Fic: An Introduction to Knowledge [NCIS: New Orleans/SPN]
Title: An Introduction to Knowledge - An NCIS: New Orleans/Supernatural crossover
Author: rei_c
Pairings: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13
Total Word Count: 3000
Summary: Meredith Brody should have known: choosing to work in New Orleans means dealing with voodoo. She just didn't realise that voodoo is still practiced -- and that sometimes it means death.
Warnings: Episode coda for NCIS: NOLA 1x21 and general spoilers for Supernatural. References to murder.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, and any (and all) errors relative to the canons spoken of herein are mine and mine alone.
Author’s Notes: This is future-fic for the 'verse created in Knowledge of Dead Secrets and does contain extremely vague spoilers for the Katrina!fic, currently in-progress.
--
Brody lets the EMTs fuss over her, waits for the bodies to be taken away, then stands up from where she'd been sitting on the trunk of her car. After a deep breath, she heads for the porch steps, intent on going back inside.
"Brody, hold up," Pride says, jogging to catch up to her from where he'd been talking to LaSalle. "What d'you think you're doing?"
"I wanna go back inside and look at that -- altar," she says, trying to find the right word.
Pride looks over to LaSalle, seems like he's thinking about something. "All right," he says. "I'll finish up out here and tell Christopher to get over and pick up Cade. Take a look, get your mind in order. Then there's someone I think it's time you met."
--
Brody stands in the doorway and gets chills. She doesn't think it's because she was on her knees and tied up here, but it could be. She doesn't think it's because she was being held at shotgun-point. She doesn't even think it's because of the madness she saw in Sanchez's eyes.
Instead, she thinks it has more to do with the symbol on that dropcloth, the candles scattered across the floor and the dried flowers stuck in bleached-white skulls, the portraits and voodoo dolls, the jars and bowls and even the lights strung up on the makeshift altar. Pink and red and lace everywhere, and underneath the smell of old, dried blood, there's something else.
"Perfume," Pride says. "Rose water, if I'm not mistaken. Traditional for altars dedicated to Erzulie."
"But voodoo?" Brody asks, as Pride comes to stand next to her. "People still -- it's still practiced? I thought it was just something for the tourists."
Pride shrugs, sounds tired as he says, "This is New Orleans, Brody. We don't like to give up our traditions. But most people of the voodoo faith around here would look down on human sacrifice. Hopefully Sanchez was a lone wolf."
Brody's mind has stuck on one word through all Pride had to say. She has to swallow, her mouth gone dry. "Most?"
"It's an old faith," Pride says, as he walks over and picks up something from the altar, tucks it in his pocket. "Prone to -- evolution. Nowadays, the leaders don't exactly approve of followers who might attract attention from the outside, especially from the police. I have no doubt that if details about the necklaces had leaked, even from the first victim, this would have been taken care of a long time ago."
"Taken care of," Brody echoes. It's like she can't do more than parrot him or ask one-word questions; something about being in this room makes her teeth ache and her nerves jangle. It feels -- it just feels wrong to be here.
Pride squeezes her shoulder on his way back outside. "Come on, Brody."
She takes one more look around the room and then follows Pride outside. It feels good to be out of that house.
--
Pride parks on Dauphine, between St. Louis and Conti, right in front of a three-story home with galleries on the second and third floors. Brody's seen nicer, been in nicer, even Gorey's was more impressive, but there's something about this house, something leaking out of the windows, that makes it seem bigger than looking at it might suggest.
A few people along the street watch carefully as Pride and Brody get out of the car, go for the front door. Pride keeps his hands far away from his gun and Brody does the same.
"What is this place?" she asks. "Why are we here?"
"Because I trust you," Pride says, rapping on the door with his knuckles.
The door opens and a tall man with stunning eyes and three days worth of stubble looks at them, raises an eyebrow and asks, "Me and mine in trouble, Agent Pride?"
"Just wanted you to meet someone," Pride says. "Sorry I didn't have time to call ahead, Dean, but something came up this afternoon that you and Sam should probably know about. Thought maybe I could deal with both things at the same time."
Dean takes that in, then grins, and holds out a hand for Pride to shake. "Come on in, then, King. Sam's in the back; I'll go get him. You two need something to drink?"
"We're good, thanks," Pride says, and when Dean holds the door open for them, Pride walks in without hesitation and turns to the left. It's clear he's been here before.
Brody follows, finds herself in a light and airy sitting room with large, curtained windows looking out to Dauphine. The ceiling fan is spinning, gently moving a couple embroidered and sequined tapestries hanging from the wall above a side-table covered in crimson-coloured lace and holding a few empty shot glasses and half-filled bottles of alcohol. Two couches and a couple of Queen Anne-style wing-backs, all of them in matching and lush gold and black fabric, sit around the edges of the room, surrounding a glass and wrought-iron coffee table with cabriole legs to match the rest of the furniture.
Pride sits down on one of the couches; Brody perches on a chair, on edge and not sure why. When she hears a couple voices in the hall, she stands up a split-second before Pride does, can feel -- electricity?
She thought Dean was tall but the man coming in now -- Sam, maybe -- is even taller, brown hair clipped back from his face. "Good to see you, Agent Pride," maybe-Sam says, then adds, "I'd shake your hand but, well," and he lifts up his right hand to show off a deep cut down the middle of his palm. It looks like it's still bleeding but before Brody can say anything about it, Dean slides in behind Sam and wraps Sam's hand with a rag soaked in what smells like witch hazel, movements assured and practiced even as he clucks his tongue in rebuke.
"No worries, Sam," Pride says. "Wanted you to meet one of my agents, Meredith Brody." Sam and Dean look at her, focus on her, and Brody's heart skips a beat. The intensity of that focus is -- she's met the eyes of unrepentant serial killers before and they aren't as cold as Dean's or as cunning as Sam's. "She came down from our Great Lakes field office a few months ago, seems like she's got her heart set on staying."
"Pleasure to meet you," Sam says, and if the look in his eyes doesn't match the smile he's wearing, she's not going to call him on it.
Instead, she nods, gives the two men a tight smile and says, "Same."
Like they can hear something in her voice, both of them tilt their heads to the left, eyes narrowing. Brody's got her gaze fixed on Sam, can't seem to look away, but then Dean murmurs something in Sam's ear, and Sam nods and blinks, moving toward a couch. Brody looks at Pride, who's watching with interest but not concern, so when Sam gestures at the chair again, says, "Please, Agent Brody," she sits.
Sam sits on the couch opposite from Pride, taking the middle cushion with something that looks like relief to be off his feet. Brody can't help but wonder why, what he was doing in 'the back,' how he got the cut on his hand. She doesn't ask.
It takes Dean longer to decide which side of Sam to sit on. Brody watches, curious but still on edge, as Dean glances first at her and then at the door. He obviously doesn't want Sam to be close to an unknown, that's clear enough to see, but it's intriguing that he wants to put himself between Sam and the doorway, as if he doesn't trust his own home to be safe. For a moment, Brody assumes that Dean's obsessively overprotective but she reminds herself not to jump to conclusions, that Dean could just be the bodyguard to someone important -- and rich, to be able to afford a house in the Quarter.
"Come on," Sam tells Dean, and pats the cushion closer to Brody. "The badjikan's upstairs and your timoun are outside."
Sam sounds fond, maybe even touched by Dean's concern; Brody gathers this is a usual occurrence and reassesses the bodyguard idea.
Dean frowns but follows Sam's direction, sits between Sam and Brody and leans forward, intent on Pride apart from the times his eyes flick over to Brody, once every few seconds. She almost inhales when she realises: they're sitting too close together to be anything but lovers, thighs touching and breathing in sync. In fact, Brody would bet a year's salary that those two have extensive intimate knowledge of each other, physical and otherwise.
She's sliding all of these facts together, that Dean's the watchdog, probably quicker to anger and slow to forgive, territorial and overprotective, someone who doesn't trust easily, but Sam's the one with the power or wealth or whatever it is. Sam fits here, is comfortable in this room, but Dean's not, which means one of two things: that this was Sam's house first or that Dean let Sam decide how to decorate. Either way, Dean indulges Sam, does everything he can to keep Sam happy.
Brody wonders how Sam earned that type of devotion.
"I won't keep you, Agent Pride," Sam says, pulling Brody from her thoughts. "Dean said you had something to tell us?"
Pride reaches into his pocket, pulls out whatever he took from the Moss Hill house. It turns out to be a necklace, copy of the one used in Windi Stewart's murder, and he sets it on the coffee table. Dean's the one to reach for it; he hisses when he touches the symbol, drops the necklace in Sam's palm as quick as he can.
"Earlier today," Pride says, as Sam's stroking the charm with long, graceful fingers, "NCIS shot and killed a follower of Erzulie who'd been murdering women in and around New Orleans. She had an altar set up at her house and a drop-cloth vévé in the room where her boyfriend killed them. In the interest of our continuing relationship," he adds, an odd quirk to his lips that Brody's never seen before, "I thought you might like to know."
Sam sets the necklace back on the table. He pins his eyes on Pride and asks, "Are you sure she was committing these crimes in Erzulie's name?"
"Yes," Brody answers. Sam pins his eyes on her; she resists the urge to shiver when the smell of ozone fills her nostrils.
"You were the one that killed them," Dean says. "Two of them. It's all over you. You reek of death." Sam clears his throat and Dean mutters an apology, but his eyes are fixed firmly on Brody now. "Can you describe the altar for us?"
Brody looks at Pride, who nods for her to go ahead. "The room was -- there were candles everywhere, pink and red and lace. Roses."
Sam hums thoughtfully, then asks Pride, "Are you allowed to tell us the name?"
"Eloise Sanchez," Pride says. "Over by the bayou on Moss Hill."
Brody gapes at Pride, can't believe he's telling two people -- civilians, definitely not related to the case -- so much information.
"Pink and lace is Freda," Dean says, and though it's loud enough for everyone to hear, it's obviously directed at Sam. "The vévé is, too. But there's no way she knew about this."
"Call Colette and tell her to take care of it," Sam says, still staring at the necklace. Dean frowns, opens his mouth, but Sam cuts him off before he can say anything. "This is hers to deal with, not yours, Dean. Freda's Rada. Call Colette."
Dean growls, honest-to-god growls, but he gets up, stalks out of the room and slams the door behind him. Maybe Brody's just noticing now but his cologne or deodorant or something reeks of pepper.
"Sorry about that," Sam says. "Dean still likes to take care of everything himself, no matter how many times I tell him to delegate."
"Seems like he gets that from you," Pride says.
It takes a moment, but Sam laughs and shakes his head. "You got me there, Agent Pride. I like to think I'm doing better, but." He shrugs, still smiling, and something inside of Brody aches. She pushes it to the side, that feeling, and gives it a moment's study while Pride and Sam are talking, exchanging stories about people they both know and what they've all been up to lately.
The ache, it's somewhere inside of her, but it's not sexual, not even familial, the way she's started to feel about LaSalle and Pride. It's something deeper, something colder, and the only thing it makes her think of when she really pushes is standing in the rain at her sister's graveside.
Death. It makes her think of death.
"Well," Pride says, startling her as he stands up. "We should get going. Just wanted to drop off that necklace and introduce you."
Sam looks at Brody; when their eyes meet, a zing of ice travels down her spine. His smile turns sad, almost, though his tone is nothing but gentle as he tells her, "Feel free to stop by anytime, Agent Brody. Any friend of Agent Pride's is welcome in our home." She nods, lets out a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding when Sam turns his attention to Pride. "Thanks for the info, Agent Pride. As always, let me know if there's anything we can do for you."
"So long as you do the same," Pride says.
Sam shows them to the door and Brody's on the threshold when she can't help herself, has to turn around and look up at Sam, ask him, "Erzulie. I heard that if your life is in -- disorder, you make an offering to her and she sets it right. So the fact that there were multiple killings, does that mean that Erzulie wasn't listening or that there was too much disorder to fix?"
Pride steps towards Brody, seems as if he might yank her away or apologise to Sam, but Sam grins at Brody, stopping Pride in his tracks. "Might also mean she wasn't satisfied with the first offering and wanted more," Sam says.
"Is that what you think?" Brody asks.
Sam chuckles, leans against the doorframe. "You've got a good one here, Agent Pride," Sam says, though he's watching Brody. "Take care of her."
"I'll try and do my best," Pride says, before telling Brody, "We gotta get going. Come on."
Sam inclines his head in Brody's direction -- his head but not his eyes -- and for a moment all Brody can smell is grave-dirt and fresh ice and the picked-clean bones of skeletons. That smell, the sense that comes over her, has her leaving perhaps a bit too fast. She doesn't turn her back on Sam or the house, not until the door closes, and then she swallows, feels like she's a puppet and her strings have just been cut, leaving her limp and boneless. She's never been more relieved to feel the humidity surround her and start thawing her out.
"I believe they're good people at heart, Brody," Pride tells her, putting his sunglasses on and going around to the other side of the car. "But if you come back, you should know that they have a lot of influence in this town and there are times when they use that influence to take matters into their own hands. Their definition of justice is not the same as ours."
Brody glances over her shoulder at the house, takes a long look before turning back to Pride. "Have they been arrested for anything?"
"Nothing NOPD can prove," Pride admits, "but I have no doubt that, one day, someone'll be knocking on that door with a warrant."
"Who are they?" she asks, confused as all hell and tired now that the adrenaline from Sanchez's house has completely worked its way through her system. "Why bring me here?"
Pride takes a deep breath, lets it out again just as slowly. "Those voodoo leaders I mentioned earlier? Sam and Dean. You won't find more powerful people in the faith than those two. As for why I dragged you along, I want you to liaise with them," he says. "You won't need to come back that often but it's good to have a line set up just in case."
"Why can't LaSalle?" she asks.
"Christopher met Dean once in his days with the sheriff's office," Pride says. "Never told me why, but he swore he'd rather die than talk to Dean again."
There's a story in that, then.
"Meredith," Pride says, and she blinks at the use of her first name. "They've done me a favour or two. Done this whole city a favour or two. But they have the potential to be dangerous. They have followers who hang on their every word and will do anything for them. Anything. Remember that."
She's not likely to forget; she's met their eyes and what she saw in them gave her chills. Brody nods, gets in the car, and as they're pulling away, heading towards Canal, Pride's phone rings.
"Percy wants to meet," he says, reading the text. "I'll drop you at the office."
Author: rei_c
Pairings: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13
Total Word Count: 3000
Summary: Meredith Brody should have known: choosing to work in New Orleans means dealing with voodoo. She just didn't realise that voodoo is still practiced -- and that sometimes it means death.
Warnings: Episode coda for NCIS: NOLA 1x21 and general spoilers for Supernatural. References to murder.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, and any (and all) errors relative to the canons spoken of herein are mine and mine alone.
Author’s Notes: This is future-fic for the 'verse created in Knowledge of Dead Secrets and does contain extremely vague spoilers for the Katrina!fic, currently in-progress.
--
Brody lets the EMTs fuss over her, waits for the bodies to be taken away, then stands up from where she'd been sitting on the trunk of her car. After a deep breath, she heads for the porch steps, intent on going back inside.
"Brody, hold up," Pride says, jogging to catch up to her from where he'd been talking to LaSalle. "What d'you think you're doing?"
"I wanna go back inside and look at that -- altar," she says, trying to find the right word.
Pride looks over to LaSalle, seems like he's thinking about something. "All right," he says. "I'll finish up out here and tell Christopher to get over and pick up Cade. Take a look, get your mind in order. Then there's someone I think it's time you met."
--
Brody stands in the doorway and gets chills. She doesn't think it's because she was on her knees and tied up here, but it could be. She doesn't think it's because she was being held at shotgun-point. She doesn't even think it's because of the madness she saw in Sanchez's eyes.
Instead, she thinks it has more to do with the symbol on that dropcloth, the candles scattered across the floor and the dried flowers stuck in bleached-white skulls, the portraits and voodoo dolls, the jars and bowls and even the lights strung up on the makeshift altar. Pink and red and lace everywhere, and underneath the smell of old, dried blood, there's something else.
"Perfume," Pride says. "Rose water, if I'm not mistaken. Traditional for altars dedicated to Erzulie."
"But voodoo?" Brody asks, as Pride comes to stand next to her. "People still -- it's still practiced? I thought it was just something for the tourists."
Pride shrugs, sounds tired as he says, "This is New Orleans, Brody. We don't like to give up our traditions. But most people of the voodoo faith around here would look down on human sacrifice. Hopefully Sanchez was a lone wolf."
Brody's mind has stuck on one word through all Pride had to say. She has to swallow, her mouth gone dry. "Most?"
"It's an old faith," Pride says, as he walks over and picks up something from the altar, tucks it in his pocket. "Prone to -- evolution. Nowadays, the leaders don't exactly approve of followers who might attract attention from the outside, especially from the police. I have no doubt that if details about the necklaces had leaked, even from the first victim, this would have been taken care of a long time ago."
"Taken care of," Brody echoes. It's like she can't do more than parrot him or ask one-word questions; something about being in this room makes her teeth ache and her nerves jangle. It feels -- it just feels wrong to be here.
Pride squeezes her shoulder on his way back outside. "Come on, Brody."
She takes one more look around the room and then follows Pride outside. It feels good to be out of that house.
--
Pride parks on Dauphine, between St. Louis and Conti, right in front of a three-story home with galleries on the second and third floors. Brody's seen nicer, been in nicer, even Gorey's was more impressive, but there's something about this house, something leaking out of the windows, that makes it seem bigger than looking at it might suggest.
A few people along the street watch carefully as Pride and Brody get out of the car, go for the front door. Pride keeps his hands far away from his gun and Brody does the same.
"What is this place?" she asks. "Why are we here?"
"Because I trust you," Pride says, rapping on the door with his knuckles.
The door opens and a tall man with stunning eyes and three days worth of stubble looks at them, raises an eyebrow and asks, "Me and mine in trouble, Agent Pride?"
"Just wanted you to meet someone," Pride says. "Sorry I didn't have time to call ahead, Dean, but something came up this afternoon that you and Sam should probably know about. Thought maybe I could deal with both things at the same time."
Dean takes that in, then grins, and holds out a hand for Pride to shake. "Come on in, then, King. Sam's in the back; I'll go get him. You two need something to drink?"
"We're good, thanks," Pride says, and when Dean holds the door open for them, Pride walks in without hesitation and turns to the left. It's clear he's been here before.
Brody follows, finds herself in a light and airy sitting room with large, curtained windows looking out to Dauphine. The ceiling fan is spinning, gently moving a couple embroidered and sequined tapestries hanging from the wall above a side-table covered in crimson-coloured lace and holding a few empty shot glasses and half-filled bottles of alcohol. Two couches and a couple of Queen Anne-style wing-backs, all of them in matching and lush gold and black fabric, sit around the edges of the room, surrounding a glass and wrought-iron coffee table with cabriole legs to match the rest of the furniture.
Pride sits down on one of the couches; Brody perches on a chair, on edge and not sure why. When she hears a couple voices in the hall, she stands up a split-second before Pride does, can feel -- electricity?
She thought Dean was tall but the man coming in now -- Sam, maybe -- is even taller, brown hair clipped back from his face. "Good to see you, Agent Pride," maybe-Sam says, then adds, "I'd shake your hand but, well," and he lifts up his right hand to show off a deep cut down the middle of his palm. It looks like it's still bleeding but before Brody can say anything about it, Dean slides in behind Sam and wraps Sam's hand with a rag soaked in what smells like witch hazel, movements assured and practiced even as he clucks his tongue in rebuke.
"No worries, Sam," Pride says. "Wanted you to meet one of my agents, Meredith Brody." Sam and Dean look at her, focus on her, and Brody's heart skips a beat. The intensity of that focus is -- she's met the eyes of unrepentant serial killers before and they aren't as cold as Dean's or as cunning as Sam's. "She came down from our Great Lakes field office a few months ago, seems like she's got her heart set on staying."
"Pleasure to meet you," Sam says, and if the look in his eyes doesn't match the smile he's wearing, she's not going to call him on it.
Instead, she nods, gives the two men a tight smile and says, "Same."
Like they can hear something in her voice, both of them tilt their heads to the left, eyes narrowing. Brody's got her gaze fixed on Sam, can't seem to look away, but then Dean murmurs something in Sam's ear, and Sam nods and blinks, moving toward a couch. Brody looks at Pride, who's watching with interest but not concern, so when Sam gestures at the chair again, says, "Please, Agent Brody," she sits.
Sam sits on the couch opposite from Pride, taking the middle cushion with something that looks like relief to be off his feet. Brody can't help but wonder why, what he was doing in 'the back,' how he got the cut on his hand. She doesn't ask.
It takes Dean longer to decide which side of Sam to sit on. Brody watches, curious but still on edge, as Dean glances first at her and then at the door. He obviously doesn't want Sam to be close to an unknown, that's clear enough to see, but it's intriguing that he wants to put himself between Sam and the doorway, as if he doesn't trust his own home to be safe. For a moment, Brody assumes that Dean's obsessively overprotective but she reminds herself not to jump to conclusions, that Dean could just be the bodyguard to someone important -- and rich, to be able to afford a house in the Quarter.
"Come on," Sam tells Dean, and pats the cushion closer to Brody. "The badjikan's upstairs and your timoun are outside."
Sam sounds fond, maybe even touched by Dean's concern; Brody gathers this is a usual occurrence and reassesses the bodyguard idea.
Dean frowns but follows Sam's direction, sits between Sam and Brody and leans forward, intent on Pride apart from the times his eyes flick over to Brody, once every few seconds. She almost inhales when she realises: they're sitting too close together to be anything but lovers, thighs touching and breathing in sync. In fact, Brody would bet a year's salary that those two have extensive intimate knowledge of each other, physical and otherwise.
She's sliding all of these facts together, that Dean's the watchdog, probably quicker to anger and slow to forgive, territorial and overprotective, someone who doesn't trust easily, but Sam's the one with the power or wealth or whatever it is. Sam fits here, is comfortable in this room, but Dean's not, which means one of two things: that this was Sam's house first or that Dean let Sam decide how to decorate. Either way, Dean indulges Sam, does everything he can to keep Sam happy.
Brody wonders how Sam earned that type of devotion.
"I won't keep you, Agent Pride," Sam says, pulling Brody from her thoughts. "Dean said you had something to tell us?"
Pride reaches into his pocket, pulls out whatever he took from the Moss Hill house. It turns out to be a necklace, copy of the one used in Windi Stewart's murder, and he sets it on the coffee table. Dean's the one to reach for it; he hisses when he touches the symbol, drops the necklace in Sam's palm as quick as he can.
"Earlier today," Pride says, as Sam's stroking the charm with long, graceful fingers, "NCIS shot and killed a follower of Erzulie who'd been murdering women in and around New Orleans. She had an altar set up at her house and a drop-cloth vévé in the room where her boyfriend killed them. In the interest of our continuing relationship," he adds, an odd quirk to his lips that Brody's never seen before, "I thought you might like to know."
Sam sets the necklace back on the table. He pins his eyes on Pride and asks, "Are you sure she was committing these crimes in Erzulie's name?"
"Yes," Brody answers. Sam pins his eyes on her; she resists the urge to shiver when the smell of ozone fills her nostrils.
"You were the one that killed them," Dean says. "Two of them. It's all over you. You reek of death." Sam clears his throat and Dean mutters an apology, but his eyes are fixed firmly on Brody now. "Can you describe the altar for us?"
Brody looks at Pride, who nods for her to go ahead. "The room was -- there were candles everywhere, pink and red and lace. Roses."
Sam hums thoughtfully, then asks Pride, "Are you allowed to tell us the name?"
"Eloise Sanchez," Pride says. "Over by the bayou on Moss Hill."
Brody gapes at Pride, can't believe he's telling two people -- civilians, definitely not related to the case -- so much information.
"Pink and lace is Freda," Dean says, and though it's loud enough for everyone to hear, it's obviously directed at Sam. "The vévé is, too. But there's no way she knew about this."
"Call Colette and tell her to take care of it," Sam says, still staring at the necklace. Dean frowns, opens his mouth, but Sam cuts him off before he can say anything. "This is hers to deal with, not yours, Dean. Freda's Rada. Call Colette."
Dean growls, honest-to-god growls, but he gets up, stalks out of the room and slams the door behind him. Maybe Brody's just noticing now but his cologne or deodorant or something reeks of pepper.
"Sorry about that," Sam says. "Dean still likes to take care of everything himself, no matter how many times I tell him to delegate."
"Seems like he gets that from you," Pride says.
It takes a moment, but Sam laughs and shakes his head. "You got me there, Agent Pride. I like to think I'm doing better, but." He shrugs, still smiling, and something inside of Brody aches. She pushes it to the side, that feeling, and gives it a moment's study while Pride and Sam are talking, exchanging stories about people they both know and what they've all been up to lately.
The ache, it's somewhere inside of her, but it's not sexual, not even familial, the way she's started to feel about LaSalle and Pride. It's something deeper, something colder, and the only thing it makes her think of when she really pushes is standing in the rain at her sister's graveside.
Death. It makes her think of death.
"Well," Pride says, startling her as he stands up. "We should get going. Just wanted to drop off that necklace and introduce you."
Sam looks at Brody; when their eyes meet, a zing of ice travels down her spine. His smile turns sad, almost, though his tone is nothing but gentle as he tells her, "Feel free to stop by anytime, Agent Brody. Any friend of Agent Pride's is welcome in our home." She nods, lets out a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding when Sam turns his attention to Pride. "Thanks for the info, Agent Pride. As always, let me know if there's anything we can do for you."
"So long as you do the same," Pride says.
Sam shows them to the door and Brody's on the threshold when she can't help herself, has to turn around and look up at Sam, ask him, "Erzulie. I heard that if your life is in -- disorder, you make an offering to her and she sets it right. So the fact that there were multiple killings, does that mean that Erzulie wasn't listening or that there was too much disorder to fix?"
Pride steps towards Brody, seems as if he might yank her away or apologise to Sam, but Sam grins at Brody, stopping Pride in his tracks. "Might also mean she wasn't satisfied with the first offering and wanted more," Sam says.
"Is that what you think?" Brody asks.
Sam chuckles, leans against the doorframe. "You've got a good one here, Agent Pride," Sam says, though he's watching Brody. "Take care of her."
"I'll try and do my best," Pride says, before telling Brody, "We gotta get going. Come on."
Sam inclines his head in Brody's direction -- his head but not his eyes -- and for a moment all Brody can smell is grave-dirt and fresh ice and the picked-clean bones of skeletons. That smell, the sense that comes over her, has her leaving perhaps a bit too fast. She doesn't turn her back on Sam or the house, not until the door closes, and then she swallows, feels like she's a puppet and her strings have just been cut, leaving her limp and boneless. She's never been more relieved to feel the humidity surround her and start thawing her out.
"I believe they're good people at heart, Brody," Pride tells her, putting his sunglasses on and going around to the other side of the car. "But if you come back, you should know that they have a lot of influence in this town and there are times when they use that influence to take matters into their own hands. Their definition of justice is not the same as ours."
Brody glances over her shoulder at the house, takes a long look before turning back to Pride. "Have they been arrested for anything?"
"Nothing NOPD can prove," Pride admits, "but I have no doubt that, one day, someone'll be knocking on that door with a warrant."
"Who are they?" she asks, confused as all hell and tired now that the adrenaline from Sanchez's house has completely worked its way through her system. "Why bring me here?"
Pride takes a deep breath, lets it out again just as slowly. "Those voodoo leaders I mentioned earlier? Sam and Dean. You won't find more powerful people in the faith than those two. As for why I dragged you along, I want you to liaise with them," he says. "You won't need to come back that often but it's good to have a line set up just in case."
"Why can't LaSalle?" she asks.
"Christopher met Dean once in his days with the sheriff's office," Pride says. "Never told me why, but he swore he'd rather die than talk to Dean again."
There's a story in that, then.
"Meredith," Pride says, and she blinks at the use of her first name. "They've done me a favour or two. Done this whole city a favour or two. But they have the potential to be dangerous. They have followers who hang on their every word and will do anything for them. Anything. Remember that."
She's not likely to forget; she's met their eyes and what she saw in them gave her chills. Brody nods, gets in the car, and as they're pulling away, heading towards Canal, Pride's phone rings.
"Percy wants to meet," he says, reading the text. "I'll drop you at the office."