Fic (White Collar): Lost Boy - Part Four/Final Part
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 4: 4,420)
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.
The change was instant and painless, as though Neal had simply blinked and the world around him had transformed. Just a moment ago he had been in the arena, the fallen body of his opponent on the ground beside him, the sword Neal had used to kill him feeling heavy in his hand, the air thick with the anticipation of the crowd and the smell of dust and sweat and blood. He had turned to face the attacker who had been gliding up almost silently behind him, and then in an instant the arena was gone, replaced by - a kitchen.
Neal squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them again, sure that this couldn’t be happening, but the kitchen was still there, and the dank cellar air had been replaced with the sweet smell of baking bread. The kitchen was warm, the radio was playing quietly, and there were two mugs of steaming cocoa sitting on the battered wooden table in front of him. Everything was homey, comforting, and extremely familiar.
Ellen, he thought, and his heart leapt. He had been fifteen the last time he had sat in this kitchen, chatting to his next-door neighbor, eating her banana bread and moaning about the curfew his parents were insisting on. Ellen had moved in beside them when Neal was only three - when he was Danny and he would instantly be best friends with anyone who gave him a cookie. Ellen had baked great cookies, and over the years he had spent almost as much time in her kitchen as he had his own.
“Hello?” he called, turning around and taking in all of the small kitchen. It was exactly as it had been ten years ago. “Ellen?”
“Oh, there you are,” came Ellen’s voice, and a few seconds later she appeared at the kitchen door, her greying hair swept back into a messy bun and her red checked apron firmly in place over her clothes. “I’ve been waiting for you,” she said, a smile breaking across her lined face, and she held out her arms to Neal.
There was a nagging feeling in the back of Neal’s head that this was wrong - very, very wrong - but the sight of Ellen after so many years of loneliness and isolation was enough to make him push the feeling away, and he couldn’t stop himself from stepping forward into her embrace, sinking into her warm arms and breathing in her familiar scent.
“Ellen… I’ve missed you,” he mumbled into the top of her head as he clung to her tightly. “I thought I’d never see you again.”
“Silly boy,” she said gently, pulling back a little and cupping Neal’s face with her hand. “You can’t get rid of me that easily.” She nodded toward the table. “Shall we sit?”
Neal sat down in the chair she pulled out for him and shook his head in bewilderment. “What’s going on, Ellen? Why am I here? How did I even get here?” He wrapped his hands around the cup of cocoa that Ellen pushed over to him, seeking something solid to hold on to in the midst of his confusion. “I was… somewhere else. I had to - I had to kill -” He broke off, the memory of the fight too fresh, the image of the wound he had inflicted onto his opponent still burned into his mind.
Ellen waved a hand as if Neal’s questions were inconsequential. “None of that matters now. I’m here to help you.” She patted his hand. “You need help, don’t you, dear?”
Neal remembered all the times he had come to Ellen in the past. When he was five, and he had skinned his knee climbing the tall tree that his parents had forbidden him to, and he had come crying to Ellen’s back door for a bandage, not wanting to get into trouble. When he was eight, and he didn’t have enough money to buy his mom a birthday present because he’d spent all his allowance on candy. When he was thirteen, and his parents had told him he was adopted, and he spent night after night telling Ellen how he felt lost and betrayed. And so many other times in between.
“You can help me?” he said, and even though he couldn’t imagine what it was she could do for him now, the hope and desperation in his voice was clear even to him.
“Yes,” Ellen replied. “If you’ll let me.”
----
Mozzie was lost. The labyrinth of cellar tunnels was dark and twisting, lit only occasionally by dim, flickering light bulbs, and every time the noise he was using to guide him started to get louder, it was only a moment before it faded away again. Mozzie was beginning to think he was heading in circles. He growled in frustration and aimed a disheartened kick at the stone walls. Why couldn’t Neal have been taken somewhere nice and simple, like a one-room warehouse?
Mozzie shut his eyes and tried to focus again on the sound, but now it seemed to have disappeared altogether. “Dammit, Neal,” he muttered. “Where are you?”
“Young man?” came a voice, and Mozzie startled, his eyes flying open. A few yards in front of him was a woman, well dressed and looking out of place in the dingy tunnel. She was seemingly in her sixties, with a sharp, assessing gaze, but her smile was unexpectedly welcoming.
Mozzie just stared. He had no idea how to explain his presence here.
“Perhaps you’d like to follow me?” she said, as though this were a perfectly normal suggestion, and the two of them were not strangers meeting in an underground passageway.
Mozzie raised an eyebrow. He suspected that if she were to lead him anywhere, it would be straight to the people who had captured Neal, and he did not think that would end well for him. He was hoping for a stealth rescue, not a full-on confrontation.
“I’m fine, thank you, ma’am,” he lied.
“Are you here to help Mr. Caffrey?” the woman asked.
Mozzie didn’t reply.
“My name is June. I… share… your concern,” said the woman. “Please. Follow me.”
Mozzie studied her closely. He had many years of experience in judging when people were lying, and she didn’t seem to be trying to deceive him. And what other choice did he have? He couldn’t wander aimlessly around down here all night.
“Nice to meet you, June,” he said at last. “My name is Dante Haversham.”
----
“How?” Neal asked, and he let go of his cocoa mug to reach across and grab Ellen’s hand. “How can you help? Can you -” he paused, knowing it was too much to ask, but all of this was so strange, so magical, that he had to try. Maybe there was a way. “Can you bring back all the people I’ve killed?”
Ellen’s eyes were sad as she carefully removed Neal’s hand from hers and placed it back around the mug. “No, dear,” she said, and Neal’s heart sank. “But I can end your suffering. I can take away your guilt.” She raised both hands in the air and made a swift gesture that seemed to change their surroundings. While the chairs, the table and the cocoa mugs remained, the kitchen around them vanished, replaced by a graveyard. The sun shone down brightly even though Neal knew that when he had left the cellar it had been night, and as Neal looked around, he could see that it looked much like the graveyard of the church in the town where he had grown up.
“What’s happening?” he asked.
Ellen just indicated a grave to their left. The headstone was made from marble, and the inscription read: “Lacey Harrington. Beloved daughter, sister and friend.”
Neal’s breath caught and suddenly the grief and the horror was as sharp as it had been that night, when Lacey’s body had lain beneath him, cold and empty.
“She had only just turned seventeen,” Ellen said quietly.
“Why are you showing me this?” Neal asked, his voice rough with the tears he was holding back. He knew very well how old Lacey had been, knew exactly what he had taken from her.
“These are your dead,” Ellen said, and as she spoke the gravestones nearest to them seemed to move closer, encircling the table, encroaching upon them. The names jumped out at Neal - many he had known, a few he had not. There were so many, and he was responsible for all of them.
“No,” said Neal, panic rising in his throat. “I don’t want to see this. Ellen, make it stop.”
“This is all you’ve been doing, for ten years,” Ellen told him, her voice still steady and quiet, but deeply sad. “Killing and running. Aren’t you tired yet?”
“Yes,” Neal whispered. “I’m so tired.”
“Isn’t it time you stopped? How many more will have to die so that you can live?” Ellen shook her head at him, and he saw censure in her eyes. She was ashamed of him.
“No… it’s not like that anymore,” Neal protested, remembering what Dr. Mitchell had said. “I can learn how to fight it. I won’t have to hurt anyone.”
Ellen gave him the same smile he remembered from when he was small, when he had said something that his childish mind had thought to be true but that all adults knew was not. It was a smile he had seen on Ellen’s face many times, and to see it now cut him deep.
“You don’t really believe that, do you?” she asked.
Neal tried to swallow but found he couldn’t. Had he been stupid, blindly accepting what the doctor had said? Was it just wishful thinking to believe that he could find a way to control his feeding after all these years?
“You’ll never be able to control it,” Ellen said, as though she could read his mind. “Child… you’re an abomination.”
----
Mozzie followed June left, right, and then left again, all the while doing his best to get his bearings and remember the route in case he needed to make a quick exit - hopefully while accompanied by Neal.
“We’re here,” June said, stopping in front of a large wooden door. Apparently Mozzie had been closer to his destination than he had realized. From behind the door, he could hear the low hum of what sounded like a hushed crowd. He had no idea what he was walking into, and the taciturn woman next to him wasn’t offering any explanations.
“Wait,” Mozzie said as she reached for the door handle. “If you want to help Neal, why aren’t you doing it yourself? Why do you need me?”
June shook her head. “There’s nothing I can do. My… kind… can’t interfere with proceedings. But there are no rules against you interfering.”
Mozzie frowned, unsure what she meant by her “kind,” but he had more important things to do. He nodded, and she reached out to push the door open for him. Then she stepped back behind Mozzie, and without saying goodbye, she seemed to melt away into the semi-darkness.
Mozzie sucked in a breath and headed through the door. He found himself at the edge of a large, vaulted room, encircled by wooden balconies which were filled with spectators. The crowd was pushing forward eagerly against the rails, straining to get the best view of what was happening beneath them, on Mozzie’s level.
And what was happening was horrifying.
Neal stood in the center of the room, his shirt ripped and an angry gouge across his arm, seeping blood. Beside him on the ground lay what looked like a dead body and a bloodied sword, and in front of him was a man - or something like it - dressed in a long, hooded cloak. The cloaked figure’s hands, which seemed to be made up almost entirely of fingernail, were clamped to the sides of Neal’s head, protruding into his temples. Neal wasn’t even fighting it, wasn’t struggling at all; he was simply hanging limply from the creature’s hold, his face pale, blank and empty.
For a long moment, Mozzie couldn’t even be sure if Neal was still breathing. Then something flickered in Neal’s face - something that looked like pain - and Mozzie felt a quick surge of relief. Neal was still alive, but Mozzie had no idea how long that would last. Looking at the scene in front of him, his guess was: not long.
----
“An abomination,” Neal repeated, and it wasn’t a question. He knew it was the truth; it was the word that had always circled around his mind in his darkest hours, though he’d never said it out loud before. It was exactly what he was, though, and if Ellen - Ellen, who had loved him as though he’d been her own - thought it too, then there was no fighting it. He was a monster.
“It’s time to do the right thing,” Ellen said gently.
“I don’t know what that is,” Neal replied. Looking at the gravestones surrounding him was making him feel faint. He knew, of course, how many bodies there had been. He had never lost count. But to see them now, all his victims’ names engraved in stone… How could there be any way to make this right?
“You need to leave this world,” Ellen said. “It would be better off without you. You know that. You’ve thought that before.”
Neal went cold. He had thought it before; he had tried to bring himself to do it, but never succeeded. But to do it now, when there was a chance that he could learn to survive without killing…
“I…” he started, helplessly.
“All you need to do is drink,” Ellen said. She nodded down at his cocoa, so far untouched. “A few sips are all it will take. Why take the risk that you’ll kill again?”
Neal wanted to protest, to say that he wouldn’t, but he could not be sure of that. If the doctor couldn’t help him, if he was destined to spend the rest of his life picking off one human after another to ensure his own survival… then maybe Ellen was right.
“I don’t know,” he said, struggling to come to terms with the idea.
“It will be quick,” Ellen said. “Don’t worry, dear; no one will miss you.”
Neal swallowed, and looked down at the cocoa mug in his hands. It looked sweet, and simple, and easy. But he couldn’t think clearly enough to make up his mind; there was something trying to intrude on his thoughts, like an itch in the back of his brain. As if he knew a phone were ringing but he couldn’t quite hear it. He frowned, and glanced away from the cocoa, trying to focus.
“Come on now,” said Ellen, and her voice was suddenly brisk and commanding, not the sweet and careful tones she had spoken in until now. He looked at her in surprise.
“I’m thinking,” he said. And then the itch increased, and he heard something.
Neal!
“What was that?” he asked, twisting in his chair, trying to find the source of the sound. It had been faint, but he was almost certain it had been there.
Ellen’s face tightened as he looked back at her, her jaw stiffening. “It was nothing. What are you waiting for? Drink!”
Neal looked at her closely. “Ellen?” Somehow she looked different, not like the Ellen he knew and loved. Her eyes were narrowed and there was a harshness to her that he had never seen before.
Neal! Wake up!
This time he was sure he had heard his name. He stood up, leaving the cocoa on the table, and turned, squinting into the distance.
“Drink!” shouted Ellen, slamming her hands down on the table, and when he looked down at her now, her face was twisted alarmingly. And for the first time, he realized that his Ellen would never ask him to kill himself. This had never been his Ellen. It was all a trick.
He’s killing you! Neal! Wake up!
“Drink!” the thing wearing Ellen’s face screamed, but Neal picked up the cocoa mug and threw it to the floor, the china smashing on the hard ground and sending shards flying.
“Get out of my head,” he ordered, his voice shaking. It didn’t work. Ellen got up slowly and advanced towards him, and with every step she seemed to grow taller and more threatening. Neal shrank back.
Neal! Fight it!
The voice was louder now, and Neal recognized it. It was Mozzie. He had no idea how Mozzie had reached him, either here or back in the cellar, but it was living proof that at least one person out there would miss him. He took that thought and focused on it as he gathered every scrap of strength he could find - all of his own, and all of Peter’s borrowed energy - and then he drew himself up as tall as he could.
“Get. Out. Of. My. HEAD!” he shouted, and the world tilted sickeningly. He shut his eyes against the sensation, and then he felt the air change. It was no longer warm; there was no longer sunlight shining through his eyelids. It was cold, and dim, and there was the noise of a crowd cheering.
When he opened his eyes, the cloaked figure in front of him was on fire. Its claw-like hands withdrew from Neal’s head, leaving behind a stabbing pain in Neal’s temples, and the figure emitted an angry screech as it curled in on itself. In a few seconds, it was a pile of ash.
Neal barely had time to take it in before he heard Mozzie’s voice again, this time calling for help. He turned quickly and saw Mozzie being set upon by what looked like two of The Morrigan’s guards who were moving in quickly from the right and did not look pleased. Neal reached down instinctively for the sword which was at his feet, and brandished it.
“Leave him,” he shouted, and was surprised at the strength of his own voice. “He’s with me.”
There was a moment of silence where the guards turned to stare at Neal, and then they glanced up towards the balconies. They must have received some sort of signal, because they gave reluctant nods and backed away slowly, leaving Mozzie standing alone.
“Neal Caffrey,” came the booming voice of The Ash, and Neal looked up to see The Ash and The Morrigan watching him from their vantage point. The Ash looked surprised, and, Neal thought, a little impressed. “You have passed the test,” The Ash announced. “It has been witnessed.” He gave Neal a benevolent smile. “Young man, you may name your side.”
A roar rose from the crowd; chants of “Light” and “Dark” started up immediately. Neal let his gaze travel around the balconies that circled the room. They were filled with Fae - no doubt more different species than he could imagine, and as far as he could tell, they all wanted him on their side. He thought of what The Morrigan had said - that he could have a family, that he didn’t need to be lonely anymore. And he thought of the ten years he had spent running, hiding, hoping that one day he would find someone like him.
But this wasn’t what he had imagined. These people - these Fae - had forced him to fight to the death. They had made him face someone who had invaded his mind and violated his most treasured memories. And the crowd had loved it. Maybe there were some out there who were different, who had not attended the test, or who opposed it - maybe he had even met one of the latter in Peter. But nevertheless, this was the way their society worked.
He looked over at Mozzie, standing and waiting for him to make his choice, and he knew what he had to do.
He looked The Ash in the eye. “Neither,” he said. “I choose humans.”
He only had a moment to take in the shock on The Ash’s face, the sneer of distaste on The Morrigan’s, and the slight smile on Peter’s, before the pain in his head sharpened, and Neal finally registered the extent of his injuries. He fell to his knees, and the last thing he saw before he lost consciousness was Mozzie, bending down to help him.
----
Peter was doing his best to remain unobtrusive, while eavesdropping on the conversation occurring next to him. He was standing a little way from The Ash and The Morrigan, in the drawing room of Schinasi. The Morrigan’s guards were stationed by the door, and Peter knew that he was here to provide security for The Ash rather than to join in the discussion or offer advice, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t listen in.
“What does that boy think he’s doing?” The Ash asked, more to himself than to The Morrigan.
“Who knows?” she replied. “Can we kill him now? He passes the trials without any training, he refuses to choose a side - I don’t know who he is, but it doesn’t take a genius to work out that he’s trouble.”
The Ash gave a slow nod. “The situation is certainly…concerning.”
There was a knock at the door, and it opened immediately after, revealing June. She was carrying a tray of drinks, which she placed down on the top of one of the cabinets. The Ash and The Morrigan both directed nods of thanks in her direction, but she did not leave.
“May I offer an opinion?” she said, in a tone that implied it was not a question.
“You have no standing here,” The Ash said sternly, but after a moment he sighed and signaled for her to speak. Peter was not surprised; while June did not have an official place in the governing body of the Fae, she was well respected, and feared, though Peter knew that if The Ash and The Morrigan knew the truth about the true extent of June’s power, as he did, they would fear her even more.
“You are discussing the fate of Mr. Caffrey?” she confirmed.
“We’re discussing his imminent death,” The Morrigan said.
“Not necessarily,” The Ash corrected her. “But yes, Ms. Ellington, we are discussing the boy.”
“Do you perhaps think,” said June, “that it would be wiser to learn a little more about him before killing him? He has been hidden from us for a reason. It would be prudent to discover what that is.”
“And in the meantime he remains unaligned, a threat to our way of life?” The Morrigan asked, eyebrow raised.
June’s lips thinned. “I’m not saying there won’t be a time when it’s necessary to kill him. I’m saying: now is not that time.” She turned and began to leave, but glanced back as she reached the door. “I do hope you take my suggestion,” she said, then disappeared into the corridor.
Peter watched The Ash and The Morrigan exchange glances.
“She makes a good point,” said The Ash.
The Morrigan huffed impatiently. “Fine. But I intend to find out exactly what Caffrey’s hiding, and I intend to do it soon.” She swept out of the room, followed closely by her guards, leaving Peter alone with The Ash. Peter couldn’t stop the wave of relief that coursed through him: Neal was safe, for now.
The Ash ran a hand wearily down his face and turned to Peter. “Escort Mr. Caffrey and his friend back to his home, once Dr. Mitchell has finished tending to him. And make sure he doesn’t leave town. I want to keep an eye on him.”
“Yes, sir,” Peter said. He wanted to keep an eye on Neal himself.
----
Neal’s third journey in the van was considerably more comfortable than his previous two, partly due to the drugs that Elizabeth had administered, and partly due to the fact that he was no longer cuffed or blindfolded. It didn’t hurt to have Mozzie sitting beside him, either.
Peter pulled up outside the apartment building Neal had been living in and got out to open the back doors of the van. Neal climbed out into the pale early morning light, closely followed by Mozzie.
“I feel like I’ve been paroled,” he said to Peter.
Peter shrugged, half-smiling. “Better be on your best behavior then. Speaking of, The Ash wants you to stay in town.”
Neal raised his eyebrows. “And he expects me to obey? In case he hasn’t noticed, I’m not so good at obedience.”
“Learn,” Peter said drily. “The Fae will be watching you now. And you’re already on their bad side.” He paused, then added: “If you need me, you can find me at the 89th division.”
“What makes you think I’ll need you?” Neal asked.
“Just a hunch.” Peter got back in the van, but before he shut the door, he looked back. “And Neal? You did well.”
Neal watched the van disappear down the street, doing his best to ignore the warm glow of pride that had ignited inside him at Peter’s words.
“What now?” Mozzie asked, jolting him out of his reverie.
Neal put his hands in his pockets and looked up at the apartment building. “I think we go home, and we figure the rest out tomorrow.”
“We, huh?” Mozzie said, grinning smugly.
Neal grinned back. “Well, you did save my life. And you were pretty insistent that we’d make a good team.”
“We will,” Mozzie said firmly. He gave Neal’s building a look of distaste. “You’re really going back there?”
Neal sighed. “I suppose you think I should con my way into a luxury hotel suite?”
“Well, ideally, yes, but I get that you want to stay under the radar,” Mozzie replied. “Still, you can’t be an incredibly powerful incubus and live in a dump like this. Come live with me. Percy won’t mind.”
“Who is Percy?” Neal asked, wondering if he was going to regret it.
“My pet rat.”
“Of course he is.”
Mozzie rolled his eyes. “You’ve spent the last twenty-four hours with vampires, werewolves, and some creepy clawed thing that tried to burrow into your head. A rat should be a welcome relief.”
Neal couldn’t argue with that. And the idea of not having to live alone anymore, the thought of having a home that could be shared with someone who knew his secrets, was impossible to turn down.
“Okay,” he said. “Lead on.”
~THE END~
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 4: 4,420)
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.
The change was instant and painless, as though Neal had simply blinked and the world around him had transformed. Just a moment ago he had been in the arena, the fallen body of his opponent on the ground beside him, the sword Neal had used to kill him feeling heavy in his hand, the air thick with the anticipation of the crowd and the smell of dust and sweat and blood. He had turned to face the attacker who had been gliding up almost silently behind him, and then in an instant the arena was gone, replaced by - a kitchen.
Neal squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them again, sure that this couldn’t be happening, but the kitchen was still there, and the dank cellar air had been replaced with the sweet smell of baking bread. The kitchen was warm, the radio was playing quietly, and there were two mugs of steaming cocoa sitting on the battered wooden table in front of him. Everything was homey, comforting, and extremely familiar.
Ellen, he thought, and his heart leapt. He had been fifteen the last time he had sat in this kitchen, chatting to his next-door neighbor, eating her banana bread and moaning about the curfew his parents were insisting on. Ellen had moved in beside them when Neal was only three - when he was Danny and he would instantly be best friends with anyone who gave him a cookie. Ellen had baked great cookies, and over the years he had spent almost as much time in her kitchen as he had his own.
“Hello?” he called, turning around and taking in all of the small kitchen. It was exactly as it had been ten years ago. “Ellen?”
“Oh, there you are,” came Ellen’s voice, and a few seconds later she appeared at the kitchen door, her greying hair swept back into a messy bun and her red checked apron firmly in place over her clothes. “I’ve been waiting for you,” she said, a smile breaking across her lined face, and she held out her arms to Neal.
There was a nagging feeling in the back of Neal’s head that this was wrong - very, very wrong - but the sight of Ellen after so many years of loneliness and isolation was enough to make him push the feeling away, and he couldn’t stop himself from stepping forward into her embrace, sinking into her warm arms and breathing in her familiar scent.
“Ellen… I’ve missed you,” he mumbled into the top of her head as he clung to her tightly. “I thought I’d never see you again.”
“Silly boy,” she said gently, pulling back a little and cupping Neal’s face with her hand. “You can’t get rid of me that easily.” She nodded toward the table. “Shall we sit?”
Neal sat down in the chair she pulled out for him and shook his head in bewilderment. “What’s going on, Ellen? Why am I here? How did I even get here?” He wrapped his hands around the cup of cocoa that Ellen pushed over to him, seeking something solid to hold on to in the midst of his confusion. “I was… somewhere else. I had to - I had to kill -” He broke off, the memory of the fight too fresh, the image of the wound he had inflicted onto his opponent still burned into his mind.
Ellen waved a hand as if Neal’s questions were inconsequential. “None of that matters now. I’m here to help you.” She patted his hand. “You need help, don’t you, dear?”
Neal remembered all the times he had come to Ellen in the past. When he was five, and he had skinned his knee climbing the tall tree that his parents had forbidden him to, and he had come crying to Ellen’s back door for a bandage, not wanting to get into trouble. When he was eight, and he didn’t have enough money to buy his mom a birthday present because he’d spent all his allowance on candy. When he was thirteen, and his parents had told him he was adopted, and he spent night after night telling Ellen how he felt lost and betrayed. And so many other times in between.
“You can help me?” he said, and even though he couldn’t imagine what it was she could do for him now, the hope and desperation in his voice was clear even to him.
“Yes,” Ellen replied. “If you’ll let me.”
----
Mozzie was lost. The labyrinth of cellar tunnels was dark and twisting, lit only occasionally by dim, flickering light bulbs, and every time the noise he was using to guide him started to get louder, it was only a moment before it faded away again. Mozzie was beginning to think he was heading in circles. He growled in frustration and aimed a disheartened kick at the stone walls. Why couldn’t Neal have been taken somewhere nice and simple, like a one-room warehouse?
Mozzie shut his eyes and tried to focus again on the sound, but now it seemed to have disappeared altogether. “Dammit, Neal,” he muttered. “Where are you?”
“Young man?” came a voice, and Mozzie startled, his eyes flying open. A few yards in front of him was a woman, well dressed and looking out of place in the dingy tunnel. She was seemingly in her sixties, with a sharp, assessing gaze, but her smile was unexpectedly welcoming.
Mozzie just stared. He had no idea how to explain his presence here.
“Perhaps you’d like to follow me?” she said, as though this were a perfectly normal suggestion, and the two of them were not strangers meeting in an underground passageway.
Mozzie raised an eyebrow. He suspected that if she were to lead him anywhere, it would be straight to the people who had captured Neal, and he did not think that would end well for him. He was hoping for a stealth rescue, not a full-on confrontation.
“I’m fine, thank you, ma’am,” he lied.
“Are you here to help Mr. Caffrey?” the woman asked.
Mozzie didn’t reply.
“My name is June. I… share… your concern,” said the woman. “Please. Follow me.”
Mozzie studied her closely. He had many years of experience in judging when people were lying, and she didn’t seem to be trying to deceive him. And what other choice did he have? He couldn’t wander aimlessly around down here all night.
“Nice to meet you, June,” he said at last. “My name is Dante Haversham.”
----
“How?” Neal asked, and he let go of his cocoa mug to reach across and grab Ellen’s hand. “How can you help? Can you -” he paused, knowing it was too much to ask, but all of this was so strange, so magical, that he had to try. Maybe there was a way. “Can you bring back all the people I’ve killed?”
Ellen’s eyes were sad as she carefully removed Neal’s hand from hers and placed it back around the mug. “No, dear,” she said, and Neal’s heart sank. “But I can end your suffering. I can take away your guilt.” She raised both hands in the air and made a swift gesture that seemed to change their surroundings. While the chairs, the table and the cocoa mugs remained, the kitchen around them vanished, replaced by a graveyard. The sun shone down brightly even though Neal knew that when he had left the cellar it had been night, and as Neal looked around, he could see that it looked much like the graveyard of the church in the town where he had grown up.
“What’s happening?” he asked.
Ellen just indicated a grave to their left. The headstone was made from marble, and the inscription read: “Lacey Harrington. Beloved daughter, sister and friend.”
Neal’s breath caught and suddenly the grief and the horror was as sharp as it had been that night, when Lacey’s body had lain beneath him, cold and empty.
“She had only just turned seventeen,” Ellen said quietly.
“Why are you showing me this?” Neal asked, his voice rough with the tears he was holding back. He knew very well how old Lacey had been, knew exactly what he had taken from her.
“These are your dead,” Ellen said, and as she spoke the gravestones nearest to them seemed to move closer, encircling the table, encroaching upon them. The names jumped out at Neal - many he had known, a few he had not. There were so many, and he was responsible for all of them.
“No,” said Neal, panic rising in his throat. “I don’t want to see this. Ellen, make it stop.”
“This is all you’ve been doing, for ten years,” Ellen told him, her voice still steady and quiet, but deeply sad. “Killing and running. Aren’t you tired yet?”
“Yes,” Neal whispered. “I’m so tired.”
“Isn’t it time you stopped? How many more will have to die so that you can live?” Ellen shook her head at him, and he saw censure in her eyes. She was ashamed of him.
“No… it’s not like that anymore,” Neal protested, remembering what Dr. Mitchell had said. “I can learn how to fight it. I won’t have to hurt anyone.”
Ellen gave him the same smile he remembered from when he was small, when he had said something that his childish mind had thought to be true but that all adults knew was not. It was a smile he had seen on Ellen’s face many times, and to see it now cut him deep.
“You don’t really believe that, do you?” she asked.
Neal tried to swallow but found he couldn’t. Had he been stupid, blindly accepting what the doctor had said? Was it just wishful thinking to believe that he could find a way to control his feeding after all these years?
“You’ll never be able to control it,” Ellen said, as though she could read his mind. “Child… you’re an abomination.”
----
Mozzie followed June left, right, and then left again, all the while doing his best to get his bearings and remember the route in case he needed to make a quick exit - hopefully while accompanied by Neal.
“We’re here,” June said, stopping in front of a large wooden door. Apparently Mozzie had been closer to his destination than he had realized. From behind the door, he could hear the low hum of what sounded like a hushed crowd. He had no idea what he was walking into, and the taciturn woman next to him wasn’t offering any explanations.
“Wait,” Mozzie said as she reached for the door handle. “If you want to help Neal, why aren’t you doing it yourself? Why do you need me?”
June shook her head. “There’s nothing I can do. My… kind… can’t interfere with proceedings. But there are no rules against you interfering.”
Mozzie frowned, unsure what she meant by her “kind,” but he had more important things to do. He nodded, and she reached out to push the door open for him. Then she stepped back behind Mozzie, and without saying goodbye, she seemed to melt away into the semi-darkness.
Mozzie sucked in a breath and headed through the door. He found himself at the edge of a large, vaulted room, encircled by wooden balconies which were filled with spectators. The crowd was pushing forward eagerly against the rails, straining to get the best view of what was happening beneath them, on Mozzie’s level.
And what was happening was horrifying.
Neal stood in the center of the room, his shirt ripped and an angry gouge across his arm, seeping blood. Beside him on the ground lay what looked like a dead body and a bloodied sword, and in front of him was a man - or something like it - dressed in a long, hooded cloak. The cloaked figure’s hands, which seemed to be made up almost entirely of fingernail, were clamped to the sides of Neal’s head, protruding into his temples. Neal wasn’t even fighting it, wasn’t struggling at all; he was simply hanging limply from the creature’s hold, his face pale, blank and empty.
For a long moment, Mozzie couldn’t even be sure if Neal was still breathing. Then something flickered in Neal’s face - something that looked like pain - and Mozzie felt a quick surge of relief. Neal was still alive, but Mozzie had no idea how long that would last. Looking at the scene in front of him, his guess was: not long.
----
“An abomination,” Neal repeated, and it wasn’t a question. He knew it was the truth; it was the word that had always circled around his mind in his darkest hours, though he’d never said it out loud before. It was exactly what he was, though, and if Ellen - Ellen, who had loved him as though he’d been her own - thought it too, then there was no fighting it. He was a monster.
“It’s time to do the right thing,” Ellen said gently.
“I don’t know what that is,” Neal replied. Looking at the gravestones surrounding him was making him feel faint. He knew, of course, how many bodies there had been. He had never lost count. But to see them now, all his victims’ names engraved in stone… How could there be any way to make this right?
“You need to leave this world,” Ellen said. “It would be better off without you. You know that. You’ve thought that before.”
Neal went cold. He had thought it before; he had tried to bring himself to do it, but never succeeded. But to do it now, when there was a chance that he could learn to survive without killing…
“I…” he started, helplessly.
“All you need to do is drink,” Ellen said. She nodded down at his cocoa, so far untouched. “A few sips are all it will take. Why take the risk that you’ll kill again?”
Neal wanted to protest, to say that he wouldn’t, but he could not be sure of that. If the doctor couldn’t help him, if he was destined to spend the rest of his life picking off one human after another to ensure his own survival… then maybe Ellen was right.
“I don’t know,” he said, struggling to come to terms with the idea.
“It will be quick,” Ellen said. “Don’t worry, dear; no one will miss you.”
Neal swallowed, and looked down at the cocoa mug in his hands. It looked sweet, and simple, and easy. But he couldn’t think clearly enough to make up his mind; there was something trying to intrude on his thoughts, like an itch in the back of his brain. As if he knew a phone were ringing but he couldn’t quite hear it. He frowned, and glanced away from the cocoa, trying to focus.
“Come on now,” said Ellen, and her voice was suddenly brisk and commanding, not the sweet and careful tones she had spoken in until now. He looked at her in surprise.
“I’m thinking,” he said. And then the itch increased, and he heard something.
Neal!
“What was that?” he asked, twisting in his chair, trying to find the source of the sound. It had been faint, but he was almost certain it had been there.
Ellen’s face tightened as he looked back at her, her jaw stiffening. “It was nothing. What are you waiting for? Drink!”
Neal looked at her closely. “Ellen?” Somehow she looked different, not like the Ellen he knew and loved. Her eyes were narrowed and there was a harshness to her that he had never seen before.
Neal! Wake up!
This time he was sure he had heard his name. He stood up, leaving the cocoa on the table, and turned, squinting into the distance.
“Drink!” shouted Ellen, slamming her hands down on the table, and when he looked down at her now, her face was twisted alarmingly. And for the first time, he realized that his Ellen would never ask him to kill himself. This had never been his Ellen. It was all a trick.
He’s killing you! Neal! Wake up!
“Drink!” the thing wearing Ellen’s face screamed, but Neal picked up the cocoa mug and threw it to the floor, the china smashing on the hard ground and sending shards flying.
“Get out of my head,” he ordered, his voice shaking. It didn’t work. Ellen got up slowly and advanced towards him, and with every step she seemed to grow taller and more threatening. Neal shrank back.
Neal! Fight it!
The voice was louder now, and Neal recognized it. It was Mozzie. He had no idea how Mozzie had reached him, either here or back in the cellar, but it was living proof that at least one person out there would miss him. He took that thought and focused on it as he gathered every scrap of strength he could find - all of his own, and all of Peter’s borrowed energy - and then he drew himself up as tall as he could.
“Get. Out. Of. My. HEAD!” he shouted, and the world tilted sickeningly. He shut his eyes against the sensation, and then he felt the air change. It was no longer warm; there was no longer sunlight shining through his eyelids. It was cold, and dim, and there was the noise of a crowd cheering.
When he opened his eyes, the cloaked figure in front of him was on fire. Its claw-like hands withdrew from Neal’s head, leaving behind a stabbing pain in Neal’s temples, and the figure emitted an angry screech as it curled in on itself. In a few seconds, it was a pile of ash.
Neal barely had time to take it in before he heard Mozzie’s voice again, this time calling for help. He turned quickly and saw Mozzie being set upon by what looked like two of The Morrigan’s guards who were moving in quickly from the right and did not look pleased. Neal reached down instinctively for the sword which was at his feet, and brandished it.
“Leave him,” he shouted, and was surprised at the strength of his own voice. “He’s with me.”
There was a moment of silence where the guards turned to stare at Neal, and then they glanced up towards the balconies. They must have received some sort of signal, because they gave reluctant nods and backed away slowly, leaving Mozzie standing alone.
“Neal Caffrey,” came the booming voice of The Ash, and Neal looked up to see The Ash and The Morrigan watching him from their vantage point. The Ash looked surprised, and, Neal thought, a little impressed. “You have passed the test,” The Ash announced. “It has been witnessed.” He gave Neal a benevolent smile. “Young man, you may name your side.”
A roar rose from the crowd; chants of “Light” and “Dark” started up immediately. Neal let his gaze travel around the balconies that circled the room. They were filled with Fae - no doubt more different species than he could imagine, and as far as he could tell, they all wanted him on their side. He thought of what The Morrigan had said - that he could have a family, that he didn’t need to be lonely anymore. And he thought of the ten years he had spent running, hiding, hoping that one day he would find someone like him.
But this wasn’t what he had imagined. These people - these Fae - had forced him to fight to the death. They had made him face someone who had invaded his mind and violated his most treasured memories. And the crowd had loved it. Maybe there were some out there who were different, who had not attended the test, or who opposed it - maybe he had even met one of the latter in Peter. But nevertheless, this was the way their society worked.
He looked over at Mozzie, standing and waiting for him to make his choice, and he knew what he had to do.
He looked The Ash in the eye. “Neither,” he said. “I choose humans.”
He only had a moment to take in the shock on The Ash’s face, the sneer of distaste on The Morrigan’s, and the slight smile on Peter’s, before the pain in his head sharpened, and Neal finally registered the extent of his injuries. He fell to his knees, and the last thing he saw before he lost consciousness was Mozzie, bending down to help him.
----
Peter was doing his best to remain unobtrusive, while eavesdropping on the conversation occurring next to him. He was standing a little way from The Ash and The Morrigan, in the drawing room of Schinasi. The Morrigan’s guards were stationed by the door, and Peter knew that he was here to provide security for The Ash rather than to join in the discussion or offer advice, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t listen in.
“What does that boy think he’s doing?” The Ash asked, more to himself than to The Morrigan.
“Who knows?” she replied. “Can we kill him now? He passes the trials without any training, he refuses to choose a side - I don’t know who he is, but it doesn’t take a genius to work out that he’s trouble.”
The Ash gave a slow nod. “The situation is certainly…concerning.”
There was a knock at the door, and it opened immediately after, revealing June. She was carrying a tray of drinks, which she placed down on the top of one of the cabinets. The Ash and The Morrigan both directed nods of thanks in her direction, but she did not leave.
“May I offer an opinion?” she said, in a tone that implied it was not a question.
“You have no standing here,” The Ash said sternly, but after a moment he sighed and signaled for her to speak. Peter was not surprised; while June did not have an official place in the governing body of the Fae, she was well respected, and feared, though Peter knew that if The Ash and The Morrigan knew the truth about the true extent of June’s power, as he did, they would fear her even more.
“You are discussing the fate of Mr. Caffrey?” she confirmed.
“We’re discussing his imminent death,” The Morrigan said.
“Not necessarily,” The Ash corrected her. “But yes, Ms. Ellington, we are discussing the boy.”
“Do you perhaps think,” said June, “that it would be wiser to learn a little more about him before killing him? He has been hidden from us for a reason. It would be prudent to discover what that is.”
“And in the meantime he remains unaligned, a threat to our way of life?” The Morrigan asked, eyebrow raised.
June’s lips thinned. “I’m not saying there won’t be a time when it’s necessary to kill him. I’m saying: now is not that time.” She turned and began to leave, but glanced back as she reached the door. “I do hope you take my suggestion,” she said, then disappeared into the corridor.
Peter watched The Ash and The Morrigan exchange glances.
“She makes a good point,” said The Ash.
The Morrigan huffed impatiently. “Fine. But I intend to find out exactly what Caffrey’s hiding, and I intend to do it soon.” She swept out of the room, followed closely by her guards, leaving Peter alone with The Ash. Peter couldn’t stop the wave of relief that coursed through him: Neal was safe, for now.
The Ash ran a hand wearily down his face and turned to Peter. “Escort Mr. Caffrey and his friend back to his home, once Dr. Mitchell has finished tending to him. And make sure he doesn’t leave town. I want to keep an eye on him.”
“Yes, sir,” Peter said. He wanted to keep an eye on Neal himself.
----
Neal’s third journey in the van was considerably more comfortable than his previous two, partly due to the drugs that Elizabeth had administered, and partly due to the fact that he was no longer cuffed or blindfolded. It didn’t hurt to have Mozzie sitting beside him, either.
Peter pulled up outside the apartment building Neal had been living in and got out to open the back doors of the van. Neal climbed out into the pale early morning light, closely followed by Mozzie.
“I feel like I’ve been paroled,” he said to Peter.
Peter shrugged, half-smiling. “Better be on your best behavior then. Speaking of, The Ash wants you to stay in town.”
Neal raised his eyebrows. “And he expects me to obey? In case he hasn’t noticed, I’m not so good at obedience.”
“Learn,” Peter said drily. “The Fae will be watching you now. And you’re already on their bad side.” He paused, then added: “If you need me, you can find me at the 89th division.”
“What makes you think I’ll need you?” Neal asked.
“Just a hunch.” Peter got back in the van, but before he shut the door, he looked back. “And Neal? You did well.”
Neal watched the van disappear down the street, doing his best to ignore the warm glow of pride that had ignited inside him at Peter’s words.
“What now?” Mozzie asked, jolting him out of his reverie.
Neal put his hands in his pockets and looked up at the apartment building. “I think we go home, and we figure the rest out tomorrow.”
“We, huh?” Mozzie said, grinning smugly.
Neal grinned back. “Well, you did save my life. And you were pretty insistent that we’d make a good team.”
“We will,” Mozzie said firmly. He gave Neal’s building a look of distaste. “You’re really going back there?”
Neal sighed. “I suppose you think I should con my way into a luxury hotel suite?”
“Well, ideally, yes, but I get that you want to stay under the radar,” Mozzie replied. “Still, you can’t be an incredibly powerful incubus and live in a dump like this. Come live with me. Percy won’t mind.”
“Who is Percy?” Neal asked, wondering if he was going to regret it.
“My pet rat.”
“Of course he is.”
Mozzie rolled his eyes. “You’ve spent the last twenty-four hours with vampires, werewolves, and some creepy clawed thing that tried to burrow into your head. A rat should be a welcome relief.”
Neal couldn’t argue with that. And the idea of not having to live alone anymore, the thought of having a home that could be shared with someone who knew his secrets, was impossible to turn down.
“Okay,” he said. “Lead on.”
~THE END~