Fic (White Collar): Lost Boy - Part Three
Title: Lost Boy
Author: cookielaura
Artist: cookielaura
Beta: sherylyn
Characters/Pairings: Neal, Peter, Mozzie, Diana, June, Hughes, Sara, El, mention of Ellen, brief past Neal/OC, slight Peter/Neal, very slight Neal/El
Word Count: 21,827 (Part 3: 5,224)
Rating: R
Contains: Mild sexual content; violence including supernatural horror; death of OCs; use of supernatural powers to influence others’ will; attempt to encourage suicide; some of the more minor characters are necessarily darker than in WC
Summary: Neal Caffrey has spent his adult life on the run, leaving a trail of unintentional bodies behind him. When he is discovered by the Fae, a race of supernatural beings, he learns of his true nature as an incubus, and is forced to participate in an ancient and potentially fatal Fae tradition to earn his freedom. Will his new friend Mozzie, and the mysterious Fae cop Peter Burke be able to help him?
Notes: A White Collar/Lost Girl fusion, based closely on the Lost Girl pilot episode; no knowledge of Lost Girl is necessary to read. No Lost Girl spoilers beyond the pilot. Written for WC Big Bang.
Disclaimer: I don’t own anything from White Collar or Lost Girl; I’m just playing. I have repurposed some of the original Lost Girl dialogue.
“Okay, we’re here,” came Peter’s voice, and Neal looked around blankly, his eyes once again covered with black cotton. He was rapidly becoming tired of being thrust into vans and driven to mysterious locations while being blindfolded. He had however sensed from the sounds that had reached him towards the end of the drive that they were back in the city, which was a relief at least. And he could tell from the fact that he had been led down a couple flights of narrow stairs and from the cold, dank air that now surrounded them that they were underground, but beyond that, he was clueless.
“I’m going to remove your blindfold, and you’re going to stand still and wait without trying anything, is that clear?” Peter asked.
Neal dredged up a grin - it was all he had left. “I can’t promise anything,” he said smartly, and felt a small surge of triumph when he heard an annoyed sigh from Peter.
“It would be in your best interests to behave, Caffrey,” the older man said, his voice low and right next to Neal’s ear, raising gooseflesh on Neal’s neck. He felt Peter’s fingers undoing the knot in the blindfold and then his sight was returned to him.
Not that there was much to see. He was in a small room with rough stone walls, a dirt floor and a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, casting a weak wash of light around the dismal little area.
He turned to look at Peter.
“Where are we?” Neal asked, trying to sound simply curious rather than frightened and desperate.
“It’s an anteroom off the main cellars,” Peter said, as if that explained everything. Presumably he meant the cellars of the Schinasi place he had mentioned to Elizabeth before they’d left The Ash’s house. Neal had been hoping for something a little more informative, such as an explanation as to what Schinasi was, and preferably some GPS coordinates.
“The main cellars are where you’ll have your test,” Peter continued. “But for now, The Morrigan has requested an audience with you. She’ll be here soon, and I would highly advise you not to irritate her.” Peter looked like he was about to say something else, but he must have changed his mind because he simply nodded at Neal and left through the room’s only door.
Suddenly alone for the first time in hours, Neal looked around for something to use to pick the cuffs that were still around his wrists, but the room was empty apart from a couple old wooden barrels and a whole lot of dust. He was about to sit down on one of the barrels and try to think his way out of this situation, when the door swung back open, and The Morrigan entered. She was flanked on either side by men in dark suits, who Neal had to assume were bodyguards or lackeys of some kind; one of them was carrying a pair of folding chairs, and he set them down in the center of the small room.
“Sit, sit,” The Morrigan said, waving Neal towards one of the chairs with hostess-like geniality. She dismissed her guards with a sharp nod of the head, and took a seat herself, crossing one slender leg over the other and giving Neal a glimpse of the soles of her Louboutins, as red as freshly-spilled blood.
The last thing Neal wanted to do was sit and chat with a “vampire of the arts,” as Elizabeth had called her, but he had little choice in the matter, so he sprawled as casually as he could on the plastic chair, kicking his feet out in front of him and doing his best to look as at home as possible.
“Nice to see you, Ms. Ellis,” he said smoothly. “What can I do for you?” He saw her eyes narrow dangerously for a moment as he used her real name, but she covered her displeasure swiftly, giving him a cool smile.
“I see you’ve done a little research on me, Mr. Caffrey” she said. “I’m flattered. I guess you’ve been using that smile to charm information out of the Light. Or their human doctor, perhaps? I’m surprised they’ve been so susceptible to your little con, but that’s the Light for you I suppose, always willing to believe the good in other Fae.”
“My little con?” Neal said.
“The amnesia routine. Never heard of the Fae, don’t know your own lineage, etcetera etcetera. What I can’t figure out is what you want - aside from to escape punishment for your improperly-disposed-of kill, but this seems like a lot of effort to go to for that.”
“It’s not a con,” Neal said. “And who says I want anything? Except to get out of here. The whole cellar-chic vibe doesn’t really work for me.”
The Morrigan rolled her eyes. “Fine, don’t tell me what you want. I assume you know why you’re here though?”
Neal fought to maintain an indifferent expression. “I’m told there’s a test. I’m hoping there won’t be math.”
The thin veneer of patience that The Morrigan had been maintaining seemed to vanish at that. “Listen here, Caffrey,” she said, leaning forward and fixing him with a glare. “This isn’t a joke. We have a two-party system that’s been operating for millennia, and membership is mandatory. Your current lack of alignment to the Light or the Dark is unacceptable, and you’re lucky you’re even being given the chance to take the test.”
“Lucky?” Neal waved a hand to indicate his surroundings. “I’m not feeling too lucky right now.”
“Well,” The Morrigan said, taking a deep breath and settling herself back in her seat, apparently having regained a little of her calm, “you’ll just have to take my word for it. And if you pass the trials, then you’ll have the chance to join one of our sides. Problem solved.”
Neal looked at her incredulously. “What makes you think I’d want to join any of you? I’ve been assaulted, kidnapped, handcuffed, blindfolded, interrogated, subjected to medical tests, and locked in a cellar. I’m not exactly begging to join forces with any of you after that.”
The Morrigan shrugged. “The Dark had nothing to do with your abduction. And there are benefits to belonging to a side. We’ll place you in a human occupation that’s advantageous to us, and we’ll help you to source food, and to dispose of the remains afterwards.”
Neal tried to contain his shudder at the reference to food. He could only assume she meant people. “I’m still gonna pass, thanks,’ he said. There was a part of him that was telling him he was crazy to turn down the opportunity to be with others of his kind, but the way they acted, the way they talked - he didn’t think he belonged with them any more than he belonged with humans.
There was silence for a moment as The Morrigan simply stared at him. Then she shook her head slowly. “I would have thought you’d be begging to join a side,” she said quietly, and for the first time Neal saw something soft in her expression. “If what you say is true, you’ve been alone for a long time. Without your own species. Without a family. It sounds…lonely.”
Neal swallowed, his throat suddenly tight and dry. The Morrigan almost looked like she understood what the last few years had been like for him. He glanced away, unable to hold her gaze with the sudden pricking of tears at the back of his eyes.
He heard The Morrigan sigh, and then the sound of the chair scraping across the floor as she got up.
“Think about it, Caffrey,” she said. “This isn’t an opportunity that will come around again.”
Neal heard the click of her heels across the floor, and the creak of the door, and then there was only silence, and her words echoing in his mind. Maybe she was right, maybe he should embrace these new people, these Fae. It wasn’t like there was anything - or anyone - tethering him to the human world.
----
Mozzie had been standing in the shadows on Riverside Drive for ten minutes. The darkness of the night was broken up by the streetlamps and the washes of light from the windows of the townhouses, but he was used to making himself inconspicuous, and he knew he hadn’t been seen.
It had taken three hours before he had gotten wind of a traffic camera sighting of the van that had been used to abduct Neal. Eventually his network of contacts had tracked it here, though he’d had to cash in more than a few favors. He hoped it would be worth it.
In the time that he’d been waiting opposite the towering house that the van had parked in front of, he had seen at least thirty people enter the residence. There had been all sorts, from middle-aged businesspeople in expensive clothes, to young adults in every style of dress from Goth to preppy. Obviously there was some sort of event occurring, with an intriguingly eclectic guest list. The one thing that all the visitors had in common, though, was that they had been met at the door and escorted in. Mozzie had the definite feeling that this was not the sort of party he would be welcome at without an invitation.
Of course, Neal might not be in trouble at all. He might be in there playing cards or having tea. This might all be some strange, elaborate hoax. And even if it wasn’t, even if Neal did need his help, there was a strong argument to be made for Mozzie walking away and never looking back. The people who had taken Neal had hurt him already; they were dangerous. Mozzie had seen first-hand what Neal could do, and if these people had even half of Neal’s powers, they were to be feared. Mozzie wasn’t in the habit of risking his life for the sake of acquaintances he had known for just a few minutes.
But Neal hadn’t walked away from him when he had needed help earlier in the day, and Neal had had far less reason to step in than Mozzie did. Neal had risked everything to help a stranger, and Mozzie knew that if he didn’t return the favor, he’d struggle to look at himself in the mirror.
Of course, if the people who were holding Neal ripped Mozzie’s head off, he wouldn’t need to worry about such things anyway.
Mozzie blew out a hard breath and shook himself. He had to move now, before he lost his nerve. He may not be able to enter through the front door, but a house of that size and that age had to have a few other places to gain access, and if anyone could get in, it was Mozzie.
----
“Caffrey.”
Neal looked up from where he sat, still in the folding chair provided by The Morrigan, whose words he had been weighing up for the last few minutes. Apparently his brief respite was over though, as Peter’s frame was silhouetted in the doorway.
“You okay?” the older man asked, a little roughly.
Neal couldn’t help but let out a surprised laugh. “Oh yeah, it’s been a real stellar evening since you abducted me,” he said, with as much sarcasm as he could muster. He started to maneuver himself up out of the chair, which was a somewhat difficult task given that his hands were still restrained behind him.
Peter sighed, and moved forward to take hold of Neal’s arm and help him up. “They’re ready for you now.”
“Yeah, I gathered it was showtime.” Neal’s pulse had picked up, and he could feel the nervous sweat start to gather at the top of his spine. He still had no idea what he was in for, and if he wasn’t mistaken, he was shaking very slightly. Maybe that was why Peter was still holding gently onto his arm, even though Neal was now standing. Neal had to admit, he was glad of the support, even if it came from one of his captors.
“You gonna give me some idea of what I’m in for here?” he asked, as Peter led him out of the room and started down a long passageway. When Peter had mentioned the trials to Elizabeth, Neal had gotten the distinct impression that Peter had not been on board with the idea, so he figured it was worth trying to get a little information out of him.
“Underfae,” Peter said shortly.
“Excuse me?”
“Underfae. They’re Fae who don’t fit into the human world, because of how they look or their powers. They live underground mostly. They’re very old, very dangerous, and the ones who sign up for the trials are usually seasoned warriors with a thirst for blood. You’ll face two of them, and you’ll battle to the death.”
Neal stopped walking, stunned. “We’ll what?”
Peter stopped too, and grabbed both of Neal’s arms, holding him steady as Neal swayed slightly with the sudden shock.
“Breathe,” Peter ordered.
Easier said than done, Neal thought, as if from a distance. But he managed to inhale, and the passageway swam back into focus.
“There’s nothing I can do to stop this,” Peter said quietly, looking him in the eye.
“Can I win?” Neal asked.
Peter pursed his lips. “Unlikely.”
Breathe, Neal told himself. Breathe. “Gee, thanks,” he managed to say.
“It’s not impossible,” Peter said. “They’ll underestimate you. Use that against them.”
Neal nodded. “Anything else?”
There was a pause as Peter glanced quickly up and down the passageway, then he pulled Neal closer to him. “Kiss me.”
Neal blinked. This guy had some very strange timing. “Seriously? Is this where you normally pick up guys? In cellars, just before they go to their deaths? Because I can tell you, it’s not very classy.”
Peter huffed impatiently. “You need strength. I have some to spare. Kiss me.”
“No, I can’t, it’ll kill -” Neal started to protest, but he didn’t get to finish his sentence. Peter leaned forward and crushed his lips against Neal’s, pressing so hard that at first it felt more like an attack than a kiss. Neal tried to pull away, knowing that this would be the death of Peter, but Peter was too strong for him.
For the first few seconds, all Neal could do was panic - he didn’t want to kill this man, and he definitely didn’t want to face the repercussions that would surely come from the other Fae if he murdered one of his captors. He struggled under Peter’s hold, knowing it was useless, knowing that he had never been able to stop once he began to feed, but trying anyway.
Then the energy began to flow, and Neal stilled, unable to focus on anything but the current of power that surged into him through Peter’s lips. It was like nothing he had ever experienced before. Suddenly, every time he had fed before paled into insignificance; if those times had been a lukewarm drink of water on a hot day, this was an ice-cold rush of taste and sensation, filling parts of him he wasn’t aware were empty, soothing aches he hadn’t realized were there. It was electric.
Without conscious thought, Neal pushed into Peter, deepening the kiss, backing Peter into the wall of the passageway and opening himself up to the hot wetness of Peter’s tongue. He wanted this feeling to last forever, and yet at the same time he felt he couldn’t take any more, that he would explode with the energy that was still pouring in.
And then the river of power was cut off, and Neal was stumbling, confused and disorientated, his feet tripping over each other until he caught himself against the opposite wall. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to slow his rapid breathing, to calm his heart that seemed to want to break out of his chest. This wasn’t how his feeds usually ended - this was a sharp, unexpected break instead of the gentle slowing and abating that normally signaled the finish.
Still, when he opened his eyes, he expected to see the dead body of his captor lying on the passageway floor. What he found instead was Peter holding himself up against the wall, panting for breath, looking a little wobbly but still very much alive. Neal stared in shock.
“You…stopped me,” he said, realizing what had happened. “Nobody’s stopped me before.”
Peter pulled in one long breath and drew himself up to his full height. “You’ve never fed from a Fae before,” he said, voice hoarse.
Neal shook his head in wonderment. “Is that what all Fae taste like? It was… incredible.”
Peter’s lips quirked up in a crooked grin. “Well, I like to think I bring something a little individual to the table.” He looked Neal up and down. “Feel stronger?”
Neal felt like he could take on the world. “Yes. Thank you.”
Peter just nodded, and reached for his arm again to lead him forward. “Come on, they’ll be wondering what’s keeping us.”
----
Mozzie wrinkled his nose in distaste as he looked down at himself. He was streaked with coal dust, unidentified grime and no doubt a considerable amount of germs. He wouldn’t be surprised if there were rat droppings mixed in with the filth. If he had known he would end up spending the evening climbing down unused coal shafts and wandering through cellar tunnels, he wouldn’t have bothered getting out of bed this morning.
He had been planning on finding his way up to the main house, but now that he was underground, he could hear noise coming from the same level. It was just a dull roar of sound right now, but at least it was something to go on. Mozzie took a deep breath of the stale air, made one final unsuccessful attempt at brushing the dirt off his hands and clothes, and set off in the general direction of the noise, hoping Neal was somewhere nearby.
----
Neal still felt as if he were vibrating with the after-effects of his kiss with Peter as they approached the end of the passageway and stopped in front of a heavy wooden door. Peter turned to him, his expression deadly serious.
“I’ll take off your cuffs after we enter. There will be a selection of weapons on your right. You may choose one. Choose wisely.”
Neal nodded slowly. “Are you gonna wish me luck?”
Peter looked at him for a moment, then raised his hand as if he was going to brush the hair away from Neal’s face. Then he dropped his hand and patted Neal on the shoulder instead. His touch was heavy, and it felt like a goodbye.
“Good luck,” he said, and opened the door.
The wall of sound hit Neal like a tidal wave. What looked like at least a hundred people were standing on a wooden balcony that wrapped around the cavernous underground room, cheering, clapping, shouting, stamping their feet and leaning over the rails. Eager to see the kill, Neal thought. They were looking down upon what Neal had to assume was the battleground, a large empty space containing only one man. He was bulky and muscled, carrying a long sword and wearing metal body armor that glinted in the light, making Neal feel very aware of the fact he was only in a pair of jeans and a shirt.
“Wasn’t expecting Thunderdome,” Neal muttered as Peter stepped behind him and released his hands from the cuffs.
“Weapons,” Peter reminded him in a low voice, and then stepped backwards, leaving Neal standing alone.
Neal forced his gaze away from the warrior in front of him and towards the array of weapons displayed on a tall rack to his right. Even the sight of them was enough to rattle him: rows of knives of different lengths with wickedly shaped blades, wooden staffs with vicious metal spikes on the ends, a crossbow and arrows, throwing stars, something that looked a little like a pickaxe, and a few items that Neal had never seen before. The only thing missing was a gun; Neal supposed that would have been too easy.
He quickly dismissed the weapons he didn’t recognize, as well as the throwing stars and crossbow - he’d never used either of them before, and he didn’t think now was the time to learn. Eventually his eyes rested on a sword that looked a little like the one that his opponent carried, but shorter and hopefully easier to handle. Neal had fenced a little, back when he was Danny and his adoptive parents were happy to pay for whatever extracurricular activity was the in thing at school. Sword-fighting couldn’t be that different.
As he reached for the weapon and tested the weight of it in his hand, the cheers and jeers around the arena increased in volume and ferocity, until they were suddenly silenced, as if someone had pulled the plug. Neal looked up to see The Ash, standing next to The Morrigan in the center of the furthest balcony, his hands out in a “stop” motion. All eyes were on him.
“Enough!” shouted The Ash. He looked down at Neal and Neal’s opponent, who stepped towards Neal, lowering himself into a fighting stance. The Ash nodded his approval, then raised his hands above his head. “To the death!”
----
Peter finished climbing the rickety wooden steps to the balcony and pushed through the crowd until he reached the front, not wanting to miss the first few seconds of Neal’s battle. He took his place next to The Ash, giving him a brief deferential nod as he did so. He was glad that The Ash’s attention was on the events unfolding beneath them, as Peter felt like the state of nervous arousal he had felt ever since he’d kissed Neal was painfully obvious. His limbs were shaky with adrenaline and he was weak from the loss of power, but his insides were buzzing and his skin felt like it was on fire. He had never had a kiss like it, and he was horribly aware that if Neal didn’t pass the trials, that kiss would haunt Peter forever.
His hands tightened around the rail in front of him as he watched Neal and his opponent circle each other, one wary and trying to hide his nerves, the other snarling and predatory. Peter didn’t recognize the opponent, and with all the other Fae surrounding him, he couldn’t isolate the man’s smell to determine what he was.
He didn’t have to wait long to find out, though. Neal’s opponent lunged forward, and though Neal backed up, for a moment they were less than a yard apart. And as the gap between them narrowed, the warrior flickered, like a hologram running out of electricity, and vanished.
Peter felt a growl rise in the back of his throat, borne of frustration and fear. Neal’s opponent was a Hagarius, more commonly known as a Dutchman. The species had gained the nickname because they had a habit of disappearing every time anyone got close to them. It was a curse for those among the Hagarians who would have liked to live in the human world as it could not be controlled, but it was a huge advantage in a fight. Someone who couldn’t be seen was very difficult to kill.
Peter saw the shock and confusion on Neal’s face and watched him whirl around, casting his eyes about wildly, then gasping as his shirt sleeve was sliced open by an invisible force and a slash of blood appeared across the exposed skin. Neal jerked away, swinging his sword in the direction that the attack had come from, but there was no contact. A second later, the Dutchman appeared a couple yards away, the tip of his sword dripping with Neal’s blood, a vicious smile on his face.
“It had to be a Dutchman?” Peter muttered to The Ash. The older man directed a surprised look at him, and Peter instantly regretted his question; it wouldn’t do to seem too concerned about Caffrey’s welfare.
“He was the first volunteer,” The Ash replied. “And an extremely enthusiastic one, at that.”
Peter tried to contain his grimace. Below, the fighters were circling again. Looking at the gash on Neal’s arm, Peter thought he could smell the sweet, coppery tang of Neal’s blood, but with so many other conflicting Fae scents around, it was surely wishful thinking to believe he could isolate one man’s smell.
As Peter continued to watch, a strange dance began to take place on the battleground. Neal would dart forward a little, then dart back, then dash a little closer, and then away again. It took a few moments for Peter to work out what he was doing, and then he realized: Neal was testing the Dutchman’s reaction to his presence, testing how close he could get without his opponent disappearing. Smart, Peter thought, and didn’t bother to wonder why he felt so proud.
Meanwhile, the Dutchman was doing his best to attack again, but Neal was prepared now, and despite several attempts by the Dutchman at lunging forward and getting near enough to vanish, Neal kept ducking and diving out of the way. By the time a few minutes of this same behavior had passed, it seemed they were at something of an impasse.
“I thought Hagarians got the job done quicker than this,” Peter heard The Morrigan murmur from the other side of The Ash. Peter had thought the same, to be honest; Neal was holding his own remarkably well for an inexperienced fighter. He was fast, agile and clever.
And then there was a shout from the crowd, loud and derisive, cutting above the bored whispers that had begun to circulate, and Peter saw Neal glance up in the direction it had come from. It was only a momentary distraction, but it was all the Dutchman needed to pounce, and Peter’s heart clenched. The Dutchman had circled behind Neal, and now he attacked from the back, with Neal’s attention still somewhere in the rafters.
Peter felt like the world had gone into slow motion; he wanted to close his eyes, but he couldn’t look away. He knew what would happen; by the time Neal turned around, the Dutchman would have disappeared, and then all that Neal would know would be the sword stabbing into his heart. Peter saw it all unfold in his mind’s eye as if in stop-motion.
But that wasn’t what happened.
The Dutchman closed in, flickered, and disappeared, and Peter knew he would be raising his sword to strike. But at the last second, without turning around, without giving any indication that he had heard the Dutchman approach at all, Neal darted to the left, out of the way of the sword’s trajectory, spun on his heel and swung his own sword in a swift arc into what looked like thin air. And then the sword hit its target, and sank into it, disappearing almost to the hilt.
There was a ripple in the atmosphere, and the empty air took form again, as the figure of the Dutchman rematerialized, Neal’s sword embedded deep within his stomach. For a moment he tilted on his feet, a stunned expression on his face, and then he fell, his eyes going dark and blank as he did so.
Peter looked on in shock, hardly breathing. Neal hadn’t been distracted at all. Neal had known exactly what he was doing. And yet now, as Peter watched him standing over the body on the ground, he saw his own surprise mirrored in Neal’s face. The kid might have planned this, but he looked like he hadn’t actually expected it to work.
Around him, the crowd had erupted into shouts and cheers, banging their hands on the rails and pounding their feet on the floors of the wooden balconies until they shook and groaned in protest. And still Neal stood stock still, watching the pool of blood around his opponent slowly widen.
“Silence!” The Ash shouted, and the crowd quieted. Neal looked up at the man’s voice, and as he did so, Peter caught his eye. Peter did his best to imbue his gaze with both congratulations, and a warning not to relax, but he feared that neither would come across, that Neal would see only one of his captors, passive and indifferent. After all, Peter may have given him a little extra strength, but he had also helped to put him in this position in the first place.
“One down,” announced The Ash, his voice echoing out across the room. “Let the second battle commence!”
The Ash’s words seemed to kick Neal into gear, and Peter watched him reach down, and with a pained expression on his face, pull his sword from the stomach of the Dutchman. Whilst Neal hoisted the sword back up into his grip, Peter caught a glimpse of movement from the corner of his eye. Approaching Neal from behind was a tall, cloaked figure, its hood obscuring its face. From beneath the dark fabric covering its arms, Peter could see a hint of long, clawed fingers.
He glanced at The Ash, who was watching impassively as the figure floated nearer Neal.
“A Ghovat?” Peter asked, trying to keep his tone neutral and dispassionate. The Ghovat clan kept to themselves, and it was rumored that no other Fae had ever seen their true faces. The other Fae called them Ghosts, and there was no shortage of discussion on what they looked like beneath their hoods - or whether there was anything there to see at all. Peter had encountered one only once before, at a set of trials many years ago.
The girl facing the Ghovat had not survived.
The Ash nodded. “Not so much fun for the crowd, but they are remarkably effective,” he said quietly, and Peter thought he heard a little sympathy in his voice. If even The Ash felt for Caffrey, then things were serious indeed.
As the cloaked Fae reached Neal, Neal turned and made to swing his sword. But the clawed fingers of the Ghovat jutted out at lightning speed and attached themselves to the sides of Neal’s head, sinking into his temples. Neal froze, then went limp, his body held up only by the Ghovat’s claws. The sword fell out of his hand and hit the ground with a clatter, and his eyes closed, his face slack as if with sleep.
Peter swallowed down a shout; his instinct was to call out to Neal, but if another Fae interfered with a trial, the trial was void. It was hard to stay silent though, when he knew that Neal was trapped alone inside his head, with nothing to guide him back. A Ghovat’s attack took place in the mind: the Ghosts rifled through the memories of their victims and twisted them to serve their own purposes. With the battle occurring in Neal’s brain, Peter and the rest of the crowd wouldn’t even be able to see how the fight was going - at least, not until one of the fighters won.
All Peter could do now was wait, and see who made it out alive.
Author: cookielaura
Artist: cookielaura
Beta: sherylyn
Characters/Pairings: Neal, Peter, Mozzie, Diana, June, Hughes, Sara, El, mention of Ellen, brief past Neal/OC, slight Peter/Neal, very slight Neal/El
Word Count: 21,827 (Part 3: 5,224)
Rating: R
Contains: Mild sexual content; violence including supernatural horror; death of OCs; use of supernatural powers to influence others’ will; attempt to encourage suicide; some of the more minor characters are necessarily darker than in WC
Summary: Neal Caffrey has spent his adult life on the run, leaving a trail of unintentional bodies behind him. When he is discovered by the Fae, a race of supernatural beings, he learns of his true nature as an incubus, and is forced to participate in an ancient and potentially fatal Fae tradition to earn his freedom. Will his new friend Mozzie, and the mysterious Fae cop Peter Burke be able to help him?
Notes: A White Collar/Lost Girl fusion, based closely on the Lost Girl pilot episode; no knowledge of Lost Girl is necessary to read. No Lost Girl spoilers beyond the pilot. Written for WC Big Bang.
Disclaimer: I don’t own anything from White Collar or Lost Girl; I’m just playing. I have repurposed some of the original Lost Girl dialogue.
“Okay, we’re here,” came Peter’s voice, and Neal looked around blankly, his eyes once again covered with black cotton. He was rapidly becoming tired of being thrust into vans and driven to mysterious locations while being blindfolded. He had however sensed from the sounds that had reached him towards the end of the drive that they were back in the city, which was a relief at least. And he could tell from the fact that he had been led down a couple flights of narrow stairs and from the cold, dank air that now surrounded them that they were underground, but beyond that, he was clueless.
“I’m going to remove your blindfold, and you’re going to stand still and wait without trying anything, is that clear?” Peter asked.
Neal dredged up a grin - it was all he had left. “I can’t promise anything,” he said smartly, and felt a small surge of triumph when he heard an annoyed sigh from Peter.
“It would be in your best interests to behave, Caffrey,” the older man said, his voice low and right next to Neal’s ear, raising gooseflesh on Neal’s neck. He felt Peter’s fingers undoing the knot in the blindfold and then his sight was returned to him.
Not that there was much to see. He was in a small room with rough stone walls, a dirt floor and a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, casting a weak wash of light around the dismal little area.
He turned to look at Peter.
“Where are we?” Neal asked, trying to sound simply curious rather than frightened and desperate.
“It’s an anteroom off the main cellars,” Peter said, as if that explained everything. Presumably he meant the cellars of the Schinasi place he had mentioned to Elizabeth before they’d left The Ash’s house. Neal had been hoping for something a little more informative, such as an explanation as to what Schinasi was, and preferably some GPS coordinates.
“The main cellars are where you’ll have your test,” Peter continued. “But for now, The Morrigan has requested an audience with you. She’ll be here soon, and I would highly advise you not to irritate her.” Peter looked like he was about to say something else, but he must have changed his mind because he simply nodded at Neal and left through the room’s only door.
Suddenly alone for the first time in hours, Neal looked around for something to use to pick the cuffs that were still around his wrists, but the room was empty apart from a couple old wooden barrels and a whole lot of dust. He was about to sit down on one of the barrels and try to think his way out of this situation, when the door swung back open, and The Morrigan entered. She was flanked on either side by men in dark suits, who Neal had to assume were bodyguards or lackeys of some kind; one of them was carrying a pair of folding chairs, and he set them down in the center of the small room.
“Sit, sit,” The Morrigan said, waving Neal towards one of the chairs with hostess-like geniality. She dismissed her guards with a sharp nod of the head, and took a seat herself, crossing one slender leg over the other and giving Neal a glimpse of the soles of her Louboutins, as red as freshly-spilled blood.
The last thing Neal wanted to do was sit and chat with a “vampire of the arts,” as Elizabeth had called her, but he had little choice in the matter, so he sprawled as casually as he could on the plastic chair, kicking his feet out in front of him and doing his best to look as at home as possible.
“Nice to see you, Ms. Ellis,” he said smoothly. “What can I do for you?” He saw her eyes narrow dangerously for a moment as he used her real name, but she covered her displeasure swiftly, giving him a cool smile.
“I see you’ve done a little research on me, Mr. Caffrey” she said. “I’m flattered. I guess you’ve been using that smile to charm information out of the Light. Or their human doctor, perhaps? I’m surprised they’ve been so susceptible to your little con, but that’s the Light for you I suppose, always willing to believe the good in other Fae.”
“My little con?” Neal said.
“The amnesia routine. Never heard of the Fae, don’t know your own lineage, etcetera etcetera. What I can’t figure out is what you want - aside from to escape punishment for your improperly-disposed-of kill, but this seems like a lot of effort to go to for that.”
“It’s not a con,” Neal said. “And who says I want anything? Except to get out of here. The whole cellar-chic vibe doesn’t really work for me.”
The Morrigan rolled her eyes. “Fine, don’t tell me what you want. I assume you know why you’re here though?”
Neal fought to maintain an indifferent expression. “I’m told there’s a test. I’m hoping there won’t be math.”
The thin veneer of patience that The Morrigan had been maintaining seemed to vanish at that. “Listen here, Caffrey,” she said, leaning forward and fixing him with a glare. “This isn’t a joke. We have a two-party system that’s been operating for millennia, and membership is mandatory. Your current lack of alignment to the Light or the Dark is unacceptable, and you’re lucky you’re even being given the chance to take the test.”
“Lucky?” Neal waved a hand to indicate his surroundings. “I’m not feeling too lucky right now.”
“Well,” The Morrigan said, taking a deep breath and settling herself back in her seat, apparently having regained a little of her calm, “you’ll just have to take my word for it. And if you pass the trials, then you’ll have the chance to join one of our sides. Problem solved.”
Neal looked at her incredulously. “What makes you think I’d want to join any of you? I’ve been assaulted, kidnapped, handcuffed, blindfolded, interrogated, subjected to medical tests, and locked in a cellar. I’m not exactly begging to join forces with any of you after that.”
The Morrigan shrugged. “The Dark had nothing to do with your abduction. And there are benefits to belonging to a side. We’ll place you in a human occupation that’s advantageous to us, and we’ll help you to source food, and to dispose of the remains afterwards.”
Neal tried to contain his shudder at the reference to food. He could only assume she meant people. “I’m still gonna pass, thanks,’ he said. There was a part of him that was telling him he was crazy to turn down the opportunity to be with others of his kind, but the way they acted, the way they talked - he didn’t think he belonged with them any more than he belonged with humans.
There was silence for a moment as The Morrigan simply stared at him. Then she shook her head slowly. “I would have thought you’d be begging to join a side,” she said quietly, and for the first time Neal saw something soft in her expression. “If what you say is true, you’ve been alone for a long time. Without your own species. Without a family. It sounds…lonely.”
Neal swallowed, his throat suddenly tight and dry. The Morrigan almost looked like she understood what the last few years had been like for him. He glanced away, unable to hold her gaze with the sudden pricking of tears at the back of his eyes.
He heard The Morrigan sigh, and then the sound of the chair scraping across the floor as she got up.
“Think about it, Caffrey,” she said. “This isn’t an opportunity that will come around again.”
Neal heard the click of her heels across the floor, and the creak of the door, and then there was only silence, and her words echoing in his mind. Maybe she was right, maybe he should embrace these new people, these Fae. It wasn’t like there was anything - or anyone - tethering him to the human world.
----
Mozzie had been standing in the shadows on Riverside Drive for ten minutes. The darkness of the night was broken up by the streetlamps and the washes of light from the windows of the townhouses, but he was used to making himself inconspicuous, and he knew he hadn’t been seen.
It had taken three hours before he had gotten wind of a traffic camera sighting of the van that had been used to abduct Neal. Eventually his network of contacts had tracked it here, though he’d had to cash in more than a few favors. He hoped it would be worth it.
In the time that he’d been waiting opposite the towering house that the van had parked in front of, he had seen at least thirty people enter the residence. There had been all sorts, from middle-aged businesspeople in expensive clothes, to young adults in every style of dress from Goth to preppy. Obviously there was some sort of event occurring, with an intriguingly eclectic guest list. The one thing that all the visitors had in common, though, was that they had been met at the door and escorted in. Mozzie had the definite feeling that this was not the sort of party he would be welcome at without an invitation.
Of course, Neal might not be in trouble at all. He might be in there playing cards or having tea. This might all be some strange, elaborate hoax. And even if it wasn’t, even if Neal did need his help, there was a strong argument to be made for Mozzie walking away and never looking back. The people who had taken Neal had hurt him already; they were dangerous. Mozzie had seen first-hand what Neal could do, and if these people had even half of Neal’s powers, they were to be feared. Mozzie wasn’t in the habit of risking his life for the sake of acquaintances he had known for just a few minutes.
But Neal hadn’t walked away from him when he had needed help earlier in the day, and Neal had had far less reason to step in than Mozzie did. Neal had risked everything to help a stranger, and Mozzie knew that if he didn’t return the favor, he’d struggle to look at himself in the mirror.
Of course, if the people who were holding Neal ripped Mozzie’s head off, he wouldn’t need to worry about such things anyway.
Mozzie blew out a hard breath and shook himself. He had to move now, before he lost his nerve. He may not be able to enter through the front door, but a house of that size and that age had to have a few other places to gain access, and if anyone could get in, it was Mozzie.
----
“Caffrey.”
Neal looked up from where he sat, still in the folding chair provided by The Morrigan, whose words he had been weighing up for the last few minutes. Apparently his brief respite was over though, as Peter’s frame was silhouetted in the doorway.
“You okay?” the older man asked, a little roughly.
Neal couldn’t help but let out a surprised laugh. “Oh yeah, it’s been a real stellar evening since you abducted me,” he said, with as much sarcasm as he could muster. He started to maneuver himself up out of the chair, which was a somewhat difficult task given that his hands were still restrained behind him.
Peter sighed, and moved forward to take hold of Neal’s arm and help him up. “They’re ready for you now.”
“Yeah, I gathered it was showtime.” Neal’s pulse had picked up, and he could feel the nervous sweat start to gather at the top of his spine. He still had no idea what he was in for, and if he wasn’t mistaken, he was shaking very slightly. Maybe that was why Peter was still holding gently onto his arm, even though Neal was now standing. Neal had to admit, he was glad of the support, even if it came from one of his captors.
“You gonna give me some idea of what I’m in for here?” he asked, as Peter led him out of the room and started down a long passageway. When Peter had mentioned the trials to Elizabeth, Neal had gotten the distinct impression that Peter had not been on board with the idea, so he figured it was worth trying to get a little information out of him.
“Underfae,” Peter said shortly.
“Excuse me?”
“Underfae. They’re Fae who don’t fit into the human world, because of how they look or their powers. They live underground mostly. They’re very old, very dangerous, and the ones who sign up for the trials are usually seasoned warriors with a thirst for blood. You’ll face two of them, and you’ll battle to the death.”
Neal stopped walking, stunned. “We’ll what?”
Peter stopped too, and grabbed both of Neal’s arms, holding him steady as Neal swayed slightly with the sudden shock.
“Breathe,” Peter ordered.
Easier said than done, Neal thought, as if from a distance. But he managed to inhale, and the passageway swam back into focus.
“There’s nothing I can do to stop this,” Peter said quietly, looking him in the eye.
“Can I win?” Neal asked.
Peter pursed his lips. “Unlikely.”
Breathe, Neal told himself. Breathe. “Gee, thanks,” he managed to say.
“It’s not impossible,” Peter said. “They’ll underestimate you. Use that against them.”
Neal nodded. “Anything else?”
There was a pause as Peter glanced quickly up and down the passageway, then he pulled Neal closer to him. “Kiss me.”
Neal blinked. This guy had some very strange timing. “Seriously? Is this where you normally pick up guys? In cellars, just before they go to their deaths? Because I can tell you, it’s not very classy.”
Peter huffed impatiently. “You need strength. I have some to spare. Kiss me.”
“No, I can’t, it’ll kill -” Neal started to protest, but he didn’t get to finish his sentence. Peter leaned forward and crushed his lips against Neal’s, pressing so hard that at first it felt more like an attack than a kiss. Neal tried to pull away, knowing that this would be the death of Peter, but Peter was too strong for him.
For the first few seconds, all Neal could do was panic - he didn’t want to kill this man, and he definitely didn’t want to face the repercussions that would surely come from the other Fae if he murdered one of his captors. He struggled under Peter’s hold, knowing it was useless, knowing that he had never been able to stop once he began to feed, but trying anyway.
Then the energy began to flow, and Neal stilled, unable to focus on anything but the current of power that surged into him through Peter’s lips. It was like nothing he had ever experienced before. Suddenly, every time he had fed before paled into insignificance; if those times had been a lukewarm drink of water on a hot day, this was an ice-cold rush of taste and sensation, filling parts of him he wasn’t aware were empty, soothing aches he hadn’t realized were there. It was electric.
Without conscious thought, Neal pushed into Peter, deepening the kiss, backing Peter into the wall of the passageway and opening himself up to the hot wetness of Peter’s tongue. He wanted this feeling to last forever, and yet at the same time he felt he couldn’t take any more, that he would explode with the energy that was still pouring in.
And then the river of power was cut off, and Neal was stumbling, confused and disorientated, his feet tripping over each other until he caught himself against the opposite wall. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to slow his rapid breathing, to calm his heart that seemed to want to break out of his chest. This wasn’t how his feeds usually ended - this was a sharp, unexpected break instead of the gentle slowing and abating that normally signaled the finish.
Still, when he opened his eyes, he expected to see the dead body of his captor lying on the passageway floor. What he found instead was Peter holding himself up against the wall, panting for breath, looking a little wobbly but still very much alive. Neal stared in shock.
“You…stopped me,” he said, realizing what had happened. “Nobody’s stopped me before.”
Peter pulled in one long breath and drew himself up to his full height. “You’ve never fed from a Fae before,” he said, voice hoarse.
Neal shook his head in wonderment. “Is that what all Fae taste like? It was… incredible.”
Peter’s lips quirked up in a crooked grin. “Well, I like to think I bring something a little individual to the table.” He looked Neal up and down. “Feel stronger?”
Neal felt like he could take on the world. “Yes. Thank you.”
Peter just nodded, and reached for his arm again to lead him forward. “Come on, they’ll be wondering what’s keeping us.”
----
Mozzie wrinkled his nose in distaste as he looked down at himself. He was streaked with coal dust, unidentified grime and no doubt a considerable amount of germs. He wouldn’t be surprised if there were rat droppings mixed in with the filth. If he had known he would end up spending the evening climbing down unused coal shafts and wandering through cellar tunnels, he wouldn’t have bothered getting out of bed this morning.
He had been planning on finding his way up to the main house, but now that he was underground, he could hear noise coming from the same level. It was just a dull roar of sound right now, but at least it was something to go on. Mozzie took a deep breath of the stale air, made one final unsuccessful attempt at brushing the dirt off his hands and clothes, and set off in the general direction of the noise, hoping Neal was somewhere nearby.
----
Neal still felt as if he were vibrating with the after-effects of his kiss with Peter as they approached the end of the passageway and stopped in front of a heavy wooden door. Peter turned to him, his expression deadly serious.
“I’ll take off your cuffs after we enter. There will be a selection of weapons on your right. You may choose one. Choose wisely.”
Neal nodded slowly. “Are you gonna wish me luck?”
Peter looked at him for a moment, then raised his hand as if he was going to brush the hair away from Neal’s face. Then he dropped his hand and patted Neal on the shoulder instead. His touch was heavy, and it felt like a goodbye.
“Good luck,” he said, and opened the door.
The wall of sound hit Neal like a tidal wave. What looked like at least a hundred people were standing on a wooden balcony that wrapped around the cavernous underground room, cheering, clapping, shouting, stamping their feet and leaning over the rails. Eager to see the kill, Neal thought. They were looking down upon what Neal had to assume was the battleground, a large empty space containing only one man. He was bulky and muscled, carrying a long sword and wearing metal body armor that glinted in the light, making Neal feel very aware of the fact he was only in a pair of jeans and a shirt.
“Wasn’t expecting Thunderdome,” Neal muttered as Peter stepped behind him and released his hands from the cuffs.
“Weapons,” Peter reminded him in a low voice, and then stepped backwards, leaving Neal standing alone.
Neal forced his gaze away from the warrior in front of him and towards the array of weapons displayed on a tall rack to his right. Even the sight of them was enough to rattle him: rows of knives of different lengths with wickedly shaped blades, wooden staffs with vicious metal spikes on the ends, a crossbow and arrows, throwing stars, something that looked a little like a pickaxe, and a few items that Neal had never seen before. The only thing missing was a gun; Neal supposed that would have been too easy.
He quickly dismissed the weapons he didn’t recognize, as well as the throwing stars and crossbow - he’d never used either of them before, and he didn’t think now was the time to learn. Eventually his eyes rested on a sword that looked a little like the one that his opponent carried, but shorter and hopefully easier to handle. Neal had fenced a little, back when he was Danny and his adoptive parents were happy to pay for whatever extracurricular activity was the in thing at school. Sword-fighting couldn’t be that different.
As he reached for the weapon and tested the weight of it in his hand, the cheers and jeers around the arena increased in volume and ferocity, until they were suddenly silenced, as if someone had pulled the plug. Neal looked up to see The Ash, standing next to The Morrigan in the center of the furthest balcony, his hands out in a “stop” motion. All eyes were on him.
“Enough!” shouted The Ash. He looked down at Neal and Neal’s opponent, who stepped towards Neal, lowering himself into a fighting stance. The Ash nodded his approval, then raised his hands above his head. “To the death!”
----
Peter finished climbing the rickety wooden steps to the balcony and pushed through the crowd until he reached the front, not wanting to miss the first few seconds of Neal’s battle. He took his place next to The Ash, giving him a brief deferential nod as he did so. He was glad that The Ash’s attention was on the events unfolding beneath them, as Peter felt like the state of nervous arousal he had felt ever since he’d kissed Neal was painfully obvious. His limbs were shaky with adrenaline and he was weak from the loss of power, but his insides were buzzing and his skin felt like it was on fire. He had never had a kiss like it, and he was horribly aware that if Neal didn’t pass the trials, that kiss would haunt Peter forever.
His hands tightened around the rail in front of him as he watched Neal and his opponent circle each other, one wary and trying to hide his nerves, the other snarling and predatory. Peter didn’t recognize the opponent, and with all the other Fae surrounding him, he couldn’t isolate the man’s smell to determine what he was.
He didn’t have to wait long to find out, though. Neal’s opponent lunged forward, and though Neal backed up, for a moment they were less than a yard apart. And as the gap between them narrowed, the warrior flickered, like a hologram running out of electricity, and vanished.
Peter felt a growl rise in the back of his throat, borne of frustration and fear. Neal’s opponent was a Hagarius, more commonly known as a Dutchman. The species had gained the nickname because they had a habit of disappearing every time anyone got close to them. It was a curse for those among the Hagarians who would have liked to live in the human world as it could not be controlled, but it was a huge advantage in a fight. Someone who couldn’t be seen was very difficult to kill.
Peter saw the shock and confusion on Neal’s face and watched him whirl around, casting his eyes about wildly, then gasping as his shirt sleeve was sliced open by an invisible force and a slash of blood appeared across the exposed skin. Neal jerked away, swinging his sword in the direction that the attack had come from, but there was no contact. A second later, the Dutchman appeared a couple yards away, the tip of his sword dripping with Neal’s blood, a vicious smile on his face.
“It had to be a Dutchman?” Peter muttered to The Ash. The older man directed a surprised look at him, and Peter instantly regretted his question; it wouldn’t do to seem too concerned about Caffrey’s welfare.
“He was the first volunteer,” The Ash replied. “And an extremely enthusiastic one, at that.”
Peter tried to contain his grimace. Below, the fighters were circling again. Looking at the gash on Neal’s arm, Peter thought he could smell the sweet, coppery tang of Neal’s blood, but with so many other conflicting Fae scents around, it was surely wishful thinking to believe he could isolate one man’s smell.
As Peter continued to watch, a strange dance began to take place on the battleground. Neal would dart forward a little, then dart back, then dash a little closer, and then away again. It took a few moments for Peter to work out what he was doing, and then he realized: Neal was testing the Dutchman’s reaction to his presence, testing how close he could get without his opponent disappearing. Smart, Peter thought, and didn’t bother to wonder why he felt so proud.
Meanwhile, the Dutchman was doing his best to attack again, but Neal was prepared now, and despite several attempts by the Dutchman at lunging forward and getting near enough to vanish, Neal kept ducking and diving out of the way. By the time a few minutes of this same behavior had passed, it seemed they were at something of an impasse.
“I thought Hagarians got the job done quicker than this,” Peter heard The Morrigan murmur from the other side of The Ash. Peter had thought the same, to be honest; Neal was holding his own remarkably well for an inexperienced fighter. He was fast, agile and clever.
And then there was a shout from the crowd, loud and derisive, cutting above the bored whispers that had begun to circulate, and Peter saw Neal glance up in the direction it had come from. It was only a momentary distraction, but it was all the Dutchman needed to pounce, and Peter’s heart clenched. The Dutchman had circled behind Neal, and now he attacked from the back, with Neal’s attention still somewhere in the rafters.
Peter felt like the world had gone into slow motion; he wanted to close his eyes, but he couldn’t look away. He knew what would happen; by the time Neal turned around, the Dutchman would have disappeared, and then all that Neal would know would be the sword stabbing into his heart. Peter saw it all unfold in his mind’s eye as if in stop-motion.
But that wasn’t what happened.
The Dutchman closed in, flickered, and disappeared, and Peter knew he would be raising his sword to strike. But at the last second, without turning around, without giving any indication that he had heard the Dutchman approach at all, Neal darted to the left, out of the way of the sword’s trajectory, spun on his heel and swung his own sword in a swift arc into what looked like thin air. And then the sword hit its target, and sank into it, disappearing almost to the hilt.
There was a ripple in the atmosphere, and the empty air took form again, as the figure of the Dutchman rematerialized, Neal’s sword embedded deep within his stomach. For a moment he tilted on his feet, a stunned expression on his face, and then he fell, his eyes going dark and blank as he did so.
Peter looked on in shock, hardly breathing. Neal hadn’t been distracted at all. Neal had known exactly what he was doing. And yet now, as Peter watched him standing over the body on the ground, he saw his own surprise mirrored in Neal’s face. The kid might have planned this, but he looked like he hadn’t actually expected it to work.
Around him, the crowd had erupted into shouts and cheers, banging their hands on the rails and pounding their feet on the floors of the wooden balconies until they shook and groaned in protest. And still Neal stood stock still, watching the pool of blood around his opponent slowly widen.
“Silence!” The Ash shouted, and the crowd quieted. Neal looked up at the man’s voice, and as he did so, Peter caught his eye. Peter did his best to imbue his gaze with both congratulations, and a warning not to relax, but he feared that neither would come across, that Neal would see only one of his captors, passive and indifferent. After all, Peter may have given him a little extra strength, but he had also helped to put him in this position in the first place.
“One down,” announced The Ash, his voice echoing out across the room. “Let the second battle commence!”
The Ash’s words seemed to kick Neal into gear, and Peter watched him reach down, and with a pained expression on his face, pull his sword from the stomach of the Dutchman. Whilst Neal hoisted the sword back up into his grip, Peter caught a glimpse of movement from the corner of his eye. Approaching Neal from behind was a tall, cloaked figure, its hood obscuring its face. From beneath the dark fabric covering its arms, Peter could see a hint of long, clawed fingers.
He glanced at The Ash, who was watching impassively as the figure floated nearer Neal.
“A Ghovat?” Peter asked, trying to keep his tone neutral and dispassionate. The Ghovat clan kept to themselves, and it was rumored that no other Fae had ever seen their true faces. The other Fae called them Ghosts, and there was no shortage of discussion on what they looked like beneath their hoods - or whether there was anything there to see at all. Peter had encountered one only once before, at a set of trials many years ago.
The girl facing the Ghovat had not survived.
The Ash nodded. “Not so much fun for the crowd, but they are remarkably effective,” he said quietly, and Peter thought he heard a little sympathy in his voice. If even The Ash felt for Caffrey, then things were serious indeed.
As the cloaked Fae reached Neal, Neal turned and made to swing his sword. But the clawed fingers of the Ghovat jutted out at lightning speed and attached themselves to the sides of Neal’s head, sinking into his temples. Neal froze, then went limp, his body held up only by the Ghovat’s claws. The sword fell out of his hand and hit the ground with a clatter, and his eyes closed, his face slack as if with sleep.
Peter swallowed down a shout; his instinct was to call out to Neal, but if another Fae interfered with a trial, the trial was void. It was hard to stay silent though, when he knew that Neal was trapped alone inside his head, with nothing to guide him back. A Ghovat’s attack took place in the mind: the Ghosts rifled through the memories of their victims and twisted them to serve their own purposes. With the battle occurring in Neal’s brain, Peter and the rest of the crowd wouldn’t even be able to see how the fight was going - at least, not until one of the fighters won.
All Peter could do now was wait, and see who made it out alive.