Addendum GW - Chapter Four: Feral (Part One)
Title: Addendum GW
Subtitle: Feral
Author: dracox-serdriel
Word count: 19,728 (chapter total)
Rating: R
Warnings: graphic descriptions of violence, forensics, mentions of incest, genetic disorders, language
Important: This chapter has been broken into two parts because of the length restrictions on Livejournal.
And when his sevens sons yet did not come, the father flew into a rage and wished them all turned into ravens. As soon as he had said these words, he heard a croaking over his head, and he looked up and saw seven ravens as black as coal flying round and round.
-- The Seven Ravens
Drew Wu was new to the wesen world, but when it came to the world of crime, dirt bags, and shady histories, he was a pro.
And that was why, on a Monday night way past his shift, he was at the station, pouring over background checks.
It was procedure to run anybody connected to a homicide, including whoever called in the body. That's why they initially processed Doctor Dana Scully. Procedure. The same goes for Fox Mulder, the man who found the dog. No one bothered looking at the complete background reports from the local FBI field office because they came in after Griffin and Burkhardt closed the Steven Briggs case.
Wu only read them over because he was asked to double-check the paperwork before filing it away. He should've been done hours ago, but he couldn't buck the feeling that there was something wrong with the FBI's summaries for the two former agents.
"Sergeant Wu?"
Wu tore his eyes away from the page and saw Captain Sean Renard standing next to him.
"Hey, Captain."
"Is something wrong?" Renard asked.
"No, Hank said I could use his desk," Wu said absentmindedly. After a brief pause, he added, "You're right, Captain, I should just file this and head home."
"What did you find?"
"It's nothing," he replied as he stood up.
"Let me be the judge of that."
Wu paused to gather his thoughts. He said, "The FBI sent the world's most boring background reports on our two former agent witnesses. Something's not right about them."
"They were just preliminary identity confirmations."
"I'm not talking about those. They sent us the final reports on Friday, and they're less than two pages long. These are two agents that worked with the bureau for over ten years. There's no mention of their assignment at the D.C. office. No department, no special cases, nothing about their work whatsoever. There aren't even any reprimands or commendations."
"What're you thinking, Wu?"
"I'm thinking... either these two were the least successful and most boring field agents that the FBI never fired or..."
"Or their assignment has been classified or redacted," Renard suggested.
"Redacted ten years of work? I can see it for a special case or a task force, sure, but every case they worked on for their entire time at the FBI? Not to mention..." Wu stopped when he recognized how paranoid he sounded.
"Wu, we're already down the rabbit hole, you might as well finish your thought."
"I know this sounds paranoid," Wu said. "But, usually when the FBI has people on covert ops, don't they do a better job of hiding it? Wouldn't they send us a detailed report with a full history? It'd look a little too neat, maybe, but it'd include a department assignment and citations because that's what we expect to receive."
"You want to know why they don't have a cover story," Renard suggested.
"Yeah, exactly. It's like the FBI doesn't want anyone to know what these guys worked on but doesn't care enough to hide it."
"Or, maybe, they were the world's most boring FBI agents," Renard replied.
"But they also have notes in their reports about being abducted. Separate crimes, separate dates, but both were missing for months at a time with no ransom demands, discovered nearly dead, and then recovered miraculously," Wu said. "Doesn't sound boring to me."
"Before you file that, make copies and drop them on my desk. What were their names again?" Renard asked.
"Doctor Dana Scully and Fox Mulder."
"I'll see if my contacts can find anything out about them. It might be that they handled cases related to homeland security before DHS was created, or it could be something the FBI won't share with a local department."
"You really think this is looking into?" Wu asked, surprised.
"I trust your instinct on this one," Renard said. "Given this department's recent history with the FBI - especially my recent history - I think it's best to turn over every rock, just in case."
"Right, I'll make sure the copies are on your desk before I leave tonight, sir."
"Good work, Wu."
It was ten at night, and Nick Burckhardt was lying in his guestroom alone. He attempted to sleep, closing his eyes and willing himself to relax, but it didn't work. After trying for what felt like hours, he rolled over and checked the clock.
It was only ten fifteen.
Frustrated, he clenched his eyes shut, hoping that the darkness would lull him to sleep.
Then he felt something warm and heavy at his side, and a hand drifted up his arm to his shoulder, gripping it tightly. He opened his eyes.
"Juliette?"
"I miss you."
"I miss you, too," he said as he rolled over to face her.
"Then why are you in here?"
"Because you asked me to."
"You're in here when you want to be in our room because I told you to?"
"Pretty much."
"And you're just waiting for me to invite you back in?"
"I think it's called being in the doghouse. I've never really been here before, so I'm guessing."
"Nick..."
"What?"
"Shut up."
Then she kissed him, and he wrapped his arms around her, bringing her close as he kissed back, his hands wandering to her lower back and face.
And it was like the last six months never happened. Like he never lost his powers to begin with, so they never tried to reverse it. She never became a Hexenbiest. They were just Juliette and Nick, and everything was right again.
She rolled on top, slipping off his shirt and throwing her own in the corner soon after. He flipped them, covering her body with his own. Her hands were everywhere.
Sweat covered his forehead. He was too warm, so he tossed the sheets and covers. His entire body was hot.
Incredibly hot, actually. Painfully hot, even.
"Juliette? Juliette... what's happening?"
He lost his balance and fell off the bed, crashing to the ground with no control of his body. He flailed miserably.
"Nick?!" she yelled. "Nick! Stop moving!"
Juliette was at his side with a panicked look on her face. He couldn't stop moving, so she grabbed him to hold him still. When that didn't work, she woged, which gave her the strength to keep him still.
He blinked, and he breathed. He inhaled the sick scent of burnt flesh, realizing to his horror that it was his own.
He had been on fire.
"Nick, I'm so sorry!" Juliette said as she returned to her human form. "Nick, can you hear me? Blink twice if you can hear me."
He blinked twice.
"Spice...shop," Nick managed to say through his charred lips.
"You're going to be all right," she said. "I promise I'll get you there. Just keep breathing, Nick. Okay? Just keep breathing."
Wu sat in his usual spot at the restaurant he always went to for a late night beer and burger. He was halfway through his routine when someone interrupted.
"You mind?" she asked, indicating the empty seat next to him at the bar.
He turned to the speaker, an olive-skinned woman in her fifties with medium-length black hair and small eyes. She was tall, lean, and wearing clothing far too professional for this establishment.
"Go for it," Wu replied.
Nasir Sims, the bartender, smiled at the new arrival. He asked, "What can I get you?"
"Fries, ketchup, and whiskey, no ice," she replied.
"Coming right up."
"You got a designated driver?" Wu asked.
"You offering?"
"I'm on my third, so no. Fair warning, if you refill your whiskey, Nasir takes your keys," Wu said.
When Nasir returned with a whiskey, the woman handed him her car keys.
"Wise choice," he said. "Your fries will be up soon."
"You drinking for a special occasion?" Wu asked.
"Nah, just need a little sleeping assist is all, and drinking alone has too much bad press," she replied. "Name's Annabel Wilder."
"Drew Wu."
Rosalee felt totally unprepared. She and Monroe made it to the Spice Shop in record time. He raced down into the basement, and she began to set up the back room, lowering the lab table, clearing it, and sterilizing it as best she could.
He lugged in the Calvert Family Medical Trunk that her grandfather had made and placed it on the coffee table.
"We need distilled water, neem leaves, ulmus fulva, and cornu cervi parvum," Rosalee said as she prepared the mortars and pestles.
Monroe pulled a dozen bottles from the trunk and lined them up on the apothecary table.
"We need to pound these three ingredients into a power, mix them, and add water to make a gel. Then we can apply it to his skin and cover it with bandages," she said.
They both started crushing the ingredients.
"You sure about this?" Monroe asked.
"If what Juliette described is accurate," she replied warily.
"Did she say anything about, you know, what happened?"
"She said it was an accident. She sounded... panicked."
"Shouldn't they be here, like, now? I mean, it's been forty minutes. So where are they?"
"I don't know."
"What do we do?" he asked.
"We wait."
"We wait?"
"We wait."
Then frantic knocking came from the side door. Monroe opened it, and Juliette pushed past him immediately, followed by Renard, carrying a hand-held stretcher between them with straps running over a bed sheet.
"Is that Nick?" Monroe asked.
Rosalee undid the straps, and together all four moved the man in the sheet to the lowered lab table.
"I did like you said. I dressed the wounds, and I added the sheet so the straps wouldn't compress anything. He stopped responding after we got him into the car," Juliette said quickly. "Please tell me you can help him."
Rosalee peeked under the sheet and nearly wretched at what she saw.
"Is he all right?" Renard asked.
"We're going to need more sterile dressings," she replied. "And the medical grade cling-wrap."
"Is he okay?" Monroe asked. "He smells... like a barbeque."
"He's still breathing, heart rate is elevated," Rosalee replied. "But he does need treatment, so - "
"I got a call in the middle of the night that there's been an accident with Nick," Renard said, interrupting. "I didn't ask at the time, but I'm asking now. What the hell is going on, and what happened?"
"He got burned," Rosalee replied.
"I was at their house, there was no sign of fire," Renard said. "Juliette, who did this?"
"I did," she said quietly.
Monroe asked, "What do you mean, you did this?"
"Things have been better, so I thought maybe we could reconnect. Or try at least. And everything was fine... actually, everything was wonderful until he started burning."
Monroe went to Nick, and before Rosalee could stop him, he threw back the sheet, revealing that Nick's entire body was burned. Except for his head, which had second-degree burns, all his skin was charred white, black, and red, and the gruesome injuries were covered with nothing more than a light layer of plastic wrap dressing.
Monroe's eyes glowed red while Renard stepped back, horrified.
"This wasn't a normal fire," Monroe said. "These are way beyond third degree burns, Juliette. Look at him! He's been burned inside-out!"
"It was an accident!" Juliette pleaded.
"Look at him!" Monroe shouted as he woged. "Look at what you did to him!"
"I didn't mean to, I didn't know what was happening - "
Monroe interrupted, shouting, "You were trying to kill him, weren't you? You wanted to punish him for what happened to you! It's not his fault! You said you'd accept the risks! You said you'd do anything to help him!"
His anger peaked, and he woged, roared, and went straight for Juliette.
"Stop it!" Rosalee said as she stepped between them. "This is not helping Nick!"
Monroe stopped and completed the woge, but the anger was still plain on his face.
"I didn't know," Juliette repeated, cowering behind Rosalee. "I didn't mean to! Please, we have to help him..."
"Monroe!" Rosalee snapped. "Listen to me, you have just proven that Juliette is not the only wesen in this room whose emotions can get the best of them. We need the medical cling-wrap and more sterile dressing cloths. They're down in the basement."
He nodded and left the room.
"Uh... I'm going to call Helena. She might know something that can help," Renard said as he followed Monroe into the next room.
"Are you okay?" Rosalee said to Juliette.
"What? No!" she replied. "Look at Nick! This happened because I was... is this all I can do now? Destroy everyone around me?"
"We can talk about that later. Right now, I need you to tell me exactly what happened."
Mulder woke up to the sound of his cell phone ringing. He tried to silence it, but he was too late. Scully tossed and turned, meaning it had woken her up. He felt a little guilty as he got out of bed and took his phone out of the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind him.
"Mulder," he whispered as he walked to his home office.
"It's Skinner. Why are you whispering?"
"Because it's never smart to wake sleeping Scullys," Mulder replied, still whispering.
"Then get your ass somewhere you can speak up."
Mulder went down the stairs and into his home office before he replied, "Well, good morning to you, too."
"Now that I can finally hear you, I've got an assignment for you," Skinner said.
"I don't work for you anymore."
"You accepted the consulting job, didn't you?"
"Yeah, the consulting job with the single assignment."
"Technically, but your contract also allows me to assign you to cases as an FBI special investigator working with local law enforcement on a case in their jurisdiction."
"Next time I'll read the fine print."
"Trust me, Mulder, you want this assignment," Skinner said. "The Seattle field office and Portland PD both reported recent homicides that match an open X-File."
"You could've led with that."
"The FBI doesn't want this case. I could pull Doggett and Reyes off their current assignment, but that'll attract a lot of attention that I'd rather avoid."
"Skinner, you had me at 'X-File,' just send me the old case file and the recent homicide reports, and I'll start now."
"I've already sent you a secure email with the recent reports, but I can't send you the X-File."
"Why the hell not?"
"Because according to the FBI, the X-Files don't exist."
"Whatever the technicalities are, they did exist at one point, and those cases generated paperwork," Mulder said.
"I can't send you files that are not supposed to exist," Skinner said. "But the case number was X-80391 and the investigation took place in June of two thousand in Burley, Idaho."
"June two thousand?" Mulder repeated. "You're telling me you can't send me the file, even though this case was investigated during my abduction?"
"You're telling me you don't have a copy of every X-File squirreled away somewhere?"
"Even if I did have this specific file, which I'm not sure I do, it's not official. I can't bring it to the detectives on these homicides and offer them a profile."
Skinner replied, "Just check if you have it. If you don't, Scully or Doggett must have a copy somewhere. Once you read it, I think you'll realize that official files won't be necessary."
"Enlighten me."
"No one could figure out if the killer in this case was a man or an animal. Scully's assessment of the forensics suggested a probable animal of abnormal size and temperament with enough intelligence to hold a grudge and exact revenge."
"Sounds like a man to me," Mulder replied.
"I have every confidence that you can and will close this case, Mulder. As soon as possible, report to the Portland field office to obtain your credentials."
Then Skinner hung up abruptly.
Mulder opened his email and printed out the recent homicide reports. Then he dug through his digital backup of the X-Files and located X-80391. Out of habit, he compared crime scene photos with one another first. The recent murders and those in the X-File matched, which meant Skinner was right.
There was an X-File here in Portland.
Hank Griffin arrived at the parking lot of the Green Moon Motel, and Doctor Harper pulled up right after him.
"It's too early in the morning for dead bodies," Harper commented as she got out of her car.
"I hear that," Hank replied.
Sergeant Franco waved them over to door one twenty-three.
"This is a bad one," Franco said.
"Where's the body?" Hank asked.
"We don't have one."
"So you called me at four thirty and dragged me out of bed for no reason?" Harper asked.
"See for yourself," Franco said.
He stepped aside and revealed two fingers (a ring finger and pinky) on the doorstep of room one twenty-three. Not ten feet away, there was an arm dismembered at the shoulder. Though it was covered in bite marks, the hand of that arm had all five fingers digging into the bumper of a black Acura. Part of a leg was impaled upon the car's antenna. It was also bitten, torn, and missing several toes.
"I got unis canvasing the area, and we got three cadaver dogs out looking for the rest of the remains," Franco said. "So far, nothing. The two officers that called it in are just over there."
Harper began her initial exam, and Hank went over to the officers Franco had pointed to.
"You two found the body?" he asked.
"Yes, sir. I'm Officer Rain McDuff, and this is my partner Officer Howard Jones."
"You happened upon this while on patrol?" Hank asked.
"No, we didn't," Jones replied. "Sergeant Wu asked for a designated driver for himself and someone he met at a bar. While we were here, dropping her and her car off, we noticed a lurker. She told us to leave him be, said he was harmless, so we went on our way. Few hours later, on our regular patrol, McDuff said we should check on her. We were a few blocks away, and we figured we could swing by and check on her, no big deal."
"When we pulled in, everything seemed fine," McDuff said. "The car was just as Jones left it, and the lurker was gone, but then we saw the leg, and the arm..."
"We called it in," Jones said. "We checked on the woman we dropped of earlier, she was unharmed but got pretty riled up."
"What do we know about her?" Hank asked.
"Her name is Annabel Wilder," she said. "We didn't talk much, to be honest."
"Right, well, get me your statement as soon as you can. We've got forensics coming in, so you're good to go."
That's when he caught sight of the Captain arriving. Only then did he realize that Nick hadn't shown up yet.
"Captain," Hank said as he approached. "Nick isn't here, yet, he... uh..."
"He's sick, and believe me, that's putting it mildly," Renard replied.
"He okay?"
"Not even close, but there's nothing we can do for him."
"Something tells me we need him on this case," Hank said.
"I'll be filling in until he's back on his feet," Renard said. "That, and the last thing we need is a cop from another jurisdiction turning up dead on our watch."
"What cop?" Hank asked.
"Franco didn't tell you? The woman in this room, Annabel Wilder is a detective with Clark county PD," Renard replied. "What do we have?"
"So far, a probable homicide," Hank replied. "Fingers, arm, and leg from an unknown victim. Haven't found the rest of him or her yet."
"All the same victim?"
Hank said, "Do you wanna weigh in on this, Harper?"
"From what I can see, I'd say these are all from the same person. The size of the fingers and the general physique of what we do have suggests a male," Harper replied. "I can't be sure until we test everything at the lab."
"Any guess on the cause of death?" Renard asked.
"I won't know that until I've got the rest of the body," she replied. "But baring any additional injuries, he probably died from blood loss."
"What about a weapon?" Hank asked.
"I don't even have a guess right now," Harper replied.
"An attack dog," a woman said.
Hank began, "Ma'am, we - "
"Detective Annabel Wilder," she interrupted. "I believe this vic was killed by the same perpetrator as my John Doe."
"Your John Doe?" Hank asked.
"Homicide victim found yesterday. He had been torn apart, and parts of his body had been eaten and vomited up, just like those fingers there," she replied.
"That would explain this viscous substance," Harper commented, holding up a cotton swab.
"Detective Wilder, I'm Captain Renard. Tell me something, if you have a homicide victim in Clark county, why are you in Portland?" Renard asked.
"My John Doe didn't have an ID in his wallet, but he did have the name and a Portland address on a scrap of paper," Wilder replied. "No phone number that I could find, but I figured this person might be able to ID him for us."
"Did you run fingerprints or dental records?" Renard asked.
"No hits on either."
"You got something, though," Hank said, sensing she was holding back.
"I told you I couldn't find a phone number, but the truth is, when I ran the person's information through the federal system, since she's out of state, the FBI called me and started to ask about the case. Didn't bother to explain why they cared so damn much."
"But now there's a body in another state," Renard said, cottoning on. "Which means the Feds could claim jurisdiction."
"They haven't yet," Wilder replied.
"Until the FBI actually files the paperwork, we'll be treating it as a joint Clark county-Portland PD case," Renard said.
"Deal," she said.
"So long as you to agree to protective custody," Renard added.
"I don't need protective custody."
"It's part of the deal."
"Fine."
"This person of interest, who is he?" Hank asked.
Wilder replied, "She, actually. Dana Scully, 1521 NE Prescott Street."
Nick woke up feeling thirsty, tired, and itchy. His entire body throbbed with pain, but it came and went. He tried to speak, but there were bandages over his mouth and lips as well as his eyes, and from what he could tell, he was strapped down.
He made a loud grunting sound.
"Nick?" Juliette asked. "Don't try to speak yet. Hold on."
He felt the bandages on his face shift and then air hit his skin. The sensation made him gasp. His eyes snapped open. He was in the back room of the Spice Shop, and Juliette and Rosalee were standing over him.
"He's still burned," Juliette said to Rosalee.
"I'm burned?" Nick said, his voice hoarse.
"Drink this," Rosalee said, offering a straw.
It was awkward, trying to drink water while lying down, but it made his throat feel better.
"I shouldn't've stopped, Rosalee. He's still burned."
"Minor, first-degree burns," Rosalee replied. "We can treat that with a basic salve."
"What?" Nick asked.
"Nick, don't move. We have to check the rest of your body to make sure the burns have healed," Juliette said.
"Maybe Juliette should do that?" Nick suggested, suddenly feeling very vulnerable.
"I'll be up front," Rosalee said. "If you need anything, just yell."
Sean Renard escorted Detective Wilder to the station so she could give her official statement. When she finished, Wilder helped him coordinated the joint investigation with Clark county. It was a little after ten by the time they finished, and soon after, Sergeant Wu burst into the room.
"Captain, we - Annabel?" Wu said, abruptly stopping mid-thought. "Sorry to interrupt."
"Sergeant Wu, this is Detective Annabel Wilder with Clark county PD," Renard said.
"I heard you were a cop, Drew," Wilder said. She quickly corrected herself, "Sergeant Wu."
"Ah, sorry to interrupt you and Detective Wilder, Captain, but I've got the FBI here waiting to see you," Wu said.
"Send them in."
Wu nodded and left.
"Seems like our joint investigation is over," Wilder said. "I can step out while - "
He interrupted, "No, It's good you're here. They'll be wanting to speak with you as well, I'm sure."
He pulled out the spare chair he kept tucked in the corner and put it along side his desk, offering it to her.
"How chivalrous," she said.
A dark-haired white man came in, followed by a shorter woman with red hair. Renard vaguely recognized them, but he couldn't remember why.
"Are you Captain Renard?" the man asked.
"Yes, and this is Detective Wilder with Clark county," he said. "You two are with the FBI?"
"Actually, it's just me. I'm Fox Mulder, Special Investigator," he said. "I've been assigned to assist you on this case."
Mulder flashed his credentials, and Renard noticed that the casing was brand new.
Renard asked, "You're not here to take over the case?"
"No, I'm here to assist in a joint investigation," Mulder repeated. "And this - "
The woman interrupted, "I'm Dana Scully, and while I'm no longer with the FBI, I investigated this case when the FBI handled it."
"Dana Scully, 1521 NE Prescott Street?" Wilder interjected.
"Yes," she replied.
"Any reason why a homicide victim would have your name and address in their wallet?" Wilder asked, holding out the evidence bag with the handwritten note in it.
"He had my address?" Scully asked. "How did he get it?"
"I think Detective Wilder is more interested in the fact that the man is dead," Renard said. "And the fact that you knew the victim was male without anyone having said so."
"We just moved to Portland a few weeks ago. My mother doesn't have this address yet," Scully explained. "As for knowing the sex of the victim, I assumed this was the male victim found in Washington."
"My John Doe," Wilder said.
"Actually, not anymore," Mulder said. "Scully identified your John Doe as Myron Stefaniuk. The Clark county coroner is working on confirming it, but he's working with half-digested fingerprints and dental records that are over a decade old, so it might be a while."
"So you knew the victim?" Wilder asked Scully.
"I met him during the original investigation," she replied.
"You keep alluding to a previous case," Renard said. "Maybe we should start there."
"In June of two thousand, there were five homicides in Burley, Idaho. Investigators were having trouble determining if the killer as human or animal," Mulder said.
Scully added, "Myron Stefaniuk went into hiding after his brother Ernie was killed."
"From who?" Wilder asked.
"Not who, what," Mulder said.
Renard hesitated before he asked, "What do you think is killing people?"
Mulder handed Renard and old newspaper article, and Wilder stared at it over his shoulder. It had a picture of two people holding up a human-sized bat. The headline read "HUNTERS KILL HUMAN BAT!"
"You're serious?" Wilder asked. "You expect us to believe some hoax from nineteen fifty-six is killing people?"
"If you took time to read the article, you'd see that the one in the picture is dead," Mulder replied. "The coroner did an autopsy but couldn't determine if the creature was animal or human."
"Let me guess, before anyone else had the chance to run tests, the body mysteriously vanished," Wilder said sarcastically.
"A day after the necropsy, the coroner was killed. In the days that followed, there were several other homicides, including one of the hunters," Scully replied. "The MO is the same as the recent murders. The surviving hunter, Ernie Stefaniuk, went into hiding with his wife, Ariel McKesson, a few days later. She died of natural causes in two thousand, and he returned her body to her family to be buried and that's how this predator caught his scent again. It killed five more people, including Ernie. Both I and my partner at the time, Agent Doggett, shot it multiple times, but it got away."
"If any of this is true, why isn't the FBI taking over?" Wilder asked.
"She has a point. Correct me if I'm wrong, but this is an open FBI case," Renard added. "Isn't it?"
"No, technically speaking the FBI has no official file and therefore no official case," Mulder replied. "If I can speak frankly, Scully and I used to work in a division called the X-Files, investigating crimes caused by or connected to unexplained phenomenon. Since our retirement, the FBI has closed the X-Files and redacted their content."
Scully continued, "What my partner is trying to say is that the FBI isn't taking over this case because the FBI doesn't want it."
"Why would the FBI redact and entire division?" Wilder asked.
"Officially, the FBI closed the X-Files because of financial restrictions and because many believed they were an embarrassment to the Bureau," Scully replied. "The truth is that our investigations uncovered government-sanctioned human experimentation and a conspiracy covering up these crimes. Eventually, the forces behind these crimes coerced our supporters to capitulate, and the FBI shut us down."
"That's quite a story," Wilder said.
The Captain's stomach had dropped several times during this particular conversation. He'd heard about the X-Files division, and as a young man, he kept an eye on those cases and the investigative techniques employed in solving them. He considered his words carefully. He needed to confirm the agents' identities and demonstrate his knowledge of the division without revealing his own personal interest.
"The X-Files," Renard repeated. "Isn't that the division that took down Pusher?"
"You mean Robert Patrick Modell? Yes," Mulder replied.
"I make a habit of studying serial crimes," Renard lied. "I believe the X-Files was also responsible for arresting Samuel Aboah and Virgil Incanto, if I'm remembering correctly."
Mulder nodded.
Renard turned to Wilder and said, "All three were complex serial cases that might've never gone to trial had they not accepted the... unique motives of the killers in question."
"Looks like we still have one supporter, Scully," Mulder said.
"I support good police work," Renard replied. "And if you believe that this is an animal rather than a man, I am inclined to believe you. What do you think it will take to stop it from killing again?"
"This is what we know so far," Mulder said. "This animal is as large as a man and highly motivated. It has exhibited a high level of intelligence and seems to target individuals out of revenge. The good news is that this thing only hunts at night, which means we've more than eight hours before we need to worry about any more bodies dropping."
"The bad news," Scully began, "is that this creature hunts by scent. Anyone who has physical contact with a target, even briefly, is in danger. We also know that when it kills, it may kill others nearby, especially if they are alone and interrupt it."
"I don't understand," Wilder said. "You've said this thing went after the hunters who killed this other giant bat thing in nineteen fifty-six. According to you, it got the last hunter fifteen years ago, so why is it killing now?"
"During my investigation, Myron Stefaniuk, Agent Doggett, and I all impeded its revenge spree," Scully said. "That is why Myron went into hiding. He believed he was its next target, and he decided to escape while it recuperated from its wounds."
Exasperated, Wilder asked, "Isn't it possible that we're dealing with someone with an identity disorder? A man who thinks he's an animal or who desperately wants to be one. That kind of thing."
"I encountered this creature," Scully replied. "It attacked me and Agent Doggett. There is no doubt in my mind that it is an animal. It had traits only found in bats, including webbed membranes and other characteristics unique to mammalian flight."
"Animal's don't have the capacity to hold grudges or execute complex revenge plots," Wilder argued.
"That's not true. Many animals exhibit human-like intelligence and even complex, long-term reactions to negative stimuli," Mulder replied calmly. "Research has documented such behavior in crows. They have the ability to recognize faces and are known to hold grudges and act on them, sometimes years later."
"We only have until nightfall. That doesn't give us time for debate," Scully said. After a moment, she added, "I don't mean to be abrupt, but I have reason to believe that I am a target. I didn't go to work today because anyone who comes into contact with me could be at risk. It's possible all three of you are at risk just for being in the same room as me."
A full minute of uncomfortable quiet passed.
Mulder broke the silence. "All four recent homicides share the same M.O. as the homicides in two thousand and nineteen fifty-six."
"Four homicides?" Renard repeated.
Mulder pulled out a small map of the northwestern states. Four cities were marked with red ink: Burley, Idaho; Auburn, Washington; Ridgefield, Washington; and Portland, Oregon.
"The first murder occurred on Saturday. A man named Zack Tisale was torn apart inside his home in Burley, Idaho. We're still waiting on the full report. All they'd tell me on the phone was that there were no signs of a break in," Mulder said. "Before dawn on the next day, Michelle Winfield of Puyallup, Washington was murdered while on the phone with a nine-one-one operator. She called to report that a patient was in the process of stealing her car. She didn't have a chance to name the patient, but it must be someone she treated at Auburn Medical Center, since this happened in center's parking lot. Her body was found there less than three minutes after the start of her call. She was dismembered and missing an ear and three fingers."
Scully laid out the crime scene photos of Michelle Winfield's murder.
"This happened in two minutes?" Wilder asked.
"Her ear was found under a car across the parking lot, regurgitated. Her fingers were found in a tree not far from the ear," Scully said dispassionately.
"The third victim you already know," Mulder said. "John Doe, almost certainly Myron Stefaniuk, found dead off of I-5 in Ridgefield, Washington Sunday night."
"And the fourth victim was here in Portland," Wilder said. "But he's not like the others."
"So far we've only found fingers, an arm, and a leg," Renard said. "He died sometime between two and four in the morning."
"You haven't found the rest of his body?" Scully asked.
"Not yet," Wilder replied. "And the scene was completely different from the other homicide. It was... arranged. Like the killer wanted me to open my door to find fingers and an arm clinging to my car's bumper for dear life."
"It's likely that this creature is targeting you because of that," Mulder said, pointing to the evidence bag with Myron's note inside.
"I thought you said it's not human," Wilder protested.
"We did," Scully replied.
"Last I checked, even the smartest damned animals can't read."
"It's not about reading," Scully said. "I told you this thing hunts by scent. Myron kept this note on him, that would be more than enough for it to find you."
"Why would it follow the scent of a main it already murdered - meaning, me - to Portland?" Wilder asked.
Renard had another stomach-churning experience. Twice in one meeting... that never happened. He couldn't distract the other investigating parties and confirm his suspicions, so he had to get word to Hank and Monroe.
"Assuming it is seeking revenge on others, it's possible it simply following a familiar scent in hopes of picking up another," Renard suggested.
Wilder asked, "What kind of sense does that make?"
"We've got four people dismembered, eaten, and regurgitated in three states in just three days," Renard replied. "I can't think of a scenario where that makes sense, but maybe if we fill in the gaps, connect our victims with more than just the MO of our killer, we might have a better idea of what's going on here."
"Do you have a room we can use?" Mulder asked. "This isn't the kind of thing I think we should put up on the boards in the bullpen."
"I agree," Renard said. "I'll be right back."
The Captain ducked out of his office and went straight to Sergeant Wu.
"Captain? How're the sketchy Feds?" Wu asked.
"That's a discussion for another time. I need you to get something to Hank. Tell him it's wesen-related but Nick might not have any information on this, so you'll need Monroe or Rosalee," Renard said. "Give me your notepad."
Wu handed over his notebook and pen with a skeptical look. Renard quickly scribbled his idea without looking.
"I didn't have time to make a copy of this newspaper article, but it has a photo that might help. Just make sure that the original copy gets back to my office, or it'll be missed," Renard said. He handed the notebook back to Wu and said, "Whatever you do, don't read this note out loud, and if you wind up handing it off to Hank, make sure you tell him the same. Do not say it out loud."
"Ohhh-kay. Cryptic. Not sure I like it. I'll drop it off right away. Do you need anything else, Captain?" Wu asked.
"Yeah, have Sergeant Franco set up whatever we've got free as a conference room. Don't worry about the size, just make sure it's private," Renard replied. "I'm going to keep the FBI and the Clark county Detective busy."
"Aye, aye Captain," Wu said before he left to find Franco.
Monroe was not having a good day.
First, Nick was burned from the inside out. That was bad news to get any day of the week, especially at eleven at night.
Then, Monroe missed sleeping and therefore his morning Pilates. Bad news and no mellowing-out routine made for one cranky Blutbad.
And now he was craving a nice, juicy steak.
His cell phone rang.
"Hello?" he answered.
"Monroe, it's Hank."
"Hank? What's going on?"
"We got a homicide, and I can't find Nick. The Captain told me he was sick or something, but this is definitely related to wesen, and I've got nothing to go on. The Captain said he'd fill in for Nick, but either he doesn't know any more than I do or he's not sharing," Hank said.
"Trust me, Nick isn't in any condition to help."
"I get that. That's why I'm calling you."
"Me?"
"You've helped Nick on cases before, right? I don't mean fact-finding and translating German."
"Yeah, I did," Monroe replied. "Sure why not?"
"As soon as you can, come to the Green Moon Motel. I've got to go."
"I will as soon as I tell Rosalee."
Hank hung up.
"Tell me what?" Rosalee asked.
Monroe jumped, startled by her voice. He hadn't seen her come in from the back room.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
"Yeah, just a little jumpy," he replied. "Hank asked me to help him out, since Nick is... well, you know. Will you be okay here if - "
She interrupted, "Yes. You should go."
"I should?" he asked.
"We all had a rough night, you especially."
"Me? Don't you mean Nick especially? He was the one that got roasted."
"You rbest friend was hurt, nearly killed. Last night, there were things for you to do, but now, all you can do is wait," she said. "I think you could use something to keep you busy, so go on. Go help Hank stop a bad guy."
Monroe wrapped Rosalee in a hug and kissed her on the cheek.
"Sometimes I forget you see right through me," he said.
"Rosalee!" Juliette shouted from the back room. "Rosalee! Help!"
"I got this," Rosalee said to Monroe before he could respond. "Be safe. I love you."
"Love you, too."
The vacant office that currently served the FBI-Clark-Portland joint investigation became silent after they received the official police reports, digital recordings, and autopsies for the first three victims.
"Do we have a description of Michelle Winfield?" Mulder asked.
Scully had been so focused on the crime scene photos that she nearly jumped in surprise at the sound of anything than her own thoughts echoing in her head.
"Uh, yeah," Wilder replied. "We have her driver's license photo and the photo from her hospital id."
"She a white female with brown-and-grey hair and dark eyes?" Mulder asked.
"That could describe most the women on the West Coast," Wilder replied.
"Does she have a wide, white scar across the bridge of her nose?" he asked.
Scully knew that tone in his voice. She asked, "Did you find something?"
"Look at that, Mulder, you're right. Take gander," she replied, enlarging the DMV photo on the computer. "Distinctive scar."
"According to Freddie Lourdes, Zack Tisdale spoke with a woman matching Winfield's description the afternoon of his death," Mulder said.
"Why'd they talk about?" Wilder asked.
"She asked Lourdes about his neighbor, Carl Reyes, saying he was the next-of-kin for a patient. Trouble was that Reyes had packed his truck and left Friday morning with his mom and girlfriend, so Lourdes assumed Winfield was up to no good, scoping houses to rob or something. He sent her away without even opening the door."
"It's a good thing," Scully said. "Keeping that door closed is probably the only reason Lourdes is still alive."
"So Winfield goes to find Carl Reyes, but he's not around. Tisdale tells her he's gone, so she drives back home," Wilder said.
"The patient must've been Myron Stefaniuk," Scully said.
"I checked. He wasn't registered at the Auburn Medical Center," Wilder replied.
Mulder said, "I ran all the patient names, checking for other possible victims. Two are unaccounted for: Sandra Newcomb and Michael Smith. Myron was in hiding, and Michael Smith sounds like an alias. We can confirm that with medical records."
"We'd need probably cause, and we don't have any," Scully said.
"But you could request to review his file as a doctor," Mulder suggested.
"It would be more efficient to ask the Clark county coroner to handle it, since he has the body. Give him the two missing patient names, and he can make a request to Auburn Medical," she replied.
"Even if he confirms that, there's till no connection between our John Doe and the other three victims," Wilder said.
"We might have to consider the possibility that the connection is you," Scully said.
"I get it. I carried the Myron-scented evidence here, and somehow that got John Doe killed," Wilder said. "The point I was trying to make was that the other three victims had actual contact with one another hours before their deaths. I didn't arrive in Portland until a full day after we found Stefaniuk."
"We won't know anything until we identify John Doe," Mulder said.
Scully thought he was right, but that meant they were at a dead end. As Mulder and Wilder continued on about the connections, Scully's mind kept going over the two most recent homicides. She couldn't put her finger on it, but something was wrong about them.
Monroe parked his yellow super beetle on a side street and walked to the Green Moon Motel. Hank was waiting for him.
"The remains were taken to the morgue," Hank said. "But everything else is as we found it."
He handed Monroe a large, digital camera.
"You want me to take photos?" Monroe asked.
"Thought it'd be good for you to look like you have a reason to be here."
"That is so... thoughtful," Monroe replied. "Nick is terrible with cover stories. He usually just blurts the first lame thing that he thinks of."
"Come on," Hank said, leading him to the parking lot.
"Whoa, that's... definitely wesen," Monroe said before they could even seen the crime scene tape.
"You see something?"
"I smell something. Strong something. A knock-you-on-your-ass strength something," he replied.
They continued to where the remains were found, and Monroe did his best to look busy. While he and Hank spoke, he took photos of the car, the motel, the parking lot, the officers, and even the random people who had stopped to gawk at the crime scene.
"Any idea what this person could've been?" Hank asked.
"Smells mammalian," Monroe said. "But from what I see here, this guy could be anything with teeth and a bad temper."
"We had Cadaver dogs out here earlier, trying to find the rest of the body, but they turned up nothing," Hank said. "This guy took parts with him. Does that narrow the wesen field?"
"Unfortunately, that's not a helpful distinction," Monroe replied. "I mean, for one thing, do we even know that the killer is the one who took the rest of the body? Maybe a Geier took it for the organs. Assuming they were in tact."
"A what now?" Hank asked.
"Never mind."
On the pretext of taking a close up of the Acura's bumper where the hand had been placed, Monroe leaned in and sniffed.
"You used dogs to search for the body?"
"Yeah, no luck," Hank replied.
"There wouldn't be," Monroe said. "I thought that smell I picked up was from the remains. Don't get me wrong, the smell is from the same individual, but these aren't... potent enough. We must be downwind from something the killer wanted to cover up."
"Cover up?" Hank repeated. "I'm not following."
"Basically, some wesen mark their territory to warn others," Monroe explained. "As an added bonus, it can confuse actual animals, like wolves or cougars or even trained dogs."
"So you're saying that this guy used his scent or whatever to hide the rest of the body from the dogs?"
"Works better than slaked lime and frankincense," Monroe replied.
"Can you find it?" Hank asked.
"Follow me. I've got fake crime scene photos to take."
The scent had a definitive trail, so Monroe followed it to the back of the motel, where the smell became much stronger, only to become incredibly faint a few steps later. It was possible that the killer arrived in a car and parked behind the motel, as driving away reduced scent trails substantially.
But why did the trail suddenly get stronger? That didn't make any sense to Monroe until he realized that the trail was stronger because it had fewer odors to compete with.
"You got something?" Hank asked.
"It doesn't make much sense," Monroe warned. "The crime scene was downwind of something very pungent, but we're not anymore."
"You mean we're upwind of the body now?"
"Yeah, but we've gone, what, ten or twenty feet?" Monroe asked. "Whatever the crime scene is downwind from, this place is downwind from, too."
"This is the north side of the building," Hank said. "Any chance the wind is blowing north to south?"
"Sure, but that's my point - "
"The roof," Hank interrupted.
They climbed three fire escapes to the top of the motel, which was flat, filthy, and, rank. Monroe nearly keeled over from the smell, which emanated from puddles of urine, dung piles, and vomit mounds.
Blood was everywhere, and unlike the parking lot, there were clear signs of a struggle. The detective snapped on forensics gloves and bent down to examine a bloody footprint briefly before moving on to the remains. He checked the coat and found a small wallet.
"You found the primary crime scene, Monroe," Hank said calmly. "Normally I'd say that the vomit meant our killer couldn't stomach what he did, but I don't think that's what was happening here. The body is male and missing one arm, one leg, and two fingers. Definitely the same vic, and if this ID is his, which it seems like, then we got a name, Jason Schmitt."
Monroe couldn't reply; he couldn't even think. The scent was so strong that his stomach churned and his eyes watered. He did his best to plug his nose, but it wasn't enough. When he couldn't take it anymore, he scrambled back to the fire escape and down one flight of stairs.
Hank must've noticed he disappeared, because he came back to the edge of the roof to find him.
"Monroe? You all right?" Hank asked from above.
"Yeah, but I can't go up there without a nose plug and some kind of mouth cover. That guy went out of his way to stop animal predation and any wesen with nostrils from getting near that body."
Hank came down to joined him.
Hank joined him. He pulled out his notebook, ripped a page from it, and quickly drew something.
"This guy left a four-taloned footprint. It looked like this," he said as he handed Monroe the paper. "You think you can figure out what kind of wesen we're looking for from this print and the smell?"
"I don't know the name, but I know I've definitely smelled one of these before."
Loose pages fell out of Hank's notebook. "Oh, I almost forgot. Before you got here, Wu gave me a weird photocopy and a weirder note, both from the Captain. He said it was wesen-related and that Nick might not be able to help us with it. I didn't have the time to look at it yet."
Monroe tried to look at the pages, but his eyes were still watering. "Rosalee will know. I should take all this back to the Spice Shop, where I might be able to breathe again."
"Yeah, it's a good idea for you to go. I gotta call the body in."
Monroe returned to the Spice Shop just as the post-lunch hour rush died down. He told Rosalee about the crime scene before handing her the notes Hank gave him.
"Geflugelten Ritters," Rosalee said as soon as she unfolded them. "Newspaper photo makes that pretty clear."
"I knew I smelled that before!" Monroe said as his palm hit his forehead. "Geflugelten Ritters! How could I forget?"
She suddenly became stiff and still.
"Rosalee?" he said. When she didn't response, he said, "Rosalee, what's wrong?"
"Turn the sign and lock the door," she replied.
"What's wrong?"
"Turn the sign and lock the door!"
He complied, though he became very tense.
"What's going on?" he asked.
Rosalee held up the note the Captain had written. As Monroe's mind registered what he saw, the air left his lungs. It was the three letters all wesen knew and feared even more than Grimms: O.F.D.
This was the last thing he needed on a day without Pilates.
"This is bad," he said.
"Very, very bad."
"Bad."
He didn't know what to say, and from the looks of it, neither did she.
Then Juliette and Nick came in from the back room. He still had very red skin, but now it looked like a bad sunburn.
"Nick, you're all right!" Monroe said. "Which is really important now because we've got really bad news."
"Apparently it's just one of those days," Nick said, his voice still a little dry. "What is it?"
"Good news first. We know what wesen you're up against: Geflugelten Ritters," Rosalee said.
"What do we know about them?" Nick asked.
"Uh..." Monroe began, but his mind was blank.
"I know they are a bat-like wesen that look like this," she said as she handed the newspaper photo to Nick.
"This wesen is dead," he said.
"So?" Juliette asked.
"If a wesen dies while woged, they always woge to their human form. It's like how the pupils dilate after death. It happens soon after and automatically," he explained. "But this guy didn't. We've seen this before. Is this another one of those hunters who skin wesen for their pelt?"
"No, this isn't sauver se peau," Monroe said. "Don't get me wrong, that is nasty stuff, but today I'm talking a whole new level of holy-crap."
"Are you going to tell us what it is?" Juliette asked.
"We've got a note with it written down, but here's the thing - and especially for you now, Juliette - we do not say this out loud," Monroe said.
"Why not?" she asked.
"It's a pech wort, you know, a word that's bad luck to say," Monroe replied.
"It's a huge taboo in the wesen community. People tried switching to the acronym, but the taboo spread to every term people used," Rosalee replied. "We were all raised believing that saying it out loud will somehow bring it upon ourselves. We've known for about a hundred years that that's not possible, but... it's like breaking a mirror."
"Exactly. You know, why risk it?" Monroe added.
"Okay, but we need something to call it so we can talk about it," Nick said.
"My grandfather used to call it ungezahmt," Monroe suggested. "It means uncurbed or feral."
"Feral? You mean like Holly Clark?" Nick asked.
"What? No! Holly is not feral!" Monroe said quickly.
Nick replied, "But she lived alone in the woods for nine years. She basically raised herself."
"She was not feral," Rosalee said. "She tapped into her wesen side to survive in the wild. That's totally different."
"Completely different. Nick, when we say feral, which is a pretty accurate description, we're talking way out there, utterly untethered by humanity," Monroe said. "And there is no coming back from it, either."
Rosalee showed the note to Juliette and Nick. She explained, "These three letters are an acronym for an incredibly rare genetic disorder. The symptoms begin to show in young adulthood, slowly developing over time with physical and mental changes. Eventually, the wesen essence becomes fixed, so the person can no longer woge. Mental deterioration varies, but usually, individuals adopt animalistic behaviors that reflect their wesen heritage. Since it's genetic, it only happens in certain bloodlines, and even then, only after many generations of inter-marriage."
"She means in-breeding," Monroe said. "Like a long, long history of it."
"So this guy in the newspaper photo, everyone could see him like this?" Nick asked.
"Yeah, you can see how the problems kinda build up in this situation," Monroe said.
"The Wesen Council has a problem with it because it can expose the greater wesen community. Anyone who becomes feral and refuses to go into hiding is sentenced to death," Rosalee said.
"Then there's the whole issue of their remains," Monroe said. "No burial, no preservation, and absolutely no prodding or poking at the hands of kehrseite."
"This article said they did an autopsy in nineteen fifty-six," Nick said.
"It also says that the coroner who did the autopsy was murdered, and the body went missing," Juliette said.
Rosalee added, "And someone probably destroyed the paperwork."
"But the bigger problem here is that a wesen gone feral, especially one that's lost their humanity, is the most dangerous predator on the planet," Monroe said. "Going feral means they lost their conscience, empathy, socialization, that kind of thing, but they still have their intelligence."
Juliette asked, "You're saying this killer is a powerful bat the size of a person, with the intelligence of a human being, and the instincts and behavioral patterns of a wild predator."
"I'm pretty sure that's what they said," Nick agreed.
"The good news is that this varies a lot from person to person and between species," Rosalee said.
"You said this guy is a kind of bat wesen," Nick said. "Can he fly?"
Monroe considered this for a moment. "I know they can glide. Not sure about flying, but you must have something on them in the trailer."
"Good idea," Rosalee said.
"Is there anything you can make that can help us?" Nick asked. "Any kind of de-feralling mixture?"
"This isn't something I can treat. It's like Huntington's Disease," Rosalee replied. "Irreversibly progressive. Modern medicine may have treatments for it, but it's not even close to a cure."
"What about anything that can slow or stop a Geflugelten Ritters?" Juliette asked. "Flying is a big advantage in a fight."
Rosalee replied, "I'll look through the books I have. There might be something."
"We should go to the trailer," Juliette said. "I'll bring the car around."
She went out through the back room.
"Nick, Juliette just spent twelve hours healing you," Monroe said. "No matter how powerful she is, she has limits, and neither of you have any idea what'll happen if she pushes those."
"She seems fine," he replied. "And besides, we're going to read in the trailer, not into battle."
"You should still warn her," Rosalee said. "She might feel fine until she tries to use her power again."
Nick said, "I know what happened last night freaked both of you out, and I don't want to sound ungrateful since you helped save my life. But please, don't blame her for what happened."
"Dude, she lit you on fire," Monroe said evenly.
"Not on purpose."
Monroe looked at Nick, then at Rosalee, not bothering to conceal his shock. His best friend and wife were both in denial, and neither one seemed to know it.
He said, "Not you, too, Nick. I'm not trying to convince you Juliette is a bad person, but she lit you on fire. She has the power of an incredibly potent adult Hexenbiest, but only a few months of actual experience living with it. Usually that kind of power grows over time and only with practice. Believe me when I say that lighting you on fire might actually be the least dangerous thing she could do."
"I hear what you're saying," Nick replied. "I mean it. I do, but it's not her fault."
"He's not talking about fault," Rosalee said. "Remember what Trubel was like when we first met her? She'd been a Grimm for years but had no idea."
"That's completely different - " Nick began.
Rosalee interrupted. "It's the same fundamental problem. You needed someone - like your aunt - to help you, and so did Trubel. You were the one that taught her where to start."
"And I'll help Juliette the same way."
"Dude, you can't do that as a Grimm," Monroe said.
"He's right, you can't let her learn about Hexenbiests from what's written in your ancestor's books."
"Okay, I'll talk with her about this, but after we stop the giant man-bat that's currently tearing people apart across Portland," Nick said.
Officers Rain McDuff and Howard Jones made a habit of sharing a beer once a week and bonding for an hour or two. The rules were simple: no shop talk, no cop bars, and no cell phones.
By the time they left, it was dusk, so McDuff insisted on driving Jones home.
"I live less than a mile from here," Jones protested. "I can walk off that last beer."
"Right, you walk off that beer and get yourself hit by a car, and it'll be my ass, won't it?"
They had been driving for about two minutes when a loud THUMP came from the roof.
"What the hell?" McDuff said.
"Probably just acorns or pinecones falling from the trees."
"Damn big acorns," McDuff replied.
That's when something large and hard smashed through the back window. McDuff swerved in surprise but kept the car on the road.
"What the hell was that?"
"Pull over."
Before she could even think about it, there was a fierce smashing force that wailed on the passenger side of the car. The windows shattered, covering both of them with broken glass, and Jones screamed as sharp talons slashed at his chest, shredding the seatbelt.
McDuff slammed on the breaks and came to a squealing halt. The sickening sound of bones breaking filled the air as Jones was dragged out of the car straight through the window. Whatever it was then threw him several car lengths ahead.
Then the world turned upside-down. She couldn't breathe because the seatbelt cut into her chest. McDuff fumbled with the button to unlock it. She wasn't prepared for the fall, and her head crashed into the steering wheel, disorienting her.
She needed to get to Jones. Her personal car didn't have a radio, so she riffled through the debris in her car and found a cell phone - Jones's - and dialed the precinct's direct line. As it rang, she reached for the glove compartment to get her firearm.
"Portland PD," someone answered.
"This is Officer Rain McDuff. Officers down. Require immediate assistance on Rootville Drive. My partner and I were attacked leaving the Swirly Pony Pub."
"We're dispatching units now."
McDuff finally turned herself right side up on the roof of her car. She was covered with cuts and broken glass, and Jones seemed much closer, probably because the car moved ahead when it was flipped.
"Jones!" she yelled. "Jones, can you hear me?"
"McDuff!" he yelled back. "Run! Get the hell out of here! RUN!"
"Screw you!"
She popped the driver-side door open, but it wouldn't budge. She tried the passenger side door. It was blocked by the curb, but the entire window was gone. She took her coat and threw it over the broken glass as best she could and began to crawl out.
"RUN! Get out of here McDuff!" he shouted.
Jones tried to stand, but his legs buckled. Eventually, he began crawling to the sidewalk.
McDuff made a point to face her partner so she could keep an eye on him. She was halfway out when the car suddenly groaned under a heavy weight. The doorframe crunched down, and McDuff screamed as the uncovered glass of the window sank into her back.
When she tried to look behind herself to see what was on the car, the glass tore at her skin and she felt her blood spill out of her wounds, warming her skin. Slowly and carefully, she positioned herself so she could aim her gun.
Then she heard it. It was somewhere between a purr and a roar, and it escalated into a screech.
It was right behind her.
"Get the hell out of here, McDuff!"
"I can't move!" she shouted back.
Sirens approached. Backup was near.
As if goaded by the cacophony, the assailant leapt off the car and circled Jones, just a little too far away to see. McDuff fired, and the recoil forced her to adjust before she could try again. She fired again and again. At one point, she must've hit whatever-the-hell-it was because it screeched again.
Her clip ran out, so she looked at Jones, giving him a hang-in-there look. When their eyes met, she saw how terrified he was.
"McDuff," he said quietly. "Close your eyes."
Then the monster descended on him.
McDuff couldn't move, couldn't turn, couldn't look away. All she could do was watch as her partner was mauled and torn apart by a monster so hideous that she knew she must be dreaming.
"Wake up," she said to herself as she was spattered with Jones's blood. "Wake up, wake up, wake up..."
Finally, the sirens reached full pitch, and the flashing lights illuminated the wreckage. The creature stole one of Jones's arms and ran.
She kept repeating, "Wake up, wake up, wake up..."
<<< Previous part:
Chapter Three: Harbringer sec. Apophenia
(Part Two)
Next part: >>>
Chapter Four: Feral
(Part Two)
Primary Post: Addendum GW
Subtitle: Feral
Author: dracox-serdriel
Word count: 19,728 (chapter total)
Rating: R
Warnings: graphic descriptions of violence, forensics, mentions of incest, genetic disorders, language
Important: This chapter has been broken into two parts because of the length restrictions on Livejournal.
And when his sevens sons yet did not come, the father flew into a rage and wished them all turned into ravens. As soon as he had said these words, he heard a croaking over his head, and he looked up and saw seven ravens as black as coal flying round and round.
-- The Seven Ravens
Drew Wu was new to the wesen world, but when it came to the world of crime, dirt bags, and shady histories, he was a pro.
And that was why, on a Monday night way past his shift, he was at the station, pouring over background checks.
It was procedure to run anybody connected to a homicide, including whoever called in the body. That's why they initially processed Doctor Dana Scully. Procedure. The same goes for Fox Mulder, the man who found the dog. No one bothered looking at the complete background reports from the local FBI field office because they came in after Griffin and Burkhardt closed the Steven Briggs case.
Wu only read them over because he was asked to double-check the paperwork before filing it away. He should've been done hours ago, but he couldn't buck the feeling that there was something wrong with the FBI's summaries for the two former agents.
"Sergeant Wu?"
Wu tore his eyes away from the page and saw Captain Sean Renard standing next to him.
"Hey, Captain."
"Is something wrong?" Renard asked.
"No, Hank said I could use his desk," Wu said absentmindedly. After a brief pause, he added, "You're right, Captain, I should just file this and head home."
"What did you find?"
"It's nothing," he replied as he stood up.
"Let me be the judge of that."
Wu paused to gather his thoughts. He said, "The FBI sent the world's most boring background reports on our two former agent witnesses. Something's not right about them."
"They were just preliminary identity confirmations."
"I'm not talking about those. They sent us the final reports on Friday, and they're less than two pages long. These are two agents that worked with the bureau for over ten years. There's no mention of their assignment at the D.C. office. No department, no special cases, nothing about their work whatsoever. There aren't even any reprimands or commendations."
"What're you thinking, Wu?"
"I'm thinking... either these two were the least successful and most boring field agents that the FBI never fired or..."
"Or their assignment has been classified or redacted," Renard suggested.
"Redacted ten years of work? I can see it for a special case or a task force, sure, but every case they worked on for their entire time at the FBI? Not to mention..." Wu stopped when he recognized how paranoid he sounded.
"Wu, we're already down the rabbit hole, you might as well finish your thought."
"I know this sounds paranoid," Wu said. "But, usually when the FBI has people on covert ops, don't they do a better job of hiding it? Wouldn't they send us a detailed report with a full history? It'd look a little too neat, maybe, but it'd include a department assignment and citations because that's what we expect to receive."
"You want to know why they don't have a cover story," Renard suggested.
"Yeah, exactly. It's like the FBI doesn't want anyone to know what these guys worked on but doesn't care enough to hide it."
"Or, maybe, they were the world's most boring FBI agents," Renard replied.
"But they also have notes in their reports about being abducted. Separate crimes, separate dates, but both were missing for months at a time with no ransom demands, discovered nearly dead, and then recovered miraculously," Wu said. "Doesn't sound boring to me."
"Before you file that, make copies and drop them on my desk. What were their names again?" Renard asked.
"Doctor Dana Scully and Fox Mulder."
"I'll see if my contacts can find anything out about them. It might be that they handled cases related to homeland security before DHS was created, or it could be something the FBI won't share with a local department."
"You really think this is looking into?" Wu asked, surprised.
"I trust your instinct on this one," Renard said. "Given this department's recent history with the FBI - especially my recent history - I think it's best to turn over every rock, just in case."
"Right, I'll make sure the copies are on your desk before I leave tonight, sir."
"Good work, Wu."
It was ten at night, and Nick Burckhardt was lying in his guestroom alone. He attempted to sleep, closing his eyes and willing himself to relax, but it didn't work. After trying for what felt like hours, he rolled over and checked the clock.
It was only ten fifteen.
Frustrated, he clenched his eyes shut, hoping that the darkness would lull him to sleep.
Then he felt something warm and heavy at his side, and a hand drifted up his arm to his shoulder, gripping it tightly. He opened his eyes.
"Juliette?"
"I miss you."
"I miss you, too," he said as he rolled over to face her.
"Then why are you in here?"
"Because you asked me to."
"You're in here when you want to be in our room because I told you to?"
"Pretty much."
"And you're just waiting for me to invite you back in?"
"I think it's called being in the doghouse. I've never really been here before, so I'm guessing."
"Nick..."
"What?"
"Shut up."
Then she kissed him, and he wrapped his arms around her, bringing her close as he kissed back, his hands wandering to her lower back and face.
And it was like the last six months never happened. Like he never lost his powers to begin with, so they never tried to reverse it. She never became a Hexenbiest. They were just Juliette and Nick, and everything was right again.
She rolled on top, slipping off his shirt and throwing her own in the corner soon after. He flipped them, covering her body with his own. Her hands were everywhere.
Sweat covered his forehead. He was too warm, so he tossed the sheets and covers. His entire body was hot.
Incredibly hot, actually. Painfully hot, even.
"Juliette? Juliette... what's happening?"
He lost his balance and fell off the bed, crashing to the ground with no control of his body. He flailed miserably.
"Nick?!" she yelled. "Nick! Stop moving!"
Juliette was at his side with a panicked look on her face. He couldn't stop moving, so she grabbed him to hold him still. When that didn't work, she woged, which gave her the strength to keep him still.
He blinked, and he breathed. He inhaled the sick scent of burnt flesh, realizing to his horror that it was his own.
He had been on fire.
"Nick, I'm so sorry!" Juliette said as she returned to her human form. "Nick, can you hear me? Blink twice if you can hear me."
He blinked twice.
"Spice...shop," Nick managed to say through his charred lips.
"You're going to be all right," she said. "I promise I'll get you there. Just keep breathing, Nick. Okay? Just keep breathing."
Wu sat in his usual spot at the restaurant he always went to for a late night beer and burger. He was halfway through his routine when someone interrupted.
"You mind?" she asked, indicating the empty seat next to him at the bar.
He turned to the speaker, an olive-skinned woman in her fifties with medium-length black hair and small eyes. She was tall, lean, and wearing clothing far too professional for this establishment.
"Go for it," Wu replied.
Nasir Sims, the bartender, smiled at the new arrival. He asked, "What can I get you?"
"Fries, ketchup, and whiskey, no ice," she replied.
"Coming right up."
"You got a designated driver?" Wu asked.
"You offering?"
"I'm on my third, so no. Fair warning, if you refill your whiskey, Nasir takes your keys," Wu said.
When Nasir returned with a whiskey, the woman handed him her car keys.
"Wise choice," he said. "Your fries will be up soon."
"You drinking for a special occasion?" Wu asked.
"Nah, just need a little sleeping assist is all, and drinking alone has too much bad press," she replied. "Name's Annabel Wilder."
"Drew Wu."
Rosalee felt totally unprepared. She and Monroe made it to the Spice Shop in record time. He raced down into the basement, and she began to set up the back room, lowering the lab table, clearing it, and sterilizing it as best she could.
He lugged in the Calvert Family Medical Trunk that her grandfather had made and placed it on the coffee table.
"We need distilled water, neem leaves, ulmus fulva, and cornu cervi parvum," Rosalee said as she prepared the mortars and pestles.
Monroe pulled a dozen bottles from the trunk and lined them up on the apothecary table.
"We need to pound these three ingredients into a power, mix them, and add water to make a gel. Then we can apply it to his skin and cover it with bandages," she said.
They both started crushing the ingredients.
"You sure about this?" Monroe asked.
"If what Juliette described is accurate," she replied warily.
"Did she say anything about, you know, what happened?"
"She said it was an accident. She sounded... panicked."
"Shouldn't they be here, like, now? I mean, it's been forty minutes. So where are they?"
"I don't know."
"What do we do?" he asked.
"We wait."
"We wait?"
"We wait."
Then frantic knocking came from the side door. Monroe opened it, and Juliette pushed past him immediately, followed by Renard, carrying a hand-held stretcher between them with straps running over a bed sheet.
"Is that Nick?" Monroe asked.
Rosalee undid the straps, and together all four moved the man in the sheet to the lowered lab table.
"I did like you said. I dressed the wounds, and I added the sheet so the straps wouldn't compress anything. He stopped responding after we got him into the car," Juliette said quickly. "Please tell me you can help him."
Rosalee peeked under the sheet and nearly wretched at what she saw.
"Is he all right?" Renard asked.
"We're going to need more sterile dressings," she replied. "And the medical grade cling-wrap."
"Is he okay?" Monroe asked. "He smells... like a barbeque."
"He's still breathing, heart rate is elevated," Rosalee replied. "But he does need treatment, so - "
"I got a call in the middle of the night that there's been an accident with Nick," Renard said, interrupting. "I didn't ask at the time, but I'm asking now. What the hell is going on, and what happened?"
"He got burned," Rosalee replied.
"I was at their house, there was no sign of fire," Renard said. "Juliette, who did this?"
"I did," she said quietly.
Monroe asked, "What do you mean, you did this?"
"Things have been better, so I thought maybe we could reconnect. Or try at least. And everything was fine... actually, everything was wonderful until he started burning."
Monroe went to Nick, and before Rosalee could stop him, he threw back the sheet, revealing that Nick's entire body was burned. Except for his head, which had second-degree burns, all his skin was charred white, black, and red, and the gruesome injuries were covered with nothing more than a light layer of plastic wrap dressing.
Monroe's eyes glowed red while Renard stepped back, horrified.
"This wasn't a normal fire," Monroe said. "These are way beyond third degree burns, Juliette. Look at him! He's been burned inside-out!"
"It was an accident!" Juliette pleaded.
"Look at him!" Monroe shouted as he woged. "Look at what you did to him!"
"I didn't mean to, I didn't know what was happening - "
Monroe interrupted, shouting, "You were trying to kill him, weren't you? You wanted to punish him for what happened to you! It's not his fault! You said you'd accept the risks! You said you'd do anything to help him!"
His anger peaked, and he woged, roared, and went straight for Juliette.
"Stop it!" Rosalee said as she stepped between them. "This is not helping Nick!"
Monroe stopped and completed the woge, but the anger was still plain on his face.
"I didn't know," Juliette repeated, cowering behind Rosalee. "I didn't mean to! Please, we have to help him..."
"Monroe!" Rosalee snapped. "Listen to me, you have just proven that Juliette is not the only wesen in this room whose emotions can get the best of them. We need the medical cling-wrap and more sterile dressing cloths. They're down in the basement."
He nodded and left the room.
"Uh... I'm going to call Helena. She might know something that can help," Renard said as he followed Monroe into the next room.
"Are you okay?" Rosalee said to Juliette.
"What? No!" she replied. "Look at Nick! This happened because I was... is this all I can do now? Destroy everyone around me?"
"We can talk about that later. Right now, I need you to tell me exactly what happened."
Mulder woke up to the sound of his cell phone ringing. He tried to silence it, but he was too late. Scully tossed and turned, meaning it had woken her up. He felt a little guilty as he got out of bed and took his phone out of the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind him.
"Mulder," he whispered as he walked to his home office.
"It's Skinner. Why are you whispering?"
"Because it's never smart to wake sleeping Scullys," Mulder replied, still whispering.
"Then get your ass somewhere you can speak up."
Mulder went down the stairs and into his home office before he replied, "Well, good morning to you, too."
"Now that I can finally hear you, I've got an assignment for you," Skinner said.
"I don't work for you anymore."
"You accepted the consulting job, didn't you?"
"Yeah, the consulting job with the single assignment."
"Technically, but your contract also allows me to assign you to cases as an FBI special investigator working with local law enforcement on a case in their jurisdiction."
"Next time I'll read the fine print."
"Trust me, Mulder, you want this assignment," Skinner said. "The Seattle field office and Portland PD both reported recent homicides that match an open X-File."
"You could've led with that."
"The FBI doesn't want this case. I could pull Doggett and Reyes off their current assignment, but that'll attract a lot of attention that I'd rather avoid."
"Skinner, you had me at 'X-File,' just send me the old case file and the recent homicide reports, and I'll start now."
"I've already sent you a secure email with the recent reports, but I can't send you the X-File."
"Why the hell not?"
"Because according to the FBI, the X-Files don't exist."
"Whatever the technicalities are, they did exist at one point, and those cases generated paperwork," Mulder said.
"I can't send you files that are not supposed to exist," Skinner said. "But the case number was X-80391 and the investigation took place in June of two thousand in Burley, Idaho."
"June two thousand?" Mulder repeated. "You're telling me you can't send me the file, even though this case was investigated during my abduction?"
"You're telling me you don't have a copy of every X-File squirreled away somewhere?"
"Even if I did have this specific file, which I'm not sure I do, it's not official. I can't bring it to the detectives on these homicides and offer them a profile."
Skinner replied, "Just check if you have it. If you don't, Scully or Doggett must have a copy somewhere. Once you read it, I think you'll realize that official files won't be necessary."
"Enlighten me."
"No one could figure out if the killer in this case was a man or an animal. Scully's assessment of the forensics suggested a probable animal of abnormal size and temperament with enough intelligence to hold a grudge and exact revenge."
"Sounds like a man to me," Mulder replied.
"I have every confidence that you can and will close this case, Mulder. As soon as possible, report to the Portland field office to obtain your credentials."
Then Skinner hung up abruptly.
Mulder opened his email and printed out the recent homicide reports. Then he dug through his digital backup of the X-Files and located X-80391. Out of habit, he compared crime scene photos with one another first. The recent murders and those in the X-File matched, which meant Skinner was right.
There was an X-File here in Portland.
Hank Griffin arrived at the parking lot of the Green Moon Motel, and Doctor Harper pulled up right after him.
"It's too early in the morning for dead bodies," Harper commented as she got out of her car.
"I hear that," Hank replied.
Sergeant Franco waved them over to door one twenty-three.
"This is a bad one," Franco said.
"Where's the body?" Hank asked.
"We don't have one."
"So you called me at four thirty and dragged me out of bed for no reason?" Harper asked.
"See for yourself," Franco said.
He stepped aside and revealed two fingers (a ring finger and pinky) on the doorstep of room one twenty-three. Not ten feet away, there was an arm dismembered at the shoulder. Though it was covered in bite marks, the hand of that arm had all five fingers digging into the bumper of a black Acura. Part of a leg was impaled upon the car's antenna. It was also bitten, torn, and missing several toes.
"I got unis canvasing the area, and we got three cadaver dogs out looking for the rest of the remains," Franco said. "So far, nothing. The two officers that called it in are just over there."
Harper began her initial exam, and Hank went over to the officers Franco had pointed to.
"You two found the body?" he asked.
"Yes, sir. I'm Officer Rain McDuff, and this is my partner Officer Howard Jones."
"You happened upon this while on patrol?" Hank asked.
"No, we didn't," Jones replied. "Sergeant Wu asked for a designated driver for himself and someone he met at a bar. While we were here, dropping her and her car off, we noticed a lurker. She told us to leave him be, said he was harmless, so we went on our way. Few hours later, on our regular patrol, McDuff said we should check on her. We were a few blocks away, and we figured we could swing by and check on her, no big deal."
"When we pulled in, everything seemed fine," McDuff said. "The car was just as Jones left it, and the lurker was gone, but then we saw the leg, and the arm..."
"We called it in," Jones said. "We checked on the woman we dropped of earlier, she was unharmed but got pretty riled up."
"What do we know about her?" Hank asked.
"Her name is Annabel Wilder," she said. "We didn't talk much, to be honest."
"Right, well, get me your statement as soon as you can. We've got forensics coming in, so you're good to go."
That's when he caught sight of the Captain arriving. Only then did he realize that Nick hadn't shown up yet.
"Captain," Hank said as he approached. "Nick isn't here, yet, he... uh..."
"He's sick, and believe me, that's putting it mildly," Renard replied.
"He okay?"
"Not even close, but there's nothing we can do for him."
"Something tells me we need him on this case," Hank said.
"I'll be filling in until he's back on his feet," Renard said. "That, and the last thing we need is a cop from another jurisdiction turning up dead on our watch."
"What cop?" Hank asked.
"Franco didn't tell you? The woman in this room, Annabel Wilder is a detective with Clark county PD," Renard replied. "What do we have?"
"So far, a probable homicide," Hank replied. "Fingers, arm, and leg from an unknown victim. Haven't found the rest of him or her yet."
"All the same victim?"
Hank said, "Do you wanna weigh in on this, Harper?"
"From what I can see, I'd say these are all from the same person. The size of the fingers and the general physique of what we do have suggests a male," Harper replied. "I can't be sure until we test everything at the lab."
"Any guess on the cause of death?" Renard asked.
"I won't know that until I've got the rest of the body," she replied. "But baring any additional injuries, he probably died from blood loss."
"What about a weapon?" Hank asked.
"I don't even have a guess right now," Harper replied.
"An attack dog," a woman said.
Hank began, "Ma'am, we - "
"Detective Annabel Wilder," she interrupted. "I believe this vic was killed by the same perpetrator as my John Doe."
"Your John Doe?" Hank asked.
"Homicide victim found yesterday. He had been torn apart, and parts of his body had been eaten and vomited up, just like those fingers there," she replied.
"That would explain this viscous substance," Harper commented, holding up a cotton swab.
"Detective Wilder, I'm Captain Renard. Tell me something, if you have a homicide victim in Clark county, why are you in Portland?" Renard asked.
"My John Doe didn't have an ID in his wallet, but he did have the name and a Portland address on a scrap of paper," Wilder replied. "No phone number that I could find, but I figured this person might be able to ID him for us."
"Did you run fingerprints or dental records?" Renard asked.
"No hits on either."
"You got something, though," Hank said, sensing she was holding back.
"I told you I couldn't find a phone number, but the truth is, when I ran the person's information through the federal system, since she's out of state, the FBI called me and started to ask about the case. Didn't bother to explain why they cared so damn much."
"But now there's a body in another state," Renard said, cottoning on. "Which means the Feds could claim jurisdiction."
"They haven't yet," Wilder replied.
"Until the FBI actually files the paperwork, we'll be treating it as a joint Clark county-Portland PD case," Renard said.
"Deal," she said.
"So long as you to agree to protective custody," Renard added.
"I don't need protective custody."
"It's part of the deal."
"Fine."
"This person of interest, who is he?" Hank asked.
Wilder replied, "She, actually. Dana Scully, 1521 NE Prescott Street."
Nick woke up feeling thirsty, tired, and itchy. His entire body throbbed with pain, but it came and went. He tried to speak, but there were bandages over his mouth and lips as well as his eyes, and from what he could tell, he was strapped down.
He made a loud grunting sound.
"Nick?" Juliette asked. "Don't try to speak yet. Hold on."
He felt the bandages on his face shift and then air hit his skin. The sensation made him gasp. His eyes snapped open. He was in the back room of the Spice Shop, and Juliette and Rosalee were standing over him.
"He's still burned," Juliette said to Rosalee.
"I'm burned?" Nick said, his voice hoarse.
"Drink this," Rosalee said, offering a straw.
It was awkward, trying to drink water while lying down, but it made his throat feel better.
"I shouldn't've stopped, Rosalee. He's still burned."
"Minor, first-degree burns," Rosalee replied. "We can treat that with a basic salve."
"What?" Nick asked.
"Nick, don't move. We have to check the rest of your body to make sure the burns have healed," Juliette said.
"Maybe Juliette should do that?" Nick suggested, suddenly feeling very vulnerable.
"I'll be up front," Rosalee said. "If you need anything, just yell."
Sean Renard escorted Detective Wilder to the station so she could give her official statement. When she finished, Wilder helped him coordinated the joint investigation with Clark county. It was a little after ten by the time they finished, and soon after, Sergeant Wu burst into the room.
"Captain, we - Annabel?" Wu said, abruptly stopping mid-thought. "Sorry to interrupt."
"Sergeant Wu, this is Detective Annabel Wilder with Clark county PD," Renard said.
"I heard you were a cop, Drew," Wilder said. She quickly corrected herself, "Sergeant Wu."
"Ah, sorry to interrupt you and Detective Wilder, Captain, but I've got the FBI here waiting to see you," Wu said.
"Send them in."
Wu nodded and left.
"Seems like our joint investigation is over," Wilder said. "I can step out while - "
He interrupted, "No, It's good you're here. They'll be wanting to speak with you as well, I'm sure."
He pulled out the spare chair he kept tucked in the corner and put it along side his desk, offering it to her.
"How chivalrous," she said.
A dark-haired white man came in, followed by a shorter woman with red hair. Renard vaguely recognized them, but he couldn't remember why.
"Are you Captain Renard?" the man asked.
"Yes, and this is Detective Wilder with Clark county," he said. "You two are with the FBI?"
"Actually, it's just me. I'm Fox Mulder, Special Investigator," he said. "I've been assigned to assist you on this case."
Mulder flashed his credentials, and Renard noticed that the casing was brand new.
Renard asked, "You're not here to take over the case?"
"No, I'm here to assist in a joint investigation," Mulder repeated. "And this - "
The woman interrupted, "I'm Dana Scully, and while I'm no longer with the FBI, I investigated this case when the FBI handled it."
"Dana Scully, 1521 NE Prescott Street?" Wilder interjected.
"Yes," she replied.
"Any reason why a homicide victim would have your name and address in their wallet?" Wilder asked, holding out the evidence bag with the handwritten note in it.
"He had my address?" Scully asked. "How did he get it?"
"I think Detective Wilder is more interested in the fact that the man is dead," Renard said. "And the fact that you knew the victim was male without anyone having said so."
"We just moved to Portland a few weeks ago. My mother doesn't have this address yet," Scully explained. "As for knowing the sex of the victim, I assumed this was the male victim found in Washington."
"My John Doe," Wilder said.
"Actually, not anymore," Mulder said. "Scully identified your John Doe as Myron Stefaniuk. The Clark county coroner is working on confirming it, but he's working with half-digested fingerprints and dental records that are over a decade old, so it might be a while."
"So you knew the victim?" Wilder asked Scully.
"I met him during the original investigation," she replied.
"You keep alluding to a previous case," Renard said. "Maybe we should start there."
"In June of two thousand, there were five homicides in Burley, Idaho. Investigators were having trouble determining if the killer as human or animal," Mulder said.
Scully added, "Myron Stefaniuk went into hiding after his brother Ernie was killed."
"From who?" Wilder asked.
"Not who, what," Mulder said.
Renard hesitated before he asked, "What do you think is killing people?"
Mulder handed Renard and old newspaper article, and Wilder stared at it over his shoulder. It had a picture of two people holding up a human-sized bat. The headline read "HUNTERS KILL HUMAN BAT!"
"You're serious?" Wilder asked. "You expect us to believe some hoax from nineteen fifty-six is killing people?"
"If you took time to read the article, you'd see that the one in the picture is dead," Mulder replied. "The coroner did an autopsy but couldn't determine if the creature was animal or human."
"Let me guess, before anyone else had the chance to run tests, the body mysteriously vanished," Wilder said sarcastically.
"A day after the necropsy, the coroner was killed. In the days that followed, there were several other homicides, including one of the hunters," Scully replied. "The MO is the same as the recent murders. The surviving hunter, Ernie Stefaniuk, went into hiding with his wife, Ariel McKesson, a few days later. She died of natural causes in two thousand, and he returned her body to her family to be buried and that's how this predator caught his scent again. It killed five more people, including Ernie. Both I and my partner at the time, Agent Doggett, shot it multiple times, but it got away."
"If any of this is true, why isn't the FBI taking over?" Wilder asked.
"She has a point. Correct me if I'm wrong, but this is an open FBI case," Renard added. "Isn't it?"
"No, technically speaking the FBI has no official file and therefore no official case," Mulder replied. "If I can speak frankly, Scully and I used to work in a division called the X-Files, investigating crimes caused by or connected to unexplained phenomenon. Since our retirement, the FBI has closed the X-Files and redacted their content."
Scully continued, "What my partner is trying to say is that the FBI isn't taking over this case because the FBI doesn't want it."
"Why would the FBI redact and entire division?" Wilder asked.
"Officially, the FBI closed the X-Files because of financial restrictions and because many believed they were an embarrassment to the Bureau," Scully replied. "The truth is that our investigations uncovered government-sanctioned human experimentation and a conspiracy covering up these crimes. Eventually, the forces behind these crimes coerced our supporters to capitulate, and the FBI shut us down."
"That's quite a story," Wilder said.
The Captain's stomach had dropped several times during this particular conversation. He'd heard about the X-Files division, and as a young man, he kept an eye on those cases and the investigative techniques employed in solving them. He considered his words carefully. He needed to confirm the agents' identities and demonstrate his knowledge of the division without revealing his own personal interest.
"The X-Files," Renard repeated. "Isn't that the division that took down Pusher?"
"You mean Robert Patrick Modell? Yes," Mulder replied.
"I make a habit of studying serial crimes," Renard lied. "I believe the X-Files was also responsible for arresting Samuel Aboah and Virgil Incanto, if I'm remembering correctly."
Mulder nodded.
Renard turned to Wilder and said, "All three were complex serial cases that might've never gone to trial had they not accepted the... unique motives of the killers in question."
"Looks like we still have one supporter, Scully," Mulder said.
"I support good police work," Renard replied. "And if you believe that this is an animal rather than a man, I am inclined to believe you. What do you think it will take to stop it from killing again?"
"This is what we know so far," Mulder said. "This animal is as large as a man and highly motivated. It has exhibited a high level of intelligence and seems to target individuals out of revenge. The good news is that this thing only hunts at night, which means we've more than eight hours before we need to worry about any more bodies dropping."
"The bad news," Scully began, "is that this creature hunts by scent. Anyone who has physical contact with a target, even briefly, is in danger. We also know that when it kills, it may kill others nearby, especially if they are alone and interrupt it."
"I don't understand," Wilder said. "You've said this thing went after the hunters who killed this other giant bat thing in nineteen fifty-six. According to you, it got the last hunter fifteen years ago, so why is it killing now?"
"During my investigation, Myron Stefaniuk, Agent Doggett, and I all impeded its revenge spree," Scully said. "That is why Myron went into hiding. He believed he was its next target, and he decided to escape while it recuperated from its wounds."
Exasperated, Wilder asked, "Isn't it possible that we're dealing with someone with an identity disorder? A man who thinks he's an animal or who desperately wants to be one. That kind of thing."
"I encountered this creature," Scully replied. "It attacked me and Agent Doggett. There is no doubt in my mind that it is an animal. It had traits only found in bats, including webbed membranes and other characteristics unique to mammalian flight."
"Animal's don't have the capacity to hold grudges or execute complex revenge plots," Wilder argued.
"That's not true. Many animals exhibit human-like intelligence and even complex, long-term reactions to negative stimuli," Mulder replied calmly. "Research has documented such behavior in crows. They have the ability to recognize faces and are known to hold grudges and act on them, sometimes years later."
"We only have until nightfall. That doesn't give us time for debate," Scully said. After a moment, she added, "I don't mean to be abrupt, but I have reason to believe that I am a target. I didn't go to work today because anyone who comes into contact with me could be at risk. It's possible all three of you are at risk just for being in the same room as me."
A full minute of uncomfortable quiet passed.
Mulder broke the silence. "All four recent homicides share the same M.O. as the homicides in two thousand and nineteen fifty-six."
"Four homicides?" Renard repeated.
Mulder pulled out a small map of the northwestern states. Four cities were marked with red ink: Burley, Idaho; Auburn, Washington; Ridgefield, Washington; and Portland, Oregon.
"The first murder occurred on Saturday. A man named Zack Tisale was torn apart inside his home in Burley, Idaho. We're still waiting on the full report. All they'd tell me on the phone was that there were no signs of a break in," Mulder said. "Before dawn on the next day, Michelle Winfield of Puyallup, Washington was murdered while on the phone with a nine-one-one operator. She called to report that a patient was in the process of stealing her car. She didn't have a chance to name the patient, but it must be someone she treated at Auburn Medical Center, since this happened in center's parking lot. Her body was found there less than three minutes after the start of her call. She was dismembered and missing an ear and three fingers."
Scully laid out the crime scene photos of Michelle Winfield's murder.
"This happened in two minutes?" Wilder asked.
"Her ear was found under a car across the parking lot, regurgitated. Her fingers were found in a tree not far from the ear," Scully said dispassionately.
"The third victim you already know," Mulder said. "John Doe, almost certainly Myron Stefaniuk, found dead off of I-5 in Ridgefield, Washington Sunday night."
"And the fourth victim was here in Portland," Wilder said. "But he's not like the others."
"So far we've only found fingers, an arm, and a leg," Renard said. "He died sometime between two and four in the morning."
"You haven't found the rest of his body?" Scully asked.
"Not yet," Wilder replied. "And the scene was completely different from the other homicide. It was... arranged. Like the killer wanted me to open my door to find fingers and an arm clinging to my car's bumper for dear life."
"It's likely that this creature is targeting you because of that," Mulder said, pointing to the evidence bag with Myron's note inside.
"I thought you said it's not human," Wilder protested.
"We did," Scully replied.
"Last I checked, even the smartest damned animals can't read."
"It's not about reading," Scully said. "I told you this thing hunts by scent. Myron kept this note on him, that would be more than enough for it to find you."
"Why would it follow the scent of a main it already murdered - meaning, me - to Portland?" Wilder asked.
Renard had another stomach-churning experience. Twice in one meeting... that never happened. He couldn't distract the other investigating parties and confirm his suspicions, so he had to get word to Hank and Monroe.
"Assuming it is seeking revenge on others, it's possible it simply following a familiar scent in hopes of picking up another," Renard suggested.
Wilder asked, "What kind of sense does that make?"
"We've got four people dismembered, eaten, and regurgitated in three states in just three days," Renard replied. "I can't think of a scenario where that makes sense, but maybe if we fill in the gaps, connect our victims with more than just the MO of our killer, we might have a better idea of what's going on here."
"Do you have a room we can use?" Mulder asked. "This isn't the kind of thing I think we should put up on the boards in the bullpen."
"I agree," Renard said. "I'll be right back."
The Captain ducked out of his office and went straight to Sergeant Wu.
"Captain? How're the sketchy Feds?" Wu asked.
"That's a discussion for another time. I need you to get something to Hank. Tell him it's wesen-related but Nick might not have any information on this, so you'll need Monroe or Rosalee," Renard said. "Give me your notepad."
Wu handed over his notebook and pen with a skeptical look. Renard quickly scribbled his idea without looking.
"I didn't have time to make a copy of this newspaper article, but it has a photo that might help. Just make sure that the original copy gets back to my office, or it'll be missed," Renard said. He handed the notebook back to Wu and said, "Whatever you do, don't read this note out loud, and if you wind up handing it off to Hank, make sure you tell him the same. Do not say it out loud."
"Ohhh-kay. Cryptic. Not sure I like it. I'll drop it off right away. Do you need anything else, Captain?" Wu asked.
"Yeah, have Sergeant Franco set up whatever we've got free as a conference room. Don't worry about the size, just make sure it's private," Renard replied. "I'm going to keep the FBI and the Clark county Detective busy."
"Aye, aye Captain," Wu said before he left to find Franco.
Monroe was not having a good day.
First, Nick was burned from the inside out. That was bad news to get any day of the week, especially at eleven at night.
Then, Monroe missed sleeping and therefore his morning Pilates. Bad news and no mellowing-out routine made for one cranky Blutbad.
And now he was craving a nice, juicy steak.
His cell phone rang.
"Hello?" he answered.
"Monroe, it's Hank."
"Hank? What's going on?"
"We got a homicide, and I can't find Nick. The Captain told me he was sick or something, but this is definitely related to wesen, and I've got nothing to go on. The Captain said he'd fill in for Nick, but either he doesn't know any more than I do or he's not sharing," Hank said.
"Trust me, Nick isn't in any condition to help."
"I get that. That's why I'm calling you."
"Me?"
"You've helped Nick on cases before, right? I don't mean fact-finding and translating German."
"Yeah, I did," Monroe replied. "Sure why not?"
"As soon as you can, come to the Green Moon Motel. I've got to go."
"I will as soon as I tell Rosalee."
Hank hung up.
"Tell me what?" Rosalee asked.
Monroe jumped, startled by her voice. He hadn't seen her come in from the back room.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
"Yeah, just a little jumpy," he replied. "Hank asked me to help him out, since Nick is... well, you know. Will you be okay here if - "
She interrupted, "Yes. You should go."
"I should?" he asked.
"We all had a rough night, you especially."
"Me? Don't you mean Nick especially? He was the one that got roasted."
"You rbest friend was hurt, nearly killed. Last night, there were things for you to do, but now, all you can do is wait," she said. "I think you could use something to keep you busy, so go on. Go help Hank stop a bad guy."
Monroe wrapped Rosalee in a hug and kissed her on the cheek.
"Sometimes I forget you see right through me," he said.
"Rosalee!" Juliette shouted from the back room. "Rosalee! Help!"
"I got this," Rosalee said to Monroe before he could respond. "Be safe. I love you."
"Love you, too."
The vacant office that currently served the FBI-Clark-Portland joint investigation became silent after they received the official police reports, digital recordings, and autopsies for the first three victims.
"Do we have a description of Michelle Winfield?" Mulder asked.
Scully had been so focused on the crime scene photos that she nearly jumped in surprise at the sound of anything than her own thoughts echoing in her head.
"Uh, yeah," Wilder replied. "We have her driver's license photo and the photo from her hospital id."
"She a white female with brown-and-grey hair and dark eyes?" Mulder asked.
"That could describe most the women on the West Coast," Wilder replied.
"Does she have a wide, white scar across the bridge of her nose?" he asked.
Scully knew that tone in his voice. She asked, "Did you find something?"
"Look at that, Mulder, you're right. Take gander," she replied, enlarging the DMV photo on the computer. "Distinctive scar."
"According to Freddie Lourdes, Zack Tisdale spoke with a woman matching Winfield's description the afternoon of his death," Mulder said.
"Why'd they talk about?" Wilder asked.
"She asked Lourdes about his neighbor, Carl Reyes, saying he was the next-of-kin for a patient. Trouble was that Reyes had packed his truck and left Friday morning with his mom and girlfriend, so Lourdes assumed Winfield was up to no good, scoping houses to rob or something. He sent her away without even opening the door."
"It's a good thing," Scully said. "Keeping that door closed is probably the only reason Lourdes is still alive."
"So Winfield goes to find Carl Reyes, but he's not around. Tisdale tells her he's gone, so she drives back home," Wilder said.
"The patient must've been Myron Stefaniuk," Scully said.
"I checked. He wasn't registered at the Auburn Medical Center," Wilder replied.
Mulder said, "I ran all the patient names, checking for other possible victims. Two are unaccounted for: Sandra Newcomb and Michael Smith. Myron was in hiding, and Michael Smith sounds like an alias. We can confirm that with medical records."
"We'd need probably cause, and we don't have any," Scully said.
"But you could request to review his file as a doctor," Mulder suggested.
"It would be more efficient to ask the Clark county coroner to handle it, since he has the body. Give him the two missing patient names, and he can make a request to Auburn Medical," she replied.
"Even if he confirms that, there's till no connection between our John Doe and the other three victims," Wilder said.
"We might have to consider the possibility that the connection is you," Scully said.
"I get it. I carried the Myron-scented evidence here, and somehow that got John Doe killed," Wilder said. "The point I was trying to make was that the other three victims had actual contact with one another hours before their deaths. I didn't arrive in Portland until a full day after we found Stefaniuk."
"We won't know anything until we identify John Doe," Mulder said.
Scully thought he was right, but that meant they were at a dead end. As Mulder and Wilder continued on about the connections, Scully's mind kept going over the two most recent homicides. She couldn't put her finger on it, but something was wrong about them.
Monroe parked his yellow super beetle on a side street and walked to the Green Moon Motel. Hank was waiting for him.
"The remains were taken to the morgue," Hank said. "But everything else is as we found it."
He handed Monroe a large, digital camera.
"You want me to take photos?" Monroe asked.
"Thought it'd be good for you to look like you have a reason to be here."
"That is so... thoughtful," Monroe replied. "Nick is terrible with cover stories. He usually just blurts the first lame thing that he thinks of."
"Come on," Hank said, leading him to the parking lot.
"Whoa, that's... definitely wesen," Monroe said before they could even seen the crime scene tape.
"You see something?"
"I smell something. Strong something. A knock-you-on-your-ass strength something," he replied.
They continued to where the remains were found, and Monroe did his best to look busy. While he and Hank spoke, he took photos of the car, the motel, the parking lot, the officers, and even the random people who had stopped to gawk at the crime scene.
"Any idea what this person could've been?" Hank asked.
"Smells mammalian," Monroe said. "But from what I see here, this guy could be anything with teeth and a bad temper."
"We had Cadaver dogs out here earlier, trying to find the rest of the body, but they turned up nothing," Hank said. "This guy took parts with him. Does that narrow the wesen field?"
"Unfortunately, that's not a helpful distinction," Monroe replied. "I mean, for one thing, do we even know that the killer is the one who took the rest of the body? Maybe a Geier took it for the organs. Assuming they were in tact."
"A what now?" Hank asked.
"Never mind."
On the pretext of taking a close up of the Acura's bumper where the hand had been placed, Monroe leaned in and sniffed.
"You used dogs to search for the body?"
"Yeah, no luck," Hank replied.
"There wouldn't be," Monroe said. "I thought that smell I picked up was from the remains. Don't get me wrong, the smell is from the same individual, but these aren't... potent enough. We must be downwind from something the killer wanted to cover up."
"Cover up?" Hank repeated. "I'm not following."
"Basically, some wesen mark their territory to warn others," Monroe explained. "As an added bonus, it can confuse actual animals, like wolves or cougars or even trained dogs."
"So you're saying that this guy used his scent or whatever to hide the rest of the body from the dogs?"
"Works better than slaked lime and frankincense," Monroe replied.
"Can you find it?" Hank asked.
"Follow me. I've got fake crime scene photos to take."
The scent had a definitive trail, so Monroe followed it to the back of the motel, where the smell became much stronger, only to become incredibly faint a few steps later. It was possible that the killer arrived in a car and parked behind the motel, as driving away reduced scent trails substantially.
But why did the trail suddenly get stronger? That didn't make any sense to Monroe until he realized that the trail was stronger because it had fewer odors to compete with.
"You got something?" Hank asked.
"It doesn't make much sense," Monroe warned. "The crime scene was downwind of something very pungent, but we're not anymore."
"You mean we're upwind of the body now?"
"Yeah, but we've gone, what, ten or twenty feet?" Monroe asked. "Whatever the crime scene is downwind from, this place is downwind from, too."
"This is the north side of the building," Hank said. "Any chance the wind is blowing north to south?"
"Sure, but that's my point - "
"The roof," Hank interrupted.
They climbed three fire escapes to the top of the motel, which was flat, filthy, and, rank. Monroe nearly keeled over from the smell, which emanated from puddles of urine, dung piles, and vomit mounds.
Blood was everywhere, and unlike the parking lot, there were clear signs of a struggle. The detective snapped on forensics gloves and bent down to examine a bloody footprint briefly before moving on to the remains. He checked the coat and found a small wallet.
"You found the primary crime scene, Monroe," Hank said calmly. "Normally I'd say that the vomit meant our killer couldn't stomach what he did, but I don't think that's what was happening here. The body is male and missing one arm, one leg, and two fingers. Definitely the same vic, and if this ID is his, which it seems like, then we got a name, Jason Schmitt."
Monroe couldn't reply; he couldn't even think. The scent was so strong that his stomach churned and his eyes watered. He did his best to plug his nose, but it wasn't enough. When he couldn't take it anymore, he scrambled back to the fire escape and down one flight of stairs.
Hank must've noticed he disappeared, because he came back to the edge of the roof to find him.
"Monroe? You all right?" Hank asked from above.
"Yeah, but I can't go up there without a nose plug and some kind of mouth cover. That guy went out of his way to stop animal predation and any wesen with nostrils from getting near that body."
Hank came down to joined him.
Hank joined him. He pulled out his notebook, ripped a page from it, and quickly drew something.
"This guy left a four-taloned footprint. It looked like this," he said as he handed Monroe the paper. "You think you can figure out what kind of wesen we're looking for from this print and the smell?"
"I don't know the name, but I know I've definitely smelled one of these before."
Loose pages fell out of Hank's notebook. "Oh, I almost forgot. Before you got here, Wu gave me a weird photocopy and a weirder note, both from the Captain. He said it was wesen-related and that Nick might not be able to help us with it. I didn't have the time to look at it yet."
Monroe tried to look at the pages, but his eyes were still watering. "Rosalee will know. I should take all this back to the Spice Shop, where I might be able to breathe again."
"Yeah, it's a good idea for you to go. I gotta call the body in."
Monroe returned to the Spice Shop just as the post-lunch hour rush died down. He told Rosalee about the crime scene before handing her the notes Hank gave him.
"Geflugelten Ritters," Rosalee said as soon as she unfolded them. "Newspaper photo makes that pretty clear."
"I knew I smelled that before!" Monroe said as his palm hit his forehead. "Geflugelten Ritters! How could I forget?"
She suddenly became stiff and still.
"Rosalee?" he said. When she didn't response, he said, "Rosalee, what's wrong?"
"Turn the sign and lock the door," she replied.
"What's wrong?"
"Turn the sign and lock the door!"
He complied, though he became very tense.
"What's going on?" he asked.
Rosalee held up the note the Captain had written. As Monroe's mind registered what he saw, the air left his lungs. It was the three letters all wesen knew and feared even more than Grimms: O.F.D.
This was the last thing he needed on a day without Pilates.
"This is bad," he said.
"Very, very bad."
"Bad."
He didn't know what to say, and from the looks of it, neither did she.
Then Juliette and Nick came in from the back room. He still had very red skin, but now it looked like a bad sunburn.
"Nick, you're all right!" Monroe said. "Which is really important now because we've got really bad news."
"Apparently it's just one of those days," Nick said, his voice still a little dry. "What is it?"
"Good news first. We know what wesen you're up against: Geflugelten Ritters," Rosalee said.
"What do we know about them?" Nick asked.
"Uh..." Monroe began, but his mind was blank.
"I know they are a bat-like wesen that look like this," she said as she handed the newspaper photo to Nick.
"This wesen is dead," he said.
"So?" Juliette asked.
"If a wesen dies while woged, they always woge to their human form. It's like how the pupils dilate after death. It happens soon after and automatically," he explained. "But this guy didn't. We've seen this before. Is this another one of those hunters who skin wesen for their pelt?"
"No, this isn't sauver se peau," Monroe said. "Don't get me wrong, that is nasty stuff, but today I'm talking a whole new level of holy-crap."
"Are you going to tell us what it is?" Juliette asked.
"We've got a note with it written down, but here's the thing - and especially for you now, Juliette - we do not say this out loud," Monroe said.
"Why not?" she asked.
"It's a pech wort, you know, a word that's bad luck to say," Monroe replied.
"It's a huge taboo in the wesen community. People tried switching to the acronym, but the taboo spread to every term people used," Rosalee replied. "We were all raised believing that saying it out loud will somehow bring it upon ourselves. We've known for about a hundred years that that's not possible, but... it's like breaking a mirror."
"Exactly. You know, why risk it?" Monroe added.
"Okay, but we need something to call it so we can talk about it," Nick said.
"My grandfather used to call it ungezahmt," Monroe suggested. "It means uncurbed or feral."
"Feral? You mean like Holly Clark?" Nick asked.
"What? No! Holly is not feral!" Monroe said quickly.
Nick replied, "But she lived alone in the woods for nine years. She basically raised herself."
"She was not feral," Rosalee said. "She tapped into her wesen side to survive in the wild. That's totally different."
"Completely different. Nick, when we say feral, which is a pretty accurate description, we're talking way out there, utterly untethered by humanity," Monroe said. "And there is no coming back from it, either."
Rosalee showed the note to Juliette and Nick. She explained, "These three letters are an acronym for an incredibly rare genetic disorder. The symptoms begin to show in young adulthood, slowly developing over time with physical and mental changes. Eventually, the wesen essence becomes fixed, so the person can no longer woge. Mental deterioration varies, but usually, individuals adopt animalistic behaviors that reflect their wesen heritage. Since it's genetic, it only happens in certain bloodlines, and even then, only after many generations of inter-marriage."
"She means in-breeding," Monroe said. "Like a long, long history of it."
"So this guy in the newspaper photo, everyone could see him like this?" Nick asked.
"Yeah, you can see how the problems kinda build up in this situation," Monroe said.
"The Wesen Council has a problem with it because it can expose the greater wesen community. Anyone who becomes feral and refuses to go into hiding is sentenced to death," Rosalee said.
"Then there's the whole issue of their remains," Monroe said. "No burial, no preservation, and absolutely no prodding or poking at the hands of kehrseite."
"This article said they did an autopsy in nineteen fifty-six," Nick said.
"It also says that the coroner who did the autopsy was murdered, and the body went missing," Juliette said.
Rosalee added, "And someone probably destroyed the paperwork."
"But the bigger problem here is that a wesen gone feral, especially one that's lost their humanity, is the most dangerous predator on the planet," Monroe said. "Going feral means they lost their conscience, empathy, socialization, that kind of thing, but they still have their intelligence."
Juliette asked, "You're saying this killer is a powerful bat the size of a person, with the intelligence of a human being, and the instincts and behavioral patterns of a wild predator."
"I'm pretty sure that's what they said," Nick agreed.
"The good news is that this varies a lot from person to person and between species," Rosalee said.
"You said this guy is a kind of bat wesen," Nick said. "Can he fly?"
Monroe considered this for a moment. "I know they can glide. Not sure about flying, but you must have something on them in the trailer."
"Good idea," Rosalee said.
"Is there anything you can make that can help us?" Nick asked. "Any kind of de-feralling mixture?"
"This isn't something I can treat. It's like Huntington's Disease," Rosalee replied. "Irreversibly progressive. Modern medicine may have treatments for it, but it's not even close to a cure."
"What about anything that can slow or stop a Geflugelten Ritters?" Juliette asked. "Flying is a big advantage in a fight."
Rosalee replied, "I'll look through the books I have. There might be something."
"We should go to the trailer," Juliette said. "I'll bring the car around."
She went out through the back room.
"Nick, Juliette just spent twelve hours healing you," Monroe said. "No matter how powerful she is, she has limits, and neither of you have any idea what'll happen if she pushes those."
"She seems fine," he replied. "And besides, we're going to read in the trailer, not into battle."
"You should still warn her," Rosalee said. "She might feel fine until she tries to use her power again."
Nick said, "I know what happened last night freaked both of you out, and I don't want to sound ungrateful since you helped save my life. But please, don't blame her for what happened."
"Dude, she lit you on fire," Monroe said evenly.
"Not on purpose."
Monroe looked at Nick, then at Rosalee, not bothering to conceal his shock. His best friend and wife were both in denial, and neither one seemed to know it.
He said, "Not you, too, Nick. I'm not trying to convince you Juliette is a bad person, but she lit you on fire. She has the power of an incredibly potent adult Hexenbiest, but only a few months of actual experience living with it. Usually that kind of power grows over time and only with practice. Believe me when I say that lighting you on fire might actually be the least dangerous thing she could do."
"I hear what you're saying," Nick replied. "I mean it. I do, but it's not her fault."
"He's not talking about fault," Rosalee said. "Remember what Trubel was like when we first met her? She'd been a Grimm for years but had no idea."
"That's completely different - " Nick began.
Rosalee interrupted. "It's the same fundamental problem. You needed someone - like your aunt - to help you, and so did Trubel. You were the one that taught her where to start."
"And I'll help Juliette the same way."
"Dude, you can't do that as a Grimm," Monroe said.
"He's right, you can't let her learn about Hexenbiests from what's written in your ancestor's books."
"Okay, I'll talk with her about this, but after we stop the giant man-bat that's currently tearing people apart across Portland," Nick said.
Officers Rain McDuff and Howard Jones made a habit of sharing a beer once a week and bonding for an hour or two. The rules were simple: no shop talk, no cop bars, and no cell phones.
By the time they left, it was dusk, so McDuff insisted on driving Jones home.
"I live less than a mile from here," Jones protested. "I can walk off that last beer."
"Right, you walk off that beer and get yourself hit by a car, and it'll be my ass, won't it?"
They had been driving for about two minutes when a loud THUMP came from the roof.
"What the hell?" McDuff said.
"Probably just acorns or pinecones falling from the trees."
"Damn big acorns," McDuff replied.
That's when something large and hard smashed through the back window. McDuff swerved in surprise but kept the car on the road.
"What the hell was that?"
"Pull over."
Before she could even think about it, there was a fierce smashing force that wailed on the passenger side of the car. The windows shattered, covering both of them with broken glass, and Jones screamed as sharp talons slashed at his chest, shredding the seatbelt.
McDuff slammed on the breaks and came to a squealing halt. The sickening sound of bones breaking filled the air as Jones was dragged out of the car straight through the window. Whatever it was then threw him several car lengths ahead.
Then the world turned upside-down. She couldn't breathe because the seatbelt cut into her chest. McDuff fumbled with the button to unlock it. She wasn't prepared for the fall, and her head crashed into the steering wheel, disorienting her.
She needed to get to Jones. Her personal car didn't have a radio, so she riffled through the debris in her car and found a cell phone - Jones's - and dialed the precinct's direct line. As it rang, she reached for the glove compartment to get her firearm.
"Portland PD," someone answered.
"This is Officer Rain McDuff. Officers down. Require immediate assistance on Rootville Drive. My partner and I were attacked leaving the Swirly Pony Pub."
"We're dispatching units now."
McDuff finally turned herself right side up on the roof of her car. She was covered with cuts and broken glass, and Jones seemed much closer, probably because the car moved ahead when it was flipped.
"Jones!" she yelled. "Jones, can you hear me?"
"McDuff!" he yelled back. "Run! Get the hell out of here! RUN!"
"Screw you!"
She popped the driver-side door open, but it wouldn't budge. She tried the passenger side door. It was blocked by the curb, but the entire window was gone. She took her coat and threw it over the broken glass as best she could and began to crawl out.
"RUN! Get out of here McDuff!" he shouted.
Jones tried to stand, but his legs buckled. Eventually, he began crawling to the sidewalk.
McDuff made a point to face her partner so she could keep an eye on him. She was halfway out when the car suddenly groaned under a heavy weight. The doorframe crunched down, and McDuff screamed as the uncovered glass of the window sank into her back.
When she tried to look behind herself to see what was on the car, the glass tore at her skin and she felt her blood spill out of her wounds, warming her skin. Slowly and carefully, she positioned herself so she could aim her gun.
Then she heard it. It was somewhere between a purr and a roar, and it escalated into a screech.
It was right behind her.
"Get the hell out of here, McDuff!"
"I can't move!" she shouted back.
Sirens approached. Backup was near.
As if goaded by the cacophony, the assailant leapt off the car and circled Jones, just a little too far away to see. McDuff fired, and the recoil forced her to adjust before she could try again. She fired again and again. At one point, she must've hit whatever-the-hell-it was because it screeched again.
Her clip ran out, so she looked at Jones, giving him a hang-in-there look. When their eyes met, she saw how terrified he was.
"McDuff," he said quietly. "Close your eyes."
Then the monster descended on him.
McDuff couldn't move, couldn't turn, couldn't look away. All she could do was watch as her partner was mauled and torn apart by a monster so hideous that she knew she must be dreaming.
"Wake up," she said to herself as she was spattered with Jones's blood. "Wake up, wake up, wake up..."
Finally, the sirens reached full pitch, and the flashing lights illuminated the wreckage. The creature stole one of Jones's arms and ran.
She kept repeating, "Wake up, wake up, wake up..."
<<< Previous part:
Chapter Three: Harbringer sec. Apophenia
(Part Two)
Next part: >>>
Chapter Four: Feral
(Part Two)
Primary Post: Addendum GW