IN THE SHADOWS OF THE MOON -- PART 1
by - Joyce
April 1997

WARNING:  This story contains graphic violence and profanity -- proceed at own risk.

DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, and A.D. Skinner belong to CC and Fox Broadcasting.  No infringement is intended.  All other characters belong to me and may not be used without my express permission.

FEEDBACK: mab49@earthlink.net

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.

 

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, Sallie 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 she pounced 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 remembered 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's 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, 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 cata