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 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 is 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.

 

Helsgate, Tennessee
Early 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's 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.

 

Go to Part 2

 

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