it is one giant piece of rock.  I went 
up there several times as a kid and have heard people talk about 
even trying dynamite to dislodge the rock without any success.  
It's considered bad luck to try ever since the last person to try 
dynamiting it managed to blow himself up instead of the rock.  
And him an experienced explosives expert too."


Again Francis paused, giving Scully a sly look that soon 
dissolved into chuckles.


"I rather suspect the jug of moonshine found near the body is a 
far better explanation for his mistake than a supernatural 
protection.  Makes a great story anyway.  I also suspect more 
people have boasted of trying to move the rock than have actually 
tried.  After all, if the rock was dislodged and nothing 
spectacular found behind it, a nice legend would be destroyed and 
with it much of our local color."


"If the rock is so solidly blocking the cave, then how do people 
explain the sudden reappearance of the demon?" Scully asked in a 
deliberately skeptical tone, trying to show Francis she wasn't 
going to be pulled in by his story-telling tricks.


"Well, rather conveniently, we had this little earthquake in May.  
It shook loose a lot of things in these mountains and some feel 
it may have even shook loose the Devil's Cork.  I know for a fact 
that the quake changed landmarks that have been around for 
generations.  So it's not inconceivable that it popped the 
Devil's Cork.  When the attacks began and the resemblance to the 
old legend became evident, I tried to check out the story, but I 
couldn't find the cave again.  It's as if the cave has gotten 
lost.  I got lost myself when a storm hit the mountains.  Damn 
near drowned standing up.  Other people have reported similar 
problems.  Some even have had accidents on the trails."


"So no one is available to help us find the cave?  Rather 
convenient for the murderer."


"Well, I'll admit, when people started going missing, interest in 
trying to find the cave dropped off.  No one is willing to risk 
becoming a victim just to see if an old legend were true."


The clock in the corner of The office struck 4 p.m. with a full 
peal of Westminster chimes.  Scully jumped.  She was suddenly 
reminded that her partner was alone with the sheriff.


"It's late.  I better go rescue Agent Mulder.  If the sheriff is 
as narrow-minded as you hinted, I don't think he is going to like 
what my partner had to tell him."


"And that is?"  Francis said hopefully.


"No way, Francis.  Remember our bargain."


"Can't blame a man for trying, Agent Scully.  To prove my good 
faith, I'll even show you a back way to the sheriff's office that 
should avoid the circus out there."


"Good faith or a desire to protect your 'exclusive' interview?"


Francis merely grinned and escorted her out the back door into an 
alley.  Meanwhile, in the town square, swarms of reporters were 
surging around looking for someone to interview.


At the back door of the sheriff's office, Francis once again 
transformed himself into a gawky, green reporter and actually 
blushed as he opened the door and waved her in.  Scully sighed 
and wondered which was the true Francis Macsen, the gawky green 
kid or the shrewd sardonic observer of human nature.  Just what 
she needed, she addressed Heaven with an indignant sigh, another 
mystery.

**********

Sheriff's Office 
Helsgate, Tennessee
Late afternoon, July 20


"Listen, you overpaid, overdressed excuse for a law officer, I 
don't need some damn outsider trying to tell me one of my own 
people is capable of this kind of violence."


"Well, someone needs to tell you that you're going to have more 
murders unless you get over your fascination with random killings 
and accept that you've got a serial killer on your hands."


"Bullshit.  Great fucking bullshit.  I got a God-damn fucking 
lunatic on my hands."  


Sheriff Collins raged around the office scattering deputies who 
hastily fled to safe corners before storming back to stand toe-
to-toe with Mulder.


"Serial killers I might be forced to accept, maybe even that one 
of my people could be involved, but there is no way I can believe 
your notions that this is all part of some fancy satanic ritual  
That just doesn't wash down here.  We're all God-fearing people 
in this town."


Mulder took a deep breath and tried to control his rising temper.


"Sheriff, will you at least consider the possibility that, heaven 
forbid, you could be wrong?  Fifteen of the bodies are laid out 
in a precise pattern.  The others are just a smoke-screen.  For 
God's sake, sheriff, I can show you the damn pattern in a book if 
that would help."


"Sure.  And this supposed pattern extends over half the county?  
Do you take me for a fool?"


"No, because a fool would have more sense!" Mulder snapped, 
finally losing the battle for control of his temper.


Scully walked on the tail end of Mulder's angry retort and sighed 
in frustration. 


The sheriff exploded in a fit of profanity.  


"God-fucking damn, Agent Mulder.  I swear you'd drive God 
Almighty to drink with your fucking stupid ideas.  Don't you ever 
fucking call me a fucking fool again or I'll send you back to 
Washington in ten different pieces, you hear me *Agent* Mulder?"


Watching the two of them, the short stocky sheriff and her tall 
lanky partner, Scully couldn't help visualizing a bulldog baiting 
an Irish wolfhound.  The sheriff came up to Mulder's chest and 
had to look up to face him, a fact he obviously resented.


She saw the storm rising in Mulder's eyes as his effort to remain 
calm and professional began to collapse.  She moved quietly to 
stand beside him, backing him up, even if just in the matter of 
helping him hold his temper.  Mulder flashed her a quick grateful 
smile, then turned back to the sheriff.  Scully braced herself.  
From what she heard as she walked in, this sheriff might occupy a 
modern office with all the latest equipment, but his attitudes 
were strictly early cave-man.  Having to deal with a female agent 
was probably not going to soothe his temper.


To her surprise, upon seeing her, the sheriff bit back further 
comments 


"Agent Scully, glad you could join us.  Do you have anything of 
value I can use in my investigation?"  The sheriff kept his face 
averted from Mulder's smoldering eyes and waited courteously for 
her report.  


"After reviewing the autopsy reports and examining the latest 
body, I can categorically state that all the victims died of 
massive trauma and blood loss.  The mutilations were carved into 
the flesh before death, probably with a hunting knife with a 
large blade.  Subsequent to this ritual death, the bodies were 
shredded, chunks of muscle and bone were carved out and the 
remains scattered around the site.  In addition, on the bodies 
indicated by Agent Mulder as possible ritual slayings, I found 
bruising and lacerations on the wrists and ankles consistent with 
some sort of restraint, probably leather or rope.  They were 
obscured by the mutilation and shredding of the bodies but are 
still evident.  Your coroner missed those marks completely, 
sheriff."


Scully laid out her report in short, simple language, knowing it 
would do nothing to appease the sheriff.  It had taken an 
intense, careful scrutiny before she could find the signs that 
there was a purpose behind the killings.  She might not entirely 
believe Mulder's theories of why, but she respected his instincts 
enough to pursue a detailed analysis of the bodies.


"Haaah!"  The sheriff shot Mulder an 'I-told-you-so' look.


"Upon further examination of the photos of the earlier killings 
and comparing them to the photos of the killings in this cycle I 
found that the pattern of mutilations matched exactly.  You have 
two identical cycle of murders, apparently matching exactly one 
death to another in each cycle.  All indications suggest one 
killer following an exact pattern, possibly ritual in nature."


Scully noted but didn't acknowledge Mulder's look of relief, 
thanks and resigned horror.


"Thank you Agent Scully for a very intelligent, though completely 
unwelcome report.  Now, ma'am, if you will excuse me I have work 
to do."  The sheriff, having thanked her politely, retreated to 
his desk, ignoring Mulder completely.


"Mulder, what happened?"  Scully asked as Mulder shrugged and 
headed off to the desk assigned to them.  It was shoved over as 
far into one corner as possible, nearly hidden behind file 
cabinets as if the sheriff could put them out of sight and out of 
mind until they came up with something useful.


"Let's just say that the sheriff and I had a failure to 
communicate."  Mulder's eyes were still furious, but a little of 
his usual sardonic humor peeked out.  "He's agreed to have one of 
his deputies take us to the various crime scenes.  I've already 
tried to get directions to the cave, but the sheriff is being 
spectacularly unhelpful in that regard.  If you can get Deputy 
Cullum, I believe his name was, to pinpoint the sites on a map it 
would be a help.  The sites are important, if the pattern I 
suspect exists."


"OK Mulder, but if I have to go out through that mob again, 
you're buying me dinner at the fanciest restaurant I can find 
when we get back to Washington."  Scully gave him an exasperated 
look.  Mulder chuckled as he realized she had had to walk back 
from the temporary morgue right through the media.


"Hazardous duty pay, eh Scully?" he chuckled as they went off in search of Deputy Cullum.


"You have no idea, Mulder.  Oh, by the way, Francis says that the 
earthquake rather rearranged things last May and the trails to 
the cave are gone."


"Convenient . . . Francis?"  Mulder looked sharply at his 
partner's smug expression.


"Just a friendly reporter I met.  Nice man.  Great coffee.  
Remind me to introduce you."  Scully enjoyed the slightly 
frazzled, mostly befuddled look in Mulder's eyes.  //Score one 
for the Irish,// she thought contentedly.

********

Helsgate, Tennessee
Late afternoon, July 21


Twilight brought with it a cool breeze that clipped the sharp 
edge off the brooding heat of the day.  Mulder paused in his 
frustrated pacing to watch the shadows ease out of their secret 
places as the sun retreated.  He was exhausted: he had plunged 
into autopsy reports, site evidence and a growing pile of 
computer print-outs trying to fathom the mind or minds of those 
responsible for these killings.


Angry at his inability to grasp the mind of the killer, he chased 
even Scully away to a safe distance with growls and glares.  He 
scowled at the stark bloody facts surrounding the killer's 
victims as if he could pull the truth that lay behind the facts 
from the darkness that surrounded his adversary.


The farms and small communities dotting the mountainsides 
surrounding Helsgate clung stubbornly to the culture and 
architecture of their fore-fathers, although Mulder had seen 
modern equipment in use on more than one farm during yesterday's 
tour of some of the more accessible murder sites.


Helsgate was aptly named in his opinion.  His dreams last night 
had resembled something out of Lovecraft's worst nightmares.  
Hellish was the only adjective he could think of.  Yet, there was 
a brooding sense of being watched by something or someone not 
hostile, but definitely intrusive and curious.  Mulder hated 
being watched and his paranoia was almost spiraling out of 
control at the thought that somebody was capable of slipping into 
his dreams.  Memories of Modell still bled from the raw sores in 
his mind.


Mulder felt himself floundering in shadows until he slashed at 
them, and anyone else in range, in rage and frustration; his mind 
spinning like a top, searching for the bits and pieces of truth 
that the facts obscured.  Seven deaths in seven days, the latest 
just last night.  Two more to go before this cycle would be 
complete, unless the killer chose the sacred seven as his pattern 
this month.


A loud outraged voice on the street outside interrupted his 
musings.


"Damn it Agent Scully!  Are you as much of an idiot as that 
fucking partner of yours?  I thought you were the intelligent one 
of the pair of you."


Mulder groaned softly.  The sheriff was not a happy man.  In 
fact, Mulder could say without any fear of contradiction, that 
the sheriff was a thunderingly unhappy man.  He was making no 
effort to hide his opinion that Agent Mulder did not live up to 
his idea of what an FBI agent should be.


With a sigh for his part in ruining the sheriff's opinion of the 
national government, Mulder grabbed his suit coat and prepared to 
leave.  He wanted to get to the car before the sheriff or the 
press had a chance to corner him.  Scully was proving, as usual, 
to be far more diplomatic with the man that he could ever hope to 
be.  She shouldn't have to intervene again to keep him from 
telling the sheriff he was an unmitigated ass.


As he fled the office, Mulder ran smack into Francis who was 
skulking around the back door.  Mulder had never actually seen 
anyone skulk before, but could come up with no better word for 
what Francis was doing.


"Agent Mulder, it's an honor to run into you, literally," Francis 
commented cheerfully as he helped Mulder regain his balance.


"Not now Macsen." Mulder growled trying to keep his temper.  
Scully had told him about Macsen, who was feeding her all sorts 
of useful local information, but he was in no mood to cope with 
even cooperative reporters.


"It's OK, Agent Mulder.  I don't bite.  Agent Scully and I have 
an agreement.  I don't badger you and she gives me an exclusive 
interview once this is all over.  Thought you'd like to know, 
Jake Harmon didn't come home this morning and his best buddy, 
Miles Tolfer hasn't been seen since last night."


"You suggesting Tolfer is a suspect?"


"Not in the least, Agent Mulder.  Tolfer is a strapping young man 
with more brawn than brains, but Jake is the meanest fighter in 
this county.  Tolfer couldn't take him with a two-by-four.  Just 
thought you'd like to know."


Francis started to leave, then stopped, gave Mulder a curious, 
almost apprehensive look that sent shivers up Mulder's spine.  
Now he began to understand why Scully seemed so cautious about 
using him.


"The storm's near to breaking.  Witch-markers have gone up on the 
trails and there's rumors of a witch-hunt forming.  I don't like 
the smell of things."  Francis gave a quick shudder and looked 
apprehensively up at the mountains then walked quickly away.


Mulder shook his head.  His mind was dripping in blood and a 
barely sensed feeling of impending doom hovered like a damned 
vulture.  Now the voice of doom was coming out of the mouth of a 
small-town reporter.  Mulder winced as his headache made the 
fading daylight shimmer and shatter into thousands of glaring 
bits of light.


Mulder turned the corner towards the street and his car and 
stopped abruptly when the sheriff's angry voice boomed out.


"Damn it, how long does he intend on standing there detailing all 
my sins to Scully?  Why in hell doesn't she just tell him to go 
off and fuck himself?"


Mulder withdrew back into the alley and listened to the tirade, 
praying the sheriff would grow tired before his own temper 
exploded.  Scully did not deserve to be caught in the middle of a 
shouting match.


"Agent Scully, you have got a fucking madman for a partner," 
blustered the red-faced barrel of a man dressed in a sheriff's 
uniform.  "I don't have the manpower to patrol those damn woods 
looking for some goddamned cult!  I've known everyone in this 
county since they were pups and no one here worships anything 
more exotic than Elvis!" Collins thundered.


"Then sheriff, you will probably have another body by morning," 
Scully retorted coldly, looking up only a spare inch or two to 
meet his fuming eyes.  "Agent Mulder may be exasperating, 
unorthodox and perhaps even off-the-wall, but he is the best 
profiler in the Bureau."  She paused, fixed the sheriff with cold 
blue eyes before continuing, "That is what you asked for, isn't 
it?"


Sheriff Collins turned even redder.  Scully mentally considered 
the possibility of an impending stroke, then decided that this 
man's arteries were probably used to his tantrums by now.  The 
sheriff gave her a blistering stare and stomped off, muttering 
profanely.  Mulder's name seemed to crop up frequently and she 
suspected her own name was beginning to appear in the sheriff's 
profane litany.


Mulder moved quietly out of the alley to stand behind her as she 
watched the sheriff disappear into the coffee shop across from 
his office.


"Damn me with faint praise, Scully?"


"Mulder, I thought you were still buried in your profiles."  
Scully didn't jump, but her quick flush betrayed her 
embarrassment, whether for her near-agreement with the sheriff on 
her partner's flaws or for her ardent defense of his theories, 
she wasn't sure.


"Considering Sheriff Collin's opinion of me and my profiles, I 
doubt if they'll be much use," Mulder said morosely.  Anger mixed 
with exhaustion had turned his eyes into dark hollows buried in a 
stubbled grey face.  He rubbed at the back of his neck, blinking 
in the growing twilight.


"I think the sheriff has a bit of a problem with the notion that 
the murders are occuring in an arcane occult pattern that 
stretches over an area twenty square miles across.  You weren't 
exactly at your tactful best," Scully added with a slight smile 
to take the sting out of her words.


"Who me?" Mulder asked, trying to look innocent and failing 
miserably. "If the man is so committed to the idea of random, 
unconnected slayings interspersed with animal attacks, then why 
in hell did he contact the FBI?"  Mulder stormed as he steered 
his partner to their rental car.


"I don't know Mulder, and truth-be-told, I don't think the 
sheriff does either," Scully said as she got in the car.


Mulder sighed as he got behind the wheel.  "I tried, I really 
did, but the man's mind is so damned closed."


"I know, Mulder, I saw you trying," Scully said patiently.


She considered it worth butting heads with the sheriff to make 
sure Mulder felt guilty enough to at least attempt to eat 
something.  To her certain knowledge he had not eaten more than a 
bite or two since the dinner in Asheville night before last.


"Come on Mulder.  Back to the motel.  Just stretch out for a 
couple of hours.  I promise I'll call you if anything happens."


"Scully, I can't sleep.  He's going to strike again.  If I can 
just make sense of the damn evidence."


"Mulder, stop it.  You won't do anyone any good if you collapse.  
You haven't eaten or slept since night before last.  You are 
going to eat something and then take a nap if I have to handcuff 
you to the damn bed!"  Scully's temper was beginning to flare.


Mulder gave her a very weary attempt at a leer.  "Oh Scully, your 
timing on that offer sucks."


Scully's eyes turned ice-cold and she began a slow advance on her 
partner while reaching for her handcuffs.


"OK, OK, I'll be good.  Let's stop for a burger and then I'll lie 
down.  Just no cuffs, OK.  I'm too tired to even think about 
bondage games."


"Just get in the car, Mulder.  Now!"


Mulder did as she ordered.  He wasn't hungry and didn't even want 
to think about trying to sleep, but Scully's temper was nothing 
to fool around with.  


Sleep eluded him but he did stretch out on the bed to rest under 
her stern watchful eye.  Mulder did not expect to sleep, his 
nerves were strung too tight and images of the dead flashed like 
sudden beacons behind his closed eyelids, but it was easier to 
lay down than argue with Scully when she was in full protective, 
nurturing mode.  He felt her watching over him until she dozed.  
As he lay there, he let his mind race through the scattered bits 
and pieces of this bloody jigsaw puzzle, trying to fit them all 
together.  Finally his sleep-starved body slid into restless 
inertia.  While his body rested, his mind slipped off after 
nightmares of a more personal nature.


Scully was deep asleep when the phone rang just past dawn.  She 
awoke to Mulder's profane curse and to the news that an eighth 
victim had turned up.  The media were swarming like sharks as 
they left the motel.


"No comment."


"No, I refuse to make any comment until I have examined the evidence at the scene."


"No, I don't think the aliens are invading.  Personally I can 
think of a hundred better invasion sites than Helsgate, can't 
you?"


"Once and for all, there are no aliens.  Bigfoot isn't grabbing 
take-out dinners from the local population and most importantly, 
if you don't move I will either arrest you for impeding a federal 
officer or I'll run over you, your choice."


**********

Taggert Mountain
early morning July 21


Deputy Cullum was stationed at the turnoff to the murder site.  
The murder victim had been found by hikers in a rugged section of 
old forest in the nearby foothills, approximately ten miles from 
town.  Cullum's boyish charm was not soothing a pack of 
frustrated reporters, but his jeep effectively blocked their 
attempts to drive any closer to the crime scene.  Mulder thanked 
whatever god was listening that he didn't have to cope with 
reporters while trying to piece together the compulsions that 
drove this killer.


Mulder was barely out of the car before he was accosted by a 
furious Sheriff Collins.


"Damn it all to Hell, Agent Mulder.  When are you going to get 
off your fucking ass and give me some sort of fucking profile on 
this God damn fucking killer?  Shit, we're going to run out of 
folks to kill before you get around to being of any use!"


"Sheriff, if you would just listen to what I have been trying to 
tell you . . .."


"Listen here, *Agent* Mulder of the F..B..I.  I'm telling you, 
again, that this ain't no local killing.  These are good people 
being butchered here.  If you're in over your head, then clear 
out and leave me the hell alone."


"Sheriff, if this isn't a local killer, then you've probably got 
a demon loose, in which case I doubt if the FBI has any 
jurisdiction in Hell.  Of course, you may be more of an authority 
on that place than I am."


The sheriff gave Mulder a furious glare before turning on his 
heel and walking over to the corpse.  Mulder shook his head and 
unclenched his jaw.  


//Sheriff Collins could give Skinner lessons in being bull-
headed,// he thought wearily.  //I wonder if it would feel as 
good to punch Collins as it did to punch Skinner?//


Brushing past the sheriff, Mulder looked down at the savagely 
mutilated body.  He gave it a quick, almost casual scan, as if he 
had expected to find the body laid out exactly as it was.


Scully saw the muscles in his jaw clench and watched his eyes 
retreat into his dark private chamber of horrors where he stalked 
the mind of the killer.  She hated what cases like this did to 
him; feared that each time he walked into the darkness, it would 
be the last, his mind consumed by the madness he stalked.


Scully scrutinized the body of a young man, barely recognizable 
as even human.  The previous victim had been a woman.  Apparently 
the killer wasn't limited by gender.  The victim appeared to be a 
young adult, powerfully built, like a linebacker.  With a 
clinical eye she examined the deep gashes that had torn open the 
chest and shattered the rib cage.  She could tell they had been 
inflicted with a purpose and were not just random slashes.  To 
the killer, and possibly Mulder, they had meaning.  Their job was 
to figure out the meaning before anymore of these pathetic 
corpses turned up.


The face was unmarked, contorted in frozen pain and terror.  Like 
all the others, his body lay in the center of a bed of cold 
ashes, anointed with a sweet-sour unguent that combined 
unpleasantly with the ripe scent of blood.  Routinely she scooped 
up a small dab of the unguent and placed it in an evidence bag.  
Similar samples from the two most recent victims were already on 
their way to Washington for analysis.  On a guess, she estimated 
that death had mercifully occurred about midnight.  It had been a 
long slow death.


She did notice one major change in the pattern.  The killer did 
not shred the body of his victim.  He left the mutilated body, 
stretched in the rictus of sacrifice, taunting their efforts to 
catch him.  Scully knew Mulder would take the taunt to heart, as 
if it was meant for him and him alone.


The still, hot morning air stifled conversation.  Even at 7 a.m., 
the heat was oppressive, baking the forest under leaden grey 
skies.  Heavy clouds promised, but did not deliver, rain.  The 
barren rocky site of the murder felt like an oven.  The trees 
loomed heavy around the site, blocking any breeze.  They cast 
their shadows over the victim and the investigators like an 
oppressive shroud.


The sheriff and his deputies walked around quietly, retreating 
into silent resentment against the killer and the outsider who 
offered his insane theories blaming these horrors on a neighbor 
or kin.  They cursed him, remembering the peace and trust of this 
small community before the deaths, before Mulder and his 
theories.


Scully finished examining the body, noting the similarities 
between the previous murders as well as the differences.  She 
stood up slowly, stretching out the kinks in her back and legs.  
Sheriff Collins was glaring at Mulder who was absorbed in pacing 
off some pattern in the clearing.  Mulder was muttering to 
himself, oblivious to everyone.  Scully walked over to the 
sheriff.


"Well, from a preliminary examination, this body follows the same 
pattern as the other ritual killings," she noted crisply, 
catching the sheriff's attention, turning it away from Mulder.  
"I really doubt either a transient or an animal would go to all 
this trouble.  Don't you agree sheriff?" she added in a coldly 
professional tone.


"Agent Scully, right now I'm prepared to accept even the crack-
brained theories your partner spews out," he growled.  "Just 
don't ask me to be happy about . . . What's he doin' now?  
Checking for fairy rings?" Collins asked sarcastically.


Scully looked over at her partner who was wandering in circles 
while staring intently at the ground.  She sighed and gave a 
barely perceptible shrug.  From the looks of it, Mulder was 
entranced by some theory.  She knew he had probably forgotten 
everything but the need to find confirmation of whatever idea he 
was pursuing.  His shoulders had that obsessed hunch she had 
grown to know only too well, and to fear more than just a little.


"Now what the Hell is *he* doing here?"  Sheriff Collins charged 
off towards the tree-line.  Scully peered at the shadows there 
and wasn't too surprised to see Francis trying to slip unnoticed 
into the clearing.  Taking the opportunity while the sheriff was 
distracted, Scully headed over to Mulder.


Mulder had a set, closed look on his face, his hazel eyes 
shadowed as he moved through the crime scene in ever-widening 
circles; ignoring startled deputies in his path, forcing them to 
jump out of his way or get run over.  They gave Scully quizzical 
glances which she ignored.  A whispered "Spooky" reached her ears 
and she sighed.  Mulder was never going to escape that damned 
nickname.  Still, he seemed onto something.


Scully waved the deputies out of the way.  She'd give Mulder his 
head for the moment and run interference, but he'd better open up 
and share his theories or he could walk back to the motel.


As he walked the path of power and sealing, Mulder tried to shake 
that feeling that he was being led around by the hand, but it 
suddenly seemed so clear what had happened.  His mind was 
splintered in the old familiar way that, on the one hand 
terrified him and on the other intoxicated him, as he slid into 
the mind of his prey never knowing if he could find his way back 
out again.


The killer walked this path to seal the area against unwanted 
intrusion.  When the path reached an area ten feet from the 
sacrifice, the circles meant to open the gateway to power changed 
to an intricate weaving pattern that turned back upon itself like 
a knot being tied.  This was necessary to seal the gateway so 
that the soul torn free from its body could not escape his 
control nor could those wishing to interfere interrupt his 
ceremony.  His divided mind noted these things and stored them 
for later analysis.  He prepared to pull back his mind, to 
reunify his psyche before he slipped too far into the mind he was 
probing.


Abruptly Mulder stopped and scowled.  He felt a feather touch of 
something brush his shoulders.  Turning sharply with an irritated 
rebuke, he encountered no one.  He felt a chill shadow pass 
through him and he shuddered as his mind shattered apart.  He was 
in the killer's mind, reliving the final moments of the frenzy 
from the ceremony, becoming part of him, helpless to shut out the 
memories, helpless to do anything but feel what the killer felt 
and taste his ravenous desire to open the gate to the horror that 
promised him power over life itself.


The forest was haloed with an eerie red light that enveloped him 
like a cloak.  His victim lay sprawled amid the dark candles now 
burning low and sluggish.  A dark opaque shadow loomed in the air 
just above the sacrifice.  Death was building the gateway to 
power.  Soon it would be strong enough to bridge the gap between 
its world and his, strong enough for him to open it and take the 
power the whispering voice had promised him in the cave.


The killer's exaltation echoed in Mulder's soul.  He danced along 
the spiral path in the slow graceful steps of the ritual 
necessary to reopen the circle he had sealed at the fifteenth 
hour.  Blood draped his naked body in lines that mirrored the 
slashes on the sacrifice.  Ancient runes painted in sacrificial 
blood to seal the spell which would open the gate.  In one hand 
he held an obsidian blade dulled with thick blood that also 
coated his hand and arm.  As his left hand raised the blade in 
triumph to salute the waning moon, Mulder saw the tattooed tail 
of a serpent circle his wrist.


Reeling with dissociation, Mulder staggered under the impact of 
the killer's satiated glee in the death agony of his victim; his 
obsession to open the gateway.  Desperately Mulder fought nausea 
and fear as he tried to focus his thoughts, to anchor himself 
before he was lost in the killer's mind.  Engulfed by insane 
gloating and an impossible sense of melting from one form to 
another, Mulder felt himself falling deeper into the frenzy of an 
alien mind.  As he sank into a swirling pit of fire, a cool hand 
hurled him away from the maelstrom, into a cool, quiet dark 
place.


"Mulder!"


A touch on his shoulder slammed him back to awareness.  He 
started violently, whirling around as he reached for his gun.  As 
he drew and aimed, Mulder saw Scully step back, concern and alarm 
clouding her eyes.  Drawing a shuddering breath, Mulder sagged.  
He fumbled twice before he managed to holster the gun.


"Damn it Scully," Mulder rasped, trying to work up anger at his 
partner to cover his shaky grasp on sanity.


"Mulder, can you hold on until we get to the car?" Scully asked 
anxiously.  She reached out and touched his arm.  Mulder jerked 
as if burned, then gave one last shudder and lost some of the 
disoriented look in his eyes.  He avoided looking at Sheriff 
Collins, missing his look of suspicion and contempt.  Wearily he 
allowed Scully to guide him to the car.  Out of habit he aimed 
for the driver's side.


"No way, Mulder!" Scully snapped.  "I'm not letting you drive.  
You zoned out back there for nearly fifteen minutes."


"I'm fine, Scully," Mulder snapped back.  "Quit hovering," he 
added with a vicious bite, still clutching at his anger like a 
drowning man to a life preserver.  Anger helped him focus; it 
kept the shadows at bay.


"Mulder, Sheriff Collins is convinced you're on drugs.  All it 
would take it the tiniest excuse and you'll be spending the next 
twelve hours in his jail waiting for blood test results," Scully 
replied sternly.  She refused to be intimidated by his anger, but 
it worried her.  Mulder was capable of being incredibly pig-
headed whenever he got angry and she had no desire to chase him 
all over the county waiting for his inevitable collapse.


Mulder considered arguing; he felt more solidly connected to this 
reality when his anger drove the gibbering madness back into the 
shadows, but another wave of nausea hit and he found himself on 
his knees retching into the bushes beside the car.


Scully's hands felt like fire against his forehead and shoulders 
as she steadied him.  Fire to melt the ice that gripped his heart 
as the shadows pulled him howling into their midst.  One shadow, 
haloed in green light, cradled him like a baby, shielding him 
against the others who would take him.  A feather touch, smelling 
of pine and damp earth caressed his forehead and sent him into 
blissful darkness.


Scully let Mulder's limp body slide down to the ground while 
keeping his head from hitting any blunt objects.  His skin felt 
cold and clammy but his pulse was strong, if a bit too fast.  She 
didn't need a medical degree to know that Mulder was in shock.


"Damn you Mulder.  I told you to be careful," Scully whispered to 
his unconscious form.


"Having trouble, Agent Scully?"  Sheriff Collins's tone was 
sarcastic.  He regarded Mulder's prone body with open contempt.  
His foot twitched slightly as if barely restrained from poking 
Mulder's side.  Francis was hovering tentatively just behind the 
sheriff, eager to find out what was happening, but obviously 
chastened by whatever lecture the sheriff had chosen to give him.


Scully sighed and silently reminded herself that the sheriff 
wasn't the first to regard Mulder as some strange life-form 
masquerading as a law enforcement officer.


"Agent Mulder is obviously sick, sheriff.  Perhaps the 'home-
cooked meals' at the excuse you call a motel could use a health 
inspector.  I'd appreciate it if you'd keep your witticisms to 
yourself," Scully replied in a quelling tone and a look that 
Mulder would have recognized immediately.  Scully was not amused 
and getting testy.  The sheriff might not have Mulder's insights 
but he could feel the temperature drop and refrained from 
offering any more mock sympathy.


"Help me get him in the car."  Scully's glare left no doubt she 
was not going to take no for an answer.


"No, let me, Agent Scully.  I'm just leaving anyway."  Francis 
gave Collins a wry grin as he carefully sidestepped the fuming 
sheriff.


"Boy, I told you to scoot and I mean it.  Now!"


Francis gave Scully an apologetic shrug and quickly sprinted off 
down the road.


With rough efficiency, the sheriff picked Mulder up and stuffed 
him in the back seat of the rental car.  Scully tried not to 
wince as several loud thumps indicated that the sheriff wasn't 
being particularly gentle about the process of fitting a tall man 
into a tiny back seat.


"When he recovers ma'am, I'd really appreciate a report that has 
some semblance of the professional coherency we've all come to 
expect from the FBI."


Sheriff Collins was rewarded with a look from Scully that would 
have frozen fire.  He merely smiled, doffed his hat and stood 
aside politely as Scully got into the car.


"Oh, be sure to let me or my deputies know if Agent Mulder needs 
anything," he added with mock concern.


"He'll be fine, thank you."  Scully bit off the words as she 
struggled with the seat adjustment. //Damn Mulder and his long 
legs.//  Suddenly the seat hurtled forward nearly pinning her 
against the steering wheel.  With a muttered oath she eased the 
seat back to a comfortable position.  Slamming the door shut, she 
gunned the engine causing the sheriff to jump back in alarm.  
Scully had the car in motion before the sheriff had even begun to 
curse.

*********

Auld Sallie's Cabin
Late Morning, July 22


From the light trance she had invoked, Auld Sallie watched the 
FBI agents pursue their investigations.  Eager to assist, she 
reached out to gently open a path for the dark man to follow, to 
sense the memory of the sacrifice that screamed from the befouled 
earth.  She did not expect such a strong reaction.  The man 
actually touched Lafe's mind.  All she had hoped to do was give 
him a waking dream of the ceremony.  Instead he had plunged deep 
into the madman's mind.  This dark man hunted by seeking out the 
minds of his prey and using what he saw to capture them.  Her 
gentle push had shoved him deeper than he ever intended to go.  
It had taken all of his strength and much of hers to pull him 
back from the abyss.


Once he was free, Sallie granted him oblivion and, touching his 
mind briefly, tried to seal the wounds her rashness had torn 
open.  His partner was his strength now.  Her reason would be the 
forge to temper his dark visions into something tangible.  Still 
Sallie feared that she had opened a doorway that could bring down 
doom upon them all.  Abashed, Sallie retreated back into the grey 
shadows of the dreamworld to ponder how to use this strange pair.  
They would have one chance to strike. The summoned ones were her 
weapon, but she knew that her hand must be the guiding force.  
Only together could they destroy this evil and close the gateway 
before it opened.


***********

Glen Morgan Inn
8:30 a.m.  July 22


Scully drove with all the speed she could manage on the narrow 
two-lane country road.  Thankfully Mulder was quiet, except for 
an occasional groan when she hit a bump.  By the time she reached 
the motel, Mulder was beginning to make a serious attempt to sit 
up, hampered by the motion of the car as it hit the last S curve 
at fifty miles-per-hour.  Scully was reasonably certain all four 
wheels were on the road at the same time, but she couldn't 
restrain a grin.  She really enjoyed letting go and hot-rodding 
it.  Her brothers were good teachers and she remembered illicit 
drag races on back roads with the top down on her brother's 
convertible and the wind whipping her face with the smell of 
freedom and exhaust fumes.  The car came to an abrupt stop in 
front of the motel.  Mulder slid off the seat and into the floor 
with a small outraged curse that sounded almost normal.  Scully 
was torn between relief and a desire to throttle her erratic 
partner.


"OK Mulder, ride's over." 


Scully grinned at Mulder's bewildered attempts to untangle 
himself from the back seat.


"We need to talk," she added sternly.


"AAARGH . . . umph"


Mulder's reply came in a rumbling groan as he clawed his way up 
from the floor onto the seat.  Scully was pleased to note that 
his color was almost back to normal.


"Scully, why am I in the back seat?"  Mulder asked plaintively.


"Mulder, just get out of the car.  We need to talk," Scully said 
sternly, refusing to be diverted by Mulder's bewildered 
expression.


Mulder took note of the ice in his partner's voice and saw the 
steel in her eyes and winced.  He wasn't sure how he was going to 
explain what had happened.  He wasn't even sure what happened 
himself, except that he skittishly avoided dwelling too deeply on 
the experience.  A vague memory of drawing his gun on her at the 
crime scene then throwing up came to mind.  Now he really knew he 
didn't want to have this conversation.  If Scully was this mad at 
him, then Sheriff Collins' already low opinion of him must be 
reaching new depths.  


"Move it, Mulder!  It's too hot to sit out here."


Spurred by the impatient exasperation in her voice, Mulder 
hastily unfolded himself out of the car.  Scully held the door 
open and watched silently as he stretched out the kinks.  Mulder 
considered pointing out that her driving left something to be 
desired from a passenger's point of view but decided that the 
better part of valor was complete silence.


Once inside his motel room, Mulder headed straight to the 
bathroom.  Scully heard the sounds of splashing water as she went 
through the connecting door to her own room.  Shedding her 
jacket, she pondered Mulder's seizure and how to persuade the 
sheriff that her partner wasn't crazy.  First, however, she had 
to persuade herself.


"The killer has a serpent tattoo on his left arm, Scully." 


Mulder's abrupt comment from the doorway startled her.  She took 
a deep breath to calm her irritation before turning to face him.  
//God he looks awful.//  Haggard wouldn't even begin to describe 
his face.  His shoulders were stooped, either with despair or 
exhaustion, she couldn't tell.


"Mulder, I'm not even sure I want to know how you know that," 
Scully replied brusquely.  She gave Mulder a searching look, her 
natural skepticism warring with Bureau records detailing "Spooky" 
Mulder's incredible ability to get inside the minds of the serial 
killers he profiled.


"He's conducting some sort of ritual . . . following a precise 
pattern . . . sacrifices to open a door."


Mulder hesitated, his eyes gazing into shadows only he could see.  
His words came out in jerks and starts, as if they were being 
torn out of him.  Scully held her breath as Mulder's disjointed 
phrases painted a far more vivid picture than she wanted to see.  
There was no rational way he could know these things.


"He'll kill again tonight to close the cycle, then once again.  
The last point remains to be sanctified, then the center, before 
the doorway opens."  


His voice dropped and faded until it sounded like the whisper 
from a ghost.  Scully shivered as his tone grew more remote.  Her 
partner had withdrawn into some dark place where she could not, 
would not, follow.


"I can feel him, Scully.  Not as overwhelming as before; this 
time I know who I am.  He's quite mad, but not the way you think.  
You think he's mad for believing he can open a gate to hell; I 
know he's mad because he dares to open it."


His voice was pleading now, begging her not to abandon him in the 
darkness; to believe him.  Scully reminded herself to breathe, 
trying to find a way to pull him free of this trance.


"There is another waiting in the shadows.  Power and evil beyond 
measure, waiting . . . watching.  So many souls to feed a 
monster."


Mulder shook slightly, his words now coming out in a rush, 
tumbling over each other as he tried to contain the flood of 
images that threatened to overwhelm him.


"I'm not losing it, Scully.  At least not yet.  I've gone that 
route before.  This feels different somehow."  Mulder sighed as 
sagged against the door frame and tried to smile reassuringly.


"Mulder, Sheriff Collins will not accept any of this," she 
snapped.


"Do you?"  Mulder asked seriously.  His eyes sought reassurance, 
support.


Scully felt she owed Mulder at least a careful consideration of 
his words.  She balanced the obvious insanity of his conclusions 
with the knowledge of his profiling skills and past successes.


"Is this what it was like . . . before?" Scully asked, shifting 
the subject slightly to give herself time to think, to appraise 
the facts.


Mulder gave her a hard look, noting the shift and allowing her to 
see he was aware of it, accepting it as delay rather than refusal 
to answer.


"Similar," he paused, walked over to the bed and sat down 
heavily.  His eyes refused to meet hers as he tried to steady his 
breathing and present his case in as calm a fashion as possible 
when talking about looking inside a serial killer's mind.


"Out at the site, it was worse than anything I've ever 
experienced before.  Up to a certain point it was just my usual 
sort of crazy quilt mixture of insight, deduction and intuition.  
I can visualize what the killer feels, how he reacts, but it's 
like I'm looking through a mirror.  This morning was like nothing 
I've ever experienced or want to experience again.  Suddenly I 
felt as if someone had shoved me into the killer's body and mind.  
I was the killer."  Mulder paused.


"Always before, there was a sense of separation.  What I said 
earlier, here in the room, that is familiar ground.  I can sense 
his mind, his motivations, his needs, but I'm not a part of him."


"OK Mulder, I may not understand how it works, but your talents 
in this area are a matter of record.  I'll accept what you're 
telling me even if I'm not sure I accept how you know."


Scully smiled to see Mulder's face light up with gratitude.  Some 
of the tension melted away and he sighed with relief.


"Now try to get some sleep, Mulder.  If you're right, we're going 
to be busy tonight."


"Later," Mulder replied curtly, his eyes suddenly wary and 
distant.  He began pacing.  His body language changed from the 
controlled tension of a hunter to a barely controlled frenzy.  
Scully looked on with growing concern.  Her partner's moods were 
mercurial, but this was a fast change even for him.  An alarm 
began to ring in the back of her mind.


"I have to try to . . . damn it . . . it's like trying to wade 
through molasses.  God, the man is insane!"


Mulder shuddered violently, his eyes grew wide with fear as if he 
had drifted into a waking nightmare.  Mulder released a long 
shuddering breath that was more than part moan.  Scully watched 
as he fought the nightmare his mind had summoned.


"He is following some ritual . . . it's ancient, incredibly so.  
I can catch snatches of it.  Latin perhaps, no, more ancient than 
that.  Each death is prescribed exactly - manner, time, place.  
Two more remain.  He's gloating now, sure of victory; sure of his 
reward.  He's no longer human.  There is more beast than man in 
him.  Something looms beyond him, some power that guides his 
hand, that uses him for its own purpose."


Mulder spoke in ragged gasps, his blind eyes turned inward.  
Suddenly he stiffened, a horrified expression freezing on his 
face.


"Oh God!" he moaned.


"Get out of my mind!" he bellowed as he threw himself to his 
knees.  His hands clutched at his head as he began to slam his 
head against the wall, shrieking at his unseen tormenter.


"Mulder?"  Scully was stunned by the sudden turn of events.  She 
reached out to calm him, but he threw himself away from her.


"Mulder, please . . .."


Scully withdrew her hand, fearful that he'd hurt himself in an 
effort to avoid her touch.  Instead, she squatted down close to 
him, trying to soothe him with words.  He stopped pounding his 
head against the wall, but from the look in his eyes that wasn't 
necessarily an improvement.  Whatever he had tapped into was 
overwhelming him and there was nowhere he could run to escape it.


Scully ran over her options.  She didn't want to sedate him, but 
he was beginning to scare her.


"Mulder, I'm here.  Talk to me.  What's happening?"


Scully kept her voice calm and even.  She remembered a groom 
soothing a frightened thoroughbred during a storm when she was 
ten and recalled how the horse twitched and rolled its eyes like 
Mulder was doing now, terrified, yet responding gradually to the 
voice of the one person it trusted despite the terror of the 
storm.  She could only hope that the trust she shared with Mulder 
would be enough to anchor him through this storm.


"God!  SCULLY!"  Mulder gasped as he twisted away from her, 
tearing his eyes away from hers.


"It's here.  It felt me searching and now it's here inside my 
head.  HELP ME!"  Mulder cried out in torment.


"So much blood . . . the ancient paths to power awaken that which 
lurks beyond the gate."


Scully flinched as something or someone else looked out of 
Mulder's eyes.


      "Power, sweet sharp-scented power flows 
      with the blood.  Child of Hell, Child of 
      Earth, I will stretch my hand across the 
      land and bring forth the shadows to do my 
      bidding.  In the shadows of the moon I will 
      feast on the souls of men."


Mulder's face twisted in pain and for a moment he was back in 
control then with a violent shudder, the other returned.


      "*Fool*.  You dare to stand against me.  
      Then feel my wrath!  Flames shall hallow 
      the sacrifice."


Laughter broke off in a tortured gasp as Mulder fought for 
control.  Scully felt she could hear his heart crashing against 
his ribs.  He'd have a heart attack if that kept up, she noted 
clinically.


      "You puny human offal.  You exist to serve 
      me.  I shall rule here and your souls will 
      feed my hunger."


Scully clung to her sanity as she listened to Mulder's ravings.


      "All the land and the people therein 
      shall be my slaves and I shall reap a 
      bloody harvest."


His words were twisted with venom.


    "Whore, do you think you can save him?"


Insane gloating laughter burst from his lips as Mulder reached 
for her.


      "You can't even save yourself.  You 
      want him?  I'll give him to you, for 
      a price."


The voice was Mulder's, wrapped in his body, a body that now 
stalked her with deliberate intention.


Mulder's eyes flickered between hazel and a red-black shadow 
before collapsing into black pools as his face was completely 
overshadowed.


As Scully watched in horror, fragments of prayers and Hail Marys 
bursting from her lips, her partner's features melted and became 
bestial.  Except, deep in those dark eyes, she saw a tiny hazel 
light struggling against the encroaching shadow.


"Scully . . ." Mulder pleaded as he was dragged back into the 
shadows.


Scully watched helpless as the shadow consumed him.  Hating 
herself for her cowardice, her one fear now was that this "thing" 
would touch her.


"Mulder, no."


As if in answer to her plea, Mulder surged out of the shadow.  
His expression looked like he was staring into the depths of 
Hell.  His eyes reflected terror warring with a dawning madness.  
The overshadowing flickered and again the Other looked out from 
Mulder's eyes.


      "Yield to me, fool.  Take her.  Give 
      unto me the one who would save you," 
      the voice commanded.


Eyes consumed by a mad hatred swept the room.  Scully felt like a 
terrier facing a snake, hoping to escape notice even as she 
considered her next move.  Her medical kit was too far away.  Her 
gun was at hand, but she wondered if she would be able to coldly 
shoot Mulder even to protect herself.  Wondered if it would even 
have an effect on whatever was possessing him.


Mulder's face twisted in pain as he began a violent struggle with 
whatever was possessing him.  He threw his head back, howled out 
a throat-searing "Nooooo!"  The cry was filled with defiance, 
desperation and fear all jumbled together.


Mulder tried to cover his face with his arms.  Abruptly he jerked 
and screamed in terror, his arms began flailing wildly and his 
breaths came in ragged choking gasps.  Flames flickered around 
his head and arms, engulfing him in fire.


      "Burn then!  Burn in the fires of Hell 
      that I have prepared for you."


Scully lunged for a blanket and started towards him intent on 
smothering the fire, her horror shoved aside the wake of her 
greater fear for her partner's life.


Suddenly a cold gale burst into the room bringing with it the 
intoxicating scent of heather.  Held fast by the torrent of wind, 
Scully watched helplessly as a dark violet shadow erupted from 
Mulder's body.  The shadow recoiled as the wind battered it and 
then vanished with a snarl.  The flames disappeared in a 
crackling display of fireworks.  Mulder gave a long, shuddering 
moan and crumpled in a boneless heap at her feet.


Stunned for only a moment, Scully quickly recovered her senses 
and ran a quick check of her prostrate partner.  His pulse was 
slowing down, but was still racing.  She could only imagine how 
fast it must have been going during the seizure if it was nearly 
180 now.  His breathing was ragged but was also gradually slowing 
to a steady even rhythm.  His face twitched as if he was still in 
the grip of nightmares.


Scully watched in disbelief as a halo of pale green light brushed 
his face.  To her amazement, she looked up and saw the greenish 
glow enfold Mulder.  It reminded her of fireflies on a dark 
summer night or the pale wings of moths shining in the moonlight.  
Hearing Mulder sigh, she looked down and saw him relax into 
dreamless, peaceful sleep.  The greenish glow coalesced briefly 
and Scully's overburdened mind swore it saw a tall radiant 
figure, composed of smoke and air.  The figure stared intently at 
her, then faded into nothingness.  Scully shook her head and 
wondered if there was something in the water.


After arranging Mulder's tangled limbs into a more comfortable 
position on the floor and covering him with a blanket, Scully 
settled on the bed beside him and popped open her lap-top.  She 
really wanted a drink, but 10 a.m. was a bit early, even for an 
Irish lass confronted by more unworldly commotion than her 
rational mind wanted to cope with.  Keeping an eye on her 
sleeping partner, she began trying to compose a 'coherent' 
report.

*********

During the long morning, Scully tried to process what had just 
happened to Mulder.  She had heard of his reputation as a 
profiler and had even witnessed his uncanny ability to get inside 
a killer's mind, but never had she heard of or witnessed this 
kind of . . . well, possession was the word that sprang to mind, 
but her Catholic soul shuddered away from the implications of the 
word.  An exorcism would be an interesting line item in their 
expense reports.


"Wonder if our medical insurance covers exorcisms?" she whispered 
softly as she watched Mulder twitch slightly in his sleep.


As she had watched Mulder plunge deeper and deeper into horror, 
she began to understand why he had been drugged in the past.  
Perhaps not so much for his own protection, though that might 
have been part of the equation, but more likely to protect the 
men around him from the raw horror of witnessing this kind of 
mental pollution.  She had heard stories of the agents who were 
never quite the same after the spectacular case in Oklahoma years 
ago.


So then, drugs were an option, but only if she couldn't bring him 
out of this on her own.  Mulder was her partner; she couldn't 
betray his trust like those bastards who had used him, drugged 
him and damn near killed him in the process just to keep him 
plugged in to that "crazy spooky" talent of his.


Scully remembered her fear when Mulder seemed to be possessed by 
the mind he was probing.  All she had wanted to do was break 
Mulder out of this connection, to bring him back before his mind 
snapped under the pressure.  She had to pull him back to sanity.  
Sedating him had become, reluctantly, a viable option, but that 
would have required an explanation to the sheriff that would have 
been difficult at best.  Still, if it had come down to a loss of 
face versus Mulder's safety, or her own, she knew she wouldn't 
have hesitated.


This thing, this entity or whatever, terrified her.  Part of her 
wanted to curl up in a tight little ball until it went away, but 
she was a trained agent and partner to the man it was consuming.


Scully remembered stifling a near hysterical urge to laugh as she 
memorized the shadowy features overlying Mulder's familiar ones.  
She wasn't looking forward to telling the sheriff she got the 
description of the killer as it possessed her partner.


//Can you put out an APB on a demon?//  


***********

Glen Morgan Inn
4:00 p.m.  July 22


Seven hours later, she had cobbled together a report that 
profiled the killer using Mulder's ravings as a base coupled with 
a fair description of the overshadowing that had possessed 
Mulder.  She wasn't sure she believed a word of what she'd 
written, but she felt compelled to set down what she had seen and 
heard.  She owed that much to Mulder.  A second report, reduced 
to bare bones, detailed what she thought the sheriff would 
accept.  That report was much harder to write.  Lying, even on 
paper, was not one of her strong points.  Though, after being 
partnered to Mulder, her ability to creatively adjust the facts 
was improving.


The sheriff sent over the preliminary autopsy report on the 
latest victim at Scully's request.  She didn't dare leave Mulder 
alone long enough to conduct the autopsy.  The sheriff made a 
sharp sarcastic comment about the fragility of FBI agents, but 
complied.  Somehow Scully doubted if she would turn up anything 
more than the last corpse had produced.  At least this time the 
medical examiner had a complete body to work on.


//Should reduce his chances of missing anything,// she thought 
uncharitably.  The autopsy she had performed yesterday on a 
shredded corpse was more than enough for one lifetime.  She 
almost envied the doctor his intact corpse.


Mulder began to stir even as Scully considered waking him.  
Before she could put thought into action, Mulder cocked open one 
eye and peered curiously at the world.  His puzzled expression 
nearly started Scully laughing.  //Nerves,// she thought, and 
relief that her partner seemed to be back to normal; if normal 
was a word anyone could use to describe Mulder.


"Scully, is there a really good reason I'm sleeping on the floor 
when there's a nice soft bed nearby?" he asked plaintively as he 
struggled to sit up.  He absently rubbed his head, apparently 
noticing several bumps but obviously not sure how they got there.


"You're lying where you fell, Mulder.  You're too heavy to lift 
into bed," Scully answered with a straight face.  The barest 
twinkle in the depths of her eyes betrayed her relief.  Mulder 
sounded normal, as if the madness of that morning had never 
happened.


"I freaked out, didn't I?" he said morosely.  "Damn!"


After a brief pause, "How bad?" 


Mulder's tone made it clear he wasn't expecting a good answer.  
Scully considered her options for a moment and settled on the 
truth, bare and stripped of all emotion as perhaps the only 
answer.


"Bad enough."


She smiled slightly trying to reassure him that whatever happened 
she had been there and was still here for him.  The truth would 
hurt, but she suspected lying, even if she could pull that off 
with Mulder, would hurt even more.  Mulder had to know he could 
trust her, even when it hurt.


"Let me guess: I was spouting off disjointed phrases that sounded 
like a raving lunatic," Mulder said through clenched teeth.  He 
pounded a fist against the wall in angry frustration and winced.  
He dropped his head into his hands and waited silently, fearfully 
for her to continue.


"Well yes, but you also provided me with a good profile of our 
killer."


She paused for a minute, gauging his reaction, trying to decide 
just how much to tell him.  He didn't seem surprised; in fact her 
announcement only seemed to deepen his withdrawal.  Her rational 
mind whispered to her about stress hallucinations.  Mulder's 
ravings, drawn from whatever source, sounded utterly improbable, 
but, if stories from his days in the BSU could be believed, they 
were also utterly on track.  After Oklahoma he was considered as 
crazy as the oracle at Delphi, but just about as deadly accurate.  
She had never heard of anyone mentioning the overshadowing 
before, but maybe Mulder would know.  The Irish in her soul 
shuddered, but she refused to acknowledge the whispers of 
superstition.


"Mulder, there *was* something more . . .."


Mulder raised his head and regarded her warily.  Scully looked 
like a frazzled lion tamer.  Mulder wondered what else he'd done.  
He knew she'd heard the tales of his days in the BSU, but hearing 
and experiencing are two different things.   Mulder held his 
breath.  He'd dealt with the jibes and skepticism of the other 
agents in the Violent Crimes division and wouldn't blame her if 
she decided he needed a lengthy vacation on a psych ward, but it 
would hurt.


Rubbing his face, he wondered if he'd have a partner after this 
was all over.  He sighed and tried to focus on the fuzzy 
memories.  Somehow they didn't feel right, even for his usual 
flirting with the abyss.  He felt like someone else's mind was 
still whirling around inside his head.  It felt foul, like the 
New Jersey sewers, and he couldn't shake the feeling of being 
watched.  He refused to look at Scully as she continued to 
describe his 'episode'.


"You acted like someone possessed.  Your mannerisms changed; at 
one point your features . . . they seemed to be overlaid by . . . 
something."


Scully's tone had lost its clinical detachment, dropping to a low 
hesitant whisper as if she hoped he could persuade her she had 
been dreaming.  Her description ground to a halt as she saw 
Mulder's expression dissolve into horror.


"Oh God, I thought it was only a nightmare!" Mulder breathed the 
words like a forlorn prayer.  "What did I say?" he asked quietly, 
sounding like a condemned man waiting for sentence to be 
pronounced.


Scully shuddered at the despair in his voice.  Not trusting her 
voice, she handed him the unedited report and the report she'd 
composed for the sheriff.  Mulder gingerly held the pages as if 
he were holding a live grenade.  His eyes sought hers, asking for 
reassurance.  At her brief nod, Mulder swallowed and began to 
read.  Silence, marred only by the rustling of paper, held both 
in place as he read.


"You've got a great future as a horror writer, Scully," Mulder 
said with a faint attempt at humor that didn't come close to 
reaching the anguish in his eyes.  He sighed as he handed the 
profile back to her.


"This had gone far beyond anything I've ever done before.  The 
profile you've prepared for the sheriff is good; it should give 
him enough to go on - if he decides to act on it.  Still, it 
isn't enough.  The other however . . .."


"Mulder, I'm not even sure what I saw."


"Don't go all rational on me now, Scully.  Your life may depend 
on believing in this 'thing'."


Mulder paused to take in a deep breath, then exhaled explosively 
as he rushed ahead with arguments he knew Scully would fight.


"Something or someone has opened a link between my mind and that 
of the killer's.  In the past, I've been able to catch snatches 
of what's in the killer's mind - flashes of insight into motives, 
but never have I felt like I was being invaded and used."


Mulder avoided Scully's eyes as he fought for words to describe 
what he was beginning to remember in terrifying detail.  He 
remembered the killer's mind, strong and grasping as it reached 
out for him.


"I suppose it was like being raped; I fought but couldn't stop 
him from pillaging my mind.  I felt his pleasure in my fear and 
helplessness.  He wanted something from me.  Then I felt 
something brush him aside.  Something incredibly old, not human 
at all.  I was drowning in evil and all I could think of was 
reaching you.  You were my anchor to sanity.  I felt its anger at 
the presumption that anyone could offer salvation to one it had 
claimed.  I felt it looking for you," Mulder darted a quick 
glance at her as much to reassure himself that she was safe and 
to reassure her.


"I tried to break its control, but I knew I was losing . . . 
fading into a shadow in my own mind.  I saw fire burst from my 
skin.  I felt like a sausage on a spit.  I watched my skin split 
open as the flames engulfed me.  Before I was consumed, I reached 
into my soul for every shred of faith I had and challenged it's 
right to take me."


Mulder paused and gave her a smile that slid into a grimace.  "I 
think it was surprised that I even dared to defy it.  Maybe it 
was trying to control too many things at once to bother crushing 
me.  I felt it leave and then I heard a calm voice telling me to 
rest, that I had won this battle.  The voice also told me we had 
to stop the killings or else the madness I had felt would be 
unleashed upon the world."  Mulder gave a quick convulsive 
shudder and hunched against the wall.  His eyes were dark with 
remembered horror.


"Mulder?"


Scully's interruption startled her more than it did Mulder.  She 
remembered to breathe as she wondered which of them needed to be 
committed; Mulder for believing what he was saying or her for not 
being able to categorically deny his belief.


"I know it sounds insane, Scully, but you saw what happened - I'm 
simply trying to describe what it felt like.  Besides, you need 
to know something."


Mulder hesitated.  If Scully had hated the last part, she was 
going to go ballistic over this next bit.  Mulder wasn't 
particularly happy about it himself and didn't think it was going 
to get any better with time.  Having a complete nervous breakdown 
right now seemed very attractive.


"I'm still linked to the killer I think," he admitted slowly.  
"The Other seems to be quiescent for the moment  I can barely 
feel the killer.  I think he's asleep, but when he wakes up he 
might decide to pay me another visit.  If he does, I probably 
won't be able to stop him, if this morning is any indication."


Mulder licked his lips which were dry and cracked.  Without a 
word Scully got up, filled a glass of water and handed it to him.  
Her stare felt as hard as diamonds, but she seemed willing to let 
him finish before reserving the rubber room.


"Scully, don't interfere.  Let him take me - just stay out of his 
way.  I think he'll try to draw me to him.  Follow me and you'll 
have a fair chance of finding our killer.  I caught the notion 
that he sees me as a fitting sacrifice for the closing ceremony."


Mulder tried to give her a lopsided grin, but knew it came across 
more like a grimace.


"You're insane, Mulder!!" Scully snapped.


"Is that your professional opinion, Scully?"  This time the grin 
was genuine.


"Are you seriously suggesting that I let you use yourself as 
bait?  Mulder, if what I just witnessed is any indication, you'd 
be helpless."


Scully's eyes were ice-cold.  Mulder remembered the ice-fields of 
Alaska and wondered how he'd ever found them cold.  She was 
radiating anger, worry and exasperation in icy darts that pinned 
him to the wall.  This was not going even half as well as he had 
hoped and he hadn't been hoping for much, just a slight 
willingness to understand.


"I'm not *suggesting* anything.  Just warning you not to get in 
*its* way.  I won't.  I can't fight him.  Let him think I'm 
completely under his control."


Mulder paused, trying not to shudder at the image that sprang to 
mind with those words.


"Believe me, Scully, I'm really not very fond of this idea, but 
if he wants me, I don't think there is much either one of us can 
do about it.  If all else fails, I will try to throw everything I 
have at him during the ceremony and hopefully disrupt the damn 
thing before he can open that gateway."  Mulder paused for a 
moment as if consulting some internal record.  "I got the feeling 
that the ritual doesn't allow for much deviation.  If I can mess 
it up, I don't think *it* is going to be very pleased," Mulder 
said with a sly smile.  "Of course I'm counting on you arriving 
with the calvary long before we get that far."


Mulder grinned at Scully, trying to persuade her he knew what he 
was doing and had complete confidence in her ability to haul him 
back from the abyss.


Scully raised one eyebrow, giving her partner a freezing glare.  
Mulder tried to out-stare her before dropping his eyes.  He 
didn't quite shuffle his feet but it took a fair amount of 
willpower to resist the urge.  


"Mulder, I really don't believe I'm hearing this . . .." Scully 
began, sounding exasperated and angry with fear, winding up for a 
long dissertation on her partner's sanity (or lack thereof), 
intelligence and probable future (or lack thereof).


"Scully," Mulder interrupted, stopping the pitch before she 
had thrown the ball.  Reaching over to touch her arm, his eyes 
begged for her understanding.  With an effort he concealed his 
terror.  Allowing himself the luxury of collapsing in a corner 
gibbering with fear would play havoc with his effort to convince 
her to follow his advice.  He even managed another lopsided grin.


"Please, trust me on this.  There's no way you can stop him if he 
wants to take me, except by killing me, and I'd really rather you 
didn't do that.  Just follow me and get ready to grab him.  He 
won't hurt me until he's ready for the closing ceremony."


Scully scowled.  Mulder had the damnest ability to make the 
insane sound reasonable.  Despite every rational argument she 
could muster and every scientific bone in her body screaming no, 
she felt herself wavering before the force of Mulder's 
persuasion.


"Mulder, there is no reason to suppose the killer intends to kill 
again after tonight.  If we can't stop him tonight, we're going 
to have to wait another month.  That is the pattern he's stuck to 
so far.  It's the pattern you sketched out.  Why would he change 
now?"  Scully's tone was stiff with disbelief as she tried to 
persuade Mulder he was reacting to a nightmare, not a prophecy.


Mulder's eyes flashed with anger, but he visibly controlled the 
urge to yell at his damnably logical partner.  He knew there 
would be two more deaths if they didn't stop this man.  The fact 
that he knew with an unshakable certainty that the last death 
would be his was not making him sound anymore rational, but he 
tried to keep the discussion at least reasonably professional.


"Scully, if I thought there was any other way I'd be the first to 
embrace it.  This madman can reach me anytime, anywhere he wants, 
so we might as well use it.  Hell, he's practically taken up 
residence in here with me; I ought to charge him rent."


A grin flickered across his face and for a brief moment, he 
looked almost normal.


"Maybe your profile will jog the sheriff's memory and this 
nightmare will be over by tonight," he added with an unmistakable 
note of hope in his voice.


There was an abrupt silence for a moment as Mulder's eyes lost 
their focus.  Scully found herself holding her breath, afraid he 
was slipping away into the madness again and knowing that he was 
right; she couldn't stop him without killing him.


"We have to hurry though.  He's already selected his next victim 
for tonight, but not taken him."  Mulder's voice sounded distant 
but steady.


"You said he was asleep.  How are you getting this information?  
And why are you so certain you're on his list of victims?"  
Scully sounded skeptical, but curious.


"We're linked, though I can't even begin to explain how.  I can 
sense his extreme emotions so I presume he can sense mine.  I can 
feel his sick satisfaction in his choice of victims.  There is a 
perverted exultation that his task is almost done, his reward in 
sight.  The final ceremonies are approaching.  He's almost to his 
goal.  Two deaths and then ultimate power.  I can sense his 
delight in including me in the pattern.   I'm an outsider, but 
that only seems to increase my value as a victim.  I don't 
understand it, Scully, I just feel it."


Mulder shivered suddenly and wrapped his arms around his chest.  
His eyes closed as a soft moan escaped his tightly clamped lips.


"What is it Mulder?"  Now concern dominated the fear, but only 
barely.  She absently noted that her nerves were nowhere in good 
enough shape for these kinds of cases.


After a moment Mulder shook off whatever had affected him and 
gave a rueful grin.  He considered trying a chuckle but decided 
the effort would probably resemble a groan.


"Sorry, I caught a preview of tomorrow's coming attraction 
starring yours truly."


His grin was weak as he tried to assume a bantering tone.  Scully 
wasn't fooled.  Her partner was fighting against a vision that 
terrified him, but she doubted if she was going to be able to pry 
the details out of him.  //Please, dear God, don't let me find 
them out on an autopsy table.//  Mulder's fear, more than 
anything he'd said, convinced her that his plan was insane.


"Mulder, I will not stand by and let you walk out of here into 
the waiting arms of a killer."  Scully emphasized her point with 
one of her patented stern glares.  Mulder shrugged and looked 
bleak.


"And how are you going to stop me, Scully?  If you drug me you 
may just end up making it easier for him to take me over.  While 
I might really not want to be awake for what he has planned, I 
would at least like the chance to fight back."


He paused, getting his fear under control.  The idea of dying 
drugged and helpless was almost worse than dying from the 
tortures this killer had planned.  He felt his irritation with 
Scully's dogged scientific point of view rise and let it take the 
place of his fear.


"Damn it, would you just listen to me for a change.  Unless we 
catch this guy tonight, we're going to have to play it his way.  
And yes, Scully, I'm terrified knowing what he has planned for 
me.  I am not a FOOL!" Mulder snapped, his anger finally breaking 
free.


"OK, Mulder," Scully said soothingly, nodding her surrender, but 
giving him a look that easily translated into *we'll talk more 
about this later*.  She was far from persuaded, but they were 
wasting time.  She'd consider other options tomorrow if they 
didn't catch this guy tonight.


************

Sheriff's Office
5 p.m.  July 22


While Mulder grabbed a quick shower and changed clothes, she 
called in her profile to the sheriff, giving him the working 
description for an APB.  The profile didn't remind the sheriff of 
anyone, but he promised to circulate it among his deputies.  
Maybe one of them would recognize some detail.  Scully had to 
listen to a repeat of his staunch belief that this couldn't be 
someone local; no one in these parts even sounded remotely 
similar to this profile.  Finally she sent the sheriff off to 
spread the word and set his deputies to watching the areas Mulder 
seemed to feel were most likely spots for the night's activities.


Twenty minutes standing under a hot shower until the water turned 
cold and clean clothes did much to restore Mulder's control.  He 
had bottled the fear behind a mask of detached calm.  The control 
wavered for a moment when Scully told him the profile didn't 
match anyone the sheriff recognized.  He tried to remain clam, 
but he knew Scully could see that he was desperately hoping the 
killer would be found tonight.  As he turned to leave, she 
reached out and held his arm for a moment, using the brief touch 
to send a mess of silent reassurance and support.  Feeling 
irrationally calmer, Mulder flashed her a wry smile.  Placing his 
hand in the small of her back in acknowledgment and reaffirmation 
of their bond of trust, he ushered her out of the room.


Scully was grateful they had reaffirmed their bond.  Sheriff 
Collins was surly, resentful and openly antagonistic as soon as 
they walked in the door.


"Well, is the wonder-boy finished with his nap?  Nice of you to 
take the time to share your insights on the case with us poor 
hick cops, Agent Mulder."


"Sheriff, if you've read my profile, I don't see how you can 
still maintain that the killer isn't a local man."


"You just don't give up do you?  You think because I don't have a 
fancy degree, you can just expect me to swallow that shit and 
smile?"


"The evidence, as well as my profile, clearly show . . .."


"I don't give a fuck about your profile.  I'm not about to fall 
all over your goddamn report like a pup sucking its moma's tit.  
You may have the fancy letters behind your name, but you sure 
don't have the sense to go with them.  Your profile ain't worth 
shit compared to my knowing the people in my county."


"Mulder, don't . . .."  Scully quietly intervened when she saw 
Mulder's jaw clench.  Mulder heaved a deep sigh and nodded to her 
as he relaxed his hands.


"Damn it, why can't you open up your closed mind and just 
consider the possibility that I am right?  How many people have 
to die this time before you can bring yourself to admit you're 
fucking wrong?  Again!"


"Damn it!"  Sheriff Collins rose up out of his chair, his face 
flushed with anger.


"OK, I've had it.  Both of you calm down!"  Scully's voice froze 
Mulder as he braced himself to meet the sheriff's charge.


Knowing the fear Mulder was fighting to control, Scully had 
little patience with the sheriff's attitude, but she wanted to 
keep hostilities to a minimum and the discussion on a 
professional level.


"Now, we can either continue this discussion as professionals or 
Agent Mulder and I can leave and let you cope with explaining to 
the press how your refusal to discuss this case caused more 
deaths."


"All right, Agent Scully.  Then, as one professional to another, 
can you please explain certain points in this profile you sent 
me?"


Scully looked at Mulder with a brief flash of resignation before 
regaining control of herself.


"Sheriff, since it was my profile, don't you think . . .."


"No Agent Mulder, I don't think, at least as far as you're 
concerned, so why don't you go off somewhere and make us some 
coffee while Agent Scully and I discuss this case like a pair of 
professionals."


Scully winced at the venom in the sheriff's voice.  For an 
instant Mulder appeared to be on the brink of physical violence, 
then he relaxed and a sly look of amused mischief crept into his 
eyes.


"Sure thing sheriff, I'll let Agent Scully explain all about it."


Scully sighed and wondered what sins she was paying for.  Trying 
to explain one of Mulder's profiles, especially one that involved 
demonic possession, was not going to be easy.  She had a feeling 
this was not going to be a good day for the reputation of the FBI 
in this town.


"Can you explain how you came up with such a dramatic description 
of the suspect's motives, Agent Scully?"


"Agent Mulder examined the evidence as well as the location and 
timing of the murders and determined that the killer is following 
some sort of ritual.  The victims, at least those found at the 
locations Agent Mulder identified earlier, seem to be regarded as 
sacrifices; means to an end."


"Very nicely put, Agent Scully.  Now what the hell does that mean 
to me?  How can I put those nice, precise words into a noose for 
this damn killer's neck?  Can you tell me that?"


"Sheriff, profiling is not like staring into a crystal ball.  
Agent Mulder takes the facts, his expert knowledge of the 
psychology of serial killers and comes up with a probable 
psychological profile.  Certainly you must know of someone who 
comes even close to what he described."


"Do you mean, you can even come up with the fact that the killer 
has a serpent tattoo on his left wrist from *psychology*?"  The 
sheriff's voice dripped honey, but his eyes were hard and cold as 
a snake's.


Scully squirmed inside, desperately wishing Mulder would help her 
out.  Even to the point of provoking another argument with the 
sheriff.  Anything to keep her from having to admit they were 
basing the profile on a what Mulder believed was a psychic link 
with the killer.  Never a good liar, especially in matters of 
dubious province, Scully found herself on the defensive.


"That is just one aspect of the profile, sheriff.  I think you'll 
find there is sound scientific basis for believing that the 
killer is a local man, apparently fixated on the local legend of 
the demon and intent on recreating the murders attributed to it."


"Bullshit, Agent Scully, and you know it.  You're too intelligent 
a lady to buy into your partner's crap.  Now why don't you tell 
me what's really going on here without this piece of shit your 
partner calls a profile?"


Mulder shot out from where he had been standing in the corner.  
He moved so fast that he was in the sheriff's face before anyone 
could intercept him.  Leaning dangerously close to the sheriff, 
Mulder used his lanky frame to force the sheriff back into his 
chair until it rested against his desk.


"You are a stupid little man.  You can't see the facts laid out 
straight before your face.  If you'd had the wits to realize what 
was going on we might have been able to stop this killer before 
now.   He's going to kill again, sheriff.   He's going to keep on 
killing until someone comes along with more brains than you and 
this entire farce of a police force have put together."


Sheriff Collins surged up, shoving Mulder away.  Mulder stumbled 
backwards for a few steps then caught himself.  Both men's faces 
were flushed and angry.


"That does it!  I'm going to haul your ass to the county line, 
*Agent* Mulder, and then I will take great personal pleasure in 
booting you out of my jurisdiction.  And you can take that damn 
profile of yours and shove it up your ass for all I care."


"Damn it, shut up!  Sheriff Collins sit down!  Mulder, sit!  
Now!"


Sheriff Collins sat down in a reflexive obedience to the 
commanding tone Scully hurled at him.  Mulder carefully kept his 
eye on his partner as he found a chair and eased himself down 
into it.  Mulder was still angry, but Scully almost never yelled.  
Prudence dictated obedience.


"Gentlemen, and I use the term loosely right now, may I remind 
both of you that we are supposed to be 'trying' to catch a killer 
before he kills again tonight.  Threats and name calling are not 
very productive ways of catching a killer.  Do I make myself 
perfectly clear?"


At Scully's rebuke, Mulder's eyes lost their fire and his 
shoulders hunched as if he sought to brace himself against his 
own personal demons.  Fear brushed ice-cold fingers on his neck 
as he remembered what the killer had planned for him.  He tried 
to control the urge to shudder.  Catching Scully's irate glare, 
he shrugged.


"Sorry, sheriff.  I'm tired.  Guess we all are."


Sheriff Collins harrumphed loudly.  He returned to his reports 
and even scanned Mulder's profile several times, glowering 
furiously as he tried to make sense of it.  Mulder began to pour 
over maps of the county.


"Sheriff, you might consider stepping up your patrols, especially 
in these areas.  It's just a guess," Mulder almost strangled over 
that word but was rewarded by Scully's slight smile at his effort 
to be diplomatic, "but the killer might find one of these four 
areas attractive tonight."


"Guess it wouldn't hurt.  I'll check out a couple of leads 
personally.  I'm not saying your profile rings a bell, but I've 
got an idea or two that might produce some results.  I'll check 
in every so often.  Sims, check out the areas Agent Mulder 
designates.  I think we can show him how professional we are.  
Agent Scully, you and Agent Mulder stay here.  I don't want you 
two getting lost up in those hills.  I've got enough on my plate 
without hunting for lost FBI agents."


Sheriff Collins had only been gone a few minutes when Deputy 
Cullum burst in.


"Hey, guys, you'll love this one.  All those reporters are headed 
down to the old grist mill.  Seems Benji Macsen was spouting off 
in Matt's bar.  Claimed he saw a large man-like beastie prowling 
around the creek down there.  You'd have thought someone struck 
gold the way those reporters started scurrying."  Deputy Cullum 
kept chuckling over the story as Sims handed out the patrol 
assignments.  Within minutes Mulder and Scully were alone in the 
office.


Scully wondered if Francis had had anything to do with Benji's 
sudden sighting.  She gave Francis credit for savvy thinking and 
wondered if he knew something was in the air.


//Probably lurking about waiting for us to pull the killer out of 
our hats,// she thought, not unkindly, but with a certain degree 
of exasperation.  She had enough to cope with trying to keep an 
eye on Mulder.  The last thing she needed now was to have to 
watch out for canny young reporters out to cop a headline.

********

By sunset Mulder was barely restraining an urge to pace.  He 
threw down the pencil he'd been fiddling with and stormed out of 
the office.  The slam of the door startled Scully who had been 
scanning local public records to see if she could spot anything 
suspicious.  With a resigned sigh, Scully got up from the 
computer and followed her partner into the dusk until she found 
him leaning over a low stone wall surrounding the local war 
memorial.


"It's going down, Scully.  As soon as night falls, he'll make his 
move.  I can sense he's already tracking his victim and expects 
to take him easily.  He knows his chosen sacrifice and is amusing 
himself by imagining his victim's chagrin," Mulder concluded in a 
puzzled tone.  Scully saw his eyes narrow as he focused on the 
problem.  She perched on the wall nearby as she waited.


Mulder stared into the looming darkness as he tried to piece 
together the hints and shadows cast by his quarry's mind to 
determine what was so amusing about his choice of victims.  It 
was something of a relief to let his analytical mind focus on 
something other than the upcoming horror.  Scully's silent 
approach and support lent him strength to shove his fear to the 
back of his mind.


With a sudden swift move, he vaulted over the wall and walked 
over to the statue of a World War I doughboy frozen in a heroic 
pose as if caught in the very instant of charging into battle, 
bayonet at the ready.  Mulder leaned against the statue and 
stared blindly into the heavens as if begging the stars for an 
answer.  Piece by piece he assembled and reassembled the jigsaw 
clues, searching for a coherent pattern.  Gradually this purely 
mental exercise induced a sense of calm.  His terror fluttered 
against his control like a bird fluttering against a window; 
annoying, but ineffective.


"Oh my God!"  Mulder jerked away from the statue with a look of 
mingled triumph and horror.


Scully slid off the wall, alert to her partner's rising 
agitation.  //Please God, let this all end tonight before I have 
to face the decision of what to do if the killer targets 
Mulder.//  The clock in the courthouse tolled nine; time was not 
on their side.


"Scully, did the sheriff say where he was going?"  Mulder asked 
as he set a fast pace back towards the sheriff's office.


"Just that he intended to check out a couple of areas you 
mentioned as likely sites.  Why?"  Scully replied a bit 
breathlessly as she scurried to keep up with her long-legged 
partner.


"Well, if we don't find him, he's going to be intimately 
acquainted with one of those sites....  Our killer is nothing if 
not audacious.  The sheriff's his next victim."


Scully swore she detected a faint note of admiration in Mulder's 
voice.


"How can you know that?  Are you in contact with the killer?"  
Scully stumbled over those words, barely able to believe she they 
had come out of her mouth.  She was still skeptical of Mulder's 
bizarre theory, but didn't want to believe that he had crossed 
the line into insanity.  That didn't leave a whole lot of ground 
in the middle but what there was, she clung to tenaciously. 


"Actually, my conclusion is based on good old-fashioned deductive 
reasoning," Mulder paused, waited for Scully to catch up before 
giving her a sly grin.  "Relieved?"


Scully scowled at him in exasperation.  Mulder's mercurial moods 
reminded her of a roller coaster; she had never been fond of 
roller coasters as she recalled.  She understood the physics of 
them, she just didn't like how they made her feel.


"Sheriff Collins is so adamant that none of the people he knows 
could be responsible for these horrors that the killer finds it 
amusing to select him as his next victim.  Escalation of status 
of the victims as well as personal satisfaction.  It all fits the 
pattern.  I'm a last minute substitution.  I think the last 
victim was supposed to be someone higher up the social ladder, at 
least locally.  Perhaps a minister or community leader; someone 
respected and well-liked."  Mulder was pleased to note his voice 
was normal; excitement mixed with certainty that at last he was 
on his quarry's trail.  Now, if he could reach the sheriff in 
time.


"Sheriff Collins.  Come in.  Sheriff, it's important.  Pick up 
your mike, damn it," Mulder all but shouted into the mike.


"Come on sheriff, you can hate my guts later.  I need to talk to 
you now!  Sheriff, you're a target.  The killer is going to be 
coming after you."


Mulder turned to Scully, his eyes dark with frustration laced 
with a darker shadow of fear.  "Damn it, Scully.  Stubborn is one 
thing; this is sheer stupidity."


"Mulder, he might have his radio turned off.  He wasn't 
exactly happy with you when he left."


"Well, he's going to pay a high price for stupidity then," 
Mulder's growl turned into a resigned sigh, "But I don't think 
he's just ignoring me.  I think our killer has already made his 
move.  I can't sense him anymore.  It's like he's hiding behind 
some barrier."


Mulder picked up the mike and began to berate the silent 
deputies.


"OK, I know somebody out there has got to have their radio on.  
Sims, you're the chief deputy.  I'm telling you as an FBI agent.  
The sheriff is in danger.  Someone has got to go check on him."


Sims barked over the airwaves, "Listen, Agent Mulder, Harvey has 
probably had all of you he can stomach for one day.  Just shut up 
and let us do our job.  It was your idea for us to be out here in 
the first place."


"Listen to me, Sims.  I don't give a damn if you think Collins is 
trying to avoid me.  He's in danger.  I need you to check on him 
now."


The crackle of empty static was his only answer.


"Sims, you dumb little fuck.  Pick up the mike!"


Scully listened in dismayed admiration as Mulder used an 
increasingly profane vocabulary to try to convince the deputies 
that the sheriff's radio silence was more ominous that a simple 
desire not to speak with a particularly annoying FBI pain-in-the-
ass.


"Sims, you have got to listen to me.  The killer is going to try 
to take the sheriff.  If you don't get to him first, Collins is 
going to be our next victim.  Shit, why don't you answer me?"


Mulder pounded a fist on the table by the radio.  Fighting an 
urge to scream obscenities over the radio, he tried again.


"Cullum?  Cullum get over to the Sheriff's last reported 
location.  Take some goddamn initiative for a change.  Now!"


Silence, broken by static, was his only response.  Mulder's 
temper exploded into cold biting contempt for the men's refusal 
to heed his warning.


"Men, there is going to be another fucking murder if you don't 
get to Collins before the killer does.  Move!  Now !  Because I 
promise you, if anything happens to Collins because you were too 
damn stubborn to get off your asses and check on him, I will make 
you all regret your mothers ever met your fathers."


Sims' voice broke the silence with a curt, angry snap.


"Fuck you *Agent* Mulder.  We're following Harvey's orders.  Why 
don't you just sit down, shut up and leave us alone."


Mulder hurled the radio mike against the wall.  His eyes were a 
sad contrast to the profane anger spewing out of his mouth.  Fear 
mixed with grief for the sheriff and an anger at his own 
inability to do anything to stop the killer.


"Damn them all to hell.  Damn them into the next generation.  
Damn!" 


Scully had never heard Mulder swear this way before and wondered 
if this departure from the norm was an indication of how tenuous 
his self-control was.  She wished her father was here, he'd 
probably appreciate the profanity a lot more than she did and 
might even be able to suggest new phrases; Mulder was beginning 
to repeat himself.


"Agent Mulder, this is C.J.  I'm not too far from where the 
sheriff might be if I'm guessing him right.  I'll just take a 
swing over and make sure he really is just enjoying some peace 
and quiet.  Anything to get some peace and quiet myself.  If 
you're interested, I've got a cousin who can teach you how to 
really swear.  You sound a mite out of practice."  A ghost of a 
chuckle echoed across the radio link.


"Rawlins, thank God there is at least one intelligent man out 
there.  Get to the sheriff's last location as fast as you can.  
Fly if you have to, but get there.  We don't have much time."  
Mulder closed off the mike.  "The sheriff doesn't have much 
time," he whispered.


While they waited for his report, Scully tried to keep Mulder's 
frenzied impatience under control.  The office wasn't big enough 
to sustain pacing, but Mulder tried.


"Damn it, Scully, what's taking that idiot so long?"  Mulder 
snarled as he slammed his fist against the wall, dislodging two 
pictures to shatter against the floor and denting the Sheet-rock.


"Mulder calm down," Scully said soothingly as she came up beside 
him, hand raised to rest lightly on his back.  At the feather-
touch of her hand Mulder flinched violently.  "Mulder?" she asked 
softly, masking her worry behind a tone of professional concern.


"Sorry, Scully.  I can't help seeing the sheriff laid out like 
the other sacrifices."  Mulder sighed in frustration.  Telling 
her that he was also seeing himself stripped and gutted wasn't 
even a temptation.  He didn't want to worry her any more than he 
already had.  Drawing in a deep shuddering breath he shoved his 
fear firmly back behind the barriers.  He needed to be in 
control, for the sheriff's sake, for Scully's.


"We'll find him, Mulder.  Maybe Deputy Sims was right, Sheriff 
Collins just doesn't want to talk to you," Scully added with a 
ghost of a smile.  "You seem to get on his nerves."


"Who me?"  Mulder asked with a lopsided smile.  It wasn't up to 
his usual standard, but Scully gave him an 'A' for effort.  Her 
heart ached as she watched him try to hide his fear from her.


"No, I think our killer has him.  He's someone who could approach 
Collins easily, without suspicion.  I doubt if the sheriff even 
knew what hit him."  Mulder's expression grew distant as he 
focused on events rapidly escalating out of control.  


"It's beginning, Scully.  We have to find them or you'll get to 
repeat this exercise tomorrow night."  With an effort, Mulder 
managed to sound almost professionally detached, but a glance at 
Scully's expression told him the effort was wasted.  He sighed 
and wondered why he ever tried to fool her, she knew him too damn 
well for her own peace of mind sometimes.


"I'm OK, Scully.  We need to concentrate on finding Collins 
before the ceremony is complete.  No man deserves to die like 
that, even a man as close-minded as the sheriff.  The good news 
is that we have four possible sites to investigate; the bad news 
is that the sites are too far apart to search without splitting 
up."


"No way am I letting you out of my sight, Mulder," Scully 
snapped.  "His deputies can search the first two sites on your 
list.  You and I will just have to cover the other two."  
Scully's glare left no doubt that Mulder was now on a short 
leash.


"Scully, it will take us nearly two hours to reach the first 
site, if we can even find it.  Locating a site on a map is not 
quite the same as finding it on foot.  Plus, we only have the 
maps to guide us.  Remember, the sheriff said there were front 
ways and back ways to half the sites and he neglected to leave us 
a native guide.  No doubt he wasn't going to waste a deputy 
guiding a half-crazy FBI agent into the woods,"  Mulder pointed 
out, trying to quell an urge to stamp his foot in frustration.  
Finally he regained control of his temper and sighed in 
acknowledgment of her point.


"We don't have any other choice, Mulder.  Which site would you 
pick as most likely?"  Scully shifted from a comforting to a 
professional tone in a blink of an eye.  Briefly she considered 
finding Francis and pressing him into service as a guide, but one 
look at Mulder's barely repressed anxiety and she decided she 
didn't want to take her eyes off her partner long enough to hunt 
Francis down.  Mulder was capable, as she well knew, of taking 
off after this killer on his own.  She didn't intend to give him 
that chance.


Frowning, Mulder considered the problem.  He allowed Scully to 
shepherd him to the car, absorbed in analyzing the two sites and 
trying to fit one or the other to the killer's purpose.  Either 
would seem to fit the symbolic location of his profile, but 
Mulder knew that more than just location determined the killer's 
choice.


************

Preacher's Mountain
10 p.m.  July 22


They drove in silence through the darkness.  Scully pushed the 
speed limit as much as she dared on a dark, unfamiliar mountain 
road.  A rattled report from Deputy Rawlins to the effect that 
the sheriff was missing and his car door was splattered with 
blood got a curt command from Scully to move with all possible 
speed to site number one.  Scully glanced over to see how Mulder 
reacted to this news, but he did not comment on the accuracy of 
his prediction.  The silence stretched out as strained nerves 
drove them forwards.  From what Scully could remember of the map, 
they would have to make a decision when the road forked about 
thirty miles ahead.  Until then, however, she decided to let 
Mulder ponder the problem without interruption.


Reluctantly Mulder realized he'd have to reach out and try to 
touch the killer's mind.  Personally he'd rather traipse through 
the New Jersey sewers, but he had no choice if the sheriff was to 
stand any chance at all.  A quick glance at his watch told him it 
was just after 10 p.m.  The killer would be at the selected site 
by now and would have finished the preparations for the sacrifice 
and would be getting ready to cast his warding circle.  Once that 
was done, he'd be safe from any attempt to reach him.  Mulder 
knew he had to make the attempt now or depend on random chance to 
pick the site.


Acting on his intention before his fear could stop him, Mulder 
opened his mind and tried to seize on the tenuous connection he 
felt with the killer.  Strong violent images erupted through the 
link, nearly drowning Mulder in the stench and disordered chaos 
of the killer's twisted emotions.


The sheriff spread-eagled on a rock slab painted with runes in 
the sheriff's own blood.


A strangely curved obsidian dagger stained with dried blood.


The sheriff looking up in astonished horror as a clawed fist 
flashes down on his head.


A luminous figure, with the face of a dark angel wrapped in wings 
of black fire, hanging in a web of molten silver.


Anger shattered the link.  Rage and triumph, and a promise of a 
slow agonizing death burst back across the severed link.


"Which way?"


Scully's voice startled Mulder out of his macabre reverie.  He 
was glad she couldn't see his expression by the dim light from 
the dashboard.  He stared out at the darkness.  The car's 
headlights cast grotesque shadows on the trees.  A thin sliver of 
moon rode in the heavens just above the treetops.  Sighing in 
frustration Mulder steadied his voice; no use giving Scully any 
more reason to doubt his sanity.


A cool breeze reminding him of green-leafed shade on a hot day 
passed through him leaving behind a yearning for the left-hand 
trail.  In the distant mist-shrouded hills, Auld Sallie 
concentrated on the dark man's journey.  A guide she could be.  
Maybe it would be enough.  The earth shrieked its protest as she 
felt the ceremony begin.  She feared that they were already too 
late to prevent the sacrifice.  Too much was coming down to this 
single man and woman.  Sallie didn't like last stands.  Her 
people had made too many of them and littered the battlefields 
with their dead to prove it.


"I have no idea, Scully.  Though just on a hunch, I'd say left."


Scully flashed him a look that was lost in the darkness, but 
Mulder could hear her exasperated hiss as she pointed the car 
left.  Within minutes the car was bouncing and jerking over a 
corduroy road.  Scully began swearing viciously, drawing on all 
her father's naval vocabulary, as she fought the steering wheel.  
Mulder's head hit the roof with a loud thud when the car bucked 
over a dislodged log then plunged into a deep gully.  The sound 
of an axle snapping silenced Scully's cursing and Mulder's moans.


"Sorry, Mulder"  


Scully climbed out of the car and surveyed the damage with her 
flashlight.  Mulder's flashlight gyrated wildly as he forced his 
door open against the side of a tree and wedged himself out of 
the car.  He swept the light over the road behind them and up 
ahead considering their options.


"Scully, I think we're on the right path.  This road's been 
sabotaged or else they have very hungry termites here abouts."


Scully walked over and looked down where Mulder's flashlight 
shone on the damaged road.  Two logs spanning a gully had been 
sawed in half.  Their car now rested half into the hole, impaled 
on the broken logs.


Scully pulled out her cell-phone and dialed Deputy Sims's 
emergency number.  A blast of static answered her attempt to call 
for backup.  //Damn things.  Let a little thing like a mountain 
get in the way and all I get for the taxpayers' money is 
static.//


"Care for a walk in the moonlight, Scully?"  Mulder asked as he 
turned and pointed his light up the road.


Scully sighed and put her cell-phone back in her pocket.  She 
reflected on all the times she had refrained from throttling her 
partner.  //Chalk one more up in the ledger,// she grumbled to 
herself.


"Lead on Mulder, but this time you get to explain the car."


//Let's I hope I'm around to make the explanation,// Mulder's 
mind responded in an uneasy blend of prayer and desperation.


It was beginning to look unlikely that they'd get to the site in 
time to save the sheriff.  Still they had to try.  As he recalled 
the map, it had been about ten miles from the turnoff to the 
site.  He estimated that they faced at least a three mile trudge 
along an uneven road before it narrowed to a foot path.  The map 
had been vague at this point but Mulder estimated that the foot 
path probably extended for less than a mile before the clearing 
where tonight's ceremony was probably already beginning.  If they 
encountered no further delays, the sheriff might have a chance, 
slim, but better than none at all.  Compelled by the need for 
haste and his fear, Mulder began a fast walk up the road.


"Mulder, slow down!  If you trip and break your ankle you'll be 
no help to the sheriff," Scully barked.  "And if you leave me 
behind, I'll break your ankle myself."


Mulder shuddered, torn between rushing headlong up the road and 
slowing down to allow Scully to keep up.  Held immobile by 
indecision, Mulder hesitated long enough to allow Scully to reach 
his side.  Her hand against the small of his back radiated 
reassurance.  


Scully felt his muscles tense and tremble with the effort to 
remain motionless.  Shifting her hand to his arm she carefully 
guided her partner up the road, letting him lead the way, but 
maintaining periodic physical contact to remind him that he 
wasn't alone.

*********

Table Rock, Preachers Mountain 
12:10 p.m.  July 23

For nearly two hours they moved up the road at a steady pace.  
The corduroy road forced them to a slower pace than Mulder 
intended.  Just as they entered onto the footpath, the howls of a 
man in torment echoed among the trees in the still night air.  
When the first scream shattered the night, Mulder started 
violently.  He sprinted forward before Scully could grab him.  
Cursing, she followed, drawing her gun, hoping Mulder would 
remember to take at least elementary precautions.  Considering 
his current state of mind she wasn't optimistic; maybe a berserk 
charge would have the effect of being so unexpected that it might 
succeed.  Then again . . ..


A shuddering shriek of pain and horror collapsed into silence as 
Mulder as crashed into a scene from hell.  Blood hissed on 
embers.  A tall wiry man wearing nothing but runes painted in 
drying blood danced in the smoke.  Through the haze, Mulder 
thought he could see the man's shape shifting from human to 
beast.  Smoke coiled and twisted above a gore-drenched body 
spread-eagled on the ground surrounded by glowing coals.


A pit of red hot coals bubbled with boiling blood and entrails 
exuding a noxious smell that clung greasily to the air.  A great 
slab of rock lay across a bed of  the smaller rocks it had 
smashed in its hurtling impact from the mountain above.  Dark fir 
trees crowded around the site, smothering light and sound from 
the clean heavens.  Heedless of anything but the figure dancing 
in the smoke, Mulder charged forward, drawing his gun.


"Freeze, FBI!"


Lafe, caught between man and beast shapes, paused to watch 
Mulder's charge.  A feral grin stretched his face into a 
grotesque grimace, cracking the blood smeared across his lower 
face and exposing long glistening fangs.  When Mulder crashed 
against the borders of his warding spell, Lafe laughed.  Driven 
to his knees gasping for breath, Mulder glared at his quarry.  
His heart was thrashing erratically, the world spun dizzily as he 
fought the urge to collapse unconscious.


As if from a great distance, he heard Scully come up the trail 
behind him; probably in FBI-approved style, something he rarely 
remembered to do, his conscience reminded him.  In the part of 
his mind that wasn't occupied with breathing, Mulder realized she 
was probably expecting to have to rescue her hapless partner from 
whatever mess he'd landed in this time.


"You're early," Lafe's voice was dry and withered as summer 
grass.  "I appreciate your enthusiasm, but you must wait until 
tomorrow.  Now I really must depart before *she* arrives to spoil 
my fun.  Be patient; our time together will come soon enough."


Mulder struggled to focus and aim his gun at the hazy figure.  
Before he could fire, the killer made a casual gesture with one 
hand and an inferno erupted right in Mulder's face.  Flames 
roared and reached out fiery tentacles for him.  Mulder screamed 
and hurled himself backwards, crashing into Scully.  With his 
enemies occupied, Lafe completed the transition to beast and 
loped off into the woods.


Scully swore as Mulder barreled into her knees bringing her down 
on top of him.  She had just gotten into position to fire after a 
brief hesitation on catching sight of Mulder on his knees gasping 
like a winded long distance runner.  She had seen the killer make 
a dismissive gesture and then Mulder screamed and flung himself 
back into her.  He had his hands pressed up against his eyes as 
he continued to try to scrabble backwards away from some horror 
only he could see.  By the time she disentangled herself from 
Mulder, the killer was nowhere to be seen.


"Damn it Mulder, we had him!  What in hell were you doing?"


Scully's temper, frayed by the race up the road in the dark, 
worry about her partner's erratic behavior and now the killer's 
escape, exploded.  She stormed at her partner, raking him over 
verbal coals without ever once repeating herself.


Mulder catapulted out of his fire-nightmare in a great gasping 
rush.  The fire had whispered to him, called to him as it turned 
his skin to blackened ash and melted the flesh from his bones.  
All he could hear was a voice speaking from the flames, telling 
him that the fire loved him even more for his terror.  The fire 
fed on terror and would burn in his soul long after his body was 
ash blowing on the wind.


Scully's angry voice smothered the voice of the fire until it 
flickered regretfully and fell silent.  Mulder gradually realized 
that he was not engulfed in fire.  Then he came to the cold 
realization that Scully was really, really mad at him.  He 
groaned and wondered if it wouldn't just be simpler to shoot 
himself now, except that Scully sounded like she wanted to claim 
that privilege for herself.


Mulder scrambled to a sitting position and rested his head 
against his knees.  His head felt like it was crammed into a 
small space already occupied by a unsyncopated steel-drum band.  
He'd failed.  Scully's scathing commentary didn't even come close 
to the guilt-laden abuse he was busy heaping on his own head.  
Sometimes he wondered why he was so easily manipulated when he 
was supposedly so brilliant.  Scully deserved better.  Hell, if 
the killer had his way, she'd soon get that chance to move up out 
of the basement.


Standing up abruptly, ignoring a brief attack of vertigo, Mulder 
staggered over to the body.  The sheriff had been disemboweled.  
Blood had sprayed over a wide area.  The runes painted on the 
rock slab marked the five directions as well as invoking the 
elements of water, air, earth and fire. Tonight the master rune 
was fire.  The cycle of nine warding runes was complete, which 
left tomorrow's runic ritual somewhat problematic.  His 
intellectual curiosity was piqued, but he had an uneasy feeling 
that curiosity was going to be satisfied along with the other 
unanswered questions of this case when he met the killer tomorrow 
night.


Realizing that Mulder was not paying attention any longer, Scully 
swallowed the rest of her tirade and followed him over to the 
body, shifting into professional mode.  Careful not to disturb 
the evidence, she squatted down beside the splayed and mutilated 
corpse to examine the wounds.


Leaving Scully to her job, Mulder retreated and pulled out his 
cell-phone.  The connection was faint and riddled with static, 
but he persisted and finally managed to reach Deputy Sims with 
the news of his boss's death.  Sims sounded stunned, but quickly 
promised to bring help.  Mulder tried to warn him about their 
car, but the static flared up and severed the connection.


While Scully conducted her preliminary examination, Mulder 
scanned the area for trace evidence.  After a careful search of 
the area around the clearing, he found the back trail the killer 
must have used to reach the site.  A travois obviously used to 
haul the sheriff to the site was abandoned in the brush.  From 
what Mulder could see by flashlight, the trail was a gentle 
slope, easily accessible to a man pulling a sled.  Exploring the 
trail, he discovered that it only extended about a hundred yards 
before opening onto a dirt road.  Two sets of tire tracks looked 
fairly fresh.  Maybe they would be able to get a fair cast of 
them.  Not much use to finding the killer, but one more damning 
piece of evidence to use once they caught him.


"Mulder?"


"Down here, Scully.  I found the killer's escape route.  Looks 
like he knew a short cut," Mulder answered as he re-entered the 
clearing.  He saw the ice in his partner's eyes and heard the 
iron in her voice and knew he still had some explaining to do 
before she completely discarded the notion of chaining him to his 
desk doing paperwork for the rest of his career, if he had a 
career after this fiasco.


"The wounds on the body match those on the other bodies you 
designated as ritual killings.  Mulder, why are you so certain 
the killer plans to strike again tomorrow?  He's been rigidly 
following a set pattern so far; what reason would he have to 
break the pattern now?  If he follows the pattern, we won't hear 
anything from him now for another month."  Scully sounded riled 
but no longer quite so angry; she was willing him to give her an 
explanation she could accept for his behavior as well as his 
theories.


Mulder sighed, looking over Scully's head at the descending moon 
for several long heartbeats as he tried to marshall his words.  
Finally he dropped his gaze to look her eye to eye, his eyes dark 
with emotion, barely masking the enormity of self-reproach and 
fear he was feeling.


He was relieved to see that Scully had her temper back under 
control, but he could see it straining to break free.  She looked 
worn out.  Her mouth was set in a stern scowl that warred with 
the deep-seeded concern betrayed in her eyes.


Mulder's heart twisted at the pain he was putting her through.  
Having to work with him, even on his best days, was hard enough; 
trying to cope with his recent erratic behavior must be hell on 
her.


"Scully, I'm sorry.  You deserve an explanation and I can't give 
you one you'll accept."  Mulder spoke in low, earnest tones.  
"The killer is using my mind against me; call it hallucinations, 
hypnotism or magic or whatever.  I ran into a barrier that damn 
near stopped my heart.  While I was remembering how to breathe, 
the killer promised me we'd meet tomorrow night, then fire 
erupted in my face.  The next thing I remember is untangling 
myself from you."  He sighed and tried to give her a smile that 
conveyed apologies for all his shortcomings.


"You have every right to be angry, but we're operating on a 
deadline here.  If the killer sticks to his schedule, we probably 
have eighteen hours or less before he makes his move."


"You honestly believe he's coming after you?  What if he's just 
jacking you around while he goes after someone else?"  Scully had 
shifted into full skeptical gear and wasn't giving an inch.


Mulder swore under his breath in frustration.  //Damn!  I wish 
that just for once she'd remember she's Irish and believe in 
things that go bump in the night.//


"I know it sounds crazy, but our killer is following an ancient 
ritual.  Everything hinges on the successful completion of that 
ritual down to the smallest detail.  If we can disrupt the 
ceremony, we will have a more than fair chance at stopping him; 
not even considering that the power he's trying to unleash 
doesn't consume him first."


Mulder watched wearily as Scully began tapping her foot 
impatiently about a third of the way into his explanation.  
Scully's skepticism was beginning to irritate him.  She simply 
refused to comprehend that they were dealing with something 
paranormal, perhaps even demonic, hiding behind the mask of a 
mundane serial killer.  She was going to persist in the delusion 
that all they had to face was one insane murderer.  Meanwhile she 
remained blind to the greater danger her science refused to admit 
existed.


Try as he might, he couldn't think of a way to break through her 
stubborn scientific barriers.  In four years of partnership he'd 
only managed to dent that barrier; he wondered what it would take 
to actually breech it.  He did know however, that when that 
moment came, he really, really didn't want to be anywhere in the 
vicinity.


"And if you're wrong, Mulder?"  Scully spat out the words.  
Frustration and worry had quenched her ability to rein in her 
temper.  She had followed Mulder's lead up to now, but now all 
her training screamed at her that her partner's instability had 
allowed a killer to escape.  Patterns ruled a serial killer's 
actions.  That was an established law of criminal behavior.  The 
patterns in this case told her, and should be telling Mulder, 
that they had lost their chance to catch the killer until he 
began the cycle again next month.


She trusted Mulder and would walk into hell with or for him, but 
she needed some sort of assurance that his wild theories were 
correct to balance against rational scientific principles; 
assurance that his mind hadn't finally bent under the weight of 
his failure to prevent this latest death.  She needed an anchor.  
She would follow him into Hell, but not into madness.


"If I'm wrong, Skinner will have my resignation on his desk 
Monday morning, but I'm not wrong.  Whether you believe me or 
not, the killer *will* strike again tomorrow, no make that 
tonight."  Mulder hesitated then continued in a grimly amused 
tone, "Look at the bright side, Scully.  Whether I'm right or 
wrong, you have an excellent chance to get a new partner, one a 
bit more conventional if you're lucky."


Mulder felt almost relaxed.  He had passed beyond fear into a 
state of resolute, unnatural calm.  Even his angry resentment at 
Scully's reluctance to accept his prediction was fading into a 
grim acceptance that while she could not allow herself to stare 
into the abyss, nevertheless she would fight like a hellcat to 
keep the abyss from swallowing him.  Even if she failed and he 
faced the final horror alone, he would be grateful to her and 
with his dying breath bless her for being willing to try in spite 
of her doubts.


Scully started to speak, torn between angry exasperation and 
concern for Mulder's sudden emotional isolation, but was silenced 
by a shake of his head and the sad look in his eyes.


"It's OK, Scully.  Let's not fight over abstract philosophies.  
We'll put together a report on tonight's incident.  I take full 
responsibility for allowing the killer to escape and I'll make 
that clear in my report.  Say whatever you want in yours, it 
won't change the facts.  I'll give Sims a description of the man 
I saw, maybe that will be enough to end this."


//However, I think I'm going to skip the part where the suspect 
turned into a giant cat.  Even I'm not sure I believe that,// 
Mulder mused silently.  The implications were devastating.  If 
whoever was controlling the killer could grant that kind of 
power, what hope did they have of defeating it?  These dark 
thoughts pulled him ever deeper into the shadows lurking in his 
mind, shadows of the abyss that whispered to him whenever he 
touched the face of evil in his profiles.


Mulder fell silent for so long that Scully wondered if he even 
remembered she was there.  She was actually startled when he 
resumed speaking.  His calm, detached manner was doing more to 
frighten her than the frenzied energy he'd displayed earlier.  It 
was as if all the life had been sapped out of him, leaving only a 
dry, passionless husk.


"I want to stay over until Sunday, just to see this thing 
through.  If I'm right, I don't want to jeopardize anyone else's 
life by removing the killer's primary target.  If you're right, 
we'll spend the day finalizing our reports and giving Sims any 
assistance we can before I notify Skinner of my . . . breakdown," 
his voice broke over the word but he hastened on before Scully 
could interrupt.  "I expect he'll leave it up to you whether to 
stay and assist the replacement team or escort me back to D.C.," 
he finished in a calm, almost clinically detached tone that broke 
her heart.


"Mulder, just because I'm having a hard time believing you have 
some psychic connection with this killer doesn't mean I don't 
believe you believe it."  Scully paused for a second, half 
expecting to see one of Mulder's rare grins at her awkward 
rationalization.  When none was forthcoming she plunged on, now 
certain that Mulder was already crashing into a dangerous 
depression.  "We'll observe standard security precautions and 
I'll alert Deputy Sims to the possibility that you may be the 
next target.  After your successful prediction about the sheriff, 
I doubt if he'll argue with me."


//And I'll make damn sure you don't make that prediction come 
true by your own hands.  I'll drug you myself before I let you 
self-destruct.//


Scully gave him her own grim smile.  Fear had crystallized into a 
determination to protect Mulder, from himself if necessary, at 
all costs, even their friendship.


************

Preacher's Mountain
12:30 a.m.  July 23


A strained silence fell between them as they waited for Sims to 
arrive.  Mulder wandered all over the crime scene, stopping every 
so often to examine some detail that caught his eye, but 
disturbing nothing.  Something was bothering him about the dream 
he had in Asheville; the sense that someone had intruded into his 
dream.  Now, recoiling from the horror of the sheriff's death and 
his own less than impressive encounter with the murderer, he 
replayed the dream slowly, frame by frame until he could pinpoint 
the shadow that tried to slip across the edges of his awareness.


During the long silent wait for reinforcements, Mulder pondered 
that shadow, until he came to realize that it was real; it did 
not originate in his own subconscious.  He remembered catching a 
fleeting sense of surprise when the shadow realized it had been 
detected.  Apparently whoever or whatever it was that intruded 
was adept at slipping into other people's dreams without 
detection.  Obviously, then,  he was looking for someone very old 
and probably very powerful.  Sims might know of such a person, 
but Mulder knew after what occurred in this clearing, Sims was 
not going to be a very cooperative man.


Scully watched Mulder's restless prowling with a growing sense of 
unease.  Her concern threatened to erupt into full-grown worry 
when he stood silent over the sheriff's body for nearly half an 
hour, staring intently at the butchered corpse as if memorizing 
each cut of the knife.  Usually he tried to stay away from the 
messier corpses and Sheriff Collins definitely qualified as a 
messy corpse.  Even Scully's stomach was unsettled by the sight, 
but Mulder showed no signs of distress, in fact Scully was hard 
pressed to discern if he was showing any emotion at all.  
Finally, she decided to break the silence and approached him with 
cautious concern.


"Mulder?" she said softly, trying to draw him out of his morbid 
preoccupation.  Almost reluctantly he turned away from his 
contemplation of the body to look at her, shading his eyes 
against the light of her flashlight.  Scully felt a chill ripple 
up her spine.  There was an aching loneliness in his eyes that 
belied the still, remote expression on his face.  Mulder merely 
shook his head as she opened her mouth to speak and walked off.


She watched him go as she tried to decide whether to force a 
confrontation now or wait until after they had returned to the 
motel.  Prudence dictated waiting until she had him alone with an 
uninterrupted chance to force him out of this emotional retreat.  
He had thrown her a promise to resign like he'd toss a bone to a 
yapping dog and under ordinary circumstances, she would be 
furious.  She couldn't even begin to imagine Mulder quitting the 
X-Files over a mistake like this; forced out maybe, quit never.  
But what scared her now was a gnawing certainty that he was 
serious.  This case was affecting more than his judgment, it was 
seriously impairing his belief in the future.


The arrival of Sims and the other two deputies shattered the 
abnormal silence.


"What happened here?"


"Agent Scully and I were proceeding up the trail when we heard a 
scream.  I reached the clearing first and saw a man, 
approximately five feet, eight inches tall, wiry build, dark 
brown hair, standing in the middle of the smoke.  He was holding 
a large-bladed knife in his left hand.  Sheriff Collins was 
laying there as you see him now."  Mulder paused and expelled one 
breath then drew in another and he tried to marshall the words to 
explain what happened next.


"I drew my weapon and shouted the command to freeze.  I'm not 
exactly sure what happened next.  My impression was that the 
killer hurled a chunk of the fire at me.  I panicked and in my 
attempt to get away from the fire, I backed into Agent Scully who 
was just coming into the clearing.  She fell over me and the 
suspect fled."


"Some damn lot of good you are.  Is that standard FBI training?  
A lone suspect gets away from two *trained* agents?"


"Deputy Sims, I accept full and complete responsibility for the 
escape of the suspect.  Agent Scully had no reason to expect me 
to roll into her nor did she have any reason to believe I wasn't 
capable of holding the suspect or shooting him if he tried to 
escape.  The fault was entirely mine.  I panicked and the suspect 
escaped."


Mulder gave his report in a dry, emotionless tone.  Sims bristled 
angrily as Mulder took full responsibility for the killer's 
escape, but controlled his fury to a single 'damn you' before 
turning his back on Mulder.


"Davies, why don't you practice your interrogation skills on 
Agent Mulder and take down his goddamned pathetic report," Sims 
curtly ordered before he went over to kneel beside the butchered 
remains of his friend and mentor.


Taking his cue from Sims, the young deputy treated Mulder as 
coldly as if he were the suspect.  Mulder appeared not to notice 
the open contempt.  He repeated the detailed description of the 
man he'd seen in the smoke in a cold, dead tone as if he was 
already dead himself and the opinions of the living no longer 
concerned him.


Watching Mulder from a distance as she guided the remaining 
deputy in marking off the crime scene, Scully winced at the 
haunted look on her partner's face as he quietly accepted the 
scorn and contempt as if they were his just deserts.  It was one 
thing for her to chastise Mulder, in fact it sometimes seemed 
that it had become second nature to her and an oddly stable fact 
in their relationship, but it was quite another to stand by and 
tolerate relative strangers treating him with such open contempt.


Scully felt her anger slipping loose from its anchor and slammed 
up the frigid walls of the ice-cold professional before she 
alienated Sims and the others.  She addressed Sims in an 
impersonal professional tone that brooked no argument nor allowed 
any private expression of sympathy.  Not surprisingly, she noted 
that Sims seemed to respond to the imposed distance between them 
with a return to a professional manner that wavered only slightly 
with grief.


"Deputy Sims, I think my partner and I have examined the crime 
scene as thoroughly as possible.  I'd suggest stationing one of 
the deputies here until daylight when I'm sure you'll wish to 
return and go over the area again.  I'll give you a full report 
on the autopsy later tomorrow afternoon, but my preliminary 
findings suggest it was a ritual murder.  Perhaps the FBI labs 
can provide us with a lead on the ointment as well as possible 
fingerprints from the body."  Scully watched Sims grapple with 
his self-control at the mention of an autopsy report then shut 
his grief behind an angry glare.


"Agent Scully, if your partner is the best the FBI can provide, I 
would just as soon the FBI stayed the hell out of my county," 
Sims railed angrily as he glared at Mulder who, finished with his 
report, was now standing alone in the shadows, staring into the 
darkness beyond the clearing.


"Deputy Sims, the killer was clever enough to take Sheriff 
Collins by surprise despite the difference in their sizes.  
Perhaps he used the same method to disorient Agent Mulder.  I can 
name several drugs which, when reduced to powdered form, can 
produce sudden hallucinogenic episodes," Scully retorted coldly.  
She had not actually seen any evidence of drugs, but an airborne 
drug could explain Mulder's inexplicable behavior and sudden 
depression.  Perhaps a bit of quasi-prevarication might calm Sims 
down and get him to ease up on Mulder.


Sims looked doubtful, but the notion that some sort of drug was 
involved obviously intrigued him.  It would make his sheriff's 
death perhaps more comprehensible.  Scully was willing to tread 
along the thin line between truth and falsehood if it made Sims 
willing to assist her in protecting Mulder.


"If you say so, Agent Scully, but I still think your partner is 
several cards short of a full deck.  Harvey was too good a cop to 
let a suspect sneak up on him, so I guess I can't argue with your 
notion of drugs being involved."


"Thank you," Scully responded in a silken tone that would have 
set off alarms in Mulder's mind.  She was in a dangerous mood; 
one Mulder referred to as the 'smiling tiger'.  He usually found 
good reason to be elsewhere, anywhere else at such times, but 
Sims merely nodded as if acknowledging her sagacity in respecting 
his opinion.


With an effort, Scully controlled her urge to verbally flay this 
annoying man and concentrated on putting Mulder behind a very 
solid wall of protection.


"Now, if you're ready to listen, Agent Mulder believes the killer 
is going to strike again tomorrow night."


Sims's face darkened with anger at the mention of Mulder's name 
but he held his peace.  He didn't need Scully to remind him that 
Mulder had tried to warn the sheriff of his danger.  Agent Mulder 
might be a damned incompetent fool in the field, but by all 
accounts his profiling skills were uncanny.


"I'm listening," Sims said brusquely, letting Scully see his 
hostility but also his ability to control it.  //Let's just see 
who's the professional here, lady.//


"Agent Mulder believes he is the killer's next target.  
Considering his accuracy in predicting the killer's actions so 
far, I intend to take every precaution.  I want a guard posted 
for the next twenty-four hours until the threat is past.  Maybe 
we can force the killer to come to us this time."  Scully tried 
to sound as convincing as possible.  Her doubts were her own and 
not for Sims's consumption.


Sims gave a curt nod and walked off muttering.  Scully wasn't 
sure, but she thought she caught the words 'small loss'.  She 
suppressed a surge of rage at the callous dismissal of Mulder's 
life.  True, Sims was trying to cope with the sudden weight of 
responsibility for this case as well as personal grief and had no 
one readily at hand to blame except for Mulder.  While she might 
understand, she was finding it hard to forgive.

*********

1 a.m., July 23


Mulder had been quiet, too quiet for Scully's liking, on the ride 
back to the motel.  He was a shadow of the man she had known for 
five years; Mulder with all the sharp provocative edges rubbed 
off until he resembled a chalk drawing with no outline.  She 
wanted to yell at him, have him toss her an outrageous theory so 
she could argue with him, anything to break this painful silence.


Ordinarily she would have diagnosed his mood as depression, the 
silent withdrawal into introspection that bordered on 
resignation, but she had seen him break out of his shell to carry 
on a heated conversation with Deputy Sims.  Her first instinct 
when she had seen Mulder break off his silent contemplation of 
the dark mountainside to stride towards Sims was to intervene.  
The last thing Mulder needed was to be on the receiving end of 
Sims's fury.  Mulder might welcome the scathing contempt in his 
present mood, but Scully didn't feel like trying to pick up the 
pieces of his shattered psyche when Sims had finished.


As she moved to intercept him she caught an almost imperceptible 
shake of the head as Mulder asked her to stay back in their 
private language of glances and minute gestures.  Relieved to see 
Mulder behaving normally, Scully was only too glad to snag Deputy 
Cullum, their designated watchdog, and give him an accelerated 
course in how to preserve a crime scene.  The young deputy, who 
towered over her, was completely overawed by her and had been 
following her around like an over-friendly Doberman.  Scully half 
expected the husky young man to roll over and offer his stomach 
to be scratched.


//God, was I ever so young?// she wondered.  Glancing at her 
coolly professional partner calmly confronting a red-faced 
glaring Sims in what she could only describe as a relentless 
interrogation, she wondered if Mulder had ever been this young.  
Probably not, she mused sadly; he had been callously ripped out 
of childhood into adulthood, completely bypassing the awkward 
puppy stage.  Still, trying to imagine Mulder as a puppy and then 
trying to imagine the breed gave her some much-needed respite 
from the horror that lay under a tarp ten feet away.


"Sims?"


"What the hell do you want, Agent Mulder?"  


Sims glared at Mulder with undisguised disgust.  Mulder noticed 
Sims' hand move to rest uneasily on the butt of his gun.  Mulder 
carefully stood in a non-threatening stance, choosing his words 
with care.  He needed information, not confrontation.


"Deputy Sims, do you know of anyone who might be considered, for 
lack of a better term, a witch or warlock?  Someone who might be 
on more familiar terms with the legend of this demon that 
supposedly haunts these mountains."


"You got the gall to ask me about some fucking children's fairy 
tales when Harvey's laying there like a butchered hog?  Damn it, 
you worthless son of a bitch . . .."


Mulder tensed slightly as Sims closed his fist around the butt of 
his gun.


"Deputy Sims, the killer is apparently fixated on this demon 
legend.  Whether you believe it or not is immaterial; the killer 
does.  What I need to know is if there is anyone who might be 
considered a local expert, someone old enough to remember the 
original legend?"  Mulder kept his voice even and neutral, trying 
to defuse Sims' anger.


"If you had done your job earlier, you wouldn't be needing to 
chase off after witches.  Damn you.  Now you're wanting to run 
off after your spooky psychic shit when just a simple well-
carried-out arrest would have ended this.  Old Sallie seems just 
about the type of bullshit you'd find interesting.  Maybe I 
should send you off after her; leave the real police work to the 
rest of us."


"Where can I find this Old Sallie, as you call her?"  Mulder 
tried to keep his voice even, but he felt a surge of hope.  
Maybe, just maybe he could find some answers before he ended up 
like the sheriff.  He could afford to ignore the insults if he 
could just manage to get some real information out of Sims.


"Fuck you Agent Mulder.  You are wasting my time with witches and 
legends and God alone knows what other frigging shit.  Old Sallie 
is a senile hag who has half this county believing she's some 
sort of witch.  On second thought, maybe you and she would make a 
pretty good match."


"Sims, I just need . . .."


"No, damn you.  If she was a witch, I swear I'd pay her every 
cent I had if I could put you where Harvey is now.  But then you 
believe you're the next one don't you?  Well, don't look to me to 
be sorry if it happens."  Sims spun on his heels and walked back 
to the huddle of deputies around the sheriff's body.


Scully could only hear the angry tones, ragged with contempt as 
they shattered the reverent hush that had fallen over the scene.  
She could not hear Sims's parting words, but she saw Mulder's 
face turn dead white.


//Damn him,// she thought, not entirely sure in her own mind 
which of them she was referring to.  Her hopes for Mulder's 
return to normal were dashed as she watched him pull the silence 
back around him as Sims stormed off.


By the time she reached his side, Mulder had withdrawn into his 
shell, eyes hooded and dark with some emotion Scully couldn't 
quite pin down.  The emotional distance between them hummed with 
tension as Mulder avoided her eyes with a shrug and a half turn 
of his body.  Scully bit back an angry comment.  She deserved 
more from him than this, she demanded more than this and resolved 
to force him out of this self-imposed isolation once they reached 
the seclusion of their rooms.  It wouldn't be as private as she 
would have liked with Deputy Cullum posted just outside the door, 
but it would have to do.  Mulder could just forget about shutting 
her out while he stewed in a self-destructive sewer of imagined 
horrors.  She wasn't going to stand by and permit him to talk 
himself into a depression that could jeopardize his career.  He 
*was* going to listen to her if she had to get his attention the 
hard way.  //Wonder if Deputy Cullum knows where I can get my 
hands on a two-by-four?//


Idly watching the trees flash by from the back seat of Cullum's 
jeep, Mulder tried to ignore the concern radiating out from 
Scully, concern tinged with just enough anger to make him wary.  
A *meaningful conversation* loomed in his future, another way of 
saying that Scully was going to badger him until he confessed to 
what was bothering him so she could wave it away with her magic 
wand of science and reason.  For a woman whose stock reply to an 
question concerning her physical or mental health was 'I'm fine', 
she sure resented anyone else holding back.


//Sorry, Scully.  Science doesn't want to go where I'm going and reason has already fled the
field.//


Mulder wondered how his rational partner would react if she had 
even a glimmer of an idea what he was facing.  If she could hear 
the cold whisper seducing hope from his soul, winding its 
tendrils of despair throughout his entire body.  It spoke with 
the arid despair of a damned angel promising him his own too-long 
delayed damnation.  It sent him visions of an eternity wrapped in 
guilt-spawned flames which would sear his soul clean of Samantha 
and Scully and the howling horde of other souls he had failed.


The whispers drew him away from the comfort Scully offered, drew 
him deeper into the darkness which lurked within his soul.  
//Violence calls to violence,// the voice mocked him.  //You can 
understand the killers you hunt so well because you came from the 
same abyss; you and they are brothers, you merely kill 
indirectly.  You are the fire which draws the moths in until they 
are consumed.  Shall I count your victims?//  It sang the litany 
of his dead until he felt his soul cringe with the tolling of 
each name.

*********

Glen Morgan Inn
Helsgate, Tennessee
2:00 a.m.  July 23


"No, Scully, I don't feel like discussing how I feel right now."  
Mulder broke the silence abruptly before Scully could even draw a 
breath to start her *dialogue*  He shot out of the car and into 
his room before Scully had even begun to move to open her door.  
This was not going to be an easy confrontation and he wanted to 
be on his own turf, in-as-much as his motel room could be 
considered home turf.  The slam of the door behind him gave him a 
pretty good idea how pissed Scully was.  On his official Scully 
scale, he'd put her temper at a seven on a scale of one-to-ten.  
Making her mad wasn't his intention, exactly, but it was 
inevitable because he wasn't going to cooperate with her plans to 
let her convince him he was overreacting.


"Mulder . . .." Scully's tone was icily ominous.  


Mulder felt the hurricane warnings go up.  This was going even 
worse than he'd feared.  Still, she could either accept his 
decision or rail against it, but he wasn't giving in this time.  
He didn't have the energy to fight Scully and the voice that kept 
whispering in his mind.  Breathing a silent sigh of resignation 
for the hurt he was about to inflict, Mulder turned and held up a 
hand to silence Scully's incipient outburst.


"Just this once, Scully, *I'm fine*.  Conversation over."  Mulder 
looked her straight in the eyes without flinching, trying to 
communicate respect, apology and determination in their silent 
language.  Scully's expression turned to cold fury and he knew 
either she wasn't listening or had deliberately misread him.  
Refusing to be intimidated, Mulder held her eyes in a silent 
battle of wills.


"Damn you, Mulder!  You need to talk about this."  Scully's 
temper exploded as she broke eye contact.  //Trust Mulder to be a 
stubborn ass about this.//


//Hell will have me soon enough Scully,// Mulder thought as the 
whisper in his mind reveled in this angry confrontation.  The 
violence that lurked deep within his soul boiled up until it 
lapped against the very edge of his conscious control.  Driven by 
the voice and his terror, Mulder felt the temptation to explode, 
to drive Scully away where she would be safe from whatever was 
reaching out from Hell to claim him.


He didn't want to hurt her, but part of him did.  The part that 
resented her debunking of his beliefs, that feared her hold on 
him which could make him sacrifice almost everything, even his 
quest, to protect her, and lastly that part which hated her for 
having the answers to everything neatly arranged and catalogued 
in her scientific world view.  He feared that part of himself; 
the part that wanted to squeeze the mocking light out of her eyes 
and free himself.


//Damn it, shut up.  I won't hurt her so shut the fuck up!// he 
screamed at the voice.  


A soft evil chuckle echoed through his mind.  //But you'd like to 
do it wouldn't you?  I'm only showing you what you try to hide 
from yourself.//


"Why Scully?  You wouldn't believe me if I did try to explain how 
I feel, so why waste your time or mine?"  That came out with a 
vicious bite.  //There's more than one way to kill,// the voice 
whispered helpfully.  Mulder had to take a deep breath before he 
could continue, grasping for a more conciliatory tone.  "Go to 
bed.  I slept most of the day.  You look beat.  I promise not go 
anywhere without our watchdog, OK?"


Scully was too furious to even notice the softening of his tone.  
All she heard was his contemptuous dismissal of her opinions and 
her willingness to help him.


"Fine then, if you want to blow your career to hell, go ahead."  
Scully stormed through the connecting door, slamming it hard 
enough to rattle the walls.  Mulder flinched as he heard the bolt 
slam shut.


"Sleep tight, Scully.  I'm sorry . . .." Mulder whispered as he 
leaned his head against the shut door.  The whispering voice 
merely laughed and resumed its litany of despair.


**********

Glen Morgan Inn
9:00 a.m.  July 23


Scully woke up to the sound of someone knocking on her door.  
Groggily untangling herself from the bed sheets, she discovered 
she had thrown herself into bed still dressed.  She remembered 
storming around the room for over an hour, furiously listing each 
and every one of Mulder's shortcomings until she was too tired to 
think any longer.  The last thing she could remember was 
collapsing on the bed in frustrated fury after telling herself 
that if Mulder wouldn't accept her help, then their partnership 
was a sham and it really didn't matter whether he self-destructed 
or someone else did the job for him.  This realization should 
have brought at least a resigned peace; instead it brought only 
pain and a soul-wrenching grief.


She had obviously fallen asleep at some point, but she didn't 
feel rested in the least.  Stumbling to the door, she cautiously 
opened it a crack to discover a stubbled, bleary-eyed Mulder 
standing on her doorstep holding out a cup of coffee and a fresh 
bagel.  Remembering her anger, she was tempted to slam the door 
in his face, but the look on his face as he silently held up his 
peace offerings and his foot in the door forestalled that very 
satisfying response to his presence.


Glaring icily at him, she unlocked the chain and let him in.  
From the looks of him, he probably hadn't slept at all.  
//Probably obsessing over his belief that he's the next victim,// 
she thought grumpily.  Mornings were not her best time of the 
day.  She was tired, rumpled and still more than a little angry 
with him, but the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee was doing much to 
restore her equilibrium.


"Sorry to wake you so early."


"What time is it, Mulder?  It can't be that early, the sun's too 
bright," Scully muttered as she cradled the coffee and began to 
inhale the life-restoring liquid.


"Actually, it's around nine in the morning.  Sun's been up 
awhile, but it probably got more sleep than you did."  Mulder 
kept his voice very steady.  If he concentrated exactly on what 
he wanted to say and didn't allow his mind to wander off the 
prepared script, the voice had to remain in the background, 
barely audible.  He was determined not to argue with Scully, not 
to let their differences get in the way of this case.  The voice 
helpfully supplied the unspoken corollary to that argument; that 
he didn't want to leave Scully with any residual guilt when he 
became the final victim.  Absently, almost wearily, he told the 
voice to shut up.  He was almost past caring what it said.


"I'm fine, Mulder.  What do you want?" Scully kept her tone 
neutral but her anger was not forgotten.  She felt a twinge of 
satisfaction when Mulder winced slightly.


"Deputy Sims may have a lead on who our perp is.  Working with my 
profile and the description I gave of the man I saw, he thinks 
the man we're looking for is Lafe Mileson, sort of a ne'er-do-
well moonshiner, local thug and all-round general loser.  Sims is 
getting ready to head up to Mileson's cabin in about an hour.  
He's not real happy about it, but he did ask me along and I 
thought you might like to come along."  Mulder paused to gauge 
Scully's reaction so far, then hazarded a bit of humor.  
"Actually Sims asked for your help and I'm just sort of a 
necessary evil."


Scully ignored the humor and gave Mulder a long cold stare.  He 
sighed inwardly and realized she wasn't about to forgive him yet.  
Probably the only way she would forgive would be if he broke down 
and let her soothe away his fears with science and reason.  That 
wasn't going to happen so he guessed he was stuck with this 
frigid do-not-disturb zone between them.


"Fine.  Give me a half an hour.  Will you be in your room or down 
at the sheriff's office?"


"In my room.  Sims is going to swing by here and pick us up.  
Matt left at dawn to get some sleep.  C.J. is my watchdog for the 
day," Mulder said with a rueful smile.  "It's a bit like being 
guarded by a Chihuahua, but he's meaner than he looks."


Scully puzzled over that last bit.  She wasn't ready to make 
peace with Mulder, but she had to admit he sounded more rational 
than he had last night.  Maybe he was beginning to come to his 
senses.  Peeking out the door as Mulder left she saw what he 
meant.  If Sheriff Collins had been on the short side, Deputy C. 
J. Rawlins was positively tiny.


A small, thin wiry man lounged against Mulder's door.  So this 
was the much-heard-from but never-seen Deputy Rawlins, Scully 
thought.  Collins had said something about him taking a long 
scouting trip up along some of the more remote mountain trails.  
She didn't remember seeing him at the crime scene last night, but 
then aside from Sims and Cullum, her entire attention was taken 
up by one very dead body and one very irritating partner.


C.J. grinned when he saw her peering out the door and looked 
about as dangerous as the Chihuahua Mulder had mentioned.  Then 
she saw the large Bowie knife strapped to his belt and the almost 
too casual way he lounged and Scully rapidly reassessed the man.  
Probably an expert with the knife and even more probably skilled 
in unarmed combat.  She had seen the look on a friend of her 
father's, a Navy Seal who had the same deceptively innocent look.  
Well, at least Deputy Sims took her seriously, she thought.  More 
than she could say for her erstwhile partner.


She withdrew back into the room and took a hasty shower to wash 
away the grime and tears and dressed in her hiking clothes.  
Mulder had been dressed in hiking boots, jeans, t-shirt and his 
leather jacket, so obviously wherever this cabin was, involved 
some bit of hiking.  It never occurred to her that Mulder hadn't 
felt it necessary to tell her to dress rough; had trusted their 
silent language to communicate that detail.  On a conscious level 
she might be considering their partnership at an end after today, 
but subconsciously, she still moved and thought as one half of 
the whole.


When Scully finally emerged, C.J. gave her an appreciative grin 
and a sketchy salute.  Ordinarily she would have resented the 
openly male appraisal but something about C.J. rendered it 
harmless, almost brotherly.  //I just bet he's hell with the 
women with a technique like that,// Scully thought.  She grinned 
back at him and nodded acknowledgment of the silent wolf whistle 
that hovered in the air between them.  C.J. grinned again and 
knocked on Mulder's door.


"Get your sorry ass out here man, she's ready and waiting."


Before he had finished, Mulder shot out of his room with a 
faintly embarrassed look on his face.  Scully guessed he'd 
probably been pacing impatiently and had gotten so absorbed in 
his own thoughts that he'd forgotten all about her.  Before she 
could make any comment however, a raucous horn shattered the air.  
Sims was impatiently gesturing for them to get into his Jeep.  
Mulder and C.J. took the back seat, Mulder apparently willing to 
give Sims plenty of room, so Scully clambered up into the front 
seat.


Another Jeep pulled out of the parking lot after them and Scully 
estimated that Sims was bringing a small possee, all heavily 
armed if the shotgun in the door holster by Sims was any 
indication.  Whoever this Lafe Mileson was, Sims was being very 
careful.


As the posse sped up the main highway she breathed a silent 
prayer that this whole thing could end this morning with Mileson 
captured or dead and then maybe, just maybe, she could begin to 
reassemble her partnership with Mulder.  They would have to have 
a serious talk of course, but with Mileson out of the picture, 
she thought Mulder might be willing to listen to reason.  The 
expression on Mulder's face as they settled in the Jeep had been 
bleak, as if he believed this was an exercise in futility, as if 
nothing he did could alter what he believed the fates had in 
store for him.  That defeatist attitude stoked her anger and she 
gritted her teeth to keep from lashing out at him.  They'd find 
this Mileson and that would be that; even Mulder would have to 
admit then that he had mistaken his temporary link with the 
killer for fate.



TITLE: In the Shadows of the Moon  (parts 17-25 of 25)
AUTHOR: Joyce 

DISTRIBUTION: Please post to ATXC.  Already archived.
RATING: NC-17  (graphic violence/profanity)
CLASSIFICATION: X, S, A
SUMMARY:  Mulder and Scully investigate a series of brutal
murders in the hills of Eastern Tennessee and find more than
either of them bargained for.

DISCLAIMER:  Fox Mulder, and Dana Scully, and Walter Skinner
belong to CC and Fox Broadcasting and I am only borrowing them
for a moment and will return them.  No infringement is intended.
All other characters are copyrighted to me and may not be used
without my express permission.

FEEDBACK: Always welcome


************

Lafe Mileson's cabin
Hawkins Ridge Creek
11:30 a.m., July 23


"Alright, everyone.  Lafe's an idiot, but if I'm right about him, 
he's a dangerous idiot.  Don't take any chances," Sims whispered 
urgently to his makeshift possee.  Somehow, in the intervening 
hours, Sims had convinced himself that he was the one who 
targeted Lafe as the killer.  With an exaggerated wave of his 
hand, he sent two of his men off off into the thick brush to the 
right of the main trail.


Mulder saw Scully's lips moving and suspected she was muttering 
under her breath about their less than subtle approach.  Sims had 
taken the dirt road at nearly fifty miles-per-hour, raising a 
dust cloud that no doubt could be seen for miles.  Lafe Mileson 
would have to be drunk, asleep or just plain stupid not to 
realize he was under attack.  Somehow Mulder didn't think Lafe 
was going to wait patiently in his cabin to be arrested.  
Considering Sims' attitude, Mulder didn't even consider pointing 
this lapse of procedure out to him.


"OK, agents, I'm going to take McDonal and we're going to sneak 
up along the left side of the trail.  I'm leaving Haskell with 
you.  And, of course, your watchdog.  Try not to step in 
anything," Sims said as he gestured McDonal to follow him.  C.J. 
gave a slight shake of his head as they made a noisy advance into 
the tangled brush.


Mulder looked at Haskell who gave him a cold distainful glare in 
return.  Apparently Sims had not been reticent about his 
disastrous encounter with Lafe the night before.


"Right, then.  You two follow me.  I wouldn't want you two to get 
lost or anything, you being city folks.  Rawlins, keep them out 
of trouble."  Haskell shifted his shotgun and started up the 
trail.


Mulder quickly moved into postion right behind Haskell, ignoring 
Scully's glare.  C.J. filed in right behind her.  Their two 
escorts guided them quietly and carefully up the trail.  About a 
mile later, they halted.


"Lafe's cabin is around the next bend.  When Sims gives the 
signal, we're going to rush the place.  Lafe won't know what hit 
him."


Haskell's whisper carried well past the three people standing 
beside him.  Scully's soft hiss of disgust barely reached 
Mulder's ears.  He couldn't agree more.  Whatever surprise may 
have lingered after their rush up the road was surely gone by 
now.


A sharp whistle exploded from the far left and Haskell 
immediately sprinted up the trail, shotgun at the ready.  Mulder 
drew his gun, looked at Scully and C.J. to see if they were 
ready, then followed their erstwhile guide slowly up the trail.


Mulder proceeded cautiously.  Lafe was not someone he wanted to 
bump into unawares.  He divided his attention between scanning 
the clearing and looking down at the trail.  The cabin looked 
deserted.  Hell, the cabin looked like it was falling down, but 
Mulder maintained his cautious approach.  With a quick nod at 
Scully and C.J., then at a shabby storage shed, he sprinted 
across the open ground and took up position where he and C.J. 
could cover Scully's dash.  As he moved aside to let Scully come 
up beside him, he came to an abrupt halt.  Just finishing her own 
dash across open ground, Scully almost ran into him.  C.J. 
slithered to a halt barely inches from Scully's back.


"Bear trap," he said softly, nudging her shoulder and pointing to 
an innocent pile of leaves and twigs laying just beside the shed.  
Scully could just make out the glint of metal under the leaves 
and the camoflauged chain holding the trap to the wall of the 
shed.  C.J. flashed Mulder an approving grin and a quick thumbs-
up.


Gunfire shattered the silence.  Mulder pressed back against the 
shed, weapon held at the ready, while he scanned the front yard.  
Scully dropped into a crouch, sweeping the area behind them.  
C.J. immediately moved out to their left, behind a rotting pile 
of logs, to a position where he could have a free field of fire.


A loud agonized scream burst out from behind the cabin, a second 
scream echoed the first.  Curses intermingled with yells of agony 
accompanied by the creak of old wood collapsing.


"Peters, Jaskins, what the hell is going on?"  Sims roar was 
almost lost as several shotguns went off, peppering the cabin and 
shattering the sagging door.


Haskell and McDonal made a reckless charge at the cabin.  Mulder 
calculated that they were going to reach the cabin with empty 
guns at the rate they were firing.  Sims was roaring at them but 
his exact words could not be heard over the shattering sound of 
their shotguns.  Finally he burst out from the brush and went 
after them, followed somewhat more cautiously by Jacobson.


Within minutes silence had been restored.  Mulder and Scully 
cautiously made their way to the cabin.  Both of them were now 
scanning the ground for traps.  C.J. moved like a silent ghost 
behind them, constantly scanning the area, alert for a possible 
ambush.


"Not a very trusting man, our suspect," Mulder commented wryly as 
he sidestepped a trip wire attached to a nasty-looking bombard of 
nails, barbed wire and broken glass.


They were now close enough to hear the moans of the men in the 
rear of the cabin.  Sims was still roaring inside the cabin.


"Show's over for now.  Figured Lafe was too canny a mountain man 
to get caught like this," C.J. said with a resigned sigh.  He 
turned to Scully, "Heard you're a doctor, of sorts.  Sounds like 
Peters and Jaskins could use one right now, if you're a mind to 
help."


"Agent Scully, get in here.  The cabin's clear and I've got men 
needing medical help," Sims bellowed out the window.


Scully grimaced as she holstered her gun and sprinted up the 
porch steps.  The cabin smelled worse than it looked and for a 
moment it was all she could do not to gag.  She heard Mulder's 
reflexive gasp behind her.


"Peters and Jaskins are out back.  Damn that Lafe.  Damn him and 
his traps.  Someone must have warned him we were coming."


"Actually, Deputy Sims, I think you probably did a good job of 
that yourself.  A dust cloud any idiot could see a mile off is a 
good tipoff that someone in a hurry is coming up the road."


Scully delivered her rebuke in a clipped tone as she shouldered 
past the sputtering deputy.  Sims was definitely on her shit 
list, right up there with Mulder.  Mulder at least had the common 
sense to follow FBI procedure when approaching a possible 
entrenched, heavily armed suspect.


When they reached the back porch they saw Jacobson applying rough 
field dressings to the wounds.  Immediately absorbed in the task 
of stabilizing the men, Scully didn't even feel Mulder leave her 
side.


Mulder left Scully to her work and made a brief tour of the 
cabin.  He held his breath against the stench of generations of 
unwashed bodies and whiskey that had seeped into the very boards 
of the cabin. Exploring an old cherry-wood cabinet, he found a 
pot of greasy ointment that smelled and looked like the stuff 
smeared on the ritual victims.  He bagged it as evidence, not 
sure if it would ever be needed, but it gave him something 
constructive to do while everyone else was fussing around 
outside.


"Damn bitch!" 


Acting Sheriff Sims was furious.  He stormed out of the cabin and 
sent McDonal and Haskell out into the brush to see if they could 
pick up any sign of where Lafe had gone.  Jacobson was assisting 
Scully with the two wounded men.  His decade-old medic's training 
in the army was a bit rusty but better than nothing.  C.J. was 
following that damn Agent Mulder like he was his shadow.  //Damn 
waste of manpower.//


Sims seethed at his luck.  It was bad enough that his carefully 
planned raid had failed to turn up any trace of Lafe Mileson.  
OK, so maybe taking the last two miles of dirt road at full speed 
wasn't that smart an idea in hindsight, but Sims just couldn't 
believe Lafe was smart enough to realize he'd been identified.  
The man was an egotistical brute with more brawn than brains and 
God certainly hadn't blessed him with much brawn.


What really hurt was the damn embarrassment of having two of his 
men fall victim to Lafe's childish traps.  Even that idiot Mulder 
had managed to avoid the traps littering the yard.  Peters and 
Jaskins however, who for God-certain knew better, just had to 
walk right into the trip-wire strung across the back steps.  
They'd live, but the doctors would be picking buckshot out of 
them for awhile.  So much for showing the FBI how competent he 
was.  Haskell and McDonal came back, reporting that Lafe was 
nowhere to be found.  Sims' day wasn't getting any brighter.


Mulder left Mileson's cabin, moving quietly to the edge of the 
woods, out of range of Sims temper.  He watched as the acting 
sheriff rampaged around the small clearing.  He had never really 
held out much hope that they'd find Mileson at home, but it gave 
them something to do and kept Scully too occupied to have her 
*significant discussion* with him.  Her diminutive figure looked 
almost childlike among the big husky boys Sims had pressed into 
service for this posse, but he'd rather have her at his back than 
a dozen of Sims's brawny boys.  Now she was busy getting the two 
unfortunate victims of Mileson's trap ready to transport.


From the looks of the cabin, Mileson hadn't been at home for 
several days, possibly as long as a week.  The cabin looked like 
it had been built about a hundred years ago and not built very 
well.  The boards were so weathered that they shone as a grey 
shadow amid the thick overgrown bushes surrounding it.  The yard 
was littered with beer cans and assorted rusty junk that might 
have been, at one time, a functional still.  Honeysuckle vines 
covered unidentified lumps in the yard.  It looked like anything 
that didn't move out of the way fast enough was fodder for the 
voracious honeysuckle.  Mulder wondered if the honeysuckle was 
carnivorous and decided to keep moving just in case.


The little voice in his head assured him that Lafe Mileson had 
passed beyond the puny reach of mortal law.  Perhaps, but Mulder 
saw no harm in building a nice logical case against him, if for 
no other reason than to satisfy Scully's urge to transform the 
paranormal into a safe, rational cause and effect.  Right now, 
Mulder was determined to give Scully as much of a solid 
foundation as he could.  If things went the way his voice was 
predicting, //and it will, Fox, why do you still doubt me?// then 
she would need every bit of that solid footing to keep her 
sanity.


From the back of the cabin he heard Scully's voice as she barked 
orders at the men carrying the two wounded deputies to the Jeeps.  
He smiled as he realized she had quickly assumed command of the 
demoralized posse without a single one of the men even 
questioning her authority.  Sims was too involved with his own 
fury to interfere, but Mulder saw his head swing round at the 
sound of her voice.  There would be trouble soon.  Sims wanted 
revenge and Mulder doubted if he was going to listen to his 
request for a detour.  Still, the interruption should deflect 
Sims from his obvious intention to put Scully in her place.


Mulder walked quickly to intercept Sims, barely conscious that 
his shadow had returned to his duty.  C.J. had the happy facility 
of disappearing from Mulder's awareness and right now, Mulder was 
grateful for that.  He liked C.J. and, under better 
circumstances, might have enjoyed getting to know him, but right 
now he was a necessary appendage inflicted on him by a Scully in 
full den-mother mode.


"Sheriff Sims," Mulder shouted, reminding himself that a bit of 
prudent diplomacy might not hurt.


Sims halted and waited for Mulder, his face mottled with the heat 
and the remnants of his fury.  He wondered what this idiot from 
the FBI wanted now.  They had to get Peters and Jaskins back to 
town and then organize a manhunt for Mileson.  Right now he 
didn't care if Mileson was actually the killer; Lafe had hurt his 
men and his pride and Sims intended to make him pay for that.


"Before you go back to town, I need someone to take me to see the 
old woman you told me about last night."


"Old Sallie?  You're out of your mind if you think I'm going to 
waste any of my time hauling you up to Glendower Falls to talk to 
a senile old hill woman."  Sims tone was contemptuous and curt.  
Mulder had badgered him with his friend's body growing cold 
nearby until he told him about Old Sallie.  Now the idiot 
actually expected him to divert men and a vehicle to traipse up 
there.  //No wonder the country's falling apart if this is an 
example of a government agent,// Sims thought angrily.


"Sheriff, I need to talk with her.  She might have 
information . . .."


"Damn it, are you deaf as well as dumb?  I said no and I damn 
well mean no.  I've got a murderer on the loose and two wounded 
men.  I rather think that takes precedence over your silly 
interest in our local folklore."  Sims brushed past Mulder and 
headed down to the Jeeps to supervise the loading of the wounded.  
His words and attitude making it clear that the conversation was 
over.


Mulder stood still, clenching and unclenching his fists, as he 
tried to control his rising temper.  He knew he was grasping at 
straws, but straws were all he had.  If there was any chance at 
all that this Old Sallie could help, he had to take it.  It was 
thin, but Mulder was willing to take a chance.  It wasn't like he 
had many other options.  The alternative was to simply wait and 
do nothing.  Despite Scully's fears, Mulder wasn't a defeatist.  
He might have to go into this fight knowing he couldn't win, but 
that didn't mean he wouldn't use anyone or anything he could to 
try to pull off a miracle.


The whispering voice laughed at him, amused that he dared to 
think there was any help out there, much less that he would be 
allowed to reach this elusive hope.


//Shut up!  SHUT UP!// Mulder flung back at the voice.  //I'll 
keep trying till I'm not alive to try any longer.  I'm not going 
to give up.  I owe Scully more than that; she expects more of me 
than that.//


The voice merely laughed mockingly and summoned up all his 
failures and lovingly presented each one of them for his viewing 
pleasure.  Mulder sighed and leaned his head against a convenient 
tree.  If Mileson didn't kill him first, this voice was going to 
drive him completely mad.  Insanity was actually beginning to 
look good right now except that he was certain the voice wouldn't 
go away and he'd live with it whispering to him until his very 
soul went insane.


"Agent Mulder?"  C.J.'s voice interrupted his musings.  Mulder 
looked down at his watchdog, his mind so preoccupied with 
frustration and fear that for the moment he had difficulty 
focusing on what the man was saying.


"I said I can get you to Old Sallie, if you're willing to do a 
bit of walking," C.J. said with a half-smile that didn't touch 
his serious grey eyes.  He had the air of a man who had decided 
to wade into dangerous waters on nothing more than the faith that 
he was doing the right thing.


"How much is 'a bit of walking'?" Mulder asked cautiously.  He 
didn't like the chuckle he heard in C.J.'s voice when he 
mentioned the hike.


"Oh 'bout three hours of steady walking.  Mostly mountain trails.  
Part uphill, part down, but mostly up."  C.J. gave Mulder an 
appraising look.  He appeared to be in good shape, as did that 
pretty partner of his, but mountain walking took stamina.  There 
wouldn't be a lot of time for resting if they wanted to get to 
Sallie's place in good time.  If she couldn't help this man, C.J. 
didn't want to be caught out in the hills with two city folk when 
dark came.


If Lafe had targeted this man, C.J. wanted him safe in town.  
There were too many dark rumors about Lafe and his new-found 
powers running through the families living up in the mountains.  
Some of his kinfolk had been quietly gathering along with a half 
a dozen of the hell-raisers from the hills.  C.J. sensed 
impending violence in the air.  Lafe wasn't the only fool to sell 
his soul for power and whiskey; there were plenty of fools in 
these hills, and not a few of them in town for that matter.


"Won't you get in trouble with your boss?"  Mulder wasn't sure he 
dared to believe in this miracle; almost wasn't sure he dared to 
accept the offer lest it prove to be one last mocking 
disappointment.


"I'm willing to risk it.  'Sides, what can he do to me?  Fire 
me?"  C.J. grinned like a young wolf.  "Sims's word doesn't go 
past the city line.  Ma folks ha' been in these hills since afore 
Sims's folks ever heard of Tennessee, much less lived here.  If 
ya want ta see Auld Sallie, I'm tha one to take ya.  Likely she 
won't set off her discouragements if she kens I'm with ya."


Mulder noticed that C.J.'s manner of speaking began to change, to 
slip into an entirely different rhythm spiced with the slang of 
the Highland immigrants who had populated these hills centuries 
earlier.  C.J. noticed him noticing and smiled reassuringly.  
Mulder didn't think he wanted to know what C.J. meant by 
'discouragements'.  Somehow the impression he got was that they 
were something far more unpleasant than anything Mileson had 
planted.


"Mulder!" Scully's shout caused them both to start.  Mulder gave 
C.J. a quick firm nod to accept his offer before turning to face 
his partner.  Convincing Scully to let him go was going to be a 
challenge.  He knew better than to try to convince her to let him 
go alone.  At least she was dressed for a hike in the woods.


"Come on, Mulder.  The sheriff is getting ready to leave.  
There's trouble in town.  Some of the townsfolk have taken 
violent exception to being flooded with reporters."  Scully was 
beginning to sound impatient.


"Sorry, Scully, I've got to see an old woman about a killer," 
Mulder tried to lighten the tone, maybe convince Scully he wasn't 
dangerously suicidal or insane.  Well, maybe convincing her he 
wasn't insane was already a lost cause, probably had been since 
their first case, but he wanted to let her know he was about as 
normal as he ever was.


"Mulder!"  Now Scully's tone had slipped from impatient to her 
'I'm getting very pissed off with you and you had better have a 
good explanation' tone.  Mulder walked down to meet her halfway.  
Her eyes were as cold as ice.  This was going to take longer than 
he thought.  He saw C.J. slip down and talk to Sims, no doubt to 
inform him of the change in plans.  Mulder winced; Scully's mood 
was not going to improve when she realized that she had been 
effectively removed from having any say in this little 
expedition.  Over her shoulder, he saw C.J. pull out a backpack 
from the Jeep just before Sims slammed the door and gunned the 
motor.


"What the hell?" Scully spun about in time to see the Jeep shoot 
down the road, then whirled back to face Mulder, her eyes flaming 
with fury.


//From ice to hellfire,// Mulder thought with a resigned and 
weary sigh.  He really wasn't up to dealing with Scully's anger, 
however justified it was.


"Scully, before you start, I had every intention of asking you if 
you wanted to come along or not.  C.J. did the deciding, not me."  
//I know better,// Mulder thought.


C.J. joined them and, ignoring Scully's glare, handed her a 
canteen.  Then, using his bowie knife, he cut down a small 
sapling, trimmed it, and presented her with it.


"Here ye are m'lady.  One first-rate walking staff.  You'll need 
it 'bout as much as the water."  C.J. grinned engagingly at her.  
Mulder held his breath, C.J. obviously liked playing with fire.


"Of course our long-limbed friend there is more likely to need 
help by trail's end; the tall ones just have no staying power."  
C.J. winked at her as he pulled on the backpack.


Mulder bristled at the implied insult then was stunned to see 
Scully break into a smile.  C.J. had to be a magician.  There was 
no other explanation as far as Mulder could see.


"OK, C.J., where are we going?  What impossible quest has Mulder 
convinced you to take us on?"  Scully actually sounded more 
resigned than angry.  Mulder gave up wondering how or why and 
just enjoyed the result.


C.J. looked at Mulder, plainly letting him know the explanations 
were up to him.  He'd calmed the waters, now it was up to Mulder 
to try to explain why they were going to hike over two mountains.


"Scully, I think there is an old woman up near, Glendower Falls 
was it?"  Mulder looked to C.J. for confirmation.  C.J. shrugged 
and nodded.  Mulder took that to mean that the hill folk probably 
had their own name for the place, but wouldn't argue over it.  
C.J. started walking towards the tree-line without stopping to 
see if they followed.  Mulder motioned Scully to move ahead of 
him.  It would be easier to talk with her in front of him.


"Old Sallie may be able to help me."


Scully stopped dead and gave him a look of sheer disbelief.  
Mulder managed a grim smile and a shrug.


"At least it's better than sitting around town doing nothing 
except brood.  I really doubt if Sims would welcome my help in 
putting his town in order, however much I would like to bash a 
few reporters' heads together.  Whether you believe me or not 
Scully, I think you know I have to check out all possibilities.  
C.J. is willing and I think I trust him a whole lot more than 
Sims where my life is concerned."  Mulder laid out the bare 
facts, hoping Scully would understand.  He concentrated on 
avoiding low-hanging branches while Scully considered his scanty 
explanation.  She would know there was a lot he wasn't saying, 
but they had three hours of walking ahead of them; plenty of time 
for explanations and arguments.


"Mulder you never cease to amaze me.  Just when I think you can't 
come across sounding any more insane, you surpass my 
expectations.  We are going to hike into the back country to hunt 
up an old woman who might, just might, be able to help you fight 
off a killer, while we watch the heavily armed police of this 
area drive away."  Scully sounded incredulous.  "He's insane.  
He's my partner, but he is definitely insane," she concluded,
looking heavenward as if for guidance, patience or who knew what.  
Mulder wisely kept silent, not sure of how to respond and 
figuring silence was the only safe course of action.


************

Auld Sallie's Cabin
4:00 p.m.  July 23


By the time they had reached the footpath C.J. said led up to 
Sallie's cabin, Mulder was almost past caring.  He was painfully 
aware that running did not prepare the legs for hiking mountain 
trails.  In the future, providing he had one, he vowed to do more 
cross-training.  During the periodic rest breaks C.J. allowed 
them, all he wanted to do was collapse on the ground and give his 
aching leg muscles a break.  Scully appeared to be holding up 
well, though he knew she would drop in her tracks before 
admitting she couldn't keep up.  He did notice that she had very 
little to say once they hit their first steep climb.  Like him, 
she probably needed her breath for walking; talking was a luxury 
neither of them could afford.


Under other circumstances, Mulder would have enjoyed taking this 
trip into the wilderness.  They had left an identifiable trail 
near two hours ago and as far as he could tell were plunging into 
uncharted woods.  C.J. seemed to be following some invisible 
trail through this labyrinth of mountain ash, honeysuckle and 
laurel as well as trees Mulder couldn't even begin to identify.  
Over the past hour, he had come to the depressing realization 
that if anything happened to C.J., he and Scully could simply 
disappear forever in this lovely serene wilderness without a 
prayer of finding their way back to civilization.


//Whoever this Old Sallie is, she certainly likes her privacy,// 
Mulder thought as he gasped for breath.


Mulder could not help glaring at their guide when he noticed that 
C.J. was barely breathing hard as he let them rest before 
tackling what he modestly called 'the really tricky part of the 
trail.'  If what they had just endured for the past three and a 
half hours was the easy part, Mulder wasn't sure he wanted to 
experience the 'tricky part.'  However after C.J.'s comment about 
his height at the beginning of this trek, Mulder was determined 
to walk himself into a massive coronary before complaining.


At least with his entire mind focused on breathing and putting 
one foot ahead of the other, he had very little attention left to 
give to the whispers of damnation still seeping from the voice in 
his head.  He no longer bothered to argue with the voice; he 
merely accepted it as an inescapable part of his psyche now.  
Damnation might very well be his fate, but the voice would have 
to do more than whisper him into Hell.  If Hell wanted him, the 
devil would have to come after him.  A stray thought crossing his 
mind produced a short laugh and a rueful smile.


//I can believe in the devil, but not in God.  Wonder which one 
of us is the greater fool - Scully for believing in God or me for 
believing in the Devil?//  At Scully's curious look, he shook his 
head and went back to massaging his screaming calf muscles.  
Hopefully it was not a question he would have an answer to any 
time soon.


"OK folks, time to get moving."  C.J. helped Scully up with a 
gallant gesture reminiscent of a Cavalier.  Mulder felt a stab of 
resentment that she seemed to accept C.J.'s gallantry without a 
quibble.  He struggled to his feet, swayed uncertainly for a 
moment, then straightened up, stretching out muscles tightening 
into cramps.


"From now on, you two watch me and if I stop, you stop.  Auld 
Sallie has quite a few surprises for unwary intruders.  I know 
some of them, at least the ones on this lower part of the trail, 
but once we get within a hundred yards of her place I'm going to 
have to hope she kens I'm coming and will let us through."


"What kind of traps?  I didn't pack a medical bag, C.J."  Scully 
sounded ticked off.


"Nothing you might need your doctor's kit for, but still mighty 
unpleasant to experience.  Auld Sallie is wise in the way of leaf 
and tree and all the animals of the forest protect her in their 
own way."


Scully gave C.J. a very skeptical glare which he accepted with a 
smile and a shrug.


"Believe or not m'lady, but it would be best if you believed.  
T'will do no harm to accept that you are about to enter a realm 
where the ancient lore still rules.  Your partner understands, 
but then Lafe has already drawn him half into that shadow world," 
C.J. said seriously as he gave Mulder an appraising look.


Seeing Scully's impatient look and her critical appraisal of his 
physical condition, Mulder wished for Scully's sake that he could 
refute C.J.'s conclusion.  He couldn't and that was beginning to 
scare him.  Ever since the sun had begun to slip into the western 
sky, he realized that he had begun to feel a bit shadowy about 
the edges.  He shuddered at the implications of that erasure of 
his physical self and tried to concentrate on keeping himself 
anchored in the here and now.


As they started up the path, Mulder briefly considered moving 
ahead of Scully to the middle position to protect her if C.J. 
happened to overlook a 'discouragement,' but decided that he 
didn't feel like arguing over the issue.  Scully had graciously 
let the matter of his insanity drop during this hike and Mulder 
didn't want to give her any excuse to pick it up.


************

Auld Sallie's Cabin
4:15 p.m.  July 23


Sallie watched the hawks glide in their slow, graceful sweeps 
over the trail leading up to her place.  Company was coming.  The 
fact that the approaching visitors had passed without incident 
the traps she had laid for the unwary or the accidental 
trespasser signified that at least one of their party was a 
mountain man wise in her ways.  She didn't need to use her magic 
to sense that the two strangers were approaching.  The dark man's 
aura blazed around him, unsettling the forest.  Where he walked, 
Sallie was sure the woman walked.  That was good, there was need 
for talking before the battle began.  She had cast the runes 
again and they had been silent about the outcome of the 
approaching battle, only that Uriel waited in the shadows and the 
Hunt hovered restlessly on the horizon to sweep the land clean at 
his command.  Whose death was foretold, the runes refused to say, 
only that death and damnation lay in wait for someone this night.


Now they were crossing into her land.  Sallie sensed her 
protectors readying themselves to act should she not give the 
word to let the visitors approach.  Bridget chivied her kittens 
under the cabin and was guarding the entrance.  Jock paced 
restlessly across the porch railings, mouth open in a muted 
hunting cry.  Sallie sat quietly rocking back and forth in the 
old rocker, waiting and watching.  When she sensed the sudden 
cautious halt by the visitors just outside the great circle she 
had drawn to protect her home, she smiled.  With a whisper as 
soft as down, she bade her creatures stand aside.  Whoever the 
strangers had found to lead them here knew her and her ways and 
respected them.  Jock gave voice to a loud warbling cry, half 
challenge, half welcome that was answered by a rich baritone 
wordless hail.


//So, t'was Cynan wha was bringin' tha strangers hither.  Good 
eno, he be a bra' man an' one wha kenned tha ancient ways.//


They would need brave fighters before this day was through, 
Sallie knew.  From here Lafe would have to draw the dark man 
forth and here would the first battle be fought, but not the 
last.  Sallie suspected that she could protect either the dark 
man or the lady but not both.  Still there were ways of help that 
did not depend on physical force and were not evident until the 
need was great.  What she contemplated was dire and almost as 
grim as what awaited the man and not to be chanced without 
consent, yet there was no time to gain his understanding and 
consent.  "On ma soul tha sin," she prayed, hoping the hope of 
last resort would never have to be grasped.


"Halloo the cabin."


"Ye an' those ye bring be welcome son o Madoc's line," Sallie 
called back.


She recalled the raven-haired small men who came up from the 
South to settle in her mountains.  Cynan was one of the few who 
had left to see the outside world then returned, content to live 
where his forefathers had lived for more generations that she 
could count.  Watching him walk confidently out of the trees into 
the clearing, she held her breath for her first sight of the pair 
who would be her weapons in this latest battle in the war against 
the evil which haunted these hills.


The flaming red hair of the lady caught the afternoon sun in 
answering fire; the fire of the Celts.  Seeing her reminded 
Sallie of the Highland women girding their men for battle, 
singing the ancient songs to bring them luck and guide them 
safely home again.  This lass did not hold to the ancient ways, 
holding them to be superstitious nonsense, but in her own way, 
she fought to hold back the darkness.  The boundaries of her 
beliefs would be sorely tested this day.  Sallie prayed simply 
that her will and her bond with the dark man would be enough to 
carry her through the storm.


Like a cloud following the sun, Sallie saw the dark man emerge 
from the shadows.  Strange that such an unprepossessing figure of 
a man should be the king-piece in this battle.  His eyes were 
dark with foreboding.  Starting at shadows as he was drawn into 
their world.  Still, from the air of him, he was used to fighting 
shadows; he was not succumbing easily to the despair Lafe's 
demon-master was no doubt fostering, but she sensed that his will 
was weakening under the relentless pressure.  Time for him to 
rest, before the battle opened.  She could at least offer him a 
respite from the whispers of the damned soul who held him in 
thrall.


Mulder looked up with astonishment at the cabin C.J. had led them 
to.  It looked almost as if it was growing out of the 
mountainside.  Unlike Lafe's ramshackle, decrepit shack, this had 
the look of a craftsman's hand in its making.  Mulder was no 
carpenter, but he had grown up on an island where the artistry of 
the carpenter practically shrieked out from every historic house.  
This cabin's construction and detailed work would rival some of 
the fancy houses on the Vineyard.  A grin flashed across his face 
like lightning as he contemplated the jealous outrage that 
comparison would provoke in the breasts of the Vineyard 
aristocracy.  Whoever had crafted this place was a master of saw 
and hammer.


Rivaling his astonishment at the cabin was the shock of 
recognition when he saw the woman calmly rocking on the porch.  
He had been right, this was the shadow that intruded in his 
dreams.  Perhaps his faint hope for salvation from the fate he 
faced wasn't so faint after all.  As he stepped into the 
clearing, he felt the voice snarl in rage, nearly droving him to 
his knees in pain as his mind was engulfed in fire.  He stopped, 
one foot hovering above the grass, the other still planted in the 
piney earth beneath the trees, torn asunder by conflicting 
forces.


The voice raged, pulling him back into the shadows of the forest, 
but his will and heart leaped forward to the surety of the 
sanctuary that lay ahead.  His body shuddering with the conflict 
between will and voice, Mulder felt his will weaken under the 
onslaught.  He began to gradually withdraw the forward thrusting 
foot as the voice exerted its control.  Mulder looked to the old 
woman, a desperate plea battering against his frozen lips,
begging her with his eyes for help before the shadows that lay 
behind him swallowed him up.


"Eno!  Begone ya foul spirit.  Ya have na power here unless ya 
win free o tha chains I bound ya in.  Release tha man.  He stands 
on holy ground, ma ground.  Begone!"


Sallie rose up from her chair and straightened her ancient bones.  
Tall and proud she challenged the voice that held the dark man in 
thrall.  Now, if the man would just throw his own weight into 
this battle she felt sure of victory.  She could see he was 
straining to move forward, but the voice had its hook in his soul 
and wasn't going to relinquish its prey so easily.  Victory came 
from a not unexpected source, but one Sallie had not been sure 
she could count on this early.


"Mulder, I'm here, it's alright."


Soft words, gently spoken, but they shattered the fey chains the 
voice had tightened as if the words were cold iron.  Scully had 
turned back to see Mulder apparently in the grip of a seizure and 
instinctively rushed to his side.  Her hand barely brushing his 
arm, she tried to reach him with her words, to bring him out of 
whatever waking nightmare he was caught in.  Her suspicion of the 
old woman flared and she wanted nothing more than to take Mulder 
away from here, back to the safety of their motel rooms, but 
unless C.J. was willing to turn around and take them back the way 
they had just come, they were stranded here.


Mulder gave a retching gasp and sank to his knees.  He knelt on 
the rim of the clearing, his head hanging down, hands stretched 
wide on the grass, struggling to breathe.  He felt strength seep 
up from the ground into his hands and then throughout his body 
until the voice was driven into a dark pocket deep within his 
mind.  Wrenched free of the voice, he gave Scully a twisted grin 
and grasped her hands, allowing her to pull him upright.  He owed 
her his soul, yet there was no way he could make her understand 
what she had done.


Trapped in the foul darkness spewed forth by the voice, feeling 
himself drawn into the shadows, he had heard her voice and had 
flung himself towards her, confident that somehow she would grasp 
his hand and stop his headlong plunge into Hell.  She had, at 
least for the moment, but she'd never believe him.  He might not 
believe in God, but he was a firm believer in Scully.


"Mulder?"


"I'm fine, Scully.  Guess C.J. was right about us 'long-limbed' 
fellows.  Remind me to cross-train when we get home," Mulder 
answered her unspoken questions with a smile.


Scully glared at him for a moment then stepped back and let him 
walk on his own.  She wasn't convinced he was fine, though she 
was enormously relieved that he was able to jest about the 
grueling hike they had just endured.  Right now she would be 
willing to trade next year's vacations for a hot bath and a nap.  
From the looks of this cabin, any hot water she got would have to 
be heated on the fireplace.  What Mulder thought he was going to 
find way up here in the back of nowhere was beyond her 
comprehension.  At least the trip had kept him from brooding over 
his imagined fate.  Maybe when they finally got back to their 
rooms tonight, she would be able to talk some sense back into his 
stubborn head before he scuttled his career beyond all hope of 
repair.


**********

late afternoon, July 23
Auld Sallie's Cabin


"Come hither an' set a spell.  Ya have walked far an' must be 
thirsting."  Sallie waved them forward, eager to meet them face 
to face.  Dreams could tell her much about a person, but nothing 
surpassed a real sit-down-and-talk meeting.


"Come on Scully, I'm tired and thirsty doesn't even begin to 
describe my condition.  I just walked over two mountains to talk 
to this lady and the blessed woman is offering me a chance to sit 
down and a cold drink to boot."


Mulder lengthened his stride, trying to ignore the painful 
complaints from his thigh muscles, impatient to talk with this 
strange woman.  Could she offer him hope or should he just resign 
himself to fighting a losing battle?


Scully sighed in resignation over her impulsive partner.  
Hopefully whatever brew this mountain woman offered them wasn't 
going to be listed as a controlled substance.  She recalled from 
one of her history of medicine courses that folk medicine usually 
included quite a few herbs that ranged from the illicit to the 
down right hazardous.


As she prepared to follow Mulder she looked around for C.J. who 
seemed to have vanished into thin air.  A slight rustling on the 
trail behind her caused her to spin around, pulling her gun and 
dropping into a crouch with the gun aimed firmly towards the 
trail.  Behind her she heard Mulder's hiss of surprise and felt 
him move in to back her up.  Sallie's clear laugh rang through 
the clearing.


"Cynan, lad, ya be scarin' these poor folk.  Show yerself, then 
go 'bout yer scoutin'."


C.J. stepped out onto the trail, flashed Scully and Mulder a 
sheepish grin then disappeared back into the brush.  Scully 
muttered under her breath words that Mulder wasn't sure he wanted 
to catch.  If C.J. was smart he'd avoid needing medical attention 
until Scully calmed down, in Mulder's experienced opinion.  He 
shoved his gun back into the holster with a rueful shake of his 
head.  Two paranoid, jumpy FBI agents shouldn't be allowed loose 
in the woods; too many unexplained noises.


"Come on Scully.  Whatever C.J. is up to, I don't think it 
includes abandoning us here."


Scully scowled at him and stomped off towards the cabin.  She 
couldn't help notice Sallie's grin and despite her irritation, 
she had to admit that the sight of both of them over-reacting 
with such deadly intent must have been amusing.  Still Sallie 
didn't look alarmed or even unsure of what she had seen, rather 
mildly amused and, perhaps even, satisfied.  Scully began to 
realize that there were depths to this old mountain woman that 
would bear watching.


"Welcome to ma home.  I dinna get yer names."  Sallie waved her 
visitors to the bench seat against the cabin wall while she drew 
out a jug from a cooling bin.  Pouring a dark amber liquid into 
three thick wavy glasses, Sallie smiled to herself.  These were 
definitely warriors with a warrior's instincts and reflexes.  
Good, they would need both before this day was over.


"I'm Agent Mulder, this is my partner, Agent Scully."  Mulder 
said as he stretched out his long legs in a painful arc before 
propping them on the lower log of the porch railing.  Sitting 
down felt so good he wasn't sure he ever wanted to get back up.  
He refused to even contemplate that he faced an equally long hike 
back along the trail before too long.


"T'was nice an' formal lad, but do ya no have friendly names?  I 
be known as Auld Sallie along with less friendly names as ya no 
doubt have heard be ya talkin' to tha sheriff's lads."


Scully chuckled at the expression on Mulder's face.  This old 
woman had nicely pinned him in a corner.  He was convinced he 
needed her help and so didn't want to be rude and here she was 
asking for his hated first name.  Mulder looked like he was 
caught between a rock and a hard place.


"I'm Dana.  Mulder prefers to use his last name," she finally got 
out around the internal chuckles.


"Well eno for city-bred folk, but I think I'll be having yer full 
name lad.  For tha help ya ask, names be important."  Sallie let 
just a bit of sternness enter her voice.  This dark man was 
proving to be as difficult in the flesh as he was in the 
dreamworld.  Time for him to recognize some hard truths.


"Fox," Mulder muttered, barely loud enough for Scully to hear 
sitting next to him, but Sallie gave him a smile.


"Fox.  Good, tha bond is already there, less work on ma part, 
easier for ya ta endure."  Sallie said as she handed him a glass 
letting her hand brush his for just an instant.  Mulder flinched 
and shot her a sudden look of wary unease as he felt the shock of 
their touch reverberate across his nerves.  He watched 
suspiciously as Sallie handed Scully her glass but didn't notice 
any similar reaction when their fingers touched.


Scully sniffed the liquid suspiciously.  It smelled of rich ripe 
apples with a hint of spices.  The cool glasses promised a 
refreshing drink and despite her hesitation, she felt her mouth 
watering.  She was thirsty.


Mulder watched her examine the drink with the same suspicious 
glare she'd use on a piece of evidence and smiled.  He couldn't 
see Sallie poisoning them.  Sallie had already taken a sip or two 
from the glass she held so, unless she had poisoned their 
individual glasses ahead of time, the drink was probably safe.  
Right now he was so thirsty, he was willing to risk poisoning.


He took a big drink and sighed with genuine pleasure as he 
recognized apple cider with an unusual twist.  There was an 
almost bitter taste of spice or herb that brought out the 
tartness of the apples like no cider he had ever tasted before.  
Ignoring Scully's cautionary hiss, he finished the glass in 
another big gulp and held out the glass for more.


"Mulder," Scully hissed.  //Damn him, he has no idea what could 
be in that drink.//


"It be cider, flavored a bit with some herbs grown here-about, 
but perfectly harmless."  Sallie fixed a calm eye on Scully who 
unaccountably began to feel highly embarrassed by her suspicions.  
"Even tha sheriff, God rest his stubborn soul, liked ma cider," 
she said as she refilled Mulder's glass.


Still suspicious, but now feeling more than a little foolish, 
Scully took a cautious sip.  It was good: cool, tart and 
delicious.  A second then a third sip followed in slow enjoyment.  
Only after the third sip did she suddenly look up and stare at 
Sallie.  How had the woman known about the sheriff's death so 
quickly?  She looked over at Mulder who was warily watching a 
large black cat stalking him across the railings.


"News, 'specially bad news, travels fast in these mountains, 
lass.  I need no magic ta hear of another death.  Yer partner is 
tha key.  Either we'll have na more deaths or these mountains 
will drown in a sea of blood."


"Youch!"


Scully turned towards Mulder startled by his sudden yelp.  He was 
holding his left hand and glaring at the cat who was studying its 
paw, seemingly caught in mid-grooming.  The cat stared back with 
sublime feline arrogance at Mulder then wet the paw with a long 
pink tongue and languorously washed behind its ears.


"Jock, now behave yerself.  These be strangers an' guests."  
Sallie admonished the cat who merely glanced at her with what 
Mulder could swear was a smirk before resuming its bath.


Mulder stuck his wounded hand against his mouth trying to soothe 
the razor-sharp pain, muttering about damn cats and their egos.  
After a moment the pain subsided and by the time Scully reached 
over to check the wounds, they had stopped bleeding and merely 
resembled four parallel red lines, barely visible.  Mulder opened 
his mouth to protest that he had indeed been gouged by that damn 
cat but seeing the barely suppressed laughter in Scully's eyes, 
held his peace.  With a flick of his tail, Jock stood up, 
stretched his full length along the railing then hopped down and 
sauntered across the clearing to the edge of the forest.


//'Tis done.  Pray God that we can avert tha need for such a 
deed,// Sallie prayed silently with all of her heart and soul.


"Jock be a strange one.  He ha taken a likin' ta ya, Fox.  'Tis 
his way o shakin' hands, na more."


"Well, can't you just teach him to extend a gloved paw?" Mulder 
grumbled still shaking his hand and staring in aggrieved 
disbelief at the rapidly fading lines.


Sallie laughed and the sound drew out Scully's repressed 
laughter.  Mulder grumbled a bit more but was too pleased to hear 
Scully's all-too-rare open laugh to remain upset.


"Eno' lad.  Laughter does much ta ease tha burden, but ya need 
more than that for what ya be facing."


Mulder looked up sharply, instantly alert and wary.  The swift 
transition from relaxing laughter, even at his own expense, to 
deadly serious tones echoed his own feeling that time was running 
short.  The sun was already two-thirds across the western sky.  
It would be dark in another few hours.  A sudden thought, 
chilling in its implications, came to him that this was where 
Lafe would try to take him.  He wondered if he had merely walked 
into a trap as Scully had implied.


"Na lad.  I am called to battle for ya, na agin ya.  Lafe Mileson 
be a servant of a great evil, imprisoned for nigh unto three 
centuries, now restless an' straining ta be free.  Lafe has fed 
it tha souls it needs ta grow powerful agin.  But, you kenned 
this already, haven't ya lad?"


Caught by Sallie's deep gaze, Mulder could only nod.  A cold fear 
spread into his heart as he finally acknowledged what it was that 
whispered to the darkness in his soul.


"An' ya lass.  Ya be a great believer in science ta answer all 
yer questions.  But wha' be magic but another form of science.  
It has its rules an' laws that govern its use.  Science an' 
magic, physical an' spiritual, twin suns in our universe."  
Sallie smiled at the stunned look in Scully's eyes.  She could 
see Dana re-evaluating her original opinion of this old mountain 
woman.


"There be many truths an' many paths ta finding them.  If ya 
would help yer friend, ya must be willin' ta travel into tha 
world yer science has na dared ta explore.  Consider well, how 
far ya would go, ta aid yer friend?"


Sallie smiled sympathetically at Scully who appeared to be having 
a hard time gathering her thoughts into a coherent objection to 
the current direction the discussion was taking.  The words had 
been spoken and, if God be pleased, would take root and blossom 
at the proper time.  Now to the man's needs.  A small use of 
magic, barely enough to cause a ripple in the aura of this place, 
but enough to draw Scully into a light trance.  Sallie disliked 
entrancing people against their will, even in this best of 
causes, but she did not need the woman's skepticism interrupting 
what she must tell the man.


She picked up a platter of scones resting on the small table 
beside her and handed them to Mulder, letting her hands clasp his 
as they met around the platter's edge.  In her youth, she would 
not have needed the contact of flesh to flesh, but now she wanted 
the reassurance of physical contact.  The feel of his long-
fingered hands strengthened the bond between them until she could 
feel the tingle where the edges of her power touched his aura.  
She could only hint at the truths he needed to know; the actions 
he must follow had to come genuinely from within, but she could 
lay down markers on the trail he must follow and trust the bond 
she was forging with her touch would give him eyes to see them.


"An' ya lad, there be a choice approaching an' I canna choose for 
ya.  This be ma home an' I can protect those wha seek sanctuary 
here but na agin tha full force of our adversary.  He dinna ken 
tha power of choice, only tha power of takin'.  Ya have two 
choices this day, Fox Mulder.  One be an easy one an' ya will ken 
it when it comes, 'tis no more than ya ha been expecting.  Tha 
other be hard an' cold an' dangerous, a leap of faith by choice 
ta turn tha power agin tha one wha' wields it.  Remember ma 
words, lad, when darkness looms, a consenting sacrifice at tha 
right moment can open tha realms of power ta all possibilities."


Sallie's words echoed in the still air as she settled back into 
her rocker and began a slow rhythmic rocking back and forth.  The 
creak of the chair against the wood floor was the only sound 
Mulder could hear above the rapid beat of his own heart.  He gave 
a quick glance at Scully who was still absorbed in her internal 
musings, then a careful scan of the clearing as if he expected 
the enemy to pour out of the woods.


"Na quite yet, lad.  He will wait until tha sun be a tad closer 
to tha mountain top, but soon," Sallie answered his unspoken 
question quietly.


Mulder sighed.  He was confused by her words, but somehow he knew 
they would make sense eventually.  In essence, he supposed she 
was telling him he wasn't getting out of facing Lafe and that in 
the end, he had to follow his instincts.  The small sane rational 
part of his mind grumbled that he had walked for nearly five 
hours just to be told to trust in his own instincts, but that 
part of him that almost grasped what Sallie was saying, almost 
understood the magic in her words, told him that without this 
journey, he would be a cold gutted corpse by morning without 
fail.  Somehow he had been told how to survive.  Now he could 
only hope he understood how when the time came.


"Promise me this, Sallie.  Promise me that no matter what happens 
to me, protect Scully.  I'll deal with whatever Lafe has in mind 
for me, up to and including damnation, as long as I know that 
Scully is safe."  Mulder caught Sallie's eyes with an intensity 
that burned the air between them.


Sallie saw his aura flare up with such power as she had not seen 
in generations.  //Na wonder Aristide wants this soul.  Power 
such as this an' he could set tha mountains afire, yet untrained 
an' unfocused.  Lafe be well matched it seems.  If t'were na for 
tha evil that hangs in tha balance, I could enjoy this battle.  
Laird, forgive an auld sinful woman wha remembers tha Highland 
clans an' their battle songs.//


"Aye lad.  As ya ask, so be it, ta tha breakin' o my soul if need 
be," Sallie answered in the ancient words of oath-taking of her 
people.


Mulder stared at her intently for a long moment more, then nodded 
his acceptance of her oath.  He released the breath he had been 
holding in a long gusty sigh that broke Scully out of her 
reverie.  At her quizzical look, he merely smiled and offered her 
a scone.  He munched happily on several before she gave up trying 
to glare a hole in his mind and raised the scone to her mouth.  
Lafe might be coming to collect him, but until then he intended 
to enjoy the cider and scones.


"Did you find what you were looking for, Mulder?" Scully asked 
finally.


"I think so.  At least I don't think the trip was wasted."  
Mulder wasn't sure he did have the answers he sought, but 
something inside told him that he did, if he had the wits to 
unravel Sallie's riddles.


To Scully's growing irritation, Mulder proceeded to chat with 
Sallie about the local folk legends in seeming happy disregard 
for the descending sun.


"Mulder, its getting late."  Scully finally gave voice to her 
impatience as she stood up.  Scanning the area for any sign of 
C.J. and finding no sign of him, she gave a sharp hiss of anger.  
Trust Mulder to strand them up here with darkness coming on fast 
and about four hours of treacherous trail to hike before they 
came close to anything resembling a road back to town.


"Dinna worry lass.  Cynan could take ya across that trail in tha 
dark wi' his eyes closed.  Ya couldna' ha a finer guide, day or 
night.  His folk have been in these mountains since Hector was a 
pup an' knows more ways in an' out o that town than you have 
scientific theories."


Mulder choked on a bite of scone as he heard Sallie's gentle put-
down of Scully's eternal war to justify everything by science.  
Catching Scully's glare he gulped down some cider to loosen the 
lodged scone and made a big show of coughing.  He was beginning 
to like Sallie.  Never in his best moments could he have hoped to 
come up with such a masterful gibe that sounded so innocent yet 
was so devastatingly accurate.


Momentarily surrendering the fight, Scully sat back down and 
tried to think of various non-fatal ways of wounding her partner.  
This Sallie was a bad influence on his already wicked sense of 
repartee.  Still, the cider was good, the view magnificent and 
her legs definitely enjoyed the rest.  She could afford to wait a 
little while.  There would be time enough to repay Mulder when 
they got back to town.  She gave him a long steady stare before 
turning her attention to the deer beginning to emerge from the 
woods to graze in the clearing.  The sun was barely visible atop 
a far mountain and all the world seemed at peace.  She smiled to 
herself as she felt Mulder shift uncomfortably beside her.  He 
could entertain himself with imagining what her revenge would be, 
she consoled herself as she tried to curb her impatience.


************

6:00 p.m.  July 23
Sallie's Cabin


The storm appeared out of nowhere.  Thunderous clouds boiled out 
of the northern sky as wave after wave of darkness consumed the 
sky and covered the earth with shadows.  Sallie sighed to herself 
and commended herself and her charge to God's keeping.  The 
battle was joined.  She looked at Mulder who was standing rigid 
against the post staring at the gathering storm.  His eyes were 
almost black and Sallie could feel the shadows reaching out for 
him.


Scully watched the storm with a growing sense of unease.  She had 
no desire to be stuck up here on a mountain in the middle of a 
storm, but she wasn't about to attempt the trail in the 
combination of darkness and lightning.  Mulder seemed entranced 
by the storm, but then he had always had a weakness for 
spectacular displays of thunder and lightning.  Sallie also 
seemed largely unconcerned by the weather, but there was a 
tenseness to her that was focused on the woods rather than the 
sky.


An explosive crack of thunder exploded over their heads almost 
drowning out Jock's scream.  The sound of the cat's howls sent 
cold shivers up Scully's spine.  They were answered by the howls 
of anger and fear from human throats, howls that were abruptly 
silenced by a deep-throated roar.  A foul-smelling aroma drifted 
up from the woods carried by the storm winds.  Mulder rubbed at 
his nose, only too familiar with the scent of an aroused and 
angry skunk.  He glanced at Sallie and saw her smile.  Apparently 
whoever was on the trail had met up with one of her 
'discouragements.'


Another scream and a man stumbled out of the woods frantically 
clawing at a writhing mass of fur lodged on his head.  With a 
shove from his powerful hind claws, Jock leaped off the man and 
came flying across the clearing towards them as if his tail were 
on fire.  He made a final leap for the porch and clawed up the 
post until he was sitting on the rafters.  Howl after howl of 
defiance and rage were lost amid the cracks of thunder and Scully 
wondered how his initial scream had ever been heard.  The thunder 
sounded like a battery of cannon sweeping the sky clear of light 
and choking the air with sulfur.


The attacking men surged out of the woods, racing towards the 
cabin.  Mulder made a quick estimate and guessed that there were 
about fifteen men charging at them.  He saw Scully draw her gun, 
but barely heard her challenge the onrushing men.  Somehow he 
doubted if they were terribly impressed by the news that they 
were attacking a pair of FBI agents.  Lafe was nearby; he could 
sense him waiting just inside the shadows.  If Lafe was driving 
these men, Scully was going to have to do more than yell at them.  


A shotgun blast echoed the thunder that rolled overhead and sent 
splinters of wood flying across the porch.  Scully began bleeding 
from a nest of splinters impaling her left thigh.  Furious, she 
fired her gun, dropping one of the attackers.  Another blast tore 
a hole in the wall beside her and Mulder's tackle practically 
pinned her to the floor.  Once she was down, he rolled off of her 
and trusted that she would remember to stay low.  They had little 
shelter out here and he began to reluctantly consider moving 
inside.  He hated the thought of being confined and surrounded 
inside the cabin.  Out here, at least, they had a clear view and 
options for escape.  Sallie seemed unconcerned about the shotgun 
pellets flying around her.


A spray of pellets peppered the porch again.  Mulder looked down 
at his jacket and saw the entire left side looked like a 
porcupine.  So far as he could tell he was unhurt.  Sallie also 
seemed to be unmarked.  Her expression was grim, and sad, and 
Mulder wondered if she knew the men intent on killing her.  He 
had no doubt that this attack was meant to remove Sallie 
and possibly Scully from offering him any assistance.  Lafe 
wanted him and was obviously prepared to sacrifice anyone he 
could control to get to him.


C.J.'s cry of agony mixed with the throaty roar of an enraged 
lion encouraged the attackers.  Scully dropped another one as 
they ran up the slope towards the cabin.  Certain that this was 
an exercise in futility and, hating the slaughter of men he 
suspected had no choice in this battle, Mulder drew his own 
weapon and methodically began to sweep the clearing in a rapid-
fire fusillade.  The attackers dove to the ground.  In the 
ensuing silence, the angry roar of the lion battered against the 
stunned attackers.  Scully occupied herself with discouraging 
anyone from lifting their head with precisely aimed shots.


Mulder mentally counted the rounds remaining in his weapon and 
tried to recall how many shots Scully had fired.  The result was 
not encouraging.  Together they might have enough bullets to take 
out the remaining attackers providing they made every shot count.  
That still left Lafe and Mulder suspected it would take more than 
an ordinary bullet to take him out of action.  Sallie was 
watching the men in front of the cabin, waiting for some sign 
known only to herself.


Lightning hurtled down into the clearing blinding him.  The 
ensuing thunder of the shock wave sent Scully crashing back into 
the bench seat.  She made an abortive effort to stand up, then 
crumpled.  Mulder sprang to her side in an instant checking for 
damage.  Aside from the splinters and an expanding bump on the 
back of her head, she appeared to be undamaged.


Mulder breathed a sigh of relief.  The voice in his head had 
returned stronger than ever and had presented him with a vision 
of a gravely wounded and dying Scully.  He was finding it 
difficult to concentrate as the voice grew louder and louder as 
the ferocity of the storm increased.  Soon he would have to make 
a choice whether to fight the voice or the attackers before his 
disorientation made him as much as danger to Sallie and Scully as 
to the attackers.


The mob, realizing that they were no longer under fire, rose up 
and began a cautious march towards the cabin.  Taking careful aim 
he dropped two of them, before he heard the chilling sound of an 
empty clip.  Scully had kept hold of her gun despite her 
collision with the bench.  //Wonder how she does that?// Mulder 
wondered, bemused by his ability of his mind to wander after 
inconsequential ideas in the middle of a bloody fire-fight.  The 
roar of several shotguns sent him into a protective curl over 
Scully's prone form.


Crouching over Scully, trying to protect her from the blast, 
Mulder realized that one of the moments Sallie had been talking 
about had come.  As if the voice, determined to drain all hope 
from him, had bestowed the hearing of his namesake upon him, 
Mulder could hear more men coming up the trail.  Absently he re-
holstered his useless gun and pried Scully's gun from her  hand.  
A quick check of the clip told him the grim truth.  He didn't 
have enough rounds to drop the remaining men in the clearing, and 
take out the reinforcements.


Forcing himself to be calm, Mulder considered his options.  If he 
stayed, Lafe would tear this cabin down, killing Sallie and 
Scully to get to him.  Sallie had bluntly told him she could not 
defend this place against the kind of power Lafe could draw on.  
The other option sent shudders of cold terror through his soul, 
but it offered a damnable kind of hope.  If Lafe could be drawn 
away from the battle, Sallie could hold against the men.  Why he 
believed that, he couldn't say, but he felt certain that Sallie 
was more than a match for a mob of men.


As he grimly considered a choice that was no choice, he 
remembered Sallie had mentioned critical moments when the choices 
he made could skew the plans crafted by a more powerful force.  
Looking at Sallie, desperately hoping that this choice that had 
suddenly confronted him wasn't what it seemed, he saw her give 
him a sad smile and felt, rather than heard, her silent 
benediction.  Bowing his head and shivering with cold fear, 
Mulder gently laid Scully down and covered her with his jacket.


"Remember your promise," Mulder said as he looked up at Sallie.  
Three words, barely choked out through the despair that was 
swallowing his soul, dropped in the air between them like stones 
laid on his grave.  The whispering voice surged high with 
exaltation bringing the shadows in to embrace him until he could 
barely see to stand.


"Ay, I do an' I will.  God go wi' ya, lad.  An' ya remember, even 
in tha depths of Sheol, He be there."


Sallie watched as Mulder rose to his feet and staggered down the 
steps.  The mob parted in front of him, none daring to touch 
their master's prey.  She watched him sadly, praying hard for 
this gallant lad who embraced his darkest fears to save another, 
until he disappeared into the darkness beneath the trees.  Lafe 
would withdraw now, eager to prepare for his final glory, leaving 
these sad deluded men to deal with her.  A mistake, one Aristide 
would not make unless he was so preoccupied with gloating over 
his captive that he could not spare a thought to see if she had 
been eliminated.  It was time now to deal with this mob that 
dared to trespass on her land.  Lafe's time would come later, if 
God was generous.  Now she had an oath to fulfill and justice to 
dispense.


Sallie thought sadly of the men who were being driven to kill.  
She felt no ill-will towards them.  She had known them all the 
days of their lives and their fathers and grandfathers before 
them.  They did Lafe's will out of fear, though some no doubt 
with greater willingness than others.  She would not kill unless 
they forced her hand.  However, she would and could make them 
think twice before daring her wrath again.


Although she was prepared for the attack, Sallie was startled by 
the sudden rush of screaming men into her yard; pale faces 
distorted by a savage hollow-eyed glare.  For ten slow beats of 
her heart Sallie sat motionless, her hands poised above the bowl 
containing the mixture of herbs she had prepared for this moment.  
An eerie silence fell over the clearing, broken only by the 
attackers' screams.  She faced the mob quietly, willing herself 
not to remember the night so long ago when another mob struck 
down her father as he fought to protect her mother from the fire.


These poor men were sheep too easily led, she thought, in sadness 
rather than contempt.  Now, like a stern shepherd she would have 
to teach these particular sheep a lesson.  They were not God-
fearing men, these kinfolk of Lafe's, but today she would put the 
fear of God into them.  Pity held her hand, pity and a heartsore 
grief that her patient guardianship should end by destroying the 
people she had sworn to protect.


Abruptly she realized that in her pity, she had waited too long.  
The mob was almost upon her.  //Fool, addled auld woman.//  She 
cursed herself as she realized the men had swarmed over her first 
line of defense.  The ground wasps would have to wait for the 
next attack, if she were alive to summon them out of their nest.  
With a resigned sigh, Sallie began the soft chant that would 
summon up her second defense.


Sallie called forth the soul-fire at the very feet of the stunned 
mob.  With a grand theatrical gesture she raised the flames into 
a sheet of white fire.  Caught between the two terrors, the men's 
stillness shattered along with their cohesion.  A few bolted, 
fleeing for the safety of their homes; men shaken to their souls 
by the fire which laid bare the evil in their souls.  Those would 
survive, Sallie knew, perhaps driven to more godly ways by honest 
fear and repentance.


A half dozen men were caught as they emerged from the woods.  
They clumped together in a pitiful imitation of the square used 
over two centuries ago by the proud Redcoats against an 
encircling enemy.  Their eyes darted frantically in every 
direction as they clutched their weapons in white-knuckled fear.  
Unless Lafe came and personally drove them to the attack, these 
men would not be moved.  The four remaining men were dangerous.  
Afeared of heaven's fire, but believing that Lafe was more 
powerful, these men dared the flames.  One bold soul raised his 
shotgun and fired blindly at her through the pale sheet of fire.  
Sallie heard the report and saw the pellets explode into a 
hundred fireflies at they hit the fire.


Sallie watched helplessly as the four men hurled themselves 
against the fire that shielded her.  In an instant, four human 
figures were transformed into incandescence; all their sins 
burning black like shadows against the sun.  Small forgotten acts 
of charity, remnants of kindness extended to others flared into 
golden flame to challenge the dark consuming fires.  Sallie held 
her breath, praying that the good in each of the four was strong 
enough to prevail and save the souls of these weak deluded men.  
Through Lafe, Aristide had corrupted their petty evil and made 
them vessels for his greater evil; left alone they might have 
slipped through heaven's gate.


As they passed through the fire into the clean air of her yard, 
the bodies of the four burst open like sausages on a grill.  With 
her inner sight Sallie saw a brief flicker as the flaming souls 
broke free of mortal flesh.  The souls were black fire and then, 
with soft whimpers of despair and pleading, they vanished.  Tears 
fell unheeded down Sallie's wrinkled cheeks and she bowed her 
head in remorseful submission to God's judgment.  As Sallie 
relaxed her will, the rippling sheet of white fire faded into the 
long slanting rays of the setting sun.

*********

6:30 p.m. Sallie's Cabin


As Sallie sadly surveyed her victory, she could hear Scully begin 
to moan and move on the floor beside her.  Jock leaped down from 
the rafters and walked over to her, gently licking her hair 
around the bruise as if she were one of his kits.  His low 
rumbling purr filled the air now silent with the abrupt departure 
of the storm.  She would wake with an aching head and more 
questions than Sallie wanted to answer, but it would be awhile 
yet.  Jock could tend her as well as herself.  She had a more 
serious errand to pursue.  The memory of Cynan's agonized cry 
haunted her and she went in search of her friend.


Fifty yards into the woods she found him, bleeding from a dozen 
deep gashes, twisted into a ball of agony.  His eyes stared at 
her, waiting for her judgment on his wounds, prepared to take her 
blessing into the Grey Lands if must be.  The wounds were bad, 
some deep enough to show the white glint of bone, but God had 
granted them one miracle today.  Cynan would live, with God's 
help, her herbs and Dana's medical skills.  Sallie wondered if 
God's will included tying Dana down to a critical patient to keep 
her occupied until the time was right to follow Fox to the place 
of confrontation.  God moved in mysterious ways, Sallie knew, but 
couldn't help grumble a bit at His methods.


Sallie made Cynan as comfortable as possible and went to awaken 
Dana.  She would be angry and frantic about Fox, but she was a 
sworn healer and there was no way, Sallie was certain, that she 
would turn her back on Cynan's dire need of help.


Frantic, it turned out, barely even touched Scully's reaction to 
the news that Mulder had been taken.  Sallie wisely decided to 
gloss over the fact that Mulder had willingly walked into Lafe's 
arms.  Scully was angry, frightened and determined to follow them 
until Sallie told her about C.J.  Even then, impatient to follow 
Mulder, Scully merely thought to give the wounded man a quick 
check, hoping to find Sallie's estimate of his condition to be 
overblown and then try to find her errant partner.


One quick check later and Scully knew she wasn't going anywhere 
for several hours.  C.J. needed airlifting to a major trauma 
center.  What he had was an old woman skilled in medicinal herbs 
and a doctor without any sort of medical kit.  As she ran down 
the list of things she needed that she didn't have, Sallie 
immediately offered a substitute that Scully was forced to 
concede would work as well.  Finally, glaring at Sallie and C.J., 
who stubbornly refused to pass out, even during the torturous 
journey up to the cabin, Scully threw up her hands and conceded 
defeat.  Her heart and soul were lunging after Mulder, but her 
oath bound her to this cabin until she had done all she could for 
this man.


"Wouldn't need my doctor's kit, eh, C.J.?  You are going to live 
to regret that statement, I promise you that," Scully said as 
C.J. looked warily at the crude surgical implements she was 
laying out on the table beside him.  She smiled to take the sting 
out of her words, to reassure him that she wouldn't joke with a 
dying man then gestured to Sallie to dose him with an herbal 
sedative.  Crude surgery, under crude conditions, but C.J. was a 
strong man with a strong will to live and Scully was determined 
that he wasn't going to die; not if she had anything to say about 
it.  Worry for Mulder ran in a constant torrent through her 
thoughts, but she knew he would expect her to help C.J.  As she 
worked she prayed and if her prayers got rather jumbled between 
C.J. and Mulder, she trusted God would understand her intent.


After the surgery, with C.J. resting quietly, Sallie showed 
Scully where she could wash up and tend her own wounds while she 
prepared a light supper.  Twilight was rapidly dwindling into 
nightfall as they sat and ate.  Scully was too tired to argue, 
but only nibbled at her food.


"I told him he had nothing to worry about.  That he was just 
over-reacting.  Damn it, Sallie, I need to find him before 
Mileson hurts him."  Scully's voice seethed with self-
recrimination.  She had been so certain Mulder was wrong, so damn 
sure that he was reading too much into his 'link' with the 
killer.  She should have insisted on keeping him in town; should 
have handcuffed him to the bed before letting him take her on 
this wild-goose chase into the back of beyond.


"Lass, 'twas nothing ya could have done ta prevent this.  Lafe 
would have found him no matter where ya had put him.  Ya did 
right in comin' here.  Only tha opening skirmish o this great 
battle be done.  Tha battle itself be yet ta come.  Wi' yer help, 
lass, an' mine, yer friend will win free," Sallie tried to 
comfort Scully.


"Do you know where Mileson has taken Mulder?" Scully asked 
sharply.


"Aye, an' I know when he will bring him there.  Everything now is 
set in tha great rhythm o sacrifice.  Tha rules be set an' each 
player has his own moves ta make.  Like a chessboard, lass.  Fox 
has his role ta play an' if he canna break tha rules an' move 
agin tha master of tha game, then all be lost.  Pray for him 
lass, an' for us, for we move ta shake tha foundations of evil."


Sallie would say no more despite repeated prompting.  Scully's 
temper erupted and she stormed at Sallie.  Helpless to find 
Mulder in the dark in unfamiliar territory, she hurled her 
frustration and rage at the old woman and her superstitious 
nonsense until, worn out she collapsed onto the bed.  Jock jumped 
up in her lap and pawed softly at her face, purring and rubbing 
his head against her chest until she hugged him tight and felt 
the warm reassurance of his rumbling purr ease her grief and 
anger.


Silently Sallie handed her a cup of tea, sweetened with honey, 
and motioned her to drink.  Scully grimaced a bit at the bitter 
aftertaste.  She suspected that more than simple tea was involved 
when she felt herself begin to relax.  Within minutes she had 
regained her composure and listened sternly, but calmly to 
Sallie's words.  She didn't trust this old woman, but the hard 
fact of the matter was, she was Mulder's only hope.


"T'will soothe yer nerves lass.  I dinna blame ya for yer hard 
words.  Ya have been taken into a world where yer science canna 
go an' ya feel lost an' alone.  But Fox will be needing yer 
strength an' yer courage this night.  He needs ya an' I must be 
tha one ta lead ya ta him.  Just for tonight, let yer soul 
remember tha ancient ways; for yer sake, for Fox's."  Sallie wove 
the trancing spell gently in among her words, soothing and 
gentling Scully's anger until her mind was clear.


Scully found herself drowning in the metaphysical rambling of 
this old woman, yet found it strangely comforting.  Her head felt 
light and her body held no more weight than a feather.  
//Exhaustion, worry, just the damn strain of it all,// she 
thought to herself as she followed Sallie into the night; a blind 
woman following one who could see only too well what Scully 
preferred to avoid.  //Mulder, the things I do to save your 
ass.//


************

6:20 p.m.  July 23
In the woods near Sallie's cabin


As soon as his feet left the clearing around Sallie's cabin and 
he stepped into the shadows under the trees, Mulder felt the 
voice squeeze him out of his own mind, locking him into a tiny 
corner, powerless to intervene.


To his horror, Mulder realized that if the voice wished it could 
command his body to do anything, commit any crime, hazard any 
danger including fire and his body would comply.  Mulder screamed 
in the silence of the dark corner of his mind where he had been 
imprisoned.  The voice, preoccupied with gloating over its 
victory, refrained from inflicting that particular horror on its 
victim's shaky grasp on sanity.


//You are mine now, Fox.  Hallowed to my purpose.  An extension 
of my will.  Rejoice that you are my most cherished servant.//


Mulder gave thanks to whatever beneficent powers there were that 
he didn't have to cope with memories of turning on Scully or 
Sallie.  A missed opportunity; a fragile hope that this voice was 
not omnipotent, that was the frail reed Mulder clung to in this 
waking nightmare.


He smelled Lafe before he saw him.  A foul, rotting smell clung 
to Lafe, befouling the air around him.  Mulder tried to gag, but 
the voice which held his body in thrall refused him even that 
small relief.  Lafe capered around his frozen body, singing a 
hideously off-key song of child-like delight as he examined his 
prize.  Mulder was reminded of a horseman checking out a new 
mount.  Lafe did everything except check his teeth.  Everywhere 
Lafe's hands went, chest, legs, face, a trail of corpse-like cold 
followed.


Lafe's uneven, yellowed teeth shone in a wide grin as he stared 
into Mulder's eyes then cupped his groin.  Mulder bucked up and 
away in a reflex that defied the rigid control the voice had 
imposed.  Mulder was about as surprised as the voice.  He had 
begun to resign himself to the fact that he had no more control 
over his body.


"Bit shy, boy?  You'll loosen up later.  Might come to wish you'd 
let Lafe have some fun, later."


Desperate defiance prompted a battle of wills as Mulder fought 
the voice's control in a frenzy of fear.  Sheer panic lent him 
strength, but he was outnumbered.  A brief flash of a bony fist, 
then a heavy skull-cracking thump that laid him flat on the 
ground.


Barely conscious, he felt Lafe bind his wrists together then 
place a halter around his neck.  Lafe thrust a flask between his 
lips, jamming his teeth apart before pouring a bittersweet potion 
down his throat.  Mulder coughed and gagged in an effort to spit 
out the cloying liquid, but Lafe grabbed his jaws and squeezed 
hard.  Mulder had no doubt that Lafe would break his jaw if he 
didn't swallow.  The aftertaste seared his throat and mouth and 
tasted even more foul than the liquid itself; spoilt milk tasted 
better.


With a rough jerk that nearly strangled him, Mulder was hauled to 
his feet, his legs splayed in an effort to remain standing.  
Another rough jerk and Mulder was led away from the clearing 
deeper into the woods.  As they walked, the voice thundered at 
Mulder, hammering at his sanity until he felt he was drowning in 
a sea of his own guilt.  Pulled along by Lafe, he trekked through 
the tangled brush and woods, until Mulder could no longer feel 
his legs.


Whatever drug Lafe had given him left him without the will to 
resist; he was a passenger in his own body.  Helpless to do 
otherwise, Mulder conceded the battle and curled up in a ball 
inside his little corner and tried to shield himself from the 
angry voice and its promise of a slow death and eternal mental 
agony.


Nightfall shrouded the mountains by the time they reached the 
cave.  Mulder stood on quivering legs breathing in ragged gulps 
of air, too exhausted, too winded to even be curious about this 
fabled cave.  The voice purred softly to him of Hell's delights.


//Didn't I promise you that your curiosity would be satisfied 
Fox?  You were curious about this cave, weren't you?//


Mulder felt his head lift up as his body responded to the voice's 
command.  The cave looked so ordinary and felt so evil.  Mulder 
could feel the evil on the faint current of air that exited the 
cave.  His death lay inside that dark cavern that loomed before 
him like a monster's hungry maw.  But the constant hammering of 
the voice on the manner of his death had curiously rendered that 
event distant, somehow muted the terror, at least for the moment.  
Mulder embraced the distance, anything to drive a wedge between 
the voice and his grasp on sanity.


Lafe gave a hard tug on the halter and Mulder stumbled forward to 
avoid choking.  He had made that mistake once.  He had fallen 
and, unable to control his body, had nearly strangled to death as 
Lafe pulled him forcibly down the trail by his neck.  Lafe 
finally relented and pulled him to his feet as the voice chuckled 
at his helplessness.


Mulder realized then that without the voice, Lafe would have 
indulged in his own brutal nature and killed him for the 
momentary pleasure it brought him.  The voice controlled Lafe as 
it sought to control him.  A point, Mulder wasn't sure the 
significance of it, but he recognized a vital point when it 
slapped him in the face.

**********

Aristide's Cavern
9:00 p.m. 


Light from a single lantern threw grotesque shadows on the walls 
of the cavern.  Lafe's movements as he cleared rocks and other 
debris from the small cavern floor sent shadows chasing shadows.  
Mulder watched in a distant, drugged haze as if watching a shadow 
play created for his entertainment.  Even drugged, Mulder was 
curious about this cavern, the center for so much local folklore.  
The lantern provided little light, but from what he could see, 
the cavern was a natural formation, not manmade.


It was cool in this cavern, the dry air bitter with an acrid 
taste of musk and sulfur.  Mulder could barely remember being led 
into the cave, but he knew the entrance was too far back to allow 
any fresh air into this pocket under the earth.  The stones were 
cold and hard against his back, but he lacked the power to shift 
position.  He sat where Lafe had dumped him, a sack of seething 
helplessness.


The far end of the cavern, deep into the mountain, was cloaked 
with a dark, roiling shadow that Mulder avoided looking at.  One 
passing glance had frozen his soul with dread and terror.  
Whatever lurked there was not something he wanted to face.  The 
shadow looked like the voice sounded, full of evil and black 
despair.


//Afraid, Fox?  Always so afraid when the extreme possibilities 
you hunt actually show up.  Soon . . ..//


For such an untidy man, Lafe seemed obsessed in removing the 
tiniest bit of clutter from the cavern floor.  Even in his 
drugged condition Mulder could draw the inescapable conclusion 
that this was going to be the site of the evening's festivities.  
His brain was operating at full capacity, but the connection 
between brain and body was effectively scrambled.  He could 
think, but not act.  In fact, his intelligence was now more of a 
threat to his sanity than a help.  Mulder wished that whatever 
Lafe had given him had also diminished his ability to recall in 
detail the crime scene reports of the other ritual killings.


Cursing his imagination, Mulder fought down the images of his 
death; fought to retain his sanity as he was pulled into the 
darkness.  Death he could face.  Perhaps not well or even 
bravely, but that didn't matter.  It never mattered, ultimately, 
how the victim faced death.  The only thing he would leave behind 
would be a body: corporeal evidence of the how's of his death, 
but nothing to say how he faced it.  The ultimate terror for him 
was not in his dying, but in how Scully would take it.


Would it be better for her if his body was never found?  To leave 
her imagining his death would be cruel, but would it be any more 
cruel than to have to see him savagely mutilated, a mockery of 
himself?  Even the voice, so adept at plucking out his worst 
nightmares, seemed unsure which was the greater horror.  Both 
scenarios played out for him in his captive memory until Mulder 
wanted to die just to end the persistent question flung at him by 
the voice.  To know or not to know, that was the question for 
Scully.  That was the choice the voice was giving him.


Lacking any other occupation, his memory, aided and abetted by 
the whispering voice, was replaying the earlier murders.  If the 
voice had been smart enough to leave it at just one replay, 
Mulder was sure he would have spiraled down into the bleak 
depression the voice wanted.  However, this constant replaying of 
gory photos and detailed autopsy reports was having the opposite 
effect.  Mulder fought back in the only way he knew how; in the 
only way he was capable of acting, drugged and trussed up as he 
was.  He began battling memory with memory.


He soon discovered that trying to recall happy memories only 
increased the intensity of the dark voice's horrific imagery so 
he opted for suitably dark memories, but those of his own 
choosing.  Choice, it was all coming down to a choice, yet Mulder 
still had no idea what Sallie had meant.  Still, he seized any 
opportunity to insert some kind of choice into the inexorable 
process leading towards his death.


"Prepare ye the house of the Lord of Hell and I will go down into 
it with sacrifices and praise," Lafe sang in a hideously off-key 
whiskey tenor voice.


As Lafe swept clean the place of sacrifice and prepared the 
sanctuary of stone and shadows for his ceremony, Mulder let his 
mind drift back to the last time he walked under sunlight as a 
free man.  Replaying the memories like one of his videos, losing 
himself in them to avoid the suffocating sense of time running 
out.


Lost in his memories, Mulder woke up with a start when he felt 
Lafe's hands stripping off his clothes.


//NOOOO!  Not yet, please, I'm not ready,// Mulder pleaded with 
the now silent voice.  Startled into panic, he struggled to 
control the terror rising up to choke him.


Heedless of Mulder's panic or, perhaps aware and savoring the 
terror he was provoking, Lafe slowly began slicing his t-shirt 
off in slow languid sweeps of a large hunting knife.  The razor 
kiss of the knife as it grazed his skin was simultaneously 
terrifying and arousing.  Mulder cursed the highly inappropriate 
reaction in his groin as Lafe turned his attention from the 
shredded rags of his shirt to his jeans.


"Not yet, city boy.  Time enough later fer yer little man to 
play."


Lafe laughed and patted the bulge in Mulder's groin.  Hate burned 
out the fear in Mulder's eyes as he watched Lafe paw him.  
Satisfied by his victim's reaction, Lafe slowly carved Mulder out 
of his jeans and boxers.  His boots were carefully removed and 
set over in a corner with his watch and gun.  It occurred to 
Mulder that if he did somehow manage to escape, it was going to 
be a long, cold, embarrassing walk back to town.  However, he was 
willing to trade some embarrassment for a future, but so far no 
opportunity had arisen to make that bargain.


Naked and shivering, Mulder lay against the cold rocks as Lafe 
proceeded on with the preparations.  Arms, legs, chest and 
finally groin were carefully, even lovingly caressed with an old-
fashioned straight razor until Lafe was satisfied that no stray 
hair was left to mar the smooth perfection his ritual demanded.  
Even his eyebrows had been shaved.  Lafe paused as he held a 
shank of hair, head cocked to one side as if listening to 
someone, then he patted Mulder's head affectionately and let his 
head fall back against the rock.


"He likes your hair, city boy.  Me, I prefer 'em shaved clean, 
like newborn babes.  'Course I wasn't 'llowed to be as particular 
to the others as you.  You're a special one, he says.  'Course 
the others squealed a mite more than you by now."


Apparently he was going to be allowed to keep his hair.  Small 
comfort - he wouldn't be a bald corpse, Mulder laughed silently 
in near hysteria as he tried not to visualize himself as a 
shaved, gutted corpse.  Warmed only by his rage and shame, Mulder 
gritted his teeth and endured.  Still ignorant of what Sallie had 
meant by a singular time for a choice, Mulder opted for waiting.  
Presumably he would recognize the time when it came, providing of 
course, he was conscious or even sane by the time the moment 
rolled around.


The water Lafe dipped out of a rusty iron kettle was as cold as 
ice.  Lafe gave him a rough bath using a coarse cloth, scouring 
him clean with lye soap until his skin burned.  Mulder flinched 
when Lafe began smoothing on a harsh-smelling ointment, but it 
seeped into his abraded skin with a gentle caress.  Warm and 
thick as honey, the gel lulled him into an erotic, intoxicated 
haze.  Struggling against the temptation to sink into blissful 
unawareness, Mulder tried to focus his mind on the details of the 
ritual, searching his memory for any match, any clue to the 
spirit Lafe sought to raise.


Here, on the edge of the great mystery, drawn into the heart of 
the ceremony, Mulder did not doubt that something was being 
summoned, that something waited just outside his understanding, 
something he would come to understand only too well if Lafe had 
his way.


Dragging his mind back from the abyss, Mulder tried to 
concentrate.  So far Lafe was following a fairly standard 
pattern, nothing yet to distinguish one ceremony from another.


//That's right, Fox, focus on the academic.  Remove yourself from 
feeling.  That's what you're good at.  Isn't that why you quit 
profiling?  Quit saving all those lives?  You enjoyed the 
darkness.  You felt a brotherhood with those you hunted.  Yet 
you fled from that feeling and ran to the safety of your X-Files 
. . . here to me.//


Mulder tried to block out the voice, knowing it was futile, but 
desperate to deny the evil rising to swallow him.  He was 
drowning in it, helpless to stem the tide sweeping out from the 
deep craters within his soul.


//Did all the others feel this raging flood of self-hatred; did 
they drown in despair before they drowned in their own blood?// 
Mulder wondered as he defied the voice.


//No Fox, this is just our little secret.  You are the special 
*one*.  It is only right and proper that we should know each 
other.//


//Get out of my head!  Please . . ..//


Mulder's rage dwindled into pleading.  Drugged and despairing he 
slipped into the twilight world of dreams, comforted by familiar 
nightmares and old companion terrors.


And the voice fell silent, content with its chosen sacrifice, 
impatient for release.


Lafe, unaware of the exchange between his master and his victim, 
finished the anointing and began his own preparations.  The time 
of sacrifice was fast approaching.  The time of his ascension was 
upon him.  Lafe sang happily to himself as he stripped off his 
clothes and drank the vervain-spiked whiskey to open himself to 
the power flowing from his master.  Drunk with whiskey and evil, 
Lafe sang to his master obscene parodies of prayer and praise in 
this cathedral under the earth while the stars moved in their 
courses through the heavens to the appointed time.

*******

Aristide's Cavern
11:00 p.m.  July 23


The feel of Lafe's hands roughly jerking him to his feet 
shattered Mulder out of his dreams.  Not giving Mulder a chance 
to get his feet under him, Lafe dragged him away from the wall 
into the center of the cavern.  Disoriented, Mulder struggled, 
but a quick jerk of the halter cut off his air and he was reduced 
to short frantic gasps for air.


With studied care, Lafe paced off the distance from the wall 
until he had reached the exact center of the cavern and there he 
dumped Mulder to lie in a twitching gasping heap.  A leather 
strap bound his ankles together before Mulder could gather his 
wits and enough air to resist.  Lying trussed up like a calf, 
Mulder tried to shake the cobwebs from his brain.  This was 
important, something was about to happen that he needed to be 
fully alert for, but his brain was sluggish and the night terrors 
slow to relax their grip on his mind.  The lack of air wasn't 
helping either and Mulder felt himself slipping into 
unconsciousness.


He felt Lafe's hand at his throat then the pressure was gone and 
air flooded into his starving lungs.  Mulder lay on the cold dirt 
floor drawing in great heaving gulps of air until his lungs ached 
with the effort.  Drifting on a sea of drugs on the edge of 
awareness, he was barely aware of Lafe's movements, indifferent 
to the ache in his arms and legs.


The sound of harp strings being brutally abused tore Mulder back 
into full consciousness.  A twangy, discordant tune echoed 
through the cavern varying in rhythm and, he supposed, key.  
Mulder shook the last of the dreams from his head and tried to 
focus on who or what was producing such demented sounds.  Perhaps 
during his dreams he had actually died and this was Hell; the 
sound certainly was hellish enough.


Standing stark naked in the middle of the cavern Lafe played the 
ancient tune, strumming the Jew's Harp in an ever-increasing 
tempo.  His eyes were unfocused as he weaved in time to the 
music.  Gradually, as the tempo rose, Lafe began to move his 
feet.  Slowly at first, shuffling softly against the smooth stone 
floor, three steps to the right, then six to the left, all the 
while turning in a slow sensuous circle like a languid top.  As 
Mulder watched, Lafe began to dance in a spiral, always turning 
to the left as he spun out a great circle.


This was familiar.  Watching Lafe dance, Mulder remembered the 
crime scene where he had first entered Lafe's mind, where he had 
first sensed the spell Lafe was dancing.  Mulder's feet twitched 
in an echo of the dance his mind remembered.  The warding circle 
was being cast.  In answer to Lafe's harping, a great bass voice 
sang a chant, hideous with discordant notes that set Mulder's 
bones to aching.  A voice from out of the depths of Hell, raging 
against heaven in its despair, bitter fury against all good; a 
chant of evil.  


Mulder shuddered and wished desperately that he could cover his 
ears.  Hearing the voice whispering in his mind was bad; hearing 
it booming through this cavern was beyond bearing.  At times the 
voice sang so low, Mulder was sure his bones would shatter from 
the harmonics.  He lay there in pain watching the circle being 
cast which would cut him off from all outside salvation.


Each time Lafe reached one of the cardinal points he paused, 
raised his arms in supplication and he sealed the circle at that 
point.  Reaching the southern point, Lafe drew himself up and 
saluted the great lords of darkness Aristide was summoning to 
guard his circle.


"Hail Great Moloc, Commander of the Legions of Hell.  Bar this 
gate against the hosts of Heaven that I may consecrate this 
ground to evil."


Lafe resumed plucking at the harp which was now echoed by a
grating bass voice chanting two octaves below the harp string.  
From the darkness Aristide sang until the very shadows quaked to 
the sound of his voice.  Three spirals later he faced the east, 
then moved to the west.


"Hail, Lucifer, bright Prince of Hell, who holds dominion over 
the eastern sky.  Bar this gate against the rising Sun that I may 
consecrate this ground to evil."


"Hail Zophiel, Herald of Hell, who rises up out of the darkness 
in the west to break men's hopes.  Bar this gate against the 
spirits of air and light that I may consecrate this ground to 
evil."


Spirals tracing spirals in an ever-tightening coil that closed 
the circle.  Lafe felt himself expand as if he was absorbing the 
very power of the earth.  Unseeing and unheeding of anything but 
the chant, Lafe cast out Heaven from this place.


Finally the northern point, the last gap in the circle remained 
to be sealed.  Mulder felt the air grow heavy and dark as the 
circle closed in around him.


"Hail, Azazel, Lord of Hell, Seducer of Mankind, who bears the 
standard of Hell in the dark places of the earth.  Bar this gate 
against the Heavenly Angel of Earth that I may consecrate this 
ground to evil."


Lafe gave a loud scream of exultation and accomplishment.  His 
face was transfigured by a dark light that shone out of his eyes 
and swirled around him like a demented shadow.  Pacing off the 
distance slowly, in a slow parody of his earlier frenzied dance, 
Lafe moved back to the eastern point of the circle and stood 
facing the darkness that shrouded the rear of the cavern.  He 
raised his arms in prayer and supplication.


"Open to me the Gates of Hell and I will go into them.
I will praise the name of Aristide, son of Eblis.
I have laid the final sacrifice before you, O Child of Hell
The souls of my sacrifices lie at your feet,  O Child of Earth
My heart exalts your name, Dread Lord of Night." 


Mulder now realized that events were accelerating towards the 
climax of the ritual.  So far he had seen little that resembled a 
choice.  At least now, with the help of that damnable mouth harp, 
his brain was awake; complaining, but awake and beginning to come 
to full speed.  Mulder wasn't sure whether that was a good thing 
or not.  It was one thing to confidently tell Scully that he 
would try to disrupt the ceremony in the comfort and safety of
their motel rooms, it was quite another to be staring at the 
imminent onset of the ritual trussed and helpless.


He wondered if at some point he would plead with a silent heaven 
for the return of the drugged haze, willing to barter any hope of 
stopping Lafe in return for the release from pain.  For now he 
was willing to remain an observer, waiting for that singular 
moment Sallie had assured him would come.  


Mulder shuddered when he realized he could actually see the 
strands of power flow out from the dark mist on the far side of 
the cavern.  Black rainbow rivers of light swirled around and 
through Lafe, cracking the wall that barred this world from the 
realms of chaos.  Lafe's dance had opened a pathway between one 
world and the next.  Power roared out from the mist like an 
inferno, cradling Mulder in its fire, drawing him into its world.  
The flames caressed his soul with promises of torment and 
intimate knowledge of things beyond his wildest nightmares.


He lay there as the weight of the rock and earth above him 
pressed down on him, crushing him into dust; wishing for once 
that he did not believe in things that went bump in the night.  
Still he waited, silent in the eye of the storm Lafe had raised, 
defiant, refusing to surrender to the siren song of the damned.


************

Outside Aristide's Cavern
11:00 p.m.  July 23


"Eno lass.  Take a breath."  Sallie turned and grabbed Scully's 
arms with her strong bony hands.  Jock began a weaving dance in 
and out around Scully's legs forcing her to stop or fall.


"Let go of me!  If he's in there like you say, we need to get to 
him before Lafe can start," Scully hissed angrily, resisting the 
urge to drop-kick Jock into the nearest tree.  For hours she had 
followed this old woman through the darkness, always climbing 
upwards until she was certain they were climbing to the top of 
the world.  She was exhausted and terrified.  They had finally 
reached this crack in the side of the mountain and now Sallie 
wanted her to wait outside.


It was late, so damn late.  Her own autopsy reports haunted her.  
//Time of death approximately midnight.  Indications of severe, 
multiple trauma to the chest and groin suggest that the some of 
the injuries were inflicted up to an hour before death.//  That 
was Mulder in there, facing what horrors she knew only too well 
from the bodies she examined.


"Na, lass.  It na be tha time fer ya.  Tha stars be whisperin' 
that we must wait for tha proper time."  Sallie said sternly.  
Sallie was losing patience.  Dana was refusing to listen to her 
heart, still adamant in her reliance on her science to deal with 
this problem.  Sallie could hear the ancient songs on the night 
breeze, summoning the spirits of light and air to this battle.  
All around them tiny lights of the fey folk glistened in the 
darkness, protecting them from the evil shadows darting around 
them.


They walked in the shadows of the moon on the paths of the fey, 
yet this stubborn child refused to see, refused to hear what was 
plain before her.  Sallie clucked her tongue in exasperation, but 
did not try to deepen the trance that bound Dana to her.  When 
the time came, she would either believe or not.  Sallie's oath 
bound her to Dana's protection; it would just be a tad easier on 
them both if Dana would cooperate.  //God bless her fer a 
stubborn Irish lass.  She has a warrior's heart tho an' I pray 
tha be eno'.//


"I'm going in.  You can stay out here if you want, but Mulder 
needs me now, not at some mystical moment of truth!"  Scully 
tried to twist out of Sallie's grip, but found, to her dismay, 
that the fragile-looking old woman had a grip as strong as a 
sailor.  Desperate in her frantic worry for Mulder, she struggled 
furiously for a moment then went completely still.  Fixing Sallie 
with a cold glare she waited until she caught her breath and 
could speak in a calm, icy tone.


"Release me now.  If Mulder is hurt in any way by this delay, I 
will personally lock you up in the nearest mental hospital for 
the rest of your life."


"Ah, lass, ya still dinna comprehend tha battle."  Sallie sighed 
and released Dana, shaking her head in sad acceptance of the 
impatience of youth.  "Weel, if ya be bound an' determined ta 
rush inta tha jaws o Hell . . .."


Startled by Sallie's sudden capitulation, Scully was a few steps 
behind her by the time the old woman had reached the cave 
entrance.  Stepping into the cave was stepping into total 
darkness.  Even without the moon, their trip up the mountain had 
been lit by starlight and the swarms of lightning bugs that 
seemed determined to follow them.  As irritated as she had been 
by the bugs, she rather wished some of them had followed them 
into the cave.  Anything to relieve the oppressive blackness of 
the cave.  Yet, even in the dark, Sallie seemed to know exactly 
where she was going.


//Probably following that damn cat,// Scully thought.


After a brief bout of rebellion that earned her a barked shin and 
a too intimate collision with a stalagmite, Scully gave up trying 
to pick her own way through the darkness and followed close on 
Sallie's heels.


Their passage through the cave was excruciatingly slow.  Scully 
wondered if Sallie was deliberately keeping the pace to a crawl 
in order to keep them to her mystical schedule.  Scully wanted to 
scream in frustration, but she felt an overwhelming desire not to 
make a sound to break the dread silence that wrapped itself 
around them as soon as they entered the cave.


Lacking Sallie's sense of direction or Jock's, Scully was forced 
to follow them even while fear for Mulder was growing into a 
painful knot in her stomach.  Trust Mulder to land himself in a 
situation where she would be forced to depend on things she 
didn't believe in to save him.


Scully lost track of time as they moved through the dark 
corridors. Gradually she realized that she could hear music; 
well, if she was feeling especially generous she supposed she 
could call it music.  It seemed to be coming from deep inside the 
cave, more or less directly in front of them.  She heard Sallie 
sigh and breathe out something in a dialect so obscure she wasn't 
even sure it was in English.  Sallie turned back to her, barely 
visible in the pitch darkness.


"It has begun lass.  Time an' destiny march ta tha battle an' so 
must we.  Fox be there waitin'.  Pray ta God, Dana that he 
chooses well."


Scully shuddered at the implication behind those words.  Sallie 
seemed to be implying that Mulder was beyond her help.  That she 
refused to believe.  Let this old woman mutter about magic and 
demons and such.  What they had to face was a crazed killer, 
probably armed and definitely dangerous, who wanted to carve her 
partner into hamburger.


//Not if I have anything to say about it.// 


Scully pressed forward and was relieved when Sallie began to move 
faster.  The timetables of the previous murders ran through her 
mind.  Mulder would probably be hurt, that was nothing new for 
him.  But with luck and speed on her part, not seriously.


A scream of pain echoed through the cave just as a blinding flash 
of light burst out of the tunnel ahead of them and rippled out in 
waves towards the mouth of the cave.


"Mulder!"  Scully yelled as she fought the light-blindness that 
paralyzed her.  Jock's answering yowl of anger joined the echoes 
bouncing around the cave.


When she could see again, Scully could see the pathway leading 
towards another opening in the dimming light.  Sallie was already 
at the opening chanting something in a tongue Scully vaguely 
recognized as Gaelic.  An explosion rippled across the entrance 
and shards of black fire shattered against the tunnel walls.  For 
just a moment, Scully thought she saw Sallie bathed in light 
wielding a great sword that sliced through dark-winged shadows 
barring her way.  Scully shook her head and muttered something 
about after-images and retinal flash burns before following 
Sallie into the cavern.

*******

11:30 p.m.


Lafe danced the final steps in the intricate knot that would seal 
his warding circle.  Wearily he dropped the mouth harp and stood 
panting for breath.  The residue of power that had surged through 
him now flickered around him; a blood red halo streaked with 
black.  Each time he had danced the spell, he emerged weakened 
and hollowed out; the power scouring him away bit by bit.  This 
was the last time however.  With this sacrifice, his reward would 
be unlimited power and dominion.  Lafe heard the deep rumbling 
voice of Aristide urging him on, driving him despite his 
exhaustion to the rite of sacrifice.  Lafe understood.  If he was 
impatient, just having to endure these past eighty-two days, he 
could imagine how Aristide must feel having waited nearly three 
centuries.


As Lafe walked over to Mulder, he comforted himself with the 
notion that the hard part was over.  Now he could have himself 
some fun.  Aristide had drummed it into his head that the final 
blow had to fall during the strokes of the midnight bell, but he 
always allowed him time to play with the victim.  Tonight he 
wouldn't have as long and that thought soured him a bit, but he 
decided that instead of working slowly up to the fun parts, maybe 
he could just start right in.


"You a screamer, city boy?"  Lafe said as he kicked Mulder onto 
his back.  Seeing the defiance in Mulder's eyes, he kicked him 
again.  The satisfying crunch of ribs under his foot brought a 
smile to his lips.  Playfully, Lafe allowed himself to enter the 
first stages of the change and watched in amusement as Mulder's 
eyes grew wide with shock.  Lafe licked his fangs and studied the 
long claws that now extended beyond his paw-like hands.  


"We're not goin' to git to play as long as I'd like, but I bet I 
kin make you scream for mercy from old Lafe."


Mulder watched Lafe warily as he babbled.  Lafe's hold on sanity 
was probably more tenuous than his own.  He had no doubt that if 
Lafe had his way, he probably would be screaming, but there was a 
gnawing unease growing in the back of his mind; a feeling that he 
was missing a very vital piece of the puzzle.  Concentrating on 
trying to figure out what he was missing, Mulder's attention went 
inward.


Angry at being ignored, Lafe raked two talons across Mulder's 
stomach.  Mulder's yelp of surprise and pain made Lafe feel much, 
much better.  He liked the way Mulder bucked up and away from the 
pain, actually moving away a good two feet.  Lafe hauled him back 
to the center mark by the halter letting the leather rope grind 
into Mulder's throat until the agent's face turned red and he 
quit struggling to lay twitching on the floor.  


//Untie the man and place him as you wish.  He will not move 
until I release him,// Aristide's voice boomed in Lafe's mind.


Lafe obeyed grudgingly.  He hoped Aristide would keep the man 
still during the ceremony.  He had wanted to drive stakes into 
the earthen floor to tie him down, but Aristide promised him that 
the matter would be taken care of.  Lafe didn't care how Aristide 
managed it, just so he got to have his fun without having to 
chase the man all over the cavern.


Released from his bindings, Mulder found that he was unable to 
move, his body once again controlled by the voice.  He watched 
helplessly as Lafe carefully positioned his body, legs spread 
apart, arms stretched wide to either side.  Why the lack of 
restraints?  Why was this time different?  If what the voice said 
was true, and that was a big if, then somehow this ceremony was 
different from all the others.


The throbbing across his stomach held the promise of more to 
come, yet Mulder was growing more certain that there was a play 
within a play going on here.  Maybe it was his long contact with 
the voice, maybe simply that his brain, hovering on the brink of 
destruction, decided to slip into hyper-drive, but Mulder began 
to realize that Lafe was as much a victim tonight as he was.

f
As Lafe used the blood welling out of the wounds on Mulder's 
abdomen to paint himself in the familiar runic characters, Mulder 
continued to ponder the puzzle.  There was little else he could 
do at the moment except to think and Mulder was fervently trying 
to avoid thinking about what Lafe planned on slicing open next.


When Lafe finished draping himself in blood, he began to draw a 
careful pattern of runes around his victim, enclosing him in a 
circle of elemental power.  Twice he had to deepen the wounds on 
Mulder's stomach in order to get the blood he needed.  Mulder 
grimaced and panted with the pain but refused to give Lafe the 
satisfaction of yelling.  He'd yell soon enough when the time 
came to draw the master rune, Lafe assured himself, angry that 
Mulder was refusing to cooperate.


Satisfied at last with the circle of runes, Lafe let himself flow 
back into full human form.  He needed his hands for this next 
part; he didn't want to mess up the final rune.  Retrieving his 
knife from the edge of the outer circle, Lafe knelt beside 
Mulder, grinding his fingers into Mulder's jaw to force him to 
look at the knife.  


Relishing the spark of fear in Mulder's eyes, however quickly 
squelched, Lafe drew the tip of the knife slowly down his throat 
then around the collar bone until the point rested lightly on 
Mulder's suddenly still chest.  Mulder held his breath, trying to 
prepare himself.  His eyes still locked onto Mulder's, Lafe 
pushed the knife into the chest, deep enough to draw blood, but 
not deep enough to touch anything vital, yet.


Mulder screamed.  Cold agony beyond anything he had expected 
exploded from his chest to fill his heart and groin with ice.  A 
flash of bright light burst from the back of the cavern searing 
his eyes as it filled the cavern and surged down the tunnel.  
Through a red haze dotted with black spots he saw Lafe begin to 
slowly carve something into his chest.  Mulder tried not to 
breathe since every breath seemed to push his chest further into 
the knife.  Through his pain, he thought he could hear Scully's 
voice screaming his name.  //Delusional . . . I've finally gone 
insane.  Oh God it hurts!//


With the pain came understanding.  


//Behold my most cherished sacrifice.  You shall rise above all 
the rest.  You shall be consecrated in the blood of the slayer of 
souls.  You shall be consecrated to my purpose.//


More pain, searing, choking pain that turned each neural pathway 
into an inferno of fire.  He was being baptized in a river of 
fire.


//Soon you shall take your rightful place.  Lafe shall lie at 
your feet.  You shall avenge the souls he has taken.  Then, all 
pain shall cease.  You will rise up and eternal life shall be 
yours.  Your enemies will be dust beneath your feet and you shall 
be my most exalted servant.//


Seeing into the mind of his tormentor at last, Mulder tore 
himself out of the hypnotic spell Aristide was weaving.  Clinging 
to the pain engulfing him, Mulder fought back.  He now understood 
only too well what fate awaited him.  If he had thought that 
dying at Lafe's hands, grotesquely mutilated, was horrific, what 
he suddenly saw behind the murmuring voice from the shadow was so 
far beyond horror as to defy description.


The battle had shifted and Mulder's mind was scrambling 
frantically to cope with the revelation that it wasn't his death 
he was facing, but his eternal living damnation as Aristide's 
substitute.  The horror behind the horror; the play within a play 
was revealed to the sound of Aristide's mocking laughter.


************

Aristide's Cavern
11:30 p.m.  July 23


Together, Sallie and Scully burst into the cavern in answer to 
Mulder's scream.  Sallie stepped quickly into the shadows among 
the jumbled rocks along the cavern wall.  Jock disappeared into 
the rocks and only soft scratching noises marked his careful 
passage.  Satisfied that she was well hidden from the imprisoned 
demon, Sallie gave Aristide a stern scrutiny.  His madness had 
not diminished, nor his overweening ego.  Already he was singing 
his victory song, celebrating his freedom before the last blow 
was struck.


//Countin' his chickens afore they're hatched.//  Nothing had 
changed; perhaps nothing ever could.  It wasn't in the nature of 
demons to change.  Sallie felt no pity for the pinioned demon.  
Her pity was reserved for his victims, even Lafe, though that was 
stretching pity to the limit.


Standing quietly in the shadows, Sallie waited for her time to 
strike.  Let Aristide savor his victory while he could.  She 
trusted in Almighty God and in the two warriors she had summoned 
to this battle.  Aristide was too confident, exerting only enough 
strength to control the humans he held in such contempt.  Unless 
he sensed her arrival, he would not cast his whole strength into 
the battle until it was too late, she hoped.  


Sallie ruefully acknowledged that she was no longer the handsome 
lass she was when Aristide last saw her, but there was the chance 
he might recognize the taste of her aura.  Surprise would be 
critical in shifting the balance of power surging through this 
place.


Turning her attention to the center of the cavern, she sensed 
that the ritual was rapidly approaching its climax.  Even 
shielded as she was, she sensed Fox's dawning horror as he 
realized what his fate was to be.  Aristide was entirely focused 
on twisting Fox to his purpose, forging him into an extension of 
his will.


//Fight him Fox.  His be na tha battle ya must fight.  Tha time 
is nigh lad when ya must lose ta win.//


Sallie sent her silent blessing towards the embattled agent even 
though she knew that, for now, nothing except Aristide's will 
could pass through the circle enclosing Fox and Lafe.  The 
crucial moment in time when good and evil hung evenly in the 
balance in the scales was fast approaching.  Then Fox's choice 
would either shatter the circle or close it fast around him like 
a shroud.


Until that time, however, Dana would no doubt raise all sorts of 
ruckus.  Sallie sighed for the impatience of youth.  Well, at 
least it would keep her occupied and reasonably out of trouble, 
until it was time for her to act.  Dana was impulsive and too 
certain of her science.  Sallie actually chuckled softly in her 
throat.  There were a few surprises for Dana here in this place, 
perhaps a bit of uncertainty to leaven her science.  For now, 
however, all of their futures rested in Fox's hands and Dana must 
wait her turn.


Propelled by Mulder's scream still ringing in her ears, Scully 
sprang past Sallie into the cavern.  Her eyes immediately focused 
on Lafe kneeling over her spread-eagled partner using a large 
knife to carve something into his chest.  Scully would hear the 
strangled moans breaking from Mulder's throat even while he 
remained strangely motionless under Lafe's torture.


"Freeze.  FBI!  Put your weapon down, NOW!"  Scully screamed the 
words.  The sound of a great chorus of voices buffeted her ears, 
as if a thousand voices, each a little off-key, were singing 
'Carmina Burana.'  Cursing softly, she took careful aim and fired 
two rounds at Lafe's chest hoping to knock him away from Mulder.  
In total disbelief she watched the rounds explode harmlessly into 
miniature fireworks about ten feet from Lafe.


Lafe looked up from his task to give her a toothy grin while 
giving his knife a vicious twist.  Mulder screamed, his eyes 
fairly bulging out of his head with the effort to move.   Without 
a second thought Scully fired another round and again watched 
helplessly as it exploded against Lafe's wards.


"Mulder!"  Scully screamed his name, trying to let him know she 
was here and somehow she was going to rescue him.  She didn't 
know what was stopping her bullets.  A Star Trek force-field 
sprang to mind only to be quickly dismissed; Lafe barely had the 
intelligence to construct a workable still, much less a 
technological innovation decades ahead of modern science.


//You're babbling,// Scully reprimanded her mind.  Angry and 
frustrated by her inability to reach her partner, Scully prowled 
around the invisible circle, constantly testing it.  She didn't 
know how, but she was sure there had to be a way through whatever 
was keeping her from helping Mulder.


Her first glimpse of Aristide convinced her she was 
hallucinating.  A good Catholic upbringing included lessons on 
demons, but the priest never warned her that she might actually 
meet one in the flesh.  This was Mulder's nightmare, not hers, 
she protested to God.


Hanging suspended in his web, Aristide grinned down at this 
newest participant in the game.  Small, but nicely shaped, and oh 
so disbelieving.  Aristide considered the enormous joy he could 
take in convincing this skeptic that he was very, very real.  He 
allowed himself a few seconds to savor the idea of initiating 
this little woman into his sexual preferences.  Not wishing to 
hog the delicious imagery to himself, Aristide obligingly flooded 
Scully's mind with them.  His laughter shook the cavern as Scully 
flinched in horror.


Stung by Aristide's laughter, Scully pulled herself together and 
snarled her defiance at this monster.  This was the face she had 
seen over-shadowing Mulder's in the motel room.  This was the 
monster responsible for Mulder's pain.  Fury quickly replaced 
fear.


"In your dreams, demon!"


Aristide merely grinned and licked his lips.  Allowing his wings 
to flutter restlessly apart, he permitted her a fleeting glance 
at his genitals.  The defiant ones were always the most 
delectable in his experience and he felt a sigh of utter 
contentment sweep through him as he contemplated his victory 
celebration.


Scully backed carefully away from Aristide never letting her eyes 
leave his face until she was out of his direct line of sight.  
Only then did she turn her back on him and resume her restless 
prowling around the barrier locking her away from Mulder.  If 
this was what Mulder had been fighting in his mind, Scully's 
opinion of him rose considerably.  She made a silent vow that 
somehow she would get Mulder out of this alive so she could 
apologize.  Hell had better not get in her way.


His name, screamed as only Scully could scream it, cut through 
the pain.  //Scully . . . here?//  Trying to respond to his 
partner, Mulder strained against Aristide's control.  Linked as 
he was to Aristide's whispering voice, he was privy to Aristide's 
sexual taunts.  Enraged by this threat to his partner, Mulder 
exploded against Aristide's control.  He caught a brief flicker 
of surprise from Aristide, felt the control tighten until he 
thought his bones would shatter then abruptly he was free.  
Aristide's exultant cry was lost in the sudden murderous fury 
that overwhelmed and consumed Mulder's mind.


Without warning Mulder erupted into motion.  He threw himself on 
Lafe, ignoring the gash the knife made when it slid across his 
chest.  A gaping red gash completed the final rune; a mind-
twisting glyph of chaos unleashed.  Within the circle, the earth 
cried out and the air burned as the winds of chaos poured through 
the opening gateway.


Grappling for the knife, Mulder and Lafe rolled around the floor 
in a fury of dust and blood-drenched naked bodies.  Using a 
particularly vicious wrestling move, Mulder wrenched the knife 
from Lafe and rolled free.  Even before he could get to his feet, 
Lafe was melting into cat form.  Blinded by fury and fear and 
driven by Aristide's whip-like voice, Mulder attacked.


Scully watched in horror as Mulder took blow after blow from 
Lafe's talons.  Lafe was also bleeding from two long gashes.  
Despite their wounds, neither combatant slowed their insane 
attacks on each other.  The air in the cavern was charged with 
fury.  The chorus of the damned howled until the cavern shook 
with their songs.


Scully raged against the barrier that prevented her from 
assisting Mulder, pounding insanely upon the invisible wall until 
her hands bled, shouting unheard curses that were absorbed by the 
awful sounds rocking the cavern.  Aristide breathed in the 
intoxicating scent of rage and drove Mulder to a frenzy of 
attacks designed to drive Lafe against the very circle he had 
cast.


"Now, lass.  Now be tha time ta rise an' fight!"


Sallie's voice cut through the howling madness, shattering the 
unholy inferno of noise. Shuddering in the sudden silence and in 
the abrupt return of her reason, Scully looked down at her 
bleeding hands then back into the circle where Mulder and Lafe 
still struggled amid a shrieking windstorm.  //This could not be 
happening,// Scully thought desperately.


The fact that she had just witnessed the transformation of a 
human into a giant cat was just a tiny drop in her general fading 
grip on reality.  She decided that this must all be a drug-
induced hallucination, but while she was here, she might as well 
act as if it was real.  Convoluted reasoning, even she had to 
admit, but it worked to satisfy her whimpering rational mind.


Sallie's voice, loud in the aching silence, reminded her who and 
what she was.  Somehow she sensed that the moment in time Sallie 
kept babbling about was hurtling towards them.  Drawing in deep 
breaths to steady herself, Scully stepped back from the barrier 
and readied herself to take advantage of whatever was about to 
take place.


"Who dares to defy me?  Come forth little human and let me see 
you before I tear your soul from your body and hurl it into 
Hell."  Aristide's voice thundered against the rocks, but they 
did not answer.  Only a derisive, solitary howl mocked him from 
deep with the rocky debris.  Aristide howled in fury and was 
answered by a smaller howl full of feline superiority.


While Aristide and Jock exchanged insults, Sallie centered 
herself and commending her soul to God, stepped forward directly 
in front of Aristide.  Unleashing her aura, she stood in front of 
the demon she had imprisoned so long ago.


"I do, ya loud yammerin' beastie.  Ya hae na changed.  These 
children are na for ya.  They are ma warriors.  An' they be yer 
doom."


Seeing the old woman step out of the shadows and come forward to 
defy him, Aristide began to laugh, but as her aura billowed out 
his laughter stopped and fear began to war with anger in his 
heart.  This was the woman who had bound him to this torment, 
here now, at the exact moment of his victory.  Let her see then 
his victory.  He would feed upon her soul at the instant of his 
release.


Glancing at the struggle between Mulder and Lafe, Aristide 
smiled.  Soon, very soon.  Lafe was the stronger, but he fought 
alone, abandoned.  Mulder fought with all of Aristide's power and 
hate burning through his blood.  Soon, very soon the sacrifice 
would be hallowed by the blood of his victim and Aristide would 
be free.


"You foolish old hag.  All you have done is provide me with my 
sacrifice.  Your champion is indeed a child.  I control him as I 
would control a puppet.  Watch now, and prepare your soul for 
death."


Sallie sadly shook her head.  It was not in the nature of a demon 
to change.  Aristide was no different now than he had been nearly 
three hundred years before.  Then she was in the springtime of 
her power, strong and sure; certain of her path.  Withered now, 
she still wielded power enough to seal Aristide back into his 
prison, but not to interfere in the collision of good and evil 
raging in that circle.


Sallie prayed again that Fox would seize the moment and wrench 
himself out of the claws of chaos.  The riddle was there in his 
mind, she had seen to that.  Dana, she saw, was poised and ready; 
unsure what she was supposed to do, but prepared to act the 
instant she saw an opening.  Jock was nearby, waiting for his 
cue.  Now was her time.


"Aristide, by tha sacred names of God, I cast ya out o tha game.  
By yer own rules, ya may na interfere.  Ya hae chosen yer 
substitute an' by his blood o' his victory, ya be bound.  I stand 
here, as God's witness, that ya may na interfere."


Sallie's words sang through the cavern and echoed from the rocks 
like the ringing of fine crystal bells.  Aristide's face grew 
black with fury then white with shock as he felt his control over 
Mulder shatter.  He spat curses at Sallie and his wings swept up 
all the stench of rotting hopes from the depths of hell to buffet 
her.  Sallie swayed like a willow in a storm, but held fast to 
her command.  Power versus power; the clash caused the earth to 
groan and the hills to cry out above them.


Storms gathered, hurling lightning down upon the mountains in 
wave after wave until the air reeked with ozone and burning 
earth.  Sallie stood firm, a burning brand buffeted by darkness, 
refusing to be blown out or cast aside.  Aristide turned his fury 
and his power totally against her, forgetting Mulder in his 
obsession to destroy this one old woman who stood in his way.


Feeling Aristide's control abruptly severed, Mulder reeled, then 
screamed as Lafe raked his shredded chest.  Dodging Lafe's next 
attack, Mulder began a series of evasive moves that forced Lafe 
to be constantly on the attack.  Watching the pattern of Lafe's 
attacks, Mulder realized that it would be very easy to lure Lafe 
in with a feint then drop him with a quick thrust.  Lafe was 
slowing down, no doubt feeling the loss of blood that was now 
matting his fur.  It would be so easy, and yet . . ..


Shaking the fog of Aristide's fury from his brain, he saw Scully 
standing outside the circle, poised with gun aimed and ready.  
Making another twisting, dancing move to elude Lafe's charge, 
Mulder saw Sallie facing off with Aristide.  Something she had 
said eons ago while he sat on her porch and drank apple cider and 
watched the deer graze; something about a choice.  Mulder didn't 
need to be psychic to sense that the singular moment Sallie had 
spoken of was almost upon him.  He felt its harsh breath on the 
back of his neck.  The choice was here and now, present in this 
circle, waiting for him to act.


Vainly his brain scrambled for the answer to Sallie's riddle even 
as Mulder began to realize he was going to have to simply choose 
from instinct, trusting in the that in the midst of the absolute 
chaos which surrounded him that he would choose correctly.


//Please God, let this be the right one, for Scully, if not for 
me.//


Drawing a deep painful breath, Mulder caught Lafe's eyes, then 
feinted a blow to Lafe's right side, allowing himself to 
overextend slightly.  He held his breath, willing this not to 
hurt too badly, willing Scully to understand everything he never 
had the chance to tell her.  Lafe grinned, exposing bloody fangs, 
and struck.  Mulder arched against the talons dug into his chest 
and screamed.


Lafe struck again with the other paw, tearing down across 
Mulder's neck to his chest in four great gouges that laid open 
his rib cage.  Silent now, Mulder hung limply in Lafe's paws.  He 
shuddered once, then again, then was still.  Lafe howled and 
threw the body of his victim against the barrier.  Mulder's body 
went flying past the circle into the cavern wall to lie crumpled 
in an ungainly heap against the rocks.  Jock howled like a 
banshee from his hiding place among the rocks.


Stunned as she was by Mulder's defeat, Scully realized that the 
barrier was down and, drawing careful aim, blew Lafe's chest 
apart with three neatly placed shots.  Lafe looked ludicrously 
down at the gaping wounds in his chest, raised a pleading hand 
towards Aristide, and collapsed.


Suddenly realizing that both his sacrifices were lost to him, 
Aristide abandoned his attack on Sallie and slammed his attention 
on Scully.  Driven to her knees by the sudden assault on her mind 
and body, Scully felt herself drowning as Aristide fought to 
consume her soul.  Lost in the howling wind that filled her mind, 
Scully felt a hand reach out and pull her to safety.  Standing 
over her was Sallie and they were surrounded by a softly glowing 
light, like butterfly wings at sunrise.


Gasping for air, Scully allowed Sallie to help her to her feet 
and in the shelter of Sallie's ancient arms, watched as Aristide 
literally ignited with thwarted rage.  His roars of agony and 
fury shook the cavern, dislodging small rocks and dust from the 
ceiling that fell around then like a summer shower.  Flames 
turned the web to molten silver rivulets that ran down, across 
and through Aristide's convulsing body.


Beside her, Scully heard Sallie sigh as she made a small gesture 
and the web molded Aristide back into his prison, now thrice 
bound for good measure.  Watching all of this in unwilling 
belief, Scully heard a multitude of voices singing Glorias and 
felt the exultation of souls released from Aristide's dominion as 
they fled into the netherworld.  Remembering her own journey to 
the threshold of that world, Scully wished the souls luck on 
their passage.  Silence fell like a benediction on the cavern.


************

Aristide's Cavern
12:05 a.m.  July 24

Turning her back on Aristide, Scully ran over to Mulder's body, 
praying desperately that somehow, with his usual uncanny ability 
to skirt along the edge of death, he would still be alive, 
perhaps hovering on the edge, but alive.


//He'll need blood of course and stitches.  God he hates 
stitches.  He'll hurt like hell, but he'll be alright . . . he 
has to be alright . . . please dear God let him be alright.//


Her legs collapsed under her as she slid to her knees beside the 
battered, bloodstained body.  Very gently, like a mother turning 
over a newborn infant, she laid him on his back.  She stifled a 
tearful gasp as she saw the great gaping gouges across his chest.  
In one place she could see the still heart, dark reddish-purple 
floating in a sea of bright red cradled in a nest of white bone.  


Ignoring the blood that covered him like a second skin, Scully 
gently touched the heart, pleading with anyone who would listen 
that her eyes were deceiving her, that her partner's heart wasn't 
lying still in his rapidly cooling body.


//Damn you.  No, not that.  Please God, never that.//  Scully 
shuddered at her sudden revelation of how ominous that casual 
comment had come to mean.


"Mulder, please don't be dead.  There are things still out there.  
I won't concede everything you believe."  She smiled slightly at 
the involuntary resumption of their eternal arguments even as the 
tears began to flow unnoticed.


"But you are right, there are things out there, but I can't 
believe all on my own.  Please . . .."


Her tears mixing with his blood on her shirt, Scully cradled 
Mulder in her arms quietly talking to him, trying to tell him all 
the things she never had when he was alive to hear them, her head 
bent down low over his, draping herself over his body like a 
shroud.


Sallie watched this tableaux with a heavy heart.  Much now 
depended on how well her spell had been cast and how strong 
Mulder's spirit was.  Walking slowly over to Aristide's prison, 
she saw that he had hidden himself within his wings, an impotent, 
defeated child of Hell once more.


Kneeing before one of the trees that anchored the web, Sallie 
hummed an air that had been ancient when she was a lass running 
wild and free in the Highland hills.  The ancient tree shimmered 
for a moment with a pure white light then blossomed with a single 
tiny dark red rose resting in a nest of thorns as long as her 
finger.


Using extreme care not to prick herself, Sallie cautiously broke 
off one of the thorns.  The tree bled three drops of dark amber 
sap.  Sallie rubbed her thorn against the sap until the thorn was 
coated with it.  Cradling the thorn in her hands, Sallie rose to 
her knees, trying to ignore the creaking of her bones that 
sounded too loud in the hushed silence.  Time was running out.  
Sallie began walking rapidly over to where Scully sat grieving 
over her partner.


Feeling Sallie come up behind her, Scully looked up, her face 
ravaged with grief, only able to choke out one word from the 
hundreds she wanted to scream.  "Why?"


"Lass, Fox faced a choice.  Ta live an' take Aristide's place in 
tha web an' endure in torment 'til Great Gabriel closes time or 
ta die an' cheat Aristide o' his sacrifice."  Sallie laid a 
sympathetic hand on Scully's shoulder.  She felt time pressing 
close, but Scully had to understand, to consent to what must be 
done.


"Now, if ya be willin' ta give him ta me, there be a chance, 
albeit a small one, that he can be restored, but ya must have 
faith, ya must be there ta reach through tha mist an' guide him 
home.  Can ya do that lass?  Can ya believe in wha ya canna see?  
For him?  For yourself?"


Scully simply stared at her, grief shattering her disbelief, yet 
too stricken to react.  Jock emerged from the rocks, staggering 
in an uncertain wobbling gate towards them.  As he brushed 
against Scully's legs she could feel every hair on his back 
standing straight up as if he had been electrified.  A rumbling, 
disjointed purr wavering from deep bass to baritone shook his 
body as he sat down and stared fixedly at Scully.


Almost absently Scully ran her fingers over Mulder's shaven face, 
lingering for a moment where his eyebrows had been, then smoothed 
his hair, trying for some semblance of his usual neat styling 
before she nodded ever so slightly.  Very gently Sallie knelt 
beside her and lifted Mulder's body into her own lap with 
surprising ease.  Scully's arms followed the path of Mulder's 
body until they held nothing but air, then she let them fall into 
her lap.


"Great Laird o' Heaven.  Be upon ma tha sin.  T'was na his 
choosin', but mine tha sent his soul awry.  Let him coom home, 
Laird o' Life, Laird o' all beasties an' men wha battle in tha 
dark for tha Light."


As Sallie prayed, she traced the wounds Lafe's talons had made 
with the thorn.  Scully stared in disbelief, almost horror; the 
wounds sealed themselves as the thorn passed over them.  Her mind 
was reeling now, incapable of objecting to this fantastic event 
unfolding before her eyes.  Reason and science fled before the 
hope that, by whatever means, Mulder might be restored to her.  
If her doubts could in any way hinder this miracle, Scully was 
prepared to cast them to the winds and believe, just this once; 
to believe with all of her heart and soul and mind in miracles.


Sallie sealed the last of the gaping tears in Mulder's chest and 
sat back on her heels to rest.  Her breathing was ragged and she 
felt her heart pounding with the effort she was pouring into this 
healing.  As she rested, she felt the thorn turn to powder in her 
hand, its power exhausted.  Mulder still bore claw marks on his 
body, but none were serious and would easily be treated by Dana's 
science or her own good herbs should the lad live.  The easy part 
was over, now she struggled to calm herself for the perilous 
part.  Scully's eyes were wild, but Sallie saw hope rising and 
prayed that she would not fail either one of these two brave 
children.


"Now lass for tha final leap o faith."


When she was sure she had Scully's attention, Sallie placed both 
of Scully's hands on Mulder's chest.  Sallie's right hand rested 
lightly on Mulder's forehead.


"Now call him lass.  Call yer friend home.  An' wha'er happen, 
dinna take yer hands awa.  His life depends on ya."


Scully looked at Sallie, saw her nod her head, then, feeling 
slightly foolish, started softly whispering Mulder's name.


"Mulder, come back.  I need you Mulder.  Please Mulder, it's not 
your time."  A litany of need.


Jock rose up on his hind legs, stretching his full length against 
Scully's chest and dropped down and began an agitated pacing, 
yowling in protest.  Sallie crooned softly to him, urging to come 
to her, extending her free hand to him.  Jock inched forward, 
then jumped back as if he'd been bitten, then dropped to his 
stomach and crawled forward until, hesitantly, he moved his head 
under Sallie's hand.


Jock's screech beside her startled Scully so much she jumped and 
her hands jerked until only her fingertips rested on Mulder's 
chest before she remembered she was supposed to keep both hands 
firmly planted.  Scowling at Jock, she gritted her teeth and 
firmly pressed her hands into Mulder's still, chilling flesh.


A strangled gasp from the chest beneath her hands sent Scully 
bolt upright.  Mulder's chest was heaving as his starved lungs 
pulled in air.  Tentatively, Scully pressed her palm deeper 
against his chest and felt the strong racing beat of a heart 
pumping blood through a warm living body.  Resisting the urge to 
cross herself, Scully prayed that if this was a hallucination 
that she would never know sanity again.


Wanting to believe with all of her heart, Scully caressed the 
outlines of Mulder's face.  She broke into one of her rare grins 
when his eyes fluttered open.  At first they were wild and 
rolling as if he was waking up from some nightmare terror.  His 
head rolled from side to side and his body shook in shudder after 
shudder until Scully picked him up and cradled him in her arms.  
Pressing his head against her shoulder Scully felt the tremors 
gradually diminish.  For several long minutes they remained 
clasped together, breathing in tandem as his breathing and his 
heart rate slowed down to normal.


"Ah, Scully, would you happen to have . . . a . . . a towel or 
something?"


Mulder's plaintive tone was the final straw that sent Scully into 
a storm of laughter.  Helpless to stop the sudden release of 
hours of stress and near madness, Scully held her chest and 
rocked back and forth laughing.  The expression on Mulder's face, 
part embarrassment, part astonishment to find himself alive and 
part irritation at his insanely giggling partner did not help to 
restore her equilibrium.


Mulder hid a small grin and looked to Sallie for help in calming 
his obviously hysterical partner.  His expression sobered at once 
when he saw how pale she was.  Ignoring his nakedness, Mulder 
scrambled to his knees and pulled Sallie into his arms.  She was 
shaking so bad he thought she was going to fly apart in his arms 
and she was as cold as he vaguely remembered being just moments 
before.


Jock was lying at her feet, gasping but already his tail was 
beginning to twitch and paws were flexing against the rock.  
Mulder gave Jock a hard cold look which was returned in equal 
measure until Mulder surrendered the fight and gave Jock a deep 
nod of his head.  Jock yawned and began to stretch slowly and 
sensuously.  Mulder shuddered and turned resolutely away from 
Jock.


Realizing Sallie needed help, Scully mastered her hysteria and 
crawled over to examine her.  Warmed by Mulder's body, the 
shudders and the chills were almost gone and Scully was relieved 
to see a feisty glint in Sallie's eyes.


"An auld lass like maself be willin' ta do most anything ta be 
held by a handsome lad like yerself, dinna ya know?"


"For you Sallie, anytime, anywhere.  Thank you, but I hope you 
know that you really, really didn't need to go to all this 
trouble for a hug.  I would have been happy to hug you just for 
the cider, dinna ya know?"


Sallie laughed which set Scully off again and the two of them 
clung to each other laughing like hyenas.  Mulder grimaced then 
allowed a few chuckles to escape.  They made a fair sight, the 
three of them.  Not exactly FBI standard, any of them, but the 
FBI's poster boys hadn't just survived a fight with a demon 
either.  Gathering Scully and Sallie back into his embrace, 
Mulder stared over their heads to where Aristide hung silent in 
his web.


//Better you than me hanging there.  And I promise you this: if I 
have to I'll blow this mountain down around your ears to make 
sure you don't pull this stunt on anyone else.//


Aristide's wings rustled slightly and Mulder felt a despairing 
whisper reach out to him.  Mulder visualized a slamming door as 
he lowered his head to rest atop Scully's.  Aristide still 
retained his power, but his hold over Mulder was gone, leaving 
behind only the memories burned into his nightmares.


How long they sat there, Mulder could not have said, but finally 
Sallie seemed to collect herself and breaking free of Mulder's 
arms, stood up.  Scully groaned in protest, content for the 
moment to rest against Mulder's chest.


"Tha night be passin' fair fast.  Unless ya wish ta traipse 
through tha woods in yer altogether in broad daylight, lad, we 
must be goin'.  Of course yer altogether ain't particularly bad 
ta look at lad, so it's up ta ya."


Scully looked up to see Mulder blushing a deep magenta from the 
tips of his ears down to . . ..  Scully wrenched her eyes back up 
from where they were drifting, absently following the downward 
track of the blushes.  Mulder quickly turned around and bent 
over, his shoulders shaking.  For a moment Scully wondered if he 
was crying, then realized he was laughing.  Getting a firm grip 
on her giggles before they started up again, Scully started 
looking around for his clothing.  She dismissed the rags of his 
shirt and jeans as impossible to salvage.


"Uh, Mulder, I . . . uh . . . here are your boots.  The good news 
is you didn't lose your gun this time."


"Fine, give it here."  Mulder reached back and let Scully drop 
his belt with the holster and gun in his hand.  With a bit of 
maneuvering he had the holster arranged as strategically as 
possible.  Muttering a prayer that this improvisation would work, 
he stood up.  "Not great, but better than a fig leaf," he 
muttered plaintively.


Scully's lips twitched spasmodically as she forced herself not to 
laugh.  Mulder was still beet-red but he was staring at her, 
daring her to laugh at his predicament.  Scully tried to repress 
the urge to compose a list of the top ten uses for a gun and 
holster.  She was too grateful to have him alive to be 
embarrassed; she would walk the Washington Mall naked with him if 
that had been the price of his return.


"Ya look fine, lad.  Now coom, we must be goin'"


"Not one word, Scully, not one," Mulder said as he wrapped his 
dignity around him and walked towards the tunnel.  Jock bounded 
ahead of him and proudly led their little parade out of the 
tunnel.  Scully swore she could hear Mulder muttering under his 
breath about cats and wondered what Jock had done to set Mulder 
off.


The night sky was ablaze with stars as they exited the cave.  
Raindrops hanging from the trees looked like tiny diamonds.  Wet 
earth, damp wood and a thousand other smells of the upper world 
greeted them.  Mulder inhaled deeply, head flung back as he 
stared hungrily at a sky he had not expected to see again.  
Scully sat down wearily on a nearby rock and groggily considered 
whether it would make a nice bed.  She was exhausted and not at 
all sure she was up to retracing the trail she vaguely remembered 
back to Sallie's cabin.  She felt Mulder sit down on the ground 
beside the rock and lean his head back to talk to her while still 
staring at the stars.


"I know, I think I could sleep for a week.  I know I'm going to 
need at least that much before I can even begin to come up with a 
coherent report for Skinner."  Mulder paused and gave her a 
wicked grin.  "Do ya think he'd believe in demons, lass?" he 
queried in a fair imitation of Sallie's accent.


"Mulder, ask me that question when I've had some sleep.  Right 
now I'm so tired I'd believe in Santa Claus."


"You mean you don't?" Mulder asked in an outraged tone.  He 
ducked to avoid the slap Scully aimed at his head.  He knew they 
would have to discuss what happened in the cavern, or perhaps 
not, given how much Scully would be into denial by the time 
either one of them was back up to speed.  Despite Sallie's work 
on his chest, his body felt like it had been through a meat 
grinder.  Right now he was running on pure adrenalin.  If they 
didn't start for Sallie's cabin soon, he very probably would fall 
asleep on his feet and, knowing his luck, would probably fall 
down and break something.  He was tired of hurting and the idea 
of adding more hurt was not appealing.


The earth suddenly rolled under him in a series of gigantic waves 
as a thunderous rumble filled the air.  For the next few minutes 
the earth around them danced a jig.  Scully slid off the rock 
into Mulder's lap and they clung together for support as the 
earth went crazy.  Shielding Scully's head from falling limbs, 
Mulder looked around for Sallie.  There she was, standing 
straight and stern, watching the side of the mountain slide down 
to seal Aristide in his cavern.  Mud, broken trees and rocks 
piled up to bury all evidence of the existence of the cavern.  
Mulder imagined he could hear Aristide's pleading cries before 
the earth buckled up and closed over the cavern.  From his perch 
high above them in the trees, Jock gave an approving cry.


"Tis done.  He'll na be lurin' anymore poor souls ta their doom.  
We can go na, if ya be done wi' yer hugging?"  Sallie smiled as 
she turned towards home.  From the noises behind her, the two 
agents were hastily untangling themselves and following.  She 
would miss them, but she could at least give them hospitality 
until Cynan was ready to take them home.  Say about two days.  
Sallie smiled contentedly as she envisioned the tall, lanky man 
struggling along behind her wearing a kilt.  He could call it a 
blanket and no doubt would, but it would be a kilt of her own 
clan's tartan.  There would be time enough to sew him pants for 
the trip back to town.  God was good to an old woman in His own 
mysterious ways, she thought as she led them safely and surely 
back to her home.


************

Epilogue  

X-Files Office
Washington, D.C.
August 4


Fox Mulder sat at his desk, legs propped up on a stack of files 
resting precariously atop the wastebasket.  His computer screen 
blinked encouragingly at him, reminding him that his report 
remained largely unwritten even after an hour of concentration.  
No matter how he tried, his efforts to reduce the events at 
Helsgate to the ordinary mundane realm familiar to normal FBI 
agents came disastrously short.


In the ten days since his encounter with Aristide, Mulder had 
been unable to shake the certainty that he had collided with pure 
evil completely outside human experience.  He would carry the 
scars on his body and in his nightmares to remind him how close 
he came to damnation.


Mulder sighed in exasperation as he recalled Skinner's reaction 
to his initial report.  Displeased was a mild description; 
infuriated came much closer.  Skinner's subsequent lecture nearly 
peeled the paint off the office walls without ever descending 
into vulgarity.  Mulder had left the office seething.  Forbidden 
to report the truth, he rebelled against facilitating the lie 
Scully's media admirer was spreading.


In what even Mulder had to concede was a brilliantly creative 
article, Francis Macsen had recounted the story of Lafe Mileson, 
who in an insane binge of violence managed to terrorize the 
population of Helsgate and the surrounding farms.  Finally 
identified by a team of brilliant FBI agents headed by the astute 
and valiant Special Agent Dana Scully, Lafe was stalked and 
finally killed by the aforenamed Agent Scully, saving her 
partner's life in the process.


Mulder had barely concealed his amusement at the transformation 
of his reserved partner into a media heroine.  Francis had been a 
devoted follower from the moment of Scully's arrival in Helsgate 
and had greeted her return from the mountains with enthusiastic 
creativity.  It seemed that he and Scully had had an arrangement 
and he had come to collect.  Scully had welcomed the chance to 
talk with him and get a proper story out first.  To her utter 
dismay, Francis transformed her role into the major force 
responsible for bringing Lafe down.  All her denials were merely 
taken for modesty and only fueled the media hype.  Scully wasn't 
pleased, but had actually smiled and commented that she should 
know better than to fence with a master.


From what Francis told her, Lafe's influence had apparently 
spread into town and sucked up about half of the tabloid 
representatives into his scheme.  The local law plus all able-
bodied citizens were pressed into service to suppress the riot.  
Francis gave an eloquent description of a running battle that 
lasted for most of the night until just after midnight when the 
riot just seemed to collapse.  Mulder figured Aristide was merely 
making sure their little ceremony wasn't going to be interrupted.  
Apparently he had forgotten about Sallie altogether.


Mulder actually welcomed his demotion into obscurity as Scully's 
sidekick; the miasma of Aristide's possession still clung too 
heavily on his mind to allow him to deal diplomatically with the 
press.  As he literally threw her to the hounds, Scully gave him 
a look that promised payback.  Mulder was willing to risk her 
revenge; he was glad he was alive to take it.


Once Francis had his story, the rest of the pack closed in.  
Cornered, Scully fell back on the bare facts, carefully editing 
out all references to demons and mysterious old women with 
paranormal powers.  Mulder gave her high marks for creative and 
selective presentation of the truth that skirted the paranormal 
and severely edited the more unflattering portions relating to 
his own role.  The tabloids ran their lurid exposes and hinted at 
a cover-up, trying to use Mulder's known alien interest as bait, 
but Macsen's story had hit the national wires first and commanded 
center stage.  Mulder remembered with fondness the growls and 
complaints of the other reporters at being scooped by a 'hick cub 
reporter.'


Acting-Sheriff Sims, furious that their wild goose chase had 
struck gold, took their reports in stony silence.  Mulder kept 
his report vague concerning Sallie's role and noticed that C.J. 
also carefully avoided mentioning her pivotal role in the affair.  
Mulder indulged himself by relating the possible paranormal 
source of Lafe's delusions.  Since Sims already thought he was 
crazy, Mulder enjoyed a perverse sense of pleasure in shoving the 
truth in someone's face.


Increasingly uncomfortable in the media spotlight, Scully had 
become snappish and rebuffed all of Mulder's attempts to talk 
about their experiences in the cavern.  With a sense of resigned 
inevitability he watched her gradually retreat behind the 
barriers of scientific denial.  Hallucinogenic drugs seemed to be 
her favorite theory, though Mulder noticed her efforts to explain 
away what happened seemed forced and cumbersome.  Mulder gave her 
the distance she seemed to want.  When she was ready, she would 
talk, even if only to blithely explain away what he had seen and 
felt.


Now, confronted by the command to produce a rationally acceptable 
report, Mulder wished Scully would come rescue him and help him 
compose something Skinner would accept.  Her scientific denials 
were extremely useful in mollifying the brass, he gave her that.  
As if on cue, he heard the door open and saw Scully walk in 
shaking her head.


"Mulder, what in hell did you say to Skinner?"  Scully's tone 
bordered on irritation, but a half-smile twitched on her lips.


"The truth," Mulder replied with an exasperated shrug.


"Mulder . . .."


"I know, Scully.  What I saw happen didn't really happen," Mulder 
snapped. 


To his everlasting surprise and confusion, Scully laughed; a 
genuine heartfelt burst of laughter.  Mulder rapidly ran back 
over what he had said trying to figure out what was so funny.  
Scully sighed deeply and walked over to her desk and sat down, 
still chuckling and shaking her head.  Mulder was beginning to 
get irritated.


"Sorry, Scully, but it's not everyday I come face to face with a 
demon, die and come back to life so forgive me if I get a bit 
testy with someone who refuses to believe any of it happened."  
Mulder's voice had a bitter sarcastic bite to it.


"Mulder, haven't you learned by now, that Skinner really doesn't 
want to know about such things as demons and witches and things 
that go bump in the night?  Give him the bare facts, stripped 
down and plain and he'll be happy."  Scully smiled at her partner 
as if he were a terribly precocious five-year-old who had 
forgotten his nines-table.


"Scully, are you saying you *do* believe in demons and witches 
and things that go bump in the night?" Mulder asked in stunned 
disbelief.  The sudden left turn this incipient argument had 
taken left him confused and shaken.  This had to be a clone, a 
badly programmed one at that.  He wondered what they had done 
with his partner and what he was going to have to do to get her 
back.


"Mulder, I don't know what to believe.  It is certainly easier to 
believe that the hallucinogens the lab has managed to identify so 
far in that ointment severely affected your objective judgment 
and that the belladonna and vervain herbs I saw drying in 
Sallie's cabin could more than account for my own visions,"  
Scully's voice trailed off as if she realized she was nearing 
dangerous territory.  On the maps of her mind, here be dragons.


Mulder sat silently for a moment, realizing that they were both 
treading on uncertain ground; that a wrong word could wreck any 
chance either of them had to come to terms with what happened.


"Scully, do you believe in God?" Mulder asked softly, almost 
gently as he leaned back into the shadows.  His voice seemed to 
echo out of thin air.


Scully looked puzzled by the abrupt change of topic, wary as a 
deer hearing the approach of the hunter.  Since Helsgate, she had 
kept a wary eye on her partner.  Mulder had been elusive, almost 
inscrutable at times.


"What is so difficult about my question, Scully?  Do you believe 
in God?"  Mulder watched Scully with the relaxed tension of a cat 
waiting for an unwary mouse to scurry by.  If he had whiskers, 
they would have twitched.


"Yes, I do.  Why?"  Scully's answer was equally soft, a whisper 
barely loud enough to disturb the air.


"Then why do you have such a hard time accepting the existence of 
demons?  Nature, even science, thrives on duality.  Could not 
that mimic the very real duality between Heaven and Hell?"  
Mulder sat up and leaned forward, intent on pressing his 
argument.


"I have seen no evidence of a good and merciful God in my life, 
Scully, yet after seeing Aristide, feeling him inside my head, I 
cannot help but believe that if such evil exists, then an 
opposite and powerful good must also exist or else the universe 
is naught but chaos and science is a child whistling in the 
dark."


Scully sat quietly and thought about Mulder's passionate words.  
Faith and science were the two irreconcilable halves of her soul; 
the division that was at the core of her existence.  Science 
screamed that Aristide was an illusion and Mulder's death merely 
a horrible drug-induced nightmare and yet . . ..  Scully let her 
head fall into her hands as she tried to deal with the flood of 
memories, the raw aching feelings of rage, horror and despair 
that had haunted her nightmares since Helsgate.


"I can lie to Skinner; give him a proper report that makes 
everyone happy because it preserves the illusion that we are 
masters of our own fate, but I won't, I can't, lie to you.  
Scully, we have gone through too much together to retreat behind 
a comfortable lie."  Mulder let his voice drop back to a soft 
tone that still vibrated with the passion of his arguments.


"Mulder, it isn't that easy.  There are valid scientific 
explanations for what happened.  I can't just ignore them."


Mulder was moved by the fact that Scully was giving his arguments 
her entire attention and not trying to pass them off.  He knew 
they were rapidly approaching the dangerous core of her 
resistance.


"I know.  Once you asked me to take a leap of faith; to believe 
in the physical manifestation of faith.  We both saw the same 
evidence, but you believed while I saw only what I wanted to see,
a disturbed boy with self-inflicted wounds.  You believed then.  
You believed again in the cavern, enough to call me back.  Why 
can't you accept your belief?"


Scully looked at her hands then raised her eyes to gaze deeply 
into Mulder's eyes as if trying to gauge how far to lower her 
barriers.  With a slight sigh, she plunged into the morass of her 
own confusion.


"I don't want to believe, because if I did, I would have to 
believe you died and that Sallie healed you using a thorn from an 
old tree and that I was propositioned by a demon!  And I don't 
believe in demons!"  Scully sounded outraged by the very idea of 
demons in her ordered universe, much less that one would make a 
pass at her.


In spite of himself, Mulder's mouth twitched as he fought the 
urge to grin.  Scully scowled as she saw Mulder's mouth twitch.  
She tried to glare him back into a serious mood, but found her 
own sense of humor percolate up and out.  Here they were debating 
whether she believed in demons and all she could do was betray 
how outraged she was that the only genuine pass she'd had in 
months had come from a creature that probably existed only in her 
hallucinations.


A giggle slipped out before she could catch it and Mulder 
promptly lost his own battle.  Their shared laughter drove out 
the last vestige of anger either of them felt.  Catching his 
breath finally, Mulder walked over to Scully and held out a hand 
to help her rise.


"I can't argue with the most ingenious rationale for disbelief 
I've ever heard.  Scully, you believed when it was important to 
believe and I think I owe my life to your willingness to believe.  
If you want to turn to science to explain things now, I guess 
you've earned that right."  Mulder smiled to let Scully know that 
whatever she believed, he was right there beside her as always.


"Mulder, you are impossible.  In the same sentence you manage to 
compliment me and tell me I'm being a fool.  Come on, let's take 
an early lunch.  I'm going to need food before we tackle that 
report for Skinner."  Scully allowed Mulder to escort her through 
the door.  A few minutes later, as they left the building, she 
let a wicked smile light up her eyes.  Mulder wasn't going to 
have the last word this time.


"Besides, I promised Julia we'd meet her for lunch at Samuel's."


Scully never turned around, but she felt Mulder jerk to a stop 
and could hear him swallow convulsively before he caught up with 
her.  The hand resting against her back trembled slightly.  Lunch 
promised to be a very entertaining event.


THE END